To Be Fearful of the Night
By:
R. V. Grover

Disclaimer: I don't own Elder Scrolls or Dragon Age. All rights go to their respective peoples. I'm just a sleepy 20 year old playing in the sandbox.

Quick Author's Note: Well. School happened. This was supposed to be a relatively easy semester, but that hasn't happened. As it is, I'm supposed to be sleeping because I have two finals tomorrow (today?) but that's not happening either. Oh well!

So. Apologies for the late as fuck update. Also, because I'm exhausted and am going to make this brief, I'll let y'all know that I edited part of the last chapter. I'm reuploading it so you ought to get the email notification if you're subscribed, but if you're not, then this is an FYI so you know to go back and read that one.

So, without further ado, enjoy!


Chapter 3: The Secret of Tyranny


"The secret of freedom lies in educating people, whereas the secret of tyranny is in keeping them ignorant."

-Maximillien Robespierre


~Thedas – 9:34 Dragon~

From a shadowed corner just outside the clinic doors, I watch. As he's a rudimentary field medic, the Orlesian (who's called Dot for some reason, I learn begrudgingly) is the one conversing with the haggard healer. The man with the feathered pauldrons is an interesting fellow, voice low and scratchy from lack of sleep and close to mana exhaustion, but still he persists in tending to his patients. I can smell the scent of death clinging tightly to this place. He makes the ones that are lost comfortable as he can, refusing to just leave them to their fate. As someone who was a healer at one point in time, I respect this, even as I am wary of the mage himself. Something just feels off about him, and Dand seems to agree. He takes up post next to me in my corner instead of remaining with his mercenaries. I'm lost to the fact that he wants to continue our conversation from the caves until a second before he speaks, when realization dawns cold and cruel.

"We weren't supposed t'get outta' that alive, ye' know that?"

His point is sound and clear, and I keep my voice quiet to speak. "Hm. Your company wasn't supposed to be there, were they? We'd have been lucky with two people to make it past the guards. Dead to try the mage."

I hear Dand nod grimly. "Aye. Ain't no way she didn't know 'bout the 'Vints. We were set up, we were."

"I meant it."

"Pardon?" he questions, brow cocked.

My head shakes, and I cross my arms almost petulantly. "Slavers. I won't tolerate them. She is a slaver now."

"Couldn't agree with ye' more. But Sighs, she ain't no silver-a-bushel lowlife. She's all but untouchable. Two an' a handful o'help ain't gonna' do shite."

"Don't call me Sighs."Several beats of silence ensue as I ponder, still as the winter. I think it unnerves Dand, but he doesn't let it show. Finally, I murmur, "Being dead is a good cover."

"Whassit?" The warrior's brow is raised again. "Care t'share with the class? Or are ye' gonna' rush in half-cocked again, assumin' we all happen t'be mind readers?"

"I don't rush in. Only fools do that. How long do you think you can play dead?" I question.

His voice is grudging, wary. "Reckon long enough."

The healer is using his magic on one of the girls, and I shift inconspicuously at the uncomfortable scratching. Even if I had wanted to go in the clinic, and even though Thedosian magic has gotten easier over the years, it's still disconcerting and makes my skin crawl something fierce. "Too many ears. But…how many people has she pissed off?"

Dand frowns. "Dunno. A lot?" My malicious grin is lost on him, hidden under my mask's scowl, but it probably bleeds into my voice.

"Stay out of sight for the time being. When they're done here, meet me outside the city with your crew."

"An' what're we gonna' do?" he scoffs. "Prance around in the moonlight an' hope the Maker smites 'er down? What's the bloody protocol for shite like this?"

I laugh mirthlessly, pushing off the wall and beginning to slide through the shadows that give Darktown its name. Blithely, I call over my shoulder, "Incite outrage, of course!"

His sputtering about how I keep running off before he gets a chance to yell at me properly is left far behind as I turn around a corner. When the warrior scrambles after me, all he finds is a dank corridor lined with the beggars and the desperate, and he has no idea that the reason I blend in so seamlessly is because I'm nothing like any of them.

Or, at least that's what I try to keep telling myself.


The Blooming Rose, for all its Hightown glamour, is a disgusting cesspit through which nothing but vermin crawl out of. And by vermin, I mean politicians. My nose wrinkles in disgust as I faintly see Kirkwall's Seneschal, Bran, emerge from its skeevy depths, not-so-self-satisfied smirk on his face as he traipses back to the keep to resume his duties for the afternoon. He'll hypocritically be visiting the very same healer's clinic in Darktown that he regularly convinces the Viscount to maneuver Templar raids against, and he'll be visiting within the week. Lather, rinse, repeat.

I grew up an orphan in a repurposed Temple right in the heart of a territory belonging to the Aldmeri Dominion. Thalmor practically swarmed the area like bees to a flower, especially back then, and orphans were prime targets for recruitment. We were often the only ones desperate enough to sign our lives away for a chance to become something other than the begrudged clergy we would have been forced to be otherwise. The constant badgering, tests, cutthroat manipulations. Attempts to see if any of us were worth becoming something lowly enough to not be a stain on the diplomatic (read: militant) arm of the Altmeri government, but still a cog useful in other ways than bent in prayer we didn't believe or teaching young we never wanted. To prove ourselves pure enough of Altmer blood in a society that prided itself on superior selective breeding. And those that couldn't, that refused to stay hidden away like an illegitimate disease? Well…let's just say I hate politicians. Almost as much as slavers. The only halfway decent politician I've met was Jarl Idgrod, and even then, she could unnerve me. Good of her people at heart notwithstanding, some of her machinations set my teeth on edge.

In a way, Harlan, One-Eye, and all the other Coterie cronies are underworld politicians in their own right. For all her unsavoriness, the dwarven boss of the espionage cell is excellent at her job. She's well practiced at shifting pawns to further her own gain, which until now, I believed aligned with Harlan's. Profit. Money is a wonderful motivator. Too good of one, apparently, as One-Eye dabbles in pies she has no business shoving her fingers in. Slave trafficking is done for a paltry handful of reasons, and I think I can safely guess which one is her incentive.

Using Bran's exit to my advantage, I slink through the front door to the brothel before it can slide shut. I'm cloaked in invisibility courtesy of one of my potions I managed to concoct. It's one I've tested to be rather long-lasting, but I'm equipped with spares should the need arise or this take longer than it ought to. The Blooming Rose is jointly owned, Harlan being one of the owners alongside the Madam, but what barely anyone knows is that there are offices for Coterie higher-ups located within the building. It's never stated by anyone, but it doesn't take much to figure it out—the Rose is, after all, where freelancers are sent for their payments, always met by the cell leader, and the brothel's larger chambers are where the rare meetings of import are held. Besides, wealth is the main reason why anyone works their way up in the Coterie—why would the leaders of such an organization be content to wallow in the filth of the slums with the common grunts? No, Hightown and its high-class luxuries are more their style.

However, I don't know where in the building the office is that I am looking for. I do not frequent this place for any reason—I am not a freelance. I am indebted to the Coterie, not the other way around. So I wait in an alcove near to the entrance, watching for Dand's mercenaries to make their appearance.

The ruse is quite simple really. I need proof against One-Eye. At minimum, evidence that she deals in the slave trade. At most, I need solid facts about the rumors of her sabotaging not only her men, but members of other cells. If I'm honest, the first bit will be more than enough to get most of the Coterie on our side—we deal in a lot of things, but slaves are definitely not one—but I'd prefer to have more than enough to send the mob barreling down on her. Literally. Giving the ordinary Coterie workers (people who far outstrip the leaders in numbers) proof that she's deliberately killed and set-up their comrades? It's the final knot to bring the noose around her neck, and one I'll pocket gleefully.

Except I don't know where the woman's office is, exactly. Melana, the elven battlemage and apparently Dand's second, does know from the times they've had to collect payment from the woman. But Dand is hidden successfully away in a cave on the Coast, and to everyone here, he and I are three days missing. One thing I don't think One-Eye accounted for was that Bloodlight (the gaudy name of the collective band of mercenaries) would be wondering on the whereabouts of their boss.

The plan is for Melana and the others to distract One-Eye under the auspices of asking after Dand long enough for me to slip invisibly into her office, get the information, and get out. A simple thing in concept, difficult in practice. I know the dwarf won't make things easy for any of us. She's too suspicious for that, jumping at shadows, her guilt all but to her mind painting targets on her back. It makes it worse, in a manner. She knows that what she's doing is wrong, but she does it anyway.

I don't have to wait long. Fifteen minutes pass before I fuzzily see the mercenary dwarf, Tegna's, fiery red hair stomping through the door. Melana's face is drawn into an annoyed scowl, I think, as she huffs to keep up with the hyperactive rogue, and Dot follows behind with a level of exasperation, appearing all the part of a befuddled babysitter. They look quite out of place draped in armors and strapped with weapons. It's comical in a way.

Pushing off the wall to follow them, I slink soundlessly past the various people scattered about the brothel until we reach a backroom that is deserted. From there, I listen to Melana shove aside a bookcase to reveal a small hallway. I have to raise a brow at that—it's cliché, but the clichés, I concede, work for a reason. It winds and twists until it opens up to another larger and more lavish hall. This must be where the offices are, I muse.

The battlemage stalks right up to one of the doors a little ways down, and I can almost envision her with her chin held high, scowl fixed in place, the antithesis to everything Thedosian society views elves to be. I hear her knock loudly on the door as I shift to the side opposite where it will open, careful to position myself to be able to slip inside as soon as it does without alerting anyone.

She has to knock again before cursing spews from inside, preceding thundering footsteps that almost yank the door off its hinges. What is revealed is surely a sight. I'm in too awkward a position to try and see, but I know the face One-Eye must be pulling right now, and it is surely amusing. The woman has short, mousy hair that is coiled into wild curls atop her head. A bold eye patch rests over her right eye where she claims it was clawed out a decade ago by a by an angry Rivaini pirate for stealing the woman's mark…or something. I've always suspected that she's lying through her teeth about it—the whole story is a stretch of the imagination—however I've never been able to prove it. One-Eye is one of the few people I've come across who can lie without a physical response. When I claim she is heartless, I mean it earnestly.

"Where is the captain?" Melana asks, crisply getting right to the point with absolutely no preamble. She's a model of efficiency, that one, in every sense of the word. Very Nevarran.

One-Eye shifts with a scoff, "Hold on, hold on. Slow down there, love. Where is who?"

The elf growls, "Our captain. Where is he?" I can almost hear One-Eye's eyes…well, eye narrowing dangerously from here.

"Your momma never teach you that demanding is rude, girl? Anyway… You're talking about the mercenary, right? No idea. If he's up and run off, that's on his time, not mine. It ain't my responsibility to babysit my employees." I'm still as stone, judging distances, sorting locations, listening to how the smallest sounds are shifted and funneled as they have to move around the individuals gathered in this space.

Melana surges forward and slams her fist into the doorframe. I narrowly avoid brushing against her as her movements force the dwarf to take a half step back. "Dammit! You know damn well why we are here! He has been missing three days! He left us to work a job you gave him!" I grit my teeth. Melana, Tegna, and Dot are supposed to draw One-Eye out of the office, yes, but I first need enough space to actually enter the room before the dwarf steps out and closes the door after her. Trying to open the door again with no one noticing would be near impossible.

But Melana doesn't know that. All they were told was to draw One-Eye out of the office. They don't know how I'm going to get myself in there while they distract One-Eye. I had to fight to get them to agree to do this blind, excuse the pun. I may not like trust, but when it's put in me, it's not something I take lightly. Failure is not an option.

I hold my breath as the bickering continues, raising in volume. Listening. A few seconds that feel like an eternity later, and I hear it. A small step in the right direction, a change in the air. Barely enough, but I take the opportunity anyway. I'm in the room a moment later, off to the side where no one runs the risk of running into me.

"Look, we just want to know where he is and we'll leave you alone," Dot tries to reassure, playing the ally. I'm unsure if it works until I hear One-Eye sigh quietly, under her breath as if ashamed of her exasperation.

A few footsteps echo in the right direction. "Fine."

"Walk and talk?" Tegna chimes in, voice trying to sound upbeat and disarming. It works. Sort of. "We have another job lined up in Cumberland. We would have left yesterday, but we've been waiting on the Captain." The other dwarf grumbles but apparently agrees. More footsteps and the door creaks shut. I'm left standing invisibly of to the side of the now empty room, dumbfounded a little because I wasn't expecting that to work as well as it did. Getting One-Eye out of her office was supposed to be the difficult part.

Time is of the essence, however, so I quickly set to work. I find the desk easy enough and to my unending gratitude to whatever powers that be, it's scattered with papers. Peeling a glove off to help me search, I begin shuffling through them as quick as I can. Speed reading isn't as easy when you're several years out of practice and only shakily familiar with the script used.

"Shipping manifest—coded, of course. Bank statements…damn, that's quite a number. Uhh, looks like someone…er…enjoys the brothel. Could have gone without knowing that, but moving on," I grumble to myself, brow becoming increasingly furrowed. "If I were the secret, incriminating documents of a traitorous cunt, where would I be? Not on the desk, moron. Too obvious. Okay. Let's see…"

Scanning the room, I spot an innocuous-looking basket decorating an end table in the corner by a quaint little fainting couch. It's decent sized, round, and there are fake flowers pointing this way and that. If One-Eye was the type for colorful flora, I wouldn't think anything of it. But she's not, and Crystal Grace doesn't really scream "psychopathic maniac", anyway. I huff a laugh of disbelief. This is too easy.

Cautiously, I shuffle over and examine the basket without touching it. Deciding to take a bit of a chance, I flair my magic the tiniest fraction to search for any enchantments or magical traps that may attempt to jump out at me. But I find nothing. It makes me even more suspicious.

"What're you playing at?" It's got to be something mechanical. There's no way this isn't trapped. Or a decoy. I duck down to look under the table, and peculiarly, the bottom is far lower than it ought to be. A hidden compartment, then?

I have to move the basket. Gingerly, I place both hands to the sides and lift the flower-laden wicker slowly with my fingertips. Nothing happens. The breath I hadn't realized I was holding onto for dear life escapes me in a rush. Not out of the proverbial woods yet, but it's a step in the right direction.

Setting it to the side and making sure it's at the same orientation, I peer at the space left behind. The basket was meant to cover the faint seam left from where a wood panel is hiding what I assume to be a secret compartment. How very spy-like of One-Eye, I think, but at least she didn't put a safe behind a painting. I probably would have blown my cover to throttle her if she'd been that cliché.

I ponder the table. Push down and slide or try to lift? I volley back and forth for a few beats before ultimately deciding to try the push and slide method.

Big mistake because this is where the trap comes in.

I feel a mechanism click once the panel is depressed about a half inch, but I'd been expecting that. What I wasn't expecting was for it to freeze up and a pair of knives stuck just under the ledge on both sides to come springing out and nearly sever my hand.

"Fuck!" I hiss under my breath. My wrist does get nicked pretty well. It draws blood, enough to drip into the panel. I realize what it is a fraction of a second too late, when the runic decorations etched as a border on the table suddenly start glowing. There's a rush of…the best way I can describe it is antimagic. Templar abilities, similar to the concept behind a phylactery.

The "trap" isn't necessarily to keep people out, it's to keep people from getting away. It's a way to track whoever attempts to steal the documents within the compartment.

Sneaky. I'd approve if it didn't completely take most of my hopes and dash them through a funeral pyre.

Making a split-second decision, I charge my hand with magicka for the express purpose of applying enough force to shatter the stuck panel. I'll be damned if I don't leave with what I came for. Reaching in and snatching up the thick portfolio within, I move the basket back over the gap and quickly make my escape from the office. The markings are still glowing despite my panel-shattering move causing a crack to splinter through the entire table, but I'm hoping that One-Eye won't notice anything amiss until after the others leave her company. Her being able to track me now is bad enough—I don't need her connecting the dots between Melana, Dot, and Tegna drawing her away from her office and returning only to find the leftovers of a timely theft.

I don't pass One-Eye out the others on my way out of the brothel, but I'm not too concerned. I've done the first part of my task. Now all that's left is actually reading through what I've taken, hoping it's what I think it is, and then compilation into something I can disseminate, something that will inflame. And as much as it pains me, I have just the person in mind for that last step…


While I hate the Blooming Rose, I have far less reservations about the Hanged Man.

It probably has to do with inns and taverns being something I have more than a passing familiarity with, courtesy of all those years running around with Jogrunn. Being a companion to a Dragonborn on a world-saving mission will do that, apparently. While jaunting our merry way across Skyrim attempting to stop Alduin (yet somehow managing to get drawn into everything but stopping the World-Eater), I don't think either myself or the Nord had any real concept of home in mind. I know I never have, even when I was a child. Being an orphan makes home an obscure thing, and I'm sure being kicked out of the Temple I was raised in at fifteen really didn't do that any favors. Undilar, the priest who was my caretaker from the second I arrived in Kvatch, gave me more stability than I could have hoped for otherwise, but even he couldn't make that cavernous chapel all that heartwarming despite his best attempts.

After Alduin was gone, it hadn't felt like I'd been able to get more than three breaths in before Jarl Idgrod began reminding me of why she'd encouraged me to remain with Jogrunn in the first place. I had been hunting too close to an Imperial patrol near Cheydinhal and gotten captured with the Stormcloak contingent—same boat as Jogrunn, actually. We'd stuck together after the disaster at Helgen, me because I didn't know anyone in Skyrim and surviving in the frigid environment when I'd never had to before would be next to impossible, and him because I'd attached to him like veritable glue and he couldn't be rid of me.

Once he found out about being Dragonborn, he'd asked me to stay with him to help, and I agreed at first out of sympathy. He really had no one, so I'd stay at least until he could find another person to travel with him. When we reached Morthal, I had every intention of remaining in the tiny little town, hitching a ride on a caravan south back to Cyrodiil, and moving on with my life like all that dragon business never happened. But when we'd spoken to Jarl Idgrod, she'd given me this look. I couldn't explain it—still can't, actually—but it had been utterly piercing. She'd known something, clearly, that I didn't. We stayed in Morthal for only two days, but in that span of time she had managed to not only twist my decision about staying with Jogrunn around on its head, but she also managed to do so all while making me believe it was my idea in the first place.

Her reasoning was that something was coming, something I'd be needed for. I didn't understand it at the time, but the time for understanding came much, much later. On the Throat of the World, Jogrunn standing with an Elder Scroll in his hands, finally looking all the part of the hero he'd been reluctant to accept he was. I was proud, then, to call that man friend. I still am. Wherever he is.

So, walking (well, sneaking) into the Hanged Man hits me with a wall of nostalgia the second I cross the threshold. The place is a dive, but I expected nothing less from Lowtown. People don't come to taverns like the Hanged Man for a good drink and the company—they come to forget. What they're forgetting differs, but that is the thing they share. An escape, a way out, even if it's only for a little while. Taverns like this feel almost removed from the outside world—time seems to flow differently. I slink through the crowd that is almost too easy to hide in, frowning when I pass a woman muttering to herself as she slouches over her drink. I hear something about a failure, and I have to wonder just how tenuous the line of purpose really is that separates me from the people in this room hiding behind their tankards and idle chatter.

I only know how to find the room I'm looking before because I've spent several years deliberately trying to avoid it, and the irony is not lost on me. I want nothing to do with anyone associated with Garrett Hawke, save maybe Merrill. He is…not a good man, by any accounts I've heard. He made my skin crawl from a distance the day he came to Sundermount, and none of the stories floating about have done a thing to assuage my misgivings. However, in this instance, I don't have another option to get the information out in a manner that will achieve my purposes. I am not a writer. Varric Tethras, however, is—and he's a damned good one.

I sigh when I reach the darkened room and slip inside. The dwarf in question is snoring loudly on his bed in the corner of the open floorplan, and I perch on his grandiose table to wait for him to wake. If I've timed this correctly (which I know I have), then I shouldn't have to wait long. It's an hour past dawn, so he should be stirring any minute now.

Enviously, I eye the hazed image of Tethras' slumbering form when I press my fingertips to the table. I've been darting across Kirkwall like a crazy woman since yesterday evening when I swiped the documents, just in case destroying the table didn't disrupt the tracking imbued within the wood. I haven't been able to sit still very long for fear that One-Eye has people trying to find me, so I predictably haven't slept either. Or eaten much. A few nibbles here and there when I've been able to manage, but nothing beyond that. So the author sleeping not five feet in front of me only makes my own fatigue more apparent.

The tracking is another reason why I'm here, in a way. If not for that, I'd have just gone to Merrill with this, had her hand the documents and instructions off to Tethras since she knows him. He'd be more likely to do it even if it's for a third party if it came from her since there's already the established relationship. I don't like showing my mask to more people than I have to, but I won't risk getting Merrill more involved in Coterie politics than she already indirectly is. Especially since I have my suspicions Tethras has his own ties to the Coterie. And as much as I do genuinely like the girl…she doesn't watch her words as carefully as she should, shall we say?

My waiting game doesn't really last all that long, but it seems to drag on due to my own fatigue. Eventually, though, the dwarf begins to stir. To his credit, it only takes him a fraction of a second after becoming cognizant to realize there's someone in the room with him who shouldn't be there. His hand reaches for the spot next to his bed where his crossbow should be quick as lightning. I'm honestly impressed at his reaction time, but I'm better.

"Looking for this?" His head whips towards me when I speak softly, reaching down to where I've got his weapon propped instead next to where my leg is dangling off the edge of the table to tap at the mechanisms.

I'm not a fool to think he's still unarmed, but I can see on his face that his weapon being moved has taken him off guard. "I didn't know I should have been expecting guests for breakfast." My eyebrow rises. Those are his first words? Seriously?

"Don't worry, Tethras (yes, I know who you are), I'm not here for eggs and tea. I'm also not here for nefarious purposes, I promise—well, not nefarious towards you,anyway."

He eyes me as he shifts his position on the bed. It's less of an attack move and more of one that will allow him to run if he should wish. "Right. And you took Bianca because her charms are impossible to resist?"

I'm confused for a moment. Bianca? Blinking, I follow his gaze to his…crossbow?

Shrugging, I fluidly cover for my lapse of confusion. Who names a crossbow Bianca? "I only took your weapon to ensure that you'd let me say more than three words without attacking me."

"A bit presumptuous, there?"

"It's worked so far," I snort. "Listen, I'm going to make this quick. I don't have a lot of time, and I don't want to waste yours. I need to hire you to compile some information for me."

Varric sits a little straighter, and I can tell in the cadence of his voice that he's interested despite his words sounding nonchalant. "That's kinda vague. And most people go through my editor to when they want me to do a commission, not eerily creep into my room early in the morning to ambush me. They also tell me their name."

"I'm not most people," I say without missing a beat, sliding off of the table slowly and carefully picking the stolen portfolio up from where I'd set it next to me. I know he sees my daggers, but I take extra care not to move like I'm reaching for them as I creep forward to hand him the documents. "Name your price and I'll do what I can—I'll even pay extra for you not to breathe a word of this to anyone." As predicted, at the mention of a hefty sum of payment, most inhibitions on his face drain clear away. I sneer under the mask. Typical. People are so predictable. Greedy, corrupt, sons of—

"Maker's balls, tell me this is what I think it is," Varric breathes, shaking me out of my lamentations. He's thumbing through the pages, awe creeping more and more onto his face with each line. "How did you… You got proof of…!" He must know who One-Eye is, then, I think wryly.

"It is, and I did with some consequences, now if you'd please keep your voice down, Serah." Varric's eyes snap to me. I can tell he wants to ask about those consequences, but I shake my head to dissuade the notion. "I need this compiled. I think you know what I mean when I say that."

It's the dwarf's turn to have his eyebrows creep up to his hairline. "You're either the bravest son of a nug I've ever come across, or you're the stupidest."

"I prefer the former, if you ask me." I cross my arms with a barked laugh.

Varric's head shakes, though, breathing out a sigh that is equal parts disbelief and consideration. "How many do you need and how quickly? I'm assuming you're talking something like a pamphlet?"

"Yes, that's what I had in mind," I muse. "I need as many as you can, as quickly as you can get them. I will pay you what I can, but I'm on a bit of a time crunch at the moment."

He gives me a funny look, "What're you—?"

"Covering my ass. Something I need to get right back to, so the quicker we can wrap up this little transaction, the better."

"Alright, alright," he placates quickly. "Don't get your knickers in a twist, there, Fireball. I can do it."

"How long?"

Sighing, Varric runs a stubby hand through his tangled hair. The hair on his head, though he probably could have done it to the hair covering his chest, as well. "A week and a half? Two? I'm going to need to go through a printer if you want that many copies. That's going to take time. And coin if you want this kept quiet."

"That's fine. So long as it can be kept under wraps long enough for me to get this where I need it." I cautiously reach to unhook a pouch from my belt, handing it carefully to the dwarf. He takes it with some hesitation, but upon hearing the clink of coins from within, he lightens some. I can agree—booby-trapping a coinpurse would really be a low thing to do. "Consider this a down payment. It's all I have on me at the moment, but once you've got my commission, then we can work out a number for the remainder. Deal?"

For a tense moment, Varric looks between the coinpurse, my outstretched hand, my mask, and the papers still on his lap. He must make up his mind eventually because his hand grips my own without too much preamble. I let out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding, only to take up another one. I'm going to have to trust him not to break business-client confidentiality, but my hands are tied for anything else. It's nerve wracking.

"Deal," he says, and I feel his eyes on my back as I turn to leave. Just before I'm slipping out the door, I hear his voice again. "You never told me your name."

"Why? Is that a necessary part of a business arrangement?"

He shrugs. "It's a courtesy, Fireball. Unless you want me to put you down as Fireball in my ledger." I purse my lips, chagrinned not because he suggested it, but because I'm actually considering it.

"…Adahla," I decide after a second. "But put me in your ledger as Fireball, I suppose."

He asks, confused, "Then why tell me your name?"

"Alias," I correct with a shrug. Before I completely leave the room, I throw over my shoulder. "It's a courtesy, right?"

I don't hear his response before I'm on the streets walking back to Darktown to find some dank pit to hide in for the next while. Maybe Dand was right about me having to get the last word in, I think with a frown.

A few seconds consideration, and I shake my head in denial of such a preposterous accusation, resuming my perilous game of hide and seek with a slight measure more of confidence in my step than when I'd started out.


Final Words: So. One more chapter, and then we're out of the pre-Inquisition stuff. I honestly didn't intend for it to be five chapters until then, but I work with what my brain gives me.

R&R!

~Grover