The Arcanist squeezed her fingers together, fidgeting.

Should she ask? Or not? No, the Inquisitor was busy, using his glowing hand to seal rifts and kill Red Templars and crush Venatori and all that good stuff.

He didn't have time for running errands.

"Your work never ceases to amaze me, Dagna," Trevelyan said as he looked at the magical flames ringing the new two-handed sword she had finished. "I'll never understand magic quite like you do, I suspect."

The Inquisitor traced the small rune with his finger, dousing the flames.

Dagna was grinding the tip of her boot into the floor like she often did. She was wearing the leather bare. She'd need a new pair of boots before winter if she didn't knock it off. Her bottom lip was between her teeth.

Trevelyan slung the new sword over his back. "What's wrong, Dagna?"

Dagna popped up as if a nug had goosed her from behind. She stopped wringing her fingers, planted her foot flat on the ground and stopped biting her lip.

"What? Nothing. Nothing's wrong. Everything's great. There's magic and red lyrium and the Anchor and," she stumbled. She started chewing her lip again without even realizing. "And stuff. You know, magic. Yay."

Dagna lowered her head, kind of embarrassed.

"Dagna," the Inquisitor said like a father investigating what kind of mischief his boy was getting into. "I don't think I've ever seen you short for words before. What's bothering you?"

Caught. She wasn't exactly being discreet though. She was never good at being discreet.

"I have a request. A favor, really," she started. "A lot of people helped me get where I am today, and I've thanked them all except one: my father, Janar. He didn't really help, exactly. 'Forbid' is closer, but family is family. Just like lyrium can only be worked by those who can't dream the Fade, I am the person I am today because my father shaped me, and I still owe him for who I am."

The Inquisitor crossed his arms and smiled. "I see. So what's the trouble? Why can't you thank him?"

"Trouble is, what I am is casteless. I can't ever go back. And everything I've ever sent has been refused. So, I was hoping I could put together a package and it could arrive in Orzammar with a little…" she hesitated, looking up at Trevelyan and smiling slightly. "'Inquisition flair'? Something to wow the gates and maybe get my father to look at it? That would be ever so sweet of you."

Dagna was ready to ramble off another hundred words like "If you have time, I know you're busy, it's really actually pretty stupid, you don't have to go out of your way to-" But before she could spurt another single word, Trevelyan rested his hand on her shoulder.

"I'll see what I can do, Dagna."

"Inquisition flair?" Cullen asked incredulously. "What does she want, a parade and trumpets and horses into Orzammar?"

Trevelyan laughed as he stood around the war table with his advisers. "She wasn't specific," he said with a smirk.

"I don't think that would be advisable," Leliana said.

"Why not?" Josephine cut in. "King Bhelen is an ally. I haven't had any correspondence with him recently, but I should send word that the Inquisitor has recently freed the Grey Wardens from the yoke of Corypheus. We send an entourage bearing good news, gifts for the king and gifts for the father of our dedicated Arcanist."

Cullen shook his head. "I admit I don't know dwarven customs as well as I should, but I don't think they care much for pomp and circumstance from - what do they call us? - topsiders? Is that it?"

Leliana held her hand at her chin, peering down at the Orzammar gate on the map. "I don't think it's the gate that it's the problem. I have a feeling it's the father that's the problem. If Dagna's package just happens to appear in his smithy, he can't refuse it then."

"If he even bothers to open it, that is," Cullen said. "Inquisitor, simplicity is best. We send a simple message of Dagna's gratitude. If her father is proud of her, that should be enough for him. If not, making a spectacle will only sour him more."

The three advisers had weighed in, now all looked to Trevelyan. He considered for moment. "Cullen," he said. The commander smiled, shooting a gloating glance at the other two. They had all made a game of it as the weighed in over the war table. Cullen was ahead in the standings and made sure to remind the other two of it frequently. "The dwarves don't just let anyone in Orzammar, even under King Bhelen's rule."

"We certainly can't send any dwarf. They'd turn any surfacer away in an instant," Josephine said. "While the Inquisition has diplomatic ties with Orzammar, I'd be wary to send just any human or elven messenger."

"The dwarves hold a great respect for Grey Wardens," Cullen said. "We have plenty of those at our disposal now."

Leliana smirked, that evil, wicked smirk Trevelyan knew meant she was up to no good. The others took notice too. "I don't know what you're thinking, Spymaster, but I'm not encouraged."

"I'm also worried," Josephine said.

Leliana chuckled.

"I know just the person. He's not exactly a diplomat, but he's an old friend and owes me a favor."

Cullen frowned and shook his head. "No, you can't be serious."

Josephine raised an eyebrow, obviously not familiar with whom Leliana was referencing.

Leliana crossed her arms. She had decided.

"Trust me, he'll be perfect."

The Grey Warden pushed the door of Janar's smithy open, the hinges creaking and in need of a good spritz of oil.

"Welcome to Janar's Armorers, the finest-" the proprietor began to say, until he looked up from his forge and saw who was in the doorway. "Oh it's you. Have you come to knock another hole in my wall?"

"Ass of the Stone, that happened ten sodding years ago and you're still carrying on about it?"

Oghren closed the door behind him. He had caught a glimpse of Tapster's on the street as he came into the commons. His mouth was dry. He could swear some stonecutter had added an extra hundred stairs down from the surface, just to prove that he could.

But Leliana had made it abundantly clear. Business first, then drinking. She had changed from the Blight. He didn't dare go against her words now. She'd cut off his dwarven maul if he didn't follow directions and not even feel bad about it.

"You can't exactly patch a stone wall," Janar said, wiping his hands on his apron. Even Oghren had to admit, the wall he and the Warden had kicked through from the Carta hideout all those years back did look like shit. It was off-color and rough. Janar had tried to obscure it with banners and some kind of a bookshelf, but it stood out instantly.

"I've apologized for that a hundred times at least," Oghren said. "I'll buy you a round at Tapster's."

Janar smiled at that. "You're a pain in my ass, Oghren, you know that, right?" He shook hands with the Grey Warden.

That was respect.

Oghren hadn't had a lot of that when he lived in Orzammar. But since joining the Wardens, smashing the Mother's brains all over the Dragonbone Wastes and becoming known as a hero throughout Ferelden, attitudes back home had changed. Dwarves actually stopped in the street to salute him, now. But they still made him pay at Tapster's. "What do you need, friend? Armor bothering you again?"

"Not today," Oghren said, stroking the braids of his beard. "Personal business. A favor for an old friend."

Janar took off his apron and draped it over his sharpening bench. "So then what brings you here?"

Oghren reached into his pack and pulled out the small package and the note attached to it. "Inquisition asked me to bring this to you. From your daughter."

Janar's eyes seemed to go blank as he looked at the small parcel. He frowned. "I don't have a daughter any more."

Oghren stepped forward and jammed the package into Janar's hand, holding it there to make sure he didn't drop it. "Don't be like that."

Janar wrapped his fingers around the small package and Oghren let go, taking a step back. Janar broke the wax seal on the small card, opened it and quickly scanned the writing inside. His eyes darted back and forth and her gave a short, "hrmph" before turning and flicking the card into the fires of the forge behind him.

The paper caught fire, red flame quickly consuming the note as it disintegrated to ash.

Janar shook the small package, tossing it onto the nearby counter, unopened.

"It was good seeing you again, Oghren," Janar said quietly. "I'll have to take you up on the round at Tapster's another time."

Janar lifted his apron back over his head and went back to the forge, turning his back to Oghren.

"That's it?" Oghren said.

"I've got work to get to, Oghren," Janar said.

Oghren nodded and turned around, taking one step toward the door. He'd be drinking alone, it seemed.

He grabbed the handle on the door, but his fingers fell limply on the knob. It wasn't right. He suddenly thought about Felsi and Oghren Jr. He hadn't thought he was a family man, himself, but Commander Caron at Vigil's Keep had helped convince him otherwise. Now he looked forward to any time he could get out of the Deep Roads and visit his boy.

He turned back around and walked toward the forge.

"Oghren, I told you-"

"Nug's shit," Oghren interrupted. "Dagna's your sodding daughter, you surly bronto-licker. Nothing will ever change that fact. The girl has made something of herself. She's doing damn good work topside, making a sodding difference up there, more than she'd ever do making babies and sweating in front of the forge her entire life here."

Janar put down his hammer and tongs and sighed.

"She misses you, you old nug-humper," Oghren said. "She can never come back. We both know that."

"You mean the Stone to her, Janar."

He didn't turn around.

"Think about it," Oghren said. "I'll be in Orzammar for a few days. You know where to find me."

Oghren felt a surge of pride in himself. Ten years ago he wouldn't have cared. Hell, he had been there when Lyna told Dagna she'd run the idea by the First Enchanter. He had encouraged Dagna to go, in fact.

Orzammar was fine for those who it was fine for. Everyone else, Orzammar didn't give sod about them.

Before Oghren could get the door, Janar turned around.

"Sod it, wait."

Dagna perched carefully over the forge, looking at the red-hot steel inside it.

"Pull it now," she said quickly, just as the first traces of white began to form at the edges of the metal.

Harritt quickly removed the sword from the forge with his tongs and lifted it out of the fire and moved toward the bath. "Wait!" Dagna shouted and the forgemaster stopped. She recited in her head, just like her father had taught her. "Bronto, bronto, run, run, run. Cool in air until the song's done." She looked at Harritt, "Now!"

The smith quickly dipped the blade into the water, the hiss and bubbling of steam as the water superheated and quenched the steel. As the bubbling subsided and the red of the steel faded to it's familiar silver grey, Harritt pulled it out and examined the sword-in-the-making.

"Must not be any defects, or it would have split," Dagna said as Harritt looked over it.

"Nope, looks perfect," Harritt said. "This water-quenching is tougher than using oil, but I do have to say, I like the results better."

"Yup," Dagna said.

"That pause, what was that for?" Harritt asked.

"Dwarven smithing tip," she said. "Those couple seconds before quenching gives you a better result. Smith caste shows blades are eight percent less likely to break if you wait."

Harritt nodded, looking impressed. "Didn't know that. Appreciate the tip."

The wooden door of the undercroft swung open and Inquisitor Trevelyan walked in. Dagna bounced across the forge to greet him. "Inquisitor! I'll need another day or two to finish up those runes you needed. I'd tell the lyrium to work faster but it would probably blow up in my face, you know how it is," she smiled. "Or not, right?"

Trevelyan smiled. "Not That, Dagna. Take your time," he said, shaking a small package in front of him. "We got a response from Orzammar. This came for you."

He handed off the small pack to the Arcanist and she held it in her hands as if she had just pulled a precious gem from the stone or was holding a newborn babe. She cradled it, looking in awe that it was actually in her hands. She recognized the hard, blocky, slightly messy writing on to the top of it instantly.

"Inquisitor…" she said trailing away. "I, I can't thank you enough for this."

Trevelyan held up a hand to stop her before she rambled away. "Not necessary, Dagna. For all you do, it was the least I could do to thank you for your service." Trevelyan gave a slight nod of his head. "I'll take my leave."

The light of the lamps and the dying embers of the forge cast an orangish light across the workbench.

The font of blue lyrium glowed and hummed slightly at her left side as Dagna carefully etched the runestone with her tools. Trace, etch, fill, fold. So simple in theory, but requiring steady hands and unwavering focus.

But even as Dagna looked down at the stone she was huddled over, she could always seem to see the family crest out of the corner of her eye. Dagna pulled back her tools after carefully tracing another line in the stone and exhaled.

"I'm turning in for the night," Harritt said as he wiped his hands and tossed the filthy rag back toward his bench. "Don't stay up too late now. Working that lyrium in the dark will burn your eyes out."

"That's nonsense, Harritt," Dagna said, matter-of-factly. "Sleep tight."

As the smith closed the door behind him, Dagna slid the small note out of the drawer on her bench again. She had already read it at least twenty times today, but she felt compelled to look again.

In her father's same blocky writing, the note was so short and so curt that she couldn't really be sure what to make of it. She couldn't call it warm. But it was here. He had responded. That was most important to her.

Dagna,

It seems you're putting your gifts to good use (the word 'topside' is roughly scratched out) out there. (Scratch) I'm glad you at least learned something about what it means to be a Smith from me. ('You should' scratched out) I wish it were here in Orzammar, where you belong.

Hope you're well.

Dad

She looked at the crest he had sent again. It was unmounted - on purpose - so she couldn't wear it. It was just as she remembered it. A black helm on field of gold at the top, divided in half by red, the line accented with wavy tongues of flame. The heraldry screamed smith class, one her father had worn proudly his entire life.

She never would have carried it herself. She likely would have been married to another smith and become part of his family.

But she had it now. It's more than she expected. It was more than most surfacers got.

Dagna shook her head to clear her mind and grabbed her tools again. She dipped the small spoon into her cup of the viscous lyrium. She held her breath, carefully swinging it over to the rune. She slowly lowered a single drop of lyrium onto the plate with her left hand, steady as ever, guiding it into the fine etches she had made earlier. The small hook in her right hand hovered nearby to help fold the lyrium in once it got set.

Her eyes glanced up at the crest.

She looked back down at the rune, placing the lyrium spoon to the side and picking up her prod in her fingers. The lyrium moved sluggishly, unwillingly finding its way into the small holes and settling in along the lines she carved. So far, so good.

It had been years since she forged a helm like the one on the crest. It was stereotypically dwarven - heavy steel, a full facemask, square and blocky. It was one of the first major projects her father had guided her on. It was one their family arms, so it was something she should know in and out, he said.

Dagna held the prod to at the edge of one thin line to prevent the lyrium from running off, instead pushing it to either side of the T-split, into the narrow channels.

The first helm she had made on her own, her father had looked at for a long time. He tapped it with his knuckles, tried to twist the steel between his fingers, examined the joints she had put together. She remembered his smile. "It looks good, except…" he said. He put the helm on top of his head, the helmet sitting atop his scalp like a hat.

She had made it several inches too small.

Dagna had wanted to cry at failing her first solo project, but couldn't help but laugh. She doubled over giggling, looking at her father wearing the helm atop his head. He had laughed too, guffawing until the helmet fell and clanged to the ground. Her father hugged her, tussling her hair with her hands. "Nobody gets it right the first time, Dagna. You'll get there. You're a smith. We all get it eventually."

Then she had gotten that first whiff of magic. An Enchanter from the tower, who had been granted permission to gather Deepstalker hearts from the Deep Roads. She wore drab robes but carried a staff. The children had flocked around her as she cast simple spells - conjuring small fires, coating pebbles with ice, bending a single bolt of electric between her fingers.

How did it work?

The question consumed her. The forge seemed dull in comparison. She plied techniques honed and practiced for hundreds of years in the forges of Orzammar. It was all known. Innovation was rare. Smiths stuck to what they knew. That's what her father said. But magic, dwarves didn't know anything about magic. Even the mages didn't know everything about magic.

Dagna realized she was staring at the crest again. She looked back down at the rune, to see the lyrium rolling off the side of the runestone, burning a path in the untreated stone. She quickly swapped tools, pushing aside the overflow back into the right channels. But the damage had been done.

The rune was wrecked.

Dagna placed her tools down on the workbench and put her elbows on the table, resting her head in her hands. She pushed her hair off her forehead and rubbed. It was late. She was tired.

She looked at the crest again. She replayed the text of her father's letter in her head again.

One line she kept hearing over and over: I wish it were here in Orzammar, where you belong.

Dagna swept her arms across the table to her right, knocking her tools, the damaged rune, her notes, all of it onto the floor. The tools clanged, the runestone thudded as it fell flat, the papers fluttered down to the ground.

She covered her face with her palms. She exhaled deeply into her hands, her lip quivering. She slid her hands, opening her view just slightly. There, in the center of table, propped up against the backboard, was the crest.

Dagna grabbed it, pulling it closer to her face. She ran her fingers over the crest, looked at the carefully drawn lines of the helmet sigil at the top of the field, admired the wavy red lines of the dividing line that represented the flames of the forge.

Her father had sent this. He wanted her to have it. She was casteless now, but her father, her blood, had sent this little piece of Orzammar to her.

Teardrops fell heavily upon the workbench.