Brady halted his mount atop a small hill and saw the glimmering light of the Dark Wolf's estate in the distance. It stood alone, surrounded by farmland, the crops long dead and plowed low, coloring the landscape a dull yellow.
The commotion was audible, despite his distance.
He pulled a pair of black gloves from his belt and placed them onto his hands. He adjusted the sleeves of his maroon leather jacket and covered the length of the gloves. Ole' Bastard rested in a scabbard against his back, secured by a leather belt that ran diagonal across his torso.
He urged his mare to continue down the hill with a slow trot.
Upon reaching the gates, he was greeted by two burly men, dressed in heavy armor and asking for his invitation. He dismounted and handed them the small piece of parchment. They scrutinized the letter, then allowed him through the gate.
"That sword better not leave your back," one man warned. "Not here."
Brady nodded and entered the courtyard.
The architecture of the estate was classically Fereldan, built high with Greystone and large windows covered by thick crimson curtains that only exposed the black silhouettes of those inside.
Groups of men and women scattered across the courtyard and enjoyed idle conversation with drinks in their hands. Their voices turned into hushed whispers and their eyes lingered as he passed. He kept his head low and entered the estate.
The foyer was filled with guests escalating their voices to speak over one another. Servers passed around drinks to guests, who never allowed their eyes to leave their conversations. The guests wore pristine formal attire, the colors of their dress emulated the fallen leaves of Harvestmere and the darkness of Wintermarch.
The foyer, decorated with marble statues and oil paintings, felt misplaced when matched with the stone walls. Despite the Fereldan grit displayed on the exterior of the estate, the inside felt more suited for an Orlesian chateau, with bright gold and blue tones fashioned on the furnishings and the oriental rug that split the room.
He caught the attention of many guests. They reeled him in, eager to boast and compare their infamy with Andraste's Unchosen. They spoke ill of the crown and the Empress, blaming their reign for creating such a hassle when smuggling goods and people in and out of country lines.
They asked an assortment of questions, most unsavory in nature.
A woman, with wiry grey hair sprouting from her hairline, propositioned Brady with a business deal, claiming he would want for nothing as long as her needs were satisfied.
He politely declined, to which she reminded him the offer was always open, but only to him.
One guest, a tevinter with a thick face that barely fit through the collar of his jacket, asked him if the rumors of The Divine and The Inquisitor were true, and if she were a good lay.
The guests around him choked on their own curiosity, their eyes prying and awaiting an answer.
Brady did not reply to the man, much to the disappointment of the crowd. Though, he persisted, barking a plethora of questions about their relationship between haughty laughter and sips of wine. The more Brady ignored the man, the louder his inquiries became.
The tevinter seemed to give up on his search for answers, shrugging his shoulders and twirling the wine in his glass.
"Whatever the case, your Divine is quite beautiful."
Brady brought his eyes to the man and nodded, "That she is."
The tevinter rose his brows, "Which makes it hard for me to believe that she isn't some sort of whore. All those templars around, I doubt she can help herself."
Brady clenched his jaw, then rested his lips on a thin grin. The tevinter chuckled, his shoulders shaking and rising his glass to his lips.
Brady jabbed the palm of his hand onto the bottom of the wine glass. It shattered against the tevinter's teeth and cut open his top lip. The tevinter stood in awe, dabbing his busted lip with his sleeve. The guests dissipated from Brady and joined other circles of conversation, making eyes every so often as he towered over the tevinter and taught him a lesson on the need for respect in foreign countries through gritted teeth.
He left the tevinter alone, only to be bombarded by an unhumbly dressed pair of women. Their dresses contrasted one another. One a dark blue, strapless with a plunging neckline that left nothing to the imagination. The other, a rich red.
Brady entertained the women with a hollow smile.
They fed off each other, weaving their words together and delivering conversation with clear implications in their wordplay. Their calculated touches to his chest and down his arm did not go unnoticed.
"Would you dine with us, my lord?" The woman in the dark blue dress asked, a slick smile across her lips. "We are not in Ferelden for much longer after tonight."
The woman in the red dress imitated the smile on her companion's lips, wading closer to him in unison like a choreographed dance. "We could start with dessert, if you prefer."
Brady blushed and brought his eyes to the floor. He rose with a sheepish grin and rubbed the nape of his neck, "I'm afraid I leave for Orlais in the morning."
They women shared a glance, then slunk into him, their hands roamed his body, unwelcomed.
"There's always tonight," One breathed into his ear.
He shook them off. When their expressions soured, he looped his thumb around his necklace and popped the ring from his collar.
"Sorry," he shrugged. "Taken."
He maneuvered through the crowd, tucking his ring back underneath his shirt, and proceeded across the foyer. He followed the overbearing commotion that rung against the walls through twin wooden doors, tall and wide, against the far side of the foyer.
Through the doors was a large room with high ceilings, a lit chandelier dangling in the center. A stage-like platform with a pedestal seated in the middle sprawled across the floor with chairs aligned in front of it in balanced rows that reached just before the entrance of the room.
Guests were seated, their eyes attached to a single man that stood behind the pedestal presenting a painting of a woman, dressed in distinct Black Age fashion, encased in a decorated golden frame.
The seated guests marveled at the painting, and the man announced bidding was to begin.
Brady circled around the seated guests and rested his back against the wall. No recognizable faces were amongst the present guests. The man on the platform flashed a smile as the bids rose far beyond the starting bid.
He watched the wages increase to immense amounts of gold. Just when he thought the bids could grow no higher, another hand shot up from its seat. He assumed crime was lucrative for those in charge of such organizations, but never to this extent. Their bids rivaled what the Inquisition was lucky to have in their coffers in the beginning.
He felt disgusted, scornful of their wealth. When the world seemed to be coming to its end, he doubted they even spared a copper.
He imagined Josephine would have been hesitant to accept dirty coin as she attempted to legitimize the Inquisition, but he saw coin as coin, and at the time, it was the one thing the budding Inquisition was desperate for.
An elven man balancing a platter with glasses of wine approached Brady and offered refreshments, his voice timid. Brady declined and continued to study the guests and the nature of the painting on display.
A light scoff arose behind him. He turned to see a dark-haired woman, dressed in an elegant Orlesian gown, tight around her waist and slender frame. Her skin was pale, pronounced in the gauntness of her cheeks. She took a sip of wine from her glass, her light brown eyes scrutinizing Brady.
He pushed his brows together, forcing a laugh from the woman. She brought her glass away from her crimson lips and rested it by her waist.
"You're a serious one, aren't you?"
Her accent was high Orlesian, thick on her words. It rung like nobility, or of one who had gotten used to pretending to be one.
"Not particularly, no," he replied.
She cocked a brow, "Oh? Is the wine not good enough for you?"
"I'm sure it is fine."
"Then why refuse the pleasantry of a drink?" She pointed her glass to the seated guests. "Not a single body here would dare to deprive themselves of that."
He grinned, "I'm afraid if I drink, I won't be able to stop my coin from running out."
She narrowed her eyes at him, then rose her hand, snapping her fingers three times. The elven man returned with the platter. She pointed to Brady. The elven man brought the platter to Brady and stood, raising the platter up to Brady's chest.
Brady's eyes flickered to the woman then down on the glasses of wine. The elven man averted his eyes away from Brady, his presence quiet and still. He took a glass from the platter, and the woman shooed the elven man away.
He took a sip from his glass and tasted the strong honey present in the wine. The woman smiled, then drank. He brought his eyes onto the auction, where a skinny man won the painting and celebrated with his peers.
"What brings you here?" She asked, inching closer to him.
He kept his eyes on the auction. "An invitation."
"You would not have come unless you wished to win something you want."
"I heard a rumor," he brought his eyes to her. "Of a dagger, elven in design. Know anything of it?"
"Stolen from the Teryn's home?"
He nodded.
Her lips pursed, her eyes squinted as she tipped her head.
"The one you, in fact, stole?"
He stiffened, then clenched his jaw. She took another sip from her glass, then threw her long dark hair over her shoulder.
"A pretty little blade. I had heard it sold for an immense amount of gold. What makes you believe you will find it here?"
"Its only purpose is profit. Perhaps the buyer wishes to double their wealth."
She smirked, "We both know that's a lie, Inquisitor."
She placed her glass down on a windowsill and slivered closer to him. She eyed him with a grin, her eyes darting across the features of his face. She pressed her hand against his chest and brought his back against the wall.
A sharp tip pressed against his abdomen. She diminished the space between them and concealed the dagger with her body. She craned her chin up to him.
"Don't move, handsome," she murmured. "You invade my home, for what purpose?"
A dark chuckle escaped him. He pushed himself from the wall, the tip of the dagger pierced through his jacket. He took a step forward, feeling the sharp point sink into his clothes, and clutched her petite wrist, inching the tip of the blade away from him.
Her face stoned, wriggling against his restraint.
His eyes were vacant as they stared into hers. He looked over her shoulder at the auction, the guests unfazed.
"I don't care about you," he said, his voice low. "Just the dagger."
"They said you would come," she replied. "I didn't believe it."
"Do you know where it is or not?"
She nodded. Her wrist went limp. He took the blade from her hand and released her from his grasp.
He flipped the blade and poked the tip into her dress, "Show me."
Her eyes flared as she reluctantly guided him out of the auction room and into a secluded hallway, vacant of guests and guards. He tucked the dagger into his beltloop and followed behind, catching the glances she shot over her shoulder.
They reached the end of the hallway. She turned towards a door and opened it. She gestured him to go first. He hesitated, then descended the rickety wooden staircase, reaching for the hilt of his blade on his back and releasing it from its scabbard.
Braziers lit the towering rows of casks. A crisp chill surrounded the cellar, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. He glanced behind him, watching the Dark Wolf reach the bottom of the staircase beside him.
He raised his blade to her, "I have no time for games."
An agonized yelp echoed against the stone walls. His blade lowered, his attention stolen by the piercing cry.
He tensed up, raising his blade to her again. His face twisted, "What is the meaning of this?"
"Get out of here!" Damon's voice warned, then fell muffled.
Brady passed the rows of casks in a haste to the bleeding candlelight that illuminated from the center of the cellar, coloring the surrounding stone walls with a fiery bright orange.
The casks in the center of the cellar were spread apart farther than any other row. With his blade in front of him, he entered the blazing candlelight, and froze.
Damon stared into Brady's eyes, his face bloodied, his mouth wrapped tight and gagged, his armor stained with droplets of blood. Blood dripped from his nose and fell onto the Warden's Silverite armor, rolling across the metal with a lazy stream.
He was bound tight with a thick rope wrapped across the entirety of his torso. He fought against his restraints with intensity, ignorant to his pain and the exhaustion his struggle brought.
Brady lunged towards Damon, but his arms were caught and held by two armored men. They forced him to his knees. Brady wrestled against them, and broke one arm free. He shot his right fist into the chin of his captor, and shot to his feet, bringing his shoulder into the captor's stomach.
His body stung from the impact of the heavy armor. The captor stumbled back, then brought the heel of his metal boot into the side of Brady's head.
A deafening ring fell upon Brady's ears and he fell limp. The two armored men secured Brady in their grip and kicked his blade to the side, resting it beneath a cask.
The Dark Wolf waltzed in front of Brady and knelt. She placed a finger underneath his chin and raised his face to her.
"Such a pretty face," she clicked her tongue. "A shame."
He curled his upper lip, then his eyes caught the surging pattern of electric red in the shadows of the cellar behind Damon.
"Come on, you coward," Brady slurred. "Come out."
The glowing red entity stepped into the candlelight.
Samson approached Brady, his face stoic. He stood over Brady and crossed his arms over his chest. The Dark Wolf shot upright and stood beside Samson.
"You've come here to kill me?"
Samson nodded. "You've been searching for us, for the dagger. We cannot allow that."
Samson reached into his pack and pulled out folded pieces of parchment. The Dark Wolf's eyes lit up as he handed them to her. She stepped aside and flicked through the pages. Her face soured. She waved the parchment in the air.
"Florianne promised more than this."
Samson's face twitched. "Be grateful, Marjolaine. Unless you wish for everyone to know where you've been hiding."
Brady darted his eyes to the Dark Wolf.
She scowled, then tucked the parchment into her dress. She glanced at the two armored men and informed them they were to listen to Samson while she returned to the auction. The Dark Wolf left the cellar with a final glare at Brady.
Samson let out a heavy sigh, "You couldn't just let it be, could you?"
Brady narrowed his eyes and remained silent. Samson studied him, then looked over his shoulder at Damon. Damon tracked Samson's every step as he approached him.
"Where there's one," Samson untied the gag around Damon's head. "There's another."
Damon coughed and gasped for air. Samson watched him closely. Damon rose his eyes to Samson and sneered.
"Where's your witch?"
"Fuck off."
Samson stretched his jaw and rubbed against his neck, "I'm sure she wants her dagger back, is that not why you are here?" He pulled a dagger from his belt and buried it into Damon's thigh.
Damon howled and gritted his teeth, never relieving his eyes from Samson. Samson twisted the blade deeper into Damon's thigh. Damon's neck shot up to the ceiling with a seething growl.
Samson levelled himself with Damon. Damon twisted his neck and sneered, his breath heavy as it escaped from his nostrils.
"I can feel it in you. You're succumbing to it. Do you hear the voices?" Samson narrowed his eyes. "Do they sing to you?"
Damon turned away from Samson.
Samson straightened his back and circled around Damon. He tipped his head and repeated, "Do they?"
Brady looked at his captors, both wincing at the scene before them. He eyed his blade across the room and glanced at Samson, distracted by his own interrogation.
With a quick show of strength, Brady forced himself to his feet and forced his head into the injured chin of his captor. The armored man released his grip on his arm. The other captor readied his fist. Brady fell to his knees and pulled the Dark Wolf's dagger from his beltloop and buried it into the captor's calf, debilitating him.
The remaining armored man drew his sword, but much too slow. Brady sliced into his throat with the dagger, showering him with the assailant's blood. He clutched at his throat, but lost his strength and fell limp on the floor.
Samson turned and pulled the dagger from Damon's thigh and held it to his throat. Brady paused, inching towards Ole' Bastard.
"Drop your weapon," Brady ordered, continuing towards Ole' Bastard and stomping on the fallen man's head, knocking him out. "We both know he's not the one you want."
Samson snarled with a smile and buried the dagger back into Damon's leg. Brady flinched as Damon roared in agony.
Samson drew his sword, the glow of the blade blood red with blighted lyrium, and brandished it in front of Brady.
Brady grabbed Ole' Bastard from the ground and swung around.
Samson grinned and slashed his blade against the brazier, extinguishing the fire and darkening half of the berth in the cellar. The illuminating red hue dissipated into the shadows.
Brady growled and stepped towards Damon. He slashed his restraints. Damon fell limp on the chair and pulled the dagger from his thigh.
"What are you waiting for? Go get him," Damon urged.
Brady nodded and entered the shadows. His eyes failed to adjust to the stout darkness consuming the far side of the cellar. He took slow, calculated steps, clutching the grip of his blade and holding it in front of him.
He pivoted into a narrow row of casks. He kept his back against the wooden frame, shuffling down the row.
He stopped and held his breath. A rustle scurried on the stone floor. His eyes shot behind him, straining to see in the darkness. He took a short step forward. The faint sound of clinking boots echoed against the walls. He froze, slowly proceeding down the row.
The shuffling of armor approached his back. He turned, and felt the thick metal of a gauntlet graze his ear. He stepped back, and saw the electric red of Samson's skin, prominent in the dark and reflecting off the wooden casks, approach.
Brady caught his balance and swung his elongated blade, striking quick on Samson's wrist. A growl emerged deep from Samson's throat. Samson rose his blade and struck down on Brady's blade.
Brady kept him at a distance and held the grip of his hilt tight, deflecting Samson's desperate attempts to disarm him.
Samson charged at Brady and struck him in the stomach with his pommel. Brady doubled over and slashed at Samson's knees. Samson threw his elbow into Brady's chin and smacked the blade from Brady's hand.
It crashed onto the floor and danced against the stone.
Brady tackled Samson to the ground and mounted him, forcing heavy fisted punches against Samson's face. Samson raised his blade and defended himself with the wide metal. It sliced through Brady's glove and cut deep into his knuckles.
Samson pushed up and struck Brady in the chest with the flat of his blade. Brady struggled to catch his breath and held the blade at bay with his metallic hand. He pressed his weight onto the blade, slowly lowering it to Samson's throat.
Samson retracted his strength on the blade and shot his fist into Brady's side, cutting into his arm with his own blade.
Brady winced and coiled to his side. Samson threw his blade and kicked Brady away from him. Samson staggered to his feet and stumbled towards his blade.
Brady shot up and pushed Samson into the wooden frame containing the casks. He grabbed a hold of his collar and thrust his head into a cask. The wood snapped against the impact and flooded the floor with dark wine. Brady flicked his elbow into Samson's face and grabbed a hold of his hair, immersing his head into the cask and holding him under.
Samson thrashed and gargled, his arms swirled and grasped for Brady. Brady forced him deeper into the cask, fighting against his desperate attempts to emerge.
Samson's arms slowed and fell to his sides. Brady pulled him out of the cask and brought his face close to his.
Samson's eyes were wide, the infected red irisis stared at Brady.
"Where is the dagger?"
Samson chuckled and coughed.
Brady sneered and submerged his head back into the cask. Wine thrashed against the wood of the cask and spilled onto the floor. It bubbled violently, then ceased. Brady pulled Samson out of the cask again.
"Where is it?"
Samson smiled wide, but did not utter a word.
Brady grasped on the rim of Samon's collar and shook, his head bobbed in his armor, weak and despondant.
"Haven't you had enough?"
He let out a creaky laugh. His eyes rolled back, then fixed onto Brady.
"Kill me, Brady," he coughed and chuckled. "You know you want to, just do it."
Brady glared down at him. his knuckles, wrapped around Samson's armored collar, turned white. He huffed, and tossed him onto the floor. Samson curled and rolled onto his side, coughing and spitting onto the floor. He collapsed onto his back, his thin hair dipped into the pool of wine. He let out a exasperated sigh.
Brady craned his neck to the ceiling and heaved labored breaths that stung his sore chest.
"Spineless little shit," Samson croaked.
Brady clenched his jaw tight. He tore his eyes away from Samson and undid the thick leather belt across his torso and tied it tight around Samson's hands, then pulled his waistbelt from his pantloops and bound Samson's legs together.
Samson laid his head against the floor and laughed.
He glared at Samson, his brows pushed together and his nose wrinkled, his lips pressed into a thin line. His skin burned hot against his face. He paced in front of Samson, wiping the blood from his face with his sleeve.
Samson wriggled in his restraints. He stopped and sucked in a breath of air and exhaled with a laugh.
Brady rested his back against a cask, "What's so funny?"
Samson roared with laughter, then waned with a long breath. He sniffed and raised his head from the ground.
"I almost felt bad, you know," Samson's face fell, and he looked at Brady with a heavy stare. "Killing her."
Brady straightened and shot up from the cask. "What?"
"She was beautiful. That lovely hair. Those blue eyes. A true treasure."
Brady rushed toward Samson and stood over him, "What are you talking about?"
Samson stared into Brady's eyes with a dark grin gripping his lips. He winced and turned away, "She was searching for you. She really loved you. She did. But, orders are orders. We can't have loose ends, you understand."
Brady knelt down and forced Samson upright, then threw him against the wooden frame. It quaked against Samson's weight stuck against the wood.
Brady felt his heart beat out against his chest. His stomach churned and soured his cheeks. "Who?" His voice broke, and wavered helplessly. "Maker, what did you do?"
Samson's eyes fluttered closed.
Brady gripped Samson's shoulders and scowled, his chest wound up tight enough to evacuate the air from his lungs.
"You didn't even notice, did you?" Samson's eyes opened into narrow slits. "Wrapped up in your booze, your vanity… the good boy who saves the world. You're no better than us," the corner of his mouth curled up. "Can you live with knowing it was all your fault?"
"What did you do, Samson?" Brady said, his voice agonized and sharp.
"Your sister… Grace, is it? Yes, Grace. She saw us take you. Brave little thing followed us to the docks." Samson raised his eyes and nodded. "Put up a fight, too."
Brady's eyes welled and reddened, he sniffed and looked away from Samson, then returned his eyes to him, an explosive fury surfaced on his face.
"You're lying."
"I meant for it to be quick, but," Samson tipped his head. "I'm sure you know how resiliant the girl is."
Brady's body trembled. The sickening churn of Brady's stomach crept up and ignited his throat with a sensational stinging. His head fell, and he whimpered. His grip tightened around Samson's shoulders.
Samson dipped his head with a slick smirk, "Do you want to know what her last words were?"
Brady clamped his hands underneath Samson's shoulder plates and threw him away from the wooden frame. Brady shot up and gripped onto the hairs of his scalp and bellowed an agonizing cry. Samson laid on his back, against the hard floor.
"She thought you would save her," Samson snickered. "She screamed your name."
Brady sniffed and stilled, and looked at Samson with a blaze bubbling behind his eyes. He mounted Samson, his fists hammered down and crunched into Samson's face. Warm blood splattered onto Brady's knuckles and face. He fell into a frenzy. Samson gargled and choked beneath him, his breath shallowed with each blow.
Brady went numb. He sputtered and bellowed, his vision blurred by his swollen eyes. Each strike plunged with enough force to punch right through Samson and scratch the flooded floor.
His strikes slowed, and he collapsed against Samson's chest. He wept, cursing the Maker aloud. He stared up at the ceiling and gasped for air, but it did nothing to combat the strangulation that rung around his throat.
The rush of armored boots approached behind him. He felt a pull on his shoulders, but didn't budge, and fought against the restraint on his shoulders. More forces wrapped around him and hugged his chest, then drug him away from Samson.
The King's agents surrounded Samson and called for a healer. He saw Samson's bludgeoned face, his body still. Healers hurried to Samson and cast spells to keep him breathing.
Brady looked down at his hands. They were caked in blood, his clothes soaked and stained purple with wine.
Agents latched onto his arms and helped him up, urging him to be treated by a healer. He shook them off and skulked away from the scene. He dodged the agents carrying braziers and slumped down against the stone wall.
Brady rested the back of his head against the wall and closed his eyes. His head fell and he rested his head in his hands, the blood that stained them was cold against the heat of his face.
The stairs collected and emulated a pattern of patters, quick down the steps. Agents stormed into the wine cellar and assessed the scene. Some found Damon and were quick to work on dressing his wounds.
Leliana turned the corner of the staircase and proceeded through the wine cellar with caution. She found Brady seated on the floor and rocking back and forth. He bumbled with his head against his knees, his fingers atop of his head, tugging at his short locks.
She glanced at the frantic agent's surrounding Samson's body. They barked orders of the healers, and the healers emulated more magic, a green glow encapsulating around them.
"Brady?" She said.
He was unfazed by the sound of her voice. He sniffed and gasped. The bulky knot in his throat silenced any attempt he made to speak.
She sat down beside him and repeated, "Brady?"
She rested a hand on his knee.
"He killed her," he sobbed. "Maker, he killed her."
Leliana knit her brows together and glanced back at Samson, "Who?"
He shot his back against the wall and looked at the ceiling.
Leliana shuddered at the sight of his face. He turned to her, his eyes were bloodshot and invaded the coolness of his blue eyes, making them prominent and unsettling.
There was no expression on his face. He appeared as a bloodied slab of stone beside her. He fell limp and slouched his forehead onto her shoulder. She wrapped him tight in her arms, and fought the curiousness that overtook her mind. The tears that escaped his eyelids soaked her shoulder.
He bore all his weight onto her, and she accepted it without a fret. His agonizing breaths stung against her chest. Her body overcame with his infecting emotion.
She shut her eyes and clutched him closer.