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New ships in the harbor mean new sailors in Lowtown. New sailors in Lowtown mean new bodies at the bar, which means new players at the card table, and new fools to part from their coin. The afternoon goes fairly well for Varric, and he only has to reach for Bianca once or twice, mostly relieving the men of their sovereigns before they can pay for enough drink to even think about causing trouble. A relatively quiet day, all his affairs taking care of themselves with only a tweak or two here and there. He doesn’t see Isabela come in, doesn’t realize she’s been doing business of her own in the back until a man goes flying from the top stair, hitting the tavern floor with a punishing thud. Really, between the layers of scum and filth it seems like it ought to have a bit more bounce to it.
Isabela follows after him, though in a slower, less airborne manner, dusting off her hands as she reaches the main floor.
“It’s okay,” she says, though most of the patrons have no reason to complain as long as she doesn’t spill anyone’s drink, and half of them aren’t even looking, “he likes it rough.”
The pirate will always have a smile for him, so Varric has come to judge her mood mostly by the length of her swagger, and today that predatory sway says she is having as good a day as he is, dropping into the chair across from where he sits.
“Deal me in next hand.”
“I doubt there’s anyone with enough coin left for a next hand, Rivaini.”
“Buy me a bottle to celebrate, then?”
If the bar ever burns to the ground - less an if than a when, really - they will be able to rebuild entirely on the basis of Varric’s bar tab, probably with a much nicer roof and fancy hats for all the vermin. He gestures the barmaid over as Isabela shuffles the cards, long fingers expertly working the deck through several different patterns, some of them mixing the cards up, others putting them into a particular order. It’s rare that Varric cheats at cards, usually he doesn’t have to, and Isabela seems to enjoy letting luck carry her through, but it’s still a skill worth having. The man she’d felled is finally up and moving again, and though he’s making vaguely disgruntled noises it’s clear he’s too dazed to recognize Isabela, let alone cause further trouble, and when an obliging patron shoves him out the door he doesn’t come back.
“So, I hear you helped Hawke with her… housewarming.”
Isabela smiles. “You dirty dwarf. You just expect me to just tell you everything?”
“Yes.”
The pirate leans forward, eyes sparkling. “Oh, it was fantastic. I don’t know what they put in the water in Ferelden. Or maybe it’s something to do with the weather. It can’t possibly be the food.”
Buy Isabela a drink, and she’ll happily tell the story of how she had her way - several ways - with the Hero of Ferelden. To her credit, she is sure to point out, in detail, all of his most admirably heroic aspects and his exceedingly generous nature.
“Hawke did say they had to make their own fun.”
Isabela pours herself a shot, downing it - he can tell a lot about the pirate’s mood by the way she knocks back her drinks as well. A sharp tilt of her head and the brush of her thumb against her mouth afterward means some unlucky bastard is about to hit the floor, while the long, languid tip of the glass against her lips means she’s quite well contented, no doubt thinking about her most recent tryst or perhaps planning the next.
“Hawke needed a pick-me-up after that business with Bethany, so I… picked up.”
“How selfless.”
“I am Andraste incarnate. Render unto me your Chantry boys.”
Isabela flips the cards out into some random, arcane pattern across the tabletop. Fortune telling, though she doesn’t believe in it, barely paying any attention to the future she’s drawn before it’s gathered back in her hands and being shuffled away. She’d offered to read his once, though Varric had declined, preferring to be surprised at how being so skilled, handsome and clever would play out in life. Varric wonders if she’s tried it on Hawke, and if the cards just burst into flames in protest.
“How is Sunshine doing out there, anyway?”
Varric has a few connections in the Gallows, but as volatile as things are in the Circle - as sweet-natured as Bethany is - he can never have too much information, and is very glad to see Isabela smile.
“She’s shining, what else? Hawke says she’s settling in better than either of them expected - the little ones love her, though I can say that’s hardly a surprise.”
Varric thinks it might prove to be a rather big mistake on the Templars end, bringing in a mage who’s managed to live outside the Circle for so long and yet be entirely content, normal and happy. It’s never made more than a lick of sense to him, the obsession that can border on panic between the Templars and the mages in Kirkwall - mostly coming from those wealthy enough to be insulated from all of life’s other dangers. If nothing else, it certainly does a very good job of keeping a lot of people on both sides under heel, fighting amongst each other and all of them terrified - the perfect system for anyone who is on top of it to remain so.
Isabela slides the deck into a wide line with one hand, using the edge of a card to flip them over and back like a wave. “Was that Anders I saw getting carried out of here a few nights ago?”
“I knew he was a Warden, but you’re aware he was actually in Amaranthine, right? A part of that legendary four-man defense of the city - not to mention Vigil’s Keep?” Varric says. “I need to hear that story, but he can’t go more than four sentences without getting moody, so I thought a few drinks would help him relax. I probably shouldn’t have given him that last shot of brandy but I thought ‘almost there, any second now he’s going to start talking about things that didn’t involve his cat.’”
Not a wager that had worked out in his favor, but there were always more nights, and more drinks, and Anders could certainly use them, even if it did tend to turn him horrifically maudlin. Give him a lever long enough and a fulcrum on which to place it, and Varric might one day get the mage to lighten up.
“So, now,”the dwarf says, more than a little proud that his life has brought him to this moment. “Dish me some dirt on Hawke. I don’t need each and every sordid detail but-”
“She giggles if you tickle the back of her calves, just below the knee, and she does this thing where she bites her lip if you-” Isabela laughs as Varric holds up a hand, and she gestures toward his notebook. “You’ve got it half-written already, don’t you.”
Varric smiles. “I have them all written up. I just charge more for the ones that are actually true.”
If the dark horse affair between Choirboy and Daisy ever pans out, Varric might be able to commission that solid gold statue of himself he’s always wanted.
“You’ve been holding out on me, dwarf.” The pirate says, and makes a half-hearted swipe for what’s actually a ledger. Varric generally doesn’t do much composing in the tavern itself, too much noise and too many people always wanting to know where they’ll be in the story if they find out he’s writing one. “You know, I knew the elf that dictated all those tales of his naughty adventures with the Hero of Ferelden. Only about half of them had any chance of being true. Not that the Hero would have minded the rest of them, I’m sure.”
Certainly not the one where he’d defeated an entire Tower’s worth of desire demons with the power of his… convictions. Varric wasn’t as impressed with the existence of that tale as the fact that there had been an equally successful sequel.
“If a quarter of them were true, they wouldn’t have had the time to end the Blight. Or the stamina. It doesn’t mean they don’t sell.” Especially the ones concerning the two Wardens as tragic, star-crossed lovers. Brothers in arms who had then become far more, cruelly forced to part when the Archdemon fell and one of them was crowned king, their moment of triumph doomed to separate them forever. The Fereldens and the Free Marches just eat up those noble soldier tales, with all that talk of fealty and honor and tightly molded leather armor.
“Let me see what you’ve got. Come on, I’m bored.”
Varric pulls a book from the small stack at his side, and slides it forward. Of course none of these particular tales will ever come out with any recognizable names attached. Hawke’s not even herself in this one, but an assassin who’s accidentally fallen in love with her pirate prey - assassins are in this year. Isabela flips toward the end of the last finished chapter, where the two lovers are battling for their lives against secret enemies of the crown. Varric hasn’t quite decided which crown yet, not that anyone will be paying attention to that part.
“The Orlesian bard swept through the open window as the Rivaini pirate stepped from the shadows, the darkness clinging to her curvaceous form as if unwilling to part - and really, could you blame it?.” Isabela snickers, reading aloud. “As they swept forward like Andraste’s own avenging avatars of righteous judgment - ooh, that’s good, I like that - I could see them touch briefly as they crossed in front of me, the curve of the bard’s hand cupping the pirate’s own, the gentlest brush of fingertips as intimate as any-”
Isabela stops reading, a surprised little smile on her face - she must remember that gesture. Varric certainly does. As electric as any magic he’d ever seen, the careless caress and the look that had passed between them before they’d entered the fray: so delighted, strong and fearless and playing off each others attacks as if they were part of the same fierce creature, tearing through a pack of mercenaries with such grace and skill and fury Varric hadn’t had a chance to line up his third shot before it was over.
The pirate is still looking at the book, though he doubts she’s reading. Her gaze seems far away.
“You’re not falling for her, are you, Rivaini?”
“Me?” Isabela makes a chiding sound, snapping the book closed and handing it back. “You know I only have eyes for you, Varric.”
He might worry a little bit on her behalf, if he thought that Hawke felt nothing for Isabela, but the dwarf is rather certain that isn’t so.
“You just want me to get you in with Bianca. I know that game.”
Isabela snaps her fingers. “You know what you need in your next story? An evil twin.”
“With a mustache?”
“A sexy evil twin. My sexy evil twin. She could tie Hawke to the mast and then I could swing in and save her. Or tie her up some more. Or both.”
“The mast of your glorious new ship, I imagine?”
“Naturally.”
“Are we sure you’re not the sexy evil twin?”
“Speaking of,” Isabela says with a smirk, as Fenris comes through the door. It appears he’s putting in some brooding overtime, maybe to lay in some surplus, though Varric can’t imagine the production line will shut down anytime soon. He sees them, and crosses the room, as Isabela makes a small, satisfied sound in the back of her throat, her voice just low enough not to carry. “You know, I can’t really even see him with his clothes on anymore. Do you think those markings go all the way d-”
“Yes.” Varric cuts her off, shaking his head. “What is it about the scowling, short-tempered bad boys anyway?”
“Bad? Him? Hardly.” An oddly gentle tone in the pirate’s voice. “Whether he knows it or not.”
A lot of things Fenris doesn’t seem to know. It might be the pirate in Hawke’s bed now, but he’s the one who’s been carrying her heart around all this time - a gift as yet unacknowledged. All of it happening well before the Deep Roads, and that is only the first time Varric had noticed it. Funny that he hadn’t seen it sooner, though Hawke speaks so freely about so much, bold and entirely uninhibited, that it’s easy to forget that there’s nothing stopping her from keeping quiet, so the secrets she does have mostly hide in plain sight.
——————————————
It had been a late night much like any other at the Hanged Man. He and Hawke had been tipping back a quiet round after a bit of ‘guard duty’ that had mostly been an accident, a group of thieves with more knives than sense who had considered two women and a dwarf as easy prey. One thing to take them down, but Aveline had frightened the youngest of them into revealing their hideout, fifteen men and all their spoils all swiftly dragged away by the guard. It was cause enough for celebration, with Aveline on her way to being named captain, even if the circumstances of that hadn’t exactly been the best. The two of them had been at the table for a while, while Aveline was at the bar, not quite interrogating the bartender of some small issue or another, though even with a drink in hand no one believed she was off-duty. If she even knew what the word meant.
The tavern door opened then, and Fenris stepped in, carrying himself with that combination of stiff-shouldered pride and intense wariness he’d obviously intended as indifference, though it came off as anything but. The elf had become a relatively common sight, the Hanged Man often as good for information gathering as pulling pints, and Varric was diplomatic enough not to call attention to their mostly one-sided conversations - all Fenris, believe it or not, once he got started. The elf’s taciturn nature, Varric had decided, was a matter of circumstance more than personal preference - Fenris was friendly enough, with certain issues off the table, and hell, he was mostly aware of even those. Alternately keeping to himself and holding the world firmly at arm’s length, and yet still coming into the bar to try and work it all out. Starting in on what he no doubt thought was a matter of simply putting himself back together, of finding a way to piece together the fragments of what had been lost. Varric didn’t know how to tell him it wouldn’t be that easy - that even if he remembered everything tomorrow, what lay ahead was still a future full of unknowns.
Over the years, Varric had dealt with all kinds of people stumbling through places they didn’t expect to find themselves in, with everything they’d held onto, all that they knew of themselves and the world around them suddenly rendered meaningless: dwarves newly topside, rogue Templars and fallen nobles, and yes, the occasional runaway slave. Hawke had certainly managed to cobble together a more… eccentric lot than he was used to dealing with all at once, but the basics didn’t change. Life was about moving forward, not going back. Maybe the hardest thing anyone ever had to do, which was why so many people couldn’t do it, whether it meant dying in a Blight or drinking themselves to oblivion or mouthing meaningless prayers, rather than admit the Maker’s mysterious ways no longer made any sense. Varric figured he’d heard as many soul-searching confessions over a pint as any stone in a Chantry hall, and instead of answers or platitudes he’d found it was mostly a matter of time and patience and letting it all just play itself out - hell, some of his better business deals had started out that way.
So he’d been sitting there, not thinking about anything in particular except how wise and introspective he was, only to glance over at Hawke and have most of those smug thoughts summarily slapped right out of his head. He wasn’t much of a religious dwarf, not even by their terms, but humility at least had its earthly agents, Varric was sure of that.
He watched Hawke, while Hawke watched Fenris. She didn’t move, only her eyes quietly following his path across the room to Aveline’s side, no doubt some issue to do with his newly acquired mansion, or what was left of it. As a storyteller for the better part of his life - yes, Varric knew that look. Wrote about it a lot more often than he actually saw it, and yet here it was.
A surprise, he had to admit. Of anyone, he would have thought Hawke would take to Anders. A Gray Warden apostate with an apostate’s daughter? It seemed like they’d have plenty in common, which might also explain why Varric was still a bachelor.
“You know,” he said, “I hear the Imperium’s impressive on the surface, but a little coin in the right place can go a long way.”
“Mm.”
“Life is cheap in Minrathous, and even the rich have enemies. Actually, they tend to have more than their share.”
“Mm-hm.” Hawke still did not look at him, though he could see the corner of her mouth twitch. Aware of exactly what he was asking, even though she’d never been anywhere near Tevinter, didn’t know a thing about the layout of the capital or what might meet her when she got there.
“Andraste’s ass, Hawke. You’d really do it, wouldn’t you? Just storm the imperial city and and kill that magister of his.”
“Danarius.”
Well, there was his answer, but was he really so surprised? Hawke never seemed much like the flowers and chocolates type.
Oh, the stories he would write because of her.
At the bar, Aveline turned, gesturing to them. Fenris gave them a glance, with a slight nod of acknowledgement to Hawke. Any move on the elf’s part spoke volumes against his usual reserve, but nowhere near the light that flickered in Hawke’s eyes, the wry, tender smile he didn’t realize he’d turned his back on.
“He doesn’t know, does he?”
She took a long, slow drink. Still not looking his way. “It’s not easy, Varric, always waiting for the door to be kicked in. When anything you build can get knocked over and ground to dust in an instant, and knowing that there’s some bastard out there just waiting to do it. There are better ways to live.”
The sort of thing she didn’t say in front of Bethany, ever, even if it was nothing like regret.
“Hawke.”
His tone made her grin. As if worrying about her was the most ridiculous thing anyone could ever do.
“He’s trying. Testing it out. Still deciding what he wants. Not quite sure if being happy is worth the risk.”
A casual flirtation, then, at least on his end. Hawke keeping it simple, as if nothing important was at stake. It was the way she fought, ready to make herself the target, to take a hit so no one else had to, so why should he be surprised when this was the same?
“Fenris doesn’t know how you feel.”
Love was one of those strange words for a storyteller. Varric had seen the shine get knocked off of honor and glory, he’d had to work to rebuild truth and justice and still couldn’t always keep them from collapsing under their own weight - but love endured. The common coin of whores and monsters, poets and kings. Everyone knew love, or wanted to be in love, or even destroy the one they used to love, and the word was passed around from clean hands to dirty and back again - yet all it took was a quick polish, and it was as beautiful as the day it was minted. Every new love was the first love, and Hawke’s smile didn’t change.
“All his life has been about other people’s demands, Varric. I’m not… it’s not his problem, what I feel or how much, and I’m not going to be one more thing he’s afraid to say no to. We do this on his terms, or not at all.” After a quiet moment, Hawke glanced over and smirked at his expression. “I’m not pining. It’s enough for now, just to let him know someone’s got his back. I think he needs that more than anything else I could give him.”
Varric certainly felt better knowing she was around, that out of all his friendships and partnerships and obligations - if he called, he was sure Hawke would be there. He hadn’t known her that long, but that didn’t seem to matter much to either of them. It was rare to get that kind of support even from those who were supposed to give it.
“Isabela will be disappointed by your lack of initiative.”
A slight chuckle. “She’s finding ways to keep occupied, I’m sure.”
———————————
Time has rolled on since then, the Deep Roads come and gone, and Varric has watched Hawke keep her distance, asking nothing, while Fenris sets the sort of pace to be challenged only by mildly ambitious glaciers, indifferent snails and the most torturous of high-caste dwarven courtships. It is hardly that the elf lacks for opportunity - Isabela seems quite happy to play matchmaker-with-benefits, and from what Varric’s seen Hawke disdain for most rules extends right into her personal life, not about to make any claims or set terms. Fenris could likely have both of them without much in the way of effort, and so far he hasn’t made anything resembling a move, which leaves Varric wondering if anyone’s bothered fully explaining the concept of ‘freedom’ to him. Possibly with some helpful illustrations.
“Tell me again, elf, is that brooding or sulking? Or is it moping today? It’s such a subtle art.”
At least Varric’s begun to finally wear the edges off his prickly attitude. Fenris’ scowl is barely more than the minimal amount necessary for daily upkeep.
“I hate it when they stare.”
The dwarf somehow keeps from rolling his eyes. Tragic circumstances or no, there are times it’s hard not to throw things. “You do stand out. Just slightly.”
Three is a bit of an awkward number, though he knows plenty of card games for any number of players that will succeed in relieving them of their coin. It’s friendly enough tonight, no one putting much down on the table, Isabela not even complaining how unfair it is she can’t ante up with ‘personal’ favors. Fenris thinks he has no easy tells, but his brow furrows in an entirely different way when he’s irritated by the cards in his hand. Isabela is much more difficult to read, as she spends most of her time ogling Fenris.
“Any word?” The elf says, quietly. Seheron has once again moved into brutally open conflict after a two-month period of relative quiet. Meaningless business as usual, except for the fair number of magisters being shifted to address the problem, to make a show of force, Danarius among them. Varric wonders whether the elf would be happier or not, should his former master die in some ignoble way on some distant plain, bleeding out anonymously beneath a qunari’s sword. Or is it worse, to think that there are days that likely pass where Danarius barely considers him at all, while Fenris cannot afford to think of anything else.
“Nothing yet. Unless he gets himself obligingly decapitated in the meantime, It could be a full year before there’s anything in the way of real news. I can’t imagine how they measure progress in a place where you can hear the air leaking out the other side.”
A slight twist of Fenris’ lips, throwing in three coppers and an absolutely abysmal hand. Varric nearly wins it, only to have Isabela steal the victory out from under him at the last moment, though she bets it all and he takes the next round, which will just about cover their drinks.
“The Viscount has been asking to see Hawke quite a bit as of late.” Isabela says, halfway through a set of cards Varric knows he will not be able to bluff his way out of. “It sounds like there might be something big on the horizon.”
Varric knows all about the benefits of being a private figure with public connections, acting as the proxy for those with politically tricky ideas that are still worth implementing, or a shadow that can gather support where a larger outcry would fail. Hawke seems to be much the same, her time since the Deep Roads mainly spent helping her fellow Fereldens, using coin and charm to improve their lot in Kirkwall or even helping them find their way back home. A thankless task, the refugees still of little value, politically or otherwise - but Hawke works hard and does good and seems to agree with Varric, that most of the time it’s far better not to be noticed.
“Did Hawke say anything to you about it?” Isabela asks. Fenris keeps his gaze on his cards.
“We don’t… often speak of politics.”
Varric fights the urge to sigh at the elf’s disgruntled tone. Hawke is an amazingly uncomplicated woman, by any measure. If Fenris can’t figure her out he really ought to start picking out his Chantry robes.
The dwarf had worried a little, after seeing that look her eyes, that Hawke might start buckling under to Fenris’ unrelentingly rigid worldview just to please him - but in all fairness, he hadn’t known her as well as he does now. Varric is rather impressed with how Hawke does it, always the mediator, even going toe-to-toe with the qunari’s Arishok without conceding the point, and being far more respectful than the qunari ever bothered with. Always and ever slipping free of whatever box anyone tries to put her in. What Hawke cares about most of all is people, and there’s no fixed mark, no sweeping ideology that can help some without hurting others, and so she keeps looking for the better answer, doing the best to help those she can in the meantime.
“I haven’t noticed there’s much she won’t talk about.” Isabela says, with that special skill of hers that makes any statement sound smug, vaguely dirty and highly inadvisable.
Fenris frowns, grimly tossing back a shot, feigned indifference once again hiding nothing. “Who knows? I suppose Hawke doesn’t have a problem going over it all with you, or with that mage.”
The last word practically spat out, and he’s definitely not talking about Bethany, though it would be possible to mark the days by Hawke’s now frequent visits to the Gallows. Jealous over Anders, then? It would be funny - no, it is funny, ever the more so for how seriously Fenris insists on taking absolutely everything, and this time he’s aimed so far off the mark his arrow’s turned into a bird and flown away.
Varric’s seen Hawke worry so much for the both of them, always ready to charm or bully Anders out of his isolation, using some of the same channels the dwarf does to keep watch on who comes into Kirkwall from Tevinter. When she’s not protecting them she’s arguing, refusing to let Anders condemn the Templars even with Bethany in the Gallows or digging her heels in and defending the mages from Fenris’ endless scorn and Varric had asked her once, how she managed it, to stand in the middle and take hits on both sides. Hawke had given him that quiet, infinitely reckless smile of hers, and held out each hand in a tight fist, as if clutching two ends of an invisible rope, dead center in some great tug-of-war.
“… and then you don’t ever let go.”
As if it is that easy, as if she is invincible and indestructible and can hold the whole world together by will alone - but Varric knows Hawke isn’t quite that crazy, remembers the hint of bitterness in her voice the last time she’d been speaking with Anders and the subject of Fenris had been brought up, Anders harping on his icy temper and his snap judgments and his homicidal tendencies - though even the mage had come close to questioning Hawke’s loyalty to her sister once, the look she’d shot him in response so fierce and cold Varric thought even that spirit inside of him had taken a step back.
“I don’t even see how there’s a point in trying to reason with someone like him, Hawke. Even listening to him is just giving him the impression that you think his position is justified.” No one is ideologically pure enough for Anders, maybe not even the mage himself. Certainly not Hawke - though she’d been tired as well, or perhaps this was an old argument, or more likely a combination of the two, and she’d sighed in a way that conceded the day if not the argument.
“Fenris has enough to deal with, Anders, without some backwater hick dog lord like me telling him how to live his life.”
It had surprised Varric, that sudden view of her insecurity, like flicking up the edge of a rug and seeing what had been swept underneath. Clearly, Fenris has never seen it either. The elf knows only his own past and what he sees as his own failings, and despite everything Hawke has said and done, he still believes some part of her holds it against him, sees him as the lesser. What Fenris is working through, if he can’t figure himself out, it’s going to eat him alive no matter how things go with anyone in Tevinter. Bad enough for him, but the thought of Hawke having to watch it happen…
“Did you ever consider, elf, that she might be the slightest bit intimidated by you?”
Fenris stares at him, and what he's trying to pass off as a rational thought.
“Come again?”
“You’re from Tevinter. Far away. Exotic. You’ve seen things Hawke hasn’t seen, places she hasn’t been…”
“In irons.” Fenris growls.
Varric sighs. “That’s not the important part, elf. Ferelden isn’t exactly known for being the center of intellectual civilization - hell, it’s practically a punch line. I doubt Hawke has ever been more than thirty miles from Lothering in her entire life, even on the run. Certainly not out of Ferelden. You start throwing out passages from the Qun in front of the Arishok, don’t think she’s not going to notice.”
He certainly had. As did the Arishok. Whether or not it had been the right move or not, well, that remained to be seen. Not someone Varric wanted looming over his shoulder, to be sure, and the fact that the qunari were still here, when so much time had passed...
Fenris scowls, but Varric can tell he’s thinking about it. He’s not stupid by any means, but it can take a while for him to remember that his view of the world is even a view and not an absolute, let alone that it might be open to interpretation. When he finally speaks, it’s slowly, as if the words might turn on him at any moment. “You think she’s embarrassed? Afraid to speak with me? That I would find her… ignorant?”
As if he doubts the meaning of the word, the thought seems so unlikely - he admires Hawke, obviously. Maybe that’s part of the problem, Fenris so completely unused to getting what he desires, to having a chance at anything good, or satisfying, or beautiful. The elf knows what he wants, and fears it all the same. Not a pretty way to get by.
“I’m saying it’s easier for Hawke to know where she’s coming from, with someone closer to home. Anders is… familiar territory,” And she doesn’t want to ride him like a pony. Varric thinks, but manages to keep that card to his chest, and by the sparkling in Isabela’s eyes she’s making an equal effort to contain herself. “It’s not that she doesn’t want to talk to you - you’re important enough that she doesn’t want to say the wrong thing.”
“Oh. I… suppose that makes sense.”
Enough sense that the last thing Fenris pays attention to is the game, and Varric gets three silvers from him that the elf barely notices. He excuses himself soon after, likely to do a bit of late-night brooding, before tomorrow’s early-morning brooding marathon. Isabela watches Fenris go. At least parts of him.
“Do you think you could get lyrium poisoning from excessive licking? Maybe someone ought to find out, for the good of us all.”
“… and this is me, playing matchmaker.”
“If it’s any consolation, you’re not doing a very good job.” Isabela says, tipping her chair back as Fenris vanishes through the door. “So, you think he got it?”
“Not a chance.”
“You think he’ll get it?”
At this point, Varric thinks nothing short of a catapult will move the elf in the right direction, but he tries to be optimistic.
“I sure hope so, Rivaini. A romantic tale of flaring passion between a Ferelden refugee and a runaway slave? Elves and humans caught up in an uncontrollable whirlwind of desire, battling against all the forces that would seek to rend them asunder? With his pout? Drop the mage in there for the competition angle, and I’d sell a thousand of them.”
“I still think it needs an evil twin.”