WIP Wednesday tag from @elfroot-and-laurels, thank you dear!
I'll tag @cosmicbrainfungus @yashaii and @creaking-skull without pressure, and anyone who may have something to share this week ❤️
I'm excited to have gotten Matacuervos updated this week. I hope it's a good sign! Here's some Act 4 PWOTR exploration.
Nereo doesn’t stop, until he reaches the bridge leading into the upper city. Here he leans over the railing to catch his breath, and is met with the scent of stinking sulfur, and the heat of Alushinyrra’s rivers of lava, neither of which help the tight twist in his stomach, the nausea, or the butterflies that threaten to flutter out through his mouth. Queasy, and downright giddy, thinking of the drugs in his pocket. He himself is in such an ambivalent state at present. Not quite solid, more like air.
No good, he thinks, and considers throwing the shadowblood over the edge of the bridge. That’s what he should do, he knows it. He also considers throwing himself over. Considers popping the little glass vial right here, cooking it over the heat below and taking a hit. Instead he shepherds his breathing into order.
He’s being absurd. He is the Knight Commander.
Was.
He pulls away from the edge.
It's interesting to me that the first Angel mythic path quest is completely unavoidable in pwotr (makes me think that's the 'default' path; the rest are so easy to miss!). Gonna challenge myself to rewrite it for demon mythic path. :3c Nereo touches that thang and it hurts him. He touches that thing and it absorbs into his wound and it gets so nasty infected that every time he is asked to call on it to show the ~light of heaven~ he cries a little.
Matacuervos, Rated M, ch. 10 - The Crows in Salle
2.7k words
Zevran and Hamal begin their investigation in Salle, following a meager trail of clues.
Read update on AO3 - Read from the beginning
The industrial district was clear across town, by the shore, with a great deal of factories and a bustling tannery. Hamal said nothing as they approached, but he tugged the fabric of his tunic up, breathing through layers of fabric, for what little good that did.
Acrid and potent, the scent beckoned at Zevran’s recollection, but he resisted the urge to reminisce.
“I do not mind the smell of leather tanning,” Hamal said gruffly, as it became harder to ignore. “Elgar’nan. But there must be thousands of hides in there.”
“You get used to it,” Zevran told him. “But you know, for years now, at least in wealthier cities, the tanneries have started using some concoction the Circle invented. Cleaner, they say, and safer. Here, the traditional and more potent methods are favored. The chemicals end up in the water, and flow out into the sea. I cannot say whether it is safe or not…”
“Smells awful anyway,” Hamal said.
“Nostalgic though the smell is, I would not like to work in a tannery,” Zevran agreed.
“How about a cotton mill?” Hamal asks, turning his attention to a building in the distance. “Tejidos Montiel. That must be it.”
It took them longer to reach the factory than they expected. Such was the scale of things in Salle—everything was big, and far away, and the coastline was very flat. As they approached, Zevran looked up at the imposing building, so much like a great hive, with bustling workers swarming all around it. There was something quite severe about the architecture. The whole building was lined with narrow windows like teeth.
I think I’d prefer the tannery, he thought, and he could still faintly smell it from here.
Tejidos Montiel cast a long shadow upon the street.
The harried workers that entered and exited the building did not notice them. Fatigued, with aching hands, they may as well have been on another world, one in which Zevran and Hamal were only visitors. Zevran perched himself onto a low crate near the entrance. Hamal slid up beside him, facing away from the street. He reached into his pocket and took out a hard biscuit, breaking it in two and handing a piece to Zevran. This way, they blended in perfectly. They could’ve been two workers out of hundreds, eating a rushed lunch between shifts.
Neither of them spoke as they took in the scene.
The chatter of passersby reached them in fragmented pieces, which left Hamal a bit overwhelmed, given that he could not yet understand them all. But Zevran could, and it went much like this:
Damn this commission. I tell you, my knees are killing me—
Are you coming to dinner later?
—a thousand bales of cotton is no small matter. We need more time.
But a contract is a contract. Deadlines being what they are…
Sure, and he will get richer and richer while we work our asses off!
That’s life. Remind me to pick up eggs on the way home.
That new boy won’t last a week, he’s too slow. He’ll be crushed under the looms.
Wouldn’t be the first time. His family must be desperate. Unless they don’t know…?
I was there when it happened, you know. How does his mother stand it? That man did not even give her leave for the funeral.
Horrible. If only someone would do something…
Unhappiness rang out like a bell, instantly catching his attention. Clapping Hamal on the shoulder, he nodded in the direction of a fair-haired woman who was leaving the mill and bidding her companions goodbye amid a good deal of grumbling.
Hamal did not know what Zevran had heard that had so piqued his interest, but he followed dutifully. The woman appeared to be off from work, a weary pace to her strides. Her skirts were dusted in short fibers that clung to her clothing and hair. But Zevran did not approach her, not yet. Women didn’t like to be followed by strange men, after all. After a long shift, no less. And by elves, no less!
Zevran tugged Hamal down an alley where they lost sight of her. The path led out onto a wide street, where shoe-makers and blacksmiths plied their trade. But the gamble paid off. Down the street, the woman walked with a dreary expression, and she paused to cough into a rag, which gave them their chance.
“Good afternoon!” Zevran greeted her, drawing near. Everything in his posture aimed for a respectful distance; a slight bend at the waist, an open expression, and he even took a step back, allowing her to really look at him, before speaking fruther.
“Good afternoon,” she replied warily.
Zevran continued with his most charming smile. “My apologies. A quick question, from a very lost newcomer. Do you work in one of the factories?”
Hamal glanced at him, then at the woman, who regarded them with a grimace. She wanted to leave, not chat.
“Yes,” she said, “As you no doubt can tell from all the cotton dust. So what is it?”
“My good friend and I… we are freshly arrived to the city, and we need work. But his Antivan is not so good! Perhaps a factory job. Do you know if your employer is hiring?”
“Irineo Montiel is always hiring,” the woman said. “There are always workers to replace in that mill.”
“Ah? Is that so?” Zevran asked innocently.
“It is dangerous work,” she said. “The looms are poorly manned and can break your hands if you’re not quick. The boss is a tyrant, and he has only gotten worse. Meaner and harder with every year… there’s been deaths, you know.” She looked at them with wide eyes. “And the more people complain, the worse he gets.” As if remembering herself, she sighed and shifted her weight nervously from one leg to the other.
“Deaths!” Zevran exclaimed. “But surely, if enough people complain…” He trailed off, allowing the silence to speak for itself.
“Oh yes. Try and see what difference it makes. It’s a sure way to lose your job, maybe even your life if you cause too much trouble. Better to keep your mouth shut.” As if taking her own advice, she frowned and turned away. “Forgive me, I am very tired and speaking out of turn. I should go.”
“You life?” Zevran repeated. “What do you mean?”
“Nothing. Nevermind. Forget it.”
“I appreciate your time. Your honest answer was helpful,” Zevran said.
“Perhaps try the alienage,” the woman added as she walked away. “Lots of unskilled labor there, for poorly disguised elves.”
“What did she say?” Hamal asked.
“Enough. But let’s move. These people are nervous, and the workers at the mill are all walking on egg-shells.”
.
There was an inn at the harbor near the factories, where the water ran out into the bay in a foul slurry, and where temporary workers put up for weeks or months at a time. Zevran felt an odd sense of guilt here, though Hamal didn’t say anything about their room; not about the smell at the window, or the greasy food, or the crowded and noisy streets outside. It gnawed at him until, unprompted, he went to kiss Hamal’s cheek and say, “We will stay somewhere greener next time, amor. I promise.”
Hamal only chuckled warmly, accepting the kiss with grace. He had the stolen documents out again. They were spread all over the floor, a patchwork of tantalizing clues and incriminating evidence, and he smiled up at Zevran with nothing short of adoration.
“I am fine here, where you are. There seems to be a lot more assassinations in places with fewer trees.”
“Perhaps we would be better served in simply planting more greenery.”
“Perhaps.”
But Salle held promise. People coming and going. Lucrative industrialism giving rise to the newly wealthy. This Irineo Montiel was a prime example. Once they searched the documents for his name as well variations such as, Tejidos Montiel, as well as T.M. Inc, and even I. Montiel, the results painted a vivid picture.
Hamal found his name scribbled into another ledger of contracts for the year. He underlined it twice. The next year, three times, and the final contract was the most expensive. When Zevran compared the dates, it seemed the Crows had died around the same time. He formed a theory.
“Best I can figure, someone took a contract against the owner of the cotton mill. Everyone we spoke to today shared similar complaints. And he is in these ledgers so many times… business must be good for him to be such a frequent client.”
“He does not seem well loved,” Hamal added. “If he was taking out contracts against anyone who crossed him, that does not surprise me. A dishonest shem with too much wealth and too much power. Typical. What do you suppose happened?”
“I can make a few guesses. A bit of struggle between competitors is not unheard of.” Zevran hummed thoughtfully. “But look here. These two lines.” He pushed two separate sheets towards Hamal.
“They match the deaths listed on the Chantry papers. But they are two separate contracts. I think that at some point, somebody aimed to eliminate Mr. Montiel. So our esteemed Mr. Montiel hired several Crows in retaliation. But it is curious that the contracts overlap exactly.”
“He knew he was a target,” Hamal said.
“He knew when they would move against him. And if he knew, the guildmaster knew.”
It seemed so improbable, and yet, when Zevran thought back to the years he lived under the Crows, and the patterns of contracts and missions he witnessed, nothing else made sense. He had a sense for how things worked. And this… was not how things worked.
“I think the Crows involved were left in the dark about this. One group was sent to dispatch Montiel, and he hired others to protect him on the same night. Deaths resulted on both sides. And he, being the higher paying customer, prevailed.”
“Does this happen often?”
“It is not supposed to happen at all,” Zevran sighed. “A contract is unbreachable while active. Had the first contract failed, and Montiel sent assassins in retaliation, it would be different. But here there were two contracts at the same time.”
“Like when we were working with Bhelen and Harrowmont in Orzammar,” Hamal said. “I see.”
“Imagine if the Antivan Crows were run like this! Nobles could hire entire houses as personal armies, and wage war against others doing the same. It is unthinkable. The organization here is either corrupt or incompetent. Either way…”
“Vulnerable,” Hamal concluded.
Zevran nodded.
Ultimately, it mattered little what exactly had occurred with the Montiel contract. More importantly, it painted a picture of an organization in disarray. The final days of the young Kortez Crows grabbed his imagination. Broken loyalties and betrayals were always a compelling story. Had any of them been friends? Did they know they were just pawns in a merchant’s power struggle?
“I want to find out more about how the Crows work here in Salle,” Zevran said. “We should investigate the factories, the local guilds, the banks, the mayor and the nobility. We should…”
His voice softened into silence, broken only by the bustle outside. Hamal nodded, regarding him closely. The sun had set, and they had gathered as much as they could from the stolen documents anyway. And the light was now fading, receding through the window, just enough to cast Zevran in an inky black shadow. Their last candle was nearing its end.
“We can continue tomorrow,” Hamal told him, and he blew out the meager flame. As his vision adjusted, he held out his hand for Zevran to take. “Come to bed, ma vhenan. Think of something else for tonight.”
.
The rest of the week, Zevran and Hamal walked the length of the harbor several times, observing incoming shipments and gleaming tidbits of information from overheard conversations among the sailors and travelers.
There was much chatter to filter through.
The workers of Salle were quietly unionizing. The Qunari were missing their Arishok. There had been some royal assassination in Starkhaven, but further investigation revealed the Crows were not behind it—a fact Zevran was sorely disappointed in. Something was going on in Tevinter, but something was always going on in Tevinter.
Much of Salle was embroiled within the Crows, but plenty of the world remained firmly beyond their reach. Zevran found it comforting; he’d once thought the Crows to be nearly omnipotent, but they were not nearly so important to Antiva as he had once believed, and he wondered what his country would look like once this rotting branch had been excised.
Their cover as a traveling pair looking for work in the factories served them well. By that week’s end, they had compiled a list of nearly every politician, noble, and factory owner in Salle.
That day they returned to find that their room had been given away. A visiting mercenary group had need of the inn, and, being elves, they were swiftly put out, with no refunds, of course. It took a mighty effort for Zevran to curb the flash of anger he felt; not for himself, but simply knowing his husband as he did, he felt angry. He knew Hamal, proud and Dalish, was biting his tongue as to draw blood. Biting his tongue and holding back, to avoid causing a commotion that could blow their cover.
“It is a good thing we did not leave anything in the room,” was all Hamal said, when they had left the inn. “The last thing we need is someone finding those documents.”
“Fortunately for us. But amor, I must say, I half expected you to start threatening the man,” Zevran replied. “Had we been in Orzammar I’m sure you would have.”
Hamal laughed. He paused in the street, beckoning Zevran closer and whispering, “My Antivan is not that good yet. Give me a few months. I’ll be threatening shemlen and picking fights with nobles in no time.”
“Like old times!” Zevran kissed him.
“You think I am kidding,” Hamal said with a smile, freshly soothed. “I am going to get us in trouble.”
“Please,” Zevran insisted. “I expected no less when I married you.”
“That is good,” Hamal said, and he fixed Zevran with a look. “Because I have an idea, and I will have to rely on you to help translate.”
His idea led them inland, to a pretty street which led straight to Salle’s financial center, where he interrogated Zevran as they walked through every narrow pathway and thoroughfare in the neighborhood. Salle’s bank, a well-constructed and tall brick building, was visible to them even from afar.
“The assassins never collect payment,” Zevran said. “There are brokers who manage this for each House. It is one of the more comfortable positions among the Crows, if a dangerous one.”
“Dangerous? Are they often targeted?”
“By thieves,” Zevran said with a smile. “But also by enemies. The Crows do face opposition from various organizations, depending on the politics of the day.”
“If we find out who collects payment for Crow contracts in Salle,” Hamal suggested, “we’d have a good starting point.”
They stopped under an overhang, shaded by a cloth canopy that swayed in the breeze. Out here, the stink from Salle’s industrial neighborhoods did not touch the briny scent of the sea, and the scent of jacaranda trees. A carriage passed by them, followed by a city guardsman mounted on a fine white horse.
“Move along,” he said to them. “Loitering is forbidden.”
Zevran simply nodded, his expression very neutral, not subservient, not quite defiant, making sure the angles of his tattoo were seen. The guard blinked, a flash of recognition on his face. Some unspoken understanding passed between Zevran and the man, and the man rode on without giving them further trouble.
“I think the city guard is working with the Crows,” Zevran said when they were alone again.
“You’re so certain!” Hamal said, impressed.
“I may not know everything, amor,” Zevran said with a smile, “but I know enough. Let’s come back tonight and look around.”
Matacuervos, Rated M, ch. 10 - The Crows in Salle
2.7k words
Zevran and Hamal begin their investigation in Salle, following a meager trail of clues.
Read update on AO3 - Read from the beginning
The industrial district was clear across town, by the shore, with a great deal of factories and a bustling tannery. Hamal said nothing as they approached, but he tugged the fabric of his tunic up, breathing through layers of fabric, for what little good that did.
Acrid and potent, the scent beckoned at Zevran’s recollection, but he resisted the urge to reminisce.
“I do not mind the smell of leather tanning,” Hamal said gruffly, as it became harder to ignore. “Elgar’nan. But there must be thousands of hides in there.”
“You get used to it,” Zevran told him. “But you know, for years now, at least in wealthier cities, the tanneries have started using some concoction the Circle invented. Cleaner, they say, and safer. Here, the traditional and more potent methods are favored. The chemicals end up in the water, and flow out into the sea. I cannot say whether it is safe or not…”
“Smells awful anyway,” Hamal said.
“Nostalgic though the smell is, I would not like to work in a tannery,” Zevran agreed.
“How about a cotton mill?” Hamal asks, turning his attention to a building in the distance. “Tejidos Montiel. That must be it.”
It took them longer to reach the factory than they expected. Such was the scale of things in Salle—everything was big, and far away, and the coastline was very flat. As they approached, Zevran looked up at the imposing building, so much like a great hive, with bustling workers swarming all around it. There was something quite severe about the architecture. The whole building was lined with narrow windows like teeth.
I think I’d prefer the tannery, he thought, and he could still faintly smell it from here.
Tejidos Montiel cast a long shadow upon the street.
The harried workers that entered and exited the building did not notice them. Fatigued, with aching hands, they may as well have been on another world, one in which Zevran and Hamal were only visitors. Zevran perched himself onto a low crate near the entrance. Hamal slid up beside him, facing away from the street. He reached into his pocket and took out a hard biscuit, breaking it in two and handing a piece to Zevran. This way, they blended in perfectly. They could’ve been two workers out of hundreds, eating a rushed lunch between shifts.
Neither of them spoke as they took in the scene.
The chatter of passersby reached them in fragmented pieces, which left Hamal a bit overwhelmed, given that he could not yet understand them all. But Zevran could, and it went much like this:
Damn this commission. I tell you, my knees are killing me—
Are you coming to dinner later?
—a thousand bales of cotton is no small matter. We need more time.
But a contract is a contract. Deadlines being what they are…
Sure, and he will get richer and richer while we work our asses off!
That’s life. Remind me to pick up eggs on the way home.
That new boy won’t last a week, he’s too slow. He’ll be crushed under the looms.
Wouldn’t be the first time. His family must be desperate. Unless they don’t know…?
I was there when it happened, you know. How does his mother stand it? That man did not even give her leave for the funeral.
Horrible. If only someone would do something…
Unhappiness rang out like a bell, instantly catching his attention. Clapping Hamal on the shoulder, he nodded in the direction of a fair-haired woman who was leaving the mill and bidding her companions goodbye amid a good deal of grumbling.
Hamal did not know what Zevran had heard that had so piqued his interest, but he followed dutifully. The woman appeared to be off from work, a weary pace to her strides. Her skirts were dusted in short fibers that clung to her clothing and hair. But Zevran did not approach her, not yet. Women didn’t like to be followed by strange men, after all. After a long shift, no less. And by elves, no less!
Zevran tugged Hamal down an alley where they lost sight of her. The path led out onto a wide street, where shoe-makers and blacksmiths plied their trade. But the gamble paid off. Down the street, the woman walked with a dreary expression, and she paused to cough into a rag, which gave them their chance.
“Good afternoon!” Zevran greeted her, drawing near. Everything in his posture aimed for a respectful distance; a slight bend at the waist, an open expression, and he even took a step back, allowing her to really look at him, before speaking fruther.
“Good afternoon,” she replied warily.
Zevran continued with his most charming smile. “My apologies. A quick question, from a very lost newcomer. Do you work in one of the factories?”
Hamal glanced at him, then at the woman, who regarded them with a grimace. She wanted to leave, not chat.
“Yes,” she said, “As you no doubt can tell from all the cotton dust. So what is it?”
“My good friend and I… we are freshly arrived to the city, and we need work. But his Antivan is not so good! Perhaps a factory job. Do you know if your employer is hiring?”
“Irineo Montiel is always hiring,” the woman said. “There are always workers to replace in that mill.”
“Ah? Is that so?” Zevran asked innocently.
“It is dangerous work,” she said. “The looms are poorly manned and can break your hands if you’re not quick. The boss is a tyrant, and he has only gotten worse. Meaner and harder with every year… there’s been deaths, you know.” She looked at them with wide eyes. “And the more people complain, the worse he gets.” As if remembering herself, she sighed and shifted her weight nervously from one leg to the other.
“Deaths!” Zevran exclaimed. “But surely, if enough people complain…” He trailed off, allowing the silence to speak for itself.
“Oh yes. Try and see what difference it makes. It’s a sure way to lose your job, maybe even your life if you cause too much trouble. Better to keep your mouth shut.” As if taking her own advice, she frowned and turned away. “Forgive me, I am very tired and speaking out of turn. I should go.”
“You life?” Zevran repeated. “What do you mean?”
“Nothing. Nevermind. Forget it.”
“I appreciate your time. Your honest answer was helpful,” Zevran said.
“Perhaps try the alienage,” the woman added as she walked away. “Lots of unskilled labor there, for poorly disguised elves.”
“What did she say?” Hamal asked.
“Enough. But let’s move. These people are nervous, and the workers at the mill are all walking on egg-shells.”
.
There was an inn at the harbor near the factories, where the water ran out into the bay in a foul slurry, and where temporary workers put up for weeks or months at a time. Zevran felt an odd sense of guilt here, though Hamal didn’t say anything about their room; not about the smell at the window, or the greasy food, or the crowded and noisy streets outside. It gnawed at him until, unprompted, he went to kiss Hamal’s cheek and say, “We will stay somewhere greener next time, amor. I promise.”
Hamal only chuckled warmly, accepting the kiss with grace. He had the stolen documents out again. They were spread all over the floor, a patchwork of tantalizing clues and incriminating evidence, and he smiled up at Zevran with nothing short of adoration.
“I am fine here, where you are. There seems to be a lot more assassinations in places with fewer trees.”
“Perhaps we would be better served in simply planting more greenery.”
“Perhaps.”
But Salle held promise. People coming and going. Lucrative industrialism giving rise to the newly wealthy. This Irineo Montiel was a prime example. Once they searched the documents for his name as well variations such as, Tejidos Montiel, as well as T.M. Inc, and even I. Montiel, the results painted a vivid picture.
Hamal found his name scribbled into another ledger of contracts for the year. He underlined it twice. The next year, three times, and the final contract was the most expensive. When Zevran compared the dates, it seemed the Crows had died around the same time. He formed a theory.
“Best I can figure, someone took a contract against the owner of the cotton mill. Everyone we spoke to today shared similar complaints. And he is in these ledgers so many times… business must be good for him to be such a frequent client.”
“He does not seem well loved,” Hamal added. “If he was taking out contracts against anyone who crossed him, that does not surprise me. A dishonest shem with too much wealth and too much power. Typical. What do you suppose happened?”
“I can make a few guesses. A bit of struggle between competitors is not unheard of.” Zevran hummed thoughtfully. “But look here. These two lines.” He pushed two separate sheets towards Hamal.
“They match the deaths listed on the Chantry papers. But they are two separate contracts. I think that at some point, somebody aimed to eliminate Mr. Montiel. So our esteemed Mr. Montiel hired several Crows in retaliation. But it is curious that the contracts overlap exactly.”
“He knew he was a target,” Hamal said.
“He knew when they would move against him. And if he knew, the guildmaster knew.”
It seemed so improbable, and yet, when Zevran thought back to the years he lived under the Crows, and the patterns of contracts and missions he witnessed, nothing else made sense. He had a sense for how things worked. And this… was not how things worked.
“I think the Crows involved were left in the dark about this. One group was sent to dispatch Montiel, and he hired others to protect him on the same night. Deaths resulted on both sides. And he, being the higher paying customer, prevailed.”
“Does this happen often?”
“It is not supposed to happen at all,” Zevran sighed. “A contract is unbreachable while active. Had the first contract failed, and Montiel sent assassins in retaliation, it would be different. But here there were two contracts at the same time.”
“Like when we were working with Bhelen and Harrowmont in Orzammar,” Hamal said. “I see.”
“Imagine if the Antivan Crows were run like this! Nobles could hire entire houses as personal armies, and wage war against others doing the same. It is unthinkable. The organization here is either corrupt or incompetent. Either way…”
“Vulnerable,” Hamal concluded.
Zevran nodded.
Ultimately, it mattered little what exactly had occurred with the Montiel contract. More importantly, it painted a picture of an organization in disarray. The final days of the young Kortez Crows grabbed his imagination. Broken loyalties and betrayals were always a compelling story. Had any of them been friends? Did they know they were just pawns in a merchant’s power struggle?
“I want to find out more about how the Crows work here in Salle,” Zevran said. “We should investigate the factories, the local guilds, the banks, the mayor and the nobility. We should…”
His voice softened into silence, broken only by the bustle outside. Hamal nodded, regarding him closely. The sun had set, and they had gathered as much as they could from the stolen documents anyway. And the light was now fading, receding through the window, just enough to cast Zevran in an inky black shadow. Their last candle was nearing its end.
“We can continue tomorrow,” Hamal told him, and he blew out the meager flame. As his vision adjusted, he held out his hand for Zevran to take. “Come to bed, ma vhenan. Think of something else for tonight.”
.
The rest of the week, Zevran and Hamal walked the length of the harbor several times, observing incoming shipments and gleaming tidbits of information from overheard conversations among the sailors and travelers.
There was much chatter to filter through.
The workers of Salle were quietly unionizing. The Qunari were missing their Arishok. There had been some royal assassination in Starkhaven, but further investigation revealed the Crows were not behind it—a fact Zevran was sorely disappointed in. Something was going on in Tevinter, but something was always going on in Tevinter.
Much of Salle was embroiled within the Crows, but plenty of the world remained firmly beyond their reach. Zevran found it comforting; he’d once thought the Crows to be nearly omnipotent, but they were not nearly so important to Antiva as he had once believed, and he wondered what his country would look like once this rotting branch had been excised.
Their cover as a traveling pair looking for work in the factories served them well. By that week’s end, they had compiled a list of nearly every politician, noble, and factory owner in Salle.
That day they returned to find that their room had been given away. A visiting mercenary group had need of the inn, and, being elves, they were swiftly put out, with no refunds, of course. It took a mighty effort for Zevran to curb the flash of anger he felt; not for himself, but simply knowing his husband as he did, he felt angry. He knew Hamal, proud and Dalish, was biting his tongue as to draw blood. Biting his tongue and holding back, to avoid causing a commotion that could blow their cover.
“It is a good thing we did not leave anything in the room,” was all Hamal said, when they had left the inn. “The last thing we need is someone finding those documents.”
“Fortunately for us. But amor, I must say, I half expected you to start threatening the man,” Zevran replied. “Had we been in Orzammar I’m sure you would have.”
Hamal laughed. He paused in the street, beckoning Zevran closer and whispering, “My Antivan is not that good yet. Give me a few months. I’ll be threatening shemlen and picking fights with nobles in no time.”
“Like old times!” Zevran kissed him.
“You think I am kidding,” Hamal said with a smile, freshly soothed. “I am going to get us in trouble.”
“Please,” Zevran insisted. “I expected no less when I married you.”
“That is good,” Hamal said, and he fixed Zevran with a look. “Because I have an idea, and I will have to rely on you to help translate.”
His idea led them inland, to a pretty street which led straight to Salle’s financial center, where he interrogated Zevran as they walked through every narrow pathway and thoroughfare in the neighborhood. Salle’s bank, a well-constructed and tall brick building, was visible to them even from afar.
“The assassins never collect payment,” Zevran said. “There are brokers who manage this for each House. It is one of the more comfortable positions among the Crows, if a dangerous one.”
“Dangerous? Are they often targeted?”
“By thieves,” Zevran said with a smile. “But also by enemies. The Crows do face opposition from various organizations, depending on the politics of the day.”
“If we find out who collects payment for Crow contracts in Salle,” Hamal suggested, “we’d have a good starting point.”
They stopped under an overhang, shaded by a cloth canopy that swayed in the breeze. Out here, the stink from Salle’s industrial neighborhoods did not touch the briny scent of the sea, and the scent of jacaranda trees. A carriage passed by them, followed by a city guardsman mounted on a fine white horse.
“Move along,” he said to them. “Loitering is forbidden.”
Zevran simply nodded, his expression very neutral, not subservient, not quite defiant, making sure the angles of his tattoo were seen. The guard blinked, a flash of recognition on his face. Some unspoken understanding passed between Zevran and the man, and the man rode on without giving them further trouble.
“I think the city guard is working with the Crows,” Zevran said when they were alone again.
“You’re so certain!” Hamal said, impressed.
“I may not know everything, amor,” Zevran said with a smile, “but I know enough. Let’s come back tonight and look around.”
“Finish what you start. This is true for any writer — the best way to learn about your story is to muscle your way to the end and look back. As my mother always taught me, ‘Perfect is the Enemy of Good’ and it’s a good thing to remember. Don’t kill your energy and love for a story by trying to get it perfect from the start. Just get to the end. It’s easier to rewrite than it is to write, and easier to fix problems once you know where you want your story to go.”
— Cristin O'Keefe Aptowicz’s advice for aspiring writers, as told to Maryann Yin for Galleycat (via bostonpoetryslam)
guys my first run with her was a disaster.. it broke my heart for 3 days i could not open the game since.. like i cant even talk about it.. it is so serious to me
