"Hero of Ferelden...Are they still calling you that?"

Voss knew his voice, a sweet memory corrupted on the tongue of a demon, sending shivers up her spine like it always did. She couldn't look at him, couldn't stand to try. So she stared ahead, hard too like she hated the horizon for bringing the sun to set.

"Some," she said and amended rather quickly, but not so quickly that it seemed important, "but not many."

"It suits you, you know?"

"Maybe once," Voss replied, "not anymore."

Understanding comes with reply, the kind of caring reserved for fathers and mentors, "I was always proud of you."

"Yeah well, you're not Duncan. So stop acting like him," her voice was low, controlled and dangerous, but so was Duncan's, responding with equal venom cold and unforgiving. Honest.

"And you are not Lady Lavellen."

Voss slowly turned to meet his gaze, dark beneath his brow with so much life in them even here. It wasn't his though, it never would be.

"What do you want."

"To help."

Voss laughs, throws it back in his face because she knows it's just a mask. No demon offers heart and soul for their Mage. No, he'd just found a temporary costume that played on her weakness. She hated it. Hated "him."

"You have the chance, now, to stop all of this. Everything. But you must be honest with yourself and with them. These lies - these secrets. None of them belong to you." He spoke like a dream, all watery and distant, like he was drowning, "what then? What happens when the realm finds out?"

Voss exhaled an annoyed breath, "Oh. We're doing this again?"

Duncan is quiet, watching her carefully like a vulture, he sees through her. He always did, even when he was himself.

"I don't know what happens then. But I don't think I care," she wasn't always like this, at some point in her life she did care. She cared a lot. Probably the reason why she tried so hard not to now, honesty hurt too much.

"They will."

"They never needed a reason," she muttered bitterly.

"And what did you expect? You are a city elf, a blood mage, and a Grey Warden. Of all the things you could choose to become, you picked the worst of them. And worse yet, you sacrificed everything that wasn't yours to give...and left this world worse for it." He paused, long too, letting it really sink in. "That doesn't mean you can't make it right."

"Don't," Voss winced and warned, "That was their choice. Not mine."

"You made it possible."

"Shut up," she's got murder in her voice, sharp at its edges and looking for blood.

"Sooner or later," he repeated, resigned but calm "they'll all know."

Thunder rumbled in the distance, a dark and brooding sound that chased lightning across the sky. Voss woke to the shadows on her tent, groping branches, naked things with shaking leaves, long fingers and horror filled dreams. She almost couldn't catch her breath, everything red, rain like blood upon the canvas, trickling down into the mud.

Slowly the dreams faded, washing away in the downpour of black and grey. Voss sat up, pressing her forehead into her hands.

"Fuck," she breathed.

For a long moment she sat there, listening to the waves upon the shore, restless in their rage and the storm above, just as much the same. She wondered how late it was. She couldn't have been asleep for long, but then again, she had no way to tell. Dreams were a terrible timepiece.

She sighed and lifted her head from her hands. Darkness fled and her night vision took hold, chasing shadows and fixing definitive accent to the bare bones tent. She rolled up to her feet and pushed her way out and into the downpour.

Warden Blackwall sat alone, idly carving away at a piece of driftwood. Even with a dagger he was skilled, blocking out the body of a griffin and all her feathers. In another life he'd make quite the Artisan.

"You're awake," he said.

"Need a break?" She asked.

"No, but I wouldn't oppose the company."

Voss took a seat beside him. It didn't take long for the rain to soak her through. She shivered.

"You going to be ok?"

"Just the leathers," she replied, feeling them cold and heavy upon her, "I'll be fine. What're you making?"

Blackwall half smiled down at his figure and held it up to show Voss, "Griffin, bout the only thing I'm good at making," he announced with a chuckle.

She took it gently from him and inspected it. It was rough, in between just starting and getting there, but Voss could see the beauty it would turn out to be, "You are rather good at it," she agreed and handed it back.

Blackwall continued his carving, careful with every turn of the blade. "Keeps the mind busy. What about you? Any useless talents of your own?"

"I can wiggle my ears," Voss said.

"Thought that was just an Elven thing."

"You said useless."

Blackwall chuckled, "I guess I did."

Voss smiled beneath the rain, "I'm not much of an artist, I can't carve or paint, or draw," she said, "I suppose I write, nothing romantic or anything. Just journals, whatever happened in a day. Rather boring if you ask me. Though," she thought about it, "I haven't written anything in quite some time."

"Any reason for that?"

"If I can be honest," she said, "people started looking for me. Not for anything bad, I'm no criminal. But, what else would I say, right?" She chuckled, "I lost my last journal somewhere in Ferelden. Someone must have found it because I suddenly started getting letters," she groaned, "so I stopped writing. To myself and to them."

"Any reason why?"

Voss took in a deep breath, speaking at the same time she said, "I did some things I'm not proud of," and added, "Did some things I am proud of too. I know it's fucked up to say, but I had a lot of responsibilities that I didn't want. So I figured I would just ... I don't know," she threw her hands up, "run away. But, that didn't fix anything, just made it a little harder for it to catch up."

Blackwall listened intently, chipping quietly away at the griffin in his hands, knowing that Voss had secrets much deeper than that, perhaps just as deep as his. "These responsibilities," he asked, "have anything to do with those Templars?"

The rain fell loud in their silence.

Voss was about to answer, to lie even, when something caught her attention deep within the night beyond them. She froze, eyes trained to those rain drenched shadows, watching for movement in the outlines.

Blackwall noticed the twitch of her ears as she listened through the rain, then turned his gaze to follow. "See something?" He asked quietly.

"Who goes?" She called into the night.

Drops of water fell fat into the puddles of their shoe prints. The trees bowed to the weight of the storm, their leaves rustling with the winds that howled on through like waves of their own. Within the weather's song, Voss had heard the snap of branches, the clack of tassets against armored thighs, even as the wearer had done his damnedest to quiet their clatter.

Blackwall put his hand to the hilt of his sword.

"Apologies," came the response, "I saw your camp from the shores. I was hoping I might trouble you for some company. My name is Rylan Allegari. I am a Templar of the Order."

Neither Blackwall nor Voss moved.

"You're alone?" Voss asked.

"I am," called back Rylan. "May I come closer?"

Voss and Blackwall shared a brief look, both in some quiet agreement. Not breaking her gaze, Blackwall replied, "You may."

Rylan sloshed through the muck, his armor hanging off of him, loud and unfit, awkward even. It bore the crest of a Templar upon its chest, emblazoned proud in all its pomp and colors. But the man stuffed within it was everything short of its honor, dark eyes and disheveled hair, a weary smile on his lips that was anything but honest. Voss had known rats with faces more pleasant. He was no Templar. And he was not alone.

"What happened?" Voss asked, inviting him to sit across them.

He obliged her kindness, fiddling with his armor so that it fell right about his hips and allowed him the ability to sit. He sighed almost gratefully as he did, "we were attacked in the night by a bunch of Apostates," he admitted falsely, "I got separated from my group."

"Sounds scary," Voss said flatly.

"How many of them?" Blackwall asked.

"Ah, I don't know," said Rylan, "maybe six or seven?"

"And how many were you?" Blackwall rejoined.

"Four."

Voss and Blackwall both knew he was full of shit. It didn't take a genius to piece that one together, but the more they strung him along the more comfortable he and his friends in the shadows got. So they spoke briefly, offered feigned sympathies and company on a rainy night. Rylan's eyes couldn't quite stay put, sizing them up as they talked, counting the daggers on Voss's hips, measuring the salt of Blackwall who's hand never once left his pommel.

They knew he felt big, hard not to when you had six or seven men waiting in the shadows to pounce. They had done this before, plenty of times, even got a one up or two on an ill prepared group of Templars. Lucky bastards they were, unfortunate it was going to run out here.

"Alright Rylan," Voss stood to stretch, never minding to unsheathe her own blades, she was oddly relaxed. Blackwall noted the confidence, she was trained in more than just magic. But each one of them there at camp knew that already - except maybe Rylan. "Warden Blackwall and I both know you're full of shit. Knew it the moment you sat down. Looks like you and your friends have gotten pretty lucky so far. Good for you. I'm going to give you the chance to keep that luck going."

Rylan straightened, that terribly fake smile faltering on his lips. She knew it was for Blackwall. He must not have realized he was a Warden until she said it.

"You keep your little party moving along and we don't kill you right here."

Rylan snorted, "I don't know what you're talking about?"

"Okay," Voss said wearily and made a motion for her daggers. This got Rylan up and to his feet. Blackwall, amused by this all, remained comfortably seated. Voss had handled nightmares and demons, Rylan Allegari was neither of these things, even though he might have thought he was.

"Okay," she repeated, like she was preparing for the most mundane dinner. Steak again? That kind of indifferent, dagger in her hand, loose like it didn't matter, and it really didn't. She turned it over her knuckles, simple blade work, but it looked real fancy, had Rylan's eyes wide, questioning himself, hoping his ranger friend was quicker on the draw than the elf. And elves he knew were quick.

Blackwall heard it, the whistle of an arrow cutting through the rain. He leapt to his feet too late for it to matter. It struck Voss in the shoulder, right there high on the back buried between the space of her armor. Blood blossomed from the wound and stained the shirt beneath, mixing with the rain. Blackwall drew his sword, half expecting her to collapse, but she didn't. She regarded her injury with annoyance, pausing to acknowledge that it had truly happened, then snapping a narrowed gaze back on Rylan. Blackwall had seen that look once before, but never in the face of an elf - or any human for that matter. Dragon's eyes.

Voss whipped a dagger into the dark, a wet thunk meeting her ears as it returned the favor of injury, piercing deep into the chest of a masked archer. Blackwall sprung forward, blade meeting Rylan's own in a metallic crash of song, loud enough to rouse the others.

The Iron Bull made no quiet entrance, tearing through his tent and charging into the ambush like his namesake promised. Solas, much like a cat, joined them at his leisure, confident they didn't truly need him at all. Which was an accurate assumption.

He laced his boots first.

Voss pounced into the shadows, a flurry of blades that sparked beneath the flash of lightning. Three men: one the Ranger, hurt but still trying, the other two pulling him up by the arms never stood a chance. Behind her, Rylan fell into the mud, Blackwall forcing the broad part of his blade to him like a hammer, like he might just bury him there in the mud. And The Iron Bull, keeping the rest at bay, all fists and horns. Laughing. "Nothing like an ambush to get the blood going!"

Solas just shook his head, forcing the remaining men to keep their distance with lazy magic. Things that seemed more dangerous than they actually were. He wasn't a killer. That was obvious.

Blood arched over Voss like a macabre rainbow every time her daggers slashed through armor and skin. She was quick, quicker than Blackwell expected, and even in the face of ambush he could tell she was holding back, like she was embarrassed to show just how practiced a killer she was.

He could see quite easily, how all those rumors came to be. Crow. Mage. She was something - if not any of that - then something else. Something dangerous.

And as the men fell apart by their hands.

He was glad she was on their side.

"Their bodies will attract scavengers," Solas said over the rain.

"Time to pack up?" Bull asked.

"Will you be ok?" Voss looked at Blackwall with concern and an arrow still in her shoulder. She worried for him, for his lack of sleep, ambushed before he could trade off for the night, knowing he'd not slept while Bull kept watch before him.

"Me?" He snorted, "you've an arrow in your shoulder." He sheathed his sword, blood soaked down the front of his gambeson, "We should get that looked at before heading out."

Voss took a hesitant step back. Blackwall wasn't sure if it was getting touched that had her off put or the idea of cutting that arrow out.

"Not the worst thing in the world," she said, "I can handle it, just give me a minute." She reached over her shoulder, careful to break the arrow as close to her armor as she could. It was difficult, awkward mostly, and arrows weren't easy to break. When it finally did snap, she felt the painful tug in the muscle of her shoulder and flinched, sucking in a sharp breath with it.

"Don't know how you intend to cut that out yourself," Blackwall said.

"Not unless you're really flexible," Bull added with an impish air.

"Fine," Voss relented, "I suppose you're right." She nodded to her tent and led Blackwall in.

Bull gave Solas a nudge of his elbow, which was returned with a scowl and a "please don't do that."