I recognise that this work was produced on the traditional lands of the Kaurna and Ngadjuri peoples.

…::';'::'[]'::';'::…

~:{}:~

"You know this one." Her uncle cajoled, tone far to playful for her frustrated mind to like.

"Fuck off I know this one!" She pouted, trying to see though the flash card in his hand.

He scoffed.

"Language!" her aunt barked from three rooms over.

Victoria and her uncle giggled like children caught.

…::…

::';';';';';';';';';';';'::

~::~

It was the morning of Victoria's second day in the illustrious Kirkwall that she was lucky enough to see the city in uproarious celebration.

Her lesson about the "Chantry Calendar" yesterday had been well timed, for tonight, she had learned, was the last night of year nine: Thirty Dragon. It seemed a strange thing to have slipped Sampson's mind – although he did have a lot on his mind, Victoria supposed. Suddenly being unjustly expelled from all he had known would have been exceptionally difficult.

And perhaps nothing and no one to celebrate the event with… Well: He does now!

She had left Sampson to rest – his discomfort has grown considerably over night, the dear – while she climbed the Stair. Considering its central position and function she felt it was something she had to do. This was Kirkwall: High-town could only be so above Low-town.

Where would High-town be without the Stair?

She took her time in ascending, intending to examine all its glory. That and it gave her ample opportunity to watch the Kirkwaller's bustle about her preparing their festivities.

It seemed that the Stair either was an unofficial market or had been made into an unofficial market for the celebration.

There where Lanterns being sold everywhere.

It reminded her of winter markets that occurred in Europe, only the weather was rather warm. I wonder if Kirkwall is close to the equator? Or perhaps if this is just summer…

She passed sweetly scented stall of perfumes rather surrounded by young women. It was strange – the Stair was just that, a stair way. It wound in places but largely it simply travelled up. There were landings every twenty meters or so filled to bursting with people, stalls, and in so far as she could see – perhaps fifty meters way – a café.

Victoria stooped to pet a stray cat. Turning to face out to the bay and the cliffs. It made a lot of sense both in practicality and for pleasure to have a market here. This view? Over the harbour and the canals and finer merchant homes: it was quite picturesque.

She couldn't be sure if it was just the culture of the city, or the nature of tonight's celebrations, but not even one hundred meters up the Stair – still very clearly in Low-town – and the upper crust were out and about.

And they didn't seem to be sightseeing.

Rather… they were looking for something new in the stalls…

Or – at least it seemed to be so. Victoria wasn't sure.

She watched a lady wreathed in reds followed closely by her maids as they browsed a stall of cloths and dyes. Shouldn't she have servants for that? Fuck I wish I had more of a historic socio-cultural background; I have no idea if this is – she sighed, feeling a little silly again.

This could be a literal new-world. Knowing my earth's histories won't help. Clarity. Not suppositions. Maybe I should just ask? Victoria fought a shiver.

Mind made; however, she approached the noble.

"Excuse me, Madam?"

The noble turned to face Victoria, her embroidered dresses a combination of baroque and rococo styles, fabrics flowing and the slight curve of a hip cage beneath her petticoats. Collapsed sleeves, low neckline, elongated V-shaped bodice, and the fabrics were soft such that she could almost count the threads.

Victoria made sure to lock her eyes to the noble women to ensure she didn't.

"Yes?" Oh curious. She was wearing a – metallic? – venetian mask.

"I couldn't help but notice your brightening this dreary quarter; indeed, it caught me quite off guard for its ephemeral nature. Might I enquire as to what it is you are doing here?"

The noble looked her up and down, seemingly assessing her. "I suppose you might."

Ah. She's French…

Is it strange that this alternate world even has a France? I can't decide, still; I really must find where this fantasy France is on a map.

"Truly; what is a flower such as yourself going in such a dull garden?"

Three of the four handmaids glared. Their style of clothing was rather like their mistresses' but for the colour: they were dressed in blacks and whites as well as half masks.

Are the masks a purity thing? Do I need to get a mask?

"A flower such as my self is shopping for her petals." She gestured demurely to her maids.

"How delightful. It's good to see generosity so freely given, yet now I can't help but wonder – as a foreigner – if you know something I do not of the quality of these markets?"

"Perhaps, yet this is a private outing, so I do feel compelled to ask: is there some reason we are talking, stranger?"

"My apologies, am I intruding?"

"Well, seeing as you are a foreigner, I should imagen so." The "petals" tittered.

Oh god, I'm going to have to play at being her social inferior. "I – would you not enlighten me?" Victoria blushed.

The noble sniffed. "If I must."

Victoria was lead from the stall to another, its contents much the same.

"You understand what we are celebrating tonight yes?"

Victoria nodded earnestly. "I do."

"Then you can understand that to be seen shopping so late implies one is disastrously disorganised."

"It would."

"So, one should ask: what is the benefit of being seen shopping so late?" The mask inclined its head, "indeed, and the benefits is the implication are that my tailors and dressmakers are so capable that they can craft what I wear on such short notice – the implication, then, is also that I am their most valued client."

The petals had become apathetic, it seemed. Bored.

"AH! Then it is fashionable to be seen looking for new materials as if one is disorganised – like the opposite of arriving early to a party."

"Naturellement, joli pétale. Although, given you own style of clothing, I do find myself curious. Where is it that you are from? Your accent, I must admit, it is new to me."

"Well, I have travelled from the United Kingdom and her commonwealth: to my embarrassment I have only brought my more professional apparels". Victoria lied.

"The United Kingdom and her commonwealth. And you were from which?"

"The second largest land of the commonwealth: although most of it is uninhabited dessert and tropical forest filled with curious animals." like saltwater crocodiles. "My home is a harsh land."

"Ah; this explains your lack of grace! I understand now – I shall keep my eye open for you; so, I might help you bloom, non?" Ass and snobby. What a fun flavour.

"Indeed."

Wait, does this make me her pet project now? Gross.

They were both quiet for a while.

She's not even going to make an out for me, is she.

She checked her watch. "Well, time as it is, I out to make my leave if I intend to keep my appointments. Thank you for the conversation; I did enjoy it."

The noble curtsied.

Victoria continued up the Stair trying to convince herself she wasn't running away. She really was her uncle's niece: handy-caped in high society. She wished her aunt was here.

She tried not to think about how long she might continue to be absent from her family.

I'll figure it out. I'll get myself home. Recon is important.

A hulking figure was moving towards her, she could see.

George.

Distraction.

"Good morning, Madam Chen! And a beautiful morning at that, wouldn't you agree?"

"It's just Chen. Or lady Chen if you need to be formal." She held her arm out for an escort. "And indeed, the day is beautiful! Where are we headed?"

He smiled brightly "The free clinic!"

Victoria felt her face bloom into a smile in response to this. "Delightful! I've wanted to visit and assess their outfit since it was brought up last night! Why do we venture their today, George?"

"My cock is itchy!"

"Oh yay! An STI!"

"A what?"

"A sexually transmitted infection!"

"Huh." He shrugged. "Yay! An STI!"

He accepted her hand into the crook of his arm. Victoria was pleased to see that the sleeve of his blouse was relatively clean. "And who was that Orlesian you were speaking to?"

Oh? "So that was an Orlesian? How could you tell? And you were spying on me? You dog!" Spying though… Why? And at who's discretion – George doesn't seem the type to do so unprompted.

He laughed. "You caught me. And it was the mask, her large number of attendants, the accent, and that stick up her ass."

"Ah. You have experience with them?"

George shrugged, a look in his eye. "Of a sort."

He led her further up the Stair, stopping twice for food and coffee. Victoria was very glad to partake in an espresso, although here it was called an expreso. Weird.

They watched the harbour in peace, sloops and hulks sailing between the Docks and the narrow-slit entrance of Kirkwall's bay.

"Have you been here long, George?"

He was petting a new stray cat which had popped up as they drank. "I tend to come and go. But – I'd say I've been here for the last thirty years or so." He took a sip from his cup. "I first arrived," he waved at the harbour, "by ship when I was maybe nineteen."

Victoria hummed. "I'd wager you rather familiar with the city then."

"I suppose. Honestly, I don't think anyone ever truly knows this city. But that's a part of her appeal."

"Keeps pulling you back? Always something new to see or do?" Like spy on new arrivals?

"Just so." He scratched at his stubble.

"Why were you spying on me?"

"Oh – just trying to determine your interest in Varric's new venture." He tilted his head to her with a smile. "It would be inconvenient if you gained the information and then ran off to a different company to steal the loot."

"You are correct. It would. Rest assured; I currently have no other company."

He hummed. That was rather blunt.

"Thank you for your honesty, George. Funny – is that your full name?"

"Hmm? No. It's not." Something pulled, and something relaxed.

His head turned back to her, eyes connecting.

His eyes were green in this light. Something pulled, and something relaxed.

"George Caillebotte de Valois."

"Curious."

He hummed again. "It's funny – I've never told anyone in this city my full name before?"

"Truly? Why ever not, it's a rather lovely name."

He laughed. "Well. I like to keep its loveliness to myself, thank you."

Victoria scoffed. "I see. Well, shall we continue on?"

"We shall: it hasn't gotten any less itchy."

"George?"

"Yeah?"

"I did not need to know that."

"But you're a healer, aren't you?"

"I am – but not yours."

Do I want to consider how he knows that? Was he spying yesterday? Was the sudden interruption into last night's conversation an act?

…::…

::';';';';';';';';';';';'::

~::~

The clinic had been enlightening.

Apparently it was run by a man called Anders. Who was a "warden". Or something – Victoria knew not of what he warded – and he was usually in the dilapidated hovel in the cliff side. They'd been unlucky today it seemed.

The other volunteers there were much like orderlies and nurses. Although there was apparently a traveling surgeon who visited on the second and third week of each season.

The volunteers had been handy with bandage, stitching, and tunicate – but less so for George's more sensitive problem. Apparently this Anders would return that night. George would return then also.

Despite the earnestness displayed, the equipment and setup had been rather primitive. Like many other things of this city, it was a mix of historical influences. In this case the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.

There had been discussions of miasma in the city…

They wouldn't know about blood transfusions would they? Or blood types for that matter…

"Given the number of blood-filled buckets, it's a good thing there were not any vampires present."

"Any what present?" Really?

"Vampires? You know – blood sucking fiends. A creature of myth and darkness, eternal in un-life while it thrives on death and shadow?"

"What? That sounds awful. Like a despair Deamon." Despair Deamons but not Vampires?

"Right… What about werewolves?"

"No."

"Mermaids?"

"Oh, yes! Half fish, half beautiful young maid? Siren calls seamen into the sea?"

"Yes! That's it! And gross, Goerge."

"Huh. Your United Kingdom's myths are strange."

"I would say all myths are strange."

"True enough, Lady Chen." He opened the Hanged Man's door. That brought her up: he knew her last name. She'd only told Sampson that so far…

Still: appearances.

Victoria stopped and turned to her day's escort. "Thank you for your company today, George. I need to check on somebody quickly before I join you and Varric for further discussion; and don't worry – I won't share your name to a single living being. I swear."

He smiled moving towards the booth they have all chaired last night. Or rather early this morning. "I trust you, miss Chen." Do you?

She moved up the stairs, gliding silently into her and Sampson's room to avoid waking him.

He was in bed, brow sodden with sweat, but breathing steadily. She had removed the quilt that morning as well as filled a mug with water and placed it beside the bed, tucking him under the cotton flat sheet. Heaven knows what the cotton implied. Or the coffee she'd had.

She would need to replace that water now. And there was a smell.

When they'd talked that morning he'd been rather anxious, desperate to leave the bed – they had walked the halls and spent a few minutes in the common room before he found that to be untenable.

She marched back into the common room for more water, and a wet sponge, food, and information as to how to empty the chamber pot. Unexpectedly she received a pomander of sweet-smelling herbs and rose petals as well. She re-entered their room.

He was awake.

Victoria smiled, moving to put the pomander onto the windowsill. "Happy new year."

"Really?"

"Really."

Victoria pulled the chamber pot out from behind the bed and – horrifyingly – threw it out onto the street.

I hate Kirkwall.

She moved back to the bedside, lifting the refilled mug to his lips.

"I visited the public clinic." She started. "George, the mercenary I mentioned this morning escorted me. I think he might be Orlesian nobility, actually, but that's neither here nor there." She sponged the sweat off his brow. "Apparently the clinic is run by a warden of some sort. A mage at that. He must be handy because the non-magical elements were decisively not of quality: no one even washed their hands, and there were leaches in a bowl: rather vile."

She sighed.

"It's a good thing you in my hands rather than theirs, I'll tell you that, Sir."

"Is it?" he muffled.

"It is. Now – I've brought you food of some sort. Best to eat all of it as soon as you can and not think about where it came from." She sat back on her haunches, resting her elbows on her knees, suddenly at his head hight.

"How are you feeling?"

He shrugged softly. "A little less afraid than I was this morning."

"Alright. Any aches?"

"Not as yet. Will there be?"

"It's not an uncommon symptom."

"Ok. I do feel very – cold and scattered."

Victoria nodded and stood, pulling his quilt back over him and reaching for her grey coat where it hung by the door. She helped him spread it over his lower body.

He took a moment to get comfortable.

"Anders. That's what I think the warden is called. I'd be careful about him."

She sat in her chair. "Why?"

"He's an apostate by desertion." He shivered in his nest. "Was a Grey Warden, then he ran. Can't be all bad – he is helping people after all." I want to ask but…

"Ok."

He had closed his eyes.

"Do you need anything else, Sampson?"

He shook his head.

"Are you alright if I leave? I'm going to discuss the details of a possible job."

"I – for a while, lady Chen."

"Alright." She finished softly, walking back outside, and closing the door silently.

She really had to do something about that kid.

Victoria sighed.

Employment first. She tried to put some energy back into her step as she marched back downstairs.

That was effectively how she found herself walking in on Goerge's story.

"So, she's walling, the dads bleeding, their dog is crying, and the poor mother is just sitting pretty with her newborn in her arms."

"Births are always a story, Goerge." Varric nodded to her: "Victoria."

"It's never a smooth process outside of a hospital, is it?" She added in.

"Hospital?"

"Like a clinic but more" she waved her hands before her. "Medical facilities, physicians, safety, and definitely more patients. Oh, and its clean."

"Ah – like the Tevene 'hospitalis!'" Varric chimed in. Really? Strange…

"Tevene – is that related to the Tevinter Empire?"

Varric nodded. "It's their language." So… was Tevene like Latten? If there was a fantasy France did that mean there was a fantasy Romon Empire?

Goerge shrugged the information off. "Right, anyway, now we're all here – shall we delay any further?"

"Technically we're not all here. My brother's involved as well."

Geroge rolled his eyes. "Are we waiting for him too?!"

Varic laughed. "No. He's already in the know. You two, however, need some information, don't you? But first I have to ask – why are you interested?"

Victoria felt that was obvious. "Well, we are unemployed, and you are hiring, yes?"

"But what could you bring to the venture? Good wit isn't enough to merit a paycheque. If it was I'd be loaded."

Paycheque. French word. Maybe the English we've been speaking is just a "trade language?" Wait, does Kirkwall have a library? That could be handy.

"I can sneak and fight and sneak and heal."

"It's a good start. But you said sneak twice. Can you reattach a severed limb?"

"No, but I could try for designing an effective prosthetic?"

Varric laughed. Then took note of how serious she was: "No, really!?"

"I'd need some help from an engineer but yes – the prosthetics of my homeland were more advanced than the ones I've so far seen here. I am confident in my ability to adapt some at least five designs for bellow knee and above amputations. Mechanisms for functioning prosthetic knees for walking and running blades for sustained jogging or sprinting."

"No shit… Well… I know Geroge – I want him on bord, if only to shut him up. But you've been somewhat suspicious, lady Chen." Ah. He's also figured out my name? Has Sampson been talking?

"Have I?"

"You have. I've had your arrival story verified now twice, so as strange as that event was, you've not hidden anything. But your companion lurking upstairs? Is there a good reason for you to be spending so much time the company of a Templar, miss Chen?"

"Of course. He was the first person to help me the night of my arrival. And since? Well, he is a gentlemen of distinguished nature, and kind besides."

"Really. And you feel like you can trust him?"

"I do. Sampson and I have been rather open to each other, in fact."

"So, you know why he was disgraced from his order. Why he isn't feeling well."

"He is unwell because of lyrium withdrawal. I want him to survive – indeed he and I have a deal that so long as he is willing to be my guide in this city, I am willing to be his physician. And his expelling from the order was tosh. He did the just thing in going against his commands: few would be so brave."

He held his hands up "all right – but I do need to ask: if he requires supervision, are you going to be bringing him along into the Deep Roads?"

"I am. It is my professional opinion that Sampson will be fit enough to manage the journey into the deep roads." Or at the very least I'll be able to manage him. What's the worst that could happen with me there to watch him? "I am, However, willing to divide mine and Sampson's share of the profit by two."

George hummed.

"And in doing so, we'd only really being paying for you." Varric finished. "All right."

"So," George started, "what's the plan and how is it going to make us rich."

"And what is a "Deep Roads?"" Victoria added.

That caught their attention.

"Ah." Varric started. "We'll come back to that."

"While I'm very confident in myself, Goerge, George's opinions of your capacity as a healer, and my brother. We need at least one more." Doesn't trust me, does he? Explains the spying… Well, that's only fair I suppose: I don't trust him either.

George was appeared focused for the first time. "You want us to get a mage Varric? Seems like a good choice" Varric leaned in towards them, "it's the deep roads after all. No unnecessary risks." George finished.

"Right. Extra offensive power and general support. Now. The deep roads, Victora, are a series of roads beneath the ground. They used to be inhabited by the Dwarven nations, but since the first blight they've filled with darkspawn."

"Goodness."

Varric nodded, leaning further forward again after flicking his eyes about for Tolkien. "I received word just four days ago that the blight has been ended. Which means that the darkspawn are currently dying. Meaning that the Deep Roads will be relatively empty of their nasty abominable grotesqueness, and ripe for looting."

Varric grinned. "Are you sure your up for this, Steel eyes?"

Steel eyes… I'll take it.

"I am. Although I am a doctor – a healer – I have worked with military outfits in the past. Although I must admit that time was brief and really for my aunt's sake. Still, a small group moving into such a hazardous environment could only benefit from having a healer in the party."

"Indeed."

"I'm thinking we split up – cover more ground and find our mage faster." Geroge added.

Varric agreed. "I'll start with my contacts, you go to yours, Victoria can watch the Gallows." He turned to her. "Do you feel comfortable with that, lady Chen?"

Varric smirked, having read something in her stilled expression.

Victoria sat back in the bench. "Do we have any idea how long it will take to recruit one?"

Varric's smirk widened "Oh, I already have the perfect mage in mind: Sara Hawk."

Delightful.

"She's a young refugee. Came with her family – a sister and mother. Her uncle is a Kirkwaller living in Low-town, but he can't pay their entry fee so Sara's had to work in indentured servitude as a smuggler. Her family is on the landing grounds before the Gallows but She could be anywhere in the city."

George stood and gave her mug of water an encouraging tap with his ale. "See you all soon."

She smiled and stood with Varric, following them to the door before splitting from the two and walking right, up the short, crumbling slight sandstone step stones towards the Docks entrance into the Gallows.

…::…

::';';';';';';';';';';';'::

~::~

Kirkwall was a bowl of stone and sea; two cracks up its side connecting it to the outside world. The Stair, and the Slit-Canal out of the bay. The Stair was guarded by the Keep, atop the cliffs, and the canal by the Gallows, which stood tall and imposing at its entrance.

It was with immense chains and colossal blocks of quarried stone – perhaps old roots of the very cliffs surrounding Kirkwall – that the Gallows segregated the waters of the Slit-Canal from the bay, the Docks, and Low-town's smaller canals.

It was good that she was wearing her black blouse and one of her darker skirts when she'd transmigrated, Victoria mused. Atop one of the Gallows walls as she was it did help her blend into the defences shadow and silhouette.

From what she could see, Kirkwall was a viciously busy sea power. And all those ferries and transport ships moving refugees where in the way of that power.

The newest boat arrived, pulling into a recently vacated lot, literally pushing another barge aside from their way to dock time. It was brutal. The look of the shelters on the landings were brutal. And the smells in the air? Is that a blood stain? Ah – their fishing. Something good form this mess of flesh and despotism.

The refugees seemed overwhelming here on the landing grounds. But then this was where they were entering the city from. It showed. There were so many: no wonder Kirkwall hadn't taken them all in. And even though Kirkwall had literal shit in the streets, here? It reeked of death.

Were they getting water? They had to be – otherwise…

It was chaotic yet also very still. Nothing for them to do but wait.

Sampson says they can't do anything.

And if he's right about Dark-town they probably can't…

There needs to be a way for refugees to move pass the city onto the land – Victoria wasn't sure how far the cliffs about Kirkwall spread along the coast, but if this mess was seen as the best first stop then it had to be quite a distance.

And she was supposed to find a person in this mess… A mage – so someone who didn't want to be found. Is this something of a test? Is that Varric's angle? Two birds one stone – get the mage onboard and lean that Victoria can deliver on her word?

She didn't know what a mage looked like. Well… that's not quite true. They'd look like someone who doesn't want to be seen.

She looked for long cloaks, hoods, people keeping close to the walls or hidden in shadow. Looked for people not being cold when they should, not being hot when they should.

The first hour gave her very little.

The third hour gave less than even that – aside from the sunburn.

By five pm she'd identified perhaps twelve people who might be Sara Hawk.

At ten that twelve had become three.

Then, as the moon was falling behind the cliffs behind the Gallows tallest tower, three was one.

There you are.

Victoria readied herself to hunt. Slinking from her perch along the wall and down a chain onto a rusting iron grate. She watched as the target conversed with what appeared to be their sister, then the mouther, before taking their sister by the hand and leading them away towards the water's edge.

Victoria tried to keep a vantage point without being seen, but it was proving difficult.

She lost sight of the girls.

A calm exhale.

She pushed off her new position and landed silently onto the landing ground, snatching a green cloth from someone's pile of belongings, and wrapping it about her as a headscarf. She was a little surprised it didn't smell.

She quickly made her way to the edge of the igneous stone landing, towards wooden scaffolding connecting this basalt block to another. She crouched, looking for a passage.

She caught perfume in the air.

Firmly planting her hands onto the damp and warn scaffolding she leaned over the edge and looked underneath between the seven-meter gap separating the landing grounds. There was a corresponding grate of seven meters. And a small gate set within.

She let herself fall into the sea.

The gate was locked, but the key was hidden behind a rather smooth, rather lose brick hewn into the basalt. There was twin stone on the "Kirkwall-side" of the gate too. Well. If this isn't a worrying hole in the security of the city?

She swam further into the dark, before encountering a submerged stair, and walking back out of the sea. It was a bricked dead end it seemed – almost like this had been a passage that had fallen out use. Except for the three-foot-by-three-foot hole in the brickwork on the right. She could see the flickering of a soft light down that tunnel.

Chen breathed deeply, tasting the salt on her tongue, hunched over, and entered.

It was deep… Maybe a former tunnel back to the Docks? Or…

She followed the light, careful not to brush the walls or drag her feet in the small space.

She could see a person. Hopefully the target.

They stopped.

She stopped.

But in such a tight space?

"I just don't know if this is worth the risk Sara. You're a free woman tomorrow, what the hell is the value of new year celebrations if were gaoled and deported!?"

Sound bounced.

"Hush!" Then quieter "I've been doing this for a year – We're not going to get caught."

Oh, poor rabbit.

They continued moving.

After fifteen minutes the light suddenly disappeared from view.

Chen sped up to find a hole in the ceiling of the tunnel, though the tunnel itself did continue. She reached up and encountered a cold stone. She pushed, it lifted. She helped herself up though it into appeared to be a storeroom.

The scent of perfume was still drifting through the air.

She approached the storerooms door, trying to open it slowly. The joints must have been oiled because it slid open without a sound.

And there stood the Hawks.

One of them – the girl with black hair in a pixie cut and blood on her noise – stood with a small glowing orb in her hand.

Well – I guess that answers yesterday's question: this is what a mage looks like. How mundane.

Long-haired Hawk was asking where exactly pixie-haired Hawk had stashed their dresses and how best to get into Low-town in time for the lantern release tonight.

They continued down the dark corridor, steps echoing over the stone slab tiles – until they opened a new grate and climbed inside… Chen waited ten seconds before exiting and approaching the grate.

It reeked.

Chen sighed and followed the Hawks into shit crusted maw of must be Dark-town.

It wasn't quite what she expected it to be. Kirkwall had been a settlement, then a quarry, then a settlement in a quarry. Of all the cities in the world its sewage system should be the best – the ground was literally already opened up and leading out into the sea when it was founded.

While the floor here seemed to largely be raw bed-stone, the walls and half-circle ceiling were primarily made of bricks. Sltate bricks. Crumbling under the weight above them.

It wound, too.

And – despite being two meters above sea level – it deepened by almost ten meters down with a staircase that could be walked three abreast. Why? What is the point of this structure!?

If there was this much space available no wonder people lived here.

It was fortunate she could still identify and follow the perfume, otherwise she didn't think she'd have been able to track the Hawks in this dark. Certainly, the target took a winding path. Was I too loud or is this just one of their precautions?

It took her almost twenty minutes to catch up and loom above them. She had reached the top of another stair – she had to be at least thirty meters deep – and they, having moved off the stair and turned right to walk along its base, were just beneath her.

Chen let herself drop –

Before remembering herself –

She landed hard on the Long-haired Hawk, knocking them to a brick floor.

Victoria shot to her feet and danced back: "Goodness – my apologies, madam Hawk! I was too focused!"

She had to suddenly duck underneath a blue-white ball of fire. Oh, fuck that!

"PEACE!"

Pixie stalked to her sister, venom dripping from her blood smeared expression.

"I'm only here to employ you!"

"Strange way of going about it." growled the long-haired Hawk.

"Again: my honest apologies! Now, the merchant prince Varric Tethras would like for you to consider a proposition. We understand that your indentured servitude ends tonight, yes?"

"It will." Answered the pixie-haired Hawk. Ah – so that's the important one.

"Well, when you feel ready to enquire further, come to the Hanged Man, in Low-town. Its relatively close to the Stair. There you can find our merchant prince in the corner booth. He will put you onto the next steps, alright?"

"Why should I take this job." Pixie followed up with.

Ah…

"Because we are going to raid an abandoned dwarven treasury, my dear." That should serve to entice, yes?

"Alright." Long-haired answered, looking a little pale. "And you'll keep your mouth shut about my sister, won't you?"

"Because of the magic? I suppose. Magic doesn't really mean anything to me." She lied.

"What's that supposed to mean…" the other Hawk muttered.

Victoria did not deem that worthy of an answer, turning her back and moving the way she had come. She only made a single stop before reaching the Hannged Man, to appropriate a green cloth lantern form a stall.

Despite spending so much time in a sewer, the might was rather beautiful.

She craned her head back, watching as the night was lit by the moon and thousands of multi coloured lanterns, gently swaying in the wind.

Victora felt her eyes shining with a wetness in the dark as she entered the Hanged Man.

She could see George's large frame was already sitting at their booth, Varric as well, facing the entrance: he waved.

She went to the bar first, looking to see if Varric had his watchers about while she retrieved a mug of water for Sampson – she could see Tolkien was still sat by the stairs to the rooms above. Poor guy must have been pulling double shifts. Sampson's water and green lantern in hand Victoria moved to sit by George.

"Finally – I'm thinking we split up again." George began.

"Good morning." Varric countered.

"It'll be somewhat pointless to just wonder around, but I've got a few contacts who I feel could relate some relevant leads for Hawk." I wonder If I can press for some information here.

"Forget Hawk: why not just hire one? Sampson said that the Chantry allowed for the hiring of mages."

Varric stared blankly at her, the expression momentarily reminding Victoria of one of her more annoying teaches. "That's not going to happen – they don't do that type of thing. If you were a Lord looking for the relevant option, or a Knight or Chevalier or, well, someone important with a pressing need. Besides, we'd have to surrender the profit." Ah.

He became more animated "And good morning to you as well."

"Good morning", she smiled, "and a happy new year." she turned to her neighbour, "Alright, there's no need to search any further Goerge. I encountered the Hawk and disclosed the requisite information. They should be here soon."

He turned to her, surprised. "Why didn't you lead with that?" He continued to Varric, "and can I have those sausages?" Varric suddenly sat forward over the table arms caging around his brunch.

Victoria threw her hand out like a viper before he could finish said cage and slid the plate over – he hadn't touched them yet and she could get him more lamb and pepper sausages latter. Varric gasped.

"And Tomorrow, companions? Do we have any idea how long it will take reach these deep roads? Or how long it will take to search them?" Victora asked.

George opened his mouth to respond yet Varric, last sausage held aloft before him spiked onto his two-pronged fork, beat him too it. "A fortnight to reach and enter to the correct depth by my brothers' estimations."

George frowned. "That quick?"

Varric taped his nose with his forefinger.

"Right. Well, I need to check on Sampson – get him some food. Call me down when the Hawks arrive, will you George?"

He waved an assent as he ate with gusto.

Victora smiled, rising, and glided to the stairs, taking them two at a time.

She knocked on their door, hearing a quite "enter".

She just about threw the door open in her excitement. "Morning!"

The bags under Sampsons eyes seemed to rage at her exuberance.

"Is it?"

She held up her watch: "it is!"

She closed the door gently and sat in the chair by the bed. "Happy new year my friend. For once that expression "new year new me" is undeniably true. You can beat this, Sam. I know you can!"

He just sighed. Then, as she placed the water mug by his empty one, he almost lit up.

"You brought a lantern?"

She smirked.

"I did."

He gave a weak grin.

…::…

…::';'::'[]'::';'::…

~:{}:~

Several hours later, as the sun was coming up, Goerge swung open the dry oak door.

"Victoria, Hawk is about–" he froze, his eyes locked onto Lady Chen's. Her sclera black and iris' a vivid, yet light, cobalt blue.

Eyes locked onto the red streaming down her chin, darkening further her black blouse. Eyes tracking Sampon's wrist held firmly in her claw grip and unpleasantly draining lifeblood into an ail mug.

Georges eyes shifted with Sampson's movement, the former templars head turning to him, expression blank as he dumbly breathed from his mouth.

"Oh shit." George tensed to run.

"George…" He froze again. His heat beginning to pound in his chest with such ferocity that his head swayed with the rush of blood. "You really ought to know better than to walk in on a Lady in such a compromising position…"

"What are you– I–"

Her voice seemed to penetrate through him.

"Geroge."

"Abomination" he wheezed, some force seeming to press hard against his chest.

Victora rolled her eyes. "GEORGE." Her mouth hadn't moved, he realised, his heart calming, as he stepped completely into the room and closed the door behind him. "Oh maker; I can't move?"

"Hush. You walked into a room with only Sampson, sleeping. He's weak, you didn't wish to disturb him."

"That's true." His mouth answered.

"And you suspected I was in the bath."

"I did." Tears fell down his cheek.

"You think I'll be down in, oh say an hour?" The abomination looked to her victim for confirmation.

Sampson tried to shrug, arm held out and bleeding as it was.

"Well. Forty minutes, say."

"Forty minutes." George repeated.

"There's a good man, off you pop – oh, and do behave as if you never saw this yes? Tell not a single soul, hm?"

George nodded and left, closing the door softly behind him.

Victoria and Sampson continued to sit and lay quietly for a moment.

Until Victoria began to hum to herself, her sunburn fading.

She closed the wound on Sampson's wrist, cutting a ragged fleshy hole into her tongue with her thumb's claw and licking a long strip up his forearm.

Sampson sighed as her blood closed the viciously bleeding cut. She brought the mug to her lips, drinking deeply.

"That was stressful." He quietly uttered.

"Wasn't it just? Honestly, Sampson, it's bad enough that all this uncertainty and newness has me stress eating… But the risk of discovery? Now? It would be decisively inconvenient."

His voice was weak.

"It would. Now, may I ask… Are…"

He took an uneven breath.

"…Are you going to– going to kill me, Lady?"

Poor dear.

In the dark, with her stomach pleasantly full and eyes burning with a coarse light…

"No."

Victoria smiled…

"I've thought of a better use for you."

…

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