Ch. 2 Arrival

[nightsfury]

Title: Book One: Prelude to a Dance
Characters: Hawke (M) & Fenris
Word Count: ~2,800


Fast forward a few years, and Fenris has just arrived in Kirkwall.

 

 

Fenris had long ago lost count of the number of hunters Danarius had sent after him. At first, out of a sense of black amusement, he’d kept track, toting up the number of kills and thinking of the resources his former master was wasting in trying to re-capture him. Now, while he pulled another hunter’s heart out of his chest in a filthy back alley that led off Kirkwall’s docks…well, such accounting seemed a bit pointless. But even after two years a sense of grim satisfaction remained.

After having his heart ripped out of his chest, the slave hunter dropped to the ground, his sightless eyes staring up at a full moon. Around him lay half-a-dozen bodies and pieces of bodies, one shorn in two, cut clean through the waist. They’d been trailing Fenris for the last two weeks, picking up his scent when he’d neared Kirkwall, then following him into the city. In the twisting streets between the warehouses the elf had been able to nibble at the edges of this party for the last week, picking them off one at a time using tactics he’d learned in the Seheron jungles till the odds for survival had tilted in his favor. The Fog Warriors had taught him well. And how had he repaid them? Fenris grimaced and turned away from the slaughter.

Only the sound of his ragged breathing and the slap of water against the stone pilings filled the night. Using one of the slave hunter’s cloaks, he cleaned off his sword, then wiped the blood off his armor. Surprisingly little, considering the slaughter that had just taken place. Ghosting through the bodies from one kill to the next, he’d also ghosted through their blood.

The stink of spilled entrails and fresh blood mingled with that of fish-guts and decaying seaweed. When the guard patrol came by in another hour or so, they would find the bodies. They’d clean up the mess, and then make some kind of report, he supposed. They might wonder why pieces of Tevinter slave hunters littered their docks, but they wouldn’t probe too deeply. Kirkwall, more than a lot of cities, ran on bribes and self-interest, ‘grease’ for the wheels of power which carried the same stench no matter where Fenris found himself.

He sidestepped the sticky pools of blood as he looted the  few coins they carried before slipping into a narrow alley that led deeper into the city, and into the labyrinth of Lowtown. The soft-soled boots he’d picked up in his travels barely whispered against the smooth stone of the docks. Only slaves went barefoot, and he was no longer a slave.

Pausing at a litter-strewn alcove at the base of a set of narrow steps, Fenris retrieved his small pack and travel cloak he’d stashed under a pile of broken crates. Covering the lyrium brands kept people from staring at them, from paying more attention and marking him, as long as they weren’t activated. Not that such a precaution had seemed much of an impediment to Danarius tracking him down. The magister was always a very close step behind. The elf was getting weary of always looking over his shoulder and finding Tevinter slave hunters breathing down his shadow.

“Time to face the tiger,” he murmured as he slung the pack over his shoulder. But how to do that? Skilled as he was, he was still only one man; and one with little coin at the moment. He’d enough silver to keep hunger at bay for a few weeks, but nowhere near the coin he needed to buy information or hire a few swords. That demanded gold.

Turning a corner, he paused and eyed the small square in front of a disreputable looking tavern named the Hanged Man. Two drunks, arms around each others shoulders, stumbled out the front door, heading north. Across the square, on the opposite corner, a human woman lounged under a flickering torch, a low cut top and a slit skirt revealing a generous expanse of thigh advertised her business.

After the two drunken men stumbled up a flight of stairs and the woman turned her attention towards a guard patrolling by, Fenris slipped along the rough alley wall and into the tavern. His nose wrinkled. Well, the Hanged Man certainly didn’t lack for color, judging by the smell of spilled beer and the clientele, a mix of elves, dwarves, and humans. As good a place as any to disappear in and find some information, he decided, even for an elf with lyrium brands twining around his flesh from throat to heel.

He slid into a chair at a small square table in a corner, his cloak hood still pulled up.

“Hoy, Norah. ‘Nother pitcher here,” a lanky human called out to a woman clutching several dirty mugs in each hand as she hurried by him.

 “Hold your knickers, Samuel, only got two hands here,” she retorted as she headed for the bar. Several minutes passed before Norah seemed to realize there was a customer in the corner without a drink in front of him.

If Norah thought it odd that he kept his cloak hood pulled up in the warm tavern, she gave no sign. Just plopped his order down on the table and asked if he wanted anything else. Fenris shook his head, and she hurried away, leaving his purse a few coppers lighter. His tongue curled at the taste of the ale, but he swallowed the sour brew, then leaned back and studied the people around him while he nursed his drink.

He knew their type. The seamy underside of every town and city, the ones who lived off the scraps of those in power, often had ears and eyes in the right places.  People desperate and hungry enough not to look too closely at the hand that held out a few coins.

A dwarf with a gleaming crossbow slung across his back sauntered by, a tall muscular human at his side. Dark blue tattoos of interlaced curving lines decorated both the human’s cheeks, drawing attention to chestnut eyes that gleamed in the lamplight, and a full, generous mouth that curved easily into a smile. Neither man looked desperate enough for his purposes, Fenris thought, and dismissed the pair.

He glanced down at his hand. The lyrium lines that ran straight across his palm and up to the pad of each finger glowed soft blue as he willed it into phasing. Necessity had refined his skill to the point where he could shift a single finger, or pass his hand through a table…or a fat leather purse in the space of a breath.  The light died as his hand closed into a fist. But even when magic was useful, it fouled everything it touched. That was its nature.

A trio of elves passed by his table, a woman in leather armor and a pair of long daggers strapped to her hips. The two men trailing her carried swords; one had a short bow and a quiver slung across his back.

“Usual table, Athenril?” one of the bar-maids asked. The elven woman nodded and the trio headed towards a square table against the far wall.

Norah scooped up his empty mug. “Care for ‘nother?”

Of a mind to leave before Athenril arrived, Fenris decided to stay. “Yes, the same.”

After Norah brought his drink, he leaned his chair back against the wall, sipping the ale while he studied the smuggler and her entourage as they shared a pitcher and a plate of fried potatoes drenched in melted cheese. He’d heard her name spoken on the docks, tough but fair. More important, she didn’t deal in flesh or drugs. Though she ran a small operation, she had a lot of contacts. And she’d somehow managed to survive, and even turn a profit, if dock rumor was correct, in spite of the Coterie’s increasing pressure to eliminate its competition.

 He’d no reason to approach her just yet, either directly or through a liaison. But he had a name to connect with a face, and an opportunity to gain a sense of the person beyond rumor and hearsay. Now all he needed to know was when the next squad of hunters would be coming after him and what ruse they would try to use to lure him into a trap. Easy enough to know where they would find him, all he had to do was stay in Kirkwall.

###

Danal Hawke lounged back in the thickly padded chair on Varric’s right. The dwarf might choose to live in a low-rent tavern, but he’d made sure the furniture in the rooms he rented was comfortable. One of the few concessions he made to his noble status, and one Danal approved of in full.

The human took a long, slow sip of one of the Hanged Man’s more palatable ales, then sighed.

“Don’t get me wrong, Varric. I appreciate the work you’ve sent my way, but at the rate I’m ‘saving,’ it’s going to take me a year, probably longer, to get the fifty sovereigns for a share in your brother’s expedition.” He grimaced. “Some months, Uncle can’t even scrape enough together to pay his rent.” Maker knows how he paid it before we came. Not that I mind paying for our share of food and fuel. That’s only fair. But, Maker’s balls, he likes to cut it close when wagering.

“You could go back to working for Athenril.”

“And keep looking over my shoulder every five minutes for a guardsman? No thank you. Not even with Aveline on my side. Besides...” Danal waved his mug. “Athenril and I didn’t part on the friendliest of terms. Words…were exchanged. She wasn’t happy about my leaving.”

“I can’t imagine why, Hawke. A man who shows up when he’s supposed to, and gets the job done right the first time with a minimum of mess? Not to mention you make lock-picking look as easy as a stroll down the quay. Sounds downright incompetent to me.”

Danal laughed, then leaned further back in his chair. “Incompetent. That’s a word I hear a lot these days. I thought with the Blight now being officially over and a lot of my countrymen returning home, things might improve a bit here.”

Varric shrugged and poured another mug of ale for himself, then held out the pitcher to Danal. The human nodded and held up his cup.

“People here will always find a reason to hate outsiders. You didn’t think they called this the ‘Free Marches’ because they liked the sound of the name, did you? Besides,” Varric continued as he poured the last of the ale into Hawke’s mug, “you and Sunshine seem better suited to working as free-lancers.”

“Probably true.” Danal held out his cup. “To free-agents.”

The dwarf tapped his mug against the human’s. “And the dwarves that find them work.”

“Speaking of work…”

“Not much more than rumors and hearsay at the moment.” Varric frowned into the empty clay pitcher. “You want another?”

“You buying?”

“Moocher.”

“Cheapskate.”

Varric laughed. “All right, this one’s on me…again. But after we all come back from the Deep Roads as rich men, I expect you to pick up the tab for a while.”

“If we just come back with our skins intact, I’ll be happy to pick it up.”

Chuckling, Varric headed for the door, the empty pitcher in one hand. Danal scrunched even further down in his seat. Maker, these chairs were comfortable.

He only half-listened while Varric placed his order with Norah. Maybe if he got drunk enough, the dwarf would let him sleep it off here rather then walk the dark streets of Lowtown back to that wretched hole Gamlen had called a ‘nice place.’

That order seemed to be taking a long time. Ah, well, Varric was probably milking the opportunity to catch up on gossip. The man never bypassed an opportunity, and he did seem to have a gift for prying information out of people. Considering Bartrand had all the subtlety and charm of a wounded mabari, it was hard to credit the two dwarves were brothers. Which, of course, made Danal’s thoughts stray back to Carver.

He closed his eyes. Even after almost two years, that loss still cut. Whoever had said time dulled all pain had never lost a brother. They’d scrapped like a pair of wild dogs, more often then not, neither one willing to let go when they locked onto one another. Still, Carver had always been there for him. And if anyone even looked wrong at his little brother, they’d have Danal Hawke to deal with, as well as a twin sister who could literally fry them on the spot.

“Damn, Hawke, only two ales and you’re drifting off?”

Danal opened his eyes, and found the dwarf grinning at him, a foaming pitcher in one hand and a plate of fried cheese sticks with a spicy dipping sauce in the other. Varric noticed him eyeing the snack.

“Compliments of Norah. Said something about you looking underfed.”

Slipping from his perch, Danal relieved Varric of the plate and set it on the oblong oak table.

“It’s not my stomach she’s interested in,” he said, settling back in his chair. The dwarf resumed his former seat, then refilled both mugs.

“Oh? And just what ‘part’ has caught her attention?”

“Anyone ever tell you you’re as nosy as an old fishwife?”

“All the time, and if you’re trying to tell me to mind my own business…”

Danal laughed. “Yeah, lost cause, I know.” He picked up a cheese stick and bit into it, heavily salted, but it went well with the ale. “Let’s just say the few times I’ve been to the Rose, it hasn’t been for female companionship.”

Varric sipped his ale. “That’s the nice thing about the Rose, something for every taste.” He patted his crossbow on the table. “Isn’t that right, sweetheart?” He glanced up at Hawke. “I could plant a tale or two in Norah’s ear to let her down easy if she’s interested in you.”

“I…that’s not…I mean…” Danal blew out a breath. “Oh, Maker’s balls, alright. She’s a nice girl. It’s not her fault I’m not interested in what she has to offer.”

“Good thing you have me for a friend,” Varric said with a chuckle. “That would go over so well.” He sipped his ale. “By the way, I just heard that half-a-dozen slave hunters showed up dead on the docks tonight.” Varric spread the fingers of one hand and made a circular motion. “In pieces all over the docks, actually.”

Danal grimaced. “I hate slavers.”

“As if we didn’t have enough of our own littering Kirkwall, it seems someone’s been importing them from Tevinter.”

“How do you know that?”

Varric jerked a thumb over his shoulder in the general direction of the common room of the tavern. “That’s what the guardsman just off-duty told Norah. Tevinter bounty hunters. He recognized the armor, apparently.”

. “What would they be doing in Kirkwall?”

“Hawke, do I really have to answer that?” Varric asked, grinning.

Danal laughed. “You know what I mean.” Then the laughter leaked out of his face and he shifted in his seat. “Have I mentioned that I hate slavers?”

“Yes.” Varric gazed thoughtfully into his cup. “It could be they were just passing through on their way to someplace else.”

“And ran into some local thugs looking to make a hit for some ‘easy’ coin?” Danal shook his head. “You know what most of the gangs are like. They’re decent enough in a street brawl against one another, but against trained men? I ran into a few bounty hunters when I worked for Athenril. Disciplined and skilled, for the most part, including the ones who worked for slavers…make that especially the ones who worked for slavers. They’d have left the thugs in pieces on the docks, not the other way around.” The ghost of a grin returned. “Unless Tevinter hunters happen to be incompetent.”

“Not from what I’ve heard.”

“Maybe someone took exception to a little competition,” Danal mused, then reached for another cheese stick

The dwarf took a long pull on his drink. “Other bounty hunters? Must be quite a purse someone is offering.”

“Too bad it won’t pay up for bringing in the hunters.” Danal dipped the cheese into the spicy sauce, licking a drop off his fingers before popping the snack in his mouth.

Varric grinned. “There’ll be other jobs. There’s plenty of work around. It just hasn’t found its way to my ears yet.”

Danal laughed and reached for the pitcher. After pouring for them both, he leaned back.

“Have I ever told you the story of how Kirkwall was founded?” Varric asked. Danal shook his head. “No? Well, then, it all started with the Tevinter Imperium.”