Finally. Amalia had almost begun to wonder if she was frozen to her saddle. Thankfully, that proved to be untrue, and though her exit from the back of the horse was slightly less smooth than she would have liked, she landed well enough, finding her footing quickly and drawing a knife from under her thick cloak, which she shed with a motion, throwing it off her shoulders and too the ground. It would only weigh her down now.
The dwarves were a mixture of the close-quarters fighters and the ranged ones, and she knew that allowing any of them to stand back and shoot into the fray could be a disaster. They were also behind cover, meaning that the archers in their own party would have a hard time hitting them compared to the exposed melee fighters. âIthilian.â She jerked her chin to where a cluster of them had taken refuge, occasionally popping up over a barrel or overturned slab of wood to fire in volleys at the intruders.
Closing on them from the front was a stupid idea, but flanking shouldnât be too hard for people as swift and mobile as they. Ducking low, Amalia ran for the first piece of visible cover on their side, in this case a crate of some kind. An arrow thudded into it from one of the archers, and she used the time heâd need to draw another arrow to find and break for the next bit of cover.
Amalia was the quicker to make a run at the defensively positioned dwarves, and drew their initial fire, allowing Ithilian some time to press forward. Slipping his feet out of the stirrups, he quickly pushed himself up on top of the saddle and jumped off entirely, clearing the head of the nearest dwarf, and landing on top of the second, his blades outreaching the dwarf's knives as he stabbed him through the neck.
He made his move for the archers, who loosed a volley into the cover Amalia had ducked behind. His actions appearing extremely aggressive, the dwarves turned their next round on him, at which point he sidestepped, deflecting a blade from a sword-dwarf and slicing across the exposed throat with Parshaara, a flash of flame bursting across his face for good measure. Taking the fatally wounded body in hand, Ithilian ducked down behind it as a pair of arrows thudded into the dwarf's chest. It would likely be all the time Amalia needed to get within arm's length of them.
Nostariel chose to remain mounted, but Stroud slid off the back of his horse, drawing the sword and shield from his back and advancing forward into the melee line, currently recovering from Ithilianâs quick assault and forming up into something slightly more organized. That said, most of them were lighter skirmishers and rogues, so none were especially eager to face a fully-armed Grey Warden head-on. There were two heavies, though, and those both cut in towards the commander at the same time, their height forcing him into a less-mobile crouch to block the first blow, aimed for his knees.
The second went higher, to where his neck now was, but Stroud was aware of it, and tangled his sword with the axe, twisting to expose the weaponlocked dwarf to the fire of the archers behind him. Nostariel was quick to take advantage, drawing back Oathkeeperâs string without the need for an arrow. Two flaming projectiles, compressed by magic into the shape of arrows, thudded into the warriorâs side, killing him when one found his lung.
Utilizing the older Wardenâs preoccupation, one of the quieter fighters moved with his blind spot, creeping closer in an attempt to flank.
Until an arrow slammed into his throat, ending whatever plans he might've had for the senior warden.
With the arrow loosed, Ashton took the opportunity to pull back on the reins and fall back behind his companions, staying out of their way as he made his way to the side of the plateau and toward the ruin pillars. As happen-stance would have it, it was the opposite that that Amalia and Ithilian had taken. An arrow was already nocked in his bow by the time he cleared the first pillar, and drawn by the second. It had been a while since Ashton last fired an arrow from atop a mount-- the last time being during a hunt with his uncle before coming to Kirkwall. The rust was apparent as the first arrow missed its mark, but as the dwarves were clustered, he was lucky enough to wing the one beside him.
The second was better placed, though still off, slamming into the midsection of the same dwarf. His efforts earned a few arrows of his own, but a few bounced harmlessly off the pillars as he passed, and the other out right missed the quickly moving target. He continued to use the pillars to his advantage as he circled around them, plugging them with arrows every other gap between pillars. His aim wasn't the best while moving, but it'd be enough to harass them.
Lucien had joined Stroud in the melee, as he was by now much more accustomed to fighting those who preferred to slink around a battlefield than he once had been. He did not dismount; he was, after all, a chevalier. Horses were in the name, and for good reason. His own, being of his fatherâs stock, was bred and trained for this very sort of thing, and so moved unflinchingly into battle when he squeezed her flanks with his knees. There was no need to hold the reinsâa creature like this could be directed with his legs alone, or even his voice, if his legs should fail him somehow.
Mercure did him the courtesy of essentially trampling his first foe, her shod hooves knocking him to the ground. Everburn followed, the cherry-red of the blade a stark contrast to the colorless landscape around them. It was a bit of an adjustment, considering his foes were dwarves and both he and the horse were considerably taller than average for their species, but heâd been taught to compensate. When two more attempted to flank, Lucien wheeled the warhorse, using her momentum to add to his horizontal slash, putting both out of commission in one stroke. They were only wearing leather armor, after all.
Amalia, meanwhile, had closed on the archers. The first one in her sights received a knife to the chest from several feet away, and she sprang for the second one while he was still surprised, kicking the heel of her booted foot for his unprotected forehead. He went down, and the finisher was nothing more complicated than a quick cut to the vital artery in his neck.
The skills of those involved on full display, it was hardly a surprise that the Carta soldiers were felled in little time at all, their back ranks dropped even as their melee warriors fell to the bite of blade and arrow alike. When they were all down and her friends proved uninjured, Nostariel breathed a sigh of relief, bending down to pat her horse on the neck.
âSome friends you have.â She smiled at Stroudâs dry observation. It was probably a little unusual to just know this many people who were this good at what they did, but Nostariel had long ceased to notice that it was strange. Theyâd just sort of gravitated towards each other, in a way that seemed perfectly natural to her.
âWhat can I say? Iâm just lucky.â Pausing a moment for everyone to remount or at least lead their horses along, the group followed a winding path through what looked to have become the Cartaâs base of operations out here. Some of the structures looked more like arenas than anything else, one even in possession of a nasty spike trap, but with no one present to trigger it, the group passed over it unharmed. Every once in a while, they encountered another corpse, usually a dwarf that looked Carta, but for the most part, it was empty.
Eventually, rougher landscape transitioned into more in the way of ruined architecture, and they were forced to tie the horses under an outcropping for shelter and proceed on foot further downwards. Here, they encountered more Carta, as well as several brontos, but these proved to pose no more challenge than the previous lot. They were universally in possession of cloudy grey eyes, each and every one of them infected with the taint. It was making her uneasy. A condition like that should have been the death of them.
It became clear eventually that the structure theyâd entered was a fortress, or part of one, built into the stone. The structure seemed to ring a tower of some kind, set too far down to yet see the bottom, though as they descended, Nostariel could begin to make out features of the towerâs base. It was a peculiar arrangement, and she could not think of why anyone would build a fortress around a tower. Perhaps the spire had been there first, and the tower was meant to protect it? Or perhaps protect from whatever was inside it.
It was a disquieting thought, and Nostariel was honestly a little relieved when it disappeared from sight, as they entered the fortress proper, rather than simply walking its outer walls. The inside was dingy and gloomy, smelling faintly of sweat, stale air, and brontoâa safe bet that the Carta had been occupying it a while.
Stroud seemed to come to the same conclusion. âThey have been here longer than I expected. Why was this not reported?â He seemed irritated, and Nostariel could not blame him, though she had no more answers than he did, and simply shook her head in reply.
âPerhaps some of their documents will provide an answer. I suggest we search.â The hideout seemed to have been cleared out by their previous efforts, but there were still traps to beware of.
The smell of the place reminded Ithilian of the Deep Roads, though they hadn't yet seen any actual darkspawn, only dwarves ravaged by the taint, and their similarly-afflicted pack animals. Sliding Parshaara back into its sheath, he kept one blade out, knowing that they were dealing with assassins, albeit insane ones, their minds destroyed by the corruption in their blood. With his free hand he searched among the piles of papers they kept on a nearby table. Apparently their madness did not prevent them from writing.
Sifting through parchments, Ithilian eventually settled on one that mentioned the name the dwarves had spoken of earlier. He read it to himself, than turned and called out his findings to the group. "Here's something: 'You will find Enelya Losshëlin's heir in Lowtown. Runs a clinic, blue building near the Alienage.' Mentions capturing you, not killing, and at the bottom... 'In the name of the Master, Corypheus. May he see sunlight again.'" He put the note down, letting it fall among the other papers on the desk.
"This isn't fresh writing. I wonder how long they were watching." They seemed to have gotten their wish, though it was quite a bit more than they'd bargained for.
âI donât⊠that name doesnât mean anything to me.â Nostarielâs tone was one of some distress, and not without reason. If she really was this Enelyaâs heir, then that implied that she was her child. She had never known her parents, not their names, nor their occupations, nor anything else about them at all. According to her tutors in the Circle, they hadnât known either. So how was it that these Carta dwarves had come by the information? It seemed impossible, and she hated herself for hoping that they might be right, that they hadnât just mistaken her for someone else.
It was only⊠everyone else she knew had a history, a background, a heritage. Even Amalia knew who her parents were, even if they hadnât actually raised her, and it wasnât even especially important among the Qunari. Nostariel didnât even have that much, and for the longest time, sheâd never felt like she belonged anywhere. The Circle, nice as it was at times, hadnât suited her, and she didnât really suit the Wardens. She was neither a proper city elf nor a Dalish, and even now, when she had friends and a life sheâd built, it felt at times like a castle on air, like there were parts in the foundation that were just missing. Could this really be the answer to that empty space? It was too much to hope for.
Lucien had moved into another room, searching for anything of use, but it appeared to have been used for bunking, and there was nothing especially important to be found in it. Emerging from it on the heels of Ithilianâs troubling discovery, he spotted Amalia emerging from his roomâs twin, a decrepit-looking book in one hand. The cover might once have been leather, but it looked like rats had gotten to it, and it was held together by little more than strips of binding, the pages yellowed and torn.
âThis was in one of the bunks,â she explained, flipping through it quickly, until she came to rest at a page near the end. Squinting at it, for the handwriting was very difficult to read, she pursed her lips. ââThe Wardens did not guard the key with care. It was left in repository, with objects of little worth. Trinkets. Dusty Grey Warden trophies. Not even a guard posted. Fools. If only they knew what they had, and had lost. It will not wake at my touch; it sleeps and its power remains within. The Great One says it requires Enelya's blood to awaken it. Only then can its powers set him free. I will find the heir to the blood and the Great One will reward me. Yes. Let it be soon.â The rest is equally unstable, but less useful."
âA key?â Lucien blinked, then glanced over at Stroud and Nostariel.
Stroud shook his head. âI have heard of no such thing.â Nostariel mirrored the gesture, frowning slightly. âIn truth, I am not even certain what this facility was intended to do. It is a prison, that much is clear. But what it holds⊠I have not been informed of that.â
âAt least you knew it existed.â Nostariel was, as far as she knew, the Warden based closest to the place, and nobody in the organization had seen fit to tell her about its presence, nor what it was intended for. Stroud had only discovered it by accident, and he was a Commander, something which usually licensed a person to a bit more of the obscure knowledge than the troops would ever get. âPerhaps it has been defunct for long enough that no one really remembers it.â Considering the fact that Wardens had shorter life expectancies than other people, it was not a completely outrageous claim. Who knew what the Wardens of ages past had left here? And yetâŠ
âThe note alludes to us as though we were present.â And that was really the rub, wasnât it? She couldnât sense any of her order here, but⊠there were enough Darkspawn around the area that she did not doubt their presence would be well-masked.
âWell, anyway⊠perhaps we ought to get going. Unless anyoneâs found anything more helpful?â
"The rest isn't very useful," Ashton said, having taken a seat on a bench that held even more correspondence. He held up a scrap of torn paper and shrugged, "It's all basically the same. Get this one," he began, clearing his throat to begin reading the note theatrically.
"'Like many of you, I was once a thieving wretch. I was a servant to coin and my own base desires. And that is when I heard his call. Corypheus opened my eyes, just as he has opened yours, and showed me what was true!' Etcetera, etcetera. It sounds like the prison Stroud's talking about holds this... Corypheus character and the Carta's trying to dig him out." Balling the note up and throwing it against the far wall, Ashton stood up gathered with the rest of his friends
"I've broken up one or two cults with the Guard, particularly one that worshipped a desire demon. This has that same type of creepy feel about it," Ashton said, sighing. He made his way to his place by Nostariel's side and placed an arm over her shoulders, drawing her in for a quick side hug. "I promise sweetheart, I won't let anyone try to sacrifice you," he said with a warm smile, trying to dispel at least some of her distress with the joke.
Nostariel snorted, leaning into the contact for a moment before she pulled away. They did, after all, need to keep moving. âItâs not really the trying that Iâm worried about.â She huffed a short sigh and half-smiled at her friends. âCharming as our surroundings are, I think it might be best to press on.â They still werenât sure what was going on here, but they knew more than they did. And if the point of all this was to free something that the Wardens had bound, then it was no doubt best to halt the effort. She was sure that if they needed to make sense of this talk of keys and heirs, then it would happen as they went.
The dwarves were a mixture of the close-quarters fighters and the ranged ones, and she knew that allowing any of them to stand back and shoot into the fray could be a disaster. They were also behind cover, meaning that the archers in their own party would have a hard time hitting them compared to the exposed melee fighters. âIthilian.â She jerked her chin to where a cluster of them had taken refuge, occasionally popping up over a barrel or overturned slab of wood to fire in volleys at the intruders.
Closing on them from the front was a stupid idea, but flanking shouldnât be too hard for people as swift and mobile as they. Ducking low, Amalia ran for the first piece of visible cover on their side, in this case a crate of some kind. An arrow thudded into it from one of the archers, and she used the time heâd need to draw another arrow to find and break for the next bit of cover.
Amalia was the quicker to make a run at the defensively positioned dwarves, and drew their initial fire, allowing Ithilian some time to press forward. Slipping his feet out of the stirrups, he quickly pushed himself up on top of the saddle and jumped off entirely, clearing the head of the nearest dwarf, and landing on top of the second, his blades outreaching the dwarf's knives as he stabbed him through the neck.
He made his move for the archers, who loosed a volley into the cover Amalia had ducked behind. His actions appearing extremely aggressive, the dwarves turned their next round on him, at which point he sidestepped, deflecting a blade from a sword-dwarf and slicing across the exposed throat with Parshaara, a flash of flame bursting across his face for good measure. Taking the fatally wounded body in hand, Ithilian ducked down behind it as a pair of arrows thudded into the dwarf's chest. It would likely be all the time Amalia needed to get within arm's length of them.
Nostariel chose to remain mounted, but Stroud slid off the back of his horse, drawing the sword and shield from his back and advancing forward into the melee line, currently recovering from Ithilianâs quick assault and forming up into something slightly more organized. That said, most of them were lighter skirmishers and rogues, so none were especially eager to face a fully-armed Grey Warden head-on. There were two heavies, though, and those both cut in towards the commander at the same time, their height forcing him into a less-mobile crouch to block the first blow, aimed for his knees.
The second went higher, to where his neck now was, but Stroud was aware of it, and tangled his sword with the axe, twisting to expose the weaponlocked dwarf to the fire of the archers behind him. Nostariel was quick to take advantage, drawing back Oathkeeperâs string without the need for an arrow. Two flaming projectiles, compressed by magic into the shape of arrows, thudded into the warriorâs side, killing him when one found his lung.
Utilizing the older Wardenâs preoccupation, one of the quieter fighters moved with his blind spot, creeping closer in an attempt to flank.
Until an arrow slammed into his throat, ending whatever plans he might've had for the senior warden.
With the arrow loosed, Ashton took the opportunity to pull back on the reins and fall back behind his companions, staying out of their way as he made his way to the side of the plateau and toward the ruin pillars. As happen-stance would have it, it was the opposite that that Amalia and Ithilian had taken. An arrow was already nocked in his bow by the time he cleared the first pillar, and drawn by the second. It had been a while since Ashton last fired an arrow from atop a mount-- the last time being during a hunt with his uncle before coming to Kirkwall. The rust was apparent as the first arrow missed its mark, but as the dwarves were clustered, he was lucky enough to wing the one beside him.
The second was better placed, though still off, slamming into the midsection of the same dwarf. His efforts earned a few arrows of his own, but a few bounced harmlessly off the pillars as he passed, and the other out right missed the quickly moving target. He continued to use the pillars to his advantage as he circled around them, plugging them with arrows every other gap between pillars. His aim wasn't the best while moving, but it'd be enough to harass them.
Lucien had joined Stroud in the melee, as he was by now much more accustomed to fighting those who preferred to slink around a battlefield than he once had been. He did not dismount; he was, after all, a chevalier. Horses were in the name, and for good reason. His own, being of his fatherâs stock, was bred and trained for this very sort of thing, and so moved unflinchingly into battle when he squeezed her flanks with his knees. There was no need to hold the reinsâa creature like this could be directed with his legs alone, or even his voice, if his legs should fail him somehow.
Mercure did him the courtesy of essentially trampling his first foe, her shod hooves knocking him to the ground. Everburn followed, the cherry-red of the blade a stark contrast to the colorless landscape around them. It was a bit of an adjustment, considering his foes were dwarves and both he and the horse were considerably taller than average for their species, but heâd been taught to compensate. When two more attempted to flank, Lucien wheeled the warhorse, using her momentum to add to his horizontal slash, putting both out of commission in one stroke. They were only wearing leather armor, after all.
Amalia, meanwhile, had closed on the archers. The first one in her sights received a knife to the chest from several feet away, and she sprang for the second one while he was still surprised, kicking the heel of her booted foot for his unprotected forehead. He went down, and the finisher was nothing more complicated than a quick cut to the vital artery in his neck.
The skills of those involved on full display, it was hardly a surprise that the Carta soldiers were felled in little time at all, their back ranks dropped even as their melee warriors fell to the bite of blade and arrow alike. When they were all down and her friends proved uninjured, Nostariel breathed a sigh of relief, bending down to pat her horse on the neck.
âSome friends you have.â She smiled at Stroudâs dry observation. It was probably a little unusual to just know this many people who were this good at what they did, but Nostariel had long ceased to notice that it was strange. Theyâd just sort of gravitated towards each other, in a way that seemed perfectly natural to her.
âWhat can I say? Iâm just lucky.â Pausing a moment for everyone to remount or at least lead their horses along, the group followed a winding path through what looked to have become the Cartaâs base of operations out here. Some of the structures looked more like arenas than anything else, one even in possession of a nasty spike trap, but with no one present to trigger it, the group passed over it unharmed. Every once in a while, they encountered another corpse, usually a dwarf that looked Carta, but for the most part, it was empty.
Eventually, rougher landscape transitioned into more in the way of ruined architecture, and they were forced to tie the horses under an outcropping for shelter and proceed on foot further downwards. Here, they encountered more Carta, as well as several brontos, but these proved to pose no more challenge than the previous lot. They were universally in possession of cloudy grey eyes, each and every one of them infected with the taint. It was making her uneasy. A condition like that should have been the death of them.
It became clear eventually that the structure theyâd entered was a fortress, or part of one, built into the stone. The structure seemed to ring a tower of some kind, set too far down to yet see the bottom, though as they descended, Nostariel could begin to make out features of the towerâs base. It was a peculiar arrangement, and she could not think of why anyone would build a fortress around a tower. Perhaps the spire had been there first, and the tower was meant to protect it? Or perhaps protect from whatever was inside it.
It was a disquieting thought, and Nostariel was honestly a little relieved when it disappeared from sight, as they entered the fortress proper, rather than simply walking its outer walls. The inside was dingy and gloomy, smelling faintly of sweat, stale air, and brontoâa safe bet that the Carta had been occupying it a while.
Stroud seemed to come to the same conclusion. âThey have been here longer than I expected. Why was this not reported?â He seemed irritated, and Nostariel could not blame him, though she had no more answers than he did, and simply shook her head in reply.
âPerhaps some of their documents will provide an answer. I suggest we search.â The hideout seemed to have been cleared out by their previous efforts, but there were still traps to beware of.
The smell of the place reminded Ithilian of the Deep Roads, though they hadn't yet seen any actual darkspawn, only dwarves ravaged by the taint, and their similarly-afflicted pack animals. Sliding Parshaara back into its sheath, he kept one blade out, knowing that they were dealing with assassins, albeit insane ones, their minds destroyed by the corruption in their blood. With his free hand he searched among the piles of papers they kept on a nearby table. Apparently their madness did not prevent them from writing.
Sifting through parchments, Ithilian eventually settled on one that mentioned the name the dwarves had spoken of earlier. He read it to himself, than turned and called out his findings to the group. "Here's something: 'You will find Enelya Losshëlin's heir in Lowtown. Runs a clinic, blue building near the Alienage.' Mentions capturing you, not killing, and at the bottom... 'In the name of the Master, Corypheus. May he see sunlight again.'" He put the note down, letting it fall among the other papers on the desk.
"This isn't fresh writing. I wonder how long they were watching." They seemed to have gotten their wish, though it was quite a bit more than they'd bargained for.
âI donât⊠that name doesnât mean anything to me.â Nostarielâs tone was one of some distress, and not without reason. If she really was this Enelyaâs heir, then that implied that she was her child. She had never known her parents, not their names, nor their occupations, nor anything else about them at all. According to her tutors in the Circle, they hadnât known either. So how was it that these Carta dwarves had come by the information? It seemed impossible, and she hated herself for hoping that they might be right, that they hadnât just mistaken her for someone else.
It was only⊠everyone else she knew had a history, a background, a heritage. Even Amalia knew who her parents were, even if they hadnât actually raised her, and it wasnât even especially important among the Qunari. Nostariel didnât even have that much, and for the longest time, sheâd never felt like she belonged anywhere. The Circle, nice as it was at times, hadnât suited her, and she didnât really suit the Wardens. She was neither a proper city elf nor a Dalish, and even now, when she had friends and a life sheâd built, it felt at times like a castle on air, like there were parts in the foundation that were just missing. Could this really be the answer to that empty space? It was too much to hope for.
Lucien had moved into another room, searching for anything of use, but it appeared to have been used for bunking, and there was nothing especially important to be found in it. Emerging from it on the heels of Ithilianâs troubling discovery, he spotted Amalia emerging from his roomâs twin, a decrepit-looking book in one hand. The cover might once have been leather, but it looked like rats had gotten to it, and it was held together by little more than strips of binding, the pages yellowed and torn.
âThis was in one of the bunks,â she explained, flipping through it quickly, until she came to rest at a page near the end. Squinting at it, for the handwriting was very difficult to read, she pursed her lips. ââThe Wardens did not guard the key with care. It was left in repository, with objects of little worth. Trinkets. Dusty Grey Warden trophies. Not even a guard posted. Fools. If only they knew what they had, and had lost. It will not wake at my touch; it sleeps and its power remains within. The Great One says it requires Enelya's blood to awaken it. Only then can its powers set him free. I will find the heir to the blood and the Great One will reward me. Yes. Let it be soon.â The rest is equally unstable, but less useful."
âA key?â Lucien blinked, then glanced over at Stroud and Nostariel.
Stroud shook his head. âI have heard of no such thing.â Nostariel mirrored the gesture, frowning slightly. âIn truth, I am not even certain what this facility was intended to do. It is a prison, that much is clear. But what it holds⊠I have not been informed of that.â
âAt least you knew it existed.â Nostariel was, as far as she knew, the Warden based closest to the place, and nobody in the organization had seen fit to tell her about its presence, nor what it was intended for. Stroud had only discovered it by accident, and he was a Commander, something which usually licensed a person to a bit more of the obscure knowledge than the troops would ever get. âPerhaps it has been defunct for long enough that no one really remembers it.â Considering the fact that Wardens had shorter life expectancies than other people, it was not a completely outrageous claim. Who knew what the Wardens of ages past had left here? And yetâŠ
âThe note alludes to us as though we were present.â And that was really the rub, wasnât it? She couldnât sense any of her order here, but⊠there were enough Darkspawn around the area that she did not doubt their presence would be well-masked.
âWell, anyway⊠perhaps we ought to get going. Unless anyoneâs found anything more helpful?â
"The rest isn't very useful," Ashton said, having taken a seat on a bench that held even more correspondence. He held up a scrap of torn paper and shrugged, "It's all basically the same. Get this one," he began, clearing his throat to begin reading the note theatrically.
"'Like many of you, I was once a thieving wretch. I was a servant to coin and my own base desires. And that is when I heard his call. Corypheus opened my eyes, just as he has opened yours, and showed me what was true!' Etcetera, etcetera. It sounds like the prison Stroud's talking about holds this... Corypheus character and the Carta's trying to dig him out." Balling the note up and throwing it against the far wall, Ashton stood up gathered with the rest of his friends
"I've broken up one or two cults with the Guard, particularly one that worshipped a desire demon. This has that same type of creepy feel about it," Ashton said, sighing. He made his way to his place by Nostariel's side and placed an arm over her shoulders, drawing her in for a quick side hug. "I promise sweetheart, I won't let anyone try to sacrifice you," he said with a warm smile, trying to dispel at least some of her distress with the joke.
Nostariel snorted, leaning into the contact for a moment before she pulled away. They did, after all, need to keep moving. âItâs not really the trying that Iâm worried about.â She huffed a short sigh and half-smiled at her friends. âCharming as our surroundings are, I think it might be best to press on.â They still werenât sure what was going on here, but they knew more than they did. And if the point of all this was to free something that the Wardens had bound, then it was no doubt best to halt the effort. She was sure that if they needed to make sense of this talk of keys and heirs, then it would happen as they went.