I sit on my bed that is not real, in my room that is not real, with my friend who is only real when I will her to be. My mind races with thoughts that are not my own, my head throbbing, and I let out a long and ragged sigh.

"You are splintered," Beck says, climbing up on the bed with me, and then crawling around to hug me from behind. "The jagged parts are starting to come together, but they're too sharp to fit without hurting."

"I…" I sigh, deeply. "Yeah."

Beck gently sets her hands on my shoulders, but I still sink down into a hunch with a quiet groan. My hands press against my face, and I realize for the first time that I already have some callouses coming along.

"This has gone on for too long," I say. "I… I can't be myself, if the things that make me are in conflict. It can't be healthy."

"It isn't," Beck affirms, moving into a hug from above now, her little body pressed against my back. "How will you fix it?"

"You've made an admirable placebo," I admit to her. "I have no doubts your influence have smoothed the rough edges. But without you I'm even more screwed up than I am now. So I need to fix this while you're in play, because if anything happens to you…"

"You'd be pulled too far to stretch any further," she says. "Frayed edges parting and snapping like ropes."

"Yeah." I nod. "So… I need to figure out how to set myself right. Fix the frayed bits and become a single thing again, instead of two assholes forced to coexist in a single skull."

"But you are not two," Beck says, playing with my hair now. "You are three."

I blink.

"Three?"

"Marcus is from Abbotsford and Markus is from Chanson," she says. "But you have never been to either place. You are from the Sacred Ashes."

From the Sacred Ashes. From… the temple. Where I first awoke, stumbling into the creator from a hole in the world. That's when I began, isn't it? Running from daemons and forcing myself through the veil, two minds as one acting to save myself. The pressure made me whole, forced me together, and only now that I am being pulled apart do I start to tear. Two halves falling away into individuals again, and the memory of the unity…

"Is me," I say aloud, for thought and word are the same thing here and Beck will know what I mean. "I am the third."

"Three in one," Beck says, Marcus' mind alive now with divine symbolism that is blasphemous to Markus. "Marcus and Markus and Markus Anew."

"So if I am to be whole… I have to be myself?" I ask, though I know Beck can't really answer. "I have to be myself anew. Not Markus from Chanson or Marcus from Abbotsford, I have to be Markus from the Temple, Markus the Herald."

"Marcus the Student jumped off a waterfall." I sit up as Beck speaks, letting her sit behind me and keep fiddling with my hair, nimble fingers making something of the mess. "Markus the Templar was pulled into the Fade. But Markus the Herald climbed up a mountain, and Markus the Herald forced himself back through the Veil."

"And Markus the Herald halted the Breach," I say, but I don't nod because I don't want to mess up her project. "And Markus the Herald is me."

"And you are Markus the Herald." Beck confirms as she spins my hair around her fingers. "And you are my father, and Lysette's lover, and Varric's friend, and Cassandra's charge, and Solas' ally, and Blackwall's commander, and Vivienne's student. You are not Marcus the Student; you never played Halo with Marshal, or fell in love with Beck, or kissed on her on the lips, and you never jumped off a waterfall. And you are not Markus the Templar; you never trained under Venerable Sarker, or learned to ride from Knight Devine, or played cards with Enchanter Hadwin."

"But I kissed Lysette," I say. "That was me."

"Markus and Marcus were not there in that moment," she confirms. "But you were."

"And then… the Lord Seeker, confronting him, that was me too?" But she shakes her head.

"Marcus wanted to change things, confront Envy, reveal the truth, break the sequence," she says. "But Markus feared Envy, feared being wrong, feared for the innocent that would die if the Templars retaliated."

"So I took a half measure," I realize. "I… I exposed him, but only to Cassandra and the rest. I could have ended it there, stabbed him in the throat and forced Envy to show itself."

"That is Marcus," she says, shaking her head. "He is in the voice and the eye, the laughing tone and knowing glint. That is not you."

"And if I changed nothing, let things proceed as they were meant to…" I frown. "That's Markus?"

"Yes." Beck nods. "He is louder often. He speaks better, but knows less. This is his world, but Marcus knows the tale."

"But if… if they have that kind of influence, that kind of voice, how can I know it's me?" I ask. "How do I know it isn't Markus or Marcus saying or doing it? I… I'm them, aren't I?"

"No." Beck smacks me on the back of the head with a little hand, and I wince, but it is not a hard hit and she doesn't sound angry. "You are not Marcus or Markus. You are not Student or Templar. You are Herald. Do not wonder what the Student would do, or Templar would say. Wonder what the Herald would be. Be the Herald. Be you, as you are, not as they wish to be."

"How do I be… who I am, without those two interfering?" I ask, frowning. "I'm hardly able to just turn them off, they're inside my mind. What do I do?"

"Markus and Marcus will fight," Beck says. "Argue and angst, always wanting to walk the way with different steps. You are to be caught in the middle, it will make you less of you and more of them. You must resolve, reorganize, make restitution between. You are not they, and they are not you. They are voices in the void, and you needn't listen."

"Markus held something back," I remind her. "Something important. If I ignore them, I could miss out on other things, important things, and without Marcus' memories I'm as clueless as anyone else. I… I need them, what they know."

Even Beck seems stumped for a moment; her being a vessel of Calm allows her to analyze the issue with perfect impartiality, but it doesn't make her a genius in the field of psychology. I, for my part, am stumped. This doesn't exactly fall into the field of experience I have; I know how to kill daemons, close rifts and talk to people in a way that makes them feel good about doing what I want them to do or feel bad about doing stuff they shouldn't. Neither of the others are helpful either; Marcus flunked out of psychology 11 and Markus thinks psychology sounds like a field of magic.

"Magic maybe," I murmur. "Solas… uh, he can put me in dreams somehow. Maybe he… he could tap into my subconscious?"

"The Hiding God would know of Marcus then," Beck replies. "And from Marcus' knowing he would know you know him for what he is."

"And I'd rather he know as little of that as possible." I nod. "Dammit. Are there any other mages that can do that kind of thing?"

"Marcus is the one who would know," Beck replies. "And Beck is not Marcus."

That's annoyingly true. I sigh, before standing up and letting Beck cling to my back like a monkey, giving her something of a piggyback ride before setting her down. She giggles, and I am reminded that she is still a child after a fashion.

"Marcus is out of ideas," I admit. "And the book only knows what he knows. So it's a wash."

"Marcus said that," Beck notes, and I groan. "It's okay. Markus will say things sometimes. But he doesn't need to say them for you."

"This isn't helping," I say, before summoning my spirit blade and willing it to its standard three foot length. "I can do this, can't I? I can do something that's literally impossible by the metrics of both Markus and Marcus. I can use a spirit blade. I shouldn't be able to, because I'm not a mage in the mechanical or literal sense, but I can. And despite that I can't even think in a straight fucking line without one of two voices interjecting!"

I swing the spirit blade in an angry flurry of blows, slaughtering an invisible enemy as I force myself to think. I will my other blade into being, my straight-edged Ferelden sword, and dual wield for a time to practice that, all while scowling. In battle I can focus; in battle it's just me. Markus gives me the muscle memory and Marcus remembers what the foe can do but it's me who actually puts it into practice, me who kills our… my enemies, me who risks dying with each blow parried and foe engaged. Not Markus or Marcus, just me.

Why can't it always be me? Why shouldn't it be? Why can't everything be as simple as battle and loving Lysette? Why, why, why?

Too many questions, none of them answerable. So I kill my invisible foes until sweat beads on my forehead and my anger is vented, and then both blades vanish and I drop down to my knees.

"Maybe I should just pray," I scoff, though I shouldn't. "Beg the Maker to make it easier. He's as likely to fix this as I am."

"Now Markus is speaking," Beck notes. "He is angry. Angry that the lie could not remain, angry the truth still hurts so much."

"She threw me away!" I cry, before biting back my next words and swallowing hard. "I… oh god. That… fuck!"

I punch the ground, which is stupid because it's supposed to hurt but it doesn't because some part of me, probably Marcus, doesn't want to hurt myself, so the stone floor becomes soft as a feather pillow.

"Why did it have to be the one with the tragic fucking backstory?" I ask. "I can't help it, but… dammit. I… I have to help it. I have to, or we're gonna get ourselves… I-I'm gonna get myself killed."

"A broken Herald cannot help," Beck agrees. "Markus must move on, and Marcus must relent. Not all things can be fixed. You know that."

She's right, of course, because she's saying everything that I can't bring myself to say. I stay down on my knees for a long few minutes, breathing heavily and trying to think this through properly. Markus needs to… Markus needs to resolve his issues, and I need to figure out how to make better use of what Marcus knows. The former… we'd have to find his mother, and she could be anywhere by this point. If she was dead, Maker forgive me, I think it would make things easier. For the latter… prophecy is a great excuse, until I fail to predict something new, like that crap in Delisle Harbour, or Lysette's entire… existence.

So we need to take things carefully. I don't want to be lost inside myself forever. It would do me no good, and neither will these two idiots arguing all the time. I haven't even thought about this before now.

"Any more terrible secrets?" I ask the others within myself. "Marcus, you ever kill someone or something? Markus? No more tragedies hidden in the subconscious?"

And then I let go. I stop… trying. Stop trying to be me, to be myself alone. I let the others come forward, and share the mind with them fully, willingly. No more interjections. No more arguments within. I want it all out, all the bile and frustration, all the regrets and pain. Show me, I beg my own mind. Show me what you must.

Val Narie lurches into focus; the child hanging by the neck, little girl lost to ignorance and outrage, the burned out home in the village square a monument to her unwitting sin. Tears flood my eyes again, and Beck presses herself against me and hums softly.

"Yeah…" I murmur. "That's… that's why we do it, huh? The shit with the Templars and the Circle?"

Marcus has nothing similar to offer; he was thoroughly conventional, downright boring in his own time. It's Markus who is troubled, Markus who is hurting, Markus who was cast aside by his mother for the sins of his father and the error of his birth. It makes sense then why he's always trying to be the will behind the words; this is the first time in his life he's been able to seize control, take initiative and do something right. For Marcus, this is a game come to life. For Markus…

For Markus, this is life.

"I'm sorry," says Marcus, using my mouth for the first time since I climbed that mountain and leapt from the Fade. "I'm so fucking sorry. I didn't know. I wasn't… thinking like that."

"It is as much my fault as yours," says Markus, and I can hear the difference in inflection as he speaks; the voice is smoother, with the burr of an Orlesian accent hidden in the vowels. "You were so unlike me; untroubled, unburdened, free of fear in your time. I… I was envious. I wanted to be that way as well."

"It didn't work," Marcus deadpans, and I laugh as all three of myself. "But… shit. This isn't… this can't be us. We have to be… I need to be better."

"So do I," Markus agrees. "We will be better together. But this is not our tale, I think; it is his."

"I dunno if I can just let someone else drive," Marcus notes. "It's… weird. Like watching the game play out wrong."

And I smile.

"You two are more than welcome to contribute," I say, and in my mind's eye I see a blonde youth in a green hoodie and a shaven-headed youth in plate bow their heads in agreement. "But… let me be what I am to be. Let me be the Herald. I will bear the burden gladly."

And with that, we are concluded. For now, at least; there will be more to follow. I do not doubt it. But I stand and feel… whole. Real, in this place that is not. I bid my spirit blade to be and clasp it close to my chest, then my Ferelden blade to do the same.

"I am Markus Anew," I say, to affirm myself. "I am… not the Student. I am not the Templar. I am the Herald. And I am me."

Beck claps for me, celebrating for the four of us all on her own. I smile down at her, this little thing I made by being me, and then reach down and ruffle her messy hair. She still smiles when I withdraw my hand.

"I have to go now," I say, and I bend down to kiss her atop the head. "But be ready for what comes. We have much to do."

I go to the bed and climb in, and the moment my head hits the pillow I begin to rise in the waking world. I sit up, and immediately grunt in pain as my head is spiked clean through the front with something cold and metal. Then I open my eyes and realize my unknown assailant is a hangover, because I am alone with my regrets.

Fortunately, Vivienne's kind gift of water still sits on the bedside table; I snatch it and drink deep, the cool liquid easing the dry heat of my throat and lessening my headache. Beck thrums about my neck and soothes the rest away. Thank the Maker I didn't sleep in my armour, or I'd have even more to whine about. I swing my legs off the side of the bed, but before I can so much as stand the door swings open, revealing an elven woman with a stern expression holding a basket. She wears a plain but well made uniform and apron, clearly a serving woman of the household.

"Your garments, ser," she says, respectfully bowing as she sets them down on a low table near the door. "Courtesy of the Lady Enchanter, freshly laundered. Will there be anything else, ser?"

I stare at her for a moment, before blinking.

"Ah… I don't need anything," I say. "But, um… thank you."

She nods and retreats, and I rise from bed and inspect the basket. Most of these aren't mine; she must have sent for garments using… oh Maker, did she use my measurements from the clothes she helped me take off? That feels… creepy. Two new shirts, breeches and stockings, a pair of Ferelden-styled trousers as well, and no less than four coats in various different colours. I choose the faded green, because it is the least garish; the others are a vivid blue, stark white and a red so bright it hurts to look at.

I don a fresh linen shirt, then my leather arming vest so I can slip into my chainmail before I head out later, then the trousers and coat. Fresh socks are most welcome of all, before I slip into my worn, comfy boots and step out into the hallway. I figure everyone's likely downstairs somewhere, but when I get to the landing the ballroom is empty, the floors swept and polished back to a mirror shine and the doors swung open to the garden outside. I go there next, down the steps and outside, and find a rather odd sight.

Vivienne, Varric, Lysette and, most amusing of all, Solas, sat on spindly wooden chairs about a pair of circular tables in the shade of an apple tree, drinking tea and eating breakfast. I cross the lawn and approach them, to which Vivienne gives me a once-over and smiles.

"I am glad to see you out and about," she says. "You were most weary last night, dear. Please, take a seat and eat something. Would you like some tea?"

Tea with the ice queen. I grin as I sit down, the sunlight on my back making me feel much better. The hangover is already receding, no doubt due to Beck's excellent influence. Varric seems to notice the change in my attitude as I graciously take some tea and a biscuit, before spearing a piece of bright red fruit that turns out to be watermelon of some variety when I bite into it. My dwarven friend leans over, elbowing me gently.

"You alright, kid?" he asks. "You got pretty dizzy last night, from what I saw."

"Add "quick recovery from hangovers" to the list of increasingly implausible traits I possess, Varric," I reply, smiling as I take a sip of chilled tea. "I feel… excellent."

And it's true; I feel better than I think I have since the Temple. The colours seem a little brighter, the sunlight a little clearer, and I can feel the strength in my body. That talk last night, with myself… I feel clear, focused. Marcus and Markus are silent; they don't comment on the food or the weather or some minute trace of Vivienne's attitude. They are present, but they do not interject as they did.

I am me, myself, and I am for the first time allowed to be in full control of my own mind.

"You certainly look it," Lysette notes, winking at me over her own cup, and I flush a little.

"Indeed," Vivienne sounds a bit less convinced, but as breakfast goes on I seem to cast aside her doubts. She sees me eat, drink and speak with an ease I did not show last night. Doubtless after the memories of Markus' mother surfaced she expected something more brooding, more frailty in my smile.

But why would I brood? I have overcome. The day is mine, and today I have much to do. By my estimate today is the best possible day for Fiona to intercept me; the Templars have abandoned Val Royeaux nearly to a man, and moving in now would be safest for her to avoid being seen by those who would have the best chance of recognizing her. If she's clever, which I anticipate she will be, she'll be disguised, likely moving through the slummier districts as an alienage elf.

Of course, there are doubts to be had about a woman who would sell herself and her colleagues to a faction as comically evil as Tevinter, but that is rather beside the point at the moment. That was a creation of the game, something of a contrivance to add stakes and drama. I don't doubt things will be more complicated this time around.

Ah, but now I'm worrying over what is to be. I can only afford to worry about what is happening, and at the moment there's little to worry about.

"Varric," I say, after scarfing down my second biscuit with a bittersweet jam I can't quite place the taste of. "Have you had any luck with that note?"

"I figure I've got the sum of it, yeah," he replies, pulling it from inside his coat and unfolding it in front of us. "It's a basic cipher, but it's been put through a grammatical ringer. If it weren't for the penmanship I'd figure I translated something wrong."

"Mmmm…" I look over his translated sheet when he takes that out, and after reading it through I frown. "This is… gibberish."

"Yeah, but it's gibberish that's telling us to grab a key from a dead drop and go somewhere," he notes. "Somewhere in the south districts."

"Sounds like a trap," Lysette notes. "A really obvious one."

"Such is the risk of our business," I reply. "I dreamt on this last night; I believe it is safe. Relatively speaking."

"More visions?" Solas asks, leaning forward a little, and I note that opposite Vivienne has also perked up a single eyebrow.

"Yes," I nod. "I… last night I had something of a revelation of the self, but afterward I beheld a figure all in red, dancing between doors and daggers… and something to do with breeches… dancing breeches."

I shrug.

"I do wish they were more cognizant, but I will accept that which Andraste deems suitable," I say. "Besides, I have not been misled thus far; the Apostate cave, Lady Vivienne; I see no reason why the third would suddenly shift to deceit."

"So long as it doesn't get us killed, I'm all for it," Varric says. "How about you, Iron Lady?"

Vivienne deigns to quirk her lips up at the little nickname, before nodding her head once.

"If Ser Venier believes this is worth investigation, I will not contest," she says. "But I will urge you to be cautious. The assassins who remain will likely make their move today, before we depart tomorrow. Time is running short for their mission, and two having failed will not deter them, I fear."

"Will you accompany us?" I ask, fearing that I already know the answer, and I am relieved to be wrong when she nods.

"It would not do for me to claim loyalty to your cause and immediately shirk my duties, darling," she says, rising from the table. "I shall need a few minutes to prepare."

Lysette, already wearing full armour bar her helmet, shakes her head, but I tap a finger against my forearm to remind her that I too am unarmoured. Varric just chuckles at both of us; he is, it seems, entirely content to wear nothing but his coat and open-faced shirt for protection. Solas stands as well, grasping his staff in hand and nodding at me.

"At your order, Markus," he says, and I grin.

"Be ready in ten minutes," I say, before standing up myself, swigging back the last of my tea. "And keep your eyes up. There's bound to be someone with a dagger and a lust for coin between us and our mark, and I've become rather weary of having knives at my back."

Lysette nods resolutely, and the rest speak their part before I withdraw. Only a few minutes after do I return, armoured and ready for a day out, sword at my hip and spirit blade above it in its knotted sling of blue silk. Everybody else wears their usual equipment; Lysette in her breastplate adorned proudly with the lion of Delisle, Solas in his wanderer's furs and leathers, Varric in his… shirt, and then Vivienne emerges.

She wears glittering gilded vambraces of scaled mail, greaves edged in silver. Her dress is different, more akin to an open-faced coat, and it takes me a moment to realize the large fronting is a plate of metal enwrapped in filigreed soft cloth, with knee-high boots of black leather and elbow-length gloves of the same material shielding her extremities. Her horned hennin rests upon her head, and a silver-tipped staff in one hand she twirls delicately as she approaches.

She is a vision of Orlesian finery stanced for battle, and it is impressive to behold. As a company then we depart, Solas near to my side with his hands wrapped tight about his gnarled wooden staff, Lysette to our front as a one-woman vanguard. Varric looks much more casual about the whole affair; he glances down at his translated note and map a few times. At his instruction we go south for a while, toward the docks about the Miroir de la Mere, the vast scrying pool that was Reville's greatest folly, and perhaps the single most stunning display of Orlesian arrogance and wastefulness in all of the nation's history.

All along the way we look about for danger, but none of the assassins take the bait. This is the least ideal time for them to make a move, I suppose; I am well guarded and freshly rested. I wonder if the rest will work in concert, or continue to die one by one against I and my fellows? The latter is preferable for me, at least.

At last we find the note and the key, wrapped up in a red handkerchief. This part is known to me; distantly I recall two more red things, but matters appear to have been condensed. Varric leans against a nearby crate for a few minutes and analyzes the new map on the note, cross-referencing it with his prior translation, before nodding.

"Note's by a different person, but the cipher's the same basic idea," he says. "We need to head northwest. There's somebody looking to meddle with our operations, and this'll let us into their hideout."

He holds up the glimmering iron key, and with a shrug and a sigh we go northwest as bid, avoiding getting lost solely by virtue of Varric's head for city streets and a few lucky landmarks to reference on the map. It's still half an hour of what feels like aimless meandering before at last we come to the promised door, leading into the back lot of a large building.

"This is it," Varric says, holding up the note, which is equipped with a useful artistic rendering of the selfsame door ahead of us. "Kid, you wanna do the honours?"

I take the key and, with a nod to Solas, who enwreathes all of us in a glimmering barrier, throw open the door with my sword drawn. I move in with blade in hand, but I needn't bother; when I round the corner I find the courtyard empty. It smells odd, a sort of metallic stink, but though my first thought is of blood there is none anywhere to be seen. The grass is sick and yellowed, dry from the lack of rain. My companions file in behind me, and Vivienne tuts dissappointedly.

"A dead end," she says, before glancing up at a gate opposite us, up a short flight of stairs. "Well… I suppose there's one more door worth investigating, dear."

But as we cross the dead grass, Varric pauses suddenly. His nose wrinkles, before his eyes go wide.

"Kid-" he begins, but nothing more can be heard over the sound of breaking glass and the sudden rush of flame as somebody above us drops a vial of Antivan fire into the courtyard.

The grass ignites like an oil spill, flames leaping up to our knees. I cry out, Lysette dashing forward toward the stairs with one hand firmly grabbing my shoulders. The heat is immediately stifling, but before we can make it too far a crossbow bolt is narrowly deflected by Solas' barrier around me, and I shoulder Lysette toward the stairs and dive as another hits the ground between us. I catch myself with my hands, the fire searing them tender, and I bite back a scream of pain. The flames have caught on my boots, but before the licking tongues of red and orange can reach any higher, Viviennne raises her staff and, with a spoken incantation, calls down a gale of winter wind.

Snow flurries about us, dousing the flames and the heat, the sudden clouds above us ensuring the next two crossbow bolts miss entirely. I groan as I am doused in snow for the second time in three weeks, before rising up and grabbing my sword where it fell, the leather of the grip cold to the touch. It soothes the ache before I rise, looking all around and then up.

"Varric, on the high ground!" I call, gesturing for him, and he takes aim through the whirling clouds and, with his tongue between his teeth, fires a single bolt.

Through the wind I hear a cry of pain, before a figure breeches the cloud and hits the ground hard with a thud and a snap, a bolt buried in his right eye and his head twisted around the wrong way from the impact. Varric sights again, cranking Bianca, and Vivienne stills the gale with a wave of her hand, before directing it all straight upward with a swing of her staff.

The winds buffet the other opponent, and I see a dark shape tumble head over heels backwards. Lysette calls to me and we charge the door right as it swings open, exposing three men in Orlesian warrior garb with swords and masks.

"There!" one cries, in a thick aristocratic accent. "Kill the false prophet!"

They charge, Lysette and I bracing to receive. She steadies herself in a wide stance at the top of the stairs, but I decide to change the angle somewhat; I put one foot on top of the handrail and, with a grunt of effort, step up onto the guardrail and swing down at the first man from above. His sword is braced to thrust and he cannot switch his guard in time, my Ferelden blade cutting through his leather cap and splitting his scalp, sending him tumbling to the side. The second man adjusts and raises his sword high to block my next strike, but that only opens him for Lysette to thrust forward and impale him through the stomach with her short sword.

The last man reels as his two fellows die, before turning to run; a snap and a rattling sound signal the end of that as he is frozen solid in place by a surge of ice from the ground, rapidly crawling up his body to leave him encased from the chest down. He flails his arms wildly, but I leap off the guardrail and grab his sword arm from behind, forcing the blade from his grip.

Beyond him, through the door, I see three more men frozen not by ice but in fear, clutching swords tightly in wavering hands. Beyond them, someone skulks in the shadows and raises a bow. I duck behind the frozen man but the arrow is not meant for me; one of the three beyond groans as a broadhead bursts from his breast, stumbling forward once, then again. By the time he falls a second arrow cleanly punches through the second man's skull, the very tip prodding through his eye from behind. The last man turns and begins to call out, but a third arrow takes him in the throat and he chokes on his words, falling backwards to die.

The frozen man flails again, but I bring my sword up and crack him over the head with the pommel, rendering him unconscious with a heavy smacking sound.

"Good day," I say, stepping around him, but before I can speak any more the figure in the shadows steps forward, firing one more arrow. It flies past me, just over my shoulder, and I twist to see the man I struck on the head stumble and fall down the stairs, dead with an arrow through his throat.

My breath catches, not from fear but from awe. She threaded that shot between my head, the unconscious man's head and right over Lysette's shoulder to kill him. That takes a stunning amount of skill, and I turn to see exactly who I expect smirking at me.

Sera twirls an arrow in her fingers, looking me up and down. She's about what I expected; straw-blonde hair all tangled and messy atop her head, big pale brown eyes sparkling with mischief and those pointy elven ears I recall she's almost ashamed of. Her garments are ragged and threadbare at the hem, a long red shirt that hangs off the shoulders, held in place with straps and a leather breast… thing, that looks like a sort of reinforced crop top that hugs her shoulders, made of stitched leather and padding.

"Hello," she says, before nodding to me. "You're… him, right? The glowey one with the magic hand, yeah?"

I nod, raising my marked hand. It doesn't flair, but it's easy to see the strange, swirling glyph burned into my pale flesh. She frowns.

"Well you're… you're kinda boring, really." She gives me another once-over. "Thought you'd look more special. Short though, heh."

I don't bridle as I might have before, because Sera has blessed me with a simple fact; she is, I can see even from here, no taller than I am. She might even be a bit shorter, though it's doubtful. She takes a step forward, glancing over my shoulder at my other companions.

"Still, you've got the glowy hand, so that makes you the one I've got to talk to." she nods. "That big talker there behind you is a richy rich who wants you dead. Dunno why, but he hired the other five idiots to get it done. I'm Sera. I've got friends."

"Friends in red," I note, and she looks suitably alarmed. "Mischief makers and key takers, I assume. You're Sera, but you're also Jenny."

"Ah… yeah, I'm…" she hesitates. "How the hell d'you know all that?"

"Magic hand," I say, holding up the mark again. "And the will of Andraste. That was some impressive shooting."

"Oh pish, it's not that…" She frowns. "Wait a minute. Aren't you gonna get all pissy, tell me this looks like a trap or that I need to identicate myself or something?"

"Identify, but no," I shake my head. "You're Sera. You have a bow, and you're friends with Red Jenny. That is what you offer, no? Little people who want to help however they can, to get back at those who look down on them?"

"Yeah…" She seems properly alarmed by now, but I take a step forward and offer her my hand to shake.

"We'd be happy to have you aboard," I say. "The Inquisition needs all the help it can get, no matter how unlikely."

"My dear," Vivienne interjects. "I understand your appreciation for potential allies, but surely we can do better than… this?"

She even gives Sera a once over. The elf, in retort, blows a raspberry, and I chuckle. Vivienne looks scandalized.

"To the contrary, Madame Vivienne, I think Sera and her Friends are just the sort of help we need right now," I reply. "You proved last night that you could ably provide connections to the Orlesian nobility we would otherwise struggle to attain. Sera represents the other side of things."

"I know people who think people like you are shite," she says to Vivienne, a little smirk on her face. "I bet I could figure out what colour your knickers are if I had a day and a gold coin."

"White, if you must know." I think my ears actually turn red; I know Sera's do. Vivienne continues regardless. "But this is your decision, my dear."

I'm a little surprised that she relents, but Sera grins at me.

"So, I'm in?" she asks, slinging her bow over her shoulder. "I know people, who know how to do things. Plus, arrows."

"Arrows indeed," I nod. "Very well, Sera. Welcome to the Inquisition."

I shake her hand, and she takes it graciously. I'm glad I didn't scare her too badly with the foresight thing; Sera's distrust of magic looms large in my mind as Marcus presents it, but I wave his concerns aside. I'm very clearly not magic; I'm just a normal human boy with a sword and some friends. I doubt she'll look much deeper than that.

Besides, with her onboard, I'm done in Val Royeaux. It's time to go home and get ready. Hopefully Fiona can run into me at some point along the way; otherwise I'll have to head to Redcliffe blind, and hope the Venatori didn't completely clean the place out while I was busy. That little concern needles at my gut, but I ignore it; if it's happened, I can't undo it. All I can do is hope it hasn't and plan for what to do if it has.

"Madame Vivienne, what is the soonest we can leave the city?" I ask.

"I can have horses and a good carriage ready before we've finished luncheon, dear," Vivienne says. "We could leave today if you liked."

"I would like that." I nod. "Please, have all the necessary preparations made."

Sera finds a decent partner for conversation in Varric, at least. The two go back and forth, trading barbs that aren't really barbs and exasperating Varric when effectively every bit of metaphor and wordplay shoots right over her head and lands somewhere far from the intended point. It would be funny if it weren't so clearly aggravating for my dwarven friend. It's like watching a man talk to a wall, but the wall will call him an ass if he doesn't say the right words.

Lysette and Solas are united in resolutely ignoring them, focusing on our surroundings. But Vivienne… I can't say if her issue with Sera is some sort of classist dismissal or something more personal, but in spite of how little she says when she bothers to speak to her, just those few words clearly set a simmering sort of anger inside our new elven compatriot. I can smell the drama coming, and intercede with a quick question of my own.

"Sera," I say, for that is the only name or title she's given me. "Will you require any resources for keeping in contact with your… people?"

"What?" Her eyebrow shoots upward, before she frowns. "Oh, like birds and all that? Yeah, I can use those. Also arrows. Maybe somebody who can run fast? You have those, yeah?"

"The Inquisition has a detachment of couriers, yes," I nod. "Though most letters and such go through Leliana. You may want to provide her a key to your ciphers to avoid any translation errors if she needs to check your messages."

"A key to my what?" Sera asks. "She can stay ruddy well away from whatever that is, don't care how important she is!"

I blink. Lysette glances over her shoulder when Varric starts laughing aloud. Solas frowns, looking suddenly quite unsure of this whole affair. Vivienne, for her part, just makes a noise somewhere betwixt disdain, disgust and pity.

"Varric?" I plead, and my dwarven friend keeps laughing.

Sera just continues to look disgusted, now glaring down at Varric. I close my eyes, pinch the bridge of my nose between finger and thumb, and let out a gentle sigh. Marcus is laughing somewhere inside, the bastard. Markus, at least, commiserates with my suffering.

This is going to be a long trip home.

AN: Another Update on schedule; this is beginning to feel like a habit. Anywho; though I'm not a great fan of Sera (sometimes I can barely stand her as she's written) I must acknowledge she does have her place in the story ahead, and I loathe flame-fics with a fiery passion. As such, she'll be here, and she'll be herself. Besides that, more to come next Friday. Yes, the lack of Fiona was intentional.