"You could. Or you can blame it on some bad brandy. I don't think anyone will question it. We'll just need to make sure that potion does the trick because no one will believe you were cut by falling off the boat in a fit of drunken pique." ...Or maybe they'd believe it. She knew Meredith wouldn't if she spotted him favoring his leg.

She did as instructed, turning back around with a blade ready for anything. But there was nothing, the street empty and eerily silent as before. The downward twist of her lips showed her suspicion. She didn't need to say it. She'd worked with the damn Red Iron for a year. She knew what failed stealth sounded like moments before the blade hit someone's throat.

And she wasn't wrong, for the most part. There were two on the roof, one taking the opportunity to try and tackle Hawke to the ground with the weight of her descent. The other went for Cullen, the man much larger and more built than his companion. He wasn't going to waste time on taunts, either, simply pulling his sword around to go for the Templar's head.