Kingdom of Ferelden: Ostagar, somewhere in the right rear...
Thunder cracked above her head as the daylight was steadily sapped from the sky, leaving little trace of daylight's hope.
Around her, there was darkness and fire, with no hope to be found. As the army of Darkspawn clashed with the army King Cailan had gathered, Wystellia tightened her grip on her wooden staff, one which she had procured when she finally gathered the nerve to go back to Denerim four years ago. The Wonders of Thedas shoppe was also where she bought her yellow attire which had been well worth the gold. Around her neck, she wore the personalized amulet she was given so many years ago upon her Joining, something she found strength in by touching during the difficult battles and long nights filled with the vivid nightmares of torn flesh and spilled blood. Wystellia was a mage and had spent more time training at The Circle and being a Grey Warden than she had living in the Alienage back home. It wasn't so sad when she considered her goal in life was to see the world and those who she shared it with.
Of course, her dreamy vision of travel and doing good deeds hadn't been riddled with such death and destruction. As a Grey Warden, the woman was at least able to slow the progression of despair that plagued Ferelden.
The cries of the wounded and fearful filled her ears as her eyes were left to feast upon the devastation laid out before her. There were other mages by her side, one notably was rather old but unlike the younger fighters, her eyes carried no trace of animosity, only pride. Back in camp, Wystellia thought she heard someone call her Wynne but that was left uncertain and also unimportant. With their staffs raised, many of them unleashed fire and ice spells while a select few used lightening but it was difficult to tell the conjured lightening apart from the natural flashes around the battlefield. Hundreds of bodies were falling to the ground, bones were breaking and limbs were being torn from bodies as the evil army of Darkspwan advanced even further through the bloodied field.
She kept telling herself the beacon would be lit and help would arrive, a plan had been made, all would turn around.
Her specialty was healing but because numbers were few, she had been ordered to stay in back with the other mages and to serve as any other Grey Warden fighting for their land would. Wystellia launched a Winter's Grasp at a Hurlock who was nearing a group of cowering soldiers. "Come on and fight!" She urged them. In another situation, she would have been healing people but with such a large scale of chaos unleashed, it was impossible to risk healing the enemy when they were so pressed together. So instead, the woman fired off minimal spells that wouldn't hit allies in the process. One of the mages who was about eight or nine years her junior, for whatever reason, cast a large spell known as Fireball which wound up hitting more allies than enemies. Crouching, Wystellia waited until the worst had passed and when she got back to her feet, she saw a large horde coming right for them.
A small thing lunged at her and she used both hands to hold her staff outwards which prevented it from clawing at her. She twisted her staff and hit it in the head until it popped like a melon. Wystellia let out a cry as two stray Genlocks came at her from behind and sank their teeth and claws into her arms, forcing her to her knees. She cried out and one of her fellow mages got them off with a quick Arcane Bolt. A hiss escaped her lips as she felt the sting of the attack. Time was slow in creeping by as she continued to fight and defend, her movements relying on her mind to keep calm and block out the horror of seeing her friends overwhelmed and slaughtered. The Spirit Healer felt helpless as someone in higher command ordered her back because her skills would be needed after. "If I don't fight now, none of us will survive the end." She said but did as instructed, knowing commands were given for a reason, just like back in the Circle.
As she looked up and saw smoke, she knew the beacon had been lit.
Maker's breath, there was renewed hope!
Nothing came from Loghain though. As everyone scrambled to fight or flee, Wystellia found herself being pushed in many directions. Her head began to spin as more Darkspwan charged forth. As a knight dueled with four Hurlocks, she hurried over and helped kill them before the knight turned to her and directed her to leave the battlefield, that her death would be meaningless now that they had been abandoned. Helplessness, she was drowning in helplessness and couldn't breathe. Wystellia ran back up toward sturdy ground and stumbled. As soon as she was down, she was attacked and felt her grip on her trusty staff loosening as the energy was drained from her body. The thick smell of bloody grass filled her nose as her arms trembled, unable to support the weight of herself and the enemies atop her. No words could escape, could beg for help as she rolled over and looked at the dark smoke filled sky.
Using the last bit of energy she had, she stabbed the beasts off of her and pushed herself up. To her right she looked and saw two bodies slain. With disgust she soon realized who she was looking at: King Cailan and Duncan, the man who recruited her so long ago. She swallowed and knew without any Lyrium, she was useless unless rested. She used her weapon to get to back to her feet and from there, she staggered away from the battle, still hearing the roars from humans and beasts. It took her hours to make her way away from the war. The first place she arrived at was a small village with only a handful of cabins and shops. It was clearly only meant to be an outpost but when she arrived and saw safety, she fell to her knees and was quickly carried into one of the homes to be treated while she finally got the rest she had been craving, after living through such a real nightmare.
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