Follow the Tides

could it be?

is it she???

MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM–

“You’re s-so drunk.” Geralt stumbled to the side, thrusting a tankard of ale her way. “You need…more.”

The low light of the den brought the flames in Geralt’s eyes an added level of intensity. They practically glowed, burning away the darkness that stretched its monstrous hand over the senses of the two. The witcher took note of the silence that followed Khaliya’s declaration–fire had stood out to her, therefore her response stood out to him.

Geralt’s foot caught something soft, producing a squishing sound that echoed through the cavern they found themselves in. With a grunt, he thrust the torch downward, attempting to see what exactly lined the ground. It wasn’t moss. It wasn’t rocks. Bodies. Littered remains of what was left when the monsters down here had their fill. Among them were fully-grown women and men, the stench of rot stifled by the water Geralt and Khaliya pushed through.

He froze when he heard her warning, eyes examining the path ahead. He could hear it too. Scrounging, scraping, and sifting through the blackness. His silver sword felt lighter in hand; the sword, and Khaliya, were welcomed company.

“Are you ready?”

Whatever it was that Geralt stepped on sounded vaguely reminiscent of overripe fruit crushed beneath the heel. But instead of any cloying scent to perfume the air, only a foul, noxious odor is released ( like rotten sewage, like putrefaction, like---- ), and Khaliya succinctly pulls and draws tight her scarf over her face. Moments pass, eyes adjust, and now she sees.

Bodies tangled with bodies, with entrails, with bone; bloating and marinading in the shallow waters until finally they are reduced into no more than a soupy slush and muck to wade through. It would be easy to linger on the sight of it all and allow oneself to be swept up in the horror, but instead Khaliya shuts it down; forcefully shutting her eyes, looking away, and making herself look at nothing else but her ally, and her target. 

“I’d say I’ve little choice at this point. Do try and keep its attention on you--you look the type that can take a hit or three, no?” It only looked to be one here, but the darkened trenches are hardly a reliable sort. She begins picking her way around corpses; moving slowly so as not to disturb the shallow pools too greatly as she moves into a good flanking position. Provided the Witcher capable at playing decoy, she’d be able to cut away at the vulnerable points and help. 

He knows this is true, but he also knows more about spies than he lets on. They must always be adept at finding their target, whether by information they’ve gathered with study, or by tracking them much like animals would. He does not have much faith in the Qunari to believe they aren’t beyond acting like beasts.

Her mask of indifference might have fooled him — there was even a moment of brief satisfaction that she would consider it — but Solas knew her opinions of the Fade well enough not to take this lightly.

‘If you think it will help find him, then I’ll try.’

“That is all I ask, Inquisitor.”

He turns to a great willow tree residing between two houses, each branch covered with golden leaves. It reminds him of old memories that make his bones ache.

“This will do.” He turned to her with a surprisingly open expression, then offered a hand. “You will be safe, ma’falon, I promise you that.”

It is all he asks of her, but it is not an easy thing to ask. Yet Khaliya says nothing, and complains not, for what has her journey been so far, but to do that which once struck fear in her? A leader must sacrifice and give, and so she will: piece by piece, and inch by inch. To lead is to sacrifice, and to let greed and fear consume oneself is to cast doom and pain upon the world--whether through negligence, or inaction. 

The Dalish taught her survival. But they also taught her sacrifice. Khaliya’s walked and known this dichotomy nigh her entire life. 

The willow branch curves up like a spire; casting shadows and golden braids of leaf to form the illusion of shelter. It is as good a place as any, she agrees. Just as Khaliya moves to set down her pack does Solas turn.

His hand is held out to her, offered with words meant to assure. Safety. Promise. Her ears twitch, her brow furrows, and she takes a moment to search his face. Ma’falon-- my friend. She wants to question him, for rare is the moment that Solas speaks so plainly. And yet, she wants to believe him too. 

His hand is held out to her. And so, the Inquisitor steps forth, and places her left hand in his.

“Anyone powerful enough to check the power of others is, in and of themselves, powerful,” Dorian said, tone light and belying the serious nature of the conversation. “Something you might need to keep in mind, my dear. Everyone is happy enough now to sit back and let someone else handle all of this end of the world business, but eventually someone will sit up and realize just how very dangerous the Inquisition has become – and, by extension, how very dangerous you’ve become.”

Dorian paused, then laughed sharply. “Of course I would! I’d take the Magisterium by storm! And assuming I survived my first season in the office, I might even be able to do some good! And I’d detest every second of it, of course.”

“---Fair enough. Unless that someone was kept in check too.” A frown, and fingers pinch at the bridge of her nose. Semantics. What-ifs. Whimsical chatter. Time and time again, Dorian encourages this behavior. She can practically feel her Keeper’s withering frown from the Marches. “Messy business, leaderships are. I’d say I can’t envy them, but...”

She’s aware that the Inquisition is one such power, and that it is very much an unchecked power. 

                               WELL, SHE’S not a novice. He can tell. The girl moves with purpose, familiarity, twists her body to make herself scarce, and it’s a good tactic. Intriguing. He wonders if this is the result of her self-defense instructor’s teachings—– or else she’s been in actual physical altercations before. She doesn’t seem nervous. But Owen, of all people, is not one to mistake composure for ease. 

                    “A little eager, huh?” He mirrors her smile, slyer, sharper. “You must not like me.” His legs carry him forward, circling her. Owen glances at the rest of the group, to make sure they’re paying attention. Satisfied, he continues, “Technically, there shouldn’t be any rules. Most people don’t need to know how to fight with a knife—- basic principal is to stab, and anybody can do it. I don’t suggest rushin’ ‘em. You avoid the knife at all cost, until there’s an opening to strike. Best case scenario, you neutralize the threat before they could grab you. Because that’s when shit hits the fan.” 

                    He steps towards her, non-threatening. This isn’t a fight, yet. He raises a hand, palm gesturing towards her face. “People usually try to grab your face, or your hair. It distracts. Your head’s too stuck in holy shit mode to stop the blade they’re shoving into your stomach. Repeatedly. And it’s worse if they’re bigger than you. They’ve got reach. You don’t. The height disparity is a disadvantage, but it shouldn't discourage. Avoid the knife, and don’t forget the other hand.”

If there’s one thing she knows: it’s his current behavior. Mimicry; circling; testing the waters. Predator and prey. Hunter and hunted. Khaliya’s known this all her life. The posturing, the movement and facial expressions are just as much a warning as they are a better understanding of him, and EVERY piece of information counts when it comes to situations like this. Her smile stays in place, but that relaxed posture of hers slowly loses its edge. Senses and periphery are carefully kept in check as she lets him circle out of view. Khaliya won’t give him any more information to pick apart and use against her by spinning to face him; all nerves and jumpiness. 

“Are you sure that’s not projection?” A gaze is tilted over her shoulder; eyes half lidded like a cat lazily deciding on if its target is worth the interest. A slow turn on heels as he approaches, but the woman doesn’t step away, only listens. 

The hand hovers near her face both as a lesson and a warning. The speech is useful, helpful–if she was a novice. Her hands keep still, but the muscle remembers ( left hand snaps to his wrist, hooking in the gap between forefinger and thumb, the length of palm that leads to the pinkie; twisting against the rotation until bones lock; other hand pivots, delivering a heel strike to the chin, sternum– ). The instinct is pushed back, as Khaliya slowly pushes Owen’s hand away.

Don’t forget the other hand. 

“I understand.” The steps are coordinated in her mind. Her opponent has height and reach on her. Luckily for Khaliya, she has speed and flexibility. Her hits would have to count, and they’d have to be fast. The separation from class example and actual threat starts to blur as heart rate picks up; nerves practically buzzing with electricity. 

                     “Well what am I suppose to get?                                      Everything here is—- vegan stuff.”

HEADCANON: COMBAT

Always be ready to fight. The people in this world are cruel, and will not offer you a chance to prepare. To fail to do so means to fail your clan, and it is that failure that can be their deaths.

This is a core philosophy when it comes to the Dalish. It is not uncommon for human towns to band together to drive out clans that draw too close (and violently so, at that), and Dalish are often the targets of bandits and slavers alike. The clans boast no fortresses to defend themselves or property; no armies and, more importantly: no allies. When push comes to shove, they’re the first to draw blades and bows and magic because--loathe as some may be to admit--they don’t have the luxury to be much more than animals trapped to a corner.

So when a Dalish must fight, it is brutal, savage, and bloody. 

Though Khaliya was trained as a First, both her brother and father were hunters in the clan. Taken under her brother Jeston’s wing, Khaliya was taught how to fight in close quarters combat (basic defense, as well as utilizing a blade). For this reason, Khaliya will always carry a blade on her person--typically tucked into the back of her belt. 

Though the Dalish lack the regimented coordination of a soldier or individual learning a specific fighting style, they draw influences from what is passed down and what they remember. As former slaves, the Dalish hold some knowledge on basic defense and offense passed down from Tevinter gladiators, though they draw their knowledge more from the techniques developed among the Emerald Knights of the Dales. 

As a race that lacks the stature of humans and qunari or the sheer bulk and mass of the dwarves, they rely more on speed and ambush; often blindsiding their enemies and focusing more on the vulnerable, weak points on an individual than hitting as hard as one can. 

He looks at her hands. He laughs.

“All this, all this prancing!” Roland laughs, and leans back to hold his belly. He had released her arm the moment she opened her palms. “I had a thought you kept the crowned jewels! Snatched from the bed of the Divine!” He laughs louder, and his face creases deeply, creased with mirth!

“I’m surprised you’ve only taken one!”

“Indeed. The souls of the fallen re-purposed as a dark army. Only recently have we curbed their numbers.”

And in place of the Scourge, their attention turns to whispers of a long-promised return: the Burning Legion.

“You spoke of demons in your Fade – but the demons I first encountered swore fealty to the Legion. The subjugation and fall of world upon world have come at their hands. They nearly succeeded in taking my own. Like the undead horrors, they are an army. One capable of powerful magic and wide-spread destruction.”

Her head shakes, a silent ‘no’ at the possibility of another threat on the horizon, and Khaliya paces. If this other being speaks the truth, and if she is here, then what is to stop this enemy from crossing to their world and laying waste to the lands she calls home?

     The mage stands frozen, her lips pinched as she searches for some kind of answer–any kind of answer–to give Khaliya that was not the dreaded truth. She swallows, her eyes darting nervously around the hall they stand in, searching for inspiration.

     ❝A…. manuscript.❞

     A lie, and a difficult one to maintain at that, but it’s the first thing that comes to mind.

     ❝I am… writing a novel. These are my… notes.❞

“A manuscript.”

The words are said flatly at first; gaze squarely meeting Calpernia’s own (and what a severe look, it is! is it any wonder the Venatori followed her command with both fear and reverence?). At the mention of a novel, however, DELIGHT paints her features in broad strokes. Hands clap to- gether, and Khaliya steps forward, before remembering her manners.