cubone_i_guess

Right, so. Things happened, Varric told stories, and now Pan knows Fenris was a slave.

Which makes him feel pretty fucking shitty about how well they had gotten along the first few times they've met.  Or, rather, how they hadn't gotten along at all every time they've ever interacted.

And that's how he ended up in Hightown for the first time, and was this really the right place? It was, well, a mansion. In a not-sewer. Hell, it wasn't even in Lowtown! But this is where he had been told to go, so Pan Knocked on the door, and tried to focus more on looking around than thinking about what he was going to say. Or that he didn't know what he was going to say. Bit run down though, wasn't it? How did he get a mansion anyways? Wasn't all of Hawke's crew scrounging for money? They all talked about it enough.

Would Fenris even be able to hear the knocking? He tried again.

The candle at the table just would not stay out. Flet had put it out no less than five times now, and she was confident she'd be foiled again. There were three other tables, each one with a candle. Did they all relight after a few seconds? Did something happen if you could get them all out at the same time? No, that's ridiculous. Why would something happen? No secret passage would open, no magical treasure would appear, no munny would rain from the heavens or spring from the cobblestones at the feat.

She wanted to try.

The candle flame flickered back to life, as if someone had lit the vapor trail.

"Why do you think it does that?" She asked Paron.

"Are you even listening?" He snapped back, then sighed. He probably went back to ranting about what they were going to do next, but she wouldn't know. The answer to that question was an unequivocal, unspoken 'no', as it forever would be, if Flet got her way.

Paron was just so boring when he talked. He was fun to fight with, so she had been hopeful about having him as a partner, at first. But then he had started talking, and pouring over maps, and mumbling to himself when he realised no one was listening to him. Why did he even bother talking? Flet had tried to help plan, had even offered some ideas that (she was sure) would have worked great. But he'd just chew on what she'd suggest for a few moments with that look he gets, shrug, say he'd think about it, and go on.

It was boring and pointless. It was boring because they should be actually doing things, and pointless because they had failed to do things.

"Anyways, we should probably focus on getting munny first. We only have enough for a few more days in the hotel, and a few more meals, right?" She shook her wrist once at the flame, again. The bell on her bracelet chimed, again. The flame went out, again.

Paron gave up, and watched the smoke curl up towards the ceiling of the patio. "Right."

The first thing Kyousuke noticed upon more-or-less waking was that he'd much preferred being passed out on the spinning floor. While his head hadn't been in any fewer pieces, and his brain not leaking any slower under whatever that floating rectangle above him was, the pain had the company of the echoing sound of several strangers' breaking noses. At least, that's what the drugged memory <i>sounded</i> like, and he was going with it.

"The fuck?" He mumbled, first at the spinning/concrete below him/skull splitting headache, then at the taste of dentist and rubber in his mouth, something clinging to his hands like facehugger aliens, and undeniable fact that he was pissed at all of this. Wasn't <i>quite</i> sure why yet, but he'd get to that.

That kid was there again.

It was the 3rd time in fewer weeks that Pan had seen him at the park. It took twice for him to notice the repeated figure, and once more to realise that there was a good reason he was there so much. People don't typically sleep on metal benches if they've a bed to go home to.
And, well, Pan couldn't just leave him there. The kid looked only a bit older than himself, and was about as skinny. After spotting the occupied seat, the thought of all the bad things that could possibly happen to a child on the streets ate at, picked at his mind with sharp beaks. The thoughts tormented him as he turned around on the spot, and all the way home without having looked at the park's season-bright trees as intended. Only when Pan saw the sleeping lump still there upon his return did he feel a bit better.

While far from equipped to deal with a homeless, strange minor (not to mention the social interaction about to happen), Pan did have at his disposal a backpack hastily packed with a blanket, fruit, snacks, water, and socks. In his hands he held a tubberware of spaghetti, steaming quietly to itself in the chill, fork pinned to the top with a well placed thumb.  Back at the apartment he had a guardian that he could talk into pretty much anything in the time it takes to pack the bag and microwave last night's leftovers.

So, deep breath.
Maybe a near-silent and fairly brief commentary on how it was a miracle shit like this, by a few connected dots, had only gotten him killed once before (but that was a completely different post).
A few "Um, excuse me?"s in volume slowly progressing loud enough to get the other's attention.