faderift | I. SEMI-CLOSED.

There's nothing about Kane that stands him out as different from everyone around him. His cloak is a rough-cut thing of fur and hide that only hits the backs of his thighs, and a shield without any banner or colour is strapped high on his back, round and heavy. He isn't distinguished as a Templar, his armor and clothing bearing no symbol, nor even a member of the Inquisition, nor is he remarkable enough to look distinctly foreign, scruffy and of a medium stature and build, middle-aged and unthreatening.

Mostly. He carries a handsome sword, which in some parts of the world, is in itself an innate threat.

But what stands him out is that he does not move in rhythm with the Inquisition camp. He doesn't have orders to follow through, or a task to oversee or participate in, and he's put away his horse and had something to eat. He walks idly, watching people move past him, glancing up at the wooden platforms on which men and women keep watch and freeze.

Knight-Captain Marcus Kane is not entirely without direction, though. Of his polite queries and collecting of names as to Templar presence, only one of them strikes out at him as familiar, and so he approaches wherever Norrington is purported to be, and takes his time in doing so. The sky is beginning to darken, and campfires are beginning to build.

Edited 2016-02-21 06:24 (UTC)

It's a fast battle, which is perhaps the nicest thing you can say about it.

Inquisition soldiers are already ransacking the little Red Templar holding that Kane had marked on the map for them, wedged in at the base of the hills. Men and women in uniform making efficient work of turning tents inside out and strewing belongings on the snow, seizing weapons and important documents, confiscating valuables before anyone gets any bright ideas. Kane only cleans his sword of blood using the edge of his cloak, and gets paid mostly no mind. Out of uniform and standing idle amongst the activity, he has the appearance of a sell-sword, joining in for commission.

When he'd fought, sword and shield, it had been with the kind of form and precision that comes from a life's work of training. When he cleans his blade, it's from a life's work of habit.

But he pauses, noting movement towards the edge of the clearing. The scuffling the injured, heavy armor, laboured breathing. Glancing around to see if anyone else has this first, Kane begins to pursue at an almost leisurely pace, his sword remaining in hand and only half clean of the crimson smearing iron.

Norrington can usually be found in one of two places, all the soldiers will tell him, reading or writing at his makeshift office outside of his own platoon's tents, or training the soldiers themselves. This evening, Kane will find Norrington finishing up one of his lessons with the troups, using a practice dummy as an example.

" -- now, most people will tell you that Red Templars can only be killed with magic. That is a blatant lie. Red Templars can be killed by swords, by arrows, by a well thrown rock to the head. They take red lyrium but that does not make them invincible. You have to just hit them -- harder." A faint smirk, "Something I am sure the Inquisition soldiers are well acquainted with."

There's a roll of laughter through the troop and Norrington nods his head. Good, they're confident, but they all look serious about this. It would keep a great many of them alive in the days to come. He rests his hands on the hilt of his sword, the torchlight gleaming off of his new Inquisition talbard, looking around the crowd.

"Any questions?"

Edited 2016-02-22 03:59 (UTC)

Martel had been efficient, in battle; occasional glimmers of foreign sorcery triggered in his sword or his armor but otherwise he fought like a warrior, because that's what he is. How he was trained, how he's been taught to see the world - and how he's seen it for a long time. He is slightly incongruous to his surroundings even with his local armor and weaponry, but not for lack of willingness to involve himself--

as he does now, meeting Kane's eyes briefly as he falls in step to intercept, weapon loose in his grip.

In a murmur, "After you," very drolly.

Kane doesn't interrupt, standing off to the side with his hand on his hilt and watches the proceedings. As the men and women gathered give the usual roll of slightly adrenaline-infused mirth, he allows himself a small, crooked smile. It's been sometime since he's fought within a cohesive company, or even witnessed one. Since the war rippled through the Free Marches, really, and forced them across the Waking Sea, the ranks falling away until he found himself alone and behind enemy lines, for all that all the lines were more blurred than he ever new until it was much too late.

The group disperses once questions and answers have been bantered back and forth, and Kane cuts through the scattering to stroll on over to Norrington. He might not be all that recognised immediately, a scruffier, greyer version of himself than the severe, hard edged Knight-Captain who had ever so much to prove, even when attending the Tourney.

For instance: 'kind' was not an impression he'd ever given, but now there are lines at his eyes that seem to connote as such.

"It seems all roads lead to the Inquisition," he says, by way of hello. His hand goes out, palm upturned, offering a Manly Clasp of greeting. "Knight-Captain Norrington, last I knew, but I've heard you've risen up in the world."

As a rather strikingly tall shape looms into his periphery, Kane slows but doesn't stop, sending a glance his way that is an efficient look up and down as it is acknowledgement. Like almost everyone save for some dim names from a past that feels, indeed, very far away, Martel is an unknown quality, but Kane had noted some sort of enchantment business with his sword.

Enchantments don't connote a mage, so he nods acceptance of help (where he might have otherwise [kindly] turned him away), and leads on.

It's a pathetic sight. The Red Templar is critically injured, perhaps having hidden in the underbrush before attempting his escape, and now crawls on hands and knees, hindered by his armor, metal impacting on his chest and making his breaths come out as wet, whistling gasps. Blood and churned snow make a trail a blind man could follow, crushed underfoot as Kane follows, sword in hand. He doesn't need to pick up his pace to stride abreast.

Kane places a boot heel on the man's shoulder, and flips him over like a turtle. He's a terrible mess, that strange red glow sickly in his eyes, corruption inflaming skin where it isn't cadaverously pale. He looks like he might have been young.

Glancing at Martel, Kane goes to take a knee, setting his sword aside, and drawing instead an efficient looking knife.

Edited 2016-02-22 10:59 (UTC)

It's worse, somehow, that he's so young. Martel remembers the novices in the choir and he knows that he couldn't swear to how many of them survived their first five years of true knighthood. He knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that Vanion could give him the names of all those as didn't. (He wouldn't, granted, but he could.)

Only so many kinds of mercy are available on battlefields like this. He's expressionless when Kane glances at him, but sheathes his sword and exhales harshly.

It's a quick death in the end, at least. And that isn't nothing.

He squints in the direction the Red Templar had been crawling, suspicious, and then--

"Shall we see if he was going towards anything, or just away?"

Norrington turned at the sound of someone's comment, one eyebrow lifting as he narrowed his gaze on the sort of scruffy looking individual who looked ... strongly like, well. One corner of his mouth lifts up, then the other into a wry smile.

"All roads should lead here, as it was the Divine's last living wish." He stated warmly, before as he went to clasp the other man's hand with Manliness. "Knight Captain Cane ... yes, well, the promotion was not the way I wanted it to be." He tilted his head at the other man.

"You look like you rode a hard road to get here, brother. Where have you been?"

Edited 2016-02-23 03:42 (UTC)

It's a quick death, and the prayer that Kane utters is also quick -- draw your last breath, my friends, cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky, rest at the Maker's right hand, and be Forgiven -- and quietly uttered, even if midway he looks up after some unknown rustle or sharp sound from the finishing of the battle they left behind. He cleans his knife by wiping it against his thigh, and then he cleans his sword on the edge of his cloak, and looks over towards Martel.

"If you're willing," he agrees. He has what could be classed as an odd way of speaking, more like the Qunari and Vashoth and the dwarves than native human men. The Free Marches are a melting pot, what can be said.

Kane stands, movement unhindered by any injury. He was lucky, today. Sheathing his sword, he starts off, ice crunching quietly underfoot. "You fought well," he says, after a moment. "Quickly."

"That bad?" is good spirited enough, stepping back once the clasp is manfully executed, hand settling again on his sword. There's a speculative, unjudging glimmer sharp in his gaze at Norrington's easy words as to the Divine. But Kane doesn't pick it up just yet. "The journey was a long one, without rest, but-- lately? I've been here, in Emprise du Lion, before your--"

He glances back towards the dispersing soldiers, nodding to them. "--Inquisition showed up."

Norrington grimaced softly, as he looked back at Kane. "Bad, moving to worse, but if we can get back into control of this situation ... " He trailed off, and then his green eyes sharpened. "Empire du Lion? Which direction did you come from?"

He paused, before he looked a little wry, "The Inquisition is the best way to see this war ended, and order restored."

"You lose your sense of direction when you've run away as much as you've given chase," Kane says, apologetic in a dry sort of way; not intending to be evasive, but the roads he's taken have been as winding and complicated as everything else about this war. "But I've been in the highlands of the Dales since the Red Templars started arriving and setting up their strongholds."

He says Red Templars like this terminology is still foreign in his mouth. It doesn't seem that long ago when they were as much his brother as the man he's greeted now.

"I conveyed what I know already to the organisation, which isn't much. Some pockets of hostility I've tracked and hadn't had the manpower to clear out. Until now, anyway."

"That ... brother, is a truer statement than you realize." Norrington murmured softly, his gaze becoming weary with the very thought. Disappointment flashed over his face. "Ah, I hoped you had come from the south. Perhaps had some word of a place called Montemps. Nevermind then."

He gave Kane a sympathetic look - he felt much the same way about his lost brothers and sisters.

"My people and I will be happy to ride with you. You shall have to speak to the other Commanders, see if they too would be willing to come -- but action would be best now, as opposed to inaction."

He is both a bit tall for a dwarf and a bit bare-headed (so to speak) for a Vashoth; Martel is inclined not to question it, but he does take note. He takes note of most things, it's a besetting sin. To if you're willing he makes another ironic after you sort of gesture, but for all that walks abreast with him, hand at the hilt of his sword in a relaxed sort of way. Not concerned about his company, but entirely prepared to do his level best not to die (again) if 'toward' turns out to be what they're about to find.

The compliment, briskly delivered as it is, nets his attention back a moment in the shape of a glance.

"Years of training," he says, after a slight pause, a sort of verbal shrug. "I was a knight for many years. The knighthood and I did not see entirely eye to eye, in the end, but I daresay you never lose what they beat into you."

(His tone is affectionate, if anything. What bitterness lingers is something private, and Martel is better than anyone wants him to be at concealing himself when he makes the effort.)

Kane can at least sense there is context he is missing from Martel's explanation, leaving him mentally grasping around, but it's not so outlandish as to gain his suspicion. He nods, while trudging on through the snowy woodlands as he's been doing for what feels like 'endlessly'. Being cold and tired is now a lifestyle.

"Not the parts that save your life, in the end," he agrees. "Where did you train?"

Conversation is kept low and quiet, his attention kept ahead of them and hunting around for movement, listening for sounds. Snow tumbles off a branch to the left, getting a sharp glance from him, assessment lasting only half a second.

Sympathy in the form of a look washes past Kane, impervious as a cliffside to lapping waves. Not in an unfeeling way, just that there is damage done a long time ago, and remaining strength that can't be eroded so quickly as all that. He is studious to the things Norrington has to say, and the things he isn't quite saying.

"Then we'll ride," he says. He spares a glance past Norrington's shoulder, and by the time eye contact reconnects, there's a touch of steely apprehension there. "I've heard a little about the Inquisition. Not a lot. Equal parts propaganda as fact, I'm sure."

A gesture with the hand that bears the shard and he says, "Demos, which you'll not have heard of," a bit dryly. These rifts, they're a problem - but he keeps his voice low, having considered falling silent when that snow fell and deciding that if they'd been heard, then they'd been heard and pretending not to have noticed anything would serve as well if not better.

At first he thinks it isn't pretending, and then -

No, raising his hand; footsteps, the crunch of ice and underbrush. A tilt of his head.

His fingers flex around the hilt of his sword.

Kane is a morning person, as most military inclined tend to be, and so is true of many in the Inquisition. It's at this hour that young men and women receive their breakfast to ensure they don't wind up with the scraped, burned morsels at the bottom of the cookware, and others train.

Having already eaten from his own supply, Kane finds himself where soldiers have claimed some ground for informal training and drilling. It's easy to pick out the Templars from the rest, the way they wield their sword and shield, the precision and the stances geared towards fending off magical attack than simply their sparring partner's sword and shield. He doesn't join in, but finds a place to sit and watch.

He isn't dressed as a Templar, having traded away his standard issue armor a long time ago, but he is in sturdy leathers and iron, armed with a good sword and sturdy shield. He's also new, gaining a glance here and there from those who've grown accustomed to seeing the same faces, day in and day out.

Edited 2016-02-28 08:25 (UTC)

Alayre was always up at the crack of dawn. It's a habit of his since his childhood days in the orphanage. He can't sleep past sunrise even if he tried. It's like he had an internal clock. Alayre could tell without looking what time of day it was. It's just his thing.

Already up and about sparring with a fellow swordsman, Alayre hadn't noticed the newcomer at all. Much like the other Templar, Alayre settled for dark leathers and furs to keep the bitter chill off. Alayre kind of wished he dressed lighter for the sake of the spar. All this exertion was making him sweat and he felt terribly hot sparring against this young upstart. Something about being the only dual-wielding Templar made him a prime target amongst aspiring swordmen but Alayre honestly doesn't mind.

The telltale sound of swords clashing in this oddly serene but deadly rhythm won the attention of a few onlookers. Alayre had to act quick to avoid his opponent's blade when the man swinged his sword towards his head. The Orlesian blocked the blow by crossing his swords upward to catch it. He then shoved the swordman back with a noisy grunt before attempting to knock the man down.

Edited 2016-02-28 22:45 (UTC)

Norrington pressed his lips together at the statement, which is in fact a question. He looks around himself, before nodding for Kane to walk with him, "Too many ears about - you never know who may be spying in. Up to the ramparts, where only the wind shall hear."

Then Marcus could ask whatever ailed him about this Inquisition, and Norrington would not be forced into a political answer.

Kane drops his attention attentively to the gesturing hand, the green glimmer that it bears, and his brows knit in a moment of consternation, cognitive dissonance. It's true, he hasn't heard of Demos, and all of that warrants further explanation.

But Martel's hand goes up, and Kane has better sense than to ignore it.

Wolves don't attack men. Kane has had enough run ins with the mangy, skinny things that lurk in certain patches of the Free Marches to know this is true. However, he's also been in Emprise du Lion for sometime, and knows that what he knows doesn't always apply. The rivers freeze, and his brothers try to kill him, each other, themselves, and the wolves are very brave.

When the first one comes scrabbling out of the forest brush, Kane is already drawing his blade, swiping one-handed in the same motion, catching the animal across its snout.

It's a peculiar style, enough of such that Kane's wandering gaze settles for a time on where the swordsman fends off his opponent. He's fought all his life with a sword and shield, his musculature has adapted to the bearing of the shield, useful against the onslaught of the usual fare of demon and apostate, and the wielding of blade, and both have done him immense favours.

But who knows. This is, after all, Orlais.

The thought makes him smile, just a twinge, and permits himself to stand amongst the onlookers to see if the younger trainee will get the satisfaction he seeks against the two blades he fends against.

It's an understandable sentiment and goes uncommented on; Marcus follows, falling into easy step. He doesn't know if his questions will shake up dangerous information or unpopular opinion, but he does know that he doesn't wish for his own story to be spread if he can't, in good faith, evade all questions that Norrington may have for him in return.

He adjusts the sit of his cloak as a bracing wind flutters over the edge of the ramparts as they ascend. He's not sure what he likes best; the cold is brutal, but crisp and oddly dry. He'd never appreciated the muggy humidity of the Free Marches, even if he calls it home.

"I will say," he says, nodding out at the spread of camp that they can see from this vantage point, "it doesn't look like the ramshackle horde of heretics and war criminals, amassing power under false pretences. But I'm not really sure what that would look like."

The trainee was holding his own against the dual-blading Templar, that was until Alayre finally gained the upper hand. He parried the trainee's blade with the Iceblade which hindered the Templar's movement due to its enchantment. As soon as his opponent's blade struck his, the trainee's arm went stiff. Normally, Alayre would've followed up with his smaller sword and cut the man's arm clean off. However, he would do no such thing here since this was just a spar. Instead, Alayre merely tapped the trainee's shoulder with the blunt end of his smaller sword to signify his victory.

A sound of distaste left his opponent's lips but so did a few bits of laughter. There's some humor to be had here at least. The dual-blading Templar certainly seemed to made his point loud and clear among the rest of them. Alayre may not use a traditional sword and shield style, but he could still get the job done.

"That's enough for today." He said once he sheathed his swords. "Can I please enjoy the morning in relative peace?" That request won a few chuckles. The poor man looked so accosted by the endless challengers he faced since dawn. Alayre hadn't known a moment's peace since breakfast.

Edited 2016-03-06 11:51 (UTC)

Norrington let out a quiet snort at that statement, before he shook his head. "Nothing could be further from the truth. Are there a fair number of the faithless here? Yes, but they are not in charge, nor are they likely to ever be. As for war criminals ... well my friend, right now that covers us, and the mages, so I am not really sure anyone has anything really to say on that particular front."

He folded his arms over his chest, before he spoke frankly, "This place has a lot of potential in fulfilling the dying wish of the late Divine, may her soul rest in peace. This may pull all of Thedas together -- or tear it apart at the seams. The problem right now is factions."

Kane settles in to watch the next nearest fight once the two-bladed swordsman claims his victory, only just hearing the last of the exchange on the wind amongst all the conversation and clamour of the training grounds in general. The experience levels are as patchy as one can hope for such a diverse outfit, full of trainees and men of experience, Templar mingled with mercenary and budding recruit alike.

He can usually pick out his brothers, and despite Alayre's unusual technique, he can identify him amongst the rest.

When Alayre's next passes by--

"Very sporting," he says, in what could be a Free Marches lilt. Not Starkhaven, by any means, something that is more borderline dwarven, for all that he is clearly a human.

It would be fucking wolves. At least isn't more of those diseased Templars, but - wolves, great, who doesn't want to spend his afternoon killing glorified dogs. Martel would like to spend no part of any afternoon around anything canine, live or otherwise, but the day soldiers get to decide where they go and how they spend their time is the day they've come up with some innovative new way to fight wars. (Most are solved over a table, with a lot of arguing, in the end; maybe, one day, people will start there instead. And then light it on fire and go back to doing things as God or your Maker intended, right in each other's fucking faces.)

--which is all a very long way of saying that Martel kicks a wolf in the teeth and swears at it like it personally shit on his good day, unfair as he was arguably not really having one to ruin. There is a great deal of force in an armored boot, but he follows it with his sword, magic rippling over steel and cutting through bone with more ease than it rightfully should.

They're close to the ice; the pushback sends Martel further than he'd braced for, and he slides without dignity a few feet before rolling, and narrowly coming the better off a wolf that launches itself at him while he's down.

Marcus glances over at that latter part, following on in a sort of silent agreement that something so powerful as to restore peace in Thedas could also go terribly, but it's not a point he is interested in worrying over here and now.

"Factions?" he echoes, a crinkle showing at his brow.

[ ooc ; rar sorry for this lateness. if you'd like to handwave instead of tag bc it's too old for you, lmk, but happy to continue. ]

Norrington sighed again, and this is the sigh of a man who is clearly irritated with politics. Mostly because he keeps running face first into them, for as much as he is trying to avoid them.

"Factions." He states dryly, before he points to himself, "The templars are a faction. The mages are a faction. The Dalish are a small faction. The city elves have their own faction. Pro-circle is a faction. Freedom for mages is a faction. The Tal Vashoth are a faction against the Qunari. There are the Andrastians, like ourselves, and then there are those who spit in the Chantry's general direction. We are all here for a common cause but we ... forget that. Often."

"That's quite the melting pot. Sounds like home."

The Free Marches broadly, anyway. Kaiten, also. The Circles and the fraternity are certainly more insular, and neither a nation nor a city are so condensed as a single banner, which he acknowledges as he adds; "But then, no one expects a common cause in the Free Marches." Except, perhaps, the flow of trade.

He finds a place to lean, arms folded around him against the cold. "This common cause, then. It stands against the entity that's corrupted the Order. Does it know much of its nature?"

He manages to slay his first rather quickly, the swing of his blade cleaving it between its neck and shoulder, not enough to behead but enough that scarlet blood pumps in an arterial spray on the snow, and it's too busy dying to be of more of a nuisance.

The next gets a mouthful of coat, and drags him down.

Which is very graceful, but he abandons his sword -- something he doesn't do if faced with a foe with opposable thumbs -- to take out a thick-hilted blade. When it comes at him, teeth shining, Kane gives it his arm to worry, teeth tearing into leathers and metals, hard enough to bruise but not to puncture, unless he were to let it worry away.

It's reconsidering its options when he plunges the knife up through where furry neck meets jaw, pushing past dense fur, thick hide, and the vulnerabilities beneath.

He heaves it away from himself, getting to his knees and reaching for his sword, tense against the idea of a fourth sizing up his bent back.

"Exactly so. You know, they all call us Marchers here. Not knowing that we all are loyal to our own cities, and not to the 'country' at large. I'm not quite sure they understand what it means - to be free and independent of one another." He arches an eyebrow at Marcus, "Perhaps the Inquisition should take a page out of our book."

One corner of his mouth twists, "We've found common causes before. The Blights. Divine Marches. Kirkwall comes to mind." He pauses, and then sighs. "You mean the being known as Corypheus? We know a great deal, and not enough."

Kane smiles mainly with his eyes, the lines at their corners shadowing deeper. To think, the so-called Marchers as an example of unified disparity -- the Orlesians would love that one.

But it dims as he listens, patiently awaiting the answer to his question, and nods once. He's at least heard the name, and some of its associated rumours. "I heard some talk of its attack on Haven," he says, glancing out towards the wider camp. The mountains beyond. "A darkspawn magister, if the stories are to be believed, riding an archdemon. Whatever it is, its perverted our brothers beyond reason and recognition, and if the Inquisition is our best chance of ending it--

"Then, I'll be along for the ride. Factions or no factions."

Edited 2016-04-06 13:35 (UTC)

Norrington shrugs slightly, as if to say, 'What can I say? Sometimes the Free Marches seems to be the sane ones'.

"As have I -- and you are correct. Whatever the stories about that ... thing, it is responsible for turning our brothers and sisters into monsters." He stated solemnly. "So welcome to the fight, brother. May we bury that thing fifty feet deep."

I. SEMI-CLOSED.

nearing twilight. james norrington.

high noon. martel.

Re: nearing twilight. james norrington.

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early morning. alayre sauveterre.

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