A/N: Another battle sequence, slightly different then the previous one. Aiming to keep the tension up, make it at least partially coherent and avoid the actual blow-by-blow approach. Not sure how well that went down, but handing myself a treat for trying.

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Night Terrors

It was just blood. But Maker, there was so much of it.

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A blur shot out from the shrubbery and rammed into the Templar, one blade through the eye, the other through the throat. She never even had a chance to cry out before she crashed down and the blurred form rolled off her and into the Templar right beside her with a snarl. Another form shot out from the darkness at the same time and launched itself on the Templar standing few paces away from the campfire. This one was also snarling, but at least it was of a proper shape to be making that sound.

And that was about all Anders could make out before everything turned into complete chaos of shouts, blades, growls and spraying blood.

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The three around the fire jumped to their feet as their leader fell and the fourth rolled away in a heap of limbs, fangs and steel. Plate armour was the most protective gear one could wear. They have, however, removed their helmets as they set down, and mabari were war dogs, bred and trained to kill. This one also had more experience then most and it lept straight for the unprotected head and throat. The Templar managed to put his hands up in the last possible moment but nonetheless, he screamed as the huge jaws closed around the side of his face.

The fifth was the only one who kept his helmet on and he was already engaged, though what with, neither of them could really tell just yet. But he had quicker reflexes then his companions, or perhaps just had more battle training then them. When the figure rolled off their leader and straight into his legs in the span of time it took Rylock's body to hit the ground, he had immediately assumed a battle stance, feet planted firmly on the ground for balance and already drawing a sword.

His three companions drew as well, though seconds behind him and lost another precious second or two deciding whether to tackle the beast that rolled away with their unfortunate comrade or the other beast that was assaulting the more fortunate one. In the end, the tangle of limbs disengaged and decided for them. The mabari lept from its prey and launched itself into the next target in sight. The Templar met the beast shield-first while the other two rushed forth to the other one's aid, embers of campfire shooting up under their boots.

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Anders couldn't see much, and not just due to blood in his eyes. All he could make out were flashes of plate armours and blades as they whirrled about in hectic patterns, a shout, a snarl and further away, a growl that ended in a sharp, pained yelp. Through the haze, the only thing he was semi-consciously aware of was that the plate-wearing Templars were being pushed back, the twisting, snarling blur of fury always between himself and them. And then a shield went flying in a wide arc and caught the figure full-on, sending it reeling backwards and closer to Anders. Next moment, he felt the unmistakable burst of a Smite.

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For a moment, everything was still. More experianced combatants would have pressed the advantage unthinking, but all three Templars stopped for a second as their opponent went flying back, dropped into a backwards roll mid-flight and sprang up the moment she touched the ground, snarling like a beast. And a beast she was; now they were sure of it.

It wasn't necessarily the lack of experience on their part. More likely, they were driven by simple need to actually see what was it that they were fighting to begin with. And now they have.

Bathed in blood, hers and theirs both, wild-eyed and frothing at the mouth, she stood in a semi-crouch between them and the mage, snarling like an insane she-wolf, vicious and protective all at once, fire reflecting off her blades the colour of her hair and of blood.

If this was the last thing that the Archdemon saw, Anders could almost feel pity for the bugger.

But the moment only lasted that long before it got broken, the Templars realizing that it was, after all, just a mortal they were up against. Fierce, true, but nonetheless only one elf, the other beast that came with her lying in a puddle of blood some ways off. The three moved as one, spreading out for a better striking edge, the fourth one, the one who did the Smiting, coming in from the side to close the semi-circle around her. Four full plates against one snarling leather. It was going to be a short fight after all.

Except that the next moment, it was no longer four but three, an arrow from nowhere suddenly appearing and striking the leftmost one straight through the throat.

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Nathaniel had slowed down for a moment before hearing the sudden shout out front. Picking up his pace, he shot through the foliage lithe as shadow and emerged on the other side of the thicket with bow and arrows already in hand. But the sight he saw before him pinned him to the spot and his bowarm went down.

The mabari lay off to the side. He couldn't tell if the animal was alive or dead. The remnants of the campfire spat flames into the dark, iluminating the sight that gave him pause. Templars, two on the ground, four still standing, and the elf, standing above another prone figure on the ground like wrath incarnate. And set to kill.

He never even realized up until that very moment how deeply ingrained some lessons were in him. These were the Templars, the steel hand of the Chantry, Maker's battlearm, and for a moment he was overcome with the feeling of: Andraste, this was wrong!

But only for a moment. That was Anders on the ground, and the elf about to get decimated by more than she could take on. He notched an arrow and let fly.

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The second the arrow hit the elf jumped forth with naught but bloody murder on her mind. The Templars countered. More arrows followed. And when they suddenly stopped coming another dark shape joined the frey, striking from shadows with lethal grace. Within moments, it was two on two, then one on two and then: none. Anders watched in stunned amazement as the last Templar body hit the ground, determined not to pass out until he saw this through to the end.

There was an instant in which he tought the fighting would continue as the elf, suddenly left without anything more to kill, turned on Nathaniel, likely mistaking him for another opponent in her blind fury.

Instead of countering the attack, Nathaniel skidded to a side and away, still holding his weapons but arms spread wide, evading instead of confronting. Whether that was incredibly smart or incredibly stupid, Anders had no idea, but it worked. Possibly, it was a bit of both with a healthy dash of level-headedness and self-confidence thrown in for good measure. Anders was no fighter but even he knew that in this berserk state, the elf would fall easy prey to Nathaniel had the man decided to subdue her.

One Templar still drew breath - the one felled down by the mabari, a small eternity ago. He stopped when the elf reached him, the savage strike leaving both blades buried into his face as the elf dashed to her dog's side.

Luckily, there was still a functioning brain present in the party Anders noted with some relief as Howe crouched by his side and cut his bonds.

Or perhaps not, he amended a moment later, as Howe reached into the satchel he carried slung over his shoulder and plopped something distressed, furry and orange onto the ground.

"You forgot this."

Ser Pounce-a-lot hissed, puffed up and paddded over to the mage's face.

"Mreow," he exclaimed and then, apperantly satisfied, begun to calmly lick his paw.