EVENTUALLY, ONE DOES get used to this climate. The glum skies, the pouring rain, the ever-present smell of dog fur, mud, leather and wet wood. The Northern coasts of Ferelden are her HOME now, with all its unpleasantness and moisture and varying stenches barely masked by perfume and frequent baths. But there’s another smell permeating through Crestwood. The sickening, almost oddly sweet stench of ROT as the drowned dead return to their village, pummeling their gates with restless abandon as angry spirits move their decaying bodies. There are so MANY, she thinks - far too many. Amidst all this death, very few traces of Blight remain; a mystery yet to be solved. And a mystery that seems to interest the Grey Wardens that passed through here VERY little.
Oh, she’s aware they’re on a search for one of their own; a traitor, or so Clarel seems to think. A most curious development, as such manhunts are rarely a priority. The Orlesian Order is going through something MOST odd, it seems. Alas, they miss their prey entirely - along with their duty of being protectors to the common folk, from the Darkspawn or no. And truth be told, Warden Surana is LESS than impressed. Partially responsible for diverting the other Wardens away from Crestwood, the elf now leans on a mossy boulder not far from the cave where Warden Stroud made his refuge. She wears not the recognizable uniform of the Order, but her elaborate travel robes of fur, leather, and velvet, cloaked in black as a heavy hood shelters her from the rain. Gloved fingers rest on an ebony staff, her head lifting as someone’s steps through tall, wet grass get closer. She seems distracted, expression oddly hollow. That one’s a mage, for certain - she feels that familiar hum of mana.
