#dafics

“Is that all?” Cassandra asks, dropping the bundle of papers that has occupied her hands for the past hour or so on the small, stained wood table their little group stands around.

The basement they find themselves gathered in this time is small and damp, the scent of fish drifting in from the port outside mixing none too sweetly with old ale that has spilled through the floorboards of the tavern above. The cramped space barely fits the four women with their table, which tilts precariously whenever something heavier than a dagger is placed upon it, and Leliana has joked more than once that if Cullen had joined them he and his pauldrons would have had to play door for them.

But this isn't a matter to disturb Cullen with. Not while he's enjoying his retirement and time with his family.

No, this little party is made up only of those absolutely necessary; Cassandra, Leliana, Lavellan, and Charter.

Charter, who is the one who retrieved this information for them.

The Elven woman nods as she watches Cassandra drop her notes, folding her arms across her chest. “That is all, yes. And since I was the only one spared we won't have to concern ourselves with cleaning up loose ends.”

Cassandra sighs, frustration evident in her voice. “I suppose you're right.” She nods, rubbing at her chin, “though I admit my confusion at your survival- he'd kill all those others in attendance, yet not you? Just because you... asked?”

“I had done nothing to wrong him,” Charter tells her, leaning over to gather the papers up once more. “The others had lied or slandered him or posed some kind of risk. I merely sought out information- and it was information he was willing to share.”

“He doesn't want to kill Elves,” Lavellan supplies, finally speaking up for the first time since their meeting began, “he will if he absolutely must, but Solas is... trying not to kill other Elves. He's still trying to recruit them into his army.” She glances up at the other Elf, violet eyes both hard and exhausted at the same time, “you said it yourself- he asked you to join. And it probably would have looked worse for him had you not returned.”

“He wants us to know he can be anywhere at anytime,” Leliana says, “even though we've officially disbanded he knows we're still working against him- he wants us to know just how big of a threat he, personally, is to us. Any of us. All of us.” The Divine, cloaked in a simple disguise, spreads a hand out over the small map of Tevinter tacked down on the table, looking over it dutifully. “We'll have to be more careful from now on- well, even more so than we have been.” She sighs, a frown etched across her lips, “I'm afraid our infrequent meetings will have to become... even more infrequent. And those of us who are traveling will have to do more to cover our tracks. It will be difficult but we can't afford to get lazy now- or ever.” Nimble fingers pluck at the tacks, carefully rolling the map back up before depositing it in a tiny canister. As she straightens she eyes both Charter and Lavellan, “I'm sorry to say, but that means being more careful around other Elves, as well- if he'd go so far as to attempt to recruit a known spymaster-”

“No, you're right,” Lavellan agrees quickly, though she doesn't meet her eye, “anyone could be one of his agents, at this point. There's no telling. Caution must be taken, especially with those Elves coming out of Tevinter.”

Leliana gives a single nod, seemingly pleased with her understanding. “Yes, exactly. We cannot, at the moment, take any unnecessary risks. Now-” her eyes sweep over the other women as she tugs at the hood of her cloak, ensuring her hair is completely covered, “I'm afraid I must take my leave. Cassandra and I must be present later tonight at the Viscount's banquet- there had to be some excuse for use to travel all the way to Kirkwall, after all.”

Cassandra makes a disgusted noise from the space by the door as she dons her own cloak. “Politics.”

“Now, now, Cassandra,” Leliana chides playfully, a smirk replacing her serious expression, “I'm sure Varric won't make it too unbearable for you. Perhaps our dear friend will even give you the next copy of his book.”

The dark haired woman rolls her eyes, turning toward the door quickly to hide the blush that creeps its way up her neck.

“Charter, if you wouldn't mind passing this information to Harding when you have the chance?” Leliana requests, “she'll need to know the details of this meeting in depth and what to keep an eye out for in the future.”

“Of course, My Lady,” Charter agrees, tucking the papers away into a leather pouch hidden inside her vest, “I will get this to her as soon as possible.”

“Thank you,” Leliana says, then turns to Lavellan, “I'm sorry you can't join us tonight,” she tells her sympathetically, “If there were a way-”

But Lavellan just lifts her hand to stop her. “It's fine,” she says, “I spent some time with Varric yesterday- we caught up then. Had lunch. It's no big deal.” She shrugs. “Besides, I'm to start trek toward the Arlathan Forest early tomorrow. Varric gave me information to catch up with one of his and Hawke's friends who's been working on dismantling the slave trade there. Thought I might be some help.”

Leliana doesn't miss the way she fidgets with the hem of her sleeve, though; fingers tugging at the fabric to try to hide the dragonbone contraption Dagna made to replace her missing arm. “You had said before,” the redhead starts carefully, “that you were considering stopping by Wycome on your way. Do you still-”

“I might,” she cuts her off again, still not looking her in the eye, “I haven't decided yet. I know reports have said that some of my Clan might still be out there- but-” she sighs, rolling her shoulders to try to stave off the shudder that threatens to run through her, “I just don't think it would matter if I went back. I doubt they'd want me back, after everything. If they even recognized me at all.”

Cassandra turns back to look at the Elven woman, a soft pity in her eyes, “Inqui-”

“Don't,” Lavellan says quickly, sharply, then deflates, letting the sudden anger rush out of her. “I'm not the Inquisitor anymore, Cassandra,” she tells her with a wavering smile, “let's not pretend I still am.”

The other woman frowns, though instead of her usual frustration it's one of sympathy. “Yes, of course.” She agrees softly, “I- just know- if there's anything you need-”

Lavellan nods, looking up at the human women, a fake smile plastered across her face. “I know, and thank you. But I'm fine. I'll be fine. Truly.”

There's a pause. Lavellan returns to her subconscious fidgeting. Leliana chooses not to say anything of it. “Very well,” The Divine relents, moving to join Cassandra at the door. “We'll be seeing you, then. Just be sure to keep in touch, wherever it is you end up. I've never met Fenris personally but I know he can be... a bit touchy, as Varric's said. And perhaps... don't mention your mage sympathies.” She then looks over toward Charter, giving her associate a nod. “And you know where your duties take you next?”

“Of course, My Lady. I will continue to inform you of any developments in the Imperium.”

“Thank you. Walk in the Maker's Light, both of you.” She tells them, and then follows Cassandra out the door, the dark haired woman giving a nod in farewell to both of them.

The door shuts with a click, leaving the two Elves alone together.

An awkward silence blankets the room as they wait until they are clear to leave. Lavellan has no idea if Charter is one for small talk- they never were more than acquaintances during their time with the Inquisition- but where Lavellan used to be, she's found she hasn't had the spirit to summon the casual lightheartedness that had been so central to her demeanor all her life.

At least not for the past year and a half.

So she lets the silence be. For about an hour the two Elven women simply sit in silence; Lavellan finding a discarded crate and fiddling with the more mechanical components of her arm while Charter perches on the table itself, pouring over a small, well worn notebook. Once, Lavellan briefly catches her sleeve in a joint and curses under her breath, waving Charter off when she looks up in question. It proves to be the extent of their interaction.

At least, until right before Lavellan rises to leave.

“Wait,” Charter stops her, just as she goes to tug her hood over her head. A scarred brow quirks in the spy's direction, watching as she tears a leaf of paper from the little notebook. She looks at it for a brief moment, as though second guessing herself, before holding it out for Lavellan to take. “I don't know that Leliana would... approve of me giving you this information,” she says as the other woman carefully takes it from her, “but for him to have said it...” she hums softly, tucking away the notebook, “he allowed me my life. Delivering it to you- it's a debt paid.”

Lavellan wills her hand not to shake as she looks down at the parchment, a sudden weakness trembling in the pit of her stomach.

“When you report back to the Inquisitor... Say that I am sorry.”

“For all that it's worth,” Charter continues, moving to stand, “it did sound like he meant it.”

There's the silence once again as Lavellan's eyes stayed glued to the page, that weakness trying to decide whether to manifest itself as sadness or anger. It's such a shock, for him to address anything directly towards her after all this time, that when if finally hits her throat it culminates as neither- a tiny, humorless chuckle escapes her mouth instead. “A teahouse.” Is all she can bring herself to say; just a whisper of the word, with an almost unwilling fondness trapped behind her teeth.

Hawke frowns, looking at the stone-carved walls and pillars around them. He tries to seek out something familiar but all of the hallways and rooms that they’d gone through so far looked so similar to him that they could’ve walked through this same corridor a dozen times and been none the wiser.

“Maybe it all just looks the same and we haven’t actually been wandering in circles for Maker knows how long?” Hawke replies, trying to sound at least a little hopeful but Varric just looks as skeptical as he feels. He was really going to have to work on sounding more optimistic if he wanted to keep their spirits up.

“No, we’ve definitely been here before,” Isabela says, and Hawke looks over to see her pointing towards something marked on one of the pillars beside her. He quickly moves forward to get a closer look but then stops mid-step when he realizes that the ‘symbol’ is just a crudely drawn erection carved into the stone. He blinks before meeting Isabela’s gaze, and she just grins back at him as shameless as ever. “What? I was marking the route.”

“Thanks, Bela,” Hawke replies in a deadpan tone before he sighs, looking around the corridor before he turns to face the group. “Okay, so we definitely just walked in a circle. Or a square, knowing how old Dwarves liked to think. Thoughts?”

“My thought is that trusting Bartrand and coming down here might not have been our best idea,” Anders says, sitting down on a broken chunk of what was probably once a pillar before he meets Hawke’s gaze. “But that probably goes without saying by now.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that, Blondie. Up until the part where Bartrand left us down here to die, I think it was all going pretty well.” Varric replies, his tone almost light but Hawke can hear the underlying hurt and anger in his friend’s tone. He can’t imagine what Varric was thinking right now.. They might not have always gotten along well, but there was no world where Hawke could imagine Carver ever doing something like this to him. It still stings to think about him, but Hawke tries not to dwell on that right now. His repressed grief was the least of their problems and it should probably remain that way.

“Well, standing around and talking about dismembering a traitorous dwarf might cheer us up,” Hawke says, returning the collective attention of his friends to him, “but it won’t get us out of here. Let’s keep going, and try to leave some better markers as we do.”

“You’ll thank me when we’re out of here,” Isabela replies, throwing him a playful wink. Hawke returns the familiar gesture with a smirk before his gaze goes over to Anders, and he watches as the mage gets to his feet with a weary huff.

“You feeling all right, Anders?” Hawke asks, approaching him before another thought suddenly crosses his mind. “And not trying to add to our current problems, but you don’t happen to sense any Darkspawn down here do you?”

“If I did, I certainly wouldn’t be keeping it to myself,” Anders replies, rolling his shoulders as he and Hawke follow after their other two companions, and they walk in silence for a few seconds before Anders lets out another soft sigh. “I just.. I can’t say I have a lot of fond memories about being underground.”

“Oh I’m sure we’ll look back at this and laugh someday.” Hawke replies, reaching over to give Anders’ shoulder a companionable pat. “But on the bright side, everything that we come across down here can probably be killed.”

“Yes, including us,” Anders replies, raising an eyebrow at the grin that Hawke gives him in lieu of a reply. “Just try to keep a distance if we do happen across any Darkspawn. The last thing we need is someone getting infected with the Blight sickness.”

“Precisely why I didn’t risk bringing Bethany down here,” Hawke replies promptly, watching as Isabela and Varric both pause in their walking to start scraping some noticeable markers in the stone walls. “But I’m not too worried – I’ve got a big, bad Grey Warden right here to keep me safe.”

Anders scoffs at that, and when Hawke glances over he thinks that he sees a faint dusting of red on his cheeks. It’s difficult to tell in the dim lighting of the walkway, but Anders is still smiling when he meets Hawke's gaze again. “Fine, but if we run into a dragon I’m leaving that one to you.”

“Fair enough.” Hawke grins. “But if it’s a baby dragon I’m going to try and tame it first.”

“That I don’t doubt.” Anders says, and there’s a noticeable fondness in his tone, one that fills Hawke’s chest with a pleasant warmth as they keep following after the others, eager to leave this thaig and this journey behind them.

While it was routine once upon a time, he was king now, technically, and the Warden was....away. Searching. 

But no, the fingers on his arm are cold and fiendishly real as they pinch at the soft skin under his arm. “Alistair!”

Whatever swear had been building in Alistair’s throat dies as he sits up and stares blearily at the sight before him.

Tabris, hair in disarray, still in the blues and silvers of the Grey Wardens, is in his bedchamber, kneeling on his bed. Barkspawn chuffs softly, panting at his door. The moon is barely a sliver shining into his room, making everything seem ethereal, but the weight on his legs feels very real, sharp greaves digging into him even through the layers he’s tucked under.

“I...” Alistair draws the covers to his chest as nonchalantly as he can manage, squinting in the dim light. “This isn’t a dream, is it?”

Tabris’ answering pinch is more than enough proof, but still, there’s questions to be answered. Alistair sits up further and fumbles to light a candle at his bedside, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Um. Welcome back, I suppose. When did you arrive?”

“Twenty minutes ago.” Tabris drops onto his bed with a groan, already moving to rip off the greaves and braces and various bits of armor. “I snuck in, by the way. Don’t call the guards, it was hard enough to do this without Barkspawn waking everyone and their mother.”

“I really should inform them about possible weaknesses in their guard...patrols, I suppose.” Alistair points out, moving out of the way. It was routine a year ago, when they were still fighting off darkspawn, so it’s strange that it’s still so familiar. “Did you have to sneak in though? I feel like the Hero of Ferelden would be allowed in regardless of the time.”

“I missed you, as strange as that sounds.” Tabris smiles, and for the first time in a while, seems almost content, like a weight’s been lifted. 

“What brings you here? To my chambers? In the middle of the night?” Alistair prompts, reaching out to pat Barkspawn as he approaches to greet him.

“I figured it out!” A renewed sense of energy makes Tabris shoot up, kneeling on his bed again. “I know how to cure the taint!”

Alistair blinks, hand on Barkspawn’s large head. “I’m...sorry?”

“I cured Barkspawn all those years ago, remember? The sick mabari in the pens? I did it. I fixed it. In Ostagar.” Tabris nods, eyes wide with just a hint of madness.

Alistair hums softly in thought, trying to wrap his head around the strange midnight visit. His head’s still foggy and he’s not entirely sure this isn’t a delusion, despite the strangeness of it all. “Are you telling me,” he begins slowly. “That after all this time struggling, you removed the taint and forgot?”

“In my defense, it was a rough year.” Tabris adds hurriedly, grunting as the last piece of armor clinks to the floor. “You were also there and forgot, so it’s not all my fault.”

“You realize that could have saved us so much time, right? How long were we in the Korcari Wilds again? How much Elfroot did we pick? We could have taken care of the blight in a week.” 

"I remembered now, that has to count for something, right?” Tabris waves a hand in the air and shrugs, climbing towards the top of the bed. “Shove on over, it’s freezing out there.”

Alistair sighs, rolling his eyes but raising the covers regardless. “You realize this will be a scandal.”

“I’m sure you can handle it, your highness.” Tabris preens, hugging his side, all cold limbs and pointy elbows, and buries into his pillows. “That’s a problem for the morning, don’t you think?”

“You’re impossible, you know that?” Tabris doesn’t deign him with a response, and Alistair can’t offer more witticisms because Barkspawn jumps onto the bed and burrows into the blankets beside him.

Perhaps it was muscle memory that allowed the Warden to focus, to swing and block and parry against the arl as he advanced. The din of clashing armor and metal, and the distant thrum of magic in the air faded away, until all that remained was the Warden, the Cousland sword in their grip, and the man who had taken everything from them.

Unlike the darkspawn, however, Howe knew how to fight back properly.

A heavy swipe from Howe nearly ripped the sword from the Warden’s grasp, jarring them as the sounds of battle returned, echoed tenfold in the small room. Howe sneered, swinging down with a dagger the Warden barely blocked.

“Your parents died on their knees,” he taunted, rank breath hot against the Warden’s face. “Your brother rots in Ostagar, and his brat burned on a scrap heap along with his Antivan whore of a wife!”

A snarl ripped from the Warden’s throat, pained and raw as they kicked out, tossing caution to the wind as they hacked at Howe’s defenses with abandon. The Warden knew it was Howe’s intention to distract them, to provoke them into making mistakes, but the rage nearly took their breath away. “That’s enough!”

“You’re the last of nothing!” Howe sneered, blade whistling past quicker than lightning, a sharp burning sting following contact. Blood dripped down the Warden’s face, blinding them momentarily, but the derision in Howe’s voice burned more than the injuries. “You’ve lost.”

Howe’s words rang in the Warden’s head, stunning them for a moment. After so much bloodshed and fighting, it couldn’t possibly be the end. They wouldn’t let it be the end.

The calm that settled into the Warden’s bones was heavy and familiar, as familiar as the weight of the sword in their grasp. They had fought through Howe’s men before, through hordes of darkspawn and enemies thrown their way, all for this moment.

The sword burned in their hands, a reminder of Bryce Cousland’s words.

“For justice,” the Warden breathed, turning to face Howe. The arl scowled, raising his daggers for another attack.

The Warden struck first, sweeping their sword with every ounce of strength they could muster. The impact of metal on metal sent a tremor up their arms, and it took everything to follow through, feeling the sharp blade cut through leather and metal into flesh.

And then it was over, the Warden standing over the fallen Arl as the older man wheezed in a pool of his own blood.

“Maker spit on you…” He growled, breathing labored as his blood dripped from the Warden’s sword. “I deserved…more…”

Impulsively, the Warden struck out, burying the sword into Rendon Howe’s chest, blinded by tears and blood. “My family deserved more than to be slaughtered by the likes of you!”

Their strength left them all at once, and the Warden collapsed on their sword, tremors running through them as hot tears continued to stream down their face. Alistair approached them after some time, the others crowding around the Warden and the arl.

“We need to go,” Alistair murmured, and the Warden felt Leliana gently running her fingers through their hair. Zevran snatched the key from Howe’s cooling corpse, and Morrigan cleared the way for them back out of the dungeons.

The Warden allowed the rest of the party to herd them along, the tremors slowly subsiding amidst the comforting touches of the others.

Combat Comments

Before a fight:

I’ve taken on an Archdemon and lived, and you still want to fight me? Madness.

Incoming!

Is it just me or does it seem like everything here wants to kill us?

Couldn’t we go one day without running into people who want us dead? Just one day?

From one war into another.

(sighs) It never ends.

During a fight:

Die!

Bring it on!

You think you can kill me?

Away with you!

You’re no match for me!

I’ve killed men worth thousands of you!

(when encountering a great bear) WHY do you people insist on fighting it?! Why?!

(when encountering a boss) Oh Maker that’s a tough one. Be on your guard.

(when encountering a high dragon) That’s cute. That’s real cute compared to an Archdemon. Compared to an Archdemon, YOU’RE TINY!

(when encountering darkspawn) And here I thought I’d sent them all back underground.

(when encountering darkspawn) Feels like the Blight all over again.

(when encountering rebel mages) Must we do this?

(when encountering red templars) This is just wrong on so many levels.

(when encountering Gray Wardens) You’re a bloody disgrace to the order, that’s what you are!

Kills an enemy:

Back to dust!

And bloody stay dead!

We wouldn’t have had to do this if you’d had a little common sense.

Another enemy down!

Should’ve seen that coming!

You should have just walked away.

Oh, you’re far too young to die.

How pointless.

Switching weapons while in combat*:

(when switching to a bow) Wayward arrow coming through!

(when switching to a bow) If anyone gets hit by a stray shot I'm apologising in advance.

(when switching to a bow) Maker I hope I'm aiming at the right target.

(when switching to melee) Now that's more like it!

(when switching to melee) Let's slit some throats!

(when switching to melee) Eat steel, you bastards!

*Special skill given the fact that switching weapons mid-combat was a thing in DA:O; nervous comments made when using a bow is due to the fact that Grisia is almost blind in one eye.

After a fight:

And that’s the end of it.

Is everyone all right? Anybody need any medicine?

We do seem to be attracting an awful lot of enemies, don’t we?

Oh dear, what a mess. I don’t fancy being the one to clean this up.

Will all this pointless killing ever end, do you suppose?

They shouldn’t have attacked us. They didn’t have to die.

No effect:

Something's wrong; it's not working!

Whoa, new plan.

Considering a change in tactics!

Nobody told me we’d be fighting invulnerable enemies!

There’s got to be a weakness somewhere; there has to be!

Recovering from KO/Revived:

You’d think I’d know better...

Thanks. I owe you one.

Remind me to buy you a drink when we get back.

Got careless there, sorry. Won’t happen again.

Where’s the bastard that downed me? Time for payback!

Low Health:

Could use a little help here!

My vision’s... getting blurry...

Someone better not have used up all the medicine because I sure as hell need some!

Low Stamina:

Running... out of strength...

I’m running out of arrows!

My blades are getting dull!

How much longer is this going to take?

Can’t keep this up for much longer!

Give me a moment!

Wounded:

Oi. You might not notice it but I’m bleeding half to death here. You might want to do something about that.

We should get to camp. You know, to patch ourselves up a little bit. Splint some broken bones. Not kill ourselves.

Oh don’t mind me, it’s not like I’m walking around with cracked ribs and a gaping wound in my side.

Someone else KO’d:

(if the Inquisitor falls) His/Her Grace has fallen!

(if Cassandra falls) Seeker Pentaghast is down!

(if Blackwall is down) Blackwall! Hang in there, I'm coming!

(if The Iron Bull) Maker, they've got Bull! We're in trouble now!

(if Dorian falls) Someone help Dorian!

(if Vivienne falls) Uh-oh, the invincible Lady Vivienne's down! Quelle horreur! 

(if Solas falls) They've got the Fadewalker! 

(if Varric falls) Don't you fucking dare die on me, Varric!

(if Sera falls) Leave Sera alone, you bastards!

(if Cole falls) Cole, no! 

(if Cullen falls) Get up, Commander! We're not done yet!

Taking a potion:

Nobody’s using this, yeah?

Have we got enough? Ah blast it; I’m taking one!

Down the hatch!

Oh that burns. And not in a good way.

(spits) That tasted weird.

Afflicted by status effect:

(hit by poison) Nothing I’ve never tried before -- too bad for you!*

(hit by poison) How many times have I got to tell you, it won’t work on me!

(hit by poison) Are you trying to kill me or just ruin my coat? Stop doing the latter and focus on the former, please.

(stunned) Alright, someone’s playing dirty...

(knocked down) Whoa!

*Grisia is an experienced poisoner, and by that I mean she’s been poisoned more times that she can count. She’s literally immune to most poisons, hence this comment.

Others:

(throwing a grenade) One hell of an explosion, coming up!

(throwing a grenade) This’ll wipe them out!

(throwing a grenade) Time for some alchemical damage!

(entering stealth) They’ll never know what hit them.

(entering stealth) They won’t hear a thing.

(using Mark of Death) I’ve got you now.

(detecting trap) I’d watch out if I were you.

(detecting trap) See there? That’s a trap.

(picking locks) Oh that’s shoddy workmanship right there.

(picking locks) What is this, the Blessed Age? Nobody uses these locks anymore!

Need something?

You need a hand with that?

I can do that, if you’d like.

Nope, sorry, can’t do that.

I don’t do bashing things down, no. Try someone else?

Does it look like magic and I get along? No.

And how’s that?

Done.

COMMENTS ON COMPANIONS

Cassandra: 

Seeker Pentaghast? Tough as nails and totally devoted to her cause, but she’s a reliable person to have around. I don’t think we could’ve gotten anything done without her.

(if romanced) I knew she was a romantic but I didn’t figure she was this romantic! Glad to see you two doing well, though. It’s good to see something like this during these dark times.

Leliana:

Leliana’s strong, but Divine Justinia’s death hit her hard. She just doesn’t show it. It worries me.

Josephine:

If there’s ever a woman I’ll never play cards with, it’ll be her. The Inquisition’s damned lucky to have her as its ambassador.

(if romanced)  You two make a good match, although the power you both wield is not a little terrifying. Do remember to invite me for the wedding, yeah? I’ll bring a royal guest.

Cullen:

I’ve only ever crossed paths with him once before, but I know he’s a good man. He’s trustworthy and loyal; you can’t ask for a better commander.

(if romanced) Cullen is a good man, but I’ve seen the things he’s been through. It’s the stuff of nightmares that would break anyone. It’s not every day that he gets a chance at happiness like this, so please take care of him.

Blackwall:

(before Revelations) I don’t actually know Warden Blackwall all that well, considering I quit my position in the order a long time ago. He seems to be a decent man, if not a little overzealous.

(after Revelations) Did I know he wasn’t really a Warden? Yes. Why didn’t I say anything? Because it’s not my place to do so. True, he masqueraded as a dead man for years and fled like a coward from his crimes, but he’s sincere about making a difference now. His repentance is honest, and for the Wardens that’s really good enough.

(if romanced) Far from it my place to say anything, but I hope it all works out for the two of you. You both deserve a little happiness.

The Iron Bull:

His Chargers are the best allies the Inquisition could have and he’s an even better warrior. Hard to believe he’s Ben-Hassrath at times, the way he’s so comfortable with everything. Also could you please get him to stop trying to recruit me into the Chargers? He keeps bringing it up every time we go for a drink.

(if the Qunari dreadnoughts are sacrificed) The current Arishok was a friend of mine during the Fifth Blight, you know. He was always so strict and rigid about the Qun. Once told me he’d rather I was out of Ferelden when the time comes for the Qunari to invade, because he wasn’t looking forward to killing me. For Bull to choose his Chargers over them... it’s a surprise, although I won’t complain. I’m glad he did.

(if the Chargers were sacrificed) There’s not a lot I can say. I don’t really know what it’s like in the Qun, and I sure as hell don’t know what’s going on inside his head. All I can say is, it’s not easy losing your comrades like that. It wasn’t an easy choice to make.

(if romanced) Not my business what you get up to in your private time, Your Grace, but you might want to invest in sturdier bedposts; I’m not sure it can take all that stress.

Dorian:

I know mages have a little more leeway when it comes to making their armour fashionable, but Dorian really takes it too far. I’m blinded every time I look at thim, and I’m already blind in one eye! That aside, I don’t think him being from Tevinter is anything to worry about. He’s good to have by your side in a fight and that’s good enough for me.

(if romanced) I don’t know anything about his family, but from what I heard he’s been through some rough times. It’d be nice if you could heal the scars, make him realise he’s worthy of being loved again.

Vivienne:

What has she got against me, aside from the fact that I’m an elf and used to be a Warden? Is looking down on people a hobby of hers or something? I don’t get it. It must’ve been tough, being cooped up in the Circle for so long until you forget what matters in the real world.

Tch.

Solas:

I won’t lie, I think he’s an odd one. Anyone who spends that much time in the Fade and isn’t driven mad is weird, frankly. But he’s an asset to the Inquisition and he did save your life, so there’s that.

(if romanced) No comment, Your Grace. I’ve got nothing at all.

Varric:

Best storyteller I’ve ever had the good fortune to meet. He’s got a tendency to blow things out of proportion as he goes along and he does lie a lot, but I think deep down he’s really a good man. He took care of my subordinate back in Kirkwall, too, and that makes him alright in my book.

Cole:

Cole? You mean the one with the big floppy hat? He seems to be a good kid, if not a little clueless about things.

(if Cole spares the templar) Around ten years ago I met a spirit of Justice that mistakenly found itself in our world and it later went on to possess a good friend of mine. It didn’t end well for him. Cole’s different. He’s not possessing someone. He just is. He exists. Whether that’s a good thing or not remains to be seen, but the fact that he’s becoming more human is reassuring.

(if Cole forgives the templar)  Around ten years ago I met a spirit of Justice that mistakenly found itself in our world and it later went on to possess a good friend of mine. It didn’t end well for him. I’m not sure if it’ll end well this time either. Spirits shouldn’t be left to wander outside the Fade, corporeal or no, and the fact that Cole’s becoming more like a spirit is worrying.

Sera:

(deep sigh)

What? Oh sorry, just trying to figure out how to get out pie stains from suede. Sera’s a real prize, she is. She’s outrageous and quirky and slightly mad, I reckon, but she makes a wonderful addition to the Inquisition. For what it’s worth, I’m actually glad to have her around. Makes things less grim; makes you remember there’s a more enjoyable life to be had after all this. Even if that life includes getting stubborn stains out of delicate fabric.

Cullen sighed and rubbed the back of his neck as he made his way towards the sparring ring. Grisia was there, locked in combat against -- are his eyes deceiving him? -- five Inquisition soldiers at the same time, and not seeming to have the slightest problem with it. Rather, she was laughing as she dodged and weaved through every single one of them, parrying each of their blows with ease. The Inquisition soldiers sparring with her, he noted to his surprise, didn't seem too unhappy either; there was excitement in their eyes, a sort of happiness at being able to challenge such an unusual enemy like her and Maker she was unusual -- she wielded an elegant longsword in each hand, her movements no more weighted down than if she were wielding paring knives. The last time he had seen someone dual wield weapons other than daggers was at least ten years ago; it was technically considered a lost combat discipline by now, and it was refreshing to see someone still capable of the skill. The others surrounding the ring and cheering them on seemed excited too. Grisia was perhaps the only person who could create this sort of atmosphere during a sparring session, thought Cullen amusedly. The Iron Bull generated awestruck fear whenever he sparred with someone, and while Blackwall's training was generally well-received by the recruits, he couldn't create an atmosphere where it was actually enjoyable to be in the ring. And Cassandra? There was a reason why she usually trained alone. She pretended the soldiers' absolute terror of her didn't bother her at all, but Cullen knew better.

This woman? There was a certain level of infamy about her that had made the soldiers nervous, that was true, but she had managed to get into their good graces the moment she stepped foot into Skyhold. She was used to being in the field, used to being the one who had to follow orders and stick it out even when things went ten thousand ways to hell. She took notice of the injured and traumatised, and kept them company as they healed. She offered to check up on their families on days when she had to leave Skyhold for missions. She knew what it was like being a regular soldier, and that had the others warming up to her. They liked her, and the fact that the Hero of Ferelden would take the time to train with mere soldiers like them only increased their respect towards her. There had been those who resented her on principle due to her being an elf, of course, but those disgruntled voices were few and far in between, and had died out almost completely after word spread of her contributions to the Inquisition which included foiling an assassination attempt on Lady Montilyet's life, single-handedly destroying a small Venatori encampment in the Hissing Wastes, and bringing back a lost pup that had belonged to one of the armoury smiths.

Cullen approached the ring, motioning the others to keep silent about his presence, and watched as they sparred. Curiously, so far Grisia had done nothing but dodge and parry blows again and again. He noticed a mage beside him keeping track of time with a sand timer, and before he had the time to even wonder why, he heard Grisia yell from inside the ring.

"Is it ten minutes yet?"

"Almost!" The mage shouted back eagerly. "Just a little more... a bit more... TEN MINUTES!"

The crowd hollered, and Grisia suddenly shifted her stance. A heartbeat passed and one of the soldiers was thrown off his feet, flying through the air and landing on his back outside the ring. It had taken place almost too fast for anyone to catch it, but Cullen saw how the soldier had tried to bash her with his shield, and she had countered the blow with one herself, using both blades at once like a greatsword to send him flying instead. Grisia whirled a sword in one hand and stood ready, challenging the remaining four to attack, a taunting smile on her lips.

To their credit, they did their absolute best to take her down; in the following fight that ensued one of them got creative and tried to knock her down with a low sweep, but Grisia jumped over her -- jumped over her -- and kicked her in the back, sending her face-first into the ground. She stood in the ring and lifted her swords victoriously in the air to the cheers of the onlookers, grinning at them until she spotted Cullen.

"Commander! Didn't realise you were watching!" She slid the swords back into their scabbard at her hip and made her way towards him, stopping to help one of the soldiers up to his feet. "Nice try with the pommel strike," she told the poor man whom she had struck across the helmeted face just a little while ago, "but I'd recommend trying to hit a little lower. A blow to the jaw works just as well as one to the temple." The soldier shakily saluted her and left the ring, presumably to head to the infirmary for something to clear his ringing head. Grisia turned back to the commander. "Well? Did you enjoy the show?"

"Not as much as the others did." He chuckled. "Although I must admit I was impressed when you broke that shield in half with a kick."

She laughed. "Oh, I was impressed too, believe me. Wasn't expecting it to be that flimsy."

"I'll have a word with our smiths, have them rework our standard issue shields."

"You do that." She climbed over the ring and stretched herself languidly beside him. "I could use a drink after all that moving around. You coming with me?"

Cullen motioned for her to lead the way, and they walked together towards the tavern where they found a table upstairs, where it was quieter and there were fewer people. The waitress came and took their order; he asked for ale, she asked for mead. As the waitress bustled off, Cullen asked, "You shouted something about ten minutes earlier. What was that about?"

"That? I told them I'd restrain myself to just defending for the first ten minutes and I'd treat them all to drinks if they could land a single blow on me within that time." She leaned an elbow against the windowsill and peered outside.

"A little confident, aren't you?" The waitress brought them their drinks and he nodded to her his thanks. Downstairs, the bard strummed her lute experimentally as she rambled a string of words that would hopefully rhyme with 'inquisitor'. None of them did.

Grisia laughed out loud. "Confidence is one thing, but I gave them a handicap and they still couldn't get a scratch! Had to give them something extra to aim for." She took a sip of the mead and hummed appreciatively. "That warrior who tried to cut my legs off, did you see her?"

"The last one standing apart from you?" Cullen raised an eyebrow. "I saw her, what about it?"

"She's got potential, that one. Managed to stay out of the way long enough to figure out my attack pattern and gutsy enough to try and play dirty. I'd keep an eye on her if I were you."

"At the rate you're going, maybe you should keep an eye on her."

"Me?" Grisia looked shocked. "Nonsense! I'm not the commander of the Inquisition!"

"No, but you're still taking the most time out of all of us to train them," he pointed out, "and you're good at what you do. I'm thankful for it, honestly. Our forces out on the field have reported almost no casualties ever since you came here."

"That's nothing to thank me for. You've got good soldiers here, that's all."

"Good soldiers don't appear out of thin air. Your training made them that way."

"They were already well-trained," she countered. "All I did was show them a few pointers.

Cullen sat back, exasperated. "Are you ever going to accept a compliment without protest?"

"Probably not. I don't get a lot of those, you know." Grisia laughed again, but this time her laugh sounded hollow. Cullen had the feeling she wasn't entirely joking. Noticing his change of expression, she quickly changed the subject. "How was your day, by the way? Did your meeting go well?"

The former templar started to answer but the question made him remember something that had been nagging at him ever since he left the war room, and his face fell. "Say," he said quietly, "have you ever baited a high dragon?"

"I've... killed high dragons when they tried to eat me, although I must admit I've never tried getting them to eat me on purpose." she answered, a little perplexed.

"In other words baiting high dragons isn't something people normally do, right?"

"If your definition of normal is anywhere the same as mine then no, baiting high dragons is not something people normally do. What's this about?" Grisia looked at him in alarm.

The commander groaned and buried his face in his hands. He told her about the Inquisitor meeting a researcher from the University of Orlais in the Western Approach, and how he had managed to convince her to help him bait an Abyssal High Dragon for his research. "She meets this man camped out in the middle of nowhere, and suddenly she decides to help him catch a high dragon? How does someone even come to that kind of conclusion?

"She said it's for science. Science. We're already at war and she wants to put herself in danger for science," Cullen complained angrily. "And do you know who she brought into the war room to back her up? The Iron Bull. Of course he's going to want to back her up! It's baiting and killing dragons! It's literally two of his most favourite pastimes combined!

"To make matters worse, she says she doesn't need a group of soldiers accompanying her because it'll scare the dragon away. I'm worrying myself sick over her safety and she's more concerned about not scaring off a bleeding high dragon." He caught sight of her hiding her smile behind her hand and frowned. "You find this hilarious, do you?"

Grisia burst out laughing. "No," she said, choking for breath between guffaws, "of course I don't-- well, I suppose I do find it funny..."

Cullen's angry stare intensified. "No! Alright, alright, let me start from the beginning." Still chortling, she held up a hand while she organised her thoughts and cleared her throat. "Look. I won't say I don't know how you feel, given how His Lordship is prone to making terribly bad decisions himself," she began, "but you do realise that ten years ago I was being just as reckless as Her Grace is now?"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"I'm saying I know what it's like being saddled with an enormous responsibility out of the blue and wanting to let off some steam every once in a while. I did a lot of stupid things during the Fifth Blight ten years ago -- things that, in hindsight, are probably things that I never should've done in the first place. They were stupid and dangerous and reckless things, much like Her Grace's plan to bait some high dragons."

"Such as?" Cullen asked, curious despite himself.

"I remember we went to Honnleath for a stone golem and fought a desire demon for its control rod, and that same stone golem somehow persuaded me to accompany it to an abandoned thaig infested with darkspawn to help it regain its memories."

"A stone golem in Honnleath? Wait, do you mean that stone statue in the middle of the village square? That was a golem?"

"You know about it?"

"Know about it? I played tag around that statue when I was a child!"

"I think Shale mentioned something about that once. I didn't know you were from Honnleath."

"I've never told you. What else did you do?"

"We did a spot of treasure-hunting in the Brecilian Forest and we had to disturb these wards placed in graveyards that spawned revenants and skeleton every time we did so. We must've killed, what, a hundred skeletons while searching for it? There were a lot of skeletons. A lot of skeletons for one set of massive armour. Also there was that time when a dwarf companion of mine made me go with him when he went to woo his old girlfriend back. That was the scariest.

"My point is, all those trivial things and the fact that His Lordship stood by me through it all were what kept me sane. Yes, I had a civil war to settle, a traitor to overthrow, a king to put on the throne, armies to gather, a Blight to stop and a darkspawn horde to wage war against, but if I didn't take some time off and do some searching for lost heirlooms or something of the sort, I was going to go mad from the stress.

"You've all done an incredibly admirable job with the Inquisition, but you have to remember that only last year Her Grace was just a regular Circle mage. She deserves the chance to let her hair down and do whatever she wants without having her actions scrutinised all the time, and to be able to return home at the end of the day to people who care for her."

Cullen fell silent. It was true that sometimes even he forgot how relatively new the Inquisition was; it was hard to believe that the destruction of Haven had taken place a little over a year ago, and yet the Inquisition had now made its name as one of the most powerful organisations in Thedas. Their success in closing the Breach, along with stopping the assassination of Empress Celene at her own peace talks, had increased their influence greatly. It was hard to remember that at the helm of it all was a woman who had left her Circle -- the only home she had ever known -- only last year.

"I understand you're anxious for her safety," Grisia said gently. "But sometimes what she needs isn't you worrying about her all the time; she needs you to be there for her when she comes back to Skyhold. She loves you. You know that, right?"

He smiled wryly. It wasn't as if he and Olivier had tried hard to keep their relationship a secret, but it was unsettling how quickly word spread around inside the fortress. "As much as you do, it seems," he sighed and drank deeply from his tankard.

"Is it a bad thing? Most of the soldiers seem genuinely happy for the two of you. Some have even placed bets on when you're going to pop the question."

Cullen nearly spat out the ale in his mouth. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he stared at Grisia, flabbergasted. "They what?"

"Personally I've got my money on the next two years."

"Grisia!"

"I was joking!"

Their talk turned to more trivial things, and they chatted about everything and nothing for a few minutes. The tavern began to fill with people looking for something to eat, and as more and more people came in, Cullen and Grisia decided it was time for them to get back to work. As they stepped outside the Herald's Rest, however, a commotion drew their attention: down in the courtyard, a group of guards were having their hands full trying to restrain a young elf who was shouting bloody murder. Glancing at each other briefly, the commander and former Warden raced down the steps and made their way to the courtyard. "What's going on here?" Cullen barked at one of the guards.

"Commander!" One of the guards saluted him, albeit with difficulty. "We found this elf trying to break into the quarters, and he attempted to attack us when we apprehended him. What shall we do with him?" The elf struggled in their grip and when that proved futile, he spat at the ground at Cullen's feet.

"Shem! You live in fancy castles while we starve in the Alienages! Some protector of Thedas you are!" He caught sight of Grisia beside Cullen and his eyes widened. "You! You traitor!" he screamed, and nearly broke his neck as he struggled even harder to be let loose, surprising one of the guards who accidentally released his grip on the elf. He sprang towards the Hero of Ferelden, his hands reaching for her throat, but before Cullen had the chance to shout out a warning, Grisia caught him with a flying armbar and slammed him to the ground, rendering him immobile. He screamed from the pain and Grisia twisted his arm.

"Any more noise out of you and I'll rip it clean out of its socket," she hissed. The elf quieted down, though not without sobs and whimpers.

Shocked murmurs and whispers rose in the courtyard. "Do you know this elf, Grisia?" Cullen questioned. She shook her head.

"I'd remember the face of someone who'd try to kill me the moment they saw me, to be quite honest," she said grimly, "and I'm quite certain I've never seen this one before."

The elf cried out despite his fear. "Of course you haven't! You abandoned the Alienage and left us all to rot just because you've made it to the outside world! You're nothing but a flat-ear, a wannabe shem!"

Grisia's face darkened and she wordlessly twisted his arm even harder. The elf screamed again, louder this time, his piercing voice echoing throughout Skyhold. Cullen winced. "That's enough, Grisia, let him go. We'll take him into custody."

She looked at the commander for a moment, her face an indiscernible mask, before releasing the elf from the armlock. The elf lay on the ground, sobbing, and put up no resistance as the guards dragged him away towards the dungeon. Grisia got to her feet and dusted her clothes.

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," she replied curtly. "Listen: go easy on him, will you? I doubt he meant any real harm to the Inquisition. He's just a stupid brat who thinks anything he does is of consequence."

Cullen frowned at her. "Even if you say that, he still tried to break into Skyhold's quarters. Maker knows what he might have done if he had succeeded."

Grisia sighed and ran a hand through her hair. "I know," she said, a note of frustration in her voice, "but you can't execute a kid just because he doesn't know what he's doing."

They stood in silence for a moment, Cullen watching Grisia carefully as the latter thought hard about what to do. Her eyes had widened in surprise when the young elf mentioned the Alienage, and a heartbeat later the surprise was gone, replaced by a cold rage. This was something personal to her, something too close to home, and Cullen could see it was troubling her deeply. She closed her eyes, took several deep breaths, and when she opened her eyes again the rage was no longer there. There was only sadness in them and resignation in her voice as she said to him quietly, "Give me some time. I'll talk to him, try and get some sense into his head. With luck I may be able to turn him into an agent for the Inquisition."

"You think he'll be useful?"

Grisia shrugged. "He might. He's from the Denerim Alienage, so the fact that he's even here in the first place means he's extremely mobile. He could make a good scout for Leliana. We'll see."

Cullen recalled that the Hero of Ferelden had lived in the Denerim Alienage before becoming a Grey Warden. He was right; it was something personal, but he kept his thoughts to himself. She would tell him if she wanted to. "If you insist, we'll keep him in the holding cells until tomorrow. Any later than that and the Inquisitor will be the one to judge him." A scout ran up to him, waving an urgent report that needed attention.

"Fair enough. And Cullen?"

"Yes?" He turned to look at her.

"Thank you for not asking."

Cullen watched as she walked away, stunned by her expression, the scout's words falling on deaf ears. He had expected her to be troubled, or distressed, or angry even.

What he did not expect was the look of abject sorrow on her face.

Hours later, the Hero of Ferelden stood in front of the young elf's cell, frowning deeply. His name, the guard had told her, was Seneris; it had taken the guard some food and not a little coaxing but she had managed to get him to talk in the end. She also reported that the young elf had been muttering death threats ever since he was thrown into the cell, and confirmed that his intention was to break into Skyhold's quarters and try to cause as much harm to the Inquisition as possible. Two vials of poison along with a tripwire and caltrops had been found on his person, serving as proof.

Now, as Grisia stood in front of him, Seneris was as belligerent and foul-mouthed as ever. She pondered on what to say, and settled on something familiar to the two of them.

"How is Hahren Shianni?"

He spat at her. "I don't need to say anything to you."

"I take it that means she's doing well?"

"Piss off, you filthy bastard."

Grisia sighed. "You really should mind your language a little. This is a member of the Inquisition you're talking to."

"I'm not afraid of you, flat-ear."

She raised an eyebrow in mocking disbelief. "I find that hard to believe considering how much you're trembling right now, but I suppose a child can choose to believe whatever he wants. In any case, you're quite right: I'm not the person you should be afraid of right now."

Seneris glared. "The Herald of Andraste doesn't scare me. She's just a stupid shem. I was going to kill her anyway if you useless idiots hadn't captured me."

Grisia made the executive decision never to mention that to Cullen. "Oh, I'd be scared if I were you. She does have the right to have you executed come tomorrow morning, after all." She crossed her arms and leaned against the cell door, peering at the dirt under her fingernails and studiously ignoring the young elf's growing look of horror as he processed the meaning of her words.

"What do you mean execute?" he began stammering. "She's going to have me killed? I'm going to d-die?"

Grisia pretended not to hear. Seneris lurched forward and grabbed the bars, his eyes wide and knuckles white with terror. "Oh, so now you're afraid." She laughed in his face. "What did you take the Inquisition for? Did you honestly think you could get away after making a stunt like this? You just confessed to breaking into Skyhold's quarters with the intention of causing harm to the leader of the Inquisition. You think they're going to let that slide?"

"But you can help, right? You're the Hero of Ferelden! You're an elf! You're one of us!" Seneris was desperate now, tears brimming in his eyes, his shaking hands almost too weak to clutch the cell bars. Grisia stared at him in disbelief before snickering derisively.

"One of you? Don't make me laugh," she sneered. "Your Alienage threw me out years ago; disowned me, cast me out and told me to never return. You said it yourself, didn't you? I'm nothing but a flat-ear now. How could I possibly help you?"

The young elf fell to his knees and began to wail in despair. She watched him cry until he was reduced to dry sobbing and kneeled down to his level. "This is why you're a nothing but a child," said Grisia quietly. "You speak of revenge but lack the courage to carry it through. You remain trapped in that cage you call the Alienage and you don't even think to see what the outside world might be like. You don't know what's it like to live, and now you're going to die because of your own idiocy. I hope you're proud of yourself." She rose to her feet and began to walk away.

"Wait! You can't just leave me!"

"Oh, I can and I will."

Seneris stared at her helplessly as she began climbing up the stairs that led to outside the dungeon and felt something broke inside him. "You monster!" he screamed. "Hahren Shianni was wrong about you! She said you were a kind person! She said you were a hero!"

Grisia stopped in her tracks. "What did you say?"

"She said you were someone worth respecting, that you'd saved her and everyone in the Alienage ten years ago. Everyone in the Alienage hates you but Hahren Shianni always told me that you were a good person. She was wrong!"

She didn't answer and stood there on the stairs for a good minute or so before turning to walk back towards him, her face murderous. "You're right," she said, her voice low and deadly. Seneris instinctively scrambled towards the back of his cell, trying to get as far away as he could from the cell door. "You're absolutely right; Shianni was wrong." She slammed a fist against the cell door and Seneris recoiled in shock and fear.

"I am not a good person," Grisia snarled. "A hero? She's delusional. Ten years ago is fucking ancient history. I'm not the same person Shianni knew all those years ago, and I sure as hell am not a hero now." Angry tears ran down Seneris' face. She sneered at him. "That's right, keep on crying. That's all you'll ever amount to. You can't even kill someone like me, and you want to change the world? You're a fucking brat." She spat at him and left the dungeon, the young elf screaming insults and curses at her back. Outside, the moon shone brightly in the sky, illuminating the mountains surrounding Skyhold. Despite the late hour there were still activity in the stronghold; messengers ran to and fro couriering important messages, the tavern was full of people having a merry time, and in the infirmary the surgeon worked hard at tending to the wounded.

"Are you all right?"

Grisia glanced at the figure leaning against the wall beside the dungeon entrance. The Left Hand of the Divine watched her with something akin to a mixture of sadness and amusement. "He does seem to be very angry at you."

The elf shrugged. "What can I say, making people want to kill me seems to be an innate talent. Can't even save the world without getting thrown out of my own home," she half-joked, a bitter smile on her lips. "At any rate, I think you can work your magic now. He'll accept any offer you make him, I guarantee it."

"Oh? You sound very confident of this one."

"When a man's got nothing to lose, he'll take whatever's given to him. Especially if you add revenge to the pot."

Leliana looked at her sharply. "Revenge against who?" When Grisia didn't answer, she frowned in distaste. "Surely not against you?"

"There's got to be something to aim for."

"That's madness!" Leliana exclaimed incredulously. "What if he actually succeeds in killing you?"

"Then the Inquisition will have obtained a highly skilled agent and assassin. Think of it as training, Leliana. Either way, both you and Seneris win."

The spymaster stared long and hard at her friend. "And you never do, don't you?" she said finally. Grisia merely smiled. Leliana shook her head and disappeared into the dungeon.

Grisia watched as the door closed behind Leliana, her parting words ringing in her mind. And you never do, don't you? She supposed Leliana was right about that. She never did win. Getting conscripted into the Grey Wardens on her wedding day, falling in love with a man who could never be hers, ending the Blight only to be shunned and forgotten -- her life was a bloody tragedy. She had long come to terms with it, however, and had resigned herself to living out what few decades she had left the best she could. What's a tragedy when you know you're going to die in another twenty years or so anyway? Grisia looked up at the sky and yawned, stretching her arms above her head. Today had tired her out greatly, and she wondered if Hawke would be up for a chat. It would be nice if he was; she liked the Champion, and listening to him tell of the crazy and almost outlandishly unbelievable stories of his adventures in Kirkwall was always great fun. It made a nice change from thinking about the Grey Wardens or Corypheus or the Venatori. As if on cue, Hawke and Varric's raucous laughter drifted from the open hall and she began to make her way towards the great hall, humming a song in anticipation of a good tale.

Cole watched her from the battlements as she ran up the steps to the hall. The guards paid little attention to him, used to his odd ways by now. He heard the sound of guards standing on attention as the heavy tread of Cullen's boots stopped beside him, and he turned his head to look at the commander. "I am not doing anything," he said simply.

Cullen sighed and waved the guards away. He had more or less gotten accustomed to Cole's mind-reading, but it still made him feel uneasy at times. The boy had such a peculiar way of knowing what's going on inside your head, and the way he spoke about them helped little. "You're not now, but what were you doing up here?"

"I was listening to the pain."

"Whose?"

The boy pointed at the dungeon and then at the great hall. "Theirs. Hers is stronger that his."

Somehow Cullen understood what he meant.

"No one cared that she saved the world. Cullen, why don't they care?"

Cullen remembered her hollow laugh earlier in the day.

"I wonder about that myself."