The templar standing next to the door of the Hanged Man looked as acutely uncomfortable as a man can look with his face completely obscured by a helmet. At the sight of him, Hawke, who had been descending the stairs to the main floor of the tavern, stopped so abruptly that Merril bounced off the rogue's back with a startled squeak.

"Wonder how Tinskirt plans to drink with his helmet on," Hawke commented in a quiet, mocking tone.

"Oh sod," Varric muttered from behind her, his hand already on Bianca's stock.

"You know, Varric, I've noticed something," Hawke observed in a tone designed to carry across the Hanged Man's crowded main room.

"Keep me out of this, would you, Hawke," the dwarf pleaded.

But she went on as though she had not heard him, "The templars wear helmets, the Qunari Arvaarad have those steel facemasks... I wonder- is it out of shame or fear that all mage hunters feel the need to hide their faces?"

The templar did not seem to react to the comment, but perhaps that was only because it would have been impossible for him to look more unhappy than he had before Hawke spoke.

At one of the tables near the stairs a large, ruddy-faced dockworker got unsteadily to his feet and glared at Hawke. "Here now," he protested loudly, "you'll not be comparing our lads with those filthy heathen oxmen!"

A smirk lifted the corner of Hawke's mouth, and Varric sighed in resignation. The young woman strode slowly and deliberately over to the table, and gazed skeptically up into the man's broad, angry face. "And just who's going to stop me, Tiny? You?" She jabbed a finger into his pudgy chest, then drew back, wrinkling her nose. "And you hardly have the right to call anyone 'filthy'."

With a snarl, the fat man drew back a heavy fist and struck a tremendous blow to the air where Hawke's face had been a moment before. Meeting no resistance, he overbalanced and, with the help of Isabella's well-placed boot, went sprawling across the table to the great dismay of his fellows whose drinks he overturned.

Varric watched with a mixture of awe and dismay as Hawke transformed the congenial tavern into something like a beer-soaked battlefield. He was grateful to see that neither she nor Isabella seemed to be using the blades of their daggers, and Merril, standing wide-eyed against the wall, was keeping her disturbingly destructive magic out of the fight altogether. Keeping his head down, and clearing a path with the butt of his crossbow when necessary, Varric shoved, dodged, and occasionally punched his way to the door while Merril daintily edged along the wall to the same destination. Isabella soon joined them, cradling somebody else's drink which she had rescued from the fray. A moment later, a bruised and grinning Hawke arrived at the door, and the four friends slipped out into the cool, and relatively quiet air of the Lowtown streets.

"Was that a real brawl?" Merril asked wonderingly as soon as they were outside.

Hawke's rapidly swelling lips turned up in a grin. "Yes, Merril. Your first real bar fight. How did you like it?"

"Well it was very exciting," the little elf replied earnestly.

Hawke's answering chuckle died on her lips, and she reached for her daggers as she saw the templar from inside the bar waiting on the side of the street.

"Ser Hawke?" The man's voice was hesitant, and unexpectedly young.

Hawke sketched a mocking bow, her blades at the ready. "Ser Buckethead."

The templar ignored her insulting tone. "My name is Ser Simon. I... was told you could help me."

"I very much doubt that." Hawke sheathed her daggers and turned away dismissively.

He did not follow, but neither did he give up. "My sister is a mage."

Hawke stopped walking, but did not turn.

"She is in the Gallows."

Hawke's jaw clenched. "You have my condolences, Serrah. So is mine."

"I know," Ser Simon removed his helmet awkwardly, revealing shaggy brown hair and a round, almost childlike face. "Bethany said I should come find you. Templars are not permitted to serve in the same Circles as their mage family members. I have been able to hide my connection to Brooke until now, but the Knight Commander is becoming suspicious. I fear she will separate us."

Hawke sighed and turned to face him. "From all I've heard about the Kirkwall Circle, perhaps it would be better for your sister to be transferred somewhere else."

"And what if she is not?" he persisted. "What if I am transferred to another Circle, and she is left here in Kirkwall with no one to protect her? Brooke is not like your sister. Bethany is strong, clever..." he flushed, then hurried on, "Brooke is smart, but she doesn't know how to deal with people. Without someone to cover for her and tell her when to hold her tongue, she won't survive in the Circle."

There was something in the templar's tone when he talked about Bethany that made Hawke's stomach twist unpleasantly, but she couldn't bring herself to abandon a mage to the Gallows. "What is it you think I can do for your sister?"

Simon sighed faintly as if he had been holding his breath. "I can get her out of the Gallows and as far as the caves on the Wounded Coast, but of course any ship captains I would trust to transport an apostate mage wouldn't talk to a templar about it."

Hawke snorted. "I would imagine not. How do you know I'm any different?"

"I know your sister; I know I can trust you. I didn't know if you would listen to me, but I had to try. You're my last hope."

Isabella rolled her eyes at the boy's earnest tone. "You do know 'last hopes' don't come cheap, right?"

He nodded. "I know. I've... known for some time that I'd have to get Brooke out of Kirkwall eventually. I've been saving... I can pay you fifty sovereigns."

"No."

Simon made a strangled sound of dismay, and Isabella's eyes widened in shock. "What do you mean, no?" she hissed in Hawke's ear, but Hawke ignored the pirate.

"I won't help you for fifty sovereigns," she explained, coolly, "but I'll do it for a promise."

Simon looked dazed. "A... promise?"

"Bring your sister to the caves three nights from now," Hawke instructed. "If Bethany is with her, I will make sure they both get out of Kirkwall safely."

The young templar drew a shaky breath and nodded. "I understand. I will do as you ask," and with that he put his helmet back on and all but ran in the direction of the Gallows.

Isabella watched him go, her lips pursed in a dissatisfied pout. "You could've taken the money too, you know."