It was Melanie's greatest regret when she walked into her apartment that she had nothing to throw on the ground in frustration. She was carrying two of her most valuable and precious possessions, and there was nothing within arm's reach on either side of her. For a brief instant, she considered slamming the door, but the thought of damaging it and incurring yet another expense from their insidiously ignoble landlord Samson held her back. With no other outlet left, she closed the door quietly, gingerly laid down her instrument and equipment, and let out a feral roar that, with any luck, would be heard from here to the Cumberland Circle.

"Morning went well, I take it?" Dorian's deep and cultured voice inquired from the couch. His head and torso appeared moments later as he sat up from where he had been lying down and rested his heavily tattooed forearms on the backrest of the couch to look at her.

"Yeah, it went swimmingly. Already made enough to cover the rent. Why else do you think I'm back so soon?" she dripped sarcastically as she stalked over to the kitchen area on the right to survey her food and drink prospects.

It was a shame, really; their loft apartment would have been perfect for practices and rehearsals if it weren't for the disgruntled neighbors and terribly insulated walls that earned them noise complaints the minute they started tuning up. The building they lived in was one of those old warehouses that landlords snatched up and renovated into luxury apartments that they then overcharged for mercilessly, except in this case Samson had missed the parts about renovating and luxury and skipped straight to overcharging. Reaching the fridge, Melanie opened it and sighed as she greeted her old friend, Disappointment.

Toast with peanut butter it is, then, she thought as she closed the fridge and went for the cupboards. ...Again.

"Alright, tell me exactly what happened. Spare no details," Dorian said, still groggy and very likely hungover as he trudged over to a kitchen stool and promptly collapsed onto it, leaning heavily on the counter between them.

While she waited for her toast to be ready, Melanie regaled Dorian with a full and accurate transcript of her encounter with the mystery violinist, complete with dramatic reenactments and a decidedly unflattering Starkhaven accent. Dorian squinted at her all the while as he listened, which told Melanie he was either paying her rapt attention or just struggling to process anything that was going on around him.

"I don't know how Sera does it," she said when her story was done, just before digging into the bountiful feast of cooked bread and peanut extract she had prepared.

"I struggle to comprehend how Sera does anything, if it's any consolation," Dorian muttered, sitting up and stretching. "Cheer up, Mel. Tomorrow's a new day."

"Is it?" Melanie asked doubtfully.

Swallowing the last bite of toast, she walked a few paces away from her roommate, avoiding his gaze. From the corner of her eyes, she saw him freeze mid-stretch, and she could tell that somewhere in his brain a warning bell was going off.

"I only have about twenty-seven years experience with time, myself, but I believe that is how it works," he answered cautiously. "What exactly are you implying?"

He knew exactly what she was implying; he wanted to make her say it. Though she kept herself faced away from his direct scrutiny, the words stuck in Melanie's throat, threatening to make her sick as she said them.

"Look at us, Dorian," she began weakly. "What are we doing? This month, it's a few hundred bucks to make the rent. What about next month? Or the one after that? Are we going to keep banging our heads against a wall to get a contract until we're homeless?"

"A show fell through. One show," Dorian reminded her. "So we'll get more shows."

"Just like that?" she countered.

"We've never had trouble before, Mel. We've been getting by for five years now."

"We were getting by," she corrected. She took a breath and pushed her bangs away from her face, bracing herself to admit what she had feared for some time. "Maybe it was all just luck, after all."

She heard a piercing screech of metal stool legs scraping against tile, but by the time she whipped around Dorian was already standing in front of her, eyes ablaze as he looked down at her. If he had been tired and bleary before, he was sure as Sylaise awake now.

"Don't you dare tell me it was luck," Dorian growled furiously. "Do you know what was luck? Me being born with a silver spoon in my mouth to two of the most influential politicians in the Imperium. Do you remember who it was that convinced me to give up that stable financial life and a promising career as a concert cellist so that I could do what I wanted to do? Be who I wanted to be? And do you know what I - what we - have been doing since then? We have worked day and night, sacrificing countless hours of sleep for practice, and cajoled, nagged, and begged to score shows. Luck had nothing to do with it." He took a breath and a step back, calming down. "Just remember that at the end of the day, you have a family and a community that loves you, that would take you back. I don't have that option."

Melanie stared at him a moment, speechless at his rare display of raw fury. When he made to walk away from her, however, she was spurred to action. She grabbed him by the arm before he could take a step. With the difference in their stature and strength, she could never have pulled him into her embrace if she tried, but she didn't need to; the second she looked in his eyes, she saw the ire melt away, and they fell into each other's arms with the force of a tidal wave.

"I did ask a lot of you, didn't I?" Melanie admitted half into her best friend's chest. "I'm sorry, Dorian."

"Oh, don't be," he replied with his regular candor. "It was bullshit, anyway. Being the disowned gay son of a conservative magister has done me no favors. I mean, honestly, do I seem like the kind of person who was built to cope with the tortured artist lifestyle? On our first month out of the Circle, I spent half my monthly allowance in the first week - and that was on booze alone!"

"At least you had the drinking part down," Melanie said, chuckling.

Dorian gave her a final squeeze before pulling back to look at her, hands still holding onto her shoulders.

"Come on, let's go out and get you something to eat that isn't bread, for Andraste's sake."

"We can't afford to," she chided with an imploring look.

"According to you, the only thing we can afford to do is lose a few pounds," Dorian replied with a smirk. "But I know someone who can. Someone who potentially owes as after misleading you into stealing a disgruntled street performer's spot."

They shared a look for a few moments in silence, until an understanding grin grew on Melanie's face and they said in unison:

"Varric."

The Hanged Man was a longtime fixture in Cumberland's historic arts district. Located a very convenient distance from the Cumberland Circle of Musicians, the combination bar and venue had never failed to attract a steady crowd of aspiring artists and frustrated students. Performing on The Hanged Man's stage, either on one of the frequent open mics or, if you were talented enough, an actual gig, was a rite of passage for Circle students, and the old building had witnessed the births of some of Thedas's most popular artists' careers over the years.

As much character as The Hanged Man's ancient oak wood floors and shining sylvanwood proscenium arch possessed, however, they still could not compete with that of its dwarven owner, Varric Tethras. The current scion of the famously industrious Tethras dynasty, the only family tradition Varric kept was making money. A true man of the people, he preferred to run his business from the front, tending bar as often as any of his regular staff. He had more stories and connections than anyone could keep track of, made new friends and adopted new charges at the speed of light, and he still found the time to be a successful author. No one, including the man himself, could explain how he did it.

"Did one of your cooks quit again? These potatoes are disastrous."

And yet, for all Varric's magnificent qualities, puffed up Tevinter brats still found it in them to complain about his cooking.

"Shut up and eat your vegetables, Sparkler," Varric told the dapper bassist, who was currently poking at his plate with a mixture of disdain and concern.

"It's a starch…" Varric heard Dorian mutter under his breath before he stopped paying attention altogether, turning to Melanie and far more important concerns.

"Definitely a Starkhaven accent, this violinist?" he asked her, crossing his arms in consideration. When she nodded, he continued, "What did he look like?"

Not the best question he could have asked, and predictably, Melanie's answer was not too helpful. Elven. Tall, but not too tall. Looked skinny but he wore a big coat, so maybe not that skinny. Nondescript clothing. Eyes that were either blue or grey, hair that was somewhere between black and grey, or possibly even dark brown. Varric paused his musing at this last clue; if this violinist was who he thought, the last time he had seen him…

"What I really can't get over," Melanie huffed, "Is how he kept calling me 'da'len' like I was some kind of child. I can't stand that."

Well, that settled it. It was definitely him. A small grunt of amusement mixed with wonder escaped Varric at the realization.

"Do you know him, Varric?" Melanie, sharp-eyed as ever, asked immediately.

"Well…" Varric scratched the back of his head, considering what level of honesty was appropriate. "There used to be a street violinist at that subway station like you're describing, but I haven't seen him there in years. I assumed he'd up and gone; that's why I recommended that place to you. Guess he's back. Huh." Varric smiled distantly, his mind growing antsy as he thought about this unexpected development.

"You know more than that, don't you?" Detective Dorian chimed in. "Cough it up, Varric."

"Listen, Sparkler, even if I knew who this guy is, not all stories are mine to tell," Varric said firmly, fixing him with a meaningful look.

Andraste bless him, the man knew when not to push his luck. Varric breathed an inward sigh of relief. Melanie, however, was harder to resist, looking up at him as she did with those big elf eyes. She had a gaze innocent enough to make him forget this was the same woman who once tried to convince him the water bottle she was drinking was actually full of water and not vodka by chugging the whole thing before impressively finishing her bussing shift without passing out.

"You can't let this one incident with this guy discourage you, Melody," he told her gently, sidestepping the issue she clearly wanted him to address. "It was just a misunderstanding. Street performance is one of the best things you can do to grow as an artist. You get immediate feedback from your audience, good and bad, and if you're any good you can make some decent cash."

An idea struck him, then; a quite brilliant one, if he did say so himself.

"This guy probably keeps to some kind of a schedule. Why don't you go back there next week, around the same time, and apologize? He's been around Cumberland for years, he might be able to give you better help than I can on where to start."

"You want me to go back there, and… what, say I was wrong?" she asked, incredulous. At his nod, she pressed, "But… he was wrong! About the song, anyway."

"You sure about that?" Varric asked, keeping his tone carefully devoid of suggestion.

"Am I sure that I know the lyrics to my favorite song? I'm pretty sure."

Varric allowed himself a small, doubtful shrug, couching it with a jesting remark.

"I've been telling you kids to listen to your elders for years, but no one ever seems to listen. It's very trying for us old folks."

"Oh, please, Varric, no one's old until they're at least forty," Melanie shot back with a devilish grin, knowing full well Varric was pushing forty-five.

"Very funny; you'll have a great fallback career in stand up comedy. Listen, you two, I have some accounts I need to take care of before I open up, so this is where I leave you. Just lock the place up when you leave."

As he stepped down from the bar and headed upstairs to his office, he heard Dorian call out after him, without a trace of his usual dryness:

"Don't worry, we'll clean up."

"You better, after that potatoes crack!" he shot back before disappearing behind the second story landing.

Once Varric was in the privacy of his office, he made a few calls.

It took him a little under an hour, but at the end of it he found himself in possession of a post-it note bearing a cell phone number he had never seen before. He stuck it on the desk in front of him and promptly punched it into his phone, followed by two quick texts:

2:34pm

Heard you were back in town.

Still using burners, I see.

He waited patiently for a reply, which came as slowly and reluctantly as he had predicted.

514-212-7456 4:09pm

Still a meddlesome dwarf, I see. How did you get this number?

4:10pm

Took a few calls, but Choir Boy coughed it up.

514-212-7456 4:14pm

My generosity is repaid with treachery. Not very Andrastian of him.

4:15pm

You wound me, Chuckles. Were you planning on telling me?

514-212-7456 4:16pm

Possibly.

Well? Did you have something to say, or just wanted to waste my texts?

4:17pm

Like you can't afford it.

You seem to have made a new fan.

514-212-7456 4:18pm

I go through a lot of trouble to ensure I don't have any fans.

What are you playing at, exactly?

4:19pm

I'm just saying, if a red-haired Dalish girl with those face tattoos shows up at your usual haunt again next week, play nice.

She's a good kid, and a good musician. Could use some guidance.

Varric waited for Chuckles to reply, but his old friend went radio silent for several minutes. He pressed on, determined.

4:28pm

Listen, I'm not trying to imply I know any better than you who has potential. She's just a friend.

The tattoos she has are the ones that look like a tree, if that helps.

He waited a few more minutes, but no reply came. Varric sighed, put his phone aside, and dove into some of his less intriguing work.

He would wait as long as it took.

He was prowling tourist traps in downtown Cumberland when he got Varric's last texts. He stopped under the shade of a tree to read the message and openly scoffed at it in disgust before shoving the antiquated flip phone back into his pocket and going about his day.

He was going to have some carefully chosen and meticulously spiteful words with Vael later.

Just as he thought about Starkhaven's favorite son, he looked at the newsstand several feet away and noticed the pretty boy's pristine white-leather-attired image on the front cover of MOT's latest issue. He sauntered over to peer at the headline:

PROFILES: SEBASTIAN VAEL

The Starkhaven songsmith who hit it big with 'Handwritten' talks past successes and future projects.

Well, he thought, maybe the words didn't have to be quite so spiteful. Or at least, they could wait until the new album was released and their latest business arrangement complete.

Avoiding the already waning autumn sun like a vampire, he wandered directionless down the winding cobblestone lanes of Cumberland's old marketplace, a pedestrians-only affair where cars had no business being. He'd been roaming up and down the city for days, guided by nothing but his ears and his curiosity as he tried to get a feel for how the widely regarded musical capital of Thedas had changed since his last spell here.

The telltale sounds of clanking metal and thumping plastic caught his attention as he arrived at one of the marketplace's open plazas.

Ah, bucket drumming, he thought with a sigh. The lowest common denominator of street performance, oversaturated by amateurs who thought it was as simple as buying a pair of drumsticks and whacking away ineffectually at whatever was on hand.

And yet, he realized as he listened further, this was no novice. The rhythm was not without occasional lapses into sloppiness, but there was real technique here, an attempt at complexity, at something more than the same tired and predictable structures. He approached the small crowd gathered around the drummer, sidestepping enthusiastic dancing children and even more enthusiastic young lovers to observe the rest of the performance.

She was a scrawny waif of a thing, he thought with some amusement as she finished a set; he wondered how she managed to cart around the myriad of percussive odds and ends laid out around her. Applause and cheers sounded from the audience she had attracted, and she met the praise with a toothy grin and a mercenary gaze that was sharper than the tips of her elven ears.

"Remember, folks, if you like the show, let the bucket know!" she hollered in a crass east Denerim accent, helpfully tapping an upended bucket already filled with a substantial payload.

Before she could get too distracted or launch into another segment, he removed a bill from his wallet and held it out to her, pointedly making sure she took it directly from him.

"Impressive, da'len, but your drumsticks are worn; they hinder your performance. Try Imshael's shop on Markus Avenue; I believe it's still there," he advised as she took the money from his hand.

She peered up at him perplexedly from under choppy blond hair that was somehow more disastrous than his own.

"Uhh, cheers, mate," she said, before adding under her breath, "I think."

She must not have noticed the dollar amount on the bill until he turned to walk away, however, because the last thing he heard from her before the din of the crowd swallowed her voice was:

"Phwoar! Definitely cheers. Thanks mate!"

Hours later, as he rested in the corner of a half-empty bar, his phone rumbled in his pocket yet again. He scowled and ran a hand through his hair, focusing on how much he despised his unruly locks instead of heeding the urge to check his messages. Only six months since he'd decided to grow it out, and he still wasn't using to having hair. He desperately wished he could shave it off again, but he didn't want to risk anyone recognizing him from last time.

At least he no longer needed to wear a hat in the burning sun or the chill of winter. If there was one thing he hated more than hair, it was hats. As he continued to savor his scotch, he began mentally cataloguing all the awful hats he had been forced to wear over the years, lining them up in order of how much he wanted to burn them.

His phone buzzed again. With a final surrendering growl, he retrieved the phone from his pocket and snapped it open to glare at his unread messages.

514-362-9342 4:28pm

Listen, I'm not trying to imply I know any better than you who has potential. She's just a friend.

The tattoos she has are the ones that look like a tree, if that helps.

514-362-9342 5:30pm

Chuckles?

514-362-9342 6:45pm

Right. Good talk.

514-362-9342 9:15pm

You gonna need a practice space while you're in Cumberland?

Oh, that bastard. He tore his eyes away from the phone, tapping his foot agitatedly. He didn't need this; didn't need old friends hounding his every step, trying to drag him back into their lives or tie him down with some project they felt he needed to distract him from his loneliness. He didn't need to be distracted from loneliness; he liked loneliness. Loneliness was comfortable, familiar. It drowned out the older, deeper pains, the ones that would really kill him if he ever stopped long enough to think about them.

He did, however, need a space to practice, and any spare instrument he could get his hands on. It wasn't as if he could lug a piano across the continent with him.

He looked back at his phone and started typing.

9:20pm

Are you offering?

514-362-9342 9:20pm

There it is.

514-362-9342 9:23pm

Tell you what, you help this girl, I'll leave a key under the mat for you.

The Hanged Man is all yours, so long as it's after hours and you shoot me a note to make sure it's free.

You're not my only charity case.

He raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching up in a brief smirk.

9:25pm

Clearly not.

What if the da'len never shows?

514-362-9342 9:26pm

Oh, she will. I'll make sure of that.

He grimaced at that, downing the rest of his scotch to balance the distaste he felt at the prospect of seeing that girl again, and having to be nice to her at that. He wasn't sure what he thought was worse: her choice of music or her choice of vallaslin.

Fenedhis lasa, he thought miserably, why did it have to be Mythal?

Music analogies/notes:
-In this universe I'm using Circles as essentially musical conservatories, and prestigious ones at that. Much like Cumberland also held the College of Magi, in this universe Cumberland is a very prominent musical city in Thedas.