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Hawke pushed open the door of the Hanged Man, enjoying the way the raucous noise from the tavern settled around her ears as she walked in. The mansion in Hightown was always so quiet—too quiet. You could hear yourself think, and Hawke rarely wanted to be alone with her thoughts. Here in the Hanged Man there was always someone to talk to.
More to the point, she thought as her gaze settled on the familiar back table, there was always Varric. Whatever was and was not between them on a more intimate level, he was the best friend and most entertaining companion Hawke had ever had. A man in a million.
Smiling, she made her way through the crowd. Ruffin, one of the regulars, was in her seat, and Hawke crossed her arms and glared down at him until he hastily got up and found himself another table. She turned the chair around and straddled it.
"You have a real way with people, you know that, Hawke?" Varric asked.
"I try."
"You have to hear this," he said to her, leaning across the table. "There's this tale making the rounds. They're saying you single-handedly fought off a pirate invasion, at midnight, on the sacred ground of the Chantry."
She couldn't help thinking of the rather tame scuffle they'd had with the Invisible Sisters, the latest group to try to terrorize the streets of Hightown at night. "Is that all they say?" Hawke asked, feigning boredom. "The stories don't mention my stunning good looks? What about my cunning wit?"
"Nope. They skip straight to the part about the lovable dwarf with the gorgeous crossbow and the heart of gold. I try to steer them straight, but you know how stories go." They grinned at each other across the table. "Just … don't be surprised if people seem in awe."
"That never surprises me," she told him. It didn't, really. Mina was used to taking up all the attention, in order to keep it off Bethany. And Carver, who never knew when to quit. Or shut up. She'd spent a lifetime cultivating a big personality. Not that she minded, most of the time. "Still—I have to wonder what you get out of all this. Surely you could spin stories about yourself and get something more in return than mere amusement."
"Something more in return? Shows what you know, Hawke. The stories are their own reward. You really need to see the look on someone's face when I tell them you ripped the arms off an ogre. Just once."
"What compels you to spin these tales?" She'd always wondered.
"I love the sound of my own voice. And I'm a compulsive liar."
"Strangely enough, I believe both those statements."
Varric chuckled. "Seriously, though, Hawke. There's power in stories. That's all history is: the best tales. The ones that last. Might as well be mine."
"But wouldn't it make more sense if you were the main character?"
He shook his head. "There's a recipe to a good hero. It's like alchemy. One part down-to-earth, one part selfless nobility, two parts crazy—and season liberally with wild falsehoods. Let that percolate through a good audience for a while, and when it's done, you've got your hero. You fit the bill perfectly."
Hawke thought about that for a moment. "Well, in that case, I suppose awe works. A little reverence wouldn't hurt, though."
"I'll work on it," he promised.
"I look forward to seeing what you come up with next," Hawke said, leaning back in her chair. She looked more relaxed than Varric had seen her in a while. He hoped she was settling in to that Hightown mansion and her growing notoriety. Some of the sharpness he'd seen in her after Bethany was taken to the Gallows seemed to have softened—she was almost back to the witty and charming woman he had first met.
His thoughts were interrupted by a leather-bound folio being slapped onto the table in front of him. Isabela, their Rivaini pirate friend, took the seat next to Hawke's across the table. "There you go, Varric. I told you I was working on something you'd like."
Intrigued, he riffled through the pages. "'Her breasts strained against the leather jerkin like two wild stallions corralled against their will.' Not bad. 'She pounced—the smooth moves of a jungle cat—and locked her thighs around Donnic's waist. He—'" Looking up, he shook his head. "Using real names is bad form, Rivaini."
"I didn't think you were going to read it out loud!" she protested.
"You know Aveline would kill you if she ever found that thing," Hawke told her.
The Rivaini raised her eyebrows. "Would she? Or would she be … intrigued? Titillated, even?"
Hawke chuckled. "You wish."
In Varric's private opinion, Isabela did wish. And so did Aveline. The tension between the two women crackled every time they were together. Mostly they covered it with hostility, but there was always something more just beneath the surface. Aveline would never admit to such a thing—especially not with Donnic in the picture—so he kept his thoughts to himself. "You know, this isn't bad," he said to the Rivaini. "A little bit of editing, and you might have something."
"Better than that poet fellow who used to try to get in your pants," Hawke remarked. "Do you remember him?"
Isabela chuckled. "Do I? 'Your eyes are like bumblebees, flying into the window of my soul'," she quoted.
"My favorite was 'Your lips are like the wings of sparrows. Red ones. With no feathers.'" Varric had rather liked that poet—what he lacked in skill, he had made up for in showmanship, declaiming his works as though they were deathless prose.
Laughing, Isabela tossed her hair back, declaiming the last line with gusto. "'Oh, speak! And send the plucked wings of your lips soaring!' He did have a way with him, I'll give him that. Also, he could use his tongue for more than just poetry." She winked.
"I don't know which of you is worse." Hawke shook her head, but she was smiling. "Just promise I get to vet anything you write about me."
"Oh, of course," Varric said, at the same time as Isabela promised, "You'll be the first." They were both lying, naturally, and Hawke knew it—but they all equally knew they would never write anything that would embarrass her.