The Reign, ch19: The Sky Is Watching
Theresa and her band make their way through the Fallow Mire.
“Remind me to thank Harding for properly informing us about the water!” Dorian shouted. His own reserves were running low, forcing him to resort to using his staff as a melee weapon. A hard swing knocked a skull clean off the shoulders of the nearest corpse. It bounced across the mossy ground until it was crunched beneath one of the Iron Bull’s massive boot heels. Bull barely noticed, carving a wide swathe with his greataxe. His battle-roar was nearly a match for the menacing thunder overhead. At least he was having fun. “You could have stayed at camp and let Solas take your place,” Blackwall reminded Dorian, plunging his sword straight through an exposed ribcage and swinging up, cutting the corpse in half from the waist up. “And miss out on this lovely display of southern charm?” Dorian gave an aggravated cry as his boots sunk into the wet mud, holding him in place. He was forced to expend energy he barely had to fend off more bodies with a spout of flame while he dislodged himself. Cole, who was similarly ensnared, declared forlornly, “The mud wants my feet to stay.” “It certainly does.” Dorian tsked over his unsalvageable boots. “Is this what Fereldans might consider a tourist trap?” “Aw, what’s the matter?” Bull called mid-swing. “Not enough slaves to rub your footsies?” “My footsies are freezing, thank you!” Dorian gritted his teeth and pushed back against a particularly determined skeletal figure, sending it right into Brycen’s shield, which promptly shattered it. “If this is what spring is like, I shudder to think of summer. However do you manage winters?” That last was directed at me, since Dorian knew I shared his distaste for the cold. I tossed him a chastising look before sizing up a gathering cluster of corpses charging straight at me. I channelled my annoyance into a chain of lightning, dispatching them all at once before they could summon more. “Once again,” I told him, panting heavily, “I’m from Ostwick, not Ferelden.” I sank the end of my staff into the mud and leaned on it, hazarding a glance around. That appeared to be the last of them. For now. My scarf had fallen from my nose at some point during the fighting, and I quickly adjusted it back into place. “Although honestly, nationality doesn’t seem to matter much when you’re a mage.” Mattrin and Margot exchanged awkward glances, making me feel just a little guilty for my bitter tone. But only a little. “Unless you’re Tevinter.” Dorian clapped me on the shoulder, using me for support while he caught his breath. “Then it appears to be the only thing that matters.” “Ehh, quit your whining and hike up your skirt, mage boy,” Bull grunted and rested his axe over his shoulders with arms stretched from one end to the other. Dorian glared daggers at him. “At least I’m wearing clothes. Why are you always bare-chested?” “Just for your benefit, big guy.” Bull flashed his teeth in a hungry grin while Dorian sputtered and struggled to come up with a snappy rebuttal.
