Thank you! (: Here I am, taking a stab at it. This was initially much shorter and fluffier and…happier…but it kind of got away from me, so. Here we are! Takes place fairly early in Act 1.
The alley around the corner from The Hanged Man is dark and quiet, everything that the tavern isn’t, and the cool, grimy wall soothes his aching head. Carver can still hear the noise, a bit, in the distance. He fancies he hears his brother’s booming, crackling voice amidst the uneven shouts and cheers. Their last job had been more fruitful than the last ten combined; Garrett had jumped on the chance to celebrate.
Garrett is intolerable always, but he’s far worse when drunk. That smug smile becomes a full-blown, lazy smirk; he laughs too loud and spreads his arms too wide; and he makes impulsive purchases that seem designed to nettle his brother.
But, no; Garrett hadn’t been drunk for that. He’d just been his usual, oblivious self.
He hops down from the crate he’d been sitting on, a hand jerking automatically to the hilt of his sword, but in the next moment he recognizes Merrill’s silhouette in the mouth of the alley and lets his hand fall.
"Oh," he says, too blunt, not nice at all, "it’s just you."
"Mmm," she agrees, ignoring his blunder, and steps a little closer, and offering up the thing she’s holding: his battered old sword, the one he left on the table inside, the one that came with him from Fereldan, from Ostagar. "You left it," she says, not looking at him, but gazing around the alley instead.
He gestures over his shoulder, still too tired to be polite. “I have a new one. Garrett bought it today.”
She frowns, inspecting the weapon in her hands now. “Was this one bad?”
"No," he tries to explain, dragging a dusty, calloused palm over his face. "He didn’t ask me," he says. "He bought me a new one, and he didn’t ask."
"Oh," she says, her eyes widening, as if she’s surprised by this. "That’s very rude, isn’t it?"