romdeau | a fishing date;

"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)

"You're not the only one. I thought Varric was joking about it." And he wanted her to even have a copy. "I still don't know what that title even means." 'Siege Harder.' It was a ridiculous name for a book. Hawke chuckled quietly. "I don't have a creative bone in my body. I don't know what it would be called. Something equally strange for a title, like 'Well Met by Moonlight.'" And Maker help her that Varric never heard a word of any of this.

"There you go. You join the trouble, you get treated like them. Unfortunately, the Hanged Man isn't safe enough of a place to give practical lessons to anyone." If recruits were punished right there, or at the Blooming Rose, they could run into the same trouble as before...just like Keran and Wilmod.

She took one more slow sip, savoring the taste, before she surrendered it to him. "That you did. I'll apologize for that if you're sprawled in your seat in the morning," she said with a grin.

"So what you're saying is you're not the one to ask for a summary." He snickered. "Just the thought of being a topic of thinly veiled fiction, that sort of fiction, has me squirming and praying to the Maker I can keep him convinced I'm one of the most boring men alive."

He had to agree with her there. Anything that might have started out as discipline was likely to escalate to a full blown brawl. Knowing his luck, that would be the night a paranoid blood mage decided to hole up in the back, thought the Templars had come for him, and summoned five shades and a pride demon to keep them away from him.

"I'll do my very best not to disgrace myself." He took another swallow, savoring it, and lowered the bottle to rest on his thigh. "It's very good. Thank you for bringing it. And for coming. I'm having a good time."

"Maker, no. I'll say this: Varric is an excellent storyteller. But the way he writes some of his stories... He knows his audience. He knows he can sell those book to every lonely man and woman in all of Kirkwall. He strings them along." She smirked. "But don't worry, I don't think he suspects you of being anything special so far. Hopefully."

She smiled as he drank, leaning back and making herself a little more comfortable. "Think nothing of it. Drinking alone is a sign of larger problems, or so I hear. Besides, it's a special enough occasion for it." He did get all of this together on his own. She wanted to repay him for that.

"And you're handling it well, too. Good for you," she teased lightly, leaning against his shoulder.

"Oh, well, if we're lucky, even if he figures it out, nothing truly untoward will happen until the fifth or sixth sequel. Just...lots of brief meetings and...Andraste's ashes, I don't know. Flowery words?" He knew he was probably being naive. It wasn't so bad when it was deliberate.

"I've heard the same. It's less cheerful at the very least." His smile widened for the assertion that it was a special occasion. He had tried to make it something different from dinner or a walk.

"Tell me that when it's time for me to stand up again. That'll be the real test." He shifted to give her the inner curve of shoulder rather than the harder outer cusp, nothing coy or sneaky in the way his arm came to rest around her shoulders as a result. He once more offered over the bottle.

"Even if nothing did happen...that's not Varric's style." Flowery words. Yes, that was a little naive. "Let's just say that each book can be considered stand alone, even if he does write a sequel." That was probably about as subtle as she could be. "Confiscate a copy from one of your recruits and skim it over."

Hawke smiled right back, though she offered an ineffectual shrug. "If you ever feel the need to drink heavily and you have no one there to share it with, come find me. Simple as that." Whether this progressed or not, Cullen was a fine man and friendly. She wouldn't mind seeing him for a drink and small talk, especially if it kept the man sane and content in some fashion.

"Before you sleep, if you sleep, I'll make you walk. Just in case," she promised, taking the bottle from him. She offered him an approving grin before she had another drink from the bottle. "Oh, but that does taste nice at first. How some people can drink all the time, I'll never know."

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