They are leaving the Fallow Mire, with the Inquisition’s agents rescued and the Herald herself – an Avvar woman who could rival the sun with the way one’s eye is drawn to her – victorious.
Strangely, Manon thinks that she will miss it. There is a strange twisting in her stomach as the swamps turn to wilds, the wilds to grasslands and fair fields. When they are outside of Lothering and she has watched the Herald close another rift, she chooses to speak something. Her horse is no great beast, small and nimble and frankly a little frail – she was shocked to see it had made it this far, all things considered. She’d been bracing herself to go it on foot, but he’d powered through in spite of wolves, cold, muck, and corpses. She gives him a quick pat to the neck and an affectionate hum before spurring him to move up. The Herald’s party, which she now seems to be a part of, rides either single-file or in a diamond-esque shape. She is, admittedly, struggling to parse which of these two arrangements is more favorable.
Right now, the road is wide, but they ride one-by-one at a leisurely trot, the sun high overhead and sweat at her brows. She has shucked her longcoat away in favor of her undershirt. The wind is a comfort, the gentle breeze rustling through their hair and giving the impression of a sunny summer day. It’s as if there were never a rift to begin with, and the scorch marks on the ground are the only scars that remain. She can’t even smell the sulfur anymore. Fascinating. This is what she wanted, in a way, but still, the daunting feeling remains. She and her gelding ride alongside Bozhena for some time before she is fully able to gather the courage to speak.
She is not a fool. Merciful, holy, Herald of Andraste or not – there is an air about her which demands respect and turns heads. Manon cannot say she is shocked that she, too, has been drawn into this warmth. “You cut an impressive figure, Herald,” she starts, voice loud enough to carry across the sound of hoofs against road, steady-like-a-heartbeat, “is it the same at Haven?” She nods, then, in the direction of Inquisition agents further down the way, moving in a speed so unison it is a little terrifying. Consistent, but terrifying. “Do they all look at you with that same revering, puppy-eyed expression?”
Sealing a rift always fatigues her, like she’s run a mile uphill. The gentle breeze through the valley is a sweet relief. Her arm is sore from the fight-- it tingles, buzzing dully like a limb that’s fallen asleep, stiff from the elbow up. The people of Thedas seem conflicted on how to regard it, torn between blatant, fascinated stares, or avoidant gazes, obvious in their desperation not to appear rude. For some, perhaps it is a religious sort of fear. She starts binding her wrist in gauze as she rides, trusting her steady old Frostback Elk not to let her go tumbling off.
There is a Nevarran woman among them today. A death mage. Talented. Fascinating. Bozhena is rarely one to judge another by appearance alone- but there is a certain mystery to this new addition. She looks earnest, sharp as a blade. Despite her curiosity, she resigns herself to the comfortable quiet until this Manon speaks up for herself. It’s polite, she thinks, to let others have the first word. It proves to have been much worth the wait.
“Oh, just you wait, my lady.” She, too, finds the rigorous unity of the Inquisition forces bizarre at times. Surreal. The Avvar see themselves as one of a whole, and this reflects in the mannerisms of their forces in combat- but there is value in independence, and one might say they lean more into guerilla tactics and formations than whatever it is these people do. The fierce admiration of these soldiers is certainly different.
The Inquisitor leans to look at Manon, smiling warmly, hair in wild disarray; “Some won’t even look me in the eye. Sometimes they bow. I couldn’t fathom why. My dear advisor tells me I've got to quit bowing back.”
There's a certain restless hunger for work among these people. They seek to please her-- to offer a hand, even at their own inconvenience. Bozhena understands what it means for your status to demand respect, but she's used to doing years of work to earn it. Perhaps sealing those pesky tears in reality makes up for it. The rifts themselves are bizarre-- one moment torn open, pouring forth all kinds of horror, and then in the blink of an eye-- gone without a trace. The impermanence troubles her. Still, she tries to find the humor in it; cheerily waving her yet unwrapped palm, still glowing a dull, acidic green. “What, don’t you like it?”
