Did anyone else actually scream when this happened oor
She drinks with Isabela that night. A little too much, and none of it easy to swallow. She hopes they never find out what Corff puts in his barrels and Isabela says she’ll drink to that.
‘Speed griffons,’ Hawke says.
‘I’ll drink to that.’
‘Three goats,’ Hawke says.
‘I’ll drink to that.’
‘And a sheaf of wheat,’ Hawke says.
‘I need more drink to drink to things,’ Isabela replies, turning her mug over, leaving a ring on the stained bartop.
Rings, Hawke thinks. Rings and pretty things. ‘More of your finest, Corff,’ she says. ‘I am wealthy and inebriated and I would prefer more teeth in my ale this time, thank you. They lend it a certain…Orlesian…something…you know what I’m getting at.’
She slumps forward after that, chin on her folded arms.
‘I’ll drink to that,’ Isabela says. She does. The mug of half-empty—or is that half-full? Hawke can never remember which one it is, like a big, shiny gold sovereign flipped in the air that hasn’t landed on one side or the other yet—slosh-piss-gutter-water-more-piss lands on the splintery wood and clangs between Hawke’s ears like wedding bells.
‘Urrrrrgnnnnnnngh,’ Hawke says.
‘If I drink to that,’ Isabela replies, ‘then I’ll be making that sound.’
She twirls her fingerless-glove fingers towards Hawke on the bartop like her hands are doing the Remigold.
‘Ooh,’ Hawke says.
‘Now then, duckling,’ Isabela says, ‘I know how it is. Women like that—the big sort with the freckles and the strong hands and the broad shoulders and the freckles and the red hair and the… Where was I?’
‘Women like that.’ Hawke supposes she’s just heaved a dreamy sigh.
‘Women like that,’ Isabela agrees. She shakes her head. ‘They’ll break your heart as easily as they break a ruffian’s neck, that’s what I mean. Pretty things who kiss like barricades and battering rams. Audacious flirts.’
Hawke supposes Isabela’s just heaved a dreamy sigh, too.
‘You?’ Hawke asks.
‘Mm,’ Isabela says. ‘She kissed me once, and I know I’ll never forget it, either.’
‘The minx,’ Hawke says.
‘The siren,’ Isabela agrees.
Hawke supposes they’ve both just heaved a dreamy sigh. For creamy skin and freckles and red hair and fists that could punch an ogre to death, easily, and pained laughter and terrible flirting skills and the bravest, boldest, battering ram of a heart in all of heartbroken Thedas.
‘To Aveline,’ Hawke says.
‘I’ll drink to that,’ Isabela replies.