IV: Into the Breach

When he'd first arrived on the streets of Lowtown, Martin had thought that he'd seen the worst of Kirkwall – the slums where those without coin or title squatted and huddled. Well, worst discounting the Alienage. He'd expected that squalor. He'd seen it before in both Highever and Denerim.

He hadn't been prepared for Darktown. Choked, cluttered passages nearly all of which held not even the slightest glimpse of the sun. Ramshackle huts built into and out of the dampened walls. Sewage flowing in front of and even through said huts, the sickened and dying denizens of that hellhole scattered all around. And worst of all, many were fereldan.

He could hear her in his thoughts, remember how she'd spoken in Lothering. Contemptible creatures, unable to grasp life so they lie about in hedges and roads awaiting the Blight. She had insulted Alistair's protests, mocking the refugees further for their moaning and gnashing of teeth. She had seemed heartless then, cruel even. Yet… she had seemed to soften as they traveled together, as she'd opened up to Martin.

And then she had left. Was it all a lie? A lie for her ritual? Did she speak truer in Lothering than she did in our bedroll? Would she, now, think the same of these wretches? His hand twitched towards his neck, towards the cord that hung there.

He shook off the thought, reached to the flask strapped below his hammer on his right thigh and took a quick sip. Corking the bottle, he looked to his companions.

Carver wore the barest minimum of armor, a browned leather chest piece over his tunic with vambraces and shin guards. His true armor lay in the permanent scowl he wore on his face, often times directed at Martin. They hadn't spoken directly since their first meeting, though an air of cold tension hovered between them. Martin returned the enmity wholeheartedly. Carver was, as far as he could tell, a petulant child in need of a good slapping.

Varric, the illustrious beardless dwarf who he'd heard so much about from Hawke was anything but illustrious. The man wore a dusted leather jacket, probably bronto skin, with a small plate underneath protecting his upper chest and back. He carried a strange crossbow on said back to which he constantly referred to as "Bianca," and had an irritating propensity to continuously talk at and question anyone and everyone (Bianca included). He did not refer to anyone by their proper name, save Hawke, instantly dubbing Martin upon their first meeting "Mallet."

And then there was Hawke. She wore more obvious leather armor now, practical and muted. Her short black hair was disheveled as if she had just woken up. She wore a buckler strapped to one forearm and a short spear strapped to her back, a strangely quality weapon with the image of Andraste carved into its handle as a sort of pommel guard. She'd been muttering all afternoon after she'd introduced Martin and Varric, the only words which Martin could pick up being the occasional curse. He noticed there were significantly more after they'd made the descent into Darktown.

All in all, it looked to be an interesting evening. He wasn't sure if he liked that.

"So Varric," Hawke asked as she led the way down through the dark passages. "Remind me again, how much are we getting paid for this?"

Varric sighed. "Maker's breath, Hawke. Have you ever heard the expression, 'if I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times?'"

"Git!" Hawke shouted loudly as she stepped into some rank sludge dribbling down a slight incline into a hut to her left. She cast the hut, evidently unoccupied, and evil glare. "Not you Varric. I've been here enough with Athenril's boys, and I never wanted to come down to this shite hole again."

"Too right," muttered Carver behind Martin.

"In all honesty," Varric replied thinly. "I actually like this place. It has a certain charm and character, the kind you usually only hear about in the best of stories. Gloom, doom, with no room – what's not to love?"

"Bull, Varric!" Carver shouted this time. "You're talking out your bloody arse."

"Well," he shrugged, an eye roll practically audible in his tone. "You figured it out. I actually hate Darktown. You got me."

Hawke cursed again as she stumbled. "The bloody reward, Varric! When I'm ankle deep in shite I need to remember why!"

"Easy, easy. I haggled him up to ten sovereigns. Ten. Just imagine." The dwarf's grin was obvious, and Martin imagined the man punctuating that description with a theatrical flourish.

"Well," Hawke said, leading them around a bend in the tunnel. They entered a large round cistern, walls smudged and plastered in layers of filth. The stone itself was a darker brown than the tan of most of Kirkwall's construction. Older, evidently. Mercifully, a hatch opened at the conical center of the ceiling – formerly a well or something of that nature. Dimmed light of the sundown floors and floors above shone through, piercing the gloom.

"Well," Hawke repeated. "That leaves two sovereigns, fifty silver for each of us. Not a bad day's work, all considering. At this rate, if we don't eat, sleep, live, or visit whorehouses – we'll be ready in three months. Obviously I count this last week in total for my guess."

Martin was surprised at how little he cared. The money would certainly help his situation, keep him boarded in his room at the Hanged Man for a few weeks longer. The truly important thing was to busy himself so that he could forget.

Though… something about Hawke intrigued him. Something intangible.

Following her was far better than drinking himself into a stupor in the shithole that was the Hanged Man. Even in his fugue dreams she still haunted him.

Shithole. A small grin broke on to his face as he latched onto the distraction. From one to another, it seems.

"Not bad," Martin agreed, the grin still on his face.

"So Mallet decides to join us at long last," Varric cawed. "I may have only met you today, but I'm still impressed that those are only the second and third words I've heard out of you. I can't imagine not talking for five minutes, and here you've gone and kept mum for three hours."

Martin checked his flask again and took another sip. The comforting heat that passed down his throat made the passage somewhat less awful. I can't smell much, at least. "I did not have anything to say. Though as I recall, the first word I spoke to you was my name."

"Bahh," Varric retorted jovially. "I remember your name, and it doesn't fit. Mallet suits you, and you're not going to convince me otherwise."

"You better get used to it," Carver grunted. "He's attached to his names, Varric is."

"Is that frustration I hear in your voice, Junior?" Varric said innocently, though the sound of his grin went from amused to shit-eating.

"I told you to bloody not call me – "

"Calm your tits, brother," Hawke called from the front. "He could always name you something more accurate, like 'tosser' or 'currently stuck with a stick stuck up his arse.'"

Martin glanced back to see Carver grinding his teeth to the quick. "As you say, sister," the boy muttered.

Silence prevailed for a moment, before Varric snickered. "'Stuck with a stick stuck?'"

Hawke threw an insulting gesture his way without breaking her stride, earning a surprisingly loud laugh from the diminutive dwarf.

They continued on in silence for a bit, this time through what amounted to a thoroughfare. A large, open passageway that had evidently been widened by the inhabitants of Darktown over the centuries. A couple dozen people clustered in various groups, examining and arguing in hushed tones over ramshackle stalls of goods.

"Why would anyone ever come down here of all places to haggle?" Carver asked loudly, earning him obvious hostile stares of the closest cluster. "Lowtown's got half as much shit covering the goods, and it's not down in this sewer."

Hawke snorted from ahead. "I know you were just muscle Carver, but you have to remember moving down here just a few short months ago? Used to be we moved the cargo down here. Lowtown's not exactly law-abiding, but no guard's ever patrolling down here."

Varric spoke up. "I once bought a belt buckle down here. Filthiest human I've ever seen, beard down to his ankles had a little stall in a corner under the docks. Buckle itself was some tribal thing. 'Marefath's codpiece itself,' He said, practically drooling. 'And what a cod he must've had!'" Varric paused dramatically. "Wanna see? I just polished it this morning."

"Shut your bloody face, dwarf," Carver spat. "Bad enough I'm stuck down here, but stuck down here with you – "

"Easy there, Junior, no need to – "

Before Carver could explode again, Hawke called back. "Both of you, quiet now before someone here sends certain someone elses sprawling into the muck for the worst lunch they've ever had."

That shut them up for a time, granting the motley group silence as they marched through Darktown. They passed through another open cistern, this one with walls gouged out to form small chambers carved into the stone. Upon closer inspection Martin noted that the stone looked off in those chambers – darker, softer. Perhaps centuries of leaked sewage had rendered hard stone into loamy rotten soil. Or perhaps it was just more filth that the bedraggled inhabitants cannibalized for their pitiful existences. Eyes peered out from one covered chamber. Martin quickly averted his gaze.

As they rounded another bend, leaving the squalid chambers behind them an ambient muttering began to rise from ahead. There were people gathered, and they were talking. As their party drew closer and rounded another bend the muddled sound rose even louder. The voices weren't just talking, they were shouting.

Another corner and the sound was completely upon them. Arguing, occasional shouts, and jostling. Ahead the corridor opened wider than any chamber they'd been to before, the stone stained black all about as if by fire. The floor was jagged and uneven, and in the center of the room stood a trio of armed men in the garb of city guardsmen. Around and about them was a small crowd of perhaps twenty or so people, pushing and muttering. One man in the crowd, a haggard elf in relative finery hurled abuse at the guards.

"Injustice! We tell you the monster is in there below, and what do you do? You protect him you bastards, you shem!"

Of the three guardsmen, only one wore the cuirass Martin had come to associate with them. He was stocky with the face of a noble-born, high cheekbones and a strong jawline. His noble visage split into a horrible sneer.

"Oi, if we want to hear you talk, knifey, we'll ask for it. Otherwise shut it, 'fore I shut it with me gauntlet."

"There are more of us than there are of you," another elf, a woman this time near the back of the crowd stammered. Though her words were brave, her voice was anything but.

Nearly all of them are elves, Martin realized. No one they had seen in this hell of an undercity had been anything but human, and now twenty elves surrounded a few guardsmen? As bad as elves typically had it, they generally were welcoming to their own kind within their alienages. They weren't like the fereldan refugees, the plague ridden, or any other of the true castoffs of Kirkwall. Darktown wasn't their home.

So what the hell are they doing here?

"By order of the ploughin' guard," the noble guardsman shouted. "This hole's sealed – now unless you're…" the man trailed off as he saw over the heads of the elves crowding him, catching sight of their small band. He immediately pushed through the elves, uncaring as he knocked them aside to move up to Hawke and Varric. The elves shrunk back at his touch.

He gestured down to the dwarf. "You Tethras?"

Varric bowed extravagantly. "Varric Tethras, professional story-teller and younger brother at your service. My companions are – "

The noble guard sniffed, grimacing. "No need for bloody introductions," he interrupted. You're Tethras, which means you're the boys meant to go after the fugitive."

"Yes," Hawke said, sounding both rankled and frustrated. "We're the boys."

"About ploughin' time," the guard muttered, turning back to the crowd. "Scoot you bloody knife-ears! These gents here are about to grab your killer!"

The elves exploded in excitement, throbbing and thranging up against the guardsmen – not attacking, but pushing to make themselves heard.

"Kill the bastard!"

"Creators spit on you shems!"

"Andraste spit on you, heretic!"

"Three times! Three times he's been caught, and for what! He'll come back, mark my words!"

Ahead of him, Martin saw the fine dressed elf push up to Hawke, taking her shoulder. He said something to her, and she followed him into the crowd. Varric meanwhile continued on towards the hole, Martin in toe. Carver pushed passed Martin and moved towards the crowd, after his sister.

Through the din, Martin heard him mutter as he passed. "Always stickin' her nose – "

When Varric and Martin reached the hole, the guard turned. "Where'd your mates go? Hells, if this don't get done proper quick I swear me and the boys are going to bust some of these fucking knife-eared shits down to size."

Martin stepped up to Varric, who smiled thinly. "Oh," he shouted. "Those two do this all the time. Get lost, I mean. They'll be back in a minute." Turning to Martin, the dwarf grimaced and mouthed 'I hope.'

Martin peered down the oppressive hole to see rotted wooden planks nailed into another loamy wall. They continued as a precarious ladder, the rest of which was quickly consumed by an absolute darkness. He leaned back hurriedly.

"If you're so eager to complete your task, why not go down yourself?" Martin asked the guardsman. "You said it yourself, it's only one fugitive, correct?"

The guardsman threw a contemptuous look Martin's way. "Two reasons," he replied, holding out two fingers and grasping each one in turn. "One, it isn't my bloody job. Magistrate ordered us to locate, not to pull the man out. That's up to you boys. Second, it isn't just the one bastard down there. He threw out some knifey carcasses. That brings the rat eaters."

Martin crooked an eyebrow and looked to Varric.

"They're giant rats that live in and under Darktown." Varric yelled, concern now on his face. "They're really nasty."

"If you knew a damn thing about this city, you'da heard of them," the guardsman interjected. "Course we get sent fereldans. Don't know shite," he slapped his thigh and gestured to the crowd. "and fuck off to consort with knife-ears."

"They don't seem to like this guy very much," Varric shouted again. "I'm guessing he's been at it for a while?"

"Bah!" The guardsman laughed hideously. "Damn right they don't. He's a foal cutter. Goes after little elves, cuts them up and spreads their insides about. Usually leaves them in alleys in Lowtown near the Alienage, only this time got seen doing it. Bloody knifey's chased him down here to this hole, which apparently is his." He kicked his boot towards it. "Some of them followed cutter down, got caught in a bear trap, then had their foals thrown over their heads in bits. Brought the rat eaters on. Think only a couple got out." He spit towards the hole.

One of the other guardsman leaned in and shouted. "Funniest sight I ever saw, couple elves shooting up out the ground coated in guts and screaming their mewly heads off."

"Shut it," the noble guardsman barked back. "Mind the bloody crowd."

As the other guard moved to obey the noble guardsman grunted angrily.

Absolutely disgusted, Martin shouted over the crowd, "That must've pleased you to no end, hearing about that."

The guardsman answered by swinging back to Martin with a look of absolute fury. "What do you think I am, fereldan? They may be disgusting, godless knife-ears; but by Andraste's ploughin' bowl even they don't deserve that shite. Cutter's going for kids, bastard deserves a gibbet."

He leaned closer. "Though magistrate's orders be magistrate's orders. Wants him alive, and unharmed. Got it?"

Varric nodded, a queasy expression on his face. "We got it."

It was then that Hawke emerged from the crowd, Carver in toe. Hawke bore a look of utter fury on her face while Carver's only displayed annoyance.

"Down we go," Hawke barked without ceremony as she passed Martin and immediately leapt into the hole, clambering down and disappearing from sight.

The noble guardsman gaped stupidly. "Is she daft? Does she even know what's down there?"

"No, but she's going anyway." Varric replied, a strange smile on his face. "It tells you something about Hawke, doesn't it?"

Carver stepped by, grumbling, but didn't hesitate as he lowered himself down after his sister.

Varric looked to Martin, shrugged, and followed suit.

The noble guardsman looked to the hole, then to Martin. "You lot are bloody mad."

Martin ignored the man, stepped up to the hole and paused. He reached into his shirt and found a small wooden ring that hung from a cord around his neck. Felt it. Remembered.

Then he too, followed Varric into the breach.