MAYHEM

   “Mh.” It’s worth considering. They aren’t haughty enough to dismiss it immediately, at least. “Maybe someone Dalish gave it to me.” In a moment a dark curl buds over their cheek and climbs by their temple like vines, blooming over their forehead in quick splashes, like ink dropped in water. They think better of it suddenly and the tattoo vanishes. It isn’t like them to play off customs so lightly. They almost apologize for the faux-pas.    “I might be Dalish.” It’s no blood writing, but they toss their hair aside to show off newly pointed ears, carrying on with their head canted and eyes trained on Bull. “I could be Qunari.”

           it’s only years of training as a spy that keeps his expression completely neutral. but he knows that in itself is a tell; not visibly freaking out can be as obvious as shitting yourself on the spot, sometimes. in this context, definitely.

The Obsidian Hawke. Shit, why didn’t she think of that? A grin blossoms across her features and a slight laugh falls from her lips, “you’re right, that’s a much better name. I gotta tell everyone to call me that from now on.” It’s better than the Champion of Kirkwall anyway, plenty of cities have a champion, how many have a Hawke? (How many would want one? Not many, after the mess she made of things) 

“Krem… He the short guy, Tevinten, great hair?” 

It has taken a while, but she thinks she’s met most of the Inquisition’s inner circle, and had had verbal sparring matches with at least two of them; hopefully Cassandra will think twice before trying to to hit Varric in the future, and she has left Cullen with no uncertainty as to where they stand with each other. It’s been years, but his words are still fresh in her mind: mages cannot be treated like humans. He can renounce the Templars all he wants, but there are some things she can’t forgive. 

“The Chargers seem like a great group, I have to admit, I’m impressed.” 

            “if you stick around, with names like the obsidian hawke and the iron bull - we would make a great team. imagine it carved into a dragon skull.”  it’s idle chatter, not too much actively behind it; but bull’s brain is working considerably, measuring the champion of kirkwall with a ben-hassrath eye. some habits you just can’t break.

           proudly:  “that’s my boy.”  handsome with the great hair, that’s krem.  “to make a long story short: the first time i met krem, his countrymen were living up to their reputation of being bastards. i took a flail to the face helping him out in that fight - and then introduced myself once the vints were dead.”  there’s more to the story, isn’t there always more? nothing hawke can’t find out from krem himself, but there’s a general limit to what bull is going to outright share, right off the bat, with anyone. 

   “well…” they trail into a hum, raising one leg to lean their knee on the bed, “by then i’d have him on the ground. flat on his back.”    they blink and watch him exigently.

         Krem was half dozing against the fridge when Bull’s voice cut through and he shook his head a little. ❝ Do you even have to ask? ❞ Krem was definitely a coffee person. One time he’d tried tea for his health, but nothing woke him up like coffee did. He stretched and took out the ingredients he would need for his signature cupcakes before heading back out to the front to get coffee. ❝ You know, I’m waiting for you to break that thing one day. Then, what’ll it matter if it’s clean? ❞ He teased. 

   “Of course. Just don’t be rude.”

Including but not limited to throwing them off the battlements. Particularly relevant when they turn around and hop up on the parapet, not sitting directly across from the Iron Bull, but inarguably closer than they were standing.

   “Ceann Éidigh.” They draw a leg up to their chest and leave the other swinging idly by his knee. “I’d wager an educated guess –” Their indexes mime horns. “– that you’re the Iron Bull.”

   they know him well enough to know that question’s coming before it comes, and to dance about the foot of the bed on their tip-toes, leaning as close as one could lean while still, all things considered, leaning away. “how graphically do i have to describe plunging my long hard dagger into a man’s hot wet flesh before that’s very hot?”

They aren’t subtle to begin with, but they’re loud if you’re paying attention. Their last thought is still dragging its feet offstage – it is a cool name destructive sounds harsh is he aggressive should i be… blank. Where one thought tapers off and the other should scuttle in afterwards, they have nothing, for a couple of seconds. “May - maybe. I don’t uh, I don’t know.”

   “Very constricting of you.” And poor alternatives for company, too. He makes better conversation than most angles of an axe.

   “One or the other, I don’t know. Fetch templars with axes if you want to cover your bases, but I think it’d be a waste of a nice morning.”

           i don’t know. he’s given enough pause to think of cole, and that decides it. to his chagrin, of course - he’d love to be the guy who threw a demon off the skyhold battlements.