#hornsfirst

“You must be The Iron Bull. Andraste’s tits, that’s a name and a half, almost wish I’d thought of it myself. Maybe I can be, I dunno, The Copper Hawke or something. Doesn’t have quite the same ring though, does it?” 

If his appearance in the tavern makes her nervous (and it does) it’s hidden beneath her usual sarky humour and a comfortable amount of ale. It’s not that she doesn’t trust Qunari, just that she’s still not really sure where she stands with them, what with the whole Arishok situation back in Kirkwall. At the time it had seemed like they’d apologised, but now she wasn’t entirely sure. Although in all honesty, she doesn’t entirely blame the Qunari for what happened back then. A lot of it was Isabela’s fault, and the Viscount hadn’t really handled the situation well either. Even so, the scars across her stomach and back are proof enough of the strength of the Qun. Rather than admit her slight discomfort however she kicks a chair towards the Iron Bull and gestures for another drink. If she is to be hanging out with the Inquisition for the foreseeable future, she might as well embrace its people. 

              ❛ iron bull. ❜   prompt and honey-spoken, yet sturdy in the space in between; mirroring the confidence in her stance of arms folded and a chin tilted up as if to somehow make herself seem ... taller.  

❛ sorry ------- iron THE bull. iron-a-bull. ironable? like plaidweave! yuck. anyway. ❜  hawke’s painted nose curls, if just for a moment. ❛ hate to peel your wandering eye from that poor redhead’s presumably bespeckled buttcheeks ----- and even further interrupt the ever-eternal question of does the carpet match the drapes ----- but it’s game time. chop-chop. ❜ 

It’s late. He doesn’t know how late, all he knows is that he is tired. Tired and cold, cold to the bone. To look at him is to see a sorry sight: his feet are bare, as always, but cut up and bloody and red raw from the snow. Pants come from his lips in bursts of raspy white clouds, he is visibly afraid --- despite attempts to still himself. Very visibly exhausted. Blood is present on the rags he calls his clothes, he holds himself as if disguising an injury or two. But someone is approaching, and he needs to compose himself.