Chapter Text
"One more night, Hawke," insisted the sandy-haired elf.
Hawke pulled the rough leather mask from her face. "Not indentured. My year is up," she responded. Even in the dimly lit office, her eyes gleamed like violets after a summer rain. Every bit of exposed skin shone with sweat from another climb through the chokingly humid and reeking passages from Darktown with undeclared imports in a suspicious black satchel. Only yesterday did Athenril insist this would be the last.
"You know the Coterie is muscling us out of our routes. I'll pay you twenty silver from what I make on this next run if you're so hard up for it," Athenril replied, closing a ledger and crossing her arms with impatience. The Coterie were indeed closing in for the kill on Athenril's operations, but if Hawke wanted to get ahead instead of only survival in this cruel city, she’d let Athenril decide how much that delivery was worth.
"Sister, say your farewells and let's go," Carver muttered, his black hair fluffing forward as he removed his own mask. He spoke no more words to the smuggler directly.
Hawke ignored him for a moment. "If you need it done right, a safe delivery would be worth more than a mere twenty."
Hawke hadn't possessed the nerve for squeezing extra coin before. Athenril huffed and stood straight, prickly as the fountain of hair that sprouted from her messy bun. "Overcharging already, Hawke? I have enough of your people who'll do it without a price."
'My people?' she wondered, yet knew it could only mean Fereldans. Refugees. She was far from the last to endure a terrible voyage in the hold of a ship with neither food nor freshwater. The thirst was most torturous of all, and the Gallows on which they docked was barely better. When the City Guard barred the gates, Athenril opened another, and the elf didn't ask for murder or favours of flesh...
Hawke lost her nerve to push further, not wishing to end with hostility. "I wish you well with the Coterie, but I do believe our business is done," she said, not extending the courtesy of a handshake. That would be overstepping.
"Go on then," Athenril said coolly, watching the Fereldans leave.
~
A cool mountain breeze soothed their faces upon stepping onto the sunset-bathed streets of Hightown, a welcome change from the cramped tunnels beneath. The evening drew to a close, yet the Red Lantern District bustled with workers from the brothel, foul-mouthed sailors, dwarves from the Merchant's Guild, and finely-dressed nobles. Above it all, bells rung low, announcing the end of the evening Chant. If Carver was lucky, he could pass for a mercenary or a Rose client, and his sister - perhaps a noble's servant. If they were marked as refugees, however, they would surely come to trouble with guards since the templars forbade all but wealthy Fereldans from entering the city. It seemed like that should've been the Viscount's decision, but Hawke held little imagination for politics or rule.
"I can't believe you'd want to work for her again, now that we're free," Carver said, interrupting her train of thought.
"Want has nothing to do with it," she corrected, but softened. She hoped he wouldn't take it as mockingly, but Carver was nothing if not proud and brutally honest to a fault. He'd been born that way, and it was why she insisted on doing the speaking whenever they reported to Athenril. "I kept the option open for coin and coin only... but Athenril will never pay more than a scraping for what she can take,” she exhaled.
"I know," he huffed. "I'm just sick of this. No more smuggling for me. I'll find something legitimate, and I would've if we didn't have to worry about-"
Hawke gasped, spotting an imposing soldier in silver armor carrying a winged helm, and another beside him. Both bore hard faces with chilling eyes - templars who must've attended the evening Chant.
Them. Carver turned quickly down a southbound stairwell, a step behind his sister's heels once again.
He only had to worry about being sent back to Ferelden if they caught him. If they knew his sister had magic, they'd whisk her off to the Circle forever. That's why their family kept moving around Ferelden until their father found somewhere safe again.
"I'm sorry they're still your problem," she eventually sighed.
"You should be," he argued bitterly, then realized the harshness of his retort that also gave his sister pause.
"I know how difficult it was for you this past year... but I know you'll find something. Something good," she spoke as they passed sleeping humans less fortunate than themselves.
He watched her for a moment, feeling oddly understood. He wasn't used to that. She paid no mind to the horrendous effigy of a man strung up by the ankles overhead. "The slums can wait," he said, knowing the place.
"What do you mean?" she asked innocently. He pulled the battered door, loosely hanging on by its hinges, and left it open for her as he entered.
Iron lanterns illuminated bare walls and damp wooden planks while customers and tenants huddled around oddly-stained tables. The place stunk of ale with a waft of urine, which would’ve nauseated Hawke if she hadn't grown to tolerate worse smells below the streets.
"Two ales to start, Corff," Carver said, sliding one bit for each to the barkeep. The man filled two wooden mugs of foamy swill and set them on the bar.
"Are you trying to get us drunk?" she asked, barely amused.
"It would take many more ales than this. I just want to relax," he explained, already working on his mug.
Hawke grimaced at her own, but gave it a try. The flavor made her stomach churn. Carver was clearly more familiar with ale as it no longer bothered him, and she watched him finish his mug like a seasoned lush, until finally, he belched. 'Revolting,' she thought, placing a hand under her clammy throat. It felt humid in here, much like Darktown, and the characters not much better. She pulled off her hood for air, causing her hair to tumble as her own sweat broke out uncomfortably.
The mercenaries seated nearby at a table were growing loud and raucous, grabbing at the barmaid when she came with more ale. That made Hawke nervous, though the barmaid neither squealed nor told them to stop. She only shoved their hands away as if shooing flies.
"Another," Carver demanded from the barkeep, sliding another bit across the counter.
"We shouldn't stay too long," she eventually said. "We might be able to pick up a job bright and early down on the docks."
"Why wait? I have a job for you in a room upstairs, right now," a lout at the next table slurred.
The man evidently stopped bothering the barmaid long enough to notice the next thing with breasts. Hawke tried to ignore him, but glanced sideways briefly to see his face. He was about her age, but blonde and scraggly. 'He's just drunk', she thought, wishing to let it go.
"Go to the Rose if you want a whore," Carver said coldly. It surprised her, for she hadn't expected him to say anything. Carver didn't turn around, but remained keenly aware of the hefty blade on his back. Would he really start a fight here?
"Easy... We're just looking for a bit of fun," one of the calmer heads at the table prevailed.
"How about another round of Wicked Grace, Lucky? Double or nothing," another interjected. Hawke turned her head again. This time, it was a beardless dwarf with golden earrings. She remembered seeing him in the bazaar occasionally, though they never spoke. If he was Coterie or Carta, he seemed too fancy for a simple foot soldier.
"You're on, dwarf," Lucky accepted the challenge.
'Perhaps he's cleaned this ironically-named mercenary out a few silver?' Hawke thought, amusing herself as the tension eased. Shuffling cards and drunken banter from the table accompanied the low sound of Carver finishing his mug. She tried to relax a bit and started slowly on her second, for which Carver again paid.
"Are you new here?" Norah asked in a thick Marcher accent when she returned to the bar.
"To this establishment? Yes," Hawke answered quickly.
Norah giggled, and Hawke became acutely aware of just how much bare skin the barmaid showed. "I knew it! You're too sweet for this lot."
Carver scoffed. 'Sweet? You think she's sweet?!' he cringed, unable to agree.
Looking too much like a lost puppy with her hands clasped neatly on the counter, Carver finished the last of his drink with a thud. "Alright. I'll take you back to our blighted uncle's. Mother will be missing you," he concluded with more than a hint of sarcasm, checking to make sure his coin was still at his waist.
Hawke promptly pulled up her hood again. As she made her way to the door with Carver behind her, that same shifty dwarf made eye contact again. At his side hung a bowlike weapon, but Hawke couldn’t make it out. Who did he work for, and why was he watching her so closely? She couldn’t appear intimidated. That was an invitation.
Wisps of cloud glided over the mountain, but failed to veil the moon that reflected in pale washes of light off the slums carved out of rock. "Would you really have killed him for me?" she finally asked Carver as they entered a corridor into the maze.
"What?" he asked. His face squished itself up as if she said something incomprehensible.
"Back there," she clarified. He was stubborn and feeling the effects of that ale now, but surely he knew what she meant.
He shook his head, which nearly made him stumble. That ale was on an empty stomach, after all. "I didn't have to, Mari" he said, calling her by her nickname. He never called her Hawke.
"I'm sorry. I just didn't expect that from you," she finished the subject innocently, feeling a little wobbly herself.
That annoyed him, and yet, he was happy with it. Carver loved to play the hardened soldier, but nothing moved him quite like defending his blasted witch of a sister.
Carver twisted the key in the lock on the heavy hovel door, but it wouldn't budge. The thing seemed barred from the other side when he pushed it.
"Mother? We're back!" he shouted, knocking with loud clumsy thuds. He hoped she hadn't drifted off into a slumber as he attempted to speak through the wood.
After a few moments, the door finally opened. "Maker's breath! I expected you both hours ago. Where did you take him?" Leandra asked her daughter with more than a hint of accusation.
Mari didn't know precisely how to answer, slowed by that ale. It wasn't the first time they returned late. Smugglers' business often called for it.
"We were at the tavern," Carver answered, closing and locking the door behind them.
"Spending what coin we have on ale, I suppose?" Leandra guessed, smelling it on them both. She adjusted her shawl. "I don't suppose you remembered to get us some food while you were out."
Mari's eyes widened.
"No..." Leandra sighed disappointedly. "That was the one thing I asked."
"It wasn't her fault, Mother. We ran into trouble in Hightown," Carver explained.
Leandra paused, exhausted. "I suppose we'll just have to go to sleep hungry again." Her shoulders slumped a little more before heading silently to the room she shared with Mari.
She looked so defeated. Normally, he wouldn’t have cared, but now...
"See you in the morning," he said low, hoping she would keep her chin up.
"Yes, good night," she answered. He turned his gaze away and walked into the other room he shared with their uncle.
Alone, Mari checked the desk for any letters. There were none from Athenril, nor old acquaintances who managed to make contact from across the sea, but there was one odd envelope addressed to her which bore no return address. She sliced it open with a small knife from her belt.
"Messere Hawke,
You know of the Merchants' Guild, yes? What you will not have heard of is an expedition in the works - one that could use your special talents, and one that would pay generously. Speak to the head of House Tethras if this opportunity interests you."