Of all the pubs and taverns across Thedas, landlocked or dockside, Isabela supposes the Hanged Man would certainly rank very firmly in the middle of the lot. There's nothing terribly particular, or particularly terrible, about it one way or another. The drinks are predictably shit, but that's not a crime, as far as she's concerned. Tavern swill is a comfortingly universal language, with little room for creative interpretation.
The smell isn't nearly as bad as Kirkwallers think it is, though the way they go on about it makes Isabela suspect it's actually a point of pride. It smells of piss and vomit and stagnant sea foam, like any proper tavern ought to. But it's not burn-your-nostrils, oh-Maker-hand-me-a-bucket rancid like that one inn off on the Fuck Off, Nowhere eastern coast of Ferelden she and her crew hunkered down in through a storm a few summers ago. It was a remarkable feat that an establishment that far from anything, including people, could wield a smell that potent.
As far as the patrons go, Isabela's seen ruder, crasser, and leagues fitter crowds than the lot that frequents the Hanged Man. Within the month, she's fucked her way through the best on offer and the idea of coming back for seconds makes the roof of her mouth itch. Occasionally, merchant crews from Antiva or Rivain will drop anchor for a night or two and Isabela wakes up to the scent of cinnamon and salt spray and sweat and it feels like Satinalia came early. She spends the days after stiff and sore in all the right places and it fills her with a wistful homesickness that she forces deep into the pit of her stomach because it doesn't do to dwell on such things when there's dishonest work to be done. So after a day or two of recovering in her threadbare sheets and chattering with that devilishly handsome dwarf with resplendent chest hair down the hall, she sets back to the work that has her woefully stranded in this just okay city.
And regretfully, that work is what has her surrounded by some of her more oafish associates presently. Something something, you owe us money, something something, whore. Isabela is no stranger to that particular moniker being spat hatefully at her by men and women of all stripes, in as many languages, but something about it being hurled by someone as mightily incompetent as Lucky chafes at her in a way that makes her feel positively violent.
"Well, Lucky. I'll tell you what." She drawls, pouring a cloudy lowball of the Hanged Man's worst. "Since the information you gave me was worth nothing, that's what I'll pay you."
She moves to take a drink, but Lucky slams her wrist down, the amber liquid splashing into a nick on her forefinger and Maker's balls, that stings.
"Me and my boys will get our money's worth, bitch." He snarls, and Isabela is so struck by how much he looks like one of the particularly hideous types of fish found sucking up sand and muck that don't taste very lovely at all, that she nearly misses the familiar, ugly gleam in his eyes that sets something on fire low in her, hot and angry.
"Oh." She coos, cocking her head at him. "Oh, you poor, sweet thing."
For a moment, brief and sweet enough to luxuriate in, Lucky looks almost excited. Truly an impressive specimen of a moron. She snakes a hand through his hair, and he has the nerve to shut his eyes. Just as well.
Isabela is hard-pressed to think of a sound more satisfying than a man's nose splintering against a bar counter. Maybe the pop of a champagne cork, or waves lapping against the hull of a ship. A headboard creaking. Oh bother, she's getting distracted.
She lets Lucky drop to his knees to sag and whimper, clutching his nose. His goons scramble to come to his aid, but they're not much to fret over. They're slow, sluggish. Weighed down by poor training and overconfidence. A potent combination, that. She doesn't have to bother with drawing her daggers until she hears the hiss of steel being drawn from Lucky's scabbard, and even that is more of a courtesy than anything else. Whirling, she levels her blade at his throat, lifting a brow.
"Tell me, Lucky. Is this worth dying for?"
His pale eyes dart frantically back and forth, nose bleeding violently and freely, taking measure of his crew as they hoist themselves back to their feet, groaning. He spits, taking a step back and storming out of the bar in an arc, leaving Isabela a graciously wide berth. She smirks, propping her elbows up on the bar and leaning bodily against it. She traces the rim of her glass with her pinky, feeling altogether delighted with herself.
"I didn't think so."
Out of pure indulgence, she watches them scamper through the threshold of the tavern, thoroughly chastised. Stupid sod couldn't even make a clean getaway with any dignity, bumping into a modestly-sized throng at the door. Blunders right into a sandstone wall of a woman in full plate that doesn't budge in the slightest when he slips past her, murmuring what could have been easily an apology or an insult. She manages to fashion a truly impressive scowl at him, either way.
Isabela flicks through the lineup, not seeing any familiar faces among them. They're a ruddy lot, definitely Fereldan. They're all eye-catching, in a way. The blockish ginger in the unflattering armor has a face chiseled out of no-nonsense and wrought iron, liberally spattered with freckles that are entirely too precious to be wasted emblazoning such severity. At her side is a deliciously broad young man with dark hair and arms like well-knotted rope. Isabela shudders at the thought of all that rippling. To her mild dismay, his attention seems wholly dedicated to the adorable little sprig of a woman at his side. All joints and glowing eyes, the elf is beaming up at him and chattering in that clipped sort of way that the Dalish do, and she's got the face tattoos to match. Interesting.
Finally, her gaze sweeps over the tall one at the front, her stomach twisting and untwisting in delight at the prospect of this one. The height ought to be ungainly, and it kind of sort of is, but she manages it with a sort of knowing grace, every movement precise and calculated enough to suggest easygoing lethality. A shock of coal hair nearly tangles in a thicket of dark eyelashes. Eyelashes that frame a set of the least subtle blue eyes Isabela has seen in all her particularly long days. In fact, everything about this woman seems to be exaggerated to the point of distraction. Her nose is long and straight, like the needle of a compass. Her grin errs too far to the right, dimpling one narrow cheek and not the other. Her clothes are nearly embarrassing, too-big and too-small, fraying and soot-stained, but she bears herself as if she's cloaked in the finest Antivan silks. A spear is slung loosely over her back, its blade curved and cruel like a fisherman's hook. Bottles and flasks line the belt cinched tight around those barely-there hips. Not the weapons of choice for honest folk.
This could work. It's worth a shot, she thinks. It's not like she's found a better option, yet.
Isabela tosses back the rest of her drink with a wince and swipes the back of her hand over her lips. The mannish redhead has caught her staring and is doing a wonderful impression of a thundercloud with only her face. Isabela winks at her, graciously taking the cue to introduce herself. As she sashays across the tavern floor, easily weaving through patrons and their wandering hands, one by one she gets their attention. Ginger certainly doesn't look pleased at the proximity, while Arms and the Adorable One seem to be starry-eyed to varying effect. Tall, dark, and lanky is the last to notice her approach, tilting her head lazily Isabela's way. A smirk tugs one corner of her lips skyward and close up, and those chipped-ice eyes are ever so slightly unsettling.
"You're new around here, aren't you?" Isabela says, although she already knows the answer. Arms puffs up a bit at that, as if the question has affronted him somehow. The beanpole laughs this great, hideously melodic honk of a laugh.
"Did all our finery give it away?" She asks, stretching her arms wide, the wingspan of a sodding albatross, showing off every shoddily-stitched hole in her tunic. "Or maybe it was the sunburns on our gloriously fair complexions?"
Isabela snorts, dropping a hand to rest on our hip, "Actually, I was going to say that you look far too happy to be here at all."
Dark brows lift even further into a copse of raven hair at that.
"Well, what's not to be happy about?" She asks in a raspy voice that is absolutely shivery. "The sun is sort of shining and the stench of rotting fish entrails is blessedly downwind today."
"It's the little things, isn't it?" Isabela purrs. "The name's Isabela. Formerly Captain Isabela. Sadly, without a ship, the title rings a bit hollow."
The southerner's gaze rakes her up and down, more appraising than leering.
"A pleasure, captain." She says easily, extending a hand. Friendly, guileless. "I'm Hawke."
By the feel of the calluses and nicks littering her hand, Hawke is no stranger to a hard day's work. She considers for a moment if it might be the kind of work that would be of any benefit to her. There's a certain unsavory glint in the gangly southerner's eye that gets Isabela's nerves a-thrumming with something that feels like promise.
"The pleasure is mine." She says, lacquering her voice with her specially formulated brand of innuendo. Hawke's eyes spark, but it's not with the anticipated lust. It's knowing amusement. Isabela thinks to feel ashamed for being caught out so easily, and so quickly, but it's to her benefit that any sense of shame has long since made itself scarce. "Say, how would you like to-"
She's cut off by a throat being cleared, haughtily. Ginger's arms cross with the clanking fanfare of her plate, which Isabela just now notices is the standard of the city guard. She wonders if she's crossed this one yet, or if she's just green and has good instincts. Obviously not upstanding enough to steer clear of Hawke, who upon rigorous examination, (purely professional), looks like the Patron Saint of All Things Rakish and Scheme-y. She clears her throat again, pointedly, narrowing her eyes. Testy. Hawke tosses a glance over her shoulder and sighs.
"Unfortunately, as my associate has ever so tactfully pointed out, we've an appointment that we're a bit late in keeping." She says, running a hand through the absolute whirlwind of her hair. "Maybe I'll see you around, hey?"
Isabela taps her chin thoughtfully, but Hawke is being borne away and up the stairs, none too delicately by her stodgy companion before she can get a word out. It's a given that all sailors are gamblers, so she shouts:
"Maybe I'll see you at the Chantry in Hightown? Midnight?"
Hawke whirls, looking madly thrilled, all sharp angles and mischievous giddy.
"I thought you'd never ask!"
With a rough push and a thoroughly undignified squawk, she and her companions disappear to the upper reaches of the Hanged Man, where no good has ever been known to occur. Isabela smiles, sauntering back to the bar and rapping her knuckles for another round. The burn of bad whisky settles keen and heavy at the back of her throat and she considers that maybe the swill in Kirkwall is better than she'd given it credit for.