XX: The Serpent Within

The darkness that pervaded Hightown clung all around, like a rot that seeped into Varric's very bones as he forged the way forward.

Keep calm, sodding duster, the dwarf thought to himself as he angled Bianca's sights around a blind corner. Empty alley. Just like the last six.

There were many things Varric found himself hating throughout his life. Bartrand's bullheadedness. Noble banquets. The flowered excuse that Lord Shitshoes of House Carrac called Rosé.

But right now? His gloves moist with sweat, his trigger finger itching – and the shadowed streets the only sight ahead of him? Right now, he hated leading.

Who'd of thought, the only one who knows Hightown is the only noble? Disgraced noble anyway. Typical. Lucky for this elf I grew up here. If I wasn't raised in Hightown, I'd have never set foot in it. Too clean. Too tidy. Too… Varric nearly tripped as he stubbed his toe on an upraised flagstone. Too sodding dark, he nearly grumbled aloud as his foot smarted. People actually sleep at night, here.

He felt rather than heard Hawke slide up beside him. She wasn't the sneakiest person he'd ever known, but she could be pretty quiet when she wanted to. "Oi," she whispered. "How much farther then?"

Varric stopped, glanced about. Just about all he could see was swallowed in the shadows about, and what little darkened stone he could make out in the barest moonlight meant absolutely nothing to him. For one brief moment he considered telling the truth – Varric, I-Know-Kirkwall-Like-The-Back-Of-My-Hand Tethras, had gotten distracted. Then lost.

As he turned to whisper just that to Hawke his gaze slid over the alley he'd just checked, the alley he'd just hobbled away from after hitting his foot.

A break in the clouds just then brought a sliver of moonlight, the hint of illumination he needed to make out the carved snake etched into a side stone just above his eye level.

He grinned for what felt the first time that night. With a flourish he gestured an open hand towards the relief, balancing Bianca on his shoulder. "Your destination, my lady," he declared with faux obsequiousness, voice just above a whisper.

"Pish," Hawke groused, the smirk obvious in her tone. "But alls well and all, right? 'Show right sight, get carried right,' as my 'da used to say."

"Old pappy Hawke used to say a lot, didn't he?"

"Not a phrase he couldn't coin, that man."

"I would advise quiet," the elf, Fenris, said softly from Varric's right. Varric nearly leapt out of his boots, had to control his immediate impulse to round Bianca at the unexpected voice. Now he knows how to move unnoticed, Varric thought ruefully. He closed his eyes and inhaled for a moment to steady his racing heart.

Fenris, apparently oblivious to Varric's near heart attack continued his almost whisper. "My master is a dangerous man. We shall need every advantage we can muster if we are to defeat his magic, and surprise is the greatest advantage we can hope for."

"What, he a bloody magister too?" Carver groaned from behind, though he seemed to make an active effort to keep his voice down.

"As we just so happily learned, brother mine," Hawke commented snidely. "Not all tevinters are magisters. Some are… Altus." Varric could barely make out her face in the moonlight, but he could practically feel the self-satisfaction she beamed at Fenris.

"Actually," Fenris corrected, his tone clipped. "My master is a Magister. Danarius, if the cursed name means anything to you."

"Altus or Magister," Hawke replied, her own tone steadying. "He's a slave owning tosser. We don't take too kindly to that sort of thing in Ferelden."

Carver muttered grumpily in what almost sounded like agreement.

"Believe it or not," Varric added. "Not so popular around here either. They call it the Free Marches for a reason. Tevinter can sod off, and everything they do can sod right off too."

Fenris remained stoic, but he inclined his head. "I… Anso chose well indeed. In any case, we must approach this Serpicar with caution. My master will undoubtedly have placed wards." The elf glanced Carver's way and quickly continued. "As in, spells placed that detect or trigger – "

Carver spat in frustration. "We know what a bloody ward is," he complained.

"Indeed we do. He can almost spell it too." Hawke added, then sighed. "Just fantastic. How we 'mustering' that old surprise you wanted through wards? Not something… us ordinary folk have much way of avoiding."

"I am familiar with my master's handiwork. I shall lead the way." Fenris stood tall, sure. He thinks he can do it, at least.

"Alright then," Hawke said, dipping into a theatrical but thankfully brief bow. "We follow your lead, serrah."

Fenris held perfectly still, as if taken aback, then turned and crept forward. As he brushed past Varric, the elf slid his sword silently from the sheath on his back. He held it carefully level as he continued cautiously forward.

Hawke grumbled something unintelligible and followed, her own steps an exaggerated caricature of Fenris' own. At least she's just as quiet, Varric thought as he barely suppressed a chortle.

They snaked their way through the alley towards a shadowed, crumbling manor – with only the moon to light their steps as they moved ever so carefully. Once in a while Fenris would stop shock still, toe at a loose cobblestone or other piece of detritus, before grunting softly and continuing on. Each time, the group froze and Varric's grip on Bianca grew ever tighter.

The alley widened after a few moments, opening into a modest courtyard. The manor loomed ahead.

We must look like a bunch of idiots, Varric thought as they crept at their snail's crawl towards the manor. Varric cast a critical eye its way: It was a two story, freestanding thing with pillars set into its face. Any other details were lost in the murky shadows of night.

When they were finally within striking distance of those front-facing pillars, Fenris crept forward. He paused at the towering shadow that was the manor's door, then turned to face the group. Varric could just hear a quiet muttering from the elf as he stepped towards them, gesturing. Varric huddled forward, the Hawkes close behind. Varric barely suppressing a curse when Carver stepped on his foot. Sodding Junior.

The elf's already somber face was tight with intensity, his tattoos flashing in the moonlight. "My Master has placed magic upon the entrance. I do not believe it can be avoided."

"Magic?" Hawke asked. "What kind? Is it a ward?"

Fenris met her eyes. "I do not know. I… I believe I can redirect it, if it is dangerous."

"If it is dangerous," Varric heard Carver mutter. "Bloody typical."

"Regardless," Fenris continued. "You may all wish to stand back."

"Don't have to tell me twice," Varric said as he hurried straight back the way they'd come. He had half a mind to run all the way back out the alley and duck 'round the corner, but Hawke evidently guessed at his impulse. She grabbed at his arm after half a dozen paces and deftly used his momentum to swing him carefully back.

"Now, now, Varric, can't leave me all alone here, right?" She grinned at him in the moonlight. "You should be more careful. Tall, dark and broody is like to steal me away from you. And where would you be?"

Varric answer with his own grin as he fondled his Bianca. Hah. "Probably half-drunk in the Hanged Man with my best girl."

Carver announced his presence with a long-suffering groan. "If you two keep this up, I'm like to – "

They never got to hear what Carver was like to do. He was cut off abruptly as a burst of light lit the square to day. Varric threw up a hand to cover his eyes, even as Hawke cursed beside him. For a long moment, he was blind.

Varric lowered his hand as the light finally dimmed, ebbed to a manageable glow. Those tattoos again. As the dwarf blinked the spots out of his eyes he made out the glowing elf. Fenris stood squared up, his blade poised to strike – ready, apparently, to attack the stolid door.

"Piss-stained the pox-loving…" Varric heard Hawke mutter as Fenris dimmed further, swiveling back and forth as if looking for unseen enemies. Varric kept his crossbow at hand, aimed and ready at the door. Sodding magic. Sodding elves. Sodding Anso.

"Is that supposed to mean something?" Carver asked beside, his voice so loud in the quiet Varric cringed away from it instinctively. Varric shot a glance at the man to see him standing, blade down but hands poised at the hilt.

"C-cold," Hawke answered, teeth chattering. "B-bloody cold." Varric looked her way.

She was shivering. Full on, her spear couched but quivering.

Varric's gloves were sticky with sweat, his shirt clinging to him under his jacket. It's a pretty warm night, he thought in confusion. For this late in the summer.

Carver seemed anything but confused. He lifted his sword. "Right. Shite."

Hawke still quivered, but her spear grip seemed steadier as she set her spear to the ground, tip down. "It's p-passing. Let's reconvene with our candescent friend, see what the damage is."

Hawke stepped forward, Carver close on her heels. Fenris' stood ahead, sword still aimed at the door.

Varric nearly tripped as he moved to match Hawke's pace, still warily directing his crossbow forward. "What's passing?" He asked in as close to a whisper as he could manage as he trundled along. "Will someone mind telling me what's going on?"

Hawke flashed a grin at him through the dark, her features just barely visible in the moonlight. "My womanly nerves, silly. We lady-folk don't take too kindly to sudden blindness, no sir."

"Yeah," Varric shot back dubiously. "Bianca almost had a fit. Good thing she had me to settle her down."

"Somehow I think your steady hand would have just the opposite effect on me, Varric."

"Hawke!" Varric replied easily, even as the nervousness built in his stomach. Fenris hadn't turned, still looked ready to stab the sodding door. "The things you say, with Bianca right here. Have you no shame?"

"None whatsoever," Hawke answered in a whisper as they reached Fenris. The elf turned his head at her voice, then tensed a moment. He looked just about ready to swing his blade back at them before he relaxed, lowering it somewhat.

"I have made a mistake," Fenris confessed. "I did not think…" he trailed off, looked back to the door.

"Just a bit of a daft draft," Hawke joked. "You're still in one piece after your little torchbug act, so it doesn't seem all gloom."

Fenris shot her a long, hard look. "I managed to dissipate whatever magics my master placed upon the entrance, but I was unable to completely thwart it. I do not know what it did, but likely it has alerted my master to our presence. We must move quickly."

Shit. Shit.

"Then let's get it on," Carver growled. "I've had just about enough sneaking about."

"Too right," Hawke agreed easily.

"We must still move with care, there may be other traps laid in store for us," Fenris warned, glancing at Hawke as he raised his blade once again.

"So, you light the way again?" Varric chimed. "Sounds like a great plan. I'll cover you all from the rear."

Carver grunted. "Typical," he muttered.

"Anything but," Hawke disagreed as she couched her spear once again. "Usually, I'm in the lead mucking into traps. Lead on, good elf. Let us get it done, to spare us anymore of Carver's bellyaching at the least."

Fenris nodded, turned, and kicked the door in. They all moved to follow him as he flowed inwards, stepping with feline precision as they stepped into a musty entranceway. Dust fluttered under torches glowing low, lit with pale green flame.

A long rug stretched down a longer corridor that faded from the flickering green light to black farther along. Fenris set his shoulders and sped up, moving from a cautious crawl to a steady march.

"What's with that fire?" Carver asked as they moved forward, evidently puzzled. "He just throw sparklers in, or something?"

As Carver spoke the torches began to light further down hall, revealing a room that opened further into darkness.

"Magic," Fenris spat, evidently in answer to Carver's question.

They moved, Varric's feet dragging through the thick carpet. Dust swirled all around, filling Varric's nostrils as he inhaled. It took a great deal of will to keep himself from coughing it back up.

"When's the last time someone was here?" He muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "Even the dust has dust."

No one answered him as they continued forward, Fenris no longer careful. The elf nearly broke into a run as he rushed towards the encroaching blackness. Shit. This is going to go bad. I know it. Varric glanced back, to at least take note of the exit. He could not see it. As they pressed forward, the torches behind had winked out. Shit. Shit. Stepped in it. No, rolled in it.

The room narrowed, narrowed – Varric was falling behind the faster group, his pampered dwarven strides easily outpaced by honed elven and human. He glanced back again as his pulse pounded in his ears, the darkness coming ever nearer as torches winked out faster and faster.

"DANARIUS!" Fenris shouted ahead, mania echoing down the confined chamber.

"DANARIUS!"

Varric could barely see Carver's backside in the hazy light ahead, what looked an eternity away.

"Damn it man, slow down!" Hawke's voice echoed back.

"Danarius delanda est!"

The torches around Varric winked out.

In a blind panic, the dwarf propelled himself forward, skittering with a speed never before known to his short legs. His footfalls echoed around him, crashing and thundering. The light ahead glimmered from a mile away.

Something grabbed at Varric's coat tail. He yelped, spun, nearly fell. He felt the bronto leather snag, then tear and he was off, stumbling and falling down the corridor.

Abruptly he ran face first into a stolid wall of muscle, bouncing back onto his backside.

The man whom he'd hit stumbled, nearly fell, before turning with his sword raised.

And abruptly lowered it. "Varric, you little shite," a green-tinted Carver barked even as he lowered his blade. "You got a death wish?"

Before Varric could even open his mouth to reply a slam echoed behind him. He jumped to his feet, scrabbling for Bianca, and whirled at the source of the sound.

The door he had come through, for evidently it was a door, had slammed closed.

"What in the bloody hell?" Hawke's voice demanded from behind him, and he turned back to see her standing a few paces from Carver, her face cast directly in the green gloom in an expression of slack jawed wonderment.

Varric looked up to see what had her so enthralled. A high ceiling above, undoubtedly at least two stories tall hung above, covered in dark fresco and carvings. Serpents, grand ships – and of course, chains seemed most prevalent in what bit of the iconography that could be made out in the dim.

That sickly, greenish light that flickered from a single chandelier, burning with discolored flame.

"Where are you, Danarius?!" A sudden shout echoed through the apparent antechamber – Varric glanced up in alarm to see Fenris directly opposite Hawke, tattoo's glowing dimly under the green flame. He turned back and forth erratically, he sword couched on his shoulder. "Show yourself, damn you!"

The chandelier's light seemed to swivel at that, to brighten the room a bit to reveal the edges. They stood near the center of a large antechamber, bookshelves lining the walls. More carved reliefs donned the sides, stone and metal work depicting sinewy serpents. Twin stairs lined the edges of the room ahead, leading upwards to another floor. In the center of it all stood a suit of armor, as tall as Carver. It seemed to eat the light around it, to stand in complete shadow.

A horrible grinding sounded, stone against stone, as if a great mill had begun to turn. Before Varric could even move to cover his ears it ended, as abruptly as it began.

Then a voice, echoing all around, made from the tenor of stone.

"Cvm Mentor Et Mentiri Me Dico, Mentior an Vervm dico?" It demanded.

Fenris zeroed in on the suit of armor. "Veritas!" he bellowed.

That stone sound rumbled, a hideous laugh. As it thundered, the armor moved. It withdrew a massive war hammer from its back, laughing all the way. "My little wolf." It crooned, holding the hammer aloft.

"Not another one," Varric groaned.

"Numquam amplius!" Fenris cried, charging the thing. Before he reached it, the… whatever it is – struck the pommel of its hammer on the ground.

All light winked out. Varric dropped to one knee, aiming to where he'd last seen the armor.

"Oh for the love of – " he heard Hawke begin to curse ahead of him. She was interrupted by the sharp clang of metal on metal, and a brief flash of blue light in the shape of an elf. Varric couldn't fire, couldn't see.

Suddenly he felt his arm wrenched aside, Bianca clattering as she skidded from his grasp. Hands pawed at him, pulled him to the floor in the dark. He cursed, tried to roll, tried to do anything other than panic.

Another great clash, another flash of light. Carver roared from somewhere to the side. The voice sounded again.

"Lubeo et is ei si fecerit, gaudebit semper dianae donum."

Another clang of swords, Fenris flashed into sight for a moment again, down on one knee, the hammer impacting into his raised sword.

Varric lost track as his chin was forcibly slammed into the floor below, softened somewhat by a thick carpet. As his head swam he swung back with his free hand, cursing. Punched at a particularly hard grip on the back of his neck.

His fist only hit air before his arm was wrenched into his back.

"Damn it, this poncey little shite – " Hawke yelled from out of sight.

"Quod fugis quod iactas tibei, quod datur spernere nolei."

Metal on metal. Another shout of defiance from Fenris, a flash of him.

"So be it."

Another clatter, and a cry of pain.

Held down, his chin pressed into the floor, Varric watched as Fenris winked back into sight, his tattoos glowing just enough to show the suit of armor backhand him with a sharp crack.

"Nell!" Carver's voice sounded from the darkness, choked and panicked – a fear that chilled Varric's very blood.

Fenris pulsated with light as the armor straddled him, reached both hands for his throat.

"Pulvis es et, in pulverem reverteris."

"Piss on it!" Hawke cried, and a sudden light burst into being.

Hawke appeared then, like a hero from Varric's best tales. She stood tall, wide legged, her spear wreathed in flame. Red and bright, it cast the whole room in sudden light. She swung it in a circle, rotating her wrist.

Varric felt the pressure holding him still suddenly gone. He turned his head to see nothing, absolutely nothing holding him down. Scrambling, he dove to where Bianca had fallen.

The armor, still black as night, raised its helmeted head to look directly at Hawke.

She didn't give it another moment. She charged it, glowing with fury, and thrust her spear straight through the masked great helm and down into its neck. The spear, wood tipped with metal, aflame but not burning, passed through the armor as if it were hot wax.

The whole suit burst into flame, began to fall. Hawke kicked it full force, sent it careening to the side. It fell beside the prone Fenris, burning. Melting. It crackled, horribly and loudly.

Hawke stood over it, postured ready, spear couched. The armor only continued to crackle and burn, bits of it splitting and falling.

The crackling sounded strange… nearly rhythmic. Almost… almost like a horrid, demonic laugh. Varric shuddered as the thing slowly quieted as the metal burned bright with heat, then abruptly dissipated into dust.

Hawke stood, breathing heavily, her flaming spear still couched to strike as the thing faded away before their eyes.

Then once again, all light winked out.

"Shite. Hoped that would last longer." Hawke said from the darkness, voice hoarse. "One moment."

Keyed up, Bianca ready, Varric barely paid attention to the muttered curses and heavy breathing that came from his companions in the dark. He knelt, and waited.

Finally, a striking sound, and light came once again. Hawke stood over a smoldering torch, pocketing her flint. Kneeling, she quickly picked the torch up in her bucklered hand and held it aloft. She looked about, carefully stepping to the walls. Then, she began to light various wall mounted torches in turn, slowly bathing the room in natural warmth.

The light finally revealed the large room, not quite as large as it had seemed in the eerie magical glow, but quite spacious nonetheless. Several closed doors stood at various points, surrounded by bookcases on the walls. Thick browned carpet covered the floor, intricately woven with various geometric patterns of various colors. The twin stairs lead upwards at the far end of the room to a raised balcony, a set of intricate double doors at its center.

Carver stood to one side, leaning on his sword, panting heavily – looking positively grey. For his part, Fenris looked even worse, his face and neck mottled with the beating he'd just taken. As Hawke moved from one end of the room to another, the elf struggled to a sitting position and took his fallen sword in one hand. He rubbed a clawed gauntlet carefully along his neck, wincing.

"Well. Shit," Varric broke the silence as Hawke finally moved back to their little band. He ambled up towards Fenris, his crossbow still held at the ready.

I don't know what it is, but something tells me that we're not in for anymore surprises. At least, like that.

"That was…" Varric started, trailing off.

Hawke turned his way as she dropped and smothered her torch under her boot.

"Well," Varric continued. "I was going to say that was new, but that's a crock of shit, isn't it? I mean, that was a shade, right? Basically the same shit we fought not even a fortnight ago. Even got a tattooed elf for it to rant gibberish at. Rhymes like sodding poetry."

"Right," Hawke grimaced. "Though this time my arm and Carver's head fared far better. Let it not be said we didn't learn from experience."

Carver said nothing. Not even a peep.

"Anyways," Varric looked at Hawke with genuine admiration. "What was that, Hawke? With the spear? Was that some kind of rune?"

"Oh, dear old 'da didn't just leave me something to hold onto," Hawke smiled wickedly, tapping a finger on the ample bosomed pommel carving of her spear. "This is a right proper weapon."

"Why've you not used that before? Would've been real handy down below… well, you know."

Hawke shrugged, her smile distant for half a moment. Then she tapped her nose with her index finger. "Not the safest thing, commanding a stick to flame. People might get the wrong idea."

Varric nodded, understanding. Especially not here in Kirkwall, he thought.

Fenris pushed himself to his feet, pushing himself up with his sword. "There may still be more dangers, lurking here. Even if my master is not."

"How do you know he's not here?" Carver finally spoke up, his tone belligerent but strained. "Could be he's hiding in his bedroom, pissing his skirts." He gestured upwards at the balcony above them.

Fenris shook his head. "This place has not been disturbed in some time. My master would not have bothered with reflaxio were he here."

"Reeflexo?" Hawke sounded out, her voice genuinely curious. "What's that?"

"A projection," the elf snapped at Hawke, not turning her way. She flinched in shock as he continued. "He cast his will forward from far away. It is a magic most foul, requiring gallons of blood and weeks of preparation. It was no shade that occupied that armor, it was him, damn him!" Fenris turned and threw and overhanded slash with his great sword at a table near the wall. It splintered with a crash, throwing up dust and pieces of wood.

He collapsed down to one knee, silent for a long moment. All they could do was stare at him.

Finally, he spoke. "It never ends. Dark magic has been seared into my very flesh and soul, has ruled me and hunted me all my life. I cannot even have the succor of my master's head." He looked up, his face haunted. "Even here, fate has sought fit to torment me."

His eyes flashed with quiet anger, even as he remained on his knee. "I thank you for your assistance, but it is time for you to leave this place. I will clear it of any further markings of my master. Any valuables I find I will give to Anso, to pass on to you."

"What do you mean?" Hawke asked, puzzled. "You're talking barmy, man. We've come this far. Let us help you – "

Fenris leapt to his feet, fury suddenly boiling over. He looked ready to strike. "No. Not again. I will not yoke myself with another mage."

Mage. What?

"There's no mages here." Varric cut in, hoping to defuse the situation. "I mean, you heard Hawke, that spear's just enchanted. Her dad was a complete lunatic, from what she says, I wouldn't put it past him – "

"Remain blind if you wish, dwarf," Fenris replied, eyes not leaving Hawke. "That was no mere enchantment. It was magic. The plague that will not let me be." Fenris' tattoos began to glow as he ranted. "It is all that is evil in the world, all that is wrong. Unnatural power, used to dominate. To hold power over others. It sickens me."

"Oi!" Carver barked, his ashen face filling with an anger to rival Fenris'. "My sister's no plague, elfy. You got a problem with her, you got a problem with me."

"The point's moot anyways," Varric interjected, holding one hand up as he balanced Bianca on the carpet by her bow. "I don't know why you're so sure fired convinced it was magic, but Hawke said it wasn't magic. I believe her."

Hawke shot him a long, sad look. A look of resignation and regret.

Holy shit.

"It's not…" Varric stuttered a moment, at a rare loss for words. "You said…"

"We say a lot of things, Varric," Hawke replied sadly. "You and me both. Come on, you know bullshit when you hear it. 'Sides, I didn't say it wasn't magic."

Varric considered a moment, stunned. "You didn't." he realized.

Hawke's a sodding mage.

He didn't know how he felt about that.

But he did know how he felt about Hawke.

He looked to Fenris, the elf still keyed up but clearly not a moment away from striking anymore. "So she's a mage. So what?" Varric heard Hawke's surprise intake of breath but didn't let that interrupt him. "She saved your life just now, from that weird magic shit. So what if she pulled some fire out of thin air? Plague's don't just leap down into the depths of Darktown and pull kids out from murderous psychopaths. Evil's not one to lend a hand to some runaway slave with the vaguest promise of a maybe reward.

So what if she's a mage, or whatever. That's not who she is. Who she is my friend, and I'd thank you to drop that plague shit before Bianca has to have words with you."

Fenris' face flickered with emotion, hatred twisting into… something. He looked at them for a long moment, shock still, as the light slowly faded from his tattoos.

Varric didn't loosen his grip on Bianca.

"I imagine I appear ungrateful." He finally said. "That could not be further from the truth. You have lent aid where none was expected, nor deserved." He wilted somewhat, resigned. "Do not fear. I will not reveal your… condition. I will see you rewarded, I assure you. But… I ask you again, leave me to cleanse this place alone. I will manage here on out."

Hawke looked at him a long moment, a sad look in her eyes. "What then? After your cleansing?"

"Plow himself with his own pommel," Varric heard Carver mutter. Not often Junior and I are on the same page. Three times in one night's gotta be a record.

Fenris either didn't hear or ignored Carver's jab. "I will remain here. There comes a time when one must stop running. If Danarius wishes his property returned, let him claim it."

Hawke looked Fenris up and down, measuring him. The elf stood with confidence, but it was resigned. Tired. Not quite the defiance he had even five minutes ago.

Hawke nodded finally. "Well," she said, her tone back to its usual cheer. "If you ever wish for a different perspective on plagues and unnatural evil, you could always stop by the Hanged Man. If your stomach manages to avoid sickening, why, I might just even buy you a pint." She bowed at the waist, a gesture Varric would generally take as mocking from Hawke. Now, he wasn't sure.

She spun a free finger in the air as she sheathed her spear upon her back. "All right gents, first round's on Carver."

"Not on your life," grumbled Carver as they ambled out of the room. For his part, Carver kept his blade at the ready until the grand entranceway had shut behind them.

Varric, for his part, kept Bianca in hand. No way he would put her down until he had a drink to replace her.

As they passed through the quiet streets of Hightown, Varric at their head, Hawke sidled up alongside him. "Thanks," she said quietly. "For what you said. I've not really had any friends before find out… well, you know…" She shrugged. "With that kinda revelation you expect a swift kick in the teeth in response, at best… and, well..."

"No kicks from me," Varric interrupted. "See, I wasn't looking for a friend when I roped you into this expedition prep. Didn't expect one. People here in Kirkwall, well…" Varric shrugged, stopped for a moment.

He strained his eyes in the dark of Hightown, tried to make out any movement. After a moment he continued, both with feet and mouth. "Look. You're a good person, and a better friend, Hawke. Artist with that spear too, while I'm paying compliments. Whatever else you are, that doesn't matter to me. Get it?"

Only the sound of their quiet footsteps echoing in the empty streets sounded for a long moment. "It matters, Varric," she finally spoke. "It means the world to me."

"You're welcome," Varric replied. "Now, enough of this mushy crap. You and me? This is pure self-interest." He made his grin his tone. "I fully expect to not pay for a single drink tonight."

"Not on your life," Hawke grumbled back, her voice dipping in a mocking impression of Carver.

They both laughed, earning a growling shush from the trailing Carver.

Varric didn't pay for any drinks that night.