sumurset
( ´_ﾉ` ) venatori
It had been a long day.
The sun was setting. With evening came a bustling tavern. Haven was small but the Inquisition was well-manned. It meant the town's tavern often hosted many faces. Soldiers, recruits, quartermasters, and even the commander.
Cullen was not a heavy drinker. Not by any means. But sometimes a mug of ale was necessary.
After the templars had allied with them he had spent the day seeing to them. Making sure they had enough tents. That they knew where everything was. How to navigate the petite village.
Once that cleared he made sure to speak with their lieutenant.
It was all exhausting. He would rather fight someone than bother with diplomacy. He felt shafted for having to do it rather than Josephine. It was her job, after all. She'd said she was busy. That's why he'd accepted the job of dealing with them.
He suspected her nerves had attributed to it as well. Few people were willing to speak with templars. Though they did not bear as stained a reputation as mages most people found them terrifying. And since he used to be one it was only logical that they became his charges.
He entered the well-lit tavern. With so many patrons and the fire roaring it was toasty. A pleasant contrast to the frigid mountain air outside.
The commander took a seat at a table. He was alone.
A woman came to him and asked what he wanted. He told her. She left.
Not long after a man came to him. Cullen recognized him as being one of Leliana's boys. A young scout. They had never spoken before.
"Good evening." Cullen greeted him as a friend despite his confusion.
Why would he come to him in the tavern of all places?
"Ser Cullen? The commander?"
"Yes. Am I needed elsewhere?"
Expecting the answer to be yes, Cullen stood from his chair.
As soon as he stood the scout lunged at him. An empty hand flashed with a blade. It was a dagger. A thin one. Perfect for concealment.
It caught the commander off guard. Still, he recovered from the surprise well.
Cullen knew how to fight. It was in his training.
The scout swung the dagger at his face. He meant to do real damage.
Taking a defensive position Cullen lifted his arm. He grabbed the zealot's wrist.
Even so, the blade cut into his lip. It was painful but he knew he would live.
His brows were set, his gaze hard and cold. Great. Ambushed in the tavern by a soldier. Exactly what he needed.
He disarmed the boy and tossed his knife aside.
Everyone stared.
Cullen could feel blood on his chin. His lips. It dripped onto his shirt. He was bleeding everywhere.
The attacker had his feet knocked out from under him. "Someone take this zealot to the Chantry! Have our Spymaster deal with him."
A large man came forward and took the boy as commanded.
Cullen left. He needed a healer.
The healing process itself was not painful. His lip felt like it was on fire. When he sat down, when the healer applied a poultice, it cooled. It felt raw after the healing.
He took the rest of the poultice and knew to apply it daily. The commander would do as told.
Later, someone informed him that his young attacker had been a mage sympathizer. An extremist who had found disgust in their relationship with the templars. Knowing such only made his distrust towards mages greater. Which, in turn, made him feel worse.
It would never end would it?
The sun was setting. With evening came a bustling tavern. Haven was small but the Inquisition was well-manned. It meant the town's tavern often hosted many faces. Soldiers, recruits, quartermasters, and even the commander.
Cullen was not a heavy drinker. Not by any means. But sometimes a mug of ale was necessary.
After the templars had allied with them he had spent the day seeing to them. Making sure they had enough tents. That they knew where everything was. How to navigate the petite village.
Once that cleared he made sure to speak with their lieutenant.
It was all exhausting. He would rather fight someone than bother with diplomacy. He felt shafted for having to do it rather than Josephine. It was her job, after all. She'd said she was busy. That's why he'd accepted the job of dealing with them.
He suspected her nerves had attributed to it as well. Few people were willing to speak with templars. Though they did not bear as stained a reputation as mages most people found them terrifying. And since he used to be one it was only logical that they became his charges.
He entered the well-lit tavern. With so many patrons and the fire roaring it was toasty. A pleasant contrast to the frigid mountain air outside.
The commander took a seat at a table. He was alone.
A woman came to him and asked what he wanted. He told her. She left.
Not long after a man came to him. Cullen recognized him as being one of Leliana's boys. A young scout. They had never spoken before.
"Good evening." Cullen greeted him as a friend despite his confusion.
Why would he come to him in the tavern of all places?
"Ser Cullen? The commander?"
"Yes. Am I needed elsewhere?"
Expecting the answer to be yes, Cullen stood from his chair.
As soon as he stood the scout lunged at him. An empty hand flashed with a blade. It was a dagger. A thin one. Perfect for concealment.
It caught the commander off guard. Still, he recovered from the surprise well.
Cullen knew how to fight. It was in his training.
The scout swung the dagger at his face. He meant to do real damage.
Taking a defensive position Cullen lifted his arm. He grabbed the zealot's wrist.
Even so, the blade cut into his lip. It was painful but he knew he would live.
His brows were set, his gaze hard and cold. Great. Ambushed in the tavern by a soldier. Exactly what he needed.
He disarmed the boy and tossed his knife aside.
Everyone stared.
Cullen could feel blood on his chin. His lips. It dripped onto his shirt. He was bleeding everywhere.
The attacker had his feet knocked out from under him. "Someone take this zealot to the Chantry! Have our Spymaster deal with him."
A large man came forward and took the boy as commanded.
Cullen left. He needed a healer.
The healing process itself was not painful. His lip felt like it was on fire. When he sat down, when the healer applied a poultice, it cooled. It felt raw after the healing.
He took the rest of the poultice and knew to apply it daily. The commander would do as told.
Later, someone informed him that his young attacker had been a mage sympathizer. An extremist who had found disgust in their relationship with the templars. Knowing such only made his distrust towards mages greater. Which, in turn, made him feel worse.
It would never end would it?
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