The shack was small, modest, even by Lothering's standards. A sturdy door, a thatched roof, a chimney of mud and brick, and a small field with crops ready for harvest. Quiet, unassuming, and most of all safe. Well safe if it weren't for the horde of Darkspawn creeping its way north.
Inside sat a lone candle whose light would soon gutter out and a man called Marcher, a name given to him by the Templars who hounded his steps as a boy. Marcher was a plain man of plain skill with a plain face and plain hair. He possessed no great strength or speed nor skill at arms. He wasn't exactly sure of his age and the Chantry he was raised in wasn't either.
Despite his utter normalcy Marcher found himself pouring over accounts, weighing gold, checking ledgers to see what goods were selling for what price and where. One thing that set him apart from other men was his resourcefulness, his ability to play the angles, knowing who wanted what and how best to get it to them. Marcher was a smuggler you see, though that title did not encompass all that he did.
As he checked and double checked figures, running though different scenarios in his heard, he was only ever interrupted by an angry shout from outside or a soft snore from the man sleeping next to the door. The man was called Fex and, as his name may have suggested, he was Fex. Marcher had won the native of Par Vollen off a Tevinter slaver during a game of Wicked Grace. Fex, assuming all the Fex looked similar to his Fex, didn't look all that different from the other men of Thedas. His skin was a tad more leathery he supposed, and his eyes were all black, but other than that he didn't look all that different from a Rivani.
After a while Marcher heard a familiar voice, one that he knew was ill disposed to pissing off like he had instructed his boy outside the door to tell those who had no coin.
"Fex. Fex…Oi! Fex!"
The sleeping man jumped to his feet. If you ignored the grogginess in his eyes he would have looked incredibly fierce with his thick black beard and the meanest axe Marcher had ever seen in his right hand.
"Whatsit boss," the lean man asked Marcher.
"Go out there and see who's banging on my door if you please."
"Yeah."
Fex nodded and headed outside and Marcher turned back to his books and scrolls. After a moment he threw them down and rubbed his temples. Fex going out had caused new shouts from the throng of people assembled outside his quaint little home. Unable to focus on the math he decided to try and figure what he would do next. Denerim was an option, Highever too though he'd heard a nasty rumor about all the Couslands' being murdered. He had contacts in both places and could set up an operation to rival what he was doing in Lothering. At the same time he thought about striking out somewhere new. Rivain…the Free Marches maybe. He was still contemplating when Fex poked his head in the door.
"Hey boss…bokkie's here fer you," he said.
"What? Fex, what's bokkie?"
"Yeh know…er…teh Saarebas," Fex cupped his hands over his chest in a gesture Marcher could only assume meant breasts. He had to assume a lot with Fex. Marcher had tried to give Fex his freedom after winning the game of Wicked Grace, but the man didn't seem to understand the concept. He wasn't sure if that was because Fex had been too long a slave or if something was lost in translation since Fex spoke a mix of the common language, Qunari, and his own mongrel tongue with a healthy dose of Tevinter swears mixed in for flavor.
"The older one or the younger one," Marcher asked?
"Older."
"Ugh…well alright then. Two minutes then send er in yeah?"
"Right boss."
When Fex went back outside Marcher sprang into action. He organized his desk, hid things he didn't want her to see…he even checked his image in the flat of his dagger. He spit in his hands and wiped the dirt and grease away, arranged his hair in an elegantly disheveled manner, and then he waited.
Her eyes were a more piercing blue than he remembered though that may have been attributed to the look she bore on her face. There had been a time when that look was softer, but that seemed like ages ago.
"Why Hawke…strange hour for a beautiful woman like yourself to come calling," he said as the woman sat down in the chair before his desk. "I'm a tad busy, as I'm sure you noticed, but I can always make time for you sweetling."
Marcher was surprised to see that she had her mage's staff slung over her shoulder though perhaps he shouldn't have been. Hawke had a strong will and a penchant for recklessness. Not to mention most of the Templars seemed far more concerned with the doom slowly crawling north from the Wilds than catching apostates.
"Have you heard anything? Any news," she asked him.
"News? From Ostagar you mean," he chortled. "No, no news at all. Of course that in and of itself is probably bad news yeah? All I have is the stories the teryn's men are telling over at Dane's. King's dead, Grey Wardens did it, blah, blah…what do you care anyway?"
"Carver he…he went south with the King's men," her voice trailed off and Marcher saw her eyes soften, a twinge of fear.
"Ah…I see. Well he's dead then."
"You don't know that bastard," she shouted, the fear in her eyes replaced with fury. Marcher put his hands up and grinned.
"You're right Hawke, I don't. Excuse my callousness. But you certainly didn't come here thinking I had new information. What do you want?"
"You're leaving right? Getting out of Lothering," she said leaning forward.
"Oh, did the 50 odd people outside my house give it away?"
"I need you to get Bethany and my mother to safety. I assume you aren't taking those people out of the goodness of the twisted little thing you call a heart? You're charging them?"
"Of course," Marcher said with a smirk.
"How much?"
"Ten sovereigns."
"Ten sovereigns," she said with a look of shock on her face. "Some of those families don't make that in a year Marcher. How can you charge so much to get them to safety?"
"Them," he asked in mock puzzlement. "I'm not charging ten per family Hawke…I'm charging ten per head."
"Why would anyone pay you that much you bastard," her shock turning to anger.
"Well," he said throwing his feet on the table. "Obviously there's the horde of monsters heading our way from the south. Then of course there are the bandits plaguing the roads in and out of the village…"
"They're your bandits!"
"Now, now Hawke…I can see why you might think that. But I assure you that Lionel has struck out on his own without my blessing. But you shouldn't worry about him. The little shit will try and rob the wrong person and get himself killed within a week anyway. But like I was saying…with the darkspawn coming and bandits on the road the good people of Lothering have come to me because they know what I do and they know I'm leaving. I'm providing a service and I expect to be compensated."
As Hawke put her face in her hands Marcher rose and moved to the front of his desk, crossing his arms as he rested on its edge.
"Who's going with you? Who's going to protect these people," she finally asked.
"Well Fex and the boys of course. Oh and two Templars, Ser Royce and Ser Erryk, just in case we run into a darkspawn mage. And me obviously."
"You," she said, the incredulity heavy in her voice.
"What? You don't trust me to handle myself in a fight?"
"In one where you can't stab your foe in the back or poison them beforehand? Well…you don't exactly inspire confidence."
"Well," he said trying to hide his annoyance, "I suppose it's good Fex and the rest will be there then."
"You expect your thugs and the two biggest lyirum addicts in Lothering's Chantry to protect fifty people and your goods from darkspawn until you work your way through the western hills?"
"Of course not. I expect some of the slower ones will be carried off by darkspawn. One of the little ones might fall down a rock face and break his neck or get lost. Some of the old timers may get sick or fall from exhaustion. But I expect most of them, and my goods, will reach safety good and whole and those that," Marcher shrugged his shoulders, "Well at least they gave it a shot."
"You're a monster," Hawke spat at him, her voice filled with venom.
"Such colorful names you come up for me sweetling. I keep a list you know. Smuggler, pimp, bastard, coward, murderer," he said counting them off on his fingers, "And monster makes six. You know your father never took such exception with my dealings while I kept the bloody Templars from sniffing around your doorstep. Neither did you once upon a time."
Marcher reached out and stroked Hawke's face, sliding his hand down it until her chin rested in his hand. She was truly an exceptionally beautiful woman. He always thought it a shame she had to spend so much of her time hiding.
"What happened to that young girl I used to know? You remember her right? The girl who would sneak out of her house at night and come to hear me tell stories of all the places I've been. The one who would share a cup of wine with me. Sometimes a kiss. What happened to her," he asked smiling.
"She found out you had her father making poison for you to sell and grew up," she said pushing his hand away.
"Well," he sighed, "Your father was damned good at making poison. Dwarves couldn't get enough of the stuff."
"I need you to get my family out Marcher…but I don't have thirty sovereigns. Please, just help me."
"I won't lie to you Hawke, having two mages along would certainly better our chances. But I'm a business man. If I let you come along for nothing what would my other customers say," he clicked his tongue disapprovingly. "But…there are other things I may accept as payment in lieu of coin. I still hold a torch for you," he said, again putting his hand on her face.
"And you'll hold it til the day you die," she said as she slapped his hand away once again.
"So be it," Marcher said standing, furious, blood boiling. "Maybe I'll go make your sweet sister Bethany the same offer? I wonder what she would agree t…"
He didn't get the chance to finish the word. He barely had the chance to throw his hands up to cover his face before being caught full in the chest by a blast of magical energy. Half coughing, half whimpering Marcher tried to scramble to his knees but as he reached for the dagger on his desk Hawke brought her staff down hard on his hand, then twirled around striking him in the nose. As he laid there groaning Hawke stepped over him and pointed the business end of her staff, crackling with magic, at his face.
"Listen very closely Marcher. If you come near me, my sister, or my mother ever again I will destroy you. It will feel like the whole world is raining down upon you. And once you've cried, and begged, and pissed yourself like you're doing now, that's when I'll turn your insides into your outsides and finish it. Do you understand me?"
In her intense focus on Marcher she hadn't heard Fex coming into the shack. He grabbed her by the hair and put his axe up to her throat and laughed as he looked down at his bleeding employer in the piss stained trousers.
"Hah, yer bokkie ain't so sweet on you now eh boss? Klap'd you good! Kill her?"
"No Fex," he said rising, wiping the blood from his now broken nose. "Just get that bitch off my property!"
As Fex dragged Hawke like a child might drag a toy pony and the days last light spilled through the doorway Marcher heard new shouts from the small mob assembled outside. He decided he had had about enough of them as well and marched out to address them. He looked over them and saw girls he had made turned tricks, men he had forced to aid in his smuggling and children he had had a hand in making orphan and felt his anger towards Hawke and everything she had said bubbling up inside him until he was forced to unleash it.
"Oi! Listen here you sodding blighters! Me and my boys are leaving! Tomorrow! First light! Now I dunno if any of you have noticed, but I am not a fucking bean merchant! Nor am I some sort of a grocer here to buy your crops off you! What am I supposed to do with half this shit you lot have brought! Eh!? If you want to come with me you better bring coin! You hear!? Hard fucking coin! And if you don't have it don't bother showing up because I'm just gonna tell you to piss off!"
A hush fell over the peasants. A shocked silence brought on by both Marcher's outburst and the realization that many of them would be left to fend for themselves. That is until one boy who couldn't have been older than eight pointed at Marcher's pants and gleefully shouted "Piss!"
The laughter was quiet at first. A giggle from some widow, a chuckle from a pair of farmhands. Then it grew, slowly, but steadily until finally it was raucous with even his own men joining in. Furious he stormed back into his shack, slamming the door behind him. He stood there hunched over his desk listening to the laughter. He didn't know how much time passed but even when he knew the mob had left and his men outside were dozing the laughter hung over him, ringing in his ears. He slammed his fist down onto the desk. Then again. Again. Then he was just slamming the desk but throwing his books and ledgers and scales this way and that before finally flipping his desk over entirely.
He stood there in the dark a while longer before deciding he should get some sleep. As he made a move towards his cot his leg got tangled in one of the chairs and he fell, cracking his rips on the desk he had thrown. Grunting crawled in the direction of his cot and pulled himself into it. As he lay there, the smell of his own piss wafting through his broken nose, he cursed under his breath. He cursed the Maker who had taken the parents he had never known. He cursed the darkspawn for ruining a perfectly profitable business. He cursed the people of Lothering for laughing at him. Last of all he cursed Malcolm Hawke for raising a daughter that was so damned difficult to deal with.