Chapter Eleven
Shepard stared into her mug. "The beer here is piss," she said sadly.
"True," nodded Hawke.
"It beats the whiskey," Isabela commented. "And it gets you drunk, though not as fast."
She paused. "I prefer the whiskey."
The four of them were in Varric's suite at the Hanged Man, and had been for some few hours. After the elf's abrupt departure, the remaining squad had returned to the Wounded Coast and their tasks. Upon their arrival back in Kirkwall, Hawke made the command decision to hold the debrief in the tavern, over alcohol. Lots of alcohol.
"I'd hoped that being around mages outside of the Imperium would help Fenris get past some of this hate," Hawke had muttered after downing the larger part of her first mug.
"In that case," Varric had answered, "you might have done better not to pick an abomination and a blood mage."
"Anders isn't really an abomination. He's just… possessed. Slightly. By a ruthlessly driven spirit of justice," Hawke had argued, not very successfully. "And Merrill is only sort of a blood mage. I mean, the worst she's ever done is wander into other people's gardens and picked their flowers."
"I need to be drunk," Shepard had interrupted flatly. "The sooner, the better."
"That's the most rational thing anyone's said in hours," Isabela had noted.
After that, the focus was entirely on the beer.
And now, Shepard was drunk. Gloriously, unabashedly drunk. She hadn't been this overwhelmingly intoxicated in what seemed like forever. Not since she'd brought both her team and crew back through the Omega 4 relay safely, and they'd taken over the VIP room at Afterlife under Aria T'Loak's watchful eye while the worst of the Normandy's hull breaches were patched. Looking back, Shepard was pretty sure she'd been drunk for days.
Shepard just wished the beer here tasted better. So, at Isabela's urging, she'd decided to try the whiskey.
Isabela was right about it. It was worse than the beer. But - and Isabela was right about this part, too - it got you drunker, faster.
Shepard laughed, and tried to focus on Varric. The dwarf's face swam maddeningly in and out of her vision.
"I swear, I might have thought about it a little bit more if I'd have known," she assured him.
"Might have?" Varric chuckled.
Shepard frowned. Tried to frown. She couldn't really feel her face, so she wasn't sure she was successful. "It needed to happen. I just… might've… kept his hands where I could see them. Or something."
Speaking of hands where I can see them…
"Isabela," she slurred, "is that your hand on my leg? Why is your hand on my leg? I think it's my leg. Somebody's leg, anyway."
"Isabela!" chided Hawke. Shepard was impressed by the rogue's enunciation. Then again, Hawke hadn't been sampling the dubious whiskey for the past few hours.
"What?" said the pirate. She leaned closer to Shepard, "Would you rather I put my hands someplace else?" she purred seductively.
"Yes."
The dusky rogue leaned even closer, her full lips inches from Shepard's. "And where is that, sweet thing?" she breathed.
"Down on the bar, getting me another drink."
Varric and Hawke both burst out laughing. Isabela pouted, but got to her feet, swaying slightly. "I'll be right back, sweet thing," she declared, weaving her way to the door of the suite.
"Fifty silver says she doesn't make it back," Varric offered.
"Done," said Hawke.
"Why am I so drunk?" Shepard demanded. "While you two are not." She drew herself up with effort. "I happen to have a progig… progid…" she ground her teeth together, "prodigious capacity for alcohol."
Varric grinned slyly. "Maybe our alcohol is more alcoholic than yours."
Shepard gave this due consideration. "No," she said finally. "I don't think that's it."
"Well," Hawke pointed out, "you did say you wanted to be drunk. Perhaps you're just better at it than you thought."
The Spectre mulled this one over as well.
"Maybe. I can be awfully persnis… perstis… determined." She looked up proudly. "I'm motherfucking Commander Shepard, Systems Alliance Navy, and a god-damn Council Spectre."
She pointed to the collar of the banded leather jacket. "See this?"
Hawke and Varric shared a grin. "Your neck?" asked Varric. "Yeah, we see it."
"No. This," Shepard stabbed at her collarbone with one finger. "N-fucking-7."
"Sure," Hawke agreed, her grin threatening to split her face. "How could we miss it?"
"Right," said Shepard, mollified. She settled back in her chair and folded her arms.
"So," prompted Varric, after a moment's silence. "What does it mean?"
"What does what mean?"
"N-fucking-7."
"Damn right." Shepard nodded emphatically.
"Yes," said Varric patiently, "but what does that mean?"
Shepard slapped her palms on the table, her lips pulled back from her teeth and a glint in her glassy eyes. 'It means kicking ass and taking names! It means you do the job that is in front of you, no matter the cost! Even when nobody listens to you! Even when they take away your ship and relieve you of command, the bastards! It means you hold…the…line!"
She swayed for a moment, then pitched forward onto the table.
The two remaining rogues roared with laughter.
"Hold…the…line…" gasped Varric. "Priceless!"
"We need to get her drunk more often," Hawke agreed. "And you thought she'd be nothing but trouble."
"No," Varric disagreed, "I just said trouble. Not 'nothing but trouble'."
"Semantics."
"Hawke," Varric pointed out, "today she slammed the glowy elf against a cliff and threatened to beat the shit out of him. After making him do magic. Whether or not she knew about the magical fisty thing, I think that just about defines trouble."
"I hope Fenris is okay," Hawke worried.
"He's a prickly ball of angst," Varric rolled his eyes. "He's never going to be okay."
Hawke sighed. "Help me get Shepard into bed. Then I'd better get back to the estate. We can go see Sol and the qunari in the morning."
"Excuse me? Bed?" Varric blinked owlishly. "There only happens to be one bed in the vicinity, and it's mine."
Hawke smiled winningly at him. "And just think, you can tell Isabela you slept with Shepard. Imagine how jealous she'll be."
"This is against my better judgment, you know."
"Noted."
Shepard came back to herself slowly. She could hear the rasping of soft snores, and a heartbeat that wasn't hers. For a moment, she wriggled contentedly, snuggling against the body beneath her. Then two things occurred to her. First, the heartbeat was of the normal lub-dub variety, indicating that the heart doing the beating was even-chambered. Second, the chest under her cheek was covered with crisp hair, not silken scales. And - roaring up from out of nowhere as a belated third - she was hungover as shit.
She groaned, and opened her eyes.
She recognized the dim gloom of Varric's suite immediately. But that meant…
Shepard turned her head carefully, looking up into the broad features of the dwarf, relaxed in sleep. His blond hair was tousled, and Shepard could feel his large hand resting on her back. She was sprawled over his bare chest.
Panic gripped her gut until it occurred to her that she was still fully dressed, apart from her boots, greaves, and gauntlets.
Gingerly, she sat up, trying her best not to disturb the slumbering dwarf. She might as well have pounded an omni-blade into her skull. She groaned again, gripping her temples firmly to keep them from exploding.
The snores ended with a snort, and Varric opened his eyes sleepily.
"Mmm. Shepard. You okay?"
"I wish I'd stayed dead."
"We probably shouldn't have let you try the swill."
"I would destroy another system for indoor plumbing right now," Shepard muttered. "Happily," she added. "No regrets."
Varric watched her sympathetically. "Tell you what," he offered. "There's one bath house here in Lowtown that's decent. Take some coin from that pouch on the table and go there. Soak up some steam, then take a cold plunge. You'll feel better. But first, stop by the bar downstairs and ask Corff for his hangover cure. It's wicked, but effective."
"This had better not be some kind of Kirkwall hazing ritual," Shepard threatened weakly. "If it is, I swear disproportionate retribution on your ass when I can finally leave the bucket."
"Trust me, Shepard."
"I have no choice. My only other option involves shooting myself in the head."
"Good girl. Now get out of here. Corff can tell you how to get to the bath house. I'm going back to sleep."
Shepard got to her feet rather shakily, tottering on rubbery legs to the table. She picked at the knots on the pouch for a moment before giving up and swiping the whole bag, tucking it into her belt. Her greaves and gauntlets were on a chair, her boots next to it. Shepard tucked the gauntlets into her belt next to the pouch, steeled herself, and bent over to retrieve her boots.
This is why we don't drink alcohol that tastes like it was distilled in a krogan's ass, Shepard.
Shepard waited for the roaring and thumping in her head to die down and the spots to clear from her vision before picking up her greaves. The thought of attempting to actually put on either article now in her possession was more than Shepard could bear in her delicate condition, so, trying not to feel like she was performing the walk of shame, she tucked them under her arm and made her way down the stairs to the bar.
Corff took one look at her and shook his head. "Shouldn't have tried the whiskey," he advised.
Shepard winced. "Varric says there's a decent bath house near here," she muttered. "Also, I'm supposed to ask you for your hangover cure."
The bartender nodded. "Blood of the mabari," he said. "You want it strong, or extra strong?"
Shepard stared at him blearily.
"Extra strong it is." The man turned and began assembling ingredients. "Norah," he called, making Shepard squint and grab her head, "get the kettle on, will you? And for Maker's sake hurry. Otherwise," he eyed Shepard with resignation, "you'll be cleaning the bar…"
Shepard shielded her eyes with one hand and glanced around the alleyway. She must have taken a wrong turning somewhere. Corff was one of those people who believed in giving unhelpfully detailed directions involving more landmarks than any one person could possibly remember, particularly when that one person was suffering from a hangover brought on by extremely questionable libations.
The blood of the mabari had reminded Shepard of a cross between coffee and vindaloo, and felt as though it had removed all the skin from the inside of her throat. Luckily, this meant her tastebuds had been burnt off within the first two cautious sips, rendering her immune to the taste. Surprisingly, it had settled her stomach and taken the edge off the pounding in her skull.
She was just wondering what Anders' healing magic could do for the daughter of all hangovers when a deep voice from behind her caused her to jump and spin.
"Basra."
One of the qunari stood there, wearing what Shepard now realized was the default qunari expression of solid nothing.
"You think you might… I don't know… clear your throat or something first, next time?" she complained.
"You allowed yourself to be surprised," he responded, with a hint of disapproval.
Shepard bridled. "I'm a little… indisposed… this morning," she explained.
"You will come with me."
"What? Didn't you hear me? I'm feeling slightly unwell this morning." Shepard frowned and rubbed her head. "Make that really unwell."
The giant raised his brow. And?… the motion seemed to say.
Shepard thought of all the steps she'd have to navigate to get down to the qunari compound and groaned.
"Look, couldn't I make an appointment to come by later? I was on my way to the bath house to get cleaned up."
The qunari tipped his head slightly. "There are no bath houses in this area," he said levelly.
Damn. I knew I made a mistake somewhere.
"Okay. Much later," she sighed. "After I search all of Lowtown for the damn bath house."
"No."
Shepard threw her hands in the air, causing her head to spin unpleasantly. "Do you have any idea how annoying that is?"
The faintest suggestion of smugness crept into his voice. "I do not care."
Shepard's eyes narrowed. She really didn't have the patience for this. "How 'bout this one: do you have any idea how satisfying it would be to kick you in the balls right now?"
The giant's eyes narrowed, but to his credit, his wide-legged stance did not so much as flinch. "I would not recommend it, basra."
At least that got a response.
"Give me an hour," Shepard insisted.
"The Arishok does not wait for bas."
"Maybe he should learn," Shepard growled stubbornly.
"No," he said calmly. "You will be the one to learn, basra." His gaze traveled over her. "Do you require assistance?"
Shepard lifted her head arrogantly. "Fuck no."
"Then come." Without looking back to see if she was following, the giant ox-man turned and stalked out of the alley.
I'd rather do that whole salarian-turian-krogan summit thing again than go down those stairs.
Shepard was many things, but a coward wasn't one of them. Still, it took her everything she had not to turn around when the qunari in front of her began his descent. She suspected that curing the genophage was going to wind up being easier than keeping the contents of her stomach from decorating the stairwell before she was halfway down.
I'd rather fight three banshees with one of those shitty Saturday Night Specials from Elkoss Combine and only five remaining thermal clips than go down these stairs.
Nevertheless, she took two steps down.
I'd rather fight a dozen cannibals with one of James' boots than go down these stairs.
Five more steps.
I'd rather make sweet, sweet love with the Illusive Man than go down these stairs.
Ten steps.
I'd rather fight three banshees, a dozen cannibals, and a marauder, armed only with James' boot, while making sweet, sweet love with the Illusive Man…
Fifteen. She gritted her teeth.
With Wrex giving a play-by-play analysis of the whole thing…
Another fifteen.
And Mordin reminding me not to ingest…
Ten.
On live newsfeed…
Five.
Than go down these stairs.
Shepard looked around dully, only belatedly realizing that there were no more stairs. Her escort was waiting for her, arms crossed, something bordering an actual expression on his face. It was probably disgust. She was trembling and sweating like a horse, but she was alive and she hadn't thrown up yet.
Commander Shepard, savior of the galaxy and master of all hangovers.
With as much of her normal purposeful gait as she could muster, Shepard strode past her escort and up the handful of steps to the qunari gate.
She gave the guard a stiff little jerk of her head that she hoped looked more like open the gates, qunari than oh god, I think I might puke. Either way, it did the trick.
She made a spirited attempt at sweeping through the compound, cursing her pride with every jarring footfall. Behind her, she could vaguely sense her escort following along easily. Shepard ground her teeth when she realized that he probably wasn't even stretching his stride to keep pace with her.
She halted at the foot of the stairs where the Arishok's bench sat like a throne, glaring up at the giant with what she knew must be fiercely bloodshot eyes.
"Well?" she demanded.
"I have considered your request, basra." The Arishok was clearly not one to waste words in idle greetings.
Shepard folded her arms on her chest. "And?"
"It is not my role to instruct you in the ways of the Qun."
Anger caused the pain in Shepard's head to go critical. "You dragged me down here…" she began, seethingly.
The Arishok raised a hand, silencing her. "However," he continued, "you are not the first to request such."
He stood and took the stairs slowly, his eyes fixed on Shepard's. "We did not come with this intent, yet still they come, these kabethari, seeking certainty." He stopped, perhaps less than half a meter from Shepard. "As do you."
Shepard was keenly aware of the picture they made; she unwashed in her filthy armor, weak and sick from the hangover, swaying slightly on her feet as she glared up at him defiantly, and him, gleaming steel-toned skin and crisp red lines under his polished and oiled armor, exuding composure and leashed power, staring down at her with undisguised contempt.
"I came seeking information, not certainty," she retorted.
"The purpose is the same."
"No, it isn't." Shepard thrust out her jaw pugnaciously. "Information can be right or wrong. It is simply data that is collected. Certainty implies something… greater."
"Yes," the Arishok agreed. He raised a brow at her. "Do you not seek something greater?"
Ah, shit. I'm too fucked up to deal with this right now.
"Yes," she replied honestly. "I want a long, hot shower, with soap that doesn't smell like a rancid varren, in an honest-to-god bathroom with a sink and a mirror and a toilet that actually flushes. And a towel. I don't even care if it's military issue."
She sat down suddenly, wobbly legs refusing to hold her weight in the same way her brain was refusing to hold her thoughts.
"And while we're at it, I'd like to know that all the sacrifices I've made over the past three years actually meant something. I want to know that I stopped the Reapers, that I saved everything and everyone I possibly could. That my crew is alive, and safe, and unharmed. That I made the right decisions for everybody."
Shepard squinted up at the giant. "And I won't get any of it," she said simply. "There is no certainty, Arishok. Only the illusion of certainty."
To her surprise, the huge creature dropped to his haunches, taking a long, thoughtful look at her. His nostrils flared slightly. She didn't blame him. Shepard suspected that she smelled pretty foul.
"You are intoxicated."
"No," she corrected. "I am hung over. Last night I was intoxicated."
The Arishok made a rumble of disapproval. "Why would you do this to yourself?"
Shepard shrugged ruefully. "It seemed like a good idea at the time."
"The selfishness… You make yourself sick with drink and lack of food; wallow in your own filth and misery, and yet you would deny the Qun with your wasted breath!"
"Yeah, well, if your little errand boy had given me a chance to find the damn bath house, some clean clothes, and some breakfast, maybe I wouldn't be sitting here offending your exalted qun-ness with my selfishly hungover presence," Shepard snapped weakly.
"Le…"
"Yeah, yeah," Shepard interrupted him with a gesture. "I know." She marshaled her best Arishok impression, "Leave, now."
She pushed her hands under her legs and forced herself to her feet. "Next time," she suggested wearily, "just give me an appointment time."
The Arishok continued to regard her intently. As he rose to his feet in a single graceful motion, he spoke a few words in his own language to the soldier who'd served as her escort. Shepard was not particularly surprised when the latter took her arm, gently but very firmly, and began to lead her away.
"I thought getting down all those steps was hard," she sighed. "Now I have to climb back up. Fuck."
After a moment, she realized that she was not being led to the gate, but deeper into the compound. "Wait. Where are we going?"
"You wished to bathe, human. You will be given the opportunity."
"What? Why?"
He threw a glance over his shoulder at her.
Yeah, Shepard. Like he cares. The CO just gave him a direct order, that's why.
She huffed quietly and concentrated on setting her feet down as softly as she could, in the hopes that her brain would not start leaking out her ears.
Her escort stopped before a wide, clear area at the intersection of two walls. Two huge, copper-bottomed wooden cisterns stood about a meter off the ground, while underneath them flames were being tended in neatly contained fire boxes. Two additional copper cisterns stood at either side of the entrance, looking suspiciously like hot water boilers. Within the area were several elves and qunari, some engaged in tending fires, and some…
Shepard, you're staring.
Shepard had loved Thane with every ounce of her being. She'd begrudged every minute of her incarceration - not simply because it kept her from being able to do anything about the Reaper's inevitable invasion, but because it robbed her of precious time with her lover. That being said, she was still a woman, and she'd never been able to keep herself from speculating just what her spectacularly muscled personal guard's body would look like out of uniform.
Jimmy Vega, eat your heart out.
She swallowed with difficulty. "I don't suppose you have a separate ladies', do you?" she asked wryly.
The soldier shook his head. "Supplies are there," he pointed. "I will wait."
Shepard sighed. But she was a soldier. Shit, piss, and shower; soldiers learned to do what they could, when they could, no matter the company.
She began unbuckling her armor as she walked to where the supplies were located, noting that there seemed to be individual bathing stations arranged in orderly rows. Each station consisted of a bench and a bucket on a slatted wooden mat, next to a drain hole. Roughly woven baskets appeared to be available for both clean and soiled clothing.
At the supply station, small pots were arranged on a shelf next to baskets of what Shepard was surprised to discover were almost towels - large squares of cottony material. She took two, and pointed at the line of jars.
"Soap?" she asked a nearby elf.
He looked startled, but replied politely in a soft voice. "Brown jars. The tan ones are salve; the white ones, muscle balm."
Shepard grabbed a brown jar. "Thanks."
She selected an empty bench, set down her towels and soap, and tossed her boots and greaves into a basket before trudging to the boilers for a bucket of hot water. When she'd brought it back to her bathing station, she unfastened her vambraces and added them to the basket, then her dagger and omni-tool, and finally she peeled herself out of the leather garments. With a grimace of distaste, Shepard considered the fact that she'd have to put them back on dirty - there were no sonic cleaning chambers here to remove the battlefield grime.
Another reason this place smells like Omega on the day the air scrubbers malfunctioned.
Shepard tossed the last of her armor aside and grabbed the bucket of steaming water with a grunt, lifting it over her head with arms that still trembled slightly. Slowly, she tipped the bucket, raising her face as the blessedly hot water poured out and cascaded over her skin. When at last the bucket was empty, she set it down, wishing she had an unlimited supply, and eased the cork stopper out of the jar.
A pleasant, lemony fragrance came from the thick white paste within. Eagerly, Shepard dug her fingers into the goo, inhaling deeply as she rubbed the stuff into her greasy hair and down her arms. She scrubbed her scalp vigorously, then her shoulders and belly, and what she could reach of her back, and dipped back into the jar for more before moving on to her crotch, ass, legs, and feet, wiggling her toes as her soapy fingers rubbed between them.
It felt wonderful.
Shepard hefted the bucket of cold water that waited by the bench and dumped it over her head, gasping at the shock. Her skin immediately broke out in gooseflesh, her nipples hardening to little pebbles, but she felt her head clear somewhat. She stared down at the two empty buckets and, unconcernedly naked and dripping lightly sudsy water, went back to the boilers for more.
She cast a wistful look at the copper-bottomed wooden cisterns - soaking tubs, she realized - while she toweled herself dry, having at last divested herself of the last of the soap and grime. As much as the thought of a long, hot soak sounded completely delicious, Shepard regretfully acknowledged that she should not keep either her escort or the Arishok waiting for any longer than necessary. She may not appreciate his stubborn arrogance, but the impressively horned giant had definitely earned himself a favor by letting her use their baths.
As she gazed down at her filthy armor in resignation, a basket was thrust into her arms. Blinking in surprise, Shepard glanced up into the face of her escort.
"You will wish to clean your armor," he said. Shepard was not sure if it was a question or a statement, but she answered anyway.
"Yes."
She looked into the basket. Inside were a wrapped smock and some loose pants. She smiled gratefully.
"Thank you."
Shepard placed the basket on the bench and quickly began to dress, feeling the soldier's eyes on her.
"You have many scars," he noted.
She shrugged. "I've been in a lot of fights."
"Humans are aggressive when they mate." His voice was calm, stating a fact, yet Shepard thought she caught the faintest hint of… approval, maybe.
"I said fights," Shepard corrected with a little grin. "Battle, not mating."
His brow furrowed. "You are female," he said.
"Females are soldiers, where I come from," she answered. "I am a soldier, like you."
This clearly did not meet with approval. "No. You are not."
Shepard nodded sagely, while her grin widened. "You're right, of course," she told him, lifting the basket with her dirty armor and settling it on her hip. "I'm a commander," she said as she strode past him. "I outrank you."
"Morning, Varric," Hawke said cheerfully, dropping onto the edge of the dwarf's bed. "Where's Shepard?"
Varric cracked open an eye. "Is this any time of morning to be so annoyingly chipper?"
"It's nearly midday, Varric," Hawke scolded.
"Is it?" The dwarf rubbed his sleep-filled eyes and yawned, casting his gaze around the room. "Where's Shepard?"
"I don't know. Didn't I just ask you?"
Varric frowned. "Sent her to the bath house early this morning. She looked like shit." He swung his legs off the bed and reached for his boots. "You don't think something's happened to her, do you?"
"This is Kirkwall, Varric."
Varric paused in tugging on his left boot. "You're right. Do you think she happened to something?"
"Varric."
"She shoots fireballs and wields a blade that can cut through armor like butter. And she has a temper that's shorter than a nug's asshole. What could possibly happen to her?"
"Varric."
"She's probably back at Blondie's. You said they were getting friendly…"
Hawke crossed her arms. "I said they were flirting. That's not the same. Besides," the rogue's deft fingers flicked out and captured a long, dark strand nestled among his golden chest hair, "it appears she was using you as a pillow last night, my dear dwarf."
Varric sighed. "Oh, all right. I'll put the word out. Happy?"
Hawke gave him her most infectious smile. "Yes."
"Is that all you came down here to do? Wake me up rather unceremoniously?" Varric pulled a fresh shirt over his head and began belting it with a sash.
"I can think of other ways I'd prefer to wake you up," Hawke leered. "But I really came down to collect Shepard. I thought it would be a good idea to take her with me over to the Gallows."
"Why would you think it a good idea to drag anyone over there? It's a miserable, depressing place filled with self-righteous men in steel and skirts."
Hawke gave him an amused look. "Yeeess, but I thought it might not be a bad idea to warn Shepard. Anders says she knows nothing about the Circle or the Templars. I don't know if that technology of hers is magic or not, but I'm betting that the Templars won't care either way."
Varric nodded. "You're probably right. To a Templar, a fireball is a fireball. Shepard shoots one off in front of the wrong crowd, and she's looking at a whole lot of Holy Smiting." He suddenly felt a growing sense of unease. "Let's go down and talk to Corff, shall we? Maybe he can tell us where our N-fucking-7 has gone off to." His eyes noted the empty tabletop and he groaned.
"With my coin purse…"
Shepard was surprised when her escort returned her not to the Arishok's throne area, but to a neat, unassuming tent. The inside of the tent was filled with books and scrolls and a very heavy table that took up the vast majority of the floorspace. Behind the table sat the horned giant himself, features typically impassive as he read from a large tome. A stool had been placed opposite him; on the table before it, a bowl and mug.
The soldier spoke a few words to his commander, taking Shepard's basket from her and setting it on the floor just inside the flap before leaving the tent.
The Arishok's odd golden eyes looked up from his text, and he regarded Shepard silently. Trying to bury the awkward urge to salute, Shepard took up parade rest and inclined her head deeply.
"Thank you for the use of your bathing facilities, Arishok," she said formally. "Your… hospitality… is greatly appreciated."
He continued to study her for some moments. Shepard did not move and did not break eye contact.
"Eat," he said finally, gesturing briefly to the stool and its solitary place setting.
Shepard inclined her head again before breaking parade rest and settling herself on the stool.
The bowl contained some kind of thick oatmeal; the mug was filled with strong, fragrant black tea. Without any further urging, Shepard began to empty both.
The Arishok's eyes did not leave her.
"You are not like the other bas of this city," he said. "Not even your friend serah Hawke."
Shepard swallowed a mouthful of tea before answering. "I told you, I am not from this city."
"Yes," the Arishok said. "I recall. You claimed you were not from Thedas at all."
"Yes." Shepard kept her attention on the food.
If she'd hoped to irritate him with her monosyllabic response, Shepard was disappointed.
"You are used to command, human. This is not something I expected in a bas."
"Yes."
"One of the ashaad reports that you encountered Tal-Vashoth on the Wounded Coast."
Shepard looked up sharply. She didn't realize that her movements - or, more likely, Hawke's movements - were being monitored. A heartbeat later, it occurred to her that they might not.
"We also encountered the remains of your patrol," she informed him. "I'm sorry."
"The ashaad reported this as well," he replied. The loss of his men did not seem to affect him, or he had already dealt with it. Shepard suspected that it wouldn't be something he'd share with an outsider in any event.
"You fight well, I am told. And you speak as one who expects to be obeyed." The Arishok frowned. "I find myself curious."
Shepard smiled grimly. "Good."
Silence fell while Shepard finished the food and drink the Arishok had provided. Although she ignored it, Shepard was aware of his eyes on her the entire time. When she was done, she gently pushed the bowl to one side and met his stare.
"You will leave now, basra," he informed her curtly, rising. "When next we meet, I expect you to answer my questions."
Shepard quirked an eyebrow. "And I expect you to answer mine."
By the narrowing of his eyes, that was not the response the Arishok was looking for. Shepard gave him a diplomatic smile.
"Thank you again for your generosity, Arishok. I look forward to our next meeting."
"Panehedan, basra." The inscrutable expression was back again. Shepard bent to retrieve her basket of armor, pleased to find that the ache in her head no longer felt like a krogan tap-dancing on her white-hot brain, and paused in the tent flap, craning her next to search the rooftops. She smiled when she saw a very noticeable silhouette against the sky, and very pointedly met the Arishok's eyes over her shoulder.
Without a word, she left, his eyes following after her.
