"Am I a gang leader Varric?"
Varric's irises are glazed over, urbid wells that lazily turn towards Hawke's direction.
"Why do you ask?" He says, voice carrying the most delicate of slurs.
"A strange old woman called me one, and about five drinks ago I started to think that maybe…maybe she was right." Hawke's elbow slips off the armrest, her hand slack. An empty bottle slips through her fingers clattering to the floor. "Make that six drinks ago"
"How do you figure?"
Hawke sighs, settling into the stone armchair, eyelids drooping, staring unceasingly into the fire. She reaches to the table behind them for another bottle.
"I've made some questionable decisions. I'm no saint, I know that better than anyone. But I like to think I was doing something…I don't know, right. But then I turn my back for a minute only to find out my whole kingdom was made of salt"
"Four weeks"
"What?"
"You turned your back for four weeks. We were down there for four weeks"
"Whatever. You know what I'm trying to say. I am a gangster. A thug. I don't know exactly when, but somewhere along the line I started behaving like one, thinking like one, building my empire out of grit and muscle alone. Ugh, I forgot to use my brain. When did that happen?" She pops open the bottle, taking a swig, "I'll tell you when. Isabella. I didn't used to be so stupid. But Isabella made me stupid"
"Hawke," deadpans Varric, "I pride myself on being one of your closest friends, but even I have no idea what you're talking about right now"
"It's….bluh. Nevermind, it's complicated." She waves her arm at him, "Look, my point is…my point is everything's gone to shit and I have to be smarter from now on. We have to be smarter from now on. You and me buddy, we're the brains of all the operations"
"Sure, Hawke." His usual charisma is completely absent, a dull grumble in place of his voice, "brains"
Even in her drink-induced stupor Hawke recognizes this. "Hey cheer up man. C'mon. Okay, I'm sorry, I've been talking…talking about myself this whole time. Let's talk about you. How're you holding up man? We haven't talked much since…you know"
It's Varric's turn to down a beer. "I keep going over it in my head, again and again. There were no signs, Hawke, no indications…I still don't know why he did it"
"Mustv'e been all that lyrium. Got to him somehow. I heard that this one time, a guy-"
"Dwarves are immune to lyrium"
"Oh, right. I knew that. I guess maybe he was just a greedy bastard." She catches herself, sheepishly scratching the back of her head. "I'm sorry Varric, that was thoughtless of me"
"S'alright. We're drinking, it's allowed." Hawke looks over to see Varric staring steadfastly into the fire. "A greedy bastard." He enunciates the words like he's tasting them, a revelation that's bitter on the tongue. "My brother is a greedy bastard"
"You two are about the most depressing drinkers I have ever seen"
Hawke and Varric simultaneously turn to see Isabella perched on a barstool on the other side of the table.
"How long have you been there?"
"I've been here the entiiire time. Let me tell you, I had to hold my breath to keep from laughing. At least until the end when everything got sad and depressing"
"Wasn't the door locked…?"
"Really? I could pick that lock in my sleep. I made some noise doing it, but you didn't even hear me bring in the stool." She climbs languidly to her feet, sighing like a schoolteacher who has found two students smoking during recess. "You two are sad, I get that. We've all been there. But you're really doing this drinking thing all wrong"
"What are you talking about?"
"All I'm saying is that if you want to feel better, you're drinking the wrong thing"
She clears away the beer bottles, prompting a "hey!" from Hawke, which is more activity than she has engaged in in hours. In place of the beer, Isabella places a large green bottle onto the stone surface.
Varric's breath leaves him. "Is that…"
Isabella nods, smiling gleefully as she holds the bottle over a stained glasses, slowly pouring emerald green liquid until it delicately splashes along the very top. Slowly, carefully, she hands the glass to Hawke.
"Will you do the honors?"
Hawke accepts it, looking dubiously into the remarkably clear depth. She looks up at Isabella, feeling her inhibition crumble in the face of that saucy grin.
Her hand lifts almost by its own volition. "I wasn't kidding before," says Hawke, already knowing that she's going to drink, "you make me stupid"
Isabella takes the hand that hold the glass in her own, delicately raising it so that it's poised at Hawke's lips. "And you, gorgeous, you make me smart." Isabella and Hawke tip the contents of the glass into Hawke's mouth.
The alcohol is a searing explosion against her taste buds, curdling like acid all the way down her throat. But Hawke does not grimace, looking into Isabella's eyes the entire time until, faintly, and then strongly, electricity begins to boil at the base of her very being.
"What the hell is in that stuff?"
Isabella opens her mouth to answer, but it happens in slow motion, blurring in and out of focus like Hawke is watching through distorted glass. Her limbs feel warm, but energized, tingling with sudden invigoration, rousing her body from depressed ennui.
Isabella is still talking, her lips are moving but Hawke can't hear her through the haze.
Hawke laughs, "Whut?"
Isabella smiles at her goofy expression. "You silly goose, it's-"
Hawke surges forward, grabbing her doppelganger's face and dragging her into a sloppy kiss.
"By the maker I feel so alive!"
The pirate giggles, neither of them noticing Varric pouring and downing his own glass. "There's a good girl," she says, caressing Hawke's face.
Waking up naked with Isabella is not as alarming as it once was. In fact Hawke isn't even mildly perturbed. She doesn't have to open her eyes, familiar with the feel and warmth of Isabella draped over her body. It's practically habit by now really; a shameful habit, a nasty habit, but still, sadly a habit.
She opens a single eye.
A cursory glance of her surroundings reveals this is not her home, nor is it Isabella's room in the Hanged Man, nor is it even the apartment of the Blooming Rose (thank the Maker). Her eye stings as the sunlight shines through a nearby window.
"Argh"
She sits up, the blanket pooling at her waist. Isabella grabs for it in her sleep, hogging the covers to ward away Kirkwall's cold. They're lying on a mattress that likely was dragged there recently, differing greatly from the extravagance of the room itself. A closer look reveals that everything is in a state of dilapidation, wrapped in thin coats of dust. The whereabouts of her clothes is a mystery.
Hawke eyes a Tevinter idol in the corner, and groans. She knows whose house this is.
She leaves Isabella in the room, blissfully ensconced in more blankets than anyone needs to stay warm. Hawke covers herself with a sheet, padding through the cold stone floor of the mansion. To her puzzlement there are men and women lining the hall in various states of passed-out. A few girls from the blooming rose, Carta dwarves, a few guardsmen, some elves from Athenril's gang, and oh, there's Athenril herself snoring in the arms of Lady Elegant.
The foyer is the messiest, littered with the unconscious bodies of people Hawke only sort of knows. She steps over them, gingerly making her way to the study just in time to see Fenris drag a giggling, hairy giant of a man, and dump him into the foyer.
"Ah, I see you're awake"
Hawke plops onto one of the couches of his study, where they are alone. "What happened last night?"
He takes a seat on the couch opposite. "Last night you and Isabella showed up uninvited and brought all these…people with you." His gaze is surprisingly unhostile, calm.
"I did?"
"You did"
"I'm surprised to be alive then"
He shrugs. "I figured you were drunk, or otherwise inebriated. Isabella was with you so I can only assume it was due to her negative influence"
"You have no idea"
Fenris smiles at her. It is not much of one, a grudging amusement really, but it is a smile. "If you weren't my employer I might have killed you for ruining my house"
"Yes. About that. Sorry"
He waves his hand. "It was already in poor condition"
"I'll pay for any damages"
"Already squandering your money eh? What happened to taking over the lyrium trade?"
"Maker, how did you find out about that?"
Fenris points behind him with his thumb, "Varric told me." Hawke follows his thumb to Varric passed out on top of a pile of books, clinging to Bianca and grinning like a madman.
"What happened to him?"
"Last night he was yelling that if anyone had a hairier chest than he did ,he would give them one thousand sovereigns. That man I just dragged out almost won"
Hawke leans back, closing her eyes and lapsing into a state of relaxation. She hasn't been able to relax since getting out of the Deep Roads. It is most cathartic. "I can't do anything about the lyrium trade right now. I have the money, but I don't have the means"
"And the Red Irons are finished, from what I've been hearing"
Hawke opens her eyes. "Not finished. Not entirely. I still have a few men, and the elves in the Alienage"
"But no-one else"
"True, I have a plan to rectify that which, incidentally, will require your help"
"Oh? What do you have in mind?"
"I'll show you…just not now. Let me sit here for a while. You got any food?"
"I suggest you go to your own house for that"
"Ugh, fine," she makes as if to get to her feet.
"But you're not going anywhere until you help me get these people out of my house"
Hawke makes a long frustrated sigh, slumping back into the chair.
Building an army is no easy business, and while Hawke has had some experience doing it, she has never had to build one from scratch. After all, she had inherited the Red Irons from Meeran, and all additions after that were the result of alliances and recruitment.
It was a shaky foundation to her vast organization, and perhaps because of this her empire had fallen so quickly. If she wants to keep doing business then she had to do it smart, which means making investments; playing with money. Her brain had always been her greatest weapon, and somewhere along the line the brute power afforded her by blood magic made her forget that.
Well no longer.
She immediately goes about fixing up her properties, grudgingly raising the rent to earn better revenue from the refugees. It is sad, but still a better deal than many of those people will ever get. After that she buys up businesses. Fishing, textiles, a mine called the Bone Pit; pretty much anything she can think of, anything to get more money coming in.
But Kirkwall is a dangerous place, and if anyone wants to be powerful there they have to have more than just some business interests. What she needs is more muscle. Mercenaries are fine, as are elvish thieves and assassins, but for what Hawke has in mind, there has to be a bigger impact. She has to send everyone a message; that she is not to be messed with. And since apparently killing a whole bunch of Coterie isn't a viable option (yet) she has to settle for something else.
Which is why she is currently at the Wounded Coast with Aveline and Fenris.
"This is a terrible idea"
"Don't be so negative. I brought an interpreter"
"Is that supposed to be me?" asks Fenris, "because I also think this is a bad idea"
"I didn't ask you to criticize my plans! Just…tell them what I'm saying alright?"
"Fine"
It is with a sigh and a weary heart that Aveline follows Hawke and Fenris into the Tal Vashoth camp, whereupon they are greeted, to the surprise of nobody, with immediate hostility.
The first group of Tal Vashoth, a trio of spear-brandishing giants, are knocked harmlessly away with a gravity well.
"Tell them we come in peace Fenris!"
"I did!"
"Tell them louder!"
"Argh!" He shouts out a string of unintelligible syllables, to no effect. One of the Ta Vashoth scrambles to his feet and lunges, only Fenris to catch his wrists. The elf backhands the former Qunari, shouting the syllables like a litany, over and over in his face.
The impact catches the Tal Vashoth's attention, and as his fellows are rushing to attack he holds up his hand to stop them.
And to Aveline's surprise they actually do stop, slowing to a halt at his side. Other Tal Vashoth scramble into the clearing, running down from the hills and sprinting along the sand, surrounding them on all sides with swords and spears at the ready. They withhold from attacking though, following the example of their pacific contemporary. Their faces betray no emotion, but Hawke gets the impression that they are confused.
The peace-calling Tal Vashoth stands to full height, dwarfing Fenris. He utters something in Qunlat, raising his spear.
"What does he say?"
"He wants to know why you have sought out the Tal Vashoth"
"Tell him I came to offer them a new purpose"
"What? Are you crazy!?"
"Just tell him!"
"It's stupid!"
"FENRIS!"
"Fine!"
He shouts Hawke's message.
The Tal Vashoth quiet down, becoming unsettlingly still. The sound of the breeze is audible over the stillness as all of them intently watch Hawke. Aveline nudges her.
"By Andraste" she whispers, leaning in so that not even Fenris can hear them," how the fuck did you know that would work?"
"I guessed," Hawke whispers back.
Aveline nudges her again, harder this time. "What!?" she hisses, "you guessed?"
"It was an educated guess. Now shut up! Something's happening"
Their feverish whispering is cut short as one towering Tal Vashoth pushes his way through the crowd. He steps forward, moving in odd halting motions that belie the elegant strides of his race, until he stands directly before Hawke. He wears the encumbering garment of a Serabaas, iron collar chained fast to his shoulders. The only things that mark him as a rebellious Tal Vashoth are his fully-grown horns.
Aveline makes to draw her sword, but Hawke stills her hand.
"How arrogant must you be," rumbles the Serabaas, "to think you can give Tal Vashoth purpose?"
"I'm surprised. A Serabaas"
"That is a title that no longer applies to me"
"Then what should I call you?"
"I am Tal Vashoth"
"Well that is what the Qunari would call you. They would also call you Serabaas. Can I call you that, so long as you still allow them to name you even in rebellion?"
The Serabaas makes a displeased grunt. "Why have you come here?"
"I have already said: I want to give you purpose"
"What purpose?"
Hawke runs her gaze over the ranks of ragged former-Qunari, turning around and showing the Serabaas her back, showing the Tal Vashoth that she isn't afraid of him. Finally she turns back to him. "You are weak," she says, gesturing to the lot of them, "No match for the Antaam, even in your numbers. The Arishok will eventually destroy all of you, the Ben Hasrath will either reeducate or kill you, either way they will not be merciful"
"We know this"
"You are Tal Vashoth!" She yells, nudging Fenris to translate. "You waste away in the wild with no purpose, no organization; no better than savages with a purpose no greater that stealing like common bandits!" Hawke spits for effect.
Fenris hesitates, looking at Hawke with unbridled incredulity. She cocks her head, widening her eyes at him with angry insistence. Unable to believe what he is doing, Fenris shouts out the translation. The Tal Vashoth begin to growl, murmuring angrily amongst themselves; too civilized by far, even in exile.
Hawke goes on. "You are weak! But if you join me I can give you a purpose, strength! Outside the Qun! Join me and you can be strong!"
The Serabaas looks to his murmuring brethren before finally, and with a ponderous finality, falling his eyes back on Hawke. "Let us talk, crazy human"
Naturally it takes more than just a speech to get the Tal Vashoth on her side. Nothing is that easy, sadly. She has to sit down with the Serabaas, as well as a great deal of Tal Vashoth sitting on the sidelines, hacking out some kind of mutually-beneficial deal. On the first day she returns to Kirkwall empty-handed, but she persists, dragging Fenris back to the Wounded Coast every day to hack out a deal.
She offers food, shelter, women, briefly thinks about giving them money then thinks better of it. The Tal-Vashoth grow accustomed to her presence, regarding her almost as if she were an over-eager little girl. The smarter ones remeber how she killed their brethren, and leave her alone.
It isn't until she actually brings them samples of what they can enjoy in her organization that they relent. Fine cooking, new weapons, trinkets, baubles, and some toys that she doesn't tell them are for children. Of course the toys are a hit. They sit down to negotiate.
In the end, not all of them are on board, but Hawke returns to Kirkwall with a retinue of forty Tal Vashoth, confident that more will follow. She puts them in well-spaced housing, constructed outside of Kirkwall near the mountains, and well away from the Qunari compound at the docks.
They are supplied with plenty of food, and material goods to keep them satisfied, hiring a requisition officer among her merchants to keep them satisfied. In return, not only does she have a strong armed force at the ready, but also a status symbol. She outfits them and promenades them across Hightown, lording them over the lords and ladies like giant hulking trophies.
And ah! How nice it is to see the jealousy in their faces, their slow realization that the return of the Amells means more than the return of an old family, but also the arrival of a powerful new contender.
Everybody knew that Hawke found untold riches in the Deep Roads, but other than that she was shrouded in mystery. To the nobles of Kirkwall, it was rather like finding out that the new kid on the block had a hand in the machinations of the city all along. Rumors of her underworld dealings spread like wildfire. Her alliance with the Carta, her prominence in Lowtown and the Alienage in particular; there are even whisperings behind closed doors that she employs apostates hidden in the sewers.
But these are usually dismissed. I mean can you imagine? How ridiculous.
Tolliver the net-maker is being shaken down. It isn't out of the ordinary, but it is always a nuisance, especially since every single thug that extorts protection money from him and his neighbors comes from a different racket. This makes the other extortionists mad, and so they beat him up and he has to pay them too, which means the original extortionists beat him up.
Who would bother over the Fereldan quarter of Kirkwall anyway? This town of beggars and refugees? Not even the Coterie likes sticking its business in there, precisely because there is little business to be had.
The people Tolliver pays protection to are the lowest of the low; scumbags too dirty and pathetic to be part of an actual gang. There are, however, a lot of them, and they fight tooth and nail for every scrap of territory they can get.
"What's this?" asks the brawny gentleman, holding up a pair of copper coins. Three smaller thugs shuffle their feet at his back.
"That's all I have for this week"
"Can't be. What about the money you set aside to feed your family? Give me that"
"I can't. That's really all I made in the last two days"
Smack! A meaty fist thuds into Tolliver's left eye, cutting the skin and throwing him to the ground. It'll swell up nasty in a few minutes, but it's nothing Tolliver isn't already used to.
"Are you giving me lip, net-boy?" the smaller thugs poke him with their feet. "If I wanted your attitude I would ask you for it!"
Tolliver curls up on the floor as a foot, he isn't sure whose, connects with his midsection. Not for the first time he thinks that maybe he should have stayed in Fereldan. At least there he would be dead and not have to suffer indignity upon indignity. Then again, this is probably only marginally better than having his face eaten off by darkspawn, there is that.
"I'm sorry," he says.
"Yeah? Well apparently not sorry enough if all you could scrounge up for me is two lousy coppers." Another kick to his midsection. The smaller cronies wince in sympathy, but don't dare signal their disapproval. Survival in the poor quarters of Kirkwall means tailing your wagon to some brutal stars.
"Tell you what Tolliver. We'll settle this. I can be reasonable. I'll just have to take something of yours of commensurate value to the protection we're providing." A chuckle. The cronies nervously chuckle along. "So what've ya got Tolliver?"
"N-nothing…I have nothing"
"Now, now. I'm sure that's not true. One of my boys followed you home the other night, y'see. Seems you have a nice sword hanging over your mantelpiece. I could take that. Or those books you got. Or maybe…maybe I could take your sister. Tevinters ought to pay good money for her"
"Wait, what? You can't be serious." A punch to the jaw, knocking out several teeth.
"Dead serious, boyo"
"Come on," whispers Tolliver, voice slurring from a swollen cheek. "Please…I can get you the money. Really I can. Just…just give me more time"
"Seems to me you've been given plenty of time already." Tolliver is hauled up to his feet, "C'mon now, let's take a walk shall we?"
Tolliver struggles, but is given a smart punch to the gut. He folds, unable to resist as they haul him through the back alleys of the slum. His neighbor storekeepers look ahead, forcing themselves to ignore what's happening. He knows better than to ask for help, and they no better than to offer it. His feet trail against the dirty cobblestones, skin scraping raw against the grit of old cobbles. He is carried slack, his head hanging low, his eye swelling already.
A feeling of true and utter hopelessness hits him, unlike any despair he has felt before. Every person, no matter how strong, have their breaking point. It is with little shame that sobs leak out of his throat, emotion erupting from his chest and amplifying in the form of a few tears sliding down his cheek, leaving trails in his dirt-stricken face.
When they stop, it doesn't occur to him that they haven't walked nearly far enough to have arrived at his house. It's only when the big man opens his mouth that he realizes something strange is going on.
"Get out of the way, elf"
Elf? Here? Tolliver lifts his head to the sight of a very finely-dressed young man standing primly in their way. He wouldn't call the stranger an elf per-se, but certainly elf-like. He possesses the delicate beauty inherent in most elves; large eyes and perfectly hairless face. The only thing missing is the pointy ears.
"Why?" asks the not-quite-elf, "Am I interrupting something?"
"He's dressed nice, boss," says one of the men holding Tolliver's arm, "might have some cash on 'im"
The big man smiles. "Is that right? You got money on you, knife-ear? Master been rewarding you a little too much for services rendered?" He laughs. If the stranger is afraid, or even offended, he shows no sign. He even smiles.
The big man grimaces at the lack of intimidation. "What you smiling about boy?"
All of the big man's bravado disappears as soon as two hulking Qunari step out from a side alleyway. The big man may be big, but the Qunari are massive; their domineering presence amplified by the light of the alley giving them the appearance of demonic silhouettes. Tolliver's eyes boggle at the sight.
The elf smiles again, lifting his finger as if remembering a point he had forgotten to mention earlier. "I'm sorry, I haven't introduced myself. My name is Feynriel, from the Hawke Coalition, new owners of the refugee slums." One of the Qunari cracks his knuckles. "I suggest you put the man down, sers. The Coalition provides protection in these neighborhoods now"
The littler thugs waste no time dropping Tolliver and running with all speed in the other direction. Their boss hesitates, which is all the Ta Vashoth need to rush over and pin him to a wall.
"Please take this one to the new headquarters," says Feynriel, getting a simple nod in reply from one of the Tal Vashoth, "there;sa use for everything after all, even trash." It jostles the big man away from the wall and walks him down the length of the alley, keeping a painful grip on his wrists.
The elf helps up Tolliver, "Are you alright?"
"Y-yes," Tolliver loses his balance, grabbing a fistful of Feynriel's tunic to keep up, "No. Haven't eaten in a while"
"Here," says Feynriel, lifting Tolliver again. When the human is on his feet, Feynriel purses his lips at the dust staining on his clothes. Oh well. Shrugging, he pulls out a purse and hands Tolliver a few silvers.
"What? I…what's going on?"
Feynriel straightens to a businessman's posture. "Nothing at all. The Coalition is merely looking out for the best interests of our new partners"
"Partners?"
"Oh yes," Feynriel smiles, "Isabelle Hawke has some big plans for this neighborhood"
"I…wha?"
Tolliver slumps to the ground.
"Oh dear. He's passed out. Do you think we could-?" The remaining Tal Vashoth heaves a sigh and easily throws Tolliver over his shoulder. "There we go. Be careful with this one. If we want this to work then we need allies in the community"
"Whatever," drawls the Tal Vashoth.
Nobles gossip too much, Merrill thinks. They are out in force, as if they don't have houses and taverns in which to congregate and gossip. Their talk dwindles into conspiratorial muttering as she gets close, but she can still hear them, and the subject on everybody's tongue is Isabelle Hawke.
"Her servant, do you think?"
"No, no. That's a Dalish. Don't you see the markings?"
"What do you think she's doing here?"
Merrill ignores them for the most part, until a new discussion rises from a huddled trio of oddly swarthy-looking nobles.
"I heard she has a lover. A pirate," says the first.
"A pirate?"
"Yes, yes." Says the third, "I heard that the pirate was actually her twin sister. Looks exactly like her"
"Now, now. An incestuous relationship with her twin sister who is also a pirate? That is too ridiculous"
"Perhaps," admits the third. "But this Hawke is a mystery, and they say that where there's smoke there's fire"
Merrill's ears burn, not because of the scandalous nature of the discussion but because she knows exactly what they are talking about. It's not like Hawke was doing a very good job of hiding it, and Isabella, though hesitant to tell Merrill anything about her romantic escapades involving Hawke, became remarkably loose-lipped when plied with enough alcohol.
What she heard was heart-breaking. Isabella's mumbles assertions that what they had wasn't serious didn't help assuage Merrill's despondency.
A smiling Bodahn lets her into the house, but asks her to wait in the library while Hawke finishes a meeting in the study. This too is easy to overhear. Perhaps Merrill's ears are simply too sensitive.
"What did you come to me for Ser Sauffren?" Hawke's voice is clear eve muffle. Her desk must be right on the other side of the fireplace.
"I have heard that you make loans to people who need them"
"I am hardly the only money-lender in Kirkwall"
"Yes, but you are an unknown, and being unknown means you are likely discrete"
"Perhaps"
"Also…I am not so desperate that I would go to the Coterie"
"Hmm." A pause. A comment like that would win him favor, though Merrill doubts he knows that. She can envision Hawke turning to some documents on the table, glasses perched on her nose. Purely for show of course, Hawke's vision is perfect. "How many sovereigns did you need?"
"Seven thousand"
A low whistle, "That is a lot of gold. Care to tell me what it's for?"
"I…I would rather not"
Another pause. Hawke is likely staring at the man, making him uncomfortable, leaning back ad crossing her legs like the Carta bosses do. Maybe she sighs, shakes her head, tsks in a chastising manner. Finally: "I have heard of you Sauffren. The merchants in Lowtown know you as a man of integrity. I will give you this money, and I won't even insist that you tell me what it's for"
"I'm grateful"
"Not so fast." A thump. Has Hawke slammed a fist on the table? Thumped the end of her staff to the ground? "I have some conditions. I'll give you the money. But if you cannot pay me back in a month, with interest…well, I am a loan shark. I'm sure you can imagine what I'll do then"
"O-of course"
"Consider yourself grounded as well. Don't try to leave the city while carrying my money. I'll have people watching you"
"A-alright"
A relaxing of the shoulders. We're all friends here. "Relax Ser Sauffren. I won't do anything untoward if you can't pay. I won't break your ones or kill your family. But I will take your house, and it is a nice house indeed. Easily worth twice what I'm lending you. So…" a clear of the throat, "Anyway. If you'll sign this contract…"
"Erm, yes. Of course"
"And sign there…and initial there. Thank you, happy doing business with you"
The doors open in the next room, and Merrill hurries into the hallway, just in time to watch an ashen-faced nobleman shamble out of the office. Hawke stands smiling in the doorway, the hulking Serabaas glowering behind her like a bodyguard. The finery of his clothes do not suit him very well; paired with his horns he looks more like a litigious devil than a Coalition Lieutenant.
And behind him is a young elf woman making furious notes in a journal.
Hawke brightens at the sight of her friend. "Merrill! When did you get here?"
"Just now. Er, are you busy? I can come back later if you want"
"What?" Hawke follows Merrill's gaze to the odd twosome behind her, "Oh, no, not busy at all. Please stay, things have been so hectic. I haven't seen you in forever!"
She turns to dismiss the Serabaas, who simply nods and walks out of the room and house, presumably to venture all the way back to what the people are calling the Coalition Qunari Compound. Hawke is always quick to point out that it is a Tal Vashoth compound, but sadly not many people really see the difference.
The elf making notes continues to do just that: make notes.
"Flora?" says Hawke, sighing as the elf still goes on writing, "Flora? The meeting's over, you can stop transcribing now"
The pen hesitates. Flora looks up with wide doe eyes. "W-what? Really?" She takes stalk of her surroundings, straightening at the sight of Merill. "Oh! I….yes of course, how foolish of me." She gathers her things, depositing the journal in a shelf back in Hawke's office. She bows excessively as she leaves the manor, making vague placating noises. As the door opens Merrill can see that the Serabaas is outside waiting for her.
More or less alone, the two of them walk back into the library. Hawke beckons for Bodahn to make some tea. After taking a seat she looks at Merrill, meeting her eyes for a few seconds before smiling pleasantly.
"Well? What do you think of the new house? Mother has been over the moon! Decorating and rearranging; it's driving me mad! And Carver even came down to visit." Hawke laughs, breaking her usual protocol and swinging a leg over the arm of the couch. Bodahn brings them both a cup of tea and departs.
"It's nice," says Merrill, pleasantly surprised at Hawke's odd joviality. "You seem…different"
"Do I? I suppose I'm just in my element," she springs to her feet, pacing excitedly, "I mean, things were pretty bad for a moment there, but I've rallied! Don't you think I've rallied?"
"Sure," Merrill laughs.
Hawke plops down on the couch right next to Merrill. "I'm sorry. I've been talking about myself. To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"
"Not really. I just wanted to see you"
"Oh Merrill, you are too sweet." She laughs a little, "One year ago we would have been at your house reviewing your blood forms. Do you remember that?"
"When it was just the two of us and no Feynriel? Yes, I loved those times most of all"
"Wanted me all to yourself did you?" Hawke laughs again, unheeding of Merrill's bashful grin. She quiets down, leaning her head against the back of the couch and gazing in an oddly soulful manner into Merrill's eyes. "I miss our little lessons. Sometimes I feel bad that I don't have anything left to teach you…"
"Maybe I could teach you a few things sometime"
Hawke perks up, "Oh?"
"Yes. Would you like that?"
"Yes! Absolutely! I feel like without the lessons I never get to see you anymore, so…" Hawke waves her hand bashfully, "you know what I mean"
"Yes. I do. How about now?"
"What?"
"A lesson. I have one ready for you now"
Really, Merrill thinks, for all of Hawke's maturity, and for all of Hawke's intelligence, she sure can be childish. Gullible, adorable, (Argh) but childish. This is especially frustrating since Hawke has regarded Merrill as a child for as long as they have known each other. Being student and teacher certainly hadn't helped in that regard, but Merrill had graduated as it were. Hawke had said as much.
She ushers Hawke to the desk, moving in a dazed autopilot, beckoning for the human woman to take a seat. She draws a diagram on a piece of parchment. She leans over, just barely restraining herself from running her hands over the contours of Hawke's inviting shoulders.
"Do you recognize these symbols?"
"I don't"
"They're Dalish." She leans over, casually placing a hand on Hawke's shoulder so that her arm is effectively around her.
"Oh I can see it now, they're like you're tattoos." Hawke turns her head, her smile faltering a little when she realizes that Merrill's face is so close. Merrill doesn't react, looking intently at the parchment. Hawke hesitantly looks to the parchment as well. "What do you call it?" she asks, "vallaslin?"
"Yes. These are the designs found in blood writing"
"What do they say?"
There are simpler ways to seduce people. Yes, indeed there are. But when it comes to Hawke, Merrill can never be too sure. The woman has a way of ruthlessly shutting down romantic advances, and there are very few of those. Despite her beauty, not many people try anything with her; if they aren't intimidated by her power (be it magical or financial), then they're intimidated by the sheer force of her attitude. In fact, of all the people who tried doing anything with Hawke, the only one who ever succeeded was Isabella.
But then again Hawke acts weird around Isabella. Really weird. That whole relationship is weird.
So…maybe weird is the way to go.
"This symbol," says Merril, gently guiding Hawke's finger to a curving figure, "is the image for fire in the old tongue." She guides Hawke's hand to another symbol, "This is water. And this…this is-"
"Earth?"
Merrill's eyelids lower, "No," she mutters, "that is the symbol for lust"
The elder mage stiffens ever so slightly, "What kind of spell is this?"
"A dalish one," whispers Merrill, keeping her voice low, intimate, "now pay attention"
Hake falters, her mood shifting from optimistic joviality to hesitant confusion. This is…different than what she is used to; different than what she has come to expect in Merrill.
"O-okay"
If Merrill didn't know Hawke so very well then this would have been terribly difficult to pull off. She knows that Hawke is socially awkward; often using peripheral aspects of her personality to relate to other people to shield herself from rejection. Business is a suitable tool after all; a reason for people to rely on her, to respect her. But in Merrill's case it had been their lessons. And without the lessons, Hawke didn't have an excuse to spend time with her, had no idea how to approach her in a casual context. So she didn't. Couldn't. Not as of late.
Truth be told, Hawke is a hopelessly shy person.
Why is Merrill the only one who sees that?
"And this symbol here is the image for affection"
"Okay…" Hawke swallows, and Merrill feels a surge of vindication at so thoroughly knocking the wind from the older woman's sails. "Merrill you seem, um," she shifts uncomfortably, stiffening almost imperceptibly when her shoulder grazes Merrill's chest, "different"
"I'm not sure what you could mean"
"Jeez, you're…I don't know how to put it. You're being very…adult, I guess?"
"I am an adult, Hawke," Merrill says, a bit testily.
"I, y-yeah, I didn't mean to imply-," she turns, visibly surprised when she sees Merrill leaning over her, meeting her gaze with an unusual intensity. Their faces are so close. "-that you…were…" She gulps again. "Um…"
Merrill raises her hand to delicately cup Hawke's chin. Hawke doesn't look away, doesn't react; just keeps Merrill's gaze. She seems surprised, but pliant, lips opening in an "oh" of either surprise or realization. And as Merrill lowers her face closer to Hawke's, she can't help but marvel at the way Hawke's eyelids seem to flutter unconsciously closed.
Is that a go-ahead?
It doesn't matter. Merrill closes the distance between Hawke's lips and hers, pressing them softly together. It is a spectacular sensation, and for a few seconds Merrill is over the moon, until she realizes that Hawke isn't kissing her back.
She backs away, waiting for Hawke to open her eyes. When she does they look at each other, Merrill's face barely betraying her impatient expectation.
"Merrill…"
The elf takes her hand. "Let me show you something, Hawke"
She leads her away, out of the study through the main hall, up the stairs where Leandra watches, hidden in her own room, as her daughter awkwardly, diffidently, is led by the smaller elf into the main bedroom.
Sleeping with Isabella is one thing. Animal. Instinctual. Familiar. This is…this is…
Merrill reaches up for another kiss, pulling them down onto the bed.
"Isabelle…"
This is…
Isabella shoots up in bed, the prostitute beside her bolting upright.
"What? What is it?"
Isabella takes a few deep breaths.
"I…nothing. Just a really weird dream." She shakes her head vigorously, as if trying to get water out of her ears.
After a moment's consideration she fishes out a few silvers from the bedside drawer.
"Be a darling and fetch me some whiskey will you? If anyone bothers you, just say you work for the Coalition"
As the prostitute leaves Isabella falls back onto the bed in a huff.
"What the balls was that?"
Hawke wishes the world would stand still for a few seconds to make some goddamn sense. She leans against the upper railing of some noble's mansion, looking down from the gilded entrance at the gathered masses. Merrill would probably hate this as much as she does.
Merrill…
Hawke's mind wanders, naturally recalling images of her former student leaning over her, guiding her, kissing her; her face so uncharacteristically serious. She whispered her name over and over as she ran her hands over Hawke's naked body, repeating each syllable like a mantra: Isabelle, Isabelle. It was like…
Hawke had never felt so…worshipped.
Loved?
Merrill never said as much, ravishing her teacher until Hawke was too tired to do anything but sleep. When she woke up Merrill was gone.
Hawke blushes at the memory. How had she never noticed? Why had she let Merrill get as far as she did? She thinks about seeing Merrill again and shivers. Will it be awkward? Will they have sex again?
Does Hawke even like Merrill that way?
She decides to put it out of her mind. Thinking about Merrill is only going to make spending time here even less enjoyable. Her eyes refocus; the crowds of fawning nobility below her make her skin crawl, dancing and smiling and hiding behind dainty epithets and money. She hates them all, but tolerates them for two reasons.
Reason number one: Leandra.
Hawke has never seen her like this before, so very much in her element. She had always told Hawke and her siblings that she never regretted leaving the gilded trappings of the Amell household to be with Malcolm, but watching her now, talking excitedly to a circle of nobles all hanging on her every word, Hawke can't help but think that maybe some small part of Leandra was lying the entire time.
Well, whatever.
Hawke smiles. Seeing her mother happy is always a good thing. Leandra catches her eye from across the room and waves, beckoning for her to come over. Hawke waves back, shaking her head that no, she would rather not.
Leandra huffs, beckoning more aggressively. With a resigned groan Hawke puts on a forced smile and makes her way over.
"Isabelle, I want you to meet," she lists off a bunch of names that Hawke will soon forget. She's already memorized all the names in this room worth knowing, and none of these people are them.
They are all extremely interested in Hawke's exploits, asking her if some of the tales of her adventures are true. Hawke musters as much charm as she can, not for their benefit but her mother's.
"I assure you, I did not kill three dragons. Just one"
"No, I am in no way associated with the Carta"
"Thank you, sir. I actually found these earrings in an old thaig in the Deep Roads beneath the Northern Mountains. No, I'm not kidding"
"You surprise me, I didn't know anyone knew about how I killed all those people"
Finally Leandra takes pity on her and signals that she is allowed to go. Hawke excuses herself most courteously and moves with all speed away from the crowd. She bristles as she hears Leandra admonish a young man for watching her posterior too attentively.
Craving more agreeable company, she seeks out the members of tonight's entourage, seeking comfort in their mutual discomfort.
Reason number two: business.
"Why have you made me come here? There is nothing to gain except for perhaps the food." Serabaas holds up a piece of cloth that Hawke recognizes as a torn piece of the house's drapes, crudely re-fashioned into a sack to carry a ludicrous amount of cookies. "You must have more of these made for the compound"
"Put that away," she hisses. He easily conceals it into his robes, not at all perturbed by her apparent ire. "And I had you come here because you are one of my lieutenants. This is PR"
"P…R?"
"Public relations. It's…nevermind. Just walk around and try to look intimidating"
He growls. "So I am to parade myself about like a tamed animal, to show the other humans that you have conquered a great Qunari. Is that it?"
"Yes. Obviously. That's the point. And if you do this for me I'll make you all the cookies you want. There's more than one kind and they're all delicious." Serabaas hesitates, visibly torn between his pride and his newfound obsession with crumbly treats. "Besides, what do you care what a bunch of humans think anyway?"
Serabaas considers his sack of cookies, taking a few out and throwing them in his mouth. He grumbles. In great staggering motions he moves back into the throng, glowering dramatically at the nobles as they make a wide berth for his passage. Any who try actually talking to him are given the silent treatment. The Hawke coat of arms is boldly displayed on his robes.
"He's remarkably agreeable for a Qunari"
Hawke turns to her second apprentice, now Anders' apprentice she supposes. "Qunari are people who follow the Qun. Serabaas is a Tal Vashoth"
Feynriel grimaces. "You know what I mean"
"How've you been doing?"
"There are a remarkable number of nobles in dire financial straits, and they are more than ready to talk to a representative from the Coalition, elf or no"
"You're taking to this much easier than I thought"
"Yes, well. Making deals is easy when you know how to talk to people. That, and if you have a couple Qunari bodyguards behind you. Sorry, Tal Vashoth bodyguards"
"Don't sell yourself short. You've a talent for this. And you have no idea how short a supply of able-minded lieutenants I have"
He smiles bashfully, actually kicking at the floor. "Thanks boss. I'll write up a report for everything I learned here tonight"
"Good. You can go home if you want"
"If it's all the same to you, I'm going to stick around for a while"
"Getting a taste for Kirkwall's finer elements? Take care you don't get spoiled"
Feynriel's eyes drift across the room. Hawke follows his gaze to a beautiful woman in a gorgeous evening dress. She's hanging off the arm of an overweight noble, stuffed with hor d'ourves and half asleep on his feet. Her fingers wiggle in a saucy wave in Feynriel's direction.
"You could say that"
Hawke wants to laugh and grimace at the same time. "Bah. Off with you, horny elf!"
"Yes boss!"
Hawke sighs, ready to leave the party and settle down on her favorite armchair with a cup of Bodahn's tea. Ah, yes. That would be spectacular. With the relief of a person who knows they're done with the day, Hawke makes her way through the throng, grabbing a drink from a passing tray and sipping it, stepping gingerly up the stairs as she does so.
"Serah Hawke"
A hand takes her wrist, though not tightly, and it easily lets go when she yanks her hand back. A handsome man with green eyes and dark clothes smiles at her from the foot of the stairs.
"Do I know you? And please don't say "no, but I know you""
The man chuckles, an affable, charming laughter. "Then I won't. Though truth be told I really do not know you." His voice is deep, skewed. An Antivan accent. "I thought that perhaps I did, though I am pleased to be proved wrong"
If he expects a coy response then he is disappointed, smiling a tad awkwardly at Hawke's unamused glare.
He clears his throat, "You look lovely tonight, Lady Hawke. That dress suits you"
"Thank you, ser, though I disdain having to wear it"
"This I can understand. My own clothes reflect poorly on my taste, no? I much prefer these unremarkable blacks to the ostentatious plumage of the nobility"
Despite herself Hawke chuckles, "Indeed. What did you say your name was again?" She offers a hand.
He takes it, bowing and planting a kiss on her knuckles, though not lingering for long enough that she has reason to take offense. "I didn't, though I will happily do so now. My name is Castillon"
Fireworks go off in Hawke's head, though she maintains her composure. Her smile is only marginally affected. "I have heard that name before"
"Oh? All good things I hope"
"Nothing too terrible." She sips her drink, keeping a severe eye on the Antivan's expression. "Earlier you said you thought you knew me. What did you mean by that?"
It's his turn to hide his true expression. "Oh, you know. I meet many women in my travels, many beautiful women. You bear a passing resemblance to one"
"Indeed? What brings you to Kirkwall, Castillon?"
"Oh, just here for the weekend actually, there's a-" He is interrupted when a tune starts playing, violins and cellos harmonizing to coax the nobility onto the dance floor. Castillon smiles at her, holding an inviting hand. "Could I interest you in a dance?"
At that moment Serabaas tromps his way through the crowd, uncaring of how many people he jostles, finally coming to a stop behind Hawke.
"I am done here…" he eyes Castillon, "boss," he hisses the word, "the noises do not agree with me"
Castillon's composure cracks somewhat, and his mouth flops open for half a second before he regains himself. "You keep interesting company, my lady"
Hawke smiles at the Antivan. "I apologize, but I must decline your offer. My associate here is feeling a little under the weather"
"Of course. Until next time, Lady Hawke." He bows.
Castillon retreats into the crowd, already finding a dance partner in a young noble girl. Serabaas and Hawke watch him go.
"Who was that?" asks the former Tal Vashoth.
"Friend of a friend"
Turning, she ascends the stairs, Serabaas tromping after her. She nods at her guards as she passes, men and women with concealed weapons, dressed in finery for the express purpose of surreptitiously keeping an eye on her less combat-oriented affiliates.
"Will you be killing this "friend of a friend?""
Perceptive bugger. "Why do you ask?"
"I recognize that expression. You want that man dead"
"Castillon? Yeah, I do"
