A/N: a little explanation. This is a Dragon Age 2 fanfic, and will take place generally over the course of that game. I will allude to certain quests, and maybe write in one or two if they are relevant to my OC's story. However, my OC, Hrodwynn, is not Hawke (did you see that one coming? I didn't. Wish someone would've told me…). She has her own life, her own background, and her own troubles. And Fenris gets caught up in them ;D

Chapter One

Fenris was leaning against the side of the building, one leg cocked, the foot planted flatly against the rough stone. His arms were crossed, but that in no way meant he wasn't ready to fight, to attack or defend himself. Not that he had to do either at the moment, the shadows concealing all but his white hair, and even that looked gray in the black night.

His face was cast downward, but his eyes were lifted up, flickering side to side beneath his black eyebrows, taking in every passerby through his unruly bangs. He watched the people, mostly elves here in the Lowtown Alienage, bustle past his little nook after performing their last-minute business for the day, more intent on getting home than on seeing the danger lurking in the shadows. And there was danger—there was always danger—besides him. There was another hunter prowling the streets.

He turned his head towards a shadow of movement, but it was only a banner fluttering in the breeze. His movement caused a persistent, nagging twinge to come to the forefront of his thoughts. It was a rare occurrence, as agony had been his only, constant companion for… well, for as long as he could remember. He carefully rolled his shoulder, still sore after he had landed funny on it while diving through an open window. It had been a few days ago, and most of the other hurts from that night were gone, but that one ache remained.

As did that one hunter captain.

He had gotten word that there was information regarding his past, sealed in a cargo chest hidden away here in the Alienage. It was obviously a trap, so he had hired a dwarf to find someone suitable to spring the trap. So far, Anso hadn't been able to find anyone foolish enough, or capable enough, to cause a distraction for the hunters, and time was running out. Fenris could not hide forever, nor did he want to—he wanted it over!

But could it ever be over for a former slave?

A gentle rain began to fall, more like a heavy mist or fog rolling in off the sea. It sank into the streets, saturating the air, softening the ground into mud, cooling the spring night into a brief flashback of winter. Perfect, he thought to himself, as the misting rain obscured even more of his surroundings. It may conceal the hunter from his eyes, but it also concealed him from the hunter. All that could be made out was movement, brief and indistinct, caught in the golden halos around the guttering torches.

And anyone who moved, would either be the hunter captain and his men, or those hired to be the distraction. Fenris would not move, waiting and biding his time until after the trap was sprung, after the hunters were engaged. Then he would turn the tables and kill the hunters. Until then, he would wait, silent as a shadow, for as surely as he was watching…

…so was the hunter.

She stood in front of the dwarf, a smile on her lips as she batted her bright green eyes, a stark contrast to the paleness of her skin. "I heard you got a big job, big guy." The mist that had been falling all evening tapered off as midnight approached, and she was glad to be able to lower her hood and let the breeze ruffle her thick, dark red hair. She brushed a lock back behind an ear, trying to look coy. "And that it involves a Siggerdson."

The dwarf rolled his eyes and sighed, "Of course, Hrodwynn, that would interest you." He pinched the bridge of his nose and said flatly, "No."

"No?" she repeated with mock indignation. "Ah, come on, Anso, you know you're gonna give me the job. Who else do you know can handle a lock like that?" She picked up some miscellaneous item off his counter and began fingering it. It was a small box full of gears and cogs, with a crank on the side that wound a spring.

He plucked the gizmo from her and set it back down, fearful that she'd have the item in pieces inside of ten seconds. Then he put his heavy hand on her chest and shoved her back, gently. He did like the girl, after all, which is why he couldn't give her the contract. "I know you can handle the lock, sweetie, but you can't handle the haul."

A smattering of laughter erupted behind her, and was just as quickly stifled. She turned to see three men approaching, specifically, two human men and a dwarf man. Her eyes narrowed and one hand strayed towards her hip, conveniently near a dagger at the small of her back. The dwarf looked harmless enough, bare cheeked and smiling, which instantly put her on guard; besides, he looked like he had been the one who laughed. At her.

The two humans, well, they were neatly dressed, for Lowtown, anyway. One wore the standard issue of some sort of soldier, sleeveless padded leather tunic and bracers. He had a youthful face, strong and eager to prove himself, which struck a resonating chord within her. The other was older, similar in coloring, wearing scarlet attire a little too rich and well kept for Lowtown. His black hair was mussed, windblown, but artfully so—considering his beard was meticulously groomed, a stark contrast to the mess. All were armed, the dwarf with a crossbow, the younger human with a two-handed greatsword, and the older with a long staff that ended in a wicked-looking mace.

"Something amuses you?" she asked, eyeing all three with as much menace as she could muster.

The older human scoffed, rolling his eyes and almost—almost!—yawning. "We're not here to talk with you, little girl. We're here to talk with Anso."

"What can I help you with, good sirs," Anso purred, essentially dismissing Hrodwynn from the conversation.

"We heard you had a job," the older one spoke again. Hrodwynn was really beginning to hate him. "Something to do with some… misplaced… property."

"Yes, well," Anso looked at Hrodwynn, who was making no move to walk away, "I, ah…"

"Is… she… already hired for the job?" the older asked again, thumbing over towards her.

"'She'," responded the girl, "Has a name."

"Well, since I don't know your name, I can't use it, can I?" he fired back at her.

Hrodwynn had the impulse to stick out her tongue, but barely managed to keep herself from doing so. Instead she huffed and let her hand stray back a little closer to her dagger. "I was…"

"Well, 'was' implies past tense," he interrupted. "'Now', we are. What do you say, Anso? Who gets the job?"

Maker, but she wanted to gut him in the street. Anso, however, was talking. "Well, good sirs, I am looking for someone who can retrieve some… misplaced… property for me. You see, I had hired some workers to… shall we say… see to it that some merchandise made it through customs without paperwork."

"You were smuggling," the older almost sighed. "What kind of property?"

"Ah, well, valuable property, of course, and, ah…"

"Illegal?" the older supplied.

"Yes, well, it's not actually for me, good sirs, but my client, who's getting very impatient. Templars can be so unreasonable."

"Let me guess: you're smuggling lyrium for the Templars!"

"Templars? That's just bloody great," groused the younger. "This isn't something we want to get involved in, is it."

It wasn't so much a question, as a statement. Hrodwynn was beginning to think she should back out, too, at this point. The last thing she needed was to get involved with the Templars, or any kind of authority. But the promised reward was too tempting. And the chance to crack a Siggerdson… Maker, that would help her reputation.

"Look, I know it sounds tricky, but you don't have to deal with my client, just me. Get the goods from the chest, a small hovel down in the Alienage. Bring them back here, and you'll get paid."

"What chest?" the dwarf asked his first question. Hrodwynn looked at him askance, still not liking him.

"Ah, um, er…" Anso shot a guilty glance at Hrodwynn. She resisted the urge to smile as she waited for him to answer. "A locked chest."

The other dwarf harrumphed, "I can handle a lock."

"Not this one," Hrodwynn argued. If these three were considering stealing her contract, she'd muscle her way into their little troupe, damn it!

"There are very few locks that I can't…"

"It's a Siggerdson," she interrupted. The dwarf was immediately silenced.

"What's a Siggerdson?" the younger asked, sounding genuinely curious.

"It's a Silverite reinforced, double-hinged chest, with a Fexter lock on a three dial system." The dwarf gave a low whistle as she finished, "Oh, and Glitterdust gas traps that go off if tampering is detected."

The dwarf looked up at the older human. "I can't break that, Hawke."

"I can," she boasted, "Blindfolded."

The older, Hawke, scoffed at this, but Anso cleared his throat. "She's, ah, she's right, good sirs," he sounded disappointed, even reluctant, but he was giving her an opening and she intended to use it. "The lyrium is being kept within a Siggerdson locked chest. Hrodwynn here is the only one I know who even has a chance of opening it." He looked to her, his eyes almost apologetic, as he finished, "You four will need to team up, Hrodwynn to pick the lock, the three of you to haul the lyrium back here."

"Glad that's settled, then," she lifted her eyes and dared Hawke to defy her.

"And now we've taken up babysitting."

She had stood there and watched him say it, watched those dry and taunting words slip from his lips. Her hand strayed up to her hip again, far too close to that dagger. The next moment, however, the dwarf was sticking his hand in front of her chest and waiting for her to take it. "We should probably introduce ourselves. The bearded one is Garrett Hawke, the other one's Carver Hawke." She took his hand, letting go of the idea of taking out her dagger—at least for now. "And I'm Varric."

Hrodwynn felt her jaw drop. "You're Varric? I thought you'd be less… ah… likable."

"What do you mean?" he asked, looking confused.

"Well," she floundered for a moment, "It's just that, everyone I've heard talk about you, either praises your morals, or calls you some fairly insulting names, usually after you've refused any underhanded dealing. Figured you'd have to be ugly, if they spoke so highly of your personality."

Varric gave out a guffaw. "You know, I like her spunk."

"So do I," agreed Carver, "She's cute, I mean, it's cute, her spunk." He rubbed at the side of his nose, his hand covering the half of his face nearer her.

Hawke sighed, giving him a less than tolerant expression, "Carver, if you want something cute, I'll buy you a kitten. It'll be less of a fuss."

Hrodwynn made to take a step towards him, and a hand towards her dagger, but found her way blocked and her hand held by Varric. "What do you say, we start for this chest, huh? The sooner we start, the sooner the job's done. And the night won't last forever."

She let go of the breath she'd been holding, giving his hand one final shake. "Hrodwynn."

"What?" Carver asked, seeing as Hawke had already started walking away, obviously feeling himself the leader of their little troupe.

"My name; it's Hrodwynn."

"I've heard of you, too," Varric fell into step on her other side. It seems they were both content to let Hawke lead the way, and their obvious deference rankled on her nerves. After all, what had Hawke done to prove himself?

At least, what had he done to prove himself to her?

"I'm glad we've made your acquaintance tonight. Been looking forward to bumping into you, actually…"

"Hrodwynn! Wait a moment!" Anso called from behind them.

Hawke didn't miss a step, didn't even turn around as he said, "We're not waiting for you. Catch up, or go home."

Her eyes narrowed again, her fist itching to smack into his face. Carver gave an apologetic cough, but he continued to follow Hawke. She gave in at last to that impulse to stick out her tongue, before jogging back to Anso. He was a friend, at least. Besides, she knew where the job was better than Hawke did, which he'd figure out sooner or later. Then he'd have to wait for her. "What is it?" she asked sullenly, not willing to admit she was unwilling to let them get too far ahead of her.

Anso acted like he hadn't even noticed her surliness. "If you get the chance," he said quietly, "Run."

"Run?"

"Run. I… ah… don't like the look of these three. Don't trust them."

She smiled a little cockily, "I trust them," she pecked his bearded cheek, "Just like I trust you: to be true to your nature. Bye."

She turned away so fast, she never saw the look of concern cross his features.

She had been right; Hawke didn't know where exactly in the Alienage to find the chest. He'd also been too proud to admit it, stating simply for Hrodwynn to go ahead and 'do her thing' like it was some fucking slight-of-hand or trick. She smirked, letting him know she knew, but didn't say anything as she walked into the right house. Carver—his brother? A relative, at any rate—hid another smile and a chuckle behind his hand. She was beginning to like him. At least he didn't laugh at her like the dwarf had. Still, Varric had a reputation, a good one, and she knew his laughter wasn't meant unkindly.

This Hawke, however, was another story, she thought to herself as she tramped though the empty rooms towards the one that held the smugglers' chest. Arrogant, pig-headed, stubborn, full-of-himself… "Son of a bitch!"

"What is it?" Varric asked, coming to peer over her shoulder.

"It's not a Siggerdson," she said, standing still and facing the chest sitting dusty and forgotten in a corner. She lifted the lid and slammed it down again. "It's not even locked. It's empty!"

"But the house isn't," Carver muttered, hearing sounds coming from another room. He unsheathed the greatsword from his back as he ran to meet whoever was there. No less than ten men and women faced them, each of them armed to the teeth.

She pulled out her dagger in her right hand and a short sword from over her shoulder for her left hand. Shit, she thought, a fight. Worse, a trap. Why the fuck would Anso want them to walk into a trap?

That was all the time she had to think, the next several moments lost within a flurry of movement, dodging, slicing, rolling, stabbing, ducking, screaming…

By the time she came to her senses, it was over—thankfully. Her chest heaving, she turned on the spot, looking around for someone still standing.

"Easy, kitten," Varric's voice soothed her, his hand reaching out with the fingers spread non-threateningly. "It's over now." He eyed her sword and dagger, but relaxed when her arms moved to hang loosely at her sides. "You hurt?"

"I…" she started, not really sure if she was alright, not really sure how to check. She swallowed, "I think so…"

…she had used her short sword to block one man's attack, pushing his arm away while she sliced his wrist, giving Hawke the chance to hit him with some sort of lightning spell…

…she had ducked beneath a swing and knelt behind another, slicing at the backs of his knees and ankles, distracting him so that Carver could run him through with his sword…

…she had battered at a woman, stabbing at her armored chest and backing her into a position where Varric could riddle her with bolts from his crossbow…

…and she had turned into the arms of another, a boy hardly older than herself and no more experienced, and plunged her dagger into his neck. She looked down at her hand, shaking in the lantern light, the skin stained pink, the sleeve of her tunic soaked around her wrist, now cold with dampness.

She hurtled away from the others and towards a corner. The next few moments were taken up with her stomach emptying. Yet Hawke's voice penetrated through the sounds of her retching, "Did I call it? Babysitting."

"Shut up," Carver sighed. His steps were sure as he walked up to Hrodwynn, though his hands weren't as he set them on her shoulders, mindful of her weapons still in her hands. "Ah, Hrodwynn? Fight's over. You can put your blades away now."

She looked at her weapons, her hands shaking, her stomach cramping. The dagger was coated in red past the hilt, the sword with only a few splotches. When she went to wipe them off, she realized she had nothing to use to clean them. Even looking at her clothing, her dark leggings were spotted with suspicious stains. She pulled a corner of her tunic out of her waistband and used that to wipe the worst bits off. Thankfully her hands were shaking less as she sheathed her weapons, or she might have nicked herself.

Carver sighed and slipped an arm around her shoulders. "Come on, let's get some fresh air. It'll do you good." He steered her towards the door, Varric walking on her other side, Hawke striding before them like going outside had been his idea. She couldn't care less, wanting nothing more than to get the taste of sick out of her mouth. Fresh air wouldn't do that, but it would help clear her nostrils of the metallic scent of blood and acidic scent of bile.

No sooner had they left the hovel, than another group of soldiers surrounded them. Hrodwynn took a better look this time at their attire, and recognized, "Slavers…?"

"Stay behind us," Carver said, letting go of her shoulders to step forward and draw his sword. Varric was already pulling out his crossbow, positioning himself in front of her. Though broader, she was still taller and could clearly see how many they faced.

She swallowed, trying to ignore the cramping of her stomach and the cold sweat that burst out all over her, making her palms sweat. She had to tighten her grip to keep from dropping her sword, but she wasn't about to make them have to protect her. She was going to earn her share, damn it, and not give the arrogant Hawke an excuse to deny her any of the money.

This fight went on for longer, the area larger and the numbers more. Hrodwynn fought hard, trying not to think, trying not to notice the growing number of corpses. During one part of the fight, Carver had beheaded someone who was sneaking up behind her. She returned the favor not two moments later, when someone else was about to hit Carver with a spell from his staff. She knocked the staff away with a kick, and drove her dagger into his hand for good measure. He started to curse but broke off suddenly, her sword back-handing across his throat.

It was messy, as she wasn't trained on how to fight, but the sheer number of enemies meant she had to at least try. The others were capable, however, more than capable as she watched the man about to cleave her in two fall over dead. Hawke appeared, having caved in the side of his head with the wicked-looking mace end of his staff. He flashed her a look, a little too condescending for her tastes, but turned away without a word to fight the next person.

She noted absently that he didn't have any blood or gore on his fancy clothing. The ass.

She was out of breath by the time the fight was over, bent over again with her hands on her knees, gulping in huge lungfuls of air. Varric approached her first again, taking hold of her elbow. "Any of that blood yours, kitten?"

She wanted to bark at him, to tell him to stop calling her that, but his voice was so gentle and sincere she only shook her head. "I… don't think so…"

"When you're done re-tossing your cookies, we should get moving," Hawke said drolly, "Never a good idea to hang around corpses."

Varric was holding her head, or she might have said something that time. The dwarf's fingers dug through her dark red hair, tugging to keep her facing him, making sure there were no bumps or bruises. "Skull's fine. You should have that cut on your shin looked at, though."

She glanced down and saw the fabric of her leggings ripped, blood oozing from what looked like a welt or abrasion. She vaguely remembered the side of someone's boot scraping down the front of her leg, and crying out with pain and anger and seeing nothing but red…

After several dry heaves, she stood back up and wiped the back of her hand across her lips.

"Finally!" Hawke harrumphed. "Let's get going. I want to talk with Anso about this…"

She was wiping her hand off on her backside, her eyes shooting daggers at the git, when yet another soldier confronted them. Maker, this was a bad night. No wonder Anso had told her to run…

She wanted to pursue that thought, beginning to think there might have been a better reason why Anso gave her such advice, but then the most remarkable thing happened. Someone stepped out from around a corner behind this latest soldier, or captain, or bounty hunter… whatever the fuck he was. She didn't care about the captain; her eyes were locked on the new person, an elf, male, tall and lanky and clad in skin-tight armor, with the most mesmerizing tattoos or war paint or… some sort of markings. The elf strolled with such bravado right past the captain and addressed their little troupe. He seemed unconcerned that this hunter was armed and now at his unprotected back.

Hrodwynn saw the hunter draw his weapon. She was going to cry out a warning. Hawke, too, looked as if he was about to take a step forward. But the elf turned, his markings flared, lighting the courtyard into day, showing through his armor and clothing…

And his hand and forearm passed straight through the hunter's chest.