Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Waking up in a field was strange because there weren’t any fields this nice near her apartment, and she’d never been the kind to pass out at a park. The park nearest to her home was little more than a field of weeds that kids liked to smoke pot at. It didn’t have this lush grass that tickled her bare ankles and the dandelions that didn’t tickle her nose. 

However, the strangest part wasn’t the weird flowing white dress she was wearing, or that she’d only ever seen a sky this clear in backwoods towns far from the big city she lived in. The absolute strangest part was that she felt fine, for the first time in years she felt fine.  

There was no crawling under her skin, no sweat dripping from her brow or throat dry, hands shaking with need. 

Alaska was fine. 

That’s how she knew that something was wrong.

“You’re finally awake, good.”

She knew that voice, why did she know that voice? 

When she turned towards the sound she realized why.

Flemeth. 

Oh, something was definitely wrong.

“Am I dead?” 

The witch raised one perfectly manicured white brow, a sly smile taking over her features. “Oh, she’s smart .” Well, her tone could be nicer but she’d take it.

So she was dead then, right? Shouldn’t she be panicking? Worrying about what she’d left behind? 

But she hadn’t left much behind to worry about. Her roommate would take care of her cat, Sledgehammer had always liked Amanda better anyway. Her job would replace her like she was nothing because that’s what corporate entities did, the girl she’d been on a few dates with would think she was being ghosted, her professors would assume she’d finally dropped out. Rachel might be sad, but only because she’d have lost her sidekick. Maybe a distant Aunt would shed a tear? Unlikely, most of her family had given her up for gone a long time ago. 

Her father would be heartbroken, but he’d been preparing himself for this for years. Sure, maybe a part of him had always hoped she’d finally get her shit together and get clean but the bigger part of him had to know this was coming.

So Alaska was a loser, she was dead and nobody would really care, maybe her dealer would be upset about losing her business but as long as it didn’t come back to bite him, Adam wouldn’t really care. That sucked big fucking whoop.

“So, what is this? Are you God and you just appear differently to everyone? A face they’d be comfortable seeing?” She asked.

She really shouldn’t be so calm.

Kinda said something about God that they were cosplaying as a video game character but whatever.

If that was the case then what did it say about her that God appeared as Flemeth? That she was a nerd? That she liked leather and spikes? Probably nothing good, if she woke up in the back of an ambulance right now her therapist would have a field day hearing about this at their next appointment.

God—No, Flemeth —tossed her head back and let out a throaty laugh. Just like the video game Character would. “Something like that.”

A flicker of annoyance ran through her mind, causing her to squint at God (?) as she fought to cling to the unnatural calm she’d been feeling. If she could just get herself under control she could ride it out, it wasn’t as good as a high but there was something nearly euphoric about riding on a blissful calm. “Is this the waiting room?”

“Pardon?”

“The waiting room. Like where you read my file and decide if I’m going to the Good Place or the Bad Place.” She shouldn’t have to explain the mechanics of things to God .

Shit, this meant she’d never get to finish The Good Place. Damn, all she wanted to know was if Elanor and Chidi would ever be happy. Could God give her spoilers?

“I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

“But you’re God.” Yep, the unnatural calm was definitely wearing off. Fuck, she could go for a Xanax, she’d settle for some Oxy. If she wasn’t in this stupid dress she’d have had some backups in her bra. 

Wait, she’d run out of the last of her stash a week ago. How long had she been in limbo? Or had she finally started to actually lose it? For Christ's sake, she was standing in the middle of some field talking to a cosplayer claiming to be God. Who was she kidding? She’d definitely lost it.

Would it be trashy to ask God if she could magic up something for Alaska to snort off the nail of one of those pointy gloves? Was that a kink? If it wasn’t she was about to make it into one.

As if God could read her thoughts the woman tilted her head and gave her a pitying look. “Not the God you’re thinking of.” 

“So, what then? This is all just a joke? What are you? The devil just getting their kicks?”

There was that pitying look again and fuck if Alaska didn’t want to smack it off her. She didn’t need pity, especially not from some cryptic God wannabe. Yeah, she was a pathetic dead druggie who didn’t have any real friends and she’d probably died face down in her own vomit while trying to reach the last of her Adderalls that had fallen from sweaty hands and rolled under her fridge, but she didn’t need pity. She didn’t need that look, she knew who she was and she was fine with it.

“You know who I am, I have a choice for you.” 

Come into my parlor, the spider said to the fly.

Sell me your soul, said the Devil. Everything will be fine, said the Devil.

Help the ancient elven God, what could go wrong?

“Alright.” She said, better to just go with it instead of getting into a fiddling contest she would most definitely lose.

Flemeth managed to look surprised, at least Alaska thought it might be surprise. She looked like someone who’d been pumped full of botox had walked into a surprise party. So, yeah, surprised? 

Then the surprise melted and was replaced by pure, unadulterated, smug satisfaction. 

Spider.

Fly.

“You didn’t even hear my proposition.”

Alaska shrugged, she had nothing else going for her. “Well, you don’t have the power to send me to the Good Place or the Bad Place so what else do I have?” She was dead, what options did she have?

Wherever the cosplayer was sending her had to be better than this dumb field. It was so bright and the fact that it was dusted in flowers that weren’t triggering her pollen allergy was triggering a deep sense of unease in her. This place was unnatural and gross, too perfect to be real. 

She was really bargaining for her future with some Dragon Age cosplayer huh? That’s where she was at. Maybe this was just a high, but what the hell had she taken? Hallucinogens had never been kind to her, there were usually more giant bees and talking reflections.

Flemythal was still staring speculatively at her as if waiting for her to crack or run off screaming. Maybe it was the self-destructive streak her therapist had told her about but she couldn't bring herself to actually care enough to do the whole freaking out about being dead thing. She was dead, oh well, she’d never seen herself living a long life and growing old.

But at the very least she could give Flemeth the chance to give the whole spiel she’d clearly rehearsed and prepared for. After all, it was only polite to let her monologue.

“You’re a video game character.”

“Comics too if I recall.”

“Oh, she’s got jokes .”

The humor slowly slipped from Flemythal’s face until she was back to that speculative look as if Alaska was a bug she was deciding to either pick up and stick in the barbie dream house or burn under a magnifying glass. 

“You have played all of these ‘games’ , yes? You know what happens?”

“What happens because you have a finger in every pie and nudge everything in the exact direction you want it to go.”

The exact wrong thing to say, Flemeth grinned, too wide and too many teeth to be friendly. She was definitely about to be burned. There was a gleam in the God's eye that screamed predator and Alaska had to choke down the urge to power walk away.

“How do you think I do that? I can’t actually be everywhere at once.”

Then it hit her and she realized exactly what she’d signed up for. “You want me to be one of your agents?” 

Of course, Fen’Harel had agents so why wouldn’t Mythal. Hell, she’d essentially made the Hero of Fereldan into one, same with Hawke, on some level even Morrigan. God only knows how many others she’d had hiding around Thedas. 

Why did Flemeth need her help if this had already happened? Had it already happened? How many universes were there? If something went wrong did Flemeth just jump to another universe and start over? Did she agonize over the world like a chessboard for centuries, planning what moves to make? Did she create the video games as a test simulator for her plans? Did she keep a Prophet locked in her basement?

Did Alaska actually give a single shit about the logistics of it all?

Not particularly. 

“Do I get to know anything about what I’m walking into?”

The look on the woman’s face said no. That was fine. She’d figure it out, she’d indulged in lore and meta when she was younger to fill the void. Eventually that thirst to be ridiculously knowledgeable about a specific video game had waned and she’d begun to fill the void with other things. Drugs mostly. But only pills, designer drugs. She wasn’t some junkie.

“How did I die?”

Facedown in her own vomit or hit by a truck because she didn’t look both ways were her best guesses. She wasn’t nearly interesting enough for anything else.

“You fell asleep in a running car inside a garage.” The casualness with how she said ‘car’ made Alaska blink at her, Flemeth knew about cars and wasn’t doing anything to bring them to Thedas? Fucked up .

Now that she mentioned it, that did sound about right. She’d run out of everything and been nearly sober for a week, staving off the impending withdrawals by rationing her cough syrup. And by rationing, she meant she’d drank a whole bottle in one day then tried to make the second bottle last more than two days. 

The memory of her last day on Earth hit her like a freight train. 

Rachel ‘The Rack’ Roberts had been her best friend, Rachel with the blonde hair and a great rack—as the nickname would imply. She was one of the only ones who knew about Alaska’s little problem. Mostly because Rachel had the same problem, they worked together, and thus they both ran out at the same time when their biweekly pay came back to bite them in the ass.

They’d gone to a Forever 21 to shoplift clearance panties and bras, some petty theft to take their minds off the shaking in their hands and spasming in their throats as their bodies instinctively tried to swallow little pills that weren’t there. It’d been in the Nordstrom bathroom, lounging on the couches while their phones charged and they discussed their hauls that Rachel had found a few stray Ambien and Vicodin loitering about at the bottom of her knock off purse.

With sweat on their brows and hearts aflutter they’d raced back to Rachels like her bug-eye was stolen. The rest was self-explanatory, they’d pulled into the garage of the house that Rachel rented with her five other roommates and immediately put that bad boy in park without turning off the engine, because they wanted AC while riding out their highs. Wouldn’t want to get too sweaty. Obviously. 

They feasted on little white pills with their arms crossed wedding style and then chased them with caramel macchiatos bought with a Starbucks gift card her dad had sent her for Valentine's day. He called her once a month to hear her voice and make sure she was alive but cited being too busy with work and her being too busy in college to visit. Instead, he sent gift cards to absolve his guilt for ignoring his druggie daughter. Too bad her dealer wouldn’t accept the gift card, then they wouldn’t have to deal with lint catching in their throats. 

In retrospect, getting so high she couldn’t move and falling asleep in a running car in an enclosed garage wasn’t the best idea, but it was exactly how she deserved to go. 

Fuck knows what Mythal saw in her.

“Did Rachel die?” Maybe she’d been the only one to die and The Rack had gotten out of it alive. Shit, that’d be fucked up if Rachel had found her. Didn’t dead people release their bowels? That’d be hard to get out of the upholstery. 

Flemeth’s face said yes and for a moment Alaska felt bad for Rachel. Then she remembered that Rachel had been the one to introduce her to pills and she decided not to feel bad anymore. It was exactly what they both deserved. Still, the world would miss that Rack. 

“So, what am I going to be doing?” Change the subject, stop thinking about how she died, and get on to acing this job interview. At least it wasn’t like the one from K-Mart where they asked her if she could count to ten or had ever been suicidal. Somehow she’d failed that one.

“Observing, sharing information, retrieving items, nudging when needed.” 

Cool, basic lackey shit. Cool, Cool, Cool. She could do that. Unpaid intern shit. Bonus: she didn’t have to be a master at Excel.

Alaska nodded enthusiastically, giving the Goddess a double thumbs up.

“Swear yourself to me.” 

Uh, that was strange. 

Wait a minute. Mythal was one of the Evanurites. Evanits. Evanurs. Whatever, some ancient Elven God . The point was, they’d all been slave owners, right? ‘Mythal was the best of them’ and all that crap aside, a slave owner was a slave owner. 

If she swore herself to Mythal would she become another mindless convert? Just another follower doing the Goddess’s bidding? 

A soul is not forced on the unwilling. But Alaska had died, did she even have a soul anymore?

“Am I going to have those face markings?”

The Goddess tilted her head, a bemused smile playing at her lips. “Do you want them?”

The Mythal vallaslin did kinda slap, but no, Alaska was good without them. Besides, she was human. It would be kinda weird for her to have them.

“Not particularly, no.” 

“Even without them, you will still be bound to my will.” She paused allowing it the proper time to sink in before continuing, “So do hurry up.” 

Alaska didn’t have many other options. Die for good and risk seeing if there really was a Good Place and a Bad Place or, live in a video game world with hot romance options. If Hawke didn’t romance Anders she could right? Those were the rules? Did dibs apply in Thedas?

“I grow tired.” The playful and kind Flemythal was gone, only the hardened scary one was left. 

Fuck it.

“Is there a specific way to do this?” Alaska asked.

“No.”

She dropped to one knee, crossing a fist over her heart like some kind of knight in a movie. She’d planned a smartass comment, something loaded with sarcasm that might make the Goddess kill her right then and there, but instead something else came out. “Mythal, my lady, allow me to pledge fealty to you, to be your vassal for what is to come.” 

That was laying it on thick, the strange words felt foreign in her mouth yet entirely at home. Almost like something had possessed her. Alaska was pretty sure she’d never used the word fealty in her goddamned life .

Then something snapped into place, a thread connecting her and Mythal. A link, part of her now belonged to Mythal, something she was sure she’d live to regret. 

“I accept, my thrall.” 

The exact definition of the word ‘thrall’ escaped her mind, though she gathered enough context clues to know that even without Vallaslin she was now Mythal’s slave. Her spiked glove kink was really starting to affect her livelihood, she’d just sold her soul because of it. 

Time to deflect.

“What’s my cover?”

“What’s your last name again?”

Okay? Weird all-knowing Goddess forgetting the name of her charge, that was totally normal. Right?   Obviously, she just had too much on her plate, what with deciding the fate of the world and all that. 

“Uh? Avis? What does that have to do with—Wait a goddamn -”

Chapter Text

This time when she woke up it was in a puddle. Somehow this was better than the field, much better. While the ground was cobblestone and the buildings around her were barely more than fancy shacks this was familiar to her. A poorly lit alley? Hell yeah. Not her favorite place but a necessary one when her regular, Adam, wasn’t available and she had to pick up from that shady guy who was either named Sean or John. 

The shanties and scattered oil-burning lamps were different but for the most part, an alley was an alley. 

Now, where was this alley? She took a minute to glance around, noting absolutely nothing familiar. The lighting was all warm tones, fire burning instead of the familiarity of buzzing fluorescents. Not a cool neon light in sight, no flashings signs advertising 24/hr video arcades.

Then she looked up.

Shit.

The sky.  Holy shit. 

The stars were like nothing she had ever seen before. Once she’d gone on vacation with a friend of hers—back to the little podunk town said friend had grown up in— and she’d marveled at the stars. Staring up at the sky until her neck hurt she’d admired the stars. Then she’d done some MDT and stared at them some more. But even those stars had nothing on these.

“Oi! Look at the cute little knife ear.” 

Drunk men, gross. 

She turned around, looking for the source of their comment. Oh, she was alone in the alley, that’s weird. 

Alaska looked back at the sky and then something hit her.

Wait a damn minute. 

Two  moons? 

Knife ear?

A hand reached up to brush against the tip of her ear and missed, hitting herself square in the middle of her ear. While searching for the tip her fingers just kept going up, had her ears always been this big? Then she found the tip, the  extremely pointed tip .

Oh fuck,  she  was the cute little knife ear.

Dying wasn’t enough, now she was a body snatcher? 

A soul is not forced on the unwilling. 

So this was her body now? Had Mythal just changed up the ears and left the rest the same? Was this a vacant body? Was she like Cole?

Maybe she should have asked more questions.

If she was home she’d have a  cute little knife  on her, a black karambit she’d gotten at Big 5 and never let go of, but no. She was in a medieval shit hole in a nightgown with no way to defend herself and nowhere to go. 

After she got herself out of this situation the dress had to go, now it was partially see-through due to the murky puddle which she was now beginning to question. God, she hoped it was water. It was hideous. Was it an underdress? A nightgown? Her Grandma had once tried to teach her about historical fashions, it hadn’t gone well.

They said Fen’Harel was the trickster God but she was about seventy-eight percent sure he’d never leave her to the wolves like this. Ha, wolves.

While she was busy having an existential crisis over losing her favorite knife—somehow that hurt more than the fact that she’d actually died— the men grew closer. Four of them in total. Fan-fucking-tastic. They were in the mouth of the alley now, effectively blocking her only easy exit so she began to search for alternatives.

Which were limited. Extremely limited.

She’d never been good at climbing and she doubted this new Elven body made her that much scrappier so trying to scale the buildings and escape on a roof was out. Darting past them was out, four men had a lot more reach than one Elf who was still figuring out the mechanics of this new body. 

Had she gotten shorter? She was definitely shorter. 

Now would be a great time for Mythal to swoop down as a dragon and come to her rescue, but that didn’t happen. Apparently, she wasn’t the main character. Alaska knew she was a pawn but fuck she’d thought Flemeth would at least care enough to ensure she lasted more than an hour. 

The only other hope she had was a door a little ways down the alley, in the direction of the men of course. Walking towards intoxicated men was far too encouraging for them, back home it was the absolute last thing she’d do—and she’d eaten what she thought was a Benadryl she’d found under the couch while desperate. It’d turned out to be a pez and she’d cried.

The door would have to do.

As soon as she took a step down the alley towards the door, and by extension towards the men, she was met with a chorus of whoops and whistles. Just don’t make eye contact, focus on the door and walk with purpose. 

The door was locked. 

Fan-fucking-tastic.

Maybe they just wanted to chat and ask what it was like being an Elf. Yeah, that was totally reasonable, that was definitely it. At least if she ignored the lewd comments spilling out of their mouths, actually—some of that was drool, she could pretend they just wanted to chat. 

Continuing to pretend she knew exactly what she was doing she knocked on the door, and then again, and again until she was frantically pounding on the door and the footsteps were only a few feet from her. 

It occurred to her that she could be putting herself in more danger by knocking on the door, it was highly likely that whoever was on the other side of it wasn’t friendly either. Especially if it was really late here and she was waking them up.

“Aw, come on. Don’t be like that.” 

She was going to continue to be exactly like that and if he took one more step it’d be her knee in his crotch.  

One of them put a hand on her shoulder and she gave up. The door wasn’t opening and no dragon was swooping down to save her. She was officially the worst agent in the entire universe and Mythal was the worst employer in the universe. If she survived this she’d be finding whatever dog house Fen’Harel was sleeping the years away in and wait around until he woke up so she could hand him her resume. 

Maybe she could find other thralls and unionize.

“Hey, we’re talking to you.”

“Back off.” She growled out, refusing to look at them.

The man's hold on her tightened. 

“Now you listen here-”

Her elbow found purchase in the gut of the man whose hand was on her shoulder as her head reared back and broke the nose of whoever was unlucky enough to be right behind her. She stomped on the nearest foot and opened her mouth to scream, at the very least Alaska would go down fighting.

Then, against all odds, the door opened. Thank the Creators, or whatever a good Elf was supposed to say. City Elves were Andrastian, right?

The person who opened the door was an Elven woman, older than her but she had no idea how to judge people’s ages in Thedas. Her hair was a dark blonde and she had a shitton of kohl smeared around her eyes, somehow the corset she was wearing was less revealing than the soaked with definitely-wasn’t-just-water nightgown Alaska was wearing. 

It took a minute for the woman to take in the scene but as soon as she did realization dawned on her face like a thunder cloud. “ Are you okay? ” Huh, that wasn’t English—common?— Spanish then, thank God—The Creators— she spoke Spanish. It had taken a lot of yelling from the Duolingo owl but she’d persevered.

But she couldn’t figure out what to say, shit what  do  you say to that? ‘Yeah! Hi, hello! An Ancient Elven God brought me here to spy for her and these men are harassing me. Can you help with that? By the way, know any good places for me to work so I can gather some information?’ Pass. So she settled for glancing behind her and shaking her head. 

“Shame on you.” Her English—common??— was a little broken and heavily accented but her point came across. Oh thank everything that has ever been, protective older women were the same everywhere it seemed. “Cornering this poor young girl.”

Okay, well, she took care of her skin but she was still twenty-two. But elves were notorious for being hard to age due to their small statures and often emaciated frames. She’d read that somewhere, right? If it got her out of this she’d take it. 

She risked another glance behind her, The men seemed reluctant to go any further, which read as odd because since when did creepy men give up so easily? One of them actually looked nervous. 

When she turned back around she realized why, a man had appeared behind the Elven woman, also an Elf—though he was tall as hell for an Elf. But even with his height, tall as hell for an Elf was still only about five-foot-eight, that wasn’t what made him intimidating. The knife he was nonchalantly playing with definitely helped, though more obvious was the tattoo on his jaw. 

A feather.

He was an Antivan Crow, and suddenly things made a lot more sense.

Spanish?

Feather tattoo?

‘What’s your last name again?’

Mother.

Fucker.

“Problem?” Too many teeth, that smile was never meant to be kind but it strangely made her feel better. The man gazed upon her entourage with a shark-like ferocity, promising dark things to come if they kept up their behavior. Maybe even if they didn’t. 

A quick chorus of ‘no’ echoed behind her as she chimed in with a resolute ‘yes’. 

The Elven woman reached out and placed a calloused hand on her shoulder, eyes narrowed as she gently tugged Alaska towards the door and quietly challenged the men to do something about it. 

“Run along.” If this woman was into worshipping the Creators she’d be sure to put in a good word to Mythal for her. 

Even after the men ran off the woman kept her hand on Alaska, sharing a look with the man behind her before gently tugging her into the building while murmuring and asking if she was hungry. She wasn’t starving per se but she wouldn’t say no to food, especially if it was properly seasoned. Please let it be seasoned. 

She was assuming they weren’t in Ferelden, but she couldn’t ask without seeming like a complete nonce so she stayed quiet and listened to the chatter in the building. It was mostly Spanish— Antivan? — with some Italian— also Antivan? — and a smattering of English— definitely Common. 

They were speaking Not English but definitely Not French or Latin and there was an Antivan Crow here. Alaska would hazard a guess that they were in Antiva.

After being seated at the end of one of the more empty tables she risked a glance around and quickly came to the realization that she was in a brothel. At least it looked like the brothels in the games, dingy, long tables filled with drunks with half-naked people on their laps. Sex work, man-kinds oldest profession. Seems that’s true of any universe. 

The woman, whose name she still didn’t know, leaned over towards a waitress(?) and murmured something, making a few gestures towards Alaska. The girl, also an Elf and likely only a little tween, nodded so harshly it seemed like her head might snap off her frail shoulders before taking off and power walking towards what might be a kitchen.

“My name is Ioris, I’m glad you’re safe,” Ioris said in Antivan(?) as she gave Alaska a gentle smile, passing a mug of something that smelled vaguely of yeast to her. 

She took a sip of it, thinking about how often people here must drink alcohol and wondering if she would eventually come to use it as a crutch as she did with everything else in her life. 

The Elven man had yet to introduce himself and stood casually just outside of her field of vision because that was a totally normal thing for normal people to do. Alaska had never been very smart, so instead of playing timid and continuing to sip her ale she turned and brazenly looked at him. Brown eyes roamed over his form as she tried to analyze him like someone who knew what they were doing might. He did it right back and had the audacity to look amused while he did.

No need to rub it in, she hadn’t been intimidating before and she wasn’t now. Especially since she’d lost about five to six inches and from what she could tell about thirty pounds. She’d lost the height advantage but she was still stubborn to a fault. 

Ioris spoke up, leaning over to interrupt their little staring contest. “This is Tacen, he won’t hurt you.” The last part was said as more of a warning to Tacen, her voice slowing and lowering as she gave him a pointed glare.

Tacen shrugged, acting like he hadn’t just been scolded, and took a seat near Ioris, no longer staring holes in Alaska but still staring. Then a plate of food was set in front of her and for a minute she forgot that either of them existed. Brothel food smelled fucking  good . It was definitely seasoned. 

After messily wolfing down more than was probably polite she leaned back in her seat and realized Ioris and Tacen were both wearing amused smiles. What could she say? Being dead really took it out of a person. 

Right. They’d introduced themselves, well Tacen hadn’t but he’d been introduced. It was a universally polite thing to do to introduce yourself, and also to thank people. 

“Thank you for the food,” her voice came out weaker than she intended and she immediately scowled, swallowing a mouthful of her bitter drink to fight the cracking of her voice. “My name is-”

Flemythals voice echoed in her head.

‘What’s your last name again?’

“Avis. My name is  Avis .”

Something flashed across the man's face for a minute, something dark that she couldn’t recognize but it was gone as soon as it appeared. He tilted his head at her and then Tacen laughed, and that’s when the full extent of Flemeth’s meddling hit her. 

“Well, isn’t that fortuitous?” The look on his face told her everything she needed to know about what she’d end up doing to serve her lady. “Ioris, you never told me you had a niece.”

Oh, she could play along with that. The Crows often purchased their recruits right? Get Ioris some extra cash, and give herself a semi-plausible backstory. 

“My parents were merchants, the caravan they were on was attacked. Auntie Ioris is the only family I have left so I came looking for her.” Big doe eyes with fluttering lashes, yeah, she knew how to lie. Just like when she’d told her dad that the Vicodin he found in her medicine cabinet was prescribed. 

Tacen blinked at her, slowly, dangerously, sizing her up. But she held her ground.

“Oh, I like her already.” And the puzzle pieces fell into place.

Yeah, yeah. She got it. She’d been saved by a knife twiddling Antivan Crow and her name was Latin for  bird . Lady Luck was a bitch named Flemeth. 

Chapter Text

“Hey, dude, The fuck?”

“What?” Adam sounded exhausted poor kid, being a bio major sucked; she’d know, at one point she’d been one. But facts were facts and the facts were that he’d promised they could meet at that dumb coffee shop named after their campus mascot so she could pick up. 

Ugh she hated phone calls, there were no passive-aggressive ‘lol’s to be dropped and no slanty faces to use. She had to rely on tone only, and given that she’d run out of Vicodin two days ago and taken her last Xanax yesterday night her tone was lacking in the pleasantness one should use when speaking with their drug dealer. “I’ve been texting you, I had to actually call you. Not cool, dude.” 

“Right, sorry. Something came up. I’ll be there in twenty.”

Finally, getting the ball rolling. Alaska would be willing to bet that the something was that he’d stayed up late writing some essay about gammies and watching Who Framed Roger Rabbit again.

“Cool, I’ll Venmo you.” 

He let out a strangled noise that had her flinching away from her phone. Huh, the poor dude sounded like he was coming down with something. 

“Don’t! My Venmo got shut down.”

Oh. Well shit. That sucked for him. But if his entire business model relied on Venmo that was his problem. 

“Okay, well, what do you want? Paypal? Cashapp? Zelle? Apple Pay?” 

“Just get some cash out.”

Right. Because exchanging cash in the middle of a coffee shop wasn’t obvious or anything. When was the last time she’d even used an ATM? She wouldn’t know where the nearest one was if it punched her in the face. Huh, guess it  was  her problem now.

What was next? A check? Put ‘For Xannies’ in the memo?

“What happened to your account?” She asked.

“Someone put what they were actually buying in the memo.” He answered

Ignoring the fact that she’d literally just jokingly thought about doing that, College kids could be real fuckin’ dumb sometimes. “Right, well, consider cutting them out of your business.” Still his problem, not hers.

“Avis, wake up before I cut that beautiful hair to prove a point.”

Adam had officially gone off the rails.

“Avis. I’m serious.” 

Something shook her, the fake brick exterior of the coffee shop began to dissipate and then something yanked her hair, hard. 

“Last chance.” There was a faint click of metal as unseen Maybe Adam unsheathed a blade, Adam had gone off his fuckin rocker and she had half a mind to report him to the school.

Wait, when had Adam ever called her by her last name? If anything that would make their poorly disguised transactions even more obvious. What was shadier than exclusively referring to someone by their last name?

Not Adam then. 

Oh fuck, she was dreaming and someone was about to cut her hair. Her one pride and joy, that was personal.

As she came to consciousness she bucked the person straddling her off and tackled them to the floor, forcing the hand wielding the blade to the ground. 

“And she finally awakes!” 

Right, back to Crow boot camp. Which fucking sucked by the way. They seemed to have the impression she was about fourteen, which was about eight years off and you couldn’t pay her to be fourteen again. Not that she would tell anyone that, fourteen was pushing it for beginning training, if they found out she was twenty-two she’d be toast. 

The body could be fourteen to be fair. It wasn’t her body. She hadn’t been one of those lucky people who had been dropped into Thedas in their own body just with bigger ears or whatever. This wasn’t her body in the slightest. 

Avis made a point of avoiding mirrors and reflective surfaces especially after the incident where she’d punched a mirror, sobbing in frustration and gotten a fee added onto her debt for it. How was she supposed to know it was old and expensive? 

Tacen had dropped her in one of the lesser houses, a Cuchillo with moderate standing. Which later, after learning that each house had its own tattoos, she realized it was the house he served. He’d given her a ‘You got spunk kid, try not to get killed’ speech and then hauled ass in the opposite direction. Presumably, he didn’t want to stick around for the  compradi  process, she wished she didn’t need to stick around for it. 

Being stripped and thrown into a stone room, splashed with freezing water, and being branded had a way of waking a person up. Thedas wasn’t a game, Mythal wasn’t doing her a favor.

She had her life, correction she had  a  life, but that was it.

Things fucking sucked, she had to get up early and clean and cook then train all day then clean again. The training was more so just repeatedly getting her ass kicked because she was the newest person there and also had to learn how to use an entirely fucking new body. Not that Avis could use that as an excuse. 

She just wished she’d been allowed some medicine for her back, anything would have helped. It had finally moved onto scabbing and healing, but it itched like hell. Maybe that was part of the toughening her up process.

At least they’d stopped pitting her against the six-year-old, that kid was fucking vicious and after their first sparring match, her eye had to be treated with an icky-smelling poultice and a thick bandage that wrapped around her entire head. She’d still had to train with the now extremely smug six-year-old after that too, to add insult to literal injury. Magdalena was a complete turd and absolutely nothing like the sweet six-year-old cousin she’d babysat once who’d gotten her in trouble after she drew a picture of Avis smoking a cigarette.

She’d moved on to an eleven-year-old after that who had thoroughly kicked her ass as well but was significantly less smug than Magdalena. His name was Caron and he was a sweet kid, the first few weeks when she’d struggled to make her bed on time he’d helped her out, teaching her how to properly tuck the corners and how to do it efficiently. 

The first time her bed hadn’t been made the House Padrona had dragged her into a closet and instructed her to clean all the bedpans and collect the urine to make soap, if she failed that she’d be sent to the House Disciplinarian. Avis had spent the next week doing exactly that because she wasn’t sure what a disciplinarian was but it sounded awful. After her week Caron had taken pity on her, and from some of the mild burns on the back of his hands, she guessed he’d had to make soap at some point too. 

Unfortunately, her youtube soap-making knowledge hadn’t exactly translated to Thedas. There were no pretty molds or colorful dyes to use to jazz things up. She’d made it work, though the fanciest she’d gotten was adding in some oatmeal she’d milled herself and some crushed flowers. Padrona Maia hadn’t been too impressed by her offering but she hadn’t sent Avis to the disciplinarian either so that had to count for something.

After Caron, she’d ended up with Variel, who she was currently pinning to the floor. Though if the smug look on his face was any indicator he was totally letting her. Little prick. Variel was seventeen and undoubtedly deemed a more ‘age-appropriate' match. Yeah, oops. That would be one of the senior assassins. 

Not that she was in any rush to be calling herself a senior. 

Maybe if there was a Joann’s here and she got a senior discount on Tuesdays, but Thedas hadn’t heard of Joann Crafts and didn’t seem to care about senior discounts.

“You’re very lucky you didn’t cut my hair.” Most of the little coin she earned from the chores went to extra hair care products, and she was very proud. Padrona Maia was too, she’d said several times that Avis’s hair would be a wonderful feature to capitalize on in the future. Apparently, the average person in Thedas wasn’t informed on proper curly hair care, those with well-kept curls were often pampered nobles. 

She was probably the only person in Thedas whose hair smelled like lemons and lavender, the oils maker had given her a strange look at that combination and informed her that citrus hadn’t been popular in several years, but damned if she didn’t give a shit. Avis would smell like a zesty old lady if she wanted to.

It had taken her entirely too long to master tying up her mane without bobby pins or elastics but she’d figured it out eventually. But not before suffering through weeks of opponents pulling her hair until her scalp was raw.

Thoughts about her hair turned out to be her downfall as she was thrown off balance and tossed halfway across the room, careening into Magdalena's bunk and waking the irritable child. Magdalena was one of the few who’d been gifted to the Crows by her family and she was damned proud of it. Her natural prowess showed in every move she made, which was terrifying. Seeing a six-year-old with bedhead murder strut towards the oatmeal was the most disconcerting thing she’d ever experienced. 

One terrifying green eye popped open and the little girl glared at Avis, she’d earned a day off—the little suck-up—and seemed to intend to nap it away. She could kill Variel for putting her on the kids' shit list. 

Another grueling day of training under her belt and Variel was walking away with a black eye, normally she wouldn’t consider beating up a teenager to be all that big of an accomplishment but in this universe it was. Until coming to Thedas the worst thing she’d done was skim some ADHD meds from a medicine cabinet at her roommate's nine-year-old brother's birthday party. 

After doing her nightly routine of scrubbing up in the bath closet, a room that had a water pump with a dying heating rune on it, she turned her thoughts to sleep. Soon she’d be able to sink into that sweet void, but before that she’d have to clean the washroom until her hands were raw.

She wasn’t sure if she’d ever been in the Fade. Wasn’t there supposed to be a way to tell? A green tinge? A floating city blackened with corruption and the rot that mankind brings? Nipple tassels?

Dreams of her old life kept her afloat, memories of highs and half-forgotten nights kept her going. All it would take to get her to slip would be a demon offering her a vice from her old life, she was weak. She knew that. But only mages dreamed in the part of the fade where demons lie, right? 

Avis was most certainly not a mage. She’d spent her first few nights here staring at a candle trying to manipulate it. It had been like she was eight again and was convinced she was a water bender because the water in the pool splashed when she moved her arm.

That was fine. She probably wouldn’t have been able to handle being a mage anyway. She was remarkably weak-willed. 

There were almost no addictive substances to be found in Thedas, on a stroll through the gardens—that had ended with an almost graduated assassin jumping out of the bushes and attempting to knife her—she thought she’d seen an opium poppy. It could have been her hopeful brain tricking her into seeing things and something in her was almost afraid to confirm what she’d seen. That something was the part that kept her from going fully off the deep-end in her own life, the fear of taking it one step too far. Knowing that her existence was a careful balance and one wrong move would rip the life she’d built away.

Guess it didn’t matter in the end. May as well have tried coke since she was just going to die anyway.

Instead of investigating the plush purple petals, she’d settled for kicking the shit out of Brant or Brent or whatever the almost graduates name was to keep her mind off of the delicious foliage. It had worked for a time of course, when she fought her brain turned off. She was merely a tool, a weapon to be wielded. She craved that simplicity. 

Yet that relief never lasted. 

At night the flower danced behind her eyelids, singing to her and trying to drag her back into a cycle she’d thought was broken when she’d gotten the new body. A new body but the same weak will and tainted mind. That sucked.

For the first few weeks, her body ached so badly she couldn’t fall asleep, but as she’d grown stronger the aches had faded as muscle began to replace them. Finally being able to sleep had been better than any high, at first, but eventually that high faded too and she was left floating again. 

At some point, it had been decided that Avis was too heavy of a sleeper, which, to be fair, was entirely true. So, one night she’d been dragged out of bed and pulled into the shack in the garden. She was kept sleep deprived while others played tricks on her and asked her questions she couldn't possibly know the answer to. In a more fucked up game of 'who's that pokemon' someone different would put three new objects in the room with her. Then she’d be forced to identify who had put the objects in the room and what the objects were. Easier said than done in pitch black with her hands tied behind her back. 

The reasoning had been that if she was awake when the door opened to let someone in she’d be able to identify them and the three objects. But if she fell asleep it would make it nearly impossible. 

It was always impossible. It was rigged from the start. The items would be a shoe wrapped in thick fabric to disguise the shape of it. 

Each time she failed they’d added a tick to the bamboo stick, then when they decided her lesson was done she’d been beaten with the same stick. Each notch on the switch translated to a hit.

She’d learned fast after that. Being awake to identify the objects wasn't the point, it never had been. Fighting back was. How stupid they must have thought she was when she just sat there.

The Houses had a history of pitting the students against each other, but mostly that was sabotaging each other and getting them behind on their chores without getting caught. Leaving evidence just got you in trouble. Sometimes, though, it was more than that. Tonight was one of those times. 

She woke to the sound of muted gurgling and soft shushing, her prey brain screamed that those were serial killer sounds and she should absolutely turn heel and run, but the other part of her, the part she’d been training for the last few weeks urged her to see what was up. She should have run.

Magdalena sat in Caron’s bunk, her small head just brushing the ceiling that he always hit his head on, a quickly turning red pillow held over his face as she attempted to mask the gurgling. 

Shit . She really should have run. 

Caron was a good kid, a little too soft-hearted probably but he didn’t deserve that. He was  eleven  for fucksake. If he wasn’t going to graduate and become an assassin they could have found a place for him somewhere else. That’s what they did with the ones that survived at least.

A shadow in her peripherals caught her eye and she instinctively pulled out the knife she kept hidden in the slats under her mattress, even though Magdalena had just killed Caron in his sleep it was still her duty to watch her fellow Crows back. Even if it meant being complicit in another’s death. The shadow wasn’t a threat, it was the Padrona. She was standing in the hallway, eyelids drooping and smoke curling out of her nostrils as she watched the scene. A curious expression on her face, maybe a tad bit proud and wholly approving. It made Avis wonder what other horrible shit the woman had seen and lived through. 

They made eye contact as she took another drag from the pipe and Avis felt her heart catch. Padrona Maia definitely noticed the fascination and slight awe with which her charge regarded the pipe and Avis couldn’t help but feel like she’d just shown all her cards.

She’d never seen someone smoke straight opium, the closest experience she had with it was watching some movie where a lady smoked it wrapped in some sort of pipe contraption, but something told her that  was opium.

And fuck if that didn’t make things harder.

Chapter Text

Her first kill turned out to be Bryant, she’d given him the respect of learning his name after killing him. He’d been twenty, more appropriate than a six-year-old that's for damn sure. He’d tackled her in the garden again, heart set on getting his wings and knife aimed to kill. But after what happened to Caron she’d stepped up her training and in the end, she’d watched Bryant’s blood drip off the poppies that she often came out to admire.  

For the first time in either of her lives, she prayed. 

Ducking her head she held eye contact long after the light had left his eyes and clasped her hands together. She’d never done this before, never been in a house of worship or felt that connection with something bigger than herself before. But how could she deny belief now? Her entire existence here was owed to a Goddess whom she’d met and bargained with face to face. 

She prayed for him, unsure of who to pray to she sent out a general plea, apologizing for the circumstances and hoping he would rest easier now. Avis wasn’t a fool, he was only two years younger than herself but likely had been with the Crows since childhood. The Crows bought and bartered for children, there was a slim chance he’d had any say in the matter. 

When she finished praying for him she paused and considered for a moment. Those dead eyes would haunt her dreams, she was almost sure of it. She’d killed him, though it had been in self-defense, Avis had still killed him. It was blood on her hands. 

So she took a page out of a famous assassin's book—Thane Krios, she was thinking of Thane Krios-- and said a few words for herself. 

“When you’re done praying, clean up the body then come see me.” 

Avis didn’t stop, continuing on in her prayers for herself until she was satisfied. Behind her she felt the presence of the house Mistress, patiently waiting for a reply. The thought gave her chills, the woman had never been patient before. 

“Yes, Padrona Maia.” 

The presence behind her left and a cloud of smoke drifted on the wind, wrapping around Avis in a way that felt more sinister than comforting. She hadn’t even noticed the opium smoke while in prayer, but now it was all she could think about. 

The  Distretto Sanguigno —the aptly named Blood District—was near the shore of Antiva City, with the Talons monopolizing a majority of the coast with some building parts being on stilts over the water. The Cuchillos were kept further back, as a sign of their lower status. If a house moved up in the ranks, they moved to a new residence, and if the old house wouldn’t leave it was  taken . 

Of course, the Talons had other bases of operations. Mostly out in the countryside, rich areas where large manses weren’t uncommon and having a private lake wasn’t impressive. Smaller houses like hers existed only in the cities. Too small to branch out, unwilling to overstep and end up on the radar of a Talon.

Most of Antiva City’s brothels and taverns were loitered around the outskirts of the Distretto, their proximity to the Crows meant that they could count on the patronage of the guild. Which in turn meant protection. Antiva was kept afloat by two things, Merchant Princes and their trade, and the Antivan Crows.

The shops were spread out throughout Antiva City, with the most well-off shopkeepers setting up camp in the Distretto. It was a sign of affluence to be able to afford the Distretto, the Crows charged a hefty fee for allowing commerce in their territory.

The streets would be packed this time of day, with people heading up the hill to the Guildmasters den to ratify contracts and discuss terms for new ones. Not to mention those trying to sightsee and catch a glimpse into the world of the Crows. Some would even be trying to  catch  a Crow, to find out for themselves if they were truly as  gifted  as rumors said.

Which meant that it was precisely the worst time for Avis to have to dispose of a body. But she couldn’t well leave Bryant to rot in the garden, so, disposal. Right.

Luckily she’d been strength training lately, it wasn’t exactly possible for her to ‘bulk up’ but this body did possess sinewy muscles. The streets were out and so were the rooftops, rooftops could be plenty subtle at the right time of day but in broad daylight was the exact wrong time. Not to mention hefting a body up there would not be great.

There were tunnels, old and unused by anyone other than the Crows. They’d originally been built as escape routes for the royal family, then used as escape routes for nobles when the Qunari invaded; both times. House Ambrogio didn’t have tunnel access but their neighbors in House Desiderio did. So Avis would have to hop a wall and trespass on another Cuchillos property to dispose of the body, fun. 

Getting Bryant on the wall without being seen would make it harder than it needed to be, the wall was at least eight feet high and had a steep drop into the alley between the compounds. 

If she had her wings she could waltz outside the walls carrying a body with no problems. In Antiva the Crows were near untouchable. Avis wouldn’t dare to draw fake wings on, if she did and got caught it would be a death sentence. The guild took stolen valor quite seriously.

While the Crows were supposed to help each other, she wasn’t even an official apprentice, still considered a nestling, a  principiante  until she earned the rank of apprentice. So going to the neighbors for help was out. It was more likely that they’d kill her than assist her. 

There was a small channel that ran through the back of the property, it was fed from a river further inland. The water was used to fill the waterways that ran through parts of the city. That had to connect to the tunnels at some point right? Where else would they go? Filtration was a thing here, right? Were the waterways just stagnant water?

Sometimes they would sit a net in the channel and do laundry. They weren’t allowed to bathe or swim in it because the grates only covered the top half and if the current sucked them under they’d be stuck underwater in the tunnels. 

She’d have to wrangle him in there and then hope and pray the channel didn’t lead to a public waterway.

That wasn’t an appealing idea. 

The front door was an option, albeit a poor one. 

Why couldn’t Mythal swoop down from the heavens and give her a hand? 

“Dread wolf take me.” She grumbled under her breath. That was a good Elven term to use, right?

He’d gone into this planning to kill her, what would his disposal method have been? 

Avis glared at the body, hoping it would give her answers.

If she hadn’t slit his throat she could have Weekend at Bernie’s’d him, but that was a no go.

Wait.

A.

Goddamn.

Minute.

Scarves existed.

It was midday, a perfectly acceptable time for someone to be passed out drunk and carried home by a good pal. At least in Thedas, it was. 

Fuck it.

The scarf she ended up stealing from another recruit, one who had cut off a chunk of her hair in the middle of a sparring match. Was it petty to steal a girl's scarf because of that? Absolutely. Did Adrena deserve it? Definitely.

Perhaps it was a bit muggy out for a scarf but nobody would stop her to question his fashion taste. His shirt had been covered in blood so she’d simply taken one of his own overcoats and dressed him in it. Definitely too warm for the weather but if anybody noticed they were probably someone who had once been in the same boat as her and hopefully would give her the professional courtesy of looking the other way.

Closing his eyes was somehow the worst of it. How long had she been standing there searching for answers in them? 

Shit, how had Magdalena gotten rid of Carons' body? 

An assisted carry allowed her to get out of the gates and onto the street without much issue and years pretending to not be high in public gave her the experience needed to act normal. Yet she still felt like eyes were following her. There was a very good chance that there were. 

Unlike the house she currently served, House Desiderio had a back gate and if her memories of the city plans served right then the entrance to the tunnels was right by the gate. 

So, get in the gate, open the sewer grate, toss Bryant down and follow him in. She’d been taught how to lockpick, Magdalena had beaten it into her. Her kit never left her belt. The House Padrona had informed her that the lockpick was of high quality and extremely expensive, yet another thing added onto her debt that she’d have to repay in blood. So the kit stayed on her belt and when she slept it stayed tucked in her nightgown, damned if she was going to lose it and owe more.

Picking locks was something she had adjusted to, just like everything else. Picking locks and disposing of bodies was her new normal. Great.

Breaking into another Crow's Nest was pretty damn close to suicidal, but it was that or walk the three blocks to the water and then scurry down a cliffside to reach the beach with a dead guy on her arm. 

The tunnel's opening turned out to be just a hop, skip, and a jump away from the gate, thank the Maker because if it had been any further she’s pretty sure someone would have knifed her for trespassing. There was no graceful way to dispose of a body in a sewer, but that didn’t stop her from trying. And utterly failing.

Avis winced at the sound of Bryant hitting the ground a few feet below her. 

“Sorry, dude.” She whispered into the depths of the tunnel below her.

She was fighting the clock, the corpse clock. Something Law and Order SVU taught her was that bodies empty their bowels and this body had yet to do that. Given the amount of time she’d spent staring blankly at it and the time she’d spent debating a plan, she couldn’t have much more time left. 

Risk fireman carrying the body and possibly getting poop on her? Or drag it and have this take twice as long?

Call her vain but dragging seemed the best option.

From here on out it was easy sailing, trudge through the tunnels a bit and come out under a pier. After that, all she had to do was eviscerate him and toss him out to sea.

Great.

In her next life, she wanted to be reincarnated as a witch merged with the spirit of a Goddess that had a taste for revenge. What better life could someone ask for? Being a witch of the wilds and getting revenge on those who had wronged her? Sign her up. Jimmy Sotto from fifth grade that had stuck gum in her braids better watch out.

Yeah, that’d suit her just fine. 

Once she started to see light she took her shoes off and tucked them into her belt for safekeeping. Light meant the relative dry safety of the ‘secret’ escape tunnels would soon give way to a shoreline, which meant water. Then the body started to smell and Avis started to scramble. 

She dropped him where the water would just barely touch him as the tide came in before tugging her skirts up, tying them into a knot above her knees, and shoving her sleeves up past her elbows. For a minute she can’t help but stare, she took a life. She wrapped him up and paraded him down the street. 

That’s not normal.

That’s fucked up.

Her eyes fell to Adrena’s scarf, it had cost the girl a whole sovereign. Its once dusty blue color is now stained with remnants of Bryant’s life, the soft fibers crunchy with dried blood. Without thinking too much about why she unwrapped the scarf from his neck and tucked it into her belt. Avis had gotten blood stains out before, she could do it again.

The knife she’d used to kill Bryant found its way into her hand and she paused, kneeling next to him and wondering if she needed to pray for herself again. The blade found purchase in the corpse's gut and she felt herself blank, a calm coming over her as the roaring in her ears drowned out the sound of squelching. She’s merely the weapon, this isn’t even her body. 

“I ask for forgiveness.”

But she prays all the same.

Chapter Text

Once Bryant was out to sea and she’d started making her way back to the tunnels her special guest appeared. 

“That is,” he paused, searching for words or for dramatic effect maybe, “quite the method.”

She didn’t have to ask to know he wasn’t talking about the prayers.

“Tell me, what is the purpose of cutting his stomach?” 

His voice, seared into her brain from a life that she can no longer call hers.  I know what you sound like when you recite poetry.  The words rattle useless in her brain, bouncing around like a Windows ‘96 screensaver until she chokes them down. 

“Corpses bloat. That keeps them from sinking, cutting the intestines will keep him from bloating.” The science was probably a bit off there; she'd only been a bio major for a few short months, but the general concept upheld. 

He mulled it over, tapping his chin thoughtfully as he followed her through the tunnels. Part of her should have felt fear that another Crow had caught her and was now following her, but most of her was still asleep and would be until she washed the remnants of today off of her skin.

Her guest had been following her since she got five steps outside of her house. Trust another killer to be able to spot the person lugging a body around. She’d pointedly ignored him until she finished her task, if he wasn’t going to make introductions then neither was she. 

“Fascinating.” 

Sure.

That was a word.

“I must admit, you interest me. Walking down the street with a body like it still takes breath.” 

Weekend at Bernie’s  was a bold move, though somehow the worst part was that she couldn’t tell him it was called  Weekend at Bernie’s . That reference would be completely lost on him. 

Oh the crippling weight of having memories of an entire life that was useless, of an entire world that no longer existed for anyone but her.

“What do you want, Zevran?” Power move, pull out his name like it’s nothing. She had memorized the names of a few other poolees in her age range, though Zevran was an Assassin, fully graduated and everything. Had been for longer than she’d even been in Thedas.

Knowing the names of other Crows was important, show respect to those who came before you and all that. Though, most Crows were pretty easy to distinguish. They just said they were a Crow. In Antiva it was normal, it was something to be proud of, something to fear and idealize. 

Of course, that wasn’t why she knew his name. He was  Zevran , her Warden had fallen for the charming Antivan. 

He made a thoughtful noise, likely mulling over the use of his name. “Nothing! I simply find myself fascinated. Is that a problem,  Avis ?” Cute way of pointing out she wasn’t the only one informed.

A problem? Well, depending on how old he was, yes it was. Sure, this was Medieval Times--the real deal not the kitsch fair—but those dynamics still squicked her out.

Time for some quick math. 

It was currently 9:25, at least from what she could gather, Avis still hadn’t found the courage to ask. He was, what? About twenty-five at the time of the Fifth Blight? So that meant-

Oh my god, I’m older than Zevran.

Math was scary.

Oh, he was only twenty, just a wee lad. Part of her instinctively wanted to wrap her arms around him and waggle a finger at anyone who even looked near him. But the rest knew he’d been in training since he was seven and thus was likely more deadly than she would ever be. 

Huh, she’d always been a late bloomer but this was something else.

“Not a problem.”

They lapsed into silence and with a nudge from Zevran exited the tunnels far sooner than she would have liked to. Realistically, she knew it wouldn’t be a good idea to use the entrance from House Desiderio again, but she would have liked to avoid as many people as possible. Now people parted for her and Zevran, starry eyes landing on his wings and tracking their movements. 

How the Crows got anything done with a fan club was beyond her. 

The cobbles were a pleasantly grounding warmth beneath her feet, no wonder so many Elves went without shoes. 

Back home it would have been unthinkable, Vegas was a big city, covered in broken glass and scorching asphalt. 

But here? The bricks were pleasantly smooth and all she had to worry about was dirt. Which wasn’t even a worry, the nest had a watering trough by the front door used for cleaning feet before entering. So really, no downsides. 

“Why bother with someone who isn’t likely to even get their wings?” The question was blunt and came somewhat out of the left-field but she couldn’t help it. Avis still worried that she’d let Flemeth down and end up dead in a ditch somewhere. The only way she would have been more out of her element was if Flemeth had demanded she infiltrate a Cloister. 

He laughed, that loud boisterous Zevran laugh that she’d only heard before through speakers during her high-school days. “That is where you are wrong! Today you have shown more promise than some fledglings ever show, make no mistake,  Nestling .” 

Nestling was a stupid word and she’d graduate just out of spite to be free of all the baby bird terminology. 

“Thanks, does wonders for the ego.” Her head was starting to pound, the calm quiet that had come from her fiasco with Bryant earlier had started to ebb. Soon the cravings would be back, soon she’d be in Padrona Maia’s study, watching the older woman smoke and fighting off the urge to dive across the table for a drag. 

Would she cough? She’d never been much for smoking, she’d dabbled in pot in middle school and high school, even kicked a cigarette addiction by the time she was twenty. Still, she hadn’t really  enjoyed  smoking. It was always such a hassle compared to more simple methods. 

Avis could almost smell it now, the sweet, acrid smell of opium. Wait, she actually could smell it. Was Zevran talking? He had been, she was sure of it, but across the street was a small building with heavy drapes and colorful accents. The scent of smoke wafted from the building, promising her that wicked numb that could only come from serious drugs. 

Was she still walking?

A hand waved in front of her face and as she blinked she heard that laugh again. “Where did you go?” Zevran asked. He tilted his head like a puppy, blonde hair catching the sun and eyes filled with mirth. 

At least he didn’t think she was rude for zoning out.

“What’s that?” She hated how breathy she sounded, head tilted until her neck protested so she could keep her sights on the building. 

There were two things that could ground her, drugs and blood apparently. Oh, joy.

“The  Flos  Den? People of status go there to smoke  Gaudiaum .” 

Oh, sweet mother of God, she had to ask. He put a name to it, it was real, not just a figment of her imagination. It was real and it was right down the street from her House.

“Why do you ask?”

Because I’m a drug addict who was plunged into a world where the only way I can get high is if I become a templar. 

Shit, she should have become a templar. Why couldn’t her name have meant sword or something?

“The drapes are nice.”

He laughed again though Avis barely heard it over the chanting in the back of her mind. If she didn’t have the meeting with Padrona Maia she’d have gone, hell, she’d have blown her off if Zevran hadn’t been here. 

Just walk away.  Even if your feet feel like lead.

She wished she knew Zevran well enough to ask him to drag her away, but she didn’t. Avis couldn’t give him the advantage of knowing a weakness of hers. So she forced herself to put one foot in front of the other, even though it caused a migraine to play at her temples. 

The rest of their walk was quiet, people parted at the sight of Zevran even though his House had fallen out of favor and plummeted in the ranks. He was still a Crow and that demanded respect. 

When they got back to the gates she hesitated, Zevran was the first real company she’d had in a long time. Sure, they hadn’t talked much or really at all but he was someone she wasn’t in direct competition with and that made all the difference.

“Can you do tattoos?” Avis asked.

There was a grim look on his face now, the playful twinkle in his eyes was gone, replaced by a hard look. “I am not going to help you cheat in the ranks.”

Oh, of course, he got so serious. Stolen valor and all that, not what she was asking for but understandable he’d take it that way. “I wouldn’t ask you to. I meant for fun.” 

The dark look was gone in an instant, though she filed it away for later. If they became friends she’d ask him what had happened to make him react to the question that way. “In that case,” he paused, dramatically and leaned in, “I do piercings too.” Fingers grazed her jaw before trailing up and tracing the shell of an ear. “And I think,  you  would look lovely with some.” 

Her heart fluttered for a minute, he had a sexy voice and he was feeling up her ear. It was the first time someone had touched her that gently since she’d been put into this body. If she survived this training she’d take him up on that offer, ears this big just meant she had more real estate for jewelry. 

She pulled away, tugging open the gate and making to walk through it before thinking better of it and pausing. “Bye, Zevran. I have to meet with the house Padrona.” 

“Ah, I would have asked you to have a drink with me but that is important. Perhaps another time.”

“Definitely.” 

Padrona Maia was in her office, sitting on a floor pillow in front of a low table. There was an exquisitely crafted tea set spread in front of her, no doubt worth more than Avis was. Her heart rate skyrocketed at the sight, she’d only had one etiquette lesson as they were expensive and the houses didn’t like to invest so much money in recruits who weren’t sure bets. 

For a few minutes, she stood in the doorway awaiting a signal from the other woman. She’d learned to be quiet, to be completely and utterly still, but she still found herself fighting off the urge to shuffle her feet like a scorned child. Finally, she was given the signal to take a seat and she thought things would finally get moving, but Padrona Maia still said nothing.

The water pitcher was steaming and with a tilt of her head, she gave Avis the signal to serve tea. 

Oh boy.

Under the watchful eye of her House Master, she poured steaming water into the teapot to heat it before immediately pouring it out into the nearby basin. She kept her movements slow to avoid any unnecessary clanking of the glass and tried to project an air of confidence. She knew what she was doing, she’d taken one lesson and her knuckles had bled after being beaten with a reed for sitting a spoon down too loudly. 

A knock on the door sounded before the screen door slid open to reveal new  compradi  kneeling in the threshold, a fresh pitcher of boiling water at his side. Avis kept quiet, barely sparing the kid a glance as it would be rude to interrupt the tea process to acknowledge him. He was waved in and the pitcher beside her was taken away and replaced with a fresh one. 

Three teaspoons of loose leaf tea into the pot, one for her, one for Padrona Maia, and one for the teapot. After pouring the fresh water into the teapot she fit the cozy over it, another thing that cost more than she did. The cozy had to be older than Padrona Maia herself, likely a priceless heirloom of the house. Possibly from decades before when the house had been Third Talon. 

She fought the urge to wring her hands in her lap as the tea steeped, the room remained silent. Avis wondered if this would be the last thing she’d ever do. If she would soon be adding ‘murdered over tea’ to her list of ways she’d died. 

Instead of gnawing on her lip or some other tell that would show how nervous she was, Avis settled for counting down the minutes in her head. About five minutes for loose tea, five minutes of agony.

When the timer in her head sounded her moves were carefully measured, set the cozy aside, give the tea a stir, but do it quietly. Not so fast it would spill and don’t bang against the sides of the teapot. Put the lid back on, gently, minimize the noise. Set the strainer on the cup, hand on top of the pot as you pour so the lid doesn’t fly off. Don’t pour too fast or you risk spilling. 

After setting down the teapot she added a dash of milk and a teaspoon of sugar, everyone knew how Padrona Maia liked her tea. They had to. While stirring a stray drop landed on the table, fuck, she’d stirred too aggressively. The urge to glance at the elder woman was nearly overwhelming but she refused to give in and incriminate herself. 

She set the tea in front of the other and began serving herself. Even then the Padrona still hadn’t spoken and Avis took to staring at the drop of spilled tea to keep herself occupied.

It wasn’t until they’d both taken a sip of their tea that she finally spoke.

“You did well.”

With Bryant? With the tea? In general? 

Could someone for once not be cryptic?

“Thank you, Padrona.” She answered demurely.

Another sip.

“I think it’s time we discussed your future.”

Well shit.

Padrona Maia held the delicate cup, tapping on the rim with a taloned finger. Those high in the ranks of the houses wore them as a status symbol, to show that they were important enough to sit back and simply move the pawns. The ring was Nevarrite, carved into a delicate filigree design that covered the tip of her finger and came to a sharp point. 

The metal clinking on the china made her head hurt, she’d fought to be so quiet while making the tea.

“It’s time for you to begin your apprenticeship.” She said, nodding thoughtfully.

Ohsweetbabyjesusthankyou.

“You will need more schooling.”

She still struggled to write in High Antivan—Italian—though her common Antivan—Spanish— was coming along swimmingly, her Trade—common,—was coming along okay, her spoken Orlesian had a terrible accent and her written was awful, and her Tevene was infantile. 

Language wasn’t the only thing she’d have to learn. More etiquette lessons would be in her future as well as dance lessons. She’d danced throughout her life back on Earth, but she doubted her experience in hip-hop would benefit her here. Tango and ballet might. 

She’d have to pick up the lute and the harp, maybe even the flute. 

But she’d go to school for the rest of her life here if it kept her alive. 

Schooling didn’t just mean dancing, music, and language, though. She knew what else came with agreeing to the terms of being a Crow. Torture lessons. She’d be taught how to withstand torture, by being tortured. About as hands-on as it got.

Avis wasn’t sure she could handle that. Flemeth sure was asking a lot of her. But she didn’t have any other options, the Crows had already invested in her future. 

Realizing she left the woman hanging she quickly nodded, her neck crunching at the sudden movement. 

“But first, I must ask a few questions.”

Avis had a few answers.

“Are you a virgin?” 

Well, maybe she didn’t.

“Pardon?”

Was she a virgin? Back on Earth she certainly hadn’t been. But here she technically was, right? Was there a right or wrong answer? If she said yes would they strap her down and perform some medieval test to check? 

“Certain jobs will require you to play a certain role. I haven’t noticed you take an interest in anyone while you’ve been here. So, I must ask.” Did recruits really manage to find the time to fuck around during all of this? Avis barely found time to shit, let alone get off.

What was it Gabby once said on Desperate Housewives?  ‘Rich men don’t marry virgins for the same reasons they don’t hire chauffeurs who can’t drive. They value experience.’

If she was paid to seduce and kill someone she better damn well know how to seduce someone. 

“No, I’m not.” She answered, setting aside the little tidbit that the Padrona had been poking around in her sex life for later. 

Padrona Maia nodded, making a pleased sound as she took another sip of her tea.

“Do you have any issues with this kind of work?”

Killing or seducing and killing? Because Avis didn’t exactly have the best morals. She’d once stolen a bottle of jack by shoving it down the front of her pants and running in a harebrained attempt to impress a boy she’d liked. Middle-school had been a wild time in her life. 

Killing Bryant had quieted something in her, she was a weapon to be pointed and used. Thane Krios called it his battle sleep, right? She could do that.

“No.”

Morals shmorals.

“Good.”

The questions continued but the danger was gone and Avis felt herself start to relax. She could do this, she could make her way in Thedas and find a way to repay Flemeth for giving her a second chance.

Then Padrona Maia picked up her pipe and lit it and Avis found herself salivating. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. The talk had been going so well, why did she have to smoke? 

As hard as she tried she couldn’t drag her eyes away from the pipe or the smoke wafting from the human woman’s nostrils. 

The fascination was not lost on her superior, much to Avis’s horror. 

“Have you tried  Flos Gaudiaum  before?”

Not in that form. Where she was from it was called opium and wasn’t commonly smoked in the states. But she knew what its effects felt like, how it made her body float. How it felt thrumming through her veins that time after she’d gone under the knife for a cyst. That one time her friend's cousin sold them something called  Buddha  to smoke. Syrup in her cup and she’s high, floating and falling at the same time. 

It’s a God-like feeling.

She hadn’t tried  Flos Gaudiaum  before, but her body sang at the thought of it and her mind raced with memories of how good drugs could feel.

But people here didn’t know it was a drug, there weren’t hundreds of years of research to show how crippling and addictive it could be. It was still trendy, a status symbol, something new and fun. 

It was hard to breathe through the tightening in her throat, hard to swallow the saliva pooling in her mouth. 

“No.”

The woman held the pipe out to her, an eyebrow raised and Avis knew this was a test.

“Would you like to?”

Chapter Text

A year into her apprenticeship and almost two years in Thedas found Avis nursing a lukewarm ale at Sheaths & Daggers. Ioris had been sitting with her up until a client had pulled her away and now Avis was just some lone loser drinking in a brothel and not paying for services. Her ex-girlfriend Mindy had been an  accountant  and would undoubtedly be turning up her lip right now at Avis’s actions.

On days when her addiction weighed heavily on her mind, she found herself sitting in a dark corner of the brothel and watching people. Saying no to Padrona Maia had taken every ounce of willpower she had, but she’d done it. And she’d regretted it every day since. 

Sometimes Tacen would join her or Zevran. But today she was alone. 

People watching was a passive skill she liked to fine-tune on days like this. Being an assassin wasn’t just killing people and making money, it was watching and learning every day. She needed to know everything about a person before ever actually speaking to them, if someone sat in front of her she needed to be able to write an entire ledger on them. 

The Dwarf in the corner drank Brakien Brew but looked longingly at the glass of Antivan Plum Brandy the human woman in the corner drank. He exclusively drank beers from Orzammar, even though he seemed to be a surface dwarf. His clothes were from the Free Marches and the fabric was of nice quality. 

Likely a merchant prince here on Guild business. 

Maybe she could ask him to bring up the idea of plumbing to the guild. Bathing out of a bucket was getting really tiring. She’d brought a little bit of plumbing to her house, there was a grate in the bathing room that connected to a tunnel that the toilet waste fell into. The water runoff from the bathing room whisked away any waste from the toilets, a crude rendition of proper plumbing but it helped with the smell. 

The toilet was just a small shack with a bench over a sewer tunnel. But even small holes in a bench were better than chamber pots. She tried to avoid thinking of her past life but every time she used the bathroom she sent a silent thank you to her dad. Back on Earth, him being a Plumbing Contractor wasn’t cool, but here? He would have been rich.

The dwarf made eye contact with her and lifted his mug, raising an eyebrow in invitation. Well, drinking with someone else was better than drinking alone. Or maybe he thought she was a whore. 

She made to sit with him, waving down the young waitress—who she now knew as Sehris—and ordering two glasses of plum brandy. May as well throw the guy a bone. 

“Thanks for the drink, I’m Vodlin of House Gadra.” His voice is that same deep timbre as most dwarves, though the way his lips curved in a shy smile betrayed how new to this world he was. He shouldn’t have given her his full name. There was power in that. Maybe he’d meant it as a power play, tell her of his prodigious family in an attempt to throw her off balance. 

But Avis was from a house just as prodigious, from a family more infamous.

She’d had to study up on Merchant Guild Houses a few weeks ago, Tacen had instructed her to learn as much about the Guild as possible as they’d be killing one of its members. Some Stonemason had snubbed a noble who had enough money to make his family regret it. They’d killed him with his own chisel, as requested. 

House Gadra had some turnover recently, seats being shifted around as the House raised in prestige within the Guild. 

Looks like someone had just gotten promoted. Possibly a good friend to make. 

Soft around the edges and utterly out of his element, she decided  no , he really was just so innocent as to use his full name in an attempt to be proper.

“Avis,” she was a formal apprentice now so she could claim her House, “Of House Ambrogio.” 

His brow scrunched up, brown eyebrows pulling tight over blue eyes as he tried to place the name. “Ah, excuse my ignorance but that’s of the Crows, right?” His eyes searched her face and neck, looking for something that would mark her as one of theirs, lips turning down as he came up short.

“I’m just an apprentice.” As if that made her any less dangerous.

“Ah, I see. I’m an Architect.” 

“Here on business?”

One drink turned into two or three and soon they were laughing and joking like old friends. Ioris had even joined them for a game of cards, Avis had gotten a custom deck of cards made one day and used it to teach them both blackjack. The numbers had been translated to Thedosian common ones but it was otherwise the same as a fifty-two card deck from home. 

Eventually, Ioris had to go back to work but she and Vodlin kept the party going. They ate, drank, and were merry. He leaned heavily on her, apparently, Antivan Brandy had a higher alcohol content than he was used to, listening with rapt attention as she tried to explain plumbing. 

The conversation had started as Avis attempted to flirt with the clueless dwarf, with her inviting him back to her House to show him some  classic  Antivan architecture. Which of course had been an innuendo. But then he’d actually started talking about architecture which had led to her mentioning her plumbing implements and now he was convinced they should be business partners and this ‘plumbing’ would make them rich.

“Avis. Get up.” Of course, Tacen had to show up and ruin her evening. 

She sighed, pouring the last of her drink into Vodlin’s glass. “Duty calls.” 

As she stood up his hand caught hers and Avis realized it was the first time someone had touched her so gently since Zevran touched her face a year before. Damn, she really needed to get laid. 

“Write me? Just address it to the guild and add my name.” 

Her lips twitched, she’d made a business contact and possibly a friend. “Of course.” 

As Tacen dragged her towards the exit she made a point to pull Sehris aside, asking the girl to keep an eye on Vodlin and make sure he got back to his room alright. Friends look after friends and all that. Avis was hardly the only person willing to take advantage of someone unfamiliar in the area. She slipped an extra silver into the kid's hand as a premature thank you.

Tacen was the assassin she was apprenticing under, also the assassin who had brought her into the fold. Over their year of working together, they’d fulfilled seventeen contracts, nine of those fulfilled by Avis’s own hand while he observed. 

He’d become somewhat of an uneasy ally, perhaps one day when they were on more even footing Avis could call him a friend. But for now, he was the person who would make and unmake her at his leisure.

Her body count was up to ten and she still prayed every time. Tacen found it amusing, taking to ribbing at her conditional faith. He wasn’t wrong, the only time she prayed was when there was blood on her hands. It was almost sacrificial.

“So, what’s this about?” She didn’t exactly expect an answer, he’d always been the strong silent type, but it was worth a shot.

As expected he said nothing. 

She hoped this wasn’t another lesson in how to withstand torture, at least this time he’d given her some warning. Last time he’d dragged her into an alley while she was walking to Sheaths & Daggers and knocked her out cold.

Avis had been woken up by someone splashing freezing water on her, they were wearing a mask but from his gait, she could tell it was Tacen. The sting of her fingernails being removed had drowned out the sting of betrayal. Realistically she knew it was his job and they weren’t friends, barely even work associates, but that hadn’t made the process of her fingernails growing back any less upsetting. 

Deciding it was worth the risk of losing a finger she pulled on his black ponytail, demanding his attention. He was in a good enough mood that all he did was sigh and tilt his head to look back at her, still not an answer but his mood said it couldn’t be anything too bad. 

He didn’t slow down until they reached the gates of a noble’s estate, Avis usually preferred a bit more notice on these things but as long as Tacen was up to date she would be fine. 

“Drink this.” He handed her a bottle of brown-grey murky liquid. 

She’d managed to avoid drinking any potions in Thedas, even after her late-night classes in the art of not screaming while your toes are dislocated she hadn’t taken anything for the pain. She hadn’t been allowed to, though one night a healing potion had been left on her pillowcase. Another test no doubt, it smelled like NyQuil and she’d taken it out to the toilet to dump it out, hoping the brisk air on the short walk would clear her head. 

It hadn’t and she’d spent three hours agonizing over whether or not she should drink it, even if it wasn’t a drug it smelled like the memory of one from her old life. Eventually, she’d dumped it out, sobbing as each drop fell into the pit below.

“Drink.”

Not a request, an order. 

It made sense, she was buzzed and that would make their job harder than it needed to be. But elfroot had that same acrid medicinal smell as NyQuil and just looking at the bottle made her want to cry. 

She couldn’t cry.

Tacen was watching.

She wouldn’t cry. 

She took the bottle, plugging her nose as she threw it back like a shot, determined not to let it touch her tongue. 

“Here.” A contract appeared out of his coat pocket, and without another word, he pressed it into her hands before she could recover from her drink, then disappeared into the brush. Tacen was  always  there, a murderous shadow just over her shoulder. Hard eyes and a jaw set with determination, if she ever faltered he was always there. Now he wasn’t going to be.

Oh no, this was worse. 

Her first solo job and her hands were sweating with the memory of nights spent passed out on the bathroom floor. 

In a cheap bid to remain calm, she went through the motions of opening a pouch on her belt and sliding the now-empty vial into it. Waste not want not.

Getting into the estate wasn’t hard, a window was easy enough to jimmy and most estates followed the same layout. If she stuck to the main hallways she could avoid servants and get this over with.

Of course, she’d have to stop dropping her picks to put that plan into motion. 

It took ten minutes for her to get a grip, ten minutes of calming breaths, and shoving her emotions into a box to be opened at a later date, but she got a hold of herself. Now it was time to kill someone. 

Well, she needed to read the contract first. 

Not that she was stalling.

Definitely not stalling.

A contract for the life of one Comte Giuseppe De Prioli, no specific method required, no tokens to be taken. Just a clean simple kill. It was all blessedly easy. Aside from the note Tacen had attached, instructing her to bring back a vial of his blood. Part of her wondered what that was about but it was a problem for future Avis to deal with, at least she’d kept the vial from the potion.

She wondered if he’d done that on purpose. Knowing that his apprentice tended to forget her belt and everything on it. Knowing that she didn’t like keeping an excessive amount of things on her no matter how many times he’d warned her that she needed to be better prepared. 

Now wasn’t the time to analyze the tumultuous relationship she had with Tacen. 

Time to open the window, she’d done this a dozen times before, one more was nothing. Her file slid effortlessly into the window seam, gently prying the window open. Without a sound she climbed through the window and dropped down, pausing to make sure no one noticed. After counting to ten without anyone coming to see who the intruder was she slid the window closed, best not to leave any tracks behind. 

Mansions like this were a maze, designed to make guests feel inferior and to keep servants down where they belonged. The fat cat who owned the building always lived at the top, a reminder to everyone in their employ that they were the boss. 

She skirted the halls, ducking behind statues and finding refuge in lush drapery, all the while keeping her ears open for any sign of a guard on rotation. 

The Comte slept behind an intricately carved stone door, his family crest proudly centered on the massive feat of artistry. 

Avis often tried to avoid reminders that this wasn’t her body, but standing in front of a door that dwarfed her sure did remind her. When she’d once been five-foot-nine she now barely skirted five-foot-four, at least she had more muscle now. She’d need it to open that stupid door.

Behind the door he slept on a large circular bed, on an even larger carved stone podium. The Comte appeared to be compensating for something. Her footsteps on the marble floors were dead silent, they were taught dance for more than just infiltrating balls, it kept them light on their feet. 

The spot where his wife should be was empty, though he still kept to his own side, signifying that this was a new development. The absence of the Comtesse sure made her job easier. 

He rolled over exposing his neck to her, among other things, guess the Comte liked to sleep in the nude. She hadn’t needed to know that. Her guess that he was compensating for something had been on the nose, though.

She took another breath, finding that calm, and pulled her knife from her belt. Killing someone sleeping felt cheap, but she wasn’t going to wake him. If she was quick he’d never know he was in danger, he’d slip away quietly, completely unaware of his own end until he ended up on the other side or wherever. It was a peaceful way to go. 

Avis leaned over him, grabbing one of his pillows and hovering it over his face. A quick motion later and the Comte was fading from this world, pillow pressed over his face and neck to keep the blood spray contained. 

Collecting blood for the vial was messy work, typically Avis was able to keep her hands from getting too dirty, that was how she preferred it. Some distance kept her sane. 

She had to roll the body onto its side, letting gravity take over as blood dripped into the vial. 

Once the vial was capped and dropped into a pouch on her belt she pulled the contract out to complete it. Pressing her thumb to his neck she collected a few beads of blood, pausing to look at the crimson liquid.

She fell to her knees and bowed her head, eyes focused on her bloodied thumb, praying was the one thing that helped her feel like she was keeping her head above water. Even if she didn’t quite believe in any of the God’s back home or even here, even if she knew there was truly nobody on the other end to hear her whispered pleas. 

When she was done she held up the contract again, smearing her bloodied thumb across the bottom of the page.

Her first contract complete. 

Chapter Text

Even as Avis kicked and swore Tacen didn’t drop her, the asshole dared to yank her out of bed and now was quite literally dragging her down the hall by her ankle. Mythal hadn’t spoken to her in almost two years. She may as well just give up on this whole Crow thing and sleep in. The only reason she was getting splinters right now was because of Mythal. 

She’d slept in ten minutes later than she was supposed to, but she didn’t think that warranted this treatment. In her defense, she was mourning. Magdalena had been killed. While she hadn’t been friends with the kid or even a big sister figure she’d still cared. 

Magdalena, sweet, vicious eight-year-old Magdalena. She would braid flowers into Avis’s hair when she thought Avis wasn’t paying attention, on their ventures to the market she’d touch all the soft fabrics and stick her nose in the piles of citrus. Magdalena who vehemently protested Avis calling her Mags but would hide behind her hair with a secretive smile whenever she heard the nickname. 

A kid.

“Tacen, I’m not even wearing pants.” She was wearing a shirt that she’d stolen from Zevran and a pair of whatever counted as underwear in Thedas.

The pants weren’t even the biggest issue, she wished she’d gotten a chance to splash some water on her face to hide the tear tracks. But no, she wasn’t allowed to mourn. Not everyone graduated from the nest and that was a fact of life. She had to move on. Avis had gotten ten minutes of mourning and that was all she could be allowed.

In the hand that wasn’t holding her ankle, he held the vial of blood she’d taken from the Comte the day before. So, it had something to do with her contract yesterday. She’d done the paperwork properly, sign with blood on the dotted line and turn it into the Padrona. What then? 

Was this torture again? Shit, she hoped not. Her nails were just getting long again. 

Their journey ended when they came to a door she’d never entered before. There were a few doors in the Nest that she wasn’t allowed behind, and a few doors that she’d never bothered to explore, this was one she’d never been allowed behind. 

Upon entering—re: being dragged like a rag doll—she quickly realized what it was. 

The windows were covered with thick drapes, the smell of incense clung to the air and every available surface was covered with books or alchemy ingredients. It was the mage’s workspace. 

Oh, god. Please, no more magical torture. The last time one of them helped they repurposed a healing spell meant for excising wounds on her, she didn’t have any wounds and so it just ended up feeling like a million paper cuts. It was as much practice for them to  learn  to torture as it was for her to learn to withstand it.

There was supposed to be a rule about not shitting where they ate, no torture in the nest. Undisclosed locations only.

So why was the Padrona smoking in the corner, eyes rapt with attention as Avis was thrown into a chair?

“Take this.” Tacen handed off the vial to another assassin, someone she wasn’t familiar with. So he still wasn’t speaking to her, that was nice. “Be back in a few hours.”

This was going to take hours? Couldn’t they give her some pants?

“Give me your hand.” Oh, so he was talking to her now. 

She shouldn’t act petulant in front of the Padrona but right now she was tired and cranky so she crossed her arms and pouted. “Give me some pants.” If they killed her for it then that was their problem, or rather Mythal’s if she was even still around.

Padrona Maia laughed. 

A mage handed her a robe, close enough. The robe turned out to be three sizes too big, but that was better than hanging around her superiors with her ass out. Even if it was a damn fine ass. Years of relentless training had given her an ass you could bounce and sovereign off of. Men wept when she walked by.

Okay, maybe not literally.

The mage that handed her the robe picked up a bowl filled with ashes and moved to stand beside Tacen, who was still waiting for her hand. Since she’d gotten clothes she gave him her hand, scowling with distrust as he took a rag and wiped it down. 

“What’s this for?”

“I need your blood.”

Mage.

Blood.

Sure, this was Antiva so rules about mages were more lax but blood magic was still illegal. She could really use some direction right now.

Any time now, Flemeth. 

Without any more warning, Tacen dug the tip of his knife into her palm, slashing in an x motion. Oh, that would definitely scar. Great, now people would think she did blood magic. Why else would someone have such a perfect little scar on her hand? She wasn’t even a mage, this was dumb.

He squeezed her hand over the bowl, a few stray droplets mixing with the soot before the mage turned away to presumably do blood magic things. 

Her mentor took to bandaging her hand in complete silence, slapping a poultice on her palm that smelled like Vicks. The cloth he wrapped her hand with was bright red silk, likely symbolic of something. Blood magic maybe. 

“Is this blood magic?” 

The mage laughed. 

Not a good sign as far as she was concerned. 

“No. This is ink.” A man of few words. She could respect that. 

‘No, this is Patrick.’  Her brain supplied uselessly. Thank you so much for that, brain.

“With blood?”

“What do you know about the Dalish?”

Was this Vallaslin? Mythal? Is that you? Blink twice for yes. Cough for no. 

I thought we agreed to no Vallaslin.  Not that Mythal needed it to turn Avis into her puppet, but still. The concept was upheld. Did she have no honor? 

“Blood Writing?”

The mage hummed, pouring some water into the mixture. “Same concept, different recipe.” Fantastic. That told her nothing. 

Why were they making tattoo ink with her blood? Did everyone work for Mythal? Mythal,  please  blink.  

Oh.

OH.

Avis was finally getting her wings. Things were finally going to plan. This meant no more being dragged away and tortured in the middle of the night. No more being babysat by Tacen or beat up to build character. Now she could walk down the street covered in blood and people wouldn’t bat an eye, at least in Antiva. 

Thank the Creators, the training wheels were finally off. 

The Little Crow that could. Had anybody thought she’d actually make it? Probably not. Avis had been relatively useless over the years, needing to have her hand held at nearly every intersection. The house had spent the bare minimum on her training, thinking it was unlikely she’d complete the training. 

Yet here she was.

She thought about Mags and Caron who would never get the chance to get their wings. She’d survived but at what cost? If Mythal hadn’t meddled and put her here would those two have made it? Avis couldn’t afford to think like that. 

She’d survived. She had to move on.

All survivor, no guilt.

When Tacen held up a shard of bone—wait no, a needle—she realized this was going to take a lot longer than she’d thought. Tattoo machines didn’t exist in Thedas, they’d be doing this the old-fashioned way. One poke at a time. 

House Ambrogio had a fairly intricate design to mark their Crows, unlike house Arainai with its simple bold lines or the beak House Desiderio had on their necks. Not all the houses had facial markings, but the general rule was they had to be visible. Covering up your wings in Antiva was considered a slight against your house, if it was necessary for a contract it was acceptable, but on the day-to-day, it was frowned upon. 

Avis couldn’t fucking wait to get this over with. She’d finally be treated like an adult again and she’d get freedom. She could take contracts and travel, work on her own time. Maybe that’s why Flemeth had forsaken her, she’d taken too long and was no longer of use. 

But when she closed her eyes and focused she could still feel Mythal, still feel the ties that bound them. Sometimes when she slept and entered that little halfway place, the spot between the fade and dreams she could feel the thread that bound her to Mythal. On bad nights she would look down, choking, and find the red thread wrapped around her neck. Her life debt suffocates her, the string slowly cutting into her skin.

She blinked.

“Here, chew this.” Mage-guy again, she’d really have to learn his name. She’d learned the names of Crows from other houses, but never really bothered with her own. That was an oversight. 

Elfroot in its raw, rooty form smelled a lot less like cough syrup and more like a cough drop. Which was good, because Avis didn’t think she could handle her cravings coming back right now. 

“Oh? Now I get pain relief.” 

She’d gotten tattoos before, had a nice leg-sleeve going until she’d died. Hell, she’d even gotten a few shit stick and pokes during college parties. But she’d always had some form of numbing, her artist used a spray and the drunk kids at parties gave her booze. 

“Consider it a perk.” He chuckled at her, eyes crinkling as blonde eyebrows raised in mirth. At least someone had a sense of humor. “Tacen, are you ready?”

She’d assumed Magey would do it. Was it supposed to be symbolic that Tacen was doing it?

“Chew, you won’t be able to once he starts.” Thanks, Mage-guy. When this was over she’d buy him some flowers.

The root did not taste good, she wasn’t entirely sure it had even been washed before it was shoved in her mouth. Was it naturally grainy and dirt flavored or was that the dirt?

The Padrona just watched, the smell of smoke wafted closer to Avis and she felt herself stiffen. 

“It’ll be easier if you relax.”

She knew how to relax. Opium— Flos Gaudium —was a pain reliever. That would help. 

Before the craving could set in she did something she’d done only a few times before, she clung to the thread that tied her to Mythal, begging for strength. She did it every time she woke up being tortured. It almost helped. She wondered if the bond was as suffocating for her mistress as it was for her, or if owning another person was as easy as breathing for the Goddess.

Avis had been clean for two years, that was the longest she’d abstained from drugs since her short-lived thirteen-month stint of sobriety that her father had forced her into. 

This body was clean, a blank slate. She wouldn’t tarnish that. She wouldn’t make herself look weak in front of Padrona Maia and Tacen. She respected them both too much for that. 

Mythal guide her, she was going to get her wings and kick this or so help her. 

“Tacen?” 

Avis hadn’t realized she’d been squeezing her eyes closed until mage-guy spoke up, so lost in her thoughts. 

Tacen had finished tying the bone needle to the stick and was looking at her with an unreadable expression. In one hand he held the needle contraption, in the other a mallet. Before she had time to scrutinize his expression the look disappeared and he stepped towards her. If she’d been paying more attention she might have seen the red threads clinging to his throat as tightly as they did hers.

“Don’t scream.”

She’d gotten good at that. 

Chapter Text

Avis twiddled her dagger, watching with rapt attention as the bead on the pommel reflected in the light. The blood in the bead lazily swirled as she played with the weapon, the Comte’s blood.

The blade was a masterwork, the hilt engraved with the crow's motto and depictions of feathers and crows, the pommel bead held on by a metal crows-foot. It was gaudy and over the top. Each assassin got one, customized with the blood of their first contract. A tradition from the founding of the Crows.

Her fingers traced over the motto, written in Tevene as things often were, Tevinter conquered what it could and when it was pushed out it left fragments of its language and ruins of its empire. 

Numquam victa, semper timui

Never beaten, always feared.

The silk kerchief in her pocket that had been used to staunch her bleeding palm had her house insignia embroidered on it. It had been used in some handfasting ceremony, tying the dagger to her hand to signify her dedication to the blade or some shit. 

It was all very symbolic and ritualistic. 

Which was why it didn’t fit with her surroundings. 

The fuzzy cloth interior of her ‘08 Tacoma felt foreign, the vape in her ashtray nothing but a memory. ABBA poured through the speakers,  Gimmie! Gimmie! Gimmie!  Softly wrapping around her. She missed music.

The clock on her dash read 3:33 AM. It was the hour when spirits came out to play. She’d never liked being awake at three AM, side effect of believing in ghosts. Though now she lived in a world where they were undoubtedly real. Avis idly wondered if the witching hour was a thing in Thedas. Likely not since spirits came out to play whenever they pleased.

The Smith’s grocery sign glowed in the distance, her apartment was only a few blocks away. She’d cried on the curb of the 7/11 on the corner after Mindy and Sabrina had dumped her, stating that since she refused to get help their triad was now a duo. 

It made sense. It was familiar.

That’s why it was wrong.

She held the knife on the tip of her index finger, the blade wobbled before finding its balance. Perfectly balanced as a masterwork should be. 

The last thing she remembered was drinking with Zevran, the charismatic assassin having heard of her graduation through the grapevine. He’d insisted they celebrate, he wanted to get Antivan Massages, she’d talked him down to wine with Ioris and Mage-guy. Tacen had been suspiciously absent. 

During her year-long apprenticeship, he’d been almost a friend to her, a gruff mentor kind of friend but a friend nonetheless. His sudden hostility worried her. Had she done something wrong? 

“You’ve done well for yourself.”

At the sudden noise, she flipped the dagger, wielding it in the direction of the voice, ready to fight the intruder. If blood got on the upholstery she’d just go to the Terrible’s down the street. They had those quarter car vacuums.

Her passenger seat had been empty. She could have sworn it was empty. 

Mythal looked distinctly out of place lounging with the seat reclined and her hands folded casually in her lap. She was still in her spiky armor and had apparently removed the headrest to avoid messing up the hair/horns thing she had going on. When exactly did she start doing the weird old forest lady thing? Wait, she was already doing that right?

“Yeah, thanks for the guidance.” No. She wasn’t bitter about being dropped in a medieval wasteland where children were assassins and working plumbing didn’t exist. Not bitter at all. Not like she could have used guidance, any guidance at all other than ‘follow the bird trail’.

“You were of no use to me until you had finished your training.” 

That stung. 

“I believe congratulations are in order.” Said the Goddess, still looking at her with those beady all-knowing eyes. 

She could shove those congratulations where the sun don’t shine. Avis had discovered what it felt like to be strapped to a rack because of her. She’d thought she would just be a server or some shit, not an assassin. Her fault for not asking more questions.

Avis realized she was still baring her knife and quickly lowered her arm, Mythal only looked amused at that. She was less threatening than a kitten to Mythal, even with all her training. She was just another pawn, another thrall. 

 “What now?”

“There’s a contract you’ll need to take.”

Meeting in a car in a parking lot to talk about a murder contract, could this be more suspicious? But this was all just a dream, it had to be, they were in the Fade. 

The sky had a sick green tinge, Vegas always had a brown sky because of light pollution, but never green. 

There was loose Adderall in the cupholder.

The clock read 3:33 AM.

“Where?”

“Not too far, you’ll know it when you see it.” Said Flemythal.

That was ominous. Not scary at all.

She decided not to answer, taking the petulant route. Mythal could take this life away from her for all she cared. 

“I’ll keep in contact now that things are in order.” 

“What if I had died?” Avis blurted out, it had been bothering her. She had almost died, a dozen times over and it wasn’t going to become any safer. If she left this life behind tomorrow she wouldn’t be too broken up about it. But if Mythal was going to keep resurrecting her she couldn’t handle that.

A person could only die so many times.

Pity. The look she received was pitying. “Then you’d have died.” Something told her that wasn’t the whole truth, part of her wanted to ask. The rest couldn’t stand the thought of knowing. 

“Alright.” 

Without another word, she left Avis in this surrealist dream world. It was Vegas, home, but it wasn’t. The city chatter sounded like it had been ripped by someone who’d never been in a village larger than two hundred people. The lights glowed, but not bright enough like they were reaching out to her through a fog. 

Everything was disjointed. 

She held her hand up, flexing the digits and swearing under her breath at how sluggish the movements were.

She grabbed the three stray Adderall's and downed them dry, feeling them grate down her fake throat. The act of swallowing felt like she was a spectator and someone was describing the action to her. 

The pills never hit her stomach because this wasn’t real.

The clock read 3:33AM.

Avis cried.

When she woke up, she knew she was back in Thedas. So, like the good lackey she was, she headed to the contract broker’s office to look over contracts that had been bypassed by everyone higher up than her. 

When she saw the contract for Tevinter she took it.

The tie that bound her to Mythal gave a sharp tug.

Chapter Text

Tevinter had been  a lot . 

There was a reason most Crows didn’t accept contracts in Tevinter. There was also a reason most Crows didn’t accept long-term work. It was draining and soul-sucking. 

Tevinter was awful, especially for a non-mage elf. Elven mages and low-powered humans were used for tutoring and child-rearing,  at best . If you weren’t a mage you were useless, cannon fodder to throw at Seheron,  at best . If you happened to be an elf on top of that? Nothing but a walking blood bag.

Most Crows were elves for their ‘exotic’ appearances, though their mages were almost entirely human. The Crows' motto regarding that was pick a struggle. 

Slavery was rampant, she couldn’t walk down the street without someone trying to buy her or trying to drag her into a dark alley to avoid the hassle of purchase. Perhaps that was a little dramatic, for the most part, people were too worried about appearances to do anything so crass. It was all very cloak and dagger. It had been a long year and a half.

At its best Tevinter was the peak of an advanced society in Thedas, they had very rudimentary working plumbing in most establishments—though she was proud to say nothing near as intricate as Vodlin had created— and their streets were kept clean. Glowing mage-lights lined the streets and color was everywhere, she knew that with how colorful Antiva had been and how colorful Tevinter was that she'd been disappointed once it came time to go to the Free Marches or Gods forbid Fereldan. 

Tevinter was full of bustling cities with loud nightlife and happy shops, all at the surface level of course. Above ground, it was lovely and idyllic, aside from certain markets and streets kept far away from the expensive manses of the nobility and Magisters. Tevinter kept its dirty secrets behind closed doors and below ground, literally  below ground . Shantytowns in tunnels under the lavish cities, complete with their own markets and taverns, an entire underground city for the poor to live in without the light of day, out of sight and out of mind for the rich folks.

Her main mission was to get close enough to kill an Altus. The contract had been commissioned by one of the women in his family, though she wasn’t sure who. The woman had asked that whoever accepted the contract spend time getting close to the family, infiltrate its ranks and make it a true dramatic betrayal. Because that’s what rich people did for fun. They threw lavish parties and hired others to do their dirty work for them.

He turned out to be a wily bastard, hard to corner and hard to catch up to. He was paranoid and for good reason, considering someone had been hired to kill him. 

Avis had seduced his father and spent half a year dating the man, another two months and he deigned her his mistress and moved her in. Magister Cassius Orenes had been a generous man, he was kind enough to her and to his slaves. There were some he had for so long he considered family, and there were entire generations of slaves who had been born into servitude for his family. He didn't beat them, didn't even assign his castellan to beat them—not that any were ever so stupid as to act out. He kept them well fed and their quarters well maintained. But a slave owner was still a slaver, no matter how nice. No matter how he justified it by saying it was better than them begging on the streets as freemen.

He’d known she was a Crow, found out four months into their ‘relationship’ when he’d seen her marks in the bath. Cassius had traced her brand, tears falling down his face as he choked out an offer to remove it for her. She’d wanted to say yes, God, she’d wanted to say yes. Ask him to remove her wings and her brand, set her free from the Crows. 

She had nowhere else to go. She had to serve Mythal, and Mythal thought she was best used in the Crows.

She'd go work in a Tavern far away from here, far away from everything, maybe she'd sign on to become a librarian at Weisshaupt anywhere far away. But Mythal's binding to her wouldn't allow that, at the mere thought of being free there was a sharp tug on her brain, a reminder of who truly controlled the strings. She'd brought Avis into this world, and she would take her out just as easily.

It was strange seeing him cry. A man who practiced blood magic behind closed doors and owned people, crying over a scar on her back. It made her irrationally angry. Why was she a person to him and not others? Did he really see her as being so different just because she fucked him? Because she was somehow special? Different for an elf because of a vicious life she’d been forced into? As if she were any different from his slaves. Any different from the captured freedom fighters he purchased and slew below the depths of his sparkling manse.

Her being a Crow hadn’t changed anything as far as he was concerned, he’d thought she was there for him and decided to enjoy and possibly  buy the rest of his life. To buy a Crow's honor was a great achievement after all.

When she’d killed his son at one of his fanciful parties it had surprised him, if only because it hadn’t been him. When his daughter had stood up and taken credit, hailing Avis as her champion he started the applause. He’d cried over her back, but not his son. His own flesh and blood whom he'd pawned off to whatever human woman he owned that had a modicum of magical ability and child rearing ability. 

Not like his son had been his heir anyway. Some kid he trained would inherit his seat in the Magisterium and his daughter would inherit his estate in full now that her brother was out of the way.

Cassius’s son, Aesmund, had whispered touching words into her ear. Apologizing for how awful he’d been to her, for the things he’d said. The worst part was he sounded genuine, he told her no matter what he was proud to have her in his family. 

Then while they were embracing her knife had found a home in his back.

People danced in his blood, crimson sticking to skirts as they swirled and laughed like a man hadn’t just been murdered in the middle of the dancefloor. 

Such was the norm in Tevinter she supposed.

Avis had mourned Aesmund, possibly she’d been the only one who had. His magical talent was mediocre at best and his father never truly cared for him. So when Cassius met Avis and dedicated all his attention to the  lowly Elf  the kid had acted out. Because that’s what Aesmund was, a kid. Barely over the age of the majority and already being hailed as a failure by everyone around him. 

Then Avis had killed him while he clung to her and  apologized  to her, as if he didn’t have a  right  to be upset.

Tevinter was a blight.

The glowing lights couldn't hide what she'd seen, what she'd been exposed to. 

She’d taken other jobs while there, all the other shitty jobs nobody wanted to cross the border to deal with. After all, she’d never pay her purchase debt back by wasting a year and a half on one job. Small assassinations, political machinations, anything that needed a knife in the dark.

Mythal had checked in on her once per month, more often if something came up. Avis’s work for Mythal had been simple, so simple her newly acquired skills were nearly useless. All she’d needed to do was get Cassius to buy her some elven artifacts and steal what he couldn’t buy. She didn't need to become a Crow to learn how to steal, Avis had perfected shoplifting at a young age. She'd always had expensive tastes but never had the money to sate them, especially when she started dedicating all her pocket change to drugs.

Her first quest item to acquire was a beautiful defunct mirror with hallas carved into the frame. Cassius wondered why she would ever want a mirror that didn’t reflect, but all she had to do to convince him was bat her eyelashes. He’d called it a reproduction, said it was just for looks, and continued on to explain the history of Eluvians to her. Or whatever he thought the history of Eluvians was.

She knew the history of Eluvians, but if it kept him happy he could drone on until his throat bled.

Her boss had said it was real, so she’d acquired it and left it in his summer estate as per directed. A portal into heart of Vyrantium, another cog in the machine.

Avis had a feeling she knew what the Eluvian would eventually be used for, something to do with Fen’Harel. But whether or not Mythal would use it against him was beyond her. She hadn’t been given any indication of which way the story would go, if it would follow the path she was familiar with or if it would go its own direction.

She was just a grunt.

There had been some rock Mythal wanted her to acquire, so she had. Breaking into another Magisters house to take it then leaving it on some altar in some crumbling ruins, as instructed. 

No questions asked.

There were others, a year and some odd months of others but they’d all blended together. Some things her Magister sugar daddy helped her acquire and others she acquired on her own.

Sometimes things had lined up, a contract from the Crows happened to be on someone’s head who owned something Mythal wanted. It was satisfying when things lined up like that. It made her life a million times easier. But those were few and far in between. Her Mistress didn't care about inconveniencing her. 

It had been just over a year of elaborate balls and looking the other way at those suffering on the streets. Over a year-long episode of Storage Wars: Elven Artifact Edition, Featuring: Copious Amounts of Murder. When she could she gave her allowance from Cassius to those on the streets, to the Soporati and the Liberati who struggled but refused to give in. She spent her coin in those taverns below the city, surrounded by people who toasted to being free, even if it mean having nothing.

She’d acquired more than just artifacts, her wardrobe had tripled and she owned more jewelry than she knew what to do with. The piercings Zevran had given her were now outfitted with the finest gold and jewels. Cassius had wanted diamonds, she’d chosen opals. Avis could see why those entangled with the high society of Tevinter chose to look the other way on slavery, nice things were nice. 

But she couldn’t stay. She had work to do and even if she hadn’t, she couldn’t look the other way. She wouldn’t be one of those people. She hadn’t been the best person on Earth, she'd been an apathetic asshole but she'd never been ignorant, hadn't allowed herself that. She donated to charities and gofundme's, she retweeted things and did the bare minimum to keep her conscience appeased. She read up on politics even if she didn't give a shit, she went to rallys. Avis had never been ignorant and she wouldn't allow herself to become that way. Thedas wouldn't change who she was.

Cassius had kept a majority of her belongings, stating she was welcome back any time, though she wasn’t sure she would ever want to come back. Even going as far as to buy her an apartment where she could come back without having to stay with him. Being a Mistress to a rich man had its perks, so long as you could overlook the blood magic and slavery. Which, her job required her to. 

Anything she didn’t leave in Tevinter ended up in her room back at the House. But only things she didn’t care about being stolen. Because some of the more foolish recruits would try to steal them and Zevran and Mage-Guy—whose name turned out to be Curtis— would borrow things as they pleased. Some nice shoes and scarves, a thick coat, jewelry that she didn't care too much about.

Back in Antiva, she found herself at Sheaths & Daggers once again, Zevran by her side holding a needle and a pot of ink. Sure, it was tacky to tattoo in a public space, but she was leaving again in two days when her ship arrived and he was leaving tomorrow. 

So, she lay back on the bench seat with Zevran leaning over her, tongue poked out in concentration as he copied the slip of paper she’d given him. If she drank enough she could pretend this wasn’t horrifically unsanitary. She'd gotten plenty of drunk bathroom stick-n-pokes in her former life, what was one more?

“Tell me again, what language is this?” 

She’d written it in English, forgoing the blocky letters of common or the swirly figures of Orlesian. Good old English, that nobody here could fucking read. One thing in this stupid world that was all hers. One thing Mythal couldn't control or take away from her, one last part of Alaska for her to hold dear.

Sneaky bastard, liquor her up a bit and then ask a question she’d already dodged. “I never told you.” Avis was careful not to move too much when she talked, wouldn’t want to mess up a tattoo that was going to be on her neck forever.

“Ah! She’s onto me!” He said, leaning back with his hand clutched to his chest in mock agony. “At least tell me what it says.”

She mulled it over, “No, I don’t think so. This one’s for me.” 

All survivor, no guilt.

Tomorrow it was off to Kirkwall.

Chapter Text

Kirkwall was somehow simultaneously not as bad as she’d thought it would be and worse. 

The giant crying/screaming slave statues were horrifying. She’d been to Tevinter, seen the modern version of them, but something about the fact that Kirkwall never bothered to tear them down rankled her. Most other places couldn’t wait to be rid of their Tevinter memorabilia, not Kirkwall.

The only pieces Antiva kept were there to remind its people what they had overcome, relics to remind them that they were unbent, unbeaten, and unbroken as they always would be. Kirkwall kept theirs to scare people, plain and simple.

The gallows were scary as all hell, she wasn’t a mage but she’d never been around Templars much and they made her skin crawl. Templars in Tevinter were glorified mall cops, just eye candy in metal armor with no real authority. But here they were real, here they were dangerous. 

Meredith was Knight-Commander. Things weren’t as bad as they could be, the Blight still hadn’t happened, but they were steadily getting worse.

Realistically she knew she was safe, not being a mage and all, that didn’t keep her from worrying though. Maybe they’d be able to sense some fade bullshit on her from her journey here or her chats with Mythal. 

As long as she kept her head down and pretended to be just another lowly elf she’d be fine. She’d be out of here as soon as possible. Get the target and get out.

She’d rented an apartment near The Blooming Rose, down an alley and not the nicest of places but better than anything in Low Town and far better than the Alienage. If anyone saw her coming and going they’d assume she worked at the Rose or the nearby bathhouse. 

The bathhouse was her cover. She’d managed to snag a job as an attendant washing hair, exfoliating feet, rubbing oil. That kind of shit. Just another elf in a service profession, nothing suspicious there. 

Its patrons ranged from the courtesans from the Blooming Rose to the occasional noble. Avis wasn’t allowed to work with the men, which served her just fine. The owner had strict rules to keep her employees safe and happy, which included segregating things by gender, at least with the nobles or common folk who saved up to visit. 

The downstairs bathing area was shared tubs heated twice a day, cheap enough that common folk could visit without completely breaking the bank. The upstairs was reserved for nobles, with individual tubs and optional group tubs. The water was heated as often as requested, attendants did all your washing for you and fed you grapes, and provided you with wine. 

Twice a week the workers from the Rose would come in and scrub up after hours, lounge and drink. Those were fun nights, they didn’t ask to be bathed, they were just happy to be there.

It was a swanky deal, not a bad gig at all. When she left she’d make sure it went to someone who actually needed it. 

Sure, she didn’t actually enjoy washing people who bathed once a week and didn’t understand the science behind proper ass wiping, but if she hadn’t fallen in with the Crows this wouldn’t have been so bad. 

Avis found herself at the market with hands raw from the soap—really there had to be better alternatives—trying to decide on what cream would be best for her hands. She had a decent grasp on herbology in Thedas, but not enough to know which variety of Prophets Laurel or Heatherum was most equivalent to O’Keefes or Eucerin. 

What she wouldn’t give for a tub of Aquaphor.

“Avis! That you?” 

Oh no, she’d become distinctive. She’d made a point to cover up her wings and never wear shirts that showed the brand between her shoulder blades, but someone had recognized her. She was currently going by Avina, in Tevinter she’d been Avaya. Someone here knew her as Avis. 

She didn’t answer them, instead walking away as nonchalantly as she could. She’d get the cream another time, a few more days wouldn’t kill her. 

A hand caught her wrist and she instinctively whirled on them, ready to attack until she saw their face.

“Oh, Vodlin. Hey.” 

She’d correct him on the name in a minute, once she calmed her heart rate. 

“It’s been too long!” He said, beaming at her with pure enthusiasm. 

They’d kept in touch through letters and the like, she’d even sent him a Satinalia gift. It was good to see times hadn’t hardened him and worrying. How long would it take for him to become jaded and numb to the world? If he survived that long.

“That it has and it’s Avina now, actually.” Her words carried more than just a hint, gently pressing on him to take her words at face value and not ask any questions. 

Yes, that was a Mass Effect reference. She didn’t end up here because she’d never played video games. No, she was here because she’d spent her teenage years using video games as an escape. Among other reasons.

He blinked, frowning for a minute before beaming once more. “Of course! My mistake. I’m glad you’re here actually, can we talk?” Vodlin asked.

Avis could think of worse ways to spend her day off. “Sure, if you can tell me the best cream for my hands.” She showed him said hands, which he took in his own and gasped.

“Well, you’ll be overpaying for a subpar product here. Come to the Dwarven quarter with me, it’ll be best there.” With that, he was tugging her in the opposite direction.

It made sense of course. Of course, it made sense, nobody in Hightown worked with their hands. 

There was one thing that had kept her from going. “Is it, uh, okay for me to be there?” She regretted the question immediately, it was stupid. Stupid as it was her unsaid meaning got across  ‘Is it okay for me to be there because I’m an elf?’

While Dwarva didn’t look down on elves quite like humans did they still didn’t treat them as equals. Especially not the rich ones that tended to hang out near the merchants guild. Elves, especially in Kirkwall, had a reputation for being dirty and poor.

Vodlin stopped in his tracks, looking at her strangely before letting out a boisterous laugh. “You got coin?”

“Well, yeah.” 

“Then you’re welcome.”

The Dwarven Quarter was something else. Even with all the former Tevinter architecture it still unmistakably rang Dwarven. A few non-dwarva people were milling about, bartering at some stalls. The Dwarven Merchant’s Guild headquarters loomed over the area and Avis felt strangely intimidated. Why did they need doors so tall when they were so small? A qunari on another qunari’s shoulders in a trench coat could fit through the doors without hope of brushing their horns on the frame. Was it really necessary?

The stall they went to had a young woman working it, interesting considering most surface dwarves were male. Born on the surface perhaps.

She was friendly, excitedly babbling about all things herbology as she explained the recipe behind each cream. Avis didn’t have many questions, but there were few things better than watching someone enthuse about something they loved so she asked questions anyway. 

Her name turned out to be Achsa and after she saw the state of Avis’s hands she decided to whip something else up right then and there. She even asked Avis what scent she wanted. It was nice, she was nice and definitely getting paid extra for her trouble.

“So, what did you want to talk about?” She asked, tilting her head expectantly at Vodlin. 

“Not here. Inside.” He tilted his head towards the guild headquarters and she felt her flutter oddly. Since when did he get so secretive and vague? Vodlin, who had just yelled her name out in the middle of a market knowing damn well she was an assassin likely there on business. 

“Not even a hint?” Avis did her best to pout, fluttering her eyelashes sweetly at him. 

He shook his head, “Guild business.”

What did that have to do with her?

Instead of demanding answers she just nodded, accepting the jar Achsa handed her and murmuring a quick ‘thank you’ before taking off towards the guild. 

Vodlin followed, matching her pace despite the difference between their legs. They walked in tense silence, mostly on Avis’s end due to her unease. He seemed excited about something, happy to ignore her discomfort or possibly just oblivious to it. 

The doors were definitely not original, they reminded her of what Origins showed of Orzammar. They were beautiful and undoubtedly expensive so she did her best to avoid touching them out of fear of somehow ruining them.

As they headed down the hall towards what she assumed was Vodlins office or maybe an execution chamber, she was having a hard time reading the room, someone caught up to her.

“Vodlin! Just who I wanted to see.”

Oh no. She knew that voice.

She was about to meet her second canon character. 

“Varric, what can I do for you?” Vodlin switched from his friendly exuberance to a business side she hadn’t seen from him, interesting. “We were just heading to my office.”

“Perfect. Mind if I tag along?” Varric looked at her, eyeing her up with a far too observant eye. He might be a good connection to make, considering he ran a spy network and all. 

It was strange seeing him without his crossbow. When exactly did he get it? It was hard to picture him using any other weapon than Bianca but the dagger on his hip looked well-loved. 

She shrugged, giving Vodlin a pointed look that said she didn’t care one way or another. If Varric wanted to come along he was welcome to, she’d enjoy the eye candy. Maybe Varric could get more out of Vodlin.

Their steps echoed as they walked through the massive halls, the ceilings were so high she felt, well,  dwarfed . She could still feel Varric staring at her, still sizing her up. It shouldn’t bother her as much as it did but this secrecy had her on edge. 

“So, who’s your friend?” Varric asked, nudging Vodlin. 

That was the million-dollar question.

One she wasn’t sure she had the answer to. 

She was Alaska. Avis. An Elf. An Antivan Crow. A former Human. A struggling druggie. Thrall for a vengeful Elven Goddess. 

Avis was many things and yet nothing at all.

“That’s Avina.”

Today she was Avina.

“Does Avina talk?”

“She does,” Avis spoke up, frowning at the dwarf who still hadn’t taken his eyes off her. Was Varric always like this? Did she do something wrong?

He laughed and her insides squirmed. No man's laugh should make her stomach flip-flop like that. She needed to get laid. As soon as she was done here she’d head back to Antiva and find someone. 

Avis had rules about these things. Unless it was a contract she didn’t sleep with people who didn’t know that she was a Crow. When it came to having fun on her own time she wanted people to know  her . 

That meant not sleeping with people she couldn’t take her makeup off in front of. 

They reached Vodlin’s office, which was surprisingly large. He was doing well for himself apparently. The furnishings were all Dwarven, though there were seats for non-Dwarva for which Avis was thankful. She was just the slightest bit too tall for Dwarven seats. She always ended up with her knees nearly touching her chin.

Except, well not. At most, she was a few inches taller than Varric. But sitting in seats made for Dwarva made her feel like driving someone else's car, getting into the seat only to find it was all wrong for you.

“Have a seat! I’ll be back in a minute.” Vodlin gestured to the seats before turning his heel and practically skipping out of the office.

Now she was alone with Varric, oh no.

There was no buffer.

“So, Avina where you from?”

She had to make small talk with Varric, which was bound to be more than just small talk. It would be a series of harmless questions with answers that added up to a big picture.

Avis couldn’t have that.

“I’m an Elf and I’m clearly not Dalish. Where do you think I’m from?” She said plainly. 

He chuckled to himself, nodding a bit like she’d just confirmed something. “Not Kirkwall.”

“No. Not Kirkwall.”

“You have an interesting accent. Can’t quite place it.” 

Being born in Indiana, moving to Nevada, and then being transplanted to a majority Spanish/Italian speaking country in a different world would do that to a person’s voice. Funny how that worked.

All she had to do was stall him until Vodlin came back. Really, how long could he possibly take?

“So, Varric. Got a last name or a house name?” Boom. Get him talking about himself.

“Where are my manners?” He paused dramatically, leaning into her and offering his hand. “Varric of House Tethras at your service.” 

Instead of daintily putting her hand in his and letting him kiss it as he expected she gave him a firm shake, one two-pump just like her dad taught her back on Earth. Varric blinked at her hand for a second before a crooked smile graced his face. Damn the handsome rogue.

“Avina.” The lie was bitter on her tongue. Part of her knew she’d see Varric again, Mythal wouldn’t just never send her to Kirkwall again. He’d catch her in her lies eventually.

“No last name?” 

“Do many city elves have last names?” Most didn’t. There were exceptions of course but,  Avina  wasn’t one of them. 

“Suppose not,” Varric said. He hadn’t given up but he seemed momentarily appeased.

The conversation lapsed and she felt thankful. Could Vodlin be any slower? What was he doing? Picking up food from Ferelden? 

“How long you been here?”

“A month.”

“Kirkwall treating you well?” He asked.

“I have a decent job at the Rose Room.”

“The bathhouse?”

“Yep,” Avis replied.

“That explains the ass cream.”

That got her attention. “Ass cream?” She asked, hardly believing that those words were coming out of her mouth. 

“That stuff Ascha mixed up for you, usually used for baby butts.” 

How the shit would he know that? 

“Yeah? You have kids or something?”

Her reply earned another laugh out of him, fully belly head thrown back and all. “Not at all. Don’t think I could handle them, probably screw ‘em up.” 

Avis understood that. Once she’d been young with babydolls and dreams of becoming a wildly successful veterinarian who worked primarily with horses and had a merry band of curly-haired children. Then she’d turned ten. Then she’d grown up, gotten a drug addiction, and college debt. 

Kids stopped seeming like a good idea after that. She was always too afraid she’d screw them up one day.

A somewhat awkward silence had overcome them at his admission, sometimes using jokes to cope backfired. Sometimes they hit just a little too close to home and it didn’t register as a joke anymore. 

“So, ass cream?” Avis ventured, extending an olive branch to him even though it would have been easier for her to let him squirm. 

She’d been pointedly avoiding looking at him thus far, unwilling to risk more than a few quick glances, but this time she turned towards him and offered a weak smile. One he returned, looking entirely sheepish. 

“It’s good for rashes and blisters. Most of the people here who work with their hands have a jar of it.” 

“Do  you  often work with your hands?” The question was albeit the tiniest bit flirty and she felt unreasonably smug at the slightly slack-jawed look he was giving her. 

Then Vodlin came back, beaming like he’d just won the lotto and holding a vellum tied with a shiny gold ribbon. It almost reminded her of a contract from the Crows, written on vellum to show that they were expensive but worth it. Except their contracts were tied with a deep red ribbon, symbolic of the blood being spilled or some shit. Even though they didn’t always spill blood. Everything meant something, it seemed stupid in middle school but blue curtains didn’t always just mean blue curtains. 

What did a gold ribbon mean?

“This has all your account details on it, all you have to do is sign and I can give you the key,” Vodlin spoke, sitting behind his desk and unfurling the vellum and prepping his inkpot and quill for her. 

She’d been forced to practice her signature over and over with a quill, she knew how to use one though she preferred graphite. Most normal people used graphite, but contracts required ink and quill for professional purposes.

Why was she signing a contract?

“Key?” Avis asked. She had a lot more questions, but that seemed like a safe place to start.

Vodlin help up a palm-sized stone tablet with some writing on it, her ability to read dwarven characters was rusty at best but the stamp of the merchants guild was pretty distinct. “Your account number is on the other side. This will allow you to go to any Merchant’s Guild outpost and withdraw funds from your account.”

“My account?”

He kept talking like she hadn’t spoken. “There’s a code you’ll have to use in conjunction with the key but-”

“Vodlin,” Her voice was firm as she stood up, placing both hands on his desk and leaning over him. While he was sitting she had a significant height advantage over him. “I have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about.”

Harsh but effective, he blinked before realization dawned on his face. “Your idea! I took it to the Guild and it was well-received, we agreed to share profits as it was your idea but I would do all the legwork with the Guild. This is your share.”

Idea? 

Oh. Shit.

Plumbing.  

She hadn’t thought twice about their chat, assumed it was forgotten. But he’d gone and done it, the crazy bastard did it. 

How stupid was she? The Rose Room had a rudimentary plumbing system, she’d assumed it was always there but it must have been new. 

“How much is my share?”

He pulled out another piece of paper from his desk, this one just a slip, and wrote a number on it. “This is what’s in your account currently.” 

The number made her head hurt.

Gold ribbon meant sovereigns. And a lot of them at that. 

“Vodlin, this is  a   bastard .” The Antivan phrase slipped from her tongue without thought, though later she’d reflect on how natural the slang felt spilling from her lips.

His eyes widened, fear pooling in his eyes. “There’s more coming! Always!”

It took a minute for Avis to realize what the hell he was so afraid of, then it hit her. 

Her.

Her friend was afraid of her. He thought the amount displeased her.

“Vodlin, that wasn’t a threat. This is more than I expected, far more.” He nodded at her words, still not looking entirely convinced.

“One Bastard is  Antivan  slang for five-thousand sovereigns,” Varric spoke up. He sounded amused and one glance back confirmed it. A sly grin had materialized on his face, he looked at her like a puzzle piece had just fallen into place.

Shit. 

Electing to ignore his input she plowed on, “This is after you took your cut and the Guild took theirs?”

Vodlin nodded weakly.

Shit.

Avis was rich.

Then something else hit her. “Can I deposit more funds into my account?” She asked, tapping her fingers to her chin in thought. 

He nodded again. “At any Merchants Guild building.”

“Can someone else deposit funds into my account?” Her mind went to Cassius, who sent her gifts with money hidden inside to ensure the money wasn’t intercepted and taken by the Crows.

 She’d have to write him a letter letting him know. 

“You just have to, uh, sign for your account set up to be complete.” He nudged the vellum towards her again, offering the quill in an outstretched hand. 

Just sign. That was almost foreign to her. Contracts for the Crows were accepted with blood and completed with blood. Contracts with Mythal were bound by her word and tied to her soul. Normal ink and quill seemed suspiciously easy. Though she would have to sign her actual name—when did she start thinking of Avis Ambroggio as being her  real  name?— on it without letting Varric see. 

She signed, wrapping a protective arm around the paper to keep prying eyes away just like she did in elementary school, and then left the two men alone so Varric and Vodlin could conclude their business. Time to test out her new Thedosian ATM card.

Chapter Text

With her newfound wealth, she purchased her apartment. It hadn’t been for sale at the time, but after flashing some coin it became available. The second-floor, two-room apartment wasn’t the nicest of places. But it could be far worse, the location was nice and there was a cute balcony. She’d have covered the balcony in flowers if she knew she’d be here more. 

After spending a few days on property paperwork,  boy howdy  the people at the Viscount's office were not pleased to see her, it was hers. Buying the place had been impulsive, she’d wanted  one  thing in this world that was hers and hers alone. But after buying it she’d felt free, even if it was only in her imagination. 

Once the hassle was over, it was time to get back to  actual  work. It was Thursday which meant the courtesans from the Blooming Rose would be coming by once the brothel closed to pamper themselves for a few hours. 

Avis would use that time to finish her job for the Crows. If she slipped out for a few minutes they would never notice, they drank heavily and didn’t require the constant care that the nobles did. Her targets house was only a few short minutes' walk away, in flower town where all the local nobles lived. But unless something went horribly wrong with her first plan that isn’t where she’d corner her mark. It was simply a backup plan.

Some Baroness had put a contract on her little sister's head, not wanting the competition for the family estate. Trivial matters, the same as always. Avis rarely got the juicy contracts, the ones with merchant houses or royal families. She took what Flemythal told her to take and  only  what Flemythal told her to take. Sometimes those were specific contracts or just general contracts for an area.

She wasn’t sure what in Kirkwall was so important, but eventually, she’d find out. If it couldn’t be dealt with within the next week she’d pick up another contract in the area. There was a safe house nearby outfitted with a Master capable of assigning new contracts. 

Oh well, it was something to worry about for another time. For now, she had a few hours before she had to go to work and she planned to spend those hours drinking coffee and reading one of Varric’s early novels. Maybe she’d ask for him to autograph it. 

Though  The Viper’s Nest  was mostly a work of fiction it gave considerable insight into the world of the Merchants Guild and its hired assassins. More so, it gave insight into Varric’s knowledge and views of the Merchants Guild and its hired assassins. 

It was the last book he’d written before his mother had died and the last book he’d write until Hard in Hightown. Getting her hands on it had been rough, most copies of it had been destroyed due to ‘distribution problems’ and any surviving copies were dead expensive. 

Luckily Avis had stumbled into some money recently. The man she’d bought it from had been some minor Lord who thought she was buying it for her Master and kept insisting that she not get her grubby hands on it. That had been a wild ride. If she hadn’t needed to keep a low profile she likely would have scared the hell out of him just for the fun of it.

As big as Varric was on purple prose she actually enjoyed the book, he was a gifted writer and his spite for the Guild really bled through onto the page. He’d met Bianca at this point right? It was only 9:27 Haring. Nearly four years before he’d meet Hawke. But he didn’t have the crossbow yet. 

She’d need to do more research on Bianca and Varric if only to sate her own curiosity. 

Her legs dangled through the slats in her railing, bare feet kissing the breeze. The book sat on her lap, pages pristine because the man who’d owned it before her hadn’t even bothered to read it. Damn the price she’d spill coffee on it and mark up the pages all she wanted, fuck collectors value. 

Prior to coming to Thedas, she’d been in a poly triad, Sabrina had been a total history buff. Which was the only reason Avis knew that because Varric’s books were mass-produced Thedas had to have printing presses. Partnering that with Brankas smokeless coal, Bianca’s inventions and use of steam meant that Thedas wasn’t exactly the Medieval shit hole she thought it was, they were in something akin to the Industrial Age.

Still sucked.

At least there was coffee. 

She’d taken to making different milk substitutes in her spare time, trying to decide what was best for coffee. So far Oatmilk won, but she still missed fancy creamers. God damn, she missed fancy creamers.

The story had just reached its peak, the courtier was cornered and the assassins were closing in, then the Chantry bells tolled signaling the time and Avis had to head to work. 

The book went into her satchel along with her dagger, pendant, and contract. They’d be utilized later when it was dark and her mark would be easiest to catch off guard. 

Lady Marcella Delisle liked to drink at The Wandering Glass, the only official tavern in High Town. After she finished flirting with but never paying for, the workers at the Rose she’d be chased out after closing and would stumble to the Glass down the street. 

Once the Rose closed Avis would assist the Courtesans in the bathhouse and find a time to slip away, hopefully catching Lady Delisle outside or luring her outside. 

As far as Avis could tell the worst thing she’d done was be born and not tip her waitress, but she never liked looking too close. If she did they became too real, she couldn’t get the distance she needed to complete a contract. It was a delicate balance between doing just enough research and doing too much. 

At the bathhouse, Avis was called upstairs and set to work exfoliating some visiting Orlesian Lady. Pumicing another person was harder than it seemed, too hard and she got smacked, too soft and it did nothing. It was awkward business pulling someone else’s legs out of the water to scrub, but apparently, someone had to do it. 

The time ticked by, most of it spent pampering Lady What’s-Her-Name, she washed and oiled her hair, exfoliated her in her entirety, soaped her up, and lotioned her when it was all done. All the while the Lady was being hand-fed by one of the other workers. 

Yeah, Avis was rich but she’d never allowed herself to be this kind of rich person. Down with the Bourgeois. 

For fuckssake, she’d just  trimmed someone else’s pubic hair . 

She couldn’t even say that was her first time doing it. Back on Earth, she’d helped Mindy shape her pubes into a heart as a Valentine's day surprise for Sabrina. Mindy’s surprise for her had been low-temperature candles.

She’d made the mistake of offering to groom some Orlesian woman’s pubes into the shape, half-jokingly. Apparently, the woman had told her friends and it became something of a trend. After that several other nobles had requested the treatment, apparently body hair removal was becoming popular in Orlais. They asked for all kinds of shapes, some practical, some not, but she always did her best even if a piece of her soul died each time. 

Add that to her resume. 

The chantry bells tolled, another hour gone.

Another satisfied customer left with skin raw from hair removal and exfoliation and heart-shaped pubes and all Avis got was a four coppers tip. Unbelievable. 

When the workers from the Blooming Rose filed in she knew it would soon be time to complete her plan. But first to prepare the group bath and pour the wine. 

Everything was going according to plan until she tried to slip away and Cora pouted and begged her to join them. Sometimes the Rose Room workers joined them, sometimes they didn’t. Avis thus far had never joined, the brand on her back was too noticeable and even if her hair covered it there was always still the risk. 

But today was apparently the day that changed, as Cora drunkenly pulled her into the bath, clothes and all. Thank the Creators she didn’t wear her shoes while working, leather turnshoes would not handle the water well. 

At least the water was warm.

That really put a damper on her plans. How was she supposed to get dry in time to catch up to Lady Delisle? She couldn’t very well just go trotting around soaking wet, that would make her a hundred times easier to spot. For fucks sake it took hours for her hair to dry. 

Maybe this would have to wait another day.

But no, it couldn’t. The contract had to be completed within the next two days, there had been a time limit imposed on it.

Shit. 

Shit .

The Chantry bells rang, time was slipping away.

Fuck it.

After sitting in defeat for a minute listening to Cora apologize and the others drunkenly giggle she clambered out of the tub and went to wring out her hair. Squeezing the water out of her hair did very little, the dark curls retained a lot of water, but it was better than nothing. Her skirt squeezed out a bit better, but her tunic was done for. 

A wet frock. Fantastic.

Kirkwall was cold this time of year, it was Wintermarch—the Thedas equivalent of  January.  Unfortunate. She’d just have to suffer through it. 

Hopefully, Lady Delisle would be drunk enough to not notice she was being followed by a soaking wet elf. 

At least her makeup was waterproof to an extent. The pendant Cassius had given her was enchanted to help searching eyes skip over her, fingers crossed that still applied when she was soaking wet. 

The pendant around her neck, dagger tucked in the folds of her dress, wet hair loosely tied up into something resembling a bun and she was ready to head out. Lady Delisle would die tonight if it was the last thing she did.

“Avina!” 

Or not. She had one foot out the door when Serendipity called to her.

“Yes, Dip?” 

“Why don’t you just head home? Lavinia and Ilmen will take good care of us.” They purred, tracing a finger along the shell of Ilmen’s ear.

Considering Lavinia was in the tub as well and Ilmen was quite literally sitting on Serendipity’s lap she was sure they would be  very  well taken care of. Avis was relatively certain that her co-workers thought she was a wet blanket.

“Are you sure?” She asked Lavinia, the person who’d been on the staff the longest and actually had her authority to let her go. Even without permission, she edged towards her bag, slowly slinging it over her shoulder as she pretended to be worried about ditching work early.

Her reply was a non-committal hum coming from where Lavinia had buried her face in Denier’s neck.

Well okay then.

When she stepped outside Avis found herself grateful the breeze was at a minimum, the breeze off the water could be freezing on a bad night. This wouldn’t be the most uncomfortable thing she’d ever done. She’d participated in an Undie Run one year, whoever’s idea it was to strip down in the fountain and then run across campus almost naked in the middle of winter deserved to flunk their classes. 

As she crept through the shadows she was thankful to note that few people roamed the streets. There were some others like her in the shadows like a small group of Invisible Sisters watching the streets from a rooftop. Her pendant allowed most people to simply  look over her , eyes sliding off of her and keeping them from looking too closely. 

The Wandering Glass was tucked between several bigger buildings surrounded by narrow alleyways. If she could lure the Lady into an alley she’d be golden. Nobody would look too closely at another person getting shanked in a Kirkwall alley. 

She couldn’t go in and lure her out, then people would notice her and be able to recognize her. Not to mention she was soaking fucking wet and that put a damper on most ideas she had. Best chance she had was to wait in the alley her target would have to pass to head home. She wished she had a watch so she knew what time it was. It couldn’t be more than two hours until the tavern closed. 

Avis decided to hunker down where the light was best and read until it was time. The lanterns around the building let off just enough light for her to read without straining her eyes. Elf eyes were good in the dark, this stupid body had some uses apparently. 

First, she read over the contract to make sure everything was in order. No particular method, no suffering, let her know that her sister sent her regards, sign with blood. Fucked up but not the worst order she’d ever been given. 

It was excessive, dramatic in the way Nobles loved. What was the point in telling someone moments before they died who was killing them? Why? Long-term torture made sense, but a quick shanking in an alley? Let them die in peace.

This world truly had ruined her if she thought an alley shanking was a peaceful way to die. 

Then she pulled out Varric’s book and got back to reading.

It didn’t take long for Lady Delisle to come stumbling out of the tavern, shouting obscenities at whoever had kicked her out. Unbecoming behavior for a woman of her status, truly. Looks like it was to be an early night then, all the better for Avis. She could go home and change out of these damp clothes and snuggle up under the blankets. Maybe even finally finish reading The Viper’s Nest.

There ended up being no luring, and minimal lurking, her mark stumbled near the mouth of the alley, and Avis pounced, dragging her deeper into the dark with a hand over her mouth. She squeaked against the hand over her mouth, drunkenly wriggling in a futile attempt to escape.

“Your sister sends her regards,” Avis murmured, feeling the person in her arms still as the words sank in. Yes, betrayal was a bitch. It was all very cloak and daggers.

Blood covered the alley wall as the blade of her dagger dragged across the delicate column of Lady Delisle’s neck. Avis dropped the corpse and took several steps back, shivering though it wasn’t due to the cold. She wasn’t sure she’d ever get used to the sudden stillness that followed when someone lost their life in her arms.

She bowed her head, begging for forgiveness as the puddle of blood Lady Delisle lay in grew. Waves slapped against the docks, and the Chantry bells sang in the distance, signaling another hour lost to the passage of time. 

The waves laughed.

The bells mocked her.

Time passed.

It was time for her to move on, lest she is caught in an alley with a corpse and a bloodied dagger. 

She pulled the contract from her bag and unfurled it, fingers catching a stray drop of blood from her dagger. She swiped the blood partially over her signature—the proper way they were taught—and put it away.

 More symbolic bullshit. 

But she did it anyway. Just in case they had a blood mage hidden away who somehow validated these contracts.

Avis wiped the bloody dagger on a rag she kept in her bag, it would be washed later. The dagger was hidden in the folds of her skirt once more, there if she needed it but invisible if someone saw her. 

Then she walked out of the alley, calm and collected. Like nothing at all was wrong.

Even though her conscience was screaming and banging on the bars of the cage she kept it locked in. 

All survivor, no guilt.

She headed back to her apartment, walking with a forced nonchalance as she put the image of Lady Delisle’s body out of her mind. The contract was complete, she’d change and then turn it in later that night, wash her hands of it completely.

It wasn’t long before someone bumped into her and knocked her off balance, whoever she ran into was built like a brick shithouse. Her satchel slipped off her arm, the book tumbling out and landing at the feet of her assailant. 

All she could do was sigh. Perfect.

“Well, looky here.” 

Fantastic.

“Hello, Varric.” She said, taking a minute to tilt her head back and squint at the sky. Someone had to be punking her right now. 

“Interesting choice in literature.” He sounded smug as all hell, the bastard.

“Yep.” 

“You know, I know the author, might be able to get it signed for you.” The dwarf teased, grinning at her with mirth in his eyes as he held up the book.

She tweaked a brow, crossing her arms and staring critically at him. “That so?”

His eyes flickered to her chest, brow furrowing as he blinked in confusion. Yeah, she was still damp from her tumble earlier and bras in Thedas didn’t hide a damn thing. Her nipples could cut diamonds right now and they were happy to let the entire world know.

“Eyes up here,” Avis grumbled, frowning at him. 

“Shit, kid you’re soaked.” Not the context she was hoping to hear those words in but whatever. “You alright?”

Kid? She was maybe a year younger than him and several inches taller. Definitely didn’t warrant the title of ‘kid’. 

“Took a tumble.”

“What? Into the sea?” He hastily tugged his overcoat off, wrapping it around her. What a gentleman. 

She shrugged, content to huddle in the warmth of his jacket. It smelled nice, like a lot of things she couldn’t quite place but were pleasant nonetheless. “Work. I’m walking home now.”

Varric looked at her skeptically, slipping her satchel over his shoulder. “The Rose room is a block in that direction.” He hitched his thumb in the direction she was currently heading. 

Yeah, she supposed it wouldn’t make sense for her to be walking back towards her work if she had just left work and was heading home. “I’m still new here.” No way he would buy that, Varric was too damn smart. Besides, while she lived in Hightown she did live in the shadier part of it and anyone with half a brain knew that to get lost in Kirkwall was a death sentence no matter where you were. But she was emotionally exhausted and freezing so he could just deal with it. 

The look on his face said he most certainly did not believe her—as expected—but was willing to let it go for now. “Let me walk you home, you shouldn’t be out wandering Kirkwall alone.” Chivalry wasn’t dead after all.

Avis didn’t particularly care if Varric knew where she lived, and if she turned him away now she’d have to give him back his coat. So in the interest of staying warm, she let him walk with her. If anyone else had offered she would have told them to get fucked, but Varric was trustworthy. Though it was probably a bad idea to put all her faith in how a video game had portrayed him.

They walked in silence for a few minutes until Varric just couldn’t help himself. “So,  Clumsy ,” Oh no.  That  was to be her Varric nickname? “A tumble?”

“Someone pulled me into the bath,” Avis said. She was not clumsy. She would not go down for that. On Earth, she’d trained in Ballet and been taught the Thedosian equivalent of  Danza Dei Piedi.  She was beauty, she was grace. She absolutely did not fall face-first into a bath. 

If she wasn’t in a soaking wet dress she’d arabesque right goddamn now out of spite. 

Varric blinked slowly, searching her face for any sign of a lie. “Why?” He asked. He almost sounded concerned, which if it had been anyone other than those from the Blooming Rose it would have been a concern.

“As an invitation to the orgy.”

He managed to keep a straight face for a few seconds before bursting out into laughter. “Ah, are these invitations always so wet?”

That’s what she said.  The urge to say it was almost overwhelming, she felt like Michael Scott in that episode of The Office where he was told he couldn’t make jokes by corporate and Jim kept baiting him. Maybe she’d invent ‘That’s what she said’ in Thedas. Fuck plumbing, that would be her legacy. 

“If you’re doing it right.” She replied smoothly. 

Varric choked and stopped dead in his tracks for a second, gaping at her. She kept walking, albeit slower so she wouldn’t entirely lose him. Avis had to fight off the smug smile threatening to appear, she wouldn’t be able to wipe it off her face in time. He caught up to her a minute later, snorting to himself and shaking his head. 

“Alright, I walked right into that one.” 

“You absolutely did.”

They trucked on in silence, Varric humming some tune to himself while Avis reminisced about The Office. It was peaceful, companionable. Varric was an easy person to be around, she could see why someone like Hawke or the Inquisitor would want to be his friend. 

The man exuded friendly vibes, and sex appeal too, though everyone knew that.

Speaking of without his coat Avis had a good view of that famous chest hair, and while she’d been too busy ignoring him in Vodlin’s office she certainly could appreciate it now. The small height advantage she had over him was just enough to leer down his shirt like some kind of leper. 

Definitely a strawberry blonde. No ifs ands or buts about it.

“Like what you see?” He asked, casually breaking her out of her thoughts.

She didn’t have to look to know he was smirking, the asshole.

Before she could answer they were halted in their tracks by a piercing cry of alarm behind them. A Templar came stumbling out of the alley she’d killed the Lady in, his armor glinted in the moonlight making him easily identifiable. Two more came charging out of the tavern, glancing around wildly for the source of their friends' distress.

Oh no, this could go very poorly for her. 

Varric stepped in front of her, ever so slightly shielding her from their view. How kind of him for trying to protect her from facing the wrath for something she most definitely  did do . 

Then the group of Invisible Sisters she’d noticed before jumped from their roof top, landing without a sound behind the Templar and his buddies. One of them let out a piercing whistle and then they were upon the Templars, bloodying their blades before the intoxicated men could even draw their weapons. Avis sincerely hoped they wouldn’t come after her and Varric, she could barely even be called a skirmisher. 

The fight against the three Qunari in Qarinus had nearly killed her because being the Thedas equivalent of Black Widow didn’t suddenly mean that she could win a legitimate fight against three seasoned warriors twice her size. 

Thankfully the gods seemed to be on her side today because the fight came nowhere near them. Once their targets were down most of them moved to melt back into the shadows, but one stayed still, inclining her head at Avis and giving her a wide grin before motioning at the alley. 

Wait a goddamn minute. They’d used her kill as bait to lure the Templars out. 

Holy shit. 

Kirkwall was fucked up.

Varric was staring ahead, mouth slightly agape as they watched the Sister disappear into the shadows with her comrades. “Friend of yours?”

She shook her head so abruptly that her neck cracked in protest. “No. Not at all.” Then, before Varric got a chance to ask her what the hell had just happened she turned on her heel and power walked towards her home.

If she got caught because they decided to use her as bait then she’d spend every last penny she had on paying for them to be thrown into the sea. She’d pay others to do it instead of doing it herself, Avis was notoriously bad at water disposals. Besides, if someone else did it she could watch while sitting back eating grapes.

Maybe she would be that kind of rich person after all.

Varric caught back up with her not a whole minute later, trotting to keep up with her long, hurried strides. Smartly, he decided to keep his mouth shut. 

Once they’d reached her apartment building she paused at the foot of the stairs, shrugging his jacket off and offering it to him. “Thanks for letting me borrow your jacket.” 

He shook his head, holding his hands up to keep her from shoving it into them. “Keep it, for now, you can return it another time.” 

Thank god, because the breeze had picked up after the Invisible Sister’s stunt and if she had to walk upstairs without it she just might freeze to death. Too tired and cold to argue she simply wrapped herself back in it and nodded, murmuring her thanks.

If she’d been of a sound mind she’d have realized the jacket was a ploy to get her to see him again. To bring her back to him so he could continue to unravel her secrets.

Her satchel found its way back onto her shoulder, though Varric still held her copy of his book. What? Was he gonna steal it or something? Couldn’t get a copy of his own book?

“Oh, and one more thing.” He said, reaching into a pouch on his belt to pull out some kind of stick, maybe graphite. When he opened her book she realized he was making good on what he’d said earlier, he was signing it for her. Her heart flip-flopped at the sentiment. “There you go.” 

He handed the book back to her, grinning expectantly as she opened it to see what he’d written.

To _____,

Stay dry.

Best Wishes, Varric Tethras.

She blinked at it, smug asshole. But something bothered her. “It’s blank. What? You couldn’t remember my name?” 

The look on his face turned positively shit-eating as he innocently fluttered his eyelashes at her. “Sure, when you tell me your actual name I’ll write it in.” 

Smug asshole.

Chapter Text

She turned in her contract that same night and since Mythal hadn’t given her any other orders she decided to accept another. Avis still had business to do for her mistress in Kirkwall and until she was told what that was she had to sit tight. 

Avis had thrown on Varric’s coat again, because it was nearby, and paired it with a scarf to stave off the cold chill that had seeped into her bones from her earlier exploit. The scarf was Tevinter made and far fancier than a lowly bathhouse worker like her  should  have but it was a plush dyed green wool that kept her warm so she couldn’t find it in her to care. 

As a bonus she could pull it up so it covered her wings, she’d been too lazy to put more makeup on them after taking a warm bath to fight off the chill. Besides, she didn’t see the point in using up more of her already limited stock of makeup for a Crows meeting where it would be rude for her to cover them.

The Kirkwall outpost was small, a discreet room in the back of a Hightown apothecary. The Crows were too bougie for it to be anywhere but Hightown. Plush velvet drapes covered the windows, candles rested on most surfaces and the furniture spoke  money . 

Her turnshoes were left by the door, leaving her feet protected by only her footwraps. The stone beneath her feet was surprisingly warm as she moved to kneel on one of the floor cushions, sitting patiently before the elegantly carved table. She busied herself with admiring the carvings, all depictions of Griffons. Interesting. Strange thing to be in a Crow's outpost but whatever.

A servant came to let her know the Master would be with her soon. Judging from the look of him he may have once been a failed recruit, now forced into a life of servitude to pay off his  compradi  debt. He took her coat and scarf, bowing his head and refusing eye contact as he did so. Internally she acknowledged the irony of a human servant bowing to  her , the Crows were one of the few places in Thedas where that would happen.

The Master swept into the room, shooing away the servant with a dispassionate flick of his wrist. He was an older man, human of course. He barely spared her a glance, instead sitting down to prepare tea for their meeting. 

His black robes pooled around him, likely hiding an entire armory beneath, and he had to fight to keep them from interfering with the tea. Avis choked down the urge to snort at the display, clearly someone needed to go back to deportment school.

After serving the tea and thoroughly rattling the porcelain it was time to get down to business. 

Master Prioli passed along her cut of the Delisle contract, which would be her pocket money for the next however long. It was enough to get by on, as long as she didn’t buy anything too luxurious. The money in her Dwarven Merchant’s Guild coffer would stay there for emergencies.

The contracts up for bid were offered in the typical dramatic fashion of the Crows, each vellum slowly pulled out of its carrying tube and rolled out onto the table. Prioli took his time, unrolling each one with the gentleness people usually saved for newborns.

He gave her the option of several contracts in the Free Marches; two in Ostwick, one in Ansburg, and one in Kirkwall. The Kirkwall one immediately caught her eye, and not just because it was in Kirkwall. The mark was in the Merchant’s Guild. 

She didn’t bother to read any further. When she found a contract that spoke to her she took it without question, usually, if something spoke to her it was because of Mythal. It was definitely about Mythal and  not  because of some strawberry blonde chest hair.

That was bound to be interesting. 

She picked it up, giving it a once over to show him the proper respect the contract deserved, glancing over it without reading. “This one.” She rolled the scroll and offered it back to him, waiting for his acceptance of her bid. 

If he declined she’d be randomly selected something.

He looked her over, beady black eyes sunk deep into his bird-like face-scanning her for something she couldn’t figure out. They all did that, before accepting a bid they stared, looking for something. Avis could never figure out what. 

Then he nodded, setting her rejects aside and taking her selected contract from her. The vellum was spread open on the desk before he moved to pull the quill and ink out. The ink was poured into a small bowl and offered to her.

“On your honor.”

She nodded, pulling her dagger from her belt and dragging it across the tip of her middle finger in one fluid motion. “On my honor.” The blood dripped into the ink, three fat drops. One for the Crows, one for her mark, and one for her life. 

Avis paused to quickly dab the remaining blood away with her red handkerchief and tuck the dagger away while he mixed the blood ink. She took the quill as he offered the ink, cupping the bowl in his palms, gently dipping the intricately carved writing utensil into the mixture before signing. 

“ Numquam victa.”  She said softly, holding eye contact as she finished her name with a flourish.

He nodded stamping the contract with the Ambrogio house sigil as she pulled away.  “Semper timui.”  Master Prioli echoed. 

Before she could take the contract he cleared his throat, demanding her attention and keeping her from leaving. “The Guild will expect you to accept the contract in person, as a sign of respect.”

Wait, what? He couldn’t have told her that before she accepted it?

When she and Tacen had taken that Dwarven Merchant’s Guild contract together he’d taken the lead and dealt with all the paperwork, she’d never known just how much he’d had to deal with. Did they do that as some kind of insurance?

Avis really needed to start asking actual questions before just diving headfirst into things. 

“Pardon?”

“They orchestrated the hit. There’s someone within the Guild who handles these things. Report to his office tomorrow.” His accent was surprisingly Marcher, thick as all hell. Strange. Just how long had he been here? Or was it faked?

“They took out a hit on one of their own?” Somehow that wasn’t surprising, what was surprising was that she had to go into someone’s office and say ‘Hey! It’s me! The assassin who’s handling the hit y’all put out.’ That kind of defeated the point of being discreet. 

“You act surprised.”

She wasn’t surprised about the hit. Everyone took out hits, and nobody was exempt. She’d seen contracts from poor elves in alienages who pooled their money together to keep themselves safe, contracts from nobles who played complicated political games for fun, and contracts from those who wanted nothing more than revenge no matter the cost. 

“I have to meet with someone in person?” She asked, not caring how thick she sounded. When it came to matters of life and death it was best to be clear.

“They handle the contracts in-house, even if they contract out. It makes it easier to prepare for turnover.” 

That made sense in a way. Everyone votes to kick someone off the island and then they begin making preparations for what comes next. Choose the replacement before they actually needed one. Shitty system, but if it worked. 

“Ask for Master Cadash.”

Like the lyrium smuggling possible Inquisitor Cadash? That Cadash? Or just a member of the House of Cadash?

She’d thought they were just Carta smugglers. Funny how the world worked when the strings were being pulled by an all-powerful, somehow all-knowing Goddess. 

“Understood,” Avis said with a curt nod.

She rolled the contract, tying it with the offered red ribbon and tucking it into her belt. Without another word they parted ways, pretending they’d never met. He retreated into another back room, presumably his bedroom, and the servant returned to help her into her— Varric’s— coat. 

Mythal really did have a hand in everything. 

Originally Avis hadn’t wanted to know, but the longer she was here the more curious she got. The more she felt like it was her  right  to know. This wasn’t a game, this was her life now. Mythal wasn’t the benevolent Goddess she’d once thought her to be. She was twisted, vengeful, and manipulative. Avis was nothing but a pawn to her.

At least this time she didn’t have to construct a new cover, her old one would be just fine. She could continue to be Avina for the foreseeable future. That counted for something.

Maybe she would get a plant after all. 

The next day she woke up early and prepared her coffee as she always did, all the while planning how the meeting at the Guild would go. She’d try to avoid Vodlin, not wanting to get him involved in her line of work, and definitely avoid Varric. Avis still hadn’t quite gotten over the embarrassment from the night before. 

She didn’t work at the bathhouse until the next evening. She had one day off and she’d be spending most of it at the Guild. Fantastic. Maybe she’d treat herself to a pricey bath later. That would be nice. 

On her way out the door, she caught sight of Varric’s jacket, folded neatly on her kitchen table with her now autographed copy of  The Viper’s Nest  resting beside it. She hadn’t forgotten what he’d written or what he’d said about why he refused to write her name. 

Despite knowing it was a bad idea, he was Varric and he was likely knee-deep in Bianca shit right now, she still wanted to see him. He was funny and attractive, there was nothing wrong with just admiring him and being his friend. Plus, he was a good contact to have, he ran a spy network or  would —she wasn’t sure which it was. She could come up with any number of excuses, really.

Against her better judgment, she shoved the coat into her satchel, maybe she would find him later after all. If only to return his coat. 

The walk to the Dwarven quarter took nearly half an hour, mostly because she wanted to drag her feet and relax in the sun. Compared to the last few days they’d been having it was pleasantly warm. Not warm enough to work up a sweat—thank god because she’d worn her hair down and if she got sweaty it would stick to her neck—but warm enough to leave a pleasant feeling on her skin.

She usually tried to avoid walking around this early, it was always aggravatingly busy. Later in the day, there were fewer people, fewer possible eyes on her. But it would have been rude to keep Master Cadash waiting all day, so she forced herself to schlep through the crowd towards the intimidating building. 

She gave a small wave to Ascha as she passed by her stall, giving the dwarf a sweet smile. Her hands really did feel better after a few days of religiously applying that ass cream. Something across the square smelled deliciously sweet and Avis made a note to stop by and grab a treat for breakfast.

The doors were already open for the day, a few people loitering about the doorway. She didn’t know where the office of Master Cadash was so she’d have to ask, which meant more witnesses. Fantastic. 

Nothing obvious about an Elf asking for the guy who handles the murder contracts. That didn’t scream assassin at all. 

The contract burned a hole in her pocket, her dagger on her waist feeling like lead. She had to resist the urge to scratch at her face and check if her makeup was still on. Avis felt exposed and she hated it. Why couldn’t they just meet in a shady alley or a shack in Dark Town? Why did assassination contracts always have to be so proper? 

But she’d already accepted the contract, which meant it was the marks life or hers. If she ducked out on this her life would be forfeit. Avis valued whatever semblance of a life she had right now, even if she wasn’t in control of most of it. Plus she didn’t want to risk pissing off Mythal.

There was a reception desk and Avis was relieved to see that she wasn’t the only non-dwarva person here. At least her presence wouldn’t draw too much attention. If she stuck out it was her own fault for acting suspicious. 

“How can I help you?” The sweet, moon-faced girl behind the desk asked her. 

“I need to go to the offices of Master Cadash.”

The girl didn’t even blink, just bobbed her head, red hair flopping about as she looked over the directory in front of her. “Down the hall, take a right, then a left and it will be the very last office on your left.”

“Thank you.”

“Have a nice day.”

Her paranoia was completely unfounded. Everything was fine, this was normal. 

The office turned out to be far as shit away, the building was massive inside. The halls she had to walk down seemed to be miles long. It took her almost twenty minutes to just get to the hallway his office was down. Kirkwall would give her nice calves whether she liked it or not.

She rapped on the door twice, waiting for the muffled ‘come in’ before cracking it open. The office was quaint, or it would be if every single object in it didn’t scream money. Quaint was the wrong word to use, it wasn’t rustic in the slightest. Any idea she had of it being quaint disappeared as soon as she looked past the soft gold lighting. The room was strangely modern.

Was there a Dwarven Ikea she didn’t know about? The non-Dwarva chair looked suspiciously like a Vedbo.

“Take a seat, how may I help you?” Master Cadash was an older man with salt and peppered black hair and deep creases on his face. Though the lines were all from smiling, highlighted by the way he beamed at her. 

She didn’t answer, just sat in a too-small chair and crossed her ankles before pulling the contract out of her hidden skirt pocket. She held it out to him, head tilted with an eyebrow raised. Avis was there out of duty, not to make friends. 

He stared at the contract, green eyes fluttering for a minute before he took it from her and leaned back in his seat. One hand went to stroke his almost entirely grey beard as he untied the contract and allowed it to unroll itself, holding it up towards the light. 

“Ah, I see.” He tapped his chin thoughtfully before setting it on the desk and looking her over.

There was that stupid searching look again. 

He stamped the contract with the Merchant’s Guild motif and she expected that to be that but he continued to hold onto the contract.

“Thank you for coming.” Master Cadash said, nodding at her as he aggressively held eye contact with her.

“Of course.” Like she’d had a choice.

“I’ll give you his schedule and all the details I can afford to share.” 

Oh, well, that was nice. 

He must have noticed her puzzled look because he chuckled, “Out of professional courtesy of course.”

Oh, of course.  Professional courtesy, just give her a file on the man’s life to make her job easier. Fuck it, give her his entire schedule, make half her job practically defunct. She should take Merchant’s Guild contracts more often. The Crows made her do all her own research, only giving her the absolute bare minimum at best. More often than not the only information she got was what was in the contract. 

Did he want to hand her the knife too? Maybe hold the mark down?

It would be the  professional  thing to do, of course. 

Cadash began writing on a slip of paper and Avis found herself waiting for the punchline. This had to be a joke right? Even with the Crows things were more cloak and dagger than this. This was practically a consultation. He was one step away from offering her a glass of cucumber water.

“It goes without saying that if this piece of paper-” 

She sighed, “I don’t know you, I’ve never heard of you, I don’t even know who I am.” Yeah, yeah. The normal. There was that cloak and dagger element their meeting had been sorely lacking.

He nodded, handing over the paper with a small smile on his face. “Precisely. I took the liberty of writing it in High Antivan, which should keep most people from being able to read it, but just in case.” 

The sentiment was strange, she blinked stupidly at the paper for a minute. While it obviously was done to keep prying eyes from reading it he could have just as easily written it in a cipher or something. “Thank you.” She said. 

Avis glanced over the paper, Cadash’s High Antivan—or Earth Italian— script was polished. He had surprisingly good penmanship. Little details like that were strange. Little details reminded her that this wasn’t just a horrible fever dream. 

She hastily shoved the paper in her pocket, finding it hard to look at. Time for a subject change. “Are all Guild contracts this tidy?” 

Cadash positively beamed at that. “Things are better for the Guild—For  everyone , if they go smoothly.” 

That made sense. 

He rolled the contract back up, neatly tying the ribbon into a perfect bow. Details. “I’ll see you soon.” 

“I come to you first?” She took the vellum from his proffered hand, tucking it into her pocket without another thought about the contents. She’d finish reading it later.

“Yes. Settle with us first, bring the item and we’ll pay your cut directly, then you can return the contract to Master Prioli.” 

A single eyebrow went up at that, it sounded suspicious. But Prioli hadn’t said to watch out for anything so she’d go with it. Surely if the Guild had a habit of pulling underhanded tricks he’d have warned her, right? Unless this was a test and she was about to fail supremely. Perhaps she should ask Prioli, just to be on the safe side. 

Mythal would be pissed if she screwed up something this simple.

It did make a bit of sense since the contract asked her to retrieve something from his person. But even then, usually, that went to the contract broker and they passed it along with the finished contract. But Cadash was a contract broker, right?

“Once you’ve completed it I’ll add the Guild seal. We prefer to settle the financials in-house, easier on accounting. You understand of course.”

Sure, whatever. She was just the weapon to be wielded. Far be it from her to get in the way of the  accounting  department. 

Avis forced herself to nod. Cadash seemed genuine but a truly good liar never seemed like a liar, a truly good liar could rob you blind and you’d never be the wiser. But she’d do as she was told, not like she had any other options. 

“Have a nice day, ser.” She said, surprised that she actually meant it. 

She walked down the halls significantly less tense than she had entered them. Cadash had put her at ease, as surprising as that was considering the nature of their jobs. On her way down the main hall, someone emerged from an office on her right, exiting with such haste that they careened into her. 

It was only the strong hand wrapping around her arm and the awkward little dance she did to keep her feet under her that kept her from falling over. 

“So, we meet again,” Varric said, grinning up at her.

Given that this was now two encounters in a row starting off like this it was hard to determine which one of them was the S.O.B with piss poor timing. She’d bet it was him. Avis had never had many issues like this before, in fact, people tended to leave her in her own little bubble, rarely intruding on her space.

“Run into me again and I’ll start to think you have an ulterior motive.” 

He laughed, releasing her arm as she took a step back and casually brushed herself off, picking at a piece of lint on her skirt to avoid looking at him. 

“What brings you here today?” He asked, strolling alongside her as she headed for the exit. 

She shrugged, Varric was already suspicious of her status in Kirkwall. The Dwarf was too smart for his own good. “I had a meeting.” 

His whistle was quiet enough not to echo through the hall but loud enough to convey his feelings about her evasive answers. “Not with Vodlin again?”

A trap. He was baiting her. After her ‘getting turned around’ snafu last night he was testing her, seeing if she’d lie again. Could only use the ‘bad at directions’ excuse so many times. Vodlin’s office was on the other side of the guild headquarters, even if she was still a little turned around in the big building she knew that. 

“No, not with Vodlin.” She answered honestly. 

As they emerged from the Guild headquarters she made a beeline for the baker’s stall, eager to grab a pastry before he ran out for the day. There were some benefits to waking up early, apparently. 

The treat that caught her eye looked and smelled suspiciously like an apple fritter. Oh, she’d kill for an apple fritter right now. When she was little her dad would take her twice a week to the donut shop around the corner before school. Then later he bought her one every time he took her to a Narcotics Anonymous meeting, as an incentive. The fritters were good but not as good as a high. 

The last time she’d had an apple fritter was the last time he’d taken her to a NA meeting, right before she’d completely broken his heart.

The pastry suddenly seemed less appetizing. 

“Huh, got a sweet tooth, Sugar?” He seemed to cringe as soon as the words came out of his mouth. As bad as the line was, inwardly she thanked him for the distraction.

“Sure do,  Honey .” She said pointedly, just in case he already hadn’t realized how bad the nickname was.

Hands raised in a placating gesture he groaned, “I get it, that was a bad one.” 

“Oh, I don’t know,  Sweetie , it could be worse.” 

Varric let out a very undignified whine, head lolling back as he stared at the sky and seemed to ask why she had forsaken him. 

Avis decided to let him off easy. “You ever try something from here?” She wouldn’t waste the money if it wasn’t good, it was better to suffer with the memory of a good apple fritter than taint it with a bad one. 

“Brolan’s the best of the best.” He said, nodding enthusiastically as they finally came to a stop in front of the booth. 

That settled it. She pulled her coin purse out of her belt and pointed at the fritters. “Hello, may I ask what those are?” She used her Polite voice that back on Earth she’d reserved for difficult customers. 

“Apple fritters, Miss,”  Bingo  “Fried dough with apple chunks and a sweet glaze,” Brolan said, nodding at the brown lumps. “If you’re uncertain I’d be happy to offer you a sample.” 

Oh, that was kind. Apparently, merchants in the Dwarven quarter were  kind,  she’d had their number wrong. Everywhere else she’d been they were kind of pricks, aside from the Alienage. They were always nice in the Alienage. She still hadn’t gotten the courage to go to the Gallows even though she’d heard good things about the enchanted goods the Tranquil there sold. 

Okay, maybe it was just that average humans in Kirkwall were dicks. 

Varric ordered something while she awaited a sample and admired the food. Whatever he ordered looked ridiculously good too and Avis could picture herself coming here every day before heading into the Rose Room. She doubted she’d be here much longer, may as well indulge while she was. 

She accepted the sample and nearly cried when it hit her taste buds. “Sweet Andraste’s ass, that’s good.” Avis moaned, covering her mouth to avoid spitting food everywhere. 

She’d been working on her Thedosian swearing, hoping to fit in better with the locals. Since saying ‘Jesus Christ’ or ‘Oh my god’ didn’t exactly work out anymore. Couldn’t risk sticking out.

Varric laughed at her reaction, saying something about how he’d told her so but she was too busy having a Come To Jesus— Andraste? —moment to listen. 

After swallowing she pulled out her coin purse to order. “I’ll take four.” 

The laughs beside her turned into a strangled choke at the number.

Brolan happily placed the four treats into a bag and handed it to her, accepting the bits and a few extra she handed him to cover the food. With many exuberant thanks, she turned and headed back towards her apartment, Varric still following her. 

“Four?”

Avis didn’t need that kind of negativity in her life. Without answering she pulled a fritter out of the bag and stuffed half of it in her mouth. She’d always had a huge mouth, at least this body had one too. Otherwise, she’d be very sad. 

They walked in silence for a few minutes, both of them chowing down on the snacks they’d purchased. 

Once Avis had finished the second one she spoke up, finally answering his question. “Two, for now, two for later.” 

He shook his head, a wry smile on his face as he watched her pick crumbs off of her blouse. “How you can eat all that in one sitting is beyond me.” 

Well, no point in telling him that the only thing keeping her from ordering a dozen was his presence. She’d keep that little tidbit for herself. Neglecting to answer yet again she went to stuff her sweets into her satchel, pausing once she realized it was already stuffed full and out of room. Right, Varric’s jacket. 

She pulled it out, holding the still neatly folded fabric in one hand and smoothing out any wrinkles with the other. “Here, your jacket back.” She said.

He tilted his head at her, “Huh. Honestly, I wasn't expecting to get this back.”

Huh, so even in whatever the hell time period Thedas was going through girls stole boy's jackets. Good to know. 

“Fine then, I’ll just keep it.” She pulled her proffered hand away comically slowly, giving him a chance to hastily swipe it back. 

“Ha. Ha. You’re hilarious.” He said, taking the jacket and throwing it over his shoulder.

Avis beamed. “I think so.”

Their friendly banter was interrupted by someone calling out to Varric, when she turned she immediately realized who it was, a pit of dread forming in her stomach. Bartrand was power walking towards them, frowning at his brother for reasons she didn’t care to know about. Varric simply sighed, turning to give her an apologetic smile. 

“Look, a few times a week some of us have a game of Wicked Grace down at the Hanged Man if you want to join us sometime.” 

They’d interacted all of three times and Varric was inviting her to a game? What was he playing at? The offer was tempting, but she had a contract to fulfill. 

“Why’re you inviting me?” 

He shrugged, “Why not?”

Bartrand loomed ever closer, face turning red from annoyance at Varric’s utter indifference to his presence. 

“So, tomorrow?”

“Maybe.” 

As soon as she answered he nodded and started walking towards his brother, hands up and an amicable smile on his face as he tried to ward off the impending shit storm coming his way. 

Chapter Text

The walk back to her apartment was entirely uneventful and strangely lonely. 

Walking in the door to an empty home left an aching in her chest, she really missed Sledgehammer. Avis definitely needed some plants or something, maybe she could get Vodlin to water them for her while she was gone. 

After putting on a pot of water to boil for coffee she sat down and pulled out the contract and schedule. All this daylight left she may as well use it. 

The contract was standard, aside from the added Merchants Guild clause that stated she had to clear the contract with them before it was valid. Something that caught her eye was just how much detail the contract went into. Most contracts told who to kill and how occasionally accompanied by reasoning as to why. This one had paragraphs of reasoning. 

One Serand of House Tedic was to be killed because more than half of the Deshyr’s in the Guild Assembly didn’t like his politics. They wanted him ousted so his little brother who was far easier to manipulate could be put up in his place. It wasn’t even a simple matter of disagreement between the Kalna and the Ascendant factions. 

Serand wanted to cease all trade with Tevinter. 

Even Orzammar itself wasn’t foolish enough to do that.

The Merchants Guild had plenty of other exploits and money-making ventures, but the fact of the matter was that Tevinter was a huge source of trade income, and to shut them out would sink the entire Guild. What a fucking lunatic. Yet somehow he’d swayed a decent amount of people to his side. Not even near enough but still.

Avis preferred to avoid politics, she’d never had the brain capacity to deal with them, but even she knew that was political suicide. Was Serand trying to get himself killed?

They wanted her to take his Merchant’s Guild ring, each member of the assembly had one. Hand crafted with the marks of the guild, expensive as all hell as an indicator of their status. The members with the rings weren’t supposed to part with them no matter the circumstances, to lose it was a huge dishonor and showed that one lacked respect. 

She was supposed to take it from him as proof, whoever found his body wouldn’t notice it missing, but when she gave it back to Cadash he’d know she fulfilled the contract.

That led her to the how portion of the contract. The method.

Poison. Excellent. 

That was annoying. Shanking people was much easier, poison left things too much to chance. 

It was supposed to be untraceable, so arcanists deathroot it was. 

Then she looked at the schedule and remembered the universal truth that her life was one big cosmic joke. 

Tomorrow was Friday, and Varric had invited her to play Wicked Grace at the Hanged Man tomorrow. On Friday Serand liked to drink himself stupider at the Hanged Man.

Wonderful.

Time to get planning, since she only had a twenty-four-hour window to act. After pouring her now boiling water into her coffee press she walked away to let the grounds steep and review her kit. If she didn’t have the poison already she’d have to head to Darktown and pick some up, but it had been a while so her kit should still have it.

The clicking sound of the lock on her trunk falling open resounded through her quiet space, as nice as it was to have her own space; she missed the noise of House Ambrogio and the companionship of her Earth cat. After removing the clothes from the trunk she pressed on the edge of the lining, a rune humming to life at her touch as the false bottom unlocked to reveal her kit.

A tied bundle of cloth, her red handkerchief, several spare daggers and knives, a pair of forged brass knuckles, things for weapon maintenance, a small box filled with medical devices, and several bondage-related items. The bare minimum things Avis needed to do her job. 

She picked up the rolled bundle that was her poison case, unrolling it on the ground in front of her. As she’d assumed each little pocket had a full vial, her poisons were severely underutilized.

Sneak some poison into his drinks throughout the night and by morning he’d be dead. She’d be sure to space the doses out so he wouldn’t collapse at the Tavern or on the way back to his house. That would be far too obvious. 

Maybe she shouldn’t use Varric as a cover for being there, she could just as easily do it from the shadows and let him think she’d ditched him. It felt wrong to include him on this contract, it wasn’t his beef. Besides, knowing him he’d peg what she was doing immediately. 

The smell of coffee permeated the air and she was reminded of the apple fritters in her bag. 

She had time to think it over.

The next day she went to work, as usual, bathing nobles, trimming toenails, and shaving legs. When her time was up and Livinia decided to send her home it was time to get to actual work. 

Back at her apartment, she took her time getting everything together, the Arcanists Deathroot vial went into her hidden pocket along with the contract. Her dagger never left the inside of her skirt, even if it wouldn’t be needed for today’s hit, it was still wise to carry a weapon on the streets of Kirkwall. Especially if she was going to the Hanged Man. 

Avis stared at her coin purse, pausing and wondering just how much she was willing to lose to Varric and whoever his compatriots were. Ioris and Sehris back in Antiva were regular card sharks, they’d taught her everything they knew but she was still surprisingly bad at Thedosian cards. Wicked Grace most of all. 

Considering her history as a dealer in Vegas she should have been far better than she was. Maybe it was a disconnect between the different card styles or something, but then again she’d never been too great at playing back home either. 

However, while she couldn’t win without any divine interference—or copious amounts of cheating—she was exceptionally good at making others lose. That came with the territory of being a dealer. Avis could bluff like it was nobody’s business, despite what Varric might think. Not to mention that being trained in how to spot cheaters made her an excellent cheater herself. 

She could lie and cheat her way to victory, hell she’d built this life on that, but making her do something honestly was like pulling teeth. So, it was a good thing anyone who hung out at the Hanged Man was likely as big a cheat as her, if not bigger. 

All of the coin she had on hand ended up going into the purse. 

Then there was a knock on her door. At first, she sighed, cursing at their timing, but then she realized something.

Nobody was  supposed  to be here.

Dagger first with feather-light footsteps she approached the door, ready to pounce if whoever was on the other side turned out to be a threat. She looked through the little peephole she’d carved into the door and froze in surprise.

She unlocked the door and it swung open to reveal a bored-looking Varric waiting for her. 

“Took you long enough.”

“What are you doing here?” She asked,  stupidly . Then she froze, slung over his shoulder was a brand-spankin' new Bianca, polished wood glinting in the dwindling light of her outdoor lamp. Avis couldn’t help but stare, also stupidly.

“Came to see if you were up for cards tonight and to walk you if you were.” He pretended not to notice her gaping, though the twitching at the corners of his mouth gave him away. 

Right, she and Varric were friends of a sort. Varric looked out for his friends, even if they tended to be of the murder-y variety. He’d already walked her home once, and that had been in Hightown. It made sense that if he invited her to Lowtown he’d be walking with her to keep an eye on her. 

The sentiment made her heart twinge and her stomach flip flop oddly. Did she have a crush on Varric?

“And to hopefully get a chance to try out this new gal.” He gave her a roguish smile, hand reaching up to stroke the body of the weapon.

Oh no, she did have a crush on Varric.

For fuckssake, they’d barely even hung out.

But if he had Bianca then that meant the real deal was still relatively prominent in his life.

At least he was unavailable, that made things easier. If there was even a chance of something happening between them she wouldn’t know what to do. Likely never to show her face in Kirkwall ever again out of pure terror of messing up Mythal’s timeline. 

Varric looked at her, expectantly, and that’s when she realized she was still gaping at him like some kind of McFreaking idiot.

“If I didn’t know any better I’d say you were compensating for something,” Avis said, giving the weapon a pointed look. Humor. Deflect.

Deflect.

Deflect.

He laughed, the rumbling timbre causing her to shiver. “My height, clearly.” He replied, tilting his head back until it had to hurt to look up at her even though they could make eye contact just fine normally.

“I’ll walk several hundred paces in front of you as bait if you ask nicely.” She fluttered her eyelashes, stepping out onto the landing and closing her door behind her.

“Wouldn’t mind the view.”

Stupid flirtatious dwarf.

Her hand fumbled with the key as she tried to lock the door, swearing under her breath. 

“Aw, come on,  Slick . I’m messing with you. Don’t go all bumbling virgin on me now.” 

Slick  was definitely a better nickname than  Clumsy  or  Sugar . Not the greatest, but better. 

He’d made her fumble, it was time for payback. Avis whirled on him, eyes wide and mouth agape. “Are you-” She fumbled over the words pretending to be horribly flustered, “Calling into question my  virtue ?”

“What? No-” Varric’s eyes widened and he took a step back. Her sudden change of tone and pace had thrown him off his game.

“Are you implying that I’m some kind of harlot?”

“No, that’s-”

“There’s nothing wrong with being a virgin!” Her voice went painfully high, eyes fluttering as if she was fighting back tears. 

“Of course not-”

“I’ll have you know I’m saving myself for marriage.” Avis all but shrieked.

Fat tears slipped down her cheeks, the true piece de resistance. What could she say? She was truly a gifted actress. She’d cried crocodile tears to her family members so many times, promising that this was it, that she’d changed. Right before she raided their medicine cabinets.

Varric looked completely horrified, eyes big as saucers and mouth opening and closing. He looked like he wished for the void to swallow him whole right where he stood. Then he took another step back and very nearly tumbled down the stairs if she hadn’t reached out and snatched his arm in time. 

“I’m fucking with you Varric.” She said in a deadpan tone, staring at him and waiting for the comprehension to dawn on his face.

In the next five seconds, Varric seemed to go through all five stages of grief. 

At bargaining she lost it, doubling over and laughing so hard it hurt until  genuine  tears streamed down her cheeks. Avis hiccuped, unable to breathe from laughing so hard.

“You were crying!” He looked so confused, it only made her laugh harder. 

She tried to form a response but ended up choking on the words and being sent into a coughing fit while still laughing. At this point, she’d wake the neighbors.

“You’re an asshole,” Varric grumbled, turning and walking down the stairs with a still hiccuping Avis behind him. 

“You should have seen your face!”

“I almost died.” He said, pointing dramatically at the stairs that he had in fact almost fallen down. 

“Aw, poor baby. Lucky you that I was around to save you.” Avis nudged him in the ribs, a cheeky smile on her face.

He snorted, shaking his head in disbelief. “My hero.”

It was quiet, a breeze lazily drifting down the streets, surprisingly peaceful for Kirkwall. She imagined that would change when they got to Lowtown, it was always louder there, always busy. 

She’d never actually been to The Hanged Man, sure she’d been a million times in Dragon Age 2 but that wasn’t  real  and everything was so much larger in actuality. Kirkwall seemed so small on the computer, part of her had thought that it would continue to be small. 

Her trips to Lowtown were few and far in between, she’d gone to the alienage to buy more footwraps and buy Elven-made clothing. Avis paid extra, always extra. She liked Elven clothing, though the fabrics may not have been as luxurious as something she could buy from the other markets they had more heart. 

Varric spoke up and distracted her from her thoughts. “You any good at Wicked Grace?”

Avis mulled it over for a minute before replying. “Depends.”

“Depends?”

“On how you feel about cheating.” She replied, nonchalantly picking at a string on the sleeve of her top.

He chuckled at that, shaking his head and readjusting the crossbow on his shoulder. “You’ll fit in just fine.”

That remained to be seen.

Walking down the long flight of stairs that led to Lowtown made her stomach twist painfully. It wasn’t the contract that made her nervous, that she wasn’t worried about at all. It was hanging out with Varric that made her nervous. She’d let something slip and he’d catch her, though once he did what could he do really?

So lost in her thoughts Avis nearly tripped on a step, hissing and spitting under her breath as she caught herself. 

Stupid medieval times and their unregulated stairs. There was supposed to be a rhythm, all the stairs were supposed to be a certain distance apart to make walking effortless. Clearly, Tevinter didn’t know that when they built the place and clearly nobody cared to fix it now. 

Why would they? It was Lowtown. Despite the fact that a good majority of Kirkwalls residents lived in Lowtown, Darktown, and the Alienage they still got the shaft. Some things would never change, no matter what world or universe you were in. There’d always be big people keeping the little guys down. 

A chuckle from her companion kept her from continuing that train of thought. “Maybe I should call you Clumsy after all.” 

She scowled at that, he better not. “Not my fault these stairs are shitty.”

She didn’t even have to look to know he was looking at her strangely, another piece of the puzzle for him. Avis knew she came off a little spoiled, she couldn’t help it. Everything back in the United States was so much more streamlined than here, even the shittiest roads were better than the gravel and dirt ones here. Dirt roads back home were somehow more paved than the cobbles here.

“You don’t come to Lowtown much, do you?”

“No.”

Avis risked a glance at him, catching the quick frown that disappeared as soon as it appeared. He adjusted  Bianca —if she was even called that yet—again and took a sidestep closer to her.

“Stay close, then.”

He thought she was prissy. He had a hunch that she could defend herself but he wasn’t sure so he protected the weird prissy elf. Avis found it as amusing as she did charming.

The Hanged Man loomed before them, the sign an ominous joke about the old days when people used to be hung by their feet in the streets. She’d always thought it was named after the Tarot card until Livinia had explained the meaning to her one day. 

It hadn’t occurred to her until right then that all of Lowtown was covered in spikes. When playing the games she’d never thought too much into it, writing them off as pigeon spikes or something. But that wasn’t it at all.

Living in the modern world she was no stranger to anti-unhoused architecture, the violence that simple shapes could inflict on those down and out on their luck. She’d seen the benches with too many arms, to keep someone from getting a half-decent night's sleep in the park. The bumps under bridges and overpasses, the spikes near alcoves on high-end buildings.

Lowtown was no different. Man had always been the same. Always would be. 

No wonder Kirkwall had so many demons. 

When she was a teenager she’d watched The Grudge 3 nine times in one month, each time at the same friend's house while stoned out of her mind on their couch. Which is why she could practically recite it word for word.

When someone dies in the grip of a powerful rage... a curse is born. The curse gathers in that place of death. Those who encounter it will be consumed by its fury.

That summed up Kirkwall pretty well.

The city of chains, built on the backs of thousands and thousands of slaves.

Notorious for its crime rate and gang activity. In Kirkwall, you were three times more likely to get shanked walking down the street than anywhere else in the Free Marches.

Now she was going to go drink at a place named after hanging people and add another body to the pile.

Kirkwall needed a whole ass exorcism.

“Here we are!” Varric said, sounding far too cheery for the mood Avis had managed to put herself in.

He opened the door for her and she was immediately overwhelmed by the smell. 

Kirkwall had a general smell, usually of salt and dirt, each part of Kirkwall had its own smell on top of that. Lowtown smelled bad, but outside with the sky above it was tolerable. Inside The Hanged Man was nearly unbearable. 

Her nose wrinkled on instinct and she tried to take a step back, bumping into Varric as she did so.

He had the audacity to laugh at her and place a comforting hand on her shoulder. “You get used to it.”

“I really don’t think that’s true.”

Wanting a place to shit that didn’t require her to throw it out the window after and wanting an establishment to smell like something other than urine was apparently asking too much in Thedas. Avis was bougie as hell in Thedas, back on Earth she hadn’t even been close.

Woe to the twenty-first-century woman stuck in chamber pot hell.

Varric continued to laugh, grabbing her wrist and dragging her deeper into the building, away from the safety of the door and the small breeze of relief it brought in.  

Avis began devising a plan to make a plague mask. It would serve two purposes: to intimidate her enemies and to protect her delicate sensibilities. After picturing the long beak that was typical for plague masks she quickly scrapped the idea. One could only handle so many bird references.

At the sight of Varric, a table of people began to cheer. One of which was Ilmen, to her surprise.

“I brought a newbie, so be gentle. It’s her first time.” He held up her hand by her wrist, forcing her to wave limply at the table full of people.

“Questioning my honor again are we?” 

It was his turn to scowl at her. A devious grin slipped onto her face before she could catch it. 

“Avina!” Ilmen cheered, clambering over the dwarf beside him in an attempt to get closer to her. It took a minute but he made it, sidling up beside her and wrapping an arm around her waist. “I didn’t know you knew Varric!”

Before she could reply he babbled on. “You look so pretty! It’s so good to see you here! What are you drinking?”

She hadn’t even gotten a chance to look at the menu yet. She couldn’t very well do her job while drunk, but she could order a drink or two and sip on them all night. 

“Whatever tastes the least like piss.” She shrugged.

Ilmen nodded excitedly, brown hair flopping and blue eyes already heavy-lidded with alcohol even though it was barely after sunset. “I know just the thing!”

Before she had a chance to get her feet under her someone cleared their throat, then a hand clasped on her shoulder, hesitant but friendly. Someone who knew her then and knew to warn her before sneaking up on her. 

“Heard I missed you today at the Guild.” Vodlin’s voice grounded her immediately. 

She shrugged, turning a bit to better make conversation with him. “I was just there for a quick meeting.” 

He nodded thoughtfully, giving her a small but knowing smile. His hand stayed on her shoulder, which she was immensely thankful for. Being here made her want to vibrate out of her skin. Vodlin offered a sip of his drink to her, which she accepted.

“Ugh. Brakien Brew.” Avis mumbled, face pinching as the sour dirt beer slid down her throat. Actually, it was more like a crawl, beer had no business being that viscous. 

She knew Vodlin didn’t like the shit, but he drank it anyway. He’d been raised in a strict  Kalna  family, shitty Dwarven-made beer straight from Orzammar came with the territory. Dirt and all. Even if he did prefer fruity drinks and mulled wines. With all these other Merchant’s Guild people around it made sense he’d be drinking it to uphold his image.

“Didn’t know you knew dwarven ales,” Varric spoke up, reminding her of his presence right as she laid eyes on her target. 

Serand was sitting at the table Ilmen had escaped from, the table set up for another game of Wicked Grace. Just like that, the stakes were raised. She’d have to poison him in front of three people who  knew  her to some extent. 

All while trying to avoid Varric’s suspicions. 

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” Avis replied, never taking her eyes off Serand. He seemed to be drinking lichen ale if her eyes didn’t deceive her, a lighter brew than Brakien but with twice as much dirt flavor. If the way he was listing about was any indication he was already several pints in. 

Varric laughed, guiding her towards the table from where his hand was still on her wrist. Vodlin followed beside her, looking amused at Varric’s expense. He took great pride in being someone she trusted.

“Don’t I know it,  Lavender .” He said, immediately raising Avis’s hackles.

She  was  wearing a lavender top paired with a pale green skirt, but the way he said it implied something else. Avis didn’t wear enough lavender to have earned it as a nickname. 

Before her grandma had died she’d taught Avis a lot about plants, her garden had always been impeccable and she’d arranged floral bouquets for almost everyone she met. Just to spread the joy. But she always picked flowers that had meaning, even if the receiver didn’t know it.

“Varric, you wouldn’t happen to speak the language of the flowers would you?” It was common in Thedas, at least among nobles and especially in Orlais. She wouldn’t have pegged Varric as someone who would know it, but the look he gave her was answer enough. 

Oh who was she kidding, Varric was a writer and a romantic. Of course, he knew flowers. 

“I see,” Avis murmured, frowning to herself.

Lavender: Devotion, Distrust. 

It wasn’t hard to figure out what he meant.

Someone would be getting a thorn-apple and thistle bouquet.

Ilmen showed up then, brandishing a  bottle  of dark Llomerryn rum. “Drink up!” He said, happily shoving it into her hands. 

A bottle. An entire bottle of Rivaini rum.

“Ilmen, how much did this cost you?” She asked, but he was already climbing back into his spot at the booth. 

The one dwarven woman at the table sighed and rolled her eyes, firmly grabbing him by his hips and sitting him on her lap. Interesting. “Sit still.” She murmured to him, holding him in place. 

Ilmen positively beamed at that, leaning back and resting his head on her shoulder. “Don’t worry, ‘Vina, I’m up two rounds!” He called out to her. The woman whose lap he was on rolled her eyes and sighed, distractedly reaching up to pet his hair.

Varric chimed in with his two cents as he took a seat beside them, “I still don’t think it’s fair that you two play as a team.” 

Oh, tonight was going to be interesting. 

Vodlin took his seat by Varric and that left one other space available, between Vodlin and Serand. Did Mythal have a hand in this too? This all seemed far too convenient. Did they know? Could they know?

Avis felt impossibly tense, pulled taught like a bow at the implication that this was all somehow some big orchestrated test she was about to fail. 

She took the seat without complaint, forcing herself to relax as Vodlin slung an arm around the back of her seat. Avis really didn’t like having her back to the rest of the room, but short of asking everyone to rearrange there was nothing she could do.

“You’re just upset that we’ve been beating you.” The woman replied, smoothing down strands of her red hair as she gave Varric a pointed look.

He groaned, shaking his head dramatically. “Sure, keep telling yourself that. Maybe I’m letting you get your confidence up.” 

Her blonde friend snorted, “Of course, you are, Varric.” Vodlin’s tone was sarcastic and teasingly patronizing. Maybe they were better friends than she’d initially thought. 

Varric seemed to make a conscious effort to ignore the comment, though he looked to be a few seconds away from sticking his tongue out and blowing a raspberry. “Anyway, everyone, this is Avina.” 

The two humans in the corner of the booth were so drunk all they did was grunt in acknowledgment. Serand nodded at her and the dwarf woman gave her a tight smile. Looks like it was on Varric to carry the conversation. 

“Passed out are Aric and Arlo, twins if you couldn’t tell.” He nodded at them. Arlo managed to hold up a hand and wave at her, while Aric simply drooled on his brother's shoulder.

“This is Serand, all-around bastard. Whatever he says, don't listen.” Avis snorted at that, a sound plan considering what she knew of his politics. 

Serands reply barely counted as a reply, drunk as he was. “Fuck yer mum ya fuckin’ nughumper.”

She leaned away from him as his words slurred and spittle covered the table. “Charmed,” Avis said dryly. Varric gave her a sympathetic look as if he hadn’t done this to her.

“You know Vodlin and Ilmen, so that leaves Daria.” 

Daria gave her a skeptical once over, quirking an eyebrow at Varric. “Where’d you find this one?”

“The Rose.” She answered before Varric could, blinking sweetly. 

Vodlin snorted into his drink and Varric spluttered. “No! That’s not true. Vodlin introduced us.”

Didn’t exactly make it better but okay. He would have been better off pointing out that she worked at the Rose Room and not the place named after a vagina. 

She decided to take pity on him, gently taking the reins. “Vodlin and I are old friends. He introduced Varric and me. I work with Ilmen at the Rose Room.” Simple facts, easy as that.

“She’s the one that does the pubes!” Ilmen said, sounding far too excited about the topic. Look, she got it. She really did. Heart-shaped pubes were a novel concept. It was a fun little thing, but that didn’t need to be said over a game of cards. She’d just met these people, they didn’t need to know her as ‘that Elf girl that does the pubes’

Avis winced as Vodlin and Varric both choked and suddenly Arlo and Aric perked up. Damn him. “Yeah, yeah, and you wash the scrotes. Are we gonna play or what?” 

“The pubes?” Aric whispered to his brother, who shrugged in response but gave her a curious look. 

Avis would not go down as pube girl. She absolutely would not. She gave Varric and Vodlin puppy eyes but Varric looked like he was filing this away for blackmail later and Vodlin was red as a strawberry from trying not to laugh. Actual tears were forming in his eyes, whimpering noises escaping him as he tried to get himself under control.

Of course, Vodlin would think it was hilarious, he knew her as the Antivan Crow. A skilled assassin working for an illustrious guild of thieves and spies. Not Avina the pube girl.

“Assholes,” she grumbled under her breath at their complete lack of support, before saying louder “I’m going to get a cup for my bottle, anyone want anything?”

Vodlin, who was still shaking from the effort of restraining his giggles, held up his cup along with Daria and Serand. Perfect.

She headed for the bar, leaving the group to get it together and prepare the card game, putting in an order of Mosswine for Daria, Lichen ale for Serand, and a West Hill Brandy for her buddy Vodlin. The others were so drunk they wouldn’t notice his new drink. Varric and Daria might, but they didn’t seem the types to care. Anyone else in the tavern who did care were too far away to tell what he was drinking, and if for some reason anyone started something with him over it she’d throat punch them.

The tankard she was given for her drink was about as clean as she expected, which was not clean at all, unfortunately. 

“You need help getting this to the table?” Norah asked, looking over the assortment of drinks with a worried expression.

“Nah, I used to be a waitress.” She had been, Chili’s had been a pretty sweet gig too. 

As soon as Norah turned away she pulled the vial out of her pocket and poured a third of it into Serands cup. Let the party start. With practiced ease, she slipped her hands through the handles and smushed them together to keep them steady. 

The deathroot was bitter, but so was the Lichen so it balanced out. There were other flavorless things she could have used but they left more of a trace. So deathroot it was. Besides, Serand was already tanked, it was highly unlikely he’d noticed a difference. 

She set the drinks down in front of their respective recipients, winking at Vodlin as she gave him the brandy. 

Varric shuffled the cards, while Daria complained that he sucked at shuffling. He pointed out that her method was simply putting them all face down on the table and swirling them around, she replied that at least her way didn’t bend the cards. 

Avis tried to discreetly wipe her cup on her skirt to get some of the grime off, Varric caught her and shot her an amused look. Yeah, she was prissy, big deal. After doing her best to clean the tankard she set it on the table and poured eight ounces of the rum in. She’d kill for some coke right now, straight rum was not her jam.

She scowled at the beverage, curling her lip before giving in and taking a sip. Ugh, just as she’d thought. It was in fact rum. Rivaini rum so it wasn’t the worst possible thing, definitely beat drinking brews from Orzammar, but it simply wasn’t her thing. 

“Avina can shuffle if you two can’t,” Vodlin spoke up, reminding her that he was the one person in Thedas who knew more about her than anyone else. Everyone in Antiva she kept at an arm’s length due to their affiliation with her Guild.

Ioris, Zevran, and Sehris knew she could deal cards. But only Vodlin knew she used to be a dealer. Sure, she might have given him the impression that she may have been involved in a professional gambling ring, but that was closer to the truth than anyone knew. 

“I don’t have a problem with that,” Daria spoke up.

Some of the others let out mumbled agreements, Serand let out what might have been a string of swears but was so slurred nobody could be certain, and Arlo burped.

The deck was offered to her by Varric who watched her movements like a hawk. Either to learn from her or catch another snippet of the truth. The funny thing about that was that no matter how much he got right it still wouldn’t be the whole truth.

Pretty unlikely he’d guess she was a human who’d died and made a deal with a Goddess to be reincarnated as a shady minion. If he did somehow guess that she’d give him a bastard. 

Wicked Grace’s cards might not be the same as a standard deck of cards from home but they were similar enough to get the job done. Though they were slightly uneven from being handmade, they were of better quality than most decks she’d played with in Thedas. Wouldn’t be the worst deck she’d had to shuffle. At least they weren’t sticky.

The soft  pbftpbftpbft  of her shuffling brought back memories of Earth. She supposed this wasn’t that different from a casino environment, a little dirtier and the smell of piss was stronger but there was far less cigarette smoke and no annoying pit boss breathing down her neck. Even if the Hanged Man did smell bad at least she didn’t have to dance on a table and only had to shuffle one deck. The first casino she’d worked at hadn’t bothered to buy shufflers and they’d had a six-deck shoe. She’d only worked party pit there for a few months to get more experience before moving to a different casino.

“Huh, you do that a lot?” Daria asked, watching her movements curiously. 

Avis shrugged, staring at the wall as she held the deck out to the twins, offering for one of them to cut the deck. The twins ended up squabbling about the right place to put it—as if it mattered, it was literally just done to ward off cheaters—neither of them taking the offered card before her patience ran out so she offered it to Daria and Ilmen instead. 

The redhead decisively plucked the card off the top and attempted to take another with it, only being foiled by Avis’s firm grip on the deck. Daria gave her a wide grin, clearly not too upset about getting caught, and shoved the card back into the deck.

She dealt the cards ensuring everyone got five, though she slipped herself two, and the game started. 

Varric started telling some story about templar recruit hazing interfering with Guild business, gesticulating wildly to hide the fact that he kept shoving cards up his sleeves. He didn’t actually drink, he always had a drink but he never took more than a few tiny sips out of it. 

Arlo kept nabbing cards from the discard pile, and Aric stole from his brother's facedown cards when he wasn’t looking. 

Serand held his cards wide, spread enough for her to get a clear view of his hand, which was shitty as hell. Though he was decent at bluffing, considering the fact that he was drunk as a skunk and had been steadily ingesting poison. 

Vodlin played conservatively and had a godawful poker face, she found herself slipping cards to him just to see the confusion bloom across his face as something new suddenly appeared on the table in front of him.

Daria and Ilmen did in fact play together, she let him pick up the cards and hold them, while she made all the strategic moves. They really played up their touchy-feely, kissy-kissy routine to distract from the fact that Daria was adding cards from a different deck entirely. 

Avis had swiped the Angel of Death card while shuffling, neatly tucking it away for later. Once Vodlin started to perk up she slipped it back into the deck while withdrawing a card so he’d pull it on his turn after her. 

Apparently, Vodlin winning for once was suspicious because as soon as he drew the card and slammed it down with a cheer the others started protesting. His hand was better than anyone else’s, thanks to her careful rigging. 

While she had been subtle in her ruse Daria most of all seemed onto her, pinning Avis in place with a piercing stare. There wasn’t anything overtly hostile behind it, she was just trying to figure out what game Avis was playing.

“Next rounds on me!” Vodlin said. He swept his earnings toward himself, grinning like a kid in a candy shop. 

Making a show of rolling her shoulders and wiggling until some bones cracked she let out an exaggerated sigh. “I’ll grab ‘em, need to stretch a bit anyway.” She offered, standing up and retrieving everyone’s empty cups. Even going as far as to pick up Varric’s mostly full tankard, shooting him a knowing look before turning and heading for the bar. 

She leaned against the bar, admiring the art on the wall that looked suspiciously like Oghren as she waited for Corff to finish up with someone. 

Judging from the state of the others there would likely only be maybe two more hands before they started pittering out, which meant she should dump the rest of the poison into Serand’s drink. It was slow acting enough that it likely wouldn’t hit him until after he left the bar unless, of course, he decided to stay there all night. Then he’d end up kicking the bucket in the Hanged Man, though he likely wouldn’t be the first person to do so.

Corff came over and she put the order in, glancing around to see if she could spot any other familiar faces in the crowd. Nobody particularly caught her eye, in the corner were a few Red Iron guys, still a fledgling gang at this point. Meeran was with them, unless that was another old creep, laughing and pulling a girl onto his lap who looked at him with only mild disgust. 

Some guardsmen played Diamondback at one of the center tables, and drunks littered bench seats, slumped over and drooling. Apparently, The Hanged Man didn’t believe in overpouring. While Thedas might not know the full effects of alcoholism or of alcohol on the liver they did understand that drunks were bad. But who cared if their coin was good, right?

“Just give me a minute for the brandy.” He sighed, slipping out from behind the bar to grab the drink from the cellar. 

She took the opportunity to add the last of the poison to Serand’s drink. Or she was going to before she felt someone sidle up beside her. Her hand froze in her pocket, hand curling around the vial as she bit back a sigh. 

“You don’t have to keep getting the drinks, you know,” Varric said. 

She raised a brow at him. “May as well make myself useful. Besides, my legs were cramping. I’m not used to sitting idle.”

“I’m sure.”

Once Serand left she’d have to give Varric the slip. Avis had to tail the curmudgeon to ensure the contract was fulfilled, but slipping away from Varric would be easier said than done. He had taken the time to walk her here, it was reasonable to assume that he’d try to walk her back. Maybe Vodlin would help.

“What’s your game, Avina?” 

She stiffened at his use of her fake name, she didn’t like the way he said it. His accusation hung in the air as she curled her lip at him instead of replying immediately. 

“Game?”

“Yeah. Your game.”

Corff returned finally and passed her the last of the group's drinks and she slipped him the coin, murmuring her thanks. 

“No game, Tethras.” She lied smoothly before walking away from him and settling herself back at the table. Vodlin gave her a curious if concerned look but she shook her head and he dropped it. A second later Varric returned and sat back down.

Even though she shuffled again Varric insisted on dealing, cheeky bastard just wanted to make it easier for himself to cheat. But waiting for him to deal gave her enough time to make a request of Vodlin.

“Varric might try to walk me home, I need you to either distract him or convince him it’s not necessary.” Her lips brushed the shell of his ear, partially on accident and partially to keep anyone from looking too closely. 

She’d be willing to bet some of the others at their table could read lips. 

He nodded stiffly, looking at her out of the corner of his eye with barely hidden curiosity. No doubt he was trying to figure out who her target was, he’d find out soon enough. But she wouldn’t dare tell him outright, especially in such a public place. 

Varric finished dealing the cards and Avis spent the rest of the game cheating her ass off. Arlo and Aric folded early on, heading out with their pockets a decent amount lighter. Vodlin folded after them, loudly complaining about his garbage hand, though anyone with eyes could have known it was garbage just from looking at him. 

Serand never officially folded, but he did fall asleep with his cheek on the table before eventually sliding backward and landing on the floor in a heap. 

Ilmen fell asleep curled up on Daria’s lap, she pet his hair with one hand while viciously scowling at her cards as if that would change them. Avis was willing to bet that Daria had a decent hand, not great, but decent. 

Varric gave her more trouble. He was carefully guarding his facial expressions, relaxing with his signature casual smirk. He’d slumped in his chair a bit, one hand thrown over the back while the hand holding his cards rest on the table. There were no outward ticks she could see from him, he had an excellent poker face. 

Daria watched her and Varric face off for a minute before deciding to fold, leaving them to battle it out. If this were a movie it would be some pivotal scene, Varric would make a bet about how if he won she’d tell him everything and she’d make a bet about how if she won he’d never ask again. But this was real, so that didn’t happen.

Avis pulled the Angel of Death and tossed it down, showing her good but not great hand. Varric groaned, he did not have a good or great hand, in fact, his hand was complete garbage. Why hadn’t he folded sooner? Weird.

“Time to call it.” 

Vodlin kicked at Serand, causing the drunk to let out a slurred string of swears before ambling to his feet. He stumbled a lot, but waved off any assistance, telling Vodlin to go sit on a bronto horn when Vodlin asked if he needed help getting home. 

“I should probably head home.” She said, standing and stretching. Her shoulders cracked when she rolled them, definitely needed a hot bath later. The bottle of rum was tucked into her satchel, maybe she’d find time to drink it alone.

“I’ll walk you back.” Varric offered, sliding his cards back into their little case and tucking them safely into his coat pocket.

Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Serand heft the door open and fling himself out. Her target couldn’t walk straight right now if his life depended on it, he was just as likely to make it home as he was to take a long walk off a short pier. 

She nodded at Vodlin, hoping that was signal enough and he inclined his head at her signaling that he understood before striking up a conversation with Varric.

Bless his heart, he didn’t have a subtle bone in his body. He proceeded to fling his drink at Varric, ‘accidentally’ pouring it all over his chest and soaking him. Berry-colored liquor drops trailed down his chest hair like a spring dew. It was horrible and beautiful all at once.

Vodlin started profusely apologizing as Avis slipped towards the exit, poor Varric was stunned into complete silence staring down at himself with a disbelieving expression.

“I guess I had more to drink than I thought! I am so sorry-“ He babbled making a shooing gesture behind Varric’s back as he dabbed at the liquid in a measly attempt to clean it up.

Eventually, Varric shook his head, right as Avis got to the door he spoke up. “Just let me change real quick and I’ll walk you home, Avina.” He didn’t even look at her, but his voice pinned her to the spot as if he was turned around watching her slink towards the door. The lack of nickname showed just how on to this whole little performance he was. He knew she wouldn’t wait around but because he’d spoken up he could point it out at a later date. 

Bastard.

She didn’t reply, just gave Vodlin an exhausted look and slipped out the door. If she ran Varric wouldn’t be able to keep up with her, but running was the most suspicious thing she could do. So instead she pulled up her scarf to cover her face and head and stuck her hands in her pockets, melting into the shadows and heading in the direction of Serands home in hopes of catching up to him.

He was easy to spot, moving in shambling serpentine movements throughout the streets, occasionally stopping to loudly swear at the sky. The color had left his face since he’d left the tavern, he looked sickly. Avis was pretty sure he wouldn’t make it to the morning, but at least he’d likely make it to his house. She hadn’t even gotten a chance to use the full vial on him, but she supposed with how intoxicated he was she never would have needed to. 

Actually, it most certainly would have been overkill. She needed to go back to the basics and do more poison work again, she was getting sloppy. Or maybe it was the pressure Varric’s suspicions put on her. The entire vial would have been necessary had Serand been a Qunari, not an alcoholic dwarf.

She tailed him, frequently checking over her shoulder to make sure nobody else was doing the same to her. If she focused too much on Serand someone could easily follow her without her noticing. When they made it to the part of Hightown where most of the Merchant’s Guild kept their residences she clung to the shadows more than ever, her appearance would be a dead giveaway of suspicious activity.  

He swayed in his doorway, swearing loudly as he fumbled with his key ring and attempted to open the door. An embarrassing amount of time later the door still wasn’t open and Avis had half a mind to go offer to open it for him. 

Actually, fuck it. He’d be dead soon anyway. The bundle of information Cadash had given her stated that because of Serand’s less than stellar personality most of his household staff lived offsite, preferring to keep a distance from him even if it meant waking up earlier to walk over. Nobody would be inside to recognize her or identify her. Someone could be watching but she hadn’t noticed anyone and her scarf concealed most of her.

Yeah, fuck it.

“Allow me to help.” She said smoothly, materializing out of the shadows beside him and prying the keys not too gently from his sweaty hands.

“Fuck yer mum.”

Charming.

Avis had to wipe the sweat off the keys on her skirt, scowling at the sheer number of keys on the ring. 

“Which one is it?”

“Sod off ya filthy rabbit.” An actual glob of saliva dribbled out of his mouth as he slurred the words. He was growing weaker by the second, swaying in place and barely able to keep his eyes open. 

Truly a charming fellow.

She took a random guess and grunted when it didn’t work, three more random guesses later and she found the right key. Without saying anything to her he walked inside, leaving the door wide open as he bent over and tried to kick his shoes off in the middle of the entry hall. Could he make her job any easier? 

The hall was lavish, impeccably decorated with fine dwarven crafts, likely direct from Orzammar. Avis snorted to herself at the thought. 

It was all so dwarven, no marcher heraldry, no Orlesian drapes, just pure dwarven decor. Someone was proud of his culture.

Serand face planted after getting one boot off and chucking it across the hall then, having decided he wasn’t done with the display, he vomited. All over his  lovely  dwarven-made rug.

Avis sighed, wishing she had some rubber gloves and a breathing mask. She stepped towards him, gingerly rolling him over, touching him as little as possible because the man was completely repulsive. His breathing had slowed considerably, only a few rasping breaths a minute. 

“Why don’t ya-“ he started, at this point, his eyes weren’t even open, “Why don’t ya-“

She waited, patiently, wondering just what was so important for him to get out. Vomit dribbled down his chin, though she wasn’t worried. The poison had clearly already taken effect, at this point vomiting wouldn’t do anything aside from leaving a mess for his staff to clean up.

He tried once more, “Why don’t ya make yerself useful and suck my d-“ he didn’t get a chance to finish because at that moment he threw up again and this time he was on his back so he began to choke, eyes wide and wet with panic as he squirmed. It was to no avail though, he was too drunk to roll himself over, and even if he could Avis had placed her knee on his chest, content to watch the life leave his eyes as he choked on his own vomit.

Not wanting to stick around any longer than was necessary she bent her head and prayed, even if Serand was a disgusting person he was still a person. Avis had still taken a life that wasn’t hers to take. 

She prayed for herself and the fact that she was numb. A man had just died in a puddle of his own vomit because of her and she felt nothing. 

Avis unfurled the contract and pulled out her dagger, dragging the tip of it along her finger to sign the contract. If the target spilled no blood then it was her duty to spill her own to fulfill the contract, one way or another the Crows demanded blood. 

The ring came off his finger easily enough, his hands still sweaty.

In a completely symbolic gesture of her own, she shoved the contracts ribbon into her pocket, instead rolling up the vellum as tight as she could and sliding the ring over it to keep it sealed.

Chapter Text

When she returned home there was a letter sitting on her kitchen table that definitely hadn’t been there before. That put her on alert, her home was small so it didn’t take long for her to clear the two rooms but even after she knew nobody was in there her heart rate didn’t slow.

The letter had her name written on it  Avis Ambrogio  in a neat but blocky script. It was heavy, and she could feel something in it. Her mind raced at what it could be. Something from the Dwarven Merchant’s Guild perhaps? But that didn’t add up either because Cadash had no way of knowing that Serand was dead, let alone getting someone to bring something to her house immediately after it happened but before she got home. It looked different from Crow's correspondence so it couldn’t be that.

After a minute of staring at it, willing it to tell her its secrets, she gave up and tore into it.

Greetings,

You may know who I am, you may not. But trust that I have heard of you. I understand you might require items from my collection, as well as the means to obtain them. I do not extend this invitation to anyone—but you are not simply anyone, are you, Alaska?

She didn’t have to finish the letter to know who it was from, it was essentially the same as the letter Hawke would receive in a few years but with personal touches to show how much he knew about her. Seeing her name— her actual birth name chosen by her parents , not the name she gave the Crows—made her see red. Nobody in Thedas should know that name, Alaska didn’t exist in Thedas, not the place nor the person.

Someone had been in her house, someone knew her name.

She had half a mind to burn down the emporium and see how being reduced to nothing but ash would treat Xenon’s immortality. 

But then it hit her, someone in Thedas did know her name, someone very powerful who had sent her to retrieve artifacts before. Someone who enjoyed exerting her power over Avis, someone who knew Alaska.

Mythal wanted her to retrieve something from Xenon’s, but she hadn’t told Avis herself. She’d gone around her, and for what? What purpose could she possibly have for giving Xenon her name?

Avis wanted to leave that behind, forget who Alaska was, this new life wasn’t supposed to meld with her old one. She wanted to forget how her mom and dad had named her Alaska because that’s where they’d fallen in love. How after her mom had succumbed to cancer her dad had taken her to Alaska to scatter her mother's ashes at Portage lake. She wanted to forget how she’d gone by her middle name, Bell, from ages eight to fourteen because of the look on her dad’s face every time he said Alaska. 

Xenon had no right to use her name, no right to remind her of something she so desperately wanted to forget. He had no right to bring back ghosts. 

Her name existing here made it all too real. Made it too close. Avis and Alaska were different people. They had to be. Alaska couldn’t be a murderer, not the girl her mother had raised. Alaska couldn’t be that person, her father's heart had already been broken enough. 

Avis was that person.

She’d get this item for Mythal because it was her job because if she didn’t bad things would happen, but she would never forget this. Avis could never forgive this.

Maybe she should have gone that same night but she wasn’t sure she’d be able to stop herself from doing something impulsive if she did, so instead, she went to bed, vowing to go tomorrow after turning in her contract. Part of her hoped she saw Mythal in her dreams, she wanted so desperately to rip her a new asshole. But a bigger part of her knew nothing good would come of that.

After a long night of fitful sleep—fragmented dreams of her past life tortured her, reminding her that even if she was clean; she was a murderer now—Avis crawled out of bed. She hadn’t felt this tired in a long time. Even in Crows boot camp, the sleep deprivation training hadn’t left her feeling hollowed out like this. She was an avocado and the universe had just smacked her heart with a knife and scooped out her insides for guac. 

She dressed quickly, throwing on the nearest clothes she could find, not particularly caring if anything matched. Her smock was cream, her surcoat was pink, her sash was baby blue, and her foot wraps were yellow. She was pastel Easter incarnate and she couldn’t find it in her to care at all.

The makeup she’d applied yesterday still held up well enough on her face but it had rubbed off on her neck somewhat. It would do, not like anyone could read it anyway. 

She didn’t even bother with braiding her hair, simply pinning the sides back and letting the rest do whatever it pleased. 

While her coffee steeped she closed her eyes and focused on a little hall closet, with a purple tote box tucked up on the shelf. In her mind’s eye, she pulled the tote down, gently wiping away the dust on the lid before prying it open. Then, she stuck her head in it and screamed. When she was done the lid went back onto the box and it was shoved back onto the shelf to be dealt with another time.

Since being in Thedas she hadn’t processed anything really, not her death, not her new body, not her sobriety, not her new job as a crow, nothing. Avis had been functioning on autopilot for almost three whole years. Eventually, she was going to have a huge meltdown, she knew it was inevitable, but she kept pushing it back because she never had the time. 

The smell of coffee wafted through her home, letting her know that it was time to get a move on with her day. She downed it, not bothering to savor the flavor as she usually would, she wanted today to be over. She wanted to leave today behind, forget about it entirely. 

On her way out the door she tucked the contract into her pocket, along with her death root vial so it could be filled at Prioli’s, and the charm from Xenon. The cobbles were warm against her feet, it had been a long time since she’d ditched shoes and just worn footwraps. It was a pleasant distraction from the mess in her head.

This time she knew exactly where she was going at the Dwarven Merchant’s Guild, no need to bother with reception. She power walked through the halls, pointedly staring straight in front of her and not looking at anyone or anything in particular. Avis was on a mission.

After two knocks on Cadash’s door, it swung open, and Varric stepped out. The tail end of some conversation about the Carta reached her ears, but she acted like she hadn’t heard it.

Shit.

Internally she deflated, externally she didn’t even spare him a glance. 

“Ah! Come in, my friend.” Cadash called.

So she did, she stepped around Varric who was still rooted in place staring at her. Avis knew she was being cold, but if she did anything else right now she would  scream , she needed to hold on to this or it wouldn’t be pretty. She’d deal with the consequences later, he’d undoubtedly feel used even though he’d been the one to force friendship on her.

Not bothering to sit down, she pulled the contract out of her pocket and firmly placed it down on Cadash’s desk. He blinked at it for a second before picking it up, sliding the ring off, and holding it up to admire it in the light. 

“Well done.” He murmured, nodding appreciatively.

“Shit.” She heard Varric say, right before the door slammed itself closed as he left. Varric was smart, he’d already had most of the puzzle pieces and a hunch, and now it was confirmed for him. 

Cadash continued on like Varric had never been here as he opened the contract, glancing over where she’d smeared her blood on it. “His staff found him today, dead in a puddle of his own vomit in the entry hall.”

“I can’t say he went out with dignity.” She answered mechanically. 

He raised his eyebrow at that, giving her an expectant look. “Did he have any last words?”

Avis nodded. “Yeah, he started telling me to make myself useful and suck his dick.” 

That earned a snort and a head shake as he sat the contract down, pulling out the Guild’s stamp. “Charming as always. Nobody saw you?” 

She shook her head.

As if that mattered. Varric had seen this. Had seen their interaction, seen her with their drinks last night, seen her escape after Serand. Watched her drop off the contract with the dwarfs guild ring. 

“The other documents?”

“Kindling.” She’d used them to start the fire for her coffee that morning.

Cadash made a thoughtful noise, rubbing his beard for a minute before slamming the seal down on the paper. He handed it back to her and she tied it with the ribbon it had initially. 

He reached into his desk and pulled out a coin purse, tossing it at her. Avis caught it with ease, glancing inside to appraise the coins before tugging it closed and shoving it in her pocket.

“Pleasure.” She said, inclining her head as she turned for the door.

“It was good doing business with you, might we request you in the future?” 

She paused, Avis had fulfilled plenty of contracts. She’d done some good work, but it was rare for anyone to get a specific call back. It was an honor that he’d asked, so she replied as she should. “Yes, you may.”

He grunted in affirmation and she left.

Once she made it back outside she felt a little lighter. She stopped to grab a fritter from Brolan and was prepared to leave the Dwarven quarter in the dust before she noticed a florist's booth. 

Her conversation with Varric the night before jumped to the forefront of her mind, followed by a sense of guilt over how she’d just treated him. She’d send him an apologetic bouquet, it was the very least she could do. 

“Could I get a bouquet made and delivered?” 

The woman brightened at her question, “Of course!” 

“Would I be able to pick specific flowers?”

The woman now that she was really looking at her Avis realized was actually likely just a teen, beamed at her. “Like specific meanings?” Her blonde hair looked pretty in the sun, shimmering in a way that made her look angelic. 

Avis nodded, “Exactly.”

“Definitely! Let me grab my notepad.” 

Then the two got to brainstorming, spending nearly an hour picking out colors and flowers. They decided on a base of peach and cream flowers with accents of salmon and pink, Avis was careful not to pick anything that could be interpreted as ‘love’. This was a ‘sorry I became your friend under false pretenses and turned out to be an assassin who killed your cards buddy’ bouquet, not an admission of love bouquet.

It would be delivered to his room at The Hanged Man that night, hopefully after Avis had already hit the road. 

Mythal hadn’t given her any further instructions other than the obvious summons to Xenon’s, so once she turned in her contract she figured she was free to pick whatever contract she wanted next. Unless of course, Xenon had instructions for her, if she didn’t kill him first. The jury was still out on whether or not she’d strangle him just for the hell of it.

She’d try to drop by and let Vodlin know she was leaving, maybe after she quit her job at the Rose Room. He was her friend and he’d helped her out last night, the least she could do was warn him before she skipped town.

Next, she headed to Darktown to get this Xenon business out of the way and find out if she was needed somewhere else or if she should stay. The entrance was easy enough to find, even if she hadn’t entirely memorized the directions. The hidden door opened promptly when she presented the token and a sudden waft of surprisingly clean air smacked her in the face once the door was open. Weird, did he have an air filter or something?

His voice echoed around her, rough and disembodied as she cautiously stepped into the room. “Welcome to the Black Emporium.” She winced at the greeting. “I am Xenon the Antiquarian.” 

More like he himself was an antique. Old bastard.

“You are Ala-“

“Don’t call me that.” Avis snarled, tensing as she proceeded to stalk into the room. 

He laughed, the bastard. “Yes, I was informed that information was,” he paused to chuckle to himself again “Very  valuable indeed.” 

Creators, she wanted to strangle him. Just a quick throttle before the golem ripped her off of him, that’s all she needed. 

Then what he said fully sank in. Had Mythal used her name as a discount ? Xenon collected rare things to sell so he could make money to fund his venture of restoring his immortal body, her name could be extremely valuable to an enemy. Not that it would lead them anywhere, nobody by the name of Alaska existed here, and the information was useless. 

Alaska, the person, and the place weren’t  real here.

That realization hurt her more than she thought it would.

“I am here for a particular item for my master.” A dog retrieving a bone. 

He made a grumbling noise, drawn out until it became uncomfortably long and ended in a wheeze. “Yes, the payment has been taken care of already.” 

Good, because she would have been even more pissed if she had to pay an extortionate amount for some trinket Flemythal wanted. 

“URCHIN!” Xenon’s sudden shout made her twitch in surprise. His ugly frail little body didn’t seem capable of making that noise. He reminded her of the chocolate lady from SpongeBob, only with more arms. “RETRIEVE THE PACKAGE.”

The small child did so, disappearing into a wall of tapestries and emerging with a small wooden box. The box was intricately carved with Dalish imagery, and just from looking at it, Avis knew it was old. The wood was soft in her hands, worn down over the years. 

It thrummed with an ancient warmth, something hissing in the back of her mind that this had been held by those older than she could fathom. 

“It is there.” The antiquarian hissed out.

She ignored him, flipping the latch and opening the lid with great care. She blinked at the item inside. An old chisel of some sort, extremely old. It looked to be hand-carved itself, and it coursed with magic. Fluid, pulsating energy emanated from the chisel. It felt alive.

She didn’t have to be Dalish to know what it was, even if it had never been shown in the game the knowledge of the artifact pulsed within her.

“An Arulin’holm.” Avis murmured to herself.

“There is a note, directions, for you.” His voice made her twitch again, it was hard not to outright jump but she refused to show that weakness.

The urchin child came back, tugging on her skirt with disdain written on his features as he handed her the paper. Such a grumpy child. What had she ever done to him? Did nobody in Thedas believe in the customer service voice?

This was stolen. Return it to the Sabrae clan.

Son of a bitch. 

She’d always wondered why Keeper Marethari had owed Asha’Bellanar, now it was clear to her. Avis wouldn’t put it past Flemythal to have orchestrated the thieving herself, just to be hailed a hero when it was returned. She really was everywhere.

“You may leave now unless you should choose to browse.” He sounded mocking, Avis still wanted to strangle him.

Give him any of her coin? Fuck that. 

“No.” She said firmly before turning in her heel and leaving the emporium. 

The Sabrae clan was likely in Ferelden somewhere, so that meant taking a contract in Ferelden. Time for her to head back to Prioli and take another contract. 

The walk to the Hightown Apothecary was long, but Avis took the time to work on letting go of some of her earlier anger. It helped, marginally. It was useless information, something that she shouldn’t even be mad about, but no one ever said emotions were rational.

The sun still sat high in the sky, a testament to how early she’d gotten up today. The streets were bright and bustling, the air was warm and there was a gentle breeze sweeping through the streets. It was a lovely day and that just made her feel worse.

The bell on the apothecary door let out a soft ding as she entered, the near-overwhelming scent of herbs immediately threatened to overpower her senses. The building was dark, with dust motes floating through the air and bowls of dried things sitting about on tables. 

“Hello, dear,” the elderly human woman behind the counter said with a frail smile, “may I help you?” Behind her were a set of thick drapes, and behind them was the hidden door to Prioli’s office.

Avis nodded, stepping over to the counter with a deceptively casual gait. “Yes, I was wondering if you have any spider fangs in stock?”

Something twitched on the woman’s face, something dark, but as soon as it appeared it was gone and she was back to being a sweet old lady. “I’m afraid we’re out of stock until Thursday, my dear.” 

“Pity, I was in desperate need of them.” She replied, completing the verbal handshake.

The woman bobbed her head in understanding and made a clucking noise with her tongue, the boy from a few days before emerged from the drapes behind her. He beckoned her to the back, following hot on her heels as she made her way further into the building.

Before she kneeled on the ground she pulled out her empty vial of deathroot extract, passing it to the boy to be refilled.

Things went much the same as they had last time, the serving boy hovered in the background, Prioli made a mess of the tea ritual, and Avis tried not to snort. 

“I heard you made quite the impression.” Master Prioli said, sounding bored as he fingered a biscuit. He’d been holding it for several minutes while they sipped their tea, seemingly unable to decide if he wanted to eat it or not. 

She nodded, keeping her head bowed ever so slightly to show respect. “Yes, Ser Cadash asked if they may request my services once more in the future.” She’d come a long way from replying to everything with ‘worm’.

He tapped his chin thoughtfully, drawing attention to the lone untrimmed whisker on it, Avis’s eye twitched. 

“Your performance has been noted.” 

Then tea time was over and it was time she return her previous contract. She was given several new options, the Anderfels, Antiva, Ansburg, Orlais, and Tevinter, it was quite the spread. Only one was in Ferelden. A contract on the life of a Templar, how juicy. 

For once she took her time and read the contract before accepting it, while Mythal hadn’t really given her a choice she still needed to check if there were any outstanding issues she’d have to handle. She was pretty tired of constantly being thrown for a loop because she was too stubborn to read.

The Crows didn’t accept contracts for female members of the Chantry. Of course, that didn’t mean they couldn’t kill them, just that they couldn’t accept payment for it. Though not a religious organization anymore, the Crows still paid respects to their heritage in their own twisted way.

Male members of the clergy weren’t off limits, because of the lack of power they held and that meant that Templars weren’t off limits. Kinda fucked up but she had no love for the Chantry or its blades.

Thankfully it seemed she wouldn’t be dealing with a Templar in a circle, the Templar in question had finally picked on the wrong mage and gotten himself kicked out. The girl's family were nobles and upon getting a smuggled letter from their daughter saying that said Templar had assaulted her they contacted the circle and demanded justice. Justice had apparently been sending him somewhere else, to a chantry in Gwaren. Whatever happened to hanging them in the streets? Or was that reserved only for those who weren’t considered real people?

The girl had been twelve.

Guillotine.

Guillotine for him.

How many other young mages had he hurt until he finally picked the wrong one?

Her parents were upset at the turnout and put a contract on his head, what they wanted wasn’t kind. His death wouldn’t be merciful in the slightest. 

She put her bid in for it and after a moment of deliberation Prioli accepted.

Time for her to go quit her job at the Rose Room and find a ship to take her to Gwaren. Perhaps she’d catch a glimpse of Teryn Loghain while she was there, see the traitor Teryn while he was still considered a hero. Wouldn’t be much longer until he fell from grace. It was 9:28 Drakonis—March—which meant the Blight was just around the corner.

Time was a strange thing when she’d first appeared in Thedas King Maric still sat on the throne, and now that he was missing she knew where he was. She knew what Loghain would eventually do, she knew what would happen to King Cailan, she knew everything. But could she do anything about it? No.

So, she’d go to Gwaren and kill a Templar, maybe gawk at the still-mourning Loghain before he went completely off the deep end. 

After leaving the office in the dust she headed for the Rose Room to formally resign. Livinia and Ilmen weren’t in when she got there, so she was unable to say goodbye to them. Madame Delaney was kind and understanding as Avis cited family issues as being her reason for leaving. She asked Avis if she knew of anyone capable of filling her position, Avis, unfortunately, didn’t but she did suggest Delaney start purchasing some supplies from Ascha. 

It was an amicable parting that left a strange hole in her chest. 

Next was ship passage and saying goodbye to Vodlin, she’d speak to Vodlin first. 

Back to the Dwarven Quarter, it was then.

Upon reaching her destination he immediately sat her down in his office and instructed a servant to get them some food. He was understandably upset, but he knew why she had to go.

She told him where she was headed and bless him, he immediately tried to help her out. “Do you have passage?”

“No, I was planning on figuring that out after we spoke.”

He shook his head at her, tsking as he did so. “I’ll get a ship roster for you.” Another servant came and listened to his directions before running off. 

“So, Ferelden?”

She curled up in her chair and nodded, clutching the mug of warm spiced cider he’d made for them. “Already picked up a contract.” 

He hummed to himself, sipping his drink as he got lost in thought. “Is that-“ he paused, seeming unsure of whether or not he should ask. 

“Just ask. I’ll answer if I can.”

“Is the contract in Gwaren? Or is it just your preferred port?” 

Avis chewed on her lip, there wasn’t technically anything wrong with telling him where the contract was, technically as long as it wouldn’t interfere with the contract she could tell him almost anything. The one thing she couldn’t tell him was who took out the contract.

The Crows never ratted.

“It’s in Gwaren.” 

“That’s-ah, good?” He sounded uncomfortable, which made plenty of sense. What do you say to someone telling you that they’re going to a specific place to kill someone? “Less travel if you can just sail directly there, right?”

“You don’t have to talk about it, Vodlin.” 

The blonde nodded in relief, taking a deep swing of his drink. The servant came in with their food, spreading the meal across Vodlin’s desk before turning heel and scurrying out of the room. 

Avis’s eyes followed them out of the room. Some young dwarf with a casteless brand, likely come to the surface for a better life. She wondered if serving in the Dwarven Merchant’s Guild  was a better life.

They ate in silence for a few minutes before Avis felt suffocated and had to speak up.

“Vodlin, about what happened with Varric.” She started, only to be waved off by her friend.

“Don’t worry about it, I paid for his shirt to be cleaned and that was that.”

That hadn’t been her point. “Still, it wasn’t right of me to ask that of you. You’re a civilian, I didn’t need to get you involved.”

He squirmed uncomfortably at that, refusing to meet her eyes and that’s when she knew something was amiss. “There was a vote, a quiet one, done in the utmost secrecy.” He started to explain.

Avis wasn’t sure she wanted to hear what he had to say. Vodlin had never seemed so ashamed, so withheld. 

Vodlin changed directions after seeing the look on her face. “Serand wasn’t popular.” 

Yeah, no shit.

“I don’t mourn him. What happened, happened. It was for the best of the Guild.” He set his fork down and fiddled with his hands, now pointedly staring at the wall to avoid looking her in the eye.

Did it change her opinion of him now that she knew he’d voted to have a man killed? Not in the slightest, she killed people for a living. She’d killed the guy he voted to kill. Those in glass houses right?

“I don’t think any less of you, and even if I did, how hypocritical would that be of me?” She said softly, reaching across the table to stop him from picking his cuticles to death.

He gave her a long look before deflating entirely. “That’s different, I had a choice.” 

Avis shook her head, she’d had a choice too. She could have asked more questions, she could have died quietly and never come to Thedas. Part of her still thought that she should have just died. 

“So did I. I sought the Crows out.” 

He held her hand, giving her a firm squeeze as he finally met her eyes. “Does it get better? Knowing that you took part in someone’s death?” 

That was a question she still didn’t know the answer to. It didn’t get better, but you did get more numb to it. Could that be called the same as it getting better? 

“I still haven’t figured that out.” She replied. She played with his guild ring, fingering the delicate filigree. The texture kept her grounded, kept her from drifting too far into dark thoughts.

“I don’t think he blames you.”

She blinked, eyes widening in confusion at his words.

“Varric, I don’t know if he voted, Bartrand usually handles the official business. But Varric gets it, I think.” 

“I see.” 

“You two are friends.” 

Avis gave him a small smile. “Perhaps, but you’re still my favorite dwarf.”

He laughed at that and shook his head, patting her hand as he pulled away to return to eating and drinking. 

The other servant came in after that, presenting them with a ship roster to look over while they finished their meal. 

There was a ship heading directly to Gwaren, a merchant ship but a ship nonetheless, Avis would head to the docks after they ate and barter her way onto it. 

They continued to chat over their meal, slinging jokes back and forth and sharing stories to catch up on each other’s lives. When it came time for Avis to head out she paused in the doorway.

“Hey, Vodlin?”

He looked up from the stack of papers he’d returned to. “Yes?”

“My birth name is Alaska.” She spoke, her voice so soft he barely heard it.

His face softened considerably, “That’s a pretty name.” 

She nodded and gave him a timid smile before heading out the door. Her heart felt lighter than it had in a long time.

Someone knew. Alaska was real. Alaska existed. In this world and the previous. She was real, not just a forgotten anecdote on the last page of the newspaper. She’d existed.

That night when the ship left port Avis was curled up in the cargo hold with several other hitchhikers. A small elven woman was curled up beside her, her young sons draped across both their laps as they all huddled under the fur Avis had brought. When she’d first come to Thedas ships made her sick, now the rolling of the waves easily lulled her into a dreamless sleep. 

Back in Kirkwall, a bouquet was delivered to a room on the second floor of The Hanged Man.

Peach and Champagne colored flowers in a delicate arrangement with a handwritten card attached. Varric didn’t have to reference the cheat sheet on the back of the card to know what the flowers meant. 

Snapdragon - Deception

Geranium - Stupidity, Folly

Peony - Bashful, Compassion, Shame

Gladiolus - Sincerity

Cyclamen - Resignation, Goodbye

His lips twitched into a smile as he read the card.

Thanks for letting me borrow your jacket. -Avis Of House Ambrogio, of the Antivan Crows

Chapter Text

Finding lodging in Gwaren was harder than she’d expected it to be, especially when she slunk into town in the middle of the night. Too much coin spent would be suspicious—Gwaren did attract a lot of travelers due to being a port town, yet being an Elf meant that spending too much coin would always be suspicious—but she desperately wanted to stay somewhere where she’d have access to a bath when she wanted it. So the Inn on the edge of the Alienage it was. While not in the Alienage proper, its clientele was mostly Elven, aside from the travelers who looked to save some extra money. The bath itself did cost a premium, even more so to get the fresh bath water and not the bathwater that was lukewarm and had already been used. Avis considered this to be an acceptable use of her coin; cleanliness was always worth a premium.

This would be a quick enough job that she didn’t need to find permanent housing like in Kirkwall; she’d kill the Templar and find the Sabrae clan on her way to Denerim to turn the contract back in. After that, it was anyone’s guess as to what she’d be doing. Perhaps she’d been spoiled by the finer things for too long, but she didn’t particularly care for Fereldan. Antiva, despite it all, well and truly held her heart.

The gentle rolling heat, the scent of spices in the air in the downtown markets, the worn cobbled streets, and frequent drizzles of misty rain. The feeling of loss panged her heart so aggressively for a second that she had to stop and grasp the edge of the tub she’d sank into.

Despite her surprising bout of homesickness—she was not about to unpack the longing for a country in a fantasy world she was dropped into three years ago—she was pleasantly surprised by how Gwaren held up to other Fereldan towns. It did reek of fish, and the people were gruff, but they were politely stinky and a little rude. It felt like a homey place, especially with the Elves freely mingling with the humans. The Alienage was more of a neighborhood than a closed-off encampment, like she knew the one in Denerim to be.

On her first true day in town, she saw Teryn Loghain looking haggard while riding a horse through the city. King Maric had been gone for over two years now, meaning Loghain was likely just ending the search for his longtime best friend. The defeat was as clear as day on his face; she could imagine his guilt was eating him alive.

Anora and Cailan had been married for a few years now.

Maric was locked in Veschebel in Antiva, or maybe he’d gone to Yavanna by then. She wasn’t clear on the timelines; she’d barely bothered to read the comics.

That meant things were progressing steadily. The world was continuing to move as it should, regardless of her presence in it.

She hung around the inn for a few days, getting a sense of the Alienage and asking about possible Dalish sightings before venturing into the city of Gwaren itself. By day three, she’d spotted her mark. By day seven, she’d memorized his movements. It was pitifully easy, even if his stupid Templar armor did mirror the armor of every other Templar in Gwaren.

Her target was easy enough to find; he spent every waking moment prowling around the chantry grounds like a caged animal. Someone wasn’t taking his relocation well, poor baby.

Knight-Corporal Warren Holden had a distinct way of moving, like he was better than everyone around him, and those in front of him were no better than the shit under his boot. People parted for him, not out of respect but out of terror. Clearly, the man had a less than favorable reputation, even more so than what she knew.

Finding a location to carry out her contract turned out to be far more difficult than she could have anticipated. It needed to be out of the way, somewhere that his compatriots wouldn’t find him when they went searching. Avis needed somewhere she could work. Gwaren was a small town, closely packed around the docks that were the source of so many people's livelihoods. Anything in town would simply not work, not unless it was a large building with thick stone walls, and the few of those that existed were firmly in use.

All Crows were taught how to torture people; their first lessons in it were their own tortures. After that, it was the rudimentary basics of how to torture people, usually while shadowing their mentor.

Tacen had once handed her the ropes on a contract they’d taken on some skeezy ship captain who’d accepted the wrong cargo. He had been allowed to live, but after what they’d done to him, she had to wonder if someone could really be aliveafter that. Her own trials often still kept her up at night, and she’d expected those and been given a hint of warning that they’d one day come.

She’d never had to torture someone on her own; Tacen had always been there, guiding her with a firm hand.

Avis preferred to retreat in on herself to protect the little sense of self she had when carrying out contracts; Tacen liked to be present. While torturing the captain, he had never taken his eyes off the man, not once. Not even when Avis had taken the reins and he could have simply observed her; no, he watched it all. Perhaps that was his own way of preserving his sense of self, looking them in the eyes and remaining painfully aware of what he was doing to another person. Or perhaps he simply did not feel at all.

She’d have to stomach it and learn to do it on her own without her former mentor there to help her along. The Templar deserved it; she’d managed to snag a file on the complaints lodged against him. They were numerous, and yet the only one he’d gotten in ‘trouble’ for was the noble girl.

Disgusting.

But just because he may have deserved it didn’t make her feel any better about torturing and killing a man. Simply because he was repulsive did not mean that Avis was.

The location she picked turned out to be an abandoned home in the forest just outside of the city, having been abandoned due to being outside the relative safety of Gwaren’s walls. There was a small shed in the backyard—possibly a tiny barn in actuality. Its proximity to the Brecillian Forest and the barbarian tribes made it an undesirable location. Perfect for her needs.

Undesirable meant nobody would come snooping around. It meant she could make him scream and nobody would come to investigate. She felt sick.

Grabbing him was easy enough, preying on his impulses and guiding him away from the safety of his post. A crying, helpless little elven girl in an alley in need of an escort home? Big, brave Templar to the rescue.

Even once they left the city walls with him making a leery comment about how such a sweet little thing shouldn’t be all alone out there, he didn’t get suspicious. Maybe he thought she was just making things easier for him, or maybe his pea brain didn’t recognize that this was suspicious as all hell. Either way, he was way too into wiping her fake tears away and cooing at her like she was an infant.

Avis would definitely need a bath when they were done. Just being near him made her feel icky. She wanted to break his finger every time he stopped her to cup her face, even going so far as to almost tenderly press his gauntleted thumb into her mouth under the guise of wiping a tear away.

Fucker. Her squeamishness about what was to happen started to fade, but she almost clung to it, afraid of what it would mean should she lose it completely.

She pretended to open ‘her door’, thanking him profusely through sniffles for walking her home. Such a brave and gallant man. Then she tried to shut the door on him, and he stuck his foot in the doorway before she could. Suddenly he wasn’t so gallant—not that he ever really had been—and suddenly he was demanding payment for walking her home. Suddenly, he was saying that if she didn’t thank him, she’d regret it.

It was easy enough for her to grab a fistful of her knockout powder—dried blood lotus, ground madcap bulbs, along with stabilizing agents—and shove it through the opening of his helmet. Avis only took three steps back before he charged at her and promptly fell face-first on the floor.

To work then.

She could only hope that her prayers for her soul would still be heard when she finished.

After completing her contract with the Templar, she headed for Denerim, stopping in every town on the way to ask if anyone had seen a Dalish clan. It wasn’t until she ran into a chatty merchant on the road that she finally got a good lead. 

“Yes, Messere, I have! Just traded with them a few days ago; a bit a ways up the road, there’s a side path that leads part way to their camp. It’s off the path, but when you get close, they’ll find you.” Bodahn Feddic was just as loud and excitable as he had been in the games. From what she could gather, he was newly exiled from Orzammar with his son, having been on the surface for less than a full year.

Soon he’d be traveling with the Warden. Soon she’d likely meet a possible Warden.

“Thank you. That’s much appreciated. Do you know if they are leaving soon?"

He shook his head. “I don’t rightly know, but they looked mighty settled."

Sandal hopped off the wagon, walking over to join their conversation and immediately melting her heart.

“This is my boy! If you ever need anything enchanted, he’s one of the  best. I swear it!" Bodahn clapped Sandal on the back, beaming at his son while Sandal simply gave him a pleasant smile. 

“Say hello to the pretty lady, Sandal."

The boy turned to blink at her, bright blue eyes boring into her face. “Hello.” 

Come to think of it, she could stand to have some things enchanted, and she could stand to pick up more camping gear. She’d been abstaining from buying new things out of sheer spite for how shitty most reputable merchants were.

Bodhan walked away for a few minutes to retrieve some items she might be interested in from the back of the cart, leaving his son and her alone.

“Alaska is a pretty name.” Sandal gave her a tiny smile, his eyes wide and shining.

Two people knew she existed. Vodlin and now Sandal, though Sandal had done that thing where he just knew things while she’d actually told Vodlin. 

Avis almost cried. “My parents thought so too.” She spoke, her voice softer than it had been in years.

Bodhan came back around and spotted the teary-eyed Elf, worry taking over his fatherly features. “Oh, no! Did the boy say something to upset you?” He shot Sandal a confused look as he hovered around Avis, hands fluttering uselessly as he tried to find out how to comfort her. 

She shook her head and fiercely swiped at her eyes. “No, not at all. You have a very wise boy.” She said it affectionately, giving them both a watery smile. Perhaps this was her sign that her soul wasn’t on the line as much as she’d worried; if Sandal could see the Alaska in her, then perhaps she’d be alright.

When they were done dealing, they parted ways, and Avis felt a hundred times better about her goal. It took a few hours, but she found the path he mentioned and promptly walked halfway down it before picking a random direction and wandering into the forest.

Maybe it was her Elfy senses, but she seemed to have chosen the right direction; there was trampled brush and signs of life other than just animal life in the woods. Of course, that could be anything. She’d been warned of the Brecillian forest, seemingly a landscape from a storybook—one of horrors at least. The trees moved; you should not trust a single sound you heard; if you looked at something wrong, it might animate and eat you. There were werewolves—not yet; she knew that for a fact—the trees liked to speak in riddles, and the animals weren’t quite right.

“Dalish, come get y'all Arulin’holm.” She mumbled to herself, snickering at the meme usage. Speaking out loud helped dispel the deep sense of unease the forest caused to sink into her bones. Making her own noise and taking up some kind of space helped push the monsters away from the corners of her vision.

This is where she was at this point in her life. One day she was torturing and killing a man, and the next she was misquoting vines in the forest to avoid seeing shadows while attempting to return an ancient artifact. 

What a life she lived!

Hopefully, she wouldn’t find the Hat Man here. She’d take a Sylvan or werewolf over him any day.

“Yo! Dalish! I have something I think you might want.” She called enticingly into the brush, deciding to stand still for a few moments in hopes of someone coming across her. Someone, please, not something.

It didn’t take long for two Dalish hunters to step out of the undergrowth, one with a bow in hand and the other with daggers. They regarded her with suspicion, as they rightly should considering the fact that she was wandering in their territory. Just because they shared an ear shape didn’t mean they should automatically trust her.

“What brings you here, flat ear?” The taller of the two spoke up, the redhead with the Dirtha’men Vallaslin and bow.

Ouch, okay. unnecessary, but whatever. No skin off her back. She wasn’t even a real elf.

“I need to speak with your keeper about something important."

“You speak, yet you say nothing.” Dagger dude spoke up, June’s vallaslin twisting as he sneered.

Time to bring out the big guns. “I need to speak with Keeper Marethari Talas of Clan Sabrae in regards to something of yours that was stolen.” Yeah, she knew what clan they were from and what their keeper's name was. Not so dumb now, was she? “Was that saying enough?” Avis had to throw in the snide comment; she couldn’t resist.

The hunters regarded her for a minute, both of them looking annoyed as all hell that she’d even spoken, then they shared a look before the bow-toting guy turned and stomped away.

“Come.” Spoke the June Vallaslin one again, turning to the side and gesturing for her to follow.

She followed them. The group headed roughly in the direction she had been wandering, though they were definitely heading a bit further west than she had been. Neither spoke to her more or even looked at her to make sure she was keeping up. That was fine; Avis didn’t need to be coddled.

When the trees broke and showed a clearing, she was momentarily surprised at how large their camp was. Bigger than the one in Dragon Age 2, more similar to the one in Origins. A little less spread out, everything was nearly on top of everything else, but she supposed that made it easier to keep watch.

Avis was perp walked to the fire where they sat her down, June Vallaslin sticking around to watch over her, hand on the dagger he’d tucked into his belt. She assumed that the redhead Dirtha’men guy went to find the Keeper.

Those milling about paused to look at her, eyes trailing over the tattoos exposed by her lack of makeup and light traveling clothes. They weren’t Dalish tattoos, and City Elves typically didn’t have tattoos. She wondered how many of them knew what her face tattoo meant. More than a few of them fixated on the shimmering gold in her ears and nose. She didn’t exactly scream Ferelden; they tended to be more muted, especially the Elves.

“Andaran Atish’an, traveler. I am Keeper Marethari.” A woman’s voice spoke up from her left. Avis turned to look for the source, and there was Marethari, staring at her with well-hidden curiosity and obvious suspicion. “You are a long way from home.” She nodded toward Avis’s face.

“Ara Seranna-ma.” Yeah, she spoke some Elvhen too; she’d taken bow lessons from a very eager, crazy-eyed Dalish guy back in Antiva. “I didn’t intend to intrude, but it was of the utmost importance that I find you." She stood up from her seat, approaching the Keeper with measured steps. Dagger guy trailed behind her, hot on her heels and ready to throw down.

The guy with the bow stood behind the Keeper, close enough to defend her if need be, yet not so close that he was in her asshole. He was still too close to be of any use with a bow at this range, but that was his problem. He was scowling at Avis still, though even his scowl couldn’t hide his surprise at her use of Elvhen.

“My name is Avis. Something was stolen from you recently, yes?” 

Everyone around her stiffened at that; in fact, she heard a few weapons being drawn. She understood their caution and suspicion, but if her goal was to steal more things, then she was going about it the entirely wrong way. It was clear from their reactions that they all knew exactly what she was talking about.

The Keepers face gave nothing away; she merely inclined her head as an indication for Avis to continue.

Avis sank to her knees, ignoring how everyone jumped as she slipped her bag over her shoulder. She started to dig around in search of the little box she’d wrapped in between all of her clothing for safekeeping.

“I owed a favor to Asha’Bellanar,” several favors actually, not that they needed to know that. “She asked me to return this to you."

She pulled out the box and held it up, offering it to the Keeper. 

Keeper Marethari took a calculated step towards her, guarded eyes falling to the box. Her expression softened as she reached out and ghosted her fingers over the box. “How?” She asked.

“I don’t know who stole it, but I found it in Kirkwall in the hands of a collector.”

The Keeper nodded and took the box from her with trembling hands. She opened the lid with all the care of a mother caressing her child and let out a shaky breath as she saw the Arulin’holm inside resting intact. 

A woman stepped away from the fire, scurrying to the side of the keeper. From the simplified Mythal Vallaslin on her face, she knew it was Merrill.

The Vallaslin didn’t fit with anyone else’s in the clan; it was a unique design. Unique to the clans from Nevarra. Vallaslin varied from place to place, though they all held the same concepts.

Merrill looked teary-eyed at the box. “Is that the Arulin’holm, Keeper?"

Marethari nodded, tracing her fingers over the designs on the chisel handle. “Vin.”

Even knowing what Avis knew about Dalish history, she couldn’t help but feel for them; this was something they’d had in their clan since the fall of Arlathan, and they’d thought it was gone. Someone had stolen one of the last remaining pieces of their culture—someone who quite possibly had stolen it just to return it in order to seem like a hero.

Avis remained kneeling on the floor. It just felt appropriate.

Merrill’s eyes bore into her, looking at her with wide-eyed awe even though she hadn’t really done anything. Flemythal had practically strong-armed her into it, even though Avis may have done it on her own if given the chance.

May have.

In a few years, one of them might become the Warden or die. Then the clan would be at Sundermount waiting for Asha’Bellanar, Merrill would end up with Hawke, Marethari would die, and the rest of the clan may or may not die as well.

It was strange meeting people and knowing how their lives would play out. Knowing the end results without knowing how they’d get there.

“Keeper Marethari?” The Dirtha’men Vallaslin guy asked, having relaxed his hold on his bow as he realized that Avis genuinely meant no harm.

“Return this to the Aravel, please, Deryn.” She spoke, turning slightly to hand the box over to bow-guy—Deryn.

He nodded, tenderly taking the box from her and turning to trot towards the land ship. Marethari paused for a long minute, taking in several deep breaths before turning back to Avis.

“Would you join us around our campfire tonight?"

“I would be honored, ma serannas."

The man with June Vallaslin showed her around the camp. The man almost resembled Fenris, with white hair and a strong jaw, but unlike Fenris would have, he softened almost immediately as he realized she was no threat. His features were oddly familiar, and something nags at the back of her mind. He introduces himself as Jonah, excitedly telling her about their camp and their travels, about his sister, and about her hunting skills.

That night, as they sat around the fire, she came face to face with a very familiar face, one that caused an immediate headache.

Sitting beside Jonah is Accalia. Her Warden. 

Accalia. 

Accalia, with white hair and a stubborn set to her brows, Accalia who glares daggers at the flat ear invading their home. Sweet, dear, stubborn Acadia who would fall head over heels in love with Alastair only to make the painful—and deliciously angsty—choice to let their love go and put him on the throne, for the good of Fereldan. Her first ever Warden, the first to join her along on the journey through Dragon Age.

She’s had many wardens over the years, one from every background, in fact. But it’s Accalia Mahariel who sits in front of her. Does this mean something? Will she become the Warden? 

As she stares at the two across from her, she realizes something. Jonah looks familiar because he’s a near-mirrored image of Accalia. They’re twins. Oh god, they’re twins.

She’d never made another Mahariel, let alone a male one. It was only ever Accalia. She had made a male Cousland and a male Aeducan, but never a Mahariel. She’d never given Accalia siblings, even in the deepest recesses of her own headcanons. What does that mean for the world? What does it mean that a character of her creation sat in front of her? Living, breathing, and with family to boot

She did stay—for three days, in fact.

For three days, Avis tried to puzzle out what it meant for the twins to exist. She embedded herself in the clan, sneakily trying to figure out why the universe had done this. She hunted alongside their hunters, meaning she shadowed Accalia, who frequently lamented about how heavy-footed she was. Jonah gave her lessons on dual-wielding and proper skirmish fighting, something she desperately needed to learn.

Jonah was a mage, meaning their clan had at least two mages other than the keeper in it, which went directly against the BioWare canon, but Avis had always thought that was horseshit anyway. Despite being a mage, he’d been beaten into shape when it came to fighting with melee weapons by Accalia—classic Accalia. Now it was his turn to beat someone else into shape.

She learned a lot from them. Yet the one thing she sought to learn, she didn’t. 

In the end, she was no closer to knowing why the universe had done this. If Accalia was to be the Warden, then that meant Avis knew every choice she’d make. She knew exactly what the world state was to be. She’d kept detailed notes on all of her Wardens should she ever want to revisit them or simply gush to a friend. When she came to Thedas, she’d restarted her notes in case her memories ever began to fade, which meant that she was acutely aware of how wrong this all was.

Technically, all the Wardens always existed; it was merely a matter of who Duncan got to first. That was what decided who would survive. There was no guarantee it would be Accalia, but if Avis was here with her now, that had to mean something, right?

So lost in her thoughts, she barely managed to dodge the strike Jonah leveled toward her face. He laughed merrily as he danced back out of retaliation range, cheekily reminding her to keep aware of her surroundings. Avis knew better. Shouldknow better.

The call for dinner went up, and the two elves bowed to each other before heading toward the smell of fresh stew.

Avis could understand the desire to live like this. Having a close-knit little family was comforting. It was nice, even if she did have to shit over a log.

The Crows had nothing like that; even once someone graduated to an Assassin, there was always competition. To prove that your house was better, that your house deserved a higher rank, that you were worthy, that you deserved your rank. They continued to squabble amongst themselves even after they were done training, vying for the attention of the House Master, hoping to be the next heir.

Avis didn’t care for any of that; she cared about saving her own ass.

But still, feeling like she was part of a community for even a few days felt nice. Kirkwall hadn’t instilled the same feeling of community in her; nobody there had known her name. Everything they’d known about her had been a lie.

After she left them, she continued on her trek to Denerim, now with a new bow and an excellently crafted skinning knife. She’d paid handsomely for the things, denying that she needed any type of payment for returning their artifact, but they’d still given her dried meat provisions for her journey and a pretty ring that had a slow-pulsing enchantment on it.

Marethari had explained the enchantment to her, but most of it went over her head. All Avis knew was that as soon as it slipped onto her finger, the forest went quiet to her. The frequent screeches in the distance that caused her hackles to raise and made half of her want to run as far in the opposite direction as possible while the other half felt lured to the possible dangers suddenly quieted. The shadows in the corners of her vision had been lessened since she’d stepped into the protection of the camp, but now they were nonexistent. At least her journey to Denerim would be peaceful.

She was left to mull over everything she’d learned in the surprising new quiet of her tromp through the forest.

Flemeth had clearly engineered all of this. That much had been clear to her as soon as Xenon said her name, but once she was in the camp, she’d put the pieces together. A mysteriously stolen artifact is suddenly being returned, and, oh, look!All of a sudden, they owed Flemeth that favor she’d need from them in just a few years time.

Avis had always known Flemeth was a scheming bitch. That was nothing new, just a fact she’d unfortunately grown too comfortable with over the years.

The only true thing of note about her visit was the twins. Two possible future Wardens. Accalia was a dual-wielding rogue. Just as she had made her. Jonah was a mage. There was never a Dalish mage warden. So it would be Accalia, right?

Accalia had been her canon warden. Had she always existed, or had Avis caused that somehow? Where did Jonah come in? Did any of this mean anything? Did the other Wardens she created exist as well? Would their places be filled with random NPCs, or would she see more of her beloved creations? Knowing that they were all fated to die.

“Fine Dwarven Crafts! Direct from Orzammar!” The man at the stall in front of her shouted, bringing her out of her reprieve and back to the present. “May I interest you in anything, ser?”

She blinked at him, then glanced down at his wares. He had a backpack for sale that was of better quality than the one she already owned and a decent amount larger, may as well.

“How much for the bag?"

“Fifteen sovereigns. It’s made of the finest Bronto hide; you’ll find nothing finer, I assure you."

Avis could have sworn it was a fair bit more expensive in the game. Also, wasn’t the guy in the stall supposed to be someone related to the dwarven noble origin? Oh well. Maybe his predecessor? Was the slogan just passed around? So successful in its marketing that everyone selling fine Dwarven crafts direct from Orzammar used it?

She shrugged. “I’ll take it."

After paying him, she headed back to her room at some inn near the docks to regroup. She’d turn in her contract after she settled in a bit more. Ignacio would just have to deal with it. 

Once she turned the contract in, she’d pick another that called to her. But for now, she was going to take a nice hot bath and think about the consequences of being an intruder in another world.

Chapter Text

Avis disliked Orlais, it reeked of fish and cologne, the people were awful, and everything was overpriced.  As pretty the architecture in Val Royeaux was, it didn’t make up for the actual city and its inhabitants. The one benefit was her contract, even though she wasn’t being paid she was contracted to kill a handful of Chevaliers. 

It was no secret how the Chevaliers treated the Alienage Elves in Orlais, how they hunted them for sport and made their lives hell. But this time they’d managed to step on the wrong toes after killing a Crow who’d been in Orlais to pick up some Compradi, then they’d killed some of the compradi. Now it was open season on the Chevaliers. 

The Guild tried to present it like they were simply doing the right thing, standing up for the Alienage elves and shit. But really, they just wanted free vengeance, they’d lost money by losing their Agent and a handful of compradi, so it was time to make a point. 

While she wouldn’t be paid for the work it would go down in her file as a recognition of her dedication to the Guild. Never hurt to dole out some vigilante justice and get in a good word with your bosses. Avis had decided acting cavalier about it all was the best route for her to take otherwise she’d spend far too long worrying about her immortal soul and the like.

Several other Crows were in town for the same contract, all of them trying to avoid stepping on each other’s toes. She’d run into some of them while she explored Val Royeaux. They weren’t obvious to the untrained eye, but like could spot like. 

First thing Avis had done was go to the families whose children had been hurt, families who’d been so desperate to keep their children safe from Alienage life that they sold them to the Crows in hopes of them having better futures. Four out of the seven had survived, and those kids would still be on their way to the Crows once she and the others finished their pro bono work.

The youngest of the survivors was eleven, the eldest was fifteen. Perfectly reasonable ages for someone to start work in Thedas, as strange as it seemed to her. When Avis was eleven she was playing minecraft. The closest she’d gotten to being sold by her family was bad One Direction fanfiction. 

She’d never been very politically minded but had always taken the opportunities in the games to support mages and elves. The very idea of Chevaliers and the power they abused made her skin crawl. Living in Thedas it was harder to ignore the bad things going on, everything was always so brutally obvious, less tucked away than it had been on Earth. 

Not that things had been so tucked away on Earth that she was entirely oblivious to them, but Avis had the privilege to ignore them and be selfish. She’d been able to sit on a cushy bed and simply retweet fundraisers and think posts and call that good.

Not anymore.

No longer would she be blind to the injustices around her.

The Crows had a list of Chevaliers they wanted gone and Avis planned to cross as many names off of it as she could. Damn the consequences. They wanted an example to be made, they wanted it loud, it had to be something that would strike fear into the hearts of the gaudy Orlesians. Anything too subtle would go over their hands.

The Guild was on a warpath, the streets would be painted in blood by the time they were done.

The families of the children were scared for their lives, terrified that this would blow back onto them. There was a very good chance that it could, the Crows didn’t care much about collateral damage. But Avis would do her best to minimize the casualties, the families hadn’t done anything wrong by simply wanting better for their children.

She’d managed to snag a contract from one of the families to read. Some agreement had been made that the kids wouldn’t be trained for combat positions, instead being taken on as servants and spies. It was surprising to find out that the Guild could at times be merciful, but by purchasing the kids they still gained far more than they spent. There were, of course, no protections to the families of the compradi. 

Avis had her work cut out for her.

She stood in the middle of the Alienage, staring up at the heavily shadowed Vhenadahl. It was a miracle the tree grew as big as it did considering how little sunlight it got with all the buildings towering around it. Truly a testament to the strength of the elven people, no wonder they loved the trees so much.

“Avis! You get lovelier with each day.” Zevran said jovially, sliding out of the shadows behind her. 

She didn’t jump, Avis definitely didn’t jump. Okay, maybe she jumped. She’d known he was there, but his sudden voice had spooked her. Avis had felt his eyes on her, recognized the way his gaze made the hairs on the back of her neck tingle. But the stupid tree had distracted her far more than she’d thought. She was going to blame it on the elfy senses.

Pretending she hadn’t just been caught unaware while gawping at a tree she quickly started walking away, almost forgetting Zevran in her embarrassment. 

“Hello, Zev. You’re in on this too?” She asked, slowing her gait to allow him to catch up and walk beside her.

He gave an enthusiastic nod. “What can I say? It caught my eye.” Of course it would. She’d be willing to be nearly every Crow on this was an elf. It was the closest any of them would ever get to sticking it to the man.

They walked in silence for a few minutes, wandering the Alienage market as Avis took in the sights and made note of everything. Which was a lot and she quickly found herself growing bored, a surprising amount of this job involved boredom. 

“You are trying to find safe passage for the children, yes?” 

His tone implied he had an idea, so she simply inclined her head, making a hand motion to encourage him to continue speaking. 

“I have a friend who may be of assistance.” 

“A friend with a ship?”

“A friend with a ship.”

“Lead the way.” She said, motioning in front of her. 

Zevran grinned widely and wrapped his hand around hers, “So you don’t get lost.” He said with a wink. 

She rolled her eyes but grinned at him anyway. Good ol’ flirty Zevran. He was always there to give her the physical affection she so desperately craved and never allowed herself. Being touch-starved was a weakness she refused to allow herself.

As they walked they melted into the crowds, heavy makeup covering their tattoos so they looked just like any other elves. The Guild wanted them to hit hard from the shadows and leave their marks heads spinning. 

He wore shoes but she didn’t bother, any time a place had actual cobbled roads she preferred foot wraps. They were both dressed nice, nice for elves. She hadn’t bothered to change out her jewelry made of precious metals, knowing that because of what she was nobody would even notice. Nobody spared them a second glance, crazy how an ear shape could do that.

Anyone who would pay them that much attention was likely on their side and any lingering bards knew better than to fuck with the guild. Most of the bards would just assume they were well loved servants or perhaps favored bed partners. 

The smell of fish grew stronger as they neared the docks and Avis had to fight the urge to gag. 

She’d always hated that smell, always hated how muggy it was close to the water. She’d loved water growing up, but always hated the humidity associated with being near it. Wet fish air. The worst.

“There!” Zevran pointed at a docked ship thats crew was unloading a mess of boxes. 

The ship was large and ship-like. With big puffy white sails and elegant lines. 

Avis knew nothing about ships. But that sure was a ship.

However, she did know who the woman sitting on a crate arguing with the Port Authority was. 

“Bela! My beautiful friend.” Zevran cheered, raising both his hands to toss in the air like an excited child, forcing Avis to raise her arm to keep him from yanking it out of its socket in his excitement. 

The woman looked over at them, looking them over with a critical eye before giving them an easy grin. She waved the Port Authority guy away and strolled towards them, one of her crew stepping in between them when the guy tried to chase her. 

 “Zevran, you brought me a treat.” She looked at Avis hungrily, avidly admiring the little cleavage that showed in her dress. Avis wasn’t gifted; she had the scrawny build of most elves, only hers was lightly bulked with the muscle her job required. Yet wearing a dress that showed off what little she did have to offer—supplemented by too tight breast bands to push the goods up and out— was a sure fire way to distract any man who might look too close.

“Funny, I thought he was bringing me a treat.” 

Her laugh was deep and sultry, good lord she was gay. Avis was this close to barking.

“Ah, I regret this already.” Zevran mumbled, mirth in his eyes despite his half assed protests. 

“Behave and you can watch.” Avis replied smoothly, nudging him in the side with her elbow. 

He laughed and clutched his chest, groaning about how she wounded him. It was nice, for a minute Avis could pretend they were all just buds hanging out. Then Zev and Isabela shared a look that caused the pirate to straighten up and tilt her head in acknowledgement. 

“Well, I don’t know about you but I’m parched.” She said, walking over so she was beside Avis before sliding her arm through Avis’s. “Shall we?”

Avis happily snuggled into her side, causing Zevran and Isabela to laugh at her. “She’s like a puppy.” Isabela chuckled. 

No, she was just extremely into bisexual pirate queens. 

She'd maintain until the day she died that Jack should have been a romance option for Fem!Shep because seriously? What the fuck?

The bar they went to was far enough off the docks that the fish smell receded enough for Avis to breathe comfortably but not so far into town that they would encounter any real nobles. It was a good little spot and Avis made note of it for next time she was in the area. The bartender had a half mask on, only covering half his face. The uncovered side was heavily scarred with a milky white eye ringed with kohl on display. Quite the statement he was making.

They ordered a bottle of Carnal to share between them and hid in one of the corner booths with a good vantage point. Isabela sat in the middle of them, with Avis leaning heavily on her right while Zevran had his legs tossed over both their laps. It was cozy, even with Isabela’s dagger poking her side. 

“So, what have you got for me?” The pirate asked after taking a generous swig from her glass. Her free hand stroked Avis’s hair and Avis sighed into the touch, she really was like a puppy.

A touch starved one dragged out of a dumpster in an alley, but a puppy nonetheless. 

“Some simple smuggling.” Zevran answered with a nonchalant shrug. 

Isabela gave him a pointed look that said she knew he wasn’t telling her everything Zevran decidedly ignored her as he simply looked away and sipped his drink.

Avis’s turn then. “A handful of compradi for the Guild.” As she expected Isabela gave her a sharp look, it did sound a bit like dealing in slaves. “Their parents were worried about the Alienage here, and wanted to give them a shot at better lives. They’ll be servants and will likely end up serving Antivan nobility as spies.”

Okay, so it was dealing in slaves.

She pulled out the contract one of the families had let her borrow and passed it to Isabela. “Read it for yourself.” She wasn’t fond on dealing in kids either, but it’s how the Guild worked. Avis wasn’t in a position to change anything, but she could refuse to work on contracts she didn’t agree with. This one was a good deal for the families, they got money and their kids got education and job security. It sure beat waiting around for another Alienage purge. 

It almost made her sick that she thought like that. Buying children was never okay. This world was getting to her.

The pirate queen snatched the vellum from her hand and read it over with a skeptical look. “Archive work?” Avis already missed having her hair pet.

“They’ll be civilians.”

“You know the Crows, if the contract states the children will not be harmed then the Crows are honor bound to fulfill that, yes?” Zevran spoke up, giving Isabela a serious look. 

The Crows did care about honor—or what they perceived as honor—, they didn’t break contracts, it was bad for business. 

“How many?” 

“Four.” Avis replied. “There were more, but something happened. That’s why we’re here.” 

Isabela nodded at that, handing the contract back to Avis with a sigh. “Make them pay.” 

Avis nodded, they would. Orlais wouldn’t soon forget the massacre that was about to go down. She slipped the contract back into her dress pocket and took a deep drink of her Carnal. The sweet liquor reminded her of what her and her delinquent friends used to drink in highschool. Oh, how the times had changed. 

“I expect to be paid heavily for this.” 

Zevran nodded not unlike a bobblehead. “I have already seen to securing payment for you.”

Huh, someone was good at their job. 

Speaking of jobs. “I have to be going now.” Avis said, downing the rest of her glass before standing up. “I do hope to see you again, though.” She gave Isabela a sly smile and Zevran a wink before heading out. 

The full face mask that she’d been keeping in her satchel went over her face, the mouth part was solid while everything above it broke into a delicate filigree that left her face both exposed and covered. Perfectly suited for a bard.

Her place of residence while this all went down would be the summer home of one Duke Bastien de Ghislain. Nobles in Orlais loved to house bards, they loved to hire them for parties and ‘outsmart’ them. Avis would play music during their Summerday celebration and generally do bard things, as expected of her. But when the party was over she’d join her fellow Crows under the cover of night and bring down the reckoning. 

So far she’d met Duchess Nicoline upon her arrival the day before, though both First Enchanter Vivenne and Duke Bastien de Ghislain would be at the Summerday party. Bastien had once been a bard himself, trained under the great Black Fox and everything, so she’d be careful to avoid him. As long as everyone thought of her as just a bard she’d be fine. 

Duchess Nicoline had been kind, with an aged face behind the mask and motherly eyes. She’d welcomed Avis—Avaliese into her home with warm enthusiasm. The Duchess had personally shown her to her rooms, chittering on about how excited she was to hear Avaliese play. 

She’d been carefully cultivating an Orlesian persona over the years, never actually making appearances but spreading tales of her own deeds and greatly overblowing her talents. La Chant Des Sirènes they called her. The Sirens Song.

Avis had definitely hyped herself up a little bit too much.

The Crows had taken great care to train her in the musical arts, for all intents and purposes she was a bard. She knew traditional bard songs and in her free time she’d practiced translating some modern Earth songs to Thedosian tunes. That had ended with Curtis sob laughing while she played an extremely abridged version of OOOUU by Young M.A. He’d slammed doors in her face for a week because he refused to ‘open doors for a whore’. 

Despite all the training Avis was mid at best. That didn’t matter, the confidence, the intrigue, the promise of something dark beneath the surface; that all is what mattered. As long as she kept them interested, it would be enough.

Her room in the estate was on the second floor tucked towards the back, with several handy servants passageways nearby. It was elaborate, probably one of the most elaborate rooms she’d ever stayed in. The rooms in Cassius’s estates in Tevinter had been elaborate, but this was something else. While everything in his estate had been subtly expensive there was nothing subtle about Orlais. There were actual priceless gems in the bed's headboard.

She had half a mind to sleep curled up in the corner of the room to avoid messing anything up, but that would cause the servants to speak and people would be more suspicious of her than they already were. Bards were used to this, bards exuded confidence. 

The next morning when she woke up there were whispers about the deaths of several Chevaliers being passed around the breakfast table. Three to be exact, all of them found posed in front of Grand Duke Gaspards summer home. Quite a message to send, Avis tried not to feel a little proud of her fellow Crows. There was an art in such violence, as horrifying as it could be. 

She could find a little pity in the death of people usually, even the worst people. But the Chevaliers, none of them were innocent. Not one.

“Masina,” She murmured to the elven serving girl who refilled her glass of orange juice, “Please meet me in my room after breakfast.” The girl looked at her with wide eye’d horror but simply nodded and fled to avoid causing a scene. Avis planned to pump her for information about the deaths, nobody knew more than the servants.

They all wore half masks over breakfast, Avis’s was all beads, dripping over her eyes and clinking merrilly together any time she moved. The Duchess wore a half mask with her family’s heraldry, her exposed lips painted a bright blue that matched some of the embroidery on her dress. 

The more unique the pigment the more expensive and that almost tiffany blue sure was a special color.

Insane how a lipstick probably cost more than Avis’s whole outfit. 

Conversation flowed around her, between the Duchess and her noble guests. Avis participated when necessary but preferred to sip her orange juice and observe. Apparently Madame De Fer would be arriving later that day.  

She had a lot of opinions on the Iron Lady. Vivienne was something special, was she the best candidate for the divine down the road? No. Was she a loyalist? Yes. Was she a disadvantaged woman who had made the best out of an absolute shit situation? Yes. Did Avis fear her? Also yes. 

This should be fun.

Duchess Nicoline enthused to all at the table her excitement for her dear friends arrival, how fascinating it was to see a woman so excited to see her husbands mistress. Avis wondered if there was more going on below the surface. As the Orlesians would say, perhaps a Ménage a trois? Or perhaps simply some kind of poly-clue. Did the Duchess take lovers of her own?

Avis resigned herself to find out. 

Possibly join in even. Orleasians were known for bedding their bards and Avis hadn’t had a good romp in the hay in maker knows how long. At least she could abstain from the guilt she got any time she thought about bedding someone for her own pleasure, these people were expecting her to lie to them.