In which the team enters Redcliffe, and Margo meets a knight, a tranquil, and a stool pigeon.
Chapter 38: Spot the Spook
Their light-hearted mood does not last. Redcliffe feels wrong . Margo has never been in a place under military occupation, but this is the first association that comes to her mind as they slowly make their way up the steep incline towards the local tavern.
"Was it like this the last time you were here?" Bull asks quietly. He and Dorian walk side by side, with Margo and Solas bringing up the back.
"No." Dorian's tone is dry. "It was distinctly less…" He seems to search for the adequate word. "Dour," he finally offers. Margo would have gone with "terrifying."
The local inhabitants give them furtive if cautiously curious glances and scurry on. The conversations are hushed. Military types with piercing, suspicious eyes walk in small groups of three or four, slowing down to eavesdrop on the locals' mutterings — although Margo isn't sure that blatantly standing there and staring at people as they talk counts as "eavesdropping," exactly.
There is an incredible amount of mages — judging by their dress, at least. But all of them seem nervous and ragged, eye sockets bruised with lack of sleep — and sometimes just bruised. And none of them carry staves.
But the social situation isn't the only thing that's cause for concern. The first time Margo notices the strange effect is when she passes through what she originally thought was a swarm of fruit flies — except the hypothetical drosophila turn out, upon closer inspection, to be tiny, immaterial yellow particles of… something. It's not a something that Margo has ever encountered before, but as she walks through it — a stupid decision, in retrospect — she is suddenly struck by the incredible slowness of her movements. An uncanny feeling of unreality settles over her — as if she were walking through a dream. But not a dream of the Fade variety — something more out of control than that. Her eyes drift out of focus, and she blinks several times, trying to get her vision to cooperate.
Cool fingers wrap around her wrist, and she is yanked out of the uncanny reality warp, only to stumble into Solas — who, apparently, was the one doing the yanking.
"Oof," Margo mutters, righting herself. "What was that?" She tries to turn around to take a closer look at the pocket of misbehaving fairy dust but is apprehended by the elf once again. Solas puts his hand on her lower back and pushes just enough to keep her from slowing down.
He turns to her with a smile that Margo suspects is not for her benefit. "Keep walking, lethallan. We do not wish to attract more attention than we already have." His voice is barely above a whisper.
Indeed, they do not. Two soldiers in unfamiliar but expensive armor, their stares heavy with distrust, follow their progress from the shade of a nearby awning. Margo drapes her arm over Solas's shoulder, leans in, and puts her lips against his ear. Right. Might as well play the part of the carefree, flirtatious doxy of the singing persuasion.
"Fade pocket?" she whispers.
If Solas is surprised by any part of this maneuvering, he doesn't let on — his hand moves over to her hip, and he pulls her closer. He mirrors her strategy. While the feel of his lips against her ear sends a shiver down her spine, the words themselves are more than sobering.
"Unfamiliar magic. Damaged Veil."
The local watering hole, called the Gull and Lantern, contains an assortment of more of the same contingent — mostly mages, in various stages of sober terror and drunken despondency, and a small but colorful collection of watchful, quiet characters who sit in corners and appear to be doing some very active listening. Their merry band of four settles at a table within earshot of an angry-looking mage who is spewing a clearly unsolicited diatribe about the Chantry, the Templars, and the Inquisition to her silent companion. The man nods and grunts at the appropriate times but doesn't seem to be paying much attention — he is too busy watching the room in general and the newcomers in particular.
Bull selects a seat with his back against the far wall — or, to be more precise, against a gigantic bear pelt — and a good view of the common room. Solas and Dorian take the chairs kitty-corner to his, and Margo is left sitting with her back to the rest of the tavern, which is not a comfortable proposition by any stretch of the imagination. The hairs on her nape feel like they're considering evolving into prehensile extensions just to compensate for all the hostile staring.
Bull leans forward, pitching his voice such that it carries to their small circle, but not beyond. "All right, here's the strategy. We're gonna divide the tasks. Dorian, take a look at the patrons, see if anyone seems familiar. Even if it's just vaguely familiar — say, you saw them last time you were passin' through — still counts. Solas, can you get a read on the mages? And the others? Give me a sense of how skilled they are, that sort of thing?"
Solas inclines his head slightly. "It would be imprecise at best, but I should manage to assess the strength of their connection to the Fade."
Bull nods, satisfied. "Works for me. Blondie, you're on logistics. Go chat up the barkeep, see if there's a room available — nothing fancy, but don't let them give you one with only blind walls. We'll need at least two exits. Find out whatever the barkeep's willing to share, but don't overpush. And see if they got a minstrel working the place already."
Margo stands up from her chair with a distinct feeling of relief. At least if she's mobile, maybe the sensation that multiple someones are trying to drill a hole in her back by staring at it intently will dissipate. On her way down from the platform, she passes a barmaid, who gives her a strange look but proceeds to sashay her way to the table of "minstrels" with a fairly convincing rendition of a Mona Lisa smile.
The tavern looks like something born of the utopian pipe dream of an optimistic but mathematically challenged local merchant whose finances had stretched thin by the time the enormous building had been erected, and who had said "screw it" and IKEA'd the furniture. The bar is a set of trestles covered with rough planks in lieu of a proper counter.
Margo makes her way between the patrons, noticing that conversations hush as she passes. The looks she gets are a strange mix of curiosity, surprise, and nervousness — which either means that her disguise is not quite having the desired effect, or that there is something about her presumed social role that makes the locals fidgety. She finds neither eventuality particularly comforting.
The bartender is a short, corpulent, bald fellow of indeterminate age, with light, expressionless eyes. When he glances at Margo, his attention first settles on her ears, then on the neck of the vihuela poking out from behind her shoulder. And then on the expanse of exposed skin. Overview completed, he returns to wiping a perfectly dry glass.
"Good evening," Margo tries. She's not sure how she's supposed to address him. Ser? Serah? Messere? She's heard variations of all of these, but their corresponding social maps are murky at best. Maybe just "barkeep" would do?
"And what are you supposed to be? Some kind of minstrel?"
Margo nods. "That's right! My companions and I just arrived. Do you have a room available?"
He squints, clearly deciding where to locate her on the sliding scale of possible extortion. "I might. Whose are you, anyway?"
Margo blinks. "I beg your pardon?"
"I said," the bartender repeats with infinite patience, "whose are you?"
What the hell is this? Is he assuming that she is a servant? Or a slave, perhaps? Or is it that bards are assigned to a particular noble that hires them? Unless the man is asking about her qualifications — whom she studied under. "I'm not sure I understand your question, good sir." She tries for a winsome smile.
The bartender sets down the long-suffering glass and fixes Margo with a very unpleasantly speculative gaze. "Just arrived, did you? Redcliffe's closed for visitors. Got the writ of authorization, then?"
Margo swallows. If there ever were a textbook example of a collaborator, this guy is it. But that particular insight doesn't solve the immediate problem. Margo briefly considers whether Alexius has instituted a visa system. She dismisses the possibility. If such a thing were in place, it is unlikely that the guard would have let them in quite so easily. What, then…?
The bartender looks at her with impatient irritation. "You daft, lass? If you want to play the Gull and Lantern, you'll need to show me your writ of authorization. Magister's orders. You got in this far, so whose are you? Who issued your writ?"
Aha. Margo files this information for later discussion with the others. So, some kind of licensing system for musicians: either to suppress unwanted political commentary or to make the general atmosphere in the town even more oppressive than it already is.
Margo considers her options. She could try for dumb blonde to weedle more information out of the fellow, but her blasted voice — not to mention current outfit — is too far on the femme fatale side of the spectrum to pull it off. After a brief moment of hesitation, she props her elbows on the counter, and leans in. Her antics get the desired result, at least, and Margo feels a grim kind of satisfaction from the fact that the barkeep's eyes travel in the designated direction before he looks back up. His expression, however, is one of undiluted suspicion. As in, nice view, now where's the other shoe?
"Look." Margo lowers her voice to an insinuating murmur, implying that she is about to share a big, and potentially embarrassing secret. If she is right in gauging this particular audience, Stool Pigeon here shouldn't be able to resist the prospect of reportable gossip. "The boss got a summons. And he's not exactly forthcoming about where his contracts come from. You know, in case the rest of us poach it from under him and dump his overbearing ass."
Whatever else might be going on with the local drink-serving snitch, crude class antagonism is something he can get behind. "Yeah. Reason I work for myself now."
Oh, sure. Just with a little extra moonlighting for the local Gestapo, but details, right? Margo keeps her expression firmly within the spectrum of class solidarity.
"Who's your boss, anyway?"
She tilts her head towards where the rest of the team is sitting. "See that unaccommodating-looking horned fellow right over there?" It is fortunate that Bull has removed the little bells from his horns — hard to be intimidated by someone who tinkles at every movement, even if that someone is seven feet tall and might give an assault tank a run for its money.
The barkeep chokes out an impressed sort of noise and glances back at her, with another not particularly discreet look at her cleavage. Well, whatever distracts him from her bluffing. "Yeesh, lass. Wouldn't wanna cross that. How'd you end up with one of 'em ox-men, anyway?"
Margo shrugs. "Bad luck, I guess. What's your name?"
"Lloyde. With an 'e.'"
Margo has no idea why it seems to matter to Stool Pigeon how his name gets spelled, but she lets it be. " He that increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow " and all that. "Lloyde, then. Do you think you can put us up? I hate going back to the boss with bad news. That won't go well for me."
He clucks somewhat sympathetically. "Beats you, don't he? You know, fine lass like yourself, I could find you something to do around here."
Margo summarily ignores the leery come-on qua job offer and shrugs. "Wish that I could, but you know how these things go. Can't stand the idea of staying in one place."
"Suit yourself, then. A room you say? How many, four? All I got is something on the top floor — not much to look at, and it's got mice in the walls."
Margo nods. "Does it have a window, at least?"
"No windows, unless you count the roof hatch."
"Does it open?" She leans forward and waves her hand at her companions. "They don't exactly bathe, you know."
That garners her no sympathy, but the barkeep nods.
She smiles at him. "Guess that'll do. But we aren't wealthy."
The Stool Pigeon makes a face. "Figures. Well, you tell your boss that if he wants it, it's three silvers a night, all paid up front."
Margo narrows her eyes. Not bargaining with this guy would be criminal. "You know that's steep, right? For an attic room with no windows?"
He crosses his pudgy arms over his chest. "Roof access."
"Mice in the walls."
"It's 'cause it's warm. Heat travels up."
"So it's sweltering hot to boot? One and a half."
Lloyde-with-an-e — chuckles, gives Margo's shoulders and decollete a good, long ogle, and says, "Fine. For you, two silvers."
Margo nods and asks about the competition. Lloyde the Leering Stool Pigeon shakes his head. "No one's been playing since the other gal that worked here got kicked out for 'agitating.' That's when the magister decided you lot needed an authorization."
Margo tries to determine how the official restrictions might be finagled. "So, what are the rules, then?"
Lloyde proceeds to check off items on his fingers. His voice suggests that he might be quoting from memory. "'No singing. No playing instruments, recitin' poetry, or talking demonstratively in an inflammatory manner.'"
"'Inflammatory?'" Margo asks. She is fairly certain that the irascible mage's diatribes against the Chantry and associated organizations might count as "inflammatory" in certain circles.
"'Inciting national strife,'" Lloyde recites by rote.
Aha. So, essentially, critiquing Tevinter. "Is that it?"
Lloyde gives her a suspicious little look. "No whistling."
Margo promises to return with the money and makes her way towards the rest of her team. In many ways, this is working out in their favor. Since they do not have a writ, they cannot perform, and if they cannot perform, they cannot be called out as fakes.
In the time that it takes her to negotiate with Lloyde, the tavern fills up. She jostles between small knots of people — most of them mages, but there are other, seemingly magically neutral civilians. A few new additions draw her attention. One is a dark-haired man standing somewhat awkwardly between the foyer and the main room. He wears the robes of a mage but holds himself differently from the others. In fact, he is the only person that she has seen so far who isn't telegraphing terrified despair, hostile suspicion, or drunken belligerence. He seems… remarkably content.
And then, of course, Margo notes the scar on his forehead and freezes in place. Someone bumps into her, and she apologizes distractedly before forcing herself to stop staring and start moving. So that's what a regular Tranquil brand looks like. It's the same pattern as Evie's — though the Herald's is smaller, not to mention fainter. This, whatever it is, is a bona fide cattle brand.
The other newcomer to draw Margo's attention is so profoundly out of place that she has to blink twice before she decides that she isn't hallucinating him. The man puts her in mind of one of those children's visual games: "spot the thing that doesn't belong." Well, spotted. It's not just the knight regalia, complete with a worn breastplate embossed with the head of something that could, if she were to squint, be interpreted as a lion — though could as easily be a very unkempt scientist on the verge of a ground-breaking discovery. It's that the owner of said breastplate is absurdly, almost obnoxiously handsome. The sort of blonde, square-jawed, even-featured handsome that might have your Baba say, "Ay, ay, ay, little thistle, not all is gold that glitters. A girl's not a magpie, hmm?" And then cluck with barely concealed amusement. The fellow's good looks are somewhat tarnished by a layer of road grime.
Margo frowns. Whatever Ser Knight is doing in Redcliffe, he doesn't seem to be particularly cognizant of or intrigued by the current political climate. He looks around with an air of barely contained impatience and just strolls over to the bar with a grim set to his jaw — like someone on a Serious Quest . Margo watches him engage Lloyde the Leery Stool Pigeon in conversation. She turns away and rejoins the others.
She arrives in the middle of a quiet debate.
"Hmm. What about the redhead over there — third table from the door?" Bull is sitting in a relaxed pose, ankle over knee, a mug of ale held in a loose grip over his thigh.
"Doubtful," Solas volunteers, with a quick glance at Margo. There is something a little mischievous in his eyes, and his gaze lingers a tad beyond merely polite.
"All right. Dorian, your turn."
Margo sends a mental prayer to whomever might be listening that the game they're playing is closer to "Spot the Spook" than to "Who Would You Rather."
"The knight who just came in," Dorian says without hesitation.
Bull narrows his eye at the mage. "Really, Vint? The blond? C'mon, you can do better than that."
Dorian shrugs noncommittally. Margo looks between the three specimens and decides two things. First, that she misses Sera. And second, that they are not paying her enough for this shit.
"Bull?" To be fair to the Qunari, his attention switches swiftly, and there is nothing lazy or distracted about his gaze. He is all there. Mildly reassured by this, Margo quickly relates her new intel, and requests additional funds to pay for the room. Bull counts out the silvers and hands her a small purse.
"All right, Blondie. There's enough here for three days. Better get settled."
When Margo stands up from her chair, she freezes. Her alchemy satchel is missing. She almost swears out loud, but catches herself at the very last moment. Instead, she grips the coin purse tightly and makes it back to Lloyde, panic pulsing in her temples as she walks.
It's not that the satchel had anything valuable to anyone but herself. It did, however, contain all of her lichen.
She pays for their room in a state of numb, unfocused anxiety, then takes a look around, trying to spot the cutpurse — futile as the exercise might be. The only obviously shady characters are the unconvincingly disguised secret police — and her own team.
As she scans the crowd, Margo notices that the blond knight from earlier, who has occupied a small table in the corner of the room, is gawking at her like she is the second coming of Andraste. She frowns, trying to parse the meaning of this bizarre behavior. He stares. Passes his hand over his face. Blinks vigorously. Rubs his eyes again, and then stares some more with an expression of such profound awe that Margo takes a look behind her in case Andraste is standing right there, ordering a drink. The knight, in the meantime, makes to stand up, then plops back down and returns to his utterly incomprehensible gawking.
Margo decides to leave Lancelot to his insanity and walks back to the others to get a sense of what their strategy might be now that the singing is firmly — and mercifully — off the table.
"Excuse me?" Someone brushes her arm. She turns, half-expecting the demented knight, but instead comes face to face with the Tranquil. "I am sorry to bother you," the man states, in a tone that suggests no such sentiment. And, in fact, suggests no sentiment at all.
"Hello," Margo tries. The Tranquil's lack of affect is disconcerting, but she forces her face into a friendly smile.
"Thank you for speaking with me. I know that my tone sometimes produces negative responses. Based on your paleness and dilated pupils I inferred that you are in distress." He extends his hand. Margo looks down. Her heart skips at the sight of her lost satchel. "I saw a man take this from you. He dropped it by the door. I therefore concluded that perhaps your emotional state was produced by the loss of your purse. Was I correct?"
Margo nods vigorously. "Yes! Yes, thank you so much!" She grabs the satchel, but even before she has the chance to look inside, the tentative hopefulness dissipates. It is way too light. She checks anyway. There is nothing left except for some botanical dust.
The tranquil tilts his head in a curiously avian gesture, and peers into her face. "Your emotional predicament has not been solved. It was the contents you cared about, not the purse itself?"
Margo sighs. "Yes. But… thank you anyway. I'm still glad to have it returned. Did you happen to see who took it off me?"
The tranquil nods. "I did. You were staring at me when one of the Tevinter men collided with you. He has left since."
Margo flushes, but forces the embarrassment down. There is no trace of judgement in the Tranquil's voice — just neutral observation. "I guess it serves me right for staring, huh?"
The Tranquil's gaze is placid. "There is no reason to connect the two events beyond simple opportunity. The theft is not a retribution for your curiosity. I am Clemence."
"Margo," she says. "What are you doing here?"
"Magister Alexius does not approve of those without magic, like you and me. He says all Tranquil must leave Redcliffe, but who would take us in?"
Margo frowns. "So where do the Tranquil go, then?"
Clemence clasps his hands in front of him, but not, seemingly, in a gesture of nervousness. His bodily movements appear deliberately choreographed — as if he knows that standing too still will produce more discomfort for his interlocutors and introduces artificial fidgeting. Because it carries no emotional reference, the effect is only more unsettling.
"I am unsure. Without an obvious destination, I have chosen to remain. There are few of us still here."
Margo forces herself not to get distracted by Clemence's scripted movements and flat tone and focuses on his words. "How many of you were here originally? And how long ago did Alexius start driving your people out?"
Clemence pauses, his face going completely still. "Fifty-four in total. Tranquil from several Circles congregated in Redcliffe. Magister Alexius arrived at nightfall two days after we retreated from the Temple of Sacred Ashes. It has been one month and ten days."
"And how many remain?"
Another short pause. "As of last week, aside from me, there were three others. I have not observed Lydia in two days and therefore suspect that she may be gone as well."
Margo frowns. Something doesn't quite add up. She has heard nothing about fifty-four Tranquil wandering around the Hinterlands. None have come to Haven. Cassandra or Varric have not mentioned any actually existing Tranquil — even in light of their discovery of Evie's past. Are the Tranquil truly so invisible? Surely, someone would have taken note of a drove of strange, affectless Redcliffe refugees — at least as a creepy curio.
"Are you sure they are leaving?" she asks.
Clemence balances from one foot to the other. "No. In fact, it has occurred to me that I have not noticed Tranquil walk through the gates. One entrance has been blocked by a difficult rift. The other one requires passage on a ferry. I have not become aware of other Tranquil leaving that way." He pauses. "You see, we do not think like those who are not Tranquil. Without a logically superior solution to the current state, there is no sense in altering it."
What in the Void? The analytical part of Margo's mind latches onto the problem with desperate ferocity. It has the merit of distracting her from the absent lichen and what that potentially spells for her. There is no way the damn thing grows this low in the valley — the climate is too warm for it.
"So where could they be?"
"I do not know," Clemence states with admirable indifference.
Margo thanks him again for returning her satchel and walks back to their table. She stops at a short distance, assessing the changed ambiance. With the added crowd, the atmosphere in the tavern warms a little — either because the patrons have reached a critical degree of inebriation, or because the din of conversation allows a degree of privacy. When she looks over at her team's table, she is surprised to see their ranks augmented by several new additions — including the anti-Chantry activist, her taciturn male companion, and an elven woman who looks like a younger and gentler version of Enchanter Minaeve. Margo tries to assess the nature of the collective interaction.
Well. If ever there were three method actors. Bull, in a voice that is either charmingly menacing or menacingly charming, recounts some completely fantastical — and, judging by the occasional shocked gasps and appreciative chuckles, dirty — story. While Margo cannot hear all the details, she surmises that the three principle figurants are a Chantry cleric, a noblewoman, and her chevalier. Dorian is sprawled in his chair, radiating the appearance of bored indulgence. And Solas is smiling his patented cryptic smirk, interjecting some occasional witticisms — which has a devastating effect on the elven redhead, who titters breathlessly and shoots doe-eyed glances at him.
Margo sighs internally. They most certainly do not pay her enough for this. She waits for Bull to finish the story, then covers the distance to the table, slipping into her new mask.
"Hey, boss."
Bull looks up. "Blondie, pull up a seat. We were just waitin' for you."
Margo feels the glances of the newcomers on her, but keeps her attention on Bull.
"Got the room. But Lloyde needs to see the writ of authorization before we can start working." There. The Ben-Hassrath should be able to read between the lines.
Bull gives her an almost imperceptible nod. "Sure thing, doll. We'll do it in a bit. Got a sense of what might go over well with this crowd?"
There is something to the way Bull asks the question that puts Margo on alert. She isn't sure if it's the right move, but it's not like she has many alternative options for reporting back — at least not with their new drinking buddies around. "Well…" she affects a speculative look, "I keep thinking that I wouldn't mind trying my hand at that ballad we heard in Val Chevin."
Something sharp passes in Bull's eye. She also catches a small movement from Solas at the periphery of her vision. Dorian, too, is looking just a tad less indifferent. "Oh, you know the one I'm talking about. Sentimental, but pretty." She turns to the new additions to their group, as if recounting for their benefit. "It's the story about these two sisters, you see. They couldn't be more different — one is beautiful and passionate, the other is rational and plain. One, everyone fights over, the other one is overlooked and forgotten." Since there is no seat available, Margo perches on the edge of the table next to Solas and the redhead. Her hip brushes against his forearm, and he looks up from under the silly hat. Margo notes that his gaze takes a tad longer than usual on its way to meet hers — apparently distracted en route. He doesn't move the forearm, either. Margo clears her throat. If she could kick him under the table, she would — the damn elf is having entirely too much fun with this persona. "Anyway. Their father is a very domineering lord, not letting the sisters have any freedom. So eventually, they run away, start a new life. Except a dashing prince rolls into town, sweeps the pretty sister off her feet, and offers to marry her."
"Maudlin drivel so far," the irascible Chantry denouncer sniffs.
"What happens to the other sister?" That's the elven redhead, and the girl looks like she's hanging on every word. Margo can't help but feel a twinge of gratitude at her question. It saves her from proliferating more bullshit. She turns to the young woman and schools her features into what she hopes is a quizzical expression. "That's the thing. The other sister just… disappears one day. And the tragedy of the ballad is that no one really notices."
There is a pause.
"I may recall the song of which you speak, lethallan." Solas smiles at her, but his eyes under the hat are sharp. "Was it not titled 'Lost Serenity'?After the name of the forgotten sister?"
"That's it!" Margo nods, and shoots Solas a smile — and she doesn't even have to fake it. Clever elf appears to have gotten it.
"Oh, you speak the People's language!" the redhead breathes. "I know very little myself." She looks from Solas to Margo and then back again, her pretty green eyes troubled. "But you are not Dalish. Is the word 'lethallan' not used for kin? Oh! You two must be cousins!"
At this, Dorian is overcome with a truly spectacular coughing fit; Solas colors, his eyes flashing with surprised confusion; and Margo decides that she would be perfectly fine with a rift opening under her feet and swallowing her whole.
"The meaning can be variable, da'len, but you are right to assume that it signifies affinity," Solas finally manages.
Margo is still stuck at "cousins." She catches the Chantry critic's eyes on her, and there is something peculiar to the woman's expression — as if behind the irritable mask lurks the face of another.
Before she can puzzle out what she saw in the woman's features, Margo's attention is drawn by a rapidly approaching rhythmic clanking. Her head pivots in the direction of the noise. The others turn as well, with an assortment of confounded expressions.
The knight from earlier marches towards their table with grim determination, his eyes trained on Margo. She can feel her companions shift positions slightly, as if getting ready for a potential confrontation. She hops down from the table and pivots to face Sir Lancelot the Bizarre.
"I know you," he announces, as he comes to plant himself in front of Margo. Up close, he is not quite as tall as he appears — but he still manages to tower over her. It's distinctly hostile towering. Shit. What did Maile do this time? Please, let it not be that this guy is another notch in her host body's belt. "Where is the demon?"
"You must be mistaking me for someone else," Margo states cautiously. Right. Do not argue with the fellow having a psychotic episode, especially if said fellow is armed, armored, and looks like he is ready to smite some windmills. The French accent does dull the threat factor, at least.
"Hey, hey, hey, let's not get carried away," Bull's voice is a mix of intimidation and cajoling. "You two know each other?"
Lancelot completely ignores Bull — which takes some doing. His hand shoots out with preternatural speed, and, had Margo not stepped out of his way at the last moment, would have closed around her throat. At this point, the table explodes in subtle but rapid reshuffling in response to the threat, but before Margo can further react, there is a muffled pop, like an exhaust boom — or distant thunder — and the aggressively minded Sir Lancelot incomprehensibly loses his balance and clatters to the floor. A few of the other patrons look in their direction, attracted by the commotion. Solas shifts in his chair, and Margo catches a whiff of ozone.
The knight springs back to his feet, but the fall seems to have jolted him out of whatever mental state was causing the hostility. His stance softens, but his gaze returns to Margo, with less anger than confusion.
"I... No. There can be no mistake. Unless..." He stands stock-still, his eyes peering into her like he is trying to drill a hole in her skull and take a peek inside. In the brighter light of the chandelier overhead, Margo suddenly notices details she had overlooked: the way his cheeks are hollowed out, the skin taut over the bones. His eye sockets are tinged with purple, and the whites of his eyes are bloodshot, as if he hasn't slept in days. Margo feels a sudden twinge of sympathy for the armored sod, because he genuinely looks at the end of his rope. "I am Michel de Chevin. And while you claim you do not know me, your likeness has appeared to me before." Margo blinks at this truly mystifying revelation. De Chevin stares at her with wild eyes. "I am on the trail of an ancient demon. And when I find him, I will kill him."
Margo starts. Oh, shit.
"What does Blondie have to do with demons, knight?" Bull's voice sounds a little unsettled.
"Nothing." Solas turns from Bull to Sir Lancelot the Underslept and Murderous. "You have clearly misrecognized my friend, stranger. But would you not join us? Perhaps then you would share your story? We always seek to gather interesting tales to recount in our travels."
The knight looks between Margo and Solas, clearly torn as to what to do.
"Ah… No. Forgive my intrusion. I… You are correct. I must have been confounded." He drifts away slowly, like a sleepwalker. A few paces away he turns, gives Margo one last lingering stare, and then seems to mobilize himself and purposefully walks to the other side of the tavern.
This chapter was brought to you the impossibility of accurate translation.
Next up: More Redcliffe shenanigans.