The horse returned alone.

What little that remained of its rider hung in the left stirrup: a boot which undoubtedly held within it the lower part of the leg that had been violently torn from its owner and had been lashed to the stirrup with leather strips; likely a precaution taken to ensure the message was not lost. The horse, more weary now than spooked as it had been earlier, clopped at a brisk trot through the village streets. This village was called Sanctuary, in remembrance of Haven, and the streets were not so much streets as they were paths of shoveled snow. In the winter air there existed now a heavy fog that hung low over the village and there was a great silence as the people, who had initially fled inside to escape the biting cold, now peered nervously outside of their windows to view the horse. They of course noted, with clear unease, the disembodiment of the foot, which now dripped dark blood wherever the horse went, staining the packed snow. Mothers made quick work of covering the eyes of their children, pulling them away from the windows quickly. The horse knew his destination, there was no doubt. He had been trained after all to return to his master quickly should anything go awry.

Even within his primitive, bestial mind, the horse knew things had certainly gone awry. He had seen for himself the breaking and tearing of the limb as his rider was yanked from his saddle. He watched as his rider was dragged off, whimpering as his bloody stub of a leg left a bloody trail through the dirt. And then he had watched the rider become devoured until there were not even bones left. They had held him down before he was allowed to bolt, neighing frantically under their strong arms as they secured their message. Yes, the horse had seen it all. The darkness and corruption of nature, twisted by man's selfish ways. Could he have been able to speak he would've been able to inform everyone of the tragedy, and serve as prime witness for The Inquisitor.

Unfortunately, its common knowledge that horses can't talk.

The horse stopped at the gates of his master and pawed the ground anxiously with its hooves as it awaited entry. There was a moment of confusion from the guards as they looked upon the horse with no rider. Then there was further inspection, particularly of the limb the horse carried. Sharp cries and commands rippled through the guards at the wall and gates of Skyhold as the indication of the rider-less horse suddenly became very clear.


"'Tis much an answer as any, I suppose." remarked the witch Morrigan as she regarded the boot and leg sitting on the war-table with a seemingly nonchalant gaze, though a hint of curiosity shone in her amber hues. In contrast, across the table, Josephine appeared to be turning a dangerous shade of green and Commander Cullen was eyeing the boot as if it might either explode or turn into a demon at any given moment. The Inquisitor of course regarded this "message" as he always did: with appraisal. His soft grey gaze rested on the appendage as he mentally measured its worth and importance. Finally he looked up.

"He truly seeks war with the Inquisition."