I've used talents (talentos/telentum) as a unit of measurement and currency, for lack of Tevinter specifics in-game. A Roman talent was about 32kg in gold. In Attic Greek, at different points in literature and history, one talent could be the equivalent of nine years skilled labour or enough silver to feed a trireme crew of 200 men.
1. Colour
In the Fade, the world often moved quickly, full of changes and turns—liquid turning sharp edged, colours sliding out from unexpected places. He had seen the somniari shape rooms out of nothing, make the air shift with the colours and and moods in his voice. The switch from warehouse to auction yard was just as jarring. Splinters cut into his back, as he was hauled and tied and raised above a growing spill of people. Children. Old men. Women lighting torches with magic about the square, which made his breath catch even as Nicodemus leered and told the crowd to eye the length of his leg, the strength in his hands.
"It's so fine," the master cried, "Even Magister Fenris wants a piece."
Fenris. The elf. The lanky-boy man with wide, near-panicked eyes and the most ferocious sneer Anders had seen on anyone who wasn't also a chantry gargoyle. Dark skin. Messy hair. Somniari. The dreamer—a stripling. His voice in the dark.
A magister. Buying a slave.
Anders was flushed. He could feel it. Hot blood in his face and a shriveling, sinking twist in his stomach. The endless series of warehouses and Celsus's twisted method of teaching had not prepared him for this. Years in the Circle had not prepared him for this. Humiliations were meant to be secret. The Circle kept all of the Templars in plain sight; kept a world of nasty filth contained, and Anders understood that even as he'd hated. The world was full of monsters behind walls and down hall. And sometimes they won and feasted because there was no justice and never any choice. But Minrathous had him strung up for all to see, while magic filled the air like road dust or birdsong—public and unremarkable.
Tears made his eyes burn and stick, bodies below writhing and refracting until the colours of things seemed to escape their lines. Fenris's hair leaked into skin and the blue-black of his robes. Denarius's beard dripped down his throat. Someone with hair the colour of carnelians was tugging at Fenris's arm. He brushed her off, but Anders saw his hand cup her cheek.
A magister. Buying a slave.
"Who will buy? Who will begin?"
2. Contempt
Fenris saw Anders retreat. It was a subtle thing—he was trussed to the central auction platform with Nicodemus circling about his feet. His body had no room for loud signals. But Anders had been tense with outrage and raw embarrasment thick enough for the crowd to taste. Now, there was a slackness to his face. A slump to his shoulders that Fenris remembered from shared dreams of failed escape.
"What do you think you're doing?" Castor Aubericus was shouting at him. Fenris turned. His former master stood behind Varania, jaw tight and one hand clutching the fire amulet he had worn since the long-ago attack on his house.
"The only reason your campaign has survived this long," he said, "Is because of your foolheaded but impressive refusal to take part in the trade. You know that. I didn't raise you to be stupid. If you do this now—"
"—you didn't raise me. You bought me. That you chose to free your property makes no difference."
"That you're an insufferable shit makes no difference. But buying that slave—"
"—is necessary. Denarius won't have him."
"No," Varania said, low, face white and pinched. "He'll have your eyeballs for a necklace."
Fenris cupped her cheek, feeling her surprise in the brief touch. "The only reason my campaign has survived this long," Fenris said, quiet and still and with his back to the man being sold in the square, "Is that I terrify almost everyone here. That isn't going to change."
"Who will buy?" The auctioneer's voice broke over them, lilting and quick with the words runing together, focusing all eyes to the centre of the public space. "Who will begin?"
3. Conviction
"Four talents—"
"—four-and-two."
"Four and two, my lords. Four-and-two for the dog lord. Magister Denarius, do you-"
"—Five talents."
"No gentle bids today, my lords! Five talents. That's five talents. Five-talents-on-the-sale-will-you-match-can-you-match-five-talents—!"
"—Six,"
("Fenris!")
"And you do right to gasp, my lords! Six—"
"—Seven talents, liberati. may your skin dissolve in the air."
"I always thought you spent your coin on whores and impotence charms, Denarius. Well done! Seven-and-six."
"Seven-and-six-my-lords-seven-and-oh-no—we-have-a-a-nod-from-Denariusthat's eight talents-eight-talents-if-you'd-confirm—"
"Eight talents, that is correct. But well played, Fenris. Does it feel good? I'm sure it—"
"Kevesh. Thirteen talents."
("Fenris.")
4. Cede.
Silence. Breathing and sweat and silence, Fenris standing still and white lipped until Denarius spat at his feet.
"Are you done?"
The auctioneer passed a hand across his eyes. "My lords?"
"We are done here." The older magister shook his head. "If this child wishes to spend the wealth of more than 70 strong men on one pathetic object, that is his choice, and may he starve on it." He smiled. It was slow, and bright, and poisonous. "And it was delightful to help you all seeexactly what our selfless compatriot wants. If I might do the honours?"
Fenris stepped forward. "Denarius, if you—"
"—Thank you." Denarius moved to where Anders still stood tied, and sliced through the bonds and shoulder and ankle, elbow and waist, laughing as the slave fell forward.
"Here, Fenris. Take your new pet. He's waiting."
Fenris stared at the fallen mage. He was coughing, shoulders heaving with it, and hair falling over his face and rope marks blooming over his skin. Dust streaked and sweat smeared, and bought for the same price that had covered an elvhen woman with two infants, seventeen years before, the record of sale kept neat and clear in Castor's logbooks.
You bought me. That you chose to free your property makes no difference. His own words circled about, stuck in his throat, under his skin. He could not stop staring at the slave. At Anders, who had stopped coughing but refused to look up. He stared, and Varania made an exasperated, pained noise. She stepped forward to ease the man to his feet and then walk the short, impossible space to the auctioneer and his scribes. The crowd milled and whispered. Denarius smirked. Castor was gone.
And Fenris felt like a hole had opened up in the world.