𝕱𝖑𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽𝓵𝓮𝓼𝓼

          “Of all the things the Imperium has done in disservice to me, truly it is its gossip that lacked." There is mirth in those words, a jab that is evidently pointed at him, but barbed with a returning edge as well. It is a brilliant tactic; easily executed with a smile that flashes white teeth and pristine visage.

          “I was under the impression the Hero had a considerably more… impressive beard.”

❝ You're from Tevinter? ❞ 

Immediate caution acts as a shield of sorts; he had little knowledge of the country. The most he knew was acquired from Fenris, whose opinion was shrouded in venomous ire. Still, he stood amongst the Inquisition, so intent shan't be cause for suspicion. Thus mien of feigned distaste is donned, subtle horror as something of an insult is stated.

❝ You’d think that the title      of ‘Inquisitor' would garner      some respect around here,      but I feel more out of the loop      than anyone. ❞

❝ Had I known that the     Champion would be paying     me a visit, I would have changed     into—nicer armour. I hope that     blood stains and rust don’t     bother you too much. ❞

❝ I'm acquainted with knowing     next to nothing ---- and trust me,     you get used to it. But you would     be surprised of how little titles     are worth. ❞

If there had been a smile present, it had not persisted. And whilst his brows knitted to give outward proof of a tumultuous reign within, caesious tincture would narrow in delicate degree. The words are heeded with due care, taken into account and pieced together as quickly as they are invoked by the other. 

❝ Mages using blood magic for      something wicked ? That isn’t      surprising. Had you told me, I—      would have helped. ❞

And perchance that was why he didn’t. If he knew anything of Garrett Hawke, this was in truth. Nevertheless, as it appeared, even with the title of Champion depleted and forstraught by the sands of time, its boneweary beholder could not so much elude the clutch of volatility as he could the filth of the underworld; he was an allurement for others’ qualms, despite claiming to be in hiding—it should have been expected, perhaps. 

❝ The magister? I was under      the impression that you had      killed him during your previous      meeting. ❞  

He had ended the fight with a blade through his skull, after all. But one could never be too certain with their like; he knew that well enough. There had only been one occasion whereby he had felt the heart of a magister burst between his fingers; his strongest regret was that it had only occurred once. 

❝ Hawke, ❞

It’s a monicker which has become almost too familiar; rolls off tongue with ease, no matter how coarsely he wills it to be. There is softness imbuing the sonance; he cannot speak it any other way. Eyes set themselves upon a weathered visage; one which has refused to back down, auspicious even in the face of seemingly insurmountable terror, one which carried beneath it the tribulations that he had endured. He stares: grievous, solemn, concerned, if little is to be told of depth. 

❝ I appreciate your honesty, and     your altruism is reputable; none     can deny that. Yet I often wonder     if what you sacrifice for others will     one day outweigh what you have     to offer. It may be wise to refrain     from tempting fate any further than     it needs to be. ❞

( You would have died. ) Utterance caught 'pon tongue, as to venture so far would more than likely bring forth his journey to the Fade -- and such memoirs would be rather kept betwixt locked doors evermore. Mayhaps soon it will be brought to light; howsoever, following his return to solid ground, he had wished naught of the abyss e'er again. Thus 'twas thrown away, at least until the tale need be told. 

The comment on mages went without response -- for he was not one to argue against the threat they pose. Though this was not reason enough for saying nothing; past encounters with the forbidden magic was none too kind. It left a stain: washed away again and again, yet never does it truly vanish.

❝ That's the one. I had      believed so, too. Then     I met his dragon. ❞ 

And an oh-so grand meeting it was, with LIGHTS and music. If roaring counted. Though he would rather confront the beast once again than to stride through the Fade, lost, with all fears come alive. 

❝ I'm sure I can handle whatever     fate throws at me.     ... And if I can't, I trust you     to watch my back. ❞ 

Spoken in joking manner, as destiny was nary a topic of which deterred him in the slightest. Nay, 'twas always more the thought of failure. Perhaps it should not be such a frightening idea, howbeit, as he was familiar with it. Kirkwall had shattered to ash, and with it was what was left under his protection. It seemed he wrought only pain -- ironic, really, as his assumed role was always to guard exactly the things he let die.

❝ I’m certain that he’s met with   criticism before. ❞

It’s a smile which adorns his lip thereafter; fleeting, still, and exuperated by bemusement.

❝ I don’t mean to sound dissatisfied     by seeing you again, Hawke—even     though it might appear to be that     way. ❞ 

Soles press heavily against the not-so-tender tidings of this particular—and therein, very peculiar—terrain. It is known and unknown, but there is a schism betwixt ocular proof and what one has heard of a place. And in spite of this, there remains the ever-pointed inquiry of why. The Champion, as some would have it, was not a man who lived without reason; he could even be so bold as to say that all of his actions had some form of an overture: a plan of action, or prudence. At the very least, his important decisions did. Unwaveringly, the question lingered, even if it did not surmount the quietude. He always held on to faint doubts. 

❝ But it’s…quite the opposite, in     fact. ❞

An impassive shrug precludes all else, forswearing momentarily the probable tenacity of either side of the story. Kirkwall’s finest mage had always harboured a propensity to acquaint himself with cloisters and the like, although the hope was that he would remain by the other’s side during the times he ambuscaded the  friendly shadows; so it had been the promise, if memory served. All the same, the expiatory notion is protested with gossamer-like  force. An uncomfortable shift in weight, one foot to the other, precedes the rest.

❝ I did not come here for an     apology, however; it’s far from     necessary—although, appreciated. ❞ 

Nor was it truly warranted, in light of the circumstances. For as it seemed, he had returned ( in a manner of speaking ) unscathed. Or at the very least, he was still standing—which was a better outcome than the majority of nights at the Hanged Man proved to purvey. 

❝ Now, may I ask what brought on     this flagrant change in your concerns ?      I supposed at first that these Wardens     were curiously tied to your endeavours     with Red Lyrium—but I fail to see     how that could be the case. ❞

❝ I know. It's ... good to see you again. ❞ 

Thus shadow of a smile adorns countenance, atop habit frown. Such alacrity formerly came so simple; o'er time it had been lost to him. Not gone, perhaps, merely much more arduous than he'd admit. 

Serious mien overcomes the prior, as exchange descends unto that of which he refrained from explaining. To avoid speaking of it would prove impossible, be it he shall stay 'pon two legs. ( No doubt evading inquires shall pose as incriminating. )

❝ They didn't have anything to do with the     Lyrium. I had originally left to study it, as you     know. It's gotten ... much worse. I heard of Red     Lyrium infesting caves and corrupting Templars     -- similar cases to Meredith. I suppose it spreads     much quicker than we thought. ❞ 

A pause. What they had wrought was believed naught more than a form of the mineral, mayhaps to be used for the Templars. They were not quite mistaken, yet far from correct.

❝ I had contacted the Grey Warden Alistair     in hopes of his help -- only to find he'd gone into     hiding. I met with Varric and the Inquisitor not long     after, but ... he had good reason for laying low. The     Wardens had been corrupted -- they were using blood     magic to raise a demon army in attempts to end the     Blight. Alistair had warned us before our arrival at     Adamant Fortress, though we hadn't expected the     outcome. ❞

❝ The Warden-Commander's superior     was in league with Corypheus. His dragon even     made an appearance; it was quite the show. Fire     and everything. ❞ 

❝ You're stupid. ❞ 

Mien displays that of disgust; who shall dare challenge his fine bristles laid 'pon chin ? 'Tis none other than he who was loved & trusted most, afore anyone else. Dare say perhaps he should reconsider just how highly he regards this 'broody elf'.

Thus countenance of repugnance is shattered, and in it's place one of horror. How he'd managed to pass o'er own guard and do so much as touch him without notice was a query left without answer.

❝ How … why. ❞  

I dont need this.

runaegate 

I’m leaving.

❝ I received word that you     would be here. ❞ 

It with a cadence steeped in formalities which rends the silence dissolute; one which wrought the tacent atmosphere, something that almost seems natural  to this vicinial. A heavy brow arches in scrutiny, head inclines somewhat to the side whilst the corners of an oft ill-used severance turn downward afore he  pursues this matter thereafter. 

❝ Which I was pleased to have,     although it arrived in a surprising     fashion. ❞

❝ I had expected to hear from     you firsthand, not through a letter     from Varric—who, for an author,     has remarkably poor handwriting. ❞ 

He half suspects that this is due to the context of the message itself; nevertheless, there is little blitheness  in the loquence which ensues. A soft frown draws across indurated linaments; incredulity-imbued oculi shift, focus back on the one deserving of their attention. 

❝ Would it be selfish of me to     ask why you said nothing before     you left ? ❞

Foreign footfalls 'pon ground afore him lead dactyls t'wards a staff; visitors had not been expected. Albeit brow furrows as eyne meet, and grip on weapon is lost.

( This was no stranger. )

❝ Fenris ---- ? ❞ 

He struggles for a foothold, yet it has crumbled with his astound and with his guilt. A silence is shattered by heartbeat alone -- he is reminded of everything. The weight of the world is such a fragile hold; sole misstep will land it atop him and it shall crack. Thus continuous are taken to reassure his balance; they are attempts at calm ere a storm. Whilst surprise still adorns mien, 'tis is soon replaced for perched brows and half-hearted jokes.

❝ What, no greeting ? It's been a while --     where's the 'how are you, Hawke' or the     'I've missed you, Hawke' ?  Honestly, I'm     wounded. ❞

❝ I was going to meet you in person. I          suppose I should have assumed he would     write you before that. 

        Is that so ? You'd better inform him sometime --         I'm sure he would love you critiquing his penmanship. ❞

Humour is short lived, for smile cracks and falters, cleft from him is a light he clings to. For none will find solace in the shadows of old memoirs. Perchance such light fails him as memories which hung as rainclouds are recent, and still can be recalled with terrifying ease.

           ( He will DIE. Along with your family. )

A nightmare was their walking the Fade amidst dreams of another; standing on solid floors of such a place left more than night terrors. To personally stride through was a feat unlike any other, and was something wished upon no one. And it evoked such a notion: he was powerless, he was nothing.