#AND in which all the childish antics of these three take Rhodri back to her students in the Circle

[wild-houseplant]

Have Warden, Will Travel- Chapter 10

I’m as astonished as you are that another one’s out so soon, believe me. In which the party FINALLY reaches Honnleath-- with a bit o’backstory and odds and sods. More under the cut, and link to the AO3 here! No real content warning except an infected wound and mention of time in the oubliette. Nothing graphic. Fantasy racism and fetishising of elves is present throughout this entire story but is quite obvious in this chapter. Please drink your water and you are very important!! :D :D

§

Zevran gave the blacksmith an appreciative nod as he took his dagger back and hung it off his hip. With a wave to her and her deliciously muscular arms, he left the forge and sauntered down the sunny corridor toward the spice gardens where Rinna and Taliesen awaited him. 

Master Claudio appeared from around a corner up ahead. Flanking him on either side were two humans clad in silk and privilege. Tevinters, no doubt: no-one else carried staves so proudly. 

Zevran checked behind him. His back was clear; Zevran’s muscles relaxed halfway. He smiled and inclined his head to a half-bow at the Master and his company. 

The younger of the guests, a woman in turquoise and silver dress robes, ran wide blue eyes over Zevran. “Claudio, you’re horrible. You didn’t show us this one!” 

The older mage’s impatient sigh went unacknowledged as she made a beeline for Zevran, her hands already out to grab at him. Zevran arranged his face into a demure smile. The smell of her warm, sweet myrrh was turning his stomach when she was still two steps away. 

“Ah,” she hooked a jewelled finger under his jaw and dug her thumb into his cheek, angling his face this way and that. “What a pretty thing you are! Lovely lips, and those eyes! Gorgeous.”

He ignored the bite of ring prongs in his chin and peered up at her through his lashes. The platinum, aquamarine-eyed snake adorning her ear was alive, he’d have sworn it on his grave, writhing and coiling like someone was tormenting it with a hot branding iron. Not even a trick of the light explained it away.

“Cynthia, don’t touch it,” the elder mage reproached wearily. He stepped over and towed her hand away, his face scrunching with disgust as Zevran feigned a curious smile. More words, this time in, Tevene; Zevran managed to make out ‘your brother,’ ‘a child’, and ‘these rats’.

Master Claudio drew up beside the woman. “My apologies, my Lady,” he purred. “I am afraid Zevran is in the middle of a long assignment and cannot be spared.” 

“You will let us know if he is free later, sic?” She bit her lip and eyed Zevran ravenously. “If not for guarding the house during parties, I think I could find another few uses for him.”

“The very moment he becomes available, my Lady, I assure you.” The Master turned to Zevran, the agreeableness in his face flickering out ever-so-briefly as their eyes met. “Now, Zevran, I believe you have somewhere else to be, not holding up beautiful ladies, no?”

Zevran nodded once and smiled at the woman. “Forgive me, my Lady, I would have jumped at the chance. Next time, no?”

He excused himself with a deferential hand to the heart, stealing a last glimpse at the agonising snake as he went.

§

Tegrin declared his roadside shop officially open for business the next morning. Surprisingly, Sten had proved the keenest shopper of them all. In his silence, he managed to silently outdo even Leliana’s adulations of a pair of garish, powder-blue silk shoes. For the entire time the party browsed, his gaze had remained fixed on an oil painting of a regal-looking woman with a shock of fiery hair, depicted mid-battle and, most unfortunately, with all of her clothes on. 

Even Rhodri hadn’t missed the display of pining. When it was revealed that Sten was short on funds (he mumbled something about the absurd price of cookies and ended the conversation abruptly thereafter), she bought the damned thing for him, and then the shoes for Leliana, too. 

A dust-caked tome that had snared the Warden’s fascination made the final purchase. What wisdom it contained was unclear, but if Rhodri was setting out to learn the art of attracting particulate matter to herself, she couldn’t have chosen better. The price was slashed for her– or perhaps for Old Tegrin, who sneezed fitfully whenever the book came too close to him– to a mere six silvers.

Along with the goodies, Tegrin handed Rhodri a fistful of letters to be delivered to the Dace House in Orzammar’s Diamond Quarter. The exact location within the Diamond Quarter was laid out on a hand-drawn map– and a small paragraph with the same instructions. With quiet thanks and a less-than-quiet clap to the back, Tegrin sent the Warden, and thus the rest of the party, on their way.

§

Much of the day passed in silence– at least for Zevran. The only person typically willing to make civil conversation with him on the road was the Warden. Other members’ addresses were, by and large, suspicious questioning regarding his former employers. These were quickly deemed to be uncivil conversation by the same Warden, who quickly and firmly put a stop to them. Zevran couldn’t decide if he disliked the snide interrogations more or less than the deafening silence.

Especially on a day like today, when his sole conversation partner had spent the entire day with her head buried in the map. Even over lunch, the only words to voluntarily come out of her mouth were mumbles pertaining to the party’s itinerary, which the Orzammar debacle had apparently cast into disarray. When she would re-emerge to join the Living again was anyone's guess.

In the background he pretended not to hear, Leliana had occupied herself by stroking her new shoes with a passion that bordered on publicly indecent. She had vigorously denounced, called it criminal, even, that splendid footwear as a whole was incompatible with the rocky Fereldan earth. From his periphery, Zevran had watched Leliana fix Alistair and the Warden with the largest, flutter-lashed eyes available to her. Had such assets been directed at anyone else, the cue would have been taken immediately, and the Chantry Sister would have been swept off her feet and carried like a bride for the rest of the day. 

This was decidedly not the case with Rhodri and Alistair. With identical good-natured smiles, the two Wardens registered her remarks with sympathetic nods– genuine ones, it had to be said– and turned back to the road. And what a sight the Sister was at that, scuffing her practical boots into the ground and looking as miserable as a wet cat. Unfortunate, really, but the truth of the matter was that Leliana had brought this fate upon herself. Not least because this was nowhere near the first time she had made such a display. 

Indeed, from Zevran’s observations over the last nine days, it appeared that Leliana was experiencing a revival of urges her Chantry had frowned upon, and was very much in the mood for indulging them now. 

The catch, however, was that she only sought to do so with people who failed to notice her overtures. And as fate (or rather, Leliana) would have it, her flirtations lacked the brazenness required to make them sufficiently obvious. That had not changed over the entire period Zevran had been forced to witness it.

It was likely the Templar who had her attention the most. She would pause whatever she was doing to steal glances at Alistair during any and every training session. When he wasn’t available, though, she seemed content to make eyes at the other, equally oblivious Warden while she trained. Always wanting, never pursuing.

But it couldn’t be said that Zevran was unfeeling or dismissive of the poor woman’s plight. In fact, in a moment of sympathy he had offered to help relieve Leliana’s needs on a generous no-strings-attached basis, but the good Sister had assured Zevran his services were unnecessary.

Which meant, of course, that there was nothing to do but watch Leliana suffer on, with nothing to comfort her but another bout of involuntary abstinence as she cradled a pair of shoes that couldn’t be worn. If nothing else, it was quite poetic.

§

The good thing about the oubliette was that it was impossible to drown in it. That, aside from staying in the filthy water too long, posed the most immediate danger, and dying from either of these were things Zevran had managed to avoid through a little tricky climbing and bodily twisting.

Ah, but the infections from falling into the water, those were harder to stave off. Impossible, in fact, as he had discovered upon being hauled out of there. For the first time in three weeks, he stood in the room he shared with twelve other recruits and scanned his body with a tiny, cracked hand mirror. The one on his leg was by far the most painful, and had developed an offensive purulence that would need prompt attention if he planned on keeping the limb.

He left his face for last. The cuts around his eye were already infected, possibly even burnt from the poison on the blade that had given them, by the time he’d been thrown down there. By the grace of the Maker and judicious applications of Zevran’s own saliva, they had healed by the time he was hauled out of the oubliette. But with his predisposition to uneven skin tone where wounds had been– as numerous scars elsewhere had revealed– a blotch of any size on his face would be unappealing to a seduction target. Anywhere but there.

Zevran gingerly tilted the mirror upward, his heart sinking as two patches totalling the size of a hundred andris coin came into view. One started by the crease of his eye and the other splashed halfway down his cheek. Unevenly healed, poorly-located, and impossible to conceal with any hairstyle. His grip on the mirror handle tightened until the embossing pressed on a nerve; he threw the glass onto a bed and stormed to the tattooist as fast as his limp allowed.

“So, uh… Zevran…” Alistair began slowly.

From the corner of Zevran’s eye, Rhodri turned and fixed her gaze on the Templar. 

Alistair put his hands up. “I’m not going to ask him when he’s going to kill us, I promise,” he said quickly. “Really. I’m just curious about the… um… designs you’ve got.” He waved a vague hand over his own shoulder and up to his cheek.

Zevran shelved the temptation to count how many days it had taken to be approached with a query about anything other than his murderous intentions. A smile came to him with merciful ease.

“These?” He tapped his cheek with one finger, returning the nod that Alistair gave. “They are called tattoos, and I have them in many more places than just my face and back, my friend.”

“They have a certain appeal, I must say,” Leliana chimed in now. “They remind me of how we used to paint our faces in Orlais.”

“Ah, but these are not paint, dear lady,” Zevran said with a chuckle. He turned until he was walking backwards and waggled his brows at the pair of them. “They are ink, poked under the skin with many needles.”

There wasn’t a sum Zevran wouldn’t have been willing to part with to see Alistair’s face blanch the way it did now. If any more blood drained from the man’s head, they’d be peeling him off the ground. 

Alistair gulped audibly. “Oh,” he croaked. “I heard that, but I didn’t think it was true. Didn’t it… you know, hurt?”

“Oh, yes,” Zevran waved a hand in airy dismissal. “But it is not so bad, truly. In fact, many enjoy it enough to come back for more. I certainly did.” He hummed animatedly. “You know, I could give you a tattoo, if you like! I learned a bit of the art myself back home in Antiva. What say you, eh?”

Alistair’s body locked briefly enough that he lost his balance and stumbled forward. Zevran threw a hand out to keep the Templar from planting his face into the ground, and the prospect of being touched by an Antivan assassin, former though he was, was apparently enough to magically upright the man. Alistair rolled his shoulders back and frowned at him, pawing at his reddening face as he did.

Leliana drifted a little closer to Zevran, running her eyes over his face. “Do they mean anything to you, these symbols?”

He shrugged with one shoulder. “Some. Some of them are sacred to the Crows, and I cannot reveal their story. Others are there to make me even more beautiful than I already am.” He gave her, and then the scowling Templar, a rakish grin. “Accentuates the curves and musculature, you understand.”

“Huh,” Alistair chewed on his cheek. “Don’t think I’ve seen any of those kinds of tattoos on you.”

Zevran chuckled. “No, well, I would have to get into quite the state of undress to show you. I can, if you like, once we are somewhere a little more private.” 

Correction: Alistair’s face was not reddening. It was, in fact, purpling. He spluttered incoherently, attracting the attention of the other Warden again. She turned sharply enough to slice the air in two (mercy, was she jealous?) , and watched the two of them carefully.

“No. Nope,” Alistair choked to him. “I’m fine.”

Zevran gave a small but flourished bow. “As you like.” He turned to Rhodri, who was still staring them down– but especially him. He smiled at her and showed his palms in a tiny shrug. “He said no. I am not one for disrespecting boundaries.”

A firm, pleased smile came to Rhodri and she gave him an approving nod, though for what, Zevran couldn’t imagine. She peered over at her fellow Warden solicitously.

“You are all right, Alistair?” she asked gently.

He nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”

She reached out and gave his arm a squeeze, and with a smile to him and then Zevran, faced front again.

“I thought about getting a tattoo,” Rhodri declared to the road ahead.

Zevran whirled around on one foot and fell into step with her again. He chuckled delightedly. “Oh-ho-ho! What tattoo can improve perfection, I wonder! Ah, but perhaps you have imagined an adornment beyond my comprehension, no? What is it you desire, my Grey Warden?”

Lavish praise went apparently unnoticed as the Warden wobbled her head from side to side. “I wanted lines across my wrist while I did my mandatory hospital wing training in the Circle.” She held up a robed arm and drew her fingertips across her forearm. “Kept running out of paper, see, so I had to write on my arm. You wouldn’t believe the way it sloped.”

It took all his effort to quash the urge to snort. After all, beyond being socially imprudent, his reaction was a little unfair– the Warden’s idea was a perfectly serviceable one.

“Ingenious,” he purred. “Tell me when you want your little lines, my dear, and I will get my needles ready. I will be so gentle you’ll hardly notice a thing!”

She smiled and shook her head. “Thank you, but Tevinters aren’t allowed tattoos. Besides, with the Taint in me, I’m not sure when I’ll stop growing, if ever. I think that might make it look odd."

Alistair groaned. “I think I grew overnight again, you know. My shoes are getting tight. Agh, and they’re only new, too!"

"Ah?" Rhodri peered over at him worriedly. "You're in pain? We can stop."

“Nah, not in pain yet.” He sighed. “I will be if I grow again before I can get these changed, though.”

“Mmm,” she paused mid-step to give her foot a little shake. “I need another pair, myself. We’ll see if there isn’t something in Honnleath, sic?”

Zevran kept his eyes straight ahead and privately pondered the growth rates of the other parts of a Grey Warden.

§

Alistair and Leliana each knew a little about the town of Honnleath. 

The former of them undertook Templar training alongside a fellow who had hailed from a small farm there, and advised the village was situated on a lake that boasted a small but well-used dock. Given the general sparseness of the surrounds, said dock was undoubtedly, then, the pride of the hamlet and a not-to-be-missed attraction for anyone visiting the village.

Oh, now he was just being cruel. 

Leliana, on the other hand, had been rather more secretive about how she had come by her information, as she was about how she came by most anything. What was revealed was a snippet about the Sulzbach family. 

The Sulzbachers, so said Leliana, had a long and proud lineage of magical ability that had somehow not incurred the wrath of the Chantry. Indeed, one of the recent descendants, Wilhelm, was a former Circle Enchanter with a penchant for visits to the Deep Roads, and had apparently been of some service to the late King Maric on the battlefield.

At this information, Rhodri looked over her shoulder. 

“Did you hear that, Morrigan?” she said. “The Deep Roads! Golems are dwarven-made, I know, because the Juggernauts guarding Minrathous were a gift from the Orzammar Shaperate." She rubbed her fingers. "Maybe that golem belongs to the Sulzbachers…”

The witch shrugged. “If that fool merchant possessed the control rod, then this family must be truly pathetic. Anti-theft glyphs are perfectly simple, and very durable when cast correctly.”

“Hm. I’m not sure what to think. We still don’t even know if they’re sentient yet, let alone safe.” Rhodri tsked softly. “Never would’ve been this ignorant about golems with a Tevinter education, I know…”

“To be fair though, Rhod,” Alistair piped up now, “if you’d been educated in Tevinter, you would’ve probably learned about blood magic, too.”

“Eh? I don’t have a problem with blood magic, so long as it’s practiced ethically– ah come, don’t look at me like that, Alistair, of course ethical blood magic exists. You either use your own blood, or someone willingly donates a little. In fact,” Rhodri’s chest puffed out. She regarded the party with a proud, warm smile, and hands all but smacking her thighs, “my father has been using some of his own blood each week for years to enchant a lyrium-free staff for me! He got special permission from the Magisterium for it and everything!”

Morrigan snorted as Alistair’s mouth fell open and Leliana frowned deeply. Zevran’s own chortle died in his throat when he caught a flash of hurt passing over the Magewarden’s face. 

Without thinking, he addressed Rhodri with a flourished sweep of the hand. “Hmm! That would amount to quite some blood over the years, my Grey Warden, no? I imagine your staff would be worth a small fortune now!”

The Warden brightened immediately. “It is!” she enthused. “Tata has put in the equivalent of around six human adults’ worth of blood so far, and it’s ethically-sourced mage blood, which would triple the value.” She started counting off on her fingers. “Made from top-quality dragonbone, too, and heirloom status which would double the price again… I believe Tata said Mr. Tethras valued it early last year at… oh, it’d equate to about forty thousand Fereldan sovereigns.”

Alistair had somehow descended into a coughing fit by the time ‘Fereldan’ had left the Warden’s lips, and Leliana wasted no time in supplying the man with water, coos of support, and gentle strikes between the shoulder blades. In Zevran’s periphery, Morrigan bore witness to the spectacle with a disgust that matched his own sentiments. A flutter of luck prompted him to meet her eyes and steal a moment of rapport born of mutual suffering. Their gaze locked briefly; the witch’s revulsion grew. He summoned a flirtatious smirk to hide the pang of disappointment, and turned away.

“Mercy, Alistair,” Rhodri shook her head. “Are you all right?”

“Forty thousand gold?”  the Templar gasped, gingerly straightening up again. "That's… a lot of money."

Rhodri nodded. "Well yes, and the sentimental value is indescribable, but it isn't the most expensive staff in existence, by any means. Besides, what matters is it's one I can actually use, since most staves contain lyrium." She chuckled and held up her own staff. "This isn't even a proper staff, just a branch they broke off a sylvan tree. Barely does anything, but it'll make a nice hat rack once it's retired."

“So useless?” Zevran didn’t bother holding back a chuckle now. “Why have it at all, then?”

“One has to look the part,” she replied with a grin. “A mage without a staff? It’d be like leaving the house without pants on.”

An odd moment passed as Zevran tried to picture the Warden without pants, only to find that her lower half became a vast nothingness in the absence of a robe. He was almost grateful when Alistair’s voice, now much more serious, interrupted the musings.

“Rhod.”

“Yes, I feel it.” She turned to the rest of the party. “Darkspawn ahead, up in the village. Fifteen or so. We should hurry, before the villagers come to any harm.”

The Wardens broke into a sprint, with Rhodri’s last instruction of ‘Stay behind me’ shouted over her shoulder to the rest of the party.

§

Much in all as Zevran hated to be insensitive, if it weren’t for the Blight ravaging the little hamlet, Honnleath would have been nothing to write home about. Not least because there was nothing in Honnleath to write about.

Oh, there were houses there (though the word had to be used very loosely), and a windmill that looked like it hadn’t seen a day off since the Exalted Age. And, of course, there was the suspiciously golem-esque statue standing in the middle of it all, looking like it had been frozen mid-scream. After mere moments in the town, Zevran was already certain he could empathise with the urge.

That said, with the throng of Darkspawn burning things and murdering half the residents out in the open, nobody was wanting for something to do. And indeed, they were forced to do something as a battle promptly ensued. 

And of course, the Fereldan weather spoke for itself. Halfway through the fighting, the clouds made enemies of all that walked the land, person or Darkspawn irrespective, by opening and releasing enough icy rain to fill the Frozen Seas twice over. 

Still, though, the Warden’s party was not to be stopped. Not even Zevran curled up and died from the damp– though if anyone cared to ask him, it was a terribly close call. Hurlock mages were frozen and blown to bits; keen knives unzipped the throats of many a genlock; and a few clever arrows from Leliana (‘armed Chantry Sister’ indeed!) handled the pests up on the hill before anyone could become a pincushion against their will.

The (presumed) locals who had been fending the beasts off were all dead by the end of the scuffle. Most had already bled out, and a few who had sustained bites or contaminated wounds were already weakening from Blight sickness. Leliana prayed and Alistair looked miserable while Rhodri (who denied Zevran’s offer of assistance again!) put them out of their misery. 

Alistair blew water everywhere as he puffed out a breath. “It’s so quiet now. Creepy.”

Zevran chuckled and wiped his neck with one shivering hand. “I do not suppose this is usually a bustling sort of a place at the best of times, my friend.”

A shrieking sneeze pierced the air from the back of the party, loud enough to make the dog startle with a yelp. The offender, a drenched and displeased-looking Morrigan, glared at anyone who turned back to look at her.

“HA!” Alistair cackled richly and pointed at her. “Your mother sneezes just like that. I heard her do it in the Wilds while we were waiting for you and Rhod to come outside!” He threw his head back and let out a shrill, unnervingly accurate imitation of Morrigan’s own sneeze, only to give in halfway through and let his laughter buckle his knees.

“I sneeze nothing like my mother!” Morrigan snapped, visibly bristling as Alistair made another breathless attempt at parodying her.

The Warden, who had been stopping her ears and grimacing the entire time, stomped a goodly distance away from the spectacle. “If you people want to make a career of being noisy,” she yowled over her shoulder, “take up opera singing or something useful!” 

She moved her hands away and surveyed the party from her place further up the hill. “You’re all shivering. Well, except you of course, Alistair. We should find some shelter and warm up before you all catch your death. Perhaps one of these houses here.” Rhodri smiled wryly at Morrigan and Alistair as she added, “With a separate, soundproofed room for the screechers, if possible.”

Zevran, who was no longer able to feel his nose, jogged up to the Warden and swept his damp hair off his face. He shot her a winning smile. “Where will you lead us, my lovely Warden? I hope it will be a house with a lively party.” He sighed dramatically. “These small towns are terribly dull.”

Rhodri grinned as she cast her eyes up the lane. “Well, nowhere near that one on fire,” she gestured off to the right at the former inferno, still with enough guts to it to spite the cloudburst. “I think the rain will stop it before it spreads, but better to stay away from it anyway.”

The Warden squinted and waved a hand at a house off to the left. “You know, I think there’s purple light coming out of those windows.” She looked at Zevran. “Do you see it?”

Zevran glanced up at the modest little building and hummed in agreement. “I do, yes.” He swallowed. “That… does not strike me as the site of a party.”

“No.�� 

Another call over her shoulder, first to Alistair, second to rally the party, and third a directive to stay behind her. This was beginning to become quite a theme in life. At least indoors it would be dry.

Oh, Maker, hopefully indoors would be dry.

§

Indoors, as it happened, was dry, and contained two things: Darkspawn, and the other half of the population of Honnleath. The latter of these was encased in a large, lilac bubble, and given they weren't dead despite their proximity to their murderous room-mates, it was presumably a protective shield. When he had a moment to, Zevran marvelled at the vivid glow of it, whatever it was. 

The room itself must have been nice once. Solid, wooden desks and burgeoning bookshelves lined every wall in the place, but the layer of grime made it impossible to know what colour anything was. The cobwebs outnumbered the people, and thick, daggerpointed crystals sat on the fixtures like they had grown out of them. 

A tallish human stood at the front of the group, watching the Warden carefully as she approached. In the light, his hair could have been blonde or grey, and he looked tired enough that not even Zevran would have begged pardon for mistakenly thinking him a man of fifty. 

“Is… is it safe?” he asked Rhodri in a hollow voice.

She nodded. “The Darkspawn outside have been handled. Are there more in here?”

The man shook his head, and with a flick of his fingers the purple blockade vanished. Hushed thanks to him and the Warden’s party came from the townspeople as they fled the building and left them alone. 

He strode over with a weary smile on his face. “Thank you for your help, all of you.” He inclined his head gratefully. “Was it the Bann who sent you to save us?”

“The… Bann?” Rhodri frowned. “No, we came here because we were given a control rod for the golem outside.” 

The man stiffened. “That bloody golem,” he growled.

Morrigan let out a laugh from the back. “I think, Warden, we have found the Sulzbacher mage.”

Oh, and what a frown that got from him! Morrigan was lucky not to have had him march up and knock her sideways. Or perhaps he was lucky he didn’t appear game to try his luck with her.

“You find my family’s suffering funny, do you?” He gritted his teeth. “The story about our golem gets out and we’re now the subject of ridicule!”

Rhodri quickly put her hands up. “Apologies, ser, we know nothing about the golem’s story. A merchant gave the control rod to us after getting it himself in Orlais, and told us to come to Honnleath and say ‘dulef gar’ to activate it. That’s all we know. If you’d like your rod back, we’ll gladly hand it over– Alistair, if you wouldn’t mind…”

The Sulzbacher shook his head hard. “No, no, keep it. Sooner that bloody thing’s out of here, the better. The golem murdered my father, Wilhelm Sulzbacher, right outside where it stands now. My poor mother found him lying out there with every bone in his body shattered! She barely recognised him!” 

Were the Wardens related? Or did Wardenhood simply confer the same set of facial expressions to all its members? It had to be one of them; Rhodri and Alistair both had their hands clapped over their mouths– both left hands, no less! It was like watching a pair of Orlesian mimes.

“How awful,” Rhodri breathed. “Oh, ser, I can't imagine your pain. I’m sorry.” 

Sulzbacher chuckled bitterly. “So am I. Right as he was about to retire, too. No, you have that golem and good luck to you." He paused and rubbed his chin with one bloodied finger. "I… wonder, though, if I might ask a favour first.”

Fights and favours, Zevran decided then and there, made the three-word summary of his new career. Morrigan's disgusted sigh was barely drowned out by Rhodri's matter-of-fact hum of interest, and her eyes narrowed dangerously as the Warden invited the man to elaborate. 

And then, as Sulzbacher proceeded to beseech the party to retrieve his missing daughter from a trap-laden laboratory further downstairs, the same eyes appeared to attempt murder several times, first on the man and then on the Warden when she readily agreed to assist. Well, at least she was consistent.