§ they rip your claws out and call it a mercy | OTA

[not_a_slave]

WHO: Fenris
WHERE: Fountain and Inn
WHEN: May 8 - 10
OPEN TO: ALL
WARNINGS: ... nothing yet
STATUS: ONGOING

---

i. avanna, soporati | fountain park

It is cold in Ferelden. Cold, with the clamminess of skin-piercing damp, in a way Minrathous never was, a cold that seems to seep into the bones over the course of a night in camp. Not like this. This is cold and splash and the feeling of disorienting movement, as though he'd been thrown into the lake as he slept. Fenris' mouth opens involuntarily, and he swallows a mouthful of water as he forces himself upwards, the only thing he can focus on. He's not a strong swimmer, for what reason would a slave have to need the skill? He'd learned of necessity as he ran from the slavers, but he'd mostly learned to force his way through the water, rather than to swim, and he forces his way now, until one of his reaching arms breaks the surface into free air.

He coughs as he grabs onto the stone wall of what seems to be a fountain, grabs it and pulls, hauling his body out of the water. His feet are heavier than they should be, and when he glances down he sees boots instead of the stirrup heels of his armor leggings. That's not all that's wrong; his clothes are too light, fabric, not metal, and when he reaches around his back for the Blade of Mercy, he finds a backpack instead.

He should run.

That life was years ago, but it's never left him. Something is wrong. Something has broken into his camp, taken his blade and his armor, and an anger swells in him, stirs deep in his veins and under his skin.

"You will not take me!"

He reaches into the anger, reaches down under his skin for the power resting here, and finds ... nothing.

The sensation jolts, like a foot breaking through a rotten plank, and suddenly defiance seems dangerous in a way it hasn't in as long as he can remember.


ii. benefaris | Inn

It is some time later, after Hawke has explained to him, that Fenris reluctantly leaves the house to explore some of their surroundings. There is a mill, a river, a path that leads into a forest which would be easy to lose pursuers in.

He'd never lost the ability to read a location and see what he can use if he needs to flee. A coward's way of viewing the world, perhaps, but a practical one, for a fugitive slave. He follows the path away from the woods, past the mill and across the bridge, and finds himself in the midst of a small village, the houses built in a style completely unlike any he's seen in Tevinter or the Free Marches. The basic shape, yes, shares something with the buildings in Ferelden, but little enough that it all seems strange and unfamiliar.

It's perhaps incautious to follow the person ahead of him into the large, two-storey building, but it's the one place other than the mill which he can wager the purpose of. As he steps inside, it's with a certain sense of smugness that he looks around.

"Ah. This would be a tavern."

Very unlike the Hanged Man, but that is hardly a criticism.

Comments

[wittyskepticism]

To say that Evelyn's arrival has stirred some sort of hope inside Hawke would be dangerous. It would also be an understatement. To have someone else who knows about Thedas without her having to explain it, who knows Hawke more than as the Champion of Kirkwall, has touched her deeply. She didn't realize how much she has missed her friends until Evelyn turned up.

Now as Hawke nears the fountain to see a familiar head of bright white hair, hope stirs even more painfully within her.

"Fenris!" she calls, almost too late for his attempt to draw up on his power. She doesn't know if it will work here, though given the look on his face, she's assuming it isn't. Breaking into a run, she hurries over, knowing better than to reach out to him like she would to Bethany. The Champion likely looks strange, out of her armor. Instead she's wearing the red and gold cloak and jacket of too-many-pockets-to-find that she had found not long ago with the denim overalls underneath. It isn't an outfit she normally would wear and hardly even constitutes as decent armor, but it is what she has to work with.

She does, however, take off the cloak and offer it to Fenris. It won't keep off the worst of the chill, that she can deal with when they get to her house, but it might help dry him off a bit anyway.

Words don't come at first as she watches him. She finds it difficult to put into words how glad she is to see him. But she knows she has to say something else -- something that isn't how happy she is to see him -- so she finally settles on, "You're a different color than I was." Scrubs, she means, but with Hawke, she might not even be serious.

[not_a_slave]

He doesn't remember a time before the lyrium, save the occasional hint of memory that seeing Varania again had stirred. It's a time before he was dedicated as Danarius' pet and bodyguard. Varania had told him that he'd fought for the markings, and the position that came with them, so he must have been able to fight then, but he has no memory of it. Had he fought hand to hand, with blows, or had he always used a weapon? He has the strength to throw a man away from him, but he prefers to send a pulse of spirit energy through his enemies.

He'd fought off countless slavers, gangs, and mercenaries for years, but it had been with Lethendralis and the power of lyrium. He reaches into himself again, channeling confusion and anger and fear, pushing it inwards, and tries again.

Nothing.

Fenris looks down, staring at his hand, but the tracing of lyrium is still clear, shining-white. Why isn't it working? He's still staring when he hears his name. Not just his name.

His name in Hawke's voice. But that can't be. Hawke is dead, killed trying to stop that ancient magister tearing the world apart with his magic.

It can't be, and yet when he looks up, there she is, the only true friend he's ever known.

"Hawke." There is a rare wonder in his voice, a murmur filled with hope that he dare not accept. Could this be some trick? A demon, channeling his desire for his friend's death to have been some mistake? Some information, somehow, that Varric didn't have, when he'd sent his message?

No. A demon knows nothing of basic kindness, and Hawke sweeps her cloak off her shoulders and offers it to him. He takes it, wordlessly, courtesy and gratitude momentarily forgotten in the surprise of seeing her.

Demons, also, do not make light, and Hawke, as is her way, comments on something completely irrelevant, though it takes a moment for him to understand what she means. He hadn't noticed the purple color of the clothes he's in until her comment.

"Ugh." His lips purse as he makes the disgusted sound. That's less important now, though, because he has to know, so after a moment, he shakes his head.

"It matters not. Hawke. We were told ..."

No. He will not say it. Not when the grief is still so fresh.

"It is good to see you, my friend."

[wittyskepticism]

She can see it in everything Fenris does, everything he isn't saying. His surprise is as clear to her as the water dripping from his clothes and hair. There's little she can do about that, but if Evelyn hadn't already confirmed her suspicions, Fenris' reaction certainly would take the uncertainty from it.

According to both of them, she really had died in the Fade. They might never find a body, but that mattered little. No physical form could survive in the Fade. Not without powerful magic like the Inquisitor's Anchor.

For a moment, Hawke says nothing, simply helps adjust the cloak around Fenris' shoulders. It needs to be just right, as though making clothes fit and work properly will ease the pain of her passing on both of them. As though she can erase the knowledge of her death and give them both something happy. But she can't. Not this time and part of her wants to ask after Bethany, to see how Cailan has been taking care of her, but she doesn't do that, either. To do so would be to make the whole thing too real. Neither she nor Fenris needs that right now.

So instead, she closes her eyes briefly. "I know. Varric would have sent letters." And she knows exactly what they would have said. Her tone begins somber and sad, but quickly grows into her normal teasing dry humor, the tone that she uses when she doesn't want to face something painful. "I'm sure he commented on my dashing hair and how much I've missed everyone. I bet Aveline's waiting to kick my ass for making her worry."

All of her companions had been her friends, real friends, but Bethany, Varric, and Aveline had always somehow been the closest. Even with Bethany locked up in the Circle for so many years.

Not including Anders, of course, but Hawke rarely included him in much of anything these days.

Her face softens just slightly. "Come on. I have a house not far from here. We can talk easier there."

[not_a_slave]

He has gratitude to her for the fact that she doesn't push. He's often appreciated that about her: she will listen, if he needs it, but she will also respect the fact that some things are too painful to speak of. Better for now, she seems to say to focus on warmth, on her offer of kindness to her friend that speaks so much of the true Hawke, not of any apparition.

The unspoken truth cannot be ignored, however, and Hawke acknowledges it with a bow of her head. She knows, then. She knows what he's heard, the impossibility of seeing her in front of him, and yet she is here. And she is correct: Varric had sent letters. He's been in touch with his old friends over the time since the Inquisition started, though not all of them have been easy to find. Fenris had expected to stay largely out of touch with Varric, traveling as he was in the wilds of Ferelden, following the war to dispose of the Tevinter slavers attracted to its destruction like carrion-birds to a dying creature.

Varric's courier had found him, though, and the letter he carried had thrown Fenris into a near-complete devastation. Hawke had been all he'd had left after Danarius' death: his memories were gone, his sister had betrayed him for a magister's power, and Hawke's friendship was the only thing he could hold on to in that loneliness.

"He did," Fenris agrees, though he does not take the bait of her teasing. The memory of struggling his way through Varric's letter is still too clear to him.

"Lead on," he says, instead, ready to fall into his place at her back. He has many, many questions, about how she is here, about how he is here, where here even is, but he trusts her enough to let those questions wait until they are somewhere less open.

[wittyskepticism]

Hawke supposes she should have expected Fenris not to rise to her teasing, but it's still a stark reminder of just how somber this meeting really is. Silence falls as she turns to lead him away, a silence filled with a deep-seated sorrow in both of them. Hawke always knew that her death would hurt each of her friends, her sister in particular, but seeing the result here brings that pain to bear in full measure. At least Bethany is not the one speaking to her right now. Hawke isn't entirely sure she would be able to hold herself together through the waterfall.

So she lets the trip be as quiet as possible, almost like a normal journey out into Kirkwall in the middle of the day, watching people as they pass and listening in on conversations. But soon enough, she's walking up to the house and letting them in.

"Fenris," she says softly as she closes the door behind them and leads them into one of the bedrooms on the first floor. "You should know. Inquisitor Trevelyan is here." She knows all manner of vengeance that could be on his mind for letting her die, so she pushes past any protest he might offer. For once, she ignores someone else's thoughts just long enough to make her point. "Try not to blame her for what happened, Fenris. She didn't have a good choice to make in the first place."

[not_a_slave]

There is a small amount of solace in quiet, in not having to discuss what Varric had written, and what it had meant to him. Even stating, or as close as he'd come to stating, what had happened only to see it refuted before his very eyes by her presence had been too much.

A happy event should surely not be painful, and yet it is. He'd never thought to see Hawke again, to walk again behind her as her companion and her friend. She'd been his one friend, the one person he'd allowed to see some of the truth of the questions he'd asked himself, of the unease and uncertainties he couldn't show to anyone else. She'd meant more to him than anything, than his companions or his family, and it feels like a dream to follow her again.

But it would be too much to express, so he keeps the silence Hawke establishes, keeps it as he follows her through a small village, across a bridge near a mill, and into a house on what appears to be the outskirts of the settlement. Unlike their homes in Kirkwall, there are stairs almost immediately upon entering, and she leads him upstairs before they talk.

That, too, is familiar. There had been many conversations they'd only shared once they were deep inside the mansion he'd acquired by driving off Danarius.

Her admonition, though, is unexpected, gentle as it is. The Inquisitor, a woman he's had mixed feelings about since he first heard of her. A mage in a world when the mages have risen against their guards in response to Anders' crime, an uprising that he himself played a part in fomenting, by supporting Hawke's decision to defend the mages of the Gallows. And yet, she is the one person leading the fight against Corypheus' attempt to enthrone himself as a corrupt magister god.

But a pained expression crosses his face, pain that has nothing to do with the unnatural feeling of lyrium under the skin, and everything to do with the woman standing with him.

"She chose wrong."

[wittyskepticism]

The entire situation was nothing but terrible, something Hawke wishes she could say rose just out of one of Varric's stories. Out of his mind alone and not reality. Or the will of the Maker, as the chantry would say. But she can't. Evelyn Trevelyan's choice came from Hawke's actions. If Hawke hadn't failed to kill Corypheus for good, if the mage-templar war hadn't started with the fall of the Gallows Circle and Knight-Commander Meredith's turn to red lyrium, none of this would have happened.

If they hadn't found the damned idol, none of this would have happened.

Fenris' reaction is completely expected and mostly justified. If only Hawke could think selfishly about it, maybe then she would not have asked for the outcome she did. Maybe she would be able to be angry about it, about the outcome that clearly took her life. Instead, she closes her eyes briefly and bows her head for a second, letting Fenris know without words that she regrets how she has hurt him and their friends.

"I asked for it," Hawke admits after a moment or two of silence, her head lifting once more as one of her hands worked while she spoke. "Corypheus was my fault and the Wardens needed someone to lead them. Stroud was the best choice to go, which meant I had to stay. I made my choice in the Fade before she even said a word."

It's flattering, in its own way, that Fenris cares so much about her. To see him this upset over her, when he knows her stance on mages and that her sister is a mage, warms a part of her that she didn't think ever would. Were this Bethany she was having a conversation with, she would offer a hug. This is Fenris, though, so she holds back and simply tries to let him know that she does regret what happened and that the choice they faced was so terrible.

"I'm sorry, Fenris. I had to end the nightmare."

Whether she means the nightmare demon itself or the nightmare of her own life she leaves unspoken.

[andrastianherald]

It is a tavern, and Evie is pleased to be there. It's not at all like The Herald's Rest (a name which always made her feel awkward), but there is familiarity in the function it serves. People gather here to ease their burdens and to find others, like any other tavern she's been to. Not that there have been many. The one in Haven, one in Skyhold, once the tavern in Redcliffe too. That's the extent of her experience with them, so not much at all to base a comparison on. There was no need to patronize one while at the Circle, nor would her mother have permitted their youngest to go somewhere so common on her rare visits home. Being here now feels naughty and bold all at once. The controlling thumprint of Evelyn's upbringing is still strong.

She turns to the sound of Fenris' voice and offers a bashful smile by way of greeting. Evie knows little of him, not truly. Not beyond having grilled Hawke months ago about her companions. Further ago still since she likewise grilled Varric about his fascinating book, which had been eagerly devoured in the course of three days. It had been impossible to put down. It does strike her as rather rude to pounce him with an overabundance of questions, so she refrains, but with great difficulty.

The one on her lips begging to be asked is but shouldn't you be an elf? Not that Evie holds any prejudices against the elves as one would find elsewhere in Thedas. Within the Circle, one is taken on their own merits and abilities, not the shape of their ears.

"It is. How do you like it?"

And there we have it. This tiny slip of a woman with big eyes and long braids, unable to lift her gaze out of shyness, and attempting small talk with a celebrity, is the leader of the most powerful organization in Thedas. How exactly? A question for the ages, perhaps a debating point for historians long after her ashes have been spread.

[not_a_slave]

Fenris had long ago learned the benefits of finding a tavern. Not because of any need for society, though he had been known in his time in Kirkwall to seek out the company of his companions at the Hanged Man, for Varric and Isabela's card games. No, it is information that has drawn him to such places in the past. An bartender knows many things, and the people he serves many more. Time spent in taverns had allowed him to gain news of approaching slavers or mercenaries on many occasions, and preserved his freedom, for what that has now proved to be worth.

There are differences, he sees as he walks further into what seems to be the main room. No bartender, very few people, none of the ever-present flagons of ale that are so present at the Hanged Man.

None of the smells so distinctive of that place, either.

He hadn't expected to find Inquisitor Trevelyan here, though he'd known she was in this place from Hawke and he'd seen her in passing at the house Hawke seems to be setting up as a refuge for her associates. (How very like Hawke that is.)

He has heard something about her, of course; word of her deeds has spread, and he's been fighting slavers in Ferelden, where many people speak of her work stabilizing the Hinterlands and protecting refugees from those who would prey on them. And Varric has his ways of getting information to people.

Still, for all he's heard, he had not expected a woman so seemingly demure. He is unused to shyness from freeborn humans, for so many of them look at him and see only an elf, a fugitive slave, someone unworthy of the basic respect it takes to care enough to be shy. Here, he is apparently changed somehow to the appearance of a human, and he has seen no other elf. (That change is an invasion, yet another committed by magic against him, when he'd thought there could be no more.)

Her apparent unease does soften his expression, a little. What makes him decide to attempt to engage in rusty small talk, though, is what Hawke had said to him about not blaming the Inquisitor for what had happened.

And no small amount of curiosity of his own, about many things.

"It doesn't smell of stale ale," he concedes, walking a little closer to engage her in conversation. "That is an improvement on the Hanged Man in Kirkwall."

[andrastianherald]

Ah the infamous Hanged Man. Evelyn's never seen it, save for the colorful imaginings of her mind, fueled by the descriptions in Varric's book. When she'd read it, never had her feet crossed the threshold of such a place and the imaginings birthed of her naivety made it seem larger than life. Since then, she's both seen first hand that taverns are just ordinary spaces, and she's met Varric, so she is all too well aware of his knack for exaggeration. Still, her mind is filled with her more innocent impressions which override her more practical sensibilities.

"Does the Hanged Man truly have Coterie assassins in every corner and take payment in human flesh?"

The way her eyes are sparkling, now that she's looking up, it's as if she expects an answer in the affirmative. Talk of excellent reading material always succeeds in drawing Evie out of her shyness and into social conversation. It's been a source of frustration to her family who preferred to keep the visiting embarrassment ensconced in a dark corner of the library where she couldn't cause a scene rattling on about her books or her shameful arts.

[not_a_slave]

"It is possible to find Coterie assassins almost anywhere in Kirkwall," Fenris replies. It has the sound of one of Varric's stories, and he's not certain whether it's one that he's told, or one that he put into his book, reading still being such hard work for him that he hasn't yet read Varric's tale of them all. He's certain that at least half of it would be lies, knowing Varric as he does. The dwarf can, it's true, give good information when he tries, but in the stories he tells, he rarely seems to try.

Fenris can consider himself more than qualified to discuss the Coterie, however. He has been involved with them more often than he would care to be, both because they'd gone after Hawke and because they'd taken an interest in him.

"I've never known the bartender at the Hanged Man to take payment in anything other than hard coin or promises. I suspect Varric may have been telling you tales."

[andrastianherald]

"Oh." Her disappointment is palpable and clean writ on her face. Evelyn is as practiced in the art of masking her emotions as she is at keeping her head down and causing no trouble. She's had years to perfect the art, though those skills seem to be failing her in the moment. There's a sheepish smile from her and a simple nod. "Of course. He did tell me once that he was prone to extravagant lies."

She supposes the exaggerations make for a far more thrilling story.

Evelyn brushes aside her silly deflation of fangirl ideals and folds her hands before herself. Excitement fades and makes way for her gentle shyness once more, though she manages to maintain eye contact this time. "I'm quite certain he spoke nothing but the absolute truth about you, however. He spoke well of you, and in that I hold no doubts of his veracity." A pause. "And that you have excellent taste in wine."

[tooktheblack]

Jon had just walked into the Inn in hopes of finding something warm to drink when he heard the other man behind him; he had never referred to the Inn as a tavern but that, he supposed, was only because it had nothing to drink. If they served ale or cider in the Inn, he guessed it would be a tavern.

"A tavern with rooms to be had for free," Jon said, mouth quirking in a shadow of a smile. He didn't know the man's face - was he new? It was a good possibility. New men and women arrived almost daily.

"And naught to drink. How's that for troublesome?"

[not_a_slave]

"There were times I could have used a tavern like that."

When he was on the run, Fenris had never had the money to pay for a room. If he needed shelter and a temporary base, he'd always had to take lodgings, then monitor his situation until either the hunters found him, or the landlord was about to ask for payment. Then he'd run, disappear into the wilds for a time, or move onto another town and repeat the process.

A tavern that asked no coin for lodgings would have delayed many of his flights.

Fenris considers the man he had followed into this place: taller than Fenris, for he has kept the stature of an elf despite now seeming to be human. He has the bearing of a man of some status, or one who thinks he is. Yet he has not spoken down to Fenris, perhaps because it is now impossible to tell he is an elf. It is, however, better than many nobles he's known could ever do.

Fenris raises a hand, a slight gesture to the room.

"Also apparently few people. Is that normal, here?"

[tooktheblack]

"There are only a few dozen of us here," Jon explained. "It's a small village, just a crossroads I suppose. There's no way in or out, though, aside from that fountain and I believe it only works the one way."

It was a heavy thing to explain to someone, especially someone who appeared to be new; Jon didn't know his face but his questions lent themselves to someone who had just arrived. At any rate, he was new to him.

"I'm Jon," he offered, extending a hand to the other man to shake. "Jon Snow."

[not_a_slave]

Fenris had discussed some of what to expect from this place with Hawke, so what the man said wasn't entirely new to him. He hadn't, though, realized just how few people there were here in comparison to the apparent size of the village. Fenris had passed through many villages as he made his way from Saheron south through the Free Marches, so he'd thought he knew approximately what to expect.

It seemed not.

"That is a method of captivity I had not yet encountered."

No way out was simply too familiar to be considered in any other manner. He'd learned what freedom meant by fighting for it.

Fenris stared at the extended hand for a moment before remembering, he no longer looked like an elf. Then, a little cautiously, he extended a hand to shake.

"My name is Fenris."

[tooktheblack]

Jon shook his hand firmly. "Well met, Fenris. And yes, this place seems to hold us captive but there is plenty to eat and drink; I have been here for months and the forests are full of game and the river is full of fish. Whoever our captors are, they aren't interested in managing our day to day lives."

And for that, Jon was grateful. He could have borne it otherwise, considering how he'd fought for the freedom of the North from the Boltons. He won a battle and became king just to become a captive again? No.

"Where do you come from?"

[not_a_slave]

"That seems unusual."

Something darkens in Fenris' face at the discussion of captivity. Living under the command of another is something he'd fought to escape, but if their captors do not wish to control their daily activities, that is far less than slavery. Less, even, than what the mages called slavery, their lives in the Circles under the control of the Templars. It is still a form of control he does not wish to submit to, but the bitter truth is that he seems to have little choice, for now.

His expression shifts into a faint sort of surprise, lifting the darkness. It's still not a question he's used to. More and more people seem to know his story now, thanks to Varric, and as an outspoken former slave, there is only one place he could have come from. Not that he'd choose to claim Tevinter as his home.

He's learned enough, though, to know that not everybody here may understand the name Kirkwall, or even Saheron or Tevinter.

"I travel. I have been living in the city of Kirkwall." He pauses, raising his hand to press thoughtful fingers to his jaw for a moment. "The land is called Thedas, if you do not know it."

[tooktheblack]

"I know it but only by what I have been told about it. I met a woman called Astrid Hawke who hails from there," Jon explained. He had found Hawke to be engaging and intelligent and, by her estimation, an excellent woman with a bow. Those were things that Jon thought the village could use more of and he'd been happy to have met her.

"Is she someone that you know? I realize that a country might be large and just because you come from the same place it doesn't mean you know one another but this village seems to gather those from similar places."

[lastofthekellys]

"It has occasional ambitions to be one, anyway!" Kate says cheerfully from her position on the floor. She would get up and greet the man properly, but she's trying to untangle her cat from some wool.

Miss Hoppity is looking disgruntled, but is purring as Kate lifts her up with one hand, trying to loop the wool over and around her. Perhaps fortunately for both their sakes, Miss Hoppity lacks a tail to get in the way. Any more in the way: she is, after all, a cat.

Kate huffs, blowing a loose curl from her face, then gets to her feet. Her eyes move from the newcomer's face down, to his chin, then further down his neck, glancing at his arms, hands. They are the strangest tattoos she's ever seen. Similar in design to some Pacific Islander sailors she saw a couple years ago, but the colour is shimmering. Metallic.

That takes a moment. The rest of her assessment is along the width of his shoulders, looking at the strength in his arms and how he stands.

"We don't exactly have a regular supply of liquor," she goes onto explain. "But there's herbal tea, and we've been experimentin' with some things that can act like coffee. Or water, if you're thirsty and none of the above takes your fancy."

[not_a_slave]

He is used to stares. For much of his memory (for he can hardly say his life when there is still so little of it left from before the lyrium) strangers have looked at him just as this woman does, starting at his face but inevitably looking at the lyrium that mars his skin, traces veins down his chin and throat, disappears under his shirt and then reappears on his arms.

He resents it, but he can never work out whether it is the attention he resents or the fact that Danarius' mark is still blazed across his body, the magic in his skin an ever-present display of servitude.

As his eyes narrow, though, the woman's attention shifts, and then she continues her greeting. Ah. He is aware that the staff of a tavern must assess their patrons, particularly aware of it after some of the more interesting nights that the Hanged Man had seen.

"You work here, then?" he asks.

[lastofthekellys]

A dangerous man, Kate thinks. Strong, too. Knows how to handle himself. This doesn't mean she's any more wary of him than she would otherwise - most of the physically dangerous men she's known in her life have been perfect gentlemen to her, after all. It is just another point to look at.

Although, always practical and always... cautious, she does weigh up what would happen if she were to scream for Benedict for help. Would he be able to take any of them on? So far, mostly she has been thinking, 'yes'.

"Near enough to," she says. "No one exactly employs anyone else here, but I'm the next best thing to a publican you're goin' to get. There's room upstairs if you need a place to stay, and everyone's invited to breakfast and lunch. Uh, the midday meal? That's when most people come to eat."

[not_a_slave]

Fenris is ... aware that he appears dangerous. Danarius had often used his bodyguard's appearance as a tactic of intimidation. Owning something so threatening and powerful and keeping it leashed and at hand had been impressive to other magisters, though as often as not in those situations Danarius used him as a serving-boy rather than a bodyguard.

He makes little attempt to appear any less intimidating. He's not tall in comparison to humans, but he's strong, obviously so, and the lyrium adds to the effect to anyone who knows what it is.

But he's not actually here to threaten. He's here to explore, to scope where information may come from, if he needs it. And it's unwise to antagonize the barstaff.

"Oh. No, I do not require lodgings. I ... have friends here."

That last is a strange sentence for him to speak, and while it may not be technically true of the Inquisitor, it's more than true of Hawke, and she'd insisted that he should stay with her, rather than find a room elsewhere.

"I would appreciate some water," he adds, belatedly, in answer to her original offer.

[lastofthekellys]

There's an odd hesitation to the way he speaks his statement. He has friends here, but maybe he's protecting them, or they aren't friends. Or he's not used to having any companionship - really, it's all hard to say. Still, she's going to hope for the best, for his sake.

"Havin' companions here seems to make it easier for them that have 'em," Kate says with a smile. "And I suppose I should be grateful, too, this place got that crowded over winter. Too cold to be tryin' to make the houses habitable with all that snow."

The last gets a faint, lady-like crinkle of her nose: ugh, snow.

"I'll just get you some, you take a seat and I'll be back. And don't mind the cat, she's polite enough to everyone."

Miss Hoppity, tangled in her wool, is still attempting to look dignified. There is, however, a pleading look sent her mistress' way as Kate sweeps off to the kitchen door.

[not_a_slave]

"I hope that will be the case," he allows. Certainly, he's found that Hawke's presence made many things in his life more confusing, but he's not certain the two things are mutually exclusive. Without Hawke, he would not still be free.

In truth, his hesitation is a combination of several things: protectiveness of Hawke, yes, but she's also a capable woman more than able to take care of herself. The Inquisitor, he barely knows and would hardly describe as a friend. Still, it's the most accurate description he can think of of the situation; as uncomfortable as the idea of sharing a house smaller than his Hightown mansion with other people makes him feel, he's not going to reject Hawke's insistence that he stay with her.

Even after all of these years, it is ... strange, to be waited on, to be the one sitting while somebody else fetches even a glass of water for him. He fidgets, a little, with one hand, eyeing the cat. It does, however, seem inclined to mind its own business. Not that he minds cats, as such, but they can be unpredictable.

When Kate returns, Fenris will be seated by the wall, still watching the cat.