Summary::: Where the Hero of Ferelden suddenly finds herself with new titles - most notably the Herald of Andraste - and with all the people who vowed to serve the Inquisition. Amell/Cullen.
Main character description: Amell - grey warden, human female, mage.
Warnings: unbetaed, requires a good amount of Dragon Age lore to understand
Looks Godward, Past the Shades where Blind Men Grope
Amell
She approached the Black City that stood proudly at the end of a winding boulevard lined with burning pillars and impressions of dead trees. Great yet terrible, the Black City embodied the source of the misfortunes that Thedas continuously faced: it was sin, the consequences of man's pride, the birth of darkspawn taint; it was where the seven Tevinter magisters sought to view the throne of the Maker; it was where the Maker allowed his creations to fall. She walked slowly, taking in her surroundings with a hint of reverence and craning her neck upwards towards the green skies. The City was tantalizingly close; the City was a Calling. It was a chore to merely breath the air, heavy with promises of power and whispers of sacrifices that were required if one wished to become a god. Her steps echoed; hard soles tapped against the pavement. The vibrations echoed in sync with the distant humming that was all prevalent in the Fade. Various creatures shuffled restlessly just out of her periphery, observing, waiting patiently for her to... She froze.
For her to what?
Green light arced outwards from her left palm, cracking loudly as they struck the path ahead and rendering the cobblestones to obsidian; she hissed and curled inward as the pain traveled up her arm, branching out at her shoulder. Her mind fell out of the hazy dream-like quality of the Fade realm like ice down her back; she shuddered. Preternatural claws that were gently caressing her thoughts suddenly disappeared - their siren song turned into an angry silence of an animal that realized that their prey had escaped their grasp. Amell took two steps back and fell into a battle-ready stance, magic dancing restlessly under her skin. Her heart was beating an uneasy rhythm; the pulsing adrenalin rush forced a heady roar into her ears. The mind was clear now; she was aware. She frowned as her instincts began to take not as to what was wrong.
The strange conglomeration of towers, shrouded by a green haze, were closer than she could recall from her Harrowing or her pursuit of the Sloth Demon when she sought to save the Ferelden Circle - but, that can't be right: doesn't the Black City lie on an event horizon? Shouldn't it be unreachable? Shouldn't it be unattainable?
A lone howl of sorrow and anger pierced the veil-like nature of the surreal dimension. As the Fade creatures began to flank her, the feral sound pulled her away from the road. The world cracked in half.
Amell awoke: a slight hitch in her breath, a slight twitch in her fingers where her weapon should be... Nothing. Her entire body ached with the power of a thousand bruises; her head throbbed with similar vengeance. But she could sit up and... She grabbed her head as a sharp pressure struck her temples, muttering expletives under her breath. The Calling was stronger in her weakened state - taking the form of gentle whispers that encouraged her to join her fellow wardens at the Ferelden-Orlais border. With every word, the voices created spikes of pain on the skin where the green runic mark laid etched - a fact that did not make her happy, for it seems that her problems are intertwined with the Chantry's crisis and isn't that something to look forward to? A connection between the wardens' plight and the sundered skies is something a prophet would predict only when the world was ending. The world is ending, again.
Her hands skimmed across her abdomen; hands skimmed over high quality fabric - is this noble clothing? At least she didn't get broken ribs, unlike the last time she had fought off a Pride Demon. She grimaced: right, first order of business is to find...
The rhythmic thumps of a stubby tail knocking against a table shook her out of her reverie: Dog waited patiently by the far wall, next to a table that held a plate overflowing with fruits, Flemeth's fire opal amulet in his mouth.
Good dog.
The door opened. A elven servant, barely on the cusp of adulthood, startled at her wakened state, so startled that she couldn't coherently answer any of her questions. But her visit cleared up two things. One: Cassandra was waiting for her at the doors of the Haven Chantry to escort her to the Inner Sanctum to discuss various things (further pressing for details leaves the servant in confused tears). Two: Sometime during her comatose state, she was awarded with the title: Herald of Andraste - three words important enough to invite the most formal bows usually reserved for the most divine mortals in Thedas where palms, knees, and forehead all touch the ground. (She falls as a scrape goat; she wakes up a savior.)
Andraste... Because that was who the witnesses thought who the woman in the Fade was - and yet the witnesses fail to mention who the voice of the man was: the one who is most likely responsible for this disaster. At least she could be sure that it wasn't Janeka - or wasn't her anymore in some sense of the word. Did that mean that she was killed by her own prisoner? Was the darkspawn that the wardens held prisoner an Archdemon? That would explain Janeka's change in behavior but not much else. Amell sighed, wringing her hands together as Dog curled around her left leg, whining softly. Nothing fruitful came from her investigations and her sources were dead. It was back to the drawing board which consisted of... She chewed on her bottom lip in thought as she momentarily weighed the pros and cons between fleeing the village and returning to Soldier's Peak and following Seeker Cassandra into an unclear future. The woman had plans for her: what for - Amell couldn't say for certain. In the end, the warden sighed: at the very least she's guaranteed a friendly face - Leliana would make sure that nothing too drastic would happen to her.
Her injuries left her stiff, swollen joints, a result of being slammed into a few objects. There was a familiar burning on her left side, slightly soothed by liberally applied herbal balms: she also had the fun of skidding across a few unforgiving surfaces. Well, she was nothing if not a veteran of physical hardships. It took a few hesitant seconds to find her footing and then another few to make her way to the door, her muscles growing more confident as she stretched them. She was mobile - that is the best news she has for herself thus far.
The air outside was crisp and chilled by the north winds, smelling faintly of blacksmithing and open fires. The falling snow lightly dusted the rooftops and surfaces with a thin sheet of white. On her left was another cozy cottage with a figure leaning against the planked walls, overlooking the activity below on the campgrounds, ears undoubtedly pointed - it was the elven mage who claimed to have studied the Fade. "Solas?" Amell called as she ventured over the threshold, stepping over Dog that moved to take vigil under the overhang.
He turned, surprise and mild disapproval tinting his features, "You're awake - earlier than my estimates." He tilted his head in her direction, meticulously examining her for any obvious injuries that she could've incurred from moving too soon from her bed. He listened to her breaths, shortened from her body's strain but not from any lingering inner injuries and, with her permission, took her hand to examine the mark of the rift, "it is not growing. That is good."
Cautiously closing the door behind her, (what did she have to fear for, there was no witch-hunt after her and the cottage was an ill-choice for a place to hide regardless) she rubbed a hand over her face, before offering a tired smile, "Thank you for healing me."
"It was not only me," Solas corrected as he turned his head back to the landscape: small camps encased by a wall made of timber, a frozen lake beyond the training fields of sparring soldiers, mountains further still. To his left, hanging in the sky was the Breach, a cyclone of green energy and clouds, casting a strange glow that left the area in a perpetual sunset, "I was not the one keeping your heart alive. I was there to make sure that the rune did not overtake you in your dreams."
"And what strange dreams I had," Amell mumbled, leaning against the fence, smiling wryly as she ran a hand through her hair. As the sounds of metal striking metal and of civilians bartering with merchants drifted to her ears, she struggled to grasp a vision that had struck her when she was sleeping, "there was a wolf at my door."
"Pardon?" Amell glanced over at the man standing at her side, dimly noting how his eyes grew larger in alarm and his entire body seemed to be touched by Winter's Breath. She cocked her head to the right, staring curiously at his reaction. Solas doesn't have the typical villaslin of the Dalish, but he does carry himself like one - and their mythology depicted a trickster god that took the form of a wolf, from what she could vaguely remember from the stories around the campfire in the Brecillian Forest. That was ten years ago - how time flies.
"I heard a wolf at my door," she enunciated, a wave of nausea overtaking her, her breath condensing into steam, "I dreamed of a," She closed her eyes and touched her forehead to the snow covered fence, regaining her bearings, and licked her lips, "Sorry. I think I'm rambling. Please do not mind me. I need to go and... Ahh... Collect myself." Without looking back, she made her way down the stairs and towards the main courtyard, slow and steady, careful to not trip over her own two feet. Dog is at her heels with a mouthful of dirty pantaloons.
Various people blatantly stare as she passed by, causing her to wonder if its because she looks as bad as she feels or that the rumors had been spread so quickly that people already recognized her on sight as Andraste's Herald. She turned left, away from the merchant that stood in front of a display of weaponry, eyes drifting from one vaguely interesting object to another, not entirely registering what she was seeing. Her feet kept moving - one in front of the other.
Was she imagining the wolf? Hallucinations did often reappear after her most challenging battles and a Pride demon would always count as something nightmare inducing. The Fifth Blight had been the worst - constant ambushes by the darkspawn to the point that her paranoia had her jumping at shadows. Dreams of Hespith's catechisms, werewolves howling, the voice of the Sloth demon that took residence in Kinloch Hold, the endless army of corpses in Redcliffe Castle - they all combined into a huge wall of writhing black - reaching out to her and taunting her willpower to keep going. Zevran woke her up from the worst of them. Not that Alistair was even better: on the mornings after, he would wash his hands continuously for hours straight if no one was there to stop him. Such is the plight of the Grey Wardens. It seemed pretty clear that she was going to soon have a whole new stash of horrors to behold.
That was how Cassandra Pentaghast found her: lost in her thoughts, staring dazedly at the trebuchets.
Cullen
It was on a lovely sunny day in Kirkwall, on a typical, regular patrol shift in the Gallows where he had a sudden revelation that he was to suffer the fate of having Amells hounding his every step. It did not matter whether he had been transferred out of Ferelden and placed some amount of distance between him and his memories, it did not matter if the majority of them went by the surname of Hawke, it did not matter if they had never even met her, they all inevitably reminded him of her. The first time he spotted Garrett Hawke with his brother, the dwarf, and the guard captain tailing behind, his first thought was, "apostate." His second thought was, "Maker. They have the same eyes." He didn't flinch - time had offered a buffer between his psyche though the scars that the desire demon had raked over him, scraping her claws down his skin lightly, not drawing blood, still stung back then. He didn't flinch when he met with the ragtag group in a semi-official setting at Wilmod's Camp, but he did allow himself to reminisce later, "I knew of an Amell once..." - the lopsided smile, the curious expression, the tendency to judge and make decisions based upon the people and not the ideal, the prowess in battle, the horrid and often ill-timed sense of humor...
Perhaps 'suffer' is a bit too strong of a word. The presence of Hawkes in Kirkwall brought back the familiar sense of longing that he had harbored immediately after he heard the news that Amell had been conscripted by the Grey Wardens. After the circle nearly broke, that longing turned quickly to anger at her unwillingness to purge the tower of mages. When she left for the last time, talking quietly to First Enchanter Irving about allowing a dwarf into those bleak walls, he couldn't even bear to look at her, not when all he could see was supple breasts decorated with golden chains, a feminine hips scantily clothed, black eyes - Desire wearing her face, a head adorned with curling horns.
Ten years has passed since his ill-begotten comments to that woman, ten years of painful recovery. Initially, with the blood stains still unwashed from the walls and floors of the tower, he was inundated in nightmares and unpredictable fluxes of brutality toward his charges that forced Knight Commander Gregoir to transfer him to Kirkwall. There, he clenched onto Meredith Stannard's stance on mage-templar relations like a lifeline: a harsh stance of unremitting vigilance and harsh measures were necessary for the safety of all. He had agreed with her until the very end until he could not longer ignore how her insanity has completely taken her. The knowledge that templars, people that he had looked up to as a child, the Order that he had sworn into, could be just as corrupt and as terrible, was as bitter pill to swallow. Tainted power was not only reserved to mages.
There is a red lyrium statue greeting all who enters Kirkwall through the Gallows depicting a woman on her knees looking towards the skies. There is a rumor that one could still hear her scream but only if one ventures close enough. No one dares. It was the last thing he saw before he boarded the ship out of the city.
He was not the same man that Amell had known before she joined the wardens, neither was he the same man that Amell had known when she returned to save the Circle. There was an unsettling dichotomy within him - circling dual forces of fondness and conflict that was morphing into a restless energy that he needed to release, growing within him since Cassandra has sent ahead a messenger to assemble the Inquisition's advisors. He was an active man by nature and he was languishing in the war room, pacing anxiously, drawing a raised eyebrow from the Ambassador and a knowing look from Sister Nightingale (not that she was any more dignified: Amell was an old friend of hers too and it was easy to see her impatience in the way she kept tapping her writing utensil against the clipboard). A part of him preferred to be outside, supervising his men and working on troop assignments as per his role as Commander but the other part of him was... Not dreading, but anticipating.
The door flew open. Seeker Cassandra stroll purposefully into the chamber, muttering darkly under her breath about Chancellor Roderick and his definition of heretics. Amell drifted in behind her like a personal shadow, seemly distracted by her own thoughts, a small shift of fabrics, the absence of sound of shoes padding along the stone floors, and the sudden pungent scent of embrium and elfroot announced her presence, her gait sluggish yet elegant, resembling the Dalish that roam the forests. Years of traversing the wilds had added noticeable fluidity to the way she moves. Varric was right: she looked tired - faded bruises peeked out underneath her collar; her eyes were lined with dark circles that contrasted sharply with the tattoos on her face.
Cassandra's voice washed over the individuals in the chamber in high and low cadences, the lilting Nevarran accent punctuated some syllables and soared over others. The Seeker still had scratches that came from the original explosion at the Conclave and the resulting battle to stall the growth of the Breach. Her strong gestures towards each member of the Inquisition was given with deference; her eyes offered a clear view of her fatigue - consequences from the death of the Divine had accelerated at an unprecedented rate. More and more reports from trustworthy scouts scattered across the continent gave disheartening accounts on how Thedas shifted to accommodate the self-proclaimed Inquisition and... Well... Chancellor Roderick was a pup with no teeth compared to the greater powers in Orlais that participated in the Great Game.
"Cullen?"
Her eyes (there was no demon lurking beneath them) focused on his face, flitting across his features, searching for something in his expression. She stood less than an arm's length away, stunned into temporary muteness. He took a moment to drink in her appearance: her hair was cut to her shoulders, held back by weaved pieces of string and ribbons, she was leaner than he remembered, musculature resulting from countless combat experiences. He took her hand into his: there were callouses that indicated an individual who not only used a staff but also one who used a great sword. Cullen tried to imagine the situation from her end: arrested as a murderer, raised to the position of Herald - and realizing that she was found by old faces in the Inquisition. They stood on unequal ground. He had an entire night, sleepless that it was in his anxiety, to prepare for this meeting; she had not.
Amell's gaze continued to wander, assessing his stance and posture. "Is it really you?" She murmured, expression absent of any loathing. It was at that moment that he realized that she was waiting for his reaction. Ten years had passed since his ill-begotten comments to her; ten years of wondering if he still hated her. Cullen swallowed; that was something he can work with.
Smiling, fighting the urge to rub his neck, he gently squeezed her hand and struggled not to stammer through his words, "I look forward to seeing what we can do together, Ame- Herald."
Those words, not enough to convey his apologies, desires, and a hundred thousand of other emotions that he wished for her to know, were sufficient for the moment. She relaxed her posture and happily acknowledged his optimism. The blood pounding in his ears obscured her reply but... she was smiling (the same one she offered him when she had passed him in the halls as an apprentice) at him. Amell's hand slipped out of his grasp as she turned back to the war table, prodding at one of the pieces inquiringly; Sister Leliana stepped forward to begin the briefing.
The charged tension in the air dissipated; the connection between them broke - leaving him feeling momentarily bereft. At the edge of his periphery, he noticed Ambassador Josephine Montilyet staring avidly at him like he was currently the most interesting specimen in the room before she was drawn into the conversation. He ducked his head as he felt heat creeping up his cheeks, busying himself with his own reports. Seeker Cassandra scoffed at a suggestion that Amell made that had Sister Leliana uncharacteristically laughing under her breath.
Among the dim light offered by the candles, under the auspices of the will of the war council, the structure of the Inquisition slowly began to take shape.
"Into darkness, unafraid."
The clamor of people bartering for goods, the ring in the air as metal struck against metal, the scent of meat being cooked over the fires - Commander Cullen rubbed his forehead as he witnessed two recruits collapse onto the icy grounds as they simultaneously lost their footing. For the time being, he'll let Cassandra correct their technique since she's more inclined to aim the blunt side of her shield at any offending knees that were just an inch out of alignment than yelling out advice from across the field. The sun was disappearing behind the Frostback Mountains, leaving a myriad of shades of reds, oranges, purples streaking across the sky - the meeting had taken the entire day. A servant was brought in at one point with a plate of small sandwiches, but that seemed like ages ago. His own notes from the meeting spanned five pages in cramped handwriting.
"Telling the public that you are not only the proclaimed Herald but also the Hero of Ferelden would benefit the Inquisition," Josephine had tapped her pen on her cheek in thought, "your accomplishments are not easily forgotten. Saving Ferelden from the Fifth Blight is no small feat."
"I can send messengers to Alistair," Leliana had added, a hip propped against the edge of the table, "Backing from a King would help us on our path to recognition, favor, and legitimacy. Not that Orlesian Chantry really cares about Ferelden politics - its a start." The spymaster made a moue as she scribbled out a small note and set it aside, next to the piece that sat on the north-east corner of the map.
"That's the most you're going to get out of having me, I'm afraid." Amell had sighed, twirling a small feather absentmindedly through her fingers. "My influence is not as high as you would think and especially does not have the far reaches of what the late Divine believed."
Cassandra had frowned, "But as Warden Commander of Ferelden, you should be able to mobilize your troops." She gestured downward to piece that marked the location of Amaranthine, "Sister Leliana could not find you at the arling but you must have at least spent some of the last ten years building up the Grey Wardens. What we are fighting are not darkspawn but I doubt that there are many things higher in priority than tears in the veil separating this world from the Fade."
"Oh, believe me, I would if I could." laughing hollowly, the mage fidgeted, straightening her collar, playing with the map pieces, unwilling to look at any of the advisors in the eye, "The problem is, well, to put it bluntly, that the Wardens are dying." Silence pierced the room: shocked silence, inquiring silence, accusatory silence, demanding silence. Amell closed her eyes and kneaded the skin between her eyes, "I'll start again, since this is most likely relevant to the crisis on hand. A few months ago, I received a missive from Warden Commander Larius from the Vimmark Mountains who warned me of some radical notions made by senior warden Janeka. She was searching for the blood descendants of one Malcolm Hawke."
"Hawke? Why would the Wardens be looking for Hawke?" Cullen muttered, eyeing Cassandra as her scowl deepened.
Slowly a story had begun to unfold: a letter from a Commander of the Grey believed to be dead, a pursuit from the Waking Sea all the way to Haven that yielded not clues but destruction, a false Calling which timing matched the disappearance of a notable darkspawn that was locked in the Warden prison tower, suspicious connections between persons of interest from too different backgrounds to be coincidental. There was an undercurrent of grim determination in the war room as the inhabitants recognized that their common enemy, whatever they knew of him/her/it was only beginning to scratch the surface.
Suddenly, there was a significant drop in volume in the commotion on the battlements; men and women paused in their training and turned toward his direction, some pointing and whispering. He turned around. Amell was descending from the main gates, taking two steps at a time, sparing a glance toward the smithy, the stables, the wild nugs, and view of the frozen lake. He nodded to her as she jogged over to his side, uncaring of the curious looks they drew. "I didn't expect to see you again," she greeted, "I always thought that if we were to ever meet again, it would be on opposite sides on a hill of swords." Amell's smile was strained as as she referenced the Mage-Templar War that still ravaged the lands throughout Thedas, "There were rumors, afterwards, that you've gone mad, slayed three apprentices, and fled the Order. I'm glad it wasn't that. It's nice to see you again, Cullen."
"The Maker has watched over you, Amell," he replied, reaching up to brush some strands of hair out of her face out of habit, before letting the offending hand drop as he suddenly was made aware of the number of eyes still trained upon them by the growing chatter. She ducked her head, but not before he could see a blush creeping across her facial tattoos. "I," He coughed, struggling to regain his professional bearing, "these past events must be trying for you. You're not too overwhelmed, are you?"
She tilted her head back but still avoided his direct gaze, a grimace replacing her smile, "I won't lie. I've been better. The Calling, you see, I'm scared that its getting stronger despite Flemeth's amulet blocking off the worst," she gestured at the pendant resting just beneath her collarbone, reflecting ethereal light that seemed to come from an inner source, steadily leaking ancient power. "I might need to ask Solas but I think the mark of the rift is making me more susceptible though it seems to be stopped by some amount of will power - which the Inquisition helps me with - it offers a sense of purpose to do some good in this world..." Rubbing her head, she stepped back and nervously began drawing small circles into the dirt with her toe. "I digress. I'm still heavily medicated. Sorry that you had to listen to all that."
"I enjoyed this talk," Cullen hurriedly responded, "I mean," His hand crept to the back of his neck, "It would be nice if we can do this again sometime when you're better. If you ever need someone to talk to... As a friend, of course. I'm always here."
Her eyes widened, "I don't..." She chewed anxiously on her bottom lip, bringing a hand up to tug at stray strands of her hair, "Cullen. I'm not forcing you into accepting-"
"Amell, I want to," He grabbed her shoulders (careful, she was still recovering), willing her to understand, "As... I understand that it's been ten years. We are both different people from the templar and the apprentice at Kinloch Hold, Maker, we are both Commanders, but I hope that we can rekindle... I mean, rebuild our friendship." (There's still so much work to do. The Inquisition demands so much of his time. But the path is already set and his feelings are an eventuality, no matter how much he tries to concentrate on his role in the organization. And maybe this time around, when he does fall in love with her again, if it has not already happened, hopefully he will not fall too fast and maybe she'll... She'll...) "We can catch up whenever you're ready, when you come back. Over chess?" He hesitantly asked and he dared not hope, because if she can give him even this much...
"Herald! We are departing!" Seeker Cassandra called out, a solid shield gleaming in the sunlight strapped to her back. She was carrying a selection of swords and loading them onto the caravan with a furrow in her brow. Varric emerged from the gate polishing his beloved crossbow. The elven Hedge mage was securing the fastenings of his staff, squinting at the sun as if trying to determine the time.
Amell placed her hands over his and gently eased his grip off of her, "I would like that," She remarked, a hazy smile, a twinkle in her eye that was visible despite drowsiness from the many herbal remedies she had imbibed. The southern tower sounded the horn; a great procession arrived to see the party off. The quest was suspected to last a few days to a few weeks, depending on the resources found and reception that the Herald receives there. Offering one last salute, the mage stepped back and ran towards the expedition team. He watched as her figure slowly grew smaller as she increased her speed with Fade Steps, leaving behind faint impressions in the air with every spell, until he could not decipher her from the silhouettes of her fellow men as they slowly marched to the western parts of the Hinterlands to search for Mother Giselle.
Varric
She walked like someone who isn't used to paved roads, conjuring memories of Daisy working in and around the Kirkwall Alienage the month right after her self-exile from her clan. It was hard to believe that the only figure that Hawke (sarcastic, free-spirited, stubborn Hawke) had at one point idolized the distant Hero of Ferelden cousin. It was even harder to believe that their resemblance, both inner and outer, were so canny, despite them having never met. Their hair was a similar blue-black shade, their eyes were the same light gray in shape and degree of vivacity, they had the same lopsided smile. Not only that, they both had the same terrible sense of humor and the rather blase view of the world that sought to shock and awe them by throwing them into increasingly impossible situations. Hawke would be amused to learn that the Warden Commander was essentially him in a slighter, more feminine body. Varric attempted to mentally conjure a tale where Hawke becomes a warden and saving all of Ferelden from the Fifth Blight. Hawke would probably leave behind a trail of dead, dazed, and confused, shaking the world down to its noble roots, which, now that Varric thought about it, was probably what the Herald had done.
Which would explain the double-takes that he kept seeing Knight Captain Cullen give Hawke whenever the group was wandering around the Gallows all those years ago. Varric continued to ponder, tapping his chin with a crossbow bolt as the memories, bittersweet yet comforting, continued to summon themselves. The rumors rampant in Kirkwall about the Knight Captain's illicit history with the mage warden were, as he had believed, too fantastical, too harlequin romantic to be true - and yet Varric's eyes do not deceive him - he has seen the shattered glass and the past shadows of a shattered heart. Granted, there had to be a reason why Knight Commander Meredith punished anyone who talked about the supposed affair within the Templar Order if not for the degree of truth in the gossip. Varric would have given his manuscript of the latest chapter of Swords and Shields to get a look into the war room when they reunited. Maybe Ruffles will be willing to part with the information. Maybe the mage in question would be willing to answer his inquiries.
Varric glanced back and... His brow furrowed in confusion.
Happily humming a simple tune (Curly hummed the same song when he's in a particular mood), Amell sat on the back of the last wagon above a canvas that covered their total camping supplies, running a whetstone over the edge of a standard issued Ferelden sword. "Two questions, Herald" She looked up, startled at the sudden break in silence, "Didn't you have a staff with you when we were at the Breach? And do you have a spare weapon kit on you?"
"Huh. You're the first one to ask me that." She confided with a quirk in her lips, tucking the sword back into its scabbard and wiping her hands on her mail, "Here. I suppose congratulations are in order, as well as a prize. All I have on me that I'm willing to part is an unused pocket handkerchief. You're not missing your entire kit, I hope. I would loose faith in your abilities." Mockingly serious, she offered said handkerchief with an outstretched hand, light blue with little golden embroidered flowers at the corners, which was not at the quality of his own oilcloth that he had lost some hours back in the mountains but just as well (and she had undoubtedly noticed that and his boredom).
He plucked the offending piece of cloth out from her fingers with a bemused nod of thanks, dabbed some polisher onto it, and rubbed down Bianca for what it seems to be the fifth time today. Surface dwarf that he was, he was still a dwarf, and dwarves needed to be kept from idleness. "I thought that mages using swords are about as common as a templar using a staff." Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Cassandra lead the group, peering into the thick undergrowth in search for signs of life. She barked orders at a handful of men who saluted her and dove ahead. "I'm surprised Seeker hasn't asked yet."
"Probably because Leliana told her a long time ago back when they were still looking for little old me," Amell mused as she fell back against the pile, sighing as she craned her neck back to stare at the foliage above her, "And Solas would already know."
"Elf mages know how to fight with swords?" As he tested Bianca's automatic spring loads (still a bit stiff, maybe it was the humidity that was affecting the wood), Varric tried to imagine Daisy effortlessly swinging around Hayder's Razor and failed miserably.
"The dead art of the Arcane Warrior was once known among the elves," flicking a wrist, Amell held out an arm that began to glow, tracing a white lined pattern that crawled and spread, not unlike that of Broody's lyrium veins. "By pumping magic through your muscles you get warrior like qualities: augmented strength, ability to wield unwieldy swords. Since I lost my favorite dragonbone staff at the explosion at the Conclave, no other staff would compare to the ease of combat with an actual sword... Though I left all of my best swords with Nathaniel... Huh, I guess I could ask the Inquisition to send a letter," she trailed off, staring thoughtfully at her fingertips as they emitted small sparks of lightning.
He waited patiently while inwardly counting to ten (she had the habit of falling asleep mid conversation - he chalked it up to the fact that she was still healing) and then prompted her, "It's not dead if there's at least one user out there. Can Chuckles do the same?"
"I don't think so; you don't see him with anything sharp and pointy on him." Amell swung her legs idly over the edge, "I found a phylactery in the Lower Brecillian Ruins when I was trying to broker peace or a ceasefire between werewolves and elves, back when I was still trying to mobilize troops during the Blight." She said that in the same tone that Hawke usually used whenever he announced that he was going out to Hightown Market to buy armor upgrades and came back instead covered in spider remains. "It's actually pretty similar to being a Knight Enchanter from Orlais, I heard. But I like to think that I'm better than any run-of-the-mill Orlesian mage." She fell back to humming the same tune from prior; her rise and fall in tone matched that of the drifting wind around them. Varric continued to calibrate his crossbow's scope and checked the cross hairs for accuracy, fingers moving around with nothing to guide them but muscle memory.
The dwarf rubbed his hands together, trying to force some heat into his fingertips. The Hinterlands were unforgiving in the winter, even during midday, especially when one spent the whole day doing nothing but walking and resting on the caravans. It was a far cry from Kirkwall and its polarized sectors of rich and poor. It was far cry from Sundermount and its lack of vegetation. He sighed - another day, another fight, another apocalyptic scenario - at least the people were nice... somewhat.
A small rustling sound caught his attention; Amell had reached into her pack and pulled out a familiar looking book. Slowly drifting off into her own world, she murmured softly as she read, but he could easily make out the words - familiar in content, how could they not be? He wrote the book. He considered gifting her the entire series for her; she clearly uses the books as a way to take the edge off from the expectations that the Haven pilgrims and worshippers have placed on her shoulders.
Donnen Brennokovic didn't stand on ceremony. He strode through the barracks and slammed open the door to the captain's office without so much as a nod to the guards he passed.
Just barely dawn, and already Captain Hendallen was buried beneath a mountain of paperwork taller than the Vinmarks. All Donnen could see of the captain was her fiery hair and an angry gaze that had stopped more than one pickpocket mid-grift.
"Captain, I need a warrant for the Comte de Favre." Even as the words left his lips, Donnen knew they were a mistake.
The Captain rose to her feet. "Brennokovic." The way she spoke his name was like a portcullis slamming shut. "Where's my report on the Hightown Market body?" It was the kind of question you might ask a truant child, the kind where you already knew the answer and just wanted to see someone squirm in guilt.
The Herald's mabari returned from their trail, bounding over a few boulders before stopping at her feet with a mouthful of royal elfroot, dripping with drool but still usable if Adan didn't adamantly complain. Amell carefully extracted the herbs, praising him as he settled down at the edge of the wagon, curled up and slowly drifted off to sleep. She gave the mabari one last sad look. Despite his past prowess in battle, he was a canvas of battle scars, of unhealed wounds new and old - he was barely battle ready anymore, especially after the fight with the Pride Demon, and had retired from a weapon to a faithful companion.
"Rogue templars ahead!" Cassandra shouted from the front as the caravan froze in its tracks. Flashes of blue steel and war cries distinguished themselves from the ambient lights and sounds of nature. "Hold your ground! Everyone capable of fighting, to me! Varric, covering fire!" The mabari snuffled in his slumber, uncaring of the imminent fight ahead. Amell was already standing from her perch, tucking Hard in Hightown back into her satchel and drawing her sword. Her eyes glittered: a little dark, a little blood thirsty.
"Andraste's flaming sword," cursing, he readied Bianca, taking comfort in the smooth transition sounds of gears sliding into place and the promise of pinpoint precision, "It was bound to happen sooner or later. Seems like they need you up there. Time to put your money where your mouth is, Herald," he said, sliding a bolt in place.
"I'll cut them down so quickly they won't even have time to activate a Spell Purge," Amell giddily laughed as the sword begins to glow, a dull scent of ozone permeating the area as her magic manifested, "Feast your eyes, Varric Tethras." And she leaped headfirst into the skirmish.