"So, based on how much you want to go right now, I expect that's once a month?" Varric jokes, dryly, as they walk. After a few minutes they are free from the Gallows and into the open air of Kirkwall. Varric takes a deep breath of the ocean air and looks all too pleased about it.
"Don't worry, Chuckles, I'll take you out whenever you want. Any excuse to go out on the town is a good one," he adds and gestures toward the correct path.
Kirkwall is a city that is so winding and obtuse that describing the layout of the streets as a tangle would be a kindness. Varric, having grown up in this questionable place, knows the whole thing like the back of his hand, and strolls down the street chatting companionably with Solas as he goes. He hands out information, useful and less than useful about each shop and landmark they pass. One guy's brother is named Yvgeni, this place makes excellent cakes, that guy has a dog that smells like sausages, this place burned down five times before they became a tavern.
Eventually they arrive at the market. It's not on a sprawling space along the steps, as one might expect, but rather runs through a length of winding, narrow, structurally questionable alleys. There are shades of various fabrics above them, shading the ground in patches of colored light and shadow and you have to shuffle through the throng of people and past tables of all sorts of goods to get anywhere, but Varric leads the way.
He can smell their goal even from a distance and his step picks up cheerfully as they approach. The smell of crispy (with a tang of burnt in the tolerable zone) sausages and bacon, cooking onions and peppers, and strong dark beer wafts over the crowd.
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"Don't worry, Chuckles, I'll take you out whenever you want. Any excuse to go out on the town is a good one," he adds and gestures toward the correct path.
Kirkwall is a city that is so winding and obtuse that describing the layout of the streets as a tangle would be a kindness. Varric, having grown up in this questionable place, knows the whole thing like the back of his hand, and strolls down the street chatting companionably with Solas as he goes. He hands out information, useful and less than useful about each shop and landmark they pass. One guy's brother is named Yvgeni, this place makes excellent cakes, that guy has a dog that smells like sausages, this place burned down five times before they became a tavern.
Eventually they arrive at the market. It's not on a sprawling space along the steps, as one might expect, but rather runs through a length of winding, narrow, structurally questionable alleys. There are shades of various fabrics above them, shading the ground in patches of colored light and shadow and you have to shuffle through the throng of people and past tables of all sorts of goods to get anywhere, but Varric leads the way.
He can smell their goal even from a distance and his step picks up cheerfully as they approach. The smell of crispy (with a tang of burnt in the tolerable zone) sausages and bacon, cooking onions and peppers, and strong dark beer wafts over the crowd.