She may have little favorable to say about Alistair at the moment, but she can reflexively appreciate his instincts in battle. Whether this is a matter of their forced teamwork recalling the Blight or simply a testament to how much combat he has seen, nothing she does makes him hesitate. He makes the most of every advantage she gives him, never seems to forget where she is. If they could excise his personality and keep the warrior she thinks perhaps they could get along.

Rage is, for her, a welcome change from most demons: it is inelegant, all fiery instinct. Rage will not wear a face you long for, offer false promises, lull you to sleep. That does not mean it can be easily dismissed, that indiscriminate anger fueling every tear of claws, and the one that charges Alistair proves it very well, driving toward them both with surprising speed.

She is just fine with holding her position, letting Alistair meet the demon with the shield and armor she lacks. Cold blossoms from her outstretched hand, billowing out toward the demon, and in the face of their combined effort it meets its end quickly, remains smoldering on the stones.

"Alistair!" she calls, another blast of cold from her directing his attention to the one of the other Wardens. The woman sinks to one knee, favoring her sword arm as the demon lunges.

Her Creation skills still may not have the strength of the potions and salves she creates, but they have improved over the years. She narrows her focus long enough to cast a minor healing spell, and seeing the Warden promptly raise her sword to strike again satisfies, at least for a moment.