╳ ┃ THIEF'S HONOR

Alfrinteth stood stupefied in her place, as Varric only muttered a very annoyed finally before stalking forwards and taking the matters of having a room arranged for all of them in his hands. Bull only chuckled before giving her a gentle pat which resulted in the mage taking a few steps forwards; even when gentle Bull was strong enough to make her think that she could easily snap her in half. It was apparently enough to drag her out of her stupor taking a few steps to reach the rogue.

“Wait that’s it?” she couldn’t help but ask. “You took this in better than I expected from someone ready to kill us all.”

“Ready to kill you all?” Rilla scoffed. “Hardly. Had it been such, at least one of you would be dead.” The information was offered casually, not a hint of joke in her tone as she stopped and turned to face  Alfrinteth. “I apologize for my reaction upon seeing your group. But I had just been faced with demons of the past in my own homeland,  alone and without backup, my group scattered to the four winds. I reacted poorly, but I merely reacted to the potential danger you might have posed.”

“…I…yes?” Alfrineth responded affirmatively in a false cheer even if it sounded more like a question. Bull simply rolled his eyes and fixed her with a look. It was Varric that broke the standstill.

“Oh for the love of Andraste’s bare arse, just say you’re the fucking Inquisitor and move inside before I start feeling like one of the statues lining the walls in Orzammar, and as if he wanted to make a point he left out a heartily sneeze, the wind intensifying for a second. 

“The Inquisitor? The fabled Herald of Andraste sent by the Maker itself to guide us in this hour of need?” Rilla rolled her eyes, bafflement and just a tinge of amusement making it back in her voice as she sassed the other. “Well you’re not riding on a white horse and I was definitely expecting you to be taller. Like ten feet or so. And to shoot fireballs out your eyes. Bit disappointing what can I say. The stories about you are more far-fetched than those about the Hero of Ferelden.”

Alfrineth sighed, frustrated at her foolishness,the wind making all of them shiver as she could simply not say some blighted words.

Bull agreed as he frowned her way, obviously knowing what was going on in her mind. “Boss,” he admonished, and she swallowed, because this was silly, the whole thing was silly, the fucking wind wouldn’t stop blowing ice spears through the chinks in her armour. 

“My organisation secured the keep,” she started hoping this would make her spit it all out, but instead she found herself as tongue tied as before.

“Your organisation?” Rilla inquired neutrally, fingers latching on the straps of her armor, trying to keep them steady as the droplets of water clinging to her skin started to feel like icicles pressed against her flesh in the blowing winds. The antaam-saar was a wonderful armor in the deserts and heath of the Free Marches, but in the drenching cold of Ferelden it offered little to no protection.

“Solas is not an egg!” Alfirneth exclaimed, a bit too loud even in the ranging storm, and if a few birds in the distance left their poor shelter in a swinging tree in the middle of the storm… well she could not be blamed for it, it had to be the thunder. The only way one could describe her outburst was far away from anger, closer to mortified embarrassment, both at the words and her reaction. “I… mean… just… oh, Varric you know what you can stuff Bianca where the sun doesn’t shine,” she directed her thinly veiled awkwardness towards the laughing dwarf. Shaking her head she did not even look towards Dorian knowing exactly how smug she would look like, instead directing her gaze towards Rilla.

“Yes, behold the master writer in all his dwarven glory. He is the Varric Tethras, and I am done with him. Feel free to kidnap him for personal uses.”

“Now, now, Sparkly, don’t be like that just because Sparkles got your Fade in a twist. How can you simply sell me to the first stranger that knows about my books?!” he exclaimed in mock hurt.

“Very simply and with a clean conscience,” she deadpanned, already striding towards the main gates of the keep. At the sight of their drenched party the main gate starting to open, the rolling hinges gratting in the storm, adding to the chaos. Unless she would assume her guest would not be happy with it she would’ve casted a fire run by now.

“Now that’s just cruel, Boss. Next you will tell me that the Chargers and I aren’t welcome.”

“With that grin on your face Bull you might as well snoop in your manly, dragony arms your beloved not-Tevinter-boyfriend, and you could both just go into the Abyss and send my regards to the Dread Wolf’s balls.”  Turning towards their guest in the stunned silence that followed her words she said in her most diplomatic voice that would’ve made Jossie proud, none of her irritation showing:

“I apologise for my comapanion’s misdeeds,” she said plainly, obstinately not admitting she had just cursed them to the Veil and back since they pretty much deserved it. Dorian snapped his mouth shut from where it was hanging, and shook his head.

“Well… now that was terrifying, love, and I have seen you fight demons. We get it… we don’t need to crack any more jokes around you.”

It was only the fact that they stopped at the gates that stopped her from actually sending Dorian thumbling down the cliff in a thunderstorm, the mage running off inside with a very manly, dignified squeal as soon as the gate was open, trying to avoid the dirty look she sent him.

“Fenedhis lasa, you damned mage,” she yelled after his – admittedly very attractive – running arse as he was already halfway up the stairs.

“I love you too!” he yelled back. “Even more when I am not in the range and you don’t look like you’re about to strike me!”

Rilla tried valiantly to keep her laughter in check. When Alfirneth shouted to all that could hear her that the person in question was not an egg, she still managed to keep a straight face. When the mage rounded upon the dwarf, the first chuckles started breaking through. By the time  Alfirneth had finished with all her companions, tears of mirth were rolling down Rilla’s cheeks and her laughter could no longer be contained as she doubled over. It was simply too much of an amusing image for her to be able to linger on preconceived notions and fear of the unknown.

“I am no master, though painfully obvious a dwarf,” Varric answered swiftly. “Varric Tethras at your disposal. Irony makes it for miss my home in the Free Marches and sort of be done of finding creative metaphors to describe mud and wet Ferelden dogs,” he grumbled his small feet splashing into a big puddle of mud making him express some of his more creative ways of invoking the Maker’s bare arse.

Alfrineth only chuckled, before shooting a small smile towards the other elven woman.

“I have forgotten to introduce all my companions,” she mused shaking her head at her rudeness.

“Don’t worry, love, we are all too used to standing behind your shining spotlight. The backstage actors are never as interesting anyway,” Dorian teased and she slapped him.

“But that isn’t true by far,” she said, her eyes filling with gratitude towards their steady support and friendship one of the few things that had kept her going through all the mess since the Temple. “Now,” she addressed Rilla, “this is my dear friend Dorian of house Pavus. The big brute resembling the beasts he is so fond of is Iron Bull, commander of the Charger mercenary company.”

“You flatter me,” Bull said oddly pleased. “But it is The Iron Bull,” he corrected and she only rolled her eyes at his dramatics. No wonder he got along with Dorian.

“The Blight… must have been hard,” she finally added clumsily, unsure on how to offer the barest of comfort. She had not been there to see it, and her own challenges to the quest she had to finish made any platitudes about loss seem meaningless. There was nothing to offer, compassion merely a way to tarnish and diminish one’s hurt. “Ir abales,” she offered slowly, the common tongue lacking the right word to express her sympathies and sorrows.

With a small cough she changed the subject not wanting to linger and incur the other’s wrath. “As for the Old Ways, you know how it is. Mostly lost, us clinging to what is left for the past to offer us,” she exclaimed casually trying to make it sound less grim, less tragic than what it was, her finger tracing one of her vallaslin slowly, mindlessly. “Fortunately, some still remember, some more than others. I was lucky to find ma falon and hahren who knows so much. I could share some of his stories while we warm ourselves,” she added warmly as she guided them through the rain up the trek that lead to the main gates, the offer tentative and genuine. Whether they were the markings or not, The People all were connected, and she would never turn one away if she wished to know. A small part of her wanted to laugh, and she snorter; not long ago she had been just as clueless, until Solas had explained what now seemed stuff so obvious about Fade and magic.

“Oh no, you got her started about egg. She got her started about egg,” Dorian exclaimed with enough horror might one think his silk robe collection was being threatened. “Now she won’t stop talking about egg,” and Alfrineth found herself scowling her finger lightly touching Dorian’s hand as she zapped him vindictively, embarrassment making her less willing to feel sympathy at his dramatic shout of pain or the hurt puppy look he sent her way.

“Perhaps you should ask Iron Bull to kiss it better,” she stated with as much humour as one would expect to see at a funeral. Bull happily opened his arms towards Dorian who looked very much like a put off kitten.

“Varric Tethras? The Varric Tethras? The author of Hard in Hightown?” Rilla winched, remembering many a day Lilian had waxed poetic about the book and read it out loud to all an sundry. It tended to get repetitive considering it was the only book she had. “I’ll have to keep you away from our resident ex-bard. She’d probably mob you for an autograph.”

She snorted at the mage - Dorian her mind supplied- ‘s words. A puzzle if ever had been one, Rilla’s instinctive hatred towards all those hailing from Tevinter was tempered in his proximity by his clear fondness for the friends at his side, by the comment he had made about the Magisterium. She remembered the information she had learned about House Pavus while in Daedalus’ clutches, the secrets she had been forced to coax from unwilling victims. His presence in Ferelden, though surprising, was perhaps not unexpected.

“A mercenary company, hmmm?” Rilla asked, attention turning to the Iron Bull, her eyes gleaming with a sudden interest. “I suddenly feel like issuing a challenge of sorts, only I can’t very well do that when I have no idea where my group ran off to.”

Rilla turned her attention back to  Alfrineth, offering a small shrug, the memory of the Blight more a betrayal than a sorrow. “It was as it was. Loghain paid for his misdeeds, I could have asked for no more than that.” The wardens had avenged them and though the action could not bring back the dead, it brought her a measure of peace.

Dorian sent Alfrineth an apologising look as he saw their companion flinch, but neither mentioned it.

“You friend Sara sounds like a good person,” Alfrineth continued. “Our main healer is not with us today, he is back at our main camp. He is also an elf, and fond of the old ways,” she explained her lips quirking with fondness. She did not explain how she no longer practiced healing magic even if she was good at it because it was the magic her Clan had mostly encouraged, thus firstly mastered long ago, even as her veins were lightening and ice.

“Petty noble squabbles… The shemlens never learn. I bet I could even name you the fights,” she mussed as they slowly reached the road leading to the fortress, it’s turrets in sights. Well, she better find a plan on how to break it where they were going and fast… or hope she could avoid getting stabbed fast enough. Whichever came first. Dorian would laugh before healing her first the bastard; she could already feel his side gazes on her.

“Wycome. Here is a long way from the Free Marches, Sharpy. And considering current events I won’t say the most welcoming place of all. Don’t see why anyone would come visit,” Varric asked.

“She is. They all are, misguided bunch of fools that we might be,” Rilla answered, her gaze turning softer, a wistful sort of longing flaring but briefly on her features. “The old ways, hmm? I admit to holding little knowledge about such matters. Not much room to learn about them in the slums of Denerim.” Or in Tevinter chains, she added to herself, though the words remained unspoken.

“Oh I am sure. They do not even bother changing their patterns from time to time. Always the same repeated drivel,” Rilla snorted, attention going to the keep finally showing itself at the horizon. Though crude and lacking finesse, she had always preferred the architecture of her homeland to the gaudy displays other countries were so fond of. 

She laughed. She couldn’t help it. She did not know exactly how to break it to Rilla that they were camping in the keep not outside it. Oh well, perhaps she would make it clear as they strode through the gates. Not her best tactic approach, but certainly the best one to avoid a confrontation. 

“A Saarebas? I can see why they would adamant to have her back underneath the Qun,” Bull spoke, and Alfrineth had to stop the questions at the tip of her tongue about a Quinari mage of all people. She doubted it was going to be well received. 

“You needn’t worry about the Qun coming for any of your friends with us. We made them quite prone to try to avoid us.” Bull snorted.

“And I am simply on bad terms with the Magisterium,” Dorian murmured but still did not join the conversation as he normally would, even as his eyes took in the situation. 

“Wycome, huh?” Alfrineth asked, and she tried, she really did to hide the longing in her voice, the familiarity about what once had been her home. “How are things back there? Haven’t been home in over a year now, and I have lost most contact with my Clan.” She did not go into why, and how that why might extend beyond the Inquisition.

“Sara’s a healer. Completely pants at anything even remotely approaching offensive magic. She hates killing bugs and will nurse to health any sick animal we find on the way,” Rilla explained as she made her way forth, following the lead of the group. “When we found her, she was frozen in fear. Her patrol had been slaughtered and she was the only one alive, through some miracle. It took me hours to convince her that I wished her no harm.”

Sometimes Rilla was unsure, whether she hated Tevinter or the Qun more. Whereas the first had deconstructed her entire existence, erased it until nothing had remained merely a puppet to dance to Daedalus’ will, the other had ruined her friends in different ways. She flinched at the mention of the Magisterium, her reaction more visceral than she would have liked, but still she nodded, a sort of savage smiled stretching on her face as she accepted their words. Good. Any group that had antagonized both the Vints and the Qun was perhaps, no enemy to her.

She did not miss the long gaze towards Iron Bull. Well, that would turn inconvenient.

“Bull works for me. His company was hired by my people and I would doubt after everything we have been through and who our allies are we would squabble over petty qunari politics,” she simply stated even as she shot Bull an inquisitive look.

Bull’s laugh was heartily and bitter all at once. “You needn’t worry for your friends. I am more or less a Tal-Vishoth myself,” he confessed, and Alfrineth still felt the pain behind his words even as she did not regret one second her choices.

“Now this was settled,” she simply stated moving around and cutting Dorian from Rial’s point of view, we have a camp just here up the hill. I bet we can offer a few warm rooms to discuss stuff she said, already turning around and softly motioning for Dorian to move ahead. She had not missed how their new guest seemed to be wary of their staffs that pointed them out as mages. Perhaps once she might have overlooked details; her clan had never been keen in supporting her opinions of the others, of training her eye. That was no longer the case and it was strikingly clear how much she could see in others if she just trusted herself to listen. Josephine and Solas’ work alike.

Varric snorted at the word camp; the old keep they have stolen from the bandits was no simple camp.

“Journey through the Free Marches?” she continued speaking while walking already knowing the other would follow and not miss how she made herself vulnerable to a stab. She did not mention how she could also create a barrier faster than anyone. “Now that brings memories of home.”

“Petty qunari politics,” Rilla snorted, a casual shrug betraying her willingness to part from the topic at hand. “I guess you could call it thus.” Her eyes strayed to Bull, a shadow passing over her features at his laugh, apologies on the tip of her tongue for disturbing that which better remained left alone. “I see. I apologize for my apprehension. We have a former Saarebas in our group and attempts have been made more than once to return Asaara to the Qun. I do not know what her role was in the past, merely that they were adamant enough to bring her back. It is hard to truly abandon the tension of Seheron even it’s been two years since I left.”

Oh, she had her suspicions of course, honed throughout the years, bolstered by the information Taashath had offered her before she had perished. Yet, she had never voiced them, never questioned her leader though she knew Asaara would offer her answers were she to inquire about it. It did not matter; none of their pasts truly did, though they affected them in various measures. 

Starter Call! || Accepting

They have little time to meet until they reach Haven proper, the party traipsing through the gates to find their newest agents already making themselves at home. Outside the tavern - because of course that’s where they are - Atreion seats himself beside the elven woman, still all suited up from the road.  “ You and your friend… the Tal-Vashoth, ” He says, by way of greeting. “ You have been fighting together long? ” He pointedly does not look in the direction of the glaring kossith, instead busying himself with cleaning dried flecks of blood from his staff blade, rust falling onto the snow at their feet.

                      @oflaverna

Alfrineth almost left out a small sigh seeing the other girl relax her stance, finally assuming they were above killing. It was a tiring ordeal since for some unknown reason she meant no harm for the other girl, yet her fangs had been bared like a wild animal ready to strike. She was glad it had not come to that.

Bull only snorted at the information that her companions had gone after the dragon. She cast him a side-look waiting to see his reaction towards the last bit of information, yet he gave nothing away. A small signal he was letting her handle this as she pleased.

“A mercenary company?” she asked mussing, and Varric shot her a look as Dorian groaned.

“Allie, no,” he emphasised.

“No, what?” she asked, though a small smile was already playing at her lips. “I have no idea what you actually do mean to tell me, lethallin. When have I done something worthy of such words?”  

“Do you want the whole list now? We could as kindly well wait for the dam to flood again with water as we list your greater achievements, it would take the same amount of time,” Dorian drawled, completely unimpressed, while Varric simply shook his head as he had anticipated this was where the whole ordeal would lead to.

“I suppose that is not ideal,” she commented lightly, before twisting her staff above her head, and putting it away behind her back. “Andaran atish’an, I am Alfrineth,” she introduced herself, Josephine’s influence making itself seen as she fought the urge to make a simple bow; she doubted this company would appreciate it. “This is hardly the ideal place for a discussion,” she said motioning towards the half-ruined houses, the wood drenched in algae and blood, bodies littering all around as the wind howled a cruel song. “Come, let’s find somewhere warmer, and tell us all about that dragon your companions sought. We were also on its trail,” she decided, her offer of help instinctual and decisive. It was meaningless to mention she planned to kill that dragon after going into the well.

Dorian cursed in Tevan, and Varric groaned.

Rilla chided herself for her folly, the decision to accompany this group as stupid as any of her harebrained schemes. She could hear Asaara in her head, berating her relentlessly, could hear the vague echoes of Taashath’s memory cursing her for her stupidity. However, being alone in the wilderness was optimal for no one, not even for her; the next group of Vints or undead might have proved to be her undoing.

“Mercenary, yes. The core of the group hails from Seheron. Myself, our leader, Asaara, Talan, Isskari, Sara and Kost. The rest we picked up in our journeys across the Free Marches.” A motley group if there had ever been one, a weird assortment of skills and temperaments that somehow managed not to kill one another at the end of the day. Rilla was fiercely proud of her group, but even as she spoke, her eyes remained trained on the others, especially the Qunari, alert for any sign or reaction. She would not drag danger to her friends’ side. If anything felt amiss, she would simply seek ways to distance herself from these strangers. 

“Well met, Alfrineth. I apologize for brusque reactions, but in my line of work you learn to trust no one.” She did not mention the memories of the past - the proximity of the Tevinter mages - had made her unable to distance herself from her ghosts, the rogue’s reactions harsher than they would have been in any other circumstance. That was a truth she held only for herself, to be disclosed later, among her trusted friends.  

Alfrineth smiled in return, a soft friendly smile, even as her hands were itching with unreleased and unfelt magic, her insides tensing with the rush of battle.

“Well, we aren’t seeing your companions around, Sharpy,” Varric said what she had also remarked immediately. “And as capable you are proving yourself to be with a knife,” he said pointing at her casual play with her dagger that in front of anyone lesser, not as familiar with danger and battle as she had become might have looked like a clumsy display; as it was it simply showed her skill at both deceiving and wielding the blade, fingers skilfully playing a fluid dance with its battle worn handle, “we simply wouldn’t want to let a fella drenching in the rain like this with bodies of the dead lurking around.”

“What my friend meant to say is that the area isn’t safe,” Alfrineth added, already sensing the sharp touch of tension in the air. Your armour is quinari, and you have mentioned your friend. Do you need help finding your way back? Things will get quite rough around here.”

“What the Boss actually means to say is that the dragon is the least of your worries. You have mentioned you know one of my people? Take my word for it,” Bull added simply breaking off from the argument with Dorian showing that indeed he had been listening to the whole thing all along. Alfrineth wanted to sigh and shake her head. Oh, damn her friends.

“Call me a fool, but I might actually believe you,” the answer came softly, the smile of before washing off her face along with any traces of hostility that might had still lingered in her stance. What remained was weariness and the soft shivers coursing through her body as the wind pushed mercilessly at her drenched form. She sheathed the last of her daggers, body moving to a more casual position.

“My name’s Rialin, Rilla to just about everyone under the sun. Mercenary, thief and occasional assassin for Asaara’s company.” There was no reason bothering with lies, not when they had seen the corpses left in her wake, not when her knives still held traces of crimson despite the rain that attempted to cleanse them.

“My good for nothing companions probably up and went to find that blasted dragon. We were supposed to have met an hour ago, but they had failed to appear and the mages waylaid me on my path to seek them out.”

“Dragons?” Iron Bull exclaimed before she could even begin to form an answer. “Boss, can we?!” And Alfrineth swore caught in between laughter and bewilderment because she could not imagine how a 2 feet qunari warrior could look so very much like a puppy towards her.

“Can we not?” Dorian piqued. “Dragons sound dreadful for the skin,” and she sighed as the two started to bicker like a married couple over the benefits of battle and the benefits of battling while looking amazing, completely forgetting they were in the presence of a dangerous rogue. Not that she was fooled for one second, and from the looks of it neither was Varric lowering his beloved Bianca but keeping a close eye on the other elf. She had seen the daggers in the dark of Orlais’s nobility, has seen the bloodshed sweet Cole could sweep with one swift move out of nowhere. Despite all that, she was not inclined to attack, more curious than anything about this odd encounter.

“Hinterlands are not quite my definition of fun,” she remarked cringing painfully, memories of weeks and months of wandering through the same damned roads and forests. “Though I guess they are slightly better than this mess,” she offered off put, the rain drenching her mantle close to her skin, each droplet harsh like the tip of a blunt arrow. “Makes one wonder why would a lonely elf would be travelling alone through such dreadful lands,” she offered as a backwards question.

Rilla snorted, the kossith’s willingness to battle the dragon - and was he still a follower of the Qun, or merely a Tal-Vashoth she wondered - not dissimilar to Asaara’s own reaction upon seeing the dragon in the Western Approach. Indeed, it might have been better had she kept quiet about that particular fact, but it was oh so amusing seeing the two start bickering about the pros and cons of slaying dragons.

“I’ve got one of my own,” she pointed towards the snipping dup, the smile on her face more genuine than anything she had offered till then, the fear slowly abating and returning back to the deep confines of her soul, before she laughed, a short barking sound, amusement clear in her words as she answered. “Redcliffe has the best taverns in this mud drenched lands. I’d rather tackle a bear or two than drink the swill they serve as booze in Denerim.” 

Alfrineth’s violet made eyes made contact with brown, her magic flaring beneath her skin, an untameable companion to call upon. She did not, and as the other elf woman dressed in quinary garbs spoke she couldn’t help the undignified snort leaving her lips. Even so, she did not lower her guard. A shadow passed on the face of the elven woman, something she could not pinpoint or explain, something she would not have always perceived long ago when the air smelt of the salt of the Free Marches and no hole in the sky threatened them all, but her senses had sharpened through death and terror. Carefully, she leaned on her staff casually, neutral standing and assessing, yet not threatening. Her companions turned, and they did not be told to lower their guard, each one of them attuned to her silent commands in their own way. Dorian laughed at the joke too, while Varric shook his head and muttered something that sounded very close to a comment about adopting another stray. She paid them no mind, her mana surging inwards like a band, lightening crinkling at her fingertips like razors, yet insensible to anyone else but her, a trick she had learned from Solas.

“No taverns?” she exclaimed surprised. “And here we were searching for a good bit of fun through this drenching rain. How unfortunate to have scouted this whole blighted land for naught! Drat. Well everyone, mission done, time to go home, no tavern no reason to linger!” And her words were dramatic and playful, but she did not miss the sharp edge of the gaze which settled on her, all too familiar with mistrust and danger.

She only smiled placatedly in return.

“Alas, nothing but marshes, walking dead and bleak weather for miles to come,” Rilla cocked her head sideways, the gesture fun and playful, as fake as any other facade she had ever offered. “The last tavern got torched by a dragon that still claims it as hers, so unless your idea of fun is to tackle one, I suggest you set your eyes upon the Hinterlands.” Thinking back to Asaara and her extreme love of dragons, Rilla realized it may have been a bit foolish to mention the dragon to that particular group. After all, from what she knew, slaying dragons might very well had been their favorite activity.

To say she was tired it would have been an understatement. After fighting armies of corpses raised from the dead, demanding spirits and a rain that seemed to endlessly never want to wave it’s crisp patter against her dragon hide armour, everything just perfectly tinged with a healthy dose of red templars, Alfrineth was ready to send the next creature in her way back to its maker. Still, she trudged on, bandits on her mind, red lyrium showing worry in the indents on her lower lip, her hand tightly gripping her staff for support and an anchor – the word was bitter for her these days, at best making her laugh, at worst making her scowl in derisiveness – not even her companion’s inane chatter making her feel less miserable. She doubted that Varric enjoyed himself much more than she did, and she was surprised how Dorian had enough energy in him to still be spurred on by Bull’s challenges.

As they rounded the corner, the pathway going downhill towards the ruins hidden in the now drained lake, more corpses rose in a welcome. Dorian snorted, and his comment about how even a necromancer can get tired went over her head as she called upon her magic, and felt the Fade shimmer and break to her will, energy coursing through her veins, an addicting shock to her system as her powers turned into lightening and ice, spell after spell leaving her staff and fingers, an intricate dance of power.

As Bull clashed with the dead bodies splintering them to bits, and Varric’s arrows locked themselves into decaying flesh – a smell she would be quite grateful to forget – she realised that there were others lingering in the shadows besides the dead, a feeling of watchfulness and bloodlust making her turn and instinctively call upon the pull lightening her veins on fire.

The group is an oddity in itself, a conundrum Rilla has no answer to. The confusion battering at the forefront of her thoughts stay her hand for the time being, brown eyes assessing the motley crew with avid curiosity. An elf, a dwarf, a kossith and a human mage. It has all the makings of a bad joke and yet the punchline has yet to present itself. 

She feels the smell of ozone in the air, a telltale sign of magic soon to be wielded and she flinches once more, a movement almost invisible to the naked eye, her fear a constant companion never abating, not even in the land of her birth. Instead of allowing it to rule her she makes a step forth and another and another, daggers held tightly in her grip, blood still dripping upon the soiled earth, the antaam-saar clinging tightly to her skin, waterlogged and tattered.