Ex umbra in solem - from the shadows, into the light.
The gentle stream swayed with the wind and glittered in the early morning light, the soothing sounds of lightly swishing water intermingling with the humble cacophony of the forest. A modest observer by the name of Dahlia Tabris stood quietly by the banks of the brook, her eyes watching the mild waves as they crashed against obtrusive boulders and logs.
Her tentative fingers tested the trickling waters before she stepped in, wading against the current until the cool water was up to her waist. Collecting some of the liquid with cupped palms, she began to wash the dried blood off of her beaten body with delicate care. Tilting her head backwards to completely immerse her tangled, bloodied hair, she pushed her wetted fingers through the angry knots.
She allowed herself to enjoy this feeling, this visceral sensation of being cleansed. She did not think of the tainted, damned blood dripping down her figure and turning the clear water pink. She did not think of the stinging wounds that marred her scarred body, puckered and raw against the paleness of her skin. She did not think of the despair that gripped her viciously in the night as she dreamed of hopelessness and death.
Instead, she thought of nothing more than chilled water and birds chirping and faint sunlight teasing her back.
As time passed, and the sun emerged more boldly, the swirling liquid enveloping her body began to steadily warm. A weak smile graced her lips as she absorbed the serenity of the moment, her eyes fluttering closed with rapture.
She couldn't say how long she stood there, basking in the light and becoming increasingly pruned, before she begrudgingly left the refreshing waters. The soft wind was bracing against her moistened body as she grabbed the towel lying in the grass. After drying herself leisurely, she donned her cheap leather armor and made her way back to camp.
Alistair and Morrigan were sitting by last night's dying campfire, both remaining in complete silence. An anxious expression lingered on the warrior's boyish face as he ran his hands through his sandy-blonde hair. He immediately stood when she walked into camp, relief smoothing his features. "Where have you been?" he asked exasperatedly, his eyebrows furrowing with frustration. "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine," she answered icily, immediately irritated by his flustered questioning. "I just needed to wash the darkspawn blood off my body."
"Oh. Of… of course," he murmured, his cheeks flushing at her bitter tone. "I'm sorry - I was worried. I thought you were…" He trailed off, his mouth pressing into a thin line as panic and pain briefly flashed in his eyes.
Sighing softly, she carelessly twisted the gold band on her ring finger with discomfort. "I'm fine," she repeated quietly, though her voice had lost most of its hostility. "I'll tell you where I'm going next time."
"Thank you," he breathed, the tension leaving his stiffened body. He rubbed his the back of his neck and looked away awkwardly as she stared at him attentively. "I guess I'll go pack up my tent," he eventually announced, his cheeks blooming with color.
"Okay, good," she answered. "We'll be leaving shortly for Lothering."
He nodded in acknowledgement before walking past her and towards his tent, leaving the slender elf in Morrigan's company. The mage had a devious smile on her face, her piercing golden eyes watching Dahlia with amused interest.
"What?" Dahlia asked irately after a few merciless moments of the witch's staring.
"'Tis nothing," Morrigan hummed contentedly. "He is simply more a fool than that mongrel of yours."
Glancing briefly at her sleeping mabari, Dahlia narrowed her eyes at the coy mage. "That's not necessary, Morrigan," she muttered, venom evident in her words. "Darrian isn't a mongrel, and Alistair isn't a fool."
"As you say," Morrigan shrugged. "Believe whatever you wish," she ended, standing lithely from her place by the sizzling remains of the fire. A small smile returned to her face, her intense gaze traveling up and down the length of Dahlia's body. Without another word, she turned away from the irritated elf and moved back to her tent, where she began to collect her belongings.
Shaking her head with annoyance, Dahlia mentally dismissed the mage and her cruel words before making her way to her own side of the campsite.
As she began to pack, she brushed away the strands of white hair that didn't remain bound by her ponytail and exhaled heavily. The teasing autumn breeze pricked at her skin, and she understood that the faint chill in the air foreshadowed the dangerous winter cold that was to come. She grabbed her cloak for extra warmth and donned it, shielding herself from the sharpening wind.
As she finished packing her tent and clothing into her large pack, she pulled an old map out of her smaller satchel, unfolding the parchment and gazing at the routes they were to take. Their first stop, Lothering, was still another two days away, despite all the land they had covered already. he had an overwhelming desire to get on the road.
"Time to leave," she called out to them. "Let's get moving!"
Alistair and Morrigan both replied with words of confirmation, and the three burdened their separate bags onto their backs. Dahlia took the lead and, with Darrian happily trotting by her side, steered the motley group out of the clearing and into the trees.
"Let me clarify," Morrigan crowed from behind her after a few moments. "We are going to Lothering for then what?"
Dahlia felt her skin crawl involuntarily with irritation. "We recruit the aid of Arl Eamon, the dwarves, the Dalish, and the magi-"
"All before the Blight engulfs Ferelden completely? Brilliant," the mage retorted sarcastically.
"Morrigan," Alistair growled in warning.
"It's alright, Alistair," Dahlia muttered softly. Though the mage was arrogant and infuriating, Dahlia bitterly accepted her point. Time was not on their side, she realized angrily. Even if they did conscript all the allies necessary to win this battle, would there even be a Ferelden to save?
In this case, failure was definitely an option. Truthfully, success was downright unlikely, unfortunately.
Turning her simple golden ring absentmindedly and grimacing, the elf inhaled deeply to steady herself. "We have to try, Morrigan," she answered.
As the mage snorted in disbelief behind her, Dahlia inhaled sharply with aggravation. Wrapping her cloak tighter around herself as the wind increased its force, the slight elf clenched her teeth with hardened resolve.
Do not falter. You are strong, Dahlia. You are strong.