@fateorchance || FROM ISABELA OF RIVAIN
the hanged man is, quite possibly, the world’s biggest shithole. but it’s her FAVORITE shithole, and that’s all that matters, really. she spies hawke, face as serious as it always is before she saunters over, two tankards of the piss-poor ale clutched in her hands. she slaps it down in front of him with a cheeky grin before spinning her chair around so she can straddle it.
with her dress, it leaves very LITTLE to the imagination. she feels the eyes of several other patrons drift down to explore her with their eyes -- until she flashes the steel of her daggers as she slips them off of her back and rests them on the table and they avert their gaze quickly, knowing that she’s as likely to gauge out their eyes as to smile at them.
‘if i’ve told you once, i’ve told you a hundred times -- keep frowning like that, and your face is going to be stuck in that position. though at the rate you’ve got going, it likely already IS.’
