Victory, Across the Blood Water, Journey to Skyhold, Red October, Flight of the Silverbird,


Apprentice Guerrin

Hawke Hits the Muffin

In the cold shame of the moment, Connor had convinced himself that avoiding the Grey Wardens was the right thing to do. Sadly for him, the long, cold, monotonous trudge back to Skyhold forced enough hours on him that before nightfall, he was already second and third guessing his hasty choice. He felt like a coward, an ingrate who hadn't even come back to say 'I don't know how to convince them to give me horses.' In his own mind Connor rehearsed the way he should have gone back, empty-handed, and instead of stuck his tail between his legs and cowered, had let his temper catch for once. Spitting mad, he should have returned and said 'It had nothing to do with horses, but he took my staff anyways! Can you believe the nerve of that guy? I killed darkspawn!'

In his head the Commander agreed and even got mad on his behalf. The Antivan elf Zevran had made rude jokes at the Enchanter's expense. The fantasy was cloyingly sweet and left him feeling guilty for forcing so many words into imaginary mouths. After he'd failed to come back the two of them had probably forgotten about him. In fact, even if he had brought them horses, no doubt one of the other Wardens would have completed the task much faster, with better mounts, and Connor would have been left the fool with two animals he wasn't meant to have.

That, or they had in fact waited for him and had risked being left behind by the Inquisition because of it. Meaning that now they were walking at the back of the train exhausted and overlooked.

Connor hung his head for the journey. During the next two cold, black, blustery nights in the Frostbacks he remembered to at last unwrap his burnt hands. The flesh was still pearly white and sore when he flexed his swollen fingers, but by daybreak and a rough shake to get him up and moving, the dead skin had dried, pulled away, and looked like ragged wisps of linen. When he rubbed his hands together the dead skin fell away, but he remembered the Commander's warning not to pick at the strands and held off. It was far more effective to just pluck at the loose threads in his robe instead, which was about all he had to occupy himself with for the rest of the long walk.

A good hour after noon on the second day, the slow-moving convoy rounded a final turn in the Inquisitor's Way. They found themselves looking across the mountain's edge and down upon the full sunlit glory of Skyhold. The keep's banners fluttered brilliantly even at a distance, her gates open, smoke streaming white and welcoming from her towers.

The people around him cheered: they were home, they'd survived, and their destination lay before them. Connor took a breath with them but kept quiet. Yes, he was relieved to be safe, but to him it somehow felt like he'd just wound up back at the beginning, no different from when he'd left six days ago.

The convoy lumbered through the gates and Connor escaped the crushing throng that formed. Lady Montilyet, the Inquisition's Seneschal and Ambassador, welcomed the survivors, thanked the soldiers, and praised the Grey Wardens from the second tier of Skyhold's courtyard. Connor heard most of what she said but wasn't listening, there was only one thing he wanted and he found it as soon as he passed behind the medic's tents and sought out a small, semi-permanent pavilion half-dug into the stone wall of the lower court. Brushing aside the flap he found half a dozen tightly packed cots, located the one in the corner that was his, and gratefully fell onto the thin, musty blankets.

He dropped into a deep, resting sleep. And when he woke up the next morning it was as if he had, somehow, never left…?

The lead Medic acknowledged him in the pre-dawn glow, commented on his absence, made an off-hand remark about having him back, and then put him straight to work. He lit the fire in the medic's pavilion and drew water from the well into a great iron cauldron, and spent the morning boiling, drying, and rolling strips of gauze. An hour after dawn he was given leave to fetch a roll of bread and a mug of hot soup from the kitchen, and then came back to work separating herbs and preparing elfroot and his clean bandages for scout kits.

He healed a soldier who had fallen from his horse during a training exercise, and later brewed a strong tea for one of the servants who had severe pain in her abdomen. He hadn't chosen to be an apothecary, it was simply the only thing left to him after Redcliffe. He swallowed hard and ignored the awkward looks cast on his ragged, but steady, hands as he sutured a clumsy squire's arm with a silk thread, repeating an often-uttered scolding that not every minor wound needed magic to restore it.

At noon he was released for a period of three hours. He fed himself, bathed at last, and found clean clothes. The Quartermaster didn't want the stained jerkin returned and let Connor keep it, something he readily accepted as, marred though it was, the garment was well-made and warm.

With time to spare, he cautiously retreated into the Keep itself. Everything seemed calm and normal enough, and he almost fooled himself into thinking that yes, this was a perfectly average day. He moved quite easily into the library, found a scrap piece of vellum someone had discarded with ink-blots and poor spelling, and gently combed through the books for something to distract and calm after the last few days.

Sometimes, when life slowed down enough to let him breathe, he remembered his mentor. Connor and Enchanter Leorah had not seen eye-to-eye on many things. His nerves frustrated her, his hesitation enraged her. She would always insist he just 'shake-off' or 'get over' whatever was upsetting him, as if he wet the bed or bungled arcane magic on purpose.

But when his mentor had been accepting or defeated enough to just leave him alone with a task, they would get along.

One of the books in Skyhold's library was the same one from Kinloch Hold. And if it wasn't the exact same copy then Connor would eat the cover of it, because it had the same watermarks, the same bent corner, and a few new bloodstains. It was a book of glyphs and symbology, one he'd found particularly appealing as a much younger apprentice, and that was the one he searched for today with his scrap piece of paper.

He wasn't skilled enough to cast pretty much anything in the book. He knew the shapes, sketching several of them evenly as he sat quietly at the edge of one of the wooden tables. He knew the reason for which lines lay where and how they crossed and channelled what sort of energy. They were familiar to him, but he couldn't cast them.

To cast a glyph you had to not only visualize the finished product, but then mentally draw it, filling in each line with the right kind of magic. The energy had to flow smoothly and evenly, like ink from a brush, or it would go awry and burn half your mentor's hair off and she'd send you to the Apprentice Barracks without dinner.

Graphite was safer. Charcoal was done burning and wouldn't explode if you put the line a hair out of place.

He sketched until his fingertips and the edge of his hand were uncomfortably dark, the page filled in on both sides and about to start making a mess if he kept laying images over it. He rolled the vellum up and placed it in the pocket of his jerkin to dispose of later, replaced the book on the shelf, and then nearly ran into a Grey Warden.

It happened that smoothly, that casually, that he forgot to freak out about it.

It wasn't Warden Oghren or Warden Hawke or the Commander, but it was still a Warden and Connor still jumped at the near-miss. It was the one who had ridden into the encampment with Lieutenant Blackwall and the Inquisition, but he looked a lot different now: being clean could do that.

He was a tall man with a grim face, long and frowning. His black hair was flat and from the temples it was pulled back and braided very neatly around his head. He wasn't wearing armour and his chin was cleanly shaven save for one tear-drop patch at the cleft of his chin, he wore just a black tunic and dark britches leading into boots that were made for a great deal of travel in cold Ferelden weather. His only weapon was a lethal looking dagger stuck through his belt.

But he also had a book open in his hand that he'd pulled down from one of the shelves. When Connor wheezed a quiet "sorry" for bumping into him, the Warden grunted gently without looking up, taking half a step to the side to clear the path between shelves. The Maker had smiled on him and so Connor escaped unscathed.

He was shaken but thankful that he'd run into the only Warden from the Commander's company that Connor had experienced exactly no contact with. He returned to the medic's tents and was far less lucky.

"Ah, there you are!" Something about that sly grin put Connor on alert, nevermind the fact that the Antivan was lounging very comfortably by the medic's fire. Like the Warden in the library, the elf was clean and dressed in clothing fashioned from black wool and leather, far less stiff than the silverite and steel pieces he'd been trapped in up in the mountains. Zevran did not stand, just kept reclining down at the edge of the fire, but then he swung one foot up on the bench next to him, boot missing and britches rolled up to his knee.

Connor approached and let the confusion show vividly on his face.

"Come now, don't be like that!" The elf laughed "There was too much to do up on the road, no sense in causing a fuss at the time. But now that we are safe and comfortable at Skyhold, my young friend, and you owe me a moment of your time."

"I do?" He questioned lamely, closing his eyes with immediate regret. The elf gave an exaggerated frown.

"If I had not stopped my dear friend from slipping on ice on the road to Haven ten years ago, we never would have found the ashes for your father."

"That- that is not what I meant, sir elf…"

"Zevran."

"What?"

"Zevran, my name." He explained. "Former Crow and assassin extraordinaire. I give you permission to use my name as you would with any friend or enemy- but let us hope we remain the former, yes?" Assassin. The Antivan Elf who was supposedly not a Grey Warden was an assassin…

"Erm… What… can I do to help you? Zevran?" Connor fumbled weakly, still confused by the bare leg resting on the bench. The assassin seemed to notice this and lifted himself off the ground, nimbly placing himself up on the bench and twisting so Connor could see the issue.

The flesh along the back of his calf had been healed in the battle at the caravan's edge. But it had been healed quickly, sloppily, and did not look right. The limb must have functioned alright because Connor couldn't recall seeing Zevran limp or stumble around weakly, but looking directly at it the flesh seemed obviously twisted. If someone had grabbed the muscle, wrenched it around, and then stuck it back in place it may have looked slightly less mangled.

He swallowed very hard to keep the shame from bubbling up as more than just a hot flush.

"Now now," Zevran tsked. "This is standard, remember? I am more than happy to still have my leg, and the quick fix on the battlefield protected me from the threat of Blight afterwards. But now that we are not on the battlefield, I would like you to properly heal that which was hastily patched."

Connor's mouth went dry.

"I don't know how." He croaked. Zevran tilted his head.

"You are a healer, no?" He asked.

"I'm an apprentice, sir."

"Zevran." Came the correction.

"I'm sorry- Zevran."

The elf sat there for several moments, chewing the inside of his cheek. Then he leaned back on nothing and folded his arms, maybe to show off that he could hold that pose with no support.

"How old are you, thereabouts?"

"Twenty and two, s- Zevran."

"I thought the Circles always Harrowed their mages when they came of age- in Ferelden at between the age of eighteen and twenty?" His stomach flipped.

"I was told I would be, sir, but the Rebellion changed things." The elf thinned his lips and gave a wide, rather irritated look. "It's a habit, Zevran." In regards to skipping his name again.

"So you're stuck as an Apprentice for what, indefinitely?"

"Until the College of Enchanters has time to put together a new method of Harrowing and implement it, yes."

"What's wrong with the old one?"

"I don't know, sir, they don't tell us anything about it."

"Stop calling me sir!"

"It's hard!"

"And so is being an apprentice for five years too long!" Zevran howled, and he put a lot of feeling into it. "Maker's Breath, no wonder you look like every step is on eggshells. Can you fix my leg or not?"

"The Commander is a much better healer than I am, or you can wait for one of the Inquisition's mages to see to you."

"No." The elf stated flatly. "You started this, you'll finish it, end of discussion."

"That's not a good idea."

"My leg, my idea, I'll live with it."

"My fault if something goes wrong!" They hit a wall.

It was a very sudden wall. Maybe that was why the analogy fit so well. Connor was ready for the bickering to continue, but Zevran made no reply. He just stopped talking. He sat there, looking quite stupid with his trouser leg hiked up, and tilted his head the other way.

"Who is your mentor?" He finally asked, after a very long pause.

"Enchanter Leorah died when the war broke out."

"My condolences. Who has replaced her?"

"No one officially. As you've seen the medics here give me tasks and keep me busy."

"But none of them actually have you as their personal apprentice." This was not a question, so Connor just fidgeted nervously. "I see then."

The disappointment was palpable, and Zevran rolled his pant leg down while making low noises in his throat, like he was trying to speak but keeping his mouth closed on purpose. He stood up without a twinge, but paused with that hard look on Connor again for a few moments. Then he nodded his head with half a bow.

"Until next time, Apprentice Guerrin." And the elf left.

Connor was inconsolable for the rest of the evening. The medics noticed it, the other mages noticed it, several patients made comments too. They sent him to the back tent and he laid down on his cot, hands over his eyes. Someone brought him bread and a bowl of cold beans later, but it was a labour to eat it all with the fever pitch in his stomach.

He should have at least tried to heal the elf's leg. It was his fault it had healed so badly in the first place- a field patch that needed to be redressed later, and later was now. Instead of sketching glyphs he should have been practicing his magic, but without a mentor an apprentice alone with their hands glowing in a corner was easily subjected to questioning and suspicion.

Connor slept fitfully, woke up an hour early the next morning, and had a full batch of deathroot extract reduced and bottled before the lead Medic realized where he'd gotten away to.

"Snap out of it, will you?" She scolded. "You're more depressing than usual."

Something bitter and sharp flooded up into his mouth, but Connor swallowed and gave a meek "Yes ma'am" instead.

His mood was even worse when he realized he spent most of the morning under additional supervision. Not just the other medics, but also from a familiar human and dwarf who spent a good two hours pretending to talk and eat rations when really they kept staring at the Medic's fire and Connor's work. Warden Oghren's flame red beard had been combed and parted properly, his armour shining like a polished ornament. Warden Hawke seemed bored with everything until he thought Connor wasn't looking, then would give him the blackest look possible from the other side of the yard.

Finally, Connor couldn't take it anymore. Rather than run away and hide which would just get on the Lead Medic's nerves some more, he marched up to the Wardens, ready and willing to make an ass of himself if it meant getting rid of them.

"Good day, Wardens. Can I help either of you?" He said, a voice in the back of his head warning him that he didn't know which one too address because neither one had given his rank back at the caravan.

Warden Oghren, now that Connor was closer, gave a dumb smile and laughed something dry. He didn't get to really hear the dwarf because Warden Hawke was on his feet in a flash, squared up and directly in Connor's space.

"Yes." He growled, "You absolutely can, mage."

"Apprentice." Connor corrected, clutched hands shaking but insides too upset and twisted to let him run away. "And how may I- be of service?" He hadn't wet himself or vomited yet, this was going better than he'd thought.

"Hehe, Hawke…" Oghren laughed, sounding a little drunk. "We're gonna start callin' you Chickadee, 'cause that's about how scary you get."

Hawke went scarlet, veins popping out of his thick neck, and Connor was convinced the Warden was going to head-butt him and scatter his poor apprentice body in little pieces across the courtyard.

"Sir." Hawke grunted, and Oghren tipped his head back with a full, shaking belly laugh.

"He wants ta' fight ya, Mage!" The dwarf announced.

"What?" And Connor may have been suffering from a stroke. Hawke confirmed that this was not the case by finding his voice again.

"That's right!" He shouted. "I've had enough of all this tip-toeing around. If you're so special then I want to see it first-hand!"

"First-hand?" Connor repeated, too stumped by the turn in the conversation to be afraid. "You want to- to personally beat an apprentice healer in to a grimy pulp?"

"Any apprentice that runs head first into a darkspawn hoard in the middle of the night is one I'd want t' fight too." Oghren- giggled? Connor took a small step back, but it was just so he could see around Warden Hawke's tense shoulders.

"Is… is he drunk?"

"Possibly." Hawke grunted.

"It's not even noon."

"Yes or no, then?" Hawke shouted again and this time Connor jumped. "Shall we duel or are you a coward?" This all felt like a very strange dream, maybe the deathroot had soaked through his skin and it was all a messy hallucination. He wasn't even afraid, something about Hawke just failed to feel scary.

"I'm absolutely a coward." He answered frankly. "But if it's a duel you want then it's a duel you'll have."

"Good. Follow me." And Hawke stormed away.

"Erm-" And Connor had to say it, pointing up to the second level of Skyhold's courtyard. "The fighting ring is the other way."

Hawke came up short, turned on a dime, and it looked an awful lot like his march turned into a bit of a run. He did end up leading them, but Connor's fear felt even further away than before.

Warden Oghren laughed and heaved himself up to follow.

The ring was a simple space of packed dirt with a chalk line forming a circle. Off to the side there were several practice dummies, some of which were in use as they approached. At least two archers were lining up shots and releasing in smooth, fluid motions with a Chevalier close by. A pair of Inquisition swordsmen occupied the circle for a few minutes before stepping out with a few laughs and rough teasing about the others' form.

Connor should have considered taking a drink of whatever Oghren had indulged in, because as soon as his feet crossed the line the stupidity of this decision hit him. He wouldn't die, but this was going to hurt, a lot.

He hadn't reached his side of the circle before there was soft snap and hiss. He turned when he heard Hawke swear, and at the warden's feet stuck in the dirt was a quivering arrow.

"The mage doesn't even have a staff, Hawke. Take your armour off."

"What!"

Oghren found a bench and plopped himself down with a gleeful laugh, and over from the training dummies strode the Warden Connor had seen in the library yesterday. His clothing remained as simple as before, but the lethal curve of the longbow in his hands and the visible wear on the finger brace he wore on his shooting hand announced his presence as a threat and authority.

"Take it off." The warden repeated. "And consider a wooden sword too."

"He's not going to use wooden lightning, Nathaniel!"

"All the more reason to lose the hulking metal objects."

Like an angry child denied something he wanted, Warden Hawke crossed back out of the circle and started pulling off the metal pieces protecting his body. It wasn't full Warden regalia, with the pleated blue and silver jerkin, but it was the metal braces and breastplate, the heavy gauntlets. One of the Quartermaster's assistants was not far off and noticed the exchange, hastening over with a set of leather practice gloves to replace the final metal-laden pieces. Hawke rejected the offer of a leather breastplate, claiming the jerkin he wore was good enough for this 'stupid fight'. Wasn't he the one who'd made the challenge?

A quick whistle broke Connor's train of thought, a tap on his shoulder surprising him when he turned and found Warden Nathaniel offering him…

"This is a broomstick?" He asked, taking the rod and noting the lack of broom head on the end.

"Give it back then," The warden said, hand still open.

Connor wisely noticed that Hawke hefting a blunted but very metal broadsword from across the circle.

"No, I'm okay." He amended in a weak voice, and then pretended he didn't hear Warden Nathaniel chuckle dryly as he stepped away from the circle.

The two soldiers were paying attention now, as was the assistant. He couldn't hear any more arrows hitting the dummies behind him, which meant the other archer was probably curious as well. Mages did duel sometimes, usually against each other, but he wasn't quite a mage…

"Ready!?" Hawke shouted, because he only had the one volume. He had the broadsword held with both hands, knees bent and weight low, squared up to fight with a focused look on his face.

Connor gave his broomstick handle a test swing, reminding himself that he did have training with a staff, and his training had necessitated basic combat. He just didn't have to be happy with himself for agreeing to this.

"Yes?" He asked, and really wished the day around them wasn't so quiet.

"Begin!" Someone shouted.

Hawke charged. Connor'd forgotten to set himself in a stance.

So with a shriek, he twisted and ran several feet along the chalk line.

"Coward!" Hawke followed without even swinging, sword pulled up as he ran.

Connor turned, both hands on the rod, and pushed one end forward with a frightened rush of magic. Part of his mind went down the rough wooden length, channelling an intent to frighten and discourage before a brilliant yellow flame erupted and took the Warden right in the chest.

Hawke roared and kept coming, Connor's clumsy feet making him jump and scurry backwards again, half an ounce of care getting him to turn and avoid leaving the ring. As he moved the rod came up and his fingers grappled to get it around, the opposite end letting off a shock of magic that fed from his immediate need to flee. The bolt took Hawke in the shoulder but he just kept coming. The sword moved up as both his arms rose, Connor letting the rod travel around his body, following through with it's momentum when his hand shot forward:

The air rushed out of his lungs as a purple bolt of panic leaped from his wrist, spreading down his fingers and firing at all angles. Hawke's swing collapsed when he was zapped under the arms and through one knee- at least Connor hoped that was what happened because he tripped over the end of his robe right after.

He saw sky, heard yelling, and rolled through the dirt in a panic before hearing the dull thunk of a sword blade landing down and biting the earth.

"Get back here!"

"No thank you!"

Hands and knees he scrambled forward, took a handful of dirt and spun with it to his feet. The sand made a cloud that did very, very little.

Or maybe it did something.

Hard to tell with an angry Warden fist slamming into your face from above. His vision flashed white and he stumbled heavily to one side, losing the broomstick as he travelled.

There was shouting, disoriented voices cheering and laughing. Probably at him because this had been his worst idea to date-

Both his hands came up, it wasn't going to work, but the ground buckled. He thrust his hands forward and felt a clod of earth spin through the air in the direction of the footsteps chasing after him. He heard a grunt and stumble, and his vision cleared enough for him to see Hawke stumbling with a hand to his chest, and the abandoned stick a few precious feet away.

Idiotically, he dove for it.

Amazingly, he grabbed it.

And then, typically, could not find his feet again.

"Blighter-!"

So he twisted on the ground, rod pointed up, and shot a blast of cold fear into the incoming warden's face. Hawke took the blow directly, the ice snapped closed like a trap, and Connor's whole body was too petrified by what was happening to actually realize what was happening.

Hawke dropped his sword, brought both hands to his face, and started beating on the ice.

Connor's vision was white around the edges, a sign he remembered from that battle in the night. His arms were shaking from the lack of mana, his body trembling like the cold was in his veins, not Hawke's face.

Connor thrust the rod forward one more time, and a boom of unseen magical force threw Hawke off his feet, out of the ring, and onto the ground where the ice shattered and released him with a gasp.

There was cheering.

It was that instant kind of cheering. The polite holler of support and agreement, applause for a clever trick on the side of the lane. The assistant quartermaster was clapping excitedly and the few gathered soldiers were hooting in excitement from the quick but explosive clash. Their noise died down quickly, but Warden Oghren's belly-laugh did not. Zevran had appeared from thin air and was crouched next to Hawke, who was already sitting up with a cough or two, visibly swearing.

Connor saw all of this, then saw Warden Nathaniel standing, arms folded, smiling up at the sky.

This seemed like a fair plan, and Connor let himself drop flat on his back as well. Instead of just sky however he also saw one of Skyhold's ramparts. And atop that rampart…

He didn't… know how he felt about that.

-.-

"Alright. Explain the point of that to me."

"It seemed pretty straight forward."

"Do you expect me to believe that the Champion of Kirkwall's younger brother, excitable as he can be, is so unrestrained even under your command that he picks fights with apprentice mages for kicks?"

"Hawke can be a handful."

"Commander."

Commander of the Grey Soren Surana glanced sideways at the human standing next to him. Commander Cullen Rutherford was someone he'd known to expect when deciding to make the journey to Skyhold rather than turn around and head to Orzammar, but he'd found the sudden reunion far more agreeable than he'd expected. For starters, it was kind of fun having a conversation with someone when you both had the same title.

"He doesn't have a mentor." Surana reminded him, leaning on Skyhold's ramparts with both elbows planted on the stone. Looking back down at the training yard below them, someone had finally offered Connor Guerrin a hand to get up. Hawke looked embarrassed but fine for all the griping he would do about this later. Surana hadn't asked him to lose, hadn't said anything to him beyond a few well-phrased questions about what the younger warrior thought of the mage who'd helped them up in the mountains. The fight had been Carver Hawke's own idea, it had just happened to be one anyone else who knew him had seen coming from a mile away.

"His education is the jurisdiction of the College of Enchanters." Commander Rutherford dutifully explained.

"Which doesn't even have a charter yet," Commander Surana played nicely with the subject. "Nevermind a ranking system, a physical location, a method or the means to Harrow new apprentices." Straightening up, he looked at Cullen properly.

"Did you know they've abandoned the old ritual for a Harrowing?" He asked. "What do you think of that?"

"I think it's none of my damned business what I think of the mages' methods." Cullen answered bluntly, folding his arms over the shining edge of his breastplate. He wore the Inquisition armour far better than the Templar suit from years before. "I just watched, remember? Ever vigilant for something I didn't understand the scope of. What does the Hero of Ferelden think of it?"

"For Mages who want to be scholars and sit in libraries all their lives, or serve as merchants and want to do business with the formari, I understand the outcry." He admitted, and then looked back down over the expanse of the courtyard. "But for the ones who intend to lead a more… active lifestyle. I'm in the minority, but I agree with it."

"Then let me be very clear about something." Cullen said, lowering his voice as if the harsh wind over the battlements might carry his words too far. "If you intend to do what I and the rest of your men think you're going to, then you need to come down hard."

"And why is that?" Not that Surana didn't have an idea himself, but it was always good to ask.

"Because he's the son of an Arl." Cullen hissed. "Disinherited, yes, but this is a changing world. The Revered Mother struggled not to release King Alistair to the Wardens thirteen years ago, and I'm of a mind to say Grand Enchanter Fiona will be even less inclined to help you."

"Grand Enchanter of what, exactly?" He challenged. Rather than engage on the topic however, Rutherford pulled back and raised a hand, pointing at him with an approving look.

"There, like that. Come at her with a bit more heat and you stand a chance, if you even get that far to begin with."

"Thank you for the vote of confidence, Commander."

"Oh, that's not it at all, Commander." Now there was just something about that tone of voice that made Surana stand up straight, arms folded as he faced his former Templar watchman.

"Explain."

Cullen put on a lopsided smile, though with that scar down his face it was probably all he could manage. But no, there was something decidedly off-centre about it, and the casual throw back of his shoulders as the other officer swung a foot back and walked away made it clear.

"Come to my office during the noon hour tomorrow, it will all become clear then."

It clicked.

"Don't you dare." The mage dropped his arms.

The human laughed and turned away, arms swinging with the gait of a well-earned ego. His laugh caught on the wind and smacked of a ready challenge.

"Rutherford!"

They should have gone to Orzammar.


I currently have up to the 13th chapter written for this story. The main difference between the FFN and Tumblr versions is the quality of the read- tumblr gets chapters as they're finished with no proof-reading or editing, FFN gets a more finished product.