Once We Sat In Our Kingdom - pt. 1

Even crammed as they are into a draughty Chantry, so that there is barely any space to stretch a limb and the air has turned milky-white with the collective vaporous gusts of their strained breath; even groggy as so many of them still feel, whimpering and shaking their wobbly heads and nursing sticky, throbbing burns or hastily bandaged cuts where the rock-hard claws of the red monsters got to them; even ache as their bodies do after a wild race for shelter, spurred on by the whip-like flaps of the great black dragon's wings - the people of Haven still find enough energy to find wriggle space and straighten up, wiping at their bleary eyes and following the Herald of Andraste with their awestruck gazes.

She flushes and hangs her head, her copper eyes widening slightly, whenever she catches them watching her, or hears a whisper rustle through the crowd, unstoppable, broken up only by a tiny reverent gasp here and there, and gathering more and more words of praise along the way, like a tiny pebble gathers a landslide.

'Look! Look at her go! She will face those evil things while we escape! She will save us all!'

'That's what she does, innit? Saved my own hide out there, she did! Would have been burned to a crisp if she wasn't there!'

'And me, I would of got minced into pie filling by them red-claw beasties!'

'Ever grateful, my lady, ever grateful!'

Their gushing seems to bring tears to her eyes - but as she purses her lips to keep a frustrated sob of protest contained, and throws her head up high, growing even taller than she already is (incredibly tall for an elf, but that is what Andraste's blessing does to you), it makes her look all the more regal. A majestic statue of gold, like them things folks have stuck all over Val Too... Val Ray... the Orlesian place - coming to life and walking among unworthy mortals. Striding along the Chantry aisle back into the broiling fiery night that they have all just escaped from.

Ready to meet face to face with the leader of the red monster army - that tall, somewhat human-like... something that many of the villagers saw looming on the mountain top, seemingly tall as a pine tree, with long, blackened, sickeningly venous arms ending in hands that bear curved talons, and shards of pulsing red crystals sticking out between the few remaining shreds of its peeled-off skin.

Ready to engage the thing in whatever it might end up being: combat, or conversation, or both - long enough for the survivors to sneak out up a hidden mountain path, following the lead of the wounded Chancellor, who is already waiting to set out, grasping convulsively at the shoulder of that odd, scarecrow-like boy. The one who showed up at the gates to warn them of the attack. Gangly and ragged and with each of his features - be it skin, or hair, or eyes peeking intently from under the brim of an oversized hat - paler than the next.

He has been occupying himself with trying to soothe the swaying, slightly feverish man by his side - but when the tide of whispers that laps around the Herald reaches its peak point, he looks up suddenly, and speaks over the tumultuous voices, his own words ringing under the stone vaults like a rhythmic... well, chant.

'Greeting, grasping, grovelling, eyes hungry to study my every feature, lips ready to catch my hands, or worse... dear gods... my feet! I am not a deity, not a superior being, I never wanted to get treated as one, never deserved to... When will they stop?!'

The crowd falls silent, and the very air in the Chantry seems to grow notably colder. A frown warps the beautiful features of the Orlesian First Enchanter, who is walking closely behind the Herald - side by side with the Lady Seeker, both of them here to help Andraste's holy warrior fight her way through as many hideous red beasts as it takes to draw the attention of the pine-tall creature that commands them.

'As soon as we are done with this unpleasant business, I advise you to get rid of that raggedy thing, my dear,' she murmurs, lips curling, while her hand travels forward to lightly tap the Herald's elbow in a discreet gesture of protectiveness.

'It is not to be trusted'.

'Hey, you said the same thing about Aira here, Iron Lady,' chuckles the fourth member of their little group: Serah Varric Tethras of Kirkwall, the author of those books that - so rumours say - are sure to win the heart anyone with enough skill to make out the letters on their pages.

'Just because she does not look like a regular elf, you automatically suspected her of nefarious demonic plotting,' he goes on, with his broad dwarven hands sliding casually inside the pockets of his overcoat (which, though large in size and crafted from sturdy leather, does nothing to protect his chest), and long smart words rolling off his tongue with such an uncanny ease that quite a few villagers in the crowd cannot help gawking and moving their lips noiselessly in an attempt to mimic him.

The Enchanter scoffs under her breath in mild exasperation.

'I play the Game, darling,' she notes over her shoulder, while ushering the now significantly paler, stumbling Herald past the Chantry's threshold, while the Seeker holds the massive front door open with her shoulder.

'Nefarious plotting is the default until the person has proven themselves worthy of trust. Airanarie has done so quite admirably; that so-called boy in the hat... Not so much. After its dramatic entrance, the thing has done nothing but dig into everyone's thoughts and air them out in public!'.

'He is right, though,' Airanarie mouths, stepping outside with her eyes wide open and reflecting the red-gold flares that still engulf the horizon, where once the little cottages nestled, cozy and serene and safe.

'Maybe if I die saving you all, the people will finally understand that I am not a goddess'.

The brown eyes of the Lady Seeker turn even darker than they usually are.

'Don't even jest that way!' she cries out, her Nevarran accent making her voice sound sharp like the edge of a falling blade.

In her agitation, she almost lets go of the door sooner than she should have, and it is only the dwarf's quiet but indignant 'Hey!' that saves him from getting squashed.

'We will be coming back for you!' she adds, after making certain that Serah Tethras is alive, well, and in no way flattened.

'Coming back for you... Coming back for you...'

The echo of these words is the last thing the survivors in the Chantry hear, before the fiery night swallows up the three ladies and the dwarf, and the door grinds shut behind them. Instantly after they are gone, Commander Cullen, tall and intimidating in his fur-adorned armour, begins organizing the evacuation, herding the villagers into some semblance of a straight line so that they can file towards the back passage.

Gathering themselves up, swallowing the ache from their wounds, yelling curtly at a child or two, who are still whining about having left a favourite toy somewhere in a burning cottage, the people of Haven begin to shuffle off. There is one among them, however, who does not leap to attention at the Commander's orders; though to call him 'one among them' would not be exactly true. He has always stood out, from the moment of his arrival - but unlike the Herald,who surely stands out because of her divine blessing, he does not blend in because of the evil that cloaks him, rustles in his every step like the scales of a serpent... Or so, at least, some of the Chantry sisters would whisper, their voices sounding far more snake-like than thr footfalls of the 'evil stranger' (but please don't tell them someone said that!), as they shoved their parishioners out of his path and shook their heads in reproach.

Given a wide berth even in times of calm, with no-one daring to sit down at the same table with him for drinks except that mountain of an oxman mercenary (who, as some say, is simply too 'pree-mey-tiv' to feel fear), the moustached Vint does not make any attempt to join the crowd during the evacuation. Instead, he stands quite still, with his face towards the door, his eyebrows knitted, and his back terse as an arrow string. He froze in this pose when the Seeker first uttered those last words of hers - and only snaps out of it when the oxman calls to him, turning away from his own little group that he has been guiding after Cullen.

'Hey there! Dorian! What are you waiting for? Didn't you just rant about not wanting to get eaten?'

'One moment, Bull,' the Vint murmurs absently, turning to one of the Chantry's smaller side doors. 'I have to go down to the dungeons. I think someone needs me to come back for him'.