Uncensored version found at: *AO3*/works/28044180/chapters/84852286

TRIGGER WARNING! Suggestive content, dubious consent, an unfaithful behavior, and a self-harming behavior.

Leliana's assessment was correct. Nobles had become powerful enough to act in impunity. Pro-Gaspard nobles had made their Val Royeaux townhouses little hubs of conspiracies and political machinations, yet Celene could not banish them.

In any case, the Pro-Gaspard nobles were cautious in maintaining a façade of disinterest at the state of affairs. They congregated under an innocuous pretense of a private club. They bypassed most prominent nobles to elect a wealthy vintner, a commoner who actually worked for living, as their public leader. These measures effectively masked the political purpose of their group to allow them to remain in Val Royeaux and act boldly.

And act boldly they did. Because the vintner invited the Inquisitor to a ball thrown by the very private social club he was the leader of.

"The invitation is an obvious ploy to sway you to Gaspard's side of the conflict," noted Josephine as she tapped on her writing pad with her quill.

"Sooo… we ignore the invitation…?" asked Tharin, not entirely certain what the correct answer was.

"No. We cannot afford to snub the Pro-Gaspard faction either. We just need to signal impartiality consistently. Remaining neutral while the war plays out has been a boon to the Inquisition." Josephine pointed her quill squarely at Tharin's nose, just several feet away. "You must not, I repeat, not give an impression of leaning toward one side."

Tharin hummed, "It does seem fairly cynical to let the war drag on just so more nobles would throw their gold at us." He saw Cullen nod in agreement.

And Leliana intervened, "Ah, but that is the way of the Game. And you mustn't feel bad. After all, you are scheming to help common Orlesians in their everyday plight." She extended her arms, moving her left hand toward her right hand before clasping them together. "We take the gold and the grain from those who have and give to those without."

Josephine concluded, "My suggestion is to accept the invitation, have the Inquisitor and the Commander go. Leliana and I shall stay behind to keep up the appearance of impartiality. That way, these people cannot go around saying that the whole of the Inquisition has thrown its weight behind their cause."

The Ambassador lifted her left hand in a fist and cleared her throat. She took a sheaf of letters from the temporary war table and let her discerning eyes land on the Commander. "Onto the next item on the agenda, I have requests for information on your lineage from a few… interested parties at the hedge maze rush."

Cullen made a face as though his feet were caught in a quicksand. "Andraste preserve me. Feel free to use those requests as kindling."

Tharin's heart skipped a beat. He added quickly, "Yes. Haven't we had enough of this?"

Josephine cheerfully countered, "I am not suggesting what you think I am suggesting. But… these do offer intriguing opportunities."

Leliana laughed in that unsettling tone of hers and extended her hand. "I shall take them. I want to know who pines for our Commander. We can definitely use this to our advantage."

"This is not right…" mumbled Cullen.

The Spymaster clicked her tongue as she pocketed the sheaf of letters in her cloak. "Hush. Just look pretty."

The Pro-Gaspard nobles at the ball were quite different from what Cullen imagined Orlesians to be like. In fact, they were closer to Cullen than he would have liked to admit: military-minded, matter-of-fact, and pragmatic. This nominally being an exclusive private social club and whatnot, the attendees were skewed heavily toward the masculine, many of them chevaliers, which meant Cullen had no shortage of people to converse with. Quite the divergence from the palace events with smarmy, primping courtiers.

In fact, this was the first time since arriving in Val Royeaux that Cullen felt like himself. Even the ballroom was decorated sensibly, lacking the frivolous embellishments that made Cullen feel constantly at unease in the palace.

Cullen became so engrossed in a discussion with a cavalry officer about the importance of cuirassiers in offensive campaigns that he lost track of time. More importantly, he had lost track of the Inquisitor. How long had it been since he strayed from Tharin's side? With anxiety slowly rising, he looked around the club ballroom only to have a straggler follow him around.

An eager debutante walked closely behind him and asked, "Can I get you a drink, Commander Cullen?"

"No, thank you."

"Do you enjoy music?"

"Everyone enjoys music, my lady," said the Commander dismissively, his attention focused on locating Tharin. The anxiety was eclipsed by the feeling that he was letting Josephine and Leliana down by losing the Inquisitor among strangers.

Apparently still unfazed by the man's aloofness, the debutante stepped to the front and blocked his advance. Giving up on losing the woman, Cullen asked, "Do you know what the Inquisitor looks like?"

"Yes, I do," said the debutante, her tone still breathy with excitement.

"Do you see the Inquisitor anywhere?"

"Yes."

"Where?!" Cullen's eyes roved around helplessly.

The debutante pointed to behind Cullen's back. "Why, he's right there, talking to Baron de Arlesans."

Cullen whirled around to find the young man laughing and enjoying himself, at least outwardly. His heart began to calm instantly. He let a relieved laughter escape as he passed his hand over his chest and soughed.

It was then when the debutante's gloved hand extended to his forehead. She murmured wistfully, "You have such beautiful hair."

The touch was enough to grab Cullen's attention. In front of him stood a young woman. And young she was. She could not have been more than twenty, though Tharin was around the same age and young was not the word Cullen would have chosen to characterize him. The debutante, however, was so obviously young, in the sense that her upbringing allowed her to be carefree even in her adulthood. The lace glove brushed against his brow, and he felt the warmth of the soft, petite hand.

"Thank you," said the Commander ingenuously as he grasped and lowered her hand. It allowed him some time to carefully observe the debutante.

She was unarguably beautiful, but she could not dominate the attention of a room by merely existing. Her gown was unassuming as well, the austere tartan patterns reminiscent more of Ferelden or Kirkwall than her native Orlais.

Not that she would ever feel a compulsion to draw attention to herself, he imagined. Her large brown eyes seemed to be filled with untold intellect, and the full lips were closed in a self-assured smile. Should she desire so, she would not want for suitors.

"How may I address you?" Cullen inquired abruptly.

Common sense dictated that this forthright request for name without an intermediary present amounted to a social blunder, but Cullen did not think the young woman would care. Still, combined with the handholding, it seemed to have caught her off guard.

"R-Renée."

For the first time in a while, a genuine smile blossomed on Cullen's face. "Pleased to make your acquaintance, Lady Renée."

"You too, Commander." There was no more stammer as she looked straight into his eyes and inquired, "May I ask for a dance?"

The woman's boldness was disorienting. And even though Cullen despised dancing, he felt obliged. She did help him out when the situation was spiraling out of control. Cullen held up his forefinger and stated, "Let me just… make sure the Inquisitor is safe first."

Renée beamed. "Of course."

As Cullen walked away, he wondered whether he was getting himself into something troublesome. Renée was certainly charming, and he even liked her for her mettle. But was he giving her a wrong impression by dancing with her?

But then, he was merely being sociable. That was it. There was no need to ruminate.

By the time Cullen managed to satisfactorily assure himself that dancing with Renée was to advance the Inquisition's interest, he reached Tharin's side. He leaned in close and whispered, "Inquisitor, everything is all right, I presume?"

With his face frozen in a practiced smile, Tharin responded, "Yes, Commander. Can I help you with something?"

Cullen took a beat before stating the purpose of this interruption in the hobnobbing. "Uh… Yes. Would you mind terribly if I were to dance with one of the ladies?" He lifted his chin toward Renée. "I believe I owe Lady Renée a dance."

Tharin swiped a quick look at the debutante and took a deep breath. The young man spoke in a tone that betrayed absolutely no feeling whatsoever, "Go. Dance to your heart's content. I will still be here when you're done." The next moment, a shadow flitted across Tharin's visage as he muttered, "I suppose that's it then."

Cullen knitted his brow. "Tharin?"

But the smile on the Inquisitor's face had turned tight. "Go, Cul!" He patted Cullen's shoulder rather insistently, almost as though he were pushing, before turning back to talk to some mustachioed noble.

Perplexed by the Inquisitor's variegated reactions, Cullen nevertheless ambled over to the dance partners forming two columns in the middle of the room. As the music began, Cullen found his place in front of Renée, bowed lightly, and offered his right hand.

"Milady."

"Commander."

Renée gracefully bowed her head and took ahold of Cullen's hand. Her hand was as dainty as it could be but somehow burning hot.

Cullen almost missed the beat as the dance partners began to move in total harmony. The music lacked drumbeats, but it was still rhythmic. It was allemande, one of the dances Cullen had actually learned at Josephine's sternest command. But of course, barely having the handle on the basic steps was not likely to turn the man into a great dancer. The only thing he knew was that with allemande, he had to keep holding onto the hands of his dance partner. And Cullen did to his best ability.

Little hops, mincing, prancing, and twirls to top it all off. Pro-Gaspard and militarist this faction may be, but their dance was still Orlesian. Cullen felt ridiculous as though he were a showhorse forced to perform for an audience. It was a small favor that he was able to grasp the pattern and fall into a comfortable routine as the dance progressed.

As Renée twirled under Cullen's right arm, he caught a breath and asked, "You seemed to know me before I introduced myself. Have we met before, and I committed an unforgivable faux pas of not remembering you?"

"No, no, not at all." Their hands fused again, and Renée giggled. "I was at the hedge maze rush. I watched you and the Inquisitor win the rose for Her Royal Highness. You were heroic."

"Ah." The word heroic seemed unnecessarily grandiose to describe something so trivial as to winning a hedge maze rush. Besides, Cullen could not help but remember how angry Tharin looked as he lied to him once again. I adore you and respect you, insufficient truths that were his greatest lies. Feeling downhearted, Cullen susurrated, "Yes, that was… the most fortuitous outcome."

The music abruptly changed, and everyone began to circle now. Cullen followed suit after missing a beat.

Renée seemed undaunted by the switch as she whirled around Cullen. "I understand you are staying at the palace, but would it be at all possible for me to call on you?"

Cullen's focus was on his steps. Nonetheless, he knew he had to avoid any misunderstanding when it came to Renée's interest in him. "I am here to guard and protect the Inquisitor. I am far too busy to be receiving visitors."

Renée seemed to ponder before her face lit up again. Her brown eyes glowed from the candelabra around the ballroom. "Then… May I write you?"

A twirl, then little hops. Carefully choosing the words to avoid giving her a false hope and to prevent offending her all at the same time, Cullen explained, "If you would like, sure. The Inquisition will be returning to Skyhold soon, so if you would send the correspondence there…" The Commander contemplated for a moment before adding, "I shall try to do my best to give you replies in a timely manner. Since I am indeed very grateful for your assistance in locating the Inquisitor today."

The woman's long lashes fluttered. "That would be lovely, Commander Cullen."

The music's tempo slowed down noticeably, and all dance partners finally converged in close pairs. The Commander and the debutante were finally arm in arm. Melodious music continued to suffuse the ballroom as Renée rested her head on Cullen's chest, slowly but surely. Cullen heard a satisfied sigh emanate from the woman and leaned into the embrace despite himself.

Because it had been so long since he felt a touch like this. And Cullen, having experienced so many impassioned embraces from Tharin back at Haven, realized belatedly that he missed them.

And for a man as starved for affection as Cullen, this was enough. Even if it was some Orlesian debutante holding him close. Even if Tharin stood far, far away from him.

This had to be enough.

Today, Tharin learned that Duke Henri of Val Foret was an ambitious opportunist.

After the Pro-Gaspard faction's ball ended successfully with the Inquisitor maintaining strict impartiality, the Inquisition received an invitation to join Duke Henri's retinue at his hunting lodge in the outskirts of Val Royeaux. And it made Josephine animated.

The Ambassador explained that Henri was the de facto leader of those nobles who refused to throw their support one way or the other all throughout the Civil War. It helped that his demesne of Val Foret was wedged right in between Val Royeaux and Verchiel, the two strongholds of Celene and Gaspard.

But failing to pledge one's loyalty to either faction would hurt them eventually, for once a victor emerged, the undecideds would be deemed as valid a target for a purge as the actual enemies. Getting mixed up with the Inquisition was surely Henri's way of hedging the bet. And if his involvement with the Inquisition inflated his price for when he did decide to join a faction, so much the better.

Josephine then expounded on the Val Foret family history. Henri was never meant to be the duke, for he was the second son. Lord Eustace, his older brother and the first-born, became the duke when their father passed, but he followed soon after. The rumor was that Henri conspired with Lady Cerise, Eustace's miserable wife, to assassinate his brother and take his place.

"It's all very similar to how Emperor Florian was assassinated by Dowager Marquise Mantillon and Celene. Well, if we are to trust all the whispers in the streets of Val Royeaux, that is," finished Josephine.

Leliana interjected with hushed, heavy words, "I know him. He's a piece of work, but if we can get him to side with us, it would prove beneficial indeed."

And as always when it came to the matters relating to the Orlesian nobility, Cullen was skeptical. "What would we gain from entertaining this… duke? Shouldn't we focus our efforts on making the right impression to Princess Adelia?"

Josephine chortled. "Au contraire, Commander. We can and should multitask. Making Henri de Val Foret happy would open the wallets of the neutral nobles. And if my information is correct, which it is, the neutrals include nearly a third of Orlesian nobles."

"So once again, we return to the subject of gold."

The Ambassador put her left hand on her hip and wagged her right forefinger as she tsked. "What do you think feeds and clothes your soldiers, Commander? You really ought to be happy that the Inquisition is able to attract the attention of the right people. The people with the gold."

The muscles in Cullen's jaw were tense, Tharin could tell. No doubt he had some pointed things to throw at Josephine within him. Instead, Cullen took a deep breath and merely changed the subject. "But securing a hunting ground will be a nightmare. It is obviously different from securing the palace ground or a ballroom, which is already a defensible position. Everything will be out in the open, and the Inquisitor will be exposed."

Tharin complained, half-irked and half-teasing, "You do know I am not an invalid, right? I can take care of myself."

The Commander's face immediately became flushed. He stammered, "O-of course you can. But the elements will conspire against you in that condition."

And now, it was Josephine's turn to interrupt, "And the Inquisitor yet lives. With you by his side, I think he will be fine."

A gaping wound festered within the Inquisitor, inflamed by Cullen's confession in the hedge maze and a round of allemande with some comely Orlesian debutante. And from it emanated much darkness, which fanned the young man's desire to further exacerbate the Commander's overt irritation. So, Tharin rubbed his hands and let a magnanimous grin float on his visage. "Well, then, who are we to deny the duke the pleasure of our company? Tell Henri I would be delighted to attend his gay little party."

Josephine nodded as she scribbled something on her pad. "As you wish, Inquisitor."

Tharin took a quick glance at Cullen. The man's mouth was twisted in displeasure.

The day was sunny and beautiful, and Tharin was every bit the leader he was supposed to be.

Despite this being Tharin's first hunting party, he performed exceptionally well. His experience in the Vimmarks living as a hermit added up to rather remarkable proficiency with a bow, and he managed to catch the most game out of everyone. Not that he had a stiff competition. It was him against the noblemen who lounged about in their estates growing fat and lazy.

Henri appeared to be sufficiently impressed by the Inquisitor's performance, though Tharin did worry that he may have shown off too much. But if anyone was displeased by the Inquisitor's prowess, he did not mention it. Every noble circled around Tharin, fawning over him. How anyone in the Orlesian Court could remain clear-headed amid this much bootlicking, the Inquisitor would never understand.

But the older noblemen soon had their fill. Eventually, the party ran into an idyllic field near a calm pond. The noblemen decided to break and picnic there, which entailed having their elven servants lay out elaborate platters of finger food and little mugs of delightful alcoholic beverages that were inexplicably warm, while Tharin and a young man named Guillaume kept pushing forward, looking for more prey. And Cullen followed.

After fifteen minutes or so of additional scouting away from the nobles, Tharin determined that the hunting party had, in fact, hunted down all the animals in this patch of land. There wasn't even a peep of a birdsong in the crisp autumn air. The three men let their horses slow and sauntered through the tall, yellowing grasses.

Tharin turned to Guillaume and observed him for a bit. Blond, reedy, and impeccably attired, the man was obviously sheltered. Yet, through callowness shone effortless handsomeness borne of youth. But Tharin imagined that they were of the similar age. By the Maker, if the Inquisitor had the luxury of living as an Orlesian noble, he would look and feel that young too.

When the other man returned the gaze, Tharin cleared his throat and asked, "So, Guillaume, I hear you are the second son of Lord Henri?"

The young man answered in a thick Orlesian accent, "That is indeed correct, Lord Inquisitor."

"What do you do?"

A corner of Guillaume's lips rose in a good-natured smirk. "Ah, you mean, as a son with nothing to inherit, what are my options?"

"Oh, I did not mean to imply…" stammered Tharin, wondering how mad Josephine would have gotten for that gaffe if she were here.

Guillaume chuckled. "Please, do not worry, your worship. In a few months' time, I am to be married off to a rich merchant's daughter, safely ensconced in an opulent palace in the center of Val Royeaux."

The blitheness with which Guillaume explained his own situation, describing his life like an inanimate item to be sold and purchased, struck Tharin's heart. He croaked, "Is that… what you want?"

"Your worship will have to forgive my rudeness, but is espousing Princess Adelia what you want?" responded Guillaume too smoothly, his dark umber eyes boring into the Inquisitor. "It is true that you favor the company of men, is it not?"

Tharin heard Cullen harrumph, but he himself was at a loss for words. He stared at the other man's sly smile.

Guillaume stilled his horse, turned to face Tharin directly, and whispered in a tone just above the threshold for inaudibility, "I could teach you a few pointers on how to tiptoe around a marriage of convenience if you would like."

Maker, those absurdly deep umber eyes. "Like what?"

"For example, kissing your betrothed. You will find on your wedding night that all the hand kissing in the world did not prepare you for bona fide mouth-to-mouth, unfortunately."

Tharin played coy. "So… kissing Her Royal Highness would be very different from a hand-kiss?"

Guillaume dismounted and approached Tharin unhurriedly. Tharin watched as his heart drummed. The nobleman dared to place his hand on the Inquisitor's muscular thigh as he leaned forward. The spot seemed to burn. "Would you like me to show you?"

Tharin glanced at the Commander and found only a dour grimace. And in that moment, the Inquisitor found himself suddenly freed of prudence. The residue of attachment to Cullen turned sour. Feeling emboldened, Tharin reached out to caress Guillaume's cheek as he assented, "Of course, if it will please my beloved Adelia."

Cullen spoke severely, "Inquisitor, I cannot guarantee your safety unless you are within my sight at all times. Besides, I believe this is neither the time nor the place to indulge in… this."

This. Cullen meant Tharin's appetite for the unusual, the different. The thing that the Commander found so sickening. Suddenly, being as insufferable as possible seemed like such an attainable goal for the Inquisitor. He beckoned the Commander with his index finger and drawled, "Then join us. The more the merrier. If you can stomach the sight of two men fucking."

Cullen inhaled sharply. The man seemed frozen in place, neither approaching the two men nor dismounting. The Commander instead turned away after a while, his expression now curiously mournful. Tharin scoffed as he got off his mount. "Suit yourself."

Tharin clasped Guillaume's hand and made a beeline to a lone tree at the edge of the open field. It was not too far away. Cullen would hear them as they indulged in each other's company.

They were yet to round the tree completely when Tharin assaulted Guillaume's lips with his. He was vicious as he kissed the man, almost as though he were back in the training ground sparring with Cullen. In between ragged breaths, Guillaume still managed to be good-humored, "Goodness, this should please Her Royal Highness."

Instead of countering the witticism with his own, Tharin smashed his lips once again. Despite the ferocity, or because of it, Guillaume began to moan. Tharin felt the nobleman's throat ring with a guttural tone.

But the aggressive osculation was not enough. No, Tharin had planned to do much, much more, as he promised Cullen.

Guillaume's companionship was adequate. Not great, not bad. Mediocre.

Tharin was thirsty. It was once again that time of the day. Completely heedless of the satiated Orlesian now, the Inquisitor stood up and reached for a bulging pocket on his shoulder belt. He pulled out a little container that gleamed cyan. He released the lid with an unceremonious pop and tipped the vial over his mouth.

The shimmering poison descended his esophagus and mixed with the Orlesian seed in Tharin. And peace fell upon him. A flimsy piece of material to hide the loathsomeness of the Inquisitor's existence until the next dose.

After letting the last drop of the lyrium fall upon his tongue and feeling his heart calm as the thirst withered away, the Inquisitor threw the vial on the ground and crushed it. Guillaume was done dressing and fixing himself and was leaning against the tree watching Tharin. In a blink of an eye, the Inquisitor drove his powerful right forearm into Guillaume's neck and threatened in a low voice, "You breathe a word of this to another living being, I will sic the Nightingale of the Imperial Court on you."

Despite the chokehold, Guillaume chuckled, albeit in a strained tone. "Yes, Inquisitor. I should think your face will give you away before I do, however." With his hand trembling ever so slightly, he pointed to Tharin's face.

The Inquisitor lifted his other hand to feel a glob of something wet and sticky clinging onto his growing stubble. He knew it was Guillaume's spent seed, and it gave him a truly vile idea. Instead of wiping it away, he merely loosened the chokehold and proclaimed, "This is for the Commander's view."

Guillaume leaned forward, clutched his knees, and breathed in relief. After a few seconds, he looked up and quipped, "You maintain an interesting relationship with your subordinates."

"Not all. Just with the Commander."

With that, they returned to their horses and mounted them. Cullen was looking away, toward the west where the sun was setting. Despite the smoldering disc of light threatening to burn his eyes, the Commander's gaze did not waver, as though it were preferable to lose his sight than be confronted by the Inquisitor's indiscretion. Tharin would have believed if Cullen asserted that he had been looking away the entire time the two men had absconded away.

But Tharin wanted Cullen to witness, for him to be scandalized and offended.

"We are ready to depart, Commander," declared the Inquisitor in his authoritative voice.

"Yes, Inquisi–" Cullen turned to look. So predictably, his scarred face crumbled. "–tor."

Tharin knew his smirk was unnecessarily hurtful. But how else would he convey his self-satisfaction? With the sneer firmly entrenched in his countenance, Tharin watched Cullen ride ahead with his head down and his shoulders rounded before scrubbing the semen off using the sleeve of his expensive, tailored shirt.

You are not wanted, certainly not now. Tharin shook his head until it was cleared of any stray thought. And he felt truly free.

The Spymaster waited for the Inquisitor and the Commander at the palace gate. She held in her hand a dispatch from Scout Harding in Skyhold.

The night had descended upon the imperial capital, but it remained brilliant and vibrant. In fact, the city was like an oxymoronic mix of a diurnal herbivore and a nocturnal predator. In sunlight, everything was prim and proper. Nobles in starched clothes took constitutionals and visited each other to gossip about the most frivolous things that collectively added up to the Game. But in the darkness, the city's life became somehow even grander, even more theatrical.

Lit torches gracing every building in the Quartier d'or surrounding the palace accentuated the shadows on people's faces, those with less than innocent intentions. These were the people who were not important enough to be invited to watch the Empress wake up in the morning and take her supper. These were the people who conspired to bring down the personages invited to the palace. These were the people who would sell their family to get ahead, bed the right people to get ahead… do anything to get ahead in life.

They were so easy to figure out. Val Royeaux was an absurdly easy place for her.

Leliana let a hushed scoff escape before she heard a loud neigh. She turned and saw the two men on magnificent mounts heading toward her.

She watched them closely. There was some sort of a smug look about Tharin that she could not comprehend the provenance of, and the Commander looked like he lost an entire army in a battle. These two… Leliana was sure about most things, like what went on in Val Royeaux, but she was never too sure about what to do with these two men.

She approached the Inquisitor as he pulled on the reins to stop his horse and then stressed, "I expect you were on your best behavior?" She was only half-serious.

Tharin cocked his head before he drawled, "Something like that." He chuckled at his own answer before asking, "So, what was so urgent that you needed to meet us at the front gate?"

Leliana lifted her arm to pass the note. "Harding's received a message from Qunandar. Cassandra is already on her way to the Storm Coast."

Tharin took the note and read it over carefully. With his face losing the mischievous look of a man stuck in an extended adolescence to take on a serious expression befitting the title of the Inquisitor, Tharin declared, "I shall be on my way at once. Inform Josephine but tell the Empress only the bare minimum."

The Commander looked somewhat puzzled but resolute. The Spymaster nodded grimly.

Kirkwall was dreary in general, but the city put on even more somber atmosphere as autumn marched on toward winter.

Amid the darkness deepened by misty rain walked two men, one rotund and the other grizzled and old. The rotund man, clearly the leader, was in an austere but brand-new tunic with patterns currently fashionable in many Free Marcher cities. There was nary a speck of dust on it, as though the man had just stepped outside his own abode. The old man had a dingy dark green cloak on, with his face obscured by the hood. But the aura of unapproachability was diminished by the knapsack he clung onto protectively.

The two men climbed the alleyway on an incline until they arrived at an inn, which straddled Lowtown and Hightown. They opened the door and went in.

Inside was a sullen innkeeper. She was a temperamental biddy whose sole job was to be hospitable to the guests walking through the front door, and she failed miserably.

"What d'ya want?!" She yelled from the front across a lobby devoid of any other patrons.

Looking not at all demoralized at the screech, the apparent leader ambled up to the innkeeper and dropped a sovereign on the counter. "Room and board for the night. I trust this should be enough?"

The innkeeper looked placated somewhat, but her attitude was still unpleasant. She squawked at the men as she moved to exit the front to guide them, "No loud noises. The breakfast is served early and if you miss it, that's it. You check out before noon. Got it?"

The rotund man shrugged and nodded.

After the innkeeper guided the two to their room and slammed the door shut, the old man immediately put the knapsack on a bed next to a wardrobe and rummaged through it. When he pulled out a leather pouch, the room was instantly filled with metallic stench. The leader scrunched his face in disgust.

The old man opened the pouch, dipped two fingers in, and pulled out. His fingers were coated with some sort of bluish powder, which he promptly ingested. After he licked his fingers completely clean, he sighed in relief.

The rotund man grunted, "You ought to conserve that for the journey home."

With his pupils dilated, the old man slurred, "It's all right, emissary."

END NOTE

*Cackles evilly* I am sadistic.

Next up, to the Storm Coast for the Iron Bull, coming on October 10.

If you like this, please give Where the Waves Crest (波の上り詰める所) a try, which is nearing its conclusion - three chapters left!