Hi all. Special thanks to Tech88, who always leaves me a lovely review! I hope you guys enjoy this chapter :) Also, a small note: "Dareth shiral" is elvish for "goodbye" in the Dragon Age world. According to Dragon Age Wiki, its literal translation is "safe journey". Anyway, enjoy! All rights go to Bioware, as always.


The tower is not a remarkable structure in itself; it is a rather plain, weathered landmark that rises out of the river's apex like a pale tombstone. Rubble is scattered around it—the remnants of what was likely the rest of the keep at one time, although now it is little more than dust and broken stone, leftover from some long-forgotten battle. How the tower alone managed to remain standing, Tyrn does not know.

What he does know is that he must get inside—soon.

So far, the Promiser's information appears correct. The sun has yet to rise, but even in the darkness, Tyrn can see where the river flows through a passage at the tower's base. That must be where the hidden entrance is. There is a main door further up, where the river bank rises to meet the stone and a makeshift gate has been erected to bar the way. Tyrn can make out the shifting forms of two archers on the wooden wall. That leaves ten more inside—assuming our prisoner told the truth.

His eyes flick to the river as he considers his approach. Under the cover of darkness, he should be able to follow the water and slip inside through the hidden entrance; the archers have a decent vantage point, but he has done more with less in the past.

Tyrn takes a deep breath and kneels in the grass with his head bowed. Maker, he prays, watch over Cassandra. Be my strength as I go into this fight. Let my blades strike true; let there be an antidote for what ails my wife; let my feet carry me swiftly back to her.

The elf runs a hand through his short, snow-colored hair as he steels himself. Then he shoulders his pack and moves silently through the bushes along the riverbank, melding into the shadows with practiced ease.


Tyrn slips closer to the water as he nears the base of the tower. The river flows through a low, open tunnel; it is high enough, however, that the elf can almost stand at his full height (he has to keep his head down in order to prevent it from banging against the stone ceiling), and the water reaches just above his knees. He searches for some kind of door along the wall for a time, his hand brushing against the cold surface, until he spots a trapdoor above him.

Ah, here we are. Tyrn reaches for the handle in the darkness and pushes lightly. Locked, of course. His boots are soaked through by now; the water this time of year is terribly cold. Shivering, the elf takes a lockpick from his belt and fidgets with the lock for a few moments. Since losing his arm, he has had to learn to do it one-handed—it is not an easy task, by any means, but Varric has helped him become relatively proficient at it over the years, and the process of learning has become a sort of hobby for the elf. Tyrn closes his eyes as he maneuvers through the tumblers. Carefully, he fixes each one into place with a series of satisfying clicks.

The final tumbler shifts down and Tyrn releases a breath through his nose as the lock is undone. For him, that telling click-thump as a lock opens has always been a simple but treasured joy; it is one of those strange, lasting delights he has kept with him since he was a child—that, and the taste of truly well-prepared tea.

Tyrn slowly lifts the trapdoor, pausing to listen before opening it completely. He catches the glow of what must be a single candle coming from the otherwise darkened room, and he cannot hear any obvious signs of activity over the sound of the river flowing past his knees. Carefully, he pulls himself up through the opening, struggling to keep his blade from scraping across the floor. He kicks his legs up and heaves himself the rest of the way through; water from his river-soaked boots collects on the stone beneath him as he surveys the room. It appears to be a storage area. Sacks of grain and weathered boxes are stacked against the walls; old blankets are folded neatly in the far corner, and a single desk with a small bit of parchment and a burning candle squats before him, its chair unoccupied. Tyrn finds with disappointment that the paper is blank.

Someone is coming. The sound of a single set of footsteps echoes from beyond the door; judging by the slow, rhythmic pace, Tyrn guesses that the person is in no hurry. He slips to the side of the door, pressing his back to the wall, and readies his blades.

The elven man who enters has just long enough to see that the trapdoor is open before Tyrn presses the edge of a dagger to his throat and forces him backward into the shadows.

"Quiet," he orders, and the hostage chokes in fear.

"P—please, ser," the elf whispers, "I'm just a servant here. I don't want any trouble."

Tyrn does not loosen his grip. Shifting slightly, he presses the wooden door closed with his boot and frowns. Considering the elf's shabby clothes and bare feet, he is inclined to believe him, but he can't be too careful. "The men who occupy this tower—who are they?"

The elf swallows heavily. His eyes rest on the small hole in Tyrn's glove, so close to his throat, where Alistair chewed the leather away. "The Order of Fiery Promise, ser," he says. "There are only twelve men left, though, aside from myself."

"Good." Tyrn adjusts his arm; the dagger flashes in the candlelight. "Now...they've made some sort of poison in this tower. It's resistant to elfroot. Do you know of it?"

"I've...heard talk among the masters." He swallows again. "I'll tell you anything, milord. I serve the Order because they gave me no choice, but I swear, I have no love for them, ser."

Tyrn weighs his thoughts for a moment, then relaxes his grip and lets the dagger fall away from the other elf's throat. "Very well," he says, his blue eyes glinting in the darkness as the servant steps away. "Tell me what you know of this poison—quickly."

The servant regards him warily. His mouse-brown hair is pulled back and tied messily, as though done in a hurry. His skin looks drawn and tired; sharp cheekbones protrude acutely from a sunken, malnourished face, and above them, pale green eyes are wide and fearful. His vallaslin is comprised of several intricate, tree-like patterns across his forehead and down his nose and chin. He looks to be no older than twenty, although it is difficult to know for sure. Tyrn surmises that he appears older than his actual age.

"I—I don't know much, ser. I do know that it was made specifically for Seekers." Dread curls in Tyrn's stomach at these words; he blinks, and the image of Cassandra's pained, fearful expression stares back at him. The elf continues: "They've been working on the formula for some time now."

"Is there an antidote?"

The servant's eyes dart back and forth as he searches his memory. "I don't know, ser."

Shit. "Where is this poison being made?" Tyrn asks.

"At the top of the tower. I'm not sure why...something about the atmosphere being important for the brewing process, I think."

Tyrn fiddles with one of the clasps on his crafted arm. "What's the fastest way to the top?"

"There...well, there is only one way, milord," the man answers. "Straight out of this door. Four flights of stairs, with a room at the top of each one. A ladder in the highest chamber will take you to the roof."

"Very well."

"Ser, this early in the morning, most of the men will be in the dining hall. It's on the third level."

Tyrn raises an eyebrow at him. "Thank you," he says. "What is your name?"

The servant looks down at his hands. "Lewin, ser," he answers. "The Order of Fiery Promise found me in the forest about a year ago and forced me into servitude. I was away from my clan at the time, gathering healing herbs to bring back for our Keeper."

"Mmm. Your clan is safe, then?"

"Yes...as far as I know, that is. It's been a year, after all."

Tyrn crosses his arms as he regards Lewin, his head tipped slightly to the side. "Well, Lewin, I don't plan on leaving the rest of this tower's inhabitants intact. If you want to find your clan, I suggest you go now, and quickly. Follow the river until the tower is out of sight—and watch for the archers posted on the gate."

The servant's eyes widen in surprise and gratitude. "Yes, ser," he stammers. "Thank you, ser." He turns to go out the trap door, looking over his shoulder. "I wish you luck."

Tyrn nods briskly. "Dareth shiral," he says.

"Dareth shiral." And with that, Lewin steps down through the trapdoor and into the water below, disappearing from sight.


Tyrn climbs the first flight of stairs and discovers that the next floor—the tower's kitchen—is empty. A large, well-worn table stands in the middle of the room; vegetables, herbs, and grains are stored on racks against the far wall, and a few skinned rabbits are stretched out atop the table, waiting to be prepared. A fireplace to his left bathes the room in warmth and color. The faint scent of crushed garlic and roasted meat permeates the air.

Finding nothing of immediate use, the elf continues up the next set of stairs, the soles of his damp boots whispering against the stone as he climbs. He silently counts the steps as he goes: two, four...eight, ten...the twelfth step spits him out at the entrance to a dimly-lit hallway. About halfway down, there is a door on either side, both of which are slightly ajar. A wedge of light and the dull hum of voices comes from the door on the right. Tyrn readies his blades and creeps along the wall to the right until the voices become more distinct; he presses his back to the stone and listens.

"—up, we're already late for chow." A gravelly male voice drifts from inside the room. There is the subtle scraping of armor as the man presumably adjusts his platemail.

This must be the barracks. Tyrn runs a thumb along the handle of his blade, waiting.

A second, slightly-less-gravelly voice grumbles a reply: "Oh, relax. I don't know why we eat so early, anyhow. Doesn't anyone value sleep in this shit hole?"

"Maybe if you didn't stay up so late, reading that trash book of yours...who did you say it was by? Techas? Tetran?"

A mattress creaks in protest as one of them flops down and grunts, perhaps to fasten his boots. "Tethras, you nimrod. And it's not trash."

"Whatever," the other growls. "It's about the Inquisitor. That means it's garbage. And anyway, do you know what the Lord Promiser will do if he finds out you have it?"

"There's nothing wrong with researching our enemy. Not that he's really much of a threat anymore...but anyway, the Lord Promiser hardly ever comes down from his chambers these days. He'll never know."

"Eh," the other man grunts, and there is the distinct sound of a sword being slid into its sheath, "I still wouldn't be caught wiping my ass with it." There is a frustrated sigh.

"What?"

"Did you hear about Joseph?"

"'Course I did. Everyone has." The mattress creaks again as he stands.

"Damn shame."

Something heavy is slammed shut. "He did volunteer to have it tested on him."

"Yeah, well, you would think his loyalty would be rewarded. I thought they brewed an antidote for us, just in case?" At this, Tyrn sucks in a breath as he listens, his body tense with anticipation.

Another sigh. "They did. I know they did, because they wouldn't stop talking about the quality of its color, for some reason. 'The clearest blue'."

Thank the Maker.

"Well?"

"Well, what?" The man snorts. "That's the point of testing, isn't it? How do we know if a poison or an antidote will work, otherwise? It was designed for Seekers, after all. False Seekers, I mean. Ahem."

An uncomfortable silence ensues. Then: "Right, well, let's just drop it. We'll drink to Joseph tonight. And no, you can't skip out just because you want to read your stupid book. Now let's get upstairs before the meat is gone." The sound of their heavy footsteps grows louder as they approach the door; Tyrn stands and breathes in through his nose.

"I can't believe you like the food here. It's complete garbage. For all we know, it's—"

Whatever he was about to say never comes, for the door swings fully open and Tyrn's blade slices deep into his throat, spraying blood across the floor. The second man's eyes go wide and he reaches for his sword, too late; the elf spins and plunges his dagger through the side of his skull. Both men crumple to the floor in unison, dead.

Right, then. Tyrn wipes the blood from his daggers on a nearby mattress and checks the other room to be sure it's empty. Eight left upstairs, with two archers still posted on the gate outside. He closes both doors and continues swiftly down the hall.

So there is an antidote, after all, if what those two lugs were saying is true. Still, he is unsure about its effectiveness. Cassandra is the first Seeker they've managed to poison; there is no way to know for sure if the cure will work until he uses it. Maker, let it work, he breathes a fleeting prayer as he heads for the next flight of stairs. Let it work.


"This is preposterous." Cassandra scowls up at the trees as she passes them by, pulled along on a makeshift sled by Varric.

The dwarf, laden with a mountain of bear meat and camping supplies, grunts noncommittally. "I don't know why you're complaining," he says as he tugs her in a semicircle to avoid a rather large outcropping of rock. "I'm the one doing all the work here."

Alistair is curled up on Cassandra's chest, his eyes half-closed from sleep. She reaches up to scratch behind his velvety ears. At least I can still use my arms, she thinks, although her mouth remains fixed in a disgruntled frown. "Yes, well, that's why it's so irritating."

"What? You don't want to be indebted to me, Seeker?" Varric casts her a smirk over his shoulder.

Cassandra rolls her eyes and releases a huff of breath. "I dislike being so...helpless."

Varric hums thoughtfully. "You aren't helpless," he says.

"Really."

"Yeah, I mean...I'm pretty sure that in your case, looks actually can kill." He steers her around a fallen tree and plods on.

"Nonsense. You would be dead by now if that were true."

"Ouch." He chuckles. "Fair point." They fall silent for a time, and then he ventures, "Actually, you can still do that creepy set-your-blood-on-fire thing, right? That's something."

"I told you, I only use that when necessary." She lifts an arm to shield her eyes from a particularly sharp ray of morning light.

Varric grunts. "So you don't enjoy torturing people, then?"

"Only you, Varric." She chuckles. "Only you." A cold wind cuts through the trees, ruffling Cassandra's short hair; she pulls her arms across her chest in a vain attempt to keep the chill at bay. Her hands begin to shake. At first, she thinks it is from the chill, but when the tremor spreads and becomes more violent, she knows it is the poison. Cassandra clenches her jaw to keep her head still and bunches her hands so tightly into fists that her palms begin to ache. She closes her eyes as she waits for it to stop. Pain shoots like a bolt of lightning through her bloodstream; it starts at the site of her wound and spreads to her limbs with each heartbeat. She bites into her lower lip.

I wish Tyrn were here. The thought comes fleetingly, like a whisper upon the wind, and she pictures his blue eyes, ever-so-calm and patient. Maker, keep him safe.

"Here." The sound of Varric's urgent tone reaches Cassandra's ears, and she realizes suddenly that they've stopped. The dwarf is kneeling beside her with a healing draught in his hand. He pulls the stopper and lifts the flask to her lips. "Drink." A faint spark of worry remains in his light brown eyes as he watches her swallow.

Slowly, the tremor and the pain begin to recede. Cassandra takes in a careful breath after a long moment. "Thank you," she says. Alistair stretches his neck to lick her chin, and a tired smile graces her lips.

Varric nods. "No problem. Should we change your bandage?"

"It's fine for now," Cassandra answers, stroking the wolf cub's back. "I changed it about an hour ago."

"While we were moving?" Varric raises his eyebrows in surprise.

Cassandra blinks. "Yes. Not quite an easy task, of course...the ride isn't exactly smooth." She smirks.

Varric pulls himself to his feet and crosses his arms over his chest as he peers down at her. "Oh, I'm sorry, Lady Seeker. Shall I throw you over my shoulder instead? Perhaps that would be more comfortable for her ladyship."

"Arse." She scowls at him in mock annoyance, and the dwarf laughs. He reaches into his pack and pulls out a flask of ale. "Do you need to take a break?" Cassandra asks him.

"Nah," Varric answers. He lifts the flask to his lips and takes a long swig, then wipes his mouth. "We should keep moving." Varric holds the ale toward her in question, but Cassandra shakes her head.

"No, thank you."

Varric shrugs and puts the flask away with a raised eyebrow. Shouldering his pack, he moves to the front of the sled and scoops up the rope once again. "Suit yourself," the dwarf grunts as he begins to pull. He sighs in exasperation. "You guys and your tea," he mutters.

Cassandra turns her head to watch a bird flit among the pines to her right. "What's wrong with tea?" She asks.

Varric huffs. "It's...well, just think: it's basically leaf water. That shit is for rabbits and deer." He flings the rope over his shoulder so that he can pull with added leverage.

Cassandra snorts in laughter. "Oh, just because you don't like anything green, Varric…."

"I do, too."

"Really. Give me an example."

Varric tips his head to the side and gazes through the trees as he thinks. "Well, there's, ah, basil. Also rosemary. I eat them with my meat sometimes."

"Spices don't count."

"What? Since when?"

Cassandra laughs. "In any case, you should really try some of our...leaf water...when we get back. Tyrn can make you a cup—somehow he always makes it perfectly." Her voice is somewhat wistful.

Varric hums in thought. "Must be an elf thing."

"Perhaps. Or perhaps it is simply a Tyrn thing."


Tyrn's knee releases an unsettling pop as he breaches the top step. I'm getting too old for this shit, he thinks as he pauses to rub out the stiffness. It is an old injury from his Inquisition days (truly, bears have never agreed with him); most of the time, it doesn't bother the elf at all, but it acts up on occasion. At this time of day, I would be enjoying a warm mug of tea with Cassandra. He sighs wistfully at the imagined taste of earthy spices, the comfort of his chair and a warm fireplace, the quiet joy of glancing over to see Cassandra curled up with a book in her arms, her hair still ruffled and unruly from sleep.

The elf shakes his head to clear it and straightens his back. There is a window to his right; he peers out to find that the morning sky is covered in a thick blanket of clouds. It hasn't started raining yet, but it likely will soon. The river below him appears deep enough for a relatively safe landing. That may prove useful later, should things go south.

Turning the other direction, he is faced with another hallway, although this one is much shorter and harbors only one doorway apart from the final set of stairs. He has reached the dining hall; a cacophony of voices and clattering dishes and armored boots against stone floor emanates from the room. There is no way to distinguish exactly how many men are inside, although Tyrn deducts that the room above him is likely the Lord Promiser's chamber; if he is not in the dining hall, that means there are seven men inside, and the leader is upstairs. Still too many to take head on, he thinks. Time to employ Varric's traps.

Tyrn begins by placing a myriad of explosive traps directly outside of the door. Further down the hall, he rigs a wire across the floor that will trigger a smoke bomb. On the first few stair steps, he places a selection of simple, makeshift spike traps that should go unnoticed due to the smoke.

Varric left him one last gift: a large vial of some kind of highly-viscous fluid, which Tyrn does not recognize. Thankfully, the dwarf left him a note tied to the bottle: CAUTION: HIGHLY FLAMMABLE. Give 'em hell, Stumpy!

Tyrn chuckles to himself, thanks the Maker for his dwarven friend, and pours a moderate amount of fluid over the top steps. That should slow them down. He smirks and places the remainder of the flammable substance into his pack. Then, carefully, he reaches the door to the top floor and listens for signs of movement inside.

Nothing. Tyrn enters quietly and finds that the chamber is dark, its furniture neglected and covered in dust. The bed sheets are thrown back as though someone left in a hurry. Old scraps of paper are scattered across the ground. On the far side of the room, a ladder leads to a trapdoor on the ceiling. The antidote—if it does, indeed, exist—should be through there.

Tyrn crosses the room swiftly and pulls himself onto the ladder, taking care to ascend quietly. The trapdoor is unlocked; he cracks it open to a burst of cold, rain-scented air. A pair of cloth boots are facing away from him at the tower's edge. The person wearing them appears to be standing before a table. The faint clink of delicate brewing instruments reaches his ears above the sound of falling rain. He climbs the rest of the way up and readies his blades.

The man before him—a mage, surprisingly—is so engrossed in his work that he has apparently failed to notice the intruder. He is clad in a heavy set of dark robes; his hood is pulled up. A gnarled staff leans against the table beside him.

Tyrn is about to step forward when the mage speaks: "So," he says in a high, grating voice, "it would seem that my poison is effective." He turns his head to the side, and Tyrn can just see the tip of a hooked nose. "Why else would you be here?"

Tyrn adjusts his grip on the handle of his blade, ready. "The antidote. Now."

The mage cackles eerily. "Such gall. I can see why they named you the Inquisitor." Slowly, he turns to face the elf. His face appears disturbingly smooth, as though he has never fought a battle in his life. He is either very young, or he is using magic to affect his appearance. Tyrn suspects the latter. Bloodshot, sleepless eyes peer out at the elf from a porcelain-like face. "Tell me: which stage has she reached?" The mage grips his staff and smirks cruelly. "Let's see...by now I would wager that she is paralyzed from the waist down. It may have spread to her upper body as well. How long, I wonder, before you have to feed her through a tube?" Tyrn spins his dagger in his hand, biding his time, determining the best approach. The Lord Promiser continues: "How long before her organs shut down, hmm? Before she can no longer breathe on her own?"

Pain laces through Tyrn's chest at the image incited by those words, but he forces himself to wait. He wants me to attack. "You don't actually believe this will end well for you, do you?" Tyrn snarls.

"Why, it already has. Your wife will die, and after her, the rest of those frauds. Then we, the true Seekers, will bring forth the Maker's will. Oh, how I will enjoy watching this world burn."

"Right. You, and your twelve men." Tyrn rolls his eyes; the mage sneers in rage. "Oh, wait…." The elf tips his head up. "Ah, that's right. By the time your men leave the dining hall, I'm afraid you'll be down to single digits." He shrugs. "How unfortunate."

The Lord Promiser shouts in rage and sends a blast of magical flame cascading toward Tyrn's head. The elf dives out of the way, rolling on the rain-covered stone, and brings himself back to his feet. Another ball of fire sears past him, catching his shoulder and burning the collar of his cloak. He tosses his pack and yanks the cloak free, casting it aside.

The mage slams his staff against the ground and this time, a cluster of lightning bolts crack against the stone; Tyrn narrowly avoids it as he dives again. The elf pulls a throwing knife from his belt and sends it slicing through the air toward his opponent. A wall of ice erupts from the ground just in time to block it; two more follow, just as quickly, and the thin wall shatters, causing both men to stumble backward. A shard of ice grazes Tyrn's cheek; blood drips down his jaw.

He leaps forward before the mage can attack again and slams his blades down. Just before they reach his target, however, the mage raises his staff, and the two remain locked for a moment. The mage snarls angrily; his eyes glow with hate and magic, and flame bursts up from the ground around them, sending Tyrn flying back. He scrambles to his feet, panting. The Lord Promiser grins in cold satisfaction.

Tyrn reaches for the last of his knives. He advances as he throws them—one, two, three, four—cutting through a fresh wall of ice, and a fifth lodges in his opponent's shoulder. The mage roars and pulls the weapon from his flesh. Tyrn is close enough to use his blades again; he plunges for another attack. This time, the mage's head snaps up and a wall of ice erupts from the ground; it slices across the back of Tyrn's right arm and hand, causing him to drop his dagger. The Lord Promiser slams his staff against the ground once again, and the elf finds himself locked in a covering of ice, unable to move. He watches, unable to breathe, as the Lord Promiser sneers at him in triumph. Tyrn's eyes skate over to the table behind the mage. He can see the vials of poison, green and sickly. And there, beside them, a single vial of crystal-blue antidote.

There it is, he thinks, as his lungs begin to burn. In his mind's eye, he pictures Cassandra's face. So close….This can't be it. Maker….

Suddenly, a ladder and a flight of stairs below them, a group of cultists finish their breakfast and walk out into the hallway. The explosions that follow are so thunderous that the mage loses his balance and falls backward, releasing Tyrn from his frozen prison. The elf stumbles to his knees and gasps for air as the ground shakes violently. Screams echo from below them; the remnants of the cultists reach the top of the stairs, and Varric's flammable liquid does its job: a final, resounding explosion sends blue fire licking up the ladder and out into the air, where it fizzles out.

Tyrn pulls himself up and lunges with his crafted arm, his last blade. The mage lifts his staff to block the approach. A coating of magical ice forms over the surface of the staff; Tyrn slams his weapon down with all his might, and the crafted dagger shatters—as he suspected. Spinning, he pulls his lockpick from his belt and drives it deep into the Lord Promiser's eye socket. The mage gurgles something incoherent and falls to the ground, dead.

Tyrn scrambles over to the brewing table and grabs the vial of antidote, placing it into a well-insulated pouch on his belt. He picks up his burnt cloak and throws it over his shoulders. The last of Varric's flammable liquid is still in his pack; he pulls it out and trails some across the table and into the vat of poison, until only a small amount is left at the bottom of the vial.

The ladder has been disintegrated, so Tyrn jumps down through the trapdoor (naturally, his knee does not agree with this, so he waits for a moment as the pain and stiffness subside). Blood trails down his shoulder and hand where the mage's ice attack sliced through his skin; the left side of his face is smeared with blood and soot.

He makes his way down the charred stairwell to find the last two Promisers—the archers from the wall outside—standing in the hallway with expressions of rage and horror, surrounded by the remains of their comrades. When they see him—a one-armed elf covered in blood and ash and rain—they must foolishly think him an easy target, for they immediately charge.

Tyrn reaches for the vial of liquid fire; he runs to meet them and dives into a roll, coming up on the other side of the two cultists. They spin around to chase him as he heads for the window at the hallway's end. To more steps. One. He throws the vial behind him, and the world bursts into flames as he leaps, crashing through the glass and falling down, down, down, into the rain and the river below.


"Varric," Cassandra fights to keep her eyes open as she speaks. The rain has been falling for some time now, but she can't feel it. "Varric."

The dwarf heaves against the rope; despite his natural strength, he's been pulling since sometime last night, not long after Tyrn left, and he grows more tired by the hour. It is nearly evening, now. "Huh?" He grunts.

Cassandra blinks to clear her lashes of rain drops. "I think it's...getting worse. I can't move my arms." She is so exhausted, all of a sudden.

"Shit." Varric sets the rope down and comes to kneel beside her. "Shit, Seeker." The look of worry in his eyes has become constant, now. "How long?"

She frowns. It's become difficult to focus. "I'm...not sure. An hour, maybe? Two?"

Varric sighs heavily. "Let's check your wound. Here: drink this." He tips another elfroot potion to her lips and watches her swallow. "Good. Now…." He removes her dressing to find with shock that the wound has gotten drastically worse. Purulent drainage seeps from the edges of cracked, deeply inflamed skin. It is unfortunate that while the poison renders her unable to move, it does not silence her pain receptors: her face scrunches into a wince as he attempts to clean it, and her bouts of tremors have become more frequent. "Sorry," he says as he wipes some drainage away.

Cassandra bites her lip as her body shakes. "It's fine." How fitting that the sky is grey, she thinks glumly. Tyrn loves the rain. Why isn't he here? She blinks several times, struggling to clear the fog from her mind as Varric applies a fresh poultice to her wound. It takes her a moment to remember that her husband left to find an antidote.

Varric catches her distant look, her drooping eyes, and his face creases into a look of concern and frustration. We need to move faster. "Hey, Seeker," he says, and her eyes slowly drift over to him. "You're not allowed to fall asleep, do you hear me? You need to...watch for bears and rabid bunnies."

Cassandra snorts weakly. "Alistair will keep an eye out."

"Right. Any idea how close we are?" He asks her. "You know the way better than I do."

"Mmm." She does, in fact, recognize the area, despite that nagging fog in her head. "Another hour, maybe."

"Thank the Maker," Varric mutters. He finishes dressing her wound and and hurriedly takes up the rope again, spurred on by urgency. I need to get that raven to Nightengale. I don't think we have long….

"Varric," Cassandra murmurs, "Tell me a story. It will help me stay awake, I think."

The dwarf pulls hard on the rope and grunts. "What kind of story?"

"The kind with a happy ending."

"Ugh, I hate those." Varric snorts. "They're so boring. And unrealistic."

"Oh, stop."

"Fine." Varric wipes a smattering of raindrops from his brow as he thinks. "Once upon a time, there was this grumpy-ass Seeker named Cassandra and her one-armed, doe-eyed husband, Tyrn. They lived an awful, boring life in the woods, surviving only off of leaf water and stale bread because they were lousy hunters. Thankfully, they had an incredibly talented and handsome dwarf friend named Varric who came to release them from a life of drudgery..."

"Ugh."


"...and that is how Varric saved both of their asses from a giant demon dragon, and the couple never had to drink leaf water again."

"Please don't put that in a book," Cassandra mumbles.

Varric chuckles. "What? It has potential. And you got your happy ending."

"A happy ending without leaf water is no happy ending at all."

"Ha," Varric grunts in amusement. "Well, we can debate about that later. Here we are."

Cassandra sees with relief that they've made it home. Varric sets the rope down and kneels next to her, gathering a few things as he prepares to carry her inside. She looks up at him. "Varric," she says, "If he doesn't get back before...I need you to tell him—"

"No." The dwarf gives her a stern glare. "He'll make it. And when he does, you can tell him yourself."

She smiles sadly. Just then, as if on cue, there is a rustling in the bushes. Cassandra's heart jumps and she looks up as Tyrn comes bursting through the trees, soaked in blood and rain, a vial of crystal-blue liquid clutched in his remaining hand like a promise kept.