[Trust me, the strange elf says, in those breathless few seconds before they fall. Insanity by anyone's definition, but especially in Kirkwall, and Fenris knows better. He knows elves who lure others in just to sell them out; he knows that this may well be part of a trap, that this elf might simply be leading him to his doom. Trust me as they stand on the edge of an abyss, and Fenris has no time to debate or decide. It's a gut-level instinct, a yes or no, trust me, fingers wrapping tight around his wrist as they leap—

— and fall, tumble, stumble to their feet, and it isn't until the wall hits his back that Fenris actually exhales.]

Look at me.

[It's breathed out, a low rumble intended only for his companion's ears. One hand snakes around him, fingers splayed along his lower back as he yanks him in closer— the awning is only so big, after all. He can hear thundering footsteps above them, confused shouts and snarled threats— they've lost track of them, but still, better safe than sorry.

Even once the noises have faded, he doesn't move just yet. But a quiet tone, that ought to be all right.]

Fenris.

[He jerks his head in a nod.]

My apologies. Your pursuers may have mistaken you for me. They've grown . . . enthusiastic, these past few months, and do not care much if they make an error in their efforts.