Dragon Age 2 is copyrighted intellectual property of BioWare and EA International (Studio and Publishing) Ltd. and is being used in this fanfiction for fan purposes only. No infringement or disrespect of the copyright holders of Dragon Age, or its derivative works is intended by this fanfiction.

Written for wook77 and International Femslash Day.

.

.


Wenches At Sea, Chapter 1

by silverr


.

.

.

The Eel and Oyster tavern in Llomerryn was, in many ways, like every other tavern in Thedas. Its ramble of rooms were crammed with battered wooden tables and benches, its walls and ceiling were blackened by soot from the torches and the smoky fireplaces, its aroma changed according to the weather and the clientele, and its ale was cheap and its barmaids ample. But the Eel and Oyster did, from time to time, have one extraordinary feature that no other tavern in Thedas could boast of: the infamous scoundrel and raconteur Richard Russell Newton Ginelly-Miller of Beaumont.

To describe Richard—known as "Petit" to his many friends (what he was called by his lovers was something else altogether)—as flamboyant was a serious understatement. As tall and broad as a kossith, the captain of The Ganymede was known to dress with drab simplicity when at sea, blending into the mass of his crew as they boarded and plundered the richest of the merchant ships hurrying between Orlais and Antiva. But on land… when he made landfall Petit welcomed being the center of attention, striding through the streets in high scarlet boots, breeches of flowered brocade, excessively ruffled shirts, and swirling greatcoats of satin. Like a pied piper, his mane of brown curls and his handsome face drew men and women alike to the Eel and Oyster, where for two weeks he would hold court, attracting not only Llomerryn locals but well-to-do patrons from the mainland, delicate lords and ladies that were titillated as much by Petit's air of exotic danger as his good looks.

The questions were always the same: "Have you killed many men?" someone would ask timidly, and "Aye," Petit would say. "With various of my weapons." He would then smile lazily until his interrogator began to blush, and then would add, "And women too."

"What was the most you ever acquired in one parley?"

"We once captured a fleet of six treasure ships. And their convoy," he said as though admitting to eating an apple.

"That must have been the biggest treasure you ever took in!"

"In terms of gross weight? Yes. Most precious? No, not at all…" He gazed up at the ceiling, smiling faintly in reminisce, tantalizing his audience. "Dare I speak of that most precious cargo?"

"Was it gold?"

"Jewels?"

Petit shook his head. "Far rarer still. Although…" He dipped his head. "Perhaps I should hold my tongue: to recount this story, even after so many years, might risk destroying a nation…"

But the crowd pleaded, and Petit was swayed. "How can I deny such eager faces?" he said. "Prepare yourselves, then, my lords, ladies, doxies, and ruffians, for an amazing tale of unimaginable surprises, treasures and perils! But before we start, let us take a moment to refill our tankards… "

.

- 1 -

.

"You're joking!" Isabela dropped the coil of rope on the counter. "I wouldn't use this to tie up a horny grandfather! And even then, I certainly wouldn't pay what you're asking!"

The rope-maker looked to the pirate's companion, a female mage with short dark hair. "No point in looking at me," she said with a shrug. "Isabela's the one you have to please."

"Isabela? Isabela of The Siren's Call?" The rope-maker went pale, then hurriedly pulled a hank of several rope samples from under the counter of his stall. "My apologies! I had no idea." He smiled nervously as Isabela handled the samples, saying as she chose the third-thickest one, "An excellent choice, Captain!"

"I don't tip for flattery," Isabela said as she counted out a pile of gold coins. "Six barrel's-worth. Watertight barrels. And I won't bother to explain," she said, "what will happen to your length if the cordage is sloppily spliced. I'll send someone in a week to arrange delivery."

"You didn't take the thickest one?" Hawke asked mischievously, watching as the rope-maker carefully wrote down Isabela's instructions and a receipt. "Isn't thicker better?"

"Not always," Isabella said as she glanced sideways at Hawke. "You might not believe it, but there's such a thing as too much girth and stiffness. Less thickness means more flexibility. Especially if you're being creative."

"Are you still talking about rope?" Hawke asked as they walked away from the rope-maker, who was turning a delightful shade of red.

"For the most part," Isabela said.

.

"I don't understand why you're buying rope for a non-existent boat," Hawke said as they threaded their way through the crowded market.

"A ship, and we'll have one soon."

"And won't it come with rope?"

"The first principle I was taught when I started sailing," Isabela said as she perused a stall of head-scarves, "is that rotted ropes, wet stores, hull damage, and misleading maps are very bad. If you don't take care of them, the sea will eat you. Or your crew will."

"So the new rope is insurance." Hawke asked. "Is there a second principle?"

"Of course," Isabela said, moving on. "Learn to evaluate the weather and your crew at a glance, otherwise you'll never keep up with the problems they cause."

"Also good advice. Even for non-captains."

"But the key," Isabela said, "is to accept that most of your life will be a game of dice with Fortuna. Skill and wit only take you so far: the rest is luck."

"That's… I've never heard you talk this way," Hawke said.

"Which way?"

"So seriously."

"You sound surprised." Isabela had stopped to watch a shirtless, well-muscled young man unloading crates of fruit from a cart. "Is it so difficult to believe?"

"I suppose I'm accustomed to thinking of you as an expert in two things," Hawke said. "Neither of which require much philosophy. All this ship's captain stuff makes me realize I've never thought much about what you did before I met you."

"Only two things?'" Isabela asked, pretending to sound insulted. "Let's get out of this lovely boy's way and discuss that number." She pulled Hawke around the corner of the fruit vendor's stall, ostensibly to let the now-empty cart pass through the narrow market lane, but really to have an excuse to pin Hawke against the wall.

As much as Hawke was tempted to unlace her right then and there, she made do instead with sliding her hand under the hem of Isabela's overshirt and teasing the edge of the tight, narrow smallclothes that were the Rivaini's concession to modesty.

"Keep that up," Isabella murmured, "and I'll flood the street." She licked the edge of Hawke's ear, then tugged gently on the earlobe with her teeth, a move that made Hawke wish very much that they weren't in the middle of a crowded market.

Or more to the point, that she wasn't wearing an ankle-length robe.

Isabela pulled away and said, "Oh no, you've got that Damn you Isabela why are you getting me hot and bothered in public? face again. You really ought to get rid of whichever little voice in your head makes you do that."

"Uhh…" Hawke wasn't feeling very coherent.

"That reminds me!" Isabela let go of Hawke and stepped back, looking her up and down as if checking her robe for wrinkles. "We've got to get you something more practical to wear on the ship. For the few hours a day we won't be naked in our bed."

Hawke was determined to change the subject, because—market be damned—naked was sounding more and more appealing. "Tell me again why you didn't just have a ship built?"

"Because my old friend Petit has a sweet little sloop he's got no crew for."

"And he's just giving you this ship?"

"Well, no," Isabela said lightly. "He's letting me use it. In exchange for some errands."

"Errands?" Hawke raised an eyebrow. "You mean smuggling."

"I wouldn't say that. We'll just be taking things from one place to… another place. A simple transport service."

"Oh, so it'll be legal cargo?" Hawke asked with the little smirk that meant that she knew full well the answer.

"So! Sailing! Exciting, eh?" Isabela said brightly. "Looking forward to experiencing the freedom of life on the sea?"

"Actually I am," Hawke replied with a nod. "Though not if it's going to lead to experiencing life in prison. Or the freedom of the gallows."

Isabela sighed. "It's useless. You win." She held up her hands. "I swear to take nothing but completely legitimate jobs until after you've tired of life at sea."

"And if I never tire of it?" Hawke asked, folding her arms.

"Then I guess," Isabela said, "you'll have made an honest woman of me."

.

"Wait a minute!" someone in the crowd asked Petit. "Do you mean to say that the Champion—or should I say the Destroyer—of Kirkwall ran away with the Scourge of the Waking Sea?"

"And you—you gave them a ship to—pirate with!" accused a lace-encrusted noblewoman, who didn't seem to be suffering from any shortage of luxury goods.

Petit held up his hands and said lightly, "Well, my dear Messeres, at the time I had no idea what the Champion would do with my gift – I simply thought she could use a respite from her battles with ancient evils, horrors, and devouring plagues. I had heard that Isabela was a superb captain, and thought she could convey her safely to a peaceful, secluded beach." Petit smiled, then paused to take a sip from his goblet. "Of course, if you would rather I tell a different, more spiritually uplifting story…?"

The crowd shouted down the two critics and elbowed them to the back of the room, then begged Petit to continue.

"Their next task," he said once the room had quieted, "was to find a crew… "

.

.

.

first post 14 July 2012; rev 19 May 2018