My entry for devArt's TheDragonAges October Halloween contest. The theme: your character & up to 3 party members put a major scare into an NPC you dislike. The topic was later revised to be more general trick or treating, but I was delighted to go with the original scenario. *evil laugh*

Dragon Age belongs to BioWare – or does it? Mwahahahaha... yeah, no, it does, dammit.

Non Equi Caput

~x~

The plaintive voice of a solitary violin drifts through the dawn haze, a last malingerer from the night's festivities. The sky has lightened to a filmy promise of blue against which the stone of Redcliffe Castle stands in stark relief. On the walls the mourning doves begin their burbling conversation.

"Zevran."

"Hmmm?"

"I find myself in need of your services."

"Indeed? And how may I service you, my dear Grey Warden? A massage, perhaps? Or did you have something of a more intimate nature in mind?"

"Perhaps we can discuss that later. For now I need your...professional...skill set."

"Ah. Then I am at your disposal, of course."

Dust motes shiver in the air, highlighted by the weak sunbeam that leaks through the shutters and paints glowing bars across the sleeping Eamon's face. His brows pull in, and he turns his head restlessly, gradually rousing from a deeper slumber than is his wont.

"What comes, my friend?"

"Morrigan, I need your help."

"You need a favor, you say?"

"Yes."

"We have known each other many months, but this is the first time you've come to me for counsel or for help. I can't remember the last time you invited me to your fire for a cup of coffee, even though I led you out of the Wilds. But let's be frank here. You never wanted my friendship. And you feared to be in my debt."

"Morrigan-"

"Now you come and say 'Morrigan, I need a favor.' But you don't ask with respect. You come into my tent on the Day of the Dead-"

"Morrigan!"

"Yes?"

"Stop being a bitch. Are you in or out?"

"In, of course. Need you ask?"

Eamon sighs deeply and opens his eyes, blinking in the sunlight. He stretches, and is disconcerted to feel...something. Cold. Clammy. He raises his hand to rub his face and stops, staring at the dark smears painting his skin.

"Are you finished?"

"Yes, the old fool will sleep uninterrupted."

"Excellent. Zevran?"

"Observe, dear ladies."

Pause.

"That is truly dreadful."

"I'll say. I honestly think I may vomit. You're an artist, Zev."

"In many more ways than one, my dear Warden."

Flinging the dripping, crimson stained covers aside, Eamon freezes, eyes bulging in horror. His throat works soundlessly; his head jerks once in involuntary denial of the appalling reality that lies before him. He reaches, trembling, to lift it with fingers gone icy cold. His suddenly parchment-dry lips form a word without voice: 'Isolde.'

"Warden...Ashe! Do you realize what you've done?"

The mourning doves abruptly scatter in flight at the Arl's howl of anguish, a cry from the bleak desolation of a tormented soul. Eamon falls back, the wine stained note dropping from his nerveless grasp.

"Husband: You will be pleased to learn that my mother and my twin sister will be arriving today for a visit of indeterminate duration. – Isolde"

"That was an entire bottle of vintage Sangre Padrón you spilled back there."

"Oh, don't be such a girl."