✦ THE FURTHER THEY GET FROM TEVINTER, THE GREENER THE WORLD IS, and the more theodore remembers there are beautiful things still left in the world. the path ahead is a wide expanse of patchy white-and-green, where the snow has half melted and the earth has sprouted in fits and starts; rusted armour lies scattered, stained dark by ghostly wounds that still wept through the metal, surrounded by all the tragic debris of yet another pointless, long-forgotten battle. he can't identify much from the scant remains, but this, too, is a feast for scavengers, even after all the meat has been picked clean from the bones.
theodore stoops to inspect a cuirass at his feet. the metal is ice-cold to the touch, dented and misshapen, but it is still strong — it can be sold, or traded, for something more useful. the potential disrespect of it, of looting ancient corpses, doesn't quite hit him until he hears footsteps crunching through the snow behind him, and he remembers — ah, @ifrits.
not for the first time, theodore's face falls blank, his voice strains towards abject confusion: “not tired of following me around the muck and corpses yet?”
“i do not regret my decision, and i have no intention of changing my mind.”
the merchant — the one who had once held his leash, the one who lay rotting somewhere under the harbour in minrathous — would have peeled his feet for an hour for a chance to claim this man as his. theodore's stomach churns in disgust.
“clive,” he begins, exasperated, “clive, look at where we are. you could go anywhere. you're free now. i'm as directionless as anyone else you might meet — look at me, i'm robbing a grave already robbed one hundred times over. all i can offer you is this, and another fight in . . . probably ten minutes. maybe an hour, if we're lucky.”