Author`s Note: So right now I'm trying to decide who I want the Inquisitor to be once I get to written that part of Amell's story, but it's proving to be tougher than I thought. Might ask for opinions in the next chapter, but for now enjoy.

WICKED GRACE

The Wounded Coast was wet and cold most nights, but it was where Astrid found the most peace. She wouldn't risk another chance encounter with that templar, otherwise she would have sought solace at the Chantry—her usual go-to when she needed to clear her mind of Envy's never ending prodding. The voice was unusually loud and expressive after the spat with Cullen, mostly a mix of mocking "I told you so's" and laughter. All resulting in a rampaging headache that pounded with every footstep, every crashing wave, and finally was throbbing as fast as her heart was racing.

Astrid took an unorthodox path through the coast, a route she had scouted to be free of bandits and the occasional Tal-Vashot. It took her on a hike through the cliffs and the unruly vegetation, eventually to a secluded cove that looked towards the Waking Sea. There she was safe from the changing tide, dry unless it started to rain—which was on many, many occasions—and was isolated. It was the one place she could escape to. A frustrated sigh left her lips as she removed the weight of her sword from her waist, placing it on the usual flat stone towards the entrance of a very shallow cave that provided shelter. Since coming to Kirkwall, this has been home.

"Sooo..." came a sing-song voice, catching her entirely by surprise. The mage instinctively began the dive for her sword, but stopped short as she recognized the intruding prowler. "This is where my partner-in-crime is sulking," continued Isabela with a curious smirk, her gold jewelry sparkling with the last of the sunlight. It appeared her captain had been at the cove for a while, for Astrid's stash of food and drink had suddenly diminished in her absence. Isabela had forgotten her blue bandana, leaving her luxurious dark hair to billow in the sea air as she stood atop a rock and looked out into the sea. "Ah, I do miss the wind against my face," she reminisced, "I see why you're sulking here."

"I am not sulking," Astrid argued, trying to arrange her supplies back into the crate she had stolen from a nearby bandit camp.

Isabela chuckled, "You my friend are sulking. Should we go find you a handsome elf at the Rose?"

The mage stilled at the mention of the brothel, but was relieved the pirate was too busy going through Astrid's things to notice. "No," she snapped back, the drumming in her head still bothersome. "No elves," she reiterated to Isabela.

Her captain feigned a pout, "You're no fun tonight."

Astrid slumped down on a rock and cradled her head, she hadn't had head pains in so long. She'd forgotten just how unbearable they were—especially when shared with someone else. The mage knew what would satisfy the voice in her head, but she refused. It craved magic, but tricking the guardsmen weeks earlier was one too many uses of that magic. She would have to bear it. With the little coin she had, Astrid could not afford the potions and poultices that might fix her ailment. Even if Cullen already thought so, she would not resort to that work either for a little extra gold. She breathed out through grinding teeth, trying to focus on the spindleweed growing at her feet. Then it quite suddenly occurred to her, "How exactly did you find out I was here?"

Isabela was trying on one of her friend's robes when she turned around, filling up the bust more than Astrid ever could. The pirate smiled and began to undress to try on another. "Oh, I've always known you were here," she replied nonchalantly, "Varric and I followed you home one night." Astrid sat there staring, momentarily stunned and baffled. "You were distracted too, otherwise you would have noticed the bandits following you," she continued, stripping off the second mage robes and slipping back into her white tunic. "Surely all that rigorous training in the fun of stealth from me and Zevran didn't disappear over night," Isabela smirked, pulling her thigh high boots back on one at a time. "Come on sweetie." The pirate plopped herself beside Astrid and curled her arms around her, "You've done nothing but pout since you returned to me." She squeezed the mage and began petting her hair.

"Isabela," Astrid groaned. The pirate answered with a friendly hum. "We've talked about this—"

"I'm not gonna stop until you tell me what's wrong..." Isabela sang, continuing to stroke and displace her friend's red hair.

The mage—who was accustomed to a lonely friendless life—found comfort in Isabela, and finally softened her eyes. "It's him Isabela," she bit her lip, breaking the skin, "I ran into him the first night I got here actually."

The pirate finally relented her coddling and saw the pain in her friend's face, "Why didn't you say anything?"

Astrid smiled sadly, cringing as she remembered the words she exchanged with him. "I don't want to talk about it, so please..." she paused and met the pirate's bright eyes, "I don't want to talk about my past."

"Of course not," Isabela flashed her motherly smile, and squeezed Astrid, "I'll just save your forbidden romance for my personal friend fiction."

"Your what—" the pirate patted her head to silence Astrid, and her lips curled into a sneaky smirk.

Isabela promptly jumped back on her feet and stretched, her jewels were now glittering in the moonlight and her eyes were closed. "You weren't sulking?" she reminded, glancing back at Astrid through the corner of her eye.

The mage's demeanor switched back, "I was not sulking."

"Good. Wicked Grace at the tavern tonight!"

Astrid didn't have a moment to complain. She was whisked away by a strong grip, barely reaching her sword in time. Isabela was mostly quiet until they reached the main path, happily skipping along and dragging the mage as she went. Then, as the city of Kirkwall came into view, the pirate began a flattering monologue about Hawke—who she referred to as Garrett. "He's almost as witty as me," she would say and chuckle. All this talk of him, reminded Astrid that he might be her cousin. But not wanting to feed her anxiety, she listened happily to the pirate's praise of Hawke. It was a nice change of pace from the other conversations she had been having. She learned that Isabela was rather fond of his 'fancy' hair and the man's capacity to drink as well as she did.

"And once during a strip version of the game, I think he was loosing on purpose," the Rivaini vixen grinned slyly. Astrid smiled too knowingly.

Lowtown was hauntingly quiet at night, as if the entire population had vanished. There was a whisper here and there from those lurking about, and the echoes from the quarry, but otherwise quiet. However, as every footfall brought the duo closer to The Hanged Man, the city grew a little more lively. A man staggered out the door as they walked up, intoxicated beyond his wit and winking feverishly at Isabela. She groaned and pushed Astrid ahead of her. There was a bard this time, playing a tune that brought memories of Antiva back. She would have stood there a moment longer to appreciate the music, but her captain pulled her along to the back room.

It was a small party this time. Varric was at the head of the table, sitting in his 'throne', having an amusing one-sided conversation with Aveline—who remained firm in not cracking a smile. Beside her was Fenris, shy of his usual spiky armor and waiting contently for the game to begin. No one had quite yet noticed their entrance, except for Hawke, who beamed admirably at Isabela. "'I'll be gone five minutes' she says," he quoted with a smirk, "That was an hour ago you know."

"I got lost," she lied and waved her hand to dismiss his point. "Besides, were you not the one bugging me to invite her back?"

The handsome mage attempted to argue, but no words would form.

Varric on the other hand was well versed, "Glad to have you back."

A faint hint of a smile crossed her face. It felt nice to be back.

They played through several games of Wicked Grace, with the occasional intermission between rounds to indulge in the piss-poor ale and mindless chatter. The rogues had won most of the rounds and were counting their winnings, while the less fortunate players mourned their empty pockets. Aveline was the first to retire. She gave a friendly goodbye to everyone, save for Isabela, and returned to the Viscount's Keep before her guardsmen's shifts changed. Fenris then left shortly after, surprising everyone by staying so long. The broody elf inquired about some tasks planned for the week from Hawke, and when he was satisfied with an answer, left for his mansion. Varric's room was dwindled down to the dwarf himself, Hawke collecting the cards with a half-asleep pirate leaning against his shoulder, and Astrid—who hadn't had this much fun in a long time.

"Let me ask you something, Hawke," Varric abruptly said through the silence that had settled over the table. He had his book out and had been scribbling away in it for a while. "You'll be rolling in Hightown soon. I'd expect anyone else to get complacent. But you...you must have plans," the dwarf asked from his 'throne'.

Hawke moved carefully back in his seat, not wanting to disturb Isabela, who was snoozing quietly against him. "No plans yet," he answered with a smile, dark eyes falling on his companion's sleeping face. "I'm just trying to look out for my mother." His voice was sad and distant this time.

"After everything that happened with Carver," Varric regretfully reminded his friend, "that's probably good thinking." He sank back into his chair and continued, "To be honest, I thought there might be a chance you'd want to go back to Ferelden now that things have calmed down. It's good to hear you're sticking around."

"What would I do without my trusty dwarf?" Hawke jested, placing the carefully collected deck of cards at the table's center, "I'd cry myself to sleep without you." The allies laughed together, and even Astrid found herself smiling. "Besides, last I heard, Lothering is long gone now," the mage said sadly.

Suddenly Astrid felt the dwarf's gaze on her, his brows knitted together as he spoke, "Isabela mentioned something about you fighting in the Blight, Amell."

She had been circling the rim of her drink during the conversation, only looking up at the sound of her surname. The mage wasn't seeing Varric and his ornate table, but was immediately sent back to the Battle of Denerim, all the fire and destruction, the bodies she had to step over and all the fear. The terror clung to the air as thick as fog that day, seductive and heart racing. The mere memories brought a thrilling chill that ran into her toes. Astrid forced herself back into the present, "I was there."

"Is that how you got your scars—" Hawke's voice went unusually high as he spoke the latter, and Isabela casually stirred awake beside him, brows narrowed in a wary gaze. He rubbed his thigh under the table and grimaced.

"No."

"Let's talk about how terrible at this game you are—" the pirate frantically tried to intervene, but failing.

For a moment it wasn't Astrid that stared back at them, face vacant of anything else but bitter detest and dark dead eyes. She moved unnaturally to her feet, rigid and awkward, as if she were fighting herself. "I was defiled and tortured by mages in my circle," her voice cut through the silence like a newly sharpened blade, "Goodnight."

The mage disappeared, and the men were given a rare glare from Isabela.