The camp was ruined. The ground was trampled, clods of earth thrown everywhere: there was no sign of the green grass that had previously blanketed what was now a mess of churned-up mud. Tents were trampled into the ground, shredded and ruined; the firewood was strewn across the clearing, and pots, pans and tools were sunken into the dirt. There was a moment of silence as four pairs of eyes took in the destruction. The spell was broken when Leliana gave a cry. The sudden noise made the other three jump; out of the corner of his eye, Zevran saw light flicker around the Warden's fingers, subsiding a second later. The broken remnants of the bard's lute groaned as she lifted them. The neck was broken, the body caved in, and the strings were almost all snapped. The redhead cradled her instrument to her chest, her blue eyes wide and shocked.
Zevran met the Warden's eyes behind her back. He mimed wiping away a tear and rolled his eyes, before turning to examine the wreckage of a tent. Zevran too turned away, not wanting Leliana to see his smirk. The lute had meant a lot to her; he pitied her loss. Still, reacting as if it was the dead body of a child was rather unnecessary. Reaching in between the tattered fabric flaps that had once been an entrance, he pulled out the fur blanket Wynne had bought in Denerim. Kneeling on the pelt to avoid getting his knees muddy, he rummaged around in the tent, producing a bag of herbs, half open and spilling everywhere; a bedroll, now ripped and filthy; a dagger, half buried in the mud, and various items of clothing, all ragged and ruined.
"There's no blood," Morrigan commented. "I would assume that they did the sensible thing and ran as soon as Alistair sensed them coming," the mage was stood by what was left of her separate campfire, sorting through the wreck. "I merely wish that they'd thought to save some of our belongings... The grimoire is ruined!" she flicked through some of the pages of the black book, looking digusted.
"I hope they're OK... I wonder which way they went," Leliana hugged her lute to her chest, staring around the ruined camp with wide eyes.
Zevran could almost hear the Warden rolling his eyes. "Get it together. Leliana, go through the tents, get any clothes, blankets, bandages, that are still intact. Anything useful. Rags can be used as kindling, or to patch up clothes, put them in a separate pile. Zevran, weapons and tools. Morrigan, food, containers... anything we can use that isn't too heavy to carry," Therion was walking around the campsite, examining the tracks imprinted into the mud. By the looks of things, he wasn't having much luck finding anything, and no wonder. The earth was so churned up, it was a wonder there were any footprints at all. Zevran sighed and got to work, scrabbling through the tents and mess.
The four of them worked quickly, silently. Leliana was the only one who showed her shock outwardly; she kept gasping at little things that had been left behind. Zevran and Therion's were expressions of intense concentration, while Morrigan was scowling.
The work didn't take them long: there wasn't much that could be salvaged. "Filthy stinking beasts they may be, but I must admit, but I admire their ability to ruin things so thoroughly," Zevran remarked as he settled himself beside the pitiful pile of 'usable' items. Morrigan glowered, and turned to Therion. "I suggest we move. Find a place to camp far from here and plan our next move from there."
"What would I do without you, Morrigan?" the dark-haired Warden sighed dramatically. "I thank the Maker every day that I have you here to guide me," stooping, he grabbed a bundle of clothes and thrust them at her. "And to carry things for me," he bent again to pick up the dented pot Zevran had salvaged. "And this," adding that to the pile in the furious witch's arms, he grinned at the other two. "That also goes for you two. Everyone carry something. We're going northeast,"
"To Redcliffe? I suppose the others might be there..." Leliana looked doubtful as Therion nodded. "To Redcliffe, and if they're not there, we keep going to Denerim. That's what Alistair's going to do. Arl Eamon won't let him just ride back into the Frostbacks to find us, no matter how many tantrums he throws," he slid two muddy daggers into his belt.
"So... we're just taking this in stride, I assume?" Zevran asked lightheartedly, and the dark-haired man smiled his crooked smile. "Well, my dear, you could fall down and cry, but you know how impatient I get. If you must, would you mind doing it while walking?" With that, the Warden turned and walked into the trees, the other three skipping over roots and rocks to keep up with him.
With a chuckle and a promise to try, the Elf fell back to walk beside Leliana, who was trailing a little behind, looking miserable. "Why so sad, my friend?" he caught hold of her hand, raised it to his lips without breaking stride. Leliana pulled back and rolled her eyes, but her lips curled into a smile nonetheless. "I'm sorry... I just... I loved that lute," she sighed. "But enough of such things. I shouldn't dwell on it: after all, there is nothing more I can do," and that seemed to be the end of the matter. They walked in silence for a while, and Zevran dared not break it. Leliana seemed to be in mourning; Morrigan seemed to be more irritable than usual due to the loss of her grimoire, and Therion was several steps ahead, probably lost in his own world. Zevran held his tongue, with some reluctance. He was not looking forward to the journey ahead.
