Many thanks to mille libri for her beta excellence and friendship.

"I'm dying, aren't I?" Alistair shivered and pulled the blankets tighter around his head and shoulders, his watery eyes following Brosca as she moved about the room. "I'm dying, and they sent you to make sure I don't dawdle on the way out."

"Or to help you along—my choice." Brosca set out tea and broth on the bedside table and turned to leave. "If you're bored, you can make a game of figuring out which one is poisoned."

"Ha ha, I'm not that dim. Like you'd only poison one." He turned slightly and looked at the covered soup bowl wistfully.

"I am not feeding you."

Alistair reached out a hand for the teacup, spilling half before giving up. "It burned my fingers," he murmured sadly.

Brosca stalked to the table, thrust the soup spoon in Alistair's hand, and held the bowl for him to spoon up the broth. "I am not feeding you." Gritting her teeth at the subsequent trail of broth from bowl to mouth, she swore and snatched the spoon out of his hand.

"Tell me a story?"

Brosca froze with the spoon halfway to his mouth. "And what misfiring bit of idiot logic would lead you to believe that I'm a storyteller?"

"Well, you're the irascible sidekick, right? Irascible sidekicks have the best stories, quaint anecdotes, and humorous asides; it's right there in the job description."

"Speaking of humorous asides, I once killed a man with a soup spoon."

"I don't think I believe you. When was that?"

"Any minute now." With a blistering curse, she relented. "Once upon a time, there was a soft, whining lump of smirks and bad hair. One day, he was stabbed in the face and died. The end."

"Aw. That one was too short. Where was the fair maiden, the one that falls in love with the handsome Templ … knight? What was the moral?" Alistair opened his eyes wide, closed them, opened them again beseechingly.

"Gah! Stop that!" Brosca applied herself to emptying the bowl of broth into the waiting Templar, her teeth grinding audibly. She straightened, made one circuit of the room slowly and deliberately, then stopped and folded her arms, glaring at Alistair. "Once upon a time, there was a Templar so indescribably stupid that his mother had to sew labels on him so he'd remember his own name."

"Hey!"

"It's not you, moron. This Templar's name was … Chicken Little."

"All right, then."

"Alistair 'Chicken' Little," Brosca muttered under her breath.

"What did you just …"

Chicken Little

Chicken Little was standing around the Alienage gates one day, practicing his Halts and Resistance Is Uselesses, when he spied two elven children playing on the bridge.

"Tomi, you give me back my Mittens, or I'll …" The girl vainly reached for her stuffed bunny.

"You'll what, shem-breath?" Her brother laughed and held the rabbit high over her head.

"I'll … I'll zap you, like Alim before they …"

The children's shouts faded into background noise as a wave of panic gripped Chicken. Mages! Right here in Denerim. He had to report this at once!

Chicken raced for the Templar garrison, almost flattening his equally dimwitted friend, Herman Penny, only just returned from an extended latrine inspection, to judge by the clinging stench. "Henny! Maker Above, it's happening!"

"I keep telling you, Chick, it'll go back down by itself if you just stop fiddling with it."

"Not that! Not just that. I almost got jumped by a gang of elven mages on the Alienage bridge. Hunting shems, they said. The gang leader's a nasty one, goes by the name Mittens."

"How'd you know they're mages? Those elves, there's not a one of 'em that wouldn't slice you soon as look at you, mage or no."

"Went on and on about 'zapping' and 'zipping' and all. One of them was casting a spell right then, sure as I'm standing here. All 'Alim ka zim, alim ka zot', and such."

"Shit, Chick, we got to tell Sarge. I think he's over at the Pearl."

"Wh—"

"Somebody has to try to save those poor girls' souls, right? Why, sometimes he has to go on savin' and savin', for hours at a stretch! Three and four nights a week!"

"'Ees a good 'un, that Ducky."

The two found Sergeant Lucky mid-save, but managed to pry him away. Again, Chicken explained his terrifying encounter. "It's the Insurrection! The Mage Apocalypse! I heard them planning the takeover with my own ears. It's a coordinated attack, codename: Mittens."

"Andraste's Bits!"

"No, no. No more salvation tonight, Ducks," Sanga called from behind the bar. "It's past closing, so off you go."

The trio headed off towards the docks at a run. Lucky flagged down the first ship's captain they encountered. "You there! We need to get to Val Royeaux to see the Divine, as fast as your ship can take us!"

The bronzed sailor smiled lazily and looked the three tall templars up and down. "Oh, I think I can take care of you, all right," the jauntily-underclad pirate drawled. "Name's Captain Foxey, you've probably heard of me. I'll take you to places you've never been."

"Finally, the fair maiden!" Alistair sighed, smiling contentedly.

"Maiden—" Brosca choked.

"Whew, that's a relief." Ducky grinned happily. "I've never been anywhere but Denerim. Chick came in from the Bannorn, though, and Henny went to West Hills that once."

"Not the brightest sovereign in the sack, are you?"

"We don't have many of those," Henny said. "I donate mine to Sarge, to help with his savin'."

The pirate rubbed at her temples. "No matter, I can find positions for you all—make you work your way."

"I know my 'point' and 'cower' all right, but my 'threaten' could be better," Chicken admitted.

"Just get on the ship," the captain barked. Foxey led them belowdecks, and they were never seen again.

"Aw! I liked Chicken, Henny, and Sarge."

"Somehow, I thought you might."

And that is the end of their story, though it's said that on calm nights at sea when the moon is full, you can still hear their groans issuing from below.

Alistair clapped loudly, his infirmity momentarily forgotten. "Marvelous! Let me guess the moral: 'Don't go off half-cocked.'"

"Gah! Never use that word in my presence."

"What's up next?"

"Next comes the ritual flaying, if you ever mention to another person, animal, or inanimate object that you'd ever heard, guessed, or dreamt of me telling a story to anyone, anywhere."

Alistair was silent for a moment, tapping his chin with one finger. "I might not say anything … if you tell me another story."

"Did the whole 'Argh! Where is my hide?' thing just blow right through that empty cavern atop your neck?"

"The Commander would never stand for it," the Templar said smugly. "She likes my skin."

"Gah!"

A/N: To any familiar with 'Intemperance', Brosca is not who you might think. She does bear some few similarities, I am the first to admit.