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UNBOUND

Here on Unbound, our plot follows four different timelines, set throughout the canonical history of the Dragon Age. The events following Trespasser, the time of the Inquisition, the rise of the Champion of Kirkwall and the quest of the Warden against the Fifth Blight.

And So is the Golden City blackened
With each step you take in my Hall.
Marvel at perfection, for it is fleeting.
You have brought Sin to Heaven
And doom upon all the world.

-Threnodies 8.13


 
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 small mercy, Diedrich | 15 Cloudreach, 9:41
as played by coelacanth

4" posts

group

Mage
It was five, maybe six weeks since Zareen had arrived in Haven; or maybe it was less than that, or more. She'd lost track. The wrecking of the Halcón felt at times as though it had happened yesterday, at times as though in another lifetime. Once or twice she had found herself questioning whether it had really happened at all. It seemed impossible that she should have endured such a thing and survived.

She tried not to think about it. She'd offered her services to the fledgling Inquisition some weeks earlier, and, at the time, had been surprised to find her offer accepted, though looking back it was easy to see why: though there was no shortage of men and women wanting to fight for the Inquisition, those among its ranks able to heal the wounded were few. Some of the Chantry sisters knew herbs and how to set a fractured bone, and there was an apothecary living in the village. And now there was Zareen.

So she'd been kept busy, and she was grateful for it. There was even a public house in the village, one that had remained undamaged by the explosion at the Conclave and offered a surprisingly good selection of rums for a tavern in a country whose people had little taste for it and whose climate was too cold for sugarcane to grow. Given time, she could get used to the place.

But not the weather: that she would likely never get used to. It hadn't seemed possible that it could get any colder after Zareen had first arrived in Haven, and yet it had, the lake freezing over and snow falling endlessly. A mild fever had swept through the village, and Zareen had been inundated with complaints of aching joints and sore throats, most of which were easily remedied with rest and honeyed tea infused with verbena and lemon. For those more seriously affected, she set up camp beds in her tent, where they drifted in and out of sleep while Zareen tended to a procession of injured soldiers.

Folding away the bed the last of her fever patients had laid on the few days past, she was struck by the sudden realisation that the last time she'd left her tent had been before he'd first come to her, and was seized by an urgent need to be anywhere else. The tent was suddenly too small, its sides seeming to press in on her oppressively. Rather than place it neatly in a free corner as she had the others, she left the folded bed where it stood and ran outside, snatching a hooded cloak from the back of a carved wooden chair on her way out.

She needed fresh supplies anyway. She made her way through the village to the quartermaster's tent, fastening her cloak around her shoulders and drawing its hood over her head.

A lit metal brazier stood just outside the tent, the burning cordwood inside sending vivid sparks up into the pale morning sky. A group of former templars, still wearing the insignia of the Order rather than that of the Inquisition – the Inquisition's smiths couldn't produce armour fast enough to keep pace with the arrival of new recruits, so Zareen had heard – had gathered around it. Zareen paid them no mind at first, stepping just inside the tent and taking up a feather quill from beside the cloth-bound ledger in which those requiring supplies were required to note down what they needed.

“-- boy ran through the night to deliver the message,” one of the templars, a huge bear of a man with a shaved head, a waxed moustache and a thick Orlesian accent, was saying. “I left him with the Chantry sisters. Give him some food and rest.”

“And the rest of the villagers?” - the petite blonde woman to his left; Fereldan, by the sound of her.

“Those that hadn't already been forced from their homes by the rebellion fled. Seems the place was half-empty to begin with. A blessing in disguise, by the sound of it.”

Zareen set down her quill and turned her back to the table on which the ledger sat, looking out and up into the falling snow as if giving careful thought to exactly which herbs or how many rolls of gauze dressing she wished to order. In fact, she had everything written down already on a square of folded paper, which she idly unfolded and refolded while she listened to the conversation taking place outside. It was starting to get interesting.

DIEDRICH ALBRECHT

Jan 8 2018, 03:23 PM
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