-oo-
Chapter 14 – Distraction
Thud.
Shuffle, shuffle.
Thud.
Shuffle, snuffle…snerk…grunt.
THUD.
Grasping the handle of her double-headed axe, Calea swung…the whisper-thin edge of the blade stopping short of the few hairs poking out from Oghren's right beard braid. The red-haired ex-warrior was unperturbed by how close he'd come to a quick separation from his head, or at the very least…a beard trim. He chuckled, showing perfectly white, straight teeth under his bushy moustache. Like a bronto.
"Eh, heh, heh…So, uh…You and the human warrior eh?"
Calea's eyes narrowed. "'Eh' what?"
"You know what I mean…"
Calea sighed. Yes. She knew exactly what he meant. Crossing her ankles she upended her axe and began bouncing the handle on the mossy ground – thud - catching it midair then bouncing it again. Thud.
"Nah…" she told him with a slight hitch to her shoulder. "Not really."
"Can't reach eh?" Oghren's chuckle deepened. "Do ya want me to fetch yer a ladder?"
Sigh. "Height's not an issue Exile." Calea shot a sideways look at the dwarf, to see what kind of effect calling the red-haired warrior 'Exile' would have. Apparently, none at all if the wide grin was any indication.
"Ah," Oghren cast her a wink. "It's the other thing. Always comes down to that. Humans and Dwarves…don't measure up to us, do they?"
Calea pondered the warrior's words carefully; or at the least, pretended to. "Don't know," she said finally. "Haven't had a chance to get out my measuring tape. Think I left it in the Deep Roads that one time I got exiled. Silly me."
"Yeah," Oghren nodded sagely. "You and me. We exiles gotta stick together."
Calea raised her other eyebrow; the unimpressed one. "And this has to do with what we were talking about…how?"
"Eh?" Oghren squinted. "Why? What were you talking about?"
"Not fornicating with Alistair."
"Were you?" Oghren's moustache turned downwards, indicating a frown of some kind. "I think I might have missed that bit. Wanna run that by me again?" he asked. "With diagrams?"
"How about we don't?" Calea suggested, detecting out of the corner of her eye, movement in the undergrowth nearby. Alistair had volunteered to scout ahead; and Leliana had elected to accompany him, much to the Warden's discomfort. Watching a man of Alistair's size attempting to scurry through prickly thicket in heavy armour while being pursued by a red-haired, two-legged terrier had been highly amusing. Calea vowed to do it again some time. Ancestors know I could do with a laugh or two…
Unfortunately it meant being left behind with the others…
"Yeah well, seems to me it might do the little pike twirler some good…"
"'Pike twirler'?"
"…ironing out his…eh, heh…creases…"
"Pi…" Calea found herself peering through the greenery. Purely involuntarily. Because she wasn't thinking of Alistair's…creases…or…What did Oghren just say? Pike?
Ancestor's milk buds…I think I'm just…"Wait," she held up a hand. "When you say 'pike' are you referring to the fish or the rather impressively long spiked weapon?" For purely contextual reasons of course.
"Fish?" Oghren's eyebrows beetled across his forehead in thought. "Why would he be practising with a fish?"
"He needs to practice?" Calea blurted before her commonsense could stop her. And then she had to deal with the vision her mind conjured for her perturbation. Stone cursed…! What am I, twelve? And by the way, why am I even speaking to this peon?
"Said he needed to extend his repper-twah…whatever that is," Oghren informed her with a sniff, which provoked a completely new set of colourful visions in Calea's head. "So are the two of you waxing each other's backs or not?" he demanded.
"I think his back might be hairless," Calea murmured, distracted. "Quite frankly, I don't think he has the time and…Why am I even having this conversation with you?"
"Bored?"
"Yeah. That'll be it."
The underbrush rustled again. Calea rose to her feet, but it was only a Blight rabbit. The beastie headed straight to Oghren's boots to gnaw at them rather aggressively, before the dwarf reached down, grabbed the thing and tossed it back into the shrubbery. Calea merely raised an eyebrow at him, surprised that Oghren hadn't put the poor tainted thing out of its misery. It was certainly what she would have done.
"So. Are you?" he asked unexpectedly…though not unexpectedly persistent.
"Why this sudden interest in my sex life, Exile?" Calea frowned. "Don't you have things to kill or decapitate? Do I have to find Darkspawn for you again? Don't make me, because I will…"
"Eh…" Oghren thumbed at his nose in the direction the other Warden and priestess had gone. "Have a bet on…"
Calea pinched the bridge of her nose. "If you're going to tell me you're going to lose your shirt Oghren…"
"I have a spare…"
"I don't want you frightening little children wherever we go, Exile," Calea's frown deepened. "But for the record, no. Not greasing, un-creasing or waxing Alistair's anything. He's just too…" Young…Calea's brain supplied for her when her store of words failed her. He's too young. How old was the kid anyway? Nineteen? Twenty? That made at least a five year gap between them. And five years was a lot…That's half a decade…Even Bhelen was older but then, Calea mused, her younger brother Bhelen had been spawned old.
The demon child…
When the greenery rustled again, both dwarves jumped.
"Right. "Alistair emerged – at last! - gloved hands pressed together busily. He paused at Calea's disgruntled expression, sliding a cautious look at Oghren and not liking the conclusion his logic forced him to link with the dwarf's smirk. "We uh…"
He was saved from continuing by the appearance of Leliana, looking out of breath and pink-cheeked. "Did you not hear me when I said 'slow down', Alistair?"
"Um…" Alistair tossed a look over his shoulder. "There was a bear. It was chasing me," he explained, rather unconvincingly.
"I saw no bear!" Leliana shook her head. There were twigs and leaves in her braids; evidence of her flight through the forest trying to keep up with the Grey Warden. Calea couldn't help the hint of a smile. Between his long legs and the Grey Warden stamina, there were few that could keep up with Alistair - except perhaps Calew – especially when he was determined to outrun his pursuer.
Ignoring Leliana's berating voice, Calea hung her axe on her belt and stood again. "So are we good to go?" she asked, thinking that the sooner their party got this little quest for the Dalish over and done with, the better. She hated Darkspawn. Hated them. Hated fighting them, hated their smell, their eerie cacophonous grunting. She hated how they got under skin, like some kind of crawling, flesh-devouring disease…Hated how despite how much she hated them, how badly she needed to be near them and hating how she had to admit that…She'd rather go somewhere warm and sunny where the worst thing she had to worry about was a bit of sunburn, but the dreams were getting worse. The presence of the Archdemon in her head was becoming more frequent.
She was looking forward to hacking that thing to bits and then setting the whole lot on fire with acid, but…one might mistakenly think - from the delays they kept encountering; at needing to run everyone's errand and quest in this country - that there wasn't an entire horde of Darkspawn ravaging across the land…eating, biting, breaking and blighting everything in sight.
From the look on Alistair's face, Calea mused unhappily, their little trip into the forest to investigate Darkspawn on behalf of the Dalish was about to turn into another delay.
"I, uh…I think you had better see this…" Alistair told her grimly.
Yup. Delay…
Managing to leave Leliana behind this time, Alistair led the two dwarves back the way he had come. The ground grew rockier, the greenery more sparse. Somewhere beyond the trees there was a stream. Calea could hear the muted hiss of running water growing fainter with every step. She'd begun to think that the lack of vegetation might be due to some kind of disease when the smell hit her. So familiar. Too familiar.
Darkspawn.
"Here…" Alistair ducked through a tangled, thorny wall; branches snapped and crushed by something or somethings passing through. Possibly just Alistair and Leliana or…the usual.
There was an opening to a cave and the remains of some kind of ancient structure. On closer inspection, it appeared the entry to the cave might have once been hung with doors, now crumbled to gravel. And just a little beyond, lying in a twisted heap was a body. Calea thought at first that it might be a human child, until Alistair bent over the poor thing and she realised that the corpse must be one of the hunters the Dalish were looking for.
"She's tainted, Oghren…careful," Alistair warned hastily, holding up a hand when the red-haired dwarf approached.
Calea knelt opposite Alistair. "Ancestor's nug lumps…" she cursed under her breath. How many times do I have to look at dead children…? "The Darkspawn didn't take her…" She looked up at Alistair. "Did you…?"
"No, I found her like this, believe it or not," Alistair told her. "Found a couple of genlocks further in, but that was all…Along with some kind of mirror."
Calea looked up sharply. "Mirror? You stopped in the middle of a Darkspawn fight to check your hair or something? I knew you had a slight obsession with that nug bum you call a style, but I didn't think you were that vain."
"I'd laugh, except that I don't think it would be appropriate, given the circumstances…" Alistair told her sternly.
Calea sighed. Fine. "So what about this mirror?" she asked tiredly.
"It was tainted. Well, from what I could gather of its remains it was tainted. It's just a frame and a bit of shiny glass now." Alistair echoed Calea's sigh. "Just a guess, but I think those two clan members the Keeper's been looking for might have gotten into contact with it. Maker knows how long the Darkspawn have been here, but this one…" He indicated the young woman between them. "Didn't stand a chance. As for the other, who knows? The odds of him or her escaping without being just as tainted are a bit slim I would say."
Calea nodded. She knew they should take the girl back to the Dalish, but could they risk contaminating the other elves with Darkspawn taint? On the other hand, if they returned with no proof they'd found at least one of the hunters, the Keeper might not be as keen to honour that treaty…
Ah sod it!
"We'll take her back to the Dalish," Calea suggested grimly. "If we keep her outside the camp and bring the Keeper to her. Or…I don't know…" Her hands knotted into tight fists at her side, having a sudden urge to punch something very, very hard.
Alistair shot her a sharp, concerned look. "You alright?" he asked softly.
"No," Calea snapped. "I'm not alright. Take a look at her and tell me whether I'm supposed to be alright over something like this. This is…this is…" A sodding waste…All of it…"Ah, let's just get this over with."
She rose to her feet quickly, leaving Alistair to gather the young hunter in his arms. She noted vaguely how gently he did so, making sure the elf's arms were crossed securely across her chest and that nothing was left behind. Calea wasn't surprised. It was Alistair all over…needing to stifle the sigh that inevitably arose when she thought about Arl Teagan's…proposition.
Right now, it wasn't important. What was important was ending all of…this.
"Pretty thing ain't she?" Oghren murmured at her side as Alistair led them from the cave. "For a tree hugger, that is."
Calea scowled at Alistair's backside, because that was the closest target. Tree hugger, stone dweller, surfacer, human…what did it matter? The Darkspawn certainly didn't care…
"Yeah…" Alistair turned briefly at the cave exit. "I wonder where this silver hair comes from?" he asked. "None of the Dalish at the camp had this colour."
"Does it matter?" Calea growled. "I'm done with the Dalish. Let's just go."
"Without the treaty?" Alistair asked quietly, that look of concern back again. As he showed no immediate attempt to continue moving, Calea brushed past him, intending to take over leading them out of this place.
"With of course!" she snapped at the both of them.
After she'd gone a few paces, Alistair turned to Oghren. "Alright," he said. "Who put grumpy juice on her morning porridge again?"
"Weren't me," Oghren stumped alongside the tall Warden. "Personally, I think she's just mad she ain't getting near yer pike…"
-oo
The Grey Wardens were mustering. Gathering their allies – courtesy of those ancient treaties – and preparing to meet the horde. In silent agreement, both Aerydd and Alistair stayed clear of the new Wardens. It was easy enough; the newcomers preferred to keep to their own 'kind'. Aerydd thought she heard some Antivan amongst the Orlesian in the snatches of conversation whenever she happened to pass by their exclusive little enclave, but did not feel tempted to show off her mastery of either language. Considering her older brother's current predicament, she did not feel inclined to have anything to do with any thing that was not Fereldan.
Not that she believed Fergus was guilty. Far from it.
She simply wanted to show how Fereldan a Cousland was. Is. At this very moment. And had been, always.
Every so often the idea that Fergus was alive somewhere, even if it was languishing in a filthy, decrepit cell in the bowels of Fort Drakon would spark in her head; the ensuing torrent of emotion making her feel dizzy with apprehension, fear…anger. She needed to see him. Needed to see for herself that he was still alive and whole and…I need to get to him. Somehow. But Duncan had already quashed that idea; squashed it flat, rolled it out parchment thin and then stomped over it with muddy boots. While he hadn't chosen to avoid her and her persistent requests for a leave of absence to travel to Denerim, he did make it quite clear – suddenly – that the Archdemon and the horde were their priority now, not some former noblewoman's quest to save her brother.
After the past few months of doing nothing else but non-Grey Warden tasks, this was a bitter potion to swallow. After all, it was perfectly fine to solve the little problem at the Mage's Tower with their Blood Mage uprising and demon infestation. Not an inconvenience at all to rid the Arl of Redcliffe of their plague of undead. And it was quite alright to spend weeks underground trying to locate a runaway Paragon, then play fetch with a band of marauding werewolves in the Brecilian forest…Going to the aid of an important and powerful Teyrn – second only to the King himself – no…why in the Fade would they do that?
Apart from the substantial number of troops and logistics a man as powerful and resourceful as Fergus might be able to offer?
"Oh I could kick Cailan right now…!"
"Are you still on that?"
Aerydd shot Alistair a look blacker than a Deep Roads tar pit. Now that the Grey Wardens were back to thinking – and doing something – about the Blight, her fellow junior Grey Warden was happy. Happier than she'd seen him in a long time and it was truly irritating.
"I could kick you instead," she suggested.
Alistair gave her a look of reproach. "You know you're already in enough trouble for threatening Duncan with your mabari. You don't think exercising a little restraint might be in order?"
"Fine." Aerydd turned her back on him. "Go back to being Duncan's little pet."
There was a choking sound behind her. Aerydd could not tell whether it was Alistair making the noise or her mabari Ashe. She didn't care, heading in the general direction of the two dwarven merchants that insisted on trailing the Grey Warden party wherever they went. Ashe had formed a fondness for the younger of the two dwarves and it seemed natural to head towards them.
"Look," Alistair's voice followed her and she quickened her pace. "I know you're worried about your brother…"
"You have no idea what my thoughts are regarding my brother, Alistair," she threw over her shoulder. "As I haven't chosen to share them with you!"
"I didn't say I knew exactly what you're thinking," he countered. "I just said…For the love of the Maker woman, will you please slow down!"
Alistair made a grab for her arm. Aerydd kept walking, or at least attempted to walk while being restrained by an individual half a head taller and well over a third more of her weight. And that was without the heavy plate he wore these days. It…annoyed her that bit by bit her fellow Grey Warden was coming to resemble his half brother more. Alistair was taller and browner and more gaunt; the result of the Taint and travelling lean but she still didn't need to be reminded of King Cailan every day…and how he had reneged on his promises to her.
"Duncan's concentrating on the Blight!" Alistair growled. "As it should be! If we don't stop the Archdemon, no one is safe! Not even your brother!"
At her other side, Ashe ducked under her hand, nosing her fingers with a gritty muzzle. Aerydd paused mid-struggle at his concerned whine, transferring her hand to the top of his head and knotty, scarred ears.
"I know that," Aerydd hissed angrily. "Do you think I don't know that?" She gave one final tug to her arm, finding it released easily. "My brother is loyal. He has troops. Highever is not without its resources. Resources the Grey Wardens can use to fight the Blight…And this has Rendon Howe all over it. I know it. Cailan knows it…" She gave a restless shake to her head. "And what has he done? After the promises he made to me; to our House? Nothing. Loyalty…" her voice turned bitter, "…returned with neglect.
"And…after the endless to-ing and fro-ing running errands for every man and his mabari in this country, Duncan decides now he can't do one more?"
"Because of course every Grey Warden knows," Alistair said sourly, "how the Archdemon hasn't been plaguing our dreams lately."
"We saw the Archdemon in the Deep Roads…" Aerydd shot back. "We didn't exactly throw ourselves at it there and then…and don't even think about telling me how that was different!" she added in warning; the sound of Alistair's jaw snapping shut proving how predictable her fellow Warden was. The two of them remained few moments more, exchanging glares of varying intensity before Ashe gave a single, commanding bark to cease their standoff.
Folding his arms across his chest, Alistair took a half-step backwards. "So," he began. "What do you intend to do? Desert?"
Ramming her fists onto her hips, Aerydd leaned her face in close to his. "Desertion's an ugly word, Warden."
"So is pox," Alistair countered easily. "And boil, while we're at it. Also poop, scum and cheese-crisis."
Aerydd's eyes narrowed further into two thin lines on either side of her nose. "Cheese. And. Crisis are two words," she gritted.
"Not when you're me," Alistair told her infuriatingly calm. "And…do you feel better?"
"I haven't killed someone yet," she growled. "Ask me after I've disembowled Rendon Howe with the blunt end of a pitchfork and then we'll see whether I feel any better."
Alistair appeared to ponder her words carefully, mulling over each one in his head for feel and meaning. "You know," he continued rather ponderously, the 'oh' of 'know' dragging far too long to sit comfortably on Aerydd's nerves. "I always thought you noble folk would just simply hire someone to do all of that…you know…eliminating each other…"
Aerydd's eyes sprang open. Her lips curled in disgust. "You speak of hiring an assassin?" she asked. "I'm a Cousland. The hiring of such persons would be crass, craven and cowardly in our view."
"Oh…simply 'not done'?" Alistair enquired mildly. "Nice alliteration by the way."
"Shutup Theirin."
"Ooh, that was a low blow."
Aerydd shoved her face so close to his this time, she could count his eyelashes; ridiculously long, girlish eyelashes that were completely wasted on a man. The number of noblewomen who would give their entire jewellery collections for those…"Hmph," she snorted. "Believe me Theirin, if I were to administer a low blow you would feel it."
"And no doubt not be able to walk for several days."
"Weeks."
"Oh, you think you're so good."
"Feel like testing that out?"
"Listen," Alistair leant backwards, attempting to put some kind of decent space between them. Aerydd might be his fellow Warden. She might be his Sister in Arms. They'd fought and bled together…but she was still a girl and there were rules about that sort of thing; about men and women and proper conduct and behaviour between the two. Not that Aerydd was some rare and gentle flower to be protected and cultivated with utmost care. Give the girl a sharp sword, point her towards something to kill, don't say the 'H'-word around her and she was…well she wasn't happy, but when was she ever happy? Apart from the times she was mucking about with the four-legged drool dispenser she called a 'mabari', that was.
Most of the time, she was either bored, irritable, angry or angsty.
How did a person live like that, honestly?
Well…to be fair, the little voice at the back of Alistair's head reminded him in a most timely way…he hadn't had his entire family slaughtered by a trusted friend of the family's, conscripted at his dying father's side, made to abandon his mother to the Maker knew what fate and then after being made to believe his brother dead to find said brother arrested on made up charges of treason and facing execution…On second thoughts…
"I could hire the assassin for you," he suggested. "Seeing as I'm not – conveniently - a crass, craven, cowardly Cousland."
"I think you had better re-word that particular statement…"
Warned by the dangerous flash in her eye, Alistair forced his treacherously sluggish brain to think faster.
"I wasn't suggesting…" he sputtered as quickly as he could. "Surely you don't think I mean…Because I happen to be a crass, craven, cowardly Theirin!" he announced.
"Better."
Alistair wiped the back of his hand across his forehead. Not surprisingly it came away slightly damp.
"So…" he began tentatively once more. "What do you intend to do? You can't leave the Grey Wardens…You won't leave the Grey Wardens," he added, with his usual, odd and an unexpected flash of insight. "You have too much honour for that. Your oath to the Order of the Grey is unbreakable."
Aerydd appeared to deflate. Her shoulders slumped and her head bowed, making her look – not defeated, never defeated but – smaller, more concentrated, as though drawing every jot of hate and bitterness and feeling of betrayal within herself to store away for another day.
"I don't know," she said quietly. When she raised her head, her eyes were unfocussed, her mind clearly occupied with deeper, darker thoughts.
"Continue hoping the Archdemon develops a taste for blond men in aurum heavy plate…?"
-oo-
Alistair scuffed his foot idly at the remains of someone else's meal. Maker knew how long ago it had been left and by whom…the grim traces of mould indicating even rot had abandoned it as a lost cause. Simply for nostalgia's sake he rose, taking yet another turn about the filthy cell, still careful where he placed his bare feet. His too-short journey brought him once more to the pale heap curled in the corner, trying not to think how pathetically small his fellow Warden appeared without her usual accoutrements of sharpened implements, poison bottles and pouches of mysterious ingredients best left unquestioned.
They'd even taken away her collection of odd 'jewellery'; the carved ironwood mouse and her beloved fish hook and the various rings and metal ropes that normally adorned her head and arms. The rodent skulls they'd smashed with glee; taking too much enjoyment out of hurling the broken remains at her.
All she'd been left with were her tattoos; her beautiful and thoughtful mementos of where she had been and whom she had met defaced with deep purple bruises. And yet, for everything their jailors had taken away from her…some ripped by force from her body, nothing seemed to have crushed her spirit more than what she had seen at the Alienage.
And he didn't know what to do about that.
Alistair had tried to comfort her, after the two of them had been stripped of their armour and possessions and thrown into this cell to ponder their loyalty to the Regent and Ferelden. She had flinched, whimpering as though he had struck her, even though she hadn't uttered a single sound when the guards had battered her with her own weapons.
Her light had been dimmed long before they had attempted to rescue the Queen from the Arl of Denerim's residence at the Alienage, when Talion realised…discovered that her father was no longer there…taken away to Maker knew where by slavers. Alistair had expected her to be angry or upset, unleashing a whirlwind of destruction on the Tevinter mercenaries and slavers. Not turn silent and…lost.
All Alistair seemed to be able to do was to sit as close as she would allow; he'd already passed on the musty, tattered prison smock from his own back in an attempt to keep her warm at least. What else could he do?
"Talion…"
The sound of doors booming in the distance reached him. Alistair peered into the greasy gloom, unable to see any further than a few metres away. More prisoners for Loghain's torture racks…he thought, before returning to the slender elf beside him.
"Listen," he began tentatively, choosing his words as carefully as he could. "I know that…"
"I would hate to disturb this very romantic interlude, my dear Wardens, but alas…freedom must sing its siren song…"
"Zevran!" Alistair leapt to his feet, practically throwing himself at the bars. "Am I glad to see…wait…This isn't…" His eyes slid to the assassin's companion, at this point in time pulling back the hood of her Chantry robes to reveal a head of deep red and concerned blue eyes. The smear of blood across one of Leliana's cheeks told Alistair all he needed to know. "Maker," he began. "How many of Loghain's soldiers are going to be pursuing us after this?"
"None, of course," Leliana informed him, nimble fingers working at the heavy padlock on their cell door. "We have been very thorough."
"Just as your jailers have been to you, Warden," Zevran added, throwing Alistair a long, critical look. "It appears they have been particularly attentive to your face, more's the pity…"
Alistair's hand rose automatically to the right side of his face. "Well, this is…Never mind…" Proof that I've failed to protect my fellow Warden…he'd been about to say. The first and only time he'd attempted to halt the abuses the Fort's guards had begun to inflict on Talion, they'd struck him hard with something large and metallic. The last memory he'd had was of a sickening, crunching sound. When he'd awoken, he'd been unable to feel that side of his face and Talion…He didn't want to think about that.
The cell door swung open and both Zevran and Leliana rushed inside. Zevran hadn't arrived empty handed, Alistair saw; armed with armful of leather and metal that he passed to Leliana. A spare set of Chantry robes was handed to Alistair which the Grey Warden donned quickly and silently, his good eye kept trained as much as possible on Talion. She was resisting Leliana's attempts to dress her, wrapping her arms around her head while the Bard continued – unsuccessfully – to return some of her clothing to her.
After a few moments more struggling and failing, Leliana threw a pleading look towards the two men. In quick strides, Alistair was kneeling before the elf, shaking her shoulder gently.
"Talion…" he began earnestly. "I swear on my life as a Grey Warden…we will find your father…"
"No. I will stay here."
"And would your father be happy knowing you allowed the fates to defeat you, little Warden?"
Talion's head snapped up at Zevran's voice; as did Alistair's. The Grey Warden frowned, but Zevran continued to berate the young elf.
"Would he be happy to see you defeated thus?" he added. "To have willingly given your life to the Grey Wardens only to see it squandered in a prison cell instead of fighting the Darkspawn as expected of your duty? Tsk, tsk…He would be most disappointed, no?"
Alistair rose. He began to advance on the assassin angrily, only to find Leliana's hand on his arm, stopping him. She gave a small shake of her head, tossing a pointed look at Talion. The young elf was unfolding like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon; slow and painstakingly deliberate. Her head bowed.
"I'm sorry Ser Zevran," she apologised in a voice heartbreakingly small and childlike. "I will try better."
Zevran gave a short nod. "I should hope so, my Warden," he told her. "Now, be a good girl and get dressed."
"Yes Ser."
To Alistair's chagrin, Talion began pulling on her leathers and straps - pieces their rescuers found that looked like it might belong to the elven Warden - though somewhat mechanically. When he chanced to look back at the assassin he was shocked to find such rage in the man's face that Alistair almost flinched. Knowing the Grey Warden was observing him, Zevran turned his gaze on him, a clear challenge in his golden eyes.
"It is best we do not linger here," Leliana murmured behind them, throwing the prison clothing around Talion's shoulders like a shawl.
"Yes," Zevran drawled, not breaking eye-contact with Alistair. "Just in case your lovely Queen decides to alert her father and his most tenacious Commander…again."
-oo-