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Then Daniel flexed his marked hand, feeling the pulse of energy beneath his skin. The Breach loomed above them, but down here, the people needed more than just a symbol. They needed food, medicine, protection, and hope which the Inqusition tried their best to give it to them.
The path back to the Crossroads wound through the remnants of what had once been a thriving village. Now, the houses stood like broken teeth in a ruined mouth, their thatched roofs caved in, their walls scorched by errant spells or splintered by brute force. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and woodsmoke, mingling with the ever-present tang of blood.
As they climbed the hill toward the cluster of houses where Vale had said the hunter would be, Daniel's boots sank slightly into the mud. The ground here was churned up from countless footsteps—refugees fleeing, soldiers marching, scavengers picking through what little remained.
They found the hunter crouched beside a makeshift firepit, his hands busy with the last scraps of bread. He was a wiry man, his face lined with exhaustion, his clothes patched and worn. His voice was rough as he muttered to himself, "That's the last of the bread. Going to be a long, hungry night."
Daniel stepped forward, the others fanning out slightly behind him. "Are you the hunter?"
The man looked up sharply, his eyes flicking over them before settling on Daniel's marked hand. A flicker of recognition—then wariness. "Aye, I'm the hunter," he said, straightening slowly. "Or what passes for one now."
"Do you need help gathering food?" Daniel asked.
The hunter's shoulders sagged slightly, as if the weight of the question was almost too much to bear. "Yes," he admitted, his voice low. "The people here need some food. There are rams out in the hills—good eating, cook easy. And no lords around to kill you for poaching." He barked a humorless laugh. "Too dangerous to go hunting now, though. More likely to find mages than mutton."
Daniel glanced back at the others. Cassandra's expression was unreadable, but she gave a slight nod. Varric shrugged, though his fingers tapped restlessly against Bianca's stock. Solas merely watched, his face calm, but his eyes sharp.
"We'll help you gather some," Daniel said, turning back to the hunter.
The man's face lit with something like hope—fragile, but there. "Good luck," he said, clasping Daniel's forearm briefly. Maker be with you."
The hunter's gratitude still warm in their minds, the party turned back toward the village proper, their boots squelching in the mud as they picked their way down the slope. The afternoon light was fading, casting long shadows across the ruined homes, turning broken walls into jagged silhouettes. The air smelled of damp earth and woodsmoke, but beneath it lingered something fouler—the metallic tang of old blood, the sourness of sickness.
Then, cutting through the murmur of the camp, came a voice—hoarse, desperate.
"Someone, anyone! Please, help my wife!"*
Daniel's head snapped toward the sound. Near one of the less-damaged cottages, an elven man stood in the doorway, his frame gaunt, his hands shaking as he clutched at the doorframe. His eyes were wide with panic, darting from face to face among the refugees, searching for aid that wasn't coming.
Without hesitation, Daniel broke into a jog, the others close behind.
"What's wrong with your wife?" he asked as they reached the elf.
The man's breath came in short, ragged gasps, as if he'd been running. "She—she got sick when the weather turned foul," he managed. "Can't catch her breath. Like cobwebs in her lungs." His fingers twisted into the fabric of his tunic, knuckles white. "Our son, Hyndel—he makes a potion that lets her breathe. He's the only one who can make it, but—" His voice cracked. "He's joined that cult in the hills."
Daniel felt a chill crawl down his spine. A cult in the hills. That couldn't be good.
The elf's next words were barely more than a whisper. "Please. Go to him. Tell him what's wrong. Without that potion, she'll die."
Cassandra's jaw tightened, but it was Solas who spoke first, his voice low. "Cobweb lungs… A rare ailment, but not unheard of. The potion he describes would require precise ingredients—spindleweed, perhaps, or purified dawn lotus."
Varric let out a low whistle. "Not exactly stuff you find lying around."
Daniel didn't hesitate. "Leave it to us," he said, meeting the elf's desperate gaze. "We'll get to your son."
The man sagged in relief, his knees nearly buckling. "Thank you," he breathed.
The weight of the elven man's desperation lingered in Daniel's chest as they turned away from the cottage, but there was no time to dwell on it. The cult in the hills would have to wait—first, they had another promise to keep.
""We should check in with that recruit Vale mentioned," Daniel said, scanning the crowded paths of the refugee camp. "Whittle. If people are freezing to death while we're out chasing cultists..." He didn't need to finish the thought.
Varric nodded, eyeing a group of shivering children huddled under a makeshift lean-to. "Yeah. Demons are bad, but hypothermia's a bitch too."
Cassandra shot him a look but didn't argue.
They found Whittle near the camp's central firepit, a lanky man with perpetually wind-chapped cheeks and fingers stained blue from handling dye. He was muttering to himself as he counted a pitiful stack of folded cloth, his breath fogging in the cold air.
"More cold weather coming," he grumbled, shaking his head. "Fool Villagers, where are their coats?"
Daniel stepped forward. "Recruit Whittle?"
The man jumped, nearly dropping his ledger. "Yes, I'm—Maker's breath, you're the Herald!" He blinked rapidly, then seemed to remember himself and snapped a salute. "Sorry, ser. Didn't expect—well. You know."
Daniel waved off the formality. "Do you need help?"
Whittle's shoulders slumped in relief. "Yes, we do. Blankets. Warm clothes. All of it." He gestured helplessly at the sea of refugees around them. "These poor sods lost everything when the mages and templars went crazy. If we were in a village, I could just pinch a blanket off a clothesline and be fine. Out here?" He scrubbed a hand over his face. "I'm sure the apostates have plenty of supplies. Just haven't been able to find them."
Daniel exchanged glances with the others. Cassandra's expression was grim, but she gave a slight nod. Solas looked thoughtful, his fingers tapping idly against his staff. Varric just shrugged.
"We'll help," Daniel said. "If we find any supply caches, we'll let you know."
Whittle's face lit up. "Maker bless you. Truly." He hesitated, then added, "If you're heading toward the river, check the old mill. Last scout report said the apostates were using it as a staging ground. Might be something there."
Then they head to the central square of the village that had become a makeshift command post, where the Inquisition soldiers stood in ordered ranks, their breath fogging in the cold air. From two hundred and fifty men and women when they march to the Hinterlands, fifty were place to stay at the forward camp before they head to the Crossroads.
So two hundred men and women in mismatched armor—recruits from Haven, local volunteers, and a handful of seasoned fighters who had survived the initial carnage of the Mage-Templar War. They waited patiently as Daniel and his companions huddled near the remnants of a stone well, their voices low.
Daniel rubbed his temples, the weight of command pressing down on him. "We can't leave these people unprotected," he said, glancing toward the refugees huddled in their makeshift shelters. "But we can't afford to divide our forces too much either."
Cassandra studied the soldiers with a practiced eye. "Seventy-five should be enough to hold the village against rogue bands of templars or mages. Any more, and we risk being undermanned when we face greater threats."
Varric leaned against the well, his arms crossed. "Seventy-five sounds good—enough to make bandits think twice, not enough to leave us swinging in the breeze when we run into something nasty."
Solas, who had been silent until now, tilted his head slightly. "A compromise, then. Fifty to patrol the immediate area, twenty-five to escort supply caravans when they arrive. The rest remain with us."
Daniel exhaled, nodding. "Alright. Seventy-five stay. The rest come with us." He turned to the lieutenant standing nearby—a grizzled veteran named Renn. "Lieutenant, pick your squads. I want scouts on the perimeter, archers on the rooftops, and a quick-response team ready to move if there's trouble."
Renn saluted sharply. "It'll be done, Herald." He hesitated, then added, "Should I assume command here, or leave it to Corporal Vale?"
Cassandra answered before Daniel could. "Vale knows the terrain. Let him lead the defense. You oversee logistics—food distribution, fortifications, refugee management."
Renn nodded and strode off, barking orders to his sergeants. Within minutes, the camp was alive with movement—soldiers breaking off into new formations, scouts jogging to their posts, supply runners organizing what little they had.
As the soldiers dispersed, Daniel felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to see Varric studying him with an uncharacteristically serious expression.
"You good, kid?" the dwarf asked quietly.
Daniel flexed his marked hand absently. "Just wondering if I'm making the right call."
Varric snorted. "Welcome to command. You never know. You just hope you're not getting everyone killed."
Cassandra, overhearing, shot Varric a glare. "That is not helpful."
"It's honest," Varric countered. "And right now, honesty's the only thing keeping us from pretending this isn't as bad as it looks."
Solas, ever the voice of calm, stepped closer. "The decision is sound. These people need protection, but we cannot linger. The Breach does not wait, and neither should we."
Daniel took a deep breath, then nodded. "Then we move out."
With the village as secure as they could make it, the remaining soldiers fell into formation behind them—a column of grim-faced men and women, their weapons at the ready.
The crisp morning air carried the scent of damp earth and woodsmoke as Daniel stood at the crossroads—both literally and figuratively. Behind him, the makeshift Inquisition camp buzzed with activity as soldiers prepared for their new assignments. Before him stretched three paths, each leading to different responsibilities that tugged at his conscience with equal urgency.
He turned to his companions, his breath visible in the cold air. "Before we leave—what should we do first?"
Cassandra, ever pragmatic, didn't hesitate. "The hunter needs those rams. Starvation kills as surely as blades do, and those refugees won't last another week without proper food." She crossed her arms, her armor creaking slightly with the movement. "We should gather the rams before predators or scavengers claim them."
Varric shook his head, his fingers tapping restlessly against Bianca's stock. "Sorry, Seeker, but I've got to disagree. That elven woman's coughing up cobwebs, remember? Hyndel's her only shot at that potion." His usual smirk was absent, replaced by an uncharacteristic seriousness. "Food won't matter if she's dead by nightfall."
Daniel's marked hand pulsed faintly, a reminder of the greater threat looming overhead. He looked to Solas, who had been quietly observing the exchange.
The elven mage inclined his head slightly. "Why not choose at all?" His voice was calm, measured. "The rams graze in the eastern hills. Hyndel's cult occupies the old watchtower in that same direction. And according to Whittle, the apostates' supply cache is along that path as well." He gestured toward the winding dirt trail they'd arrived by. "Three needs, one road."
A heavy silence fell over the group. In the distance, a child's laughter rang out—jarringly bright against the backdrop of war-torn countryside.
The decision made, they set out with their contingent of soldiers—one hundred twenty-five men and women marching in disciplined columns behind them. The dirt path wound upward into the hills, the morning mist clinging to the ground like ghostly fingers.
Daniel found himself walking beside Solas at the head of the column. The elven mage moved with quiet grace, his staff tapping softly against the earth with each step.
"You're quiet," Daniel observed.
Solas's lips quirked in a faint smile. "Merely considering our priorities. The hunter's rams will provide immediate relief, but temporary. Hyndel's potion could mean life or death for one woman, yet..." His gaze drifted toward the distant plumes of smoke rising from the direction of the watchtower. "That cult troubles me more with each report we hear."
Behind them, Varric was regaling a group of soldiers with an exaggerated tale of their exploits at the Breach. Cassandra walked slightly apart, her posture rigid, her eyes constantly scanning the tree line for threats.
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Name : Daniel Carter
Race: Elf
Level 2 : 656/1250 EXP
Professions: Mage
Gold Coins: 749 Coins
Weapon: Staff of the Dragon
Armor: Light Armor of the Dragon and Templar Scribe Scowl
Accessories: Lifeward Amulet
Inventory: Acolyte Ice Staff, Morning Star, Stiletto, Hunting Longbow, Fire Resistance Cowl, Mercenary Coat, Acolyte Fire Staff, Disciple Lighting Staff, Sigil of the Gamordan Stromrider, and Apprentice Armor
Crafting Materials: 22 Elfroot, 32 Iron, 2 Blue Vitriol, 1 Dawn Lotus, 5 Silk, and 1 Lambswool
Valuables: Aquamarine, Silver Bracelet, Figurine of Maferath the Betrayer, 2 Shadow Essence,
Gurn Gallstone Charm, Braid of Rank, Glass Halla, 1 Weapon Fragment, and 1 Silver Necklace
Potions: Lesser Health Potions x8, Lesser Regeneration Potions x5, and x5 Lyrium Potion
Skills: Chain Lighting, Flashfire, Barrier,
Armor Schematics: Shokra-taar Schematic, Antaam-saar Schematic, Avvar Armor Schematics Acquired, Stone-Bear Armor Schematics, Vanguard Coat Schematic,
Weapon Schematics: Curved Dagger Schematic
Potion Recipe: Lesser Regeneration Potion recipe and Lyrium Potion Recipe