Chapter 6

Fenris arrived back at the boarding house out of breath, sweat soaking through his undershirt and probably the padding of his armour. He rushed past the counter where Maresi usually sat, dashed up to his room, and, after unlocking it, vomited violently into the wash basin that was… on his cot, strangely. He sat up, wiping his mouth. The majority of his belongings were scattered on his floor. Of all the nights to get robbed, he thought, groaning, but quickly discovered that his more valuable possessions, the leathers and the little bit of coin he had stored away, were still intact. However, though the spread of notes and documents on his little tables had at first seemingly remained untouched, upon second glance, he realized that a few choice parchments were missing. Namely, those mentioning the Blind Men and the Aurum Company.

His heart dropped.

Surely news of his betrayal could not have traveled so quickly as to allow Blind Men agents to reach his home before he did? Perhaps the mage, Riann, had had an inkling of suspicion about him from the start and had reported him as soon as he had lagged behind on the mission? Icy fear was starting to spread from the top of his head and down his back. He stared blankly ahead of him, into the now soiled wash basin, trying to remember who exactly of the mercenaries had known where he lived.

It didn't matter, he realized. Undoubtedly, they all knew now.

He began sweeping his belongings into the well-worn rucksack as he tried to go through his now well-rehearsed escape routine, but images of the woman he had put out of her misery in the basement of the College kept flashing before his eyes. A dull, familiar rage reawakened in his gut, joining the dread prickling his skin, and he felt its pressure starting to build behind his eyes as he looked back at the room. It was a noose waiting for the rope to drop. He had to go, now.

With a loud thud onto the cobblestone and a roaring in his ears, Fenris vaulted out the window onto the street and headed north, his footsteps tracing an escape route he had mapped out a few weeks after arriving in Cumberland. There would be no fortuitous Isabela to carry him away this time. The Old Yard quickly blended into the elven alienage, which, though no walls separated it from the rest of the city, was marked by the presence of dramatically shabbier houses. Rushing past the enormous vhenadahl in the alienage's main square, Fenris met the western wall of the city at the edge of the alienage. Here, the squalor was poignant; wooden walls of houses leaned shakily against one another, while others were blackened with old fires. He followed the wall north to where he knew was the rarely used and therefore poorly guarded northwestern gate of the city.

Peeking out from behind the corner of a dilapidated building close to the gate, he took a few brief glances at the guards. The wooden portcullis was lowered. A small door on the right of it was closed, but seemingly not locked, as Fenris could not hear keys jingling on the waistband of the guard that walked through it. She joined a pair of men stood that on the interior side of the gate. He glanced around. His eyes met a rusting watering can perched on a windowsill next to some dying, forlorn plants. Perfect, he thought, and looking back the way he came along the wall, he hurled the metal can as hard as he could in that direction. It hit the ground with a clatter that echoed through the street. Pressing himself flat against the wall, he waited for the sound of armoured boots to fill the alley. Two guards soon passed him, calling back to their companion to await their return. The third guard in question peered after them down the alley, the light of his torch illuminating the cobblestone instead of the gate. He unsheathed Felissa's dagger.

Jogging away from the wall and keeping close to the dilapidated apartments, he rounded the corner and walked right behind the third guard. The armoured man was too busy looking half-interestedly after his companions to notice the slight shimmer in the air of Fenris' fade-phased form.

The door was unlocked, as he had guessed, and the single guard that greeted him on the other side was quickly dispatched by a sharp blow of the pommel of his dagger to the back of the head. Despite the dull rage filling his stomach, these guards had done nothing to deserve death as a punishment, and Fenris left him behind, dazed and slumped against the wall.

This road joined with the Imperial Highway a few miles out from the gate, and from there, he could follow it a hundred miles to Nevarra City. From there… he didn't know.

Shoulders hunched, Fenris wrapped his cloak tighter around him to cover the glint of plate mail in the moonlight, lest he catch the attention of the guards atop the northwestern wall. As his steps widened the distance between him and body of the tortured woman, now undoubtedly in flames, along with Pascal Anaxas' destroyed laboratory, acute exhaustion eventually displaced the blaze of anger in his stomach.

He pressed on through the night. By the early afternoon, Fenris had reached a small town, nestled between the Imperial Highway and a dense forest. He flinched every time he recalled the look in the young woman's red eyes. He was intimately familiar with that look. The hateful bitch Hadriana had surely seen it in his own eyes many times, when death became preferable to life under her thumb. Danarius, too, though the punishment for appearing anything but cheerfully subservient in his presence had been dire. Who had the woman been, other than a test subject? Did she have a family, a lover, perhaps, hopelessly awaiting her return?

He had given her what he had always wanted, when days were darker, and escape seemed impossible. He hoped he had done the right thing. Hawke would have tried to heal her or dragged her from the College on her back. Hawke had always tried to save everyone she could. He had always accused her of being too much of an optimist.

To distract himself from the tears welling in his eyes, Fenris turned his mind to the other prisoners, and the haughty elven mage who had led them to their presumed freedom. It seemed had unwittingly involved himself in something that far outreached the scope of what he thought he had been dealing with. The Venatori were no simple slavers. The implants of the red crystal were more than enough evidence of that. And the elven woman was no simple hunter of slavers. How did she know who he was?

Frustrated, anxious, and completely exhausted, Fenris realized that he was in no state, mentally nor physically, to walk another hundred miles to Nevarra City. The Lenwald Inn, however, named very imaginatively after the town he was passing by, seemed a safe enough place to rest and contemplate his next move. Anyone looking for him who had not tailed him directly would probably assume that he would flee east, to Kirkwall, as he had mentioned to members of the Company that he had friends there. If Maresi was questioned, she would say he was an escaped Tevinter slave, and why would a Tevinter slave go north, to Tevinter? The northern road was thus likely safest. He paid the innkeep and entered his room, laid his pack on the floor, and, after haphazardly removing his armour and his blade, fell onto the pallet.

I am only one man, he thought, eyes closed, and for years that had been enough. In Kirkwall, his world had expanded to include Hawke and, occasionally, their friends, for a time. He had learned to rely on people in spite of himself, on Isabella's loyalty, Aveline's fierce protectiveness, Varric's sound advice. Even Anders' healing touch. Now, perhaps, he had let his righteous anger get the best of him, and managed to piss off the Blind Men, these Venatori, and the unnamed organization that the elven woman belonged to that had been keeping tabs on him. Fenris was, he realized, afraid.

He opened his eyes. He could not go on alone, he realized now. He had tried it, tried to go back to being self-sufficient, as he had after his escape from Danarius. But his years in Kirkwall had changed him, shown him what a blessing it was to rely on others, to have around him people he could trust. Damnit, Fenris needed help. Rummaging through his sack, he pulled out parchment and a half-empty bottle of ink, and then a few moments later, a quill. He started writing down names. There was their old group from Kirkwall: Merrill and Aveline remained in the city as far as he knew, while Bethany was in Weisshaupt, so too far. Isabella… would be difficult to find, though that wasn't the only reason he kept her at the bottom of his list. Fenris didn't know if he was ready to write to Varric, either, but it was tempting. The Inquisition could prove a powerful ally if Varric proved as good friends with the Inquisitor as he made himself out to be. He wrote a small question mark next to Varric's name, and another one next to Merrill's, for good measure.

Of his and Hawke's casual contacts in the Free Marches, Fenris knew how to contact few and trusted even fewer. He supposed he could try to reach his companions from Estwatch – no doubt they had all fled to wherever they had family or friends – but he didn't know if they would answer his call. He thought Nathaniel Howe might still be in Starkhaven, though, as a Warden, he could be anywhere now, since he and Hawke had last seen him there over a year ago – his best hope would be to contact Delilah in Amaranthine. Her name, along with Nathaniel's beneath, were also graced with a question mark.

Fenris pulled out a fresh piece of parchment and laid it on the little table in the room. Varric, I received your previous letter, he scribbled down, and then stopped, his slightly wobbly script betraying his shaky hand. He started again on a new paper. Merrill, I require your assistance. I would not write if it were not dire. I am in… The nib paused again. He would have to find a more permanent living arrangement to await her reply, especially if there were no couriers available in Lenwald. Furthermore, it would be wise to move on quickly from here, in case someone had managed to track him. Sighing, he turned back to the letter to Varric.

I hope that you are well. I am in need of assistance…

He wanted to explain all that had happened, but thought better of it, in case the letter was intercepted. Instead, he penned some vague, unusually inconsequential niceties that he hoped would signal to Varric that there was something terribly wrong. Satisfied, he left his sentence on where to find him unfinished, and signed the letter, Broody. Suddenly overtaken by intense exhaustion, he let the quill fall from his fingers. As his head hit the hardness of the pallet, he only managed to direct his gaze briefly at the door to determine if it was locked. It was. He immediately fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

The sun was in the early stages of rising when Fenris awoke, his temples pulsating and throat dry, as if he had consumed too much wine the night before. Strange, given that he, regrettably, hadn't had a drop of alcohol in quite some time. Groaning, he rubbed his eyes and stretched, noting that his muscles were stiff, though that could have something to do with the journey he had undertaken the day before. In fact, he realized, before this, he hadn't slept in almost a full day. He wrapped his arms around his knees as he sat up, and turning to the right, spotted it on the floor.

A sooty, blackened sack of cloth, tied shut with a piece of string and small enough to fit in the gap under the door, lay next to a note. It had obviously been rolled into his room while he slept, his sleep perhaps hastened by whatever had been ignited in the sack. Warily, he reached over and picked up the note.

Fenris,

We pursue the same goal: to break chains. Nevertheless, we suspect you have questions. All will be answered on Satinalia, in the gardens of the Grand Necropolis. Look to the east, at sunset, for the wolf and the serpent.

A Friend.

The intense stare of the elven mage who had taken the liberated slaves away from the College flashed before him as his pulse quickened. It hadn't been particularly friendly. Fenris had no doubt that it was she, or perhaps some associate of hers, who had slipped the note under his door. Since he was reasonably sure he hadn't been followed out of the city, that meant they had a presence in this town, perhaps in many others, and had been told to look out for him, his intuition, or perhaps paranoia, told him. All within less than twelve hours. And they were interested in answering his questions. He didn't know if this made him feel better… or much worse. But Satinalia was in three weeks, at the beginning of Firstfall. Either the mysterious organization was preoccupied with other business… or they had given him time to think it over. Likely both.

It appeared that he would urgently need to send his letter, if he were to receive replies from Varric before Satinalia. He quickly donned his armour and his cloak, slipping the pieces of parchment into a pocket, and packed the ink and quill back into his bag, which he hoisted onto his shoulder. Hawke's ring never left his finger, nor did her dagger leave his hip. His blade, he strapped to his back. Hooded to hide his ears, he descended into the tavern's main hall.

He brusquely approached the surly innkeep and, after handing back the key to his room, asked him where the nearest courier's outpost was, adding that he had just come from Cumberland and wasn't likely to go back there. With a grunt, the man pointedly stared at Fenris' coin purse. Fenris swore under his breath and withdrew a silver coin, placing it just as pointedly on the innkeep's little counter.

"Nevarra City, straight north as the dragon flies," the man informed him in accented Common, pocketing the silver.

Fenris glared and muttered, "Should have saved my coin." He had been paid well for his work for the Aurum Company, but his coin wouldn't last long if men like this took him for a fool. "How far to the city from here?"

"Oh, I don't know, two days if your palfrey is sturdy, five by foot. You could ask Benjamin in the general store if he's taking a wagon up today." Perhaps Fenris' coin had been worth it, after all. The innkeep gestured to Fenris' sword, and added, "Ben always looks for protection, these days."

Fenris stalked out the door and into the town square, which was little more than a glorified mud pit thanks to the recent rains. He caught a few stares, which was normal – men with armour and a sword like his must seldom visit little Lenwald. The women fetching water from the well went silent and glanced away fearfully as he approached. A sign, depicting a barrel of apples and a fishing rod, hung from the awning of a small building on the opposite corner of the square – this would be Benjamin's general store. Tiny bells, hung from strings, jingled as Fenris pushed past them to enter the tiny but very crowded shop. He glanced behind him as he crossed the threshold to make sure he hadn't been followed. A voice called out angrily, presumably Benjamin's, from somewhere behind a stack of crates.

"Ricardo! Unbelievable, it's been a week! And don't go stomping your muddy boots all over the floor again…"

A man in one of those ridiculous Orlesian masks emerged shortly and stared at him, eyes scrutinizing, the corners of his mouth turned down, especially as he took note of Fenris' particularly muddy boots. "Oh! Forgive me, serah, what can I do for you? We're not open yet," he said, eyeing the sword, "and my bodyguard will be here shortly…"

"I hear you may be sending a wagon to Nevarra City soon," Fenris interrupted tersely. "I am in need of transport, and can offer my services in return, guarding your shipment."

Benjamin pursed his lips and considered it. "My usual man has not returned with my other wagon, damn Antivan is probably whoring about in the city, forgetting who pays him the silver! And say I agree to this proposition? How do I know you are not some brigand who has agreed to allow my shipment to be waylaid by other… brigands? Do you have any references?"

Fenris frowned. No one had ever asked him for references before. "I am no thief. I have done similar work as a mercenary for the Aurum Company in Cumberland." Unsure that the Orlesian would believe him, he added, "I worked in Kirkwall for a time. Varric Tethras of the Dwarven Merchants' Guild would vouch for me."

The man narrowed his eyes through the mask. "And what could an armed associate of Master Tethras possibly be doing on the Imperial Highway in Nevarra? How can I possibly trust you if you have no letters of reference, no accreditation? Do you take me for a fool?"

Fenris' patience was running thin, and he snapped, "I fought alongside the Champion of Kirkwall. I was not aware that I should have asked the seneschal for a recommendation while a war was brewing."

Benjamin's scowl gave way to a look of mixed astonishment and curiosity, and he peered much more closely at him than before. Fenris immediately and profoundly regretted his outburst.

"I cannot believe I did not recognize you," the Orlesian murmured, almost to himself. "Serah Fenris, isn't it? The Champion's close companion, and rumoured-"

"Vishante kaffas, yes, I am he, and I would advise you to speak no further." Fenris' eyes flashed with a sullen ferocity and the merchant ceased his rambling. Damn that book, damn Varric and his incorrigible habit of selling our lives for profit and fame. And damn how bloody popular it was. He also realized, with a jolt, that he had spoken of Felissa unthinkingly, without the usual overwhelming grief that bore down on his heart whenever he even thought of talking about her with anyone. The chided merchant was waiting for him to speak, however.

Softening his tone, he continued. "I… would prefer to remain unrecognized."

Benjamin did not look convinced of that fact. "Forgive me, serah, but if you are being hunted, that cloak will fool few who know of the Champion and her companions. Your markings," he began delicately, but Fenris stared at him pointedly until he continued, "that is, they are very distinctive, yes?"

Fenris grunted in the affirmative, words from Hawke long ago intrusively echoing in his mind. "I want to see just how far down your lyrium markings go…" He shivered and refocused.

The merchant had disappeared behind a stack of boxes but reappeared a moment later with a bottle of what looked like it might be light brown paint and a brush. "Now, the colour might not be quite right, but it should provide enough coverage to avoid notice. May I?" He dipped the brush in the liquid and raised it expectantly. Fenris must have looked confused, as the merchant explained, "I was trained by a master cosmetologist in Val Royaux. I formulate creams, lotions, paint for highborn ladies' faces, and such."

"Alright," Fenris muttered, resigned to this strange turn of events. The merchant claimed to be an acquaintance of Varric's (though he had very many and few of them reputable) and as uncomfortable Fenris was with his identity being revealed, Benjamin seemed to want to help when Fenris was frankly desperately in need of it.

With small, quick brushstrokes, Benjamin applied the paint to the most distinctive of Fenris' markings on his chin and forehead. He only winced slightly though shocks of pain shot through him at the touch of the brush. Once he was finished, the merchant dashed off and fetched a mirror.

"You will be much harder to recognize now, non?"

True to his word, the markings were almost entirely masked. It was a small gesture in the face of the uncertainty that Fenris now faced, but it was surprisingly touching that this complete stranger could care like this. Tears suddenly welled up, and he put down the mirror, feeling a modicum of dread, anxiety, and doubt lifting from the back of his throat.

"Thank you," Fenris said sincerely. "But what is an Orlesian… cosmetologist doing in the outskirts of Cumberland? I cannot imagine you receive many clients here."

Benjamin's look soured. "My competitor ran me out of Nevarra City. My brother sells my products secretly at his store there now, but the Comte can be… nasty, to say the least. It is not safe for me to make my wares there anymore. Hence," he gestured to his shop, "this poor excuse for a town, and hiring men to guard my wagons."

Fenris sensed that the merchant was telling him something clandestine about himself to make Fenris feel better about the knowledge that the merchant had about his identity. It didn't work, but he appreciated the effort, so he nodded. He was also vaguely amused about having stumbled upon a cosmetics conspiracy. All the time he had spent with Hawke appeared to have rubbed off some of her propensity to encounter absurd situations on him.

"Here is my proposition: I am more than happy to give this face paint to you; in return, I could not imagine safer hands for my shipment to be in than those of the Divine herself. Bring them to my brother, and I will bask in the glory of having helped a warrior of great fame."

"That hardly describes me, but I am grateful nonetheless."

They discussed the details of the journey, and Benjamin led Fenris through the back door of the shop towards a palfrey, tied to a post next to a bronto and a wagon. The horse was a pale, anxious thing, perhaps sensing Fenris' own nerves, which weren't helped by the fact that he hadn't ridden in quite a while. Hawke had taken it upon herself to teach him while they were camping in a forest outside the walls of Starkhaven. Her horse had been a hastily-procured gift from Aveline for their flight from Kirkwall, an old Antivan mare that wasn't used much by the city guard anymore, especially once the whole Chantry explosion business had taken place. Fenris had preferred to spend most of their journey to the neighbouring city-state behind Hawke, as he had never ridden before (and the position offered considerable… side benefits). But upon making camp, she had insisted on leading the horse around while coaching the tired Fenris on its back, and from then on, their travelling speed increased considerably, when their earnings from various sources allowed the luxury of travelling on horseback. Hawke had looked rather glorious perched even on their slow mare, in her red Champion leathers, dark hair streaming behind her, eyes flashing mischievously. Sighing, Fenris he put his foot into the stirrup and swung his other leg over the saddle, suspecting that he wouldn't look nearly as evocative. As if to affirm his thoughts, the palfrey staggered apprehensively. He gave it a tentative pat on the side, and it seemed to calm. He then fixed his pack to the saddle, in a sort of makeshift saddlebag.

Benjamin untied the reins and handed them to Fenris, who gripped them a little too tightly. "Camille will follow you," the Orlesian instructed.

"Camille?"

"The bronto."

Fenris cracked a small smile, despite everything. Quite a dainty name for such an unwieldy beast. The wagon was laden with a sack of hay, a few seemingly full barrels, a covered bucket full of water for the animals, and a small chest, shut tight and protected by an elaborate padlock. Benjamin stared at it for a few moments before looking up at Fenris and handing him the face paint and brush in a cloth bag. Fenris tucked the bag into his pack.

"Thank you, Benjamin."

The merchant responded with, "Maker keep you."

Fenris had seen enough to posit that the Maker had nothing to do with it (although this chance encounter was enough to make him question even that) but nodded all the same. With a light slap to the haunch of the palfrey, they trotted off, mud splashing behind the horse's hooves. True to the trader's word, Camille the bronto followed faithfully as Fenris rode slowly towards the main road.

The journey was uneventful for the most part. It had started raining again, the unpleasant wind directing sheets of rain to soak Fenris' face no matter how he adjusted the hood of his cloak. The road north from Lenwald soon reached the impressive paved and raised Imperial Highway, which hugged the natural border between a grassy plain to the east and the forest Fenris had seen behind Lenwald. The eyes of both the woman he had put out of her misery in the Cumberland tower and of the elven mage haunted him as he rode, and he felt the supplicative letters to his friends burning a hole in his breast pocket as his anxiety swelled. He spent most of the journey glancing behind him periodically. At sunset, the clouds cleared enough to reveal the peachy hues of the sky making a pretty contrast with the dark outlines of the trees. He continued on long past the point when the last hints of sunlight had faded, and his eyelids only grew heavy once the moons were high and illuminated the dirt road. Eventually, the road crossed a bridge over a brook that thinned the trees to the west. Dismounting, he led the animals off the road to a small tree, close to the water's edge. After unhitching the wagon from Camille's back, he reached into his pack for a bit of jerky he had purchased in Lenwald and watched them as they drank greedily.

With their thirst quenched, Fenris tied both Camille and the palfrey to the same tree by the reins; the horse nickered but otherwise there was no objection. He tossed the bag of hay at the base of the tree. After filling up his own water skin that had been laying around his pack, he laid down in the back of the wagon between the barrels, sword within reach, and his head nestled on his rucksack. He barely slept, as some indistinct noises woke him in the night; he laid awake, watching fireflies flit about and waiting for a nervous whinny from the palfrey, which would detect intruders long before him. The horse stayed silent, and thus he tried to distract himself by thinking about the many nights he had spent just like this, but with Felissa nestled into his side. Journeys, more than anything, reminded him of her; they had spent the bulk of their time together camping in between cities, on their quest to track down slavers. Hawke had shown him how to build a fire, skills she had from her time as a refugee, and he taught her how to pad silently through a forest without breaking twigs, as he had learned in Seheron. She had read him books by firelight, and even croaked out a song or two, though her singing voice was endearingly atrocious. Sometimes, she had coaxed a melody out of Fenris, claiming his light baritone was much more tolerable. He smiled, thinking of her rendition of "The Shy Fereldan Lass", a much raunchier version than the original. He closed his eyes.

What felt like only a few moments later, Fenris was stirring once more, the sun peeking out over the treetops next to him. He noted a dull throbbing in his temples that was bound to get worse as the day went on. Rubbing said temples, he glanced over at the animals, who were awake and grazing, having eaten the hay and almost completely cleared out the grass that grew around the base of the tree. Fenris strapped his sword to his back and drank deeply from the water skin as he walked to refill it in the stream. He donned the slightly less damp cloak and busied himself with preparing the animals for departure.

The weather had improved from the previous day: a pleasant breeze ruffled Fenris' hair and the sun soon shone brightly enough for him to toss his cloak into the wagon. The dread was less all-consuming, too, perhaps warded off by the warmth on his back, which had also stayed the oncoming headache he had felt in the morning. Somehow, impossibly, he felt optimistic, perhaps out of habit. He and Hawke had always been cheerful when coming to a new city. "Just a quick thing," Felissa would always say. "I just want to touch base with my contact." And then said contact would point them to a smuggler's ring in the city, and she'd say, "In and out, we just kill them all and that's it." A few months later they'd be hunting the magister that had hired the smuggler's ring, and so the cycle would never end…

He passed by a few farms on the right side of the Highway, while the forest to his left gradually became less impenetrable and eventually blended into plains of tall, swaying grass. As he drew closer to the capital, grass turned to tilled fields, recently harvested, farmhouses in the distance.

By the time the sun was beginning to set, Fenris had joined a small crowd of fellow travelers and city folk at the mighty southern gate to Nevarra City. Sitting at the bottom of a massive tower with two egg-shaped spires, it was open for now, though the guards were aggressively urging through the handful of last stragglers outside the gate before they closed it. Fenris dismounted and hastily followed, leading the animals behind him and trying to avoid notice. Once inside the city, he made his way to Benjamin's brother's shop. The man, rouge on his face starting to smear, was clearly frazzled and in the middle of closing for the evening, gave him an unconvinced once-over, then a curious look after he read Benjamin's sealed letter. Payment in hand and free of his animal charges, Fenris sped off in the busy Nevarran streets in search of the nearby post office that Benjamin's brother had given him some vague directions for. Whatever neighbourhood he had gotten into was charming, he decided, peeking in through the windows of the street-level restaurants he passed. Each was only large enough to fit a table or two of evening revelers, and once or twice his heart wrenched at the sight of a pair of lovers stealing kisses over their glasses of wine. The worn cobblestone beneath his feet resembled that of Cumberland, and his breath hitched as he remembered the flight of the… night before? Or had it been two days now?

He rubbed his eyes. Suddenly, he felt his strength flag. How much longer could he keep running? He was no longer as young as he was when his insane flight to Kirkwall from under Danarius' control had kept him on the run for months. When he had met Hawke, and they had finally, finally witnessed his former master's lifeless body in a heap on the floor, he had foolishly hoped that his days of running were over. When she had been living in hiding from the Chantry, it had been different, invigorating, even, knowing that everything he did was to keep her safe. And now she was gone, and Fenris realized he didn't even know why he bothered to run at all.

The post office was a welcome distraction, despite the woman at the counter's obvious annoyance at him coming in minutes before they were set to close.

"What's the nearest inn?" Fenris barked at her as he contemplated the last line in his letter to Varric.

The woman chewed on her lip and replied, unperturbed by his rudeness, her accent laced with a surprising Fereldan twang. "Right, that'll be the Finch's Roost, then. S'not cheap, though," she added, with a meaningful look to his worn rucksack. "Travelers usually keep to the Kipling boarding house, off the Avenue."

He contemplated, wrote down the name of the boarding house, and slid the sealed letter towards her. "How does one get letters to the Inquisition?"

She snorted. "Not easily, if that's what you're asking. It'll cost you a pretty penny and no guarantees it'll get there. Bloody mountain fortresses," she spat. "Anyway, all post to the Inquisition goes through Amaranthine, and where it goes from there, I have no clue."

Fenris grunted. "How much is a pretty penny?"

The woman named her price. He narrowed his eyes and handed the money over. She grinned as the door slammed behind him.

Having just spent a sizeable portion of the coin given to him by Benjamin's brother, Fenris headed in the direction of the boarding house, remarking the location of a nearby notice board out of habit. After some searching in the shadowy streets (not helped by the multiple detours he made to make sure he wasn't being followed), he finally found the boarding house, located next to a rowdy tavern. Finding a thankfully empty main hall, he paid the landlord for three nights, and ascended the rickety staircase into his room on the third floor, which he immediately locked.

This part of relocating to a new city felt like retracing the steps of an old swordplay form.

The rest did not.

He let out a long, haggard breath as he leaned his forehead against the door, half-expecting it to burst open at any moment. The bars on the window were calming, though suggestive of a less-than-savoury neighbourhood. Fenris could handle unsavoury. He couldn't handle… whatever the hell it was he was doing.

A thump from a neighbouring room startled him, and his hand quickly went to the hilt of his sword, heartrate spiking, but in the minutes that he stood frantically eyeing the aged wood of the door, no attack came.

Satinalia. That's how long you need to stay sane, he told himself. Or until Varric writes back. Maker only knew which would come first.

With a sigh, Fenris dropped his rucksack to the floor and sank, unsteadily, to sit on the edge of the cot in the middle of the room. Flashes of red lyrium eyes filled his mind, and he shuddered, standing once more to change from his armour into some clothes he retrieved from his bag. He suddenly realized that his stomach ached with hunger and tried to remember how long it had been since he had eaten. One thing at a time, then. Hood up, Felissa's dagger strapped to his hip, and money pouch securely tucked beneath the waistband of his trousers, Fenris locked his room and went out into the street, checking over his shoulder all the while.

He doubted any general stores would be open at this hour, and the tavern next door was too populous for his comfort. Luckily, the boarding house was close to a main road, the Avenue, and he eventually found a food cart that was selling grilled sausages to the evening crowd. Eating as he walked back towards the boarding house, he decided to retrace his steps and find the notice board. He would need to find a way to make money if he was going to stay at the boarding house until Satinalia – Nevarra City was more expensive than in Estwatch or even Cumberland. Eventually, as the number of other people on the streets dwindled, he found the little square containing the notice board and examined it for any requests for bodyguards, escorts, and the like. Nothing suitable appeared to be available, but Fenris grabbed a notice for a fighting competition all the same and turned to go back in the direction of the main road.

Then, he heard a voice cry out, "There's the fucker!"

And that was when the noxious-smelling arrow pierced his shoulder, and, quicker than he could turn around, the world faded to black.