XV: An Introduction to Lowtown, Kirkwall
The dreams were terrible.
They were not her usual nightmares – she was far enough away now that the demon of Sundermount could not ply at her defenses, could not color her once peaceful sleep with Its dark presence.
Once peaceful, though not always. Once peaceful, before the Mirror.
No, these dreams were flitted things of darkness and torment, of blood and sand and storm. Kirkwall was a place of pain, Merrill knew, from what she'd been told.
A place of slaves.
She awoke with a start, a cold sweat coating her body and weighing down her bedroll – one of her few remaining possessions. A gift from Master Ilen.
She shook that thought away before it formed, buried the sorrow with the scarce bits of dream that still tugged at her mood and threatened to start her day off all wrong.
Instead she took in the place that was hers – a last gift from the Keeper… and perhaps a first from the Alienage's Hahren, Eilian.
Though the elves here called him 'Hahren' he spoke more as a Keeper, one who showed the others the way. What is a Keeper to them? A Hahren? A Hahren was an elder, one who teaches – but not one who leads.
They are lost without us. Without our language. Not for the first time Merrill wondered at Marethari's reasoning, at her priorities – and by extension, that of the other clans.
The elves here revere us, and they are made only lesser without our aid. Without joining us, as Pol did. Why don't we have more contact? We could do so much good for them. For all the People.
She pondered that thought as she pushed herself out of her dampened cocoon, stepped off the bed lightly. The young elf stretched, loosening muscles tightened in sleep, then moved to the pack she had set on the floor. She sat quickly beside it, as she had countless times in her life, and withdrew her foot wraps from within.
As she moved through the familiar routine of wrapping them about her ankle and arch she took in her home.
It was a meager thing. The little room she sat in now connected to the main one without any sort of barrier or doorway – it was hardly a room at all. More of a corner. A nook, or perhaps a cranny. A hollow even.
Her floor was of thick wood, surprisingly strong and sturdy – she hadn't heard anything of anybody below. She'd tried experimentally tapping her staff on the floor after the Hahren had first settled her here. He'd only assured her no sound would penetrate that thick wood.
If she was to experiment with the shard of Mirror she had, to cleanse it and maybe… perhaps rebuild it…
What she planned would take a whole lot of power. A whole lot of time, and a whole lot of magic. At least she wouldn't bother those she shared a building with in the process.
The rest of the structure did not hold up to the standards of that fine floor – the walls and ceiling were of some strange, clay like material that resembled sandstone more than anything else. It was stained and multi-hued with all manner of marks and debris, dirt and scuff. To most anyone else such a view would be a filthy eye sore. Merrill however found it vaguely familiar, almost comforting. It reminded her of ruins such as Sundermount, to ancient structures marked by time and the People that had once inhabited them. It charmed her, if in a bit of a melancholic way.
Having finished with her wraps she pulled on her britches, lacing the leather leg guards over top them. Though she doubted she needed them now, they were a familiar weight that comforted her in the unfamiliar place she found herself in. As she tugged her tabard over her head, her eyes once again turned to the room.
The other most obvious feature of her home, save for the sheer emptiness of it beside her cot and pack, were the horrid burrows that Hahren Eilian had named as rat holes.
At her obvious revulsion he had promised a rat catcher just as soon as he could find one – what he meant by that Merrill didn't know, but she hoped it was soon. She had heard the creatures scurrying as she had drifted off to sleep, could almost have sworn that she had seen the nose of one watching her in the dark.
She decided she did not like rats.
A knock on her door sounded from the main room. She started, nearly jumped, though the knock itself was a gentle thing.
I suppose I should answer it, she thought. That is what I'm supposed to do when people knock, right? As she reached the door, grasped its handle, she faltered. Who could it be? Is it normal to just answer the door? Do I knock back, let them know I know they're there? Oh, what if I do something wrong?
"Lady Merrill?" A painfully young voice asked, muffled through the wood.
"Yes?" She replied nervously, not completely managing to eliminate the waver in her voice. "What is it?"
"There's some humans here..." the voice asked timidly. "They say they want to see you."
Merrill leaned against the door, suddenly too aware that she was now in a human city. Sure, the small portion allotted to the elves, but still. A city of humans. Of the Chantry. Of Templars. Her hands clutched at the wood, unthinking, as her heart raced.
"Who… who is it?" She asked, no braver now than the child. "Do you know who they are?"
She heard a soft thud against the door, then a silence for a beat. She heard her questions repeated by the child, muffled and stilted. Before he could finish a fresh voice interrupted.
"Oh sod it, run along kid. Merrill, it's us. Your friends in this wonderful shitehole of a town. Wait, Varric's not here. No need to be polite. This miserable shitehole of a town. Only proper word for it. Willye let us in?"
Merrill's heart sped even quicker, though the looming fear subsided. She undid the latch, fumbling with the lock for a moment before throwing the door open to the world. Merrill had to squint as sunlight suddenly flooded her hovel, though the former First felt it only half as bright as the smile Hawke was throwing down at her.
"Right-o," Hawke chirped, stepping past Merrill with a swagger. The pretty woman turned a sweeping gaze through the little room, her eyes frowning. She was dressed much as she had been at Sundermount – a thick leather jacket graced her shoulders, though now it was not so tightly laced as on the Mount. Her dark trousers had small plates of metal tied around different parts of her leg - her shins, knees, and thighs – shielding the front at least from direct attack. These metal increments were dull and battered, though devoid of any stain.
Martin followed her, one gloved hand gripping his temple, his eyes so sunken it looked as if they would fall back into his skull. He nodded at Merrill, wincing at the movement of his head. "Merrill," he greeted as he shut the door behind him. In stark contrast to Hawke's leather, Martin still wore a metal plate on his torso – one that went all round and tied together under his arms. He too had metal bits stuck to various parts of him, though in a lot more places than the woman he accompanied. Metal on his forearms, metal on his elbows, metal on his legs, even capping his boots! He seemed more metal than man, almost, and while his armor was both dirtier and more damaged than Hawke's it still held a slight sheen. A finer metal than Hawke's steel? Merrill wondered she had not noticed before.
Merrill could hardly contain her excitement at the alien, if now familiar visitors. "Oh, you came to visit me! So soon! And I don't have anything for you." She looked about the room, suddenly frantic. "The Hahren said he would find me a chair, a table – oh there's nowhere for you to sit! Wait, the cot! I'll be right back!" She shouted her last words in realization as she made to dash to fetch her only furniture.
Hawke grabbed her before she could and held her fast. "Don't you worry that silly head of yours, Daisy," the woman drawled. "I was a farm girl once – well, still am, what with the animals I share a house with. I swear I've stepped in more filth since I moved in with Gamlen than when I still spent a night or two in the barn. Even Carver's taking after him, the clod." She gestured a hand to the dusty floor as she released Merrill's arm. "Practically the Viscount's palace in comparison." She sat heavily, crossing her legs.
Merrill followed suit, though she noticed Martin did not. He leaned against the wall by the door, his fingers pushed so hard into his temple the tips whitened with force. The man groaned quietly and pulled out a flask, downing a quick drink.
I wonder what it is he's drinking. Could it be mavash? It couldn't be, he has far too small a bottle for it. Do humans even have mavash? He was drinking quite a bit when we first met. Is he really so thirsty all the time?
She was shaken out of her reverie by fingers snapping in front of her. She nearly leapt back in shock.
"Good to see the same thing works on elves," Hawke said amiably, grinning. "I had asked how you're settling in, but now I'm more curious as to what about my compatriot has you so enthralled."
Martin glanced at her under his bracing hand, still holding the flask in the other.
Merrill reddened, looked down. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to stare."
Hawke leaned forward, grinning conspiratorially. "Dressing him down by eye, ey?" She whispered, deepening Merrill's blush. Hawke continued without pause, leaning back and resuming her normal volume. "More as like to get a taste of that, right? I wouldn't recommend it. Right proper swill."
Merrill gaped in astonishment even as Martin answered. His voice was tired, thoroughly unamused. "Am I to be swill now, to be sampled and judged wanting? Maker, Hawke, I did not brave the sun in my condition for this kind of tripe."
At the sound of her name Hawke pushed at the floor with her hands, turning herself sideways to face both elf and man while keeping her crisscrossed seat. "Come now, Martin, don't get your knickers in a knacker. We were discussing the truly interesting thing about you – the mystery of the drink you are shoveling down your gullet as we speak. You'd think last night would've taught you temperance, but alas."
Martin promptly shoveled more of the drink down his gullet, wincing and closing his eyes. "It keeps the light tolerable, even if the noise still aches."
"Is it medicine?" Merrill asked, confused. "Are you sick? I'm not very good at healing magic, but the Keeper did teach me enough to aid the Clan. I could help… maybe."
Hawke threw back her head and laughed, drawing another loud groan from Martin.
Even as Martin swore Hawke was apologizing. "Sorry, sorry, I sympathize Martin, truly I do." She turned her attention fully back to Merrill. "You could say it's a medicine, though a right shite one. The kind that makes you worse, not better."
Martin grumbled so quietly Merrill could only just pick up his words. "It drowns out the dreams."
Hawke continued laughing – did she hear him? Merrill doubted it. Human ears were not as keen as elven, clearly.
"But what is it?" Merrill asked, finally curious enough that it overrode her nervousness. "Is it mavash? That doesn't make you worse, though. Why would you drink something that makes you worse? I've never seen anyone before you carry such a small bottle, and made of metal? Do humans make everything out of metal? And… I'm sorry, I… I'm just wondering."
"I do not know… mavash," Martin responded slowly, "Though the word is familiar. What I drink now is some horrible whiskey that I suppose Corff must have left to stew untopped in the rain. It would explain the generosity of his price, as well as the prevailing taste of boot leather."
"'Boot leather?' Sounds right fantastic for one of Corff's brews." Hawke leaned back, extending a hand to Martin. Sighing, he passed her the flask. The woman took an exaggerated sniff then knocked back a swig. She visibly rolled the drink around between her cheeks before swallowing.
Her face lit up. "It really does taste of varnish and leather. And the burn is on point. How much did he charge you?"
"Three half silver for a jug."
Hawke whistled in response, looking down at the flask appreciatively. "He must have done something bloody evil to that jug, make no mistake, and I wouldn't put it past him to piss in the regular still. For that price I will be content to pretend at fair play."
Curiosity, already piqued at the sight of Martin's unknown drink, now rose exponentially within Merrill at Hawke's approval. She had no clue what 'whiskey' was, but from Hawke's mention of burning it couldn't be too far from mavash. "May I..." Merrill began. "May I try some?"
"From what I know the Dalish are not used to such spirits," Martin offered blithely. "Ale's more the flavor, as I understand it."
Hawke's eye's darted to Martin, a look of concern flashing through them, before a mischievous smirk formed on her face. Unfortunately for Merrill her own eyes were glued to the flask – the flask Hawke then handed to her.
"Just a sip," Hawke warned, her voice reluctant – as if her advice stemmed from responsibility, rather than desire.
The former First, sat upon her floor, took to heart the tone and not the words.
The stuff burned as it hit her tongue, its horrid acrid taste scorching her throat as she inhaled through her nose. She spluttered, swallowed, then choked – half of her ill-advised mouthful clawed painfully down her esophagus while the other half hacked its way back out between her teeth.
Merrill coughed, shivering as the burn continued. It seemed to settle in her stomach, light it ablaze, forcing from her a dry retch. By the Dread Wolf! What is this foul drink?
Hawke was chuckling even as she took the flask from the still spluttering Merrill. "You handled that better than I thought you would," she commented as she passed the flask back to Martin.
"I don't understand," Merrill replied, voice ragged from her still aching throat. "Why anyone would willingly drink such a thing. It's horrible!"
"You feel that blazing warmth in your belly?" Hawke asked, cocking her head. "That's why."
"It hurts," Merrill rasped. "Mavash warms. That stuff…. it's like someone lit a campfire within me. It's too much."
"One adjusts in time," Martin said from his perch, taking a small sip of the now completely unalluring and horribly revolting flask.
"You work your way up to it, usually," Hawke added. "But alcohol to Martin and I, well… it's like our second trade. But enough on that, we didn't come here to poison you. You settled in? Liking your new home?"
Merrill glanced about the fine floor and the shoddy walls, tried to form an opinion on a place she didn't know. "The shadows are longer in a house than an aravel, but the floor is very thick."
Hawke cocked an eyebrow, glancing down in bemusement. "So it is. Well I'm sure you'll have far more insight as your time spent here has stretched past one evening, am I right? Right, so down to it then – to the marrow of our visit as it were. I've got a little job I've been asked to do, not too difficult. Some merchant wants some muscle for half a day to put the fear of the Maker into somebody. Varric's good at spreading my name around, and so am I – this fellow's offering a whole sovereign for a couple hours of looking tough, tops. Want to tag along? Martin and me could probably handle it, but I'd rather have a third set of eyes when his are as muddled as they are at the moment."
Martin snorted in indignation as Hawke leaned forward and added in a mock whisper, "And between you and me he's right shite company right now. So – how bout it? See the town with your new mates, show the people how tough they breed you Dalish, even earn a little coin in the mix? I couldn't possibly arrange a better first day in Kirkwall."
Merrill found herself perplexed. Me? Put fear into somebody? "Why me?" She asked, genuinely curious. "I'm not exactly very scary… I'm more scared, than anything. I mean, I suppose magic can be scary but I'd rather not use it – I mean, I very much enjoy magic but – we, that is, the Clan, have had trouble with Templars before. I wouldn't want to face them, not with what they can do, and besides -"
"Enough, enough – " Hawke interrupted before Merrill could go any further. As she was wont to do around her new human friends, Merrill burst into yet another blush and dropped her gaze downwards.
"Enough," Hawke took her shoulder. Her grip was firm, but not aggressive. Merrill found it oddly soothing, enough to look back up from her hands. "No need to get all in a tuss about it. Varric got dragged along to Merchant Guild business by Bartrand – his brother. A right arse. Carver, well, Carver's not exactly fit for duty. While he holds his liquor well as a brother of mine should, he has trouble letting it go come morning – especially when he's grabbed such a handful as he did last night." Hawke chuckled, smirking. "Funny, that. He was actually on his way to visit you when he hit floor."
Merrill's head whirled. "He was on his way to visit… me? Last night? Shouldn't he have been asleep? And he really wanted to visit me?"
Hawke smirk broadened. "Aye, that he did. Though yes, he should have been asleep – and he promptly fell. Asleep. Hah!" She slapped her knee, and though he winced at Hawke's noise even Martin chuckled. Merrill only smiled thinly, sure she was missing some part of the apparent joke.
"Anyways, and well I only know one other person who could help us – Aveline. And while she's right fantastic at the whole 'scaring folks shitless' thing she's generally pretty terrible with the whole 'breaking the law' thing. Bloody inconvenient that, but she insists on being the one honest guardswoman in Kirkwall. That leaves us with you – though that's not to say you're the last choice! Far from it. You'll make a first rate… er, thug… mark my words."
It sounded foolish. Possibly dangerous, even pointless. Merrill wasn't even sure she needed coin – the Alienage elves shared with their own, and she was one of them now. Maybe it would be better to begin with sharing back?
"Alright," she agreed, smiling timidly. "I will be the best thug I can."
Hawke clapped her hands together, dragging another pained groan from Martin. "Splendid! It's a proper party, then. Today's looking better already."
"Only… I… well..."
"Yes? Speak up." Hawke asked, grinning from ear to ear, bouncing back in her seat. "No need to be shy, Merrill."
"What's a thug?"
[=]
Their journey took them back to the market that had so awed Merrill the day before. She still found herself amazed at the sheer number of sounds, smells and people who surrounded them on all sides. Dwarves, humans, even a horned qunari or two shouted and pushed and jostled and bartered. She heard words in common, words she recognized as dwarven, and languages she had never heard before all shouted as she passed through the crowded square and made their way into one of Kirkwall's many vein-like side streets. She had stopped for a moment, eyes searching for the one people she knew best – her own. There were city elves, in smaller number than the dwarves – but they did not shout and barter. Those few that stood behind their own market stalls were subdued and near silent. Those in the crowd were even harder to spot – their clothes were more worn, more devoid of color than even the lowliest of humans. They did not shove as so many others did – they walked with heads bowed, scurrying when any took notice. Most followed someone else. Are they slaves? But Varric said –
Her thoughts were interrupted as an arm grabbed her, dragging her into the alley. She yelped in fear, too startled to do anything else at first. Before she could push the grabber away, she met their eyes – and stopped at the familiar cornflower blues.
Gone was Hawke's earlier mirth – instead her face was set in a state of stern reproach. "Sorry, but don't stand still like that. Especially with that," Hawke gestured towards Merrill's face – my vallaslin – and then towards her ears. "And that. You stand right out. Best case someone picks your pocket. Worst case someone comes after you. Guard's liable to look the other way if that happens."
Merrill nodded in only partial understanding. Why would anyone come after me? What could they want me for? It's not obvious I have the Gift, Hawke insisted I leave my staff behind… Hawke suddenly let her go and Merrill stumbled, made to lean on the staff she carried at near all times of the day.
It was a close thing – she nearly tumbled fully to the ground, only barely managing to catch her balance after her initial blind attempt to compensate.
Hawke shook her head, as if shaking loose a thought, before muttering so quietly Merrill was sure it wasn't for her. "Standing out, bloody dangerous."
Martin stepped up from behind Hawke, touched a hand to the woman's shoulder. Just as she turned and he started to speak, a loud crash sounded from behind – Merrill, already jumpy from Hawke's manhandling of her nearly leapt out of her own skin.
She darted a quick glance to see some sort of handcart upended in the street. A human in a stained green tunic lay on the ground beside, unmoving, as two masked dwarfs stood over him. Both had massive axes, one in hand and the other strapped to his back. The dwarf with the undrawn axe turned to regard Merrill.
"Bloody hell," Hawke swore, grabbing Merrill's shoulder. As she pulled the stunned elf away, she shouted over her shoulder – painfully close to the sensitive elven ear. "Sorry gents, fine day today and all that, we don't see shite."
"Smart," the unarmed dwarf drawled through his mask, a fascinating black thing with twin yellow axes stitched on it. The armed one swung a booted foot into the center of the stained green tunic, forcing its wearer to curl up instinctively.
Merrill saw nothing else as Hawke dragged her down the alley, past two other fleeing humans, then through a narrow passageway. Within moments they were back in another alley, this time safely empty, and Hawke released Merrill yet again.
"Right close, that," Hawke breathed, still close to Merrill's ringing ear.
"Who were they?" Merrill asked, heart racing from two frights in a row. "What were they doing? What did they want?"
"Carta," Martin said simply, hands clutching at his hammers now instead of his head.
"As to what they were doing," Hawke continued. "None of our ploughing business, that's what they were doing. We don't tangle with the Carta."
"They die as anyone else," Martin answered, tone far too casual for his words.
Hawke shot an icy glare his way. "Course they do. Then their three-hundred friends come back, feed you your arms for dinner and gut your family. Even Athenril stays out of their way, all while she competes with 'em. Here in Kirkwall you don't fuck with the Coterie, the Carta, or the Templars. Everyone else is small change, like to get trampled."
Martin winced at her tirade, a hand going back to his forehead. He waved his other hand dismissively. "It does not matter. Let us meet this client of yours and get this damn job done. It's as if there are hot pokers in my brain." He punctuated that last statement with another draft from his flask.
"Right," Hawke replied, turning back to Merrill. "Well, turns out you're getting quite the tour – you've already met some of the local players. Next you'll get some sights – the Broken Bridge, then Hightown. Right pretty place, if you ignore the shite it's all built upon."
"It sounds… interesting," Merrill responded hesitantly. "Though this Broken Bridge… how will we cross it? It can't be passed over if it's broken, can it?"
"Oh you can cross," Hawke answered, smiling conspiratorially. "It ain't broke like that… well it is and isn't. The name fits. It's the only proper way for folks of our destitution to pass into that town of wind sniffers. Guards hardly ever watch it, and when they do – they only charge a few copper. Word is we can thank the Coterie for that. They keep the real grease flowing."
"I must admit, Hawke," Martin piped in. "You're certainly adept at talking up this 'shite hole of a town,' as you put it." He wiped at his brow once, then dropped his hand – finally releasing his near permanent grasp on his head. "I find myself actually curious to see how this bridge earned its name."
Hawke grinned as the man slathered her with praise, only to frown as he finished. At 'earned its name,' her head bobbed backwards as she threw a positively incredulous look his way. "What, are you saying you haven't seen the Bridge yet? Or even Hightown?" At Martin's nod she looked to Merrill, raising her palms in his direction.
The look only lasted for a moment before Hawke noted Merrill's obvious and growing confusion. "You've been here, what, a whole month now? And you've not even stepped foot in Hightown? Not even gandered the Broken Bridge? And I thought Carver was a layabout."
Martin shrugged. "What reason would I have to visit Hightown? I know no one there. I doubt I could even afford a stool in any of high taverns, let alone the drink."
Hawke raised a finger him as if to make a point, before dropping it as a look of consideration crossed her face. She too shrugged. "You've got a point. Hell, I'd never cross the Bridge if not for work, that's for sure. In any case that makes it a proper introduction to Kirkwall for the both of you. Splendid!" She clapped her hands with a grin, pulled her pack on tighter – jostling the short spear strapped to her back – and stepped out of the alley. She crooked an arm without turning, flinging it forward. "Follow me – and watch the droppings!"
They continued as they had before, Hawke forging a path as Merrill and Martin trudged after her. Their leader stood straight and true, only occasionally bending to nudge someone out of her path. Usually the crowd moved as if by instinct – cowed by Hawke's sureness in herself.
Merrill, however, found herself wanting such self-assuredness. The many humans and occasional dwarves who moved about them, who cleared the way so readily for Hawke seemed to glare at Merrill. Their uncaring eyes appeared to note her vallaslin, while their lips sneered at her ears. I stand out. And standing out is dangerous. The tightness of the alley-like thoroughfares did not help, nor did the distant towers that spired and twisted in the distance. She tried to shrink into herself, tried to appear smaller. Perhaps it worked. She certainly felt smaller.
Hawke cut left into an alley so covered by overhanging roofs – wood, not the older looking stone – that it resembled a tunnel more than a street.
There were few people here for Hawke to push past, but what they lacked for quantity they made up for in sheer presence. Some were clearly destitute, emaciated creatures who clung to the walls even as they held out their hands in supplication. One human was just the opposite, a man who pushed past their small group in a fine dark cloak held across his chest with a finer brooch. He sneered down at Merrill contemptuously as he passed her – his teeth are so perfectly white, Merrill thought idly even as she cowered away from him. Martin took a hit from his shoulder without compliment as he passed. Hawke, for her part, oozed out of the man's way with graceful ease.
Most of this alley's denizens had more in common with the Carta thugs off the market than anyone else Merrill had seen. Humans with swords at their sides, axes strapped to their backs, clubs in hand. Their clothes were motley and multi-hued, stained in dark reds and blacks.
Martin moved beside her, his eyes sweeping the apparent criminals. A few took note of Merrill, ran their eyes greedily up and down her – but as their eyes shifted to Martin they cowed visibly. None wore armor of any significant level – some padded cloth, a few mismatched bits of metal jutting from various limbs. Merrill found herself suddenly very glad for the presence of the fereldan, especially the parts that seemed more metal than man.
As they rounded a bend Hawke called out to one of the loitering armed men, "Oi, the guard out today?" She did not stop as she spoke, sparing the man only a temporary glance.
The man responded, oddly enough, in a tone of cheery helpfulness. "Na, they're out in the Coors. Lucky day, right?"
Hawke smiled good-naturedly back. "'Ta friend."
"Good luck, gorgeous."
The exchange helped calm Merrill's addled nerves. She felt herself standing taller beside Martin, even as he glowered about.
Another turn and they were out of the alley. A large chasm appeared before them, the city seemingly split in two by a gap half a dozen aravels could fit into lengthwise. As they drew nearer Merrill realized it was a sort of river, one of the many canals that she had noticed cut through and under the city.
In it she finally caught site of the famous Broken Bridge – a mass of battered and broken stones that blocked a great deal of the water-flow in the canal below. It was totally and utterly destroyed – at least, the old tan stone that once spanned the gap was. Merrill realized with excitement as she took in each bit of bridge poking up from the black water below that they were carved in the Old Tevinter style – arches and decorative carvings somehow surviving the flow of water.
The bridge was certainly broken – and unpassable. Thankfully, another bridge stood in its place – a rickety wooden thing, tied with rope, that perhaps two people could fit across at any given time. It swayed ever so slightly in the breeze above the wreck.
"See?" Hawke grinned, extending a hand in a flourish at the bridges. "Broken, and yet, unbroken. Life finds a way, somehow – rather fitting for this city."
Martin snorted beside Merrill, though whether in amusement or derision she could not say.
Their intrepid leader waved them forward – and yet again they followed, across the ragged wooden bridge. Its gentle sway intensified as they passed over, turning Merrill's stomach, but it held true until her wrapped feet hit solid ground. They turned down another street, past some evidently derelict warehouses before Merrill noticed a change in her step. The road was stone, yes, old and drab – yes. Still, something was different.
She looked down at the parched ground below her feet – no longer did they walk on mottled cobble, but on solid, flat flagstone. Pieces were cracked with age and use, gullies to the sides of the road stained an ugly brown – but the walk was incredibly smooth. For much of her life, Merrill had only ever trodden with a careful step. The dirt paths of Ferelden, the course cobble of the Imperial Highway, and the littered underbrush of forests and marshes of the South all required both conscious and unconscious care to avoid hurting one's feet. To Merrill, walking on pure flagstones, step after step, was like…
It's like walking through a fairy land. A fairy land filled with humans, but it's so smooth! My feet feel wonderful!
She abruptly realized she stood alone and, in a panic, she ran around the corner she had last seen Hawke and Martin headed to.
Her panic subsided as she nearly smacked right into Martin. She only just managed to stop in time, gasping with the effort of her sprint. He sent a questioning glance her way but said nothing.
Pay attention. You are in a human city, with humans. You must remain aware. You must not get lost here. That would be… very bad. Stay with your… what was it Hawke said? 'Mates?'
Merrill shook her head clear and heeded her own advice: she did not dally, did not let herself become distracted as she purposefully strode behind Hawke. But with each step she grasped the smooth stone with her toes, marveling through them at the horrid, shitehole of a fairy land that was Kirkwall.