Clark Keith Kester was known as Kester to everyone. Even his parents, the fine and upstanding Sers Shelly and Swithin Kester, called him Kester. When their only son asked them why they never used his first name, he was told that his surname suited him best, and being a product of the era when one didn't question one's parents, Kester had considered that the end of the matter.

It had taken Kester the time needed to fry thirty eggs and twenty-four rashers of bacon to impart this much of his story to the party who, sans Sten, now sat in the Spoiled Princess, wondering if their breakfast would ever come.

The primary reason Kester's biography was such a protracted one was not due to an abundance of content, but rather because the man had an ability to segue that verged into the extreme. Amid the constant threat of boredom and the uncomfortable awareness of great periods of time passing unchecked, Zevran couldn't help but marvel at the fellow. Between snippets of the original story, Kester had managed to touch on the topics of Fereldan beaches, weather prediction, and the sanctification of a very popular type of bird– and all with barely a pause for a breath.

And, as if this talent weren't astonishing enough on its own, Kester seemed oblivious to the fact that he was even doing it– or, perhaps, he was aware of his digressions, but had not realised that the extent to which they occurred were unheard of by the current societal standards. Actually, when it came to obliviousness, Zevran couldn't help but notice that Kester was unaware of a great many things. He was so wholly absorbed in whatever he was doing, whether it was cooking breakfast or describing his father's idea of a day off (a curious act in which the senior Kester would work during the night and sleep through the daylight hours), that he failed to notice any event, good or bad, outside of that. It inspired as much envy as it did alarm.

This particular quality of Kester's reached its most obvious when after breakfast Rhodri, who had amid the endless ramblings miraculously managed to get a word in edgewise, asked the gentleman if he knew anything of the whereabouts of the Brother Genitivi.

The mention of the name had inspired some movement amongst the other diners: turning heads and scrunching faces that had registered in Zevran's periphery. He flattered himself that it might have simply been his assassin's skills, honed to a needle-sharp point, that made the sudden indication of imminent danger clear to himself and not to Kester. If only because nobody else had noticed either.

At Rhodri's question, Kester looked up from the glass he had been drying.

"No-o-o, I'm afraid not, Warden," he rumbled. "Not been any Brothers at all out here since… oh, now, let me think… would've been a good ten, twelve years ago now since I saw one, p'rhaps around the time you came along to the Circle, even!"

Kester took Alistair's empty plate and gave the Templar a meaningful look as he elaborated, "Usually, it's the Sisters what they get in the Circle over there, y'see, not the Brothers."

Alistair nodded diplomatically. "Yes, I–"

"Not many Brothers in the Fereldan Chantry to begin with, really. I remember my Mum saying to my Pap from time to time that there should be more of 'em. 'Why leave the spiritual work up to the women, Swith?' she'd ask him."

"Well–"

Kester walked along the bar now, taking the rest of the party's empty plates and stacking them as he talked. "Why, she even started a petition for it! She said she got the names of all four families in Calenhad, and she was the first person to leave the village in… oh, twenty years, at least! Went all the way to Lothering Chantry to deliver the petition– that's the closest Chantry around, you see…"

Zevran, seizing on the hope that the other patrons wouldn't strike until Kester had left to take the plates away, hitched one of his sleeves up and leaned over to Rhodri, gesturing at the exposed part of his wrist as if to show her something there.

He lowered his voice and spoke to her in calm, clear Antivan, tapping his wrist as he did: "Look here. Do not look up. We are being watched."

Rhodri kept her eyes down as directed, replying in gentle Tevene. 'Mm? Who, then?'

"Everyone eating. They looked up when you said… that man's name. They will attack, I think, when Kester goes."

'What do you see? Do they have–' she murmured an unfamiliar word.

"Have what?"

"Weapons," she whispered in Common.

"Ah. I saw one or two had knives when we came in, but the others were against the wall. I presume they do, too."

Rhodri's eyes briefly darted up to his, an impressed note to her tone now, "You noticed all that?"

Zevran chuckled softly. "Always know the room you are walking into– ah, Kester is going. Any moment now."

Kester, who had now gone on to detail plans of a small community-run Chantry in the neighbouring village, took the stack of dirty plates and disappeared with them around a corner, his commentary continuing unimpeded as he went.

With the owner out of sight, chaos ensued. As per usual, really. The mass scraping of chairs, as well as a declaration from Rhodri, alerted the rest of the party to the issue at hand, and the ensuing scuffle was over with disappointing quickness. That was hardly a surprise; these people turned out to be no more than armed villagers, and had no real skills or finesse to any of their hack-and-slash movements. They hadn't stood a chance, really.

The fight at an end, the only remaining noise now– and it was quite a substantial one– was Kester, who continued to loudly narrate over the clatter of plates and pots being washed with the sort of vigour typically reserved for the ducking-stool.

"Hold off with her," Rhodri called to Alistair, who stood over one of the ambushers, his blade ready to advance with a death blow. In view of how still- indeed, how lifelessly she was lying, though, the woman in question appeared to be beyond the point of saving or execution.

Alistair paused and groaned. "Oh, Maker," he griped. "Tell me you're not recruiting another one who tried to off us."

Zevran chuckled hollowly and stepped over to him. "I do not think you'll need to worry about that, my good friend. She is very dead." He bent down and opened the woman's eye indicatively with his thumb. "See? No risk whatsoever."

Rhodri sighed. "Venhedis. I was hoping we could get some information out of her." She looked at Zevran. "You said they looked up as soon as I said the Brother's name, Zev, is that right?"

"It is," he replied. "If I didn't know better, I would say that fellow of yours in Denerim– Weylon, was it? Yes, perhaps he sent you this way on purpose."

The two Wardens shared a baffled look.

"But he was so genuine," Alistair lamented, and this was met with a fervent nod by Rhodri.

"Weylon didn't even want to tell us about Calenhad at first," she added. "He was afraid we'd run into trouble like the Knights did."

Leliana and Zevran shared a look, and Zevran was as sure as he could be without physically entering another person's head that the good Sister had just made the same resolution as him: the Wardens would not go unaccompanied when making interrogations, even if (as had happened in Denerim) they were sure of the quickness and simplicity of the task and had asked the party to wait outside. In the background, Morrigan was dragging the corpses out of the establishment, rolling her eyes at the Wardens' backs every chance she got.

Leliana, who evidently did not consider herself so bound to diplomacy as Zevran, gave a woeful cluck of the tongue and went to her lover.

"You were tricked, cher," she touched Alistair's forearm lightly.

Alistair shook his head at Rhodri, who was doing the same thing back to him.

"Incredible," he said to her. "Can you believe it?"

"Absolutely astonishing, isn't it?" She let out a sigh. "Well, I suppose we'd better go back to Denerim, then, and have a sterner word with this Weylon fellow."

"Good idea," Leliana said firmly. "And I will be coming with you." She shot them both an uncharacteristically stern, narrow-eyed look. "Won't I?"

Another baffled look was shared between the Wardens.

"... Of course you are," Alistair mumbled. "We're all going."

Leliana's eyes glazed over, and she put her face in her hands. "Help me, Zevran," she maffled to him from behind her fingers.

Zevran applied his most winning smile and stepped forward.

"I do believe," he purred, "that what Leliana meant is that you can count on us to assist when you meet with Weylon." He touched a hand to his chest, "I know more than my fair share about deceit from the Crows, and in Orlais, well! Every conversation is a game of spot-the-truth, no? We will be excellent assets in your interrogation."

Rhodri and Alistair accepted the offer appreciatively, and Zevran resisted the urge to buff his nails in a show of victory– barely.

At that moment, Kester walked back in, mid-soliloquy and drying his hands on a towel.

"Anyway," he said, as though he had never left the room, "would you believe that the Chantry threw out Mum's petition?"

The party, clustered in the middle of the room as they were, turned to look at him, and Zevran caught the distinctly unanimous trapped-deer look on each of their faces. He strained every muscle in his body to trap the laugh in.

Kester nodded at this display emphatically. "I know! Now, in the Chantry's defence, it turned out the only thing Mum'd written on that petition was that Chantry robes were well-suited to the male figure. But you'd think they'd have heard her out, at least!"

Silence fell. Leliana and Alistair in particular looked to be stuck in that strange place between deep concern and astonishment– and possibly a little blasphemy, it had to be said. Rhodri cleared her throat after a moment and was halfway through a 'yes, well,' when Kester frowned and glanced around.

"Well, now!" He put his hands on his hips. "Where did those other folk go? They didn't pay for breakfast."

Morrigan spoke up now as she walked through the front door, smirking broadly: "They are gone."

"... Eh? Gone where?"

The two Wardens gulped and spoke over each other as they explained the goings-on of the last few minutes, during which time Kester, for what must have been a record-breaking period, was silent.

"... So," Rhodri said at the end of it all. "My apologies that it happened in here. There's no blood or mess, though, and we can pay for their meals, if you'd like."

Kester waved a hand. "Ah, no need, no need. They were strange folk, you know. They'd been hanging around here for a while, and they said to me that if anyone asked, I haven't seen a Brother Genitivi around." He shook his head. "Dunno why they ordered me to say it like I was lyin' to cover my tracks! I've never seen the man!"

"... You didn't see or hear about any Knights disappearing, either?"

"Only that they had disappeared," Kester shrugged. "Been a lot of people disappearing, though, now that them Darkspawn are out and about. Dreadful business."

From there, Kester seized, or perhaps himself was seized, by the opportunity to splinter off from the topic of Darkspawn-related disappearances and on to his theory that the Darkspawn, primarily motivated by a hunger for riches, had been robbing tax collectors. This, he went on to elaborate, was the primary cause of the months-long economic decline in Ferelden (the warring and nationwide destruction of property and fields were dismissed as mere sequelae). The party's attempts to conclude the segue and excuse themselves went unnoticed as Kester, with taurine levels of persistence, related postulations of a fabulously wealthy Darkspawn overlord with designs on the riches of the Free Marches once Ferelden's coffers had been fully emptied– and then, once sufficient wealth had been acquired, the end target: Orlais.

And then, as easily as he had held them all hostage with his musings, Kester let them go again by means of a satisfied-sounding sigh and a, "Well! I've no wish to be rude, but I'd better get on with the day's work."

Alistair, Leliana, and Morrigan all had expressions of relief that wouldn't have looked out of place at a last-minute gallows acquittal; Rhodri, appearing to have caught their reaction, came a little closer to Kester and spoke quite loudly, as if to ensure that his eyes would go onto her and her only.

"Of course," Rhodri said– nay, trumpeted. "We have a full day ahead of us, too, so we ought to make tracks!"

"Right. Well, keep your money-bags out of sight!" Kester held up a finger warningly. "These Darkspawn, they'll kill you quick as look at you for your coin!"

"Y-yes," she nodded again. "Of course, yes. Thank you again for the hospitality, Mr. Kester. Until next time."

Outside in the chilly morning air, the party heaved a collective sigh.

"I've never seen someone talk that much," Alistair said. "I was half-expecting him to fall over dead in the middle of his story about the holy water-wader. How does a person go that long without air?"

Morrigan shrugged, the corners of her eyes creasing in amusement ever-so-briefly. "Magic, perhaps. 'Tis a dark practice that lets one live on the same breath, but Flemeth always did say it was the quiet, odd ones who gave the most trouble."

She glanced over at Alistair and Leliana, whose faces were rapidly losing colour, and sashayed off in the direction of the camp. Alistair's increasingly voluble requests for clarification went ignored.

Rhodri rolled her eyes and patted Alistair on the shoulder. "He's not a mage," she said soothingly. "Just a nice man who talks a lot. Now, come. We have a little searching to do on the way back to the camp."

"... Searching?"

The searching, as it happened, revolved around a missing sword– namely, the missing sword of Sten, which had been dropped during a skirmish between his long-deceased platoon and a cluster of Darkspawn (also long-deceased). By Rhodri's account, the very disappearance of the weapon, which was akin to losing one's soul in Qunari culture, was the impetus for Sten's panicked, infamous slaughter of an unsuspecting Fereldan family. From the Darkspawn onslaught right to the wholesale murder, the entire incident had unfolded right by Lake Calenhad, and if the sword had been dropped, here was where they'd find it. Sten, of course, was unable to join the search as he was immediately recognisable to the surviving tight-knit community who had witnessed or uncovered the ghastly deed.

"What does a Qunari sword even look like?" mumbled Alistair as they scoured the grass around the water's edge.

Zevran chuckled. "Well, it would be quite a size, I imagine," he offered.

Rhodri snorted; Alistair rolled his eyes.

"Well, I didn't think it'd be the size of your little cheese knives," the Templar pointed at Zevran's hip-dagger. "His sword is probably as big as you are!" Alistair let out a long sigh. "You'd think that'd make it a bit easier to see, wouldn't you?"

"Ah, but I am very beautiful," Zevran touched a hand to his chest. "That makes me very easy to find, even in a packed crowd. A sword, well. Perhaps it might have a little more difficulty."

There was no argument from Alistair– no agreement, either, but the lack of disagreement was akin to a definitive 'yes' when he was addressing Zevran. Leliana smiled and hummed in the affirmative, and that was always nice to hear. A beautiful man– a beautiful elven man, no less, whose looks were a crucial ingredient to his success as a Crow– felt the benefit of assurances that his attractiveness, a finite thing as it was, had not yet run out.

Naturally, reflexes obliged Zevran to scan the other Warden for her take on his presentation. After all, she, more than anyone else in the party, was the one keeping him alive, and her opinion counted the most. There was nothing subjective or foolish or compliment-hungry about it; if she thought little of his looks, it behoved him to do whatever he could to fix that.

Said Warden, however, had not appeared to notice any of the remarks at all. She was scanning a patch of earth over by a wall of eroded hillside, where the trees and dirt, the very flesh and veins of the earth, were bared to her. Good looks– in living things and inanimate objects both– went unnoticed and unacknowledged, as though irrelevant to the matter at hand.

When good looks had ever been irrelevant was a mystery to Zevran. A lovely face and a desirable body gave one the means to come out on top in just about any situation. Even Morrigan, who had openly admitted to having scarcely left her solitude in the Wilds, knew that that was the case, and shamelessly used her looks to her advantage. As she ought to. And had Zevran been human, he was sure that his own success would have been limitless.

But Rhodri hadn't said, or even indicated, a single thing. Whether it was born of a desire to conceal her opinion, or it was simple inattention, or indifference, that was harder to say. Zevran noted the lacking reaction for now, and assuaged the tiny ache in the pit of his stomach with the decision to probe further at a later time. For now, there was a sword– undoubtedly less pretty than him– to recover.

After a fruitless period of scratching around the shores of Lake Calenhad, the party retreated further uphill in the direction of the camp. Uphill, in this case, referred to a decidedly steep incline, which sat close to the far gentler one that they had taken on the way down. Zevran watched it wistfully while he and the others hoofed their way up to the summit, checking for the sword as they went. Had he only known they would take both paths when they were hurrying downhill for breakfast.

A little past the top, the road trifurcated. Taking the left path led to the crumbling remains of the bridge connecting the mainland with Kinloch Hold; off to the right was the Imperial Highway to Lothering, the way Kester's mother had no doubt gone with her lecherous petition in her hot little hands. And, of course, if one followed the middle road long enough, one would reach the forest and, eventually, the party camp.

A stone's throw from the junction, a human and a pile of bones occupied the groundspace. The man was a scruffy, unshaven fellow with a shock of ginger hair that, despite being quite long and completely straight, stood up in a puff and lended a distinctly frightened-cat look to him. This image was aided substantially as he watched the party approach with wide, suspicious eyes.

Rhodri raised a hand in casual greeting, either oblivious to the bones or too polite to say anything (Zevran suspected and hoped dearly that it was the latter).

"Good morning, Ser," she smiled. "Are you well?"

The pleasant salutation was received with a warning, "AHT-AHT!" from the man, who sprang to his feet and waved a finger at them.

"Back off!" he shrieked. "I was here first! Go and find your own spot!"

Rhodri's smile strained like she was struggling to contain an astonished laugh. She cleared her throat.

"My good ser," she said slowly, "my party and I have no intention of taking anyone's spot. Sometimes a 'good morning' really is just a 'good morning.'"

The fellow, though at ease enough to sit back down, harrumphed as he did.

"A good morning for you, maybe," he sulked into his knees. "Bloody Faryn. I bought this spot off him fair and square, I did."

"Oh," Rhodri tucked her hands behind her back. "Did this Faryn not tell you that it was a gravesite? I must admit, there are better places to build a house."

The fellow waved a hand, "Nah-h-h, not for buildin'. He wasn't a freeholder or nothing, just the feller who was here before me. It's looting rights he sold me, y'see."

From behind Zevran, Alistair let out an unimpressed hum that made the man look up sharply. He heaved a sigh.

"Don't say it," he groaned. "I know I got cheated. I'd bought it sight unseen, but you should've heard how he sold it to me! Said there'd been giants here, and all sorts of crazy valuables dropped." He shrugged. "Well, that might've been true, but he didn't say he'd picked the bloody place clean before he left,did he?"

Rhodri glanced at the bones and frowned. "Giants? I– oh, my. " She wiped a hand over her mouth. "This could be the remains of Sten's platoon. We should take a closer look– excuse me, if you could just–not to worry, I'll–"

The looter issued a string of fruitless complaints as the Warden gently picked him up, set him to one side, and inspected the remains now that there was no longer a Fereldan brooding on them like a deranged hen. Zevran took hold of what he knew to be a femur, and it was a good hand longer than Alistair's would have been, and at least two thumbs thicker. After some minutes of musing between themselves, the party unanimously concluded that these bones were indeed the remains of Sten's platoon.

The scavenger gulped. "There's more of 'em? … Alive?"

"One," Rhodri answered. "He's a member of our party. Tell me, ser, were there any swords in these remains when you found them?"

"Big ones," Alistair added.

The man shook his head. "Nothin'. I told you, everything was gone. That bloke who was here before me, Faryn, he's gone off to Orzammar. You'll probably find him there."

"Orzammar, you say?"

"Yeah. If you see him, tell him Mickey sent you!" The scavenger cackled. "That'll scare the piss out of him!"

Rhodri grimaced a little. "Not literally, I hope."

Mickey squinted. "... No. Well, not that I'd complain if it did, of course…"

"Ah." She rubbed her neck. "Well, we should take these bones to Sten so that he can bury them–"

"They're mine!" he shrieked, throwing his hands over the bones and dragging them to him.

Rhodri folded her arms and surveyed the man with an arched brow. "If they were your bones, they'd be inside your body." She shrugged. "Of course, if you'd rather that Sten came to collect them himself, I'm sure he'd be happy to oblige."

"Sten's about this tall," Alistair hung his fingers a good head over his own, "and about three hands wider than me." He smiled at the man, whose eyes looked like they were about to fall out of his head, "Big feller."

Predictably enough, the scavenger yielded quite readily after that, and the bones were brought back to Sten, along with information about the potential whereabouts of his sword. Both of these were accepted with a nod (a slightly taken aback one, if Zevran wasn't mistaken), and the bones were taken to a nearby field and scattered there. Dead soldiers, Sten explained some time later, should be left where they had fallen, as a tribute to their bravery and service. Zevran didn't have the heart to tell Sten that the next people to farm that patch of land were unlikely to simply allow entire skeletons to lie in the earth uninterrupted. They were where they were supposed to be for now, according to Sten, and that seemed enough for him.

Zevran hadn't expected to ever return to Crestwood. Even when he considered how morbid the thought sounded, it was still perfectly reasonable. He had fully anticipated passing the time left to him, however long or short the Maker decided that would be, without ever setting foot in the place again.

In fact, even though his hope of never revisiting Crestwood had never been an actively considered one, when he saw the gloomy outline of the sodden bastarding place from the Imperial Highway, Zevran acknowledged that said hope had lived within him passively all along.

What must it be like, Zevran wondered, to be a Fereldan. To spend one's whole life in this freezing, primitive place, with its unseasoned foods and perennial mud, never to know that things might be different– better, that is to say— elsewhere. Alistair, who had openly admitted he had never left the country before, looked ahead at the silhouette of Crestwood when Rhodri indicated it, and acknowledged the place with a nod. A nod! As though a waterlogged, moss-infested settlement were the norm, and any place without those qualities was… what? Unlikely to exist? Maker, was the concept of a warm, sunny place nothing but an impossibility to the Fereldan mind?

Zevran couldn't bear to dwell on the thought for too long. At least Leliana showed a little solidarity and winced at the place now and again, but having not seen any other settlements at all since Lake Calenhad, even she declared relief that they were finally approaching a place inhabited by more than bears and a handful of skittish fennecs. Morrigan, Sten, and Shale displayed ambivalence about the town, but kept any details surrounding these opinions strictly to themselves.

It took a little work, but Zevran decided not to worry for Rhodri, who had been nothing but keen since they had left Lake Calenhad. After all, it was established that the market place in Crestwood had a peanut vendor, and no more needed to be said about the Tevinter Warden's deep affinity for the humble finger-food. Sometimes, one very, very pressing reason could outweigh even a lifetime supply of reasonable reservations.

The companions returned to the inn they had stayed in the last time, and after they had spent the first morning replenishing party supplies, they had unanimously decided to spend the remaining two days there as they pleased, meeting back in the tavern of an evening to eat together. Zevran was not sure what he had anticipated doing in Crestwood (the place was suddenly much smaller and more boring once that question came to the fore), but a small but insufferable part of him had hoped that Rhodri would at least be available to share in the boredom.

Said individual, however, vanished into the ether as soon as they had decided to go their own way. The words 'few personal errands' had barely escaped her before Rhodri was out of earshot and lost in the small but busy market square, and the other companions departed shortly after.

In relative aloneness, Zevran made a point of ignoring the empty feeling in his gut– which had everything to do with boredom and nothing to do with a sudden, keen awareness of his aloneness. Not that there was anything wrong with aloneness, of course, or noticing it. If anything, desolation was a desirable thing for a Crow, because it necessarily meant an absence of enemy threat. No, this odd, shrinking sensation in him was definitely a variant of boredom. Who wouldn't be bored in a place like this?

Alberto was the newest addition to the orphanage. Zevran remembered the boy's mother, Alindra, who came to the brothel to work most days, and had lived in another part of the Alienage with Alberto and his father. Alberto, though, he had never met, or even heard about until the boy himself was shoved into their shared bedroom, red-eyed and sniffling.

Alberto sat in the same spot outside, against the eastern wall of the brothel, from morning to night. He did nothing, said nothing, ate little, and withered away accordingly. The other boys had their groups and their games, and the odd, sad little Alberto seemed too far-removed from everything to even notice his own exclusion.

But Zevran was a good boy, who listened well during the Chantry's weekly sermons. An ocean of sorrow drowned no-one, the Revered Mother said, and within the Maker's creation, none were alone. That meant, she said, that everyone– elf and human both– were together, and it meant that everyone had to be good to one another.

And Zevran was a good boy. He walked over to Alberto and sat beside him. The morning sun streamed onto their faces; Alberto didn't stir.

"Why are you sitting out here by yourself?" Zevran asked after a while. "It's boring to just sit."

Alberto hugged his knees to his chest and shook his head, fat tears pouring down his cheeks. At a loss for anything better to do, Zevran copied the boy's posture. It wasn't uncomfortable, but he couldn't see the appeal in sitting here, like this, for all the hours that Alberto did.

"Do you like to sit in the sun all day?"

The boy shook his head again and hulked a sob into his kneecap.

"I want to go home," he whispered, his voice cracking.

"Why don't you? Where do you live?"

"My h-" he coughed out another sob, "h-house burned. And fell down on Mamá and Papá and they died."

That had explained all the smoke and yelling from a few days ago. Ringing shouts to fetch water, screams, and loud prayers that the fire wouldn't spread. Zevran sighed and thought of the mother and father he had never met. They were just as dead as Alberto's parents, but he had never cried about it; he had never needed to.

"Oh," Zevran finally said. "That's very sad." He chewed his lip thoughtfully, "I don't think you'll feel better if you sit out here, though. Playing makes me happy. Maybe you should try that."

Alberto shook his head hard enough to make his ears flop a little. "I can't play. My toys are all burned."

"Oh," Zevran said again. "You can just play games, then. That's fun, too."

"You need toys for that," the boy insisted.

There were no toys in the Alienage. There had been a few wooden figurines once, brought for everyone by one of the prostitutes, but they went missing very quickly, and that was the end of that.

Zevran chewed his cheek for a moment, and then seized by an idea, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of stolen raisins. He held them up.

"These are my toys," he declared. "Turn around and face me and I'll show you how to play."

Alberto frowned. "Those are raisins, not toys."

"I can play games with them," Zevran insisted, "so that makes them toys."

"... Really? It doesn't look fun."

"You have to be a very fast boy to play," he said with a shrug, hoping that Alberto would rise to the bait that all boys fell for and insist on his own speediness. "That's why it's fun."

Alberto's jaw squared. A small cloud of dust rose up around him as he swivelled on his bottom and faced Zevran, his hand out.

"I'm fast," he said, wiping under his eyes with his free hand. "I'm very fast. Let's play."

This tedium wouldn't do. It was self-indulgent, and frankly uncharacteristic! Did Zevran not pride himself on making the best of his lot in life? Of making something out of nothing? He practically had an entire day and night's entertainment right in his lap, and it started right here, at the Crestwood market.

It had to be said that the size and dearth of variety meant it was only a market in the loosest, most charitable sense of the word, but it was a market all the same. And in a stroke of perfect timing, the spoils of late had been better than expected, and Zevran had come to Crestwood with enough coin to make a very cheerful jingle when his money bag wasn't held tightly to his person.

And so, every bit the gentleman of leisure, Zevran prowled the market, keeping his distance as he examined the stalls for anything that could tempt him to part with his riches. He was instinctively drawn to the leather stall in the middle of the marketplace, where he espied a magnificent black nug leather belt with twice the room for poisons compared to the one he possessed. Perfect timing, really, now that his own fraying belt was singing the very last notes of its very last song.

Zevran decided to test the waters for haggling prospects by sauntering past, slowing up a little to indicate his interest in the wares. As he did, the human merchant eyed him disdainfully, making it clear that answers to any enquiries would be hard-won at best. He gave her an innocent look and picked up his pace again, casting his eye around the market for any of the companions who might be cajoled into accompanying him back there later.

When it seemed as though all of them had been scattered to the four winds, he caught Sten sitting on one of the benches (he had the entire seat to himself), eating pink frosted cookies out of a large, colourful bag. Zevran stifled a laugh at the Qunari's serious expression; never had anyone looked so grave while eating such a frivolous food. He opted to wait until Sten had consumed to his heart's content, and when he started to pack the bag away, Zevran strolled over and sat down beside him.

"I had no idea you were fond of cookies, Sten," he remarked through a grin. "Not the sort of food one imagines a powerful warrior like yourself eating."

Sten looked at him, raising an eyebrow. "There was a child," he said after a moment. "A fat, slovenly thing, walking around the square here. I relieved him of these confections. He didn't need more."

Zevran's eyes widened, a compromise between gasping and roaring with laughter. "... You stole cookies from a child?"

"For his own good," Sten answered with a sombre nod, looking entirely convinced that he had saved the youngster from terrible misfortune.

"Most decent of you," Zevran purred. "I wonder, my Qunari friend, if you might be interested in doing another good deed."

The frown remained in place, but Sten spoke. "What do you mean, elf?"

"Well, you see, I have seen something I would be pleased to buy, but the merchant appears none too interested in selling to someone of my race."

"You wish me to intimidate them into selling their wares to you?" he asked plainly.

Maker, are you related to Rhodri?

"You wound me," Zevran touched a hand to his chest. "I was merely going to ask that you accompany me to the stall while I make my enquiries. Surely if the merchant chooses to be frightened of you, that is her own prejudice coming into play."

Sten gave a stiff but acquiescent wave of the hand. Buoyed, Zevran got to his feet immediately and gestured ahead with a flourish. "This way, if you please."

As they walked through the market square, Zevran, in excellent humour, found himself game enough to chance making small talk.

"I understand there are elves in the Qunari lands, Sten."

"There are elves everywhere," Sten answered flatly.

The prospect of owning the belt was too enticing to be put off by any recalcitrance on Sten's part. "Hmm. Yes, well," he persisted blithely, "I've heard that the Qunari actually put the elves in charge over the humans. Is that true?"

"Some of them."

Zevran stole a moment to picture himself in command over a horde of froward leather merchants before continuing his enquiry. "And which ones are they?"

"The ones who belong in charge," Sten answered simply. "That is the way of the Qun."

He blinked. That was not a helpful answer. "How does this Qun determine who is in charge, then?"

Sten let out an exasperated sigh. "The tamassrans evaluate everyone and place them where their talents merit."

"... But elves, in general, merit higher places than humans in Qunari society?"

"Some of them."

"Back where we began," Zevran tsked softly. "It's like talking to a water wheel."

"Do you wish me to accompany you to your merchant, or not?" Sten snapped.

"A very good point," he conceded quickly; the ice he was treading suddenly felt awfully thin. "You are the finest water wheel I have ever spoken with."

" Parshaara. Lead me to the stall with your mouth shut, or find someone else to assist you."

"As you wish," Zevran nodded with a conciliatory smile. "Come, the leathermaker is just this way."

After a few minutes of disappointingly easy haggling with the flabbergasted merchant, Zevran walked away with his prize in hand, acquired for the very reasonable sum of twelve silvers.

He was distracted from admiring his belt as Sten spoke again. "If that was all you needed, I will take my leave and return to my room. These gawking humans try my patience."

He nodded again. "Of course. I appreciate your assistance, my friend."

His comment was answered with a stiff nod, and Sten cut a path through the crowd of people, who quickly leapt out of his way as he moved forward in great strides.

Zevran glanced once more around the marketplace, pondering the possibility of running into Rhodri, but when he did not spot her, he heaved a sigh and wound his way back to the tavern as well. Dinner would come soon enough, he reminded himself, and more importantly, organising and preparing his new belt was an urgent job.

When the sun had set and the dinner bell had rung, Zevran made his way downstairs again, spotting all the companions except Rhodri seated at a table in a snug corner of the tavern. Alistair requested an extra bowl of the filling, if rather tasteless meat and vegetable stew served with four slices of brown bread dense enough to sleep on, which sat waiting for Rhodri in the unoccupied seat between him and Zevran.

Everyone was about to begin eating when the magewarden arrived and plonked into the final empty seat, and the group was fully assembled at last. She looked like she had spent the day running– or doing something equally vigorous that resulted in red cheeks, pouring sweat, and dishevelled hair– which could have been any number of things that Zevran would not be considering in detail. Alistair, who was scarlet from the first glance, eschewed his usual greetings and began shovelling his food into his mouth.

"Hello, all," she gave them a wrinkle-nosed grin that showed off her canines in the tavern light. "I don't suppose this feast is for me, is it?"

Alistair nodded into his stew; Zevran, being eminently more sensible, returned the smile and pushed one of Rhodri's bowls a little closer to her. "Bene sapiat," he purred.

She managed, somehow, to grin even wider, and with a hushed thanks, all but launched herself into the bowl.

Leliana, utterly shameless as she was, smirked at Rhodri. "You've been busy, haven't you?"

Rhodri tore her glance away from her dinner long enough to smile and nod. "Mm-hmm," she took another mouthful of stew and swallowed it. "Very busy."

Zevran took the largest bite of bread that he could without dislocating his jaw and prayed Leliana would develop a sudden onslaught of hoarseness that prohibited further questioning.

This prayer was denied.

"Did you have a good time?" the evil Sister probed.

Alistair whimpered onto his spoon; Zevran pondered how well bread stuffed in his ears would block out sound.

"Mm-hmm," Rhodri said again, and offered nothing more. Praise the Maker.

And, praise the Maker once again, that was the end of Leliana's questioning. The Tevinter Warden was the first to finish her meal, and after a burbled goodnight and assurances that they would meet again over breakfast, left immediately.

Zevran sat quietly with the last of his stew as the others swapped scant smalltalk. The rushed meal had smacked of distraction and a hurry to leave again, just as dinners in South Reach had been. There was, quite simply, somewhere else Rhodri would rather be, and it wasn't for Zevran to speculate on that– and certainly not for his belly to get that hollow, sinking feeling again as a result.

The main thing was that she had smiled at him, and that meant– so far as her usual candour indicated– that he remained in her good books. That was, in fact, all that counted, and any other concerns were irrelevant and unnecessary.

Unless, of course, they could be explained by something far simpler. And of course they could: nausea! All the heavy Fereldan fare the taverns and inns served was anything but gentle on the Antivan digestion. Designed primarily to stick to the innards for Maker-knew-how-long; no wonder it plagued him at odd times during the day. How absurd that he had only realised it now.

What a relief, though, that he had finally puzzled it out. Not least because here at the inn, the solution was a few paces away: a nip of brandy. He smiled at his ingenuity through the remainder of his meal and placed his order with Leliana, whose turn it was to buy the first round.