ocularum | open post;

[It's been a day.

The morning had been fairly uneventful with a few rounds of Wicked Grace with the locals in a pub, earning their gold, and leaving it as that. The sad thing is that, often, people are sore losers and hate to lose their money to anyone, much less what should be an ignorant Dalish elf.

Sadly, due to his choice in fashion -- very much not the Dalish norm -- does make him stick out, and the losers in question do point him out to a certain magister's men hunting him down.

Twisted Fate's put on a good chase in the woods. He's dodged them, out run them a fair bit, and even felt like he was adequately getting away.

That is, until one of them manage to swing around from behind a tree and strike him sharply on the head to knock him down.]

Finally. [It's growled by one of them.] You're a hard elf to find.

I, ah. Should take that as a compliment. [Fate winces and touches the back of his head gingerly.] Not pulling our punches, are we?

I'd be running you through with my sword if I wasn't told to do otherwise. [Fate is hauled to his feet, pulled up by a fistful of hair.]

It's a long hike up the mountain the Inquisition has decided to stake out as its own. Elissa has plenty of time on the way to wonder whether Ferelden or Orlais owns the fortress, or if they'd be having a polite diplomatic screaming match to hash it out once matters calm down. The blasted thing is so far into Frostbacks it's not like it would matter for anything but bragging rights, anyway.

The switching path, widened almost to a proper road by the efforts of the Inquisition, takes her steadily towards the sky, minus the occasional pause to press herself against the wall and let a cart pass. Some perverse urge, or perhaps simply caution, has kept her from identifying herself, her various badges and symbols of rank hidden by a nondescript and dusty cloak that's rather the worse for wear from hard travel, and her face hidden by the generous hood. Her armor underneath is in pristine order, of course, but it's safer to look unimportant.

A foot soldier seeking to join the Inquisition is unremarkable, she's gathered, and Elissa goes unchallenged save for an incurious question or two from bored guards. Pretending to be more winded than she is keeps anyone from trying to have a conversation, the slight condescension her ruse earns her a small price to pay for anonymity. At longer last than she would have liked, she reaches the bridge into the castle, and pauses to take in the sight...and maybe to catch her breath a little, not that she would ever admit that part.

Past the portcullis, the keep is bustling with activity, and Elissa steps to the side to be out of the way until she can find someone who looks like they have a bit of authority.

"Excuse me. Who might I speak to about an audience with the Inquisitor?"

(Fine with me if you want to switch format <3)

[ It's late at night, that's when the people sleep. Cole finds that he does get more tired now, but still he doesn't often take to bed; he wanders around dark Skyhold instead, and listens to the dreams and nightmares creeping like a song stuck in his head, a humming tune he never can quite quit. The Skyhold guard are used to him by now, though being remembered is quiet joy and terror all at once. He knows their names, and whispers each of them beneath his breath as they pass behind his seat atop the crenellation.

He sent the Inquistor flowers yesterday, or more accurately just a single stem left on his pillow, dawn lotus, though to be honest Cole has never understood why Dasha cuts the living beauty from its wild growth, he understand that hey mean more than just the poultices and potions they become to the slight elf. His friend. Who now approaches. ]

Hello.

[ Says Cole as quietly as the names. He wants to tell Dasha all is well, and yet a gloomy fog has settled in his brain and heavy as the whole world on his back, his shoulders tight against the pain, of knowing that there's nothing he can do to help that means more than a drop of clear, pure water can desalinate the sea. ]

[ It's raining blood again. Just lightly, a sprinkle that is almost a mist clouding the air red, dripping sticky into his hair and down the back of his collar, trickling a rudely cold finger down his back, catching on his pale lashes. ]

Of course.

[ Anders grumbles, bitter. He no longer risks the dangers of casting for mild inconveniences, but the coppery tate is so horrible that he lifts a hand and an arc of ice crystallizes red over both heir heads. He holds it like an umbrella, fingers pale beneath the frost. Magic pops like ozone around them.

Probably neither of them really know what happened to the veil, or put stock in the rumors of the Dread Wolf's return. They don't know what caused the near apocalyptic destruction of Tevinter, or what became of the disbanded Inquisition. That wasn't their story. Instead they continue on a quest Anders started as soon as he realized that the Fade and the real word had started to twist and blur together; he abandoned trying to fix Merrill's eluvian and set off for the remnants of Adamant, determined to find Hawke, whether she's alive or dead.

The sound of clinking chains on the wind. Anders sighs. ]

That almost reminds me of — Kirkwall.

[ Stopping himself before he can say "home". ]

[ Fenris has been hunting for days. He'd got word of not one, but two bands of Tevinter slavers roaming through this area. He can see why: a dense forest surrounds the bustling town on its edge. Easy to get lost in. Easy to get caught in.

He's killed a few of them already. Left the bodies where they were, brutalized and gory--warnings to their comrades. So he hoped, anyway, but these groups were more robust than he'd anticipated. He's foregone sleep, eaten only when he couldn't stand the cramps in his stomach, and spoken only to curse the corpses at his feet.

This scene, however, he comes across by accident. He'd been following trails, trying to locate their camps, and it seems he's come face to face with his quarry instead. Them, and their quarry, too.

Fenris doesn't care to investigate. Tevinter is Tevinter.

He leaps down from the trees, greatsword following, and guts the man with his hand in the Dalish elf's hair. Swift, merciless, and with no words exchanged. Once he feels the body crumple, he yanks his blade free and turns on the rest.

He pauses only to glance at the now-freed elf. ]

Run, or make yourself useful.

[ It doesn't matter which. ]

[Excuse you, he had this perfectly in control and certainly had no need for a rescue.

Hell, who is he kidding? A free helping hand is always nice, and all too rare these days. For a moment, he honestly considers just outright fleeing. It'd be easy enough, and he doesn't know this warrior elf.

But the tattoos he catches so briefly -- something nags at him.]

Well, just remember you said that.

[Without another word, Twisted Fate slides off to the side through a quick Fade Step, giving himself space before he's raising his hands, summoning a wall of fire behind the remaining men.]

I hope you weren't planning on going anywhere for awhile. Or ever again.

[ This is hell. It has to be. The world has literally gone to hell, and Fenris is struggling through it with the absolute last person he ever expected. Or wanted, he tells himself, but he's still here, isn't he?

He justifies it like this: Hawke is still missing, and he has to find her. Walking around outside has just become a thousand times deadlier than usual, and he risks losing himself to some fresh horror at every hour on the hour. Though he does not fear death, he refuses to simply run into its embrace, especially without knowing what happened to the most important person in his life. Anders is a powerful mage, regardless of what he is and what he's done. Besides, having him near allows Fenris to keep an eye on him.

Another thing he tells himself.

He scowls at the blood, scowls harder at the ice umbrella, and his wrists itch at the sound of the chains. He mutters. ]

I wish I could say the same.

[ He'd heard the catch in Anders's voice, and he just shakes his head. It's odd to articulate it, but Kirkwall was the only semblance of home he's ever known. For a time he'd actually considered putting down roots, trying to make a real life of it--and then things happened.

Then Anders happened.

But however comfortable he became, he still looked at the chains strung over the docks and thought of his former life. He thinks of it now, too, rubbing his wrists in agitation. ]

Come. We're not far, now.

[ A mage. Of course. Fenris scowls, but he resolves to deal with one problem at a time.

The remaining men--perhaps a half dozen in all--raise their weapons in counterattack. One of them's got a spellbook, and he's preparing to snuff out that fire wall with a blast of ice. Fenris lunges, his lyrium tattoos flashing brilliant white, and grabs the mage by the throat. His hand shimmers as he plunges it into the man's chest, feeling for and then grabbing hold of the rapidly-beating heart. He kicks the mage off of him as he pulls his hand out, the heart clutched--and crushed--in his fist.

The vicious attack serves multiple purposes. First, the other men are terrified; one so much so that he forgets about the fire and just backs right into it, screaming. Second, the mage was the most immediate threat, and needed to be dealt with before all else--snatching out his heart was the quickest solution.

Third, Fenris just enjoyed doing it.

He draws his sword again and sets himself on the others, fighting with the ferocity of the starved, the enraged. It's been over ten years since he's suffered at the hands of these scum, and his anger hasn't abated by even a little. ]

[Well, this mysterious elf with glowing tattoos just straight up ripped the heart out of the mage. Obviously, he really didn't need much in the way of help beyond a distraction, because the rest are about to be slaughtered.

Someone really, truly does not like Tevinter, and while Twisted Fate is putting those pieces together in his mind, he has more urgent things to attend to.

He crouches by the first man that the elf had slain and begins sorting through his pockets and pouches. A bag of coins are fine -- and pocketed -- but he pauses when he discovers the note on the dead man's person.

And an apple. Nice.

Fate glances up as the warrior tears through the remaining men, taking a bite of the apple before he reads the note.]

Hmm, Aregor, you lousy bastard. [With no pause, he sets the note aflame, letting it go to ashes.]

I don't suppose you left enough of the others for me to sort through, hm?

[ Fenris glances at the charred remains of the man who'd run into the fire. Shrugs. ]

You might have a little trouble with that one.

[ He folds his arms, his gaze tracking back to the note's ashes, now staining the grass. Aregor? What does it mean that this elf seems to know his attackers? Fenris's already dark expression turns doubly sour. He approaches, one hand on the hilt on his greatsword.

He nudges the mage's body with one bare foot. ]

Friends of yours?

A true tragedy. Suppose I'll live with it.

[Another bite to the apple is given as he casually strolls toward the remaining bodies. By now, he's put out the fire, leaving only scorch marks on the ground and the dead body to show real evidence the magically induced flames were there.

He roots around in more pockets. A glance to a trinket is given, but it's quickly discarded with a snort implying lack of interest.]

Now, do I look the sort to conspire with people from Tevinter? [A faux innocent look is granted to the warrior, the batting of eyelashes included.] Now you, ser -- you look the sort with a grudge.

[ Fenris is not deterred by theatrics. He's tired; he's hungry; he never had much patience to begin with. He moves swiftly, grabbing Fate by the wrist. ]

Tell me how you knew that slaver's name.

[ His markings flash, bright and pale against his dark skin. ]

[The elven mage pauses, peering down at the hand on his wrist, then his bright blue eyes rove back up to how the tattoos glow again.

His lips twitch, his smirk not quite leaving.]

And that there is some very specific work done.

[But he doesn't press.]

I prefer to tell my stories over a drink and a hot meal. If you've some... patience, I could treat you at the closest pub. In thanks, for the rescue.

Or you could continue to threaten me. That's an excellent motivator, but one less free meal for you.

[ His stomach growls, as if in answer. He shuts his eyes briefly, sighing, and lets Fate go. Wary and exhausted as he is, he also well knows that he has a tendency to judge first and ask questions later (if at all). Had he met this man ten years ago, he might well have continued with the threats--or just moved on to the violence. But his time with Hawke did teach him a few things about painting all mages with the same brush.

He steps back, runs a hand through his fine white hair. ]

Fine.

[ He's not quite ready to tender any apologies, though. ]

But if I find out you were ever somehow in league with them--

[ HELL TO PAY, BUDDY. ]

I doubt you'll be the last man to threaten my life for what I may or may not have done or will do. At least save it until I do something that actually irritates you, yes?

[Despite his words, Fate is grinning, as if amused. At the very least, he doesn't seem offended to be manhandled or threatened.

Readjusting his wide-brimmed hat, he gestures for the other elf to follow him.]

Do you have a name, or should I make up something for you?

[ Dasha often has difficulty sleeping through the night, especially lately, especially here. He's still used to stretching out under the stars, curling up in a thin bedroll, taking the night sky as his duvet. The fine Orlesian bed in his quarters is too soft. He sinks into it, feels like it's just about swallowing him whole. He suffocates.

When he tries to steady himself by reviewing the events of the day, his chest tightens as though trapped in a vice. His scars ache. He thinks of the people counting on him, on this organization. He thinks of the price of failure, now and in the future. He must rise to the challenge--and he has, he has risen to every single one so far--but the way forward is more occluded than ever.

So he wanders, too. The dawn lotus is on his mind. Dasha's fondness for floriography is well-known at this point, but not many people reciprocate his gestures. He's twirling the stem in his fingers as he comes up beside Cole. ]

Lovely middle-of-the-night, isn't it?

[ He speaks softly, as ever. Cole's tension is plain, and not surprising, either. The transition from spirit to something more substantial has been troubling for him. Dasha's tried to help, tried to offer distractions and assurances. Like Cole, he wishes he could do more.

Dasha sits down, lets his thin legs dangle over the edge of the battlements. Swings them a little, like a child. ]

Let me know if you'd like to talk about it.

[ This man is irreverent, but it doesn't exactly put Fenris off. He's reminded--briefly, slightly--of Hawke. She always talked like this, too. Like everything was a joke, or a game.

He follows along, thinking of her, trying not to let the sudden association predispose him too warmly. He doesn't know the first thing about who he's dealing with, and he's not averse to ending their association violently, if need be.

But he does find himself hoping it won't come to that. ]

Fenris.

[ A beat. ]

What of you?

[Fenris. The name is familiar, but he imagines it'll come back to him soon enough. Honestly, the tattoos and the demeanor are more interesting to him than anything else.

With a sharp smile, he tips his hat before looking forward again.]

Twisted Fate.

It's a pleasure, Fenris.

[ Fenris doesn't say much until they're ensconced in the tavern, drinks in hand, stew on the way. He'd asked for red wine, a luxury he hasn't been able to enjoy for weeks on weeks--but if this elf is paying, why not?

He swirls it in its goblet as he stares down Fate, his green eyes luminous, searching. ]

I've known the Dalish to have odd ways, but 'Twisted Fate' does not strike me as traditional.

[Red wine. Not a bad choice, and a price he's willing to pay. In his own goblet, he has a sim, giving a little hum before he returns to his mutton.]

If there's something I can at least assure you, I'm leaps and bounds away from a traditional Dalish. I really like wearing boots too much, in any case.

But you, my friend, wanted to know what I know. So here it is.

Magister Aregor Priggs is interested in getting his property back. You can probably guess what that is. Simple enough, isn't it? I escaped him, and I have no interest in going back to Tevinter ever. Something I get the feeling you can relate to.

It's only midday, and Dasharathi is already exhausted. The morning was a whirlwind of meetings and debates, followed by a spate of extremely Important visitors who demanded (literally, sometimes with subtle death threats) his attention, followed by a sad attempt at lunch. He'd barely broken the bread when a messenger flew at him with crucial reports from Leliana's people, and he'd barely started to read those when yet another Orlesian noble rode in on a white horse with an ostentatious retinue, bellowing about being shown the respect due his house and so on.

Thus, when this perfectly unassuming and nondescript woman catches him wandering, slightly dazed, down the front hall, his first inclination is to lie wildly. But he discards that; it's not in accordance with his nature, and he is a terrible liar even when rested and properly fed.

"Ah," he says. "Me. Because--I'm him."

He smiles tiredly.

"What can I help you with?"

[ He has to admit, he's rarely seen one of the Dalish dressed so flamboyantly. It wasn't something he had time to consider while in the thick of battle--his focus being firmly elsewhere--but now he's taking the time to observe. He doesn't quite know what to make of what he's seeing, and when Fate mentions property recovery, he visibly tenses.

He bites back his first response--don't presume to know me-- ]

Are you saying you were a slave?

[A specific question that requires a careful answer. Fate sets down his fork and knife, and folds his fingers together, his grip tight.

He frowns, and says:] I am saying that I will be, if he does manage to find me. And he is a prideful man who does not make light on his losses.

Elissa knows that bone-deep fatigue, reading it from the line of his shoulders and the moment it takes him to gather himself to answer her. The fate of the world is too heavy a burden for any one person to carry. Fortunately, she's learned, you don't notice just how much so until you set it down again.

"Convenient," she says, sympathetic humor rippling through her voice. "I thought I was going to have to go through a half-dozen functionaries."

Straightening, she tosses back her cloak, revealing the Warden Commander arms on her breastplate, and pushes back her hood to reveal her face--a detail less important than her heraldry in a world without photography.

"I'm Elissa Cousland--or Theirin, if you prefer." She herself doesn't. Her birth name is far more illustrious than her husband's. "And I'm told your organization has been looking for me."

[ can i please have dasha, something set within inquisition after skyhold. pre or post fade aventures, au whatever you like i trust u.

i would also like to request the other surly gent. i am knee deep in a dai playthrough so dai aus would be grand but i am also down for any kind of hijinks your heart desires. ]

[ Anders catches that compulsive movement out of the corner of his eyes, and thinks good spitefully — but really it's just an echo of spite. He takes no pleasure in the idea of another's bondage anymore, too joined with Justice to be capable of it. And he and Fenris's feud is so old that even simply wishing him misery and discomfort seems more like habit than any true vindictiveness. So he doesn't say anything else about chains, and it isn't long before the sound of them fades. ]

Not too fast.

[ Waspish. He's old enough to walk with staff in hand now, probing the way, though he's actually keeping up all right; for all the abuses he's put his body through it still holds together with darkspawn blood and raw spirit power. But his knees do ache with the rain — and apparently with the onset of what he has heard other people coin Fadestorms.

Fenris doesn't have to tell him that they're close. The Nightmare had sung Corypheus' calling, and the strains of it are still audible to him the closer they get. This is what Hawke had told him to stay away from — and if he hadn't obeyed her perhaps they wouldn't now need this terrible mission.

Something howls from the rocks to their left, a gut-wrenching noise, and Anders sighs like its bothersome even while his stomach turns over. He mutters to himself fatalistically. ]

Well, you've lived a good long life. Better this than the Deep Roads.

[ gimma dasha please. you can toss a prompt @ me or whatever ok i am easy peasy. ]

[ The stew arrives, steaming hot and--if not exactly premium with regard to the meat and vegetables--filling. Fenris licks a bit of gravy off of his lower lip as he considers what Fate's said so far. ]

And I'm to presume those men were in your magister's employ.

[ He's still not sure if he buys this story. ]

What was in the note?

That would be correct.

[Such annoying little details. Twisted Fate sighs and sits back.]

Instructions on how to find me, and what to do with me. I'm not keen on too many loose ends, and certainly not eager to be found by anyone with a grudge.

Hmm.

[ He taps his armored fingers against the table, considering. He knows what it is to be pursued--it was his life for years upon years, after all. ]

Do you expect more company from your good Magister, then?

Oh, no.

[ Fenris draws the greatsword from his back, scowling, his lyrium brands flashing pale and bright against the dark sky. ]

You're not dying out here, mage. I'm not explaining your corpse to Hawke.

[ They will make it through this, and they will find her. Fenris has survived this long. He's endured hell before and come out swinging, and he has little intention of stopping now. Even if, like Anders, he's not as young as he once was. Even if he's not quite as fast, even if he worries that the lyrium bound to his veins is slowly driving him mad or killing him or both.

He brandishes the sword at whatever's scrabbling up over the rocks, and he hisses. ]

What is it, then? Demon, or darkspawn?

[ He's just going to lunge at it recklessly regardless, but he figures if anyone can give him a second's forewarning, it's Anders. Being both mage and Grey Warden, as he is. ]

[ Well, he's not exactly storming Skyhold, but he is an angry, glowing elf. He stands in the main hall, glowering at anyone who makes eye contact, arms crossed over his chest. Tapping his foot irritably against the plush carpet. There's a rolled-up parchment sticking conspicuously out of his belt, a letter from Varric. A letter detailing certain recent adventures in the Fade, and the nearly lethal cost thereof. He'd received it three days and ten hours ago, which happened to be the precise amount of time it took him to open the letter, read it, and then immediately stomp his way here.

When he sees Hawke approaching, he lunges. Grabs him by the collar.

Growls. ]

We need to talk.

You know how it is with prideful men. They aren't easily deterred, and most definitely not him.

So yes, I do. Perhaps someone would be interested in removing a few more Tevinter from this world?

Someone has been doing that already.

[ And quite well, in fact, if he says so himself. He drinks his wine as he eyes Twisted Fate, remembering the days when he stole coin to survive. He doesn't live well as it stands; mostly just manages on the bounties he collects here and there. ]

But if someone were to be paid, he might focus his efforts for his employer's benefit.

[Twisted Fate smiles crookedly, then shrugs a shoulder.]

I think that could be arranged. [Fate is rarely hurting for coin, for one reason or another.]

Name your price.

[ He leans forward over the table, his bright green eyes focused on Fate's unusually fancy clothes. They're of much better make the average Dalish elf--even of the average human. Bespoke, perhaps, though it's harder for him to tell with robes. Fine fabric, certainly. Befitting an Orlesian noble. ]

What can you afford?

[ It might be a leading question. ]

[At that, Twisted Fate chuckles and leans forward to peer at the other elf. Most things can be bought, easily.]

Let's begin with an allowance, perhaps? Five sovereign weekly for keeping me alive. An additional for every Tevinter you slay.

If we need to adjust the terms, then I'm open to discuss. [But he's going to guess that it's a better deal than whatever Fenris has been doing otherwise.]

[ His eyes widen slightly, because Fate is right, of course--that's a far superior income to his current intermittent earnings. It feels too good to be true, and that makes him suspicious. He's always been a little paranoid, usually for good reason, and it's a difficult habit to break.

But he supposes there's no harm in seeing where the offer takes him. ]

Quite generous.

[ He finishes off the wine. ]

And how many men did I already kill for you back there? I'm forgetting.

Don't think much of it. I'm looking forward to having a simpler time, really.

[And he will run, for as long as he can; he has no urge to confront Magister Priggs anytime soon.]

Ah, yes. Six, I believe. Expecting back payment, are we?

[ Can't run from the past forever, buddy.

Fenris lifts the empty goblet, shrugging. ]

This is good wine. I should like to have more of it--only, my coin purse is unhappily light.

[you wanna BET]

Well, never let me stop someone from having as much wine as he'd like. Especially when he's watching out for my ass for the foreseeable future.

[From his purse, he relieves himself of six sovereign, leaving them on the table for Fenris.]

As for me, a drink sounds fine enough as well before I turn in. Unless there was something else you needed to ask of me?

[ Maker's breath. Does this elf always throw so much money around? He runs his fingers across them, as if checking to make sure that they're real. With a slight frown, he glances back up at Fate, shaking his head. ]

No. I know all I need to, for now.

[ Questions linger. How did a Dalish elf get involved with a magister in the first place? What was their history? Why was the magister so keen to get him back--or kill him?

But those could wait, he supposes. ]

[ There's no sense in being irritated with Varric for sending the letter. Technically, Hawke should have sent the letter before or after the Incident in the Fade. And he should have perhaps warned the guards that perhaps some of his other associates-slash-friends would inevitably find their way to the Inquisition. He can already sense Cullen's stress level rising.

But that's all besides the point. ]

You came all the way here to tell me that in person? [ Hawke asks before he can stop himself. He lifts a hand to curl his fingers around Fenris's wrist and squeeze lightly. ] We can talk. But maybe not with such a wide audience?

[ He can't even mollify Fenris with the promise of good wine. From what Hawke understands, Josephine hoards it all for diplomats and Hawke's not willing to cross Leliana to get at it. ]

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

open post;

twisted fate | for fenris

for the inquis

dash dash dasha

some fucking elf

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smile

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i have no pictures but i am here to make wild demands.

addendum.

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i love wild demands

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dasha

fenris

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