When Sebastian was little, his brothers taught him how to track and hunt game, how to move silently, how to arm his bow before his quarry even knew he was there. When he was a young man, they taught him how to dress down, tie a red kerchief over his face, how to listen for friends who needed help. When he was a young man, he saw a visiting noble forcing himself upon a servant girl, and that was the first time that he married those two lessons into one.

But now he is nearer to forty, a far cry from the naive 21-year-old that Hawke had picked up from the wreckage of his family name, and he is no longer a friend. He tracks the smell of smoke, faint as it is, and the glow of the firelight with silent steps, holding himself to the wet, hard wall so that the firelight doesn't gleam off of his brilliant white armor.

And when he lays eyes on Anders, he draws an arrow from his quiver with nary more than a breath of wind through the fletching, nocks it and brings it to a half-draw that will allow him to loose it quickly but not strain his arms to hold. His eyes narrow, and he steps out from his hiding place, arrow aimed straight at Anders' heart.

"Drop your weapon, mage," he growls threateningly.