Lucien was moving a second after Sophia, though he elected to use the stairs rather than vault the railing, disinclined to risk the landing with blood slicking the floor beneath. Still, he wasnât slow about it, more out of the desire to make sure Sophia didnât get herself hurt in her vengeance than any particular desire to kill anyone himself. He understood, of course, there was no way he could fail to understand her feelings, but following them blindly could harm her further, and he was disinclined to allow that, to put it mildly.
The butt end of the poleax cracked into the temple of the nearest zealot with a little too much forceâheâd live, but not by much. Gritting his teeth, Lucien checked himself when he hit the next civilian, catching that one with the flat of the axehead on his backswing. His forward progress was interrupted next by a Templar, and he caught sight of Petrice fleeing from the corner of his eye. She wouldnât be able to get farâbut he had other problems to deal with right now. He was less disposed to show mercy to someone who should have been taught why men wielded swords in the first place, and the greater skill of a Templar made deadly force all but necessary anyway. Spinning to the side to avoid a bash from a shield, Lucien twisted, catching the pole under the manâs legs in a low sweep. Off balance from the dodge he had not been expecting, the Templar fell, narrowly missing the pointed speartip of the poleax by rolling to the side. It shaved a few hairs from his jawline as it was.
Getting his feet underneath him, the Templar pressed back, slashing in a wide horizontal arc with the longsword he carried. Lucien just let it clang harmlessly off his plate mail, rather than trying to step backwards and yielding the advantage of forward momentum. The backswing was quicker than he expected, nicking his cheekbone and crossing the scar beneath his eyepatch, a thin red line bisecting the more jagged white one. He really needed to relearn how to use bothâhis depth perception needed some work. Stepping too far forward for his polearm to be of any use, Lucien simply overwhelmed the other with size and aggressionâlazy, Liliane would have called it. Right in this moment, he didnât care much, dropping the spear and catching the manâs head in both hands. A judicious wrench was all it tookâthe bones in his neck snapped, and the Templar went limp. Lucien dropped him, retrieved the poleax, and kept moving forward.
Back up on the upper level, Ashton found the ideal position was the one that he already occupied. Taking a step up to find a perch on the railing that Sophia vaulted, the archer couldn't have asked for a better vantage point, though truth be told he wished that there hadn't been need of one at all. He was by no means an overly religious man, but his aunt had been, and he still had respect for the Maker, more so than this Petrice it seemed. Which of whom he'd had in his sights, though lining up a nonlethal shot took more time than a lethal one, and by then she'd slipped away from his sight entirely. He grunted harshly, opting to not curse in the Chantry, and instead took aim upon those who instead stayed to fight.
It was then he realized that the force was only partly Templar, the other part being made of ordinary men and women. It only further agitated him. The grunt turned to a growl as he took aim on a man whose bravery was only matched by his stupidity. Turned toward the raging Sophia, the man wielded a sword like it was his first time. An arrow bit deep into his ankle, and another found a home in the opposite shin. He dropped, and the virgin sword clattered to the ground, a pained cry following soon after. Though he didn't know it yet, Ashton had just saved the man's life. Sophia would not have been so forgiving.
Nostariel, too, opted to stay more or less where she was, though she did not trust her balance nearly enough to perch like a bird on the railing. Deciding her focus was best spent on making sure neither of her friends was overwhelmed with numbers alone, she decided on crowd control, sucking in a breath and loading the arrow she was holding with magic. Fitting it to the bowstring, she drew back until the feather brushed her cheek, aiming for no target in particular, but rather a spot on the floor, far enough from Sophiaâs trajectory that the woman wouldnât accidentally walk into it. This meant she had to let off the spell a little closer to Lucien, but he seemed more aware of his surroundings at the moment, and she trusted him not to get caught up in it.
The arrow flew from the bow with a whistle, landing in front of a good five of the civilians. From the point it touched the floor, a cone of cold bloomed, spreading outwards to capture the legs and hips of three, the entire left leg of a fourth, and at least the ankle of the last, effectively holding at least most of them in place for the foreseeable future. She caught a Templar making a beeline for Sophiaâs flank, and with a slightly pained expression, she released two more arrows, unaugmented, in quick succession. The second one did the trick, thrumming with a certain kind of finality into his neck and dropping him. It was poor planning that tried to hold a Templar with magic for long, after all.
Sophia could not make herself care for the lives of those that stood in her way. They either participated in the murder of her brother, or they approved of it and its result. Either way, she wanted them gone. Several more lost their lives crossing her path before the fighting ended, and while she had suffered some bruising blows in return, none of the blood that spattered her was her own. Some of the fanatics dropped to the ground with nonlethal injuries that she normally approved. Now she only let them live because others were more immediate threats.
What drew her to a stop, however, was the sight of Grand Cleric Elthina entering the room, with Mother Petrice at her heels, spewing lies in the woman's ear. "Do you see, your Grace? Traitors attacking the very core of the Chantry! They defile with every step!" Sophia might have rushed forward and skewered the bitch right then and there, but Elthina's presence halted her where she stood, and suddenly she was overcome with exhaustion, physical and emotional. She fell heavily to her knees and let Vesenia clatter to the ground, defeated.
"There is death in every corner, young mother," Elthina responded, though she seemed skeptical already. "It is as you predicted. All too well."
Lucien was torn between going to Sophia and remaining where he was, considering that the conductor of this mad little orchestra had finally reappeared. He did not understand how she thought she could possibly get away with accusing Sophia of being a Qunari sympathizer, but it seemed that was her plan all the same. In the end, it was obvious to him that Sophia herself was in no state to carry out this conversation, and so he decided that he could at least do this much to help. âPrediction has uncanny accuracy when you control the results,â he said, a fraction of stony anger creeping into his tone. But then he shook his head and refocused, glancing over at the Grand Cleric. He was sure they made quite the sight, spattered in gore with two archers, one capable of magic, yet on the dais above. But he believed she was wise enough to know that such appearances cold be deceiving.
âMy apologies, Your Grace,â Lucien continued, inclining himself at the torso. âIt⊠has been a trying day, and for some of us much worse than that. You should know what happened here, and I would tell you, if you will hear me.â He glanced back at Sophia and swallowed thickly. He couldnât think too much about it right nowâthe worry.
"Don't you spout your filth to a Grand Cleric," Petrice immediately interrupted, attempting to get ahead of things. "This is a hand of the Divine." Elthina seemed only more disappointed by the Mother's efforts to steer the conversation.
"I have ears, Mother Petrice. The Maker would have me use them." She looked to Lucien. "Serah Drakon, I assume. Sophia has mentioned you several times." The Viscount's daughter seemed hardly to hear, slumping sideways to sit on the floor amidst the carnage. Elthina looked on in concern, but the truth needed to come out first.
As he had done once before, Lucien completely ignored the fact that Petrice had spoken at all, waiting instead for confirmation from the Grand Cleric. Once he received it, he spoke steadily, but quietly, mindful that it was still not an easy thing to hear. âSaemus Dumar was killed here,â he said, âin your name.â
"I'm sure my name won't like that," Elthina responded. "Petrice?"
"Saemus Dumar was a Qunari convert! He came here to repent and was mur--"
"Oh, don't bother even saying it," the Grand Cleric said, cutting her off. "Killed by his own sister, you would have me believe? Look at what you've done to her. All in a foolish attempt to set more people against the Qunari."
"With respect, Your Grace," Petrice said, clearly struggling not to panic in the face of her collapsing plans, "this is no longer a matter of heathens squatting on the docks. People are leaving us to join them!"
"And we must pray for them, like any other." Petrice was not satisfied with that.
"They deny the Maker!"
"And you diminish Him, even as you claim His side. Andraste did not volunteer for the flame. You have erred in your judgment, Mother Petrice. A court will decide your fate. The Chantry respects the law, and so must you." Clearly wanting no more of the woman, or the mess in her Chantry hall, Grand Cleric Elthina left Petrice before the remains of those she had convinced to follow her in her madness. Petrice looked broken without the support of the Grand Cleric, with the knowledge that she had been abandoned by her faith.
"Grand Cleric?" she pleaded, but Elthina would not hear her. "Grand Cleric!"
She was prevented from saying any more by the soft whistle characteristic of a projectile weapon moving at great speed, the knife flying end-over-end with an unerring precision until it thudded home in the center of her chest, in the exact middle of the embroidered symbol that marked her status as a Chantry cleric. Petrice staggered backwards slightly, clutching ineffectually at the dagger, but she was not to be given even that much quarter. With a sound no louder than the padding of catâs paws over the stone, Amalia seemed to melt into solidity from one of the shadows in the Chantryâs entranceway, sprinting with long strides towards the mother. Moving slightly to the side, she grabbed Petriceâs free wrist as she passed, spinning herself deftly into place against the shorter womanâs back, and drew she second knife she held over her throat, ear-to-ear in the most deliberate of assassinâs cuts.
The Mother fell to the ground, and Amalia held her dripping dagger slightly out to her side, the look of detached disdain on her painted face quintessentially Qunari. For a long moment, she did not say anything, and when she raised her head from her scrutiny of the corpse, she spoke to everyone present. âThey did not heed our warning, and the Arishok has reached the end of his patience.â Another pause, almost one of hesitation, and then she continued in the same iron voice. âPrepare yourselves. These crimes will not go unanswered, and that answer will cost you more even than this.â
"What⊠what do you mean?â The question was Nostarielâs, and though in some sense she knew it was silly to ask, she felt she had to. Yes, of course the Qunari, whatever they did, would cause a lot of damageâthat one was obvious, but she could not help but want to know if there was anything else Amalia couldâor wouldâtell them. She was not especially good with subtle implications, but she had caught the slight pause in her delivery, and wondered if perhaps she was speaking now beyond the strictest bounds of what she was supposed to say. If so⊠would she be willing to continue. "How can we prepare if we donât know what to expect?â
Amalia shook her head. She had already said more than she probably should, but to her own surprise, she continued anyway. âExpect the worst. Brace yourself for it, and count yourself fortunate if it does not come.â The army on the docks was more than Kirkwallâs City Guard and Templars together would be able to handle, but she knew what the Arishokâs likely trajectory would beâand she knew also that these people would be most likely of all to place themselves in the way of that path.
âA conquering army with any sense goes right for the enemy commander,â Lucien said slowly, and Amaliaâs gaze shifted to him for a moment. She nodded almost imperceptibly, then lashed her arm once, flicking the last of Petriceâs blood off of the blade she held, sliding it home in a sheath strapped to the outside of her thigh. There was no enemy commander as such here, because there was no enemy army as such. The alternatives were few, but obvious. With a final inclination of her head to those present, she turned and walked right out of the Chantry front doors, leaving the others to their thoughts.
The butt end of the poleax cracked into the temple of the nearest zealot with a little too much forceâheâd live, but not by much. Gritting his teeth, Lucien checked himself when he hit the next civilian, catching that one with the flat of the axehead on his backswing. His forward progress was interrupted next by a Templar, and he caught sight of Petrice fleeing from the corner of his eye. She wouldnât be able to get farâbut he had other problems to deal with right now. He was less disposed to show mercy to someone who should have been taught why men wielded swords in the first place, and the greater skill of a Templar made deadly force all but necessary anyway. Spinning to the side to avoid a bash from a shield, Lucien twisted, catching the pole under the manâs legs in a low sweep. Off balance from the dodge he had not been expecting, the Templar fell, narrowly missing the pointed speartip of the poleax by rolling to the side. It shaved a few hairs from his jawline as it was.
Getting his feet underneath him, the Templar pressed back, slashing in a wide horizontal arc with the longsword he carried. Lucien just let it clang harmlessly off his plate mail, rather than trying to step backwards and yielding the advantage of forward momentum. The backswing was quicker than he expected, nicking his cheekbone and crossing the scar beneath his eyepatch, a thin red line bisecting the more jagged white one. He really needed to relearn how to use bothâhis depth perception needed some work. Stepping too far forward for his polearm to be of any use, Lucien simply overwhelmed the other with size and aggressionâlazy, Liliane would have called it. Right in this moment, he didnât care much, dropping the spear and catching the manâs head in both hands. A judicious wrench was all it tookâthe bones in his neck snapped, and the Templar went limp. Lucien dropped him, retrieved the poleax, and kept moving forward.
Back up on the upper level, Ashton found the ideal position was the one that he already occupied. Taking a step up to find a perch on the railing that Sophia vaulted, the archer couldn't have asked for a better vantage point, though truth be told he wished that there hadn't been need of one at all. He was by no means an overly religious man, but his aunt had been, and he still had respect for the Maker, more so than this Petrice it seemed. Which of whom he'd had in his sights, though lining up a nonlethal shot took more time than a lethal one, and by then she'd slipped away from his sight entirely. He grunted harshly, opting to not curse in the Chantry, and instead took aim upon those who instead stayed to fight.
It was then he realized that the force was only partly Templar, the other part being made of ordinary men and women. It only further agitated him. The grunt turned to a growl as he took aim on a man whose bravery was only matched by his stupidity. Turned toward the raging Sophia, the man wielded a sword like it was his first time. An arrow bit deep into his ankle, and another found a home in the opposite shin. He dropped, and the virgin sword clattered to the ground, a pained cry following soon after. Though he didn't know it yet, Ashton had just saved the man's life. Sophia would not have been so forgiving.
Nostariel, too, opted to stay more or less where she was, though she did not trust her balance nearly enough to perch like a bird on the railing. Deciding her focus was best spent on making sure neither of her friends was overwhelmed with numbers alone, she decided on crowd control, sucking in a breath and loading the arrow she was holding with magic. Fitting it to the bowstring, she drew back until the feather brushed her cheek, aiming for no target in particular, but rather a spot on the floor, far enough from Sophiaâs trajectory that the woman wouldnât accidentally walk into it. This meant she had to let off the spell a little closer to Lucien, but he seemed more aware of his surroundings at the moment, and she trusted him not to get caught up in it.
The arrow flew from the bow with a whistle, landing in front of a good five of the civilians. From the point it touched the floor, a cone of cold bloomed, spreading outwards to capture the legs and hips of three, the entire left leg of a fourth, and at least the ankle of the last, effectively holding at least most of them in place for the foreseeable future. She caught a Templar making a beeline for Sophiaâs flank, and with a slightly pained expression, she released two more arrows, unaugmented, in quick succession. The second one did the trick, thrumming with a certain kind of finality into his neck and dropping him. It was poor planning that tried to hold a Templar with magic for long, after all.
Sophia could not make herself care for the lives of those that stood in her way. They either participated in the murder of her brother, or they approved of it and its result. Either way, she wanted them gone. Several more lost their lives crossing her path before the fighting ended, and while she had suffered some bruising blows in return, none of the blood that spattered her was her own. Some of the fanatics dropped to the ground with nonlethal injuries that she normally approved. Now she only let them live because others were more immediate threats.
What drew her to a stop, however, was the sight of Grand Cleric Elthina entering the room, with Mother Petrice at her heels, spewing lies in the woman's ear. "Do you see, your Grace? Traitors attacking the very core of the Chantry! They defile with every step!" Sophia might have rushed forward and skewered the bitch right then and there, but Elthina's presence halted her where she stood, and suddenly she was overcome with exhaustion, physical and emotional. She fell heavily to her knees and let Vesenia clatter to the ground, defeated.
"There is death in every corner, young mother," Elthina responded, though she seemed skeptical already. "It is as you predicted. All too well."
Lucien was torn between going to Sophia and remaining where he was, considering that the conductor of this mad little orchestra had finally reappeared. He did not understand how she thought she could possibly get away with accusing Sophia of being a Qunari sympathizer, but it seemed that was her plan all the same. In the end, it was obvious to him that Sophia herself was in no state to carry out this conversation, and so he decided that he could at least do this much to help. âPrediction has uncanny accuracy when you control the results,â he said, a fraction of stony anger creeping into his tone. But then he shook his head and refocused, glancing over at the Grand Cleric. He was sure they made quite the sight, spattered in gore with two archers, one capable of magic, yet on the dais above. But he believed she was wise enough to know that such appearances cold be deceiving.
âMy apologies, Your Grace,â Lucien continued, inclining himself at the torso. âIt⊠has been a trying day, and for some of us much worse than that. You should know what happened here, and I would tell you, if you will hear me.â He glanced back at Sophia and swallowed thickly. He couldnât think too much about it right nowâthe worry.
"Don't you spout your filth to a Grand Cleric," Petrice immediately interrupted, attempting to get ahead of things. "This is a hand of the Divine." Elthina seemed only more disappointed by the Mother's efforts to steer the conversation.
"I have ears, Mother Petrice. The Maker would have me use them." She looked to Lucien. "Serah Drakon, I assume. Sophia has mentioned you several times." The Viscount's daughter seemed hardly to hear, slumping sideways to sit on the floor amidst the carnage. Elthina looked on in concern, but the truth needed to come out first.
As he had done once before, Lucien completely ignored the fact that Petrice had spoken at all, waiting instead for confirmation from the Grand Cleric. Once he received it, he spoke steadily, but quietly, mindful that it was still not an easy thing to hear. âSaemus Dumar was killed here,â he said, âin your name.â
"I'm sure my name won't like that," Elthina responded. "Petrice?"
"Saemus Dumar was a Qunari convert! He came here to repent and was mur--"
"Oh, don't bother even saying it," the Grand Cleric said, cutting her off. "Killed by his own sister, you would have me believe? Look at what you've done to her. All in a foolish attempt to set more people against the Qunari."
"With respect, Your Grace," Petrice said, clearly struggling not to panic in the face of her collapsing plans, "this is no longer a matter of heathens squatting on the docks. People are leaving us to join them!"
"And we must pray for them, like any other." Petrice was not satisfied with that.
"They deny the Maker!"
"And you diminish Him, even as you claim His side. Andraste did not volunteer for the flame. You have erred in your judgment, Mother Petrice. A court will decide your fate. The Chantry respects the law, and so must you." Clearly wanting no more of the woman, or the mess in her Chantry hall, Grand Cleric Elthina left Petrice before the remains of those she had convinced to follow her in her madness. Petrice looked broken without the support of the Grand Cleric, with the knowledge that she had been abandoned by her faith.
"Grand Cleric?" she pleaded, but Elthina would not hear her. "Grand Cleric!"
She was prevented from saying any more by the soft whistle characteristic of a projectile weapon moving at great speed, the knife flying end-over-end with an unerring precision until it thudded home in the center of her chest, in the exact middle of the embroidered symbol that marked her status as a Chantry cleric. Petrice staggered backwards slightly, clutching ineffectually at the dagger, but she was not to be given even that much quarter. With a sound no louder than the padding of catâs paws over the stone, Amalia seemed to melt into solidity from one of the shadows in the Chantryâs entranceway, sprinting with long strides towards the mother. Moving slightly to the side, she grabbed Petriceâs free wrist as she passed, spinning herself deftly into place against the shorter womanâs back, and drew she second knife she held over her throat, ear-to-ear in the most deliberate of assassinâs cuts.
The Mother fell to the ground, and Amalia held her dripping dagger slightly out to her side, the look of detached disdain on her painted face quintessentially Qunari. For a long moment, she did not say anything, and when she raised her head from her scrutiny of the corpse, she spoke to everyone present. âThey did not heed our warning, and the Arishok has reached the end of his patience.â Another pause, almost one of hesitation, and then she continued in the same iron voice. âPrepare yourselves. These crimes will not go unanswered, and that answer will cost you more even than this.â
"What⊠what do you mean?â The question was Nostarielâs, and though in some sense she knew it was silly to ask, she felt she had to. Yes, of course the Qunari, whatever they did, would cause a lot of damageâthat one was obvious, but she could not help but want to know if there was anything else Amalia couldâor wouldâtell them. She was not especially good with subtle implications, but she had caught the slight pause in her delivery, and wondered if perhaps she was speaking now beyond the strictest bounds of what she was supposed to say. If so⊠would she be willing to continue. "How can we prepare if we donât know what to expect?â
Amalia shook her head. She had already said more than she probably should, but to her own surprise, she continued anyway. âExpect the worst. Brace yourself for it, and count yourself fortunate if it does not come.â The army on the docks was more than Kirkwallâs City Guard and Templars together would be able to handle, but she knew what the Arishokâs likely trajectory would beâand she knew also that these people would be most likely of all to place themselves in the way of that path.
âA conquering army with any sense goes right for the enemy commander,â Lucien said slowly, and Amaliaâs gaze shifted to him for a moment. She nodded almost imperceptibly, then lashed her arm once, flicking the last of Petriceâs blood off of the blade she held, sliding it home in a sheath strapped to the outside of her thigh. There was no enemy commander as such here, because there was no enemy army as such. The alternatives were few, but obvious. With a final inclination of her head to those present, she turned and walked right out of the Chantry front doors, leaving the others to their thoughts.
The Chanter's Board has been updated. Following the Qun has been completed.