"So… this is Ferelden."
Lysette speaks her mind, and she does not sound impressed. Orlesian to the bone, I imagine the rough countryside of the Hinterlands comes as a bit of a surprise to her. The rustic mountainside and deep valleys, interspersed with forests of evergreens and shallow, winding rivers are all quite different from the open fields and fertile farms of Orlais. Even the buildings look wrong to her, rounder and built much lower to the ground than the average Orlesian villa.
I can't help but feel a similar sense of alienation. Markus was born in Orlais, and raised in Orlais. Even with Marcus' memories of running about in the Hinterlands as Trevelyan, Adaar and Lavellan, this is still a new environment to me. The air smells thickly of evergreen sap and loamy earth, the distant sickly-sweet of fertilizer carried by the wind. Here and there clusters of embrium flowers dot the terrain, gently bobbing back and forth in the gentle breeze.
Newer to the region is the scent of horses and men, the smells of soldiers who have been marching hard for several days. I was given a horse, as were Varric and Lysette. The latter rides with grace, as one would expect of an Orlesian of noble blood, while the former is a little more awkward in the saddle, clinging to the reins with both hands to maintain his balance. Dwarves, he has complained more than once, are not particularly good on horseback.
Wagons rattle along the furrowed road behind us, carrying supplies for the fifty-odd soldiers on the march here. Barely more than a platoon of soldiers, but in the chaos of the Hinterlands fifty armed men in an organized band may indeed be the most powerful force present. I let my eyes wander across their number, peering over my shoulder for a moment. All are wearing the semi-ornate plate of the Inquisition, shirts of ringmail and sashes of orange rope over leather, with those pot-helms atop their heads glinting dully in the midday sun.
"What exactly were you expecting, Kit?" Varric asks, glancing her way from where he rides to my right.
"More dogs, for one." Lysette replies without missing a beat. "And… the Blight was only ten years ago, but the land looks to be completely healed. I had heard the Darkspawn left nothing but ruin in their wake…"
Varric chuckles, before pointing to the stream that runs beside the road, some twenty feet off to the left. It burbles gently over rocks, shallow yet crystal clear.
"This is good land," he declares. "At least, as far as my city-boy eyes can see. It'll take more than some ugly monsters to ruin it."
Lysette frowns, turning her head down. She often does that when confused, it seems, it's been a consistent habit since we set out three days ago. Every time Varric says something she doesn't get, usually a double-entendre, she glances at her feet or the back of her horse's neck, furrows her brow and frowns, concentrating on the words spoken. It's an oddly childish habit, but I put it down to just that; habit. She's been doing it so long she probably doesn't even think about it any more, and neither Varric nor I has the courage to tell her otherwise.
The road carries on, winding between groves of trees, but as we draw deeper into the Hinterlands we see more and more signs of the chaos. At first it's a scorched patch of grass here, a bloodstain on the leaves of a bush there. But then comes the first corpse; a sellsword, it looks like, in cheap boiled leather, with a gash in his throat that stretches from under his left ear across and halfway down to his shoulder. Caught a sword from a man on horseback, I'd estimate, bled out slowly. He's leaned against a tree, curled in on himself somewhat, messy brown hair infested with flies that crawl all about his corpse.
Lysette lets out an audible sound of disgust that reminds me of Cassandra, while Varric just shakes his head mournfully. I find myself unable to look away from the corpse for a long moment, eyes locked to the dead man's empty gaze. He's not even looking at me, he's staring at the earth between his spread legs, mouth agape in slack-jawed surprise. But I stare and watch the flies crawl all along his body, before finally forcing myself to look away.
I see ahead more signs of the chaos we've come to stop; another dead sellsword and a slain templar alike, the former missing his left arm from the elbow down and the latter still stuck to a tree by a slowly melting chunk of ice that froze him in place. The arrow jutting from the slit in his helmet tells how he died, the blood having pooled and frozen on the ice below his neck. We pass them by without comment, but I make a note in my head to see if we can't have a couple of soldiers come back and burn the bodies. Packs of undead would be one too many problems for the Hinterlands to handle, I think, even with the Inquisition present.
Eventually we come to a suitable place for the Inquisition to set up a base camp; the small convoy coming to a halt and soldiers setting to unpacking tents and barrels of foodstuffs. Two men set out a large wooden table beneath a newly erected pavilion, and the unit commander, a former knight of Ferelden whom I know to be named Fallon, sets out a large map of southern Thedas with a grunt. It is him who I first approach, right as a small figure emerges from the brush nearby and approaches me.
"Ser Fallon!" I greet, right as a very different voice calls me "Herald".
Fallon turns towards me as I turn towards the newcomer. The red hair, dwarvish stature and light scale armour immediately inform me that I'm looking at Scout Harding, cute as a button and looking a touch more nervous than perhaps my minimalistic authority mandates. She raises a hand in greeting.
"Scout Harding, ser, with the Inquisition." she declares, before looking at the approaching Ser Fallon and freezing. "O-oh, my apologies ser, am I interrupting something?"
"In a manner of speaking, yes." I admit, nodding. "But… you're our scout, then? Leliana mentioned having agents in the area ahead of our advance."
"That would be Agent Dalish, ser," Harding replies, shaking her head. "She's currently pathfinding in the northern edge of the Hinterlands. She sent me to meet with your convoy and give a report on the local landscape."
"Well, out with it then." Fallon barks, terse and clearly short-tempered at all the interruptions.
Harding takes a breath, and I smile reassuringly for her as Varric and Lysette approach from behind me, joining our little group.
"The Hinterlands are a mess right now, sers." she begins. "The mages and Templars have been going mad with power, killing each other and anyone who gets in their way. Both have been stealing from the locals, or just taking what they want at swordpoint. Almost everybody from the nearby farms has taken refuge at the crossroads. Chantry Mother Giselle is there."
"The crossroads'll be just ahead, Herald." Fallon grunts. "Figure I'll send you and about ten of the boys to introduce ourselves while we set up camp here."
I nod, before looking up and past Harding at some movement along the treeline. My eyes go wide when I see a man emerge from the brush, sprinting like the hounds of hell were after him. He looks like a farmer, in plain roughspun clothes, but the expression on his face is one of pure terror.
"Apostates!" he cries. "Run while you can!"
A jagged chunk of ice the size of my fist comes hurtling from beyond the trees, slamming into one of our soldier's heads. His helmet does little to save him, the metal crumpling under the impact and driving into his skull, leaving him to stand where he dies, confused, before crumpling to the ground like a marionette divested of its strings. I reach down to my hip and draw my sword, ducking low as the farmer sprints past, diving under one of the wagons. Scout Harding already has her bow in her hands, while Ser Fallon grabs the heavy battleaxe from his back and hefts it in his hands.
"Herald, go around the right." he commands, his voice low. "Don't let them encircle us. We need to drive them away from the supplies."
"On it." I reply, taking off to that side with my sword firmly grasped in my left hand, right above the crossguard, holding it by the base of the blade. "Lysette, Varric, with me."
"Don't have to tell me twice." Varric already has Bianca in his hands, cocking it with a heavy clunking sound before running after me, making good time with his stumpier legs.
Lysette doesn't need to speak; she's already moving beside me, covering both of our upper bodies with her shield and keeping her head low. I was a little surprised to see a girl only an inch or so taller than me hefting one of those massive metal tower shields, but then I reconsidered when I saw her lift it. With the bottom edge sitting flat on the ground, the shield covers her entire body but her shoulders and head. Lifted by her arm… she can cover herself and one other person from ankle to scalp by ducking a little. Her sword is a standard one-handed short blade, meanwhile, though I know from sparring along the road she can deliver an almost cruel thrust if she deems it necessary.
Another chunk of ice comes flying from the forest, but this one bounces off Lysette's shield with a resounding clang, leaving a small dent in the thick metal. I let out a sound of annoyance as a bolt of fire passes over our heads.
"They're flexible." I groan, and Varric laughs. "Wonderful."
"A whole medley of murderous magic, just for us." the dwarf adds, a wry grin on his face. "Oh, that's a good one. Remind me to write it down later."
Another icy projectile bounces off of Lysette's shield, but by now I'm peering into the gloom of the forest, trying to discern just where our foes are positioned. I can see shapes moving about, an arrow flying from somewhere within, but numbers and positions are very successfully hidden by the undergrowth and trees alike.
"Stay behind me!" Lysette calls, planting her shield firmly on the ground once we reach what seems to be the outer edge of the apostate's attack, ducking low behind it. "We can force them to approach!"
Varric is already peering out from behind her, sighting down Bianca's inbuilt scope, looking for something to shoot. After a moment he fires a bolt and cranks a new one into the mechanism, watching for a moment and frowning.
"Missed." he grunts, before sighting. "I see three mages and an archer. Might be more archers, can't tell for SHIT!"
He rolls backwards a bolt of flame shoots through the point in space where his head had just been, letting out a groan as he picks himself back up. I peek out too, watching the forest. I see two mages at least, one illuminated by the crackling fire in his palm while the other is ducking backwards away from Scout Harding's arrows. The archer with them is invisible to me, however.
"We need to move closer and press them back." I declare, and Lysette nods before picking up her shield, Varric firing another bolt and letting out a scoff when it too misses.
Lysette and I advance into the woods, moving at a steady run, stepping over roots and ducking beneath branches. I bring my sword up, ready to slash or stab. Both of us begin chanting a Litany, the Canticle of Denial, and I watch as the mage with fire in his hand looks up in fear, his face obscured a second later when the flame goes out.
Then Lysette crashes into him with her shield and he is flung backwards, crashing down to the ground with a yelp of pain. His friend with the ice appears from behind a tree, firing a wash of cold air at us, but the Canticle denies it becoming anything truly dangerous. I move towards him, out from behind Lysette, and he too begins to run. Inquisition soldiers are entering the woods with us, encircling the mages.
Then one of them drops to the ground, choking on a shaft of wood jammed deep into his throat, and I belatedly remember that they have an archer. I search for him, scanning my surroundings… then I see a boot behind a tree, and hear a bowstring creaking slightly, and I rush forward without thinking any more.
The archer emerges from behind the tree, raising his bow, but before he can fire my sword flicks out and smashes it against the tree, cutting deep into the wood. He drops it, going for a weapon at his belt, likely a sword or dagger, but before he can draw I jab the sword forward. Sharp and well-forged steel parts boiled leather like butter and I feel the sword stop only when it catches on bone. The archer coughs up blood, eyes going wide, before I pull the blade free.
He stumbles backward, falling on his ass, hands rising to try and cover over the bleeding hole in his chest. I hit the heart, I think, he's almost certainly dead. Sure enough he has only a moment to gurgle some formless word before his head falls back and he hits the ground, dying in the dirt.
I take a step back from his corpse, shocked. I just killed a man. Drove a sword into him and made him die. He's gone. Holy shit I just fucking killed a man what the hell. Am I panicking? Going into shock? I don't feel like it. The ground is stable, I can still hear and see just fine, my body isn't going numb or stiffening up. I hear the mages surrender, surrounded and helpless, and lower my sword so the point sticks in the dirt. The three mages are dragged from the woods, but I can't look away from the dead man before me.
"Markus?"
A hand touches my shoulder, and I look at it, following the arm to see Lysette staring at me, concerned. I close my eyes and shake my head, grimacing.
"Sorry…" I murmur. "Just…"
She looks from me, down at the dead bowman, and realization dawns in her expression. She takes my arm, pulling me away from the body.
"Your first?" she asks, and I nod once. "Ah. It was clean."
"I killed him," I say, voice distant now. "I just… stabbed him, and he died."
"That is how a sword is meant to work, yes," Lysette agrees, nodding, before pulling me closer, holding my upper arms in her hand, making me look at her. "Markus. Look at me. That man would have killed us."
"I-I…" I choke on my reply and she shakes her head.
"You did what you had to." she declares. "Blessed are the righteous, Markus. Remember that. If he was a just man, he is at the Maker's side now. If he was not, and he was not, then he has been met with the justice he rightly deserved."
I swallow back the horror in me, taking comfort in her words. Marcus is still terrified, but Markus is coming around. If I hadn't killed him, he would have killed me. Or one of these soldiers, or even Varric or Lysette. He had to be stopped, and killing him… it worked.
Fuck. Demons were easier than this.
"You're right." I say, after a moment. "I… let's regroup with the others."
She nods, taking her shield from where she had laid it against a tree, hefting it onto her arm. She turns to depart, but before she can go I speak up again.
"Lysette." I say, voice low. "You… thank you."
She smiles over her shoulder, a rare sight. Her teeth are a little crooked, I notice, though that's hardly surprising in a time period like this.
"You're welcome." she says. "And don't worry. It has happened to all of us."
I take my sword from the ground and follow her out of the trees, but not before wiping off some of the blood on the grass. Right. That was… the first. And it almost definitely won't be the last, unfortunately. Hopefully this gets easier, or I'm not going to be much of a saviour at all.
Hoping that killing people gets easier. This is my life now, I remind myself. I didn't ask for it… but this is the world in which I live.
Ser Fallon has all three mages on their knees before him, their hands having been bound and staves taken away. The soldiers were angry, that much was clear from the way they loomed over the captured foe. I approach from behind the mages, looking at Ser Fallon.
"How many dead?" I ask the obvious question first.
"Three." Fallon replies, his eyes murderous as he stares down at the captured apostates, all of whom look up at him with defiance in their eyes. "I'm of a mind to string these three up in return."
"A logical solution." I nod, before standing behind the mages. "But perhaps first we might ply some information from them? These are apostates, ser, and mages in travel in packs."
The words are entirely those of Markus, and Ser Fallon looks at me with a raised eyebrow. Then he nods, turning his back on the apostates.
"Ask them your questions, lad." he says. "Then we'll send them to the Maker."
"As if He'd take this lot." one of the soldiers spits, before walking away.
The crowd clears, the three apostates notably more concerned when they recognize Lysette and I as the Templars who so thoroughly ruined their plan of attack before. I place my sword in the dirt before them, planting the tip in the soil and leaning on it. All three stare up at me.
"Names." I command.
The one in the middle, an older man with a large scar across his cheek, spits on the soil at my feet, failing to quite reach my boots. I sigh, before looking at the woman with the shaved head to his left, who scowls at me. The last of the three is a younger woman, who can't meet my eyes.
"Tell me, did you attack us for our supplies?" I ask, looking at the youngest, cowering behind her blonde hair. "Or was it bravado? You really thought you could best fifty men by yourselves?"
"Damn you, Chantry dog." the older man declares. "You'll have no answers from us."
His accent is deeply Fereldan, an angry brogue in every word. I meet his brown eyes, and he seems to hesitate for a moment, before looking at the older woman beside him.
"You'll not have the satisfaction of knowing, you lout." the woman is Orlesian, her accent makes that plain. "We will die before we tell you anything."
"I get the feeling that would suit my fellows just fine." I reply, leaning in closer to the pair of them. "But I have the feeling you'd rather not take a long drop with a quick stop. So why don't you answer my questions, and we'll see if we can't assure you a better fate than the noose?"
Varric watches me speak, and beneath me the old man scowls again, glancing at his youngest compatriot, who has begun quietly sobbing with fear.
"You'll hang us anyways." he declares. "You thugs are all the same. I'll not sell my comrades in exchange for a sweeter end."
I sigh, shaking my head slowly, before I hear Lysette drawing her sword behind me. She squats down in front of the man, laying the blade across his neck right below the chin. He remains defiant, a cold glare in his eye, while Lysette turns her eyes toward the apostate with the shaved head.
"Where are the apostates hiding?" she asks, her voice low, cold and deadpan. "You have ten seconds to tell us the truth."
The old man stands defiant, opening his mouth to speak, but Lysette pressed the blade a little more firmly against his skin, cutting a tiny gash in his wizened old flesh. Blood wells along the edge of her sword, and the younger woman trips over her own words twice trying to tell us the truth.
"Witchwood!" she cries, her voice cracking with fear. "Gavriel led us to the Witchwood, in the cave by the grove! The rift would shield us, he said, please, you must believe me!"
Lysette stares at her for a long moment, stalking closer with her sword, before frowning and bending down. She takes a fistful of the woman's robe and uses it to clean her blade, the Fereldan behind her cursing his companion's cowardice. I watch as she stands up to her full height, eyes cold as she stares down at the Orlesian mage, now blubbering helplessly in terror.
When she raises her sword again, I reach out and I catch her arm, stopping her from stabbing down into the woman's throat. Lysette freezes, before looking at me, and I shake my head.
"Don't." I say, a quiet plea. "You've proven your point."
"They will die either way." she replies, shrugging my hand away and lowering her sword. "It is kinder this way."
"I think it would be kinder to leave them alive." Varric notes, his voice rumbling with dissatisfaction. "C'mon Kit, step over here for a second."
She does as Varric bids, walking away from the now weeping mage and her furious companion. Ser Fallon walks up beside me, clearing his throat.
"The farmer told all." he says, voice grim. "These three torched his home, killed his son while they fled. They were looking for gold."
I stare down at the woman whose life I just saved, eyes narrowed. In a split second, I look up at the treeline, beyond which a man lays dead with a hole in his chest. A hole I put there. I close my eyes, breath out.
"Hanging." I nod once. "Make it a clean fall. But first… a chance to repent"
He looks at me then, confused.
"The Inquisition needs every hand it can get." I say, speaking quieter now, leaning closer. "A chance to serve should not be denied."
"The men will call it undue mercy." Fallon grumbles, and I look at him.
"Many are those who wander in sin, despairing that they are lost forever." I can only hope I've gotten a proper read on the man, and that my assumption of his great faith is not mistaken as I recite the Sermon at Valarian Fields. "But one who repents, who has faith, unshaken by the darkness of the world, and boasts not, nor gloats over the misfortunes of the weak, but takes delight in the Maker's law and creations, she shall know the peace of the Maker's benediction."
Fallon looks at me for a long minute, unblinking. His eyes pierce my own, and I can practically feel him analyzing my words, looking for fault. But after that minute he is forced by his own dogmatic belief to lower his head, shaking it slowly.
"This is madness." he mutters. "Utter madness."
"Perhaps." I admit, cocking my head to the side. "But is not this whole affair madness? We are at war, Ser. A war requires soldiers to fight it."
"Soldiers," Fallon spits on the floor. "Not… bah. Piss on it then. I'll have them chained and sent back to Haven when we get the chance."
"Let them choose." I advise him, allowing Markus to speak with a cold tone of authority. "They rebelled for freedom. We offer it now freely; live or die?"
I turn to the three, the Ferelden scowling up at me between harsh glares directed towards his compatriots. I squat down in front of him like Lysette, reaching up and brushing away the welling blood from the hollow of his neck. He shudders, recoiling, and I grab him by the collar.
"What was his name?" I ask, voice harsher than I intended. "The archer with you. What was his name?"
"The sell sword?" he grunts, blinking slowly. "Damned if I know. He killed for coin. Why would I bother learning his name?"
I let go of the Ferelden, standing back up. The other two mages stare at me, awaiting my judgement. In the grove beyond, a man with no name is dead by my hands. I bite back a curse, before looking down at my prisoners.
"You have a choice to make." I declare. "The Inquisition has a need of agents, which is why you aren't awaiting execution just yet. If you volunteer to serve, you will be spared."
"And trade one master for another?" the Ferelden snaps at me, eyes narrowed. "I'll die before I live under another Templar!"
I look to his fellows. The older woman meets my eyes but the younger shies away. I watch both of them closely. The Orlesian watches me right back, eyes narrowed.
"Damn you, Templar…" she mutters, before nodding. "I have no intentions of dying on a roadside in this backwater land. I will join your… Inquisition."
I look to the third, the one who broke when Lysette threatened the Ferelden. The man is cursing his compatriot for a coward, but the girl just stares at the dirt of the road, tears in her eyes. I'd feel sorry for her were it not for the corpses of Inquisition soldiers being dragged away by their fellows behind me. Finally, she sniffles.
"I-I don't want to d-die…" she murmurs, forcing herself to look up at me. "I'll… I'll join the Inqui… Inquisition…"
"Two for three." I mutter, before turning away.
Fallon isn't pleased with the news, but I think he settles for hanging the Ferelden mage. I say nothing to him of that; it's his business, not mine. I have to reach the Crossroads, and hope it isn't under assault just yet. Lysette joins me after a moment of solitude, startling me by placing a hand on my arm.
"Sorry," she says, before looking me in the eye. "I must know; why did you spare them?"
Behind me, I hear the Ferelden cursing his fellows again as he's dragged away from them, no doubt to be taken to tree somewhere and hung. I sigh, a mournful sound.
"I have to believe that the mages can be saved." I tell her, unable to meet her eye. "If they cannot, then who has failed them?"
She stares at me a moment, disbelieving, but I say nothing more. Frankly, I'm sick to my stomach and in dire need of water. It's a hot day in the Hinterlands, and the mounting pressure of my position is beginning to wear on me. Marcus has never killed before. Markus has killed once, a mad, starving dog on a roadside. That was a fearful task, but this… men die much harder than dogs, and there are few who would mourn a rabid beast.
I push Lysette's hand from my arm, turning instead towards the road ahead. The Crossroads await, and there I will find advice I already know. Go to Val Royeaux. Show myself to the Chantry. Watch helplessly as the Templars disgrace themselves before all the world. Meet an envoy, collect red things, attend a salon.
Watch helplessly. Do I need to, really?
An idea sparks. A foolish one, perhaps, but an improvement over the usual path I must take. Dots connect at light speed, details slowly filling themselves in as I scheme internally. For the last three days I've been mulling over the choice between Templars and Mages. Perhaps, I wonder… I don't need to choose.
It will be complicated. It may not even work. But there is a chance. A slim chance, but better than the binary I was trapped in before.
Lysette notices, I think. She watches me as I march down the road, followed by a handful of the Inquisition's soldiers, herself and Varric. My mind races, a newfound energy in my every step. Hope. Is this what hope feels like? Sweet relief?
I only hope I find more to come.
We pass by more signs of the war. Dead Templars. Dead apostates. Dead innocents caught between. A fire rages in a field, one we can't combat just yet. A woman hangs by the neck from the outstretched limb of a blackened, skeletal oak tree. I order her cut down and two soldiers obey, one climbing up the trunk and setting to the noose with a dagger while the other gently pulls her down. Before long she is laid to rest beneath the tree, awaiting collection for the future funeral pyre I still need to propose.
Then, from ahead, through a stone tunnel beneath a craggy rock face, we hear sounds of conflict. A woman's scream and a man's roar of anger, and the unmistakable snap-hiss of fire magic. Lysette and I share a glance, drawing our weapons. Varric hefts Bianca with a grunt, while the soldiers ready themselves. Fourteen in total march with me, more than I had dared hope for. Fallon chose them well, many former veterans of combat even before joining the Inquisition. Mostly Ferelden like him, though I see an Orlesian moustache on one of the taller warriors, hefting a decorated greataxe.
"Apostates or rogue Templars, we'll find few friends here," I warn them, turning to face them as I speak. "We go in quickly and secure the area. Protect the locals, and keep your heads down if mages are present."
"These sellswords are familiar to me, ser," the Orlesian interjects, hefting his axe on one shoulder. "I 'ave fought them before, I think. They will break easily if their archers are slain."
"Focus the archers, and keep your shields up." I agree, nodding my thanks to him. "Are you ready?"
The men chant their affirmation, and I take a moment to breathe.
"Andraste watch over us all," I say, before adding something unexpected. "And know that should you fall, I will commend you to her."
They are bolstered by that, I think. Swords are drawn, shields raised, and one man raises a small horn to his lips as we march. Thrice he blows, a Ferelden signal for reinforcements if I recall Markus' military learnings correctly. Then Lysette and I break into a run, through the stone tunnel and into the open stretch of the Crossroad village.
I see immediately a Templar with his back to me, halfway through a turn. My sword flicks out and knocks aside his hasty parry, before I step in and ram him with my shoulder. He staggers, lighter than I expected, and Lysette quickly smashes him to the ground with her shield. I round her back and step forward, intercepting a stroke aimed for her back. Neither of us seems to think about our movements as I bat the sword aside before she turns slashes at our foe's thigh. He falls to the ground, sword falling from his fingers.
Behind me I hear one of the soldiers call out a warning, before Lysette pushes me behind her with a rough shove, raising her shield. Several arrows clatter off the steel face, and I call my thanks before our own archers fire a small returning volley. Lysette charges forward and I keep pace with her, watching her flanks as she presses into the heart of the enemy. We and the Templars both approached from the west, and the mages it seems came from the east.
As such, as the rogue Templars fall to the sudden assault on their rearguard, the mages are steadfast, ready to defy our advance. Lysette and I strike up the Litany of Defiance, weakening the balls of fire and shards of ice flung towards us, but it is a vicious round of overwatch that hammers us to a near standstill. I see the mages; there are only two, supported by a small pack of sellswords who seem hesitant to advance. The Orlesian must have been correct, I assume; with their archers mostly slain, they are afraid. Good.
The soldiers advance with us, a few arrows peppering the mages and forcing them to focus on maintaining barriers and seeking cover rather than bombarding us with elemental magic. I see one fall back amidst a sudden detonation, and then hear Varric's call of "got one!" answer my unspoken question a moment after. The sellswords, upon seeing two defiant Templars and a well-armed dwarf advancing on their position, break altogether, turning tail and fleeing. Back to the Witchwood, I assume, to report their failure to their master.
The last mage stands defiant, however, and suddenly surges toward Lysette and I with a Fadestep, raising her staff high. I see a gout of flame burst from the end before she brings it down, and the resultant detonation knocks both of us off our feet. Lysette curses aloud, while I just shout a warning a moment too late. I scramble to find my footing again, jabbing my sword into the ground. The mage is upon me, however, and I am forced to deflect a blow of her staff's bladed end from one knee. She raises it high again, and without thinking I reverse my blade's course and slash at her exposed stomach.
There is a wash of blood, and she falters, before I rise. She totters back and forth for a moment, her mouth opening to let a frothy mess of blood and spit spill forth, before she topples backwards. Lysette, having regained her footing, stands beside me.
"It will be a long death," she notes, dispassionate, but when I look at her I see the pity in her eyes while she stares at the dying woman.
"No." I step forward and raise my sword, before burying it in the mage's throat, putting an end to her suffering. "It will not."
And with that, it is over. The people of the Crossroads begin to emerge from their huts and homes, peering out at the strange newcomers clad in green and orange and dull iron, carrying the foreign banner of a burning eye. Among the emerged I spot an elderly Chantry Mother, who watches wordlessly as I turn back to Lysette.
"Let us go find our Mother Giselle," I propose, earning a nod. "Perhaps she will offer better advice than Varric."
Varric's defensive retort is all I need for the tension of the battle to fade. Well, that and the sound of Lysette's laughter.
AN: Sorry 'bout that folks, the holidays were unexpectedly complicated for a little while. I'm back now, though, and I have no plans of going anywhere any time soon. Probably.