Off to Denerim - Lithawen's Group

[OOC: I'm assuming that we go round robin-style on these forums? If not, I apologize in advanced for my audacity in posting out of order (for I know not what the precise order is) and kindly request that this post is ignored for the purposes of canon - assuming that I am in the wrong, of course.]

The warrior stood upright and surveyed the carnage he had left behind one final time. It was one of the few pleasures he had - and one of the few he allowed himself - in the calm of a battle fought, in the quiet that descended when the last of life had ebbed from the last of foes, he would stand and make note of his handiwork, both to take note of what had happened - so as to remember the best and worst ideas for the next battle - and out of professional pride. It was not bloodthirst or cruelty, though many would mistake it for such if he tried to explain himself; eloquence was not his forté. It was the enjoyment of a task well-performed. "A good deed is its own reward," as it were.

As he turned about to recall the steps he took that led him into the situation earlier, he looked down the road, down the way he had came, and noticed dots - shades? Shadows? Figures? - in the distance. He had no idea who, or what, they were, but only that when he had come down the road from that direction, there were no such things that could have marred the rough road in such a peculiar way.

He fixed the hood of his cloak over his helmet, drew the cloth around his figure, and loosened the blade that hung at his waist in its scabbard before stepping off the road and fading into the woods. He would slow his pace and be mindful of his footwork. Rest in a tree for the night, once he tired, and keep observant of the road, lest the dots in the distance became people. It would not do for him to die from a blow from behind, nor did he need interruptions now, on the road. Though he knew that he would relish the chance to work with sword and sorcery once more, he knew also that he had far more pressing tasks:

"Kill darkspawn."

"Find Grey Wardens."

"Protect innocents."

Only after those tasks were complete would the swordsman be allowed - would he allow himself - rest and relaxation.

Lithawen looked to Bowen, her mind racing through possible battle plans. She nodded slightly to his request, "We'll hang back slightly." she said looking to Caterina. The group was balanced, with a mage, a rogue and a warrior but that was about all they got going for them. So she wanted to proceed with caution.

"I don't sense any darkspawn, which just makes this worse. People are the worst monsters." The mage mused as she pushed Arlathan on. "Get ready to fight you two."

They approached the carnage and Lithawen put all her defenses, her hand wrapped tightly around Elendil. Dismounting and looking over the bodies of the dead, the arcane warrior sighed. "Crows?" she looked back to the others, still on edge. "Looks like they were no match for their mark."

"We'll hang back slightly.''

Bowen just nodded, focused now on the road and his mind racing about the best way to protect both ladies and let them make their magic and rogue skills while the thing or things that made someone scream that horrible way was focused on him.

"Get ready to fight you two."

The Nevarran grunted and shook his head. What in Thedas was that girl thinking? There was no point saying that. Caterina and him were humans but not idiots, and the very moment they heard that scream they were ready. Talking about him, he had been prepared since the very moment they started their way.

He said nothing, but made Goliath walk following the road until they found the corpses and the carnage.

"Crows? Looks like they were no match for their mark."

''These weren't Crows'' Bowen stated calmly, and dismounted to kneel beside one of the corpses, frowning. ''These filthy fellows were just thugs. See this one?'' He lifted a chopped feminine hand and pointed. ''Mage. Her fingertips are burnt, she wasn't trained. And, most curious...''

He grunted again and lifted one of the half chopped heads that were on the ground, near another corpse, not the one who owned the head originally. Bowen nodded, satisfied to see that he was right when he noticed the marks. ''Crows don't have the same marks as other Crows. It's not a good thing for undercover activities and such. I've seen this marks in the qunari head Drake, Durbans and Calli showed Nygozy after their little trip to Orzammar's market. We'll bring some of tis proofs to Nygozy as well, this is not a coincidence''

Bowen stood again, the Warden's crest shining lightly on his breastplate with the daylight, and looked for a better head to take with them, even if he had to cut it for another body. Suddenly he thought about something and looked to Lithawen. ''If you agree with that, of course. I am sorry because I am going to do it anyway, but I'd want us to agree and work together, the three of us''

As Caterina dismounted, sharpened blade safely snug at her wrist, she found herself immediately agreeing with Bowen's assessment of the victims (whether they had been victim or assailant in life was no matter- the bodies that lay on the ground now were victims, only). For one, none carried the distinctive coloration of the Antivan people, and for the Crows to accept a foreigner was rare. For another, these men were dead- though Caterina was a Warden, and thus a force for justice and lawfulness, she still had a great deal of respect and pride for her country's unmatchable assassins. Crows did not fall in battle. Not like this, at least. There was, of course, also the matter of their being many bodies, and Crows rarely worked in pairs, let alone large groups.

No, these were not Crows, but whoever they were- whoever they had been in life- Caterina found herself sending them off to the Maker with a prayer. They could not have gone painlessly.

While Lithawen and Bowen stood among the carnage, Caterina kept to the sidelines, body tense. She normally kept her senses on edge, but surrounded by such a display, she felt especially nervous. She didn't like to think that whatever had done this might still be in the air. Judging by the state of the bodies, the attacker, at least, couldn't have gotten that far.

She paid little attention to whatever exchange was going on between Bowen and Lithawen as she scanned the forest around them, but she did hear the last bit of what Bowen had to say.

She turned her head to him as her eyebrows flew into her hairline. She was no stranger to brutality, and no harm could rightly come to a man who was already dead, but taking the mans head struck her as alarming. "Take his head, Bowen?" She questioned, though she sounded more amused with the suggestion than offended. "Can we not simply take note of the tattoo? These men and women should be laid to rest properly."

A Warden's crest flashed in the daylight.

Well then. That settled the warrior's second task.

Unless, of course, the man that wore the crest got it by killing a Warden. But not many people were keen on - or skilled enough - killing Wardens. Were they? He had just been been held up by several fools. But then, there was no excusing fools. And furthermore, he had not been flaunting a Warden's crest, though a small one was embossed on his left pauldron.

It was a risk he would have to take. He locked the sword at his waist back into its scabbard, but loosened the one on his back, in case the situation got violent in short time, and drew back his cloak so that his Warden's crest was visible. For a moment, he contemplated taking off his helmet as well, but decided against it - that was too large a risk. He would remove it only if he was reasonably sure no one was going to ty and kill him. Instead, he compromised and pulled back his hood.

He took a deep, quiet breath, steeling himself for the next encounter, and peered back onto the road, one last time, to make sure he had a correct count.

One male, two females. Male was heavily armored and wore the Warden's crest - easily assumed to be the leader of the trio; moreover, the other two had dropped back when he demanded it. But at the same time, he appeared to defer, at moments, to the other females. The females - one elf, one human, both practically unarmored. The elf bore - no, wielded - a massive blade, easily taller than she was. The other female held nothing large - for that matter, she seemed empty handed, though knives and daggers were hinted at as she moved, teasing out with the sway of her clothes.

Two warriors and an assassin, most likely. No doubt the male was trained for lasting power in close-quarters; the female with the sword would probably drop on an occupied opponent and make bloody work with her two-hander, assuming she could swing it with any speed - and the swordsman always assumed his opponent was skilled with their possessions; the last female probably disappeared in the chaos of battle and re-appeared only to slip a blade in between an unaware fool's ribs.

There may have been more in the forests - a smart group would travel with a hidden escort in case they were waylaid - but there had never been any signs of such in all the time he watched the three come down the path, which meant either there was no hidden escort, or that the group that walked openly were very, very good at being unreadable.

Well, it was too late for any more thinking, for the warrior had stepped out of the woodwork and back onto the path, moving with slow surety towards the three.

Lithawen looked to Bowen and snorted. "I would not know if these people were Crows or not. I have never had one after me before." Moving to the side she let the man walk forward to examine the bodies for himself. Sure she spent maybe a day or two in Antiva in the past, but that didn't mean much. Her clan never wondered for very long in those lands. The smell alone was enough reason to stay away.

Burnt fingers? Now that was something this mage had seen plenty of. She looked down at her own hands, each finger clear of any signs of improperly used spells, or even from signs of her sword use. It was amazing what a great healer her mother (and now Kalera) had been.

A shiver went down her spine as he suggested they take a head back with them. "I'm with flat-ears here," but not that these men and women should be buried, that would take too much time our of their already painfully long trip. From where they were at the moment, they could see the tower of Magi, looming in the distance with it's threats of cages. "a detailed sketch or notes would be provider." but then, he did insiste. "Then you may carry it," The mage bent over and emptied a bag full of herbs from the mage. Nothing of great use, mostly just igredents for weaker potions, nothing that she had any need for. She passed the sac to the Warrior with a dead-panned expression. "Let's hope it does not start to roat before we make camp."

Pointed ears twitched as the softest noise floated through the woods to her attention. Foot steps. Sure her senses were a bit 'weakened' from her long time in the cities, but one never really forgets what they learn living in the woods. And it was always important to know what was around you, friend or foe.

With one fluid motion Elendil was held out in front of her, flames encasing the red steel as she held her dear sword with one hand. "Show yourself," she snarled bitterly to the unseen warrior.

[OOC: Griffinhart, Bowen and Calliara had just returned from Weisshaupt, they were sent there to deliver a message with a third party member, a dwarf named Gunnar. Gunnar was seriously injured and lost his left hand during the trip, and so the three had to remain in Weisshaupt for a couple of months until they knew about Ostagar and Bowen and Calli decided to return as fast as they could, and Gunnar would return as well when he is alright again. Ok, the reason for this babbling: maybe Bowen and Calli met, or merely knew about Griffinhart in Weisshaupt? I guess they never talked due to your character's description, but maybe they saw each other? Up to you, I just wanted to know =) End of the OOC]


"Let's hope it does not start to roat before we make camp."

Bowen accepted the dead mage's bag and nodded., filling it with some snow before placing the head inside. ''In case it roat I'll let you to banish me to the back again if the wind blows properly'' He winked with a smile.

"Can we not simply take note of the tattoo? These men and women should be laid to rest properly."

''I think the same as you do, preciosa'' He smiled, his strong Nevarran accent almost destroying the Antivan word. ''But our group is still new. Nygozy could believe us or not at this moment. Until the moment she is sure she can trust us completely, we need proofs. I don't like disturbing the death more than you do, but this is necessary''

And then he heard the steps too, and dropped the bag to the ground and turned, drawing his sword and enormous shield with the Warden crest on it as well. He was still wearing his own helmet, so he could lift an eyebrow and not be seen. One moment. He knew that guy. He saw him somewhere...

[OOC: That is a perfectly reasonable and acceptable backstory and, moreover, I think it could make for more interesting character interaction. :3

Of course, I'll hold off on posting anything IC until Caterina posts.

-- Griffinhart]

Caterina had tensed a fraction of a second after Lithawen, and a moment before Bowen, his term of endearment in her own language falling on deaf ears as knives flashed into her hands, hard and unforgiving steel glinting in the sunlight. Uneasy demeanor gone, Caterina allowed her consciousness to slip into the familiar numbness of battle-ready calm, departing to a place in her mind where the only thing that mattered was 'don't get killed', and damn everything else. A mask of indifference slid in over to cover the cold churning of violence in her stomach.

The process always frightened the part of herself that was buried under years of bloody memories.

While Lithawen braced her sword and barked angrily into the shadows of the forest, and Bowen's shield and sword rang off each other as he jerked them to position, her own instincts led her to the first shadowed spot in reach before her eyes even registered where it was- behind Bowen and Lithawen, in the forest that covered the opposite side of the road from where the sounds of footsteps came from. It afforded her a path to the tree-cover on the other side of the road just a little further to her left, and she could use that clear path to sneak around the back of the approaching man, should she need to. Cloaked in barely-concealing but passable darkness, she barely registered the tension lifting from Bowen's shoulders, only to be replaced with mild confusion, and even recognition. Her own tension did not leave her- recognition was not an automatic path to levity. More often than not, in her own experience, to meet with a familiar face was even more reason to draw a blade. As such, her legs tensed under her, ready to spring or sneak as would be needed.

He stood before them, blackened armor bloodily bearing the Warden's sigil, bare-handed.

A brand blazed before him, beside a burnished bulwark; behind brand and bulwark, a blade bolted. "Show yourself," the brand had snarled, moments too late; for the stalker that slew the seven on the path had chosen to step into the sunlight before she spoke; and a figment of Death's imagination walked down the worn path through the forest.

He stood before them, brandishing the bloodstained badge that all Wardens bore, gesturing to it with a touch.

"You bear blades against a brother." The words tumbled down the path with the rumbling of boulders, tinged like the barrenness of a desolate mountain peak. They were a statement of fact, not a question of motivation - the trio were not being asked "why?"; the words were a judgment.

He stood before them, hand at heart, a monument to a massacre.

''We bear blades against someone that we were not expecting'' Bowen answered, but lowered his sword and placed it again on his back with the shield. Then he took off his helmet and shook his head to move his hair, his deep green eyes always focused in the other Warden.

The Nevarran had no reasons to not believe the other man was in fact a real Grey Warden.

''Take off your helmet and let us see you. I am Bowen Pentaghast from the Ferelden Grey Wardens'' The tall Nevarran bowed his head a bit, never looking away from him. ''Excuse us, brother. But these roads aren't too safe for travelers these days. You did a good job here, were they bandits?''

[OOC: Shall I continue waiting for Caterina, or pre-empt with my own post?

-- Griffinhart]

(Sorry this took so long. I started writing it between classes yesterday, but I didn't have time to finish it.)

Slowly, and perhaps with more caution than was strictly necessary, the dark skinned assassin crept out from the cover she'd been hiding in, the dappled light that filtered through the leaves giving way to fuller light. She could feel her pupils dilating, for all her tenseness, as she went from shady to sunny. Caterina sheathed one of her knives back in a spot at her belt, and returned the other to a hidden holster on her wrist, picking her way across the road and around the bodies without turning her eyes from the new, mysterious Warden.

She came to a stop next to Bowen, between him and Lithawen, and tried to avoid looking around at the ground disdainfully. 'Good job' indeed, she thought in disgust. No one deserved to die like this, bandit or otherwise. The fact that a fellow Warden was to blame- or laud, depending on your point of view- only caused her stomach to drop more. A Warden was supposed to execute their actions with perfect clarity and restraint- there was no restraint here, and she could only see the work of a berkserker in the deaths of these men and women. As an assassin, she appreciated an effective kill more than anyone, but there was also cleanliness to consider, and no matter how evil a man, they deserved to go to the Maker as swiftly as possible, not in carnage like this. Only He was to judge the hearts of men, not men judging men.

"You will forgive us if we bear blades against a stranger who was able to do this," she added, trying to keep the distaste from her voice, and she swept her hand in an arch to testify to the severity of 'this'. Her hand returned to its place by her side, and she inclined her head proudly as she stood firm, and stared right at the man.

"You are a brother, and fellow Warden. I place no judge on you, for I have not the authority to judge, nor to speak for my companions." Her head lowered slightly to levy her gaze at him directly. "However, authority or not, I pray to the Maker that you have had a good reason for this. Andraste has no pity for those who abuse their skills." Some place in the back of her mind hoped that she would not displease Lithawen or Bowen by doing this, but it was something she would not back down on.

"Take off your helmet and let us see you. I am Bowen Pentaghast from the Ferelden Grey Wardens," stated the bulwark. The warrior quickly ascertained that compliance was the best course of action - these three looked far more competent than the previous seven. Any fight would be messy, and not one that he would likely walk away from unscathed. The warrior nodded slowly in assent and removed his helmet.

Silver-aqua eyes, eyes that had perceived the Fade in all its ephemeral beauty, peered out from behind a white mane. A pale face, one that saw sunlight little and sleep less. A face scarred with the passing of people, with hard, dead eyes, eyes of a predator. A killer's visage, smooth and unworn with feeling. A face with a voice like a cold mountain summit: "Raphael Griffinhart. Weisshaupt."

"You did a good job here, were they bandits?" inquired Pentaghast. Griffinhart nodded once - humility bade him to for the compliment, and to answer the question.

And then she came out of the shadow, and her voice followed, a voice of divine displeasure. An accent - lilting, strange, unknown to his ears. Like music. "You will forgive us if we bear blades against a stranger who was able to do this," she praised. If they were trying to seduce him with words, it wouldn't work - but inwardly, he was pleased nonetheless. Were all Fereldens this free with their praise, he wondered? "I pray to the Maker that you have had a good reason for this. Andraste has no pity for those who abuse their skills," the woman continued. Perhaps they weren't entirely complimentary types. Good; Griffinhart did not believe in an overabundance of praise. It made for overconfidence and arrogance, it led to complacency. Complacency could kill.

But her words stirred something in him, regardless. "You speak for Andraste?" Not waiting for an answer, Griffinhart broke eye contact with the girl and looked once again at the killing field. "I was more efficient." His voice was even, colorless. He said it in the same voice as he would say "the sky is blue," or "that is a corpse." A statement of simple fact, the same simple fact he had recited many times before to similar questions. He was better than his opponents, and that was why they were dead. It was not his fault they were slower, or weaker, or stupider.

Lithawen bore the weight of Elendil easily, as she followed this stranger's movements. The red point trained on the man, prepared to strike. "I bare my arms against any and all. Stranger or Kin. If you knew of me you would hold this true. Warden or not, I will watch you carefully until you have proven yourself not to be a threat, dead, or I grow bored." she explained, lowering Elendil.

"I would ask what it is that you are doing this far from Weisshaupt, but I truly could not care. If you wish to follow then you will fall in line and follow my orders. I am the leader here. And I suffer neither tomfoolery nor insubordination." Lithawen's voice was cold, as she watched this Griffinhart. She did not trust easily, nor did anyone expect her to. But she could tell this man was at least not so useless as the others in the whole group, after all he did take down these thugs all by himself. And that was good enough for Lithawen to know she wouldn't have to be babysitting him.

This man was a Warden, or at least bore their arms and armor. And so she stepped back from him and towards Arlathan. She turned her back to the man and pet her horse, looking down the road they had come wondering how far behind the other group had to be. They weren't in any danger from this one man, but she wondered if they were even close enough to help should someone happen to say fall dead and they were down a teammate.

The cool ease with which the man spoke of death did not deter Caterina. She puffed out her chest and raised her head proudly once again, his questioning of her authority failing to fluster her. There was little that flustered the Antivan any longer.

"My name is Caterina Caelestis, Raphael Griffinhart, and I speak for no one but myself, and no man speaks for the Lady." She paused, gaze unwavering as she watching him gaze about the battlefield. "Efficiency is a relative term, is it not? I am not doubting your efficiency- I am questioning your justification. No man may take another man's life without reason, and I have no doubt that you had it. I am merely," she paused, hoping to choose her words carefully. She was often far too tempted to say the first thing that came to her mind, and damn the consequences, but she could not afford that in this circumstance. "Cautious," she finally decided, voice low and careful and dangerous, "that you found it necessary to end them in this way." Her eyes were less hard, but guarded, nonetheless, and she kept them firmly in place, staring straight at the ghostly-pale man's dead eyes. If anyone was capable of this, she thought, fighting against the urge to bite her lip as she always did when worried, it is a man with eyes like those.

It concerned her that Bowen seemed so easy with this man- a man who could char two bodies to their bones- but perhaps he found camaraderie in the title Warden. She couldn't begrudge him that, she supposed, but she had been raised to be far more cautious. Lithawen's reaction, however, was quite exactly what she expected. The elf's blatant disregard for human life also disturbed the assassin, but who was she to act as a moral guideline? The elves had more than enough reason to care less than they did about human life.

"I bear my arms against any and all. Stranger or kin. If you knew of me you would hold this true. Warden or not, I will watch you carefully until you have proven yourself not to be a threat, dead, or I grow bored," stated the elf, her weapon lowering. In a bare instant, Griffinhart had already conjectured that the woman was incredibly inefficient. Until he proved himself, or she grew bored? The first was a subjective criteria and could have meant anything; the second one simply reeked of arrogant complacency. Either the elf was making bold, stupid lies in an effort to intimidate him - which would not work in the slightest - or she was being watched and kept alive by the mere whims of chance and luck.

Trust is a weakness.

Even worse, she was their leader. Did Fereldens really let such idiots lead tactical forays? Griffinhart had no doubt that moronic people such as this elf existed all across the lands, but at least the Wardens of Weisshaupt had the decency to keep them in positions where their stupidity could get only themselves killed. "I suffer neither tomfoolery nor insubordination," parted the elf, before regarding him coldly for one more lingering moment and turning her back on him to go to her horse. "Stupid," criticized the warrior, within the confines of his head. "Never turn your back on someone you do not trust. Your worst enemy is the one that wants to kill you with no regard for their own life. Never turn your back on someone like that." But he said nothing - if she wanted to get herself killed, then she was more than free to do so.

Griffinhart stayed rooted to his spot as the other girl, who had been cut off by her leader, rounded on him once again. "I am questioning your justification," she said. He did not understand those words in the slightest, given the context. Was she asking him why he killed them the way he did? There was no other way. The concept of holding back in a fight was utterly alien to the swordsman's mind. When he did something, when he set his mind to a goal, there was nothing else but success at the greatest magnitude - the was no point in doing something if he was not going to give his best effort and succeed. "I am merely... cautious that you found it necessary to end them in this way."

She made no sense.

"Death is death. Any way of killing will kill - this is mine," said Griffinhart, haltingly, the words creeping out unnaturally. He had never been compelled to explain the obvious to anyone, but it seemed that this was the only way to get these strange foreign Wardens to calm down. "It does not matter how they died. They died."

Who were these Wardens of Ferelden, that recruited fools and those without a stomach for killing? How had they survived - and not only survive, but stop - the Blight?

He unfocused on the human and back onto the elf. "Where is the line and what is my position?"

''Your position is with me'' Bowen stated calmly, still staring at the new Warden with a gentle smile, but his eyes were serious. ''We're part of a bigger group. The elven lady'' he gestured to Lithawen ''is the temporal leader of this little group, and I'm serving as her second. Do you have a horse or something?''

Always looking at him, Bowen wrapped his arm around Caterina's shoulders and kissed lightly the top of her head. He was very, very tall and she was quite short, and he would have liked to kiss her properly, but he wanted to keep in sight the other man, just in case. He was a Warden, yes, but the Nevarran never trusted someone until he had a drink with him or her. Preciosa, let's go. Bosco! Be a good boy and take care of your mistress''

The tall Nevarran waited patiently for the ladies to continue, and then offered his hand to Griffinhart. ''I saw you in Weisshaupt. I don't think we ever talked, but I'm sure we saw each other. I arrived there with an elven white haired girl and a wounded dwarf, all Ferelden Wardens. When Calliara and I left, we didn't know that Weisshaupt was going to send Wardens here. It's good to have you here, brother''

Some part of Caterina, prideful as it was, balked at the idea of being talked to like a child by this newcomer. She was no stranger to death, she did not shirk away from it as so many did, instead laying comfortably in its constant embrace. But a man must have restraint, and a fear of the Maker. There was a difference between a warrior and a butcher, after all.

She would have gladly spoken her mind, retorted as words, but of her own language and the Ferelden language, began to fly to her tongue, but a gentle yet firm hand on her shoulder brought her back to her senses, and she looked up at Bowen, eyes squinting slightly as he kissed her forehead. She pouted as he graciously told her to return to Bosco's saddle.

"I do not appreciate being told what to do, precioso," accenting the word as she said it properly, as opposed to Bowen's almost amusing butchering of the sound. He was getting better at it, though, and her eyes softened to show that she was not really angry with him. "Please be careful," she whispered up to him as she leaned up to hug him, and place a quick kiss on his lips before turning to go to Bosco. She made an effort not to look towards the strange, white haired man again. To do so would only serve to further aggravate her. He was a brother, and Caterina could not hate him because of that, but she would have to be persuaded into liking him, and seeing him as a true brother.

"Do you have a horse or something?" inquired the much more sensible Pentaghast. Griffinhart shook his head in the negative. A horse was a risk he was not willing to take, especially traveling alone. Now that he was part of a mounted group though, it would make sense to acquire one at the earliest possible chance - he could not out-march a horse, as much as he prided his self-reliance. The warrior looked at Pentaghast blankly as he kissed the girl - Caelestis? - and waited. Again, no expression nor emotion flitted across his face; it was as if a leaf on the wind had passed through Griffinhart's line of sight: something that was there, but of no notability.

He blinked several times when Pentaghast stretched his hand out though, and took a moment to recall the meaning of the gesture, before taking the hand with his own and shaking it. "I saw you in Weisshaupt," said the armored Warden, elaborating on the circumstances under which they saw each other. Griffinhart didn't remember exactly if Pentaghast's words were true or not - the Ferelden Warden spoke of something that happened months ago - but Griffinhart said nothing to dissuade Pentaghast, instead choosing to nod in accordance with his words. He seemed like he had a better memory of people than Griffinhart did, anyhow.

"It's good to have you here, brother," stated Pentaghast. Griffinhart grunted in what was hopefully an affirmative tone, all the while thinking, "For you." They had an incompetent leader and a fettered Andrastian, neither of whom suspected or distrusted Griffinhart for sensible reasons - and didn't seem particularly keen on acting on that distrust. Only Pentaghast seemed sensible enough to keep an eye on Griffinhart the entire time, and the only one who didn't seem as capricious and foolish as the elf, nor as squeamish about the arts of killing as Caelestis. In short, the only one who seemed like a proper Warden.

Griffinhart moved to stand beside Pentaghast, at a distance -reinforcing the line (as it were) but staying within Pentaghast's killing distance, close enough to the women to come to their aid if he was needed, but far enough that the male Warden would have a good, deadly shot at Griffinhart's backside before the haunted hunter could bring the others to any harm if he dared try anything - a sign of cooperation as best and as obvious as he could put it.

Trust is a weakness.

[OOC: Tired of waiting, gonna post]

Bowen nodded lightly, still with his mischievous smirk even if he was still keeping his sight on Griffinhart.

''I guess then that someone would have to lend you a horse... Assuming that Arlathan won't let anyone else than Lithawen to touch him, I supposse that means Goliath or Bosco. Mmmm...''

While thinking, the Nevarran walked to the nearest tree and began to mark the tree bark with some signs, still watching the other with the corner of his eye. When he was done he returned and looked at the horses. Goliath was enormous enough to support him and another person, but surely Bosco wasn't strong enough to handle Bowen's big frame AND the massive armor.

''Bosco, my friend'' He said with an apologetical smirk and petting the horse's mane. ''Do you think your owner would want to ride with me?''

Lithawen snorted, she was done dealing with this irritant of a man. She much rather Bowen deal with him as his temper was not as fierce as her own. But she did not let her mind dwell too much. The sun was dragging along in the sky, peaking between gray clouds every once in a while. This ment it was probably close to midday, and they should either stop for food now or continue riding and stop early for the night. Personally the mage preferred the latter of the two choices.

"Arlathan would accept other riders. After all he is a horse. Not nearly as smart as the Halla." she commented. "Though of course I am not willing to give him up if there is no need to."

With a light kick to the horse's ribs, Lithawen nudged him on. Her eyes scanning the horizon with the looming tower in the distance. The cage cast a shadow on more than just the land. The Keeper's heart dropped an ich closer to the ground with each step they took closer to the tower, and the templar.

[OOC: OK, it's been more than two weeks and I'm very tired of waiting. Griffinhart, let's assume Caterina and Bosco agreed and let's go]


Once Caterina was comfortably accomodated with him on Goliath, Bowen made the stallion follow Lithawen's horse, keeping his pace with Bosco so he could see Griffinhart in every moment. There was not much to do while traveling, Lithawen didn't wanted to be friends with the other Wardens, Caterina disliked the other warrior, Griffinhart was the silent type (Holy Maker, it seemed that was his fate, traveling with silent people), and Bowen started humming a soft tune mostly for himself.

Maybe he looked distracted, but he was aware of everything, and one of his hands was always touching the hilt of his sword just in case. The Tower was on sight now, and he was anxious to make camp and get reunited with the rest of their companions

It wasn't until he sat upon the horse that Griffinhart understood just how sore he was, how far he had pushed his body. How many days had he been walking, now? The man had lost count - or rather, had never bothered with counting in the first place. It wasn't something that he could kill, or kill with, and therefore did not concern him. But the bone-deep tiredness in his legs - that, that was something that was of alarm. He had begun to lose self-awareness. That was something that could get him killed.

But he didn't complain. Sitting on a horse and following a path was tenfold easier than walking over rough, uncharted terrain. Either way he still had to stay awake and aware of his surroundings.

Soon, the tower loomed in the distance, on the horizon. Griffinhart assumed it was their destination - after all, it dominated the skyline and looked like a place of import, and they were headed in its direction. Inwardly, he wondered what the place was - not being a Ferelden native, he was unfamiliar with the landmark. In fact, he was unfamiliar with the immediate goals of the Ferelden Wardens. No one had volunteered any information and he had never bothered to ask. Perhaps now was a good time, to break the silence and familiarize himself further with the situation. On the one hand, it would give the appearance that he actually cared. On the other, it could give the appearance that he was trying to weasel out further information (which he absolutely was) for sinister reasons (which, to his knowledge, he wasn't). Two-thirds of the group didn't trust him and the last was too apathetic to care one way or another.

It was a risk he'd have to take.

"Is that tower important?" he asked over his shoulder, posing the question to Pentaghast.

''Is that tower important?''

Bowen looked at him with his usual badass smirk, but his eyes were as gentle as ever. ''Well it is, for the Chantry at least. I don't think the Mages that live in there would agree with that. The Tower is the place where Mages live and study, some kind of cage where they are kept and are watched by Templars. As if mages asked for their powers. I don't think they can choose more than a guy with harelip, blindness, deafness... Chantry use their own fear as an excuse to encage people that most of the time doesn't deserve it. I'm not saying that all mages are good, but... I am babbling, am I not?''

The Nevarran laughed, kissing Caterina's hair, and then continued. ''Yes, it's important. The new Commander has things to do there''