Wars don't stop. They're a relentless, bloody thing, as likely to wear you down as they are to outright kill you. A sword to the gut, or Blight in your veins, an arrow finding your throat or exhaustion and hopelessness taking you. They were all ways a war could get to you, and not even close to a full list. This is a war that they're fighting, and to be honest, he's not sure what role it is the Wardens will play. Are they a liability? Are they fooling themselves? Or are they going to help to save the day and make things right, despite the carnage that's tearing through their ranks?
He doesn't know, but he trusts the Wardens here, even the ones he hasn't met before. They're family, bound by blood and oathes and secrecy, and sometimes by alcohol and cheese wheels, if things get a little out of hand. As long as there's breath in his lungs and a way to filter out the song in his head, he'll keep fighting for the world, and for the Inquisition. Seems like much the same thing, these days.
Still. Not all of them are soldiers, and not all of them have sworn oaths, and he remembers the voices of the woman over the crystal. She didn't sound fragile, exactly, but she sounded like she could use a break. It's not that Herc seeks her out, so much, as he hears her talking (to herself? well, there's stranger things) and lumbers over. It's late afternoon, he's returned from a job, and he's still heated up enough from the trek in armour that now he's down to leather breeches and a shirt that, ordinarily, wouldn't be near warm enough for the snow, though he's still got the gloves that'd normally be covered over by his armour. Sometimes the Blight makes his skin burn too hot after battle or a run, like his blood stirring has made the need to duel the infection fire up something awful.
After eighteen years, you get used to it. Despite his apparently lacking snow-wear, Herc wanders in the woman's direction, leaning against a tree until she's done with whatever it is she's doing exactly. "Merrill, right? I think we spoke on the crystal."
His voice is distinct, at least, his manner friendly and relaxed. They all need a break from the war, sometimes.
MERRILL. EMPRISE. following her post.
He doesn't know, but he trusts the Wardens here, even the ones he hasn't met before. They're family, bound by blood and oathes and secrecy, and sometimes by alcohol and cheese wheels, if things get a little out of hand. As long as there's breath in his lungs and a way to filter out the song in his head, he'll keep fighting for the world, and for the Inquisition. Seems like much the same thing, these days.
Still. Not all of them are soldiers, and not all of them have sworn oaths, and he remembers the voices of the woman over the crystal. She didn't sound fragile, exactly, but she sounded like she could use a break. It's not that Herc seeks her out, so much, as he hears her talking (to herself? well, there's stranger things) and lumbers over. It's late afternoon, he's returned from a job, and he's still heated up enough from the trek in armour that now he's down to leather breeches and a shirt that, ordinarily, wouldn't be near warm enough for the snow, though he's still got the gloves that'd normally be covered over by his armour. Sometimes the Blight makes his skin burn too hot after battle or a run, like his blood stirring has made the need to duel the infection fire up something awful.
After eighteen years, you get used to it. Despite his apparently lacking snow-wear, Herc wanders in the woman's direction, leaning against a tree until she's done with whatever it is she's doing exactly. "Merrill, right? I think we spoke on the crystal."
His voice is distinct, at least, his manner friendly and relaxed. They all need a break from the war, sometimes.