Not that he had signed anything. Being a wanderer by profession, although many had called him worse, he tended to go where ever he wanted to and did what he wanted to do as the mood struck him. The past year had been a welcome break from the two years of tension and confusion prior. So long as one ignored those pesky Darkspawn attacks that tended to crop up more recently, his life was looking grand. Until Redcliffe happened.
In the town's defense, it was not like the place asked to be under siege. That did not mean that he wanted to be wrapped up in it. Unfortunately, he had arrived some five days previously with no knowledge of the situation and now no way out of it. He was now being put to work. Despite the fact that he contested he had no real skills, a claim that had been rightfully ignored, Brennan caved under the pressure of expectation and pitched in where he could. His fingers itched to do magic, but if the past few years had taught him nothing else, it was to keep the magical displays of prowess to a bare minimum. While the fact rubbed him the wrong way and chaffed in all the bad places, he did prefer to keep his head attached to his shoulders.
Not being someone who planned excessively, as evidenced by his current lifestyle, it was somewhat unfathomable to him where he would have to go if they began hunting him in Fereldan too. He acknowledged that it was inevitable because the Chantry in Orlais likely communicated with the Chantry in Fereldan in some capacity. Once they realized he was no longer in their fair country they would turn their eyes to their neighbors. Most other parts of Thedas that he had heard of sounded too warm for his liking, although the Anderfels were a possibility. The musings were moot if he did not survive the coming fight, but he could not leave the people here to die in order to save his own hide.
Although the past few years had forced him to become more realistic, even callous at times, he could never abandon the part of him that wanted to help people. It was too much a part of his self-concept to shrug it off on the roadside in Orlais like an old, worn cloak. Which brought him back to where he was, dipping arrowheads into a poison he concocted earlier. His hands ached from the long hours that he had already put into the day, from pounding and grinding the plants together to make the poison, and then the careful application process. He, thankfully, was not so stupid or unskilled as to poison himself, but the two archers who owned the arrows he was doctoring watched over the process with a wary concern.