FENRIS
"Manservant . . ." I grumble, as our group proceeds up the verdant, mountain path, leading to the Duke's wretched hunting grounds.
Anders snickers.
"Should be elfservant, if you think about it," Varric says.
I scowl at him, and he swiftly shrugs and looks away.
"It's only a cover." Tallis glances back at me, over her leather shoulder guard, as if that alone should be a comfort.
"I'd like to cover him with six feet," I retort.
And I mean it.
Servants. Slaves. It does not matter how you call it. That is all the humans in power will ever see elves to be: too low to the ground to stand as equals. Hawke being the rare exemption.
"Hm, I do not mind being called a manservant, so long as it's my duty is to serve such lovely celebrities." Zevran wiggles a playful eyebrow at Serena, seeming unperturbed by the insult, per usual.
"Well then, aren't we fortunate to have such handsome manservants along? Huh, Hawke? We get to see some candy and eat it, too!" She grins back at him, then me, her gaze and words full of provocative tease and double meaning.
My pulse flutters—quivers inside my chest, compelling me to gulp down an unintentionally held breath.
That was unexpected.
I thought out of us all, Serena would be most upset from the earlier interaction, considering her prior foul mood and general dislike of nobility. It is a relief to hear otherwise.
But by the strain on her lips, and the hint of emptiness glazing her weary, closed-off eyes, her heart is not all the way in it. Nor would I expect it to be. Up until this morning, merely getting a casual word out of her seemed nigh impossible. Forget a potential smile. Fake or forced as it may be.
Bah.
This dwelling and complaining over passing comments, from individuals who possess no meaning in our lives, is pointless.
We came here for a reason. To help Serena get her mind off things. Focusing on such typical affronts won't assist with this task. I need to pull myself together and help, like how the others are doing. I will be useful and pull my weight.
Yes, now is the time to prove myself. Now is the time for action.
"You weren't lying about having slain dragons before were you?" Tallis asks along our narrow, sloping trail, after just clearing a neighboring meadow of two dragons and a few dragonlings.
"How else would one defeat a blight?" Serena gifts a frigid, judgmental look over at the stranger. Her bitter tongue and mood, back to its prior irritated tactics.
"Fair." The red-head nods, her disposition still light, diplomatic, unfazed. "You had an army at the time, though, didn't you?"
"You think an army could fit atop Fort Drakon?"
"No. But they must've weakened it before it landed there, right?"
Serena lowers her head. A heavy gloom now befalls her, weighing on her already tense shoulders, spotted with fresh dragon and dragonling's blood. "If only." She sighs.
She inhales a deep breath through her mouth and looks up at the bright blue, cloudless sky. Her pause and accompanying sad, reflective expression creates a false chill in the air, muting the surrounding warm sunlight and refreshing scent of pine whistling on the wind, in favor of something darker. Insensible.
"The only reason the archdemon fell is thanks to one grey warden: Riordan," she continues. "He sacrificed his life to slice its wings, which is what brought it to the ground."
Zevran's lips tighten. Eyes harshen. As if perhaps lost in the associated painful memory as well.
"Were you close with him?" I ask, curious about the sudden change in them both, since it's unlike the Crow to show such obvious emotion.
"Hmm. We knew him for . . . what? A month?" She glimpses at Zevran, who merely nods once before going back to staring at the ground. "So, no. I wouldn't call any of us close. But he was honorable. One of the best of us all."
Her tone's coated with undeniable respect, but also a tinge of sorrow when speaking of the passed warden. The loss more than likely reminding her—connecting to her most recent one—which wasn't the intention.
"You don't usually open up about things like this." Hawke looks back at her, clear sympathy sparkling in his dark, brown gaze. As if he's been waiting for this moment. Hoping for it even. Perhaps to address the true reason for our being here.
Serena smiles lacklusterly at him. "Maybe it's because I know a certain someone would craft up even crazier stories about me, the more I reveal them?" She side-eyes Varric.
The dwarf grins and puts a jovial, gloved hand to his half-exposed, hairy chest. "You're beautiful, deadly, and you hangout with fantastic dwarves! It would a be a crime if I didn't talk about you!" he retorts.
Serena laughs, this time a true flicker of light and amusement entering unrestrainedly into her expression. "Thank you, Varric. You're sweet," she says. "Keep complimenting me like that, however, and I might decide to compete with Bianca for your affection."
"No offense, Twinkle Toes, but there's no competition." He waves his hands carefreely out in front of him. "I'm a monogamous man! There's only one girl capable of owning my heart." He pats his beloved crossbow, secure at his back, and Serena giggles quietly under her breath some more. The light-hearted nature we're accustomed to her presence returning like before, lifting the former gloomy atmosphere.
Our group continues down our sloped path, descending a few archaic, stone steps, a part of me hoping that this is a sign. That this improvement, however small, will continue, and perhaps Hawke and Zevran were right. That this is what she's needed all along: a more hands on method to cope. For it's not like I have such experience or knowledge in such matters to draw from.
To our right at the bottom of the steps stands two blank, stone blocks the size of gate-sized columns, framing an entry into another adjacent clearing.
"What's this?" Hawke peeks around the closest of them.
We look further in. At the far end of the grassy glade stands some dense shrubbery fenced off by lofty pines. A stone altar covered in barren bones rests at their feet, surrounded by a small patch of wild, pure white daisies. It's serene scenery seeming unnatural. A façade.
"That altar is very old. And creepy. I wouldn't touch it." Tallis steps back, her gut instincts matching mine.
"Well, now I have to touch it." Serena smirks at her, fellow, elven rogue. "You really don't understand how this works, do you?" She walks further beyond the opening.
"Ah! Serena!" Hawke holds an arm out to her, missing, but doesn't follow. "Aren't you two going to stop her?" He whirls toward Zevran and I.
Zevran crosses his arms. "You think it to be feasible?"
Hawke opens his mouth briefly, but quickly shuts it, seeming to reach the same vexing conclusion as the rest of us.
For as much as we all may hate it, we all know there is no stopping Serena. Warnings or perceptible risks disregarded.
"Was she always like this?" I ask Zevran, watching Serena glimpse around, side-to side, as she sneaks ever closer to the no-doubt cursed altar I'd rather drag her away from, if I didn't fear it'd spark potential violence or interfere with the other's planned coping methods.
"Always." Zevran smiles. And by the softness of his gaze while he watches her, just as accepting as myself, I can tell he's more than likely remembering their prior adventures in Ferelden with true, pensive fondness. Anders's neighboring stare beside him echoes that same tenderness.
A bit of jealousy pricks within me at that thought, at that comparison.
"I think . . . there's magic in this?" Serena speaks up, recapturing all of our attention again.
We march forward to join behind her.
Slowly, she reaches out to touch the altar's ancient surface.
A bright white light flashes. Blinding me. Making me stiffen. With it, a shrill zinging noise rings in my ears.
The light fades.
My hair rises at the back of my neck, sensing something very wrong tingling like unseen electricity crackling in the air.
I spin around to face its disquieting source.
A cloud of unholy, black smoke rises up from the earth between the clearing's two entry pillars. An arcane horror, cloaked in red and gold robes, a tall, pointy cap, and an amber sash across its bare, skeletonesque chest, emerges from its wisping depths. Its bejeweled, golden belt glistens in the morning sunlight.
Summoning magic between its black, overgrown fingernails, it seals off the area and calls undead spirits from identical smoke patches to charge our flanks.
"Well…. Shit," Serena whispers, as we all huddle together and ready our weapons.
The statement a perfect reflection of how I'm feeling about our questionable, confounding consoling attempts and frustrating situation.
ZEVRAN
"This is what you get for messing with things on a stuffy, Orlesian hunt," Anders huffs as he repositions Serena's arm again, mid-healing spell, to tend to a different slash across her right forearm. One of several unfortunate consequences for her free range exploration at the altar earlier, which we all paid a price for.
"I told you not to mess around with it!" Tallis snarks from the head of our walking party, beside the already healed Champion, who glimpses back as well. The survivor who suffered the worst beating.
Serena glares up at her, but winces under the mage's hovering touch again.
"Oh, but surely you must know that to be impossible?" I intervene, before she can respond. "The Hero of Ferelden did not accomplish what she did by always following orders." I give my wife a half, taunting smirk, hoping to goad another witty quip or two out of our dear, feisty warden, for her own self-interest.
Serena frowns at me, then sighs. "Just . . . focus on figuring out how to do that mating call," she directs at Tallis. "And you! Stop getting your feathers in twist!" She pulls away from and points at Anders. "Go play with your simir bird feather, or do your word games with Varric. See if you can convince him to help you with Gallard's IOU. Since you all are such rule followers yourselves, I'm sure you'll be needing your right ear to hear them barked at you."
The others and I chuckle at the jesting riposte, her sarcastic ribbing preferable to her heavy brooding, beyond measure.
This mission has already proven to more beneficial than I hoped. A few unexpected injuries and distasteful characters aside, she seems to be enjoying our outing. Tallis also adds a nice spice to the mix. The tempting minx's playful spunk is just the type of energy the grieving warden needs to elicit some of her own.
But there is something off about the charming rogue.
She knows more than she is letting on. That much I am certain.
I suppose playing dumb for now will at least allow for some interesting distractions.
How long we continue this act of hers, however, depends largely on her true motive. And at that time, we shall see if it warrants a strike. I have no qualms with biding my time, until then. Perhaps I prefer it. It makes this game of who's cat or mouse so delectably interesting.
"Just how long has this wyvern hunt been going on?" Hawke asks, more than likely naïve to our newfound companion's brewing betrayal. Such is the routine of his all too trusting, endearing character. A strength, I have decided, not a weakness.
"It's an annual tradition the Montforts began to keep the population down. They breed quickly," Tallis responds.
"Elves too. We're plucky that way," Fenris chimes.
"Very true, indeed," I agree, flashing him a mischievous half-smile. Which he expectedly ignores.
"Well, there's no annual elf hunt. Yet." Tallis says, and Serena rolls her eyes and snorts at that.
Hawke clears his throat, picking up on her declining temper, without our warning for once. "And the Orlesian nobility is only too happy to help out with this . . . tradition?"
"It's a game. The Montforts are close to the empress, so anything that pleases them is worth pursuing. Plus, you should really try the aquae lucidius. You'll be seeing purple dragons in the sky for days!" The way the she expresses it hints at having tested it herself at least once in her concealed past and having quite enjoyed it.
"Forty crowns a bottle on the black market!" Varric beams. "Not that I've . . . checked or anything."
I tilt my head at the quickly backpedaling dwarf. "Forty? That is daytime robbery, my stout, hairy friend! I would buy for no more than thirty."
"You speak as if from experience." Fenris glowers over at me, suspicion coating his deep, accusatory voice and narrowing gaze.
"But of course! It is an assassin's duty to be familiar with all kinds of poisons, no? Part of the job description, or so some may say."
"I don't suppose you also know how to make it?" Varric dares.
"Unfortunately, no. I am familiar with many potions. But that is not one of them."
"Thought as much." Varric mutters. "I'd be surprised if we were that fortunate."
I chuckle inwardly at the failed business attempt. The prospect interesting. Entertaining me. His savvy, laid-back business practices continuing to resonate me the more I spend time with him.
"I'd like to know who thought of making a drink from poison," Anders muses, interrupting the cheerful ponderings. "Was it an accident?"
"My woman's intuition tells me it must've been," Serena jokes with an engaged, tinkling laugh, sounding much more like herself, as our group passes another cluster of delightfully griping Orlesian nobles, huddled along the side of our path.
Beyond them, a shouting pairing rushes off on a trail to our right.
"And my intuition says that may be a lead worth following," I point at the couple, hopes of more opportunistic, distracting entertainment soon to follow, if only to maintain our warden's boosting emotional and social morale. With perhaps some worthy, future coin payoff from a wealthy Duke as well.
SERENA
"Watch it." Varric puts an arm out in front of Hawke, stopping us all from approaching the small cavern up ahead, that the two nobles we followed are peeping into. "Ghast hole."
"A what hole?" Hawke quirks a confused eyebrow at him.
"A scholar might call it something else, but they don't know their ghasts from a hole in the ground."
Anders chuckles at the terrible pun, which stuns me to mere blinking. "And they say I'm the monster."
"That one actually hurt," Fenris echoes, smirking at the dwarf.
"Agreed," I snicker, smiling at him, which he returns.
"Why do you bad-touch words like that?" Hawke shakes his head at Varric.
"It's a way to pass the time!" He shrugs, unabashedly unashamed by his favorite recreational habits.
I laugh and notice something small hop out of the cavern, jumping onto the closest hunched-over noble.
My breathing catches. It's a thin, green, shriveled looking creature with big, ice-blue eyes and a gaping maw full of sharp, yellow teeth. It stabs a spear through the noble's chest. Another of its kin soon leaping out, chasing the other noble as well.
The first turns to us with blood-thirsty enthusiasm, brimming with nimble, spirited movements. With an energetic, high-pitched cackle, it sprints toward us, prompting all of us to draw our weapons. Fenris quickly phases forward, slicing it across its chest in a blue blur, his lyrium markings alit, shining brighter than the sun.
More chittering, similar to the slain being's, pop up behind us. A whole slew of its kind exit out of two more distant holes, on opposite sides of the field.
Well, this just keeps getting better and better.
Our group splits up, running toward the different pits. As I get closer to the first, intent on taking down the second creature, who murdered the other unfortunate noble, the being spins around, facing me. It pulls out something tucked under the loincloth on the left of its waist.
A blowdart gun.
I gasp and tuck and roll off to the side as it brings it to its cracked lips, shooting a spike at my last location.
Heart pumping, racing, I use all my speed to close the distance between us, swiping my blade with as much force as I can muster at the vicious creature, before it can reload. Its blood fills my vision with a splash, the relief of its death immediately forgotten as another emerges from the cave behind me.
It shoots a dart at me as well.
This time I can't dodge it. I know it.
I throw up an instant barrier. Following the darts close collision, I will forth a spark of controlled chain lightning that thrums through my veins, projecting it outward, springing from one nearby enemy to the next—annihilating at least seven of the creatures, including two of Fenris's and Zevran's intended opponents.
"Watch out! Big-hat ghast!" Tallis shouts behind us, from by the central cavern.
"Big hats are never good!" I hear Hawke quip in a desperate, alarmed voice.
I look back at them and spy Hawke dodge-roll away from a magical blast cast by a golden masked variant of the attackers. Tallis then lands a swift stab into the back of the magic user. Another ghast runs up behind her.
Without hesitance, I thrust another bolt of electricity outward, sending the encroaching ghast flying backwards, into the dirt. The chain once again strikes out at unsuspecting neighbors, welcoming forth the battle's abrupt end and ensuing silence.
Everyone pants and scans arounds the bloodied field, my mana slowly ebbing with surprising, practiced finesse. The first sign of relieving progress since I've started experimenting with Anders on increasing, gradual techniques, upon learning my Dreamer origins. Its subsequent uplifting feeling beckoning forth a gratifying smile.
We all walk closer to Hawke and Tallis, along the central outskirts of the glen.
"Well, that was invigorating," Zevran says.
"What in Andraste's name were those?" Hawke pants, face as white as a sheet, sweat dripping down his glistening cheeks and forehead.
"Ghasts. Cave creatures. They don't come out on the surface much, however," Tallis answers.
"Maybe they were out gathering hunters?" Anders wisecracks.
I elbow him playfully in the side, and we both laugh.
"Just how many creatures live on this mountain?" Fenris slumps down on a nearby rock.
"Be thankful they're not high dragons," Hawke counters, glimpsing back at him.
Fenris hums, appearing to consider the notion. "Hmm. Good point."
Shaking his head, Hawke walks up to one of the nearby fallen ghasts and turns it over with the tip of his boot, cringing upon looking at its monstrous face. "Bloody things," he whispers.
And I whole-heartedly agree.
I can honestly say, I've seen darkspawn less creepy than ghasts. I've only heard of them, in a few warden reports I've read, but the rumors really don't do them justice. They basically resemble a genlock's nastier, mutated cousin.
Tallis returns from checking out the adjacent hole, where their magic pack leader came from. "I think that's the last of them. For now." She glimpses around at the rest of us.
"How many are there usually?" I ask, concerned by her clarification.
"A ghastling nest can often be a hundred or more. Just be grateful we're not underground."
I shudder at the suggestion. And here I thought I only had darkspawn, spiders, and deepstalkers hordes to worry about down there. Yet another reason to never return to the deep roads. Ever.
While the others and I continue to recompose ourselves and catch our breaths, after the battle, I notice Fenris reach behind his back.
He pulls out a couple darts there I hadn't seen before.
"Be careful!" I snap, racing forward to cover the exposed puncture wounds, making him flinch. "You can't just rip things out like that!"
He looks up at me through his long, white fringe.
"Zev! Do you think they're poisoned?" I ask, heart racing, just thinking of the horrid possibility, and the chance how if it's a terrible enough type, it might cause him to bleed out.
Zevran steps forward and takes one of the two darts from Fenris's grasp. Bringing it to his nose, he takes in a short whiff. "Hm. It is weak, but I have just the remedy. One moment." He digs one hand into his pocket, tossing the dart aside and pulling a small vial that he extends out to Fenris.
Fenris squints at it but takes it, downing the contents in one gulp reluctantly, his trust in him clearly grown from their start.
Zevran pulls out another. "Anyone else?" He holds it out in offering.
Hawke's the only other who needs to partake. Meanwhile, I keep pressure on Fenris's dart wounds. "Anders should heal this," I whisper, glimpsing up at him, knowing he'll outright refuse my first suggestion.
"It is not necessary," he grumbles as expected.
"Fenris." I grasp his shoulder, his green eyes widening, fixating on me with clear surprise. "Please."
His gaze holds stern a moment, then he sighs and nods, glaring up momentarily at an approaching Anders.
Anders slowly takes my hand's place to cast a healing spell across the wounds, which immediately makes Fenris go rigid.
"This is why we need to get you better armor. Not that I don't like the tight fit." I wink at him, hoping to alleviate the discomfort.
He raises an eyebrow and shakes his head at me.
"You're really one to talk," Hawke scoffs, balancing on one foot to scratch the back of his leg with his other. "Your dalish armor covers less than his."
"I've only worn my dalish armor up until now because this armor stands out more and would ruin my cover." I wave at the blue, flashy armor that cost a fortune to make sure Wade got it perfect. "But I guess I don't have to worry about that now . . ."
Everyone already knows. And news will undeniably spread soon across Thedas. Whether I like it or not.
I bite my lip, remembering all the problems I've been dreading, and trying to dismiss, that have led us to this moment. Including Marethari.
"Let us find this dragon . . . wyvern . . . whatever it is . . . and get this over with." Fenris rises to his feet the second Anders finishes his healing session.
"I couldn't have said so better myself."
For although we're alive and faring well now, there's one thing our recent experiences have reminded me: nothing lasts forever.
"You seem on edge, Twinkle Toes. You doing alright?" Varric asks not far from my side. The others subsequently looking at me as well.
"Splendid," I grumble, raking sluggish fingers through my hair.
I'm just in a forest, full of monsters, with a bunch of untrained Orlesian nobles, chasing a creature that hops between trees like an agile, stalking leopard and spits fatal poison. For which we do not have enough antidote on hand for anyone. While functioning on about two hours of sleep.
A truly lovely situation to find oneself in.
Really.
Exhaustion aches deep in my bones as we push our search onward through the forest's hunting grounds, around a reflective, narrow lake.
All this back in forth, from rescuing lost scholars shivering in their small clothes, to going back to the altar for the Lady of Skies hidden treasure, and discovering half-digested 'halla' that definitely aren't halla kills, is starting to get to me. Much longer of this ambling and I won't be able to hold any comment back. Diplomacy unfeasible.
I'm really in need of some good wine and rest stat . . .
I sigh heavily, desperate for the wish to become reality.
Something small run's up along our path's horizon.
I flinch and peer up at it.
It's a brown mabari.
"Look!" Tallis points at him. It turns around, taking a few steps away before glancing back at us again. "I think he wants us to follow him."
We hurry after the pup, who leads us into another dell. "Quiet. More ghast holes," Hawke warns, raising a hushing finger to his lips.
"Caves, technically," Tallis argues under her breath.
"Same difference."
Our footsteps light, and trying our best to keep the same distance from the three holes, scattered along the far outcroppings of the clearing, we follow the mabari beyond its borders, into a small gap hidden behind some distant trees. Another mabari lies at its center—breathing fast, its left side damp, reeking of something acidic, eyes unresponsive.
"Oh no... poor thing." Tallis crouches to check on him. She scans over his whole body, regarding the wet spot for a long, scrutinizing moment. "Wyvern poison." She stands. "I'm almost certain. Poor thing."
I clench my fists, feeling equally awful for the pup's pained state.
"Here's a use for that antidote we made." Hawke squats down low, lifting the small bit of antidote Zevran and I made from drakesvein, Andraste's mantle, and winterberry to its mouth. The pup doesn't even fight him on it. Just remains still. Out of it.
Watching the sight stirs a flashback from my first hours at Ostagar.
"What has you smiling like that?" Anders asks, catching me off guard.
I blink up at him and shake my head. "Nothing. Just takes me back," I say. "You remember Din'an, don't you?"
"Din'an?" Hawke glimpses back over his shoulder at me, softly petting his sick patient's head, while Anders nods, catching on.
"My mabari. He got the taint sickness right before the battle of Ostagar, while in the care of his prior loving owner. I gave him some herbs I found that helped cure him, saving him, so I was remembering that."
I grin as I recall him running up to me, wagging his tail, when Alistair, Morrigan, and I left Flemeth's hut. His reemergence at the conclusion of the devastating battle several days later a shock, however, heartwarming and welcome.
"Where is he now?" Varric squints my way.
"With Alistair." Tallis quirks an eyebrow at me, and I clear my throat. "I mean, King Alistair. I couldn't really take him with me when I . . . You know." I gesture with my head at Zevran and wave one hand in an awkward, rolling motion. "Too much of a risk."
But the separation killed me to do so. A heartache that still pangs, especially when seeing Hawke and Titan playing together.
"Hm. Din'an. That's an interesting name," Fenris hums. "What does it mean?"
"Literally? Death. Or place of death."
That earns a skeptical look from him and a quiet chuckle from Zevran and Anders. "You . . . You named your mabari . . . death?"
"It fit." I shrug.
To which I'm sure all of the fallen, taken down by his bite, or stench, would agree. Zevran being the most vocal on the stench part.
By now, though, he's probably less intimidating war hound and more pampered prince. That's how Alistair conveyed his care and changing attitude anyways, when asked during his last visit in Kirkwall. But after everything I've put him through, he deserves it. He shouldn't have to fight ever again.
The sick mabari's breathing stabilizes.
Standing up on all fours again, he circles around his waiting friend, who led us to him, seeming a lot better.
"Who's a cute puppy," Tallis coos, watching him. "I suppose we can't keep this one, can we? His owner is probably waiting back at camp."
The mabari barks, as if answering the claim, then runs off, friend at his side, returning back from whence we came. Tallis's comment inspiring other questions: is it possible Din'an and others are still waiting for me, from past or present sickness? And if true, how long will they continue to do so?
The internal questions, and their possible, nerve-wracking answers, haunt me as we resume our hunt—the overall sense of worry and fear mounting with the increase in screeching and wyvern tracks encroaching on our surroundings.
"Another one," Fenris calls out another massive pile of dung on the path ahead, that rivals the size of a crumbled person. Something I wish I'd never noticed.
"Ugh. Well, at least we're getting closer." Tallis cringes.
Hawke approaches it and kneels by its side. "Ugh. looking for clues," he whispers before reaching into the steaming, fly invested mass.
My jaw drops. It takes everything I have not to turn away and gag. Every ounce of fear lost to disgust.
"Ah, Hawke stepped in the poopy," Fenris remarks.
"Ugh! Until you wash that off, Hawke, I'm going to stay upwind," Varric insists.
"Mmm. Seconded." Zevran crinkles his nose.
"Couldn't you have just used a stick or something?" I cover my mouth and nostrils to try to block out the smell.
Hawke grimaces as he pulls something hard out in his hand.
"Oh, nug bones." Tallis takes a closer look at the filthy, removed bits. "I wonder if a nug call will help attract a wyvern?"
"You know a nug call?" Hawke squints up at her.
"You go elbow deep in wyvern shit and I'm the weird one?"
"How did you learn nug and wyvern calls?" I ask, eager to talk about anything besides Hawke diving into wyvern poop.
"Experience." Tallis shrugs. "I can make a lot of other noises, too."
"Is that . . . an innuendo of sorts?" I raise an eyebrow at her.
"Maybe." She smirks. "Maybe not."
"Oh, how you tease us so." I laugh, starting to enjoy these little harmless rebuttals of ours.
"We must have enough to bait a trap now," Hawke groans, shaking his dirtied glove out, dropping the bones.
"In the right spot, no doubt," Tallis agrees.
"Then let's get this show on the road!" I clap, still struggling not to look at our poop-covered leader. "Hawke, you . . . uh . . . may want to take a dip in the lake first." I point at the body of water beside us.
Hawke gawks at me, as if offended by the recommendation. But everyone else nods or mutters in agreement. Something that ties all of our wishes and pathways together. For now.
Author note: Apologies for the delay. This turned out to be more of a double chapter (length wise), so it needed some more time, and this is still a rushed version. The remaining chapters (for DA2) should be quicker. Only ~8 more before Inquisition!
