#* origins

“i should have been there.” the camp is quiet, the fire crackling and snapping and the sound of two of the others talking about something in hushed tones. none have approached the cousland sisters and greer is glad for it. she doesn’t look from from her hands, which are splayed out palm-up and resting against her knees. “mother -” the words falter but she does not choke on them, “mother asked me to be home in time, and i didn’t come.”

“hey,” she uselessly jiggles the doorknob again, scowling at the still-shut door briefly before turning to face him, “are you any good with LOCKS?” it’s something greer never saw the point in learning ; she had never had need to pick locks at highever when any door would open for her due to name and status. perhaps it was short-sighted of her to neglect such a skill.

her fingers itch for denerim. for HOWE. there are still obstacles between them - ones that must be surmounted BEFORE THE LANDSMEET. it feels fast approaching and greer refuses to entertain even the idea that they will perhaps fail to find enough allies to be a formidable enough force when the time comes. she cannot - even THINKING OF THE POSSIBILITY is enough to flip her stomach. fingers let the notched arrow fly and it flies with a THUNK into the target she has set up at camp.

“what are you going to do after?” it is a question that could have been asked in some light, bouncy tongue, but greer poses it quiet and travel-worn. perhaps asking a question she has no answer for is a poor choice. if it turned back upon her, greer will have no answer. she does not want to rule. she does not want the mantle of teyrna. highever would be haunted and ghastly and there is no way it will feel like HOME without familiar faces within those stone walls. after HOWE IS DEAD, there is no direction.

“listen,” fingers are splayed against the rough bark of a tree and greer remains STATUE - STILL, head cocked to one side as she whispers and then falls into deep silence. listening, as she had said. “there’s something moving FAST towards us.” jaw sets grim and she sighs, pulling her bow off her back in a slick, well-practiced movement. “and from the sound of the footfall it’s nothing GOOD.”

“that was...CLOSE.” heart THUNDERS in her chest but hands do not shake as she surveys the field before them. darkspawn - of course - had found camp when half the party is away. it is as though the blighted things can smell even the faintest opening and come towards it with frothing, hungry mouths. the toe of a sturdy leather boot toes at the head of one of the things. “mind helping me collect the arrows?”

“it’s too quiet,” case in point - the way her voice, low as it is, sounds overpowering in the silence of the woods. it is something she noticed even before all of this began ; the way the wood, once alive with sound and life, has muted itself into something still and silent. there is no wind rustling the branches. there is no quiet crunch of creatures moving through brush. it is as though the world has been scared-still, perhaps some symptom of the blight. “your - warden senses aren’t telling you anything, are they?”