Since she was ousted from her role as mage hunter, she'd felt lost. This life owed her absolutely nothing but the gallows, and she was well aware of that. Part of her might have even craved the gallows, given her innumerable sins. Perhaps, that's why she found it so easy to blend into the background in the Alienage. She'd grown weary of slumming it in the wilds, always looking over her shoulder. Here, at least, she might find some peace. It might not be for long, but she'd have it all the same.
Even if the Ferelden people chased her out, she still would have gotten more rest than if she were braving the wilds. As much as she may have thought herself deserving of death, she still took measures to stave off what would likely be the inevitable. She couldn't afford to be captured... Not yet, in any case. Capture could come later. Because a hood would be a little too conspicuous, she had elected to keep it down. With any luck, nobody would pay her a second glance. She moved with a confidence she didn't deserve with her arms wrapped carefully around her midsection.
To the outside eye, she was probably just another human waif draped in tattered rags. She had no qualms with her outfit, if only because it helped her to blend in a bit better. The only thing she was lacking was the pointy ears and elven ancestry. She came to a stop at a stall lined with some trinkets and baubles that were likely either stolen or handcrafted. She didn't idle there long, however, because she was trying to find a place to lay her head tonight. Come morning, she'd likely be back on the move. She wasn't sure if she was necessarily a fugitive, but she certainly felt like one.
He arrived under the pale glow of a fading moon, a time when most folks were deep in slumber, and he should have been too. But when it came to answering the call of his liege, saying no was not in his repertoire. The night had unfurled its dark embrace, casting everything in an eerie shroud. Typical, really. This young man had an uncanny knack for enduring long hours in the saddle, relentlessly pushing forward. It was this determination that had brought him to Denerim right on schedule.
Denerim, the capital of Ferelden, hailed as a holy city by the pious. They believed it to be the very birthplace of Andraste. However, his destination lay in a completely different part of the city, the squalid city wards, known as the Alienage. The buildings there were little more than shabby hovels, squeezed together like sardines in a can, some practically on top of each other. It was a chaotic jumble of tenements and grungy shops, the perfect setting for clandestine dealings. He managed to slip inside just before the early morning sun transformed the scene into brighter hues. He is well-connected, one could say.
Perched atop the tallest building, he peered down at the urban sprawl below, observing it all with the keen focus of an eagle eyeing its prey. He lounged with a casual air, biting into a juicy apple, clearly in no rush. Strange sight, a human wanderin' these parts, he whispered to himself. Curiosity gnawed at him like an itch he couldn't ignore. Using the environment to his advantage, he skillfully traversed from one shadow to another, becoming one with the dark as he shadowed the stranger's every move.
Eithne could sense there wasn't something quite right about her current situation. It felt like someone was following her, and she wanted to groan. Why couldn't she just catch a moment of peace? Why couldn't she just enjoy the peace and sanctity of a large city without worrying about someone hunting her? Maybe she was being paranoid, though. Deciding not to let on that she knew, she ducked into a cramped alleyway, pulling up her hood. She moved to lean against a corner, pushing her fingers through her dark hair in an effort to tame the wayward locks.
In the here and now, being followed didn't seem necessarily bad. It was more inconvenient than anything. It just meant that either the Alienage wasn't as safe as she'd initially assumed or her luck was just not as great as she'd hoped. As long as she didn't run into a Templar or someone from the Chantry who knew of her and her history, she should be fine. In fact, she'd probably be more than fine. Even now, regardless of who was following her, she had faith in herself and her abilities. She'd survived years of abuse from the Chantry and the Templars and had even survived hunting the Maleficarum.
She wasn't proud of it - far from it - but it'd given her a certain measure of durability. At least, this way, she was putting her skills to the test and hopefully wasn't killing someone in the process. She'd shed enough blood. She was tired. More than that, she wanted to avoid conflict when and where possible. Though she could've used her umbramancy to hide herself, she didn't want to tip her hand just yet. Hopefully, whoever was following her would lose interest when she didn't engage them.
Patience is a virtue that allows us to endure challenges and setbacks, but wait too long and the tables might be turned against you. Silent steps with no true intention follow the enigma that hunts the shadows. Who is she, and what is her story? Questions reverberate through the concealed man's mind as he finds himself entangled in the web of curiosity. But as soon as the woman chose to go into an alleyway his interest waned, well... sort of.
You can learn a lot from a person by simply observing. And to his understanding, a person who willingly enters an alleyway is either hiding or stupid. The pointed-ear man was not really sure if she knew about the others. So he stepped into the light just outside the alley, Behind you, he warned before taking another bite of his apple.
It seems he wasn't the only one following her. Yes, he could have stopped them, but where is the fun in that? Besides, he wanted to observe and understand what type of person she was. With that, he rested his back against a wall, becoming a silent spectator.
A crow flapped audaciously down, alighting on a crate beside Eithne. It squacked at her and tilted its head. Its eyes glowed red.
Simultaneously, clanking footsteps resounded behind her. Scab cracked his neck. He had been following this woman since she entered the ramshackle streets, and Mistress had whispered she was hungry for her. The mountain of muscle was trimmed in the ill-maintained armor of a templar, but what stood out more was his enormous direwolf cape that fell all the way down to his calves. One of his eyes glowed red, and rolled around independent of his other eye.
Another red-eyed crow sat on his shoulder, looking at Eithne, and then, turned and stared at the man who had bit into the apple. Scab also turned briefly at the sound, and gave the man a dark sidelong glare with his natural eye that said 'run along, unless you want to be a fool and try me'. A thin ball of slim like him shouldn't need much more of a warning.
Then, Scab turned back to the woman with a small curl to his lips. Could she defend herself? It would be difficult when the rats she had hardly noticed sneaking out of the sewer grating began to crawl up her leg. And as they did this, he reach for her throat, ready to choke her out with practiced fingers. Mistress liked them alive. And the rats made it impossible to run.
Him too. The Mistress's voice purred greedily in his mind while he was in the midst of attacking the marked prey.
Eithne could have fought back. Hell, maybe she should have, but she didn't quite have the desire to do so. This was penance - divine retribution - and she was ready to answer for her sins. She didn't resist, but she also didn't show fear. If anything, she showed acceptance. It didn't take long for black dots to dance across her vision, and it took even less time for her consciousness to ebb away. Once she was almost out cold, what little resistance she'd offered dissipated and she went as limp as an empty sack.
Her breathing was shallow and, in the far reaches of her mind, she recognized her heartbeat quicken in the confines of her chest. That wasn't fear, either, though. It was akin to a renewed desire to live. New life had somehow been breathed into her in the few moments she'd been unconscious. In her unconscious state, she'd made up her mind to help the half-elf out of the predicament he was only in because of her. If only his quick feet had carried him far away from all this... then - and only then - could she have accepted a merciful death. With her mind made up, her unconscious self decided to bide her time until consciousness was more restored to her.
His brows furrow as he observes the dire situation unfolding before him, fully aware of its gravity. He can't simply stand by and do nothing, so he resolves to intervene. Leveraging his extensive knowledge of these streets and a quick assessment of the surroundings, he identifies a potential advantage: the element of surprise. tsk!
Slipping deeper into the alley with a nonchalant air, Deyran moves with a calculated indifference, narrowing the gap between himself and the towering man. He suppresses his bloodlust, keeping it in check until the critical moment. Meticulously waiting for the right instant to strike. It seems he was being underestimated, good! he thought before taking one more bite. Just as his target is preoccupied with the woman and distracted by the rats crawling up her legs, Deyran takes his chance.
With practiced precision, he executes a surprise attack on the templar. First, he hurls his bitten apple at the templar, aiming to catch him off guard. Then, he deftly maneuvers himself toward the templar's side, stretching a blade to the gap in his armor. His thoughts echoing a single mantra: "reach, Reach, REACH!"
The blade sliced into the leather-covered gap between the plates of Scab's arm and shoulder, and he bellowed while dropping the unconscious woman in a heap. But Scab has the body of an Ox and his muscle and bulk shielded his heart where a normal's man build would not suffice. While his other eye rolled upward in pain, the red one stilled and narrows at the rogue. A quick hand reach for the wrist clutching the sword and with a sickening snap, the squeeze of his bear-paws broke bone.
Beneath Scab's dark sleeves a detached muscle twisted out until a snake's head appeared at the cuff with more red eyes. Scab grimaced at the man and a second later, the quick strike of fangs left two small bleeding marks on the hand. Scab then let go. This prey wouldn't get far with the paralytic venom - slowing even the man's heart to a near death-like state in less than a minute. "Run run, little pup," he muttered deeply, then let goof him and pulled the man's weapon out with a nasty schlurping noise.
