Leliana didn't say a word to Zevran until the next day, but she didn't have to even by that point. The night before, Zevran had returned to the campfire after re-equipping his poisons belt to find the Chantry Sister and the Templar remarkably engrossed in each other. Right there, in front of the leftovers. Going by the inescapable sucking noises their lip-clashing was producing, one of them was moments away from being slurped into the other like a mouthful of soup, lost to the world until the later stages of digestion freed them again.

The only person seemingly able to tolerate the display was Rhodri, who sat on another log on the opposite side of the fire, absorbed in a book. It was eminently possible that she had been reading before this nauseating spectacle had begun, and was yet to notice. The nearest one to the epicentre of it all, and yet the most unaffected. Some people didn't know their luck.

Had Zevran managed to find a reason to sit with her, he would have. After all, that confrontation with Wynne had been unpleasant, and it was better to be close to hand if Rhodri– the Warden, damn him! – needed anything.

But these things had to be approached with finesse! Simply bustling over to ask what wishes she might have would worsen the situation. Dramatically, no doubt. And if the truth was known, Zevran didn't quite have it in him to survive another round of the Tevinter apology hand kisses.

No, there would have to be another justification for going over. It wasn't lying to have another reason to be there. The truth of the matter was that keeping an eye on her , in the Warden's mind, wasn't a good reason, and if a 'good' reason was the price of admission for being useful to her, Zevran would simply have to pay up.

He must have stood there for a good few minutes, twiddling his fingers and waiting for the prerequisite excuse to sail into one of his ears. Nothing came. And when Leliana and Alistair finally paused to take a breath (the noise of their parting could have been mistaken for someone ripping their stuck foot out of a bog), Leliana wiped her mouth with one finger and shot Zevran the briefest, most infuriatingly smug wink.

Zevran's eyeroll went unnoticed as she returned to Alistair, whose head was now shamelessly buried so deeply in the crook of her neck that one might have been forgiven for thinking he was trying to dig a rabbit warren there with his nose. Perhaps that was precisely what he was doing, and Leliana was turning his attention back to her mouth before things could get medically hazardous. With a sigh, he glanced at Rhodri, who had still not looked up from her book. She seemed content enough; he admitted defeat for the night and went to his tent.

§

There was a nervousness to Zevran that he couldn't quite shake the next morning as he rolled out of bed and readied himself for the day. Or perhaps it was dread. It was mostly unnecessary, whichever it was: at some point, Alistair and Leliana would resume sucking each other's faces off, and the only thing that could be done to counter the dry retching Zevran was guaranteed to go through was to take an early breakfast, and thus ensure he had something to bring up when the time came.

The issue of Rhodri and Wynne, however, was a rather more complex and urgent matter, and one he couldn't bring himself to put off. He had wavered on so many things regarding the Warden that it almost defied belief. Mercy, even Leliana, ditherer extraordinaire and queen of the ineffectual interactions, had given him the hurry-up with his seduction!

Zevran shook his head as he pulled on his armour. Was he losing his grip on himself? Was that what it was? Softened by foreign kindness to the point of stupefaction? If there was one thing the Crows fed on, it was indecision, and as the matter currently stood, Zevran was living life with a target painted on his back.

That wouldn't do. Something would have to change. After all, Zevran Arainai was a man of action– considered action, certainly, but it was plain for all to see now that he was spending far more time considering than acting.

No more, though. It was time to take those ineffectual thoughts and turn them into results.

Cloaked with cotton and newfound resolve, Zevran stepped out of his tent into the cold, misty morning and swore a solemn oath to himself that two things would happen before the week was out. For a start, he would make his saucy intentions clear to Rhodri; and second, revenge of some sort would be exacted on Wynne for the crime of being who she was.

The latter of these was rather more urgent. With sessions now scheduled day and night (and Rhodri had acquiesced to this change, as Zevran could see Wynne through a wider gap in the trees, issuing instructions to Rhodri where they stood in the nearby clearing), he would need to take action today. Naturally, it would have to be a clandestine operation. Maker knew if Rhodri caught wind of Zevran's operations, she'd die of the shame, unnecessary as it was, and Zevran would be left alone–-

He caught his face pinching into a wince and forced blankness again. How very unhelpful.

The point , he reminded himself firmly, was that an untraceable agony would befall Wynne and– ooh. Perhaps it would keep her too distracted to inconvenience the Warden any further. Something like her staff reduced to splinters in a tragic attack by a blind bear mistaking it for a snake, or a moth chewing enormous holes in her robes–

Now there was a thought. Zevran approaching Morrigan the shapeshifter with the request of a lifetime. Would her transformed insect self be conspicuously large, like her spider form? Or could she shrink herself to, say, the size of a housecat?

His step got a spring to it as he marched over the dewy grass to Morrigan's satellite camp. Zevran had barely spoken with Morrigan, but this was looking to be quite the stellar opportunity, especially knowing as he did that Morrigan loathed Wynne. Not an inch of fellow-feeling between them, despite them both being obviously gifted mages, they hadn't exchanged a single civil word since meeting. It was possible, in fact, that Morrigan had more venom for Wynne than she did for Alistair. She was hardly fond of Zevran, either, but if she sufficiently hated Wynne– and it certainly appeared that she did– an alliance could spring up between them in their united cause. Oh, it was perfect.

A loud crack, followed by a not-quite-stifled, suspiciously Rhodri-like yelp reached Zevran's ears when he was halfway to Morrigan's set-up. It was the same every training session. He didn't bother to unclench his fist, tightened on reflex, as he turned to the source of the noise and saw the same Warden drawn into herself, clutching her hands and shaking her head. Wynne was a few paces away, notably doing nothing while observing her with a calmness that would have been more suited to a sleeping child.

A little too aware of the roiling in his guts, Zevran turned on his heel and stalked the rest of the way to Morrigan's area. As if the Maker had understood the purpose of Zevran's visit, Morrigan herself emerged from her tent, fully dressed and topped off with a scowl as she caught sight of him approaching.

"No," she said before his mouth could finish opening. She folded her arms and eyed him beadily as he raised an eyebrow.

"My dear Morrigan," Zevran chided gently. "How ever will you know what delights I bring if you turn me away before I can list them?"

Morrigan scoffed and shook her head. "I would not lie with you if you were the last male to draw breath. I have no need for your list. Keep your efforts focused on the Warden, if you please."

Oh, not her too. He forced a smirk and tutted, "You wound me, my dear!"

"I have considered doing far more to you than that, you can be sure."

"It may interest you to know," he pushed on before the conversation could be ended, "that I am here for an entirely different reason."

Morrigan arched a brow at him. "I find that hard to believe."

"I swear on my honour," he said, quickly speaking again before Morrigan could cut him off with what was undoubtedly a remark on the dubiousness of his honour. "I could not help wondering–"

Another crack, much louder this time, stopped him there, and upon seeing Rhodri doubled over, visibly trembling even from where he stood, he clenched a fist until his nails, short as they were, bit into the meat of his hand. Wynne, who had paused in her waiting to look over at them, began suggesting the Warden take note of her audience, and unable to bear the shamefaced look he was about to get, Zevran turned back to Morrigan again.

"Tell me, my dear witch," he purred, "can you turn into a moth?"

§

Zevran sat by the campfire, keeping an eye on the clearing while Morrigan set to work. When she emerged from Wynne's tent an hour later (she had even chewed a hole in the tent through which to escape!), Zevran had a sandwich waiting for her. She took it, ate three bites, and fixed him with a smug smile.

"Good session?" Zevran asked through a grin.

"Indeed," Morrigan purred. "The old cat has several sets of enchanted robes, and I must say, lyrium clothing makes a fine meal for a mage moth." She gave him a nod and left for her tent without another word.

Rhodri came back shortly after, watching Zevran like he had swallowed a hundredweight of explosives. No surprise, really, and Zevran had come to breakfast prepared. With a grin, he beckoned her over and produced the last bag of peanuts.

He shook the bag a little and took out a peanut. "How well have your peanut-catching skills held up since we last practiced, hmm?"

The distressed look evaporated. Rhodri's eyes widened as they fixated onto the sole nut– darkened, too, if Zevran wasn't mistaken. Would he have to woo her with a bag of peanuts? …Was it really that simple?

Oh, of course it wasn't. How would he get her to shift her lustblown gaze from the food onto him? Especially when she wasn't one for gazing into the eyes of others. Why did he always complicate these things?

"Oh-h-h," Rhodri breathed. "My goodness. At this time of the day, too!"

Zevran waggled his eyebrows. "Peanuts for breakfast seems an excellent way to start the morning, no?" He shrugged, adding, "Of course, if this is not a suitable time for–"

"No-no-no," she said quickly, head shaking fervently enough to dislodge a few strands from her once-tuft, now-ponytail. "We can– no, we can definitely try now."

He sat down beside her with a pleased laugh. "Ah, good. Open wide, then, my dear Warden. We shall start off easy, yes?"

By the fifth successful peanut catch, Zevran looked over Rhodri's shoulder and caught Wynne passing to go into her tent, surveying their antics as she went. With measurable distaste, of course.

Show time.

Unable to resist himself, Zevran caught Wynne's eye and met her unamused look with a smile, making a point of widening his eyes enough that he knew the whites would be on full display for the shortest, shortest moment. Wynne froze; Zevran barely stifled a delighted chuckle and returned to Rhodri, who had missed the entire exchange while chewing up her sixth peanut.

The former Senior Enchanter turned on her heel and made for the lake, shaking her head as she went. Rhodri held out a hand toward the peanut bag, smiling at Zevran like she knew what he'd won for her.

"Shall I throw you a few, pretiotus?" Rhodri asked with a conspiratorial wink. Her voice was low and wicked, and oozing warmth. "Keep your skills sharp, sic?"

The top half of his belly finally settled, and the bottom half started to jitter. There was no pleasing everyone, apparently, even when everyone was localised to the one body. Zevran blamed the misbehaviour of his lower stomach on hunger, and the solution to that was about to be placed in Rhodri's hands.

"Ooh," he passed the peanut bag over and straddled the log they were sharing. "Please, yes."

§

Zevran had never really been one for living a balanced life. He had only presumed as much up to now; balance, for all its virtues, had always struck him as a state reserved to the people who could afford to have it. Where was the balance in training and torture and murder and seduction, day in and night out? Nowhere he'd ever looked.

At this point, though, there appeared to be little option but to force balance. Four months ago, he would have laughed at himself for thinking so, but there was such a lot going on. There really was!

Ignoring Alistair and Leliana's escalating passions was a full time job in and of itself. More, even. At least the average worker (so far as he'd heard) had the night off after a day shift.

Not so with their theatrics. The noises that came from Leliana's tent– the good Sister refused to enter Alistair's due to its untidiness and the lingering smell of the dog who also slept in there– could be heard, no doubt, from the other end of the country. Indeed, the moans from Alistair alone had been enough to attract the attention of bears on more nights than one. Zevran found himself praying that Rhodri, who had been a terribly good sport about offing the bears, would take Alistair firewood-chopping and use the opportunity to suggest a decrease in volume.

As if that weren't enough, Wynne had been consistently attempting to catch Rhodri alone. In the mornings and at night were the worst times–but then, was there ever a good time? Zevran doubted it. At least through the rest of the day, he was able to plaster the Warden with conversation (questions about magic, in particular, kept them both too busy– and interested, it had to be said) so that the Senior Enchanter couldn't get a word in edgewise.

At the start and finish of the day, however, he was forced to think on his feet. Conversation and holey clothes, as it turned out, were not quite enough to keep Wynne at bay then; he had to keep Rhodri busy. In a stroke of genius, Zevran had devised and enrolled Rhodri in his impromptu, very urgent course on knife safety, and then another on poisons and antidotes.

Predictably enough, Wynne hovered nearby, tutting with enormous displeasure as she darned the holes in her robes. If she thought that would dissuade him, though, she was out of her mind. Not least when Rhodri, whom Zevran seemed to recall admitting no interest in herbalism, was hanging off his every word about poisonous (and life-saving) plants. And engaging with questions (thoughtful ones, even!) of her own.

Most importantly of all, Rhodri considered both of Zevran's study programmes to be of greater relevance than Wynne's, and that meant that said hovering and displeased tutting were dismissed. In favour of him and his teachings. How sweet it was to be the preferred one, even when the competition was decidedly less-than-stiff. Zevran could have gone on teaching her forever; he certainly had enough material for it.

In fact, they had only just begun to cover one of Zevran's favourite poisons, a paralytic that put skeletal muscles out of commission within a few breaths, when a flash of motion from behind a bush up ahead had him standing with his knives out. A shield swelled up around the party– of course– and Rhodri gently steered Zevran behind her.

"Be warned, outsiders," a woman with a shock of long, red hair surged out from behind a tree with her bow drawn. Dark curls of vallaslin wound over her forehead, and beneath her eyes and mouth, pulled down as she surveyed the party– Zevran and his tattoo included– with a deep frown. "The Dalish have camped in this spot. I suggest you go elsewhere, and quickly."

"We are peaceful," Rhodri called out cautiously. "My greetings to you. We are two Grey Wardens and company, and we will not attack. We have been looking for your clan these past weeks."

The Dalish woman raised an eyebrow. "Grey Wardens? How do I know you're telling the truth?"

"Hmm," Rhodri frowned thoughtfully. "I tend to be better at proving it when the place is crawling with darkspawn… ah, wait, I have an idea!" She patted her satchel. "I have a knife in here. If I take it out and make a cut in my arm, you'll see that my blood is black, tainted. Will that suffice?"

Zevran bit his lip as the woman frowned deeply and then, after some deliberation, shook her head.

"If you carry the Taint, your blood is better kept inside you where it cannot pollute the forest." She beckoned to them. "Come then, all of you. I will take you to our Keeper so he can decide for himself. Keep your hands to yourself in the camp, and remember our arrows are trained on you."

Rhodri smiled and inclined her head. "Thank you very much. Our behaviour will be exemplary, let me assure you."

"We will see about that. Come."

The Dalish camp was a song's distance away, sequestered off in the middle of an abandoned ruin. Crumbling marble columns encircled the camp like long-dead guards, all but reclaimed by the moss and vines. The camp itself, though, was replete with life. Amid the Aravels and industrious campfires, Dalish elves milled, worked, and played, and Zevran felt a foreign ache as an unnoticed breath swelled in his lungs.

Zevran left Antiva City as soon as he'd word of the clan drawing near to the outskirts, hugging the forest border as Clan Marendis travelled further south. He hadn't prepared anything to take with him– not that he had so much as his mother's gloves with which to present himself to the clan, or perhaps even identify himself as someone's son. It was a bitter thought that he shelved the entire afternoon he spent creeping out of the city.

The road out of town had next to no traffic, even at the point near nightfall when he had finally reached it. Farms lay on either side of the rows, hills shaved down to their skin from where the grains were harvested the week prior. Zevran spent the stretch walking between poplar trees that occasionally breached the undulations.

He reached the forest after sunrise, not thinking twice about departing the road and marching straight into the thickets. Perhaps it was sleep deprivation; perhaps it was giddy excitement. The Antivan Dalish had a reputation for being violent; even the Crows had said it. But Zevran's mother had been one of them, and she had only left to follow an infatuation. That had to say something to their credit.

And really, even if the Crows were right and something even less hospitable than them existed, at least Zevran's death was guaranteed to be an interesting one.

When exhaustion finally prevented Zevran from putting one foot in front of another, he sought the shelter of a bush and curled up under it, and awoke Maker-knew-how-soon after when hot, unexpected sunlight streamed into his face.

"Put the knives down, da'len." The voice was calm and sober, and the woman who owned it was watching him with a small, firm smile, showing him her empty palms. Her face was covered in swirling, dark tattoos, nothing like he had seen in the Crows before, and it was hard to know if she was Dalish, or from another guild altogether.

The daggers Zevran had already drawn before his eyes had finished opening were re-sheathed— what else could he do, after all? Deny her and have his throat cut? The woman gave an appreciative nod. She sat down near him.

"Why are you sleeping in a bush, child?" she asked gently. "Where is your family?"

"They are nearby," Zevran said reflexively. "There are many of them. I sleep where I wish."

The woman nodded. "Well, then, I should leave you to it. I am sure they would not look kindly on a Dalish talking to their child."

His eyes widened. "You are Dalish?"

She laughed and twirled a finger in the direction of her face. "You did not recognise my tattoos?"

Zevran shook his head. The woman beckoned behind her, and several others emerged with similar curlicues and lines in dark ink over their foreheads and cheeks, watching him with sad smiles. In their dark green leathers, the breastplates adorned with stitching that reflected their tattoos, they looked like they had strolled straight out of a storybook. An excited breath swelled his lungs and climbed up his throat.

"All the adults have vallaslin," she said with a smile. "Now, go to your family before they come looking for you."

"I-I have none," he said quickly. "I lied. I want to come with you." Zevran scrambled upright and stared the chuckling woman in the eye. "Please, I want you to take me with you. I was looking for you."

The woman's eyes twinkled. "I thought that might be the case. Come, then, da'len. We will go home."

"My mother was Dalish," he said, almost at a babble now. "She died. I do not know her name, and I only had her gloves, but they were taken away."

She laughed and nodded, took his hand and pulled him up with her, told him her name was Uthria. Didn't ask anything more about his mother, but Zevran decided there was time for that later. The other Dalish formed a circle around him as they walked back to the camp, still watching him with that pitying look every so often. Zevran's heart sank every time they did it, and as they approached the clearing where the ships were parked and the halla grazed and the Dalish children played and ate and weren't being beaten, his heart climbed all the way back, light as a feather and so very ready for something better.

The party fell to a halt in front of a tallish, pale mage, no doubt the Keeper. The man was bald as the face on a sovereign and sporting vallaslin Zevran couldn't recall having seen in the clan he had been with. Behind him lay a host of bloodspattered elves on makeshift beds. Some were coughing and writhing, others slept fitfully, and others still were suspiciously motionless. There could only have been fifteen of them there, but given the size of the camp, that was a positively enormous number of the entire clan.

The mage put his staff away. He looked at the escort, then cast his eyes over the rest of the party.

"I see we have guests," he said in a smooth, low voice, scanning the party from top to toe all the while. He turned back to the woman who had brought them there. "Who are these people, Mithra? My time is scant, and my patience even less so for outsiders today."

With a respectful nod, the woman named Mithra pointed at Rhodri. "This one claims to be a Grey Warden, and there is another one in the party, so she says–"

"That's me," Alistair piped up quickly, and gave a friendly little wave. "Hello!"

The woman raised an eyebrow, and Alistair's hand snapped back down by his side. "They say they wish to speak with the clan," she continued, as though Alistair had never spoken. "I thought it best to bring them to you, Keeper, so you could decide for yourself."

"I see," he said after a moment. "You were right to bring them to me, Mithra, ma serannas. You may return to your post."

She nodded once, forcefully. "Ma nuvenin, Keeper." Without another look at the party, she turned on her heel and marched back the way they had come.

The Keeper turned on them now, surveying them again with unreserved fascination. "Well, much of the introduction is already done. As our guard said, I am the Keeper of this clan." He raised an eyebrow at Rhodri. "Do you know what a Keeper is, Grey Warden?"

Rhodri tilted her head a little. "Not in great depth, Keeper, no. But the Fereldan Circle of Magi, where I was kept, saw kidnapped Dalish children brought in from time to time. From speaking with them, I understand the Keeper is a lore-keeping mage who is responsible for guiding the clan through decisions."

"You understood correctly," he nodded. "Which of our children were snatched away to your Circle, then, Warden?"

"There was Elrian of Clan Sabrae, Aravas of Clan Virnehn, and Vunin of Clan Ghilain." Rhodri sighed. "I'm sorry, Keeper, but none still live."

The Keeper closed his eyes and shook his head. "The last two names I don't recall, but Elrian was a cousin's child. He should be seventeen by now. What happened to him?"

"There was an incident some months ago in the Tower," Rhodri said, her voice a little strained now. "An internal coup, blood magic gone wrong. Demons and abominations infiltrated." She swallowed. "My party and I were already out on Grey Warden business, and we came too late to save him, and many others."

He looked behind her. "I do not suppose you came to return Elrian's body to a clan? I see none with you."

"Forgive me, I did not," she bowed her head a little.

"Where is the body, then, if not with you?"

Rhodri winced. "The Templars refused to release any of the bodies from the Circle. I would presume Elrian's was burned, along with everyone else who had died, and the ashes would have gone into Lake Calenhad."

The Keeper grimaced and hissed through his teeth. "This is very much against our funeral rituals, Grey Warden. We do not burn our dead! They must be buried, given staves of oak and of cedar, and a tree is planted atop the grave."

"Forgive me," she said again, looking terribly remorseful now. "Had I any authority in the matter, neither Elrian nor the other two children would have been stolen from their people in the first place. They belonged with their clans and were happiest with them."

"I have no doubt of that," he replied shortly, and as if curating his own curtness, the draw in his brows softened. He let out a sigh. "Thank you, Grey Warden, for delivering this news, though I am sure it was not the reason you came looking for us."

"It was not the sole reason, Keeper, but I had always planned to deliver the news of those children upon finding you."

The Keeper frowned and studied the Warden's face briefly. "Thank you," he said again. "In any case, our introductions remain incomplete. I am Zathrian. And you are…?"

The introduction of Severin Rhodri Amell Callistus of Minrathous, Kirkwall, and the Fereldan Circle of Magi (placetum) made Zathrian's eyebrows rise.

"Manners from a shemlen," he murmured. "A Tevinter shemlen, no less. Unexpected. Well, Grey Warden, if you have come to deliver news of the Blight, I already know. I sensed the corruption in the south, and would have brought the clan further north if I could."

An unimpressed snort came from Sten in the back. "So their first reaction to trouble is to flee from it? Curious."

Rhodri wheeled around, pink-cheeked and eyes narrowing as she looked at Sten. "Unacceptable," she barked at him. "You do not have the right to come onto another culture's land and disparage them! You will speak civilly, or you won't speak at all."

"So be it," Sten sealed his mouth and folded his arms, looking distinctly nonplussed all the while.

Rhodri faced front again, watching the equally-unimpressed Zathrian with an apologetic smile.

"I'm very sorry, Keeper," she said earnestly. "You were hoping to bring your clan further north, you said?"

Zathrian smiled thinly. "I was, yes, but as you see from the suffering behind me, we are in no fit state to travel." He rubbed his brow with his fingertips, "I imagine you wish to speak of the treaty we signed with the Wardens. Is that correct?"

Rhodri nodded. "It is, Keeper."

"Mm. Unfortunately, it is looking like we might not be able to live up to that promise. A little explanation is in order, I think." He gestured toward the makeshift hospital, "If you'll follow me, please…"

Closer inspection of the people lying on the stretchers showed that they had all sustained bites and deep, long gashes that looked to have been administered by sets of sharp claws. The arms of some of them were sprouting dark, downy hair, and their eyes were turning a bright, gleaming gold that Zevran had only seen in animals.

Of course. More unknown evil. The darkspawn that ventured into the Brecilian Forest in hopes of wreaking havoc would no doubt be up against very stiff competition from hairy beasties on home turf. Zevran swallowed a weary sigh; had he not said the forest was a dreadful place to be? Being right could be an agonising thing sometimes.

The Keeper proceeded to advise the party that the clan had been living in the Brecilian Forest, as was their custom upon coming to this part of the country. A month into their stay, the clan had been– and Zathrian had paused quite suspiciously before saying it– ambushed by a pack of werewolves. Though they had managed to drive the beasts away, a great number of Dalish had been lost to their injuries or a curse imparted through werewolf bites, and more still were expected to die (or, more accurately, be slaughtered by their clan before they could complete the transformation into werewolves themselves, and gobble up all and sundry).

Zathrian barely needed any prompting from a keen-to-help Rhodri to elaborate on the curse. Somewhere in the forest, so said the Keeper, dwelled the wolf Witherfang, who was the source of all this disaster. Yet more of the clan had been sent into the forest pursuing the wolf a week prior, and they had not returned. Zevran was quite sure he had heard a children's story once about hunting something and bringing its heart to a suspicious-looking individual, just as the Keeper was now asking Rhodri to do. By the time the name of the tale had come to Zevran, though, Rhodri had already pledged to assist the clan, and the moment for the witty remark had passed. Always the way, really.

"I must return to caring for my people," Zathrian bowed his head slightly. "I wish you luck in the forest, Grey Warden. Creators speed your way. If you need to know anything else, please speak to my First, Lanaya, or our storyteller, Sarel, and if you have need of equipment," he gestured at an Aravel where a grey-haired man stood shaking his head at a younger man working a piece of wood, "Master Varathorn can assist you."

"Ah! Keeper, tell me please, before you go," Rhodri held up a hand as Zathrian made to leave, and he paused.

"Hmm?"

"Your patients," she gestured at the host of sickly elves behind him. "Are you using any particular magic or restoratives for their condition? Anything we might use should we encounter any afflicted clansmen in the forest?"

"I am," the Keeper replied, "but the spellwork is nothing I can teach you within a week. Keeping them cool has helped to slow the spread of the curse, but I am the one best able to treat them."

With a nod to the party, Zathrian left them alone and weaved his way toward a hospitalised clan member who was thrashing on his stretcher violently. He was covered in thin, dark hair everywhere but his face, and the sweat made it stick to him like a thin layer of glass. With a wave of Zathrian's hands, the patient fell still, his skin going even whiter.

Zevran's attention was torn away from the scene as Rhodri clucked her tongue sadly.

"We should set up camp back where we met the guard and then start looking for this Witherfang," she said after a moment. "I need to speak to Master Varathorn before we go, though. Perhaps one of those staves he has there is for sale…"

Unable to resist himself, Zevran glanced over his shoulder and shot Wynne the filthiest smirk he could arrange on such short notice, and immeasurable joy poured into him as the Senior Enchanter's eyes narrowed.

"Zev?"

Ah! Caught! He faced forward again, waggling his brows at the Warden who had said his name. She watched him for a moment with gentle bemusement, and beckoned him into a walk.

She bent down toward him a little as they strolled through the camp, speaking to him in a murmur, "I thought I'd check how you're faring, now that we're here. Are you well, pretiotus? Would you like to stay here while we look for Witherfang?"

"And leave your side, my dear Warden?" He chuckled, "Perish the thought."

Rhodri blinked. "You can. We won't be gone too long, I don't think. A handful of weeks, at the very most."

Zevran laughed again and declined the offer without thinking. The panic staggered in with sharp teeth and dangerous proclamations aplenty, and try as he might, Zevran couldn't think why the automatic response was to decline any offer to be away from the Warden. He swallowed his stomach back down his throat and added quickly, "We are in a rather acute situation, no? All hands on deck needed, I would think. Besides, if it turns out these elves are relatives to me, surely I would make a better first impression assisting you and Alistair."

None of this was met with any argument from the Warden; Zevran considered it sufficient, and blessed the Maker as his own body started to relax a little. Perhaps it was enough for both of them; perhaps it was simply the truth, and he could only access it when panicked. Besides, there was no need to have more people staring at him.

He waggled his brows at her. "Thank you, though," he crooned. "You are very gallant, my Grey Warden. You know this, I hope?"

Rhodri smiled and nodded. "Yes, I do."

Zevran smiled– not despite himself, but certainly not because of himself. "Good."

§

The one Zevran presumed to be Master Varathorn looked, at first blush, to be something of a taskmaster. And then, after Zevran had caught the wince of the wiry, redheaded apprentice as the man approached, the status was all but confirmed.

The Master tsked and shook his head, and pointed at the remarkably wavy piece of wood the apprentice was holding. "I don't know what you're doing there, but that wood is warped completely. Did you leave it out in the rain?"

The apprentice looked at the man with wide eyes. "N-no, Master Varathorn! I… ah…" he shrugged helplessly. "I think I… used too much heat."

"I told you about that, Ammen," Varathorn reproached. "This is living wood! What does it require?"

The young man hung his head. "Delicate hands and patience."

"And not…?"

"Not more heat." He sighed. "My actions bring me sorrow, Master."

Varathorn nodded. "And so they should. Truly, the art will be lost to us forever at this rate. Throw away your dead wood and start anew, while I speak to our guests."

"Yes, Master," the apprentice nodded and all but dragged himself back to the workbench, taking another piece of wood as he went.

Master Varathorn tutted quietly as he strode over to meet the party, giving them a somewhat harassed smile. His eyes went onto Zevran briefly, and then down to his cheek, where they lingered until Rhodri's greeting tore them away again.

"Good morning," she said pleasantly. "Are you Master Varathorn?"

The Master managed one last glance at Zevran's cheek before fully engaging himself in the conversation. "I am. Please forgive my distraction, stranger. Was there something you needed?"

Zevran took a moment to look around him while the two spoke, not least so the Master had less of an opportunity to glue his eyes onto Zevran's tattoo again. It shouldn't have been a problem, being stared at. It had happened often enough, after all.

In fact, it wasn't a problem. The only real problem, if indeed there was one, was that being stared at by this man felt like a problem. And the only cure for such irrational thinking was to prove it wrong by letting the Master stare a hole into Zevran's face for as long as he pleased.

Something in his gut steeled as he looked back and saw Rhodri writing something down on a small piece of paper. The Master was nodding and speaking, and Rhodri scribbled more down.

"Only… when… fallen off… tree. Right. I'll bring back whatever I find of it," she said, looking up with a resolute smile.

"Do that," the Master said with a nod, "and I'll craft it into something useful to you. I excel in making blades from ironbark. Or you could have a breastplate, if there is enough wood for it." Rhodri stiffened at that, her eyes widening. Varathorn raised an eyebrow. "... Is something the matter, Grey Warden?"

The pen and paper were left on the table as Rhodri straightened up, wringing her fingers. "I hope not," she said after a moment. "I just… I wonder how to suggest this, Master, as I don't know if it will be polite to you or not. I would hate to offend."

"Speak, Warden. I will trust your intentions are well-meant."

Rhodri gave an appreciative, if rather cautious nod. "Your wares are beautiful, Master, but my party has what it needs." She swallowed, "I had meant to bring you ironbark to use for your own clan. Much of their equipment must have been damaged in the clashes, I presume."

Master Varathorn's eyebrows rose high enough to risk disappearing into his hairline. "I… had not expected such generosity from an outsider," he said hesitantly. "That would be a great gift to my clan, if you truly mean that."

A beat passed where Zevran half-expected Rhodri to turn to stone, and then, as she visibly relaxed, perhaps go the complete other way and turn to sand.

"Ah," she chuckled and nodded. "I did mean it. I'll be happy to help."

"... I, ah–" Varathorn cleared his throat. "Thank you in advance, Grey Warden. Well, then, since my staves are no use to you, if you find a sylvan branch in the forest to your liking, consider bringing it to me and I can at least sand away the rough edges to make it comfortable to wield."

The offer was accepted with thanks that bordered on profuse, and with a last nod to the craftsmaster, the party left.

§

At camp, the party members planning on joining Rhodri's probe into the forest selected themselves with minimal trouble. Wynne and Sten were requested to stay behind; Alistair and Leliana, looking woefully underslept for reasons the entire party was painfully aware of, asked to stay and rest.

That left him, Shale, and Morrigan. And Jeppe, of course. Morrigan made a point of opting to go simply because it was the opposite of where Wynne would be, and Shale was surprisingly curious about the woods. Zevran smirked inwardly as they traipsed between the trees, silently hoping someone would happen upon them and react to the odd assembly. There had to be some compensation for being among all the revolting nature– and there was plenty of said revolting nature to be had.

That said, even if no-one showed up, it wasn't a dead loss. Or so Zevran's optimistic streak advised him, anyway. The midday sun filtered through gaps in the thinning canopy; the remaining foliage caught the full brunt of the light on its back and glowed down on them like adoration. Gold above, gold below, gold unlatching from the pinprick fingertips of the trees and drifting down to join the rest of the carpet beneath his feet. It was the most brazen, most utterly ineffectual display of wealth Zevran had ever seen in his life, and he shuddered to think how dark the forest got in the summer, when the canopy was at its thickest and darkest.

Rhodri, who seemed to have been visited by the same cheerful thought, gave a happy sigh and grinned at them. "It's nice here, isn't it? All these falling leaves and such, it's very exotic."

Morrigan snorted. "I would hardly call this exotic. 'Tis a natural part of the cycle. The weather grows cold, the trees drop their leaves and go dormant until the weather is warm again."

Zevran shook his head. "I do not know how you stood the winters out here, Morrigan," he said with a small shudder. "Did you never wish to go to a warmer forest?"

"Don't be ridiculous," she tsked impatiently. "There was no room for wishes, and leaving the Korcari Wilds to march north through the flatlands would have been a death sentence. Flemeth and I dwelled where we could, and we lived well enough. Fire and cold balm make a great difference to one's comfort levels."

She shrugged one shoulder, and if Zevran wasn't mistaken, a hint of self-consciousness was creeping into her tone. "Beyond that, I know the Wilds as well as any other of its natural denizens, in winter or summer. It is home to me. Is it so unthinkable a place to live well?"

"I am afraid the current winter weather is unthinkable enough to me," Zevran confessed. "I shudder to think how it must be when it is colder."

A soft, pitying 'ooh' issued from Rhodri, and Zevran's stomach dropped. Morrigan squinted at Zevran like he had just declared his betrothal with an ogre.

"You fool," Morrigan uttered softly. "We are nowhere near–"

A pained, exhausted groan cut the witch's diatribe short, and the party glanced around wildly.

"Rhodri," Zevran touched her arm and gestured at a small cluster of bushes, where a Dalish man lay, dragging himself toward them on his belly. His skin was like chalk, and he was covered in open wounds that looked to have drained most of the blood in his body.

Her eyes widened. "Mercy! Keep still a moment, let me close those gashes!"

With a wave of her hand, the fellow's wounds were sealed, but no colour was returning to him. She bent down, extracted one of those bright-red potions from her satchel, and steadied the man's head with a hand as she administered it to him.

Even after it had been drained, he looked half-dead. He panted as he creaked out, "Wh-where are the others?"

They looked around; Rhodri shook her head. "There are no others. You are the only one we found. Who did you come with?"

"Other– other hunters," he gasped. "Sent to kill the wolf Witherfang… bring his heart… we were attacked…"

"... By the werewolves?" Rhodri asked. The man was slow to respond, his breaths getting shallower, but he managed a nod.

"Gone now," he breathed. "They fled to the ruins… long time ago."

"Right." She straightened up. "We need to check the area for survivors, and then we'll take you back to your camp."

A cursory examination of the immediate surroundings revealed a handful of bodies, and by the time they had returned to the sole survivor, he was drifting in and out of consciousness.

"Zev." Rhodri's hand hovered near his arm, and Zevran made a point of ignoring the urge to close the gap.

He smiled smoothly. "Sí, mi sol?"

She leaned in and dropped her voice to a whisper. "Can he be saved?"

Zevran cast a glance at the man and sighed. "Mmm, I could not say either way at this point. He will be lucky if he does. We are a good three hours' walk from the camp, and that is a long time to be so poorly."

"I can run," she stepped back and began unbuttoning her robes. "I'll strap him to me with my robes and we can run back, all of us. Come."

A not-insignificant amount of shushing and jostling began as Zevran and Shale hoisted the unfortunate man into Rhodri's self-made sling. Her robes crossed over his back, sandwiching them front to front, and Zevran immediately shot down any notion of the delights of being pressed up against her like that. Some people didn't know their luck. Not least because they were now largely unaware of his surroundings, but even so.

With one hand wrapped around his back and the other hand securing his head in the crook of her neck (he would not think about burying his own face in there! He would not!) Rhodri burst into a run, and the rest of them were hot on her heels. Even Morrigan was saving the breath usually reserved for complaints to use for the trip back. Hopefully that wasn't where all of their luck had just gone.