Story note:

Dragon Age is property of Bioware. Original characters are mine, and are to be treated as such. If you want to adopt some of my AU changes then, please, do so.

Here have another chapter! Something to make up for my last month's absence. I'm pretty much writing non-stop right now and somehow I'm actually quite satisfied with this chapter, which doesn't happen very often. Most of the time its a cycle of writing, rewriting and deleting large parts to then rewriting them from scratch. So, yeah, there's that.

For those of you who've been waiting for some more action and combat or anything related to the rebellion, well, here you go. Also, Farah'an being a bit of an awesome badass this time. Others have their moments to shine and be desperate, too.

So, enjoy! And, as always, please leave a review with your opinion or should you have any questions.

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In An Age Full Of Heroes

Chapter XII

A Trade of Subtlety

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The cool autumn winds tugged at the long tent's rustling canvas, whilst leaves the colour of rust and ochre scraped over it like a mewling cat, again and again. A few iron baskets, filled with splinters of burning wood, crackled a sliver of warmth back into all their limbs. Small escapes cut into the canvas kept the insides clear of an unhealthy dose of rancid smoke. Not much, but a bit of warmth, at least. Something to drive the chill from her weary bones as Elya worked. Zipping from one low stretcher to the next, one wounded soldier after another. The sleeves of her beige coat had already stained, first into a dark chestnut and now nearly blackened into a mottled auburn. Beseechingly, the hurting soldiery moaned and groaned after her, whenever she left, begging. They hadn't even the strength to cry out their raw pain, long since diluted by shock and herbs.

Elya's tears had already dried, like caked rivers running down her cheeks. At one point – she didn't rightly remember when – she'd decided for herself to stop with the self-loathing, for it wouldn't help her patients in any way. She might not possess the unparalleled skills of a spirit healer or even those of a mediocre healer, like knitting a cracked bone back together, but she still knew enough about herbs and medicine and human anatomy. At least, that's what she told herself to keep sane and from completely emptying her belly. It sufficed to keep most of the poor sods alive. But so many arrived at the infirmary tent, limbs mangled and chopped or blown off by munitions, only a bloody mess remaining. Most of them already dead, the journey back from the field of battle too strenuous. But the worst of the lot were those who arrived, barely clinging to their lives, with one foot already at the Maker's side, hope filling their eyes at the sight of her. A mage of the Circle she was, after all. Surely she could mend their savage wounds and soothe their inconceivable pain. That'd then be those moments where she looked deep into their dazed eyes and saw the light slowly fading. Her vision would turn awash and the dry rivers of her gaunt cheeks would know humidity once more. Without waiting for them to dry again, she'd shuffled on to her next patient. Endless rows of them awaited, after all.

Gesturing, she beckoned a surgeon over towards her. Squinting he spotted what she needed him for and brought the fitting tools. Kneeling on the ground, she rested her fingers on the female soldier's sweaty brow before her; leg severed just under the kneecap, Elya uttered a simple sleeping spell. Dizzied, she then slumped back in exhaustion, having sapped every ounce of power her body could hold from the Fade. If she'd open herself one more time, Elya wasn't sure anymore if she could control the flow of sorcerous energy or if it'd burst out in erratic violence.

Leech, the fellow surgeon, meanwhile pressed a heated bit of steel against the woman's mangled stump, cauterising the wound. It sizzled and the biting stench of burnt flesh assaulted Elya's flaring nostrils. Her stomach churned, even after dozens and dozens of times of watching and smelling the procedure.

A hand grabbed her shoulder, gave her needed support. Leech stared at her, his thin, straight brows drawn down and together ever so slightly. In his heavily accented voice, he said, 'Y' ought 'a rest, woman! Or y' kill y'self. Won't 'elp no one, then. M'self an' the others 'll take care o' 'em lot.' His grip tightened. 'Go!'

Without even the strength to resist or voice a simple denial, Elya just bobbed her head up and down. Leech hoisted her up and helped her stumble to the infirmary's entry on legs of jelly. Arrived, he sat her down in a dirty folding chair and vanished out the tent's exit. Elya just blinked once, her lids heavy with sleep deprivation, and Leech returned with two soldiers in tow. Gently they carried her to her personal tent and tucked her away inside her comfy cot.

Sleep immediately took her.

When she wakened again, the lovely smell of meshed eggs with strips of salty bacon and sausages drove up in delicious wafts to greet her. A tray stood right beside her cot on a small table, a skin filled with water perched atop. The roof of her mouth moistened immediately and without second thought she fell over the meal, breaking her morning fast in frenzy. Half famished she ravaged the meal and swallowed everything down in, probably, too-large bits. Elya couldn't care less. Content for now, she slumped back onto her cot.

Some unknown amount of time later, the canvas of her modest tent's entry rustled open. It admitted the drearily bleached light of an autumn morn, encircling a familiar silhouette. Clad in a quilted leather jacket, hugging her sleek figure, Bann Alfstanna entered her private abode. Ungracefully, the woman plopped down on a simple camping stool, fiddling around Elya's worktable. Her hand steered clear of the present mess there with a branch of weed, known to slacken a stuffy nose. Delicately, the bann sniffed and inhaled the weed's tangy scent, wanly smiling at Elya whilst her eyes reflected nothing of it.

'Feeling better?'

'Bodily, yes.' Elya sat up on her cot, still wrapped in wool blankets.

The noblewoman simply nodded, as if she understood Elya's every plight and haunting thought. Maybe she does, who knows.

Gesturing at the emptied plate, Elya said, grateful, 'That's your doing, I assume?'

'Indeed.'

'Thank you.' And she meant it. This small gestured facilitated her more than any blanket ever could.

Alfstanna leaned forward in the camping stool, fixing Elya with a serious glint in her gaze. 'I'm worried.'

'Well, frankly, I am, too. I'm not sure we can keep this up much longer. If the-'

'I meant,' the bann interrupted her. 'I'm worried about you, Elya.'

The sorceress blinked, frowning. 'What?'

'You're working yourself to death. And not only with your magic. I was told you collapsed last night.' Alfstanna watched her expectantly.

'Well, no, I dozed off, is all. I was only tired, understandably.'

Pursing her lips, the bann gently retorted, 'For nearly half a bell you didn't twitch a muscle, dear. I'd call that collapsed.'

'Yeah, well, but . . . but-'

'Elya.' Voice fraught with sorrow, Alfstanna appealed, 'You can't save them all.'

All of a sudden infuriated, Elya jumped up. 'Why not! I'm a mage, after all. This is what I should be good at, but I ain't. I can't even save half of them. My magic's about as useful as a cheap conjurer's market tricks. And you,' she pointed accusingly, 'won't even let me help where I could. You all just keep me hidden here in camp where I can do nothing but watch people die because I was too lazy to be interested in healing!'

Elya's ears rang. Never had she raised her voice like that, to anyone, at all.

Alfstanna sat stricken, dark eyes downcast, not looking like the noblewoman she was.

'I'm sorry,' Elya peeped, sincere.

'No, you're right.' The Bann of Waking Sea scratched figures and circles into Elya's wooden worktable with her dirtied fingernails. 'Those qunari are cutting us to pieces and we can't even properly fight back, thanks to these explosives of theirs.'

Elya began to pace. 'Then let me fight them! Let me do what you all made me promise to do for the rebellion. Let me do what I'm actually good at.'

Alfstanna slowly shook her head. 'They're too divided. Using your magic against a small troop of them would be no victory for us.'

'But letting dozens upon dozens of us be cut down is?'

'Not a victory, no . . .' Elya could plainly see the ruthless pragmatism of war written on the bann's lips as she was about to speak anew. But she also saw – as much as the woman herself probably knew – that both of them didn't believe such callous words.

Abruptly, the noblewoman jerked out of her seat, a mischievous smirk blossoming on her lean lips. 'Come on, there's something we've to do.'

'Will it be warm?' Elya mocked, half in jest.

'O, no doubt about that.'

Frowning to herself, Elya started after her, Alfstanna already out of the tent. Nothing else left to do, after all.

Together the two women took a few turnings, walking through the mud-caked paths and arrived at the massive follower and supply encampment. Shortly thereafter the sleek noblewoman halted in front of a ridiculously large tent, nearly royal in proportion even. Two swaying lanterns cast the entry into a reddish light.

Dumbfounded, Elya stared at the woman besides her. 'A brothel, really?'

'Sure, they have the best drink in the entire camp.' Alfstanna seemed positively delighted.

'But, I've never-'

The noblewoman grabbed her hand. 'Yes. Yes.'

And with that Elya was dragged into the insides. The air impregnated with the sour odour of wine and smoke as well as the sweet smell of gluttony and naked self-indulgence.

Oh, dear.

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A bit light-headed from all the ale and wine she'd consumed, Alfstanna swayed towards the command tent's entry. The two attentive guards, silver insignias in the form of laurel wreaths emblazoned above their chests, held the stained flaps open for her to enter. Passing, she nodded her thanks whilst they stoically returned to their duty. Mentally, Alfstanna shook her head. What else to expect from Old Guard.

Indoors, she found Leonas just like she'd left him, a few bells ago. He stood bent over the thick round table, intently studying a rolled-out map of the Bannorn, littered with worn figurines and heaps of messages.

Alfstanna grunted in amusement. 'Just like our sorceress, you are, Leonas.'

Seemingly, he'd registered her just now, looking up. Dark streaks and sagging bags hung underneath his eyes, speaking volumes of his weary condition. The toll weights heavy.

She drove a hand through her short unkempt hair. 'You ought to take a break, because staring Loghain's armies to death isn't going to work. Nor will it bring you any new insights.'

Leonas scoffed, his light Orlesian accent coming through, 'Already took a break.'

Fishing a piece of cloth out of her jacket pocket and throwing it towards him, Alfstanna snickered, 'I can see that much.'

Picking it up, the arl growled, 'Damned barber.' He began wiping shaving cream out of his hair. 'I swear the bastard does it on purpose.'

Laughing, Alfstanna seated herself in one of the various wooden chairs surrounding the table, legs crossed at her ankles. 'Keep it, just to be safe.'

He rolled his eyes. 'Very funny.'

Fiddling around with one of the carved figurines, Alfstanna took on a more serious demeanour. 'What's the news?'

Arl Bryland sighed, crossing his muscled arms. 'We've lost another raiding unit last night. Wiped out to the last man. The qunari mercenaries are beating us back at every engagement, short or long. Soon they'll be knocking on our very doorstep. And I don't even want to begin to imagine what these munitions of their can do to so many huddled together.' He pinched his nose, massaging. 'The king-regent's army is only weeks away and wherever they march the Bannorn either submits or burns.'

Now Alfstanna mockingly patted herself on the back for joining Leonas half-inebriated. Otherwise the news would've surely sent her into a depressive pit right away. So the feeling would bide its time in fully sinking in.

But he wasn't finished. 'We've got to get these qunari off our back, at least for some time. Otherwise our raiding parties can't slip through. And without them none of us will survive winter. It even remains questionable if we do should they make it.' He paused, inhaling. 'There flock more and more to us every day, Alfstanna, and none of them are what we need. Soldiers. Plus, we can barely sustain the numbers we have right now.' Grumbling, he shook his head.

She embraced the wooden figurine with her hand, as if to crush it. 'Well they've shown spirit, in the least, gathering a militia.'

'Yeah.' Leonas snorted. 'And what should I do with them, send them against the qunari, like lambs to the slaughter?'

Alfstanna held up her hands. 'I'm just saying.'

Bland, he blurted out, 'They've taken South Reach.'

'Shit.' Her head slowly fell back against the chair's backrest in defeat. 'I'm sorry, Leonas.'

'It's meaningless. I knew this would happen from the day I left.'

'Meaningless? I know you don't believe that.'

He shrugged. 'I have to.'

Dismissively, Alfstanna threw the wooden figurine back on the table. Whereupon landing Leonas plucked it up and positioned it at its original resting place.

'What about Elya?'

Leonas narrowed his gaze. 'No.'

In response to his resolute retort, Alfstanna leapt to her feet, palms braced against the table's edge, she leaned towards him. 'I'm inclined to agree with her by now. She's the one ace up our sleeve we have, why not use it?'

Heatedly he tried to reason, 'Because, as you said: she's the only ace up our sleeve. We can't give her away too soon.'

'Too soon? What about too late? How many have we lost? A hundred? Double that. Even more? And what for? Nothing. We have to get them off our back, so let's get them off our back once and for all! Drive them together and then stick a knife in their belly!'

She knew she had him when he began to nervously chew on his cheek's insides, yet he wasn't ready to admit it. 'Alfstanna, I-'

'I know its eating you up just as much as me. I can see it. We haven't the luxury of waiting.'

'Fine.' The Arl of South Reach slumped back into his chair, massaging his temples. 'Now bring me that carafe, I'm going to try your method. Inebriation for difficult choices.'

She obliged. Leonas gulped down the first glass in a single go. 'Maker, I'm not cut out for this.'

Just then Alfstanna didn't envy him in the slightest. Neither for his position nor all the burdens that went with it. Equally, this aforementioned emotion made her feel sincerely rotten. That pang settled deep inside her belly, churning.

'You're doing fine,' she feebly encouraged.

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Farah'an's squad of six lay in wait behind an uprooted tree, its thick, gnarled branches and roots perfect cover. The terrain around them treacherous and only lightly vegetated. Lichened boulders sprouted in between high meadows of grass slowly fading to brown with slim and pale trees here and there. A small stream whispered by behind their current position.

Light had already faded from the western horizon, the sky darkened to smears of blue and grey. Crickets and nocturnal bugs chirped. From some algae-covered pond a family of frogs croaked and fireflies buzzed around, alight, like they're wont to do in such rural areas.

Vathrax, the squad's sergeant, lay besides her, chewing on a block of old cheese. Naturally, they'd no fire going. It'd attract far too much attention on such plains.

'We've pushed too far,' she admitted, sniffing the air.

Vathrax peered at her, still chewing and munching. 'Haven't had a decent fight in months, Isala'k.'

'That's because of your liberal use of gaatlok munitions.'

'Might be.' He shrugged his broad shoulders. 'But then again, they're all so puny.'

'Yeah, well, refrain from it nonetheless.'

The sergeant grumbled his discontent but shut up anyway. Farah'an cast a look around, analysing their situation. Nearly no javelins left, everyone bearing some semblance of wounds, bar her, and only three explosives, two crackers and one drummer. To top it all off, there lingered a foreboding stillness in the air, a herald of change if ever she felt one.

A rustle of undergrowth stilled them all. But no current had disturbed night's air. They've finally got enough, it seems. Signing commands with her fingers, the squad buckled up and got ready. Alas, already too late for such measures.

Dark shapes rose out of the high grass surrounding them whilst her squad crept back towards the burbling stream. Multiple crossbows thwacked in quick succession and half of the squad went down, quarrels stuck in their throats and eyes.

'Fall back!'

Farah'an relieved a fallen brother of his javelins and deftly launched two of them. The answering shrieks proved quite satisfactory for her. She turned and hurried after what was left of the squad. Her long legs carried her fast, rapidly changing direction and ducking to avoid the quarrels sent after her.

Then, from the stream approached another set of enemies, weapons raised they loosened another volley. Farah'an unsheathed her thin twin blades and swiftly deflected the single projectile sent her way without decelerating her stride. The shooter froze, staring dumbfounded. Farah'an didn't even give him the slightest chance to recuperate. Two quick slashes and the side of his throat as well as the entire length of his left thigh opened, spurting blood from severed arteries. The second set of fiends now recognised her as the main threat of the squad and shifted focus towards her. Yet to reload their heavy crossbows, Farah'an stepped in their middle and cut them down in a flurry. She left behind no wailing or screaming soldiers, only cooling bodies, already dead.

She spied Vathrax nearby and shouted, 'Leave them something!'

He wrangled with a bulky fiend and in between trading blows called back, 'What 'bout refraining?'

Vathrax scarred arm lunged forward in a flash and his fist took the other soldier in the throat. Convulsing and choking he went down, his pharynx squashed.

'Sod that, just do it!' He laughed a disturbing laugh and flung an iron-coloured pellet, a cracker.

The detonation nearly threw Farah'an off her feet and face first into the hard ground. 'Farther, you idiot!'

He laughed again while gut-wrenching screams of pure agony bloomed behind them. Beyond the narrow stream awaited the security of a rolling light forest, vegetated with thick bushes and cragged but small rock formations. Their pursuers had broken off the hunt, dissuaded no doubt by Vathrax's use of gaatlok munitions.

Only the sergeant and her left, they jogged on through much of the night. The crescent moon had nearly reached its zenith when they arrived at a prearranged retreating point. Sixty paces away the ground had cracked long ago and now stood erupted, like a rutted cliff, gnarled thin roots sprouting out the entire thirty arm spans of height. In its shadow lay a swampy glade, tripping trees with blackened trunks and moss hanging from branches leaned over muddy banks and slime coated rocks, everything cast into silvery light. Bubbles rising to the swamp's surface, the gassy stench made her nose wrinkle. Coincidentally this was also the very reason why Farah'an chose this as their place of retreat. You could smell it from leagues afar.

Dozens of squads squatted throughout the swamp, looking up at her arrival. The ninth of the Isala'keii cast a glance around, soaking everything in. Qun fend, so few. She'd arrived in Ferelden with her company nearly at full strength of five hundred. Now barely two thirds of that contingent remained, if at all. They'd been more mauled than expected. And although the understocked amount of munitions more than tipped the balance of any skirmish, they still suffered losses. Yet, every loss cut Farah'an far deeper than those of the rebellion soldiers. They, after all, numbered more by the day.

She turned towards Sergeant Vathrax. 'Get them up and packing. We fall back. And be quick about it.' It's no coincidence that so many of us are here.

'Aye, Isala'k.' Not one of them ever discarded her honorific. She hated it; it reminded her of her ignorance and treachery. But, well, it also reminded her, stinging every time anew.

Without hesitation he walked among his resting brothers and sisters and barked orders, kicking and whacking wherever someone moved to slow.

Movement from the oddity of a cliff stirred Farah'an around. No, too fast! Perfectly illuminated by the crescent's lances stood a lone female figure. A long stained beige coat buttoned up to the chest and a teal scarf fluttered in a faint upcoming breeze. She spread her arms and Farah'an dreaded what was about to happen.

She tried to scream a warning. 'Teth a!'

But two dozen of her mercenaries already clawed and grasped at their throats, their gurgling one of absolute horror, lungs filled with scummy water instead of fresh air. Others squirmed and thrashed on the ground, clutching their heads, wailing at what nightmarish illusions invaded their minds. A flash as bright as the sun and sickly green lightening dove among her company, igniting the entire swampy glade, the methane eagerly set alight by sorcery. Everything fell into disarray. Veteran qunari warriors stumbled about, their coppery skin slackening and flesh melting off their bones in a few heartbeats. At the opposite end of the glade a stock of munitions caught fire and a series of massive detonations rocked the entire swamp. Even from where Farah'an stood the shockwave sent her flying half a dozen paces, her back cracking against a deadened trunk. Earth and rock and tree were violently flung skyward, raining down like fiery death. Then descended a misty sheen of blood and blown off limbs, in between mangled carcasses thumping on the ground.

Their retreating point had been turned into one hellish fire in a matter of heartbeats, devouring them with a rampant vengeance.

Righting herself, Farah'an's blood boiled hot and not only because of the unquenchable fires littering the swamp and her company. Foul magery and devious witchcraft, what an atrocity! Basra Vashedan.

Albeit indignantly wrathful, Farah'an could only scream from the top of her lungs, 'Fly! Fly, you all!'

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Atop the peculiar steep slope, bursting forth from the ground like a hanging cliff, Elya wrenched and heaved, down on her knees in the dirt. Her gut already emptied thrice there was nothing left now to pump back up. Yet the spasm continued, violently contracting her revolting stomach.

From below the mad cackle of raging sorcerous fire continued, whilst joined by the occasional thwack of a crossbow or the swift hiss of a descending blade to finish off those of the qunari who still squirmed around in agony.

Maker's mercy! I wanted this!

Her insides constricted and Elya heaved once more as if gasping for air.

I wanted this!

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Her back facing the canvas, Ser Cauthrien sat on a simple stool inside the personal compartment of her tent, the entry adjacent to the commanding area where her staff gathered from meetings and such. On the table laid out before her, brought in on a wooden tray, was her evening meal. Roasted duck with red cabbage and bread dumplings, topped off with a glass of red vintage to wet her throat.

All of that thanks to the courteous generosity of the last in a long line of pacified villages and small towns. Roughly half a dozen had submitted their treacherous uprising against the crown at the first sight of her approaching armed forces. Weapons thrown to the ground in surrender and the local lord or lady already bound and gagged like a sacrificial present by either the cowering garrison or the fickle peasantry, as ever reliable to turn their back with astonishing speed when fortunes change. All Cauthrien had to do was speak iron law in the king-regent's name, take the noble-born hostage and leave behind an entrenched token garrison as defence and potential riot-subduers.

Camped at the western most turning of Hafter River they'd awaited the arrival of four companies of Gwaren infantry and its two auxiliary lancer wings, fresh and ardent from the taking of the arling of South Reach to supplement her armed force. From the Coastlands up north they still awaited yet more reinforcements from a large contingent of men supplied by Bann Coerlic for their just cause in quenching this rebellion.

Savouring the last sip of vintage, the King's Blade finished her meal, just as Sub-Commander Fledg entered.

'King's Blade.' The young, aspiring soldier saluted.

Cauthrien nodded at him, offering him a seat, which he declined. Hands behind his back he relayed his report.

'Runners sent ahead by the qunari mercenaries, ma'am. They've returned.'

She cleared her throat. 'Already? I was under the impression that they're hindering the enemy's foray supply raids.'

Fledg concurred, 'They were, quite successfully. But they were ambushed a few nights ago.'

'Ambushed?'

'Best see it for yourself, King's Blade.'

Cauthrien stood and marched out after the young sub-commander. From the command tent's exit, slightly elevated by the hillock they'd camped on, she could already spy them with narrowed eyes in the sombre dusk.

In the shadows of thin, pale trees, out of a wide and low ravine cutting through the landscape, filled with gravel, both sides armoured with sharp rocks, trudged what remained of the mercenary company. Dishevelled they looked, charred and painted in pallid, crusty ash.

'How many?' Cauthrien gasped.

''Bout a hundred of them left, ma'am.'

Andraste's guiding light!

'Send physicians and provisions among them. And fetch me Iskara,' she ordered.

'Aye.' The handsome sub-commander wandered off, barking orders of his own to a cadre of runners and messengers nearby.

Cauthrien returned back inside the command tent. She hadn't had to wait long for her second-in-command to arrive.

He saluted sharply, rasping, 'You summoned me, King's Blade?'

Leaning over the long war-table, staring at him, she snapped, 'That didn't go as planned, now did it?'

Calmly he stepped further in, his scarred, one-eyed face betraying nothing. 'Now that's not entirely the truth, ma'am.'

'The mercenaries were supposed to bind the rebellion until winter. Well, I, for one, do not see snow falling outside.'

'True,' Iskara condescended, scratching the gnarled scar tissue of his eye. 'But that's only a matter of weeks. Too short a time for Bryland to gather enough supplies. Their force is growing by the day and so is their need for provisions. And the qunari more than harassed them; they cut them bloody quite a bit.'

The King's Blade chided, 'I know the reports, commander.'

'But not the latest one, I assume?'

Waving her hand, she bade, 'Speak, then.'

'The ambush: Bryland revealed the ace up his sleeve. Now we know his cards, all of them, there's no sleight of hand left for him.' The elderly commander paused. 'They've got themselves a mage.'

That stunned her. Well, nothing to worry about, sorcery Cauthrien could handle, should it eventually come to that. Showing nothing of her incredulity, Cauthrien ventured, 'You drew him out.'

'He was acting too bold, like he wanted us to attack.' Iskara shrugged dismissively. 'But I wasn't sure why.'

'The qunari-'

'Are battered, yes.' He held up his hands. 'But far from broken I believe. They'll fight with even more fire now, ma'am. We've gained the upper hand, at a price, yes, but a bearable one. Our troops are fresh and in good spirits, theirs probably less so.'

She closely squinted at him. 'And I'm to believe all this subtlety on your part, Iskara?'

'You are to believe nothing, King's Blade.' A wry smile leapt to his features. 'But isn't this the truest kind of subtlety. Where one doesn't know if it actually was or wasn't?'

Cauthrien snorted her faint amusement at the old commander's philosophising.

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Her freelance brothers and sisters let everything fall where they stood. Swords and shields, javelins as well as pouches and rucksacks smacked on the ground, jingling and screeching. Spartan tents were hastily drawn up, comfort not sought after, just a cot or a bedroll to snuggle into.

Farah'an had set a cruel pace after her company had recuperated enough in her eyes. Through numerous days and nights they'd jogged over the plains, only stopping shortly to eat and drink but for nothing else. It pained her to admit that she'd probably left a few stragglers behind. She just couldn't risk being caught in a clash with that sorceress again.

Ataash varin kata. Whilst it may be true that in the end lies glory, one doesn't has to actively seek out glory's end like a rabid hound. But as was another saying: always an even trade. And there'd be payment as well as retribution for this heretical unleashing by the rebels.

Farah'an spotted the numerous figures walking among her mercenary company, distributing soothing salves as well as fresh food. Normally she'd reject with a disdainful snort, but not today. And her brothers and sisters had already picked up on that, quick on their feet as they were and let themselves be nursed and treated by the humans among them.

In the distance she spied the lean figure of the youngest of the King's Blade's force's commanders, Fledg. Farah'an had yet to find a suitable nickname for him. As he passed her tent, she whistled, beckoning him over.

'Isala'k,' he glumly greeted. 'How are you?'

Gruffly, she said. 'Fine. But there's something I ought to do.' She looked him up and down whilst he merely stared back, not understanding. 'It'll suffice.'

'What will?' Fledg blinked.

Farah'an grabbed his smooth hand, yanking. 'You.'

He unceremoniously fell into her tent, landing on his back, eyes bulging open.

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Author's note:

Well, how did you like it? Stay tuned for the next chapter In An Age Full Of Heroes.