Who| Alistair and you, dear Tribute.
What| Alistair has chosen to break path with Tabris and Anders to see if there is a safer route or if their current route is Tribute-infested.
Where| Someplace in the woods.
When| Sometime in Week 2
Warnings/Notes| Alistair's kind of angry, tired, and has his stick.

He had been through hell and back. Literally. But this hailed in comparison to the sheer frustration and anger he had felt when trudging through these woods. He had chosen to leave his things with Tabris and Anders, and he had told them to keep quiet and still. Tabris still wasn't one-hundred percent, and there's a chance that Anders would be facing retribution for using his powers any time now. It had been hours... days? He didn't know how quickly time passed, nor did he want to. Biting down on his lip, sharpened stick in his left hand (it was the best he had, since he didn't get a knife from the parachute... although, he wouldn't complain; that food did them well, and that water moreso). However, Tabris did have control of one, and with a smile and a promise of kisses that would make a certain ex-Warden healer vomit into the nearest set of bushes, Alistair wielded the knife in his right hand and was pulled through the woods by his own instincts, looking around for something... anything.

And the outfit he was forced into was NOT helping. A complete replica of something that the King of Ferelden would wear, albeit it was tattered and torn from the encounters, and the metal-plastic crown that once adorned his head was thrown into the dirt in a fit of anger and frustration. This was dangerous, this entire thing was... but he had to find out, he had to make sure that Anders and Tabris were going to be safe. Anders was their healer, their medic; he was irreplaceable, and Tabris...? Well, Tabris was his wife, so it would be common sense for him to protect her, but she was a strong fighter, and if she was willing to risk punishment to use her Reaver/Beserker powers, she would be a force to be reckoned with.

As a Templar, Alistair had... well, his skill with a blade, and the power to dispel other magic. In comparison to the other two... there was really not much he could do. And that's why it was his idea to go and be the scout. Wielding the stick less like a sword and more like a javelin, the tattered not-king pushed back a branch, trained eyes peering forward for the first sign of danger. But what his eyes didn't see (and what his ears heard) was that the danger was behind him. Upon hearing a twig break behind him, the branch was dropped back to its natural state, and he turned over his shoulder, jaw set and makeshift weapon ready to strike.

He didn't call out for the trespasser to identify themselves; in actuality, he hoped it was just his imagination.