howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

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Normally by this time of year there's been at least one storm coming in from the Waking Sea that breaks the humidity -- but no, Kirkwall is unseasonably humid. Because of course it is.

At any rate, that's why Cullen isn't wearing as much plate as he ought. That, and he's in the yard, out of sight of any civilians.

It helps him be faster, he tells himself. Mostly it's just miserable, and he's quite looking forward to plunging his head in a nearby rain barrel.

(It doesn't help that Cullen is currently losing handily. Though if truth be told -- and he'd never admit it -- it feels good to lose like this, winded as he is, muscles burning as they are.)

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If she's watching, she won't miss how Cullen's expression tightens.

"We'll pass through Lowtown to get to the docks," is all he says. "If something catches your eye, and you'd like to know more, I trust you'll say something."

"Yes. I will."

She marks his reaction, but does not say anything about it.

Not at first.

"... if you would rather not do this," Cassandra says, abruptly, "then --"

Stiff:

"If I gave you the impression that I'm unfit for the task, I ask for the chance to remedy that impression, Seeker Pentaghast."

She rolls her eyes and huffs out an exasperated breath.

"Hardly. I merely thought - never mind. As you will have it, then."

The safest way to respond to that is with silence.

Cullen's resulting glower does tend to mean that people get out of their way quickly.

There is something to be said for unimpeded progress.

"The streets are narrow," Cassandra observes, as they move through Lowtown. "Knife fighters must do well here."

"It's called the City of Chains for a reason."

They pass the Hanged Man. Cullen is pretty sure the tavern never actually shut down, either during the Qunari attack or after the Chantry explosion.

"When the Imperium laid out Lowtown's streets, it was to prevent the slaves working in the mines and the foundries from organizing revolts. The narrow streets, the small yards, no public common or the like -- you work, you go to your bed, you work. You follow the narrow path, wherever you go."

A few stalls in the market are open. Not so many as before the Chantry explosion, but more than there were in Hightown.

"Aveline could tell you more about what that means for keeping the peace, even before."

"How long has she been Guard Captain?"

Cassandra eyes one of the stalls, whose proprietor looks distinctly wary of the two of them.

"Surely Leliana prepared some kind of report," Cullen says, mildly. "It's been... let's see. Seven years? That sounds right."

"Several."

She shifts direction, heading purposefully for the stall.

Then why ask? Cullen doesn't say.

He knows why: she's testing him. He'd do it in her position, dealing with someone like him. Doesn't mean it feels good.

Cullen follows without a word.

The merchant still looks nervous, but launches into his patter all the same.

"Ah, serah, you have the finest taste - and a, a warrior, I can see. Permit me to show you --"

"That." Cassandra points at a dull silver ring, apparently unornamented.

"Oh, surely not that one, serah, I have much finer things, more suitable for a person of your stature --"

Perspiration beading his forehead, he throws an even more nervous glance at Cullen.

If Cassandra has stopped, there's a reason; if a merchant is sweating that much in a brief interaction... there's probably a good reason.

Cullen keeps his expression stern: no help for the merchant here.

"Of my stature?"

Cassandra's tone has turned dangerous.

The merchant stammers, taking a step back - and as he does, light flashes from the steel of a knife as Cassandra stabs the blade through the center of the ring.

Something screeches, and a puff of foul-smelling smoke rises into the air.

Cassandra's got the ring -- at least, Cullen hopes Cassandra's got the ring, or whatever comes out of it -- which means his job is --

He can see the merchant reach for his belt, and what Cullen knows must be the little twist of powder hidden there. He'll have to move fast: there's some kind of metal object, primarily decorative, about the size of his fist, resting on the table.

Cullen snatches it up and hurls it at the merchant's opposing shoulder. The merchant twists away, attention diverted from his powder --

-- just long enough for Cullen to draw steel and back him up against the wall, blade to the man's throat.

A twist, a dragging cut, and the ring shatters - ridding the air around them of a subtle sense of menace. Cassandra smashes the remnants with the flat of the knife, then draws her own sword and turns to face any potential attackers.

Only there are none. In fact, the center of the market has rapidly emptied, giving them plenty of space.

Cassandra casts a suspicious glance over them all, then moves to Cullen's side - while keeping a wary eye out, just in case.

"Is he a Crow, or merely one who serves their ilk?" she spits.

Cullen snorts. "A Crow wouldn't have bungled that so badly. But I'd rather like to hear what he has to say for himself."

The merchant looks rather like he's thinking about squirming. Cullen's grip on his blade isn't going anywhere.

"Unless you've a different idea." It's unclear whether he's speaking to the merchant or to Cassandra; in Cullen's eyes, an answer from either would be acceptable.

She pins the merchant with a steely glare.

"Well? You heard the commander; speak, fool, if you value your life."

The merchant swallows -- uncomfortably, given the presence of Cullen's blade at his throat -- and tries a tiny nod.

"No contract, messire, I swear - just, just information --"

Cassandra lets out an exasperated sigh.

"Maker damn them."

(Captain, Cullen doesn't say, Knight-Captain.)

That's all they needed. Antivan Crows taking an interest in Kirkwall. "What information?"

The merchant gulps again, his gaze darting back and forth between them.

"Nothing harmful, my word on it - only what, what Lady Pentaghast does, and --"

"Seeker," Cassandra snaps. "Not lady. You would all do well to remember that."

To Cullen, she adds,

"Give him to the guard, or as you choose; I care not."

So they want to know how the Right Hand of the Divine operates. Cullen relaxes a fraction; the oncoming storm of guilt at leaving Aveline alone with a gaggle of Crows dissipates before it really gets going.

Cullen lifts his head -- and spies Brennan, one of Aveline's lieutenants, approaching. "Guardsman Brennan!"

Brennan, not being a fool, recognizes that if Cullen's got his sword to a merchant's throat it's a fair bet that he'd like her to take the merchant in for questioning. She and her partner are only too glad to do so.

It doesn't take long.

Cullen sheathes his sword, looks at Cassandra. "I believe we were going to the docks, Seeker Pentaghast?"

No extra weight on her title.

"So we were."

Cassandra sheathes her own blade, and nods to him.

"Lead on, Knight-Captain."

He inclines his head, and moves; it's only a moment or two more before they descend the long stairs leading from Lowtown to the docks.

It's somewhere in the middle of the stairs that he ventures, tentative:

"Not Lady Pentaghast."

That's bothering him, a little; were it merely about monitoring the Right Hand, the merchant would have said Seeker. Which means it's about... well.

Cullen is thoroughly common, in every sense of the word. He hasn't spent any time around the nobility -- excepting, he supposes, the handful of times he actually met Viscount Dumar, and that doesn't count. Or shouldn't.

She lets out a quiet sigh.

"I prefer it that way. I would rather be known for what I have chosen to become, than for who my family is."

"...from Nevarra," he ventures again.

That's as far as he feels safe venturing. He knows about their king, of course -- Markus Pentaghast, who's managed to hold on to his throne for many years, now -- but little else. When he was younger the rest of the world felt very far away from southern Thedas, on the edge of the Korcari Wilds.