And into this tense scene walks a smiling dwarf, wearing expensive light armour in a style most surface-dwellers would find unfamiliar. Instead of the more traditional axe or mace, he carries a longsword on his back and a couple of daggers on his belt; and he's unusually skinny for a dwarf, almost humanlike in build. There's a human mage in Circle robes trailing him, but next to the dwarf she looks positively unremarkable.

"Excuse me!" he says. "Would someone mind telling me what's going on here?"

"They're kidnapping us!" shouts someone in the crowd.

"We are maintaining a quarantine in order to mitigate the spread of the plague," responds one of the mages, an older man with an impressive beard. "Return to your homes, and allow us to continue our work."

One of the other mages does a very small double take, seeing the dwarf.

"Plague, is it? I happen to know some expert healers. Maybe we can help."

"We have the situation fully under control."

"Liars!" "They took Elder Velandrian!" "Where is my wife?"

"There seems to be some disagreement on the subject of how under control this situation is," he observes. "Surely more healers will help hasten the day when the sick folk can be released from quarantine to rejoin their families."

"Bringing in more uninoculated people will not help, dwarf. This quarantine is for their own good. The people will be released when we are satisfied that the plague will not return."

The crowd of elves are muttering angrily, and pressing up against the armored men. The men push back with their shields to maintain their line.

"That would be 'prince'," he corrects, all smiles. "But I won't insist that you stand on formality. I understand surfacers don't know these things."

Dwarf prince, on the surface, tall and thin? Yeah, it's him.

This'll end well.

"You're a long way from Orzammar, 'prince'."

"There's a Blight on, in case you hadn't heard."

"Yes. Which is why it is critical that order in the capital be maintained," his focus shifts back to the crowd. "Disperse. Return to your homes, or we will be forced to take action."

"Ah, yes. Maintaining order," murmurs the dwarf, apparently to himself. Aloud to the magister, he adds, "Why don't I give it a try?"

And he turns and scans the crowd, and picks out someone to approach. "Excuse me, may I speak with you for a moment?"

The red-haired girl looks at him desperately.

"You have to do something. They took Elder Velandrian. He wasn't even sick."

Quietly, so as not to be overheard, he says, "I certainly will, but if you all keep hanging around shouting at them you're only going to get yourselves killed."

"We can't just do nothing! They've been here for weeks."

"You have my personal guarantee that they won't be here tomorrow."

She chews on her lip indecisively for a moment.

"...All right," she concedes. "Come on everyone, we won't get anything standing around here. Let's go home."

The crowd slowly drifts apart. The magister smirks in satisfaction, and turns on his heel and leads his party inside.

One of them glances back over her shoulder at the dwarf, then flicks her gaze in the direction of a boarded-up shop in opposite corner.

"Now, about those healers—" he says, not particularly expecting the magister to turn around.

No reply but the slam of the door.

Typical.

What's with this boarded-up shop, then?

It's got boards across the door. Nothing really interesting.

"That was Caleb's shop," says the redhead. "He was one of the first taken. I'm Shianni, what's your name? Why are you here? What are you going to do about the magisters?"

"Prince Stalas Aeducan of Orzammar, saving the world, and I hope to convince them to go away but they're looking more and more like the sort of people who can only be convinced with violence."

"Oh." She frowns. "They deserve it."