#absolutionem 01

With his still meager (if not nonexistent) income, Anders is willing to eschew most high-ticket items. He has experience enough in find people willing to trade for the goods he personally needs— donations from Lowtown, generous as they were, did not cover all of his clinic and living expenses back in Kirkwall. Even in the thinnest months however, he always scrounged up a bit of food for the stray cats.

Pounce 2, as he has taken to calling her, is a similar weakness of his.

She leaps out of his arms as soon as they're in the pet store, leash swinging back and forth as she prowls over to the treat aisle.

"Has Zevran brought you here already?" Anders mutters, impressed by her single-mindedness. He follows at a more leisurely pace, picking little bits of fur off of his thrifted sweater.

His eyes are already downcast, which makes it easier to spot the creature before he takes even a glance at its owner. Even having been in the tower for half of his life, any Fereldan with eyes could recognize the breed by silhouette alone.

It makes his blurted question somewhat unnecessary.

This man's eyes keep wandering over in his direction, and Qifrey is curious about just what he's looking at. Does he look silly? Did a child stick something to his back again? Are there crumbs from lunch left on his cheeks that he somehow missed?

"Do I have something on my face?"

He's beginning to understand why most other mages choose to walk around wearing robes instead of armor. Less protection, sure, but you're far less likely to bake to death if you've got to rough it out in the sun. Or, say, navigate a foreign city on foot. Without a map. Or the faintest bloody idea where you're going. He's drenched in sweat by the time he ducks into a shady alley to rest, having more or less given up on finding his way to his assigned lodgings.

(Because he apparently has those now. He supposes he ought to feel grateful that his unseen jailers haven't left him to fend for himself on the streets, but the whole thing is a little too reminiscent of the Gallows for his taste. Minus the creepy statuary.)

His thoughts might have grown dangerously maudlin had the sound of a nearby footfall not caught his attention. He whips his head around to squint at the source of the noise. What he sees wipes away the last few desperate, harried months of his life as though the time had never passed at all. He's back in Kirkwall, the glow of Meredith's sword reflected a brilliant, sickening red off her Knight-Captain's armor, the life of every single mage in the city hanging in the balance. Without even thinking, he draws himself to his full height and grips his staff, calling his magic to him as easily as the moons call the tides.

Except it doesn't come. Something—or someone—has dampened it, reducing what was once a surging deluge to a mere trickle. Hawke can't be too miffed about it, though, since it gives his conscious mind time to catch up with his instincts.

Cullen is not his enemy, he tells himself, even though it doesn't seem true. A templar is a templar, but Cullen stood between him and Meredith and nearly died for it. That means something. It has to, despite the fact Cullen has made it abundantly clear that he views mages as less than human.

Give people the chance to change, Hawke. He's not sure when his conscience started sounding suspiciously like Varric, but he resents the dwarf's influence over him immensely. Especially when he's right.

Slowly, deliberately, he lowers his staff. “Knight-Captain Cullen?”