fuckblightsâ:
     â Yer friendâs book didnât mention how bloody loud you are. â
HEâD MET THE YOUNG ONE FIRST, funnily enough: when a hawke was just a bird, and not a mantle or an imputation or a death sentence. And truth be told, heâd never even read the thing. Heâd seen the cover somewhere, gleaned the first page or so, but who was counting? Stories had a habit of circulating, especially regarding the oh-so-extraordinary, oh-so-accomplished Champion of Kirkwall ( or was it now the oh-so-hated, oh-so-damnedâŚ? ), and he wasnât fool enough to try to know someone without knowing them, let alone try to strain fact from fiction; it hardly mattered, in the end.
He tightens the clasp on his metal wrist, long since beleaguered by battle. The Western Approach was hardly home, although the silt and sand is familiar, the lack of Darkspawn almost inviting as it is foreign. â Does yellinâ at demons run in the family? Or is there some kinda tactical advantage to having a bunch'a wraiths on our ass? â
â ---- Weell, it wouldnât be a very fun story if you knew all the gritty details, would it? The novel paints a much prettier picture. â
When Hawke first heard tell of the great warden who defeated the Blight, she had assumed he was just another noble, or perhaps some stoic yet dashing knight. There was a chance her brother had met him, but Carver wrote sparingly, his letters sparse for details, and she had enough on her plate at the time, anyhow. The lofty title âHero of Fereldenâ could crush any undeserving man -- her very own legend hardly compared, that much was obvious. Hawke was far from a household name ( and those who knew it may as well associate it with the destruction of a city, and counting. ) She bears no envy for him, however; to be placed upon a pedestal so high a king could not reach it was worth none of the fame it brings. Still, she had to admit, she was glad she was wrong in her initial presumptions. He was quite the character.Â
â What can I say? Shouting loudly across the battlefield is a time honoured tradition! And also a wonderful stress-reliever. You should try it out for yourself -- all those titles and accolades youâve picked up must cause their own special type of headaches. â Her trademark sly smile graces her lips, but only for a moment. These days, she finds little reason or energy to keep up appearances. All the running, from templars and from those that would have her responsible for the events at Kirkwall, really put a damper on any semblance of sleep she might have managed. Hawke was tired.
