A/N: I really imagined this first part being told in a "film noir" narration, but think of it as you will.
Also, my Althaea headvoice is starting to sound a little Australian. Think Belle from Once Upon a Time, and think of THAT as you will because I don't think I've ever heard an Aussie accent in Thedas. Someone please feel free to correct me on that if you've heard it!
Props as always go to GirlyGeek for being my all-round sounding board. Love you, chicka!
Oh, and again, for good measure - the concept and character of Althaea Serra belong to me. Everything else belongs to BioWare. It's their sandbox - I just play in it.
CHAPTER SEVEN - WICKED GRACE
The Hanged Man. What did Aveline call it? "A hive of scum and villainy". Varric was honing his internal monologue, the better to weave his narrative with; it would be even more important now that Hawke was named Champion of Kirkwall.
This was always my favorite corner of the tavern. Not too quiet, not too loud, and close enough to keep the wait staff's attention. Not that I don't get good service here to begin with, now that I've upgraded to the palatial suite.
Hawke's band would likely arrive in bits and pieces. The first of those tonight was...Fenris, amazingly enough. It had been weeks since he'd seen the elf last, and the only thing he'd said before leaving was that he was taking an escort mission for that choir boy...what was his name? Sebastian. There it was.
In he walks, eyes wandering, always ready to leap to his own defense. He brushes a bit of imaginary dirt off his shoulders and checks his greatsword at the door. But this is no ordinary elf; he's almost as dangerous unarmed. I've seen him rip the heart out of a man with his bare hands - straight through the armor. He comes toward my corner of the bar, more a creature of habit than he ever thought he was, but I suppose the safety he found in our numbers has made him more relaxed if no less vigilant. One day his master might come back for him, and when that day comes Hawke has pledged his sword to the cause.
He sits down at my table, inclines his head at me. The serving girl already knows his order, since it's always the same. Avalia Pamunalis or some other Tevinter wine, whatever Corff can get his hands on for a friend of his best customer. He may not have a lot of coin, but he appreciates a good bottle of wine for his weekly card game and is willing to pay for it.
"Been a while, elf." Varric sat back against the wall with his tankard of ale.
"Six weeks, I believe." The bar girl laid his glass of wine on the table in front of him and scampered off. All these years, and she's still terrified of him, even unarmored and unarmed as he is now. That's new.
"Sounds like there's a story behind that," I say hopefully.
"There is indeed, but I think you'll hear it from others before you hear it from me." He sits and drinks his wine, the epitome of cool, calm, and collected.
"'Zat so?"
"Yes. My companion is rather...talkative, so I'll just let her tell the story when she comes in tonight. If you don't mind." He took a sip of his wine after swirling the glass and smelling it.
"Mixing business with pleasure, elf?" Varric knew Fenris wasn't particularly sociable, so whoever managed to pique his interest enough to turn an escort contract into a friendship must have been a very intriguing person indeed.
"You could say that," said the elf with a cryptic smile. "She'll be here later, and you're welcome to interrogate her to the ninth degree. Where is everyone?"
"Oh, they'll be along, shortly." They fell into a companionable silence.
Down the stairway walks Isabela, our troupe's resident pirate queen. You would call her a captain if she still had a ship, but her little stunt with a certain, priceless tome left her without one. Left us without a city, almost, more like. She notices the elf and deepens her swagger, having a seat far enough away from him to show off her...assets. Isabela knows what she likes and makes no mistake about wanting it; she's been gunning for the elf ever since he blew into this damned town.
Fenris does his best to let her passes glance off him, and eventually tells her in no uncertain terms that she ought to keep her distance. That's also new. She backs off, pouting, but orders herself a brandy to pass the time until everyone else streams in and the game can begin.
Merrill, the Dalish mage, makes her way into the tavern, escorted by none other than our Champion, Garrett Hawke. It's been three years and she still can't navigate her way through a paper bag, let alone Lowtown; without an escort she'd be as good as lost. Anders, the Fereldan apostate, isn't far behind. He's never far behind these days, now that he's moved in with the Champion for good. The two were inseparable, to be sure, but the level of disgustingly cute they've reached since then is enough to make an ogre vomit.
Everyone is here, everyone except for Aveline and Sebastian, the most aboveboard of our merry crew. Busy on official business, no doubt. And this girlfriend of the elf's is apparently missing too. He certainly is looking toward the door a lot tonight. Waiting.
It was a while for everyone to get their bearings, talking over the week's business and seeing if Hawke had any work to do, as well as trying to squeeze details out of Fenris on his six-week hiatus. He had few, other than stating he had taken a job to Orlais and hinting that it had gone badly wrong.
"There's a story in it," said Varric, "but he says he's not gonna be the one to tell it." There was a collective groan from the group as he shuffled the cards. "Apparently his little girlfriend will be the one to treat us. That is, if she shows up."
Did I get him? I got him. Varric watched Fenris pinch the bridge of his nose in irritation and go as red as his tanned skin would let him. He noted, though, that he didn't bother correcting him on the semantics.
Daisy giggled, earning her a venomous stare, while the boys shared a knowing smile. The Rivaini eyed him with a traitorous look; the elf's reaction to Varric's words had told her everything she needed to know about his abject dismissal and she was not happy about it, not happy at all. He never saw it. His focus was still flitting to his wine glass, then the doorway. Varric dealt the first hand among those who had bought in, and the friendly banter continued.
"This companion of yours, does she have a name?" Hawke asked mildly, throwing down four of a kind Angels to win the round. Fenris hissed and threw his hand down, in it a whole lot of nothing.
"Her name is Althaea."
"And she works for the Chantry," said Anders. "Charming, just what we needed." Daisy raises up her hands as if to say, 'speak for yourself, chum'.
"Funnily enough, mage, I doubt she'd take more offense to you than I already do. She's far too charitable for her own good." He flagged Varric for another hand.
"Hopefully she's charitable enough to keep her flap shut about the two mages at the table, then," he groused.
"She's not stupid," said Fenris, inspecting the new draw. "She knows better than to upset your lover, I'm sure of it." He threw down the Angel of Death and a full house. "Besides, she already knows about both of you. My take."
Grabbing the coins, he looks at the doorway again, and isn't disappointed this time. His sardonic mask softens into a smile. A real one, though, one he generally reserves for Hawke and no others. I follow his eyes to the door.
The first thing I notice is her hair, dark and twisted into a complicated series of braids around her head. Her getup is a little fancy for Lowtown but the dress is cotton, not silk, and more conservatively cut than the Kirkwall gentry commonly call for. An aspirant to the highborn life? She's not stupid, though, as the elf promised; a dagger hangs from a leather belt around her waist. I wonder if she knows how to use it.
She spots her quarry, who raises his hand in greeting, then gestures toward an empty spot on the bench between himself and the Dalish girl. Her face lights up and she moves in their direction. The pirate raises an eyebrow as if to say, "you're interested in that?"
The girl draws closer and I understand the sentiment. Her face is comely enough for a human, but a bit on the boyish side. Her physique doesn't help the issue, either. But she's chosen her hair and dress carefully and right now looks distinctly feminine, and her smile is warm and generous when it comes. And the eyes, sweet Paragons, they're a shade of purple I've never seen on a human.
The elf isn't sure how to introduce her, so she takes the initiative and introduces herself to everyone in turn as she sits. Good girl. Let me help you out a little. "Broody, is this the one you took to Orlais and back for the choir boy?"
"For the hundredth time, dwarf, I do not brood." She giggles. He looks at her in irritation, and asks, "What?"
"To answer your question, yes, he did escort me to Val Royeaux." She says the name in a perfect Orlesian accent, but her own seems the bastard child of Kirkwall and... something else I can't put my finger on.
"I was told you'd have a story for us?" Let's see if she bites.
"Only if I can tell it later...I'm starving." She flags down the serving girl, who is much less afraid of her than she was of the elf, and orders food. She goes with the stew, nice and safe, and a tankard of ale. Not as highbrow as the elf, then, and happy to drink the Hanged Man's swill.
Daisy has been staring at her this entire time and pipes up, with as little self-control as ever. "Oh, Althaea, you're so fine-boned! Do you think you might be elf-blooded?" She doesn't realize most humans take it as an insult.
Fenris buries his face in one of his hands, but if this Althaea is taken aback by the comment, she doesn't show it. "Not that I know of, but it's not terribly uncommon where I come from, especially in families of my...type." Might explain the eyes.
"And where is that?" Daisy doesn't know when to stop, but the girl is as charitable as her big elf says she is.
"I was raised in Tevinter."
"Oh! So was Fenris! But your accent doesn't sound anything like his -"
"That's because she's highborn," interrupts the other elf, in the height of irritation.
The girl smoothes things over as deftly as she can: "I'm from the southern end of the Imperium, whereas Fenris is from Minrathous in the north. In my part of the Imperium, we speak with smatterings of Antivan, or sometimes Nevarran."
"I'm surprised the two of you aren't at each other's throats," says the pirate queen, gesturing toward the two of them.
The elf's cavalier voice is accompanied by a shrug. "I enjoy the irony of our acquaintance."
Daisy looks confused, but the girl clarifies with a smile. "My father is a magister." Anders interrupts.
"Oh, so apparently associating with mages is fine when they're daughters of magisters, then? Looking for a little piece of home, I suppose? Perhaps a new mistress?" The girl's face contracts into a scoff. The elf drops his cards, lights up, and begins to rise from his seat, but a grasp of the wrist and minute shake of the head from the girl mollifies him. She doesn't see the flare of Blondie's passenger in his eyes. Thank goodness for small favors.
"I hate to disappoint, Anders, was it? But I'm not a mage. That's a good part of the reason why I'm here, and not there." There's a story in that, too, I'm sensing. Bless Hawke and his affinity for interesting folks. Blondie sits, looking sheepish about his overreaction.
I decide it's time to rescue the girl, and give her a moniker. Two birds, one stone. "You buying in, Peaches?"
She stiffens. Apparently I've hit a nerve. "Please, Varric. Call me anything you like but that."
Request taken. "Fine by me, then, Violet. You buying in?"
"Not tonight," she says. "I'm just here to drink."
I laugh and deal another round. This Violet is my kinda human. She sits with Daisy, eating and talking animatedly with her; I keep half an ear open and find they're exchanging knowledge about Tevinter and the Dalish. Violet pulls a small book out of one of her waist pouches, and Daisy's eyes glitter as they look through it together. Broody seethes the entire time, despite the fact that the girl is sitting shoulder to shoulder with him.
When Daisy gets up to find the privy, she turns to him and says something in a language only they understand. I can tell it's a question.
He answers in kind, and I think I hear the word "maleficar" in there somewhere. So they're discussing Daisy, or maybe Blondie. She answers mildly and he sighs. She cocks a smile and pats his hand, goes back to her stew. Hawke stares. Maybe he's as impressed as I am that there's one more person who won't tolerate his bullshit.
She's done eating, so I pounce. "Are you going to regale us with your story, then, Vi?"
"Well, most of it was really rather boring, and some of it is for me alone, but on our way home, there was a mutiny..." We stop playing momentarily while she weaves the tale. She speaks well, and isn't a bad weaver, to be sure. Maybe a little too honest, though.
When she gets to the part about the Dalish caravan, Daisy asks if she saw the emblem on the sails. Fenris gives her a withering glare.
"We were a bit too busy running in the other direction to notice," he says.
Violet ends the story and shrugs. "I'd consider it the worst trip I've ever had if it weren't for having met a new friend." Friends, my hairy dwarven chest. Maybe I'll take bets on the sex of their firstborn.
A few more rounds go by before she says a few words to Daisy and gets up to leave, holding the elf by his shoulder for balance. "I have to work in the morning," she says. "Thank you for having me." She smiles at Anders, who doesn't seem to understand the concept of 'forgive and forget'.
The elf hops up from his seat. "I'll escort you." All our eyes follow as they leave, and we exchange sidelong glances at each other. The pirate breaks the silence.
"They need to quit circling the wagons and fuck already," she says, rolling her eyes. She is clearly not a happy camper.
"I think they're adorable," says Daisy in a dreamy voice.