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"There's no excuse, Hawke," Aveline stated firmly as she paced her office. "You promised to show and help me have a nice evening on the Coast with Donnic, and then not only do you not turn up, but you send the whore to fill in for you!"

Hawke smiled nervously and shrugged her shoulders. "I heard from Isabela that it turned out splendidly, though."

Aveline raised an eyebrow. "Did you, now?"

"Well, of course she did," Isabela huffed as she invited herself into the office. She ignored the infuriated look on Aveline's face from eavesdropping. "Let's face it, big girl," Isabela purred, moving to stand beside Hawke, "the two of you made enough racket for all of the Free Marches to hear. If she didn't hear it from me, well. There's your answer."

Aveline turned red in the face and, if Hawke wasn't standing between them, surely would have given Isabela another sore spot—one that had nothing to do with her sexuality.

"Aveline, I don't suppose an 'I'm sorry' will do?" Hawke asked easily, trying and succeeding at defusing the tension between the two women. She knew that Aveline was easily riled up when it came to personal matters and that she had no real animosity toward Isabela. The pirate wench just pushed her luck too many times.

Aveline sighed and leaned against her desk. "No, it won't." A smile slowly crept onto her lips. "But that doesn't mean you didn't do a good job sending in Isabela. Good work."

"Don't start praising me like I'm one of your guards, Aveline," Hawke laughed. "I was happy to help, even if it was a small contribution."

"Hey now, I didn't do it alone," Isabela added. She jutted one of her hips out, exposing more of a bronzed leg from beneath her sad excuse of clothing. "Kitten helped too, remember?" She winked at Hawke. "Or was your schedule too... crowded... to remember?"

"Shut up, whore," Aveline snapped, readying herself to smack Isabela if necessary.

Hawke stepped in again, not sure how many times she'd be able to intercede without being in the line of fire. "Speaking of Merrill, where is she? It's oddly strange not to see her with you, Isabela."

"That's what I told her, the silly girl. It's ruining my image, you know. People are starting to recognize me by seeing the chatty little elven girl with me, and she refused to join me today. Hardly anyone gave me a glance!" Isabela pouted. "Can you believe that? You know what that means, don't you?"

"That you'll have to strip naked just to get a glance from men?" Aveline supplied. She smirked. "Good, we'll finally have proof to arrest you."

"Oh, darling, your inner man would just... leap right out and tackle me to the ground if I ever stripped naked," she purred. Isabela lilted in triumph when Aveline's cheeks flushed red. "And poor Donnic, too. Right when you snagged—and shagged—him!"

"Why, you—"

"Is Merrill busy, Isabela?" Hawke glanced nervously between them. "She isn't tangled in her twine again, is she?"

"Oh, nothing like that, Hawke. Actually, she told me to invite you over to her place. Said something about practicing as a hostess or some rubbish like that." Isabela took small steps toward Hawke, still aware that Aveline hadn't taken her blazing green eyes off of her.

A muscle in Hawke's face twitched. "Practicing... hostess? Dear Maker, she isn't trying to have a friendly dinner get-together again, is she?" The last time they had all agreed to eat at Merrill's small apartment in the Alienage, hardly anything was edible. How the elf survived on burnt pieces of questionable substances, she'd never know.

Anders had no problem eating it, which only heightened Hawke's fears of just how well the mage took care of himself.

Fenris hadn't even showed up. Didn't even bother to offer an explanation either, Hawke thought dryly. Typical.

Aveline gave Hawke a worried look. "Did anyone tell her how awful it was last time?"

"What, does the Red Bull want to charge the little Kitten to pieces?" Isabela frowned.

"She was just starting out in the Alienage, Aveline," Hawke said. "You never know, she could have improved," she added in an attempt to smooth the conversation.

Aveline didn't look convinced, and Hawke was sure that her own expression was quite doubtful, too.

Isabela rolled her eyes. "Well who gives two lays about the food? The drink is what matters, I say."

"Let's hope that it isn't tea made out of poison ivy again this time," Aveline sighed.

"I can't remember the last time I've had people over, you know—has it really been that long, or was I clocked on the head again?" Merrill chirped from her small kitchen just off the main room of her humble apartment.

"We always meet at the Hanged Man, Merrill," Hawke answered, not looking up from her work. She'd brought Shartan's book with her to Merrill's, hoping that she'd have an hour or so to read. But after having her seat collapse beneath her, she decided that enough was enough and stashed the book back in her pack. She was fixing one of the many broken chairs littered around the main room for the sake of the next bottom that chose to rest upon it.

Isabela sat in the only decent chair, her elbows hunkered down on Merrill's table unceremoniously. She was scratching a design in the table with her dagger. Hawke had a hunch on what the pirate was drawing; her railing in her estate was testimony to that.

"But the Alienage is only a few minutes from the Hanged Man," Merrill countered. "It'd be a nice change instead of losing myself in the city trying to find it. Your brother used to escort me before he joined the Templars."

Hawke smiled and saw the wink Isabela shot her. Carver had been very pleasant to Merrill, despite her being a blood mage. They'd gotten along well, and if she knew any better, she'd daresay that Carver had a soft spot for the petite elf.

But now she could only guess as to what Carver was like now. Had Knight Commander Meredith polluted his mind beyond recognition? Would he hate mages—his own sister—due to the Templars relentless lectures?

Hawke knew that not all Templars had a deep hatred and distrust toward mages. Ser Thrask was proof that there were still Templars that held a great amount of respect toward the magic-borne. Even Carver's namesake was an exception.

"I don't see any harm in having a few meetings here from time to time," Hawke said. From the clatter in the kitchen, she could tell that Merrill was thrilled. "So long as we fix the chairs. You know how moody Varric is when everyone's taller than him during discussions."

Isabela snorted and smirked as she put the finishing touches on her masterpiece. "I'm willing to bet ten sovereigns that not all of Varric is short—"

"—Isabela—"

"What?" Merrill chose that time to leave the kitchen, holding a tray of what looked to be leaves and tiny cups of tea. "But aren't all dwarves short? His legs are even shorter than mine, how can he possibly be tall? Maybe there are other variations of dwarf—is that possible?—that I'm not aware of, and maybe they're actually tall? Like a mutation, maybe?"

Isabela leaned back in her seat and propped her legs on the table. "Oh, kitten, I'm sure that whatever he lacks in length, width will make up for—"

Hawke silenced her with a murderous glare, but it didn't keep the smug smile from growing on Isabela's face.

"But Varric isn't fat—that's what we're talking about, right?" Merrill set the tray down and placed a plate of the leaf-food and a cup of tea on the table for each of them.

"Don't fret over it, Kitten," Isabela purred. "Being short-minded isn't entirely a bad thing."

Hawke closed her eyes and pursed her lips, counting to five before she joined them at the table.

"Merrill," she started, "what exactly is this?" She poked at the leaves.

Merrill's eyes twinkled as she said, "It's a Dalish dessert, one that honors friendship and company." She paused and looked horrified for a moment. "Is—is it customary to serve dessert before an actual meal for humans? I—I'm sorry if I offended you, the Dalish have a sweet tooth and—"

Hawke shook her head and to appease the elf, took a quick bite of the leaves. She kept her face neutral when all she wanted to do was gag.

Sweet tooth? Maker, there isn't anything sweet about this!

Merrill stared at her expectantly and squirmed in her seat she was so eager. "Do... do you like it? Does Dalish food agree with you?"

Hawke gulped down the leaves and put on a forced, too-happy smile that the elf was too naïve to see through. "It's delicious!"

Merrill beamed and jolted out of her seat. She clapped her hands together. "Oh, Hawke, you have no idea what this means to me!" She was so excited and thrilled that she didn't see Isabela hiding sneers in the crook of her elbow. The pirate had a sudden coughing fit when Hawke turned an evil eye toward her.

"I'll make some more for you!" Merrill practically skipped back into the kitchen, and when she was out of sight, Hawke grabbed her cup of tea and nearly drained it in one swallow.

Her eyes bulged and she choked. "Merrill—what—what kind of tea is this?" She put the cup down and stuck her tongue out in disgust. If anything, the tea made the awful taste in her mouth worse.

"Tea? Who said anything about tea, Hawke?" Merrill lilted. "I made the conclusion that all tea tastes like hot water, and so I just boiled water. Can't really taste the difference, can you? Now, Dalish tea, that's something to be excited about—"

Hawke didn't want to think about what Dalish tea tasted like. She grimaced and scrunched her face up. Isabela patted her on the shoulder, still wearing that trademark smile.

"Well, how 'bout it, Isabela? Aren't you going to eat your Dalish dessert and tea?" Hawke gritted out. "You don't want to be rude to our hostess, do you?"

"Sweetie, I'm surprised you didn't find the solution to this problem yet," Isabela chuckled. She gathered her plate and cup, went over to the fireplace, and tossed the leaves in it. The 'tea' soon followed.

The fire crackled and faded a bit before burning brightly again. Hawke glared at Isabela. "You have experience with this, don't you?"

"That would be telling, pet."

"Light blue doesn't suit you," Leandra announced after staring at the dress for what seemed an eternity. "Take it off, Marian. Perhaps the violet will work better? No, that won't do. Maybe an indigo or burgundy one?"

Hawke sighed and mechanically moved back behind the divider. "You said this wouldn't be painful, Mother."

"Choosing the right dress is a serious matter, Marian. You would know this if you only took the time to learn how to be a proper lady. And by the Maker, must you clutter your room with your weapons?"

"Everything is where it should be, Mother. All is in its proper place."

"All except for you," she countered. She rummaged through her daughter's closet, frowning at the dresses. "Most of these are for public affairs during the day. I should have bought some more evening gowns for you. Here, try the indigo one."

An arm stuck out from behind the divider, blindingly searching for the dress Leandra held out. Finally snatching it, Hawke resumed her attempts at trying to take her current dress off.

"This is... some sort of... torture contraption, I swear!" she hissed. She yanked and pulled, but the bodice would not budge. "How do you even breathe in this Darkspawn-cursed thing?"

"If you didn't slouch," Leandra reprimanded, "then you'd be able to. You have such sloppy posture, Marian. It isn't normal for a person to slouch all the time."

"It isn't slouching, Mother. I'm merely readying myself for combat at any given moment. You know I need to be cautious."

Leandra made to reply, but a tearing sound from behind the divider interrupted her. She shook her head and crossed her arms. "That better not have been a dress, Marian."

Hawke clenched her eyes closed and mentally prepared herself for the scolding she was about to have. At least the dress is off, she thought. Slowly, she held out the ruined dress. Leandra gasped when she saw the large rip down the front of it.

"Marian!" Leandra held the dress delicately at the shoulders, as if the smallest of movements could damage it even more. Her eyes blazed as she tossed the dress aside. "Maker, child, sometimes I think you were meant to be a boy." She marched behind the divider, ignoring her daughter's protests, and looked her over. "And you wonder why you were having such problems—the corset isn't tight enough!" Without warning, Leandra pulled the laces tight.

Hawked gasped as her ribcage constricted. "M-Mother, I-I can't b-breathe!"

"Stand up straight," she ordered. Hawke's back became ramrod straight, and though it was uncomfortable, she could take tiny gasps of air.

"There." Leandra helped her daughter into the indigo dress, her movements rough and harsh. Her nails would scrape and prick against Hawke's skin, and when she would wince, her mother would grab her arm and hold her straight.

Finally, after an eternity of torment, the dress was on her.

Leandra stepped back, a look of awe in her eyes. "Oh, this is perfect for you! This shade of blue absolutely complements your hair and eyes. You have the Amell dark hair, but you have your father's amber eyes."

Hawke eyes, she thought dully. Varric's told me as much.

Tears welled up in her eyes. "If only your father was here to see this," Leandra sighed. She held her hand to her mouth to contain her sobs. "He would have been so proud of you."

Hawke smiled shyly and shrugged as best she could. "Father never really cared for looks, Mother." From her mother's silence, she thought she had offended her, and Hawke wracked her brain for an apology.

But Leandra nodded and clasped her hands tightly together. "You're right. We fell in love when I was nobility, and his love never wavered even when I was downgraded to Ferelden garments." She stared off into the fireplace. "He was such a charmer, your father. He was always willing to help, and always knew the right things to say to make me blush like a young maiden."

Hawke idly toyed with the fabric of her dress. "I suppose Thomas knows how to charm, as well."

Leandra looked at her daughter, a faint smile on her lips. "Thomas is a good man, Marian. He may not be your father, but he makes me happy."

"Will you marry him?" The words were out of her mouth before she could stop herself.

Her mother took in a breath before replying. "I haven't decided yet, and he hasn't proposed. I suppose these things take time to develop. Would it bother you if we did marry? I know how close you were to your father—"

"Father is dead," Hawke bit out. "He would have wanted you to be happy—I want you to be happy." If her mother wasn't so absorbed in thoughts of dear Thomas, she would have seen the subtle signs of anguish on her daughter's face.

Hawke smeared on another perfected fake smile. Leandra caressed her cheek and smoothed her thumb along her cheek bone. "And soon, you will have the same happiness from a man, Marian. I have a good feeling about this." Leandra beamed and held her daughter's hand. She placed a kiss on her knuckles, then frowned as if she was looking at something repulsive. "But no man will want a woman with callouses such as these."

Varric laughed and took another swig from his ale. "She's really set on finding you a suitor, isn't she, Hawke? By the Maker, I can only see how that will turn out. Poor fool wouldn't know what he'd be getting himself into."

Hawke narrowed her eyes. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"I'm only saying that there is still work to be done, my friend. Any suitor that you'd have would barely see you, given that your schedule is booked."

She grunted and waved Norah over for another drink. The Hanged Man had closed an hour ago, but Corff, knowing that Hawke was a loyal regular, had let her stay. He stood behind the counter, cleaning mugs and plates.

And no doubt listening to us. Word will probably be all over Kirkwall tomorrow of how my mother is hunting around for my future husband. The mental image of her mother rabidly chasing down men made the corner of her lips turn up.

Varric chuckled. "See? There's always some enjoyment in the worst of situations. Well, I can't really see your husband-to-be finding any enjoyment—"

"Are you trying to make a point, Varric?"

"Not at all, not at all. I'm just... observing."

"Hmph," she snorted. "You've probably been listening to Isabela's tales of how I am still an 'untouched virgin, eager and seeking the touch of a skilled hand to deflower me'."

"Well, Hawke, they are hard to not listen to. Rivaini has a knack for storytelling, what can I say? Not as skilled as me, mind you, but she does know a thing or two about detail."

Hawke rolled her eyes. "Why I spend my coin on your dinners, I'll never know."

Varric folded his hands on the table. "I'm sure it has nothing to do with me always looking out for your back. Or my chest hair. Bianca would make plans, you see."

"Speaking of plans," she prompted, "I received a letter from the Viscount. He wants to meet me first thing in the morning. Interested in tagging along for another earful of diplomatic crises?"

"Wouldn't miss it for the world, Hawke. I could use a few more embellishments and inspiration for my next few chapters. For companionable reasons, you understand."

"And you understand that I put our drinks on your tab."

Varric's mouth twitched. "You drain a man more than Rivaini does during a threesome, Hawke."