Kirkwall’s docks were never quiet, not truly, but the stretch of street lined with scattered stalls had a different kind of rhythm than the chaos of Lowtown’s markets. Fewer voices clamored for attention, and the merchants here knew when to let silence do the haggling. Siora moved through the thinning crowd, one hand resting lightly on her coin pouch, the other idly skimming over the meager offerings.
She hadn’t come here with a purpose beyond finding something small—just a token, something to thank Danny for stepping in a few nights past. The tavern brawl had started the way most did: too much drink, too much pride, and too many people looking to prove something. She’d thought herself quick enough to duck the worst of it, but she’d misjudged the swing of a drunken fist, blackening one eye.
Danny had stepped in before a second blow landed. She hadn’t expected him to—he had no real reason to. And yet, there he was, defusing the fight with that easy grin and an open-palmed gesture that somehow made the drunk think twice. It wasn’t just that he had her back; he had a way of pulling the world along with him, guiding its weight with a careful hand. A skill learned from years of surviving Kirkwall’s underbelly, no doubt.
That was the part that still gave her pause.
Danny was tied to the underbelly of the city—smugglers, black-market dealers, and the criminal currents that ran through the city like veins beneath the skin. She knew it, even if he never spoke of it outright. And yet, for all that, he was one of the few people she was beginning to trust. He’d never asked her for anything, never tried to pull her into the schemes and debts that kept the taverns chatting. Maybe that would change, maybe it wouldn’t, but for now, she owed him a drink—or at least a gesture of thanks.
Her eyes landed on a small blade displayed on a weathered cloth, its edge simple but sharp, the handle crafted with an unexpected level of care—finely carved wood, with faint engravings curling along its surface. Not ostentatious, but well-made. Practical. She ran a thumb over the hilt, feeling the balance in her palm. Danny would appreciate it, not just as a weapon, but as something useful.
She paid quickly, tucking the blade into her belt pouch before glancing over her shoulder. The habit never faded, even after months of keeping her head low. Nothing about Bastien’s arrival in Kirkwall had reached her ears—not a whisper, not a warning. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t here. He was patient, and patience in men like him was more dangerous than rage. If he was looking for her, he wouldn’t be loud about it. He would move in the spaces between things, like he always had, until he was close enough to remind her how little distance she had truly put between them.
And then there was her sister. No word of her, either. No one in Kirkwall would know what became of her, but that didn’t stop the gnawing weight of uncertainty from pressing at the edges of her thoughts. No news was better than bad news, she supposed. But the silence felt like a noose, tightening inch by inch.
Shaking the thoughts from her mind, she let her steps take her through the winding streets until she found herself near a small, familiar corner.
A modest restaurant spilled warm light onto the road, the scent of soup and fresh bread curling into the air. It was as good a place as any to play. She settled onto an upturned crate, adjusting the worn leather strap of her lute before plucking a few idle notes.
The song would come naturally, as it always did—perhaps something light, rolling like the tide, or something sharper, edged with the bite of Kirkwall’s streets. Danny would probably laugh at whatever she chose, quick with some teasing remark, but she liked that about him. Today it was a sailor's ballad, something to encourage and boost the morale of the dock workers still going about their business. She'd stay an hour or so, see what coin - if any - she could weasel out before moving on back into the Lowtown taverns, back to familiar company and maybe get Danny that drink she owed.
@Leena Craynore
@Rahse Hythule
She hadn’t come here with a purpose beyond finding something small—just a token, something to thank Danny for stepping in a few nights past. The tavern brawl had started the way most did: too much drink, too much pride, and too many people looking to prove something. She’d thought herself quick enough to duck the worst of it, but she’d misjudged the swing of a drunken fist, blackening one eye.
Danny had stepped in before a second blow landed. She hadn’t expected him to—he had no real reason to. And yet, there he was, defusing the fight with that easy grin and an open-palmed gesture that somehow made the drunk think twice. It wasn’t just that he had her back; he had a way of pulling the world along with him, guiding its weight with a careful hand. A skill learned from years of surviving Kirkwall’s underbelly, no doubt.
That was the part that still gave her pause.
Danny was tied to the underbelly of the city—smugglers, black-market dealers, and the criminal currents that ran through the city like veins beneath the skin. She knew it, even if he never spoke of it outright. And yet, for all that, he was one of the few people she was beginning to trust. He’d never asked her for anything, never tried to pull her into the schemes and debts that kept the taverns chatting. Maybe that would change, maybe it wouldn’t, but for now, she owed him a drink—or at least a gesture of thanks.
Her eyes landed on a small blade displayed on a weathered cloth, its edge simple but sharp, the handle crafted with an unexpected level of care—finely carved wood, with faint engravings curling along its surface. Not ostentatious, but well-made. Practical. She ran a thumb over the hilt, feeling the balance in her palm. Danny would appreciate it, not just as a weapon, but as something useful.
She paid quickly, tucking the blade into her belt pouch before glancing over her shoulder. The habit never faded, even after months of keeping her head low. Nothing about Bastien’s arrival in Kirkwall had reached her ears—not a whisper, not a warning. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t here. He was patient, and patience in men like him was more dangerous than rage. If he was looking for her, he wouldn’t be loud about it. He would move in the spaces between things, like he always had, until he was close enough to remind her how little distance she had truly put between them.
And then there was her sister. No word of her, either. No one in Kirkwall would know what became of her, but that didn’t stop the gnawing weight of uncertainty from pressing at the edges of her thoughts. No news was better than bad news, she supposed. But the silence felt like a noose, tightening inch by inch.
Shaking the thoughts from her mind, she let her steps take her through the winding streets until she found herself near a small, familiar corner.
A modest restaurant spilled warm light onto the road, the scent of soup and fresh bread curling into the air. It was as good a place as any to play. She settled onto an upturned crate, adjusting the worn leather strap of her lute before plucking a few idle notes.
The song would come naturally, as it always did—perhaps something light, rolling like the tide, or something sharper, edged with the bite of Kirkwall’s streets. Danny would probably laugh at whatever she chose, quick with some teasing remark, but she liked that about him. Today it was a sailor's ballad, something to encourage and boost the morale of the dock workers still going about their business. She'd stay an hour or so, see what coin - if any - she could weasel out before moving on back into the Lowtown taverns, back to familiar company and maybe get Danny that drink she owed.
@Leena Craynore
@Rahse Hythule
02-11-2025, 04:41 PM
