Once they're back at camp, those who remained behind spring into action the moment they see them and realize something went wrong. They force the injured off their feet to tend them, low, murmured conversations about what happened, how no one saw it coming.

Cullen stays on his feet and remains a presence until everything that can be done while they wait for the other group has been. Only then does he go to sit off to the side and work on starting to clean himself up. The ichor from the spiders and the demon is more corrosive than blood. He removes his gauntlets and gets to work on the joints and rivets with oil and a polishing cloth. It takes his mind off the failure and gives him time to consider how they'll proceed the next day. The dead scout has already paid the ultimate price for carelessness. He was the one in charge of the main route tonight. Cullen considers the demon could have had something to do with it, confusing him, addling him, making him forget. He can't ask him now.

He sighs heavily and leans in closer to the fire the better to see. It has been a humbling reminder that the best laid plans don't always save lives and that outside the walls of Kirkwall are every bit as deadly as what remains within. He hates the Free Marches more by the day.