last building on the left --[ prp shackle ]

The door swung open, and the world went silent, save for the gust of cold air rushing across the floor. Shackle's mammoth frame took up the entire doorway as he bent to step inside. He could feel the gazes of the patrons, either shocked, surprised, or suspicious, as they bore in on what looked like several tons of muscle and flesh. Shackle's nostrils flared, a puff of warm exhalation fading into the wind, a boot reaching back and pushing the door closed. Red eyes, across a sea of black sclera, swept over the room, marking each head internally. 

Always the hostility. Never the hospitality.

Great footsteps drew him to a table, a young, lithe human barkeep looking up in shock as the Tal-Vashoth found himself a seat. The few possessions he had in his pack made it easily the lightest thing on his shoulders, but they were still relieved of the burden as he place it beside him, tucked to the wall. "Mead," he rumbled, voice like a distant thunderclap, "please." The addition of the magic word got the waitress bustling along, as the apostate (or so he supposed he was called) turned blood-red eyes to the window. Beyond his reflection, the cold world of Ferelden remained outside, but the warmth of the nearby hearth was slowly driving away the last talons of cold still biting his skin. 

His arms folded, and he sighed slowly, watching the still world beyond the glass, and waited for his drink. 

And then his night soured.

Shackle had barely brought his drink to his lips, when suddenly, someone was poking him verbally, intent on starting some manner of conversation. Red eyes narrowed, a low growl bubbling out his throat, annoyance focused on the fly sitting across from him. Shackle didn't pay too much attention to them as he took a long slug of the ale, until he lowered the drink down. Gleaming, vicious orbs sized up the human twig in front of him. "Some way," Shackle rumbled, growling as he leaned back. Massive arms folded, walling the Tal-Vashoth off from his unwelcome company as he looked around, keeping an eye on the faces around them.

"What do you want?" He growled, voice like an avalanche, a mile away, but still deafeningly present. She didn't look much like a bounty hunter. Something nagged at the back of his mind as he studied her outfit, but nothing came. Shackle felt that he should know that gryphon, gleaming across her uniform, but still, his mind drew a long, vast blank.

'Not really,' was the answer that almost came to his lips, but Shackle paused as it threatened to bubble free. She wasn't wrong. Even Shackle got lonely, and biting at people was only going to leave him more bitter than the withdrawn apostate already was. Massive fingers drummed the thick wall of his mug, red eyes gleaming across their black, abyssal sea, to the stranger across from him as he waited for a proper answer to rise to his lips. 

"Sometime," Shackle rumbled at last, the Tal-Vashoth not breaking eye contact with the woman as he took another drag of the cool rye. The liquid burned happily as it bubbled down his throat, the warmth pooling delightfully in his chest. If there was ever a fire in his heart or eyes, this helped invigorate it, as if great bellows were fueling this still-burning inferno behind his irises. "Shackle."

Warden.

It all came rushing back to him, and the gleaming sigil of the griffon a little more intimidating than before. In all his journeys, there'd been whispers of these warriors, both famous and infamous, lauded and hated. They drank the blood of these "darkspawn," something that terrified them more than the Qunari in the North, or any of the human kingdoms combined. All rallied to the griffon's banner to join the battle; elves, dwarves, and humans alike all pooled their resources and answered the call when the next Blight was upon them.

Shackle looked over the woman with a new gaze, red irses gleaming and glinting across the table to his company.  "You're a Grey Warden," He rumbled, voice still faint, a statement of realization. He snorted in amusement, huffing like a bull. "Rain's the worst of your worries?"