Hawke stomped through the door to the cheap inn, red, bushy beard painted white with frost. It was perhaps not the most elegant of disguises, but the look of a man changed dramatically with a change of facial hair. Besides, Starkhaven was in the grip of an unusual spell of cold weather, and the beard had helped keeping him warm during their march north. Zevran had no such luck, and once again Hawke lamented the elves their lack of sensible body hair. No wonder they got along so splendidly with the Qunari, hothouse flowers the lot of them. Of course right now, said hothouse flower was chatting happily away with one of the girls at the bar, so Hawke gave the assassin a covert nod and stalked over to a corner table. It wasn't long before the elf appeared, bringing beers and smiles as he slouched down in the other chair. Sometimes Hawke wondered if the assassin had a single bone in his body, he moved with the same liquid grace as a cat. Not that he was envious. Not even a little. He bet that he could still wrestle the assassin to the ground if he had to. Not that he wanted that. Not at all.

"You are staring again," Zevran said, elegant lips quirking in a fond smile. "It is understandable since I am a feast for anybody's eyes, but if you are going to jump me, we might as well get it over with before discussing business, yes?"

"Found anything?" Hawke asked gruffly, ignoring the elf's comments. Yes, he couldn't deny it; he wanted to bed the smirking assassin badly enough to make his balls hurt. But wanting and doing were two different things. Anders had reluctantly agreed to stay behind on this rescue mission, and he had no intention on betraying his trust. Even if it meant suffering blue-balls and his own hands for weeks.

"As a matter of fact, I have." Zevran pulled out a deck of cards, placing it between them on the spotted surface. "Whenever have I steered you wrong? In the end it is all a matter of finding someone willing to whisper a few incautious words in the wrong pointed ears, yes?" He had the look of a sated cat, and Hawke suspected words weren't all he had got.

"Wouldn't have been a few nibbles to go along with the rumors now, would there?" he asked, but his thoughts were already shifting elsewhere. Bethany was kept captive somewhere in this city, and he had no idea what had happened to her. He should never have sent her and Merrill off with Aveline, even if the journey he and Anders had embarked on was fraught with risk. He would still have been able to do something. Save her. Stop this.

Hawke scratched the bandage that covered the right-hand side of his face. The tattoo was, they had decided, a bit too distinctive, but with a stained bandage to cover the stylized dragon he was transformed into just another mercenary down on his luck, and Starkhaven had been hiring a lot of sell-swords lately. The tavern where they had set up their base was filled with them, and there was nothing at all to distinguish them from the other unfortunates that flocked to the city to put their swords to the service of Sebastian Vael, Prince of Starkhaven. Right now Hawke regretted ever fanning Sebastian's ambitions for the throne, but it had seemed like a good idea at the time. Having a friendly ruler. Too bad the friend thing had gone out the window when Anders had blown up the Chantry and killed Elthina, which had become sort of a mother figure to Sebastian.

Hawke could understand why Anders had done it, but that didn't keep him from wishing it had never happened. Like so much in his life, lives like sand through his fingers.

"You are not even listening to me, my friend," Zevran said, interrupting the rogue's train of thought as he waved his hand in front of Hawke's face.

"Sorry, I was a million miles away," Hawke admitted, shaking his head. "What were you saying again?"

"Well, skipping the part where I was complaining that no place this close to Antiva had any business being this cold, I was telling you that I had found a place where we could find a little sunshine in this freezing city."

"I wouldn't mind a bit of sunshine right now," Hawke mumbled. They had agreed to stick to nicknames and allusions, both of them paranoid that they would be overheard. They were walking into a trap after all, and would have to be as clever as foxes, stealing the bait before the trap slammed shut.

"As would I. This place has the smell of bad news, though I hear the pay that the prince is offering is a generous one. And it would have to be, considering the amount of dwarven mercenaries I've seen around. They do not work cheap." Zevran started placing cards on the table in an imaginary game of solitaire. But instead he built walls and streets, an imaginary map of the Starkhaven Citadel and the route he had found into it.

"Maybe we should pay him a visit," Hawke mumbled, watching the cards. Black for walls, red for doors, and face cards for guards. "If you think you can actually make this play work out for us."

"What I do know is that a certain girl would love a midnight revisit, and unless my charms have failed completely she has revealed a way that I can get in without being spotted. I hardly think she'd mind getting two for the price of one."

"I never realized how much of your work was actually done between the sheets," Hawke said, watching the cards move, laying out the route they had to take.

"I was raised in a whorehouse, my friend," Zevran said, playing with the queen of hearts. "It is not that different from my current business, it is all about the illusion of control."

Hawke was about to say something caustic, but instead he took a drink of beer and gave the elf an unusually honest look. "Do you think I am an idiot for doing this?"

"Possibly," Zevran admitted. "But speaking as one who has not had the pleasures of family in a long time, I rather envy your devotion to her."

"She's my little sister," he said quietly, memorizing the route. "I'm supposed to keep her safe from things like this."

"Ahhh, safe. I am sad to disappoint you my friend, but safe is as much of an illusion as control. You try to hold things too tightly and you will end up dropping them all. Shards everywhere. Such a pity." The elf reached out, placing his hand over Hawke's, just the briefest of touches before he pulled it back again. "You carry too much."

"Maybe," Hawke admitted, then forced himself to give the other man a cocky smirk. "Luckily I have the shoulders for it."

"Shoulders it seems such a shame to reserve for one man's scratches," Zevran lamented, flexing his slender hands. "Tonight could end up going badly, are you sure you would not reconsider? I am the very picture of discretion, yes? Nobody would ever have to know."

"I would know, and that's the blighted thing that comes with love. Guilt. Maybe one day you'll get the hang of that as well." Hawke realized his words were perhaps too sharp, but right now he was not in the mood for games like this.

"Maybe you are right," the elf replied lightly, though his smile tensed around the edges. "But I hope not. Guilt sounds like such a troublesome thing, I'd rather have other things to keep me up at night."

"As would I," Hawke agreed. "So let's stay friends and keep both our nights quiet and undisturbed."

"You, my friend, are much more of a spoilsport than I was led to believe after talking with Isabela." The pout was almost endearing.

"If you believe everything that Isabela says, you have far bigger problems than my dubious morality," Hawke said, managing an almost innocent look.

"We both have," the elf said, looking down at the cards in front of them. "Now what do you say? Climb or crawl?"

He should have said crawled, Hawke lamented as he made his way up the freezing wall. Darkness had fallen on Starkhaven, and maybe the Maker was smiling down on them despite his lack of belief, because the moon was hidden behind thick clouds that both granted them their coveted darkness, and made the air somewhat warmer. Zevran was right; it shouldn't be this cold this close to Antiva, not even in the deep of winter. The weather was off enough that people started talking. Blaming mages. As always. Sometimes Hawke wondered what the world would have been like if magic really had been as powerful as people seemed to believe. Creating an ice-storm in a small enclosed space was one thing, but blanketing an entire countryside in frost? Not so much. At least he hoped so.

Maker's breath, his hands were cold, and Zevran was fast. The elf was smaller, but that meant he also was lighter, and when climbing that made for all the difference. They had little trouble on their trek so far, the girl had left the side-door open as she had promised, but that only let them inside the heavily defended outer walls. Sticking to the shadows they had prowled through the surrounding buildings, stables and servant's quarters huddled in the shadow of the Citadel itself. Hawke could understand why Varric had called this a pretentious city; the buildings rose towards the sky with confidence, here was nothing of Kirkwall's lurking oppressiveness. Nothing here had been built for slaves, but everything for royalty. For prosperity. For show. Luckily show meant a lot of handholds.

The creak from the window cut through the still air as Zevran forced it open. They both hung breathless as they waited for guards to either look up or appear from the inside, but the night remained still. Maybe Sebastian had the girls in captivity long enough that by now his guards were losing their edge. Nobody could prepare forever, eventually people would have to relax and decide that if nothing had happened for the last month, it wasn't likely to happen tonight either. The cold served them well in that regards, dulling wits and senses. Still, Hawke breathed a sigh of relief as he slid inside, rubbing his hands together. They felt too numb to even grip a dagger, especially since the pair of them had eschewed armor to keep things quiet and subtle. You didn't fight your way into a Citadel filled with guards and expect to come out alive.

"Up?" he mouthed to Zevran, and the elf nodded, slipping soundlessly down the dark corridor.

Inside there were more servants than guards, and their blades remained unused. Nobody looked twice into the shadows, the few sleepy men and women shuffling around their duties were busy with the drudgery of their own lives. And both rogue and assassin were more than skilled in staying out of sight. Up they went, towards the tower where they hoped that Bethany and Merrill were kept. It was impossible to be sure if their information was correct, but as they reached the last set of stairs, the guards there indicated that at least this was something other than just a storage area. Two of them.

Zevran quietly pulled out his throwing knife, giving Hawke a questioning glance. The rogue nodded, drawing his own blade. The guards were armored, and they would make noise when they fell, but the area was lighted and a hidden approach impossible. They would simply have to hope that they were not overheard. Hawke held up three fingers, then two, then one.

Both knives flew as one, each hitting a guard squarely in the throat. The choked gurgles were not loud, and as a man they sprinted forth to catch the folding men, trying to keep the noise to a minimum. A pike still clattered to the stones, the metal clang impossibly loud in the still darkness. But no cry of alarm. No other guards streaming forth. Hawke held the twitching guard as he died, just a kid really, making the unfortunate decision to serve the Prince of Starkhaven. He supposed he should feel bad about it, and maybe he did. But they had little choice in the matter.

Once the guards were stacked in the deepest shadows they could find, they quickly climbed the stairs which ended in a rather imposing metal door, far newer than the walls that surrounded it. The surface was carved with intricate patterns that he guessed were wards, Anders had spoken more than once of certain areas in the Circle Tower being warded so that no magic could be used there. From what he had said, certain Templars wanted the entire tower blanketed in them, but they were far too expensive. Sebastian would have had to spend a fortune on this thing.

Swallowing hard, Hawke hunched in front of the warded door, mouth suddenly dry with nervousness. Not because of the lock, the wards on the surface of the door might protect against the use of magic, but there was nothing unnatural about his fingers or his lock picks. He would get it to open, no doubt about that. It was what lay on the other side that filled him with dread and anticipation. What if their information was wrong? This could just be a normal bedroom, empty of anything of significance. Or Bethany could be there, but in a bad shape. He wasn't sure what he feared the most.

The click as the lock opened nearly made both of them jump, and Hawke had to stifle a nervous and very inappropriate giggle.

"Inside?" Zevran mouthed, and Hawke nodded.

With a hand of his dagger he eased the door open, slipping inside, shadowed by the elf.

The room was more spacious than Hawke had imagined. Though shrouded in darkness and with bars covering the windows, it smelled of clean floors and was surprisingly well furnished. It looked to be a sitting room of sorts, with smaller doors at each end that might be adjoining bedrooms. Motioning to Zevran to keep an eye on the door, Hawke moved quietly across the lush carpet, edging one of the smaller doors open. It was indeed a bedroom, and thank the maker it was not an empty one. A cloud of dark hair was spread across the pillow, and a woman's sleeping face could just be made out in the dim light from the window.

Bethany.

Hawke cautiously approached the bed, kneeling down next to his sister. It didn't seem like she had been hurt, if anything she looked almost peaceful. Innocent. Very gently he reached out, shaking her shoulder with one hand, covering her mouth with the other. He didn't need to have her waking up with a scream on her lips. Instead her eyes flew open, and she bit down hard, making Hawke suck in his breath to keep from screaming. Fear turned to recognition, and the rogue pulled back his palm, rubbing it fiercely. She had nearly drawn blood.

"Ian," she gasped, keeping her voice down as she pulled him in for a hug. Occasional disagreements and resentment aside, there was still love there.

"Hey there," Hawke whispered back, feeling himself tear up. Just slightly. It wasn't like he was crying. At all. "How are you?"

"Better now," she whispered, keeping a tight hold on him. "Sebastian might be a perfect gentleman as a host, but I don't appreciate being locked up in warded quarters. The Gallows were bad enough." Her voice had grown a little bit harder. The Gallows had been the first wedge driven between them, when Hawke had forbidden her to go into the deep roads and she had ended up being taken by the Templars instead. Torn away to a completely new and different life.

"I'm sorry I didn't come sooner," Hawke said, tightening his embrace. Guilt had an odd flavor when his sister was concerned, they had always been close, right up until that night during the Qunari attack when he had saved her life unknowingly and found out that he had lost her to Orsino. "I didn't know what had happened until recently, we feared you were dead. How are you feeling?"

"Nauseous," Bethany said, as she wriggled in his arms. "And needing to breathe."

"Oh, sorry," Hawke said, releasing her. He scratched his beard, looking around the dark room. "Is Merrill here too?"

"She's sleeping in the other room. Oh Maker I am so glad to see you," she admitted, "but you are an idiot to have come here. You know that Sebastian is only keeping us to get to you and Anders."

"Mostly Anders I assume."

"True, but he is not too happy with you either," Bethany cautioned as she slipped out of bed. "Is Anders here?"

"Maker, no, he isn't. I'm not that much of a fool. It's just me and Zevran. Whom you have yet to meet, so do me a favor and disregard all his flirting? He is like that with everybody."

"That is very flattering," Bethany said dryly.

"Blast it, I didn't mean it like that, and you know it." Hawke scratched the back of his head with a sheepish grin. "You will know what I mean in a minute."

"Let me put on something other than my nightgown first, since I assume you have a plan to actually get me out of here?" The words were filled with that unfamiliar dry humor she had developed during her stay in the Gallows. Sunshine came with a side of rain these days.

"Sort of. Dress warmly, it's chilly out there." That was the understatement of the year. "I'm almost afraid to ask, but what about Woffles?"

That made Bethany pause, hugging herself quietly. Hawke wanted to reach out and comfort her, but something in the set of her shoulders made him keep his distance.

"Him and Feathers attacked the mercenaries that captured us. I saw him take a spear in the side, then everything went black. They had Templars." She spoke the name with a hardness that he had only previously associated with Anders.

"Feathers?"

"Merrill's mabari pup. Crazy little monster." She said the words so fondly.

"Merrill? Bonding with a mabari? I didn't think she could do that." Hawke shook his head, what was the world coming to? And where had they ended up getting a mabari pup anyway? And was Woffles really dead? The dog had been old, but still… the pain was acute enough to make him frown.

"Why? Because she is an elf?" Bethany turned with her arms crossed, thunder on her brow. She had caught his look, but misread the cause.

"Blast it, that's not what I meant and…" Hawke sighed, then shrugged. "I'll just go wake her, alright?"

"You do that," she said, opening a small closet filled with a wide variety of less than practical gowns. "And Ian?" She waited until her brother had turn around to give him the warmest of her many smiles. "Thank you. I never doubted you would come. And neither did Sebastian," she cautioned.

"I know," Hawke said, wondering if she really had that much fate in him. He had never come for her before after all, had resigned himself to her fate in the Circle even though he'd wanted to tear the blasted place down and level it to the ground. "I'm just hoping that he has no idea it would be tonight of all nights. It's cold as the wilds out there."

Hawke hoped so very badly that the words he spoke were the truth rather than a vain hope that for once things might go according to plan.

"So what is the plan? Merrill asked, eyes nearly black in the darkness. "Oh, I do hope it involves griffons."

"I'm sorry Merrill, no griffons this time, just an awful lot of sneaking." Hawke always felt slightly awkward around the shortish elf, they hadn't been exactly the best of friends. Oh, he loved being around her and found her to be one of the more genuinely nice people he had ever met, but that blasted mirror… his refusal to help her had led to tear-filled arguments he didn't want to repeat. It wasn't that he wanted to hurt her, rather the opposite in fact. But blood magic and deals with demons and magic mirrors, that just never ended well or so Anders had told him. And he had been right. Something had broken inside them both on the slopes of the Sundermount, surrounded by the dead of her clan.

Obsessions always turned bad in the end.

"Ahhh, but had I known you wanted griffons my ladies, I am sure we would have found the time to spirit some forth, yes? Some of my dearest friends are Grey Wardens." Zevran sketched a bow at the Dalish girl, taken in by her deceptive innocence. Hawke wondered if he should warn him that while Merrill might look like a Daisy, she was in fact one of those flowers that looked all innocent, and then turned into a deathtrap for any fly landing on it. "As it is I fear it involve an awful amount of crawling through rather smelly places."

"Is that how you got in?" Bethany asked, tying back her hair. She had a no nonsense approach to this whole escape that actually made Hawke feel a lot more confident about things. He wasn't sure when his little sister had grown up to be a woman that looked every inch as competent as him, but he felt slightly sad that he hadn't been around to see it.

"We climbed," Hawke admitted. "But there is no blighted way we are getting you two down that path. At least not unless we want our plan to include a lot of falling."

"Ooooh, no, I would rather not," Merrill said, ears twitching a little.

"So crawling it is," Zevran supplied, taking one final look around the room. "But have no fear my ladies, we will keep your lovely selves safe from harm."

"I am sure," Bethany said with a straight face, though one of her eyebrows arched in a slight 'I know what you mean now' towards Hawke.

"How soon will you be able to work your magics once you've out of this room?" Hawke would feel a lot better having two powerful mages on their side, especially since their chances of being discovered were far greater going out than in.

"Don't count on it," Bethany said, flexing her palms a little. "Sebastian… we have been fed diluted magebane when staying here. Not enough to truly debilitate, but he wanted to make sure."

"Magebane?" Hawke asked, feeling his guts grow cold. "That's a poison, to the blighted deep roads with that man; he's not getting away with doing that to my sister." No wonder Bethany had been feeling nauseous, he'd helped Anders more than once after being dosed with the stuff, and the results weren't pretty. To have even low doses over such an extended time… he couldn't even imagine. Sebastian would pay for that.

"I know that look Ian, and don't." Bethany sounded surprisingly determined to defend the prince's life. "Sebastian only did what he thought was right, we are both fine. So let's just go before something bad happens."

"I would agree with the lovely lady," Zevran said, unsheathing his blades once more. "Revenge is a tasty dish, but far sweeter is the air of freedom, yes?"

"Fine," the rogue muttered. "You take point Zevran, I bring up the rear. Let's get out of here."

It all felt too easy, Hawke thought to himself as they made their way towards the Citadel's cellars with only a minimum of bloodshed and no alarms raised. Bethany had spoken the truth, neither she nor Merrill was much use with their magic, but they had only encountered scattered guards, not wholesale patrols. He wasn't sure why Bethany seemed so disturbed at their deaths, had he been trapped for months he would cheered for every drop of blood spilled. Well, perhaps not cheered, but at the very least not frowned like she would break out in protest at any moment now and ruin their quiet escape.

But she did not. One of the guards did instead.

It was an unfortunate fluke really, a door opened at the wrong moment, the guard behind it awake enough to yell for backup. He died seconds later, but by then it was too late, and the surge of guards from the room told Hawke that it hadn't just been a latrine or something. It had been a barracks.

Maker's breath but they were screwed.

"Run!" Hawke yelled, pushing Bethany back as he kicked the door, catching one of the guards in the face. "Get moving Zevran!"

"The time for quiet is over I assume," the former Crow assassin seemed almost happy about that as he lobbed a smoke bomb down the hallway, thick noxious smoke quickly filling the air.

"I liked the quiet," Merrill lamented, eyes wide as she tried to call on her magic to help. The air shimmered and pebbles pelted the confused guards, but like Bethany, she had no power to speak of under the influence of magebane.

"Show them the quick way out Zevran," Hawke snapped. "I'll guard the rear." He didn't look over his shoulder to see if the elf obeyed him, he was far too busy parrying the first pike, slicing the guard's throat open in retaliation before leaping back. Luckily the corridor was narrow, and numbers couldn't really be brought to bear. Not yet. They still had time.

Next to him Bethany had grabbed a spear, jabbing the pointed end in the stomach of a guard. Spear or staff, she might be a mage but she was also the little sister of two quarrelsome brothers. You learned how to fight then, in backyard battles where no rules but the children's own applied.

Sometimes children were cruel.

"See, now I am glad you never tried to rescue me from the Gallows," she gasped, frowning hard as she pulled together what magic she could muster, slowing the approaching men.

"What? I'll let you know this was a perfectly fine plan before it turned blighted," Hawke protested, pulling out a bottle, tossing it to the floor. "Fire? Please?"

"I'm not Anders," she protested, "But I'll give you fire if you want to." The flicker was a small one, but it caught the flammable oil, filling the corridor with roiling smoke and flames. Bethany leapt back, shielding her face. "Maker, what do you keep in those things?"

"This and that," Hawke said with a laugh, because despite it all it was great fighting next to her again. He had missed her a lot more than he had allowed himself to admit. "Flammable this and that."

"One day you'll set fire to your balls, and won't have a handy healer around," she cautioned as they ran back, Hawke pausing to throw another bottle at the fire, keeping the flames alive.

"You said balls," he remarked, giving his sister a surprised look. "The worm has indeed turned."

"I'm not a little girl anymore," Bethany said, turning the corner. Zevran and Merrill were just up ahead, and so far there was no sign of guards in that direction. "Maybe one day you will realize that, big brother."

"Maybe. One day." Hawke tried to get his bearings; they were in a larger corridor near the outer walls of the Citadel itself. He could smell the fresh air; the distant portal must lead outside. If they escaped into the courtyard, chances were the door from which they entered might still be unlocked. And once they were free of the walls, they had the rest of their escape planned. This might actually work.

The creak from the ceiling alerted him just in time, and he pushed Bethany forward the moment before the massive metal portcullis came crashing down. Separating them.

"Blast it," Hawke grabbed the bars, trying to lift it, but even with the others rushing back to help, it was far too heavy to budge, and the bars too close for him to slip through. He would have to find another route.

"Zevran, get the girls out of here as we planned. I'll find another route." Hawke tried to sound as decisive as he could; they had no time for an argument.

Of course he got one anyway.

"We are not leaving you here, Ian," Bethany's eyes flared, and the smoke shivered, but she did not have the power to either lift or destroy the thing. "Maker's balls," she cursed, kicking the thing.

"I am serious," Hawke said, reaching out to squeeze her hand. "Follow Zevran. Keep Merrill safe. It's easier for me to escape on my own anyway, you know that. Don't ruin this."

"He is right," Zevran said quietly. "We must run, now."

"And you," Hawke pointed at the elf. "You keep them safe, you hear? And your hands to yourself."

"Ahhh Champion," the assassin said with a slight bow. "So little faith."

"And you," Bethany said, echoing her brother's tone. "You get yourself out of this now. Don't force me to come back and kick your stubborn behind."

"I'll be off as soon as you move," Hawke assured. "Now run. Please."

And with one last look at her brother, she did. Finally.

Hawke waited until they had disappeared from sight. The smoke was already thinning, as he quietly walked back around the corner, watching as the flames flickered. He had no idea how many guards were on the other side, but he knew one thing. He wasn't going down quietly.

Besides, it wasn't like he hadn't faced down worse odds in his days, what was a couple of guards compared to Qunari, the Arishok or a blighted dragon? These were just men with spears, and once he got through them he could fade back into the shadows and slide out a window. None would be the wiser. He readied his daggers, waiting for the moment when the flames died enough for him to brave them. No use in waiting to be rushed after all.

Far better to do the rushing himself.

The first guard cried out in surprise as he dove through the flames, driving a dagger into his throat. This was how you danced, in cramped areas like this they could not bring their spears to good use; daggers were a far better choice. Stay close, use the guards to block each other, sliding between swords and spears, jabbing when opportunity presented itself. The air was filled with soot and smoke, and Hawke was smiling now. No time for fear. No time for doubts. A blade scraped his ribs, but he caught the arm that wielded it, snapping it in an elbow lock. People were screaming. Arguing.

For once he was silent.

And then he was through the crowd. A doorway loomed black to one side, and he fled down the narrow stairs, pausing only to throw more smoke behind him. Someone fell, and a helmet crashed past him, rattling on the stone steps. Was he moving towards the walls or back inside the Citadel? He wasn't sure, and had no time for doubts. He could think once he'd got an opportunity to hide, until then running was his best option. The arrow hardly hurt when it pierced his leg, but the muscle twitched up, causing him to lose his balance, tumbling down the stairs. Reflex had him drop in a loose roll, saving his neck, but he was still rattled and bruised as he landed at the foot of the stairs.

The spears aimed at him seemed less than friendly, so he batted them aside, rolling to his feet. The second arrow pierced his other leg, and this time it did hurt, a burning searing pain that made him nearly topple over, only the wall keeping him upright.

"You can stop running now." Sebastian's voice. Sebastian's arrows in his legs, a third one aimed straight at his chest. The Prince of Starkhaven looked less than amused, in bedclothes, sans armor, but the arrow did not waver. Neither did the dwarven mercenaries at his side.

"If you don't mind, I don't think I ought to take advice from a man that wants me dead. Seems just the slightest bit unsafe," Hawke drawled and reached for his throwing knives. All out. Blast it. Same for his smoke bombs.

"Dead? Far from it." Sebastian inclined his head slightly and the dwarves stepped forward. "I have no intention of killing you. So put down your weapons, give yourself up and spare yourself the pain of being beaten into submission."

"What can I say?" Hawke shrugged, bravado the one thing keeping him upright on his bleeding legs. "I always was a sucker for punishment." The Bassrath-Kata was not meant for throwing, but Sebastian was not far off, and his aim was true. The Qunari blade tore open the side of the archer's face, sending him stumbling back with a sharp cry of pain.

A moment later Hawke was buried under an avalanche of dwarves.

Unconsciousness came as a relief.