I...Am...Unbound...

The previous times Maraas had come to the bath house had been hurried experiences. He hadn’t wanted to spend much time exposed, defenseless. He considered that maybe it was slightly paranoid to think so, but then it was also smart. Being a mercenary earned far more enemies than respect. This time, however, he found himself slowing, relaxing. His hands lingered in Ketojan’s hair, continuing to gently scrub even after he was significantly cleaner. 

“Caps, then…?” he pondered, brow creasing, where they could acquire such a thing. “We shall need a blacksmith. I’m sure it will be a request no other has ever gotten.” He could already imagine the look the dwarf might have when he asked him to bind Ketojan’s horns. Though he couldn’t believe this would be a simple request, and the process couldn’t be painless for Ketojan himself.

The mention of Ketojan’s horns had brought them to Maraas’s attention. He wondered if they caused his companion pain. He knew it must have hurt to loose them. He moved his hands, attempting to gently scrub the protruding bone, but Ketojan’s sudden movement halted him. 

He hadn’t expected the question to draw such a reaction, though he always expected the answer he received. “I see…” he started, processing exactly what that meant. Ketojan wanted to follow the Qun, despite everything. He couldn’t deny that it brought a unwanted feeling of disappointment. Ketojan would have to leave him, eventually, if that was what he still wished for when the time came. If he was going to return through the flame or other means. 

“I don’t know what I might teach you, besides the most basic things… but I would still have you with me, even if you wish to live by the Qun,” he said, carefully thinking over his words. “Someday that path will take you away from me, of that… I am sure. You must tell me when you do.” He would not give Ketojan that choice, because he needed to know this. As much uncertainty as there was to not knowing when it would happen, he needed the peace of mind that when it did, he would not simply return to find Ketojan gone.

Maraas's hands stilled and he did not touch him kindly again. But he said he  wanted Ketojan to stay. Somehow with the slow and sad way he spoke...the words did not make Ketojan feel better.

"I will not leave without warning, Maraas. I will promise you that," he swore. And even as he spoke, the Saarebas frowned. He had also promised Maraas no more secrets, and Ketojan did not mention the dreams. Or the demons. Was it a promise broken? What if the Qun demanded satisfaction too quickly?

But Ketojan could say nothing else. Perhaps in time Maraas would come to the Qun as well, and they could return together. Or at least, it might aid the pain of Ketojan's departure, should he walk into the fire again.

"I promise that." It was true enough. But these were unhappy thoughts had no place with the warm sun and the pretty blue tiles. After a moment Ketojan winced at the soap in his hair. The ladle was too small to rinse with.

But the water trough was not! Leaning over the low basin, Ketojan braced his forearms against the copper edge and dunked everything above his shoulders under the clean, sweet water. The cold was sharp against his scars but not unpleasant. After a moment, he drew out and shook like a dog, enjoying scattering the water through the sunlight.

"Maraas," he beamed, still half-bent over the trough, "You have not cleaned yourself! I am clumsy, but you are big enough I cannot miss, at least." Before the warrior could respond Ketojan had stepped decidedly across the room, seizing the cloth from Maraas's hand.

"If you hold still, I will not miss," the Saarebas demanded. Old blood was difficult to scrub, but bracing himself against Maraas's shoulder gave him a steady enough hand. The grime was everywhere, but Ketojan did his best to wash the dark, battle-scarred skin.

The warm water baths were something he hadn’t indulged in before, so he was surprised to see the architecture was different here. The richer patrons, and naturally the more pretentious, gave them looks that Maraas ignored. Though he could tell from the way that some of them recoiled that Ketojan wasn’t doing the same. He found it amusing. They couldn’t expect the grey ones to be polite when they were hardly doing so them selves. Before long they had left the dressing room all together. 

Being alone while they undressed made Maraas slightly more at ease anyway. He propped up his Halberd against the wall near his clothes. He was always wary of leaving it and his other valuables to bathe, for fear of thieves. Usually the whole process of bathing went fairly fast, though he got the feeling it would take more time now that Ketojan was with him. Maraas was already pulling his necklace and arm bands off as his companion hopped out of the pants that just weren’t made for him. 

The exclamation wasn’t lost on Maraas behind the powerful word that ended it. “We could go looking for clothes that would fit you today, if you wish,” he suggested. Without a job, they would have to pass the time anyways.

This time, he noticed Ketojan’s intent gaze. It was curious, he could tell, but it brought that same disquiet that being close sometimes did. What was there to be embarrassed about? That Ketojan was examining him in such a way? He fidgeted once, before turning steadily to walk into the next room, shaking the feeling off. It was foolish.

The washing room cleared out almost as quickly as the dressing one, if not faster. It seemed that two of their kind was far more intimidating that just one. He hadn’t have quite the same reaction when he’d come here alone. If they wished to act so, then that was that. He sat down on a bench near the water as Ketojan hurried off to look at the soap. The first thing he did was pour two ladle-fulls of water over his head. The clatter of Ketojan dropping the ladle to the floor echoed around the room and Maraas shook his head in amusement. He was attempting two things at once.

“Of course,” he replied. He blinked water from his eyes and moved to Ketojan’s side, as the Saarebas smeared the soap across his face. That would sting, he knew, quickly grabbing the fallen ladle and pouring water over Ketojan’s head to wash the soap away. Frowning, he wiped what was left away with his thumb. “You rush. There is no hurry,” he said patiently. 

He picked up the jar of soap that Ketojan had used and placed some of the substance on his hands. Lathering it between his hands, he ran his fingers through Ketojan’s hair gently. He had to be careful of his nails. There was a silence that fell over the room now. While it was comfortable, in the way a silence could only be amongst their race, he knew there were things to discuss. 

“Is it your intent…” he started, unsure if he truly wanted to know the answer to what he was about to ask. “to eventually rejoin the Qun?” Maraas knew he could never call Ketojan Kadan if he was not honest on this account. It was a subject that they had not spoken of. His views of the Qun were clear, but Ketojan’s were not. 

When Maraas sat next to him on the damp wooden bench Ketojan shifted a little, rubbing painfully at his eye. He didn't care for the water in his face, but Maraas got most of the soap out, at least. Again, he did not understand where the kind touches came from, but Ketojan could appreciate them nonetheless.

And his hands were gentle too. Maraas did not tear at his hair or scrape his horns. Against his will Ketojan's eyelids fluttered shut and he relaxed in the damp heat of the wash room, soaking in the warmth and comfort.

As he drifted in thought - relaxing limply under Maraas's ministrations - Ketojan tried to remember what he'd meant to tell his friend. Something about...it was something...he needed? Not clothes....but for his body...

Caps. That was it. Ketojan turned his head over his shoulder, laying his cheek on the Kossith's wide collar.

"I will need to bind my horns in metals or they will split, Maraas. I had forgotten to say so...sooner," he drifted. Ketojan struggled to focus under the soft touch. It made him drowsy and he could feel his eyelashes against Maraas's skin.

Then he asked about the Qun. That cut through the warmth and sleep quick as steel. Ketojan sat up, frowning.

"Yes. There is no path but the Qun. It is the only choice," he frowned. Maraas would not agree but Ketojan was certain of this alone. "If fire will not take me I must find another way back." The words came slowly. He did not know how to explain. What would Maraas say?

The day was hot, and at least he was mostly clean. They could soak soon, and perhaps Maraas would not ask these questions any more. The Warrior was quiet now and Ketojan did not know what to think.

Maraas rubbed his eyes, mindful of his claws. He’d slept in later than he’d first thought. The sun was already coming in brightly through the blinds. It had been a long time since he’d been able to sleep like this. Oversleeping certainly felt good in practice, but the consequences of breaking his routine left him still slightly tired. If Ketojan’s presence had affected his patterns in anyway was hard to tell, but he had a suspicion it might have. 

“That is…very good,” he responded, looking to Ketojan with a small amount of surprise. Him having no nightmares of places Maraas couldn’t comprehend was reassuring. Especially after using the magic of blood. He had expected them to get worse, not better. It was good to know. Ketojan wasn’t as he was yesterday, anyway and that brought relief to him.

He rose from the bed, going over to the wash basin. He could at least try and wash some blood off and maybe the water would awaken him fully. Changing the water was needed, as it was still tainted brown by the blood Ketojan had scrubbed away last night. He stripped after he’d done so and began to scrub away as much of the blood as possible. Being quick about this was preferable since he knew that it was one of the days when Norah came around to collect linens that needed washing. There was a small fee for this service but Maraas wasn’t just a passing guest here, so it was worth it.

As he did so, his mind was drawn to a point of contemplation. He’d been called Kadan. At the time, he was startled, surely, but he wasn’t sure how else he felt beyond that. The most he could do, he decided, was wait until Ketojan used the term again. Bringing it up was a task that he wasn’t up to, considering the depth of what calling one Kadan meant. It brought up a strange feeling in him. For him, perhaps it meant more now then it had in the past. To be called so now and to call someone so in return, he realized it meant no longer just camaraderie to him.

The door opened abruptly just as Maraas was pulling a clean pair of pants past his hips, startling him. Norah floundered for words, apologizing as she backed into the hallway once again. He bristled with embarrassment when he realized Ketojan wasn’t entirely dressed when she entered. She continued to apologize profusely even after she’d left, waiting to complete her task. “No apology needed, Norah, we are running late,” he explained, his voice just loud enough to carry to her. “You were not intruding.”

“I should have knocked first, that’s on me,” she called back, clearly not accepting his attempt at making her feel less awkward. He hurriedly tied his pants comfortably around his waist. He didn’t want to prolong Norah’s duties any longer, and the embarrassment was still fresh in him. The weight of gold returning to his neck made him feel less exposed somehow, even as Ketojan’s gaze went unfelt by him.

When she entered the room for a second time, it went much more smoothly though there was still tension in the air. Tension Ketojan seemed to not pick up on. Understandable, as Ketojan wasn’t used to the tiny nuances of human culture. Maraas himself struggled with them still every now and then. 

He gathered the clothes he and Ketojan had shed, placing them into a basket she had set down beside her. “The blood… I apologize,” he frowned. She quickly amended that she didn’t mind. The Hanged Man did have many occupants who were also of a less than honourable profession. She gathered the sheets once Ketojan had moved for her. He was fairly observant, so he took note that she didn’t look at the other grey one. Clearly she had seen more than she cared to.

She continued to carry on in such away, not looking at Ketojan as he told her of their plans. The heat of embarrassment was on her face. She was uncomfortable. Maraas’ brow creased for a moment in thought. He had also been so, when too close to Ketojan. This was… embarrassment? Was he embarrassed of being so close? It was a confusing feeling. Now that it was comparable to embarrassment he had to wonder what he was so embarrassed of.

They turned to leave, make things slightly easier for her and he was better for it. Staying here was only inciting thought in him he didn’t have the time for at the moment. Norah halted them briefly to warn them of the human’s Templars downstairs. She was loyal to the customers first. “Thank you, Norah,” he spoke when he realized Ketojan was not about to. Maraas could feel that he had wanted to bring it with them. He could not leave his halberd behind, though he felt doing so would make them equal again. If he did not bring it, he was unarmed, while Ketojan was never unarmed. They passed the Templars on their way out of the Tavern and Maraas didn’t hesitate to give them an intimidating look. 

As they traveled to the baths, not far from the Hanged Man as it were, it seemed as if questions were Ketojan’s favourite pass-time. Once again, Maraas humoured him.

“Here, in Lowtown.”

“Not far from the Tavern.”

“Many bas. Humans, elves, and dwarves.”

“No.”

“No.”

“When we are clean and there is nothing else to be done.”

“Perhaps, we shall see.”

The public baths in Lowtown were not as large as the ones in Hightown, from what Maraas could tell, but he preferred it. It was less coin to get in and there were less bas to stare at him. They had seen his kind before but it was as if they never realized that they must also satisfy the most basic of needs. The clerk wasn’t surprised to see him, at least. The lady had seen him a number of times before this, and would see him again. 

She flashed a friendly look she no doubt gave everyone. She could not afford to be anything but polite, running a bath house. Much like Norah, but he had the distinct feeling her smiles were faked. She recited the fees, though it was not needed. Maraas had already readied the normal ten silver and passed it to her. “If you’d like access to the heated pools, it’s only an extra five gold,” she chimed quickly. 

Maraas gave pause. The heated pools were often less populated, that was true. Few in Lowtown had five silver to throw around unless they were mercenaries or thieves. He also considered that this was Ketojan’s first time at a bath house. He knew the Saarebas would appreciate it either way, but five extra coins would make it just that much better. Maraas pulled the five coins from his pouch and gave them to her also, nodding in thanks.

The day was bright and new, if hot. Ketojan almost felt at home under the high white sun were it not for the bas about their path. Again they would not stop staring.

But Maraas seemed happier and didn't mind answering questions. Ketojan wondered if he was always in such moods. Some small part of his mind suggested no, he was not. It was likely the Saarebas who had thrown Maraas - 'nothing' - out of balance.

His thoughts were becoming sharper, day by day. But not sharp enough to dwell on the voice, and so Ketojan followed complacently in the sunshine.

Many questions later they finally approached the baths, to the mage's surprise. Ketojan hadn't expected humans of Kirkwall capable of engineering such a thing. The aqueducts of Qunandar were magnificent, even if he had only seen them veiled and from a distance. Apparently humans had figured out a similar system, if inferior.

The building was old, if beautiful. Ketojan liked the blue tile; he hadn't seen the color much in Kirkwall. Too much red, never enough of the soft color. 

Now that he thought of it, Maraas' eyes were blue as well. Just to make sure, Ketojan leaned over the warrior's shoulder to check. Yes! Blue, like flax-flowers. It was unusual for a Qunari.

Inside the cool, tiled house were the sounds of water and quiet chatter. Even in the early morning the humans were cooling off. Not so different from his own kind. While Maraas traded silver Ketojan watched the finer-dressed bas drift towards the more colorful rooms with the intricate tiles. Others in simple clothes stayed in the white and blue rooms, and many of them were elves. Why didn't they wear bright clothes as well?

But it was time to leave, it seemed. Maraas was walking to the intricate rooms without pause. They did not wear finery; was it alright to go? Ketojan assumed so, even if they decorative bas were looking at them strangely. He met their glares with a lowered head, a silent challenge to the sour faces.

They walked through the atrium unaccosted, though disapproved of and into a rounded dress room. Here many of the fine people had hung their clothes on the wall, as he suspected they must do. So much dressing in Kirkwall. Ketojan was unused to doing it himself, still, and took several moments longer than Maraas to strip.

"We will need more clothes. Yours are too wide and short, Kadan!" Ketojan complained, catching himself once again. Kadan. It had slipped out uninvited, as many words did. The mage did not have Maraas's control.

Standing naked among the fine clothes, Ketojan noticed the bas had not lingered. It seemed wherever the Qunari went, human and elf quickly fled. He did not mind. Their stares were uncomfortable. Looking at Maraas, Ketojan tried again to discern their differences.

The warrior was stronger, heavier and lacked the softness of wrist and ankle Ketojan had. Maraas did not have Ketojan's long face or hands. He was the oak to the saaarebas's willow, in build. He liked the comparison.

The washing room was unoccupied now, and Ketojan could not wait for hot water. He longed to scrub his horns, which itched in the heat. Left uncapped, they would soon start to split. He should tell Maraas-

Stripped naked with the other saarebas, save for collars. It was not bad, but not comfortable. The Arvaarad's hands were rough and quick, making sure they were taken care of. Ketojan hated how they pulled his hair, scraped his horns but it did not take long, usually. Unless there was blood, he would wear his robes again soon and they would move on to the hunt with raw skin and light steps.

It was...not the best memory. He had never regretted such things before. Now they seemed...low. Ketojan shook his head, snapping back to the hot day and the blue tiles.

The scrub room was lined with troughs of water, sparkling with sun from the open ceilings. It was beautiful. More than the rest of Kirkwall. Or perhaps it was Ketojan's love of water; he was not yet honed enough to sort the difference. They would scrub here before soaking, he reasoned. That was what the bas seemed to be doing, if quickly and with sideways stares. Soon they were alone here, too, and with doors closed.

"There is soap! And brushes. I hope there is a soft one," he murmured, wondering how he would wash on his own. That too, was new, though there were no soft cloths like in their room. Hesitantly, he reached towards a short tub of creamy, yellow-white soap, smearing it over his hands. What do you bathe first? Reaching for a ladle of water the handle slipped between his fingers and clattered to the floor. He frowned.

Maraas was vaguely aware of eyes upon him as he slowly woke from his sleep. Yesterday had been tiring, and he was glad to have rested as completely as he had. He carefully moved on to his back and propped himself up on his elbows. Ketojan’s arm lie across his chest once again, just as he’d expected. Though, when he looked to his companion, the other’s eyes were wide open. Yet he’d chosen to leave his arm across Maraas. “You are awake…” he raised a brow, questioningly. He had assumed Ketojan to be a deeper sleeper than himself. 

None the less, it was morning, and they needed food. They hadn’t ate last night when they’d came back to the Hanged Man. Now it probably not an advisable idea, as he was feeling the effects of having skipped a meal. He straightened himself farther so he was leaning on his palms instead, letting one of his legs fall over the side of the bed to steady himself. 

It wasn’t until now, as he felt the dried blood on his skin flake away with his movements, that he noticed he hadn’t even remembered to wash himself as Ketojan had before he’d settled for the night. Thoughtless of him, really. Now the blood was clinging to him all over. He’d need to clean. There was only so much one could do with a basin and a very small cloth, however. This might warrant a full, complete bath. 

“We don’t have much to accomplish today,” he stated, looking back at Ketojan from idlely scratching the blood from his arm. “It’s best if we rest between jobs, as well, but today it seems it would be best to visit the baths.” He did not know if the other would want to accompany him on such a trip. Though he was fully welcome to. He couldn’t say if or when Ketojan could’ve had a real bath. Saarebas weren’t permitted to do so as the other soldiers. 

Maraas awoke long after the sun had risen. Ketojan didn't have to wait long, but by the time the warrior had opened his eyes the mage's thoughts were cloudy again. He was not as frustrated as he should be at the loss. Strange.

It was a shame. He would have to wait another night to think freely again. As Maraas rose from the bed Ketojan's arm slid back to his side, warmer than the rest of him. The Saarebas always seemed colder than his friend; perhaps he had yet to adjust to the Kirkwall nights.

 The sheets beneath them were filthy, now, and Ketojan knew someone must come to clean their small room. Their room. The thought warmed his heart.

Perhaps Norah? She did so many good things. He would have to thank her. Perhaps Maraas knew where to buy human gifts?

"Yes. I woke early. I dreamed...well, tonight," he explained simply. Maraas would not want to hear of the demon, but as long as Ketojan made no barter he saw no harm in the secret. Even if Maraas hated secrets.

Ketojan would have to regain his trust somehow, but more truths would only hurt his friend. Kadan.

What? He had...he had called Maraas this last night. Kadan. Where the heart lies. Never had Ketojan considered anyone such a thing, and the word had come on it's own. His control must slip in the late hours, to say this.

Had Maraas minded? Had he said anything at all? ...No, Ketojan decided. Searching his memory yielded no reaction, no mention of the slip. The thought made him hot in the face and turning away from Maraas, the mage decided to ready himself.

As he had wondered, Norah arrived soon after while they dressed, throwing open their door with purpose.

"Oh! Maraas, I'm sorry-" the little human quickly ducked her head out of the door, shielding herself. From Ketojan? He frowned, finally slipping the trousers past his waist. It was hard to wear Maraas' clothes; they were too short in the leg and wide in the waiste.

As Norah made apologies in the hallway Ketojan studied his friend. Maraas was dressing too, but seemed more hurried. Perhaps he was anxious for the bath? While he watched, the mage heard little of the exchange between the warrior and the human. It was not as interesting.

They were so different; Maraas stood only to Ketojan's nose, but was much wider of shoulder. He was darker, and rougher and stronger in limb and back than Ketojan. For a moment, the mage wondered what the Tamassrans had known him to be, before his turning. Maraas was a born warrior, shaped of strength and endurance.

What was Ketojan?

"Small Norah, we are leaving soon. You may come in, if you'd like," Ketojan called into the hall. As she stepped into their room he finally cinched the ill-fitting trousers tight. The laces were easier to manage today. He was improving.

"Thank you, Ketojan," she muttered. Maraas seemed subdued and had darkened as well. Had he done something wrong? No, it did not feel like that.

Norah was motioning to the bed. Did she want to sleep as well? He frowned. It was small enough with the two of them. Maraas was standing and gathering their discarded clothes, apologizing for the blood. She did not seem to mind.

"Don't worry about it, Maraas, I know how you mercenaries are," she shook her head and took the pile from his hands. It was funny that she did not look at Ketojan. "I'll just take these, if you're friend will stand-"

Hopping off the bed, the mage watched curiously as she stripped the blankets and bloody sheets away. Maraas looked uncomfortable, for some reason.

"We are going to the baths and may also eat bread," Ketojan explained. Norah was looking strangely dark and was staring at the ceiling like there was something up there. Glancing up, he couldn't spot anything of interest.

"It is time for us to leave. To make your job easier." Stretching his long limbs, Ketojan stepped away from the bed and to the door.

His staff. His staff, leaning by the bureau looked inviting. He could carry it as Maraas carried his halberd.

"Ketojan, was it?" Norah piped up from behind him. He turned.

"Yes?"

"Is that new," she asked carefully. Ketojan nodded, unsure of the source of her curiosity.

"Yes. It was a gift," he explained cautiusly.

"It's lovely. But you should leave that here, for now. There's Templars downstairs and they don't take kindly to Qunari as it is," she explained slowly.

Ketojan frowned.

"I'll keep an eye on it and lock up after I'm gone. It'll be safe up here, I'll see to that," she promised, Ketojan didn't know what to say, but believed her because she was one of the few good Bas he had seen.

Without further discussion he led the way out of their room and down the stairs, knowing Maraas could take them to the Baths. He had always wanted such a thing.

The walk through Kirkwall was better today than it had been last night. Ketojan had many questions again and knowing he had Maraas' trust he asked them freely.

"Where are the Baths?"

"How far are they?"

"Who will be there?"

"Will Norah join us?"

"Does she run them?"

"When are we going home?"

"Will the little man return with more paper?"

The way Ketojan spoke to the elf was with more tact than Maraas had come to expect from him. Though it was a welcome change, he didn’t like they way they seemed to know something he did not. Mages had a way about them, protecting their own so severely. He’d watched as many a human killed themselves over the never ending argument of if magic was safe. The Qun handled it in a simpler fashion, but perhaps not a better one. 

The gift itself was useful (and he had no doubt that it would be used), if not kind beyond what Sketch could understand. Maraas had to wonder if Ketojan would be the first Saarebas in the history of the Qun to bother with a staff. As upset as Maraas was, he couldn’t stop himself from thinking such a simple thing. 

They left Sketch, their business done for the day and the Hanged Man awaiting. Maraas walked ahead of Ketojan, needing the distance just for this small moment. His stomach was tightened with the feelings he could not name, and his chest panged with the one he knew far too well. If only Ketojan had told him he was a blood mage before this, he might have reacted better.

If only his Kadan had told him he was satisfied with his place in the Qun, he might have stayed…

‘Kadan, the Karataam comes! We must hurry!’ he shouted behind him to the other grey one. They were both Ashaad, once. All their lives they had been beside each other, learning from the Tamassrans, scouting ahead, fighting for the Qun. They stood now, in Kirkwall, just outside of the Qunari compound, ready to run, to leave their duties behind. Together, for they were Kadan, brothers. 

‘No, you must hurry, vashedan. I am of the Qun, and you are a disgrace.’

It was like being felled by the sharpest of blades. To know suddenly, that the one you trusted had forsaken you. Called for the hunters to destroy you. All he wanted to do was ask why, but there was no time, the hunters were swift. If he wished to survive, he would have to run. Run and leave that person behind. He was no longer Kadan. The Qun had changed him, made him betray their trust.

The memories were useless in his head. He was not at peace with the events of that night, still, but he knew them far too well. Rerun a million times in his head without a hint of understanding. Now they were just preventing him from thinking clearly. He had to calm his mind, decide what was best to do with Ketojan. Letting himself compare that betrayal to this one was doing neither of them good. Ketojan was here, still. He hadn’t run or hidden behind the Qun.

As they reached the Hanged Man, he was hardly any closer to choosing than he was when the walk had begun. He ducked slightly without thinking, as he always had. He turned back when he heard a smack in the door way, though was too lost in his own mind to find the sight of Ketojan walking into a door frame as amusing as it might have been. He found himself ignoring it for the most part and, not hungry with his stomach in knots, passing straight on to the upper floor. 

The room was quiet for the most part. A reprieve in the Hanged Man be’d become very grateful for, as it was a fair way from the bar. He sat in silence, pulling his boots from his feet and allowing Ketojan to his own devices. Which seemed to be washing the blood and grime from his body. Maraas wanted to do so, as well, but he feared he still would not feel clean afterward, if he did not settle this.

Boots removed, he silently watched Ketojan’s back as he washed. The words, they would not come to him. How was he supposed to say he was hurt? Luckily, it did not take long for Ketojan to start himself. Just as well, Maraas needed to hear his side just as much. “You… know not of when you learnt this?” he questioned, curious to discover the cause of this.

“I… understand, Ketojan,” he sighed, rising from the bed and approaching the other. “Did you fear telling me? … I only wish you had sooner.” He reached out, touching the other’s shoulder in gesture he wasn’t aware he’d picked up from the bas. “My trust in you is… damaged. You may seek to regain it, if you wish,” he finished. He realized, perhaps Ketojan would not know the meaning of a touch to the shoulder. Something more appropriate was needed to show him he was not angry. Upset, yes, but not angry. Reaching up, he rubbed his thumb gently across the space between Ketojan’s horns. A forgiving touch. 

Maraas had finally spoken. He said he understood, but how could he know what it was like to be Saarebas? To not remember untill too late and to have lived two decades with half a mind? Ketojan did not know where he had learned the blood magic. There was the slightest memory of a talisman, a necklace of some kind.

And the he touched his arm. A meaningless gesture to the Qunari, other than the kind of contact forbidden to mages. Had Maraas forgiven him?

His trust was damaged. For a moment, Ketojan longed to give him the words he knew the warrior wanted. I will not do it again. I will bind my will and never strike again. It cannot happen again. Words like that were why so many of his brothers never spoke. Why tongues were cut free. Instinctively, Ketojan pursed his lips.

Maraas reached out again to Ketojan's face. He suppressed the urge to flinch, remembering similar hands and short stitches. He had struggled, the scars were not even. Forgivable for a child, even a Saarebas.

But the hand did not silence him. The soft touch on the top of his head - between his horns nicked rough by harsh combs - it was soothing. Gentle. Forgiveness. For a blood mage. Ketojan looked up though his eyelashes, afraid of raising his head lest he dislodge the kind hand.

Their short trip to the other end of the Docks was silent, painstakingly so. Though Maraas would have it no other way. If there was one thing he could not stand it was being deceived. By simply withholding that information, Ketojan had lied, made him trust him. There were no words to simplify his anger and he was never good at explaining emotions. For now it was good enough to stay in silence, where he wouldn’t say anything unnecessary. He couldn’t align this all into something understandable now. 

It was more pressing for him to attempt to shake off the memories that accosted him. Of promises broken and the Qun on his heels. Leaving the Qun had not been easy, the philosophy or the compound. Living of his own volition was more than important to Maraas and he wasn’t sure how far that extended. Could he trust Ketojan now that he’d used his own blood to fuel his magic? The Qun would not, the Tal-Vashoth would not, the humans would not. He was not any of these things, and yet he knew their fears were as justified as his own concerns.

The elven mage waiting for them looked to be of the nervous sort. He looked around worriedly, startling when he saw the two Kossith approaching. It was understandable, considering the large amount of assassins that had taken to capturing the bounty on his head. They were also still covered in the blood of said assassins, making them an intimidating sight. “Uh, Maraas… right?” he asked, looking nervous. “I see you got the job done… I’m Sketch.”

“Many hunt you, elf,” he stated questioningly. He could not possibly comprehend what this person had done to attacked in such a manner. Sketch did not seem the type… though, Ketojan had not seemed the type either. Things were not as they seemed more often than not in Kirkwall. 

The interaction seemed to set Sketch at some ease. He stopped looking quite so panicked. “Yes, my reputation precedes me, it seems,” Sketch thanked, tossing a coin purse at Maraas mid sentence. “but still… you have done me a great service.” The words were sincere. The chances of a single mage fighting off all of the assassins on his own, whatever tremendous power he might have, were slim.

Maraas checked the money, nodding when he found it was all there. ”You are welcome,” was all that was left to be said. He turned, but he wasn’t expecting to be halted by Sketch once again. He paused, returing his gaze to the elf. 

“Wait- I mean, you’re a mage right?” he pointed at Ketojan. Maraas was clueless to how Sketch could just know such a thing. Like there was a residual energy that only mages could sense. Would he know, then, of the blood? “Here, you could probably make some use of this, then, as well,” he said, giving a small, meek smile. The elf pulled the staff from his back and handed it off to Ketojan.  ”Just some added thanks.”

Maraas was surprised at the gesture, as he imagined Ketojan was as well. A Saarebas never received gifts. Even in light of what had occurred before and the distance suddenly between them, he was somehow pleased that this had changed. Sketch seemed pleased too, for being able to offer more than just coin.

They walked silently together through the human City, leaving a trail of bloody footprints. Even the scent of it made Ketojan sick. Elf, Human, Dwarf, Qunari - they were painted red with the fallen of so many races. The mage did not regret killing any of the creatures, of course. It was necessary. It was what he was born to do. To hunt.

It was how they had fallen that disturbed him. Or was it? Did Ketojan's shame come only from disappointing Maraas? The thought was too complex to reason out. The Saarebas had never been ashamed of himself before; how could he? Ketojan simply was. He had never had a choice to make wrong before.

And with the first small responsibility, Maraas was pained. Ketojan growled to himself quietly, promising to never again fail his brother.

Did that mean never to use blood magic? If they were pressed again the Saarebas knew he would not hesitate. Bas or Kata or Tal-Vashoth would not stand against them. Ketojan knew no remorse for the killing.

Maraas was staring straight ahead. His thoughts must have been heavy ones, Ketojan frowned. The older Qunari was frowning, which he had not seen before. Could he be rembering, too? What did Maraas have to regret?

It was dark now, and Ketojan held his questions for the moment. He did not know how to ask without seeing Maraas' face, and they seemed to be nearing their destination.

An elf? A small elf-boy had hired them? Ketojan frowned. The Bas was little and jumpy. Like the Antivans. He hoped the Sketch did not try and accost them, too. Maraas would probably not like more magic.

Magic. The dark energies in his blood and on his body stirred at the presence of the little elf. He too was a mage, and he too knew of blood ritual. The Saarebas was surprised. Maraas took a job from such a creature, but was angry with Ketojan? What made them different?

Another thought too large to process. At least at the moment. When the coin changed hands Ketojan took it as the signal to leave. He was relieved. They were going to return to the Hanged Man, it seemed and Maraas would let him follow.

“Wait- I mean, you’re a mage right?" the Sketch stuck is hand at Ketojan. He narrowed his eyes. Few raised their hands in the presence of a Saarebas, even bound.

"Yes. We are the same," he replied carefully. The Saarebas had no intention of communing with others of the Blood, but the question demanded a response. When the elf reached behind him and handed the twisted stick of wood and metal Ketojan froze. Will yourself still, he silently reprimanded himself. Until Maraas struck first, he would hold. That much he could do.

But the elf-boy didn't charge them. Instead, he held the focus with small hands between them like a gift. Ketojan didn't understand. Who would give a thing to a Saarebas? What could he do with it?

Of course, Ketojan realized. He took the staff with one clumsy hand, wrapping his fingers around the wide splint-wood. The only thing a Saarebas would do. Could.

"I do not know how to thank you, Bas-imekari," he said slowly. "I do not know your people. And you do not know mine. But this much is common." Ketojan gripped the staff experimentally; spliced from many, it seemed, the wood and metal was strong if crude. Like Ketojan.

"We must go," he declared. It was time, there were no more words to say. Wondering at the fine energies of the weapon, Ketojan turned his back on the small elf. He would remember that kindness. Perhaps not all Bas were loud grating.

The path to the Hanged man was short if uncomfortable. Still, Maraas would not speak. Ketojan resigned himself to watching the world around him; he could not bear to think of his mistakes any longer. The Lowtown was filled with many drunks and cheering people, all celebrating the sundown, it seemed. Refuse in the streets was not as bad as the Darktown, though still unpleasant. Women were hanging on men and the merchants were gone. Was there a reason they touched like that? Did the drink make them unable to stand? They clung together like wounded soldiers, though there was no battlefield and they were no Beresaad.

He had only seen one Qunoran Vehl celebration, and even that was at a distance. This seemed different. There was no united cause, just...drink?

The thought occupied him till they made it to the tavern. Without conversation he drew inward, wrapped up trying to understand the world. There was a tiredness in his bones and the desire to lay limp and simply sleep was overwhelming. There would be no thoughts or feelings to trouble him or pain in his legs. Just their bed.

Stars shot behind his eyes as Ketojan struck his head against the low door frame. Rubbing his forehead, he added an ache in his horns to the list of ailments. Glancing around the commons of the Hanged Man, he realized it would probably happen again.

Maraas did not stop for a meal, so Ketojan did not ask. Instead he followed silently up the narrow stairs, struggling not to touch the many crowded Bas.

Their room was small and quiet and cool, as he remembered. Restful.

After waiting for a few moments by the door, Ketojan realized Maraas would still not speak. The older Qunari merely pulled off his boots, unlacing them with silent determination. Not knowing what to do with himself, the mage walked to the washbasin and clumsily filled the bowl with water. Stripping out of the breeches was difficult though eventually he struggled free. The small cloth was barely enough to clean with, but Ketojan managed.

Maraas didn’t move from Ketojan’s side until the potion had taken it’s effect. It was wise of him to bring the poultice on this mission. It was more of a last choice when one was injured, but he had began to rely on them in his time alone. There were no others to heal him if he was wounded, magically or not. He still wasn’t sure how Ketojan’s presence would fully affect the way he’d always done things but this was just the beginning. At any rate, he made a mental note to keep a few more on him from now on, just in case.

He stood, extending a hand and pulling Ketojan up with him. There was still one more group of assassins to take care of. The one they had put off until last. The Qunoran Kata. He knew them well enough from his time on the Wounded Coast. They had deserted the Qun before Maraas had. They were fierce and those who he had once been Tal-Vashoth along side had hated them for what they were. They were mercenary, just as Maraas was. They had no honor, just as Maraas did. However they clung to the safety of following a leader and he was not interested in following ever again.

Nervousness grew in him as they made their way to the Docks. A foolish feeling, but they had numbers and the same strength and skill of the Qun. Caution was key. Something Ketojan was not practicing, it seemed. He fell back as they walked a number of times, Maraas always pausing and waiting for him to realize he had and quicken to his side. This was no time for him to fall into his thoughts. 

There was no time to check if he was prepared, however, they were already there. A human would have found the sight of the Qunoran Kata intimidating, terrifying. Seeing them just diminished the unease in Maraas and replaced it with determination. They would die tonight. He readied his weapon with an earnest he’d only felt when turning his blade on the Tal-Vashoth. 

The other mercenaries hadn’t noticed them yet. This was good. They could take the advantage of an ambush, just as they had with the Antivans. He could not go running, however, he’d surely be put down and fast. He turned to Ketojan, going to ask for his aid. The look in his eyes was not the same, not as Maraas had grown used to. It was… cruel, angry. Not Ketojan. Then he growled.

Their surprise now null and void. The Qunoran Kata could not have not heard the sound. His gaze snapped back to their enemies, who were growling in return and drawing their weapons now that they had spotted them. They had to run, now. They could pick them off one at a time as they gave chase, but a full confrontation now was too dangerous, his strategist mind reasoned. “Surprise is lost to us, we must go now!” he shouted to Ketojan, turning his body even as he moved to sprint.

The arrow whistled passed Maraas’ head as it buried itself in Ketojan’s chest. No, they hadn’t moved fast enough. “Vashedan!” he cursed, his body ridged. He turned quickly back once again, growling deep and guttural with all the anger inside him. More arrows sent his way. The weapons of cowards. He swung and snapped them from the air as they neared. He stepped forward, fully ready to attack, charge them until the last lay dead.

He would have, had he not saw the first of many enemies have their blood rended from their body. They turned against each other, as if crazed by the Saar-qamek. They fought not as warriors, but as enraged beasts. Loosing their weapon did not stop them, felling one another with their claws and teeth. Unbelieving, Maraas just watched as his enemies became their own. There was blood all around, flowing to the gutters and over the edge of the streets to stain the waters red. 

He didn’t need to look to know this was Ketojan’s doing. Only magic could cause such madness. Blood magic. Maraas couldn’t stop the disgust from surfacing on his features. He straightened and placed his weapon back along his shoulders, not moving otherwise. This was… betrayal. Ketojan had been with him only a day and it stung as much as it had the first time he had been betrayed. “This magic… ” he started and ended, knowing not how to continue. 

Staying here… was not helping. The smell of death was harsh in his senses and he had no taste for it today. Not a glance was spared in Ketojan’s direction as he walked passed him. He wondered if the Saarebas would follow, and he wondered if he’d lash out eventually if he did. Blood magic was the work of demons. As much as he didn’t believe Ketojan was directly corrupted, that he had convened with spirits disturbed the mercenary.  

Maraas was not speaking. It pained him, but not as much as the memory of the Kata did. For that there was no poultice.

Saarebas straightened as the Kata fell like dathrasi by his feet. Fragments of thought. Bitter scent, acrid taste. Searing heat and rage in his heart. The demon knew him, knew of him, at least. Saarebas learned this somewhere and now unbound was nothing but anger and will.

And then he was Ketojan again. Salt air and soft evening breezes brought the Qunari to his senses. The violence was over and his mind was clear and Maraas-

Maraas was staring at him. Ketojan remembered the look. It was how all looked on Saarebas in Par Vollen. Fear. Disgust. He remembered that face and the words that would follow - the Arvaarad directing his gaze away and ordering him forward. Few could bear to look upon such a thing.

"This magic..."

What words were there for this? Ketojan had not known such things were possible. But you suspected, saarebas, said a voice in his mind. The thought stung vicously.

When the older Qunari walked past him without speaking, without looking it was worse than the stare. Ketojan did not know if he should follow, but every bone in his body ached to take his place beside Maraas.

As he neared Ketojan, he watched with some intrigue as the rouges he wasn’t busy killing off himself were picked off by the other’s magic. He didn’t know the mechanics of how it was done, though learning more would be essential in the days to come. For now it was well enough that their enemies were falling. Their blood flowed freely across the alley and down the stairs by the time the last had fallen. 

Maraas cringed, a particularly sharp stab of pain shooting from his injured side. He fell to one knee, reaching vainly for his wound. It wouldn’t kill him from anything but blood loss as it was. Not a particularly fatal wound. The assassins had shown a lack of skill. Maraas refused to believe they were Antiva’s best. 

Ketojan’s voice behind him made him shift slightly. He knew that it was the best option he had at the moment. The other’s touch was gentle but it still caused him pain. Only for a moment, however, as soon there was a tingling feeling spreading through his back. He could feel his very flesh mending together through Ketojan’s will. It was surreal and strange. He had never been healed with magic before, as Saarebas were seldom allowed to. Even if they had the skill to. 

“Yes, there are four more groups like this one…” he replied, pulling himself to his feet by way of his halberd. He didn’t comment on Ketojan’s love of bread or his fondness of Norah. These were good things, signs that he could settle. 

They moved on as Ketojan suggested. Hightown was their next destination, a place Maraas had no need of. He would even go as far as to say he particularly disliked it. The humans and dwarves here acted as if they owned the whole city, not just their homes and businesses. Ketojan walked by his side, now, as Maraas wanted to loose sight of him even less in this place. There was principle behind the gesture as well. One he hoped wasn’t lost in the practicality. 

He watched as Ketojan frowned at a bas that came too close, and his mouth stretched lightly with amusement. Walking through the streets covered in blood, however, was just as amusing. One particularly noble woman blanched at the sight of them, clinging to her husband and complaining of how horrid the sight of them was. Many more looked on his disdain, reliving the horrors of the invasion silently. They did nothing, however.

The Denerim Avengers were no match for Maraas alone, even without Ketojan’s aid. They lacked the training of the Antivans, Carta, and Qunari on their list while having only a passable amount of street wise that didn’t compare to the Rivaini group. He scythed though many of them, blasting them back with heavy swings before they could do the same with their shields. It was over quick and without using any magic. A plus, since frightening the nobles would hardly go unnoticed.

Darktown was next. It wasn’t as unfavoured by Maraas as Hightown, but it was still a place he preferred to be wary of. It was wretched, smelling of dirt and worse things. It overwhelmed the Kossith’s heightened senses and when he realized the Carta were upon them, it was too late. Ketojan was struck down, right in the back of the knees. The dwarf could reach scarce other vital points on their significantly larger frames. 

They surrounded Maraas as well, and he quickly drew his blade. They would easily be defeated if he could not reach Ketojan. When the crackling in the air started, he rethought that strategy. He knocked the dwarves in his way aside as he dashed to safety. Not far enough, he caught just the edge of the blast that destroyed the dwarves completely. Tossed through the air and landing roughly in the dirt, he was mostly just shaken. He was lucky to have made it that far. Any closer and there was no telling.

He stood shakily for a moment while the world settled around him. Ketojan was hurt. Badly. Maraas moved to his side through the remains of those who had harmed him. He took some pleasure in that. “You did what was necessary,” he hushed, the worry reaching his features. “They are tricky, the small ones.”

Reaching back into a pouch on his belt, he retrieved a glass poultice. He straightened Ketojan’s legs gently, placing him into a proper sitting position. “I apologize,” he muttered, assuming it was painful to move the limbs. He pulled the top from the vial, passing it to Ketojan. “Drink. It’s not the same as magic… but it will heal your wounds so you may do so yourself.” 

Ketojan had never been hurt like this before. The pain of docking and the collar was one kind of pain; the long, aching kind. Even the pain of his stitched lips was short and sharp. This was deep, and wrong and made him feel ill.

But Maraas was healing him. Another alien experience to the Saarebas. Ever had he been wounded for control, to protect himself and others. Tal-Vashoth had never gotten close to injure him.

As the large Qunari straightened his legs Ketojan bit back small pain-sounds. He must trust Maraas to help him and not to lash out as every instinct screamed.

“Thank you, Maraas,” he spoke through gritted teeth. The potion tasted acrid like warm metal, but already flesh and tendon were mending. Had the Carta folk not surprised him so, Ketojan would have had the strength to heal himself. As it was, the potion - how much gold had it cost Maraas? How many hours of sword-selling? -had done the job.

Maraas had not drank it when the assassins struck. Ketojan was humbled.

Now there were only the last mercenaries, and they could rest. The Saarebas longed for their small bed and the comfort of warmth and skin and sleep. His will was weakened and though it would recover in time, Ketojan was nervous.

The last to fight were the Qunoran Kata. Bringers of death. He had never fought such creatures alone, and they-

They were the worst of the Tal Vashoth. Even the gray ones of the Wounded Coast avoided such creatures. Maraas was bold to strike out against them. Would he have done it before? Or had the mage changed it all?

Then Ketojan was not alone, and they would fight together. The poultice had regained his strength and health. His will would return soon enough. If they struck hard, and fast, the Kata would fall as so many outcasts had before.

When Maraas offered his hand, Ketojan took it. Standing on shaky feet he knew they should leave, and soon. The liquefied Carta would stand out on the street, he thought. They were to be quiet, now the hunt was on.

Memory returning in a flash. Sand under his feet and the quiet breath of Saarebas around him. His leash was choking. They strained; gray ones were close. Arvaarad let them scent out betrayers, let them give chase. Were he unstitched, Saarebas would have bayed for their quarry.

He did not speak as they picked their way to the docks. Ketojan focused on the Kata, his thoughts growing fragmented and short. More than once he fell behind Maraas, forgetting his new place. The older Qunari did not look so different from Arvaarad when memory consumed him.

By the sewers. Already the sun was low on the water, reflecting glare into the eyes of Bas. Long shadows hid the party of huge Kossith and their gleaming horns and claws and teeth and eyes. Ketojan narrowed his eyes, unnerved by their wrongness.

Strike when they are still and weak. Strike as one and quickly, retrieve the swords. Strike, Saarebas-

Ketojan growled softly, chasing the memory away. He was named now. Not a Broken Thing, as long as he thought clearly.

There was blood on the Kata’s blades, he could scent that much. Under their nails and in their unwashed hair, like beasts. The likeness angered him-

Pain and sharpness in his breast. Looking down Ketojan discovered a crudely fletched arrow protruding below his collar. They had waited too long.

Maraas was saying something, but as if from a great distance. Bred in the bone. Ketojan ripped the arrow out, fingers covered in thick, dark blood. There was strength in that. Force in injury. Ketojan failed.

The energy that gathered around Ketojan was palpable in the air, a force that Maraas could feel building behind him. It unnerved him for a moment, being so close to that kind of power but it was Ketojan who wielded that power. He calmed himself, just as he had when he’d fought along side the Champion. This magic was not directed at him, but at his enemies.

The first elf fell to Ketojan’s spell and Maraas jumped into action. He darted forward from their position straight into the fray of assassins, bringing his halberd slicing across an elf’s small chest. He felt the resistance of ribs against his blade for only a moment as they gave way to his bone shattering swing. His reach was greater than that of a human or elf, however, so even as the blade was freed from the first assassin it went on to wound another. 

Maraas didn’t have to see Ketojan’s next kill, he felt it. The great force pulled downward just to his right and the blood spattered up and onto his cheek. In the heat of battle, he barely blinked. One of the elves rushed him, daggers spinning in a way Maraas had always found very pointless. A quick thrust of his halberd and the man was impaled, dead. 

The elvhenan were at least a trained slightly well, they knew to go after a spellcaster first. They did more damage the longer they lived. It was a tactical move he himself would have made and had made in the past. Maraas pulled his blade violently from the corpse, watching as a few assassins broke from the group to go after Ketojan. He snarled, three more elves rushing him with their flurry of attacks. Small cut after cut was inflicted, but he had no time to waste here. He blocked their attacks as best he could and, with a single great swing, knocked as many as possible back from him. 

He turned and ran after the few who were now closer to Ketojan than he wanted them to be. Quickening his step to close the final gap, he intercepted them with a heavy airborne strike that shook the ground. They stumbled as he jumped right back into battle, striking them down as swiftly as he could.

He couldn’t have seen the rouge even if he’d know it was behind him. All he was suddenly aware of was a blooming pain in his lower back. He growled deeply, pulling himself from the dagger even as the rouge went to pull back. He spun around, the blade of his halberd aimed firmly at the elf’s neck. His new found anger fueled his strike, the muscles in his arm flexing with strength.

The head of the assassin may have come clean off, but the only good it served was to make him feel slightly better and lower their enemy’s numbers. The damage was done and he was bleeding out. He turned back to face the enemies still come at him from the front. As he fought them off, he knew he was moving back, toward Ketojan. He couldn’t deny that the aid of his magic was more than welcome.

Crush bone, rip muscle, rend skin. The litany of violence was familiar, easy. Unshackled, the forces around him warped with hardly a thought.

Maraas was too close to the little elves, though, too close for Ketojan to strike as hard as he itched to. Magic flowed from his aching palms with the clarity all else in the Saarebas' life lacked. When one of the assassins crept too close his friend stepped forward, keeping the attacker at bay. And Ketojan safe.

For all the years Ketojan had hunted Tal-Vashoth on his leash, he had never fought beside any but Saarebas and Arvaarad. Seeing his friend in combat was alien.

He hadn't realized Maraas' strength. It was...impressive. The older man moved quickly and struck true, in flawless Qunari form, always controlled.  Unlike the Tal-Vashoth the mage had hunted for so long. Unique.

Though greater in numbers, the assassins stood little chance. No wonder Maraas had lived so long, alone.  Should Ketojan become corrupt-

The thought pained him deeply. More than the ache in his horns and bones. But should the terrible happen, Ketojan trusted Maraas.

More than the Arvaarad?

Ketojan didn't have a chance to consider the thought; one of the rouges had gotten behind Maraas and landed a blow. The pain was visible on his face; Ketojan growled.

The Saarebas raised his hand - the next rogue was red mist, nothing more. Draining but satisfying.

It took less than a minute for the battle to end. It came as a blur to Ketojan; two steps forward, one back. Press in, release the spell. Crush, bash, tear, drain. The spirits of one assassin fueled the magic to end the next. Moments later the narrow stairs were silent but for quiet dripping. A waterfall of red ran down each step, pooling at Ketojan's bare feet.

The blood was warm and familiar. The Saarebas tried his best to ignore it.

"I will fix you," Ketojan promised, stepping up the first sticky stair. Examining the wound, he could tell it was not vital. Agonizing, yes. The mage brushed his fingers over the thin, deep gash with concern. It was wicked, as the elves had been.

Calling on the well of energy inside him, the wound closed neatly beneath his fingers. Though he lacked the precision to knit the flesh perfectly, flawlessly, he tried to lay the scar flat. It was the best he could do with crippled hands.

Ketojan resisted the urge to draw from the gory cascade at their feet. Too soon. That magic was...betrayal. The young Qunari could not bear Maraas' departure. He would use the right magic, the less corrupt. As long as it was enough.

"There are more? We must move on, if Norah will save us bread," he decided. Ketojan did not mention the desire to cast again.

There were more killers around the Kirkwall, according to the little paper. Ketojan followed Maraas' bloody footprints dutifully, stepping forward to his side when reminded. The warrior seemed to prefer them side-by-side, though Ketojan was unused to the position. 

Walking shoulder to shoulder seemed to intimidate the Bas as well. Just as well. Ketojan disliked their habit of staring and brushing against him. A frown seemed enough to scare them away, like children. He would never have dared to frown in Par-Vollen.

The humans, the...'Avengers' in Hightown fell easily. Maraas dealt with them quickly, waving away Ketojan's healing touch. Though the Saarebas longed to crush them he stayed his hand. They were to be 'inconspicuous'.

As large people, Ketojan doubted it was possible. But if that was what the warrior wanted, so be it. The Saarebas had no retort.

In Darktown, dwarves attacked. The small people were comical if dangerous; Ketojan underestimated the creatures. Walking through the refuse, covered in blood and dust neither Qunari could scent their quarry. Carelessness.

They struck from the shadows, driving cruel little blades behind Ketojan's knees before he knew their presence. Too slow, always too slow, he cursed himself. When the mage fell to the ground they were on him, all flashing blade and broken grins.

Fear seized him. Had any of the Carta fought Saarebas before, they would have known what the charging aura meant. Trusting Maraas would know - how could he not - Ketojan released the spell.

Short limbs and gelatinous gore were all that remained. Helpless on the ground, Ketojan tried to stand. He could not.

He held back a sigh of relief when Ketojan spoke. “Good,” he said awkwardly. He did not question the other’s words. The Saarebas had shown no signs of corruption so far, from what Maraas could tell. He also was no Arvaarad. If Ketojan was going to live as he did, he would have to learn to deal with whatever troubles came with it. 

Ketojan struggled beneath him and Maraas quickly moved back, realizing he held him still, even though he was awake now. He removed himself from the bed entirely, suddenly uncomfortable with how close they had been. Not because he was afraid of Ketojan, however, but something else. A sort of unease he could not explain and didn’t want to dwell on. At least not now, when there were things to be done.

“I apologize. I meant to return swiftly,” he amended, feeling the sting of guilt. If he had been there, perhaps Ketojan would not have been in such a state. He had broken such a simple promise, but now he understood why Ketojan had asked this of him and he was resolved to make it up in mornings to come.

At the mention of bread, he turned his head to the door. He hadn’t realized he’d dropped it when he’d opened the door. He moved to pick it up and offered it first to Ketojan. “There are some other things that I must do today as well.”

Getting Ketojan ready was a challenge. Though, he showed progress with the things he’d done yesterday like dressing and eating without making such a mess, there was still much he needed instruction on. At the least he was a quick study, so Maraas had to say very little.

They were finally heading to where the paper from Meeran directed them first. It was in Lowtown, so it wasn’t out of their way, though it was only the first of many places they would have to travel to. Their walk was anything but silent. 

“Not far, but we will go many places through out the day.”

“Soon enough.”

“Hunting assassins.”

“He’s just a human.”

“They want people to notice them.”

“At nightfall, once our mission is completed.”

“At the Hanged Man? Yes.”

Ketojan was bombarding him with questions, displaying a curiosity about the world even he had not had when he’d left the Qun. Yet, he answered them all as patiently as he possibly could. Ketojan needed answers and he was the only one about to give them too him. 

As they approached the point they were supposed to be, a small amount of stealth was necessary. “Quiet now, Ketojan,” he hushed, turning and tapping the other on the forehead with two fingers. Such was a gentle reprimand that was used amongst those who were close in the culture of the Qun. He understood the implications, but it wasn’t as if any humans would ever comprehend the meaning of such a simple action. 

Maraas turned back to passage of stairs just before them, moving as slowly and as quietly as possible to the edge of the wall. He looked carefully around the corner, just to confirm that the assassins were indeed there. Antivans, from what he could see. Skilled. Now he had to wonder if this was truly such a good way to introduce Ketojan to the life of a mercenary, but it was too late for second thoughts. This was a job that had to be done. 

He gripped his halberd, getting into a ready stance. “The Assassins are there,” he spoke in a quieter voice. “I assume I don’t have to tell you to not do anything too… noticeable. There are somethings the human’s Templars cannot ignore.”

The market was madness, as it had been yesterday and as Ketojan suspected it would always be. Humans and elves and dwarfs streamed from every pathway and walked as a sea of flesh around the Qunari.

Ketojan could not focus on all the faces. There were too many, and the sounds and touches of the people were overwhelming. As so many things were.

Though Maaraas walked by his side, Ketojan's thoughts would not stay with his friend. His mind wandered to the nightmare, his body oblivious to their path.

Who was the demon? Had it truly known him? What could he not remember?

He growled and shook his head, trying again to clear his thoughts. Like his hands, there was a feebleness in his mind. No matter how hard he pushed, it would not quicken fast enough.

It was maddening. The world was maddening. Dreams were maddening, the Bas touching him was maddening-

Everything but Maraas. Maraas was...different.

Immediately the heat in his blood cooled. Maraas had not made him sleep alone. He had taken him in and taught him so much and answered all his questions.

The world may be strange, and sometimes terrible but as long as Maraas kept him close-

Ketojan could bear this. He remembered Maraas' face when he woke. The man was scared, but not as the Saarebas had known fear. And Marras did not bind him.

Such a thing had never happened.

Glancing over Ketojan saw his companion was still smiling at his last question. Well, smiling as only a Kossith could. The wide-split faces of Bas were disturbing. Which was another question to ask, perhaps.

"Why does-" Ketojan started, questions already lining themselves up behind his teeth. But as soon as he'd opened his mouth, Marras had tapped him on the brow. It was something Tamassran had done years ago; familiar, gentle, kind. Not a touch for a Saarebas.

Who was this man? Where had he come from? Ketojan could not begin to guess. But he could follow quietly.

They went up the stairs as silently as they could. He couldn't step as softly as the scout, but did his best. Though Maraas spotted the assassins before Ketojan could - all Bas looked the same - the smell of leather and elf was the same.

Maraas wanted him to...be less noticeable? How does one hide in a city sized for Imekari?

"We...hunt them," Ketojan whispered cautiously. It would not do to strike out of turn. With Maraas' nod of assent, the mage considered his options.

If they were not to be noticed, then striking from afar would be wisest, he reasoned. Maraas had his weapon, but it would be easily seen by the targets.

Better to be unseen. Calling on forces only a Saarebas knew, cowed as they were, Ketojan twisted the world around his will. The assaassins would know sound, and force but would see nothing.

The first elf saw the force before he felt it, crying out in warning. They were nothing compared to Tal-Vashoth, Ketojan realized. Their bodies were soft and light and his magic merciless. Elf-blood fell on the ground like warpaint.

Warping energy around his twisted fist Ketojan threw the second spell. It hit like a waterfall, pinning the second target flat and still. Seconds more of the force and the creature opened like a crushed insect. Tal-Vashoth were not so easy, and Ketojan had hunted his grey brothers for all his years.

Neither were they were not so jumpy, however. Apparently elves were prone to leaping about and waving daggers, which was somewhat irritating. He would have to use more force, more magic than intended.

The deep well inside him stirred gently, giving him all the mana required. The only restraint were his hands, unable to direct the fine flow of magic.

The sun coming through the tattered curtains on the window just at the foot of the bed was enough to rise him. He wasn’t a light sleeper by any means, but his biological clock was trained to rise early. He used to be on a early morning patrol more often than not while with the Qun. A habit he’d never quite gotten out of, but a useful one. His eyes opened slowly, blinking once or twice and adjusting to the light.

He moved to sit up and stopped in the middle of the motion. The weight across his chest was unexpected. Following the grey arm with his eyes to Ketojan, he supposed this was inevitable. They had moved about during the night and somehow Ketojan had ended up with half of his body across Maraas. There had to be a way to move the other without waking him so soon. He gently grabbed Ketojan’s wrist, slowing lifting the hand and moving the arm off of him.

It was a challenging process, indeed. He paused every time Ketojan stirred for a moment before continuing. This happened about five times before he could rest the arm in a more comfortable place against it’s own body. Now it was just a matter of slipping from the bed unnoticed. Even more of a challenge. Yet somehow he managed it. He was either more dexterous than he’d first thought, or Ketojan was a deep sleeper. 

Maraas would let him sleep a while longer. He would wake him, as promised, when it wasn’t so early in the morning. He took care of his basic needs first, stripping down to nothing so he could wash himself with the basin in the room previously. The watter was cold but that was only refreshing. He didn’t take his time, quickly scrubbing away whatever dirt was on his skin from the previous day and pulling on a clean pair of pants. 

Pausing at the door to the room, he looked back to Ketojan’s sleeping form. He was reluctant to leave him alone like this. Especially since if he awoke while Maraas was out, he would believe Maraas was not keeping his promise. It was a strange thing, to be obligated by words to do something after so long. He rarely made promises. Perhaps he was wary of being responsible for something again. Promises were not made lightly by their people, Qun or not. While he’d never said the word promise to Ketojan, he might as well have. 

Maraas shut the door silently behind him. Ketojan would be fine for just a small time. He would only be gone for as long as it took him to buy some more bread. Giving his head a small shake, he started down the hall and to the stairs. He could hear the snores of the Hanged Man’s other occupants through the thin walls. 

Norah wasn’t the waitress working anymore, only a younger girl who’s name he’d never come to learn stood behind the bar. There wasn’t a soul in the Tavern at this hour. All the late night drinkers had long left or been kicked out. The girl seemed to startle as he walked into the room. “U-uh, hello… ser ah, is there something you needed?” she stammered. Maraas could tell she was nervous of him and he did well just to ignore it for the time being. 

“… I’m just here to buy bread,” he said steadily. “One loaf.” It was all said in the simple manner Maraas said most things. He was not what most people would consider a thoughtful sort, even as he was very much so. She nodded, dashing off into the kitchen to get the aforementioned bread. He placed the money on the bar, waiting for her to return.

Norah had never been so nervous around him, or any of the customers for that matter. If he had to say he was fond of any person, human, elf, or dwarf, he’d have to say it was Norah. In a companionable way. She had always been kind and that hadn’t been clearer to him than last night when she had simply smiled at Ketojan.

Humans assumed the stupidest things sometimes such as Meeran berating him about unmentionable things. A frown came over his face just as he thought about it. That Meeran would suggest such a thing… though he had mentioned something strange. A Qunari. At the Blooming Rose. He knew just as well as anyone what the Blooming Rose was, so for a Qunari to be there was unheard of. Now he felt a curiosity inside him growing. He should follow up, at the very least. Hire someone to go inside and see what he could not. It wasn’t being inside the brothel itself that bothered him at all, but the possibility that there was a Qunari there. One who wanted him dead. Or Ketojan dead.

“H-here you are,” the words cut his train of thought short. Looking at the girl, he accepted the bread and made his leave back to the stairs. Now he had another thing to accomplish this day. 

All was not as he’d left it when he returned to his room. Ketojan stirred restlessly, sweat beading down his forehead. Maraas felt the chill of panic freeze him for a moment. What was happening? Was Ketojan alright? Was he corrupted? He was across the room as swiftly as possibly, sitting on the edge of the bed. He had to stop Ketojan from squirming, calm him, awaken him. Anything was better than leaving him in this state and waiting for it to fix itself. 

He had no sooner grasped Ketojan’s wrist, had the other’s eyes opened wide. Though they seemed unfocused. He appeared to be looking at everything and nothing. “I am here,” he responded to his name. Maraas was relieved he hadn’t been gone a moment longer, or what could have happened was unknowable. “Are you alright?” he asked, but the question was plainly loaded with many questions. The most concerning being a question of Ketojan’s safety along with the safety of others.

Slowly the world came into focus. A familiar face. One unpainted. Ketojan relaxed, realizing Maraas was here and the Fade a distant memory.

"I am fine. I am...myself," Ketojan spoke thickly. He meant it, too, but the words were difficult to form. Why was speaking, even thinking so difficult in the waking world? Did the bonds of the Arvaarad reach beyond the physical? The thought disturbed Ketojan.

"I am not corrupt," he reassured the older Qunari.

Strong arms had him pinned motionless; Ketojan realized for the first time how much stronger Maraas was, at least in body. The Saarebas struggled to rise for a moment, unaware of Maraas' hand on his shoulder or the one holding his wrist. 

Perhaps Ketojan's friend was protecting himself from the Saarebas, should the mage fail. Any reasonable Qunari would.

Any reasonable Qunari would have ended it on the shore, sending Ketojan back to the Qun. Maraas was no Qunari. No Tal-Vashoth.

He was...different.

And were Ketojan reasonable as well, he would have asked for such a death. Why hadn't he?

Blinking for several long seconds, Ketojan eased himself up on the small bed.

"You were not here," he accused. The Saarebas was not ready to face sleep alone. The Fade threatened to wash him away like the sea and he could only cling to the physical world for so long. Carried out by the tides of will, he would be helpless.

Maraas was all he had to keep the tide at bay.

"We must rise for your paper, I think. And bread?" he added hopefully, noting Maraas' hands were empty.

It was to be the first day of many, Ketojan reminded himself. It would not do to lie about helpless for too long. They had a job to do and, bread or not, they would do it.

Maraas showed him how to wash his face, though Ketojan tore the thin cloth. Bread for breakfast again, as delicious as the night before. This time he remembered to eat slowly, mirroring Maraas' careful movements.

The washroom, the night jars, dressing himself again, -the older Qunari was not as tall as Ketojan; the trousers did not fit the same, but he did not mind - locking the room, addressing the humans downstairs - there were so many rules Ketojan did not know. He had simply never had to; like a weapon, the Saarebas had been pointed and controlled. But those were simpler times. And the world was huge, and difficult and exciting and the Qunari simply couldn't keep waiting.

"Where will we go?"

"When will we get there?"

"What are we doing?"

"Who is that human?"

"Why do they make so much noise? The merchants? It is unecessary."

"When will we go back?"

"Will Norah be there?"