"I have a condition!" Ten called before she could lose her nerve, "You grant me three days to write some letters. Put my affairs in order."

"That can be arranged."

"Three days! I am going to walk up to the fire. Don't shoot. I trust nobody else up there has the same problem as… Thiago."

She stepped over the corpse and saw that she left bloody footprints in the dust of the road as she approached the circle of light. She took a deep breath and moved hesitantly forward until she stood beside the flickering fire. She made a great show of disarming, putting her hatchet and dagger on the ground. She waited there, hand on the knife at her thigh, her ears pricked for the creak of a bowstring being drawn.

She heard more hushed conversation from the top of the ridge. She saw the trees sway a bit, and someone walked down what must have been a very steep path cut right into the rock of the cliff's face, and descend in the circle of light. As he grew closer, Ten could see he was slightly built, though quite a bit taller than she, and…

"He sent an elf?" Ten exclaimed, "Hate to break it to you, cousin, but killing me is not going to make you very popular in the capital."

"And what exactly would I do with the favor of the dregs of such an unimportant land?" he asked, and she put a face to the voice. He approached her suspiciously, dark eyes narrowed. Stopped right in front of her, examining her. His face looked, not unlike her own, as though someone had checked all the boxes for 'how to tell if this person is an elf.' They stood there at detente for a moment. She stayed tense, expecting his hand to go to one of the blades on his back, but he made no moves in that direction.

"So the man who would be king sends a foreign assassin," she said, trying to bait him into conversation again, "Did you outbid every outfit in Fereldan?"

The assassin gave a short, dry, laugh, "He did not explain his reasoning to me. I was told to go. I went."

"So nobody told you," she sighed, "He went to you because none of the hired blades in Denerim would dare touch me." This was a bluff, of course, but she imagined that it had something to do with it. After all, the man who had both of his three-fingered hands on the strings of every hitman in town, the elusive Don Cangrejo, was a moderately personal friend of hers. One who owed her his life, once or twice over.

"Ah yes. A beloved folk hero," said the assassin, "Or so they say."

"So, what are we looking at here? Dagger in the heart? Drowning? Hanging? Would you like to strangle me with your bare hands so you can tell the Teyrn you watched the light leave my eyes for the very last time?"

"Such a pity," he sighed, "They said you were something to look at, but the stories don't do you justice." He put a hand up, put it on the side of her neck. She expected him to go for her throat, at which point she was counting on making a show of going faint so he would have to support her weight, and get her hand on her ax once she'd been dropped to the ground. He did not though, he just left it there, cool and rough and dry. She cringed inwardly.

"I'll thank you not to dishonor my corpse," she said, but could not resist, "So what are they saying about me?"

"That you cut down three lords for the indignities visited upon your family and the murder of your husband," he said, "And then the Grey Wardens snatched you from the dungeons, to the consternation of much of polite society and the muted celebration of everyone else. Then, of course… all the unpleasantness that followed. I must confess, I have had an idea of you in my head, and it… it does not compare to the real thing."

"You believe I cut down three banns and their fighting men, and yet you are standing here before me, alone," she said.

"Oh, I am not alone," he said, "There are enough arrows aimed at you now to…"

There was a cacophony from the ridge above. The archers had loosed their arrows, but they were not aimed at what this strange elf thought they were. Several cracks issued as arrows found tree trunks. One flew into the sky, barely visible in the darkness beyond the firelight.

"What have those fools done?" he fumed, turning, mercifully dropping his hand from her neck.

The woods above them suddenly exploded in motion as three men were flung clear off of the cliff and landed, with three rather satisfying crunches, at the base of it. Three more followed, but they were moving of their own volition, making all sorts of high pitched frightened man noises, at first trying to scramble down the cliff, and then just letting themselves fall, as a very familiar and very large spider emerged from the treeline, followed closely by a very familiar and very large dog, and, after several seconds, a very familiar and very large Qunari.

There was a zip followed by a cry as an arrow buried itself in the back of one who had gotten up and tried to run. Ten heard the crack of ironwood on stone, followed by a rumble deep within the earth, and the rock of the cliff face began to crack and crumble. The spider scrambled up into a tree, the dog and Qunari leapt back, and a shelf of rock two feet thick slid down and landed, burying the men who had fallen.

The assassin watched on in horror, his back to her. This was a bad move on his part, as it gave her easy access to hilts of the shortblades strapped to his back, both of which she seized. When he registered what she was doing, he dipped, hoping to shake her off, but she held on doggedly, getting a leg around his waist, and, finally wrestling one blade free of its scabbard, working her arm around his neck and putting it to his throat, pressing just hard enough to wound. He relaxed almost immediately, put his hands out.

"So, what do you think?" she whispered in his ear, hooking her chin over his shoulder from behind, "Dagger in the heart? Drowning? Hanging?"

"Wait!" he exclaimed, breathing hard through his nose, seeing the blade at his throat, feeling where it had nicked him, "Wait. I yield…just…"

"Hands out to your sides."

He obeyed. She took the blade from his throat and backed up. "Get on the ground."

He obeyed again, dropping to his knees in the dust by the fire. She stooped, gathered her own weaponry, lest he get any ideas. He kept his eyes on the ground.

"Oh, you are scared now, aren't you," she said.

"Absolutely petrified," he said, not looking up. His words had begun to run together. "But surely you must be a reasonable woman. One does not make the sorts of friends who bring down cliff faces and shoot in the dark like that by being a fool."

"I'm listening."

"Despite appearances, I am generally quite good at what I do," he said, "Had Thiago not given away our position, you would not even have known what hit you. I realize how ridiculous this must sound but… I beg your protection."

"And what's to keep you from putting a blade in my back the moment I let you up?" she asked.

"You are familiar with the Antivan Crows?"

Ten's face darkened. She was, in fact, familiar with the Antivan Crows. A slightly cultish assassin's guild from their neighbor two doors to the north, she had encountered their operatives on more than one occasion. Rumor had it that they had been sent after a rival guild and wound up buried somewhere in Don Cangrejo's sprawling estate. Then again, perhaps that was just a grim legend serving as warnings for those who would disrupt business as usual in Denerim.

"I know that they take themselves far too seriously," she said, "And that failure to deliver on a contract is a death sentence."

"Even if I were to kill you, or even bring you in alive as was initially requested," he said, "Six of us have perished. To my masters, this is a failure."

"Probably not wise what you did to poor Thiago then," said Ten, "How much of a margin of error do they allow?"

"Oh I've had it out for Thiago for years. I don't know an exact number, but sole survivors don't usually live very long after they return."

"And how do I know you're an actual Crow and not just some idiot who put on a silly accent?"

He wiggled the two smallest fingers of his right hand in the air. There, spread between them with a wing on each finger was a tattoo that, when the fingers were held together, did look quite a bit like a crow diving into the webs between them.

"All right," she said, "You have a name, or shall I just address you as Señor Cuervo for the rest of your life - however short that may be?"

"Zevran," he said, "Arrainai."

"Who are your people?" she asked, "That's a Dalish surname, or an approximation of one."

"You are most observant," he said, "Those… were my people."

"Then why does that tattoo on your face look like it was done by a teenager with a sewing needle?"

"I was not raised among them."

"That's what you get for seeking ink you didn't earn," she said, "So, in the space of fifteen minutes, you have made yourself a pariah in your home country, and now both your masters and the man who held the contract on me will certainly be after your head. We have established why you seek my protection. You have not told me why I want yours."

"I am a man of many talents," he said, looking up at her, "Need a man killed quietly? Loudly? I can arrange for both."

"That's not exactly a rare talent around these parts," she said, yawning.

"I can carry your things."

"I have a donkey."

"I can promise you that this will not be my last time on my knees before you."

"Maker's fucking breath, really?" she asked, "Why are you all like this?"

"It was worth a try," he replied, "But be honest, when is the last time you had a man?"

"The last time I wanted one," she replied, "I should take your hand just for being gross. Send it back to the Teyrn with a nice little note."

"Oh, but I can do such things with these hands…"

"Lies lies and more lies," a familiar voice came from behind. Ten turned to see that a familiar, yet still disturbingly large spider had descended over the cliffside and was sidling up to them. Midstride, the hindmost of the spider's legs lengthened and the torso stretched, and all in a few seconds, Morrigan was standing there in all her half-naked glory, pointing one long finger right in Ten's face, "You told me that the things in dirty novels never happened, and yet here you are, having a discussion right out of one with a man who just tried to kill you. I should write Devera Swayne, give her an idea for her next book."

"Did I just see what I thought I just saw?" Zevran asked.

"What, an unnaturally large spider turn into a moderately attractive woman with her tits half out? It surprised me too the first time, but I'm almost used to it," said Ten.

"What a strange and wonderful country," he said.

"What is a 'dirty novel'?" Sten had made it down the steep path and joined them by the fire.

"Do you even know what a normal novel is?" Morrigan asked the Qunari.

"I do not. It sounds frivolous."

"Well a dirty one is about three times more frivolous than that," said Ten.

"Wait, wait!" Lelianna's voice called, "I'm missing something interesting, I know it!" She was struggling in her long robes to descend the path, which had been completely disrupted by the cliff face falling. Sten made a noise that was half grunt and half scoff, strode over, and lifted her down, setting her safely on the road. She nodded at him and scurried up to the rest of them, "What did I miss?"

"Ten's about to let an assassin go because made a pass at her," said Morrigan.

"That's… that is not at all what's going on," Ten protested.

"What are you girls giggling about?" Wynne had finally made it from where she had, evidently, brought down the cliffside. She was limping, clearly the effort had drained her.

"They're slandering my good name," said Ten, "As for me, I'm deciding what to do with this." She gestured with the dagger at Zevran, who looked like he was beginning to regret his desire to live.

"Do, ah, any of the rest of you ladies have questions for me?" he asked uncomfortably.

"Oh get up, you look ridiculous," said Wynne, "She's not going to kill you. She acts all scary and grim but she's a soft touch. And you know those things are permanent!" she gestured at the poorly-executed tattoo that graced his left cheekbone.

Thoroughly humbled, the assassin rose slowly.

"How did you wind up a Crow, anyway?" asked Ten.

"They bought me," said Zev, "At the slave market. I was a child."

"Ugh," Ten sighed. She knew, vaguely, that her father's immediate family had been slaves. She was not entirely sure of the story - Cyrion had been tightlipped about his origins as he was about many things she then learned too late in life. What she knew first hand was that he had grown up a refugee in the Free Marches, without parents, with only his elder brother for guidance, and at some point when she was growing up, she had put two and two together and determined what that likely meant.

"I see that your people and my people may have crossed paths before," he said, nodding slowly.

"That in no way makes us the same," she said, "You're among free folk now. Better learn to act like it."

He sighed, audibly relieved, "I promise you will not regret it."

"I'm already regretting it," she said, "All right, let's look through the corpses. How many of them were Crows?"

"A few," he said, narrowing his eyes.

"So they had that tattoo on their hands, yes?"

"A few…" he said again.

"Were any of them elves?"

"Dionis was a halfbreed…." Zevran said, "What are you getting at?"

"Which one is Dionis?"

He pointed at one of the men that had been felled by the rubble.

"Sten, could you bring that corpse over here please?" Ten asked.

"That is a strange request. Explain."

"It's better if at least one of the parties that wants that man dead believes he already is," said Ten.

"And what does the corpse have to do with that?" asked the Qunari.

"What do you think, Sten?" asked Ten.

"You wish to send a body part to Teyrn Loghain," said Sten, realization dawning on his stern features, "Passing it off as one of his, so he believes all of the assassins perished."

"You're smarter than I give you credit for sometimes," Ten said.

"Whom do you think will take it?" asked the Qunari.

"Not me!" exclaimed Lelianna.

"Absolutely not," Morrigan declared.

"You could not possibly expect me to," Wynne announced.

"All right, Sten, we are going to do a thought experiment," Ten declared, "Look around you. Who is missing?"

"The man," said Sten.

"Yes," said Ten, "Also he has a name."

"Alistair," said Sten.

"Well done," said Ten, "What do you think he is doing?"

"Running off into the dark to capture any who have fled," Sten declared.

"Again, well done. Zevran, tell us, is there anyone else missing?"

Zevran sighed, "Marda has not returned. As well as the boy we hired to cut the tree but he fled as soon as it was down, he is likely long gone."

"I'm going to assume Marda is the hussy who descended on our camp," said Ten, "If she fled, Alistair has likely pursued her, but not slain her. He doesn't have the stones for it. Or the wits, if I'm being honest. And the only landmark in this forsaken landscape is the fire which we are standing around right now. And so… Sten, bring me that corpse."

The Qunari nodded and went to the pile of rubble, tossing large rocks aside until he found the appointed body, slinging it over one shoulder and carrying it back, tossing it at Ten's feet. She crouched, examined its hand. The left one was beyond redemption, most of it having been crushed by the rocks to the point it barely resembled what it was. "Wynne, I must say, your work is effective, if disturbing."

"It takes quite a bit out of me," said Wynne, "I am glad it meets your approval, young lady."

Lelianna fetched a flask out from somewhere in her robes and offered it to the elder mage, who took it, and drank gratefully, hardly flinching as the raw distilled rye hit the back of her throat.

Ten, meanwhile, had crouched beside the corpse, taking its right hand in hers. It had a nearly identical tattoo between the third and fourth fingers.

"Zevran, come here," she ordered.

The assassin obeyed.

"Show me your right hand," she said.

He obliged. She compared the two. It was not an exact match, but she knew that men, especially nobles, did not look at elves the way they looked at each other. And after the two to three day journey to the capital, any differences could be attributed to rot.

"How good a look did Teyrn Loghain get at you?" she asked Zevran, remembering how the Teyrn, in their brief meeting, had ordered her to look him in the face.

"I have no idea," he said, "I know better than to look humans in the eye."

"Fair enough," she said, "I'm assuming he wasn't examining you closely."

"I don't believe he was."

"Very well," she said. She set the corpse's hand down on the dust of the road, unhooked her ax from her belt, and, aiming briefly, separated it from the rest of the body. None of the others made a noise, but she felt Lelianna all but jumping out of her skin. Dionis had been dead long enough that the stump did not spurt as it would have had he been living when relieved of his hand, but the dust of the road went slowly red around him. She picked the hand up and cast about.

"Maker's breath, where is that idiot?" she wondered aloud.

"It is strange that he has not found us," Sten said.

"You don't suppose the girl got the drop on him?" Morrigan mused.

"You know, sound carries rather well out here. And additionally, go fuck yourself, Tabris."

Ten looked to see that, as anticipated, Alistair had found them. He was walking backwards down the hill from the north because, as Ten had also hoped, he had the girl who had called herself Eldegaard around the neck. He turned her handily, got both of her hands in one of his, and, hand on her neck, frogmarched her down the path. This time, there were actual tear tracks in the dirt on her face.

"Zev!" she exclaimed as they drew close, "Please, help me! This thug put his hands on me! Please! You must…"

Ten was watching the elf's face closely. It was a series of hard lines at this point.

"I cannot help you, Marda," he said.

"What did I miss?" Alistair asked, narrowing his eyes, eying the strange little band that had, somehow, just become stranger, "Ten, why are you holding a severed hand?"

"Little present for the Teyrn," she said, "You, your name is Marda, yes?"

"Yes," the girl said.

"If he lets you loose, are you going to take off again?" Ten asked.

"No. I promise. Please!"

"I'm not as nice as he is," said Ten, "If you run I can put this ax in your head from thirty paces." This was, of course, a lie. She hadn't tried throwing it yet.

"I won't," said Marda.

She nodded at Alistair, who loosed the girl's wrists and gave her a shove.

"Thank you! I knew you would be reasonable!" the girl sighed in relief.

"Oh, the woman standing there holding a severed hand is the reasonable one," Alistair scoffed.

"I'm not one of these assassins!" Marda sobbed, throwing herself on the ground at Ten's feet, "I never… I never intended it to be like this!"

"Have some dignity, woman," said Ten, disgust dripping from her voice. Marda rose timidly, swiping a sleeve across her face.

"I didn't mean for it to be like this," she said, "It was him…" she raised her arm, pointing at Zev, "He… he seduced me! Convinced me to help him. He's a rake and a cad and… I didn't mean for this to happen."

"What did you think was going to happen?" asked Ten.

"I thought they were highwaymen," said Marda, "You know, like in the books. All daring and romantic and… I thought they would rob you of a few trinkets and let you go."

"See, that's why we don't take the dirty novels too seriously," Ten said to Morrigan, "Gives you all sorts of dumb ideas about the world."

"Noted," Morrigan said, her eyebrows drawn together, in complete consternation that anyone could be so stupid.

"Since you're so fond of the stories," said Ten, turning her attention back to Marda, "I have a quest for you. Up the road a few days, you will find the capital, but you knew that already. You will go to the guardbox just inside the western gate, and you will say that you need to see the Teyrn, that there is a message from the Grey Wardens. The guard will know what that means. Then, you will give him this."

She put the severed hand in Marda's living one. The girl shrieked and jumped back, dropping Dionis's hand on the ground.

"Or I suppose I could kill you," Ten shrugged.

"Can't you get me a… box or something?" she asked, looking down at the hand, her nose wrinkled in disgust.

"Zevran, where's your actual camp?"

"Quarter mile back that way."

"Do you think there's something we could use?"

"Probably. Not like those men will be needing their things again."

"Very well," said Ten, "I suppose we haven't done enough tromping about in the dark for one night yet."

The Crows' camp was an absolute wreck compared to their own. Too many men, thought Ten, They really aren't capable of basic life tasks, are they. Wynne, exhausted from her stunt with the cliffside, had been escorted back to their own camp by Lelianna and Morrigan, who transformed into a sleek black wolf for the journey, and so Ten, Sten, and Alistair stood and watched while Zevran and Marda rummage through tents and packs for what they might wish to take with them.

"So let me get this straight," Alistair said, rubbing his temples with both hands, "You have decided that it would just be a grand idea to let a trained assassin, one who was charged with killing you where you stand, not only to live, but to… what, just, hang out?"

"If you want him dead, do it yourself," said Ten, "He's unarmed. He's right there. Go ahead, run him through. Here, do it with one of his own blades if you'd like." She presented one of the short swords she'd taken off Zevran to Alistair, hilt first.

"That's not… that's not it," Alistair sighed, "That's not the point."

"So what is the point? You think I should have killed him, you have the opportunity to kill him, I am not going to stop you. I'm not even trying to dissuade you. Go to it."

"It just looks an awful lot like you're… not really thinking this one through."

"Oh, I see. You're projecting," she said, "Just because you let pretty girls get away with some devious nonsense you think I'm thinking with my nethers too."

"Well, you know what they say about widows."

"If you had a last name, I'd address you by it when I tell you go fuck yourself right now, but you don't, do you."

"I suppose I deserved that."

"Do not get in the gutter with me, Ser. I know it far better than you do."

"Sorry."

"Yeah me too," she sighed, "No more poking at the really deep wounds, eh?"

"Fair."

"Would you two please give it a rest?" Sten asked coldly, "You have been at each other's throats more often than not. It is truly exhausting listening to you."

"I still don't know why you're here," Ten said.

"I am beginning to wonder the same thing myself," the Qunari said.

Ten sighed, shook her head, and decided perhaps she ought to see whether there was something she would like to lift from the possessions of the dead.

About an hour hence, a farm girl newly emboldened with an hatchet of her very own, and carrying with her in an old leather satchel the severed hand of an assassin wrapped in liquor-soaked rags, set off for the capital. An assassin, newly freed from one master and eager to serve another - who was, at least better looking, if no wiser, set off behind two bickering Grey Wardens and a very irritated Qunari to sleep off what had been, altogether, a very strange night, beside another fire.