Dust Beneath The Stone

Male characters...well, ones that aren't Daylen, are so hard to write for.I should have made the other Wardens all women. I'd have found it easier, and Daylen would have been ecstatic. Anyway...I only own the thoughts Bioware's characters have...those are mine, I guess.

Rica pulled a brush through her long coppery hair, humming some dancing tune under her breath that distracted Faren from the impatient tapping of his fingers as he watched the door, body tense and waiting. Beraht was always late. The man enjoyed stringing them along, tugging at their anxieties and pushing at their fears.

"Why do you let him treat you the way he does?" asked Faren, his voice breaking through Rica's hummed tune. She stopped, her wide topaz eyes looking over at his brother, making him sigh in regret over his harsh tone. Faren stood from his chair, moving over to his older, taking the brush from her hand and carefully pulling it through her long silken tresses.

"It doesn't matter how he treats me, Ren," sighed Rica as she leant against his tender ministrations. "Not in the grand scheme of things. If anything it gives me more motivation to find a noble patron. If I do that, then he can never touch me again. If I don't…well, I won't go back to the middens, Ren. I won't."

Faren felt his hand tighten on the handle of the brush in a flash of anger about the thought of Beraht and what Rica would do to keep out of the middens. There were plenty of prostitutes on the streets of Dust Town; just another way to survive in this shit-hole. It wasn't a future he wanted for his sister; the only person in his life who didn't use him for her own ends.

"Why can't he just be happy with the work I do? Why did he have to bring you into it?" Faren half-sighed and half-growled. He'd been working with the Carta for nearly twelve years, ever since he was a boy. It hadn't been until last year that Beraht took any notice of one of his lowly thieves, or rather the pretty older sister of one, and most days Faren wished his sister had remained under Beraht's radar.

The door swung open, making their mother murmur something in her drunken stupor before she turned her head and continued snoring. Beraht stormed into the hovel, nose wrinkled in disgust as he beheld his charges. Rica was the first to move, smiling graciously as she offered a chair to Beraht like a generous hostess, all smiles and wide blue eyes. The man merely grunted in thanks as he took the chair and Faren leant up against the wall, arms crossed as Rica took the only other available chair.

The room was silent for sometime and Faren fought the urge to speak or rap his fingers over the boiled leather of his vambraces as he watched Beraht with his arms crossed. Beraht merely pulled out a pipe from his belt, unhurried and measured out some tobacco from a pouch, striking a match to light up the dark, stinking herb. Inhaling the smoke deeply he relaxed back into his chair, eyeing Rita like a prized Bronto steak at the butcher's stall.

"I can't keep gambling on you forever, precious," drawled Beraht. His very voice boiling Faren's blood, let alone the way the man's eyes roved over his sister. "You've got a sweet look, something that'll light a man on fire, but you gotta make it count."

"Please," smiled Rica, keeping the panic out of her voice with trained practice. "Beraht, I don't want to do this in front of my brother." She waved a deceivingly nonchalant hand in Faren's direction and the thief kept his thoughts behind his usual indifferent mask. Beraht merely laughed darkly.

"Why not? He knows the slope of the land, don't you, boy?" Beraht's voice was drenched in threat, but Faren didn't let his simmering anger and disgust show on his face. Faren just shrugged in response, not wanting to give the twisted man the satisfaction of a reply. Beraht narrowed his eyes at the thief. "You know, before me, your sister was just another Duster, now check her out; braids down to here, gold capped teeth. She can recite elf poetry and play the string harp. Every man's wet dream. All she's got to do is find a lord, squeeze out a son that looks like him and we're all living the high life in the Diamond Quarter."

Faren didn't trust himself to look at Rica, no doubt her cheeks were bright with embarrassment. Instead he kept his cool, level gaze directly on Beraht's bare bearded face, the Casteless mark on his own feeling almost hot beneath Beraht's dark glare.

"So long as you both eat of my plate, you'd do best to know your place, Dusters," warned Beraht, but Faren was too busy imagining the many ways he could kill the man in this very room without even unsheathing his daggers.

"To what do we owe the pleasure?" asked Faren coldly, making the other man narrow his eyes.

"I'm checking on my investments," explained Beraht, gesturing at Faren and Rica. "And right now they aren't bearing much gold. I give you another week, precious. If you haven't found another patron you can go back to the midden heap for all I care."

"Oh, but I have," promised Rica, with her wide amber eyes, smiling coyly at Beraht as she rose from her chair gracefully. "That is…I didn't want to promise, but I think he is inclined." Beraht harrumphed, shooting a dark eyes at Faren.

"Why are you still here, boy? Get out. Leske has a job for you both," dismissed Beraht. Faren was too used to being dismissed from his own shitty hovel to care, and he tried not to think about that disgusting prig's hands on his sister, bringing up his usual mental walls. No point thinking about unpleasant things. Rica could take care of herself.

"Go fuck yourself, you lazy, no good, nug-humping layabout," grumbled their mother by way of farewell and Faren slammed the door behind him. In front of the hovel was a small fire, kept lit by the unluckier Dusters who gathered nearby to keep warm. Leske saw him from the other side, smiling as he turned away from some cheap harlot barely wearing more than her small clothes and making his way toward Faren.

"About sodding time, Brosca. I was starting to think I'd have to bust in and get an eyeful of that spicy sister of yours," grinned Leske, his black eyes darting pass Faren to the door of the hovel.

"Go ahead, but don't blame me if you poke your own eyes out with a hot blade when you see Beraht's hairy ass, too." Leske grimace like he's been punched in the gut.

"There are places the mind just shouldn't go, Brosca." Leske shook the thought from his mind. "As much as I'd like to stand around and chat I like my balls where they are - not on Jarvia's sodding mantelpiece for one. We got work to do."

Faren shrugged, moving on ahead of Leske, making his way toward the Commons as Leske jogged to catch up with him.

"One of the smugglers is holding out on Beraht, and we both know how much he loves that. Anyway, to the tavern, knock the nugshit around and get his money back and maybe, just maybe he won't kill us," shrugged Leske.

"I do feel like hitting something. Maybe we should shake a little more coin from the sod and get some drinks in. I could use a drink as much as I could use a fight, and I don't think some smugglers gonna give me enough fight."

"Beraht always puts you in the sunniest mood, Brosca," chortled Leske. Brosca smiled at his companion. He wasn't really a friend per say. Dust Town didn't really have the luxury of friendship, but he liked Leske well enough. He wasn't Rica, though. Rica was the only person important to Brosca's life.

The Commons were bustling with activity as always, and Faren's Casteless marking drew indignant and disgusted eyes from all the pompous caste-y dwarves. Faren had perfected his hardened insolent glare and used it happily against those stares.

"I can't believe the guard would let those walk around with the Grey Warden in Orzammar."

"No honour having that around where the human can see."

"I feel like we're causing quite the sensation," chortled Leske darkly. Brosca grunted in reply.

Grey Wardens meant nothing in Dust Town. Faren knew what they were, some honoured warrior-caste from the surface who spent their life fighting the darkspawn for no sodding good reason than they wanted to. In the day to day struggle to survive, the fight to keep yourself safe, of the Dusters, the great deeds of some surfacers who wanted to die deep in the tunnels meant nothing. It couldn't buy you bread or nug-on-a-stick.

The tavern smelt like home; violence, anger, vomit, stale ale and drowned sorrows. It made Faren smile as he stepped through the door, stomp the dust off his boots all over their precious dust-free doormat. He ignored the glares of the drunken commoners and found his smuggler, watching him with wide, fearful eyes, trying not to meet his glare. It only made Faren grin wider.

He strolled over to the table and sat himself down across from the smuggler, smiling at the man.

"Oskias," smiled Leske as he sat down beside the surfacer, clapping him on the back and gesturing to the barmaid for two more ales. "Beraht will be so glad to hear you're alright. He's been so worried about your wellbeing, Ossie."

"How have you been, Oskias?" grinned Faren as he pulls out his dagger, sitting back on the chair, seemingly relaxed as he cleaned his nails with the point of the blade. The surfacer was trying his damnedest not to visibly hyperventilate, but Faren could taste the man's panic in the stale tavern air.

"G-Good," squeaked out the man, his voice rising an octave. 'I-I just got here this morning."

"Of course, you did," smiled Leske and Faren grinned as the ale came to the table, smiling into the mug.

"So you're not the turncoat, two-faced, swindling Duster Beraht told us about," added Leske, menacingly. The man looked like he was about to squeeze a nut out right there.

"I-I never did anything, I swear. I-I-"

"Look, Oskias," started Faren, after draining his mug dry in one go, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "If you didn't do anything, we wouldn't be here. Did you really think you could double-cross Beraht and he wouldn't find out about it? Or were you hoping for a visit from Jarvia?" At the mention of Beraht's notorious right-hand Oskias' eyes somehow went even wider and he fidgeted in his seat nervously.

"No-No, I…I know my loyalty to Beraht. He's been good to my family."

"Then, you wouldn't mind if Leske takes your coin and your family misses out on a house call?"

"Look…I…I do have some lyrium, just ore. I was going to sell it to one of the mining castes, but I was going to give Beraht his cut. I swear, I was," panicked Oskias.

"How much?"

"Not much, just…maybe, twenty-five sovereigns worth." Leske spat out his ale at the number.

"Twenty-five sovereigns?" Leske couldn't even do that math in his head, and neither could Feran, to tell the truth. There just wasn't enough room in his mind for calculating how many meals that was. It was an obscene amount of coin.

"I..I could give you a bit…i-if you don't tell Beraht about this," pleaded Oskias. Faren snorted.

"I'll pass. You might not have personally met Jarvia, surfacer, but I have. No thanks," waved off Faren with a dark smile. "Just pay up and start a tab for Leske and me here, and we'll let you live, yeah?"

"I…Yes," agreed Oskias with a sigh, handing Leske the coin. Faren waved him off, careful to watch him to make sure he put down some good coin at the bar for them. Faren smiled and winked at Leske, who chuckled darkly.

"Not even a good fight outta this," grumbled Faren as he took another ale off the barmaid, quenching at least one of his thirsts.

"There's got to be more than just fighting and drinking," laughed Leske. Faren squinted questioningly at Leske. The other dwarf merely looked at him smugly as he took a heavy gulp of ale.

"Sod it, like what?"

"Wenching," winked Leske and Faren chuckled.

"I'll still want a fight first," laughed Faren as he gestured for another ale, draining his mug with practiced ease.

"Enter the sodding Proving if a fight's all you want," poked Leske, rolling his eyes,

The two finally drank Oskias' tab dry and decided to make their way to Beraht's shop, feeling better for the ale. Neither men bothered knocking, walking in to see Beraht with Jarvia, talking politics that just made Faren's nose twitch. Politics belonged in the sodding Diamond Quarter.

"Oh, so you didn't die at the hands of the surfacer," growled Beraht as he saw Faren and Leske. "Took you long enough." Faren shrugged, dropping his gold on the counter. Beraht grunted as he weighed the pouch in his hand. He won't really a man big on verbal compliments. Not getting Jarvia's knife in the throat was considered compliment enough.

"I have something else for you two. There is a Proving today; all the best fighters, last man standing, you know the sort of thing," shrugged Beraht dismissively. No one outside the warrior and noble-castes actually gave two swings of a Bronto's prig about Provings. It was all just an excuse for the rest of Orzammar to get drunk, watch someone else bleed out and bet on the outcome. "They just want to show off for some Grey Warden who can drag them off to a life of eternal glory. Now, I have certain…acquaintances who take an interest in this sort of thing. There's a lot of coin to be made when people get the fever up. Favoured fighter is some warrior named Mainar, Everd's a long shot who just got back from Deep Road's expedition. Some young buck who's got all the ladies drooling, but I've got a lot money riding on him, mine and other people's. I expect to see that eight to one pay."

Fixing Provings, how sodding original, thought Faren, trying not to show his boredom on his face. He left a tavern ripe with unsought fights and unsatisfied women for this? Waste of a perfectly good afternoon in Faren's opinion.

It got pretty dull and predictable in Faren's opinion and he let his mind wander. Leske would pay attention to the details. He didn't have a pretty noble hunter for a sister, after all. Instead, Faren was wondering what the warrior-castes would do if he got his hands on some bright surfacer paint, maybe pink, and redecorated all their armour. Would they fight with the pink hearts all over their precious armour? Or would they all refuse to fight, putting the Proving off and making all of Orzammar descend into chaos? Either way it sounded like an enjoyable show, preferably with ale.

"Don't mess this up." Beraht's gravelly, and boringly threatening tone brought Faren back from his daydreams as Leske shot a worried look at his partner. Faren merely shrugged, taking the bottle of what was no doubt poison from Beraht and making his exit.

"You didn't listen to a sodding word of that, did you?" accused Leske and Faren smirked.

"I listen to a word or two here and there. None of it seemed overly important. The windbag is just practising overly long speeches for his long dreamt of future in the Diamond Quarter. Make sure Everd wins his sodding fights, poison the favourite, profit. Not really a lot of steps to the plan. It hardly needed an Assembly speech." Leske chuckled at that as the two dwarves made their way to the Proving Grounds. At least the ale at the Provings was always good, better than the dragon's piss served at Tapster's.