Chapter Text
To whomever elects to participate in the charitable deed of assisting the Vael family of Starkhaven—
His most worthy highness, Prince Sebastian Vael, has provided instructions for anyone brave and noble enough to attempt the eradication of the rabble who dared attack his family…
—From the Kirkwall Chantry, 9:31 Dragon.
☙
Sebastian slowly pulls a flask off his belt, careful not to disturb the alchemical mixture. As soon as it gains enough kinetic energy, the reaction will initiate—and once the glass shatters, a gas will release that incapacitates its targets for a moment. Just long enough for an archer to stick them full of arrows.
It’s a great trick. He’d used it just a moment earlier on that other group, down by the coast, and it had won him an easy victory.
His current targets mill around beneath the Sundermount cliffside he’s positioned on. They’re blind to his presence, bickering among themselves and picking trivial fights. One insults the other’s dagger, calling it cheaply made and unbalanced—and gets a cuff around the ear for his words. Then they go back to ignoring one another. Petty, fleeting, indulgent and uncaring men. Half of them are drunk, and it’s not even midday.
Finally, a handful of them cluster around an unlit campfire. They’re listening to a tall woman whose armor is just slightly more impressive than the rest of them; she must be their leader. She’s showing them some sheets of paper, completely absorbed in whatever information they’re conveying.
Likely another mercenary contract. Yet another set of hapless victims who need their throats slit.
Sebastian keeps his eyes trained on the leader. Then he holds the flask back in his right hand, points with his left, takes a shifting half-step forward, and hurls it with all his might.
Three things occur in quick succession:
- The flask shatters against the leader’s forehead,
- The gas releases, and
- Five mercenaries collapse almost instantaneously.
There are two other mercenaries in the camp, but they’re slow to react. The flask may as well have hit them, too.
It gives Sebastian time to take up his bow and notch his arrow. (Not that he needs the window.) This arrow is tipped with another trick: a small casing filled with a light explosive powder. When the arrow makes contact, it’ll explode and send shrapnel flying in every direction.
Sebastian inhales. Then he exhales, and the arrow goes soaring, straight and true, into the chest of one of the stunned mercenaries. A plume of fire bursts from his chest as he screams, and the men on either side of him stumble, sluggish, from the force of the explosion.
Maker. This is much more exciting than the Chantry.
Unfortunately, this does mean that Sebastian’s given away his position. He slips behind a tree as the mercenaries get wise and start firing back. Their arrows fly, rather futilely, into the foliage, peppering the local flora with poorly constructed projectiles. Sebastian steps back into view to send a particularly forceful arrow into the thigh of one of his attackers.
He scowls—he’d missed. He was aiming for the neck.
Another archer fires back. He gets lucky; the arrow hits Sebastian’s midsection. Although the mail Sebastian wears means that it doesn’t penetrate, he knows that the hit will leave a nasty bruise. Adrenaline kicks in before Sebastian can feel the worst of the pain. Plucking an arrow from his quiver, he notches it, draws, and sends it right back. This arrow connects with the throat.
The blood that sprays forth is a morbid sight. Even though he knows his cause is just, taking the life of another is a grim deed.
Sebastian notches another arrow, breathes in, and releases on the exhale. His arrow connects with the head of the mercenary leader, and she goes staggering back with the force of it before collapsing. Another arrow flies over his shoulder and lands with a thunk in the tree behind him.
Inhale, exhale. An explosion of shrapnel sends men screaming. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. The deaths come more easily and more swiftly as Sebastian slips into the rhythm of the battle. His hand, his arm, his body, his bow: they are all one. He trusts his weapon as though it is a part of him. In return, it does not fail.
At some point, an arrow finds itself embedded in Sebastian’s shoulder plate. It’s annoying to shoot around the obstacle in his periphery, but he refuses to allow it to impact his aim.
Then there’s an arrow in his thigh. The sting gets worse as the fight continues. At this point, there’s only one mercenary left, but he’s a smart one. He’s started to come up the hill, tossing his bow aside in favor of his knives. He’s going to try to close the distance—he’s realized that Sebastian’s advantage comes from his height and range. If he can get in melee range of Sebastian, he just might be able to switch that advantage.
If he can get in melee range, of course.
It’s a desperate man’s gamble. They both know this. Sebastian lifts his bow, an extension of himself, and points it at the last mercenary. He breathes in—and breathes out.
☙
From the courtyard, which is empty save for a few ramblers, Sebastian looks up to the Kirkwall Chantry.
The Kirkwall Chantry is a beautiful, towering structure. It has wondrously tall ceilings and clear glass to let the light in; in the early afternoon, the sun illuminates the gold statue of Andraste at the chantry’s center in a rather lovely way. Sebastian himself has cleaned those windows many times over. He’s mopped the floors, too, until the marble shone clear and bright in the gray Kirkwall sun.
Built in Hightown, surrounded by pristine noble houses and patrolled by templars, all this structure does is remind Sebastian of what he’s lost.
Within its walls, he’s been keeping candles for his family and reciting their names for the Maker. Elthina had said that this would ease the pain of the loss, and that recalling his mother, father, and brothers would eventually set his memories of them to peace.
But it hasn’t. He would never doubt the wisdom of the grand cleric, but it’s been weeks. His chest still aches when he recalls his mother’s smile—the way she looked over her shoulder to him, when he proudly showed her a young boy’s hunting trophy. It’s a specific moment. He was eight years old and had been gifted his first bow. His oldest brother had taken him to test it out on the hunting grounds, and he’d helped Sebastian shoot a pigeon. This smile was when his mother was young and her face unlined, her hair neatly braided in a long, dark plait down her back. Before she looked at him in disappointment and shame.
“Sebastian!”
This stern voice can only belong to one woman.
Striding across the Kirkwall Chantry courtyard, headed straight for him with determination and despair, is the grand cleric herself.
“Your Grace,” he greets her, turning from the chanter’s board and offering her a slight bow of his head in due respect.
Elthina’s genuinely furious. He’s never seen her this upset before, not even when she caught some of the sisters slipping tithes into their own pockets. “Sebastian, you stupid, foolish boy,” she says, voice trembling with emotion.
He regards her coolly.
“Your post on the board,” Elthina insists. She turns to rip the parchment off, taking it in hand in condemnation. She waves it at him as she says, “I warned you that this is murder. Yet you continue down this path. I heard…” Her gaze falls down to his leg, which is neatly poulticed, patched, and bandaged. It'll heal quickly. She closes her eyes, pained. “Tell me you didn’t, Sebastian.”
“Blessed are the peacekeepers,” Sebastian says, echoing the Canticle of Benedictions, “and the champions of the just.”
“You call this justice?” Elthina demands. “You’ve traded violence for violence, lives for lives. You took vows when you joined the Chantry as a brother. It is not your place to interfere in the goings-ons of the secular world. We must stand apart, and observe the Maker’s will in all things.”
“And how do we know that the Maker did not will the deaths of those who killed my parents in cold blood? Who murdered my brothers?” Sebastian can feel himself sneer. “Who can say whether my arrows did not fly true according to the Maker’s plan?”
Elthina shakes her head. “You cannot dedicate these deaths to the Maker, Sebastian. There is a great anger in your heart, and it’s laid a veil over your eyes. At this time, you see only that which you want to see. You may…” She hesitates, the parchment in her accusatory hand finally lowering. “I do not wish to lecture you, Sebastian. Only time will tell whether your choice was righteous.”
“As you say, Your Grace,” Sebastian says. Unease has begun to sink in as adrenaline and emotion seep out. He really does respect Elthina, and it’s uncomfortable to be in disagreement with her—especially with the Maker at the center of it. He’d been so sure, when he took his bow in hand, that the deaths of the Flint Company were required. How else could his family be laid to rest?
He must remain stalwart. What is it that Threnodies 6 states? The righteous stood before the armies as a boulder stands before a tide: unshaken, rooted there by the Maker’s hand.
“Excuse me…?”
Sebastian’s pulled out of his thoughts by a new voice approaching. It belongs to a young woman dressed in light armor, her black hair cut neatly around her shoulders. She has a pleasant face and wears a polite smile, but there are dark circles beneath her eyes. Accompanying her are a young man with a similar complexion to her own (likely a relation), a tall woman in guard plates, and a blond dwarf who seems all too crafty for Sebastian’s liking.
“I’ve come about a post,” she says with a nod of her chin to the board. “Should I speak to one of you about its completion?”
Elthina makes a dissatisfied noise, but hands the parchment back to Sebastian. “That would be this brother’s doing.” She hesitates, then adds, “May the Maker bless and watch over your business.” And with that, she heads back up the stairs to the Kirkwall Chantry, her hands clasped behind her back.
Sebastian watches her go, conflicted.
“The posting?” the dwarf prompts. “There was gold on the line, as I recall.”
Sebastian looks down at the request he himself had placed just days earlier. “Ah. Yes. You dealt with some of the Flint Company, then?”
“We took out the group on the docks,” the young woman says. “We found the bodies of the rest. They were already dead, littered with arrows.”
“Not my bolts,” the dwarf adds. “I would’ve remembered a massacre like that.”
Sebastian winces at the term.
“But I assume that completing a part of the job means a part of the reward?” the young woman asks. She looks a little eager to be paid—Sebastian hopes she isn’t in dire need, because he doesn’t yet have the funds he promised. He’ll have to travel outside Kirkwall for those. Make some house calls to old family friends and perform the role of the gracious, pitiful prince.
“I can give you an advance,” Sebastian says. “I truly did not expect anyone else to take up this cause.”
“Oh, come on,” the dwarf says, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “That’s what they all say. We killed a bunch of nasty mercenaries for the Chantry, and now you’re going to moralize at us as payment. I should have expected this.”
“Well, technically the prince of Starkhaven put forth the request,” the young man in the party says. He wrinkles his nose. “We didn’t fall for a scam, did we?”
“Looked legitimate enough,” the guardswoman comments with a frown.
They all turn to Sebastian expectantly. Or suspiciously. Maybe both.
Sebastian straightens his posture, the way his tutors taught him all those years ago. “My name is Sebastian Vael, and I am the rightful sovereign prince of Starkhaven.” The direct admission feels strange—he hasn’t identified with his royal origins in many years. As a Chantry brother, he’d given up any claims to titles and properties. But now that he’s the last Vael in direct succession to the throne, it feels wrong to deny what he was born to.
When he was young, he’d wanted the throne so badly. Why? What did he want it for? Because it was his brother’s, not his?
It’s his now, but the way is lined with blood. His father’s blood. His brothers’ blood. Blood that he himself shares.
Blood, running from the eye of a desperate, terrified mercenary.
The young man snorts. “Yeah, and I’m the king of Ferelden.”
“Believe me or don’t,” Sebastian says, pushing aside his doubts. “It does not matter. I will pay you your advance. Then, when I have the gold for it, I will pay you in full as you deserve.”
The dwarf sighs. “Better some gold than none.” In an aside, he mutters to the young woman, “At least we’ve almost got enough for Bartrand.”
“You’re really the prince of Starkhaven?” the guardswoman asks Sebastian. She eyes him, and he finds himself thinking she might not find him up to her standards. Whatever those may be. “There’ve been rumors milling around the guards, but I thought them just that—rumors. What are you doing in Kirkwall?”
“My family promised me to the Chantry when I was a boy,” Sebastian answers. “I was a lay-brother for many years, studying the Maker’s word under the sisters and grand cleric. Then I took up my vows and became a brother in full a few months back. I am my parents’ third son—neither the heir nor the spare to the throne. The Vaels have always been devout servants of the Maker. As per our family tradition, I was placed in His direct service.”
This story is a slight obfuscation. But Sebastian doubts that he needs to reveal his entire life story, in all of its sordidness, to strangers.
“But why Kirkwall?” the guardswoman asks. “Surely the chantry in Starkhaven would have taken you?”
Sebastian shrugs again. “The Maker’s hand is in everything. If I had been at Starkhaven, I would be dead as well.” He doesn’t mention that his placement in Kirkwall was a consequence of his reckless behavior.
Instead, he reaches for the coin purse attached to his belt, and removes all of the silver he carries into the young woman’s outstretched hands. That should be about four gold, which is only a fifth of the reward he promised. He really hadn’t expected anyone to take the job.
Sebastian regards the young woman curiously, realizing he never got her name. None of the party’s names, actually. “May I have the honor of knowing whom to thank?”
She turns a little pink, fingers curling around the coins as she says, “Hawke. And this is my brother, Carver, and our friends Aveline and Varric.”
“I’m Varric,” the dwarf says, grinning. “The tough redhead is Aveline. I think I’d make a great ‘Aveline,’ though.”
“Dream on,” the guardswoman—Aveline—says with a good-natured roll of her eyes.
Sebastian nods to the party, but he looks to Hawke as he says, “I am in your debt. Thank you, Hawke. When next our paths cross, I will have what I owe you.”
“That’s all right,” Hawke says to Varric’s visible displeasure. “I… I mean, we only took out a few of them. Did the people who killed the groups on the Wounded Coast and up by Sundermount already collect their reward?”
There’s an awkward pause as Sebastian considers what he should say. In the end, the truth wins out. “Actually,” Sebastian says slowly, “I killed them.”
“Andraste’s blood,” Aveline swears, eyes widening.
“That can’t be allowed,” Varric says, shocked. He glances up at the chantry, to the doors Elthina disappeared behind. “Is that why you were arguing with the grand cleric? I thought it was some theological debate beyond our unlettered comprehension. But maybe this is something we could comprehend…”
“Not that it’s our business,” Carver says pointedly.
“Right, right,” Varric says. But he’s not very convincing, especially not as he ogles the bow and quiver slung around Sebastian’s back. Did he really not notice them before? “Poking around in allegedly royal affairs is probably just asking for trouble.”
“That’s quite an impressive feat, though,” Hawke admits. She tucks the coins away in her bag. “May your family rest easy,” she adds, something in her face softening. “I know what it means to lose family. The pain never really leaves you.”
Aveline hums in what sounds like agreement. Carver looks away, brow pulled tight.
“Thank you,” Sebastian says, an ache blooming in his chest. “Maker watch over you.”
“And you,” Hawke says. She glances back at him once as she departs with her friends, a small offering of sympathy shared between the two of them.
He heads up into the chantry. Its walls loom high above him, and its stone is cold.
☙
“A pilgrimage.”
“You cannot be serious,” Sebastian says immediately. He stares at Elthina, at her sitting staunchly behind her desk, unyielding as her steely eyes fix him to the floor of her office.
“I’m very serious, Sebastian,” Elthina counters, gathering a set of papers together on her desk. A glance tells him that one is a map, and at least one other is a set of verses from the Chant. The one on the bottom looks like a letter. “This will give you enough time and space to reflect on your actions.”
“You…” This hurts worse than the wound in his thigh, and Sebastian struggles with why. He’d thought that he was over this.
Elthina must see his discomfort, because she sighs and leans back in her chair, suddenly aging past her years. She says, horribly gently, “This isn’t exile, Sebastian.”
This is not exile, Sebastian, his mother had said, clasping his hand in lieu of an embrace before he boarded the carriage that would take him to Kirkwall. In it was a chest packed with all his things, including a large endowment that would secure his position there.
Or, rather, secure him there.
Keep your head high. Prove yourself worthy of the name the Maker blessed you with.
“I know,” Sebastian says. His voice is harsh, even to his own ears, and he regrets his tone.
Elthina is unperturbed. “The pilgrimage I’ve advised—” assigned, “—is but a few months long. You’ll journey east to Ostwick and join the chantry there. The sisters will put you to work and you’ll study the Chant under their tutelage, and perhaps gain a new perspective that those of us here could not give you. Have you been to Ostwick before?”
“A long time ago,” Sebastian says dully. That was another life, when he wore fine clothing and rode in an ornate carriage. He can still recall the feel of the Ostwick cobblestones beneath his shoes and the squawk of the seabirds that glided overhead.
“Ah,” Elthina says. She puts the papers in her hands in order, then stands to hand them to Sebastian.
The grand cleric has always been shorter than him—but for some reason, their difference in height strikes him for the first time. For all her wisdom and grace, she’s just a woman. She’s getting older, and the burden of her position weighs heavily on her. The wrinkles across her brow contrast distinctly with the blue, youthful powder she’s so fond of lining her eyes with.
She’s somber as she says, “The Ostwick Chantry is a devout, learned place. You’ll be well taken care of, Sebastian. Until that time, consider your title as brother and the vows that came with it forfeit. If you wish to uphold your position and vows, you must earn a recommendation from the grand cleric at Ostwick.”
Sebastian takes her papers and looks down at them. Elthina wrote these up herself; he recognizes her thin, gently looped handwriting. “I have been in this position before, Your Grace. You’re worried about a scandal, so you’re sending me away until it all quiets down.”
“Sebastian…” Elthina’s expression is pained. She holds herself stiffly, and he can see a dozen thoughts race behind her eyes. “I understand why you felt the need to take action. The loss of a loved one is a difficult thing to reckon with, even more so when it feels out of our control. To lose your entire family at once is unfathomable. But I know you, Sebastian. I know you will persevere. You just need time to remember the strength that the Maker has blessed you with.”
“My mother said something similar when she sent me here,” Sebastian tells her. Elthina grimaces, and he steps around her large desk to place his hands around one of her own. Her hand is soft—her life is one of study and prayer, never straying far from the safety of the chantry walls. He’s always found comfort in the peace that the Chantry clergy fosters. They have no worries beyond the Chant and spreading its message. He had no worries until he received that fateful letter carrying the news of his family’s passing. “Though the circumstances were different. Now, I go forth willingly. I accept your ruling, Grand Cleric Elthina. I will return to Kirkwall when the Maker wills it.”
“Just Elthina,” she says, and pulls him into a brief, gentle embrace. “You have my blessing, child. The Maker favors a repentant heart. The one who repents, who has faith, unshaken by the darkness of the world, she shall know true peace.” Sebastian recognizes her words as verses from Transfigurations.
Sebastian smiles at her, even as he knows he has nothing to repent for. But if that is what she needs to believe, then he will not contradict her. “Thank you, Elthina.”
☙
After waking, and changing both his bandage and his clothes, Sebastian packs. It takes soberingly little time. He has few material belongings besides his armor, his bow and arrows—the rest is a change of clothes, some tools, and a few religious texts. It all fits in a bag that he slings over his shoulder. His whole life, and it barely takes up any space.
The life of a prince is much different. He remembers traveling with his family to other states in the Free Marches, and the retinue of chests and cases that they carted along with them. It was a necessary show of wealth and power—proof that Starkhaven was the greatest of the Marcher states. Gifts were given to intimidate, rather than benefit, their receivers.
Most of his belongings now are gifts. His armor, bow, and quiver come from his parents, crafted for him when he chose to remain at the Kirkwall Chantry. The books were from the Chantry, as a part of his seminary education. And Elthina’s papers…
He has a spare square of leather, something leftover from a forgotten project. Sebastian carefully takes the map and other papers from Elthina in hand, making two neat creases so that they’re all in quarters. He then folds the leather around them, and ties the makeshift binding shut with twine. It all goes into his bag.
And with that, his life in the Kirkwall Chantry is packed up. His quarters are empty save for the blanket and pillow atop the cot.
It’s early in the morning, early enough that it’s still dark out. The sun will rise in the next few minutes, though, so Sebastian needs to be quiet. His plan is to be out of the chantry before the sisters and brothers begin their morning chores. He tells himself it’s so that he’s not a distraction—but he’s honest enough to know that, really, it’s to avoid their shame.
He’s been stripped of his role in the Chantry. He’s being sent to Ostwick so that he doesn’t negatively influence the others in Kirkwall. It’s the same song and dance he’d done at twenty-two, when his parents sent him here.
He’s made another mistake, and the cost is his home yet again.
Sebastian closes his eyes and recalls the death of the Flint Company’s leader. His arrow pierced her skull, and she staggered before she fell. He was too far away to see the finer details of her expression, but he can imagine the shock and terror she felt as the point connected. Did his mother feel similarly, when the mercenary struck her with a deadly knife? Did his brothers clutch at their necks when they were slit? Did his father beg for his life, only for his pleas to be laughed away?
This was justice. Let the punishment fit the crime: death to all murderers.
With that grim thought, Sebastian leaves his life behind and steps into the corridor. It’s empty, and hauntingly quiet.
But as he slips quietly to the front room, he realizes that he’s not alone.
The Kirkwall Chantry clergy have gathered by the front door. They’re not upset or accusatory—in fact, they look quite sad. Some hold small pieces of food, mostly bread and preserved items.
“We’ll miss you,” Sister Lorena says, wearing a watery smile. She pulls a shocked Sebastian into a quick embrace, then clasps his shoulder firmly as she says, “May the Maker bless your travels.”
Chanter Taletha is next. She embraces Sebastian as well, patting him on the back like he’s a child being sent off to school—and as she does so, she slips half a loaf of bread into his bag. “It’s so odd seeing you in armor! Travel safely, Br—Sebastian. May Andraste watch over you.”
He thanks both of them, dazed. He hardly hears the grateful words his lips form as all of the sisters wish him well. The brothers, too. Even Brother Plinth, as awkward as he is, clasps Sebastian’s hand, mutters a tearful goodbye, and offers up a small bag of imported nuts.
It’s nice to know that he’ll be missed. That people here cared about him. He has friends—family, even—that he’ll be returning to.
He promises to make his journey a short one. Ostwick is just a temporary posting; soon, he’ll be back home in Kirkwall. He’ll make sure of it.
☙
Sebastian travels on foot. Perhaps he’ll acquire a horse at a later date; but, for now, he makes do with the supplies that the Chantry provided him. In addition to his personal bag, he carries a small pack that includes a bedroll, a tarp to keep off the elements, and a coin purse.
If he takes up a contract along the road to Ostwick, he might be able to afford a horse. That would make the journey quicker. Surely some farmer somewhere needs predators on their lands killed; Sebastian’s hunted wolves before. They’re not nearly as tough as wyverns, nor as crafty. It would be little trouble to put down a wolf or two.
Sebastian reaches for the weapon slung across his back and takes it in his hands, slowing his pace. He’s well beyond Kirkwall, now. It’s small in the distance, strangely insignificant and lifeless from afar. He’d been a part of all that, just a few days ago.
If the Flint Company hadn’t murdered his family, he might still be milling through Kirkwall’s winding, stone alleys. There, it’d be impossible to distinguish him from another Chantry brother; from this far away, he’d be impossible to distinguish from any other resident of Kirkwall.
Now he is alone. He misses the Kirkwall Chantry. He was constantly surrounded by kind, trusted faces—friends who were willing to lend a caring ear and a wise word when he needed them. It was reassuring just to know that others were around to watch his back.
Was justice worth the loss of that comfort?
A stupid question to ask. The answer is obvious. The Chant is clear: Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just.
His grip tightens on his bow, and then he stows it over his back once more.
There’s a river nearby. Sebastian steps slowly down to it, careful not to slip on the mud. It must have rained overnight—his boots sink and squelch even as he tries to keep his feet on the grass.
Eventually, he makes it down to the river. It moves gently, rippling over the bedrocks, and the water is clear enough that he can make out his reflection.
A young man with dark brown hair and blue eyes stares back out at him. He presses two fingers to his brow; his reflection does the same. Sebastian turns away and sets down his bags, rummaging around his personal bag for—ah.
He pulls out his knife. It’s light and easy to wield, its edges still sharp from the last time he took care of it. Sebastian had thought he might need to use it when facing the Flint Company. Luckily, that hadn’t been the case. He’d always been more handy with his bow.
He holds the knife up to his hair. When Sebastian was younger, he’d been so keen on his hair. It was a source of vanity—women liked to run their hands through it, he’d found, and admire its color and softness. He’d kept it longer out of habit, even while in the Chantry.
There was a story his history tutor taught him as a child. The people who lived on Starkhaven’s lands before they were called Starkhaven had a tradition where they would cut their hair to signify some sort of crime or disgrace. Of course, they kept their hair much longer than Sebastian does, but he finds himself sympathetic to the symbolism. It’s brave to publicly declare one’s own mistakes.
So Sebastian takes a fistful of hair in his hand, and he cuts.
☙
He’s done a poor job of it, but that doesn’t matter. His hair is shorn close to his head. It’s still long enough that he can feel it between his knuckles, but it’s not as deliberately styled as it was before. As he looks at his reflection in the river, Sebastian finds that he doesn’t look like a Chantry brother, much less a prince—in fact, he looks rather like he stumbled out of Lowtown.
He sets the knife down in the grass, satisfied.
There’s a snap behind him.
Sebastian resists the urge to immediately take the knife back up. No, he needs to keep a clear, patient head. The branch could have been snapped by anything, from a small animal to a bandit. There’s no need to jump to conclusions.
Still, he finds himself leaning forward in small, slow degrees.
It’s too quiet. He can hear his heart pounding in his chest.
Then there’s a rustle of foliage and Sebastian dives for his knife and rolls back up to his feet in a flash and holds the blade out in front of him, grip balanced—
“Whoa!” the stranger exclaims, bow and arrow trained carefully on Sebastian. He’s a fair-skinned man with dark hair pulled into a half-up style that’s cropped around his chin—and, to Sebastian’s disbelief, he wears silver and blue armor that bears the dual griffon crest. A Grey Warden. What’s a Warden doing on the borders of Kirkwall? There’s no Blight to be thwarted here, no darkspawn to hunt down. “I’ll have to request that you set that dagger down. Slowly.”
Sebastian hesitates. His instinct says to listen to the Warden, but some small, suspicious part of him still wonders if he can actually be trusted. After all, he does have a weapon trained on Sebastian. And Sebastian is clearly not a darkspawn.
“You first,” Sebastian says.
“At the same time,” the Warden says in good humor.
And so, with no small amount of trepidation, they both lower their weapons. Neither man lets go, though, which they both accept with uneasy, reciprocal nods.
“Who are you?” Sebastian asks, knife held close to his side. “I see that you’re a Warden, but a name would be much appreciated.”
“Of course. I’m Warden Nathaniel,” he says. His armor gleams in the weak sunlight, the griffons emblazoned there holding their heads high. “I hail from the Fereldan Wardens at Amaranthine. I…” Nathaniel shrugs. “May as well come out with it. I saw you fight those groups of mercenaries the other day. I wanted to meet you.”
“You… saw me?” Sebastian says, balking. He hopes he doesn’t look as shocked as he feels. He did not realize he had an audience when he killed the Flint Company groups along the Wounded Coast and at Sundermount. Have his senses gone dull? Who is this man, that he could sneak around him?
Nathaniel huffs a laugh. “Don’t be too hard on yourself. I’ve always been good at keeping quiet.”
“You snapped a twig on your way over,” Sebastian points out.
“That was on purpose,” Nathaniel says, perfectly unbothered. “I didn’t want to surprise you too badly. Like I said, I wanted to meet you.”
Sebastian narrows his eyes. “And why is that?”
Nathaniel wears a faint smile as he says, “I’m here to recruit you.”