"Do you ever think we should just stop doing this?"
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Dorian regretted them. Mahanon quickly stepped back from him, trying to hide his surprise and pain. They had been touching just a moment ago, sharing a kiss in a corner of the moonlit library, but now it felt as if there was a wall between them, erected by Dorian's poor word choice. "Why?" Mahanon asked slowly, confusion obvious in his voice as his head tilted slightly.
They had been together for over two months now—well, depending on one's definition of "together". They had been flirting even longer than that, but the kisses, touches, and eventual tenderness had been going on for about that long. Whispers flew around the Inquisition about the two of them, some rumors kind, and some that made both of them cringe in disgust. Still, the two of them had stopped caring a long time ago. As a rebellious Tevinter mage and a Dalish apostate hailed as an Andrastian figure, they had more than their fill of outrageous stories in circulation.
While the past month had been rough on the both of them, considering all the events going on, it hadn't affected their relationship negatively at all, only making it stronger. At least, that's what Mahanon had thought. Was he wrong? Did Dorian regret opening up to him, regret trying to make this relationship about love as well as sex?
Dorian shook his head and tried to explain himself. "It's not about you or anything you've done, amatus," he said, brushing a hand through his hair as he sorted out his words and avoided his lover's emerald gaze, painfully trying to ignore the tics on Mahanon's face as he became increasingly distressed. "I simply do not believe this arrangement, useful as it is, will end in a desirable fashion."
Shit. He'd said the wrong thing. The Inquisitor, biting his lower lip, just nodded and turned away, leaving him alone in the library with only his books and half-melted candles to keep him company.
Dorian gave an exasperated sigh and glared at the book he had left open on the nearby table, trying to will the blame for this situation onto the innocent work. That was not the conversation he had intended to have. Why did I lose my words this time? Oh, Maker help me, I can't push him away like this…
Mahanon continued onto his quarters, face expressionless—something he was not used to, but had learned quickly through human politics. The only thing betraying his emotions to any late-night wanderers in the keep would have been the twitching of his mouth and the chirps that escaped his throat. They usually weren't this bad, but the mounting distress as thoughts rushed through his mind made them difficult to control.
Was it something he'd done? Dorian had said no, but the man could have been lying. Was he uncomfortable about him being Dalish? Sera and Solas had expressed their distaste, and the Tevinter was definitely a devout Andrastian… it may have only been a matter of time until that came up again. Or was it too strange, an elf and a human? Something Dorian disapproved of, but had tried out regardless?
And that one word. What about their relationship was "useful"? Fuck "useful", Mahanon loved the man! Had risked his life for him! Would do it again, over and over. And he had been given the same promise from the other mage. So where had this gone wrong? What had happened?
Perhaps his cousin had been right—he shouldn't have trusted humans. But what was he supposed to do when he was surrounded by them and the only other elves around him hated the Dalish?
Pausing for a moment as he rested his fingers on his personal desk, the elf had a quick thought and spun around, heading straight back out the door.
"You can keep a straight face better than an Orlesian noble," complimented Varric, mildly impressed with Mahanon's latest win at Wicked Grace. The Iron Bull and Krem opted to scowl playfully at him instead.
Of course, his "straight face" was more of a permanent frown anyway. He hadn't spoken once since getting to the tavern, sliding in to join the late-night game and sip a drink.
Or five shots. He wasn't counting.
Varric was.
The dwarf gave a slight nod at the other two as he gathered his cards, indicating that they should leave him to speak privately with his friend, for whom he ordered a generous glass of water (which earned him a rather unpleasant glare, to which he responded with an innocent shrug). The elf had stopped ticcing, a not-so-good sign when it came to alcohol.
"Okay, what's the deal here? Get into a fight with the templar? Or Solas? Or… no, nothing happened between you and Sparkler, did it?"
Mahanon drank his water with a glare, letting out a chirp at that last one and scowling as his body betrayed him. He half-considered snatching up his friend's drink, but decided he wouldn't embarrass himself further.
Varric gave a long sigh. "Look, whatever he said to you, I don't know, he probably didn't mean to hurt you if he did. Unless it was you who said something to him, in which case, it's probably not your fault?" he offered, grasping at straws. He loved the elf, really, and he tried hard to help, but sometimes he just couldn't get anything out of him.
Thankfully, he started talking, but it didn't help much. "He wants to end this," he growled, looking down at his water as he swirled it in the glass. He moped for another minute or two in silence before continuing. "I'm an elf, I'm Dalish, I'm just there for him to play with until I'm no longer useful. A fascination. Only an interest until he finds something new, just like everything else he does."
This time he did try to swipe Varric's drink, but the dwarf, relatively sober, was quick enough to save it.
"And did he say that, or did you come up with that theory on your own?" asked Varric, shaking his head. There was no way Dorian would say something like that, even if he was Tevinter. Not that Varric knew him as well as he would have liked, but he could tell there was more to him and his relationship with Mahanon.
"Pretty sure he said it," mumbled the elf, before he starting speaking to himself under his breath in Elvish, presumably cursing Dorian and the Maker. There weren't enough Common words in his speech for Varric to make out anything that made sense.
They stayed there for another hour or so, occasionally trying to make conversation, until Varric felt the Inquisitor was able to head back to his chambers unescorted without falling. He sent him off out of the bar, watching him walk drowsily but steadily up to the keep.
Mahanon woke to a fierce headache, cringing as the morning sunlight stabbed his poor eyes. He cursed when he nearly fell out of bed, and wondered why he let himself get drunk at all last night. It was rather blurry in his memory, but he vaguely remembered playing cards, and—
Oh. Right. Dorian.
Groaning, he pushed himself out of bed and rubbed his neck, trying to gain control over a sudden bout of distressed tics. He really hadn't gotten enough sleep last night, which meant today would be absolutely awful, running between his advisors and messengers and Dorian. Unless he skipped the mage for today, which might be a good idea. He had to sort out his thoughts on their relationship before speaking with him again.
On the other hand, he was very not fond of the papers piling up on his desk. He could've sworn the stack was half that size just last night. But he had been putting it off long enough, so he sighed and started working through the pages that most needed his attention. His advisors wouldn't miss him for the morning, and he didn't quite feel up for breakfast just yet.
Thoughts of Dorian swam about in his mind. His sweet laugh, the way he grinned after particularly clever wordplay, the things that he would say to make Mahanon melt… He even found the elf's tics endearing, something the Inquisitor had thought a joke at first but turned out to be entirely honest. And he'd been so invested in learning more about Dalish culture after the two had decided that yes, their relationship was romantic, not only sexual.
He frowned, remembering bits of things he'd said to Varric last night. It wouldn't make sense at all for Dorian to reject him for being an elf, or for being different. With his emotions and the drinks, he really hadn't been thinking clearly.
It was a little past noon now. He finished writing another important letter, then stood—mentally thanking Varric that his headache was only a little bit awful, thanks to the water—and headed out to distribute the papers to the necessary people and then seek out Dorian.
Dorian woke up in his room with a start, groaning loudly as someone hammered on the door, the sound just about shattering his skull. Rolling out of bed and shrugging on a jacket—he had to look halfway presentable, even for the despicable sort of people who would awake him in such a rude fashion—he opened the door and looked groggily at Josephine.
Perhaps not too despicable, then.
"Oh, good, I was hoping I wouldn't have to run across the keep searching for you," she said, frowning for a second as she glanced at an empty bottle on his desk. Not so good. "A letter came in this morning urgently requesting your presence in Redcliffe. Someone by the name of Flavian, no last name or details provided."
"As much as I respect the work that you do, my dear Josephine, I can't recall 'read Dorian's letters' being anywhere on your to-do list," he said, raising his eyebrows as he took the paper that she handed to him. "Find me suspicious, do you?"
She gave him an amused grin. "As you can very well see, your name is only on the inside, and by that point I was already reading it." He responded with an exaggerated sigh. "I will not pry, but do take care when meeting with him. You remember the last time anyone from the Inquisition met with Tevinters."
Meaning the time Dorian had met the Inquisitor and they had been thrown through time. What an unpleasant experience, but with some of the most pleasing results. Although, the last time anyone had met with Tevinters, that had been with his father. Chances were that Josephine knew about that, the same way she knew about anything, but kept it quiet for the sake of politeness.
"An experience I will try my hardest not to recreate, do not worry." He knew Flavian, a contact that he maintained within the Imperium. It obviously would not do to have his last name, the name of his house, on such a suspicious document, nor the contents of the coming discussion. And if Flavian himself had come, it meant he had important information indeed.
The letter seemed legitimate. "Anything else, ambassador?"
"You may wish to travel with the Inquisitor. He will be heading out to the Hinterlands later today—there have been a number of reports of new rifts developing around the settlements there, and we should close them before too many people are hurt."
Dorian frowned at that. "I will keep that in mind." Rifts were not particularly pressing at the moment.
Josephine left then, off to deal with other no doubt important matters, and the mage cleaned, groomed, and dressed himself before leaving himself. He did not want to run into Mahanon today, did not want to have that conversation so soon. There were so many things he could have said last night to not ruin it so thoroughly, and yet he had to pick the ones with the absolute worst wording. Here he was, raised to become a magister, and yet fumbling like a child over words when they mattered most.
It didn't help that he had seemed as emotionless as stone when he said them. Maker, he still didn't have a hang of this "honest emotions" thing, too used to games and masking everything with his wit and humor. Did Mahanon think he truly wanted to leave him?
That didn't matter now, though. He had to meet his contact, sort that out first. The two of them could hopefully cool down enough to talk again once this business was over, and maybe he could join the Inquisitor later to seal those rifts.
Dorian walked briskly out of his room, navigating the awkward architecture of Skyhold—so unlike everything in Tevinter—until he just about ran into Varric. The dwarf tried to speak with him, and fear began to rise in Dorian. This was definitely about Mahanon, wasn't it? They were friends, he knew that, and he absolutely did not want to talk about this now. "Don't worry about me, I'm off to Redcliffe now, getting a head start," he said, perhaps a bit too loudly (or was that just his hangover?), walking straight past him and not listening to a word he said.
"Redcliffe?" he heard Varric ask. He'd find out from someone soon enough about the rifts, no need to stop and talk to him about anything that could possibly turn to the topic of Mahanon.
And so Dorian was on his way, grabbing a horse and supplies and rushing out of the keep as fast as possible, while Mahanon was just waking up.
"Hand out papers and find Dorian" turned out to be not nearly as easy as it should have been.
Mahanon was able to send off a few letters with messenger crows before being accosted by Cassandra, who bluntly informed him that his presence was once again requested—or required, since the two were practically synonyms at this point—in the war room. "There is no end of work to be done here, and you've got to get on top of things before we leave Skyhold again. Cullen wants us out again by this afternoon if we're to keep up with everything, so once you've met with your advisors, come meet the rest of us by the gates."
The elf had hoped for some more time at the keep, but it seemed no matter what he did, the work kept on piling up. Letting out a long breath, he said, "Of course, I'll be there soon." She nodded and left him to steel himself for the coming discussion.
The meeting in the war room was rather typical and mostly uneventful. Lots of letters from nobles with too many problems, a dash of banter with a few too many snide comments, and even Cullen snapping at the Inquisitor to "Maker, just rest your face for five minutes, won't you?" (which would have gotten him a fist to the face, if Josephine and Leliana hadn't stared the two of them down). They were all feeling the strain of their positions now. After having scrambled to set up the Inquisition, and later to sort out repairs to Skyhold, they were finally settling in, which meant their focus had finally fully turned onto the mess that the world had become and their stress levels had skyrocketed.
All in all, Mahanon was out of that room in under an hour, the other three sending their forces to deal with various issues as he went to join his companions after rushing to his quarters again to grab his gear and a stale chunk of bread from yesterday. It wasn't long before he, alongside most of his closest friends, were headed out on their horses. "More rifts in the Hinterlands," Cullen had said. More rifts everywhere, Mahanon had thought with a bit of irritation, but kept silent. The Hinterlands had quite a lot of people in the area, and the Inquisition had given them its promise of protection—they couldn't very well leave the place to get overrun by demons. As much as he wanted to stay behind, maybe even get some well-deserved rest, he made no attempt to argue.
That was one thing he grudgingly liked about the templar: Always focused on action, swift and strong and to the point, especially when others were in danger.
They didn't make camp until it was well past dark, trying to make as much ground as they could while they still had a day's worth of energy, despite the cold. After everything was set up and stew was ready, Mahanon grabbed a bowl and sat next to Varric. Everyone else sat in their own groups of two or three and chatted away, as was customary, since they had little else to do and there wasn't always much time to talk otherwise, considering how often they were out killing things or just trying to stay warm on their mounts. Except for Sera, as she quite loudly declared that she was "tired of all these flea-shitting horses and rot-shit snow," wolfing down her food in seconds before retiring to her tent. And except for…
"Dorian," the Inquisitor breathed, suddenly anxious and shifting about as he tried looking for his lover, tics increasing despite his tiredness. He realized the man had been completely silent today, but assumed that was due to their conversation the previous night, not because he wasn't there. Did he stay back at the keep? Was he really that upset?
Varric held up a finger and finished his mouthful before speaking. "He went on ahead this morning," he said with a sympathetic look on his face. "I was going to give him a talk after what you said yesterday—you know, be the nice guy who makes the happy couple fall in love all over again, sighing at the sunset and sending each other copper marigolds—but he just waved me off and said he was going on ahead of the group. Wouldn't even listen to me. Maybe he's trying to think things over on his own, no matchmaker involved. He might even come join our camp in a day or two."
"All because I didn't listen to what he had to say," Mahanon mumbled into his stew.
"Speaking of which, what exactly did he say? You weren't really, how do I say this… You were freaking out, but you were drunk, and I hate to be so mistrusting of you, dear Inquisitor, but I know better than to believe the things people say when they're upset and drinking."
The elf snorted. "Wise decision." He had another bite of stew before setting it aside, mostly untouched. Some of the others were starting to head into their tents for the night, and Blackwall signaled to the two of them to take first watch tonight, not wanting to interrupt or intrude upon their conversation. Fair enough.
"Dorian… didn't exactly say he wanted to end our relationship. But he implied it. Kind of. A lot. Not really?" He shrugged, still a bit confused on everything but still trying to sort it out. He paused for a moment to let a small fit of tics pass over his face before resuming. "Something about it all ending badly. Which is still talk of it ending."
Varric frowned. "Nothing about you being an elf?"
"Nothing. At least, I don't think so. Creators, I shouldn't have gotten so drunk," Mahanon groaned, placing a hand on his face. "He said—I think he said—something about it not being about me, or not being about him. But there's not very many reasons for there to be an issue between us, are there? Is there something I'm missing?"
At this point, Cassandra and Vivienne, not eavesdropping but understanding the topic of the conversation going on and having run out of things to talk about between themselves (assuming they had had any to being with, past barely-polite small talk), headed to their tents, leaving just the two of them outside now.
"I'm not sure what it is, but he doesn't seem the kind of guy who'd leave you over that, Tevinter or not."
Mahanon stilled for a second as another worry came into his head, making his mouth go dry. "What if he'd leave me for someone else?" he asked before thinking about it, wincing and chirping after he'd let the words out. Months ago, saying things without mulling them over in his mind was his standard, but he'd had to let that go if he was to deal with people outside of his clan. Now, speaking his mind on impulse was almost foreign to him. At least this was Varric, and not a human.
The dwarf let out a small chuckle, not at all minding the openness. "Have you seen the way he looks at you? And I think the only other people he spends a lot of time with are Cassandra and Iron Bull. Cassandra, well, she's not his type—could you even imagine those two?—and Iron Bull respects you way too much to get involved with him, even if he wanted to." He sighed, no longer joking. "Whatever it is, all I can really say is that you'll have to ask him. Hopefully not on an empty stomach."
"Like I should have yesterday." Mahanon started halfheartedly picking at his meal again, hungry but not wanting to eat.
"Don't beat yourself up over it. You'll see him again soon enough, likely once he starts getting tired of being cold in the snowy mountains all on his own and pining for that dashing fire mage of his."
Varric got a small smile out of him with that. Even if it faded away rather quickly, it was something, and he wanted to get his friend back in a good mood, especially if they were going to keep watch for a few more hours.
"So, did I ever tell you about the time where I saved Hawke from a dragon?"
After a few days in the bone-chilling cold of the mountains, it was a relief for the companions to finally reach the forests of the Hinterlands and shake the snow off their cloaks, and Cole's mood brightened considerably at the collective lift in everyone's spirits. It didn't take much time before they had left the forest, and they stopped briefly at one of the Inquisition's permanent camps to have a quick lunch and sort out the details for the day.
After they had all eaten, Lavellan laid out a map on one of the camp's worn tables, weighing down the corners with a few stones. The companions gathered around the table as he explained what was going on. "There's some settlements here, to the northwest of Redcliffe, that have been asking for aid from the Inquisition," he said, pointing to a couple locations around that area of the map. They were some fair distance away from each other and from Redcliffe itself—it would take up a good chunk of time simply to travel there. "Some small problems like bandits and low resources, and they could probably use a boost in morale as well. They've been hit hard by recent events, but with Redcliffe so strained, they haven't gotten the help they need. Sera, Cole, and Vivienne, I think you three would do best helping out there." The first two enjoyed helping and were therefore pleased. Vivienne, while not being particularly fond of either of them, would be able to deal with any magical and political issues that arose, and make sure the other two didn't go overboard. "There's also a rift between the two towns, so keep the demons under control until I make my way up there. I'll deal with the rifts nearer to here first.
"Bull, Blackwall, and Solas, I need you to manage the problems in the eastern part of the region. There's been word of smugglers trying to open up more tunnels to access the red lyrium sources, and they may have set up a base nearby. Try to shut it down and collapse the tunnels if necessary." The Iron Bull grinned and clapped Solas on the back, the poor elf keeping his expression as neutral as possible. Unfortunately for him, the task would not be as stealthy or as bloodless as he'd prefer, but they might end up needing his magic.
That left Varric and Cassandra. "The rifts we've heard about were reported by hunters in the south, not far from here. We should be able to see the first of them once we get past that villa," he told them, placing a few objects on the map to indicate the locations. "We'll travel east and close the other two, then meet up with those three"—indicating towards the warriors and Solas—"to see how they're progressing. Then north and east again until we reach the farms, and north to the final rift."
For as much as Lavellan worried that his leadership skills were lacking, his companions were glad to have him around. He knew how to split responsibilities and figure out who would be best for certain tasks, and had no problems dealing with small groups like theirs. It was certainly much more familiar to what he had been taught as his clan's First than dealing with entire armies was. "If all goes well, we should reach the northern rift within a week," he finished, the others responding with a collective nod.
As they all started heading out, Varric gently placed his hand on Mahanon's arm. "You're doing fine, kid," he said. Now that there were just the three of them (and a couple officers, who were tending to their own duties in the camp), the elf had let his stressed tics come back out in full force. "We'll run into Sparkler soon enough."
His thoughts had been focused on Inquisition business, but thinking about his boyfriend brought down his mood even more. "Rifts first, Dorian later," he said roughly, jerking his arm back from Varric. Whatever Dorian was up to, it was his own business, and he wouldn't worry about the other mage for now.
At Varric's slightly surprised and hurt expression, he mumbled, "Ma serannas, lethallin." You are such an ass, Mahanon. This isn't Varric's fault.
The three took off from the camp in silence. They had instructed an officer to bring their horses to one of the eastern camps so that they wouldn't be hurt or killed by demons or bandits, so they headed to their destination on foot.
"Fenedhis," Mahanon muttered as they approached the villa, letting out a couple of chirps. While there were no longer any bandits there, he could tell from a distance that the place was swarming with red templars, the angry red lyrium glinting bright as metal when it caught the sunlight. He had hoped to simply walk past the villa, but there was no way they could manage that many templars at once.
Quickly analyzing the situation, he decided on a direction. If they went east around the villa, they would have to backtrack and lose an extra hour; if they went further west than they already were, they'd risk getting caught, but reach the rift before nightfall. "We'll head up onto the plateau through the western forest," he announced, and the other two nodded their assent. Their awkward silence became less awkward as they worked on keeping hidden from the templars.
Unfortunately, they ran into a few of them shortly after entering the woods. Varric noticed them first, signaling to the other two to hide. He crouched behind a bush while Mahanon and Cassandra hid behind trees, moving as quickly as they could. The three held their breath as the templars walked agonizingly slowly on their patrol, the companions faintly able to feel the sickly heat of the red lyrium. The templars—four of them, from what Mahanon could hear—were almost at a safe enough range again for the three to start moving again.
Mahanon let out a fit of coughs right then, unable to hold it back any longer, and had an absolutely mortified expression on his face. The templars drew their swords and turned back to fight.
One of them was hit in the face with a bolt, going down instantly. Another two were struck by lightning before they could reach the trees, and the third clashed swords with Cassandra as she leapt to defend Mahanon. The mage rushed out of the reach of her blade, then resumed casting, setting off a small fire spell to hit one of the two others as they recovered from getting stunned. The one he hit panicked, and he continued to wear down on them with attacks from his staff. Varric had control of the other one, filling them with bolts.
Barely five minutes passed between the time they were noticed and the time they had four bodies at their feet, one stinking with charred flesh. "Let's go," Varric said, and they ran through the forest until they were well away from the corpses and safely south of the villa. They stopped to catch their breath in a clearing, starting to come down a bit from the adrenaline rush.
Mahanon sat down heavily on a tree stump and grimaced, pulling out a roll of bandages from one of his bags. He pulled off his left boot and sock, and his confused companions shared a glance. Hadn't he been untouched during the fight?
His ankle had started to swell after he had briefly tripped while running. He deftly bandaged it, making sure to keep pressure on it until the bandage was secure, and then he replaced the sock and boot, loosening the buckles a bit.
"Inquisitor, what happened?" Cassandra asked, concerned. There was no way he should be that injured.
The elf grimaced and glanced towards the ground, deciding not to lie. He was awful at it, anyway. "I broke my ankle when Haven fell, when I fell into the caverns," he said. "It didn't heal properly, and I think I may have sprained or fractured it this time. I can still walk on it," he reassured them with a strained smile, but they didn't seem particularly convinced.
"And you still haven't looked into healing magics, have you?" the dwarf said.
"Nope. Anyway, sorry about that… you know. Making sounds. I never was cut out for sneaking around."
Cassandra shook her head. "No, Inquisitor, that's alright. We were more than a match for them." If she was annoyed or upset with what had happened, she hid it well. "But I can't say I see any rifts around here. Are you sure this is the right location?"
"Yes, Cassandra, of course it's the right…" Mahanon frowned. That really was odd. The trees were thin enough here to be able to see some distance past them, and there was none of the telltale green glow that would indicate a rift. His hand didn't ache any more than normal, when it should be alive with sharp pain and glowing green sparks if they were as close to the rift as they should have been.
Varric swore and went to arm himself with Bianca, but it was too late. He was frozen by an unseen mage before he could properly load a bolt, and all he could do was watch as Cassandra and Lavellan were hit hard on their heads, expertly knocked out. A leather-clad hand moved in front of his face from behind, shoving a sleeping poison in his mouth as the spell thawed.
The last thing he saw before passing out was a Venatori warrior slinging Mahanon over his shoulder, blood starting to mat his already red hair.
Dorian harrumphed as he ordered another drink from the bartender, glancing around the bar frustratedly. Flavian had requested his presence, and here he was, waiting for the damned man to show up with whatever he needed to talk about. The topic could be any number of things—Venatori, politics, magic—and waiting to find out what was so important that Flavian had traveled all the way from Tevinter to meet him was almost too much. He'd discreetly asked around in case his contact had been seen around Redcliffe, but nobody recognized the description. So the mage sat. And drank. And waited.
It was well past sunset by the time he'd reached the end of the chapter he had been reading in his book, and still Flavian had not arrived. He'd stopped buying drinks by then, and hadn't decided to socialize, not in the mood to chat with anyone.
Perhaps I should seek out Mahanon? he thought, but dismissed the thought as quickly as it came. Even if he could make himself useful, that was not a conversation he wanted to have while he was drunk. The last time the two had talked about something serious while drinking… well, Dorian had made an ass of himself that time, too. A rather bad habit he was getting into lately. He'd pried a bit too much into the history of some of the scars on his lover's body and had found himself back in the library within minutes. Not a very nice memory, and not a very good line of questioning on his account.
Hearing a voice with a Tevinter accent speak with the barkeep, Dorian lifted his head, expecting to see Flavian finally arriving. Instead, he felt dread grip his heart as he noticed Venatori motifs on the person's armor. Not Flavian, he thought dryly. Grabbing his book, he slid out of his chair and pulled up his hood, following a small group of excitedly chatting young men as they exited the tavern, thanking the Maker that the place was busy enough that his exit wouldn't be noted by the Venatori agent.
His heart raced. He'd been set up, and he knew it. The Venatori were hunting down Inquisition agents, and of course he'd come alone. The most they could have hoped was for him to bring the Inquisitor with him, placing the elf right in their laps. He might have even done that, had the situation been better.
Flavian was either dead or not involved. For Dorian's sake, he hoped not involved. The man could prove to be dreadfully useful at times.
For now, he had to get out of Redcliffe and make sure he wasn't followed. If he could meet up with other Inquisition agents, he could warn them of the Venatori, too. His memories weren't great after the drinks, but he tried to dig through his mind for something about where the rifts were.
Settlements. Josephine had mentioned settlements. That meant somewhere to the west.
That also meant he'd be camping tonight, alone without anyone to keep watch. Wonderful.
He took off along the road leading out of Redcliffe to the south on foot, praying to the Maker that he would survive the night.