Vigil for Waiting in Camp

The former Templar moved to take a step back from the nobleman, but, against even his own better judgement, stopped. His hands fisted at his side to keep them from shaking, even that small amount of escaped lyrium a tempting call - it was pathetic, really. As much as his hands were aching for the pouch, though, gold eyes remained steadily on green, and he didn't lift his shaking hand even to push Royce's away from his face. Instead, he stared with a kind of tired intensity, a question in the look that he'd been meaning to ask for a long time but hadn't figured out how to word until just now.

"Why do you do that?" he finally managed, and the words might have been simple but they would have to do. On Andraste's pyre, he couldn't think of anything more intelligent to say.

He was painfully aware that Jezarine needed them to come back as quickly as possible, and there was nothing in the world that could keep him from her side, but as much as he knew that, he couldn't move, not yet.

A sneer of stubborn defiance came upon the healer's face as she fought against death for Fremelda and even though Jezarine could never look intimidating it was noticeable that she was determined to save the other woman. This was no easy task as being skewered and taken through the fade had weakened the woman to the bone. If it had been another healer attempting this procedure it would not have gone so well but Jezarine was a master of her healing, dedicated almost to the point of madness.

Infection had already begun and was trying to get a foothold within the Queen of Thorn's body but the coloured half-elf drove it back again and again. She was expending more energy than she had but she continued, determined not to allow her patient to be swallowed by the abyss of death.

"Do...What?" Roy was completely confused, as Ianto questioned his very nature. But the noble shrugged it off as he retired his hand to his pocket. He did not dwell too much on the question, because if he did it would surely end in him taking it as an insult, and it starting a brawl (which while they WERE entertaining there were other matters to attend to first).

Roy shook his head and smiled. "We shall think on questions once the darling Jez is taken care of. Her magic is weakening without this grand ol' substance isn't it?" he held tight to the little pouch and started to walk back to the mage, knowing Ianto would follow his lead.

Of course, she dreamed of the usual Warden Dreams mixed with her own memories, like she had explained to Macha some time prior. The twisting figures of the Darkspawn, clawing at her. She bit her lip, starting to rock back and forth slowly, moaning in her sleep from the nightmares coming to her. She was dimly aware of the warm feel of magic knitting her insides closed, but things were getting intense in her dreams. She recalled the faces of her parents and brother, their smiles turning to glares. They muttered words she could not understand. And there was father's sword.

The sword.

Deathscream.

Black as an Archdemon's heart. Three feet in length, with golden runes up the flat of the blade. Silent screams echoing from within. Crafted for her family alone. Their most ancient blade, as ancient as the clan itself. She could feel the yearning for it. The uncontrollable craving to hold it. Shes started to sweat as the broken tip of the spear was pulled out of her body, but she wasn't aware of the pain.