I'm rewriting this story, I do know that it's been a long time since I've updated and for that I apologize. I'm going through what's already been posted, revamping it and making it much better than it was. Thank you for patience, if you've been here once before already, and welcome to the story, if this is your first time.

This is for Hans Coyote, who may very well be my best friend in the world.

I own nothing but my four, Rowenna, Declan, Temrys and Mat.

Prologue

Deep in the ocean, dead and cast away
Where innocence is burned, in flames
A million mile from home, I'm walking ahead
I'm frozen to the bones, I am...

The storm that assailed Kirkwall blew in from the sea. Even Darktown appeared deserted as the desperate souls who lived there sought whatever shelter they could from the gale. The wind whistled and howled i's way through the winding streets, knocking over what it could and rattling that which defied it by remaining upright. It was the kind of weather that made sailors nervous. The kind that made suspicious fish wives lock their shutters tight and go to bed early; and it was this weather that Marian Hawke and her companions were waiting out over pints of ale in the Hanged Man, a pile of cards and a pile of gold in front of them.

As usual, the pile of ill-won money in front of Isabela was only marginally smaller than the pile in front of Varric, and both were substantially larger than the pitiful stacks in front of everyone else. Fenris scowled at his cards, his lips pursing in thought, Anders had long since given up on trying to win and was leaning back in his chair with his hands behind his head - a rare moment of seeming peace for the mage-crusader, and Merrill was eyeing her own cards with the innocent determination of a mouse trying to worry a hole through a bag of rice. Hawke's cards were face down on the table. So pleased was she in the rare moment of serenity that she didn't even remember which cards she was holding - not that she particularly cared.

In short, everyone was having a good time. Ale and laughter flowed as easily and readily as the rain outside, accompanied by good natured calls of "cheat!" It was only Varric that seemed to be slightly disturbed, something that did not escape Hawke's notice.

Hawke tossed her cards in the center of the table, indication of folding for the current hand and leaned forward on her elbows. Curious blue eyes fondly regarded the dwarf – arguably the best friend she had in the world – and she favored him with her patented smile. "Now I know you're not letting the rest of us keep our gold out of the goodness of your heart," she teased in a low voice meant only for him, "What's the matter? Get into a fight with Bianca?"

Varric let out a gruff laugh and lovingly stroked a hand along the wooden stock of the crossbow that lay propped up against the table, ever within reach. Marian was certain that one day she was going to waltz into the Hanged Man and Bianca would have her own chair. "You wish, Hawke." He chuckled again and shook his head, waving a hand adorned in gold rings that glittered in the low light, as though pushing the question aside. "It's just one of those things, must be the weather. I can't shake the feeling that this is how all the uncomfortable stories start."

The dock master couldn't believe what he was seeing, and had even opened his door to the thunderous rain to make sure that his eyes weren't playing tricks on him.

A ship was trying to come into port.

"Don't just stand there," he shouted at his assistant, causing the poor man to nearly jump out of his skin. He shoved him forward, propelling him out the door and into the rain, toward the small ship. "Help them lash that thing to the dock before they drown!"

The timid assistant scurried as fast as his leather boots would allow on the stones that were now perilously slick, wringing his hands and trying to see through the sheets of rain that pelted the docks unforgivingly. "If I drown, I'll haunt his whole blighted family," he grumbled to himself, striding to the edge of the docks (or as close to the edge as he was willing to get in this hurricane) and catching the rope that was tossed down at him. "I'll take peeks at his wife in her small clothes too; serve him right for sending me out here." The end of the rope was secured, knotted firmly despite his rapidly numbing fingers. Another length of soaked rope hit him squarely in the chest and he had more than half a mind to throw it right back, the fact that he doubted he could actually throw the rope back onto the vessel non-withstanding. His beady eyes squinted against the rain in an effort to see who it was he helping, but he managed nothing more than a glimpse of blonde hair before they disappeared back over the side. Again and again, he clumsily caught lengths of rope unceremoniously tossed at him until whoever it was on that Maker-forsaken boat had decided that it wasn't going anywhere despite the weather.

It was a small vessel, a squat and unimpressive thing with little in the way of decoration, meant for carrying travelers, not cargo. Still, the dock master mused from his place of observation, there was something to be said of its sturdiness if it had survived the hurricane on open seas long enough to make it into port.

"Well now, would you look at that," he murmured, leaning against the door frame and ignoring his assistant's chattering teeth as he scurried back inside.

The passengers on the ship were debarking, and they were not at all the pathetic dog-lords who insisted on coming to Kirkwall despite the Blight having ended earlier that year.

Making use of the lashing that secured their vessel to the docks, four figures slid down the saturated ropes with an easy grace that could only be attributed to experience and coordination. Any words shared between them were lost immediately to the thunderous rain. He strained to listen anyway; catching only brief phrases and words in a familiar sounding language that he did not speak as they drew closer. Their faces remained hidden from him as they passed his office, the hoods of their silver cloaks pulled up to ward against the weather, but the promise of steel whispered from beneath the material of their cloaks. He wondered, at the flash of heavily armored gauntlets he caught, if they were Templars come to help the Chantry with their blood mage "problem". Feasible, except their ship wasn't flying the flag of the Divine and he couldn't see enough of their armor to determine whether or not they wore the flaming sword of Andraste on their breast.

As they disappeared into the gloom of Lowtown, he could not shake the uncomfortably heavy feeling that the City of Chains was a little worse for their arrival.