Swordplay
You freeze like a halla at the sight of the Seeker with her sword drawn. Time crawls to a stop as your mind and heart race into a careening gallop. Your aura is tamped down in your gut, something you realize immediately upon trying to gather it. An instinct; you probably woke up that way. Anytime something frightening happens, instinct has you tucking it away to safety instead of pulling it out. One day, that will probably get you in trouble. Possibly this day, because if you had it ready, you would already be outside the tent and running.
Instincts still kick in despite that, sending you rushing against the back of the tent, kicking against the ground to put distance between you and the blade. To give you time to untangle your aura and fuck you have almost no mana. FUCK. You realize it before you even try to prepare a spell. Are you about to try to knife fight a Seeker? Oh Maker this is how you die.
Before you have a chance, Cole throws himself in front of you, something that stuns you more than the sight of Cassandra Pentaghast bursting into your tent with her sword drawn. You can barely remember a time you’ve looked at a threat from over someone’s shoulder.
“Get away from her!” the Seeker snarls. “What did you do, demon?!”
Oh.
Oh, you screamed.
You screamed “no don’t” in a tent you share with no one but a spirit, a spirit that Pentaghast is terrified will do something horrible to take advantage of your trust.
Fuck.
…Fuck!
You grab Cole by the shoulders and all but throw him to the side; he sprawls out awkwardly against the side of the tent. Now it’s your turn to scramble forwards—going against every screaming instinct in your head—and put yourself between him and the Seeker.
“It’s not what you think!” you exclaim, kneeling on the bedroll and throwing your arms wide in the universal signal of ‘you’ll have to go through me’. Which flies in the face of all your instincts, but you manage somehow. “I was having a nightmare!”
Fortunately, the Seeker isn’t here for you, so she’s not about to run you through to get to Cole. She hesitates, long enough for you to keep stammering out an explanation.
“Cole woke me up from a nightmare and I, I must have screamed, I’m sorry. He didn’t do anything; he wasn’t hurting me or anything, I just—!”
“Emma are you—Seeker?” Solas’s voice is alarmed as he pulls the tent flap aside. He probably can’t see the whole scene since the Seeker is still half in the entrance to the tent, but what he can see must be alarming. Cassandra Pentaghast in cotton shorts and a loose sleeveless top not that different from what you wear. Her blade out, pointed at you, who are also in your skivvies, and Cole sprawled awkwardly in the corner, not moving, hat askew.
“She screamed; I heard from my tent!” the Seeker exclaims.
“As did I. But she seems unharmed.”
“I had a nightmare,” you explain again. Your face would be beet red if you weren’t so pale from the terror.
“Do you think Cole might have been involved?” the Seeker asks Solas.
“I doubt it. Emma is prone to night terrors. This happened on the way back from Val Royeaux, as well,” Solas says, and you nod vigorously.
“He was just waking me up. I was probably visibly distressed… I’m very sorry,” you apologize again. “I should have warned you all, but it didn’t even occur to me.”
The Seeker’s eyes flicker between you and Cole, but the arm holding the sword drops, at least. Her eyes are narrow with suspicion, but you can’t tell who it’s aimed at.
“Are you certain you wouldn’t be more comfortable bunking with someone else?” the Seeker asks, and for a hot second you’re genuinely tempted to say yes, and spend the rest of this trip making out with Sera. But of course that’s ridiculous. She probably hates you, having sex with her was a mistake that you’re having trouble regretting, and moreover Seeker Pentaghast had literally just been about to stab your friend, you’re not going to suggest he share a tent with her! You let your eyes hover on her sword pointedly, then glance back at Cole. She sighs, seeming to take the point.
“Very well. I’ll inform the Inquisitor and the others not to worry.”
“Oh, Maker, did they hear too?” you ask, running a hand over your face.
“Solas did from three tents away,” she points out, and you put the other hand on your face as well. What a fucking trip this has been.
“Well, if nothing else,” you say, letting your hands drop with a sigh. “Maybe next time the Inquisitor will reconsider bringing me along for the sake of his beauty sleep.”
There’s no chance of going back to sleep after a scare like that. You’re contemplating not sleeping again for the entirety of the trip, frankly, even though you had not been the one at risk, in the end. You poke irritably at the morning’s porridge as you cook breakfast with Blackwall, who’s mercifully mum on the topic of whether or not he overheard your pre-dawn drama. It seems as though you can never catch a damn break. Or maybe just not as much of one as you’d like.
Readying the horses for the day has become habit after almost two weeks. They’re more well-behaved now, and the ones who aren’t… well, you’ve gotten used to the rhythm of their bullshit. You almost feel like you would like to try riding one, but now is not the time to experiment with such things. Your path through Orlais is a brutally fast one; no time for a new rider to learn to trot. You’re pretty sure the only reason you haven’t fallen off one of the harts is that you’re on a road.
You were woken up so Maker-damned early that you finish prepping all the horses before the rest of the group has even had breakfast or begun breaking camp. You should probably help with that, but you actually still haven’t the faintest clue how they do it so fast. You’d probably just be in the way.
Instead, you climb up on Daine to experiment with how a horse feels. She’s significantly broader than you personally would prefer, but she’s also the one you trust most not to throw you. The last thing you need is to break your arm when you’re halfway across Orlais. You reach down across her ludicrously broad back and untie her harness, letting it drop to the grass. Curiously, you nudge her into a walk. You’d never risk this with another horse, but you’ve seen Daine refuse to get spooked by snakes before. She has a sturdier constitution and more bravery than you do.
The gait is immediately and noticeably different, which is upsetting since you’re just at a walk. The hind legs aren’t moving when your body thinks they ought to. Instead, it feels like you’re rocking back and forth. It’s not uncomfortable or threatening to throw you off balance, but you feel like the fact it’s already different at a walk is a bad sign.
Your impromptu horse riding practice is doomed from the start, however, as basically as soon as the Inquisitor notices what you’re doing, he shows up to drag you off to “how not to die: sword edition.” The update of the morning is that you’re still bad at and still have what the Inquisitor has affectionately dubbed “wet noodle arms.” You don’t think that’s necessarily true, because you can absolutely pull yourself up by your arms if necessary… although you have to admit that’s getting harder and harder. Your upper body strength isn’t keeping up with the growth of your hips and stomach, given to you by the good diet and relatively sedentary lifestyle in Skyhold. You’d almost fallen climbing onto the roof the other night. Frankly, if waving around his stupid sword gives you buffer arms, it’ll probably be worth it in the end. Plus, it’s giving you the opportunity to learn about the Inquisitor, which is a good idea even if it is a bit unpleasant at times.
“I know it’s boring,” the Inquisitor says as you practice changing stances for what feels like the thousandth time. “But if you don’t learn the basics first, there’ll be nothing to build on.” He winces. “Ugh, I’ve turned into my brother. Although he wasn’t nearly as gracious about it.”
“Did your older brother teach you the sword arts?” you ask, out of breath but never so out of breath that you can’t prod.
“Not really. He started me in it because I wanted to learn before I was old enough for father’s actual tutor. Ser Gauteron. There’s something to be said for having so many children that you simply keep a combat trainer on permanent staff, I suppose.”
“You came from a large family, your holiness?”
“Did you not?” the Inquisitor asks, looking slightly surprised.
“I was an orphan, so I have absolutely no way of knowing, to be honest,” you reply evenly. He has the grace to at least look abashed.
“Ah… Well, in any case, yes. I’m the middle child of seven.”
“Maker!” you exclaim, stumbling briefly out of form. “Seven, really?”
“My parents were very enthusiastic,” he says flatly, and you snort. And they say elves go at it like ‘rabbits’, goodness. You’d love to make a joke about that, actually, but it would be in very poor taste and humans hate any implication there might be a pinch of elf in their background… even though any of them could have a full-blooded elven parent and there’d be no way to tell.
“Sounds like it. When did official sword training begin for your family?”
“Well, we didn’t practice with any sort of real steel until we were twelve… arguably old enough not to fall over onto our own swords. But a few of us, myself included, were eager enough to start that Ser Gauteron started us out with wooden swords at ten.”
“And you started with your brother even before then?”
“Oh yes. I was about seven the first time I managed to pester him into showing me a few things. He’d been learning from Ser Gauteron for over two years at that point, and as I recall I’d been insufferable about it basically since I could walk.”
“I recall you once mentioning an older sister. Did she learn swordplay as well?”
“Oh yes. My younger sisters were given a say in the matter, but as the oldest child, my sister had to learn everything, whether she liked it or not.”
“Did she?”
“Well, when it came to swordplay, yes—arms up—” You correct your stance quickly. “If she’d had her choice, she probably would have been a squire instead of having a formal noble’s education at the University of Markham.”
“Guess it runs in the family,” you say wryly, and fortunately the Inquisitor laughs.
“Everyone but my younger brother,” he agrees. “Although he would be quick to tell you his mind for study and politics more than makes up for it.”
You’re inclined to agree with the Inquisitor’s brother, as someone who would much rather be scribing a book than swinging a sword right now. You keep that to yourself, however, and work your way through tiring swing after tiring stance.
The Inquisitor’s “wet noodle” comparison feels very apt by the time you mount up for the day. Fortunately, staying on Revas is more legs than arms, and you’re good enough at it now not to come flying off even if you feel like overcooked pasta.
The ahead party, unfortunately, is Solas, Blackwall, and Cole, which must suck for Blackwall but isn’t much better for you. You had been really hoping the Seeker would be in the advance team again, after your rude awakening that morning… or hers, you suppose. Galloping prevents there from being much awkwardness, but every time you slow the horses to a walk to rest them, there’s a palpable tension in the air. Not involving Sera, for once, but still involving you, unfortunately.
Sera is the one who finally gets tired of it, unsurprisingly. “Well, you’ve seen each other in your skivves now, so that makes you friends, yeah?” she suggests unhelpfully, gesturing between you and the Seeker. The Seeker’s face flames red, which is almost funny enough to make up for how deeply awkward the whole situation is. “She’s fit as anything, right?” she continues cheerfully, thumbing towards the Seeker again. “I keep tellin’ her she could crush a melon with her thighs, but she won’t try.”
You notice the Inquisitor’s ears are turning red as well, which tips the scales over from “mortifying” into “deeply amusing” for you.
“Sera,” the Seeker says, sounding pained.
“Wot, it’s not like she was naked! Was she?” Sera asks Pentaghast pseudo-innocently. “Not sure how she sleeps when nakedness isn’t the whole point, not gonna lie—”
“Sera,” you wheeze, it now being your turn to be in pain, apparently.
“She’s slender as the day is long, roight?” she continues, chipper as ever, as if actively absorbing strength from everyone’s suffering. “I been sayin’ she should wear tighter clothes ‘n’ show off a lil, but noooo, s’all baggy ‘n’ long sleeves ‘n’ tunics. Ridiculous.”
“There’s one flaw in your plan, Sera,” you manage through the embarrassment.
“Yeah?”
“Now that the Seeker’s seen me in my ‘skivvies’, she knows for an absolute fact that I have literally nothing to show off.”
Dorian, who’d clearly been trying to stay out of the conversation, barks with laughter, which attracts attention of the Inquisitor, who’d clearly been trying very hard to ignore all of you.
“Tha’s not even close to true! Tell her, Cass!”
“I will absolutely not.”
“See?” you point out. “She agrees with me.”
“That is not what I said—”
“See?” Sera argues. “She agrees with me.”
“I don’t agree with anyone!”
“Face it, Cassandra,” Dorian quips. “You’re not going to be able to get out of this without giving a professional opinion on our friend’s breasts.”
“What in Andraste’s name did I just walk into?” wonders the Inquisitor, looking deeply alarmed.
“Quizzy,” Sera begins, but you snap a twig off a low-hanging tree and chuck it at her.
“One more word and I’m going to ride Revas right into that baby pony of yours,” you warn her.
“You wouldn’t!” she says with an affronted gasp. “Lady Knickers never hurt no one!”
“Accurate by grammatical technicality,” you reply. “She headbutted me in the chest this morning.”
“It’s not her fault,” Dorian suggests. “She’s used to women with more padding in that area. How was she to know?”
“Dorian, I swear to the Maker.”
“Someone please tell me what I have to do to make this conversation stop,” the Seeker groans.
“Don’t send the three most masculine people on ahead, leaving behind a small army of cattiness?” you suggest.
“Wait, are you ranking Cole and Solas as more masculine than me?” the Inquisitor protests.
“I have to protest as well,” Dorian says. “After all, Cassandra is much more masculine than Cole.”
“But not Solas?” the Inquisitor protests again, and the Seeker frowns.
“That’s the problem you have with that statement?” she demands.
“I’m allowed to have multiple problems!” The Inquisitor holds his hands up in defensive protest.
“Solas is bald. They call it male pattern baldness for a reason,” you point out. “And have you seen his jawline?”
“He doesn’t even have a beard!”
“Elves don’t grow beards! And do you know how tall he is for an elf? You’re the same height! I think he might actually be taller if he wore shoes.”
“I feel like this is some kind of insubordination,” whines the Inquisitor.
“Oh, man up,” says Dorian, and the whole group dissolves briefly into giggles, saving of course the Seeker, who still looks as if she’d like to hurl herself—or possibly all of you—off the nearest cliff.
Going over your map in your head, you realize that you really are coming up on a last bastion of civilization… Val Firmin. You don’t know if you’ll be staying the night, but you’re certain there will at least be a prolonged stop for supplies. Soon after this, you’ll be off the Imperial Highway altogether, and then heading into the depths of the Western Approach.
The location of the now Inquisition-controlled fort is at the far-flung western corner of Orlais, quite near the Abyssal Reach. To say you’ve never been that far west is a severe understatement. There’s barely any further west to go. You admittedly have almost no idea what to expect in the Approach in terms of surroundings and environment. You know the basics: sand, hot. That’s about it. Once you get more than a day’s travel in, you’re effectively trapped with the Inquisition until you arrive at your destination… and possibly even then, depending on how well—and swiftly—you adapt.
You briefly consider vanishing into Val Firmin, but write it off as quickly as it springs to mind. The Seeker might already suspect something after this morning. If you run now, she might start drawing conclusions. It wouldn’t even matter if they were correct ones or not, any such conclusions drawn by a Seeker would spell no end of trouble. No, she seems at the moment even more embarrassed by the whole situation than you are, thanks in part to Sera’s needling. Best to lie low until any suspicion she has passes, at the very least.
You’re still in forests coming up to Val Firmin from the east. The trees no doubt break up the hot wind from the west, giving the general feeling of early autumn to your surroundings. You can appreciate the warmth now that Skinner’s jacket is in unfortunate shreds, but you know that as you continue west, it will be as though summer never ends. You can’t say you’re looking forward to it any more than you were looking forward to a winter in the mountains.
You hit Val Firmin an hour or so after you would have normally taken a break for lunch; the Inquisitor elected to push on, understandably. True to your predictions, you’ll be staying here for a bit to rest the mounts and resupply. You hadn’t necessarily predicted spending almost a full day in Val Firmin, but you can’t complain.
“This is the last you’ll see of anything even resembling civilization for Maker only knows how long,” Dorian informs you with a forlorn sigh. “Soak it in, what little there is to soak.”
He’s being a little harsh, but it’s true that Val Firmin is more of an oversized market compared to some of the larger towns you’ve been through. It is, however, still a proper city in its own right, with walls and a Duke and everything. The walls, in your personal opinion, are what make something a city. Particularly this far west! You’d lived about as far east as you could get without literally being in Ferelden, and even there, no matter how many people were in a village, it was just a village until it went and got itself walls.
Security and a cage. Such things go hand in hand, as you’ve well learned. You can’t bring yourself to regret your time outside the cage of Val Royeaux, however, even if that lack of security ended so catastrophically for you.
Compared to Val Royeaux, of course, Val Firmin is a bit more of a lump. You can see where Dorian is coming from. But it’s still large enough to have districts! He’s just spoiled, honestly.
You’re reminded somewhat starkly of your entrance into Montsimmard, because before you’re even inside the walls, Cole gets… twitchy. He’s muttering to himself, and the second he starts, you hang back and separate him from the head of the pack… in particular, the Seeker. The last thing you need is for her to see him acting squirrelly after this morning’s surprise.
“Something is wrong on the outskirts, bleeding red like a sunset, dripping towards town like blood…” he rapid fire mutters under his breath, and you glance nervously up at the others to see if they’ve noticed. The Seeker and the Inquisitor are busy talking, probably about the supplies they need to make it the rest of the way to the fortress. Sera’s glancing back, however, and Solas, who was already towards the back of the progression, is slowing his mount as well.
“Cole?” you whisper, bending low on your mount to try and get more on his level. “Not a good time, buddy; can you make it into the town?”
“She was here,” he says, suddenly looking up desperately into your eyes. “She was here!”
You glance up nervously to see Sera still watching, her horse slowing as well. “Who was here, Cole? Is something wrong?”
“Solas, she was here!” he repeats again.
“So it seems,” Solas replies evenly, and you frustratedly wonder again how he always seems to know what to say to Cole. “Shall we go and look for her?”
“Who’s her?” you demand.
“A friend of his, I believe,” Solas replies, and you frown.
“Another spirit?”
“No, not a spirit, but a soul. She already died once, what happens if she dies again?” he asks, clearly distressed.
“Solas, Emma, are you two coming?” the voice fortunately belongs to Dorian, but it’s only a matter of seconds until the Inquisitor or the Seeker notices. You make a snap decision.
“Go with him,” you say to Solas, biting back your curiosity. “I’ll make excuses to the Seeker. But afterwards…” you point firmly at his chest. “You’ll tell me what he’s talking about.”
You kick Revas forward without giving him a chance to reply, just in time for the Seeker to glance backwards over her shoulder. She stays by the gate into the town as the rest enter past her, looking for all the world like a teacher doing a head count of her students on a field trip.
“Where’s Solas going?” she asks with a frown, watching as he wheels Ashi’lana off the road and into the grass. You can’t see Cole from here, but that’s probably just as well.
“He said there are some herbs that grow nearby. He wants to pick some before we head into the Approach,” you lie.
“Not going with him for some quality alone time?” Dorian teases, because apparently not even shacking up with Sera practically in front of him will spare you.
“I would, but I have some shopping to do in town,” you say, not nearly as close to a lie. “I’m taking Cole with me for some ‘quality alone time’ instead,” you say dryly. “In case you want to change the target of your humor.”
“To Cole? Maker forbid,” he says with a laugh.
“Where is Cole?” the Seeker asks, frowning.
You shrug. “He was here a second ago. Probably poofed for a bit so he wouldn’t alarm the guards; you know how he is.”
The Seeker lets out a pained sigh. “Keep an eye on him, if you’re going to be with him today. Someone ought to.”
You give her a little sarcastic faux-salute. “Consider me Templar for the day, serah.”
Your mounts get taken off to rest and recuperate for the journey ahead, and with them go most of your supplies. You keep your backpack, with the excuse that it containers your, you know, money, and you’re ready to set off into the market and pick up some supplies for the desert. Like a hat. A big, floppy hat. And… uh… Maker, what do you even need to cross a desert, anyway?
You’re distracted by that thought to the point that you don’t notice Dorian and Sera approaching you until they’re basically right on top of you.
“Mind if we tag along?” Dorian asks. “I’ve got some shopping to do, and I wouldn’t want to get taken advantage of by these strange southerners.”
You roll your eyes in unison with Sera.
“Where’s yer lil buddy?” Sera asks, glancing around for Cole.
“Off with Solas,” you say with a shrug.
Sera frowns at the same time Dorian laughs. “But you told Cass…”
“‘Cass’ tried to run him through with a sword this morning because he was trying to help me wake up from a nightmare,” you say, not trying to keep the contempt from dripping from your voice. It’s nice to have such a clean-cut excuse to dislike the Seeker, so you don’t have to pretend not to. “So yes, I didn’t tell her the spirit and the apostate were spending the day together.”
“Look at you, lying to a Seeker,” Dorian says, clearly deeply amused. “Pretty soon you’ll be running off to join the Mage Rebellion.”
You snort. “Those idiots? No, I think I’ll stay right where I am, thanks.”
You’re surprised that Sera wants to tag along, although maybe you shouldn’t be, given her bizarre behavior yesterday. She’s acting much more normal today, although it’s not any less confusing to you. You wish you could take a dive into her head and find out what in the Void she’s thinking, but you have no way of doing it… well, short of asking her, you suppose, but you think you’ve proven by now that you’re a person allergic to proper communication.
Still, the two of them are acting normally, and not even bickering over-much, so you fall into a comfortable three-way conversation as you lead them into the market district—which is admittedly a huge portion of Val Firmin as a whole. You can’t imagine that many people actually go into the Approach, but the fact of the matter is that they’re essentially the largest city the furthest west. The Imperial Highway curves north and then east around Lake Celestine from here. For merchants taking the Highway, it’s an important stop… but it’s too out of the way to be important for much else.
You’ve never been into the Approach, obviously, but mercifully Sera and Dorian have. Therefore, as much as you’re playing guide to your Tevinter friend—and it’s taking all you have to not make any terrible jokes about the Altus being accompanied by two elven women—he’s playing guide by letting you know what you’re going to actually need.
Some of it is obvious: clothes made out of thin, lightweight cotton to replace the thick layers made for mountain use that you currently own. A sun hat with a comically large, floppy brim… Sera gets a smaller one, and Dorian refuses one altogether. Both tease you for your selection, which Sera suggests make you look like an old woman. That you were inspired partially by the large hats worn by older women in Rivain, you keep to yourself.
Other things, however, you would never have thought of. Dorian picks out a pair of lightweight gloves that are reinforced on the inside of the palm and fingers. It makes sense, your hands would die of heat and soak in sweat in your current gloves, but you still need protection. Sera helps you pick out an assortment of salted snacks, which is bewildering to you—surely salt will only make you more thirsty in a desert. Dorian explains something confusing about sweat that you don’t fully understand, but you accept they know what they’re talking about and load up a layer of your backpack with dried meat, fruit, and nuts.
Honestly, everything is going well and you’re having a nice time. You’re idly browsing a display that has a small handful of dwarven items—a rarity this far out, to be sure—and wishing there was a nearby Circle so you could actually see what usefulness magic had to offer the desert-dweller. Although you suppose since you’re bringing two mages with you, you’ll get to see something interesting sooner or later.
That, of course, is when you hear a commotion nearby, because you’re not allowed to have nice things and peaceful days.