Baldur must have drifted off for a brief time, because a quiet whispering of voices woke him up before the usual nightmares had gotten a chance to take hold first. He heard Alistair's lower tenor, unaffected with warning or urgency, so he relaxed marginally from having tensed with a hand gripping the hilt of his knife that rested across his chest while he slept. The accented voice that answered was an unfamiliar shock, and for a split-second Baldur had forgotten about the assassin in their camp, whom he would have to get used to quickly if the other man planned on sticking around. He gave no notice of being conscious, breathing out slowly and letting the conversation drift by, unable to help overhearing.

"I could take the next watch if you'd like. I tend to be at my best at night. Or in the morning...or the afternoon, if you prefer. I can go at any time, really."

"We're watching you, elf. Of course I'm not going to let you take the next shift!" Alistair said in between a broken yawn. His voice lacked vehemence, weariness dogging him worse than usual.

"You may watch me any time you'd like, Warden," Zevran purred, and there was a choking sound.

"Why would I want to-Never mind. Shouldn't you go to bed now? We wake up at first light."

Zevran made a considering noise.

"I would, but... I am unused to sleeping alone, I'm afraid. Perhaps you would consider—"

"No."

"Not even a cuddle?"

"NO."

"I would let you be the big spoon, if you prefer."

There was an intake a breath followed by a long, long sigh. Alistair's voice was muffled, as if he were hiding his face behind his hand.

"Listen. I have nothing against men who...well. You know."

"Oh? Do elaborate." There was laughter and interest in Zevran's tone, like he knew damn well where Alistair was going with his train of thought, but dragging the actual words out of Alistair amused him to no end.

"But I'm not. I prefer women. Only women."

"I, too, enjoy the attentions of a beautiful woman. However, I would not want to deprive an entire half of the population the pleasure of my company simply based on a limited preference."

"That's...a rather liberal outlook."

"I am a free spirit, what can I say. I suppose if I must sleep alone for the duration, at least I can dream well knowing I am surrounded by such attractive companions."

"Please keep me out of your dreams, or your head at all," Alistair begged, pained. "Who knows what depraved things go on in there?"

"I could tell you, if you'd like."

"I'd rather not. Anyway, Morrigan is next watch, so I wouldn't push it with her. She may kill you just to shut you up. Or...just because, really."

Zevran's tone went dreamy. "Morrigan is that ravishing mage, is she not? I would not object to my end at her hands. Or mouth. Or anything, really, she is gorgeous all over."

"Yeah, well, good luck with that. I would say it was nice knowing you, but I can't help feeling that I really, really need a bath now. In boiling water, preferably."

"I could scrub your back for you, since we are compatriots now after all."

"You just don't quit, do you?" Alistair sighed, even though the question was more rhetorical than not at that point.

"I am afraid persistence is in my nature, but even I can take an obvious hint once in a while. Just know I grieve that I cannot convince you otherwise," Zevran said, regretfully. "Perhaps the others may be more inclined to a handsome man's attentions?"

"I doubt you'll have better luck with any of the others, but you're welcome to try. It's your funeral."

"I do so enjoy a challenge! I find romance more thrilling when there's a touch of danger, no?"

"I prefer my head attached to my shoulders, but to each his own, I guess."

"I, on the other hand, prefer my head attached to-"

Whatever Zevran was about to lasciviously imply was abruptly cut off with a sound of scuffling and muffled laughter, and Baldur wished he could afford to stuff his ears with cotton or a bit of wax, but having his hearing impeded would prevent him from being able to detect approaching danger.

Either way he'd had enough.

"Quiet!" he growled, sitting up and jabbing a finger at the pair who'd been tousling like school boys. Zevran had Alistair caught in a headlock, his face turning red with the lack of oxygen in the crook of his arm, and they turned alternately shameless and sheepish gazes on him.

"You," he said, pointing directly at Zevran, "Release Alistair."

Baldur glared until Zevran reluctantly eased his grip enough that Alistair could slide his head out of the hold and shove himself away, gasping while his hair stuck out in all directions.

"Both of you go to bed. Now. I will take over the next watch."

He wouldn't be sleeping for the duration of the night anyway, so there was no reason the others should be deprived of a few more much needed hours of rest, which no one would be getting if Zevran and Alistair's squabbling continued for much longer. Baldur occasionally questioned if he wasn't a nursemaid instead of a Grey Warden after all.


The night passed by both too quickly and too slowly. Baldur took position at the top of the hill when Zevran and Alistair parted ways and slunk back to their respective sleep areas, Baldur's hard expression brooking no argument or further comment. His eyes were gritty and tired, but he was much too anxious to worry about falling asleep while on watch. He found a long branch as thick around as his wrist and hacked at the wood with his knife just for something to do with his hands, even though he had no particular skill at whittling. Wood shavings quickly accumulated into a pile between his booted feet until the stick was down to a nub, and only an hour had passed at most judging from the slight change in the position of the moon, as far as he could tell.

Baldur was starkly reminded of how much the others' bickering and idle chatter distracted him from his own thoughts, missing the sound of their voices once all was quiet again. He could scarcely recall ever being alone in his life. He'd always been surrounded by his brothers and cousins and nursemaids and tutors and, later, soldiers and the Assembly, and there were constantly people in and out of the palace for business or visiting. Even when he'd been locked away in the dungeons, at the lowest point in his life, there were guards who he'd once served with that snuck him extra rations and commiserating words while he waited anxiously for his sentencing. Gorim had also come to visit him with hopeful news about Duncan, who had been willing to take Baldur on as Grey Warden initiate despite the fact he had fallen out of favor with the entire kingdom and branded a traitor.

He hadn't known Duncan long, but the man had made an impression on Baldur even the first time they had met. Duncan had been polite with a quiet authority that didn't need to be announced through loud declarations or unnecessary confrontations. He'd been dedicated to the service of the Grey Wardens, and Baldur had surprised himself by asking how one would go about becoming a Grey Warden, as if he didn't have his own duties to the kingdom.

Duncan had gently reminded him of his previous obligations, but recognized Baldur's strength and drive to defend those who were the most vulnerable. Baldur had been touched by the man's sincerity after being so used to the lip service of others who sought favor through close relations with nobility or royalty. In fact, there were women in Orzammar whose goal was to offer certain services in exchange for prestige. Bhelen had one such woman, and Trian had many concubines, with even more bastard offspring who saw more of his silver than their father. Baldur frowned worriedly when he realized his unclaimed nieces and nephews would now have neither; likely destined to grow up destitute, overlooked and unnoticed. If Baldur ever found a way to make contact with an ally in Orzammar, he would be certain to send recompense to those families whose lives his brothers had ruined.

Morning was heralded as a warmth against his back and the gentle bump of Bastion's boxy head against his hip, whining softly for breakfast.

"Itsi!" Baldur ordered quietly in the jealously guarded language of dwarves, rather than the common tongue he used with his companions. He was in the process of training Bastion to follow commands in Khudzul as an advantage over their enemies who wouldn't know to expect an attack from behind or attempt to escape on horses that have been hobbled in their absence.

Bastion gave him a sharp yip of understanding and tore off into the underbrush to chase out a small rodent or two for his morning repast.

There was an art to waking his companions, although Bastion's baying was generally a fairly efficient alarm, if not a panic inducing one that normally preceded an attack. Often the sounds of movement in the camp were enough to rouse the others. Morrigan was a light sleeper and could fall asleep within minutes and wake just as easily without disorientation. She'd come from the Wilds, and as a result seemed to be incredibly in tune with the environment, sensing the light of the sunrise or a change in wind direction before even Bastion at times.

A quiet call was usually enough to wake Leliana, but she couldn't be touched. Alistair nearly had his wrist broken in their earlier association when he'd tried to shake her awake and had ended up flat on his face with his arm twisted up behind him before anyone knew what had happened. She'd blinked herself awake with the sound of Alistair yelling beneath her, knee digging into his kidneys and his wrist bent nearly to the point of snapping. She'd let go immediately and apologized profusely, but none of them made that mistake twice.

Alistair, though. Baldur could clomp around in full metal armor bellowing at the top of his lungs, and the Grey Warden wouldn't stir an eyelash. He could be vigorously shaken awake, but wouldn't actually be coherent for up to a full hour, even if he could fight in his sleep and occasionally had. It was Morrigan who discovered the instant way to get Alistair completely, one-hundred percent awake in an instant a few weeks back. She'd daintily sucked on the tip of her finger and promptly stuck the wet digit into Alistair's ear when the man was particularly slow getting up one morning. Alistair had howled and shot awake like his hair had caught on fire.

"Did you just put a slug in my ear?! Oh Maker, it's going to eat my brain, isn't it?"

"You'd have to have brains for it to consume first," Morrigan explained rationally while Alistair fought against his bedding with a hand clapped over his ear, reaching for anything nearby to throw at Morrigan.

Fortunately that morning such extreme measures were unnecessary as everyone seemed on edge from the unexpected ambush and gradually began stirring soon after the sun had begun to peek over the horizon. Perhaps they should have made camp farther away from the site of the attack, but Baldur found that obvious signs of battle and bodies strewn about the area served as effective warning others who might try and take advantage of a weakened party.

Baldur returned to his bedroll to begin packing after Morrigan and Leliana were risen and donning their armor and weapons after a cold breakfast of dried strips of meat and wild tubers Morrigan had found the night before. Even Alistair was grumbling himself awake despite his late night, even if he was slower to start than the others.

When the bedding had been secured to the top of his own pack, Baldur glanced over to see how their newest member faired, instantly disgruntled when he saw that Zevran was still asleep, absolutely dead to the world despite them taking no precautions to tiptoe around camp as they prepared for the day. He frowned and stood slowly, leaving his pack for the moment as he considered the assassin. He could pelt the man with small stones from where he stood and keep out of range of retaliation if the man were a violent waker like either he or Leliana, but casting stones would be extremely rude and start them off on the wrong foot when perhaps a word or two would do instead.

Baldur approached Zevran with trepidation, his heart rate increasing for no discernible reason and making him ill-tempered as a result.

"Oy. Wake up, you," Baldur growled, standing just out of reach and glaring down at Zevran.

He had terrible sleep posture, starfished out on his belly with his back entirely exposed and his bedding rucked up beneath him. His face was unlined and even in sleep the corners of his mouth still curved up ever so slightly. Zevran's soft, nearly inaudible breathing didn't change with Baldur's call, so Baldur reached out and cautiously nudged him in the hip with a steel-toed boot.

Zevran grumbled and his brows puckered momentarily before smoothing out again, refusing to awaken with either a command or touch, and Baldur wasn't about to jam a finger into the elf's pointed ear. Instead, he knelt next to Zevran, his left hand on his knife, and reached out with his right to jar his shoulder.

"Mm...change your mind, Alistair?" Zevran intoned sleepily, his lips curving up in a grin as he flopped over onto his back, scrubbing his palms over his eyes.

"Not hardly," Baldur scoffed, and Zevran dropped a hand away to peer blearily up at him. Instead of disappointment at the sight of a dwarf's grizzled countenance first thing in the morning, Zevran's grin grew wide and pleased.

"Not Alistair, but something even better, I should say! What a lovely vision you make, pet. I could get used to waking up to your face in the mornings."

Baldur nearly lost his balance and had to use the hand on Zevran's shoulder to brace himself before snatching the limb away like he'd been scalded.

"You need your eyes checked, elf. And your ears as well. Any one of us could have come upon you a number of times and slit your throat, and you never would have known."

"You have my eternal gratitude that you did not. I'm afraid I am quite the deep sleeper and unused to rising before the sun. At least not without a bit of...persuasion..."

Zevran's other hand fell away from his face and had the audacity to land right on Baldur's knee, his thumb finding the space between his leg guards and stroking lightly. He smiled up at Baldur with a soft, sleepy expression and Baldur had to glance down to check if the other stabbed him in the gut while he was distracted to explain the sharp, sudden ache in his sternum.

"How can you sleep so deeply? Aren't you an assassin?" Baldur accused, wondering why he didn't lop the other's hand off for his presumption, choosing instead to stoically ignore the touch.

Zevran pulled his bottom lip between his teeth in thought, and Baldur felt his eyes train unwillingly on his mouth, feeling hot all over.

"That's exactly it. I'm the assassin. I don't generally have other assassins after me. I could set my own hours while working for the Crows and wake up as late as I wished as long as the job got done."

"That's going to change, if it's like you say and the Crows don't leave loose ends. We don't have the luxury of wallowing in bed all day. We're accustomed to having to defend ourselves from attacks during the night, and most of us tend to stab first and wake up after. I'm sure you'll pick up the habit the first few times you find a Hurlock or ghoul trying to kiss you awake with their blades."

"I would not mind practicing waking up to kisses, especially if it'll keep me on my guard," Zevran said coyly, watching Baldur watch his mouth as he licked his bitten bottom lip slowly.

Baldur barely felt himself tipping forward in slow motion, reacting unconsciously to an intense compulsion to lean down those last few inches and...

"We'd better get a move on if we want to reach Haven before nightfall," Morrigan called, extinguishing the camp fire and calling up a small breeze to clear away signs of their having been there. They weren't completely incapable of hiding their tracks, but unless they separated or wore disguises, their company was memorable regardless of the precautions they took.

Baldur jerked away, realizing what exactly he'd been about to do. Zevran's golden eyes sharpened from his sleep fog and went contemplative, seemingly disappointed for the interruption that Baldur couldn't have been more grateful for at that very moment.

"Get up. We're leaving with or without you," Baldur said roughly, his cheeks flaming as he quickly moved away and stood, unable to focus on anything other than the spot on the side of his knee that tingled fiercely from Zevran's touch and the tenderness from his lip that he realized he'd just bitten raw. Baldur had gone much too long without non-violent contact if a simple touch and look could affect him beyond reason.

"I could make breakfast to show my appreciation," Zevran offered cheerily as he sat up and ran his fingers through his fine blond hair, managing to look somehow dashing even upon waking.

The clearing rang out with a resounding "No!" from all directions.

"I, for one, will be watching my food and drink far more closely," Morrigan said.

"That is fine advice for anyone," Zevran agreed, entirely unfazed by the immediate, unanimous rejection.


Baldur found his thoughts drifting throughout the day, and he cautiously made certain there was at least a person or two between he and the elf at all times. Baldur hadn't believed himself to be susceptible to seduction, but then again no one had actively tried to seduce him before. Dwarrowdams were often more aggressive than their male counterparts and would bluntly state their interest for the strongest or most cunning dwarves rather than allow themselves to be swayed by pretty words or trinkets. Male dwarves outnumbered females three-to-one, so for a woman to have two or more lovers wasn't unexpected. Interracial relationships, such as between dwarves and humans, or dwarves and elves, were unheard of and generally considered as abhorrent as laying with a farm animal, but at least a goat or sheep had a respectable amount of hair, which was more than either a human or elf could claim.

Zevran could likely charm the bark off a tree if he were so inclined, and apparently didn't discriminate between race or gender. He'd actually eased his attentions off Alistair somewhat, but even Baldur could see the appeal in flustering the easily offended Grey Warden. He was secretly relieved that he wasn't the only one affected by Zevran's advances, but, unlike Baldur, Alistair was in no danger of actually succumbing.

Leliana was a touch warmer to Zevran than the others, but she'd also made her refusal quite clear.

"While I appreciate your interest, I made a vow of celibacy when I devoted myself to the Chantry and the Maker. I have taken no lovers in the past two years and have no intention of breaking my vow today or anytime in the foreseeable future."

"Two years?!" Zevran exclaimed, the horror writ across his face nearly humorous except that Baldur felt his own sinking disappointment at Leliana's proclamation. He held great affection for her, especially since her sense of duty and compassion mirrored his own so well. She was a skilled warrior with more than a few devilishly cunning tricks up her sleeve, and spoke to everyone with respect, even Morrigan who she disagreed vehemently with on a regular basis.

"I cannot believe... Two years, truly?" Zevran shuddered dramatically, although it could have been from the cold as well. "I must consider myself fortunate that the Crows found me before the Chantry did, then."

"Hey! I grew up in a Chantry," Alistair protested. "I certainly wouldn't consider being made into an assassin a better alternative."

"But at least I can have my pick of lovers anytime I wish," Zevran pointed out. "How long has it been for you, exactly?"

Alistair went bright red and immediately clammed up, refusing to answer even when Morrigan started prodding him, Alistair appearing more uncomfortable by the minute. Zevran left off before Alistair imploded, but turned back to Leliana instead, still aghast and sympathetic.

"My dear, if there is anything," he took up one of Leliana's hands between his own and gazed at her intently, "anything I can do to remedy this dry spell of yours, know that I will do so as soon as you say the word. Or don't say a word, just blink twice and I will understand that you have need of me urgently."

Leliana didn't even blink once before she slipped her fingers from between Zevran's so smoothly the elf didn't even realize his hands were empty for a minute or two.

"That won't be happening," she said crisply, an edge of warning to her tone, and Zevran frowned mournfully but then leveled a considering look at the Chantry sister.

"Chantries must be full of repressed individuals. Perhaps I should make a point to visit one and...worship. Properly, you see. On my knees."

Morrigan snorted, loudly, and Zevran aimed his most charming grin at her, bolstered by any response in his favor.

"Perhaps you would like to join me, hm?"

Morrigan raised her eyebrow, utterly immune to flattery.

"Tell me, elf. Are you familiar with the mating habits of black widow spiders or the praying mantis?" Morrigan asked pleasantly, her gold eyes turning back the path ahead.

"I cannot say that I am, but I would love to be enlightened especially if you are willing to demonstrate."

"I prefer to mirror my own personal philosophy after these two species in regards to lovemaking. They both consume the male during or after copulation so there is no messy business waiting around wondering if he will call upon her again or if the dress she agonized over for hours met with his approval. Much simpler in cleaning up loose ends, I've found."

There was a long moment of silence, and then Zevran cleared his throat uncomfortably.

"I may have been a touch hasty with my offer. However, such a gruesome end may surely be worth the pleasure you have to offer," Zevran mused, undeterred for long, but he pointedly did not push the issue.

All of the males in their group gave Morrigan a much wider berth after that particular revelation, and even Leliana cast a speculative glance or two in the mage's direction.

The wind had a definite bite as they began their laborious ascent up to the base of the Frostback Mountains, the air becoming dry and thin as they panted for breath climbing the treacherous, nearly vertical path that was overgrown and completely hidden at times. They referred to Brother Genitivi's map and journal often for directions, seeing no clear sign of anyone having traveled this route in at least ten years, if not more.

"A-Are we certain this is the right d-direction? Perhaps the Urn is l-located in warmer climes?" Alistair asked hopefully, his teeth chattering with the cold.

"Brother Genitivi's notes indicate the Village of Haven should be visible over that rise there," Leliana said as she consulted the tattered, leather-bound notebook, pointing to one of the smaller peaks that disappeared within a wreath of clouds. She drew her cloak closer around herself and shivered, the wind beginning to pick up and bring gusts of snow flurries which clung to everyone's hair and Baldur's beard and did not melt.

Morrigan and Bastion appeared to be the only ones unaffected by the cold even though they were the least protected from the elements. Bastion had his short fur, at least, but Morrigan was exposed except for the most vital areas and didn't have a goose pimple anywhere on her flawless skin. Baldur was accustomed to the heat of constant forges and molten metals when he lived in Orzammar, but he wasn't affected terribly by the cold thanks to his thick hair and beard and many layers of armor. He also had a high core temperature, and being so low to the ground prevented most of the wind from reaching him, fortunately.

Zevran, on the other hand, followed nearly on Alistair's heels, using the taller man's bulk as a wind blockade until Alistair noticed and protested loudly.

"You maintain a five foot radius from me at all times, elf! I am not carrying you up this mountain clinging like a limpet on my back!"

"I am not asking you to carry me. I'm simply making use of the reprieve you're already providing from the wind and not letting your efforts go to waste," Zevran protested reasonably, practically wrapped around Alistair's arm until the man aggressively shook him off.

"Absolutely not! If I have to be cold, then you have to be cold. Here, you can walk in front of me for a while and see how you like being a living shield." Alistair shoved Zevran into the path before him before the assassin could slip away, a protest dying on his lips as he cocked his head to the side and stared ahead.

"Ohhh, I see now. What a marvelous view you have from here! Yes, I do believe this arrangement will work out for the best of all."

Baldur glanced at the uninteresting view of gnarled trees and snowdrifts in confusion, not knowing what Zevran meant or why Alistair was so red-faced until he realized Morrigan was walking uphill of them, and with the wind blowing her tattered skirts...

"Morrigan," Baldur called abruptly, cheeks going ruddy from more than just the cold. "Bastion and I will take point for now, if you could guard the flanks? I thought I heard something a bit ago and need your keen senses."

The excuse was feeble and Alistair and Zevran's twin glares said they saw right through him as well, but better they were irritated with him than have Morrigan discover their source of shameful entertainment and burn their eyes from their sockets. Baldur needed his men's eyes right as they were, but he also wouldn't tolerate anyone in his group being disrespected even though he knew Morrigan could take care of herself. Baldur didn't believe in the idea of females being the "weaker" sex. He'd fought alongside azghâna for countless years who were tattooed from scalp to foot with their kills and Baldur feared to get on the wrong side of or meet in a dark area of woods alone, commanding officer of those fierce warrior women or not.

"Don't make me regret being downwind of you," Morrigan threatened the group, slipping to the rear easily as the rest of them forged on ahead.

Daylight grew scarce quickly under the cover of trees, which blocked them from the worst of the wind, but the shade was even colder with the weak sunlight unable to penetrate the dense branches overhead. They would have to consider setting up camp soon, even though Baldur had hoped to reach somewhere warmer and more hospitable before camping outside in the bitter cold became necessary.

There was a collective sigh of relief when they came upon a lone guard when the thickest tangle of forest opened up into a clearing, the man the only sign of life they had seen in ages and proof they were headed in the right direction. Unfortunately, the guard didn't seem nearly as pleased to see them.

"What are you doing in Haven? There's nothing for you here."

The guard practically growled at the lot of them, his hand shooting out to halt their passing. Baldur couldn't blame the man for being short-tempered if he'd been standing out here in this Mahal-forsaken weather all day, but he was too tired to argue and had no intention of having his way barred.

"Please, we have traveled so far and mean no harm. Surely there is somewhere we may rest before we take our leave of you," Leliana pleaded reasonably, even though none of them planned on leaving until they retrieved the Urn or at least located Brother Genitivi.

"You may trade at the shop if you wish, but then you and your companions best leave."

"Is it just me or did it suddenly get colder?" Alistair muttered, frowning at the rude dismissal.

"They are hiding something," Morrigan said, sounding eager to expose whatever that something may be.

"Ah, quiet insular communities. There's always something nasty going on behind closed doors," Zevran said, and then added as nearly an afterthought. "I hope it involves chains. I hope they ask me to join in."

Haven did indeed have something nasty going on behind closed doors but kinky sex had nothing to do with it, to Zevran's obvious disappointment.

Baldur knew something was wrong when the unfriendly bartender he attempted to coax information from turned outright hostile at the mention of Brother Genitivi, the man scaling the bar to attack the group even though he was desperately outnumbered and armed only with a knife.

The bartender was facedown in a pool of his own blood before Baldur even knew what happened.

"People around here really don't like questions," Alistair said, just as shell-shocked, and they all glanced around warily at the patrons who glowered and whispered amongst themselves, but didn't rise up to join in the attack.

Baldur made a point to stare each and every patron in the eye until they averted their gazes back into their pints, refusing to be cowed or show that he was unnerved by the wasteful death. No one tried to apprehend them when they left the shop, not even the first guard they had met who Baldur assumed would be eager to hound their every step and herd them away from his precious town. Rather than leaving immediately as promised, the company grouped together to explore the surrounding area. They didn't need to confer in order to agree separating would be a bad idea with an entire village violently antagonistic towards outsiders.

The more they discovered, the more Baldur felt the urge to leave become more pressing, the evil of man apparent in the discovery of an alter drenched in human blood located in a villager's backroom.

"No one could lose that much blood and survive," Morrigan said, and the group stared at the alter uneasily. Bastion sniffed at the base of the alter where the blood had gone black and congealed and whined pitifully.

They didn't dare linger lest they become someone's next sacrifice, and turned their sights towards the most prominent building in Haven. At the highest point of the village was a Chantry, which was a familiar relief to Leliana until they pushed inside the vaulted doors after a short hike and saw many angry faces turn towards them at their unexpected entrance.

"I thought all Chantries were led by a Revered Mother?" Baldur murmured to Leliana, who was staring narrow-eyed at an older man who was directing a sermon and clearly the leader of the convent.

"They are," she said grimly as the man left off on his speech and approached the group solemnly. Bastion's hackles raised and he growled low in his throat.

"I understand that you are new here, but common courtesy dictates that one shouldn't interrupt. No matter. We were just about done here anyway," the man said as if he were indulging disruptive children rather than a group of individuals armed to the teeth.

A woman from the segregation walked up to the man with a withering look of distaste aimed towards the group before turning her objections to the man.

"But your Reverence, we have not completed the Sacraments!"

"Be calm. We have honored guests among us. Surely the Sacraments can wait..."

A familiar ringing of steel was all the warning they had before the congregation of cultists converged upon their party, these worshippers far better armed than the bartender had been. Baldur released Aodr at once and swung at the Revered Father, who blocked him with a staff longer than himself and caught Baldur across the ribs with the haft. Despite their numbers and weapons, the people of Haven were obviously unused to confrontation and were neutralized quickly. Once most of the cultists had been taken care of, Alistair quickly came to Baldur's aid, whose limited reach was hampered by the Revered Father's arm span and staff.

The older man was far more skilled than his disciples and dodged an attack from Alistair before he landed a resounding blow to the Grey Warden's forearm, which gave a hideous crack as the armor fractured and Alistair fell to his knees in agony, dropping his sword to clutch his likely broken arm to his chest. The Revered Father raised his staff for a finishing strike, which never landed as a arrow shaft suddenly bloomed from his throat.

Before the Revered Father had even crumpled to the ground, the group surrounded Alistair, who was hunched over his arm, his face ghastly white and teeth clenched as he rocked back on his heels and bit back a scream.

"We need to get this set." Baldur's tone was stern, but briskly apologetic. He had the bare essentials of medical training from his time in the service of Orzammar's army to know how to set dislocated or broken bones and staunch deep wounds, but it wouldn't be pretty and Alistair would need an actual healer sooner rather than later if his arm was indeed broken.

He uncorked a flask of some foul healing concoction of Morrigan's they all carried and held the rim of the bottle to Alistair's lips, which were pale and pinched but parted willingly enough, even though he gagged at the taste. The potion would hopefully ease the worst of pain and inflammation, but the man would need an entire jug of moonshine and an actual healer before his arm would be merely a distant ache.

"Hold him," Baldur ordered as he stripped himself of his belt and held the leather up for Alistair to bite down upon, which he did, muttering desperate prayers to the Maker all the while.

Leliana knelt before Alistair with her hands braced firmly on his thighs, giving him a tightly reassuring smile that didn't nearly reach her eyes, which were dark with concern and anger on Alistair's behalf. Zevran took position behind Alistair with one arm around his waist and the other locked over his shoulder, bracing him against his chest.

"I wish this embrace was under better circumstances, my friend," Zevran murmured against the side of Alistair's head, the Warden's hair already plastered with sweat as he glanced wild-eyed at Baldur and gave a jerky nod.

Baldur carefully took Alistair's injured arm and drew the limb away from his chest, his skin too-hot to the touch and already livid once Baldur carefully removed his smashed arm guard and gauntlet and saw his forearm was in no better condition. Alistair whimpered around the belt and a fat tear splashed down his cheek from the pain of simply exposing the injury, tipping his head back against Zevran's shoulder with a deep groan as he closed his eyes, unable to watch.

Morrigan stood off to the side with her arms crossed and hip cocked as she watched in interest, apparently bemused by all the fuss from one broken bone.

Baldur was thankful for small mercies that the bone hadn't punctured the flesh and seemed to be one clean break rather than numerous small fractures which would mean Alistair's chance at a full recovery would be minimal at best. Baldur wrapped one hand just below Alistair's elbow and above where the line of his forearm deviated and formed a huge knot at the apex of the unnatural bend, his other hand braced firmly around Alistair's trembling wrist.

Baldur gave no count or warning when he quickly forced his hands in opposite directions and twisted, the sound of Alistair's radius bone popping back into place drowned out by a bloodcurdling scream. Alistair jerked violently and smashed the back of his head against Zevran's lip, which split and immediately started bleeding profusely even as the elf clamped down on his hold and Leliana fought against Alistair trying to get his legs out from under him to kick or get away, frenzied as a wild beast.

The merciful thing would have been to knock Alistair unconscious, but they couldn't afford to have one of their number immobilized while they were still in enemy territory. Bastion prowled the parameter since the rest of them were preoccupied, and Baldur saw the dog stop at a doorway with his head cocked and ears pricked forward.

"Mahal's Beard!" Baldur swore, releasing his grip quickly once he was certain the bone was back in place so Alistair wouldn't yank away from him and break his arm again. "There are others still here. We cannot stay like this."

"What would you have us do?" Morrigan asked. "Alistair's completely useless and will likely faint or expire the moment we let him out of our sight."

"You and Bastion will stay here with him. The rest of us will take care of the villagers and try and locate Brother Genitivi."

"I am not coddling him, the big baby," Morrigan said with a disgusted look at Alistair, who had collapsed against Leliana's shoulder after his initial outburst and was shaking with either sobs or convulsions.

Bastion left the door and circled around the group, butting his large head beneath Leliana's arms wrapped gently around Alistair's shoulders to lick wet, dripping slurps over Alistair's tear-streaked face.

"Oh, not you too," Morrigan complained at Bastion, but Alistair only switched his one-armed hold to the Mabari and buried his face in Bastion's coarse fur, freeing Leliana from the awkward embrace. Zevran eased himself stiffly away as well, his chin a mess of gore from his split lip, which he swiped at in resignation.

"Perhaps my pout will only be more devastating after a bit of swelling, hm? Or I'll look rugged from the bruising. Either way, I cannot find a downside."

"I could give you a black eye or two to improve your appearance further," Alistair joked through clenched teeth, which was a good sign that he would recover fairly quickly.

Zevran patted him on the shoulder in consolation.

Baldur rose and prepared to search the Chantry for more cult members and any sign of Brother Genitivi, doubting they would find him alive if this was the sort welcome any visitors to Haven could expect to receive.


Itsi!Hunt! (Khudzul)

Azghâna – Warrior ladies (Khudzul)