By the time Hawke was mildly staggering back to Gamlen's house (if it could be called that), the skies were lightening and the stars were fading. She hadn't intended to stay so long, but she was pleased that she did. The guards were coming out on thicker patrols, so she was less worried about encountering any miscreants on her wobbly amble home. Fenris had expressed discomfort with letting her leave by herself, but she assured him that she would be fine. As she passed the Hanged Man, she noticed a clustered group hanging around the nearby alley. With a long-suffering sigh, she pretended to draw her cloak tighter, slipping her daggers out of their sheaths and onto her hips. As predicted, they moved to flank her, so she waited for them to close formation.

"Should you really be out at this hour, serah?"

"You might meet someone who ain't as nice as us."

"It's better if we get your stuff, keep it from going to them lowlifes."

She gave them her most dazzling smile.

"Well, when you put it that way…" she mused, glancing at the outstretched hands and slipping one of hers into her pocket,

"...how can I refuse?"

And she closed her eyes and threw down a smoke bomb.

Everything happened rather quickly after that.

She reached for the largest one's meaty arm and, dragging him down to her, slit his throat to the bone, blood noisily splattering on the pavement. There were only five, and that one really counted as more than one. Hearing angry coughing advancing behind her, she thrust one of her daggers backward, sinking it into the shoulder of another thug. By then, the smoke had largely cleared, and she leaped away from the two charging men.

Hold on, her dizzy brain thought. Five minus two-

There was a clang and suddenly she was seeing quadruple instead of double.

Since when do robbers carry shields? Shouldn't they stick to offensive weapons?

She had fallen forward, and a well-armored arm was around her neck, dragging her back. She didn't try to claw at what was blocking her airway, and used her remaining sense to stab her assailant in the kidney. He didn't like that much. Two (though it looked like eight now) still remained, and Hawke felt rather sick to her stomach. She backed up into the alley wall, flipping the dagger that wasn't embedded in the dead thug's abdomen, and prepared to throw, trying to force her eyes to focus on the blurry shapes before her.

They sank to their knees, then fell to the ground.

Hawke looked at the dagger in her hand, confused.

Then she looked up to see a heavily jeweled, olive-skinned hand in her face.

"Walk of shame, Hawke? I knew I was rubbing off on you!"

Hawke took the proffered hand and was pulled up, looking into Isabela's beaming face.

"More like walk of stupidity. I forget how much of a lightweight I am," she groaned. Isabela examined the back of Hawke's head. She made a face, then linked their arms.

"It just so happens I was on my way to see one of our favorite apostates when I found my damsel in distress," she said, kicking a corpse out of their way. "I have a little...problem he's helping me with. Dockworkers these days," she sniffed.

"Bela, that may be one of your best ideas yet," Hawke sighed. "Hopefully he can do that hangover thing, too." Together they trudged to Darktown, Hawke leaning heavily on Isabela, who laughed and held her hair every time she had to stop and vomit.

"Sweet Maker, what have the two of you been doing?"

"Making poor decisions, mostly," winced Hawke, as Isabela helped her to a cot. The clinic was empty save for Anders, who had been scribbling furiously when they entered. His manifesto, no doubt. "Did you know Lowtown thugs are using shields now?" He snorted.

"Can you blame them when they pick on people like you?" He went around Isabela to where Hawke sat, swinging her legs feebly. "This is nasty. How many times must I beg you to stop picking fights when you're drunk?"

"At least once more, it seems." He dabbed at her scalp with a wet rag, then moved his hand to gently cover the wound. With a slight green glow and a feeling like her skull was dipped in warm water, the flesh knit together and the pain dulled to nothing. "That should take care of the hangover, too," he murmured, a scolding look on his face. Hawke laid down on the cot and exhaled, relief washing over her.

"Anders, what would I do without you?"

"Die drunk in a ditch, probably," he answered, face softening. "And I assume you need the usual, Isabela?"

"You really are a mage. Did Justice figure that one out?" Isabela cackled. Anders rolled his eyes and started to make her a potion. "I almost forgot to ask, Hawke-what sins did you commit tonight?" asked Isabela with a wink, climbing to sit cross-legged on Hawke's cot. Hawke stretched her legs into Isabela's lap.

"Nothing too sordid, I assure you. I was checking to see whether the elf we helped a while back was still interested in joining our misadventures," she said. Anders looked up.

"The one who called me a viper? Oh, I can't wait to see him again," he scoffed. Hawke was quiet for a moment.

"He's undergone some horrible things, Anders. I'm not sure you would disagree with him, were you in his position."

Anders huffed as he capped and shook the bottle of potion. "I hardly think I could ever write off all mages, especially with the adversity-" Hawke held up her hand.

"I'm not saying he's right, but if you want to change his mind, you're going to have to be the example that all mages aren't like the ones he's known." She rubbed her temples. "We've got to double down on ensuring Merrill has stopped using blood magic." Anders sighed his approval, taking the potion to Isabela, who threw it back like a shot.

"That's not really how you're supposed to-" he began to say, until Isabela threw her arms around him and kissed him on the cheek.

"You make me burn in all the right ways, kitten," she purred.

Hawke and Anders both groaned.

As Isabela sauntered out (no doubt to participate in activities that would make her need another potion), Hawke sat up on the cot, bringing herself face to face with Anders. He had an odd look on his face, like he wanted to say something he shouldn't. He slipped behind her and took out her ruined plait, combing it out with his fingers and braiding it neatly. She leaned back into his touch. He knew her weakness.

"Thank you," she said, with a half grin. He patted her on the head and began putting out the lamps in the clinic, as the sun had risen.

"Hawke," he started.

"What is it?"

"He hasn't changed your mind, has he? You don't believe that all mages are the same?" She went over and helped him put out the rest of the lamps. "Anders, you're hardly a Tevinter magister. You're one of my best friends. And we both know that there are evil mages out there, but there are just as many good ones. Like you." She took his hands in hers. "Fenris isn't going to make you into something you're not. I really think we can help him-and he can definitely help us."

"All right," he said.

"We're training this week, maybe tomorrow-oh shit-today," she groaned, looking up through the holes in the ceiling to the sky. "You'll be there?"

"Only if you're buying."

"I'm sure I can get Varric to. Ugh, don't let me have anymore tonight. No, this week. Maybe ever."

He hugged her and she left with a light wave. He sighed, then began preparing another potion for Isabela. He'd definitely need it.