All Fall Down
BY: ZealousPhoenix245

Disclaimer: I don't own Dragon Age or Elder Scrolls. All rights go to their respective peoples. I only use the worlds as my sandbox and pepper liberally with my own characters and plot bunnies.

Quick Author's Note: Oh god. It's been forever. I'm sorry. Life hates me, apparently. My nice calm summer was nonexistant and I wasn't planning on that. I move in to the dorms next Friday and class starts the following Monday from that, so considering I'm not entirely sure how I'm going to react living away from home, I'm not sure when my next update will be. I'll try to be quick, I promise. Just need to get the anxiety out of my system.

In other news, this is a nice, calm chapter. I was originally going to have Lys accompany everyone to the Storm Coast for the Iron Bull quest, but decided to delve a little more into Lys' history instead with a flashback. I felt like I'd spaced out info on her past a little too far, so decided to stick some in here. Hope you enjoy!


Chapter 11


"I wish that I could cry, fall upon my knees.
Find a way to lie about a home I'll never see."

- Five For Fighting, "Superman (It's Not Easy)"


~Thedas – 9:41 Dragon~


Scratch, scratch, scratch! Scribble, scribble! Scratch, scratch! Your nose wrinkled as you reread the line you had written on the parchment, but you decided to leave it as it was. A misshapen dwarven rune amidst your already hesitant chicken-scratch would give Dand something to chew on, if nothing else. Careful not to miscalculate the distance, you brought the quill you were writing with over to the small pot of ink and coated the tip of the feather in the dark liquid again. The excess dripped with finality, drop, drop, drop, until you swiped the utensil on the edge of the container.

For what it was worth, you grumbled, you were penning an update to Dand. A week since Val Royeaux and no signs of rebellion from you had given Leliana cause to allow you correspondence outside of Haven, as well as freedom to roam the tiny village as you pleased. That didn't mean by any stretch of the word that you had actually taken her up on the offer. You rather liked your solitary little cabin. The only other spot you would have even thought of haunting had been the tavern, but that particular hideaway had been claimed rather soundly by Sera.

After her little stunt with the arrow and the breeches, you'd be damned if you stood longer in a room with the elf than necessary. She was lucky you hadn't throttled her on the way back to Haven – the thought had certainly crossed your mind plenty of times on principle for nicking you on that rooftop.

Snap! Your eyes closed at the sound, and a breath was slowly drawn in through your nose before you dared open them again. The muddled outline of the quill met you when you did, broken tip and all. The urge to fling the thing across the room was strong, but you could have probably attributed half of the malcontent to the memory of nearly getting stabbed by a sword that should have been taken instead of a pair of breeches.

Instead, you calmly (Varric probably would have described it as too calmly) placed your quill on the wooden table serving as a desk next to the inked parchment. The following two minutes were spent with you sitting still, focusing on keeping your breathing even and anger calmed. Your sparse knowledge of combined with your lack of control over destruction magic meant things had a habit of spontaneously combusting when you were angry, and you were rather partial to the very flammable furniture in your very flammable house. Your clothes weren't exactly flame-retardant, either, come to think of it.

Once the feeling of wanting to punch someone (preferably Sera or Varric, you weren't picky) subsided and you'd fetched another quill, you tested the ink on the parchment. Adan, Haven's resident alchemist-playing-healer, had mixed it up for you upon request that it be fast-drying, as in order to really read what you wrote you had to touch the page and didn't want to risk smearing the writing. So far, you had yet to be disappointed with the results considering not a single smudge marred any of the three pages.

Blah, blah, blah, won't sell anything on the civil war, blah, blah, blah, you skimmed over the contents. You'd already written your…associate once to tell him where you were and what was going on. You weren't exactly happy with the fact that he knew, but it had been done more out of a security thing than just to allow him to keep tabs. If something went south or happened to you, at least someone had an idea of where to look. And if nothing else, Dand knew how to run your network.

He'd written back rather incredulous that you had even had the inkling of a thought to join with the Inquisition. You were certain that there had been some sort of teasing involved in the way he had phrased it, but you hadn't bothered to recognize it and couldn't be bothered further to search for it.

The letter you received had gone on to mention that activity on dead drops had increased significantly since the formation of the Breach, but once a week had gone by with no new information posted, "traffic" as you liked to call it had ceased almost entirely. People wanted to know about the Inquisition, about the Breach, about the rebellion, or about the Orlesian Civil War. The first two, you explained, you wouldn't disclose for fear of compromising the shaky trust you had established. The third and fourth options you simply would not, under any circumstances, involve yourself in even if said involvement was neutral and passive. They were both a mess and you didn't want to deal with it, bottom line.

Keep with the mercenary work, you chewed your lip as you read. Also keep an ear out – I'll do the same here, but nothing gets put up for auction before I authorize it.

Dand wasn't going to like that last part, but he was just going to have to deal with it. Shaking your head, you scrawled some half-assed closing paragraph before signing it with a random pseudonym that Dand would be able to understand. You both chose new ones every letter even though they all were written in code – call you paranoid, but you hadn't been caught yet.

Heaving yourself up from your hunched position over the table-turned-desk, you lifted your arms high above your head as you curved your back. Several satisfying pops ensued from your spine, and you sighed as the feeling of pressure was abated. You made quick work rolling and sealing the parchment before walking towards one of the side windows facing the healer's shack.

A charcoal feathered messenger crow lifted its beak and ruffled its wings at you in anticipation when it noticed your approach. "Beaker, hey boy." Tegna's bird nipped almost lazily at the offered finger.

"I need you to take this back to Dand for me, okay?" Beaker trilled, head cocking to the side. A slow blink of unnatural crimson eyes confirmed that the order was understood. You smiled conspiratorially behind the mask as you tied the message to his leg.

The crows used as messenger birds in Thedas were a type you had never encountered in Nirn, alien in coloring and size. They seemed to be a kind of crow or raven, but were almost as big as a large hawk. Red eyes were an oddity, too, a rare enough color in the birds you had been raised around but something almost common in Thedosian ones. There were streaks of red underneath their eyes and a large spot along their backs making them look as if they'd been dipped with blood. It was a manner that unsettlingly reminded you of Daedric armor, but you supposed it also could have been the color scheme. Beaker was no exception, his ruddy eyes seeming direr against the pigment of the same shade smeared under them.

Once the note was sufficiently secured, Beaker seemed to give you a nod before hopping out the cracked window and flying off into the sky. You spared a few moments to listen to his wing beats disappear from your sensory range, then busying yourself with meandering over to your bed and pulling your gloves fluidly back onto your hands. Some food sounded divine right then, and the tavern was calling your name, Sera's presence there notwithstanding in face of your growling stomach.

The cold hit you the moment you opened the door. Not that any particular moment during your stay in Haven could have been considered remotely warm in comparison. The village was itself situated on a mountain, in Ferelden, very much in the cold. There would always be that part of you, the part raised in temperate Cyrodiil, which abhorred the frigidity. But the rest of you, the bit that spent the better part of two years fighting back the Thalmor across Skyrim's tundra, which could only place the snow and ice as home – that was the side of you that basked in Ferelden's familiarity, however slight. It made for a nostalgia trip every time you ventured outside.

You didn't think you'd ever be quite sure how you felt about it, either.


~Nirn – 4E 202~


Saying the week had not been kind would have been a monumental understatement. As it had been, freezing rain had slapped against your piss-poor shelter for days, the torrents showing no sign of relenting and draining morale with each passing hour. Before that, it had been an accidentally stumbled upon nest of frostbite spiders and skeevers somehow managing to co-habitat in relative peace. Lairah and Saeta had ended up poisoned by the arachnids despite your and Vienelé's best efforts. They had only then been coming out of the fever.

What had been a simple mission to find a Thalmor cell and retrieve information on troop movements had almost predictably gone wrong at every turn. The way into the tiny base on Lake Honrich, previously a bee farm or something, had been guarded where it hadn't been on previous recon missions. Then, of course, taking out the guards had ended up messier than intended when one of Vienelé's spells had gone awry and taken out half of the docking behind the old manor in a rather spectacular explosion.

You had given the Breton quite a tongue-lashing afterward when the mistake had cost Lurks-In-Shadows part of his tail. It wasn't entirely needed – the vampire had looked guilty enough over the red-scaled Argonian losing part of a limb, but you had been more than rattled at the mission going awry. You'd apologized once you all had gotten out with the information and had received a small, demure smile in return, along with a mildly sarcastic suggestion that the researcher not tag along on missions anymore. It had been hard not to agree with the request. The only reason Vienelé had been along in the first place was because you had been a man down, Falion back in Morthal caring for a sick Agni.

Then, as your amazing luck would have had it, an unseasonal blizzard had decided to crop up on your way back to the aforementioned city. You had been forced to take shelter in an old, crumbling Nordic tomb, the exterior dome only half there and forcing you inside the maw of the proverbial beast that wasn't in much better condition than the outside. The first few days hadn't been bad, just a bit eerie what with being surrounded by corpses of the Nordic dead. Saeta had felt it the hardest, being Nordic himself, and had taken to trading stories with Lairah to distract from the ancient bodies of his kinsmen.

The brooding Redguard had surprised you by almost animatedly recounting a few war stories she'd heard from her father. It hadn't been a good idea. The group had been being chased by Thalmor, probably stalked and spied upon, and you had been adamant that silence would have been best. At the same time, you had supposed the fact that they were about battles of the Alik'r against the Aldmeri Dominion had helped up morale. It had been an insanely tough decision – chance discovery and attempt to keep morale afloat, or rule with an iron fist of silence and fear. You'd chosen the former without much more debate, much to your own chagrin and the palpable relief of your charges.

Next had come the spiders and skeevers, attacking in the middle of the second night with next to no warning. Had Vienelé and her inhuman senses not been on watch, they probably would have managed to have done more damage. As it was, Saeta had taken a nasty bite in the arm from the largest spider, and Lairah had been caught unawares in the neck by one of the juveniles. She'd been touch-and-go for a while, you remembered. Her jugular had been shredded and half-gone, dripping with poison in a manner that had severely tested your ability in the school of restoration magic.

So they had recovered, unconscious and feverish but alive, while the blizzard tapered off into a seemingly unending rainstorm. Minor flooding forced you into the cramped back of the leaky tomb's vestibule, the unnatural silence then broken only by the steady dripping of rainwater thrumming away outside and through the holes in the ceiling.

A clang had drawn your attention. Spine straightening faster than one would have thought possible, you had been only mildly embarrassed to have found it only been Vienelé shifting restlessly in her sleep. She never had gotten much restful shut-eye in that tomb, vampirism calling her to wakefulness every time a wound re-opened and the scent of blood permeated the air. Her grumblings whenever such occurred as she downed a blood potion to abate her thirst had always been mildly amusing. Dangerous, but amusing.

"You're restless."

Jumping, you had taken barely a moment to recognize the hissing voice before calming. "Someone has to be. Little sliver of your tail gets cut off and the big bad lizard goes and gets sleepy on me." You smirked at the blood-red scales, faded with age, settling beside you. Slit black pupils had glowered at you from where they sat amidst the most brilliant, vibrant blue you had ever seen; a blue that had been clouded with a haze of pain. Your fault, you remembered thinking ashamedly, all your fault…

A scaly hand shoved your shoulder. "Shut it, elf. I don't know how you land-striders can balance with just arms and legs. It's probably why you keep blundering into traps." You had the decency to blush orange and smacked the offending hand away.

"I do not blunder!"

"No," snickered Lurks-In-Shadows as his eyes lit up; whatever pain he had been in had been forgotten. "You're right – you glide only without the grace."

You hadn't intended to growl at him, but once the sound had been made, you couldn't reign it in. "What is it, pick on Lys month or something?" He frowned (well, as much as an Argonian could frown, anyway), lifting his hands in a "peace" gesture.

"I was just messing around."

"I…" You sighed, slumping in defeat. "I know. I'm sorry." Your hands had reached up then almost of their own accord to try massaging back the headache that was rapidly forming. Your eyes had burned, too, and felt heavier than a warhammer, sure signs that your lack of sleep had been catching up to you quicker than you would have liked. Lurks-In-Shadows seemed to have realized it, as his expression turned from curious to somber.

"It's okay. We're all on edge." His old, rough voice attempted to take on a soothing tone. It was one that on a human or an elf would have come off as sort of a pleasant hum. On him, though, it had instead filtered awkwardly through the gills on the side of his neck and sounded more like a wet gurgle. You had vaguely remembered laughing bitterly at it, humor too much to ignore even through the pain.

A few moments had ticked by before you mustered up the nerve to shake your head. "No. It's…they don't trust me, Shades. Not like you do. How can they? I don't know what Jarl Idgrod was thinking –"

"Don't." Though his voice had been firm, a grin had conversely been splitting his maw in two to reveal the (terrifying) rows of pointy teeth lining his gums. Had you not known the Argonian for as long as you had, the sight would have probably unnerved you. It certainly had the first time. "The Jarl wouldn't have picked you to lead this if she didn't think you were capable of it. She probably would have Seen something." You had winced.

"I almost got Lairah and Saeta killed."

He gestured to the unconscious humans, still but breathing. "Do they look dead to you?" Your head had fallen, chin limply hanging above your collarbone.

"They might as well be," you had whispered.

"But they're not because of you, kid," insisted the assassin. "They don't trust you. We're fighting Altmer fanatics with an unhealthy obsession with double-agents; I'd think they're crazy if they trusted our Altmer squad leader right off the bat. Maybe this won't help matters any, but you know what? Jarl Idgrod trusts you, and that's more than enough for me. It should be more than enough for them, but that's their problem." He shrugged in a "What-can-you-do?" manner.

You had figured that the old Argonian was right. Jarl Idgrod was always much beloved. She had been the sort of de facto leader of your merry little band of misfits you jokingly called a resistance. You had never really resisted much, more poked and prodded the Thalmor where it pissed them off and knocked them off their game. It had worked for a while, at least.

And you had trusted Lurks-In-Shadows. Though he had never outright mentioned it, you had known him to suffer some of the same snide looks and comments as you had. Having been Argonian, his (frightening) countenance had always caused men and mer to lean away from trusting him. The fact that he had once demonstrated the ability to kill an entire squad of Thalmor before any of your group had realized what was happening probably hadn't helped matters any. His guerilla style of battle had always taken the more traditionally military-minded people far off guard. He'd certainly done more than enough to live up to his title of Shadowscale.

A laugh had bubbled up, "You're right, as always. Sometimes I wonder who fits the part of old sage better – you or the Jarl." A hand had flown to his armor-covered chest at the comment, eyes wide in a faux-disbelief that his playfully twitching half-tail laden in bloodstained bandages had quickly belied. Forced shock had dropped his maw, mal-angled teeth making the chipped, short grey tusks around his forehead seem all the sharper.

"Me? Old? I'm insulted! I'm only sixty-three."

You had tapped Lurks-In-Shadows on the nose, wry smile tugging at your mouth. "Yeah. Old."

"Psh! You elves live for, what, eight hundred years? Nine hundred? Sixty-three is young to you," he had insisted. Indignation had caused him to puff out his chest, a defensive maneuver left over from when his people had still been fledgling descendents of the Hist. It was meant to intimidate, to scare off predators. You had remembered reading about it once. Then, as the species had evolved, it had become more of a subconscious emotional response.

Still, it had made you grin knowing that you had been pushing his buttons by mentioning age. "I'm only twenty-three. You're old."

A sinewy arm had been thrown over your shoulders before you had been able to see it coming. "Maybe. But you know what, kid? You're alright. They'll see it, I promise."

"Don't make promises you can't keep. And get your arm off of me."

"Ah, but I don't make promises I can't keep!" exclaimed Lurks-In-Shadows, though he had removed his arm despite the teasing confidence in his raspy voice. "The more you lead them, the more you don't seem like so much of an outsider."

"Thanks. I appreciate the sentiment."

"But it's true! You haven't gotten frostbite in three days! You're starting to get used to this abominable cold, which could never be said for those goldskin toads…wait…" As your companion's brain had finally caught up to his mouth and vice-versa, your right ear had flinched with a vengeance.

And such had ended the story of how the old Argonian Shadowscale had ended up with several scorched tusks and a third degree burn on the crown of his head.


~Thedas – 9:41 Dragon~


You were jarred out of the memory by a little girl barreling past you. The force of her clipping your side startled you more than you cared to admit, and you scowled after her despite the fact that the expression couldn't be seen. Damn kids.

The door to the tiny tavern was only a handful of steps in front of where you had meandered, and the proximity only took you slightly by surprise as you yanked it open. Scents of stale beer, body odor, and roast poultry slithered through the edges of your mask to scratch relentlessly at the inside of your nose, an almost rancid combination. Appendage wrinkling, you tried your best to breathe shallow as you made a beeline to the bar. From her little corner, Sera shouted something obscene that you ignored. How she could live in the stench, you would never understand.

To the barkeep's credit, she only looked mildly uncomfortable when you pressed your hands across from where hers were resting on the wooden surface. "Can I get you anything?" Her tone was understandably wary – it was the second time you had shown your mask in her tavern. By all accounts, you were still the creepy stranger Leliana had ordered a watch on.

"Is that chicken I smell?" you asked in what you hoped was a disarming, sweet tone. Barkeepers tended to be some of the best sources of gossip. Scaring her would simply not do.

The brunette shrugged. "Stew made from yesterday's scraps, but yeah. 'Fraid it's not much, though."

You smiled brightly and slid onto one of the stools. "That'd be great, if it's not too much trouble."

As the woman strode swiftly over to a kettle hanging over a roaring fireplace, you took the time to observe the atmosphere of the tavern. It wasn't much different than any others you had been in, even those back in Nirn, but there was a downtrodden spirit to the place that you hadn't really found anywhere else. You knew supplies were short at hand in the mountains and the coming winter was threatening to be a bad one, but there was more to it than that. The Temple of Sacred Ashes had been important to the village, something they had protected and defended for generations, probably from its establishment. And then it had been gone in the blink of an eye, the Divine killed all but on their doorstep, some of their own people dead in the frenzy. They were vengeful, angry, scared, and full of opinions they were more than willing to share with everyone, from the casual passerby to the hooded stranger haunting their town. It was a perfect ambience for you to do a little recon. Rage-fueled tongues were often the loosest.

"What's your name?" You flicked your chin up from where it had been tucked into the dip of your clavicle. A bowl steaming with thick stew was set in front of you with a dull thunk of chipped ceramic on scuffed wood.

"Lys," you replied as you scooped up the spoon and began playing with your food.

"Flissa," said the brunette slowly, calculating look on her face. "You gonna' take off your mask to eat that?" She was very…careful. Your eyes narrowed.

You said aversively, "Maybe. How much?"

"Three silver." You passed her five with deft movements, the coins having already been poised in your palm. It was a little pricy even without the tip, but meat and spices were scarce, so the expense wasn't much of a shock.

"So," you began with a firm stir of your stew, "everyone seems pretty worked up today. More than usual." Flissa shook her brown head, curls bouncing this way and that. Pulling a stained rag from the cloth belt around her hips, she began wiping down the bar and cleaning out mugs. Her movements were jerky, though. Rough as if she was nervous.

"Don't go tryin' to wheedle information out of me. I'm not stupid. I know that's what you're doing."

You scoffed through your nose. "Leliana tell you that?" Despite the wry drawl, there was a bare undertone that was only threatening for those who knew to look for it.

The girl passed the test when her cleaning faltered skittishly. "No. I just know it when I see it."

"Because you've done it before?"

Flissa went ridged in record time, "No. That ain't none of your business, anyhow."

"...Alright." You conceded after a minute. "I don't believe you, but alright. Thanks for the stew. I'll bring the bowl back." Pushing yourself to your feet, you loudly gathered up your food and turned on your heel. Flissa tapped her fingers on the bar. When it became clear she wasn't going to outwardly confirm that you'd figured her out, you threw an airy shrug and turned on your heel to march out of the tavern.

You didn't get far.

"…Storm Coast…"

A slow smile spread unseen across your face. "I'm sorry?" You edged back until you were standing in front of the bar again.

The girl glanced around as if waiting for someone to reprimand her. When nothing came, her wringing fingers instead tightly laced together. "Lady Pentaghast, Lord Trevelyan, Lady Vivienne, and the dwarf left for the Storm Coast shortly after you all returned from Val Royeaux. There's talk of a new member of the Inquisition being recruited there. Folks aren't happy with the rumors, is all. It's putting them on edge." So that's where they'd gone – you had been beginning to wonder for the past few days where the Herald and his grumpy Seeker, prissy mage, and infuriating dwarf had gotten to.

"What are these rumors people aren't liking?" You questioned, sliding back into your seat as if you'd never left it.

"They're saying he's…," Flissa bit her lip, "saying he's Qunari. Joining the Inquisition? It just doesn't add up, and they know it."

Frowning, you retorted, "Why? Because he's not human? Just because he's kossith doesn't mean he can't believe in the Chant, that he's not Tal-Vashoth and forsaken the Qun. And if he doesn't believe in the Chant, that doesn't mean he can't be interested in ending this blighted mess. If helping close the Breach was a matter of believing Chantry rhetoric, I certainly wouldn't be here."

"That's not the point," argued the barkeep. But her point was thin, and she seemed to know it.

"Then what is? He could be spying?" You shook your head. "Honey, everyone here could be spying. You are – for Leliana, to keep an eye on the villagers and probably me, but still. If the Breach had opened in Seheron or Tevinter, you can bet your ass the Chantry would have sent spies, or Orlais would have sent delegates who doubled as spies. This is bigger than Fereldan or the Chantry – this is threatening Thedas as a whole. In the end, it won't matter what religion or lack thereof you follow. Dead is dead if this doesn't get stopped."

"You're puttin' too much faith on everyone dropping their differences. Void, they could have started it." she pointed out sourly.

You conceded, "And that's a very valid point. We need to figure out the variables before we can start pointing fingers. Until then, we take all the help we can get. At least if they are spying, they have to act the part. I'm not going to complain about having a Qunari between me and a warhammer, my side or not."

"Until that Qunari is aiming that warhammer at your back," snorted Flissa, returning to her endeavor of making her bar some semblance of clean. "You'd be complaining then."

"Nah," you grinned. "I think I'd just throw the dagger at his throat and call it a day. You ever seen those guys? It's like they're begging for someone to stab them in the chest, fancy armor-poison-blood paint or not."

"It's called Vitaar."

Gathering up your things once more, you stood. "That was the name. Leliana teach you, or did you pick this up when you were spying for her before? Can't imagine you see too many Qunari up around these parts just 'passing through'."

Flissa pursed her lips. "I owned an inn in Denerim. I'd hear things, pass the information to Lady Nightingale. People here need to eat, have somewhere they can go at the end of the day. Leliana suggested I open shop and listen. Some things stick the more you hear them."

"How soon after I arrived did she ask you to start getting information on me?"

Her cleaning paused and she blinked up at you with wide, dark eyes. "What makes you think I was told to spy on you?"

"I'm a very good information broker," you drawled, eyebrow raised as you shook your head. "Well, that and our lovely spymaster was rather irked that I wasn't willing to share much on myself. I figured that she'd send someone sniffing after me at some point, though I must profess, I really thought it would be Tethras, or maybe Trevelyan. I don't exactly frequent your tavern."

A small chuckle from the woman was unexpected. "Well, everyone has to eat. Your rations had to run out eventually." You winced as you remembered the over-dried venison and cold potatoes that had been your meals for the past week until they had become too much for you to stand. Blegh, you pulled a face. You could still taste the overabundance of salt on the back of your tongue, and it made you nauseous. It could probably have been argued that those rations did more to kill people than sustain them.

"Someone really needs to have a chat with the quartermaster. Or, whomever thinks it takes a bucketful of salt to dry meat."

That got the young woman to laugh, albeit only slightly. Sighing, you gripped your bowl and spoon with one hand and threw a small wave.

"Anyway, I'll get out of your hair, now. Sorry for pushing about the whole Leliana thing – I had a hunch and wanted to be sure."

Flissa blinked her wide eyes. "No, no. It's…okay. I'm going to have to tell her you figured me out, though. She's probably gonna' want to talk to you."

"Figures," you grumbled. "I'll bring the bowl back. Thanks."

As you ducked out of the door and back into the cold, you realized that your stew was mimicking the weather. You suddenly felt like throwing it as you marched up the incline towards your cabin. Groaning under your breath, you resolved to visit the merchant down the way and haggle out a small cooking pot as soon as you were able. Was a hot meal too much to ask for anymore?


"Wait, so you're the Shadow Broker?" a voice asked incredulously from off to your left. Curious and a bit on edge at the baritone, you tucked your newly-acquired cauldron under your arm and turned. Almost instantly, you froze. Leaning against your cabin was probably one of the most imposing figures you had ever laid your hazy eyes on. And you'd fought giants, so that was saying something.

He was Qunari with the stereotypical bulging muscles, no shirt, seven or so foot frame, and horns straight from Sithis' nightmares. There were some areas where his ashy skin tone seemed to falter in the slightest, though whether those were scars or merely your shitty touch vision, you couldn't really tell. Odd, however, was the shape of his horns. They jutted out horizontally from either side of his head and then turned a near perfect ninety degrees upwards. Ending in wicked sharp points, you had a very brief, probably very dangerous thought flick through your mind of using them as effective daggers.

Quite ironically considering your previous conversation with Flissa, a large warhammer was strapped onto his back. You had to crane your neck just to make the mask appear like you were looking at him. You'd always been short for an Altmer, but this guy made you an ant in comparison. Maybe you were getting a taste of what Varric felt like on a daily basis.

You were never going to tease the dwarf about his height again.

"And you're the Queen of Antiva?" Sarcasm was your instant fallback, your failsafe when your secrets were in danger.

"Ha!" he barked, shooting you a wicked grin. "I wish! Probably pays a lot better." The way his smile made the skin crinkle up around his eyes (eye, you corrected – he had an eye patch over the one on his left) was disarming and unassuming. He had a roguish quality to him despite being a warrior, and reminded you annoyingly of Dand.

You didn't like disarming, unassuming, roguish, or Dand in such close proximity.

"Paid?" You over-faked distressed curiosity, waving your cauldron like a maniac for emphasis. "You mean you're being paid for this? Who'd you butter up for that deal and where are they?"

The Qunari's booming laugh was so loud, you were kind of shocked it didn't cause an avalanche from the way it echoed. "I'm a mercenary, money comes with the job. You didn't answer my question. You're the Shadow Broker?"

You decided to evade it by cracking open your cabin door to toss the cauldron inside. "You're the one Alan picked up from the Storm Coast? Mercenary, so…Tal-Vashoth, then? If you don't give me a name, that's what I'm going to call you." That got something – his nostrils flared and his dark eye sharpened, burning with indignation and possibly a little anger.

His smile would have seemed relaxed to anyone else. But you – you could tell it was forced, wavering. "Iron Bull. My question?"

"Iron Bull?" Your nose wrinkled. "What kind of a name is that? Certainly not Qunari."

"Technically, it's The Iron Bull. I like an article at the front," shrugged the giant, but his movements were still tense.

You nodded anyway, uncaring to the fact that you were pushing the man's buttons. "Makes sense, I suppose. Less personal, more intimidating. Still not Qunari, though."

"Still not an answer, though."

Silence. He was mocking you. You bit your lip, suddenly curious. This Iron Bull (The Iron Bull, rather – couldn't forget the gods damned article) was giving you the run around. He wasn't just a mercenary. Just like Flissa wasn't just a barkeep, Leliana wasn't just an advisor, and you weren't just a good Samaritan.

Was nobody who they seemed in this town?

"Fine. Yes. I'm the Shadow Broker. Who blabbed?" You crossed your arms and mimicked the Qunari's stance leaning against your cabin.

"The glow-y one," he replied, humor glimmering behind his visible eye. Your own hardened. Alan. You were going to have to have a talk with him…

"But I already knew, so it wasn't a shock."

You stared grimly in Iron Bull's direction, lips pursed into an impossibly thin line. He never lost his easy smile or haunted twinkle. Yes, there was definitely more to him than met the eye.

"Already knew…," you drawled. Suddenly, it hit you, and the barked laugh was unavoidable. "Oh, rich! How long have I been on the Ben-Hassrath's shit list, then?"

His grin widened. "You're not on our shit list, per se, but interesting turn of phrase. More we've kept an eye on you."

Scoffing more out of disbelief than anything, you sighed. "How long has this been going on?"

"Five years, give or take. Since the Ostwick incident."

"Yeah…," you winced at the memory. "I apologize about the dreadnought, by the way. I didn't intend to hitch a ride on the wrong ship, much less get caught. You Qunari can do a number when you're pissed."

A heavy hand landed on your shoulder, "You kidding? That escape was inspired. Read all about it. You've got to tell me how you managed to make the explosion that big."

"You really want to know?" A quizzical nod. "Never fight a Saarebas in a cargo hold carrying blackpowder. It won't end well."

His eyebrows shot up to where his shaved hairline was, "You're shitting me! It was an accident?"

A proud grin broke out on your own face before you could stop it. In hindsight, it had been a pretty remarkable explosion. "Well, it was calculated, but yes. It was an accident at its core. I figured there was something in the barrels that would be distracting. I didn't count on how distracting, so I let the Saarebas target me with a nice fireball, but ducked last minute. BAM! Exploded hull. Escape route. And there was also a sunken Tevinter slave carrier to boot." The slavers' ship had been your original target. Slavers made your stomach crawl in a manner most unpleasant. That about twenty of them were corpses at the bottom of the Waking Sea was no skin off your back, and the fact that they were Tevinter didn't seem to take any of Iron Bull's, either.

"Had to hurt, though."

You winced, "Yeah. Burns on half my body, most severe, but I was alive. Which is more than could be said about the Saarebas, sad to say. I apologize for that, I didn't mean to cause any harm. Not sorry about those slavers, though." Not that your healing magic had hurt the being alive part, anyway. And you did regret the death of that Saarebas. It had been entirely unnecessary had you not screwed up and snuck onto the wrong ship. It had been dark, you were blind, and the ledger had had a mix-up with docking assignments, but still. It was the point.

Iron Bull shook his head as he pushed off the wall, "Nah, you're fine. Higher-ups looked into it and most were actually impressed that you'd managed to sneak onto a dreadnought and remain undetected for a whole day. They deemed it an accident and moved on, but not before stewing about it for a couple of years. You know us."

"Sadly," you said teasingly. "Anything else you wanted to ask me about, or did you just come here to rub Ostwick in my poor, poor face?"

"I was just curious. Heard a lot about you even back in Seheron. Wanted to see if you lived up to the legend."

You raised an eyebrow. "And?"

Iron Bull gave you a splitting grin, "You're a little…smaller than I had expected."

Your face deadpanned, and the Qunari laughed at your pointed silence as he started to walk off. You weren't that short…

"You got a name, Imesaam?" You shot him a look he couldn't see at the foreign word, but replied slowly.

"Lys. Got anything shorter than The Iron Bull, or should I just call you Ben-Hassrath? And what's…Imay Same mean?" You winced. Gods, you had just butchered the pronunciation, you just knew it by the snort. It had taken you months to even begin pronouncing Dalish correctly, never mind the fact that you'd never really even heard Qunlat before. Languages hated you.

The Qunari's chuckle was hearty, but you didn't miss how he avoided your last question. "Well then, Lys. You can just call me Bull."


Final Words: Woo hoo! We've got Bull! One of my favorites, a close third behind only Flemeth and Varric. A very, very close third.

I took some liberties with the Qunlat word, Imesaam. I derived it from Imekari-saam, which literally translates into something akin to "child nothing", or more roughly, "Child of Nothing". I figured it was an appropriate nickname for a sneak. It didn't seem too far off considering Bull nicknamed Gatt from his personal quest after Gaatlok. So I put some creative shortening onto it.

I feel like I botched Flissa. I love writing background characters mainly because they're almost a clean slate, but still have their quirks. At the same time, because the still have their quirks, I find it hard to keep them in even a minute character. It's challenging.

Also, quick question. I've got another fanfiction stewing around in the back of my mind. It's Avengers (you can squeal, guys, I would be, too) and Elder Scrolls. It's going to be a tie-in to All Fall Down, following another Nirn survivor who ended up being whisked away to MCU instead of Thedas. I'm just curious how many of you guys would be willing to read it if I posted it. It's not technically a sequel, but still. Just curious.

Well, R&R! And thanks for the birthday wishes I got last (second to last?) chapter!
~ZealousPhoenix