Summary: In which the Inquisitor acquires a warhound of questionable origins and odder behavior, and in which I find myself trapped and unable to speak.

Disclaimer: I don't own Dragon Age.

Chapter One: Found

The scents are overwhelming. Oil. Leather. Sweat-salt skin and burning smoke. My ears twitch at a large clang, a repetitive sound from the nearby blacksmith. I breathe in again and the air rolls over my tongue. Urine, horse-stink, man-filth, elf-fear, forging-steel. The guard standing at the gate offers a strip of something sweet, a meat, coaxing and nervous. I ignore him, unmoved from my post. I wait, silent and attentive, as I have for the last three suns.

Soon. Something whispers, and I agree.

The scent I follow is strongest here; in the place that smells of old blood and ash. It clings in wisps, a tangy spice that lingers in my nose and at the back of my throat. It waifs in green, lazy trails to my colorless eyes; the first color I have seen in years. It sparks old memories, pulled from the beneath the depths of animal instinct and kept in place by bred intelligence.

Familiar, comes the whisper. Safe.

The pads of my paws sift against the earth, rough, hardened skin catching in the dirt. My claws dig furrows, and the scent of it drifts up to me, soil and moisture and dry coldfreezingice snow. My fur keeps me warm, the thick strands curling from the tip of my narrowed head, down to my bent hunches. A sound pricks at the edge of awareness, nearby, across the frozen lake. It sparks and hisses, alive in its wrongness, and I resist the urge to growl and snarl, pushing down the unnatural aggression prompted by the things that leak from it.

I must be patient. I must wait.

So I sit and watch, scenting every traveler and every soldier that makes their way through the pinewood doors I safeguard. In my mind, the voice sings for the colors' return, a steady mummer I only begin to understand.

I once was Lost, but now I'm Found, was Blind, but now I See.

My head lifts and my ears straighten. There, just beyond awareness, is the sound of hooves crunching against snow. My neck tilts as I take another deep breath, eyes nearly closing.

Soon.

"And you say it's been here how long?"

The young solder on sentry duty shifts uncomfortably, fidgeting under the Seeker's piercing gaze. "Three days, sirra."

"And it just sits there?" She demands, glaring with narrowed eyes at the object of their scrutiny. The hound hardly moves in its spot directly to the left of the weathered great doors, even with the constant trickle of refugees, scouts, and equipment. It's immense, furry bulk perches with the attentiveness of a stone sentinel. Air leaves a wet nose in breaths of warm mist, the long length of its snout and the sharp features of its face more fitting on a highland wolf than the bear-sized creature sat before them. The young man next to her clears his throat, drawing the woman's keen eyes back.

"I- I think it's waiting, sirra." He stutters.

"For what?" She questions harshly, hand resting lightly on the pommel of her bastard sword, and short, dark hair tufting up as she brushes it away with the other. The man -boy, really- shrugs stiffly, still unsure if he should relax from his somewhat sloppy salute. "It's a warhound, sirra. Don't look like a mabari, but sure acts like one, and every Fereldan'll tell you that they're a strange breed."

The warrior rocks back on her heels, gesturing with frustrated exasperation. "Then what do we do with it?"

"We do nothing." A familiar voice interrupts, and both turn to see the blond-haired Commander approaching down the steps leading to the Chantry further up the hill. "It'll sort itself out after it imprints on someone." He nods in greeting. "Thank you, Corporal."

"Sir." The boy bows out with ill-hidden relief as his replacement takes his place with a salute to their superiors.

"Imprint?" Asks the Seeker, brows furrowed in slight recognition. The Commander nods again, waving them forward and jutting his chin as they begin to walk towards the training grounds. "Life partner. Once chosen, mabari are loyal to their dying breath."

"But why is it here?" She stresses, skirting around the beast. Its ears flick in their direction, but its head doesn't turn.

He shrugs, and the woman beside him is eerily reminded of the sentry's reaction. "Who knows?" He comments absently, stopping to break open a sealed letter when a haggard messenger thrusts it at him. He hums contemplatively. "I assume it lost its master when The Breach opened."

She shakes her head, unable to understand why everyone seemed unconcerned to have a wild animal at their doorstep. She'd lived and fought and bled for this country for years, but the Fereldan mindset still occasionally baffled her.

"It'll scare the refugees." Comes the insistent reply, stubborn as steel.

The man snorts, scoffing as he hands off the parchment. "Hardly. Fereldans take great pride in their dogs. If a mabari has chosen to stand guard at the gates of Haven, the people will know it is a place of safety." Arms fold over an armored chest, brow raised. "Such trust is not easily gained, and its presence will only help further our cause."

The woman's face twists, incredulous.

"It's a dog, Cullen."

"Leave it be, Cassandra."

Both looked up at the sound of hoof beats, the sight of the Inquisitor rounding a forested bend and trudging up the road atop his magnificent, if ornery and foul-tempered hart, more than enough to pull them from the topic at hand.

Trevelyan lurches to a stop in front of them, dismounting and stretching with a groan as he hands the reins to a quivering elf stable hand. His rugged smile causes the poor creature to eep, before they quickly scurry away to keep up with their impatient charge.

His face falls, his shoulders slump, and the fierce man seems to melt into a pout.

Cullen chuckles. "Very nice, Aden. Scaring away the help."

Aden scowls, throwing up his hands. "I don't even do anything! They just…!" An arm flails halfheartedly. "Guwah!" He punctuates, the sharp, pointed end of his staff shifting with the movement of his body. He tugs it to a better position on his back, dirty face fixed in a frown. Varric waves as he walks by, happy to get away from his pony. "Curly." He pauses. "Seeker."

Aden and Cullen exchange a look and Cassandra pointedly ignores them. "Tethras." She snipes.

The dwarf rolls his eyes. "If I've told you once, I've told you a hundred times. There's no need to be so form- what is that?!"

The whole group shifts as one.

"Ah." Cullen starts intelligently.

"Wow."Aden whispers, wide-eyed.

Face to snout with an animal of undeterminable size, Varric can't help but feel…dwarfed. And, despite his iron constitution, his bladder may have experienced a slight…mishap. Just few drops before his entire body clenched up. It was Blood. He swore it.

"That," Cassandra smugly intones, "is a mabari."

Varric swallows noticeably, and, gathering courage from his manly chest hair and staring quite literally into the eyes of the beast, squeaks, "Mabari? I've seen mabari. I've wrestled one over a pair of dirty-" He stops when it sniffs, a gust of hot breath pushing against his face. His voice does not raise an octave.

"A little help here!"

"A sub-breed then." Cassandra allows, smirking. Cullen eyes her. "And when, exactly, did you become an expert on Fereldan warhounds?"

"Just now."

"Huh."

Then it is moving around them, not lumbering so much as gliding agilely over the muddy snow, soft-footed and sure. The crossbowman valiantly resists sagging like a wet noodle.

It stops before the Inquisitor, shoulder to stomach, face to collarbone and just…stares. If the group hadn't been cautiously tense before, hiding their alarm beneath levity, this action dispels all pretence. Hands grip weapons, movements cease, and sound fades to muted silence.

Intelligent green eyes peer from wolfish features, judging.

Aden Trevelyan- disgraced Heir of the last line of House Trevelyan, Apostate Mage, and newly made Inquisitor of the Inquisition- can't look away.

His back straightens unconsciously, as if beneath his sires stare, and his head lifts, like before they found him out. Electric blue burns fiercely in his gaze, sparking with heat. Noble in posture and bearing, the change is swift; sudden.

The hound snorts.

And then it is gone, even as wonder morphs on his stained face. The warhound bumps its head into his chest, nuzzling his Marked hand. Then it turns and sits, ever alert, ever vigilant…and ever at his side.

"Well," Cullen ventures, "that was decisive."

Cassandra looks at him, askance. "Indeed."