XVI: A Cairn for Carrion

Martin of Highever stood in the street and stewed.

He did not brood, as he often did these days, one hand near fused to his flask as he downed it again and again in a futile bid at calm. His thoughts for once were not on the Blight, his former friends – or on her.

No, he did not brood, nor wallow in self-pity. Not for his betrayal of them, nor for her abandonment of what could have been.

She would not even speak to you. She does not care, she never did – she has your seed and the soul of –

Martin shut that thought down as he always did, with another swig from his flask. The flask.

The flask, like most everything else he still had, was a gift – a convenient little space to store some spirit for the day. It had been its easy concealment that had interested him in the first place, when his normally stoic companion passed it to him without fanfare.

"It is Revasun'in." Carys explained, at Martin's crooked brow. The lump of metal felt cool against his fingertips. "The day Shartan overwhelmed the Legatus at the city of Solas. It was claimed that Solas was named for the pride of elves, then shattered." Carys' tattooed face split into a wolfish grin. "Instead it became a symbol of rebellion, and of Tevinter arrogance."

Martin glanced down at her gift. It was a simple thing, a flask empty of any etchings or frills save one. A small 'W' was etched in a corner, so small he had to squint to see it.

"You commissioned a flask from Wade?" He asked, incredulous.

"It is silverite," she nodded. "There was some left over from your plate, and I thought it fitting. You drink as manean. Until himana."

She foresaw his question before he voiced it. "You seem to have developed a taste for manise – spirits. I thought you would appreciate them on the field as well." She tilted her head at him, face neutral. "Have I guessed wrong?"

Looking down at the flask again, he shook his head. "No. You have not. I… thank you. I have nothing to give you in return."

She shrugged at that. "It is of no consequence. It was a gift, freely given. I do not expect you to honor Dalish customs."

He smiled at that. "I suppose you're right. Still, I will remember you come Wintersend. Should we live to see Wintersend." He paused, considering the implications of Carys' gift. He was not, after all, the one she cared for most in their merry band of misfits.

She again sensed his question before he gave voice to it. "Do not think too highly of yourself, Martin of Highever. You are not the last I have gifts for."

His smile split into a grin. "You have chosen well for me. I find myself curious – what have you found for our other companions? For Zevran have you found a wonderful phial of poison? Wynne, a pair of knitting needles? Or for Alistair, a wheel of Gwaren's finest cheese?"

Carys actually blushed, to Martin's infinite amusement. "It is not your concern what I give to others. Ask them if you are overwhelmed by curiosity. Now…" Something caught her eye behind him – or someone. "We shall speak again, later."

Martin shook off the memory with another swig. She had given Alistair his mother's amulet, recovered from Arl Eamon's study. It had been shattered, only partially reassembled by the old Arl – Carys finished the repairs and gifted it to their fellow Warden not minutes after giving Martin his flask.

He drowned the memory of them, hands intertwined, before it could begin. How in the Void did I come to this blighted reminiscing?

As he turned up his flask yet again, he remembered. It was fascinating how convenient it was. Now I wish it was as big as one of Oghren's packs. He swallowed the last drop to stave off that painful thought too.

Martin was not brooding. He was not. He was irritated.

They had moved through the streets of Hightown as Hawke played tour guide – pointing out banalities and sights the history of which he was sure she invented on the spot. The Viscount's keep, a constant figure on Kirkwall's skyline, was even more impressive in person. Its dark form jutted from the center of Hightown's opulence like a great spear from a wound. Similarly, the great High Chantry loomed, practically across the street from the Keep – though it echoed the more 'glorious' architecture of Old Tevinter than the terrible, with its ancient dwarven stone and wide arches. If only the Gallows took its cue from the Chantry.

The irreconcilably sheltered blood mage was far too enthralled with Hawke's vivid descriptions and boisterous enthusiasm to notice much outside of whatever next sight Hawke threw her way. Hawke, similarly distracted – or perhaps, willfully ignorant – did not take note either of the one constant in Hightown: their passage through the district did not go unnoticed. Everywhere eyes followed them – the gaping stares of nobles, the glowering of merchants, the suspicion of guardsmen that occasionally trailed them.

Whether it was the elf in their midst, or their general dishevelment that disgusted these… genteel folk so – Martin could not say. All he could attest to was that he would gladly break the next judgmental gawker in two had he the opportunity.

Martin reached down for his flask to get just a taste of calm – only to remember again that it was empty.

And all the while, his head was still pounding.

The only solace he found was the thought of their coming job – Hawke knew few details except that intimidation was involved. He hoped it would go further than that – he wanted, needed to hit something.

A weary part of himself, half soaked and half drowned echoed in his mind. You are excited to intimidate? You wish to hurt someone, for some bloody noble? What kind of hero are you, what kind of Warden?

Yet again his fingers brushed at the empty flask.

"Isn't this exciting?" Merrill gushed, grinning from ear to ear. It took Martin a moment to realize her eyes were on him, not on Hawke or the half ruined draconic fountain before them. "There's so much history here! Human history yes, and a lot of it was horrible, but it's all so fascinating!"

"Aye," Martin nodded dumbly, unable to match the elf's enthusiasm. They stood in an admittedly appealing square in the shadow of the Viscount's Keep – pale flagstones painted a myriad of colors scuffed beneath his boots. Several impressive villas lined the courtyard, most built out of the ever-present maze-like walls that dominated all of Kirkwall. There were scant people about them – a trio of guards meandering by one of the side streets, and several other clustered groups of well-dressed humans flittered at the perimeter. All were quiet, their footsteps echoing louder than their words.

Martin glanced at the fountain, a half-shattered thing depicting a dragon twisting its form around the base of a small pillar. It was an exquisite carving, though weathered with age. There seemed no magic here, no arcane preservation like the Silent Slaves or the city's great chains. Tevinters. They have strange priorities.

"That all you have to say, Martin?" Hawke butted in. Somehow she had managed to affect a leaning position with no support, presenting an aloof image to any who saw. She gestured at the fountain, smirking. "No thoughts on one of the Old Gods, standing before you? Of the great shadow of Old Tevinter?"

That drew an amused snort out of Martin, despite his mood. It only aggravated his headache. Old Tevinter, indeed. How little you know, Hawke. You would not mock so. "There is no life here," he groused instead, lazily waving a hand to indicate around them. "No plants, no trees – no children. No water in the fountain. This place is a cairn with some fools with coin think a nest can be built." He spat despite his dry mouth. "I'd sooner get to your client so that we can get paid. Leave the cairn to its carrion."

"Piff," Hawke shot back, still smiling, though her eyebrows crinkled at his tirade. "See what I mean?" She said as she elbowed Merrill. "Right shite company today. Usually he's a riot. Even smiles a bit."

"To smile there must be something to smile about," Martin replied. "Where is this client of yours? I do not wish to be sober any longer than I have to, today."

Hawke pouted, pursing her lips comically. "As a matter of fact, he lives right here. One of the 'carrion' nesting in this 'cairn.' You're right flowery with your pish, aren't you?"

She gestured to a modest estate off the square – two stories, free standing. It stood alone from the walls, unlike the rest of the homes dotting the square – whether at some point the wall had been demolished to clear the way for such estates or had simply never existed here, Martin could not guess. It certainly lent the house a sense of diminished claustrophobia.

The building itself was of a style Martin certainly recognized – white-washed stone walls, rounded pillars lining the few unwindowed walls. Pointed tiled roof, second floor slightly extending over the first to create a spot of shade at the front – it screams bloody Orlesian.

Such structures littered Ferelden wherever the frogs had claimed as their own during the Occupation. I suppose they lie all over Thedas, wherever the prideful bastards have spread their blighted grasp. Newer arrogant bones to complement the faded Tevinter, damn them. He brought his flask to his lips and frowned at its emptiness.

Hawke cast a look his way, crooking a brow expectantly as if to say, 'have anything to say about that?'

Merrill spoke first. "It's… well, grand, isn't it? Not as grand as the Keep, for sure – or the Chantry, or Snillard Gastroem's home… well. I guess not grand then. Pretty? It looks very clean."

Hawke nodded at her but kept looking to Martin. In response he rolled his eyes in frustration and pushed past, headed to the house. He ignored Hawke's chuckle and Merrill's questions all the way to the door. He ignored them even as he felt them follow, even as he heard them exchange words. Ignored them even as his fist hit the door, harder than he'd intended, turning a knock into a sharp crack that echoed throughout the square.

The door opened immediately, cracking just wide enough to reveal a pudgy face of a man on the wrong side of fifty, wrinkled and balding. What few strands of hair lined his face seemed to have all collected into a wispish grey mustache that hung as a dead thing over his too moist lips. His dark eyes (along with his furrowed brow) conveyed disdain and apathy in equal measure.

As his lips parted, they seemed just about ready to leak. "You stand upon the threshold of Clovis du Chatillon, Citoyen of Kirkwall and Master of - "

Hawke snickered loudly at the name. Martin couldn't help but roll his eyes.

" - Master of the Artisan's Guild." Finished the man in a voice as wispish as his mustache and as runny as his lips. Martin only felt his mood souring as he picked up on the man's obvious Orlesian affectations. "Do you have business with Citoyen Clovis?"

Hawke snickered again, even louder, shoving her face into the sleeve of her jacket for a moment. "Pardon me, but my associate neglected to inform me of Lord… Clovis' House. What was that surname again?"

The butler, for that was all that he could be, furrowed his brow even further. "He is of House du Chatillon, heir to – "

He bristled at Hawke's answering guffaw. "Good thing," she managed breathily through a laughing fit, "You came along today, Josiah." She slapped Martin's back hard. "Always good to have a family reunion, ay?"

"Family reunion?" Merrill asked from behind, confusion plain in her tone. "Does that mean you're cousins, Martin? I thought you were from Ferelden! You have family here in Kirkwall? Oh! Does that mean - "

Martin fought the urge to wrap his knuckles on the door frame as the butler looked on both Hawke and Merrill with clear distaste, tempered only slightly by confusion.

Ignoring Merrill, Martin met the man's eyes. "Hawke is only acting the fool. I am no relative of your master. We - "

"We're here at Master Varric Tethras' recommendation." Hawke interrupted lightly. "I believe we are expected."

The butler's air of disdain remained even as he opened the door wider. "Of course. You… may enter. I will have you announced."

They entered into a wide foyer, lush red carpet clinging to Martin's boots as he kicked his way inside. The chamber was brightly lit, large but narrow – stretching forth towards a grand staircase opposite the door. Paintings lined either side's walls, framed by lit sconces. Three glittering chandeliers hung incandescent above. Light was everywhere, bright and yellow, and it claimed any and all shadows within.

To Martin it seemed the picture of opulence, and Merrill's awed gasp echoed agreement.

The butler led them to a side passage and into a sort of sitting room. The bookcases that lined the walls drew Martin's attention first – then his eyes noted the lit fireplace surrounded by plush couches on yet a plusher carpet. All various reds. Maker, it feels like my eyes are bleeding.

Finally he noted a man, well dressed in a crimson doublet etched with white triangles. He faced away from them, fumbling with a set of tumblers set on a bar along one of the walls.

The butler cleared his throat, and the man turned. Strangely, he greatly resembled the butler – graying, balding – though his mustache was far more impressive. His countenance was even stiffer as he turned, the liquid in the half-filled glass in his hand spinning at the motion.

"Master Clovis," the butler oozed, bowing elaborately. "Serah Hawke and… associates have arrived."

"I can see that," Clovis grimaced. "You are late," he directed to Martin. Much like his butler, Clovis' voice carried a distinctly Orlesian lilt.

"I believe more proper introductions are in order," Hawke cut in, stepping forward and putting a hand on to one of the couches. "I am Hawke, and these are my associates Josiah - " Martin could not suppress a groan at that – "and Merrill. And that is some mighty fine-looking hooch, if I do say so myself. Messere."

The man sighed, swirling the glass in his hand. "Antivan mirto, Seleny – 9:24, I believe. Kalvin – please."

The butler Kalvin bowed at that, moved to the bar and poured. Clovis stepped past him and sat, gesturing to a particularly large couch facing him. "Please, let us be comfortable at least. We have… hmm..."

"At least an hour, Messere," Kalvin supplied as he balanced a tray of glasses filled with the same mirto as Clovis held but did not drink. "Sup will be taken first, before congress begins."

"Just so," Clovis replied as he placed a weary hand upon his temple. "That will be all, I think."

Kalvin finished handing the glasses to each of them before he bowed and made his retreat. Only when he was gone did Martin take a sniff of the drink.

It smelled sweet, like some sort of berry. Carefully he took a sip. Cloying, sweet – low burn. Like particularly rancid perfume. Still, far better than nothing. As he took another sip he wondered idly if he could get away with refilling his flask here.

"Oooh," Merrill practically hummed. "This is far better than that… than that other drink. It's like drinking berries!"

"That's because it's proper shite, Merrill," Hawke answered with a grin. "I mean," she continued, looking to their host. "Proper good shite. Proper good. It's positively the Lord of Liquors."

Clovis shrugged, setting down his own glass on a small table beside his perch. "Now, I must say… you are not quite what I was expecting. You two certainly look the part of violent thugs, but I was not expecting..." he gestured lamely towards Merrill, trailing off. "Are those Dalish markings?"

"Oh yes, they are," Merrill answered happily, practically bouncing as she savored her drink. "They are Vallislin. They represent adulthood, both in how they are drawn and what they represent - "

"Not to worry," interrupted Hawke. "Our Merrill is a wild animal, Messere, a right killer. They don't get those tattoos 'till they've killed a man with their bare hands, stripped of all weaponry and protection. It's for the grace of their heathen gods, or some such."

Merrill looked up at Hawke, aghast, as Clovis' pate took on a clearly disgusted look. "Do you mean to say..." He started.

"That I do. Completely in the buck, free in the breeze. Have no worry about Merrill, if it's a fight you're looking for she'll go right for the eyes. Her favored trophy, you see."

Clovis actively scooched in his chair away from Merrill. She simply deflated inwards, sadly. Even Martin, irritated at the world as he was, felt a smattering of pity for the elf.

"Maker's breath," Clovis cursed. "I do not want that! Keep your elf leashed, if you would. There will be no killing this day."

"But Hawke - " Merrill's tone was timid, nervous.

"Now, now, calm yourself Merrill," Hawke replied, holding her hands up plaintively. "You'll get yourself a good set of greens one of these days, mark my words. Just not today. We will do as our employer asks." She turned to Clovis. "Speaking of which, what exactly do you need done, Messere? Which unfortunate clod has earned your righteous ire, and our directed fury?"

Clovis leaned over to take his glass and drink, muttering quietly in Orlesian. After one, then two drafts of he spoke. "It is my wife, you see. Ninette. Ours… well, our marriage was never one of romance. It was, and always has been, a thing of convenience. A union of our houses – my name lent to her family's, and their coin lent to mine. It was an equitable arrangement, a proper path."

He muttered again, clearly cursing in that awful tongue. "Now I never begrudged her happiness, nor her own choices. Since the day of our union we have had an… understanding. I had no care if she found a stable hand she wished to bed, while she had no care if I decided to entertain a serving girl, as long as we were discrete. Appearances must be maintained, for the honor of both our houses."

Martin, tongue loosened by the drink and head still in pain, scoffed loudly. Orlesian honor. Hawke immediately shot him a stern look, though Clovis did not so much as glance his way.

"To you… common folk, it may seem strange, but such arrangements are fairly commonplace amongst those of our… standing," Clovis continued. "It has worked well enough these past ten years, but now… well, now she has gone too far."

The Citoyen stood abruptly, near slamming his glass down on the table as he stalked across the room. "Love letters, sent by courier. I have received not one, but three from the simpletons, somehow mistaking me for their intended. White lilies, handed directly to me. Left on my door! I confronted her, told her to stop this blasted affair – or at least keep the thing out of sight. She laughed in my face! Told me she was in love, and that she didn't give a damn what I thought."

Fuming, Clovis stopped and turned back to Hawke. "I have more than enough evidence to divorce her, but I cannot lose her family's good will. I have had her followed, I know where they are to meet and engage in their… sordidness, and I know when. You shall accompany me, and when we catch them in flagrante, you shall aid me in retrieving her family's ring so that I might return it to them in good faith."

The man seemed to calm somewhat, and he made his way back to his couch. "And," he said smoothly. "Depending on my mood, you shall perhaps teach this… wanton lout a lesson."

Unable to help himself, Martin snorted again. This Orlesian bastard sets his own bed, and now he does not wish to lie in it. Before he could voice his thoughts aloud Hawke spoke up.

"That sounds positively grand, Messere. If you would, could you please allow me a moment to confer with my fellows?"

Clovis tapped a foot, clearly impatient. "I was given the impression by Master Tethras that you would take the job, but if you truly must… so be it. But be quick about it. We are on a timetable."

The lord strode from the room, hesitating at the threshold before stepping out. As soon as the door shut, Hawke whirled on Martin.

"What the bloody hell was that?" She whispered angrily. "Maker save me, Martin, I think he's a ploughing peacock myself, but would you please keep your big mouth shut? There's coin at stake."

"Orlesian honor is what's at stake," Martin chuckled even through the stabbing pain behind his eyes. "What's a sum of coin to that?"

"Right, har har. Stuff a cork in it man," Hawke bit back. "Maker, now you choose to be rowdy. Whole way here you sulk, now you're insulting our client. Save your grousing for the Hanged Man."

Through his discomfort Martin felt a pang of shame. It would not do to jeopardize Hawke's reputation, or earnings. She certainly needs the coin for that desperate project of hers. Though, he thought darkly, glancing to where Merrill sat, staring sullenly at the glass in her hands. I am not the only one bandying careless words.

"Speaking of insults..." he said, indicating Merrill. Hawke looked to Merrill, noted the sadness in her countenance.

"Oh, Daisy, what's wrong?" She asked plaintively, sliding over and putting a hand on the elf's shoulder.

"It's just..." she said quietly, her fingers dancing around the glass. "What you said about the vallislin. Do humans truly believe… that is what we are?"

"What? No! I mean..." As Hawke backpedaled, clearly apologetic, Martin crept quietly to the bar, placed his flask upon its wooden surface.

"I mean, I know humans… well, don't think very much of us. I hadn't heard that… do you think us animals?"

"Bloody hell, most people know nothing and don't care to rectify that. You lot live in your woods; most don't give a fig as long as it stays that way." Martin grabbed the mirto, quickly pulled out the cork and poured it into his waiting flask.

"It was… well, he wasn't taking you seriously, Merrill. You aren't what he was expecting. Might've been he just was curious, but more the like he'd use your lack of… gravitas to negotiate our price down afterwards. Now that he thinks you're a scary she-elf? Less chances of that."

"So it was just… a lie?"

"That's exactly what it was. Besides, did you see his face? You could give him the sweetest smile and the only thing he'd see is your knife in his eye sockets. Ha!"

Martin quickly sealed both bottle and flask in the pervading silence.

"No, that's not… Ugh. His face though! You've got to give me that. Bloody ponce like that, soiling his britches over a right Daisy like you? Priceless? Right?"

"I… suppose," turning back to the duo, Martin noted Merrill's half-felt attempt at a smile.

"Come on, Martin," Hawke begged, turning the pleading his way. "Help me out here, man. I didn't mean..."

Martin shrugged. "You made your bed, Hawke."

Hawke threw him a rude gesture. "Piss on that. Merrill, I didn't mean nothing by it. Friends?"

The half-healed sadness marring Merrill's expression was now totally replaced with one of confusion. "Friends?" She answered back after a moment, tone questioning.

"Right. Perfect. We'll celebrate over a pint tonight." Hawke pushed herself up. "Let's go put the fear of the maker into… whoever." She reached over and plucked Martin's flask from his hands. "'Ta, Martin. You are far too kind."

Martin didn't have the heart to even be annoyed as she quickly downed fully half of his ill-gotten liquor. It seemed fair recompense, for his words – and fair easement for hers.

"Oi! ...Er, m'lord! Let's hear amount and shake on it, right quick! We have reached accord!"

[=]

The agreement, such as it was, was sodding fantastic as far as Hawke was concerned.

Follow this clown through Hightown, out the proper Esten gate, then put the fear of the Maker into some fool at some muddy Lowtown eatery? 'A copper's a copper, but a sovereign's a proper dinner,' as Da used to say. This Clovis man must be real easy to intimidate – hardly had to talk him up to shift up to a sovereign and a half, after one look at Daisy. Hah! Three hours? No killing? Proper sloshed tonight.

She grinned in absolute satisfaction as they stepped through the Estern Gate, their noble employer stopping momentarily to slide a handful of silvers and a quiet word to the active guardsman.

Most like he doesn't want his slumming to be the gossip at the Keep… fair enough.

It seemed hardly a breeze – well, breeze smelling slightly of shite – had passed them by when they found themselves at a little shop not a stones throw from the gate. Well, not quite so little. It was multi-storied, a strange sort of cross between a bakery and an inn. It was decidedly cleaner than the Lowtown fare Hawke was accustomed too, but then again everything was cleaner this close to Hightown. Almost a proper Midtown. Someone even cleans the streets here! Not very well, but it's the thought that counts.

As 'Citoyen' Clovis reached the inn's swinging, green painted door, he hesitated. Hawke, eager to earn her easy pay, sauntered up past him and took the lead. She practically threw the door open.

Inside was even finer than outside – well, it didn't hold a candle to Clovis' relatively meager (by noble standards at any rate) estate, but it was nice. The room was small, yet cozy – tables lined and filled the space, dark wood marred only by painted flowers and the occasional carved graffiti. The people sat at them seemed a decent sort – well, a decently well-off sort, not poor at any rate. They actually had color to their clothes. Blue paint coated the walls, designs of flowers and other such nonsense traced within.

And through it all, the smell of fresh baked bread and pastries wafted throughout. It was enough for her to stop in her tracks and sigh.

This job's paying for itself at this bloody rate.

As she stood, admiring the aroma, Clovis pushed past her. Before walking in he had apparently donned a hood that concealed his rather aristocratic features, though he still wore his ridiculous checkered outfit. Hawke hoped for his sake that those checkers weren't some kind of coat of arms – would make the hood a right pointless exercise.

No one seemed to take particular note or interest in their group as Merrill and Martin entered behind, the latter closing the door behind him. Though they all seemed rather occupied with the contents of their plates – the obvious sources of the tapestry of scent Hawke now basked in.

Hardly a moment passed before a woman dressed in a modest, though pretty pale pink dress practically bundled up to them.

"Master Clovis, you are just in time! I kept them fed, as you said, and led, as you said – now they are just now - "

"In bed, as I said," their employer interrupted with just a hint of annoyance in his tone. "Keep your voice down. I am meant to be incognito."

The woman was… well, striking to say the least. Her strawberry-blonde hair crowned her painted face, the blush fitting splendidly with her hair. Her dress, though modest, did accentuate with a swishing regularity her ample form.

Most would see her beauty and presentation of it as natural, as modest and unaffected as her simple dress. To Hawke's observant eye it was clear intention – as someone I know once said, she is practically throwing the view our way. Or… she reconsidered, noting the woman's obvious deference to Clovis. Perhaps just his way?

"I'm sorry, Messere," the woman answered, groveling oozing through her tone. "However can I make it up to you?"

"Point the way towards my wife's room, if you please." Clovis said with barely masked impatience.

The woman pouted somewhat, giving Hawke a cold once-over with her painted gaze. Upon noting Hawke's leathers, however, her view thawed. "First room on the left, second floor. They've not been in there an hour yet. I hope you shall not make much of a mess."

"No harm will come to your room, I assure you, Alexa," Clovis spoke. He turned, gesturing with two fingers for Hawke and company to follow, before glancing back at the woman. "You may… make it up, when I call on you on the 'morrow."

Alexa giggled, her artificial blush flushing all too actually at Clovis' words. "You are always welcome… my lord." She turned and sashayed away, stopping at one of the occupied tables to speak to a customer.

Martin coughed loudly. As Hawke turned, the man was already drowning the noise with another pull on his flask. Good on him. Let's not piss off, or piss on our 'Citoyen' 'till we are well and paid. However much of a hypocritical lecher he is.

As Clovis led them along the edge of the establishment, towards a set of stairs at the far end, Hawke glanced back at her companions.

Martin had since sheathed his flask and now had his hands on his hammers, looking all the part a violent thug as he strode behind her. Only his slouch belied his obviously continuing hangover, though the patrons that stubbornly refused to look at them clearly did not notice the man's clear and present weakness.

Merrill moved behind him, practically clinging to his shadow. She still seemed deflated; the obvious cheer Hawke had worked so hard to instill in her through their tour of Hightown completely reversed. Hawke, feeling equal parts annoyance and shame, clung to the easier annoyance. All 'cause of a single tale about her tattoos. She doesn't have to take it so bloody personally, wilting at one ribbing.

The elf, apparently noticing Hawke's scrutiny, lifted her green eyes to meet Hawke's. The doe-eyed look immediately turned Hawke away, as she once again focused on Clovis' finely clothed back and the stairs they now ascended. Piss-shite. I'll make it up to her tonight.

They crept up the stairs, around the bend and stopped in a narrow hallway. Several doors, obviously leading to the inn's rooms, all stood closed along the walls.

They stopped at the first one. Clovis awkwardly leaned forward and placed his ear at the door. He leaned back, removed his hood, and delicately moved his ear in place again. His brow furrowed as he frowned.

"I hear nothing," he whispered. "I had hoped to catch them occupied."

Hawke shrugged, stepping past the Lord and placing her own ear to the wood.

Nothing.

She felt for the door handle.

Locked.

She stepped back. "Guess your wife's man has a massive shortcoming," she (silently) snickered at Clovis' deepened frown. "And we need a key."

Their employer shook his aged head. "No. It is better this way – breaking the door down will be a fitting awakening for the swine. I will… repay Alexa."

"Let's get on with it then," Hawke replied, shrugging as she turned to Martin. "If you would?" She asked, gesturing to the door. Not about to break my shoulder on that.

As Martin rolled his shoulders, squared off and moved back a few paces from the door, Hawke looked to the now clearly nervous Merrill. "Chin up, just follow behind and it'll all be fine."

Martin flew at the door then, ramming his shoulder hard into the handle and bolt. With a mighty crack the bolt broke through the thin wood of the wall, sending man and door flapping inwards into the room. Hawke followed on the man's heels even as he caught himself with an outstretched arm and propelled himself fully into the room proper.

Hawke had a hand on her knife, the one she kept within her leather coat, ready to brandish.

What greeted them was a calm silence and serene sunlight. A thoroughly tousled bed centered the modest room. Large windows, curtains fluttering, lay open to the sun and street below. An armoire sat against one wall, one door partially ajar.

Hawke, eyes darting, looking for quarry – realized abruptly that they were alone. There was no one here.

"They are… gone?!" Clovis demanded from behind, his thin voice breaking in anger. "C'est des conneries! Fils de pute!"

Hawke tuned their employer out as she stepped towards the bed, alongside Martin. Something was wrong. Something… felt wrong. The sun that shone through the windows, the calm breeze – the sheer emptiness of the room. The sway of discarded lilies on the sill.

Martin stepped forward, knelt on the bed. He placed a hand into the tossed sheets, threw them back with a quick motion.

A fine powder of what looked like ash leapt from within. Hawke, mesmerized, tracked a bit of it that flew into the air and hit the wooden floor beside the bed. There's already more on the floor. Sprinkled in a trail. Her eyes followed it, to her left, somewhat behind – to the open armoire.

Where Merrill stood, her hand on the door, her face white as she looked inside.

"Hawke..." she whispered sickly, her eyes locked on whatever lay within the armoire she slowly backed way from.

Hawke, a terrible curiosity lighting in her belly, moved past the stricken elf.

Inside the armoire, shining bright in the sun, lay a ring. It seemed lumpy, partially misshapen – as if someone had left it near a forge fire for too long. As Hawke stepped closer, she realized it looked fused to something. A thin line – no, more than one line, several pieces of some sort of white, pristine…

Bone. Finger bones.

Too small. Too small, she felt panic rising as her breath quickened, shortened – seemed to catch in her chest. The room suddenly smelled of rot, of that strange mixture of shit and fresh corpse.

A gloved hand suddenly closed around the finger and ring, snapping Hawke back to the present. The fear remained within her, but the air once again held the scent of sunshine and distant bread.

Martin stood, his face lined and hard, the finger hidden within his closed fist. "We need to leave. Now."

"What have you found there?" Demanded Clovis, his tone lacking his earlier authority. It seemed he felt the wrongness of the room as well.

Merrill, her hands covering her mouth, stood shivering with her back to the wall. Her eyes were locked to Martin's closed fist.

"It should not be..." Merrill managed to whimper through her hands.

"What are you babbling about, rabbit?" Clovis snapped, his voice wavering. "What should not - "

Martin grabbed him bodily with his free hand, dragging the Orlesian from the room. Hawke, finally recovered, grabbed the shock-still Merrill by the hand and pulled her along far less roughly (though no less urgently) than Martin pulled Clovis.

She trailed Martin's hurried pace with Merrill, down the stairs, past the questioning Alexa, out the door into the street, down the block, past building after building until Clovis broke free from Martin's grip and veered suddenly into an alley.

Hawke and Merrill followed behind to find Clovis shouting at Martin.

"How dare you manhandle me in such a fashion! I shall have you - "

Martin backhanded the man across the face, a casual gesture, though it knocked Clovis to his knees. He clutched at his face, moaning.

"I would thank you to shut it, Ser." Martin said dangerously. "You have no idea what we just fled."

Merrill spoke from beside Hawke, her face still deathly white. "The Beyond – blood…"

"Aye," interrupted Martin with a venom in his tone. "Blood. You yearned for your wife's ring?" He tossed, without ceremony, the bone and ring at Clovis' feet. The joint bent upon landing, crooking towards the kneeling Lord.

He stared at it momentarily, unrealizing, before scrabbling back from it. "What in the Maker - "

"Not the Maker," Martin barked, fire in his voice. "Far from Him. The Veil was torn, shredded by blood, stitched together haphazard mere minutes before we arrived. You can rest assured that your wife has paid dearly for her infidelity. The rest of her did not fare so well as this ring."

Clovis, his hand still clutching as his now running nose, blanched. He fell back from his kneeling position, sat squarely on his arse. "How..." he began, coughing. "How do you know? How can you know?"

"Josiah – well, he was a Templar, once," Hawke bullshitted, her mind skipping a mile a minute. "He can smell that sort of thing. Knows what to look for." Merrill knew. She felt the blood. I could feel something off… something wrong… how the bloody hells did Martin know? Can he really smell that shite? Is he a mage? A lump formed and stopped her throat. Is he a Templar?

She shook her head, swallowing. No. Maybe he was, once, but if he wanted to report me, he would have done so. He's had all the opportunity. Besides, he has seen Blight. I know he wasn't lying. And no Templar would spend his days and coin pissing it all away at the Hanged Man.

But how did he know?

"Merde..." Swore Clovis quietly, as he looked from Hawke to Martin, to the finger, then back to Martin. "Her family will be furious. There can be no settlement if they suspect I have killed her."

"Is that all that matters to you?" Martin roared, his foulness manifesting into a fury that cowed Clovis. Even Hawke felt herself stepping back ever so slightly. "Is that all that matters? Your accursed reputation? Your noble playacting?" He spat, a full glob, though he had the decency to aim it away from the lord. "Your wife is dead, torn asunder and burnt to ash by some foul magic and you fret about..."

Martin stepped back abruptly, pulling out his flask and tilting it to his mouth. He did not stop drinking until it was empty.

"Handle him, Hawke." He spoke after he'd finished. "I am liable to do something I will regret should I continue."

"Right, so, horrible-terrible magic aside," Hawke said with false levity. "We're all hale and whole, yes? We didn't really do anything except run like hell, but we did recover your wife's ring. How's about we all split ways now, put some distance between this shite and ourselves, right after we settle up."

Clovis sat, his mouth moving noiselessly for a moment. He looked down at the finger, cringed and looked away. "Might I have… something, to carry…"

Merrill released Hawke's hand then, pulled out a pouch from her belt with only a partial tremor. "Usually I have them for herbs," she explained to Hawke. "Or feathers. Anything useful for potions, really, though sometimes not useful. Like rocks. Pretty ones. And… well, here you are. Sorry." She handed it to Hawke, who in turn, handed it to Clovis.

Clovis, clearly stricken with both distaste and fear made to reach for the bone. He recoiled his hand a finger length from it, looked to Martin with pleading in his eyes.

Martin shook his head, made to say something. He closed his mouth without voicing his thoughts, shook his head again, and turned away.

Clovis looked back to the bone, gingerly held open Merrill's pouch, and scooped it up. He nearly dropped finger and pouch in his haste to stand with the sealed container clutched in one hand.

Hawke sidled up to him, putting on her most charming smile. It didn't really work – couldn't really work. Not right then. It probably looked more like a grimace. "Now, about our pay..."

The Lord looked to her with a blank look, before starting in realization. Without fanfare he withdrew his own coin purse, handing her two solid gold sovereigns without consideration.

"Do not… please do not speak of this," Clovis asked, voice timid, his gaze shifting between Merrill and Martin. "I will see about… slipping word to the Templars of this... tear. Perhaps they… or… perhaps not. I do not know. I… thank you… for your assistance." He bobbed his head to each in turn, and, as if in a daze, stumbled out of the alley.

They all stood in silence for a moment, Merrill nervously clutching at her own hands. Hawke reached out and took one of the elf's in her own, if only to calm her own building tremor.

"Well," She managed lightly, her mind still on bones and blood. "That was far more serious than I thought it would be."

"Aye," Martin answered. "That is one word for it."

"So… Hanged Man?" Hawke asked, looking to both her companions.

"I think that would be prudent," Martin replied.

They were not two drinks in when Merrill broke down, asked through tears if she could go home. She apologized her whole way out, promising that she wanted to learn about drinking, wanted to spend time with them… only…

Martin led her out then, a hand on her shoulder, swearing to both Hawke and Merrill he would see the elf safely home. Hawke barely noticed them as they left, hardly noted the comforting hand or the quiet words he offered the girl on their way out the door.

Hawke sat, alone, for what felt an hour before the table shook as someone sat down beside her. Turning, her eyes beheld Varric's cheeky grin. "So," he asked, humor in his voice. "I had a shit day at the Merchant's Guild. What did I miss?"

Hawke fought the urge to slap him.

"Fuck your jobs," she said instead, punctuating her statement with a pull at her mug.