.v.

"I'm alive. That's good," is her first thought as she blinks awake, staring at the wooden boards above her head, entire body aching like those nights where she lets Isabela convince her to drink a little too much ale a little too late into the night. Her head throbs with the beating of her heart. For some reason, the world is rocking, and muffled voices can be heard from somewhere.

For a moment, she is blissfully unaware of her predicament, and then it all comes crashing down on her. Gradual realization of how she has come to be wherever she is. Dinner with Fenris, his smiling eyes and deep laughter, and the subtle turning up of his lips at her terrible jokes, leaving and telling her that he'll be back in a few days, the note from Anders asking for her assistance at the Docks, the mysterious figures that overtook her and the fight-

She jerks up, moving to stand, but is caught by her neck, flailing back under the unexpected bonds. Crashing back the floor, she almost cries out at the pain that shoots through her arm when she lands on it. The wound on her right arm where they'd shot her. She rubs it absently for a moment, and then raises her hands to her neck, finding a thick metal collar, smooth to the touch around her neck. It is at least half a handspan wide and loose enough to slip her fingers under, but not enough to slip.

"Fire and damnation."

Unable to do much about the collar, she rechecks her wound, finding it has been bandaged. Beneath the clean white gauze is a series of efficient, straight stitches. With an indignant sniff, she holds her hand over the wound and begins to heal it.

Tries to heal it.

Nothing happens.

She looks at them with confusion, shaking them out as if the motion will loose the magic and tries again. And again, there is nothing. It's not the absence of magic, she can feel it, the same old constant hum as always, but for some reason, she can not conjure, can not bring it forth. She tries a simple fire spell, the most rudimentary she knows, and it takes all of her will power, and a great deal of cursing to manage a tiny flame and a puff of smoke.

It's the collar, she realizes after several moments of irritated speculation, it must be, what else could separate a mage from their power than a magic suppressing enchantment. Sure enough, the marks that run the circumference of the damned thing feel like enchantment runes. This kind of magic, she's heard of it, in theory, but the only place where something like this might be attempted-

The startling understanding freezes her heart for a beat, two, and then it roars back to life, hammering in her chest.

The mob that jumped her, their armor, with blue swirls denoting their status as slavers just barely visible in the dim moonlight; the collar around her neck, enchanted with arcane magic not easily found in but one country; and the rocking world around her, not Kirkwall, but a ship...

It can't be what she thinks it is, what she fears it is, but all signs point to it. Denial and desperation keep her form voicing the probable, but she shoves it down under courage and willpower.

"I've got to get out of here. Yes, get off a ship in the middle of Maker knows where with no idea how many I'll be facing with no magic and no weapons. Brilliant." Thankfully, she still has her armor, and she suspects Sandals superior runes are responsible for the sputter of flames she was able to manage, despite the magic abating collar. Above her head, a burst of laughter rings out, men and women's voices both, harsh and cold. She does not want to know what they're laughing about as her heart wrenches in her chest.

As the quiet conversation resumes above, she takes a moment to look around her prison. A fairly standard ship's hold, if anything is to be said of it. Completely empty, except for herself and a few crates that sit in stacks around the square room. Lantern light spills through the cracks above. She turns as best she can to examine the arm length chain that holds her fast to the wall. It jingles quietly as she does so, catching the light, and showing more runes carved into each thick chain link. It's bolted fast to the wall. Clearing her throat, she questions the wisdom of calling out, and alerting her captors of her consciousness. She's tired, and her stomach feels uncomfortably hollow, like it had during her first few months in Kirkwall, but she's not so desperate yet to risk dealing with them any sooner than she has to.

"Should have been a rogue," she mumbles, testing the bolts that hold the chain to the wall. They look to be secure, no way she can pull them out, but maybe the wood around it... If she can manage a little more fire, she might be able to char it enough to pull the bolts free. Pushing pure force of will to her fingertips, she envisions the fire roaring up to the ceiling. Nothing comes. And this time, it doesn't matter how hard she pushes, she is spent, not strong enough to push past the collar.

"Why would they go to all this effort to capture me?" she wonders aloud, whispering to herself in the dark hold of the ship. "Have a really made myself such a nuisance that they felt this was necessary?" The ship rocks, and she hears the voices above, slavers no doubt, except this time they are not laughing, but speaking in low clipped tones. Finally, they go silent, leaving nothing but the sound of rolling waves in their wake.

"Good job, Hawke. You've stepped in it this time." She heaves a sigh, and watches the stars through the slats of the ceiling.

Author's Note: Another chapter for all of you lovingly following this story of mine! Or grudgingly, either way. I appreciate every single review, favorite, follow, virgin sacrifice, et cetera. Stay tuned! It can only get worse from here!