Isabela is quiet for once, voice muted and steps light as she slides in beside Hawke - one hand, rough from years of ropeburn, calloused from years longer of weapons sliding against her palm, presses warmly to the Champion's waist. She leans in, lets her forehead rest against Hawke's temple, and says nothing.
The rogue’s quiet steps were not heard amidst the depths of Hawke’s occupied mind. Her head was bowed, sharp eyes glued on what lay before her; slender shoulders slumped, once-silken tendrils of ebony hacked short in the most recent years. Her hair was tousled, thrown and pushed back between equally calloused digits in frustration and exhaustion. Ever the martyr, Marian continued to work tirelessly even despite her shortcomings, though perhaps that was why she strove that much harder. The hell she helped unleash, the destruction that became of the place she came to call home—she had to make it right.
—but it was a curling arm that drew her out from her own mind, grounding her to reality for only but a moment as the warmth spread. Her head tilted, chin lifting just enough to peek back through her peripherals at the flighty Captain who never seemed to be anything further than a step behind, even when miles of landmass separated them both. Isabela never cast her anchor for too long.
A breath escaped her then; quiet sound of relief as she leaned back just enough to further the contact that seemed to come and go environment permitting, and her neck craned just enough for their cheeks to brush. She didn’t need conversation, she needed peace, and that was exactly what she was being given.
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