romdeau | a fishing date;

"It could be worse. Bring Anders and Guard-Captain Aveline, and we'll spend the whole way sniping." He had nothing personally against the Guard-Captain. It was thanks to politics that they often found themselves unwittingly at odds.

"It has its charms. I don't mean to sell it short. At least there the nobility won't be tripping all over themselves to ingratiate themselves to you. That would be a novel change, right?" He kept his watch out ahead while they spoke.

He felt a small stab of guilt at hearing that, irrational in a way. He believed Templars protected the citizens of Thedas, mages too. Yet, it was difficult to know that in that act of protection, they made others' lives difficult and tense. "You're surprisingly open minded toward Templars for having gone through all of that." He wouldn't have blamed her if she hated them on sight, him in particular after he took her sister.

It took another moment or two before he saw it. "I think you're right. If you want to go ahead and lower the sail and tie it, I'm going to row us the rest of the way. This wind is too brisk for me to trust my tacking through a narrow inlet."

She bit her tongue to keep from mentioning Merrill. 'Bringing along the blood mage' would most definitely sour the mood. "Almost as bad. I should get Varric to tag along too, so we can at least keep some conversation while the three of you go at it."

Hawke laughed quietly. "That alone might get me to go, just you wait and see." Barely Champion for a month and she almost wished it was two years ago, when she'd gotten the Amell estate for her mother and all was somewhat right with the world. Almost.

"My father never hated the Templars. He was just wary of them, and understandably so. The Templars in Lothering were good folk. Ser Bryant looked out for the people, took care of the Revered Mother and the people who came to the Chantry looking for help. After Ostagar..." She stopped, frowning distantly at the water. "When Carver and I scraped ourselves together and came running back to Lothering, there were already so many refugees in the city. Too many." She stepped away from her post to get to work on the sail, to distract her fingers and herself from the emotions that came sweeping back with the memories.

"Ser Bryant refused to leave. The Chantry was filled to bursting and he wouldn't go. He had the other Templars out directing people, doing what they could to help." She pulled the sail taut and tied it, working diligently on the knot. "The Templars are an order that has a purpose. Some within it may be corrupt or may be cruel, but that's the kind of people they are. It has nothing to do with their occupation." Being part of the order simply set them up to be in a position where those sorts of people could use their influence and cruelty on others.

"He might manage to distract all of us enough to keep us civil." Of the three, Cullen was the least likely to get openly combative verbally unless really pushed to it. He wasn't a volatile sort.

"It has to be tiring and annoying. People who wouldn't give you the time of day suddenly falling all over themselves now that you have influence." He could have said a good deal more, choosing to hold it back. He didn't want to turn the subject around to himself and his experiences with Kirkwall's elite.

"I heard...lots of things." Frustrating things out of the Blight. So many Templars had gone to fight, answered the call to arms, while he cooled his heels in far off Greenfell. It didn't surprise him at all that the Chantry there did what it could to save the others, a doomed effort. He could tell from her look and tone it wasn't a good topic of conversation.

He wrestled the oars into the oarlocks and resumed rowing. The sun was fully set now, and it would be a little while before moon rise. They were stuck with the lantern. He intended to shutter it once they were in place with the traps set. There was no sense in making themselves easy targets in a salt marsh.

"You have too much faith in Varric. He'd keep you all from spilling blood, certainly, but he's not above goading people." She smiled. "He's not one to be underestimated."

Hawke rolled her eyes, taking her position at the front of the skiff again to make certain they weren't going to scrape up against anything. "It is. I was lucky that my mother fielded most of the people wanting to see me simply because I had status. Now, it's a little more difficult. Why do you think I'm never home?" she said with a sly wink. It wasn't the real reason but it was enough of one to keep the conversation out of darker implications.

"I'm certain you did," she replied, tone sobered. "It was...a shame." The word barely scratched the surface but it was enough. If she started to think about all of the losses they suffered, she'd have to think about Carver too, and she didn't want to. Hawke lifted her head and paused, casting her gaze just off of the skiff. "Careful on the right side. It's hard to tell if those are rocks or not," she said.

"I'd never underestimate a dwarf as connected as he," he assured her. He was lucky never to have been directly involved in Varric's own brand of playing stir stick, and he intended to keep it that way if he could.

"Do you think if I stayed out of the Gallows, I could avoid my own annoyances?" he asked. He had his suspicions that her mother's death had a lot to do with her restlessness and staying on the move. He wasn't about to touch on that out here or now. Better to keep that part of the conversation light.

He nodded. Any other words, and they'd veer into the bitter territory of Loghain's betrayal, the loss of Cailan, and more personal losses. "Thank you," he said a little absently, veering the skiff to avoid the dark shapes. At least they weren't moving.

Marsh grass rose to either side of the narrow inlet, muffling the lap of the waves and hissing softly in the breeze coming off the land. He decided this was a good place to drop anchor, secured the oars, and moved to do just that. "The traps are under the center bench, close to the mast. If you want to get them out, I'll get the bait. I'll apologize ahead of time. It's rank, but supposedly the crabs love the stuff."

"Good. That's how he gets people. They look at his short stature and they think he can't do anything." And then Bianca would take care of those perceptions.

She snorted in amusement. "Possibly. ...No, actually, probably not. If you stayed out of the Gallows, you'd come back to even more complaints and questions, and people would ask why you were never around." She smiled in sympathy. "But I imagine, even in Lowtown, you would have people asking for your help and bending over backwards to accommodate you...when they weren't slamming a door in your face." Ah, back to bitter topics. She quickly added: "Don't worry. I get a few of those too, with a 'doglord' thrown in for good measure."

As he stood, so did she, going to the bench and looking underneath it for the traps. She pulled them out, casting him a glance over her shoulder. "I hesitate to ask what the bait actually is, with that description."

"They must not be familiar with the Merchant's Guild or the Carta if they think anything of the sort, not that I'm implying he's in the Carta. Just that dwarves are more than capable." However, if she were to ask if he thought he had Carta connections...

"So basically, I'm damned if I do and damned if I don't. I suppose I might as well stay, then. Less walking around that way." He chuckled, pausing in his rummaging in the stern to glance at her over his shoulder. "That's my favorite one. Doglord. As though any Fereldan would ever take being associated with dogs as an insult. They don't understand us in the least."

He pulled out a small pot and something flat that turned out to be a putty knife. "Rancid fat straight from a forgotten kitchen container. Crab ambrosia. You, uh, might want to move upwind from me. This is going to be bad for a few minutes." Each trap had a small, open topped metal container in the bottom. Cullen took a deep breath, held it, opened the pot, and started slapping smears of the fat into the traps a knife full at a time. "Oh, Maker's breath, that's foul," he gasped, his eyes starting to water.

"Or they think he's only a planner, but I've seen him shoot through a man's throat without pausing. And Varric's not in the Carta..." Oh, that was a smooth enough excuse, hopefully. Varric belonged to too many guilds, too many connections she didn't want to know about.

"Exactly. I imagine it's sometimes boring in the Gallows, standing around all day, though." On a good day, that is. She laughed, setting the traps down on the bed of the skiff. "How can they? We take our mabari very seriously, after all. It's even better when they say it to me when I have my dog with me."

Hawke tilted her head to watch him, making a face when he opened the pot. She took his advice and stepped away. "Maker's breath," she cursed quietly. "Oh, that's ripe." Hawkes are not fishermen, it seemed. Not this one, anyway. "Who thinks of using that for bait?"

"I'm not in the City Guard," he said, his inflection playful. There were many days he thanked the Maker. It was headache enough dealing with criminal mages. If he had to make every crime or possible criminal connection in Kirkwall his business, he thought he might just lose his mind.

"It's often boring in the Gallows. The times that it isn't make you really appreciate the times that it is." He laughed at the mental image of people yelling "doglord" when Hawke was out and about with the dog. "That's perfect. I doubt they recognize the irony."

He didn't try to speak again until he had the traps filled and thrown overboard. They all had air filled bladders tied to them on thin ropes to mark where they came to rest in the muddy bottom. Once the pot was closed and the putty knife scraped against the side below the water line, the stench faded. "This sounds morbid, but my bet would be people who noticed crabs swarming carcasses or corpses. Someone made the leap, and people have been using rancid fat ever since."

He tucked the bait pot away with the knife and dug out a couple of bottles of ale from his nearby pack. Turning, he offered one to her. "This should help clear the rest of the smell."

"And I thank the Maker for that," she said, smiling. "It's bad enough I have Aveline breathing down my neck. I don't need you doing the same." Not unless he wanted to, and that was too cliche of an innuendo to toss out.

She snorted. "It never rains but it pours, is that what you're saying?" She'd believe it, too. The Gallows were always quiet when she was there unless there was a serious problem, and it was never something simple like a missing bag of herbs. "One day, they might. When they're on the other end of his jaws."

Hawke watched him with the back of her hand pressed to her nose, waiting until he sent the traps overboard to take a deep breath. She coughed once. "That is morbid...but probably very accurate." Isabela might know but she wasn't so certain she wanted to hear what the real explanation might be.

She lifted a brow and took one of the bottles, smiling. "Oh, so I wasn't the only one who brought some. I brought a bottle of Antivan brandy with me for us to share." She uncorked the bottle and sniffed just to get the stench of the bait out of her senses. "Much better. Thank you." She took a long drink for good measure.

He thought the innuendo himself and thought better of saying it, trying not to grin too hard and give himself away. It was hard for him to tell just how successful he was.

"That's about the size of it, yes. Feast or famine. There are never really small crises, just some less troublesome than others." It was then that the grin turned a little wicked. "I've been fortunate that the few times I've had the chance to fight with Mabari, it was with them on our side and not the other way around."

He uncorked his bottle and mirrored her actions, taking a deep, long inhale and sighing in relief. "Antivan brandy. I'm impressed. I hope you plan on helping me steer the skiff back in the morning if we get too deep into that." He had brought quite a few ales. "I also brought some food. Nothing fancy but enough to keep us from getting completely in our cups out here while we wait." He took a swig from his bottle and moved to pull his pack out the rest of the way.

A little arranging had it set up against one of the bench seats in the bottom of the boat for leaning. "If you want to get comfortable," he offered. He carefully stepped to the bow so that he could shutter the lantern, leaning out precariously over the prow to do it. It had the effect of seeming to plunge them into pitch black. He knew once his eyes adjusted, the starlight would be sufficient.

Maker, but he was attractive when he smiled. She took another small drink to keep herself from saying anything. "And this is why I'm not a Templar. I'll stick to the continuously troublesome life, thank you. Much more exciting, dog-cursing nobles and all." She grinned right back. "Very lucky. I think too many people forget they're war hounds by breed until they have to fight them. I'm just lucky enough to have one who also thinks he's entitled to pampering too."

She smirked over at him as she went to grab that bottle too, just to take it out. "Oh, I'm supposed to stay sober tonight, then? Have you ever had any before?" She set the bottle down and took a seat on the bench. "We passed a bottle around once when we were playing Wicked Grace. Strong stuff." And perfectly able to knock a mage and a Brother off their feet. "Smart that you brought food. I brought a little bit of bread, myself. Just to make certain I had something to offset the liquor."

The darkness wasn't so bad when the lantern went out. It gave her time to look up at the sky, to let her eyes become accustomed to the small lights there. Without the moon, it made everything seem darker than it was. "Careful that you don't trip on the way back here," she called.

"I think it suits you." She might have had a penchant for getting into trouble. More importantly, she had a knack for helping others out of it. If that was because of the restlessness, he could hardly fault her results.

"What's his name? I just realized I never asked." He didn't see the dog very often. It always felt like a treat when he did. Rare was the Fereldan who didn't revere the famous war hounds.

"Not totally sober. Maybe as long as the two of us are only half drunk, the sober halves can steer the boat together." He nodded before realizing she probably couldn't see it. "I've had it. It knocked me on my arse. Good thing I'll already be sitting tonight."

He waited until his eyes adjusted a little before attempting it, carefully stepping over the front bench and spotting the gleam of the bottle well before he was in kicking range. He gave it berth and worked around to sink to a seat beside her, shoulder to shoulder in the small space. "Much better. I'm always half afraid when I'm walking around in a boat that I'm going to tip it. It feels that way."

She smiled around the mouth of her ale bottle. "The life of a stir stick, you mean? Yes, I think it suits me too." She smirked. "Thank you."

He didn't see the dog much because he was usually with Aveline or her mother. Or at home, causing trouble. "If I said his name was 'Precious', would you laugh at me?" She tried to keep a straight face, ultimately failing. "His name is Maxwell. Carver said I should call him 'Killer' but my mother wasn't having any of it. She said I couldn't introduce people to my dog if his name was Killer." A shame, too, because it would fit a war hound.

"Antivan brandy, the weakness of the Knight-Captain. I'll make certain the both of us don't have too much, then," she teased. "And hopefully the Maker will let me steer well in the morning if there's a problem otherwise."

Hawke waited until he was sitting, shoulder against hers, before she spoke again. She didn't want to distract him while he was finding his way. "You might if you were wearing armor," she joked. "It does seem fragile, though. It felt like that even on the ship from Ferelden to Kirkwall, though. Just a few boards of wood separating you from the waves."

"Precisely." He chuckled. "And you're very welcome. I'd give you a bow if I didn't consider it likely I'd tumble headfirst into the water."

He was very glad he wasn't drinking when she said that. They'd both be wearing ale. "I'd laugh without a trace of shame." He laughed a little harder than before. "But Killer is an excellent name for a Mabari," he protested. "Maxwell is nice. It sounds distinguished."

He shrugged lightly. "Truth told, any alcohol is a bit of a weakness for me. I don't drink a lot habitually so a little goes a long way." He had been teased on more than one occasion for being such a lightweight when he was a large man. He took it all in stride.

"Armor and boats. Just mark that down in the 'will never happen' list when it comes to me. I can swim just fine unencumbered. I don't want to test how much weight I can hold up before sinking like a stone."

He switched his bottle to his off hand so that he wouldn't constantly be bothering her by shifting against her while drinking. "I took a ship from Amaranthine. Three days at sea. It seemed like one of the longest trips of my life. I don't like ships. Boats are all right. You sailed out of...Gwaren, right? I seem to recall hearing that. Maker's Breath, that must have been a ...what? Two week journey?"

"As entertaining as that may be, I'd rather you stay dry. And you might actually hurt yourself, doing that."

She snorted quietly. "I wouldn't have minded calling him Killer. I think she was afraid for my social life. 'Lovely to see you this evening, sir. Have you met my Mabari, Killer? He'd love to meet you.'" It would have been terribly entertaining. "Max is simple enough that he'll come when I call and it doesn't sound too stuffy at the end of the day. ...Though, he does answer to a myriad of other names. I think it's the tone."

Hawke reached over to pat his shoulder as though she was sorry for him, but the grin at her lips said otherwise. "Need to build up a tolerance to that. Just a little." Although...seeing him intoxicated might make for some fun memories.

"This is why I'm perfectly content in what armor I have, frankly. I don't envy you." She took another drink. "Two weeks with other refugees and a Mabari down in the cargo hold. It was a nightmare." At least misery loved company. She and Aveline bonded for those two weeks. "I would rather not repeat the trip at any point. Really." She wasn't necessarily seasick but there were too many people, too many smells. It frayed her nerves more than anything else. "Let's stick to boats, you and I."

"It would have been the perfect way to drive away unsuitable suitors," he said. "Anyone who couldn't handle that would hardly be worth your time, right?" Still, he could see her mother's concern and why a more...mature...view prevailed.

"Oh? Do I now?" He shot her a mock suspicious look. "Are you planning to liquor me up on a regular basis?" He took a swig from his bottle almost as though to punctuate the query.

"That does sound like a nightmare. I like your plan. No ships for us," he said, reaching to clack his bottle against hers. "Boats all the way." He settled down a little further against the pack so he could tip his head back without completely craning his neck. "Aside from the initial unpleasantness of the bait, I have to say crabbing is the way to go."

"I agree entirely. Maybe I'll start doing it now, even if those propositions have dropped off." Without her mother to set her up with the sons of the nobles in Kirkwall, she didn't have to worry about needing to entertain anyone. And if anyone wished to pursue her on their own... Well, it was highly possible that they were frightened by how she dealt with the Arishok.

She lifted a brow. "You have nothing to fear from a few extra drinks, I swear," she assured with a smirk. "If I invite you to Wicked Grace, then you can be wary." Isabela had a way of robbing people blind while they were distracted with their drinks.

"No ships," she agreed, tapping her bottle to his. "I could list so many other, unpleasant things I'd rather do than spend another two weeks in a crowded cargo hold." Hawke glanced at him, following his gaze up. She took another long drink of her ale. "It's relaxing, certainly. I was afraid we'd be stumbling over ourselves out here."

"Is it a relief? I'd think it would be. Marriages in the Marches...well, I suppose for nobility it's about the same anywhere you travel, about convenience and resources, influence and position. If you happen to be able to tolerate one another, that's a happy coincidence. Otherwise, you have at least two estates and never have to see one another except when an important occasion calls for it." He could no more see her actively choosing that life than he could imagine her in an Orlesian gown with ribbons in her hair.

"Ha. Your Wicked Grace sessions have a reputation preceding them." More accurately, Isabela's and Varric's, but Hawke's name was mentioned just about as often in certain circles. "I know to be wary of those."

It was very rare that he could even see the stars clearly, much less take the time just to look. The smoke from the ever active foundries lingered in a thick cloud over Kirkwall. Even in Hightown the stars were dimmer than out here past the city and its narrow, stone crowned streets. "No stumbling," he said, glancing at her with a fleeting smile. "That was part of my criteria for the outing. Along with no spiders, no blood--at least not ours--and no need to constantly look over our shoulders, either for bandits and ruffians or gossipy Marchers with nothing better to do than stir trouble for dog lords."

She smirked almost bitterly into the darkness. "And here I am with all the resources and influence I could ask for. Marriage for convenience is out, it seems." And thank the Maker for that. "I don't think I'd want to marry anyone who thought of me as a filthy dog lord behind my back, anyway." She leaned back against the bench and cast her gaze upwards once more. "Perhaps my parents ruined me in that regard. If I was to marry, I wouldn't want it to be any less of a partnership than what they had." Even if it was a foolish notion.

"It's still fun," she laughed. "I just wouldn't recommend it to 'beginners', is all. Worse, you might be there when a fight breaks out. You'd think we were idiots."

She returned the smile, setting her drink down between her feet and settling back on her hands. "High standards! But it worked out, didn't it?" Hawke sound immensely pleased. "Now we'll just hope that these cretins actually bite. I'll see you cook one to perfection yet, ser."

He stayed quiet for a bit, carefully considering whether he wanted to speak what came to mind or reserve it. He decided that while it might be bold and a little forward, that was somewhat mitigated by the fact that it was true. "Selfishly or un, I'm glad to hear that. It would make outings like this very awkward with a jealous suitor breathing down my back."

He laughed. "Yes, I suppose we can't have the Knight-Captain setting a bad example for his subordinates. Bar brawling isn't an approved recreational activity, yet honor would demand that I not abandon you lot."

He looked around, just able to see the tips of the marsh grass waving over the view from the sides. "Much better than I could have planned. No rain, no sea monsters or swooping dragons. The night is young, though. I could be speaking too soon." He polished off his bottle and set it aside where they wouldn't risk turning their ankles on it later in the night. "You've set yourself a challenge." He leaned forward to reach for the brandy. "Are you ready for some of this?"

She turned to look at him, slowly smiling. "I wouldn't do that to you, even if I didn't like whomever was pursuing me." The smile grew sharp at the edges, a little wicked in design. "Besides, that would give Varric an excuse to put you into one of his stories as the knight the hero goes off to have midnight trysts with. It would all be very romantic." And embarrassing.

"Oh, come now. You would be a perfect example. With that armor on, you could flatten any one of them with one strike," Hawke admonished with a playful nudge to his side. "You'd be a perfect addition to our motley crew."

No rain, no monsters, no trouble, and a friendly captain of the Templars to share her evening with. What could be better? She was grateful the darkness hid the look in her eyes when she nodded. "More than ready. Are you, though?" If it was a challenge he wanted, she would be all to happy to oblige. "You can't blame me tomorrow if it bowls you off your feet."

"A romantic Templar. Maker preserve us all," he murmured. "That would be quite the switch of expectations, wouldn't it?"

He snorted wryly. "Oh, sure. Let's teach the impressionable minds that might makes right, and that if you can crush them, it's because they were asking for it."

In answer, he unstoppered the bottle. The rich scent immediately enveloped them, promising warmth and a smooth finish. "I would never blame you for my own folly." Tipping his head back, he took a swallow and closed his eyes while it went down. It was everything he recalled about the drink. As long as he also remembered it had a bigger kick than the smoothness seemed to show, he felt he wouldn't make an idiot of himself. He offered it over to her.

"A romantic Templar who engages in bar brawls. It would be the best thing to hit the shelves since 'Hard in Hightown'. If you ever get bored with hunting mages and restoring order, you could consider it."

She chuckled, picking up her bottle of ale and finishing it off. "Only the drunk and disorderly. And the thieves and the murderers."

Hawke watched him drink, almost expecting him to react poorly to the drink. Eyes alight with mirth, she raised an eyebrow when he passed the bottle and she took a moment to savor the scent. It'd been at least six months since she'd tasted Antivan brandy, the drink expensive enough that she never felt the need to go get any until Isabela brought it around for their weekly game. "Well, I did bring the temptation itself," she said in reply, just before she took a slow sip for herself. It went down smoother than she remembered and then burned at the end, a tingle that had her smiling.

"You know, the first time I heard that title, I didn't think it could possibly be a real book." The recruits whispered about it when they thought he was out of earshot. It amazed him how deaf they seemed to believe the officers were. "So what would ours be called? I'm almost afraid to ask."

He nodded slowly, shifting so that he was leaning partially on his hip and facing her more. He propped his arm on the bench seat now at his side, elbow bent and tucked to hold some of his weight on his forearm. "I suppose that wouldn't be an awful message to send the recruits, particularly when they join the drunk and disorderly ranks." Just because they weren't supposed to do it didn't mean they didn't. It wasn't like at the tower where a dangerous lake kept them in check.

"And I succumbed to it." He watched her take the drink before answering the smile with one of his own.

Edited (This time without the angsty icon. Oy.) 2012-08-05 05:41 (UTC)

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