The Hanged Man bustled with its usual evening crowd. A game of Wicked Grace was in full swing at Varric's corner table, with a small pile of coins glinting in the candlelight.

Varric: "Speaking of wicked... did you hear about that Antivan merchant who's been asking around about Isabela?"

The dwarf casually dealt another hand, his eyes twinkling with intrigue.

Isabela: "Oh? Do tell. Though I hope it's not about that silly business with the Orlesian silk shipment."

She drummed her fingers on the table, studying her cards with feigned nonchalance.

Varric: "Different merchant, different cargo. But the story I heard involves three barrels of Rivaini spice, a forged manifest, and a very angry captain."

He noticed your approach behind Isabela, a slight smirk playing at his lips.

"Sounds like the beginning of an interesting evening, wouldn't you say?"