FENRIS
A dour gloom lingers over Sundermount. Intensified by the darkness of night.
Hawke took the others back to Kirkwall shortly after the Dalish's welcome ran cold, while I have opted to stay behind to search for Serena and Zevran, with no success.
I follow what I assume to be their tracks again to a sand bank overlooking the Wounded Coast. An orange light flickers around its hillside corner.
Rounding it, I at last spy a figure, crouched low to the ground.
It is Serena.
She is curled up into a ball—head bowed low, face tight against her knees. Her whole body angled toward the distant, darkened sea. A small campfire crackles behind her. Its watchful caretaker, Zevran, sits quietly alongside its opposite flank. He glimpses at me, then goes back to staring absently at the blaze. Mind far off. Elsewhere.
His talks must not have gone well.
Not that I expected any different. There is not much one can say, in situations such as these.
"I don't know what to say, but I am here." I approach Serena.
She jolts, but does not look up at me. Merely sits there. Stiller than death. A lonesome statue, carved into the shadows, lost in space and time.
Stiff tension seeps deep into my bones. Urging me to do . . . something. Anything amid this silence.
Anxious for relief, I clench and unclench my fists.
"This is my fault," Serena whispers.
She slowly lifts her head.
Wet tear streaks glisten along her pale cheeks.
"I should've stopped Merrill. Stopped all of this. Even by force, if necessary. But I didn't. And now look." She chuckles, self-depreciatingly, the light dimming from her already weary, empty gaze. "Marethari's dead . . . The Keeper . . . She's dead."
I gulp. "Yes. I'm sorry."
"Why are you sorry?" Serena tilts her head at me. "This isn't your fault."
"Neither is it yours."
Serena freezes.
For a moment, she stares blankly, lowering her focus slowly to the sand before her.
Then, she bites her lip. Her brow furrows. Tears well up in her eyes, and she buries her face in her knees again.
I walk over and sit beside her as a new sob wracks through her. Uncertain of how else to console her.
HAWKE
"How is she?" I hound Zevran, the second we step out of the mansion.
I'd come to visit, after not seeing the trio the past few days—since he and Fenris insisted on not straying too far, in case they're needed. But he quickly suggested we speak outside. Leaving no opening but for me to comply.
"Not well." Zevran sighs, slumping against the nearby mansion wall, head hung low, arms crossed. "She locks herself up in her room all day, refusing to eat, to drink, to sleep, much less look at or speak with anyone."
I purse my lips.
A bitter guilt swells within my core.
I knew it was bad the moment I saw him, rushing down the mansion stairs to greet me. The uncharacteristic dark circles under his eyes assured me as much. His hurried, almost protective, movements only more so.
But this . . . This is worse than I imagined.
"What can we do?" I ask, desperate to make this right.
After all, I'm partly to blame for causing all this. If I'd just told Merrill no, agreed to destroy the mirror with Serena in the first place, maybe none of this would have happened. The Keeper might still be alive.
"We need a distraction," Zevran hums, staring at me. "That is the only way she has ever been able to cope with such things. It is in her nature."
"You think she needs to 'get away'?" I quirk an eyebrow at him.
Zevran nods. "Yes. But where to remains the bigger problem. She will not simply come, unless it is a task of upmost urgency, requiring her assistance."
I pause to consider.
Something urgent, that also demands her aid . . .
I recall the elven woman Varric, Isabela, Anders, and I met in a Crow ambush at the Hightown market a couple days ago. Tallis, I think her name was. Her task could work, but . . .
"I . . . might have something," I confess, my gut squirming at the mere thought of suggesting it.
"Oh?" Zevran perks up. A hopeful curiosity glimmers in his exhausted, golden eyes. "Do tell."
His hope only makes the doubt worse.
"It may be a long shot, but it's the best we've got." I nervously rub the back of my neck.
Zevran smirks. "You leave the worrying over the convincing to me, my fine, rugged friend. All you need to do is provide the specifics."
SERENA
Theft.
Theft of a jewel, from a Duke's impregnable fortress, guarded by an army of Orlesian chevaliers, in the middle of a monster-invested mountain range.
How and why did I agree to this again?
Oh, that's right.
I scowl up from the dirt path, ascending in front of me, choosing to fixate on Hawke . . . and this . . . red-headed Tallis . . . person.
Zevran told me Hawke might be executed for treason, if this mission doesn't work out. Although why he insists on trying for this stranger, I have no idea.
Blast them to the Void.
I glimpse over at Zevran. He, Fenris, Varric, and Anders are all quietly watching me from the corner of their eyes, but quickly look away, pretending they're not.
Fenedhis, why can't they just leave me alone?
I know they're worried, but I'm not a plant! Although, Varric's compared me to such. I don't need sunlight. I don't need more food or water. I just need peace and quiet. And going to an Orlesian party is the exact opposite of that.
Who's bright idea was that anyways?
How is sending me into a den full of snakes, where I'm forced to put on a fake mask for everything, supposed to make me feel any better?
And all while we're trying to steal something, too?
Which may or may not cause a political incident?
Brilliant.
Bloody brilliant, the lot of them.
"We're almost there. Remember your roles," Tallis whispers to us, her wide, green eyes drifting towards me.
Roles?
Oh, yes. How could I forget?
I'm the official Hero of Ferelden for this splendid plot again.
The face of the heroes that saved Thedas from the blight. A Grey Warden, cursed by the taint, and secret mage and Dalish warrior, surrounded by a bunch of magic-elf-hating shemlen, feigning not to take offense by my very sight.
Gods, I hate this.
I hate all of this.
The fakeness.
The old warden, drakeskin armor clinging to my body like a second skin.
I just want to be myself.
Serena.
Away from everything. Everyone.
Why can't the others understand or accept that?
The fortress's towering, graystone walls come into view up ahead, accompanied by the sound of distant voices.
I scan over it all.
A bunch of outlandishly dressed, armored nobles stand gathered in front of the fortress's massive front gate, chatting. Or more than likely, boot-licking. Two giant, golden lion statues sit atop the adjacent rooftops, matching the site's overall excessive theme, expected from Orlesian nobles.
Upon nearing the jabbering group, a darker skinned man with corn rows and black, elaborate, facial tattoos stands between us and the others.
Hawke stops before him, and the rest of us follow suit. "Lovely day for a hunt, don't you agree?" he says. "Very . . . outdoorsy." He inhales a deep breath of the crisp, pine air for added exaggerative effect.
The man glares Hawke down.
"Ah, the Champion of Kirkwall!" One of the noble's calls out to us from beside the gate. I immediately recognize him to be Duke Prosper.
Ugh, this slimy, two-faced bastard again.
Last I saw of him was my formal welcoming banquet in Kirkwall a little over a month ago, right after the magister's attack. He and his son doted on me and Hawke the entire party. His son even had the audacity of complimenting me on not being nearly as much as a savage as my other elven counterparts. All while still exhibiting obvious disdain and repulsion in his eyes.
If I could avoid it, I wouldn't touch either of them with an eight-foot sword.
But it's not like many other shems are better. Hopefully none try to at least grab my ass for this excursion. I don't have the patience for any of that tonight, after this early, exhaustive trek.
Duke Prosper struts right up to us, donning a gold-inlayed, black helmet, complete with some kind of red, spotted cloth protruding from its top. "Oh, and the Hero of Ferelden, as well! These are honored guests." He smiles at me, directing the last comment at the tattooed man.
Our 'greeter' steps back behind Prosper, allowing our formal entrance, onto the grounds.
"Please excuse Cahir." Prosper chuckles. "A polite bodyguard is a contradiction in terms, or so I am told."
"I must admit I'm a bit surprised. I didn't expect to see a chasind here." Hawke blinks at Cahir. Who is still frowning.
"Oh yes. You are Fereldan, aren't you? You would know of his people."
The way Prosper says 'people' makes me want to openly gag, but I by some miracle contain myself.
Same attitude as his son with elves.
Now I know where he gets it from.
"Yes, they traded in Lothering sometimes. My family never had a problem with them." Hawke nods, seeming oblivious. Whether truthfully or by choice could be a fifty-fifty chance.
"See that, Cahir? Now you have someone to speak to!" Prosper glances back at him, half-heartedly. "He's so very chatty. Let me tell you."
"Oh, yes. I'm certain," I grumble, crossing my arms.
Prosper pauses and focuses on Tallis."And who is this lovely specimen?" he asks, a sickening, admiring tone coating his irritating, accented voice.
"You flatter me, your grace." Tallis simpers at him. Her fakeness coming off even smoother than his.
Creators, much more of this and I'm not going to be able to stop myself from rolling my aching eyes.
Prosper glimpses over the rest of our group, grinning at her response. "And I see you've both brought a manservant or two, already armed and armored. Wonderful!" He puts his hands on hips. "I must say, your presence is a surprise. When we spoke at the banquet, you both seemed . . . uninterested when I mentioned our hunt."
"It's a favorite past time of mine to fight things and kill them actually." Hawke smirks.
Prosper throws his head back with a loud laugh. "So I hear! At any rate, I won't keep you from the hunt. Wouldn't want you to fall behind the others, yes?"
"Right. I don't think I've ever encountered a wyvern before, though." Hawke scratches at his beard, his earlier confident stance and expression waning, tinging with a bit of uncertainty.
"And why would you?" Prosper cranes his neck at him, condescendingly. "They are exceptional beasts. Magnificent cousins to the mighty dragon!"
He leans forward, being careful to look both Hawke and I in the eyes, directly.
"My only advice: beware their poison. It's the deadliest thing about them. As well as the most valuable."
"Their poison is valuable?" Hawke raises an eyebrow at me.
"Indeed." Prosper points at him. "From it can be brewed aquae lucidius, a libation adored even by the empress herself."
"You think she'd be against drinking poison, on principle," Varric scoffs behind us.
A fine point for a ruler I'd typically agree with, if she wasn't Orlesian.
"Her Imperial Majesty is many things, 'careful' not being one of them," Prosper retorts. And from the way he says it, I can't tell if he admires or disfavors her for it. My guess: it's a mix of both.
"The nobility feasts upon poison. How appropriate," Fenris mutters.
"At least it's not darkspawn," I add.
Then they'd be tainted in more ways than one.
Prosper leers at me. "Quite right," he says. "But here you are wasting valuable time on talk and questions. Do you wish the others to beat you to the prize?"
"They can use the head start. That way there's no complaints on us working together." I tilt my head towards Hawke.
"The sooner we get to the celebration, though, the happier I'll be," Hawke beams. Still somehow all charm, when I'm one misdirected breath from calling it quits.
"Oh, I quite agree." Prosper echoes. "The festivities cannot come soon enough. Good luck to you, my lord, my lady. Remember: fortune favors the bold." He glances at me, then finally heads back toward the gate.
"I guess this means we're going on a hunt," Tallis sighs the second he and Cahir are out of hearing distance.
"And here I am without my feathered cap and team of basset hounds!" Hawke grins.
Tallis gives him a cross frown. One I'd mimic, if I had the energy to do so. "Act like any other hunter for now," she says, "but don't get too confident. These things are related to dragons."
"Kissing cousins related? Or red-headed step-child related?" Hawke jokes, appearing on a roll today.
"Does it matter?" I side-eye him. A bit tired of his antics by now. "It's not like we haven't killed dragons before."
Among other things.
Tallis nods to me at that. "The important part is the celebration the duke will hold afterwards. In the keep. That's our way in," she says.
"Of course." I huff. "Let's just get this over with . . . By the dread wolf, I really hate nobles."
