(closed) ambushing the anders.

[levered]

WHO: Teren, Marcoulf, Helena, Clarke
WHAT: Cleaning up after a massacre
WHEN: Mid Harvestmere
WHERE: Orlais, near the front
NOTES: The aftermath of most vicious murder

It's a close thing, but it is, ultimately, definitely a thing: a dozen-odd Anders, scouting the terrain, dashed on and beneath rocks, and four Inquisition personnel looking down on them from the top of the ravine. The scene isn't as grisly as it sounded. People don't generally splatter. The blood seeping out around some of the bodies is slow to spread, mainly soaking into the dirt.

There's no satisfaction, on Clarke's end, in either a job well done or in fighting a war against someone else's enemy, but there is the mild satisfaction that always accompanies not being dead herself yet. She's eyeing them through the scope she salvaged from her busted rifle, counting how many might still be breathing, and nearly misses the more-than-just-a-twitch movement beyond her limited field of vision.

It's the least dead of them, one who'd rolled on impact and covered his head. He looks up at them first, seems satisfied by or at least helpless to do anything about the distance they would have to descend to reach them, begins to hobble in the direction he came from, and then pauses to turn back to his significantly more dead brothers in arms.

"I told you," he says, and whether he's a smug asshole or in some sort of shock, it's an opportunity for someone to assist nature and gravity along in making sure his head gets bashed in after all.