Cullen (
howtoactfereldan) wrote2016-02-15 11:08 pm
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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.)
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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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.
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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.
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"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."
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That's all they needed. Antivan Crows taking an interest in Kirkwall. "What information?"
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"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."
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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.
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Cassandra sheathes her own blade, and nods to him.
"Lead on, Knight-Captain."
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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.
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"I prefer it that way. I would rather be known for what I have chosen to become, than for who my family is."
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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.
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"Yes," she says. "From Nevarra. Nevarra City, in fact."
An extremely pained expression crosses her face as she adds,
"Cassandra Allegra Portia Calogera Filomena Pentaghast. Of the royal line. Seventy-eighth from the throne."
Brooding, she stomps down another couple of steps.
"Not far enough away, if you ask me."
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A few more steps down:
"My middle name's Stanton," he offers.
This is a gesture of... solidarity? A bad one.
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"I am glad to know it."
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It seems wise to refrain from the observation that it might be because she has so many of them.
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She glances around as they reach the bottom of the stairs, noting the boarded-up complex to the left.
"Do you -- have family? Back in Ferelden?"
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It'd be nice if she started asking about the Qunari. Maybe if he --
"There were a few mercenaries -- those qunari called Tal-Vashoth -- around before the Chantry explosion. As you can imagine, they weren't too popular. I expect most of them have left Kirkwall -- or at least I've not seen any for quite some time."
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It's obvious he doesn't want to talk about his family, and thinking of Anthony, she cannot help but understand.
"I suppose there were not many here in the city who wished to occupy where they had been, either."
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(A passing longshoreman looks quite sad at the aspersions Cullen is casting.)
"I'm afraid I don't know much about Nevarra."
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She sounds more than a little sour.
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Running around pretending to be one as an excuse to pull his sisters' hair? Possibly.
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"They missed a few," he says, mild.
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"It could be worse," Cullen says, pragmatically. "At least they're interested in killing them. Not like Tevinter."
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"Tevinter is a ... difficult place. To say the least."
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