#plz be gentle i havent written in ages and by brain is Bad(tm)

[the-eldritch-it-gay]

The hanged man was never a quiet place, really, largely because it was never empty. Sure, afternoons and evenings were the busiest times, but plenty lingered in their night of drinking until the wee hours of the morning. And once morning came around, folks started trickling in for breakfast and conversation once more. There were always people coming in and out, travelers, locals, all sorts of people who brought noise, conversation, music, it was part of why Varric liked living there.

It was also why Varric could tell something was off that night, because he could no longer hear the din of conversation from the pub below. 

It was late into the evening, usually, the number of patrons would have dwindled a bit by this point, but silence at this time of night, or at any time, was something Varric had never come across. 

Putting down his quill and reading glasses, Varric walked over to his doorway, peering down into the tavern. There were still people, a scant few at the bar, a couple posted up at various tables, but something was off. Even from there, he could feel a strange tension, an unease in the way everyone sat, in the hushed whispers and worried side-eyed glances.

Varric wasn’t certain what exactly drew him down the steps into the tavern.. It could have been anything, morbid curiosity, concern, perhaps simply the anticipation that this could be a story to tell. If it was curiosity, he didn’t have to wait long, as he saw what everyone was avoiding the second his feet touched the tavern floor.

Sitting alone at a table in the corner was a Dalish elf. That in of itself wasn't too uncommon, what was uncommon was everything else. Blue, gold, and silver robes with intricate embroidery, countless gold piercings, a cloak, and a headscarf made from fine brocade. Their vallaslin itself was gold, glittering against their dark brown skin in the torchlight, there was even gold thread even woven into the thick braid of theirs that was so long it pooled on the floor. 

Even that, though, likely wasn’t what put everyone off. What put them off, Varric had to assume, were the bones. Animal bones hanging from their belt, a deer skull on the table next to their leather bag, the bag’s straps beaded with vertebrae. Leaning on the wall next to them, a gnarled wooden staff, wood twisting around more vertebrae, branches with teeth hanging from golden thread, teeth that looked too human. 

What caught Varric’s eye, though, was the silver Grey Warden pendant hanging at their waist.

“You’re scaring people, there, Bones,” Varric chuckled as he approached their table.

He could almost feel a collective sigh of relief from the other patrons as he sat across from them. The elf, on the other hand, hardly reacted aside from slightly raising their eyebrows. 

“What can I say, it’s amusing,” They shrugged.

Varric couldn’t help his surprise at their accent, faintly Orlesian of all things.

“We don’t tend to see many Grey Wardens around here”

They laughed slightly, not even looking up from the papers on the table in front of them.

“I wouldn’t think people saw Grey Wardens much anywhere, now the Blight is over. Much less Kirkwall, the Blight didn’t reach this far north aside from some ghouls.”

“Well, I didn’t think the Blight spread west enough to bother Orlais, either,”

“Grey Wardens don’t care much about borders. I spent the early parts of the Blight in Ostagar as the Ferelden Warden commander’s left hand.”

“I suppose you would know a lot about darkspawn and the warden, then,”

They paused, finally looking over to him after a moment.

“We don’t have to do this,”

“What do you mean?”

“All of this,” They gestured vaguely, “Cut the sweet talk, you’re only talking to me because I’m a Warden and you want something from a Warden,”

“Come now, what makes you think that? I just thought I might talk to some traveler sitting all alone,”

“Nobody talks to me willingly, what gave you away is the fact that you’re speaking to me at all,”

“Well now, it’s not just that you’re a Warden, you’re quite the interesting character, a Dalish elf dressed like a nobility walking into a dingy lowtown tavern? There’s gotta be some story there.”

They were quiet now, seemingly ignoring Varric for a minute before they spoke again.

“Perhaps I’m nothing more than a story.”

With that, they stood in a flourish of fine fabrics. They limped out the door, a glint of metal visible under their skirt, the torches dimming around them as they passed.

Varric looked back at the table, and their mug still sat there, full, untouched, filled with an inky black liquid.

They returned the next night, around the same time, at the same table.

Varric wasn’t one for writing ghost stories, he never really saw the appeal. He preferred mystery, intrigue, drama, crime, a spooky specter floating around didn’t quite cut it.

Perhaps, though, Varric realized, that was because he only thought of ghosts as some apparition, a cheap scare. Maybe they could be more than that.

If Varric were to describe the Orlesian Warden, he would call them a ghost.

They weren’t malevolent, they didn’t torment any poor souls. But they showed up every night, bringing an unsettling aura and leaving silence in their wake. They sat alone at that table, with a drink they never touched. They would leave the tavern at the same time, whether Varric spoke to them or not. When he spoke to them their answers were vague or cryptic, but most of the time they were simply silent. Their voice was flat, face stoic, and impossible to read. 

There was something off about them, something that haunted every other patron in the Hanged Man.

One night, Anders stepped into the Hanged Man while the Warden was there. As soon as he noticed them, he had paled, frozen, like he had seen a ghost. He turned on his heel and left in a hurry.

“They have a lot of names, really,” Anders said, when Varric asked about them.

“So what’s their story?”

Anders was quiet for a while, looking off in the distance, “If you asked them, they would tell you they’re nothing more than a ghost story,”

Varric couldn’t help but find truth in their words.

“Varric, a letter,” The barkeep nodded at the counter.

The letter itself was a deep pine green in color, thick parchment folded neatly, stamped with an ornate white wax seal and dried flowers. Before Varric could reach for it, though, the barkeep spoke again.

“Not for you, though,”

Turning the letter over, Varric read the address. The Elf in the Corner, written ornately in white ink. There was no name, no return address.

“They’re already spooking my patrons,” the barkeep continued, “I don’t want more spooky characters and dealings scaring off any more customers. You tell them that!”

“Right, no more spooky characters and dealings are off, only shady characters and dealings,”

“They’re scaring everyone half to death!”

“No, no, I hear you, I’ll let them know, no problem,” Varric said, waving his hand dismissively as he took the letter and started towards his room, “No more spooky business, I’m sure they’ll listen.”

For the rest of the evening, the letter sat on Varric’s desk. There was no way he could find the Warden himself, he didn’t know their name, Anders wasn’t keen on talking about them. Varric wasn’t even sure where they disappeared to when they weren’t at the Hanged Man. He had asked around a couple times, as to whether anyone had seen a Dalish Warden, an Elven mage dressed in fine robes, an unusual Orlesian character. People would mention the Warden who ran a clinic in Darktown, the friendly Dalish mage in the Alienage, the tattooed elf living in Hightown, but never the person Varric was looking for. 

They might as well be a ghost, an apparition that only appeared briefly in the dead of night.

At a quarter past two in the morning, like clockwork, a silence fell over the tavern below. Putting down his work, he grabbed the letter and descended into the tavern area. 

They were in the corner again, still as a statue, staring off into the distance, mug untouched in front of them. As Varric approached, they didn’t react, didn’t even raise an eyebrow as Varric sat at the table. Pulling out the letter, he was about to speak, but before he did their hand snatched out to grab the letter. Varric was nearly startled, he had never seen them move so quickly, and as he watched them open it, he saw their usually inexpressive face soften, their whole body change. For the first time, they seemed just like a person, eyes warm, a faint smile visible behind their hand as the read the letter.

Learning over slightly, Varric could make out the first line.

My love,

And suddenly the story shifts in Varric’s mind, away from horror, from ghosts, hauntings, and instead to one of love. No longer was the Warden before him a ghostly apparition haunting a tavern, but a traveling, lovesick knight waiting anxiously for letters from their love, desperate to send back tales from their travels and their affection--

“Thank you,”

The Warden had folded the letter closed once again, straightened their posture.

“Oh, no problem, I mean I figured you might happen to be the Elf in the Corner it was addressed to, “ Varric smiled as they scoffed, “Be sure to give them my regards--”

“I won’t.”

Varric paused. 

“The Templars would kill them if I ever went home again,” Their voice was flat, face stony and emotionless, at odds with the words they spoke, “Their letters are the closest I get to being with them. I appreciate you delivering it.”

They began carefully folding the letter, gathering their things.

“So, what are you going to do now? There’s not much Grey Warden business in Kirkwall, and I imagine you could spend your days writing love letters and lurking in shady taverns before Templars take notice.”

“I can’t write, but I am good at keeping out of the Templars' sights. As it stands, though, I do indeed have Grey Warden business here,” They paused for a moment, head tilted slightly as they looked into the distance, “It’s not something I plan on completing, though. Do give Anders my regards,”

They stood with practiced grace, their staff suddenly finding itself in their hand.

“I never got your name,”

The Warden froze, their robes swaying around them gently as if being pushed by a breeze, silk and embroidery glimmering, vallaslin glittering in the low torch light. 

“When is one deserving of a name? Where does story stop and personhood begin, does such a line even exist? Are some things too blurred and ephemeral to have a name? What people know me as is a story, not a person. even in their stories they don’t give me a name. Is it out of reverence? Fear? or is it the careful and deliberate erasure of my personhood, an abstraction that allows room for cruelty? In my lives I’ve been called a great many things, I’ve been given a great many names,” They paused for a moment, “For you, I shall leave you with a name of my choosing: N’Abjidynen Za’arslu,”

As soon as they spoke their name, all the torches flickered, the tavern going dark for a split second. When the lights returned, they were gone as if they had never been there. The only evidence of their existence, the mug left on their table, filled with the same, strange inky black liquid. As Varric watched, something white broke the surface. A single, bleached animal bone.

When Varric thought about it, there wasn’t a difference between a love story and a ghost story.