Just needing more

The Hanged Man was its usual mess—a smoky haze lingering in the air, the tang of stale ale and cheap wine clinging to the walls. The chatter of patrons ebbed and flowed like the tide, punctuated by the occasional shout or crash of a mug hitting the floor. Danny strode in, his boots scuffing against the sticky wood planks as he made his way to the table he’d marked out earlier, near the back corner where the light barely reached.

His coat hung open, a battered thing that had seen better days, and his eyes scanned the room like a hawk looking for its next meal. He wasn’t here for the ambiance. He wasn’t here for the swill they passed off as ale. He was here for business.

Danny dropped into his chair with a casual arrogance, leaning back as he stretched his legs out in front of him. He drummed his fingers on the table, his expression a mix of disinterest and irritation as he waited. His contact was already late, and he wasn’t in the mood for excuses. Not tonight.

A barmaid approached, hesitated under his sharp gaze, and then slid a mug onto the table without a word. Danny offered a nod, more to send her away than as a thanks, and took a long swig. It was piss water, but it’d do for now.

Just as he was about to lose his patience, the door creaked open, and a figure stepped in, their silhouette sharp against the dim light of the street. Danny didn’t bother sitting up. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, watching as they navigated the room toward him. When they reached the table, he gestured lazily to the chair opposite him.

Took you bloody long enough, he drawled, his tone sharp enough to cut. Hope you’re worth the wait, sunshine. Time’s money, and I don’t waste either without a damn good reason.

He leaned forward then, resting his arms on the table, his eyes gleaming with a mix of curiosity and barely restrained menace.

So, let’s hear it. What’ve you got that’s so bloody important I had to drag myself to this cesspit to meet you? He and the man began to speak, low voices, easily lost over the din of the crowd, he thought everything was going to plan, but little did he know.

@Siora Craynore

Siora had been in the Hanged Man for a while, long enough now to grow accustomed to its peculiar rhythm. Earlier, the barkeep had insisted she take a room upstairs to rest for a bit. You look like you need it, he'd said, gesturing to the faint lines under her eyes. She hadn’t argued, grateful for the reprieve since she’d been tavern hopping to test how her music went down. By the time she came back to the main area, refreshed but still a little weary, the bar was even rowdier than before.

Sharp eyes swept the room, instinctively picking out familiar faces from her usual haunts, but one figure near the back caught her attention. Danny sat alone, his coat frayed at the edges and his posture radiating a mix of impatience and danger. She didn’t need to see the subtle drumming of his fingers to know he was growing more frustrated. Siora debated approaching him, but it was clear from his watchful gaze that he was expecting someone specific. Best not to interfere, not yet.

Instead, she let her lute slide into her hands, the familiar weight of it soothing. Making her way to the fireplace, she settled onto a stool and began to play, fingers moving instinctively over the strings. The first song was light, something to match the chaotic energy of the room, and the patrons responded with cheers and laughter.

But during her playing her voice faltered—just for a fraction of a second—when the door creaked open. Siora’s eyes flicked to the figure entering, and her stomach twisted. Him. The man who’d just walked in wasn’t a stranger. She remembered his face from a conversation she’d overheard in another tavern a few nights ago. He’d been speaking in hushed tones about a deal, something that had sounded shady even by Kirkwall’s standards. Now, here he was, striding toward Danny’s table with a confidence that set her on edge.

Her song shifted. Without missing a beat, she transitioned into one of her favorite ballads, a haunting tune about trust misplaced and deals gone awry. The melody hung in the air like a warning, subtle but deliberate. She didn’t know if Danny would catch on, but she had to warn him.

Sliding off the stool, Siora began to meander through the crowd, her lute still cradled against her. She kept singing, her voice light but firm, her words weaving the tale of betrayal and woe. With each step, she moved closer to Danny’s table, careful not to draw attention. She stopped occasionally to strum a flourish or share a smile with a patron, every motion calculated to keep her approach casual.

As she neared their table, her heart quickened. She tilted her head slightly, letting her long hair hide part of her face as her gaze flicked between Danny and the man across from him. The tension between them was palpable, and Siora knew she was walking a fine line. Still, if what she’d overheard before was true, Danny might be stepping into something dangerous.

She played on pausing to lean against a beam across from the table, her voice soft but laced with warning. Beware the smile that cuts like glass, the silver tongue that hides the snare. Trust is fragile, and shadows grow, where secrets whispered linger there.

@Danny