Clan Ashara had seen its fair share of snowstorms in the past, so that didn't vex Merrick much, not initially. His assignment here was to follow up on rumors of Red Templar activity, which eventually led him in the vicinity of Redcliffe-- and by then, his legs were aching, his lungs were burning and he couldn't feel his ears. And he desperately, desperately wanted a drink.
He was loathe to enter the tavern. It was positively swarming with people, much more than the one at Skyhold, and he instantly tensed up as he made his way through the crowd. Though very small, he cut a line for himself easily enough-- people were wary of Dalish in general, and he looked particularly intimidating and unpleasant.
Once at the bar he found himself squished on either side by burly farm hands, big and human and smelly and Creators he wanted out of here. He asked for the hardest drink they had, and bristled when one of the men nearby sniggered. His fingers closed around the dagger at his hip quickly and then released. Alcohol. He needed it. Now.
The barkeep finally passed him his whiskey, which he threw back easily before demanding another. As he waited, his eyes wandered the bar, scanning for suspicious activity--until his eyes fell on one patron in particular.
Shit. Fuck. Nope.
He all but seized his second drink out of the barkeep's hand, downing it quickly before slamming some coin on the surface of the bar and beginning the process of getting out of here now. Unfortunately, the crowd just seemed to get thicker by the second, and he was very small, and he was tipsy and exhausted and where was the exit again?
Tavern
He was loathe to enter the tavern. It was positively swarming with people, much more than the one at Skyhold, and he instantly tensed up as he made his way through the crowd. Though very small, he cut a line for himself easily enough-- people were wary of Dalish in general, and he looked particularly intimidating and unpleasant.
Once at the bar he found himself squished on either side by burly farm hands, big and human and smelly and Creators he wanted out of here. He asked for the hardest drink they had, and bristled when one of the men nearby sniggered. His fingers closed around the dagger at his hip quickly and then released. Alcohol. He needed it. Now.
The barkeep finally passed him his whiskey, which he threw back easily before demanding another. As he waited, his eyes wandered the bar, scanning for suspicious activity--until his eyes fell on one patron in particular.
Shit. Fuck. Nope.
He all but seized his second drink out of the barkeep's hand, downing it quickly before slamming some coin on the surface of the bar and beginning the process of getting out of here now. Unfortunately, the crowd just seemed to get thicker by the second, and he was very small, and he was tipsy and exhausted and where was the exit again?