A year later, and Esme was now more or less back where she started. Geographically speaking, anyway. She stood in the foyer of the old Clery manor’s front hall, turning slowly in place and wondering where all its people had gone. It seemed they had taken all their fine things with them. No one had lived here in all the time Esme had lived in Kirkwall, certainly not any Clerys. Yet that was a grander sounding statement than it was. They hadn’t been in Lowtown all that long.
The office of the viscount had turned the place over and given them the keys, so to speak – for as long as they worked this contract. Furnishings were minimal, but it was clean. No staff, at least not yet. A house this size would need at least a couple dedicated caretakers. She did not look forward to the hiring, the minor impossibility of satisfying all of the Salamanders and the viscount besides.
Esme left her things in the foyer and explored the first floor slowly, room by room. The prospect of so much space was exciting – and a little bittersweet. After living out of trunks and saddlebags, she hardly felt she owned enough things to fill a room.
But, oh, here she could have a proper workshop. That was better than feather beds and hot food for every meal. She simply needed to find the right room — one with good light and plenty of ventilation. Although, almost anything would be more suitable than working in the back of a wagon.
Hearing the main door open and close, Esme headed back to the foyer. The others were due to trickle in at any time, having traveled separately. She hoped to run into Horus before the others did. Esme hadn’t quite had the opportunity to properly introduce the eccentric shapeshifter mage, though she had sent letters explaining that he wished to join their company.
Genthus,
Opportunity arose, would be something grandpa liked.
Be back soon, sorry I had to leave before you arrived.
Don't chip the axe.
- Magnus
Genthus reread the dingy little letter for the twentieth time, the thing a hasty scribble on half a piece of soot-stained paper, measurements and order notes in the margins, the tell-tale hallmarks of his cousin's handwriting. And yet, it was so unlike him. Genthus was well-accustomed to the lifestyle of picking up his things overnight and leaving. He advocated for it, even. But his cousin... this wasn't like him. A homebody by all accounts, socially inactive, completely tunnel-visioned by the small stand their grandfather had left behind and what little forge time he could lease.
"Odd..." Bold talk for a man with a baby owl griffon perched atop his head between his horns, miniature talons braced only sparing him the pain by focusing on the base of the horns rather than his scalp, brilliant silver feathers still dusky and varied enough to fade into every shadow. As the towering qunari strode forth, half-dressed, armored, a massive battleaxe behind him, the thought-extinct creature perched atop him only made him an odder sight by swiveling its head dizzying amounts at the people and places they passed by, giant eyes wide and locked in small details. It was enough to make a child flee toward their mother as they passed, the elvish woman doing her best to reassure her son that the man was... probably no danger to them.
Alas, he would prove more of a danger to the doors of Esme's new, or rather, apparently their collectively newly manor, wrenching the massive door open as he started reread number twenty-one. His voice mumbling as he read it to himself aloud would be drowned out as the door smashed closed behind him, sending a mighty sound reverberating through the house. When a voice interrupted his rereading, he would holler in response, eyes still on the letter. "Hail, it's me." When he reached the end again, he'd look up, only to blink with surprise to see Esme already in the foyer.
The owl griffon atop him would blink as well, turning its head almost a full nintey degrees at her. Waggling the letter in his hand, he would huff. "Us in a palace, and my cousin nowhere to be found. Strange times afoot in this city."
The main doors of the Clery manor creaked open, though not from human hands. Instead, a large black raven swooped in, wings beating heavily as it soared through the foyer. The bird’s sleek form cut through the still air, feathers gleaming faintly in the dim light. It landed atop the banister of the grand staircase, ruffled its wings dramatically, and then hopped down to the floor.
Before anyone could make sense of the sight, the raven shimmered with an unnatural glow, warping and stretching in a burst of magic. In moments, where there had been a bird, now stood a man — or something like one. He was tall, lean, and roguishly disheveled, with dark, wind-tossed hair and a sharp, mischievous grin. His coat, a patchwork of fine tailoring and weather-beaten wear, hung rakishly on his frame. Rings glittered on his fingers, and a long staff rested against his shoulder.
Horus turned a slow circle in the foyer, his dark eyes taking in the spacious hall with visible approval. He exhaled sharply, clapping his hands together as if sealing a decision.
“Right. I can see myself liking this arrangement. Opulent yet practical. Plenty of nooks for napping, crannies for storing things that aren’t strictly mine… and the acoustics? Magnificent!”
He spun on his heel and finally spotted Esme, his grin widening.
“Esme, my dear, there you are! I was starting to wonder if this was the wrong old, suspiciously empty mansion. Although...” He leaned forward slightly, stage-whispering, “...‘wrong’ is such a strong word. Who’s to say there *is* a wrong mansion when all of them look like this?”
With a flourishing bow that was more dramatic than necessary, Horus straightened and gestured around the space.
“So! Here I am, as promised. One eccentric shapeshifter, ready and willing to assist this merry band of Salamanders with whatever noble, ignoble, or questionably legal work you’ve got lined up. And before you ask, yes, I’ll pull my weight, and no, I don’t usually charge extra for delightful company, though I might make exceptions for long sea voyages.”
He offered her a grin so crooked it seemed to have a personality of its own, then clapped his hands again.
“Now, who else do I get to charm in this fine establishment?”
Something drew Caro unto consciousness but he couldn't comprehend what is. He lounged on brown leather chaise lounge his eyes barely open, his mouth wide open and seemingly impossibly dry. He opened and closed his mouth in a vain attempt to try to stimulate any natural response but got nothing. Slowly he staggered to his feet and over to the counter where he took down a crystal decanter out of an already opened cabinet. He poured himself a glass of water and downed it immediately before pouring another and replacing the stopper. His brow furrowed heavily as his eyes slowly opened with some effort. Slowly he became aware of the noise that woke him, talking from down stairs. He stood a moment concentrating trying to pick out words or voices before gleaning enough.
Caro took his glass and poured a small amount of water into his palm and wet his hair down and ran his fingers through it in the general direction it usually flowed. He dabbed his fingertips in the water and rubbed the sand out of the corner of his eyes. He shook his head and winced slightly. Finally he coughed heavily and finished his glass of water, left it on the cabinet and strode down the stairs.
He strode down the stairs, and he could already hear Genthus's deep barritone. “How are we all doing this.” stopped, unsure, “Evening?” He could only guess. He continued down the stairs. “An interesting question but I feel the better question is whom is here to be charmed?” he asked latching on to the last thing he heard. He took a look around the room. Not quite enough for a crowd but plenty for company. “Should I send someone out for something to eat?” He was not quite sure what to call the hired hand he had got from lowtown to do day to day chores for the house. Steward was the classical term but inferred a level of training and refinement that Devin lacked. Still honest and loyal were traits that he'd accept alongside untrained. He strode overr to long dense and dusty cord that hung down from the celing. “What are we thinking?” his hand rest on the rope
Being back in Kirkwall was... strange. There was her usual distaste for the confinement of cities, of course. That would never go away. Even thick woods felt freer than the crowded, often narrow streets. But, unexpectedly, there was a sense of nostalgia as well. She felt she couldn't quite complain about the noise of the markets like she used to, nor the smell. As stupid as it seemed, Ceren felt a sort of fondness for it all. She and Esme had lived here content, at least, if not happy. They'd been poor, Esme still recuperating, but they'd built something of a life from nothing.
And now, that life had brought them back. But not to some Lowtown hovel. No, they'd somehow managed to secure the Clery Manor of all places. She chuckled every time she thought about it. What would her father say if he could see her now? Probably something about the manor looking nicer if it were out of the city. And she'd agree with him, but beggars can't be choosers.
"Damn it Genthus..." she said, voice raised to a shout as she approached the door. It stood ajar and, while that was currently helpful due to both her hands being laden with baskets, it was uncouth. And unsafe besides. She could hear muffled voices within, so he must have just arrived. And it must have been him. She doubted Esme or Caro would be so thoughtless.
"I know you know how doors work." she grumbled, turning, to push the door further open with her back. "Anyway, crab cakes?" the question started with a raised voice, but ended rather mutely as she turned and saw all who had gathered in the foyer, including a face she did not recognize.
"Oh... uh... there's some sausages too..." she said, hefting the baskets slightly in her arms. Her eyes glanced around, but kept flitting back to the stranger. She squinted, then realization lifted her eyebrows. "Horus?" the question, originally proposed to the stranger, shifted as Ceren looked to Esme. "Some salad too, looked pretty fresh." she said, moving through the foyer on her was to the kitchens.
At first, it was only Genthus. Esme peered up at the qunari – and then further still, locking on the animal perched atop his head. Caro had written that their trip into the ruins had been successful, and yet … She still felt poorly prepared for confronting an extinct bird-cat creature this early in the day. It was also disgustingly cute.
“Can I pet him …?” Esme rocked to her toes and was forced to acknowledge that she was far too short to reach no matter what she did. She gave up on the idea abruptly, adjusting her gaze to meet Genthus’ and trying to measure the worry in his voice. “Magnus is missing?” Honestly, she knew the blacksmith only by reputation. Pity, though. It would not be bad to have someone with those skills around on a permanent basis.
Things went quickly after that. Horus swooped in – literally – with a flashy bit of magic. She let the mage talk without interruption, trying to see how he would fit in with the rest of them. Not badly, she hoped – his behavior would reflect on her. Byrne appeared from upstairs and Esme went pink beneath her freckles, staring at him.
“You were here the whole time?” That didn’t seem fair. They hadn’t seen each other for months; not since the wyvern business in the south of Fereldan. The same went for Genthus, of course, but Genthus had not kissed her at the King of Denerim’s ball. Grumbling, Esme went to Ceren and attempted to relieve her of one of her burdens. The food smelled lovely, rising above the background scents of dust and mildew. She patted Horus on the shoulder on their way to the kitchen.
“We all get a say on new members, but Byrne’s the leader. Get to charming.” It would serve Caro right, to be the subject of Horus’ undivided attention for a little while.
Genthus and his griffon alike would blink in surprise as, before their very eyes, a raven swooped in and turned into a man complete with dreads, mustache, beads, and a tricorne. Their mystification wasn’t helped by what he said, the qunari turning back to Esme and simply mouthing, in the most confused expression he could muster, the word “shapeshifter”, trying to confirm he’d both seen and heard right.
The griffon atop his shoulders, for its part, hooted in wonder, eyes locked on Horus. Even as Caro emerged, Genthus could only pluck the infant from his own shoulders and, blinking again, held it out for Esme to inspect, to hold if she wished, his tone frank and befuddled.
”... did that bird just ask to charm us?” The griffon would rotate its head where it dangled in his arms, blinking at him, and then rotate further to blink at Esme, its curiosity regarding… just the entire day clearly growing by the moment.
Ceren’s voice wouldn’t receive a response from Genthus so much as a waved hand matched with a sound that sounded vaguely of pha, the dismissal apathetic and quick.
Everyone assembled, Genthus would roll his tongue, at a loss of where to even start. Eyes landing back on Esme, he would grunt. “Not just missing. Packed and gone.” As Esme moved away from the offered griffon, he would tuck it under his shoulder, holding the beast by its breast. The creature seemed altogether fine with the position, giant eyes scanning face to face. Placing his free hand on his hip, Genthus would shake his head.
”Manors call for whole hogs and rib racks and slow roasts, no?.” What else did you do with a giant manor with a massive dining room with a table longer than many houses he’d ever seen? You filled it with as much meat as money could buy, not a piece of salt pork or bacon to be found, only the choicest cuts. At least, that’s all Genthus could think of. Even then, the long table seemed silly for just the six of them. They could just as easily chop it in half and still field a cow's worth of platters.
Horus, still adjusting his cuffs as if he'd just stepped off the deck of a ship rather than materialized from thin air, turned at the sound of his name. His dark eyes flicked toward Ceren, a grin blooming across his face as though he'd just remembered an inside joke from years ago.
"Aye, Horus indeed, m'lady." He sketched a bow that was half courtly, half theatrical, and entirely self-indulgent. He sidled a step closer, leaning in as though to share some grand secret. "I'd wager Genthus has the right of it—nothing wrong with sausage, mind you, but a manor such as this deserves a feast befitting its halls, wouldn't you say?"
The flick of his wrist was almost hypnotic as he produced a battered coin from seemingly nowhere, spinning it between his fingers as his gaze swept the room. His eyes settled on Caro, the grin turning sharper.
The coin flipped once, twice, then disappeared entirely. Horus's grin remained, wolfish and lazy, though there was a glint beneath the surface — something sharp and calculating peeking out from behind the drunken ease. He tugged at the lapels of his coat, shaking loose a bit of dust.
"Charm's a funny thing, mind you. Some folks find it in a smile, others in a silver tongue. But me?" He reached out as if to pluck something from behind Genthus's ear — producing the coin again — and flicked it high into the air. "I find it tends to follow where the wind blows... and where there's food, drink, and a warm roof over my head."
He caught the coin with a flourish, folding it back into his palm as he swayed toward Esme and Ceren.
"Now, far be it from me to tell the lot of you how to run your fine establishment... but if I might be so bold, I find most decisions — particularly the ones concerning new additions — are best made with bellies full and cups heavy."
His smile stretched wider, eyes half-lidded and conspiratorial.
"What say you, Captain Byrne? Shall we put it to the time-honored test of hospitality?"
He leaned in again, voice dropping to something silky and low. "If I charm you, I stay. If I don't... well, I'll be out with the sausages by morning."
