"You, too." Cullen watches him go for a moment before heading over to collapse onto his bedroll. He's exhausted enough that he falls quickly into sleep and stays that way despite his dreams.
When he awakens, the entire camp is blanketed in thick, swirling gray, light enough that it's obvious the sun is rising, but too dim to make out anyone or anything without proximity. Such morning fogs are natural on the Wounded Coast, inconvenient and something he would have taken advantage of in their raids. That thought only serves to sour his mood. He sits up and finds his armor to finish what he started last night, cleaning it and getting it serviceable for his day. He can hear others around him doing the same, sounds and voices drifting from different directions tricky to pin in the fog.
He's glad for the chance of temporary isolation. It allows him to pull himself together from last night, both their rout at the hands of the demon and its minions and his lapse into vulnerability on the beach. He doesn't regret that, but he has to close himself up again if he's to be of any real use today. After cleaning everything, he dresses himself and begins moving through the camp, checking in on the survivors and injured, then coordinating with Aveline about what their next move should be.
The fog gradually shifts from gray to golden and then begins to burn off and blow away with the shift of the winds and the rise of heat. Their numbers are fewer. Spirits aren't crushed, however. These are people accustomed to losses and plans going awry. It's the way things have been going ever since the fall of the Chantry. Cullen doesn't know if he's proud of them or sad for them that this is the new normal they adjust to so readily.
The plan is relatively simple and involves all of their forces. They're leaving nothing of value behind at the camp. They'll be leaving this place on the ferry by nightfall. They're returning to the site of the attack to comb the area for the cave system the demon and spiders came from. They'll search it, clear it, and block the entrance so that it won't be a ready base of operations for anything or anyone else without considerable effort.
Breakfast is a hasty affair. No one is wounded enough to be left behind entirely, but the mages are tasked with guarding those too injured to be of much use in a fight should things turn ugly again. They're positioned at the middle of the column. Aveline is at the front, and Cullen takes up the rear guard in case of ambush.
It's a hot, frustrating search through thick, tick infested undergrowth. They have to hack their way through several unyielding thickets until finally a voice calls out from the south west of their search grid, "Found it! Maker's breath, what a bloody great hole."
Cullen pushes his way through the bushes to see for himself. It looks to him like the opening of a sinkhole at first. How in Andraste's name are they ever going to block that? Closer inspection shows a steep path leading downward, less actual hole than very steep cave entrance. Better, though still not ideal. Perimeter guards set up with the few wounded who need to rest. Everyone else prepares to go in, torches lit up and passed hand to hand. "Remember the plan," Cullen's voice carries over all of them. "No one goes off anywhere alone. Keep up the patterns of call and response with your signals. At the first sign of heavier spider infestation, alert everyone. No more losses today."
There's a ringing chorus of "Yes ser!" Then they begin the descent.
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When he awakens, the entire camp is blanketed in thick, swirling gray, light enough that it's obvious the sun is rising, but too dim to make out anyone or anything without proximity. Such morning fogs are natural on the Wounded Coast, inconvenient and something he would have taken advantage of in their raids. That thought only serves to sour his mood. He sits up and finds his armor to finish what he started last night, cleaning it and getting it serviceable for his day. He can hear others around him doing the same, sounds and voices drifting from different directions tricky to pin in the fog.
He's glad for the chance of temporary isolation. It allows him to pull himself together from last night, both their rout at the hands of the demon and its minions and his lapse into vulnerability on the beach. He doesn't regret that, but he has to close himself up again if he's to be of any real use today. After cleaning everything, he dresses himself and begins moving through the camp, checking in on the survivors and injured, then coordinating with Aveline about what their next move should be.
The fog gradually shifts from gray to golden and then begins to burn off and blow away with the shift of the winds and the rise of heat. Their numbers are fewer. Spirits aren't crushed, however. These are people accustomed to losses and plans going awry. It's the way things have been going ever since the fall of the Chantry. Cullen doesn't know if he's proud of them or sad for them that this is the new normal they adjust to so readily.
The plan is relatively simple and involves all of their forces. They're leaving nothing of value behind at the camp. They'll be leaving this place on the ferry by nightfall. They're returning to the site of the attack to comb the area for the cave system the demon and spiders came from. They'll search it, clear it, and block the entrance so that it won't be a ready base of operations for anything or anyone else without considerable effort.
Breakfast is a hasty affair. No one is wounded enough to be left behind entirely, but the mages are tasked with guarding those too injured to be of much use in a fight should things turn ugly again. They're positioned at the middle of the column. Aveline is at the front, and Cullen takes up the rear guard in case of ambush.
It's a hot, frustrating search through thick, tick infested undergrowth. They have to hack their way through several unyielding thickets until finally a voice calls out from the south west of their search grid, "Found it! Maker's breath, what a bloody great hole."
Cullen pushes his way through the bushes to see for himself. It looks to him like the opening of a sinkhole at first. How in Andraste's name are they ever going to block that? Closer inspection shows a steep path leading downward, less actual hole than very steep cave entrance. Better, though still not ideal. Perimeter guards set up with the few wounded who need to rest. Everyone else prepares to go in, torches lit up and passed hand to hand. "Remember the plan," Cullen's voice carries over all of them. "No one goes off anywhere alone. Keep up the patterns of call and response with your signals. At the first sign of heavier spider infestation, alert everyone. No more losses today."
There's a ringing chorus of "Yes ser!" Then they begin the descent.