A magister's influence did not cease to be overnight. Like a torn shirt it unraveled slowly, each thread fraying and tangling until it compromised the strength of the fabric. The longer each thread the more time it would take, and Fenris knew Danarius's reach was long indeed. It would have to be, to allow him to wield power and influence from Minrathous. To have those in his service hunt him long after he began to rot in the ground.

Still, Fenris had not been expecting the slavers.

They ambushed on the road leading out of Markham. A half-dozen soldiers, four bowmen and a laetan; a slaver mage in service to a magister. Trees on both sides of the road, thick enough for one to lose their way in seconds. They waited until dark to attack; they had been warned about him this time.

Fenris could see the fear in their eyes as they circled, swords out and watching warily. Behind them stood the mage, looking out of place surrounded by the hirelings. His hair and moustache were impeccably groomed; his robes did not have a speck of dirt on them. The crystal on his staff glowed a blood red.

Fitting.

"Ready to yield, slave?" he called to Fenris in Tevene.

"I am not a slave," Fenris growled, but he did not attack. The words were meant to provoke his anger, to make him careless. He stood his ground.

Seconds crawled by in tense silence. Then one of the men charged, shouting a battle cry.

His sword had reach, but Fenris was flexible. He ducked under the swing, turned his sword and bashed the man in the throat with the pommel. His other hand formed a fist, channelling power into his hand. The man's eyes bulged in terror as he thrust his fist forward, then -

Nothing. His fist cracked against the man's helmet, his gauntlet leaving scrapes on the metal. Pain stabbed through his knuckles, but it wasn't the usual burn of the lyrium. Why didn't it work?

Fenris didn't have time to wonder. He threw the man aside and ducked at a swing from another slaver's sword.

He grabbed at the man, phasing his fist through the breastplate. This time it worked, though it took such force he nearly staggered from the pain. So did the man, convulsing as Fenris's hand closed around his heart. His eyes rolled back into his head and blood gushed from his mouth.

Fenris crushed the man's heart in his fist quickly; he was no beast. He would not let the man linger in agony, even if he was a slaver. He pulled his hand back, trying to channel the lyrium again - but all he felt was a wall of solid bone closed around his wrist.

Another soldier approached, then another. Fenris turned quickly, but the man was - literally - dead weight. One soldier kicked the sword out of his free hand, and another forced him to his knees.

They knew. They knew his abilities were not working.

Even without the powers, he was no weakling. Seven years in Kirkwall had honed his combat skills to a fine art, and he was a deadly opponent even when surrounded. Anyone who spent enough time in Hawke's company would improve thus, by way of necessity. It had been a trial by fire, and Fenris had come out the other side with enough skill and experience to know he would never again be caught unawares.

But they had caught up to him, hadn't they? And without the markings they thought him a wolf without teeth.

Fenris saw the flash of light from the corner of his eye, seconds before the mage did. The man stopped mid-stride and looked down; first in surprise, then in horror. And then Fenris saw the vines sprouting from the ground, curling around his legs and holding him in place.

"Kaffas!" he swore as the vines trapped one hand to his side. He tried to angle his staff downwards, focusing magic through the crystal - then another vine grabbed his wrist, tightening until he dropped the staff.

"What is -" his voice cut off suddenly as another vine wrapped itself around his neck, squeezing -

Then snapped his neck with an audible crack.

Fenris barely had time to wonder when a fog rose from beneath the dead mage. He certainly did not have time to move.

The rough hands dropped from his shoulders as the slavers broke formation. He could barely see more than their shadows, and their panicked shouts and stumbling footsteps were muted as if hearing through a wall.

Magic, of course. But who had cast the spell? Perhaps another rival slaver, scavenging from a fellow Tevinter's 'collection'. It certainly would not be the first time.

Then his hearing returned, so suddenly he felt his ears pop. Fenris began to twist his hand within the dead man, willing the lyrium to flow through his markings. His sword was infuriatingly out of reach; he could not cut himself free in time to face whoever had come to claim him now.

But it was not an army of rival slavers who walked out of the dissipating fog, but a single elf. It was dark enough to keep their face in shadow, but Fenris recognized the pointed ears and slighter frame.

As he watched warily, the elf kicked over the slaver mage's corpse. He saw the muted green glow of another crystal and scowled. Not a magister, but still a mage. An apostate, although all mages were apostates nowadays.

"Filth," the elf muttered in a thick accent, and used the butt of their staff to turn the corpse's head facing up. The mage's neck was twisted at an odd angle, and his head flopped in the dirt like a fish. He had been dead before his body hit the ground.

Fenris tried to twist his hand free yet again, and the movement caught the elf's attention. They turned, and the glow of their staff lit the dark shadows where he crouched. He caught a glimpse of dark eyes and a tattooed forehead.

"Keep your distance, mage!"

The elf stopped a few feet away between a pair of corpses, staff raised. The crystal brightened until its light was painful, and he had to turn his head.

"I was not expecting to find anyone alive," they said. The light dimmed.

"Not surprising," Fenris replied grimly. "You cast your spell carelessly."

The elf laughed, and removed their hood. He recognized the tattoos of the Dalish; red lines twisting and intertwining along high cheekbones and across a strong nose.

"Why should I care if these demons live or die?" she said.

Fenris began to reach for his sword, making no effort at subtlety.

"They were no demons," he said, when he'd pulled his sword towards him. "Just slavers."

"It was a figure of speech."

She watched him quietly while he attempted to angle the sword. Clumsy, but if he could not free himself without cutting the corpse's flesh, so be it.

"Are you alright?" the elf asked finally.

Fenris sighed irritably. "Yes."

"I ask because your hand seems to have gone through his chest. Most people usually just check their pockets." She laid down her staff and dropped to her knees beside him.

"I told you to keep your distance," Fenris growled.

"Strong words for a man wearing a corpse as an armband. My name is Nyssa." She looked expectantly at him.

"Fenris."

"Aneth ara, Fenris. Will you at least let me help you? I have seen what happens to a man when he rots, and trust me...you don't want your hand anywhere near it."

Fenris was less wary of mages than he used to be despite living in Kirkwall, with its abundance of blood mages and Tevinters. Hawke had done much to change his views on magic over the years...but this elf was a stranger to him.

Still, it seemed he had little choice.

"Yes," he said grudgingly, and sat back to watch her work.

It took almost an hour to free Fenris's hand from the dead man's chest.

Nyssa worked by the dim light of her staff. With a knife she carefully carved away chunks of leather armour, then flesh, then broke the bone with a precise technique that spoke of prior experience.

Perhaps she was a healer, Fenris thought. He'd only known one other healer who was a mage, but Anders was a poor example. The harm he caused far outstripped whatever healing he had done.

This woman on the other hand...

She was gentle, and he was not used to gentleness without violence to follow. It made him distinctly uncomfortable. He could not pull away fast enough when she freed his hand, and waved away her offer to heal any cuts.

Fenris went to the dead laetan immediately, kicking away the staff still held in his limp fingers. A cursory inspection of his belt pouch found a folded letter with a broken wax seal, as he expected.

He did not read very well, even after all those years in Kirkwall. Hawke had tried to teach him, but he rarely had the luxury of time to learn. Still, he knew enough to understand the words.

Octus -

The ship docks at Ostwick. There will be sedatives for the slave, and you will ensure he is taken to Minrathous with all haste. He will require some memory removal….

Fenris crumpled the letter in his hand. It was all he could do not to tear it to shreds.

Nyssa stood watching him; if she was curious about the letter she didn't show it. When he was done she began to drag the laetan and the other corpses to the side of the road, and it seemed appropriate to assist her in burying them. They worked in silence while the moon crawled across the night sky. Then finally, as the last pile of dirt covered the shallow pit they'd dug, she turned and began to walk into the trees.

"Wait!"

Nyssa stopped.

This was absurd, and nothing good could come of it. Nothing ever did where mages were concerned. But she had helped him, when it would have been easier to leave him to his fate.

She seemed unsurprised. "Are you coming?"

So they moved on.

Nyssa led him off the main road to a small dirt track, barely visible in the darkness. The trees on either side of the road began to press in, looming large enough to block out whatever moonlight shone from above.

She had been heading to Ostwick, she said, to take ship to Val Royeaux. A detour would not affect her plans overly. Not for the first time Fenris wondered what he was doing, why he was following this woman.

Your curiosity will be the death of you, he told himself. But he followed anyway.

She took him to a small hut not far from Markham's outer wall. It was a rough thing of wood and moss, mostly overgrown with weeds, with a fire pit out the front.

"Did you live here?" Fenris asked, with a raised eyebrow.

She laughed, turning back towards him with a look of surprise. When he glanced at her questioningly she said, "I spend so much time on my own, I often forget to explain myself."

"You are welcome to do so any time." He couldn't keep the sarcasm out of his voice, but Nyssa didn't seem to mind. She shrugged and raised a hand, and flames sprang from her palm.

Fenris's sword was in his hand before he realized what he was doing.

She glanced at him, amused, then walked to the fire pit and extended her hand. The flames rolled down her flesh, sparks tumbling onto the stacked wood, and the logs began to smoke.

As he watched warily, she produced a cloth bundle from her pack.

"I found this hut yesterday while on my way out of Markham," she said, and began to unroll the bundle. "It's abandoned. Dusty, but otherwise warm enough. I did not think to return, but I thought you would prefer a roof over your head."

"You thought I would...prefer it," Fenris said slowly, eyes narrowed. "Am I to assume you brought me here for a reason?"

"I didn't bring you here. You followed me."

There was meat of some kind in the bundle and herbs with a sharp, tangy scent. Nyssa pulled a waterskin from her pack and poured some water over her hands, scrubbing vigorously until the blood from the dead men began to wash away. Then she emptied the rest into the iron pot hanging over the fire and began to pull apart the bundle of herbs.

Fenris lowered the sword and inched closer. The fire had doubled in size and its heat washed over him, banishing the chill of the night. He blinked at Nyssa, who returned his gaze with a smile.

"You can go, if you want," she said, "but you look like a person who just had his hand cut from a dead man's chest, and probably could use a decent meal."

"Both are true." He coughed awkwardly. "Do you wish me to...do anything?"

Nyssa tilted her head and regarded him.

"Yes," she replied, and smiled again. "You could tell me about those markings."

Nyssa said her meal would not be excellent, but Fenris found no cause to complain. The meat she roasted over the fire, collecting the drippings into the pot with the herbs and water to make a broth. It was a welcome change after days of overboiled tavern fare.

While he ate, he talked.

He had not told anyone about the origins of his markings in years. Hawke knew, and some of their mutual friends had put together bits and pieces from hearsay and conversations. Some had used that knowledge against him for mockery or cruelty. Others had never asked.

"So you were beholden to this Danarius," Nyssa said, after he had fallen silent. "And he put these markings on you. He branded lyrium into your flesh."

"Apparently I was a volunteer," Fenris said grimly, and her expression darkened. "As if a slave ever has the freedom to choose."

She took the pot back from him and stood. Her hands were shaking.

"I hope you killed him," she said, and disappeared into the darkness.

He could have slipped away then. A part of him wanted to. Speaking of Danarius always left him feeling vulnerable and tense, like he exposed a part of himself dirty and shameful. It was easier to walk away from the feeling than it was to face it.

And yet, when Nyssa returned with a clean pot and full waterskin, there he remained. Even she looked surprised.

"Danarius is no more, but his lapdogs still hope to reclaim his 'investment' for themselves," Fenris continued as she sat back down. "So far they have failed."

"Interesting," Nyssa said. She tapped her fingers on her chin, studying him for a moment. "And you say these lyrium markings give you unusual abilities."

"Yes."

"Do they normally trap your hand inside a person?"

"No. That was...a malfunction."

"I'll say. But why now?"

Fenris shrugged, irritated. "Perhaps I should have asked before escaping my master? I did not know I needed to satisfy your curiosity."

Nyssa said nothing, her dark eyes gazing at him steadily. Eventually he sighed.

"I do not intend to seem ungrateful," he said. "It is difficult to speak of, but you have helped me. I suppose I owe you the explanation."

"You owe me nothing," Nyssa said sharply. She stood, gesturing for him to do the same. "Do you know much of the elven language?"

"Almost none," Fenris replied truthfully. He had little to do with the Dalish back in Kirkwall, unless you counted his brief conversations with Merrill. "But I recognize your tattoos as theirs."

"They are called vallaslin, blood-writing. Every Dalish receives them upon adulthood, but they are a choice we make." She drew a little closer, her eyes reflecting the flickering fire light. "I can't undo what the shemlen did. I may be able to help you all the same. Will you stay, if only for a day or two? I think I may know how to help."

This will not end well, Fenris thought, but this time he had trouble convincing himself.

"I will stay," he said.