Sorry for the length of time between updates. Finals suck, and now I am done with them and able to write again for pleasure instead of pain.
After next chapter I'll be done dragging in new characters and the plot will be able to really start. Enjoy, or don't enjoy- tell me either way. -)
Warnings: violence, mild swearing, new party conversation attempts
The alleyway, as it were, stretches between rows of shoddy apartments, too narrow for even a cart to fit through but apparently some sort of street for these Alienage elves. Hawke and her friends have to dodge around milling elves and sitting elves as the cloaked thief retreats. The figure whips around a corner suddenly, trying to lose them perhaps, and the cloak snaps back from the shoulders enough for Hawke to see it's a woman running. While her face remains hidden, Hawke notes her leather armor has intricate embroidery-too fine to be affordable for any of the Alienage's populace-and that the skirt consists of of a series of individual leaves strung in such a way as to slide around her leggings without interfering with any movement.
Varric would laugh and comment that even the thieves in Orlais were fashionable, Hawke thinks with a wry grin. She vaults over a pile of crates at the corner. Leaps to the opposite wall. Runs two steps on the wall. That momentum springs her into an aerial cartwheel that lands her running point with Maraas close on her heels. Damn if he isn't fast, she muses, not sparing a glance because she can hear the steady nostril-huffs of his breath behind her. Even Aiden and Gayle keep up, cursing just behind the Qunari as the thief comes to a halt in front of the Alienage wall, whipping around to face them.
"Come on, already," Hawke calls, halting a few feet away from the woman, who now hunches in the cloak to hide any trace of gender or age. "We don't want to hurt you if we don't have to." She rocks onto the balls of her feet and flexes her hands. Beside her, Maraas does the same, easing to the other side of the alleyway to block the exit more effectively.
A laugh erupts from the thief's hood, as sultry as Isabela's but as delicate as Merrill's. The laughter echoes through the alleyway for just a few seconds too long. Hawke feels the hairs at the back of her neck prick and Maraas growls low in his throat after a moment.
"Vasta fas," snarls Gayle behind her. Hawke turns her head just enough to see silent elves moving into position behind the mages with daggers drawn and archers slinking to a safe firing distance at the mouth of the alleyway. "Can we kill them?" the Magister asks, her tone carrying a note of bloodthirsty hope that reminds Hawke of herself in her younger years.
"Just knock them out," Hawke answers, though she has to admit the idea of killing them appeals, in part because she should have seen the ambush coming. "You never want to piss of a guild of thieves until you've done your research."
"And after the research?" Aiden calls as he and Gayle draw back-to-back in the midst of the circling knife men. He holds his dragon staff flush against his forearm, rolling his neck until it pops, and she whips hers into a deft spin between her fingers, the scythe blade at the end glinting bright silver under the morning sun.
Hawke just gives the two of them a grim smile.
Maraas lunges at the thief with a roar, drawing his broadsword. Hawke whirls to help the mages. Both Aiden and Gayle swat their nearest attackers away with their staves, demonstrating the sort of proficiency in staff-fighting that Bethany has been honing with the Grey Wardens. She dives and rolls, drawing her daggers and jamming the hilts against the downed men's temples, knocking them unconscious. Lightning flashes over her head and bolts of spirit energy whizz past as she leaps onto the next elf, reversing her grip to crack both daggers down across his nose. He staggers back, his face a mess of blood and snot and tears, dropping his weapons to protect from another such blow. It takes a few seconds to take them out; the thief has a band of five knife-weilders and those four archers that Gayle and Aiden fried.
She whirls as Maraas brings the hilt of his sword down on the thief's head, knocking her into a heap of cloak and leaf-armor. He holds his final blow despite the arrow protruding from his shoulder, instead jerking his good arm in an outward arc that brings the flat of his blade against the final two attackers' foreheads. They, too, fall unconscious. Damn, her new armed lunatics are good.
"These were not worthy of dying at our hands," Maraas rumbles. He glances at the thief and then at the arrow in his shoulder. "Except, perhaps, for that one."
Aiden rolls his eyes. "Aren't you Tal-Vashoth?" he asks.
"No," snaps Maraas. Hawke tenses when the giant Qunari looks at her. She licks her lips, not sure why she's so nervous of him. After all, she's killed more than her fair share of Qunari, and she knows that if it came down to it, she could take Maraas as easily as any of his fellows. But something about him, whether it's the way he flexes his claws and the motion ripples through every small muscle of his arms or the way his strange amethyst eyes are so compelling and full of questions and wisdom at the same time, makes her hesitate at every turn.
Hawke resists a strong urge to kick the elf mage. "Put up a barrier around the thief so she can't run again," she orders him. Her eyes flick back to Maraas, who still watches her with that troubled, troubling stare and the arrow in his shoulder. "What he means is, doesn't that get in the way of being a mercenary? Determining which opponents to kill based on their worthiness?"
He purses his lips, apparently unaware of the arrow. "I have traveled far to find a place where I might have enough work available to choose from. But you are right, basra, it does make things... difficult," he says. "This thief is worthy, though, if her reputation is true."
"What, exactly, is her reputation?" Hawke asks, narrowing her eyes on the warrior.
Maraas gestures toward the thief with his uninjured hand. "She is very clever. Her methods are stealthy, and her targets are rich," he explains. "She steals from nobles and they are discontented."
She and Aiden both chuckle and Maraas and Gayle give them bemused stares. "It's just," Hawke snorts once more to get it out of her system. "It's funny when wealthy people get upset. Most of them are useless. It sounds like this thief isn't harming anyone, and she's not taking anything from anyone who needs it." She pauses and considers for a moment. "Where do the goods end up?"
The Qunari shrugs and scowls at the ground. "It is not certain. Many say that there is more business in the Alienage of late, though."
Hawke pulls rope from her belt and she and the others set to tying up the unconscious men while Aiden sets a magical barrier around the lead thief to keep her from getting away. The guy with the broken nose begs in unintelligible words not to be tied and Hawke shoves him from the alleyway after removing every weapon from his person. The thief rouses as she finishes the final knot around her men. The cloak has fallen back to reveal pointed elven ears laced through with silver. Straight auburn hair is held from jade green eyes by two delicate braids that loop back behind her ears. She has deep bronze skin and delicate elven features similar to Merrill's, but she has a dark glitter in her eyes and a set to her jaw that ruins any further resemblance.
"So you steal from nobles, huh?" Hawke asks, folding her arms on her chest and staring at the elven woman. She can't resist a smirk at the thought; it's not an entirely bad plan, and she rather likes the girl for making all those dundering nobles look as foolish as they are.
The elf shrugs and tilts her head back. "Why, do you steal from elves?"
Gayle snorts. "What have elves got to steal?" Aiden shoots her a murderous glare, but the thief chuckles that same charming yet seductive laugh. Hawke decides to ignore the mages' antics until spells start flying.
"Some of us still have some dignity left," the thief says, her Orlesian accent tempered by a throaty note that might be morbid humor or perhaps simply the enduring harshness of Alienage life. There's a note of irony in her tone, but that glint in her eyes flashes into something a bit more dangerous.
"What's your name?" Hawke asks before yet another person has reason to punch Gayle.
The thief gives her a smirk and does an ironic half-bow in the confines of her barrier. "Dualla Estanus," she answers. "The Rash of Val Royeaux, at your service."
"Interesting title," Hawke comments, raising a brow. "How did you come to be known as a rash?"
Dualla laughs again. She gestures at herself, baring her teeth in a semi-feral grin. "I am an itch beneath the armor of the Chevaliers that they can never scratch, a burning that spreads over the skin of the wealthy that no poultice or powder can halt," she answers. Jade eyes glitter like expensive jewelry, cold as stone or statues. "At least that's what the notices say."
The wording of the notices makes her think of one of the du Launcet's letter that Aveline once showed her, and she thinks of the way the Guardswoman shook her head with an ironic smile and said 'Orlesians.' Hawke snorts and tosses her head. "So you're kind of a big deal around here, huh?" she asks. She's debating whether or not to turn the girl in. After all, Maraas is fast and she managed to land a pretty good shot on his shoulder. Dark red blood oozes from it but he makes no indication that he's bothered in the least. Furthermore, after seeing the Val Royeaux Alienage, Hawke can't argue with the girl's choices. Especially since she got her start thieving as a child, before her family moved to Lothering and no one had anything to steal.
"I've thought about turning my self in for the bounty," Dualla comments with a quirk of her lips. "It's quite the hefty reward."
"It is indeed," Maraas announces. His claws flex and a little spurt of blood issues forth from the shoulder wound.
The thief's eyes dart to the Qunari. "If you're looking for an apology, I'm not sorry that I shot you. You would shoot you too if you were me," she says, squaring her shoulders. Serpent-green eyes flash again. "Besides, I missed," she smirks at him. "You're faster than you look."
Hawke glances sidelong at her companion, holding in the question she has. Maraas glances between both women and shrugs with one shoulder. "It does not hurt," he rumbles to Hawke. To Dualla, he says, "I am many things other than what I appear."
"I see that," the thief answers, nodding her head once. Her eyes shift around to Hawke once more as her primary interrogator. "If you want to have the Rash of Val Royeaux fighting at your side, then I will gladly join you for anything you need in exchange for my freedom. If you want my bounty, go ahead and take me in." She shrugs, but her eyes harden a moment later as they meet Hawke's. "You won't live long enough to enjoy it, I assure you."
"How do I know you won't kill me in my sleep if I hire you?" Hawke asks, raising her eyebrows.
Dualla purses her lips and smirks slowly. "I suppose you have nothing but my word. You did not kill any of my people, although they would have killed you," she shrugs. "Their injuries may serve as a lesson to them in the future." Her eyes sharpen for a moment. "Though a cut of profits is always an excellent incentive for loyalty, too."
Aiden snorts behind her. "That and the pissy elf she's sleeping with," he comments. Hawke turns around to see him snickering like a schoolboy.
Next to him, Gayle giggles as well, blue eyes glinting with all the evil of the Tevinter Imperium. "What woman wouldn't want a man with such a big sword?" she asks, barely able to restrain her laughter enough to finish the sentence. To further the embarrassment, Dualla chuckles that sultry Orlesian laugh and Maraas stares at her with raised brows and a bemused set to his mouth.
"I've a dagger for each of you," Hawke snaps at the mages. They laugh harder and she bites the inside of her cheek. Maker, she misses Varric and Isabela. Though now that she thinks of it, she can imagine the two of them saying exactly that, though with considerably more grace. And a bit more intimidation would help, too. After all, she and Fenris aren't some weak-willed sappy couple who spends their time mooning around over each other. With some effort, she turns her attention back to Dualla. "And what's in it for me if I work with you?"
The thief smirks. "I have some... useful contacts. You would have access to that information, too," she offers.
Maraas shakes his large head. "I am not convinced. We should kill the thief and bring her to those who would pay her bounty," he announces, amethyst eyes tracking Dualla in spite of the movement of his head.
Hawke suppresses a sigh. Yes, her new companions were just as vocal as the last group. "What kind of contacts do you have?" she asks instead.
Dualla shrugs a fluid shrug to make the cloak ripple around her shoulders, a surprisingly ratty contrast to her lovely armor. "What kind of contacts do you need?" she asks. "I can tell you who's in bed with who and who wants who's blood. Or, if you'd prefer, I know where you can find a fantastic cake-maker right her in the Alienage." Her voice lowers a trifle and she smirks again. "She's recently come into some high quality ingredients."
The sigh can't be suppressed any longer. Hawke spreads her hands in a semi-helpless gesture. "It can't hurt to have an inside ear to the workings of the Empress's court," she answers. "How reliable are your sources?"
"I trust their word," Dualla replies. She tilts her head back a trifle to stare Hawke in the eye. Though she smirks as she continues, her gaze and tone are serious. "I have a policy of honor among thieves in my network. And I have the means to enforce it."
"Very well," she mutters. "Aiden, let her go. Dualla, if you're serious about helping, then meet us at the inn where we're staying at the lunch hour."
"Which inn is that?" the thief asks innocently, rearranging her cloak around her shoulders when the barrier around her dissipates. Hawke realizes that she wears the cloak to conceal her fine armor while she's in the Alienage by the way she pins it shut over her chest so that only mud-caked boots are visible.
Hawke growls in her throat and realizes she's starting to sound like Fenris. She clears her throat and says, "The, uh, The Fancy Dancer."
Aiden and Gayle snicker behind her and it occurs to Hawke that it's a good thing she's never had children. Even Maraas curls his lip a bit at the name, and Hawke has to agree. The names of shops and inns in Orlais are invariably frilly and stupid-sounding, and this inn is no exception. Dualla, the native Orlesian, takes it in stride, though, blinking at the laughter and expressions of disgust and nodding briskly. "A good place if one wishes to keep an ear to the ground," the thief says. "And their stew isn't bad, either. I shall see you at noon."
Before they go, Hawke yanks the arrow from the Qunari giant's shoulder, which he endures without so much as flinching. Aiden mutters a healing spell and Maraas holds up his hand to stall the mage. "No," he says, dark purple eyes troubled. "I do not wish your healing magic."
Hawke raises a brow as the other stare at her. "Why not?" she asks. "Your wound could slow you down."
But Maraas shakes his great, horned head in a slow arc. "My wound shall not slow me. It shall remind me of my failings, that I do not fail as such again. Magic would destroy that honor," he explains.
"Then at least take care of it when we get back. Bandages and such," Hawke says briskly. She hesitates a second and glances at him. "An interesting idea, though."
"Whatever," Aiden mutters behind her.
As they leave the Alienage, Maraas scowls at Hawke sidelong. "It is not wise to trust in a thief," he rumbles. She feels like a small child under that glower. "Do you not recall the chaos a thief once caused for the Qunari and humans alike in Kirkwall?"
"Do you not remember that same thief came back to return the Tome and I killed the Arishok to protect her?" she snaps, rounding the corner back toward the inn. She refuses to think of it as the Fancy Dancer. That, or perhaps that her close friend's betrayal still stings (no longer her best friend since that incident), serves to make her grouchy enough to kick the door open and storm over to the table where Fenris and Brogan are playing cards.
"Cassandra just left to arrange a meeting with Sister Nightingale," Fenris comments, not looking up from his cards and coins. For once in his life, he has a massive stack of coins in front of him. "She said she would be back by noon and we should wait here for her."
Brogan snorts. "At least she's not still sitting here and bitching mightily about the situation," he says, laying out what might well be the worst hand in Wicked Grace. He has nothing.
"Are you serious, dwarf?" Fenris asks him. "You just went all in."
Hawke watches the exchange with narrowed eyes. A dwarf who doesn't want treasure and is so terrible at cards that even Merrill could beat him just seems too much coincidence for her taste. She sits next to Fenris and Maraas takes her other side as the mages settle to either side of the dwarf. Her elven lover has a fairly bad hand himself, and Hawke wonders for a moment just how hard one has to cheat for Fenris to win. She tried it once at the Hanged Man years ago and learned from the experience that it takes considerable skill to lose to him consistently.
"This might be the worst card game I've ever seen," Aiden comments, peering across the table at Fenris' hand.
"How many card games have you actually seen?" Brogan asks, not looking up as he shoves the last of his coins toward the elf. "Haven't you spent your whole life in the Circle?"
Aiden makes a huffy noise and folds his arms. "Even us scholarly, sniveling little mages can recognize when something is so bad it stinks."
"What can I say, I don't feel the need to perfume myself with scholarly perfumes and shit when I take my weekly bath," Brogan quips. He stands up and stomps toward the bar irritably. "I need more ale."
Gayle leans over his now-vacant seat and sniffs at Aiden's robe. "Is that my perfume?" she asks, sounding indignant as the elven mage turns red from the collar of his shirt to the pointed tips of his pierced ears.
Hawke goes to her room to do paperwork for a little while, managing her estate and wealth through a series of false front businesses engineered by Varric when they first left the Deep Roads to minimize their losses from the steep tax claims on found treasure that the Viscount's office instituted. By the time the old Amell Estate had been purchased and paid for, though, Hawke was so used to running her finances through the complicated series of investments, secret funds, multiple accounts and false identities that it only made sense to continue, especially as Meredith's hold on the city tightened and Hawke could feel the woman breathing down her neck. It seemed safer to keep her money divvied up and hidden from the insane Knight-Commander, who probably would have frozen her accounts if she'd been able to track them down. Her legitimate holdings were severely taxed during the last year in Kirkwall. After the Gallows incident, it only made sense for her to manage her holdings through Varric's network, trading letters with her friend as the need arose and mostly leaving the management to him. She and Fenris had needed relatively little on the run, only food and the occasional inn to stay at when they didn't hunt and camp. Now that she has so many people following her around, she needs to make sure all of them have their needs taken care of until this group starts making money.
She settles at her desk to write Varric one letter requesting that he shuffle some funds around so that she and her new band of friends can remain at this horribly-named inn for as long as it takes to find more permanent lodging in the city. After that, she composes a longer, more personal letter detailing their adventures as they've traveled and describing each of her companions to him in great detail (interesting tattoos, but still not half as wonderful a dwarf as you- this meek little elf scholar who's as broody as Fenris and as mad as Merrill when it comes to blood magic- can you imagine a Tevinter Magister following me around- still as frighteningly Qunari-looking as any of them, but would you believe his eyes are purple?).
A tap at her door interrupts her as she pens a vivid description of Dualla's fashionable Orlesian armor, filled with appropriately flowery language. "Come in," Hawke calls, setting down her quill and turning in her chair to face the intruder.
Cassandra stands in the doorway with Leliana a step behind her. Both women hurry inside and shut the door behind them. They stand in front of Hawke and Leliana draws her hood back over her red hair.
"It is not safe for me to stay here long," she says, "So I shall be brief. There are two competing candidates for the position of the Divine. The Grand Clerics have called together a council to vote for the heir. Each of these women is as different as night is from day. Their names are Danielle du'Maurier and Elise l'Verde. Each one has requested an audience with you and Cassandra."
"Tell me about Danielle," Hawke says, shifting in her chair and crossing her arms.
"Danielle was the second daughter of the Comte du'Maurier, betrothed at birth to the son of the Comte du'Launcet. But the du'Launcet boy was a mage, and so the betrothal was broken. Danielle was educated in the Chantry, and took her vows as a teenager rather than be betrothed and married off to a new husband. Losing her betrothed to the Circle has colored her views to be more sympathetic with mages. She would see that the Circles are never rebuilt, that the Seekers spend their efforts ridding Thedas of the Templars, rather than controlling dangerous mages. Her secluded life has made her unaware of any dangers that magic may pose, and she believes that the best way to make peace with the mages is to remove the Templars in a show of good faith," Leliana explains. She has a faint, troubled frown. "I know that she means well, but she does not comprehend the danger that blood magic poses. Her leniency could well cause trouble down the road."
"Still, it is admirable. What about this Elise l'Verde?" Hawke asks.
Leliana grimaces. "Elise is the orphaned daughter of a minor noble house that was destroyed when her parents attempted to hide her elder brother from the Templars. He could not control his magic and was slain by the Templars when he turned into an abomination, but not before he killed Elise's entire family before her eyes. The Chantry took her in and raised her and that one horrific experience has made her terrified of mages and magic. She believes that the Circle should be rebuilt even more strictly, that the Templar order should kill any mage caught using blood magic and should render tranquil any mage who does not go to the Circle before the age of ten. It is her belief that the mages will rise up and form a new, more fearsome Tevinter Imperium and that they will enslave the nonmagical peoples of Thedas. She is as ruthless as Danielle is lenient, but she is a shrewd minded woman and is not completely without mercy. You might be able to appeal to her better nature."
"Is there no one else up for the position?" Hawke says, raising her brows. Both women sound like appalling options- while Hawke supports mages having freedom, she's seen all too well what that freedom can cost others. And what happens when a mage goes mad, or gives in to temptation. The results are horrible, and the idea of letting such offenses go unpunished is unthinkable. But to instill a harsher, more stifling Circle would only cause a Kirkwall-esque powder keg with a more terrible explosion than the last one.
"I am afraid not. You must go and speak to these women, hear of their views from them. I do not have any more information about them, but my contacts are investigating them as we speak," Leliana answers. She sighs.
"Why do they want to speak to me?" Hawke asks.
Both Cassandra and Leliana blink. "You are the Champion of Kirkwall. You were there when everything began," Cassandra interjects. "That is why I was sent to find you in the first place."
"She speaks the truth. Whomever you support to lead the Chantry will most likely win the vote. But it shall be complicated to garner support," Leliana warns, standing with her hands clasped behind her back as if she is a soldier giving a report. "The nobility of Val Royeaux do not much like foreign influences and though they will smile to your face, they will draw their knives the moment your back is turned. It will require much finesse on your part to navigate the courts of the Empress, and you will need to speak with her as well. Frankly, I am surprised that Empress Celine has not already made contact with you through one of her messengers."
"Perhaps she wants to watch me and be certain of my identity," Hawke comments. It is what she would do, in the Empress' place.
"And to ensure you are no threat to her rule," Leliana adds in a grave tone. She rocks forward on her feet a bit. "You must remember that the Empress has many more tools at her disposal than you can imagine. She has her spies in the Chantry, in the courts, in the streets, and even in this hotel. Never forget that as powerful as she is, her hold is forever tenuous, and that at any moment a thousand assassins wait in a thousand shadows with their knives aimed at thousands of different targets. Any moment here in Val Royeaux could be your last, and very well might be if you do not keep your wits about you at all times."
Hawke nods and stands up as Leliana bows and pulls the hood over her head. She and Cassandra watch the redhead leave and she sighs when the door shuts. "Nothing I haven't dealt with before," she mutters, pinching the bridge of her nose to ward off a headache.
Cassandra clears her throat and Hawke looks at her. "I must take my leave for the rest of the day, Champion," she announces. "I have resumed my post among the Seekers of Val Royeaux, so that we may remain well-informed, and so that I may offer some protection with my position." Her back is straight, her armor shining as it hasn't since they got on the ruddy boat over to Orlais. At least one of her companions is more helpful than crazy.
"Good plan," she says, not mincing words. "Thank you for letting me know. Where shall I go to keep in touch with you?"
A faint smile graces the Seeker's face. "You can find me at the Chantry Cathedral, in the underground barracks. I will show you the entrance when you come." Then, with a bow, Cassandra Pentaghast exits the room with confident, clanking footsteps that remind her a bit of Aveline.
Hawke settles back into her chair with a sigh. She needs to finish her letters to Varric and send them immediately. It looks like this is going to be a long stay in Val Royeaux.
Next chapter: Politics and mayhem, from the two women competing for the role of the Divine to the Empress' court. But some familiar faces will return :-D