Satirizing Kirkwall is fun. Don't kill me.

Sunset, Down the stairs to Lowtown

Progress just means bad things happen faster, Hawke used to think. Of course, while the statement seemed to be perfectly universal and thriving in its wisdom, irony was also a concept that did very well on its own and above all other principles. Especially above all those who did not yet learn to taste the deliciousness of Lord Irony. In so, you could say she laughed at herself that she … did not laugh at the irony. Yes the progressive dinner, as it progressed… with that little "progress" at her hand… really made bad things happen faster. Of course, progress in science and magic left a permanent mark on the world and if it broke, it stayed broken all while the most intelligent minds argued with each other in pretentious accents and mighty pointed fingers of judgement, and the other ten minutes that were left of their busy day were reserved for actually trying to find a solution to correct their blunders.

Meanwhile the apocalypse came and restored the world to its original peace.

How this applied to her situation… maybe it was safe to say that the apocalypse was at bay the moment they would enter the Hanged Man. Surely there was some irony to the name now.

The bigger irony was her thinking that she and Fenris really could design with marvellous exactitude the allegory of the beginning of the universe – In the beginning there was nothing, which exploded.

Although the universe was a little more economic, having exploded only once and then expanding until something else of titanic importance happened until the world became only dust again. They were a little more stubborn in this respect, not minding a few extra burns until nothingness came. The good part of this equation was, that they were much clever than the universe, in that they made every little explosion count, and with that, tracing them all back to the original Explosion – they would conclude that the explosions were not really connected and there was no god and no truth, and the only thing that really mattered were the little things like tea, and pie, the sound of laughter, that basket hilts were infinitely stupid, and finding out who could drink dragon's blood whisky longer directly from the bottle before their throats horrifically burned. But the stupidity of basket hilts was most important.

With this positive thought relieving her extreme fit of broodiness, but not enough to bring her mouth to actually open, she walked with the others down the stairs to Lowtown.

Of course, it was not a very reassuring thought that the best she could hope for was for Fenris to be scowling and hmph-ing and sulking like he usually did when he had some particular inconvenience with her. But no, he did not grant her that kind of privilege. It was indeed, the worst sign of them all, that Fenris seemed wrapped into the rarest form of calmness she'd ever seen.

Sometimes it felt like an honor that he could get mad at her. Not because he looked like the most adorable creature crazed with bloodlust and murder in his eyes, but because he did not in fact lose his temper very often with anyone, or at least he didn't show it. If he did get angry, he'd only look you straight in the eye, slightly sharpen his tone, curl only one corner of his lips, mutter something in his mother tongue that one did not need a dictionary to know it was a curse, and on rare occasions look away and spit. Now it felt like the greatest honor to crawl into some dark pit and die, and preferably somewhere far away from those deeply calm eyes, for he could really kill someone only with his eyes, even after they had already died, and for the simplest reasons, like the unfortunate soul daring to stain his armor with their blood even if it happened by any chance that it was he who plunged the sword into their chest. She could bet this was the reason why he preferred shoving his fist into people's chests. He was such a neat guy.

But like a true warrior, she could never defy the principles that went with it. One was to be brave and resist under any circumstance, fight to the best of one's ability and nothing is going to stand between one and the thing you they was fighting for. And two, was that this always worked best when a cold pint of beer was the object of one's battle.

Finally, she forgot about everything else and caught up with Varric. "Putting everything on your tab tonight?"

"Hm. Not likely," Varric responded. "Like I said, my plate is full."

"Then get another plate," said Hawke. "Surely you can steal one from Coriff."

"The things I stole from that guy," Varric muttered and shook his head. "There's nothing left to steal anymore."

"So you pay the guy, but you also steal from the guy," Hawke said with mockery in her tone. "Good investment."

"Well I'm an honest thief," Varric said with a smile. "I pay my fair share, and it's like I'm stealing from myself. I steal the coin back, and it's like I'm doing myself justice."

"That's so contradictory," Hawke said and pondered on it as they walked. "Oh, I get it, because it's so messed up there's no way of tracing back who's at fault, therefore it's honest thievery."

"It's honest because I admit to being messed up in the head while I do it," Varric responded with the most elusive smile.

"My kind of guy," Hawke said proudly. "You could steal my heart one day and convince me you were simply taking it back to where it belonged in the first place."

"I could try," Varric said confidently and raised a finger, "but –"

" – you might waste a few centuries trying to find it," Fenris intervened calmly.

"Aw, what a perfectly disguised way of saying she's got big boobs," Varric fired back with a wink.

"Yes," Fenris said undaunted, his sharp tone drooping with sarcasm. "That's what I meant."

They continued walking, Hawke and Varric going at the head of the line all with tracing the outlines and principles of the so called "honest thievery". Isabela started driving Aveline mad, teasing her that not only did they dress the same, but they had so many other things in common like both being "Captain" and Merrill being fed up with their fight paced faster and caught up with Varric and Hawke. And so, Fenris and Anders were left behind, courtesy of Lord Fortune himself.

"Did someone try to dig and got the shovel back in their face?" Anders teased, his smirk growing dangerously close to begging for a punch.

"I have no idea what that means, but I personally invite you to try," Fenris replied insipidly.

"To dig or to get a shovel in my face?" Anders asked all smiles, walking beside him.

"Whichever shuts you up faster," Fenris answered unemotionally, his eyes remaining forward.

Anders chuckled. "And I haven't even started talking about mages yet."

"I thought I'd do us both a favor and save some time," Fenris said coldly.

"Ah, but it won't matter in the end will it? It's not like you'll remember any of this by tomorrow," Anders said.

"What a blessing," Fenris muttered. He walked faster and left him behind.

As he dodged the Guard-Captain vs Ship-Captain war and caught up with the others, he heard Varric say, "Still weird."

Then Hawke chuckled. "And here I thought today would be different, you know, what with weird being technically our standard of normal."

"Today is different, highness," Varric protested. "You're pretty, Broody turned into Lord Broodsworthy, Blondie's turned into Monserre Beufort and the two ladies back there turned into The Twin Captains of the Void." He pressed his lips and nodded to himself. "So by our standards of normal, this is weird."

"I'm… pretty," Hawke muttered. "So usually I'm what?"

"I feel like that's a trick question," Varric said all smiles again.

She grinned. "Well, it's a tricky answer."

"Hm." Varric beckoned at Fenris. "Help me out here, Lord. How can we define what Hawke usually looks like."

Fenris lifted his eyebrows in an unimpressed, bored expression and muttered, "Without definition."

"I have no idea how I should take that," Hawke said in amusement.

Varric shot him an annoyed glance, as if to say "Yeah, you were of so much help" and turned his look at Hawke, scratching behind his ear. "What he means is that you usually look uh, well, beautiful – "

" – like a forest fire," Fenris said coldly, without shifting his gaze. "Beautiful to admire from a distance."

" – but dangerous to stare at close," Varric finished, smiling. "Yeah, that… sounds about right."

Hawke frowned and seemed to be battling between the possible meanings of what they said.

"Oh, cheer up, Pantaloons," Varric said in amusement and patted her on the hip. "It was a compliment. Right, my Lord?"

"That depends on how you look at it," said Fenris.

She narrowed her eyes, but quickly patted Varric on the shoulder and said, "Well, there's no one else I'd rather try to be pretty for."

"Oh, but you don't really try, do you?" Varric asked. "If you did you'd have make-up on and the cleavage to distract us from it."

"Is that a compliment or a complaint?" Hawke asked, starting to grin.

"A little of both maybe," said Varric. "I lie a lot, so don't take my word for it."

"How true," Hawke mumbled. But inside she thought, "Yep, gotta have my make up on, in case I run into Fenris and he wants to beat the shit out of me. Gotta look my best! Maybe he'll punch me repeatedly in the kidneys and the stomach so it doesn't mark up my face. He's so thoughtful!"

Varric's confident voice snapped her from her thoughts. "All that's left is if you could cut some of that length off those legs, then you'd be mine."

"I knew there was something in the way," said Hawke, pretending to turn sad. "What if I start walking on my knees, would that do?"

Fenris immediately snorted. "If it doesn't, could you try that anyway?"

"For you my Lord," Hawke started and moved her hand on her chest. "It's gonna cost."

"As much as I'd pay to see that, I want tonight to be devoid of any sort of humiliation, more than it has already, uh," said Varric, shaking his hand towards Fenris and the others. "You know, considering."

"Well, this does seem like a circus parade," Fenris agreed calmly. "And I am sad at the thought that I cannot witness it from afar."

"Ah-hem," Varric coughed and shot him a contemptuous look. "Said the elf in the coat of frock."

"More like the coat of mock," said Hawke and started to chuckle. "Mock of frock."

"Have you considered giving your band a name, Hawke?" Fenris asked. "Perhaps Dawn of the Clowns?"

"Oh, don't limit yourself Fenris, you can be anything you wish," Hawke said joyfully with a smirk on her face.

"I guess it is a bit silly to follow in the leader's footsteps, isn't it?" Fenris said calmly, stopping in front of the Hanged Man.

Hawke drew up a sharp fake smile as she stopped. "Frock you."

Well, if he was attempting to joke, despite overestimating his abilities, surely there was some hope reserved. Surely you could depend on Lord Fortune, right?

"Oh shit," Varric cursed, putting his hands up on his head. "I forgot to get my shipment from Pip!"

"Say what?" Hawke asked with a raised eyebrow.

Varric sighed. "I got a nice deal on some drinks from Orzammar, but then you surprised me with the dinner party and I totally forgot. And Lirene's shop is closing."

"Lirene's?" Hawke asked. "As in Lirene's Ferelden Imports?"

"Well Orzammar is in Ferelden, highness," said Varric, but Hawke's unconvinced eyebrow made him continue, "Alright, I ordered some Ferelden local drinks too. It was supposed to be a surprise."

"On your own name day," Hawke said in amusement. "You're unbelievable."

"Unbelievably thoughtful, why yes I am," Varric said with a wink. He scrutinized the group. "Well I gotta get inside, so I need two muscles to go get it and fast. Lord, Captain, what do you say?"

"Hey, I'm muscle too," Hawke protested and crossed her arms. "And don't forget I'm Overseer of Varric's Incredible Fun Day of Fun."

"Well, Overseer, if that means so much to you, then off you go," Varric said with a raised eyebrow, then opened the door to go in. He stuck his head out again and his sudden rapid voice dizzied her as she didn't automatically look somewhere down south. "Oh, tell Pip you're coming on behalf of Red Lizard."

"Yessir! … Whatever that means," Hawke mused, and beckoned for Aveline. "Let's go."

"I'll pass," said Aveline nervously. She scratched behind her ear as if she was embarrassed. "Brenan's patrolling tonight…" She looked down at her clothes. "I don't want her to see me like this."

"Seriously? Can't the Captain have fun on her day off? It's not like you're sacrificing cats to the Old God Dumat, not that I would mind," Hawke said in outrage. "Jeez, I'll go by myself."

She turned around, half about to stumble. Fenris was leaning with his back against the wall and his arms crossed. "I'll go with you," he said, his voice sounding as if this was some honorable sacrifice of great inconvenience.

Not the time to protest. Varric was a big spender. Surely there was more than one package of booze. She continued to walk and he followed in silence.

The Market street was usually a busy place by day, but during the last month there was almost no passing trade. The street was if not a dead end, then at least seriously wounded by the area's change in fortunes, and for some reason Aveline decided to blame her, as if she had anything to do with it! The real reason why this was happening was because the street was cursed.

Yes, cursed. Over the years, few businesses apart from the weaponsmithy and the trinket shop and perhaps Lirene's Ferelden Imports (the lower part of the Market District, understand, the one where the sunlight wasn't able to bless, perhaps) had managed to survive for long. There were a lot of warehouses and backyards purchased, robbed, sold, repurchased and so on, the cycle of bad luck went, because there was always some dumb merchant with a new enterprise that they thought would be the next big thing and ended up being one day away from being the next big flop. The dwarf, Javaris, was perhaps the most enterprisingly unsuccessful businessman of them all and he was surely lying dead in a gutter somewhere eaten by rats, but there had been other unfortunate businesses that had gone yahoo-barnacle-shaped very fast. Like Bartholomeo's (Not) Fastidious Fine Cheeses or Agamemnon's Praising Puppet Shop or Xavier's Incredible Inkwells (she would never understand why they had to use names beginning with the same letter, but she suspected that was the cursing recipe for disaster) and they all sunk faster than the Qunaris' ship, and in opposition, causing the other steady businesses on the street to suffer longer than the Qunaris' stay thereafter. Catching strong roots that would never ever perish, it seemed, much like the horn-headed mammoths.

And apart from that curse, there was also the part where a coven of blood mages were discovered to have been operating in the backrooms of Agamemnon's Praising Puppet Shop. And that was not a good day for business. No one would have ever noticed, really, until some mangled beef-witted barnacle of a mage decided it would be a good idea to use an ancient demonic tome on a full moon without consulting the others and it all went downhill from there. Well, downhill and uphill. Giant flocks of possessed curly fair-haired terrifying little dolls and face-painted jesters storming the streets of Lowtown up to Hightown, doing their March of Horror along with shades and what some people swore were hideous purple monsters with uncounted heads and eyes (even the Templars face-palmed themselves at that one). But unfortunately, the mishap still reinforced the firm grasp of the Templars to further tighten their collars on the idea that there was a vast mage conspiracy in Kirkwall to overthrow their rule. There was always a dumb cult somewhere –and if there wasn't they would invent one – that solely sought the right circumstances to make magic rise again and conquer everything and all. Thus spoke the puppets, thus the currish sponge-brained burly Templars hence concluded, on their own.

And the Viscount was not happy. Not that he ever seemed to be happy, what with poking his feather in the inkwell all day, wondering how such a sorcery was possible, and at the same time not making any connection with the striking news that there had been a serious shortage of octopuses in the Waking Sea as the latest fishing manifests in the Docks had albeit stated. Between these moments of contemplation, he was constantly bombarded with civil issues by 8:30 in the morning, shortly thereafter at 8:31 the Knight-Commander's complaints and endless petitions were flooding and burning his office, so by 8:32 and a half (the half was important) there was a high chance every day that the one little hair at the top of his head was going to strangle itself to death, but not before miraculously gaining the ability to speak for itself – unlike the Viscount, who had yet to develop this ability – and its last words would be, "Curse you Meredith, you calumnious toad-spotted guts-gripping infectious harlot, you… you paranoid mammering hedge-born Void-hated flax wench! I curse you and I curse whoever created you!"

Mind you, the Viscount did seem the kind of fellow that lived his life on that thin line most people occupy just before they haul off and hit someone repeatedly with a shovel.

Understand, despite the Viscount's hideous inability to meet any of his title's prerogatives, his lament was very justified when it came to some of Kirkwall's inexplicable catastrophes that always made a tradition to coming up every few months. The spirit of Kirkwall really was a loyal lad when it came to preserving the legacy of mind-blowing and blood-freezing mysteries and mishaps. And in that respect, you could understand that in his eyes, it would be nice to think that someone, somewhere in this city was engaged into some simple, harmless little business that was not going to end up causing tentacled monsters, horrid abominations and dread apparitions to stalk the streets eating people.

Well, the sun was setting between the high buildings, the few rays still darting in their eyes, and there were flocks of blackbirds chirruping above, flying in perfect V-shaped formations. The street was empty. And that annoying sound became louder and louder, the sound of not talking, that is. She rolled her eyes and muttered towards him, "Still calmly pissed at me, trying to make my brain explode with your mind?"

"I'm sure I have no idea what you are talking about, Princess." He tilted his head and half curtseyed when he said the last word.

"That! That is what I am talking about," Hawke exclaimed and pointed at him. "Since we ran into the others you have been cold and more arrogant than usual."

"Is that so?" Fenris asked calmly. "I would say I was averagely arrogant."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "You're stubborn – anyone ever tell you that before?"

"On occasion," Fenris replied.

10 harrowing minutes later, The Hanged Man

The Hanged Man was a tavern, of sorts. Remarkably, it was the most successful business in Lowtown, but Varric might have had something to do with it. After all, calling your tavern The Hanged Man was not a decision to feature in the Great Advertising & Marketing Decisions of History. Hanging an actual giant puppet of a hanged man above the tavern doors wasn't either, but the citizens of this city were a bit more curious and regarded themselves as brave, something none of their friends would agree upon unless until pint number five.

Its owner was Coriff, a thin, dry, mostly silent and peaceful-looking man who only smiled when he herd news of some serious murder (you could see why he chose the name without scruples). He was very loyal to his most loyal customers, and Varric was very happy with this arrangement, because Coriff was the kind of guy who no dwarf would stare sternly in the groin unless he was genuinely fearless or extremely stupid; well, those usually went hand-in-hand. The angry members of the Merchants Guild had quickly ceased in trying to find Varric at The Hanged Man because of this and that was part of the reason why whenever Hawke couldn't find him there, she would go search for him at the Chantry first, and then look for him at Fenris.

At present, the tavern was changed. Dark and lit only by some new red and gold lanterns hung up on the walls. And it was full of people, most of them not looking like drunken rank gutter boar-pigs or lumpish idle-headed old measles or dim-witted misogynistic brazen-faced malt-worms. She had a lot of names like that for the good citizens that highly frequented this place and her patience. It was surprising, but half of the loyal customers here were lowlife misfits, and the other half were guards who wanted to go somewhere they wouldn't be reminded that they were men of the law. This was rather beneficial, and adding Coriff, not even licensed thieves tried to rob The Hanged Man. He didn't like having his guards' drinking disturbed. On the other hand, they had never seen a bigger load of petty criminals than those wearing the Guard uniform. And this was depressing, it really was.

But the people present, mostly dwarves, were dressed rather nicely, brown coats, linen shirts, pocket belts and a lot of daggers, but still nice. And most of them probably hidden. This was Varric's bit to save his ass from running from the Merchants Guild, maybe. Either that or he decided mingling and drinking with the Carta was a bit to save his ass from running from the Merchants Guild. Perhaps he warned them that the Captain of the Guard was here somewhere in disguise (which was true) so no dwarf could afford to mistreat him, and in turn, he was buying them ale. And no dwarf could ever turn down free ale.

"Did you ship your whole cast here from Orzammar too?" Hawke asked Varric, as she and Fenris put down the heavy loads. "Cause I'm rather happy I didn't have to carry them too."

Of course, she was careful not to speak too loud, because everyone in this city knew what happens if you call a dwarf anything from 'short stuff' to 'Serah Carry-miah'.

"Oh, yousofunny," Varric mumbled in a botched Orlesian accent. "You're short too, by human standards at least."

"Not if I wear boots, then I'm average height," Hawke corrected. "And you can't say the same for yourself."

"Actually I'm taller than most dwarves," Varric said proudly. "Lord Broodsworthy here is also taller than most elves. You on the other hand…"

"Am craving a drink from this box," said Hawke, bashing it open. She lifted her eyebrows, albeit losing all expression. "Holy Mother of Andraste."

"Say Thank you, Varric," he said all-grinning. He remembered it was Ferelden's Independence Day soon. The Hanged Man had never seen a fat rise in customers unlike during Fereldan's Independence Day. And everyone knew what that meant when Hawke was around. An endless, horrific, insanely loud night of heavy drinking and singing, bar fights (some she caused) and then make-up drinking and some more singing, granted more incoherent singing because some of them had lost teeth on the way. This was Hawke's idea of a helluvagood night. Everyone resolved, after the first time they saw this, that they would suddenly become busy that day of the year.

She lifted some of the bottles and scrutinized them in wonder. "Alright, you're insane. Greenfell ginger ale, Killarney rum, Bärenfang, Blackwood whiskey…" She almost stuck her head in all the way in the box. Fenris almost couldn't contain his urge to kick her inside. "Applejack!" she shouted, coming with two bottles. "And Chasind palinka?" She chuckled. "You're positively insane, Varric."

"Well I hear Fereldens know their booze," Varric said with a smile. "And a special day needs special drinks for special crazy people like you and me." So basically, if Hawke went Ferelden, the dwarves would have yet another reason to stay put in their seats and act as if they were nice, which was perhaps the second commandment in their Merchant Manual. The first was 'Always remember to learn your testimony to the Guards forwards and backwards, so they won't know you're lying about where you were the other night'. Understand, the members of the Merchants Guild were really nice-looking people who called you 'friend'. People like that weren't friendly.

"Jägermeister?!" Hawke shouted, getting the last bottle out. She tackled Varric with a hug, and he could barely catch his breath. He did listen to her all these years in her drunken lament. "Thank you, thank you, thank you! I need to give you your gift right now."

"Do not dare," Fenris cut her with an annoyed look on his face. "If we give him gifts now, like we did the last time, he'll vanish again within the hour."

"Look at this crowd!" Varric protested, stretching his arms out. "There's no way I could get away from here this time."

"Better safe than sorry," Fenris muttered, gathering some of the bottles.

"Aw, you can't go through the night without me, can you?" Varric mused all-grinningly. "I'm touched, elf. I promise I'll stay."

"You better," Fenris said cuttingly, and took off for their table.

"What's up with him," Hawke wondered with a raised eyebrow, watching him go.

"He wants his only friend there so he won't get bored to death, I bet," Varric said with a wink. "Now, don't give me that look, you're fun too. Just not me fun."

"That's not why I was frowning," Hawke said with her eyes narrowed. "You were implying something, thou villainous ill-bred cheating reprobate."

"Milady, whatever do you mean!" Varric exclaimed wickedly, a bit of mockery in his tone as well, since she went hot-headed Ferelden on him before she had even started drinking. He winked again and took off to one of the tables full of loud dwarves.

Oh great, Hawke thought. This was going to be a long night if Varric was playing the social bee, flying from table to table, probably never staying more than five minutes at theirs. He always got away with vanishing.

She grabbed the Jägermeister bottle with all the might in her hand and figuratively dragged herself to the table. On the seat to the wall there was Isabela shuffling the cards and laughing about something with Anders, Merrill was listening and expectedly wondered if she missed the dirty part, Aveline was sitting at the head of the table already resolving to drink like half of her ancestors and "block out the yackety-yak" with Blackwood whiskey. Long night. She sighed and took a seat next to Fenris on the other side of the table. He was carefully scrutinizing the labels on the Ferelden bottles, and his eyes fell on the new one on the table. He grabbed it in an instant from her side of table and examined it.

"This is the hunter's badge of glory, that he protect and tend his quarry," Fenris stuttered as he read the label.

Hawke overlapped his voice and finished with him, "Hunt with honor, as is due, and through the beast be Maker true."

"The beast is a stag with a sun between its antlers?" Fenris asked in confusion, and put the bottle back on the table.

"It's in tribute to a legend of two hunters having a vision of the Andrastian sun between the antlers of a stag," Aveline explained and muttered mockingly, "And then they accepted Andraste."

"So it's a tribute to being drunk out of your mind and hallucinating holier-than-thou animal messengers," Fenris said grumpily.

Hawke took the bottle and clawed it open. She raised it and circled the symbol with her finger. "O – DEER – Maker."

Fenris chuckled lowly under his breath. "Clever."

"I can't be prouder for being Ferelden right now," Hawke said with a grin. She drank straight from the bottle, then closed her eyes. "Oh, sweet mother of darkness, once again I suckle at your juicy foul devilish tit."

"Benevise cælum," Fenris said with high lifted eyebrows.

She took another long passionate sip as he said it, then she exhaled aloud. "Exactly." She wiped her mouth with half-lidded eyes. "Let the nightmare begin."

"Let the games also begin," Isabela said with a wink, starting to deal the cards.

"I'm all for games!" Hawke shouted happily.

"Of course you are," Fenris muttered quietly under his breath, or at least that's what she thought she heard. Well… and here she thought they'd been getting along for the last five minutes. The paradise was short-lived, but she resolved to banish any thought or worry and have fun.

She couldn't do any worse, but then again, he couldn't do any better. So maybe it balanced out.

"You'd better make haste with losing or give up your coin right now," Isabela said confidently. "I'm running out of money. In a couple of weeks, I'm gonna be screwed."

"Why don't you hack some your jewelry?" said Hawke. "There's a lot of stuff you never wear and most of it is ugly."

"Don't you have some abandoned puppy to save?" Isabela fired back with narrowed eyes.

"Nope, it's my day off," said Hawke, taking another card. "I resolve to pull evil cats by the tail in my spare time."

"And yet you're followed by puppy-eyes wherever you go," Isabela said subtly, grinning to no end.

"I feel a scratch lurking somewhere in that sentence," Hawke said with a smile.

"I think the whole world knows what it means," said Isabela. " Even the table knows what it means."

"I don't know what it means," Anders said with a shrug.

"I don't either," said Merrill. "Is it something dirty?"

"That remains to be seen," Isabela mused. Fenris picked up on it and translated as mockery directed to him.

"Well, you know me," Hawke said with a shrug. "I'm an idiot at heart."

"Bitch, you really are," Isabela said in amusement.

"Ga-row." Hawke pretended to scratch the air.

"Now all I get from this is that you have something against cats," Anders intervened. "Whatever did they do to you?"

"In ancient times cats were worshipped as gods," said Hawke, taking a large sip, then almost banged the table with the bottle. "They have not forgotten this."

"I think cats are adorable," said Merrill. "I'm surprised my people don't worship them."

"Yeah, here's how it was in our creed," Hawke cut her, gesturing mockingly and looking up. "After the Maker made spirits and demons, and they turned out to be major fails, he created people. And while he overestimated his ability with that one too, he then sat one day in his bigass throne in the sky and wondered 'What can I make in this world that would truly make living worthwhile?' He really thought about it. 'CATS!' he said eventually. 'CATS ARE NICE'."

"They are nice," Anders protested grumpily with his arms crossed.

"Anders… if cats looked like toads, you'd realize what nasty, evil little bastards they are," Hawke said with a serious face. She pointed at him mockingly. "Style. That's what people remember."

"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, Hawke," Anders protested again.

"Indeed, beauty is in the eye of the beholder," said Hawke, sipping from her bottle. "And it may be necessary from time to time to give a stupid or misinformed beholder a black eye."

Fenris tried to contain his laughter. Anders rolled his eyes and said, "A bit prejudiced, are we not?"

"Preposterous! I am free of prejudice," Hawke objected calmly. "I hate everyone equally."

"Said the diligent savior of all those wounded," Isabela muttered contemptuously.

"Yes, I help people. That doesn't mean I have to love them," said Hawke. "Mankind is a blessing and all; it's the people in it that I have a problem with."

"So you do hate mages and Templars," said Anders. "How truly contradictory and again, hypocritical of you."

"Are they people?" Hawke asked unemotionally without looking at him, taking another card. "I stand my ground."

"Doesn't that follow that you should hate yourself too?" Anders pressed ever so passionately.

"Well, what does that accomplish?" Hawke asked. "Hours over hours wasted sinking in your own misery. Nah, I'd rather sit here and drink my dinner."

"Isn't that about the same thing?" Anders asked in amusement.

"No, I do it happily," said Hawke. "I happily drink my dinner with happiness, joy, flappy wings and eternal wonder for the world."

"While hating people," Anders finished, shaking his head. "I feel like I'm speaking to a wall."

Isabela smirked. "Do you hate the elves too, Hawke?"

She took a large sip and raised a hand to the sky. "Elves are wonderful! They provoke wonder. And they're marvelous too! They cause marvels." She took another large sip to harrow with the waiting. Fenris was giving her an unimpressed look. She wiped her mouth and continued in a melodic, joyful tone, "And they're truly fantastic and enchanting. They create fantasies and weave enchantments."

"Do they now?" Fenris asked calmly, seeming more focused on the game than anything.

Hawke smirked. "The thing about words is that meanings can twist just like a snake, and if you want to find snakes look for them behind words that have changed their meaning." She took another good sip. "I never said elves were nice."

"Oh, I found the snake alright, belatedly even so," Fenris muttered in intentional double meanings himself.

"What do you have against my people?" Merrill protested. She could feel the story of Arlathan and its demise coming again to infect her ears.

Hawke shrugged. "I didn't say I had anything against elves, Merrill."

"Yeah, don't fret Merrill, she doesn't have anything particularly special against you or your people," Anders said grumpily. "She hates everyone equally."

"Nothing to retort, Fenris?" Isabela asked. "Or do you hate everybody too?"

Fenris shrugged unemotionally. "I do not disagree with what she said."

"Emphasis on not disagreeing," Isabela said in amusement. "So you don't agree either. You're just living somewhere in empty space, free of all convictions except for those about mages."

"I do not particularly care," said Fenris, rolling his eyes.

"Well in this respect, you and Hawke should hold hands and take off in the black, black sunset together," Merrill said in annoyance. My, she did annoy her. This was sign the jäger kicked in.

"Why are we discussing pointless philosophies over Wicked Grace?" Fenris asked irately. "Just shut up and play."

"Well, for one, it's what people usually do when they had a few," said Anders. "And for two, I'd like to know my student better."

"Three years working with Hawke and now you choose to know her better," Fenris protested insipidly.

"Better late than never," Anders said nonchalantly. "Do you have a problem with that, Hawke?"

"Other than the fact that it's stupid, no," Hawke said with a shrug. "What would that accomplish?"

"Well, my, whatever could that accomplish," Anders said mockingly. He tightened his crossed arms and shrugged. "We could be friends, for example."

"We could be rare specimens of an exotic breed of dancing elephants from the Seheron jungles, but we're not," Hawke said calmly, and shrugged. "At least, I'm not."

Fenris broke into laughter. That melodic sound was the only thing she could hear in the world by then and everything else was blocked out and didn't matter. Damn him, but yippee that she made him laugh.

"Do you often use stings solely to push people away?" Anders asked sarcastically.

"Yes, I use my rapier wit to hide my inner pain," Hawke said sarcastically and rolled her eyes.

"Anything else we should know that isn't so obvious?" Anders pressed mockingly.

Finally she let the bottle down and said, "Well, I must disappoint you. There's nothing much to know about me. Two things mostly: The first is that I am deeply suspicious of people in general and it is in my nature to expect the worst of them. And second is that I am unexpectedly good at knitting."

"Well if you don't give people a chance, how could they ever impress you?" Anders muttered sarcastically.

"Are you familiar with the schools of ancient philosophy, Anders?" Hawke asked calmly.

"More or less," Anders replied.

"Mine is a mixture of the three most badass schools – the cynics, the stoics and the epicureans." She took a large sip again. "I can sum them up in one phrase – you can't trust any bugger further than you can throw him, be him human, elf, dwarf, mage, Templar, whatever, and there's nothing you can do about it, so let's have a drink."

She was thrown off when Fenris suddenly bumped his bottle into hers. "So… in that respect," Hawke continued, looking at Fenris in confusion, and coughed shortly. "Cheers."

"So you help people indiscriminately unless they are evil," said Anders. "But you don't believe there's a chance for justice to thrive and for the greater good to win and make peace."

Many people could say things in a cutting way, but Fenris could listen in a cutting way. He could make something sound stupid just by hearing it. "Men before you had already said things like 'peace in our time' or 'a free nation that will last a thousand years'," he intervened in a tired voice, "And less than half a lifetime later no one even remembered who they were, let alone what they had said," he paused to take a sip of whiskey, "or where the mob had buried their ashes."

"Then what about your precious Andraste who freed the slaves?" Anders asked. "Did her deeds not seem worthwhile, even if she was burned at the stake?"

Fenris curled his lips in annoyance. "Unless you prove to me that I magically hallucinated being tortured and enslaved in our present times, you have no argument."

"Oh yeah, Andraste. That story is open to interpretation." Hawke snorted. "She was imprisoned, tortured, ridiculed, burned at the stake. She looked up at the sky in tears and asked, 'Why Maker? Why hast thou forsaken me? After everything I've done for you!' and the Maker showed himself between the clouds, narrowed his eyes and mumbled, 'Well, there's just something about you that pisses me off. Here's a blade through your chest for free.'"

"Well, everything works out in time, but one needs to press and push repeatedly for change to happen," Anders objected passionately, ignoring Hawke. "If you sit around and mope about it of course nothing happens, Legion Commander."

"I believe you find life such a problem because you think there are the good people and the bad people," Fenris argued, taking a sip from the bottle. "You're wrong, of course. There are, always and only, the bad people, but some of them are on opposite sides."

"There's just no talking to you, is there?" Anders snorted and rolled his eyes. "You just let one bad experience color your judgment. At least Hawke has a bit more open-mindedness what with 'hating' people equally, expecting anyone to be capable of bad things, but I know that little comment you made was about mages in particular."

"It was not, in fact, directed to mages," said Fenris with half-lidded eyes, but then they tightened as they fixed upon him. "Or anyone in particular."

"But you do hold mages as the most dangerous," Anders said with narrowed eyes.

"Well, when ordinary men will be capable of raising the dead from the ground, you can immediately add them to my list of enemies," Fenris replied nonchalantly.

"Well if all people stuck their head inside a box like you do and locked themselves in it voluntarily no wonder doom is coming upon us," Anders said in exasperation.

"I will be more enthusiastic about people thinking outside the box when there is evidence of any thinking going on inside it," Fenris uttered with mockery in his tone.

"And the trouble with having an open mind, of course," Hawke added, to get Anders off her back, "is that people will insist on coming along trying to put things in it."

"Like universal truths that some people are evil and some people are simply good, no matter what they are?" Anders asked while rolling his eyes.

Fenris almost banged his bottle against the table after he took a large sip of whiskey. Then he started, "Now why do you people try to define others as simply good or simply evil?" He rolled his eyes and sighed. "No? No answer?" He took another sip. "Because no one wishes to admit that compassion and cruelty exist side-by-side in one heart. And that anyone is capable of anything."

"I feel the Angel of Death coming," Hawke muttered grumpily, before Anders could fire back and really set fire to the table. "And take those cards out from under your skirt, Isabela."

She curled her lips and rolled her eyes, "Fine, I fold."

"Me too," said Merrill. Aveline threw the cards straight on the table.

"I raise you 50," Hawke said confidently. She threw a cigarillo on the table, possibly waiting to be smoked in victory.

Anders and Fenris narrowed their eyes at each other, as if they telepathically agreed that there was no chance in hell that either of them would fold. They raised too.

"Well, well," Hawke said with a grin. She slowly picked the next card without showing it yet. "Could this be… The Angel of Death?" She turned it around, it was in fact it.

They showed their hands. Anders had two serpents, one dagger and one knight. Fenris had two knights, one song and a dagger. Hawke was all happy and evil smiles, showing four songs and a knight.

"My, you really were bluffing then," Hawke said to Fenris, lighting up the cigarillo of triumph. "Varric is gonna go bonkers when he finds out."

"However did you know?" Fenris said sarcastically.

"You always do that thing when you have a weak hand," Hawke said with a smile, puffing out circles in his face. "You know."

"What do I do?" he asked, frowning heavily and dodging the circles.

"Oh, well, if you don't know, how stupid would it be of me to tell you," she said and winked.

"Hmph," he muttered.

"You mad?" Isabela mused and winked at him. "Think about this way. I've been dethroned. It's a good day."

"Oh, how shocking," Fenris muttered sarcastically.

"Don't be so grumpy, Fen," Isabela snarled. "Next thing you know you'll be whining and giving me puppy dog eyes."

"Whatever eyes I give you, they will always be stamped with indifference," Fenris retorted coldly, drinking away again.

"To me maybe, but to my cleavage your eyes say otherwise," Isabela said with a wink.

Fenris smirked, then resumed his impenetrable expression and raised his bottle. "Summer is officially coming to an end and you know what that means." He took a large nonchalant sip and resumed calmly, "All you half naked ladies are going to have to find a personality."

Hawke immediately snorted, but Isabela wasn't pleased. She snarled, "I wager not even the cold winds of change could dethrone you from your grouchiness."

"It is hot outside," Fenris said flatly.

"So we're doomed," Isabela concluded. She shrugged and dealt the cards again.

"I do wish Kirkwall would be blessed with some colder airs," Hawke complained in dismay. "It certainly wouldn't kill Lord Fortunate to make some effort and brighten up my days, would it?"

"Compared to Minrathous, you have nothing to complain," Fenris said nonchalantly.

"I come from a place close to eternal winter, Fenris," Hawke protested in irritation.

Fenris rolled his eyes. "And I come from a place where in times of summer such as these, even I who am attuned to it, could cook my left testicle by standing."

You could see how things were fairly dire when Fenris started using words in the trade tongue regarding genitalia with absolutely no shame whatsoever.

"Well then I don't recommend visiting Ferelden anytime soon," Hawke said nonchalantly. "Your right testicle would surely fall off straight from the cold."

"Well, good to know," Fenris muttered.

"Well, I'm going to get myself some tea," Anders announced in defeat over the testicle discussion, and got up from the table. "Anyone else need anything?"

"I'd like a pint of ale," Fenris said coldly.

"What's the magic word?" Anders said and crossed his arms in waiting.

Fenris shrugged. "I don't know. Hurry?"

When Varric came to the table…

He came at the other head of the table, a bit drunk and extremely happy. His cheeks were flushed and he immediately got a cigar out of his jacket.

"Light me up, Hawke," Varric demanded. "You know, if I didn't already call you by your last name, this would've sounded much more badass."

"You could've said 'Light me up, Bianca', but that would've been just weird," Hawke said joyfully. Varric seemed tense as well as happy. "How's it going…?"

"I hate dwarves," Varric mumbled quickly.

Hawke pretended to gasp. "Even the cute dwarven girls?"

Varric shrugged grumpily. "All dwarves have beards and wear up to twelve layers of clothing. Gender is more or less optional."

"And that solves the mystery of why you turned to crossbows for your manly passion?" Fenris asked in amusement.

"All the pretty dwarven girls are mostly in Orzammar or in high-class whorehouses," Varric complained. He shrugged again. "You could see how that's a little inconvenient."

Fenris chuckled. "Because you stand your ground – see that is a good pun – that you are a non-conformist when it comes to your heritage, but you are a man of traditional values when it comes to having to pay for it?"

"Aren't you exactly the same, elf?" Varric fired back.

Fenris pressed his lips. "Hm. Good point."

Varric was a bit too hyper. He already had something else to talk about and started eagerly, "Have you guys noticed that it's common for people to say, 'I'm rather offended by that'."

Hawke was about to open her mouth, but Varric continued with flame in his tone, "As if that gives them certain rights. It's actually nothing more…than a whine." He flung his arms out in mockery and cited, " 'I find that offensive.'" He rolled his eyes. "It has no meaning! It has no purpose! It has no reason to be respected as a phrase. 'I am offended by that'." He flung his arms out again. "Well so fucking what."

"Let me guess. Your new book full of crazy embellishments and fantastical stories is out and it's already offended people," Aveline muttered grumpily.

"Stories of imagination tend to upset those without one," Varric said calmly.

"That's not the point, Varric," Aveline protested.

Varric raised his palm out to cut her. "My point is that I am fully aware that some of the stuff I write is going to offend people or piss them off." He placed his elbows on the table and blew the smoke up above his head. "They should be fully aware that I don't really give a damn."

"You should be careful, Varric, this isn't a very open-minded city," said Aveline.

Varric shrugged. "I couldn't hack it in Orlais. My writing wasn't bad enough."

"Which one did you publish?" Fenris asked.

"Hard in Hightown, Vol.2," Varric said proudly. "And no, Guard-Captain, I will not tell you who Donnen Brennicovick is modelled after or if that is even true. Or the others. But most of them are."

"I won't be hearing the end of it tomorrow," Aveline said with a sigh. "Curse you, Varric."

"Now I'm a bit worked up 'cause I don't know how to start volume three," Varric complained, ignoring Aveline completely.

"Is it the last one?" Fenris asked.

"Well now who in the Void and in their right mind would write quadrupologies?" Varric asked in sweet outrage.

"Thou who art not sane, of course," Hawke said courteously.

"Hm. You're going hot-headed Ferelden soon, aren't you?" Varric said with a grin. "Well, before that calamity of the world occurs, help me out here. How should I start?"

"You want to piss your readers off really hard for your last book?" Hawke mused. She looked up and thought about it. "How about this: 'Reader, suppose you were an idiot. And suppose you were a member of the Guard. But I repeat myself.'"

Varric laughed. "That's good, but I don't write in the first person or address to my audience."

"Then start up with something about Donnen that makes him this gloomy, tired badass that's getting too old for his shit," Hawke said. "Like 'Donnen leaned against the wall and lit a cigar. Smoking was his one vice. At least, it was his only vice that he thought of as vice. The others were just job skills.'"

"Hm. That could work," Varric said, staring in blank, obviously picturing it and probably adding imaginary red marks all over the imaginary phrase in front of his eyes. "Could you tell me that again tomorrow when I'm sober?"

"Now how could I ever promise that when I'm probably more wasted than you are," Hawke said in amusement.

"Elf?" Varric pleaded.

Fenris shrugged and drank again. "You're on your own, Tethras."

But Varric already resolved to unburden himself from worries. He quickly digressed. "Gosh, Hawke, can you believe it? You were up to your neck in debt three years ago."

"About two months in after that we were only up to our ass," Hawke added.

" – which was rather a triumphant victory in such a short time – " Varric also added.

" – and short-lived. We reached flat broke by the time we set off for the Deep Roads –"

" – then you became piss rich just in time for Satinalia," Varric finished.

Hawke raised her bottle nonchalantly. "Oh, the holiday miracles."

"I miss Junior," Varric said and pressed his lips. "How's he doing with the big-shot Wardens?"

She curled her lips with discomfort, which Fenris noticed, but then she resumed her smile. "He couldn't be better."

"You're not a very good liar when you're drunk," Varric whispered with a warm smile. "And I'm not talking about what you said, but rather about what you did not in fact say."

"I'm also not that drunk, so that's bad," Hawke muttered.

"Not really," Varric said sweetly. "I mean, you're already a bit nuts, so it's not gonna take long before the spirits kick in for real."

She raised the bottle in a toast. "And then the real nightmare begins."

Varric titled his head to look past her at Fenris. "How's it going there, Lord?"

"Business is good," Fenris answered, raising his pint, but his tone denoted utter boredom.

Varric came closer to Hawke, leaning on the corner of the table, and whispered, "Are you deliberately ignoring him, or is he deliberately ignoring you?"

Hawke shrugged and whispered back grumpily, "Both. Neither. I don't know."

"… Those are the three answers," Varric whispered back. "Something happen?"

"Yes. No. I don't know." She pressed her lips and lifted her eyebrows.

He immediately nodded with a historically familiar spark in his eyes. "I'll – "

"No," Hawke cut him, squeezing his arm a bit too harshly. "Stay out of it."

"But I must know!" Varric protested.

"Well, get used to disappointment, highness," Hawke snarled firmly.

"Fine," Varric muttered, fixing his eyes and narrowing them on her. "I gotta go schmooze a guy with my pretend-cousin over there. If I'm back and this is still going on, I'm butting in whether you like it or not."

"Fine," Hawke said cuttingly. "Move your ass before I smite you."

"Don't have to tell me twice," Varric mumbled. "See ya."

As soon as he disappeared, Hawke clutched at the table, banged twice and sighed once. She looked at Fenris. "So… what's going on?"

"The same thing as always," Fenris replied with a shrug. "The end of the world."

She started to smile crookedly and scratched behind her ear. "Anything else new with y –?"

"I'm still mad at you."

"Alright."

One hour later

The group started to gradually disband during the next hour. Isabela resolved to win her money back by playing with strangers who didn't already know she was a flaming cheater, Merrill was dragged into it on the grounds that she should "learn to mingle" and Fenris left the table to hang out with Varric, both of them becoming drunker by the second as soon as they joined forces. At one point, Aveline snuck out into Varric's room when Donnic and Brenan showed up to have a drink. Hawke thought about going to Varric, but disturbing Fenris's fun time did not look pretty in her head with all the train of consequences that would follow. As soon as he saw a smile on Fenris while talking to the dwarf, she completely banished all thoughts to join.

Until Aveline could come back, she was stuck with Anders.

"I'm guessing you don't want another round of me stealing your money," Hawke muttered to him.

"You guess correctly," Anders said with a smile.

"Hm." She searched her mind. "Would you rather we talked?"

"That is a reasonable, fairly standard way of socializing with other people in a public area," Anders mumbled sardonically.

"That's not the standard way to socialize in a dark alley then?" Hawke mused all-grinningly.

"Well, that would be such a waste," Anders mused on. "There are so many more entertaining things you could do in a dark alley."

"Like putting out milk for stray lonely cats such as yourself," Hawke cut him with a big smirk on her face.

"Well that's not socializing per se, at least I don't see it that way," Anders retorted. He grinned. "Of course I won't turn down an offer for human socializing should it come my way."

"In a dark alley you mean?" Hawke asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Anywhere, really," Anders said with a serious face. Then he grinned again. "But especially in a dark alley, of course."

Hawke snorted. "Is this the part where I should go 'Ga-row, meet you out in five, sailor'?"

"I think the appropriate term for me would be wizard in this case," Anders said nonchalantly.

"Yes, oh mighty rambunctious wizard, meet you out in five and you could make the earth run from under my feet with your big, magic staff," Hawke mumbled sarcastically.

Anders shrugged and smile. "Most of them have to compensate."

"But not you," Hawke said with a raised eyebrow.

"Well," Anders went on, smirking again. "There's only one way to find out."

"Are you drunk on green tea or something?" Hawke asked. Who knew, with Anders, anything short of accepting the Circle and the Chantry was possible.

"I'm just playing around, lighten up," Anders said with a smile. "Of course, if it bothers you, I'll stop."

Hawke chuckled. "Well that would mean that I would also have to stop playing around, and that would make me sad." Of course, having lost most of her keen perception, she didn't suspect at all that what he meant, and what she meant, were regarding completely different things and each of them understood what they wanted.

And the matter would not be resolved, because a weird-accented voice came tickling her ear in a bad way up to that point. "I'm sorry, I ran late."

She turned her head and beheld an effigy that really didn't belong to the scenery of this tavern. She didn't seem to mind or notice. "He-hey, Sebastian, comm-ere! Have a seat! Get a load of this whiskey."

"I'll pass, but thank you," Sebastian drawled and took a seat in front of her next to Anders. "Good evening."

"Same to you," Anders saluted nonchalantly. "What brings you here of all places?"

Sebastian smiled in perfect innocence. "Oh, Varric invited me."

Anders contained his urge to snort and asked, "Making friends in low places, I see?"

"No, actually he hangs around the Chantry a lot." Sebastian shrugged. "It's strange, but who am I to question. He seems like a good fellow."

"He can be nice," Hawke muttered with a smile. "He also can be resourceful in finding good hiding spots."

"Oh, is that why come around too, Hawke?" Sebastian asked. "There is a rumor going on that you found the Maker after you came back from your travels. I'm sure that doesn't have anything to do with yours visits." Oh, now whoever could it be, that started this rumor?

"That seems rather unlikely." Hawke smirked and drank away. "I have enough difficulty finding the keys to my house, and there is empirical evidence that they exist."

Sebastian sighed despondently. "I see you haven't changed your views since our last," he accentuated the next word, "serious debate we had."

"I did not pertain to the subject of the Maker at all in our last serious debate," Hawke objected and drank again. "What we argued about was your religion. You can see how that is different."

"Whether we discuss Adrastianism or the Maker does not make a difference," Sebastian protested.

"Now there's where you're wrong," said Hawke. "Religion is one thing, faith is another."

"Of which you have neither, I suppose," Sebastian said calmly.

She banged the bottle on the table. "I most certainly do!" She rolled her eyes. "I strongly believe that anyone can believe whatever they want, as long as it's their choice rather than getting convictions stuffed down their throat, and as long as they don't come to harm others."

"Well what sort of difference does your faith have from ours?" Sebastian protested. "Our faith has not harmed anyone, rather it has the duty of helping others."

"By sitting and praying, and doing nothing as in," Anders muttered grumpily.

Hawke smiled drunkenly. "Oh no, praying is great, without it the thumbscrews and the Iron Maiden probably never would have been invented."

"By people," Sebastian corrected. "It's what people do, and not all of it is pleasant."

"Yes, yes, the people," Hawke said and rolled her eyes, shooting Anders a look as if to say, 'Now you understand why I hate people?'. She continued in a grumpy tone, "The powerful people and the weaker people. The rich and the poor. The blessed and the not so blessed."

"What of them?" Sebastian asked in confusion.

She rolled her eyes again. "You know what 'good' initially meant? It designated the right of those individuals from the Knight class who had enough mind to live their lives by sheer force of will. But a 'priestly' caste, motivated by their resentment of their 'natural' superiors, men in power, men with noble blood, men who had magic and so on, generated a corrupt alternative that would appeal to 'the herd' of less capable people, turning values inside-out. In your 'morality' reinforced by your religion, forceful actions get labeled as 'evil' unless they are imposed by the one and only Chantry. That's it. And the herd goes with it and whatever they say, of course. And the cowardly tendency of the Chantry to think through everything in advance, like imprisoning mages for their own good to protect others, is transformed into the supposed virtue of prudence."

"It is the virtue of prudence, how can you say otherwise?" Sebastian protested. "Look what happened not a week ago here."

"Yeah, some puppets came to life and people killed all the dangers," Anders said grumpily. "How scary. One mage goes bonkers, all of them have to be evil."

But Hawke already became hot-headed philosophical and raised a finger to make them shut up and let her continue, "Genuine autonomy, could only mean freedom from all external constraints on one's behavior. If the behavior in question of that one citizen becomes dangerous, he gets punished once there is evidence of his own doing. Simple." She took a sip and still continued, "In this (natural and admirable) state of existence, each individual would live a life without artificial limits of moral obligation. No other sanction on conduct would be necessary than the natural punishment involved in the victory of a superior person over a vanquished enemy. And we have Guards and soldiers for that plenty."

"Yes, we torture innocents, certainly," Sebastian said sarcastically.

Hawke ignored him. "But the wish of lesser people to secure themselves against interference from those who they are paranoid of being better, more powerful, gives rise to a false sense of moral responsibility. The natural fear of being overwhelmed by a foe becomes internalized as self-generated sense of guilt, and individual conscience places severe limits on the normal exercise of someone's rights to life and living. It's a self-betrayal of all races to submit its freedom to the fictitious demands of an imaginary god. Or at least the demands that people deem as coming from the words of a god." She pointed at him. "Afraid to live by strength of your own wills, you invent religion as a way of generating and then explaining perpetual sense of being downtrodden and defeated in life. Thus, everyone else must be taken down with you."

Sebastian shook his head. "But the good people preserve what is good, no matter what. There are evil people, even within the Chantry, that I will not object, but such beings will come to see penance as they always do." Now he pointed at her. "And that will never change as long as we have faith in the Maker that he will preserve us."

"Of course, of course," Hawke uttered joyfully, smiling with half-lidded eyes. "You have to believe that, I appreciate. Otherwise you'd go mad," she said nonchalantly, taking a large sip from the bottle. Her bright, elusive smile did not so much as flicker. "Otherwise you'd think you're standing on a feather-thin bridge over the vaults of the Void. Otherwise existence would be a dark, mind-numbing agony and the only hope would be that there is no life after death." She closed her eyes and nodded. "I quite understand."

Meanwhile at Varric's table

Scrutinizing the first copies of his book, Varric frowned at showed the great printer dwarf Willem Tapster (it was pronounced Will-uhm like the sound old dying toads used to make as he said it), cousin of Rudy Tapster of Tapster's Tavern back in Orzammar, that he misspelled Harf in Hightown.

"Mess'd up that bit. Wasn't payin' a'ention," Tapster muttered with masked inconvenience. He was drunk as a nug. "Er… leave it. Imma make the R bigger or sumfin'." He coughed hoarsely. "That's it then. Hoe many of'em copies tchu want, eh?"

"I don't know…" Varric started counting on his fingers, overestimating his ability what with the cogs meshed up in the jittery gearbox that was his drunken brain doing a poor job at clonking into place.

Fenris got his mind up to something approaching the correct speed, and decided to do the talking, at least most of the coherent talking, since he was still two whiskeys away from joining Varric in his gentle waterslide under the moon. "Make it a hundred. He has a lot of readers within the Guard."

"Make it fiffy… fifty," Varric mumbled. "I don't wanna risk it just yet, even –f's a classic."

Fenris remembered his first publication. He smirked and said, "You had to admire a guy who called his own new book a classic before it was published and anyone else had a chance to read it."

"Nothing ventured, nothing gained," Varric said proudly. "Plus, it is a classic."

"Mhm, g—d ri—nce. Mm. Imma make it a hun'red anyhowe," said Tapsters. "You got a lo'a rea'ers in the Mershents Guilde."

"I do?" Varric asked, almost appearing surprised. "I don't suppose the Thieves Guild took a liking with me too now."

"Mh-hm-hm," Tapsters coughed. "Can't knowe for sure. Can't trus'em, you knowe."

"Can't reach them more likely," Fenris muttered.

"Well Guard-Captain over there," Varric started but didn't seem to spot Aveline and his hand started trembling a bit. He went on undaunted, "does reach them sometimes –not through me by the way, but still, they deem it rather useless and go on with more important matters."

"More important matters than going after criminals?" Fenris asked with an accusatory eyebrow.

Varric chuckled. "Well even the Guard knows you can't go around arresting the Thieves Guild. They'd be at it all day."

They had tried that once, a very long time ago as he understood, but the details were 'fully classified' so Varric interpreted it to his liking in his first book. And he was sure he wasn't far from the truth either. I mean, how can a full rank feel after such a long and wild goose chase other than returning to their barracks as if they had returned from attempting to single-handedly conquer a distant province and failing horribly at it, of course? They'd bang their backs to the wall, produce a cigar confiscated from whatever dimple-faced gutter nut-hook they arrested that day and ask themselves why in the world they chose to be guards in the first place. They'd blow some circles, really thinking about it, all while feeling tremendously "bucked-up"; at least that's how Varric chose to put it (which was definitely several letters of the alphabet away from how they actually felt).

"True, true," Tapsters agreed with his eyes closed. The man was a roaring slobbering husk of a coughing machine. "Can't catch'em all. Matterofact… matterofact… stan's to reaison." He took a large sip of ale to clean his overly cobwebbed throat, then his words finally sounded like they came from an eloquent rational being. "The economy would be doomed."

Fenris rolled his eyes through the back of his head. "Let's hope you get more readers with the beggars since you're bashing on the Guards so ruthlessly."

"I have a poor slob who reads everything I publish. I don't know his real name but people call him Black-Eye Schlobby," Varric said happily. "He hangs out by the Docks. Comes here every Tuesday. He isn't allowed in the Beggars Guild anymore though."

"Howp ya make'et, Varrec," Tapsters muttered huskily, pat him strongly on the back, then drank his ale. He flung a hand out. "Wassa name, by'awieh," he mumbled and pointed at the back with his thumb, "the rea'hea'."

"Guard Captain Aveline Vallen, Serah," Varric said, articulating the 'captain' more loudly so everyone else around the tables heard him clearly. "Crime fighter and doombringer to all foes."

"Nah, no' 'er," Tapsters mumbled. "The 'eally 'ed won."

"The what?" Varric pleaded with a raised eyebrow.

Tapster cleared his throat again with ale, and then again cleared his throat, making the sound a stomach would make if it digested pebbles. "The really red one."

"Oh." Varric scratched behind his ear. "A good friend of mine. Really good friend of mine." Again, he had to speak louder so any supposed cut-throat shady character would get the idea that there would be trouble if they caused trouble.

"She's Hawke, she is," Tapters muttered. "She mussbe. Mhm, mhm… bloody, li'erally bloody well woman tha' wone."

"Don't trust any rumor you hear, Taps," Varric quickly said. "Not all of them which say she lures children away from their mothers and eats them is true." He winced and hit his forehead. "I mean… none of those are true, is what I'm saying."

"Well she doesn't eat them per se, she just roasts them over the coals for a while and lets them go," Fenris mused evilly. Varric raised an eyebrow. Fenris shrugged all-smiling, clutching with both hands at the bottle between his thighs. "It's a Ferelden thing."

"Don't trust the elves," Varric muttered sharply, murdering Fenris with his eyes. "If only their nose would grow as long and pointy as their ears each time they lie."

"Wot… wot?" another drunken dwarf intervened. "'s not true. 'mpossible."

His name was Alexander Hemlock, a very skilled, very handsome because beardless, dagger-wielder and 'licensed thief' from the Thieves Guild (this was separate from the Coterie, although the names were always confused and interchanged, so the two guilds were having endless altercations with each other for no good reason, and they didn't fret over stealing from one another whilst the superiors were busy barking at one another. Varric called it honorable reciprocity). He helped the Merchants Guild with the unknown trade of unknown substances and other unknown objects now and then, among other things.

But after thorough character analysis from his friends, he involuntarily went by the alias of Alfie The Buttstabber. You could see how Varric was never enthusiastic about Merchants Guild meetings. But he wasn't really an assassin hired by the Merchants Guild, at least that's what Varric thought with the last speck of hope he had. An assassin, a real assassin that is, had to be fully dressed in black clothes, black hood, black boots, black daggers and all, he thought to himself. If they could wear any clothes, any disguise, then what could anyone do but spend all day in a small room with a loaded crossbow pointed at the door, right?

The dwarf continued, "But I 'ear she cracked ol' Aquila's skull open and punched his eyes out from their sockets."

Varric frowned. "Well that might be true… the fuck's an Aquila?"

Alfie the Buttstabber shook his head. "Who. Who is Aquila."

"Who the fuck's Aquila," Varric pressed, severely grumpy as he was.

"That ol' hunky renegade from Tevinter who used to lead the lyrium trade with them guilds backinnaday," Alfie the Buttstabber explained, as if this information was clearly reasonable and they should know all about it because it was in the papers too. He snorted and produced a cigar from his deep pockets. "T-whell, backinnaday as in until this summer." He shrugged and pointed at his face. "Y'know. With them scars."

Varric was still frowning, but something like a thought appeared to have bumped into his head by accident. "Oh. The merchants called him Cupcake. I don't know why, his head was shaped kind of like a banana." He took a sip of ale, ignoring that Fenris seemed extremely confused because he did not recall any such encounter in their company. "Yeah, he had the unfortunate of calling her dollface. Well that and he was bad. So she resolved to give him a pretty makeover."

Alfie looked behind to her table. "She kinda looks like a doll though. Wouldn't guess from the face that she can crack your skull open with her bare hands. Well, the armor gives you a hint, but most people aren't receptive to hints until they catch them by the throat and cracks their skulls open, y'know."

"Oh, Aflie, don't tell me you're thinking of stabbing her butt," Varric mused.

Handsome Alfie smirked through his teeth. "Not the regular stabbing, no."

"Perish that thought," Varric exclaimed. "Before, you know…" he started dangling his fingers in the air to make it look spooky and went on in a hissy monstrous voice, "before you perish."

Alfie couldn't stop smiling. "I fight fire with fire."

"No, you fight fire with six different types of poison and pointy Antivan stilettos," Varric corrected all-determined to make him back off, for some reason.

He looked behind him again and said, "Well." He looked back at them and shrugged with a manly smirk. "See you on the other side."

"Alf – Alfie – oh dear…" Varric clamped his face with a hand and shook his head. "Bastard's gonna die."

"Is that why we never see her admirers?" Fenris asked mockingly. "Because they're all dead by the time we get here?"

"Well if you die by the crack of dawn, then yeah, mystery solved," Varric muttered through the palm that was still on his face.

"Then it is not so much a mystery as it is a fairy tale," Fenris uttered and rolled his eyes.

Tapsters fell asleep and leaned against the wall in the meantime, so Varric took the chance to go passive accusatory on his ass. "So… let me guess. The stubborn diamonds put the lid on the pot with giving another shiny makeover to something."

"Perceptive," Fenris said in pretend-amazement, having his eyes fixed forwards. "Even when you're drunk."

"I'm sharp, Serah," Varric corrected, drinking his ale. "I'm sharp like a knife, kind of like these merchants here are when it comes to making just the right amount of wrong change."

Something like a hoarse chuckle resounded from Fenris's breath, then he said, "I do not wish to talk about it, I must disappoint you."

Varric almost banged his head against the back wall as he leaned on it and rolled his eyes. "You must, yes, it's kind of like you're setting a goal to make me pull my hair out with your 'I don't wanna talk about' bit; gosh, I'm taken aback with this piece of news."

"Well if you were taken affront, then that would be piece of news right there," Fenris muttered, pretending to sound eager again.

"Your pretentious jokes suck when you're drunk," Varric said sharply. "Well, more than they already suck when you're sober."

They both sat with their backs against the wall, looking grim and tired. Fenris still held the bottle between his legs to keep him chilly, which didn't really work but he went numb after Unknown Bottle number two, so he just went with it. Stayed with it more likely. Varric rested his pint on one leg and produced a cigar from his jacket. Tapster started to snore and even a giant hibernating bear would admit to its inferiority in comparison.

They beheld the little scenery in front of them. Farther away, Hawke was gesturing vigorously around, perhaps in trying to explain to Sebastian that the eggplant she was shaping with her fingers in the air was what the Chantry folk had replaced his brain with. But then her rapid graphic gestures were interrupted when handsome Alfie leaned over with his elbow on the table next to her and commenced a conversation of sorts, if he were lucky to last more than fifteen seconds before she would start laughing and patting him on the head to go away.

Varric titled his head in Fenris's direction without looking at him and pretended to put words in Alfie's mouth from afar, "Hooh, d'you have a sunburn milady, or are you always this hot?"

Of course they couldn't hear the conversation, they could only interpret from their faces. And Hawke was arching an eyebrow at the moment, raising her elbow as her hand was resting on her leg.

Fenris silently agreed to join in Varric's game and produced her line, "Do you often stare death in the eye or is this a special occasion?"

Alfie started to laugh and kept smiling pointing behind with the back of his thumb, then said something, which Varric produced as, "Well I've been staring at you from over there for a good while and thought I'd see just how close I can fly towards the sun without getting burned. Seems I'm capable enough."

She also looked to her side towards their table, and then looked back at Alfie, which Fenris translated as, "I've also noticed you from the other side of the bar. You look way better over there."

Alfie was smirking confidently and put one foot over the other. Varric said, "They said you were feisty but boy, were they understating it. How about you tell me a little about yourself?"

Hawke started to look the other way, sighed and then said something to him. Fenris translated, "Well my greatest strength is my self-deprecating sense of humor, but it's probably not worth getting to know me."

Varric went on, since Aflie started gesturing towards her as if he was demanding something, "What do you do for a living, you know, besides what the rumors say?"

Hawke was smiling elusively, so Fenris fired back, "Well, apart from eating dwarves like you for breakfast, I'm a female impersonator."

Alfie was laughing and gesturing towards the entrance, so Varric started to chuckle too and said, "Well, you look female enough, which is more than I can say for the females in my race. What do you say we go back to my place?"

Hawke was still smiling ever so nicely and clutched at her belt. Fenris translated, "Sure. Let me get my gags and handcuffs and we're good to go."

Alfie for some reason took out a dagger and thrust it swiftly in the table and fixed his eyes on her, which Varric interpreted as, "I like your eyes."

Hawke didn't seem to flicker one bit. She nonchalantly rested her chin under her hand with her elbow on the table and kept smiling. "Well, my eyes don't like you," Fenris decoded.

Alfie didn't shudder either, but he got his dagger out of the table and brushed his fingers against the edge of the blade as he spoke shortly and stared her confidently in the eye, which Varric produced as, "I would die for you, Hawke."

Fenris smirked and gave her the line to attune to her winking at him. "Prove it."

And the next thing that happened was that handsome, courageous Alfie decided to delay acting upon his death wish and prepared to walk away. Fenris and Varric both started to laugh and bumped their bottles together.

"'Tis a good night not to die then, the dwarf thus decided," Varric mused and raised the bottle of ginger ale, having given up on pints, which drooled faster in his drunken grip.

"A wise choice," Fenris agreed in a knightly tone.

But then something went wrong and completely in discord with what they so cleverly decoded, because Hawke came up from the table and Alfie chivalrously gestured an 'After you'. Either it was that or he had an arm spasm. Hawke beckoned at Anders and Sebastian what seemed to be a 'I'll be back' and turned her happy gaze at the dwarf.

"Illcrackisskullopen." Varric lifted his gaze. It sounded like Fenris's voice, and it had seemed to come from the general area of his face, it was just that it demonstrated an incoherence you did not often get from him, ever.

She went out of the tavern with him. Varric was searching his mind for some logic in this turn of events, but his instinct went to carefully scrutinize his fellow's next action that could possibly be as violent and incoherent as the line he had previously muttered with a subtle little ferocity even he wasn't used to. As he looked at him, Fenris took out the bottle from between his knees and appeared to resolve to finish it in one take.