A/N:

How can I forget to mention that Ravaelt added this fic to TV Tropes? Thank you, Ravaelt! For links, please refer to this fic posted in AO3!

;

"Try again," Isabela crowed with a grin. "I saw you draw two cards."

Charis sighed, returning a card to the middle of the deck. "Card games shouldn't require cheating."

"They teach life skills," Varric defended.

That night, Charis was only wearing chainmail under a plain surcoat with a bow, quiver of arrows, and his never-drawn greatsword by his side. Of course, the soldier also wore a black turtleneck under everything. Varric was scared to ask if the ensemble was what Charis considered "casual" clothes. Considering the fact that Charis slept with a dagger in hand, the forecast wasn't looking good. At least the soldier had agreed to play a round of card games that night, albeit without gambling.

Varric subtly glanced in the direction that Charis' gaze twitched. Past Isabela, an elven man in robes as brown as his hair disappeared up the Hanged Man's stairs. A beat later, three Rivainis wordlessly rose from separate tables and followed.

Charis sighed, standing up. "You two have me beaten."

Varric and Isabela rose after him, mildly affronted and more than amused.

"You can't quit so easily, soldier," Isabela chided. "Oh, don't be a sore loser. I know you can hear me––"

Charis knocked – then busted down a door and twisted a Rivaini's neck, catching another's dagger with the chainmail around his arm. He swiftly disarmed his attacker and slammed the person's head down on a bedside table while Isabela sent a dagger sailing into the third Rivaini's chest. Charis looked at her.

Isabela retrieved her dagger with raised brows. "What? If you died, I would have had to deal with them without a meat shield."

Varric pointed Bianca at the Rivaini corpses just in case. The suspicious group had just started to jump the brunette elf from earlier when Charis had broken in.

Said elf scrambled up to his elbows and grabbed a broken table leg, jabbing it in their direction. "What do you want!?"

Charis ignored him to rifle through the attackers' pockets. "If you flee out the Hanged Man's front door, there are Antivan assassins lying in wait to ambush you. Ethnically Antivan, not Crows."

The elven man warily picked himself up with the table leg still in hand. "How do you know that?"

"Earlier this week, I killed Carta loyalists targeting you." Charis found a note among the attackers, glanced at it, and tossed it aside to stand up. The note fluttered, revealing a gang name. "Then a Qunari death squad. Just now, it was the Rivaini Legendary Beards. You're avoiding Hightown because the Denerim Avengers are stalking its streets for you."

"They're planning to steal into the viscount's office," the man cautiously corrected. On closer inspection, he was around Charis' age, roughly thirty years old. "They're just waiting for a stranger like me to break in first – and I'm not after seals or money! I simply mean to erase the last of any record that I've been in Kirkwall."

"I know," Charis said. "You still need a route out of here unnoticed, though. What you seek is a path through the Wounded Coast."

The stranger picked up a walking stick leaning against the wall.

Charis looked at him. "I'm not your enemy, Sketch."

"Forgive me my scepticism," the mage replied.

Varric's attention bounced between the two oddly stiff males. Isabela ignored everyone to pick through the corpses' pockets.

Charis sighed. "I'm a friend of Leliana's."

Sketch scoffed. "A decent spy would know our connection––"

Charis tossed him a bottle of distilled Antivan plum brandy that Sketch hastily caught with both hands. His staff clattered aside.

"Tug's favourite," Sketch murmured, bodily loosening. "Alright, say I believe you. How do I leave the Hanged Man?"

"From behind me," Charis said, pivoting for the door. "If the law asks, I knocked on your door, then broke in when I heard a commotion. Tethras, Isabela; sorry about the mess. You're welcome to what the Beards had."

Varric snorted, strolling after them while his mind raced. "No way, Shiny. I sense another story in the making that's worth more than three copper."

"Oh, please." Isabela swiftly followed them. "An opportunity to loot a bunch of people while you three foot the effort? Count me in."

True to her word, the raider "supervised" Charis distract assassins long enough for Varric or Sketch to get a good shot in. Fog began to roll in as they approached the Viscount's Keep, Sketch now stealing glances at Charis.

"Ser Charis," the soldier offered.

"A soldier," Sketch identified. "Why are you averse to drawing your sword? You're decent at a bow in close quarters, but the dwarf is better."

Varric preened. Of course he was, Bianca always outshone her competition.

Charis shook his head. "My sword is too flashy."

City Guard patrols carried torches where they marched, and Kirkwall's lighthouse blanketed the mainland in a soft glow when fog came. Charis' gilded sword could believably catch light unwanted, though likely not as distractedly as in the day. Varric was more curious about the social, political, or economic connection between Charis and a stranger like Sketch. The answer could potentially shed light on who Charis was.

Varric mildly commented. "I'm more curious how a lone mage could attract the ire of fascinatingly colourful groups."

Sketch huffed. "Avoid storytellers when you can," came the cryptic reply.

Charis sent the mage a sympathetic look.

Varric bit back reflexive sarcasm. "Despite their height, I didn't take the Qunari weak for tall tales."

"The death squad was from the docks," Charis stated. "The qunari there have been separated from Seheron and Par Vollen for three years now. Any intel they have, they gathered themselves, just as any actions they take are their own."

Isabela drawled. "Here I thought they were following the Qun."

"They are," Charis confirmed. "They're living by the philosophy — without a connection to the rest of their society. Ordinarily, the Qun is enough, but the Arishok is among them. He's supposed to govern the soldiers of Qunari society — the 'body' — while in consensus with the Arigena who governs the 'mind,' and the Ariqun who governs the 'soul.'"

Isabela perked up. "Meaning the Arishok and his crew are moving blind enough to fall for tall tales."

"Plausible tales," Charis amended, sharing a look with Sketch. "The qunari who actually specialise in gathering information are called Ben-Hassrath. They fall under the Ariqun's leadership, where they serve to protect the faith, not embark on expeditions as the Arishok and his soldiers did – or whatever spurred them to sail as far south as the Waking Sea."

Varric casually reeled in his line. "Ah, but the Carta make it a point to know who they're killing, aside from instances of collateral damage. The Merchant's Guild and the Carta share an invested interest in maintaining the flow of prosperity on the surface. If an affluent Guild member is willing to pay for someone's death, there is a Carta group that will answer."

"As Charis said," Sketch shrugged, "plausible tales. Tethras, was it? You would know better than I. House Tethras was the most prestigious family in the Merchant's Guild, before Bartrand Tethras' social decline. If the Carta wrongfully targeted an innocent person like me, the fault lies with the Guild member who sent them."

If Varric directed the topic to Charis, he risked betraying his suspicions.

"The Guild tends to not make mistakes," Varric carefully replied.

"There's your answer," Sketch said, "for how a lone mage could fall into disproportionate trouble. The people chasing him like to believe they're exempt from error. What about you, Charis? No one's dogging your footsteps, yet you seek trouble anyway. Are you a Kirkwall guardsman? Although, your rank says otherwise. Your accent is also Ferelden."

Charis snorted softly. "And yours isn't?"

"I'm just curious." The non-rhotic lilts in Sketch's voice suddenly melted away, leaving behind a neutral dwarven accent. Without a topside glottalization or Orzammar enunciation, the background of Sketch's voice couldn't be placed. "So far as I know, political games in the Free Marches or Ferelden rarely require the kind of people Leliana would acquaint herself with, and you seem the straight-edge type."

Charis responded in a neutral accent. "If one wishes for order around themselves, one must respect it."

Sketch and Varric blinked at the sudden change.

Charis' lips twitched at Sketch, before the soldier restored his Ferelden accent. "Like you, I'm passing through. My visit is just a little longer than yours."

Sketch stepped closer, interested. "You've spent extensive time around immigrants and smugglers?"

"My neutral accent sources from elsewhere," Charis replied with surprising honesty.

Varric recognised the fond line in Sketch and Charis' shoulders. He often witnessed it between Ferelden immigrants who realised they shared a similar story. Charis' guard was slipping – though to what extent, Varric couldn't identify. He found himself thoroughly puzzled at Charis' unknown story. Dwarves from Orzammar could be counted among immigrants and smugglers, but what did that mean for Charis? For Varric? Bartrand was indisputably a genius regardless of his bluster, but how could he possibly end up connected with a person like Charis, if at all? However, at the same time, what could attract the dwarf-influenced Charis across the Waking Sea if not a dwarven connection?

Isabela's voice interrupted Varric's thoughts. "You're a worldly sort, soldier. Have we ever crossed paths in Llomerryn?"

"I'm no sailor," Charis refuted, "just well-read. I also guess a lot."

"About qunari?" Varric rose a brow.

"And the Carta," Charis listed, "Antivans, Rivainis, even my own people. When suspicious, deadly characters are after a friend of a friend, that's all I need to know to intervene."

"Ah," Sketch recognised, "an idealist."

"Morally just," Charis corrected, "I hope."

Sketch's reaction was stolen by an ambush at the steps to the Viscount's Keep. Ferelden outlaws, presumably the Denerim Avengers, steered clear of Sketch to focus on the mage's company. The criminals likely thought to coerce Sketch into opening a stealthy path into the viscount's office. Their plan shattered when the party defeated them and Charis shot the last avenger in the chest with an arrow – just as a sword cleanly decapitated the gangster like a hot knife through butter.

The outlaw collapsed with a spray of blood and slumped. A liquid crimson curtain parted to reveal academically-sloped cheekbones, waves of orange hair pulled back in a low ponytail, and a braided cord holding back flyaways from a stern forehead. Aveline Hendyr stepped over corpses on the stairs to the Viscount's Keep without catching a single drop of blood on her City Guard uniform.

"Isabela," Aveline greeted.

"Hendyr," Isabela stuffed a pouch of coins down her tunic. "The manly one."

"Leave my husband out of this," Aveline sniffed, approaching Varric's party without putting away her sword and shield.

"Guard-Captain," Charis politely recognised, like he had not just opened a hole in someone.

Sketch stepped out of a puddle of blood and covertly shook his foot.

Varric slung Bianca over his shoulder.

"Cleaning the streets, I see," Aveline deadpanned. "When I heard activity on the viscount's steps, I had hoped for politicians."

"No you didn't," Isabela immediately accused.

The two women exchanged smirks. "Perhaps," Aveline allowed. "However, now I have criminal stains to clean, and four suspects."

Charis pointed at Sketch. "He started it."

"Hey!"

"And they were criminals," Charis continued. "There will be more if this man, whom I've met only today, continues to stay in Kirkwall. We were just on our way escorting him out of the city."

"Through the walls of the Viscount's Keep?" Aveline cocked a brow, descending the last of the steps to stand nose-to-nose with Charis. He was just barely taller. "A likely story."

"And yet the truth," Isabela snickered. The raider was obviously ecstatic that she wasn't the prime suspect to a crime that Aveline found herself in charge of neutralising.

Aveline glanced at Sketch's two-handed grip of his walking stick. "Then a couple upstanding citizens wouldn't mind clearing out the Wounded Coast. The Evets Marauders have my guardsmen pinned down near Sundermount. I wouldn't be surprised if you suffered a casualty while clearing the brigands out."

Meaning Sketch would have to fake his death. Probably not for the first time.

Charis hesitated. "You're not leading the way?"

"I must guard the keep from potential thieves," Aveline dryly replied.

A peek at Charis' face confirmed that the soldier either planned to later break into the viscount's office and erase evidence of Sketch, or to directly appeal to the viscount, whether or not the lord would want to listen. Charis had that stubborn look about him.

Isabela perked up. "If we kill everyone, we get to keep their stuff."

"The Marauders have bounties on their heads," Aveline admitted. "I'm happy enough to have my guardsmen rescued from the situation. They're too altruistic to let the Evets Marauders slip away, and we can't afford to starve the outlaws out."

Under Aveline's critical eye, Charis and Sketch reluctantly led the party away to the Wounded Coast, where a humble patrol was firmly holding their position at the bottleneck of a looping cliff path. From the elevated, narrow rock spires of the loop, the Evets Marauders volleyed arrows down the guardsmen's direction, discouraging further advancement.

The party huddled with the patrolmen behind rocky protrusions, Charis swiftly catching both sides up to speed with the situation. "How many archers?" he asked the guardsman in charge.

Lieutenant Harley braced her shield against the rain of arrows. "Seven. Two behind the southeast spires, two behind the south spires, and three down the middle."

Charis nodded, adjusting his bow. "Volley fire?" At the guardsmen's confused looks, he elaborated, "Does a row of them fire arrows, then switch with another row while they nock their next arrows?"

Sketch's eyes minutely widened with a mutter. "That would be deadly efficient."

Harley shook her head. "The Marauders are brigands, not – soldiers." She gave Charis another look-over, willing to dispose of her confusion for immediate help. "The main threat is their blood mage and Evet himself. When one isn't bleeding you out and paralysing you, the other is replacing used traps."

"How's your aim?" Charis asked.

Harley snorted. "We're sick of sitting here with our rears hanging out. My trained archers and I will string our bows if you don't mind a support who's all thumbs."

"I'll take it." Charis nodded to the rest of the guards. "Press forward and seek the closest concealment. The archers will cover you until you reach the Marauders. Sketch, the blood mage is yours. I have the traps."

Varric blinked. "I'm with the lieutenant?"

"I trust Bianca's aim," Charis' lips quirked, "and I'm not sending you down a barrel for Sketch's sake. I'll take the risk."

Isabela waved a hand. "Hello? Traps could use a woman's touch."

"You're here to clean up," Charis reminded, "and as nice as you look in leather, it's not chainmail. The guards and I have the proper equipment for taking arrows."

Isabela's face twisted something funny. Varric didn't snort. The raider was simultaneously flattered and insulted by Charis' chivalry.

Charis intuitively held a hand out the same time Isabela twitched forward. "If you received an injury, G–– it would kill me. Watch her."

Charis and the frontline guards stormed up the cliff path before Varric could react at Charis' pointed finger. Isabela fumed while Varric, Harley, and her guards suppressed the Marauders' archers, buying Charis, Sketch, and the rest of the guards time to clear out the cliffs. Flashes of arcane bolts, fire, and lightning pierced the night, granting brief outlines of the path's spires. In the corner of Varric's eye, he could have sworn he glimpsed a golden sword. Then the cliffs fell silent.

Guardsmen trickled out of the battlefield, signalling to Harley that the fight was over. Varric and Isabela warily strolled past disabled traps and scorched earth to find Charis crouched on the ground with his back to them, and Sketch standing in front of him with crossed arms and his staff slung over his shoulder. Charis was in the motions of wiping a sword on a fallen Marauder, but upon sight of Varric and Isabela, Sketch quickly jerked his chin. Charis rose, sheathing his sword with a turn that mostly concealed the blade until it was already enclosed to its hilt.

Flaming Marauder corpses cast an orange glow on the scene, but Varric's memory of a golden blade stirred at what he caught of Charis' sword. Completely gilded swords were rare, but not unheard of. Considering the admiration that blades like Summer Sword and Vigilance received, imitations flourished where coins allowed, especially among Orlesian nobility. Like the entire country of Ferelden, it wasn't strange if Orlais felt entitled to Summer Sword.

It was just another tick mark towards Varric's suspicions that Charis was of noble blood.

"We're done here," Sketch determined with a look at Isabela, "unless you haven't satisfied your avarice yet?"

Isabela sniffed, fixing a stolen bandolier across her body. "They just had gold."

Just.

Charis led the way out of the looping path. "The last stretch of Sketch's journey is past Sundermount; not a lot of looting opportunities there."

"Do you so easily assume not to include me in anything?" Isabela huffed. "You know, I'm a raider."

"So I've seen," Sketch mumbled.

"I can defend myself," Isabela pressed on.

"So I've seen," Charis allowed. When they passed enough guards to stray out of earshot, he sighed. "I'm going to lead Sketch around the Dalish clan settled on Sundermount. The tunnels that lead outside of Kirkwall from there are mostly cleared of danger thanks to the clan." He turned to Sketch. "The tunnels open up to a river that runs down the Vimmark Mountains and leads to the farmlands of Wildervale. Where you head from there is your prerogative."

"Many thanks," Sketch replied.

Varric cocked a brow, following closer. "The Dalish aren't as fond of people as they are of their trees, Shiny." Passing by the Dalish without a helmet in the dark wouldn't be good for Charis' health.

The soldier lit a torch unfazed. As the group hiked up Sundermount's winding paths for its other side, pale flickers of light alerted them of Clan Sabrae's location. Then one of the lights descended their way.

"Ca––" a Dalish hunter called out, then slowed down, lifting his torch to capture their party. "Charis, thank the M–– Creators! The clan could use a friend right now!"

Charis halted in surprise. "Pol?"

The hunter grabbed Charis' hand unexpectedly comfortably and dragged him off the path for the peak. "A coma threatens one of our own due to an odd sickness. The keeper knows better. Come!"

Varric, Isabela, and Sketch followed in bewilderment, treading into Clan Sabrae's camp unchallenged. The young hunter tugged Charis to the main bonfire where Keeper Marethari stood with eyes lost in its flames. The elderly woman lifted her head at the noise before perking up.

"Charis…" the keeper tested the name on her tongue. "A welcome visit, though unusual." At Pol's agape mouth, she continued, "The sickness that besets Feynriel isn't mundane, but magical in nature."

Pol released Charis' hand, bodily drooping.

Charis bit his lip. "I'm sorry I can't help––"

Elves had begun peeking out of their tents at the commotion, when a young teen suddenly bolted out of his cover to desperately tackle Charis' waist.

"My friend!"

Varric recognised Feynriel wrap his arms around Charis, who looked down at the top of a blonde head, baffled. Before that night, the two must have never met.

Charis hesitantly returned the young teen's embrace. "I'm sorry, I think you have me confused with someone else."

Feynriel allowed Charis to gently push him back by the shoulders, and met his gaze. The kid's words left him muffled, but Varric thought he could hear, "I don't. You're my friend's friend. You look just like him."

Carver's hands ached more often. It was a trend since his arrival to Kirkwall.

Considering Carver had stolen Charis' armour and snuck out of Denerim, Carver owed Charis to at least polish the man's armour. As for Nails, well…Carver had accumulated a wealth of vacation days, seeing as he had never taken a holiday for himself since joining the king's army. Carver had generously left a letter on Nails' desk declaring that Carver was off to observe Ferelden's security in person, so he was still technically working. The commander of the king's army would understand.

Kirkwall provided both opportunities and hurdles. When Carver had tried expanding his network through the errand boys and girls in Kirkwall, prolific corruption had discouraged him from risking the people's safety and from trusting them with his tasks. This left him dependent on the monthly visits a member of Oriana's merchant web made to Kirkwall, when Carver could pass and receive sensitive letters. The first excuse Carver could craft for the visits originated from someone else's life: pads and tampons. Let the public assume Carver was providing for a lover or whatnot; the mediaeval equivalent of care products was inarguably a monthly need.

However, the limitation conversely helped conceal Carver's involvement with Oriana's merchant connections. Carver didn't want to know the parties who were interested in the "Postboy's" identity and origins, but Carver hoped that temporarily relocating to Kirkwall threw would-be trackers off his tail.

Since his promotion to captain, Carver had been able to expand options for Ferelden's navy — whose last task had been to search for Maric's body — through Oriana's web. Said web was apparently attracting the label of "the Postal Service." While most soldiers in the king's army were now too low in rank to address Carver by his nickname, and no one would be quick to associate military nicknames with a smuggling ring, Carver still disliked the risks. The illusion of an all-seeing, all-knowing shadowy figure was apparently protecting Oriana, her family, and their allies from simply being killed up the chain until their web completely fractured.

What might Carver be organising through them, one might ask?

Easy.

A political uprising across the sea and far west of the Free Marches.

Though Celene and Briala dreamt of marrying one another, only Celene had believed the idea possible. The empress had reached out to the Ser Carver whom she knew had enabled the Antivan smuggling ring at the beginning, given Carver had signed his soup of lies to Celene with his own name. It was an oversight Carver never repeated since then. Of course, he couldn't have known that what he had started would result in Celene and Anora becoming pen pals.

He digressed.

To marry Celene and Briala, they essentially needed the same situation that had given rise to a political marriage between the Couslands and the Howes: one party with influence needed assurity that they would never experience a wrong again. Hence, Carver's encouragement for Briala to develop a status as the "ambassador" for Orlais' sizeable elven population. Meanwhile, Carver also organised the political build-up towards Celene and Briala's nuptial goals.

In the past year, a child in Orlais' slums had thrown a rock at a Lord Mainserai's coach, spurring a well-liked elven trader named Lemet to volunteer the blame upon himself. Though Mainserai hadn't killed Lemet, he had disproportionately punished the trader, causing the slum's citizens to rebel. Briala had organised for the citizens to secretly migrate out of the slums for alienages or other places. Meanwhile, with soft accusations that Celene was too lenient on elves, the empress had then had the slums burned. The people of the slums had been persuaded to conceal the truth of their survival, and encouraged Orlais' elven population to demand justice for the wrongs they had suffered twice over.

The nobles who had already ostracised Mainserai for his actions currently weren't in a hurry to help Celene with her issues. They were incentivised to in fact work against her when pockets of elven resistance across the country lead to strikes, and the nobles began to lose their main workforce. They slowly realised that Celene's formerly open attitude on elves was preferable to her conformant one.

Mixed institutions like the University of Orlais, which were comfortable with their coexistence with elves, were additionally disturbed by the events. The Frostback Basin contributions to academic society hadn't helped. It was a plain fact that Orlais' founding emperor had cherished elves among his closest friends, and had even appointed one of them to a position easily as influential as his own. This reality in turn strengthened the social threat of modern-day Ferelden, which had already displayed a willingness to count an elf among its nobility. There was also the possibility of losing face with other countries like Starkhaven who sent affluent citizens to study in Orlais.

Carver had also pulled Anora into the plan. Influenced by the queen, Ferelden held a marginally more festive anniversary of its independence, reminding the general, international public that the kingdom had rebelled before against an empire who had thought to use Fereldens as free labour. The celebration implied that to stop Orlesians like Grand Duke Gaspard from thinking of retaking Ferelden, the kingdom might support Orlais' elves in taking over the empire.

Celene and Briala responded by diplomatically attending Anora's baby shower, thus wordlessly, publicly confirming Briala's influence as an Orlesian elven ambassador. In private, however, the three women genuinely partied along with Cailan over the good news. In Carver's correspondence with the women, Anora amusedly informed him that she had named Celene godmother, while Cailan had named Loghain godfather. The Grey Warden had apparently succinctly written back, "Congratulations."

All in all, Celene, Briala, Anora, and Carver were delicately balancing the required hostility for an "arranged" marriage between the empress and the elven ambassador.

That was just one massive plot Carver was currently handling from Kirkwall. The weight of the future sometimes kept him up at night. For example, for the safety of his Antivan contacts, Carver excluded them from his search for the Tome of Koslun. Carver trusted them to keep tabs on Castillon, but locating the sacred scripture fell on him doing personal fieldwork.

It was jarring to see so many qunari clustered in one place. Each qunari in Kirkwall only had one pilum. Even fewer qunari were Sten, who were also equipped with their obligatory sword. What was more, the qunari had limited vitaar paint since they couldn't receive supplies from Seheron, so they had to use their paint sparingly.

Carver doubted that Kirkwall understood what this meant, and if he hadn't known his friend Sten, he would have been no better. It was like removing a longbow archer from the battlefield, placing them in a cramped space where they couldn't go to a smith for armour repairs, then telling them to defend themselves. Additionally, teaming up with fellow archers in an actual formation wasn't allowed, since that would mean declaring war.

It was a hopeless situation. Self-defence either became an unintentional declaration of war, or a pipe dream. There was no in-between.

And in a certain timeline, the qunari had persisted through it for four years.

Anyway.

The bottom line was, Carver didn't have support with all his problems. Some plans, he had to approach alone. Case in point, traipsing around Kirkwall at night as Ser Charis, Varric's Ferelden errand boy and occasional entertainment.

Carver never expected that the ruse would lead to an early journey into the Fade.

;

A/N:

Is Carver purposefully speed-running Orlais' elven problem? Why yes. He's a busy person, his time is money!

Sketch's accent is from extensive years hiding among immigrants and smugglers – including the dwarven kind – in Orlais to avoid Templars, until he ended up partnering with Leliana in the Game. Leliana herself writes that Sketch doesn't share a connection, resentment, or accent with city elves. Along with Leliana's opinion that Sketch may have originally been a slave spy planted in Orlais, you have an elven mage shaped by Tevinter, Orlesian, and dwarven influences with no apparent attachment to any of them. He's an interesting guy.

I don't know if it was too subtle, given the Unreliable Narrator tag is still active when Varric's in charge, but Someone Else had a General American accent in their past life. I love misunderstandings :)

Also, Carver was about to tell Isabela, "If you received an injury, Garrett would kill me."