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For pavus_redemit Kirkwall

The taste of ash lies thick in the air. For once something manages to overpower the foundry stench and blacken the perpetual orange of Kirkwall's night sky. Rubble lies massed in the streets, flung from the highest point to almost the lowest. Insanity and sudden chaos in the wink of an eye, a fateful explosion that has Cullen still blinking back blue lines, negative light impressions burned onto retinas.

Knight-Commander Meredith has left the Champion with an ultimatum that she not surprisingly doesn't take, murder her companion and choose their side, or the mages will all face the consequences. Hawke has vowed to fight to the bitter end to protect the mages of the Circle from the Right. Cullen privately hopes that she'll keep that word whether he agrees with her sparing of the abomination or not. This is all moving too fast with blame falling in the wrong quarter. The right answer isn't more blood. Meredith is implacable with all of them drawn along in her wake of righteous fury.

Cullen doesn't stay silent, arguing about the Champion. Surely arrest will be enough. Kirkwall's nobility won't stand for one of their grudging own being murdered by the arm of the Chantry. It isn't their place, Viscount or no Viscount in office. To his surprise, he earns concession on that front.

Then there is no more room for talking. They come upon their first wave of demons and abominations slaughtering unfortunates. The night turns red and black, a mist of blood and ichor. Cullen bashes his way through wave after wave of evil torn straight through the Veil, called by violence and horror. His sword arm burns. His shield feels as though it gains twenty pounds of its own volition, all of that before they reach the Docks District.

He hears a sound up toward the boarded up Qunari compound, more fighting. He peels away from the main force following Meredith, promising to catch up shortly, and runs up the steep steps. Breathless at the top, he sees flashes of fire past the barrier. He throws his weight behind his shield and bashes it in enough to gain entrance. A lone figure stands in the long abandoned plaza battling demons with magic and not an abomination himself. Without further thought, Cullen charges into the fray. "Aid behind you!" he shouts. He doesn't want to be mistaken for another enemy in the fight.

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Cullen likes him well enough by now to find himself hoping he doesn't ever have reason to regret that arrogance. He'd hate to see this man consumed by a demon or worse. He falls into step with him easily, pausing only long enough to shut and lock his office door for the night.

"Thank you. Agreed. I keep telling myself one day I'll see the proper side of a sleep schedule again." As much as he ever does with the nightmares. He's grateful in a strange way that he's so used to functioning at a deficit, or these past weeks might have killed him.

"The quarters you have are adequate? I've been meaning to ask and keep getting sidetracked." Their footsteps echo on the stone. The carpet runner was taken up some time back, bloodstained and scorch-marked beyond cleaning. Carpet and draperies are so far beneath concern at the moment he hasn't looked into getting them replaced. When some in Kirkwall are doing without food and basic shelter in their crisis, how could he ever?

"I have what everyone else has," he says, hoping not to give away how much he misses goose down mattresses and silk sheets. "It's fine. I don't expect luxuries when a city is burning. I'm not that much of a Tevinter bastard."

There are parts of Kirkwall that will take years to recover. He's seen Low Town and he's seen Dark Town. It will be a miracle if those places ever get their feet under them.

"Don't worry about me. If there is a problem, you'll hear about it. I haven't had any trouble speaking my mind, have I?" He looks over at his companion with a charming smile. It's his best one.

"No, that is one respect in which you seem to have yourself well in hand, Messere." He chuckles and lightly nudges him with his pauldron. He lets out a longer breath and settles back into a normal gait.

"I'm glad of it. The others see you speaking up, and at least a few of them are getting bolder. It may be a few years before they truly accept I'm no Meredith." He's not sure which is more depressing, the thought that he may have those few years to wait out here or that he might not. Not that he's eager to put an end to things or would step stoically into the fire without protest, but ultimately, he'd understand it. He has known for a long time what he actually signed up for when he took those vows, even if he didn't at the time.

"I have faith that they will in time, and you'll help them come to it." He nods once, a firm bob of chin. They exit the main corridor and start down the steps leading into the wide entrance from the portcullis. He turns them toward the wider stairs up.

"They should speak up. Silence gets them nothing and there are abusers who take advantage of it." A little anger creeps in to his voice. Against his will he's gotten close to these mages and the stories they told outrage him.

"I can assure you many of the mages that are here do not see you like her," he says quietly but with honesty. "They speak of her with the same fear they speak of demons and possession. They're cautious about you but they aren't truly afraid."

There's barely anyone out at this hour. They've certainly stay up past anyone else but the patrolling guards.

"I know, and I want to be told of any such things." He's serious about his efforts in weeding out the last of Meredith's staunch supporters. It's harder when people don't speak up. His own men are still feeling their way in the new regime and have never been quick to turn on other templars.

It's a relief to hear they don't fear him. It's a start. He can work with that. Somewhere between Greagoir's path and Meredith's there has to be some sensible middle ground. He's determined to find it before it's all taken out of his hands.

He falls into a somewhat pensive quiet, glancing around as they go. There are memories here, good and bad, voices that will never sound again, faces he'll never see. Somehow he's more numb to it than he was at Kinloch Hold. Rather than filling him with horror, it just leaves him tired and sad.

He stops where their corridor branches. "This is us," he says, gesturing.

"Yes, yes, mother hen Templar," he says with a slightly fond smile. It's another strange thing that he likes a Templar as much as he does. A Southern Templar at that. Dorian is having many strange experiences down South.

At the branch he stops and does something unprecedented. He reaches out and claps Cullen on the shoulder. "Sleep well, sir knight. Don't work in your sleep now."

Even though Dorian was contemplating heading to the library for a bit of research or perhaps send letters to contacts back at home. It an interesting mental debate. His body would certainly appreciate sleep but his mind could work.

He rolls his eyes a bit at the accusation of being a mother hen. It's a rather good natured exchange. He's comfortable enough with him now for that level of teasing. "If I did, I'd only have to redo it all once I was properly coherent. Good night." He lifts a wave and heads off toward his room. It was a pleasant exchange, something that stands out these days when so much of his time is occupied with dire business.

It's another three full weeks before he has time or opportunity to speak to Dorian properly again. It's official. Seneschal Bran is now Viscount Bran, and the city is in a rare state of letting out its breath in a collective sigh of relief. Whether justified or not, Cullen doesn't care. It's respite, and it's a chance to do something that has never fully left his mind since the idea was planted what feels like ages ago.

He finds Dorian overseeing a small group of apprentices practicing fine control of elemental spells. He does his best not to be obtrusive, as unobtrusive as a man in full plate can be, tapping him lightly on the shoulder from behind and beckoning him slightly away from the others. "How would you feel about that trip out to the coast? Aveline is itching to break some raider heads, and it seems like as good of a time as any with the city so quiet."

There is no hiding a man in full plate. Dorian notices Cullen the moment he comes around the corner. He's taught the apprentices a little training game from Tevinter, pushing a ball of elemental magic between their hands without letting it touch their palms. It taught control and skill. Dorian was quite good at it.

He leaves them to it as he joins Cullen in a little corner. People have started to notice he's often favored by the Knight-Commander. At least he is comfortable in the knowledge of someone else becoming First Enchanter.

"Oh, something interesting with fresh air and violence." Dorian rubs his hands together. "Let's go. I've been cooped up too long in this place."

"I thought you'd like the sound of it. Meet us out in the courtyard within the hour." He glances toward the exercises with an air of approval, nods to the couple of mages who make eye contact, and heads off.

The group heading out is a larger one than he has hazarded to leave the city for a while now, eight templars and four senior mages not including himself and Dorian. With guard recruitment up and the Gallows itself more stable than it has been since before Meredith's death, he believes they can spare the manpower. They need to with the raider threat on the rise.

Instead of sailing for the Kirkwall docks, the ferry takes off in a different direction. It's a brisk sail across the harbor toward an isolated strand surrounded by towering cliffs with one narrow, winding path down to the rocky beach. The day is fine and hot by Marcher standards, with a stiff wind blowing in from the east. They disembark without incident. Two forward scouts, one templar and one mage, head up the path to be sure the guard contingent they've come to meet are there and ready for them.

As soon as they hear the signal, Cullen calls the march. He takes up the rear for now, in higher spirits than he has been since before everything went to shit. Despite being here on work, it feels like a taste of freedom. He had forgotten how heavily the Gallows can sit on a pair of shoulders when not left behind for a while.

They've decided to set up camp a good distance from where they know of raider activity. The strategy is to form a strong base of operations and then coordinate a series of ranging attacks in shifts, whittling down their numbers and disrupting their supply chains. Bran has promised naval support after these initial attacks. Cullen suspects that's when things will get particularly hairy. With this day devoted to set-up and planning, he's relatively relaxed and pitches in with everyone else to erect the tents, set up the operations table, and get a couple of good fires going.

Later that afternoon, carrying an armful of firewood, he spots Dorian and calls out, "So, how is it comparing to Sundermount so far?" The number of guards is a few more than templars and mages combined. Aveline seems to have the lot of them well in hand.

The boat ride is probably the worst part. Dorian gets sea sick easily. He spends the ride leaning against a railing as casually as he can while they cross. Thank the Maker it's a short ride.

Then, of course, they're stuck on the coast with the water rolling in the distance constantly. It's a lovely reminder that annoys Dorian to no end but at least they are outside, in the fresh air and away from the Gallows.

"I hate the sea," Dorian calls back. He and the other mages have spent the day laying elemental mines in case the raiders become bold and attack the camp. It's been lovely except for the chilly wind and occasional spray of salt air. He's free and outside but it's a miserable place to be. "Stop looking so cheery, you."

Cullen dumps his armload into the ever-growing stack of firewood, brushes off his hands, and approaches, smiling. "I'm no fan of sea travel myself. That was just a quick jaunt across the harbor. We weren't out in the Waking Sea." His trip from Highever to Kirkwall had been pure misery.

He slaps idly at a small cloud of gnats trying to congregate at the back of his neck and wrinkles his nose. "I had hoped the wind today would spare us these. I suppose we're too sheltered by the rocks and shrubbery." It also means they're sheltered from view of raiders. Everything comes with a price.

"Coming along on the night march? A few of us are going to scout once the sun is down, see what's to be seen. They're never as careful with fires as they should be. They get arrogant."

Dorian clicks his tongue at Cullen as he swats as gnats. How do people in the South survive? Honestly. He takes a jaw of salve from his belt pouch and holds it out to him. "Put a bit of this on the back of your neck. It'll keep the gnats away. It works on biting insects as well. We have them the size of house cats in Minrathous."

He would have never survived childhood without it and he refused to be without it when he left Tevinter. He knew how to make it himself so that he would never be without.

"Sure. I'll keep you from stepping on any magical mines we've laid out there," Dorian says with a little smile. "When we get close I'll send ghosts and ghouls to torment them."

"Ugh, foul things. At least these are only after sweat." He takes the salve gratefully, uncaps it, and smears a bit across the back of his neck and up into the back of his hair for good measure. It smells strong but not unduly unpleasant. After capping it, he offers it back. He rubs the rest of the residue over both hands.

"Such a pleasant, useful man." It's just slightly dry. He's glad he's on their side. The things he mentions are anything but pleasant in the context of facing them.

"We'll have a good meal first." He eyes the sun's track through the sky, estimating they have an hour or two before nightfall. "Let me show you something before then, not that I anticipate we'll get separated in the night." He beckons him toward one of the thickets of waxy leaved shrubs that dot the entire region.

"You know, other mages might be nervous being led off by a Templar," he muses as he follows towards the thicket.

Oddly, Dorian trusted Cullen. He didn't think anything of it, really, to follow him away from the camp and the others who had come to hunt raiders. This man had saved his life and kept asking him for advice, he was no danger.

"I think I'm more likely to be dragged off by some wild beast than you though." He has no idea what actually lurks out here but he can easily imagine wolves and bears coming to eat him in the night. It's a lovely though he has any time he goes out in the wild.

Cullen simply cuts him a look and shakes his head. The time for any such worry is long past, and he believes they both know it. He doesn't go too far. He doesn't need to. He pushes in among the cutting leaves and glances back to Dorian over his shoulder. "Just be careful of the edges. As long as you don't move too quickly, they won't claim blood."

He goes down on his haunches, gathering the thick skirting out of the way, and digs his fingers down into sandy soil until he feels a fat, fibrous root beneath them. He works his hand under it and jerks up with a sudden snap of the vegetation. Lifting the root to his lips, he lets clear water drip into his mouth. There's a surprising quantity of it before it stops. "Fresh water, completely untainted. Only when you see the small white buds on the shrubs." He points them out hidden amongst the leaves. "They flower at different times depending on sun exposure. If you get lost or separated, you won't die of thirst before we can find you again."

He brushes sand from his fingers and stands again. "Giant spiders are all over, particularly the caves. Watch yourself when we go past openings. They like to ambush."

"Even the plants are inhospitable. Lovely." Dorian looks at them with distaste.

He is careful as he crouches down next to Cullen to watch him dig up the root and pour water out of it. That's quite a trick and Dorian is very impressed. He also smiles fondly because the poor man keeps forgetting he's a mage and can conjure water from nothing.

"I'm so glad you trust my abilities to stay with a group," he says dryly. "It warms the heart, really."

Cullen chuckles and nudges him with his pauldron. "I used to get lost out here all the time. You start fighting. It spreads out. One rise looks exactly like another with twisting paths that cross back on themselves, and so many sets of feet treading them that before you know it you've walked a circle four times before someone else stumbles onto you. Add in darkness, and it's ten times worse."

He tosses the spent root aside and climbs back up to his feet again, careful of the skirting. "There used to be pockets of Tal'Vashoth, too. I haven't heard of movement out of them for a while now. That doesn't mean they're all gone."

He tucks a thumb into his sash and regards him with amusement. "Believe me when I say I trust your competence. I wouldn't have invited you if I didn't."

"I'm probably more familiar with fighting Tal'Vashoth than you," he points out with a roll of his eyes. "I grew up with them practically on my doorstep."

He didn't mean to sound ungrateful but honestly, he wasn't a helpless mage. He had a blade on his staff and knew how to fight if his mana was drained. Perhaps he didn't have the best wilderness survival skills but he had sense in his head.

"That root business is much more useful to me. And which way is Kirkwall from here? If I do get lost I can navigate by the stars if I know which way the city is." He studied astronomy because it was important to Tevinter history and no other reason. It just happens to be a good skill right now.

"So prickly." He shakes his head and does his best not to grin. "I'd hate to see the response if I dared to suggest I enjoy your company along with your usefulness."

He took a moment to orient himself and pointed southwest. "It's not a straight go. Some of the scrub is impassible and there's rugged terrain. As long as you stay roughly headed in that direction, eventually you'll start to see a few outlying farms. I...wouldn't recommend showing them that medallion of yours. Rural Marchers can be a little..." He holds his hand out flat and rotates it a little from the wrist back and forth. "They don't like any foreigners. Hard to say who they hate worse, Tevinters or Fereldans."

That actually stops Dorian for a moment. Cullen enjoys his company? He's not used to someone admitting that so openly, without some sort of political motive behind it. A friend. He could have one of those. Well, that's surprising. "I imagine someone might suggest I've used blood magic to enthrall you or some other ridiculous suggestion."

"Tevinters," Dorian says immediately. "When in doubt blame it on the Imperium." He could find his way with the rough direction though. It wouldn't be a pleasant experience but Dorian had plenty of those in his life. "I can manage that. If we are separated I will head back towards Kirkwall. You can send the search party that way."

"Good thing I'm not talking about someone else's responses. Just yours." He's nothing if not capable of staying on point.

He nods, feeling better overall about his being out here. The Wounded Coast is dangerous enough for people used to it. A first-time trip under these circumstances isn't an ideal introduction. He gestures back toward the camp with a sweep and starts walking that way.

"Let's make sure they know to leave enough food for us. The guards in particular can be very greedy." He has no doubts the guards would say exactly the same of templars. It's practically tradition by now, the rivalry, despite some mending of fences over the past couple of months.

"Yes, well, mine is mild surprise." Someone in the south wants to call him friend. Dorian isn't sure what to do about that. He enjoys Cullen's company but he's never examined it deeply.

It makes him a bit quieter on the walk back to camp. He learned not to examine his feelings towards men beyond a fondness. He wasn't allowed before. He'll have to think about it carefully what it means for him now.

"I've seen how much Templars eat. I imagine the guards are trying to get their fair share." He's a mage, he's going to make fun of Templars whenever he gets the chance.

He could bristle at that in turn, about how just because he's a templar or a Southerner doesn't mean he can't befriend a mage from Tevinter. Some instinct keeps him quiet on that. It's foolish to assume every little thing is about him at all. It could just as easily be something unrelated, and then he'd look a proper ass.

It's much easier to rise to the less emotionally charged bait about the guards. He does it with a will. "Please. Just watch Guardsman Hendyr. If he doesn't take at least three servings of ram tonight, I'll owe you a gold piece. And no cheating and asking him not to ahead of time. I'll be watching."

In this case it's not Cullen's problems or personality but Dorian's. He has issues that he is not going to discuss with this man who he is only learning about. It's terribly difficult to let himself get close. He's not certain he's going to allow it when he plans on leaving.

"Oh, a gold piece? I'm willing to pay that if you turn out to be right." Dorian is tempted to argue about lyrium's effect on the human body and that Templars may eat more to counter act but he was only really learning the effects since coming here to the South. "I would buy you a drink but I imagine the tavern is still burned down."

"I'm sure there are still places we can scrounge drinks somewhere. I'm not sure they'd be the sorts of places either of us would care to frequent." It's not that he's a snob. He truly isn't. It's that since the disaster entertainment of any sort has been almost fully overrun by a criminal element. Their spirit of cooperation has only gone so far, and neither side is willing to get too deeply into bed with the other for fear of debts.

The smell of roasting meat and stewing vegetables is thick in the air by the time they get back to the camp. Cullen waves away the offer of one of the first cuts. It's good to see his and Aveline's men and women mingling in a spirit of companionship, exchanging rough jokes and lining up to get their shares.

The mages still sit off to the side. They're not being ostracized as far as he can tell. There has always been that separation out in public. Whether it's for the best or not, he can't say. He catches Aveline watching him watching them, a complex look passing between the two. When it's his turn, he steps up for his serving and helps himself. He takes his food a little off to the side. He doesn't want to put a damper on the others' high spirits or make them feel self-conscious with their commander looming and listening to every word. He's used to the separation by now, having to hold himself away. He notices Aveline does the same.

For pavus_redemit Kirkwall

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