Chapter Text
It is a deceptively calm night as Hawke navigates the quiet, dusty streets of Lowtown with Isabela at her side. The soft, silver glow of moonlight illuminates the path ahead while the warm, orange flicker of torchlights cast lambent shadows against stone. Even in Lowtown, she feels the slight breeze of sea air carried from the Docks, making the Kirkwall nights cooler than usual.
A part of her misses living here (albeit a very small part). In the morning, the Lowtown market is a bustle of activity with sounds of bartering, gossip, and idle chatter filling the streets. Smells of freshly baked bread, spices, and meats waft through the air as bakers, merchants, and tailors come out to sell their goods. But all the activity and energy dissipates as soon as the sun sets. Vendors put away their wares, closing their stores and any last-minute shoppers quickly rush home. It is an unspoken rule to never wander the streets once night falls. Emerging from their dens in Darktown, thieves, thugs, and throat-cutters prowl the streets under the cover of darkness. Those foolish enough to linger past sundown, unarmed, end up robbed of all belongings if they’re lucky or dead if they aren’t.
But Hawke is no fool. Slung casually over her shoulder is a bladed-staff. She never leaves her Hightown mansion without it, much like the Amell armor she wears, with chainmail underneath for added protection. Though it doesn’t provide as much mobility, it was better than the alternative. She wouldn’t be caught dead wearing mage robes in Kirkwall of all places.
Isabela on the other hand goes with a “less is more” approach. Sporting a revealing white corset, a blue sash around her curved waist, and knee-high boots, she walks with a sway in her hips as though she is still aboard the Siren’s Call. Sheathed behind her back are her aptly named daggers Backstabber and Heartbreaker. There are of course smaller daggers concealed under her clothes. Maker knows how many she has in total but Hawke doesn't expect any less from the self-proclaimed pirate captain. Any gang would think twice before attacking them. But of course, that doesn’t stop them from trying.
“These are never coming out,” Isabela announces suddenly with a huff, as she scrapes the toe of her stained boot against the dirt. “I just got these last week too!”
“It’s not that bad,” says Hawke, eyeing the flecks of dried blood adhered to her companion’s leather boots. “Blood stains are quite the fashion statement, if not, it’ll at least make for an interesting story.”
Isabela stops scraping her boots and narrows her eyes at her, “This is your fault you know.”
“My fault?” Hawke asks incredulously, “How is it my fault the man decided to bleed all over your boots.”
“Decided?! You kicked his body towards me!”
“I did no such thing. It wounds me that you would accuse me of such--” Hawke pauses, recalling their brief scuffle with slavers earlier at the Docks. She glances back at Isabela, her arms are crossed over her chest as she raises an accusatory eyebrow at her.
“Okay, I might have stabbed one of them with the pointy end of my staff….”
“...And?” she prods.
“...and lightly shoved him off. With my foot. Lightly. But in my defense, I didn’t shove him at you on purpose.”
A few seconds of silence pass with Isabela glaring at her before she finally drops a hand to her hip and lets out a long, disappointing sigh.
“I spent weeks looking for them you know? The perfect pair, hand-crafted, made of the finest Antivan leather… and now they’re ruined,” she cries, in the most melodramatic tone possible. “I'll never be able to afford another pair,” she adds, draping the back of her free hand dramatically over her brow.
“Can’t you just steal another pair?” asks Hawke, now absent-mindedly inspecting her own boots.
Isabella shoots her a mortified look as if she was being asked to kick a puppy. “Do you think everything I own is looted or stolen from someone?”
“Well…” Hawke begins dubiously, before giving an unconvincing shrug. “Isn’t that how you got the boots in the first place?”
“I’ll have you know I bought these from that sweet old lady near the tailor,” she states plainly. “And she deserved every copper. I only steal from people who deserve it. Like that arse who duped me into buying that terrible dagger last week,” she huffs.
“Remind me again why I still put up with you?” Hawke chuckles, the ghost of a smile on her lips as she shakes her head. Despite Isabela’s questionable antics, occasional self-centredness, and crude sense of humor, she was a good friend. Isabela herself would never admit it, but Hawke notices it in the little things. Like when she saves a seat for everyone at the Hanged Man during Wicked Grace night, or offers them an invitation to join her pirate crew (yes, even Aveline), or (when she thinks no one is looking) slips a few sovereigns back to Merrill after a string of losses.
“Alright,” says Hawke, “If it makes you feel better, I'll buy you another pair.”
With that, Isabela’s eyes immediately light up and the corners of her lip pull up in a half-smile. “Oh Hawke, you always know how to cheer me up.”
“And you always know how to spend my sovereigns away,” Hawke sighs wistfully.
They make their way up the uneven steps, away from the deserted Lowtown market before finally reaching the entrance of the Hanged Man. Slivers of warm amber light spill out from under the door. Even from outside, Hawke can hear the muffled sounds of laughter and drunken chatter.
“Tell you what, drinks are on me tonight,” says Isabela, placing a hand on the door, “It’s the least I can do.”
“Really? Then I’ll try my best to drink you into bankruptcy.”
“It’s your funeral,” she laughs, as they push open the door into the tavern.