"You are with the Inquisition?" a man overlooking the scouts' training says. We've climbed a small hill to find another camp clinging to the mountain at its back and this man with the air of authority about him in its middle. "Corporal Vale." He inclines his head. "Thank you for your help."

It's a refreshing change — not to be instantly recognised as the Herald of Blah-Blargh. Wish we had more Vashoths around. The anonymity of a crowd would be a welcome relief.

"The mages and templars do not care who's caught in the middle of their fighting," Vale continues. Dark circles under his bloodshot eyes look like bruises.

"Bandits, demons, mages, and templars," Solas says. "The refugees are in dire need of help."

Corporal Vale glances at him and nods. "They are. If the war doesn't kill them, cold and starvation will."

"What other problems do the refugees have? I'd like the full list, please," I say.

Vale crosses his arms over his chest plate and looks at me. He's surprisingly tall for a human — about ten inches shorter than me, Vale needs to raise his head only slightly to maintain eye contact. "We've got some injuries that go beyond the help of stitches and elfroot. I know healers are in short supply, but if you can find someone in Redcliffe, it would save a lot of lives."

The same Redcliffe, whose gates have been closed last week and where the real rebel mages, not those power-addled monkey-brains that keep attacking everyone in sight, are holed up in as the gossip around the village says. A shiver runs up the back of my neck. My right horn itches, so I scratch it. Something tells me we are going to have a problem with this request.

"Consider it done."

Vale nods.

"No, really," I say, seeing that he doesn't get it. "I've already found you a new healer. Keith is down there, helping in the infirmary."

The corporal blinks. "That was fast." Then a hint of a smile appears in the corners of his mouth, underneath his patchy facial hair — a bleak result of his attempt to grow out a beard and a moustache, stomped by genetics and age. "I hope you can resolve our other difficulties just as fast."

Moving on, Vale directs us up another hill to a hunter, who has ideas on dealing with the food shortage. Vale makes broad, sweeping gestures as he talks, and his youthful face reflects every emotion he feels. An honest man, barely out of adolescence.

Vale's request of blankets fell through: the Inquisition's resources are tight as a scrooge's purse strings. A recruit Wiggle — Whiggle? Whittle? Wiggle-Biglle! — is in charge of whatever they have, so we need to speak with him, too.

"Templars?" I prompt, and Vale scowls.

"All the templars have headed to Val Royeaux by now. They have orders to gather there. These bastards" — Vale spits the word like the foulest curse imaginable — "ignored the order. And now they are killing mages and anyone they suspect of being a mage sympathiser. Every templar I've ever known has wanted to protect the common folk. These men defile their Order's good name."

Can't say I have the same respect for the Order, but no organisation consists purely of evil psychos. Unless it's stated in the entry requirements.

Vale marks Master Dennet's farm on Cas' map, and we move on.

First, we find the hunter's hut — a round one-story building, a popular design in this area. The door is ajar, so I have no compunction about entering. I even knock, once and lightly. Varric follows. Solas and Cas stay behind.

The hunter is absent. The salty smell of cured meat fills my mouth with the urge to bite into a ram's leg, but I exercise restraint. Besides, I'd regret eating as soon as we step out into the open and the residual smoke of burning pyres reaches my nose. Even at a glance, I can tell that food supplies are at their end: all parts, hanging from a rafter, belong to one animal.

Varric's quick fingers snatch a folded piece of parchment from a side table. His eyes scan the uneven, jolty lines. I read over his shoulder.

"Maker, my editor would have killed him," Varric mutters. "It's worse than Bartrand's attempts at poetry."

I wince. Between misspellings and awful grammar, it's hard to grasp what happened, but I manage. The templars had terrorised a group of elderly refugees — beat them up and took their provisions; then apostates came and attacked everyone with fire-based spells. When templars came out on top and the apostates skedaddled, one tin can stayed behind to put down survivors and loot the bodies. The hunter killed him to prevent the rape of a burn victim, who died shortly after, and now he suffers PTSD.

Gods.

Knowing this story, the regret over taking human lives I've been suppressing with all my might withers away and turns to ash. I need to learn necromancy so I can raise those bastards and kill them again.

My tone is flippant when I ask, "That bad?"

Varric puts the note on the table, his shoulders — an electric wire of tension. "Worse," he says, looking at his clenched fists.

-[break]-

I agree to hunt rams for meat for the hunter and apostates for blankets for recruit Whittle and to track down a son of an old elf. I agree to a lot of hunting all around. The last one is the simplest matter: just find a man and deliver the news of his mother's sickness. Why only he can make a potion to help with her lung disease is beyond me, but I'm no alchemist. So I ask Solas.

"I know which potion this woman needs," Solas says after a pause for forehead wrinkling and thoughtful humming. "Unfortunately, I am unfamiliar with the recipe. We will have to find this Hyndrel, I'm afraid."

"Can't you take a nap and consult a spirit?"

"I—" A peculiar expression crosses Solas' face, as though a lovely but not too bright dog has just finished his crossword. "We will have to collect the herbs for it since we are out of embrium, but yes. It is possible."

"Excellent!" I say, clapping my hands. "That should go quicker than scouring the entire Hinterlands for one person." Of course, I'll be on the look-out for him anyway. Hyndrel did join a cult that has a potential to be useful.

We swing by the forward camp to get our backpacks and head out into the Great Unknown. I mean, Cas has the map and all, but for me, it's just a never-ending parade of trees, ponds, waterfalls, boulders, and mountains. Or very tall hills. At times, it's hard to tell them apart. Oh, well. At least, it's not so cold anymore.

As we leave the village behind, I breathe in, filling my lungs with sweet, clean air for what feels like the first time in hours.

"Rifts take priority above everything else," I decide aloud.

Cas nods. "Our scouts keep watching the known rifts from a distance and warn people off going near them, but refugees coming from the south often get too close and inadvertently cause them to reopen." She scowls as if the these folks' inability of following simple instructions is a personal affront. "A helpful scout showed me the locations. We shouldn't encounter any difficulties finding them."

Famous last words.

"Are you sure it's this hill and not the opposite?" I bend over with my hands on knees, panting. Sweat dampens the back of my shirt, and I shiver as the icy gust of wind sneaks its fingers between my scarf and coat collar. "We've been here, like, three times already."

"Twice, Shiny," Varric says. He sets his backpack on the ground and rummages inside.

Cas glares at the broken edges of a bridge that should be connecting this hill with the next. The ravine between them is a long way down. "It should be here somewhere."

Her voice is tightly controlled, but the fierce scowl Cas directs at the trees and road markers can scar small children for life. Understandable, of course. I'd be frustrated, too, if rifts conspired to spite me by hiding.

"Should have taken the other road, Seeker," Varric says and hides from her ire behind his waterskin. "I'm just saying…"

"Maybe now I can have a look at your map, Cassandra?" Solas says. He uses his staff for support. The whole naked expanse of his head is glittering with sweat. He has been quietly smug after Cas led us here the second time, but I guess he is too winded to gloat over his victory right now. "I distinctly remember seeing a landmark just like that one" — Solas points at the obelisk on the opposite hill — "near the spot we seek."

Cas growls. "Fine." Swinging her backpack so she can look inside, she takes out a leather tube and flings it at Solas' face. It hits him square in the nose. "Let us hope you have better luck," Cas says. It sounds rather waspish — like what she really means is that he'll fail. Spectacularly.

Solas' hand glows with a quick healing spell, weak and unfocused, just enough for a scraped knee or a headache but not much else. Spirit healer he is not, even I can sense and see that. He purses his lips and raises his head to look at her down his nose. "Thank you."

Cas grinds her teeth, her nostrils flare.

I wave my arms between them. "Break it up, children! I wanna kill something, and if we don't find a bunch of demons soon, it's gonna be one of you."

Solas sniffs and, turning on his heels, marches down the hill. Sighing, I trail after, to the bottom of the ravine… and straight into a mage-templar skirmish.

High on her rage, Cas cuts into the fight like an icebreaker into a snow crust.

"Kill the warri—!" an apostate shouts.

I silence him with a stone fist to the mouth. The force of the blow crushes his face into a bloody paste. I look away. My stomach rebels nonetheless. Next thing I know, I'm crouching over a bush, an acidic taste in my mouth. Protective barrier sets over my back. Glancing over my shoulder, I see Cas fighting two templars at once not ten feet from me.

Spitting, I fumble for my staff and blast the tin cans with chain lightning. It jumps from one templar to another, temporarily stunning them. Taking the opportunity, Cas drives her sword past the first templar's defences, hamstringing the bastard. He goes down on one knee. Cas swings the sword in a wide arc, momentarily exposing her side, but before anyone can exploit it, I follow up with an electric bolt, something I've never tried.

The second templar goes rigid, spasms shaking his body. His weapon never makes it near Cas.

A wet splash and a thud sound. A head in a helmet rolls down the road, leaving a red trail behind. The rest of the third templar falls to the wayside, blood gushing out of the stump of his neck in fits and bursts. My warrior goddess focuses on the remaining tin can. As soon as the effects of the spell end and his body slumps in a boneless heap, Cas ends his worthless existence.

Solas jumps off a boulder he climbed earlier. With my height, it's not a necessity, but for him and Varric, more often than not, having the high ground is vital.

"You fought well," he says, looking at Cas. An offer of a truce.

"Thank you." She inclines her head. "You, too." Accepted.

Varric comes into my line of sight and wordlessly hands me his waterskin. I sit on my haunches and wash away the awful taste, corpses of our enemies lying around like broken dolls. Overlapping them are different bodies. They bleed on their uniforms from gunshot wounds, darkening shades of green and khaki. I close my eyes. The air tastes hot and coppery, stale.

Hatred floods my veins, makes it hard to breathe. For me, this war has just begun. I loathe it, them, the whole fucked up situation so fucking much, it burns worse than the stomach acid lingering at the base of my throat. I want this all to end.

"Shiny?" Varric says, concern in his voice.

As quickly as they came, the image shatters, the feelings recede. Suddenly, I'm fine. The sight before me doesn't incite the need to rip the world apart and rebuilt it anew, without violence as a concept. It's just a job. And one I'm good at, too.

What in the bloody hell was that? My subconscious is a screwed up place.

I blink at Varric, feeling completely bewildered. "Yes?"

He is silent for a moment. Behind his short and broad frame, Cas and Solas go through the loot. Templar armour clangs when they turn their dead owners without care. The skin around Varric's eyes tightens; he bites the inside of his lower lip.

"Need a hand?"

"Sure. Thanks."

Varric hoists me up, and we join in stripping pieces of equipment for sale.

"Do we have to do all the dirty work ourselves?" I ask as we pile up the dead for the last rites. "We are on the very top of the chain of command, Cas, why don't we have henchmen? I want henchmen!"

"We can delegate it to the scouts," Cas says thoughtfully, "but these bodies will lie here while our people arrive to take care of them."

I imagine them after several days of decomposition. Ugh. "Ripe corpses are the worst."

"The Veil is thin here," Solas says, intently staring at thin air. Maybe he can actually see that elusive curtain. "I wouldn't recommend leaving readily available hosts for demons to possess."

"Right." The irony wouldn't be lost on me if demons take over them and we end up having to fight them again.

And, well, even despicable human — and elven, in the case of some of the apostates — beings deserve better than being a meal for predators. Besides, spoilt meat can cause diseases. So we give them to fire.

No matter how often I endure it, the smell doesn't become any more bearable.

-[break]-

"Get ready. Demons ahead," Solas says what feels like an eternity of climbing over a different hill later.

A green crystal of a rift is visible for all to see. It hangs in plain sight next to an open gateway in a truly impressive fortification wall spanning the road and thus connecting two hills. The walkway atop it ends with a watchtower on either side. I don't see anyone alive there.

"This is the Redcliffe Road." Cas' voice is void of inflexions. "All this time we have been circling it when we could have walked out of the Crossroads and be here in less than five minutes." As Cas speaks, her words gain volume and her cheeks — colour. "I'm going to murder that scout!" she growls.

Great. We've sent three hours down the drain. "I'll help you dispose of the body."

"Don't worry about an alibi," Varric says. "Nobody will suspect a thing."

The usual collection of demons attack. Shades and wraiths are relatively easy to deal with and utterly predictable. Boring. The fight goes as expected, with Cas holding the front line and the rest of us hurling spells and bolts from a distance, until the rift spits out an insectoid with a many-eyed octopus attached to its face. Long limbed, it jumps around like a grasshopper, popping in and out of the Fade like a squirrel on crack.

A dried husk of a body appears right before my face, green wisps of the very fabric of the Veil curling about its deformed appendages like whiffs of smoke. The demon lunges. I stumble-jump back, losing balance and going down on my ass. Huh, my lack of grace's just saved me from needing reconstructive surgery! I cast a mind blast. Nothing. Sharp claws swipe the air above my horns, and a thick tail lashes out.

On instinct, I raise my left hand to protect myself and get a blunt end of the tail across the forearm. The reinforced leather of my coat and the rapidly thinning barrier don't hold a candle to the brute force of the blow. A bone cracks. It hurts. Tears spring to my eyes, clouding my vision. For a breathless moment, everything is sharp, raw, and hopeless. I scream.

The air currents shift.

"Protect the Herald!" Cas shouts.

A new barrier covers me just as the demon goes for another swing. In desperation, I thrust the upper end of my staff into its stomach and cast the strongest Winter's Grasp to date. Wrong move. Ice encases the demon, solidifying it into the ugliest statue in the world, and from its midriff sticks my wonderful staff, frozen in as a part of the sculpture.

"Damn," I half-moan, half-growl. Can't decide if I'm angry, or tired, or what. It's just fucking unfair — I've only got my hands on this staff a couple of weeks ago. And it's been such a long, hungry, exhausting day with no end, and pain, and terror, and despair in store… I'm so damn tired and hurt, I'd lie right here, before this very hideous statue and wait till I die. No need to move then.

…Wait a minute, a rational thought scratches at the door of my rapidly packing up for vacation consciousness, this isn't like you at all.

I pause. Play back the log of my thought process. It really isn't.

"Fucking dementors!"

With my good hand, I haul the staff out of the icy prison. Cracks form around the grip, but the layer of ice is too thick. The shaft breaks. I stagger backwards with the two-thirds of my once beautiful, reliable weapon. What a fucking way to lose it.

Useless without a head to amplify magic, my staff transforms into a club. A wry twist of lips — that joke has just caught up with me and bitten my ass — and I toss the staff to the ground. I need my one working hand to cast. Gathering energy, I make a fist and mimic a punch. A stone fist crashes into the frozen demon, shattering it into chunks and slivers of demonic icicles.

Just in time. With nothing to obscure my view, I enjoy the sight of Cas, her body — a taut line of leashed power, thrusting her sword through a despair demon.

The spiked crystal of the rift sucks in the green mist left after despair's disintegration and goes into stasis, reminding me of its existence.

I fumble for a potion, stop with the bottle halfway to my mouth, and curse. The bend of my left forearm is plainly wrong. Can't heal it properly without setting the bones first.

"Hey." It comes out as a barely audible rasp. I clear my throat. "Who wanna visit pain upon me?"

Cas' head shoots up. "What's the matter, Herald?"

Solas takes one look at my arm, straightens up from his crouch next to something I can't quite see, and moves in my direction.

"I will assist you," he says in a tone of voice that brooks no argument. That's fine by me. I'd like to get it over with and drink the damn potion ASAP.

Although Cas is a good distance farther, she reaches me at the same moment as Solas. A frown lies between Cas' brows even before she assesses the damage.

I smile for her benefit.

"Will you hold my hand, gorgeous?" The last word is an intentional throwback to our first day together, and we both know it. I doused that torch in the ice-cold waters of the pond.

"Of course," Cas says. Her hold is gentle, like she is afraid of causing discomfort.

"I can't leave you for two minutes, Shiny." Varric shakes his head and joins our little group in trampling frozen demonic remains. Their crunch sounds like heavenly music and angels singing to my ears. "Tell me again why did you leave that healer behind?"

"Because I'm a soft-hearted idiot?" Refugees' already existing and very real wounds took priority over our hypothetical and possible ones.

"Ready?" Solas asks, touching my useless limb. This is the closest he has come near me in days.

I turn my head away and stare into Cas' eyes.

"Shoot."

I assume Solas pulls the bones into place because pain lances through my arm, quick and blinding. My grip on Cas' fingers tightens to a point where I'd be worried about bending her gauntlet if my mental faculties haven't gone offline.

Blinking back tears, I let go of Cas' hand to accept a potion from Solas.

"Thanks," I say, meaning it with every letter. "If you ever need a similar service, count on me."

Elfroot takes care of the worst, reknitting bones and repairing soft tissues. I'll have an ugly bruise come tomorrow, but that's a small price for a working hand. Speaking of which.

"I need to take care of the rift before anyone else decides to say, 'Hello,' from the other side."

Cas and Solas move aside, so I walk past them and get in range. The rift snaps closed without resistance.

"Herald," Solas says, showing me a piece of grey fabric covered in goo. "This might be interesting for the Inquisition mages doing research on the rifts."

I give the cloth a sceptical second glance. "You sure they'll appreciate a dirty rag?" I certainly wouldn't. And also, we have mages researching the rifts? Meaning, there are mages, plural, and that means more potential teachers for me.

The affront showing on Solas' face is comical. He looks at me like I've just called him a Dalish templar in disguise. "These are Dreamer Rags and Wisp Essence."

"Ah." I pull an appropriate expression of enlightened understanding on. The names don't tell me a thing. "How could I not recognise them? It's so obvious now." I snatch the fabric, carefully fold it to hold all the goo inside, and put it in my backpack next to the bloodied clothes. "Thank you, Solas. Our researchers will be beside themselves."

To miss the heavy-handed sarcasm is impossible. Solas makes a decent go at ignoring it.

"You are quite welcome, Herald," he says with a straight face. We stare at each other, waiting who will cave in and blink first.

"What are you doing, Varric?" Cas' voice carries enough incredulity to tempt a priest to peek at a stripper at the end of her show. Of course, I resist.

"Exactly what it looks like: having lunch."

"Right here?" Cas asks.

He answers her with a loud bite from a crisp apple. The aromas of food reach my nose. My stomach perks up and decides that if I don't feed it on the spot, it will devour me instead. Solas and I break our staring contest by simultaneously turning to Varric.

"It's as good a place as any," Varric says from atop a fallen off head of a statue, sunken into the earth to its middle and covered in patches of old moss, about twenty feet to my left. "Andraste wouldn't mind."

Cas seems to be lost for words. He throws her a deliciously red fruit, and Cas catches it, glances first at the apple in her hand, then at Varric.

"There's more where it came from," Varric says with a wink.

-[break]-

After the meal, we swing by the Crossroads. The streets of the village are full with people standing around in groups, sitting on carts, leaning on crates. Templars or apostates took their possessions, so they sleep under the open sky, often relying only on the clothes on their backs to keep them warm. With their homes destroyed, these people have nowhere to return to and no place to stay. Many villagers have taken in as many refugees as they could, but space isn't made of rubber.

I stop at a merchant's stall and browse the merchandise. A simple staff with a round crystal top catches my attention. The dark metal of the grip has a swirling, asymmetrical design. My fingers close over the leather wrapping of the grip and cold surges through the upper half of the shaft, concentrating in the focusing crystal, emanates from it in waves. I heft the staff in one hand, turn it around, and inspect the wicked blade on its end.

"How much for this one?"

The merchant, an old man with thin, raised scars crisscrossing his face and a burn mark on the back of his left hand, squints one of his eyes. "Fifty Silvers."

Solas scoffs, "Only if by Silvers you mean Bits."

The merchant turns to him. "That's a highway robbery, and we have enough of that on the roads!"

Varric points out that we have a part in making the roads safer, and the haggling commences. While they are at it, Varric arranges to sell most of our accumulated loot. I don't know what magic he's working on the merchant, but even my ruined pants fetch a coin.

When I step away from the stall, half an hour later and a purseful of gold richer, my backpack is lighter than it's ever been.

"East — heads, west — tails." I flip a Sovereign in the air. Varric catches it and flops it onto his palm. The golden dragon grins at us, coiling a long, spiked tail around its body.

Varric pockets my Sovereign. "West it is."

-[break]-

The West Road lies behind a short passage through the mountain that ends with — of course — another gate. Behind it are farms and fields, gardens and orchards. And everything is aflame. Black smoke rises from every damn building. Each hut and house, as far as an eye can see, is a sacrifice on the altar of the hungriest element of nature.

I stop and stare at this meaningless destruction, a show of frustration and force. "Who the fuck would do such a tremendously stupid thing?" I shake my head. "Don't answer that. It's self-evident."

Templars and apostates fight in the middle of a street.

"What shall we do?" Cas asks.

"Let's wait them out and kill the winner."

Backtracking to the gate, we do exactly that. In the shadow of the guarded passage, we don't draw any attention. I lean on the wall. The cold stone is dry and rough and pokes me in the shoulder with a sharp edge.

"Everything is out to get me." With a sigh, I change position.

A warm breeze carries an array of smells ranging from pleasant, like burning wood and thatch, to outright revolting. Battle cries mix with pained exclamations, wet sounds of steel cutting into flesh and whooshes of elemental magic hurling through the air transform into moans, groans, wheezes, taper into silence.

The fight goes on for a time, both groups getting reinforcements, but eventually, the templars win.

"Looks like it's our cue."

One of the templars is poking a fallen apostate with the toe of his boot. Another crouches over a woman lying face down in the dirt. The heat from the fires melted snow, and the woman's long, unbraided hair has fallen into a muddy slush; a pool of blood has gathered under her stomach. Pulling his gauntlet off, the templar checks her pulse.

"This bitch's alive," he says, glancing at his comrade over his shoulder. "Wanna go first or should I?"

"Go ahead," the first templar says, plunging his sword into another barely alive apostate. "I like them feisty."

The second templar tugs the woman's robe up. She gives a weak moan. And that's as far as he gets. A click of a release mechanism, and the end of a bolt springs from the templar's visor at the same time as a sheet of ice encases his body. He topples to the side. A most satisfying kill, I must admit.

"Wha—?" The first templar turns, but a Fade fist crushes his chest plate, bending it inward, and the rest of his question dies in a gurgle. A sharp, pungent smell punches my olfactory system with a dead-blow hammer, and I cringe. I hate the consequences of violent deaths.

All in all, it all takes less than two minutes. Still, the commotion hasn't been as quiet as I hoped. It has attracted the attention of the rest of the templars. Three more tin cans rush from the corner of a miraculously not burning building, torches in their hands. Another four appear from the nearby hill. Their armour clangs especially loudly as they run. I turn. They are coming from a camp set next to a large boulder, the blue light of glyphs dying on the rocks.

"Well," I say, getting my new staff in a position to blast them to hell. "A little more stealth next time?"

Cas makes a derisive noise and raises her shield. The first attacker to sprint to us tangles with her in a dance of steel. Before we disperse, Solas throws a barrier over our group. I follow suit, strengthening it with my own.

Varric executes a leaping shot — for such a heavy and densely built person he sure has agility in spades — and takes a higher ground.

"To the death!" I freeze a templar solid. A stone fist shatters him into icicles. The loss of a nice set of armour is unfortunate, but I love this combo too much to pass up. It makes getting rid of the bodies easier.

"Incoming!" Cas shouts, and indeed, another wave of enemies crashes against our defences. These are tougher: even with my limited exposure to sword fighting, I can tell that they are better trained. Have finer equipment, too. The light dies on their matte black shields. A red emblem adorns dark uniform armour of my two opponents. I send a chain lightning through them. The metal is an excellent conductor no matter the colour.

"I don't believe they are simply bandits." Cas delivers a brutal shield slam to a probably not-bandit, who staggers and loses his footing. Cas lunges forward, getting under the not-bandit's shield and cuts his hamstring. He goes down, leaving a perfect opening. Cas spins, her sword swishes, lightning fast. The not-bandit's head lolls back, bright red blood spurting from his throat.

Efficient and ruthless. I so like her style.

"So now we have a band of outlaws to add to the rogue templars, the apostate mages, and hoards of demons?" Varric pauses, shoots five consecutive bolt, surveys the resulting pincushion with a thoughtful expression on his face, and tops it off with an explosive round to the enemy's head. "As if we haven't had enough on our plates already."

"When it rains, it pours?" I cast a barrier just as a man with a giant axe — overcompensating much? — attempts to cut me down. Glassy, dark brown eyes stare at me through the visor of his black helmet; his sour sweat covers a strange, sickly sweet undertone, like rotting meat coated in an inordinate amount of fragrant spices.

Pivoting on my heels, I move from the line of the incoming blow and jab the attacker in the armpit with the bladed end of my staff. Ha! Knew it'd come in handy!

The man shrugs it off like a love pat, half of his axe's blade burrows into the earth on the impact. Have I stayed in its path, I'd be lucky to get away with only a body part missing.

Ice blasts and a dose of electricity, a blast of lightning, and still he keeps moving.

"Berserker on experimental drugs?" I mutter, advancing to the rear with haste. My mana is low. It's a peculiar feeling, one, I've hopped as hell to avoid.

The demented growling coming from behind me can have only one source. And that source follows me just as quickly. Throwing dignity to the wind, I sprint to a crumbling wall. Skirting around the banking embers of what used to be someone's house, I round up the corner, beeline to a broken cart standing next to the wall and hop onto it. Turning around, I gather enough mana for a Winter's Grasp and don't wait to see if the spell takes.

I figure if it does, I'll know it by the lack of sound, and if not, I'd better put him through an obstacle course. The man's heavy armour should slow him down while my get-up allows me to jump over fences like a mountain goat.

Fortunately, the spell works. The hyped-up not-bandit turns into an art installation. Vaulting over the wall, I keep moving. Unfortunately, I run headlong into a new batch of templars. Fresh out of mana and with no backup.

"Hullo, guys. Whatcha doin'?" My guess is that they're looking for the source of commotion on their doorstep, as all three of them are coming out of the broken gate of a run-down… fort? The structure behind their backs is too militaristic and too small to be a castle, so I dub it a fort and call it a day.

The templars glance at each other — stupidly, if you ask me — and go for their swords. Not turning my back on them, I backpedal to the wall.

"Kill the abomination!" the tin can on the right shouts. He's the tallest and keeps himself slightly ahead. A leader, then.

"Hey, that's totally uncalled for!" Turning tail, I run in earnest. The stone wall is only a dozen feet away when I hear a tale-tell crack. My nice icy prison has fallen and let the convict escape.

"Oh, shit!" I rapidly slow down, which is fucking hard to do after pelting at breakneck speed. The momentum is a bitch to cancel.

A crash, then a torso in black armour appears over the wall. The rest of the man follows even as the sound of wood splintering and breaking announces the cart's untimely demise. He jumps down from the wall, to our side. A weird tingling at the base of my neck alerts me to something nefarious going on behind my back. Someone's pulling on the Fade energy. Without thinking, I dash to the right. My foot catches on uneven ground.

While I'm falling into the mud, the not-bandit lands with a heavy thud, hefting his axe overhead; at the same time, a wave of energy rushes past me, exactly through the place I've been standing at moments ago, and catches my first pursuer into the chest plate. I hit the ground. He goes still. The templars swear.

Don't know what that shit they pulled does to a mundane, and I can't say I'm in a hurry to find out the answer, but I'm sure as hell the result would be far worse for a mage. It sent weird ripples through the Fade, not like when someone casts nearby, but… Templars claim their abilities aren't magical in nature? I call bullshit!

Rolling off my aching right shoulder that has taken most of the impact, I scramble to put my feet under me and spring back up. The man in black shakes his head like a wet dog, the plumage of his helmet swishes. Abruptly, he focuses on the templars, a bloody intent entering his vacant gaze. Guess he's out to kill 'em all, with no distinction on such trifle matters as affiliations.

Good. As long as they are occupied with each other, they cease to be my problem.

I hoof it out of here. Or at least, I try to. Two of the tin cans get tangled with the crazed berserker. The third, however, goes after me. Between climbing over the wall and skirting around it, I choose the later. Main reason? Without a convenient cart on this side, I'd spend too long pulling myself up. Though it's about my height, it is a proper, thick wall, if stunted in growth.

A few feet before the wall ends, a chain hits my waist, coils around, tugs me back. I stumble, arms pinwheeling. The staff falls out of my hand, but I keep the footing.

"Going somewhere, bitch?" a female voice pants. That's a surprise.

I grab the metal links, turn around, and yank the chain with all my might. It flies out of the tin can's hands. The shock on her face will warm my heart on a bleak, cold night.

"Away from your ugly mug." Remembering a move I saw… somewhere, I spin the chain in the air; the links clink. A quiet whoosh, and the chain's end smacks the templar in the side of her head, twisting her helmet. On second glance, it barely holds on her head.

The woman says, "Urk," and sinks like a breached ship — slowly, like time has turned into kissel.

I pull the chain back and coil it in loose circles around my arm, unwrap the rest of my body. The bruises on my midriff will compliment my complexion marvellously.

A pained cry and a growl get my attention next. The man in black has finished off both templars. His bulbous nose smells the air, and like a fucking bloodhound on a trail, he zeros in on me even though I make no move or sound.

He's human. It shouldn't be possible.

The man turns. I gather the energy for another Winter's Grasp, the only thing I can cast thanks to the excruciatingly slow trickle of magic through my dial-up connection to the Fade. He takes one step in my direction. A spell is at my fingertips, ready to fly. The man's knees buckle.

My eyes widen. What?

Cas braces a leg on his shoulder and pulls her sword out. Red stained steel surfaces out of his left side. Cas twists her sword in the air, sending droplets of blood raining on the corpse.

"When you run away from your troop, we cannot help," Cas says, a scowl etched into her face. "Don't do that again." With a glare, she turns around and marches to the stone wall. "Varric, Solas," she shouts, "I found her."

Aw. A smile tugs at my lips. It's so sweet of her to reinforce my eternal surety of her caring nature.

When Varric and Solas join us, Cas is busy ignoring me and I'm grinning like a loon.

One glance and, frowning, Solas tosses me a vial full of electric blue liquid.

"Cheers!" I drain it in a couple of gulps. A tidal wave of sizzling energy floods me, and along with mana, all my senses come alive. Everything is crystallised and intense. Colours, smells, and noises are overwhelmingly hard to bear.

Several templars are talking in the fort. A jackrabbit's heartbeat slows as a fox rips its throat, their furs smell of musk, and fear, and wildness. Light gains a new dimension, the smallest particles of water forming transparent, sparkling mist. The soft shirt, the inside of the gloves and pants I wear feel like sandpaper.

My eyes and ears, my brain hurt. Then, as suddenly as they began, the sensations stop. Everything fades to normal.

"Whoa!" A shiver runs over my body. "That was… something. A trip, most definitely."

"You haven't used lyrium before?" Solas asks, tilting his head to the side.

"Maybe. Maybe not." The taste is familiar, but the effects were a surprise. "Not in recent memory, that's for sure."

He makes a thoughtful little sound and gives me three more bottles. "I found them on the apostates," Solas says as a way of explanation. Ah, 'tis my share of the loot.

"Thanks. We need to check out that fort." I point in the relevant direction. "Templars have a camp there."

Cas perks up at this information. Her posture shifts, nostrils flare — a bloodhound on a trail. "How many of them?"

I listen. The murmur of voices barely rises above a whisper. "At least, five."

Varric's pupils dilate, but his expression remains unchanged.

Cas nods. "As soon as you are ready."

"Oh, I'm ready, all right." I leer at her. To keep her on her toes, of course. In truth, I feel like I can take down the entire Templar Order. Single-handedly. It's a deceptive sensation, which I choose to ignore, but it's here all the same.

Cas huffs, a short humorous sound, and walks to the fallen-in gate. Judging by the state of the fort, it must have been under siege, and not recently. Perhaps, it happened during the last Blight. Crumbling, half-destroyed walls surround a tall building. The massive wooden door doesn't creak as I ease it open.

Once inside, we keep to the shadows, avoiding pools of light under the numerous holes in the roof. Signs of decay and disrepair mark the whole place. Open to elements bricks have gotten mouldy. A bird chirps and flies out of a nest perched on a beam, the beating of wings sudden and fast.

Cas signals for a stop. Sidestepping a pile of animal droppings, I grimace in disgust — unsanitary. The squatters should have cleaned it up — and freeze, hugging a wall.

Our targets sit on dirty pallets at the far side of a cavernous room deep in the fort. This side of it isn't too bad — secluded and dry, windowless, more or less habitable if you are into caves and hermitism. Torchlight colours everything with warm hues, but something red — cold, sick, dangerous — gleams along the far end.

The templars, oblivious to their impending doom, talk about apostate hunting like it's a fucking sport.

"How many did you score today, Neal?" one asks.

"Three." A glob of saliva slaps the floor. "None lasted long after a Smite."

"Not bad," a different, feminine voice says. "Ser Robert, Ser Tamra, and I got five, though," it continues. "They've locked themselves up all nice and tight in a peasant house. Thought to be safe, Maker's spit!" The speaker's laugh is surprisingly pleasant: a bubbly, joyous sound that invites to join in on the fun. The templars all do. "We've torched the place. Burned like a haystack," the speaker continues with a chuckle. She smacks her lips. "Beautiful."

"Serves them right," the first man says with apparent pleasure, "filthy abominations!"

Bianca whispers. The air grows cold and charged as Solas and I channel mana into spells. Cas bellows a war cry and rushes at the templars. They don't stand a chance.

Out of seven people, only three live past the first two minutes of the battle, and even then, not for long.

My body count grows like a batter with yeast left to sit near an oven. I do not care.

"Red lyrium." Solas stands before the crystalline outgrowth that caught my attention earlier. "It shouldn't be here."

"No shit," Varric says. Coming through his clenched jaw, his words sound clipped.

"How do we destroy it?" That's Cas' voice.

I look up from my perusal of scrolls left on a three-legged table. "With fire." 'Obviously' hangs in the air. "Smash it to bits and insensate nine ways to the Void and back. Nothing survives fire."

"Aside from fire-breathing dragons, drakes, and dragonlings, some wyverns, and, of course, rage demons," Solas says with a wry smile.

I lean forward. "There are dragons?"

Solas regards me with a look typically reserved for a village idiot. "It is the Dragon Age."

"Huh. Didn't think of that."

Varric picks up a sword and hits the red outgrowth. Cracks run over its surface. He hits it again and again, hatred powering his blows, until there is nothing but faintly glowing debris littering the filthy floor. The sword clangs as Varric throws it aside. Planting a fire mine, he walks away from the lyrium, grim satisfaction written on his features.

Cas piles up the bodies nearby. I gather the scrolls and shove them into my backpack. If nothing interesting crops up, well, you never know when you'll need kindling.

With one last glance across the room, we all move to the entrance. The first fireball sets off the explosion and the whole building trembles. Solas adds Immolate, igniting the corpses. Everything — pallets, a couple of chairs, the lone table — catches on fire. The lyrium melts. I start breathing through my mouth. We cast another round of fire spells. The temperature climbs higher. Flames lick the brick walls, heat up the area so much, it's unbearable to stand here in winter gear.

I cast the third fireball. Sparks fly, a sick, foul stench overlaps all else, and finally, the lyrium burns.

"Cassandra here is a famous dragon slayer," Varric says. Reflected flames dance in his eyes, the lighting paints his complexion red-orange. "Didn't you know?"

Obviously, I didn't. My Paragon of Badassery just got ten times cooler. "Do tell!"

"Oh, Seeker is a renowned hero," Varric says as we file out of the fort at full throttle. "She saved the previous Divine from an assassination attempt by crashing one dragon into another."

The air outside, smoky and with the persistent tang of fried meat, tastes sweeter than nectar. I gulp it in lungfuls and turn to Cas. "Really?"

"Don't listen to him." A flush creeps up her face, Cas shakes her head. "That is not how it happened."

"Come now," Varric says. The corners of his eyes crinkle. "This story is already ostentatiously valiant and daring and has dragons — plural — in it. Why would I embellish anything?"

"I have no notion of why you do anything," Cas says evenly. "I was one among many who worked together to save Divine Beatrix. The dragons were a threat. That is all." She glances at each of us in turn, her face serious. "This matter is closed." With that, Cas walks through the gateway, the rotten wood groaning under her boots.

"But you flew on a dragon, right?" I ask her retreating back.

Not slowing, Cas says over her shoulder, "Closed, Herald."

"And that is that." I sigh and trudge after her, imagining huge, majestic beasts that can take me to the sky. How wonderful it would be to soar above the clouds, wild, and free, and—

Varric's voice returns me to the slush underfoot. "She absolutely did," he says, and I hear the smirk in his tone.

The distraction is over. Wrestling my mind back on track, I keep my eyes peeled.

"Varric," Solas says, apparently deciding differently, "by the end of Hard in Hightown, almost every character is revealed as a spy or a traitor."

"Wait, you read my book?" Varric says, sounding genuinely surprised.

"It was in the Inquisition library. Everyone but Donnen turned out to be in disguise. Is that common?"

"We have a library?" I butt in. "Oh, what am I saying, of course, we do. Along with the researchers. Why nobody tells me this stuff?" I huff. "And, Solas." I turn and glare at the elf, who's been walking right behind me.

"Yes?"

"Damn you, Solas! Spoilers!"

The corners of his mouth turn down. "I am truly sorry, Herald," he says, and for once, I believe him.

Varric clears his throat, and Solas focuses on him. "Are we talking about books or are you asking if everyone I know is a secret agent?"

"Are there many tricksters in dwarven literature?" Solas wonders.

"A handful, but they're the exception. Mostly they're just honouring the ancestors. It's very dull stuff. Human literature? Now there's where you'll find the tricky, clever, really deceptive types."

Solas tilts his head. "Curious."

"Not really. Dwarves write how they want things to be. Humans write to figure out how things are."

Cas slows down. "Are you going to write a book, Varric?"

"You will need to be more specific, Seeker. I'm a storyteller, and writing books is what I do."

She makes a frustrated little huff and stops long enough to direct at him a withering glare. "I meant about us. The Inquisition."

"Wasn't planning to, no," Varric lies without an ounce of remorse.

I burst out laughing.

"What's so funny?" Cas ask, raising her eyebrows.

"Ah, nothing." I snort and catch Varric's eyes. He smirks. "Just thought of a dirty joke." I add a suggestive note to my tone. "I can tell you if you wish?"

"No need." Cas picks up speed, and we march on, leaving behind the burning houses that have become the funeral pyres of mages and templars alike.

The road takes us through several templar camps. We fight, win, search the bodies, and arrange funerals, which is the most arduous process of all the rest put together. The time goes by.

In the early evening, as the daylight wanes and clouds envelop the sky, Cas suggests a stop. I sit near a broken bridge, listening to river water rushing past and a distant roaring of a waterfall, and munch on a piece of stale bread and a strip of dried meat. They taste like dust.

"This letter says that templars gather 'off the West Road.' I propose that we search the riverbanks first," Cas says, a frown lies between her brows. At this rate, it really will take a miracle on par with the healing properties of Andraste's ashes for Cas to avoid premature wrinkles.

"Gimme, gimme!" I make grubby hands, and Cas shows me the scroll. I skim over the content. Written in a crisp script of a clearly educated person, the letter spews incredible bigotry and hatred. I don't even try to hold back a grimace. "So it's the common people's duty to supply templars for their worthy cause of slaughtering every mage they can find. What a load of bullshit!"

Varric snort. "I especially like how he — or she, though it's less likely — brands decent people as sympathisers that lain with demons and can only breed abominations."

"It is not uncommon among fanatical groups to be without reason." Solas says it like it explains everything and we shouldn't be surprised or repulsed by the depth of a cesspool a person can dive in. I guess he saw such things in the Fade, so it no longer disturbs him so much.

"Too true." Varric nods. "Doesn't make it any less screwed up."

"Completely fucking bonkers is what it is." I put the last piece of my meal into my mouth and chew it with fervour. The low hanging sun peeks between a fluffy bunny and a beehive. Far on the horizon, the Breach looms like a warning. Hurry up, do your thing before I open again and make your life hell, it says. The bread sticks in my throat. I cough, pound at my sternum, and croak, "R-right. Ahem. Break's over. Let's kick more ass."

We move on up the left side of the riverbank. Five minutes later I catch a murmur of voices, and a short while after, a tent peaks over naked arms of scraggly bushes. Upon closer inspection, the hill up ahead bristles with rather shoddy palisades.

"Looks like we've hit a Jackpot," I whisper, crouching. Not sure it will help all that much unless I saw off my horns, but at least, I made an effort. The others, excepting Varric, follow my example. "Plough ahead or sneak around?"

"They have a good defensive position. We cannot attack from either side. This" — Cas waves at the rock formation to our left and the bluff on our right — "leaves us no other choice but to face them head-on."

"Excellent plan, Seeker." Varric mimes applauding and tips his head to Cas. "Let's rush at the barricades and get pincushioned like nugs for First Day."

Cas' lips tighten. "What do you suggest, dwarf?"

"Oh, I don't know." Pretending to think, Varric glances at the river. "How about we use a rogue to set a few traps and shoot a couple of bolt in the templars' backs instead?" he says, returning his gaze to Cas. A blush creeps all the way down to her neck.

"A most sensible suggestion," Solas says. His eyes are dancing with mirth and a smile lurks at the corners of his mouth as he looks from one of my friends to another. "I'm willing to contribute two Confusion Grenades to the noble cause of creating havoc."

Solas being a sly little shit? Aw, so sweet! Grenades, though? I want them, too.

"You are so devious," I purr, staring at him with a faux besotted expression. "Will you teach me the recipe step by step?"

Curiously, Solas takes it in stride. Smirking, he treats me with a sideways look and says, "I might."

Eh? Oh, I get it. Two can play the same game and blah-blah-blah.

"All righty-o, then." I grin, allowing my impish side to take over my better judgement. The way my life's been going recently, I crave entertainment, and I'll get it even if I have to carve it out of this shitpool of a day myself. "Now, Varric, before you go into the enemy territory, we simply must wish you luck." I pause and smile with all my teeth. "Right?"

Doubt shadows Cas' face, but she assents while Varric and Solas wait to see where I'm going with it.

"Excellent!" I clap my hands, careful to do it without a sound. "A good luck kiss should do." I look at her with expectation.

"A— no." Cas stiffens and shakes her head, her short hair whipping about her face. "I do not believe it appropriate."

"Oh, come on! It's traditional."

My pout has zero effect on her. Varric, however, follows this turn of events with avid curiosity.

"No!" Cas says. "And what do you mean by traditional? Did you do it in your mercenary band?"

A what now?

"Sure," I say, not missing a beat. "We actually had a good luck shag, but I figured we don't have the time for it now." I shrug to show that it's no big deal. "When we go for the bigger baddies, on the other hand, is a different matter. I'd like to get a shag out of it with someone" — I leer at all of them in turns — "before the next big showdown."

A look of dawning comprehension passes over Cas, as if my words explain so much of my behaviour. She confirms it, saying, "That is a… peculiar tradition."

"It worked so far," I say brightly. "Now, be a good spot and smooch our manly dwarf. It's for the greater good!"

"Be that as it may, my answer is still no." Cas' heated gaze promises retribution if I don't drop the subject. I skillfully ignore it.

"One little peck and his chances of success will increase tenfold. I guaranty it," I say, adopting my best approximation of a salesman. It doesn't fly.

"Why do you not do it yourself?"

"I'll be happy to!" Cas opens her mouth, and I add, "After you."

"Sorry, Shiny, but you aren't exactly my type," Varric says. And Cas is? His tone of voice is even somewhat apologetical. Well, it's not news. I figured he isn't into me early on, mainly because he's been acting like a bro and, as far as I know, hasn't glanced at my assets once — but appearances must be kept. My face falls.

"Oh." I infuse a hearty dose of sadness into that little sound and turn to Cas. "You see, to my everlasting heartbreak, not everyone is into awesome, sexy devils — I mean, Vashoths." Pulling a wounded expression out of the ether, I affix it to my pretty mug. It fits perfectly. "And as far as I know, Varric doesn't swing the other way. Do you?"

Varric shakes his head. More's the pity. I shrug and say to Cas, "Though, if I were him, I'd make an exception for Solas — he's such a sly fox!" I sigh — dreamily — and clear my throat. "So simple math leaves you as the only viable option." A dejected sigh. "Besides, if I don't get to lock lips with either of you, I deserve to at least watch someone else doing it. A consolation prize, if you please." Time for the puppy eyes because, teasing aside, I really do want to see that show. "Pretty please?"

"Herald," Cas says, and her voice lowers perilously close to a growl. "I do not think that Varric will appreciate it if I follow through on your proposal."

"Why, Seeker," Varric says, mirth suffusing his entire being. "I would never say no to your womanly charms."

Cas' face reddens even further, and she throws up her hands. "Urgh!"

Now, all this happens while we hunker down behind a bush and in voices barely rising above a whisper.

"I hate to interrupt this, ah, enlightening conversation," Solas says at full volume, "but it appears that the point is moot as we have been spotted."

A group of templars stares at us from behind a palisade, what's visible of their faces through the visors of their helmets showing a peculiar mix of fascinated and dumbfounded.

"Damn." Straightening, I pull my staff into position and cast a barrier. "Anyone can paint my horns to look like twigs?"

No one volunteers, choosing instead to go on the offensive. I don't take it personally, seeing as the templars do, indeed, have archers along with the higher ground. Of course, we have the advantage of skill and awesomeness on our side.

The first arrows fly only to bounce off my barrier, and a trio of tin cans rush down the hill, screaming like crazy baboons. One of them gets hit in the back. Yes, they are that competent.

"I see they hand out acceptance into the Templar Order like candies on a kiddies' party. So anyone can join?"

"Thinking of a career change, Shiny?" Bianca fires and an archer's head explodes in a shower of gore. "I don't recommend it. They won't be able to find anything in your size in their armoury."

"Hardy-har-har. You are a true friend, Varric, to care about me so."

"What he means to say," Cas explains as she walks to meet the melee fighter, angling her shield up to fend off the arrows, "is that the Order accepts only humans. It's a part of the doctrine."

"Figures." I wonder why am I not surprised? "If your life's ambition is to be a bigoted fucker, be all in or get out, amirite?"

Solas brings more tin cans down. New ones rush out of the camp.

"It is in people's nature to be wary of those who are different," he says, erecting a barrier to replace mine. "The Order simply helps to bring it to the extreme. I'm surprised they allow women into their ranks."

"Why?" I see his point, but— "Andrastian religion was founded by a woman."

Solas pauses to smash a templar with a transparent Fade fist. "It just seems in line with their other restrictions."

I can't see Cas' expression, but judging by her ferocious swings at our unfortunate foes, for her, this topic is a frustrating one. Blood spills onto the earth. Heads roll. Other body parts get separated. The templars keep on coming.

Not all of them are prime examples of limited intelligence. Some tin cans show that they didn't eat their bread for nothing while in training and dispel our barriers. The first time it happens, I'm completely unprepared for it. One moment, a freshly cast barrier gives me a sense of security. A blink, and it's gone, and only a feeling of skin scraped raw is left to remember it by. I shudder and recast the spell.

Gradually, we move through the encampment. The templars chose a good spot: out of the way, with access to water, and easily defensible if you have more than two brain cells. But since they are clearly just a bunch of thugs, we use their rudimentary fortifications to our advantage, hiding behind stacked crates to avoid Holy Smites, as Cas calls them.

The placement of palisades doesn't allow more than two people to go through at a time. Cas choke holds the passages, and we, the range fighters, pick out whoever waits in line for her blade.

It's not a hard fight and not an easy one, either. Death should never be easy. Not when you deal it, anyway. It goes on as fights do — forever and in a blink of an eye. And when the last templar falls, pierced with so many bolts his body hovers above the ground, the evening has come in full.

We gather everything of value, then do the usual post-battle clean-up. As hungry flames consume the corpses, I wipe my forehead and look around. The sky has darkened considerably, and the first stars have come out to shine.

Cas follows my gaze. "Nightfall is fast approaching. We should find a place to settle down soon." Cas does not slouch exactly — I think she'll rather die than lose her perfect posture — but her shoulders slump the tiniest amount, and with the way she leans on a crate, it doesn't take a genius to figure out she's at the end of her rope. I can relate. Running around with a heavy backpack all day long is hard by itself, and when you add a vigorous activity or two…

"We won't be able to make it back to the Crossroads," Cas finishes her thought.

Something on the pyre pops, and I wince. Don't breathe through the nose. Don't breathe. Don't fucking breathe at all, runs through my mind on repeat.

"Herald?" Cas prompts when the silence drags on for too long.

"I hear you." Most of the camp survived the fight intact, and it's a damn fine defensible position, but—

"The Veil is thin here," Solas says, stealing the words from my mouth.

I nod. "And other rogue templars might come. Who knows how widely they've spread and how popular are those vile pamphlets with directions. If we stay, we'll need to double the watch."

Varric volunteers to go first. "This camp gives me creeps," he says.

"I will keep you company," Solas offers. It settles the matter, and we wander around and set our things down. We used the largest fire pit to burn the dead, and in quiet agreement, we settle down closer to the end of the encampment, where the stench is milder.

Even though plenty of tents stand ready for use, nobody as much as looks their way or erects their own. Without time or energy to hunt, the meal once again consists of dry rations. No one seems to care.

Feeling dirty and actually being grimy, I put my bedroll on the warm earth next to the fire and burrow inside until I resemble a giant horned caterpillar. "Night," I whisper and close my eyes.

The sleep swallows me whole like a deep, black sea. And all night long I'm besieged with nightmares.


I've changed the timeline of the game, so in this 'verse the conclave happened on Firstfall 28, 9:40. The travel time from Haven to Hinterlands is one week. This way, Adaar'll close the Breach in early Guardian, when there will still be a sufficient amount of snow around Haven to potentially freeze in.