Lyna sat on a wooden bench, staring at her intertwined fingers that lay in her lap as she clenched and unclenched her hands. The dungeon cell around her was damp and freezing, despite the lack of ventilation. The bars of the cell were thick and new looking, no rust or signs of weakness - something that the elf herself must be careful not to show.

On the other side of the cell, Garrett quietly prayed. He wanted to live through his incarceration with a supposed murderess. He promised the Maker that he would never attempt to escape Kinloch Hold again after this. He swore to stop letting Anders use him as a guinea pig for his harebrained schemes. That was if the templars even took him back to the Circle alive...

His thoughts were interrupted by a curt 'Stop that'. The voice came from across the corridor. In the cell directly opposite (which had noticeably thicker bars) sat the huge, hulking figure of Rogar, the Avvarian who had assaulted Commander Weathers. Rogar was sat on the filthy floor of his cell, as the bench bolted to the wall appeared to be unable to support his considerable mass. He held up a huge hand, palm outwards in the direction of the scrawny mage.

'Your muttering is interrupting my meditation'. Garrett almost laughed at the idea of a giant meditating, but the imposing hillsman even terrified him through stone and steel. He stopped praying out loud and instead turned his attention to Lyna.

***

'Commander, you cannot seriously expect them to visit the keep!' exclaimed Sergeant Lewis, Weathers' second in command. In his hand he brandished a letter, on which some words stood out in bright ink. 'Dire', 'pain', 'panic'. 'Death'. Weathers waved one armoured hand, dismissing the Sergeant's complaints as if there were nothing at stake.

'Commander, only a madman would respond to this letter,' said the Sergeant wearily 'Only a group of madmen would agree to travel to such a damned place on the word of this letter!'

The Commander sat at his impressive mahogany desk. He smiled sternly at the Sergeant, as if about to reprimand him.

'Well,' he said, still with the ambiguous smile 'We do indeed have a madman. And a mad elf for that matter,' Here, he smiled more broadly and signed a second letter that lay on his desk 'But they will not be responding to that letter, but this one.' He handed the letter to the Sergeant, who read it over and smiled too.

'You believe this will work? A report that everything is well at the keep?'

'Dated a few months ago!' the Commander boomed jubilantly 'Simply a visit to check that all is indeed... well.'

***

'So, did you kill him?'

Lyna glared angrily at her questioner, the indignant mage. Before she could spit out a scathing retort something scuffled, belched and then fell to the floor behind Rogar. The hillsman curled his lip in disgust and the dwarf from the tavern pushed past him to the front of the cell.

'Really, Twinkles?' Lairwulf laughed 'That duster was huge. Our friend here would have been crushed by him. Unless it was from a distance judging by that bow action in the Veil!' Lairwulf cracked up laughing here, and even Lyna and Rogar gave half-hearted chuckles. Garrett, meanwhile, looked simply confused.

'What were you even arrested for?' he demanded of the dwarf, whose vein was visibly throbbing in his forehead.

'He probably can't remember.' said Lyna dryly, still glaring at her accuser. Once again, she was interrupted before she could insult the mage who stared back with distrust. This time it was no whispered prayer or hungover shout that stopped her tongue but the thick wooden door that led to the upper floors of West Hill's fort. It flew open and met the stone wall with a clunk that resounded through the narrow room. Light flooded in and cast the shadow of a man in heavy armour against the far wall. Commander Weathers strode in, waving a vellum in his hand.

'Good morning, delinquents!' he called, running a metal covered hand across the bars of Rogar and Lairwulf's cell 'I hold in my hand the key to your freedom!' He opened the folded vellum and made to read, but stopped himself and spoke once more.

'Or would you prefer to hear of your fates first?' Weathers pondered gazing around 'Dwarf, you will be released after you are fully sober and no longer crave ale nor wine. Released into the custody of your brother, Svit of Orzammar,' Lairwulf grunted in disapproval but did not argue.

'Garrett of the Circle, will be released to the Templar Order later today. They will do with you as they see fit,' Weathers continued 'Rogar of the former Avvar tribe outside of West Hill, you will be banished from this village. And the knife-ear...' Weathers paused, as if savouring the delicious verdict he had decided upon most easily.

'Elf, you will be taken to the gallows three days hence and hung by the neck until death.'

Lyna remained silent and emotionless and Weathers began the next part of his speech.

'BUT,' Weathers began, waving the vellum above his head in triumph 'This could be your salvation! We received this letter from some troops stationed at Fort Crestian. It states that all is well at the keep. However, this is dated a few months prior to this day. We have received nothing since.' Weathers looked once more at his literally captive audience.

'All we require of you is a trip, as a group, to check the fort and then return.' Weathers finished, leaning against the bars of Lyna's cell. Lyna blinked quickly at the letter in his hand and stood with the speed of her race.

'Comman-' she began and was silenced when he turned and slammed his hand around her throat.

'Silence, knife-ear. I will assume that you are all in agreement with my offer and elave you now.'

Weathers stalked out, slamming the door behind him and casting the room once more into darkness. Lyna slumped against the cell door.

'Are you alright?' Rogar asked, leaning forward out of his cross-legged pose.

Lyna glanced upwards, clutching the red mark that encircled her slender neck.

'How old was that letter?'

'A couple of months,' replied Garrett, interested in where this was headed 'Why?'

Lyna looked directly at the mage, as if daring him to oppose her.

'The ink on that page was still wet.'