Updated 08/04/12


Welcome to Kirkwall

Chapter 3: The Dogs of Ferelden and the Ferelden Dog

The tavern was already almost full by the time she got to the Hanged Man, but the bartender still saw her as soon as she entered.

"Oy," he called out. "Get that mutt out of 'ere." He was everything you would expect from a bartender, saggy jowls, gruff voice, right down to the stained apron he was currently using to polish a shot glass, although 'polish' was probably a bit too optimistic.

The room went silent, all eyes upon the small elf with the big dog. "I'm sorry," she said, "I don't know who you're referring to."

"I'm talking about that damn dog," he snorted. "I won't have it in my pub. Dogs is trouble."

"Well this one certainly is." She smiled at the bartender who had completely missed the joke. "The question is," she continued, as she slowly approached the bar. "Would it be more trouble letting him stay? Or trying to make him leave?" The dog was grinning, or perhaps simply showing off his nice shiny teeth. Trouble was following at her heels, and when she was close enough to the bartender to speak without raising her voice, she said "My name is Lyra, and this is, as you say, Trouble." The dog barked.

"Corff," the bartender grunted.

"Tell you what, Corff," she said. "You let me and old Trouble here stay a while, and you'll have the best guard-dog in Kirkwall at your service. You've heard of Mabari War-hounds, right? Smart enough not to talk, they say."

Corff grunted, and the war-hound stood on his hind legs, his front paws resting easily on the bar-top. The barman stepped backward hurriedly at the sight of the massive jaws and curiously expressive eyes that were suddenly at eye-level. "He'd, uh... certainly keep out the bad elements," he said diplomatically.

"He certainly would at that," Lyra nodded sagely.

The bartender made a show of thinking it over. "All right, fine. He can stay. But you better keep 'im in line."

Lyra laughed. "It usually works the other way around."

"And 'e sleeps in the kitchens. Won't have 'im tearin' up my rooms."

The dog cocked his head and managed to look slightly insulted. Then he dropped to the floor and wandered over to the door that led to the kitchens, hanging his head and glancing sullenly over his shoulder. He whined, putting on the saddest puppy-dog face of his life.

"The... uh... cook might 'ave some scraps for ya'," the bartender muttered, wondering vaguely why he felt like he should be apologizing to a dog. Trouble yipped and continued on into the kitchens, a much happier dog. Corff turned to Lyra. "He always like that?"

"He's a manipulative son of a bitch," she confirmed cheerfully.

The bartender grunted, "Rooms are up the stairs, down the hall. Last one on the left is yours," he said. Then, looking a little embarrassed continued, "Look... uh... you should know, I don't usually let rooms out to elves..."

"Why should I know that?" she asked, nonplussed, taking out a small pouch that rattled with coin and placing it on the bar. "I would imagine most elves wouldn't have the coin to afford your rooms anyway. And if you are concerned at the fact that I DO have the coin," her tone grew cold, and her eyes sharpened slightly, "take a look at the daggers on my back and remember how much you don't want trouble." She turned on her heel, without giving the man a chance to respond, and headed up the stairs.

The room was small, barely enough for the rough looking bed and table that occupied it, and she instantly felt that she had over-paid. She took up the lamp from the table and lit it. A small washstand had been placed in one corner of the room, a cracked mirror hung from a nail just above it. She eyed herself critically in the warped reflection, then unstrapped her daggers, placing them carefully on the table, then her armour was unclasped and let fall at the foot of the bed. The cloth bodice she wore underneath didn't hide much but it was more there as protection from the leather and metal of her armour than from any sense of decency anyway. She unwrapped her hand and let it soak for a minute in the cool water in the basin. She had wanted a bath, but it was already quite late and she settled for splashing water on her face and upper body and soaking her hair in the bowl for a few minutes, then spending a considerable few more fighting to get a brush through it.

When she was finished she took another look in the mirror. "Better," she said aloud. "Not much, but some."

Her damp hair shone brilliant red in the lamplight, as large slanted ice grey eyes stared back at her. The mass of red hair usually hid her delicately tapered ears, she could almost pass for a human child, perhaps if it were not for those slanted eyes, and the distinctly Dalish tattoos that weaved their patterns across her face, and down her neck and shoulders, disappearing beneath her clothing. Not that she would want to pass for a human, of course. She was perfectly content to be what she was and considered that if people had a problem with her, it was their problem, and most certainly not hers.

She turned away from the mirror. There was a small fireplace opposite the bed, presumably for warmth on colder nights, though Lyra was beginning to wonder if it ever actually cooled down in Kirkwall. Even now as darkness had almost completely overtaken the evening light, it still seemed to be sweltering hot. She opened the window in the hopes of letting in some of the slightly cooler night air. The sounds of the city filled her ears.

Hightown had been practically deserted by the time she had left the Amell estate, but it seemed that the population of Lowtown never slept. Or did so very noisily. She sighed ans stuck her head out the window. The roof of the tavern sloped away beneath her to a short drop onto the cobbles. A handy escape route, she mused. From the outside of the window you could also climb higher onto the roof, and then there was a mere foot or two of space separating the roof of the Hanged Man from the building next to it, which was much taller than this but the wood framing of the structure provided easy foot and handholds for an experienced climber.

Uniformity obviously hadn't been a major design element when this part of the city had been built. It almost looked as if Lowtown had been grown rather than constructed, each building being modified or expanded to suit the needs of its occupant. And so there was no consistency of shape or size of the buildings, some leaned together as if supporting each other, apartments had been added above businesses, lean-to's and sheds had solidified into permanent fixtures on the exteriors of some of the buildings, others were already so close together that the walls had simply been joined to created one large structure rather than separate dwellings. She could see a whole street like that off to the east a bit.

Lyra sighed again. Too many people, she thought distractedly. She missed the solitude of the forests. Even when travelling with her companions she could always disappear into the woods, hunting, scouting, keeping watch, or whatever excuse came to mind. Even here in her otherwise empty room she felt the congestion of the city around her. People were like fireworks, she decided. You pack enough of them together and the tiniest spark can set them off. And this city was ready to explode, if she was any judge.

A hesitant knock startled her out of her reverie. It sounded like the knock of someone who needed to make their presence known, but were unsure of the repercussions of doing so. She turned from the window and opened the door to the slightly worried face of the barkeep. "Excuse me, miss, but there's some men 'ere to see ya'."

"Oh?" A part of her was taken aback. She had just arrived, no one knew where she was, aside from Hawke and that elf, Fenris, and she doubted very much that either of them would have the least hesitation over coming to her room themselves instead of sending Corff. Curiouser and curiouser, she thought.

"I don't want no trouble here," Corff continued. "But they look the sort to start some. Wouldn't let 'em up so they's standin' around outside."

"Well, then. I'd better not keep them waiting. They might get bored and wander off." She suddenly realized what she was wearing, or more specifically what she was NOT wearing, and apologized, picking her armor off the bed and slipping it on.

The bartender mumbled something she couldn't make out, then seemed to realize what she was intending to do. "You don't want to go down there, miss," he said hurriedly. "They's trouble, I could see that a mile off. They's got swords and look like mercenaries. There's a lot o' them in Kirkwall these days."

"I'll be fine," she assured the man, fumbling with a stubborn buckle.

Corff was shuffling his feet. "One other thing, miss. Your dog's downstairs at the bar." The man seemed a little embarrassed by this revelation.

"Sampling your whiskey, is he?" she asked mildly, strapping on her daggers.

"Uh, no. He's, uh... minding the bar for me, miss."

"Might want to watch that then," she said smiling. "He has a tendency to short-change people."

Corff laughed, as if to say the dog could do no worse than he did himself on a nightly basis. Lyra started for the door. "But, miss?"

"Don't worry, my good man. I can more than handle a few armed men. You should get back to your other guests. And please leave the back door open for the dog. He's very smart but rather useless when it comes to door knobs." And with that she strode past the man and down the stairs to the bar. She could have used the window, but she was hoping to save that little trick for later. She had confidence in her ability to dispatch a few armed men, but doing that may draw unwanted attention to herself. Attention that she was hoping to avoid at all cost. She never used to think like this. Consequences and repercussions had always been what you dealt with later, not what you thought about first. But the world was changing around her, and she had apparently changed right along with it. Going from wild elf dashing mindlessly into the fray, to wise strategist, planning every move like a general. Takes all the fun out of it, she thought sadly, slightly annoyed at the change in herself, but even more annoyed that things seemed to work out better this way.

She grunted and shoved open the bar door, stepping out into the cool night air, expecting to be greeted by more leering men ready to carve a piece out of the little elf girl. But there was no one in sight. Even the convenient shadows seemed suspiciously empty. Perhaps they had wandered off. She took a few paces out of the lamplight, if it was to be an ambush then just about here...

Rough hands dragged her into an alleyway, pinning her arms behind her back quite effectively, and a blade was pressed to her neck. The man who had grabbed her seemed to be waiting for something. There were more of them, she knew, there had to be. If there was just one she would have had her throat slit by now, or would have had an arrow through the heart as soon as she stepped out of the tavern. There would be more, and they wanted to have a little fun.

Soon enough two other figures materialized out of the darkness. One had a longsword in hand, the other had a crossbow strapped to his back. Difficult weapons in close quarters, she thought. You're as likely to stab or shoot the man next to you as your enemy. She preferred her daggers. In any situation, they always hit their mark. Providing you can get your hands on them. The man hadn't disarmed her, byt with both arms twisted behind her back there was relatively little she could do.

"She don't look like much," the swordsman said a sneer plastered across his already disfigured face. This was a man who had seen many battles, and might have even won one or two. But she doubted it. It looked more like he had been on the receiving end of most of the blows. "You sure we got the right elf?"

"Course I'm sure," the man holding her snarled. "Knife-eared bitch broke a mans jaw. We can't be havin' with that." The stench of his alcohol laden breath was nauseating and she fought the urge to gag. The point of the knife dug into her flesh and she felt a small trickle of blood begin a slow path down her neck. "That means, we get to rough you up a bit." She could almost hear the nasty grin on his face.

"Oh my," she said. "Three big strong men, just to capture little old me? I must be a true terror in a real fight. Either that or you all are so bad at this you probably sliced off three of your own fingers before figuring out which end of the sword to hold."

The blow came without warning. A ham-like fist plowed into her stomach, knocking all the air from her lungs. Only the other mans hold on her arms and around her neck kept her upright as she struggled for breath. Someone wasn't playing around. She didn't know what Trouble was planning or even where he was but she and the dog had a fairly good understanding of one another and he always turned up when she needed him. Though she sometimes feared that his definition of 'need' was not quite the same as hers.

"You got a smart mouth for an elf," the man with the crossbow snarled. "Time someone shut it for you, fucking Ferelden dog." He backhanded her across the face, whipping her head around, the metallic taste of blood filling her mouth. That was going to leave a mark.

"I am not a Ferelden dog, I'm a Dalish Elf." She spat blood onto the rough cobbles. "THAT is a Ferelden dog." She nodded into the shadows, suddenly grinning at her attackers.

Then they all heard the low, menacing growl of an animal intent on blood, and saw the Mabari emerge, hackles raised, white fangs glistening in the pale light. They stood stock still for a moment, aware that the rules of their little game had changed, and were unsure of how to proceed.

"What are you waiting for?" the man holding her demanded, apparently the leader of the small group. "Shoot it!"

"Oh, I wouldn't do that if I were you," she cautioned. "You've heard of Mabari War-hounds, I'm sure? They're very smart, understand almost every word you say. And now he knows you mean to kill him. To him, that means he gets to kill you. Who do you think will manage it first?"

Trouble was advancing on the man holding Lyra, pure fury and blood-lust in his sharp eyes, muscles rippling beneath his tawny hide. 'Crossbow' reached for his weapon and Trouble spun on him, snarling viciously and snapping his powerful jaws inches from the mans leg. He jumped backward and tripped over a rubbish pile. The dog turned back towards the leader and started advancing again.

"Uhh, right. Ok, um. Do NOT kill the dog," he stammered.

Lyra nodded approvingly. "A very wise decision. Unfortunately for you, that logic also extends to his master... me," she said, in case they weren't very good with subtlety. She could see the other two men making their way towards the dog. She wasn't sure if Trouble didn't notice them or simply didn't think they were worth bothering about. Either way he was ignoring them. She needed to get out of this fast, before it turned into blood in the streets, perhaps even her own.

With amazing speed, Trouble spun towards the advancing men and charged, knocking 'Longsword' off his feet entirely and pushing 'Crossbow' into the opposite wall. It was all the distraction Lyra needed. She spun away from the third man as soon as she felt his grip lessen, drawing her daggers as she did so. Now it was he who had a blade to his throat, and another to his heart, if it came to that.

Lyra was smiling a humourless grin at the man as he backed into the stone wall in an attempt to escape her blades. The knife dropped from his hand, his eyes pleading surrender. "Good boy," she said, as if speaking to the dog who was carefully keeping the other two men away from the weapons they had dropped when he had attacked. "Now, why don't you three run along before you hurt yourselves? I'm sure you won't need your weapons. I shall leave them with Corff, the bartender, and you can pick them up later. Perhaps after I have left Kirkwall? I surely wouldn't want to see them with you, if we should ever meet again."

The three men took the hint and ran for it, leaving weapons and dignity behind. There were other things far more important. Continued breathing for one. Trouble chased after them for a few paces, barking at their retreating footsteps, and Lyra sighed, sheathing her daggers once more. "Always have to have the last word, don't you?" she said, when Trouble returned. The dog yipped at her, grinning madly. She smiled and ruffled the fur behind his ears.

She spun around, blades instantly in hand once more when she heard a sound from the opposite side of the street. It sounded like... clapping?

"Nicely done," a familiar voice called out to her. It was Hawke, the not-Champion of Kirkwall. He emerged into a pool of lamplight, grinning at her. "I would have intervened but by the time I got here you had things well in hand."

The daggers disappeared into their sheaths and she walked across the street towards him, a slight smile of relief on her face. "Indeed. Nice timing you've got there," she said sarcastically.

His features creased into lines of concern when she stepped into the lamplight and he saw the reddening mark across her left cheek. "Perhaps I should have gotten here a little sooner," he said, reaching up to better examine the injury. She pulled away from his touch and he shrugged. "I suppose you'll live."

"I should hope so. Can't let it be known that three petty thugs could take down the Hero of Ferelden," she laughed haughtily.

He was grinning again, but now there was a hint of concern as he eyed her. They hadn't looked like petty thugs to him. They had looked more like well armed and experienced mercenaries. But for now this was her show. "In that case its a shame you didn't dispatch them."

"I just had a wash," she complained. "Its the first time in weeks that I have been even remotely clean and I wasn't about to let them get their blood all over me."

He laughed, "Speaking of which..." he passed her a clean handkerchief. She gave him a puzzled look. "You're neck," he explained, and suddenly remembering, she took it and began dabbing at the small cut.

She offered it back to Hawke who shook his head and she stuffed the slightly bloody hanky into the sleeve of her wrist guard.

"And now, you must allow me to buy you a drink," Hawke said definitively. She began to protest, and he gave a frustrated sigh. "A WATER then." Trouble gave a short bark. "And a bowl of ale for your bodyguard." Trouble grunted his agreement.

"Very well," Lyra sighed. "Lead on, not-Champion." she gave him a sidelong glance as he grimaced. Then he grinned and they walked back across the street and into the tavern.

All eyes were on them as they reentered the tavern. Correction... all eyes were on Hawke. No one seemed to care about the elf standing to the side and slightly behind him. He overshadowed her, not only in mere size but also by the warm greeting he received and a few glasses that were raised in his direction. It felt strange not to be the centre of attention. She wasn't jealous, not exactly. She'd received more than her share of accolades back home and after all HE was their champion, not her. She shoved the unwelcome feelings to the back of her mind as they made their way to the bar.

By the time they got there, when Hawke was finished shaking hands with everyone within arms reach and a few who weren't, Corff had already poured him a glass of ale, and not the cheap swill he served the regulars from a keg, but the good stuff he kept in the back for his elite patrons. Hawke ordered a glass of water and a bowl of ale. The bartender was a bit off-put when asked for the bowl, but then he saw the dog, who barked happily at him. He shook his head, poured the ale, and placed the bowl on the floor by the bar.

They sat down on a couple of vacant chairs next to the bar, Lyra was given her water, and Hawke sipped at his ale. It may have been Corff's select stock, but it still tasted like horse piss.

"So, how are you finding our fair city?"

"Fairly easily," she replied. "It was right there when I stepped off the boat." He shook his head and smiled, taking another swallow of the bitter ale. "It's very crowded," she said finally, "not at all what I'm used to."

"Yes, I suppose life as a Dalish is quite different from Kirkwall."

"I don't mean that. I mean, well, yes, it is different, but I was referring to the city itself. Even Denerim isn't as crowded as this. There are people everywhere. You've stacked them on top of one another like cord wood."

"Not me," Hawke protested. "I didn't do it."

She sighed, "You know what I mean. This city was not meant for so many people. And if steps aren't taken..." she let her voice trail off. What business did she have telling anyone how they should run their city? Hadn't she failed quite spectacularly the last time she had tried that? Besides, it wasn't her city, she was here now but she never intended it to be permanent.

The sight of Fenris entering the tavern interrupted her thoughts. She watched as he made his way over to a card table in the corner and was promptly dealt in. After a few moments a heated discussion began with a few gestures in her direction. Fenris' gaze locked on hers and he rose abruptly from the table and stalked up to the bar where Hawke and Lyra were sitting.

"It's you," Fenris stated angrily.

Good gods, what now? Lyra thought, mentally rolling her eyes.

"You attacked Marlon Voorhees," he said, eyeing her up and down. It wasn't a question, it was a statement, but one that he couldn't believe could be true.

"Glad to hear it," she said. "And who is this person?"

Hawked turned towards her. "That man who threatened you. Big greasy bastard? Bad teeth?"

"And equally bad breath," she remembered. "Yes, that sounds like him. He mentioned the name Marlon, but he kept referring to himself in the third person so I was never quite sure who he was talking about. Why, is he important?"

"Not him," Fenris scoffed, "His brother."

"Marcus Voorhees runs one of the mercenary gangs in town. This particular gentleman is very big on retribution," Hawke said, now looking genuinely concerned.

"Oh, good," she said smiling a bright, artificial smile at the both of them. "And here I thought my stay in Kirkwall would be boring... Those men outside?"

Hawke nodded. "Voorhees men. They'll think twice about coming after you again, that is until they can get a few more men together for the job. But you've already shown your ace in the hole." He nodded towards the dog who was quietly lapping at his drink. "Won't be as easy next time. They'll be ready for you."

"And I'll be ready for them," she shrugged dismissively.

"Stupid girl..." Fenris began angrily, but she cut him off with a wave of her hand.

"You remember our conversation earlier, Fenris? Today is STILL not that day." Her icy gaze locked with his.

Fenris glared at her, shaking with pent up frustration and rage. Finally he stalked out of the tavern, angrily slamming the door behind him.

Lyra was watching him leave, looking thoughtful. "Do you suppose he ever tires of these dramatic entrances and exits? Does he practice? Or do you think it comes naturally?"

Hawke shrugged, "I think he was born with a dramatic entrance, to tell the truth."

She smiled and nodded, he probably was at that. "He's a friend of yours?"

Hawke seemed to be thinking about this for a while. "He is a... companion."

Lyra laughed at this. "I always used to say, 'Companion does not mean the same as friend.'"

Hawke smiled. "Very true. But, enough about our broody elf," he said with an air of finality. He leaned towards her, elbows resting on the table. "I'm more interested in you."

She shrugged. "What would you like to know?"

"Well, lets start with how you became a Grey Warden, if you don't mind my asking, that is. The stories we hear out here are quite varied."

"Oh? What have you heard?" she asked, feigning detached interest. She doubted very much that anyone knew the truth, but it was always helpful to know what everyone else was thinking, true or not.

"Well, in one of them, I believe you were an elven princess who was blamed for your brothers death and cast out of your clan. In another, your home was destroyed by bandits so you took up the sword and went hunting revenge. I think there's even one about you killing a nobleman and being sentenced to death but you were conscripted at the last minute. And of course there's my personal favorite," he lowered his voice and leaned forward. "You're really an apostate mage in disguise who escaped the Circle only to be found and taken in by the Grey Wardens."

She raised her eyebrows in surprise. "That's your favourite?"

"What can I say?" he said, leaning back. "I have a soft spot for escaped mages. You could say its part of my heritage," he laughed.

She knew there was something she was missing, but decided against pressing him about it. "Sorry to disappoint, but I am no mage."

"No? Not even a little?" He sighed dramatically when she shook her head. "Very well then, whats the real story?"

"Not much to tell really. Certainly nothing as exciting as the tales you've heard, I'm sure." She paused, but his interest did not appear to have waned at the admission. She sighed, "The short version is that A Grey Warden found me, Conscripted me and brought me to Ostagar. The rest you probably already know."

"There's more to it than that, I'm sure," Hawke said, grinning. She was teasing him, she had to be. What reason could she have for being secretive? She was the Hero of Ferelden, after all.

"Yes," she said bitterly, turning on him, suddenly angry. "I imagine there is more to it than that. But it's not a tale I tell for the asking. Certainly not to a..." She stopped herself before finishing the sentence, but it made little difference.

"To a human?" Hawke said slowly. He had been surprised by the sudden outburst but then he supposed everyone had stories they didn't enjoy telling. Maker knew he had a few himself. It added to the mystery.

She smiled weakly at him. "Sorry," she said. "I didn't mean it like that, its just... Old habits, you know?"

He waved a hand. "Don't worry about it. I've been called far worse than human, trust me." Neither spoke for a while, each lost in their own thoughts.

"You asked me earlier how long it had been since I had seen my clan," Lyra said finally. "The truth is I have never been back. Even after my quest, if you want to call it that, was finished. And now, here I am. Hundreds of miles from everyone and everything I ever knew. Sometimes I think about going back, seeing my clan-mates again. But now that I'm here, its rather impossible."

Hawke nodded, and expression of understanding on his face. He had once thought about going back too. But with Lothering gone, there didn't seem much point. Suddenly, he looked up and said, "Huh, Merrill's here."

"What? You mean here? In Kirkwall?" Lyra said. Her voice expressed stunned surprise, as if he had just announced that the gods themselves had stopped in for a drink.

He looked at her in complete and utter confusion. "I mean here... in the Hanged Man."

Lyra stood up so fast the bar stool she had been occupying clattered to the ground. She heard a delighted squeal of surprise from somewhere in the vicinity of the entrance, then "Lyra!" and a small, pixie-like elf cannoned into her.

"I take it you two know each other..."