Drudging through the abyssal crag that had become their proverbial home had been no less of an enjoyment to Nathaniel than anyone else. Dragging new-bloods around, however, even less so. No matter the years or counts of bodies that mounted, in the Deeproads, everyone was new â never the same a second time, nothing predictable. He faints a turn at the sound of his name, grey hues glancing side-ward at the boy who had been more or less fumbled into his charge: heâs Ferelden, so he belongs in Amarantine not Orlais, said Stroud and thusly so, by warden-commanderâs bidding he had come in charge.Â
      â Donât be so eager, Hawke, â the surname slips with a grumble. â Itâs time like these you should be thankful for the slow going. Though I suppose itâs a bit troublesome how quiet itâs gottenâŚÂ â He trails off, the scratching in his skull, that eerie song of hisses and mourning nary a hymn within the back of his mind.  The barest idea fathoms ; test the mettle, give up the reigns some, and allow the greenhorn a little room to grow â or suffocate, it would depend on how the day transpired.Â
           â Well, Warden, how about you decide.
            Should we stay or should we go? â
     â Itâs not ---- â and such protests are quickly silenced by the snapping of a jaw,
     and the crack of gauntleted knuckles as they crack with every flex of his fist.
     He has yet to consider himself a decent Warden; a decent anything, really.
     For all his experience in combat, his bluster and boasting, Carver Hawke will
     never quite consider himself good at anything. Being under Stroud had given
     him a necessary idea of how things worked in the Wardens. Although Howeâs
     methods were perhaps a bit... different.
     HE sees the chance to prove himself but does not yet jump for it like a dog leaping
     at a bone as he would have in, well, youth. Heâs older. Not wiser, but older. He can
     make reasonable decisions without looking like an idiot. So Carver listens to the
     almost idle scratching in the back of the mind, the hazy whispers, so strangely
     soft; itâs a lullaby that sends a calm through his very core, makes him take a breath.
     â If our goal is to hunt these darkpawn, and thereâs nothing here we canât sense...
     I think we should move deeper. Explore the tunnels. â
