4. take a breath and dive in deep

After the night he's had, Gareth is prepared to sleep for several days. He and Carver tumble into their bunk late into the night, having dealt with mercenaries and Coterie all in the span of a few hours. Tired and weary, Gareth knows that he's going to be sore in the morning. At the very least, he thinks, the Docks will be safer now.

Still, there's a little blossom of warmth in his chest. He would rather give away Athenril's goods to help someone in need, than be paid. The lad, Pryce, will be able to find safer, more gainful employ now and provide for his sisters.

Everything worked out fine.

He's able to fall asleep with a smile on his face and, for the first time in a long time, he sleeps peacefully.

The next morning dawns, bright and clear, light filtering in through the high, narrow windows. When Gareth finally crawls out of the cramped bunk, it's to find that he's not the first one up for once. His mother's up and about, doing a little bit of light housekeeping.

It's not really necessary, given that there's hardly anything in the apartment. It's a simple, one room affair. There are the narrow bunks in the corner that Carver and Gareth built out of what scrap they could salvage, replacing Gamlen's broken down cot. A tiny, rusted fireplace is in the corner, the only source of warmth for the entire apartment and arranged in front of it is a small table and three chairs.

Aside from that, there's the cracked mirror and wash basin in the corner. The wooden floor is largely bare, except for an incredibly worn rug that's arranged under the table and partially in front of the fire. All of their clothes and worldly possessions are locked up in a small chest, which sits innocently under the table.

There's very little to indicate that there's a family of four living here. About the only thing on display is Gamlen's old wallop mallet, which is mounted to the wall. Likely because if it wasn't, someone would have stolen it.

Leandra smiles as he emerges. She gestures to the table as she continues to sweep the floor, "A note arrived for you. I believe it's from your new friend, Varric?"

It's a simple, folded piece of paper, sealed with a pinch of wax. Gareth cracks it with a fingernail, opening it. The note's not long; only a single sentence.

'Got a couple leads and we should talk. – V'

"Thanks." He leans in, giving her a quick kiss to the cheek. "I'll head over to the bathhouse, then meet up with Varric at the Hanged Man. Let Carver know?"

"If he asks," Leandra replies, waving him off.

There are at least three common bathhouses within Lowtown. None of the apartments or homes here have actual bathing facilities, so the majority of residents make use of those that are public. There's one in the section of Lowtown that's been taken to house the Fereldan refugees and it's to that one that Gareth goes. It's one of the very few buildings in Lowtown that has any sort of luxury to it; the floors and basins are all beautifully finished and there's a series of lovely mosaics that decorate the walls.

It's a refreshing experience and Gareth carefully bundles away his dirty clothes into his pack. True, they have few luxuries in Kirkwall, but there's something to be said about being clean.

He heads to the Hanged Man, stomach grumbling, and resigns himself to a meal of questionable meat. Well, it won't be so different than what they eat at home. Practically everything that they can afford is of questionable or often dubious origin. It comes with the territory of being a Fereldan refugee. They're lucky if they can – on a rare occasion – afford something from one of the butchers in Hightown.

Varric's got his own private set of rooms at the Hanged Man. They're on the second level, set a little ways apart from the rest of the rooms that are available to be rented out. When Gareth arrives, Varric's already ordered for the both of them, and there's two bowls of steaming, hot stew sitting on the table waiting – along with two mugs of the signature ale of the tavern below.

"Hawke! Come on in, sit down! Hope you don't mind, but I ordered breakfast for the both of us." Varric gestures at the only empty seat at the table.

"It's fine," Gareth says, taking his seat. "You wanted to speak with me?"

"Aside from our little game of Wicked Grace, I still haven't had the chance to get your story out of you. Besides, I figure that you've got questions of your own for me."

"What would you like to know?"

The stew's actually quite good. So long as Gareth doesn't think too hard about the possible authenticity of the meat. He doesn't want to know what it actually is; he'll content himself with the knowledge that it tastes like beef.

Varric tents his fingers above his own bowl of stew, leans in closer, "We can start with the basics. Junior says you're from Lothering?"

"It's where our home was," Gareth says, with a nod. "But none of us were actually born there. I was born in Amaranthine, while the… twins were born in Highever. We moved to Lothering when I was very young due to… circumstances."

Varric nods, "And you lived your entire life there?"

"Until the Blight came, yes. Carver had joined the king's army and gone to Ostagar. I remained at home with our mother and… Bethany." His voice catches when he says her name. There's a pang in his chest, but it's lessened slightly.

Time doesn't heal all wounds, he knows this. It just makes the pain lessen.

Varric doesn't say anything about his rough voice, how he can barely bring himself to talk about his little sister. Instead, he gestures for Gareth to go on, listening intently.

"We should have fled sooner, but… we had to wait for Carver. We couldn't leave him behind. It hadn't taken long for word to reach Lothering that Ostagar was a disaster, that the king was dead, and that this was, in fact, a Blight. There were refugees pouring in almost daily from the horde's advance, not to mention the deserters and survivors of the battle. Once Carver returned, we fled."

He takes a deep, steadying breath, "We… lost Bethany. There was an ogre. She died protecting our mother."

"An ogre?" Varric stares. "Not many people can say they met one of those and survived."

His smile is mirthless, "It was huge. And bloody terrifying. But all I can remember thinking when I faced it was that: 'This is not going to take anyone else'."

Varric whistles, the sound low and soft, "Damn."

"After that, it was just a matter of reaching Gwaren and making it to Kirkwall. We had… help." He's not so sure how believable the next part of their story is, simply because it's so unbelievable. "We were surrounded by darkspawn, it was hopeless. The only reason we survived and made it here is because we were saved by the Witch of the Wilds – Flemeth herself."

The words hang, heavy in the air, for several long moments. The silence presses down on him, weighty and tense. All he can hear are the muffled sounds from the bar below them.

"Well shit. You're serious?"

He pulls the pendant from his neck, holds it out to Varric, "She helped us in exchange for this. I've been waiting to hear about a Dalish clan she said was going to be in the area. For her help, I have to bring this to their Keeper."

Varric weighs the pendant in his hands, holds it up to the light.

He's examined the pendant himself multiple times, knows how it catches the light and seems to come alive with it. Peering into the vial, it's as though there's something alive and moving within it. It's disturbing and fascinating, all at the same time.

And it pulses with a magic that Gareth's never felt before.

Sliding it back across the table to him, Varric says, "Well, I think I can help you there. Word is, a Dalish clan's camped out on Sundermount. They arrived – maybe two days ago?"

Then that means it's time to keep his bargain with Flemeth. He's been nervous about this. But a deal is a deal; he'll keep his end, as she kept hers.

"Then I suppose we know what we'll be doing today."

"Guess so. I've got a couple of leads I'm waiting for confirmation on," Varric says. "Should be getting those in the next few days – that'll give us some more work to do. You're still saving up?"

He smiles, "I think we're right on track."

"Great! You're a real lifesaver, Hawke. And I mean that." Varric leans back in his chair, hands clasped over his stomach. "Now, anything else you want to ask me?"

"Well, I'd like to know more about you," Gareth says at last. "After all, we are working together. I like to get to know my friends."

"Let's see… well, you already know I'm a surfacer, born and raised in Kirkwall. My family's originally from Orzammar – noble House Tethras – until my father was caught fixing Provings." He waves his hands, "It's a dwarven thing, don't ask. Anyway, he and our whole House got exiled. No huge loss."

"And what do you do? Merchant? Mercenary?"

Varric chuckles, the sound low and warm, "I am a younger son. It's a difficult and dangerous position. A lot of us die of boredom. Fortunately, being Bartrand's younger brother keeps me on my toes," Varric sighs, "Maker knows he lacks subtlety. I'm the one who pulls strings to keep the Coterie out of our hair – keep us just a whisker ahead of the other families."

With a shrug, Varric adds, "It's interesting – you meet lots of people that way. And it gives me plenty of ideas for my work."

"You write, don't you?"

"Oh, a couple of stories, here and there. I'm not a particularly well-known writer. Not yet, anyway."

"And Bartrand?"

"If you want to understand Bartrand, you need to understand the Dwarven Merchants Guild. These are dwarves who would sell their own mothers if it meant that they'd get a better share of the lyrium market. Anyone who deals with them has to sleep with a knife under their pillow. In my family, that's Bartrand."

"Guess that explains why he's…"

"Abrupt? Impolite? Stubborn?"

"I was going to say 'an asshole'."

"Ha! I knew you had it in you!"

Gareth frowns, "I do, in fact, know how to swear, Varric."

"I just didn't think you could. You're always so damn polite and nice; I'd normally say it's sickening, but you make it work."

"... thanks. I think."

"Anyway," Varric waves his hand in a dismissive gesture. "Now that we've got the requisite backstory sharing out of the way, you wanna know anything else? Or shall we get this show on the road?"

Gareth pauses, thoughtful, then asks, "What's the plan for the Deep Roads expedition? It occurs to me that I didn't get all of the details."

"You know Bartrand's running the show, obviously, otherwise we'd never have met. And he'd probably be doing that even if we weren't paying for all of it. Well, most of it. The thaig that we're looking for is supposed to be a week's travel from the surface, so I hope you're not scared of the dark."

Gareth shakes his head. He grew out of that early on in life. Neither Bethany or Carver had been afraid of it either, aided by the little wisps of veilfire he used to summon to comfort them.

"We've got supplies, muscle, excavators…" Varric ticks off the various groups on his hands, "The plan is to carry out everything that's not nailed down. Usual routine when spelunking in the Deep Roads. There's really not much else to say besides that." Varric pauses, then almost distractedly, adds, "I've lived in Kirkwall most of my life and it's dangerous enough, but it doesn't compare to the Deep Roads."

Varric grins, looks at Gareth, "So… let's just call this 'an adventure'."

"Wonderful. We're adventurers now."

"Sarcasm doesn't really suit you, Hawke."

"It suits me just fine, Varric."

With breakfast finished, the two of them wander downstairs to the bar itself. Carver's there, awkwardly standing near the bar and watching the serving girls with a pink flush high in his cheeks. He cuts over to them when he spots them.

"Mother said that you'd be here. What's going on?"

"Nothing serious. But it's about time that we repay the witch for her services," Gareth says, in a low voice. "Come on, we'll see if Aveline is free to come with us. I'm sure that she'll want to be here for this."

Carver's mouth is set into a firm frown, but he nods, "Then let's go."

When they reach the barracks, it's to find Aveline sitting behind her desk, with a stack of paperwork towering over her head. A look of relief steals across her face when Gareth pokes his head in.

"You look like you could use rescuing," Gareth remarks.

"Tell me you have something for me to do. Preferably something that needs hitting."

"That bad, huh?"

"I knew that the promotion would come with extra work. More reports, requisitions, the operations of running the guard day-to-day." Aveline sighs, rolls her shoulders and neck, "I'm not even officially captain, yet they're putting me through the paces already. Today's supposed to be my day off."

"Oh, good. Then you can come with us?"

Aveline raises an eyebrow, "That depends. Where are you going? And what will you be doing?"

He tugs the amulet out from under his tunic, lets it catch the light. "It's about time that we paid our debt, don't you think?"

"I don't like this."

"You said that when I told you where we were going. Would you rather live in debt to a Witch of the Wilds?"

"No," Aveline says, sighing with irritation. "But I don't like being lied to."

"You think that she lied to us?" Gareth asks.

"Perhaps. At the very least, I doubt that she told us the full truth."

"So," Varric says conversationally. "Just how terrifying was this Witch of the Wilds?"

"She turned into a dragon and massacred an entire small army of darkspawn," Carver says. "Then, once Gareth agreed to her request, she flew us to just outside of Gwaren."

"Huh. That's some weird shit there."

The sun beats down on them when they finally spot signs of the Dalish encampment. Gareth knows little of the Dalish, for they tended to avoid coming near Lothering though he's aware that they frequently made camp in the neighbouring Brecilian Forest. The only elves that he's met are few and far between; there weren't many in Lothering.

He hasn't ventured into Kirkwall's alienage, despite its proximity to the slums in which he and his family live. It just seems… incredibly voyeuristic.

Two elves block their path, each one dressed in beautifully molded leather armour. Each of them has a sword at their waist. One of the elves says, "Hold, shemlen! Your kind are not welcome among the Dalish."

"I was given something meant for someone by the name of Marethari," Gareth says. He resists the urge to touch the pendant under his coat.

"How do you know that name?" The male elf's eyes narrow, his hand straying to the hilt of his blade.

The woman stops him, laying a hand on his arm, "Wait, this is the one that the Keeper spoke of."

He blinks, looks Gareth up and down, "A shemlen? I thought he'd be an elf."

Stepping aside and drawing her companion with her, the woman gestures behind her, "You may enter our camp, stranger. Keeper Marethari has been waiting for you."

"If you cause trouble, you'll meet our blades," the man warns as they pass by.

The Dalish camp is set not too far back from where they met the guards. It's a motley collection of tents, elves, strange looking landships, and what Gareth can only assume are their famous halla. The halla are given free reign, wandering through the camp and stopping here and there to nibble at grass or a branch.

Gareth's not too sure which one is Marethari. However, there's an older woman standing near the large, roaring common fire that's at the centre of the camp and its activities. Her grey hair is pulled back from her face, emphasizing the tattoos on her face. She's dressed in a motley collection of light mail, leather, and fur, and there's something innately regal and otherworldly about her as they approach.

Gareth steps forward, meets her olive green eyes, and asks, "Are you Marethari?"

She turns to him, "Andaran atish'an. I am Keeper Marethari. And you are?"

"My name is Gareth, but you may call me Hawke." Gareth removes the pendant from around his neck and holds it out to her, "I was told to bring this amulet to you."

Marethari takes the amulet from him, examines it, and nods. She looks up to Gareth, taking in his face, and there's a small smile on her face as she says, "There's truth in your face. A rare thing amongst your kind. Now tell me, how did this come to you?"

"In exchange for saving my family from the Blight, a witch asked that I bring this to you."

"I honor you for coming to me, but I'm afraid that your task is not yet done." She gestures towards the mountain, "The amulet must be taken to an altar near the summit of the mountain and given there a Dalish rite for the departed. Once that has been done, return the amulet to me and your debt will be repaid."

"Are you going to teach me how to perform this rite? Or will you be coming with me?"

Marethari shakes her head and hands the amulet back to Gareth, "I will send my First with you and she will perform the rite. And… once you've completed your task, I must ask you this: Take her with you when you leave."

He hadn't expected that. "If that's what she wants."

"It is," Marethari says, her tone morose. She lets out a sigh, then indicates a path behind her, "Merrill is waiting for you a little ways up the mountain path. She… prefers the solitude of it to our camp. Dareth shiral."

"Thank you," Gareth says, inclining his head to her as a show of respect.

The four of them pass by Marethari, making their way towards the path that she indicated. It's overgrown with underbrush, and the branches of the trees hang low overhead. The result is an oppressive atmosphere that feels like something alien and unknown; the entire mountain just feels… old. As though it's been there since the dawn of time.

"I'm only gonna say this once, but ground has no business being anything but horizontal," Varric comments, as they make their way up the winding, narrow dirt path.

"It's not as bad as Aveline's shortcut," Gareth comments.

"True, but I'm more of a city dwarf myself."

"How are you going to handle the Deep Roads if you can't even deal with a path out in the open air?" Carver asks, batting aside a stray branch from hitting himself in the face.

"I'll deal, Junior. I am an adult, after all."

"Hey!"

"Children…"

Gareth sighs. It's going to be a long day.

Not too far up the path from them, he spots a figure sitting hunched over on a root at the side of the path. The deep green and dark brown of their outfit blends into the forest, making anything more about them hard to make out. All that he can, is that they have the typical lithe build of an elf, and the points of their ears.

The figure turns, then shoots to their feet, hastily tucking something into a pouch on her belt, "Oh! I'm sorry! You must be the one the Keeper spoke of. Aneth ara."

She's quite petite, at least a head shorter than Gareth is. Her smile falters for a moment, "I didn't ask your name! Unless… it's not rude to ask a human their name, is it? I'm Merrill. Which… you probably already knew. I'm babbling now, I'll be quiet."

"It's not rude at all," Gareth says, smiling. "I'm Hawke. It's a pleasure to meet you, Merrill."

"Yes! Yes it is! You're from Fereldan, aren't you? I spent most of my life there, too. We only came north to flee the Blight. Have you been in the Free Marches long? How do you like it here?"

Merrill's words come out in a rush, all in the same breath, and they run together in places. It's… rather endearing. She seems like a sweet girl.

"Only a little over a year now. We came for the same reasons you did, as we have family in the city," Gareth replies. If she's to come with them, then he should get to know her better; he doesn't know why she would want to leave her clan, but it's clear to him that she'll be in need of friends. "As for what it's like, it's good enough as anywhere to start over."

Merrill glances down to her feet, "That's good to hear."

When she looks back up to him, she shakes herself, and says, "Anyway, we should be going. Your task is for Asha'bellanar and it's not wise to make her wait."

"Then we should be going," Gareth replies, he gestures towards the path. "Lead on, Merrill."

"You're sure? It's not far and it's not hard to find… but I mean, if you think that's best…"

Very gently, he places his hand on her shoulder and squeezes it, "Merrill, it's alright. I trust you."

Her answering smile is shy, but bright, "Okay."

As they slowly make their way up the mountain, Merrill asks an assortment of lightning quick questions one after another about life in Kirkwall, what Gareth likes best about it, and what he misses about Ferelden. She also asks him about Lothering.

"It was our home," Carver replies, instead. "It's the only one I'd ever known."

"You lived in other places before?" Merrill asks, blinking her large, green eyes.

"Our parents moved to Amaranthine, initially, which was where I was born," Gareth supplies. "We moved when I was very young to Highever, where the twins were born. After an… incident, when I was five, we left and moved to Lothering."

"Oh wow, I've never been to any of those places. We usually traveled through the Hinterlands or the Brecilian Forest. We tended to stay away from anywhere with too many humans. You're probably the first humans I've ever spoken to."

"And what do you make of us?" Carver asks. He's looking at Merrill with stars in his eyes, cheeks flushed from exertion and something more.

"You're all very kind and welcoming. Not at all like the stories that they tell us growing up," Merrill says brightly. She bounces along a little ahead of Gareth, what looks like a spear slung across her back.

"You're a mage?" Gareth asks.

Merrill blinks rather owlishly, "Of course. All Keepers know a bit of old magic. Our stories tell us that all elvhen once had the gift, but like so many things, it was lost. A Keeper's job is to remember, to restore what can be."

"And you've fought opponents before?"

"I've done a little fighting," Merrill replies. "But… always alone. If we get into a fight, I'll try not to hit anyone. On our side, I mean. I'mbabblingagainlet'skeepinggoing."

Gareth has to fight back the chuckle. Merrill may be awkward and unsure about others, but she's sweet and that's what's most important.

Their trek up Sundermount takes them farther and farther up the winding path. What Gareth notices as they climb, is that the Veil here is… thin. And that the further they climb, the thinner it becomes. It's strange and immediately puts him on his guard; where the Veil is thin, he knows from his father's instruction, the more likely that something will slip across.

However, that's not what they encounter when they round a corner of the path.

A Dalish hunter stands, scowling at Merrill and them as they approach. When he speaks, his voice is harsh, the syllables of his words like knives, "I see the Keeper finally found someone willing to take you from here."

Merrill's back goes ramrod straight, her shoulders rigid, "Yes, she did."

"Good," he snaps. "Finish your task quickly, shem. We can't be rid of her fast enough."

He shoulders them roughly, beginning to make the return to camp.

Varric murmurs, "I'm sensing a story here."

Merrill watches the hunter go, calling after him, "I've made my choice! And I'll save our clan! No matter what anyone thinks!"

Gareth frowns, glances at Merrill, "Something wrong?"

Merrill shakes her head, looking forlornly at the ground, "No. It's just ignorance. Let's keep going."

The silence, which was before comfortable, is awkward and weighty now. There's something that Merrill isn't saying, in the way that she curls in on herself and how she won't meet his eyes when he asks, that says as much. She's been cut deeper by the words than she'll admit.

It drags on for a long while, the only sounds that of their heavy breathing, before Merrill points ahead of them to a cave entrance, "We'll have to take the cavern path. There was a landslide at some point that's cut off access to the summit."

Varric sighs, "Underground, then?"

"Merrill–"

"I'm sorry," Merrill says, interrupting him. "You're not really seeing the Dalish at their best. We're a good people, who look out for each other… normally."

"If you need anything, let me know? I'll help you if I can," Gareth offers.

"Thank you." Merrill smiles, though it's bittersweet, "Even if my clan doesn't appreciate my efforts, I'm still going to see this through to the end."

He's pretty sure that Merrill is not talking about whatever rite it is that they've come here to complete. It's something else, but he doesn't know what, but he hopes that she'll come to trust him enough to tell him, in time. She's sweet and deserves to have at least one person on her side and, perhaps, two mages are better than one.

Merrill looks at the cavern, "I suppose we should have brought torches… I'm no good with fire."

"We won't need them," Gareth replies.

Carver, who's done this before, steps up and holds up a cupped hand to his brother, "Gareth's got his own – flame, that is."

With a little bit of concentration, Gareth conjures a flickering ball of green veilfire into his hand. He tips his hand over Carver's and the flame flows into it like water.

"That's… veilfire!" Merrill leans in closer, examining it with wide eyes, "I've read of it! It's an old elvhen technique! They used to be able to write messages in it – feelings and thoughts. Could you teach me? I've never met anyone capable of actually using it."

"Of course," Gareth says.

Merrill eagerly holds her hands up next, watching with wide eyes and a grin that she can't actually contain.

"It's a little… difficult to explain," Gareth replies. "The best way I can explain it is that it's a… memory of fire. Hold that memory of it in your mind and visualize it. Imagine it in your hands."

He demonstrates, breathes in, and recalls the flickering light of a flame. The veilfire responds, sparking to life in the palm of his hand. It floats there, not touching the skin, throwing off its flickering green light, but giving off no heat.

Taking a deep breath, Merrill closes her eyes. Her face screws up into a look of deep concentration. The magic hums in the hair, sparking along Gareth's senses. But, after several long seconds, all Merrill manages is a brief, bright flash of green.

"Oh, damn!" Merrill blinks, looking at her hands with a put-out expression. "I almost had it. I could feel it, there, in my fingertips, but then I got... distracted."

Gareth smiles, tips the flames into her hands, "Don't worry. It'll come to you with practice."

Once each of them are armed with a handful of veilfire, Aveline leads the way into the cavern. Carver follows close behind her, with Gareth and Merrill in the middle, while Varric brings up the rear.

There's not a lot that Gareth can make out by the flickering light of the veilfire, and he conjures a few more wisps of it that float around them – little ghostly balls of flame that illuminate the walls of the cavern by a few inches.

"Maker, that's creepy," Varric comments.

"It's beautiful," Merrill murmurs. "I don't think I'll ever be able to manage so many."

"It takes practice. When I was younger, I could only manage one, maybe two. It also took a lot of concentration to get down." Gareth glances ahead, "Now I can do it without much thought, but it took me years to be able to do this much."

"All magic takes practice. It's a bit like fighting, really."

"We're going to have to do a bit of that," Aveline calls back. "Corpses ahead!"

Emerging out of the snaking tunnel they'd been following, they emerge into a wide open area. From above, sunlight streaks in through holes in the ceiling of the cave. Vines drip down from the ceiling, along with stalactites, while stalagmites rise up from the floor like rocky fingers.

Rolling onto the balls of his feet, Gareth spots the corpses. There's eight of them that he can see, possibly more hiding in the murky shadows that cling to the edges of the cavern.

Merrill unshoulders her spear beside him with a little flourishing twirl. She taps the blunt end against the ground and it cracks beneath the touch. Magic sparks through the ground, up into the walls, and the vines come to life; shooting down and garroting one of the corpses. The vines trip up another, forming a living, writhing net that snags the corpses as they try to make their way across the cavern.

It's impressive. Gareth has to close his mouth, teeth clicking together.

Following her vine assault, Merrill draws back her hand. She clenches her hand into a fist, then slams it forward.

With a rumble, the ground responds. A rock shaped fist cracks up and away from the ground, before flying forward and smashing into one of the corpses as it stumbles back to its feat. The force from the blow dismembers it, sending limbs flying in several directions at once.

"Daisy's actually rather terrifying," Varric remarks, firing at a stray corpse that escaped Merrill's initial assault.

Aveline's ahead, hacking and bashing her way through the corpses. Carver's right beside her, taking out the remainder with great swings of his blade.

Feeling rather useless, Gareth watches Merrill. She gathers energy, fires it off in a bolt. Then another. He feels the draw and pull of the Fade, how she channels energy through her hand to launch it, and he watches as the energy shocks through each corpse she hits with deadly precision. It feels… familiar to him.

He wonders if he could do the same.

The fight's over quickly enough, leaving nothing behind but a few twitching remnants. What life is in them will bleed out of them quickly, whatever having possessed the corpses fleeing back across the Veil. It's a reminder of how thin the Veil is on Sundermount.

"Would you teach me how to do that?" Gareth asks, once he's checked over everyone and assured himself that no one's been injured.

"Do what?" Merrill asks, slinging her spear across her shoulders again.

"That bolt of magic that you cast."

Merrill blinks, "Oh! A spirit bolt, you mean? Yes! I mean, yes, of course I can teach you! I would be more than happy to!"

"Thank you."

Merrill's beaming and she practically floats the rest of the way through the cave until they've left its dripping claustrophobia behind them for the familiarity of the narrow mountain path.

Here, Gareth can see evidence of the landslide that Merrill spoke of. Part of the mountainside has given way, the path that once wound itself up along it having given way to a completely sheer drop-off. It's a very, very long way down. Though he's not afraid of heights, a simple glance down is enough to make his head spin.

Farther along the path, they find that their way is blocked by a barrier. It glitters blue in the sunlight, shifting from one side of the path to another and stretching up and into the sky above. Gareth's never seen anything like it.

Merrill halts two steps before the barrier, she turns her head to glance back at them, "Let me open the way forward. It will just take a moment."

Removing a knife from her belt, Merrill holds her hand up.

Gareth opens his mouth.

She slices her palm, blood spurting out in a rush of crimson.

The blood doesn't fall to the ground. Instead, it hovers about Merrill's wounded hand, flowing out in a steady stream. She holds it up to the barrier, palm forward, and the blood streams towards it.

There's a bright flash of blinding red light.

The barrier's gone.

Merrill turns around slowly, the wound on her hand still oozing blood which drips to the ground near her feet. It trails down her fingers, painting the skin red.

Without thought, Gareth closes the wound with a gentle nudge of white light. It stops the bleeding, the wound closing, but the blood remains behind, staining Merrill's hand. He's never seen blood magic before, only heard of it in theory from his father who loathed it.

"That… wasn't normal," Carver says haltingly.

"No, it was blood magic."

He doesn't mean for it to come out so accusingly. Merrill's been nothing but kind and friendly since they met. It's just… shocking to know that underneath all of that, she's a blood mage.

"It was blood magic," Merrill defends. "But I know what I'm doing. The spirit helped, didn't it?"

"You mean the demon?"

He knows little about blood magic, but what he does know is that involved demons. About the only thing that his father said about it was that it's typically used to summon demons. That's about as much about it as Gareth knows.

Merrill frowns, shakes her head, "Demons are just spirits. Like honour or justice. It's not their fault that they are what they are. Besides, it's not that different from what you do. I just don't have a permanent bond or agreement with a particular spirit."

"What?"

"You're a spirit healer, aren't you?" Merrill raises her hand, wiping the blood off her palm. She turns it over, examining the now smooth flesh.

Gareth nods his head, slowly.

With a one-shouldered shrug, Merrill continues, "Spirit healers are rare. But to be one, you have to have some… kind of connection with a spirit. An agreement or a bond, something of that sort. It's what makes a spirit healer a… spirit healer."

"I… didn't actually know that."

"Really?" Merrill blinks. She tips her head to the side, "I thought that it was well-known."

"Not according to my father," Gareth replies. "He knew what I was and told me… but I didn't know exactly what that meant."

"Your father was a mage?"

"He was," Carver interrupts, scowling.

Gareth's surprised at how angry Carver sounds, and looks to him. Carver's glaring at the ground, hand balled up into a trembling fist.

"Oh, I'm sorry." Merrill shuffles on her feet, nudging her bare toes into the dirt. At long last, she says, "Shall we keep going? We'll need to be careful; there are restless things ahead."

Awkward silence permeates the group as they continue up the mountain. Today is full of revelations, it seems. Gareth keeps running over what Merrill told him about spirit healers, about what it means to be one. It makes sense and it matches up with his own experiences. Now, years later, he has an explanation for that presence he felt, that voice in his head before he'd passed out, when his magic had awoken all those years ago.

"It's going to be alright," the voice had said. "You can rest now."

Had that voice been the spirit? He'd thought he'd imagined it. That it had been nothing but a child's mind trying to rationalize what he'd just done, what had just happened. He'd woken up later, feverish and confused, in the back of his family's wagon as they fled Highever. For days after, he'd been weak, feverish, and exhausted. He hadn't felt like himself again until they'd reached Lothering.

He wishes that he'd known more about spirit healers. That his father had known more. Then he wouldn't be facing so many surprises.

"You really didn't know?" Merrill asks, quietly.

Gareth's head twitches, startled out of his thoughts. He hesitates, then shakes his head, "My father was an apostate who… left the Circle. He didn't know much about spirit healers beyond their existence."

She nods, "We only know so much because of what's been passed down to us. Spirit healers still are very rare and very precious mages. You're very lucky. I wish I was one." She beams at him, smile bright and cheery.

Merrill reminds him a little of Bethany with her bright smile and wide eyes. He knows he's developing a soft spot for her already.

"I've never been able to do much else besides heal," Gareth replies. "I never was very good at primal spells – which was my father's speciality. And I didn't have Bethany's natural talent for the elements or hexes, either."

Humming thoughtfully to herself, Merrill cants her head towards him, "I can teach you how to cast a spirit bolt. We'll take it slowly, see what you have an affinity for. And you can teach me as well. An exchange of magics! How exciting!"

He smiles back at her, small and hesitant, "It really does."

They crest a rise, coming out into a plateau that's marked with crumbling stone monuments. On a number of them flicker small wisps of veilfire. The entire place has a feeling mystery, of desolation. It's as though sadness and mourning have sunk so deeply into the stone that it permeates the entire area.

It's also much chillier than lower down the mountain. Small puffs of mist cling to the ground around the stones, adding to the foreboding air.

"In the days of Arlathan, the elders came here to sleep," Merrill says, softly. Her voices carries, though, in the still air of the graveyard, "Uthenera. The endless dream, they called it." Her breath comes out in a cloud of fog, "But they don't sleep peacefully anymore."

Pointing across the plateau, Merrill indicates a stone altar, set on the edge of the cliff overlooking the valley below, "There's the altar. We'll need to be careful; the hunters don't come up this way because of how thin the Veil is. The Keeper and I set the barrier to keep the restless spirits from finding their way down the mountain and into our camp."

"More corpses," Carver says, shaking his head. "Great, just what we need."

Aveline, who's been remarkably quiet the entire time, unsheathes her sword and readies her shield, "Stay alert, Carver. We'll be done here soon."

"And back to Kirkwall just in time for drinks at the Hanged Man," Varric adds, checking over Bianca before he slides a bolt into place.

Gareth readies his stave while Merrill does the same with her spear. The five of them cautiously begin to make their way across the plateau, sense on high alert.

They make it halfway across. Before chaos breaks loose.

He's only able to count ten corpses before he's distracted by a bolt of energy shooting past him.

Merrill counts it with a bolt of her own, spear moving in a blur of motion to block a corpse's blade. She takes off it's head with the next blow.

Whirling away from her, Gareth spins on the ball of his foot, dodging a blade. Brings his stave up, then across. The corpse's head goes flying. It lands somewhere to the left of him with a sickening crunch.

Carver tears his way through the battlefield, leaving corpses strewn behind him in his wake. Behind him, Aveline takes out a corpse with a swing of her shield, followed by one of her sword.

The corpses practically disintegrate under the blows, leaving behind crumpled husks that look as though they might turn to dust and blow away with the slightest brush of the wind. Gareth takes out another one, it's skull caving in under the blow from his stave.

Shoving it away, he narrowly avoids another blast of energy.

Merrill steps in, hand whipping back and launching another fist of stone at the enemy. It connects with the creature's head. There's a sickening cracking noise, a tearing, then its head flies back. The force of the stone fist and the impact with the cliff behind it renders it to bloody paste. The now headless corpse flops lifelessly to the ground.

With the battle over, Gareth still can't tell how many enemies they faced. There's too many dismembered limbs lying about to make even an accurate guess. The most he'll say is that there were 'a fair few'. But that should be the last of them.

"Anyone hurt?" Gareth calls.

"I'm fine!"

"I should be fine," Aveline says, cradling her head in one hand. But there's a deep bruise already blossoming above her temple.

Walking over to her, Gareth looks to her for permission and only lightly ghosts his fingers over the bruise when she nods her head. The skin is swollen and hot to the touch. He takes a deep breath, lets that calm feeling wash over him as he examines the wound.

Small, hairline crack. Bleeding under the skin.

He can fix that.

His fingers glow with a soft, white light. There's a bright pulse, then he pulls his hand away and steps back. The skin is clear of the bruise, the swelling gone, and though it's still streaked with sweat, it's clean.

Aveline will be fine.

She smiles at him, "Thanks."

"Anytime."

Turning back to the altar, Gareth removes the amulet from his pocket. It pulses, warm and hot, against his hand as though it can sense that its time has come. He offers it to Merrill, who takes it from him with a reverent expression on her face.

"Let's get this over with," Gareth says.

Merrill nods, taking the amulet to the altar and setting it on the stone. There's a bowl of veilfire on the altar as well, flickering green flames and Gareth has to wonder about the significance of its presence here.

Clearing her throat, Merrill begins the ritual.

"Hahren na melana sahlin," Merrill intones. She holds her hands over the altar, as though in prayer. "Emma ir abelas souver'inan isala hamin vhenan him dor'felas. In uthenera na revas."

As Merrill finishes the rite, she steps back and away from the altar.

For a second, nothing happens.

There's an explosion of bright, golden light from the altar, where the amulet lay. It surges upwards, followed by a tornado of air. A roar splits the air; a familiar one. It's the roar of a dragon.

Shielding his eyes with his hand, Gareth looks away.

He looks back when the light fades away, though the air still swirls around them. As though they're caught up in a windstorm. He blinks once, twice. Absolutely certain in that instant that he's hallucinating.

Stepping down from the altar, casual as can be, is Flemeth. The Witch of the Wilds herself.

Flemeth smiles when she sees him, head dipping into the smallest of nods, "Aah, and here we are."

Merrill drops to her knees in a low bow, "Andaran atish'an, Asha'bellanar."

When she looks at Merrill, Flemeth's face softens into something almost maternal, "One of the people, I see, so young and bright. Do you know who I am, beyond that title?"

"Only a little," Merrill replies.

"Then stand. The people bend their knee too quickly."

Flemeth waits for Merrill to stand, before she turns to Gareth. The corner of her lip quirks up and she tilts her head to the side a little. It emphasizes the horns of her hair, "So refreshing to see someone who keeps their end of a bargain. I half-expected my amulet to end up in a merchant's pocket!"

He meets her eyes, "I keep my word."

Her responding smile is predatory, shows too many teeth, "I can see."

"You could have told me that you were inside of it."

"Just a piece. A small piece, but it was all I needed," Flemeth replies. "A bit of security, should the inevitable occur. And if I know my Morrigan, it already has."

He has that feeling again. That Flemeth is far, far more than she appears. The magic about her feels old, unknowable. And he's never heard of a spell that can allow its user to escape death; he doesn't want to know the cost. He'd rather not get mixed up in whatever world it is that she runs in.

"You have plans, I take it?"

She smiles, canines flashing brightly, "Destiny awaits us both, my dear boy. We have much to do." She pauses, dramatically, "But, before I go, a word of advice?"

Here, Flemeth turns away from in. She speaks with her back facing him, "We stand upon the precipice of change. The world fears the inevitable plummet into the abyss. Watch for that moment… and when it comes, do not hesitate to leap." She tilts her head back to him, "It is only when you fall that you learn whether you can fly."

He almost wants to snort, but refrains, "Cheap advice from a dragon."

"We all have our challenges." Flemeth turns to Merrill, "As for you, child, step carefully. No path is darker than when your eyes are shut."

"Ma serannas, Asha'bellanar," Merrill nods.

"Now, the time has come for me to leave. You have my thanks… and my sympathy." Flemeth directs the last part to Gareth, before she faces away from them. Her body begins to glow in that same gold pattern.

In a blast of air, the woman Flemeth is gone, replaced by the high dragon that Gareth remembers from their flight from Lothering. She takes off, nearly flattening them to the ground with the force of her wings beating the air. They watch as she flies off into the horizon, till Flemeth is little more than a speck in the sky.

Merrill speaks first, "We should return to the Keeper. Let her know that our task is done."

Gareth nods his head, "Let's go."

The trek back down Sundermount is subdued, each of them lost in their own thoughts. Gareth wonders about what Flemeth meant, but brushes it aside. His task is done, his debt is paid. He can stop thinking and wondering about Flemeth; he has other things that require his attention.

Luckily, their return to the Dalish encampment is without incident. The mountain feels… quieter now. A little less reckless.

Gareth wonders how long that will last.

Marethari waits for them at the base of the path, arms crossed. When she hears them approach, she perks up, dropping her arms, and smiles at them, "Welcome back."

Gareth hands her the amulet, which now feels cold and lifeless in his hands. It's lost the red colouring that he remembers from before.

"Ma serannas, child. Your debt is paid in full." Her smile slips from her face as she looks at Merrill, "It's not too late to change your mind, da'len."

Merrill squares her shoulders, stands straight, "Dareth shiral, Keeper."

Nodding sadly, Marethari looks to Gareth, "Please, look after Merrill."

"I will," Gareth replies. "You have my word."

Merrill's oddly quiet when they leave the Dalish camp and for most of the trip back to Kirkwall. Her shoulders are hunched, face downcast, and she's curled in on herself. She trails behind them, near Varric, her responses to his jokes and stories delayed. Or she just outright ignores them.

The journey back into Kirkwall is set to take most of what remains of the day. They'll likely stop along the way to make camp for the night, then complete the trip in the morning.

Not quite in time for drinks at the Hanged Man, but Varric can deal.

Before Gareth can say that nothing happened on their journey back, he hears someone yelling up ahead on the pass.

"I thought you lot knew what you were doing!"

It's followed by an incredibly manly sounding shriek.

"What am I paying you for?! Kill them!"

Glancing at Aveline, she's already ready for battle. With one quick nod, she charges forward, Carver right on her heels. Gareth and Merrill follow, Varric bringing up the rear.

It just had to be spiders.

He's not even afraid of spiders. He just has a great distaste for them and all of their legs. Why any creature needs that many legs, Gareth doesn't know. The worst part, though, isn't that spider exist. No, that would be the fact that they don't have the reasonable sense to stay small. He remembers being thirteen and being ambushed by a spider guarding its nest in the fields that was the same size as a small dog.

He'd run straight home like a demon itself was on his heels.

Gareth counts ten spiders. Eight, now that they've joined the fray. Aveline took one out, while Carver took out another.

With the five of them, the fight is over quickly. It leaves behind a mess of spider carcasses, which have spilled their insides all along the path, creating a truly horrific odor of rotted meat and fetid water.

"You're certainly capable."

Gareth looks at the dwarf who spoke, flanked by two hired swords who look as though they've seen better days. The dwarf seems uninjured, "Are you alright?"

Jerking his head at the hired swords, the dwarf says, "No thanks to this lot. Can't get a decent blade at a bargain anymore. You lot, though, you're what a man needs – skilled enthusiasts."

Gareth glances at Aveline and Carver, who are pointedly not making eye contact with the dwarf and are focused on scrubbing clean their weapons. He's not even sure why it would be different; the dwarf's addressing him.

"Name's Javaris Tintop," the dwarf introduces himself. "And I'm in need of someone's help with dealing with the qunari."

"'Dealing with the qunari'? Oh, that doesn't sound ominous at all," Varric comments in a low voice.

"Those horn-heads in Kirkwall have a powder," Javaris continues. "That explodes. And it's just dust, no lyrium, no demons. Anyone can use it."

"I doubt that they were eager to sell," Gareth quips. He's had no dealings with the qunari, but he knows enough about them that they won't part with their recipe for whatever that powder of theirs is.

"That Arishok said I wasn't worthy, that only their outcasts, the Tal-Vashoth, are that mercenary. I said, 'Great, I'll go talk to them'. Didn't go over well," Javaris mutters the last part. Then he continues in his best salesman voice, "But, it makes me think: maybe he'll bargain with me if I get rid of something that bothers him more than, well, me."

It clicks. "The Tal-Vashoth."

Javaris nods, smile savage, "The Tal-Vashoth. Say, you up for some paid hunting?"

"We've had issues with Tal-Vashoth bandits along the coast," Aveline remarks. "It's been incredibly difficult and costly to root them out."

"Yeah, they've got an entire camp up the Wounded Coast," Javaris says. "Listen, you take them out, then meet me at the qunari compound two weeks from now, and we'll both be richly rewarded. Richly."

He hesitates, only briefly, then nods, "You have yourself a deal."

The money will go towards financing their Deep Roads expedition. He has to keep that in mind. They need the coin and status that it could potentially bring them for protection; he needs to provide for his mother and brother. That needs to be his focus and Gareth has to remind himself of that.

"Excellent. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have business that needs attending to in Ostwick."

Both of their parties are eager to put distance between themselves and the carnage of the battle, so they hurry on while Javaris and his hired swords leave. Gareth breathes a deep sigh of relief once they're far enough down the path that he can finally no longer smell the stench of several dead spiders.

When darkness falls, they're close enough to Kirkwall that it's safe enough to camp along the road. Aveline volunteers to take the first watch and they settle in to dinner around their small fire.

"Do you have some place to stay in Kirkwall, Merrill?" Carver asks.

"Oh, I suppose I'll have to stay in the Alienage, won't I? Would it be hard to find a place?"

"I'm certain that you could find somewhere," Gareth says. "There must be rooms to rent in the Alienage. Or something like that. But it would take time."

"Listen Daisy, I can get you a room at the Hanged Man for a few days. Just until you get your feet under you in Kirkwall. Sound good?"

"Oh! Thank you, Varric! That would be lovely."

Varric takes Merrill with him to the Hanged Man, while Aveline leaves them to return to the barracks in the Keep. She's got a patrol in the afternoon and won't be able to go on any further adventures with them for the next week. It'll just be the five of them, with Merrill as their group's newest addition.

Before they part ways, Merrill lays her hand on Gareth's arm, "Thank you for everything. For all of your help. Will you come visit me? Once I've found myself a place, I mean. Not now. Maybe later? Or tomorrow? I… could use a friend."

He rests his hand on top of hers, squeezes it gently, "I'd like that, Merrill."

She beams at him, thanking him again, before she skips off to join Varric, who is waiting for her beside the entrance to the Hanged Man. She's in good hands, he knows that. Varric's clearly taken a shining to her as well, so he'll make sure that she gets settled and finds a place that suits her.

Merrill will be fine.

Exhausted and drained from the long two days, Gareth and Carver return to Gamlen's tiny apartment.

"I'm going to take a nap," Carver announces, once they're through the door. "I managed to find some work, down at the Docks this afternoon. Wake me in a few hours?"

"Alright."

It leaves Gareth with little more to do than check the neat little stack of letters that are waiting for him on the kitchen table. Gamlen is off doing whatever it is that he does, and Leandra's likely taking her petition for the Amell estate up to the Keep.

He's a little surprised to find, slotted neatly in the middle of his letters, one for Carver. Gareth doesn't recognize the writing on it, so he sets it aside for his brother to read when he wakes. The majority of the letters Gareth sets to discard – either flyers peppered with slurs about Fereldan refugees or offers of employment from some more than suspect individuals.

They might need the money but they're not that desperate. Not yet, anyway. Gareth is hoping that it won't have to come to stooping that low.

When he gets to the end of the pile, there's nothing. Crumpling up the letters, he discards them in the trash. Then, he softly whistles to Waffles, who hops up from his place curled in front of the fire. He huffs when he stands, and bumps his head against the small of Gareth's back; his way of telling Gareth that he missed him.

He and his mabari leave the apartment, venturing out into Kirkwall to run some much needed domestic errands.

Gareth and Waffles return with the noon bell, waking Carver for a quick lunch, before Carver's out the door for whatever work he's managed to find.

Without much else to occupy his time for the day, Gareth curls up on the floor with Waffles in front of the fire. His head rests on his mabari's side, a pillow that rises steadily up and down. Eventually, it lulls him to a quiet and peaceful rest.

His mother wakes him that evening, for dinner, and it's another simple quiet meal.

"I turned in my petition to the viscount's office today," Leandra says. "I'm sorry I wasn't home to greet you; I had to wait much longer than I expected."

"It's alright. We were both tired when we returned." Gareth offers his mother a thin smile, "It's done with. The amulet."

Leandra pauses, hands freezing in place. Her nostrils flare, then she closes her eyes and lets out a deep breath and nods, "Good. Then I can stop worrying about that. She didn't… want anything else?"

"No, our debt to her is repaid in full."

"Thank the Maker."

Carver pushes rice about his chipped bowl, "And we're making good progress on saving for the expedition, aren't we?"

He nods, "We should have the amount for Bartrand soon. We'll be out of Lowtown before the year is out, mother. I promise."

She smiles, blue eyes sparkling once more, "We'll just have to see about that."

What wakes Gareth in the dim hours of dawn, is the sound of parchment sliding against wood. He shoots awake, nearly jostling Carver enough to wake him. Though he hesitates to wake him, Gareth decides against it and crawls out over him to investigate.

All he finds is a small, folded piece of paper. It bears Athenril's mark.

Gareth instantly relaxes.

Unfolding the note, he reads the lines:

'Hawke,

You might be interested in something that's come up. A contact of mine, a fellow by the name of Anso, is asking around for someone competent regarding a job, and I suggested you. He's always paid well, so if I were you, I'd check into it before someone else snaps it up. He said he'll be in the Lowtown Bazaar tonight. – Athenril.'

He refolds the note, sets it on the table, and gathers his clothes together. It's going to be a long day, might as well begin it feeling refreshed.

When he returns from the bath house, the rest of his family is awake. His mother's made breakfast, which she's just setting on the table. Leandra smiles at him when he enters, which he returns. Gareth leaves his dirtied clothing in the basket for it, before joining his family.

"So, what are you planning to do today?" Leandra asks.

"I have a lead on some work," Gareth replies. "But that won't be till tonight. I think, though, that I'll drop by the Hanged Man and check-in with Varric and Merrill."

Leandra nods, "You new friend, correct? You should invite her over sometime, for dinner. It would be lovely to have company. Aveline and Varric as well."

"Aveline's busy this week with her duties, but I'm certain that Merrill and Varric would love to. I'll ask."

"Excellent. Let me know when, so that I can shop for something a little more… filling, than our usual fare."

"I will."

He ends up leaving for the Hanged Man a little later in the day than he'd planned to, roped into helping Carver with some errands and odd jobs that he picked up or found. They also need supplies for their planned excursion the next day to the Wounded Coast, to take on that band of Tal-Vashoth. Neither of them are keen on it, but it should pay; if not from that Javaris, then from the city guard.

Work is work, and neither of them are in a position to be picky about what they can find.

Carver leaves him, explaining that he managed to get another shift in down on the Docks. He doesn't say what he's doing, but Gareth thinks that it has to do with moving freight; Carver had come home sore the night before, his hands full of splinters.

"Be back in time for dinner and nightfall," Gareth says.

"Yes, mother," Carver says, rolling his eyes.

Gareth watches him leave, till Carver disappears into the crowds of Lowtown's bazaar. Then, he turns into the Hanged Man.

The bar is loud, even so early in the day, and full of people. He's waved down by an enthusiastic Merrill, who is sitting at a small corner table with Varric.

"I found a place!" Merrill beams, when Gareth comes to sit with them.

He accepts a pint from Edwina, one of the serving girls, and settles in, "You did? Merrill, that's great news! I thought it would take longer."

"Oh no, from what the landlady said, they've had problems with vacancies for the longest time," Merrill replies. "So long as I pay my rent on time and keep the place relatively clean, it's fine. Varric insisted that he pay for it, for now. Then he invited me to lunch, to celebrate!"

She has a mostly eaten bowl of the Hanged Man's infamous mystery stew in front of her. Gareth gives it a wary eye, but says nothing about it. Instead, he smiles at Merrill, "I'm glad to hear you've found a place. Do you need any help moving in?"

"It's already mostly furnished," Varric replies, taking a long sip from his mug. "Seems the last tenant left in a hurry, left all his stuff behind."

"Yes, so I don't have to worry about any of that." Merrill's still smiling, but she asks him shyly, "Would you like to come over after?"

"I'd love to."

Merrill's apartment is a tiny two-room affair. The second room is more of an alcove, into which a bed has been crammed. Alongside the bed, which is lacking sheets, is a ramshackle table, a pair of chairs, and a cracked washbasin pushed into the corner. The place smells of mildew and that scent unique to uninhabited buildings.

It's a smell that Gareth's become very acquainted with, since he's moved to Kirkwall.

"I can't offer you anything to drink. Unless you want water. That's… about all I have," Merrill gestures towards the table and its chairs, which Varric and Gareth take.

"It's fine, Merrill. We did just come from the pub, don't worry about it."

"Oh, yes. Right." Bouncing on the balls of her feet, Merrill links her hands together in front of her, "And I… I wanted to thank you for bringing me here. Am I making a mess of it? I feel like I am."

"You're doing just fine, Daisy," Varric assures her.

Gareth nods, "It's alright."

"Good. I haven't had many friends, not even in my own clan. This is… tricky."

Varric settles back into his chair, lacing his fingers together. He watches the two of them with a keen, but easily ignored eye.

"You didn't have friends?"

"Only the Keeper, really. As the First, I was… isolated," Merrill explains. "I studied magic and history, while the others were learning the Vir Tanadhal. I'm… it's good that I left. I would have made for a terrible Keeper. I was never good with people."

"You're doing well," Gareth replies, smiling. "You have Varric, Aveline, and myself. And I do believe that my brother is quite taken with you."

"Yes, I suppose that's true," Merrill's voice takes on a thoughtful quality. "Still, I'm very grateful that you've… taken me in? I suppose that's what you've done. So, thank you. Again. I'm going to stop talking now."

Gareth smothers his laughter, "You can keep talking if you like, that's what friends do: They listen."

"I ramble. I'd rather not. I'll try to get better at it, I promise." Merrill pauses, "Was there something you needed? We'll have to work out a time to practice magic. Probably outside of the city."

"Well, we do have that trip to the Wounded Coast tomorrow. Will you be coming along?"

"Yes! Of course I'll come! It'll be nice to see more of the city and the area. I'll need to become familiar with it. I do get lost easily; I have a terrible sense of direction."

"You'll get your bearings eventually," Gareth reassures her. "Until then, you can come with us. Which… I have something for tonight, are either of you interested?"

Varric leans forward, balancing his elbows on the table, "And what sort of 'thing' are we talking about?"

"Of possible questionable legality, which is why we won't be mentioning it to Aveline," Gareth replies. "I got a tip from my old... employer about someone named Anso who is looking for some hired help. She says he pays well; it's worth looking into."

"Name's not familiar," Varric remarks. "Sounds dwarvish, though. So, when's the meeting set for?"

"Tonight, after dark. At least, that's what Athenril's note said. You coming, Merrill?"

Merrill nods, "Definitely. It's all very exciting, isn't it?"

"Good, then we can meet at the Hanged Man. How does the eleventh bell sound?"

"Bell?"

"The Keep," Gareth explains. "It rings bells to mark the hour. Eleventh bell after the sun sets."

"Right, that sounds good. I'll keep my ears open, then."

"You do that, Daisy."

With the matter settled and before they part ways for the day, Gareth says, "Oh, and just to let you both know, my mother has invited you both for dinner. Whenever you like."

Gareth doesn't even question how the Hanged Man has become their designated meeting place. Or that it's where they go after any successful venture of theirs. He fully expects to spend an entire day, at least, doing nothing but drinking in there once they return from the Deep Roads. They'll be able to afford it then, and more.

Tonight, however, they have something that needs to be done.

Of course, Carver doesn't approve at all.

"So, we're just going on Athenril's word that he pays well? Need I remind how questionably legal her ventures were."

"It's worth checking out," Gareth says. "We do need the money, Carver, and we've only got a limited amount of time to gather it in. It can't hurt to look into it, at the very least."

Carver's shoulders sag and he sighs, "You have a point. That doesn't mean that I have to like it."

Merrill's bouncing on her feet, excited both to see them and to get started on whatever their latest endeavour is.

"It's all rather exciting, isn't it?"

"Sure, things of questionable legality are the height of excitement. Remind me to think that next time I deal with the Coterie," Varric says.

"We have to find this Anso first."

"Shouldn't be that difficult," Carver replies. He points ahead of them, towards two shuttered stalls between which is one very nervous, shifty dwarf.

Well, that's not fair. He doesn't look shifty, but he keeps fidgeting where he stands. If he's trying to look inocous and blend in, he's failing absolutely miserably. He's also dressed rather finely for Lowtown, his clothing fits him too well and is obviously tailored for him. Glancing up and down the streets, he jumps at even the slightest sound.

He has his back to them as they approach.

"Are you Anso?"

He jumps, letting out a muffled shriek that is truly impressive.

"Sweet mother of partha!" He claps a hand over his chest, his too blue eyes impossibly wide. Shaking, he continues, "You… you can't just sneak up on someone like that!"

Behind him, Gareth hears Carver muffling laughter.

He offers his best sympathetic expression, "I'm sorry for that. I thought you'd heard me coming. You are Anso, then?"

"That would be me," he nods. "And you… you're that human Athenril mentioned? The one who is looking for work?"

"I am."

Anso's still fidgeting, jittery. He keeps glancing around fearfully, but he cringes whenever he looks up and then hurriedly looks back at his feet. He must notice the look that Gareth's giving him, because he smiles shakily and offers up an explanation: "My apologies. I've not been on the surface very long. I keep thinking that I'm going to fall up into all that sky at any moment."

Varric chuckles, "Bartrand used to be like that. Got jumpy every time he stepped outside."

It makes Carver snort, "I'd pay to see that."

"But! I do need your help. Rather… badly, as a matter of fact. Some of my product has been… mislaid. The men who were supposed to deliver it decided not to. If you could retrieve my property, I could reward you handsomely…?"

It's definitely not legal.

"What did these men steal from you?" Gareth asks. If they've stolen Anso's product, chances are that not only is it valuable and illegal, but that they might have stolen from others as well. All's fair in smuggling and war.

"D-did I say steal? I don't know if I'd go that far," Anso stutters, trying for conversational and failing miserably. "They seemed like perfectly reasonable smugglers! They smiled and everything! The goods are valuable, however. And illegal. And my client wants them very, very badly. You know how these templars can be."

Gareth stares, "You're smuggling lyrium to the templars?"

He can't decide yet whether Anso's brave or stupid, but he's leaning heavily towards the latter. The Carta handle lyrium smuggling from the dwarves to the surface and Gareth's knows well that they don't take well to anyone cutting into their profits. He learned that the hard way.

"Of course he is," Carver sighs. "That's just bloody great."

"Don't think the Carta would appreciate that much," Varric adds.

Anso hushes them, looking about himself even more fearfully, "Keep your voices down! I should've just taken that stable cleaning job like mother said. I'm not cut out for this…"

"But it wasn't the Carta that took your… product?"

"Oh no, they were human," Anso replies. He wrings his hands, glancing over Gareth's shoulder and back to him repeatedly. It's as though he can't stay still. "All I know is that their business is conducted out of a hovel in the alienage. If you have to kill them, then I guess that can't be avoided. But I'm certain that they'll be reasonable!"

Gareth doubts that.

"We'll recover your stolen product," Gareth replies. If only so some other idiot doesn't run afoul of the Carta.

"Are you sure about this?" Carver asks, as they make their way towards the alienage and hovel that Anso described to them. It's only a block down from Merrill's apartment.

"It doesn't sound like Carta," Gareth replies. "More like opportunists hoping to get in on the lucrative lyrium trade. If nothing else, we get it back to Anso and it's off the streets. Hopefully, he'll have learned something from all of this."

"I don't know about this. Something's not right. It's all too… easy, too clean. I'd expect something by amateurs to have been more botched."

"Set-up, maybe? A trap?"

"Not sure," Varric replies, readying Bianca. "But we should be prepared for anything. Could be just me being paranoid."

"Better paranoid than dead," Carver says. He carefully draws his greatsword as they approach the hovel.

"Carver, you'll go in first," Gareth whispers, outlining their plan of attack. "Merrill, you cover Carver best you can. Take out anyone you see. Varric and I will bring up the rear, just in case it's a trap."

Weapons drawn, they enter the hovel.

It's tight, cramped, and difficult for Varric to aim properly. The fight is messy and mostly conducted in close quarters. Merril barely avoids being disemboweled, but ends up with a nasty gash across her stomach.

Gareth heals it. Breathes in deep, lets the magic flow through and out of him. He pays closer to attention to it this time, the way that it flows, the whispers that he hears in his ears; that presence that he thought he imagined. Now that he's got an idea of what to watch for, he notices it more clearly. It's faint, only a mere brushing against his consciousness, but it's there.

Who are you?

It's a question to contemplate later, when not in the heat of battle.

Gareth blocks an incoming attack. His attacker goes down, a bolt protruding from his side. Gareth follows it up with a blow of his stave that sends its blade through his chest.

All in all, when the fight ends, they're all breathing heavily and there's seven bodies littering the ground. Merrill and Carver drag them into a pile in the middle of the hovel and, using a very controlled burst of magic, Merrill burns them. No need to cause a panic in the alienage with an infestation of corpses.

In a tiny room off of the main one, they find an unlocked chest.

When Gareth opens it, it's empty.

"Well?"

"Nothing."

"Shit. Trap then."

"Most likely, yes." Gareth pushes himself to his feet, stave in hand. He looks at his companions, offers a small smile. It's meant to be comforting, but it doesn't do the job. "Let's go find out who set us up."

Emerging from the hovel, Gareth's a little dismayed to see that they're surrounded. He counts fifteen before he has to force himself to stop. They're outnumbered; it's not looking good.

Shit. He's led them all straight into a trap.

The apparent leader of the ambush party lowers her sword a fraction. There's a deep frown etched into her face, emphasized by the heavy lines carved in, "Wait. That's not the elf! Who is that?!"

"It doesn't matter!" another snaps. "We were told to kill whoever entered the house!"

Gareth's absolutely certain that they're all going to die. Even as Varric launches a volley of bolts from Bianca, taking out two men. Merrill follows it up with a blast of stone, then whips out a series of hexes to paralyze and terrify a few more.

It leaves him and Carver to handle the physical fighting.

He loses himself to the rhythm of it. The burn in his muscles familiar. Block, counter, dodge, slash, stab. It's a pattern. It's like a dance. He keeps moving, uses his longer reach to keep his foes back. There's a half circle of men around them, shrinking fast. They've taken down eight. Ten more.

Carver is carving his way through the enemy, leaving a trail of broken, bloodied corpses in his wake.

Keeping an eye and a sense on Carver, Gareth remains with Merrill and Varric. Though she's clearly more comfortable fighting with magic than her spear, Merrill is more than competent. She's actually terrifying. Her facial expression doesn't change as she jabs her spear into the gap of one man's armour, right at his neck. She pulls it back, a fount of blood spraying forth in fast pulses.

It's not long before the ground is littered with the corpses of their enemies. They're left standing, exhausted and a little sore, but alive.

He takes care of the soreness and any lingering injuries with a focused wave of healing magic. It has the bonus of rejuvenating them as well, wiping away a good amount of that exhaustion from the fight. They'll need their energy to deal with whatever's headed their way next.

"We should leave, before more come," Gareth says.

"Should we…?" Merrill gestures at the bodies.

"Yes, but be quick about it. We don't want to linger here any longer than necessary."

Merrill burns the bodies, carefully keeping the flames contained. Once they're reduced to little more than dark smudges on the paved roads, they quickly hurry towards the stairs that leave out of the alienage. The plan is to report back to Anso and press him to find out just who set them up.

They don't make it to the stairs.

Well, they do, but they're blocked from making use of them.

He casually strolls out, hands on his hips and a smug look on his face, "I don't know who you are, friend, but you've made a serious mistake coming here."

Eyeing each of them, he snorts, then calls out, "Lieutenant! I want everyone in the clearing! Now!"

All Gareth can think in that instance is that they've survived this long only to die now. They'll be little more than smudges on the road come morning, washed away by the tread of feet.

He readies his stave. If the man means to intimidate them into surrendering, they won't. They'll go down fighting.

Senses on high alert, Gareth waits for the incoming rush of feet.

It does not come.

There is a stumble of feet. Shuffling. The splash of blood to stone.

A single man stumbles onto the landing above them. Blood pours from his mouth as he stutters, "C-Captain…"

He collapses into a wet puddle, gurgling for a moment.

Then… nothing.

"Your men are dead."

Gareth pauses at the deep voice. He looks up, towards where the guard stumbled from.

There's someone else there.

He strides out slowly. He's close to Gareth's height, long pointed ears marking him as an elf. Along with the fact that he's wearing no shoes. Aside from the shock of white hair, his most distinguishing features are the spiraling markings that seem to be etched into his skin.

He takes the stairs slowly, continuing to speak as he does, "And your trap has failed. I suggest running back to your master while you can."

Gareth swallows the lump in his throat with a mouth gone dry. Oh, but he's handsome…

He reaches the bottom of the stairs and is level with the captain when the latter makes a move.

Grabbing the elf's shoulder, he snaps, "You're going nowhere, slave!"

For a brief second, there's stillness. Gareth holds his breath.

In a blur of motion, the elf spins, slapping the captain's hand from his shoulder. The markings on his flesh glow bright, brilliant blue.

He plunges his hand straight into the captain's chest.

When he pulls it back, turning as he does, there's a crush of blood from his gauntlet-clad fist. Something soft and bloody tumbles to the ground with a messy splat.

"I am not a slave."

Maker, Gareth breathes out, all of the air rushing out of his lungs in a whoosh. What have I gotten myself into?