Carver wasn't a religious man by any merit. He had gone to the Chantry in Lothering along with his mother to keep up appearances, and he mainly celebrated Wintersend because of all the free food that was being handed out at the market. Nevertheless, on his few-and-far-between nights off from the Gallows, he found himself drawn to Hightown's Chantry. Maybe it was because it was one of the few places in Kirkwall that wasn't filled with refugees, blood mages, gangs, or sewer rats. Or maybe it was the Maker trying to tell him something, a calling to a higher good.

But Carver was not a religious man, and he knew deep down that the only reason he wandered into the shadow of the Chantry's grand façade during his free time was to catch a glimpse of the Amelle estate, hoping maybe one of these times someone would come out and beg him to come home.

Standing in front of the solemn, chipped statue of Andraste, Carver nodded at the Chanter fumbling through "The Chant of Light" to his left and tossed a few bits into the collection plate at the base of the statue. He glanced over his shoulder, at the noble but not stand-offish townhouse that belonged to his family, but he was not seen. The house was lit by flickering candlelight and the dim sound of laughter could be heard through the stone walls. His brother was home ("Thank the Maker, it's getting late into the evening," a quiet part of Carver's brain thought), but as usual, he was in his own world, completely absorbed with the pleasure and fun that Carver thought always came to him.

Carver's heart ached, and as the minutes passed he began to resent his brother even more for failing to notice him on his doorstep.

It was then that Carver heard a noise in the quiet of the evening. It wasn't a drunken stumble or the scurry of an animal, although it was very light. It sounded like the sound of someone who had jumped from quite a height, landing perfectly still… and then… humming?

It came from around the corner, near Seneschal Bran's residence. Looking around, Carver realized that the City Guards were either busy in other areas or spending a night "investigating" the Blooming Rose again. Deciding to take it upon himself ("as usual", he thought bitterly), with a quick huff of breath and his hand on his sword, Carver rounded the corner to investigate.

"Hello?" He asked. "Is someone there?" Dammit, he'd been a recruit in the Templars for a good two years now, but he still failed to properly intimidate someone. He tried to make out any figures nearby, but it was simply too dark for anyone to see. Perhaps it really was an animal…

"Carver?" A willowy voice from the darkness questioned. "Is that you?" That accent, the way the foreign tongue stumbled over the Common words… Carver knew this voice. He instantly blushed, stark blotches of red starting to stain his cheeks, his neck.

"Merrill? I-I'm sorry… I – " He began to step back, putting his hands up to show that he had no intention of harming her, but Merrill met him half-way, taking a long stride from the shadows and into his line of sight.

"Oh, so it really is you Carver!" The elf gushed at him, her shoulders relaxing and her eyes beaming up at him. Carver, on the other hand, tried to look anywhere but at her. "Thank the Creators, I thought it might have been a Templar – not that you're not a Templar, I-I just thought it may have been one sent to—to-."

Merrill was rambling now, twiddling her fingers nervously. Carver became even more uncomfortable, and quickly tried to put her worries to rest.
"Well, don't worry, it's just me. And if it's any condolence, I'm glad it's you who I found just now. But either way, you never have anything to worry about from me." Carver looked into her eyes then, quickly, giving her a small smile.

This time Merrill's cheeks turned pink (well, pinker than usual). She chuckled a little. "Thank you, Carver, that means a lot to me."

Carver stood, dumbfounded at the elf's words. She seemed so genuinely thankful that Carver wouldn't turn her in. As if she had expected otherwise.

"So," Merrill said, ignoring the look on Carver's face and rolling on the balls of her feet. "What are you doing around here so late at night?" Her eyes darted towards Cole Hawke's estate, and she grinned like she had just solved a riddle. "Oh, I get it. You're going to Hawke's party, right?"

Party? What party? And why? It was a sodding Tuesday in the middle of Winter! And more importantly, why hadn't Carver been invited?

Carver's face reddened, but it wasn't from Merrill's presence this time. It was from the embarrassment of not being invited to, not even hearing of, his own brother's party.

"No, I'm not going to his party," Carver spat out. "It didn't interest me. I'm just visiting the Chantry." Carver clenched his hands into fists, counted to ten, tried to release the anger he felt. This whole party business didn't matter to him anyway. He didn't have time for stupid parties. He was part of the order now.

Merrill seemed to notice his disposition change, and her face clouded with confusion and concern. Then, in a wave of understanding, she sighed and reached out to comfort her friend's younger brother. "Me too, actually. Parties don't ever seem to interest me. Too loud." She giggled, lightly running her lithe fingers along the Templars barren forearm. But at the touch of skin-on-skin, Merrill's mind was instantly brought to another place. She retracted her hand quickly, earning a confused look from Carver who had seemed to be hypnotized by her touch just seconds ago.

As if he had just shaken off the effects of some spell, Carver suddenly remembered why he had rounded the corner and found Merrill here in the first place. "By the way Merrill, did you hear anything…" He began casually. He glanced down, only to see a covered basket in one of Merrill's hands. It was a basket a peasant-woman might bring to market in the Spring; something a child might bring to collect flowers in the meadow. In other words, it was the exact sort of basket one would expect Merrill to have.

"Hey, what have you got in there?" Carver had meant it as a simple question, but the moment he asked, Merrill's eyes widened and she became fidgety and nervous again.

"I-I'm sorry Carver, I'd love to stay and chat, b-b-but I really need to get going!" She stammered, running in the direction of the Red-Light district. Carver could do nothing but watch as her bare feet quickly padded along the hard stone of Hightown.

Carver shook his head, confused, but then he thought of that sound he had heard earlier. Could that someone that had jumped from some height be Merrill? Looking to his left, he saw Seneschal Bran's courtyard wall, which had some loose chinks of stone in it and could easily be scaled by someone with small enough feet.

That basket…

Had Merrill just robbed Seneschal Bran's house?

"Dammit!" Carver said, pounding his fist against the townhouse's outer wall. Not only had he just had a friendly conversation with a blood mage he had all but allowed said blood mage to steal from a nobleman's house. Right in front of he, a trained Templar's, eyes! And he had let this happen all because of his stupid infatuation with her – how his mind was foggy and his mouth didn't work right when she was around, how his eyes wandered and his body tensed and –

No. There was no infatuation with her. Or perhaps there was, but there wasn't one anymore. He had decided what he wanted to do with his life. It was his calling to become a Templar. He and only he had decided to leave his ancestral home, his brother's stupid parties, and strange little elf women behind.

It was his duty to go through with becoming a Templar, and it was something for only him to understand – not Cole Hawke, not his mother, not Merrill, not anyone else.

And part of his duty as a Templar was to protect his brother, Merrill, and yes, even that sleaze bag Anders, from the other Templars. He was sick and tired of babysitting his brother and his gang of idiots, but it was the one thing he could do.

He had to find Merrill, before she found herself in real trouble for what she had just done.

Carver wasn't a religious man, but as he passed by the looming statue of Andraste on his way to Lowtown, he asked the cold statue for a blessing. Maybe Andraste at the very least could take pity on him.