Kirkwall was far louder than Lothering.
Oh, Lothering had certainly had it's noise, the dull buzz of merchants selling, of family catching up to chat, of children chasing one another.
This was different.
Kirkwall was screaming. Folk bristled if you ventured a friendly hello, and how -dare- you speak to any above your station in life.
Besides. Garret was always off tempting pretty boys with his chipper smile, or striving to make the name Hawke mean more than Refugee, more than Ferelden. Carver, he was off, trying to crawl out from under Garret's big, fluffy ego, and learning his own set of skills, his own way.
The youngest Hawke had found family in Kirkwall. More than just her uncle, who still stubbornly ignored the invitations to stay with them, and more than her brothers.
Varric and Isabela had been training her in mischief for the three years since their return from the Deep Roads, teaching her all sorts of useful things, such as how to avoid attention at Mother's parties.
It wasn't Mother's fault, after all. She'd lost one daughter, and Maker knows it wasn't easy on any of them, but Yulia had started gathering attention, and Leandra saw the opportunity for grandbabies.
She supposed the sudden attention had something to do with the unexpected arrival of her breasts. Or her hips, which had decided to pad themselves with the rich foods they'd been enjoying. Still, hips or no, breasts or no, she was not nearly as striking as her siblings.
Carver had gorgeous blue eyes. Garret, gold. She? A muddy hazel, that Mother said she'd inherited from her grandfather. All of her siblings had possessed striking, inky locks. She? Brown, plain, simple brown. Bah.
If her mother wanted to marry her off, she'd have to find a way to cover freckles first. Ladies were lily white, or exotic and dark. Ladies didn't have freckles.
However, there were better things to be doing than to fret over her freckles. Exploring, for example. And sneaking.
Garret had told her to leave the cellar be when they'd first moved in, which meant that there simply had to be something interesting there, which meant that she simply had to know what it was.
So she'd snuck past Bodhan and his bustling, because she was fairly certain that Garret had instructed him to keep an eye on her.
Bah. She was nearly sixteen. That was old enough to know things, and Maker knows that her brothers had done worse than break into a cellar at her age. If Garret said one little peep, she'd bring up the time she'd caught him in a -most- compromising position with one of the Chantry boys.
It smelled. Dusty, funky, yicky, and it was easy to see why. Didn't anyone take care of the bodies in Kirkwall? Blech. No wonder the city smelled like unwashed feet.
Yulia kicked at the dirt. Goody, wine. Wine and dead people. Was that the big secret? Was Brother Dearest a serial killing nutter?
Nah. Garret did his killing in plain sight. That was one thing she'd always admired about him. Garret was Garret, and he never, ever apologized for it.
Ooh! A trap door! Where did -that- go? Down to a well, filled with lyrium water and tentacled beasties? Or maybe to a dragon's lair? She'd always wanted to see a dragon. Sadly, Garret only brought back bits of them, usually in his hair.
Sadly, Yulia found no beasties beneath the trap door, tentacled or otherwise. Instead, she found a ladder, and once she'd wiggled her way down to the bottom of said ladder, she found herself in a part of Kirkwall she'd never been in before.
Joy and glee! New things. Maker, it was dingy here! And gloomy, and doom-ish, but it was -new-, and that was enough.
As she strolled along her merry way, she felt a strong hand catch her shoulder. "Just where do you think -you're- going, young lady?"
A startled squeak left her lips, whisking about to face her captor. "Oh! Anders, you scared me!"
"Unarmed? In Darktown? Andraste's Left Nipple! What do you think you're doing, Yulia?"
Anders whisked her about, ushering her into his clinic. "Are you mad? You've got, "Enslave me," practically tattooed on your forehead."
Yulia glowered at her favourite apostitute. "I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself." A glimpse around, head listing to the side curiously. "This is your clinic? Why is it in my cellar?"
"Your cellar?" Ander's brows knit in thought. Garret had mentioned something about..oh! Oh. "You are in -so- much trouble. And don't change the subject. One girl against a horde of thugs? I think not." Those sullen features twisted into a cheeky little smirk, leaning forward ever so slightly. "I'll just have to walk you back."
"Nonono, Anders. You're clearly busy, with this oozing ser, and I am sure that I should be getting home before Mother gets -too- worried." A sweet little smile, just a bit strained by the prospect of getting her bottom swatted.
"Is he oozing? Oh! Here, hold his hand!" Anders swooped about, hastily resuming what he'd been doing previously. Here he was, minding his business, and who should he see strolling past his clinic like she were in a field of daisies? Gah! She could have been hurt! She could have been killed, or worse! "Maker's breath. Just. Talk to him, would you?"
Yulia squeaked, taking the proffered hand. "Pardon, Ser! I did not mean to interrupt. A certain healer was just being a busybody." A glower in said healer's way, before turning her attention to the man in the cot. "Are you quite alright?"
The man grimaced, wiggling his oozing toes. "S'my boots, Serah. They're rotted through, an' my feet got wet, y'see." A guilty smile. "S'what I get for workin' th'docks."
Yulia grimaced, shaking her head. "You'll need to buy a new pair of boots, then."
The man laughed. "If it's boots or feeding my girls, I'll take the bread."
Yulia's brows knit together in thought. "Can't it be both?"
"On my wages?"
Anders glanced over to the littlest Hawke. "It's not that simple, Duckling."
If looks could kill! Yulia utterly despised the nickname, a present from Varric. She'd been a scant thirteen when she'd met these lovely folk, and she had been a scraggly, skinny little thing. Varric had taken one look at her, and declared her the ugly duckling. He still needed beating for it.
"Why not?" Yulia thrust her hand into her pocket, jangling about as Anders finished his work. A beaming smile, pulling out a shiny gold sovereign, her pocket money for the month. Garret was funny about things like that. A girl your age should have a little spending money, he said. Poor dear was utterly distressed when she didn't spend it on things with ruffles. "Boots and supper, I think. Or is it not enough?"
The man stuttered, staring at her as though she was mad, protesting as she pressed the shiny into his hands. "Serah! This is..this is too much, this.."
"You need shoes more than I need ruffles. Besides, I'm apparently going to be robbed and enslaved any moment. You'll need it more than I do!" Her face split with a cheerful grin.
"T-thank you, Serah! Thank you!" The man bustled to his feet, wobbling for a moment, before taking off like a bat in sunlight.
"You need to be more careful," Anders murmured quietly, his fingers wrapping comfortingly about Yulia's shoulder. "Don't flaunt money. People will try to take it, and if they find you have none after showing it off, they'll find other uses for you."
Yulia made a face. "People aren't as bad as all -that-, Anders. They're just hungry. Anyway, would you like to escort me to my doom?"
Anders contemplated this for a moment, masking his worry with a cheeky grin. "Yes. Always, yes. Maybe I'll get to watch Garret spank you. That'd be interesting, wouldn't it?"
"Oh, you'll just be jealous." Yulia slipped a hand around her escort's waist, after sneaking a cheeky pinch to his behind.
"Well, yes. But that's not the point." A startled little laugh, jumping from the pinch. "Right! Home you go, lest I lose what little virtue I have left!"