Art by gwpe
All was still inside the tavern.
It was to be expected, one supposed, at such an ungodly hour; dawn was still just a thought behind the horizon. What air managed to push through the cracks in the wood and the stone of the worn and tired building was cold, and the elf’s ears and fingers were thoroughly numb. Not that she was dressed warmly – a few scraps of leather stitched together in what barely constituted a top and a skirt, open-toed boots, and a thin cloak she had scavenged from someplace or other. The rough hide bracers and bands on her arms were little more than decoration and adolescent whim.
With a last careful look about the room, Evelyn slowly opened the door and snuck out. She had expected Ser August to be in his room at such an hour, and sleeping soundly; she had been fully prepared for the quiet maneuverings that getting in and out of his room undetected would entail. He had not been there.
The bed was made, and everything was neat and tidy as it always was when he had left for the day. But there was no Chantry nearby; would he still have risen for morning prayers? Evelyn had been briefly concerned at his absence, but then shook the thought away. Ser August was more than capable of taking care of himself. And in any case, it made her task easier. Much easier.
She had left two pieces of paper – one a note for Mari, who was still sick and recovering in the Alienage, and another for the templar – and more than half of her current share of coins on the table by his bed. She hoped they would understand.
It was impossible for her to stay here any longer, Evelyn reminded herself as she picked up her weapons and her pack from the hallway, and strapped them on.
The place had been getting far too crowded for her. She hated crowds. Well, except for those out on the streets and in the squares, where you could pick a pocket without being seen and could easily lose the guards on your tail. Some crowds had their uses. But there were so many people living here permanently that she could barely think anymore.
It was one of the reasons why she and Mari rarely used their room in the orphanage – it was much more preferable to find their own spots on rooftops and in alleyways, where there weren’t all these bodies around you, hemming you in.
Not to mention the noise. The walls of her room were so thin, it was impossible to use it as any sort of sanctuary. And it was the first place where people would look for her, if they wanted her for something. The incessant knocking on the door had been driving her mad. All she wanted was some time to herself; some privacy.
She tried the common room during the hours when everyone else was supposed to be in their rooms – but there was so much traffic at the tavern that there was not a single hour when the common room was unoccupied. Then she tried the private backroom. And then the cellar.
One night found Eve on the roof of the tavern, her back pressed against the chimney in an attempt to get as warm as was possible out here. Huddled against her neck was Fox, whose noises of disapproval at being outside at such an hour during this time of year Eve tried to ignore, as she watched her breath form and curl and fade in the weak moonlight, over and over again. It was uncomfortable, to say the least.
But it was the furthest she could get from everyone, without actually traipsing down the road and through the fields in the dark, unarmed and alone. And she had not brooded quite enough to do that. Yet.
Form, curl, fade; form, curl, fade. If anyone had asked Evelyn what exactly was wrong, she most likely would not have been able to answer. It was simply progressive annoyance towards everyone, even Ser August, for no apparent reason. Form; curl; fade. It had reached the point where everything about everyone had been irritating her – the way they walked; their breathing; the sound of their voices. She knew she was being unreasonable. She should not have felt such anger at people’s laughter, or the desire to hurl a chair across the room because someone was chewing a fruit too loudly.
So, what was the point in staying, she reasoned with herself. Her sister was in the Alienage, since she needed proper care and rest, neither of which was possible at an establishment like this. Ser August was busy all the time with this mage, or that templar, or some mercenary, or a representative of the Chantry – he was almost never there during the day. And as for everyone else … she did not really feel comfortable with them. At all. And there was nothing to do. For weeks she had started her day by going up to Ernie and asking him whether there was any job, any news, anything; and for weeks, the answer had been no.
There was nothing to do but to sit on the left side of the common room in the morning, switch to the right side of the common room in the afternoon, run to one of her hiding places when the hordes descended in the evening, and then crawl to her bed at night and try to block out the shouts and the voices that drifted up the stairs. She was just wasting her time here, and being miserable on top of it.
No sooner had she resolved to go back to Denerim and Mari than all of the unwelcoming faces in the Alienage swam before her vision; and the guards; the smells; the uncertainty of food. Almost a full year out in the countryside had spoiled Evelyn for city life. The thought of going back to stay at the orphanage was enough to make her nauseous.
The only thing she looked forward to there was her sister, and she was quite certain she would not be allowed to see her. If Mari was as sick as rumor had it, visitors would be denied for fear that it might be contagious. It happened every time someone fell ill. The last thing the Hahren wanted was an outbreak of disease in the crowded elven quarters of Ferelden’s capital.
That was when a small voice whispered to her that the road led to more places than just Denerim.
She had quickly dismissed it. It was a ridiculous notion after all – she had no idea how to survive on her own, travelling, outside of a city; she could fend people off, but only so many. She was not that experienced of a fighter, and there were bandits out there; and wild animals. And what of food? It was absurd. And yet, the thought would not let up. It haunted her movements, and dwelt in the shadows she cast. It kept her company day and night, and only fell into a slumber when she relented and began making serious plans and preparations.
It was the first time that she had been so long without Mari – no, actually, it was the first time she had been without Mari at all. Perhaps that was why she had been feeling so strange lately.
Evelyn ended up planning to … well, she did not know. Go off, somewhere. Wherever the road went. She had no idea how far, or for how long. Maybe just a few hours’ walk, maybe her head would clear by then. Maybe for days or weeks …
Evelyn was half-way down the stairs when she heard the sounds of a whetstone against a blade. She closed her eyes in frustration.
People had taken to caring for their weapons at the oddest hours imaginable, due to fear of Doctor Opos – that miserable quack, as she called him. He had developed the habit of approaching everyone with this oil and that “tonniq” and his fantastical fabulous potions that battled rust for greater justice! Right. Evelyn thought them much more likely to ruin good, sturdy weapons. She didn’t trust that … man, as far as the Dalish mage could blast him.
Turning around the corner of the stairs and taking care to stay in the shadows of the wall, Evelyn saw that it was Azdad, sitting in the corner by the door that led to the kitchen, sharpening his array of knives. Of course, it would be Azdad.
She doubted that even the quack would risk the qunari’s wrath. His attention seemed to be completely on the task at hand. She padded softly down the last couple of steps, and eased her way towards the exit.
A floorboard creaked.
Evelyn froze.
Art by gwpe
Azdad had seen her, of course. Looking at him warily, she thought it must be painfully obvious to him what she was up to. It was common knowledge that, beyond their packs, their weapons, and the clothes on their bodies, the Lyns did not have any belongings. She was clearly dressed for travel and sneaking out. He would call Ser August – never mind that the templar did not seem to be about, the qunari had an uncanny ability for making the impossible happen – and it would all be over. And not only would she get a harsh talking to, she would also have to face the hurt that would undoubtedly appear in Ser August’s eyes once he realized that she was running off.
Azdad looked at her, for a moment, and then stood up and went into the kitchen. Evelyn debated about sprinting out, but decided against it. It was probably better not to make it worse than it was. With a sigh, she resigned herself and waited for the cook to return with Ser August in tow.
When Azdad appeared a minute later, he was alone. He simply tossed a pouch at her and sat back down at his table, without a word, and continued his work.
Evelyn caught it, and opened it, utterly confused.
It contained a generous amount of waybread and some copper bits. After her initial shock passed, she chuckled a little under her breath. Softie. She glanced at Azdad and gave him a smile, though, after weeks of scowling, she probably managed nothing more than a grimace. Then she turned the handle of the door and walked out.
It was autumn, closer to winter really; the air was chill and, when a slight wind blew, it bit even her unexposed skin.
Evelyn was about to step on the path, when she heard a shuffle. It was Garrett, playing around in the grass. She knelt down and pet the ferret tentatively, looking around for his mistress. Not seeing the dwarf about, she snuck him a treat from the pocket where she kept tidbits for Fox, picked him up, and shoved him back inside the tavern through a half-open window.
She turned and walked down the short path in front of the tavern until it reached the main road.
One end of the road led to Denerim. One led further out into Ferelden.
“Let’s try this whole ranger thing, shall we?”
A stranger would have assumed that Evelyn was talking to herself. But there was movement in the black pouch she carried on her side, and she adjusted the flap a bit to allow better flow of air. A small rodent’s head popped out. Anyone who saw his face would say that he carried the expression that any rat carried.
To his companion’s eyes, Fox appeared skeptical, questioning her ability to survive out in the wilds alone. Sure, she and her sister had scraped by in the city on their own for years, but they were street rats. City dwellers. She barely knew how to light a fire. She did not even have a map.
“Don’t give me that look.”
Fox produced a small squeak.
“We’ll be fine. And there’s always bound to be a farmstead or lone hut or a small hamlet somewhere where they won’t notice a few apples and bits of cheese missing.”
Another squeak.
“And leeks, of course. You shall have your leeks.”
Forbidding herself to cast a last look back or to the right, Evelyn pulled the hood over her head, and set off on her own.
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