"Boss, a representative from the coterie is here to see you." He sounds nervous.

Hawke doesn't look up from her ledger, carefully dipping her quill into the inkwell. She holds up her sleeve as she writes tine figures for the Red Irons accounts. How did Meeran even have this group running for so long, she wonders, with such lackluster record-keeping?

"Do they have an appointment?"

"Er, no…"

"They don't have an appointment," she says with finality, "kindly ask them to leave"

"Er, I don't think they'll be very receptive to that, ser"

"I don't care whether they're receptive or not. Have them make an appointment. I'm busy"

But of course things don't usually work out to Hawke's convenience. An angry-looking woman pushes Hawke's bumbling underling out of the way as she barges into the office, accompanied by a small cadre of thugs. "We will not be made to wait Serrah Hawke. The coterie does not tolerate this kind of disrespect." The thugs move to surround Hawke's considerable desk.

The Fereldan sighs, removing her glasses and placing them delicately on the mahogany. She rubs her eyes before tiredly looking up at the intruder. "This is highly irregular"

The Coterie representative nods to one of her men. He pushes Hawke's underling out of the door and closes it, locking it from the inside. "We have business to discuss, Serrah Hawke"

Hawke hates how people overuse "Serrah" when they're being rude. "Did you want to hire the Red Irons? If so, this melodrama was not required"

"No, we have business with you, specifically." She slams a poster down on Hawke's ledger, effectively smudging the still-drying ink. Some of it bleeds through, though the face staring up at her is no less striking.

"What is this?"

"A picture of a thief sighted interfering with Coterie operations. Look familiar to you?"

Hawke sighs and scrutinizes the poster. "Is this some kind of joke?"

"No joke, serrah. I do not joke"

"Then I don't know what to tell you. I don't know this person"

"Impossible. It is you"

"No, it is not. I do not wear that ridiculous jewelry, nor do I wear a kerchief. My hair is also not nearly that long"

"It is clearly you, woman!"

"It is not"

The Coterie woman slams her fist on the table in anger. After a few seconds, the anger washes visibly from her demeanor, though not without considerable effort on her part. She withdraws her fist, steepling her hands. "Regardless of whether or not you admit it, the Coterie has marked you responsible for the loss of certain acquisitions that we would like returned"

"Fabulous. But I didn't steal from you"

"You misunderstand, serrah. This is not a trial. I am not a judge. I have superiors who have ordered me to exact retribution, and to exact it from you specifically. You can return what you owe now, with a sizeable donation of good will. Or we can simply take what is owed"

Hawke sighs, "How much were these assets worth?"

"Several thousand sovereigns. The good will fee is five-hundred extra. The fee for the disrespect we received at the door," she fixes Hawke with a steely glare, "another five-hundred"

Hawke peels the poster off of her work, grimacing at the ruined page. She taps her finger against the table in a way she feels coveys the right amount of thoughtfulness. Finally coming to a decision, she makes as if to stand up, but one of the thugs, now behind her, clutches her shoulders tight, and shoves her back down into a seated position.

"We can do this the easy way," he rumbles, "or the hard way"

Hawke bristles. As a person, she sits atop a slightly higher horse than most people, and does not suffer indignities. She turns to look at this most recent offender and her eyes narrow into dangerous slits.

"It is a good thing you locked this door," she says, as she launches the man into the wall with her mind. He slides to the floor in a boneless heap. The other thugs move to attack, but find themselves frozen in place, their limbs rendered suddenly uncooperative.

"Let's try this again," says Hawke, standing. In her clenched fist is the blade of one of her letter-openers, gripped so hard that it has drawn blood. It glows faintly in the gloom. "I am a woman of considerable patience," she says, retrieving her glasses and perching them atop her nose in a way she feels is suitably dignified. "But when pushed, I become considerably lessgracious." She reaches out. A staff, previously mounted over the fireplace, flies to her hand. She nears the fallen man and squats to meet his face.

He looks up at her, dazed.

Her placid expression cracks as one of her eyes twitches. Once, twice. Her mouth extends into a disgusted grimace. Her entire face contorts into a rictus of unfathomable rage and she bludgeons the man's head in with the weighted end of the staff.

"Do not!" Smack! "Talk!" Crunch! "To me!" Smash! "About disrespect!" Thwack! Crunch! Bash! Splorch! Squish! Squish! Squish!

She stops herself when she notices the man is dead, and most of his face has been reduced to paste. Panting, she turns to the Coterie representative. She stares into her eyes until her ragged breathing returns to normal. "I am not Meeran. The Red Irons does not have the same relationship it used to with the Coterie. Your presumption offends me." She stares in tense silence, "IT. OFFENDS ME!" An enraged mind-blast has the contents of her desk flying all over the room. Frozen coterie thugs are flung to the ground, along with hundreds of erratically fluttering sheets of paper. All except for the representative, who finds herself, once again, mobile.

She looks back up at Hawke, horrified, though she she has the wherewithal not to completely lose her composure.

"Now leave. The door is unlocked." The representative checks. It is indeed unlocked. She hesitates. "Your men are mine now, leave, or stay forever"

The representative leaves.

Hawke considers making the thugs into blood thralls, but decides she has enough of those lying about already, and instead has the lot of them disintegrated into so much red mist. By design, it is a slow, painful process.

Alone again, Hawke looks at the poster of her doppel-ganger. "Willem!" she calls for her secretary. The impeccably-dressed gentleman enters and studiously ignores the new blood stains decorating every wall of the office.

"Yes madam?"

"I'm leaving for now. Tell my brother to tend to things when he gets back. Until then, you are in charge"

Willem bows, 'Of course, madam"

Hawke considers telling Willem not to call her that. The man really takes too much dramatic license in her employ. A vain part of her decides to let him keep at it. What is life, after all, without a touch of whimsy?

"Have someone collect the blood while I'm away. In glass phylacteries this time, not clay pots."

"Aveline"

Aveline looks up from her own collection of paperwork, "Good to see you Hawke, though perhaps it would be better if next time we met somewhere more discreet. People would disapprove of me consorting with known crime lords"

Hawkes raises a genuinely confused eyebrow, "I am not a crime lord"

Aveline looks at her, more than underwhelmed. She considers contesting the point, but knows that Hawke, in her own simple way, truly believes that she is innocent of wrongdoing. "Very well, you are no crime lord. People would disapprove either way"

"No-one saw me come in"

"Impossible. There is a crowd outside waiting for an audience with the viscount. I had to shove my way through them on the way to work, it was terrible"

Hawke shrugs

"Even if you didn't go through the crowd, someone would have recognized you with your black clothes, even if you are wearing that silly hood that makes you look like a storybook villain"

"This hood is not silly. I happen to think it looks quite fetching on me. And no one saw me come in because I used magic"

Aveline sighs. Of course, magic. Living with the Hawkes during their initial months in Kirkwall considerably desensitized her to the Elder sibling's questionable overuse of magic, even its more questionable applications. It took some serious adjustment learning to look the other way, knowing the sort of things the girl got up to.

Especially since Aveline is the guard captain.

"Right, well I assume this isn't a friendly visit, so what can I help you with?"

"Every visit with you is a friendly visit Aveline. It…just so happens I have some business as well"

Aveline's gaze reflects the staggering magnitude of how unsurprised she is. "Let's have it"

Hawke hands her the poster. "Do you know who this is?"

"A private bounty. On you apparently"

"That isn't me"

"Looks an awful lot like you"

"Be that as it may"

"I did think it strange that you were wearing jewelry. And makeup. It actually looks pretty good. You should consider accessorizing more often." Aveline reads the charges and makes a low whistle, "The coterie. Whoever your twin is, she pissed off some powerful people"

"I don't have a twin. I have a scoundrel with a passing resemblance to me and I need her restrained"

"I won't have you punishing people willy nilly Hawke, not in this city. Much less 'restraining' them. Whatever that means with you"

"Never to anyone who doesn't deserve it," murmurs Hawke, "and if this one is messing with the Kirkwall underworld then she probably deserves it"

Avline doesn't bother to point out the hypocrisy. "Very well," she sighs, knowing better than to argue. It was like arguing with an eloquent child, after all. "I don't know who this is but I know someone who can point you in the right direction"

"Is this where I can find," Hawke consults the note Aveline gave her,"Vaw-rick Tethras?"

Corf notches an eyebrow, "You mean Varric? The dwarf?"

Hawke nods, "I suppose so"

Corf nods towards the back of the tavern where Hawke spots a dwarf; his back is turned to her as he gazes at the fire. As she draws closer to him she notices that he is hard at work recording transactions in a sizeable ledger. Her respect for him grows a little; she can always find some respect in her dwindling well for the unappreciated accountants of the world.

Hawke does not hide the sound of her footfalls as she draws close. He turns, relaxing when he spots her.

"Oh, Isabella. I almost didn't recognize…" he trails off, "you're not Isabella"

"Indeed I am not," she pulls up a chair, surreptitiously dusting it off with force magic before taking a seat.

"I'll say. The woman I know isn't nearly so…prim"

Hawke ignores this, "I was told that a Varric Tethras could help me find this person," she shows him the poster. "And it appears you can"

"Maybe," he says. Straight to business. Hawke appreciates that in a person. Varric leans in closer, scrutinizing her, "I must say though, the resemblance is uncanny. Are you a relation? Her sister, perhaps? Isabella never mentioned any sisters. Well, she never mentioned family at all but I just assumed…"

"Is Isabella the one in the poster?"

"Do you know her by any other name?"

"No. She is a stranger to me"

"Then I guess you aren't sisters," he rubs his chin thoughtfully, "it really is uncanny though. You even sound like her." A smile materializes as he keeps watching her. "If we are to do business then I need to know who you are"

Hawke nods, "That is fair. My name is Isabelle-"

"Your name is Isabelle?" he interrupts, "I'm getting spooked out now"

She continues, slightly peeved and trying to show it, though not too much. That would be unsightly. "Isabelle Hawke"

"Hawke? You wouldn't happen to be the Hawke who runs the Red Irons would you?"

"That would be me, yes"

"Astounding! I used to have an eye on your career you know. I was going to approach you with a business opportunity but…I guess you aren't hurting enough for money nowadays. It's strange though that I never saw your face until now"

"You were following my career?"

"Indeed. What with your meteoric rise through the ranks, to running the company entirely, not to mention your origins as a Fereldan refugee; the story practically writes itself don't you think?"

Hawke is confused, "Story?"

"Ah. I'm sorry. I get ahead of myself sometimes. While I am indeed a savvy businessman and Kirkwall's resident jack-of-all-trades, I am first and foremost a storyteller. You just happened to interest me both as a business partner, and a subject of a good story"

Hawke is unused to being caught off-guard, and so swiftly moves to bring the conversation back on track. Truth be told, she is fighting down a blush. To be the protagonist of a story like the ones she used to read in Lothering? The possibility appeals to her vanity.

"Er, be that as it may," she coughs, pointing to the poster, "can you help me find this Isabella or not?"

Varric smiles, shaking his head. He knows when someone is preening and trying not to show it. "I don't know where she is Hawke. Though depending on your reasons for finding her, I might be able to point you in the right direction"

Hawke scrutinizes him, dismissing the idea of just plucking the information from his head. Despite herself, she does like him. "Maybe I'm curious. She does look just like me after all," she tries not to show her distaste at admitting those last words.

"Could be. But I know your type Hawke. You don't do things like look for dangerous people just because you're curious"

"Very well. Read the poster. She's wanted by the coterie, and the coterie has been blaming me as of late. I can rebuke their misunderstandings for only so long before they become too much for me to handle"

Varric resumes his thoughtful chin-rubbing, "Isabella is my friend. Do you plan to give her up to them?" His expression lets her know that he'll be able to tell if she's lying.

"No, I simply want to meet her. Advise her to stop making things inconvenient for me"

He looks at her for a long while. "I don't know. I'll need to think about it. Why don't you join me for a drink while I mull things over?" His offer is so congenial that Hawke would feel uncomfortable refusing.

"Very well. I will not be drinking too much though"

The two of them sit down and somehow manage to hit it off. He talks about his businesses in the city and she talks (sparingly) about her own. By the third round of ale they are laughing about how infuriating brothers can be (Hawke doesn't outright laugh though, she sort of amusedly giggles under her breath).

"Let me get the next round, Varric. I would feel uncomfortable being further in your debt"

"If a pretty woman is trying to buy me a drink, what kind of callous bronto would I be to refuse?" She has no idea what a bronto even is, but she chuckles anyway.

As Hawke is walking back to their table, flagons in hand, she pauses in mid step. Uproarious laughter erupt from a nearby table huddled with a gaggle of seven drunks. They are loud enough to jumble her thoughts, and now that she consciously hears them she can't un-hear them. Their merriment is like incessant buzzing at the surface of her eardrum.

In her pocket the letter-opener begins to heat up as a wave of anger flows languidly through her body. With shaking fingers Hawke fantasizes about what it would be like to sink it into each of their loud mouths, watching them scream as it melts through their digestive system, enjoying finally, the reward of silence.

She shudders. What was it father always told her to do in the face of irrational anger? Count to ten. One, two, three, four…Hawke's slowly walks back to the table, counting to ten in quiet murmurs. The rage subsides, but the men won't shut up and she knows that if she doesn't get away from the noise then she will do something rash to make her fantasy a reality.

How many of them are there? Seven? Seven realities, seven colons burnt to a crisp.

She deposits both drinks on the table, but makes no motion to sit down. Varric catches her glance back at the loud table, but makes no comment. "I apologize, but I have to go now, Mr. Tethras. It was truly a pleasure making your acquaintance."

"What? You're leaving already?" She hands him her card. "What is this?"

"Business card. For the Red Irons. With my contact information. Let me know if you ever consider me for that partnership you mentioned. It sounds interesting."

"A card huh? That's actually a pretty good idea"

She turns to excuse herself.

"Wait, Hawke!"

"Yes?"

"Hold on a minute. How…how about we go back to my private chambers? We still have a lot to talk about," he notes her hesitancy, "I think I have some information that might help you find that sister of yours"

She feels awkward, not only because she was about to excuse herself but because she suspects Varric knows why she was going to excuse herself. She regards him curiously. So genuinely curious is she that she forgets to look appropriately pensive. Finally she nods, "She isn't my sister but…very well. Lead the way"

He is, after all, the first person in a long time who has made a good first impression. The anger subsides completely, and she follows him to his room.

Anger is Isabelle Hawke's greatest weakness. Even her best-laid plans can be quite waylaid by her considerable anger problems, though until she starts indiscriminately magic-ing everyone to death, it can at least be somewhat funny to watch.

"How can this hat be worth thirty sovereigns! It has no practical use!"

"It's not about what you can use it for," the clerk desperately pleads, "it's about style"

"That makes no sense!" She slams her fist on the counter, crushing the wood, "What value has style in a life-or-death situation?"

The clerk stifles his own bout of anger. He had just wasted an afternoon explaining the finer points of fashion to someone who lacks the ability to comprehend them. "It has no use whatsoever, it's only supposed to look good"

Hawk scrutinizes him before disgustedly tossing the hat onto his head and retreating back into the shop. The clerk fumes, but doesn't try to kick her out, even if she has been lurking in there for several hours already, creeping the bejeezus out of him. He can't quite summon the guts to ask her to leave. He shivers and prays to the maker that she leave soon.

Hawke peruses.

These things are utterly distasteful, and much too expensive. Who would spend so much money on such nonsensical headwear? It boggles the mind! She would not even be here if Varric's account (and reports from her own agents, verifying those accounts) did not place Isabella in this exact hat shop, at around this time, on this day of the week.

So far her waiting had been fruitless.

Three damn hours in this stupid shop and she had nothing to show for it!

She stops and makes herself count to ten. The anger recedes. She withdraws to a corner of the store to steady her breathing. The store bell rings, signaling that someone has just stepped inside. Isabelle doesn't notice.

"This place has nice hats doesn't it?"

Hawke isn't overly-fond of casual chit-chat, but hearing it in her own voice is disconcerting.

"Uh," she rasps, "yes, it does"

"I come in here a lot, though I've never actually seen another customer"

Hawke is glad she has her hood drawn up. "Um…okay?"

"I'm mostly here to look really, I can't quite afford any of this"

"I wouldn't buy it anyway. I don't see the point in such ridiculous headwear"

The woman with her voice laughs, and Hawke resists the urge to turn and look at her. Seeing her illustrated on a poster is one thing, but to actually verify the resemblance…the temptation is staggering.

"Wow, you're kind of a tightass aren't you?" Hawke can feel her get closer, "If you don't like hats then what are you doing in a hat shop?"

Dramatic timing is something very near and dear to Isabelle Hawke's heart (though she would never admit it), and it is with this in mind that she turns and removes her hood (with suitable flourish). "I'm looking for you," she says in her normal voice. The accent is different but the intonation is the same. The face is the same. The skin-tone is the same.

Hawke's hair is shorter, messier; shooting out in several directions. This, and her black robes, makes a stark contrast between the two women, but the face is unmistakably the same.

The other woman's eyes widen, a foot reflexively moving backwards, but she doesn't flee. Curiosity stills her, and Hawke can see it burning in her eyes.

"Hello. Who are you now?"

"You know, I thought that if I ever met my long-lost twin sister," Isabella smiles at her own joke, "we would be doing something more interesting than sitting in her office discussing what she does and doesn't want me doing"

Hawke sighs and puts down the pen she had been using to write the contract.

I should have killed her, Hawke thinks, or at least shipped her out of Kirkwall. If Hawke had known that Isabella was incapable of taking anything seriously, she might have done either of things. But no, she gave in to curiosity, and as a result she has a pouting, buxom pirate in her office making vaguely insulting remarks about her.

"It's amazing," Isabella says, leaning over the desk and ignoring all of Hawke's personal space to cup one of her cheeks, "you look exactly like me"

"Please stop touching me"

Isabella ignores her, poking and prodding with the gusto of a cat fluffing its pillow, "Maybe you are my sister. Wouldn't that be something? My mother sold you at an early age to your parents"

"Is that what happened to you?"

This strikes a nerve, as the poking and prodding stops, but it is immediately covered by a veneer of amusement. "Point taken. Let's not get too personal just yet." Apparently "personal" does not apply to physical contact as Isabella proceeds to grope Hawke's breasts. Either because the person doing the groping is her doppelganger, or for some other reason, Hawke does not succumb to instinct and blast the woman away. "I guess we're not entirely the same," Isabella croons, giving a tiny squeeze.

Hawke removes the offending hands. "Could you please take this seriously?"

"I will precious! But come on! This is amazing! We should, talk, swap stories!"

"You are making things very difficult for me"

Isabella rolls her eyes. "Okay, fine, I got you into a little trouble with the Coterie. I'll try harder not to get caught next time. There! Business concluded"

Hawke leans back and treats Isabella to an un-amused grimace. "Very well. What did you want to talk about?"

"I don't know, tell me about yourself. You can skip where you're a boring business-woman, I already figured that part out"

Hawke bristles at having her business so trivialized. "Actually I'm the leader of a mercenary group called the Red Irons"

"Ah, that's a lot more exciting than I thought. I'm a pirate captain, if you were wondering"

That gets Hawke's interest, "Really? You have a ship then?"

Isabella frowns, "You have a way of being a wet blanket you know that? No, I don't have a ship anymore"

"So you're a pirate captain without a ship?"

"Er…yes"

"So…"

"Fine! I'm not much of a pirate captain right now! There were extenuating circumstances. Ugh, why am I trying to impress you anyway?"

"What kind of circumstances?"

"The stupid kind." Realization dawns on Isabella's face, "Wait a minute! You," she points at Hawke, "you can help me!"

"What?"

"This is perfect! I have a duel tonight, and I need someone to watch my back. You have the manpower to make sure I'm not ambushed"

"Can you pay me?"

Isabella hesitates, "Er…how much do you charge?" Hawke rights down a figure on a piece of papers and slides it across the desk. Isabella takes one look at it and then slides it back. "I can't pay you. But I'll be very grateful?"

Hawke sighs, "Then I don't think you'll be getting any help from the Irons. But…" and she doesn't even know where the words are coming from, but she says, "I can help you. Personally. I suppose." And as soon as she's said it she wonders what she's thinking.

"You? No offense, but what help could you be?"

Hours later Hawke is wading hip-deep in the blood of the Hightown ambushers, freezing enemies and pulverizing them into dust with force magic. On this particular expedition she has brought her impromptu apprentice, a Dalish outcast named Merrill. By virtue of her own use of blood magic, Merill came to be under Hawke's wing after a brief foray into Sundermount, and since then had harried the older mage until she agreed to teach her about the finer points of blood magic.

Currently, Merril is doing a respectable job shooting rock and electricity to pick off ranged opponents. Isabella, on the other hand, flits in and out of battle to stab enemies in the back, moving on before being targeted. In an ideal world, thinks Hawke, we would have Carver with us to soak up damage, but he is away on assignment and couldn't make it.

So the job falls to Hawke, though barriers and rock armor can keep her protected from a hail of swords and arrows for only so long. It isn't until a swordsman almost impales her that Hawke thinks to herself, fuck it, and decides to drop the pretense and go straight into the blood magic.

She squeezes attackers from the inside and reduces them into puddles of sizzling fat and entrails. The remaining attackers turn tail to run, but she catches them in a gravity well, yanking them into a miasma of raging death hemorrhages.

Merill moves to Hawke's side, making sure she is alright.

"Where did you cut this time?"

"Stop fussing, I didn't use my blood"

"But you're hurt aren't you? Oh creators, an arrow! I can't believe I didn't stop that in time, I'm so sorry!"

Hawke pulls out the arrow, grimacing at the pain but otherwise makes no sound. "It's alright, let me just…" healing spells aren't her forte, and so she needs to down an entire bottle of lyrium to muster the energy to cast one. "Ah…there we go"

"I'm really very sorry!"

"Stop apologizing Merrill. It gets annoying after a while"

Merrill is visibly mortified, "I'm sorry"

Hawke musses the elf's hair in reassurance. "Don't worry about it. You did well Merrill"

Isabella appears at her side, looking impressed, "And to think I questioned your capabilities. That'll teach me to make snap judgments about a pretty face," Isabella cackles, "and yours is a very pretty face indeed."

Hawke rolls her eyes while Merrill simply looks amazed. Meeting Isabella had caught her off guard ("I didn't know you had a sister! I mean, you know, a live one…oh…Oh! By the dread wolf! I didn't mean to…I'm so, so sorry!"), and she still hasn't been able to stop staring.

The surrounding Hightown courtyard is strewn with charred and boiling remains, and Hawke instructs Merrill to dissolve them. There's no need for the Templars to get caught up in another tizzy looking for blood mages in Kirkwall, not like the last time Hawke got careless. Body disposal was one of the first things Hawke made sure to teach Merrill after that. The rest of the bodies, the ones killed more or less ordinarily, they can be left for the guard to find.

"Where is this man of yours Isabella?"

"All business you are. Maddening." But Isabella smiles anyway, "Regardless, I think I like you, blood magic and all"

Hawke quirks an eyebrow.

"That was blood magic right? I haven't seen it before, so I'm only guessing"

"…It is"

Isabella quirks her own eyebrow, and shrugs. She holds up a note she looted from one of the bodies. "Hayder's in the chantry, no doubt with more of his lackeys. Should be interesting. You think your beautiful skin will burst into flames when you step inside?"

"You think so Hawke?" asks Merrill, "That wouldn't be very good for your complexion would it? Or your health for that matter"

"It's not true Merrill," Hawke reassures her. She nods to Isabella, "Let's get this over with"

"Isabella," Hayder drawls, "you were supposed to come alone"

"And you were supposed to be alone, but both of us knew that wasn't going to happen"

The two of them sneer in the way sketchy people do when they live up to each other's expectations. Hawke, knowing this is going to end in violence but unsure of when, taps her foot impatiently, her hood drawn up to avoid confusion.

"Where's the relic?"

"I lost it. Castillon's just going to have to do without"

"Lost it? Like you lost a ship full of valuable cargo?"

"They weren't cargo Hayder, they were people!"

Hawke listens with interest.

"Who's this then?" Hayder asks, nodding towards Hawke. "I don't know what Isabella has been telling you stranger, but she's in trouble for stealing from some powerful people. You don't want to be involved in her, trust me. She'll backstab you for your trouble"

"Don't listen to him, Hawke"

"Just leave now sweetheart, and I won't have to run my dagger down your throat"

Hayder, no surprise, is a dickbag. And when Hawke is around dickbags she gets really angry. Especially when they make vague allusions to rape. Just as Isabella flings her dagger into a lackey's chest, Hawke uses force magic to bodily shove Castillon against the shrine behind him. Letting her anger go full-froth, she makes short work of a pair of grunts, boiling the blood in their veins. Immediately she becomes the center of attention, and she has to go on the defensive, summoning a barrier and a layer of rock armor.

Isabella stabs and maneuvers her way through the mob as they concentrate their attacks on the struggling Hawke, while Merrill capitalizes on the distraction to summon lightning storms beneath the chantry ceiling.

Pressure lessened, Hawke is able to make a push against the attackers with a mind blast before summoning a nearby corpse with force magic, pulling it headfirst into her waiting hands. Between her palms, the body dissolves into a mess of blood that instantly turns into a writhing mass of tentacles that whips and dismembers any attackers foolish enough to remain close to her.

As Castillon struggles to get up, Hawke smashes his knee out from under him. He hobbles away, cursing under his breath, and Hawke hits him again, and again, and again, and again, until Isabella finally has to place a hand on her shoulder to get him to stop.

"He's dead, Hawke"

Panting, Hawke takes note. "So he is," and she leans, exhausted, against Isabella, who supports her with both arms. "Merrill, the bodies"

"Oh! Right"

As the elf goes about dissolving the bodies, collecting what blood she can in stoppered vials.

"You have a bit of an anger problem don't you?"

"Yes"

"I like it. Makes you human. More relatable." Hawke puzzles over what a curious thing to say that is. "You certainly made this easier on me Hawke. Thanks"

"Next time you can book a raiding party. Only 1000 sovereigns"

"I think I'd rather book you, beautiful"

"Ugh," Hawke pushes her away.

Merrill hops over, "Hawke, I'm done with the bodies!"

The edge of Hawke's mouth quirks upwards in a smile, satisfied with the apparent absence of mangled bodies. "Good girl," she shifts to let Merrill support her weight, "let's get out of here. I assume our business is concluded, Isabella?"

"That it is. I'll see you around Hawke. If you ever need me for anything, I have a room at the Hanged Man," and because the proposition at the tip of her tongue seems a little self-serving, Isabella just smiles and walks away.

"Who is she?" Merrill asks as they walk out into the cool of the Hightown night.

"I don't know. But I'll be keeping an eye on her"