"Demands of the Qun," Callum Hawke style.

Warning for character death.


Varric Tethras was a great many things to a great many people, though some of those things were more obvious than others. He was a storyteller to anyone with a willing ear, a skilled handler and loyal best friend to the most efficient (and craziest) assassin in the Free Marches, and a keen enthusiast of well-built ranged weaponry. He also enjoyed good whisky, doe-eyed dwarven women, and the creamy, scented soaps you could only get from Antivan merchants.

Hawke joked that he had more layers than an onion, but that wasn't entirely inaccurate. Simple, straightforward men didn't last long in his business, and more often than not, Varric Tethras was a business man.

His business, however, didn't often involve personal invitations from the city's seneschal.

Varric had been in the middle of enjoying a nightcap and good book when a dozen city guardsmen had come knocking, and it was only Aveline's presence at their fore that kept him from dropping a smoke bomb or two and slipping out the back. Despite a rather vocal falling out when she'd left his employ, he and the iron-spined lieutenant didn't get on too terribly— granted, they didn't often run in the same circles anymore, which helped immensely with the not wanting to strangle or otherwise maim each other thing.

Such an invitation was not to be refused, surely, especially when it came complete with so many swords. In the face of that, Varric had tied up his hair again, pulled on his coat and boots, and allowed himself to be ushered out of the tavern with his oh-so-subtle escort. A small, meaningful nod to Corff meant a message would be on its way to Hawke before Varric stepped foot out of Lowtown, but he had a bad feeling his assassin was out hunting tonight. He prayed silently that if Fenris were home to get the message, the broody bastard had the sense not to try and tear his way into the Keep.

Shit, what a mess, and Varric still had no damned idea what was going on.

Aveline was almost as displeased about this bizarre turn of events as Varric was, he could tell by the scrunched look of her profile. The guards were penning him in as they walked, keeping pace with his dwarven legs with minimal grumbling, and the entire atmosphere was rather… tense.

"You going to give me a hint, Lieutenant?" he asked eventually, when they were nearly to Hightown, the merchants' stalls set up along the stairs already closed and silent for the night. At least he'd be able to avoid suffering a stink-eye from the Guild.

Shaking her head, Aveline spared a quick glance at the other guardsmen. "I don't know any more than you about this, Varric." Then she squinted over at him, and her lips actually twitched up ever so slightly, though the small expression was actually more resignedly annoyed than amused. He probably wasn't meant to see it in the first place, but the darkness of a Kirkwall night wasn't a challenge for dwarven eyes. "You being you, I probably know less."

He believed her. Something was up, obviously, but Freckles didn't know a thing.

No, not Freckles. Though technically accurate, it just didn't fit, and it would more than likely end with a bruised jaw (or worse) if he ever said it out loud. Shit, he'd had years of knowing this woman, and he still couldn't think of a decent nickname. It was a matter of pride at this point.

"All right, then. Mysterious, clandestine meetings in the dark of night it is. Fantastic."


The seneschal's office smelled faintly but distinctly of camphor and mint, which was a little weird, but Varric took it in stride. Bran himself was standing (lurking) behind his desk, looking rather grim, while Varric had politely refused a seat of his own. There was nothing appealing about hopping up onto a human-built chair and having his feet swing in the air like a child.

"Well then, Seneschal." Varric kept his tone curiously good-humoured. He had every intention of playing the wastrel younger son of a merchant family until Bran gave him a reason to do otherwise. "My deepest thanks for the hospitality, messere, but to what do I owe this pleasure? It's rather late for a social call, even with the hours I keep."

There were no guards left inside the office, which was surprising, and they hadn't even made a fuss about Bianca strapped to his back. Alone and armed with the seneschal… Varric didn't like any of this. His palms were prickling.

"Serah Tethras," Bran began quietly, folding his hands over the back of his chair. "I will admit this is a rather unseemly state of affairs, and I apologise for any inconvenience, but I find myself in an awkward situation. I have come to understand you are rather skilled at sorting out… awkward situations."

The dramatic pause was a nice touch, especially with the long shadows cast by the few candles, and the atmosphere of secrecy. A bit heavy handed, but the scene had promise. Varric waited, unwilling to show another card until the seneschal made a decent wager.

After a tense moment, Bran cleared his throat, shifting away from the chair and crossing his arms loosely. "Kirkwall has need of a capable, discrete individual to remove a dangerous element, serah. Is that a service you can offer?"

Varric kept his face perfectly impassive, while inside his mind was whirling. The viscount's office had never approached anyone like this before, as far as Varric knew, and he made it his business to know everything— especially who was buying assassins' services. Flicking a bit of nothing off the cuff of his coat, he considered his response carefully.

"That depends, messere." There was a fine line between necessarily circumspect and irritatingly vague, and with clients of this magnitude, Varric was keen to tread that line with all due caution. "How… persuasivedo you expect such a removal to be? And how permanent?"

In the dim flicker of candlelight, Bran's brow furrowed, and Varric worried for an instant that he might have miscalculated. Then the seneschal huffed derisively and lifted his chin.

"The qunari need to leave the city before tensions grow any worse, and we have exhausted diplomatic means. The situation is a tinderbox." Varric had heard about all the diplomatic means the viscount had attempted. Time and again the qunari denied requests for audiences, turned aside envoys, and were generally unsociable oxmen just waiting to start some serious shit in that serious way of theirs. Bran was correct in his assessment of tensions— over the years their guests had been squatting by the docks, the grumblings in the dark corners of Kirkwall had simply been growing worse.

Varric did not like where this was headed, not one little bit, and he liked it even less when he imagined Hawke's inevitable enthusiasm. Give him a challenge, and the man would wilfully ignore the fact that he was headed full tilt towards a shit-show of epic proportions, until of course he was neck deep in it. And whenever Hawke was neck deep in shit, Varric was already drowning.

Blessed Ancestors, we're going to off an Arishok.

The seneschal was oblivious to his uneasiness, continuing on with his sales pitch. "We have learned on good authority, however that without their leader, their Arishok, that the qunari will return to the north. Can you assure that happens, Serah Tethras?"

We're really going to off an Arishok. Maker's sanctified balls.

"Given the right terms, Seneschal," he heard himself say, smoothly and confidently, even as his stomach rolled. "Anything's possible."


By the time Hawke got back in for the night, it was actually morning, and he was looking forward to a lazy day in bed. The job had gone perfectly, Kirkwall was less one unfortunate merchant with wealthy enemies, and some of that wealth would be trickling Hawke's way sometime in the next few days. The client had requested both "accidental" and "particularly embarrassing," and it had been quite the affair to stage after the poison had done its work. Trussing up a half-nude body in a compromising position (then adding a few props for good measure) had taken both planning and time.

Later that morning, Hawke had little doubt the former Serah Pryce's maid would get quite the shock when she discovered her unlucky employer, all tarted up like an Orlesian doll, with his cock and balls wrapped in bows like a Satinalia gift. Pity he choked to death trying to fellate that zucchini, but he really shouldn't have had so much to drink before getting adventurous.

Hawke sometimes worried about the state of the world when clients' requests were so specific, so comprehensive, and so… eccentric.

Details aside, a properly dead merchant meant a few days to relax, and Hawke had every intention of doing just that. So, of course, Varric went and got himself kidnapped.

He found the note when he got home, penned in Fenris' careful, blocky print, though for once the words were tilted and messy in haste. Since he'd learned his letters, Fenris was meticulous with every blot of ink he put to paper; once glance at the scribbled page had all the hairs on Hawke's arms rising to attention, and reading the words didn't help matters.

Callum— City guards took Varric, moving toward Hightown. I am following.

"Shit," he hissed, resisting the urge to crumple the paper in his fist. He was still fully kitted for hunting, all dark leathers and armed to the teeth, which would save a bit of time. Pulling his hood back up over his hair, Hawke left the tenement much quicker than he'd arrived, darting out into the pre-dawn and setting a brutal pace through the streets. He had no idea how long ago Varric had been taken, or what the guards' intentions might be, but that nosy, smart-mouthed little bastard was his brother in all but blood, and—

He met them at the base of the stairs to Hightown, the ones closest to the Hanged Man. Varric appeared no worse for wear, chatting amiably with Fenris as the pair of them ambled along. Hawke quite literally skidded to a halt.

"Look at that; great timing, Hawke." And of course, Varric caught sight of him gawping immediately, even with only the barest hint of sunrise brightening the sky far to the east, which even then was mostly hidden by high, crumbling walls. "Come to mount your daring rescue? I'm truly touched."

Hawke shook off the darkness that had been gripping him with a deep, calming breath, and managed to dredge up a playful smile. "Hm? Not I, messere. Just out for a stroll."

When he came near enough, Varric reached up and clapped him on the arm. Fenris' expression was troubled, and Varric's joking was brittle— Hawke let his smile falter, keeping pace as Varric continued their walk through the dark streets.

"I just want to get back to my room," Varric said wearily, while Hawke sent Fenris a questioning glance over the dwarf's head, which was answered with a small shrug. "And have a drink before I start bitching about our dear Viscount's hospitality. There's some things you'll want to know, too, Hawke."

"Good." Hawke couldn't think of a damned thing the Viscount might want from him that wouldn't be a massive pain in the arse. He liked to avoid all but a minimal amount of politics in his work, though it always slipped in here and there. Powerful people always made a few rich enemies. "A drink sounds like a grand notion."


"Oh, I don't like the sound of that at all." By the look on Varric's face, the dwarf hadn't expected that response to this barking mad idea of a contract. Picking up his drink, Hawke leaned forward, feeling a bit insulted by the assumption that he was an absolute lunatic. "Listen, I don't start wars if I can help it. This is not a new rule. How many times have I refused contracts on the Viscount? Or the Knight-Commander, or the First Enchanter?"

Shaking his head, Hawke took a pointed sip of whisky, already knowing full well that logic and good sense would not end this discussion. When dealing with politics, good sense was a rare and precious commodity, so often shoved under the rug.

He simply didn't expect Fenris to be the one to do the shoving.

"The seneschal is very likely correct." Looking up from his intent study of his own cup, Fenris didn't even twitch under the sudden weight of Hawke's incredulous stare. "Qunari have a very rigid understanding of honour and responsibility. If this information is accurate, and they have remained because of some duty the Arishok has taken upon himself, then his death should release the others."

Fantastic. "Release them to bugger off back to Par Vollen, or to unleash all manner of revenge? And is the Viscount prepared to deal with— how many are there, a hundred? A hundred angry qunari, if it goes sour?"

"It's already sour. There've been problems with the Chantry." Varric swirled his whisky thoughtfully, rubbing the broad tips of his fingers against his brow. "And the alienage. At this point, getting the oxmen out of the city might be the best bet to keep this whole thing from boiling over, unchecked. You know I don't like this either."

There was a noisy, supremely overconfident part of Hawke's mind that was chomping at the bit to take out such a powerful, imposing figure. What a story it would make, if he could ever tell it… Hawke slapped that overconfidence into submission on a fairly regular basis, preferring to enjoy his infamy and reputation while still alive.

This time, the cocky, bastardly thoughts were especially loud, entirely unaccustomed to both Varric and Fenris agreeing with insane notions like this.

It really wasn't his fault. The deck was stacked against sanity.

"All right, fine." This is going to be a proper mess."I'll do it, and try not to get smushed into jam for my troubles, and you all can deal with the fallout if it goes tits up. I swear though, if hornheads start burning down Kirkwall, I'll be on the first bloody ship back to Ferelden." Fenris made a small, disbelieving snort, and Hawke reached over to flick him very lightly on the shell of the ear. "I wouldn't mind keeping you warm through a winter in the Hinterlands, love. How does one kill a qunari, anyway?"

Swatting at Hawke's hand, Fenris narrowed his eyes at the mention of winter. He'd never truly agreed with Hawke's assessment of Wintermarch in Kirkwall as balmy. "Thoroughly. And quickly, if you can manage it."


Even oxmen had to sleep sometime; it was just past midnight, on a perfectly moonless, overcast night, and the docks were quiet. There were a few qunari still on guard, of course, really no fewer than during the day and likely just as vigilant, but the darkness made all the difference. The ramshackle nature of the qunari encampment (fortified very well, but still just an open space in the middle of a dockyard) made things a bit simpler as well, though Hawke would later count this infiltration as one of the most challenging of his career.

He'd worn silk and linen in shades of deep, dark grey, feeling nearly naked but removing even the slightest chance of a damning creak of hide and metal. His usual leathers likely wouldn't have been terribly effective against qunari blades regardless— huge, razor-sharp spears and swords wielded by the strongest looking sons of bitches Hawke had ever seen. Not even the toughness of drakeskin was enough to outweigh the benefits of complete silence, though Fenris hadn't been in complete agreement about that. Hawke could still hear his lover's voice in the back of his mind, furiously hissing words Hawke understood only from their tone.

No, Fenris wasn't pleased at all. Hawke didn't exactly know what a vishanti kaffas was (Fenris would rarely deign to translate his cursing), but it didn't sound good, especially not when coupled with Fenris' deadly dark expression and extraordinarily bright lyrium markings.

It was actually a rather lucky thing that they hadn't met when Hawke first came to Kirkwall. If sneaking into a qunari compound in naught but thin cloth and carrying only four daggers (two large, two small and balanced for throwing) seemed crazy, Fenris would have had an apoplexy about the utterly stupid shitstorms in which Hawke used to find himself. Making a name for oneself in a nasty city like Kirkwall was difficult enough, but when one was trying to make a name as a hired killer, things tended to get messy. As he built a network of contacts, and then eventually found himself with a very canny dwarven businessman looking to keep someone of his skills on retainer, the jobs had gotten much cleaner.

Keeping low and slow, Hawke crept along a narrow ledge overlooking the compound. There was movement below, but very little— qunari weren't twitchy people, and Hawke planned on being particularly careful not to accidentally walk into one of the behemoths as they stood eerily motionless in the dark. Where the dockyard proper was a warren of shadowed alleys and occasional pools of warm, flickering light, the compound was as black as the Void itself; there weren't any torches or braziers lit, which wasn't necessarily a boon. Fenris had mentioned that qunari had rather sharp night vision, though not as good as dwarves… one more interesting factor to consider while trying to stay unnoticed.

He'd given himself a good buffer of time before the threat of sunrise, and wasn't about to treat this as a rush job. Slipping down among the shadows, using crates and crannies to his advantage, Hawke moved soundlessly toward the neat, vaguely opulent tent structure he knew from weeks of surveillance was the Arishok's private quarters. There were no guards outside the tent— there never were. Just the Arishok inside, presumably sleeping. This habitual lapse in ordinary security was either fortunate, or particularly worrisome, but according to Fenris, the idea that the Arishok should be guarded more than any other qunari was foreign to these dusky giants. And, Fenris had made sure to emphasize, the Arishok was not some soft-bellied, helpless diplomat.

Pausing outside the tent, counting his own breaths and sinking farther into the calm, detached tranquillity he always found while hunting, Hawke pulled a pair of small phials from his belt. Adjusting his mask, which was Tevinter design but augmented with some filtering fabric layered over his mouth and nose, he crept closer, finding a loose edge at the base of the tent and sliding his hand under. He blindly uncorked the phials and let the liquids spill, mixing together.

The smoke billowed out from around his wrist almost immediately, and Hawke snatched his hand back. It smelled of miasma, but only faintly, and the scent would not linger anymore than a quarter hour, even in an enclosed space. Unconsciousness, with temporary muscle paralysis for good measure, and no lasting stink to scream assassin— the recipe was something he'd been working on perfecting for years. The absence of drakestone and a few other key ingredients from the average smokebomb had required some inventive substitutions, as well as a specially chambered bottle if being carried and deployed as a bomb. In this case, however, a bit of a dribble onto the Arishok's carpet was good enough.

He still had the corks in hand, tucking them back into his belt, but he couldn't forget to pick up the phials before he made his escape. There could be absolutely no evidence left behind; the risk of qunari retaliation against the city, against the whole bloody Free Marches, was enough to turn his bowels to water if he thought too hard about it.

Waiting a few mildly tense moments, Hawke listened to the sound of lapping waves and the soft breathing of other qunari and some elves, sleeping together in larger tents nearby. His heartbeat was calm and steady. His muscles were loose and fluid.

It was time.

The most dangerous moment of the entire job, as far as he considered it, was entering the Arishok's tent. It was the movement that was mostly likely to get him caught if any other qunari happened to be looking his way. He also wouldn't be entirely convinced that the miasma had worked properly until he was face-to-face with a paralysed Arishok.

Just like the one he found in the haze of murky smoke, lying on a palette in the far corner of the tent. The qunari was the biggest Hawke had ever seen, with great, curving horns as thicker at the base than Hawke's thigh propped up with pillows for sleeping, and a massive, greyish-bronze chest partially hidden under blankets and furs.

The Arishok was also glaring at him through the gloom, with eerie, gleaming eyes hooded and dark with fury, but was making no other move.

For an instant, Hawke's muscles tensed to flee, but the qunari didn't so much as blink. Not a single twitch of those powerful muscles, and Hawke stayed just as still, like two statues staring each other down.

Not unconscious, then. That was a pity.

After a moment, Hawke was relatively convinced the paralysis had at least taken hold of the Arishok; expediency was now the order of the evening, since the miasma wasn't working as intended. There was no way to guess how long it might hold the giant still, and Hawke wasn't especially keen on field testing just then.

Moving quick as a snake, Hawke darted forward with a dagger already in one hand, and another phial in the other. This could still be a trap, the Arishok might be playing him, but there was no way in Thedas he was backing out now without at least giving this a try. He'd never get this chance again if he scuttled away.

Keeping a very wary eye out for movement of any kind, Hawke approached and squatted next to the prone qunari, dagger at the ready to at least hideously maim the bastard should he be forced to flee. The phial was set carefully on the blankets, next to the Arishok's chest (the qunari was huffing like a bellows, air hissing out his nose, but was otherwise as still as a corpse).

It didn't take much to open the qunari's jaw, though Hawke could tell from the sheer bulk of muscle he could feel under his fingers that if the Arishok had been at his best, there would have been absolutely no way to make the oxman open up. The paralysis was lax, not rigid, which was incredibly fortunate— Hawke had left his pry bar at home.

Whispered platitudes— sorry messere, but it's just business— were better saved for tales. Hawke was just as silent in this step as he was in any other of the evening, pouring the phial of milky poison between dark lips, tilting the Arishok's head back just enough to let the fluid slide down naturally. The qunari wouldn't choke, not with his muscles all but dead already, and the poison would begin taking effect almost immediately.

Hawke didn't make any effort to avoid the qunari's eyes, which had been stuck staring at the tent flap, just as frozen as the rest of him, until Hawke had moved his head. He watched through the shadows as the Arishok's gaze lost focus, his glare into the shadows fizzling into an almost confused look, then simply glassy. The massive chest expanded, stopped stutteringly on a final inhale, then slowly released one last time with a sound somewhere between a growl and a sob.

And that was that.

Hawke gathered up his phials, pleased to see the entirety of the liquid had burnt off into smoke, leaving not even the barest stain on the Arishok's thick reed mats. He lingered for a moment or two, just long enough to make certain the giant wasn't a particularly good actor; the qunari's heart was silent and still in his chest, but one could never be too careful.

Getting out of the compound unnoticed was just as difficult as getting in, and by the time Hawke found himself scaling the last few stairs up to Lowtown, it was past dawn and he was able to make a quick stop at one of the bakeries that would easily take his word he was good for the coin. With a fresh, hot loaf of bread wrapped up in a bit of cloth, Hawke meandered his way back home, having already discarded his mask in the harbour. Silk and linen meant he looked like your ordinary citizen… well, better dressed than your average Lowtown resident, but nothing terribly suspicious. It was also too early for most cutpurses to be out, and it was nice not to have to break any fingers on his walk.

Fenris was, of course, waiting up for him. It was more sweet than annoying, especially since Hawke found himself being pawed at the moment the front door closed behind him.

"Good morning, love," he said, quiet but cheery, as Fenris pushed him back against the door. Fenris' hands against his shoulders felt fiery hot after the rather brisk night he'd suffered— there'd been a bit of a chill in the air from the southerly winds, blowing in from the sea. "No problems, all sorted."

He might have said more, though Hawke rarely discussed details after the fact, but then Fenris was kissing him, firmly and a tiny bit desperately. Smiling into Fenris' mouth, Hawke curled his free arm around his lover's back, rubbing muscle soothingly through Fenris' thin shirt. It wasn't a long kiss, though Hawke did press for a bit of tongue before all was said and done.

"Bought some bread," he said eventually, when Fenris had pulled back just enough that their breaths mingled, lips almost brushing. "Is there jam?"

Huffing something promisingly close to a laugh, Fenris kissed him again, this time punctuated with a nip of teeth.

As it turned out, the bread was still quite lovely cold.

Eventually, after a bit of canoodling and some food, there was a sharp knock on the door. As Hawke had expected, it was one of Varric's urchin runners, and he sent the boy off with a brief note confirming his continued survival and his incredible skill, and with a thick slice of bread clutched in one filthy little hand.

Sleep was the next order of the day, and very soon after the boy had scuttled off with the note in his pocket and his lips sticky from jam, Hawke found himself blessedly naked, curled around a pillow while Fenris lay partially on his back, absently rubbing Hawke's ribs.

His sleep came easily and entirely untroubled.


"—fuck yes, harder!" Damn it all, he'd liked this shirt, but now Hawke found himself digging his nails into dark grey silk, heedless of tearing. Fenris had him bound with it, wrists together and tied to a bedpost as he knelt on the mattress, and was currently in the process of fucking him to death.

Not a bad way to go, all things considered, and Hawke's body seemed to agree, pushing back greedily against every tooth-rattling thrust.

It was so good, better than any punishment had a right to be, but Hawke wasn't about to argue. If Fenris wanted to bugger him senseless as chastisement for flouncing off to the qunari compound without even the barest scrap of armour, that was more than fine. Peachy, even.

He could have wriggled free of the silk, but Fenris had tied him, and so he kept his struggling to a minimum. Even when Fenris refused to touch him, except to grip his hips, or pinch his nipples sharply, or pull his hair until his neck was arched back, open for the feral kind of mouthing with which Fenris was marking him. Even then, with his cock deeply red and aching for attention, for mercy, nearly fit to burst as he cursed and begged for more, harder, Fenris, even then he still kept the silk in place, twisting and thrashing against it.

When he came, finally, it was with Fenris' hand squeezing his prick, and Fenris' teeth biting hard into his shoulder, and Hawke was boneless and helpless against the mattress, his head buried in the quilts and his arms pulled taut, roaring a broken shout into the duvet. And Maker help the next Arishok that wandered into Kirkwall, because if this was what bagging that kind of mark earned him, Hawke might have to declare some kind of blood feud against the Qun. Or a cock feud. Or something.

"Maker," he panted, his shoulders burning from the stress of the bondage and the bite that was throbbing with his heartbeat, even as Fenris nuzzled against the toothmarks with soft, mildly apologetic noises. Flexing his fingers, Hawke untied himself with a bit of clumsy picking. "Maker, Fenris."

They managed to crawl back under the quilts, though it took a fair amount of manhandling on Fenris' part. Hawke just stayed a bit limp and let himself be dragged and positioned, ending up with his head cradled against Fenris' chest and their legs tangled together. Very nice.

He didn't even have the chance to start sinking back into sleep when there was a knock on the front door, for the second time in less than two days.

"That's it," Hawke groaned quietly, pressing his face against Fenris' damp, warm skin. "We're moving. This is ridiculous."

Pulling on trousers was a hideous injustice, and lazy, cursory bit of clean-up they'd managed meant Hawke still felt sticky and wet (which would have been utterly fine in bed for a few more hours, possibly the perfect start to a bout of messy sex after a while). Not bothering with a shirt, grabbing a dagger instead, Hawke scrubbed his face then raked a hand back through his sweaty hair as he padded out into the front room, Fenris beside him.

He had only a moment of silently debating whether or not to call out for identification, but then their visitor beat him to it.

"Don't make me get the picks out," Varric said from the other side of the door, not especially loudly, and rattled the latch.

When Hawke opened the door, Varric slipped in from the corridor without an invitation, wrinkling his nose after only a moment inside.

"See, this?" Varric motioned vaguely at Hawke's bare, rather... mussed torso and loose trousers, then waved his hand at the room at large, encompassing Fenris and the smell of sex that was still clinging heavily to the pair of them. "This is why I don't visit more often. You two are always going at it like nugs in heat, and I'm terrified to sit on anything in this place."

Hawke pushed the door closed, crossing his arms loosely. "Well, we've had sex on every single thing here, so I suppose that's fair. If you're truly concerned about that, though, you might want to invest in a new bed."

Varric narrowed his eyes, searching Hawke's face with a strange, blooming kind of horror. Then he turned, only to find Fenris glaring down at his own feet as if he'd stubbed a toe, flushed pink from his cheeks to the pointed tips of his ears.

"Oh shit, no." Varric looked back at Hawke, who smiled beatifically. "No. Oh shit."

It took the better part of an hour and a staggering amount of brandy to break the muttering loop Varric was then stuck in, but eventually it came to light that the qunari had left the city peacefully earlier that day, trudging smartly off into the wilderness, moving up the coast. Rather morbidly, they also left their dead Arishok behind, just left out to rot, and the rumour was that the Coterie had already swiped the qunari's massive horns. Possibly with his head still attached, possibly not.

So the qunari were dealt with, the deal was done, and Hawke would be donating a portion of his usual percentage of payment for services rendered.

Apparently, he was buying Varric a new bed.

It was completely worth it.