Dorian knew of Hawke from both Varric’s book and his nightly tales and..well- who didn’t know one of the causes of the magic/ Templar war? Still it was was another thing entirely to see them in person. If only because the other was a god damn feast for the eyes. Dorian’s footsteps echoed on the ramparts as he moved towards the other if only to make it very clear that the “ Tevinter “ mage everyone was gossiping about in the main hall was, in fact, harmless. His eyebrows did however go up at that sudden outburst from the Hero and he dropped against the wall of the ramparts before he replied, without missing a beat and possible surprising the other with his presence.
“It might have been free but the amount of work to pretty this place up was an investment and a half. Honestly. Let’s hope it pays it’s self off. “ Dorian said lightly, giving a little tilt of his head as he gazed over at Hawke. Really taking it in.
“You know, I think you’re genuinely more impressive than that book tells, that’s quite the rare thing.” He mused, speaking more to himself than the other for a moment.
Hawke always enjoyed finding people with as much, ahem, understanding of the uhman body as he did. That is to say, people with morals as loose as his own. Perhaps that was why he enjoyed Dorian’s company as much as he so did, or perhaps it was because he felt the mage’s eyes on him near-constantly; a less-than-subtle reminder of exactly how attractive he knew he was. “The place is pretty enough with you here.” He offered, eyebrows raising and lowering a few times in quick succession; his adorably unfortunate attempt at flattery and flirtation both. “Although, I must say, those purple draperies you have in the main hall are just fabulous.”
Of course, when the other began to compliment him, all bets were off. Hawke pressed an arm up against hte stone of the wall, raising it upwards and ‘unintentionally’ (but actually completely intentionally) flexing it and the rest of the muscles of his torso, and there were a great many muscles on his torso, just to prove the other right.
“You’re right, I am wonderfully attractive. You should see me with my shirt off.” He paused, turning his head and flashing his flawlessly-white ‘winning smile’.
“Semi-factual?” Of all the words Hawke had said–all true–it was this one he latched on to, his eyebrow raised, though all in good guest. Hawke wasn’t wrong: every good story needed a bit of embellishing. “You want to keep your voice down? I have a reputation to keep up, and there might be a few birds in Tevinter that didn’t hear you.”
“Ah, well.” He spread his hands out in front of him as if to say yeah, i’m that good. “At least there’s nothing semi-factual about that.” He stroked Bianca’s handle, not about to argue with that much of what Hawke said. There was nothing sexier than his crossbow, newly polished and glinting in the morning light.
“Anyway, they didn’t give him a castle. They gave the inquisition a castle. We’re a team. It’s different. And the wining doesn’t suit you. I’m sure I can fit a printing press in one of these back rooms. Maker knows, there’s enough of ‘em.”
“But he isn’t going to give you a printing press.” Hawke was sure he was only seconds away from spouting the proverbial ‘he doesn’t love you like I do’, but that would be weird. True, but weird. Except perhaps Bianca, of course, but the only thing less likely than Varric and Bianca getting together was Varric and himself getting hitched and running off to open a blood magic commune in Tevinter. He paused, catching a laugh in his chest, instead letting out a light snicker. “Heavily embellished, factual-adjacent.” He teased, quite uanble to deal with the gravity of the situation surrounding them.
“Perhaps I should write my own book.” Arms crossed over his chest as he leans back against the pallicade, feeling the cool, smoothed stone against his back, making his already large body look ever more so, Hawke allowed a smile to form on his features. “Chest-Hair and Inappropriately Touching Crossbows, The Varric Tethras story.”
“Yes, well, he is the leader of the inquisition which means that legally speaking, he owns a castle.” The warden was given a caravan, hawke was forced into given the title of Viscount, and this kid was given a castle. Seemed fair. A pause in the conversation had Hawke staring down at his best friend, his lips opening briefly, before he realizing that perhaps asking Varric if he loved the Inquisitor more than him would be weird. A clear of the throat, removing the uncomfortable blockage there.
“Would it break the moment to say I missed you while you were gone.”
Well, that was loud. Selhen seemed to be one of many who stopped what they were doing to stare at the seemingly crazy man yelling and complaining though the elven mage seemed to be the only one willing to actually approach the mad man while others just stared before slowly getting back to what they were doing. “Not exactly the most subtle of entrances” He remarked, moving closer with a raised brow and one hand of his staff as he moved closer. Only now could he see who exactly he was dealing with. Deeds from Kirkwall had reached the Hero of Ferelden’s ears, not all the details but he knew enough and that the eldest son of the Hawke family had been the headfigure of in the process. Normally that alone wouldn’t be enough to recognise the man, but Lelian had been good at keeping him in the loop and when the whole world had been looking for Hawke to try and lead them, well, Selhen had been asked to help.
“Regretting being so difficult to get hold of now I take it? I wouldn’t be, castle or no castle I’m fairly certain it comes with some strings attached to it.”
Was he really regretting it? Hawke had many, many things he regretted; allowing his siblings to get involved in any of the things they did, trusting Anders for even a second, allowing his mother to date a mass murderer because he was too busy to check in on her. The thousands of people killed after the man he loved blew up half of their city. Hawke had many regrets, and not having a castle was not one of them; instead, more of a ..minor annoyance.
The frown on his features melted away almost instantly, an a lopsided little smirk fell onto them a moment later; almost the perfect indication that Hawke was entirely over his issues and that he seemingly fell back into his usual persona. “If I knew you were here, I’d have climbed the mountain months ago.” He purred, taking a quick step forward and sliding his hand up onto the stone wall, putting him in a rather obvious ‘come-hither’ pose. “You’d just have to ask, I’d ‘lead your inquisition’ any day.”
Harel knew a lot of people doubted him and his decisions for a number of reasons. He was too young, a Dalish elf, a mage, the list seemed to grow by the day, but he tried his best with what he had. And that was a lot of heart. He really did care about people, especially the people who turned to the Inquisition for protection and aid. Harel cared about them all and wanted to do right by them. And that wasn’t always easy. Sometimes he made the wrong call and he had to live with the consequences.
“You had some help.” Harel joked back with a chuckle. He glanced down off the ramparts towards the small but usually crowded tavern that sat in Skyhold’s courtyard and smiled amusedly at Hawke’s complaints. “Probably good people aren’t stabbing each other inside the walls. Save it for the enemy yeah? But as far as prostitutes go…well, people can do what they like with their free time for some coin.” He shrugged. Harel knew Cassandra would probably have a thing or two to say about that kind of behaviour, but Harel figured there were larger concerns.
When Hawke said he was doing a great job (even if he did call him kid) Harel gave a small smile. “Thanks, sometimes I wonder if-” The elf paused when a hand landed on the top of his head. “…I’m doing a good job.” He finished while casually removing the hand from his head to his shoulder instead.
oh, how soft and pure the kid was. how little he’d seen of the world, how little he knew of the true nature of men. hawke couldn’t help the slight twinge of pain that stabbed into his chest, knowing full-well how hard the kid would have to become to survive the trials he’d likely have to face after this; knowing, as Hawke did, how few people were truly good. A nod of the head shows he’s listening intently to the words flowing from the younger male’s lips, a twist of the hand moving Hawke’s own onto his shoulder, where it’s pressed soft but firm into his skin, squeezing gently to show he’s there. “Don’t worry about it, Kid. Haven’t seen a civil war leader as good as you since-” He paused, placing the same hand on his own chest, clutching ‘his heart’; but in reality a piece of red fabric that makes up his surcoat . “Well, me, actually.”
His facade breaks, and after that glint of affection in his eye has disappeared, it seems he’s back to his usual, snarky, sarcastic self; all ale, bar fights and humping anything with a pulse. But which was the truth, and which the facade; perhaps even he didn’t know. “Although, I will say your uniforms are a little boring.” He turns, places his elbows on the cold stone of the wall, places his palms on the edges and pulls himself up until he’s sat dangerously close to the edge; feels the heavy northern winds whipping against his skin, and loves every second of the fact fact that one good, quick gust could mean his death.
“I think you should look into leather trousers. Would be a lot nicer to look at.” He glances down, gives the Elf a rather obvious once over, before a smile that shows his direct intentions plasters itself onto his face.
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were upset.”
Varric leaned against the ballaster, his legs kicked out in front of him, crossed at the ankle, Bianca dangling loosely from one hand. Hawke knew better than anyone, though, that given so much as a twitch of unrest in the distance, Varric would have the weapon up and ready to go faster than you could say hole in the sky. He might act at ease, act like he didn’t care much about anything, but he was far from a trusting man. He believed people had good in them, sure, but he was paranoid all the same. Everyone had a dark side. It was at the heart of every good character.
“Take a breath, why don’t you? You’re gonna pop an artery in that pretty head of yours, and that really would be a shame.” He stood up and walked the rest of the way across the ramparts until he stood so close to Hawke’s side, there was hardly a hair between their shoulders. His eyes scanned the peaks below and beyond. “Not a bad view. Not Kirkwall. But it’ll do. Until we all die from the raining sky demons.”
honestly, when varric pointed out his love for bianca, hawke wasn’t entirely sure if he meant the person or the weapon. in fact, he was sure the surfacer had a semi-erotic relationship with the automatic crossbow, tending to it with more softness and care than he was sure hawke treated any of the ..companions he’d had over the years. still, he’d never say that out-loud; as much as he knew varric adored him, and the thought was completely mutual, he wasn’t willing to risk being on the receiving end of one of bianca’s ‘bites’.
there was a pause during which hawke found himself glancing down at his best friend; perhaps his only real friend, one he knew would absolutely never double-cross him, and a brief smile fell on his features. they didn’t have a lovey-dovey relationship, no, but it was mostly because they didn’t need one. “but they gave him a castle, varric!” hawke replied, a petulant tone to his voice, belying his size and..age and making him sound rather immature; almost childlike. “you could have had your own printing press. imagine the amount of post-modern semi-factual erotic fiction you could have produced.”
there was absolutely none of hawke’s typical sarcasm, instead showing he really would have given his best friend a printing press. he huffed out a sigh, shrugging his shoulders with a mumble of ‘ah well’. “I hear Kirkwall is bustling now. Something about a surfacer dwarf with a semi-erotic fascination with his crossbow being the best viscount they’ve ever had?”
Normally, Harel could put on a smile and walk the walk and talk the talk to be a diplomat when he needed to, not that he was a very good diplomat, he didn’t know the first thing about diplomacy really, he just made decisions with his gut and nine times out of ten it worked. But when it didn’t, boy did Harel dwell on the ifs and he liked to be alone to do his dwelling.
Usually, his senses were impeccable and he could catch the slightest of sounds but Hawke was another challenge entirely. He turned away from the view and looked at his current companion, one brow raised at the butchered pronunciation of his mother tongue, but props for trying. “Little wolf? Is that some dig at my height?” Harel questioned with mild amusement.
His brow only continued to rise at Hawke’s continued suggestions of what the Inquisitor looked like out on the ramparts all alone. “That right? Well, I guess if assassins and thieves can get into Skyfall I’m not doing a good job. Don’t know about rent boys though.” He chuckled.
as much as hawke teased the younger male, he had nothing but respect for the amount of crap he had to go through just to get by. frankly, he wasn’t sure even he could manage half of the crap he’d had to go through; especially the whole ‘leader of man’ business, everyone knew hawke’s approach to everything was ‘kill them before they can kill you’. perhaps that was why he’d learned (and butchered, evidently) an extremely complex language just to impress him. or maybe it was because the elf was ridiculously attractive; either-or, really.
“so you’re telling me I didn’t have to sneak in this supposedly impenetrable fortress just to surprise you?” garrett teased, moving forward and leaning both elbows on the high stone ramparts, releasing a light, airy chuckle under his breath. “speaking of, the tavern you got here is boring; been here for nearly a week and nobody’s been stabbed yet. and I’ve yet to find one prostitute. one!” he shifted his body-weight onto his right elbow as his form turned, torso directed towards harel.
his features darkened briefly, a small smile breaking onto his lips. “you’re doing a a great job though, kid. couldn’t have done better myself.” and with that, he carried on the hawke-family ‘we only touch once a year’ tradition by reaching out and placing his hand softly on the younger males head.
After Haven, Harel had been a bit scarce and was hard to locate. He needed time to himself. Sure, getting Skyhold definitely put the pep back in everyone’s step and it meant they wouldn’t meet the same fate they had out in the open, but it didn’t erase the lives lost or the mistakes the Inquisitor felt he’d made. Whenever he needed time to himself, Harel was rather elusive, able to just disappear and avoid everyone and anyone most of the time.
He tended to wander the ramparts and look out over the vast distance, thinking, letting his mind wander. The Dalish elf kept his lilac eyes on the horizon until he heard the sound of boots along the stone, pointed ears twitching. With his hood up it wasn’t always easy to tell Harel from the other elves staying in Skyhold but to anyone who knew him fairly well, they would be able to tell that his clothes very much belonged to the Inquisitor himself.
Please don’t be official business, please don’t be official business…
true to his name, hawke thoroughly enjoyed high places. he enjoyed being above other people, in both height and station, and generally enjoyed being able to look down on others in such a way as to make them look insignificant; perhaps a way to argue that his life was more important than it actually was, that he was was still the hero of kirkwall. that people actually still cared about him. in a way, he envied the warden and inquisitor both, as while his fame was passing, theirs was still thoroughly embedded in the entirety of their culture. while hawke had saved a country, both of the others had saved the entire world; something even he couldn’t compete with.
as he stalked the outer ramparts of the fortress, he happened to spot a particular creature sitting quite sullen atop the ramparts, earning a slight raise on the eyebrow. suspect. grasping his dagger and inching forward; silent, even the senses of an elf were incapable of noting his presence, so honed were his movements despite his size. a waft of scent paused his movements, and hawke smiled.
“da’fen. what are you doing out here, all on your lonesome. someone could have mistaken you for anything. thief. assassin-” hawke paused, the tease almost palpable. “rent boy.” frankly, he sounded far too willing to include the last one.
hawke was absolutely not upset. granted he was essentially gifted a massive mansion in kirkwall’s most affluent area, saved an entire country from civil war and diminished the templar-mage infighting drastically, essentially stopping a massive revolt that could have cost millions their lives, effectively making him both famous and wealthy at the same time; but this kid had a castle. in the sky! To say that hawke was upset was an understatement; he was downright salt-preserved! he would have named it the ‘hawke’s roost’, a name he believed was several times cooler than ‘skyhold’. boring.
he stood on the ramparts of the castle, overlooking the tallest of the surrounding peaks with fury in his eyes; features showing a considerable amount of annoyance for the given situation. he releases a sigh, large body nearly quivering with rage.
Build: Muscular, well-built. ..Thicc.
Eye Color: Brown
Hair Style: Natural curls, sometimes flattened down; but always preened and oiled.
Hair Color: Black
Fashion: He’ll wear anything that makes him look thicc.
Tattoos: A red stripe across his nose, with a smaller black stripe inside of that; to signify the two lives he failed to save.
KIT
Weapons: A longsword dubbed ‘Sword of the Antaam’ wielded with a matching parrying blade; used for open or pitched battles. A set of matching daggers named after their original wielder, the ‘Finesse Blades’; used for..everything else. Despite being a Rogue, Garrett does not use poisons, bombs and other such items, preferring to win using his dueling skills.
Armor: The Mantle of the Champion, gifted to him after the liberation of Kirkwall.
Tropes: Adaptational Badass, Übermensch, Big Brother Instinct, Because Destiny Says So, The Caretaker.
Temperament:Choleric
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Description
Garrett is a charming individual who is well-noted for his ability to find himself in the good-graces of practically anyone not smart enough to realize that he always has ulterior motives. Sarcastic to a fault, it’s almost impossible to get a valid, solid answer from Garrett without some form of minor torture. Despite being well-known for his defense and initial governing of Kirkwall, Garrett ironically possesses almost none of the traits one would like to see in a leader; he’s abrupt, argumentative, obscene and frankly incredibly immature for a man of his age, but his way with words, stubborn loyalty and general refusal to back on his word tends to lead people into following him.
Of the three ‘leaders’ at Skyhold, Garrett is unique in that he is, well, not unique; he’s not special, and he never has been. It is this trait which tends to help him fit in wherever he goes, in that he isn’t special, unique or in any real way above anyone else; he’s just..Hawke. That being said, Garrett is fully capable of tactical planning, is well-studied in battle strategy and is generally considered a multi-faceted leader, warrior & tactician.
Under the layers of sarcasm, petty comments, flirtatious overtones and joking digs lays a deeply wounded man incapable of fully coping with the amount of turmoil he was forced into in a short space of time. With his father’s death in his late teens, the outbreak of the Fifth Blight shortly after, the destruction of their home at Lothering, the death of their mother, and then being forced directly into a series of frankly ridiculous events that put him at the center of a war for an entire city-state; suffice to say Garrett still hasn’t quite been able to sort out his ever-multiplying issues. Suffice to say, contrary to how often Garrett attempts to pretend nothing gets to him, he finds it difficult to ignore the things he’s dealt with and continue on without stopping to help everyone he can.
HISTORY
Born in 9:06 Dragon, Garrett Hawke is the eldest of the three children of apostate Malcolm Hawke and his wife, Leandra Amell, heir to the powerful and influential Amell family of Kirkwall; though she lost all of her power and affluence after running away to marry him. Though he was the eldest, it was evident from a relatively early age that Garrett was definitely not odd-one-out; Bethan was smart and possessed their father’s magic talent, and Carver was strong and bold. Though perhaps not as naturally talented as his siblings, Garrett was well-balanced and intelligent, having a way with words that made him popular in their small village.
When Garrett was in his early teens, the family saved up enough money to move to the village of Lothering, where they settled permanently. While some of the other boys of his age learned how to shoot bows and swing blades, Garrett learned more subtle arts; those of subterfuge, stealth and trickery. Perhaps he was not the strongest, nor the most mystical, but he sure as hell could be fastest to draw a knife; and to stick it where it needed to be stuck. At eighteen, Garrett was drafted into the Lothering branch of the Fereldan army as a subterfuge and infiltration expert; a job he excelled at. It was in his unit that Garrett met his first love, a Dalish Elf and tracking specialist by the name of Theron, with whom Garrett entered into a rather saucy, passionate and quick affair. Three weeks after they first met and began their flirt, Garrett found Theron’s corpse on a roadside, littered with arrows.
His first kill came shortly after. His second, third, fourth and fifth shortly after that. He wasn’t entirely sure what came over him; all he remembers of that period was blood and the smell of sulfur in the back of his nose. He remembers the screams of his victims, as their flesh ripped from their bone and their skin melted to their armor most of all. Sometimes he thinks back to those sounds, and wishes he could hear them again; for a few brief moments, those screams comforted him, and took away the pain of seeing Theron’s body.
Much like many who wield weapons for a living, Garrett’s experiences in the Fereldan army darkened his personality as much as it sharpened his skills. His talents were such that he survived through unit after unit, and were said to be so great that he could steal the King’s Crown right from his castle, and replace it with an exact replica without anyone noticing. He spend most of his early life in that god-forsaken army, fighting, ‘protecting’, defending; shedding so much blood he was sure the red would never leave his armor.
Garrett was twenty-six when the news of his father’s death reached his camp; it took six men to stop him attempted to throttle the messenger in his rage, so beside himself with grief was he that he’d spent his father’s final years shedding blood and aiding men who couldn’t have given less of a shit about him if they’d tried. His skills diminished, and he was removed from active duty shortly thereafter, allowing him to return to Lothering, and his family. He spend three years there, helping to raise his now-teenage siblings and teaching them how to hone their talents; teaching them how to defend themselves again men that would seek to harm them, kill them. Men like him.
Three years later, and another blow to the family was struck; the Fifth Blight was announced, and the Fereldan Army once again raised it’s banners. As much as the bile choked him, as much as his blood boiled as he watched the young boys and old men don their armor and scurry off to fight, he knew he had to help. Garrett was on the front lines at Ostegar when the traitor Loghain called his retreat. Fighting to the last, Garrett was one of the final survivors of the battle, only making it out alive by sheer luck. By the time he made it back to Lothering, the darkspawn were too close for comfort, and the family barely made it out of the village before it was attacked.
It was during the period of unrest in Kirkwall that Garrett lost his last remaining parent; too slow, or too weak, or perhaps too unintelligent, to sense the danger approaching them. He was the one to inform his siblings and his uncle that he’d failed them; that their mother was dead.
After the liberation of Kirkwall, Garrett left the governing of the city to his good friend and former companion, Varric, and promptly set off on a journey; this time without the support of his remaining family. None but Garrett know exactly where he went, or what he did, just that three years after he left, he reappeared in Skyhold, contacted by the very same surface dwarf.
There are men who struggle against destiny, and yet achieve only an early grave. There are men who flee destiny, only to have it swallow them whole. And there are men who embrace destiny, and do not show their fear. These are the ones that change the world forever.
amandla
blakekathryn
yousharknotpass
