A friendly nudge

He was waiting for her on the Highway.

In hindsight, she'd known he would be. It would have actually been a greater surprise if the cat, draped up in cloaks and hoods to the point that only his posture gave him away, had not been there, leaning against one of the ancient marble pillars.

Alma came to a halt, the leather of her soles warming with friction as she slammed the brakes, neatly skidding to a halt in a manner that could be passed off as effortless and deliberate, rather than the last-minute stop it really was.

For a long moment, she simply regarded the cat, and he in turn her.

It had been a strange situation, and with strange she really meant beyond what she had the capacity to control or properly respond to. Much as she knew, in the back of her mind, that the mask had held sights of this, of the Khajiit of Winterhold awaiting her return. It had been her own attempts at distancing herself from its addicting visions that had led to this, and she knew there was really no one to blame but herself.

Well, herself and the damn cat, for having tracked her down in Highever.

Damn Khajiit, and damn their noses.

Finally, she relented. Both because of the awkward silence, but also because she really was kind of in a hurry. By now, Constanta had probably realized that Gaspard would already have made it across the Dane, and that the better place to intercept would be at the norther end of the Tarcaisne Ridge. There was a small town there, barely more than a village, but it straddled the best place to cross between the mountainous south, and the dense woodland of the north.

"Of all people..." she sighed, slowing to a walk. J'zargo, watched her quietly, eyes narrowed and sharp. He was a cat, so yeah, of course he'd been on his toes around her. Khajiit were like that, and she'd never met an exception to the rule. Of course, she'd personally made sure he'd trust her, at least somewhat; "...Well?"

"J'zargo does not know how you knew, but you knew." The cat muttered; "...there were zealots amongst those who gave themselves up after the battle."

"Teyrna's safe, then?"

"Mmmhmm." The Khajiit nodded, pausing before he spoke again; "This one...still does not believe your claims, not all of them, at least. It is a wrongness he cannot comprehend."

She couldn't blame him, really. Sly, and smart as the cat-man was, he'd come to the right conclusion in the end, she could say that with absolute confidence. However, he'd need to do so on his own, with little prodding done by her beyond planting the seed.

It would be enough.

"The world's a weird place, cat." She hummed, and strangely he did so in turn, almost matching her own tune. It brought a small smile to her old, cracked lips; "I don't need you to believe, I just need you to get her to Kirkwall. Things are about to kick off over there, and she needs to be in the middle of it."

There was a long pause, and visible hesitation from the Khajiit. The cat cared about his friends, almost too much at times. She knew this, well enough that she could make the claim, and make plans that hinged on it.

"J'zargo does not like it..." the Khajiit sighed; "...but he will try."

"Good boy." There was a temptation to pet him, much as he'd probably try to claw off her face for the gesture: "The show's about to close in Ferelden anyway."

The world was a haze.

There was fabric above him, of some sort, as well as below. He could tell he no longer wore his armor, but had been stripped to the shirt and hoses he wore underneath the gambeson and chausers. His right leg felt swollen and sore, and ached with a slightly pulsating feeling.

The linen was rough to the touch, and he could guess it was the bed meant for wounded soldiers, even before his hearing resumed its working, and he could tell the groans of other men - and strangely a few women - around him.

A field hospital.

He wasn't even aware they'd had time to set one such up, though Duke Bernard was nothing if not an experienced campaigner. He'd of course known of the importance of a place to treat the wounded, even on such a speedy mission. And...and now he remembered.

Charles felt his body clenching at the reminder, of what he had lost. His insides churned and ached and pained him, his throat sore and burning with bile and grief. His skull itched and his skin burned, rage and grief and agony and sorrow and...and so much else, burning through his veins like boiling poison.

Chevauché, his steed and mount and friend, his companion on every campaign and in every battle and joust and skirmish, slain by something as nefarious and lowly as caltrops, the arms of the cowards and those who lacked spine to face his wrath. The agony in its eyes, that anyone could visit such pain upon it, the complete lack of understanding, as to whatever in the Maker's name it had done to deserve such an end.

He could still see it, even with open eyes.

The fear, the pain, the confusion and terror as blood spilled from every open wound. It had as well been his own as Chevauché's, and a part of him wished it had only been his own. It was not a desire for death, but simply the knowledge that men healed far easier than horses.

He had to find the Duke, and report that he was still fit for duty. Even if he could no longer ride, he could at least still serve as well as any footman, and better still for his rage.

Charles made to sit, only then to find that a heavy, iron manacle rattled against the skin of his right arm, and a chain attached thereto tied it to the cot he was on. He stared, uncertain of what was going on, fright taking hold. There was a thick bundle of wraps around his right leg, and his right side, tied tightly and colored dark.

Had he been wounded?

With all the chaos and the grief, he'd not even noticed.

"That's the last of them, then." He heard a voice off to the side, the accent unfamiliar and yet it rang a bell, in the back of his mind.

He snapped about, cold dread settling with disbelief in his guts at the garb of the field surgeon watching him with vague interest, and little more. A muted red and white pattern spread across a hooded robe, with a leathery apron at the front, spattered with specks of blood.

"Where am I?"

Of course, he could guess at that himself, but asked all the same. His voice came out raw and rough, thick with grief and anger that still sat deep within him. The garb of the surgeon and the accents, and the fact that he was shackled...he was a prisoner, to whom he did not yet know for certain.

The Fereldans?

The heathens?

"You are in the Legion's camp, more specifically the medicae tent." The man replied, his face a passive mask; "And yes, as the shackles indicate, you are a prisoner. As are the rest of the Chevaliers who were left behind by your retreating forces."

Charles could not speak, he knew not what to say to such a statement, delivered with such disinterest. He was a Chevalier, by the Maker, not a common foot soldier. Was it not enough that they had robbed him of his companion, now they meant to humiliate him as well?

"You should be thankful to those Legionaries, really." The garbed man drabbled on, his voice betraying hos little he cared for gratitude; "We'd have thrown you in a cage, you and the rest of the Chevaliers, left you in rags and fed you porridge, at best. Apparently they have some sort of code of conduct for prisoners of war, which is why you're still wearing most of your clothes, and lying in a bed."

"...you're Fereldan."

"Brilliant observation, yes." The man nodded, eyes more on the tent's ceiling than on Charles; "It might surprise you that there's some of us who actually survived the Blight, for all the help we got from you lot." He snorted, the surgeon that was; "Can't believe Mac Tir was bloody right about your kind, promises of aid and shit, and when it comes down to it, you just fuckin' up and tear those promises apart."

Charles didn't have the energy to argue, and really didn't feel like it either. Whether or not they'd been deployed to Ferelden had never been his decision, and so he simply hadn't cared one way or the other. Besides, ending the civil war had felt closer to home. It was closer to home.

"And now, as if it wasn't enough that you left us to rot, the moment we get help from some fuckin' strangers who throw themselves at the Darkspawn for our sakes, you lose your shit and declare total war." The surgeon's voice had picked up now, just enough that his agitation was clear. Charles sighed and stared at the ceiling, knowing he wasn't going to escape the ranting.

At least, he wasn't thrown into some muddy cage, or tortured for information. Apparently he had the so-called 'Legionaries' to thank for that, much as the notion left him with a bitter taste of irony. He'd lost Chevauché to the Legionaries, and he'd rather have kept his horse and gone through the torture himself.

It wouldn't have been anywhere near this painful.

"I mean, Maker's fuckin' Arse, who the fuck you lot think you are?"

"Hans, calm it down." Another surgeon approached, dressed in the same way as the one Charles had woken up to. The first one, Hans, stilled on the spot, meaning the newcomer was of higher rank, even if there was nothing visibly to betray such. Charles watched him with interest, the newcomer, trying to discern the change of events; "There's other wounded need your help, go see to 'em instead of pesterin' the prisoners."

"Ser."

Charles watched 'Hans' take off out of the corner of his eye, but kept his attention on the newcomer through it. There really was nothing he could see to tell the man's uniform apart from that of the other one's, which did little for his mood. He was plain looking as well, smooth face and bare of wrinkles, stubs or anything else, like a mask of wax.

"Welcome back to the living, Chevalier." The voice was pleasant, far too much so for the situation as it was. Charles frowned, distrusting him on sheer principle. No captor was ever pleasant unless they wanted information, or prepared him for torture; "How's the patient?"

"...patient?"

"Well, you were wounded during what we're guessing was the fall. Landed on some caltrops hard enough to go through the plate." The new surgeon shrugged; "Bleeding was bad, but we got it staunched. Maker's blessing that pretty much every one of those Legionaries is a healer."

Charles stared, mostly because the statement was a bizarre one. He'd seen no healers in that army, only soldiers clad in steel, pikes and swords.

"I see." He said instead, unwilling to betray his own confusion; "You're Fereldan as well, then?"

"Highever, born and raised." The surgeon nodded; "Which is why I'm not quite so cross as Hans. He's from Portsmouth, you see, first victim to that infernal fleet of yours."

Infernal fleet? Charles felt his temper flare, just a little. Much as he could understand how one might curse and swear at the Chantry in a time like this, it was the Exalted Fleet. Even if the Emperor seemed...reluctant to cooperate with the Divine - and he could respect the reason - it was all the same the Divine's fleet.

"The Exalted Fleet." He corrected under his breath; "Should you then not be as angered, considering Highever as well must by now be a smoking heap? Last I heard, that was where the fleet was headed."

"Oh..."

There was no dread nor anxiety in the man's voice, rather...it was surprise, maybe even mild bemusement. It did not do much for Charles' own mood, that such was the reaction. And now, even more so than before, the smile remained on the surgeon's face.

"What is it?"

"You've not heard, then?" the Fereldan asked, his smile creeping just a little wider, unsettlingly so; "I mean, I suppose...in war like this, it can be hard to get reports, but...heh..."

Charles held his tongue, mind now wracked with thoughts and guesses and treasonous notions, for what could such levity in the face of the Exalted Fleet mean?

"The Fleet's gone." The surgeon grinned, throwing out his arms; "Gone. Destroyed. Smashed to splinters and cinders by the Maker himself."

Charles stared, eyes wide enough for long enough that he could feel them dry. And still, he stared, uncertain of what to make of the man's words, clear though they had been. They simply were senseless, thoroughly so even.

The Maker had destroyed the Fleet?

"A Herald of the Maker, what the Imperials call a 'Tongue', called down a storm on the fleet as it attacked Highever. It's all gone, smashed and sunken."

"That...this cannot be, it's spell-work, not of the Maker!"

"Then why didn't the Maker stop it?" the surgeon grinned, holding up a necklace.

On it were two small pendants, one a small, golden sun. The Sunburst, Charles recognized it in the blink of an eye. It was the other medallion that made his guts coil. It was a stylized dragon, its wings folded up on ether side as if to form a spear, and in the center it seemed about to bite down upon a sword.

It was a heretical symbol, of foreign gods and worse.

"Whether or not the Maker himself wrought the storm, he allowed it to destroy the fleet. So much for your 'Divine mandate', Chevalier. But if the Maker truly is with the Chantry, that begs the question...whose god is stronger?"

Charles could not speak. It had to be lies and falsehoods, likely the man was not even from Highever, and just sent to torment him in this way. The Exalted Fleet was sanctioned by the Divine herself, called by the Divine herself, and ordered by the Divine herself.

The Maker would never allow for such to happen.

"Oh, but that's not even the best part." The surgeon's grin spread to a toothy smile, eyes bright with amusement at Charles's disbelief. His voice became a conspiratorial whisper; "It's gone through the grapevine, apparently there's a whole fresh new Legion invading Orlais from the north."

Again, Charles could not bring a word over his lips. The madman above him, now leaning over the bed, grinned and rolled on his heels. He'd have plunged a dagger in him already, had he been armed. Instead he was shackled, and at the enemy's mercy.

"Ferelden's done being your dog to kick around as you please, Orlesian." The surgeon stood again, straightening his apron; "It's a new age, and power is no longer yours alone."

Then he turned and walked away, and Charles was left to stare at the air he'd just previously occupied, mind torn and wrought.

What was going on?

She found them rather easily.

The road was really the only route they could take, she knew, and that meant all she had to do, was to walk along it, and pay attention to the sounds of nature. Or, in this case, more akin to the sounds of rutting animals.

Night had long-since fallen, and she walked guided only by the fact that darkness didn't really bother her. like, at all. Once, many, many years ago she might have been troubled by the starless, moonless night. Lost days, really, so long gone it felt more akin to a dream than a memory.

She left the highway once the sound was loud enough that she felt she could pinpoint it without too much difficulty. The repeated, soft slaps of flesh on flesh, she knew the sounds well enough. In the distance, between the trees, she could make out the flickering light of a campfire.

A swift stomp took her to the upper branches of an old oak, her landing site so thick and solid it barely even budged when she touched down. Still, she grabbed hold of the trunk itself, just to be sure. Being capable of routing an army on her own did not mean her body would appreciate a fall from this height.

From her new vantage point, however, she did have a rather brilliant view of the ongoings by the campfire.

There was always something strange about this particular couple. Even if she'd never really found out how it ended with them, she had to admit the very notion was an intriguing one. The funny thing was, it was always this one Chevalier, the very same who'd stabbed her on the bridge, and always the one Gaspard sent on this little mission of espionage.

If Fate had something special in store for him, she didn't know of it.

The current scene was one of the Chevalier and an elf, the two parties in Orlais that absolutely should not be caught dead together. Nude as they'd been born, he was pressing her up against a tree, their sweating bodies glistening in the lights of the dancing fires. There was definite tenderness there, more so than one would find from a merely casual, or carnal rutting.

She watched them until they were done, all things considered it'd be rude to interrupt.

"Nice night for a stroll in the woods, isn't it?"

Her call made both the Chevalier and the elf fall flat on their asses, even as they'd been in the process of getting dressed once more. The result, to see a vaunted Chevalier falling on his ass with his breeches halfway up around his ass, never really failed to be hilarious. She took advantage of that shock too, and emphasized on it by jumping from her branch, landing on the outskirts of their little camp with all the grace of a cat, but the weight of a boulder.

She wondered if the display was enough to trigger recognition in the Chevalier.

Phillipe recognized the intruder.

Oh, he definitely did recognize her, both for the appearance she retained, clad in steel and plate with that glaive in hand, as well as he recognized the voice. There was too much confidence, too much power in even the simplest of words spoken by that demon for him to ever forget their encounter on the bridge across the marsh.

It was not a reunion he wanted in his current state of dress, if at all.

"Who the fuck-" Illia swore as she rolled to her feet next to him, hardly in a better position than himself. He'd spent himself inside her, and the results were evident. More so than was...well, was anything really proper in this situation? "Who the fuck are you?!"

"Illia." He barely raised his voice above a whisper. It was a struggle, merely keeping it under control; "Run. Run as fast as you can."

"What?" the elven woman turned towards him, eyes previously filled with lust now instead exuding confusion and mounting fear. Even now, the demon approached, its gait nonchalant and confident. And he knew it had every right; "What do you mean 'run'?"

"Yeah, what do you mean 'Run'?" the demon paused at the edge of the reach of their campfire's light, the shadows dancing across the foreign suit of armor. He couldn't see the face within the visor, not in the dim light cast by the fire; "Honestly, is that any way of greeting an old friend? Peace, Chevalier, I am not here to break your bones."

Phillipe stared at the demonic figure, his heart hammering against his ribs like it was about to break free and make its own escape. He could barely even find time in his fright to consider how the demon knew what he was, and likely knew what Illia was as well.

"Who are you." Illia spoke again, a long, translucent blade appearing in her hand. Phillipe's eyes were drawn to this as well, uncertain how to react to anything that was going on. First, the demon from the marsh appeared and spoke of peace, and now he suddenly found out Illia was...what, a Knight-Enchanter? It was a shock, though nowhere near as great as the first; "Speak, before I show you how little that armor will guard you."

"Cute." The demon scoffed, shouldering the glaive; "Armor's mostly for show, girl. You'd have no chance of wounding me even were I nude."

"You fell easily enough to one spear, though." Phillipe found it was himself who spoke, and wished he hadn't. At the same time, anything he did might take the intruder's attention off Illia, a worthy goal in itself; "...though I see even a goring does not stop you for long."

"Yeah, that was a real pain in the ass." The demon paused, as if expecting snickers or chuckles from its glibness. Neither Phillipe nor Illia were in the mood for such, however. He stepped just a little closer to her, making sure the mage was behind him, just in case. He could better take a blow than her, anyways, and it'd give her a chance to strike, should it come to violence. The demon sighed; "Tough crowd, huh?"

"Who are you?" Illia repeated. Being the only one of them currently armed, she seemed to have recovered some confidence; "What do you want?"

"You know, I did introduce myself at the bridge..."

"As a Fereldan knight, yes." Phillipe rebuked her; "You're no such thing."

"Actually I am, knighted by King Maric himself after he threw you out of Ferelden." Phillipe blinked at the claim, realizing how old that'd make their foe. Near her fifties, at the very least, and yet still with a power unmatched by any he'd yet seen; "I do have a lot of names, though. Demon, Nan, Storm-caller, Tongue, Spirit of the River Dane...You can call me 'Alma', if you'd like. Simpler, I think."

"...Nan?"

"We all need a hobby." 'Alma' shrugged; "Anyway, I'm perfectly well aware of your mission, and how you report to Gaspard. Normally, I'd have executed you both as spies on the spot, but all things considered, I'm feeling pretty merciful these days. Plus, I get my share of killing done clearing out Darkspawn and necromancers anyway."

"...so, you know." Illia asked, her hands lowered by the blade of energy not extinguished.

"I know a lot of things, girl." 'Alma' hummed; "Among those, yes, that you are spies sent by Gaspard to report on troop numbers and resistance inland as he crosses the Dane with the rest of his army. I also know the cause for his haste, and why he couldn't dedicate the whole of his forces to fighting the Legion in Gherlen's Pass."

"The Exalted Fleet." The elf said, her voice low enough that Phillipe wondered if it was meant to be whispered only to him. Nonetheless, the crone nodded; "If you know why our Emperor makes such haste, why would you stop him from reaching Denerim before the Chantry? Surely, you must understand that Denerim cannot hold against either, and Ferelden does not have a fleet that could stop the Exalted March."

"Nope, you're definitely right that Ferelden doesn't have a fleet capable of meeting the Chantry's warships and win." 'Alma nodded, and shrugged; "Luckily, I'm plenty versatile. Storm-caller's my newest title, one I got in Highever not all that long ago."

Phillipe felt his guts churn.

"I'm something of an upholder of balance, you see. The Chantry's fleet was upsetting that balance, so I removed it." He could make out a grin, teeth far too white for her age within that visor, even as she spoke; "I will not tolerate this incursion upon Fereldan soil, and were it not for the Darkspawn, I'd have removed Gaspard's little band of misfits already. So, I'm going to give you two a chance to become great big heroes of Orlais."

The woods had gone silent now, as if the very animals were paying rapt attention. Even the campfire itself seemed to have quieted down, even if its flames still flickered and danced as brightly as before. Phillipe found he was holding his breath, and glanced to Illia, only suddenly now remembering that both of them were yet in the nude.

Somehow, it had slipped his mind.

"What do you mean?" he asked, body tense and ready for...he wasn't entirely sure anymore.

"I'm heading west to meet Gaspard before he reaches the Tarcaisne. If he's still marching for Denerim when I find him, I'll remove both him and his army, in a very permanent and violent manner." The chuckle at the end of her words did nothing to help his nerves; "You can save him by reporting that I'm on my way and that he'd better turn his ass around before I turn it inside out."

"But you-"

"Oh, and you'd better report it straight away." Alma hummed, even as she started walking away, towards the Highway, and towards the east; "I'm pretty fast for an old crone."

Apparently, Alma doesn't get the notion of privacy...