The pen drummed between her fingers, rattling the stack of notes below in rapid succession. Any rougher or less controlled, and the delicate tip threatened to bend. Already a splattering of ink speckled the top page that remained vacant but for minuscule black flecks where crisp, clear words should have been. None, however, would come out. She'd walked away without her interview, short of the full story.

There went her much-needed bonus and shot at the front page. Answers left unsaid at the bottom of those darkened stairs if only she'd stayed and not bolted at the first hint of fear…

Chiyo rolled her head over the firm back of the lobby sofa with a huff. She stared at the substantial tiles that decorated the ceiling, fields of geometric flowers stamped into paper-thin sheets of copper left to tarnish over the years with the seasonally humid air. What a grand building it must have been before being repurposed after the abrupt economic decline. They'd left the bones and the body behind, but the soul was clearly gone from the hostel, a shadow of former Empiric glory. She groaned, chastising herself for the waste of effort and brain power dwelling on the relatively humdrum architecture of a boardinghouse when she had much more pressing matters to manage foremost.

There were only a few weeks left before the full draft of her next piece was due, giving it plenty of time to be scrutinized on the incisive corrector's desk while she made her way home. The snippets sent ahead had been reasonably received, but as always there was the fostered demand for punch—'Give the readers something they can really sink their teeth into, a touch of excitement feeds the questionably literate masses and sells a few more papers. Write like you are starving and that next sentence might buy dinner, kiddo.'

But it wasn't just the encouraging words of her editor-in-chief that made the elf pull a piece of dry skin off her lips. Writer without Purpose, the nerve of that man. Better to lack objective than to be wholly mad. She'd squandered so many hours and quite a bit of energy in giving him his ghosts back, if that's what they really were.

Of course, the whole thing had to be a trick, a manipulation, forged entertainment at her expense. There couldn't truly be… specters … Standing right there on the crumbling stairs, if the entity had lingered in that very spot she would have walked right through it.

"How absolutely ridiculous, spirits aren't real!" The laugh that followed the outburst, however, didn't sound so sure.

She forced herself to sit up straight, feet tucked under knees. Chiyo pressed the sharp nub of the pen to the top margin. Her hand was ready, poised and waiting, yet only a small bead of black formed instead of the flourish of vocabulary needed to earn her next measly check. She had to write, something, anything that wouldn't lead down the delusional path of paranormal garbage. She'd suffered enough behind a tabloid amending grammatical hiccups to never wish to return to such drivel. This wasn't a science fiction quarterly she was now journaling for, but a serious, independent literary coalition built on worldly interests and exploration.

At least, that's what it said on the cover.

More than one article circulated since the paper's inception had been perceived as more imagined and embellished than honest fact. She couldn't add her name to that list of offbeat entries. Work like that could haunt her for the rest of her career. And now, when she needed her writing skills most all that came to mind were striking, bald men and lyrium exposed photographs.

Mythal'enaste, this was rapidly becoming her shoddy fortnight with what was supposed to have been a wholly traditional Avvar tribe all over again. She hadn't expected so much of a culture shift, for being rather uncontacted it was bizarre to see such isolated people in reasonably new Orlesian-styled tunics and trousers. Here were mighty, wild hunters known for their archaic, pagan ways, loincloths and savage body paint, in manufactured fabrics. Their gods were gone, the dangerous cliffs were no longer scaled, and their damned hold-beast was a fat, slobbering mabari of all things. No one had died that year, but she'd been assured that their funeral practices still somewhat resembled that of old. The remaining family would capture an animal to offer up with the burning of the body. It might have been enough to save the article, had she been privy to see the mystical ritual.

That less than fabulous outing had nearly cost Chiyo a newly granted job, the only one she'd been offered when she left an internship before completion. Inexperience and poor journalism had not won her any respect, though spared notoriety, she'd promised herself then to never come that short of a goal ever again. She would write what she set out to, and nothing would keep her from the truth no matter how ugly and unforeseen it might be.

Pen and paper slapped against the cluttered table, sending a cold, forgotten tea cup dangerously close to the edge. A frustrated growl soon followed, as did a raking pass of fingernails through her untidy curls. Chiyo unfolded her legs and adjusted the wrap of the loosely-tied night coat that had slipped off her thighs. The fabric was old and the embroidery had begun to fray, but the once brightly stitched dawn lotuses that decorated the silky material were much too adored to dispose of or replace.

From between the cushions, she fetched the mislaid recorder; a quick listen might get her back on track. She needed to return to those ruins and move forward, there had to be a way to salvage the mess her exposé was quickly developing into.

She glanced at the front desk, the hostel staff had retired for the evening behind an office door. A sign on the counter termed the business hours and the lyrium-lights were turned off. Only the burning oil lamp at her side let her continue to work. The bunkroom had been darkened hours ago, the few other travelers sharing the space didn't much care for her late night scratchings or musings, they wanted to sleep in their cheap beds and move along to their next destination.

Maybe it was time for a pay raise. Chiyo thought she might then afford to stay in a room of her own. At least, she wasn't starving for her vocation, as much as someone might think she should…

"Back to work, this thing isn't going to write itself." With a few quick manipulations, she reversed the un-sampled recording and let it play back. Chiyo balanced the gadget on her shoulder while her hands took up the discarded tools of her trade anew.

"—'not worth including for the general populous'. Most of the tile work…"

Her own voice went on through various interruptions, sending her mind back to those remnants that she would now miss getting to investigate in full. Soon her pen, after a quick replenish from the ink bottle, flitted across a fresh page and filled in the details, blocking out the scant findings into something that her fellow explorers might actually care to read. The dig site at the entrance had been so peculiar, obviously not a professional search by the look of it. There were no markings or graphing strings, nothing to indicate care or consideration. Just a crude hole and loose rubble. It would not be the first time tunnels had been excavated and secret chambers exposed.

She began to allude to the cavities found beneath the site dubbed the Dead Hand in the Dales and the strange artifacts that had been found standing deep within. Trees made of stone, curved branches arced into an empty sphere, statues of clear elvhen design. One could not look at the long faces and rigid arms of an archer carved from rock and not see the skill and might that had once been intrinsic to her people.

-Our people? The elves have not been unified in millennia.-

And he was in her head again! That damned Solas and his snobby disagreements. They were ruining what was planned to be a perfectly sound story.

Chiyo's notes then took an angry turn, combating his spiteful notion with redirection towards the humans desecrating yet another site. Who were they to tell an elf she wasn't allowed inside buildings that were a part of her heritage, why did they get to exert control over history that didn't belong to them in the slightest. On and on she rambled, spitting the words as her fingers looped to make them permanent.

"Lacking both providence and permission, it can be assured that this violation will be made known to the Council when next they meet. If this place cannot be protected or respected then perhaps it is time that the Dalish take ownership of the property before even more unscrupulous acts are committed—"

Chiyo's face splotched with sudden red when a sonorous, throaty laugh echoed from the small device, it brushed against her ear warmly even though it had been emitted in rude jest. She'd recorded the chance meeting after all.

"Where is that damned button!" Her fingers fumbled as her cheeks turned darker when her own voice betrayed more updated inclinations. Solas was far stranger a man than she thought the unnamed elf in the ruins originally to be.

Sliding down between the open gap of the sleek shift, the recorder became lost once again in the upset. Chiyo groped down the front of her sleep-dress as the replay of the encounter soundly shamed her again.

"Only if I can record them…"

Sultry indeed, she never thought herself much the flirt, but it seemed a pair of fine cheekbones and broad lips had a dangerous way with the inflections of her tone. With a wrench, she grasped the device and pulled it free from the confines of her clothes. There was only the hissy hum of a gap in the conversation when she brought it back to the light. But a different sound soon pricked the attention of her long ear.

There was another voice, not hers or Solas'. Chiyo tilted her head and lifted the recorder, turning the volume higher as she did.

"…ash'inan laim… lasa esh'ala itha—"

An icy shiver coursed down her spine and a thumb slammed the stop button with a hard click. Almost compulsively, Chiyo threw the boxy device across to the far side of the sofa. The air around her remained heavy with the day's warmth that had yet to dissipate, but she pulled tightly at her thin robe. Soft, hushed words had her on edge in an instant, her pulse hammered harder than when she bolted from the guards and slid down a ladder in the escape.

Every fine hair on her arms and neck rose as the familiarity sank in. Undeniably, unequivocally, even if she couldn't translate a single syllable for the fear that numbed the more dexterous parts of her mind. "That… that was elven…"

It couldn't be, they'd only been speaking in the common tongue there inside that ruin. The guards who'd discovered them used a crisp Tevene, as did Solas when he'd answered their commands.

No elf spoke anything but broken chunks beyond the utmost of elvhen historians and the rare few linguists that argued more than they helped. The Dalish kept only the most basic of phrases to blend with their daily lives. Simply the most venerable words remained after centuries of verbal cleansing. Greetings and goodbyes, a few insults and blessings. At most a dozen words without thinking could be had at the tongue of an elven youth, a handful more with a bit of focus and study.

Chiyo tried to shake the frightful feeling that had wrapped around her. She'd pushed to sit on the sofa's narrow arm, her brown eyes focused entirely on the slowly blinking light on the side of her favorite tool.

It was getting late, she didn't have to consider the clock to know that, but if she left right then she might just catch the last trolley.

Leaving her belongs and notes where they lay, she slipped off the couch and restrained herself from running. Fear or excitement, Chiyo couldn't discern. She fumbled in the dark while she fetched a pair of shoes and a heavier coat from the airless room full of slumbering travelers.

She wanted those answers now after all.

The back gate was locked this time. Chiyo shook the iron-wrought access again before glancing over her shoulder. It wasn't really breaking in, merely a hop over the fence, though the mental reassurance wasn't much to keep the sweat from moistening her palms. Boots pressed to the bars, she vaulted herself up and over, taking care not to snag her clothes on the decorative tips.

Slinking through the shadows, the little writer still in her night clothes bypassed the flowering bushes and approached the rear door. A try at the knob found it too was bolted. Chiyo considered knocking, but the odds of anyone hearing her seemed slim. Her only hope was to try the front door and sheepishly ask for the photographer by name.

"Oh yes, a complete stranger calling in the middle of the night, nothing to worry about. Please don't get the authorities…" The recorder in her coat pocket bounced hard against her leg as she crept forward through the quiet garden, minding the thorns and sculpted topiaries.

Timidly she rounded the front steps and stood by the stately ingress while summoning the nerve to reach for the glossy knocker. Chiyo nearly gasped when her fingers met the brass, recognizing the contorted shape as that of a terrifying monster of mythology. Envy with its many limbs held the ball aloft, painstakingly detailed from what soft light illuminated the surface.

The idea to come here was rapidly losing the original appeal. The owner of the estate could be equally as odd, Solas' invite had warned her of some of the peculiarities. She'd come all this way though. There wouldn't be another trolley to take her home for several hours. Quite the walk without anything gained in return…

Her hunger for truth won over the nervousness that clenched in Chiyo's belly. She firmly gripped the knocker and struck in a determined series.

Panic bolted through her nerves upon the door's almost immediate opening, she'd had no time to prepare or compose.

"You're rather premature; the Master was not expecting company for another hour." A cool and proper voice decreed even before the entrance was fully opened. Chiyo stared at the human in a black, simple suit who gestured without so much as an odd glance to see her into the manor's vestibule.

"I… I'm sorry?" She tried not to stammer as her thick-soled shoes trotted onto the dark granite cut into a remarkable herringbone pattern. With a wobble she reached to pull them off before the prim man could ask her to do just that.

"May I take your…" He did eye the peculiar state of her dress, not even the hem of her decorative cover or lacy nightgown poked out beneath the knee-length edge of her outer coat. Bare legs and clunky boots, not exactly the most comely of attire. "…Shoes, lady? The flooring is expensive."

Chiyo was relieved when he skipped asking for her outerwear, she handed over the staple but dirty explorer's gear before realizing exactly how unclean they actually were. She could see mud crusted in the laces and a few green smears from her recent jog through the jungle.

With gloves so white and spotless they practically glistened, she was embarrassed to see him remove her well-worn footwear, toting them off to the adjacent coat closet.

"Come, he'll see you upstairs." Like a lost and increasingly distracted child, she allowed herself to be herded up the spiraling banister, every bend in the stucco-ed well was distractingly decorated with stupendous art. Gilded frames bordered imposing canvas, the subject matter, however, seemed to lose more clothing with each rising step.

The second-floor hall was almost excessively adorned. These paintings were nothing like the modern interpretation viewed in the rear of the estate, left to the shadows almost forgotten. Here stood titillating masterpieces that could never be viewed openly or in public, not with the stuffy laws of morality governed by the far-reaching Chantry.

Once again she felt the warmth begin to rise in her face. Chiyo was no stranger to viewing art of nudity and sex. She'd survived countless art classes and museum tours, the Dalish themselves held little shame when it came to the natural state of their bodies. But some of the images took hold of base debauchery and ran wild with it. Certainly some of these positions were not physically possible, not in the mortal realm of reality, though the few Desire demons thrown into the mix seemed unphased by those paltry limitations…

Her spine and hips ached even considering… Oh dear.

A clearing of a courteous throat stole her attentions away from the last painting she'd fallen into beside the destined door. Chiyo's heart lurched into her throat when the butler gave a stiff and shallow bow forward, gloved hand issuing towards the engraved access. With a deft twist, he rotated the handle and held it open for her to step inside.

"Good evening." His flat tone crimped on her ear, edging on the polite side of insinuation.

With barely a foot inside the door, Chiyo was shoved forward by the attendant's just as sudden departure. The latch clicked hard behind her and she was left alone in the dark, steamy boudoir. For as lavish and galleried as the hall had been, the bedroom was oddly devoid of any imagery. Only draped fabric and mirrors and cozy, cushioned furniture. A musky waft of perfume slipped softly beneath her nose as the slosh of water made her press against the closed ingress.

If there was ever a time to regret her decision to follow that lead, she couldn't think of a better one.

A voice that was too smooth for the petulant whine the words carried came from behind the gauzy swathing of curtains that quartered off the apartment. "My, my, is my guest that early and eager? Please, don't let me keep you waiting, make yourself comfortable…"