The Ferelden Hinterlands is incredibly, stupidly terrainned, and boring.

Trysraine struck that particular line out from her letter, report, to her husband, the Commander. It was one thing to commiserate with fellow Marchers over the idiosyncrasies of their own sovereign city states, it was another thing entirely to insult Fereldens to their faces. Or in this case, in letters/reports that held no opportunity for immediate retribution, getting punched in the face, which culminated in stewing anger and general surliness for weeks. And it's not entirely true, Trysraine thought to herself, it is far from boring.

Thus far, her small group had wiped out seven total groups of marauding Templars and mages. Much to Trysraine's irritation, the Templars had refused to yield, despite both her and Cassandra's declarations of identity. While it was unsurprising that the Mages were drunk on their newfound freedoms, it was disheartening to see men and women of the Order equally mindless and irreverent of their responsibilities. It felt worse to know the Order had little interest rounding up their own miscreants. What remained of the Knights Valiant would be stretched thin, too thin to be properly utilized. If they were utilized at all, she thought cynically. She was inclined to believe they were all withdrawn to Therinfal Redoubt, the Order's ancient stronghold, plotting the course of the Exalted March. She wondered if without the Divine that were still a possibility. She lay back in her bedroll, staring at the darkening crease of the tent top, idly fingering the leather bracers she wore.

"Chanter, I'm curious," Varric said casually over their meager dinner, "What's with the wristbands you're always wearing."

"I have been meaning to ask about the markings on your wrists as well." Cassandra chimed in, Solas tilted his head in curiosity as well.

"Markings?" Varric leaned in closer for a glance.

"It's a long story," Trysraine said quietly, there had always been questions about the marks, she was no stranger to fielding questions about them, it was just easier to hide them with the bands. "One I'm not ready to share with anyone."

"You mean you don't trust us enough," Varric said with mock woundedness.

She laughed, "Yes, Master Tethras, that is precisely it."

In the dimming candlelight she removed the leather cuffs to look at the blue green images inked into her skin. An old Trevelyan tradition, so old its meanings and origins were unknown to outsiders. The candle whispered out, but she knew the shapes by heart. Even in the darkness her eyes traced the outlines of the sword on her left wrist, and the shield on her right. Justice and Valor, her father's voice echoed in her mind. In the darkness she rubbed them beneath her palms, in the coming days, she would undoubtedly need both.

"Terrainned" is not a real word.

She read that single line over again, of course he would get hung up over that. Nevertheless she smiled at his absurdity, just barely stopped from laughing at it, very nearly cried over it. It had been over two months since she saw him, it was as though their week together had only made the ache in her heart worse at her departure.

The Hinterlands, while being stupidly terrainned, was also rife with more substantial problems. Demon possessed wolves, bears, starvation, exposure, bears, Mages, Templars, bears, mercenaries, feral mabari, she wondered if she should ask for advice on the mabari, she had never seen so many. Fereldans held the dogs in high esteem, but the animals she had encountered were less than esteemable. She sighed and went through her report. Demon possessed wolves, and watchtowers exchanged for horses and better yet the horsemaster himself. Starvation, primarily dealt with by three days of catching rams, and another two lugging back the meat for the village. Exposure, also dealt with, although this time with Mage and Templar caches scattered around the Hinterlands. Trysraine frowned at that, Templar caches made sense; but who exactly was teaching Mages survival skills. Yet another thing to consider when I have time. The Mages and Templars six weeks in were no more likely to surrender, although there was one group of Templars who recognized her and thankfully had. She had buried far too many in the weeks.

The mercenaries were for the most part dealt with, their stronghold decimated, although she had no doubt they would be back. Desperate people are easy prey. Trysraine growled at her report, shoving herself back from the makeshift desk at the local healer's hut.

The Elvish woman looked up, startled from her work.

"The Templars and Mages must both have their own strongholds here," Trysraine muttered to herself, pacing up and down the length of the hut.

The healer slowly got up and took her work with her. Outside, she bumped into the Seeker.

"Is something wrong with Commander Trevelyan?" asked the Seeker.

"No, she's just pacing again. It…it makes me nervous," the healer admitted worriedly.

The Seeker nodded sympathetically, Trysraine could get quite intense. She allowed the healer to pass by before entering the hut. Trysraine was no longer pacing, she was leaning against the wall staring at a particular spot on the desk, with a frown so terrible it would send a rage demon away in fright.

"When was the last time you slept?" Cassandra asked.

Trysraine ignored the Seeker's question, "The Templars and Mages have strongholds in the Hinterlands."

"That makes sense, they cannot simply appear the way they do as easily without one."

Trysraine's frown deepened, "You mean you've already considered it," she growled.

"I have, but, at the time it was not a priority," Cassandra held her ground.

"Not a priority, we've spent a good portion of our time in this miserable place, running into either faction, whom we must kill, wasting valuable time!"

"When was the last time you slept!" Cassandra bellowed over Trysraine.

"Unimportant!" The younger woman snapped back.

"I promised Cullen I would make sure you returned to him in one piece, I cannot do that if you do not sleep," Cassandra said gently.

Trysraine gave a derisive snort, "Then don't make promises you cannot keep."

"You are as pig headed as he is!" the Seeker exploded.

"You are not changing the subject!" Trysraine yelled back.

A shrill whistle interrupted the Seeker. The two women turned towards the doorway, frowning at the intruder.

"Er, hate to interrupt this convivial discussion," Varric said mildly, "but there's someone here to see you Commander."

Trysraine gave a curt nod, turning to Cassandra, "We will finish this later."

"Indeed," Cassandra agreed.

"What do they want or need Varric," Trysraine sighed as she followed the dwarf outside.

"Just said they needed to speak with you," Varric replied easily, gesturing towards a group of mounted Templars.

The Templars were talking among themselves, but hearing the dwarf's voice turned.

"Trig," Trysraine said in surprise before turning a deathly white, "Trigstan, my baby!" She stumbled forward, weak and ashen. "Where's my son?"

"Son?" Cassandra and Varric exclaimed.

"Whoa," said the one called Trig, hurriedly dismounting. "Nothing's happened to Golden Boy," he said reassuringly reaching for Trysraine. She grabbed his arms for support.

"Nothing?" she whispered, "He's alright?"

"Yes."

"Oh, thank the Maker," she gasped, knees giving out abruptly. Trysraine shivered, finally allowing herself to feel the exhaustion that had built up. She scrubbed her hands over her face before a thought came to her. "Where is my son?" she demanded.

"Haven," Trig said grimly.

"That bitch," Trysraine said mildly after a moment of silence. "Trig, I have a job for you," she grabbed his proffered arm.