The group awoke at the crack of dawn. Ahnnie felt creaky after a night's rest on the stone floor of the cabin's main room, yet she had no choice but to force her eyes open and make her bumbling way behind Solas and Varric to the stables. Elaina was gracious enough to offer a basin of water for their refreshment and some cloth-wrapped bread for their breakfast on the road, but Ahnnie still felt sleepy nonetheless and took a bite of her bread when no one else was looking.
Dennet was right; the ground had turned to muck. The moment anyone took a step forward onto the path, their boots squelched as they pressed down into the soft, viscous mud. It never sucked on their feet, but it definitely made a mess with every rising step, splattering droplets of mud on anything within a three foot radius. By the time they reached the stables, their boots and parts of their trousers were flecked with sludge.
Eugh, Ahnnie groaned, and put a hand up to her nose. The rain's made the stable smell even worse.
And now that she thought of it, the consistency and color of the mud made it difficult to discern between horse droppings. She closed her eyes and prayed her boots hadn't made an errant step into a camouflaged pile of the stuff.
To the quartet's surprise, it was not their original mounts that were saddled and ready for them; rather, three stocky horses and an equally stocky pony were hitched to the posts by the stable entrance. All the animals were well-built and handsome, and there was a marked difference between them and the horses they originally rode on. Even to a novice like Ahnnie, they had the air of good breeding about them.
Dennet pat the flank of the nearest horse with a proud smile. To the other side of him stood Seanna, her expression indiscernible in the early morning light. "You deserve better than whatever knock-kneed plow nags they gave you," the horsemaster said. "These three here are purebred Fereldan Forders, and the pony's a Fereldan Highlander. You won't find anything better in the Hinterlands, not even if you searched it twice over."
He parted from the steed to let Cassandra inspect it. What she found was obviously satisfactory, for she gave him a nod and untied the reins from the post. "It is very kind of you," she thanked him.
"Ah, 'twas nothing. Couldn't let you ride on into these parts without dependable mounts." His eyes hardened as he shook his head. "The Mage-Templar conflict's still going strong, not to mention the bandits and wolves. You'll need all the help you can get. I'll take care of your other mounts in the meantime. Whenever your people get here, I'll give them back. You have my word for it."
Solas quickly claimed the second Forder, and Varric was getting himself acquainted with the pony. Ahnnie looked up at the remaining Forder, a tall proud chestnut, but felt a pang of guilt as she looked into the stables. She thought she could just make out the smoky grey rump of her previous mount a few stalls down.
"Would you like to say goodbye to him?" a girlish voice asked, and Ahnnie turned around to face Seanna.
She looked back at the group and saw Cassandra still conversing with Dennet. "Yes, please," she answered Seanna, smiling.
The girls made their way into the pungent stables and headed for the grey's stall. Its rump was turned to them and its head was bowed, preoccupied with a crop of hay. To catch the horse's attention, Seanna made soft clicking noises with her tongue. The horse turned around in response and held its head out over the stall door, mouth chewing amiably on a bundle of hay.
Ahnnie reached out a hand to touch the velvety nose. Puffs of warm air pulsed into her palm in steady intervals. With a sigh, she gently caressed the length of the grey's cheek, feeling more than a little somber. Even though it had only been a week, she felt bonded with the animal already. "I'm gonna miss you, buddy," she murmured. You're not a knock-kneed plow nag to me, she added in her mind.
"It's hard not to get attached," Seanna remarked.
"I know, right?" Ahnnie agreed, and looked over to Seanna. The girl was gazing at the horse with a nostalgic smile, and Ahnnie could tell that the pain was still fresh in her memory. "I'm sorry about what happened to Storm...I wish we'd come a little sooner. Maybe things would have turned out differently, then."
Seanna's eyes connected with hers and she gave Ahnnie a sad smile. "That's not your fault. I wish things were different too, but like Papa always says, we shouldn't dwell too much on what we could not change."
"I suppose that's true," Ahnnie nodded.
They stood in silence for a while, staring in unison at the grey horse. The animal continued to chew hay whilst staring back at them, as if it understood what they were thinking. "Thank you for saving me, by the way," Seanna added a moment later.
"Oh..." Ahnnie shook her head. "I didn't do anything. Cassandra was the one–"
"Yes, but without you the rift would not have closed, wouldn't it?"
Ahnnie blinked. "I guess not," she said at last. As if on cue, she took a peek at her left hand, dimly glowing green in the gloom of the stables. I'm still not used to it, aren't I? Sometimes I look and expect to see nothing there, just like it used to be before all this...
"Ahnnie!" Solas' voice called from outside, breaking her thoughts. "Are you ready? It is time to leave."
She looked up in alarm before giving Seanna an apologetic smile. "I guess I have to go now. Bye," she said to the grey, patting its muzzle one last time. "And goodbye to you too," she said to Seanna. "Take care of yourself. I hope you feel better soon." She reached out a hand, hesitated awkwardly, then pushed it forward to clasp the other girl's wrist in a friendly squeeze.
"I will, thank you," Seanna nodded. "Farewell."
They reached the camp at noon. Ahnnie was at first surprised to see that it was a military camp, bustling with activity from what little people were there to manage it. Is Mother Giselle here? she wondered, scanning the collection of tents and armored people for a nun in Chantry robes, but found none.
"The Herald of Andraste!"
Ahnnie had just dismounted and still had her hands on the saddle when she looked around to see who had addressed her.
"Down here."
She obeyed and found herself looking down upon the pretty face of a copper haired female dwarf, dressed in thick clothing covered by light pieces of armor. Ahnnie's cheeks warmed as she stammered an apology.
"It's no problem. I'm aware of my own height." She said this so matter-of-factly that Ahnnie's guilt alleviated somewhat. "I've heard the stories," the dwarf went on. "Everyone has...we know what you did at the Breach. It's odd for someone so young to have such power, but you'll get no back talk here; that's a promise."
"Oh, um...thank you..." The compliments only served to make her cheeks redder. To change the subject, she introduced herself: "I'm Ahnnie, and you?"
"Inquisition Scout Harding, at your service." The dwarf's voice rang out clear and proud. It was evident that she took her position seriously.
From behind Ahnnie, Varric's smoky voice addressed Scout Harding with a question. "Harding, huh? Ever been to Kirkwall's Hightown?" There was a hint of mischievousness, maybe even flirtatiousness, in his tone.
Harding turned to him. "I can't say I have...why?"
"You've been Harding in..." He trailed off, waiting for her to fill in the blank.
Scout Harding tilted her head in confusion, unable to get at his meaning.
"Oh, never mind," Varric sighed in defeat. It was then Ahnnie pieced two-and-two together and pursed her lips to keep from laughing.
Cassandra was not amused; she rolled her eyes and made a noise of disgust before turning away to head into camp. Solas merely chuckled and led the horses away, Varric following suit.
Finding herself alone with the scout, Ahnnie decided to act the part delegated to her. "So," she began in as official a tone as she could, "what's the situation out here?"
Harding was all business again. "We came to secure horses from Redcliffe's old horsemaster, but with the Mage-Templar fighting getting worse, we couldn't get to Dennet. Maker only knows if he's even still alive."
"We met with him, actually," Ahnnie recalled. "Just yesterday. He's fine. Um..." She looked towards the camp to find Cassandra, but the Seeker was busy talking to some soldiers. "Lady Cassandra said she'd send someone out to negotiate with him once we got here...I think that's what she's doing right now."
"That's good news," Harding said in relief.
"What about Mother Giselle?" Ahnnie asked next. "Is she here?"
Harding shook her head. "Mother Giselle's at the Crossroads helping refugees and the wounded. Our latest reports say that the war's spread there, too."
"Oh...Where's the Crossroads, if I may ask?"
"No problem; it's a little ways over there." She pointed in a westerly direction. "Corporal Vale and our men are doing what they can to help protect the people, but they won't be able to hold out very long. You'd best get going; no time to lose." Scout Harding gave her a short military nod before going her own way.
Aw, I thought we could have a break. I'm kind of hungry...Ahnnie looked around the camp again and sighed. Oh well. Better go tell the others. They'll want to know.
"Whoa, watch your step!"
Ahnnie fell against Varric's outstretched arm, steadied herself, and turned around to give him a grateful smile. "Thanks."
They were negotiating the path down the steep slope below camp. The camp itself was perched strategically atop a hill, crowned by leafy trees for cover, and there was a clearer path to it that rounded the hill, but this smaller one was faster and otherwise passable except for a small cinch that made it difficult to traverse by horse. Besides which, they needed the advantage of stealth, so they went on foot, Cassandra leading the way followed by Solas, Ahnnie, and finally Varric at the rear.
Once they reached the main path, they set on their way. It wasn't much different from the slope; rutted from wagon tracks and rocky and broken in parts, and not to mention, muddy; but it was wider and less slippery. It took them between two giant boulders, graced on both sides at the entrance with braziers that were currently unlit.
"Mother Giselle cannot be far," Cassandra remarked as she surveyed their surroundings.
And then as they turned the bend, they were greeted by three arrow-studded corpses bleeding at the foot of a crumbling stone wall.
Ahnnie gulped. "That can't be good..."
Solas pat her shoulder reassuringly. "Keep your weapon handy," he advised her, "and stay close to us."
She did as she was told and stalked carefully after the others, Solas in particular.
Several more corpses lay sprawled along the sides of the path, making Ahnnie gag, for they were starting to decompose. She sucked in a breath and stopped breathing through her nose, but the essence of the smell came through anyway. At least I'm not hungry anymore, she remarked, trying to think positively.
They met with a lone archer in the arm of the second bend in the path. He stood a few feet away from the exit of the boulder pass, holding his position defensively. As they passed, he gave them all a curt nod and a brief, "Careful out there. It's nothing but madness."
Ahnnie frowned. Is it really that bad?
Cassandra continued to lead them forward, undaunted by this warning. They could hear distant sounds of fighting but saw nothing out of place, up until they came upon three armored men frozen in a great stalagmite of ice, each man entrapped in his own icy mound.
"The work of mages, no doubt," Solas remarked.
And then the sight of fighting was directly ahead of them. With a simple turn to the right, they could each see the conflict playing out for themselves not more than a hundred feet away, people hacking at each other with swords and fire crackling haphazardly about the ground alongside jutting crystalline structures of ice. It was difficult to discern who was fighting who, but it soon became clear that the people in big spiky armor were pitched against the lighter armored ones.
"Inquisition forces," Cassandra said after a quick evaluation. "They're trying to protect the refugees."
"Looks like they could use a hand," Varric added, itching to put Bianca to use. Solas brought out his staff and started chanting a spell.
Ahnnie held her glaive-guisarme point forward and made to follow them, but Cassandra pushed her back. "It is far too dangerous for you. Stay here behind these crates and wait for us to return."
Ahnnie looked at the two crates Cassandra indicated. Their size was such that one was sufficient to hide her if she crouched, making them an effective wall of cover. "But–"
"Do as I say." Her tone was not to be trifled with and made Ahnnie shrink a little. Without waiting to see if the girl would obey her, the Seeker turned away and strode headlong into the fighting. "Hold; we are not apostates," Ahnnie could hear her state, but when no one paid her any heed, the ring of metal as she drew out her sword preceded the staccato raps of her blade against another blade.
At a loss for what to do, Ahnnie stared helplessly at the fighting before sinking down behind a crate. I think those men are Templars, she thought of the combatants opposite the Inquisition forces. Cassandra's right; it's too dangerous for me. I've never fought against a person before. Just dummies and demons...I'd get killed if I take a step out there. Still, these reassurances did little to assuage the sting of Cassandra's rebuttal. It made her feel incompetent all over again, like a little child who couldn't do anything right.
Her face twisted in disgust as she thought of how it also sounded like special treatment.
Oh, shut up, she sighed. You said so yourself that you'd get killed the moment you stepped out. There's nothing 'special' about having your lack of skills accurately evaluated.
And so she contented herself with this fact – albeit alongside a smidgen of guilt – and lowered her weapon so that it wouldn't stick visibly above the crates. She shifted her bottom into a comfy position to lie in wait for the end of the battle. But after a while, curiosity got the better of her and she chanced a tiny peek upwards.
All was still chaos and confusion. Men still fought, fires still raged, ice crystals still froze (and in fact, new ones pierced the landscape, probably thanks to Solas). Ahnnie narrowed her eyes in an attempt to make out the forms of her companions, but did not succeed. Maybe they're too far in, she thought. I hope they're okay...The thought of losing one of them never occurred to her until now. They'd better come back in one piece, she thought, suddenly alarmed. What am I supposed to do without them?
As if on cue, a Templar fell to his death and Varric was suddenly made visible in the midst of the fray. He was too far for her to see his face, but Ahnnie could tell it was him from the shape of his figure. He was firing away with Bianca, moving agilely between men and debris.
And not a single scratch, Ahnnie marveled. He's really good.
Just then, an archer in dark uniform blocked her vision. The girl gave a start and ducked her head, for he was within several feet of her. Her heart hammered in her chest at the possibility of having been spotted, but when nothing happened, she took another peek and saw that his back was to her. She could then confirm he was not of the Inquisition; their archers wore brown with green hooded mantles. This one wore no hood and donned a dark grey leather tunic fastened by a red belt.
If she was still confused about his allegiance, he was now shooting at Inquisition soldiers with as much skill and accuracy as could be afforded in such a chaotic situation. It made her blood boil to see one go down, pierced by one of the archer's arrows. But she reminded herself, yet again, that she could do nothing.
The archer drew out another arrow from his quiver and took aim at a new target. Ahnnie was about to sink her head down again, thinking she could do herself no good by watching a battle she could not help out with, when the archer changed direction and aimed his arrow at Varric.
Her heart leapt into her mouth. No! If that arrow found its mark, at best Varric would be injured. But at worse...Her hands gripped the shaft of her glaive until her knuckles grew white. I have to do something, and fast. Can I do it? But – no, I must!
Losing no time, she rose from her hiding place and flipped the glaive-guisarme over to its bladed end. The archer was still tracking Varric's movements, but she did not doubt that he would soon fire. Without so much as a breath to steady herself, she closed her eyes and thrust the dagger-like end forward. Leather gave way beneath the blade, quickly followed by soft flesh and some bone.
"Aaaarrrgaaah!" came the garbled scream, and the archer dropped his bow. Ahnnie yanked her weapon from his back and jumped over the crate to make another attack, this time with her glaive's main blade. In a fierce downward swipe, she sliced a diagonal line from his shoulder to his hip, causing him to double over in pain.
But he did not fall; he froze for a moment before making a slow, staggering turn to face his attacker, a shaky hand grasping a hilt at his side. Ahnnie tightened the grip on her weapon as she watched him draw out a sword. She felt as though in a dream, facing a murderous apparition of her own conjuring. But this was no dream. This was real; and he was dead set on killing her.
With a roar, the man lunged for her, his blade poised to strike. She blocked with a swipe of her glaive but then he pulled a feint, cutting close to her leg. Sweat beaded on her forehead as he pressed on with an alarming speed despite his injuries. There was neither the time nor opening for her to go on the offensive; the archer, skilled as he was, kept forcing her back and putting her on the defensive.
Ahnnie soon found herself backed against a burning fence post. With no other choice, she attempted to push back by using the bladed end again, aiming for his stomach. It only grazed his tunic before the man thrust his blade too close to her fingers, triggering her to yank back her hands in defense. As a result of her surprise, the glaive fell to the ground. Before she could make a grab for it, the archer closed in and grabbed her by the collar with his free hand.
She croaked out choking gasps as he constricted the collar around her throat and pushed her downwards, forcing her onto her knees. Her fingers scratched fruitlessly against his gloved hand, while the other one held the blade right at her eyes.
The archer gave a low chuckle. "Stupid little bitch," he cursed, and spat in her face. She closed her eyes, grimacing at the spittle on her skin in addition to the increasing lack of air. "I'll carve up your face so not even the Maker can recognize you."
Well, this was it. This was the end. One thrust between the eyes, and she'd never wake again. She was still fighting, though, clinging desperately onto life with each attempt at breathing and furious punch after punch against the hand that choked her. It would have been easier to give up but every instinct within her screamed to resist the end. She realized she now knew what Storm was feeling in those last moments of terror, that natural urge to keep preserving oneself in the face of all odds.
And then something bubbled within her. Something deep and tingling and urgent. For all she knew, it was probably a side effect of the choking, but it flared in her belly like a white-hot fire. When she opened her eyes, the world was blurred through the spittle and spinning crazily before her. Her killer was leaning in to say something smug, but she couldn't hear it through the blood rushing in her ears. All she knew was that she didn't want him so close to her face, to see that ugly, gloating smirk of his, and stretched out her left hand to push it away from her.
A wild green light flared crazily from her hand the moment it connected with his nose. The archer screamed as the light sizzled and singed his skin. As though it had a life of its own, her hand clamped down on his face, clawing onto his oily skin; two of her fingers practically dug into the corners of his eyes. His howls were muffled by her palm and he removed his hand from her neck to pry hers off. When that didn't work, his other hand joined in to help out. In his urgency he must have dropped his sword, but Ahnnie didn't register this as she drank in deep gulps of air.
Her senses slowly returned to her, but it wasn't until much later that she noticed the writhing man beneath her left hand. He had fallen onto his back by this time but still screamed like the devil had him by the feet. Her frown of confusion contorted into horror when she realized how the flesh was slowly sloughing off his skull, and how her index finger was so deep into his eye socket that she could feel the space between the bone and the eyeball.
Now it was her turn to scream. She turned her face away and yanked the flaring hand with all her might, but it was as though a magnetic connection held it in place; she simply could not let go.
"Solas!" she wailed, thinking of the only person who could help her. "Solas! Oh God, help me! The mark won't stop! It won't stop – it won't stop! Solas, make it stop!"
She was loudly advertising her status as the Herald of Andraste by now, but in her terror, she didn't care. Every attempt to remove her hand simply jerked the archer's face along with it, causing her cries to become more urgent. If a Templar came up and cut her down now, she wouldn't have even noticed.
In fact, she didn't even notice the apostate elf shaking her by the shoulders, shouting in an attempt to cut through her voice: "I am here, I am here!"
With a gasp, Ahnnie clung her right hand onto his forearm. "Solas! Solas!" That was all she could say; she had not the mental capacity to speak anything else.
"Shh," he coaxed, and drew her into a warm embrace. "Hush, da'len..." What he said next was in a language completely foreign to her, and a gentle hand snaked down to enclose over her flaring left hand. After a few more chants, she felt the heat flee from her left hand, creeping back through her arm and into her stomach like a withdrawing snake until it was no more.
"It is done," Solas informed her. "You can move your hand now."
She only did so after a few moments, for she was shaking terribly. True to his word, her hand was hers to control again. But it hurt to move her fingers, so she lay the hand by her side. And then, remembering the archer, she turned her head from Solas' shoulder to look at him. "That man...is he...?"
The archer was sprawled on the ground with his arms to either side of him and his face; god, his face...it was burnt to an unrecognizable heap of black crisps and the eyes, two semi-melted balls of jelly, stared lifelessly at the sky.
"He is dead," Solas assured her. "He can do you no more harm."
A vulnerable squeak made its way through her mouth as she realized what that meant. "I killed him," she rasped. "Oh my god, I just killed somebody..."
"No, Ahnnie–"
"I fucking murdered somebody!" she cried, and then convulsed into a series of violent sobs.
Solas opened his mouth to say something, but closed it soon afterwards. He realized he could only nod and whisper words of understanding as he enclosed her in another hug. The disconsolate girl wept into his tunic and held onto him as though he were her only lifeline left in this turbulent sea of madness.
The fighting was finally over – the Templars and their forces retreated, and the fires were put out to keep them from spreading. The refugees emerged from hiding a little while later, staring meekly at the destruction left in the battle's wake. But their spirits were emboldened upon seeing a symbol etched onto a parchment-colored flag flapping in the breeze; the symbol of the Inquisition, staring proudly over the village of the Crossroads, a mark of the victory that was won that day.
Ahnnie watched the sword-pierced sunburst eye as it yielded to the breeze's movement, undulating and contorting in such a way that it almost seemed as if it was blinking back at her. She could just make out the runic words etched below, but made no special effort to decipher them. Her attention went instead to the two Inquisition solders saluting her with their fists over their hearts.
Ahnnie returned the gesture after watching the others perform it.
"We are seeking Mother Giselle," Cassandra announced to them after they put down their hands.
"She is right over there," the female soldier said, pointing to a set of stairs behind the group. "You'll find her tending to the wounded."
"Thank you," Cassandra nodded, and ushered Ahnnie by the elbow in that direction. It seemed as though she was taking special pains to be gentle with the girl, especially after she and Varric stumbled upon Solas cradling her while she wept like a baby. The fighting had more or less subsided by then but Cassandra still allowed her a few moments to vent her emotions. For that, Ahnnie was thankful, though she still felt so broken on the inside.
It was easy to spy Mother Giselle from amongst the healers after reaching the top of the steps. Her red Chantry-robed form made her stand out like a cardinal among sparrows. Ahnnie hesitated, intimidated by the wounded lying so numerously about them, but Cassandra gave her a gentle push that animated her feet into walking again. She stopped behind the Chantry Mother, standing at a close yet polite distance.
"There are mages here who can heal your wounds," the Mother was saying gently to the soldier before her. "Lie still." Her voice was soft and had something of an accent to it. Ahnnie identified it as French, but she knew here in this world that its equivalent was Orlesian.
"Don't," the soldier ground out, "don't let them touch me, Mother...their magic...!"
"Turned to noble purpose," Mother Giselle assured him. "Their magic is surely no more evil than your blade."
"But–"
"Hush, dear boy. Allow them to ease your suffering."
The soldier was a full grown man and yet she called him 'dear boy', as though he were only five. He could easily have resisted her, choosing to disobey instead. But it worked like a charm; with naught but a sigh, he settled back down onto his bedroll, mollified into allowing the mage behind her approach him.
Mother Giselle straightened up to her feet and pulled back accordingly. She made to move to another patient, but Ahnnie remembered her purpose here and called out, "Mother Giselle?"
The Chantry Mother paused, then turned to look at her. She had the kindest eyes Ahnnie had ever seen and a rosy mouth set into a face of mocha-colored skin, lightly wrinkled. "I am," she affirmed. "And you must be the one they're calling the Herald of Andraste."
"Yes," she replied, "but I wish they weren't...calling me that..." Shaking her head, she returned to the point, "I heard that you asked for me?"
Mother Giselle regarded her thoughtfully before pulling her aside into a walk some distance away from the open air hospital. "Is something the matter, dear child?" she asked, sensing Ahnnie's disquiet.
Ahnnie gave the Mother a faint smile. The thought of telling her the truth felt like giving forth a church confession, which she had never done before. "I'm fine," she instead assured, "perhaps just a bit...tired."
Mother Giselle nodded. Her eyes turned elsewhere as they continued walking, slanting in pity whenever she gazed upon the charred ground below. "I know of the Chantry's denouncement, and I'm familiar with those behind it," she said after a while, turning back to look at Ahnnie. "I won't lie to you. Some of them are grandstanding, hoping to increase their chances of becoming the new Divine. Some are simply terrified. So many good people, senselessly taken from us..."
Mother Giselle stopped at a spot where they could overlook the village easily, as well the grand falls beyond it. Ahnnie listened to the distant roars of the falling waters and found them soothing. "What happened was horrible," she agreed, more aware now than ever before of the fragility of life.
"Fear makes us desperate, but hopefully not beyond reason."
Ahnnie looked over at the Mother and found herself gazing into a pair of knowing brown eyes. "Go to them in Val Royeaux," the Mother continued. "Convince the remaining clerics you are no demon to be feared. They have heard only frightful tales of you; give them something else to believe."
"But...how can I convince them?" Ahnnie asked. "I can't even fight to protect myself, much less change deep-rooted opinions." Her thoughts immediately turned to Chancellor Roderick; if the other clerics were the same...
"If I thought you incapable, I wouldn't suggest it," Mother Giselle rebutted gently.
"Would they even listen to me?"
"Let me put it this way: you needn't convince them all. You just need some of them to...doubt." Once she knew she held the girl's interest, she went on, "Their power is their unified voice. Take that from them, and you receive the time you need."
That makes sense, Ahnnie thought, nodding. Putting it that way makes it sound less daunting. Still...it's a big task..."Thank you, Mother Giselle, for your advice," she said instead. She had no wish to burden the Mother with more doubting questions. "It's very kind of you."
She was rewarded by a beaming smile from Mother Giselle. "I honestly don't know if you've been touched by fate or sent to help us, but I hope. Hope is what we need now. The people will listen to your rallying call, as they will listen to no other. You could build the Inquisition into a force that will deliver us...or destroy us."
Ahnnie should have been used to these 'chosen one' comments by now, but the brevity of Mother Giselle's last sentence weighed upon her with a strange sort of force. Me? Build the Inquisition? Nonsense. She was just one person, and not even the leader of the Inquisition at that. I think Cassandra is? she thought, recalling how readily the Seeker took to being an authority figure. Or maybe it's Leliana? She would have to ask once she got back to the group. But me, I'm just the person who can close rifts. Nothing more.
"I will go to Haven and provide Sister Leliana with the names of those in the Chantry who would be amenable to a gathering," the Mother continued. "It is not much, but I will do whatever I can."
"Maybe if the schedule's right, you can leave with our group," Ahnnie suggested. "We wouldn't mind. Besides, it's rough out there...bandits, and all."
The Chantry Mother's face crinkled into another gentle smile. To Ahnnie's surprise, she reached out a hand to tuck a strand of black hair behind an ear, dark fingers brushing tenderly against the pale yellow skin. "Thank you, dear child. I will keep that in mind." And then she moved away, going back to the wounded patients like a mother bird to her lost little children.