Right, uh. Sorry. Redcliffe is going to be broken into three parts. Maybe two if Connor doesn't take too long; we'll see.
The two-day, three-night trek to Redcliffe was actually rather pleasant, all things considered.
Catherine's once soft, prim feet were now callousing more than blistering; she mourned the loss of them if only for her vanity's sake, truthfully she was glad her boots weren't irritating her so much any longer. Muscles she didn't know she had began to awaken and protest to the sudden change in routine and her back revolted against sleeping on the ground – the Tower beds were never comfortable, but at least they didn't have bloody rocks in them, and she had a near constant headache from using her magic so often and so intensely. Still, the young mage found herself enjoying the freedom, as uncomfortable as it was.
She spent most of her time in the company of Morrigan, and most of that time was spent in a companionable silence; they spoke through tilts of the head, a small gesture of a hand, and an occasional smirk more than words. Intermittently, they'd speak a few words about a plant or a spell, or discuss possibilities of trying to create a more powerful lyrium poultice, but it all came back to a blissful, comfortable quiet.
Alistair and Leliana were somewhat similar – now, anyway - walking too closely together, hands occasionally brushing; the templar had bestowed the sister with a rose earlier that day. Catherine was fairly sure people in Orlais heard the squeal; Leliana cooed and rambled erratically: "This was the rose from Lothering's chantry! Oh it was so special to me, Alistair, how did you know?" "You think of me like a delicate flower? I-I... that's so sweet!" After all her gushing and all his stammering there was a distinct 'mwah' sound of an over-exaggerated kiss, followed by more stammering and a ridiculously girlish giggle.
Surprisingly, she had managed to hear Sten to string a few words together, rather than him simply grunting or saying 'no' to everything she asked. Granted, he was speaking to the dog and continued to pointedly ignore Catherine, but with a man like Sten she figured it was best to take what little you can get.
Damon weaved around between everyone, nudging hands for attention and chasing rabbits. He liked to sniff at Morrigan's herb pouch, then bound away like a happy child before the witch could shoo him, wagging his stubby little tail so hard he entire body shook; it never failed to make Alistair and Leliana titter in the background. There were times Damon would walk next to the monolithic qunari; Catherine would have sworn the dog walked with his head raised a bit higher, and walked a little sturdier.
During the nights, she spent her spare time going over the grimoire Irving had given her. She scoured over the ancient notes, eating up the 'forbidden' knowledge like it was the only thing keeping her alive; it was thrilling to have such power in the palms of her hands. It didn't take her long to access the first step: using the caster's own blood to power their spells. Such a thing had to be used tactically, of course, but at the very least she could avoid becoming some lyrium-addict. The biggest issue was Alistair. Sure, he never took vows but he certainly was a little Chantry drone, just as Leliana was, and Sten distrusted her for being a woman and a mage.
So, to be safe, she practiced her new art while she was alone on watch; Catherine learned rather quickly that – whether using someone else's blood or not – blood magic was quite messy. Rivulets of crimson flowed from her eyes and ears, dripping from her finger tips and a coppery tang filled her mouth and nostrils. It was unpleasant, but the benefits were undeniable. She'd find a way to broach the topic with the more... rigid members of her party, sometime.
Redcliffe was fantastic. A giant barrel of sodding laughs.
Not only was the only man that could truly help them against Loghain's regency, it was quite possible he was dead. Not only was Alistair a bumbling fool when they reached the outskirts, he was the bumbling heir to the throne.
And on top of all of that: the bleeding town was under attack by some 'evil'; walking corpses, supposedly. Bann Teagan explained the situation desperately, with tired hand gestures and a broken voice of a man who had seen far too much death. The man had all but begged her to assist in holding the line; she could see the pros and cons of both, after all they had much to do and little time to do it in, but in the end, she decided to help the town, or at least put in a token effort. It ought to at least make them look good to the Arl, or the Bann should the Arl be lost to them.
Catherine had left Alistair and Sten with militia to see if the two warriors could shape-up the gaggle of unkempt, terrified men; she, Morrigan, Damon and Leliana went about the town, doing everything they could to give the town a better chance. The lay sister ending up using her considerable charm to get the Revered Mother to publicly bless the militia, and passed out small Andrastian symbols amongst the knights who were holding the first line of defense by the access road into Redcliffe.
Meanwhile, the two magi and their mabari made it a point to ensure the militia had the proper armor and weapons by subtly threatening the drunken blacksmith who had decided the best way to save his daughter was to let the entire village be destroyed.
As if that wasn't enough, there had been several able bodied men who up and refused to fight; it was despicable, even to Catherine, who had no loyalty to her home whatsoever. Wanting to make a point – and acknowledging she, perhaps, was not as intimidating as she really wanted to be – the Warden sent Sten to bodily drag roughly seven men out from the homes, handing them their armor and weapons without even a 'hello'.
Sometimes, she really liked Sten.
The battle at nightfall went as could be expected when facing an untiring horde of walking corpses with a small force of undisciplined, frightened, and exhausted men.
It was a non-stop stream of the disgusting ghouls; Catherine nearly lost all composure at the smell of them, let alone the sight. Putrid, rotting flesh hung loosely off sickly bones, bits of skin dripping onto the ground as they unholy army descended on the near-hapless town.
Catherine held the ramp leading to the castle with Alistair and Damon, while Leliana, Morrigan and Sten protected the chantry, defending against what monsters rose from Lake Calenhad's unforgiving waters.
The assault lasted for hours; everyone was covered in a thick, congealing ichor that seemed to pour from the walking corpses, clinging to armor and clothes and skin. She was filthy and tired, and the waves of monsters just would not stop. All her attempts to conserve her mana failed as a group of ten corpses made a final push, aiming to overwhelm Alistair and Ser Perth; anyone nearby was dead or dying or preoccupied and all Catherine could do was lash out with the one thing she had been holding back.
Blood slid down her face as long streams of red running from her eyes; she felt the sticky fluid pool at the collar of her robe as she unleashed every spell she could manage on the undead, casting so wildly she burned her forehead, scorching her hair. The desperate act had worked, thankfully, but Alistair had not missed the implications; she was just thankful he seemed to realize that now was not the time to bring it up.
The sun began to rise soon after; most of the militia survived, but almost all of them were critically wounded with deep slashes from the dead's claws. They were all exhausted, even Sten, but they had no time to waste, every second bringing them closer to another attack, thus they agreed with Bann Teagan when he mentioned that he had a plan to get in to see what was plaguing the already suffering village.
She would have said no if she had known that harpy was going to show up.
That harpy being the Arlessa of Redcliffe, Isolde(who was apparently descended from a parrot or some other form of squawking bird). The older woman spewed all sorts of nonsense about not knowing what was going on, how scared she was, and how 'Tee-gahn' needed to come with her back to the castle. Alone.
Catherine wasn't sure if she was going to laugh, cry, or scream bloody murder – she was so tired it was sure to be a combination of all three that most certainly cause her to lose any sense of respect she had with her comrades.
Teagan, thankfully, was just as dubious about Isolde's story, but – being the brave, noble, handsome man he was – he decided to follow her, regardless, hoping to distract whatever was causing Redcliffe's undead infestation, with the contingency that Catherine and her party would take the 'secret' route into the estate, that evidently ran through their dungeons and into the courtyard..
Apparently, the Maker was really resentful about the whole blood mage thing; seeing Jowan again was not on her list of 'favorite things' at all.The distraught mage went on a tirade about how she betrayed him, blaming her for his choices, calling her all sorts of names that she had heard thousands of time both to her face and behind her back – they never had an impact before. He eventually went on to explain that he poisoned the Arl under orders, under the pretense that he would be allowed back into the Circle, or perhaps even freed; he was always too naive for his own good.
She left him there in the dingy, cold cell, pointedly ignoring the looks she was getting, ranging from revulsion to curiosity to pity. Catherine wanted none of it.
Clamoring through the castle courtyard and into the interior was a blur; there were at least fifty of the disgusting creatures strewn about the once-peaceful castle. Blood and gore were spattered across expensive tapestries and elegantly cut stone walls. The air was thick with the cloyingly sweet, pungent smell of death, made heavier with the obvious fear and misery.
Everyone was on edge, fingered their weapons, muscles tense and eyes darting at every shadow, every crevice, waiting for the next nightmare to appear before their eyes. As they came closer to the main chamber, a high pitched – but ultimately wrong – giggle was heard, followed by claps and whoops.
Catherine felt her brow furrow, a sharp pain following from the burn she had given herself earlier. Turning to Alistair, she raised a questioning eyebrow; he looked at her for a moment, before shrugging and dropping her gaze.
He would be no help.