Varric's table was unusually quiet. Carver was quietly devouring his mystery meat stew. Isabela sipped in silence, still recovering from a little skirmish at the docks. Hawke slowly chipped open her sunflower seeds, staring off into space. Even the dwarf's own attempts at conversation had failed. Something was on their minds. The last week or so had been like this, and it was affecting the rest of the Hanged Man.
Minstrels were setting up tonight, but no one seemed to care. The drummer surveyed his patrons, ignored. Carver pushed the last of the meat around his bowl listlessly.
It took three notes from the lute player to make half the tavern look up with interest.
Carver had jolted up, spoon clattering onto the table. The sunflower seed's shells had fallen from Hawke's mouth as she stared. Isabela glanced curiously at Varric, who only shook his head, equally confused.
Knowing she'd gotten their attention, the lute player played the same three again.
The tables and chairs had cleared the floor in two seconds flat. Hawke and Carver were on their feet, shoulders tight. It had all the tension of a brawl, but none of the aggression. Isabela leaned forward, squinting.
"In the heart of dark winter," the singer began.
Then the drumbeat picked up with a sound that dimmed the lights and slowed Varric's heartbeat. Half the tavern began stomping around and joined in with the song. The words couldn't be distinguished anymore, but it seemed desperate and sad. Varric would later swear Hawke and Carver were the loudest, chests out, kicking with their boots.
The movements shouldn't have been a dance, but they were all doing the same thing at the same time, so it stood to reason that it was. They grew progressively louder and their stomping more violent. They all took hold of each other and spun, and then let go and kept spinning. Hawke gripped her worn skirt and twirled and Carver's hands were up in the air. They danced harder than they'd fought all week. They would have looked ridiculous, but it was heart-wrenching instead. If he closed his eyes, Varric thought it sounded more like frightened running, not dancing.
"They're all Fereldans," Isabela said. For a moment, she looked at them all with great sympathy, but then grinned and put her feet up on Carver's abandoned seat.
Varric looked again and saw she was right; they all had a look that said they had a hard journey. They were people whose dreams and homes were covered in rot, haunted by dead and darkspawn. Their boots were lined with fur.
The drum thundered and swallowed all other sounds for a moment, and then ceased. The Fereldans followed suit, their feet slowing to silence.
Hawke and Carver turned, a look in their watery eyes that said they weren't done. They beat down on the table in a drumroll.
"And they fled to the moon!" Carver sang, large hands shaking the table, "To the moon! To the moon!"
"Awooooooooooooooooooooooo!" His sister joined in, back and neck curling back, dark hair loose. The sound carried across the tavern and maybe even across Kirkwall.
For a moment, they breathed heavily, looking not unlike lost dogs, ears folded over and tails bitten off. They beamed at each other and blinked rapidly. Dog lords did not cry easily.