A chapter with a bow on top, late as it is. To TunelessLyric, and to Suilven also - hope I've done Morrigan justice here.
P.S:With the way things are going, I can promise a Dreams & Books update in the next couple of days.
Worn Thin
Morrigan
What she finds there makes her stop, nearly drop the book. As well more studies of flowers and animals, there are pictures of their little group, every feature, every frown line or upward turn of the mouth captured.
~Morgana, Chapter 54, "Grimoire"
She is tired, her eyes aching, but the drawing begins to come to life under her hands, the tiresome scratching of her own quill the only sound.
Their leader sits, staring at the fire, in a way that has become unfamiliar as the months have passed, a relic from their first days on this road. The firelight glints in the blue, throws shadows onto the set jaw with an ignored trickle of blood. A darkspawn ambush earlier today that caught them weak, tired from the journey; her guard was let down for but a moment...
The quiet noises of pots being shifted, and the bard begins to serve what Orlesians call food - the others seem to appreciate it, but she doubts she will ever understand its appeal. The food is like the people - fussy, presented prettily, but ultimately useless.
The Warden looks up with heavy eyes; those eyes fix on her unblinkingly for a moment, almost as if she knows what she is doing...
No. 'Twould be impossible.
Morrigan looks down at the grimoire once again, closing her eyes for a moment, and then continues to draw.
Soldier's Peak lies ahead of them, snow-heavy and desolate.
She feels the magic as soon as they approach the old fortress, sees the Wardens tense. They can obviously feel what she can. Ah; it is no surprise. A mage and a templar, after all...
The walk up the last slope to the Peak is slow, and the air is thick around them, in a way she has felt few times before - if she were anywhere else, she would think it were her mother's magic, and she feels grit her teeth, waiting.
The merchant is oblivious, walking on as calmly as ever, but begins to look around at them, at last noticing their reactions.
She slowly relaxes herself, trying to ignore the gaping tears in the barrier. The Veil, as the Chantry labels it, in yet another attempt to make sense of things far beyond their ignorant ken; there is power, old power, in names, and they attempt to own what was never theirs.
She sighs, but the breath stops as she sees Morgana trying to hide the hand she has pressed to her forehead. She remembers the way she was struck as they entered the Brecilian Forest ruins, and realises that there must have always been templars to maintain the Veil in the Tower, nothing from the Beyond ever allowed to seep through.
The templar has, for once, dropped out of step with their Warden, showing similar signs of fatigue or perhaps distress - she cannot tell - and the opportunity is irresistible. Walking next to her fellow mage, she looks to her and says softly, "It will pass. It becomes easier as we progress through this place."
Morgana looks at her, giving her a small, swift nod. "I see." She frowns. "But it... feels like it's getting worse. I don't know..."
Morrigan looks at her, wondering whether she should try to... Comfort her? Reassure her with pleasing lies? There is a moment of silence, then she says bluntly, "We are travelling with a templar." She doesn't miss the small twist of the woman's lip at the word. "You are a Harrowed mage. If we are not safe in such company, when are we?"
The woman nods, biting her lip, and looks ahead of them.