The Herald of getting your ass whooped.

She stalks to the training grounds, but in spite of how inconspicuous she wants to be the denizens of Haven call out to her.

"Herald!"

"Herald, bless us!"

"Herald, save us!"

The loudest and boldest cry out to her, the rest whisper and watch with wide eyes, Isabel Trevelyan grits her teeth and glares at the ground in front of her in response. She does not want this Cullen thinks to himself, as he continues to call out drills. The recruits let down their guard and openly gap at her as she laces up her armor and tests the balance of one of the few remaining training swords.

"Shields up, if that man was your enemy, you'd be dead!" Cullen barks out harshly, effectively redirecting the soldiers focus to the task at hand and away from the reluctant hero.

She picks up a wooden shield and surveys the drilling soldiers, letting out a small huff when what she sees does not impress her and turns instead to the training dummies where Cassandra is brutally savaging the wooden and hay opponent. She takes three steps before she stops gripping her sword tightly as she watches the seeker. Cullen can see her jawbone working is silent fury as she stares down his compatriot. Not twenty four hours ago the same people who praised her called her prisoner and blamed her for the new state of the world, in no small part because of Cassandra. She paces back reminding the Commander of a caged animal wanting nothing more than to lash out at her captors, though technically not a prisoner, the mark on her hand keeps her in Haven.

Cullen waves over one of his lieutenants, to continue with the training of the raw recruits and un belts his long sword, placing it carefully beside one of the tents, replacing it with a training sword and shield before approaching her. He recognizes the feelings of frustration and impotence in her. He remembers feeling the same way. There's a shyness and hesitation to her, probably wanting a quiet corner to beat out the anger away from prying eyes and speculation. Cullen has become used to the eyes on him, the weight of command has settled on his shoulders as easily as his thick winter collar. The Herald on the other hand does not welcome the expectations of the masses and he understands. He was a Templar after all, spending the better part of the last ten years standing in silent sentry in the circles, looked over, and ignored. It is a comfortable place to be, invisible, and it's easy to see that despite her noble birth she is used to being overlooked and left to her own devices. Curiosity and pity move him towards her, this herald who despises her divine title. In truth Cullen's not sure what he believes, if she was chosen by the Makers bride or if it was simply providence that saved her, he knows only that she walked out of the breach, alive, when everyone else died.

"My Lady Trevelyan, you have the look of someone who wants to inflict pain. Might I serve?" She looks up at him with a cold flint gaze, assessing him before the corner of her lips tip up slightly.

"Am I that obvious?" Her voice is quiet, belying the fury that roils off of her shoulders.

"Just a little." He tries not to smile at her when she grunts and rolls her eyes at him.

"It's Isabel, my sister in law is Lady Trevelyan." Helmets are placed on heads and battle stances are taken.

"Lady Isabel." He nods at her, lowering his visor, tasting her name. He can't bring himself to not use a title, she is nobility, it wouldn't be proper. Pale grey eyes narrow at him, flint sparking a fire.

Cullen waits for her to make the first move; he's interested in seeing what she can do, how she fights, where her skill is. She mirrors him circling around soundlessly until finally she lunges, fainting and hitting him with her shield before following through with her sword. He deflects her, the sound of steel on steel sliding in both their ears. Cullen has both a height and weight advantage, but he learned long ago that these things mean nothing, he feels each blow vibrate though his arms, there's power behind her blows. She's relentless and quick dodging his heavy hits, harrying him, wearing him down, using his strengths against him, and he smiles under his lion helm. She knows what she's doing, and is quite good at it, her power is controlled and precise, no movement wasted. He's breathing hard before long, and her attacks are soon accompanied with savage grunts, her eyes never leave him, never stop reading and strategizing. It's only when one of the soldiers call out a cheer, to Cullen, followed by other voices calling out to her cheering Lady Isabel on in their little bought that she falters, that he loses her eyes, and Cullen uses the distraction to his advantage, hitting her hard to the ground. She falls unceremoniously cursing on her way down.

"Shit." She feels her cheeks colour under her helm, a stupid mistake.

Cullen offers a hand and Isabel takes it. Pity might have drawn him to her, but he's unforgiving on the battlefield. Whatever distractions there might have been, she must learn to stay focused, learn to accept that for good or ill the common folk will look up to her, cheer her and will her to succeed, pray for her success in sealing the rift.

"All right?" He asks revealing a sweat stained brow, still breathing hard.

She nods, taking her helm off, her short chestnut hair plastered to her head, hoping the red in her cheeks will be mistaken for exertion instead of embarrassment.

"Herald, Commander, our messenger has just arrived from Val Royeaux. Could you meet us in the war room?" Josephine with the ridiculous gold dress calls out to them, and Cullen waves her off in acknowledgement, waiting for Isabel to start walking before he falls in step beside her.

"You're quite skilled. You nearly had me." It seems the lady Trevelyan suffers from a hint of pride as she bristles when her loss is pointed out.

"Would have had you if not for your imbecilic recruits..." She grumbles quietly, scowling before clamping her mouth shut, a new blush touching her cheeks. Cullen laughs, and it is a rich and honest thing.

"I accept your challenge. A rematch, tomorrow morning at 0500, before my imbicils wake up." He slides a look down at her, baiting her.

"0500, you're mad!" For a moment her shyness is forgotten as she turns to face him squarely.

"I suppose you didn't have me after all." A teasing tone had entered his voice and he is rewarded with a finger in the center of his chest and a snarl.

"I see your game, commander." She hurries ahead into the chantry, "0500, don't be late." There's a promise and a threat in her quiet voice.

Perhaps it wasn't wise to bait the Herald Cullen thinks, smiling wryly to himself. Whatever she was, he would help her in any way he knew how and if it meant earning some new bruises in training or losing some more of his already elusive sleep so be it. He follows, scrubbing a hand over his face, 0500 really was far too early, yet despite the hour he was already looking forward to their rematch.