A/N: Sorry this took forever, and sorry it's short! It's been hectic in RL. However, this should be fun :D And we get to clear up a couple of plotholes. Also, I've made an attempt to streamline the writing somewhat, and to break up the paragraphs. Let me know if it works!

Disclaimer: Adjectives are mine. Nouns are Bioware's.

Chapter 2: Out With A Crash

I'm lying on the bed - which is, by the way, even less comfortable than the hole-y decade-old thing that I sleep on at home - and staring at the ceiling.

It's well into the night, and I'm completely exhausted, but I can't sleep at all. There's nothing to do but lie here, and reflect.

When Wynne entered the room, it had taken a massive exertion of self control to keep myself from hugging her. She quickly shooed Anders out the door (he took a second to lay a hand on my shoulder; the contact sent an unnerved shudder down my spine), and took a long, hard look at me. I began to shift uneasily. She was definitely going to think my underclothes were weird.

"What was your name, Dear?" she asked, her motherly tone clashing with the calculating expression in her eyes.

I shook myself mentally, trying to fall back into character.

"Fenne Surana," I answered, then was struck by a moment of brilliance: "I actually have a cousin who's a mage, I think. Are there any Suranas here, to your knowledge?" Wynned raised an eyebrow, but appeared to think about it for a moment. My chest felt like it was constricting.

If one of the wardens is here, who am I to steal his or her destiny?

"Yes, actually, there is a Surana. His name is Alim, but he is an elf, and you are human." there seemed to be an edge to her voice. She payed a lot of attention to what I said next.

"Alim! Cousin Alim! He's - ah - sort of adopted, if I remember correctly. Or, well, was. Before he showed his talent."

"I see." Wynne said, and began to pull some dark, mud-brown fabric from a satchel at her feet that I had yet to notice. While she arranged this and several other pieces of clothing on the bed, I took time to ply her with questions. Largely so she didn't have a chance to ask me any.
After all, the elf mage warden is alive and well, so what about the others?

"When I got here, I told First Enchanter Irving my name, but he didn't mention Alim. Why is that?"

"Alim is..." Wynne paused for a moment in her folding, her tone uncertain, then continued on in a more assured voice. "in a bit of trouble currently. Perhaps Irving failed to mention him because he didn't want to explain the situation, or, possibly more likely, he saw that you are human and didn't think Alim would pertain to you."
Now I was really curious, but I left that question till later; I had others.

"What about Amell? I - er - had a neighbor when I was younger who was taken to the circle, I think."

"Amell? Funny you should ask about Amell, after Surana." Wynne noted, having now unpacked all the clothes.

"Why?" I asked, and she began laying the clothes on top of one another, in the order in which they should be put on. In fact, I noticed that some of it looked sort of fancy. Before I could get a look at them, though, Wynne grabbed my attention back as she began to explain.

"Well, the situation that has Alim in trouble is, in a way, Solona Amell's fault. Alim is a bit more emotional than Solona, and when they were both faced with the same choice... Alim let his heart rule his decision, and Solona used her head." the enchantress shook her head, seemingly resigned to something very sad."Alim is planning something very, very stupid tonight, and we're going to have to apprehend him and a couple of his friends."
Oh, no.
Oh, no, no, no!
Jowan.

"That son of a bitch!"

"Excuse me?" Wynne looked at me, affronted. I scrambled to apologise, trying to pull myself together. I hate Jowan. Usually, I have a soft spot for mages, but blood magic never ends well! What an idiot. And, oh, this poor Alim guy is getting so drug in. I have no idea how to even begin to form an opinion of Solona, though. Jesus, what a mess.
Er.
Andraste.

"Oh! I'm sorry! It's just - a burr. On my foot." I hopped around a bit, theatrically pulling something out of one of my toes and flicking it into a corner. For effect, y'know.

"Well, that should be fine. I have your clothes all laid out now. Will you need assistance dressing?"

I'm pretty sure I turned beet red at the thought, though whether it was out of embarrassment or being indignant was difficult to tell.

"I'll be fine, I'm sure." Also, I really didn't think the tanktop and boxers would go over well.

"Suit yourself." she said, with a smile. Wynne walked past me, and out the door, closing it quietly.

Finally alone

The sun could be seen setting through the tiny sliver of window, and I decided to paw through the clothes and try to find something to sleep in. Other than this.

I shed my yukata, folded it nicely, and stuffed it into the pack Wynne left on the wooden floor beside the bed. The clothing lying neatly on the bed was intriguing, and I picked it up, rubbing my fingers along the seams and admiring the careful, hand-stitching. Almost as seamless as a machine.

Almost.

On the top of the stack was a pair of soft, dark green hose. The material felt sort of like cotton, but it was difficult to tell. It wasn't quite as delicate as cotton, but not as rough as wool, either.

Under that was a knee-length tunic with elbow-length sleeves that looked like it'd fit pretty tightly. It was mud-brown and had a short slit down the front that would probably come down only an inch or two beneath my collarbone, and along the neckline and the slit there were tiny, dark brown swirls embroidered. Underneath that was a leather belt with a small, unassuming buckle and a loop that could presumably be used to hang a scabbard.
All fairly standard fare.
What was underneath the belt, however, was nothing of the kind. It had been hidden by the tunic, only a couple edges of fabric peaking out behind the drabness

It was beautiful. If I put it on, it would have fallen past my feet, most likely. It was some kind of overcoat, with long, bell-like sleeves slit at the top to allow freedom of movement. The back was slit as well; clearly this was a garment meant more for adornment than practical use.
It was dark red with golden embroidery along the edges, and along the cuffs of the enormous sleeves. The stitching was of dragons breathing fire, of birds in flight, of deer running with swift grace through the trees.

The detail took my breath away.

I gently folded up the clothes, and laid them on the small, rough wooden table that sat beside the bed. I dug around in the satchel thing again, and finally found something that looked like a long, gray shirt in a side pocket.
I changed, throwing my clothes into the bag, and buried myself in the blankets of the bed.

And that's about it, up till now. blankets are wool, I think, and a bit scratchy, but warm. This stupid tower is really drafty at night. I've been lying here for hours, slipping in and out of consciousness, but a few minutes ago I heard the stomping of running, armored feet go past my door.

Now, I'm feeling really torn.

I know that Jowan is a blood mage, but Alim doesn't. If I leave the situation alone, will it unfurl like it does in the game? Will Alim say the right things? What about my being here - does it change anything? In the end, I decide that there's just no other way to find out what's going on, and drag myself out of bed. I get dressed quickly, putting on the hose - fits, but they're tight - and the tunic. I belt it at the waist, and then throw the coat-thing over all of it. There's no mirror, and no brush, so I jerk my fingers through my shoulder-length, light brown hair and try to pat it into some semblance of order. Ahg, it's oily.

I really need a bath.

I open the door, step into the hallway, and then my vision is obscured by something dark.
I'm shoved against the wall, cold stone pressing painfully into my back, and I realize there's a hand pressed against my face, over my eyes. The glove is rough and dark, and it scratches my face.

Someone's breath, rank and sickly-sweet, washes over my face.

"Well, then. Looks like one 'ah the magies is out 'ah bed. That's not aloud, is it, Rillans?"

I can practically here the sneer in the voice that replies.

"Tha's right, Ferran. An' what do we do with th' ones tha' break th' curfew?"

"Why, we lock 'em up, don' we."

"Tha's right."

The man pulls his hand away, and I can see a little better in the dimly lit corridor, but the glove flies from my face to my throat, choking me.

I've never been so petrified in my life. I'm too scared to even make a sound. I can't even bring myself to scream, and the air I'd need to do it is quickly leaving me. These men - what are they, Templars? probably - are twice as tall as I am, huge and hulking in their armor. One, with a big nose and long black hair in a ponytail, stands behind the one choking me. Rillans, I assume.
The other, the one with his hand at my throat, has short blond hair. I'm gasping for breath now.

I don't know why I'm paying so much attention to what they look like. I'm going to die here, as they leer and grin and laugh.

I'm going to die.

I'm going to die in this damp, brown world and I'm not even going to get to meet Alistair before I do it.

The laughter of the two templars is fading now.

My vision is blurring.

From a long way away, there is a sound like breaking glass.