On his best days Bartrand could be as stubborn as a two-headed nug, and Varric had learned long ago that it was easier to just do what he wanted and bring his brother in at the end of the deal than waste time trying to convince him that no, they didn't have the coin and yes, that meant they needed to bring someone else in and that maybe, just maybe that extra help meant he'd have to brush a bit of dog hair off his coat. The wide pool of Ferelden refugees at least meant a half-decent chance of finding someone mildly competent amidst the usual pick of the poor, crazy and desperate. Varric had made a few optimistic inquiries, though the follow-ups were generally less impressive, even when they happened to be sober.
In all fairness, it wasn't an easy list of demands to fill, not for a trip to the Deep Roads. The funding was necessary, of course, but hardly first among his concerns. Varric needed a good fighter, preferably one with real experience against darkspawn, if only to keep from fleeing at the first sight of them. It would be even better to have someone he could actually trust at his back - not exactly Kirkwall's specialty. At the very least, someone with the sense to know that betrayal a mile beneath the surface wouldn't likely get them far. Varric knew he could stop right there and have fun trying to fill the order, but he could hardly complain if he stumbled over someone who wasn't a complete prat, and slightly more entertaining than his brother's usual lineup of scowls and single syllables and questionable hygiene. Maybe someone who'd at least held a book once in their lives.
"I suppose you'll want them to shit diamonds and compose epic poems while they're at it?" Worthy said with a look of amusement Varric had seen enough times since they'd publicly announced the expedition, baffled disbelief mixed with a heavy dose of quiet wagers being placed for how dead he would end up, and how soon, and what pieces might make it back to the surface. At least Varric was well respected enough that no one would say it to his face.
"I'll take the diamonds, but I can handle the poetry myself."
Varric paused, as he saw the other dwarf's eyes narrow - with his wares poised at the edge of Hightown, Worthy was one of those useful people who always seemed to know a little bit about everything. The hesitation was a good sign, not only that he had a lead, but that it was someone valuable. Enough to think twice before sending them to a doom that was, if not inevitable, then at least paying out at five to one.
"You really want someone who isn't going to screw you over down there, no matter what? You want Hawke. It's your luck, too, I hear she's just turned free agent."
"Hawke?" What a name. Either it was destiny or decent self-promotion. "Any idea where I should start looking?"
"Just find the Ferelden with the elf marks," he waved a hand at his face, as if it needed clarification, "and you've got your man. So to speak."
A human with Dalish tattoos? Now that was worth tracking down for the novelty value alone, a good detail to steal for some future story no matter what else came of it. Fair to say Varric's interest had been piqued, and the more he'd kept looking, the better it seemed to get, especially as his already narrow list had contracted to a trickle of those who were mostly too drunk to answer questions, too busy running from debtors or inconveniently dead.
It seemed this Hawke was indeed a refugee of limited means, working for one of the smaller smuggling operations, but she'd managed to keep afloat in a year that had sunk a considerable amount of the competition, figuratively and literally, with wreckage still sticking out above the waterline all over the coast. Skilled with a blade, enough that he was surprised she hadn't struck out on her own, or tried to strike down her employer and take her place, but Hawke seemed as indifferent to getting ahead in Lowtown as she was of practically every other easy vice. As far as Varric could tell, she didn't brag, or get drunk and talk too much, or make rash decisions to screw her colleagues and raise her standing. Hawke's reputation seemed built on quiet competence, and hard work, and keeping her head down whenever possible.
All right, so she was a little dull. He could edit around that. Although once Varric started inquiring after Hawke in particular, the stories grew a bit more interesting. Of how she'd saved this man from drowning, or that cargo from being hauled off by the Carta. How once - no shit - she'd been set up, abandoned to drown on the cliffs, and had just climbed the east wall of the city instead, a thousand feet straight up with the goods on her back, arriving just in time to show up the men who'd come to claim they'd lost her. How she could slip in and out of anywhere in the city - Hightown, Lowtown or the Gallows - and would happily do it for fun if no one was paying.
So maybe dull wasn't the right word.
"You know she owns a warhound, too. For whatever that's worth," Elegant said, never looking up from where she was mixing the day's wares, adding one more embellishment to a list that no longer needed the help. It was interesting as well, how all the people Varric had done mostly honest business with seemed to think Hawke was mostly trustworthy. Strange, that they'd never crossed paths before. He could only hope she wasn't some sort of penitent, spending her off hours in the Chantry lamenting what she had to do to survive. That could get tedious no matter how well she fought.
"You'll want to watch out for the sister, though. Bit of an allergy to the Gallows, that one."
So probably not much for the Chantry, then, with an apostate for a sister. It also explained the low profile, Hawke unwilling to do anything that might compromise a vulnerable family member. Varric made a note to be on his best behavior, his last dealings with a touchy mage had lost him half the buttons on his coat.
"Interesting. Anything else worth knowing?" He put down a silver - this was mostly a casual conversation, after all - and the woman swept it up without blinking.
"If you try to hire the sister behind her back, Hawke will walk," Elegant snapped her fingers, "just like that. Doesn't matter what you offer, or how much coin is on the table. I hear that's what finally happened with Athenril."
"Self-sacrificing and noble. This is getting less believable by the moment." The barest sketch of an idea in his head, just an outline - two beautiful sisters, on the run from unspeakable evil, fighting for their freedom, standing side-by-side against the world. Well, at least he hoped they were beautiful, there was a better profit margin in it.
Elegant let out a light, mocking little laugh. "I wouldn't go that far. Hawke's got a soft head, and a softer heart. Damn quick, though."
It wasn't the first time he'd heard that, a collection of opinions from allies and enemies both all refining down to at least two certain truths: that Hawke was loyal if nothing else, the Ferelden sort of loyalty that looked like stupidity to those who found it inconvenient, and she was very, very fast.
At the least, Varric had to meet her in person, to see if there was any truth to be had. So he'd been making plans to seek her out, already putting together one of his masterpiece sales pitches if things should prove half as promising - until Bartrand had walked by at the other end of a Hightown street, trailed by a pair of women speaking to him in low, urgent tones - and there was the mabari, a few paces behind. They /were/ beautiful, though as different as he imagined two sisters could be. One of them tall, dark-haired and graceful, the other slightly shorter, with red hair tied up away from her face in a narrow tail - leaving the tattoos she wore on full display.
Varric had never seen all that much difference between business and religion. The subtle forces of markets wove their own kind of destiny, with time, supply and demand readily shaping futures. Giving and taking by some unknown decree that could be studied, sometimes petitioned but never really known. So Varric had a healthy respect for fortune on a good day, and when it saw fit to throw him such a gift, the only thing to do was thank it kindly, and then be damn sure it didn't get away.