The inn was unusually packed tonight. It was located in the middle of nowhere, on the road north of Kirkwall, the closest city for miles. Normally the place got very little business, just the occasional group of templars, or refugees displaced by the Blight and hoping to find work elsewhere.
But tonight was different. Dren knew it would be ever since he started hearing the distant rumble of explosions. People flocked to the inn not long after the trouble broke out, like they did when the Qunari attacked a few years ago, mostly frightened civilians.
Some of them were mages, escaped from that Circle humans liked to argue about. Dren didn't care much what they were. A mage's coin was just as good to him. Still, he'd expected the templars would come pounding on his door eventually, demanding to know if Dren had seen any fugitive mages.
Days went by and nothing happened. Not a templar in sight.
If there really had been a revolt or something...then who won?
The door opened, letting in a gust of cool night air and two more people. One was an elf, white-haired and strange tattoos covering his skin. Dren rolled his eyes; elves and their weird tattoos.
But then he noticed the massive sword on the elf's back and quickly looked away.
The other new arrival was a human woman. She was clad in one of those dresses mages liked to wear, but had wrapped a black hooded cloak around herself.
"You could at least try to be incognito," she told her elven companion. "You stand out like...well, like you always do."
"Oh yes, and that attire doesn't announce you're trying to be inconspicuous at all," the elf deadpanned. He had a point. She did look like a person with something to hide, drawing more attention with her obvious attempt to remain unnoticed.
They approached Dren at the bar.
"Atrast vala, strangers," he greeted. "Name's Dren; I own the place. I guess you're here 'cause of whatever's happening in the city this time? You don't have to answer that. It's none of my business. What can I get you?"
"Whiskey," the cloaked woman said. "Or the strongest ale you've got."
"I've got whiskey, my lady. I also have a special dwarven ale if you're interested. I brew it myself."
"I'll have the whiskey."
"Very well. And for you, ser?"
The strange elf gave this some consideration before asking: "Do you serve wine?"
"Uh...there might be a bottle or two in the cellar, just in case a noble passed through, you know. I'll see what I can find."
Five minutes later, Dren returned from the dark cellar with a dusty bottle in his hand. They were now sitting at a table in the corner. He placed the elf's wine bottle on the table next to the woman's pint. Dren went back to the bar after that, not intending to overhear their conversation. He heard it even so.
For a while, they drank in silence.
"How's the wine?"
"It's no Aggregio, but it will do," the elf replied, drinking straight from the bottle. "Na via lerno victoria. Only the living know victory."
"It doesn't feel like victory, though. Not like it should. I know how you feel about it, but I think we did the right thing fighting for the mages. I never wanted a war, Fenris. I couldn't protect my family, and I couldn't prevent Kirkwall from destroying itself."
"Hawke," the elf called Fenris spoke, his voice rough and low. "Marian...You are the only mage I've ever met who is worth fighting for."
Marian smiled slightly. "But you don't have to run anymore now that Danarius is dead. If you stay with me, we'll never be able to stop running."
"I promised to remain by your side, Hawke. Freedom is making your own choices. These are mine. We will face the consequences of our choices together."
If asked, Dren did not see the apostate Champion of Kirkwall and her Tevinter ex-slave companion. He merely saw two people in love, who had clearly lost everything besides each other.
He was happy to give them a room for the night, free of charge.