Targets (Cyrlan)

But the future is forgiven, so smile

[attr="class","wildlyrics"]We'll be lucky if we ever see the sun

[attr="class","wildpost"]Few of the old inner circle remained at Skyhold, many preferring to carve out their paths elsewhere. There were days where despite the people who milled about the fortress, there was a crushing loneliness that pressed hard upon the elf but he had himself convinced that it was not a pressing enough concern to disturb the others. After all, he could hardly interrupt army practices simply to complain to their Commander of inane despondency which came and went as it liked. Instead, he chose to throw himself into work, accompanying a scout on one of her patrols around the region.

The hart was all too pleased to escape the stables and Cyrlan could not find it within himself to be annoyed at his mount's high spirits. The chestnut garron the scout rode, however, seemed to hold enough displeasure for the both of them, pinning its ears back and stamping irritably whenever the hart pranced too close. Eventually, Piren reconciled to trotting ahead and trumpeting to the wind every so often while Cyrlan leaned back to indulge the scout in idle chatter. It seemed that if any element of stealth was expected on such a patrol, it was very quickly ruined. Even so, they gradually calmed down until both rode abreast, with the elf cheerfully recounting the time he had somehow gotten his foot stuck in the rafters and had to call for someone to help him down, though it very much seemed as if he were reminiscing quietly to himself when the scout was actually doing her duty of looking out for danger.

Which she found with little problem, in fact. Cyrlan barely registered some barked out word which vaguely resembled his name before Piren balked at the unwelcome appearance of a leather-clad, dagger-wielding bandit. He fumbled for a spell and caught it at the edge of his will, a barrier flickering into existence before an arrow twanged off it harmlessly. For someone who had gotten his fair share of bloody battles on a far larger scale than this and had consequently learnt to become disturbingly familiar with the chaos amid bloodshed and the screams of dying soldiers, sliding off the hart and slipping the staff off his shoulder to deal with these enemies was second-nature. He casted wide, a sweeping arc that had lightning crackling through the air with deadly precision and fade-stepped through a few more enemies without waiting for them before they started screaming.

They had been riding along a ridge and Cyrlan barely hesitated before he jumped down, not so much landing among a fresh group of assailants as much as on top of one of them. As expected, they too went down screaming curses upon curses, but the elf was already moving, no so much as charging as he seemed to dance, the ironbark staff held aloft in a hand crackling with all the contained power of a miniature storm while the other simply extended into a glowing sword, cutting through foes with a strength the light mage armor belied. And so it happened that he stumbled closer to the victims as he ducked a particularly vicious attack. He spun and deflected another blade off a barrier, but now his eyes slid sideways to regard the small party.

They were few against the armed bandits, a woman and four children, two hounds and someone who appeared to be an ally (a guard, perhaps). At least they knew how to use weapons and shields, but the battle they fought seemed to be on a losing side. Gradually the arrows raining upon them stopped completely and the scout resurfaced in a copse of bushes, looking all too relieved upon locating the now bloodied inquisitor. The archers had been dealt with, from what he could tell, leaving the few more of their ranks scattered but still standing. Cyrlan raised an eyebrow, watching to see if they would flee, but he took a few more steps backwards, enough to bring him level to the armored female. "What an absolutely delightful way to spend an afternoon," he remarked, allowing the spirit blade to dissipate and now wielding the staff with both hands. "Pity I couldn't get here sooner."

But the future is forgiven, so smile

[attr="class","wildlyrics"]We'll be lucky if we ever see the sun

[attr="class","wildpost"]Despite the diminished number of people who resided within the walls of Skyhold, it seemed that he never quite failed to encounter more and more people who piqued his interested. A human woman who spoke some form of elven, it seemed to be this time. The language was easily recognisable, something that earned them a raised eyebrow from the scout as she and the elf exchanged puzzled glances. Although Cyrlan could scarcely be mistaken for anything but Dalish (the ink that delicately encircled his eye was definitely a giveaway), it was rare that people thought to address him in whatever fragments of the language they grasped, preferring to use the more common King's Tongue that everyone knew, to some extent at least. Needless to say, his expression shifted to something with more semblance to confusion, though he still managed to nod briefly in acknowledgement of the words used, if nothing more.

For a moment, he stood in an awkward silence as the mabari growled at him (and stopped) and the woman moved to comfort her children, until a nudge from the scout prompted him to make sure that the path ahead truly was clear. He waved a hand in vague gesture that could only mean 'wait', proceeding to drift away regardless of whether the strangers noticed or not. The short prowl only resulted in ending a single dying bandit's misery with a swift slash across the throat but yielded little else before he returned to the group's side, in time to catch a snippet of conversation, a small hint that told him that they were headed towards Skyhold. Standing unobtrusively by the side of the hart (which had returned to its rider's side once the danger was over) granted him a few more valuable pieces of information - that this was the expected Lady Cousland and her children, though he had never thought to think that two of them were not entirely humans. Elfblood, his mind helpfully supplied.

Now they moved towards him and he simply stood and waited, a lean, imposing figure cut out against pale sky by the heavy, darker variation of a Keeper's robes, something that would simultaneously highlight a Dalish heritage and protect against the biting cold that frequented the Frostback Mountains. A smile softened the effect somewhat before a chuckle ruined it completely, the elf beginning to speak not in his native tongue but a more common one. "Lady Cousland, if I heard correctly? Skyhold is less than a day away, you may be pleased to know. We should get moving soon to make it there before nightfall." And avoid more attacks if they come, he did not bother to remind. He turned to nod at the scout, who promptly turned to mount her horse once again and set off on the path back to Skyhold to procure more mounts. The elf kept a steady hand on his hart, though Piren seemed more intrigued by the mabari than anything else, stretching out a nose inquisitively. "I am sorry we could not meet under, ah, more comfortable circumstances," he continued before grinning again, gesturing sheepishly at the now blood-stained clothes he wore (yet he seemed to fare better off than the rest, and it was obvious the blood was not his own). "I am Cyrlan, though perhaps you know me better as Inquisitor Lavellan."