Chapter Text
They even had a dead ox.
He always thought about such finishing touches, those small details which add a certain kind of flair of class to the job. Broken crates, an upturned cart and that bovine carcass within sight range, then concealed tripwire, heavy boulders ready to be sent off tumbling down the unwary prey, an uprooted tree. Everything was in place, planned to perfection, an epitome of a job well done.
Not that it helped them.
The first one was a beast of a man, copper skin in stark contrast to his greyish chainmail. His white hair trimmed into fine dreadlocks tied into a short ponytail that poked from beneath a leather cap made him look as if he put a dead pigeon on his head. He carried a huge two-hander on his back, which probably weighed more than half Zevran’s own weight. The expression was one capable of making the most devoted drink-monger think twice before asking him for a shared pint. Could this be one of them? The contractor mentioned there were two of them, a man in his middle twenties with thorough martial training, but when asked about the other one, he just sighed with disdain and nothing could be heard from him. Unlikely to be this age, the giant surely looked like a respectable foe. He had company too. He narrowed his eyes, observing the little congregation forming on the road. An elderly woman just past her prime, with a still voluptuous figure, clad in crimson robes, carried an ornate walking stick. At least that’s what it appeared to be from a distance. Seconds after that, he regrettably realised it was a staff. A mage, damn it.
There was a third traveller, a youthful auburn-haired woman in garish travelling clothes. The innocence of her round face and rosy cheeks made her hard to place in line with the warrior and the mage. A servant? Did they tag along with any? Either way, she was a handsome specimen and he felt professional regret at the upcoming loss. He was an aesthete after all.
Next to the auburn girl, a tall brunette with raven hair tied into a bun walked, looking lovely bar for the expression of an intoxicated poison dart frog. She even had colours of one, some bright paint contouring her eyes, giving her a somewhat savage appearance (though it could have been just the rags of all possible sources she was clad in). He lingered at her strategic quarters for a second, but then, much to his dismay, he noticed a huge branch tied to her back. Unless Fereldan forests have magical trees that twinkle, the elderly lady got herself company, though the younger woman hardly looks as an apprentice. Not at the Circle at least. A few steps behind her, bound to admire the view, walked a well-built man with a face of a lovable idiot. Could he be one of the pair? The description matched somehow, although the contractor didn’t mention him to be so… well, nobody could expect a Grey Warden to be smeared in something that looked like strawberries in cream. He was taller than him and the muscles were more pronounced than his, but the stains on the man’s face he hopelessly tried to lick off assured him he wouldn’t be as difficult to handle as his height and physique would suggest. He was grinning at something below his waist. Surprisingly, it wasn’t any part of the brunette.
Maker, they have a dog too. As if a giant, two mages, an unplaceable pretty-face and a knightly idiot wasn’t enough for a day. One big damn family of them going for the last picnic.
If the giant was a peculiar though imposing sight, what should be said about the dog? They had dogs back home. They mostly stalked the streets, spread fleas, diseases and a variety of stenches, a typical daily routine mingled with eating garbage and changing the aesthetic value of numerous statues and porches with objects of their own production he preferred to avoid. But this one looked more like a wolf, provided one had no objections against wolves wearing collars of yellow suede and being covered in paint in patterns of suns, flowers and happy faces. They knew Ferelden was basically one huge kennel, but they weren’t prepared for that. This alone ought to arouse doubts.
This is going to be long day.
“Oh, thank the Maker, we need help! They attacked the wagon, please help us!” – she could have tried better. Maybe she didn’t enjoy making up good lies. They did hit the wagon after all. It wasn’t going to trip itself on its own. Perhaps it did count as an attack, nobody asked for the cart’s opinion, after all. Or maybe she simply sucked at this art. Which would be a shame, for words were like lockpicks of one’s own making. “Follow me, I’ll take you to them” – that was even worse. Only an utter moron would believe that and not grow suspicious. He counted on the knightly idiot though. That’s for apostates being cunning like foxes. Here goes one childhood dream.
At the agreed gesture, the tree and all boulders went down. He saw a seventh shape spin out of the trajectory, barely getting away from being reshaped into marmalade. It was hard to tell who it could be, with men yelling orders, arrows nocked, strings of bows waiting for release, the prey scattering at first, recovering in a second and taking defensive stance. That blasted pup releasing a dreadful howl didn’t help and the painted suns, flowers and faces on its fur were distracting. It wasn’t all as expected, so with the silly scream of the apostate for help, he felt compelled to a cliché rally line.
The Grey Wardens die here. Not as bad as he thought it would sound.