the hinterlands were . . . humbling. there was the obvious, abstract, made-her-crave-a-drink way: the unending chaos, templars slaughtering mages in droves, refugees huddled together around dying fires against the cold fereldan night. every step felt as though she were moving through a swamp. a big, guilt-filled, all-your-fault swamp. but the most immediate humbling had come in the form of moving a fraction of an instant too slow and catching the pointed end of a templar's sword. it certainly wasn't the worst she'd ever had, but it was the worst she'd had in awhile, and averil had done her best not to grimace the entire way back to the village.
they were young, likely not even harrowed before the falling of the circles, and thanks to the assembled grit, dirt, and blood that covered her did not have the wit to gape and look astonished. erasing her usual war paint did her well enough in that regard. the dirt was mostly just set dressing. her arm was flung around one of the youths' shoulders as they brought her inside a collection of tents, sitting her down on a cot. here, we've got an injury! she took a blade for us, she did. wait here a second.
โ wouldn't dream of moving, โ averil murmured, her voice dry as she glanced down at her wound. she'd learned enough, in the past. probably hadn't gone too deep, then again once you were run through once everything else seemed shallow by comparison. she glanced up at the sound of footsteps.
and stopped breathing entirely. the sound of the village outside, the bodies that moved around them, all of that became muffled by the blood rushing through her ears. her face went a strange, slack blank. she blinked. and then, mouth dry: โ strange occupation for a warden. โ
@astraldestiny.
