Note: does anyone know of a fanfic forum specific to Bull's Chargers? I'd love to read and bounce ideas off of other writers who are as enthusiastic about the Chargers as I am.

Also: if you haven't checked this site out before, you're seriously missing out on some rib-busting laughs. Search for incorrectdragonage on tumblr! (I'd post the link, but it keeps vanishing whenever I save this document).


Chapter 3: The Stitches.

"What are you on about, flat-ear?" Dalish asked loftily. The sunlight played over her cornsilk blonde hair and brightened her too-innocent blue eyes. Krem carefully avoided her gaze in case he gave her away; she was the worst liar among the Chargers.

Stitches shot a look at Krem; they both vividly remembered Skinner throwing a dagger at Dalish the first time it was used on the city elf.

The poacher only snorted at the insult. "Please. Mercs only like ale and serving girls better than gambling. And it's my death you're betting on - I should get a say."

"Even a rookie knows better! No one bets on themselves," Rocky insisted scornfully. "Besides, don't you know the odds are stacked against you? You ain't exactly a walking fortress."

A gold sovereign suddenly appeared in the poacher's hand and she walked it over her knuckles with a flourish and a smile. "All I'm hearing is 'gold and magic and intact hands, oh my!' when I get to Crestwood. I'll double your highest bid."

Stitches flashed a white grin from Dalish's other side. "Now, you're talkin'."

Their debate was cut short by a raucous caw overhead. A large crow hurtled out of the sky and snatched the coin from the poacher's hand. It bawled at the mage as it lit on to the safety of Krem's fist and cawed victoriously as the rest of the Chargers stopped in the dusty trail to laugh.

Krem smiled at the storm on the poacher's face and held up a hand in peace. "You'll get your coin back, butterfingers. In the meantime, Chargers take a break! We'll be back on the road in thirty minutes."

The Chargers continued to bicker as they settled on the lush bank of a nearby brook bordering a copse of trees. The watery, overcast sun dipped down behind its thin shield of clouds to the forested crowns of the mountains, giving Krem the light needed to read the message tied to the crow's leg. The brief message was written in the Chief's large scrawl: Gone to meet Lavellan. Keep going. Try not to die - but I win 1 gold & 20 silver if the thief does.

"How is Bull?" Skinner asked as she approached. The deadly rogue in the russet scarf had scouted ahead of them, as usual, and had doubled back when she saw the Chargers getting off the trail.

"He's on Inquisition business. We may not meet up with him at the Dragon's Breath as planned - works out well for them, since they just rebuilt and he'd eat them out of business. We'll continue our missions until he catches up," Krem said, knowing she'd pass on the word to the rest of the Chargers.

Skinner nodded, her glossy raven hair swaying in the brisk Hinterland breeze. "I still have that Antivan poison," she said abruptly.

Krem was busy writing a brief reply on the back of the missive. "As tempting as that is, you can't win by killing her. It's why we have the 'no murdering' rule so no one cheats. And we gave our word," he said absently.

"The dead and burned can't talk," she pointed out.

He'd expected this. The Chief had once advised him to never give an order that those in his command would not follow, and the mood in the Chargers upon hearing that the poacher would tag along had simmered between mistrust to mistrust and rebellious. But throughout the day, the poacher had obediently stuck by him and kept her mouth shut until Rocky had prodded her into conversation. Her ridiculous theatrics and stories were a captivating diversion from the usual slow montage of dirt, dirt, mountains, and more dirt in the Hinterlands. She'd even made them laugh a few times. Despite the gradual decrease in hostility, he had expected that a couple of them would see 'permanent displacement' of her body as a convenient solution over protecting a useless liability.

"Why?" Krem asked simply. Skinner wasn't one to mince words and responded best to direct communication.

"She is a biting fly," Skinner muttered, tracing her dagger hilts. "Too many old scars to be just some Circle mage. Traitor or bait. Both."

Krem and the Chargers had come to rely on her sharp eyes and canny sense for subterfuge. For someone who worked best in the shadows, she was always sincere. He wondered if she distrusted the mage for her clever tongue and charming demeanor and saw the combination as a useful farce despite the both of them being city elves. If she did, she wasn't alone.

"She's magically cut off, so the risk is low. If something happens, we have the resources to handle it," Krem said, tying the returning message to the crow's leg. "We're all watching her. If you see something else, let me know."

Skinner nodded and abruptly left to join the Chargers on the bank. Krem followed shortly after with a half formed plan to investigate the poacher's skills and history, dodging the angered crow after he'd snatched the sovereign back. It cawed and flew south, heading back to the Venatori campsite.

He realized with a little jolt that the poacher wasn't sitting by the brook. He'd half expected her to be chatting with Rocky and Stitches, the two she seemed to talk with most. They were sitting with Dalish by the water, Skinner was eating her lunch in a tree up behind the bank, and Grim was sitting a little above a boulder by some tall reeds. There was a slight grin on the blond man's face. The reason became apparent when Krem got closer.

"...Maker scorch all the Old Gods and blights to the Void and back for Andraste's skid-marked smalls, how the fuck does this come off?"

Krem rounded the boulder and couldn't help the snicker that escaped him at the sight. The poacher had inexplicably gotten caught up in her upside-down cloak. She froze, her arms askance, before lifting a corner and glaring up at him from the mass of wool and hair.

"You'll have to look elsewhere if you want to play 'strict templar and naughty acolyte' or 'human lord and the lusty elf,'" the poacher said dryly, wriggling the cloak back down. Her smoky brown curls were a mess around her pink-tinged cheeks, and she darted wary glances between him and Grim. She crossed her arms and held herself tensely, wearing a pleasant but alert expression.

"Thanks, Grim. I'll take it from here," Krem said. The burly blond man nodded and returned to the Chargers, clinking in his heavy armor.

The poacher was eyeing him suspiciously. Krem held out his empty hands and sat down a little distance away. "Not looking to take advantage of your delicate sensibilities. We're just keeping an eye on you - for your safety and ours."

"Smooth talker. Is that what you tell all the girls?" she said with a grin. She was still tense, and he noticed that her pointed ear was twitching slightly at the noises from the group beyond the boulder.

"The Chargers never take advantage of women, or men," Krem reassured her. She may have tied their hands into letting her tag along and he suspected she used innuendo to bluff, but he guessed that she was remembering the common stories of wayward highwaymen and how they snatched women. "The Chief doesn't put up with it, and we've kicked out anyone who's tried. No one here will force themselves on you; I guarantee it."

She scanned his face and the rigid lines in her body relaxed a little. "Y'know, normally I wouldn't buy that sort of guarantee," she said. "But I've heard good things about you. And the Chargers. Doesn't make this any less awkward, though."

Krem remembered the strange position she had just been in and paused. "Did you... need to shower? If you have to do your business-"

The poacher threw up her hands and cut him off. "No. Uh, thank you, but no I don't need to go, right now. And you definitely shouldn't help me. Y'know, the Venatori made the chain this long so they specifically wouldn't have to- I'm gonna stop talking."

He couldn't help but laugh. He didn't know what was funnier - the topic, how her eyebrows flew up and bowed inwards above her beseeching eyes, or how she simultaneously seemed to lean forward to make him stop talking and seemed to cringe into her cloak at the same time. That the Venatori had been considerate of the bathroom needs of their prisoners was a bit humorous and surprisingly considerate.

The poacher sighed in defeat, the pink flush in her cheeks slowly receding down and yanked at the cloak on her right shoulder. "Before you laugh yourself to death, see this hole? The assassin tried to kill me and got my shoulder before you guys stormed the camp. I bandaged it earlier, but it needs to be sewn up. I was trying to get the cloak off and... got stuck."

Krem choked off his chuckles and scooted closer for a better look. "I can call Stitches over-"

"No, thank you," she rebuffed firmly. "No offense to Stitches, but I'd rather do it myself. Except, I need your help getting the cloak off. It keeps getting stuck on the blighted chain."

"How about Dalish, or Skinner? They're women-"

The poacher fully smiled and waved his offer away. "I appreciate it, but no. I don't know them, and they aren't exactly excited to have me around. I know you better, and I trust you more. Besides, it's not like I'm getting naked."

There was a churning of happiness and embarrassment when she said that; he wasn't sure if it was from the glow of the laugh earlier. He decided to ignore it by helping her get the cloak up and off. He was so close that he could see the tiny laugh lines that fanned out from the corners of her uptilted eyes and the shallow, thin scar that ran along her left jaw. He was pleased to see that the bruised hollows that had pinched under her eyes and cheeks had filled out a little throughout the day. He'd made sure that she had enough water and snacks on the road, and her creamy skin was starting to glow underneath the dust and grit. She'd looked starved when they'd freed her from the slave caravan, and he guessed that the Venatori had done exactly that. Against his will, he felt a burgeoning amount of respect for the poacher - she hadn't complained once throughout their travels from the campsite despite her injury and malnourished condition.

Underneath the dusty green cloak she wore a mixed set of light armor made of hardened leather, steel plates and chainmail. Nothing fancy, and it looked like she'd put them to good use, judging from the dents in her forearm bracers and the mended slash above her hip. He'd have expected robes, but bounty hunters needed better armor against their prey and the prey's family or friends, and robes didn't cut it against swords and pitchforks.

However, the set lacked shoulder pauldrons. Krem carefully unwrapped the stained bandage that smelled like musky sweet rust from her toned right shoulder and exposed a deep cut extending down to the muscle. "Why didn't you tell us? Stitches could've sewn you up back at the camp!" he scolded.

"I didn't want to hold up the group," she replied, her jaw stubbornly set. "It's not that bad. The Redcliffe bear did worse."

"You're risking an infection," he insisted. She sounded like the others who risked anything in order to avoid Stitches' stitches until he badgered them. "How do you expect to win the bet if you die or get the Taint on the way to Crestwood?" he demanded, exasperated.

She chuckled and he felt heat rising from his neck to his face. "Anyone ever cluck back at you, mother hen?" she teased.

Krem scowled, hoping she hadn't noticed anything different about his face. "Only when they were clucking delirious," he muttered under his breath.

He held the cloak and sleeve out of the way as the poacher assembled her potions, needle and thread. The elfroot extract smelled like crushed pine and was bitter and strong - she dabbed it into the cut with a wince. She hummed as she got to work stitching up the wound with her left hand after sterilizing and threading the curved needle. He was impressed - she was using her non-dominant hand and didn't seem to be hampered by the weight of the cloak draped over the chain. The silver needle darted in and out of the incision like a fish, underneath the skin layer so there were no external sutures. It was an interesting technique - he'd seen it used to minimize scarring. Nobody in the Chargers minded scars, so Stitches had rarely used anything besides normal sutures.

At least she wasn't a completely useless liability now that she's demonstrated some adequate healing abilities. He could almost hear Iron Bull repeating that there was never such thing as too much information. Krem agreed, with the added bonus that by getting to know a person, it was easier to broker negotiations by appealing to the person's morals and nature.

"When you said healing, I thought you meant magically," he mused aloud, breaking the comfortable silence between them as she worked. "Where did you learn how to do it... normally, for lack of a better word?"

"You could say mundanely, like they do at the Circle," the poacher said absently, never taking her eyes off of the needle point. "I learned from my mother. She was the hedgewitch and healer for Souveri'atisha."

"Soovry-what?"

She snorted at his terrible accent. "Souveri'atisha. Weary Peace. It's a district in Revas'sahlin."

"Rave-sailing...?"

"Reh-vas-sah-lin. It's what we call the Val Royeaux alienage in Elvish. It means Freedom in this Moment," she explained with a touch of irony in her lilting voice.

There was a faint undertone of pained hope in the name, and it echoed to some of Krem's childhood memories. Krem wrenched himself from that train of thought and cast about for another conversation topic, eager to get over the awkward pause.

"So your mother was an apostate in the Orlesian capital?" he blurted.

"It's more common than you'd think, especially in the alienages," she replied, her tone taking on a flatter quality. "She was the primary healer for our district, sometimes the neighboring ones as well if the other healers had their hands full. It always gets bad when it rains rabbits."

"Well, at least I can tell the Chief that I started learning a new language today," he joked, attempting to restore the easy nature of the conversation. "Raining rabbits?"

"Oh, that's slang for when a bunch of elves are taken down at once. In Revas'sahlin, it's usually because of sickness, fires, or when the buildings broke. The rumors are true, you know. The buildings are so high the sun only reaches the vhenadahl - the alienage tree - at noon. No one can actually pay for good supplies let alone dwarves for proper construction, so buildings fall apart a lot. That's when we literally get raining rabbits," the poacher explained matter-of-factly.

Krem felt a little sickened at the bloody image in his head, and indignant for the elves. He wasn't the most political person in Thedas, but the alienages reminded him far too much of the squalid and chaotic slave markets back in Tevinter. And slaves with rich masters usually lived in far better conditions than what Ashe and Skinner had described. Although the Chargers rarely worked in places large enough to have an alienage, they always made his skin crawl and his heart break to see the conditions in which they lived. Skinner flatly refused to linger in those areas, preferring to complete her assigned task and then wait for the rest of the Chargers after the job was done. He mentally shook himself and refocused on gleaning more information. "You said your mother was an apostate. How did you learn the mundane methods?"

She had been watching him think, her face impassive. She returned to pulling the wound edges together. "Her talents weren't tremendous beyond basic tissue and bone healing. She used splints, sutures, and poultices for the rest of it. I helped her in her clinic when she needed a set of hands. Often kept me out of trouble." She tied then cut the thread off neatly with her teeth. The movement caught his eye - her deft hands were etched with numerous scars.

"How often does a healer get knifed?" Krem asked, his interest piqued. This must be what Skinner had mentioned.

The poacher flashed a wry grin at him as she dabbed a bit of something from a bottle on to the stitched cut."You're quite curious. Is this interrogation for your tactical strategies, oh fearless leader, or for... pleasure?"

He gave her a withering look as he peeled off his gauntlets and gloves. He had a feeling that his face may always look this way when he talked to her. "Glad to see you're back to normal," he commented, secretly pleased that her spirit had brightened even as she dodged the question. He threaded a straight needle that he'd pulled from his belt pouch that held his emergency sewing supplies. "And who says you're my type, poacher? Hold still and wear that thing normally - I'll fix the rip."

"Ser, yesser."

The poacher bandaged her shoulder, flipped her cloak back and wore it the right way out, then sat still obediently while holding her hair aside. Bits of talk and laughter drifted over from the other side of the boulder on the breeze, as well as chirps and shushing whispers from the reeds. The sun was dipping down to the horizon, and he guessed that they'd have to make camp in another couple hours.

"To answer your question," he said as he started to sew the fabric, "I like to know a bit about those I'm responsible for. Not just because the road can get boring, because it does, a lot, but I need to know what tools I have if something happens. You've shown some of your skills and I think you'll be a useful asset if we get into any trouble on the way up to Crestwood." Provided that she survived the battles, that is. He didn't expect a magicless mage to be very useful in a fight beyond getting a few whacks in with their stick. She'd probably get herself killed in a serious scramble.

"You're... very pragmatic, Krem," the poacher said slowly. He looked up from tying off the knot to see her grinning at him with cautious eyes. There was a genuine air about her, without the usual flippant looks or comments. "It's not often an elven mage and healer is called useful."

The quiet respect in her tone made him squirm a bit inside. "Well," he said gruffly, busying himself again with the thread, "you've seen the Chargers. We take in anyone who can keep up their end, doesn't matter who or what they are. We're all strange in some way." Maker, did the sun come out? Everything was a bit brighter and warmer.

He stilled from tying off the knot when she laid a tentative hand on his shoulder. "Call me Ashe. And I just wanted to say thank you, Krem," she said with a slight smile. "You-"

A series of low-pitched whistles cut through the air and he was immediately on his feet with this heart thundering in his ears, tucking his needle away and shucking his pack. The rest of the Chargers jogged over to him, ditching their packs beside the boulder and unsheathing their weapons. Rocky headed into the treeline, assembling traps as he vanished into the foliage and fog started to roil from the brook as Dalish called fire to the water banks.

"Ashe, stay down by the reeds," he ordered. "There are bandits coming from the trees. You'll stay in the cover of the fog with Rocky when he gets back. Stitches will be close by to help defend. Stay put, got it?"

He didn't wait for a reply. He donned his shield and unsheathed his sword, heading up the bank and putting the water and slope behind him for better footing. Grim joined him on his right, and he knew Skinner was hidden in the trees waiting to spring an ambush.

The battle was a controlled blur, as they usually were. Thirteen bandits burst from the trees, shouting warcries. Krem tangled with two swordsmen while Grim bellowed and hacked at two others. A thunderous crack let him know that Dalish had frozen and shattered a bandit with her signature move. He parried a bandit's blackened sword and ran him through and bashed the other with his shield. He gave him the mercy stroke before the bandit could get back up. Panting, he paused to look around. A gust of wind cut a swathe through Dalish's magical fog and Krem could momentarily see the battlefield clearly. Dalish was magically warring with a disheveled bandit wielding a staff, Rocky was laying another trap behind the bandit Grim was pushing back with his sword, and Skinner was a shadow in the fog. He guessed that the scuffle wouldn't last much longer - the bandits weren't professionals and might as well wield toothpicks. Poor, desperate bastards.

"They've got a slave!" a bandit shouted excitedly, looking right at Ashe who was peeking out of the reeds. Her shackles glinted in the sunlight. He charged from the fog to Krem's left, only dodging Krem's sword at the last chance. The bandit was large and beefy, and danced in and out of Krem's reach, wielding two axes. His footwork hinted at some time spent in an army.

There was a shout. Krem chanced a glance and saw Stitches fall. A mounted bandit wielding a sword was bearing down on the downed Fereldan and Krem felt his blood turn cold. He shouted in pain as the bandit drove an axe down into Krem's thigh in that moment of distraction, and he roared as he fought back knowing that he'd be too slow to reach Stitches in time.

The horse shrieked and it raced past him without its rider, streaming blood from a long laceration in its flank. The bandit had to dodge it and gave Krem just enough reach to snake his sword past his axes and through his throat. The gush of scarlet blood told him it was fatal - he yanked his sword back and whirled to run to aid the Chargers' healer.

Except Ashe and Rocky were already there. Rocky was throwing bombs at a bandit dancing just beyond the caltrops strewn about the packs. Ashe had planted herself right by the healer, keeping another bandit at bay with her staff. Her movements were slow, too slow to block the bandit's thrust and she barely sidestepped in time. In that twist, she did something to the staff and a silvery spear as long as her forearm sprung out of the top - and she use the momentum to skewer the bandit from his flank, pegging him down to the dirt a few feet away from Stitches.

Krem ran over to them, uncaring of the caltrops underneath his iron-plated boots. He barely noted that the other bandit's torso exploded when a bomb found its target; he was focused on the long arrow sticking up from Stitches' chest. The healer was gasping shallowly, eyes rolled back and sweat pouring from his ashen skin. Ashe was using a dagger to rip away the leather armor and shirt the arrow had punctured through. Krem knelt to help, and quickly the two of them bared his chest.

Surprisingly, there wasn't a lot of blood pooled around the head of the arrow, but air and blood bubbled around it. The arrow had lodged itself underneath his right collar bone. The torn skin around it was taking on a yellowish hue.

"Hurlock fletching," Skinner commented distantly. "That's a darkspawn arrow. Salvaged."

"Dalish, do something!" Rocky snapped from Krem's left side.

"You know I can only heal skin!" she snapped back bitterly. "I'm about as useful for this as a legless halla!"

"There's no cure for the taint," Skinner added hollowly.

"What're we gon' tell his wife?" the dwarf moaned.

"No one is going to tell her anything besides 'hello, here's your husband back and congrats on the baby'," Krem shouted. He screwed his emotions tightly into a little pit and turned to Ashe. "You're a healer. Can you heal him?"


Note: please let me know if you have constructive feedback! Or even your favorite slow-burning romance =)