As a child, barely old enough to remember anything, one of Brigham's first memories was the Chantry in the small village nearest their home. The smell of burning candles, old parchment, the smoke from censers- all familiar and warm. He remembers too the Templars, towering over him in their armor, shining and well-polished. They had never intimidated him. Instead, he found them a comforting presence, and he felt secure in knowing the Templars were there to protect him. Even standing between the worn wooden pews in the middle of the night, nervous of his newfound abilities and already missing his family, Brigham was glad of the presence of the Templars, firm and reassuring. He took solace in the fact that he was safe from himself, from others, and that others were safe from him. In the Circle, Templars were constant, ever-present. He had seen them every day since his arrival as an novitiate, and in fact had rarely gone any number of hours without seeing them. Their calling was holy, their work, noble and just. Many of them had been warm acquaintances, and one had been precious to him, above anyone else. He recalls most of their names, and all of their faces—

The sound of the Herald's voice, urgent above the cacophony of battle, sharply redirects his focus towards the twisted abomination before him. Templars stood for everything good and just and righteous, and this was the unfair fate that befell them? He has no time to mourn them now, to give in to his sorrow nor horror nor the sick threatening to rise in his throat. He backs away from the once Templar, one hand to mouth, the other gripping his staff tight enough that his knuckles show white. Others focus the wretched creature, and if it had set its sights on Brigham, its attentions were elsewhere now.

A small shake of his head, and he looks to Daithi. It works grounding, serving as a means and reason to focus. They are weary all, and the fight is like to continue. Magic blossoms before him briefly, shimmering green, a bloom to restore the mana of their mages.