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[It's been perhaps a week and a half since the last major incident. From there, Twisted Fate swallowed his pride and let go of his finer clothes, wearing less eye-catching leathers in return. Letting go of his boots and hat had caused more vocal protest from Fate, but eventually he'd given them up. With plenty of sulking.

The clothing reminds him of his days in Rivain, running along the docks with Graves and the others, a crew of cutthroats and thieves. Still, at least like this, he's harder to find. They go on in their travels without as much of a trail to follow, even if they pause to let Fenris wreak havoc on any potential slavers in the vicinity.

Which is what makes finding his next bit of news a bit troublesome.

Fate keeps his ears to the ground when it comes to merchant trades, on the off chance that he finds anything rare or interesting -- so he can take it and sell it himself, most of the time. In this case, there are goods going into circulation not too far off. Most of them, he doesn't care, but...

Well.

From their inn, he's waiting for Fenris, absently turning an arrowhead in his fingers. He frowns, thinking. Plotting. Trying to figure out what to do. His heart sinks, and he knows what he wants. Even if it's supremely foolish.]

eleutheron

[ It's been a few weeks since he found himself in Fate's employ. Things have been quiet, for the most part. Fenris has kept doing what he was doing--lurking on the roads, watching for slavers. Refugees are still pouring into the Free Marches; the tear in the sky and the mages' insurrection means instability everywhere. Safety is scarce, and plenty of worms have wriggled to the surface in order to take advantage. Fenris can't manage the mess--that's the job of the rising Inquisition he's already heard so much about--but he can help in his own way. He can prey on the predators.

And so he does, nearly every day. He returns to the inn that night with his leathers slicked in blood, though at least his face is clean. He takes a seat at the bar, orders up, and looks 'round. He expects Fate shortly, but he feels a strange tension in the air, too. He frowns as he looks 'round the usual sea of faces, trying to suss out the source of his uneasiness.

Ah--there. In the corner. A table, half in shadow. The people sitting at it have a shifty look to them, like they're waiting for something to happen. They aren't alone in that, either--Fenris marks several more groups and individuals who all have the same expression, the same agitated manner. He drums his fingers against his cup, and looks to the inn's entrance. When he spots Fate's figure in the doorway, he tries to meet the man's eye, to warn him.

Turn around. ]

propheretic

propheretic dasharathi lavellan ( DA: I )	eleutheron fenris ( DA II )
( coding by whambam )

- leave a comment; blank, with pictures, with prompt, etc
- select character or i will; AU or OU or whatever
- will play dasharathi as companion
- presume dasha & fenris are unromanced, but OTA for whatever

propheretic

Something is different about the Inquisitor these days. He once spent every moment engaged with the people of Skyhold, checking on them, asking what they needed, what he could do for them. He made rounds at least once a day, and often twice. When he was finished with that, he tended the gardens himself, digging up weeds, watering herbs, and folding new seeds gently into the rich soil. The Inquisitor did not ignore anyone while busy with this work, though he did occasionally fall asleep on a sun-warmed stone bench.

But no longer. He's hardly left his quarters in the past week, and then only for tense conferences with his advisers. Fearful speculation spreads through the Inquisition like a disease, worsening by the day. No one understands what's happening now, but they do know what started it: Solas's capture, only a fortnight past. He'd been locked up in the cells beneath Skyhold since Leliana's people found him and--somehow, no one knows, there are rumors of binding and blood magic and all manner of insidious tricks--subdued him. His cell is heavily warded, and no visitors are permitted.

None save for the Inquisitor.

He descends the steps now, his boots heavy on the granite floor, echoing. Keys jangle angrily in his hands. He hasn't been to see Solas since the man's capture. He wasn't ready for it.

The Inquisitor--Dasharathi Lavellan--fits the key into the lock. He stares at Solas as he does so, and his pale eyes are burning cold.

"Good afternoon," he says, sounding nothing at all like himself.

halatinous

[In the wake of the disaster at Kirkwall, a war had begun. The Circles were dissolved, the templars were rudderless, and Fenris knew exactly what would happen next. It wasn't just a matter of violence, of senseless chaos and mindless, wide-ranging conflict. Fenris's concern was not so much the war itself as its collateral damage.

Who suffers most in war? Not the nobility, who in every country were free to titter about the situation anxiously over red wine and red meat, over artfully constructed pear salads and tiny lemon cakes. Not even the merchant class, who may feel the pressure on their bottom lines but who lived still in fine houses, who traveled with guards. No. War, like every disease of the world, affected the vulnerable first and most. The poor; the disenfranchised; the addicted; the desperate. People who barely had anything but freedom to their names. People who now flowed into every region of Ferelden, trying to escape the increasing ravages of the mage-templar conflict--and the hungry vultures of other interested parties, ready now to swoop in and feast on the carrion. Bandits; highwaymen.

Slavers.

They were an infestation in Kirkwall, and they had spread now like so many insects do, multiplying in the dark before rushing forward and snatching whatever they could take.

Fenris could not--would not--sit idle. He took up his Blade of Mercy and he became nomadic again, though this time he was not running for his life. This time, the slavers ran for theirs.

He had found a pocket of Venatori in the eastern part of the Hinterlands. They had set themselves up in a series of caves near one of the main roads; a honeycomb that they could easily swarm out of at night, setting upon whatever frightened travelers they could find.

Fenris stalked the forest beyond, waiting for sunset. The Venatori would light no fires to mark their positions; they would hold no conversation. Any caravans coming through--or, more likely, harried families traveling on foot with whatever belongings they could carry--must think themselves relatively safe on this part of the road. They must think it quiet and still, an area with nothing to fear besides the soft chitter of a fennec fox.

That had been the case, at least up until several months ago. Now the shadows were filled with more than imagined threats. If the refugees weren't set upon by apostates demanding food or templars questioning their allegiances, they were slaughtered and robbed blind by bandits. Or by the apostates. Or by the templars.

Fenris can't save everyone. He can't stop this war. But he can damned well do his part.

He kneels among the trees, his bright eyes fixed upon the stone road. He can hear nervous voices; slow hoofbeats. A man and a woman, arguing about whether or not to make camp, concerned over how far their horse has already traveled. As they drew closer, Fenris caught a third speaker, sleepy, slurred--young. Asking for another blanket.

Fenris never really relaxed. His muscles are almost always coiled in a state of readiness for--something. Anything. But in that moment he finds himself grinding his teeth so hard that his jaw aches. He can see movement in the darkness beyond the road, in the latticework of caverns.

He has to be patient. The Venatori would make their move.

Then Fenris would make his.]

tel garas solasan

come not to a prideful place

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