All Fall Down
By: ZealousPhoenix245

Disclaimer: I don't own ES or DA. All rights go to their respective peoples.

Quick Author's Note: I really don't like this chapter. I mean, I really, REALLY don't like this chapter. I tried rewriting it a handful of times, but this was the best version I could come up with, so it's staying until and if I can think of something better. I don't know why I don't like how this turned out - I just don't.

Anyway, I wanted to get this out as soon as I possibly could because I've kept you all waiting for it for long enough. So without further adieu, ENJOY!


Chapter 10


"I never wanted this.
I never asked for it.
But this is what you gave me.
Why would you forsake me?
"

-Gemini Syndrome, "Basement"


~Thedas – 9:41 Dragon~


"The city still mourns," Cassandra stated solemnly as you approached the gates to Val Royeaux. You couldn't fault her observation – the Orlesian capital, while still the gaudy vibrancy you remembered from the several other times you had been within its walls, was somehow outraged and subdued simultaneously. People wore muted colors with more frills than normal, and while they were still eye-catching and bright, the streamers and banners that hung between buildings seemed dulled with tangible melancholy. Val Royeaux was for the second time in less than ten years in mourning.

A masked woman walking towards you from the other side of the bridge gave a melodramatic gasp of horror and began backing hurriedly the way she had come. You sneered behind your own mask. "Just a guess, Seeker, but I think they all know who we are."

You didn't spare Varric a glance. Crossing your arms almost threateningly when a young man armed with a pair of daggers eyed your own set with a challenge in his stance, you growled, "Try it, kid. I dare you." Frightened by something in your countenance, the brunette teen floundered a moment. For a split second he seemed as if he was going to take you up on your offer, but your tone must have made him reconsider as he darted off in the other direction with the slightest yelp. You chuckled, smiling too-widely like a Khajiit that had gotten into the skooma.

"You enjoyed that," Solas accused. An eyebrow was raised in your direction, and the observation was laced with amusement. You just smiled wider and didn't answer.

The scout you had hazily theorized to be at the edge of your sensory range decided to take that moment to suddenly run up to your group once you reached the first gate. She dropped almost immediately into a bow that seemed a tad too extravagant for the circumstances. "My lord Herald!"

Poor Alan, you thought with probably more mirth than sympathy when the warrior shifted uncomfortably. Three weeks since the trip to the Hinterlands (time to collect Dennett and return to Haven, rest a bit, and then set out for the capital) had told you that, while a noble, the boy had been raised a little more humbly than most of affluence. He was the youngest, though, and not destined for much other than a simple life dedicated in service to the Chantry. It was almost ironic that he had wound up working for the Inquisition as one of, if not the keystone member.

"You're one of Leliana's people," said Cassandra, perking up a bit from the road-weariness she'd settled into. "What have you found?"

The scout's voice was confident and firm, only wavering once with the news. "The Chantry Mothers await you, but…so do a great many Templars." That got your interest. Your head swiveled in the scout's direction, eyebrows raising so high they probably disappeared behind your hairline. Templars? Hadn't they marched off in a hissy fit to go and fight the mages?

"There are Templars here?" The alarm in the Seeker's voice seemed to eagerly reflect your own sentiments of confusion. The unasked question of why was ignored as the kneeling woman continued to babble onwards.

"People seem to think the Templars will protect them from…from the Inquisition," she gulped. "They're gathering on the other side of the market. I think that's where the Templars intend to meet you." Snorting, you shook your head.

Turning to your left to Alan and Cassandra, you said in a dry tone, "Let's be honest, we expected something like this."

"Well," the Trevelyan mused as he scratched at the stubble lining his chin with humor thickening his tone, "resistance, maybe – I don't think anyone was expecting Templars to have suddenly shown up in the capital to personally deal with the heretical Herald of Andraste." The scout's horrified rebuke went in one ear and out the other. You slightly wished someone would gag the woman – she was entirely too shrill-voiced.

Your wishes were granted, somewhat, when Cassandra ordered the scout to return to Haven in case you were…delayed. Yeah, you thought glumly. More like thrown into the prisons with the key fed to rabid darkspawn, never to see the sweet light of day again, but who cares about the specifics?

Varric shrugged as your group was lead onward by the Herald, "You think the Templars returned to the fold? To deal with us upstarts?" Had it been in any other situation, you would have called the dwarf out on his willing inclusion of himself in with the Inquisition.

You instead replied relatively demurely for you, shaking your head, "Anything's possible, but the Hinterlands had me under the impression that the fighting is too widespread and too enthusiastic. It would have had to take a lot of convincing to get them to leave the war just to defend a few Chantry Mothers from little ole' us." Doubts were further solidified as more than a handful of shiny metal suits gleamed throughout the gathered crowd once you all cleared the main avenue into the shopping plaza. It was more than a handful too many than you should have seen, and you weren't the only member of your party to notice.

"Something does seem…odd," said Cassandra with a look on her face like she'd swallowed something sour.

Alan nodded in acknowledgement, "Be on your guard." You didn't need to be told twice as you tensed the slightest bit, ears straining for anything out of the ordinary. A perturbed Chanter was mumbling verses from the Chant of Light, but he was adding his own prayers as well. Aside from that and the scuffling of the crowd, there was nothing you could hear that stood apart from the norm. You weren't sure if it boded well or ill.

Rounding the tower in the middle of the plaza and pushing through the crowd gathered before a makeshift platform, you had to give in to the urge to roll your sightless eyes at the preaching woman situated atop the stage. "Good people of Val Royeaux – hear me!" The poor Templar standing behind her had the most awkward look on his face, and you honestly felt for his discomfort. Public speeches that began with "People of blah-blah-blah, hear me" never ended well.

"Together, we mourn our Divine," the Mother's Orlesian accent was thick as she spoke with wild hand gestures as if the unnecessary motions would help slam her point home, "her naïve and beautiful heart, silenced by treachery!" You almost laughed – how Justinia could have been considered naïve, you hadn't the slightest clue. The woman had been one of the most accomplished players of Orlais' "game" that you had ever had the pleasure of trying to avoid. Too many times had her agents tried screwing with your auctions for you to have underestimated her or her deviousness – Justinia had always been the mastermind of every Chantry plot since her election to the office of Divine. Her Left and Right hands, unlike with Beatrix, had merely been her reach, instruments of Justinia's will instead of the false embodiment of it.

So, no – the Divine had been anything but naïve.

The sound of an armored shoe scuffing across pavement off to the right of the crowd drew your attention quicker than flame drew a moth. Your head tilted to the left reflexively, listening. Waiting. A definitive clang met a sensitive, pointed ear amidst the chattering gaggle of Royans, and you nudged Alan none-too-gently to get his attention.

He sent you an inquisitive look; however any question on his lips died when you signaled towards the source of the sound. Green eyes going wide, the brunette suddenly scowled. "There's more?"

"That is the Lord Seeker…," Cassandra whispered abruptly. "Why is he here?" You noticed her pointed glower in your direction, but you could only shrug.

"Last I had heard he was at the Conclave."

Solas leaned on his staff, brow rising as he drawled, "Apparently not."

"Or," you snapped with the slightest irritated grimace, "he was supposed to be, but didn't attend. Contrary to popular belief, I am not omniscient."

No one got the chance to reply (though Solas did frown disapprovingly at you something fierce) as the Mother's ramblings cut through the air, "You wonder what will become of her murderer. Well, wonder no more!" Your blood ran cold when the Mother's eyes seemed to land directly on your little party. Or, more specifically, they landed directly on Alan.

"Behold the so-called Herald of Andraste!" she sneered, pointing at the human warrior with fire in her eyes. "Claiming to rise where our beloved fell… We say this is a false prophet! No servant of anything beyond his selfish greed!"

That seemed to have struck a nerve with the Trevelyan, as his hands fisted and he began to shout over the raucousness of the crowd. "Enough! I will not listen to these self-serving lies! We came here to talk!" To his left, you heard more than saw Cassandra flinch and couldn't help but somewhat sympathize. The older woman was not a diplomat by any means, but it appeared from the rising clamor in the square that she was going to have to try her hand at it. Alan, though nobility, was more brazen with his words than most, and it was threatening to turn around and bite the Inquisition in the ass if it wasn't headed off carefully.

"It's true!" the Seeker attempted to amend. "The Inquisition seeks only to end this madness before it is too late!"

Murmurs continued amongst the people. You caught snippets, but none of them were entirely positive. People were desperate for something familiar to comfort them during the turmoil Thedas was experiencing. Fractured and splintered as it was, the Chantry provided that, and the masses were more likely to side with the Mothers over a burgeoning institution labeled with such monikers as heretical.

And then you froze, jolted out of your thoughts when you heard the marching. On your right, Solas tensed, hand gripping his staff a little tighter once he, too, noticed the Templars beginning to move. If Alan noticed to your left, he didn't react, but Varric warily twitched a hand closer to Bianca.

"It is already too late!" snarled the Mother as she pointed almost vehemently to her left. "The Templars have returned to the Chantry! They will face this 'Inquisition', and the people will be safe once more!" You allowed yourself to worry for only the barest fraction of a second, when one of the Templars marched up behind the Mother and proceeded to deliver a swift blow to the back of her head. She dropped to the ground, not even enough time for the venomous look on her face to twist into shock. The gasping of spectators was peppered with a few horrified screams.

"What in Oblivion…?" you gaped.

Varric blinked beside you, the grip he'd had on his crossbow's stock long gone slack. "That was…unexpected…"

The Lord Seeker, at the head of the small group of Templars, stopped by the dark-skinned one that had been standing behind the Mother. He addressed the man that had knocked out the clergywoman with a greasy smirk, "Still yourself. She is beneath us." That got your eyebrows to your hairline.

"'Beneath us'?" you breathed quizzically. For a Chantry servant to be so disrespectful towards clergy… "What is he…?" Alan shook himself out of his daze and glared.

"Was that display supposed to impress me?"

The Lord Seeker took a moment to appraise the warrior before scoffing. "On the contrary, it wasn't for you at all." He took quick strides off the stage, the other Templars following like the diligent little lapdogs they were. You could feel a few beady eyes darting towards Solas and watching his staff with hungry glances – you couldn't shake the irrational feeling that more than a few of those were locked on you, as well. You consciously made an effort to pull your already tightly-drawn magic farther from the surface out of what you could only describe as paranoia.

Cassandra pleaded, "Lord Seeker Lucius, it's imperative that we speak with – !"

"You will not address me," Lucius interrupted in a cool tone, barely sparing the woman a glance.

"Lord Seeker…?" she sputtered.

The older Seeker whirled around on Cassandra and snarled, "Creating a heretical movement, raising up a puppet as Andraste's prophet? You should be ashamed!" He jeered at Alan, causing the brunette to clench his fists in a rage that you could tell was barely subdued. You touched a hand to the Trevelyan's arm on the off chance he decided to try anything.

"You should all be ashamed!" Lucius continued to growl. "The Templars failed no one when they left the Chantry to purge the mages!" Your eyes narrowed behind the mask. While not having known the man personally, there'd been quite the stir when Lucius Corin had been made head of the Seekers of Truth in 9:40 after the odd disappearance of his predecessor. Granted, the stir had been quenched rather quickly by the mage rebellion, but you'd gathered enough about the man. Something drastic had to have happened to have made him act the way he was, and you certainly didn't like the prospect of it.

His next words had Cassandra almost flinching back as if he had physically struck her. "You are the ones who have failed! You who'd leash our righteous swords with doubt and fear!" A pause ensued, and Lucius took a deep breath, appearing to attempt to steady himself before locking his eyes back on the almost awestruck Nevarran.

"If you came to appeal to the Chantry, you are too late. The only destiny here that demands respect is mine."

Alan tore his arm from your grasp while you were distracted by the Lord Seeker and gestured wildly, "If you're not here to help the Chantry, then you just came to make speeches?"

"Hardly," the other man scoffed, sneering rather impressively. "I came to see what frightens old women so, and to laugh."

The Templar that had been standing behind the Mother suddenly walked up behind Lucius. His chocolate-skinned face was pinched together in something akin to worry, perchance indecisiveness. "But, Lord Seeker…what if he really was sent by the Maker? What if – ?"

"You are called to a higher purpose!" drawled the lightly armored man who had rendered the Mother unconscious. "Do not question!" He then proceeded to walk off and join his comrades, standing just in front of them in a manner that haughtily stated his superiority over them – a ranking officer, probably.

"I will make the Templar Order a power that stands alone against the void. We deserve recognition, independence!" The other Templars and Seekers gave a universal salute at Lucius' words, but you yourself just thought them crazed. "You have shown me nothing, and the Inquisition…less than nothing." He executed a very smart turn on his heel.

"Templars! Val Royeaux is unworthy of our protection! We march!"

Like something out of a novel, the Templars gathered in the square simultaneously rushed to formation, kicked about on their heels, and neatly filed their way towards the city gates. It was a perfectly executed march, not one soldier stepping out of line or even so much as tilting his head. You weren't quite sure what to make of it, truth be told. It was all a little too perfect for comfort.

Varric, of course, was the one who decided to break the tense silence between the five of you with a mumbled, "Charming fellow, isn't he?"

"Has Lord Seeker Lucius gone mad?" floundered Cassandra, finally seeming to have found her voice.

"Do you know him very well?"

She turned to face Alan, whose green eyes were undoubtedly still smoldering with anger. "He took over the Seekers of Truth after Lord Seeker Lambert's death. He was always a decent man, never given to ambition and grandstanding. This is very bizarre."

You nodded in agreement, hand reaching up to fiddle with your mask. "I've heard that he agreed with Justinia's idea for a conclave, rather enthusiastically, too…'The Templars failed no one when they left the Chantry to purge the mages.' Correct me if I'm wrong, Cassandra, but that seems an odd thing for him to say."

"If that is the case, perhaps appealing to the Templars for help is not the best of ideas?" Solas suggested. Alan darted his eyes between the elf and human woman a few times, before heaving a heavy sigh.

He acquiesced grudgingly, "It doesn't look like we'll be getting the Templars to help us after all."

"I wouldn't write them off so quickly," defended Cassandra. "There must be those in the Order who see what he's become." The woman was insistent on the good of the Templars, you'd give her that much.

Varric grumbled, "Well, we're not going to be deciding anything here. Probably better if we make our way back to Haven." He gave an odd sideways glance to a passing nobleman with a rather questionable gait in emphasis to the real reason behind his point. The youngest Trevelyan child didn't seem to get it, however, as he chuckled while slapping a hand on the dwarf's low-standing shoulder.

"I'm sure we can spare some time!" he said jovially, any apprehension he may have felt about the situation suddenly evaporated in a cloud of cheer. "I've never been to Val Royeaux! I want to look around a bit."

You glared at Solas when he slowly nodded in agreement. "It would be a good idea to stock up on supplies while we're here and able." Sound reasoning, you admitted, but still. The very thought of staying in the Orlesian capital for a moment longer than necessary made your skin crawl.

…bloody Orlais…

You crossed your arms and rolled your eyes. "Well, if you're going to go traipsing about this gods-aw –" A sound, very, very faint, reached your ears, causing you to cut yourself off abruptly. It took a split second for you to recognize it, and you dove at the person nearest you (Varric, as it so happened) and tackled them unceremoniously to the ground. "ARCHER!" The others, startled and almost ready to attack you after the move towards Varric, quickly heeded your warning once vocalized and dropped to the ground in quick succession. Several confused passersby were cued to do the same. They were just in time as the twang of an arrow releasing was followed quickly by the projectile thudding gracelessly into a niche between flagstones – a particular gap that had only moments before been obstructed by Cassandra's unprotected head.

"Andraste's flaming ass," gasped Varric as he started to push himself to his feet. "What was that?" You slammed a hand onto the ground. While not an ideal way to scope out your surroundings, it was better than relying on listening for something amidst all of the screaming that had begun emerging.

Solas coughed. "I think the better question is 'who'."

You barely heard him, too focused scanning the hazy outline of a handful of nearby ledges that would have made for an excellent sniper perch. Lips pursed thinner and thinner as you found absolutely nothing with each pass you made.

Alan staggered to his feet and stumbled over to the arrow. He yanked it out of its resting spot lodged in rocky mortar and tore something from it. "There's a letter – hey, wait! Lys!" The warrior cut himself off as you suddenly bolted from your spot on the ground towards the east wall of the plaza.

"I'll catch up!" you cried over your shoulder as you proceeded to shove your way past several bemused civilians and launch your way up to grip a second-story windowsill. Using that as leverage, you continued to scale the wall towards the balcony that had caught your attention, towards where you could still hear footsteps trying to make a hasty retreat. Taking note of their volume, or lack of abundance thereof, you smirked. Now that you knew what you were listening for – an archer using high ground, as a bow was too obvious and cumbersome to hide in a crowd unless they stashed it, thin, light-footed – you had decent confidence in having a good chance of finding the shooter no matter how far they ran.

Scuffing sounded to your left and you followed it. A pebble, or more likely a chip off of a brick, clicked against the pavement of the ledge when it fell. So, going up were they? You followed suit, ignoring the comments from spectators below before pulling yourself onto a rooftop and disappearing from their sight altogether.

Chinking tiles…and stop. Creaking wood. You rolled to the side at the last minute as an arrow thudded where you had been standing. More patter atop roofing sounded when the archer began running again. There was a breathed curse you couldn't quite make out, and with the rush of air by your ears and the distance between the two of you, you couldn't place a gender with any certainty.

Giving chase again, your sprint lasted only around five minutes and three leaps across rooftops before you were forced to duck behind a chimney to avoid another arrow.

"Syrabane's bloody ring!" you hissed as a sudden burning pain blossomed on your right arm just under the shoulder. A second arrow whose trajectory you had accidentally miscalculated clattered along ceramic tiles somewhere behind you, and your left hand flew up to try and staunch the blood. It was barely even a graze, but your sleeve had been torn enough that you could feel skin showing. Damn, you thought. There wasn't time to dwell on it, though.

Clenching your teeth with renewed vigor, you darted out of your cover towards the still stationary archer. A high pitched giggle followed by "Oh, bugger!" finally pegged the figure as female. She hastened to her feet through a moment of clumsiness before racing to the edge of the roof the two of you were currently on.

In a split second, it felt like someone had taken a bucket and washed away any of the excitement the chase provided. Your arm was stinging something fierce, and you were more than sick of it – it had started out entertaining, dare you say, but it had drug on long enough. Longer than enough, you admitted sourly as you pulled out one of the small knives from your belt and tossed it in the girl's general direction.

As expected, it went far too wide and didn't even come remotely close to hitting her (you were honestly shocked it had even made it as far as it did), but it did its job in startling its target. She slowed just enough that by the time she reached the edge, she yelped and had to scuffle backwards lest she fall to the pavement four stories below.

It was an opportunity, though, and you took it wholeheartedly. She was barely able to turn around in time to block your grab for her arm, and you entered into a precarious dance defined mostly by the two of you trying to scrabble away from the edge of the roof while attempting desperately to throw the other one off of it. It was by no means graceful and probably looked more like a fumbling mess instead of a true brawl. All the scuffling, however, gave you a couple of opportunities to get a vague impression of the archer's face. She was elven, with the slim build you had theorized earlier and choppy light-colored hair of a shade you were hesitant to peg. Her skin was fair and face devoid of vallaslin, so you suspected she was from somewhere south in Thedas. Or, at the least, a place that didn't get much sun.

"Shite, pissface, arsebag!" yelped the girl with each frantic jab. You raised a brow as you dodged a blow meant for your head. Her accent was clearly Fereldan. And while to the untrained eye her attacks were rather more flailing than fighting, there was some finesse to it. It was street fighting if you'd ever seen it. Messy and mostly improvised, but it got the job done.

In other words, it was your kind of fighting.

Hindering two more attempts to incapacitate you, you managed to grab a forearm and wrench it behind the elven girl's back. It was for naught as you quickly learned considering she made easy work of jerking herself free. She was more skilled than she appeared – a wildcard in and of herself. However, like her, you had more than several tricks up your tattered sleeve.

Knives meant merely to disable and not to kill thudded harmlessly into a wooden bow that was brought up just in the nick of time to block, and you cursed under your breath as you swept to the side to avoid a perfectly executed roundhouse. This ended up being to the girl's disadvantage, though, as it provided you a means to grab hold of her leg and trip her up. She fell with an ungraceful squawk to the tiled roofing and laid there dazed long enough for you to properly restrain her. A whimper fell from her lips under your iron touch, but you suspected it had more to do with her situation than the firmness of your grasp.

"Blighted shitelicker…"

"Enough of this – who are you? An assassin?" you breathed, but the accusation itself carried little weight. The girl just didn't seem the type – she was too…disorganized. You were winded from the scuffle and winced at the sound of air rushing in and out of your lungs in sharp gasps.

The elf, exhausted as she undoubtedly was, seemed to rear to life, "Like I'm gonna bloody tell you!"

Scoffing, you replied, "I'll give that you're a slippery one, but giving up information is usually what one does when one is captured."

"Yeah, usually," she snapped. "And it's not like I intended to get caught in the first place, you fancy-speaking poncyface!" Your eyebrow rose.

"Hmm. Colorful."

The next thing you knew, one of her arms was forced out of your grasp with more strength than you had thought the girl capable of. "How's this for colorful!?" The sound of glass breaking, a flask, followed only a second later. A noxious odor suddenly assaulted your sensitive nose, and you bent over in a coughing fit you hadn't been expecting. There were footsteps lightly bolting away from your location on the roof, but you barely heard them over your own hacking and the way your head was swimming from whatever had been in the flask.

You stumbled backwards once the coughing had cleared enough for you to trust your balance. Air had never tasted sweeter. Whatever had been in the flask the girl had smashed hadn't been intended to knock you out, it had been intended to distract. And it had performed its job perfectly. Note to self, you thought glumly, find a way to put a filter in the mask.

"Gods damn it!" You pressed a hand to the roof and looked around angrily. The girl was nowhere to be found. A breeze stirred by smelling of dirty, stagnant water almost as if to add some unnecessary drama to the moment.

She'd gotten away.


A harsh slap to the shoulder was what met you when you managed to make your way back to the main shopping plaza. You supposed you deserved it – in hindsight, running off without explanation as you had probably had not been one of your best and brightest ideas. That didn't mean the strike from a palm utilizing momentum from a heavy gauntlet was painless. No, it was quite the opposite, you grimaced as you reached a hand up to gingerly rub the tender flesh beneath freshly-sewn fabric you were sure was going to bruise around the cut you hadn't thought to waste magika on healing.

"Ow."

"Where in the Void did you bloody go?!" Alan all but screeched in your ear. "No, scratch that – how did you do that and can you teach me?" For some reason, the addendum made you scowl.

Snatching your shoulder out from where it had remained somewhat under the Trevelyan's grip, you grumbled, "Lots of practice. And no, I can't teach you. It was ages since I'd last done it and I'm amazed I was still able to."

"You didn't answer about where you went," Cassandra's voice cut through the air like a hot knife through butter, and the acid in it made you wince. "You want us to trust you, and then you go charging off…"

You replied calmly, "I caught sight of the archer and went after her."

Her glare turned sharp. "Be that as it may, you should have told us what you were doing." Varric had humorously edged his way behind Solas, the elf shooting him an odd glance in response. Had you not been fending off a potential lecture, you would have laughed.

Shaking your head, you dismissed the thought of arguing against her. "Alright, but I'm not going to apologize for reacting to something that could have been a threat. That arrow almost hit your head, Cassandra. For all I knew, it was meant for it."

The Seeker's glare faltered for a fraction of a second. A gauntleted hand twitched as if it wished to touch her forehead but was barely restrained. It took a few moments of terse silence, but the older woman eventually relented with a heavy sigh and nonchalant wave of her hand. The way she shifted on her feet told you that all of the excitement for the day had drained her – she wasn't in the mood to argue, and that suited you just fine. Neither were you.

Coughing awkwardly, Varric shuffled out from behind Solas looking uncharacteristically the part of a timid child about to be scolded. "Well, there was a letter attached to the arrow…for what that was worth."

"What do you mean?"

"It's from a Friend of Red Jenny," he shrugged. "We deciphered to look for red…things. We found two already."

Your nose scrunched up in distaste. "Ugh. Not those morons. I hate working with them. There's a regular buyer out of Starkhaven who was a Friend. Can never get a straight answer out of them other than "screw the nobles" – it drives me batty." Across from you, the Seeker snorted. She shuffled on her feet, but the movement was laced with a perpetual exhaustion that seemed to loom over the group like a sabre cat ready to pounce.

"Why work with them if you do not like them?" she asked. Slowly, ever so slowly, you turned your head to more concretely face her direction, tilting it to the side as if for emphasis.

"Uhh…," you said slowly. "They paid well…why not?" The question was a serious one. In your line of business, it didn't matter if you liked your clients or even agreed with what they stood for. Even then, you personally couldn't care less so long as they paid you their dues. The more information you traded, the more you heard. And the more you heard, the closer you were to figuring out exactly what had happened to Nirn. Your clients could assassinate the bloody empress with your information so long as you got your coin and the little bump in reputation that came with a clean transfer.

At least, you felt so.

Whatever point the Seeker had intended to make apparently died, as she instead settled for shaking her head with a heavy sigh. "Never mind. Did you find anything out about this archer?"

At this you brightened considerably. "She's an elf, blond, a little shorter than me, actually. No vallaslin and her accent's Fereldan, so I'm going out on a limb and saying she's probably not Dalish. We scuffled; girl's a street fighter and much stronger than she looks, so I'm assuming she's from a city." You suddenly thought a moment, remembering her rather colorful vocabulary and barked out a laugh. "She curses worse than a sailor, too."

"Wait," Alan's eyebrow rose. "You 'scuffled' with her?"

"…Yes…"

He pointedly glanced around the half-empty square, "Well, where is she?"

Your lack of an immediate answer had everyone giving you half-irritated, half-amused looks that caused a blush to darken your cheeks a strange shade of orange. "She, um…really likes bombs?"

Varric was struggling to hold in his laughter. "She got away, didn't she?" Your head hung.

"Yeah…," you almost whined. That did it – Cassandra slapped her palm against her forehead, the dwarf doubled over and roared with laughter, and Solas mercifully only gave a few short chuckles more out of bemusement than actual humor.

"What do you mean 'she got away'?!"

If there was nothing else you learned on that trip to Val Royeaux, it was that the only thing worse than having to actually be within the city walls was being chased around them by an irate Cassandra.


"Y'know, I think my arm's bruising."

"Maker's breath," muttered the Seeker in response as she ran some guard dressed in shoddy leathers clean through. The small little alleyway the Friend of Red Jenny notes had led you all to was lit dimly by a few torches and the overhanging glow of moonlight. Such made it difficult to see for those in your group who relied on it, save for when Solas casted the wayward spell and brilliantly lit up the small crevasse with spirit magic. However, it conversely made it difficult for your opponents to land any hits of substance, so that was something.

It seemed as if the archer had wanted Alan to look for something, something that would (apparently) help the Inquisition. You yourself weren't quite sure what to make of it, but you had a bet of ten sovereigns with Varric that the notes were probably leading you to some noble. Friends of Red Jenny always had something to do with nobility – you had no reason to believe that the situation would prove to be any different.

In the meantime, however, you had decided to take a page from Varric's book and rib at the Seeker for some entertainment. She'd chased you down a few streets in Val Royeaux over you letting (not of your own volition, you were quick to defend) the archer get away, and had ended up dragging you out of the market by a too-firm hand on your already cut arm that you had still neither bothered nor had the chance to heal. So far, you'd elicited three curses, seven mumblings of "Maker's breath", and two prayers to Andraste for you to cease being able to speak. And it was more than amusing to listen to her stew, as she had no reason to force you to leave the Inquisition – you'd already proven yourself in the Hinterlands and by running a few errands in Haven. So the most Cassandra could do was curse and scowl.

And gods was it ever hilarious.

"Do you really think it a good idea to antagonize her so much?" Solas asked blandly as he called lightning to arc between the last two guards with a deft flick of his wrist. The cried out and made a few jerky motions courtesy of the electricity coursing through their limbs before they dropped like rocks and lay still.

You shrugged the question off as you did a quick sweep to assure no more enemies remained before sheathing your daggers at their usual spots on either side of your hips. Alan was already walking towards another door on the other side of the alley, and the four of you remaining hurried to catch up as he pried the wooden slab open…

…only to narrowly dodge a raging ball of flame.

"Herald of Andraste!" a voice growled. You tiredly pressed a hand to the doorjamb. "How much did you expend to discover me? It must have weakened the Inquisition immeasurably!" A (predictably) masked Orlesian met you, decked out in the finery you had been expecting, doublet bearing the crest of a minor noble house you vaguely recognized. You giggled gleefully and dropped your other hand out to Varric palm-up, fingers wiggling.

"He's a noble; I called it – and a mage, to boot! My coin, if you please, dwarf?"

Said dwarf blinked at you a moment before grumbling and unhooking a leather purse from somewhere on his belt. "Yeah, yeah. Just don't spend it all in one place, okay Prowler?"

Alan replied to the noble, ignoring the exchange of money going on behind him, "I don't know who you are…should I?"

"You don't fool me! I'm too important for this to be an accident," snapped the noble, shaking his head as he paced slightly. "My efforts will survive in victories against you elsewhere!"

"Great," drawled Varric, "Arrow-girl led us to someone who wants to kill us. Why do we never meet anyone sane?"

You drew a dagger, ready for a fight as Solas responded, "I believe that would be too easy." A door suddenly slamming open, followed by the familiar creak-twang-thud of an arrow being drawn back, released, and slammed home in a fleshy target sounded. All eyes swiveled to where a short flight of stairs led upwards, to where a rather familiar elven archer was drawing back an arrow pointed straight at the nobleman's face.

"Just say, 'what'!"

The fancy-masked face contorted into a sneer, "What is the – !?"

And an arrow promptly skewered itself through his skull with a wet squelch. Your jaw dropped – it had been an audacious thing to do. Overkill, if one wanted to go so far.

"Eww," the girl shuddered as she slung her bow onto her back and walked towards the fallen noble to yank the projectile out of the corpse. "Squishy one, but you heard me, right? 'Just say "What".' Rich tits always try for more than they deserve." She shook her head.

"'Blah, blah, blah! Obey me! Arrow in my face!'" A little giggle put you on edge when she walked up to Alan. "So, you followed the notes well enough. Glad to see you're... You're kind of plain, really. All that talk, and then you're just…a person."

You crossed your arms, "What, you thought he'd be ten feet tall and eat ogres for breakfast or something?" The choppily-cut blond head snapped in your direction, and the grin she flashed you was…unsettling.

She shrugged you off, continuing to address the human. "It's all good, though, 'innit? The important thing is: you glow, right? You're the herald…thing-y?" Alan shot her a skeptical look.

"Alright, yes. I glow. What's this about?"

"No idea; I don't know this idiot from manners," she said airily. "My people just said the Inquisition should look at him."

You dryly intoned, "More like make the Inquisition do their dirty work for them." It was a waste of breath, though, as your words went in one ear and out the other.

"My name is Sera," she turned to a stack of crates and gestured. "This is cover. Get 'round it. For the reinforcements. Don't worry – someone tipped me their equipment shed." Oh, you thought. They won't be armed, then.

"They've got no breeches."

You had never wanted to smack someone so badly in your life.


Final Words: So, there it was. We've got Sera now. This was originally supposed to have Vivienne's quest, too, but this chapter was already long enough in my mind. Well, hope you liked it!

R&R!

~ZealousPhoenix