He strode towards the palisade, taking measured steps on the rocky path ahead of him. Rain drizzled through the treetops, splattering him lightly in the face and blonde hair. As he neared the wooded gates, he could hear the guards smirking upon recognizing the crest around his neck.

"Someone's come with a challenge?"

"The others failed."

He ignored their jibes and pressed on as they opened the gate. Skulls embedded in the dirt grinned up at him, trophies of past conquests...gruesome reminders of the others who failed.

Not that this was going to faze him.

He entered the little fort within, a grassy space occupied by hastily built wooden structures and muddy paths laid over with planks. To the far right, one of those paths led up to an ornately painted boulder flanked on both sides by grim, dark blue banners. Before the boulder stood a man in dark leathers. The leader. Prominent features, a pretty big nose, with hair and beard as blonde as his own...

"So you would challenge the Blades of Hessarian?" the leader demanded, eyeing him suspiciously.

"Hmm," he grunted.

A bit of silence..."Well? Any more to add to that?"

"Hmm."

Bushy brows furrowed, pinching the bridge of the great nose. A rough hand caressed the slick handle of a hatchet, conveniently perched on the left hip. "No last words? Nothing?"

He met the Hessarian leader's scrutiny with a level gaze of his own. "Hmm."

"Well then..." The hatchet came free and spun in deft hands. "Your funeral!"

Faster than he could imagine, its edged blade swerved dangerously close to his chest, forcing him back in a last minute jump. On instinct, he reached for his sword and drew in the nick of time to block another incoming hack. The Hessarian leader had no other weapons or even a shield, but moved with confidence and deadly speed.

He parried the hatchet and thrust his blade for the leader's chest; the hatchet pulled a feint and chopped precariously close to his forearm. He drew back and swiped out with his left foot while also swinging his sword in the opposite turn, coming close to the Hessarian's torso. It took the leader by surprise for a moment, but he recovered balance quickly and struck out with a forward arm. The swordsman parried it easily and blocked a punch coming on his open side.

Something felt wrong. Why only a hatchet? It seemed counterintuitive that someone with so much to lose would be sparsely armed; an overabundance of confidence maybe, either well-earned or woefully misplaced...or a trick up the sleeve.

The sword began to read the hatchet's patterns, putting the bearded Hessarian on the defensive. At that point, it was confirmed that something was wrong. Where anyone would have been worried, the Hessarian leader was smug...smiling, even.

Two fingers pushed under through beard, into the mouth. With a mighty puff, a shrill whistle escaped the lips, ringing sharply into the air.

And then barks...

Dogs.

The swordsman turned around, alerted by heavy footfalls running up from behind him. He turned back again as the Hessarian leader pulled away and laughed.

"Have fun with my Mabari war hounds! I must warn you, though; they play rather rough."

A great, barrel-chested canine, half the height of a full grown man, made the last few strides before jumping onto the back of its new victim. With a vicious snarl, it dove for his neck, hot slobbery breath spilling down his skin. He fell forward onto the planked path and hit his chin on the wood. Before the Mabari's teeth could connect with his skin, he spun around in an effort to dislodge it and beat the side of its head with his sword's pommel. The cursed thing was armored from head-to-back with custom cut leather armor, though; if anything, the act served to enrage rather than discourage it. And if he was not mistaken, its fellow colleague was quickly catching up to him.

"Grim!"

He blinked and looked away as a wave of heat washed over the Mabari on top of him. The startled hound yelped and leapt off of him instantly, freeing its weight from his shoulders. He coughed and shot up to see the second Mabari also lashed by the flames, grey fur singed and hissing as rain hit the blackened pelt.

The magic could only have come from an elf he knew well. "Now make him regret it!" she yelled, green face tattoos still distinct even through the rain. Behind her, Seeker Cassandra and Cremisius Aclassi were restraining the two Hessarian gate guards.

He clasped his sword's hilt tighter and sprang to his feet. With a quick eye, he spotted the Hessarian leader and bound for him, blade held out in offensive. The hatchet came up in response, quick but desperate. He gave it no chance to retaliate, slashing mercilessly to keep it from regaining composure. Its flustered wielder shrank back with every blow, until at last the little hatchet was tossed from his hands and the sword plunged through leather and guts.

"It is done. If you know what is good for you, tell your people to stand aside and surrender to the Inquisition," Cassandra snarled to the guard she was holding hostage. From outside the fort, Inquisition forces and Chargers alike began filing in. "You have much to answer for the murder of our men."

"Ah, no!" the Hessarian guard gasped. "You'll find no trouble with us–"

As if on cue, one of the other Hessarians inside the fort came up to Grim. "The Blades of Hessarian are at your service, for you have won the challenge. Albeit unfairly," she mumbled.

"Hey, I wouldn't complain if I were you," Iron Bull warned her. "Can't say you extended the same courtesy to us, so how's about we call it even?"

At this, she straightened up in defiance. "The Blades of Hessarian are true to our word; we may have used such tactics against people we suspected, but once we pledge our loyalty, we stand by it even if it's the last thing we do. If you want a reliable set of eyes on the Coast, here we are." The other Hessarians around her nodded in assent, even if they weren't entirely pleased by the turn of events either.

It took a moment for the implication to dawn upon the invading parties. "Maker's balls, Grim!" Cremisius cried. "You're the Hessarian leader now!"

All eyes turned upon the victor. Grim merely sheathed his sword back into its scabbard. "Hmm," he grunted. With a nonchalant air, he walked over to Iron Bull and handed the Mercy's Crest to the Qunari. Then, in a brusque gesture, he waved in the general direction of the Inquisition.

"Not anymore," Iron Bull chuckled, "but that's just as good."

Cassandra thus eased her grip on the guard, although she still kept a wary eye out. As an Inquisition soldier went by, she ordered him to keep a tight watch on the Hessarians and to make sure they didn't get any funny ideas. Not that they would, outnumbered as they were.

"Are the dogs okay?" a young voice asked, concerned. "I heard yelping..."

Ahnnie came through the crowd and looked about the people within. Her hands clutched the pole of her glaive uncertainly, as if she was unsure whether she needed it or not. When she spotted the injured Mabari being tended to by their caretakers, she let out a gasp of horror.

"They'll be fine," the elven mage who dealt them the wounds promised with a friendly hand on her shoulder. "It's just light burns, I assure you." Though there was no doubting she wouldn't have hesitated to go further, had the hounds been more vicious.

From the other side of her, Sera snorted. "We get to the bottom of who's been messing with our people, and all you care about is dogs?"

Ahnnie frowned. "They're not just 'dogs' to me, Sera. And there's nothing wrong with caring about people and animals at the same time."

"Wonder what you'd say to that on the other end of their teeth?"

Cassandra cut through the both of them, unamused. "If you are finished arguing, there is work to be done," the Seeker put in. Her hawk eyes landed on Ahnnie. "Come with me. You especially cannot stay idle."

The girl sighed. "Of course..."

At this point, Ahnnie could understand why people drank to take the edge of their nerves.

First, the Chargers started the search for the missing soldiers up to a run-down shack harboring hostile Hessarians. Then after subduing said Hessarians, dead Inquisition soldiers were reported in the shack, the same soldiers who went to investigate the bandits. The subsequent "challenge" was the least of her worries, since she was thankfully not the one chosen to don the Mercy's Crest amulet. But maybe those around her could've eased up on the protectiveness, letting her be a little more useful than someone asking arbitrary questions of the remaining Hessarians alongside Cassandra. Maybe they could've just let her leave the damn camp and follow the others on the previous search. Maybe it should just stop raining so much!

I can't wait until we leave this place. She couldn't even bring herself to say its name. If only they hadn't found the Chargers...maybe it would've been different; if it was just her and her companions again, like before...

But that was stupid, because the Chargers helped them out a great deal. Without them, the Inquisition might not have been able to find the shack in the first place, since the Chargers had been watching the Hessarians' movements for far longer than they were. With an agitated sigh, she shook more rainwater off her dampened hood. It's this rain, she tried to convince herself, but deep down she knew it was another thing entirely.

Can the Chargers be trusted?

Perhaps it was stupid to worry about that after having accepted their service...but something in her didn't like the fact that they, or at least their commander, were acting as spies for this 'Ben-Hassrath'. She thought she could put those doubts aside when Cassandra laid out firm conditions to the Iron Bull. But when everyone left her behind at camp earlier in the day, her imagination ran wild and she pictured the Chargers ambushing the Inquisition camp after having dispatched of the companions. And then it would all have been her fault, for even suggesting that the Chargers could help them, for even thinking it could be a good idea–

Quit it! she chided her own mind. I worry enough as it is. Why do I have to make this so hard for myself? She roughly wiped the raindrops off her face when the wind changed direction and blew them below her hood. Curse this stupid–

"Ahnnie, was it?" Cremisius then walked into her path, startling her. "You don't look so great."

"I just hate the rain," she responded, trying not to let her anxiety flare at the sight of him. He brought up mixed feelings, now; first camaraderie, then suspicion.

"I've just the thing for that," the young man winked. "Have a drink with us and get yourself acquainted with the rest of the company. You didn't get to yesterday."

A wry smile crossed her face. "Because the casks spilled out while you were bringing them to the camp," she reminded him.

"Told the chief we should've just emptied them on the beach! And not into the ground, either." He shook his head emphatically. "What a waste of good Tevinter vintage. Tevinter – vintage – that's where the word comes from, did you know that?"

"Oh, no, I didn't..."

He chuckled. "That's the last time we open casks with axes. But these Hessarians've got some of their own, thank the Maker. C'mon, it'll be fun."

It has been a while since my last drink...and she could always count on the Inquisition soldiers around her...still, she considered refusing, but when she looked into the charismatic face of the young Tevinter, she found herself giving him a timid shrug, followed by her best attempt at a smile; all to keep him from reading her trepidation. "Sure, I guess."

He led her into one of the wooden structures of the Hessarian fort, where a merry blaze was crackling in the middle and a group of people were drying themselves off around it. Two Inquisition soldiers were chatting away to the side, reassuring her somewhat with their presence. At the head of the group round the fire, though, was the Iron Bull, setting off alarm bells in her head all over again.

Should I watch what I say around him? Ahnnie wondered. Good god, she thought she'd put all that behind when she left Val Royeaux!

The Qunari looked up as she and Cremisius took their seats around the fire. "Ah, good," he boomed, "we're not drinking alone."

Ahnnie winced at the sound of his voice. In these close quarters, its volume echoed uncomfortably in her ears.

"'Course not, chief," Cremisius grinned. "Wouldn't dream of it."

Iron Bull grinned back. "How you doin', Krem de la Crème?" he then asked, rather jokingly.

Cremisius' smile went flat in an instant. "I'm so glad he has someone new to hit with that joke," he said dryly to Ahnnie.

All at once, everyone's eyes suddenly seemed to focus on her. In response, she looked down and shrugged uncertainly. "Well, 'Krem' isn't so bad...I mean, it's a handy nickname...is that what he does? Gives you all nicknames?"

"I'm afraid so," Cremisius shook his head. "The chief loves his nicknames."

"Hey, when I was growing up, my name was just this series of numbers," Iron Bull pointed out. "We all give each other nicknames under the Qun."

"They ever wear shirts under the Qun, chief?" Cremisius shot back. "Or do they just run around binding their breasts like that?"

It took Ahnnie a moment before she realized he was talking about the shoulder strap going across Iron Bull's chest. When she did, she pursed her lips tight and lowered her eyes even further, fighting to stifle the oncoming laughter.

But the Iron Bull saw it anyway in the not-so-hidden shake of her shoulders. "It's a harness, Krem."

"Yes, for your pillowy man-bosoms!"

At that, Ahnnie chortled and clamped a hand to her mouth. Despite her effort to hide it, it was evident to those around the fire that she was having a good time at the chief's expense. At last she swallowed it down and looked up to give the Iron Bull a sheepish "Sorry". But by that point, the other Chargers along with Krem already had grins and smirks painted on their faces.

"Let me know if you need help binding. You could really chisel something out of that overstuffed look," Krem added, throwing in a mischievous wink for good measure.

His chief was unamused. "Humph," the Iron Bull snorted. With an imperious wave of his hand, he ordered them to "Stop giggling like little girls and get 'er a drink. Can't leave the Herald of Andraste thirsty, now can we?"

"Don't forget me!" Krem shouted after the designated person, the blonde-haired man who'd defeated the Hessarian leader, as he got up to get two cups.

When he returned, Ahnnie found herself nursing a smallish amount of a strong-smelling, amber-colored liquid. Confused, she furrowed her brows. "I don't mean to sound rude, but why'd you give me so little? And what is it?" she decided to add, sniffing at it curiously.

Chuckles echoed from all around the fire. "Just a little whisky," Iron Bull then said. "Why don't you give it a try?"

So Thedas has whisky here too? Interesting how the names of many things carried over from Earth; or vice versa. But she was not sure of what kind of alcoholic beverage whisky was. She only read of it in books, mainly novels. It smelled very sharp, though. Perhaps it was strong? Was that why she was poured such a small amount? Raising the wooden cup to her lips, she was soon to know...

As soon as the liquid touched her tongue, Ahnnie sprayed the whisky she didn't swallow all over the floor in front of her, exploding into a fit of wild coughs shortly after. Rather than acting concerned, the Chargers laughed, creating a raucous din within the walls of the little shack. When her coughs subsided, she shakily wiped the corners of her mouth, half-incredulous and half-incensed by the mercenaries' merriment. But Jesus Christ! She stared in horror at her cup through watery eyes. It burns! Hell, it's like straight-up alcohol from the doctor's office! Her throat still tingled from the very sensation of it.

Krem gave her two hearty pats on the back, forcing out a new series of weak coughs. "Ah," he sighed, his laughter dying down, "that was priceless. First time downing liquor?"

"I thought–" Cough. "–I thought alcohol and liquor are the same?" Another cough.

"Liquor's distilled," the elven mage from earlier piped up, "but beer and wine are fermented. All are alcohol, just made in different ways."

That didn't really clear things up, but Ahnnie could take from it that liquor had more alcohol than ale. Whisky's fumy essence was much stronger, almost like fire. No wonder they gave her so little. She settled the cup down in her lap and cleared her throat, resolving to leave the drink alone for now.

Iron Bull chuckled again before thankfully changing the subject. "Anyway, here's the rest of the Chargers...or what's left of the rest. A lot of 'em went looking for stronger drinks."

There are drinks stronger than whisky? Ahnnie couldn't even imagine it.

Pointing at a hooded dwarf and dark-haired elf, the Iron Bull began his round of the group. "We've got Rocky and Skinner there." Then to the other side, where there sat a dark skinned man and the elven mage. "Over there, Stitches and Dalish." Followed by an elongated chuckle, before introducing the man who won them the Hessarians. "Last but not least, Grim." With a proud smile, the Qunari turned back to Ahnnie. "Crazy bunch of assholes, but they're mine."

Somehow, hearing him say that made her feel less guarded. Whether it was because he wasn't yelling for once, or because of the almost fatherly twinkle in his eye, or even as a result of that little swallow of whisky, Ahnnie found herself slowly relaxing. "That's nice," she said at last, though her voice was still a little hoarse. "It's a very diverse group. Not that that's bad," she hurriedly added, lest they took it the wrong way.

"Hey, with a Qunari as chief, what do you expect?" Krem aimed another playful look Iron Bull's way.

But indeed, besides Krem, Stitches and Grim were the only human Chargers sitting at the fire. Ahnnie believed she'd seen a good number of other elves and dwarves mixed into the mercenary company as well. Her interest was then piqued, as it offered her a chance to interact more with the other races of Thedas than she was usually given in the Inquisition; a large majority of its members (or at least, those who had the most contact with her), she realized, were human.

And if she needed more encouragement to do so, Krem nudged her with his elbow. "Go on," he urged. "Say hi. Ask 'em questions. They won't bite." The others chuckled or smirked in response, but their humor felt more palatable this time around.

"Um, Rocky, right?" Ahnnie then asked, turning to the hooded dwarf. It seemed most likely that that would be his name, or so she hoped. "Were you originally from the surface, or Orzammar? If you don't mind my asking?"

It turned out she was right, for he didn't correct her. "Orzammar," Rocky began. "I got exiled. Stupid noble crap. Also, I...accidentally blew up a bit of the Shaperate."

"Ah," she nodded, pretending to know what the Shaperate was. I'll have to ask Varric later.

"Rocky's one of our best sappers," Iron Bull put in. "He can take down enemy fortifications faster than a golem."

"I'm also working on my own version of Qunari blackpowder," Rocky added, his voice emphatic. "I've almost got it!"

The Iron Bull slowly shook his head. "Yeeaaah...you really don't."

The others snickered at that remark, the loudest one being the elven mage. That mage stood out foremost amongst the Chargers, by virtue of being the one who burned the Mabari hounds. Ahnnie turned her attention there next. "And you're Dalish? Well, I mean, nicknamed 'Dalish' and ethnically Dalish." If so, this was her first time seeing a Dalish elf, especially with face tattoos! She couldn't help wondering what deity they represented?

"That's me," Dalish nodded. Her voice seemed older than it should be, which coupled with an odd bouyancy lent it an almost snarky quality.

"Were you part of a clan?"

"I was – our keeper thought I should see the world a little."

"Dalish don't have templars, so they can't have too many mages in a clan at once," Iron Bull explained, to which Ahnnie nodded, glad to have the extra info.

"Now, ser, you know I'm not a mage!" Dalish protested. The mischievous twinkle in her eye may or may not have been intentional. "That'd make me an apostate."

"You carry a staff, Dalish," Iron Bull reminded her.

She rolled her eyes in exasperation, as if they had had this argument one too many times. "It's a bow."

Krem frowned. "A bow with a giant glowing crystal at the tip?"

"It's for aiming." Dalish shook her head at him. "Old elven trick. You wouldn't understand."

Ahnnie couldn't help but giggle at that. She was sure Solas would have plenty to say about this 'old elven trick' and 'bow', if he were present. What a pity he wasn't. She could already imagine him now, giving the eccentric Charger strange looks before saying something deep about magic – I think Dalish would get along better with Sera. Although I'm not too sure Sera likes magic, craftily renamed or otherwise.

"Stitches is the company healer," Krem said, recapturing her attention with a gesture at the dark skinned man. "As you might've guessed from his fabulously original nickname."

"Hey, at least they're to-the-point," Iron Bull argued.

Ignoring the exchange, Stitches boasted with a solemn sort of pride, "Yes, I am. First time I ever picked up a sword was when the Blight hit Ferelden; never put it back down."

"Of course," Ahnnie acknowledged, "knowing how to fight is a vital skill here...as I've come to realize."

"Then you'll be glad to hear he makes a potion that'll put you right back on your feet after even the toughest fight," said Iron Bull. Then he pulled a face. "It tastes terrible, though."

"That's because it's a poultice, ser," Stitches corrected him. "You're not supposed to drink it. Speaking of poultices–" He turned to Ahnnie. "How's the cheek feeling?"

She instinctively touched the wounded side of her face, a third of which was covered by a sticky bandage. "Um, pretty good. I haven't even noticed it at all today. Your poultice?"

Stitches nodded. "The very same. Remember, don't drink it!"

The others laughed, and Ahnnie couldn't help laughing as well. "Thanks," she said. "I appreciate it."

"Definitely drink more whisky," the dark-haired elf chimed in, raising her own cup. "Drink enough, and 'poof'; you'll feel nothing." With a satisfied smirk, she brought the cup to her lips, gulping down the fiery liquid like it was nothing.

Ahnnie smiled politely at her. "I'll...take my time. Skinner, was it? Are you Dalish too?"

"No," Skinner shook her head. "City elf."

"Oh. How'd you join the Chargers, then?"

She put down her drink and looked into the girl's eyes with an expression of headstrong defiance. "Killed some people," she stated, almost as if daring Ahnnie to find offense with it.

Before the worst could be assumed, Iron Bull gave a clarified account of the story. "Skinner didn't take kindly to nobles testing their new swords on the elves in her alienage. We thought her talents could be put to better use and took her in–"

"Now I get paid to kill shems." Skinner's grin was almost maniacal, and Ahnnie had a feeling that, Herald or no Herald status, the bellicose city elf wouldn't hesitate to target her if the Iron Bull so ordered it.

I think I know why her nickname is 'Skinner', Ahnnie then thought, shrinking back in her seat a little.

"This is actually really good behavior for her," the Qunari remarked with a roguish smile. "She's not marking her territory or anything."

Skinner chuckled darkly before sipping at her drink again, and Ahnnie averted her eyes elsewhere. They came to rest on Grim, the stoic man who seemed to fear nothing. Surely he didn't, if he volunteered to enter an enemy fort to challenge its leader. Of course, he must've known there were reinforcements to back him up, but that was besides the point. Anything could have happened in that space of time, especially if they never heard the barking of dogs in the first place. She then felt incredibly rude for having ignored him until now; he was just so quiet! "So, uh, Grim? What about you?"

His stony eyes, perpetually drawn into a frown, it seemed, looked away from the fire and up at her. "Hmm," he grunted.

Ahnnie tilted her head in confusion. "Um...excuse me?"

"Hmm."

"Grim doesn't talk much," Iron Bull explained, with a hint of apology. "I'm pretty sure he's the lost king of some small country. Or a chieftain. Something like that."

Grim gave a noncommittal shrug. "Hmm."

That's...interesting. Ahnnie raised the cup to her mouth, before remembering the vile drink inside. She remembered a little too late and gagged a bit on the liquid fire. After a clearance of her throat, she turned to the Iron Bull with as natural a smile as she could muster. "Well, ser..."

"Just call me Bull," he insisted.

"Bull...you've got a nice group about you." She coughed and looked round at the motley crew before her, ending at Krem. "They're, uh...well, they're different," she confessed, "and I honestly wasn't expecting this at first, but..." She shrugged. "They're cool. I mean, great. And they really like you, too. I can see why you care about them so much." Except maybe for Skinner. She gives me the creeps.

A chorus of "d'awws" arose from the Chargers. "Hush, you're making me feel warm and fuzzy on the inside," Krem joked, nudging her with an elbow again.

As for the Iron Bull, the look on his face was as close to bashful as Ahnnie believed the Qunari could get. He gave a throaty chuckle and shook his head. "Ah, we do all right," he demurred, though there was more than a little pride to be heard in his tone.

From the other side of the fire, a booted foot beat out a steady tempo on the dirt floor. "Noooo man can beat the Chargers," Rocky slowly began, and the others took up the next line along with him, speeding the notes along until the tune became lively.

"'Cause we'll hit you where it hurts.

Unless you know a tavern

With loose cards and looser skirts!"

"C'mon, sing it with us," Krem urged with yet another nudge.

Ahnnie blushed. "No thanks, I'm not a...good singer...I'll just listen for now." From the slightly reddened complexion on his cheeks, she could tell the whisky had already begun its influence on the young Tevinter.

"Bah! You're no fun!" Krem turned away from her and went back to joining the chorus, now grown more raucous in the second verse.

"For every bloody battlefield,

We'll gladly raise a cup–

No matter what tomorrow holds,

Our horns be pointing up!"

They ended with a splash of laughter and cheering. The shack suddenly became wild with their hoots and shouts, and it felt as though she were in the Singing Maiden again rather than a little wooden structure out on the Storm Coast. Ahnnie smiled along to the revelry, although she declined a refill of her not-so-depleted whisky. "Still working on it," she assured Grim, who gave her a grunt of acknowledgement. Out of politeness, she chanced a tiny sip, grimacing slightly upon feeling its burn.

"Don't push yourself if you don't like it," the Iron Bull said, startling her. She had not been aware that he was watching.

"O-oh, it's fine," she stammered, "I just have to get used to it..."

He shook his head. "Nah, we'll give it another time." Reaching over with his great hand, he tipped the contents of her cup into his own. "There. Now you can impress them with your amazing drinking skills."

She couldn't help but laugh at that. "Naw, they'll know; I only took two sips. Maybe a sip and a half?"

"And all the whisky's gone – would you look at that?"

She gave an amused shake of her head. "Oh, no. I got drunk after one mug of ale. If I really finished all that whisky, I might've passed out much sooner."

"Well. Everyone takes it differently." Iron Bull took a swig from his cup. "All jokes aside, don't hesitate to speak up if you're not comfortable about doing something. Y'know, live a little more for yourself. All right?"

Ahnnie nodded thoughtfully. "I will...thanks."

He smiled at her. "Don't mention it."

Just then, an Inquisition soldier ducked her head through the doorway, looking left and right until she caught sight of Ahnnie. "Ah, Lady Herald! You're required back at the camp. We'll be leaving for Redcliffe first thing in the morning, and you've got to prepare. Seeker Cassandra's orders."

"Oh!" Ahnnie got up to her feet, depositing her empty cup with Krem. "I'm coming–"

"Aw, so soon?" Krem protested, though he made no move to return her cup.

"Fun's just getting started!" Dalish added.

Iron Bull heaved himself off his bench and waved dismissively at the Chargers. "We're gonna have to do the same anyway, so don't complain." Turning to Ahnnie, he gave her a hearty pat on the back, albeit much gentler than last time. "Thanks for coming by, boss. Glad you could meet some of my team."

"B-boss?" she stuttered. "No, I'm not–"

"Well, you're part of the Inquisition," he countered, "and who d'you think just hired us?"

She blushed. "Right...well, I'll see you later." With a look back at the rowdy Chargers, she gave them a parting wave. "Bye, guys. Have fun."

They didn't seem to hear her, though, or they did and the resulting yell was a mis-matched chorus of 'byes'; she didn't hear it too clearly as she followed the Inquisition soldier out of the shack. But as she strode through the Hessarian camp, she felt much easier than before about the presence of the Bull's Chargers. They're not so bad after all...I guess it's nothing to worry about, as long as they follow Cassandra's guidelines.

And God knows, she was already looking forward to their next drinking session.

A/N: Hey guys! Happy Asian New Year! Sorry for taking a while. Hope you enjoy.

Irrelevant, but...anyone notice how the bald man in Split looks a bit like Solas? No? Just me? Mmkay...