"I am," he said. He wiped the blood from his blade on the tunic of the fallen thief and started cautiously back in the direction they came from, scanning the shadows of both street level and rooftop. If he had designed Kirkwall, he would have made sure every roof was covered in the hideous spikes that seemed to sprout on staircases like dangerous weeds and that every single one had a random weak spot guaranteed to break the leg of any thug that fell through it. It would serve them right.

He made an effort not to limp, less out of a desire to impress Hawke and more from practicality. The criminals of Kirkwall were like wild animals. If they sensed a weakness, they'd descend and tear at it until they took him down. He didn't bother trying to look at their fallen attackers. They were obvious nobodies who had gotten to be enough of a somebody in whatever hole spawned them that they thought they were ready for some new turf. If he and Hawke hadn't taken them down, one of the real roughneck gangs of the docks would've sooner or later, and probably a lot less cleanly.

"You know, I'm going to get downright testy if somebody costs us our breakfast," he grumbled. He bent to pick up the last trap, breath hissing through his teeth as more pain lanced across the slice. His suspicion that the blade had been tainted with something, acid maybe, was growing.