Lyrium - Used as a liquid or a dust and makes the user feel strong and warm, and causes everything to sound lyrical. Added to liquor to make Aqua Magus. Used by Templars. Addictive.
Dragon’s Blood - Imprints memories. Implied to feel warm. Used to create Reavers
Felicidus Aria - Used for perfume or potions believed to impart wisdom but also cause rapid aging.
Stimulants
Smoke (Unnamed) - Implied tobacco referenced in Scout Harding’s Codex.
Elfroot - Magical Marijuana
Opiates
Smoke (Unnamed) - Implied opiate in Varric’s Codex in DAII
Hallucinogens
Purple Berries (Unnamed) - Hallucinogen referenced by Blackwall.
Blood Lotus - Hallucinogen
Wyvern Venom - Hallucinogen. Added to liquor to make Aquae Lucidius.
Deathroot - Hallucinogen (Violent - Implied to cause blood lust.)
Aphrodisiacs
Orichalcum - Aphrodisiac (Ironically smells bad)
Unknown
Witherstalk - Unspecified effect on the mind when used in combination with other plants. Implied side effect of warmth.
Smoke (Kohl) - A black powder considered particularly illicit within the Circle of Magi.
Drug (Unnamed) - Colorless, faintly sweet-smelling liquid. Available in Orzammar. Appears to cause disorientation.
Alcohol
Named Liquors - Alley King’s Flagon, Chasind Sack Mead, Garbolg’s Backcountry Reserve, Golden Sythe 4:90 Black, Legacy White Shear, Sun Blonde Vint-1, Wilhelm’s Special Brew, Aqua Magus, Dragon’s Piss, Hirol’s Lava Burst, Mackay’s Epic Single Malt, West Hill Brandy, Antivan Sip-Sip, Finale By Masaad, Absence, Abyssal Peach, Butterbile 7:84, Alvarado’s Bathtub Boot Screech, Flames of Our Lady, Carnal 8:69 Blessed, Silent Plains Piquette, Vint-9 Rowan’s Rose
Medicinal
Elfroot - Can be used orally or topically. Soothes coughs, relieves indigestion and flatulence. Speeds healing and numbs pain.
Spindleweed - Soothes fevers. Popular folk remedy.
Embrium - Clears the lungs
Rashvine - Hardens the skin if prepared properly and applied topically. Toxic if ingested.
Crystal Grace - Unspecified medicinal purpose.
Prophet’s Laurel - Can be applied orally, topically, or smoked. Unspecified medicinal properties.
more of the handers firefighter au for the drunk writing prompt post? 👀
I stayed up way too late for this /facepalm
For @dadrunkwriting! The handers firefighter au referenced can be found here.
The trouble, of course, started with the calendar.
Aveline should never have let Hawke talk her into it. "It's tradition," he'd wheedled, and, "It's for a good cause!"
She should have known. Hawke never did anything by halves. The problem was, he was very good at making his weird requests sound perfectly reasonable, right up until you stepped out of the bubble of charm he emitted from his person and realised they were anything but - and by then, of course, it was too late.
The argument he had made had sounded perfectly logical on paper. They always did. It had begun:
a) Lots of fire services put out annual calendars, chief. Why shouldn't we?
b) If we did put out our own calendar, chief, it would be great for charity - we can donate half the proceeds and use the other half to replace pump#3.
c) You know there's no funding coming down the line with the government budget cuts, chief. She's only got a few more years in her.
d) Do you really want no pump#3 if that chemical factory on the edge of town goes up, chief? A calendar won't hurt as much as that.
e) What'll we be doing in the calendar? What we normally do, chief. Wearing our uniforms and standing around our equipment.
f) It'll be tasteful, chief.
The problem with Garrett Hawke, of course, was that he was utterly uncontrollable. The other problem was that he was one of those strange, unusual people favoured by Lady Luck herself. Aveline didn't believe in the Maker, or any sort of divine force, really, but there was no denying two things: Garrett Hawke had the worst ideas, and that he always came out of them better than he went into them.
Take that fire over on Smith street. She'd really thought she'd have to fire him after that inappropriate comment about the family's cat - but it turned out the family was none other than the Viscount, and Dumar himself had written the Fire and Crime Commissioner mentioning Hawke by name and thanking him for rescuing the damn family pet. "Duchess Tinkerbell" was a prize pedigree, apparently. Worth thousands. Hawke had not only rescued her but he'd gone out of his way to retrieve all the family's important paperwork, and Dumar suggested - in a way that wasn't a suggestion at all, really - that he be promoted or at least given a raise.
Also her old friend Varric had told her he'd also managed to hit it off with the doctor he'd been asked to chaperone based on nothing more than 5 sentences of flirting. Aveline had thought about writing him up for that, too - it was hardly professional to flirt with the ambulance crews there to save your life - but Varric had impressed upon her in no uncertain terms that anything that got "Blondie" to stop being so repressed was, and always would be, a good thing. And Hawke had seemed on better behaviour, too - texting more than usual, but he still got in the mandatory workout time and cooked the meanest chile con carne for the group on roster, and when they had a callout he was the height of professionalism.
Aveline had thought - stupidly, despite all known experience and every gut instinct she'd ever possessed in her life -that she'd gotten through to him.
Then she'd come down to the station floor to find him shirtless and straddling a hose while some blond scarecrow she'd never seen before snapped photo after photo. "What," she'd roared, making the blond jump and Hawke grin, lazy and self-satisfied, "Are you doing?"
"Morning, chief," Hawke had said. He'd arched his back and dramatically raised an arm. "This better, Anders?"
"Hmm," said the blond, and snapped a photo seemingly on instinct. "Unzip your trousers a little? Just an inch."
"HAWKE," Aveline had snarled.
"It's the calendar, chief," Hawke said, cocking his hip and adjusting his grip on the enormous, bright yellow plastic hose snaking between his thighs. "I'm Mr Drakonis."
The blond snapped another photo. "It's artistic," he said.
"It's obscene," said Aveline, appalled. "And who are you? Who gave you permission to come on the station?"
"He's the photographer," said Hawke. He was now holding the hose with both hands. The blond looked appreciative. "Did you want to go next, chief?"
"What," said Aveline. "Hawke, when I said -"
Hawke just looked nonplussed. "Chief," he said, "Listen..."
And then several things happened. Hawke reminded her that all the best calendars were a little racy. It was the shock factor that made them sell, he said - like that film, Calendar Girls, or that Orlesian rugby one that was straight-up softcore porn. They had a thing here, and pump#3 was closer than they could imagine. It would be tasteful, he said, now hanging off pump#2 with a fire jacket slung artfully over his shoulder, clad only in his standard-issue trousers, a sweaty white tank top, and a pair of navy suspenders. And it would be successful, and that would help out with pump#3 and maybe even the budget for the next year, if they were lucky?
"Hmm," said Aveline. It sounded perfectly reasonable. She eyed the blond photographer, who hadn't emerged from behind his camera; she didn't entirely know what a professional photographer looked like but she suspected he wasn't usually wearing scrubs and, Maker-forbid, crocs.
"Anders is kindly offering his services for free, chief," Hawke added, sprawled artfully in the driver's seat of pump#2's cab while Anders carefully smudged engine grease over his throat and collarbones with the concentration of a true artisan. "He's got quite the full schedule. It's a real squeeze to fit in there. I'm amazed he'd got the stamina to come straight from work and thrust himself right into this."
The blond made a small tight sort of noise, but Aveline couldn't quite place it. "Hawke," she said, warningly.
Hawke draped an arm over the wheel and curled it just so that the tendons on his bicep popped. Anders, for reasons Aveline wasn't sure she wanted to fathom, took a photograph of that in close-up. "Don't worry, chief," Hawke said. "I know what I'm doing."
Anders muttered something that almost sounded like 'me', but couldn't've been, because nobody was that tasteless.
"Just be out by the time morning shift starts," Aveline sighed. She nodded at Anders, who ignored her, and left them to it as she went back to her desk.
As she left she heard Anders tut and say, "Smooth."
"It's what I'm here for," Hawke purred. "That and putting out your fires."
"Hawke..." Anders sounded amused, and pleased, and like someone with not a fucking ounce of taste or good sense anywhere in his head; there was a sound of rustling cloth, and some curious wet noises, but Aveline closed the door and decided she wasn't paid enough to care.
That was the thing about Hawke; he survived things nobody else should. He kept going in the absence of all common sense and reason; the calendar did turn a profit. They did replace pump#3. Anders and Varric both came to the launch event and toasted the new pump with some flat lemonade in a plastic cup along with all the rest of them, and Anders stared at Hawke the entire time with an expression of pure adoration you would normally see on the face of some saint undergoing a religious experience - and the weird thing was, Hawke gazed back, just the same. Aveline had no idea how he did it and wasn't sure she wanted to know. That was the thing about Hawke; he was... a lot.
And he did it all, Aveline noted when her personal copy of the calendar arrived in the post, despite being the kind of man who named a fire-fighter themed calendar "Smokin' hot heroes."
