Disclaimer: Dragon Age and its characters belong to Bioware, not me. I am saddened by this unfortunate fact.

Prompt #2: Cheeky

Smitten

Ser Rylock was a unique templar. It took a woman of uncommon mentality who devoted herself to the Maker but forwent the powerful draw of the clergy to instead devote herself to the military arm of the world's dominant religion. When only women could hold the truest positions of power within the Chantry, and those women rarely if ever came face-to-face with physical danger, it didn't take a genius to figure out where a practical woman would place herself. When one does what one believes is right, especially when that one is a templar, practicality is very rarely an issue.

The prudence of using one's Maker-given assets was not lost on Ser Rylock, however. Even possessing the zealotry common to most, if not all templars, she was not blind to certain expectations that many people held of her order. For one, in most countries, women didn't become templars. It wasn't as though there was any law against it, as once existed with Orlesian Chevaliers, but it just wasn't common. This lack of numbers led to the common misconception among the general populace that they simply didn't exist or were specially-granted cases such as Meredith in Kirkwall. The times when she was underestimated, coupled with the tenacity that let her bend rules every now and again, was what made her so good at her job.

Rylock was a mage hunter.

She had long ago learned that just by virtue of her gender, she could access apostate safe houses and bypass heretic security. All it took was identifying an easily impressionable guard and a bat of her smoky eyelashes. Not that she couldn't hold her own with her sword and shield as well, but any advantage was one worth using, in her opinion, especially if the numbers didn't fall in her favor.

Today's hunt was an unusual one, to say the least. Her latest mark had decided to hole up in a brothel, of all places, and wasn't making much of a secret of himself, supposedly trading healing and other beneficial spells for room, board, and sexual favors. Perhaps he thought his mere location would be enough to stave off any potential templars? She almost had to laugh at the thought. There existed no shortage of templars who would deny their vows to visit such an establishment, but none who would risk being exposed as such, at least not in Andraste's birthplace. The mage could be surrounded by templars trying to keep their heads down and not even realize it.

He wasn't hard to spot as Ser Rylock walked in, either. She exchanged glances with the giant of a bouncer who eyed her weapons and very-not-templar-looking armor meaningfully before settling in to a table, ordering a drink that would remain untouched, and surreptitiously studying the mage. Lanky and tall, possibly not even fully grown yet, the blonde mage sat in a corner surrounded by people he seemed to be animatedly playing cards with while getting progressively drunk. He was unashamedly wearing some sort of unorthodox-style robe that exposed perhaps a little more flesh than it had any right to, but youth combined with life in the Circle didn't allow him to fill it very well. Every once in awhile, a prostitute of either persuasion would walk up to him and make some gesture of affection, from a playful toss of his ponytail, to unabashedly lounging in his lap as he lost at cards.

Rylock had seen his sketch before: a known Circle escapee, guilty of nothing more than defying Chantry doctrine by desiring his own freedom and attempting to do something about it. No blood magic on his record, no violent acts, just a charming, if slippery nature, and a lot of nerve. Harmless. By rights, this should be one of her easiest captures, if she played it right, but she had seen maleficarum turn at the drop of a hat. It wouldn't do well to be overconfident.

Eventually, the mage boy decided he was either too poor or too drunk to continue playing and bowed out of his card game, moving to a space by the bar to chat with one of the prostitutes there. Seeing her chance, Rylock moved in to occupy the other barstool next to him.

When merely sitting beside him didn't capture the drunken mage's attention, she cleared her throat instead. He jumped slightly, but it was his conversation partner who noticed her first, smiling knowingly and vacating her seat with whispered words of luck into his ear.

He didn't turn and focus on Rylock until she spoke. "So, are you a mage?" she asked innocently. As pickup lines went, it was fairly weak, but it wasn't as though this boy was winning any prizes, either. She could only hope that this boy didn't have any moral hang-ups about older women.

Obviously, he didn't.

He grinned broadly, his eyes lighting up, "That I am, my dear lady. Anders is my name, best healer in all of Ferelden and prettiest Circle escapee."

Maker, he wasn't even using an assumed name! He was either entirely too confident, just that stupid, or both. "What a coincidence," Rylock smiled her prettiest smile, "I'm a templar."

Anders blinked drunkenly, face almost sobering for a second as he tried to process the information, looking her up and down before settling on his own conclusion. Stereotypes worked in her favor yet again as the grin returned, and this time it was wolfish, "And I bet you're ready to smite me, aren't you?" His eyebrow raised in what he must have thought was an alluring manner, "Such a naughty mage, so far from the Tower . . ."

Rylock tried to keep the bile from rising in her throat and her hand from clenching on the pommel of her sword. "Oh, you have no idea."

He leaned closer to her, and she could smell the disgustingly cheap ale waft from his lips as he spoke, "Far be it from me to turn down a good smiting. I have the perfect place upstairs, and lucky for you, unlike the other people here, I believe all 'smitings' should be free."

He didn't know how close he was getting to a free smiting right at that moment. "Then lead the way," she managed to force out. Thank the Maker he was three sheets to the wind, otherwise none of this would've worked.

Anders didn't need to be told twice. He got several winks and nods from the prostitutes and regulars as he led Rylock to the back stairs and into a decrepit little room with barely enough floorspace to fit the furniture, let alone people. By the time she had closed the door behind her, Anders was already mostly undressed, giving her a full show of his pasty, white, and skinny buttocks. Her face instantly turned red as she decided enough was enough and unsheathed her sword quietly.

"So, I don't think I caught your name earlier, lady templar," the mage boy cheekily stated, back still turned as he carefully removed his boots, "Would you mind telling me it, so I may remember by whom I'm smitten?"

"I don't think you'll have any problem remembering me," she answered. He finally turned around and went cross-eyed at the tip of her longsword leveled at his nose. "It's Ser Rylock."

And then she smote him.

Anders dropped like a sack of bricks, falling unconscious instantly, as she'd anticipated. Still with a prudish blush on her cheeks, she threw his "robes" on top of him and rolled him in a thin blanket before tossing him over her shoulder and carting him out the back door, past the guard she'd paid off hours before. A quick getaway was often essential, since there was no telling how attached people could become to their pet mages. She was lashing him to the back of her horse's saddle by the time he woke up, bleary and probably sporting a splitting headache.

He groaned, "Oh, blessed Andraste, you really are a templar."

"That I am," Rylock confirmed. Give the boy a prize.

"You know, I usually enjoy being around beautiful women, but for you I think I'll make an exception."

Anders spent the rest of his trip back to the Tower gagged.