The Hanged Man

Kirkwall is a shithole. Natriel lived near the city-state most of her life and she never once knew how bad it was. She supposed it could've been in a better state after that....templar knight thingy person's rampage, but from what she's heard of Kirkwall from her clansmen is that there wasn't much of a difference. Trash clogged the street and beggars pulled at her robes. She's never seen so many poor people in her life; they lived among the shattered debris of buildings begging and picking at scraps. It was pathetic. It made Natriel uncomfortable. She entered Kirkwall through the south exit from the Wounded Coast and slowly made her way through Lowtown, keeping her eyes straight ahead. She had no money to spare for these shem.

She paused briefly at the stairs to hightown. Hightown meant nobles. Nobles were rich. And called her knife-ear. Or rabbit, depending if there were any visiting from Orlais. But rich nobles meant good blacksmiths and enchanters and maybe even a mage or two. Natriel stood there looking like an asshole for a good ten minutes deciding whether she should stay or if she should go. Eventually, she turned. She saw a tavern a way back. If she had to go, she had to be drunk for it.

After much backtracking and wandering around, she found the tilted over tavern named the Hanged Man. "Morbid," Natriel muttered to herself as she pushed open the creaky door. The tavern was a shithole, like Kirkwall. There's definitely a bloodstain on the floor, it smells like a nug breeding cavern and there's even rich people here. A few people eyeball her and her staff, which is a mix of blunt things and spikey things and is all together a deadly thing. There's a table with a squirrely looking dude at the back, and just a glare sends the boy scrambling off. Natriel takes a rag from a waitresses bucket, wipes off the table, sits down, waves over an unpleasant looking barmaid, and waits.

There's three things you should know predominately about Natriel:
1. Magic comes as natural to her as breathing.
2. She's lazy.
3. She's also a complete twit.
The barmaid scowled at her when she ordered her drink. Natriel watched with sharp eyes as the maid sauntered over to the bar, loudly repeated her order to the grouchy-looking barman (who made it immediately) and then made eye contact with Natriel while she left the drink on the bar. She flittered off to a table right by the bar to talk to some off duty guardsmen.
Oh. Alright, Natriel isn't an idiot.
Natriel sighed deeply. The first thing Keeper Deshanna taught her was how to yank things from a distance without a staff; in case her staff or stave was separated from her body. The situation had never really arrived but a book being too far from her has. So, with a roll of her eyes, Natriel flicked her wrist and the mug of shitty ale raced from the counter to her waiting hand, hip checking the barmaid on the way.
She snorted at the barmaids surprised look, but when her eyes met the new strangers in the corner she raised her eyebrows mockingly and took a sip. Then gagged. Mythal, that was disgusting.

Natriel frowned into her cup, cursing herself for ruining her cool and undisturbed exterior. She eyed the elf lad across the way. No vallaslin. City boy, for sure. Curious. Her eyes flew to his hands. She could only see a little from here, but those looked like burn marks.
Natriel peered at her own hand. Burn marks. Signs of a mage learning elemental magic. Beat made from the collision of lyrium output and oxygen, when a beginner, can easily lead to uncalled for explosions. A mage. Two mages in this pub.
The Nevarran accords were dissolved from what Natriel had heard, but everyone's attitude towards mages sure hadn't. Maybe she should've been sneakier.
With a sigh, she waved the bald faced elf over. Mages had to stick together, she guesses. She drowned the rest of the swill and readied herself for social interaction. With a city elf. A mage city elf. Mythal, she could barely stand the book slingers in that Enchanters college. She's been. They all wanted to talk about theory. Their books were either Tevinter or Orlesian. Their professors were humans. They all expected her to sprout leaves out of her ears.
Gods, were the circles like that? June help that boy.
She reconsidered and waved heartier.

"Aye. You a circle mage? You look like one. Skittish and all," she said into her pint. She eyeballed the barmaid, who is avoiding her like the plague, now sending aware looks at her stave.

"Maybe I can bring myself another mug of ale right on her head," Natriel mused. She leveled her finger at another mug sitting on the counter. "That's my next target." She motioned it towards her again and it zipped into her waiting hand. "What brings you to the city of chains. Can't be the scenery," Nat snorts. She's not giving him her name yet.

"I might." Natriel mumbled into her cup, feeling like a 12 year old encouraged to magic out all of the threads in Keeper Deshannas pocket together. This wickedness shouldn't be encouraged, probably.
This was the place with the Champion. She had forgotten. She never really paid much attention to shem politics until now, despite the shem bustling in and out of camp. She made a point of avoiding them. Oh yes, many asked to interview the First of clan Lavellan, but there were more pressing things.
Speaking of shem politics, should Natriel fear templars? Many townspeople have threatened to summon them upon her, especially before the accords were dissolved, but they were old men in heavy armor and she's been running through woods her whole life. It was a pathetic chase.... Templars aren't shit.
"I don't," Natriel paused. "Haven't been paying attention to shemlen politics. The champion is of little concern to me, as are templars. They can't even catch me," she mumbled with a twist of sick enjoyment, a wry grin splitting her mouth.

Natriel's eyes narrow while Eon blabbed on. Holy smites hurt.
Wonder how he knew that.
The alcohol bubbling in Natriel's stomach lit like gasoline and her eyes narrowed on the bunch of Templars in the corner, drinking and talking merry. They barked at the barmaids like dogs in heat. One had the sword tattoed on his arm. His sword arm? A hairy arm.
Pathetic.
"You scared of templars, Flat ear?" She muttered lowly, tossing a glance in his direction. "They ever toss you around? Punch you some? Do that smite on you? Is that how you know it hurt? You wanna punch a templar now, Eon?"
Natriel leaned back on the bar. "You get called a knife-ear in the circle by these shites?"