#I consider Nevarra to be a melting pot of Trade Tongue

[jawsandbones]

I found you prompts: In a pool of your own blood for Cassandra Pentaghast and Female Warrior or Rouge Inquisitor

Sitting slumped against the rock, her chin at her chest, and the dagger is still in her hand. Dust and ash sweep through the grass, over rubble and the charred remains of the demons that once were. Her other dagger is discarded, lost among dead things. Things that were once held together by strange magic, bone and old leather. No longer. Cassandra crouches down very near her, putting her own sword aside. The arrows have pierced through her armor. Fletching made of forgotten feathers, shaft of the same bone and leather, strung by the same magic. Her hand briefly passes over them as she raises fingers to her chin, tips her face upwards.

Eyes slowly open, wavering as they long to remain closed. Vision blurry, taking time to come into focus. There’s a stain on Cassandra’s cheek, sweat on her brow. Such worry in the way she holds herself, concern in the frown of her mouth. Something sweeter, in her gaze, when Lavellan smiles at the sight of her. Relief in the drop of her shoulders, sudden slack given to stiff limb and straight back. Cassandra sighs softly but the worry still beats as sure as her heart. Wrapping her arm around Lavellan’s waist, the other pressed against her chest, around that arrow.

She helps her to her feet, Lavellan’s arm practically limp over her shoulders. “I knew you’d find me,” she says. Her steps are unsteady, and Cassandra dips for a moment, carrying her completely in her arms. Lavellan lets her head rest against the crook of her neck.

“You should not have gone off on your own,” Cassandra scolds. Another smile, as Lavellan closes her eyes once again. She can tell how carefully Cassandra is walking, how she plans her steps, her every move. Doing the utmost not to jostle her, not to cause her any further discomfort.

“Sorry Cass. Won’t happen again,” she says. Her only reply is a muffled, muted, noise, made of sheer disbelief. Vivienne’s hands are cooler than Cassandra’s, however softer. Cupping her face, and she knows she’s being scolded again, but this voice isn’t as clear to her. The cot is somehow less comfortable than Cassandra’s arms. She knows something is removing her armor, cutting around the arrow. All she really knows is that Cassandra is still beside her, brushing back the stray hair stuck to her forehead.

Her hands are calloused with the practice of weapons. Her touch isn’t as delicate, not quite so gentle, but Lavellan wouldn’t have it any other way. Vivienne’s magic is much the same as her hands. Icy and cool, frost in the ribs of her. Cassandra wraps a hand around the shaft of the arrow, pulls it free when she’s told. Lavellan cries out, reaches upwards, and Cassandra is there to catch her.

“Easy,” she says, in a voice meant for only her, “it is almost done. Easy. Lie still, liebling.” Her hand brushes back hair yet again. This time, it lingers. Fingers curling at her cheeks, palm warm and sure. Lavellan isn’t sure if she dreams it, but what a sweet dream it is, to have Cassandra’s lips pressed against hers.