[He's never met someone who so strongly reminds him of Aveline Vallen, and looking at her makes him, for a split-second, thoroughly homesick. Not just for Thedas, though it would be a start, but for Kirkwall, for those years spent running around after Hawke getting into trouble and generally ruining the city's collective day. Not that being seven-feet-tall would do anything for Aveline's reputation, come to think. She manages ten feet by sheer force of personality. Force being the operative word.
Kneeling - and the tremor of her doing so shakes him no more than can be considered dignified - doesn't do too much for the height difference, really, relatively, and he's used to tall people after four decades of being around them...but the thought behind it is appreciated all the same.]
Well...shit. [No one can be eloquent all the time.] OK, so the question is, what exactly are we being poached for...
['Nothing good' is a given. Turning away for a moment - if she was going to attack him, there's little he can do about it facing her or not - he makes a brief trip to the door. Not even a handle. He tries squinting through the crack between door and door frame. Black.] I heard a rumour around town... Couple of whispers. You know the type...
[He gestures with his knife as he draws it out of his coat.] A guy knows a guy who knows a guy who swears on his mother's shallow grave... [He slips the knife into the crack in the door. At about the level you might expect a lock to be, he actually does find resistance, but it's immune to all of his fiddling around. His tongue is between his teeth as he goes on, and there's no rushing him to get to the point here.] ...that there's a market for people. Not whorehouses...
[He takes out the knife and turns back.] You could search every little whorehouse in Eris and never see these blighters again.
And I'd bet my boots no one'll ever see us again if we don't find some way out of this first.
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Kneeling - and the tremor of her doing so shakes him no more than can be considered dignified - doesn't do too much for the height difference, really, relatively, and he's used to tall people after four decades of being around them...but the thought behind it is appreciated all the same.]
Well...shit. [No one can be eloquent all the time.] OK, so the question is, what exactly are we being poached for...
['Nothing good' is a given. Turning away for a moment - if she was going to attack him, there's little he can do about it facing her or not - he makes a brief trip to the door. Not even a handle. He tries squinting through the crack between door and door frame. Black.] I heard a rumour around town... Couple of whispers. You know the type...
[He gestures with his knife as he draws it out of his coat.] A guy knows a guy who knows a guy who swears on his mother's shallow grave... [He slips the knife into the crack in the door. At about the level you might expect a lock to be, he actually does find resistance, but it's immune to all of his fiddling around. His tongue is between his teeth as he goes on, and there's no rushing him to get to the point here.] ...that there's a market for people. Not whorehouses...
[He takes out the knife and turns back.] You could search every little whorehouse in Eris and never see these blighters again.
And I'd bet my boots no one'll ever see us again if we don't find some way out of this first.