I recognise that this work was produced on the traditional lands of the Kaurna and Ngadjuri peoples.
…::';'::'[]'::';'::…
~:{}:~
Victoria stumbled into the kitchenette, harsh grey eyes only half open while she went groping for the kettle and coffee pods.
She put the kettle on.
Found her soup mug.
Put two red sugars in. The Hanged Man's conisations.
Put the coffee machine on and emptied the kettle.
She stood stooped for a moment, hands wrapped around the hot mug as it caffeinated, staring out the window into the garden.
Her aunt was sitting outside in a slouch chair, hair braided up out of her face, coffee in hand and book in her lap.
Victoria turned around and stumbled back to her room: fuck being awake.
…::…
::';';';';';';';';';';';'::
~::~
None of this really made any sense.
From her corner she watched three people – or peoples? – warmly discussing a matter close to each. They had wondered into the pub about three hours ago, two together, then the third a few minutes later. They seemed to be acquaintances; the ease with which they had folded into each other around their table, mixing their drinks and plates, bowls, all cramped together but smiling pushing up against the wall and surrounding occupied chares and tables about them.
A normal evening.
Nothing amiss.
Stressful, perhaps, but all within their expectations of acceptable stress, Victoria thought. The tall one exploded into laughter and motion, slouching forward as they tried to catch their breath and re-join their mummer with a joke, the other two chuckling.
They were –
–very people like…
Someone at the bar bellowed at a squat girl – or maybe woman? – slapping their calloused hand against one of the three signs set roughly above the bar's textured wood, the slab forming an upper lip. The barmaid grabbed the small woman's shoulder before thrusting an ale into bellower's chest, almost spilling the froth over the edge of the brightly painted wooden mug.
The small woman, strapped into her breaches by her belt, which sat just beneath a larger worn leather brace encircling about her torso – itself securing a browning faux blouse.
Squat was the best word for her. Victoria would have wanted to call her a dwarf, but from her proportions she didn't seem to have dwarfism. Not that I've had much experience with those with dwarfism… She didn't waddle, nor did she seem unsteady – when she reached her bellower at the bar she leaped onto the stool there with an ease of practice. She was clearly rather nimble. Flexible.
And she drew no strange looks.
Not like the bull horned gentleman sitting on the right most stool did. He was drinking tea, or something like it from what she could smell – Victoria wasn't about to ask, nor try to order this establishments tea anytime soon. She'd rather liked her water without typhoid thank you.
The room reeked of alcohol and everything, everyone – every it? – was comfortable. An atmosphere warm in and soft about the edge.
It was fitting.
But could they really be people?
They did behave like people, yes, but that wasn't the be all and end all of personhood.
And their clothes? What an eclectic mix of styles. Middle and late medieval styles and some early modern, Victorian, styles; Tudor, modern and one even in Goergen style stockings and petticoats. Like someone had tried to organise the wardrobe for a fantasy epic using only the leftovers from various historical dramas…
She knew she wasn't dreaming at least…
Well, she thought she wasn't dreaming… But then what did that matter? Afterall, she could never really rule the dreaming issue out when she'd been in the real world either, so… Anyway – she'd assume she wasn't dreaming.
So, this is real and they're playing at being people: this is the minimum that I know. Which means I can't really assume Sampson is anything but pretending to be a person too – but no, He'd been too person like, or so it had seemed. Victoria sighed and slumped into her lurking-corner. Until I know better – only I am a person. The rest are philosophical zombies.
She managed to look out of place in her sensible blouse and business skirt.
And none of them looked like a stereotypical mage. How unthoughtful! She wasn't exactly the stereotypical doctor herself but if they couldn't bother with peoplehood at least they could bother with stereotypes.
Fortunately, some are clearly shiftier than others… And some more – reputable? Rather: wealthy. It seemed that no one here could be completely reputable, her guide had said as much had he not?
…Oh! Maybe they're just less dirty.
Indeed, some of the patrons of this inn seemed layered in dust and mud. But then, she'd seen them come in in the early lights of this morning; It was more than possible they'd just been working late. Mining and dock working were not the cleanest of trades.
Perhaps some here couldn't access a bath? But they had the artificial water ways of Kirkwall's large cove, surely? Or was cleanliness not valued here? Well, Sampson had been rather – seasoned – when we met… He'd need a bath, soon, too.
There's every reason to be clean when the alternative is being dirty. Kid needs to internalise that. And speak of the devil!
Sampson fell rather then walked down the stairs into the common room.
Victoria glided onto her feet, moving to his side if only to ensure he wouldn't fall. "Sampson my delightful chaperone, let's get you some food, shall we?"
"Yes?"
"Yes!"
She gently took his arm, encouraging him to escort her to the barkeep; she made sure to sit him down first before searching for an empty mug; should his stomach protest too forcefully.
"So, unemployed? Desolate? Without family?"
He looked at her queerly: "sorry?"
Victora gave him a look of her own. "Sampson, endearing companion, shush a while." She continued her monologue "What you and I are in need of is… inspiration, dear. Inspiration and – Iff I have read your circumstance correctly, gainful employment. Now, inspiration can only be gained through the process of exploration, be it through introspective exploration, philosophical exploration or literal, physical, exploration. You and I shall walk the city – and push for all three."
His head was firmly pressed into his hands, likely fending off a migraine.
"This, my hungover delight, shall enable us to also gain a developed understanding as to what forms of employment you and I can pursue given our circumstances and abilities."
He groaned.
"Yes I know – the unknown is as exciting as it is nerve-wracking. Yet I do now feel somewhat responsible for you. So were I go you shall follow, and were you go I shall follow. You and I are now companions in blood: bound for better or worse."
"Can you shut up?"
"Ah…" He looked unwell. "Are you experiencing auras, Sampson?"
Very unwell. "I think I want you to leave me alone. I think I want to leave."
Well, that would be inconvenient… "Sampson, where I am from I assume a duty of care a situation like this. When I was beginning my training as a healer I took the Hippocratic oath." He looked at her dubiously. "You've been in my care for twelve hours now. And this… well. I believe that it is going to get worse before it gets better. I think you know that."
His voice was horse. "Leave me alone." He tried to stand, putting his weight onto the bar as he leaned forward.
Too inconvenient. She placed her hand on his bicep. "Sampson, sit down."
He did so. Good.
"You, Sir, are not well. You need to take a few days to rest and assess your state."
His eyes were a little blank. "All right."
"Yes. Now: Bath. You need one."
"Bath? Very Tevene of you, Lady Chen: here you'll find a tub or sponge maybe."
…::…
::';';';';';';';';';';';'::
~::~
Two and a half hours later she found herself standing aside with Sampson on the narrow-shaded street in front of the Hanged Man.
She could understand better what he had implied last night regarding the pride of the cities people. Those blood-red strips of cloth spread high above the street for shade were dyed with what appeared to be Kirkwall's insignia.
Likewise, the sparse metal gating and grating often held the same insignia twisted into their iron bars: decretive, practical, and proud.
Sampson caught her staring after he recovered from what he described as a "soft headache Bred together with a visceral dizzy spell". He was smelling much better – despite the quality of the water and the lack of soap. I can't believe there were rose petals available for his wash.
Victoria began to float away with the crowd, Sampson following at her wandering pace as they spoke.
"The heraldry was once that of the dragon, my lady, do you see the body and the tail? The wings not widespread but rather folded along its side above the forelimbs? It's Tevene in origin: they worshiped the beasts as gods. Thought it brought protection and resilience to structures and the people inhabiting them, and once the slaves revolted they took the image for their own."
That took Victoria out of her viewing: dragon? So, I wasn't pulling fantasy concepts out my ass last night – there are actual dragons? Wait, no, people thought dragons were real in my earths history so this could be the same as that. Like having a banner of the Red Welsh Dragon…
"Oh, I do see it – your right!" she cleared her throat, adding: "have you ever seen a dragon, Sampson?"
"No, of course not. It was only this age that, for the first time in literal centuries, a hight dragon was sighted. This is, after all, Dragon Age."
Dragon Age?
Victoria hummed. "And that means?"
He sighed. "I'm beginning to think that you need a guide full time."
Victoria blushed on command as she'd been taught. "Quite likely."
He huffed; boyish smile bright. "I volunteer, Lady Chen."
She smiled in return. "Oh, noble Sir I'm afraid that it must be a volunteer role as of the moment – I am as broke as you, after all."
He shrugged. "Perhaps. A trade? I'll guide for you if you heal my ills. At least until I'm employed again."
Right. Ok – "I'll accept that gambit, Sampson."
He nodded; expression adorably serious.
"So," she continued, "Dragon Age: this is due to a "High Dragon" being sighted."
"Yes – A sign from our Maker, surely." His expression paled. "You don't even know who the Maker is, do you, my Lady?"
"God? All powerful? Made the heavens and the earth, and all things celestial and such."
He smiled, relieved "Oh! Good."
"I'm from a different culture, not an uncivilised culture, Sir." He flushed, an apology forming on his lips; Victoria made sure to interrupt: "Thank you, however, for checking – truly. It is better to take the side of caution and assume ignorance than to allow another to truly live in ignorance."
He calmed and nodded. "I agree – Though still, I didn't want to imply a slight."
Victora smiled again, feeling vindicated in her choice of guide yet again: "You, Sampson, are a kind man. Thank you. Now: Dragon Age?"
"Yes – we're in year thirty of the ninth age of our maker. That would be abbreviated to nine: thirty. This age is the Dragon Age."
"I see. So, when was Kirkwall founded as a city state?"
"Eight O' five, Blessed. Ah, which is to say the Blessed Age."
The street had changed from cobbled stone to dirt as they walked. The homes made from wood, stone, and sandstone. There were rather small. Strange… The city is surrounded by a literal quarry and they're using sandstone?
I guess the actual stone was shipped off to where the Tevinter empire demanded it? Yay for the theft of natural resources.
Victora could see through some of the windows that some of these houses had seven to twelve occupants. Cramped, in a word.
"And the Quinri invasion?"
"Occupation, my lady, and that was seven fifty-six, Storm."
"So, Storm, Blessed, Dragon?"
"Yes, correct." He smiled.
"And how would you describe this cities politics?"
"Vile."
Victoria snorted an ungraceful laugh. She took a while to catch herself. "Indeed. But I mean who is in power here – and why? Were they appointed to, or born in, the role? Monarchy or Oligarchy?"
Sampson's face lit up: "Ah! Well, in order, Viscount Marlowe Dumar is in power and has been for three years, he was appointed by the chantry, the court, and the nobles. Kirkwall is something like an oligarchy." Yeah, He's defiantly educated. Called it.
He shrugged, taking her arm in his to escort her pass a puddle, keeping them hand in arm as they continued.
"The chantry of course has a large say in the goings on of Kirkwall and her people. Indeed, the Chantry's heraldry is that of the shining sun. I'll take us pass the Stair and I'm sure well encounter an example soon. However, most of the nobles here are vestiges of the Orlesian empires occupation in Blessed. Yet the most powerful nobles are what we call the free nobles. They're the highest rank of the merchant class."
"It's very different from my homelands. While we have nobles and the church we also have a democratic structure."
"Democratic? Who votes?"
Chen smirked: "Everyone."
His expression became dubious. "Surely not?"
"Well… Technically you can only vote if you're a citizen and on the registry, however, if your born in the country or the colonies you are a citizen. If you travel into the country or colonies and apply for citizenship successfully, you are a citizen."
"Sounds messy."
"Delightfully so."
It was by then perhaps eleven, or maybe ten thirty? Victoria was struggling with the time here, despite having a literal watch. Which was battery powered – the luxury was only going to last her so long.
It could be their first thing to fix today. One of the youths last night had identified it correctly so watches existed. He identified it as expense – which it was – but that could be due to it being a watch rather than it being ruthenium.
She turned to her now rosy smelling guide. "Sampson… Does Kirkwall have a clock tower?"
He regarded her, eyes flicking to her watch. "She does. There's the clock set into the high tower of the Keep up in High-town and there's the Clock Tower by the docks. Its visible from the Circle – Not that the templars are currently allowing time-sensitive rituals." He glared "or any rituals for that matter."
Victoria found herself curious. Templars again… and rituals… If I cracked your head open all sorts of bloody information would flow from out.
"Right – lead on to the dock clocktower! Then if there's time, to your high-tower clock of the Keep."
And lead he did. Over the canals and past storefronts.
Kirkwall was a winding beast – Victoria might well be in love.
Yet after perhaps five blocks, something seemed off.
Tents… Lots and lots of tents… In an open space… It felt so out of place.
"We passed this section last night, did we not?"
"We passed over yonder, lady Chen." He pointed to an elevated section of road almost a kilometre north-west which was passing the cleared land briefly. "Apologies again, for taking you this way, yet this is effectively the best route."
Every nook and corner of this large open space spoke of unintended design and an unintended colours; a tapestry embroidering the foundations of the city's history of occupation. The stained yellow of their tents did come to match the washed-out colours of the sturdier shelters bordering the cleared space. She imagined, as her boy spoke passionately, that every structure here– aside from those dominating the furthest hights– had once been a stained yellow canvas stretched over some poor creatures' head in the centuries passed.
Every great city was once a group of hovels amongst dirt.
"Please, it's not a worry. Every great city has its underside. You mentioned a Dark-town last night did you not?"
Had not her own ancestors been in tents and homes like these while they sought their fortunes during the Kalgoorlie-Boulder gold rush? Had they not produced wealth for their family through all the means made available to them in their forward-thinking glob-trotting action?
"This isn't that lady Chen. Dark-town is beneath the Grate Stair. In the vestiges of mines and quarries all connected by tunnels and sewage passages."
Victoria hummed if only to be seen as polite.
They clearly didn't fit in these refugees, but they had survived; for that they should be received well and rewarded. And it wouldn't be. They'd be socially restricted by language barriers, blamed for being ignorant of the prevailing culture, and very likely used as an escape goat for whatever the current problems were in the city. Such is life. The beauty of forced immigration!
"You said they were fleeing a blight?"
"Yes. Ferelden – that's to say the Kingdom of Ferelden, which is across the see to the south – is in a state of turmoil. Darkspawn have flooded into the state and thus, all maker fearing folks have made preparations to flee."
Ah, and because most cities are land locked aside from a river, this would be one of the first points of port for those fleeing. "Do most move through the city after landing?"
"Hard to say: most simply aren't allowed to dock. People are living in our sewage system, lady Chen, there's no room for refugees. This land was cleared, the homes here were destroyed, and the people who lived in those homes now live here in tents alongside the other desolate. It wasn't fair, but our maker's trials are intended to be trials. If you can, spare them kindness."
Victoria observed Sampson. His sincerity and passion. A gem in the rough... Oh dear - I'm getting attached.
He'd walked with dignity and purpose, appearing sober and steady despite what she was coming to understand could be withdrawal. He came across as strong and steadfast, even being poor and homeless. He had made for a good guard dog for the night; pleasant company while relaxed and vicious when provoked.
In a word: Handy.
"What would you say is your favourite place in this city?"
He looked surprised.
"I – well… truly, my favourite place is just outside the city. Along the cliffs, facing out to the see. But in the city? I'm not– nowhere. I mean, there was the fifth level of the Circle. There was a window near the conical stair and on a warm day if I'd finished my duties in time I could sit there and watch the sun's dusk on the cliffs."
"Sampson."
"Uh, yes?"
"What is this Circle?"
"OH – I'd imagen you have a different name for them in your homeland! The Circles are a division belonging to the chantry dedicated to housing, protecting, and providing for mages. It's further separated into two "orders." The Templar order, and the Circle of Magi."
"You have mentioned the Templars rather a few times now. What was your involvement with that order Sampson?"
"Ah, I was a junior Knight of the order."
"I see."
"Well–"
"They were wrong to banish you from their ranks. I can see clearly that your removal is their loss," she nudged his elbow, "and my gain."
He shifted his posture his gait changing. "You're too kind." The adorable boy was embarrassed – how precious!
"Not at all: I am simply correct. Although I must ask – being banished from such an order, will this not pose a problem for your ability to – well I suppose – exist in the city?"
His eyes darkened. "Yes. It's a black mark."
"Sounds like it dwells on your mind."
"It bothers me; I did the right thing as you said and now I suffer."
Did the right thing?
"What happened?"
He looked to the sky, gathering his thoughts. "I broke communication restrictions."
Victoria nodded along, returning "and this means?"
He locked eyes with her. "I allowed for mages to pass messages to each other. Furthermore, when they were unable to pass messages, I acted as a courier for them. I… There was a couple. One of them was forced into binding after they broke an edict. So, I passed their messages. Then the other was bound. So, I continued." He shrugged. "They were in love, Chen. I didn't want for them to lose each other."
"You did the right thing. That rule was not a just rule. Your treatment was unjust. I am sorry for your circumstance, Sampson, however, I am very proud that my companion is such an upstanding individual."
He had that darkness again in his eye, "I betrayed my orders and failed the expectations of others."
"You did what was right. I know in my cold dead heart: your Maker smiles brightly upon you friend."
"Dead hea– wa–"
"Oh hush!" she slapped at his bicep. "Speak not now Sampson; I have decided something. You, Sir, are a good man beyond reproach. I am proud to know you."
That shook him. "But – I…" He sighed. "Fine… But you should know: there's a reason I've not being feeling well."
Here we are: "Is it withdrawal from something?"
He startled "I – Yes? How did you know?"
Victoria smiled. "Something you said earlier: "a headache and dizzy spells." Sounds something like withdrawal. And your collapse last night, and a few other things, really. You're not my first addict." Sampson's eyes seemed glued to her lips as she grinned. "Which is a good thing – with my previous experiences and knowledge I can help you through the withdrawal."
"You would do that?"
"A deal is a deal, yes?"
He gave a watery sigh. "Thank you."
She patted his shoulder in commiseration.
He continued "It's lyrium. Consuming it gives Templars an ability to disrupt the fade. To disrupt a mages' connection to the fade disrupts their magic. The psychic backlash often knocks them out as well. But once you start taking it you need to continue."
"And now that you are out of the order…"
He shrugged. "This is our place in the maker's plan. Templars have always been used. How many were left to rot, like I was, after the Chantry burned away their minds with some blue rocks?"
She can't help but feel his cold anger.
He coughed. "And that, there, is the clock tower. We are arrived." He declared, detaching his arm from hers.
"So we have." She adjusted her watch, thankful that Kirkwall kept time in the same style as her earth.
"Well, my guide. Where to next?"
"Sorry?"
Hn? "I have adjusted my watch, Sampson."
His expression was quizzical. "That quickly?"
"Yes?"
"Goodness…"
"Well… Indeed? If you have nothing else you wish to show me today, we could retreat to our rooms? You may need the rest and food. And I wouldn't mind the opportunity to try and listen into some conversations – as unsavoury as it may be – for an indication of work?"
"Right, well. Let's walk a different route back – I wish not to bore you, my lady."
And so, they walked a new route in return, with something having settled between them, Victoria thought. She'd have to keep an eye on this one. Keep him on the straight and narrow so he could continue to be a good person. She startled… remembering her thoughts that morning about people and personhood and philosophical zombies… She sighed: it was always a losing supposition. People are people are people: they don't care if there seen as people – there too busy being people.
As they crested this set of stairs, she couldn't help but reflect on the glorious view of the light rippling across the salt bay. Of the glistening rainbows formed by the wake of ships prows and the shine of the many, many canals.
Even with its strangeness.
Even with its shit and dirt.
Kirkwall was an enchanting city.
"And all of life could be found within."
"I'm sorry?"
"Just… This city! It – well, a doctor once said of a city in my aunt and uncles home country "when a man is tired of London" – that is the city – "when a man is tired of London he is tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford". And Kirkwall, I am learning, is much the same."
Victora allowed perhaps the very first devious smile to blume upon her lips since her arrival. "Would you endure a poem this Doctor wrote? For my sake?"
"Of course? I quite like poetry, my lady."
Oh joy!
She cleared her throat.
"Here malice, rapine, accident conspire,
And now a rabble rages, now a fire;
Their ambush here relentless ruffians lay,
And here the fell attorney prowls for pray;
Here falling houses thunder on your head,
And here a female atheist talks you dead."
Oh, good gloomy O'll Samuel Johnson…
Sampson had just stared at the stiar as she spoke. "I want to be mad – but I understand the comparison and, yeah, that – all of that – is Kirkwall." He looked her dead in the eyes.
"And I wouldn't change it for anything in the world."
Victoria found herself grinning.
…::…
::';';';';';';';';';';';'::
~::~
She found herself sitting, just as she had that morning, in the Hanged Man's common room. Watching people. Thinking about the city. Her predicament. Employment.
She wasn't in the same booth, no, evidently that was too popular a selection what with its ability to watch everyone else and the entrance and exits – all while being relatively secluded from prying eyes.
Victoria's eyes swept across the room, looking for any signs that there would be a mage in their midst.
Sampson had talked of magic as if it were a common phenomenon, instead of a long-lost and forgotten- dead technology. The preternatural is a phenomenon or technology just not understood.
Still, this could be vital for research. This could put me at the forefront of some of the Liberation's special research commission lists for the second time in so many decades. That could be a record! Another thing to be proud of.
Like Sampson.
Few could do what he did. I hope he's resisting well damit.
Would a mage lurk? Hide? Slither or slide? She coughed into her fist as discreetly as she could manage: clearly still in a poem mood.
What made a mage a mage? Their ability to use magic? Their magical nature? Their genetics?
What even constituted for magic. Was a gun magic. She thought back to the "historical" influences she'd seen in the architecture, ship building, and clothing styles and how close they some had been to the 17th and 18th centuries… perhaps a gun would not be considered magic.
But would a computer be magic?
Illegal magic at that…
She'd have to be discreet in researching this topic, wouldn't she? Unless these "Templars" weren't law enforcement? Which they wouldn't be, surely? Sampson had specified the nobility, the chantry, and the courts, as the powers that be – so the law must be separate from the chantry and thus separate from the Circle… Right?
Wait, were these Templars alike the templars of her earth's Knights Templar? Holly knights? They would have to be, Sampson had called himself a Knight Templar had he not? If so that'd make them above the law…
Was that better or worse…
And was Sampson helping in that research better or worse…
Well shit… She sighed. Well, speculation is worthless.
What do… What do….
She sighed again. She would have to make good on her comment. She'd have to make friends.
Yuck.
There was one, at least, who stood out in the rumpus room. He – and it was a man – was sitting in the stone booth behind her. Just behind her. So, it was more his accent, not his features, that had caught her attention.
It was an American accent.
This, and the fact that from the moment she'd sat down there had been three deliveries to him – two of which had been missed by everyone else in the inn, save for the Tolkien looking elf in sitting solitary on the other side of the room. Tolkien had been watching for three hours now. Tolkien had traded his seat with a human looking gentleman as well, although she couldn't be sure that he was human.
Did Mr. America know he was being watched? They weren't being subtle, America had to have realised…
It was curious; when she'd ordered water at the bar, she hadn't been able to see him, despite having tried to look. Subtly, at least…
Well, If Mr. America was being watched, then Mr. America deserved to know. That this made for a good reason to snoop around and make contacts – friends – was beside the point.
She rose form her booth seat, and in three quick steps, sat down again opposite the – small? – American.
"Good morning, America, you are being watched." She sat forward, leaning her elbows against their table, onto the mass scattering of parchment, paper, and leather littering. Victoria was careful to avoid spilling his ink well. "Thought you ought to know," she finished.
He gestured out in the direction of Tolkien, still staring at the table. "Hm, that's a very proper way of speaking, miss?" He knew then. Not actually American, either, given the lack of reaction. Drats.
"Victoria."
He looked up from his tortured and mauled parchment, still bleeding ink. "And the rest?"
"Hn."
His smile was startlingly infectious.
"Hn…" He frowned and, placing a stopper on his ink well: "May I ask where that's from?"
"Only if I can have your name, and, perhaps, your company for a moment of time."
His smile stilled, oddly so. "Oh? Don't know it?"
"Should I?"
"It's Varric." He started, taking a playful tone. "And no, you may not have it."
She smiled. So, the conversation begins. "That, Varric, is a handsome name." She raised her palm to forestall his response, "so, the gentlemen watching us – you seem unworried?"
"You really don't know that name?" He cut in.
"Hmm: I feel there are more important things at hand than weather or not I recognise your name…"
His smile grew coming back to life. "I hired him, and his buddy." He grinned smug, eyes dancing, before continuing. "Someone was sitting in my preferred spot this morning, had to improvise."
"Oh!" Victoria forced herself to blush. "Well, it was a nice spot." She leant back into her chair's cotton stuffed hide. "And to answer; I'm not from Kirkwall. In fact, I'm rather afraid that I don't know where home is in relation to this city – I woke up on the docks last night feeling rather disorientated."
He didn't really react much, so she lied with a shrug. "And it's hardly unusual where I'm from. And it's hardly a "proper" way of speaking – although it might seem as such. It is a perfectly paced and relaxed way to converse."
His grin relaxed into a smirk. "Tethras, by the by. Varric Tethras."
She smirked back "Charming devil, aren't you." She put on her best impression of a wounded dog "Will you let me sit for some conversation? I'm starved of it."
He made a show of putting on a sigh and acquiesced.
That lead to a conisation the city – Victoria felt very able to be honest in that regard and was deeply relieved to see the same passion she'd felt stoked within her reflected back from Mr. Tethras.
They agreed that this city was beautiful, imperfect, and delectably charming.
This led to a talk of how clocks worked – don't ask her how that came about, she didn't know.
Then archery? Here Mr. Tethras had her firmly beat in understanding, experience, and general knowledge.
That lead to one of her most delighted topics of discussion, however: family.
"My aunt and uncle might have well raised me, truth be told. I get along very well with them. Followed in my uncle's footsteps, as a fact."
"Truly? What profession"
"Medical research!"
That surprised Mr. Tethras "Really? I wouldn't have guessed."
"Why not?"
"You have the disposition of a rouge."
Victoria smirked: "Well, yes, I should think so – I did follow in my aunt's footsteps as well – for a short while at least."
He scoffed. "I'm sure it's made for an interesting mix of professional expectations, yeah?"
She giggled. "Well, I suppose so, yes. It was never boring. More interesting than whatever my cousin was doing certainly. That Ghoul never knew when to stop reading and touch grass. Honestly, sometimes their skin took a green hew!"
"Reminds me of how my brother sometimes describes me." Varric groaned.
"No! Are you also an editor?"
Mr. America laughed. "I'm sure my editor wished so. I'm an author. You might have heard of my work – Hard in High Town?"
Victoria blinked. "Oh. This is why you expected me to know you, yes?"
"Yes." Fascinating! A writer – in this period!? Or at least in this reality? Or… oh fuck it I just want to forget that for the night.
"I'm so sorry – the United Kingdom is really far from here; Hard in High Town simply hasn't arrived yet, I'm sure."
Victoria smiled.
"Regardless, thank you, by the way, sir, for indulging the desire to talk. It was very kind of you."
He shrugged. "Sometimes we all just need to talk and to listen."
"Indeed."
"That, and it's nice to be so thoroughly exposed to new accents and phrases and a potential new fan?"
"Oh? Something standing out to you?"
"I've not yet heard a voice like yours here."
"But you have heard it before?" Oh. Is this going to be a problem? No. no, there were analogues for other accents and languages all over this Kirkwall – she'd heard that much just last night.
"Yes."
"There're lot of Dwarfs back in – sorry: the United Kingdom. United how exactly?"
Could telling him hurt? "Technically, I'm from one of the United Kingdom's colonies; and there were a few "dwarfs" about." More "dwarfs" than I dam well liked; how on earth is the reality of a reigning monarchy anything like harry potter? Bloody "dwarfs."
"The kingdoms are united through the combination of the kingdoms of England and Scotland – that's south and north – and the kingdom of Wales – in the west. They are now all ruled under the same crown. There's also North Irland. We don't talk about that, however."
He smiled. "Ruled under the same crown: The United Kingdom. Interesting! And that's good to hear; always good knowing some dwarfs aren't so stupid to stay berried in the deep roads."
What?
"Yes… I agree wholly."
"Regardless: on to stories of your work!"
"Oh, and what types of stories do you think I could share?"
Varric winked "Grim stories."
Her eyebrow rose.
"Nauseating and gruesome stories. Vicious –"
"If you two don't mind some extra company–" Varric suddenly let his head fall into his hands– "I've got one that could curdle your hairs."
"George," Varric groaned, "no."
The large man shook his head "I didn't ask anything you delightfully well-connected bastard." The George leaned onto the table, sliding so far forward that Victora had to pull her elbows off, placing her hands folded into her lap. "As I was saying, beautiful stranger–"
"No"
"Shush you little man!"
"NO"
"Should I leave?"
"No!–"
"Maybe–"
Varric sat back up suddenly. "George I was enjoying that conversation. What. Do. You. Want?"
"A. Job."
Varric threw his hands into the air. Oh hello.
"Is work hard to find currently?"
"Well. No."
"See!" Varric exploded.
Victoria sat back into her back rest.
"THAT WORK IS BORING, Varric."
"Ah, why?" she interjected be for they really began yelling.
"Because its guard duty on the docks, or its dock work, or its this shit or that shit – adventure. I want adventure!"
"It doesn't matter what word on the street is, George, I'm not planning anything!"
"Oh, but I think you are Varric."
"Ugh!"
This… Well.
This was about exactly how the next two hours continued. It was somewhat enlightening.
She learned there was a volunteer clinic halfway between Low-town and High-town on the cliffs beside the Stair. That might be handy.
She also learned that her friend Mr. Tethras was in-fact a "merchant prince" from the "disgraced house of Tethras" and not just a suspicious author. The drama that sentence appealed to her considerably.
George, however, was something of a mad man. She knew his type. Began in the military – rather, the guard – then moved into specialisations like the SAS – forward scouting core – then out of the military and, not ready to put that type of work behind him began work as a mercenary – mercenary. Oh. That last one is a thing here… Goodness mercenary work has been around for an eternity, hasn't it?
She'd been forced to work with a few like him in the Strigoi. Not that she overly minded; they were a type to make for good company, after all. Easy going and always ready for something new.
Goerge only proved the stereotype further.
Indeed, it wasn't until three in the morning that the three of them parted – but not before Varric spilled the beans on the new plot he had in fact been working on, much to George's delight. Victoria supposed this was as good an opportunity for employment as she was going to get at this time of the day, and as such threw her and Sampson lot in too.
They would meet again, in the morning, to work out details in a less observable place. It was hush-hush apparently.
"You know, George, if you want to leave you can just go? I wouldn't have thought that anyone here would be offended – Victoria would you condemn the man his leave?"
"Not at all, George; if we bore you so, please; do take flight. Besides, I ought to check on my guide: ensure his health."
With that excuse, Victoria made her own, graceful, exit.
That had both the men booing, even as George began to move as well.
Moving back upstairs into her and Sampson's room.
He was still asleep.
The flesh around his eyes bruised.
Poor dear, Chen thought, moving into the seat beside the bed.
What an exciting day. What will tomorrow bring?
Her harsh grey eyes shone in the dark.
…
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