"So what do you do in that gigantic house all day?"

"Dance, of course."

"Really?"

"I run from room to room, choreographing routines."

"Point!" His feet were killing him.

"Flex!" Even the spaces between his toes were dripping in sweat.

"Split!" His legs were scalding iron rods, inflexible and scorching with pain.

"Flat back, Fenris!" He complied, not giving Hadriana the satisfaction of seeing him glare. Or maybe he was just too tired to look at her.

Only five more minutes until rehearsal was over for the day. Five more minutes of this supposed "cool-down," and then he was free to take an icy bath. He could almost taste the rivulets of water coursing over his aching limbs, feel them freeze up his muscles with their frigidity. At this point in the torture, the idea of not alternating from cold to hot seemed like a deliciously rebellious plan. He'd pay for it later with lasting soreness, but how good it would feel—

"Fenris, you're lagging! You're staying behind an extra fifteen. Everyone else, get out of here."

He wondered how good it would feel to hold her beating heart in his hands and crush it.

"Fuck you, Gamlen! I'm sick of you thinking you can tell me what to do!"

"Boy, if you had even a drop of spit's worth of sense in that thick skull of yours, you'd realize that sometimes your elders have more wisdom than you!" Gamlen spat back.

"Fuck you!"

"Creative," Marian mumbled, unfortunately just within Carver's earshot.

"Yeah? Well, fuck you, too!" and with those equally imaginative words, Carver stormed out the front door of the apartment. Marian could hear his angry stomping footsteps down the stairs; the elevator was out of commission again. There were benefits to living on the top floor of the complex, if you squinted really hard, but most of the time, it sucked. She supposed Carver was pleased by it, since it meant he usually got to have a dramatic exit from their flat every time he had a spat with Gamlen. Those spats were becoming worrisomely frequent these days.

Gamlen, for his part, didn't even look at her. Muttering unflattering things about his nephew under his breath, he grabbed his cracked leather jacket from its hook by the door and departed, too, slinging the ancient thing over his shoulders as he went. Marian had long ago stopped pretending he was going out to search for Carver, even though Gamlen continued to keep up the façade. She had run into him all too often at his favorite hole-in-the-wall, drinking so much cheap whiskey that he never recognized her.

She would have been more sympathetic to her uncle if he'd even once tried to make an effort to bridge the gap between him and Carver since Mother had died, but no, he'd just dived even deeper into his whiskey bottle and the family funds. Marian didn't have much sympathy for the man sinking the family ever more into debt.

Alone in the apartment, she rose from her seat at the kitchen table and picked up the phone from its pedestal of honor by the tiny television. Varric's number was practically branded into her thumb memory at this point, and she'd dialed it even before thinking about whom to call.

He picked up on the second ring, as he'd always said was polite to do—not overeager, but not making the other person wait. "Yello? That you, Hawke?"

"Who else doesn't have caller ID?" He chuckled at that, and she grinned at the sound. Varric never made her feel anything less for her family situation, but he never pitied her, either. One of the many things she liked about him, she supposed. "Carver ran off somewhere, and this time it was pretty bad. I have a feeling he might be coming to you to cut off ties—just thought I'd give you a heads-up."

Varric sighed, previous good humor dissipated. "Okay, okay. But I think you should come down here, Hawke. I know you don't get along, but maybe it'll drive the point home if someone he knows better is there."

"If you think it's a good idea, I'll trust your judgment, but I don't know how long we'll be able to keep him tethered to Gamlen like this. If I can't handle him, he's gone for good."

"Okay, okay." A pause. Marian heard Varric pull his overly-sensitive cell away from his ear for a moment, then he was back. "I just saw him walk in here. Looks like he's going to get a drink and hit on the customers for a bit, so you got time. Come in through the back so he doesn't see you."

"Got it." She hung up quickly to allow Varric some time to collect himself before the confrontation, and so that she could pull her sweatshirt on all the faster. In thirty seconds flat she was out the door, pounding the concrete stairs with her boots as she raced to the Hanged Man.

The icy bath had been a terrible idea. No, maybe the icy bath wouldn't have been such a terrible idea had Fenris not also decided to get work done on his tattoo. Every movement that the artist made drilling the white lines into the skin on his feet was a struggle on Fenris's part not to jerk and ruin everything. It didn't help that somehow, somehow it had slipped his mind how many millions of tiny bones were in each individual foot. He wasn't so far gone that he would say he preferred Hadriana's rehearsals to this, but it was close.

The difference was, he chose to get these markings burned into his skin. The difference was, no one was telling him that if he didn't get these tattoos, there would be hell to pay. The difference was—

The tattoo artist was saying something. Fenris blinked at the woman without comprehending.

"I said, I'm done with this foot now. You sure you wanna continue with the other one? You seem kinda…jumpy today."

"No, it's fine," Fenris said gruffly. "Do it."

"You sure? Cuz I can refund you the—"

"I said I'm fine," he snapped. The artist only began refilling her ink, used to her best customer's short fuse.

Another agonizing procedure, and then it was done. The artist gave him the same care instructions she always did, bandaging his feet in the same cling-wrap she always did, and he was out without much more than "thanks" like he always did. Walking, what with the sore muscles and the new tattoos, wasn't the most pleasant way to get back to the apartment, so hey, big spender today, he hailed a cab. He sank back into the sticky pleather seats and closed his eyes for the duration of the short trip, shoving a handful of bills the cabbie's way when he arrived. He'd probably over-tipped him. Oh, well.

The apartment complex was quiet as he rode the elevator up—the flat was only on the second floor, but the thought of stairs made his quads scream—but his sense of unease did not lessen until he opened the door and found the space blissfully empty. Hadriana probably had convinced herself that she'd scared Fenris away for a while and was out with the sycophants she called friends; she wouldn't be back for a while. As for the leaseholder of the apartment, heaven knew where he was, but Fenris wasn't going to think about him now.

Instead, he hobbled to his tiny closet of a room and closed the door behind him, gently lowering himself onto his low bed. The closed door was more of an idle hope than an actual "do not disturb" sign; anyone needing him would simply barge in, privacy be damned. Whatever; while he was alone in this house, he could pretend.

Fenris lay back on the bed and shut his eyes, and with that, the aches and pains of today coursed over his body. His leg muscles throbbed, his feet itched, and all in all, the overwhelming bitterness that accompanied him everywhere he went weighed especially heavily on his chest today.

One day, he'd get out of here. He'd promised himself that ever since he could remember, but here he was, lying in an apartment that didn't belong to him, muscles aching from an activity he hated. But one day, that beautiful someday would arrive swathed in silk and velvet, and he'd be out of here like Danarius and Hadriana had never existed. No one to pull him back from bars in the name of "practice time;" no one to force him to push his body to the breaking point; no one to dictate every aspect of his life and call him "ungrateful" when he complained. That someday would come, he was sure of it, and he was sure it would be soon.

His door burst open, interrupting his daydreams, and there stood Hadriana, reeking of expensive martinis and cheap cologne. Fenris glanced at the clock. It was hardly nine o'clock, and he was willing to guess she'd already downed three drinks and been fondled by four men, going by smell alone. "Fenris, Danarius is looking for you," she told him, imperious but for the slight slur in her words.

He didn't even bother asking why Danarius didn't come in himself. Danarius wouldn't stoop so low as see his ward in his quarters, and there was a part of Fenris that was glad he had this space Danarius-free, at least. So instead, he nodded and rose, feeling his muscles and feet weep in the process, though he tried to mask the pain. Hadriana stepped aside ever so slightly to let him pass, and he walked by her to greet the man he hated above all others.

The Hanged Man wasn't as busy as Varric had made it seem over the phone; even coming in through the back, Marian had to do a little bit of shuffling and hiding to make sure her brother didn't spot her. Her hood pulled up and her head down, she moved from the door leading from the street to the door leading to Varric's office, careful to move slowly and unhurriedly. When Varric's office door finally shut behind her, she removed the hood and breathed a sigh of relief. Varric gave her a tired grin at the sound, looking up from his desk.

"How bad is it looking?" he asked as he folded his hands together and leaned back in his chair. Mahogany frame and some sort of technological wizard cushy fabric; he'd spent a fortune on it so he could comfortably sit in the exact pose he was in right now.

"Small pleasures in life don't come along very often, Hawke," Varric had explained as the moving crew staggered in with it a few summers ago. "And when they do, they're worth the pricetag."

"Doesn't that defeat the purpose of the phrase, 'small pleasures?'" she'd responded, but he'd waved her off as a lost cause who was too focused on, well, being poor to appreciate his higher mindset.

"The worst yet," Marian now answered. "He was particularly inspired in his insults, and by that I mean they were even more unoriginal than they usually are."

"You're too hard on him," Varric said with a shake of his head. "With Gamlen for a role model, I can't imagine his linguistic sensibilities to be impressive."

"We come from an artsy family, Gamlen aside," Marian sighed. "The least I can hope to expect from him is a bit of creativity."

Varric gave her a look. "We better drop the condescension. I think I hear—"

"Varric!" Pounding on the office door followed the shout. "It's Carver Hawke!"

Marian rolled her eyes, earning another warning raised eyebrow from Varric before he called back, "Come on in."

"Varric, I've come to say goodbye." Carver began speaking before the door had even cracked open. "You've always—" He broke off when he caught sight of his sister, and shock rendered his face blank before the familiar scowl etched itself back into his expression. Marian offered a smile in return, which only made the scowl settle deeper. "What's she doing here?"

"Your sister's worried about you, Ju—Carver." Varric caught himself, but not quite fast enough. Carver opened his mouth to protest—probably something to the effect of my sister is the reason none of you respect me—but the shorter man continued speaking as if no slip of the tongue had occurred. "And I am, too, come to think. Now, you know I'm no preacher, but you've been cutting a lot of people out of your life recently, and that can't feel good, right? Despite our differences, we're all here for you—"

"You're right," Carver sneered. "You're no preacher. I've come to settle my tab with you, not hear an uninspired lecture." He turned to Marian. "It's a good thing you're here, sister. Might as well get this out of the way. I'm leaving."

Marian blinked at her brother's earnestness. The scowl, still present on his face, didn't entirely mask the firm set to his jaw. "You're determined, I see. So the apartment you told Gamlen about…?"

"It's real. I found a place in River Thaig for not too much money."

River Thaig was certainly a nicer neighborhood than where the Hawke/Amell clan had situated itself. "'Not too much money' doesn't mean much if you don't have any money to begin with," Marian pointed out. "We're not exactly rolling in it, Carver."

Her little brother only levelled a cool stare Varric's way. "Fortunately, I have enough money for the apartment, and to settle my tab. Here you go, Varric. Ten sovereigns, as promised." He took out his wallet, calmly but dramatically, and took a long time in shuffling through a wad of bills before selecting a ten-sovereign mark and placing it on the smooth desktop. Varric and Marian watched, stunned, as Carver replaced the wad of bills in his wallet and turned to leave. With his hand on the doorknob, he seemed to think better of something. Inclining his head a fraction in Marian's direction, he said, "I'm going to get my things, and then I'll be off. I suppose if you need to contact me, you can call in at the Stannard firm off of Main Street."

The door clicking shut behind him echoed in the small office. Varric and Marian gaped at each other in the silence for a few moments before Varric pulled out his phone and began tapping on the screen.

"Main Street?" Marian repeated, incredulous.

"I'm looking it up right now."

She waited an agonizing few seconds for Varric to finish his search. Something about the name of the firm rang a bell in the back of her mind, but it truly was the very back, where dusty childhood memories and strangers' faces lay. Carver didn't have the temperament to be a lawyer, and he wouldn't be making enough cash for an apartment in River Thaig as an intern. Who in their right mind would hire an eighteen-year-old spitfire, anyway?

"Stannard Architects, 1600 Main Street," Varric finally spoke up.

The sound of the name fell like a sack of flour on Marian's back. "Architects? He's working at an architecture firm?"

"Apparently."

She chewed her lip and considered this. "I never knew."

"No kidding."

"He'd always hated the frou-frou artsy-fartsy stuff we all did. With Bethany off at school, he'd gotten even more bitter about it, so I just assumed…"

Varric snorted. "So you're…all right with this? You don't feel like he's, I don't know, shitting on the family name like you always accuse him of doing?"

Marian smiled at him. "It's nice to see him finally embracing us, at least in his own way." She ignored Varric's disbelieving scoff. "I'm proud of him. He was never going to live with me and Gamlen forever, anyway. Maybe I should look into getting my own place, too."

"That's pretty big of you, Hawke, but I remember you have an unpaid tab with me and no way to settle it."

She shrugged. "Well, I'm teaching a class this week. Maybe instead of trying to pay you back, I can start saving up."

"Yeah, right."

Marian flicked his nametag over with long fingers and rose to leave. "C'mon, Varric. I'm trying. There's not much work in this city for a dancer."

He arrived at the studio a few mornings later fifteen minutes before registration was scheduled to start. Finding a bench to sit on was simple enough, with only a few early birds like him dotting the hallway. Together in their separate parts of the hallway, they stared at the closed studio room door, willing it to open and admit them. Fenris, for his part, was looking forward to the end of what was shaping up to be a long morning and would be longer still. After Danarius had informed him of the audition, this audition, that he'd wanted his ward to attend, Hadriana had made it her personal duty to ensure Fenris be made aware of everything that he absolutely had to check before the day of. Did he check the studio's dress code? Had he researched each esteemed dancer who would be overseeing the audition? Had he done his homework and tried to figure out who his competitors were?

To Hadriana, dance was always a competition of skill. But as Fenris surveyed the other dancers trickling into the hallway, all he saw was enthusiasm and a bit of nerves, not fierce, cutthroat warriors ready to kill over the role of the Swan Queen. Bubbling with energy, they poured into the studio as the registration team allowed them entry. Fenris followed them silently, absorbing their excitement and hoping some of it would imbue his soul. It didn't, of course; not as he handed over twenty sovereign bills, not as he filled out his card with mechanical numbness, not as he pinned the number fourteen to the front of his shirt.

He began stretching alone, nodding in acknowledgement when one of the dancers would direct a smile his way. As much as he hated this, there was no sense in antagonizing any of the other dancers. Still, he doubted his aura invited companionship. Despite the friendly smiles flashed his way, despite his recognition of the other men and women's existences, he remained a solitary figure, a little distance away from the others. He sighed. That probably wouldn't help things—no one liked a lone wolf.

"Good morning," someone said brightly from the front of the room. The auditionees murmured polite greetings back, stopping their exercises. A slim older woman stood at the front of the room, clutching a clipboard to her chest. "Welcome to the Ballet Magisterium auditions for Swan Lake. We'll begin with a class, then move onto repertoire. Thank you for…"

Fenris tuned her out at a certain point, only moving to take cues from the rest of the class when they smiled or nodded. Danarius had been more insistent than usual when telling him about this audition, and Fenris knew why. Danarius was practically wetting himself over the thought of one of his students being able to join the prestigious Ballet Magisterium company, and since Hadriana had injured her hamstrings pretty badly six years ago, Fenris was his best bet. Danarius had oh-so-benevolently taken his ward in more than nine years ago, but that had been with the expectation that he would have not one, but two star pupils to show off. Now, with Hadriana unable to dance in productions anymore, it was all on Fenris to shine.

The class was breaking up for the barre; Fenris snapped to attention and found a spot in closer to the front than the middle. He was never the type to wear flashy tights or anything; he knew his technique was crisp enough to draw attention away from the sloppier dancers. Still, it was better to be near the front, where the judges sat, in case some freak dancer with better skills than Fenris possessed showed up and took the spotlight.

They began. Pliés in first, second, fourth and fifth position. Tendu. Dégagé. Ronde de jambes. Fondue, frappé, développé, grande battement. The familiar movements, rather than calming, set Fenris on edge. As they moved to the center, he wondered when his antipathy towards ballet had reached such a high. He'd been doing this for ten years—the routines, the rehearsals, the exercises—and while he'd never enjoyed it, it was something he'd had a knack for, and he'd put up with Hadriana and Danarius's expectations because it kept him off the streets. Part of his allowance was still being sent to his mother and sister, after all—though he no longer knew the address, because they'd moved, and Danarius wrote and sent the checks himself.

Maybe, he mused as they began petit allegro, maybe it was when Danarius had told him that his family had moved too far away and he could no longer spare the time to see them that was when the seeds of hatred had been planted. He'd never liked his caretakers from the get-go, but as the years went on and it became clear Fenris's talent was what was important, and even that Danarius had so selflessly cultivated in him, he began to actually hate them. The punishments perhaps he'd have been able to deal with—his mother, on her own with short funds, had never been known for gentle parenting—but it was feeling like he wasn't even worth his salt as a person that he couldn't deal with. The lack of respect, the lack of self-worth, the lack of—

"Argento Balendin will teach you the repertoire," the older woman chirped from the front as the class wound down. Fenris blinked. He'd completely gone on autopilot after the warm-up, instinctively following the called-out directions of the class. That probably wasn't good. Argento, a tall man about thirty years old, rose from the table and began going over the routine. Fenris tried to follow with a steady mind. Hadriana's shrill voice crying, "Straight back, Fenris!" in the back of his mind kept him alert for a time, but it was a fury-induced alertness. He wasn't surprised when dancer number fourteen was asked to repeat a section with another group—it wasn't only his skill that had made him easy to single out.

He moved with the other dancers in the same pattern, focusing only on his arms, his feet—the tattoos had healed nicely, leaving them feeling healthy again—and the sweat beginning to trickle down his back. He was sure his intensity could be read in his expression as he helped another auditionee turn, his hands lightly pushing against her abdomen, his eyes blazing into hers.

And finally, it was over. He was nothing if not professional—despite his own inner turmoil, he had kept his face neutral, if a bit intense, and had moved with the grace he usually did. The older woman whose name escaped him thanked them, and the many dancers shuffled out of the large studio. A few of the dancers clustered together making plans, laughing quietly as they exited the building. Fenris slouched out as well, glaring at the hot summer sun as it beat down on his already warm body. He'd have to take a taxi back, since Danarius only rewarded him with his private car when Fenris had made callbacks. It was either that, the subway, or walking, but he didn't feel particularly inclined to get back to the flat in a hurry.

"Hi!" A bright voice startled him out of his travel plans. "You're number fourteen, right?" She was the dancer that Fenris had been partnered with during the repetition of the routine, and now she was smiling at him shyly.

"Fenris," he said in lieu of agreeing.

"Hi, Fenris. I'm Diana. Do you want to get lunch together?" The smile grew, hopefully and even more shyly, and Fenris found himself taken aback. No one had ever spoken to him after auditions save basic pleasantries, and definitely not to make lunch plans. When she saw his hesitation, she added, "You know, we can talk shop. You have an absolutely incredible grace about you; I'd love to—"

"No, thanks," he cut her off, his surprise souring into his typical bitterness. "I'm not hungry at the moment."

"Oh, we can stop by the park—"

"I have other plans," he said bluntly. And he would make them, if it meant getting away from the dance world for a while. When he saw her face fall, aware he'd been impolite, he tried apologizing. "Thank you, though. I appreciate the thought."

He made his escape from her embarrassed goodbyes and began walking. The direction had been chosen at random; the destination had yet to be decided. But he walked with purpose nonetheless, hoping his confidence would deter any other dance buddies from trying to engage in conversation with him. He passed out of the theatre district, clipped River Thaig on a corner, and before he knew it, he'd walked to the border between Hightown and Lowtown. Here was familiar territory, but familiar only in his youth. New buildings had cropped up in the ten years since, shops changing storefronts, and only the street names had stayed the same. Even that wasn't helpful to him.

But something was different. The tiny complex he'd hesitated to call home as a child should have been on the same run-down street, only the run-down street looked to be shaping up to be an almost-nice shopping district. The complex had been torn down, and several shops with big glass windows that hadn't been shattered yet had sprung up in its place. There were even plastic signs standing outside some of the storefronts, unafraid of thieves.

Something in Fenris's heart clenched at the sight, something about his childhood memories being purged from this city. He crossed the street to inspect one of the signs and nearly knocked it over in frustration. Lots of swirly purple dry-erase marker had been scrawled onto the sign, but it wasn't the sloppiness that infuriated him. Very clearly drawn on the whiteboard were shoes, music notes and a boom box. He slowly turned his head to the side to survey the glass windows, and sure enough, posters of women in black leotards lined the hallway inside.

Didn't it just figure that even his childhood couldn't escape this hell? Without thinking about it further, he grabbed the door handle and flung it open, striding through the doors until he entered the lobby. A teenager with a high ponytail smiled at him as he approached the desk, which only served to make him angrier. He was in no mood for smiles today.

Marian waved goodbye to her students and began putting her dance shoes back in their coverlets. It had been a good class this time around—ten girls and two boys, almost all of them paying attention the entire time. Half of the students in attendance had come to her classes at least twice before, which was nice. It always felt good to get younger kids interested in the art form.

She headed outside the studio and began fetching her things from the locker room. It hadn't been a particularly strenuous class, since so many of the kids were beginners, so she probably wasn't sweaty enough that walking home in her workout clothes would be gross, but at the same time, she didn't want to get her street clothes messed up by the slight sweat she had worked up.

These interesting thoughts on her mind distracted her as she threw her water bottle and CDs into her gym bag all the way to the lobby. It wasn't until she was right outside the lobby door that she heard a commotion within.

Marian thrust open the door to find a terrified Brielle confronted by a man she'd never seen before. The man was speaking in low tones, but the deepness of his voice reverberated through the walls.

"I'm sorry, I don't know when the studio was built," Brielle was squeaking, nervous and loud. "I only started working here this summer."

"Tell me who I can contact about the previous tenants of this building," the man was talking over her with gritted teeth.

"I don't know, I'm sorry! I don't know."

"Excuse me," Marian interrupted loudly, shifting her bag to the other shoulder. Both Brielle and the man jumped visibly. How on earth had they not heard her come in? "Is there something I can help you with, sir?"

The man looked abashed, at least. Marian took him in, wondering if she should call the cops. Slender frame but definitely muscular—that was a dancer's body if she knew one. Definitely ballet, judging by the black ballet shoes slung over his shoulder and the sleeveless white shirt and black tights, but it was a little strange for someone to be walking home dressed in practice attire. The most striking part of his appearance had to be his shock of white hair, but he couldn't have been older than twenty-five. Still, looks were deceiving. How best to signal Brielle to call the police from the phone behind the desk if things got unpleasant?

"I'd like to know when this studio opened up," he said, his disapproval evident.

"About three years ago," Marian answered, keeping a bright smile on her face.

"And it replaced the apartments?"

"No, it replaced a law office, I think." It was a pretty small studio because of that—only two converted dance rooms, one of them with the locker room attached to it.

"And before that?"

"I'm not certain." She had only moved here a little before the studio had opened up.

The man made a noise of annoyance and cast glaring eyes at the posters. Marian stepped a foot closer to the lobby desk and asked pointedly, "Is there anything else we can help you with?"

The man started again, clearly lost in his incomprehensible mood. "No, I…so you teach dance here?"

"Yes, this is a contemporary and jazz studio."

"I meant ballet."

Marian blinked, trying to gauge if he was being intentionally rude or not. "No, I'm afraid not."

The man nodded once, an iota of strange approval in the expression, and continued to look around. Brielle cast a frantic look Marian's way, but Marian shook her head carefully. Whatever temper had gripped this man earlier seemed to have dissipated, replaced by curiosity.

"Would you like a schedule of classes?" she offered. "We have classes for beginners, if you're interested, though I'm sure with your ballet background, you'll pick up on it quick enough. I'm Marian Hawke, and—"

The man made a face. "I have enough dance in my life."

"Dancing's not just ballet, you know," Brielle blurted out impatiently. "There are loads of art forms to explore." She pushed the small pile of schedules for the month in the man's direction. Marian was impressed; despite Brielle's irritation with the unruly dancer in front of them, she was always eager to share her passion.

The man picked up one of the pieces of paper between two fingers like it might bite him, then quickly dropped it. "No thank you. Dance is not an art form." With those charming words, he left, the door banging shut behind him.

"Man, what a jerk," Brielle complained, shuffling the schedules to form a neater pile on the desk. "I'm glad he's gone."

Marian stared at the door. "I wish he'd come back," she muttered.

"You're kidding, right?"

She moved to the door and began locking up. "He's obviously an experienced dancer. You can tell that just by looking at him. I just can't imagine why he'd say those things when it's so clear he's spent a lot of time doing this."

"Who cares?" Brielle snorted. "He's an asshole. Probably thinks ballet's the highest form of dance or whatever; of course he doesn't think it's an art form if he's done it to death."

"Maybe you're right," Marian said, though something told her otherwise. "I doubt we'll see him again, anyway."

AN: Hey, guys! Thanks for giving my totally-implausible AU a chance. I do have to say that I'm writing this as a sort of exercise: I'm not a dancer and am having to do research via friends and libraries to get info I need, so while I'm asking for a bit of leniency in any mistakes I make, please feel welcome to correct them!

That said, I expect this to be a longer sort of story. Feedback is always greatly appreciated, especially when I'm trying something new like this. But in general, really, thanks for clicking and making it to the end of chapter one. Not everyone would hear "Get this: what if the Dragon Age characters were exactly the same except in a modern city AU and they were all mostly dancers?" and think "GOOD GOLLY GEE THAT SOUNDS LIKE SOMETHING I'D READ!"