XXIV: The Roiled Kettle

Here goes, Carver thought, lifting his mug to his lips and downing the last of his beer. It trailed warmth down to his belly, bringing with it a square to his shoulders and a spring to his step.

He had seen her before at The Hanged Man, once or twice, though she always seemed to step out right quick after stirring a ruckus. The last time she had been in, two men had turned over half the tables in the place fighting, apparently over her. Funny enough, she left halfway through with somebody else.

Today she stood at the bar, alone, as Corff stood cleaning a mug and running his mouth. Never had a clean cup in this place before, Carver thought idly.

"You know," Corff was saying, speaking up as if the Hanged Man had a full evening crowd instead of the few noon-day stragglers that occupied a couple tables. "Those shipwrecked Qunari? There was a man in here the other day, swears he saw the whole thing happen. Apparently, the dreadnought was doing for another ship before they both hit the reef."

"You don't say," the pirate woman voiced with sardonic disinterest. "You know, I have a story. I once met a swarthy sailor who thought the best way to get a night with me was by lifting our cargo out of the hold all by himself. We were carrying half a dozen casks of antivan wine and crates upon crates of rivaini sandalwood. He sweated and strained at each heavy load, slick and shining. It was quite the sight – he worked at it for hours, hauling one at a time. The side pot among the crew wound up at six sovereigns. Three to one he couldn't do it, as I recall."

"Did he do it? Didya really take him to bed?"

"Well, unfortunately for him, at the final stretch – he couldn't get it up."

Carver sidled up alongside her, thumping his fist down on the bar. "Oi, one for me," he ordered, allowing a brief pause before he glanced the woman's way. "And fill her back up, right quick."

"Well, well," the woman purred, turning to face Carver as Corff went for new mugs. She leaned on the bar, cocking her hip. "And here I thought all the men in this place were besotted fools who couldn't hoist the mainsail, but here you are – and you've got the arms for it, at least." She smiled appreciatively as she looked him up and down.

For his part, Carver himself took a moment to take full stock of her – she was tall for a woman, the top of her head just reaching Carver's shoulder-height, give or take. She wore a laced corseted bodice of near white leather and a pair of dark, thigh high boots absolutely covered with buckles. Aside from that, gloves of mismatched length, a sash on her hip, and a kerchief in her hair – she wore nothing but jewelry. And what kind of jewelry it was – a towering necklace that more resembled a gorget shone from her neck, large discs of gold dangled from her ears, and a final small stud jutted out from just below her lip. The stud moved as she smiled at him, and the glinting light of it seemed to point his gaze directly to her warm caramel eyes. Laughing eyes, he thought.

"Never hoisted a mainsail before," Carver replied, taking the new drink Corff passed him after tossing six coppers on the bar. "But I've never let a girl down yet."

The woman took her own newly filled tankard and clanked it against Carver's. "Oh, I don't know," she imparted with a smirk. "There's a first time for everything." Carver lifted his mug to his mouth at the same time she did, only realizing what she'd said as he finished swallowing.

"And what's that supposed to mean?" He demanded, annoyed.

The woman put her own drink down and wiped the froth from her mouth with the back of her glove. "Oh, nothing," she answered coyly. "Just that when you run a dinghy ashore, you've got to let her down easy. It takes a quick eye," the woman slid forward on the bar, putting a hand to Carver's bicep. "And a strong arm to see her right."

"Well," Carver said, feeling foolish. "I have a strong arm – or two!" He took another quick drink to drown out to cover his sudden awkwardness. "My name's Carver," he said, leaning against the bar with an attempt to appear casual. "What's yours?"

"I'm Isabela. Previously Captain Isabela." This time she took a long drink of her own before continuing. "Sadly, without any ship the title rings just a bit hollow. Though don't take it to heart – I still have plenty of men under me."

This time the liquid courage spoke before Carver could. "That's a spot I wouldn't mind being in," he said, his eyes on her generous cleavage – and the dagger nestled between her breasts. "I mean - " he stammered, snapping his gaze back up to her laughing eyes. "I mean you must have been a fine captain – who wouldn't want to be under you?" Smooth, Carver. Like to have charmed yourself right into a shanking.

To his surprise, she only let loose a musical chuckle. "Well look at you – a regular pup with a bone, you are? Chasing a tender bite? Well, pup," she leaned forward, drawing Carver's eyes back down at her chest. "I may just have a spot for you – under me, as it so happens – but I think I'd like to use those strong arms of yours first."

Carver gulped, his heart fluttering so fast he didn't even notice her laughing eyes. "Well, er, what did you have in mind?"

She leaned even closer, arching forward almost as if for a kiss. "You see, there's this friend of mine," she breathed in a conspiratorial whisper. "Well, not my friend. More of an absolute bastard, if I'm perfectly honest, but that's beside the point. Now we've had a bit of a disagreement, he and I, and now he's demanded satisfaction. Ordinarily that wouldn't be a problem, but he - "

"He wants you to satisfy him?" Carver interrupted, confused.

"No," Isabela sighed, her smile flattening for a moment. "No, he wants satisfaction for his honor. As in a duel?"

"Ah…" Carver flushed and would've taken another drink, but she was far, far too close. "Yeah, I guess… you want me to duel him?"

"Not exactly. You see - "

"CARVER!" an all too familiar voice shouted from a few steps away. He nearly jumped out of his skin; he was so focused on Isabela. He turned, already furious.

"Nell, so help me - " he managed, before she was on them. His sister, dressed for a night out not a bell past noon, slid between him and Isabela. She threw a possessive arm around his shoulder and threw a glare the pirate's way.

"How dare you, you terrible trollop! You horrible hussy!" Nell cursed, the obviously exaggerated outrage to her tone undercutting her insults. "Carver is my man, not some tawdry tramp's tea-time! Be off with you, harlot, or I shall call the Grand Cleric herself to condemn this flagrant attempt to fornicate!" Isabela, for her part, seemed more amused than taken aback. Laughing eyes.

"You shut it and shove off," Carver bit back as soon as he could get a word in edgewise, pushing Nell a step back. "Look, she's my bloody sister," Carver tried to explain.

"'Your sister!'" Nell exclaimed, putting her hands on her hips. "I'm like to join the Chantry as a lay sister if you keep this up, you absolute ass! And even then, still I would keep you free from sin, far from such women of loose morals as this!" She stabbed a finger Isabela's way. "Be off with you, woman."

"Far be it from me to get between brother and sister, beneath the Maker or otherwise." Isabela replied. "That is, unless it's the sort of in between that leaves you breathless and bow-legged. Still - " she held her hands up placatingly at Nell as she made to begin another tirade. "I can tell when I'm not wanted. So long," she winked at Carver, turned, and sashayed away.

"But – wait!" Carver called. "She's not - "

Isabela, paying him no mind, strutted across the room and up the stairs to the Hanged Man's rented rooms.

"Well, all's well that ends well," Nell grinned, so self-satisfied it made Carver sick. "Be a good man, Corff, and get me one of the usual."

"'Usual,' she says," Corff muttered. "It's all the same, Hawke."

"You bloody bastard, Corff," Carver growled. "Why didn't you tell her she was my sister?!"

"You don't hear me complain when you trade blows with any of the dockside boys, now do you?" Corff rebutted, passing Nell her drink. "I don't butt in then; I won't butt in now. I'm not about to stick my nose into any of your family affairs – heh. Family affair. You know, that reminds me of - "

"I don't give a fig what it reminds you of," Carver fumed. "Both of you can kiss my bloody arse, you can." Carver finished his drink, tossing the mug haphazardly behind the bar. Corff reached out, just failing to catch it as it clattered to the floor. Carver took a step towards the door before Nell caught him with a hand on his chest.

"Don't leave mad, brother mine, I did you a favor," Nell insisted, taking Isabela's abandoned drink. "Kept you free from the lover's pox, I did – no telling what sloops that woman let dock in her port."

Carver reddened, both in anger and embarrassment. "Wasn't even about that. We were talking about work."

"Work?" Nell asked, incredulous. "Sure, sure – that case, I kept you from an actual pox. Trust your sister, Carver. I know when a woman's trouble. Besides," she smiled mischievously, leaning in. "I thought you had your eyes on someone more slender. With ears a bit pointier?"

Before Carver could do anything more than splutter in response, Corff spoke up from behind the bar. "Like to have dented the thing, you have," he grumbled, rubbing at the mug Carver had tossed with a sleeve.

"Could always dent you instead, Corff," Carver shot back. "Not like those things are worth a damn anyhow."

"Well!" Nell interrupted, slamming her hands down onto the bar. "It seems we have two injured parties here – without injury, but still, I shall balm them." She lifted her right hand to reveal a handful of coppers, which Corff promptly scooped up. "Three for the three of us, to drink our woes away." She turned on her heel as Corff poured, then she looked to Carver. "How's about we get ourselves a table?"

Carver, flabbergasted, worked his mouth wordlessly before throwing up his hands in frustrated surrender. "Right, fine. All's just peachy, it is." He marched to their usual table, pulled out his usual chair, and plopped his usual arse right down on it.

Nell followed not a moment later, a mug in each hand. She sat, slid him one, and took a long drink. "So, have any plans for this afternoon?"

"I had plans," Carver complained, nursing his drink. "They were going right well 'till you showed up."

"Oh pish," Nell scrunched up her nose in irritation. "Here I thought we resolved this good and proper. I've run up against this pirate wench before – she's bad news."

"Bad bloody news?" Carver spat. "And who are you, the bloody Divine? Bad bloody news," he took a long drag at his mug to contain his frustration. "You just hate all bloody girls, you do. Always a smart remark for just about every one I put my eyes on."

"I like Aveline well enough," Nell smirked. "And I haven't cast aspersions at every girl you've ogled. Why, I've been positively pleasant to our newest elven Daisy that's got you so meek and knightly. What will she ever say to your trying to two-time her with the pirate of all people?"

"You shut your bloody mouth," Carver snapped, staring daggers as Nell. "She's not like that – it's not like that." Carver ran a finger over the rim of his mug, suddenly ashamed with himself. It's not like that. "She's not that kind of girl. I don't think she's… well, experienced with that sort of thing."

"Am I to believe that you've dropped by her place half a dozen times now without even the thought of a friendly boffing?

"No!" Carver protested. At least… not only that. "She's… well… She's a good person."

"Oh, sure," Nell sneered, with uncharacteristic earnestness. "Pure she is, bloody virginal as fresh fallen snow."

"Like you can talk. I seem to recall something about 'serving man,' not smashing through any plans of his."

Nell seemed just about ready to fire back, extending a finger Carver's way before she suddenly looked down. "Skip it," She sighed. "This is not a subject for here, in any case."

"No, it isn't," Carver agreed, taking another drink of his mug.

They sat for a long moment in silence, Carver stewing. Just who does she think she is, when she throws herself at half the men she sees. Can't even let me go for one girl of my own without making a fuss. And what was that about Merrill? What's got Nell's knickers in a twist?

Nell interrupted his thoughts by setting her mug down on the table. "So," she began, her earlier hostility replaced with her more usual affability. "You wander in here just to bed the buccaneer, or were you actually trying to help build our expedition egg?"

"She did say something about a duel," Carver replied. "Sounded like some easy pay."

"Well, certainly easy. The pirate at least. Her coinage is not the sort that we can exchange at any rate, lest you work down the Red Lantern."

"You think I'd sell my sword for anything less than hard coin? How daft do you think I am?"

Nell bit back a smile. "Seems like more than just the pirate makes it easy – though in this case, I shall rise above it." She sat up in her chair, straightening her collar. "Far too easy for one such as myself at any rate."

Carver wasn't quite sure what she was getting at, though he recognized the mocking tilt to her lip. "Piss off," he grumbled, then drank.

"Though I must say," Nell said, after she'd answered his drink with her own. "I may have my troubles with her, but Merrill does seem to bring out the good in you. You're practically pleasant when she's around."

Carver merely looked back at her blankly. What's this then, he thought. How's she going to turn this?

To his surprise, Nell's face didn't split into a toothy grin, nor did she loose any sort of jab. "Might not be the worst thing, you find a woman to make an honest man out of you. You could certainly do worse, at any rate."

"And what's that supposed to mean?" Carver asked warily.

"I'm saying, if she were here – well, you might actually have a smile on your face. If only."

Before Carver could formulate a response, the front door slammed open, smashing heavily into The Hanged Man's outer wall.

The unmistakable form of Varric strode in, his crossbow banging into the doorframe from his back as he struggled with something he half carried, half dragged. She was small and slight in his hands, the green of her tabard clashing with red on her neck.

Merrill! Carver was on his feet faster than even Nell, his chair clattering and forgotten. He was halfway across the room before Hawke managed a confused, "Wot?" When he reached the teetering elf, Carver ducked down to Varric's level to first throw an arm underneath her. He realized at once that he couldn't stoop and move with her, so he took her gently from Varric's grasp to cradle her entirely in his arms.

"To the table, Junior," Varric grunted. "Let's get her to the table." Varric glanced towards the bar. "Corff! Get me the strong shit, and whatever clean rags you got."

Carver cradled Merrill in his arms – her neck was wrapped in what was once white cloth, now reddened with blood.

"I'm alright, really," Merrill murmured, her head turned to Varric. "No need to raise such a fuss."

"Like shit you are, Daisy," Varric growled back, wagging a finger her way. "That was a bad fall, and a worse cut that sodding nughumper gave you. How did you even end up all the way Dockside?"

"I took a wrong turn…" Merrill answered dreamily. "Or three. Maybe four…" She turned her face to Carver and looked at him with tired eyes, eyes Carver wished to see under much different circumstances. She squared her shoulders and leaned into his chest, sighing. "You're so warm, Carver. You're much more pleasant than those guardsmen."

A wonderful knot tied in Carver's stomach as he approached the table. Before he could get a chance to untie it, Nell stepped up. "Guardsmen?" She asked. "What in the blazes have you been up to, Merrill? Andraste's tits, what've they done to you?"

Nell fiddled her hands uselessly as Carver pulled up a chair from an adjoining table with his foot, then gently placed Merrill on it. Loath to let her go.

The elf seemed likewise reluctant – as he lowered her down, she held her hand on his arm even as he eased her on the chair. She swayed momentarily, holding herself upright with Carver's arm. She settled finally and looked up to meet his eyes. "Ma serannas," she breathed gratefully.

Carver's face flushed and he rubbed at the back of his neck unconsciously. "No trouble," he managed.

The moment was once again interrupted by Nell, her tone calmer than before but no less insistent. "Merrill, Daisy, what happened? Someone shank you?"

Merrill nodded, furrowing her brow at the movement. "I, well... I was looking for the Hanged Man, and I got lost… I mean, I wasn't lost at first, or maybe I was lost all along? I was following the sun, then I lost it, then I was really lost. Then well… it's so embarrassing…"

"Steady along, Merrill," Nell said. "You fall or something?"

The elf blushed deeply, nodding her head. "Y-yes. No. I mean, almost. I nearly fell into the water."

"And was it the water that like as near slit your throat? Good thing Corff doesn't carry it."

"Lay off, sister," Carver broke in. "Let her settle down, at least."

Nell had the good sense to look abashed. "Positively chivalrous," she mused.

"Yeah, yeah, the stuff of stories," Varric interjected from just beside Carver. I'd forgotten he was even there, the shorty. "Look, I found her with a dagger to her throat and a stabbed guy at her feet. Friends of Aveline's, apparently – well, the opposite of friends. More my kind of 'friends,' I guess," he shrugged.

"They were going to hurt Aveline," Merrill offered. "I mean, they planned to. They said… they thought I was stealing, or they said I was. I told them I didn't, to ask Aveline… but then they made me wait with them for Aveline. Then they… Aveline came, and they were going to kill her. I tried to warn her, but then the one man got his arm 'round me… then, well… it all happened so fast."

"I put three bolts in his back," Varric supplied. "But the duster knicked her on the way down."

"I'm fine," Merrill insisted. "Just fine, really. It hardly even hurts anymore."

"You said they were Guardsmen?" Nell looked to Varric this time.

"Yeah – the kind who accuse girls of stealing then drag them into the nearest alley," Varric explained grimly.

Carver instinctively put a protective hand to Merrill's shoulder. "Varric, are you saying…"

It was at that moment that Corff bundled into their midst, balancing a dark bottle, two extra mugs, and an armful of stained rags in his arms. "Here you are, cleanest I could find." He unloaded the items onto the table.

"And what are we bloody going to do with those?" Carver angrily demanded, gesturing to the rags.

"I said clean, Corff, clean," Varric added, clearly annoyed. "Not whatever rag you hadn't shit in lately."

"It's a tavern, not a laundry," Corff complained. "You want clean, you'll have to find it yourself. These are the best I've got." He turned and moved back to the bar, grumbling all the while.

Carver was about to turn and follow him before Merrill's hand touched his for the briefest of moments. "It's alright," she insisted. "I'm alright. I know enough… er, the Keeper taught me enough to stop the bleeding. I managed to… seal it. It's only a scratch anyhow."

"'Only a scratch,' she says," Nell muttered, pacing behind the table. "You've got grit when you want it, Merrill, I'll give you that."

"Grit?" The elf asked uncertainly.

"She means you were brave," Varric explained.

"Oh no," Merrill replied, face falling. "I couldn't… while they were… I couldn't feel it. The Beyond. They just… I didn't remember how. I couldn't stop them. I felt so helpless."

"You put a knife in the one, Aveline wasn't even sure he'd make it," Varric consoled. "That's more than most could manage, given the circumstances. They must've been twice your size."

Nell sat down heavily and pulled her chair closer to Merrill. "You aren't to blame, Merrill," Hawke assured the elf as she took her hand. "No matter what. Any girl's like to freeze up when something like that happens."

When something like that happens. Carver felt a fury rising within him, so strong he had to take his hand from Merrill's shoulder. His knuckles popped as he squeezed his fists. Aveline and her bloody guard. I'll kill them. I'll kill the whole lot of them.

"Did they… what happened, Merrill?" Nell asked haltingly. "Did they hurt you? Make you do anything?"

Merrill seemed confused. She reached her free hand to her neck, touching her bound wound.

"Not that," Nell clarified. "Anything else? No need for detail. We just need… you might have need of another sort of healing. The like that can't be patched so easily."

"Nothing… except, well… they did… they made me, er… I might get this wrong… there was a game… 'Fuck the Pig?'" Merrill's face turned beet red.

All remained still for a long moment – Nell, her eyes on Merrill's, sat holding the elf's hand. Varric, stood slumped off beside Hawke's chair. Carver clenching his hands in barely suppressed anger, as a sickness formed in the pit of his stomach.

A sickness that immediately burst and spiraled around his chest. They didn't. She's alright. She said so, didn't she?

Varric burst out laughing, doubling over in a full-bodied wracking. Carver smiled, relief washing over him in waves.

"And just what is there here worth laughing over?" Nell demanded, so furiously that even Varric was cowed.

His laugh dying, Varric tried to explain. "It's just… Pig Fucker… it was just…" Before he could finish, he spluttered again, hacking up a dried throated cough. He reached blindly for the bottle Corff left and brought it to his lips, gulping greedily.

Carver was so relieved he hardly noticed Varric muddying the group's bottle. "It's a game," Carver clarified. "A stupid game."

"I know it's a bloody game!" Nell shouted, throwing back her chair. She stuck a finger in Carver's chest. "It's always a game to the likes of them. What escapes me is the fact that, apparently, you two are amused by that sort of 'game'! What in the Maker is wrong with you both?!"

"Dice!" Varric coughed, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. "It's a dice game!"

"You roll for the big die, the pig. You roll the pig, you 'fuck' the pig," Carver continued. "They play it down… well, they play it lots down the way."

Nell's stood gobsmacked, looking from Varric to Carver, before she turned back to Merrill. She knelt, placing her hands on the sides of Merrill's chair. "You speak true, now. Nothing else happened but that prick on your neck, yeah? You shot dice, they roughed you up, and you got that cut?"

The elf's hand crept instinctively back towards her neck before she lowered it again. She nodded, grimacing at the movement.

Carver's sister looked at Merrill a long moment, searching. Merrill's eyes met hers briefly, then dropped under the scrutiny.

Nell herself then nodded, standing up. She took a step to the table, saw Varric, then snatched the bottle from his hand.

"Well," Carver expressed, as Nell downed what looked to be fully half the bottle. "Least you made it out alright."

His sister spat her drink out, half tossing the bottle at the table. It managed to land on its base without spilling, skidding for only a moment against the table's surface. "'Alright?!'" she protested with fervor. "One twitch as that tosser's going down, and Daisy here's breathing her last bloody breath! Here she is, a tattooed Dalish elf, merrily jaunting around Kirkwall as if it were the friendliest village in all Thedas and not the bloody City of Chains! One could think she were on holiday!" She turned her wroth towards Merrill. "What could possibly have possessed you to go gallivanting around Dockside of all places, and straight onto some murderer's dirk?"

"I… I…" Merrill stuttered, clearly near to tears. Oh no you bloody don't.

"Don't you get like that with her," Carver barked, stepping past the sitting elf to push his sister back a pace. "She can go where she pleases!"

"Where she pleases, is it?" Nell recriminated. "What next, she swims right to the Gallows, has a nice cup of tea with the old Knight-Commander?"

"Let's just all calm down - " Varric placated, trying to get between the siblings.

"'Calm' my puckered arse!" Nell cursed. "This is life or death. She needs to - "

"Martin!" Merrill gasped, loud enough to shock the three of them into silence. "He's sick, ill, I don't know, back at my house! Something is wrong – the durlimum – I didn't know what to do!"

"What's Martin doing at your bloody house?" Carver questioned, sudden jealousy flaring within him.

"Sleeping!" Merrill answered, breathless and panicking. "He stumbled in last night and fell asleep, right at the door. He didn't seem well, that is, he said somethings that didn't make sense, he sang some, then fell. I dragged him in and he slept on the floor and then when I woke he wouldn't. I tried, but I couldn't think what to do! I thought one of you would know. Please."

"Two guesses what's 'wrong' with him," Varric muttered.

Carver almost followed Varric's jab with his own sure guess – but the look on Nell's face stopped him. No longer was she a roiling kettle, splashing boiling water ever which way onto whoever stood nearest. Rage still simmered within her, but now her tight expression and white face showed that it had clear focus.

"Now, now, put him from your mind, Merrill," she managed to say almost sweetly through clenched teeth. "Whatever ails our dear friend Martin, I'll see to him right away."

See to him. Right.

Nell turned to Carver. "Keep it knightly, brother," she instructed. Then, she turned without ceremony and headed towards the door. Carver stood in muted silence and watched her go, unsure of whether to still be angry with her, or simply glad that she had now turned her ire elsewhere.

"He'll be alright, won't he?" Merrill said meekly, bringing his attention back to the table.

"Mallet'll be just fine," Varric assured her, hopping up on to Nell's abandoned chair and reaching for the bottle. As the dwarf poured drinks for the three of them, Carver stepped past Merrill and once again touched her shoulder.

She looked up to him and smiled, and the bruises on her face almost seemed to fade. Carver patted her shoulder once and stepped up to claim his own mug that Carver pushed across the table towards him. They all drank, even Merrill, as Carver moved back to his seat opposite the elf.

Merrill coughed some at each sip but seemed to take comfort in her grip on the tankard at least. Carver placed his own hand on the table, tapping a few times absently. He wanted to reach forward, no, scoot forward, and… he wasn't sure.

That was, until he emptied his drink. He reached absently for the bottle, only to see it move and hear a chair scrape beside him.

"Well, well," Isabela smirked, as she oozed into the empty chair between Carver and Varric. She turned it backwards with a twirl and a slight step, sitting with her legs parted. "You seem a regular defender of distressed damsels."

"And what do you want, rivaini?" Varric asked, clipped, not quite his usual self.

Isabela didn't even spare the dwarf a glance as she grabbed the bottle off the table and downed it, her eyes never leaving Carver's. Once she finished it off, she placed it back where she'd found it. "Just a little bit of help from a strapping, chivalrous, fellow," she responded, crossing her arms over the chair's back. "You'll help me, won't you, Carver?"

She leaned forward, pushing her arms into her chest. Merrill was suddenly the furthest thing from Carver's mind as his eyes wandered the display before him, unsure of what he should be looking at.

"Well?" the pirate asked, the corner of her mouth turning to a smile. Carver found his gaze finally settling on her eyes.

Laughing eyes.

[=]

The hardest part wasn't carrying him. After all, Arren wasn't much of a man, especially not after she had stripped his cuirass. Even with his initial struggle, Aveline could carry him over a shoulder with relative ease.

And so she did, his ranting echoing in her ears, at first strong. "Mongrel bitch! Bloody whore! The Captain will have your head," and so on, and so on.

No, the hard part was when she felt him slackening, felt him quieting – felt the dripping down her cuirass, and the sudden warmth as his blood seeped through the space between her shoulder and the metal. He is dying, Aveline had thought, in a strange sort of panic.

She tried first dropping him and retying the tourniquet at his groin – even still, blood oozed through his ruined trousers. She probed at his wound, tried to see if she could stem the bleeding – all she got for her efforts was a loud scream from Arren and the curious (and uncomfortable) regard of passersby as her charge bled in the street.

The guardswoman threw him over her shoulder again, managed a few more blocks as he mumbled. "'Thenril… all for… bloody nothing… if he could see me now…"

Finally, she stumbled upon an idea – and a blacksmiths shop. Luckily, the dwarven proprietor had been hard at work at the forge, a hot iron already at the ready. It had only taken the barest of explanations and the request, and the smith had plunged the glowing rod into Arren's oozing inner thigh, sealing the wound with a hiss.

Arren had screamed and passed out – the smith had not been entirely accurate with the iron. Aveline felt little sympathy for her corrupt comrade – she even tossed the smith a silver on her way out, as gratitude for his poor aim.

Even still, working her way from Dockside, through Western Lowtown, up through the Red Gate and all that it entailed – carrying the limp man on her shoulders had taxed her. It was a long climb just to Hightown, and then even through it towards the Gold Quarter…

"Maker, Sergeant, is that you?" she stopped at a familiar voice just across the street. A man in simple tunic and trousers stepped out from below an awning and into the late afternoon sun. His well-groomed chestnut chops and broad shoulders marked him as Guardsman Donnic Hendyr – apparently, not on duty. A look of alarm had displaced his usual easy smile. He dropped a small bundle he held and dashed for Aveline, making to take her burden from her.

Aveline, grateful that someone had finally done something more than gawk at her, allowed Arren to slip off her shoulder feet first. Donnic deftly took the unconscious man's arm other, slinging it over his own shoulder. "Arren? Sergeant Aveline, is he alright? What's happened to him?"

"He took a knife from the girl he tried to rape," Aveline said bluntly. Tried only, she hoped, despite Merrill's words. "Lucky for him, her aim was just a bit off."

She glanced past Arren's slumped head to see Donnic grimace. "I see," he acknowledged grimly. "I suppose it was only a matter of time, the way he always carries on."

"I never thought much of him," Aveline confessed as they resumed the journey towards the Gold Quarter, Arren's weight far easier now that half was borne on Donnic's shoulders. "Though even I did not think him so vile until I came upon his work today."

"What happened to the girl? Is she alright?" Donnic asked in earnest.

"She's alive, at least. I sent her off with her friend to see to the wound Tress gave her."

"Tress?! Him as well? What has the Guard come to?" Donnic lamented. "Arren I can see, but Tress? I had thought him a better man than that."

"I had as well," Aveline echoed. They rounded a bend in the street, the sight of the Viscount's Keep looming ever closer as they neared the Gold Quarter. 'He's as like to cut my throat as you are, more even.' "I thought a lot of things before today." They were waiting.

"And what of Tress? What happened to him?"

"He's dead," Aveline replied simply, distracted. "Shot down, by a concerned citizen." And the Maker spit on him. May Varric do some good for that poor girl – I will do for what caused her pain.

"It was a good thing you were there, Sergeant," Donnic exclaimed. "Andraste save us, did you just stumble upon all this? Where did this even happen?"

Aveline nearly told him the truth. She glanced towards him and saw confusion and admiration painted across his questioning face. She had known Donnic for some time now – not particularly well, but she did know him. He was the third son of the Prorex Hendyr, whose family claimed ownership of the South Mark west of Kirkwall. In truth, the ownership of much of the land was in dispute between various Comtes, Altgraves, and Barons. Of all potential claimants, the Hendyr's had the greatest hold on the land with a sizable estate and larger incomes than most in Kirkwall's western reaches. Like any noble family with an ounce of standing, they also held a home in Hightown itself.

He did not seem a man of nobility – Donnic was of Kirkwall, through and through, not the South Mark. He bore the responsibility of the Guard proudly – and honestly, from what Aveline knew. Her firmest impression of Donnic was that he was an honorable man.

And yet… I had thought Tress an honorable man, of a sort. And both he and Arren were waiting. They were told.

Instead, Aveline looked Donnic over, as much of him as she could see past Arren. "I came upon them down in the Docks, the West Wharf. Tress is still there, lest some unfortunate has rolled him for his boots."

"Dark days," Donnic grunted. They moved within sight of the keep, the denizens of Hightown giving them a wide berth as Arren's booted feet dragged along the ground between them. "I'd thought to see Kirkwall better with the Guard, not as like take the Coterie as my comrades."

They had to stagger each step, Arren rolling between them as Aveline led first and Donnic trailed behind. The Guardswoman had to fight a strong urge to look back at the man helping her. He wasn't looking at her, then – he was focused on bearing Arren, his teeth gritted. He truly means it. He truly wishes to better Kirkwall.

"I do not think the Guard a lot cause yet, Guardsman," Aveline assured him. "Not while men such as you fight for it."

"Oh, I'm not special," Donnic rebuffed. "A bit mediocre, truly. It's those such as you, Sergeant, that bring honor to the uniform."

"Do not think it passed my notice that you were on leave today," Aveline countered. "If you truly were middling, you would have let me pass by unaided."

Their conversation halted as they did – at the feet of the grand staircase to the Viscount's Keep. Its granite steps staggering upwards and upwards towards the Keep itself. Aveline followed Its towering form with her eyes, up to where its dark parapets seemed to scrape the very clouds. It was a sight that had come to bring Aveline a strange comfort – until today. Today, it loomed. A promise – of a sort, she could not guess.

They moved together, stumbling up the stairs, Arren's limp body twisting between them all the way. They passed several noblemen on their way up – they gave the Guardsmen a wide berth, muttering all the while. After what felt like an eternity, Aveline and Donnic the top of the stairs, passing beneath the Keep's relatively modest outer walls and into the bailey within.

Minutes passed in silence as they dragged Arren further forward, towards the Keep. The Keep's public gardens surrounded them – modest when compared to the Viscount's private gardens within the Keep proper, but a veritable paradise when compared to the streets of Lowtown. Even Hightown did not typically boast such flora – angled paths cut through grass and flowers, bushes and shrubs, while water ways channeling fresh water from the Keep's natural spring cut miniature rivers through the bailey.

As they passed by the fountained statue of the first Champion of Kirkwall, the primary gate to the inner keep came into view – three guardsmen stationed in its shadow. They loitered near the raised portcullis of the inner gate, evidently not too keen on their posting.

Aveline knew them all by name – but she did not have time to acknowledge them. "Sergeant Farrel," she commanded the closest, a squat man with dark hair tied back. He nearly tripped snapping to attention at her regard, though he recovered quickly. "Fetch the Keep's watch command," Aveline continued. "On the double."

The Sergeant didn't hesitate, only turned and sprinted towards the keep. The two that remained stood agape, unsure of what to do. "Guardsmen!" Aveline barked, snapping them from their confusion. "Gourd! Keep to your post. Mill, find the barber. Arren's not like to last much longer."

The man Gourd blanched, his pale face turning paler beneath his whiskers. Mill recovered quickly, pressing through the Keep's ajar double doors, shouting all the while. "Make way, make way!"

The shadow of the Keep's inner portcullis loomed above them as they entered into the inner walls, trailing behind Mill's echo. They pushed through them into the pillared antechamber of the Keep, their footsteps echoing loudly in the relative peace of the hall. Nobles, courtiers, guardsmen, and servants all cast their eyes Aveline and Donnic's way – though some of those looks were filled with shock, most were unsurprised. It seems our heralds have warned the way for us.

Aveline recognized the lot of them by sight if not by name, the various lords and lordlings that comprised Keep's common petitioners and courtiers. They were of little note, though… one caught her eye, more than the others.

High and to her left on a balcony overlooking the great antechamber stood a middle-aged man, dressed unremarkably when compared to the other fine lords in view. He wore a dark inlaid tunic adorned with a simple sash, his russet hair and straight gait were his only visible features that were more than unremarkable (if only just). The Seneschal, Aveline thought. The hand of the Viscount.

He stood, arms folded, surveying the scene unfolding below him. Though he was too far for Aveline to know for sure, she could swear his eyes met hers.

"Right! Make way, make way – it's all under control," a familiar voice drew Aveline's attention towards the barracks. Lieutenant Gatton, for once actually wearing the cuirass of a guardsman, strode purposefully towards her. Mill and the Barber, Lambert, trailed behind him.

"Ah, Sergeant Aveline," the Lieutenant greeted, voice oozing unconcern. "Guardsman Donnic. And who is that you have there? Arren?" He leaned down, as if to meet Arren's unconscious eyes. "He looks a might out of sorts. Mill, Lambert – take him off their hands. Get him down to the infirmary, right on." He clapped as command, stepping back as Mill and Lambert stepped past him.

"Wait - " Aveline protested, instinctively leaning away from the Barber as he moved to take Arren's arm from her. "Not to the infirmary. Arren must be confined in a cell."

"Oh? Must he?" Gatton inquired with his characteristic infuriating smirk. "I'd very much like to hear why. He's an intolerable bastard, I'll give you that, but even he deserves a glance at the Sisters. How else can a wounded man get well?"

"The Barber can see to him in a cell," Aveline insisted. "I would see him there."

"He assaulted a girl," Donnic supplied. "He would likely have done her in if not for Sergeant Aveline."

"Really?" Gatton replied airily, as if Arren's revelation did not concern him in the slightest. "Well, he might just have to answer for that charge. Though he might not be able to be charged if not seen to in the infirmary. Looks like you might have just about done him in, Sergeant."

"We will take him to a cell," Aveline answered in a tone that brooked no debate – if she could not afford to trust Donnic, she most certainly could not afford to trust Gatton. The man is loyal to coin alone. "Lambert – follow us to the cells. Mill, we will need you to open the doors."

"Aye, Sergeant," Mill replied immediately.

"Now just bloody hold on," Gatton snapped, his veneer of unconcern dropping. "You're getting a little ahead of yourself, are you not? Sergeant?"

Aveline realized then just how loud they were getting – it seemed as if half of the Viscount's court now filled the antechamber – and all eyes were on them. On her insubordination.

They were told.

"I am not, Lieutenant," Aveline declared. "Arren is under arrest, and men under arrest are not set loose on the infirmary – they are placed under lock and key. Now, let us move this to the cells so that - "

"Sergeant," Donnic interrupted, "maybe we should - "

"Just what in the hell is going on?" A sudden hoarse voice half rasped, half shouted from behind Gatton. The Captain himself pushed past the Lieutenant, bleary-eyed and half-dressed. "Lieutenant Gatton, I expect an explanation this - "

It was only for a moment, but it was enough. The Captain hesitated. He looked first to Arren, then Donnic – and finally, Aveline. His eyes widened ever so slightly before he spoke.

They were told.

"Can't you see the Sergeant has a prisoner," Jeven growled. "Why are you lot jawing out here and not tossing him in a cell?"

"A cell," Gatton repeated, as if confused by the question. He recovered a moment later. "Right, just the place for 'im," he said amiably, as if there had been no argument on the matter at all. "Lambert, Mill? Proceed."

Aveline surrendered Arren's arm to the Barber then, wincing at the man's smell despite her racing thoughts.

'Tress is down with the shits.' They were told. They were told.

"You're relieved for the day. I expect your report at second bell – sharp," Jeven was saying – it took Aveline a moment to realize he was speaking to her.

"Sir," she nodded and saluted out of habit, a reflex she almost fought.

He didn't even acknowledge her, only turned to follow the Guardsmen carrying Arren down towards the barracks – to the cells. Lieutenant Gatton remained for half a moment, met her eyes, then did his customary mocking salute. Then, with a shrug, he too then headed back towards the barracks.

We are rotten to the core, Aveline realized. What separates the Guard from another band of thugs, if no one stands for the law? I do not need this – I cannot stand this dishonor. I could resign my post. I will have no part of Jeven's corruption.

A part of her that she never could seem to quiet recoiled at that idea, just as it had recoiled a long time ago, when a little girl once considered dropping her first sword. Just as it had when a young woman struggled to get up the sixth time she'd lost her feet in training to be a King's footman. And even as it had as she considered surrender in the midst of Blight, as her love's eyes dimmed at the end of her blade.

No. I will not allow this cyst to thrive unchallenged. I did not pass through fire and death to surrender to Jeven. Justice cannot be abandoned when convenient.

But what can be done? What must be done?

Her comrade's voice rose as if in answer to her thoughts. "Well, that was quite a lot more excitement than I expected picking up my aunt's linens." Donnic smiled. "I suppose I will have to acquire a new set, the pity. Aunt Dirca will be out of sorts, I expect."

Perhaps… with Guardsmen such as Donnic… But I have no proof. I could not ask for action against Jeven without it. Nor will Arren be likely to implicate the Captain.

"Well, only one thing to it," Donnic continued, evidently unaware of Aveline's turmoil. "If I'm late to bed, early to rise, I might miss her entirely. What do you say, Sergeant? You're off duty now. Care to join me for a pint?"

"No… thank you, Guardsman," Aveline demurred. I cannot afford to trust anyone, not yet. "Another time."

"Fair enough. Should you change your mind, I think I'll spend the evening at The Red Door."

"I shall keep it in mind."

Aveline slowly walked to one of the many benches that lined the walls of the antechamber, so lost in thought she hardly noticed Donnic's departure.

Arren. Tress. Gatton. Jeven. Who else has been caught up in this? And to what end? Do they just turn an eye from the law, take bribes, or is there a more sinister conspiracy? Did Donnic have the right of it – do we have the Coterie as comrades?

She turned and sat, tapping her thigh with an idle hand. How can I even begin to investigate? Shall I skulk about Jeven's office? I do not think I have it in me to be clandestine. But what choice do I have?

I must seek aid – but from who? Donnic perhaps – I could try to get to know him better, get a truer measure of him. He seems a good sort, but I must be careful. Perhaps I will drink with him after all. It could be a start, at least.

Her decision was interrupted by the approach of a young boy, no older than twelve. He wore a fine sable tunic hemmed with cloth of gold, emblazoned with the golden draconic etching of Kirkwall. "Good health to you, Serah," the boy saluted. "My lord requests you meet him at his office as soon as you are able, though if you are injured you are to seek treatment before coming."

"And who is your Lord?" Aveline asked just a bit more sharply than she intended, uncomfortably reminded of the scrutiny of Kirkwall's elite.

"The Seneschal," he replied simply, seemingly unperturbed by her harshness.

Aveline had only met the Seneschal once, and then only briefly as he had inspected her Centuria. She had not yet ever been to his office – or the Viscount's chambers within. What could he want? Could he be a party to this corruption?

She dismissed the thought before it could fully materialize. Best to see first-hand, instead of stabbing in the dark. The Guardswoman stood and gestured the boy onward. "I am ready now. Lead the way."

He nodded and led her across the chamber, up the central stairs, and towards the side staircase that ascended to the balcony that she had earlier seen the Seneschal gracing.

It was empty now as they ascended, the grand crimson rug that centered the stairs dragging at the Guardswoman's boots. Aveline steeled herself for the unknown, unsure of what to expect.

Inside was what seemed to be only the modest vestibule for a grander room. It was a relatively small chamber, with one great door at its far right and another smaller one stood opposite. Bookshelves lined the walls along with candled sconces. Contrary to what she would have expected, only a single black banner of Kirkwall hung as the room's sole finery on the far wall, just behind a heavy wooden desk.

The Seneschal sat below the banner, a quill in his hand, his eyes on Aveline and the boy. The boy bowed halfway and made to speak, but the Seneschal waved him off.

"Thank you, Thom, that will be all." The Seneschal's voice was soft, but his tone carried the weight of easy command.

The boy finished his half bow and retreated back to the Keep's antechamber, closing the door behind him on his way out.

"Sergeant Vallen," the Seneschal regarded her only briefly before turning his gaze back on his work. He continued writing as he spoke. "If you will please sit, I will be but a moment."

He gestured with his free hand towards a chair before his desk – a meager piece of furniture, though Aveline noted that it was no plainer than the chair the Seneschal himself sat on. The Sergeant walked across the room and sat in awkward silence, as the scraping of the Seneschal's quill continued unabated. It persisted sporadically as the Seneschal would pause, lift his quill in thought, then return it to parchment. After several minutes, he finally set the quill aside and looked to Aveline.

His flat umber eyes betrayed nothing. "Sergeant, I will be blunt – this Office must know what that disruption was. Why was an officer of the Guard under arrest?"

"Messere, Guardsman Arren was under arrest in connection to a series of sappings in Lowtown by order of the Guard Captain," Aveline began, leaving out the fact most of the attacks had been carried out in the Alienage and Darktown. The Guard were typically not deployed in either place, and it was best not to mention that this had all started when she strayed from her assigned patrols. The Alienage at least deserves the protection of the law as much as anyone. "He consorted with the mugger, possibly protected him. Additionally, he and Guardsman Tress assaulted a girl by the docks. Tress was killed when I confronted them, Arren was wounded. Lieutenant Gatton was not aware that Arren was under arrest and ordered that he brought to the Infirmary."

"And so you countermanded the Lieutenant's orders?" The Seneschal questioned.

"Yes sir. I did not wish him unconfined. The Captain seconded my orders."

"I see." The Seneschal splayed his fingers into a pyramid. "How injured was Guardsman Arren?"

"Nearly mortally. He would have bled out in the street, had I not had his wound branded closed."

"Was Guardsman Arren still resisting arrest after that?"

"No, sir. He was unconscious. I – we carried him to the Keep."

"And so why did you determine that it be so necessary he be confined?"

She almost revealed her true reason – I did not trust him outside a cell, where a single Guardsman could smuggle him out of the Keep. Aveline swallowed, unsure of how to delicately answer the question. The Seneschal sat patiently, unmoving. They were told. Caution is prudence.

"Sir… the Infirmary does not have a strict watch assignment. No schedule. At the cells there are always several guards – it would be more difficult for an escape to occur."

"But you said yourself, Guardsman Arren is not likely to escape on his own power."

In for a copper… "No. Even still, I do not trust that he would remain held in the Infirmary."

The Seneschal leaned back in his chair, studying her. He meshed his fingers together, placing them in his lap. Still his eyes betrayed nothing. "I see. Very well. You are dismissed."

Aveline stood, unsure of whether to be relieved or concerned at the brevity of his questioning. She half bowed and performed the traditional imperial salute, then turned for the door.

When she'd almost reached it, the Seneschal called from behind her. "Sergeant?"

She turned. He had not moved in his seat. "Sir?" She asked, a ball of nerves blossoming in her stomach.

He measured her for a long moment, hands still in his lap. Then, he spoke. "In future, it would be wise to avoid contradicting your superiors, particularly when in an open forum. But do remember: there are those above even them. Should you find any additional evidence towards impropriety within the City Guard, you have the blessing of this Office to pursue it to its conclusion."

Aveline was stunned to silence. The Seneschal picked up his quill and selected a new piece of parchment, attention already from her.

She half bowed yet again, then hastily beat a retreat. It wasn't until the evening air of Hightown hit her square in the face as she crested the Keep's grand staircase that she could even process what had just happened.

Is the Seneschal aware of the corruption? Does he want me to implicate Jeven and his co-conspirators? Why does he tolerate any of this at all, could he not simply sack Jeven?

The lights of Hightown glittered below her in the twilight – already folk were lighting their hearths to stave off the night just a little while longer.

Hightown had never seemed as beautiful as it was just then. Aveline felt a strange hitch in her heart, and a welling in her throat. She knew then her destination, if not her heading.

There is hope for Kirkwall, for the Guard. For me.

She took her first step towards her purpose.