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Cat Burglar
Chapter 1 - Don't Steal from the Inquisition!
Plans went wrong.
It happened every now and then, and while an argument could be made that a good plan should have enough fall-backs and alternatives that the failure of the primary route isn't the end of the world, there are just some things that cannot be accounted for.
The Conclave exploding was one of those things. Sure, a little fire and ice was to be expected (there were mages there, after all), but an unholy conflagration of green fire that not only shattered any hope of establishing peace between the mages and Templars, but also obliterated the senior Chantry hierarchy, including Divine Justinia, throwing most of Thedas into chaos?
Nah, there was no anticipating that.
And that was before even getting into the giant hole torn in the sky above the remains of what had once been the Temple of Sacred Ashes, or the smaller rifts that kept opening up all over the place, spewing out all manners of demons and other horrors.
And still, the mages and Templars kept fighting each other, treating the demons as little more than annoyances getting in the way of their true goal...if there even was one. Based on the roving bands of mages and Templars who kept harassing innocents in the countryside and their utter lack of direction, that was very likely the case. Not unexpected, seeing as a great number of their respective leaders had been killed in the Conclave explosion as well.
Problem was, they were getting in the way now.
A lot.
In this case, a roadblock made up of at least eight heavily armoured Templars, defending a wood bridge. Not only was it a strategic location, being the only way across the river, but a profitable one as well, if the way they kept shaking down the poor farmers trying to cross it was anything to judge by.
Sickening.
Kin sighed, mentally crossing off yet another possible route out of the woodland hell that was the Hinterlands. That was the fifth out of six possible roads he could take northwards, to a harbour where he could get passage on a boat back to the Free Marches, that was blocked off. His last option was a narrow trail that would take him west for a time, bringing him uncomfortably close to Haven, a place he'd rather not get anywhere near.
He could go cross-country, but he wasn't equipped for that sort of journey, nor did he know what sort of devilry he'd encounter along the way. A rift could open up right in front of him, and he'd run and get himself lost as fuck somewhere and end up starving to death, his bones to be found years later as a testament and proof that city elves weren't suited for the great wilderness.
So, it was the road towards Haven for now, but he'd find a fork soon enough that would lead north.
Or so he hoped.
His previous plan hadn't gone so well either, but that was, as previously mentioned, because the Conclave had fucking exploded. Otherwise, his intent to go steal everything that wasn't nailed down from the Chantry, mages, and Templars had been bloody perfect. No one would pay attention to one extra elf servant running around the place, not with such high tensions between the mages and Templars. They would be too busy watching each other, and the Chantry too occupied with making sure neither side escalated the conflict before the peace talks could begin.
Kin would have walked away a rich, rich man.
And then, the explosion.
He couldn't help but feel bitter about it. He'd come south from the Free Marches for this, and now his way home was being blocked, and he ran the very real risk of getting his head bitten off by a random demon appearing out of nowhere.
He waited until the Templars on the bridge were busy looking the other way before slipping out from his hiding spot in the bushes and heading back the way he'd come. He'd have to get back to the main road leading from Redcliffe, and then take a sharp right and head up into the hills, and then keep walking until he found a split in the road.
Knowing his luck, Kin wouldn't find one until after reaching the snow again, meaning he was in for a miserable slog.
"This is what I get for coming home," he muttered under his breath. "At least there's no Darkspawn this time around."
It took him a day or so to reach the crossroads near the Redcliffe gates. He'd been forced to sleep rough, as he did not dare to walk the Hinterland woods on his own after dark. Sleeping in a tree had not done wonders for his back, but it had kept him safe from wandering predators and Maker knew what else roamed among the trees in the night.
The number of refugees had multiplied in his absence. Poor souls forced to flee their homes and farms to avoid getting caught up in the fighting between the mages and Templars, or worse, the demons. Some had managed to pack some of their belongings on carts, while others had been forced to flee with little more than the clothes on their backs. Some tried approaching Kin, begging for help, but he had nothing to spare if he wanted to stay alive himself.
Some looked ready to rob him, even, but Kin found that pushing his coat a little to the side, revealing the hand-axe hanging on his belt loop, was discouraging enough for them to back down, spitting at his feet before lumbering off. Kin knew he didn't look very formidable, but he also knew the farmers weren't desperate enough to risk a maiming over trifles, not even from a knife ear.
He was briefly considering taking a walk through the refugee camp, which had started to grow around the crossroads, in order to find supplies for his hike, but a commotion near the very middle of the road made him pause. A banner had been planted in the ground, for all to see. The symbol gave him pause. A burning eye with a sword at its back.
He had never seen it before. He knew the Seekers of Truth, some sort of organisation similar to the Templars, used the burning eye as their symbol, but the sword was an addition he wasn't sure what meant. Maybe they'd gone militant and rogue, just like the Templars? That's what they needed, another group of religious lunatics running around lighting the countryside on fire, harassing the common folk.
Once Kin got on a boat heading north, he'd never come back this way again. Ferelden was just a miserable place to live, no matter what was going on.
It had been for him, at least.
"Do you think it's true? Are they really going to bring peace?"
The hopeful, but dubious tone of one of the refugees drew his attention, and Kin realised a sign had been put up next to the banner, the letters hastily carved into the wood.
"Tell us what it says!" someone near the back of the crowd shouted. "Some of us can't read, you know!"
One helpful man at the very front of the crowd began to read it aloud for everyone else, in a very halting, stuttered manner with liberal use of his finger along the letters. Kin listened as well, at first curious about the new threat, and then doubtful.
So, this was the Inquisition he'd heard about. He'd been half right, then, as the group had been founded on the ashes of the Conclave by a bunch of Chantry fanatics who'd gathered around some individual calling themselves the Herald of Andraste. The rumours had found their way down to Redcliffe long before the group itself, and Kin hadn't taken them seriously, but it would seem the Inquisition was finally revealing itself to Thedas officially.
In Redcliffe.
Which meant it was high time to get the fuck out of Ferelden entirely, because Kin knew exactly what this group would bring with them. Purges, all in the name of rooting out the enemies of the Chantry and The Maker.
And they would start with the elves. They always did. It had happened in Denerim more times than Kin could count, and he wasn't about to stick around to get caught up in it.
"Restore peace".
He'd believe it when he saw it.
From far, far away.
Antiva, maybe, or Rivain. He hadn't pissed off anyone in those places yet—it was worth a try, at least.
He checked his pack and found the meagre rations within acceptable for now—he was bound to encounter someone along the way he could barter with. And if not...well, he had other ways of acquiring what he needed.
Or so he thought. A few days later, his pack was empty save for a few precious baubles he'd managed to lift off a fat merchant who'd clearly had no need of them. Pity that he didn't have any food on his cart, but Kin had assumed any refugees he'd met would be willing to trade.
Turns out food was a lot more precious to them than gold.
Imagine that.
It wouldn't have been difficult, lifting a few items from their packs (presumably stuffed with everything they could get from their pantry before being forced on the run), but...there'd been children. And that had stayed his hand. Kin had few principles but stealing from kids was one of those things he would never do. He knew all too much about the pain of going hungry as a child to put another through it.
He cursed his bleeding heart, shivering as he trudged along the snowy path, confidence in his plan of following the road until he hit a fork that went northwards quickly fading as the sun began to set, causing the snow to turn a bright magenta that almost hurt his sensitive eyes to look at. He'd have to find shelter soon or run the risk of freezing to death in the night.
In the distance, just above the mountain peaks, he could see the sickly green tendrils of the hole in the sky above Haven, reminding him that he was getting uncomfortably close to the epicentre of it all. If he didn't find a road leading north within the next day, he'd have to turn back and come up with a different plan. Perhaps he could find a way around the Templar barricades, or sneak through the mages' territory without setting off one of their diabolical traps.
The wind seemed to blow right through his clothes, setting his teeth chattering, but it also brought with it the scent of a campfire...and cooking meat. His stomach made a needy sound at the smell, his mouth following up by filling with saliva. It wasn't that long since he'd finished the rations, but they were hardly filling.
"No harm in taking a closer look," he told himself, following the scent. If they were hostile, he'd simply leave.
Or pilfer whatever food and valuables they had, and then leave.
Yeah, that was a good plan.
Doubt filled him when he spotted the banners raised at the camp entrance, however. The burning eye with a sword again, and lightly armoured soldiers. Said armour seemed a bit hodgepodge, clearly assembled from several different sets and styles based on whatever fit, with orange-coloured bits of clothing underneath to provide some semblance of uniformity.
The Inquisition wasn't as rich as Kin had assumed, then. At least not yet. Once the movement gained traction (and how could they not, with the promises they made?) among the populace, the investors would come, those who showed no compunction in funding whatever military group that would rise to the top, on the condition that they rose with them.
Unless they were destroyed by the Chantry, Templars, or mages before they could actually do anything, that is. The Chantry, in particular, would probably want to see this heretical Herald of Andraste burned at the stake sooner rather than later, and the only thing stopping them from making that happen was their loss of the Templar Order. Once they'd recovered and managed to gather some sort of army, the Inquisition would be finished.
And wouldn't it be sad to see whatever valuables they'd gathered disappear into the deep, deep pockets of the Chantry leadership? Kin could simply not abide such a thing, so he'd better grab some before it was too late.
For safekeeping.
The Inquisition ought to be thanking him, really.
He doubted they'd see it that way, though, so he'd better do it quickly and quietly. Maybe he'd leave a note, just to let them know it wouldn't be for naught.
The Inquisition had made their camp in a small clearing a little way from the road, the trees around them providing them with shelter from the wind as well as keeping them out of sight for those unwilling to risk leaving the relative safety of the road.
Kin had no problems with that...though he could have done without the metric ton of snow that filled his boots as he made his way around the perimeter of the camp, careful not to be spotted by the guards that patrolled around it. They didn't seem too willing to head deeper into the woods, luckily, so Kin's hiding spot in a small cluster of trees that also happened to give him a perfect view of the camp wasn't likely to be discovered any time soon.
There were five tents, all clustered around the campfire, which burned brightly and merrily, still filling the air around the camp with the delicious smell of cooking food. He wasn't close enough to spot too many details about the camp's occupants, but there was definitely a dwarf among them, and a woman dressed in elaborate armour that reminded Kin of the Templars'. Definitely not someone to mess with. Luckily, the tent she slept in wasn't the closest one to Kin's hiding spot.
He couldn't risk going through all the tents—time would be of the essence—so he would go for the tent closest to him. He would cut a hole in the back wall, have a quick look, and let himself in if the danger wasn't too bad. He'd grab whatever he could—food, valuables, maybe even a weapon if it looked expensive enough to sell, and be on his way before anyone realised it'd gotten a bit draft-y.
Backup plan in case of discovery? Run like hell. He'd lose them among the trees and head back to Redcliffe immediately. He'd blend in with the refugees if they followed him.
Good enough, he decided, and sat back against the tree, waiting for darkness, trying not to mind too much the snow that was melting and running down his back and into his trousers.
The Inquisition went to bed early, interestingly enough. There was no drinking around the campfire late into the night, or swapping stories, or singing. They just ate their supper, spoke a little amongst themselves, and retreated to their tents for the night, leaving a few guards to watch the perimeter. Either they were planning to have an early day tomorrow, or they were really tired.
Either way, it suited Kin just fine. It let him get on with his work sooner than he'd anticipated. He waited an hour or so after the lights in his target tent had gone out, allowing the occupants to fall asleep properly, before making his move, creeping through the snow and quickly reaching the tent wall. The guards made their rounds, but they did so slowly, and at very regular, predictable intervals. Their lines of sight were kept at eye-height, spying outwards. They didn't even think to look down and see if there were unfamiliar tracks in the snow.
Whoever was in charge of security in the Inquisition was either not very good at their job, or had picked the wrong soldiers for the job.
Then again, they might not have the luxury of choice just yet.
It didn't matter, though, because Kin just needed them out of the way. He drew his dagger from his belt, the weight of it a comfort, even after all these years, and quickly made a cut into the rough canvas of the tent, no more than a few inches. Enough to let him peek inside the darkened interior. No movement that he could see, and all he could hear was the steady, even breaths of sleep. Only one cot, meaning only one occupant. There was a heavy-looking chest in the corner and several rough-spun sacks.
Food, likely.
Hopefully.
Satisfied with the recon, Kin pulled up the mask that covered the lower half of his face, and cut a bigger hole in the tent wall, just enough for his slight frame to slip through. Pausing in a crouch, he stayed still for a moment, listening to the breathing of the person on the cot, making sure his entry hadn't disturbed their sleep. They were absolutely gone, to his relief.
Burglary really wasn't his speciality. Pickpocketing was second nature but breaking and entering was something he tried to avoid whenever possible.
Releasing his breath, he went to work. He untied the rope holding one of the sacks closed, and nearly sighed when all it contained was hardtack—a type of biscuit that required the teeth of a bear to actually eat. The next sack was a little better, filled with potatoes, but most of them looked a little mouldy and slimy.
The third sack contained some sort of grain, which was of no use to him. The fourth, however, was exactly what he was looking for: Apples, and lots of them. He took as many as he dared and put them in his pack. He grabbed a few biscuits as well, just to have something a little more substantial (even if they felt like rocks in his stomach).
That was food taken care of, for now. Next up was the chest, which was kept closed with a heavy-looking lock.
No problem, Kin thought, retrieving his set of lockpicks from his pack. He'd learned to open strongboxes at the age of eight—at this point there were very few non-magical locks he couldn't open with enough time and patience.
Just as he was about to get to work, however, the occupant on the cot shifted, groaning in their sleep. Kin froze, gaze darting to the blanket-covered form, swallowing when he noticed the staff leaning against the wall next to the cot.
A mage.
He'd snuck into a bloody mage's tent.
Just his luck.
At least they hadn't woken up. They'd simply turned over in their sleep, arm resting gently on the edge of the cot and...there was something shiny. A pack had been wedged into the space between the cot and the canvas, and within, a valuable-looking necklace was shone with the reflected light of...well, nothing, really.
Magical artefact, then.
Possibly dangerous, but potentially very valuable to the right buyer.
Had Kin been as smart as he liked to think he was, he would have left the tent at that moment, satisfied with the food. Temptation, however, had a firm grip on his heart, and he simply could not leave such a shiny trinket behind. The mage would simply have to enchant something else.
Getting it wasn't as trivial as he would have liked, but nothing worth doing was easy, as someone had once told him.
Difficulty wasn't the issue—awkwardness was.
The straps of the pack were wound around the legs of the cot, and there was no way to pull the pack closer. Inwardly cursing his luck, Kin was forced into halfway-straddling the cot and its occupant, bringing him uncomfortably close his burglary target.
Who was an elf, he noted, spotting a pointed ear sticking out of the nest of blankets they'd made for themselves, shivering despite the relative warmth of the tent interior.
"Sorry, friend," he whispered. "But I need this more than you do."
The pack was tied closed, and the knot looked too complicated to undo easily, so he'd have to reach forward and cut it open with his dagger—
"Hm?"
Kin's eyes widened, his head seemingly turning on its own to bring his gaze to meet the elven mage's...which were open, a vivid shade of green, and staring at him with fear and panic.
Kin realised what this must have looked like, and opened his mouth:
"Look, there is a very good explan—"
That was as far as he got before an invisible force slammed into him, knocking the air out of his lungs and sending him crashing through the canvas of the tent and into the camp proper.
And then all hell broke loose.
There was a lot of shouting, and then a lot of hands that Kin did his best to fight off, head still spinning from the impromptu trip through the air. It was only when he felt an extreme chill around his legs and hips that he knew he was screwed most thoroughly as his lower body was encased in ice, going limp as he was surrounded by a group of very angry-looking Inquisition people, most of whom had been roused from their sleep most rudely.
This was all on the elf mage, Kin decided. If they'd only remained asleep, this could have been avoided.
I suppose my luck had to run out at some point, he thought. Then again, that had probably happened the moment the Conclave exploded.
"Assassin!" a stern voice declared as the woman who'd been wearing the elaborate armour stepped up to him dressed in a simple tabard and trousers, an extremely sharp sword in her hand. Even without her armour she seemed formidable, her hazel eyes shining with righteous fury. "How did you get past our defences?!" she demanded.
Kin, his mouth getting the better of him, as it was wont to do, replied, "What defences? A pair of guards who can't be bothered to look down isn't exactly something I'd put my trust in."
Only a moment later did it occur to him to refute the assassin accusation, by which time it was too late if the look of absolute disgust on the warrior's face was anything to judge by. It certainly promised a deep misery in the near future for the guards who'd missed Kin's entry.
"Who do you work for?" she asked then, wordlessly holding out her hand as one of the soldiers handed her Kin's dagger. One part of him was relieved to see it had survived, the other deeply resentful of someone else getting their grubby hands all over it. "The Chantry? The Templars? The mages?"
Kin was powerless to stop a pair of strong (and above all big) hands wrenched his arms behind his back, tying them together, before removing his axe as well, the owner of said hands giving a quiet, impressed whistle.
"Custom work, very nice," a deep voice said. "Must've set you back a bit."
In the corner of his vision, Kin could make out the tip of what seemed to be a very impressive horn. His stomach sank a little at the realisation that the Inquisition apparently hired Qunari as well. He hadn't met many of the horned fanatics, but he knew they were trouble. Just how the Inquisition managed to get this one to follow a supposed herald of a prophet his kind didn't even believe in, he had no idea. Did the Qunari even have gods? Or was The Qun all they needed in that regard?
He was getting side-tracked, and grimaced. "I suppose you could say I'm self-employed? And I'm not an assassin, just a thief!"
"A likely story, given the position you were found in," the warrior said, looking to a spot somewhere behind and to the right of Kin. "Varric, how is he?"
"Kid's a little shook up, but otherwise fine," yet another male voice spoke as the dwarf Kin had spotted earlier that day came into view, giving the supposed assassin a suspicious glare. It was odd, seeing a dwarf without a beard. In Kin's experience, most dwarves would rather die than be seen with a naked face. "Woke up just in time to avoid a gutting."
"I wasn't going to gu—eugh, look, I'm not an assassin!" Kin tried again. "I was just reaching for his pack, which I had to cut open, which was why my knife was out, but he woke up and...well, his reaction was understandable...and I'm not even close to making a good case for myself, am I?" There wasn't any sympathy to be found in the eyes boring into him, that was for certain.
"Not so much, no," the dwarf—Varric, was it?—said, flashing Kin a crooked grin that he had trouble figuring out the emotion of. "Can't really make a good case for yourself when you're caught in the act, you know? Especially when the Herald of Andraste is involved."
Kin paused for a moment as his mind tried to catch up with that little nugget of information. "The what of who?" he asked, intelligently.
The warrior made a disgusted sound. "Don't play dumb," she warned him. "You know exactly whose tent you were in, and whose throat you were about to cut."
Had he pissed off some deity, to the point that they were just actively fucking with him at this point? Kin didn't much care for theology, but he was willing to apologise to every mythical being that had ever been thought of if it would break this ridiculous streak of bad luck.
The Herald?
The Herald?!
He'd not only snuck into the Herald's tent, but also tried to steal his stuff?! Kin had made mistakes in the past—many mistakes—but this was clearly his masterpiece.
"I...I am so sorry," he said feebly. "I had no idea...I thought it was just a random mage's tent. I really was just trying to steal his stuff." He turned his head as far to the right as he managed but could not catch a glimpse of the Herald. "For which I am really sorry!"
"Enough lies," the warrior said, stepping forward and raising her blade. "Speak the truth, assassin, or die where you stand!"
"I'm not even standing!" he cried.
"Ugh, you know what I meant," she replied, rolling her eyes.
"Cassandra, wait!"
She paused, glaring at the speaker. "What is it?"
"I just...Bull, could you remove his mask, please? I'd like to see his face."
"You got it, Boss," the Qunari behind him rumbled as Kin felt surprisingly deft hands undoing the knots holding his mask in place.
There were no surprised gasps as the mask fell away, revealing Kin's face. Why would there be? His face was unremarkable at best, forgettable at worst. Well, not worst. It was a pretty good quality for a thief to have, actually, since it made identifying him much more difficult for his pursuers. Half the time, the people he stole from didn't even register that he was an elf, for all they cared about the people beneath them.
Bastards.
Still, he thanked them for their lack of attentiveness every time he managed to slip into a crowd and disappear for a while.
His gaze was on the ground as the Herald's boots stepped in front of him. Was he supposed to look up, or keep averting his gaze? Whatever would escalate the situation, he wanted to do the opposite of.
"Please look at me," came the Herald's soft request, and try as he might, Kin couldn't resist. If he refused to comply, they'd probably beat or kill him for disrespecting the Herald. If he did comply, they might beat or kill him for daring to even look at his betters.
The first thing Kin noticed was, again, the peculiar shade of green of the Herald's eyes. Almost glowing, but not in the light-catching way that gave elves their keen sight in the dark. The second thing he noticed were the delicate tree branches tattooed on his face, stretching from the bridge of his nose to cover most of his forehead.
Dalish, then. What were those tattoos called again?
Wait, Dalish?
Elvish?!
Since when did Chantry types put elves in leadership positions? That made no sense!
"Your accent," the Herald continued, oblivious to Kin having his worldview flipped upside-down. "It's Fereldan, isn't it?"
Defensive, Kin glared up at him.
"Why do you care? Need somewhere to send my ashes?"
The Herald blinked, taken aback by the accusation.
"We'd...certainly try to return your remains to your family, if that is what you are asking," he said haltingly, clutching his staff a little tighter.
Any moment now, that thing would come to life and burn Kin to cinders, or electrocute him, or crush him with rocks, or something equally horrible.
Mages could be so cruel. And creative.
Kin chuckled bitterly at that. "Good luck finding them—I never did."
"I'm...sorry," the Herald said, sounding genuine. It caught Kin off-guard for the umpteenth time that night. What kind of madman apologised to his bloody assas—er, burglar?! This wasn't really how his execution was supposed to go.
The Herald didn't even seem annoyed or upset by the perceived assassination attempt, nor by Kin's harsh words. If anything, he looked curious, taking in every detail about Kin's face, his clothes, even casting a glance at his dagger and axe. When his brows furrowed, it caused his tattoos to crinkle in an interesting way.
What were those damn tattoos called? Val-something.
Argh, the Dalish tongue was so confusing and hard to pronounce!
"This is a waste of time," the warrior—Cassandra, right?—broke in, looking at the Herald with an expectant look. "What do we do with the assassin?"
"I'm not an assassin!"
"Definitely not a good one," the Qunari—Bull—chuckled behind him.
"I'm a thief!" Kin protested, quite tired of the accusation.
"Not a good thief either, then," Bull said, coming to Kin's side and crouching down. Maker's breath, the bastard was huge! Even on his knees, back bent, did their eyes line up. Well, eye in Bull's case, as his left one was covered by an eyepatch. A smug grin was on his lips, a scar cutting across the left side of his mouth. "Isn't not getting caught pretty much priority one, in either case?"
"Well, yeah, but..." Kin trailed off. He didn't really have any strong arguments against that. He would rather avoid being seen if he could help it, and was definitely the first rule on his list...that is, if he had such a list.
It was certainly his primary goal, and he always succeeded.
Mostly.
Sometimes.
All right, it was probably about fifty-fifty, if he was completely honest; but that was because burglary wasn't his specialty! Kin's speciality was pickpocketing, and he tried to avoid having to break into places to acquire whatever he had his eyes on, and even then, he only went after the juiciest targets.
Like an Inquisition camp.
Dumbest decision he'd ever made.
"We could let him go?" the Herald suggested, to the general befuddlement of the camp. The only people not to react with some variation of horror were Varric, who simply shook his head with a grin, and Bull, who laughed.
Cassandra, however, looked aghast. "Let him go?! He's already tried to kill you once; do you want to give him a second chance?!"
"I didn't—"
"Shut up!"
The Herald didn't back down, despite Cassandra's overbearing outrage. "It's like Bull said, isn't it?" he said, shrugging. "Even if he is an assassin, he's obviously not a very good one."
"What kind of assassin straddles their target, anyway?" Bull murmured, causing Kin to hiss with annoyance.
"Besides, we've already spilled enough blood for today," the Herald continued. "I'd rather avoid taking any more lives."
Varric made a doubtful noise.
"I'm not exactly a big proponent of lopping the heads off of everyone we meet, Greenie, but just letting someone who not fifteen minutes ago had a knife to your throat go isn't exactly a good idea—"
"I didn't have the knife to his throat!" Kin protested. "It was just, you know...above it..."
Varric gave him a very unimpressed look. "Uh-huh," the dwarf said. "Coincidence, was it?"
"Well..."
"Out of the question," Cassandra said with some finality, the sort that told Kin that his fate was quite sealed. "We are not letting the assassin go—"
"Cassandra," the Herald began.
"—but we are not killing him either," she continued, speaking over him. "Whether his incompetence is an act or not—"
"A damn good act," Bull said.
"—an act or not, we need to find out who he's working for!" She gave Kin a look one usually reserved for whatever unpleasant thing had just been stepped in. "I say we take him back to Haven for interrogation; then we will find out who he is."
"You're gonna give 'em to Nightingale?" Varric asked, wincing before giving Kin a sympathetic look. "Well, kid, it was nice to meet you."
The Herald's look of discomfort at the idea spelled nothing but doom for Kin. Whoever this Nightingale was, they were definitely bad news. Probably chief torturer or something in the Inquisition's dungeons. It made sense to Kin. Inquisition was hardly the name of an organisation averse to pulling out the thumbscrews in order to get what they want, even when they claimed to be a force for good.
"You don't have to do that, really," Kin said, feeling the sweat breaking out on his forehead despite the ice encasing his lower half, attempting to give them a cheerful smile, though it probably appeared more manic than pleasant. "You want answers? I'll give you answers! I'll tell you whatever you want! You want to know where I'm from? It's Ferelden! Denerim, to be exact! I grew up on the streets! The first thing I ever stole was a rotten apple from the back of a merchant's cart when I was five years old and starving!"
He could still remember the mushy texture of the apple itself, and the pair of wiggling worms he'd found inside. He'd eaten those too—probably more nutritious than the apple!
"I managed to steal a loaf of bread a few days after," he continued, babbling. "I outran the watchmen and went back to the chicken coop I slept in, but some of the older kids were waiting for me! They beat me up and took it, and then...then..."
He trailed off as the Herald came a little closer, crouching down so his face was level with Kin's, a sad look in his eyes. "We're not going to hurt you," he said. "I promise. We'll simply be asking you some questions."
"I'll answer anything you want, right here, right now," Kin said, desperate not to end up in a dark dungeon for the rest of his days. "Just...don't lock me up...please?"
He wasn't sure he could take it. Not again.
"That depends on your answers at Haven," Cassandra said harshly as she gently, but firmly, guided the Herald away from Kin. "However, you can be assured that we do not mistreat our prisoners or cause them undue suffering."
Kin fought the urge to point out that the name Inquisition didn't exactly bring pleasant connotations to mind...as well as ask what she would consider due suffering to be. Sighing, he lowered his head, knowing he wouldn't be able to talk his way out of this.
"Fine," he muttered, trying to look as cowed as possible.
With luck, he'd be manacled. He could work with that. Picking locks was something he could do in his sleep!
Unfortunately, Kin and luck weren't on speaking terms the following morning, having spent the night hogtied next to the campfire, no fewer than three guards watching him at all times. There were manacles after breaking camp, but there were always no less than two sets of eyes on him at any one time.
Well, one and a half whenever Bull was watching him.
Either way, Kin never found a moment to make use of his lockpick, and it was with an increasingly heavy heart he realised there would be no chance for him to walk away from this—the Inquisition just wouldn't let him. Cassandra, in particular, seemed to have taken Kin's sneaking into the camp in the first place as a personal insult and had given the guards on duty at the time a severe tongue lashing, for which Kin had tried to apologise for with sad looks.
They had not worked. One guard in particular, the one chosen to carry Kin's weapons, seemed to be of a mind to bury Kin's own axe in his skull, if her scathing glares were any indication.
At least Cassandra, who was apparently a Seeker of Truth—yet another order of religious fanatics—had been truthful about the Inquisition not mistreating their prisoners. So far, at least. They'd even put Kin on a horse, which was led by one of the Inquisition soldiers. More than once he'd considered digging his heels into the poor creature's side in an attempt to escape, but he'd abandoned the thought once he realised that, with his arms shackled together behind his back, he'd have no way of steering or even holding on to the creature as it galloped.
He'd get away, sure, but would just as likely be rewarded with a broken neck if he lost his balance and fell out of the saddle; which, given his general lack of horse-riding experience, was very likely.
As for the Herald, he was being kept away from Kin at all times. Ostensibly, it was because Cassandra did not like the idea of having an assassin so close to his target. A good reason, Kin agreed (though still refuting his assassin status), but probably not the entire reason. There was something...off about the way she deliberately went out of her way to prevent the Herald from approaching Kin. An attempt to stop the Herald from getting too close to another elf, perhaps? Maybe the Herald was just as much a prisoner to this Inquisition as Kin himself was, and wanted a way out?
Even discarding that thought, it was a pity he wasn't allowed to approach Kin. The Herald didn't seem to harbour any resentment for their abrupt meeting, and it would've been nice to have someone to talk to.
The trip back to Haven would take about three days, according to the scouts, on account of them being forced to take a detour due to an avalanche blocking the main road. That suited Kin fine—it'd give him time to find an alternative means of escape. The big hole in the sky—The Breach—grew ever larger as they came closer and closer to their destination. He couldn't even imagine the horror one would feel standing directly beneath it, at Haven. And these people, the Inquisition, did so willingly.
Madmen, the lot of them!
Sadly, the guards continued keeping a close eye on Kin, and on the morning of the third day, he'd given up the idea of escape. They wouldn't even let him relieve himself in private!
There was a break in the routine, however, as Varric approached him just after their morning meal. Kin braced himself as the dwarf approached, but Varric just smiled pleasantly at him.
"How's it going, kid?" he asked, giving Kin a sympathetic look.
"Oh, I'm fantastic," Kin replied, doing his best to appear relaxed as opposed to miserable, reclining against the tree to which he'd been chained. They'd given him blankets and kept a small fire burning next to him so he wouldn't freeze in the night, but it hardly made up for the chaining in the first place. He nodded to the dying fire next to him. "Was about to ask one of you to put that out—I'm boiling here."
"I can imagine," Varric said, chuckling. "So, hey, a quick question..."
"Shoot," Kin said. He was frightfully bored, and it was nice to have someone to talk to.
Honestly, he was surprised no one had come to ask any questions before now. He'd been remarkably cooperative during his capture—he'd done as he was told at all times and been compliant. If they'd bothered to ask, he'd have answered any questions they might have had...but it seemed they were content to let this Nightingale handle that portion of his capture.
"You ever been to Kirkwall?" Varric wondered.
Try as he might, Kin couldn't suppress the full-body shudder than ran through him at the mention of that damned city, and it definitely wasn't because of the cold! He could go an eternity without seeing that shithole again, and it would still be too soon! The smell of Lowtown, with its refineries, tanneries, and slaughterhouses still made unwelcome appearances in his nightmares; and the less said about Darktown, the better. The only good thing he could remember about the place was the kindness shown to him by the elves of the Alienage, but that hadn't been enough to make him like Kirkwall.
Varric grinned. "I'll take that look of horror as a yes," he said. "Kirkwall does leave a lasting impression."
"Deep mental scars, more like," Kin said.
"Heh, those too."
"But yes," Kin said with a nod. "I've had the dubious pleasure of spending some time there. Why do you ask?"
"There's something familiar about you," Varric said, crouching next to him in the snow, leaning closer, which prompted Kin to try and lean away, the back of his head thumping into the tree trunk. "Ever been to The Hanged Man?"
It took Kin a moment to recall the name. "The pub in Lowtown? Once or twice..."
A shithole in a shithole, that place, but also ripe for the picking, full of drunken idiots who hadn't noticed Kin sticking his hand into their pockets, relieving them of a few coins or trinkets. A low point in Kin's thieving career, but he'd been desperate and in need of a healer. To make up for it, he'd taken a walk through Hightown some days later, grabbing everything he could from snooty nobles. Most of that loot had gone to the Alienage.
He hadn't outright given it to the elves there, of course. That'd be too obvious and would probably lead to a purge once the nobles discovered where their stuff had gone. No, Kin had left small caches of the loot here and there, to be stumbled upon every now and then by the elves who lived in the Alienage.
"I knew it," Varric said triumphantly, pointing at Kin. "I saw you making the rounds one night, years back. I was impressed by your technique and was this close to having you kicked out." He held up his hand, showing the infinitesimal distance between his thumb and forefinger.
"Why didn't you?" Kin asked, wondering what the odds were of their chance meeting in this place. Impossible, probably.
"Saw you bleeding," Varric replied, face softening a little. "Figured you had your reasons for pilfering what you could. Decided to leave you to it, provided you didn't try stealing from me or my friends. If nothing else, you probably prevented a few idiots from drinking themselves to death that night."
"I do try," Kin said, grinning cheekily at the dwarf. "And...thanks."
"Don't mention it," the dwarf said, grinning back. "So...what's your name? Greenie's probably dying to know by now, but Seeker's adamant about keeping you two apart."
Kin hesitated, as he usually did when people asked him this. His real name was unremarkable, which, again, was a good quality in his profession. However, among thieves there was also a requirement to keep up appearances, to follow certain rules of etiquette. And one of those rules was to always use a codename, usually bestowed upon the thief by one's colleagues.
In Kin's case, his colleagues had been utter rotters.
"Grimalkin," he replied, wincing at Varric's nonplussed expression.
"Like a cat?" the dwarf asked incredulously, the corner of his mouth twitching with amusement.
Kin scowled. The group he'd ran with back in Denerim had thought they were so funny when giving him that name, claiming he was small, scrawny, light on his feet, and always landed on them when he fell.
Which was sort of true. The first three parts, at least. His spine still gave a small twinge every now and then as a reminder of the times he hadn't.
This was definitely one of those times—figuratively.
"Wasn't my idea," Kin said, staring at his boots. "Everyone else thought it was hilarious. I prefer Kin."
"Noted," Varric said with a nod, as if he would actually bother remembering Kin's name by the time he was handed over to this Nightingale. "My name's Varric, by the way. Varric Tethras."
Now there was a name Kin had actually heard before, if only in passing. A big name in the Dwarven Merchants' Guild, apparently.
"I know," he replied. "Why're you being so nice to me, Varric?"
He wasn't sure how much longer he could take it. Sooner or later, the Inquisition would show its true colours and torture him to death, he was sure of it.
Organisations like theirs always did. One only had to look at the Templars and the mages for confirmation. Both sides claimed to be fighting for good, and some individuals among them probably were (or believed themselves to be), but Kin had seen what they were capable of once they thought themselves in control...or had been cornered. The area around Redcliffe was littered with dead refugees because of them.
The Inquisition claimed to be there to restore order and provide aid to those who had been caught in the middle of the conflict, but Kin had his doubts. The Herald seemed nice enough (and might have been a prisoner as well), as did Varric, but the rest...well, Kin was quite sure he'd never see the light of day again once they arrived at Haven.
"Nice?" Varric asked. "All I've done is ask you questions."
"No one's beaten me yet," Kin pointed out. "Or done...worse things." He shuddered. "I've already told you I'm not an assassin, I've cooperated and done everything you've asked...but you're not about to let me go...unless you've got a key up your sleeve and this is just some clever ruse."
Varric sighed, shaking his head. "Were it up to Greenie, you'd be free to go by now. Unfortunately, Seeker's in charge of security, and she's really not the type to live and let live. At least not without having Nightingale probe a little deeper first."
"So, you are going to torture me," Kin said, misery creeping into his chest. "You're just leaving it in the hands of a professional. Figures...guess I shouldn't have expected anything else."
"I don't know what you've heard about us, Kin, but we're really not that kind of outfit," Varric said, standing up and brushing the snow off his trousers. "I could tell you not to worry, but you don't really strike me as someone who doesn't worry, so..."
Kin scoffed, rather than confirming that Varric was right.
"All I can say is," Varric continued, "trust Greenie. He's a good guy and won't let anything horrible happen to you."
"I'll believe it when I see it," the elf replied.
"And I'll be there to laugh when you do," the dwarf said, winking at Kin before walking away, nodding to Bull in greeting as the (ridiculously huge) Qunari came to fetch Kin.
"Up you get," the horned giant said, pulling Kin to his feet, which had gone numb from sitting on the cold ground for so long. Between this and the Herald's ice magic from the first night, he was definitely going to catch a cold. "You good?" Bull asked after steadying him.
"What do you care?" Kin couldn't help but hiss.
"Oh, I dunno, you're pretty funny when you're confused," Bull said, chuckling when Kin bared his teeth at him in a snarl. "And cute when you're angry," he added.
"Fuck you!"
"Well, if you insist..."
"Eugh!"
Kin made a disgusted sound that would've made Cassandra proud and marched ahead, ignoring Bull's chuckles when he tripped over his own feet, heading for the horse that would be carrying him the rest of the way.
Kin may have been their prisoner, but that didn't mean he had to put up with this bullshit!
Heh, bullshit.
He made a note of that. He just had to find a good moment to throw it in Bull's face.
Along with some actual shit, for good measure.
Kin's sense of humour had never been very sophisticated.
The going was painfully slow today, on account of the narrow paths they had to take. It didn't help that no one was willing to talk to him, having been stuck between two Inquisition soldiers today, and nowhere near Varric. The dwarf in question, along with Cassandra and Bull, was riding close to the Herald, deep in discussion about...something. Kin wasn't really able to discern what, but knowing his luck it was how to best kill him and display his remains to the public.
Flaying and displaying the skins of slaves who had displeased them was apparently a favourite of certain Tevinter Magisters, if the horror stories Kin had heard from slaves who'd escaped that vile place were true. He was inclined to believe they were, especially after what happened in Denerim during the Blight.
As far as he knew, the Inquisition had yet to ally themselves with Tevinter, luckily. He could only hope that this Nightingale didn't take any inspiration from that part of Thedas.
Realising his thoughts were spiralling into yet more misery, Kin tried to distract himself with something—anything—less sinister than his own execution. The landscape around him proved mildly helpful for a few minutes. He'd never been this high up in the mountains before, and while the freezing temperatures were horrible, the views of the landscape below were stunning.
...but not stunning enough to keep him entertained for long. Instead, he focused on his captors. Varric was...well, Varric. Light-hearted, with a kind smile that definitely concealed a steel edge. A rogue, through and through.
He didn't dare look too closely at Cassandra after she caught him staring, giving him her most disgusted expression yet, as if he wasn't even worthy of looking upon her.
Bull's massive horns proved a good distraction for a few minutes as Kin tried to count the number of scratches and other signs of wear and tear on them. That is, until Bull's single eye caught Kin's...and winked!
At least, Kin thought that Bull winked. It was hard to tell, with the eyepatch. He didn't take the chance, though, focusing, at last, on the Herald.
It was difficult, bordering on impossible, to imagine such a fragile-looking elf being Andraste's Chosen, and supposedly the figurehead of the Inquisition itself. Skinny, even more so than Kin, he looked like a mild breeze would knock him over. His eyes were, as previously noted, large and unusually green, like emeralds, continually scanning and taking in their surroundings. His skin was quite pale, like he didn't spend much time in the sun, which made his facial tattoo stand out even more.
Vallaslin! That's what they were called!
Kin had seen quite a few variations over the years; some were very complex, covering the elf's face entirely, while others were simpler and only resembled a few scrawls on the cheeks, for example.
The Herald's was somewhere in between. His vallaslin resembled tree branches that went from the bridge from his nose to the edge of his hairline. The design itself wasn't too complicated, but it must have taken meticulous work to ensure the lines of the branches didn't run into each other or leak.
Kin remembered the poor hahren of Kirkwall's exasperated attempts at teaching him what the various designs meant as he'd healed Kin's injury. Each design was meant to symbolise the patronage of a specific elvish god from the ancient pantheon...or something like that. He'd tried to pay attention to the old man's explanation, but theology had never been something to grab Kin's attention, and the words had just slid off his mind, refusing to settle.
The Herald's hair was a dirty blonde colour, which he kept long and braided into plaits that held it back from his face.
Quite handsome, really, if one liked the Dalish look.
Kin wasn't sure what to expect when his eyes met the Herald's. The normal thing would have been for the Herald to feel distrustful and wary towards Kin, considering how they'd met. All he did, however, was give Kin a tiny smile and a weak wave of his hand when Cassandra wasn't looking.
Kin's hands were shackled behind his back, so he couldn't return the gesture, so he simply nodded back with a neutral face.
Varric caught the exchange, however, and gave Kin a wink that pretty much said:
"See? He's a good guy, promise!"
And the Herald definitely looked nice...on the surface. Kin knew what the Dalish were capable of if they felt threatened, however. Not the idiotic stories of savagery humans were so fond of regaling each other with in the taverns after a few ales, of course. The Alienage elves had far more realistic stories to share, and they had left Kin vowing to never piss off the nomadic elves.
It just wasn't a good idea.
So, the Herald could look and act as nice as he wanted. Kin knew that wasn't all there was to the Dalish elf.
Never mind the whole part with him being a mage, which made him a risky acquaintance at best, and downright dangerous at worst.
If Kin had needed yet another confirmation that his luck had run off to be with someone else, it came in the form of a rift opening right in front of them.
One minute he'd been slouching in his saddle as they rode past a small, frozen lake, trying to find some way of entertaining himself, eyeing his axe and dagger as they bobbed along on the belt of the guard riding ahead of him.
The next, he'd been thrown from said saddle as his horse reared up in panic at the sudden appearance of a hole in the very fabric of reality, glowing a garish green. He landed on his shoulder, the pain making him cry out.
The guards assigned to him managed to dismount in more dignified fashions before their mounts, too, ran off at the sudden commotion. The first guard was immediately felled by a tall, spindly demon with long, sharp claws that screeched so loud Kin felt like his eardrums would rupture. It didn't have a lower jaw, its mouth seemingly continuing down along its torso, a toothy maw of terror.
The guard fell into the snow, bisected at the waist. The demon turned towards Kin, its multitude of eyes focusing on him.
"Oh, fuck me!" Kin cried out as he scrambled backwards, trying to get away from the thing. He could have sworn it smiled malevolently as it started approaching him, clawed fingers reaching.
"Die, filth!" the second guard shouted as she appeared from behind Kin, charging at the monster, her face filled with rage. The demon screamed, trying to swipe at her, but the soldier was faster, hacking away at the limbs before they could get her, cutting its right knee and then beheading it swiftly as it collapsed under its own weight.
"Good job!" Kin shouted. "Now unshackle me, so I can help you!"
By running away, that is, he added to himself.
Bandits, Kin could handle. Templars? Well, sometimes. Darkspawn? Depending on the time of day and how much skin-covering clothing he was wearing, absolutely.
Demons? Nope, nuh-uh, no way!
At the speed Kin planned to run, he'd be back in the Hinterlands within a few hours. And he wasn't about to stop, either. He'd rather charge through a Templar barricade than engage the rifts at close range.
However, the Inquisition guard didn't unshackle him. Instead, she pointed her blade threateningly at him, said, "Stay put, or I'll kill you myself!" and headed off to join the others in the melee.
To Kin's credit (in his opinion), he did stay put.
For about ten seconds, after which he deftly moved his wrist just so to dislodge the lockpick in his cuff and went to work on his shackles.
Sweat beaded on his forehead as he worked, his heart beating a mile a minute, praying that no other demons happened to glance in his direction and spot him at his most helpless. There was a loud shriek as another monster was killed, and he nearly cursed when the shock of it nearly made him drop the pick. It wasn't a complicated lock, but it was sturdy, and just one wrong move could cause the pick to snap like a dry twig.
He nearly thanked the Maker when he heard a click and felt the sudden lack of pressure around his left wrist as the first shackle opened. With his newly freed arm, it was a simple matter of doing the same with the right. When he was done, he threw the shackles over the nearby cliff for good measure.
Never again.
He made to run, but spotted his weapons in the snow, still attached to the bottom half of the guard first killed by the demon. He hesitated. The axe could be replaced at a cost, but the dagger...
"Shit," he muttered, running over to the dead man, quickly prying his gear from his belt. The weight of the axe in his hand was a comfort, reassuring in a way he couldn't really describe. Holding the dagger again was like greeting an old friend. He would never leave it behind, no matter what.
With his weapons retrieved, Kin decided it was time to run. He had no supplies, but he could improvise. Anything was better than staying here and becoming some horrid demon's lunch, or the Inquisition's plaything.
He briefly surveyed the battlefield and was satisfied to see that the Inquisition were holding their own. At least they seemed competent and could make good on their promise to end the demonic threat and the rifts. He was curious to see if they would, but that was something he intended to watch from afar. Very afar.
He was about to leave when he noticed the Herald at the edge of the fight...and he was in trouble.
A trio of demons were hounding him, steadily pushing him backwards with a never-ending flurry of attacks that prevented him from launching any counterattacks, the shield he'd conjured up barely keeping them at bay. None of his comrades seemed to notice his predicament, too busy with their own opponents.
Kin could run. This was his chance. If he didn't, he would get captured again, and there was no telling what they would do to him this time, not after escaping from his bonds and rearming himself.
...but he couldn't just turn his back on the Herald, either.
"Damn it!" he snarled as he took off at a run towards the Herald, nearly slipping on the icy surface of the lake. He drew his axe with his right hand and held it backwards, so the hooked point that served as its counterweight faced forwards.
The Herald was too busy fighting two of the demons to notice that the third slipped away and started slinking behind him, ready to tear his throat out with its claws, single eye rolling madly in what served as its socket.
The Herald spotted Kin approaching, and there was an instant during which Kin saw a very complicated expression crossing the other elf's face as his posture shifted to a slightly more defensive one.
"Get down!" Kin yelled as he threw himself forward, flying directly at the demon behind the Herald. It almost looked as surprised as the Herald did when Kin lashed out with his axe's hook, which sank into the demon's flesh and caught on what should have been a collarbone, but felt more like very firm leather.
Not that it mattered; all Kin needed was an anchoring point, and that would do just fine. He roared as he flew past, letting his momentum pull the axe with him—and taking the demon along for the ride. It yelped in surprise as it was ripped backwards, sliding after him on the ice.
They came to a gradual stop on the ice, Kin's feet scrabbling for purchase as he drew his dagger in his left hand, desperate to end the fight before it really began. The demon reached for the axe in its shoulder, trying to rip it out, but by the time it got a grip it was too late. Kin was on it, sinking his dagger into its eye, stabbing it again and again.
And again.
And again.
Over and over, until it stopped moving, until its body dissolved into sickly, brown smoke that quickly faded.
Kin took a moment to catch his breath, panting hard. "All right," he muttered. "Time to leave."
"Drop your weapons!"
He couldn't contain the litany of curses that came bursting out of his mouth at the sound of Cassandra's bark behind him. He'd been too busy making sure the demon was dead to notice that the Inquisition had him surrounded again, the Seeker in particular looking livid at his escape.
Or attempted escape, anyway.
Bad burglar, escape artist...man, I am slipping, he thought.
Varric seemed to find his frustration amusing, the bastard, outright laughing from behind Cassandra.
"I just saved your damned herald's life!" Kin snarled, unable to find his footing on the ice, ending up in an awkward kneeling position. "Doesn't that prove I'm not an assassin?!"
Cassandra shook her head. "That doesn't prove anything—it could simply be a ruse in order to get close to him again for a second attempt!"
"If I wanted him dead, I'd have taken his head off on my way past!" Kin protested, gesturing with his axe, which he knew Cassandra had discovered to be razor-sharp upon inspecting it a few days before. "Or I'd have just left him to be mauled by the demon!"
"Final warning!" Cassandra thundered, reaching for her blade.
"I'd do as she says, Stabby," Varric urged him from the side. "She's not one for idle threats."
There was a loud boom, not unlike the one he'd heard when the rift had opened, and for a moment he feared that another one had appeared. However, that was not the case. In fact, that was the sound of a rift closing. He looked up just in time to see the hole in reality disappear, a thin tendril of green magical...something attached to the Herald's left hand quickly disappearing into said hand.
And that was it, the rift was closed, the demons were gone, and it was like nothing had happened at all.
Save for the three dead Inquisition members lying in the snow, which had been dyed red with their blood. The one who'd refused to unshackle Kin was among them, her glassy eyes staring unblinkingly into the cloudy skies above them.
"What are you doing?" the Herald demanded as he approached the group, flexing his hand, which was still glowing weakly before fading completely.
That was...interesting. And horrifying. And Kin wanted nothing to do with it.
"Just making sure Stabby's not about to try slashing your throat again, Greenie," Varric said cheerfully before Cassandra could.
Kin blinked. Stabby?
The Herald sighed, flexing his hand again. Did closing the rifts hurt, somehow?
"Cassandra, I really don't think he's an assassin," the Herald said. "He had a clear shot at killing me, and he didn't take it. He actually saved my life!"
"It's true," Bull said, coming to stand beside the Herald, having kept an eye on his back while he'd closed the rift. "Saw it with my own eye. Pretty good move there, assassin. Pretty sure the Boss wouldn't be alive if you hadn't dragged that thing off."
"I'm not a..." Kin sighed, realising there was no point fighting it since clearly no one was listening to him. "I'm just a thief...and I happen to know my way around a fight."
"Sounds like a skillset we could use in the Inquisition," the Herald said, rubbing his chin in a pensive manner before turning to Cassandra. "What do you think?"
The Seeker gaped at him. "Have you gone mad?!"
"I'm a Dalish mage who's pissed off all of Thedas by accidentally taking the title of Herald of Andraste, claiming I'm going to save the world with the help of a heretical order of warriors founded against the wishes of the Chantry," the Herald said matter-of-factly, grinning all the while. "I am, in fact, quite mad."
"Can't argue against that, Seeker," Varric helpfully pointed out.
"Of all the...ugh, fine, but I will not have him armed until Nightingale has talked to him!" She pointed her sword at Kin again. This seemed to be running theme with her. "Drop your weapons!"
There really as no way out of it this time either. Even if Kin somehow managed to find his footing on the ice and somehow escape them, he had a feeling Varric would put a bolt in his back, no matter how nice he seemed. Glaring back at the Seeker, Kin dropped his axe and dagger, kicking them towards Varric.
"I'll be expecting those back," he said. "And I'm not joining the Inquisition."
"We'll see, Stabby," Varric replied with another wink, carefully stowing Kin's weapons somewhere on his person.
As the group began to clean up after the fight, retrieving the horses and the bodies of their fallen comrades, Kin found himself a little listless. He wasn't shackled anymore, but he was also unarmed and only carrying the clothes on his back. He could, theoretically, run, and possibly even get away, but he wouldn't stand a chance against the elements up here. All he could do was follow them to Haven and, hopefully, prove his innocence, after which he could walk away.
Hopefully.
A lot was resting on hope these days.
"Thank you."
He blinked, realising the Herald was standing right in front of him, mere paces away. The Dalish elf was smiling warmly at Kin, and it made him look young...which he definitely was. No more than twenty-five, if even that.
"Er...for what?" Kin asked.
"For saving my life," the Herald said, cocking his head to the side, confused. It was a little cute, if Kin was completely honest. "Truth be told, I really was in trouble, and I didn't expect you to come charging in like that. I'm still getting used to fighting these things—they've a habit of sneaking up on you if you take your eyes off them for even a second."
"Oh...well, you're welcome," Kin replied. "Are you sure you want to be standing this close to me? I could still kill you, even without my weapons."
"You could, but I don't think you will." His eyes really were an odd shade of green, like emeralds with darker speckles concentrated around his irises. "My name is Khaim, of Clan Lavellan." He held out a hand (not the glowing one), and Kin took it after a moment of hesitation, unsure if it was a trick or not.
"Grimalkin," he replied, shaking his hand quickly before letting go. "Kin, for short."
"Varric told me," the Herald—Khaim—said. "But that's more of a codename, right?"
"It is," Kin confirmed. "My real name is...well, none of your business."
Oof, Kin really needed to put a muzzle on himself one of these days. Heretic or not, the Herald was not the sort of person he wanted to piss off. Honestly, he was the type of person Kin didn't even want to know he existed.
To Kin's surprise (he was surprised a lot these days), Khaim laughed.
"You're right," he said. "It really isn't...but I don't think Leliana will agree."
The world seemed to grind to a halt for a moment as the realisation that yet another terrifying turn of events had taken place sank into Kin. If it hadn't been for his conversation with Varric, he would have thought it a coincidence, but if a random dwarf from Kirkwall was suddenly part of the Inquisition and recognised his face after six years...well, Kin didn't stand a chance in hell that it wasn't the same Leliana.
His luck was still gone, it seemed.
"Geez, Greenie, what did you tell him? That we'd bring out the ol' thumbscrews and racks just for him?" Varric asked, coming up to them. "Hello? Anyone in there?" he said, waving a hand in Kin's blank, unresponsive face.
"I didn't say anything!" the Herald exclaimed, just as confused. "I just said that their real name wasn't any of my business, but that Leliana might not feel the same!"
Varric looked back and forth between them a few times. "Stabby?" he asked.
"This Leliana," Kin said slowly, horrifying memories flying before his mind's eye at a frightful pace. "She wouldn't happen to be Orlesian, have red hair, and a glare that would scare demons back into the Fade?"
Khaim blinked. "Oh, you've met?"
Varric sighed, pinching the bridge of his considerable nose.
"Stabby, is there anyone in Thedas you haven't tried to rob?"