If Sparrow belonged anywhere, it might've been in the deepest recesses of Darktown or in the moderately acceptable bits of Lowtown, both of which she was incredibly, irredeemably fond of. These were the places you could move about unnoticed, unhampered by cloisters of eavesdropping women, flashing wealthy fans in front of their faces, or scowling men who questioned your motives without actually vocalizing their thoughts. It was in their piggish eyes, digging inconspicuously through your pockets to see what kind of coin you could spend at their shops. These were the places without plated gentleman who'd rather wring her neck up on the gallows then see her gallivanting the streets, without a care in the world. It didn't matter that freedom often tasted like mouldy residue, chokedamp and stale body odour. Lowtown smelled considerably better, anyway. Though, it still harboured disgusting chambers that threatened her independence – the Gallows, with all of it's cages and bars and bordered cells. Thankfully, the Templars themselves seemed to congregate, and stick around, in the Gallow's barracks, taking refuge with the statues while dutifully avoiding the Alienage and taverns as if they'd somehow contract the plague if they ventured too far. Dirty bludgers with a penchant for swinging their batons about, like heckled roosters.
The only redeeming feature Hightown claimed was the fact that it had the Blooming Rose in it's midst, nestled in the back alleys like a scuzzy cousin you'd prefer avoiding. It had as much accordance and belonging, among such highborn, snobbish citizens, as a wolf in a field of sheep, gallivanting as a kindly shepherd. She had long since lost count of the young women and men she had flirted and exchanged passionate kisses with, though she hadn't ever taken it further. Her identity was important. Still, it was one of the places that Sparrow frequented, if only to steal a few kisses, a few touches, and the sweetest of words – she couldn't help it, really. She'd become a regular, and those who worked there knew her name, her tastes, her peculiar behaviour. Hard-eyed Madame Lusine always offered her a special table whenever she swaggered into the establishment, always keen to subtly offer her a position if she so wished to take it. Peculiarities were always desired. Sparrow often wondered whether or not those eyes, so devilishly keen, could see straight through her.
In Kirkwall, Sparrow could be anyone, anything. She could be a gentleman or a woman. Hardly a lady. She could be a stiff-shouldered warrior with enough ferocity to make a man think twice, or a soft-eyed boy pressing his lips to proffered knuckles. To them, Sparrow was what she put herself off to be: a man. It was easier that way.
Sparrow's business took her into the heart of Lowtown. Her swaggering gait slowed, ponderously, until she finally stopped. She rubbed her chin thoughtfully, eyebrows scrunched. Where had Rilien wanted to meet up, again? They'd been recently looking for work, even though Rilien truly had need for nothing and it was only Sparrow who was constantly landing herself in financial trouble. These little, completely relevant, bits of information always slipped her mind. Especially if someone sidetracked her, which happened quite often. Her absentmindedness was commonplace and if it hadn't been for Rilien's otherworldly patience, his Tranquillity, then surely he would’ve dealt with her in an unpleasant fashion long ago. Her excuses were lame, half-hearted things. It didn't assuage the sense of squirming, half-caught guilt that quietly mumbled in her mind. A gnawing resignation that Rilien deserved better from her. Most likely, it'd be her companion that'd find work, anyway.
Too late to dwell on something that would be rectified later in the day. Rilien always seemed to find her in the end. She often joked that he could find her quicker than a rabid Mabari hound, though she suspected he always ran into her from sheer luck, otherwise he'd just become accustomed to all of her preferred places. Hadn't she mentioned that she was heading to Ashton's shop? Perhaps. With a huffing breath, Sparrow continued walking to her intentioned destination. She was originally heading for Ashton's cozy shop, but all of those other tempting stops hampered her little journey – primarily the one where she'd gone into the Hanged Man and guzzled down several goblets of dry whiskey, like a fish who'd suddenly been driven to land. To remedy her lateness, she'd bought Ashton a bottle of sweet rum from behind the barkeep's counter. Corf was kind enough to part with it when she, actually, won a few rounds of cards and slipped her winnings across the dirty counter, wringing her lips into her affable grin. The warmth still wound it's fingers through her stomach, kneading a comfortable satisfaction. She was tickled pink; a pyre at the world's edge, dancing, smiling, laughing.
Ashton's wasn't just another stuffed shirt. She wouldn’t even consider him a dirty shemlen, which was saying something considering her opinions on humans as a whole were as quaky and unstable as a collapsing building. Her insatiable, unexplainable hatred for them burnt far hotter than her passion for life, for everything breathing. She was like a slow spreading fire, slick and smooth. She'd learned, over time, that they weren't always the same. Sparrow's heckles did not raise in Ashton's presence, so she'd deemed him safe. At least, her fingers didn't twitch along the hilts of her blades. So, the half-elf resisted the urge to dramatically kick in the door and opened it, politely, with a little jingle of the chimes. One thing that she loved, or adored, about Lowtown in particular, were the varying smells – and not the musty ones everyone complains about. It was the candied nuts, exotic fruits, sweetbreads and glazed pastries. It was the smell of leather, rich, fresh.
Deep, earthy, musk – it welcomed her into the shop, brought her almost dreamily wafting forward until she slapped her hands on the counter, careful not to drop the bottle tucked into her armpit. The unmistakable and unfading scent of leather. Ashton must've known about it's magical properties. She wondered whether or not she was the only one who was so drawn to it, so irrefutably fascinated. “Ash!” She crooned, depositing the bottle on the counter. Her eyes, half-shuttered, searched for her friend – perhaps, he was in the back. She laughed heartily, tossing her head back like a delighted colt. "I've a gift for you, but it may be gone by the time you get here." Her reasons for coming were long forgotten. She always had ulterior motives, or favors to ask. Perchance, it was conceivable that going to the Hanged Man, for once, was a bad idea.
The only redeeming feature Hightown claimed was the fact that it had the Blooming Rose in it's midst, nestled in the back alleys like a scuzzy cousin you'd prefer avoiding. It had as much accordance and belonging, among such highborn, snobbish citizens, as a wolf in a field of sheep, gallivanting as a kindly shepherd. She had long since lost count of the young women and men she had flirted and exchanged passionate kisses with, though she hadn't ever taken it further. Her identity was important. Still, it was one of the places that Sparrow frequented, if only to steal a few kisses, a few touches, and the sweetest of words – she couldn't help it, really. She'd become a regular, and those who worked there knew her name, her tastes, her peculiar behaviour. Hard-eyed Madame Lusine always offered her a special table whenever she swaggered into the establishment, always keen to subtly offer her a position if she so wished to take it. Peculiarities were always desired. Sparrow often wondered whether or not those eyes, so devilishly keen, could see straight through her.
In Kirkwall, Sparrow could be anyone, anything. She could be a gentleman or a woman. Hardly a lady. She could be a stiff-shouldered warrior with enough ferocity to make a man think twice, or a soft-eyed boy pressing his lips to proffered knuckles. To them, Sparrow was what she put herself off to be: a man. It was easier that way.
Sparrow's business took her into the heart of Lowtown. Her swaggering gait slowed, ponderously, until she finally stopped. She rubbed her chin thoughtfully, eyebrows scrunched. Where had Rilien wanted to meet up, again? They'd been recently looking for work, even though Rilien truly had need for nothing and it was only Sparrow who was constantly landing herself in financial trouble. These little, completely relevant, bits of information always slipped her mind. Especially if someone sidetracked her, which happened quite often. Her absentmindedness was commonplace and if it hadn't been for Rilien's otherworldly patience, his Tranquillity, then surely he would’ve dealt with her in an unpleasant fashion long ago. Her excuses were lame, half-hearted things. It didn't assuage the sense of squirming, half-caught guilt that quietly mumbled in her mind. A gnawing resignation that Rilien deserved better from her. Most likely, it'd be her companion that'd find work, anyway.
Too late to dwell on something that would be rectified later in the day. Rilien always seemed to find her in the end. She often joked that he could find her quicker than a rabid Mabari hound, though she suspected he always ran into her from sheer luck, otherwise he'd just become accustomed to all of her preferred places. Hadn't she mentioned that she was heading to Ashton's shop? Perhaps. With a huffing breath, Sparrow continued walking to her intentioned destination. She was originally heading for Ashton's cozy shop, but all of those other tempting stops hampered her little journey – primarily the one where she'd gone into the Hanged Man and guzzled down several goblets of dry whiskey, like a fish who'd suddenly been driven to land. To remedy her lateness, she'd bought Ashton a bottle of sweet rum from behind the barkeep's counter. Corf was kind enough to part with it when she, actually, won a few rounds of cards and slipped her winnings across the dirty counter, wringing her lips into her affable grin. The warmth still wound it's fingers through her stomach, kneading a comfortable satisfaction. She was tickled pink; a pyre at the world's edge, dancing, smiling, laughing.
Ashton's wasn't just another stuffed shirt. She wouldn’t even consider him a dirty shemlen, which was saying something considering her opinions on humans as a whole were as quaky and unstable as a collapsing building. Her insatiable, unexplainable hatred for them burnt far hotter than her passion for life, for everything breathing. She was like a slow spreading fire, slick and smooth. She'd learned, over time, that they weren't always the same. Sparrow's heckles did not raise in Ashton's presence, so she'd deemed him safe. At least, her fingers didn't twitch along the hilts of her blades. So, the half-elf resisted the urge to dramatically kick in the door and opened it, politely, with a little jingle of the chimes. One thing that she loved, or adored, about Lowtown in particular, were the varying smells – and not the musty ones everyone complains about. It was the candied nuts, exotic fruits, sweetbreads and glazed pastries. It was the smell of leather, rich, fresh.
Deep, earthy, musk – it welcomed her into the shop, brought her almost dreamily wafting forward until she slapped her hands on the counter, careful not to drop the bottle tucked into her armpit. The unmistakable and unfading scent of leather. Ashton must've known about it's magical properties. She wondered whether or not she was the only one who was so drawn to it, so irrefutably fascinated. “Ash!” She crooned, depositing the bottle on the counter. Her eyes, half-shuttered, searched for her friend – perhaps, he was in the back. She laughed heartily, tossing her head back like a delighted colt. "I've a gift for you, but it may be gone by the time you get here." Her reasons for coming were long forgotten. She always had ulterior motives, or favors to ask. Perchance, it was conceivable that going to the Hanged Man, for once, was a bad idea.