"To do that, you'd have to catch me first."

Commander Rutherford hadn't lunged for her when she'd said that. That counted for something, though what, Finley couldn't say.

She wasn't sure why she'd said that, either.

The dear commander was already annoyed and stressed, so she'd figured it wouldn't take much to provoke him. That was why she'd been so quiet for most of their journey. The mere fact that he was a templar made her tongue sharp.

And yet when she had allowed herself a few quips, he'd barely even changed his demeanor at all. When she'd all but challenged him to catch her, he'd merely given her a tired look and kept his pace the same as it had been.

However stressed he might be, it wasn't like the kind of exasperation she was used to. He would be hard to break if she ever decided to try. Perhaps it was for the best if that never happened.

She dared a glance at the commander to see him stepping around some frozen brush, vexation plain on his face. The wind and moisture had gotten to his hair, curling the brushed back waves, and making him look like he'd been lost in the woods for days rather than roughly an hour and a half. The frost left the tip of his nose and his cheeks rosy, a stark comparison to the dark circles under his eyes.

Her twenty minutes had been up for almost ten, but he'd yet to insist they go back. Perhaps he was simply bad at keeping track of time, or perhaps this was some trick. It was oddly nerve-wracking that he was being so…cooperative. Helpful.

Perhaps he was one of the good templars.

Of course, even the good templars would try to clap you in irons and take you to a Circle, but still.

So long as she was careful, they could be of use to one another, surely. Not to mention that lovely little fact that there were no Circles to be taken to any longer. She was quite certain she'd earned more than a few people's disapproval when she'd learned that all of the Circles had truly fallen and had said it was for the best.

Yes…this little outing might not be so bad. It certainly could have been worse.

And it was nice not to have people chattering on at her about how she needed to save the world. She'd done what she could, and it hadn't been enough. There was talk about going to Val Royeaux, but she doubted her opinions would matter much on that. Seeker Pentaghast would go, defend the Inquisition, and Finley would be pointed toward the nearest rifts to mend.

At least, that's what she was hoping. It seemed less and less likely when she considered the whole Herald of Andraste title, but without hope, life was destitute indeed.

Just as she was about to concede that perhaps she was a little lost—not that she wanted to go back—she caught sight of one of her markings. They were little more than thumbprints of lyrium and water, something most eyes wouldn't catch. She'd worried mages might find them and go on a treasure hunt, but then, since most of the ones going to the Conclave were Circle mages, she had assumed that they wouldn't dare the woods when there was a decent enough road a few miles west.

After all, there was no sense in getting their precious robes dirty.

Another mark glimmered a few yards away, off to her left. She let out a triumphant laugh and darted after it, throwing her ponderings of Commander Rutherford's trustworthiness to the ever-present winds. She heard him call for her to wait, but she didn't feel like standing about while he trod around the underbrush that had been picking up as they went. Honestly, the man was too careful.

She lithely launched herself over small shrubs, hopping up and gripping branches to swing over larger ones, sometimes jumping high enough to propel herself from a tree trunk. She felt better than she had in days, almost as well as she'd felt before she'd left for the Conclave.

For just a moment, she was herself, before all this horrid madness spiraled out of control. The wind was her only companion, and its chilling touch left her free of all cares.

The hiss pulled her from her reverie.

A gangly, awkward creature loomed up from what felt like nowhere. Its jaws were opened in a hideous snarl as its claws caught her in the side. She'd been mid lunge over a small bush and, unable to veer off course, she cursed under her breath as the creature's momentum added to her own and sent her flying into the ground. She hit hard enough that she bounced once, cracking her elbow, and then slid into the base of a tree.

She gasped. However, the attack wasn't enough to leave her disoriented. She was used to this sort of thing—albeit the attacker wasn't generally a demon. A soft white light flickered to life around her fingertips. Using her good arm, she brushed her fingers along her side and then up to her hurt elbow.

Most of her spells weren't very powerful in one hit, as those required longer strings of syllables, which meant templars could interrupt them. Instead, this cast was an instant cast that ticked slowly, mending her more damaged areas over a few seconds, allowing her to recover if she could keep out of reach. Accompanying it was a soothing numbness that helped her stagger to her feet before the creature could crash down on her, missing as it sunk its great claws into the earth. Even as her spell ticked, knitting flesh back together and repairing the fracture to her radius, the demon recovered and turned toward her, claws arched and ready for another attack.

As it eyed her, her mind turned toward her other spells. Healing alone wouldn't get her out of this. Perhaps a snare…? But what if the commander saw? How would she explain that she'd been lying about her magic?

A low hiss escaped the demon's throat.

Now was not the time to worry about an audience.

The spell died on her lips, however, as the creature lunged toward her, only to have a shield slam into it.

Then Commander Rutherford was moving past her, blade drawn and gleaming, like he was a hero from a child's storybook.

His sword slammed through the creature's chest. The demon, in turn, let out a wailing shriek before its body flickered and twisted into that sickening green light that marked the tears in the Veil. The light shot through the air, as though being drawn back to something.

Like the demons from the rifts she'd seen on the way to the Breach.

Well, fuck.

Several shrieks echoed back to them. Commander Rutherford swore to the Maker, reaching out to Finley and pulling her partially behind him in a quick motion. "We have to go."

"My things are—"

"No use to us if you're dead." As he spoke, he dared to examine her, brow furrowing when he realized that her injuries had been reduced to minor bruises and scrapes. She had to fight back a small bubble of pride. She always surprised templars when she actually had to use magic in front of them.

He straightened a bit from his battle stance and turned to face her. Even as his gaze flitted to the blood staining her tunic and then the already smoothing skin visible through the cuts in the fabric, a slight green glint off his armor caught both of their attention.

They looked down to see eerie green ripples covering the snow beneath their feet. Before either could move, a body erupted up between them, sending them both flying backwards, crashing into the snow.

The demon leapt at Commander Rutherford, claws slashing as it screeched.

He kicked it square in the stomach and rolled to the side, on his feet quickly, despite the weight of his armor slowing him down. He'd be a frightening sight in leathers.

There were still more shrieks echoing through the woods around them, getting closer. She wouldn't be able to keep him healed and keep herself out of their reach. And she didn't want to find out if he was strong enough to take on however many demons were coming by himself.

At this rate, she'd have to resort to her other spells, and then he and the Inquisition would know that she wasn't strictly a healer, as she'd claimed.

Unless…

She cast a quick shield over him to block the creature's strikes for a few precious seconds, as well as a heal over time spell that she hopped would mend any injuries that might befall him while she had to turn away.

Finley looked around for her marks, and took off.

Though she heard Commander Rutherford yell for her to wait, she ignored him again. This time, however, she was alert. Her gaze kept moving, taking in her surroundings, no longer so completely focused on her task. She followed her marks on the trees another few yards before she came to the base of a weathered, old oak.

She barely slowed, jumping and pressing her feet firmly against the trunk before propelling herself up, into the branches. Ice tried to deny her grip as she dug her nails into bark, hauling herself up, keeping her momentum.

Hidden well in the upper branches of the old tree was a decent sized satchel. Two belts had been tied together in such a way to keep it against the tree branches, and a bow and quiver hung off the branch, held up by the belts as well.

Dozens of little pouches and flasks were tucked against or hanging off of the belts, the fruits of her years of alchemical research. There were healing tonics, mana regeneration potions, sleeping powders, and so on.

She undid the knot in her belts, catching her bow and quiver and shouldering them before carefully balancing the satchel so that she could hook her belts around her waist. When that was in place, she gripped her bag and let it carry her most of the way down, letting go in the last few feet to catch herself on a branch and swing out of the way of landing on her belongings.

As her feet thudded into the snow, she began running back the way she had come, hoping that the commander had fared well in the short time he'd been on his own. Surely, he had. After all, he was the commander for a reason.

When she got a clear shot of where he stood, toe to toe with four demons, she pulled her bow from her shoulder and notched an arrow, praying that her aim would be decent after what felt like an eternity of not having shot anything.