Chapter 2: Strangers in a Strange Land

The two slavers in the tavern led to three more in an upper room, which led to an interrogation that revealed the location of a camp just two miles up the coast near an abandoned sea-dock called the Hag Slip. Hawke had actually heard of the Hag Slip before but didn't recall whether or not Fenris had been present the night Isabela drunkenly related the tale of it and Fosse Grim. Apparently, years ago, what was now little more than a line of ruined underwater pylons had once been a bustling shipyard run by a terrifying old pirate called Fosse. Fosse, as the story went anyway, was a particularly notorious slave-trading buccaneer who used the secret wharf, which he claimed to have named after an especially awful ex-wife, as a safe hideaway for ships carrying recently stolen (read: kidnapped) "cargo." What he was then most well-known for was his favorite pastime, which involved walking up and down the gangway, inspecting the newest captives all the while playing strange, discordant, songs on his tarry black violin. In Isabela's version of the tale, some of the recently captured slaves would become so terrified by the songs and by Fosse's nigh zombie-like appearance that they would immediately drown themselves by leaping off the end of the pier in their chains as he passed. And, in this way, Fosse would weed out those he deemed "useless" or "too fragile" for servitude. It was a horrible story all around, really. Even the ending wasn't all that great.

The whole mess came to a crashing halt, again so it went, when Fosse became enamored by and then fell in love with one of the slaves offloaded at the Hag Slip by a rival freebooter. Rumor had it that this particular slave was exotic or unusual in some sense; either from some far-off land or in terms of some characteristic in their appearance but the legend was never especially clear on the particulars of this detail. In any case, when Fosse tried to claim said slave for his own by hiding her in a nearby cave, she apparently drowned him in the tide the very next night when he came to lay with her. In some versions of the story Hawke had heard, the slave in question was actually an elf-witch who had purposely appeared as a captive in order to enchant the grisly old pirate with the intent of murdering him as soon as she had him alone and doing away with his raiding once and for all. In other variations, the slave was a young alienage refugee who would eventually go on to lead a great revolt; though when and where changed as often as the re-tellings did. Either way, Hag Slip was almost immediately abandoned as a result and the story lived on among sailors and local fishermen who would swear over their pints of ale that the haunting songs of Fosse Grim's violin could still be heard lilting out of the sea-caves at night and that if one wasn't careful, his ghost would rush out to drown any hapless curiosity-seeker if they remained on the shores at high tide. Not bad, Hawke remembered thinking, for a sea shanty.

Fenris paused on the ridge of a rocky outcropping, the salt-air heavy on his tongue as he turned his face into the wind to taste it. His tense posture and wary gaze told Hawke that they had likely arrived at the suspected slave-camp, and that Fenris was keen on whatever it was that he saw on the far side of the moraine. Having felled five men already, Hawke wasn't sure how many more they were to expect at this site, so he was thankful that his companion had agreed to a stealthier approach to the problem than the earlier pub fight had been. It was all well and good for Fenris to go charging into battle when they'd had a company to support them but now, with only the two, they had to be more careful.

"What do you see?" Hawke whispered up from behind a lichen-encrusted boulder.

"It's down below." Fenris responded coolly. "Three tents. A central fire recently fueled. Two men around it and a third near a pack-horse."

"Any sign of the slave they mentioned?"

"None from here. Likely being kept in one of the tents, I'd imagine."

"Alright. So, what's the plan?"

"The man with the horse is clearly armed but the other two look to be simple tradesmen. I'll cross the ridge and engage the fighter from the other side. You'll have to take the two at the fire. I recall that you have a few things at your disposal which might be considered useful for crowd control."

Hawke chuckled. "Yeah, sounds about right."

In a blink, Fenris vanished into the hilly tussocks surrounding the small inlet; drawing his sword with barely a sound, his nearly-bare feet padding silently into the tall grass. Hawke sighed. Fenris was obviously of a mind to have it out with each and every one of these men before it was even noon.

The fight was short and brutal. The swordsman in the midst of checking the group's packs didn't even have time to draw his weapon before Fenris was on him, sinking his blade into the man's shoulder and fracturing both his collar bone and his clavicle in a single strike. His sword-arm now useless, the man could do little more than stagger backwards while shouting the alarm as Fenris closed on him with a snarl. Less than a few seconds later, the unknown human went down in a gout of blood, gurgling out his last as his elven aggressor silenced him with a well-aimed lunge to the throat.

Hawke made equally short work of the unaware tradesmen. Using the already well-stoked fire as the basis for his will-working, he conjured two burning and demonic-looking arms from the flames themselves and set them upon the two men in an instant. As they screamed in terror and pain from the horrific, bubbling, wounds inflicted by the spell, it ate away their flesh and then wrapped around their scorched bones; dragging them both into the center of the roaring ashes to immediately cremate along with the logs already piled high. It was one of the more vicious magics Hawke was privy to and, for that reason, he wasn't often inclined to use it even when situations had turned against them. Under normal circumstances, Hawke would likely have found the sickening dispatch of the two men cruel but their interrogation of the other three from earlier had done quite enough to extinguish his sympathies where these slave-traders were concerned.

"We stole one, just the one!" The blonde man had said. "Was just there, you know? Wandering around like he ain't had a care in the world! We gonna put him to some good use, some good profit, you know?"

Fenris has nearly slit the man's throat right then and there.

"Yeah!" Another of them had interjected. "Jes' a dumb lil' rabbit. But we na' gon' hurt 'em or nothing. Was gonna get us a couple more, see? Mate 'em together. You know how them elves breed, don'cha? Like bunnies!"

This man had clearly thought he was very funny. Fenris, however, had not found him funny. At all. He lost his tongue before he lost his life.

"That was your plan?" Hawke had engaged with the third; a scrawny underfed man with a noticeable overbite and several missing fingers. "Slave breeding?"

"It was their scheme!" He shrieked, pointing at what was, by then, the corpses of the other two. "Said they had a lead on getting some elf-slaves from the trade ships. Good quality ones. Rare colors and real healthy. Not like those alienage ones, all broken and sick all the time. Figured we could make a decent bit of coin for it. But we just got the one by chance. Found it on the road."

"Found…it?" Fenris seethed in return.

"No weapons, no traveling friends, no nothing. Put up a fight but, like, five on one you know? Gonna be such a pretty one with a little clean-up. Get it tamed good and right."

Hawke heard the growl that came from Fenris's direction but raised his hand to briefly stay him.

"And then, how exactly did you think you were all going to pull off this kind of ridiculous operation?"

The weaselly man shrugged. "Keep it small town for a while, I guess. Get some good product, something we could sell as, like, all artisanal, right? Then maybe try some of the Imperium trades in a year or two. Gotta get established first though. No one takes you seriously unless you got a reputation and a good name."

Hawke honestly felt like throwing up. The language was so inhuman, so casual; as though they were discussing heritage livestock but with even less regard for their well-being or what it meant to keep them. And the unthinking use of the slur 'rabbit' to refer to their current captive was the worst he could have picked if not for its commonality than its cruelty. At this point, Fenris had had enough and subsequently sent this last man to the same grave as his compatriots. Hawke didn't both stopping him again. They'd already ascertained that three more slavers remained, in a camp up the shore and besides, they would need to vacate the Pictish Pig rather quickly now, before the town guard came to investigate. They had then left immediately.

Hawke looked up as Fenris approached him through the camp, wiping his sword clean with a scrap of red and gold tunic he then tossed into the fire.

"That's the last of them. Finally. Now, we should find the captive and maybe see if there is anything here we can use before we're off."

"I quite agree. I think I've about had it with backwater slave entrepreneurs for the day. Honestly, Fenris, I don't know what else to say. This is beyond disgusting."

"You did not flinch from ending them. You have stayed to see it through. I could ask no more of you. But…I appreciate it, Hawke. I do."

It was a rare, genuine, smile of affection that crossed Fenris' features as he tentatively reached out to touch the mage's cheek before turning back to the mess that lay before them. Three tents, good quality and heavily stitched but with little to indicate what they might hold, and an overburdened pack-horse already glaring at them with impatient disdain. They decided to search the camp systematically and as a pair, on the off chance that something else unpleasant still lay somewhere in wait.

The first tent yielded little of interest beyond some possible supplies they might acquire, the second much the same: bedrolls, traveling packs, a break-down desk, and food. In the third and final tent, however, they finally found the captive they had been looking for.

Slender, pointed, ears, an angular face, and a slim build immediately belied an elf standing in profile, which didn't surprise Hawke in the least. What did surprise him though was his long, auburn, hair; left loose to his waist. Slaves were not usually permitted to keep their hair at such a length, since it would be difficult to care for and might interfere with their work. But it was extraordinarily lovely, Hawke thought; a delicate mix of vibrant umber browns and bright golden locks that flowed over his shoulders to the small of his back. Where the ends met in light curls, Hawke curiously noted that the last two inches or so were completely white, not unlike the snowy character of Fenris' hair. The bleed of color upwards from there then made Hawke wonder if this slave had not also undergone some similar kind of ritual alteration as Fenris had, though he did not perceive any other tattoos or brands on his face, neck, or hands. Not of lyrium, blood, ink, or anything else.

With their somewhat abrupt arrival through the front flap of the tent, the slave had also turned suddenly to look at them with a mixture of shock and alarm. Isabela had been right when she noted that elves had pretty eyes. Hawke quite agreed, though he had not said so out loud at the time. This elf was again similar to Fenris in that regard as well; with wide, almond-shaped eyes that shimmered in the dim light, but rather than the arresting green-gold of his lover, the mage was met with incredulous blue in the shades of a wild, shallow, sea.

He was also dressed rather oddly. Elves traditionally wore simple tunics and leggings without boots, even when otherwise outfitted with armor or weather-cowls. This elf wore a kind of long-coat; cut square at the shoulders, buttoned from his neck to his knees, tailored at his mid-section, and then left full and floating to his ankles. Nor did he appear to be wearing the typical leather leggings beneath it, as his small feet were simply bare and dusty from where Hawke could see them under the hem. The coat was not rough-spun, however, but was made of a fine, chocolate-brown, fabric that matched his features beautifully; with a light bit of embroidery around the sleeves and collar in the shape of feathers and ivy. If Hawke wasn't mistaken, he'd have said that this was the mark of a well-cultured and artistic people with great skill in weaving and stitching. Far too rich for the likes of a conventional elven refugee. On the other hand, where convention was unfortunately very clear, was in the set of bolt and loop chains that bound him: manacles fastened to both wrists, a third around his neck, and a fourth at his waist, all attached with lines of heavy, iron, links. But there was something else strange about him that Hawke couldn't quite put his finger on. Something in the way that he stood…or in the way that he looked…

"By the Maker…" Fenris breathed in stunned disbelief. "…he is…ashvani."

Hawke paused in his appraisal and stared back at him in confused silence. "He's a…what? Is that some kind of elven ethnicity or something?"

"Ashvani. Third gender. One who is neither male nor female."

Silence fell amongst them as Hawke attempted to parse this new dose of information.

"That's…. that's a thing!?"

Fenris glared over at his lover. For all of Hawke's education and extensive travel, there was so much about the world he seemed perpetually, some might even argue blissfully, unaware of.

"Yes." He replied. "While humans typically recognize two genders; man and woman, though this has not always been the case, elves traditionally have three. Other races have their own combinations. The Qunari have…a few."

"What?! Why have I never heard of this before?"

"Why would you have, I suppose." Fenris' tone made it a statement rather than a question. "They're rare now; extraordinarily so. And they don't generally advertise themselves when they do settle somewhere. It's not that hard, really."

"What do you mean, 'it's not that hard?'"

"In a man's clothes or armor, or what have you, an ashvani would be indistinguishable from any other male elf you might encounter. For all you know, you've met dozens of them. In fact, it was only when elves adopted the customs of humankind that our third gender even began to disappear. In Old Elvish, for example, the word for a male elf was el'ha, a female elf was called el'het, and then…there were the el'hasin. Neither male nor female, but of their own kind. The Dalish still recognize them in their reclamation of Late Elvish declensions: ash, male; asha, female; and ashvan. Hence the name."

This cursory explanation then resulted in an impromptu argument wherein Fenris and Hawke began to debate the specifics of how third, fourth, and among certain species, fifth, genders were understood. As they continued to argue further into distraction, however, the subject of their conversation decided to take the unobserved moment to find a seat on a nearby barrel, pile his chains onto his lap, and wait. Seeing as his two unforeseen liberators didn't seem inclined to do him immediate harm, it was probably better to let them get the initial bewilderment out of their systems.

"So, they're like…all mixed together?"

Fenris sighed heavily; not entirely sure how to explain the cultural complexities of elven gender and sexuality to a human who, from what he could tell, had survived every year of his life up until this point with a very specific understanding of how both of those things worked.

"The ashvani are born…female. No, wait, that's not going to help." He pondered for a moment longer before continuing. "Ashvani are usually male-bodied in an overall sense but reproduce as female."

Hawke peered at Fenris; a small wrinkle beginning to form over the bridge of his nose that told the other that his mind was hard at work…and failing at it.

"Look." Fenris offered, raising his hands up in a gesture of surrender. "What I am trying to tell you is that there was once a time when the ashvani were far more common than they are now but they haven't been widespread since probably before either of us were born. Most of them that I am even tangentially aware of are Dalish, or they travel with the Dalish even if they aren't. They are largely confined, thanks to the Tevinter Imperium, to the nomadic clans of the Frostback Mountains or to the last few elven communities that still live in isolation on the northernmost coasts. In ancient times, they were said to be gifts of the Fade, blessed with a deep affinity for magic. On a more practical level, the ashvani could be called upon to bear additional children into families experiencing unforeseen hardship or in the absence of suitable wives. They also acted as healers and oracles; a practice I think the Dalish have long been attempting to resurrect."

"So…he's Dalish?" Hawke tried lamely for a hit.

Finally, they both turned and looked at their literal captive audience, seated as he was just a few feet away on an oak cask, watching them intently.

"No." Fenris replied in a flat tone. "At least, he certainly doesn't look Dalish. He doesn't wear the vallaslin."

"I am not Dalish."

Seeing as it was the first time the two companions had heard the other elf speak, they remained attentive, in somewhat of a dumb silence.

"My people walk the caravans along the High Reaches near the Nocen Sea, through the Weathered Pass. Between Arlathan and the Donarks. We are called Ava'Darna but I imagine you would probably know us as the Elusivir. Elven gypsies, if I have my terms right."

"You're a long way from home." Hawke retorted.

"I know that."

Hawke turned back to Fenris. "Ok, so he's…whatever. Question is, what do we do with him now? Put him on a ship going north?"

"I'd rather you not." The younger elf interrupted. Fenris immediately appeared to scowl at him for reasons Hawke wasn't clear on. "I wish to go to Amaranthine. It is a city."

"Yes, I know that. But why?" Hawke again rejoined.

"That is my business."

Now it was Hawke's turn to scowl. For an elf, even an unusual one, he didn't talk much like one, had virtually no compliance in his demeanor, and seemed to demonstrate little concern for his currently bound predicament.

"But to answer your question from before, it's really quite simple. I do not have noticeable breasts and I look and sound male. Otherwise, I am female in the ways that I imagine concern you. Or, at least, that concerned my earlier captors."

"Shouldn't I be calling you she, then?" Hawke decided to ignore the pointed jab at his sensibilities for the time being.

"Would that make you feel better?"

"Uh…I…don't think…."

"It doesn't matter. Either is fine. Please just pick one and try to stay with it."

"How about your name then? Let's go with that. What's your name?"

"Nothing anyone ever uses, I'm afraid."

"Well, what have they been calling you?"

"Mariner. They've been calling me Mariner."