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((9 Firstfall, 9:35; Afternoon; @Joscelyn Hawke ))
Two days had not markedly improved Varric's mood, possibly helped along by the fact that he'd been sleeping like shit. Some comfort could be derived from the fact that nobody seemed to be looking for a mage, a pirate, an assassin, a noblewoman and a certain dwarven writer in connection with the slaughter of twelve templars and one Tranquil, but that comfort was decidedly minimized by the fact that said dwarven writer had in fact been involved in the slaughter of twelve templars and one Tranquil.
He'd killed at least one of them himself.
Varric had never kidded himself about being a law abiding citizen, but there were rules he'd always lived by, and not attacking the law had been one that was pretty high up on the list, for reasons both practical and ethical. Templars had been included in that category when he hadn't known any mages. Currently, they occupied a place in shades of grey; he wouldn't let them take Sunshine or Daisy, but they served a purpose, and what he'd seen two nights ago had been vivid proof that they weren't just there to keep mages from sneaking down to the kitchen to steal the last cupcake.
And he'd helped kill them. He hadn't known the mage they were trying to free, and obviously he didn't know Blondie. And Josc -
Shit.
He'd gone because she asked him to, same as Rivaini and the Crow. He didn't blame her for things going south. That risk came with the territory. But she'd held back something that could have gotten them all killed, and might still land all of them at the end of a noose.
The Chantry had clamped a tight lid on things; there had been no public announcement of the deaths, no panic in the streets. But the number of armored patrols, and the number in those patrols, had gone up: never less than three templars together now, and the hungry look in their eyes made it clear that they were looking for more than a guilty party.
They wanted payback. And he couldn't blame them.
He'd given thought to passing a tip through a few hands, just a whisper of where a certain apostate-slash-abomination might be found. Just one problem: it was in his best friend's basement.
So he hadn't, but neither had he been able to bring himself to go over there. And Josc hadn't sought him out. So he'd stayed in his suite, letting his network be his eyes and ears, never giving any hint that he might be more interested in one bit of information presented to him than any of the others. There was a lot going on in Kirkwall on any given day, and Varric knew most of it, even when he'd rather not.
He sat with a tumbler of whiskey at hand, his eyes on a sheet of parchment that had been brought to him earlier that morning, other scraps scattered on the tabletop in front of him. Twelve names. Twelve lives reduced to ink on a page.
And he'd been one of the ones who had done it. Letting the paper fall to the table, he leaned back in the chair and took a drink.
Two days had not markedly improved Varric's mood, possibly helped along by the fact that he'd been sleeping like shit. Some comfort could be derived from the fact that nobody seemed to be looking for a mage, a pirate, an assassin, a noblewoman and a certain dwarven writer in connection with the slaughter of twelve templars and one Tranquil, but that comfort was decidedly minimized by the fact that said dwarven writer had in fact been involved in the slaughter of twelve templars and one Tranquil.
He'd killed at least one of them himself.
Varric had never kidded himself about being a law abiding citizen, but there were rules he'd always lived by, and not attacking the law had been one that was pretty high up on the list, for reasons both practical and ethical. Templars had been included in that category when he hadn't known any mages. Currently, they occupied a place in shades of grey; he wouldn't let them take Sunshine or Daisy, but they served a purpose, and what he'd seen two nights ago had been vivid proof that they weren't just there to keep mages from sneaking down to the kitchen to steal the last cupcake.
And he'd helped kill them. He hadn't known the mage they were trying to free, and obviously he didn't know Blondie. And Josc -
Shit.
He'd gone because she asked him to, same as Rivaini and the Crow. He didn't blame her for things going south. That risk came with the territory. But she'd held back something that could have gotten them all killed, and might still land all of them at the end of a noose.
The Chantry had clamped a tight lid on things; there had been no public announcement of the deaths, no panic in the streets. But the number of armored patrols, and the number in those patrols, had gone up: never less than three templars together now, and the hungry look in their eyes made it clear that they were looking for more than a guilty party.
They wanted payback. And he couldn't blame them.
He'd given thought to passing a tip through a few hands, just a whisper of where a certain apostate-slash-abomination might be found. Just one problem: it was in his best friend's basement.
So he hadn't, but neither had he been able to bring himself to go over there. And Josc hadn't sought him out. So he'd stayed in his suite, letting his network be his eyes and ears, never giving any hint that he might be more interested in one bit of information presented to him than any of the others. There was a lot going on in Kirkwall on any given day, and Varric knew most of it, even when he'd rather not.
He sat with a tumbler of whiskey at hand, his eyes on a sheet of parchment that had been brought to him earlier that morning, other scraps scattered on the tabletop in front of him. Twelve names. Twelve lives reduced to ink on a page.
And he'd been one of the ones who had done it. Letting the paper fall to the table, he leaned back in the chair and took a drink.
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