The marketplace was bustling with life, as it usually was on a Sunday morning in Hightown, Kirkwall. Vendors, charming and smooth, called out to passersby with seducing talk of the finest jewels, armor, and weapons in the Free Marches, the juiciest meat and the freshest fruit for miles around. Noblemen sized each other up in conversation as their wives gossipped about their husbands and politics and other families while moving from stall to stall. Children wove in and out of the legs of the adults, sweet honeycakes dripping in their clutches, shrieking with pleasure and excitement of the foreign goods and mysterious people around them. Among the shouting and merrymaking folk of Kirkwall, it was a wonder that any vendor could hear his customers' inquiries, let alone close a deal. The sun flooded the square, warm for a late September day, and the nobles fanned themselves as they rested in the shade, watching their children and catching up on small talk with other families.

Through the throngs of people in the square, no one seemed to notice a small, dark, hooded figure making its way to the reagents and herb stocker. The figure stopped in front of the stall, examining the dried hanging goods closely, and reached out to finger a strip of leather hanging for display. The herbalist took note of this and stood up from his stool, speaking sharply.

"Oy, now, don't you go touchin' me goods with thievin' hands, there." The lanky man said gruffly through his large orange moustache, wiping his hands on his apron, stained green from handling herbs. His eyes seemed to soften slightly when the cloaked figure dropped their hands immediately, opening their fingers to show him that they hadn't taken anything.

"If you're looking to buy, then, well, that's another matter, then, innit?" He said cheerfully. He wasn't phased by the strange person, as he had plenty of foreigners visit his stall in the market before. He did admit to himself, though, that this one looked… out of place, even on market day. The foreigners who came to the market were usually nobles in their own lands, showing off their wealth with gems on their necks and fingers, expensive fabrics draped around their shoulders, and talked in loud voices, though that never really helped the vendors understand them through their thick accents. This fellow, however, was dressed in a thick but rather worn looking dark cloak, with a large hood obscuring their face. The herbalist's customer didn't reply, but hunched over his table of goods, looking carefully.

After a minute of silence, the herbalist cleared his throat and said tentatively, "Er, if there was somethin' you were lookin' for…" he trailed off, not sure how to address the mysterious person. The cloaked person looked up suddenly, as though noticing him for the first time again, and the vendor almost jumped at the movement. He met a pair of large, deep orange eyes peering at him through a scarf covering the face, and a soft, but clear voice came from the stranger.

"I'm looking to trade a bag of deep mushroom for a few sprigs of deathroot," The voice was smooth and low, but the herbalist was surprised to recognize a woman's voice. "...ser." She added, and he could tell by her eyes that she was smiling kindly at him.

"Oh, I-" the herbalist regained his composure and nodded knowingly. "Ay, of course, serah, of course! I have just a few bundles left of deathroot, I do…" He rummaged through the basket next to his stool and brought out a small bag, opening it and showing its contents to his customer, who seemed satisfied with what she saw. "That's potent stuff, that is…" but his warning was cut off by his delight at the mushrooms she had laid on the table for exchange.

"Maker-" he breathed, "Maker, that's some good stock, that! Looks like it's been picked yesterday!"

"Is it enough?" The smooth voice asked.

The herbalist was very happy with the product, and nodded, feeling a twinge of guilt for not offering more deathroot, of which he in fact had a few more stalks left. He ignored the feeling and turned to put aside the fresh mushrooms, but when he turned back to thank the serah for her business, she had already gone, taking the bag of deathroot with her.

Down at the docks, the deckhands were loading up a ship to Ferelden when they heard a smooth, clear voice behind them.

"Room for one?"

A small, cloaked figure with two orange eyes looking out of the hood greeted them with the clink of coin. A few more were enough to get a letter to be taken on another southbound ship and the stranger boarded the Ferelden ship. She removed her hood, but kept her head scarf wrapped tightly around her as she sat herself down in the corner of the deck where she wouldn't get in any sailor's way, and stretched out her arm. A small, brown hawk landed gracefully on her forearm, and clicked its beak at her. She stroked his small head, ruffled the feather gently behind his neck, and set him in her lap where he sat still, nibbling contentedly at a strip of meat she handed him. Soon, the ship pulled from the port of Kirkwall and was making its way into the bay, headed for Ferelden.

"Come on, Alistair, it's your turn now!" roared a gleeful group of Grey Warden men, laughing and slapping a young man on the back. The man, much younger than any of the rest, held his hands up in protest, but grinned widely and laughed with them. A large tankard overflowing with ale was being pushed on the table towards him, next to a collection of identical large tankards, all filled to the brim, ready to be consumed irresponsibly. Across the small wooden table sat a large, smug looking Grey Warden, who was wiping his beard and throwing a drained cup down on the table next to him. A few Grey Wardens were dragging away an unconscious fellow Warden who had previously been sitting where Alistair was now being forced to take place, although, Alistair thought, it seemed they were doing their best not to trip over the poor drunk from their own tipsy laughter. He looked at the large man in front of him, wondering how he got to the position he was in.

The large Warden leaned on his elbow and grabbed another tankard.

"You alright, sonny? Nice knowin' ya." He grinned mischievously at Alistair, who, grinning back but now slightly dreading his decision, took up the tankard in front of him and raised it to his lips.

When Alistair awoke late morning, he was greeted by blinding sunlight and a head splitting pain through the front of his eyes and somewhere behind his ears. He groaned and tried to sit up, but nearly vomited in the process and leaned on the bench to hold himself up.

Of course I'm right in the one patch of sun in the tavern, he grumbled.

When he could lift his head again, he looked around at the tavern. His fellow Grey Wardens were strewn everywhere- on the floor, on the benches and tables of the room. If it weren't for the audible snores and empty beer mugs everywhere, it would've looked like a massacre had taken place through the night. He slowly inched his way to the door, trying not to step on anyone else and groaning the entire way from his headache. On his way out, he grabbed a hunk of bread from an unconscious Warden's clutch, and he stepped out the cool morning mist, the sun light stinging his eyes and forcing him to cover his face with his hands for a few minutes. The young, hungover Warden made his way down to the river bank to drink and splash water on his face and head, where he collapsed and tore off a piece of bread, grudgingly shoving it into his mouth, wincing as he chewed. He finished the bread and started drinking the cold spring water, thanking the Maker for such a refreshing substance.

As he washed his hands and face in the river, he suddenly felt the hair on the back of his neck rise and he looked up, eyes straining to see any signs of movement in the forest across the river.

Alistair stood up, slowly, and reached for his sword beside him on the grass. He didn't think he could sense any darkspawn, but his headache was getting in his way. The bushes rustled again in the trees, and he gripped his sword tightly. He thought he could hear something stumbling towards him, and he steeled his heart and stepped over the small stream, getting ready to swing.

A small, cloaked figure practically fell out of the trees, tripping in the grass and falling towards Alistair. Before he had time to respond, it suddenly pulled away from him with a grunt, and just when he thought he saw a flash of orange, he felt a sharp pain in his left forearm. He yelled and took a step back, tightening his grip with his right hand and swinging at the figure. Whether the cloaked being ducked or just happened to fall, Alistair didn't know. It knelt down on one knee and drew a long dagger from underneath the cloak, and he took another step back, preparing for a lunge.

Just then, the hood slipped off the creature's head and Alistair found himself looking at a small framed, dark woman with beige facial tattoos, with her long black tresses falling around her shoulders from the hood. Her bright orange eyes were watching him, hard, and everything about her body language was defensive- but she did not attack him immediately. The unexpected pause gave Alistair a chance to take in the woman, and he suddenly noticed she was wincing through her glare. A scratch on her cheek was still fresh, and her hands that gripped the long daggers were coated in - the smell he could recognize anywhere- Darkspawn blood. She was breathing heavily and roughly, and, without breaking her gaze, she coughed weakly. Blood spattered the grass from her mouth, and the effort made her sink to her other knee as well.

"Hey-" Alistair lowered his sword and took a step forward. "You're hurt-" But the young woman held herself up by one dagger, sunk into the grass, and pointed the other at him, warning him not to touch her.

"Don't…" She said, voice hoarse and barely above a whisper. But her blade wavered, and she winced. Her body finally gave in, and her eyes rolled, and she collapsed to the ground.

Alistair breathed out, not moving just yet. He lowered his sword and looked out into the forest, wary of any darkspawn. Not sensing any, he sheathed his weapon and went towards the woman. As he bent down to lift her, he heard a screech from above him, and suddenly he was being attacked by a flurry of angry, beating wings, screeching, and sharp talons. He cried out and swatted around him, agitating the small bird even more. The Warden swore and ducked his head, and lifting the injured woman from the ground, ran back to the inn, shouting for the other Wardens and yelling in pain as the angry hawk tore at any visible skin through his armor and at his hair.

A tall, dark haired and bearded Warden came quickly out of his chambers and came to Alistair's aide. He held his hand up at the furious little hawk and shouted at it, guiding Alistair and the woman inside an empty room and slamming the door. They could hear the hawk screeching and attacking the door, but they ignored it and went to lay the unconscious woman on the bed in the room. Alistair quickly told his helper what had happened, and the older man's brow grew even more serious from his calm face.

"Duncan-" Alistair started again, but the Warden had already started to throw back the cloak from the woman and examine what wounds he could find. Alistair laid the two daggers he had grabbed from the woman on the wood table next to the bed, and suddenly felt a searing pain in his forearm again. He almost dropped the dagger in pain, and involuntarily yelped. Duncan looked up sharply at him and took his arm, examining it closely.

"Poison darts," he said softly, and instructed Alistair to remove his armor, which he did gingerly.

The dark had been expertly aimed at the slim opening in his armor where he buckled his arm guards, and had been broken off save the tip, which was lodged into his skin. Duncan carefully squeezed out the shard and wrapped a piece of rope around Alistair's upper arm, tying it uncomfortably tight. He moved swiftly about the room, filling a bowl with hot water from the pot hanging in the fireplace, rags, and after he had set the hot, wet rags on Alistair's arm, began rummaging through the young woman's pouches, hung tightly on her hips. He pulled out a small glass vial, filled with a deep blue, almost black liquid, and strode back over to the younger warden, who was starting to feel short of breath and light headed. He filled a mug with hot water and dripped a few drops of the dark liquid into it, and helped Alistair drink. Alistair could barely gulp it down, partly due to the awful bitterness of the drink and his body slowly shutting down. He breathed hard for a few more moments, Duncan watching his carefully, and slowly felt his breath coming easier, face growing cooler, and the pain in his arm subsiding. He looked in amazement and confusion at Duncan, who wiped away the sweat that had formed on Alistair's brow with a dry rag.

"The darts this woman used were coated in deathroot poison," he explained, turning to place the glass vial carefully next to the two daggers. "She carried the antidote on her, thankfully. It's a powerful and quick working poison, and having the antidote could be a strong bargaining point for information, if she needed it from her victims. You may feel a little drowsy, a side affect from the antidote. Sit down." Duncan was now carefully removing the woman's layers of clothing in order to treat her wounds, and chuckled mildly. "It never amazes me how well equipped assassins are, and with so little weight," he said, removing her leather boots and belt. He held up the boot to Alistair, who looked at him in bewilderment, and carefully slid out a blade that extended out from the tip of the shoe.

Alistair whistled. "Kick them while they're down, huh?" he admired. "So you think she's an assassin?"

"Or a very careful traveller, trained to fight from her early life," the Warden responded, folding the scarf and cloak, putting them neatly on the floor beside the bed, and reaching for the bucket of hot water and rags, which Alistair handed to him. He cleaned the woman's wounds; most weren't desperate, but a nasty gash from a Darkspawn blade on her ribs warranted further attention, special herbs, and bandaging. Alistair helped him create salves, using ingredients that the woman had been carrying in her few leather pouches, and the inn-keeper's wife, Stelle, came in to reclothe her in a clean night shirt while they cleared their handiwork and washed the rags outside. The hawk from earlier was eyeing them beadily from from a nearby tree. They walked back inside, where Stelle was tucking the unconscious woman into the cot.

"The poor dear," she sighed. She was an older woman of about 60, with a kind, round face, and treated all the Warden's like her own sons when they stayed. She was looking at the young woman in the bed now with the expression she would give while watching her tired granddaughter. "The wilder parts of Ferelden are really getting so dangerous lately… and she looks like she hasn't had a proper meal in days. Should I prepare something, Duncan, do you think she'll wake up?"

Duncan gave a small smile at the kind woman. "I think," he said, thinking, "She may wake up this evening, after some good rest. The blade she was attacked by did not seem to have any poison coating, thank Andraste. A nice stew would do her a lot of good when she does wake up, Stelle. Thank you."

"I'll make a large pot, then. Your boys will be needing some soon, too, I imagine, after the state of last night. If they expect me to clean the tavern up after them…" She wagged a finger disapprovingly at Duncan, who chuckled and raised a hand.

"I'll make sure you don't have to wash a single mug tonight, serah," he promised.

Stelle clicked her tongue as though annoyed, but was smiling, happy to be of help, and gave one more sympathetic and worried look at the woman before bustling off to the main house and kitchens.

Duncan stood up from his stool where he was sitting and refilled the mug with hot water, which he handed to Alistair.

"You stay here," he said, "Keep an eye on that arm, and call for Stelle if she should wake," he gestured towards the stranger in the bed. "I doubt she will, at least for a few hours more, but if she does then I wouldn't be surprised if she tries to fight her way out of here. I'm going to go check on the forest where you found her for any signs of darkspawn with a few more men.. provided I can find a couple more who are not so hungover they cannot move." He sighed, though Alistair saw he was smirking slightly, and left the room.

Alistair sipped the hot water as he called, "Yesser, yesser, ser yes ser…" after Duncan, and sat down on the wooden chair. He sat at the table, looking at all of the woman's belongings. Duncan was right, he thought. If she hadn't been injured, I'm not sure I could've survived a fight with her… especially with a hangover. He picked up the little glass vial of dark blue liquid and examined it. It was almost black, but shone blue in the sunlight. He picked up a blade and studied it as well. It was sleek and curved slightly, coated in a dark grey blue sheen- poison. Probably the same nasty stuff at the darts, he thought, and didn't touch the blade. The hilt was interesting. It was dirty from travel, but he rubbed off some of the grime and the gold end glinted brightly. There was a crest on the gold, with from dried blood wedged between the raises. The rest of the hilt was wrapped in black leather, and was nicely worn from use. Alistair put down the blade and sat back in his chair.

His gaze went to the woman in the bed. He hadn't really gotten a good look at her yet, as he had been busy with tending to her wounds. He was surprised to see that she was really quite beautiful. He had been slightly terrified of her bright orange eyes boring into him when he faced her at the stream, but now her face was relaxed, and she looked peaceful as she slept. Her beige tattoos contrasted with her dark brown skin and they dotted and danced over her cheekbones and chin. Dried blood flecked some strands of her long, thick black hair, and it was fanned out around her, hanging off the pillow like a waterfall. Stelle was right, despite her beauty her face looked slightly gaunt, as though she hadn't eaten more than berries and roots for a long while. She wasn't frail, however. Her expertise in fighting had toned her arms and legs into strong, capable, muscular tools.

There was a tapping at the window, and Alistair tore his gaze away from the woman and looked up. The small hawk was on the window sill, glaring at him. Alistair got up and opened the window, letting in the suspicious bird.

"See, look, she's fine! I didn't kill her, though she nearly killed me. No need to ruffle your feathers, you small demon," he said, holding out his hand, which he hawk promptly nipped, hard. Alistair swore and swat at it lightly. It hopped down from the window onto the bed and went over to look at its mistress. Seemingly satisfied that she was not, in fact, dead, he gave a little squawk and flew out of the window, perching upon the tree for surveillance once more.

Alistair chuckled as he shook his bitten hand, still cursing the hawk. He sat down at the table once more and, though he did not realize it, gazed at the woman again until he fell asleep, lulled by his still groggy mind and exhaustion from the morning.