After their precious guild master had been killed, the Antivan Crows had been getting particularly desperate. You would expect assassins to stay mostly out of sight, but lately they'd been even more difficult to track than usual. Still, after weeks of hunting this small band of crows, the Warden's targets were finally in her sights. It had taken Zevran parading himself around alone and supposedly helpless to draw them out, and even then they still showed up with outside help.

"Pathetic," the Warden grumbled, but as the hired help walked out of the shadows of the cave mouth and into the light of the sandy clearing, she felt an excitement rise in her chest. There was no mistaking that disheveled black hair and red tattoo. Nuncio had hired the Champion of Kirkwall.

For better or worse, things were about to get interesting.

Too far to hear what was being said, and finding no hint as to the real danger in Zevran's eternally relaxed body language, the Warden was forced to wait. She drew her bow and trained her sights on the Champion, but when a dagger finally left Zevran's fingertips and the beach burst into chaos, it was to Zevran's defense that the Champion lept.

The warden smiled to herself and relaxed the tension on her bow. It looked like even the great Champion of Kirkwall was not immune to Zevran's charms. Returning her bow to her back and loosening her daggers, she began descending towards the battle.

Nuncio was no match for the Champion and his companions, and by the time the Warden reached their position, the fight was over. As she approached she was just in time to hear Zevran chuckle something about "the more the merrier" and break away from the group with the Champion and a strangely familiar pirate in tow.

Knowing Zevran, there was no need to ask what was going on.

"Are we sure he was part of a guild of assassins?"

For the first time the Warden took in the Champion's companions. One was a madly grinning little dwarf, but the question had come from the other. White hair was so rare among her kind, and she had been so focused on the Champion himself that she had pegged this one for a human from a distance. His height probably didn't help either. He was awfully tall for an elf.

"An assassin born in an Antivan whorehouse," she answered, earning a raised eyebrow from the white-haired elf. "Antiva is a strange place, and I'm in no hurry to return there. But since it looks like we'll be spending the night here anyway, we might as well make camp."

"It seems the Warden wasn't so far as Nuncio thought," the dwarf mused. He seemed entirely too happy to see her for someone she did not know. "Aaaaah, camping with the Hero of Ferelden. This should be fun."

Fun? The Warden wasn't sure she liked the dwarf's eagerness.

"They say you slaughtered your whole alienage and then escaped justice by joining the Wardens," the dwarf casually proposed, and the Warden certainly didn't like that. His expression said he didn't believe it, but being baited didn't make her any happier.

"You shouldn't put much stock in rumors." The Warden set her pack in the sand and stalked to what little underbrush there was to look for materials for a fire. The dwarf, of course, followed right behind and tried to help. It was a nice gesture, but any goodwill it could have garnered him was foiled as soon as he opened his mouth again.

"Come on, who doesn't love a good rumor?" The Warden didn't, for one, but the dwarf was clearly of a different persuasion. "Tales are the currency of legend," he continued, "and I hate to tell you, but legend hangs over you Wardens like the storm cloud over old grumpy here." He nodded back towards where the tall elf was crouching in the sand and scowling off into nothing.

It was unfortunately very true, and one of her reasons for leaving Ferelden had been to escape her reputation. Hero worship was bad enough, but it was even worse when shems refused to believe that a scrawny little knife ears could be one of the legendary Ferelden Wardens. She had gotten more than enough of both for a lifetime, and crossing the sea had given her a much more comfortable level of infamy: virtually none at all. Many on this side of the water didn't even believe there had even been a blight. They certainly didn't care who had ended it.

"I tell you what," the dwarf went on when the Warden resolutely remained silent, "you tell me what really happened and I won't have to keep repeating some tired old rumor."

The Warden felt her old grimace fix itself on her face. That was something else she had escaped from when she left Ferelden. Alistair had always told her that her face might break if she grimaced any harder, but travelling with Zevran had almost undone that old habit. Her old companions wouldn't even have recognized her out here, until now. Apparently old habits weren't quite that easy to kill afterall.

"Wow," the dwarf rattled his armful of dry brush as a chuckle took him. "You sure you're not really from Tevinter? I hear you win medals over there with a face like that."

The warden dumped her own armful of wood in an unceremonious heap, using the sound to drown out a heartfelt sigh. "You're not going give up are you?"

"I won't lie," the dwarf replied. "I chase after stories like some chase after coin."

"So I can see," the Warden muttered. She crouched beside her pack and began digging for flint and steel. "If you really must know, my alienage was slaughtered. But not by me."

"Oh ho! So there is more to this one afterall." The dwarf was all grin, but the Warden tried not to notice as she set about building the fire.

"I butchered my way out of an arl's dungeon, straight through his bastard of a son," she spat. "The arl butchered the whole alienage in response. 'Cleansing' they called it. A few of my friends and family survived, but most weren't so lucky."

"That's all?" The dwarf's smile was disarming, but it had a sly edge to it that made the Warden wary. "Most people wouldn't consider a jail break a noble cause, but you seem to think yours was. So the question I have to ask is, what put you in that dungeon in the first place?"

The Warden could feel old anger rising to her cheeks, and to hide it she leaned in closer to the tiny embers she was feeding. She blew onto them carefully, letting her anger flow out with each breath and imagining it consumed by the growing flames. When she sat back again she felt in control once more.

"Denerim needed little reason to toss elves in dungeons. It was a crime even to be armed, and when they started torturing my friends for no reason, I wasn't about to sit idly by."

"So you rescued some innocent elves from torture by the son of an arl, but instead of a hero's welcome you were forced to join the Wardens to save your own life," the dwarf concluded, taking a seat before the now roaring fire. When the Warden nodded, the dwarf chuckled. "Now see? That's a much more interesting story than the one I could have been telling people."

Unfortunately for the Warden, that wasn't the end of it. The dwarf had a full stock of Hero of Ferelden stories to share, and he wasn't about to pass up the opportunity to have them fleshed out by the Hero herself. There were tales of werewolves and dragons and raging cannibals, and the only thing that seemed to make the dwarf happier than the Warden's corrections were the few times that she admitted he had gotten the tale right.

She really wanted to know how he had found out about Avernus's blood potion, but by that time a silence had finally started to stretch and the Warden wasn't about to be the one to break it again. She had endured the dwarf so long that now the fire was burning low and shadows were creeping back in to reclaim the camp.

The dwarf took it as a sign and stood up to stretch.

"I think I'm going to go get some shut-eye," he said. "I'll leave you two to this championship quality brooding; I'm sure you both are just itching to try it head-to-head for once." When he was ignored, he simply smiled to himself and retired to one of the two tents the Warden had set up. It was all she and Zevran had brought with them; they hadn't exactly been expecting guests.

After the last embers of the fire grew gray and the faint starlight cast the camp in deep blues to the Warden's elven eyes, she realized that in the fever of the dwarf's storytelling they had skipped right past introductions. She had no idea who the quiet elf sitting next to her even was, though he knew half of her life story by now.

"Those are unusual tattoos," she remarked. They stood out all the more in this moonless night and it was as good a point of conversation as any.

"They're lyrium. Burned into my flesh by my former master." There was no malice in that voice, but the elf's face tightened in an expression that the Warden understood all too well. This was the first time she had seen the look on anyone else though.

"Does he still live, this former master of yours?"

The elf's eyes slid up up from the cooling ashes, a slight hint of amusement in his voice, "I don't think anyone has asked that so bluntly before. Most people seem caught off guard by the mere prospect of slavery."

The Warden shrugged, "If you've lived in an alienage long enough, you find few things will surprise you anymore."

"I could say the same of Tevinter."

Something his eyes brought the Warden to memories of Duncan. The two people couldn't be more different, and yet, they both had quiet eyes that spoke of a strength forged from tragedies survived.

She had never shared the full story of how she came to be a Gray Warden with anyone. Duncan had known, of course, but only because he had been there. She had never spoken of it, not even to Alistair or Zevran. Yet somehow she felt compelled to speak of it now. His eyes said that she couldn't surprise him, no matter how horrible her tale, and she found that comforting.

"The part of my story they will never tell is of the real reason I found myself in that arl's dungeon," she began.

The elf inclined his head, "There are many stories of Tevinter which they shall never tell either."

And of Rivain, the Warden silently added. She really did still miss her old mentor, no matter how briefly she had known him.

"I was to be wed that day," she went on. "It was an arranged marriage but a better one than most alienage elves could hope for. I was scared, but happy in a way.

"Until the arl's son showed up, anyway. He thought he might have a bit of fun with the women at the ceremony, as though we were play things on display for his pleasure." Her heart raced in her chest as the memory came to life again, but neither her hands nor her voice shook. "When we resisted, he returned with guards to finish what he'd started. I was dragged from my own wedding in chains for the crime of catching a Lordling's eye."

The elf did not speak when the Warden paused. He didn't try to force meaningless words into the silence. Neither had Duncan. Not many understood the healing quality of darkness and silence, but the Warden relished those now before continuing her tale.

"I had to watch one unarmed friend get killed for trying to protect us; listen to the cries of my cousin as she was abused. But before my turn came I got my hands on a dagger. I'm sure you can fill in the rest.

"Of course, there is no such thing as killing in self defense when you're an elf, and so for the murder of an Arl's son I would have paid with my life. Lucky for me, the Gray Wardens came along with their Right of Conscription.

"I traded away my life to the Gray Wardens in order to save it, but either way, the life I knew ended that day."

The Warden shook her head. How many years now had it been that she had never fitted words to those events? Now that they were out she did not regret them; she was not one who often flirted with regret. That would probably change if the talkative dwarf wasn't quite as asleep as he sounded, but he sounded very asleep and her voice was low even to elven ears.

"Wardens join for life," the elf noted; he seemed to be familiar with them. "I've never heard of one simply leaving, yet you don't seem to be here on Warden duty."

"There is no escape from duty except through death," the Warden said bitterly. "We feel the darkspawn wherever we go, and each is drawn to kill the other. Death and duty are always at our side. And madness. If you're lucky you succumb to the former before the latter."

Then, to avoid thinking about her own approaching Calling, she changed the subject.

"I don't normally just tell my life story, you know," she pointed out. "What I meant to get at by telling you all that is that the life of a free elf is worth little more than the life of a slave, but despite that I did get vengeance with my own hand. So now I wonder about you: does the one you called master still breathe?"

"Yes, he's still alive." The elf considered her with liquid eyes. Even after the story there was no judgement in them, no pity. But then his gaze turned inward, and he found the sharpness he had reserved for himself.

"My own escape was not so bold or decisive," he bit the words off. "I passed up my first chance at freedom. At my master's command I murdered those who had sheltered me.

"The guilt of their deaths is a scar that may never heal, but it is what finally brought me to my senses. After the battle my master was injured and I used that chance to flee, but he does still live. Its only a matter of time before he comes for me again.

"Although," the elf paused to consider the Warden. "I suppose as assassin would offer me the means to change that."

"Suppose I would," the Warden returned. "Would you be interested?" She would certainly enjoy killing slavers far more than arbitrary assassins. As much as she enjoyed sharing the open roads with Zevran, she had never really taken to his work. She could not deny that she was a killer, that her only real skills were in her bow and her blades, but she had no interest in the money or intrigue that seemed to fill the lives of assassins. Her motivations were far more personal.

"A tempting offer, to be sure." But even as he said it, the elf was shaking his head. "Unfortunately, Danerius sits safely behind the walls of Minrathos. That, I would wager, is beyond even the reach of famous hero-assassins." The last he said with a smirk. So he'd found the dwarf's tales amusing, had he?

"I find that a well made trap, especially with the right bait, works wonders." The Warden pushed past the minor jab and onto something more comfortable: work. Mages tended to be easy to bait, they tended to have a much clearer goal to grab onto and a more ardent pursuit of whatever that goal happened to be. In this case, there was certainly one thing they knew the blood mage would want.

This elf, with his hair was as bright and fine as Halla fur, was as lean and dangerous as a hunting cat. He was easy on the eyes, but he was not some simple house-servant. He was an investment, and one that Warden was willing to bet would be worth getting lured into a trap after.

"I think we have the right bait," she said, never trying to hide her appraisal. She grinned, only somewhat guiltily, when a blush rose in the elf's cheeks and he averted his eyes.

"I... don't think that would be wise." The elf studiously watched the cooling ashes in the fire pit. "If I draw out Danerius purposefully, he'll come prepared. He may even bring a retinue of slaves to sacrifice as insurance. I'd much rather wait for him to come for his own purposes and then surprise him when he gets here."

The Warden inclined her head. "It is, of course, your decision to make," she said. It was understandable. All of the mages she knew with enough power to resist the compulsion of blood magic were on the other side of the sea, and she had no artifacts for resisting as she once might have. A direct confrontation would be a very risky prospect, and knowing the mage in question personally would make it even more unpleasant.

"With Hawke I'm as safe as I could hope to be. If we catch Danerius unawares, he will be master no more." There was a certainty in the elf's voice that the Warden envied. She had trusted others once; even loved a human. But that human had found power, had found a crown. And no matter his promises before, once that crown had been settled on his head there had been no room for her in his court. Honors and accolades he had tried to heap on her, even as he banished her from sight.

In the end all of her friends had abandoned her except Zevran. Oh they all had their reasons, even good ones. But in the end, the result was the same. It was always the same. Elves were left to fend for themselves.

"I hope for your sake that you have better luck with humans than I have," the Warden said. She didn't exactly distrust humans; rather she distrusted power. That one always seemed to go with the other was an unfortunate coincidence, and one that seemed to fit this Champion of Kirkwall all too well. He was already drawing power to himself, and the Warden doubted he would stop any time soon. Before he was done he would have the whole city eating from his palm, if it didn't eat itself first.

"Hawke saved my life, and I his," was the simple reply. It was a good reply, and not one the Warden could argue. That sort of bond was not something undone by the words of a stranger.

"I don't believe I've caught your name," she said at last. "I am Tabris to those who know more than my reputation."

"I am called Fenris," the elf replied. "It is not my true name. The memories of that were stolen from me when this lyrium was burned into my flesh. But it is the only name I know."

"Wear it proudly," the Warden said. Fenris started and his eyes grew narrower.

"I can't say I've heard that before," he admitted, a troubled look on his face.

"I meant it sincerely," the Warden assured him. She was rough around the edges when it came to words, and this was neither the first nor the last time that would become apparent to her. "I only meant... It's a powerful name, meant to intimidate. I doubt the one who gave it to you ever intended to fear it himself, so fix that little problem and wear it proudly."

Fenris tasted the words for a while before deciding he liked them. "Thank you," he said in a low voice. Then louder he added, "I think I shall."

Deciding it was best to end on a high note before her tongue caused her real trouble, the Warden said, "You had best get some rest before the sun rises."

Fenris looked at the tent and then back at the Warden, somewhat uncomfortably. For the first time that night she smiled.

"Take the tent," she offered. "The Warden's curse is strong in my blood tonight and I don't think I will get much sleep either way. On nights like these I prefer the open air anyways."

When dawn broke the elves parted ways. Before turning her feet north towards Antiva, the Warden watched the Champion's group head down the road towards Kirkwall. It was an odd thing, but she thought she might miss that elf's sharp eyes and simple silences.