CHAPTER V: Evening the Odds
9:40 Dragon, 19th Kingsway
Over the past twelve hours, the ebb and flow of patients at the Crossroads' infirmary had settled into a steady rise. Wounded refugees and Inquisition soldiers always provided a constant trickle of patients but tonight two units of the Chargers and the Herald's own party had arrived to receive healing.
With nearly twenty weary, cranky warriors cooped up in the same place, the healers had finally given up on enforcing silence and the place had grown noisier than a mess-hall at lunchtime. At first, the seven Chargers had been reserved around the Herald's companions but Varric wasn't one for standing on ceremony.
He'd started with a tale of how their Grey Warden, Blackwall, had tumbled down a hill right into the middle of a group of sleeping bandits and by the time an hour had passed, the two groups were swapping stories about their adventures in Ferelden.
"...'My arm! My arm!' he's screaming, waving the bleeding stump." Rocky recounted. He was lying on his belly and trying to focus on the tale rather than the healer digging shrapnel out of his back. "Noble of course freaks out. 'What's he doing? What's he doing!? Stop him!' Like the poor bugger's gonna grow it back or something."
Noble snorted. "You never know, with mages."
"You can't grow limbs back, Noble." Krem replied, trying to nip another of Noble's outrageous theories in the bud. The half-elf was at his most obnoxious when he couldn't run around causing trouble. Now, confined to his cot with an injured knee and a badly-burnt calf, he was bored and had a captive audience to boot.
"What? We can't grow back limbs, but we're not blood mages, are we." Noble countered "Maybe that's how some of these apostates get enough limbs for the bone piles we keep seeing." he flippantly added.
Trigger's nose twitched in disgust and, next to him, Sera raised a brow. "What, cut one off, grow it back?" She stopped, and shuddered. "Fuck. Shite, why'd I think that. Now I'm never gonna get it outta my head."
Noble's lips twitched as he tried to maintain a thoughtful pose. "Mayhaps those rich merchants or that sausage vendor you're so fond of buying from, Skinner, are all secretly blood-mages…"
"Ta gueule!" Skinner pretended to gag.
"Ugh. Maker's breath, kid! Use that imagination for something less likely to give us nightmares." Varric begged while Cassandra's eyes narrowed in disapproval.
The half-elf grinned, unrepentant. "Bet that's Orlesian for 'Oh, Noble, tell me more.'" he said, mimicking Skinner's high, accented voice. "But yes, we should be angry. Shameless, godless apostates making their fortunes off us poor, ignorant folk."
"Just censor some of yer thoughts, ye daft man." Trigger grumbled over Noble's performance.
"..using fiendish magic.."
"But none of it's right, is it?" Sera interjected "I mean, s'not normal. Any of that shite. Normal people don't just wake up one day and wiggle their bits to set people on fire."
Dalish bristled and noticed that the Herald's own mage looked at the female archer with disapproval.
"No, I suppose it takes normal people slightly more effort to kill someone…" she drawled. Her fingers prodded at her swollen cheek, tracing the bruise with light presses. Some dabs of Stitches' last elfroot poultice had mended the cuts above her brow, but the flesh around her left eye was just beginning to darken to an ugly purple.
A templar's mailed fist had caught her by surprise, too busy casting a bolt of lightning to retreat behind the safety of the Veil. The hit had been ugly. Only luck had saved her eye from being gouged by the gauntlet's raised knuckles and she'd been sulking ever since.
"...like say, drawing a bowstring all the way."
Sera shifted in place, pinning Dalish with a frustrated glower. "Look, I'm not saying there's a bloody scale for how hard it is to kill people, with mages doing a jig at the top…"
"Only that there are normal and abnormal ways of doing it." Dalish interrupted in a soft, faux-mollifying tone, staring at Sera with an inscrutable look. "And magic is one of those abnormal ways."
"Right."
The mage closed her eyes and snorted. "And to hear an elf say it so confidently. By the Blessed Nine..." she muttered in elvhen, missing the way Solas startled at her whisper and his brows furrowed in confusion.
He must have misheard, Solas thought, because last he'd seen, the Dalish referred to the pantheon as Creators. It had been ages… His musings were interrupted as a soldier bumped into his shoulder. The poor agent started mumbling some excuses that couldn't be heard over Noble's cackling.
"Oh, Dalish, don't be sad. You're still dearly beloved. Even if your targets die in strange and unnatural ways."
Krem rose from his own pallet and started moving with slow, deliberate steps, testing the firmness of his ankle bindings.
"Or, they could just lose an arm and bleed to death… like it actually happened in Rocky's story." he interrupted with a weary sigh. Sensing the Second's dwindling patience, Noble subsided with a pout.
"An' he never would'a been hit in the first place if he hadn't spun his staff so fancily." Rocky added "Left himself wide open to Trigger's bolts."
"...Which were of course full of your own explosives. Though it seems to me that most of these former circle mages are quite vain, no?" Skinner asked, turning to look at her teammate. "I don't know why they don't simply cast as you do, Dalish."
"As I do?" Dalish curtly enquired. "You will have to be more specific, Skinner."
"Well, with simple motions... none of that arm waving, body bending, staff twirling nonsense. It may not look impressive when you twitch your fingers" Skinner declared and both mages' brows rose at the Orlesian's offhand assessment "but if they'd restrain themselves to something plainer perhaps more of them would live, no?"
"If they could, I'm certain they would attempt it." Dalish murmured evasively.
From his seat by the edge of the gathering, Solas hummed his agreement and added "What you mistake for an economy of movement is a skill that takes a very long time to master, da'len." He was staring at Dalish with a thoughtful expression and Skinner turned to her teammate for confirmation.
The blonde elf pursed her lips but nodded. It wasn't something that she advertised, and she rather resented the older mage for pointing it out, but it wasn't worth fighting over. She figured that it was still a skill she could have conceivably attained with enough hard work, even though she looked in her twenties.
"I have noticed that many mages consider it a waste, learning to cast without a focus." she said, shrugging. "A pity that, as they're severely crippled when disarmed."
Trigger grinned. "But good fer us." the archer said "I know that most their spells miss me at thirty paces if they ain't got their staffs."
"Yes. Their casting either becomes erratic" Dalish agreed "or takes significantly longer to complete."
"But surely not all of them are so dependent on their little sticks!" Skinner exclaimed. The little Orlesian seemed outraged at the thought of such widespread incompetence and Dalish tried to smother her smile as it pulled painfully at the bruised, tender skin of her cheek.
"Not all of them, of course. A wise mage will focus on mastering a handful of essential spells without a focus before expanding his repertoire." Solas explained which caused Cassandra to inhale sharply. "But that same mage would never be caught harrying peasants for scraps of food."
"So when you relinquished your staff at Haven's gates?" the Seeker indignantly demanded.
Solas blinked twice and, in spite of the pain, Dalish couldn't smother a grin. Caught in a lie, his features had settled into a blank expression, the sort of stone-faced, perfectly polite mask one donned at court, in front of foolish people that held a more privileged position than oneself.
"I was being respectful of the Inquisition's authority."
"Coming unarmed should have been a show of coming in peace and here you are saying that you could have hurt the Inquisition at any time!"
The elf held his hands placatively. "And yet, Cassandra, I did not."
The Seeker rose with a huff. "Fine. I suppose it's already done with. But this sort of subterfuge sickens me. If anyone needs me, I will be with the Herald."
On the other side of the infirmary, the atmosphere was only slightly less tense.
Between Cassandra, Blackwall and the Iron Bull, there were plenty of front-line fighters to lead a charge against whatever enemies threatened the Inquisition's endeavors. Varric, Sera and the Herald himself provided exceptional ranged support, as did Solas.
But while they'd advanced through the rogue templar forces unimpeded, the apostates were giving the Herald's party quite a bit of trouble. This latest attempt at clearing out a mage hideout had been a risky undertaking and none of them had come out of it completely unscathed. It had been ridiculous to think they could counter a dozen spell-casters with a single mage and templar of their own and Lavellan blamed himself for landing their party in the infirmary.
"I'll be honest with you, Bull." he said to the Qunari as soon as they were by themselves. "Cullen is singing the Chargers' praises whenever we meet. But we're not making much headway ourselves. I'd really like some of your men to come with us. A healer would be great, if you happen to have one in the Chargers."
Bull grunted approvingly. "It's a good plan, boss. I'll talk to Stitches. He's the company's healer. Makes a potion that'll put you right on your feet after even the toughest fight. Could have used some of his brews after that last battle. Those spells the apostates were flinging about really packed a punch."
"That they did. And speaking of mages... Back on the coast it looked as if one of your fighters might have used some spells of her own." Lavellan said in an even tone.
The tall, fair-haired elf had caught his eye as he'd studied the mercenaries fighting against the Tevinter forces and his interest had only grown when he'd noticed her vallaslin. Her fighting style was unlike anything the mages of his clan practiced, another point of intrigue.
He'd considered approaching her in private but hadn't wanted to step on Bull's toes, as the Qunari always sounded quite protective when speaking of his Chargers.
"Yeah, Dalish. Good for the fireworks and a dab hand with a sword. Twice the trouble of your average mage, and that's not counting her teammates' influence." Bull praised with a grin.
"Does she know any defensive magics?" the archer asked.
"Her shields are fine. Make my skin crawl…" the Qunari admitted and Lavellan drew back in surprise. "It's how I know they're strong."
The young Herald chuckled and nodded. "Excellent. Let's have both join us for the next trip into the northwestern hills and see how that goes."
Ta gueule! - Basically a rude way of asking someone to shut up. (French... I mean Orlesian!)
"By the Blessed Nine" - Related to what I mentioned in the previous author's note, I doubt the ancient elves referred to their gods by the title of Creators. So there wouldn't be a "By the Creators!" but they'd still have some way of blasphemously expressing frustration XD
AN: I can't believe no one called me out for having Krem say 'boss' instead of 'chief'. Oops! At least I noticed after just one chapter. Fixed. :)
Now, a question: Who is your favourite minor character? I guess this story shows that Dalish is one of mine. :) ...and Krem and Skinner too.
Next up: Lavellan, Solas, Sera and Dalish become best buddies, bosom friends… or not.