Entry tags:
vignette
More and more arrive each day. It was easier when they first began this little venture of theirs. Tend to the sick, the injured, and otherwise ailing, and suddenly there's a throng of people between you and the Templars. A wall of silence and obfuscation made of bodies rather than stone. But word gets around. Whispers of the miracles being performed in the undercity. Talk of Fereldans being looked after when all others have turned them out. The wall grows, and so too does the work.
Darktown is a pisshole; a small step up from the Deep Roads. The integrity of the wood-reinforced stone chamber that suffices as their clinic has been checked and rechecked a dozen times at least. Call her paranoid, but Cathairen likes to be absolutely certain that there aren't Darkspawn just waiting to tunnel into her new home. She'd know, of course. Checking is silly and redundant, but it grants her a measure of peace that can't be earned any other way.
As the work load grew -- As her number of patients grew, the AWOL Commander of the Grey worked herself to the brink of exhaustion, letting people realize the time had come to leave only when she would all but collapse. Realizing the influx isn't about to abate, she still hasn't precisely gotten better, but she seems outwardly more in control. Lines appear at the corner of her partner's eyes, subtle but vaguely sinister in portend, signalling he's about to reach his own limits before he shows any other signs of that drain. She's grateful for him, for this redirection of his talents. Without him, many refugees would be without care. People would die, cold and alone in the dark, waiting for a savior too busy to make her way to their side.
"I'm sorry," she announces in a loud voice that projects more power than she feels she carries within this all too fragile mortal vessel of hers, pressing a small bottle of elixir into the hands of a woman with a belly swollen with child, "but the clinic is closed for today. Return tomorrow, and we'll see you then." She's learned not to wait for objections, or pleas. If she does, she can't stop herself from helping them.
Where is the justice in this?
Before she turns to retreat further into the chamber, to a portion cordoned off with heavy curtains she took as payment for services, she flashes a look to Anders. Don't dally, it says. They could both learn to say no a little more readily.
Safely behind the curtains, Amell sinks heavily into an armchair that tumbled off some merchant's cart. Discounted is always the right price when looking for furnishings for one's hovel. There's a small supply of lyrium potions settled on an overturned crate at her side. Her hand hovers in the air, just shy of wrapping fingers around the neck of the nearest one. No, not tonight. She'll afford herself the fatigue. The agony of a job well done has to suffice as reward tonight.
Darktown is a pisshole; a small step up from the Deep Roads. The integrity of the wood-reinforced stone chamber that suffices as their clinic has been checked and rechecked a dozen times at least. Call her paranoid, but Cathairen likes to be absolutely certain that there aren't Darkspawn just waiting to tunnel into her new home. She'd know, of course. Checking is silly and redundant, but it grants her a measure of peace that can't be earned any other way.
As the work load grew -- As her number of patients grew, the AWOL Commander of the Grey worked herself to the brink of exhaustion, letting people realize the time had come to leave only when she would all but collapse. Realizing the influx isn't about to abate, she still hasn't precisely gotten better, but she seems outwardly more in control. Lines appear at the corner of her partner's eyes, subtle but vaguely sinister in portend, signalling he's about to reach his own limits before he shows any other signs of that drain. She's grateful for him, for this redirection of his talents. Without him, many refugees would be without care. People would die, cold and alone in the dark, waiting for a savior too busy to make her way to their side.
"I'm sorry," she announces in a loud voice that projects more power than she feels she carries within this all too fragile mortal vessel of hers, pressing a small bottle of elixir into the hands of a woman with a belly swollen with child, "but the clinic is closed for today. Return tomorrow, and we'll see you then." She's learned not to wait for objections, or pleas. If she does, she can't stop herself from helping them.
Where is the justice in this?
Before she turns to retreat further into the chamber, to a portion cordoned off with heavy curtains she took as payment for services, she flashes a look to Anders. Don't dally, it says. They could both learn to say no a little more readily.
Safely behind the curtains, Amell sinks heavily into an armchair that tumbled off some merchant's cart. Discounted is always the right price when looking for furnishings for one's hovel. There's a small supply of lyrium potions settled on an overturned crate at her side. Her hand hovers in the air, just shy of wrapping fingers around the neck of the nearest one. No, not tonight. She'll afford herself the fatigue. The agony of a job well done has to suffice as reward tonight.