And If you’re new in Kirkwall, you’ll want to talk to me.
“Is that a name, or a description?” she asks, not even looking at him. He smirks, greasy lips sliding over yellow teeth in an expression that’s more grimace than smile. “Would’ve dressed up for you, but I left all my polite clothes at the bottom of the ocean.”Īs I ponder the meaning of that statement, one of a group of Lowtown ruffians sidles up to the bar. “What? This?” She picks at the laces on her bodice, then lets out a short, bitter laugh. Put on something like that, and you’re going to get attention whether you want it or not. I gesture towards her striking outfit-nothing but a chemise worn without the benefit of a jacket or cloak, covering only the barest minimum required for decency. “What?” she says, holding the empty tumbler out for a refill and daring me to make a comment, any comment. The longshoreman slinks away, cradling his hand and spitting curses. I hear a crunch, several sickening pops, and a howl of pain. And then she snaps the fingers of the offending hand. “Touch me again, and I’ll break more than just these,” she hisses in his ear. His cry is one of shock rather than pain, but that quickly changes as Isabela rams her elbow into the back of the neck, slamming his face into the wooden bar-top. Isabela grabs the man by the wrist, twisting his arm behind him. The longshoreman opens his mouth to say something, but never gets the chance. Isabela stiffens as she feels a hand, low on her back. It doesn’t take long for a foul-smelling longshoreman to show up. “You have no idea.” She sighs and rubs her temples. “You really needed that, didn’t you?” I pour her another drink. She snatches it from my hand before I’m done pouring, and downs the drink in one gulp. I wipe a chipped clay tumbler with my apron and fill it with the tavern’s most potent brew. “Then keep the liquor coming till the coin runs out. She slaps a half-dozen silver coins onto my counter. “They told me I could get a drink here,” she says, coming toward the bar with a singular purpose. Her bearing, however, is proud, even arrogant, and she strides into the tavern like she owns the place. Her ripped, weather-beaten smock is stained with soot from Lowtown’s chimneys and her boots, while of fine leather, are well-worn and crudely patched in a number of places. The woman that walks into the Hanged Man is a sight, bedraggled and scruffy, like a rat that’s been soaking in the bilge for a week. This particular one of Isabela was written by Sheryl Chee. This is one of the Dragon Age II short stories of companions.
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