How many years had it been, since he'd last walked the streets of Denerim? He'd been a gawky kid, only just starting to shoot up in height, with too-big hands and feet, and having to fight a sudden tendency towards clumsiness, dangerous in a profession that relied on nimbleness and speed. Quick of hand and quick of temper, that had been him, before his powers manifested and he was taken off the streets and sent off to the Circle.

The city seemed much the same since then, the broad details unchanged; the same smells and stinks, the same dirt and garbage accumulating in the corners, the same crowds, the same shouts, calls, cries, barking dogs, never-ending hum of background noise. Only the small details had changed, stores and eateries gone or replaced, different faces in once-familiar locations. A place or two he recognized – a bakery he used to buy bread at, or steal it when he had no coins. A white-haired woman who was sitting on a bench outside the door, keeping an eye on a small child playing in the street, might have been the woman who'd run the place when he was a boy; a matronly mother then, a grandmother now. They passed a smithy he used to visit on particularly cold days all of one winter, sneaking in a hole beneath the eaves to crouch on a rafter in a darkened corner and watch the smith and his apprentices at work, warmed by the heat rising from the forge. He wondered if the hole was still there. If some other street rat made use of that warm corner in winter now.

He glanced over at Zevran, and saw the assassin looking more aware and animated than usual; Arren, on the other hand, was looking more than a little frazzled. The difference between a city-bred and forest-raised elf, he presumed – Zevran was put at ease by the crowded environs, while Arren was clearly on edge.

Thankfully the walk to the Denerim Market from the west gate was not a long one, and the Arl's estate was right there, its entrance off of one corner of the huge marketplace, with a fine view across the square to the towering chantry. The gate guards eyed them warily, until Arren identified himself.

"You're expected," one of the guard said, nodding. "Go on in," he said, and the two stepped aside, letting Arren and his party enter the enclosed courtyard, and were passed through into the estate.

They didn't have a very long wait before Arl Eamon showed up to greet them, a servant in tow. "Good, you're finally here – I expected you two days ago. Delayed, I take it? This is my housekeeper, Martha – she'll show you all your the rooms put aside for your use. Come see me once you're settled in please, Alistair, Arren – we have much to discuss."

"Of course," Arren said, giving a polite half-bow to the man before the Arl hurried off back to whatever he'd been up to before they arrived.

The group of them were quickly divided up among assorted rooms; Alistair was given the largest and most magnificent of the estate's guest suites, with a magnificent four-poster bed and a sheepskin near the fireplace for Briar. Arren was put in a room about half the size, with a bed almost as nice, and a similar arrangement provided for Mouse. Wynne, Morrigan and Mara were given a single large room together, one with a plain double bed and a trundle bed that could be rolled out from under it. Sten and Owen were each given rooms of their own due to their size and the necessity of them each having a double bed of their own, and Zevran and Oghren were put together in the smallest room, with two very plain single beds. A few knowing smirks and smiled were exchanged among them, knowing they'd be rearranging things to their own liking later that night.

"I don't know why he gave me the best rooms," Alistair muttered as they gathered briefly in Arren's room. "You should have the one I'm in, Arren."

"He's still thinking of you as the future King, Alistair," Arren explained mildly.

"I know that. But I don't like it any more now than I did when we were still at Redcliffe."

Arren smiled, amused. "Be nice to the Arl, Alistair – remember our talk about diplomacy."

"Yes, yes, I must be polite to the Arl, because he is helping us defeat the Blight. At least in the long term. Hopefully the not too long term, all this political manoeuvring is only defeating my patience, not the darkspawn."

"Agreed," Arren said. "And you and I better go find out what he's got in store for us now that we're here. Somehow I doubt the Landsmeet is all arranged and ready to go, even with his lead time in getting here."

Arren turned and looked at the rest of the group. "Same rules as at Redcliffe – stay out of the way, stay out of trouble, and keep our host happy. Feel free to take it easy the rest of the afternoon, I doubt we'll be doing any running around before tomorrow. And stay within the estate for now, until we've got a better idea of what conditions are like in the city at the moment; I'd rather not find out the hard way that Teryn Loghain has men waiting outside to arrest any of us that stick our noses back out the door."

"Or worse," Zevran interjected. "He and Arl Howe did hire me, after all."

"Or worse," Arren agreed.

He and Alistair went off in search of the Arl, and everyone else returned to their rooms. It wasn't long after he'd reached his that Owen heard a quiet knock at the door. He was unsurprised to find Zevran in the hallway, carrying all his gear. He smiled and stepped aside to let him in, closing the door behind the assassin, and followed him as he walked over to drop his bags in the same corner as Owen's.

"Whatever shall we do to pass the time this afternoon?" he murmured, reaching out to twine his fingers into Zevran's hair.

The elf turned his head and gave him a very bland look over his shoulder. "I'm sure we'll think of something."

"Mmm, yes," Owen purred in agreement, pulling the elf closer and tilting his head back as he leaned down to claim his mouth.