A Visit Of Kindness

The streets of Redcliffe were quiet under the veil of night, the soft hum of the lake breeze rustling through the village. Shadows stretched long across the cobblestones as Sten, Morrigan, and Wynne approached a modest but well-fortified house near the outskirts of town. The faint glow of candlelight spilled through the cracks in the shutters, a testament to the mercenaries who lived within.

Sten came to a stop in front of the heavy oak door, his broad frame casting a long shadow over it. His hand curled into a fist, and with deliberate force, he knocked three times. The sound echoed in the stillness, a low, commanding thud.

Behind him, Morrigan leaned casually on her staff, her golden eyes glinting in the dim light. "Quite the dramatic entrance," she murmured. "Perhaps next you'll announce your intentions to the entire village."

"Quiet," Sten said gruffly, not bothering to look back.

Wynne, standing beside Morrigan, glanced at the Qunari with a trace of disapproval. "You agreed to try words before swords, Sten. Let us hope you remember that when the time comes."

"I remember," Sten replied, his tone clipped. "But words will not return what is mine. If they fail, I will do what I must."

Before Wynne could respond, the door creaked open. A wiry man with a scarred face and a crossbow slung over his shoulder peered out, his wary eyes darting between the three figures. "Who are you, and what do you want?" he asked, his voice gruff.

"We seek your employer, Dwyn," Sten said evenly, his towering form blocking the doorway.

The man narrowed his eyes. "What for?"

"That is between him and me," Sten replied, his tone brooking no argument.

The man hesitated, clearly weighing the risk of letting them in against whatever authority he thought they might wield. Finally, he stepped back, motioning for them to enter. "Fine. But don't try anything stupid."

As they stepped inside, the air grew warmer, the scent of woodsmoke and stale ale lingering in the room. The interior was modest but functional, with sturdy furniture and a large wooden table dominating the center of the space. Around it sat three more mercenaries, their weapons within easy reach. At the head of the table was Dwyn himself, a burly dwarf with a thick beard and sharp, calculating eyes.

He looked up as they entered, a mug of ale in his hand. "Well, well. What do we have here?" he said, his tone amused but edged with caution.

Sten stepped forward, his expression like stone. "You have something that belongs to me."

Dwyn raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair. "Do I now? You'll have to be more specific. I deal in a lot of things."

"My sword," Sten said, his voice low and steady. "The blade you purchased from a scavenger near Lake Calenhad. I know it is here."

Dwyn's eyes flickered with recognition, though his face remained impassive. He set his mug down with deliberate care. "Ah, yes. I remember now. A fine blade, that one. Worth every coin I paid for it."

"Then you know it is not yours to keep," Sten said, his tone growing sharper.

Dwyn chuckled, glancing at the other mercenaries. "Not mine? Funny, I don't see your name on it, big guy. If anything, it's mine now. Finder's keepers and all that."

Sten's fists clenched, but before he could speak, Wynne stepped forward, her voice calm and measured. "Please, there is no need for hostility. This matter can be resolved without bloodshed."

Dwyn's gaze shifted to her, his expression skeptical. "And who are you, exactly? His nanny?"

"I am someone who prefers reason to violence," Wynne replied, unfazed. "This sword is of great importance to him. Returning it would prevent unnecessary conflict."

Dwyn leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. "Unnecessary for whom? That sword's worth a small fortune. Why should I just hand it over?"

Morrigan, who had been silent until now, let out a soft laugh. "Because you may find the alternative far less appealing." Her tone was light, almost playful, but her golden eyes glittered with menace.

Dwyn's amusement faltered, and his hand drifted toward the axe at his side. "Is that a threat, witch?"

"An observation," Morrigan replied, her smirk widening. "But do take it however you like."

The tension in the room thickened, the mercenaries shifting uneasily in their chairs.

Sten's voice cut through the silence, cold and commanding. "That sword is a part of me. Without it, I am nothing. If you refuse to return it, I will take it back by force. But I would rather not spill blood needlessly. Do not make me."

Dwyn studied him for a long moment, his eyes narrowing. "You're serious about this, aren't you?"

"I am," Sten said simply.

Wynne stepped forward again, her voice soft but firm. "You have already profited from this sword once, Dwyn. Perhaps you could see reason and sell it back to him—for a fair price."

Dwyn frowned, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "A fair price, you say?" He glanced at Sten. "What's it worth to you, Qunari?"

"More than you can imagine," Sten replied, his tone dark.

Dwyn snorted. "That's not exactly helpful." He paused, his gaze flicking between them. Finally, he sighed. "Fine. I'll part with the sword—but not for free. Five sovereigns, and it's yours."

Wynne glanced at Sten, who gave a reluctant nod. "Agreed."

Dwyn stood and motioned to one of the mercenaries. "Go fetch it."

The room remained tense as the sword was retrieved—a massive, elegantly crafted blade that seemed to gleam even in the dim light. Sten's eyes locked onto it, a flicker of something almost like relief crossing his face.

When the sword was placed on the table, Sten stepped forward, lifting it with reverence. He examined it briefly, then slid it into the scabbard at his side.

"You have made the right choice," he said to Dwyn, his tone carrying a hint of gratitude.

Dwyn shrugged, taking another swig of ale. "Just don't come knocking again, eh?"

Without another word, Sten turned and strode toward the door. Morrigan and Wynne followed, the tension lingering in the air even as they left the house behind.

Outside, under the pale light of the moon, Sten paused, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. He looked down at Morrigan and Wynne, his expression as unreadable as ever.

"You have my thanks," he said simply.

"Don't thank me yet," Morrigan replied, a sly smile playing on her lips. "You still owe me."

Wynne sighed but said nothing, following as Sten began the walk back toward their camp.