Chapter Text
The Red Hart shifted as Inquisitor Lavellan tightened the leather saddle around its girth. Running worn fingers along the auburn hide, she moved on to checking the ties on her bedroll, stave and supplies. She definitely didn’t need to lose half her rations again mid-way down the summit thanks to a shoddy knot.
“Inquisitor. Varric and myself have finished preparing.” Cassandra approached on foot with her reigns in hand. “Dorian should not be far behind.” She says his name pointedly; a barely tempered sneer.
“Are the troops ready to move out?” Lavellan buckles the final strap on her Hart’s bridle. The Commander’s distinct shouting from beyond Skyhold’s walls is hushed in the snowed wind.
Cassandra places her gloved hand on the snout of her thoroughbred before moving to mount the steed. The Inquisitor flashes her a smile. “Marching orders have been issued. Commander Cullen is waiting for us to lead. He will be supervising the initial formation.”
“Excellent. Will you both be at the front once we fall into step?” The Seeker nods in reply.
With a whine, the Hart waits for his elven rider to swing her leg around and settle into the ornate saddle. His hooves scuff the muddied clay outside the stables as he fidgets, eager to stretch his legs. Inquisitor Lavellan double-checks that her staff is strapped down tight enough and satisfied, gathers the reigns in her gloved hands.
“This is your first time escourting a full contingency, yes?” Cassandra’s eyes glint – she is amused. “You are the Inquisitor. Unless we are riding into battle, you are safe to move beyond the proverbial grid. The soldiers will be the ones who must conform to formation.”
Varric and Dorian atop their own respective mounts, join the women. “Think of it as our normal adventures, plus one mother hen and his battalion of rowdy, armed children.” Dorian barks out a fit of laughter at the storyteller’s woven gag.
“You’d think they could defend themselves, considering they sport pointy blades and fearsome mauls, but no! They must be coddled above all else – they are soldiers after all, you know.” Entertained at his own two cents, Dorian beams with and overzealous joy that sickens Cassandra. He fondles his moustache briefly.
“He is mindful that they have families of their own to return home to,” Seeker Pentaghast frowns, “not many superiors remember this.”
“They are lucky to have him,” Lavellan agrees.
“As are we all,” Dorian simpers and Varric regards him with a wry smile. “Shall we ride? We have a small army to stare at us and gape in awe at our affluence. I shan’t be the one to keep them waiting.”
“I agree,” Cassandra admits with unease. She continues to find concurrence with a Tevinter to be unsettling, even though she has been sharing Skyhold with him for some (long) months. “We have dallied enough, Inquisitor.”
Urging the Red Hart forward, she relaxes into a straight posture – the air of a leader. “Onward then.”
Leading the party, the Inquisitor smiles at Josephine and Leliana who both stand atop the main stairs in the upper courtyard once they come into sight. It’s shortly after dawn; most residents still asleep in their quarters. Passing recruits and agents stand at attention and salute with confidence, civilians and merchants wave. Dorian preens himself.
Hooves clop rhythmically whilst the team traverse the long bridge, beyond the battlements and watch towers. Here, the gales howl. Thankfully, the snow has tapered off as spring eases in, and visibility is as good as it can get midst the mountain peaks. A vast difference from temperate Wycome, Lavellan had acclimatised to snowy Haven. Tarasyl’an Te’las was more of the same.
Beyond where the lip of the bridge meets gravel-mixed snow, a contingency fifty men strong is assembled. The Inquisition flag shudders in the frigid air, standing tall among the sea of parade-shined helms. They try not to stare as the Inquisitor rides to meet the Commander; Seeker, Altus, and Story-teller in tow.
“Soldiers, attention!” Without hesitation, fifty soldiers click their heels and salute at once. With chins up and their jaws set, Lavellan finds herself unnerved but openly impressed.
Lion-face helm under arm, Cullen sits atop his own warhorse; plated in light armour, it resembles more beast than steed. He turns his attention to greet the party with an exasperated smile. “We are ready to leave for the Griffin Wing Keep when ready, Inquisitor. We should be taking approximately the same number back with us to Skyhold once posts are established and the rotation is complete.”
“And good morning to you too,” The Inquisitor teases, her tone dry, her smile teasing his lack of manners. It was forgetfulness, not intention on Cullen’s behalf – they both knew that.
“Oh- uh, forgive me. I’m too distracted in keeping this all organised. The sooner we move, the better.” He tries to not reflect on the squabble mere hours before to find where he had tossed his boots off for the night after spending too long absorbed in paperwork and hastily retiring.
Inquisitor Lavellan regards her small army with approval before turning back to her Commander. “They seem to be in good form. How long will they be on tour?”
Cullen looks to his soldiers with pride, his cheeks glowing pink in the cold air. “If everything goes as planned, 6 months. Just as the Crestwood’s Caer Bronach.” The Seeker hums in approval from the side.
Rolling her shoulders, the elven mage makes no effort to wipe away her smile. Taking one last glance at her charges, she gathers her reigns. “Best we move then, otherwise it’ll be time to take them all right back when we arrive.”
“I feel like we’re the ones on show,” Varric mumbles before laughing to himself. “Well, mostly you though, Inquisitor. Can you feel their eyes glued to your back? It’ll be great practise for that ball Ruffles keeps talking about.”
“Hmm, yes, so very helpful Varric,” Lavellan sighs, “The perfect cure to stage-fright.”
“Nothing like a good dose of stardom to relieve you of any and all fears of accidentally forgetting to dress beyond your smallclothes before you step on up to that glistening podium.” Congratulating himself, Dorian pats his back.
With one word, Commander Cullen has his contingency marching in time to a perfect beat. He can’t help but fight the pleased smile that tugs at his cheeks as he follows along-side the battalion descending the peak. He hadn’t expected these fresh recruits to hold form so well, not at all. They’d make the Inquisition proud.