02 Aug 2019
A part of her goes mad with worry that Alistair might not have the same sense as her should he hear it, the way so many others are; she scrapes a courier from the bottle of an ale barrel and sends him out. She does not hear that he is attacked, nor does she hear that he is found by soldiers of the Inquisition. They intercept her letter, and it finds its way to the Spymaster’s nimble fingers within a day, only to leave them again when the scrap of paper falls. The fingertips quiver, just slightly.
Mahariel rides on with her hound at her side. She does not know that all of Ferelden has thought her dead for years.
Unspoken agreements hold no water.