Killian knitted his brows at the cacophony that had erupted in front of him. Just when a wary rhythm had been restored to the ill and wounded here at the crossroads, it seemed that another refugee had been added to their number. "As if we needed one more," he scoffed. This earned a less than amused glance from the Inquisition scout standing beside him. He fought the urge to flinch under her scrutiny. Letting a little freckle-faced dwarf woman intimidate him. Maker, was he a Templar, or wasn't he? Killian pursed his lips and sighed when he remembered that, no, he wasn't a Templar. Not anymore. He was a deserter.
Across the lane, he watched as the bald elf and the Seeker who travelled with the Herald carried the prone form of a tiny woman toward the row of cots erected for the wounded. From the look on Seeker Penteghast's face, she was less enthused about this addition than Killian was. Behind them came the Herald, her flame-red hair like a beacon in a stormy sea. Killian wondered if it were possible to magically enhance one's hair colour. Gasps and whispers travelled through the assembly, rippling across troubled faces alight with speculation until they reached Killian's ears.
"A mage? They rescued a rebel?"
That was when Killian noticed that the Herald carried two staves. One had to be hers, everyone knew she had been an enchanter at Ostwick. The other must have belonged to the woman now lying under the healer's gentle ministrations. Is she mad? Killian wondered. There was no telling what kind of chaos a rebel mage could bring upon these suffering villagers. She could be a blood mage, an abomination, rogue Templars could have followed them here. They were an unstable lot, the rogue Templars. They'd been known to slaughter innocents with nothing more than suspicion that one could be harboring a mage. If they followed the Herald to the crossroads, how many refugees would die before the Inquisition forces took them down? Unconsciously, Killian's hand slid to the hilt of his sword, the leather grip warming in his hand afforded a sense of security.
"Stand down, soldier," Scout Harding chided from his side. He glanced down into her face, which seemed both amused and stern. How did she manage that? He took his hand from his side and folded his arms defiantly in front of his chest.
"This bodes ill," he grumbled.
"Are you questioning the Herald's decision?"
"Aren't you?"
"Not my place. I'm just a scout. Besides, I trust her." Harding turned again to face the Herald, who stood now at the side of the cot, concern evident on her face even from this distance.
Killian rolled his eyes. Trust her? I didn't realize that wanting to bed someone meant trust.
Night had fallen, the chaos had died down. Refugees and soldiers alike returned to their duties or settled to sleep long ago. Killian strode quietly between the tents and huts and sleeping forms scattered across the ground. None of the few refugees who were still awake would question another soldier walking the crossroads at night. As long as he tried not to look suspicious, none of the other soldiers would, either. He approached the healer's hut with purpose, eyes narrowed, ears tuned to any disturbance in the darkness. Part of him wanted to curse his own paranoia, feeling foolish for being on high alert. But he also understood the need for caution. No one understood what the mages and Templars were capable of better than someone who'd lived among them.
That was the reason he wandered alone this night. He knew that he had no place to question the Herald's motives, but, truly, he thought she was insane. How dare she bring a rebel mage into their midst? How could she- he paused his furious musings when he realized the woman he'd seen earlier was probably an old friend of hers from Ostwick. The thought made him almost sick to his stomach. That she would be willing to risk the lives of so many for the sake of one power-crazed abomination, and still be referred to as the chosen hero of Andraste… Killian set his face in grim determination and rounded the corner of the healer's hut, then stopped dead in his tracks.
"As soon as she comes to, fetch me. Allow entry to no one but myself and the healer. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Your Worship." replied the guard. Killian knit his brow in frustration. 'She's set a guard.' he sighed. 'This will make interrogation a bit more complicated.'