qui n’avance pas, recule.

   If the other preferred to speak the Common Tongue, that was no trouble to him. While he’d almost looked forward to a conversation in one of his base languages, communication was more important than preference. He keeps the bandage pressed flat against the other’s skull and won’t check it until after a moment or two passed. Rotating the cloth in his hands to put a clean spot on the injury, he holds it still once more, mindful not to press down too hard. 

   ❝ Hello, Rowan. I’m Faeron. I’ll be treating you today, d’accord? I’m going to ask you a few questions as I work and you’re going to try your best to answer me. After that I’ll administer a few verbal and physical tests before I give a diagnosis. ❞   The worst possible outcome was a fracture of the skull and swelling of the brain. While that definitely seemed not to be the case, there was still the possibility of internal swelling without fracture or breakage of the bone, which in turn, might increase the levels of fluids in the skull and cause some pressure. He’d be on a zero-water policy no matter what. 

  ❝ Do you remember how this happened? ❞  

The pressure proved both welcome and uncomfortable at the same time. Touching the damn area was never pleasant, he imagined, when one has been rammed in the head. Still, he couldn’t entirely complain when he’d undoubtedly endured worse before. It was always difficult to compare when in immediate pain, but he could tell himself that anyway. Anything to keep his thoughts circulating.

❝...mm. Ask away.❞ Tests? He felt so spoiled compared to the patchwork job some healers had given him in the past. He kept that thought to himself, in no mood to relive his chaotic days in Val Royeaux. 

The first question. Did he remember how it happened? 

“Good.” Aden was gratified to know that he was not sent with some loose hand that had little to no experience in combat. His own training was extensive, starting when he was young and continuing well into his adulthood, but not everyone else dedicated themselves in such a way. Scouts were sometimes little more than a quick set of eyes, leaving themselves venerable when caught out by their enemy. The elf certainly seemed to have a steady, confident hand on the blade, keeping tilted just right as to not allow the reflection of light give them away. Aden’s own ax remained at his side, ready to grab in an instant if need be. The shield he carried stayed on his arm, much more at ready to be used than if it were still set on his back. It wasn’t like he needed a weapon in hand to be useful against one of their potential target groups after all. The lyrium sang in his blood, eager to be called upon for use. A party of mages would be nearby be entirely at his mercy if they came upon one.

Templars were the greater threat. To that end, Aden hoped to give the other some sort of edge. Most did not have practice dealing with the Order’s stratagem or methods. Said to be one of the best fighting forces in southern Thedas, the Order trained their people well– for fighting abominations and demons. Similar methods could be applied to more common enemies, but it did not mean they were well practiced or often thought of how they might fight conventionally. Openings in that could lead to more intelligent counters against the rebels now. “Our armor is weakest from behind.” He mentioned. “Visibility through the helm is limited, leaving blind-spots towards our lower sides. Slip in low, aim for joints or the backs. We work individually more often than not, so don’t expect them to coordinate against you at first.” It felt strange, listing things out like that, but it was better spoken about now instead of when the man might need it.

“Any questions?”

Formal training was not the only way one learned how to defend against danger. The skills picked up in the streets and back alleys of Val Royeaux, watching and studying from trial and error equipped Rowan with the drive to get stronger. While brute force would never be his forte, other techniques were far easier to apply. Stealth, subterfuge, confusion, underhanded violence. Those he could do, and if someone aimed to underestimate him because of a lack of formal practice, they were more than welcome to. The elf knew what he was capable of and was quick to discern what others could do, too. 

Upon hearing the other begin to speak, Rowan side-eyed his companion and considered his words. Joint damage could be more than a little hindering if done well, and he aimed to do so. It also helped that he would not be ganged up on by a group of templars --most likely, anyway. They would come to discover what changes they might have made to their strategies now that they had gone rogue from the Order. As long as he could create some confusion between them, that could allow the elf to keep his own edge.

❝No questions,❞ he returned, eyes slipping forward once more. Aden had given useful tips and now Rowan aimed to use them. His lips jutted down in a pursed frown as the sounds of enemy movements grew louder. Scouting was one thing, but the potential of a large fight unnerved him even as confidence in his own skills remained. He had been a mercenary, not a soldier. While competent, he wasn’t used to a battlefield.

It was a learning curve he strongly disliked.

      “ Because you are just so devilishly handsome, a girl can’t help herself. ” The words came from lips rather quickly at his response; dancing with sarcasm as her eyes left the body between them to meet his. She bothered not with her hood — whether it pushed forward or back. He was in a far worse predicament than some Dalish elf roaming Shem streets. No fear dwelled in her belly over the thought of his recognition of the markings upon her olive features.

      “ I’m not very fond of repetition but I will since you’re both cute and charming. ” Sigriss readjusted her position, forearms resting upon her kneecaps. Amber eyes scanned his features for a brief moment, a serious tone lighting them. “ The guards that patrol this block will be here a bit quicker than you expect; if you thought of it at all. Tonight they’re under review so they’re moving a bit better than usual. Now — I can make him weightless for a bit IF you know where you wish to take him. ”

  The Dalish let those words linger momentarily in the air, back straightening somewhat as a smile slid easily over her lips. As though no corpse rest between them and this was but a friendly conversation between old friends. “ If not, well, I’ll be sad though not surprised to hear of two deaths here. ” With that, she began to rise — she’d give it another thirty seconds. Her pace as she began to draw away slow, leisurely.

Dalish. He had no dealings with Dalish in the past, and he bore no real opinion of them. Thus far her attitude was more focused on the situation than on any opening to be condescending, as he’d heard some were prone to do. Still, he didn’t appreciate being interrupted and accosted, eyes subtly narrowed as he looked between the woman and the body bleeding out on the cobblestone. Messy work. Impatient work. He was growing weary of this.

All the while she spoke, he said nothing, expression blank and hands resting idle at his hips. If you thought of it at all. The jab made his head tilt just so, gaze flickering upwards in a single show of mild exasperation. It was such a waste of energy to explain his earlier endeavor. Truly, he could have easily just left the body there for someone to find and slipped away with little care. He needn’t have, of course, not when he knew of an unused grate around the corner to dump it off.

That will do.

☾ ☝ ☽ —  The elf straightened, and Gaster puffed a sigh of quiet relief. Quite clearly a servant, more at ease in the presence of decadent decoration and vulture-picking stares. Not that the university didn’t have its fair share – between the (very) few elven students and the over-entitled rich brats he sadly called his “peers”, he’d seen the class divide and its wonderful derisive gawping first hand. And when reading and writing was hardly a skill, being a scholar was… “interesting”, to say the least.

He tugs at his coat, a plain weaved thing that no doubt cast ire and judgement in the wandering eyes, his own actions hardly suited to the elegant party; after all, shouldn’t he be demanding the elf dealt with the matter himself, expected it, even? Still, the hood slips off pale hair, woolen cloth resting on his arm and offered over with a stiff, nervous motion. If nothing else, he could settle himself with the hope that he could escape the crowds at some point, perhaps hide in the coat room, as he casts eyes in the direction the elf offered.

“H-Here,” he smiles, fabric nudged forward in a weak movement. Keep chatter to a minimum, his mind reminds, This man is an elf, and they are still watching.

More at ease might have been a bit of an overstatement.

Rowan had learned to survive in the presence of decadent decoration and vulture-picking stares. His comfort was of no importance to his employer, and as such he had to make do or lose his own source of income. Not exactly a problem he wanted to face when he had already been in this damned place for nearly two full years. Should he lose his job... Well, a noble could make easy work of slandering a servant’s name, making it impossible to seek employment anywhere else. 

The elf reached out to take the elder’s coat, gently setting it over his arm and turning in the direction of the coat room. Pausing, he hesitated for a moment as he subtly appraised nearby nobility out of the corner of his eye. No one was currently paying the pair much mind, least of all the servant, and with a moment’s consideration he angled himself back to the scholar and spoke up once more.

[ ᴍᴀʟᴇғɪᴄᴀʀᴜᴍ ] ℋ ;; – Being back in Ferelden is damn near nostalgic, however unappreciated and unwanted it is for him now.

Trapped and toted as the Herald of Andraste, he’s not a believer– ‘never’ was. The Maker wouldn’t want this he told himself, but deep into the late hours of the night there is a small glimmer of hope that this is His way of giving him a second chance. Reputation sullied by the events of Kirkwall, the Inquisition suffered even more for the proclamation that he, the murderer, is the Herald. But Astor doesn’t care as much and many of the people in Haven don’t either about past convictions. The mark on his hand is the only thing that can save Thedas and if being less than hostile to him is required to get him to comply, then it seemed they’re willing to be that way.

It’s his luck though that the recommended person has come searching for him first and he moved naught an inch away from that war table to find him. The creak of the door has him turned to see the newcomer and for a brief second, relief showed in his eyes that one task is already completed among so many more.

“You. Rowan, yes?” he tipped his head in greeting. “If you need something personally, it’s gonna have to wait until we get something done. Our Spymaster and a Red Jenny has you recommended.”

He had heard the whispers, naturally. The mutters and hisses about the one who had received the Mark. Most, if not all, were negative.

And now, as he stood and looked upon the man himself, it was with a trained gaze that he detected a hint of something in the eyes that stared back at him. Overall, though, he noted exhaustion --but that was to be expected, wasn’t it? No sane person would ever ask for this to happen to them. Not when possessing an already lengthy track record. Rowan could only assume that such an individual would prefer to stay out of the limelight rather than be tossed headfirst into it. But such things had quickly become ‘what ifs’ that no one could afford to dwell on, least of all Hawke himself. 

❝You’re correct,❞ he answered, eyeing the other intently. I come recommended, do I? The thought was nothing if not dry, but he kept it to himself and simply nodded. Of course the Inquisition Spymaster would have an opinion of him next to Sera. Sister Nightingale was not a name to scoff at. 

“Or perhaps the more paranoid one.” She replies, without missing a beat. She was paranoid, she knew. But it served her well, at least on the field, and thus she saw no issue with it. 

“Either way… We move.” 

She’s silent as the grave, stepping. Unlike most Dalish-born, she walks with boots- soft-soled leather things, that still make no sound on the ground as she makes her way, following. The tracks fade, as the ground firms, but the broken branches don’t stop. She’s almost concerned that this is too easy a trail to track. 

Of course, that’s when there’s a second body, even more mutilated than the first, and her gaze flicks to Rowan, steel in the depths. 

“This may be just slightly more than we were anticipating.”

❝You said it, not me,❞ Rowan stated in turn, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. In their line of work, being on the more paranoid side would undoubtedly serve them. As long as she wasn’t seeing invisible enemies, he had no qualms.

Her silent observations were caught by the assassin, eyes narrowed with unease at the sight of the branches. What could be trampling through the underbrush with such reckless abandon? The perpetrator either did not give a shit about who found them or... it was a very obvious and poorly laid trap. 

And yet they continued to follow it, all the way to a newly discovered body, and Rowan clenched his jaw in response to her words.   

  There was no convincing the woman when her mind was set. Though her mother saw no reason for her presence within the shem cities, she felt her daughter could serve purpose there. Vallaslin and all. Hands pulled her hood down further, masking her face better. With any hope none would take notice of those markings that had been etched into her skin some time ago. It was the Orlesian servant in her, really. Simply attempting to keep good ties well, good. But for her mother to return here…it would be a risk. An elf with no vallaslin and no magic? No true way to defend herself from the horrors that shems brought upon their kind.

  No she did not mind paying visits to Rikard’s mother. Everytime, she sent her back with sweets. Frilly things that Sigriss had come to adore; but just enough for herself and her mother. Never more. Never to feed the Clan, oh no. And who could blame the elder Orlesian noble? Feed scurrying rats in the street? mm, she’d gain nothing from such a deed.

  Her attention was drawn outward, ears feeling as though they were to burn as they strained to focus on the sound. It’d already ended but…Curious, Sigriss easily slid her way into the back alley and at her feet – a corpse. Fresh. His blood seeping its way through the stonework. With a parting glance from beneath lashes, she could tell the killer was an elf. Enough said. Crouching down she made sure not to touch him, inspecting momentarily. “ I can make him weightless – briefly. Do you know where you intend to move him? ”

Fingers gripped the hilt of his dagger immediately upon hearing someone slip into the alley. Quiet steps, certainly not the ones of a clamoring shem, but potentially sharing a race with another did not garner Rowan’s instant trust. No, when a hooded stranger stepped before him and crouched at the body’s side, all the elf could do was narrow his eyes in suspicion. No one else had passed by the alley entrance, nor had anyone stepped out of the tavern. If he truly needed to, he could deal with another... As frustrating as the consideration privately made him.

So when a voice sounded from beneath the hood, a woman’s voice, Rowan resisted the urge to click his tongue at the ease with which she slid herself into the situation. What use did he have for some stranger’s help? Anyone getting involved, whether they meant him harm or not, put the mercenary on edge. Understandably so.

He had been hired by nobility before, though he did his best not to make a habit out of it. The only reason he had taken this job was because some loose-lipped young man had mentioned his skills to his new client. A wealthy man who sought to eliminate someone stalking his daughter. Wryly, Rowan could not help but wonder if the lowlife was someone the noble knew personally. But he quickly shook away the thought --it wasn’t the woman’s fault some bastard was trailing her. 

The rogue had been told to wait outside the servants’ door late in the evening so that someone could fetch him. Naturally, as common as it was to hire a mercenary, people still enjoyed keeping up appearances. When a young female elf came to retrieve him, Rowan pushed down the memories of his own time spent as a servant. He followed the silent girl through the narrow halls until he was brought to what he could only assume were the doors to study, and an elderly butler replaced the girl.

An announcement? he thought with a small frown, but all the man did was call out to those who resided behind the doors.

❝Your guest has arrived, my lord.❞

An easy enough job, one that did not require extensive searching and coercing to get the individual alone. Rowan did not often accept assignments that were based in petty dislike, but he had been short on funds that month and he could not be especially high-and-mighty. He couldn’t afford it. So, when a bitter wife hired him to take care of her philandering husband, he had taken it with a stifled sigh. He did not think the act was worth dying over, but what did he know of scorned lovers?

Absolutely nothing.

So, having discovered which brothel he frequented most often, Rowan kept to the shadows and waited for the man to finally emerge after trailing him hours previously. The fact that he spent so long inside was rather unappealing in itself, and when he finally stepped out into the back alley, his leering, drunken state was explanation enough. With an eyeroll, the rogue crept forward, hardly needing to conceal himself for all the man was stumbling about and huffing to himself. He was also not very tall, a blessing for one of Rowan’s stature, and within moments he had slipped up and deftly tripped the man as he unsheathed a dagger.

Down to his knees he fell, easing the process for the elf as he clamped a hand over the other’s mouth and effectively slit his throat. It was almost embarrassingly simple, but it was better than getting into a scuffle. Letting the man drop unceremoniously, Rowan wiped his hand on his pantleg and returned his blade to its scabbard. 

Haven was... freezing.

Even with his years spent in Orlais, Rowan still bore an affinity for the warmth of Antiva, and upon his arrival to the mountain village, that affinity returned in full. He had little clue where Sera spent her time now that she had left Val Royeaux, and while he expected to see the acquaintance at some point or another, it was not the current goal to seek her out. No, rather, he intended to familiarize himself with his new location whilst looking for the so-called Herald. Of the man’s position, he had little opinion beyond a hope to see him succeed against the Breach. 

Whether or not he truly was blessed by Andraste seemed irrelevant.

And so the elf took to wandering the small town, observing training soldiers and bustling villagers as they tended to their duties. Few paid him much mind; he was always quiet that way, avoiding attention even if he was two feet from someone’s face. It wasn’t until he reached the Chantry that some eyes peered his way --sisters looking to observe a new face. He ignored them, proceeding inside and pausing at the end of the long hall to look about.

Truthfully, he’d only met the man once in Orlais, when he had encountered the Templars. But he recalled his face, and recognition hit him immediately as the door down the hall opened. 

    Called to attention, Faeron drifts over to the entrance of the healing ward, assessing the situation quickly and efficiently as he moved. A head injury, yes – as the other so clearly explained – though he could not tell from sight alone how badly the injury truly was.  “Oui, bien sûr.  Asseyez-vous, mais lentement – s'il vous plaît.”      Guiding the injured elf to a bed nearby, he assists him in sitting down upon the edge. Then, placing his bag down on the table next to the bed, he puts on his thin leather gloves and takes a cloth from his bag. Another healer, anticipating what was to occur, swings by the pair and carefully places a bowl of warm water on the table as well much to Faeron’s gratitude before they depart. Leaning forward, he carefully moves the other’s hands away from the injury area to replace them with his own. One hand slides behind the neck of the injured elf to gently support his head, while the other focuses in on the area of injury. Lithe fingers carefully part locks of hair as he assesses the damage to the skull. However, there is too much blood currently coating the area to see properly. Lightly, he places the cloth over the wound and holds it still. If this was a topographic injury, the bleeding would stop in a few minutes of applying the cloth to the area as the surface clotted. 

    “Salut. Je m’appelle Faeron, et je serai votre médecin aujourd'hui. Comment vous appelez-vous?” He inquires, his voice incredibly calm. Talking often soothed the panic victims experienced with such injuries, but it also did well to test the other’s current state of mind. There was a strong possibility that he was suffering from a concussion; the severity needed to be determined, and asking simple questions such as what was one’s name would begin to indicate more things than one could imagine.

At the request to sit, Rowan released a brief grunt and carefully sank down onto a cot, and though he would have done so without assistance, he was silently grateful all the same. He was here to be treated, after all. Best not be needlessly stubborn in front of the healers or that would add to the nuisance.

Tired eyes watched as the healer nudged away his hands, and as the rogue let his own fall to his lap, he breathed a quiet sigh of relief. He did not much enjoy supporting the weight of his own head when he could not even trust himself to remain upright. A grimace was the only tell that the injured area felt tender, particularly when a cloth was placed against the wound. Even so, exhausted as Rowan felt, he remained miraculously alert despite some straying thoughts. Or so he told himself. It was still somewhat difficult to speak anything too in-depth, if only because he rather detested how loud his own voice sounded in his ears. Considering the pain, he grouched silently, perhaps it was not entirely unexpected.

❝Rowan,❞ he answered quietly, blessedly acknowledging the inquiry in time. Briefly lifting his eyes to study the healer, he noted the poised mannerisms and unruffled tone. Healers --the good ones, anyway-- shared in similar traits when it came to bedside manner. The elf always admired that, to a degree, and while he didn’t need anyone trying to calm him down, it was accepted nonetheless. ❝Common est bien. I am fluent.❞  

    ❝ Well, come on then. ❞ Her voice was soft and lilted in a sing-song tone, a grin on her lips as she peered through the window at him, gesturing for him to hurry. ❝ Preferably before they come looking for whoever was with ‘that knife-eared wretch’ that had them traipsing through the woods looking for imaginary bandits, ❞ she mused as she backed away from the window.     She’d gotten away fairly easily, but she had no doubt the guards would search the grounds - starting inside - and she wanted to make sure they were long gone before that happened. Continuing to slowly back away towards the woods as she watched him, she waited until he’d hit the ground before she turned and headed off - there was an inquisition camp not too far from them that would make a decent place to stop and check out the book he’d collected.

❝Cheeky,❞ was all that he returned with when she spoke, peering down at the Inquisitor from his perch in the window. Even so, her lighthearted manner elicited a brief twitch of his mouth before he jumped down silently, straightening as he adjusted the back on his shoulder. Book and other stolen goods were tucked away safely inside, and he gave it a brief shake to show her that it was full. Nothing to worry about.