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Noam Adaar walked down the small side road the tavern was supposed to be in, according to the directions the street urchin he handed a solid silver piece had given him. He hoped he was going the right way; the sun had already gone down and the streets of this city were rumored to be dangerous after dark. Not that he was too worried about that. He was long practiced in taking care of himself. What was really irritating was the fact that it got so bloody cold at night in this Maker-forsaken country. He much preferred Antiva.
Noam shrugged to settle his slightly threadbare cloak more warmly about his shoulders and pressed on. The alley he was in grew darker the further he went, but small lanterns helpfully cast light on the crudely drawn arrows on the walls. “THIS WAY TO NAWED NOBL TAVRN.” He was on the right path, then. Noam grinned broadly and quickened his step. Maybe this lead wouldn’t be a waste of time after all.
A few dozen more steps led him to a door, if one could call a half-rotted wooden plank held together by a few screws a door. Above the door a modest shingle proclaimed the name of the establishment as the one he was looking for, this time correctly spelled. Below the name a rather fanciful picture showed a man in noble dress with a rather bored expression being attacked by a grinning mabari hound. Noam pushed the “door” inwards and ducked inside. Literally. He had to bend almost double to keep his horns from scraping the door frame.
Once inside, though, he was able to stand to his full height of well over six-and-a-half feet, which was surprising since most establishments he visited were built to accommodate humans. Even though he made little noise when he entered, the people inside the tavern’s common area stopped their conversation and turned to stare at him. Noam grinned wider and shook back the hood of his cloak to reveal his impressive horns. Some of the less tactful observers gasped a little at the sight, and Noam met eyes with one of these and threw him a playful wink. The gentleman sputtered out his drink and turned quickly away, his face flushing red with either embarrassment or arousal. Noam didn’t care which; the fact that he was able to effect such a reaction was good enough for him.
Noam continued into the common room, headed toward the bar at the back wall. The room was pleasantly warm from the heat of the fires roaring merrily in the three fireplaces in the room, one on each wall. Noam undid the clasp at the collar of his cloak and swept it from his shoulders with one hand, while keeping hold of his stave with the other. By this point most people had returned to their conversations or their meals or whatever it was they were there for, but some few still stared openly. Noam appreciated those people; at least they were more honest about the fact that he made them uncomfortable. One thing he couldn’t stand was liars. Even intentional liars.
The bartender, to his credit, seemed unruffled by Noam’s unusual appearance. He continued polishing the wooden bar top with his rag and looked up only when Noam sat down on one of the stools. “What can I get you, serah?”
Serah, eh? I could get used to that. “Simple ale will be fine, I thank you!” Noam reached into his pocket and pulled out a copper piece, setting on the bar with a dull click. The bartender coughed a little and raised one brow. Noam chuckled and placed a second coin next to the first. The bartender nodded and turned to get him a mug.
Noam leaned his staff next to him against the bar and hung his cloak over it to dry. It hadn’t been raining outside, exactly, more of a mist-ing, but the bottom edge was soaked where it had dragged in puddles as he walked down the street. Noam frowned as he saw that the mud had spoiled the vibrant scarlet cloth he had purchased in Anitva. He would have to get that professionally laundered later. He scanned the room as he waited for his ale, making note of the exits, the number of people present, possible improvised weapons – you know, normal things one looks for in a tavern common room.
The bartender returned with his mug of ale and set it down in front of Noam’s back, which was now leaned against the edge of the bar. Noam turned his head and grinned at him. “My thanks, serah.” He took a long draught from the mug and sighed in satisfaction. The bartender returned to wiping down the already-clean bar. Noam, having finished his survey of the room, turned to sit facing the back wall.
“So,” Noam drawled. “You are not from Denerim, then?”
The bartender glanced up briefly from his work and then back down. “I am a Free Marcher, yes. My father moved here to open this tavern when I was boy, but he kept their patterns of speech all his life. A habit I inheirited, I’m afraid.”
“Ah, so this is the family business, then? Well-established?”
The bartender looked Noam full in the face then, his eyes skittering a bit over the bold lines of the vitaar painted on his forehead but coming to rest on Noam’s own pale gold gaze. “Yes. The Gnawed Noble is known as the best, and cleanest, establishment in the city.”
“That must why you’re comfortable charging to copper bits for an ale!” Noam laughed congenially and drained the rest of his mug. “Speaking of which, I believe I shall have another! Excellent quality, that.”
The bartender smiled and turned to refill the mug. “You look like you can afford it, if I may say so, serah.”
Noam roared with laughter at this, and looked at the bracers he wore on his arms, supple leather with intricate patterns tooled in gold. “Yes, fanciful things, aren’t they? Bought them off a leatherworker in Rivain. Good price too!”
Noam took his second mug from the bartender and leaned in conspiratorially. “Say, friend, you probably know everything worth knowing in Denerim, being so well-established, no?”
“I might, if I knew what you were looking for. And like everything else here, it won’t be for free.”
Noam grinned. His honesty was refreshing. I like this one. “Would you happen to know of a gentlemen called Raanvor?” Noam slid a silver across the bar, but kept one finger on top of it.
The bartender raised his brow again. “I do know of this man. Why do you ask of him?”
“I have an appointment with him this evening, and I want to be prepared.”
“You are meeting him here? In my tavern?”
“No need to worry, serah! I promise I will keep things civil. It is not a quarrel I am interested in, after all; merely a business discussion.” He added a second silver to the first, and then seeing the bartender did not seem any more at ease, a third. The clink of coin seemed to pacify him. He nodded.
“Very well, serah. You seem an honest sort, if a bit…grandiose.” Noam chuckled but let him continue. “Raanvor is a lieutenant of the Valo-kas, the mercenary band. Very tough, but also fair. If you called him here on business then that is what he will keep to, unless you insult him or his people. Which you seem intelligent enough not to do.”
Noam nodded and moved his hand from the coins. The bartender swept them swiftly behind the bar and resumed his polishing, glasses this time. Apparently the bar had had enough for the night. Noam patted his coin purse where it lay in his pocket and grimaced. If this deal didn’t work out, he was going to need to find some kind of work soon. Especially since his cloak was so filthy.
The bartender moved further away from him, ostensibly to keep up his work but Noam suspected that it was more that he had grown wary of speaking to him any more than he had. The reputation of these Valo-kas proceeded them, it seemed. This boded well. A mercenary band with a reputation earned the most work. And for a lone qunari in need of more ale and laundry services, that was good news.
“Want some company?” a low, sultry voice spoke from just behind his shoulder.
Noam turned towards the voice. It apparently belonged to a very attractive human female, all hips and long red hair. Her already well-formed features were enhanced by expertly applied cosmetics, and she smelled of rich Antivan spices. Noam’s gaze traveled down the length of her body and then returned to her face, meeting her eyes directly. She bore his scrutiny unflinchingly, tossing her hair behind one shoulder. Noam’s brow raised in interest.
“I might be, depending.”
The woman smirked. “Depending on what?”
“How much it costs.”
She laughed then, low and enticing. “Oh, I’m not a whore. Just a…friendly person.”
Now it was Noam’s turn to laugh. “Well in that case…” He patted the stool next to him and signaled the bartender to bring another ale. Hang the expense; I will get more coin eventually.
The woman took her seat and thanked him for the drink. She took a single sip from the mug and then set it back on the bar, leaning closer to Noam’s arm. She laid on hand on the bare flesh showing above Noam’s bracer, fingers tracing the painted patterns there.
“Pretty…what are they for?”
“They are called vitaar. My people wear them to prepare for battle. I wear them because they make me look dashing and mysterious.” He gently lifted her hand from his arm. “Best not touch them too much though. The paint is poisonous to humans.”
“Oh. How very…exotic.”
Noam’s brow furrowed and his grip on her hand tightened. The woman looked up at his face, and her eyes widened when she saw the storm brewing there.
“I. Am. Not. Exotic.” He spat out the last word like a curse. “Exotic is a word for colorful parrots and Antivan spices. I am a man.” She was wincing and trying to pull her hand from his now. He released her abruptly and turned away.
She swallowed loud enough for him to hear and backed away. “Apologies, I meant no offense.”
“Best you find other company for tonight, serah.”
She nodded and left swiftly, retaining some of her dignity by not fleeing outright.
Noam drank the rest of his ale and then moved on to hers, snatching it up before the bartender could clear it away. He heard another person moving up behind him. Maker, can’t a man drink in peace?
“That was rude, what you did there.”
Noam sighed. He swiftly emptied his mug in one draught and then turned to face the speaker. He was large, for a human, and ugly as sin. “None of your business how I see it, friend.”
“You horned bastards think you can just walk in anywhere like you own the place, taking our work and hurting our women. Well, I’m here to teach you you can’t.”
“Oh?” Noam stood and looked down on the man. “Is that the case? Wouldn’t you rather just apologize and buy me another drink instead? Then we can all be friends.”
The ugly man drew his daggers.
“No? A pity. I hate to ruin this nice man’s tavern.” Noam ducked as the man attacked him, and his daggers sliced the air where his chest had been a moment before. He crouched on the floor and touched the tips of his fingers to the ground, summoning his will as he did so. Small lines of white light flooded out from his fingertips to form a glowing circular pattern on the floor. The effect was instantaneous. The ugly dagger-wielding man was thrown back several feet and landed on one of the tables. Several of his fellows who had also begun to rush Noam were thrown backwards. Noam quickly straightened and reached behind him for his staff.
“This can end now. All I require is an apology.” He grinned widely and twirled his staff. The men thrown backward by his rune were just beginning to recover. Their leader’s face was made even more ugly – Was that even possible? Noam thought to himself – by the grimace of hatred twisting his features. He struggled to his feet and leapt down from the table, putting his daggers up in a fighting stance.
“Ah, Anitvan style! I love a man who studies his betters! Which woman taught you how to do that?” The man shouted with rage and charged forward again. Noam side-stepped him easily and tripped him with the end of his staff. The man’s face slammed into the edge of the bar, hard. He didn’t get back up.
Noam laughed. “Oops.”
The man’s friends each tried to attack him in turn, and he defeated them all easily: a cold snap freezing one over here and his fist slamming into the nose of another over there. Noam’s blood was pumping, the alcohol in his system doing nothing to slow his movements or rob them of their usual grace. Eventually, everyone who stood against him – all six of them – were on the grounds, whimpering or unconscious.
Noam twirled his staff again. He had not stopped grinning for the entirety of the fight. “Anyone else? No? Very well then.” He stepped lightly over one of the squirming, moaning forms on the ground and settled himself back down at the bar. The bartender brought him another ale without his having to ask. When Noam reached for another two bits, the bartender shook his head.
“I’ve never seen anyone fight like that in all my days, serah. And without any damage, either! That one’s on the house. And any others you want after that.”
Noam raised the mug and toasted him. “Many thanks, friend! Your ale is choice, so the compliment is well-taken.” He was just raising the mug to his lips when he heard a new sound. Someone was applauding. He turned back to face the room again.
Another qunari had come in, possibly during the fight or just before, Noam wasn’t sure. He had been…distracted. He was large, although still not as tall as Noam himself, and he wore what appeared to be mercenary fighting leathers. “Well done. Very well done. And no casualties, even though these louts probably deserved it. Charging in like idiots.” He spat on the floor. The bartender saw this and winced.
Noam nodded once in the man’s direction. “I thank you. I avoid killing imbeciles if I can help it. Not their fault they are what they are.”
Raavnor – for surely that is who this man was – laughed. “Indeed! Such mercy is usually so hard to find. And respect for the property of others is also rare. To find both things in one man…why, that is practically unheard of!”
Noam flashed him a winning smile. “And yet, here I sit. Unless you have something better for me to do.” He tried not to look too hopeful.
Raavnor nodded. “I may, indeed. I saw your magic. I have many uses for one such as you. How does being a mercenary suit you?”
“Does it pay?”
“It does! And well, I might add.”
“Then it suits me just fine.”
Raavnor held out his hand and they shook on it. Raavnor’s grip was firm, confident. “Welcome to the Valo-kas.”