Irons Bars
Prison cells aren't unfamiliar places to Isabela. She visits them often enough. Mostly for trivial things: bar fights, petty thievery, a little too much on her tab. Sometimes the visits are for others behind the bars - a conversation with a mother she knew who killed her husband in exchange for freedom; a villain who traded in slaves and lyrium and seeks redemption in the Maker's eyes; a woman, by any other name than Hawke, who stepped on too many toes in one evening and wasn't fast enough in her escape.
(They share a cell together now. It's not one of their brightest moments, Isabela knows. She loves it nonetheless.)
By now, she's seen every prison. They all have the same familiar, territorial design: thick iron bars for a door, a lone glassy window that's been warped by years of harsh summer heat - the Free Marches would just as easily kill one in the summer as they would the winter, she very well knows - and a cot attached to the wall. She could also swear there was a ball-and-chain at one point - but the musty cell they inhabit now only has a lame lot of misguided fools.
Isabela pulls a dull and useless shiv from her boot then and methodically uses it to scrape the sweat off her skin. It peals away shiny and clumpy, a result of too many days without a bath. Hawke watches her, looking bored, and flushes pleasantly when caught.
She only winks.
