Chapter 2

[City Folk]

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The Wilds were frigid, even in early spring, but Daveth was used to the cold by now. The constant movement of his arms as he swung them wide by his sides kept him warm as he trudged through the marshlands. He hurried through the place as fast as his legs could carry him; he was more wary of witches than Chasind as he traveled – at least from a distance, he might be mistaken for one of the barbarians in plain clothes.

Although, he thought as he stroked the thin, scraggy growth of hair on his chin, that might not be so good when I get to more populated areas. Daveth made a face as the thought came to his head, and he clicked his tongue. Well, can't turn back now – in for a silver, in for a crown, as mum used to say, he chuckled, a wry smile on his face. If only she'd stuck to her own advice. Maybe I wouldn't be heading for Denerim.

He didn't blame his mother. Not entirely, at least. She had come from a small family of merchants living near Lake Calenhad, a ways north of Kinloch Hold. She had served as a battle-maiden – a field-nurse – during the Orlesian occupation. And of course, she fell in love with the first sorry oaf she treated, the boy thought with a snort, shaking his head.

Daveth stopped by the edge of Lothering, looking up towards the tall ruins that acted as borders for the village. It was much larger than his own hometown, with a busy marketplace – the central location brought trade from the nearby Arlings and Bannorns, and though the place didn't have a permanent population of more than two-hundred souls, the streets were always alive with the cries of merchants and laborers hawking wares and loading and unloading goods and supplies.

Mercenaries eyed the boy with ragged hair and clothes with suspicion as he passed, their eyes lingering on the shortbow on his back. Daveth knew how to handle himself in a fight – he had grappled quite a bit with the boys his age and older, back in the village – but he wasn't sure he could take on a band of mercenaries with armor like theirs.

First things first – supplies and some blades, he thought, heading to the local blacksmith. He knew the Dwarf as much as anyone in Lothering – Smith was his name. Daveth didn't dare ask if that was really his name – the one time he had almost voice the question, the man had been repairing swords for the local Bann's guards; Daveth liked not having a red-hot blade shoved down his throat.

"Well if it isn't little Davvy Black," Smith greeted in his booming voice. Daveth flinched – the man always spoke like he was trying to be heard over a crowd. He was quite muscular – even for a Dwarf – with red-blonde curls and a rolling beard almost down to his waist, bright green eyes, and a strange tattoo on his left cheek, shaped like a backwards 'S'.

"Hello, Smith," Daveth greeted in turn, leaning lightly against the wall of the smithy. He narrowed his eyes and cringed with each hammer blow as Smith shaped a rod of red-hot steel into a longsword on his anvil.

"It's not market day, is it?" the Dwarf asked, hopping down from the footstool he kept by the forge, lifting the tinted goggles back from his eyes. "I lose track of the time when I'm working." Daveth shook his head, crossing his arms and waiting for Smith to dip the glowing sword into a brine bath, the hissing steam filling the place with hot air. "Have a seat then, boy – I'll be with you in a minute," Smith added, waving a hand absently towards a nearby bench.

Daveth sat and looked at the large cork-board propped up against the wall; it was covered in sketches and designs in curled writing he didn't quite recognize – Dwarvish, he supposed. There were plans for what looked like a crossbow, with a diagram showing a strange cylinder with six slots in it. Daveth wasn't quite sure what to make of this, turning his attention towards Smith as the man clapped his hands, dusting metal filings off his apron and tucking his thick work gloves into a back pocket.

"Now, young ser Blackwood," the Dwarf said, giving a heavy sigh as he sat down on a stool next to Daveth, "what can I do for you today?"

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Daveth stared about with wide eyes as he passed through the gates of Denerim. The place was huge – his entire village could fit inside one of the estates that rose high above the other buildings. The city was messy, he had to admit – it looked like someone had dumped all the houses haphazardly onto a tall hill, with a gigantic, towering fort at the highest point.

Daveth began to feel overwhelmed by the crowd – even the liveliest days in the Lothering market were nothing like this. He was jostled back and forth in the packed streets, people shoved together like pickled fish in a barrel, and the young man barely managed to squeeze through the bodies to a gap between some buildings. He stood in an alleyway, panting for breath as he placed a hand over his trembling heart, feeling the staccato beat under his fingertips.

He chuckled slightly, shaking his head – he had faced rabid wolves and bands of highwaymen on his journey without flinching, but the crowded streets were getting to him so easily. The sea of strange, cold faces was unnerving – while some were bright and cheerful, many people had grim expressions. In Lothering, everyone said good day, or gave a quick nod and a small smile – Daveth thought he was lucky not to get hauled off by the guards for looking Chasind, and was glad that his mother had taught him to read; he could avoid asking for directions and risk getting arrested for 'harassing city officials'.

City folk, Daveth thought with a snort. I suppose I shouldn't expect much hospitality, he added, taking out his wallet and counting his coins. He had three silvers and a handful of copper bits – he doubted he could afford a decent meal, let alone a night at an inn.

His stomach rumbled at the thought of a meal, and he made a face; he had spent most of his money on supplies in Lothering, and a few other small villages along the West Road. He had bought himself a pair of knives and a bit of old leather armor from Smith, and had had to sell his bow along the way to buy more food from some travelers; Daveth didn't feel safe going hunting alone in the Brecilian – he had heard almost as many stories about the cursed woodlands as he had the Korcari Wilds.

So what to do, now that I'm here? Daveth mused, stroking his chin thoughtfully as he looked out towards the mouth of the alley. He was rather tall for his age – the Chasind blood, he thought – and his arms were covered in muscles from working the fields and chopping wood for most of his life; maybe he'd try hiring himself out as a mercenary. But first, he thought, let's see what kinds of treasures these people's purses hold.

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