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[undwarfy]

Come here for musebox stuff, PSLs, or post-captcha meme continuation. Put the verse or PSL or whatever in the subject line plz.

Hit this up if you know me and have an idea. Hit me up if you don't know me, we've never interacted IC or OOC, and you have an idea. Hit this up for any and all reasons. I welcome everything.

Comments

tfln

[lonesomewanderer]

[ Continued from here. ]

The ones I have yet to promise to answer, [ he reminds Varric. He has winded his way through politics and social gatherings to know how to handle his drinks. There was an art to it and he could tell already he would be matched with an equal in it with Varric. ]

I expect a fair trade.

[ Because his stories aren't free. ]

[undwarfy]

You mean other than the fantastically expensive illegally smuggled wine we're drinking?

[Eyebrow raise.]

Drink up, Chuckles. I'm too sober for price negotiation.

tfln

[redtailedhawke]

( whoosh! )

[ what archer? the guy who won't stop whining at Hawke about Starkhaven as if she could even place it on a map, let alone care about its line of succession? no, the only important archer in Hawke's life is right here! as is, of course, the most important spirit, and Hawke's eyes light up again figuratively as Anders' do literally. she does very much love his lightshow.

when he fades back to matte, Hawke pets soothingly at his... arm, the closest bit of him within reach, with her hands. clack-clack-clack. ]

Shh, shh, shh. It's okay. I won't let anyone get you.

[ oh, but speaking of Varric, and regretting things in the morning: ]

Varric! You should... give him the thing I found. The tasty thing. [ he took it away at the same time he took her phone away, which is fine because the bottle had become very difficult to grasp. but now they should share it. ]

[undwarfy]

[Varric snorts uncharitably.]

You know, a roaring rampage of religious fury might actually make Choir Boy interesting.

[Which is his way of saying: suck it, Anders. The chantry hat stays.

Also, he's definitely making a note about the tingly sex thing. Yeah. That makes Hawke the second witness in their little gang who's personally experienced it. Varric can sit on that comment for later.

Then Varric obediently gets Anders a drink. A very, very strong drink- but not the one that made Hawke see things.]

[paragonbrosca]

[From here.]

[Aren rubs her eyes, yawning. She is so not a morning person, even when she's not partying the night before.]

I might've, but Barkspawn wouldn't let me. Apparently, he can understand everything but 'leave me alone to die'.

Yet Another UST Thing

[questionablewit]

Later on Hawke would blame it on the Blooming Rose, like so many others before her. She'd gone there alone (for once) to silently settle a debt of her uncle's, as she often did. He was an asshole, but he was asshole who was family, and for her mother's sake Hawke kept an eye on him and didn't let him get into too much trouble.

But this time she'd gone while feeling tired and out of sorts and antsy, irritable without having a real reason why. And this time when one of the whores had called out an invitation, on a whim, she thought, why the fuck not.

There were all sorts of reasons why not, of course. It was a brothel. Not really her style. If she got some annoying disease and had to go to Anders, he'd give her that disappointed, I thought better of you look. Her mother would have been furious. If Isabela found out, Hawke would never live it down.

But fuck it. She was tired. She just wanted to relax and feel good for an hour or so. Surely that wasn't too much to ask.

It'd gone wrong. Not that wrong. Denier had certainly tried his best. She'd closed her eyes and tried to just not think, to feel, to let him rub her back and stroke her chest and use his mouth, but his mouth was all wrong, especially the beard, there was far too much beard, and that was the moment when Hawke realized what was wrong and who she was unconsciously trying to imagine was using his mouth on her. That was when she groaned, stopped, got dressed, gave Denier a bonus for his trouble and to keep his mouth shut, and left.

When she got home she spent an hour punching and kicking her own shadow in the basement and seriously considered wandering Darktown looking for lowlifes to brawl, then decided it'd be better to wear herself out, have a bath, go to sleep, and try to forget the whole evening had happened at all.

But she didn't forget.

infinite UST fractals

[undwarfy]

In all fairness, Denier did keep his mouth shut. Rose employees weren't just paid for their good looks. As it happened, Denier was some Carta rat's cousin and some Guild prick's favorite toy, so someone (let's call him Skeezy McGee) happened to be watching. When someone as famous and rare a brothel patron as Hawke buys Denier's time, someone notices- in this case, Skeezy McGee. Skeezy McGee made sure to be at Varric's next card game at the Hanged Man, telling Varric everything like a starving dog with the last pitiful scrap of filth.

In Varric's opinion, Hawke's extracurricular activities were her own affair. She was a big girl and could chase loneliness and ennui however she wanted- not everyone had an authorial career to drown in. Still, Skeezy made it his business by telling him about it over cards in front of several witnesses, so Varric had to deal. In this case, with raised eyebrows and an incredulous remark about what was and wasn't Varric's damn business. Regardless of how surprising it was to hear that Hawke went after a dwarf- not at all her usual taste, from what Varric could glean, and lacking the big soulful eyes and dick-sucking lips of her usual thirsty admirers. The thought of Hawke with someone else (especially someone that looks like his brother, gross) set Varric's teeth on edge.

Skeezy Mcgee, bless his stupid beard, kept at the conversation, going as far as remarking on what Hawke would look like (and how she'd be walking) if he had a go at her. Varric clenched his teeth and dealt the next hand. A few moments later, after an especially indelicate bit of cheating, Varric stood up and loudly reprimanded the shocked dwarf, causing enough of an outraged ruckus that Skeezy McGee got thrown out. Getting kicked out of the Hanged Man for cheating was a bit like getting kicked out of the chantry for praying, and someone passing by asked Varric what the guy had really done to piss him off. The next card game went more peacefully, and gave him ample time to think.

Why HAD she gone to Denier? Hawke never looked at dwarves, and often threatened Varric with bodily harm if he ever tried to grow a beard. He wasn't bad looking for a dwarf - all blonde hair and brown eyes - but that begged its own question, didn't it? Why run out on him? If she wasn't happy, why leave the Rose altogether instead of returning to the store shelves, as it were? In his experience, people only stormed out of expensive brothels if they had a moral crisis (unlikely), a religious crisis (unlikelier), or had some kind of weird personal issue.

By the time he saw Hawke again, a couple days later, he'd thought about it a lot. More than was healthy, he guessed. There was one thought that occurred to him, but it was stupid. Not even Varric was THAT egotistical.

Firefly AU

[thedifferentperspective]

Justice isn't a stranger to fighting with Isabela. Isabela has potential to be a good person, if she would only learn to stop embracing her own selfishness, and Justice gets frustrated and Isabela gets angry so fighting just happens.

But tonight was different. Isabela snapped, and she declared that Justice had no place to judge, because she had no idea what it was like to be mortal. Justice objected, saying she had lived in Anders' body for years and now has her own body, but Isabela kept pushing. Justice had never drank or eaten or fucked, never loved and lost, had never even cried. All her most human experiences were through Anders' eyes, not her own. She was the furthest thing possible from human, and thus shouldn't judge them. It would be better for her to march into the Chantry and try replacing one of the statues of a saint, because that's all she'd be good for.

Justice isn't one to be cut easily by words, but even she has to admit that these have burrowed into her brain. She sits outside of the Hanged Man for a long time after her work is done--she has committed to sleeping at least once a week so she can visit the Fade regularly without neglecting her duties, and today is the day she usually reserves for sleep. But instead, she sits on a barrel outside of the Hanged Man, watching people waltz in and out, and she thinks.

It's late when she finally goes inside. She doesn't consider that Varric might be worried about her extended absence, consumed as she is by thought. She barges into his room as she always does--with no ceremony, and blurting something entirely inappropriate.

"Do you think I should have sex?"

[undwarfy]

Varric, as it happens, has given her absence very little thought- she's a scary motherfucker when she wants to be, glows in the dark, and has the ability to pour the untempered Fade into people's eyeballs and explode them with swords. So, you know, she can probably handle the goddamn Sharps Highwaymen.

What he is giving thought to is the new pelt he has, taken from some shitass bear Hawke killed the other day. She'd tossed the pelt at him (all cleaned and tanned or whatever and soft and wonderful) unceremoniously and told him that the damn beast had been such a pain in the ass that she felt the need to commemorate it. So naturally he was wrapped up in it like a blanket, shirt hanging over a chair, curled on his bed with a book and enjoying the feel of fur on bare skin. A book, a fur blanket, and a drink- perfect.

Then Justice barged in (whatever) and blurted out something appalling, and Varric actually choked on his fucking drink.

"Wh- what?!"

The fuck, Justice. The actual fuck.

You know what AU this is. Straight after the conversation with Zora, pretty much.

[questionablewit]

Varric is never hard to find. His campfire is always popular, with people wandering by in search of a story or three or ten, to say nothing of the actual official people who sometimes want a word with him. Besides, they're camping in the desert. Hawke could find him just by following the sound of complaints. Sand, tents, wind, more sand, a complete lack of all the civilized amenities a merchant prince deserves...Varric is, quite literally, not a happy camper.

Out of deference to her and her probably futile desire for something resembling anonymity, he's set up more on the outskirts of things than usual, and of course her bedroll is near his. Where else would it be? He's the only person or thing she's actively glad to see in this entire blighted mess.

A fact that rings more true now, as she makes her way over, walking a little too fast and looking a little too calm. Fortunately no one's around just at present, and he's busy fine-tuning Bianca and making sure she'll be in shape for tomorrow. Good. Maybe if she's lucky she'll shoot anyone who interrupts. "Tell me you have something worth drinking squirreled away in one of those packs," she says, without preamble, more or less throwing herself on her bedroll nearby. She rolls over and stares up at the sky. The stars are coming out. "Whiskey, for preference."

i love your understanding of his whininess

[undwarfy]

Varric is, indeed, not a happy camper. The outdoors is like a giant uncomfortable tumor that keeps growing in his life and taking over everything. Dicking around with Hawke never involved this much camping, he whines occasionally, and sometimes people even listen, and ask for stories. Lately he's been shying away from stories about Hawke, out of respect for her proximity. If the name "Hawke" is on the brain, they're more likely to notice the lone woman with a mabari creeping around camp.

It's a good thing no one's around when she rolls up, judging by the way she's walking. It's too smooth and too quick, and Varric puts Bianca down immediately.

"Must be serious. I'll bring out that good Ferelden whiskey." He produces the aforementioned alcohol and offers it to his friend without a glass or preamble.

"Let me guess, did someone recognize you? Or ask you a bunch of dumb-shit questions? I can talk to Alistair, get him to knock some heads together."

[closerift]

Everything about this is new, and not just the obvious bits. The constant chill, the unforgiving firmness of the beds, the amount of dog shit on the roads (what is it with Fereldans and their dogs?). Even more than that, it's the people: the way they walk, dress... and, of course, her least favorite thing: the staring. After so long of having to make herself into a spectacle to get anyone to actually see her, Cecily Trevelyan is finding that she isn't so fond of having them gawk unprompted.

Not all of Haven's residents are bad, though. Luckily, there's at least one who has a charming sense of humor.

"You'd think that, with something like the end of the world hanging over their heads, people might be drinking like it's the end of the world."

Not an especially pious introduction for the alleged Herald of Andraste as she approaches the dwarf standing near a fire, but an introduction all the same. Technically, of course, they'd already been introduced, since he'd been there to help the Seeker and the apostate ferry her to the ruins of the Temple.

Cecily clears her throat, trying to look more at ease than she feels.

"... D'you mind if I ask you something? If you've a moment."

[undwarfy]

Varric returns her greeting with a snort and a remark about the inferiority of Ferelden... well, everything, before she clears her throat and speaks. He considers it (very briefly) over a sip of his ale. There's not much to consider, really. A beautiful, brave, incredibly badass woman with an assfull of destiny- it's like catnip to him, really.

"For the Herald, I might even have two." Playfully. "What's on your mind?"

[lyriumclaws]

The fight that night had been hard, and all Fenris's doing. He had heard of the slavers on the coast and had made it clear that, no matter what, he was going to end them. Even if it meant going alone.

Hawke had other ideas (Of course, though; it was Hawke.) and there had been four of them going in the end. Of course, the abomination had been one of them, but that had been for the best in the end - though he would never admit it.

Fenris had a temper. Everyone who knew him knew that. And so it had surprised none of them when he had forgotten his own wounds in favour of causing the slavers a few more. By the time they lay dead and the slaves had been freed, Fenris had been lightheaded from blood loss and had had to put up with the abomination's healing. Without it, he'd be dead - but that didn't mean he had to like it. A few healing potions surely would've done the same, but the mage was faster.

Thus, when he did as was custom anymore and arrived at the Hanged Man as the day neared its end, he was free from bruise or blemish, but still walked like one of the wounded. It was one thing he'd told Varric a few weeks ago now. The healing did its job and knit his flesh back together, but magic - even healing magic - on the lyrium made it react and pull and burn. He'd learned to weather it, but it wasn't pleasant.

He took his usual seat, picked up his usual glass, and propped his sword a half-length of his arm down the table. No more going to Lowtown unarmed. Not in this political climate. "Please spare me the lecture. I already know I was foolish."

[undwarfy]

"Good," he said mildly, dealing the cards without so much as a hello. "At least I can get the don't be a sodding idiot, you fucking moron part of the evening's festivities out of the way quickly."

That, paired with a sharp glance over the cards, was all that indicated Varric's worry. It hadn't been surprising in the least to see Fenris lose his sodding mind over the slavers (shit, who didn't get half a stiffy from laying those bastards out?), but that didn't mean Varric had to like it.

So, if he dealt the cards with a little more snap than usual, throwing cards at the elf with an unnecessary amount of force, so be it.

Ashfae here, meet my OC.

[shiftlinggirl]

Dar was watching the Inquisition.

She'd been living in the Bannorn and the Hinterlands for years, running without a real purpose or idea of what to do with herself. For the first while it hadn't mattered. She'd wanted to be alone for a while, away from Highever and the Collective and the feeling that she'd made a complete and utter fool of herself. Living outside was no real difficulty for her. There were always mice to hunt, scraps to steal, some branch or cave to sleep in, if you knew where to look and what to avoid, what skin to wear in what situation.

Then the Mage-Templar War started, and that had changed everything.

Then the Breach opened, and that had changed everything again.

Demons everywhere, towns abandoned, the Hinterlands and Bannorn overrun with rogue mages and rogue Templars alike, to say nothing of innocent refugees caught between them. She helped where she could, little things, bits of healing that drew no attention. Mostly to animals, curing this goat or that sheephound, and if the owners never knew, that was all right. She didn't need thanks. She didn't need anything.

Except...maybe she did, because she'd been wandering on her own for such a long time. She hadn't really let herself think about how lonely it was getting.

So she spent more time with the refugees, even in her own form. She did more rudimentary healing, herbalism. She'd never been much good at brewing potions, at precise measurements, but she could collect herbs for those who could. And if they never asked how it was that she could wander into dangerous territory on her own and emerge without a scratch, well, there were things she was sure they didn't tell her either. Everyone had secrets. But no one thought one small scrawny elf girl could do much harm. And they were right, she couldn't. Though she had her own secrets too.

Then the Inquisition came.

If Dar believed in the Chantry, she might've said they were Maker-sent. Most did. They started imposing a sort of order on things, providing supplies, healers, leaders, guards, civilisation. They welcomed anyone, Templar or mage. They fought the demons. They fought the Breach.

Dar wasn't a fighter. She was just one rat girl who wandered. Nobles and the Inquisition had nothing to do with her.

But she watched them all the same, especially the ones who had power. It was always a good idea to watch those with power. It was always a good idea to study carefully anything that might have the power to hurt you, so you'd know how best to run. She didn't think the Inquisition was dangerous, to her or anyone. But she'd spent her lifetime in hiding, and some habits didn't die easily.

And then dwarf who never did up his shirt had said something to the bald mage, the elf with eyes that looked like they'd seen into forever, and they'd both looked at the falcon in the tree. But the elf had seen her. Had gestured, an unmistakable invitation, made not to a bird but to a person.

She'd flown off, of course, deeply shaken. What had happened? Had she been acting too obviously un-birdlike? She wasn't a falcon even when she looked like one, she was still Dar, just Dar in a falcon shape.

She was as fascinated as she was frightened, and whenever either of the pair appeared in the Hinterlands, she watched them. Not as a falcon, not again. As a mabari, usually. No one ever minded having a mabari around, even a small, unpartnered one.

Today she was just herself, a young elf girl, with barefeet and a dirty face and an arm full of herbs, and she checked her steps as she approached the woman who'd asked her to fetch them, because the dwarf was standing there chatting with her. She'd never seen him do any harm with that giant crossbow on his back, except to the red Templars and those who'd attacked him first. But still. She approached warily, keeping her eyes on the ground.

o/

[undwarfy]

At the time, all Varric did was remark to Chuckles that that bird was giving them a weird look. When Solas had checked it out, his quiet response had shocked the hell out of him: "That's because it's not a bird, Master Dwarf."

Of course it flew away, leaving them both curious, Varric more so than Solas, though also more given to kvetching about it. Solas could only say that he sensed some magics from it, possibly shapeshifting or a form of enthrallment. They were more cautious after that, now having to watch for the damn animals spying on them. Bloody sodding apostates.

Today he had little to worry about, though. He was speaking to a medicine woman while the Inquisitor was busy buying shit, and he was pleased as punch about getting some down time. The approaching elf girl was a surprise; there weren't many elves out here, and the humans were rarely happy to see any of them.

The woman turned a sharp eye on the elf girl, impatiently gesturing to an empty basket and snapping, "Took you long enough, girl! Bloody kni-" she glanced at Solas, walking towards them, and Lavellan, shopping a dozen yards away, and cut herself off. "-Vagrant child."

"Vagrant?" Varric remarked, giving the girl an almost-wink. "In my experience, vagrants are some of the best people you'll ever meet. Also, the craziest. One or the other."

He turned to the girl, immediately feeling a bit sorry for her for being stuck with this unpleasant woman. This must be why that healer in Redcliffe didn't want to come out to the crossroads- dealing with this shit.

"You got all those yourself? Must've had to go out pretty far to get that much."

Interesting. How did a little barefoot girl survive the chaos of the Hinterlands all by her lonesome?

one stabbity smuggler herald of andraste

[shiftysmugglertype]

Gisla Cadash has no idea what the fuck is going on, and amnesia is only part of it. She knows perfectly well what she was doing at the Conclave until the day of the explosion, then she lost a week broken up only by a few hours of interrogation, demon-fighting, punching green holes in the fabric of reality, and passing out for another three days. Now she's the Herald of Andraste, and a declared heretic where she isn't a saint, and making decisions about how to respond to pleas for assistance, and this is all too much for a girl, okay.

(Finding food, finding caches for refugees, that had been simple. That'd just been common decency. The rest of this? No, too much.)

But none of that is the worst, according to Gisla at this moment. None of it. All of it is fine, all of it can be dealt with. No, the worst, the very worst thing in all of this, even beyond that sliver of the Maker-damned Fade in her hand is what happens she sleeps.

She dreams.

She, a dwarf, fucking dreams.

She's been a street-kid, a runner, a whore, then a Carta smuggler for over a decade, and nothing terrifies Gisla so much as what happens when she shuts her eyes. Most of the time, she just grits her teeth and puts up with it, trusting that the hallucinations are Not Real. But tonight, she wants to experiment a little. She's heard, read of, people drinking to sleep and forget their dreams, and honestly it sounds like a fan-fucking-tastic idea. The only thing is to choose her drinking companion carefully.

Which is why, after consulting with Leliana and the newly arrived Mother Giselle about dealing with the Chantry Mothers in Val Royeax, Gisla wanders out of Haven's chantry in search of the other dwarf in her party. Varric. She's even nice and brings her own bottle of Antivan brandy she'd liberated from a crate somewhere. The beer, the mead, the ale, that she leaves for the rations everyone gets. But this stuff?

Hers.

"Wanna share this with me?" she asks once she's standing at Varric's fire, and holds up the bottle.

Bring it on.

[magefreedom]

He goes by a different name these days, when anyone calls him anything. Mostly he keeps to himself. He lives in a cave, has a few goats he tends, travels to the various refugee camps and heals and trades herbs for minor goods. He gets to know a few people by sight; refugees, shepherds, hunters. A few other mages, still frightened, still hiding from Templars. He doesn't speak to them of revolution. He'd tried to continue his work back when it all started, and he'd been able to do some, but eventually had to acknowledge he'd become more of a hindrance than a help. And then everything fell to pieces, far beyond his dreams or hopes. Or his fears.

He meets a few of the now-rogue Templars as well. The meetings are short and violent, and he's the only one who walks away from them.

He talks to his goats a good deal, gives them ridiculous names, tells them stories. Tries to explain to them, since he can't explain to anyone else. He writes a lot of letters in his head that he can't send. Most start with "I'm sorry."

He regrets it every day, and every day he knows he'd do the same thing over again. There was no other option left. He believes it to his core.

Then the sky opens. He finds a rift in a farmyard, feels the Fade bleeding out of it. He can fight the demons that emerge long enough for any innocents to escape. He can't close it.

He hears about the Herald of Andraste, who can. He hears about the Inquisition. He keeps out of its way.

But time passes and the Inquisition grows, and gradually order starts returning to the Hinterlands: protection, food, warmth, security. The wandering healer with his goats is needed less, though he still visits settlements sometimes. To trade, to talk, to listen. There a particular piece of news he's always hoping to hear, and he never does, but he always hopes. He can't help it.

He stays alive, because it's what Hawke wanted for him. The one last thing he can do for her.

hell yes.

[undwarfy]

It starts with rams, of all things.

Some sodding hunter at the crossroads said they needed more food for the refugees. Naturally, instead of delegating this menial task to someone else, the Herald of sodding Andraste felt the need to do this her own damn self. Because the one thing all heroes had in common was apparently the insatiable urge to run other people's errands.

Skip ahead a few hours and they found themselves slaughtering rams in the Hinterlands, far out from any known farmers who might get bent out of shape about blatant goat poaching. They followed some blighted magical druffalo or whatever for forty-five minutes, picked 835 elfroots, and closed a Rift that was more sodding trouble than it was worth.

Then they went back to killing goats. They were far enough out from any settlements that it should have been fine.

Except, apparently, these goats had an owner. An owner who came running out after them, and while nobody else saw it, the man's face was one that Varric would remember for the rest of his life.

He didn't say anything. He didn't give the Herald, or the Seeker, or Chuckles, or any of their goddamn allies the slightest indication of what happened.

A frighteningly angry roar erupted from him, and he shot. Five bolts, dead center, tight grouping. Aimed to kill.

[mewnifestos]

[ Anders doesn't usually put much effort into this sort of thing; running around checking up on his merry band of misfits really is more in Hawke's purview, as it were. But after... Everything that's happened, in the past few days - most notably last night - he'd have to be heartless not to be a little concerned for Varric's state of mind.

In the end, he gives it just long enough to be relatively sure Hawke has already come and gone (he's typically quite prompt about these things - Anders knows from experience), and that he's at least probably not piling one social call atop another. It's certainly late enough - he'll have to take the back ways to his clinic, to stay out of the open, even if Varric turns him away at the door. But if wandering Kirkwall at night were the sort of thing to deter him, well— He wouldn't be here at all, then, would he?

The barroom of the Hanged Man is no different than usual, the sounds of both dishes and armor clanking nearly the only thing audible over the din of conversation. Anders politely dismisses a few-odd greetings, as he weaves his way across the crowded floor and toward the stairs. By now, certainly not an unusual sight. As time goes on, the lot of them seem to spend more time in Varric's suite than they ever did congregating around the rickety plywood tables downstairs, and just the thought casts a strange pall on the evening.

It's not like it's the first time he's ever gone to visit Varric without Hawke (or anyone else). It's a regular habit, actually. But tonight, Varric's place feels more like Varric's place than ever, not their shared hideout, and Anders finds himself uncertain if his imminent trespass is really the wisest choice.

Even as he tries the latch, anyway, knocking gently. ]

Varric? Are you there?

[undwarfy]

[It's not locked. It's never locked. Not even today, the lowest day of Varric's life.

The answering call is dull and tired.]

Here, Blondie.

[He's sitting in his chair staring at the fire, paperwork for various Tethras businesses spread out in front of him. In the midst of the fire, gleaming from the dancing light, is a dagger- a small, nondescript thing, still crusted with blood.]

Apparently you *can* go back again. Who knew? (your Lavellan as Inquisitor? or the Alistair AU?)

[questionablewit]

And then it was all over. Corypheus defeated, this time permanently. There were loose ends a-plenty to tie up and the Inquisitor would be busy tying them, with most of her companions remaining to help.

Most. Not all. Varric had finally had it with living in a drafty fortress up in the mountains, where there was far too much nature to plague him. He'd thanked them all, especially Cassandra, for a very nice kidnapping, and fucked off back to Kirkwall.

Hawke met him in Ostwick, when his ship decked to take on supplies. It'd taken some doing to get back from Weisshaupt in time to intercept him, but she managed it. She could have met him in the city, of course, but...

But the truth was that Hawke was more than a little wary about returning to Kirkwall. It wasn't something she'd ever intended to do. She had no idea what she would feel when she saw it, much less what kind of welcome she could expected. Champions weren't supposed to leave the places they Championed, to say nothing of...all the rest. What did people in the city even know about what had happened that night?

What they read in Varric's book, most likely. Just like the rest of the world. Someday she'd pay him back for that.

They stood on the deck, waiting for land to appear on the horizon. It'd only be a few hours now. Hawke was managing not to pace mostly out of willpower, but her grip on the ship's railing was harder than it really needed to be. "Are you sure I can't convince you to elope with me to Highever?" she asked, not for the first time. She wasn't really serious. The idea of Varric living permanently anywhere but Kirkwall was inconceivable, like Solas with hair or Aveline without her armor. "Or Antiva, that should be nice and warm this time of year."

lavellan works fine for me

[undwarfy]

"Sure it is, but at what cost?" He asked dramatically. "It's full of... Antivans."

Clearly, such a nightmare could not be borne. He leaned against the railing next to her, attempting to put her at ease with some casual grab-ass.

"Listen, Hawke, you haven't been back since. I have. The city is thirsty as hell for you- in a good way."

Doing something stupid + caught in a storm.

[imagine63dragons]

"They're getting away!" Fenris snarled, glaring at the blasted human who had dragged her out here. At him, at the abomination, and even at the dwarf who, out of all of them, was the most tolerable.

"One," Hawke fired back. "One, who can go back and warn them not to send more!"

"Or go back and tell them where to find more easy marks," she snapped. "Vishante kaffas, the lot of you--" The words bit off as Fenris hefted her sword, one that looked impossible for an elf her size to lift, and took off in the direction the escapee had chosen. The light was getting dimmer, but she didn't care. She had no patience for people who only did a job partway. The last bandit would see his end on her sword - or look at his heart in her hand. Either way would do.

The Wounded Coast was treacherous, which made following the man a pain. Her feet were tough from years of walking mostly bare, but the scree and tree roots were still painful if they caught wrong. She leaped where she could, making no secret of her passage, but she was about as versed in this country as the bandit she chased. No doubt she'd passed a thousand shortcuts.

[undwarfy]

Varric, on the other hand, was more familiar with the Wounded Coast than any of them- even Hawke, and his solid year of mercenary work, couldn't come close to the familiarity of a born-and-raised Kirkwaller. He took off after Fenris like a shot, trusting Hawke to follow. Yes, Anders was in the middle of healing him, but surely the two mages would see the importance of staying with the angry murder elf.

With the shortcuts he didn't pass, it was easier than anything to come out ahead of Fenris and head her off in her path.

"Fucking hell, elf," he panted, "You're gonna draw the attention of every sodding bandit in the Free Marches!"

As if on cue, commanded by some divine force of dramatic timing, the skies opened with a dramatic lightning-flash, and it began to rain.