Zald is right beside the other warrior , giant lizards approaching slowly. Spitting out acid form their mouths, blood seeps from his mouth from reasons yet to be revealed. 

 “Can you fight?”

     “You know, there is a certain saying---”

Sector 003 was..something he’d never seen before or it’s his first time there. And needless to say, Harry was rendered, speechless.

He actually preferred Sector 001 than this.

He can see some crimes going on about. Where was the police? He wondered. They were right, this sector’s so corrupt--

A gunshot and Harry ducked quickly. 

Any place Kaz can find for peace and quiet, he’ll take it. Granted, he didn’t find this place because of word of mouth. He just happened to come across it - a park, with a night sky just above it. The only sound coming around the area being the busy streets of the city nearby, and general city life that he’s grown used to by this point. Both from Ketterdam, and from his limited time spent... here, in Spirale, as it’s called. 

He heads towards a section of the park far away from most civilization, wanting some time to think to himself. To get his thoughts together, to figure out exactly what he was feeling. But as he approaches somewhere he thinks doesn’t have much traction - he finds another person already there, and he stops in his tracks. 

Kaz doesn’t expect to see another person there. But he nods at them, keeping his distance. 

     Everything about this human city served to put her on edge. There had yet to be an attempt on her life but that did not mean much in her line of work. One could only imagine how the entirety of the Horde was managing with the sudden disappearance of its Warchief. Hence why the small scuffle of a shoe against the floor was enough to make her spin on her heel, wooden bow raised with a pathetic arrow notched.

It’s nauseatingly similar to waking up after the Conclave. He stares at a world of metal and glass and instinctively knows this place isn’t the Fade. This place is nowhere in Thedas, and he feels the same cold fingers of helplessness trail up his spine that he did the day he woke up with amnesia and a murderous Cassandra in his face.

But he’s not that reeling younger man any longer, and fortunately he seems to be free of threats of execution here. Steeling himself, Clement takes a deep breath of the strangely stale air and remembers who he is. This is nothing compared to Corypheus, he tells himself, and nearly believes it.

He carefully sidesteps thoughts of home and the welfare of his people. 

Wisely choosing to move in the direction of foot traffic, Clement does his best to take in his surroundings while hiding his baffled reactions. The noise, the strange carriages on the road, the mysterious devices everywhere that seem to run without the help of magic...it takes significantly more effort than usual to keep his face smoothly impassive. No need to tip off the strangers around him that he doesn’t belong.

After wandering for what felt like ages in an increasingly-confusing labyrinth, Clement spots a familiar face and feels his stomach drop down to his boots. Loghain? But..he swallows down the guilt, the memory of a Warden left to handle the Fade alone. None of them thought he’d survive...was he dead, then? Was this some sort of afterlife?

Am I dead too?

Unsettled by the thought but in the need of familiarity, and perhaps some answers, Clement calls out to the older man. “Loghain! Warden Loghain!”

The Orlesian capital looks like a child’s dollhouse next to the sprawling mass of metal and glass and pavement she’s faced with whenever she leaves her underground “home”. District Epsilon is decrepit and disgusting - though at least there’s no Darkspawn lurking there, a marked improvement on the years of her life spent in the Deep Roads - but it makes more sense than the city itself sometimes.

It’s while she’s wallowing, occupying a sidewalk bench and squinting against bright sunlight after spending several days underground, that she spots him. Any good Fereldan would know him; Bethany heard all about the heroes who liberated the country from Orlesian rule at the knees of the local storytellers in every village her family lived in. She’d seen him once, too, a brief glimpse during a gathering of Wardens.

“Warden Loghain,” Bethany blurts out rather stupidly. Excellent start, what a charmer you are. “Oh - well. Former Warden, I suppose. It’s not as though our titles mean much here.”

She’s rambling; Bethany considers literally biting her tongue to stop prattling at this man who likely doesn’t know her, but even a stranger she recognizes more as a legend than a man is better than nothing in this damnable place.

“Sorry, former Warden Bethany Hawke. ”

Not having a sword or being at home doesn’t make for any excuse to not practice, Ucchi figures. So he’s found a decently shaped stick and he’s practicing in a nice open park space he’s found, utterly absorbed in his careful, disciplined movements. It’s comforting, that wherever he is he can still do this, find peace and purpose in the familiar training and work.

The peace, however, doesn’t last long. One moment he’s practicing diligently, focused and determined, and the next his makeshift sword is flying out of his hand. He starts in alarm as it whizzes threateningly close past the head of an innocent stranger, barely grazing them. Once he’s gotten his wits about him, he takes off after the stick and its near-victim, sweat-drenched and panting when he comes to a halt in front of the stranger.