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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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A few of the templars are grumbling under their breath. They clearly want blood. Cullen silences them with an impatient chop of hand and nods to show Dorian he heard his warning. Whether it's his imagination playing tricks on him or not, even Cullen thinks he feels something strange in the area. The hair at the back of his neck is standing up, and there's a chill to the air that feels wrong.

The eerie voice is drawing closer. "Come on, my darlings. Mother hates to wait."

He strains his vision for any movement ahead. What he sees cresting the ridge about thirty yards distant doesn't make sense at first, an enormous, hulking shape, hunched and scurrying. Andraste preserve them all, it's the most monstrous spider he has ever seen, dwarfing the ones they faced on a level of several magnitudes. The tattered white shape in front of it resolves to a pale, thin woman dressed in dirty rags. There seems to be something wrong with her mouth, or it's just filthy. It and her eyes look like little more than holes in the washed out face.

The spider has clearly spotted them. It gathers its legs and leaps with frightening speed and agility, covering half of the distance between them in one go. "Hit it with everything you have!" Cullen yells. No more subtlety now. They can't afford it. Fire, lightning, whatever it takes. There's no sign of the strange woman now, but they don't have the luxury to seek her with this behemoth bearing down on all of them.

He was going to save the spell for when the party got tired fighting raiders but a spider the size of a high dragon has thrown itself at them and Dorian doesn't hold back.

With his magic he twists time itself, distorting the flow around the Templars and mages so that they moved faster. In comparison the spider seems incredibly slow even though it is a hulking monster of a thing. The spell takes all his focus, though, and he cannot cast anything else. One slip and time could twist in on itself and he will not be responsible for collapsing time.

"Make it count," he says to the mages around him. "Make it bleed."

They respond with all the have. Lightning, fire, ice, and everything else they can bring to bear goes flying around him trying to destroy the entirely too large to be natural spider.

It's the strangest effect. Had he not been warned of it ahead of time, he'd have thought he was going mad or experiencing some bizarre battle fugue. Instead, he takes as much advantage as he can, charging to close the rest of the distance and squinting against the exploding pyrotechnics threatening to destroy any hope of night vision. With the spider moving so slowly, he can see every horrible detail, the hairs on the legs as thick as thorns, the slow, glistening drip of venom from a curled fang longer than his forearm extending from a massive, swollen palp. He stabs for that first. If this thing bites any of them, it will be like taking a poisoned sword through the body. They'll be dead before they hit the ground.

Other shapes surge around him, his comrades at arms and the remaining guardsmen. They're slashing, frenzied killing machines. Two of them extend their two handed swords overhead and run under the monster to slice open the hideously distended abdomen. Cullen has to look away, slash at the other palp.

And then reality snaps back into real-time focus. The spider is horribly wounded but still fighting. It thrashes and kicks. It drops down hard on one of the men still under it. When it lifts, he remains still, limbs at awkward angles.

Worse, there's a voice rising above all of the sounds of combat. It's a voice he recognizes. Uldred. But that can't be! Did you think you'd escaped? Delusional man. You're still here. You've always been here. You always will be. You're ours. Walls closing in, a shimmering wall of purple, it's all an overlay to the enormous round black eyes of the spider, two of them nothing more than charred holes now.

Cullen can hear the men and women around him crying out in distress, screaming. Something is terribly wrong. Terribly, and then it hits him. "Fear demon! Focus! It's a Void touched fear demon!" The prison recedes. There's still the spider, slower now and clumsy but still a threat. And somewhere behind that massive bulk lies something even worse.

Time snaps back to normal and Dorian almost goes down on a knee. That spell always takes everything he has. The mages close ranks around him, protecting him as he struggles to get his senses back.

His father's voice comes to him, whispering in his ear. You are worthless. You shame your family.

"Demons, lovely," he grinds out through his teeth. He forces himself back up to his feet and spins his staff around to wield like a spear instead of a staff. He has no mana to draw on right now. "This is such a pleasant evening."

As long as he stays in the circle mages he should be safe. He wishes for his magic, though. It feels safer, better than a bladed stick but he stabs through openings between mages, slicing in to the demon when it comes close.

The spider is damaged enough that Cullen decides to leave it to the bulk of his people and the guards. He grabs the attention of his three most experienced remaining templars. "We have to help the mages! It's over there!"

The air distorts and flickers, revealing a spread of spindly limbs and a gliding, looming shape closing on the small group. "Smite it! Do it now!"

In rapid succession, four blinding white columns of light rain down on the demon with concussive force, temporarily cutting its connection to the Fade and sheering through its very essence. Its cloak drops away to reveal it in full. It tries to retreat into thick undergrowth.

Despite being dizzied after his effort, Cullen doggedly follows, as do the other three templars. He channels lyrium into his sword to whittle further away at its power with each blow. He can only hope the spider behind them doesn't rally or kill more of their people while they pursue this other threat.

Dorian has never felt a proper Templar smite before. When the four strike as one he feels the Fade seemingly disappear from that single spot in the world. He shudders to think how that must feel to the mages here. No wonder Templars are feared.

"Trap it between us!" Dorian calls above the noise.

Between the wall of metal and swords the Templars present and the magic the mages wield the demon should be destroyed in moments. Dorian keeps taking jabs and lashes out with the bladed end of his staff. His mana is returning slowly. He'll have magic to wield in moments but right now he's still better off with his staff.

They're an effective shield wall, the four of them. They drive the creature inexorably back toward the destruction raining down on it from the mages, each blow from their swords destroying its well of power. It goes down finally in a scream that sets Cullen's teeth on edge, and profound silence descends. After a few moments of getting his bearings he realizes it's not totally quiet. He can hear ragged breathing and moans from those who fought and the injured.

They're down a guard and two more templars, all lost to the now very dead giant spider. "Back to base," he says without hesitation. He points at the lightest and swiftest of the remaining templars. "Go back down the path. Coordinate with the other scout. Let the other group know what has befallen us. We should all fall back and send up the signal to the ships in the harbor it's called off."

He's angry and wondering how the scouts missed the abomination. They'll have to find out where it was holed up and where these damnable spiders came from. Not in darkness. They've had enough of that. Every nerve is frayed. He can see it on the pale faces around him. "Gather our fallen. We're not leaving them out here to become walking corpses." Of the ones hauled off into the undergrowth, he says nothing. They can't go running after bodies, not when they need to heal and regroup.

There's a moment when he can draw near Dorian in passing. He pauses and leans in. "That spell of yours made all the difference. There's no way we could have taken that spider down quickly enough not to double our losses."

And then he's gone again to lend his shield to the makeshift bier for the broken bodies they need to haul. A few potions pass hands. No one is bothering to heal up beyond what it will take to get them back to the camp. The battle surely called attention to them. They can only hope that it looked and sounded fearsome enough to discourage unhealthy curiosity.

It's the mages that set about helping to collect the dead and build the pyre. Dorian stays out of it. He's exhausted from casting and even Cullen's praise can't really lift his spirits.

He's never been part of a battle before. He doesn't like the feeling it leaves him with. He feels guilty over the deaths and angry they couldn't do more. He couldn't do more before his mana ran out. Even though he did everything he could and logically he knows that it's not the most satisfying feeling.

It leaves him quiet and contemplative as they walk back to camp with their dead. His mind is racing though, going over each second of the battle and his spell casting. He must get better, he has to if he's going to stay with these people. He wants to stay with these people. It feels like he's doing something good.

Reforming Tevinter can wait a bit longer. Maybe reforming Kirkwall can be his start.

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.

At the camp he watches the guards and the mages build pyres together. Normally, he would be proud to see that sort of cooperation but it feels hollow tonight. He watches them light the fire before he turns away.

He goes off by himself with his staff. The familiar steps of cleaning the blade, polishing out chips and cleaning the wood soothes some of his mind. He'll have to practice more when he returns to Kirkwall and somehow learn to accept that he failed. Dorian doesn't like to fail. He hates it. The memory of his father's voice is too fresh.

Muttering a Tevinter curse he sets his staff down and stares off in the distance, scowling deeply. His eyes land on Cullen who is tending to his armor. He doesn't look happy about this either. He is fond of the man, he really is, and he doesn't know what to do about that. He's fond of these people but not in the same way. His foolish heart once again trying to get him in trouble.

Cullen is at the cleaning for a long time, even after the other party returns. Aveline crosses to him. They exchange several low words. By the time she leaves his side, she looks grim but not particularly angry.

There comes a time his hands are too tired to hold the metal. He has stripped out of and cleaned much of it. He'll get to the rest after a break. Wringing and rubbing at them, he spots Dorian off away from the others. He rises to join him and sits down heavily, close but not touching.

"I've heard stories of spiders that big." He begins without preamble. "It's my first time seeing one. It's rare for them ever to leave the caves that spawn them. That demon must have drawn it out."

"Demons don't draw out, they take over," he corrects, his tone like a lectures. "The demon used them like tools. Most animals will run from demons. They seem to sense how... corrupt they are."

He sighs heavily and shakes his head. No need to dwell on that or giant spiders. He knows it's going to be a rough night for the mages with the Veil corrupted like it is.

"What did the Guard Captain want?" he asks, hoping to change the subject. He's had enough of spiders and demons.

He grunts softly. He has very little interest in how demons do what they do. He knows what the results were. It's not something that will leave his mind easily any time soon. Deaths on his watch never do.

"She wanted to know how her men died." It had been an entirely fair question. He lifts a hand to rub at the side of his temple. He has been fighting a headache for a couple of hours now.

"We're going to comb that area tomorrow and find out where it was holed up. There could be more of them, either abominations or spiders. If we leave them here to work their evil or breed, this will just happen again, if not to one of our patrols possibly to other innocents." Or it would happen to raiders. That's not a good enough excuse to leave it alone.

"Were you injured?" He seems to really look at him for the first time since coming over. He feels oddly responsible for him, no matter how much he rebuffs it or gets prickly whenever he suggests it. He can't help it.

The academic knowledge helps settle Dorian's mind. If he can understand something intellectually he can work out how to fix it or fight it.

"I'll see which mages are willing to come with," he says with a sigh. "Some of them are quite shaken. The abominations from the night we met are still fresh in their minds." He would come, of course, and help destroy any traces of blood magic.

He shakes his head. "Merely tired from expending so much mana. A lyrium potion and a good night's rest I will be fine."

"If the Veil was as thin there as you say, we shouldn't bring many of them. Any more magic will only weaken it further." He scrubs a hand through his hair. It feels gritty and there are parts where it's plastered down that he knows have to be either blood or ichor. "Ugh." He pulls his hand away.

"You go ahead and get some rest then. I think... I think I'm going to trek down to the shore and wash." It won't be completely satisfying, he knows, no soap, just sea water, but it will clean him of the worst of the mess and refresh aching muscles.

"I'll see you in the morning." He presses a hand to his shoulder as he stands, not really intending to use him as support, except there's more weight in the push than would usually be. He's that exhausted.

"It might be safer to have mages breaking whatever magic is left behind," he says gently. He doesn't want to fight with him about this. "We are somewhat experts in it."

Dorian is ready to wish him a good night but the weight Cullen puts on him makes him think again. "If you go down to the shore I'm certain you'll drown from exhaustion."

He wraps a hand around his wrist and tugs. "Don't. Rest. I have an oil with me that will loosen whatever is in your hair. Skin will have to wait but it's better than nothing."

"We'll be able to assess it better tomorrow and decide from there the best course of action. Templars can also stabilize weak Veil points if enough of us focus on it. We'd need you reading it, though." He doesn't seem put out by the suggestion, no more interested in arguing than Dorian.

He smiles faintly. It's on the tip of his tongue to rib him for being concerned given how prickly Dorian can be when it's directed at him. He opts not to. They're both too tired for it. "My hair is, ah... I'm a little afraid to think of what it would do with oil."

He pauses and tips his head. "If you're that worried, come. Salt water is good for fatigue. Trust me when I say I don't plan to get anywhere deep enough to be dragged out by the current."

"Do you know how bad salt water is for your hair?" he says, resigned to this. He can't let Cullen drown and honestly he's too tired to argue. "The oil would be fine. Your hair might not curl so violently with it."

He grabs his staff and gets up. "Now I can fish you out if you drown."

He is not going to allow his mind to think about Cullen bathing in front of him. It's only going to lead to trouble and Dorian is tired enough to do something about his emotions.

"There's nothing...there's nothing violent about my hair." It's hard to tell if he's putting it on or if the reaction is genuine. Either way, he's letting it go since he agreed to come with him. "Just tell them I fought valiantly if worse comes to worst."

He walks quietly through the camp. Many are already asleep. Some are still working on their armor the way he had been, others in very quiet conversations near the fires. The mood is very different from earlier in the day. Cullen is just as glad to get away from it for a little while as he is with the prospect of being cleaner.

The steep path down the cliff is easily seen in the bright moonlight. He feels in no danger of a slip or fall. He wends down to the rocky strand of beach and immediately strips out of the rest of his clothing. The air is cool without being cold. It's the water that's colder. "As long as we stay where it's shallow, there shouldn't be an issue. You sure you don't want to wash?" He gingerly wades out into the waves, the tide in ebb fortunately and therefore not as violent as it can be. Squatting down, he bends forward to begin splashing his hair, face, and chest. It's bracing and has him puffing and blowing water from his lips as it runs down. He keeps his eyes shut against the sting.

Once they are a distance away from the sleeping camp Dorian summons a wisp to give a little light. The little balls of light and spirit were his first foray in to summonings. He quite likes the reassuring bob and flicker.

"I told you salt water is horrid for your hair," he says as he finds a relatively flat rock to sit on. "Besides, southern waters are freezing in comparison to Tevinter ones."

He looks away from his bared flesh, out over the waves which make his stomach roll a little. Better than the temptation of naked, glistening warrior. "There are black sand beaches in Tevinter. The grains are so fine and warmed by the sun it's almost too hot to walk on them during the day."

Cullen goes down on his knees to bend forward and get a better chance to scrub. He submerges his head, blowing air from his nose to keep the water out, and works his fingers through thick curls until he feels all of the slime releasing and washing away. He comes up gasping and squeezing excess water from his hair.

He already feels about twice as awake as he was before. This was a good idea no matter what Dorian says about salt water. "That sounds glorious. I'd love to stretch out on something like that and never think about moving again." It's not true. The inactivity would drive him mad within an hour. It's just the thought of having somewhere hot to lie while drying that has appeal.

He sits directly in the surf to let the waves clean the rest of him without much effort. The foam curls around his neck and chin, hissing on each retreat. If it weren't for the fact that he knows night predators hug the shore, he'd be tempted for a small swim. Instead he gets in a little more scrubbing, using a handful of sand to get any stubborn spots of ichor, and rinses that away, too.

He stands and retreats back to the shore, using the blades of his hands to sluice himself. He's too Fereldan to find this cold. He finds a flat rock of his own not too far from Dorian's to let himself dry. "I feel like a new man." It's amazing what a quick dunk in salt water can do. Out here away from the foundries, the air just smells salty and faintly fishy, no pollution, no sewage, nothing rotting. He draws in a deep inhale and relaxes back on a hand. He hasn't forgotten their losses or defeats. Like most soldiers, he has developed skills of compartmentalization. He can tuck that away for a time in favor of a quiet moment.

It's disgusting how beautiful Cullen looks when he walks out of the water. He's shameless about it as well. He seems not to care that he is bare and glistening and Dorian's gut clenches with want.

"You would burn," he says after swallowing the lump of desire in his throat. "Your pale skin would never survive the intensity of the sun. Why do you think everyone in the north is so dark?"

Still, thinking of Cullen as a bronzed Tevinter solider worms its way in to his mind. It's a real shame the Knight-Commander isn't trying to seduce him. He's honestly just talking with Dorian as a friend. Oh, what a familiar feeling that is.

"You smell like salt and dead fish," he drawls.

"I burn down here in the summer." His face and neck are permanently redder than the rest of him, all of that covered with armor when he's out and about. He never truly tans, just reaches some odd compromise of red that doesn't seem to get worse after the first couple of weeks of hot weather. "I think it would be worth it just to have the experience once. All that hot sand." He sounds wistful.

The truth is anywhere sounds better than Kirkwall, and isn't that a depressingly familiar place to be mentally? He felt that way about Ferelden for years. At this rate, he may run out of places to go and learn to hate.

"I'd say that's an improvement over blood and demon filth." He leans and makes a show of sniffing. Of course, he's nowhere near close enough to Dorian to smell him. If he were, the overall scent of the beach would probably still overpower it. "Can't smell you. After the night we had, that's probably a good thing."

He's enjoying this, the quiet time away from the camp, the chance to talk about normal things, which is practically anything that doesn't involve Kirkwall's troubles or politics. Dorian is good company. The better he gets to know him, the more he's convinced of that.

"There are lotions for that," he points out. "I have a friend who values her pale skin and she has hundreds of them. She's almost as pale as you."

Mae would laugh at him if she could see him like this, fawning over some Southern Templar. He does miss her terribly sometimes.

"It would keep you from turning red and blistering your skin. It's bad for your health, you know, and your skin in general." He sits up straighter on his rock and smooths his hand through his hair. He only got little bits of demon guts and spider ichor on him. The benefits of being back from the main battle. "The oil in my hair and fine craftsmanship of my robes keeps me from ending up looking like a barbarian like you."

"I don't think I'm much of a lotion sort. Anything on my face usually just winds up stinging my eyes as soon as I start to sweat." Sweating and plate mail go hand in hand.

He shifts his lean on his hand so he's propped more on his hip, the better to face him while they speak. It's hard not to notice the clothing, how much it differs from what he's used to, how detailed. It's even harder to imagine fiddling with all the clasps while dressing until he compares it to gearing up in plate. It doesn't get much more complicated than that.

His gaze drifts higher to the dark hair. Come to think of it, has he ever seen it mussed or out of place? There's a little truth in the barbarian remarks in that context. "You really oil it every day? Don't you get tired of that? There's something to be said for just letting yourself be, isn't there?" He likes nothing more than the rare few days when he doesn't have to uniform up and can do as he pleases. He's had none of them since the disaster.

For pavus_redemit Kirkwall

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