Wine and Hemlock (WARNING: Assisted Suicide Themes)

While the Darkspawn brought a quick and violent passing, the taint was a slow and tortuous killer. Purple veins bulged on a sick one's throat, as if they were strangled by an invisible demonic hand. The tendrils wriggled like corpse worms, rotting the skin and giving off a putrefied smell. Death within a few hours was common. Worse yet were the drawn out instances. Very little could be done but watch.

Jorah had received word, a plea, from western Ferelden. They asked for supplies that Antiva was never in short supply of: Wine, and poison.

The crow had stared at the tattered parchment message as he felt his stomach turn at the request. A town west of Amaranthine could do nothing but watch their sick wither away. He'd shot an order to make the arrangements, and now, today, he was here.

Valefort was a small town. Refuges, with their dirty faces and crying children, loitered the streets. Their lost eyes watched him and the crates a few young crow-pages were carrying in his trail. Meanwhile, he personally delivered a very special flask of brown herbal liquid that with but a pin-prick, put a creature to sleep forever.

[color=orange]"No distractions,"[/color] Jorah reminded them, as their roving curious eyes caused one to stumble and the glass bottles tinkled as they were jostled.

At last they came to a tent, set away from the village, with many ill laying on the grass with pillows of their own sacks and rolled up coats. The taint consumed them in all its stages.

[color=orange]"Don't touch them,"[/color] he warned the teenagers. The three huddled beside him, trying to sneak glances at this world so different from their home. Jorah did the proper looking, but even he was lost too.

[color=orange]"Where is the healer?"[/color] Jorah finally called, raising his voice.

Despite the better efforts of her wardens, there were some areas continually lost to the darkspawn. It was a disheartening to message. And even worse to see with her own eyes. While she patrolled her own boundaries, regularly checked the wards in place that protected the Terynir of Highever, that had left the Bannorn unguarded. And often quickly overrun. She did not have enough wardens.

Word came of a small village in the Bannorn that was in desperate need for aide. But Lana could not spare many wardens to help. She did, however, have a desire to evacuate as many to Amaranthine as she could. There they would be safe. There they could recover.

While normally she'd go out alone and utilize her magic to shift, this time she took two griffons. Garuda and one of the remaining griffons without a rider. She'd hoped, with luck, she could use both to bring at least the children and the elderly away to Amaranthine first. Then return for more, perhaps with some of her soldier's from the Vigil.

Those that could least likely defend themselves, however, they needed to go first.

The sight was bleak upon her arrival. Many looked blighted. Too far gone for even her own abilities to save. Guiding both griffons to a safe clearing to land, she quickly looked about to see if there was anyone she could speak with. A templar from the Chantry, perhaps, or a sister. Or even the Revered Mother.

Instead, she heard a man's voice calling out for a healer. While not a healer, she had a feeling this type of situation she might be able to lend a hand with. She approached, her warden blues glimmering just a bit in the light.

There is not much that a healer could do. Her answer was a somber one as she looked on at the ghouls around them. Even if there was, perhaps, a healer somewhere within the tent, Lana did not have a good feeling as she felt the Blight all around her. Except keep them comfortable.

Her eyes danced about until they landed on a nearby person. They looked young, probably quite healthy before being tainted. Kneeling down beside them, Lana pulled her blade from her boot and ran it without hesitation across her hand. As the blood dripped down, she touched both hands to their chest.

Eyes had gone red in the process of tapping into her blood magic. She could feel the Blight swirling within the person beneath her, but carefully she coaxed that taint back toward herself. And, finding the open wound, she pressed her bloodied hand over it until she could feel the taint within them no longer.

She'd not be able to do this for many, it might kill her, but a few like this? Maybe. Just maybe she could spare them a grisly death.

A woman dressed for a hard ride approached, the same cold blackness in her eyes as in Jorah's, that comes from witnessing death. He was about to reach for the flask in his coat, when she suddenly bent down to a young boy, cut her hand, and pressed his chest. Jorah and the two crow boys gaped as they saw the purple tendrils retreat, and the woman's own hands begin to turn an ugly bruised shade. In several moments, the young patient drew comfortable deep breathes, no longer wheezing.

The warden-lady looked weak from the excertion. Jorah considered the decisiveness inherent in how she cut her hands and took on this sickness, and nodded with pensively respect. He came around the other side of the boy and knelt down.

[color=orange]"Warden, I see now how the cost to heal one is quite high,"[/color] he said, putting a respectful, leather-gloved hand on her tainted hands on his chest.[color=orange] "Let's bring this one away from the sick. Do you have a place for those recovering?"[/color] Jorah had met a Grey Warden, and of the one he he had gotten to know, he knew them to be proud society. He wondered how this one bore the burden of choosing who lived and who died. A warden he knew might have killed herself to save every last one here. That warden would have brushed all rhetoric aside, that her death was just a necessary sacrifice for the problem at hand, if she could take and hold their sickness.

[color=orange]"We can discuss the parcels I bring along the way,"[/color] he pressed, before removing his hands from hers, and gently lifting the child's exhausted form. He did not want to discuss the wine and the poison in such an insane place, where he felt rational thinking could, at any moment, flip upside down.

Lana glanced at the man, then shrugged. There is no cost to put on the lives of people. She then gestured over toward the griffon pair standing by in a clearing. Bring him to the griffons. I mean to evacuate this town of all healthy individuals.

She shifted, rising to her feet once she'd regained her balance. This child must not have been tainted long, it wasn't as difficult to pull it out with her magic as others could be. Thankfully the kid looked healthy otherwise, and would likely make a recovery. But under the care and supervision of her healers at the Vigil.

I need you all to grab only the necessities. She barked aloud toward some bystanders. Tell everyone! Gather by the griffons. You are all being moved to Amaranthine. Her eyes scanned until she spotted a templar from the Chantry. You, get the others, get the people moving. Separate the ill or injured from the healthy so we can attend them properly. Once the templar had acknowledged her commands, she turned back to the man who'd mentioned parcels.

Now then, my apologies. I'm Warden-Commander Rutherford, but you may call me Lana. She gave a slight dip of her head in greeting. She'd not attempt any contact, for her hands were bloodied still. Tell me, what have you brought?

Spooked by her sudden withdrawal due to her bloodied hands, Jorah awkwardly retreated his kind gesture, rubbing his own palms together thoughtfully. He listened to her instructions, his eyes roaming down. Shame overwhelmed him as the direness of blight begin to hit him hard. All around, death. He had never seen such war before. He was out of place, even as a Crow who walked the path of death for many years.

Tenderly and humbly, he lifted the limp frame. As he did, he remembered his son, unconscious  after an accident early on in his illness. Sorrowful eyes stared earnestly and thoughtfully at the young one, while the warden took her moment to bark orders to all who dared to bring aid to this sick-camp. Where was this one's family? Meanwhile, the boys gaped. One did not see such community in Antiva.

He broke from his meditation as the warden tipped her head and introduced herself.

[color=orange]"Lana... yes... It is all right,"[/color] he softly forgave her awkward pause, attention drifted to her cut and bloody hands before meeting her own honest face. [color=orange]"I have brought two crates of our very best Antivan Garnacha, and the requested... extracción."[/color] Jorah's heavy Antivan dialect fluttered over the word he hadn't heard spoken often in the South. It was the softest way to describe an herbal poison. Uncomfortably, he rushed into other words and began to walk towards the griffons.

[color=orange]"The griffons, let us bring him. He will find his mother in Amaranthine if there is luck to be had. For the rest,"[/color] he swallowed, [color=orange]"there is at least drink, and, perhaps, a song?"[/color] He glanced cautiously at Lana.

Lana arched a brow at the way in which he referred to his parcels. You can speak Antivan if you need. She offered, on the off chance he wasn't as comfortable in certain words in the common. Parlo entrambi.

As he moved toward the griffons, Lana followed along. She remained silent as the stranger spoke, her thoughts grim even as he tried to seem positive. If the boy was tainted, it was likely his family was already long gone, but she'd not mention that aloud. People needed hope, however small, and saying anything now would remove that hope.

A song? Lana paused, arching a brow. Perhaps it was her more sheltered life, but she could not particularly recall any scenario in Ferelden that song was something of popularity. Except, of course, if they were singing about Andraste's Mabari.

I fear they did not teach us songs in the Circle. She added soon after, though little mirth came behind the poorly made joke.

[color=orange]"Thank you,"[/color] he nodded in Antivan, relaxing into his mother tongue with quick ease. A brightness and energy came into his eye, and as he smiled, crows feet spread at their corners. But his smile melted away as she continued.

[color=orange]"Oh really?"[/color] he asked, his vowels calligraphy [color=orange]"Not a single hymn to The Maker?"[/color] He gave her a puzzled glance as he tromped beside her. There was no made-path to the griffons and the meadow grasses were high. [color=orange]"Well,"[/color] he muttered, glancing down at the boy, and then, back at her. [color=orange]"Surely, you know In Uthenera,"[/color] he said softly and, once more, cautiously. His Elven flopped awkwardly in the sudden switch.

Aside the ever present voracious need for arcane knowledge, language was something else Lana had found herself passionate about. Enough that she'd spent many years teaching herself every possible language she could - even those that were no longer spoken, if only so she could read older texts in pursuit of her magical knowledge.

This, however, was the first time she'd had a more practical application for her extensive languages. Or, at least, what common folk might consider practical. Conversing with another was, after all, far more important to many that being able to read and translate old, dusty tomes.

Lana shrugged. Does the Chant count? I feel it probably doesn't. She paused as they walked, looking up at him with a lifted brow. Do I? It would not be the first time she'd been mistaken for a Dalish elf, if that were indeed the man's thoughts on the matter. Of course any who truly knew elves would know she could hardly pass for one, but some saw the pointed ears, the lyrium branded onto her face, and made assumptions. Lana never dispelled such thoughts either.

Perhaps, she added soon after. Or perhaps, I merely read it in a book. She flashed a toothy smirk.

The arrival at her griffon brought both an eager and wary eye from Garuda. A stranger with her mistress was a bit uncommon. Atish’an, Gardua. She greeted her griffon, smiling as she lifted a hand for her massive companion to touch gently with her beak.

Looking back at the man carrying the boy, a more natural smile and lightness had returned to her. This is Garuda and her clutchmate, Athene. She gestured to each griffon in turn. Show them respect and they will return it in kind. A commentary, as well as a warning.

While Jorah resettled the younger boy in his arms, the child-Crows tailing them peered around him to look at the Griffons. Their eyes grew wide, and their jaws slackened.  The stouter of the two boys took a few cautious steps towards one of the powerful bird-things, and Jorah shot Lana a look. It was a quick yet steady look, one that said 'better to let him learn'. Then Jorah moved closer ready to snatch the boy back if he did something foolish that earned him a beak to the skull.

The boy, in fact, ripped off his cap, and stiffly bowed in an abrupt manner far more Western than Antivan.

And Jorah knew Griffons well enough, and he knew when Lana ment "respect", it meant their space and not their manners.

A loud laugh nearly erupted from Lana as she watched the kid. Maker, thank you. I needed that laugh. It took a good minute or two for her to quell it, much to the embarrassment of the young lad, no doubt. Not what I meant. She finally explained with a shake of her head.

Once the laughter had dispelled, she looked over to the man holding the young boy. Get him set up over there, she gestured a short distance away from her own griffon. We need to bring the people here with him that are well enough to travel.

Her gaze flicked to the young lads, then back to Jorah. We will assess the sick and wounded case by case.

Jorah tossed a look at the boys that said what it needed to say - and off they went, abruptly scurrying to offer help about. Jorah turned back to the Warden, the harsh commanding look melting away beside the other adult, replaced with one more strained and lost.

Now - Is there anything I can do for them? Anything like what you did...? he asked his eyes glancing down at the boy he carried before passing him off to a bustling matron.

I do not know how this magic of yours works, but if there is anything I can offer, if the spell is a trade for something precious, I will share the burden of it with you. Jorah pressed a palm to his heart and bowed, before taking a gentle step towards where the sick awaited, gesturing with patient, gentlemanly kindness.