#pre-veilguard

Part 1 of 4.

It happened fast, as these things often do. A Crow dinner party is rarely ever just a dinner party. It is a battleground where a single nod of the head can end a family line before they're even aware their time is up.

Such was the night of House Dellamorte's trade talks with House Velardo.

Antoni Alessio Raúl Dellamorte, third son of Caterina Dellamorte, sat across from Diego, Guildmaster of House Velardo and Matteo Velardo's right hand. Hugo and Marco, Velardo cousins, were seated on either side.

The table was full of other Crows but those four were the focus.

No one drank anything, the food remained untouched, and everyone's eyes were on everyone else as the pretense of civility played its part in masking true intentions.

Elena Dellamorte née Magneretti had just entered the dining hall after settling young Lucanis into bed for the night when the first blade struck.

Silent. Swift. And luckily for Elena, poorly aimed. The sting in her side was nothing in the wake of the adrenaline rush that fueled her counterattack.

Her hands grabbed the offender and flipped him onto his back, her own blade—a hidden stilleto she'd kept in her hair—piercing clean into the neck through his carotid, blood spilling faster than the wine bottle that had been overturned at the commotion.

"Elena!"

She made brief eye contact with Antoni, her beloved, who was engaging two more.

Diego watched, displeased as Elena focused her steely gaze on him.

"The boy," Diego barked at Hugo, not taking his eyes off her. "Get the boy. Ahora."

Elena's blood turned to ice in her veins and she moved. She was Caterina's favored one for many reasons, among them: speed and efficiency. Regardless of the length of her silk dress and the lack of her well-worn leathers, she was lethally trained and well-prepared.

Hugo didn't make it it to the stairs.

More shadows poured in through the windows. She should have felt flattered that the entirety of House Velardo seemed willing to cooperate just to kill her little family. But she did not. Not when several of them were already on the mezzanine leading to the bedrooms. Not when her son was up there, sleeping and alone.

She didn't have time to wonder how her home had been left so exposed, nor when the servants were killed, nor why that sting in her side now burned and felt sticky, her movements slower.

Her vision blurred at the edges but it didn't matter.

There was only her target:

Protect Luca.

Sconce light glinted off the opal of her ring, sending flecks of color onto the walls along with the splashes of scarlet as she cut her way through.

Her breath came labored as she finally staggered to the door to her hijito. Her sweet boy. Not more than five years old and already the kindest person she'd ever known.

The room was just as she'd left it; a grand bed far too big for the small boy currently occupying it, clutching his favorite storybook and a stuffed wyvern close to his little chest like a shield against bad dreams.

Her side ached, warmth trickling down tingling legs as her vision went hazy and she clutched at the wound, air turning thin.

"…mamá?" His voice, so soft and sleepy she almost didn't hear it, forced her motherly mask back on, her back straight, wrapping her shawl to hide the blood.

"Sì, mijo. Mama is here."

She knelt at his bed side and gathered him into her arms as she always did. The feel of his trusting nuzzle into her shoulder nearly made her choke up, tears burning behind her eyes that she refused to let fall. Whatever happened tonight, she would not let him see her cry, nor appear scared or weak. The last memory of his mother would be love and comfort, this she vowed.

Because she was going to die tonight, she already knew. There were too many of them and Matteo had been vying for the top seat for months.

Antoni had always been far too trusting; it was what she loved and hated about him. She half-believed Caterina only approved the marriage because she knew Elena would see the dangers where he could not.

Except she hadn't seen this, not so soon. And they were going to die for it.

But not Lucanis, not while she had breath in her body and a blade in her hand.

The commotion downstairs had quieted. Which meant one of two things.

She would prepare for the worst of them. Reaching into her pocket, Elena pulled out a vial—a tincture Antoni sometimes took when the nightmares were bad. Perhaps it was the Maker's blessing that she had forgotten to put it back in the drawer. Or a deep-seated habit that made her keep it close for a dinner she hadn't agreed to.

Either way, it might save her child and for that she was grateful.

"Luca, mi corazon. You are my light in the darkness. My life and my joy. You make me so happy." Elena was proud that her voice did not waver or crack beneath the weight of what was surely to be her final words to her only child. "Which is why I am going to give you something to help you sleep, so that you can wake up tomorrow, rested and strong for whatever comes next. Okay? I love you, dear one. I will always love you, even from the stars."

Lucanis blinked up at her, bleary eyes focusing on her face. "Mama…are you okay?"

His umber eyes were so solemn as they looked up at her, Elena forced a smile and kissed his forehead to hide what he'd surely already noticed. Her clever, observant boy. That would serve him well.

Voices down the hall made Elena put a finger to Lucanis's lips. "Hush now. Just remember: you are Lucanis Dellamorte. Kind and true. Keeper of wyverns. And my little boy."

Elena dipped his finger into the vial and made sure he applied it under his tongue. He looked uncertain, but he did it. Obedient as always.

Then she held him until his little body went limp in her arms, a sob strangling at the base of her throat. Her blade cut small holes in his nightshift and her own blood smeared into the fabric, her hands shaking from the poison she knew coursed through her system. The blade may have missed her vital organs, but it didn't matter now.  

She coughed and more blood splattered on the child—still breathing but far too shallow to be noticed beneath the bloody sheets—a sight no mother should ever see. But she endured. The more realistic she could make it look, the better.

He would survive this. He would.

The voices were closer now.

She dragged one of the Velardo corpses into the room and collapsed beside it just as Antoni burst in looking worse for wear—shirt ripped, mouth bloody, an eye swollen purple. His gaze darted from the assassin to her to Lucanis lying in the viscera of her work.

"Is he…?" His voice was raw and wrecked, expression pleading with her to tell him it wasn't true.

She didn't try to hide her tears now and gave the subtlest shake of her head.

He swallowed hard, nodding, falling to his knees beside her, and held her close as Diego entered. The guildmaster's blade was drawn, expression hard as he surveyed the scene.

Then he gestured and four more filled the room.  

"At least one of you knows how to finish a job," he grunted, nudging the corpse out of the way. The others exchanged uneasy glances as they surrounded her and Antoni.

"He was just a little boy, Diego," Elena spat, letting the grief of what was to come fuel her charade.

"Yes. And you are just the one who married a fool," Diego replied with a shrug, uncaring. "We're Crows, and this is how we climb the ranks. You know how that." He laughed. "Matteo himself plans to attend Giulia's Leaving of the Nest in a show of 'support'. Fledglings are so eager to please."

Elena felt sick at the thought of little Illario, dressed in his best, eagerly awaiting his sister at her Crow ceremony. They'd been nigh inseparable despite their decade difference in age and he worshipped the ground she walked on.

But no one survived Matteo's handiwork.

Maker, please let Madeleine and Julio be spared the same fate as I.

She clenched her jaw against the dizzyness. She was not done. Not yet.

"I'm going to kill you for this," Antoni growled, his battered face pale in the moonlight.

"Hm, somehow I doubt that. And she," Diego put his sword beneath Elena's chin and lifted it as he studied her, "won't either. I imagine you've lost feeling in your legs by now, favored one. Isn't that right?"

Antoni snapped his head toward her, cursing in realization as he reached for her wound.

"Tsk." Diego stabbed his blade into Antoni's shoulder and twisted. "Let's not mess with the natural order of things, shall we?"

Antoni muffled his scream and Elena lunged but she didn't get very far. The bastard had been correct—numb from the waist down with tingles moving further up her spine.

"Coward," she snarled from the floor. Provoke him. Get them out of this room. "Kill us and be done with it."

"I think not," Diego said, directing the others to hold Antoni back. "You see, unlike the Dellamorte's 'efficiency' motto, House Velardo relishes the kill. The message should and can, in fact, be messy. It's what makes the message stick."

She didn't cry out—she wouldn't give him the satisfaction—as Diego stepped on her wrist, pinning it in place while he hovered the tip of his blade over her ring finger. "And this message, my dear Elena, will stick."

Pain. Sharp and white hot as flesh separated, then bone, and she bit her lip so hard it bled. She would not. She would not. She would not—

A whimper escaped, Diego smirked, and Elena prayed to every pantheon for the strength to keep conscious as she watched her finger, now severed, disappear—callously tossed aside like trash.

Diego scooped up the blood-soaked ring and studied it with satisfaction. Elena felt herself sinking fully to the floor. Heard Antoni pleading with her through his own labored breaths. "Mi vida, get up. Por favor, no me dejes. Elena. Please."

Her eyes fluttered and she could only smile back. Soft. Just for him. Always for him. Her heart slowed and sound turned to echoes as the pain dulled to an ache.

Strange how poison could sometimes be kind.

"Caterina will give up the seat," Diego said, ignoring the anguish in the room as he handed the ring to Marco. "Or she will lose more of her family. One. By. One."

His smirk cooled to malice as he turned his attention back to Antoni who was struggling against the grip of now three more sets of arms to get to Elena.

I have more on Jordán, the non-De Riva Crow who got dragged (blackmailed) into a scheme to kill Magpie de Riva, one of Viago's loyalists. Mags is only really relevant to the scheme because they killed Aitra de Riva's father during Viago's coup to become Talon. Izan, the mastermind from another house, is trying to gain Aitra's loyalty by removing Magpie from the board.

"You want me to kill Aitra and Izan," Jordán says heavily. His friends. He jumps up and eases himself through the small opening. Magpie meets him on the outside, fitting the glass into the window frame like it had never moved. "Oh Jordán, it's like you don't know me at all," Magpie says, grinning like a demon. "Like I'd make it that easy for you."

^^^ Dishonored protagonist. Why kill your enemies when you can be more interesting about it?

Mags explains away Jordán's impression that he actually managed to stab them through the heart ("I'm not bad with illusion magic") but Jordán privately has his doubts, which makes him prime recruitment material for Illario later on.

Illario: Jordán! I heard you were the man to speak to when it comes to working with Magpie. Jordán [trying to hide behind his drink]: Who?

As @beepoven put it, "'The man to speak to when it comes to working with Magpie' notably does not mean 'Jordán can speak on positively and effectively working with Magpie'." (The next section includes some writing from beep as well.)

Jordán appears to screw up his courage. "I think they're a demon," he says, setting down his glass. "They said that was stupid. That they'd have eaten me if they were an abomination." "And yet..." Illario prompts. The other Crow waves him forward, and Illario leans over. "I stabbed them right through the heart and they didn't die," Jordán tells him, in a low voice that's mostly for effect. He's told this story many times before. "Huh," Illario says. "I'm surprised you're still upright, after that." "I was surprised they were still upright," says Jordán, professionally offended. "They said it was an illusion, but I think they're one of those Forbidden Ones. Or Forgotten Ones. Same thing." "Ahh," Illario says, in dawning understanding. "What?" Illario shrugs. "I see why they keep you around. Strike me down and I'll grow more powerful than ever before? Have you not seen that opera?" Jordán snorts into his drink. "Not like I expect anyone to believe me."

Head down. Eyes forward. Mouth shut. Move quickly and silently. Stick to the shadows and, most importantly, blend in with the crowd.

They were a very simple set of rules, but had turned into an internal code to live by. These rules would also keep her safe now that she had escaped and was almost free. The winding streets of Vyrantium were the final hurdle to jump before she would be out of the city and on the path towards home for the first time in over a decade. As she walked briskly, she would have been able to taste the crisp air of the forest on her tongue if her senses weren’t assaulted by the foul stench of the city’s underbelly. The stench of decay, neglect, and sewage was strong in the back streets and alleyways; a much different side of the supposed ‘sister jewel’ of the Tevinter Imperium. 

The streets where covered in mysteriously murky pools of something and littered with debris. She stepped quickly over broken bottles and shards of glass, avoided the puddles as best as possible, and had to move carefully over or around people slumped against walls or leaning against each other. 

Despite the filth and traffic, Tavriel practically glided down the streets of Vyrantium’s inner district; moving swiftly and silently under cover of cloak and night. Although her feet were bare and her clothes little more than rags, she moved gracefully without a sound and was generally unseen as she stuck to the shadows that were cast from nearby buildings. Her head was pointed towards her feet, covered in the hood of a tattered cloak she’d swiped off a drunken man a few streets back, but her eyes were fixed forward as they scanned her surroundings. 

She didn’t know where she was going, having never actually been in the city, but her instincts had served her well for now. She avoided groups of people and would redirect course if there were too many lingering for her liking. However, sticking to the dark streets and shadowy corners certainly presented danger for a scrawny elf traveling alone and one who had very little experience with city customs, especially given just how many potential bandits and seedy criminals lurker around the corner. But, it also allowed her to slip by unnoticed. 

Taking a sharp turn after she spotted a small group of very drunk men heading her way, Tavriel flitted through another side street with the hopes it would lead her closer to the city’s edge and away from any prowlers. They outnumbered her enough to know she couldn’t fight them off if they swarmed. One she could handle, perhaps two, but years of neglect left her thin, weak, and not well suited for an alleyway brawl. Not to mention she had no weapons on hand in the event something were to happen. Instead, she chose to play it safe and avoid the group altogether and risk back tracking the way she came. The end of the alley was much brighter than the other streets she’d passed through, which only made her move faster. 

However, she stopped in her tracks when she reached the end of the alley, suddenly dumped out of darkness and into a warmly lit market place. She found the sight odd, given just how late it was, but Tevinter customs were still a mystery to her. Stalls littered the area and were filled with goods and wares for sale. People were everywhere; talking, bargaining, negotiation, yelling. For a moment, she was starstruck and a bit overwhelmed. Tavriel was no stranger to large crowds, given that she was frequently a means of entertainment for her master and associates, but this was different. The people here were not gathered for entertainment, but merely to trade goods and services for negotiated coin.

The logical portion of her brain screamed at her to push through the crowd and to keep moving towards her goal, but sudden curiosity and the growling hunger in her stomach was louder. Scents of fresh meats, sweet fruits, and potent spices filled her nostrils, making her mouth water and the gnawing pain in her abdomen increase. It had been so long since Tavriel had bitten into food that wasn’t gristly scraps or half rotten that she had almost forgotten that food could be enjoyed and savored. She ached to sink her teeth into something fresh.

“Blend in with the crowd.” She whispered to herself, seemingly justifying her sudden change of pace. Surely she would attract too much attention if she just started forcing her way through the crowded market, so it would be beneficial to browse the stalls as she meandered to the opposite side. 

She started with the stalls closest to her as her eyes swept over the offerings at each table, admittedly enjoying the shiny baubles and trinkets for sale. One vendor sold silk scarves supposedly imported from Minrathous, but it took only half a glance to realize they were fakes. Tavriel’s master had expensive tastes and although she was never allowed such luxuries, she did learn how to quickly spot fraudulent silks and faux porcelain. A second stall sold very expensive gold chalices inlaid with jewels, or they supposedly did. The green flecks at the base of the goblets were telltale signs they were actually copper and the shining rubies and emeralds were no more than colored glass poorly fitted to the metal. Customers saw merchants while Tavriel saw desperate people trying to make quick coin. 

Tavriel continued her walk through the stalls, silently taking note of the various scams and schemes being sold as genuine loot to unsuspecting customers. Gold coin flowed freely and easily between merchant and buyer with very few hiccups from unfulfilled negotiations. Eventually, she made her way to stalls selling fresh produce and meats where there were fewer negotiations and more purchases. Dried sausages hung from rafters, fruits were stacked in high pyramids, vegetables spread across plush velvet, and even a few fresh pots of herbs were scattered about. She found the market quite odd to be seated in the middle of the squalor, but even the destitute needed to eat sometimes. 

The hunger pains in her stomach tickled at her spine, painfully reminding her of all the times she was denied food, making her wonder if she was somehow beneath destitute. Her pace slowed and she eventually came to a stop in front of a fruit vendor. The man had wonderfully large stacks of fresh produce, yet her eye was drawn to a display of yellow skinned pears. Tavriel ran calloused fingertips along the skin of the fruit, marveling at the tender skin that was speckled with brown flecks, showing that the fruit was ripe and practically begging to be eaten. 

“Oi!” A gruff voice called to her from behind the stall, “Unless yer buyin’, keep yer filthy hands off, knife-ear. Leave!” Wordlessly, Tavriel snaked her hand back underneath her cloak and bowed her head towards the merchant. Once she was out of earshot, she hissed a very quiet dirthara-ma to the man and continued snaking her way through the market. 

By the time she reached the opposite end of the night market, Tavriel was facing the direction she had come from. She scoffed as she realized she’d gotten turned around, and quickly surveyed the area to find an alternate course. Instead, she found a pair of hooded figures approaching the market, setting her on high alert. Tall and lean, the figures were clad in red and black. One carryied a mage staff and the other had a short sword holstered to their hip. Every vein in her body burned as they stepped closer, the increasing hum of the blood magic they wielded threatened to set her body ablaze. She was unlucky enough to know how it felt to have her blood twisted and manipulated by the dark magic and it certainly wasn’t something she wanted to experience again.

“Fucking Venatori.” She whispered as she quickly slipped through the crowd to avoid contact and to hopefully become lost among the people.

Tavriel was certain the Venatori mages would scan the market for her, but she had to be careful in her escape. Bolt or make a scene and they would spot her immediately. Wait too long and she’d be dragged back to her masters house for punishment. No matter her course of action, Tavriel knew the Venatori wouldn’t rest until they had either dragged her back kicking and screaming, or found her corpse in some dark alley. She was a wanted woman, after all. 

Her master was a mid-ranking member of the Venatori cult, which specialized in blood magic and dark rituals. She had been on the receiving end of a range of blood magic experiments from her master. Ways to improve the craft, bend a persons mind to the will of the caster, a method of torture, a fountain of youth; all had to tested and studied before they would be put into practice and Tavriel was the rather unlucky candidate for such experiments. Cut open as her blood was manipulated and twisted within her veins, her master wanting to see what exactly happened to the body when the magic was performed. It was a near nightly ritual at this point; cut open and stitched back together again and again. 

Eventually, when her body could no longer handle such experiments, her master had agreed to an exchange of sorts with a higher ranking Venatori leader; some witch in the upper city that practically fed off the craft and was particularly fond of the youthful benefits of the magic. She couldn’t remember the name that had been whispered in hushed meetings she’d listened in on, but it was certainly a worse option than living with her master. Tavriel had been set to be sold to the witch for a high sum of coin when the sun rose in the morning, but the elf had other plans. 

The night was still a blur of sorts, her memory foggy from adrenaline and pure terror, but the blood that stained her clothes beneath the stolen cloak was a verification of sorts that Tavriel had indeed murdered her master only a few hours ago and hadn’t merely imagined it. It was hazy, but she remembered a flash of steel, a gargled scream as a dagger pierced his flesh over and over again, and her dominant arm was suspiciously sore.

Although she had been successful in slitting the man’s throat, the two had made enough commotion in the struggle for control to alert a few of the apprentice Venatori mages that had a tendency to slink around the estate in the evenings. When she had been caught, Tavriel still had the blood stained knife in hand and was straddling the rapidly cooling body when the apprentices had burst in the room. Given that the mages weren’t as experienced as some of the others, she had slipped away rather easily. One of the mages had fallen to her blade, but the weapon itself was lost in the struggle.

She had managed to outrun the group of proper Venatori cultists that had picked up her trail soon afterwards until she made it to the heart of the city and eventually became lost with the crowd. Tavriel twisted through people, gently nudging her way between patrons in an attempt to slip out a separate exit. The idea was quickly diminished when another set of cultists stepped into the market from the archway leading down a dark corridor, forcing her to redirect once again. Unfortunately, she found her way beside the pear seller once again. 

“I thought I said leave!” The vendor yelled, catching the attention of others, “A damned thief is what you are!” Tavriel glared at the man at the accusation, having stolen nothing her entire time in the market, but the anger was short lived when she heard shouting in the distance. 

“There!” One of the Venatori shouted, nudging their parter with a shove on the arm, “The one in the cloak!” One of the mages lifted their staff and red, pulsating magic beginning to swirl around the globe attached to the top as the second group began heading her way. Tavriel growled softly at her blown cover, forcing herself to think fast.

“Maker take you, round-ear.” She hissed to the vendor with bared teeth before swiftly sweeping her foot towards the leg of the table that held the man’s precious fruit. With a bit of force, the leg of the table crumpled to the ground and the piles of fresh fruit rolled quickly to the ground, much to the dismay of the vendor. The falling fruit made the crowd watching the spectacle back away slightly, forming a very thin wall between Tavriel and the Venatori which allowed her a very small window to get a head start.

For good measure and a final snub to the man, she swiped one of the fresh pears and stuffed it in the inner pocket of her cloak. If the vendor was going to accuse her of theft, she may as well steal from the thick headed vendor that had blown her cover. She turned on her heels, her flesh tearing at the sudden friction against stone, and sprinted back through the entrance she’d come through originally. With harsh shoves and shouts for people to move, Tavriel strong armed her way through the crowd until she was dumped back out onto a main street. 

From there, Tavriel ran as fast as her feet would carry her, twisting and winding through crowded streets and sharp corners in an attempt to evade her assailants. Her lungs burned with exertion as she took in sucking breaths and the bottoms of her feet ached as they pounded away at the cobblestones below. When she was younger and had more muscle mass to her frame, back before her capture, Tavriel was as fast as wind. The way she zipped through trees and over brush was almost an art, but now she was much slower and not nearly as graceful.

And yet, she was still faster than the Venatori on her tail. Very quickly, the voices behind her quieted down the more twists and turns she made, but were still too close to her liking. Now that she was flitting across proper streets, she was making more ground across the city than before and soon found herself in a much more subdued section of town. Her legs began to burn and shake and she steadily began to slow, forcing her to take cover until the threat had passed and she could regain a bit of strength.

Tavriel ducked into an alcove and pressed her body against the brick wall as far as she could go, even standing on her toes to blend in with the shadows. It took a bit of effort, but she eventually slowed her breathing enough to where she could hear the sounds of the city over her gasps. She stayed eerily silent until she was certain the last of the Venatori had passed her by, surprised to see that they didn’t think to look in dark corners, but certainly was grateful. A gentle breeze picked up, bringing the scent of salt and water to her senses as she let the air cool her flushed skin. 

With the threat of the cultists temporarily taken care of, Tavriel slipped the pear she had swiped from the market out of her pocket and simply observed the piece of fruit. Her eyes fluttered closed as she inhaled against the skin, the smell and feeling that prickled across her skin was almost euphoric. Her front teeth bit into the flesh, easily slicing through the meat of the fruit as juice dribbled down her chin. Tears welled along her eyelids as she devoured the pear, threatening to stream down her cheeks. It had been oh so long since she’d had something so pure and unsullied that she almost wasn’t sure what to do with herself. She ate as much as she could, biting and nibbling on any edible part that she could to satiate the hunger in her ribs.

As she finished the pear, she dropped the core to the ground and wiped her hands along her clothing, being mindful to avoid the splotches of blood. Tavriel hoped that this would only be the first of many moments to come where she could enjoy food once more and perhaps know what it was like to have a warm, fully belly.

Tavriel peered around the stone wall she was using for shelter, making sure everything was clear before stepping back out onto the streets. She pulled her hood over her head once more, synching it close to her chin and tightly around her shoulders and set off towards her destination. She returned to her usual stance of a bowed head and forward facing eyes, her steps once again falling silent against the ground. 

The next few moments were spent walking in relative silence, not a single person or hooded cultist in sight and her only company was the occasional rat that scurried beside her until they dipped into a gutter. Most of the excitement for the evening had been focused on the inner most part of the city, something about a gala her master had been warned to stay away from, and seemingly most of the residents of Vyrantium had attended or gone towards that side of town. This left the outer streets uninhabited and easy to sneak through. However, a singular man stepped out from behind a storefront, quickly cutting in front of her and heading in the same direction. There was nowhere to cut to the side to avoid the man, and turning back would lose many hard fought steps towards progress. Instead, Tavriel stayed behind the man and observed to determine what would be the best option. 

The man ahead of her was a medium height and lean, yet had definitive muscles underneath the rather peculiar outfit he was wearing. There were glints of gold that shone in the lights above, glittering in the stitching of the outfit, and the leather and silks appeared genuine from the distance. Although impeccably made and no doubt crafted by an expensive tailor, it certainly wasn’t the typical style for a citizen of Vyrantium. He looked more like someone who was pretending to be a local to blend in; much like herself. Probably a tourist. She picked up her pace in an attempt to pass by the man, not wanting to make the stranger assume she was following.

“Meet me at the docks, bah! The man has a death wish.” The man grumbled to himself as she drew closer, “I need a drink.” His voice was rich and velvety with a rather thick accent. Antivan, perhaps? Tavriel struggled to remember just how the accent sounded, but it was certainly familiar. The man was doused with a rather strong cologne that was certainly more pleasant than the smell of decay she was used to, but certainly not from Tevinter. Definitely a tourist. 

“Excuse me, saer.” She whispered as she surpassed the man, stealing a glance to his features before bowing her head to appear respectful. Beautifully dark hair that was pulled in a tight knot, tanned skin, blue eyes, and the faintest hint of stubble rested on his chin made him a rather attractive tourist that could certainly ruin lives with his gaze alone. The man gave a single nod as a response and stepped to the side briefly to allow her to pass and she couldn’t help but notice the slight curl in his lip as he glanced towards her. 

Her steps were hurried as she continued down the street, but she couldn’t help but think about how she must appear to others after seeing the visceral reaction from the smartly dressed stranger. Tavriel was certain dirty, freckles covered in dirt and grime from years of neglect, her copper hair was stringy and matted in places, green eyes dull from a lack of proper nutrition, not to mention how thin she was for the same reasons. She shook the idea from her head as she crossed the street and slipped into another alley. Her appearance could wait for when she was safe.

As she stepped quickly down the alley, the heady scent of ocean and fish grew stronger. Over the sounds of her steps, she could faintly hear the rhythmic slap of water against wood and stone and a few squawks of early morning gulls that waited for the boats to arrive in the harbor. 

“The docks.” She whispered. From there, she picked up speed, ready to reach the edge of the city. Soon, she was fully sprinting once again and her heart began to race. 

Tavriel thought that if she could slip onto the docks quietly, then just maybe she could sneak aboard a ship and leave the city that way. Although she would have preferred to not be taken on an excursion that took her further from Arlathan, Tavriel was certain that anywhere in the world was better than where she’d just escaped from. Her feet travelled faster against the cobblestones as the sounds of waves became louder, adrenaline coursing through her veins as the taste of freedom was at her lips. She was close; a few turns were the only thing keeping her from the edge of the city.

With a final turn, Tavriel rounded another corner to slip between two buildings, but was blindsided when she ran head-on into a solid, almost unmovable, object in her path. She hit the ground hard, knocking the air from her lungs as her back collided with the solid stone that had previously been below her feet. Thankfully, she missed cracking her head open on a stone and instead bruised a rib. A loud groan escaped her lips as she scrambled to gather her surroundings and roll onto her side. As she glanced upwards, she found with absolute horror that instead of clashing into a building, she had slammed head first into a person.

“Mierda!” A man’s voice shouted from above her, clearly upset with their collision. 

The man, short in stature, whipped around quickly as his brows knitted together, upper lip curling into a snarl as his hand instinctively reach for the knife strapped to his chest, unsheathing it partly. His tanned skin was mostly clean shaven with a bit of shadow scattered across his lower jaw. His hair was short and slicked back, coming to a neat point at the base of his neck and was dressed from the neck down in luxuriously rich, black leather. 

Tavriel managed to scrambled to her hands and knees, her body trembling as she dared to meet his gaze. Her bottom lip quivered lightly as a single tear slipped down her cheek. After all her suffering and the fight it took to get this far in the night, she could almost laugh at the fact she was about to be done in by a stranger in a back alley because she was too stupid to pay attention to where she was going. If there was some sort of poetic justice in the entire ordeal, she couldn’t see it.

She watched as the man’s expression changed from anger to something resembling pity in a few short moments and clicked the knife strapped to his chest back into its sheath. Taking gentle steps, he approached her slowly, one hand crossing over his torso to press against his ribcage, the other extending forward and being offered to Tavriel. He bent forward, wincing slightly at a presumable pain in his side as he inched closer towards the trembling elf, his palm facing upwards. Tavriel kept her eyes on his, watching his expression for something, anything, to read for his intentions. 

Eventually, her eyes traveled down the length of his arm, noting the cuts and slashes in the thick leather, and finally settled on his bloodstained gloves. Covered in blood, cut to hell and back along his leathers as well as a few slices to his face, and nursing injured ribs made it very obvious that this man had been in a fight. She must have been staring for too long when she man gave a quick nod towards his outstretched hand, urging her to take it. 

Tavriel’s hand shook slightly as she finally placed her hand in his palm, allowing him to pull her onto her feet. His other hand came to reach towards her side, his fingers lightly catching the edge of her cloak and moving it just slightly to reveal the blood stains underneath. His eyes narrowed as he made his observations, making her heart almost stop beating and her breath to catch in her throat.

“Are you hurt?” He asked softly, eyes quickly glancing over the blood stains on her clothing before moving to the scarring along her wrists. A bright pink, fleshy scar wrapped around the wrist he was holding, a result of one of the many experiments her master had used her for. Matching sets of scars were littered across her body, but were thankfully obscured for now. Her wrists were also home to a set of red rashes caused from years of shackles and chains. Tavriel quickly shook her head, hoping to slip away as soon as possible, but also thankful for the unexpected kindness.

“You’re certain?” He asked again, his gaze flicked up to meet hers. His eyes were brown and soft, a calming warmth radiating from them. She’d almost find it soothing if she wasn’t absolutely terrified by the number of knifes he had strapped to his body.

“Just a scrape,” Tavriel said quietly, “from the fall.” 

“Forgive me. I really should look where I am going next time.” The man offered a gentle smile, hoping to ease some of her discomfort. His voice was soft and smooth, matching the accent of the man she’d passed on the street not too long ago.

“Have you come from the Forfex estate?” He asked suddenly, still holding her hand in his as he turned her wrist to presumably observe her markings.

She felt her heart beat against her chest at the sudden question. Tavriel knew of Ambrose Forfex and had fortunately never met him, but she knew his reputation and his hobbies. As a cruel man and a wicked blood mage, Ambrose held an unnerving fascination with hair and wig making. There had been a point in time where he was in regular contact with her own master, but letters between the two mages had become scarce as they rose through Venatori ranks.

As for why this stranger was asking if she came from there, she wasn’t sure of an answer. Tavriel considered lying, thinking that maybe he was hunting runaways from the wigmaker to return them into his ‘care’, but with his thumb pressed against the pulse point on her wrist, he’d know if she was lying. His eyes flicked to hers again in an anticipation of an answer, making Tavriel lick her lips quickly before speaking.

“No.” Was all she managed to muster.

“Good. I would avoid the area, if I were you.” He said as he released her hand, “Things have gotten a bit hairy.” She wasn’t sure if he was trying to make a pun or simply didn’t see the irony in his statement, but she would have laughed if she wasn’t so nervous. She loved a good pun.

They stood together in an awkward silence for a moment, neither not knowing quite what to do. Although Tavriel had freed herself from her master, there was no hiding from the surprisingly kind stranger that she was a servant. Still unsure of his motives, she was wary to begin walking away without being dismissed. She was heavily outmatched and it would take a simple flick of his wrist and one of his many knives to cut her life short.

Thankfully, he answered the dilemma for her. Stepping to the side, one hand returned to his ribs while the other motioned for her to pass him and head in the direction she was running before slamming into his backside. She gave a single nod and averted her gaze as she carefully stepped forward and past the man.

Head down. Eyes forward. Breathe.

He stepped softly behind her, the soles of his bloodstained boots thumping lightly behind her. By the time they reached the end of the alley, they were both standing on the sidewalks of the main road. To the left, Tavriel could catch a glimpse of the docks and the ships in the harbor. To the right, there were a few more buildings to pass before the road lead to a dark path leading to a small patch of woods. It wasn’t Arlathan, but she was much more comfortable traveling through a darkened wood than trying to sneak aboard a boat. In the forest, she could blend in and move naturally. It was also a much more direct path home than going around the entire northeastern peninsula of Thedas. 

She stepped softly as she turned towards the forest, hoping the man would not follow. As she stepped away, he stood still in his tracks, his head swiveling slowly as he took in his surroundings. Tavriel had gotten a few steps away from the man before he spoke again, more casually this time.

“You have’t seen another man walking around have you?” He called after her, “Dark hair. Dressed like a peacock.” Tavriel stopped herself and turned back to face the man. Her brows came together as she considered his question.

“A peacock?” She repeated, unsure if she’d heard him correctly.

“Well,” he said with a small chuckle, “not a literal one. I’m looking for my cousin.” So he was looking for the man she’d passed earlier. She could see the resemblance. Similar bone structure and they both seemingly had the same slight bend to the nose.

“The tourist.” She said more to herself than the man, although the words came past her lips. Thankfully the man let out a genuine laugh at the response. 

“Glad to know I’m not the only one who thinks so. I told him that before we left for the evening, but he didn’t believe me.” He still had a light smile on his face as he continued, “I take it you’ve seen him, then?”

“I did, saer.” She said with a light nod, remembering her place in the world, “A few streets back. He mentioned the docks. Said he needed a drink.”

“Of course he goes to the taverns.” The man grumbled as he stepped towards her again, “Either way, thank you. Give me your hand, if you will. I always pay for good information.”

Tavriel hesitated, but held out her hand much more quickly than the last time he had offered. He flipped her hand over until her palm faced the lightening sky and held it in place as he opposite hand went digging in a small coin purse connected to his hip. She flinched at a flash of silver, but relaxed when she realized he was holding a silver sovereign between his forefinger and thumb.

“For something warm to eat.” He said as he showed it to her, letting the silver catch in the light before lightly placing it in her open palm. He dug around the coin purse again and this time produced a single gold piece, “For somewhere safe to sleep tonight.” He emphasized while placing the higher value coin in her grasp as well. 

“T-thank you, saer.” Tavriel stammered as she stared at the coins in her hand, “But I can’t-” The man cut her off with a wave of his free hand.

“Yes, you can.” He said softly, curling her fingers over the coins and giving them a light squeeze before releasing his grasp, “You’ve been most helpful. And please, get somewhere safe. There are too many Venatori lurking around this city.”

Tavriel nodded in response before thanking the man again, carefully tucking the precious coins in the pocket of her cloak and pulling the fabric taught around her. With a final smile and bow of his head, the unusually generous man parted ways and headed towards the dock, presumably to find his cousin. She stood there for a moment, considering all that had transpired, and called out to the man a final time.

“Elfroot!” Her voice carried across the distance between them, thankfully catching his attention and making the man turn back towards her.

“I’m sorry?” He asked, confused by her single-worded statement.

“Elfroot.” Tavriel repeated, “It’ll numb the area and help with the pain.” She motioned to his injured ribs and many cuts with a quick flick of her finger. A genuine smile licked at the corner of his lips as he gave another bow of his head as thanks, meeting her gaze once more as he turned away and headed towards a warmly lit tavern on the waters edge. 

"Momma, I don't understand." Kione look up at her mother, who was gripping her hand tightly as her father talked to people on the other side of the room. "You said after Auntie Mori that I'd stay with you and papa."

"I know, sweetheart." Karmyn's heart broke as she knelt in front of her daughter--her blessedly unblighted daughter, despite everything. "And we really thought we could do it. But it's gotten too dangerous for you to travel with us."

"Then why don't we stop moving?"

"Because..." Karmyn took a steadying breath, pushing back some of Kione's golden curls. "Because momma is sick. And no one knows how to make me better, yet. And there are lots of other people that are sick in the same way, and if I can find a way to make myself better, I can make them better too. Like your uncle."

"Uncle Ali is sick too?" Her eyes got big. "Are you and him gonna be okay?"

"We will, precious. I'll make sure of it." She leans in and presses a kiss to her forehead at Zevran approaches. "Well?"

"They will take her in, and train her as well."

"Zevran, this doesn't feel right." Karmyn gathered Kione into her arms and stood with their daughter on her hip. "We're willingly giving our only daughter over to the same organization that bought and tortured you as a child!"

"I know, Karmyn." He leaned in to kiss the side of his wife's head. "De Riva and Cantori are in the process of working out a power struggle, with ideas for reform. Training will still be harsh, certainly, but not like what I went through. And Viago owes me a few favors--I will gladly call them all in for her. To keep her safe."

Kione's head had been going back and forth between her parents. "Are you really leaving me here?" With her father talking the same way, tears started to fall and she reached for him.

"We have to, Kiki." Zevran took her and cuddled his daughter close. "We will check in as often as we can. I swear it."

"But how will you remember me?"

"No matter what happens, Kione, know this." Karmyn started. "In the twilight, in the shadows of your heart, you will always find us. We will always be there. Okay?"

"In the shadows? Like when pappa and I play?"

"Exactly."

Zevran and Karmyn walked over with her, and once they were standing infront of a young man and woman set Kione down. "Kione, this is Viago de Riva and Teia Cantori. They will be looking after you."

Letter 1:

11 Solace, 9:48 Dragon I really do not know why I’m writing this. Maybe because the act of saying it all out loud will make me look like I am some crazed mage possessed. But I know keeping it in will just push me over some kind of edge. So, I guess, I will just look like an idiot and sit here, writing some letter that will be another scattered paper on the streets. If any one of them read this, I think that edge would turn far more literal than metaphorical.  I’m stalling on a piece of fucking paper. *strike through* (dont talk to the fucking paper) I feel ungrateful, I guess. Most would say I should be privileged to sit where I sit. To be a Talon, to finally be equal amongst the others. To have that trust in the family placed on me. But… fuck really at what cost? The sleepless nights of training, the beatings and moments where it felt they were just wanting to torture you to see if you could take the pain. Eating and never truly knowing if what you're putting in your mouth will end in you needing to rush to find some stupidly hidden antidote somewhere. You know what sucks? Everything i eat now tastes like ash. Like every taste bud has just died.  It has to be worth it, right?  It has to be worth something. Fuck I don't know.  This is stupid.  Stupid Crows, stupid me, stupid piece of paper.  At least I have a home. Maybe that is what this is for.  Maybe the contract tomorrow will be easy. How do you shut up to paper?

Letter 2:

13 Solace, 9:48 Dragon (why date if not wanting to be found?) Pequeña cuervo.  (I assume because this is a Crow hideout…well was, I think you're the first to use it in a long while.)  I will agree, if any other Crows read your whimpering, the end might be an easier reality to handle. I can give you tips, though. Since falling from high places isn't exactly the most elegant way to go.  Wait, maybe I shouldn't write that.  Sorry.  I know the price seems steep. And the food is shit no matter what. Most Crows can't cook worth a damn. I can recommend some spices to help. There is a medicine I know to help taste too.  You find worth somehow. It took time for me, but I found it.  I hope your contract went well.  P.S. I did find this on the street. In front of the gutter to this building. You may want to dispose better. But I won't tell.