Everyone always turned to stare at Hawke when she walked into the room. That’s just the kind of person she was, even before the stories started to get out. She had a presence, something that went beyond the face tattoo and the lip rings and the eyes that you swore could glow at you in the dark. It’s why there were stories, after all. All of Kirkwall could tell that a woman like that was one in a million.
The way the elf stared at her, though? Well, that was different.
When Fenris stared at Hawke, you felt like you were seeing something private. It would’ve been less scandalous to walk in on the both of them naked, honestly. We all could tell something changed overnight, even without that scrap of red silk he started to tie around his wrist all the time. The first time he showed up at the Wicked Grace table with that thing on, everyone stopped talking.
Everyone but Hawke, that is.
“Silver to buy in,” she said, cheerful as ever. She scooted over on the bench to give him room, and he sat down at her side, and everything was just like normal. Only the sharp-eyed observer would have noticed that she sat up a little straighter, that he held himself a little too carefully, and that the steps of their practiced little dance were too practiced.
- The Tale of the Champion by Varric Tethras
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Happy first day of @fenhawke-week ❤️
