XII: Old Made New
It started about half a league outside the city.
As their group reached the shadow of Kirkwall they began to amble, relaxed as they inched ever closer to home. They split, their formation distorting as they moved amongst one another – Martin stepped up for a time to stand by and speak with Aveline, Carver sidling up alongside their newest Dalish companion, and Varric took the rear, heckling any conversation he caught wind of. Then they reformed – Carver pulled on ahead (eager to reach home), Aveline followed him closely – but not too closely (eyes alert, checking both before and behind), Martin walked briefly with Merrill before trailing back (eyes similarly alert), Varric still behind. Hawke herself felt separate from her friends, a mere observer as they shifted and molded against one another. She dithered, lost in her own thoughts – mulling over their most recent adventure as they returned to the refuse pit of a city they called home.
Not just call. There is nothing left for us in Ferelden, she thought darkly. Naught but the bones of Lothering. Blighted land.
Unwilling to follow her thoughts down that particular road she turned her eyes to the companions she followed down the Imperial Highway. One in particular – the newcomer, Merrill.
She stood on her own, separate, not unlike Hawke herself. Though… not quite. Unlike Hawke, who moved with a slow and careful step that gave at least the impression of control, Merrill's fingers drummed an erratic staccato on her staff as she moved forward. Every so often, her hand twitched from her staff.
She'll need to learn to hide that, Hawke reflected, even as Merrill's hand movements took her focus. Templars will sniff her out in a week if she keeps that up. Lean on it more or less like, could be. Maybe take up a limp even.
The elf's fingers kept their erratic beat, drumming – gripping? – at the staff with what seemed a desperate intensity. The slender digits separated themselves from the wood, one by one, slowly, then – there! – they flailed for a fraction of a moment, spasming from the staff without conscious direction before she returned to her beat.
The staccato sped up whenever they neared another traveler – first with the passing of a farmer's cart, then when a trio of guards walked past, nodding to Aveline. Each time the offending strangers passed, Merrill's fingers slowed – yet their drum remained uneven and disjointed. As they passed underfoot the first of the Silent Slaves, their unblemished bronzed forms weeping in agony – the twitching grew even more erratic, interrupting Merrill's strange beat.
Hawke finally sidled up alongside the anxious girl, footfalls deliberately louder than her normal gait. Even still, the girl started as Hawke called her name. "Merrill?"
"Y-yes?" Merrill stuttered, snapping her eyes off yet another weeping Slave. Though not titanic like those watchers bearing the chain in the harbor, the life-sized contorted figures still elicited a feeling of indomitable oppression.
"You alright? You're looking a might pale," Hawke asked gingerly.
Merrill met Hawke's gaze before looking down, then back towards the city. Her fingers beat faster, twitched and twitched again. "Yes. I'm.. fine. Yes. Fine."
Hawke cocked a brow at the girl. You look about as fine as one of Varric's favorite brews. Downright piss pale. She didn't think Merrill would understand the joke, nor take it kindly, so instead she opted for a different approach. "Is this your first time visiting a city?"
"Yes," Merrill answered, "I mean, no. Not if you count ruins. I mean, though, no… you didn't mean ruins, did you? No of course you didn't. Yes, this is the first time… though..." She trailed off into nothing.
Hawke gave her a moment. When the elf didn't continue, Hawke spoke. "'Though,' what? You can't just leave a girl all in suspense like that, Merrill, it's absolutely cruel."
Merrill's eyes snapped back in alarm, her hand spasming. "No, I'm sorry. I don't mean - "
Cursing her mistake (and just a little bit the jittery girl she was trying her best to calm), Hawke interrupted. "I was fooling, Merrill. Though I would like to hear what you had to say."
"Oh," Merrill replied. "Well… I've never seen..." she seemed to search for words before she gestured at the looming city before them, tall walls and chains crowned by the distant Gallows. "It looks so… horrible. Though I don't mean to say your home is horrible!" She was near on panicking now, gesturing to another Silent Slave they trudged past. "But the chains and the walls and the statues are so cruel…"
Before she could get lost on another tangent of self-loathing Hawke interrupted her again. "That they are. Don't think anybody in their right minds finds them appealing. Most cities don't have a trail of bronzed exhibits dedicated to torture at every entrance way and inroad."
"Then why does this city have them?" Merrill asked, all big eyed.
"Used to be the center of the slave trade, back in the days of Old Tevinter. But that's a time long since past, she's a Free City now, no slavery no more. Just 'indentured' folk, poor bastards like us, even poorer bastards in Darktown, some rich shits like Varric, and… well, then there's the Alienage."
Merrill nodded. "I know that, at least. In all human cities the People are pushed amongst themselves wherever the humans don't want to be."
She said it so matter-of-factly Hawke felt a pang of pity for the elves she rarely spared more than a second thought for. I mean, I'm living in the shittier part of Lowtown with a drunkard uncle, an arse of a brother and a worried mother in four rooms. Even still I can walk to Hightown if I clean up right, orgo down to the docks without any word more than the average proposition. I can parlay with just about anyone, if I've got the coin. Elves get shoved into the Alienage, can't even run shops outside it. No one gives a proper shite about them less they step out of line, then it's the boot for them all.
Still, they've got it better than Darktown. Least they've got each other - and the sun.
"You'll be fine, Merrill. I'm sure you'll get along just great with all the Alienage types. They even have one of those special trees you elves go crazy for."
Merrill looked confused for a moment. "A… tree? Do you mean a vhenadahl?"
"It's 'ven-a' something, that's for sure." Hawke replied. "Could be that."
"I wonder… do they know what it means?" Merrill mused almost to herself, fingers tapping.
"Could be they do, could be they don't. Do you know?"
She brightened somewhat at the question, the rhythm of her fingers steadying. "'Tree of the People,' our People, that is. The People. Elves. I know, it's a bit silly, calling ourselves the People when there's all sorts of other people but that's what the elven translates to..."
Hawke shrugged. "It's not much sillier than humans, honestly. What does that even mean, anyway? Hugh – man? Some Chantry scholar no doubt named it after her pet canary or the like."
"I suppose you're right," Merrill smiled. "Though I wouldn't mind if we were named after some bird someone loved, or halla, or even a griffin. It would be a nice reminder anytime someone said the name – a reminder of something someone cared for long ago." She looked up to Hawke, eyes shining. "Even if it isn't true, I think I'll pretend that is how humans got their name."
"That's the spirit," Varric called from behind them – bastard can't help but eavesdrop, Hawke thought fondly – "When in doubt, make shit up. Always works."
They moved on in amiable silence, Hawke and Merrill, the hugh – man in comfortable reverie and the elf in wide eyed wonder at the city growing ever closer. Her fingers kept at their tapping, but slowly.
Not that the quiet lasted long. As Kirkwall grew before them, so too did the bustle of people moving in and out of it. Laughter, shouts, conversations all filled the air – as did the scrape of wagon wheels, the occasional whinny of the rare horse, and the far more common lowing of various oxen.
Soon the group wasn't just morphing among themselves, now they moved up against and sometimes even collided with the people of Kirkwall, both citizens and visitors. Farmers from the surrounding lands under the free city's domain, merchants from both near and far. Sordid types, guardsmen, sordid types of guardsmen – all moving to enter or leave the Westward gate.
Merrill's fingers had stilled, though she looked ready to jump out of her skin in fear. Carver looked just about as tense – though he was about to snap in annoyance, rather than terror. Martin had collapsed into the center of their small band, his left hand resting on one of his hammers. Varric followed behind them all as Aveline forged ahead, insistently but not violently pushing a path through the throng of humanity (with the occasional smattering of elves and dwarves) that blocked their way into the city.
It was actually rather surprising to Hawke how quickly they pushed through. The guards that formed a rough line under the portcullis, normally eager to harass anyone who looked as poor as Hawke did at such an entryway, only nodded to Aveline – one even snapped off a quick salute. Of those just two cast a second glance at the elf in their company, and only one of those was a glare. Merrill still shrank under the scrutiny, but Hawke took her shoulder and guided her steadily behind their Sergeant. I must bring Aveline on our little outings more often. Could use a little breeziness more often where storm clouds are wont to gather.
Varric pushed abruptly past her as they moved through tunnel under the walls, the torches hanging on either side flecking his already conspiratorial face with dancing shadows. He remained just over Merrill's shoulder, casting a look her way every now and again in apparent… anticipation?
As the light at the end of the tunnel loomed, grew, then finally enveloped them she heard Merrill gasp in elven – while Varric chuckle in common.
"Welcome to Lowtown, Daisy," Varric smirked.
They entered at the highest point of Lowtown's ring, the partial loop of poverty that spun around and clung to the edges of the city. Half a hundred stone steps fell down before them into the Western Market below. Hundreds, perhaps even thousands of people milled under them in the cluttered thoroughfare that must've presently housed half of Kirkwall's hagglers.
Lining the vast market were houses of all shapes and sizes, skirting the edge then trailing out of through the geometric streets below. Across the way, down one familiarly packed street, Hawke could just see the great rope that marked Headsman's Way. That very same massive spindling of cords rose up through the houses and businesses on the Way, hung down at various intervals out of sight, before finally it looped into the noose where the infamous Hanged Man dangled. Hawke could picture the desiccated mascot even now – her mouth salivated at the thought of cheap beer and cheaper company.
It had been a long couple of days. So long that I'm craving a night at the Hanged Man already, alls while it's hardly past noon. She squinted up at the sky, her decision solidifying.
A pint will heal that up right quick. Scratch that, twelve pints.
[=]
"Well, that tears it," Hawke spoke suddenly, her voice somehow cutting through the din of the midday Western Market. "I think that's been enough adventure for one day. My arm still itches, and I'm sure Carver's still smarting from what that Keeper Marethari put him through."
"So what if I am?" Carver growled. He lacked Hawke's natural gravitas, so his voice was lost to the crowd – though Varric's lowly placed ears heard every word.
Hawke continued without even a glance his way. "A pint will get us sorted right quick. Scratch that, twelve pints. Shall we mosey to the Hanged Man, my friends?"
Merrill flinched a bit at that. "Is this 'hanged man' like the others, the figures outside the city? What sort of 'pints' does he give? Or are you taking them? Then what are we to do with them?"
Hawke spluttered for only a moment – but even moment of distraction was an opportunity for Varric, and he could never resist an opportunity.
"Nah, he's not all tortured. Not like the slaves – he's just a bundle of straw hanged in front of the best damned tavern in the city," he explained amiably. "Anyone who knows anything, and who's looking for anything else – well, they go to The Hanged Man. Also has the cheapest booze in town if that's what you're looking for. Me, I just like the people."
"Bullshit, Varric," Carver sneered. "You drink enough of that swill for any regular sized person."
"He's certainly right about the people, though," Hawke interjected. "That's where we picked up this admirable sledge." She gestured pointedly with her thumb towards Mallet.
Varric slapped himself on the forehead. "Maker's breath, Hawke! If only I'd thought of that first."
"If you insist on giving me a ridiculous handle," Martin grimaced, unamused. "I would have it remain consistent at least."
"If we could change names so easily after christening," Hawke added helpfully. "I'm sure mother would've redubbed her only son 'Ninnyhammer' on the double."
"Hey!" Carver whined, bark in his tone. No bite in Junior surprisingly – right now at least.
"You've got a point there, Hawke," Varric admitted ruefully. "'Sledge' will just have to wait for the next hammer toting basket case we meet. Mallet I named you, and Mallet you'll stay."
Martin rolled his eyes.
"So this Hanged Man," Merrill interrupted, voice bashful. "It's a place? And you go there to drink?"
"Aye," Martin answered immediately. "Though Carver has the right of it – it's disgusting."
"Well, horrible or not, I am thirsty." Merrill answered. "But… I need to go to the Alienage first. I'm not… I'm not sure of the way. The Hahren is expecting me, and I…" She tugged on the straps to her meager pack. "I would like to put my things in my… new home." Her voice trailed off at that last bit, fading into such a sad sound that even Varric's cynical heart panged for her. Poor Daisy.
"And I must report," Aveline interrupted suddenly. Varric had almost forgotten she was with them. "I was meant to be gone for a day, and that has stretched into two. Aside from that… I have to follow up on what was recovered." Pass out perfectly good drinking money to the poor, Varric thought ruefully.
She stepped forward, throwing an old imperial salute across her chest as Hawke turned to face her. "Thank you, Hawke. As always, I am in your debt."
Hawke waved a dismissive hand Aveline's way. "I should be thanking you, for your help with… well, with our business. Bollocks to any debt. Just drop in if you can – we'll try not to down all the drink."
Aveline smiled a small, thin smile. "Perhaps, though I suspect I'll have a lot on my plate at least for the next few days." She turned to each of them in turn, giving each a quick nod and farewell. "Martin. Merrill." Her eyes turned down to Varric last with only a hint of distaste on her face. "Varric."
When she looked to Carver the younger Hawke interrupted her. "Save your goodbyes, Aveline. I'm coming with you. Now's finally a time when nobodies working – you can get me in to see your Lieutenant, show him what I got."
Aveline's expression was stoic, but her eyes hardened.
Varric made it a point to know everything about everyone that he could pick up from everywhere at anytime. What he knew could fill volumes – and some of it did, though with a healthy helping of bullshit piled on top. This time he knew what was up – that Carver had been trying to get into the Viscount's Keep for weeks, no doubt thinking that he can build a name for himself as a guardsman. Only trouble was, Aveline was dead set against it – Maker knows why, maybe she just doesn't want to rub shoulders with Junior every sodding day. Can't blame her for that, honestly. In fact, if he had to guess Varric was sure she had been deliberately avoiding them the past two weeks just to avoid Carver's incessant prodding.
"You sure 'bout that, brother?" Hawke asked before Aveline could reply, mischief written on her face. Varric doubted her brother could tell what sort. "You ain't going to throw away a perfectly good afternoon for boozing it up – especially when I'm buying the first round."
Carver shook his head. "Sure. Great. Sounds peachy. You can buy me a round after I go to the Keep. This is the first time in weeks Aveline's been 'round to introduce me."
Aveline's look said otherwise, but again Hawke interrupted any response she could offer. "The Keep has stood for a thousand years or more, like the rest of this blighted city. Two rounds on me won't hold out the next hour."
Carver turned back to his sister. "Well..." he pondered aloud, obviously torn.
"Then it's settled! Let's get proper sloshed, Carver."
"Fine, fine. But – " he continued, pointing at Aveline. "Tell me first thing when you can introduce me to someone in charge, someone who can hire on."
Aveline threw a contemplative glance Hawke's way - whatever she saw there evidently convinced her to hold her obvious biting thoughts on that idea. Instead she simply inclined her head in farewell to the oblivious boy.
She turned and marched off, down the road skirting the market. Probably to head north, then east – take the Broken Bridge to Hightown. Though the dwarf had nothing against her, hell, he even felt a bit of Hawke's fondness for the guardswoman (vicariously, at least) – Varric still found himself breathing easier at her departure.
We are after all, criminals. Or at least I am.
"Alright –" Hawke declared, clapping her hands together. "Who shall accompany our newest Daisy to the Alienage while me and brother mine go and prepare the beer for the lot of us?"
Martin inclined his head in a vaguely formal gesture, his hands placed on his hammers in what was obviously a practiced motion. No one bows like that in Kirkwall, what kind of weird shit is that? Must be some fereldan thing. Though Varric had never seen Carver, Hawke, or even the more military Aveline ever do that particular move. The only bows or salutes ever thrown about in their group all came from Aveline – and she always sent the more common Imperial salute. He filed away the strange gesture for later consideration.
"I will go with her… though I must confess I do not know the way to the Alienage." Martin's tone was sheepish, his expression apologetic. "Perhaps if you could show us - "
"Oh no," Hawke interrupted immediately, expression boisterous… but off. She's wound up, Varric realized. "Got to save everyone a good seat before the night crowd rolls in. Varric, would you be a dear and show the two of them the proper way to the Alienage? Then bring whoever wants back to the Hanged Man afterwards. Might even be in time for thirds." Hawke's face was charming, smiling – but her eyes had a shimmer of desperation to them. Andraste's tits, she really doesn't want to go to the Alienage. Another oddity to be filed away for later.
"You got it, Hawke," he said aloud. to her visible relief. "But you're getting me a bottle of the good stuff. Tell Corff I sent you, then ask for it. Got it?"
Hawke guffawed. "As if there is any 'good stuff' under Corff's counter. But yes, I will ask, if only to see what that prattling twit hoards as a supposed good." Her whole body tilted down as she bowed in an apparent parody. "Master Tethras, Lady Daisy, Ser Mallet – I hope to see you this evening. Come along, brother Carver."
Carver grimaced, though he quickly chased his frown off his face to afford a timid smile Merrill's way. "It was… uh, nice to meet you, Merrill."
Then he did the least Carver-like thing Varric had ever seen him do – he glanced down at the elf's chest. Well, to be fair, that's exactly the sort of thing Carver does on the regular – it was his reaction to his own wandering eye that surprised Varric. The younger Hawke full on blushed and looked away sheepishly. At Merrill's sincere "It was nice to meet you too," Carver practically scuttled after his now departing sister, tail between his legs, as if her very words chased him off.
Varric couldn't help himself and chuckled aloud. "Looks like Junior's got a crush."
"'A crush?'" Merrill asked in a confused tone. "I'm sure the Keeper healed all his injuries before letting him out of her sight."
A snort escaped Varric as he looked to Martin for support. Martin's only answer was a blank expression – evidently, he was unamused by Merrill's confusion.
"Am I missing something? I don't understand?" Merrill asked.
Martin shook his head. "Nothing important. Come, Varric. Let's get Merrill to the Alienage."
Varric took the steps down towards the market gingerly – they were, after all, made for those of quite a different stature. Once they reached the dusty street below and the din of afternoon haggling reached almost intolerable levels, Varric felt the usual urge to play storyteller – or in this case, tour guide.
"This bellowing racket you see before you is Kirkwall's Western Market!" Varric half spoke, half shouted as he turned to his companions. "While Kirkwall might not be the prettiest city around, we've got the only opening to the Marches east of the Planasene Forest and South of the Vimmarks. That and the fact that we're about a stone's throw across the Waking Sea from Highever brings us pretty much everyone moving from Ferelden, to the Marches, and back again." Varric swept his arm dramatically across the throng of humanity behind him. "So we get antivan spice merchants, nevarran jewelers, fereldan furriers – they all add up to the most cosmopolitan bunch of traders south of Tevinter herself. You can get just about anything, right here in Lowtown."
Merrill oohed and ahh'd, obviously impressed, while Martin scowled and muttered something even Varric's keen ears couldn't make out over the crowd's din.
"What was that?" the dwarf asked.
"And ages past one could purchase all manner of slave here, undoubtedly – from anywhere in the Empire," Martin answered, this time loud enough to be audible.
Varric couldn't help but make a face. "Yeah, and that's why they call it Old Tevinter – it's been dead for a thousand years."
Martin squinted up pointedly at the Gallows looming to the east. "The stench of bondage lingers even still."
Where did that come from? Varric couldn't help but scoff, "What, you one of those 'free the mages' types? I mean, not only are Circles not really just a Kirkwall thing, they're what keep mages from ruling everybody else." He couldn't help but let a little sarcasm slip into that last bit – not like locking up the mages keeps everybody else from not being pricks. He glanced at Merrill as he remembered her own status. "Not that I think all mages or hell, even most mages really need a cell."
The fereldan blinked, meeting Varric's eyes as if he just noticed him. "No, I… forget it. It was but a thought, nothing more." One of his hands ghosted towards the flask at his belt, before moving back to rest on his hammer.
"You're right, though," Merrill chimed in. "With the statues and… that… at least," she gestured with her staff towards the ancient fortress. Maker, we need to get that thing away from her. Walking sticks weren't exactly uncommon among the people of Kirkwall, especially the many traders who occupied the Market before them, but a Dalish elf gesticulating with one would only bring eyes. And if the Templars caught wind of her… We need to get her to the Alienage pronto.
"Though the market seems quite exciting," Merrill continued, all enthusiasm now. "There's so many people! It's so loud… and so alive! I've never seen anything like it."
"Yeah. It's great," Varric replied, now more aware of his surroundings and the occasional looks thrown their way. "Something we can take in properly another day. Let's get you to the Alienage, Daisy. Double time."
He led them through the crowd, bodily shoving his way through with one hand on his coin purse and one eye on Merrill. She clutched her staff close to her body, evidently some of her earlier nervousness had returned. The elf shadowed his footsteps, practically hanging on his coat. Good, keeps the pickpockets off her.
He cut left once they'd reached the first street – The Cooker. True to its name the narrow passageway's walls were lined with shops, some inside buildings proper with shutters thrown open to the street, while some simply sat up against walls on stands as their owners attended to their wares.
It was a struggle for Varric to not stop and sniff at the aromas that assailed them – meat pie, corn hash, dumplings. They'd been on the move since the morning and much of the day – the closest thing they'd had to rest was their brief skirmish with Aveline's thief.
And the closest thing they'd had to lunch was a quick bite of rat jerky washed down with the lowliest of drinks – water. What the cooks hawked about them smelled amazing, smelled like they'd just about make up for the paltry earlier meal, smelled like… home.
Glancing back showed him that at least Merrill held similar thoughts – she smiled as she closed her eyes momentarily, breathing in. Martin just stood alert, eyes darting. It's hard to distract that guy.
But Martin had the right of it. With Merrill looking (and honestly, acting) all conspicuous with her staff and tattoos, they had to be wary. No time for supper, Varric thought as he pressed on, valiantly resisting a mouthwatering side of seared ham that was nearly pushed in his face by one of the merchants they passed.
Varric made a note that Hawke not only owed him a drink, but a sodding dinner.
After The Cooker the street wound down, leading them through narrow alleys and clustered neighborhoods where the poor folks like the Hawkes lived. The serpentine chaos of the streets kept them busy as they made turn after turn, ascending and descending stairs and sudden downward ramps. They even crossed a bridge over one of the few open aired portions of the sewers Kirkwaller's so charmingly called Darktown.
Finally, they reached their destination – at the end of a particularly narrow alley stood a large set of wooden double doors. Set in the dark wood were etched reliefs of elves, Andraste – that kind of crap. Varric wasn't much for art, at least not of the ritualistic religious sort. The only thing that mattered to him about this gate was that it was one of only three ways into the Alienage. Though there's more ways out, dropping down into Darktown.
He pushed the doors open without a second thought, moving down the steps rapidly but cautiously. Behind him Merrill passed through the gates slowly, running her narrow fingers along the etchings with a strange look on her face. Once she'd cleared, Martin passed through even faster than Varric had, shutting the gate behind them.
Like the rest of Kirkwall, the Alienage was a labyrinthine array of narrow streets and alleys occasionally opening into courtyards. Two left turns and one right turn and they found the Alienage's center – the wide courtyard with its old tree proudly centering the area.
The elves had their own market here, though it was nothing compared to the Western Market. Perhaps half a dozen elves stood at stalls, peddling their goods to several dozen other elves and the occasional dwarf or human. Compared to the Western, the noise of bartering and discussion was near silent as the traders carried out their conversations at a reasonable volume.
As the group crested the makeshift market several sets of eyes turned on them – elves. One in particular (an especially ragged male) pointed, then nudged another. That one openly gawked.
Merrill sidled up alongside Varric, eyes fixed on the tree. Martin, who had apparently designated himself as her bodyguard, grimaced at her apparent breaking of formation. He flanked her opposite side even as she cautiously moved through the crowd, outstretched a free hand towards the tree.
No one stopped them as Merrill put her hand to the old bark. The relative quiet of the Alienage deadened to an almost awed silence. Near everyone present was now turned to them. Many of the watchers stood with mouths agape, disbelief painted on their otherwise bare faces.
After a moment's silence one elf stepped forward, female, probably in her thirties. Her angular face was haggard and lined, eyes dark with exhaustion. She clasped her hands together over her stained yellow tunic and bowed her head reverently. Her hands were wrinkled from moisture, her arms shining up to the elbows where her sleeves were rolled up. Washerwoman, probably.
"Andaran ateeshen," the woman rasped. She bowed her head lower, quietly cleared her throat. "It is an honor to meet one of the Dalish."
"Andaran atish'an, Lethallen," Merrill replied, similarly inclining her head as she corrected the city elf's pronunciation. "Ma serranas. Elger'nan'enaste. I am grateful for your greeting."
The city elf looked up, a look of barely restrained adoration painting her battered features. "And we are grateful for your words. We do not know much of our people's language here. Any you see fit to give is as raindrops in drought."
Merrill met the other elf's gaze, a look of pity flashing across her face for just the briefest moment. "There is always time to learn… maybe… I can teach you some, if… if you are willing."
The washerwoman seemed taken aback. "I am sure there are many in the Alienage more fit to learn from one such as you, Keeper, but surely you must have more important business here. Our Hahren has been told by now of your arrival and will be here shortly to help you."
Merrill stood up straight, pushing herself out of her somewhat slouch with her staff. "There is nothing more important than remembering the People, for any one of us. I would see it as a blessing to teach anyone here our history, our language. Our heritage."
A murmuring went up from the crowd about them then at that, tones of awe and bewilderment flittering to Varric's ears. Martin, still flanking Merrill's side, his hands still hovering near his hammers cast her a long, questioning look. Hey, she managed to sound like royalty and throw off Martin. Wonder how she managed that. The effect was only somewhat lessened as Merrill broke out into a sheepish blush.
The crowd parted then, elves backing up respectfully to make way as an elder moved through them. This elf hobbled slowly, one arm held by a child. The elder's stitched green tunic and kindly eyes stood out amongst the run down and frankly poverty-stricken garb and expressions of the rest of the Alienage elves. As he and his companion limped up beside the washerwoman, she turned and half bowed just as she had for Merrill.
The elderly elf cast a warm smile the woman's way. "Thank you, Hana, for giving our newest resident a proper welcome." His voice was as warm as his smile.
He turned to Merrill. "I greet you, Merrill of Sabrae. Your Keeper sent word of your arrival, though I must admit, I had expected you much sooner. I am Eilian, Hahren to this Alienage. I see you have already acquainted yourself with our Vhenadahl."
"I… Yes. It's beautiful." Merrill nearly stumbled over her words, her nervousness evidently back in force. For his part the Hahren only smiled in response.
"That it is, that it is." He glanced first at Varric, then Martin. "Forgive me. Though I expected and prepared for your coming, I did not know you would be accompanied. Might I know the names of your companions?"
"Yes… of course. This is Mall- I mean, Martin, and that's Varric."
Martin grunted with a quick incline of his head. Varric bowed theatrically as he rattled off his customary introduction. "Varric Tethras, of House Tethras. Storyteller and professional younger brother."
"I am grateful to you both," the Hahren Eilian answered. "For seeing the newest member of our community here."
Hana perked up at that. "She has come to stay? To live with us?"
Eilian chuckled quietly. "Yes child, she has. And so," he stood up straighte and allowed his wizened voice to rise louder than Varric thought him capable of projecting. "You will all have plenty of time to make her welcome, and to give voice to your questions. So please, allow me to show her to her new home in peace."
The members of the Alienage one by one turned away, moved back to their conversations and haggling. Anna took hold of her skirt in her hands and curtsied low. She remained lowered until Eilian sent her a long-suffering look, which prompted her to then speed off.
The young boy remained, his hand still clutched in Eilian's. The old Hahren patted the boy's head, gesturing him away. The boy moved off a few paces but remained at the ready, his face impassive.
The Hahren held his arm out to Merrill, which she took. "I thank you, Merrill Sabrae. It is not far." He glanced back at Martin and Varric. "Your charge has been delivered. She is safe here, with us."
"Could..." Merrill interjected before Varric could. "Could they come see where I'll live? I hope..." she looked back at each of them in turn, expression apprehensive. "So they can visit. If they want. Not that they have to."
Varric couldn't help but smile at the girl. "The Hanged Man can wait a few more minutes… especially if you want to come with once you've settled."
Merrill met his eyes before looking down at the cobbled street. "I don't think… I'm ready for more adventure today, Varric. Though it's very nice of you to offer. And I'd like to!" She looked up in alarm. "In the future. Tomorrow even, maybe. I'd like to get to know you all better. I just..."
At 'get to know you all,' Merrill's eyes flicked to Martin, so fast that Varric wasn't even sure she realized that she'd looked his way. Well, well. Another observation he filed away for later.
"You've dealt with a whole barrel of new shit today, Daisy, I get it," Varric assured her. "You'll have plenty of chances to visit the Hanged Man. I mean, I'm there pretty much every day. I'm sure Mallet and me can drop by from time to time too, right?" he glanced over at Martin, curious as to what the dour man's response would be.
Martin didn't spare a look Varric's way, nor did he seem the least bit perturbed that Varric had all but volunteered him. He just inclined his head in that quiet way of his at the young First. "Aye, that I will."
"Hell, I'm free Tuesday," Varric continued. "I could swing on by, show you some more of the sights our lovely Kirkwall has to offer." Without that damned staff to draw too much attention. Maybe a hood too – hide the tats and ears.
"Tuesday?" Merrill asked.
Varric very nearly sighed. "The day after tomorrow."
"I would like that very much," Merrill beamed for a moment, before glancing nervously down at her feet.
The Hahren seemed surprised at the exchange. "You must accept my apologies, Messeres Martin and Tethras. I had thought you mercenaries, not friends."
Varric shrugged, flashed a toothy grin. "Can't we be both?"
The Hahren's brow shot up at that. But he too then shrugged, though with far less vigor than the dwarf. "Then if you will follow me."
They moved together through the market – Merrill all wide-eyed, Martin still with his eyes peeled and hands on his hammers. It was only a moment before they reached the edge: another scattering of houses built out of the city's sand colored walls.
They stopped at one particular two-storied thing with what looked like a shop window protruding from the first floor (barred over with planks, of course). Alongside the window ran a rickety, dark wooden staircase that led up to the second-floor loft area. The Hahren gestured and allowed Merrill to help him up the stairs towards the door. He stepped inside, but Merrill turned at the threshold and waved to the waiting Martin and Varric.
Martin, seemingly satisfied, turned to Varric. "To the Hanged Man, then?"
"I'll catch up with you in a minute – I think I'll take a quick look at the market first."
The human shrugged, glancing about. "I'll meet you at the gates, then. They're like to be more at ease with you alone than with us both."
The market elves gave Martin a wide berth as he moved passed them and skirted the central tree. Once the man was out of sight, Varric turned a practiced eye towards the crowded market.
It wasn't long before he found who he was looking for – the young elf boy that had clung to the Hahren so carefully. Varric waved at him and headed over.
The boy looked at him quizzically. "What you want?" He asked, without hint of respect or concern.
Varric sized him up, made a swift decision. "Kid, how would you like a job?"