Dorian is already reading the plaque out loud to the group:

Hail to Our Champion Who Saved Kirkwall from The Qunari Scourge In 9:34 Dragon

“No,” Hawke says. He is frozen mid-recoil, staring upward, aghast. “No!”

“Ta-da!” Isabela says. “You’re famous.”

“You’re shitting me!” Varric says. “That’s supposed to be Hawke?”

Fenris starts to chuckle. It’s restrained and low in his throat, but from his generally quiet self, it’s as shocking as a cackle. The sound fast catches on with the rest of the group, who break into disbelieving laughter as they circle about the statue to get a better look.

“Sword and armour!” Aveline laughs. “Have they ever seen you before?”

“Apparently not!” Hawke says. “They must have heard ‘Hawke,’ ‘Arishok,’ ‘sword,’ and connected the rest of the dots themselves…”

“They have also severed the incorrect person’s head,” Fenris mildly observes.

“Doubt they could afford to sculpt a whole dead Arishok, to be fair,” Varric says. “That’d take a lot of stone.”

“Oh, I wish they hadn’t put that helmet on you,” Merrill says. “I would have liked to have a statue that looks like my friend.”

“This sculptor is clearly a lazy coward,” Dorian says. “They must have known they weren’t capable of capturing Hawke’s handsomeness.”

Hawke can’t seem to peel his horrified gaze away from the statue’s anonymous face. “What a missed opportunity… Imagine if they stuck that torch-sword through my body. Now, that would have been a statue to remember.”

“Somehow I don’t think ‘our hero got impaled by a sword’ is the story they wanted this statue to tell,” Varric says. “It’s the idea of a Champion beating the Qunari, that’s what they want us to think about. Not our actual human friend here.” He pats Hawke on the arm. “So… hey. The statue’s not really of you, it's the idea of you. If that makes you feel better.”

“Not especially,” Hawke says. He folds his arms, tipping his head. “Come to think of it… This statue has absolutely nothing to tell you that I’m a mage.”

The group considers it again, now sobered into quiet. Hawke the faceless warrior towers above them, flaming sword victoriously raised.

“Well, you sure took the fun out of it fast,” Isabela says. “Don’t worry, though. I was prepared for this.”

“Oh, no,” Aveline says, as Isabela drops a satchel onto the ground and begins to unbuckle it. “What does that—?”

“You’re off duty, captain! Try to enjoy yourself this once,” Isabela says. She dumps a clatter of chalk pieces onto the cobblestones. “There! Everyone, grab one. Let’s fix this thing.”

They look at each other. Then Hawke laughs loudly, swooping down to seize the first piece of chalk. “Great idea! I have a few notes myself…”

Varric refuses Hawke’s offer to get on his shoulders and instead stoops down to target the plaque. The rest of them save Aveline clamber up onto the statue’s stone plinth, making their additions: Hawke goes for the face, drawing a silly expression across the stone helm, while Merrill draws flowers on the statue’s armour. Dorian draws a spellbook beneath the statue’s lowered arm, then clambers around both Merrill and Hawke to access the sword hilt and elegantly inscribe it with this label: MAGE’S STAFF.

The three of them help each other to dismount, briefly admire their work, then circle around to the back, where Isabela and Fenris are putting the finishing touches on their own additions.

“…Dicks,” Hawke says. “You drew dicks on my back. Of course you did.”

“Hey, he started it,” Isabela says, pointing at Fenris.

Fenris points at Dorian in turn. “No, he is the one who suggested ‘phallic imagery.’”

“…In a completely unrelated context!” Dorian says.

But Hawke is laughing heartily, and when Isabela and Fenris jump down he throws his arms about them both. “I love it,” he says. “Aveline, what about you? Don’t you want to add something?”

She is standing a few feet away, arms crossed. “I’m keeping an eye out for my guard. Which is already more help than you should expect from me.”

“Oh, come on, big girl, where’s your sense of fun?” Isabela says. She holds a piece of chalk forth. “It’s not even permanent, anyway, it’s chalk! Don’t be such a baby. Deface our friend.”

“Deface me, Aveline,” Hawke says. “Do it for our friendship.”

Aveline gingerly takes the chalk, sighing as she approaches the statue. “What can I even add on top of all this…”

“Just take your first impulse and do it,” Isabela says, elbowing her. “Go on!”

For a long moment, they stand there, pressing Aveline with their expectant gazes. At last, Aveline steps forth to the Arishok’s severed head, and draws a little line that dribbles down from one of his nostrils.

A brief silence. Then the group breaks into raucous applause.

Aveline rolls her eyes. “You’re all ridiculous,” she says, and tosses the chalk back to Isabela.

“Nice work, everybody,” Varric says, dusting off his hands. “That should correct the record for a bit. Until it rains, anyway…”

“And then we just do it again,” Isabela says. “New weekly routine?”

“Weekly?” Aveline says.

The group stands back to take one more look at the newly improved statue. Below their artistic additions, Varric has rewritten the plaque as follows:

Hail to Our Champion GARRETT HAWKE, A FERELDAN REFUGEE & MAGE Who Saved Kirkwall from BOREDOM & INACCURATE STATUES, BUT ALSO The Qunari Scourge AND DRANK MORE PINTS AT THE HANGED MAN THAN ANYONE ELSE In 9:34 Dragon & BEYOND!

“Brilliant,” Dorian says, laying an arm across Hawke’s shoulders. “Now that’s a statue worthy of our Champion.”