@demonisch
Fenris opened the door to the Hanged Man, wincing at the sudden dimness and the rank smell of sour ale, vomit, desperation and piss.
He was looking for Isabela and hoped she would be here, wanted her for what he hoped would sound like an obvious reason—he needed something unlocked—although his real reason would be a pleasant way to spend the afternoon…
He was not sure what his reception was going to be; she had not invited him. He knew better than to inconvenience her, to assert any rights, but felt impelled to test what they had all the same. It was embarrassing, and he felt foolish. He was almost an old man, too old to be having trouble negotiating his emotions and feeling on edge and in doubt. Luckily the human woman was easygoing and good-natured, more prone to laugh at his difficulties than become angry.
He pushed his way to the bar. Isabela was not there. She would tease him if she caught him waiting for her like some love-struck fool…
Fenris leaned on the counter anyway and motioned to Corff for ale, feeling disappointed—and then something else, something wrong.
It stroked his tattoos like the touch of his former master, making every nerve in his skin jangle. He shuddered and reached for his greatsword involuntarily, abortively; he stopped himself and lowered his hand, making it hold the mug of ale Corff had slapped down in front of him. The feeling was powerful; there was a mage bent on mischief somewhere close by, and a summoned spirit, but there was no sign of trouble; perhaps they were upstairs, in one of the rooms?
Another wave of sensation hit him. It was not a spirit, it was worse—Fenris felt something like he felt long ago when Hawke released Flemmeth from the amulet.
It was the middle of the day but the Hanged Man was already noisy and full of people, the usual collection of drunken bums, lazy laborers, whores, slumming nobles, thugs and mercenaries. Maraas was in his spot by the wall, and there were people sitting at a table by the stairs, waiting to see Varric—Fenris asked Corff loudly for Isabela. He turned his back to the bar and leaned against it, surveying the common room, pretending to look for her, scanning each face. He found it. It sat alone and quietly at a table in a shadowed corner, its hand on a mug of ale. Fenris could not help but stare, eyeing it over the lip of his mug. The deception was perfect. It looked like just a man.
He thought about turning back to the bar and minding his own business. It was not bothering anyone, but he knew it was going to. Spirits had no other want than to possess and meddle with life beyond the Veil. Whatever the spirit wanted in Kirkwall was nothing good. He might be the only person in Kirkwall who knew it was there, thanks to the lyrium brands his former master cursed him with. He wished he had one of the others with him, even Merrill and Anders, especially Merrill or Anders; Merrill would smell it, and Anders would not hesitate to help him kill it. Their eyes met. Its look was knowing and intense; Fenris understood with a chill that it saw right through him and knew he recognized it for what it was. It moved; it was going to stand and approach him. Getting Hawke or any of the others for help or running was no longer possible. It would follow him, and he would not be able to escape it. Cursing inwardly, he picked up his mug and strode toward its table.
