As she stepped through the doorway of The Hanged Man, Merrill was once again reminded of the dichotomy. Here she was, a member of the Dalish, having been born and raised in the wild, free of of cities and the binding of walls and yet now, after several years in Kirkwall she felt comfortable entering this horrid little bar. Well, actually, the central hearth was somewhat nice; burned the wood clean and made a very cheerful glow to see by and kept things cozy warm on colder evenings, so it was only a little bit horrid bar. Oh, then there was also all the very nice carpets that Varric kept bringing from so many interesting places around the world. She just loved staring at them and getting lost in the patterns. It was easier after she'd had what they

called 'a few wet ones' so honestly it was not all that bad, really quite nice under certain circumstances little bar. Of course there was also -

"Spirits," Merril muttered, smacking herself on the forehead with her palm. "Now I'm babbling in my own head!"

The familiar scents of grease, wood smoke, burning pitch and the various stenches of biology being beaten about by alcohol and poor life choices assailed her. Oddly enough, she could feel the slight tightening in her shoulders that always sprung up walking the night streets of the dock begin to unwind.

A few sailors by the door cast baleful glances at her as she stood in the entrance looking about. She was used to it, though she never understood the point, but her meandering thoughts were derailed by the sound of rich, smokey laughter from the far corner.

"Varric's table," the dalish said to herself.

She skirted around the edge of the room, being mindful to step around suspicious puddles - ie. all of them - and the occasional drunk stretched out on the floor. At least, she hoped they were drunks. Some of the suspicious puddles were somewhat inky in the low light and they, coupled with the positioning of some of the bodies, angled one's mind toward more violent outcomes than disagreement with a bottle of cheap wine.

Another peal of laughter rang around the room, throaty, thick and warm like silk and chocolate. Merril had had chocolate once, a trader had come to the Dalish camp for shelter and bartered with goods from far off lands. He'd given her a piece of the dark brown stuff and she hadn't ever tasted anything like that ever, ever and it had had her-

Merril reined in her thoughts and approached the table where her friends were.

Isabela was still chuckling while Varric sat back at the head of the table, his fingers interlinked over his chest, smiling that ever present half-smile

that told you nothing of what was going on behind his eyes. At the side of the table stood a young man who appeared to be somewhat angry, if the throbbing in

his temple, red glow about his cheeks and clenched fists were anything to go by.

"My coins good," he protested words flecked with spatters of spit as he ground them out from between clenched teeth. "Where do ye go about thinkin' yer too good for me. Yer jest' a whore!"

Isabela's smile was a white flash in the gloom. "Once, perhaps, sailor-man, but no longer."

The sailor spat on the floor, "betterin' yerself 'ave we? Feh, jest spreadin' those thighs for higher prices is all."

Another smile, this one tinged with wicked promises that he'd never know, "I'll admit once I'd have thought about it, sailor-lad. You've most of your teeth and apparently seem to string more than three words together, though that could be just the wine giving those sodden thoughts a boost. I even somewhat like," she paused and winked, "the cut of your jib. But, I'm off the market. And as for who I spread these thighs for," she ran her fingertips over her strong, dark

legs before raising one leg and resting her cheek on her knee, giving the room a hell of a view. "Well, she's had no complaints."

The man's eyes bulged and he was about to say something when Merril spoke up first.

"Hello, Isabela. I can see your undergarments. Is that what you wanted?"

"Merril!" Isabela turned, eyes aglow, toward her young friend, which also meant she had to lower her leg. Behind her, the sailor fumed, forgotten.

"How are you, Isabela? Varric?" Merril said moving forward.

The young sailor's eyes gleamed as he caught sight of the elvish girl. "Wh-hoa laddies, perhaps if'n I sweeten the pot I can haf me a two fer one! What say you, my lass?"

Merril nibbled at her finger, her eyes flickering over toward Isabela who was merely watching the young man; if she was upset about his shift in focus, she did not show it. Instead, something about the way she stared reminded the young Dalish of a wolf. The way a wolf would just sort of seem to notice you, and you realized that while it appeared to be sitting there calmly, that could change in a blur of speed and savagery. And there was nothing you could do about it- at all. If you were very, very smart and very, very lucky, a person might notice when a wolf was noticing them or when it was NOTICING them.

Isabela was noticing the sailor.

She was noticing him a lot.

Without waiting for an answer the man's reached for Merril's arm - to do what would never be known.

With a flash of bright steel, Isabela appeared to have pulled a dagger out of thin air; a dagger that was being pressed up against the sailor's throat. "Ah-ah-ah," Isabela clucked gently, poking the now frozen man's nose with her other hand. "No touching the elf."

The young man attempted to swallow but the bulge of his adam's apple was blocked by the the razor edge, a ruby drop ran parallel to the blade. "You're- you're not the only one with friends, bitch!"

Behind him, seven or eight other hard looking men stood up from their table and began to move toward them. Without any hurry, Varric reached over his back and set Bianca, his custom crossbow, on the table. The men froze. The dwarf didn't actually say anything, an act worthy of consideration in and of itself, but instead started to hum a simple tune. Anyone who had even the most passing experience with military dirges would recognize it. This particular

tune was a little ditty very popular with archers and crossbow men- it was a song about how the best sound in the world was the one made when an arrow punctured the back of an enemies' skull.

For a moment, no one moved except for Varric, petting Bianca as one would show affection towards a loyal dog.

"Had your chance, whore," the young man spat. "But no, you had to just-"

Merril pushed him aside. "So sorry, have to talk, no time to waste with threats you're not going to follow through on. At least not now," the young man staggered backwards, clipped a bucket with the heel of one foot; arms flailing about madly he completely fell over backwards, cracking his head an almighty blow upon one of the tables and was out like a light.

Merril didn't notice, "though I suppose you and your friends could try to ambush me and mine after the Hanged Man closes. Though others have tried that before. As you can tell, since we're here and they're not… though I suppose they could be if a mage brought them back as undead. I'm pretty sure some of the people who tried to ambush us got chopped up into very tiny, tiny pieces, though, so being brought back as an undead would be really hard. Most mages

wouldn't-"

"Merril!" Isabela interrupted.

"Yes?"

"Won't you join us?"

Merril blinked owlishly for a moment then smiled briefly. "Of course."

Varric rapped on the table sharply, and when one of the wenches cast an eye in their direction, he held up three fingers. The servant woman nodded. Merril took a seat across from the Isabela. Placing both hands on the table, she took a moment to gather herself, opened her mouth, closed it, took another moment, and then got distracted by something obscene carved into the table many years ago.

"What is a floppy johnson? Is that a drink?"

Isabela attempted to conceal her smile. "Never mind that, moppet. What is it you came here for?"

Merril's eyes widened. "Come in here for? Outside a drink? Can't I just come for a drink? I like drinks – though I admit after two or three, the world starts to slide around in odd ways-"

Isabela held up her hands in placating gesture. "Of course you can, but usually you have a question."

"Oh," Merril said, moving her hands in her lap. "Well... yes. I do have a question. More of a request, actually."

The wench arrived at the table with three flagons on a tray. Moving briskly, she set one in front of each of them, the largest being the one given to Varric. It was bubbling. And steaming. With a contended sigh, he reached for it and began to drink.

"I would like to join your cult," Merril said.

"My... cult?" Isabela said, her warm smile freezing in place.

Except for the rising of two golden eyebrows behind his flagon, Varric gave no hint of reaction. It would take more than that to separate a dwarf from his ale.

"Yours and Hawke's," Merril replied, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Your cult of," and here she pronounced the word carefully, "Kun-ning-gil-as."

That did it. A large portion of Varric's ale went sputtering across the table.

Isabela's frozen grin did not slip a fraction of an inch.

"I hear you two talking about it all the time," Merril went on. "Then there's all the celebrating the two of you do. If I'm correct, it has some distant connection to The Maker's chantry. Whenever you and Hawke go to your room in the back, I can hear you worshiping. 'Oh Maker' this and 'By The Maker' that. Sometimes it's just 'Maker, Maker, Maker, Maker' said very fast and very often. Normally, I'd not be interested, but when you two are done, you seem to be... glowing."

The young Dalish woman wrung her hands. "I want to be glowing, too."

There was a great whooping sound as the remnants of Varric's drink were suddenly drawn inward and down the wrong pipe. He began to change an interesting shade of green and proceeded to slide underneath the table.

"The odd thing, though," Merril continued, oblivious of Varric's sudden struggle for oxygen, "is I've checked with every Chantry calendar I can find, and there doesn't seem to be any match with your personal religious celebrations and theirs. So, I'm assuming that you and Hawke are members, founders even, of your own little cult."

A quiet burbling sound came from under the table.

If anything, Isabela's smile had widened, her eyes bright and gleaming in the firelight. "Oh, precious," she said quietly. "I could just gobble you up!"

"Really?" Merril blinked curiously. "Is some sort of celebratory feasting involved?"

"You could put it that way," Isabela laughed, "although I'm not sure you would be familiar with the fare."

Merrill beamed. "That's all right! I'm really not very picky. Is there chocolate? I had chocolate once, you know, and –"

Isabela pressed a finger to Merrill's lips, and the elf's eyebrows lifted in mild surprise as she was silenced. "Chocolate? Now there's an idea. Sticky, though."

From somewhere beneath the table, Varric let out a surprised cough, and Isabela nudged him with the toe of her boot. The dwarf made no move to get up, despite the questionable state of the floor. Without his ale, he had no motivation to rise and face the conversation happening above him.

When Isabela's hand fell away from her mouth, Merrill immediately began talking again. "So, am I invited to join? I'm not sure if I would be a very good cultist, but I'm a quick learner. And the chants don't sound very complicated..."

"It's not the chants I'm concerned about," Isabela said. She paused, glancing down at her untouched drink; snatching it off the table she took a massive swallow, slammed the half drained cup down, and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, gave Merrill a searching look. "I'm sure you would make an excellent, ah... cultist, kitten. But I worry about harming the innocent streak I find so endearing in you. Being part of a cult can be damaging to the soul, you know."

"More damaging than bargaining with demons?" Merrill asked, unwilling to be deterred. "I'm not a child, Isabela. I know you think I'm something of a joke, but –"

"You're not a joke, Merrill," Isabela said, her voice heavy with sincerity and perhaps even a little hurt. "I would never think of you that way." Suddenly inspired, she quaffed the rest of her ale before handing the empty mug over to Merrill. "Give me a moment to think it over." Isabela paused to flip her a coin. "Why don't you go and find our server? Ask for some refills."

Encouraged by Isabela's promise to think it over, Merrill happily took the gold coin and the two empty flagons, leaping out of her chair in search of the wench that had served them before. Once Merrill was a suitable distance away, Isabela stared down at Varric, who still hadn't recovered from his coughing fit.

"What do you think I should tell her?" Isabela asked her friend. Varric, who prided himself on his ability to turn a phrase, opened his mouth ready to impart true wisdom when she cut him off at the knees. "I don't want to hurt her feelings by dismissing her, but she really doesn't know what she's getting in to."

Varric also had the survival instincts of a grey weasel and snapped his jaws shut with an audible click.

"I should tell her the truth. Then she'll lose interest, and no feelings will be hurt."

Slowly, shakily, Varric began trying to right himself.

"But what if she doesn't? She says she wants to glow, Varric. Perhaps she's lonely."

Very, very carefully, Varric reached for Merrill's mostly untouched mug of ale and took a long drink; schooling his features the entire time to project an attitude of absolute neutrality. Isabela waited patiently for him to put it

back down on the table before continuing.

"Normally, I wouldn't think twice about it, but now there's Hawke... and Merrill is just so... Merrill!"

There was a thud as Varric's forehead hit the table, mildly stunned by Isabela's words.

"If she really wants to learn about sex, Merrill needs someone decent. A friend. Someone who knows what she's doing, and who won't break her heart. Someone she trusts."

Isabela was taken aback for a moment as she realized that she had just described herself. Before, she never would have called herself a 'trustworthy' or 'decent' person, and she had certainly been a well-known breaker of hearts in the past. But some of Hawke's noble sentiments must have rubbed off on her over the years.

"Now that I think about it, I'm not sure I trust anyone else to treat her properly. I'm sure Hawke wouldn't mind. She likes Merrill. So maybe..."

Although his stubbly cheek remained pressed against the table, Varric's light eyes widened comically, nearly popping out of his head.

"And then when someone recognizes her for the wonderful catch she is," Isabela said, nodding in agreement with her own spoken thoughts. "Merrill will be happy and confident and ready, and no one's feelings will be hurt. It's perfect."

"Thanks for the advice, Varric!" she ruffled the dwarf's hair affectionately.

With her usual grace, Isabela leapt out of her seat and strode off into the crowd with a sway in her hips, leaving Varric slumped over the table. Still in a daze, the dwarf lifted his head and picked up Merrill's mostly empty flagon of ale. He stared into the mug for a very long moment. Then, he set it aside, still unsure whether the past several minutes had actually happened. If they hadn't, perhaps he needed to sober up for a while.

Several yards away, Isabela finally found Merrill trying to balance three mugs in her arms, wobbling precariously on the uneven and slightly sticky floorboards. With a smile, she gripped the elf's elbow and steadied her. "Hello, kitten. Set those down on the bar a moment."

Obligingly, Merrill set down the drinks and stared up at her friend with a hopeful expression. "So, will you let me join your cult? I promise to study all the chants."

Isabela laughed. "Merrill, I'm sure you'd be a wonderful cultist, but Hawke and I haven't founded our own religion. You just heard us having sex."

For a moment, Merrill's smile fell, and she looked almost disappointed. "So... that's what has been making you glow? Being with each other makes you so happy?" Then, typical to her nature, she quickly brightened again. "That's wonderful, Isabela. I know you care about Hawke very much. People seem to think you don't care about anyone, but I know better. You care a lot. You're one of the nicest people I've ever met, and –"

Merrill blinked rapidly as Isabela's soft finger covered her lips, abruptly silencing her string of words. "Shh, Merrill. As I was saying, we haven't started our own cult, but if you'd like to join us anyway..."

Merrill shifted her head to the side, moving around Isabela's finger, "Join you? You mean, doing sex things? Because I've done sex things before. I mean alone. By myself. To myself... and there was a tree involved. Well, not a tree but it was made of wood. From our lost empire. Wooden, smooth but carved with bumps..." Merrill's voice drifted off. "...wonderful bumps. Oh! And if you said the right words-"

"Yes, doing sex things," Isabela said, although her smile was cheerful and open rather than deliberately seductive. If Merrill made this choice, Isabela wanted her to make it while clearheaded. It was probably good that Varric had downed most of her ale.

Merrill considered this for a moment, obviously thinking very hard about her answer. "Won't Hawke mind?"

"Hawke will be there," Isabela said. "It's only fair. You're right, you aren't a child, and if you want to glow, well..." The pirate winked. "There's no better teacher than me."

Back at the table, Varric had begun looking around the Hanged Man, hoping to spot his missing companions. A flash of blue sash caught the corner of his eye, and he turned his head just in time to see Merrill let out a decidedly high pitched squeal and toss herself into Isabela's arms, looking even more excitable than usual.

Apparently, Daisy was going to get lucky sometime in the near future. Honestly, Varric wasn't sure how he felt about that. If it made Merrill happy, he was happy. But if Isabela did anything to make Merrill uncomfortable, or break her heart...

Even being distracted by the very warm and enthusiastic dalish now pressed against her Isabela could feel the twin points of intense concentration focused right at the back of her skull. Glancing over her shoulder she saw Varric staring over the edge of an empty tankard, hanging loosely from two fingers of one hand. His trigger hand. The fingers were tensing and relaxing rhythmically. His eyes gleamed in the torchlight.

Isabela nodded slowly in acknowledgment, message received.

Leaning back in his chair, one lip curled in his trademark smirk, Varric returned the nod and pointedly looked away, as if seeking out a tavern wench. When he looked back the door to The Hanged Man was swinging shut. Still grinning he got to his feet; he would go and order his own drink now and, perhaps, find an audience.

He felt like telling a story.