Thank you to NoMadKa and Paulah for reviewing, I appreciate you taking time out of your busy schedules to give me your thoughts on my story. And thank you lurkers/readers, it's nice to see that you visited, even if you didn't post a review… last night I was thinking something I wanted to post in this Author's note, but I can't remember anymore. Ahh well.

This chapter assumes some knowledge of the geography of Tevinter. Seheron is an island which lies off the northern coast of Tevinter, for those with the inclination to take a peek at a map to get an idea of where Fenris is at this moment, he has just crossed the Ventosus straights, and is heading southeast. Just google Tevinter, for a map. It's the first link- wikia something.

Not sure why, but I feel compelled once again to dance this rather obvious tune; Bioware owns all reference and resource material, including copyright to all things Dragon Age, this is a fanfic site, so.. yeah, just a fanfic. (I never said I could dance well)

Hunters folly

Fenris awoke in a cold sweat. It was still dark, but he could feel the sun beginning its ascent… and then there was another feeling, one with which he was all too familiar. "Venhedis." He muttered, collecting his meager possessions, that is, strapping on his armor, his coin purse and his broadsword.

He inhaled quietly, and peeked from his hidden alcove, "Blasted elf." He heard the tracker remarking, "Trail ends here."

"He is nearby." Remarked a woman. She was built like a mountain, holding a two headed axe, and armored in plate, which had the Tevinter chantry's symbol emblazoned upon its chest. "Fan out, men. That elf will make us rich."

"Slavers." Fenris whispered. He looked around himself. He could hide here, there was a relatively good chance that they wouldn't find him. He almost hadn't found this spot, the rocks had layered in such a way that the entrance was obscured completely from both directions, and too thin in any case for a woman like the one outside to squeeze in, but for an elf half starved, the cave mouth was just wide enough. Fenris, pushed his hand through his hair. His instincts said that being trapped in a cave was a worse fate than injury and potential death. His fears urged him to stay put and fight only if he had to.

"Bloody knife ear." The slaver muttered, biting off each syllable with recognizable irritation. This man probably kept slaves, himself. Probably elven girls and boys. Probably, just like every other Tevinter in power, he was possessed of at least marginal magical talent, and used that talent liberally in his punishments. Fenris growled at the thought. This man probably sacrificed his kind regularly, a small price to pay for the power he thought he wielded.

Fenris felt the heat of anger coursing over his skin, as his ire lit the lyrium, and he suddenly glowed with fury. He edged his way out of the cave, and drew his six foot blade. "I will not live with a wolf at my back." He growled, "Face me!"

"Well, well, the slave returns to heel when called."

The snarl which erupted from his lips was not his own, he rushed the hulking whore, and battered her, his blade crushing the side of her steel shell in one blow, then he swung his sword once more, and tore through on the other side, launching her back. He turned his head and caught sight of the man who must have been the tracker stumbled. Fenris grabbed him by the collar, lifting him up, "What does he want?"


"Denarius! Why won't he leave me alone?"

"I- I don't know!"

A dark ball of wicked destruction exploded inside of him, and Fenris roared, "Then you are of no use to me!" and with all the rage he could muster, he crushed the man's throat, and cast him to the ground while he choked on his own blood. "Fight me! I know there are more of you."

One by one, lightly armored warriors entered the clearing, casting nervous glances at the dying man, and their captain, who Fenris assumed was dead. His body flashed more brightly, and he brought his weapons to bear, gutting his way through the beasts who called themselves men.

When he was finished, breathing heavily, he went over their bodies, pulling any valuables. Around the time he found his hands in the purse of the tracker, he heard the captain in the plate armor cursing. He pulled his hands out, and stalked to the woman, he kicked her in the side, "Why did he send you?"

She cried out piteously, "Mercy!"

"Hah!" He booted her in the side again, "Tell me why is Denarius going through so much trouble to find an escaped slave? Surely it is not on principal that he spends such sums of coin."

"Go to hell!"

Fenris growled, and stalked over to one of the rogues nearby, snagged a nasty looking blade from his hip, and returned to the woman in the crushed armor. He knelt, and greaves to get at the flesh beneath. "Tell me." He barked, trailing the blade over her leg, while pinning it to the ground. "Why did he send you?"

"You have no idea what he can do to me if I talk-"

Fenris dragged the dagger over her skin in a mocking and crude attempt to place upon her skin, scars similar to his own lyrium enhanced scars. "You will be lucky to see tomorrow, wench, you need not worry about what my former master will do to you upon your return."

She whimpered, but did not speak.

"Your silence is admirable, but you are in the wrong line of work." He said, intent as he captured the quivering muscle, on cutting deeply into her flesh, but as he brought the blade to bear, the fierce quivering, and shaking stilled, then her body went slack, it unnerved him. "Woman?" He called.


He stood up, stalked to her head. "Woman!" He growled. Her eyes were closed. There was a flask near her lips. Fenris knelt, and picked the bottle up, he sniffed once, short and away from the neck. "Deathroot. Of course." He planted the blade in her throat, and watched with disdain as the blood pooled and dribbled. She did not sputter. He told himself he would have allowed her to live, had she given him the information he asked for, but his self did not believe him. He wiped his face, and looked at his blade with a grimace. He had not cared for it well enough in the days since his escape. He promised himself he would remedy that when he was relatively safe.

He went through her armor, pockets, and the like. She carried six sovereigns, and he felt himself in awe at the small fortune. He would walk on to the nearest city, after he cleaned both himself and his blade, and buy necessities. His stomach rumbled, yes, necessities. Food. Oils for his armor and blade… he also needed directions to the imperial highway. The slavers would know to look along the road, but… the silent planes were a deserted place. Dangerous. Foolish of him to go… impossible to stay, and even more impossible to return. "Not an option." He grunted. He wiped his broadsword after stowing what trinkets the dead had relinquished with their lives. It was only then that the sun finally peaked over the horizon, in a brilliant blaze of pink and yellow. He grimaced, thinking that he should begin traveling at night to hide his movements, once he reached the Imperial highway. For now? He would enjoy the pretence of being a free man strolling over a death littered backroad- it hardly warranted the name- soaking in the warm sunshine.

"I should have known I could never be free!" Fenris growled, storming back and forth before the city gates. He had just been forced to cut a bloody swathe through the guard, because they had been warned of his approach, and compelled to subdue him or die. Slavers and pawns, the lot of them; enslaved by either chain or greed to the wills of the Magisters.

He had stolen the coin they had on their bodies as payment for the agony of his lyrium rage, and their own ill fated attempts on his life. He sneered at one of the corpses, a male elf. His own age. He should have felt some filial sadness at the loss of such a strong member of his own race, but he didn't. The elf had been a thrall, a pawn of the Magister's. He snarled, and ran south. Qarinus was a death trap. Denarius knew him too well… but if Fenris didn't get supplies, he'd be walking through a desert with nothing but his armor and his blade.

He chuckled dully, the frying pan or the fire.