There had been no shortage of work for Fenris. After the uprising of the circles, more and more refugees took to the roads, making themselves prime pray for bandits, thieves and worse. The elf was gaining a reputation, at least in the Free Marches, with having put down seven organized guilds, and thirteen rag-tag groups. The elf had lost track of the date, such things mattered little. He knew it to have been at least two years since Kirkwall's uprising, perhaps three, and it had been just as long since he had seen his friends from such a time, or his enemies.

He was in familiar territory, however. A village, named after some insignificant local hero or another, that rested just at the border of Starkhaven's city state. It wasn't a wealthy settlement, but not an incredibly poor one, either. For every belly there was ample food and a bed, which was all Fenris truly needed.

His horse, or pony would be the more accurate term, snorted as they approached the inn. The elf could feel the steed flexing, walking with his head higher and not quite looking where he was going, "Fasta vaas," he grunted, clicking his tongue and pressing his heels into the beast's side, as to urge him forward.

He knew exactly why the steed was strutting. The children of the village never failed to gather upon seeing the luminous elf's approach. He despised the attention, though his beast of burden was quite the opposite, enjoying the apples and treats the children would bring for the hero's mount, "Learn some humility," he would mutter, getting a snort in reply.

As for the children, Fenris would not look at them. Rather, he pulled his hood up, a feeble attempt to shield him from their gawking and cheers. The voices were high-pitched, whining, pleading with their mothers to let them get close. At times, he was grateful for the fact that lyrium markings tended to scare a vast majority of responsible parents. They were generally kept within arm's reach of their parents, but it didn't stop the questions.

Maker, the questions. Who did you save? Have you been to Antiva? Did you bring me anything? Was there a dog? Were they ugly?

They were never worthwhile inquiries, nothing about how to defend themselves from the magic, how close they were, or signs to look for if they saw a slaver in the market. It was as if the children wanted to be kidnapped.

Dropping from his stallion, he began walking her to the stables, handing her reins, along with a small sack of silver coins, to the stable boy. He tipped too much, he knew he did, though he had little use for money. That, and the lad was too gaunt-looking for the elf's comfort. He could only hope the poor fool would spend the coin on food and clean clothes rather than the bottle.

Where most travelers would head inside the welcoming tavern, the elf, instead, turned around and began striding across the road to a modest stone building. The village's chantry paled in comparison to those within the cities, with no golden statues of Andraste within or stained glass windows crafted from an artisan's touch. It was old, simple, and quiet. As the man's lyrium-tainted fingertips brushed against the wood of the door, the man would feel a strange sense come over him.

Euphoria, though he doubted it was the proper application of the word. The doors, old, cracked and slightly molded, brought a slew of memories back to the elf. Isabela's kisses upon his scarred flesh, Hawke's gentle and firm touches of friendship and comradeship, and Sebastian's knowing smile when their eyes met in the Chantry. Friendship. He felt welcome within the doors, and warm in spite of the autumn chill.

As he entered, he could see that there were only few people within. A small group of sisters, standing together and whispering, though just what they were saying was lost in the echo. The Revered Mother, a woman whose name he remembered as being Shiloh, sat at the pews in prayer, though she did not speak, merely sit there with her head bowed to her Maker.

There was a usually certain peace that radiated from the building, just as light bled from a candle. He had rarely entered a chantry without feeling a sense of safety, the last bit most could find in current years. As he walked up the aisle, eyeing the carpet below his feet as he did, before he would close his eyes and inhale deeply.

He did not feel safe.

His eyes opened once more, and his attention would shift to the group of women. With two having their backs to him, he could only see the shortest of the sisters. Her flesh was pale, though she did not wear the robes of a cloistered sister. Her eyes were wide, yet she was comfortable around Fenris by now, and there was a faint shine from her skin, yet it was neither hot nor raining. She met his eyes and smiled, he did not return it.

She was trembling. Her fear sang loudly, and his markings tingled in warning. She was afraid, not of him, but of something. Something close. Her eyes shined with tears, her smiling face falling into a quiet sob. The sisters tried to comfort her, their voices soft and reassuring, though he could make out nothing of what they said.

His ear twitched, and Fenris would sidestep, turning sharply to see an arrow lodged in the pew behind him. They sisters screamed as the mother ran to them, trying to bring them to safety. Their fear was bright, but not blinding.

The elf followed the arrow's path, seeing an armored woman on the second floor with another one knocked and ready. He sneered as he began to run, but not to the door, rather, the stairs. He took them two at a time, leaping with each movement as he would draw his blade. A familiar weight, a familiar situation.

Upon landing on the cool tiles of the second floor, the elf didn't miss a beat. Immediately he would charge forward, his face stoic and his voice silent as the woman turned to face him. Her face was not unfamiliar, with fair skin, a nose that had clearly been broken, and thick eyebrows. A homely woman, and by the glint in those pale eyes of hers, she had seen her fair share of war, if not in the past few years, then well before that.

He danced to the side, an arrow flicking past his ear and into the window. The glass's shatter rang clear as a bell, yet it was secondary, registered but not acknowledged, not yet. First, he had the woman to deal with.

Upon drawing close to her, however, she would take the bottom of her bow in both hands. Fenris's brows furrowed - What was she going to do? She wasn't planning to-

Whack!

The elf fell back, his momentum effectively broken as the bow slapped across his cheek, sending him flying back. His head cracked against the tile, causing the elf to groan and bring a hand to his head. He wasn't bleeding from his scalp, not as far as he could tell, his cheek was a different story. As his vision would settle, he could see blurry smears against the white. He tasted copper in his mouth, hot and sticky, as if it had been sweat.

Spitting to the side, the man pulled himself back up in time to see the woman running at him with a thick short sword. As she slashed forward, he would dive back, though he didn't fall again. Instead, he would use both feet to push himself from the ground.

His markings were glowing now, leaving a charred, black burn where they had touched the ground, effectively burning a hole through his boots. It was in such times where time seemed to bend to the warrior's will. With the floor beneath him feeling to have vanished, the elf lunged to the woman, his hand outstretched and ethereal.

His fingers slipped past her skin with ease, squeezing gently once they had gotten past layers of skin and muscle. Apathetic eyes gazed to her as her face turned to that of struggle and agony, her scream coming out as a wet, choked cough. He held her like that for several seconds, watching her panic grow over what must have seemed like years to the woman.

He pulled his hand back then, his markings' light settling once their job was done into a soft glow. The woman fell to the ground, landing with a thud as she coughed and hacked. He allowed for her to recover for a few moments before he reached out again, this time taking hold of her cropped hair and yanking her up.

Once he properly had the woman in his grasp, the elf would slam her into the wall. With one hand holding her still, the other held onto his blade, which he seemed to be using less and less as time passed, "Answer me," the elf snarled as he would glare, "Who sent you?" Words he spoke all too often, those, often met with either spit in his face or a sobbing confession of being manipulated and used, shortly being followed by his would-be killer begging for their life.

The woman, however, did neither of the two things. Her eyes hardened, and the elf prepared himself for a spit that would never come. Instead, she spoke in a hoarse, strained voice, "Prince Sebastian Vael," after which she would cough, raising her hand to cover it before it was promptly smacked away by the elf's gauntleted hand.

"Why did he send you to me? Does he wish me dead?" The elf, while hostile, was perplexed: He had not left on bad terms with Sebastian. While Fenris had remained at the Champion's side during the uprising, the prince was a friend, one who had gone so far as to offer him a position in his army after the elf had left Hawke's side. Why Sebastian would send an assailant after him both confused and concerned him: How long had she been waiting for him? What other habits of his did the prince know?

"No," she answered, "He wished for me to test you… He did not expect me to best you."

Fenris scoffed, "I could have killed you," he pointed out, "Very easily. He was willing to risk your life to test me? I find that hard to believe."

"If you would allow for me to move, I can show you the orders," She muttered, coughing shortly after before glaring up to the elf, "He told me you would not believe me."

"Nor would anyone with sense," Fenris growled, though he would step away from the woman, allowing for her to move as she saw fit. He would eye her bow, however, dropped onto the floor when he had been choking her. His eyes darted between her and her weapon, as not to miss a moment if she decided to spring to it instead of her pack. She would, however, reach into her satchel and produce a scroll. After handing it to the elf, she stood mutely with her arms crossed, eyeing him expectantly.

In the fine script of a scribe's hand, the parchment wrote curtly above what Fenris assumed was the Vael royal seal:

Lady Shyla,

You are to travel to the village of Argyll's Crossing and wait as long as needed for the elf Fenris. Upon seeing him approach the village, immediately prepare to ambush him in the church. Warn the sisters and mother of what is to happen, and see to it that they remain unharmed. Leave a donation before you go. Once finished with the fight, whomever the victor, you are to escort Fenris to the palace in order to meet with His Highness Prince Sebastian Vael. You are not to aim to kill the elf, merely test him for combat prowess.

With an irritable grunt, he tossed the scroll back to her, "I believe you." His head would tilt to the side, however, with his eyes staring directly and aggressively into her own, "It is out of character for Sebastian to send orders to attack within a chantry. Explain this."

In lieu of doing so, Shyla would simply frown, "My orders were not to explain his highness's ethics." She walked over to her bow, picking it up and ignoring the curse Fenris had called her in Tevinte while she did.

With little else spoken between the two of them, they would make their way out the door. While Shyla approached the Revered Mother to apologize and donate on behalf of the prince, Fenris moved to the door. He pushed it open, the his markings stinging as they made contact with the cold and unforgiving wood.

As he stepped out, he noticed a boy, one who looked to be waiting for him, perk up. However, as the child caught sight of his hero, he would frown, concern and fear clear on his features. Fenris couldn't blame him. His face was sticky with his own blood, and his markings had burned holes through his boots and clothing, as they always would when he went into an unexpected fight. Maker forbid he assume he'd have a quiet night.

"I am fine," he told the young man, who looked both worried and delighted in the fact that the elf had spoken to him directly, "Your concern is appreciated… Go inside, I'm sure your mother wants you home for supper." He watched the boy nod dumbly, a grin spreading on the youth's face as he no-doubt began to plan out the story in which Fenris looked at him and talked to him. His hero was certain that half the village would think he had practically adopted the child come sunrise.

Trying to push the night's events from his mind, Fenris walked back across the way to the inn. With a room prepared for him out of habit, he would pay the innkeep before walking up the stairs, and to the familiar little space.

It wasn't much, small, scarcely furnished, and with blankets that were clearly homemade. With the sun setting, he became the room's primary light source, with his markings glowing softly through the fabric and leather of his traveling clothes. He set his sword down next to his saddlebag, which he noticed the stable boy had brought up for such a generous tip, and he began to undress.

His ruined clothe slipped off with ease, his shirt falling apart as it did, and landing in several pieces on the floor. His boots, pants and small clothes, all ruined by his lyrium markings burning in the fight, followed in suit until he stood there, nude and alone.

Approaching the bed, he fell into it with all the grace of an exhausted man who had gone without a proper rest in days. Wrapping the covers over him, sleep overtook the elf before his thoughts could, leaving tomorrow's problems for just that.