Written for the Dragon Age Writer's Corner prompt about a banter between Isabela and Bethany, quote below.
Just Run With It
Bethany: I guess you've been with a lot of men.
Isabela: Men. Women. Elves. A dwarf in drag once, but I don't recommend that.
I was sitting at the bar. It was certainly no Antivan inn, but I had to admit it, the Hanged Man's bar seemed to attract all the same kinds of people. But the tavern was warm and kept the howling wind and driving rain out.
I swirled my drink in it mug, working myself up to taking a sip. Why in the Maker's name would anyone try to sell the undrinkable piss? Then again, here I was with some and the other visitors were downing it like nothing. Honest to the Maker, it stunk worse than the underside of a deepstalker steak in the sun, but if the locals drank it like it was water then I at least had to try. As I watched sediment – yes, that's what I told myself it was – settle to the bottom of my flagon, somebody caught my eye.
He was a tall man, well-built and carried a mother of a sword, if you catch my drift. He walked the walk, I mean, when he strutted in, every head turned. Even the most unassuming old man at the corner table stared openly.
I took my drink and went for a better look. Doing my best saunter, I pasted a seductive look across my face as I drew up next to him. "Well now, someone looks a little lonesome," I said in a low purr.
He ignored me. For a moment I was thrown. I couldn't remember the last time I was completely ignored like that. Well, I was up for a challenge. Everyone practically ripped their clothes off and leaped into bed in Kirkwall.
"Sweet thing, you – " I tried again.
"Aren't you that Rivaini wench from the Blooming Rose?" he asked, spinning around.
I tried to remember if I'd seen him there before. Nope, draw me a big fat blank on that front. "Wench? Why, yes I am. Would you like a sample?"
His eyes darkened. "No, I would not. My wife told me about you." His voice grew dangerous.
"Wife?" I frowned.
"You don't even remember her?" his voice rose angrily now.
I realized the gravity of the situation. "I do," I lied. "You're a lucky man to have her."
"Oh, I am? I'm lucky to have that unfaithful whore?"
"I seem to hear someone else calling me, could you hold that – " I spun and stalked to the far side of the tavern. I sat down at a crowded table. A curvy dwarf woman waved at me coyly. I looked her over critically. Dark hair, wide nose, square face – I know dwarves aren't pretty, but this one is something else entirely. She sidled down the bench closer.
"Don't you worry about him, sweetheart," she said in a hushed and squeaky voice. "You look like you could use a night with old Bonny."
"Well, I've certainly never had a dwarf lady such as yourself," I hedged. Something was a bit off about this woman.
"Oh, you can say that again," giggled Bonny.
She slid a meaty hand up my leg with a growl. Something fell into place.
"Are you really a woman named Bonny?" I asked mildly.
The dwarf grinned a gap-toothed grin. "Darlin'," Bonny's voice grew rough and low-pitched, "why not have some fun? Just run with it."
"Bonny" wasn't that good. A letdown, really. But I did learn one important lesson. There's a reason why a dwarf dresses in drag. And it isn't because he's good enough to.
