A/N: This is the first part of a five-part story of Jorath Amell written for Dragon Age Big Bang 2012. The entire five-part story is called "Home, Sweet Home"

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Chapter 1 of Home, Sweet Home

Assessing the Situation

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He stood at the top of the hill overlooking Lake Calenhad, face lost in thought. His staff was in hand, the end glimmering as he slowly sampled the residue of spells lingering in vicinity of the Tower. Carefully he pulled in the magic, tucking it away within, or in one of the many small artifacts he used to store magic not yet too dissipated to be useless. Of course, he'd collected the magic in the area fairly thoroughly last time he'd wandered through - trailing Duncan like the obedient little mage he'd been pretending to be - so the spells he felt must have been enacted since his rather precipitous departure. The tang in the air emanating from Kinloch Hold was tantalizing, and it took him a moment to collect himself to fully analyze and sort through what he found.

Anger... A great deal of magic had been expended with the edge of fury in the past few days, perhaps longer, an impression which lingered past its initial recognition. Fear and - he sniffed cautiously - yes, blood also lingered, and he grimaced. Blood was, of course, extremely useful, but the flagrant waste and overlay of demons he smelled on this usage...

"Foolish, yes," he murmured to his sister, smiling as she giggled. "But then, if the main source of the conflict is who I think it is... foolishness is to be expected."

"What?"

Jorath turned to the man next to him, his earnest face drawn into a puzzled frown. "Nothing, Alistair. Just musing." He paused as he listened to his sister's suggestion, nodding unconsciously. "If there's trouble such as we heard rumor of in Lothering, I would imagine they're being particular about travel to and from the tower. Best let me take care of it, since I'm from there, hmm?"

The ex-Templar shifted uneasily. Jorath's known place of origin being only one of several points rendering him uncomfortable around Jorath. Ah, Alistair, and just how uncomfortable would you feel if you could remember everything we've done together. His gaze flitted over the man's body, picturing it without the bothersome armor and clothing, and smirked as he turned his eyes back to the Tower. Yes, sister, it is a pity he's not inclined without a bit of... suggestion.

"If you think it best," the man said dubiously.

"Oh, I do." He turned and look at the rest of the gaggle behind him, lips pursed. "I sense no Darkspawn in the Tower, so I think it best to leave you here and protect the ones who remain behind." He laughed lightly, seeing Alistair relax minutely at the almost normal sound. "I can't very well take Morrigan into a place full of Templars and Circle Mages, can I?"

"You want to leave me with-" Alistair grimaced. "I can't fault your logic, but are you sure you don't need me at the Tower?"

"Now, now, she'll be docile. I had a talk with her." He glanced at her, knowing she was staring at him, and felt a little warm glow when she flinched and looked away. "Besides, I'm leaving Leliana with you as well." Better if none who follow the Light come with me. I haven't claimed her fully yet, anyway. "She can keep you company while Morrigan pouts."

"Compa- Oh, no, it's nothing like that!" Alistair flushed, indicating it had sometimes crossed his mind late at night, and the nights had been cold of late.

Hmm, what do you think, sister? Perhaps after the Tower, after... Perhaps I will make a suggestion for them... "Did I imply anything beyond a friendly hand of cards?" Turning away from the warrior, he said, "Yes, you remain here with Morrigan and Leliana. I'll only need Zevran anyway." Yes, sister, it is another test. Even an assassin must have limits.

"Only Zevran, though?" Alistair sounded concerned, and Jorath smiled tightly. "I... don't think I entirely trust him, honestly. I mean, he's only been with us a few weeks. I'm still not convinced he's somehow not biding his time."

"Don't want to be the only Warden left in Ferelden?" he asked quietly, watching the man's face twist into embarrassment as his query hit the mark. "Don't worry. I have ascertained Zevran's true allegiance, dear Alistair," the flinch at those words also warmed him, "and I am confident I can handle him come what may. As for the Tower, well," his gaze settled on the Tower in the middle of the Lake, "I practically grew up here." Calm yourself, sister. I still remember the years before I entered the Tower. "I think it would be easier for me to investigate without worrying about my companions." He turned his red eyes to regard Alistair. "After all, we don't want a repeat of what happened to Sten."

Alistair literally took a step back, away from the words and the eyes, as the horror of the memory of Sten's dried, desiccated body collapsing to the ground of the ruins in the Dalish forest clearly ran across his face. "Ah, right, no, we wouldn't want that, would we? I'll just go... talk with Morrigan and Leliana, then, shall I?"

Jorath watched him go, the little tickle in his ear also alerting him to Zevran's approach. Dismissing his reluctant fellow Warden from his thoughts, he turned to regard the approach of the lithe assassin who was, hopefully, more compatible with his desires and hopes than the ex-Templar was. At least he understands the proper use of his manhood, sister, as I'm sure you have noticed. "Zev," he said cheerfully. "Ready to head out?"

Zevran frowned slightly. "Are you sure you wish it to be just we two? I am not completely familiar with the inner workings of Circles and Templars, but if the situation is dire enough to have called for a Right of Annulment, then perhaps a bit more firepower would be wise."

A bit surprised at the question, Jorath raised an eyebrow, deliberately choosing the one which emphasized the radiating scar on his face. He understood the movement of magic within the tower, felt the heat of blood magic coming most tellingly from the top chamber, and knew there was nothing there outside his ability to handle, given his unique training. "We'll be fine, Zev. Besides, I'd like to take you to some of my old haunts alone." Their newfound physical relationship was freshly minted, but given his nature, explored at every given opportunity. Yes, sister, it is a good thing I prefer pain at this rate.

The assassin sighed, then shrugged. "Ah, very well. Let us proceed, then, yes? I am most curious to discover what lies within these halls."

"Normally, a form of slavery which everyone seems to accept," he commented without a trace of bitterness in his tone, though his sister began to rant within, and headed towards the ferry. "Now? We shall see." He suspected, based on the threads of magic moving through the Tower, what was occurring, but he wanted to know more about what was going on before making any further declarations.

As he reached the end of the dock, he smiled when he saw the nervous youth in Templar armor standing at its end. As his face became visible to the man, he enjoyed even more the gasp of shock and abrupt retreat. Apparently they remember me, hmm? he commented as Narinia giggled. He stretched a smile across his face as he came to a halt and tilted his head slightly. "There isn't going to be any unpleasantness about crossing to the Tower, is there?"

A few minutes later, as they sat in the boat in its short journey across Lake Calenhad, he slid his hand between Zevran's legs and began tormenting his lover with clever fingers and the strategic use of the dulled crackle of electricity. His sister giggled, guiding his hand as Zevran gladly let his head fall back and groaned with pleasure. Jorath glanced at the suddenly stiff shoulders and red ears of their ferryman, smiled, and then loosed Zevran from the prison of the rather tight leather pants Jorath had found for him, ignoring his sister's own moan at the feel of his lover's warm yet rigid length. When the boat reached its destination, the erstwhile ferryman, Templar armor almost blindingly shiny in its newness, waited until the dock rang with Zevran's cry of release, hunching over slightly as his armor became almost painfully tight.

Casually depositing the handkerchief he used to clean Zevran into the Lake, he stood as Zevran adjusted himself to be more presentable and stepped from the boat onto the shore. His lover joined him, sliding a hand down his side until it rested on his ass, squeezing and manipulating, and Jorath again looked at Carroll, noticing the jerk as the man hurriedly looked away. "We won't return for quite a while, friend. I'd suggest doing something about that unfortunate posture of yours in the meantime." He shook his head to rub his neck against the collar of his robe, the blade in it loosing just a bit of blood, and he funneled the tiny edge of power into a suggestion for the Templar. "It would be a pity to waste such a fine display, would it not?"

The sound of armor being unbuckled echoed behind them as they sauntered up the path to the Hold. No one would be coming to the Tower for a while, with the ferryman occupied. Which also worked into his plans.

Within the Hold was chaos, at least, chaos compared to what Jorath was accustomed. It was actually a bit less chaotic than he had anticipated, and as he strode to the tall man with greying hair and Templar armor standing in the middle of the hall, he noted the closed door with Templars standing guard in the back of the welcome hall. Ah, Greagoir - always one to cut your losses before it costs too much. "Knight-Commander," he said politely. This one is very sensitive to magic, he reminded his sister as she kept insisting Jorath should make a suggestion. Best not to invite his scrutiny until we have done him a favor. After all, I'm sure he hasn't forgotten Jowan.

The man nodded curtly, but Jorath registered the tightening of his lips and narrowing of his eyes, Greagoir's subtle signs indicating the mage's presence was not welcome. Oddly enough, the Knight-Commander actually made the sentiment known rather than hiding it as he did before. "I see the stormcrow has arrived. As if matters in the Tower were not already desperate enough."

"I see my reputation precedes me," Zevran said smugly. "Ah, how nice to be so very famous. Or is it infamous?"

Jorath enjoyed Greagoir's irritation as he looked scathingly at Zevran. "I was referring to the mage." His hostile eyes returned to Jorath. "I suppose you're a Grey Warden now? Figures not even the Blight could kill you."

"That I am," Jorath replied, deliberately using the higher pitched voice he'd always affected in the tower, ignoring Zevran's startled glance as his lover's voice went from deep to almost female in tone. "But rumors of the Tower's troubles came to my ears, and I thought I would come and offer assistance."

Greagoir sighed heavily. "As I said, the Tower is desperate enough. We do not need the help of-" He stopped abruptly, shifting uneasily on his feet.

Oh, this is just delicious, Narinia. He still can't speak of it. "Of one of the finest students ever to grace the halls of this Tower?" he asked smoothly. "I know my face still frightens many, but you yourself investigated his death, Knight-Commander, before ever you bore the title. Even you declared me innocent of murder."

Greagoir looked away, shifting on his feet. "Of murder, yes."

I see you still remember the 'demonstration', Greagoir. "Then why the hesitation in accepting my help?" he asked in an incredulous tone, knowing full well what memory moved behind the man's eyes. "Tell me what has happened, and you know I will do all in my power to purge the Tower of evil. I have done so before, and I will do so again." He took a step forward, as if impatient, but truly it was to get that wide-eyed reaction of fear kindled in Greagoir, and Narinia laughed as Greagoir responded oh-so-predictably to his motion, going so far as to take a half-step back. "Or have you suddenly become a changed man and stopped caring whatsoever for those under your care? What happened to your self-purported 'better than the Orlesian Templars' title of which you were once so proud, mmm?"

"I-" The Knight-Commander stopped and took a deep breath, then shook his head and firmed under Jorath's pressure, as he had hoped. Uncertainty vanished as his pride was called into play, and he met Jorath's eyes and nodded. "Very well. The Tower has been overrun by abominations, an unprecedented number of them. We tried to fight them, but their number..." The frustration in his tone was evident, and his sister made an internal cooing sound of sympathy. "We fought as long as we could, but I refuse to waste the lives of all my Templars and still have the abominations overrun us and escape into Ferelden. We withdrew to the entrance hall and sealed the door to prevent any escape."

"Are there any mages still alive?" Jorath asked intently. He may have had few friends, but he still would never wish death upon the entire populace of the Tower. Certain individuals, certainly, but he knew he needed some to survive, to aid him against the Blight if nothing else. Had he his way, he would be able to act on the inclination to indulge in some specific mayhem before this was all through.

"If there are, we did not see them or could not save them." Greagoir's face grew tired as he ran his gauntleted hand over it, and Jorath knew he spoke simple truth. Greagoir was not a simple man, by any means, but he lacked the subtlety or inclination to lie about anything to Jorath's face. "I know I'll not be the only Templar haunted by the still bodies of children and youth in the years to come."

Again, Narinia murmured in sympathy, and this time Jorath agreed. Few could take pleasure in the death or pain of a child, and Greagoir was certainly not among them. "Let me help," he said softly. "If you've called for the Right, but there are still innocent mages inside, they will die. Do you wish all of their faces to haunt you? Besides, the Wardens need allies, not corpses."

Greagoir flinched, knowing Jorath spoke the truth. "I won't endanger my men, or Ferelden. The Blight already threatens to ravage it; I won't unleash a plague of abominations as well." He sighed. "Still, there is truth to what you say. Very well. Find Irving. I may not fully trust you in certain matters, but I trust him implicitly despite our differences. If he stands in front of me, clear of mind, and tells me to abate the Right of Annulment, then I will do so and promise the aid of the Templars to you for the Blight."

Jorath nodded. "That is acceptable." With a quick glance and gesture, he and Zevran moved to the door, which the Templars opened before him.

"When the door closes behind you, it will remain closed to all but Irving," Greagoir called to him. "I cannot risk an escape."

Jorath pressed forward without a word. He'd gotten what he wanted, and now wished only to fulfill the promise he'd made to his father. He'd save the Tower along the way, of course, and get rid of the troublesome Uldred, but he would never have bothered returning to the Tower save for that burning need.

When the door banged shut behind them, Zevran jumped slightly. "It truly does sound like prison doors. This is where you were reared?" He grunted. "Spacious compared to the quarters given to Crow recruits."

Interest piqued, he replied, "A prison is a prison, but I will admit at least there were always places to which one could retreat if some time alone were necessary."

"Ah, I would have adored such a luxury." The elf's expression was remote. "No, every one of our moments was scrutinized and examined: for weakness, for strength, for a hint of anything which could jeopardize our eventual promotion to full Crow status. Everything weighed and measured, and never a moment's surcease." He shrugged. "It is how I knew you watched me, you see: I am used to being watched, and have long since learned to determine from what source." He glanced around the dark halls, ignoring the corpses and blood littering the ground around them, emulating Jorath in that regard. "And now I am beginning to understand why you knew I was watching you."

Following an impulse borne of Narinia, Jorath suddenly turned and grabbed Zevran by the collar, turning him around and pushing him, face first, into the wall, lifting him so the elf's head was almost level with his own. He felt the elf's pulse increase under his hands as he pressed in against him. The light of the Tower was nothing like he remembered: dim and flickering instead of bright and steady, but the stones... the stones had not changed. This spot, in particular, gripped him as he squeezed against Zevran, leaning into the elf until he could run his stubbled cheek against the assassin's hairless one, blocking out the sensation of tears which had last fallen down it here. "And what if I told you it was here, in this exact spot, where I learned the true meaning of power?" he said softly. He ground his hips into Zevran, enjoying not so much the pleasure of the pressure between leather, wool, and flesh so much as he reveled in being in command. Judging from Zevran's shudder, he was not the only one. "It was here I learned how easily the powerful prey upon those they perceive are weak."

His hand reached up and caressed Zevran's exposed neck, pondering pain and the lock of dark elven hair he'd found in Zevran's pack, the lock the elf still refused to discuss, despite Jorath's... persuasion. "It was here I learned I could no longer afford to be a child." His hand reached past Zevran and caressed the stone almost lovingly, remembering the terror as he'd been taken, the long and lonely night which followed, and the dream during it which had changed everything forever. He sent a caressing thought to Narinia, then focused on Zevran, pressing his hips forward again and pressing his torso tight against Zevran's back. The elf shivered slightly, and Jorath grinned as he began to bite exposed flesh.

"You- you do realize we are surrounded by corpses?" Zevran gasped, though it couldn't be denied Jorath's... odd approach to sex and arousal meshed quite nicely with the elf's proclivities.

"Very," he whispered into the assassin's ear, then grazed his teeth along the pointed length, the motion causing his own to leap to further attention below his robe, particularly when Zevran emitted a guttural groan. Pulling back enough to let Zevran fall to his feet, he turned the elf so they faced each other, and pulled him close again into a kiss more devouring than caring, his need to possess the elf now and overwrite the event of his childhood in this hall driving him beyond even his own rather relaxed standards regarding sex.

Thus he was disappointed when he heard a startled gasp and footsteps running away down the hall. Even when the Hall is in disarray, I have to be careful or be caught. Disappointing.

Zevran, given his training, heard the sound as well and chuckled as Jorath swore a muttered oath and let the elf fall from his grasp fully. "Pity." He glanced to the side, and, when he saw no more immediate activity, reached out and tightly gripped what had been digging into him only a moment before, pulling Jorath towards him. Once they were almost touching, he looked up at Jorath and smiled. "Later, my divine sex god. I am a patient elf. I can wait."

"I would have preferred not to," Jorath muttered, closing his eyes and licking his lips as Zevran squeezed him one final time before letting go. "Still, I suppose a fillip of irritation will only aid me in dealing with the abominations." He quickly ran through the exercises he'd developed over the years to reclaim his calm, and felt his body temperature lower as he lost the urgency to erase that particular memory. Later, perhaps. "I suppose we should go see who survives. These are the apprentice quarters - for all we know, we've permanently scarred an impressionable young maiden with our antics." Narinia giggled, the prospect not upsetting her in the least.

"Somehow, I think she will survive, this unnamed young maiden." Zevran pushed away from the wall and began to walk down the corridor. "Mages from here do seem to be a hardy lot - at least, from what I have experienced thus far."

Jorath followed after him silently, instinct and habit making him pull his staff from its normal resting place and using it almost as a walking stick. The sound each time the staff clicked down on the ground echoed down the hall, and a small smile lit on Jorath's face as memories came back to him, especially of poor Jowan, always wondering why he carried his staff in such a manner, and so confused by his friend's answer: I believe in fair warning.

And he did. Once he had begun the habit, he'd rarely encountered Templars again, save those who refused to be intimidated. Greagoir, of course. Bran and Lufke. The ones who could look at his face and not flinch, mainly. It had also kept some of his fellow mages away, particularly those who had been acquaintances of his mentor Kaavith before his death. His hand reached up to the scar on his face, angry red and in the form of a starburst. Kaavith's last act against me, the last and most obvious of the damage done to me. Still, if even Greagoir could not prove his murder, then Irving could do no more than watch. His smile grew as he began to hum quietly. Ah, you old fool, did you think I would let you interfere with my family's destiny?

His musings - both of his past and of Zevran's taut backside - slid away as they emerged into the room which led to the library and the underground. It wasn't the small clusters of children cowering protectively behind the scattered adults in the room holding his attention, of course: he'd had no use for children when he'd been a child, and saw no reason to change that opinion now. No, what caught his attention was the white-haired old mage with her staff held before her, facing down the rage demon rushing towards her.

Calmly, he leaned his staff back on his shoulder and watched with a certain professional interest, trying to recall the woman's name as she easily dispatched it. Wynne, that's it. He'd never studied with her personally - Irving had deemed it a 'poor personality match' - but he knew her nonetheless, the notes on her tucked away into his journal along with the notes on all the other Senior Enchanters. His eyes narrowed speculatively as she turned to face them, hand tightening around his staff as he noticed something... different about her since he'd seen her at Ostagar. His sister whispered into his inner ear, telling him of the nature of the threads connecting her to the Fade. Not a demon, she murmured, giving Jorath pause. Demons were simple to deal with, but spirits... were not so easily bidden, once they decided to interfere. As he well knew.

Before Wynne could do more notice his presence, a young voice (a boy, not a maiden, as he and Zevran had speculated) cried out, "It's them! The men I saw kissing in the hall!"

This set a flurry of whispers loose among the children, and he saw Wynne lower her head to hide a small grin. He emulated her, knowing his appearance usually worked against him when it came to putting others at ease, and casually laid an arm around Zevran's waist and pulled him close, to the awe and giggles of the children. He glanced at the source of the outcry, a blushing boy no more than ten years old, and asked, "And what is wrong with something as simple as a kiss?"

As if the assassin read his mind, their lips met halfway, and he felt Zev's chuckle as they exchanged an incredibly chaste kiss for their young audience. A chorus of oohs and aahs echoed in the enclosed stone space, and a whispered, "They're kissing!" mixed with an equally soft "Is that allowed?" Unsurprisingly, there were some additional giggles, but then the inevitable observation was spoken as they broke their kiss.

"What happened to his face?"

One of the adults tried to hurriedly shush the young boy who'd dared voice the question, but Jorath was already walking towards him, staff clicking on the ground before he knelt in front of them. "You, boy. Do you wish to see it closer?"

A horrified silence fell over them as all eyes turned to the boy who had dared voice the question as he shuffled his feet and looked down. "N-no, ser."

"I do!"

Surprised, Jorath watched as a young girl pushed her way out of the group and strode to stand in front of Jorath, peering at him intently. Her hand started to come up, then quickly dropped, but he said softly, "Go on."

The girl hesitated, then slowly reached up and touched the scar, to a chorus of horrified gasps behind her, not all of them from children. He kept his eyes locked on her, fascinated, as she explored the long, radiating furrows around his left eye, inscribed by Kaavith's counterspell, and even found the long scar, subtle but still present under the burn, which ran from his forehead to his chin, placed there long before his time in the Tower. She even gently touched the tattoo of the spider and its red hourglass, almost completely obscured by the burn mark, on the bridge of his nose between his eyes. "Your eyes are like fire," she half-whispered, tone both afraid and wondering all at once, as she snatched her hand back. "Does it burn?"

He cocked his head as he listened to his sister's comments, and smiled slightly, calling up the small glamour to make it seem as if his eyes literally held fire within. "Always," he replied.

He was admittedly impressed when she only blinked as he let the illusion fall, his bright red eyes - a marker of his mother's family - stilling once more. "How-?" She didn't have to finish the question - he could tell what she wanted to ask by the dart of her bright grey gaze to the scar she had touched.

"Never underestimate evil, my brave young lady. Remember this," he pointed at the scar, "whenever someone asks you to trust them without reason."

She nodded, eyes wide, then looked behind him for a moment. She leaned closer and asked, "Do you love him?"

That question did catch him by surprise, but he was saved from answering when Wynne reached the young girl and gently guided her back to the group of children, who immediately clustered around her and began asking her questions, taking the hand touching Jorath's face and looking at it with a mixture of disgust and awe. As the woman turned to face him, he got to his feet and smiled at her charmingly. "Shall we talk, Senior Enchanter?"

She nodded. "I think that would be wise. I would very much like to know why they let you through when they won't let any of us out. Not even the children." She raised an eyebrow as he presented his elbow to her, but laid a light hand on it as they moved away from the children, his steps subtly guiding them to the small staircase leading downwards, which he pretended to ignore.

His true goal...

Still, it could wait until he had dealt with all the idiots and fools. "Greagoir's called for the Right of Annulment," he said softly.

"And you're helping him?" The tone was sharp, but not disbelieving.

Not in the way you think. So kind of you to judge me so harshly. "I would prefer if the Tower is not rendered lifeless in a single stroke, so no. However, he has agreed to call off the Right if I can find and bring Irving before him." He issued a little shrug as he brought her to a halt at the top of the stairs, his staff clicking softly on the carpet leading down the short flight. "Have you seen him?"

She shook her head, worry entering her face as he neatly distracted her from the movement of the hand closest to the one resting on his arm. "I haven't seen him since this all started."

"Uldred, I take it?" Suppressing a chuckle as she looked at him in surprise, he said, "And here I thought it was common knowledge all who study demons must inevitably succumb to them." The tone was slightly mocking, and his eyes were unforgiving as they met hers as he quoted her own words back to her.

She flushed, and looked almost... guilty? Yes, she is feeling guilty. How novel, sister. So she's aware of her little occupant, hmm? Let me know what you find, Narinia, my dearest.

Abruptly he dragged the small shard of glass across Wynne's hand, moving a finger over the cut to capture the blood as it welled out to smear on the rune embroidered into his sleeve with lyrium-saturated thread, even while invoking a suggestion to relax her defenses. Already weary in body and soul, as he'd deduced, she faltered in her next step, blinking in confusion. His hands smoothly caught her before she fell, their gazes locking as he slipped past her magical defenses and allowed Narinia to flow into the old mage's body while at the same time shaping her awareness so she would only remember a weary stumble, and nothing more. Once he was sure the transferral was secure and her memory as it should be, he ran his finger over the cut, healing it as if it had never occurred.

"Are you all right, Senior Enchanter? You staggered slightly." He put a concerned look on his face and patted her arm, drawing in the little excess magic which hovered around her and storing it away in his staff. "The demon you dealt with - he was but one of several, I take it, over the last few days?"

Face a bit dazed, she nodded. "That or abominations." Taking a deep breath, she took her arm off of his. "And my health is hardly important now. Do you intend to find Irving as Greagoir has requested?"

"It appears as if it is the only way I will be able to guarantee the Tower's aid during the Blight," he said, letting her retreat. The emptiness in his mind which his sister usually occupied was... odd, but necessary, in this case. Since it had taken him years to learn how to detect his sister's subtle presence, he wasn't overly worried about an accidental discovery on the part of Wynne. "As such-"

"You are a Grey Warden?" she asked in surprise.

He feigned surprise. "I was at Ostagar. I even saw you there, standing under the great tree next to the encampment. I heard Uldred's little speech to the King, and watched him get slapped down firmly by the Revered Mother." Of course, he'd made sure none of the Circle Tower mages had seen him at Ostagar, save for Uldred - the man's flinch at seeing him as a Grey Warden had made the pain of the Joining and the theft of Daveth's life force worth all the effort he'd put into it. "That's why I assumed all this trouble could be laid at Uldred's doorstep. You do know he tried to get me to join his little band of mages, do you not?"

"I tend not to pay close attention to the politics of the Tower," she admitted. "Perhaps to my detriment in this case. But then I never thought Uldred would- But that's not important now." Making a curt gesture with her hand, she turned and began walking to the blue shimmering energy field separating them from hallway to the library. Jorath followed her at a more leisurely pace, his staff again clicking on the sound with his footsteps. "At any rate, young man, if you are going in there, I will be accompanying you."

He ignored her, moving to the barrier and studying it for a moment. Curiously he tapped his staff against it, nodding when the room behind him rang like a bell. He siphoned off just enough of the magic so it wouldn't collapse, and turned to Wynne. "Yes, you will."

"She will?" He turned to look at Zevran. "I... I admit I am a bit surprised. I would have thought-" He trailed off, frowning thoughtfully. Jorath realized he had once again done as Zevran did not expect, and the assassin did not appreciate being wrong. "Well, I suppose you know best when it comes to the Tower." The glance he sent to Jorath, however, informed him of his polite demand for a conversation at a later time.

Wynne, meanwhile, considered him with narrowed eyes. His interference with her spell could not have been a pleasant sensation for her, yet he had given her exactly what she wanted. In addition, she must have been acutely aware of the way the children were watching them. No matter how unorthodox his methods, they had worked to cement, if not the children's affection, then at least their fascination, and he knew she would need to appear at least cordial to him while still around them.

He had trapped her, and she knew it, and she couldn't do anything about it... for now.

"Then let's get going," she snapped.

He watched with hidden amusement as she dismissed the barrier, then quickly moved in front of her as they moved into the library proper. "Allow me," he murmured, still in the effeminate voice of his Tower persona. "After all, you are the better healer, are you not? Best let the battle mage draw the attention first."

She gave way with poor grace as Zevran drew his blades and gave them a cursory examination. Jorath stepped forward, feeling the wavers in the magic ahead which indicated demons and abominations and other such riffraff. With a smile, he brought his staff down to crack sharply on the floor, pulling the magic stored in it to form the various barriers of protection around him.

After all, there were plenty of demons and abominations ahead of him with which to fill it again.