A/N: I've previously visited this scene through Frannie's eyes in the story, "Blood Ties." If you'd rather her perspective than Ms. Silfee's, please have a look at that on my main page.
She was slumming! Silfee had never been slumming before. It would have been amusing if it weren't so absolutely wretched. The air trapped so far below the surface offered a cool moisture that she found comfortable, but there was grime trapped beneath her fingernails and she had left her powder cake back at camp.
Not that she had much reason to pretty herself up down there. She'd always fancied herself as petite and was unused to leering over a great many people. The dwarven criminals in Jarvia's hideout made her feel like she was slaying children.
Sturdy, bearded children that wielded mauls and axes.
Silfee had been intrigued at the possibility of dwarven politics. Although the knowledge of their practices would no doubt prove useful later on, it had been an utter disappointment. The dwarves were just as cutthroat as any human noble, the difference being that with how contained and hidden away they were beneath the soil, they had lost any degree of subtlety in their games. It was obvious to anyone with half a thought that Bhelen had murdered and framed his way to inheritance, but silly things like honor, tradition and pride kept him from the gallows.
Rendon Howe most assuredly had to make more concessions than Bhelen to feign condolences to the Cousland family. His name soured her thoughts and she could feel her teeth grinding against each other.
She was pleased that despite her height, the metal doorways in Orzammar were tall enough to accommodate their golems. She would have felt ridiculous if she were forced to duck through walkways like some sort of qunari giant. Still, she hoped she wasn't the only one that found the hideout's odor offensive. Spilled ale was not the most favorable perfume to blanket the smell of explosive powder.
Fortunately, the indignities of such a hovel wouldn't be visited upon her much longer. They found the mistress of the estate, alongside that braided degenerate that Frannie was so fond of. Frannie was noticeably crushed. The girl's brown eyes were shining with the start of tears as she stammered out excuses on his behalf, pleaded with him to abandon Jarvia's side and just denied, denied, denied. Silfee wondered if anyone had bet silver with Zevran to whether or not the Leske fellow was going to betray them.
Silfee had read novels like this. Orlesian, usually, although Ferelden authors had stepped up to the task in recent years. She'd often caught Edgar flipping ahead to the tawdry bits when he thought no one was looking.
Leske, for his part was unmoved. Something about survival and an empty belly. Silfee could relate. There were many a days her own belly had growled with an embarrassing fury all so that the seamstress wouldn't be forced to add another panel to her corset. That steel boning was dreadful! The edges had to be filed down before being attached to the corset, lest any unfortunate lady find out that the boning could be just as sharp and as deadly as any shiv. Silfee grinned; brand on his face aside, for all of his boot licking and fluid loyalties that Leske would have fit in perfectly with the majority of the despicably spineless gentry.
The poor sot made the ill-fated decision to fight for the Jarvia woman. It would seem that the Orlesian romance novel that was being written in Silfee's mind had taken a dire turn and had transformed into a Tevinter tragedy piece. Those Tevinters simple weren't happy unless they were absolutely miserable.
So they were to battle, then? How tiresome. Surely those dwarves realized that Silfee's group possessed a golem? It was comical to see so many of those bearded children swarm Shale as if the very concept of outnumbering the golem meant that the golem would have to surrender. Shale would bring its fist down upon their heads; sometimes there would be a loud crack of bone if their armor held up, other times the force would send bits of dwarf spewing out to decorate the remaining carta members.
It wouldn't have been Silfee's first choice in redesigning the estate's interiors, but honestly with how little she had to work with anything was an improvement.
"The room is trapped!" Zevran called out to them. Maker, that elf had a gorgeous smile! He dove headlong into the room and danced across tripwires as he went straight for Leske. Silfee didn't know much about Antivan customs, but it seemed apparent that their dances required more precision and flexibility than the remigold.
Silfee and Alistair stayed just outside the doorway and played "whack-a-dwarf" with their shields if one felt the need to retreat. Frannie was useless and stood there in disbelief, so Wynne and Leliana stepped up as her defenders. Nema's hands crackled with electricity as she aimed them at Jarvia.
The damned, fool elf nearly electrocuted them all in that enclosed space. Everyone inside the room fell to the floor in a fit of spasms, their companions included.
Alistair's breathing became quick, panicked pants as he stared incredulously through the doorway. Silfee stopped him from dashing through.
"Can you see all the traps?" she asked.
"No, but I-" His brow became more furrowed as he stared through the doorway. What was that sound he made in the back of his throat? Was he whining? "They're hurt. I can't just leave them there."
"So you wish to wander in there and set off a trap so you can lay injured alongside them?" She laughed.
"I can't just leave them there!"
Jarvia recovered, first. She staggered to her feet and with a swift kick to Leliana's ribs sent the bard sprawling out of the crime lord's way. Jarvia was limping toward Frannie. Apparently, there was a personal score to settle between the two of them.
"No!" Alistair bolted headlong into the room. Oh well. All dead save for Silfee Cousland would be the epitome of a Tevinter tragedy. He was fortunate to avoid stumbling over any tripwires in his initial charge.
There was no way Alistair could make it in time. Jarvia already hovered atop Frannie with her blade raised. Silfee supposed she would see firsthand just how sturdy dwarves were. A shame too, because Frannie had always been relatively pleasant.
But then, something peculiar happened. A strange sort of wheezing gasp left Jarvia's lips and her eyes grew wide. The sharp end of a sword was jutting through the woman's chest in a manner that left Silfee snickering. Every battle maiden knew that the only way to maintain a perfect bosom was to make sure that it was safely tucked away in armor during a skirmish. She couldn't decide if it had been cockiness or just plain foolishness on Jarvia's part to allow such a vast expanse of flesh to remain uncovered.
The sword was wrenched out of Jarvia's back with a wet pop and she undoubtedly expired soon after she hit the ground. Her murderer and Frannie's savior stood behind the woman's corpse. Their other dwarven companion, Faelon. Or was it Faeron? The beardy one as opposed to the button nosed one.
Faeron wiped his longsword down with a rag.
"Leske?" It didn't even sound like Frannie. Silfee supposed that's what electrocution would do to somebody. "Leske? I didn't..."
Everyone was slowly coming to. Rubbing their faces, coughing, pushing themselves up to their feet. Frannie had crawled over to the still body that was face first down on the stone ground. The girl was trembling and looked nothing like the hearty, unshakeable dwarves Silfee had been told of as a child.
"No, please..." The man, Leske, was dead, and when Frannie rolled him over so that he was face up, Leske went from being obviously dead to being very obviously dead. His throat slit, there was congealing blood on the tip of his nose and upper lip where it had pooled on the ground around the wound. "No, no, no, no..!"
Vacant eyes, ashen face, still chest. It was done, despite Frannie's protests. Nema had already begun a heated argument with Faeron, but Silfee was fairly certain that everyone else was still preoccupied with Frannie's heartbreak. She had taken to shaking Leske by the shoulders and his head tipped back in an unnatural fashion that wouldn't have been possible had all of his arteries still been attached.
"Get up!" Frannie's voice became more shrill as the tears began to flow in earnest. "Wake up! Open your eyes! Wynne! Wynne, you have to fix him! You can't let him- he can't- Please!"
It had grown beyond idle curiosity and now discomfort was setting in. Zevran began to loot the bodies and averted his gaze from Frannie, soaked in her friend's blood. Alistair kept moving his mouth, but every time he thought he had discovered the right phrase, he instead just exhaled air.
Wynne was the one who managed to pull the girl away from the corpse. The old mage had the patience of a chantry mother as she gathered Frannie in her arms and stroked the girl's hair. Wynne sat on the floor and rocked Frannie and that's when she made that noise, sobbing into the older woman's shoulder, as if she too were dying.
Deep, low and from the bowels of grief. Not quite a sob, but not so much a scream either. Silfee knew the sound well. It once escaped Edgar as he cradled Oren's tiny, broken body against his chest. It made her want to drink Howe's blood, just as the Warden's drank in the taint.
Alistair cleared his throat. "Frannie?"
"We need to get back to Bhelan," she said. Frannie cupped a hand to her cheek and smeared more blood. Wynne helped her to her feet.
"Bhelan?" Faeron said. "You're sun addled if you think I'd allow the throne go to anyone but Harrowmont."
"What?" Puffy faced and with red eyes, Frannie was in no position to fight. "You can't. Don't you dare, I won't let you do this."
"We haven't made a decision, yet," Nema snapped. "I've told both of you that, already."
"After everything he's done, you want to reward him?" Faeron growled.
Frannie stormed over and met the man eye to eye. "My sister's in the castle," she said. "What happens to her if Harrowmont becomes king? What happens to her son, your nephew if Harrowmont becomes king?"
"Brilliant," Nema snarled over Faeron's would be retort. "Both of you are letting your emotions cloud your judgment and are therefore, unreliable."
"So we should listen to you, then?" Faeron stretched his shoulders and became as large and intimidating as his stature would allow.
"There's a jail in this estate," Nema said. She pointed in the general direction of the cells. "Put them in it."
"What?" Alistair exclaimed. "They're our friends, not criminals."
"We need a king on Orzammar's throne." Nema's eyes narrowed. "They are on opposing sides and will only serve to distract and delay us. Place them in the cells until we can resolve this and then we'll release them."
"And if we happen to die in the Deep Roads?" Alistair demanded.
"Zevran will stay with them," Nema replied. "If he hears nothing in five days, he can assume we're dead and release them."
"Wait." Alistair held his hands out. "You want to trust the assassin with the well being of our friends?"
Zevran pouted. "I assure you I can be quite loving when required."
"Would you rather the assassin be involved in dwarven politics?" Nema asked.
"Point taken," Alistair muttered.
"Well!" Zevran clapped his hands together. "Come with me, my little jailbirds. I shall escort you to your new quarters." He, Faeron and Frannie trudged back down a hallway toward the jail under the wary stares of their companions.
"The First Enchanter would not approve of your methods, Nema," Wynne told her.
"Due to the First Enchanter's better judgment, the Circle was swarming with abominations," Nema replied. "You'll excuse me if I don't consider his approval when I act."
That silenced Wynne for the moment, but judging by the tightness around the other woman's jaw, Silfee would wager that the conversation was far from over. They exited the hideout in silence, careful not to trip over corpses. There would be so much for her to tell Edgar when she saw him next.