Wear your hood low

Shepard awoke the next morning with a crick in his back. He guessed while he was sleeping on his side, a nearby slumbering farmer kicked out in his sleep and caught the small of the poor Lieutenant's back with his boot. Standing up stiffly and bending forward to try and stretch the knots out of his muscles, Shepard let out a labored yawn and proceeded with gathering his things for departure from the ramshackle little inn out in the Ferelden wilderness near the border. Jader was less than two days away, and after he crossed over the Ferelden border into Orlais he knew he would have to be on guard and take the most precious care not to be detained by the Orlesians, lest they discover his mission and the missive he carried.

What a spectacle that would be, he thought, for the Emissary of the King of Ferelden carrying a parley of alliance against the Orlesian Empire to be caught by the very people his country was making an enemy of. Various methods of torture began spinning through his head, all the famous ones of course, best known for getting whatever information to be had in the most efficient manner. Shaking his head to banish the thoughts from his mind, Shepard threw his knapsack over his shoulder and stepped out of the dilapidated tavern back into the damp wet of the Ferelden Highlands. The sound of the morningbirds singing in the trees was accompanied by the scent of soaked greenery, and the sun was just beginning to peek over the tops of the clustered tall pines to the North, which reminded him of the direction of his western destination.

Double-checking the buckles on his armor to ensure a snug fit, Shepard slogged off through the wet earth on his way to the northern hills of Orzammar, where the Imperial Highway would meet up with him again after snaking its way south down along the shores of Lake Calenhad. He yearned to be able to use its paved walls to travel easily over the highlands on his way to Jader, but the nagging reminder that the chances of running into trouble, whether from banditry or more of those mercenaries, would steeply increase if he traveled the major roads. With a resigned frown, Shepard trudged on towards the Fereldan border.

Most of the day passed without incident and the night was cold, but the clouds were merciful and held back the rain though they swelled darkly with it, so he camped gratefully beneath a copse of thick trees with a bedroll by the fire. The following day, he passed into the northern hills and traveled along one of the wagon-paths used by the Volus merchants travelling back and forth from Orzammar. The particular road he found himself on was well north of the Imperial Highway, which guaranteed him some measure of anonymity, but to no great surprise, he came across a caravan of Volus traders headed back to Orzammar. The strange creatures fascinated him somewhat, as they wore full suits of leather and metal, with tubes running from their helmets to leather packs on their back. He heard it was because the Volus had been living underground among lyrium for so long that they could not survive without breathing in the stuff, so their packs had bits of lyrium dust in them to breathe in through the tubes running up to their helms.

The group he came across was quite flustered and several of the things were huddled around a cracked wagon wheel while one or two others slowly paced back and forth rambling on about all the bad luck and the uselessness of their traveling companions while throwing their hands up in the air in frustration. As he passed by they stopped their squabbling long enough to acknowledge his existence and he returned their curious stares with a friendly wave. One of the Volus who had been pacing around the rest of his companions returned the wave awkwardly as if it were doing so for the first time, somewhat understanding the gesture but not having a clue of how to go about giving it. Shepard would have liked to stop and offer them his aid but he knew he had a schedule to keep and really disliked the idea of spending a night out in the wilds of Orlesian territory, so he kept marching on his way.

Late into the afternoon as the sun was painting the southern horizon a burnt orange, Shepard crested a ridge overlooking the Orlesian port-city of Jader. He had made it safely thus far without encountering anymore mercenaries, hopefully the rest of them were still looking for him in Ferelden and wouldn't figure he'd already moved across the border and into Orlais. Gazing upon the city in the wilting light was a beautiful sight. The rooftops and towers all glowed a brilliant yellow in the dusk-light, making the whole city appear as though it were aflame. The sandstone of the structures caught the sunlight and bounced it back in its own vivid hue, and here and there all manner of woven cloth and patterned linen stretched out over archways or merchant stalls adding a myriad of dazzling colors in amongst the glow. The smell of salt blew up from the Waking Sea into Shepard's face and he could hear the distant call of gulls crying as they hovered over the wharfs and piers of the docks district down at the seaside.

The walls around the city, though high, were thinly built and the city was outgrowing them by leaps and bounds, already whole neighborhoods were situated outside the western gate, and the Lieutenant figured that would be his best bet for getting into the city unharassed. If he had to explain his business to any Orlesians, he was a mercenary from Brandel's Reach off the coast of Ferelden looking to board a ship to find work up in Nevarra. Adjusting the pack on his back, Shepard moved down the ridge and made his way to the western gate of the city. As he neared the first few houses on the edge of town he tried to relax his stance and appear casual and weary from the road, which wasn't hard considering his feelings were genuine. Coming up upon the gatehouse he noted a pair of guards dressed in full plate one on each side of the open portcullis snoozing against their pikes. Easier than he thought.

He waltzed into the city as though he were a citizen himself and made his way down to a tavern in the docks district where he was to meet his contact which would secure him passage into Nevarra without it being discovered that he was a member of the Fereldan military. Walking through the crowded streets his ears were assaulted by cacophonous boasts of merchants peddling their wares and street side auctions taking place. Throngs of craftsmen and commoners alike packed tightly into the winding streets like bundles of wheat in a barn. It took some work and forceful pushing, but Shepard was able to squeeze through the crowds and get into the docks district where there were much fewer people out and about. A few sailors here and there either moving cargo or heading to a tavern were the main occupants of the wharfs, the smell of salt intensified down here, and he could now smell clearly the rank odor of fish drying out in the sun and various other smells which he could not sort through. Gulls squawked and pecked at scraps left on the planks near the ships and Shepard finally set his eyes on the tavern he was supposed to find his contact in.

A sign reading "The Scarlet Lady" and bearing the rendition of a fair maiden wearing a long red dress while blushing hung over the door of a two-story building perched atop one of the bigger wharfs. It was well built and sported all the designs of Orlesian architecture and Shepard could hear the sounds of cheering drunks and laughter echoing from within. Loosening the straps on his pack, he opened the thick wooden door and stepped into the wafting pipe smoke eking out of the tavern.

Letting his eyes adjust to the dimmer atmosphere of wall-hung lanterns and the modest flames in the fireplace, Shepard looked around at the melting pot of patrons. Sailors wearing all sorts of colors were speckled throughout the place, swinging mugs in their hands and singing most unskillfully in hodge-podge unison. There were some Krogan grouped up at a couple of tables in one of the corners, arm-wrestling other patrons and comparing scars. A pair of Salarians were gossiping near the bar and Shepard even saw a Turian or two fade in and out amongst the crowd as patrons dithered about and moved from bar to table. Having no idea where his contact was or if he was even in the tavern yet, Shepard moved to an empty seat at the bar and ordered an ale. No sooner did the barkeep set the mug down in front of Shepard than he felt a hand slap him on the back. His head whipped around with a start and staring back at him was a black-haired fellow in a fine blue robe. The stranger offered him a reassuring smile and sat down at the empty seat next to him, waving for the man behind the bar to bring another mug.

Shepard raised an eyebrow at the newcomer, "And you are?"

Taking a swig from his mug and wiping his mouth on the hem of his sleeve, the stranger glanced back at the wary Lieutenant.

"You're Shepard right?"

"Maybe, who's asking?" he replied reservedly.

Taking another sip from his mug, the man placed a friendly hand on Shepard's shoulder, "I'm your contact here, the man who's going to accompany you to Nevarra."

"And your name is?" Shepard was still unsure whether to be on his guard or feel relieved. The stranger gave him a reassuring smile.

"Kaidan. Kaidan Alenko."