Work Text:
There's always a dwarf bar. Rocky likes to try and tell people he can find them by following the vibrations in the earth, but actually it's more a case of following the smell of dark ale or the sound of the chorus to Do You Want To See The Nug (In My Pants), or in this case, by asking the nice Carta member on the corner with her pockets definitely not full of illegal things for illegal sale where the nearest dwarf bar is.
Sure, it's good to drink with everyone else, but sometimes you need a mug of something that tastes suspiciously like it's been watered down with mushroom juice, and a room of people who will laugh at the punchline to so, three Paragons walk into Dust Town without having to explain it to them. Or maybe he's just getting nostalgic in his old age.
Here it is. Lighting: minimal. Floor: sticky. Bar: sticky. Barkeep: suspicious, probably also sticky if Rocky was inclined to get any closer. Ah, feels like home. When he looks around for a seat, this flashy lad with a ruffled shirt open down to his navel and all his chest hair out inclines his head in a way that somehow says both this seat is free and you're about to get very lucky.
Rocky's getting on in years, sure, but he's not that old. “Rocky. The Chargers.” he says, because some things you don't change even when your boss decides to retire to a villa filled with pink roses and undead horses and crap.
“Jackal, of the famed and esteemed Nevarran Collective.” the flashy lad says, and launches into a story about dragon-hunting which Rocky starts off thinking is probably unnecessary exaggeration if all he wants is into Rocky's pants. Half-way through making appropriate impressed noises because yes, he does want to get laid, he puts two and two together and comes up with you're supposed to be retired, idiots.
But he doesn't say anything, because Jackal's shirt is coming down off one shoulder and there is so much hair, and there's no way he's mucking this good fortune up by interrupting the story he's so clearly enjoying telling.
He can let the rest of them know tomorrow. Afternoon, if he's really lucky.
Jackal isn't back from wherever he went off to last night, which mostly means that Sorrel doesn't have to argue with him about why he doesn't need to come along to meet their next employer, who has sent a message Requesting Their Esteemed Presence, which is fancy-arse for saying he wants to get a look at them before handing over any money.
Her and Skinny Tal mostly handle this part, although since Rat picked up some manners and this neat little I'm not impressed with you sneer off Pavus last year she sometimes encourages him to come along and try and pick up the side of the mercenary business that is less about setting things on fire.
When she recognises the guy with the velvet robes and the compensating-for-something staff in the entrance to the manor hall, she wishes that today was one of these times. Safety in numbers. “Relax, Sorrel.” Skinny Tal murmurs in her ear. “If you need me to accidentally step on somebody's foot, you know the signal.”
She almost doesn't notice she's tensed up until he says it. It's like she's still waiting for Aldrich and his asshole noble-born friends to knock her into a wall, but they're in a Nevarran baron's hall, not the back corridors of the circle, and she's no longer a kid with no connections, no money, and no prospects. “I think I'll manage.” she says, because she hardly needs Skinny Tal to step on people for her. Not anymore.
Besides, he doesn't manage to do more than try to look scornful before the Baron turns up to greet them, and Sorrel spent last autumn being knocked into the dirt by the vint who invented that look. The Baron is roughly spherical with a beard that wouldn't be out of place in Ferelden, but he's smiling, and he's paying, and Sorrel only needs him to do the latter of those things to put up with this place anyway. “It's so wonderful you're here! I wanted to make my daughter's wedding hunt a thing to remember.”
Aldrich slithers up to the Baron's side. “I hardly think it was necessarily to augment your usual hunting party with these-- people, my Lord.”
The Baron doesn't lose a beat. “Young Eppenden has hired the Chargers-- quite well known, but not Nevarran, of course, and since my late beloved wife was a Pentaghast on her mother's side, I felt it was only right and proper that in her honour I call in our own homegrown dragonslayers. You mustn't allow them to outdo you, my dear.” He says this while taking Sorrel's hand, quite earnest. “Young Eppenden is a worthy enough husband for my sweet daughter, but that doesn't mean I'm willing to let him have all the glory, you see.”
“What quarry are we after?” Skinny Tal asks.
The Baron's gaze flickers upwards over Sorrel's shoulder for the briefest moment then heads back down to latch onto Sorrel again. “The scouts have found some giants in a nearby valley. There should be an excellent vantage point from the the summer lodge for the guests, or so they say. My sweet little Valencia is insisting on being present for the hunt itself-- she's such a bold wee thing-- but I'm sure you are more than capable of looking after her.”
So, hunting giants for the entertainment of rich idiots, while trying not to clash with another mercenary group who they've never worked with before, and also keeping some sort of thrill-seeking mini baroness out of trouble. Wonderful. Such fun. “It will be no trouble, my Lord. We're happy to be present for such a joyous occasion.” As long as he doesn't go back on the promised pay, at least. “May we speak to one of the scouts, my Lord? In order to prepare.”
“Oh, yes, yes.” the Baron says vaguely. “Preparation, very important. Aldrich, please arrange it.”
“Certainly, my Lord.” Aldrich says, and waits until the Baron has wandered off to holler something about cake at a nearby servant. “My, haven't you come up in the world, little Sorry? I'll have one of the scouts sent to your camp, so you can discuss the no doubt intricate details of setting giants on fire.”
“I could definitely step on his toes.” Skinny Tal says, as they watch him go. “Qunari are terribly clumsy, you know.”
“He's not worth it.” Sorrel says. “If the chance comes up, I'll be sure to ask Daisy to ask Dog to lift a leg in his general direction. Let's head back, see if we can get in touch with these Chargers, come to some arrangement ahead of time. Nobody shows up anyone else, all the nobles stay happy, everybody wins.”
Skinny Tal grins, side-stepping an elderly elven servant hurrying past with a massive and gaudy ribbon-tied box as they make their way out. “I'll ask Harmon to pray for an even number of giants.”
For a moment Sorrel thinks she hears the box buzzing, but it's surely only her imagination.
Krem was trying to enjoy a quiet drink with his husband, really he was. A nice quiet drink out at a nice quiet country tavern before the rest of them got too worked up about fighting giants and he had to break up any fights, or start any fights, or generally knock some heads together.
Sure, he spots the group down one end of the bar, trouble in potential, but it's only potential, for now, and their chosen table has a good strategic position, for either escaping a bar fight or getting involved in one.
Chief really passed on some troubling habits, damn him.
“How was Lord Eppenden?” Stitches asks.
“Rich.” Krem tells him, because that's the most flattering adjective. “Young. Full of himself.”
“We still get paid if a giant steps on him?” Stitches says.
Krem shrugs. “Half up front. I think they'll be watching from a distance, though. His father-in-law to be has hired some other lot to fight with us, which could be interesting, or disastrous, depending if they're any good or not.”
Stitches shrugs. “As long as they don't expect me to play healer to them. I've got my hands full with you idiots already.”
It's quiet for a while, as the evening deepens and the bar fills up. The rest of the clientele are mostly farmers from the outskirts and a few townfolk- the butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker, and so on. He listens to the surrounding conversations, but nobody has any problems of the sort that would be a job for a mercenary company. It's the usual sort of gossip-- who is marrying happily or unhappily, whose land is doing well or poorly. Some lord nobody likes got thrown from his horse in the marketplace, some farmer bought some fancy new equipment from a travelling dwarven inventor. Nobody holds a particularly high opinion of the young Lord Eppenden, but as the local butcher tells him, at least the bugger pays his bills, which is good to know.
Nothing, in fact, happens at all until they're actually on their way back. There's no reason at all for Krem to get involved, but as they step around the corner he hears the low kaffas and sees some skinny kid hit a wall, surrounded by half a dozen generic thugs. “Hey!” he says, and follows it up with a fist to the face of the nearest one, because some things he just won't stand for.
He's going to blame The Iron Bull and all those troubling habits he's inherited along with the damn mercenary company.
He might have delayed longer in joining the fight if he'd realised the kid was a mage, but by the time one of the thugs finds his feet frozen to the ground, it's already too late to back out. There's also no time for Stitches to sigh at him before joining the fray, but Krem's sure he hears him doing it anyway. Between the two of them and the kid, who fights dirty, bless his little mage heart, it doesn't take long before all those who still can have taken the wise option of running away.
One of the farmers wanders around the corner, looks at the scene, and obviously decides to just walk straight on home. Krem offers a hand to the boy, who is semi-slumped against the wall. “You alright, kid?”
“Fuck off, old man. I didn't need your help!” the boy snarls, impressively for someone who looks to be so drunk he can't quite stand straight, or maybe that's the concussion making him stagger. “I am a dragonslayer. I have been trained by Magister Dorian Pavus personally.”
“Did Dorian Pavus teach you to pick a fight with six guys without any backup?” Stitches asks. “This isn't sarcasm, I'm genuinely asking because it's the kind of thing he'd do.”
Krem on the other hand, has just put together two and dragons and gotten for fuck's sake. “You're supposed to be retired, idiots.”
“What?” the kid says, looking even more confused than before.
“Nothing. Look, let us see you back home, just in case. I'm not saying you can't manage by yourself, but-- humour me, okay?”
“It's just a trophy fight for a wedding, Stitches.” a low voice murmurs behind him. “No trouble at all, Stitches. Remind me again why I didn't take up Trevelyan's offer of a nice quiet position in Ostwick, wearing velvet and making up poultices for chilblains and attending cheese parties?”
“You'd get bored.” Krem informs him, but closes the gap between them to press an apology kiss to his lips, because he really had intended for a nice quiet night out with hardly any fistfights at all.
“Why do old people have to kiss so much?” the boy grumbles, but grudgingly indicates a direction. “We're camped this way. Don't tell Skinny Tal what happened, he'll make the face.”
Harmon volunteered to take first watch, mostly because he pulled the short straw and has to share a tent with Jack, and therefore with Jack's opinions about everything, starting with Harmon's hair (it's just hair!) and ending with his boots (they're just boots! no holes or anything!).
There's generally not much to worry about in a place like this, but he keeps a good watch anyway because it is An Important Duty. So he recognises Rat as he approaches, limping slightly, although not the people with him. That's okay. They have a protocol for this.
“Whatever he did,” he says as they approach, “we're really very sorry and will pay for damages.”
“Shut up, idiot.” Rat says. He looks mostly unharmed, although a bit like someone punched him in the face. Harmon has been punched quite a lot actually, and Rat also gets punched a fair bit because he forgets Harmon's job is to stand in front and take punches for other people, and so he feels fairly certain that's what happened.
The two old guys with him look sort of amused, which is better than angry. One of them holds out a hand. “No reparations necessary. I'm Krem, I head up the Chargers these days.”
Harmon gets halfway through the handshake before he remembers where he's heard that name before. “Oh! Sorrel and Tal wanted to talk with you.”
He gives a quick whistle to Porkbarrel Dave, who is taking first watch with him, and watches as he takes two steps towards Sorrel's tent, notices the two Mabari napping outside, and then thinks better of it and heads back towards where Tal's bunking instead.
Porkbarrel Dave is real smart like that. Chances are Daisy and Sorrel are just sleeping, but sometimes they throw things and if it's Daisy the things might be knives. After a couple more moments Skinny Tal comes hurrying in their direction. He's making the face, only equalled in severity by Harmon's own Mam, and Harmon is very glad that it's not aimed at him this time. “Whatever he did--” Tal starts, and Rat groans audibly.
“I did nothing.” he says.
“I'm sure. Go get the healer to put something on those bruises you picked up doing nothing,” Tal tells him, “and we'll be talking about this later.”
“Do you want me to help you there?” Harmon offers, because Rat was limping earlier and Tal has these ideas he keeps explaining about a buddy system.
“That's a good idea, Harmon. Great initiative.” Tal says, grinning over Rat's spluttering denials of needing any sort of help at all. Harmon takes this as permission to follow Rat and make sure he does get something for his bruises, since Tal probably has the Talking To Old People side of things well in hand.
Rat stomps ahead in silence. “You're supposed to take me with you if punching might happen.” Harmon points out. “Sorrel says I'm thick-skinned.”
“She means you're too stupid to take an insult.” Rat says over his shoulder, but he does storm off in the direction of the healer's tent instead of his own so the buddy system works.
After a quite brief but enlightening evening discussion with Skinny Tal, the Tal-Vashoth who insists he's not in charge of the Nevarran Collective, Krem rounds a few more of the Chargers up and heads back in the morning for some proper strategy talks.
They're an interesting crew. Grim is having some sort of staring contest with a short woman covered in knives and flanked by two Mabari, and Rocky is having an entirely different, more sexually charged staring contest with a young dwarf wearing a shirt with a very Orlesian amount of ruffles on it. The young mage from the night before, who from what Krem understands of Skinny Tal's apologies just goes by 'Rat', is being shadowed by the big lad, who appears to be sort of like a larger, dopier Mabari in human form.
Skinny Tal and an elf with short hair and a staff head in their direction. “Sorrel.” she says, holding out a hand.
Krem shakes it, and considers what tidbits he's heard about this group so far. “Krem, current head of the Chargers. I took over from The Iron Bull when he retired.” In case he hadn't already suspected what the Chief had been doing with his supposed retirement, the array of startled looks dropping that particular name produces is a pretty good hint. That idiot. Krem doesn't care if there's no word for retirement in Qunlat, he's had the concept of try to stop doing things that might fuck up all your fucked up joints even more than usual explained to him by at least twelve separate members of the Chargers and at least half a dozen times by Stitches alone.
To be fair, it's also incredibly funny to see this bunch of mercenaries staring at him like Krem just told them he used to work for Andraste.
He hadn't come here with much of a plan beyond checking out the quality of their people and making sure that they knew at least something about fighting giants-- he's got enough problems keeping his own lot out of trouble without having to worry about a merry band of actual children.
“They know Dorian Pavus, too.” Rat says, and Krem watches as Sorrel's face goes through a fascinating series of expressions, at least three quarters of them grounded in irritation, which seems about right for someone who's been exposed to Dorian before.
“Why don't we leave that conversation for later,” Stitches suggests, “and actually talk about about the job at hand?”
It's a good idea, and they do actually make it through most of a fairly sensible discussion about how to divvy up the quarry and put on a good show without unnecessary levels of risk. By about lunchtime, however, the casks come out, and by midafternoon Sorrel is slurring at everyone over the table about everything that annoys her about Dorian while Rat, only a touch less drunk, defends him with the sort of viciousness Skinner would probably approve of if she wasn't preoccupied with the knife-wielding mabari trainer right now.
Honestly, Sorrel's list is fairly comprehensive, given they apparently didn't spend that much time together. To think Krem once imagined, vaguely and with what he now recognises as entirely unfounded optimism, that Dorian might mellow a little with age.
“It was a very good learning experience.” Skinny Tal says, mildly. “I feel we grew as individuals and as a team, and also I'm not sure I ever want to go through it again. Harmon took notes, and keeps asking me for more cultural context about great respect.”
Krem spent a great many years in the company of The Iron Bull and has all the cultural context he needs about that one already, thanks. “Oh dear.”
“To giants,” Skinny Tal says, lifting his cup. “May they be less trouble than dragons.”
Famous last words.
Down in the clearing, vaguely aware of the eyes on them from the hunting lodge perched above, Tal surveys the battlefield ahead and starts off feeling quite good about this entire prospect.
Valencia, the baron's daughter, turns up wearing an very impractical outfit made entirely of snow-white leather, and thankfully wielding a crossbow, which means that Tal can stick her at the back and let Jack and Porkbarrel Dave guard her while she takes inaccurate pot-shots at it from a distance. Jack has the good sense to encourage her to go for the head, so when the shots go wide they arc off into the sky rather than hitting anybody else.
On the other side, the Chargers move together like they've done this a hundred times before, cutting down their first giant with enviable flair, but it's not that long before a combination of arrows and magic and Harmon's wild axe-swings take theirs down, too.
There were three total, but the third is larger, somehow faster, too. A barrage of missiles seem to merely ricochet off its thick hide and irritate it more than anything else, and as Tal circles, waiting for a safe moment to get in close and find a weak spot, Harmon rushes past him, ignoring everything they'd talked about earlier entirely.
A swing of a giant fist knocks him down, and a giant foot raises up, and Tal feels his heart in his chest because he's not nearly close enough to do anything about it.
In the next moment, something magical whistles past his ear and hits the giant-- not fire or ice but it gives the thing pause and then, slowly, it lowers its foot. Reaches down with a massive hand instead but gently, plucking Harmon from the earth and cradling him with a low, weird hum.
Tal turns around, to see Rat with his staff raised. “Archers, hold off a moment! We don't want to hit him. Rat, explain.”
“It was meant to be a confusion spell.” Rat says, defensively. “She was going to step on him! Even that idiot doesn't deserve to be stepped on.”
“Well, if she thinks Harmon is a baby giant-- confusion success, I would say.” Sorrel says, eyeing the one remaining giant and the panicking man she has clutched to her chest. “Anyone know if giants are particularly protective of their young?”
“Viciously.” Krem yells, from the far side. “But we can work with this.”
“Your friend there scared of fire?” Dalish asks from beside him. “Because if so, it's going to suck to be him in about three seconds.”
It doesn't even take that long-- Harmon's axe is on the ground, but as he turns in the giant's grip Tal remembers the short sword the big idiot thinks of as his belt knife, and he suddenly knows exactly what is about to happen.
As Harmon tries to lunge up for its face he rushes in, cold terror up his spine. He can't believe that having survived the Ben-Hassrath and an actual real dragon, that this is how he might die.
Crushed by a giant.
At least he's among friends.
He gets one good hit in, he remembers that. Unfortunately, Rat's spell doesn't seem to extend to making the giant think he's some sort of baby giant, and the thing kicks out, sending him flying.
The last thing he sees before he blacks out is a screaming Harmon, clinging on to a sword stuck into one of the giant's eyes, as it flails about with its hair on fire.
Honestly, he doesn't know why he was expecting things to go any differently.
Krem would like to say the the Nevarran Collective provided them with an admirable distraction, but actually it turns out they're just a bunch of fucking idiots, even the qunari who seemed like he was the sensible one.
No wonder the Chief likes them.
Still, it was sufficient to provide an opening for Skinner to hamstring the damn thing, and once that brought it closer to earth, for the rest of the Chargers – with a little help from the kids, granted-- to put an end to it.
As they all stand around, sweating and a little bloody, Stitches dividing his time between Rocky's shoulder and the pretty nasty concussion Skinny Tal took when he decided to rush in like a fool, there is a single, clear noise like a crossbow accidentally being fired and then Harmon, still clinging dazed to the sword stuck in the giant's eye even though he's safely on the ground, yelps as the bolt strikes him right in one asscheek.
It's the first thing that Lady Valencia has hit the entire battle. “Don't worry,” he hears the fancy dwarf Rocky has been eyeing up telling her, “That's actually really good luck for the whole wedding thing.” Krem's not sure how much she buys this, but he's also definitely just taken her entire stash of bolts away, so either way the problem is solved.
Definitely time to get paid and get a drink, hopefully in that order.
Their part in the festivities officially done and the wounded mostly patched up, they are herded off back into the lodge through the servants' entrance to get the rest of their pay from the sour-faced seneschal and stay out of the way of the more important guests, thank you very much and go away.
Krem's used to that sort of thing for this sort of thing, although when the Chief was still around there was always a good chance he'd be called back in for a quick bit of 'private conversation' with some merry widow or adventurous young baron. Right now, he mostly wants to go get the giant blood off his boots and maybe have a nice peaceful drink.
Therefore, seeing a familiar face among the bustling servants preparing the wedding feast whose presence definitely does not bode well for any sort of peaceful end to the day is something of a mild shock. “Do I even want to know what you're here to ruin?”
“Who's ruining anything? You can still get married if your cake explodes.” Sera says, grinning manically beneath her slightly askew cloth cap. “Ours did. We got everyone to come really close and then BLAM, cake in the face.”
“I distinctly remember being told that was an accident.” Krem says.
“Yeah but you believed me, so that's on you.” Sera points out, which, actually is a good point, and grins wider. “Just go have a drink somewhere else, and probably don't eat any of the little cakes. Or the big cakes. Or anything with them nom-perils on, really.”
“Noted.” Krem says, and beats a very hasty retreat, because if the Red Jennies are interested in this wedding? Somewhere else is going to need to be a tavern about three towns away before sundown, thank you very much.
The next time he sees the Chief, they're going to have a talk.
They're left stuck in the back of one of the carts where they've been unceremoniously dumped while (and Tal quotes directly from Sorrel here) the ones not stupid enough to get hit by a giant go ahead to find a tavern with sufficient stocks of booze for their mood right now. Harmon whimpers miserably beside him, at a tone that is really doing nothing for Tal's throbbing headache.
“Cheer up.” Jack says. “You brought the wedding some luck, and we got paid a good sum, and I stole a bunch of these tiny cakes.”
Tal looks over at the slightly smushed and very pastel item Jack is holding out. “Pass. I don't like those sprinkle things.”
“Your loss.” Jack says, as Harmon makes grabby hands from his position on his stomach, bandaged ass in the air. “Still, at least all the terrible things that could happen today have already happened, right?”