hawke.

“my magic will serve that which is best in me, not that which is most base.” indie rp blog for malcolm hawke of bioware's dragon age ii please read this before communicating. thanks! semi-hiatus

[malhawke]

[cxedes]

The Champion was well aware of the lateness of the day, and silently cursed herself for not considering that there might be urgent business awaiting her at the state when she encountered her father. She had a feeling that they would only arrive when the conflict had already gotten out of hand, but that way she would at least not have to excuse her lack of ‘diplomatic behaviour’. Hawke gave her father a grin in return, and a nod towards the door regarded at the dog and they began to move.

Her fingers drummed against her thigh as they neared the spot suspected to bear an explosive conflict any time now, eyes scanning their surroundings quickly, while the rest fell to her hound. The ground’s quaking had her startled for the fracture of a second, but she soon merely gave a sigh. “Of course the cellars. I’m beginning to think they might melt in the sunlight..,” she muttered in return, ready to give an exaggerated groan of frustration, as she did rather frequently these days, when Mal charged a wooden door nearby. Marian blinked a few times, then gave a muffled chuckle paired with a shake of her head.

"I remember being told that so was his namesake." A cheeky grin was shot in Malcolm’s general direction at that. The now more frequently occuring shaking only served to rush them, and the shoulder on her hand and her father’s words threw her out until the next explosion took place in the cellars. Her head shook lightly then, and she pulled her staff from her back and moved towards the hole were a door once was and entered the gloomy abode.

[malhawke]

"Extraordinary," Malcolm observed. Stepping through the broken-down door it became abundantly clear that the building was a farce. A front. Void of all major furnishings, no indication of proper living use. To think such a place had gone unnoticed for so long was... well, amusing. In truth.

Ever did the rumbling grow louder, more frequent; clouds of dust and debris came flying up through the floorboards. Mal-mabari's ears pulled flat, nose crinkling, teeth bared, whilst he lead the way down into the mists. And as promised, Malcolm remained only a step behind his daughter. He'd pulled his cloak-front high, covering his nose and mouth to breathe easy, quiet. 

There was shouting and numerous footfalls to be heard as they reached the cellars. Then a shadowy blur -- a dwarf, t'would later seem -- shot past, followed thereafter by a flying dagger. With a thud the Carta-man fell and his killer turned corner and ran, an explosion coming from their heading moments later. Malcolm rolled his shoulders, cracked knuckles, felt the mana readily coursing. It seemed this fight was going to be much tougher than they'd imagined.

He pressed close to the wall, peered quickly round-corner, saw nothing but smoke and the blurred flick of distant torch-flames. "I rather think diplomacy's out of the question," he said. "Perhaps a good dousing shall turn their thoughts to reason?" Almost anything but fire would do well here; confined spaces filled with explosives; and though he trusted Marian to know this, still he could not shake the feeling that trouble was brewing beyond the horizon.

[malhawke]

.

[losttothewood-archived]

    Fran wasn’t sure whether to be surprised, angry or happy — seeing Mal around ruffians wasn’t necessarily too out of his character. He was a man of chance and opportunity, and if said opportunity was in the ranks of scoundrels that furthered his own agenda? So be it. Such a thing she couldn’t fault him for — she did the same. 

     Many of the men looked to one another, baffled at the idea that someone could’ve found said treasure before they had time to said ‘kill and maime’. Quickly the idea of a fight with a woman looked less appealing — especially one that looked so elven — and quickly their goals were else where. Each fled the scene, scowling dangerously at Fran and those of opposing sides. 

     Quietly they did stand, side-by-side till they were alone, and fate should be on their side that a cry from a distance was heard, and eagerly the bandits fled to see if it had been someone to claim the treasure. Promptly the viera turned to her company, and her once stoic expression gave life to her true emotion; a faint grin, with a shake of her head. Silvery mane did billow from the blowing sea just yonder of the cave they stood in.

            “Foolish am I to have thought it true… there is no treasure, is there?” 

     And yet she wasn’t angry, if anything more than a tiny bit amused and flattered; Mal knew her better than she had assumed he did. Those who paid attention to one’s persona meant they cherished — or at least observant enough to care — of the one they so predicted. 

     ”Like an imp. Glad am I to see your throat in-tack, bandits never suited one so carefree and giving. Or foolish. Neither can I decide which you are.” 

[malhawke]

As the men moved on, Malcolm inhaled deep and exhaled slow; lungs prickling, heartbeat loud. Whilst a man who made his own luck, still he felt surprise, relief, joy, whenever outcomes favored him. And on this day twas surely so; his head remained attached and Fran was here, almost smiling, glad of it.

"Perhaps there's hope for me yet," he said, false grin turned true; to puzzle her still, in any form, was nothing short of a victory. "The moment you decide which: all shall be lost." Turning, he dragged a roughened hand up and over his head, catching the tarnished yellow scarf, which he tore loose and jammed in his trouser-band. Hair, brittled by seasalts, caught in the wind and flew outward every which way. Never had he looked more wild, free.

Quickly though he had the decency to wear a guilty face. "No treasure," he confirmed. "Fran, I --" A mid-sentence pause, trailed off into a hum. Elbow in-hand, opposing fingertips gracelessly tapped jawbone. Even now he knew not what to say. Perhaps twas finally time to lower his guard; to be simple at long last. He met her eyes, cleared his throat. "I've found myself quite lost in your absence, missing your ever-keen insight."

I needed to see you again. I've missed you. I'm sorry, I cannot be anything but this. Alas, it was just not in him to be so straightforward.

[sexiestbearda]

It took all self-control, all the restraint that he could muster, to keep his mouth shut. His jaw ached from the tension and the grinding of his teeth. He was angry enough that he wanted to wound, but he’d already done his fair share of that earlier. There was a network of fresh scars, red and angry, that snaked across his father’s exposed flesh, all of it his doing. He eyed them, guilt pressing down at what he’d done, but he refused to apologize all the same.

His father’s words, the quiet quality of which they were spoken were the last straw. Turning abruptly from Malcolm, he retreated to his desk, leaning heavily against it, his fingers digging deep into the grain. “I really don’t think a man who’s abandoned his family for ten years really has any right to claim any sort of grief.” He smiled, tight and humourless, falling back to old defences, but it wasn’t enough. His father hadn’t been there when Bethany had been crushed by an ogre, when the corruption had taken Carver, when a lunatic blood mage had turned Mother into a twisted horror. His father had no right at all.

“Maybe you should have stayed dead.” He gripped the edges of his desk and without a word, heaved it over. There was a thunderous crash that sent papers flying, followed by the sound of ancient wood splintering under its own weight. Hawke stepped aside, breathing hard, staring at his own handiwork and nearly laughed. The release that came from his outburst was shortlived. He could still feel his father’s hard gaze against his back and with his anger gone, he was suddenly overcome by shame. He was still a boy, just as Malcolm had said. Closing his eyes, he kept his back to his father, head bowed, and spoke softly. “Why did you have to come back?”

[malhawke]

With nary a blink nor a whisper Malcolm saw Garrett through his outburst. And though his words cut, twas far from deep, just another flesh wound among many. Nothing he hadn't already told himself. He laughed then, guttural and strange. How easily Garrett had risen to his almost-taunt; a child in part, but showing now an adult's guilt. Torn between the two as if missing a piece -- a feeling Malcolm knew too well. Perhaps this is what it meant to be a Hawke.

"Are you quite done?" A useless question; voice shaky from laughter, lungs again aching. His gaze dropped to where his staff lay face-down amongst the splinters, having fell then rolled. And rather than moving to retrieve it he held a palm out flat. Using what little magic he'd regenerated he unleashed a forceful array and the staff propelled towards him. Twas caught white knuckled, spun wrong-side up, set against the hard tiles with a hollow clink.

"I didn't have to return." Don't you see? "Yet here I stand. You do yourself no favors in denying me and devalue their importance, their lives, in denying my grief." His tone betrayed his emotions at last. Pain, regret, anger, fear. And again he laughed, so unfitting and raw; a mask, a shield. "Look at we two. I, the first Hawke --" Stepping forward, he circled quick around-side. "-- and you, very likely to be the last."

Staff-arm lifted, wood slid, grip altered; Malcolm swung the golden, naked, outstretched Andraste headlong into Garrett's gut. Greatly injure it would not, but wind? most certainly. "Never again will there be another like us, my son." And with that he made for the door, not stopping, not looking back. Taking his old bones, his tatters, his stick, and running like the coward he always felt. Unwilling to be told goodbye and unable, as ever, to say it himself.

But there would be no end for them yet, no true farewell; not whilst they both still lived.

[obscuriiitas]

   ”Have you come to sit with me?? Mm?!”

[malhawke]

" -- I suppose I have." He'd come to sit, yes. And she was here. So, in a way, twas truth.

[malhawke]

"When do we meet your new lady, dad?" *squints at*

" -- neveeeerrrrrrrr." 

losttothewood replied to your post:Mal, do you have valentines day in your world? And if so, are you going to do anything with your bunny lady?

whispers; ur my valentine mwehehehe

// hueheue awwyissss ♥ -u-

[malhawke]

Mal, do you have valentines day in your world? And if so, are you going to do anything with your bunny lady?

"Valentine's Day?"            "... bunny lady?"

[howeveryclever]

// shink is head of the cool table pass it on

[conscienceoftheorder-blog]

"And you look like you’re one foot in the grave already, Malcolm. What have you been doing to yourself?" 

[malhawke]

" -- and here I thought I looked ruggedly handsome. O, how astray I've been led without your wise counsel."

[malhawke]

" -- you've nary aged a day, my friend. All those years spent claiming I'd turn you grey amounted to lies and slander."

[malhawke]

.

[cxedes]

The noise behind her soon caught her attention, and the slight dread of the warhound deeming her father as yet another burglar worthing being chased out, she turned and already wore a light frown as she looked at the two. Her pet, however, dragged its tongue across the elder’s face affectionately, and left a visible trace of drool on his cheek and beard. A hand came up and covered her mouth, a kind of gesture she’d thought lost since she’d been a kid, a sheepish and far too.. young one. A light giggle escaped her nevertheless, idle fingers of her free hand reaching for the letter all the while.

A smirk remained on her face as she made a few steps towards the two Malcolms, shaking her head lightly. “I would have been surprised had he been opposed to his namesake,” she mused, eyebrows raising while her palm moved over the mabari’s head for a moment. The hound gave a content little whine and nuzzled her skin, but when her hand was removed again, he let himself fall onto the ground, sitting there and watching the two Hawkes.

The letter was opened swiftly, she’d long grown accustomed to the movement, and the piece of parchment within was skimmed in but a moment. “I don’t know, father,” she began, eyes still on the letters. “Are those old bones still as adventurous and capable as they used to be?” A smirk went along with her words, tone dripping in amusement. She glanced back up, and let out a light sigh. “The Coterie thieves and carta thugs are said to be having an.. explosive metting this afternoon. Explosive quite literally, as the author of this bidding states. I am asked to prevent the most grave damage. If you wish, you may accompany me; I can hardly hold you prisoner in here as it is.”

[malhawke]

His grin broadened with her jests, then turned full-toothed with the promise of venture. "Quite so. Best we leave forthwith then," he suggested, eyes fixed on the sky beyond high windows. Twas now very near afternoon, if not already so; their reunion had stalled her return home, and thus the letter was read much later than intended, giving them little to no time to prepare. Malcolm rolled his shoulders and spared a final glance, then the two -- nay, three -- were to be on their way.

When they arrived the streets were silent, almost unnaturally so. The mabari ran ahead, ears pointed high, nose twitching in search. Its guttural whine indicated something was amiss, but before they'd time to think there was a muffed boom and the ground began to shake. "The cellars," he muttered. "Of course." Where else would rogues meet but the dark and damp? Mal-mabari barreled straight through the heavy-set door of a nearby abode, wood splintering with a crack, and Malcolm couldn't help but laugh. He'd missed having a hound by his side.

"Eager, isn't he?" Again the ground rumbled, and he gave Marian a twisted look. "With good reason, it seems. If damage prevention is your priority then --" Again, with more force. The mabari wuffed urgently from inside the building and Malcolm turned, set a hand upon his daughter's shoulder. "Go, be Kirkwall's Champion. I'll be right behind you."

[losttothewood-archived]

Irony. 

How rampant the word that crossed her thoughts more than once, how annoyed she felt to be yet again led into the coastal shores of Kirkwall to find a relic of a home no longer her own? 

Mal was not entirely wrong to assume she’d come running — how quick she was at that — and yet he had not anticipated the arrival of the other scoundrels that now plagued the beaches and caverns.

And with so many lawless in one area, fights were bound to break out. Quickly tempers flared and they only rose like a stoked flame, both paranoid and anxious as new arrivals came in search of this treasure from Ivalice. And among them was the viera; squandering among the many ruffian; ignoring most and battling others who dare inconvenience her so.  

                “Kill the woman!” 

                              "Slice the whore!" 

Such foul tongues, so blunt and jagged were their voices and so harsh to the drums of her ears that she did flatten them, near hidden beneath billowing tresses of silver. 

Quickly she was being surrounded by a small group of red-banded mercenaries; each with a blade and bow, trained ever eager on her slim person. “Back off, harlot.” Spoke what she could only assume was the leader of this plucky pack, “we’re searchin’ this cove. And there’s competition enough without o’ woman gettin’ in our way!” 

All in the company raised their fists high, both in cheers and jeers to the sky and her in particular. But most seemed unsettled by her stoic expression; how tall she stood before them as if she weren’t there equal — or even beneath them — and those wide old eyes trained again on its leader, while she raised a steady hand to point accusingly.

"Once you shall be warned, hume. In my way you stand, and should you think it wise to attack — I will make certain it will be the last."

[malhawke]

His toes sunk into the muddy sand between stone, the ebb and flow of tide kissing at his ankles, leaving salt-rings round his skin. Trousers rolled over-knee, Malcolm trawled the rocky shores in search of impossible treasure. He'd shedded his usual garb, wearing only light underneaths and a worn yellow-scarf wrapped round his head, holding back unruly hair. Of all the things he hadn't planned, getting roped into joining one of the factions wasn't entirely the worst, but still; here he was fighting the midday sun, aiding a cause that would probably lead to his doom once they figured the truth.

For now, twas child's play pitting one against the other; whether it be factions or free men. You could always trust bandits to love riches, hate law, and loathe one another. Already he'd lost count of the times he'd said "try over there" and "better luck next time" and "we're close, can you feel it?" Patience was wearing thin all around when a chorus of muffled shouts came from a nearby alcove. Both Malcolm and the yellow-scarves looked up at the sound, then they took off -- full sprint, weapons drawn -- thinking the treasure had been found, intent on taking it by force, leaving Malcolm awkwardly chasing after.

Feet raw, turning-corner into the cove, he was met with a sight both beautiful and... awful. Fran, surrounded. Reds on one side and now yellows on the other. The red leader cried out in frustration; the yellow, spat. As Malcolm pushed through the crowd, twas evident all hell was about to break loose, so he did what Hawkes do best; stumbled headlong into the fray. "Come now, my friends," he boomed, drawing attention, hands held up placatingly.

"The treasure's still out there; coast, aplenty." Stepping up beside Fran, he met her eyes only briefly; pretending not to know her seemed the wisest route. "Or, perhaps some scoundrel now holds your prize in his grubby mits, ready to turn-tail and flee, and you're none the wiser short of all this bickering. Why don't we lower our weapons --" he made an accompanying gesture "-- be on our ways, and resume the search. Maiming can come later." 

He rose a hand to scratch his beard, obscuring his mouth. Then in a low whisper, for Fran's ears only, said, "if we survive this, I shall explain everything." And when his hand fell, in the wake of so many piercing eyes and heavy scowls, Malcolm gave his best grin; though hide his hopeful uncertainty, it did not.

[malhawke]

.

[hawkearchive]

Thoughts the rogue had lost herself within deafened her entirely to his approach. As far as she was concerned, she was alone and drowning in a tainted nostalgia where nothing was right, but it was all there. The bow felt cold in her shaking hands and her shoulders shuddered to keep back the torrent. Teeth bit her lip with a violence that the pain proved a suitable distraction, and it was that on which all of her focus was poured. To hear anyone was the last thing she expected, to hear her name even further from her expectations.

She spun almost awkwardly, falling backwards in slight as the bow was dropped in favour of hands that dove beneath her cloak. A dagger was pulled as she looked up, desperately trying to regain herself into any stance that would be appropriate for combat should the need arise. But as immediately as it was bared, as quickly as grey set upon the man who stood clutching at the doorway, her hand fell loose, and the blade hung between her fingers, her grip just barely keeping it from the floor.

Lips parted and her expression took that of one in a daze— I’m dreaming.

“You’re dead."

That was, after all, how you addressed apparitions, was it not? And that was all he could be, a figment of her imagination dreamt up in the ruins of what had been her happiest home. How could she not wish for his presence now, when surrounded by destroyed memories? How could she not slip so far into what she had lost that her sanity offered her the very first thing to go?

It was a mercy, offered only to quiet a mind that ran circles around loss and heartache.

That was all it was.

It couldn’t be her father, back from the dead. 

[malhawke]

"No, I'm dad." Is what he would have said in another time; another universe, perhaps. In this one, amongst the rubble of what was, faced with what is, he cleared his throat and swallowed hard, saying nothing yet. Though a smile that wasn't really a smile touched his lips at the thought of such simple banter, and possibly twas that that then gave him courage enough to speak.

"Not quite," he said. Many questions plagued his mind, as surely they did hers; but in the low-light, with her faraway gaze, she looked so much like the child he remembered and Malcolm wanted only to pull her close, hold her tight. His hand tensed round the frame before letting go but his feet refused to carry him past the threshold; so still he stood, like a fool internally at war.

Wind swept in through the gaping roof, bringing the rain, catching strands of hair; and years flashed by, imaginings of this moment. "Ask for the moon and the skies shall heed you," he said. Twas something he'd told her once; possibility and impossibility was what you chose to make it. Hands furled and unfurled at his side, joints unstiffening at last. "This is no trick, no cloud of the mind." Still his voice was raw, though with it came now an air of almost-certainty.

Eyes locked with hers, he stepped forward; crunching and squelching under-foot, rubble and water-logged boots; coming to a stop just shy of arm's reach. "As you live and breathe, my girl --

-- so do I." 

[malhawke]

((if by unpopular opinion you mean super popular?))

[dicaprio eye-squint]

firstenchanterofkirkwall replied to your post:❣ ✾

[ but you are hella rad. so hella. alsoexcuseurtags ]

[squinting INTENSIFIES]

( ♥ @ you both)