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Fenris smelled like piss and he was sure he was covered in bruises. This was not his grand dream of escape, full of blood and triumph: this was humiliating.
It all started in the middle of the night. As promised, the bitter stew brought about an empty sleep - it was dreamless, if not particularly restful - and he was grateful for that. Yet it felt like mere minutes after he had closed his eyes, that he was jerked away. The elf woman, Sylrien, was nudging him gently, whispering, "Fenris? Fenris, it's time to go. We need to leave now."
"Now? Has something happened?" He reached for a sword that wasn't there, eyes wide and alert.
"No, but we leave without Suran's knowledge. It is the way things are done - he can deny knowing when we left, if we left at all. Precautions, you see."
The danger of the situation now laid heavy on him. He thought for a moment of resisting, but to what would he go back to? This was his only chance, but just when he strengthened his resolve and got up to make ready, another obstacle presented itself:
Dwarf sweat.
Specifically, a concoction made from distilled dwarf sweat.
Sylrien had given him a strained smile, trying to talk the vile stuff up, but it only made his stomach turn even more. "It's...it's not just dwarf sweat, but a mixture of things, really. It's supposed to act as a cloaking device against magical detection. Whatever those markings are, they aren't normal. If they have something to do with magic - and I've seen things involving magical tattoos before - we need to take care of them. You need to take care of them."
He stared at her, before giving the slightest of nods. He hated confirming this, "Lyrium beneath my skin." Perhaps if he didn't have to explain, he might avoid the...dwarf sweat.
No such luck. "Then you need it. I thought I saw them glow in dark. You've five minutes, and they need to be covered in it. You can wash as soon as we get to a safe spot, you've my word."
She turned to leave him, moved to help pack something for the old elf. At this moment, Fenris would rather be old than being covered in...dwarf sweat. He turned his back to the others, and began to disrobe.
So now he smelled like the piss of a dwarf with an infected bladder. He doubted it was really dwarf sweat. Dwarf sweat couldn't possibly smell like this. He was in the cramped compartment beneath bales of hay, The others, including the woman, were smudged with earth and fit with false collars - walking behind the cart, chains connecting them to the back. Dwarf sweat, really?
Magic was never good, and this was just further proof.
But all his complaints died when he realized where they were: the gates.
The gates of Minrathous spoke to the former glory of the Tevinter Imperium. They were massive, nearly as tall as the spires, with large stone figures of archons flanking the wooden doors. Yet all the imposing architecture in the world could not compare to living stone. The juggernauts, gifts to the Tevinter Imperium from dwarves ages past, loomed overhead. Though Fenris had never seen many golems, he was sure they were not supposed to be like this. They were like small mountains - blocking out the sun when they moved overhead - and how they moved! He was never so close passing through these gates as a free man, yet even he was apprehensive at their chances.
To pass through the gates, one needed a few things: the first was a manifest of all goods going in or out. Magical items had to be declared and marked with a seal of approval and note of ownership. Such items had become increasingly rare during Tevinter's decline and just as there were rings to smuggle out slaves, there were black markets and rings to smuggle out bewitched items. Once documentation was in order, there would be a scan of sorts, administered by a low level clerk in order to detect traces of lyrium, or anything else abnormal. Finally, a visual inspection was administered.
It didn't sound so imposing, or so difficult - but this was all done while one of the golems held their foot above the proceedings - ready to come smashing down on party and clerk alike. Tevinter did not let go of its possessions, be they flesh or steel, easily.
For now, all he could do was wait. He hated it: Fenris was a man of action, he was a man who did not hide in the shadows (conveniently forgetting the past few nights he spent loitering in the dark corners of capital). Here, shoved into a box that was much too similar to a coffin for his liking, he was totally dependent on the driver, and on the woman he had met only a night before.
The clerk this time was sickly pale, with bloodshot eyes set behind wide-framed least, that was how Fenris imagined the man to be from the sound of his voice.
"Name and destination, Citizen. And your credentials..."
The wood around him creaked with the weight of elves sitting atop him in the wagon. His ears twitched as he heard the driver spit, and then the rustling of papers. "Lloror Septimus, to Vol Dorma, of the Slaver House Septimus, Citizen." There was a slight humpffing noise, but Fenris was unable to tell who it came from. The cart suddenly seemed cooler, and he knew what that meant: the foot of the golem looming over head, as these 'credentials' were checked.
"And your purpose, with the slaves - six total. Two children, boys, and four adults, two men and two women...?" The clerk was sniffing and snorting, his voice changing directions - he must have been circling them.
"Transport to Vol Dorma, Citizen. There's a bill of sale there, to one Lord Calethinuous. Some fer a little work, some fer a little pleasure."
The sound of footsteps ceased, followed by a slight snort of feminine indignation, and then a chuckle from the clerk. "Pleasure indeed. As per order thirteen, part four-C, do you have any magical items you are compelled to declare, and are you willing to submit to a scan?"
"Naw, and yessir, Citizen. Be careful with that one, though. The Lord wants 'er unmarred. Plans, if ye know what I'm saying..."
"Ah, I see. Well then, we shall not disappoint." The voice grew quiet, and Fenris could barely hear the words of magic being whispered over the site. He yearned for a crack in the wood to appear, so that he might see what was going on and alleviate some of this mounting tension, but none were within reach. He waited for the inevitable sound of discovery, of the command to bring the foot of the golem down on them all - seconds once more seemed to drag like hours, and he dug his fingers into his palm. It was all he could do, the only way he could move. Each moment of silence convinced him more and more that they were discovered, that he would need to free himself and move faster than he ever had to in his life if he wanted to li-
"Well then, Citizen, all clear. Good journeys to Vol Dorma..."
The wheels began to turn, and he heard the driver give a grunt of thanks. He finally let out a breath-
"Wait, Citizen. Wait. What was the slaver house you belonged to again?"
The wheels grinded to a halt, and he felt a flurry of panic begin to build in his breast. "Why, House o' Septimus, Citizen. Tell 'em Lloror sent you fer a ten-percent discount on a girl. We're in the southern district, near the Spire of Calamius."
The clerk chuckled, "Gratitude, Citizen. On your way."
Fenris went limp as the wheels turned once more, and it seemed, for now, they were clear. The box was warm again, and that could only mean one thing: They had passed the golem; they had cleared the gates. He had escaped the capital.
They had remained on the Imperial Highway until nightfall before he felt activity. Fenris had been lulled to sleep by the clattering of hoofs against the stone, only to wake again as the wheels collided with a bump or broken tile. When it finally came to a halt, he felt neither rested nor awake. The was a shifting of weight of the boards above him - hushed whispers and hurried movements, before finally the boards were pried away, and he was greeted by Sylrien's face, framed by the moon overhead.
"Easy part's over, friend. You ready for a walk?"
"I would welcome one," he replied gruffly, taking her extended hand to haul himself up and out of the cart. The rest of them seemed to already by scaling the side of the highway, down to the ground below. The other elven woman, Kaillan was what she had been referred as back within the city, was scrubbing her skin of some invisible taint, "To think, that shem touching me that way; his hands and his eyes..."
"Best that is all it was, and he wasn't overcome enough to offer purchase," Sylrien chimed in, gesturing to the rope. "Down there, Fenris. Cache of supplies set up for our journey. And you, Lloror Septimius, of House Septimius. You're the finest actor this side of the Rialto Bay."
"Rialto Bay? I'd say Amaranthine Sea. Just hope that clerk doesn't go looking for his discount anytime soon. The lost heir to Septimius' business isn't exactly qualified to give out discounts!" The man straightened his back, seemed to set his jaw, and was transformed into a whole other person. He opened his arms to Sylrien, who in turn embraced him.
"Well, whoever they are, if you were really their lost heir, they'd be very lucky. The Black Fox is a familial tie anyone would be lucky to have!." She broke into a wide grin, laughter in her voice. It was pleasant sound to Fenris' ears.
With a layer of grime removed, the man appeared to turn younger, and the blanket that had been draped across his seat had turned into a cloak, revealing a compartment suited for a saddle. The horse pulling the cart turned mount, and the human bowed his head to the group as he swung himself up and into the saddle. "Will do, my lovely! And till we next run into each other again!"
Sylrien shot off a salute, before looking over her shoulder. "Fenris, Kaillan. The cart. Help me push it over the side."
His temporary tomb was soon overturned, shattering as it hit the earth below. Satisfied, Sylrien began to usher the rest of the party down the rope, pausing to look at the retreating figure. One of the children tugged at the grimy dress she wore, and as Fenris began to climb down the rope, he caught only a bit of the conversation.
"That wasn't the real Black Fox, was it?"
"Of course not. The real Black Fox has been living in Estwatch for a number of decades. It's...an inherited title."
