champion.

i’m just a stupid fuck with brilliant luck & sometimes a bright idea —  highly selective, mutuals only marian hawke of the dragon age games, primarily set in modern verses and as endured by myles (he/they, 29.) minors & personals dni.

     ALL HE has heard about her so far is second-hand information, mentions coming from different voices, thus saying he’s sort of familiar with her would be quite a stretch; and then again, there are very few he can say that about. But the good thing (for her, at least) is that having no opinion on her means he has no reason to do any harm to her unless she strikes first or proves herself to be a danger to any of his interests, which isn’t the case for now. Gertrude was one of the few people that genuinely made him uncomfortable, if not outright afraid, but the same can’t really be said about any of her assistants. Although, he should give credit where it’s due and congratulate to this one for surviving her boss. Damaged, perhaps traumatized, but alive indeed.

     “It depends on what something you’re talking about.” A dangerous item, that’s for sure, but that’s not what Peter’s referring to. He has dealt with Artefacts of all sorts, included some Leitners, and although anyone would probably tell the opposite judging by his behaviour he knows how to handle them. And before embarking on any journey of this kind, he’d rather know what’s getting on board first. “You know, I’d rather avoid seeing my ship sink because of it. Reasons why, well, I’d also rather not do this for free.” A perfectly reasonable request, coming from a friendly voice and a friendly smile. “I think it’s quite the fair deal, if you ask me.”

     Sᴛʀᴀɪɢʜᴛ ᴛᴏ the point - she'd be lying if she doesn't feel some sort of relief over that. It's no agreement of course, but at the very least it means she won't have to deal with pleasantries as much and that's a win in her books. There is a lifetime of politics behind her already, all against her will.

     "Of course. I doubt money will be the factor here, but I'm sure we'll ind something." A favor, retrieving something else - either way something that she might regret. But it's worth trying to keep one of the few people that followed her and lived a bit safer, no matter how much Merill will hate her.

     Aɴʏᴏɴᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ really paid attention to it knew the Avatar world was small. Sure, there were new ones left and right, but barely of them managed to stick around long enough to be worthy of remembering, and those that were, good chances were they were people like themselves: someone who dabbled with these things long enough to be consumed by it eventually, one way or another.

     Her own mangled hand was proof enough of that.

     Point was: people knew each other. Undoubtedly, she's known too: not to him, maybe, although she wouldn't rely on it, not with the close ties to the Eye, but being one of the last surviving assets of the former Archivist undoubtedly gives her some questionable reputation, and that at the very least means they can cut the crap of pretending. It doesn't mean she likes it, or that she isn't fully aware this can backfire terribly. There's no trust here. All hope is that there's a mutual understanding of the worries that comes with having someone they care about fall deeper under the grasp of the Eye.

     "I need to get rid of something — destroying it would be worse. I don't know if the bottom of the ocean will hold it, but it would do for now."

     SHE MUST be able to see it - the moment he almost seems to collapse, when the melody takes over and he almost joins it, becoming one and the same with it because he has always been it even before this body and these hands and this voice became tangible. A grotesque heart about to take flight, reconnect to that vastness he had to leave behind decades ago, desperately aching to go back, no matter the happiness this unexpected chance at a physical life brings him. He never mentions it, never talks about it, never voices it out out of fear of hurting others and meeting their lack of understanding, but it is always there, settled inside this body in depths only he can reach. Hawke knows nothing of it. Miles, perhaps a bit more, but he isn’t aware of how deeply this river runs and erodes him. It’s not a secret Sy is keeping from him, it’s just… a precaution. A way to shield both of them perhaps. Because that’s what terrifies him: that this might be read as dissatisfaction for the love he has been given, that it might be a sign that nothing’s enough for him, when that’s far from being the case. How could he explain a part of his own nature without hurting anyone?

     Perhaps he will make peace with it eventually. Perhaps, but never early enough.

     And then the song dies naturally on his lips, although it keeps living inside him even if no one is around to hear it anymore. With one last spin he turns to face Hawke again, grin as bold and bright as usual, perhaps just slightly louder. (In any sense. In every sense.) “What for? Told you I would.” He sits down on the ground again, this time a little more gracefully than before. He hasn’t quite sobered up, but he’s going to get there eventually. “Anythin’ for my favorite pal.”

     Iғ ᴇᴠᴇʀ being asked about it, she wouldn't be able to describe exactly what she saw, or felt. Then again, she isn't a poet: words have always been Varric's front, weaving them into their own sort of melody, and she had never been too good at them. Diplomacy is something forcibly learned (and she's still by far not the person one should ask for it) over having no choice but to deal with it or to doom everyone she knew. She will never understand the obsession with putting the one that had merely been the one to wield the weapon of victory into politics.

     (She knows why, of course. The masses need a tangible idol, and it's better someone who they know protected them once, and the ones in power need someone to blame when things inevitably go wrong. And she thinks of her found family full of fugitives and criminals and lives in fear, not for herself, but for them.)

     Still, she smiles. None of her worries have to do with him, after all, and he had been nothing short of delightful. She knows she will be haunted by this song for years to come. Perhaps the rest of her days. Andraste behold that it will always stay the good type of it, the one with fond memories, and not one of bitterness or fear one day.

     “THAT SURPRISES you?” He doesn’t mean to twist the knife in any wound, really; rather, he’s adding his two cents to her statement - and they are the most valuable, given the hand that’s tossing them on the metaphoric table. “It’s the price to pay to be a celebrity, of any kind. Everyone will put you up on a pedestal and take you down just as easily in a heartbeat. With or without hard feelings.” He is more than glad to not have run into the same fate. His skills are exceptional, extraordinary, but he’d rather live in anonymity than stay in the spotlight without catching a breather. He prefers moving in the shadows, appearing for a moment, playing or singing or offering inspiration before disappearing the way he came. The few that have seen him more than once or to whom he pays regular visits can be counted on the fingers of one hand.

     It glimmers in his eyes like lost stars - his joking mischief. He didn’t lie to her, he is no spirit (not anymore, at least; not since he was forced to wear this prison-suit of flesh and bones), but when that light takes over he looks exactly like one. “You’re going to get one, don’t worry. But first, what weird nickname would you have for me?” He perches forward, all ears (and when he does, it seems as if the whole world were listening. A crowd waiting for the final encore.) 

     “Make it a good one, o charming hero, yes?”

     Aʟʟ ᴛʜɪɴɢs considered, she didn't mean to take up this spot, to become one of the most important people around. She had just wanted to make a home for her family, retake her family name and wealth, and now one sibling is under the ground, one would be better of to be, and her mother — well. They are hardly on speaking terms, blamed for what happened to the twins, as if Hawke doesn't do it enough on her own. As if she doesn't know their blood is on her hands, as is that of so many other people.

     As if that's not what granted her the title of Champion.

     "Good ones? Oh, those aren't my forte. You'd have to ask my friend about it, he's the writer. I just call people whatever word comes to mind." A smile flashes across her face as she pushes away all of the sad thoughts and self pity, the dreadfulness of it all. There's room to be like that when she's all alone, which happens rarely enough naturally.

HE DOESN’T take it personally, if anything because he understands and because she isn’t the first nor will be the last one not to trust him. It’s become a regular thing, these days. At least the two of them can manage to talk in civil terms, unlike with - with Tim.

(And that hurts still.)

"Nothing personal, I know,” he reassures her, pushing his glasses back on his nose and reaching for a nearby hairband to tie his hair up. Eyebrows furrow and he lets go of his messy ponytail as soon as they mention the reason that brought her all the way up here. “No. No, not anymore.” He glances at the spot that was once a spider, then quickly back at her, anticipation quickly building inside him. “What is it?”

     "I ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ trust you, but I am your friend." She doesn't have to add that on, but she does, because it's important. And there's a distinction that most normal people wouldn't understand, would assume one required the other. "You know I won't give you a statement, though. Not voluntarily." The threat in those words, also, hardly veiled. She can't do much if he chooses he has to drag it out of her, and she's not entirely sure she'd blame him, what with the other Eye avatar she knows, transfixed by that cursed mirror, but it's in direct correlation to her prior words. She does, however, carefully take out the book of their jacket.

“ trying to avoid it if at all possible. ” the longer he stands, the more gradually his posture relaxes, tick by tick. his hands fall idly into the pockets of his threadbare coat. embarrassing, only mildly, but it’s fine. everything’s fine.  “ sometimes i think my reputation can get a little ahead of me … hasn’t been ending well lately, erm, sorry, for presuming. that’s on me, i think. ”

     HE DOESN’T realize he has been holding his breath for the past minute until the spider disappears beneath the folder and turns into nothing more than a stain on a wall already in need of a fresh hand of paint. His first breath after the arachnid’s death is still quite shaky, but the tremors don’t pass onto his voice when he replies: “So do I. I’m sorry you had to see me in quite the state, but-” He sighs as he sits back down at his desk. “It’s… hard for me to stay cold-headed in front of those things.”

     His gaze wanders over the file before him (not one of the ‘real’ statements; it doesn’t have that same pull as those do), but his focus is all gone, as he predicted. Instead he looks up at Hawke again, quite perplexed. “Why are you up here, though? I thought you didn’t want to be seen around.”

     "I'ᴍ ɴᴏᴛ judging, puppy. I get it, I promise." Her own reaction towards these things might not quite be as bad, but that's because of other reasons. They had always had to fight any fears, sometimes literally, sometimes not, no time or place for showing weakness. It wears on her, most certainly, but it's nothing that has to concern Jon. He looks shitty enough as it is.

     “HMM. OLD an’ wise advice, if you ask me.” He’s just talking bullshit and she must be aware of it, but after all half their interactions consist of them tossing nonsense at each other knowing the other won’t buy it not even for a single moment. Rapping his fingers on the sticky wood, he takes another sip before answering her question. “Some guy back there.” He nods at some unspecified table on the other side of the pub. “Been a homophobic piece a’ shit t’ me th’ other day, but I ain’t feelin’ like gettin’ into a fistfight just yet, so I’m just gonna put on a show instead.” When he smiles, his teeth look slightly too pointy for comfort. “He gonna see I look better in a dress than he could ever in a suit an’ tie.”

     "Aᴡᴡ, ʜᴏɴᴇʏ, you should have just said so. I'd beat him up no worries." She says that before even looking over, but that doesn't mean she's not serious. Even if she's as much of a beanstalk as she is, she's never backed off from a fight. (The deep scar across her face proves so.) In fact, provoking people is her favorite hobby. One would be surprised how many of them are deeply intimidated by her confidence and back up. Still, if he chooses the non violent path, who is she to deny him that?