Chapter Text
Evelyn Trevelyan had a tendency to comb through the destroyed villages they came across, salvaging clues and information and the very occasional survivor. More often than not she and her Inner Circle ended up leaving with a note or two for the archives and a doleful sense of failure that lingered for days.
Usually when they came across such villages, they were not still actively burning.
This village was not only very much on fire, the people who had set said fires were still there, loading up wagons of spoils and making ready to flee, visible on the opposite end of the town’s main street. They appeared to be in no rush; whomever would’ve been there to stop them had already been dealt with, it seemed.
Dorian could tell even at this distance that they were not facing Venatori or Red Templars--no, these were common thugs, highwaymen taking advantage of the chaos that was Thedas at any given moment these days. A scowl tugged the mage’s attractive features down; he heard his anger echoed in the feral growl that loosed from The Iron Bull’s throat. The Qunari had already dismounted and was barreling down the thoroughfare at a full run, huge hammer already drawn and raised as he bellowed a challenge. Evelyn was close behind, grabbing her horse’s reins and Bull’s and lashing them a safe distance from the fire. She grabbed her staff, taking stock of her other companions. Upon seeing the Tevinter’s nod to the affirmative, Trevelyan brought a barrier to existence around Bull and took off after him. Fire gathered at the tip of her staff, the Veil warping visibly (to him, anyway) as she pulled up her first attack. Varric struggled down off his stocky pony (short legs and all that), catching Dorian’s eye with a fierce grin.
“Bianca’s not going to let Tiny steal all the fun,” he said, cocking said crossbow menacingly, “You coming Sparkler?”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” the mage replied lightly, mimicking Trevelyan’s motions earlier with his mount and Varric’s. “I’ll give you a head start so you may partake, Ser Dwarf. Once I join I fear you’ll find yourself lacking targets.” Varric snorted and was already off at a lope, picking off one of the bandits even as he ran.
Dorian gathered his staff, heading after his fellows at a brisk walk. He scanned the avenue even as a bolt leapt casually from the gem set atop his stave, frying an archer before he could draw an arrow against Varric from cover. Something niggled at him; something was wrong . He was not concerned about the others--bandits were hardly going to stand a chance against the Inquisitor, The Iron Bull, and Bianca--but there was certainly something amiss here, something he could not quite place.
“Dorian!” He heard Evelyn’s cry and again his instincts did their job; he sprung backwards without realizing what the issue was but found out immediately when half a destroyed building collapsed into the space he’d been standing in moment before. “Dorian?”
“I’ll find another way through,” he called back, unable to see her over the burning pile. He turned to his left and charged down a side street, the buildings around him all but consumed. The smoke was thicker in the narrower alley but he had to press on. He’d heard it, a soft cry of fear echoing to him, a quiet noise a split instant after the tumult of the stone and wood crumbling before him. His pathway eventually became blocked by what appeared to be the remnants of a roof but the mage had a feeling he’d found his quarry nonetheless. The crying had gotten louder and the home directly before him appeared to be largely whole still, holding together despite half the neighbor’s house having landed on it. The door was blocked by burning timbers.
Of course it looked like it was about to collapse. One elegant sweep of his staff raised the heavy wooden beams out of Dorian’s way and a second coated him in a glittering blue barrier; lamenting ever so slightly the inevitable damage to his clothes, Dorian dropped his left shoulder and broke the door in.
Several different pitches of scream greeted the mage as he stumbled into a room that was rapidly filling with black smoke. He had no time to further contemplate as a figure slammed into him, knocking the staff from his fingers and Dorian to the floor. A thin woman in a charred, homespun dress kneed him viciously, clawing and snarling like a wildcat and hitting every inch of him she could reach.
“Bastard!” her Trade was heavily accented. “I won’t let you have the little ones!” Dorian swore in Tevene and caught her fist, turned her arm before she could hit him in the face. It was a feat, but he managed to struggle up to his knees, keeping the woman’s free hand from finding purchase as she struck out wildly at any bit of him she could reach. Someone sobbed off to his left.
“Vishante kaffas, woman, I am not here to hurt you!” Careful of his actions but forceful, he shoved her away; by the time she spun to attack him again Dorian was on his feet, staff in front of him and braced. She held back, lips curled back in a snarl. That was when he saw them: three girls, not a one of them over twelve or thirteen, and a boy the same age, herding a half-dozen smaller children and three infants in slings on the far side of the room. The mage grimaced. Therein lies the source of the frightened crying.
“Why should I believe you?” the woman growled, dragging his attention back. She had armed herself with a pitchfork and had the look of one who knew how to use it. Very deliberately she’d side-stepped in between Dorian and her charges, a very clear challenge. Why did no one ever believe he was a good guy without him proving it first, the mustache?
Maybe it was his fashion sense being so cutting-edge relative to the common Fereldan styling. He refused to blame his mustache.
The ceiling took that very opportune moment to make a very loud CRACK and two of the children burst into more frantic tears.
“That would be why you need to trust me,” the mage said smartly, leaning his staff against the doorframe and raising his hands in a submissive gesture. “Your enemies are fleeing as we speak. We should be doing the same.” It was a long moment before the woman nodded, gesturing the children forward. Dorian let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, retrieving his staff and moving to help one of the teens who had a smaller child clinging to each hip and a baby in her arms.
Dorian didn’t have time to swear, barely registering what the sound meant as another sharp crack split the air. His staff struck the floorboards amidst a chorus of terrified screams and a corona of blinding blue light as the ceiling beams split and the house collapsed on top of them.