II: Company

Sitting on her stool and nursing her third drink, Nell Hawke found herself totally and unequivocally bored. Maker, I have no friends, she realized abruptly.

She had family, of course. Up to her ears. There was mother, but she was definitely not a candidate for a trip down to the tavern. Uncle Gamlen – out. Carver, though more often than not surly at something unimportant hadn't been home when she'd looked for him. Probably off to the Blooming Rose, she thought. As amusing as it would be to pop in on him there, it's probably best for everyone that I don't. Ever.

Varric was her friend now she guessed but apparently the dwarf wasn't in at the moment. A pity, that chest hair would've been great company alone. Maker, when did I become so lightweight?

The bartender Corff had mentioned that a pirate had been in a few nights ago, a real killer woman he'd said. Even started a full brawl. I wish I'd been here. Well, less for the brawl and more for the pirate. Though now she'd welcome a brawl what with her only companion being sweat flavored ale.

Corff moved in front of her and leaned heavily against the bar, breathing heavily. Probably sampling his own brew. "'Ave you heard? The strangest thing. My friend in West Hills says the pigeon population is way down. They find groups of them, pulverized. What kind of sick individual goes after harmless creatures like that?"

"Why I wouldn't know," she deadpanned, scooping up her drink and stepping away from the bar. She turned and surveyed the room, praying for someone to save her from another evening of Corff's endless prattling and clumsy come-ons.

The Hanged Man was surprisingly unattended this night, one table taken by a handful of street thugs she recognized and a few street walkers she didn't spread about other tables. No one pleasant, or even interesting.

Then her eyes caught a man seated in the far back of the room – dressed for bear, half plate covering a sinewy muscled form. She'd never seen him before. A mercenary, clearly. She made for him, noting as she approached that he was at least moderately attractive – short dark hair with just enough scruff to be appealing. As she got closer she realized her error. The moderately attractive face she'd seen from a distance was marred with heavy scars, most notably one that ran over and around his eye then back down towards his lip. Under that veneer and an unkempt short beard was the face of a man at least not older than she.

He didn't move as she pulled up a chair across from him, merely eyed her. She noted twin warhammers, one hung from each side of his waist, strapped down with a thong around the thigh. "Hello," she said, as she lifted her drink. He has hard, weary eyes.

"Hello," he replied in a low voice, ignoring his drink.

"What are you doing all the way back here?" She asked, grinning and taking another sip of her drink.

"Drinking," he said, crossing his arms over his chest.

She glanced pointedly at the ignored mug that sat before him. The man sighed, reached forward, grasped it and took a long drag.

She smiled. "That's more like it." She stuck out her hand, nearly knocking the mug off the table. Get a grip on yourself, girl. "My name's Nell. Nell Hawke. I'm bored to tears."

He looked at her hand a moment as if unsure what to do with it before grasping it for half a second. He opened his mouth to reply.

"Wait," she said, holding up one finger. "Don't tell me. Let me guess." She looked him up and down, emphasizing her eyes raking him. "I've got it." She snapped a finger. "Your name is Josiah du Chatillon. You're an Antivan spice merchant who happens to run the greatest sellsword band in all of Thedas, the Magnanimous Twelve. You're here in Kirkwall to escape your dreaded fanbase, and now you feel absolute terror as I've revealed your secret." She grinned. "Do I have you right?"

He crooked an eyebrow, a slight smile breaking out on his rugged face. "du Chatillon is an Orlesian name." His accent sounded ferelden, though she couldn't place the dialect. Far from Lothering definitely.

"Yes, you're an Orlesian who lived in Denerim but claims citizenship of Antiva for tax purposes," she chortled, taking another sip of her drink. It seemed to taste better somehow, like somewhat less ripe sweat.

He snorted. "You have got an imagination."

She laughed. "Don't ever learn to read. It ruins you that way."

"Oh, I know," this time he laughed in kind, if quietly. His eyes seemed to soften, and his shoulders relaxed some.

"Shall I guess about you, now?" he offered, voice warm though still soft.

She liked where this was going. "But of course, you have an advantage."

He inclined his head. "Of course." He looked her straight in the eye. "Your name is Nell Hawke. You're a refugee from southern Ferelden, maybe near the Bannorn. You fled the Blight like so many others and made for Kirkwall, only to find out that the Blight ended almost as soon as it started. Now you frequent criminal dens in order to find work, sometimes company, and you are either starting to feel your alcohol or you might just be the friendliest woman in Lowtown."

What? She could hardly keep her head from jerking back in surprise. "You must have some wicked mind reading magic to know that."

"So I'm right?" He asked pointedly, again ignoring his drink.

She nodded. "Near exactly. How'd you tell?"

"Your accent shows you ferelden, and you're far too comfortable in this place to be a new arrival," he gestured, pointing under the table. "You aren't going so far as to wear full armor, but you're wearing deceptively strong leather leggings and jacket. You also have at least two knives on your person, strapped to your boot and I believe in your bodice."

She glared at him indignantly. "You looked down my shirt."

He shrugged nonchalantly. "You practically threw the view at me as you sat down."

She thought back, realized she had, and reddened. Maker he's right, and I'm making an ass of myself. "Well, this is going swimmingly," she lamented, throwing her hand to her brow dramatically. "Will you continue to wound me with your words, or shall I fall upon my bodice-dagger myself?"

He full on chuckled now. "I think we can dispense with either." Still his voice remained low, and still she could hear him clearly. Something about it cut through the cacophony of the rowdy street thugs, commanding attention.

She sat back, reached for her drink, then thought better of it. For his part, he took another large swig of his.

"I think we shall declare this contest null and void," she said, adopting a tone of mock severity.

"It was a contest now?" he asked, finally downing his drink in absolute as he finished his sentence.

"You had an unfair advantage. My boot knife, my bodice and my name. You are a poor sport, Serrah, a poor sport."

He chortled again. "Alright, my lady. I shall give you another chance. You have my plate, my hammers, and my name – Martin. Now you may guess again."

"Just Martin?"

He sighed, some of his mirth disappearing. "Martin of Highever."

Highever? Northern, then. She sized him up, this time actually looking. Many if not all of the scars on his face were relatively recent, some even still harsh red. His hammers were clean, but chipped with use, and his armor was battered even heavier than his hammers. Still, they were clearly quality. Better than the iron garbage Athenril had provided her what had seemed an age ago. Maker, he's not just as old as me, he's younger than me by at least two years. I'd stake my life on it.

She stroked her chin. "You are Martin, of Highever. You were a soldier who fought in Ferelden during the Blight, and now the Darkspawn are defeated you've come to Kirkwall to find your fortune. Pretty poor decision, I might add. In my experience, there are no fortunes in Kirkwall." She grimaced. "Even those you're supposed to have."

"Less specific than my answer," he nodded sagely. "But nearly as correct. I was a soldier who fought the Blight, and now I'm in this pisshole of a tavern looking for work." He pounded his cup once on the table, looking over her shoulder. She turned to see Nora striding to answer his pound. She spilled half the ale on the table and half into his mug without even breaking her stride. "Not earnestly, you can tell."

"Tell me," she said in mock (and she had to admit to herself, somewhat actual) admiration. "How did you get Nora to serve you with such little fuss? She won't pour me a glass without at least three coppers."

He shrugged. "I paid in advance."

Nell frowned. "You disappoint me, Martin of Highever. I had thought you commanded some otherworldly force for a moment."

He sighed deeply, frowning. "Just Martin."

"Alright, now just Martin. I can just take a hint, or a fireworks display in this case."

They sat together in silence for a time, he suddenly melancholy and she unsure of what to say. She found herself desperate to fill the silence, when an idea hit her.

"If you fought the Blight, were you at Ostagar?'

He looked at her, a strange expression on his face. "Aye, I was."

She nodded. "As was I." She turned before she could see his face react, shouting to Nora. "Another round here, Nora!" She reached down into her money purse as Nora strode up as belligerently as ever.

"Drink's on me," Martin said. She looked to him and saw that strange look still unchanged.

He ignored Nora as she poured, looking steadily at Nell. "Where were you?"

"King Cailan's left flank," she replied, taking a large gulp of her drink.

"I didn't think anyone in the King's host made it out alive," he admitted, his voice contemplative.

"Only six of us did," she said. "My brother and I, two."

He nodded understandingly. "Looking back, I didn't have much time to think on it. We were overrun before you were."

She cocked her head. "And where were you?"

This time he drank. A long, hefty drag. "The Tower. The signal went up, and we nearly died."

She almost asked him how he survived. The question, how did you escape that damnable tower to join me now in this shithole so far from home nearly left her lips. But then she realized what the trade would involve. She took another gulp over her drink to try to drown the thought of that hell again. Drown the cries of men all around, blood, the pure terror that was the Darkspawn. Desperate eyes looking to her, pleading. That horrible, terrible responsibility.

"So," she said, forcing a grin onto her face. "Here we are, both alive and far from the Blight." Da always said, 'smile enough and the frown forgets itself.' Proved it true to. He'd hit his face into a pie. Mother tried to be angry, but that beam on his face as bits of meat and crust dripped off made it forget. Her façade smile found itself cracked by a good one.

"Both looking for work," he smiled.

"And company," she offered, grin expanding. Oh Maker, Nell.

"Work for me," he said, smile fading. He stared at his mug for a moment before looking to her. "Not that this company is unwelcome."

They sat in uncomfortable silence for another moment. Keep it going. "Have any luck? With work, I mean." Nell asked.

He shrugged. "I've only been here a week thus far. Some highwaymen tried to hire me, but I'm not poor enough to stomach pure robbery yet. You?"

"As a matter of fact," she said, beaming. "My brother and I are working with a curiously beardless dwarf to help fund an expedition into the Deep Roads."

"Oh?" He asked. The strange look from earlier returned, a sort of sudden alertness. "That sort of thing seems more fit for Hightown than for The Hanged Man. That is, if you're looking for funding."

"More like working for it," Nell said with a half-smile, half grimace. "We're buying in as partners. Apparently the brother of our dwarven friend has a juicy lead in the Deep Roads but can't afford the expedition to get there."

"Are you sure you want to tell me this?" he asked, his eyes furrowing over the strange look. "What if I buy in before you?"

She grinned, looking him up and down. "No offense, but I don't think you can afford it."

He looked down at his gear. "Probably not," he answered, shrugging. "Still not something you tell someone you just sat down to drink with. You seem like a smart woman, why tell me?"

I don't know, because I'm drunk? No, she realized. That's not why.

"I've been here in Kirkwall over a year now," she confessed, her eyes in her mug. "You're the first ferelden I've met here who hasn't begged for coin or tried to stab me in the gut."

"Though I've only been here a short while," he said, drinking again from his mug. His eyes lost that strange quality to them, sinking back into a sort of calm. "That's been my experience as well."

They sat in silence for a moment, mulling. Nell wanted to say something, anything, but couldn't find the words. Work? Ostagar? Shite conversation that. She tried to hide the thoughts flickering across her face by tilting the mug up for another swig. She found herself strangely enjoying the quiet man's odd temperament, and didn't want to leave. What to say… Wait. Work! That's it!

"Would you like to join in?" She asked, suddenly, clattering the mug she'd been hiding behind on the table. "The expedition I mean. Not many around here can say they've fought darkspawn."

He looked at her, tilting his head slightly. "You mean buy in? It doesn't sound too promising. Deep Roads are hell, and what's easy to get to isn't oft worth much."

"No, no." She shook her head. "Nothing like that. I mean, help us raise the coin – we're getting it mostly through work that Varric puts to us."

"Varric? Us?"

"Oh," she slapped herself on the head. "Sometimes it seems everyone in the city knows who we are, though I can't imagine why. Varric's our beardless friend from the Merchant's Guild. He, my brother Carver and I are working together to raise the coin."

He looked her in the eyes a long moment. As much as she liked him, though Maker knows how much of that is just because he's ferelden, she still found the gaze… withering. Searching and pained. I'd look like that, she realized, if I didn't try so hard not to.

"So you are proposing I join your makeshift sellsword band with Merchant's Guild – "

"Oh no! Nothing like that. It's just Varric. He seems to know everything, but he's the younger brother. Not representing the Guild, I mean."

He sighed, continuing. "However directly or indirectly, to take whatever sort of odd jobs you can find to raise an unmentioned exorbitant sum in order to take a suicidal trek through the Deep Roads."

She shrugged. "Try being poor in Kirkwall. That's suicidal."

He sat silent, watching, his eyes searching hers.

She spoke more to fill the silence and to distract herself from those probing gray eyes than anything else. "Of course you'll get an equal share of each job, and if you come along on the expedition I'll give you a percentage of our profits." Carver is going to be livid – but he was the one who said we needed to take opportunities. Besides, maybe he won't –

"Alright," he said, leaning back in his chair. "I cannot say as to the expedition, but for its funding you've hired yourself a... sellsword."

Nell took up her mug, saluted, drank it all down. If we avoid the wrong topics, this night won't be half as bad as I thought'd be. Stimulating, she grimaced briefly. But not stimulating. Ah well, the Maker tosses the knuckles only when Andraste sings, as Da used to say.

"So what do you think of Nora? As a man or as not, either way. She's a miserable git, I think. Mostly."

"…Is that a woman's thoughts of Nora?"

"I think my thoughts on her are transcendental."