Disclaimer - I do not own Dragon Age or any of its characters. All belongs to Bioware.

Reekit. Reekit Reekit. The frogs that found their home around the pools of the oasis called through the warm, quiet night searching relentlessly for a mate. The noise echoed off the massive caverns of rock that surrounded the desert's gift, like sentinels set to watch over a precious treasure. The oasis was just that—a gem surrounded by loads and loads of sand as far as the eye can see, a blanket of buttery white in every direction. The springs that flowed from the mountains offered a rare source of life amongst the harsh landscape, and all creatures, both beast and man, were called to it. Native wildlife did not concern him, however. No, it was the Venatori and their pet mages that he listened for. Perched at the edge of camp, the horseshoe shaped ring of tents was behind him, tucked against and underneath one of the walls of sandstone. Here, he could keep an ear out for the enemy while his companions went about their nightly routines.

He had traveled with them all long enough to learn their behaviors, just like any agent would and should—some habits he was certain he would never break. He did not need to glance over his shoulder to see Dorian devouring the pages of some dog-eared, aged book, or to witness Cassandra honing the edge of her blade with a whetstone. Those two were predictable, beholden to their rituals and set in their ways. But, the Inquisitor? Well, the only thing that their leader did consistently was find trouble. There was almost zero noise coming from her tent, but he knew that meant nothing. The dynamo rarely rested, and her mind was always churning, poring over some problem presented by the Venatori or attempting to master some worrisome skill. Adaar was an impossible perfectionist, and he knew that passion drove her; he only hoped it wouldn't consume her.

Footsteps approached from behind, and he turned his head to find that he had somehow summoned the object of his thoughts. Really, the credit was probably more hers, as she looked dead set on doing something. What concerned him was that it seemed her destination was outside of the camp, and he couldn't help but be protective, "Leaving?"

She stopped, eyeing him, deciding if he was going to be an obstacle. "Yes...I am in need of a bath, and the falls here will do wonders."

That didn't sit very well with him, considering there were probably still enemies around—enough that they should be cautious. "You shouldn't go off alone though, Boss. It's beautiful here, and deceptively deadly, with the wildlife and the Venatori…"

A twitch, whenever the Inquisitor was up to something, the corner of her mouth wiggled in an amusing way, "You're right...going alone is a bad idea. Luckily, there's a strong, capable warrior around…"

Preening, he straightened his shoulders as a response was ready to spring from his lips, when she spun and called out, "Cassandra?"

Deflated and swallowing his words, he saw the woman's head appear from between the tent flaps, "Yes, Inquisitor?"

"Care to join me? I was on my way to clean up, and there is safety in numbers."

The two of them left for the pools, but not before Herah threw him an emphatic wink over her shoulder. That female and her damnable charm were going to be the death of him. A master of flirting and fighting, it had been both his charisma and physical prowess that had earned him a place within the ranks of the Ben-Hassrath. He preferred fights where he could simply swing an axe, but he also understood that not all battles were won that way, that sometimes one's tongue was the better weapon, and he excelled in all aspects with both. He'd been in enough different scenarios to appreciate that each mission required its own unique combination of boast and brawn. Barmaids, castle guards, women and men alike of all races...he had used his charms in whatever capacity necessary to befriend or seduce them, and it had earned him whatever he desired without guilt.

And now, it seemed he may have met his match. There was something more to this, and his conscience refused to let him forget it, which was new and disturbing. The Inquisition looked to destroy world-ending evil, so maybe that was the large part of it; the quest they were on together was vital, and it seemed trivial to come on to a woman who was fated with such a formidable task. The rest, he reluctantly admitted, had to do with who Adaar was herself. When he had first heard about the Inquisition's formation, he had immediately discounted the description of its Herald. There was no way anything even remotely Chantry-related would allow a Vashoth at its helm. But, the day she found him on the Storm Coast, he had nearly swallowed his tongue in disbelief and amusement. The Inquisitor was a breathtaking, horned beauty, and, he quickly found out, a fiercely-loyal, incredibly smart mage. Only the latter revelation had given him any reservations, and soon enough, the flirting began, almost as naturally as breathing or lying.

It was complicated, and made more so by her unfortunate inability to knock. Her embarrassing bumrush of his quarters that night had been equally amusing and exhilarating—the blush that had come over her fog-tinted skin, and her eyes, there was no doubt she was shocked by what she saw, but also intrigued. She had stayed still, not running or turning away, eyes locked forward, and he had met her gaze. He had no shame; after all, she had barged into his space, and if she wanted a show, he would more than happily perform. He had almost found his voice to invite her to join them, when she had finally fled.

Ever since, their mutual game of enticement had risen to a whole new level of competition, and he realized that the idea of getting clean had more appeal than ever before. After all, he did not need an invitation to use the falls, and her masterful tease had not included a warning to stay away. He stood to leave, and the sound must have caught the attention of the remaining party member, because the meddlesome mage finally spoke, "Interested in a bath rather suddenly, aren't we?"

"What's it to you, Vint? Are you in charge of keeping track of the group's grooming habits?"

Dorian stroked his goatee, a smug little smirk on his lips. "Not at all. But, it would do wonders for my nose. Nothing smells worse than ripe Qunari."

The man came towards him, gesturing toward the pool. "Come on. You'll look less obvious to her if we both go."

He tried nonchalant ignorance, "What are you talking about?"

All he received in response was the Altus' laughter, as the pesky ass started walking away from camp. He followed, moving quietly through the heavy night air, careful to watch his footing, until feminine voices met his ears. The cavern walls opened, and moonlight bathed the entire pool in an iridescent light that made the water shimmer like liquid diamond. He dared to look, to find the source of her voice, the one he knew belonged to the vexing female that seemingly plagued him.

Armor gone, all she wore was the seafoam green, cotton undershirt that usually hid underneath the layers of protective leather. The fabric clung in its soaked state against her bare thighs, and his eyes dared to climb higher, following the outline of her form. Her hair, normally trapped within a knot, was loose and free, flowing down her neck while barely brushing her shoulders, and it took all of his training, every minute spent under the thumb of a Besrathari, to keep his instincts under control. A deep breath, he focused on the removal of his armor, the pieces shed and set carefully amongst a rockpile that held everyone's belongings. Dorian did the same, and soon enough, the ladies' conversation halted. Adaar turned her gaze towards them, "Joining us, boys?"

He was grateful that the Vint responded, "Hygiene is a virtue, Inquisitor. How often are we blessed with such accommodating landscape?"

Cassandra chimed in, "Very rarely. Lucky for you, that neither the Inquisitor nor myself are particularly shy women."

They all laughed together, the harmony echoing off the cavern walls, as each of them set about their ministrations without further comment. He was well aware that he was in the company of former soldiers and mercenaries, even if they were female, and so showering in mixed company was probably nothing new for them. Still, he kept his samite pants on, wading into the pool, the temperature cool but not unpleasantly so. He moved cautiously toward the falls, stepping under the water, the brisk flow crashing into his scalp and down his shoulders. He lifted his hands, cupping the water and scrubbing the grime from his neck and chest. He lost himself in the luxury of running water, when it occurred to him that he was lacking one necessary item. "Dorian...is there any soap? I know you have to have some."

"There was," he responded from his side of the pool, sounding way too glib, "But, I just gave it to our fearless leader."

His responsive curse came out louder than planned, and he barely caught her snicker over it. He strolled over to her, "Mind sharing that soap, boss?"

Eyes wide and hungry, he smirked as he recognized the look of appreciation that passed over her face as she turned to hand him the requested item. He knew she had gotten a pretty decent look at his body the night she stumbled unto his romp, but wet clothes could also work in his favor, since there were some things that she definitely had not seen before. She managed to respond, "Here you go."

"Thanks."

She dropped the soap in his hand, careful to avoid contact. But, he made no moves to leave her space, and finally she asked, "Is there something else?"

He shrugged as he looked around, pretending to be intrigued by everything other than her half-naked body. "Just admiring the beautiful view."

She snorted, "Really? You appreciate the local flora and fauna?"

"Sure. But are you from around these parts?"

A chuckle, "No. I think that cacti may be the only indigenous residents."

That earned a smirk out of him. "So, where, then?"

She hesitated, as his further question seemed to catch her off guard, but she responded, "The Free Marches...near Wycome, to be specific."

"Ah…" he muttered, half his suspicion confirmed. He had gotten the city wrong, but he had nailed the country, if you could call the Marches that. Before he could say any more, she was moving, walking carefully along the edge of the pool toward the nearby stones where their belongings awaited. She seemed unwilling to share any further, and he wouldn't pry unnecessarily. He let the conversation drop, focusing back on his grooming and the soap that he had finally procured, while keeping an eye on the hem of a certain cotton shirt.

She reached into a bag, pulling out a hair comb, and he looked on, intrigued, as she gently began to work loose the knots in her damp hair. Then, she parted it, methodically sectioning the portions as she pulled them back toward her crown. She reached for a band, grasping her ponytail and caging it within the restraint. Her deft fingers moved quickly, working the strands into the signature coil that he instantly recognized. He spoke, impressed, "I just watched you do that...and somehow, I still have no idea how you did it."

A smile, "Well...you have no hair, and being male probably doesn't help."

He laughed, "That is true. But I do rather enjoy yours…so much so that it makes me think I am definitely missing out on something. Did you learn to do that in the Marches?"

"Yes," she responded, and he caught the eyebrow twitch that meant she was about to ask a question—she was always curious. "How do women in Qunadar wear their hair?"

"To be honest, it's been so many years that I scarcely remember. I think most had short hair, shaved even. Few females had anything longer than their ears..."

Even he could be taken unawares, and he paused as the reminiscing stirred feelings of melancholy and sadness. She started, "I'm sorry, Bull. I didn't mean…"

His hands went up, "It's okay, Boss. I'm going to get plenty of reminders of all that I abandoned when I turned my back on the Qun. I need to get used to it."

She took the opportunity to ask, "Any more issues with the Ben-Hassrath?"

"No. They have made their point, albeit weakly. They will do no more."

Her brow creased in worry, "Let's hope that they are satisfied with their pathetic little display."

He chuckled at her, "Not a fan of their methods?"

"No, I find them spineless and unoriginal. I take an attack within the walls of my own fortress rather personally."

"Why? You weren't the target."

"Why not?" she asked, like it was obvious. "Let me put it another way...what if someone went after Krem?"

"They would deal with all of the Chargers, myself included."

"Exactly, and it's the same for you," she offered, "I was with you on the ramparts when the assassins struck, but if it had been Blackwall or Sera or anyone else in my place—any of us would have helped you and we still will. A threat to one is a threat to us all."

"The Ben-Hassrath aren't angry with the Inquisition, and none of you are Qunari," he saw a brief look of discomfort flash across her face before it disappeared, "They are my problem; I am the one who went Tal-Vashoth."

She failed to restrain her contempt, "You act like it's a death sentence."

"It is, under the Qun."

"Then fuck the Qun."

He laughed so hard that he snorted, and she grinned, "Seriously...life without the Qun is possible. I am proof of that."

His eyebrow went up, the cord holding his eyepatch lifting slightly, "You never knew what you were missing, Boss. You were raised differently, with a family, in some backwater city in the Marches."

"Right. I missed out on all the childhood manipulation and oppressive tyranny. I lived such a terribly deprived existence..."

"You know, life in Par Vollen is not as horrible as you make it out to be. The Qun has its merits. Many thrive under its rules."

"And many do not. I can't help but notice which group you fell in with."

Irritated, he argued, "I served my purpose outside of Qunadar, as not all are meant to live within its borders. The Beresaad leave to strike out in search of answers, and the Ben-Hassrath are the eyes and ears of the Qunari throughout Thedas. But even in foreign lands, the Qun is still to be followed, and I did just that, faithfully, until the Coast."

"So, how many years did you serve?"

"Almost twenty-one."

"Twenty years of sweat and blood and toil in Seheron and the Maker only knows where else, and they abandoned you because of one choice on the Storm Coast?"

"I had orders, ones that I chose to ignore, and disobedience is never sanctioned. Asit tal-eb."

"So, the fact that your men were going to die didn't matter?"

"No. I chose the lives of the Chargers over those of the Qunari on that dreadnaught. I chose worthless Bas over Aban-Karasaad, and that is not forgiven. I will live as Tal-Vashoth for that decision."

"For the right decision. Your men, your Chargers mean a lot to you. You've taken every one of them under your wing, and you find pride in what others have discarded and assumed worthless. You expect much from them, but it's no more than you're willing to give of yourself. Life as a Tal-Vashoth seems a small price to pay in exchange for theirs."

"To you, I'm sure it does. But, you've never seen the slaughter that I have in Seheron, and what they have done there, it's…"

He struggled, his throat as dry as the sands surrounding the oasis, and he reached deep, fighting for composure, "You don't understand, and I am not sure that I can explain it well enough. I've killed thousands of Tal-Vashoth and I swore that I would never be one of them. They lie, steal, kill without reason or remorse."

She crossed the water silently, coming back to him, her smokey musk filling his nostrils. "Not all of them. Look at me, Bull."

Her hand, the only weapon that he would allow so close, came up to his cheek, tilting his face to hers. "My parents both lost faith in the Qun and left in search of more. What they found was each other, and happiness outside of its stifling restraints. You can claim that I am ignorant, that I have lost out by not living under the Qun, but you're wrong. I am Tal-Vashoth because I chose to be, and so are you. But, we don't need to be liars, or thieves, or murderers. I don't need the Qun in my life to tell me what's right, and neither do you."

He shook his head, "Savages...that is what we become without the Qun. I've seen it before so many times; why will it be different for me?"

The look of disappointment was clear; she never tried to mask her emotions. Her hand fell away, "So, The Iron Bull, the commander of the well-respected Bull's Chargers, can be so easily led? Do you not control your own hands, your own thoughts? Or are you merely some Ben-Hassrath puppet, that's been cast aside like vashedan."

Anger, not at her, but at the truth of her words and he growled, "I am no one's puppet."

"Good. It would do you well to remember that. I don't need toys, I need capable warriors who are willing to commit to the Inquisition. You are nothing like the Tal-Vashoth you came across in Seheron."

"But I could be…"

"And I could be the Empress of Orlais."

In his mind's eye, he tried to imagine her as royalty, and the absolute silliness of it made him smile. Without thought, his fingers stroked the few loose tendrils of hair that sat near her cheek, "I don't know...I think you'd look amazing in a crown."

"But, you'll never catch me in one of the ridiculous gowns…"

They laughed together, the levity a needed break in the serious conversation. On the subject of being a Tal-Vashoth, he was sure they would never agree, but he would try it for her if nothing else. They finished their baths in silence, returning to camp, as thoughts of what could be with the maddening Inquisitor raced through his mind. Her confidence in him, even if he thought it misplaced, had changed his perspective on so much. Everything before had seemed muddled, uncertain, but now, he knew exactly what he wanted, and what he had to do to get it. When they returned to Skyhold, he would hatch his plan. The poor female had no idea what she had started...but she was going to find out.