"I may be showing my ignorance here," Aneirin said to the table, "but what is a seed-apple? It is not the same as a regular apple, is it?"

He had, primarily, directed the question at Rhodri, if his expectant look in her direction was anything to go by. Rhodri, who until then had been rocking on her chair with a dreamy smile and singing what Zevran suspected was an off-the-cuff ode to the umbrellicula , now paused and rubbed her chin.

"That's a very good question, actually," she murmured. "I don't know, myself."

Leliana clucked her tongue and gave Rhodri a mildly reproachful look.

"Of course you know what a seed-apple is," the good Sister said. "The day we met, you said you knew many Tevene songs and poems–"

"I do, but–!"

"Then you know what it is!" she insisted. "It is mentioned in every romantic verse that has come out of that country. The aria in Gaia and Quintus about the lovers on the wall, you know?" Leliana hurried (tunefully) through a few bars of a Tevene song– Zevran caught something about feeding someone and kissing their lips fifty times– and she stopped when Rhodri's eyes widened.

"Ah? Granata?" she gasped. "She is bringing me granata? Oh!" Rhodri's palms drummed on the edge of the table, "It's delicious! I haven't had it since I was small! Ah, but you are sure that's the fruit? My mother taught me the Common name is a pomegranate."

Leliana laughed uneasily. "I do believe 'seed-apple' is a Fereldan name only. It is the same in Orlesian, and the only way the fruits would have come here was through Orlais. I suppose it survived direct translation, no?"

Looking keen to leave the approaching subject of Ferelden's colonisation behind, Leliana quickly turned to Aneirin and sang the pomegranate's praises by means of supplying the man with a glowing, detailed description of said fruit. Zevran listened and nodded along; though many foods were pleasant to look at, the pomegranate, with its translucent, ruby-red arils and hard, speckled exterior was an artwork all its own. And what a delight to eat! Sweet, cooling, and ever-so-gently perfumed. Pomegranates were hard not to love, when it came down to it, even if merchants committed daylight robbery with the prices they charged for them.

And it was all going very pleasantly, really, until Leliana concluded the outline of the fruit itself and moved on to its romantic symbolism with great gusto. It wasn't so much that she'd done it; Zevran had no issue with people waxing lyrical about the wonders of romance and passion– he couldn't afford to, when living with people like Leliana and Alistair. The trouble was that Leliana was doing it while fixing Zevran with a half-expectant, half shit-stirring smile. And then, when Stella's eyes went on him, too, a cold sweat broke out on his neck and he turned his attention to the lacquer on the table. An Orlesian polish job, if he wasn't mistaken, which owing to the delicate nature of the finish meant it was a terrible choice for a tavern—

A nudge from Alistair forcibly evicted Zevran from his musings, and a glance in the Templar's direction revealed that Zevran was being fixed with that same infuriatingly smug grin from almost half the table, now.

"... Don't you think, Rhodri?" Leliana sang now.

Oh, no. Think what? Why are we thinking?

It took substantial effort from Zevran to suppress a wince and look to Rhodri. To his relief, she appeared entirely unmoved by Leliana's prompting, whatever it might have pertained to.

"It wasn't a romantic fruit for me, Leli," Rhodri said. "I was only a child the last time I ate it. But it's true, Tevinters do love blood colours for that sort of thing! Must be all the illicit magic, sic?" She chuckled at her own joke and counted off her fingers, "Let's see, there's rubies, we love those. Garnets, wine…"

"And pomegranates!" Alistair chimed in now.

Rhodri nodded. "Yes, most certainly, but there was one I was trying to– ah! Red fabric!" She beamed, "My father always has the linings of his house robes in red, so that when he rolls up his sleeves to feed my mother little snacks, she sees the colour and–"

She was cut off at that moment, to her visible astonishment, by coos and warbles of delight from Leliana, Stella, and Alistair, the lattermost of whom was outright swooning now. He slung an arm around Zevran, squeezing tight enough to force a little squeak out of him.

"That's so nice, isn't it, Zev?" Alistair sighed, "I bet her dad really loves her mum."

At this, Rhodri had frowned, and started out with a, "Well, yes, it's why they got–" before Stella spoke over her again.

"Ooh, you should see them, Al," she grinned. "They're the sweetest pair. I swear, Aurelio actually worships Revka. On visits in the Circle, he'd kiss her fingers all the time, talk about her like she invented the sun… Maker, it was cute. And Mumma Rev held his hand everywhere! Even when they were sitting and talking to different people, she had to be near him!"

"Aw," the Templar swung his legs back and forth. "That's sweet."

"Uh-huh. Sets a nice example for their kids, too." Zevran's guts went cold as her eyes went onto him, lingering there before she moved on and shot a wink at Rhodri. "Happy days guaranteed for anyone who gets with one of you lot, eh, Rhod?"

Zevran couldn't bring himself to look at Rhodri and see how she responded, or where her gaze might have been as she did. And even if he had been able to motivate himself to do so, the fact of the matter was that the action was physically impossible: Alistair had tightened his grip on Zevran's shoulders further still, and he wouldn't be able to turn his head that far around without snapping his neck in the process.

Alistair sighed. "Yeah," he said dreamily, and beamed down at Zevran. "Aw, it's going to be nice for you two, Zev! Happy times ahead, eh?"

In theory and practice both, Alistair wasn't wrong, Zevran reasoned (with hands lightly shaking). Things were pleasant now: he and Rhodri had sufficient food and drink; they were as safe as Wardens and company in a Blight-ridden land could hope to be. For the two of them, sex and conversation of the highest quality abounded, and conflict was nonexistent. And, supposing that all of those things stayed as they were, there was no reason to think that things wouldn't continue to be pleasant. For how long they would was difficult to say, but that was not for Zevran to know. Questions of time, of the beginnings and ends of things, were for the Maker to know and everyone else to find out.

So what, then, was the problem? Why in the Maker's name would Zevran's hands be shaking at the emerging thought– and a thought was all it was– of Rhodri lounging beside him in ruby-red robes, rolling up a sleeve as she brought pomegranate seeds to his lips? It might have been cause for terror, he supposed, if he had a bad pomegranate allergy. But so far as Zevran knew, he could eat (or be fed, as the case may be) anything without consequence.

And anyway, what was the point of all this thinking? It would never get to the stage of red robes and pomegranate hand-feeds! Rhodri had made it abundantly clear, hadn't she, that she didn't plan to be with Zevran that long. Being with him in any official capacity– marriage, for example– hadn't crossed her mind when Alistair and Leliana had teasingly asked, and rightly so. Zevran had nothing to offer in that regard, and she was aware of that. And it was so like him to fixate on these things, to leave the present moment and obsessively daydream and panic about someone in ways that had never so much as occurred to them. Pathetic, was what it was, especially when it would never happen to him. And if by some off-chance it did, Zevran was a man who enjoyed a good seed-apple, however it was administered, and the Maker would handle the rest. That was that.

He swallowed with the little moisture left in his mouth, and as his eyes travelled up to the bar in search of Vera (and, more importantly, his limoncello), Zevran caught Stella watching him with a weary sort of sadness. The woman huffed a wry laugh before his eyebrows could finish rising and she looked away, nudging Leliana.

"Hey, what was that song you were singing before, Leli? I've heard Rhod humming it before, but you do it much better." Stella waggled her eyebrows, her usual animated grin returning as she nudged her again. "Go on, get your lute."

Leliana, who had never required two rounds of prompting to perform, was on her feet in an instant.

"I should ask Vera if I may play," Leliana smiled coyly and poked a finger into her cheek, "though I do not think she will mind so much."

With that, the good Sister skipped away to the bar, where Vera had now paused in uncorking a bottle of deep red liquid (was that the pomegranate nectar?) to attend to her. When Leliana's request had concluded, the publican let out a laugh that rang through the tavern.

"Are you kidding?" she shrieked. "Can you–? D'you know what it costs to get an Orlesian minstrel out here? You go and get that lute, young lady, and play your heart out!"

Leliana beamed and stayed to make conversation with Vera a little longer; Stella rubbed her hands together.

"This is going to be a good night, I reckon," she announced to the table. "Knock back a yummy drink or ten, get the scoop on those two outside… what more could we ask for, really?"

"You'll tell us your story, too, won't you?" Alistair asked anxiously. "About the alcohol ban? Lels and I have been waiting to hear it for two weeks, and Rhod," he pointed at the latter accusingly, "wouldn't tell us anything!"

Stella, as she was rather wont to do, roared laughing. Zevran bit his lip and watched Rhodri acknowledge the imputation with a shrug and a nod. But it was Sten who spoke now, waving Alistair's complaint away with a hand the size of a small family home.

"Absurd," the Beresaad declared. "The story was first mentioned two days ago. You cannot have waited two weeks."

"Yeah, so on Sunday! And today's Monday, which is a new week! That's two weeks!" Alistair held up two fingers demonstratively.

Sten folded his arms. "The week begins on Sunday."

"Wh–? No, it doesn't! Saturday and Sunday are the weekend. As in, the end of the week. Once they're done, it's Monday, and the week starts up again!"

"By that logic, your week ends on Friday," he said evenly, "and Saturday should mark the first day of the new week."

Alistair looked around the table incredulously, almost as if to ask if the others had heard what was just said.

"Is this a wind-up?" he asked Sten. "This has to be a wind-up, I just–"

Alistair was stopped there as Leliana swept back to the table and summoned the attention of all present with a "Cou cou!" Vera, who was now striding over the moss floor to the back of the room, turned and proceeded down a flight of stairs and out of sight.

"Where's your lute, Leli?" Stella asked, giving Leliana's empty hands a playfully forlorn look.

"I will collect it in a moment," the bard crooned. With a smile, she caught the eyes of everyone at the table, and dropped her voice a little lower, "You should know that Vera seems rather interested in swapping stories with us tonight. People with… sensitive backgrounds, they should be a little careful, no?"

"Mm?" Rhodri sat up straight and watched Leliana gravely. "Should we leave?"

"No, no," the good Sister shook her head. "She is not prying, just a little chatty. No concern to us, I do not think. But after the last days, well…" Leliana grinned, "And we are about to have alcohol, and that does loosen the lips, no?"

"Quite a few people in this party will need to be careful," Rhodri hummed pensively. "Then for safety, I propose that I be the one to swap stories with Vera tonight. I have more than enough scandalous tales to keep her interested."

Zevran let out a trill of delight before he could stop himself. "Ooh, mi sol, how exciting! I do not believe I have heard you tell any scandalous stories before!"

She frowned at him. "You never asked me for those. Just for happy stories, or ones about odd things like gravy boats."

Oh, the bloody gravy boats fiasco. It'd haunt him forever! As Leliana, Stella, and Alistair tittered behind their hands, Zevran swore to himself that however wealthy he became, however intense his or his guests' cravings might be: no house of his would ever, ever serve a meal with gravy.

"Just so," he croaked.

"You know," Rhodri spoke up again now, "when I think on it, this might be a nice opportunity to see if Vera will rent her rooms out to us and bill my father, don't you think?"

Alistair raised a sceptical eyebrow. "I don't see the point. Those two outside didn't, so why would she?"

Rhodri shrugged. "She is going to sit with us, chat awhile. And if I am the one talking, she'll better see that I am who I say I am, and send the bill." A sly smile turned up the corners of her mouth as she added, "Especially if I make a good offer."

"Ah, forget about the persuasion game," Stella said, and patted the purse on her hip. "Just let me pay, eh? Maker knows I haven't managed to spend a fraction of what your folks send me, and it just keeps coming."

"Nonsense," Rhodri waved a dismissive hand. "You're not paying for anything."

With a shit-eating grin, Stella made a point of catching and holding Rhodri's gaze as she untied her purse from her belt and dropped it onto the table, the coins within tinkling on impact.

Rhodri's nose wrinkled in disgust. "Put that away," she admonished. "Don't be so uncouth, flaunting your coin like that!"

"Cash is king in Ferelden, sweet pea," Stella sang, making no movements to do what had been asked of her. "And since you're not carrying much of it yourself, I reckon that means I'll be buying everything tonight, eh?"

A brief but vigorous argument ensued between the two mages, during which time Rhodri, while speaking in quick Tevene, physically forced the money bag back into Stella's hands. Stella, who was of course laughing throughout, would occasionally punctuate her mirth by repeating some of Rhodri's remarks in Common, with a wildly exaggerated Tevinter accent and gestures to match.

"Placere, ne reddere." Rhodri touched an aggrieved hand to her heart. "Tu Callistum insultes! Ae-ae, tu insultes!"

"Don't-a pay for dis, please! You insult-a me!" Stella thumped a fist to her heart like she had been stabbed there, her other hand moving her money bag back toward the table. "Ow, you are insult-a me!"

"Abado monetate!" Rhodri swept Stella's hand, and the money bag it grasped, back away from the table. "Pica tu est, sic? Natus in nido est con tesorete? Et mammate vomitam cibumete, sic?"

"Put-a your money away! You are a magpie, ah? You were-a born in a nes-ta with all-a your treasures? You were-a fed on your Mamma's vomitus also?" The shorter mage wilted dramatically toward the table, which coincided with the money bag once more nearing the edge of the table. Rhodri propped her upright and slashed a hand through the air.

"Abado! Formator mutem monetate en herba!"

"Puttitaway-a!" Stella cried, echoing Rhodri's gesture– but with both hands. "May the Maker turn-a your coin into grass-a!"

Leliana, who had been watching on with eyes on stalks, looked like she had to physically force herself to leave the room (and the unfolding drama) to fetch her lute. Zevran sighed happily and let the argument wash over him; for a moment he was home again, watching people sit in sprawling street cafes and loudly squabble over who would pay the coffee bill. Though such scuffles had been more vocal in the mother country, and often rather more physical, Rhodri's curses and claims of lethal psychological wounding were much the same, and it warmed Zevran's cockles to witness.

And then, as quickly as the fighting had begun, it ended when Vera rematerialised at the top of the stairs. The two mages snapped-to and sat properly in their seats; Stella leaned toward Rhodri and whispered, so far as Zevran could make out, a handful of gossipy questions that Rhodri was to ask Vera through the evening. No further mentions of payment were made, and it was hard to say who had won the argument, after all that: both looked rather satisfied. Vera came over a short time later with all the prepared drinks on a large silver platter and handed them out.

"Thank you very much, Vera," Rhodri said with an appreciative nod, her wide eyes fixed all the while on the decidedly festive orange umbrellicula in her drink. "These are perfect."

"Almost! Only thing that makes a good drink perfect is a good chat," Vera replied. "I won't lie, fellers, it's not often I get folks in my pub, 'specially not a crew like yours. I'm a bit of a way back from the road here, so Eddie and Delilah usually snap 'em up first. You'll have some good stories for me, won't you?"

Rhodri's mouth spread in a wide smile as she leaned forward on her crossed arms. "I could go all night, Vera. Wait until you hear what I've seen!"

"Thank the Maker!"

"And as you know, we have a few questions of our own." Rhodri pressed her hands together and opened them out. "How about this: you and me, a question for a question. Is that fair?"

Vera spun the serving tray on her finger. "Oh, I think that's a very fair offer, yes."

"Then please," Rhodri extracted two sovereigns from her money bag and held them out (her other hand shot out to immobilise Stella, when the latter moved to thwart the payment), "buy yourself a drink on me, and join us."

"Hm!" she took the coins with a nod. "Well, thank you very much, indeed! I'll knock up a G and T and be with you directly. Just a moment…"

As Vera bustled away, Rhodri released Stella and addressed the table.

"I should be taking a vote to see if we are happy to stay here," she said, "but Shale is outside. Let me sort this out first, and then we will take the vote afterward, sic?"

"I'm pretty sure everyone wants to stay in the fancy tavern tonight, Rhod," Alistair remarked dryly.

"That remains to be seen." Rhodri took the umbrellicula out of her drink, drew it shut, and, when Zevran had indulged her request for his hand, she put the little thing into his palm with a smile, and closed his fingers over it. Before Zevran could even try to insist she at least keep it for the duration of her drink, she spoke to him in quick, quiet Antivan: 'Please watch me well tonight, mi amuleto. You are wealthy now, and things go far better when you act like it.'

Zevran huffed a breathy laugh. 'Amuleto? Oh, I like that.' He let his foot slide closer, until it was tangling around Rhodri's ankle. 'I am your lucky charm, am I?'

'Everything is better with you, so I think you must be.' She turned to face the approaching Vera, which Zevran supposed to be a good thing, lest she catch the heat rising in his cheeks. Leliana, however, had materialised in the doorway with her lute in hand (the opening of the door had allowed the sounds of the domestic dispute outside to pour in, and this had given her away) She watched Zevran, and no-one else, with an irritating smirk all the way back to her chair.

"Right," said Vera. "Who's going to go first, then?"

Rhodri delicately moved a hand to herself, "I would normally let the other party go first for such games, but I realise it's hard to ask me anything when I haven't introduced myself yet." Her eyebrows rose a little, "You know, it occurs to me that you might already, indirectly, know my family– the Tevinter half, that is."

"Oh? Might I just?"

Leliana started to play a gentle Orlesian air Zevran had heard at most every gala he'd infiltrated. Vera's eyes appeared to glaze over– unfocus for a moment, even, as Rhodri, with her new musical backdrop, treated her to a full introduction, including even titles. It was established shortly thereafter that the name 'Rhodri' would suffice, and Vera looked relieved at that. Even so, she advised that she didn't know anyone from House Callistus– or Amell, for that matter, and hadn't heard of anyone with the name, either.

"Are you sure?" Rhodri asked mildly. "You have enchanted items in your tavern, do you not? Something to heat the place, and probably more besides."

"Eh?" Vera's brows rose. "Yes, I do! A hot rune to heat the water. Goes in pipes through the building to keep it warm. Got tea kettles and an ice maker, 'nother one to strengthen the door, one for sunlight… Quite a few, actually!"

She smiled. "Then there is a connection. My ancestor, Magister Callistus the Fade-Touched, along with his apprentice, Selmi, invented lyrium-imbued enchantry. Runes, that is to say."

"Enchantment!" Sandal echoed enthusiastically. Rhodri grinned and nodded.

"He invented–? Ooh." The publican blinked. "That's… quite something."

Rhodri took the remark with a modest smile and nod. "Thank you, Vera. We are very proud of him. He also was the first human to initiate diplomatic ties with the dwarven kingdoms, and a few other things, but enchantment is what he is best known for in the South."

"Enchantment!"

Zevran chewed on his lip as he pondered what sort of a welcome the party might receive in Orzammar. Surely a warm one, if the diplomatic ties had been maintained. He had overheard the occasional conversation between Rhodri and the Feddics about the Ambassadoria, and had the impression that those good relations were there still. What did that translate into in practical terms? Exquisite gifts? Money? Lavish parties? Oh, this was going to be good.

"Mmm…" Vera rubbed her chin. "And you're his heir, are you? Maker, your family must be doing well, then."

"We are, yes."

She raised an eyebrow, "And yet you're here, in the arse-end of the South, as a Grey Warden."

Rhodri's teeth gleamed as her mouth split open in a grin. "I sense a first question coming up!"

"Go on, then, tell me how you got here." While Zevran stewed in the embarrassment of never having been game to ask the question himself, Vera took another sip of her gin and tonic and pointed at Rhodri's drink, "You haven't touched your seed-apple nectar. Won't be as nice once the ice has melted."

"Vera," Alistair said to her quietly, sweetly, while Rhodri took her beverage in hand, "my fruit jumble's really lovely."

The publican made a pleased sound and patted his arm. "I'm glad, love. Was it worth asking for?"

His cheeks flushed a little. "Yeah."

Rhodri took a sip of her nectar and let out a long, slow exhalation, her shoulders falling into a gentle slouch.

"It's delicious," she sighed. "Just like what I drank as a child in Minrathous. Reminds me of all those hot afternoons in the dry season."

Vera made a show of dusting off her hands. "Mission accomplished."

She took another draw of the nectar, and straightened up in her chair, fixing Vera with an impish smile.

"So," she said, "what brought me to Ferelden? The short answer is that I was sent to the Fereldan Circle as punishment."

Zevran couldn't help but chuckle. Looked at the right way, and there was no other way to look at it sensibly, the Circle was a punishment, amply meted out for the crime of being a mage. Rhodri's was a wry but clear statement, and certainly had a bitterness to it that couldn't be missed–

Except, apparently, if one was Vera, for the woman herself proceeded to innocently ask what crime had been committed.

Rhodri swirled her drink in her hand as calmly and contemplatively as one might when asked for their thoughts on the long-range weather forecast. She took a sip, nodded approvingly, and set it down on the table.

"I burned down the Hightown Market in Kirkwall when I was eight," she said simply.

"Eh?" Zevran shrieked, to the surprise of the table and himself. Mortified, he slapped a hand over his mouth. The umbrellicula , still in his grasp, now went straight between his lips and popped open like an overzealous flower. Summoning all the airiness he could amid the giggles from a certain Templar and bard, Zevran took the umbrellicula out, dropped it in his limoncello, and silently called for the moss underfoot to rise up, seize him, and draw him into its leafy depths, never to be seen again.

Naturally, it didn't. Was it because Zevran hadn't prefaced his appeal with a 'please?' It surely didn't help: killing someone, contrary to popular rumours, was a long and labour-intensive task, and one was seldom inclined to go to such trouble for a stranger. And here Zevran was, asking that it be done here and now, for free, without so much as an 'if you wouldn't mind!' What a coarse, demanding brute he was becoming.

It was something of a consolation that Rhodri's hand went onto Zevran's back and rubbed circles between his shoulder blades, her face ducking down to his level. If he couldn't die immediately (and frankly, after his manner of request, he wasn't entitled to such a favour), there was at least a backrub from a delicious Warden to ease life along until attrition came by some other means. Since it was coming out that Rhodri was an arsonist, perhaps she might be amenable to torching him to a crisp! He would need more limoncello if so, to keep it quick for both of them.

"Are you all right, dulcis?" said arsonist asked him quietly, urgently. "You didn't hurt yourself with the umbrellicula?"

"No injuries," he croaked.

"Good." She sighed with a smile, "I forgot you didn't know how I ended up in the Circle. I told the story last in Lothering, after meeting Sten and Leli. Only a day or two before you came along!"

Zevran gave a mad laugh and took a deep draught of his limoncello. "Well, I certainly know now. You are full of surprises, my darling!"

"You sure are," Vera raised an eyebrow. "I'm going to need the longer version of this story."

The longer version, it transpired, was that Rhodri had come to Kirkwall on a family visit with her mother and siblings (her father, weighed down with obligations, had remained in Minrathous). While there, the family would celebrate both Rhodri's eighth birthday, and then the 50th birthday of her now-late maternal grandfather a week after. The morning Rhodri turned eight, in keeping with the Kirkwaller custom of serving a sweet breakfast on birthdays, her mother gave her money to purchase pastries from the Hightown Market. Her siblings and their friends, who were the housekeeper's three children, went with her.

The Hightown Market, according to Rhodri, was exquisite. The finest clothes, armour, foods, books, and other necessities could all be found there, often for astronomical prices. A particularly beloved wooden toy merchant plied his trade on the corner of the market from which Rhodri and the other children had entered. The eldest of their friends had stopped to admire the merchant's wares– with his hands firmly behind his back, Rhodri had hastened to add.

That had been enough for Zevran to nod knowingly, the incendiary swing to the plot already clear to him. What elven child (his race had not been mentioned thus far, but couldn't have been otherwise) had not been taught to keep a great distance from human merchants? To clasp their hands behind their backs when standing nearby so as to remove all doubt, and there was always plenty of that, that theft was imminent? And yet so many accusations of such came anyway, despite those precautions, and the consequences that followed were anywhere from uncomfortable to dire– for the accused elf, of course, and never the human pointing the finger, however baseless the claim might be.

In keeping with Zevran's sinking feeling, it was revealed that the merchant, enraged by the simple act of browsing, had beaten the boy about the face, shouting slurs that Rhodri refused to repeat. All of the attending children were enraged, Rhodri said with a wry smile, but her own fury incited the unexpected onset of her magical ability, which saw the merchant's stall go up in flames. Owing to the morning breeze and the extreme temperature at which mage fire burns, the inferno swept through the area; miraculously, no lives were lost, but the entire marketplace was burned to ashes in minutes. After being seized by the Templars (Rhodri had glossed over this particular part of the tale, but Stella's wince had not escaped Zevran's notice) and taken to the Kirkwall Circle for holding, the Chantry decided, as they often did when mages committed serious crimes, that Rhodri would be sent to a foreign Circle. This was reportedly done to keep contact with local friends and family to a minimum, and thus obviate the risk of the mage convincing the people in their life to commit further crime on their behalf. The Chantry chose Ferelden in particular for her, Rhodri suspected, because it was the furthest nation from Tevinter– not only the furthest from her family and friends in Tevinter, but also from the influence of the Imperium itself. And that, she concluded, was what brought her to Ferelden.

Vera had been listening to Rhodri's story with a mix of disbelief and outright non-belief, and it took a moment (and a few sips of her drink) before she spoke.

"I don't get it," she said. "You've got Circles in Tevinter, so why stay here if your family is filthy rich? Couldn't they just pay someone on the sly and get you transferred to one in your country?" Vera tapped her ring finger (and the wedding band adorning it) on her glass, making a series of small clinks, "And you're a Grey Warden now, so you could go home anyway! But you're here! So what's all that about?"

Rhodri chuckled. "They can be your next questions, if you like." She pointed her nose at the window nearest to the front door, "What are they fighting about?"

"Edina and Delilah?" Vera snorted. "Anything. Everything. Those two have been quibbling since before they got together. There's enough drama between them to keep a Nevarran opera running, honestly!"

"Ah. So you don't know what, in particular, they're fighting about today?"

"Oh, I do. I'm just buying a little time, 'cause I don't know where to begin. It certainly didn't start today."

"Please," Rhodri smiled, "take as long as you need."

How Vera was able to stand having nine pairs of eyes glued to her was beyond Zevran, but he guessed that on occasion, The Greenhouse would get an influx of customers from Maker-knew-where, all of whom would be staring her down at the bar while they waited their turn to order. If it bothered her now, she didn't show it. She took a leisurely sip of her drink, and then another, and set it down again.

"Here's the thing," she said. Stella, who looked like she was about to die if she wasn't fed a juicy secret in the next two seconds, turned her chair diagonally to face the publican. Vera snorted. "You know we're worth a lot of money in this town, right? You can probably tell from the size of the pubs."

"Yes," six people said in chorus.

"And I mean big money," Vera said seriously. "There's twelve of us in the town, and when we split the profits from the logging evenly, we're bringing in about six thou a year. Each."

Zevran bit down on his lips to button in an astonished laugh; how Rhodri, no doubt many orders of magnitude wealthier than he, kept a straight face, was beyond him. Vera noticed his reaction, and gave an (admittedly misguided) nod.

"I know!" she said. "A lot, right? We've been very lucky, I have to say. The money's been a boon in most regards."

Rhodri smiled into her drink. "It creates as many problems as it solves, in my experience."

"Well, that's exactly it," Vera lamented. "Not all of us are logging, as you see. Take me: I run the pub, grow the plants for medicines and food, and do all the cooking and cleaning for my family."

Stella raised an eyebrow. "That's two jobs at once, if not more."

"Hah! Don't even get me started with the plant maintenance!"

"We won't," Sten grumbled, and took a mouthful of palm wine.

Vera snorted at that. "Fair enough. Anyway, though, with all that I do, I have my fair cut of the money, even though I'm not logging, right?"

"Right," the table echoed.

"But Eddie and Delilah have never been sensible people. They didn't want to log, so their folks gave them a ton of money when they were younger to open their own pubs. But they built those stupid bloody things," Vera gestured at a window to her right, beyond which the other public houses were visible through a smattering of snow on the glass. "They cost almost as much to maintain as they did to build! And they're terrible businesswomen, too. They have basically no regulars, because nobody sticks around for more than a single visit. Even their own families drink here!"

A handful of people shared nods and remarks at this, some (Leliana, for example) looking more sorrowful about it than others. Zevran, who couldn't resist himself, took a little sip of his limoncello and spoke up.

"Yes, I seem to remember our last visit. That was to… Château Wysbechois, I believe." Rhodri's jaw wobbled in his periphery; Zevran chuckled, "The publican had to pause in taking our order so she could scream at her wife. Something about the rug in their room turning up at the corners, I think it was. They were busy for so long that I ended up sneaking behind the bar to pour my own drink. I ended up serving the entire table before they realised what had happened!"

Half the table was snickering behind their hand (or, in the case of Rhodri and Alistair, laughing outright) as Vera watched him beadily now. Zevran smiled sweetly, and Vera did not return it.

"I hope you paid for them drinks, Ser," she said. "They're stupid, but they don't deserve to be stolen from."

Rhodri fell silent and stiffened beside him; Zevran, sensing trouble brewing, bounced off his chair and into her lap, pecking a quick kiss on her cheek as he assured the publican that the drinks were not only paid for in full, but with an extra silver as thanks for the entertainment. Vera's jovial smile was back in a flash. And, as an added bonus, Rhodri had now loosened– somewhat. Enormous arms had closed around him, hands splaying widely over his chest. Not protectively, of course, none of it was– even though she often seemed to do it when there was any perceived slight toward him. That was likely a coincidence, though. Sudden drops in ambient temperature, or unexpected nippy breezes, both of which were common in freezing, bastarding Ferelden, were no doubt bigger contributing factors to warm arms encircling a person. Never mind that it was decidedly warm in the tavern; old reflexes died hard.

And so, with that cleared up, Zevran gave a contented sigh and snuggled in. Vera pushed on.

"Well, then, you'll all know why people don't stick around there. Some of them come to me, but most of them just presume we're all crap service and leg it." She chuckled, "'Specially once you see the price of the rooms each night.

"Anyway, though, them two are actively losing money keeping the pubs open. Only reason they've not completely closed is 'cause their families are living there in the building. The ones who log, who actually make the money to keep 'em open, are getting pretty tired of it all."

Stella laughed and rubbed her hands together like a fly. "Ooh, I think I know where this is going!"

"Ha! I bet you do." Vera rolled her eyes with a laugh, "Alfie, Jeannette, and Matilda– Delilah's mum and dad and Edina's mum, they are– they're keeping the money coming in. They've been warning 'em for years that they'll cut 'em off if they don't start being more sensible, and what do the two of 'em do? Fight more. About how to run a pub, about ideas for attracting customers, about who stole whose idea about attracting customers… everything. Everything! That's what it's been about. Today, right now, it's about– wait a minute, it might have changed…"

Taking a sip of her drink, Vera got up and wandered away to the front door. She opened it; the ongoing shouting match from outside came in on the wind. Zevran caught snippets of accusations that one party knew nothing about how mould worked, only to be hotly refuted by the other that the accuser knew less than nothing about how mould worked, and in fact knew negative amounts about mould. How that worked, Zevran couldn't imagine, and when the respondent was asked to clarify as much, Vera closed the door and sauntered back to the table.

"Today, right now," she announced, "it's about how mould gets into your cellar." She sat back down and turned to Rhodri with a smile, "Does that answer your question, Ser?"

Rhodri, whose lashes were fluttering against Zevran's cheek in what he was certain was a baffled series of blinks, nodded.

"Yes," she said slowly, "I... ah... think it does."
Language notes:
Tevene
I realise Stella translated most of this but I would rather give a proper, non-mocking translation of Rhodri's pleas to Stella to let her pay.
"Placere, ne reddere. Tu Callistum insultes! Ae-ae, tu insultes!"
- "Please, don't pay for this. You insult [Callistus- ref. to chapter 53 for why 'Callistus' and not 'me'] me! My god, how you insult me!"
"Abado monetate! Pica tu est, sic? Natus in nido est con tesorete? Et mammate vomitam cibumete, sic?"
- "Put your money away! Are you a magpie? Huh? Were you born into a nest with all of your treasures? Did your mother feed you by regurgitation? Huh?"
(Culture notes on this below)
"Abado! Formator mutem monetate en herba!"
- "Put (it) away! May the Maker turn your money into grass!" (A common, well-loved curse, useful in many contexts)
Culture notes
Tevinter
Banking is a common concept in Tevinter. Different merchant bankers serve different classes of society and aside from the slave class (who are not permitted to hold an account) and the criminal class (who prefer cash-in-hand transactions), most Imperium nationals have a bank account to safeguard either money or valuables. Though Tevinters of all classes enjoy ostentatious displays of wealth, they prefer to do it through valuable goods. Showing off money itself is considered uncouth, as it conveys that a person may be rich, but utterly without sense or decorum. This rule is more strictly enforced by one's social circle in the upper echelons, and, quite predictably, it's utterly mortifying when it's someone as fabulously wealthy as Rhodri. Among those nobility, payments are made discreetly, often sorted through bills sent to banks- and because noble families are well-known for their wealth, it is never doubted that they can pay.
For this reason, Rhodri is *mortified* by Stella taking a big ol' bag of coin out and plopping it onto the table. As far as Rhodri is concerned, Stella might as well have put her bare arse on the table. Asking her if she is a magpie (which is commonly done with small children who haven't grasped the basics of social graces yet) carries implications of the accused having a bird's-level understanding of valuables- essentially, "ooh, shiny!" and "ooh, look at my fabulous shiny nest!"
Author's note to the author's note: I think it's perfectly legitimate for birds to have super-shiny nests and would rather they hoarded the wealth than Tevinter nobles. But here the fuck we are, I guess.