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The Lady Rhyssa Evres Hawke. Champion of Kirkwall (with Nettle).
My best @snuffes surprised me with this absolutely perfect portrait of Rhyssa, in all her drowsy, sultry, vain glory. Thank you, thank you. <3
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15th August. Saw one whole cloud this morning–watched as it crept right next to the sun, spied me looking up in hope, and dissipated immediately
For as many lackeys as Meredith keeps at her beck and call, I am surely the most ill-suited to the position. Mostly because she despises the sight of me–which most, I feel, would consider a sign of a poor working relationship–and yet here I am, searching out apostates & running messages back and forth like a pet urchin, because my freedom depends entirely upon her sufferance and I am nothing if not craven when it comes to my freedom.
Poor Fenris. Well, he knew my baggage when he signed on. Maker, between the two of us we’re practically a full suite.
I do appreciate his willingness to stand at my shoulder and glower, though. I told him this afternoon that regardless of his history with Anders, should I ever be taken up by the templars, I expected him to put all differences aside to break me out of the Gallows immediately. He laughed, but his eyes were hard when he said he would. Good.
19th August. So steamy after yesterday’s storm Isabela could hardly get all the innuendo out at once
Do you know, journal, when I was a child I used to go out into the field and pretend to be Queen Rowan at the Battle of River Dane, and Carver would be Maric and Bethany would either be Loghain or Queen Rowan’s previously unknown twin sister, Queen Alabaster, who was the same as Queen Rowan only more beautiful, more beloved, and who more often than not kicked both Maric and Rowan to the streets after the battle and ruled Ferelden alone.
I bring this up because this afternoon (which was remarkable in several distinct ways) I managed to not only insult but also physically injure the sovereign king of Ferelden, His Majesty Alistair Theirin, in the presence of his uncle the Bann of Rainesfere Teagan Guerrin.
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[whispers] was it just me or was Hawke’s reason for not having Merrill with him a huge steaming pile of bullshit
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Wintery blues/cheering up prompt for Hawke/Fenris? :D
Winter in Kirkwall had lasted approximately forever, but in that time, it had only snowed twice. The rest of the time, it had just been cold. It wasn’t often cold enough to snow, but it rained constantly, the damp and chill leaching through even the warmest of wools. Kirkwall’s cobbled streets were constantly wet and slippery, slick with ice in the mornings and evenings. The few occasions when Hawke managed to get outside the city, doing a few jobs out on the coast, were even worse: the sea winds cut through her cloak like a knife, the salt stinging her chapped lips, and all the ground was marshy and sodden.
All in all, Hawke had finally given in to her companions’ complaints and agreed to stay in for the rest of the season. Varric said the expedition wouldn’t leave before spring anyway, and he and Isabela were both increasingly difficult to pry out of the Hanged Man, which, Isabela pointed out frequently, was at least warm.
And yet. Gamlen’s house was too small and cramped. The cold seeped through the cracked walls, and the roof leaked. If Hawke spent too much time there, rubbing elbows with him and her mother and Carver (Maker bless him, Carver seemed to take up more than half of any room he was in, all elbows and growling about the chill, even though he’d been supposed to patch the leaky roof and the damned thing still leaked), she might go insane. Mother and Uncle Gamlen had been spending the winter sniping at each other about old slights and arguments Hawke couldn’t make heads or tails of, and she hated it.
She’d been helping Anders in the clinic, but she’d had about as much of the stench of Darktown as she could take, too. Merrill had come down with something that had her sneezing and coughing and didn’t want visitors. Aveline was on night patrols these days, which meant she slept half the day and was poor company the rest of it.
So Hawke found her steps turning toward Hightown.
She hesitated on the doorstep of Fenris’s mansion. (Or, at least, the mansion Fenris was occupying.) She reached for the massive brass knocker with its serpent’s head, and stopped herself before she touched it. There was little purpose in disturbing Fenris, really. Hawke had no real reason to be here, no work to offer, only an ill-formed, restless desire for companionship. It was foolish to come here. Of all her acquaintances, Fenris was surely the one least interested in offering any.
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lyndraws-deactivated20190618
I am the one thing in life I can control I am inimitable I am an original (x)
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submitted by @andrewserkis
Hawke: I came here to protect my family and kick ass. Hawke: And I’m all out of family.
I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.
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32: Dust motes
Hawke lay flat on her back, thinking of how strange it was that she, the bloody Champion of Kirkwall, had been killed by a Lowtown thug with a club. It was such an… inelegant end. Of course, she wasn’t dead yet, but the lump on the back of her head hurt so badly that she was sure she soon would be.
She closed her eyes and focused on the muffled sounds of her friends’ footsteps and the muted clang of weapons and shouting. It seemed to go on for quite some time. When she opened them again, she found herself focusing on the patterns of dust motes swirling through a beam of light from the dirty window above her. They were quite pretty, for being dust. She wondered if there was dust at the Maker’s side. Probably not.
Someone stepped in to the light, scattering the dust motes. “I’m trying to die here,” Hawke protested.
Aveline’s voice reached her ears. “Not today, Hawke.” She sounded exasperated rather than worried, which Hawke took as a good sign. “Not while I’m around.”
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Hawkerill, a nap
“By the Dread Wolf, I’m sorry. I don’t know why my house is such a mess. It’s clean sometimes, I swea–Hawke?”
Hawke laughs as she falls back on Merrill’s bed, the frame creaking and the air thickening with dried grass and the bruised mint smell that always clung to the other woman’s clean sheets.
The day is full of dust, the light low and heavy with it, sparkling off the edge of the wrought mirror frame and the knife belt at her waist.
“Merrill,” she says. “Fenris’s house is full of corpses. My house is full of dog, and sometimes full of Gamlen. We stick to Varric’s floor. Your house has books and probably little vials of blood–”
“–it does not–”
“–and the mirror is a bit creepy and you can only fit one bowl in your basin, but, Merrill, I love your house.”
“Oh.” Merrill says, feeling herself start to grin, liking the ache in her face and the little, tripping flip in her chest. “That’s good to know. I lo–you look rather nice there, you know.”
“In your bed?” Hawke chuckles, reaching for Merrill’s hands. “Good to know.”
Merrill is blushing. But it’s not the bad sort. Just her tongue feeling too slow in her mouth as her head fills with all the things she knows she could say now–should say now, if she wants to see Hawke blush, too–if she could only think them in the right language, first.
She leans down. Kisses the tip of her nose. “What are you doing, ma vhenan?”
The endearment, still secret, tastes wonderful.
Hawke swallows. “This is daft, I know, but–can I sleep here? Just for a little? It’s–” she shifts on the bed, hands warm around Merrill’s, going slowly tight.
“I’m really bloody tired,” she says. “And like I said, I feel saf–I like your house.”
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hallianna replied to your post “Guys, in honor of the SCOTUS ruling on same-sex marriages, I kinda…”
Modern! FHawke and Isabela fighting (not really fighting) over flower choices for their wedding. PLEASE OMG I LOVE YOU.
roses are red, violets are expensive (f!hawke/Isabela)
“Okay, well what about roses. They’re supposed to mean love or some shit, right?”
“Too common.”
“Orchids?”
“Too expensive.”
“Carnations.”
“Too cheap.”
“I don’t know, hibiscus?”
“Where in the shit am I supposed to get a ton of fucking hibiscus in September? Also they wilt too fast.”
Isabela looked over the coffee table at her fiancé and slowly raised a brow. Hawke was ass deep in wedding magazines, their glossy pages desperately dog eared and fanned out across the carpet. “Baby.”
“I know, I know.” The chagrin was immediate, the wedding mania fading into the background in an instant. Hawke raked her hands through her hair, short dark locks sticking up every which way, before dropping them helplessly into her lap with a shrug and a sigh of defeat. “I just want it to be perfect. We’ve been waiting so long…”
She looked perilously close to tears and Hawke never cried, only deigning to shed tears over well-orchestrated action sequences in movies. And fat puppies.
Carefully she pulled her boots off the coffee table and slid off the couch, hands and knees scuffing the carpet as she crawled around it and the Martha Stewart archive strewn all over the floor to sink down cross-legged at Hawke’s side.
She had never been much of one for weddings – for marriage either. There was always the one that went sour hovering in the back of her mind, and for the longest time the fact that technically they couldn’t just meant she never really had to think about it. Never had to decide if it was something she really wanted. If she could avoid making the sorts of decisions with the inconvenient byproduct of being semi-permanent, all the better, but –
Well. Hawke wanted this so badly. And she wanted Hawke more than anything.
There were worse fates than being married to someone she was head over heels in love with.
“For what it’s worth,” she said eventually, leaning her shoulder up against Hawke’s side. “I would marry you on the side of the road.”
“Hmph.”
“Right there on the sidewalk.”
“No you wouldn’t.”
“I would so. I would marry you on a street corner in the pouring rain in the middle of downtown rush hour traffic.”
Hawke laughed a strangled little laugh but finally came up for air, hands falling away from her face. “That’s awful.”
“And adventurous.” Isabela’s eyebrows waggled, the tip of her tongue poking out between parted lips. It merited a laugh – a real laugh this time. “But totally worth it.”
“Bela…”
“I’m serious. Cross my heart and hope to die. We don’t have to have flowers, or music, or candles, or any of the – whatever the hell this is. The only thing I need for it to be a perfect day is you.”
Hawke stared at her for a long moment, as though she wasn’t sure if she was serious, as if she wasn’t sure whether she ought to laugh or cry, and settled instead for kisses. Clever fingers wound their way into Isabela’s hair and held her close, lips fervent – but soft. Tender. A little shaky, like too much coffee and not enough breakfast. Just like Hawke. And she –
Well what could she say, really. She was a woman in love.
“Fuck it,” Hawke said, lips against her cheek. “Let’s just elope.”
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Anonymous asked:
This is gonna sound weird, so disregard this ask if you wanna. I just saw your thing about your hip and pain, and I have chronic pain and I was wondering if you'd ever write a fic with like an iquisitor or hawke or warden with a chronic pain thing?
Dear Anon,
I hope that you’rearound to see this story, because as soon as I got your message I had to startwriting. I feel like a bit of a fraud – my pain situation is temporary (here’s hoping), andeven though my mother deals with chronic pain I’m not sure that I am in any wayfit to do this topic justice. I reallywanted to give it a shot, though. Not tocheer you up exactly because I don’t know if this is cheerful, but just to…talk about it I guess. I don’t know ifthis is what you were looking for, and even if it’s not please accept my gentlehugs and my empathy.
Fine (f!hawke)
The shadows burn blue, mottled gray light from the streetoutside struggling to strong-arm its way through a barricade of thick red curtains. The rattle of a passing cart shakes thewindows, the clomp of hooves cutting through the syrupy silence that fills herbedroom, beating like war drums against the back of her skull.
Hawke doesn’t even have to open her eyes to know that todayis going to be one of those bad days.
Blue eyes, heavy lidded and full of sand, open to stare atthe plaster texture of the ceiling, vision blurring and swimming in a circularpattern before slowly coming into focus. Her mouth is dry and faintly the taste of blood and brandy linger on hertongue, though the temporary absence of pain lets her know that last night’sdose hasn’t yet worn off.
Good.
The noise in the street continues despite the threateningroll of thunder in the distance, joined now with the grating sound of a dogbarking, occasionally punctuated by an expletive filled shout. She closes her eyes again, brow furrowing asshe counts to ten and forces them back open.
It’s hard not to resent it. The city. The people. There is a bone-deep exhaustion that has been herconstant companion since she’d gotten herself hacked to pieces, nearly bleedingout on the throne room floor with the mangled body of the Arishok at herside. It never leaves, closer than alover, and she wears it like a second skin.
Though sometimes, some days, it wears her.
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Spark (f!hawke + Aveline, set sometime during Inquisition; inspired by Florence + the Machine’s Long & Lost)
Is it too late to come on home? Are all those bridges now old stone? Is it too late to come on home? Can the city forgive? I hear its sad song
The Starkhaven siege is broken the day the Champion finally returns to Kirkwall, the way Aveline always imagined she would – dramatically, and at the head of an army.
She always thought Hawke would carry her shield, though. Not be carried on it.
The standard of the Inquisition rides high on the hills, a flood of swords and eyes and white fabric. It’s a bit too much like the banners that waved above the Viscount’s keep before the end of Meredith’s reign; it doesn’t bring her much comfort.
“We can’t all be perfect,” Hawke says from right beside her where she stands, exhausted, dispassionate, watching Sebastian Vael, King of Starkhaven, swear allegiance to the Inquisitorial throne.
“Or timely.”
Hawke doesn’t laugh, but the sentiment is there. “I came as soon as I could. At least I brought reinforcements.”
“But did you have to die to get them?”
Hawke doesn’t answer her and when she blinks and looks again, she is gone.
Sebastian kneels on the bare Keep floor and the Inquisitor stretches her hand above him, blessing or condemning, it hardly matters anymore. It is over, and that is all the justice Kirkwall can expect. But what it needs - her armor presses down with the weight of a thousand years. She is creaking, groaning with rust and salt like the fittings on a shipwreck.
She sails yet though. She will not sink.
.
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this is why hawke didn’t join the inquisition
ok but imagine Hawke trying to sell the Bone Pit to everyone they meet in Inquisition.
and cursing when NO ONE IS WILLING TO BUY IT
Like just combine this with Hawke as an Advisor AU:
Hawke: Inquisitor as your financial advisor—
IQ: That is not what I brought you into the Inquisition for.
Hawke: Inquisitor, I wonder if you’ve thought about your financial future. Real estate is where it’s at. Sound investments go a long way, just look at me! One expedition into the Deep Roads and that gave me the capital to start my real empire—property. Why, I have a lovely mine just outside of Kirkwall I’d be willing to sell you at a very low cost!
IQ: Is this the Bone Pit?
Hawke: WHO TOLD YOU—I mean… what a confident investment you can make with a mine of such renown.
IQ: Don’t you dare try to foist it off on me. I’ve heard the stories.
===
*standing at the war table*
Hawke: Cullen, you seem like a man who values… good metallurgy. How are the troops faring for raw materials for weapons and armor?
Cullen: Hawke, I lived in Kirkwall the same as you. Tell me one thing that isn’t wholly negative about the Bone Pit and maybe I’ll consider requisitioning it.
Hawke: ………It isn’t covered in Red Lyrium?
Cullen: Well, I suppose that is something. I’ll add that to the checklist of what we look for in a mine right next to ‘not completely on fire.’
Hawke: Well, not all of it’s on fire.
Cullen: (sighing) Maker’s breath.
===
*standing at the war table*
Hawke: Lady Montiliyet, please. Isn’t there anyone in your numerous string of contacts who might be interested in a slightly used mine just outside the fair city of Kirkwall?
Josephine: Champion, with all due respect, if I tried to sell your mine to one of our allies, I think they would promptly cease being our ally.
Hawke: Do we have any enemies we can gift it to?
Josephine: (amused) I’ll have to give it some thought.
===
Hawke: Do you think if I give the Bone Pit to Corypheus it’d swing the odds in our favor?
Leliana: As much as I enjoy the thought of cursing our enemy with misfortune, he already has a dragon. Let’s not give him another.
silly-age
Hawke: So, Iron Bull, I hear you like dragons?
Iron Bull: Boss told me to say no… If we’re still alive once the Inquisition’s over, though—
Krem: Chief, no.
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onecirclingmoon-deactivated2017
Amell Family Tree
Four generations of my Amells and Hawkes, finished at last after about 40 hours of work. O_O I wish I had the space here to say something about them all, but this post would end up being a mile long because so many headcanons. Well, if anyone’s interested in any of them, feel free to fire off an ask. And if anyone else feels inspired to make one of these for their own guys, I’d love to see it! ♥
Edit: Tumblr has resized it so it’s tiny even in full view. If anyone wants to see it properly at the correct size, it’s here: http://onemooncircles.deviantart.com/art/Amell-Family-Tree-529522449
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- Inquisitor asking Leliana about the Warden
- Inquisitor asking Varric about Hawke
- Inquisitor asking Cullen about both the Warden and Hawke
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I submit this theory: Hawke is the one to kill the Nightmare.
We all know the choice reads “will likely die” to cover the Inquisitor’s escape. I suspect, no matter how heart-breaking Varric’s reaction is, that leaving Hawke behind is ultimately the right decision.
First: “The world fears the inevitable plummet into the abyss. Watch for that moment… and when it comes, do not hesitate to leap. It is only when you fall that you learn whether you can fly” that has already been pointed out before in relation to the quest, actually bloody called Here Lies the Abyss. It reads like a narrative connection, a clue—foreshadowing, if you will. Nothing is ever titled without a very specific purpose in mind.
Second, Hawke is the only person we have seen so far that has the ability to overcome the very essence of Nightmare: ancient, primal, debilitating.
Beyond any shadow of doubt, the Nightmare’s taunt for Hawke is the most gut-wrenching: “Did you think anything you ever did mattered?”
Because we all know, it did not.
This thing that frustrated us as gamers—the idea that no matter what decisions we made in an RPG title that usually lets us control the fate of nations, nothing changed—becomes the catalyst of Hawke’s character, the well from which they draw strength. Again and again, Hawke faces personal waking nightmares: from the Darkspawn attack on their home that claims one of the twins’ lives, to ultimately losing their other sibling (either to the Taint/Wardens, the Gallows, or the Templars), to the horrific death of their mother no matter how hard they fight, no matter what decision they make in the investigation of her murderer.
And then, Hawke has to face the nightmares of nations. An invisible war: the faithful spreading propaganda and crucifying heretics. A Qunari invasion of the city. An underground rebellion. Growing tensions between Mages and Templars that ultimately erupt into the start of a war. And then—personal again, even after all the loss: the lies of a lover, the unraveling of a friend, anger, betrayal, death—things explode around you, Hawke. And there’s not a damn thing you can do to prevent it.
All while remaining a pillar of leadership for the friends who have become family.
When there’s nothing left to do but survive, to hold those you love as close as you possibly can, you grow strong, knowing you’ve faced your worst nightmares again and again and you’re still standing.
This is the strength of Hawke.
It is the strength that will overcome the Nightmare, as it has overcome so many (so impossibly many; so unfairly many) before.
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middle finger @ the maker
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At first it’s hard, living in the Fade.
Hawke’s big heroic moment ends about as well as they ever do: in the middle of nowhere and covered with spider guts. Her arms hurt. Her everything hurts. None of the spirits laugh at her jokes or ask for her autograph or answer her pleas for directions. She bends her head to drink from one of the waterfalls and it feels like swallowing a pitch grenade. She weeps her eyes sore and claws at the stone until her fingers bleed.
So much for the Champion of Kirkwall.
But after a while Hawke feels more like herself. Maybe the most like herself the she’s ever been. The tears dry, her hunger hollows out, and the spider guts peel away like cobwebs. What is she, if not a fool who never stops trying? What is this place but another wreck of a city that would be hopeless without her?
So she travels. Kills some demons, soothes some nightmares, tracks down Justice. And when she misses Kirkwall she’s only a step away from someone’s fancy about Maisy’s apartment in the alienage or Captain Belladonna’s smuggling runs.
Hawke is endless and indomitable. Her back itches where the wings want out.
One day Hawke dumps a dead goat on Donnen Breninokovic’s desk and wonders if she was ever the real Hawke at all. If that woman was dying, and what the dreamers made of her legend.
She wonders if Varric knows that his stories saved her.
But dwarves don’t dream, so she lets the question fall.