A/N: Majorly expanded this chapter. Additionally, please see the end of the chapter for an important update regarding the future of this story.

"Well, this is…quaint." Alistair remarked, surveying the room as Clyde took a hesitant sip from his mug of ale. Immediately spitting the dark brew back into his tankard, the noble pushed the drink aside.

The pair were situated at a table in the far corner of Tapster's, a bustling tavern in the city commons and the air was heavy with the smell of stew bubbling on the fire and the pungent odor of dwarven ale. Alistair had been delayed speaking to nobles in the Diamond Corridor and had arrived to find that Clyde had secured a table separate from the others, leaving them out of earshot of most of the other patrons. Sten had emerged from the estate after spending most of the morning there and now stood sentry nearby. The giant, leaning against a column with his muscled arms folded across his chest and the top of his head nearly brushing against the low ceiling, satisfied Alistair that their conversation wouldn't be interrupted.

"I met with Lord Harrowmont and spoke to one of Bhelen's lieutenants," The warden began, tearing a chunk of bread from the loaf on the table and taking a bite. The morning of running around amongst the dwarven nobility had left him famished and he was glad to finally have lunch. "Both 'welcome the Grey Wardens' endorsement' but seem determined to get some legwork out of us."

There was the sound of rustling mail as Clyde shifted in his seat. "Nothing too strenuous, I hope?"

"Both want me to take part in a Proving in a day's time." Alistair answered, lifting his mug of ale. He drank a mouthful to wash down his bread and narrowly avoided spraying it in the face of the human warrior sitting opposite him. The stuff tasted like they had scrapped it off the walls. Swallowing with a remorseful expression on his face, he pushed the tankard to the far corner of the table.

"A tournament?" Clyde repeated, ignoring the templar's gagging. "That could work in our favor."

"That's what I thought," Alistair nodded, taking another bite from his chunk of bread. "But who do we support?"

Clyde shrugged, resting his elbows on the rough wooden table and folding his hands. "The populace doesn't seem to support one side or another. I imagine some of the merchants have a favorite, but to the rest it's just more squabbling from the nobles."

"So you don't think there'll be a civil war?"

"If Orzammar has its king? I'd wager not. But if this deadlock remains," The noble paused ominously, a grim expression on his face. "Orzammar has been in decline for a long time. These dwarves all seem determined to die in their hole and if the nobles decide to fight over who's in charge, they all might well get their wish."

Alistair made no reply to the bleak prediction, instead choosing to turn and watch an armored dwarf take several tottering steps toward the exit before colliding with the doorframe. Steading himself against the timber pillar, it seemed for a moment as though the stout drunk might make another attempt for the exit before the intoxicated warrior stumbled several steps backward toward the corner. Giving a loud belch, the dwarf unceremoniously collapsed into an unconscious heap on the floor. Judging by the lack of attention the other patrons gave the spectacle, the warden assumed it was a regular sight.

"We'll play it by ear, then." Clyde resolved, realizing no decision would be coming from Alistair. "Was there anything else?"

After taking a moment to think, Alistair nodded. "We need to take out the Carta's operation in Orzammar."

The noble's expression darkened and he gave an exasperated sigh. "Right. Who better to hunt down a secretive underground network of powerful criminals than the group of people least capable of blending in with the populace? And who wanted us to do that, exactly?"

The warden gave an apologetic smile. "Both of them, actually."

"How convenient." Clyde groaned.

"I don't suppose we can just ask around? Think they're in the city directory?" Alistair joked, giving a slight smile. For his part, Clyde didn't seem particularly amused, instead seeming to give the matter some thought.

"The Carta's almost certainly running a racket among the city's merchants, but they'll go to ground if they catch us nosing around the markets." The swordsman pondered aloud. "We'll head into the slums. That's likely where their operation is based out of, and someone will know something."

Seeming assured of his plan, he nodded, the undersized wooden chair giving a long creak as he rose.

"I'll take Sten and the dog and see what I can find about the Carta." The young lord declared, adjusting his cloak. "We'll be back at the estate before nightfall."

"And what am I supposed to do?" The warden asked, sounding somewhat disapproving of the arrangement.

"Make nice with the nobles, I suppose?" Clyde suggested with a shrug as he turned and departed, drawing a groan from Alistair. Letting the noble pass, Sten glanced to the warden before following, leaving him by himself in the corner of the tavern.

The foul smells of Dust Town assaulted Clyde's senses, broken glass and crumbling rock crunching underfoot as he walked, Sten's heavy footfalls not far behind. Dog plodded along beside him, mindful of where he set his paws as he walked.

The Carta's agents in the Commons and Diamond Quarter were too well hidden for the party to make any progress there. Still, the young warrior was familiar with the type of organization—without the city guard to watch out for in the slums, they'd be operating more openly.

That wasn't to say they were being subtle either—even if they hadn't been marching right into the place. Dust Town didn't see many outsiders, and it was written on the faces of the impoverished citizens who looked on timidly as they passed. More than a few of them paid lookouts, no doubt—if the Carta wasn't already aware they were in Dust Town, Clyde would eat his boots.

As the party walked, Clyde surveyed the slums around them. Most of the dwarves that called it home seemed to live in small, windowless hovels. There were a few mostly bare market stalls and a handful of simple workshops along the weathered path that one might generously call an avenue, but most of the casteless that lived here seemed idle. They sat in doorways and leaned over balconies, waiting for Maker only knows what.

It was a tragic scene, in a sense. How many wretched souls would live and die in this dank hell, never to see the sky or breathe fresh air? How much of Orzammar's future lie wasted down here in the dark? How many potential warriors and craftsman that would never raise a sword or hammer to build a future for their kind?

Clyde surveyed slums with a sneer. If the dwarven people were a dying race, then it was because their lifeblood ran out in the filthy alleyways around him.

And for what? An antiquated caste system built by the politics of dead nobles? Tradition? And where had that gotten them?

The warrior shook his head in the disgust, the squalor around him his answer.

Clyde spotted a dwarven woman along the side of the street, crouched beneath the overhang of a shanty and he cautiously approached.

Glancing up at the sound of their approach, the woman's eyes widened in surprise, the black tattoo on her gaunt cheek marking her as one of the casteless.

"H-hello, muh' lord." She stammered, clambering to her feet and giving a meek bow of the head. She looked up at the outsiders before her with confusion and fear, seeming as though she wanted nothing more than to shrink back into the shadows and vanish.

"What's your name?"

"Krenda, muh' lord."

"When was the last time you ate, Krenda?"

The woman said nothing, and when the nobleman saw her lip tremble uncertainly in the light of her small fire, he unslung the satchel from his shoulder. Reaching inside his bag, the beggar's eyes lit up when he produced a chunk of bread he'd taken from the tavern and offered it to her.

The dwarf took it and ate greedily, the morsel quickly vanishing. Seeing Clyde observing her, she sheepishly spoke. "Thank you, muh' lord."

The warrior gave a tight smile, pulling out a small cloth purse. A number of coins jingling, he dumped a pair of coppers into his hand and played with them in his open palm, the coins flashing in the light.

The casteless dwarf watched rapaciously, her eyes fixed on the money dancing in his gloved hand. Clyde slowly extended his arm and Krenda looked enraptured with the pair of coins as they neared reach. At the last moment, the human snapped his hand closed and withdrew slightly, eliciting a gasp from the dwarven woman.

"How long have you lived here, Krenda?" The young Cousland asked.

"All me life, muh' lord."

"You must know about the Carta, then?"

A hesitant pause. "Yes, muh' lord."

He let one of the coppers fall from his grasp and land in the dust where the beggar quickly snatched it up, clutching the coin close to her chest.

"How do I find them?" Clyde continued, displaying the remaining copper.

"They…" A look of uncertainty crossed her face. "Please, sir—tha' Carta would do me harm if they found out I was talking to you."

Behind the human came Sten's rumbling baritone. "They will already know you have spoken to us. They will likely kill you if you fail to help us destroy them."

Clyde shot a glare over his shoulder at the qunari as the dwarf retreated a step, pressing herself against the stone face, terror in her eyes. When she spoke again, she seemed near tears. "Please, I-I don't want any trouble."

The swordsman mustered a soft smile, gesturing for the woman to come closer. "Nobody's going to hurt you, Krenda. I'm here to try to help—you and everyone else in Orzammar." When the beggar came close, he reached out and pressed the copper into her palm, closing both of his gloved hands around her small hand. "Please let me help you, Krenda."

Reaching into his purse, he pulled out a pair of silver coins, letting them glint in the flicker firelight. It was probably the most money the beggar had ever seen. "Just tell me where I can find the Carta, Krenda. No one will ever know."

The temptation seemed to be too much for the young dwarf. "They have a tunnel network that connects to most of the city. There's an entrance in a warehouse farther along—it has a red banner above the door. I… I don't know anything else."

Clyde smiled, handing her both silver pieces. The woman stared at the coins in her palm, as if she weren't sure they existed at all.

The noble glanced to Sten, the qunari standing a few steps back as if he didn't want to be considered a part of what he was watching. The enormous warrior snorted, give a shrug. "I suppose that works. We'll determine whether or not you were swindled when we find this warehouse."

Turning back to where the beggar had been standing, Clyde found the alcove empty. He surveyed the area and felt a pang of worry when he found no sign of her. He may've been raised a nobleman's son, but he had never been particularly sheltered. Privately, the warrior hoped he hadn't just cajoled the woman into selling away her life for a scrap of bread and a few coins.

True to the woman's word, the party found a warehouse a short distance away, a tattered red tablecloth nailed above its low doorway. Indicating for Sten to keep back, Clyde approached the study-looking wood door, reaching out and extinguishing the oil lamp that hung beside it.

Gently testing the handle, the noble shook his head. "Locked. We'll have to see if we can find a key."

The qunari grunted, stepping closer.

"Knock on the door, and step out of the way." He instructed simply, ducking beneath the low beam of an overhang that barely cleared his head.

Clyde furrowed his brow, glancing between the door and his companion with a look on confusion. Seeing by the annoyed frown on Sten's face that he didn't care to explain himself, the man relented, content to do as he'd been told.

Pounding twice on the door, he stepped back, hearing a rough voice inside demanding to know who it was. After a moment, he could hear the bar on the other side being removed, and the door began to open cautiously.

Suddenly, Sten stepped forward—planting one foot and grabbing the timber beam overhead to drive himself forward, he drove the bottom of his boot into the door. There came an alarmed shout from inside as the small piece of chain preventing it from opening farther snapped and the door swung backward through whoever was standing on the other side. Drawing his greatsword, the qunari stepped through the low entryway with Clyde and Dog close on his heel.

The dwarven warehouse was rather tight, perhaps only a dozen paces square with ceilings too low to swing a sword and crowded with wooden crates. On the ground lay a dazed Carta thug, sprawled out a few strides back from the door and only just beginning to comprehend the group of armed intruders that had just burst in.

Sten fell upon him before the criminal had the chance to climb to his feet, planting his enormous boot in the center of the dwarf's chest as the thug tried to beg for his life and driving his sword downward through the dwarf's midsection.

Clyde stepped forward, longsword grasped in both hands and at the ready, but he was met with only the silence and flickering lanterns of the warehouse. Their dead guard, it seemed, had been alone.

Lowering his sword, the warrior gave a grunt. "I guess that works, too" Turning to look at Dog, he nodded. "Find me a tunnel."

The mabari barked once and began to sniff around the maze of wooden crates.

"I would remark that I find your people's insistence on talking to animals disquieting, but I've grown indifferent to it." Sten announced drolly as he joined the human. "I once informed the warden he smelled like a hound, but I believe he mistook it as a compliment."

Clyde smirked, amused. Despite having only been a part of Alistair's merry band of adventurers for a couple days now, he'd quickly discovered biting sarcasm was a close to humor as the stoic warrior came. "Are all qunari like you?"

"No. Most have horns."

The noble shook his head wistfully, grinning. "Of all the qunari in Thedas, I meet the one who thinks he's hilarious." There came a bark from the far side of the warehouse. "Come on, I think we've got our tunnel."

A/N: Well, I'll bet very few of you ever expected to see this updated, huh?

So, I've got a confession. The truth is, as much as I've enjoyed writing this story and was blown away by the response I got, it never really had a chance of being completed. My Mass Effect piece is my main project, and I wrote this on a whim while dealing with a writer's block. Dragon Age Origins is a big game, and I simply don't have the passion or time to dedicate to writing a novelization. This story will see one more chapter, and then will be marked as 'Archived,' meaning that it will remain online for your reading pleasure, but that no plans exist to update it. As much as I love Dragon Age and a lot of its characters, it's just the way it's going to be.

My intention is to continue the story of Clyde Cousland as a series of collected one-shots and short arcs under a new title, set across all three games. Some of it may include arcs I had originally intended to eventually write for this story.

I can't promise when it will be published, nor how regularly it will see updates, but I can promise that the story will live on.