The candle needed to be replaced, soon, Cullen thought. Then, he chastised himself with a click of the tongue and a shake of the head - his mind couldn't afford to wander, not when every second mattered. Tired eyes shot straight back to the sheet in his hands. It was a letter asking for more manpower to clean up the dead festering in the Hinterlands. Then, beneath that, were several other notes, asking about what to do about the sustenance of Inquisition recruits who had lost their limbs and could no longer fight.
Perhaps, it might have filled a better man with horror, but all Cullen felt was a festering impatience with the world and with himself. How he wished he could solve all the problems by himself, cut the demons down with naught but faith and a sword, but alas, the pen held more sway in the moment. He took a deep breath and sent the injured soldiers kind words and a promise, as well as a request for patience, choosing instead to direct most of the funds towards those in need of fresh footwear and armaments. This too, was the Commander's job, to bear the burden of guilt without breaking.
After a few signatures, he felt a mild ache well up behind his eyes, deep in his skull. His armor felt much heavier than it; he immediately put down his quill, removed his gauntlets and searched his things for a small, metal box. It was opened with fumbling fingers, revealing a pale salve with a strong, astringent odor. He applied it on his temples and at the back of his neck, breathing in the vapors with a raspy, satisfied sigh of relief.
Then, as quickly as he could, he put on the gauntlets once more and resumed his work. He'd wasted enough time on his pain. Rest would come, soon enough, but not yet. Not in a few more hours.
"Maker, lend me strength," he muttered, leaning against the table.
Cullen wondered how Leliana and her shadows bore their burdens. At least he and the rest of the soldiers had the luxury of fighting out in the open, with loss and glory shown in an honest, forgiving light. They lived and died by their secrets; he could understand why some broke under the strain. To be cast aside and called a traitor, all for a greater cause - this was the fate of a spy. Far easier to die a hero, to have a life remembered for helping others.
"Maker... likewise, lend them strength," added the Commander, remembering again, why he was doing all that was. "Grant us fortitude to fight through the darkness. And forgiveness... for the things we do to reach the dawn."
His thoughts strayed towards the foes the forces had come upon, as information on troop numbers and other such reminders that their enemies were people, too, came into view.
Bored eyes stared languidly at the minstrel; there was something odd about her voice, something strained. Alba was irritated by it, expecting beauty and vigor, and instead, hearing apprehension. She sighed and turned her attentions back to her mug of what passed for liquor in Ferelden, though swill would have already been far too kind to describe its taste. Everywhere, dullness, as if the impermeable cold had managed to freeze all manner of life out, choking even the spirit.
Still, it would be a waste to throw out what could be used for other purposes. Once the dull voice had finished the tired song, Alba joined the others in applause, making it a point to clap all the harder, before approaching the woman. Of course, she was not the only interested party, but she was the fastest - there was a reason why she had seated herself close, after all.
"Che canto meraviglioso! I am enchanted," she remarked, with a sly smile. "Here. Why don't you quench your thirst?" Alba felt her own thirst rise, and she stoked it with a testing gesture that doubled as an overture of friendship. Her fingers rested upon the minstrel's own as she spoke. "I would-"
"P-please... could you help me?" The stranger's fingers grasped Alba's own with a fierce grip, but the words that came out of her mouth were not at all expected. Neither were they desired, but now, at the very least, Alba could finally forgive her for her terrible song. "There are... a group of bandits. Over there! And... I've already asked for help, but maybe you could-"
The Antivan grimaced and looked about for her crew. She had told them to try and fit in. But then again, who would want to dress in the ugly, mangy furs of Ferelden? They could hardly be blamed.
"Well, signora, I am sorry to say, but you are speaking to the worst of them," replied Alba, a raspy laugh rising from her throat as she fished her hat out from under the table and put it upon her head. "Now... I'd like it if you didn't call my friends bandits, bella."
In response, the minstrel shook her head, her eyes now darting rapidly back and forth to a larger group in the corner of the tavern, some of who had already begun to watch the strained interaction with wary frowns. Alba sighed and stood, hand now upon the hilt of an ornate rapier. It didn't take long for her crew to stand too, fifteen strong, each one of them spoiling for a fight.
