Trial of the Rose

The atmosphere of the inside of the Merry Mare, located on a rundown side street in the lower district of Denerim, was anything but merry that evening. Questionably safe at the best of times, Macha could taste the bar-brawl brewing as surely as she tasted the ale that sat on the counter in front of her. There was a particularly nasty piece of work harassing one of the waitresses, and the fool had yet come to know that the waitresses of the Merry Mare were the last people one wanted to trifle with. In addition to that, there was a group of men down at the other end of the bar who's argument was escalating to less-than-hushed voices. It seems a deal had gone bad between them, and one man (the poor sod was on his own, against the crooked thief's entourage of five men) was trying to argue his money back into his wallet. Macha could already see the thief's hand inching for his knife.

Why, then, might Teryn Ser Macha Cousland, remaining of the most noble house left in Ferelden, and Warden Lieutenant Commander and accomplished knight in her own right, be drinking stale ale on a rickety bar stool in a worn down and smelly bar in the back alleys of Denerim, preparing her hackles for a bar-brawl to be? Naturally, because she felt more comfortable here than she did in the more upstanding places, such as the Gnawed Noble, and much preferred the company of the low of the society than the lords and ladies. It also helped that one could hear the rumors and roundabouts of the town, and learn all there was to really learn about the people worth knowing about.

The massive mabari at her feet barely even quirked his ears every time the door opened, content as he was to lay with his head on his paws and look menacing, causing anyone that dared try to approach and help themselves to Macha's wallet to have serious second thoughts. Not that she'd ever let anyone pick-pocket her, but Argos liked to be watching out for something- as a nearly 300-pound-of-muscle-and-teeth-and-claw mabari, the massive black dog was best cut out for causing grown men to wet their armor, and the dog seemed to enjoy the effect he had on people.

Now, though, he lifted his head, alert for movement and sound and everything else. Macha felt him move and looked down at him in curiosity. Swiveling her to where he was looking, she saw, to her dismay, that the deal-gone-bad had gone south faster than a rock thrown from a chantry tower. The cheated customer was now pressing both of his hands to a bleeding wound in his side, and the crook was out of his seat, brandishing a knife casually. She stood as Argos' lips pulled back to reveal his teeth, growling menacingly, but the dog stayed put just behind her as she approached the confrontation. He was too well-trained to attack without orders.

"What seems to be the problem here, gentleman?" It must have been a funny sight. She was without her armor, and dressed in a simple tunic and pants, she couldn't have stood more than 5 foot 4, a good half-head shorter than the shortest of the men, and looked not to weigh more than nine or ten stones (she weighed more than that, but it was all muscle, thank you very much). They couldn't see her finely toned, muscled arms under her tunic, or firm stomach and sturdy legs. If she'd been naked (and she was very glad that she was not), they might have had a different opinion of her. As it was, they probably thought the sword at her waist was just for show, and she doubted they thought she could use it.

"Problem?" The head-crook asked 'innocently', turning around easily with a hand on his hip. "There's no problem here, lass," he said, taking a step forward as his goons took a step back, looking wary. Not at her, of course, but at Argos, who's growl deepened as the man took another step forward. "Just a little, innocent business transaction. Need t' teach a lad t' go back on a deal, I do, or he won't get nowhere in life. Nobody likes a thief. Still," he said, eyes turning down on her hungrily. She stood her ground, looking up at her with her left hand casually resting atop her sword hilt. "If a lass like you is looking for trouble, it would be my pleasure to show you some in the back room later."

"What a kind offer," she said, eyes closing as she smiled brightly. "Alas, I'm not that kind of woman, though I am sure your mother was, you lowlife, no-good, beer-swilling pig." Her face was all smiles, and her voice so pleasant as she delivered the insult, that for a moment the man didn't seem to even notice that she'd insulted him and his mother, and when her words had finally registered in his brain her sword hilt was already rammed into his kidney.

The man doubled over in pain as Argos took her movement as a signal to act, and lunged forward towards two of the men. He knew not to bite to kill- blood was hard to get out of a tavern floor- but the mabari knew more than enough ways to incapacitate. Leg bones were his personal favorite.

As she drew her sword in full, Macha saw the younger man, still bleeding from the wound in his belly, inch towards the door. She didn't blame him for wanting to get out of there, and she couldn't stop him, but she hoped he saw a healer as soon as possible. A wound like that would kill him in less than half an hour if left untreated. A little closer to his stomach, and he'd be dead on the floor already.

With their leader on the floor, knocked out cold with a precise cut down his chest and a nasty bump on his head, and with three of their comrades on the floor, being mauled by the biggest and blackest mabari they'd ever seen, and with their quarry already escaping out the door, the last two men decided (and rightly so) that there was very little keeping them in this tavern any longer, and so, in tandem, they began to practically trip over each other in their haste to get to their door. Macha's head turned towards them, eyes narrowed (and a frightening image did she make, with blood splattered on her pale face on over the front of her shirt, black hair loose around her head), and she started after them. They were fools if she thought she'd let them go to continue harassing (and probably kill) the wounded young man.

Although it was not her usual haunt, the Gnawed Noble way up in Market District, Fremelda Dragonis was still quite comfortable around all the rough and ready patrons that inhabited the Merry Mare. She had spent a few nights here in the past. Of course, the patrons soon learned not to try and fool with the woman carrying that curved sword of hers. Sitting back on her chair, her booted feet resting on the table, with her hands casually resting behind her head of auburn hair, the Queen of Thorns watched the exchange between a black haired woman who obviously carried herself as above the ruffians here, and the burly brute who thought himself quite the ladies man.

All the same, it was amusing to watch the raven headed lass and her massive mabari hound thoroughly trounce the man and his friends. A twisted smile of pleasure graced the lips of the most dangerous assassin in Denerim. This girl reminded her of herself, albeit, the woman in question was far less inconspicuously dressed. The tunic and trousers were of too fine make, probably of Orlesian silk. Maybe Antivan cotton, which had a sheen similar to silk.

Her steel blue eyes betrayed an inward chuckle as the woman casually resumed her drink, bloody face and all. "Well done there." She complimented from her table.

Praise was not something she was use to anymore. As a child, maybe, she'd received praise for doing something just as Father had told her, and as a young woman she had been complimented on her ability to know her way around her sword just as well as Fergus did. The praise had stopped, after that. During her travels with her old friends (the thought of them sent her stomach into her feet for how much she missed them), few people were brave enough to thank a Warden for saving them, content to stare in awe (and fear) as they did their jobs, and besides, a word of thanks was not a word of praise. Darkspawn certainly didn't appreciate being cut down. Her friends had never complimented each other- they all knew they were good, and it went unspoken.

So when a confident voice called across the bar that she'd done a good job, Macha had put down her drink and stared across the room at the woman who'd issued it. She simply stood and looked for a moment, and then looked down, startled, when Argos took the initiative to trod across the floor to stand by the red-haired woman. Macha was stunned for a moment, before a wary smile spread across her face, and she turned to grab her mug off the counter before walking towards the table where the casually sure of herself woman was lounging (because sitting wasn't quite the right word- the woman owned the space she sat in).

"I thank you, stranger," Macha finally replied, coming to stand next to the table, Argos sitting on his haunches in front of her as he looked, interested, up at the woman. "But I'm afraid I don't deserve your compliment. I was merely doing what I thought to be right. I rather dislike filth like him and his friends." It seemed to Macha that the one thing she'd never managed in ridding herself of was her way of speaking. Once she opened her mouth, no matter how she dressed, only a deaf man would not recognize her as nobility (or an incredibly stupid man, much like the thief still unconscious on the floor by the bar). She could never even manage a false common accent, and soon enough, she'd given up on trying all together.

Fremelda was delighted to see the woman had joined her at her table, but the smile on her face quickly faded by the bearing of her guest. A noble. A shadow of something flashed across the assassin's steel blue eyes...loathing? Mistrust? It was hard to tell. Still, she obliged her companion. "You were impressive when handling those thugs...it makes me wonder where you learned to fight like that." She took a swig of her drink, brandy from the looks of it. A knowing smile crept onto her lips. "But I'll hazard a guess that you're better off than anyone else here. Nobles are normally tutored." She replied and then sat up straight, taking her feet from the table. She was aware of the mabari sitting at her side, but made it a point to never pet one that had been linked.

Fremelda was dressed in a black frock coat with a plunging neckline and a defiantly exposed belly. Her left sleeve was cut off indicating it was her sword arm, as did the curved sword sheathed by her right hip. Blue form fitting trousers clung to her shapely legs, and the brown leather boots on her feet were worn and well used, but still sturdy.

Macha didn't miss the way the woman's face closed up after she started speaking. It wasn't that hard to figure out why, though the reasoning behind it was still a mystery to her. She really should get better at disguising her accent- being pegged as a noble so soon into a conversation was likely to get her into trouble someday (and, in fact, had gotten her in trouble many times in the past). Still, Macha was never one to be shot down so easily, despite what may come of it. She was more than capable of taking care of herself if the situation called for it.

"Guilty as charged," she answered, keeping her voice friendly. "I had a tutor when I was young, but tutors tend to lose their worth once you're able to beat them in every duel. He was a lovely man, though." She smiled wistfully for a moment in remembrance, knowing full well that a moment of distraction was all it needed to get your purse cut in a place like this, and trusting Argos to be alert enough to keep her safe. "But then, a Cousland can afford the best of tutors, so once I was done with him, there was no one else qualified to teach me. I was left to my own devices after that." Perhaps name-dropping was not the smartest of things to do at a time and in a place like this, but Macha had never been able to suppress her pride for her family, and was especially proud of them now, after their untimely deaths. Besides, the Couslands were known across Ferelden for being worth their salt, especially amongst the other nobles, and if any name would assuage an angry commoner, it would be the Cousland name.

She leaned casually against the table behind her, resting her hip on the side as her hands braced on either side of her. Argos took up a similarly easy position at her feet, though his ears were alert. She made sure it was clear, though, that she was neither expecting nor wanting trouble, with her hands away from her blade (though not foolishly so). "Of course," she amended, her voice still as easy, "I really learned to fight as a Warden. Mock fighting, duels- they don't really teach you how to fight. It's only when you're trying to keep your life that you find out if you're any good or not. But then, we never really stop learning, do we?"

Fremelda had heard of the Couslands, of course. She had even met Bryce Cousland briefly in her childhood. She didn't meet him for long, of course as a seven year old girl had far better concerns than matters of state within the Bannorn. Her father Khel Dragonis was Arl of Redding, a small part of the Bannorn. Still, though Couslands were regarded with high regard in their memory, Fremelda didn't trust nobles on principle. She killed nobles for a living, after all. She smiled wearily. "Names are dangerous, milady. One never knows who might be listening." She said ominously, her steel blue eyes flickering to the crowd around them.

"A fight in the context of life and death can bring out the warrior in the most timid of people. You just need to reach down into the core of your being and summon the courage to fight. However, that is not how I do things." She smiled and drew her sword from its scabbard an inch or two then let it fall back, the folded steel, as brief as the show was, was beautifully forged. A high class weapon, though strange it may be compared to most weapons. Curved swords were an Elven idea, but anyone with smithing savvy would note that Elves did not design or make this blade.

"For my part, I prefer to end conflicts before they can ever arise." She said in veiled meaning. She drummed her fingers on the table, watching her noble companion for a long time. A good looking woman in her own right, unlike many nobles she herself had killed. Nobles would cover their ugliness with face paint and finery but this woman needed neither to flaunt her attractiveness. Shaking her head slowly and chuckling to herself, Fremelda was amused that she had not been overpowered by some of the drunker patrons and ravished so comely was this Cousland girl.

Fremelda, having grown up in the harsh environment that was Denerim's underworld, lacked almost every trace of her noble bearing. It made for good camouflage, especially since she could barely remember what being a noble was like. She was a little girl when she was abandoned by her parents.

"This is a particularly dangerous city for nobles like yourself, milady. There's an assassin about. Kills nobles."

"They can be," Macha conceded, wary as ever of the people around them. There were no more or less eyes on her now than when she'd come into the bar, though, so she was most probably in the clear. "But then, I don't go around denying my name, either. It seems I've got to tread a middle ground for mentioning it when in certain company." If she couldn't well hide that she was a noble, hiding that she was a Cousland came as no good to her. Better to be known as the Big Fish than the small fry, which were usually considered 'ripe for the picking', to use the common tongue.

Macha eyed the sword witha curious glance as the mysterious woman fingered the hilt almost lovingly, and she would have had to be a fool to miss the implication in her words. But then, all of the 'professionals' frequenting the bar were the shady type, and Macha knew that more than half of them made their gold by 'ending conflicts before they arose'. It came as no surprise to Macha that this woman was in a similar strain of business (when a less than reputable woman was that naturally attractive, she was either a bedding companion, or an assassin who used her looks to her favor).

It was a life that Macha could understand, as familiar as she had come to be with those who were not as gifted in birth or station. She had even resorted to it herself, during her past travels. A Wolf in the fold, she had become (a name that was still familiar in Denerim, even now, she'd learned with no small amusement), and while she'd never resorted to outright murder, she was intimately familiar with theft and bribery and extortion. Peculiar talents for a noble, but then, in the eyes of some, those were exactly the things noblemen excelled at.

When the woman turned to a her with a warning of the danger posed to nobles with a gleam in her eye, Macha nodded her head in interest. "Is there?" She asked, feigning mild surprise. It wasn't uncommon to hear about such things in the city, especially, when Macha was a noble herself, but common whisperings was not where Macha had heard of the Noble-killing assassin. The subject in question was, after all, one of the reasons Macha was in Denerim in the first place. But this woman didn't need to know that. "I think I've heard something of the sort, yes, now that you mention it. It seems a dreadful business, killing nobles- but then, half of them deserve it, and no small portion of the other half deserves something else, if not a messy death at the hands of an assassin." Perhaps it was in bad taste for her to wish death on her 'own kind', but then, who knew her 'own kind' better than someone in her position? She was intimately aware of the bad apples, of the crookedness of some of the nobility that rivaled even some of the worst of crime lords. But then, she was also intimately familiar with the good and just of the upper classes, of the people to whom truth and honor were real words, and to those who knew that nobility was a state of being, rather than a station in life. When she lost hope in the ruling people of Ferelden in the face of trash like Bann Vaughan, she had only to remember the like of Bann Teagan, or Bann Sighard (a personal friend of her's, and possibly the only man in Ferelden who could nearly match her hatred of Howe), and she could take heart that not all was lost.

Fremelda was enjoying herself, despite being with company she loathed on principle. This Cousland girl was remarkably similar, if a bit inept at the art of stealth and secrecy. "Well this assassin we all keep hearing rumors about, you see. She's good at her job, probably the best." To make the ruse complete, she added a tone of admiration, pretending to be someone she was not. As a trained actor it wasn't hard to fall into another character without a hitch. "Most nobles don't deserve the honor of a straight up fight. They die like the dogs they are. The Queen knows how to get to them. She's damned persuasive. Pardon my cursing, but I'm not one for table manners." She scoffed.

Brushing her fingers through the locks of hair that hovered just behind her shoulder, swept out towards the side, she stared off at nothing in particular for a moment, thinking. "Want to know the best part of it all? She murdered the Revered Mother of the Chantry here. Right beneath the Templars' noses! Bloody impressive. Not even I could attempt such a hit and get away with it." She grinned in admiration once again.

"But still, tis dangerous talk for here. Would you and your hound join me outside? Perhaps a sparring match will help me work off this tension I keep feeling. Someone's been watching me, and I don't like it." She admitted icily. Standing up from her chair, she headed towards the door, her black frock flapping behind her.

"Is she now?" Macha wondered with minor skepticism. She wasn't sure if she quite believed that the fabled assassin was as good as they said, but the woman's words matched fairly well with all other accounts of the pseudo-legendary Queen. Macha wasn't one to believe hype about certain characters- no one was ever all they were made out to be- and this Queen was no exception, in Macha's mind. People had to be judged face to face, or not at all. "I've only heard whispers about her, myself. I don't know what to make of her, yet. You seem suitably impressed, though. It's rare for someone to admire a fellow's work so thoroughly."

Speaking of the murder of the Revered Mother made Macha cringe, but she said nothing on the subject. As often as the Chantry was wrong about certain things, the people who worked to spread the Maker's word were often good people, and she doubted that the Revered Mother deserved that sort of death. Growing up, she was taught to pay homage to the Maker and Andraste, but after seeing so much more of the world, her devotion had wavered to little more than a respect for it, among other religions. She understood that many people had many grievances with the Chantry, but that didn't mean they deserved assassination. Of course, considering the company she was keeping, it would be best to keep quiet on the subject.

She considered the woman in front of her for a minute after the offer of a duel. Her eyes followed her as she stood up and moved towards the door, and without a word she stepped away from the table she was leaning on to follow, Argos at her heels. Her hand wrested comfortably on her sword hilt as she took naturally long strides out of the tavern. A duel might be exactly what she needed right now- the earlier altercation wasn't exactly a workout, and Argos had taken most of he action anyway.

"Watching you?" She asked as they stepped out into the back street outside of the tavern. It was clear, thankfully- Macha didn't like the idea of having an audience. "Is that paranoia speaking, or do you have reason to believe that you're being watched?"

Fremelda smiled as she placed a hand on the doorway. "Do I? Well, The Queen of Thorns garners a lot of respect as well as animosity from other assassins here in Denerim. The fact that she killed off enough Antivan Crows to keep them off her back for good is certainly enough to respect her. I wish I were like her." She smiled again. "Milady, you may call me Fremelda. There's no more too it, as I was but a slave girl before I took this profession." She explained, and there was indeed truth in her words, the way she said slave with so much icy venom it had to be true that she suffered the indignities that went along with it. The scars all along her exposed arm and especially around her wrist attested to it louder than any words could.

Still, she shrugged her shoulders. "It could be paranoia, or it could be that someone wants me dead. My gut instinct is rarely wrong. Hopefully we can draw out who's after me with this duel. Plus it will help me loosen up." She smiled unfeelingly. Standing in the middle of the street near the pub, she pivoted on her foot skillfully and faced Macha, then drew her sword, the full three feet of folded steel. The blade had a wavy pattern on the sharpened end, but the other half was dulled and weighted. Her right hand acted as a balance, held forward below her waist while her sword arm was back beside her hip.

Macha nodded as she listened to the story, frowning in testament to the scars on this 'Fremelda's' arms. It certainly seemed to be the case that she had been a slave, considering all of the marks, and the ones on her wrist brought to mind painful memories of the few desperate days right after the massacre of the Cousland household, where Macha had been determined to end her life, no matter what. If Duncan hadn't been there, she would probably be dead now, and she thanked the Maker and Andraste and all of the dwarven Paragons and all of the elven Pantheon that Duncan had been there. Quickly the despair had turned to rage, and any thoughts of ending her life had turned to dreams- fantasies that she played out, every night- of ending Howe's.

Macha did not like to think about those days.

She had to make a conscious effort to loosen her fist's hold on her sword hilt, having gripped it tight in response to the brief but intense flood of negative emotion just a moment ago. It was never a good idea to enter into a duel with a mind clouded with anger, and so she forcibly willed herself to listen to Fremelda, and ignore her internal musings. Argos walked out the door and around Macha to trod in front of her and take up a seat just to the right of the Tavern door, alert and waiting.

"Well, look at it this way. Paranoia can be a useful asset for a warrior," Macha said with a nod of her head, standing about ten paces away directly in front of the red-haired woman. "As I've heard said, a paranoid warrior is a breathing warrior." Her lips quirked up a little at that, and she shrugged her shoulders as she took her own beginning stance. It was a basic stance, but the basics were the most versatile, and she was a fan of the classics. "In any case, I am glad to be of service, whether for luring out your mysterious haunt, or for 'loosening you up'." The friendly smirk returned to her face, and stayed there as she readied herself.

Macha drew her longsword from its sheath, the one sword she would ever allow herself to use. It had been her father's sword, hastily snatch up during her desperate escape of the castle with Duncan. It meant more to her than anything else she possessed, and it had never failed her in a fight. Perhaps it was not of such a unique design as Fremelda's oddly curved blade, but it was of the finest make possible, and still as sharp as it had been when it was forged, almost four centuries ago. It had always been well cared for, and Macha, despite her duties, had always made its upkeep her main priority. She refused to let any blacksmith touch it if she felt they were of inadequate skill. So far, only Wade of Denerim had impressed her with his skill enough that she let him sharpen the blade when it needed real care. His perfectionism, even for a blade he hadn't crafted, and appreciation for such a finely crafted sword, even if not by his hand, had likened him to her immediately. She and he had hit it off, so to say, and she now went to him exclusively for repairs (something which his shopkeep- who amused her to no end- seemd unhappy with). And yet, no matter her dedication to its 'health', she always felt a twinge of sadness when drawing it from its sheath. The ring of the blade on the tempered leather and steel of the scabbard sang to her of home, and reminded her before every fight of what she was fighting for- of who she was fighting for. She couldn't lose with that in her heart.

So, she stood back, eyes narrowed, and waited.

Fremelda smiled at the Cousland woman. She prepared in her stance and then cleared her throat, reciting the mantra of her swordsmanship teacher. "Be hard as stone, be fluid as water, be damaging as fire, be swift as wind." She then rushed forward with impressive speed. As she began to swing her sword in an upward arc, she remembered the year of sword training she recieved from a group of gypsies. Her teacher was harsh but taught her how to use her lack of sheer male strength as a strength in itself with her impressive agility and precision.

Using the opponent's weight against them was always the advantage of smaller framed people. One just had to know how to use it.

Macha's grip tightened around her sword's hilt, and her eyes narrowed in anticipation as Fremelda burst to life in front of her. Her left foot twitched, angling slightly to better support her, before pushing off the dirt road suddenly, her right foot moving just a fraction of a second before her left. She shot forward from her position, sword held firmly in her right hand, ready for impact, as her left leveled just slightly behind her, keeping her balance as she moved rapidly. Even for as quickly as she moved, though, her actions seemed to her to be as in slow motion as she considered each twitch of muscle with the utmost care.

Perhaps Fremelda was used to fighting larger opponents, but so was Macha, and in this situation, Macha was the smaller of the two. She guessed that the red-headed woman was a good three or four years older than her, and so was naturally just taller than she herself was. Macha had been training since she could walk to compensate for her small size, whether she was tripping Fergus up in the practice courtyard, or backstabbing Ogres on the battlefield, and she was something of an expert at it, by now.

Her sword clashed against Fremelda's strange curved blade, but she didn't spare a moment to allow her arm to rest from the jarring it had received. Body-to-body fighting was a sure way to get yourself hurt, and her sword slid down the length of the curve before separating, and she moved back, guard up in full

Fremelda was measuring the skill of the raven-locked girl she was fighting, and by her reaction, Fremelda could tell the girl took note of Fremelda's usual fighting style. And when their blades clashed, Fremelda grinned. Clashes always added a bit of excitement to a battle, you never knew who would win it. As their blades separated, Fremelda utilized the opportunity to spin a retaliating strike towards the girl's side. Of course, she wouldn't make it a fatal blow, that wouldn't be sporting when one was off duty. No, this strike would wind her for sure if it connected, however.

Even after years of dueling practice, of learning the rules and courtesies of fighting, there was no returning to the simple way of fighting once you'd been on a field of battle, fighting not for honor or country or fellow, but for your own life. In a duel, in a sparring match, one could sacrifice a hit in order to land a better one on your foe. In battle, one sacrificial hit could spell your messy death on the field. If there was one rule at all in war, it was this- do not get hit, no matter what. It was better to lose an opening on your enemy than to have your guts spilling out onto a hostile blade.

That mentality had carried over in Macha's mind, even into casual life. Where once she might have been less worried over taking a blow in a duel, her mind now kicked in on reflex, executing maneuvers to keep that one code of self preservation intact. As Fremelda swept her sword around, Macha didn't even register her own movements as she spun out of its way, the tip of her sword barely glinting off the side of the curved blade as she swept herself out of its path. She felt the sting of Fremelda's sword as its tip bit through her tunic to land a thin, clean cut across her side, but she barely registered it in her adrenaline rush. Her blade cut through the air in an arch as she turned, gaining momentum as she brought it back around, swinging it heavily from the left side of her body around to the right, front boot planted firmly in the ground as her family's sword cut up towards the outside of Fremelda's sword arm. She made sure that she reigned in on the strength of her blow so that she wouldn't do too much damage.

How exhilarating! The Cousland woman had such finesse and grace that spoke volumes of the real battles she had seen and been in. Fremelda in comparison, tended to avoid straight up fights and relied on quick strokes to vital areas to fell her opponents. Her own skill showed she lacked true battle experience, but she had enough combat savvy to not be as naive as nobles at play. She saw that her blow connected, if only slightly, but a retaliating slash was already underway towards the assassin. Fremelda had just barely managed to draw her sword arm away from the blow, but in doing so, left her chest vulnerable. Hoping to rectify this, Fremelda spun around and aimed an elbow straight for the Cousland's head.

Her sword sung through the air, passing through where Fremelda's arm had been mere moments before. Macha gritted her teeth, lips curving up slightly in an excited grin. She could tell from the auburn-haired woman's movements that she was far more used to sneak attacks, and getting fights finished before they could begin, much as she had said earlier. She was quick, one of the quickest opponents Macha had ever faced, and though Macha won out in offensive maneuvers and power, Fremelda took home the gold in defense, and she was certainly no stranger to keeping herself covered during an attack.

And, it also seemed, she was no stranger to dirty fighting.

Macha should have expected the blow from the woman's elbow- there was no such thing as 'dirty fighting' in a real battle, and you took whatever hit you could get- but it took her off guard, and she could barely turn her head so that she didn't get a hit in the nose, and the elbow connected with her cheek instead, her jet-black hair rippling as the blow jostled Macha's head back. Her eyes squeezed shut as she saw stars, and she stumbled back a few steps, her left hand held protectively over her right eye and cheek as her right hand lowered her sword in a moment of being stunned.

It was only a moment after that that she remembered she was in a fight, though, and her arm raised up her sword instinctively, but just as she did, there was a shout from across the road. She blinked in surprise (though it looked to be a wink, as her right eye was shut closed in a wince), and turned her head as a young courier boy ran over to the fight, seemingly heedless that both women had drawn swords.

The boy headed for Fremelda, ignoring Macha completely, and the noblewoman-turned-Warden straightened up, letting the tip of her sword rest on the ground as she rubbed a finger gently over her cheek, then slapped it gently once with her hand to get the sting out. Then, she simply watched, looking over at Fremelda curiously as the boy stood on his tip-toes to speak to her.

Fremelda was delighted to see that her elbow had connected, though the arm had gone numb from the elbow down. She shook her arm to get the feeling back in her nerves. As Macha had readied herself for another attack, a courier approached the duelling pair and went straight of Fremelda.

"You are wanted by a Ser P.. You will get your mission from him directly." The boy said, and then whispered the location and time, then Fremelda nodded her head and sent the boy off. She sheathed her curved sword and smiled at Macha. "I'm afraid we'll have to put this on hold, milady. I have business to attend to elsewhere. Mind yourself." She offered a clumsy bow and then trotted off to meet her employer in another part of the city.

~~~~

The Gnawed Noble was Fremelda's favorite haunt, and one of the side rooms was where she was to meet her employer. Ser P. was a short man who had obviously let the pomp of his title allow him to grow soft and fat. She was disgusted by men like this. He had a lecherous glint in his dull brown eyes as he regarded Fremelda in her shapely figure. She clasped her hands behind her back and puffed out her chest defiantly. "So what is the job?" She snapped.

The knight belched. "Tonight is a gathering of the local nobility at old Arl Vaughn's palace. The target you're supposed to take care of is Bann Yannick. He's been a thorn in my side for years now, and is all that stands in my way of becoming-" before he could start ranting, Fremelda held up a silencing hand. "Shut it. I get the point. Describe him for me and he will be dead before dawn." She demanded and when the description was given, Fremelda set about getting half of her payment first, as she always did. A thousand sovereigns in advance, the other thousand when the job was done.

Fremelda got dressed in her room, wearing a flowing gown adorned with fur around the hems of the sleeves, collar and base. Her shoulders and neckline were fully exposed, but it left her breasts still hidden, as the telltale tattoo on her chest would give her away to those savvy enough with her work. She kept a dagger tucked in her boot as she always did. One could never be too careful.

The seeming end of the duel came so quickly for the raven-haired Warden that for a moment her body didn't register that the mock-battle had ended. Slowly, though, her muscles uncoiled, and the tension left her body as Fremelda seemed to discuss something with the young courier, then nodded and looked back at Macha.

She returned Fremelda's parting courtesy with a hasty but much more refined bow, and nodded. "Of course..." she said slowly, watching as the red-headed woman turned on her heel and promptly turned off the dusty street and into an alley, away from sight.

Macha stood for a moment, then looked back at Agros as she re-sheathed her sword. "Well, boy, it seems we're on our own again." Argos lifted off of his haunches to trod over to Macha's side, and she absently rubbed her still-sore cheek and eye with a hand, ignoring the throbbing as she thought of what to do now.

She was no longer inconspicuous enough to sit causally inside the tavern to collect information, and it would be prudent of her to return to her lodgings at Arl Eamon's estate (the Arl was in Redcliff for the season, but had allowed her to stay as a family guest) to try and stem the swelling in her eye. If she didn't ice it soon, her already forming bruise would be much worsened. With that decision made she patted Argos' head, and the two began the walk back to the estate.

--

Macha was very much a fan of bathing. Though many commoners- and even nobles- seemed to regard it as a 'once every so often' event, Macha rather preferred to bathe whenever possible, and it was especially desirable after a fight, as short as it had been. She'd lounged around in her room after the bath, applying an ice pack to her face, and when she finally began to redress, there was a knock at her door. She was not alone in the Arl Eamon's Denerim home- the entire waitstaff was still on duty, so it always felt like a full house- but the noise still surprised her.

Not yet dressed, she hurriedly threw on a long nightshirt, and opened the door a crack, to see who was on the other side.

"Pardon your interruption, miss," came the soft but assured voice of the elven maid on the other side of the door, "but a letter has come by for you just this after-noon, and I thought it best to take it to you as soon as possible."

Macha opened the door the rest of the way, glad that it as a female maid, and carefully took the wax-sealed scroll in her hand, glancing over it curiously before flicking open the seal with her finger, and opened it.

Her eyes scanned the paper while the maid waited patiently at the door, and she frowned a little as she read it, then folded it back up. "Thank you. It is a simple invitation. If I may ask a favor?" She said, a hardness obviously set into her face, though she tried to seem casual and calm to the maid.

"Anything, miss," the maid said, looking somewhat worried for what could make Macha so tense.

"If you could send a courier out to the Market, and find Will for me. Tell them to have her come back to the estate as soon as possible. She's needed."

The maid nodded, and Macha gave her a comforting pat on her arm before the small thing turned and scurried down the hall to relay the message. Argos looked up curiously from where he was resting on the bed, and his ears dropped when he saw they way Macha's hand shook and her face darkened as she closed the door.

"I've been invited," she explained to the dog, "to a political get-together for the local nobility." Argos cocked his head, still confused, and then Macha looked at him with her eyes narrowed into slits. "At the Arl of Denerim's estate." Argo's ears immediately flattened on his head, and his let out a low whine.

The more she thought about it, the angrier she got. It made sense that she was angry- angry hardly began to describe it. The Arl of Denerim's estate had been the place Howe had breathed his last breath, and Macha had not been the one to slit his throat and watch him bleed. She would have relished in it- she would have made him beg for mercy, and then she would have laid out her plans for the rest of his family- slaughter them, just as he had slaughtered hers. Then she would have killed him slowly...

Argos whined, jumping off the bed to push his head against her leg. Her eyes were downcast, and her entire body was shaking. He barked at her, but she didn't seem to notice. In a fit of determination, he opened his mouth and- as lightly as mabari jaws could- bit down on her hand.

Macha's eyes spasmed, opening wide, and she yanked her hand away, instinctively slapping back the mouth that had bit her. Argos yelped, then backed away, his short tail dropping as he retreated rather than attack his master in defense. Macha stared at her dog, eyes wide, and for a moment, she seemed to not be seeing him, her hand held protectively to her chest.

Then, her legs gave out on her. She slumped to the floor, her eyes tearing as they narrowed, looking at Argos. "No," she muttered pathetically, cradling the bitten hand with her other against her breast. "No, not you. I'm sorry. I'm sorry Argos- I didn't mean to hurt you." Argos whined, and padded over to her, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, and buried her face in his fur. "I'm sorry, boy. You're all I've got. I didn't mean to hurt you." her words came out broken, and most were interrupted by sobs as she cried into the thick fur, and Argos simply stood there, licking at the side of her neck that he could reach with his tongue as if to say 'it's alright'.

She cried for what seemed like forever, though it couldn't have been more than a few minutes. Then she just sat, arms around Argos' muscled neck, and she breathed in the smell of the one friend (because Argos was far more than a dog or pet) that had always been there for her. Finally, she stood up shakily, and wiped a hand across her face.

"It's over," she reminded herself. "Howe's dead- it's just a building. There's no reason not to go." She looked back at Argos, and tried to smile at him, but it was a pathetic attempt. "I don't think they'll let me bring you, boy. You want me to have the cooks make you a steak for dinner?" Argos whined, then barked, and Macha let out the kind of desperate laugh that you can only make after you've cried your lungs out. "Alright- I'll have them make it a whole cow."

Argos barked again, happy that his master was on the mend from her desperate moment, and Macha went about the room getting ready for the evening. She never dressed like a proper lady for these events, but a set of armor wouldn't do, either. She had some nobleman's clothes with her, and held them up in front of her, frowning.

"Maybe I should just dress as a girl, this once." Argos made a face, and Macha finally managed a real laugh. "Alright, a dress it is. I think I have one somewhere..."

Willhelmina Sighard, better known as 'Will' to both good friends and brief acquaintances, was walking through the busy and crowded streets of Denerim's Market district, making her way back to her current temporary residence at Arl Eamon's town home with her Lady Macha Cousland. She had stepped out early this morning to fetch a dagger her Lady had left in Wade the smith's (excuse her, that is weapons artist) care two days past, but had been sidetracked on her way home, delaying her return until this advanced hour in the afternoon.

Will, however, was often sidetracked when walking without a strict deadline to speed her step. As a knight, she always felt as though it was her duty to aid those citizens whom were within her power and ability to assist. Frequently she would be met with a lost child, or an elderly gentleman in need of help while his sons were away, or other similar small acts of good deeds she was more than glad, as well as proud and honored, to preform. Today went something like this:

As Will had left Wade's, she had passed the small and diverse bazaar in the center of Market District Proper and noticed an elderly woman, whom she later learned was called Mrs. Gretkin, juggling far too many groceries for her frail arms to hold. Naturally, and without a second, thought, Will had approached her and offered her assistance. Mrs. Gretkin had smiled in a flustered sort of way, and graciously accepted. Will had learned, to her horror, that the kind old woman lived past the Drakon River and westward, by the City Gates, and had to walk all this way by herself to purchase her groceries, and then walk all the way back with them in hand. So Will accompanied her home, carrying the greater part of the burden and assured the woman that she would be in town for a while longer, and if she ever needed help, or someone to deliver groceries, Will would be all too happy to help. Mrs. Gretkin had chuckled and told Will that she reminded her of her late husband. A about mid-morning, they reached the woman's home, and Will received her ardent thanks with poorly concealed embarrassment, insisting that it was an honor to help the good people of Denerim. Then, as she was about to leave, there was a cry of alarm, and Will cast her gaze about until she looked up, and noticed a pair of window washers looking sufficiently alarmed. Apparently, the younger of the two had been straining to reach the highest window and had nearly fallen, as he wasn't tall enough and his ladder was already fully extended. Naturally, Will offered her help once again. Being nearly a full foot taller than the young man, the window was within her long reach. The knight insisted on completing all of the windows the younger washer couldn't reach on his own. He didn't seem able to decided if he was grateful or ashamed, but Will assured him that it was no trouble at all, that she had nothing to do at that moment, and that, as a knight of the realm, it was no less her duty. This, the window washers didn't seem quite convinced of, but in any even, Will found herself on the receiving end of a citizen's gratitude, which she accepted humbly.

After that, the lady-knight managed to make her way back to the Market District with only one or two short delays (catching an escaping puppy for two children and helping a young girl back to her mother's side, respectively). To her surprise, she was met in the market by a rather breathless young elven woman, one Will recognized from Arl Eamon's household staff. The elf was sent out for two purposes; one, to buy some kitchen necessities and, two, to find Will and inform her that her Lady Macha had requested her presence. Supposing that the Lady Macha's need for a simple dagger would not be quite this pressing, Will figured that something else must have come up for her Lady to send someone out to locate her. Will assured the elf that she would go to Lady Macha's side immediately , but not before she helped the courier with her shopping list, which included the retrieval of a few heavier items, such as pots and pans. Will ignored her protests and together, they completed her errands in half the normal time, and Will once again returned to the Estate, wasting no time in heading for Macha's rooms.

With a gentle knock on the door, Will asked through the wood, "My Lady? It's me, Will. You've requested my presence?"

Macha's legs itched. Argos cocked his head as he watched his mistress stumble around the floor length dress, utterly confused as to why she would wear the confining outfit, rather than a comfortable and practical pair of trousers. Just as the noblewoman was stepping into the heeled shoes- overwhelmingly underworn heeled shoes- she heard a knock on the door and paused, looking over her shoulder to the other side of the room.

"You can come in, Will!" She called over, then returned her attention to wrestling her foot into the elaborate shoe. It was the sort of thing an Orlesian woman would have swooned over, and Macha was sure that Leliana would have loved them. She made a face as Argos jumped off of the bed, trotting towards the door as he barked, allowing his own acquiescence that the tall woman could enter the room.

"We have been invited," Macha started as she heard the door open, pausing for a long moment as she struggled to get her foot into the last portion of the narrow-toed shoe. "To a party at the Arl of Denerim's estate." Her voice constricted on the words, but she made no otherwise negative display. Her crying fit earlier had done a fair job of relieving her stress and anxiety, if not her anger. She didn't expect anything to relieve her anger, though- frankly, she expected to die with that anger still coiled deep in her heart. "We will be attending," she finally finished, her voice returning to normal.

Without calling him over, Argos trotted to her side, and Macha smiled as she braced her arms on his sturdy back, pushing herself to her feet. She wobbled in place, and the mabari hound placed his side against her legs to help her keep her balance.

"Andraste! How do women stand in these?!" After her feet found their grounding, she took a hesitant step away from the dog, only to have to hurriedly catch herself on the bed.

"I'm going to die. I've fought Ogres and bandits and the undead and more darkspawn than I can count, and I'm going to trip over my own feet and break my neck at a nobleman's party." Argos barked happily, and she mock-glared back at the dog. "You think I'm joking, don't you. Well, you won't sound so happy when they have to give you off to someone who doesn't give you an extra bone at dinner." The dog's bark turned into a whine, and Macha smiled as she pushed herself off of the bed, turning slowly to look at Will.

"Also, we need to dress as 'proper' nobility." She grinned in jest, but it held a barely veiled grimace in it. "Now," she turned, putting her back to Will as she looked over her shoulder to the tall woman. "Can you please button up the back for me?"

The party had started, and Fremelda was dressed and had her dirk in her boot. She was mingling with the nobility there, occasionally dancing while looking for her target. Bann Yannick was bound to be here somewhere. She felt there was more to this than what she was informed, however.


~~~~~~


Gareth Feres-Cousland, the acting Arl of Umoja, was in attendance with this particular party. He was dressed smartly in his gray and purple noble clothes. He had trimmed his beard and combed back his brown hair to look presentable to the people around. Of course, that didn't stop him from hitting on the women relentlessly. "Hello, my dear. Care for a drink?" he asked the nearest lady, who accepted the offer reluctantly. He flashed her his winning smile and escorted her to the bar. "You can be my Plus One for the evening if you wish. I'm Gareth by the way." He smiled over at her. The woman glanced coldly at him. "Nice to meet you, milord." She said coolly. Owch...ice queen. Gareth thought to himself but kept attempting to put the charm on her.

The woman didn't give her name to the Arl, she barely spoke. She just seemed to regard everything with those cold steel blue eyes behind her veil of auburn hair. "Hm... is something amiss?" he asked her. The woman shook her head. "Sorry, I have to go. I spotted my cousin." She said, offering a small smile to Gareth before disappearing into the crowd once more.

Gareth sighed into his drink and closed his eyes.

The gathering was already well under way when Macha finally arrived at the Arl's estate. She had known that she was going to be late, at the pace she'd been going, but her horrible shoes had slowed her even more than she'd anticipated. There was such a thing as fashionably late, but the closest Macha got to that was being dressed fashionably (if ridiculously) while also being very, very late. She could take some small comfort in the fact that, despite the way she'd been living for the past year or so, she could still look good in a dress, and still had the money to buy whatever was the top of the line at the time. It almost made looking like she'd raided Queen Anora's closet worth it.

For a while, Macha really had to wonder what she was doing here. The Couslands didn't hold nearly as much political power as they used to, since Howe's treachery, and she and Fergus were the only one's left to the name. It was possible in a few years, that Fergus might marry again - or she might - if only to bring their family back to its past standing, but until then, she was little more than a symbol. At the very least, the Cousland name still had power, even if there was nothing behind it. The people around her still smiled like they were looking at the daughter of the second most powerful man in Ferelden, and not at the little orphan child with little more than a sword and dagger to her name.

It didn't take too long, however, for the mingling to sufficiently occupy Macha's mind. There were a few decent men who Alistair had told her had helped their cause in the Landsmeet (she would always regret missing it), and she was more than happy to talk to them. It was almost enough to forget that Howe had been brought to justice here, even if she had not been the one to do it.

A flash of red and purple at the corner of her eye grabbed her attention - it took a bold woman to wear such a color with such vibrant hair - and she almost choked on the fine wine she'd been drinking as she recognized her. But it couldn't be - what was the woman from the bar doing here, then? It was possible that she was some elder gentleman's date, but Macha doubted it. No woman who fought as she had would be on the arm of some noble. She quickly turned back to the Arl she'd been speaking to - a kindly man who was complaining of his daughter and missing his son - and apologize before taking her leave of the conversation. She would have made to follow after her red-headed aquaintance if another head had not caught her eye.

If Macha hadn't been more composed, her eyes would have widened to truly undignified levels. As it was, only a quiet "Gareth?" murmured from her lips before she took a step towards him. Oh, Andraste! She looked between her cousin - she regretted to have assumed him dead after Highever - and her mysterious friend, and stood rooted in her spot.

Well, if ever there was a time for childish choosing games, now was it. Macha quickly recited a long-memorized rhyme in her head as she pointed between the man and quickly departing woman, and then came to her decision. Turning on heel, Macha moved after the auburn-head weaving through the crowd - seeing Gareth would take time, and deserved more attention then she would have been able to give him if she'd been too busy wondering about Fremelda. She could always speak to him later (now that she knew he was alive).

Fremelda was annoyed by the advances of the handsome noble who pestered her. She was on a mission. Fraternization, no matter how good looking the companion, was secondary to eliminating one's target. This man clearly could not be used as a means to getting to the Bann as it was quite clear that he had no affiliation with the target. She offered a smile and took her leave after spotting the fat pig among the crowd. He was leering at a few ladies, a grope to a serving girl here and there.

As she approached the Bann and fluttered her eyelashes while he looked down at her cleavage through the fur of her dress, Fremelda felt eyes following her. A single person's eyes. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up on end. Was she recognized? That would not do if she was to kill this bastard. Plan B. Not what she wanted to do, but she had little choice now. "Bann Yannick, would you care to join me for some refreshments and tell me about your battles?" she smiled sweetly and slipped her arm around his. He belched and grinned through blackened teeth. They made Fremelda feel nauseous but she kept it off of her face. Keeping the smile, she listened to the Bann's made up tales of bravery he performed during the Blight. Fremelda in kind, responded with faux 'oohs' and 'aahs'. As they were at the table, Fremelda offered to pour him a drink while he told his stories. She carefully laced it with a slow acting, undetectable poison she 'borrowed' from the Antivan Crows during one of their run ins.

"Y'know, you're actually not that bad for a plain looking girl." The Bann smiled as he took the cup and drank. Fremelda gave tight lipped smile. She was struggling to keep her composure. "Thank you, milord." she said through gritted teeth. He would be dead by morning if the poison worked. But first she would have to make her exit. Kissing his cheek, she winked at him. "Perhaps we may meet again sometime. I am afraid I have some business to attend to elsewhere." she said. The Bann nodded. "Aye, off ter th' Pearl with the rest of the whores? See ya later then. I'll spend the night with these beautiful lasses." He said, taking two serving girls under his arms.

Fremelda's face fumed. She was no longer a whore. And she worked in a brothel far less reputable than the Pearl. She forced herself calm as she walked out of the room, and quickly went to the streets to get changed.

As long as she watched, Macha couldn't see anything strange about what Fremelda was up to. She wondered why she'd even thought that something might be strange, in the first place. After all, likely or not, it was still possible that Fremelda had arrived with some guest and had separated from them over the course of the evening - Macha had been so late to the party that it was impossible to say for sure. Of course, she didn't understand why Fremelda had spent so much of her time with Bann Yannick, who Macha knew to be a disagreeable man, but even then, women were known to tolerate the company of less than pleasant men if only for the attention that wealth could bring.

She'd watched up until the time that Fremelda took her leave of the older Bann, and she had seen nothing amiss. If the woman looked angry as she stalked out of the hall, that too was nothing strange - anything the piggish man could have said could have set her off. Slowly, she made her way through the crowd, passing just close enough to the inebriated Bann to give him a quick once-over. Still nothing out of sorts. Still with a heavy feeling in the back of her mind, Macha let the matter drop. Actually, she would have liked to speak to Fremelda, now that she was relatively sure nothing illicit had happened, but the redhead had fled the building so quickly that she couldn't have had a chance if she'd tried.

"Ah well," she murmured under her breath, and with one last look towards Vannick, she went to approach the bar. At the very least, she could get some free alcohol out of this party. If she'd been entertained earlier listening to Arl Bryland's stories, then she was bored now. Soon, though, it would strike an appropriate hour for a 'lady' to take her leave of a party, and Macha fully intended to take advantage of that.

"May I have a glass of wine, please," she asked, gently, of the man serving the ale and liquor to the men about. If he thought it strange that a woman was asking for a drink herself - typically an escort would procure one for a lady - he didn't say anything. He might have if she'd asked for the ale she really wanted, but she was too intimate with the rules of propriety to push her luck too far.