NA VIA LERNA VICTORIA.

          Hawke takes his drink, some pleased sound rumbling from deep within his chest at the pleasant ache of it going down his throat. So unlike the horrific burning from that piss poor ale he’s been slogging through down at The Hanged Man.

          ❛There’s always room for getting drunk.❜ And Hawke grins, settling into small talk with relatively little interest, but having it come from Fenris is amusing enough to keep him engaged. He goes on a tangent when asked about his mother, detailing their tedious shopping trip to update her wardrobe and how firmly he had to press to get her to actually buy anything. One never really did recover from the mindset they had when they were poor, he muses as he drinks from what is his second glass, loose limbed and speaking with wide gestures.

                    ❛What?❜ 

         It catches him off guard, green eyes blown wide im comparison to his more common squint, followed by a laugh. ❛Why? It’s got to be gone by now, dogs do this thing called getting up and walking away. I mean if you wanna pet a dog I could get Pidge, or did you plan on putting a little life into the join with a fresh, slobbering face.❜

           ‘ unbelievable, ‘ he comments dryly, but there is no insult to his tone. he settles his hip that aches from old injuries against the windowsill until he is finally comfortable, facing hawke with an eased expression that doesn’t speak of the usual tension that rolls off of him in waves. 

           though the man questions his logic, fenris shrugs off the attention with a quiet laugh of his own. ‘ no, dogs look for a home. ‘ he’s awfully familiar with that longing wanderlust, but doesn’t bother to speak on it. ‘ and... just... if it needed one, well, here’s one. a giant... empty one that could use a little, er... yes. life. ‘ 

           his glass is set down before his eyes wander down to his hands, free of those terrible gauntlets. he repeatedly curls and uncurls his calloused fingers into fists in the comfortable silence that lulls in and out of their conversations. 

    HE IS NOT  surprised when the conversation takes such a negative turn, the ot-     her all acidic remarks and bared teeth without a moment’s hesistation. such was     the way of things with them, though, and such was the way it would always be. th-     eir drastically differing opinions on certain matters ( read: all those to do with ma-     ges, and magic, and the circle and its templars ) prevented them from ever estab-     lishing some sort of friendship, from exchanging pleasantries and remaining civil,     even when the situation might have called for it. fenris doesn’t seem to mind this,     of course, but anders ———-

    anders is persistent in his ways, driven by his desire to prove himself right. it irr-     itates him, the fact that the elf would dismiss all mages so quickly, without so mu-     ch as a second thought. it is undeserved.

    “  ———- as a ‘living, breathing human’, or simply as a mage? ”

    thus goes his response, a bit of a defiant edge to it as he pronounces that last word:     MAGE. it’s slightly reluctant, but he kneels down to let the kitten go on its way, and     once he does, and it wanders off —— he straightens and turns his gaze upon fenris.     there is a fury building up within, but such is the way it always goes when they speak.

    “  it’s because of those who share your attitude that we’re treated the way that we are     ——– that our plight is allowed to continue. you’re no better than any of the mindless,     barbaric templars roaming hightown this very second! ”

          from anders, it is not so much of a question as it is a verbal challenge. fenris is quick to snap his eyes up and lock with the human’s own spiteful gaze, brows knitting in what can only be deciphered as disgust: fenris does not harbor pity for the cursed. he thinks of it as a waste of time to bother with such matters when the abomination is more than likely to twist his words and intentions. 

          the dead may tell no tales, but the damned are more than enough willing to lay themselves down as red, red martyrs for their holier-than-thou causes that are the faults of so many deaths within this city, this world--- can he not see it?--- a genuine thought that crosses the elf’s mind, but one that is shot down quickly when he sees the will to defy reflect back so clearly into his eyes. fenris takes a cautious step back. 

          it is not fear nor guilt that causes the warrior to be wary. he scoffs at the blank accusation, for lies do not hold any ransom against his beliefs. ‘ ah, yes, of course --- point the finger anywhere but among yourselves. be blind to your own faults and mistakes. how typical of one of magic; do you have any thoughts that aren’t of blaming? your plight?---’ he barks in disbelief---

            Traveling is something he enjoys.

               He enjoys the feel of freedom. The way nobody knows                who you are. That feeling of responsibility slowly drifting                away. He likes the new sights and the food, the scents.                For a few moments, whenever he goes someplace foreign,                he can almost forget about his troubles.

               Eventually, though, he comes back down from that                momentary high; resuming his official business as                Warden Commander. Dark and heavy business, that                sometimes has him visiting taverns to clear his mind.                Or, more often, to people watch [habit, honestly].

               One man in particular had stood out to him. Dark skin                contrasting with his stark hair, and peculiar markings                that seemed just as contradictory. But it wasn’t so much                the design of the tattoos that made him curious; it was                the pull of the lyrium beneath them. Almost intoxicating.   

                And then he spoke, gruff and without patience. The                 casual movement to hide his arms wasn’t lost to Quinn,                 nor was the way the other elf seemed to be baiting him                 into conversation. Why else speak, if he didn’t wish to be                 spoken to? A faint smirk began to form on his lips. The                 least he could do was oblige..

                “Wasn’t going to. Though, you really oughta cover up                   better if you don’t want the attention. Mm, maybe an                   olive colored cloak? It’d go great with your skintone.                   Or maybe a dark blue; like mine!” Quinn leaned onto                   the counter more, peering over at the stranger with                   a friendly smile. “You can’t get any browns. It’d look                   terrible. Probably… Maybe maroon..”

          ‘ i wasn’t aware i was in dire need for a fashion consultation, ‘ he muses, eyes sliding away to focus on something in the far distance. the pain from his brands are a mild buzz in the back of his head that he can ignore if he puts effort in, but it’s too much of a bother right now. 

           fenris huffs. half of him wants to tell the other off, that he wants to be alone, but the words never come out. he’s tired. so when the words, ‘ thank you for the input, ‘ are sighed out in defeat, it serves as half an open invitation for the other to stay. 

           his slouched posture worsens when he’s smiled at. the friendly gesture isn’t returned, but he does drop his head against the counter and flatten his ears. he’s heard that suggestion too many times to count, and while he knows this stranger doesn’t know any better, dear maker, he’s exhausted of answering it. still, he tries to be polite--- as much as anyone groggy at sunrise can be polite, that is.  

           ‘ as thoughtful as your suggestions are, they--- these--- ‘ he vaguely gestures to his entire body. ‘ ---... they hurt. i need the coverage to not bleed everywhere, but i need room to breathe as to not rip out my own skin. it’s... uh. complicated. ‘

     He turns with the voice, which dies to a stifled mumble more like swallowing than speaking. For as assured as the elven man could be in matters of expressing his anger and keeping a sharp tone Hawke had come to notice a definite lack of confidence in, well, just about everything else. A air of confusion as though he never quite knew if he was doing this right.

                     ❛As opposed to hostile concern?❜

     Never one to resist getting a word in edgewise, but his mouth is set loosely and his body at ease. Fenris is company he enjoys, the man need not act like he was walking on glass around him ( then again he may, literally, be walking on glass )

        ❛Just one glass? A good host should offer the entire bottle.❜ 

          the cork squeaks and pops. ‘ yes, exactly, ‘ fenris jests in response, voice dry as he rolls his eyes at the man’s familiar method of testing his waters. two glasses are poured before fenris shrugs his shoulders and sets the bottle near hawke before taking his own. the offer hangs quietly in the air--- if hawke really wanted the rest, he could have the rest. 

          ‘ forgive me for being a newcomer to this whole... social business. i wasn’t aware getting drunk was on the agenda. ‘ he sips in moderate amounts, just enough to keep his throat warm. he even conversationally brings up the weather and, how is your mother? like all sociable people do in hightown, apparently, until his glass is empty and his shoulders aren’t as tense as they were when hawke first arrived. 

          ❝  Really?         —- well, you know; I still wouldn’t turn down free wine if you’re still considering  offering me some.  ❞    a small smirk was given at the display that Fenris put on; as well as a roll of her eyes. 

          ‘ aveline, you wound me. ‘ he’ll even feign hurt with a deeper scowl than usual and a bloodied gauntlet to his armored chest. it’s a bit exaggerating for an elf so private as fenris, but it does the trick... well, it does if you’re not aveline. 

          there are some nights where he cannot get the images of a life that no longer belongs to him out of his head. it is enough to drive him mad, his markings flare in protest of the unstable, unwanted emotions that overpower his nerves while he has to grit his teeth and stalk the back alleyways as to avoid confrontation.  

     ❛Since when have I ever taken dogs home with me?          I have some sense of self control, Fenris, and I find your doubt in that to be disheartening.❜

  A lie if there’s ever been one —  if Hawke’s lifestyle weren’t such a busy one he’d surly be out on the coast rounding up all the wild hounds and dragging them back to Kirkwall in some vain attempt to tame them. Set up his own kennel, maybe, but life demanded other things of him, and he already had a dog. Couldn’t have him getting jealous.

  He takes the invitation, slipping through the considerably small gap between the doorway and the one letting him in, a good-natured pat meeting his elven friend’s shoulder on the way.

         a soft snort serves as a laugh. hawke is always obliviously generous in terms of how much weight he puts into his pats, and the force of this one in particular nearly makes fenris lose his balance. he plays it off into a step that follows the other to the dining room at a respectable distance. 

         ‘ right... with the company you keep, it isn’t so much doubt as it is concern. friendly concern, ‘ he adds quickly, eyes darting away in fear of overstepping boundaries. ‘ ...--- formal concern. ‘ he mumbles. he’s just making it worse, isn’t he? frustrated, fenris moves for the unopened bottle of wine that rests near the edge of the table. 

— revasfen

            ❛ SORRY   I’m late — there was this really great dog on the way.❜

send me "&" for my muse's reaction to yours tracing one of their scars.

they first touch when they run out of reason. tongues are dry as hands full of need move in the dark to ease the older elf back to admire him without his armor that he’s so stubborn about wearing everywhere, even in his sleep. fenris does not stop the other from tracing his raised markings, does not stop valeriu from questioning and offers soft, tired one-worded answers that will have to suffice. for now.

there is a particular jagged scar on his hip that stands out more so than the other scars made of lyrium. the way he flinches suggests how recent it is compared to the others, and fenris exhales slowly through his nostrils when it is prodded at lightly. he knows the apostle means no harm, yet it is harder for him to not tense up and shy away when fingertips that are warm with magic trace over the raised flesh. 

send me "&" for my muse's reaction to yours tracing one of their scars.

hawke. he’s always had the ability to fill the room with his laughter alone, always been the man that everyone looks to when troubled. and he helps them, of course he does, for it’s a coping mechanism for the mage himself to be able to do whatever he can for others that he could not do for his family.

fenris is more of an observer than one whom participates. it’s always been as such, and most of the people accept such behavior of his as the norm. but garrett never treats him as what he thinks he is--- maker’s breath, hawke makes him feel so much more alive. 

so when they’re alone together and he’s comfortably drunk enough to let a laugh slip here and there at one of garrett’s crude jokes, he tells himself he doesn’t mind when that broad hand of hawke’s brushes against his cheekbone first that night. his muscles tense instinctively, but his eyes are steady in the dim glow of the dying fire behind them as hawke speaks volumes with his touch. the quirk in the mage’s brow asks an unspoken question. fenris decides to humor him with a straightforward answer about the scar on his browbone; the vague pain flaring as he feels hawke’s thumb press against the scarred tissue.