"So, boss… you're a hard guy to learn about."
The fact that the Iron Bull is sitting on a log eight feet from me, sharpening an axe nearly as long as I am tall and grinning at me across the fire, doesn't really give me the same sense of wonder as it did the first time. Qunari are strange; elves and dwarves are easy to deal with, they're just people with different physiognomy, a little narrower or shorter than humans. But Qunari… in person, Qunari are frightening.
Bull is an especially frightening Qunari; well over seven feet tall, with the powerful build of a veteran warrior and those enormous horns… he triggers that primal sense of self-preservation, the same natural fear that warns one away from bears or other predators. No wonder his people have managed to conquer such swathes of Thedas; each time he looks down at me I feel my stomach clench.
His personality helps, though. Bull is strangely relaxed for a man whose job it is to spy on everyone and everything around him; he watches us all with a cool, steady eye, utterly unbothered by our various oddities and Lysette's plain distrust. He watches each of us in equal measure, but her eyes are only for him, a dour light of suspicion burning plainly within them. He seems amused by it, more than anything else.
"As much as it would amuse me to say I have striven for anonymity, that would be a lie." I say, before looking up at him, raising an eyebrow. "I imagine the Qunari have few agents as far south as Chanson?"
"Not as many as we'd like," he says, voice smooth and unbothered by the narrowly hidden accusation in my words. "But even with what we have, there's almost nothing on you. Most people in your position get a rumour or two, even before they walk out of the Fade. But all we've got is the basics."
"Name, birthplace, parentage and age, no doubt." I say, and there is a hint of bitterness in the words. I'm still dealing with the emotional fallout of my own parentage; I hardly need the Qunari butting their horned heads into it as well.
"Not even that," he replies. "Well, age was easy. I have to admit, when I heard you were seventeen I spat up some good ale."
"Do Qunari not reach their majority by then?" I ask, and he shakes his head.
"By seventeen, most of us know what we're going to be." he explains, gesturing loosely with his hands. "But the Tamassrans still have to work it into us, make sure we'll fit into the role properly. At that age you're still… squiring, is the best term for your line of work. You wouldn't have been at something as big as the Conclave, not young as you are."
"Most Templar squires are knighted by eighteen," I say, fingers tapping the flat of my sword where it lay on my lap. "It is… Templar knighthood is dissimilar to an Orlesian Chevalier, or a Fereldan Ordered Knight. Our training is far more rigorous, and the Lyrium gives us an edge others can only attain through age."
"I've seen that," he notes. "Same reason you let women in on the front lines, right? Most southern orders don't."
"Andraste led the hosts of the faithful in uprising; disallowing the daughters of the Maker to serve would be blasphemy," I reply. "All are able in the eyes of the Maker."
"The Vints don't agree." His eyebrow cocks up, and I shake my head.
"Many are the errors of the Imperium," I say. "And many are their woes."
He chuckles at that, before setting his axe down head-first against the ground. The fire spits up a wash of sparks as one of the logs finally gives way and splits down the middle, and in the flare of orange I can see his teeth gleaming as he grins.
"Word around the camp has it there's Tevinter mercs in the Hinterlands," he says. "Any truth to that?"
"Some," I nod. "A motley little crew, from what I understand. They bear the serpent of the Old Gods upon their banner, but fight like any other men."
"No men fight the same," Bull replies, chuckling and shaking his head. "Sorry to say boss, but everyone's a little different."
"I suppose you would know better," I admit. "You haven't seen me fight, yet, have you?"
"No, but I can make some guesses," he replies, leaning back a bit and eyeing me up and down as if to reaffirm what he sees. "You're Templar trained, but no shield. So you're defensive, but you focus on deflecting attacks instead of soaking them up. You're from Orlais, so you prefer thrusting to slashing, because your training is rooted in Massache. Despite that you've got a Fereldan blade, which means you're more than ready to swing for someone's neck if they leave it open. You're light on your feet, and your size means you don't have to worry too much about high swings, but it also means you need to get in close to negate any reach advantages your enemy has."
I blink. Looking back at my prior battles, he's just about completely right, barring his leaving my spirit blade out of the equation. Then again, my primary tactic in battle with the blade has been reserving it for a last surprise against my foes. I can't find any time to practice actually dual-wielding the two blades in an extended melee, outside of my dreams.
"That's… that's about it, yes," I admit, nodding slowly. "That's impressive. You… do that with everyone?"
"Just about," he replies. "Take her;" he gestures to Lysette. "More conventionally Templar trained, but she's bonded with you a bit; she doesn't watch her back as much any more, and focuses on moving forward. She's used to watching out for you instead of herself."
"I…" Lysette raises her voice in protest, but then she thinks about what he's said for a moment and nods. "Yes, that… that is right. I am his shield."
"You're more than a shield," Bull replies, shaking his head. "You've got a sword arm, and a strong one at that. I saw you chip a blade when you were sparring with that soldier the other day. That Lyrium is only part of it."
"I… have put work into strength," Lysette admits, rubbing her upper arms with a little blush, glancing sidelong at me. "It feels good when I can overpower someone larger than me, and it makes the Lyrium work even better, I think."
"It's good," Bull nods. "Too many warriors only focus on the routines, the swords and shields. But your body and your mind are your strongest weapons; everythign else is just a force multiplier."
"Nothing's more frightening than a farm boy who knows how to use an axe," Blackwall interjects, sitting down on a rock a few feet away from me, pulling off his gloves to retrieve his own whetstone and join our circle of weapons maintenance and discussion. "I've seen chevaliers with fifteen years experience over their enemies get bowled over and beaten down by an angry labourer with a stone hammer and a grudge to settle."
"Some of the most dangerous enemies you'll ever fight are people who don't know how to use a weapon," Bull notes, nodding. "If they don't know what they're doing, chances are you won't either. Blind luck can kill you just as well as some Tevinter cataphract or bandit archer."
"I don't think Lysette would let a bandit archer hit me to begin with," I chuckle, and when she swats my arm it turns into a full laugh from the gut. Bull laughs as well, if only at the expression on her face, and Blackwall affords us a brief chuckle for our antics before going back to rasping the black whetstone along the edge of his blade.
We sit in the quiet for a while, sharpening our weapons, Lysette adjusting the fit of her breastplate straps. I glance at her in her shift a few times, but she is utterly focused on the task at hand, tongue prodding out between her lips a tiny bit as she fiddles with one of the buckles. The look of rapt concentration is cute, and I end up staring for a bit, until Blackwall suddenly tosses another log onto the fire and we both look up, her from her work and me from my admiration.
Bull is looking right at me, grinning. I don't know how a man can wink with only one eye, but he manages, before returning to his axe. The way he stares at it makes me wonder if it isn't his one true love. It wouldn't surprise me; I remember from Sten that Qunari have odd feelings toward their weapons. Though one of my weapons has my spirit-daughter inside it most of the time, so I suppose I can't really judge.
I take the spirit blade out then, looking at the warm topaz gem set in its crossguard and admiring again Hugo's handiwork. The metal is not hammered, clearly woven into its shape by spells, and it is majestic to behold. The crossguard is formed like a pair of dragon's heads, atop long, serpent necks, stretched outward in a biting motion; set in the knot of their entwined necks is the topaz, nestled between their scales.
"That a trophy?" Bull asks, raising an eyebrow.
He doesn't know. That's… odd. Though if he's been on the road with the Chargers he probably hasn't gotten many dead drops lately, and the only truly public display of the spirit blade was at Vivienne's salon, during my duel with Alphonse. I suppose it checks… unless he's feigning a lack of knowledge, which would itself be odd given that he rather openly communicated his role as Ben-Hassrath from the first moment we met.
"Indeed," I nod, before bidding Beck to the hilt and beckoning the blade forth, a shimmering line of azure light that extends three feet from the crossguard. "And yet somehow it is also something more."
I look up to see Bull staring at the blade, but he doesn't seem particularly awed. He's more… concerned, lone eye narrowed. That's curious.
"So you're a mage," he says, voice low, and when I shake my head he frowns. "Don't bullshit me. Only mages can use those things. Saw it in Seheron."
"I am no mage," I reply. "I am… marked. I carry the Key to every rift on my palm, after all."
"That Fade crap's inside you then?" he asks, nodding at my marked hand which holds the blade, and I nod, relinquishing the blade and letting it vanish. "Ugh. Just let me know if you're feeling… I dunno, demons or something coming on."
"I don't think it's the demons that come from within that should concern you," I reply, shaking my head. "The demons from without are far more pressing a danger."
Neither of us has much more to say; not that night,at least. I settle in for bed, but I keep one ear up as I doze off, my slumber absent any dreams. Lysette cannot claim the same; I am woken by the soft sound of her cry, and I sit up. Not again, not on the road as well… I crawl out of the low tent-flap and toward hers, pulling it open to find her curled up small as she can be, arms wrapped around her head. Her eyes are slammed shut, teeth bared in a terrible scowl.
I press my hands against her side, shaking her gently, and she wakes with a ragged gasp. She's soaked in sweat, cold to the touch, eyes wide now and staring up at me. For a moment she doesn't know me, until I smile gently at her and she lets out another gasp. She doesn't try to speak; she grabs my hand in both of hers and holds on tight, clinging to me like a lifeline. I lay down on the grass beside her, our heads level, and wait until our breathing matches cadence before reaching out and touching her face.
We lay together a while. She never speaks of these dreams, at least not in my hearing. I know they involve me, somehow, the way she clings to me. Sometimes she wakes up cold to the touch; others hot and feverish, always sweating, always horrified. This is the fourth; the first was on the road back from Val Royeaux, though it wasn't so bad then; then two more in Haven, though I only beheld the second when she fell asleep in the spare bed in my assigned cabin there. This one…
"I'm sorry…" she whispers, and I shake my head.
"Don't apologize for suffering," I whisper back. "I only wish I could help you."
"Be here," she says, and her hands squeeze mine. "Please."
"Always," I whisper, bending forward to kiss her on the forehead. "Always and forever."
She sleeps better after that, the two of us dozing off together. Come the morning I hurry back to my tent to avoid any undue attention, not that I expect it to work; I'm fairly certain Bull spots me as he crawls out of his own tent, cracking his back loudly and grunting. The rest don't, at least.
A few hours later we ride at the front of the column, a rotation of Inquisition soldiers bound for Calenhad's Foothold and several members of the Chanson circle; Enchanter Ghelaine and some of the younger apprentices. Not Elise, blessedly, she was convinced to stay by a stern promise that I would bring her back a toy Mabari. I've no idea where I'll find one, nor when I'll have the time, but I'm certain Redcliffe can provide something. Perhaps a wooden Mabari carving? Maker knows the Fereldans produce enough of them…
None of the Templars were invited. I made sure of that; it would not do for the Inquisition to frighten off the rebel mages with a pack of Templars at the gates of Redcliffe. I need them willing to listen, at least. If they will not…
Leave them to die? Slaves to the Venatori, to Corypheus? I can't do that. I don't have that kind of willpower, to willingly forsake so many. If they won't let me save them, I may have to force them to accept salvation instead. Either way I can end it quickly; if I kill Magister Alexius in the tavern, right when I meet him, disperse troops through the village beforehand… I can cut off the serpent's head. No hesitation this time, no fear of retaliation; Alexius dies, and I skip all the bullshit he can conjure.
Unless… if Alexius dies early, I wonder, does that mean the Red Templars are escalated? If I kill him, and Corypheus hears, will he cut his losses and force the Red upon every Templar in Therinfal Redoubt to ensure he has the numbers to wage his coming war? Cassandra and Vivienne could very well find naught but an army of bloodthirsty abominations masquerading as my brothers and sisters if that's the case. Can I take that risk?
Perhaps… capture Alexius? Arrest him in the tavern, drag him back to Haven in chains? He has subordinates, many of whom will likely remain in the castle. Killing him would be less dangerous; he is a mage with access to time magic. If he can weave even a bit of that in his cell…
Dammit. Complications upon complications, stacked higher than the Spire Levonne. I'm damned to metaphors to demonstrate my dismay, because I am truly dismayed. All of this potential for change, fallout and plain fuckery falls short of disabling my meta-knowledge advantage but it comes pretty damn close. Why couldn't Fiona have just followed the script, given me a confirmed sequence of events? What if Fiona is dead?
No. I won't let that stop me. I can't. I have to just… keep on, follow the course and steer everything toward a better future. Everything else is conjecture and complaint, and I haven't the time for either. All I can do is keep to the river and pray for wisdom.
I rise from the depths of my own thoughts and break surface just in time to see we've come to the Hinterlands proper; descending the northwestern hills and passing through the Redcliffe Farms. They've grown, like everything else; a veritable hamlet now, at least seven huts scattered across a vast pastoral valley, a shallow lake ringing its southern edge. Druffalo and rams are shepherded by attentive young men, whose eyes do not long stray from their charges even when our company passes by. My keen eye spots two watchtowers; four firm log-legs with a covered wooden platform atop, staffed by two Inquisition soldiers each. A small camp sits near the lake, ringed with simple earthworks and stakes.
Our banner flies tall and proud over the main longhouse, Master Dennet's own home, I assume. Ten soldiers from our column depart here, breaking off toward the camp to report for duty here. It's a good thing to see; here we are doing something good, protecting those who need it at their own request. This little pocket of Ferelden is free of monsters and banditry because of us, because of our efforts.
"Not enough guards on rotation," Bull notes, voice quiet as if he speaks solely for his own benefit, but pitched just right so I can hear him. "Valley of this size would need twice the contingent."
"Enough for warning," I reply, nodding toward the watchtower along the northern hills. "The farmers keep their own guard as well; we are supplementary. We do not want them dependent on us. Besides, the farms are not a priority target now that the renegades and apostates have been driven out."
"Mmm." Bull nods once. "That apostate thing… I understand the plan was yours."
"Ser Fallon's, mostly, and Captain Rylen besides." I dismiss his praise with a smile. "I am not so skilled in warcraft as you may think. Most of what I've accomplished has been due to a willingness to listen."
"That's what good leaders do," Blackwall interjects. "Seen too many commanders fail because they couldn't accept another man's wisdom."
Oh, getting personal already Blackwall? I suppose it isn't unexpected; he has no idea that I know the name Rainier and how it correlates to his story. Still… that may as well be a genuine admission of his own failings, the way he says it. I nod.
"Precisely," I agree. "You've served in armies before, Blackwall?"
To his credit, he doesn't hesitate.
"Most Warden recruits served somewhere, before they found their calling," he replies, half deflection and half truth. "I have experience in the field, yes. The Free Marches mostly, a little in Orlais."
"And Ferelden?" I ask.
"Littler still," he replies, shaking his head. "I only came this way because of the rumour of Darkspawn on the Storm Coast. I was heading northways when I got tangled up in that bandit mess where you found me."
"How did Markus find you?" Lysette asks, trotting her horse a little closer to the rest of us. "I've not heard the tale, besides something about a lake?"
Blackwall relays the tale, thankfully leaving out the part where I only found him by dumb luck; in his telling I sound rather dashing, emerging from nowhere to aid his noble cause, slaying two foes on my own. I remember the fight differently; the scrapping and scraping and knife tricks and beating a man to the ground before driving a dagger into his heart. I prefer his telling quite a bit.
"He's rather deliberately ignoring the part where he saved me from an assassin," I add, when he ends the story with us returning to camp together. "It was quite valiant. She stabbed me in the leg and he knocked her out cold with a single good punch. When she got back up…"
I mimic drawing my sword.
"Right off my belt, whirling around, opened her stomach right up." I glance at Lysette, who is now staring at Blackwall with a look of something like gratitude. "He's probably better with my sword than I am."
"You're no slouch, Herald," he replies, shaking his head. "I saw you training with those soldiers, and I've heard about the Apostates. You went at the whole pack of them on your lonesome?"
"I was the only one who thought to jump." That brings laughter from all of them, even Lysette, as I shrug innocently. "After that… to be honest, I remember little. It all blurred together at the time, dodging and weaving and swinging away. Nothing particularly special, I think."
"Kills four mages and their master in single combat, and calls it nothing special…" Blackwall chuckles. "Can't tell if that's humility or hubris."
"Luck, maybe," I reply, and he laughs again. "It's not as if I was particularly excited by the prospect. At the time I was more focused on keeping the Litany going and killing them before they could get me."
"You managed to get one of them to set another on fire, and then you stole a mage's blade and used it to kill their leader," he replies. "That's not luck, lad, that's skill and cleverness."
"Cleverness is good," Bull nods. "Clever is what keeps you alive when the bad guys outnumber you. You got one to set another on fire?"
"Magic from a staff always emits from the top or bottom," I reply, nodding. "I knew the spell would come out of the crystal, so I grabbed below it and aimed somewhere else for him. Just so happened one of his fellows was standing in the way."
Now it's Bull's turn to laugh.
"I gotta try that some time," he says, before grinning at me. "You figure we're gonna run into any more of these apostates?"
"I'm fairly certain those that survived chose service over execution," I reply, shaking my head. "If we do, they'll be on our side now."
He looks genuinely disappointed. He knows we're here to kill demons, at least; if memory serves there will be one rift on the road to Redcliffe, and one at the gates proper. Hopefully ichor will sate as well as blood, though he seems to have brought his own. There, on his belt about his waist, dangle three vials of viscous red liquid. From what I recall of Reavers…
This should be interesting.
We come to the Crossroads soon enough. Here things are much improved from when last I saw them; the people look healthier, cleaner and safer. There are fewer as well; many have risked going back to their homes across the Hinterlands, now that the Renegades and Apostates have been dealt with. Ser Fallon nods respectfully as we pass, and the rest of the column detaches smoothly to join the rest of camp. Some will go to Calenhad's foothold above us; others will remain at the Crossroads. Where they go is no business of mine at the moment; I have two battles to fight.
By time we leave the Crossroads along the northern road, the sun hangs high above us. Noontime, and war time soon to follow. We are a company of six; myself, Lysette, Blackwall, Bull, Solas and Varric. It's odd to a part of me, to have so many of these names alongside my own at once. But it's bracing as well; another of the silly old rules snapped clean in half. Three companions? Fuck that. Five. More in the future, I hope; storming Adamant with ten, what a sight that would be.
But for now, five, and myself besides. Let this be enough, I pray. Let the road be easy.
The first rift is rather conveniently positioned just beyond the open gates of an old waycastle. It sits boldly in the air, framed by the low towers of the fortification. At once I look to Varric and Solas, who nod, breaking off to circle around, ascend the hill and get the high ground on our enemies. Lysette goes with them, to ensure any demons that decide to clear the gap are kept away.
The rest of us dismount, tying our horses well outside the assumed range of the rift. Bull and Blackwall both ready themselves; Bull hefts his mighty axe, while Blackwall prepares an axe and shield. He still has his Fereldan claymore across his back, and another arming sword at his hip, to make no mention of the two daggers on his belt and the dirk in his boot. He comes ready for anything, I suppose, clad in heavy plate over his gambeson, his griffon helm's plume fluttering in the breeze.
Bull is the opposite; all but bare-chested, with nothing to shield his upper body but for a strap of leather and a lone pauldron of bluish metal; Paragon's Luster, I assume. He braces his axe against it, up on his shoulder, and nods to me once.
"What's the plan, boss?" he asks, and I glance past him to the hill where Solas and Varric are still ascending, before nodding once.
"We go through the gate, Blackwall at the lead, you and I short behind. I can disrupt the rift and weaken the demons if you can buy me the time, so I would appreciate your protection."
'That's why we're here," Bull replies, grinning. "Right, Furrows?"
Blackwall blinks at the nickname, before nodding resolutely. He runs the edge of his axe along the iron rim of his shield, rasping metal on metal.
"You'll be safe with us, Herald," he agrees. "Let the bastards come. We have your back."
"I've got his back, Furrows," Bull replies. "You focus on keeping his front intact. His lady'd be pissed if we let them mess up his face."
I don't know what to say to that, so I say nothing, merely gesturing toward the rift. The two nod, Bull grinning and dropping his axe into both hands. Blackwall leads us through the gate, and as we cross the invisible threshold my mark and the rift both flare with a sudden emerald light. I bite the inside of my lip at the sudden rush of pain before Beck thrums to life around my wrist, warming me and fending off the worst of the pain.
The first demons begin to manifest; a few Shades, a Terror, and some Wraiths. The last are immediately bombarded by bolts of magic and bolts of steel from the wall above us, where Solas and Varric are ready, and we below advance resolute toward the line of charging Shades. The first raises its arms high as it begins to lunge, but the Litany of Rebuke from my lips strikes it like a hammer and it hesitates, long enough for Blackwall to step forward and cleave its leathery breast open with his axe. The rest surge into battle as the first begins to fall, and I step alongside Blackwall with my sword raised high.
And so the butchery begins.
The Terror is a true menace; it vanishes below the earth and only Lysette's cry of warning gives me time to throw myself backward and away from its suddenly probing tail, before the rest of it surges up into reality again, letting out a hideous wail. It swings at me with the claws of one gnarled hand and I bat them away, before striking at its legs. Bull intercedes on my behalf when the tail forces me back, lunging at the thing and slamming his axe up between its legs. It is a demon of fear, and thereby has no direct concept of genitalia, but the strike still forces it to crumple down. I step toward its back and bring my blade around in a mighty arc, taking its head from its shoulders and letting it fall in a heap of tangled limbs.
Behind me Blackwall drives his axe into a Shade's head, and leaves it there as he bats aside another's attack with his shield, drawing one of his daggers and stepping in close to lay open its throat. The last seeks to flank him, but I step in and force it back with rapid swings of my sword and hateful words of my Litany. I force its back against the wall, literally, and slice its throat open against the stone blocks with a cold scowl.
The rift flares, swollen with another batch of demons, and I turn to face the nearest glowing node of power. It swells up, burns away, and in its place is my next foe; robed and hunched, floating in the air and wailing in anguish not its own; a demon of despair. I scowl and charge, but it raises its hands and I am forced to frantically sprint to the side as it begins projecting a beam of icy blue light, flash-freezing the ground where it touches.
I can't risk getting closer and taking the beam in the face… but I don't have to get much closer, do I? It's a demon, a frail one made all up of scrawny limbs and ragged robes. I take my spirit blade from my belt and raise it, bidding Beck to the blade and projecting a ten-foot lance of blue light. A small step forward drives the length into the thing's chest; not force enough to kill, but enough to stagger as I withdraw my spirit's sword and lunge with the real one, slashing open its chest. It screams at me, and I feel a wash of cold air as it begins another spell.
Then Varric shoots it right in its gaping mouth, and though it has no eyes it still manages to look baffled as I seize the opportunity to stab it in the throat, silencing it for good with the burning white edge of my Fereldan blade. I turn in time to behold Bull brutalizing a Shade, literally punching it in the face before swinging his axe one handed, hooking it by the shoulder and wrenching it around with a heave to slam it into another Shade. He falls upon the tangled heap of both with his axe, shouting in the Qunari tongue.
Behind him Blackwall is fighting much more cautiously, his axe retrieved, deflecting a Terror's claws and tail while taking swipes at its outstretched limbs. It is to him I next go, racing across our little field of battle and drawing up my spirit blade. Beck bursts into shimmering sword-form and I bring her up in a stab at the Terror's face, scratching a thin blue line when it is forced to dodge backward.
Of course, with its back bent that way, there's little it can do when Blackwall brings his axe up and then down, slamming it in the abdomen. He forces it to bend down, knees and elbows clicking horrendously before he draws his arming sword and, leaving his axe in its sternum, impales its chest as well. It dies with a broken wail, joining its fellows in the Fade. The rift lurches and lashes and gurgles, and when I thrust out my marked hand and command it to close, it obeys with a surge of pain and a wash of black goo.
I groan, flexing my hand. That one felt a little harder, perhaps a bit more resistant to the closing process. I hope Alexius' error of magical time travel hasn't begun to spread this far already. There were no time distortions, at least, and that's as good a sign as any.
"One down," I say, once Varric, Solas and Lysette have rejoined us below. "One to go."
None of us seem bothered by that; we mount back up on our horses and go north, following the road towards Redcliffe. At one point I see a peasant watching us through his slat window, another sat on the front steps of his hilltop home waving as we pass. The rifts would have kept the bandits, renegades and apostates off these people's backs, at least. Now the Inqusiiton will do the same. Our horses hooves click and clack on the consistently improving cobblestone, until at last we come to the gates of Redcliffe.
I blink when I see what is occurring in their shadow, drawing my sword immediately. Demons swarm, obviously, emerging from the rift before the gate. But between them and the people of Redcliffe do not stand Ferelden guards, nor Apostate mages. That would be simple. That would make sense.
Instead, men in the pinned and peaked whites and reds of the Tevinter Imperium stand against the demons; I count six warriors and two mages, fighting valiantly. The warriors are all but resplendent, adorned in gleaming silver armour over their white and red robes; the mages wear pale yellow in accent instead of red, and carry pointed staves that look half alike to spears in lieu of swords. Their hoods and masks hide their faces, but I know by now the silent language of men locked in desparate struggle.
"Stand firm!" one of the mages barks, as he raises his staff high and beckons a lightning bolt to fall from a clear sky upon one of the demons. "Defend the village! It is the Magister's will!"
His fellows obey as best they can. Bull looks hesitant, but I haven't the time to worry. I draw my sword, look back at my fellows, and nod.
"To the Tevinters!" I command, before spurring my horse into a gallop. "To Redcliffe!"
AN:Sorry about being a little late for this one, work was kicking my ass this week. Chapter 22 next Friday on schedule, thanks for tuning in, have an awesome weekend!