#wolfeshed

@wolfeshed​: ❝ i am just a lost traveler, seeking rest for the night. ❞

       “The Darkspawn are thick around these parts.” It was a dangerous part of Ferelden to make camp just now, but her own party had little choice in the matter. “You may set yourself by our fire for the evening. There is safety in numbers.” And he wouldn’t be the first stranger she’d taken in since the Blight began. “I’m Elspeth. There is Alistair, Morrigan, Leliana, Sten.” She gestured to each in turn, then the hound whose growling had alerted them to the man’s approach. “And Cuchulainn.” 

she did not stop to consider which was the best arm to take -- she merely seized upon the nearest man and hurried them away. though guests at the king’s theatre masquerades generally wore masks and disguises, hetty knew precisely who had been pestering her all night. he hung around the theatre after performances as well, leering at the dancers and haranguing whichever lady was in closest proximity. that he was a baron made it all the easier for him. but hetty had had enough. she’d readily grabbed the nearest gentleman as a means of escape -- for the cretin would never cross one of his own sex...

hetty leaned in and whispered urgently, a note of gratitude in her voice.    “  don’t worry -- you do not have to dance with me. just pretend we’re old friends for the next few minutes... i shall be in your debt.  ”

if   there   were   ever   a   man   who   looked   like   they   didn’t   belong,   it   was   @wolfeshed​.   he   can’t   tell   if   he’s   attempted   to   fit   in   or   if   it’s   just   how   he   dressed,   but   it’s   certainly   odd.    “   are   you   .   .   lost?   take   a   wrong   turn   on   the   way   here?   ”

"Yeah, we'll be the judge of that," Arthur drawled.

In the black lavender of dusk, the gentle rise of the slope they had made camp on was to his advantage, and he was towering above the stranger. A sturdy feller, Arthur reckoned, judging from the silhouette ran up by the lateness of the day. Sturdy, but on the shorter side. Didn't matter. Arthur had a goddamn shotgun in his hands.

Behind him, the muted chatter of a camp coming to life around a pot of stew.

"What do you want and who are you?"

Behind him, too, the rustle of leaves.

       “Bad luck relies on absolutely perfect timing.”