#mkp's thedas

[shamelesslymkp]

Elissa 'Spitfire' Cousland, The Rose of Ferelden (BG3 Dreamer Edition)

[mkpthedas]

Excerpt from Elissa!Age Chapter 2: Attack on Castle Cousland (aka Howe Dare You)

Elissa wakes up without knowing why. There’s a low growling in the room, slowly growing. Blearily, she sits up to look at Malachai.

Her mabari is facing the door to her chamber in guard position - hackles raised, body low, ready to attack.

“What is it?” Elissa asks, more loudly than she means to. There’s adrenaline humming through her now, an animal vibration in her bones that matches Malachai’s continuing growl.

Something is very wrong.

The door slams open. Malachai snarls. There’s a sudden thwap, a sound Elissa has heard a hundred, a thousand, a million times and would recognize in her sleep, the sound of a taut string’s sudden release, and reflex takes over, her body moving before her brain can even process the threat, diving off the bed and rolling up into a defensive crouch, reaching for daggers that aren’t there.

An arrow slices through the air where she had been moments before, burying itself several inches deep in the wood of the headboard. It is quickly followed by a second, although this one wobbles and goes wide to skitter off of stone.

Malachai has taken one of the would-be assassins to the ground, which might account for the truly terrible nature of that last shot, but the man was not alone and Elissa is unarmed.

Cursing silently to save her breath, Elissa casts around desperately for a weapon. Her bow and quiver hang uselessly on the far wall, and she’s nowhere near the chest that stores her daggers. If she lives through this, she’ll happily sleep with a dagger under her pillow for the rest of her days and never mind the lumps.

The lamp is on the other side of her bed, out of reach, as is the water basin. She doesn’t think a pillow would do much harm, but perhaps it would distract them for a moment or two. Perhaps.

There has to be something, she thinks, fiercely. There’s always something.

Her eyes catch on the chamberpot stowed neatly beneath her bed— a heavy solid thing, made of brass. Not a great weapon, to be sure, but certainly better than none at all.

Elissa drags it out from under the bed one-handed, keeping her eyes on the attackers crowded at her door, tracking their movements through the smoke that has begun to drift into the room, thick and choking and making her eyes water.

She does not let them shut.

She has the feel for the men’s location now, knows just how hard to throw and where to hit. Fluidly, she rises to her feet and takes aim, just as the second attacker lands an armored kick to Malachai’s ribs that sends the huge wardog flying. The man lumbers in after, sword drawn like a snarl, and Elissa lets the chamberpot fly with a cry of fury, viciously wishing the thing had been full.

How dare he hurt her dog.

The brass vessel hits the man square in his helmeted face, forcefully enough to cause him to stumble backward, knocking into the archer behind him and causing their shot to go wide.

The men recover quickly, but Elissa is quicker.

Across the room in a flash, she kicks the weapon chest open even as she pulls her quiver from the wall and slings it across her back. No time to string her bow, but that was alright. This close in, it wouldn’t be of much help anyway, would just hamper her movements without any real compensation in terms of lethality.

The reach for the arrow is automatic, the pull and release of the shaft sharp and clean despite the unconventionality of its use.

Her thrown arrow sprouts from the closest attacker’s throat, as precise a hit as any tavern bullseye.

The man staggers, and Elissa hears a wet gurgling sound. Reddish foam bubbles at the corners of his mouth, dribbles over his lips like drool.

Elissa doesn’t wait for him to fall, doesn’t give in to the small hysterical part of her that thinks that somehow as long as she is still watching the man die she hasn’t killed him.

There is still a third attacker to contend with.

This man is the archer whose arrows Elissa had so narrowly escaped. He already has another arrow nocked. She cannot possibly beat him to the draw, and so she doesn’t even try. Instead, she throws herself forward in a low dive over the bodies of the other two, knifing her petite frame between the man’s legs and into a roll, grabbing madly for the hilt of the man’s boot knife as she goes.

Somehow, she manages it. She finishes the roll, momentum bouncing her back up to her feet even as she makes her newly purloined blade swap hands. It fits well in her left hand, although not as well as her own dagger would. It has a shorter reach, less versatility. A knife, not a dagger, meaning only one of the edges was even sharp. Slashes would be of little use even without all of the man’s armor. Elissa will have to get creative.

Elissa remembers a story her brother told once, of an Antivan bar and a brawl.

Elissa smiles, a sharply crooked baring of her teeth. Her brother had been gleefully graphic in his retelling.

The archer is quick on his feet.

Elissa is quicker.

She ducks under the bludgeoning arm that comes at her as the archer turns to follow, uses the force of her momentum as leverage as she grabs the top part of the bow and twists, turning the man’s wrist in a swift and painful direction.

He lets go with a high-pitched keening sound and the sharp crack of bone breaking, stumbles back against the doorframe with his arm cradled close, a wounded animal shocked by this new and unfamiliar experience of pain.

Is he still a threat? Elissa doesn’t know, and her body doesn’t care, following after the man without pause. She slams into him at chest level, pinning him against the wall. She jabs upward with the hardest part of her right hand, the heel of her palm, forcing his chin up and out of the way as she drives the knife home with her left.

It is nauseatingly difficult, like piercing an ear.

It is sickeningly easy, like sheathing a sword.

Hilt hits bone. Elissa lets go.

The man’s dead weight slumps against her, nearly taking her to the ground. She twists out from underneath him just in time to watch him collapse next to the other two things that were once people.

She stands there, mindlessly staring at the gory pile, gulping in breath after breath. There’s more blood than she would have expected. Or maybe there’s less.

Elissa doesn’t think she’d ever really given much thought to the matter before, how much blood there is in a human body. How much less blood there might be in a corpse.

There is quite a lot of blood. Her hands are sticky with it, her nightgown a ruined mess. The blood itches as it dries.

The air is sickly sweet with the scent of death, so thick with it that Elissa can taste it, metallic tang bright and sharp as the clash of sword on sword.

There is something heavy and sticky in her mouth, like regret. She spits the substance out, wine-dark and glistening, and swallows hard to keep back the acidic sweetness creeping up her throat.

There was blood in her mouth.

It wasn’t hers.

“Elissa!”

Her mother’s voice is sharp with fear, cutting through Elissa’s daze. She turns to see her mother running toward her, faster than she would have thought possible.

Then her mother is there, cupping Elissa’s face with hands that shake. Like Elissa, she wears a nightgown. Unlike Elissa, her skirts have been violently ripped to end just above the knee. She’s wearing boots and a tough leather jerkin, a sword belted at her waist and a dagger high on her hip.

Her hands move from face to shoulders to arms and back again, a nervous fluttering, as though her mother is trying to reassure herself that Elissa is real.

“Are you alright? Are you hurt?”

Elissa shakes her head, though it feels like a lie. “I’m fine,” she promises. “Malachai warned— Malachai!”

Elissa jerks away from her mother, turning wildly to look for the hound. He’d been hurt, hadn’t he?

There is a soft whoof from the corner, which morphs to a soft whine of pain.

Elissa drops to her knees next to the dog, hands hovering helplessly about his frighteningly limp body, not sure where was safe to touch. He is alive, she can tell that much— his chest heaves in fast shallow pants that whistle on the way out.

Elissa’s mother kneels down beside her. Gently, she reaches out and palpitates the mabari’s side. Malachai makes a sharp keening sound and struggles to escape the touch. Elissa cries out in protest, grabbing at her mother’s hands.

“You’re hurting him!” Her voice is high-pitched and childish in accusation.

“He was already hurt,” her mother says calmly. “Cracked rib. More than one, I suspect.” Her mother rises swiftly, the movement startlingly brisk in its efficiency and strides quickly across to Elissa’s dresser, yanking open the top drawer.  “Not a surprise, if one of these swine managed to land a kick. Mabari are hardy animals, but there’s no one, man or beast, that walks away from the kick of an armored boot without something to show for it. He’s lucky it wasn’t worse.”

“Lucky!”

Her mother doesn’t look up from her rummaging. “Yes, lucky. Don’t just sit there, girl, get dressed.  A hair more direct of a hit and the rib might have fractured entirely and punctured a lung, and we’d have had to leave him behind.”

“Leave him behind—”

“Where do you keep the herbs for those poisons I’m not supposed to know you talked Oriana into teaching you?”

Elissa blinks, caught off guard. “I—”

“Elissa, I am not a particularly patient woman at the best of times, which this most certainly is not. Herbs. Where. Now.”

“The dresser,” Elissa confesses. “Next-to-last drawer, under the embroidery.”

Her mother gives an unladylike snort at Elissa’s choice of hiding place, but yanks open the indicated drawer without delay, carelessly tossing the embroidery materials off to the side and out of her way.

“What’s happening?”

Elissa is ashamed of how her voice wobbles on the edge of hysteria. She should be stronger than this.

“The castle’s under attack,” her mother says, voice flat. “There’s soldiers everywhere.” She’s mixing ingredients now with a grim sort of determination and tight, economical movements. “They tried to break into your father’s and mine’s chambers too, but I was still awake, thank the Maker, and I heard them coming. They at least won’t be at our backs, although that’s a small mercy, with nearly all our troops already a full day gone. Our people are fighting back, bless them, even the servants, but we’re just too outnumbered.”

“But who are they? What do they want?” Nothing is making sense. Her mother is saying perfectly intelligible sentences, each of which Elissa can understand, but try as she might she can’t seem to make them all fit together. “Wait, how do you know the men attacking your chambers won’t be coming after us too?”

“Because I made sure of it.”

Her mother’s words are bit-off in a tightly controlled manner that Elissa instinctively shies away from. Her other questions are more important, anyway.

“What about—”

“I don’t know where your father is,” Elissa’s mother interrupts her. “Or what state he’s in.  He was still in his study with Howe when I retired and never came to bed.” She laughs once, a sharp derisive sound. “They were drinking Antivan brandy together and laughing, Maker blast it all. A thousand curses on that  two-faced miserable cur, may his spittle curdle in his lying throat, his blood boil in his treacherous veins, his poisonous seed sour to pestilent pus, traitorous bitch-born whoreson—”

“Mother!”

Elissa is shocked and horrified. She didn’t know her mother even knew such words. Was this really the woman who’d threatened to wash her brother’s mouth out with soap only hours ago, and he a grown man with a child of his own?

“Don’t you mother me,” her mother snaps back. “This is all that wretched Howe’s fault. Base-born jackal, carrion-eater, cowardly dog; may his wells all run dry, his horses go lame, his ships be lost to storms. Greedy swine, conniving snake, thrice-cursed whorespawn; let him but come within my reach and I will carve from his flesh recompense for every soldier killed, every servant slain, every innocent murdered where they stood. I will drag his scheming corpse to Amaranthine fair, drop his rotting faithless flesh at his children’s feet, and piss on his traitorous bones. I will eat his treacherous heart in the market square and spit upon his festering remains. ”

Her mother’s eyes are flashing with fury, lightning crackling with dark promise.

It’s frightening.

Elissa’s mother had fought in the war with Orlais. This Elissa knew. She’d been born the daughter of a pirate and had assumed command of his ship and men at only sixteen, when her father was cut down in front of her by an Orlesian soldier.

She’d won that battle, in the end. And the next one. And the one after that. Again and again until she and her ship were the terror of the Orlesian fleet, harrying them up and down the coast with such ferocity that she became known as the Sea Wolf.

Elissa knew this. Had known this, from a very early age. Her father had believed his children should have a strong understanding of their own history.

Elissa just hadn’t really believed it until now. It had seemed too ridiculous, too fantastical - her mother, a pirate? The woman who fussed about Elissa’s table manners and scolded Fergus for swearing; the woman who was always after Elissa to practice her dancing and embroidery, who said that combat was no place for a lady?

It had always seemed like some elaborate jest her father hadn’t yet let them in on.

“I don’t understand,” Elissa says, although the cold feeling spreading all through her veins makes her think she might. “What do you mean this is all Howe’s fault?”

“These are Howe’s men; they wear his colors, his coat of arms. I’d recognize those shields anywhere. They knew exactly what they were doing, too. They didn’t launch the full attack until they already had men in position right outside our rooms. Howe wasn’t taking any chances on either of us escaping his treachery. Thank the Maker that your brother already left for Ostagar. If he’d been here, they’d have gone after him as well, and like as not killed Oriana and Oren too, base swine that they are.”

“But what does he want?”

“The better question might be what the greedy snake doesn’t want,” her mother says bitterly. “He’s always slithered his way from one side to the other, changing his tune with each ebb of the tide, faithless as the sea. I told your father a man like Howe couldn’t be trusted, but no, your father always has to see the good in people. The person they could be. He forgets that in the end what really matters is the person they actually are, and Rendon Howe is a small, slimy, vile, conniving snake of a man who poisons everything he touches and will smiling stab you in the back for the sake of a two-copper piece, and mark my words, he will pay for what he’s done this night.”

“I don’t understand,” Elissa says again, helplessly. “Why would Howe do this? He’s been friends with father for years! He - when we were little, he always brought us sweets. Just yesterday he was trying to marry me off to his youngest son!”

“There’s no understanding the baseness of some men’s hearts, my darling.” Her mother’s movements have stilled and her voice is soft and sad, filled with bitter resignation. “I wish you had not had to learn that so young.” She returns to her work, sharp staccato movements as bitten off and controlled as her words, when she speaks again.

“Get dressed,” she says again. “Now.”

[mkpthedas]

The Couslands, Now and Then

[mkpthedas]

According to Official Lore, most of Thedas uses one calendar (not specifically named in any text that I’ve seen, but it seems to be used primarily by countries/peoples that follow one or the other of the Chantries, so I’ve dubbed it the Chantric calendar for simplicity’s sake) and the year consists of 12 months of 30 days each, with 5 recognized holidays or annums. 

The language used in the codices seems to indicate that these 5 holiday days are part of the 12 months of 30 days, meaning that Thedas only has 360 days in their calendar year, which is not all that weird in theory, really; it’s not Earth; there are two moons; things are DIFFERENT; but in practice is so close to our Gregorian 365 days to be utterly distracting in its wrongness (particularly since they seem to have just transplanted Gregorian weekday names as is), so I unilaterally decided that in MY Thedas, the 5 annums are separate from the 12 months, and therefore the chantric year has 365 days.

(I am officially Not Thinking about leap years and if I should integrate that into it because they fucking confuse me in brickspace and this is meant to be FUN, damnit.)

[shamelesslymkp]

MKP’s Thedas

I've been kind of back-of-the-mind sketching out my ideal da worldstate(s) and toying with the thought of actually writing it out and maybe even posting it, but I keep getting stuck on shit. like...I want Cousland as The Warden, obvs, but I'd kinda like to pull in/rescue the other origins throughout the story, but blah blah blah continuity, plus if I save some I should save all, and I really should make it a gender mix and not just ladies (tbf, my mahariel isn't a lady, they're nb, but it still comes across pretty unbalanced)

so far, I've come up with the following, although it requires some. uh. flexibility in regards to the canonical timeline of events:

Dragon Age: Origins/Awakening {work in progress}

last updated 03/12/18

The Origins:

f!Cousland escapes the massacre at Highever with the aid of Duncan. She becomes a Grey Warden at Ostagar and later slays the archdemon, living to become known as the ‘Hero of Ferelden’. Romances Alistair. Becomes Queen of Ferelden.

m!Surana escapes the Circle with Jowan. Both join the party post-Redcliffe. Romances Jowan? Zevran?

f!Amell scrapes through that entire mess by the skin of her teeth and the will of the maker, not to mention some unabashed favoritism. She joins the party when Wynne does. Romances Jowan? Morrigan?

f!Tabris gives herself up to save the alienage, but it doesn’t go unnoticed. She’s surprised by how easy it is to escape - doors unlocked, weapons/armor chests left welcomingly open, a beautiful red scarf dropped carelessly on the floor, hiding a good handful of coin. That last stirs something in the back of her mind, a name on the tip of her tongue, but the moment passes and she makes her way out of denerim, careful to be spotted leaving the city. She’s chased for days but it’s worth it, knowing they won’t accuse the alienage of hiding her. joins the party when ?? Romances Zevran? Leliana?

f!Aeducan is banished to the Deep Roads, but timing is everything and the party runs into her before she dies a hopeless death. Doesn’t join the party; instead the party helps stage a dwarven coup. “Romances” Brosca.

m!Brosca, rescued from their fate somehow?? need to re-read the origin, was part of the party that rescues Aeducan, and during the long dangerous weeks in the Deep Roads, they come to a grudging accord. Her promises of reforms for the casteless in turn get his promises of support from the casteless. It’s unclear if the future will be as bright and shiny as hoped for, but it’s a start, and it gets the warden an army, sooooo. “Romances” Aeudcan.

nb!Mahariel (or m!Mahariel, if I don’t have the spoons to do proper diligence) survives being blighted somehow??? I’ll be honest I don’t know if I could pull this one off, but if I DID: Romanced Tamlen. Romances Zevran?

The Canon Companions:

Dog is a special case. Cousland already HAS a mabari, so it’s Alistair who saves the blighted mabari this time around, naming him Barkspawn, obviously.

Alistair, of course, is the other Grey Warden, and, eventually, King of Ferelden. (not to mention the father of a reincarnated old god, but that’s a little bit of a touchy subject)

Morrigan did not want to be any part of this, and yet.

Leliana

Sten

Wynne

Zevran

Shale

Oghren

Additional Companions:

Jowan

The Cameos of Varying Canonicity:

Lothering - the Hawkes, Aveline, Ser Wesley

Denerim - Sera, Isabela

The Circle - Anders, Cullen

Orzammar - Dagna

[shamelesslymkp]

This is so self-indulgent and kinda unfair to the lovely canonical inquisitor origins, not to mention sort of having your cake and eating it too, but I like envisioning Bethany and Carver as somehow both becoming inquisitor. They recruit mages and templars alike, and have to face Corypheus plus his two right hands. When Hawke-the-Champion shows up, it’s with his twin, Hawke-the-Warden, as his Grey Warden contact, and both elder Hawkes sacrifice themselves for their siblings and for Thedas.

I also love the idea of Bethany and Carver having been in hiding/using assumed names since Kirkwall and that Cassandra and Leliana don’t recognize them (why would they?) and Varric’s pretty quick on the uptake and plays along immediately. Cullen recognizes Carver, of course, and Bethany after, but he’s got men to command and a glowing hole in the sky, he’s not going to make a fuss about names.

Later, though, he does catch Carver alone and fixes him with a deliberately unimpressed look and a raised eyebrow. Carver flushes and looks away, hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. “It was Bethany’s idea. So we couldn’t be used as leverage.”

Cullen accepts that, after a moment. “Why keep it up now, though?”

“are you joking?” Carver meets his eyes, incredulous. “that Leli-whatsit, the spymaster, and that Seeker, Cassandra, they flat-out told us they wanted our brother for this crap. tell THEM? you’ve got to be joking.”

“I could tell them,” Cullen points out.

“You won’t, though.” Bethany steps out of the shadows, face atypically hard.

“Will I not?”

“No.” Her eyes are sharp, blazing. “You owe us that. You owe our brother that.”

Cullen sighs and nods.

“Very well,” he says. “What am I to call you, then?”

[shamelesslymkp]

Eye Colors of Thedas

Origins

Dog:

Alistair: Light Brown

Morrigan: Yellow

“Flemeth”:

Leliana: Blue/Grey

Sten:

Wynne:

Zevran:

Shale:

Oghren:

.

II

default m!Hawke: Light Brown

default f!Hawke: Blue

Bethany: Light Brown

Carver: Blue

Leandra:

Aveline:

Flemeth: Yellow?

Varric:

Anders: Brown

Merrill: Green

Fenris:

Sebastian:

Isabela: Light Brown

Tallis:

.

Inquisition

Cassandra:

(Leliana)

Solas:

(Varric)

Cullen: Brown

Blackwall:

Dorian: Grey

Sera:

Vivviene: Dark Brown

The Iron Bull:

Cole:

[shamelesslymkp]

so I know TPTB have explicitly said Alistair will never hear the Calling, BUT:

a) that makes. no goddamn sense.

b) if he's hearing the Calling early, that would give a romanced warden a lot of incentive to disappear looking for a cure! even a royal married warden! (altho lbr here, disappearing from your country and abandoning the governing of your people in some desperate attempt to find a cure is maybe understandable but not really entirely. uh. forgivable? in a ruler?)

(although i guess it's been a decade and alistair's probably got a handle on the whole ruling thing by this point, no matter what his notes sound like in DAI)

[shamelesslymkp]

running list of character-detail--prompts for my in-progress interactive thedas character sheet

favorite joke

earliest memory

their most shameful or guilty memory

first experience with death

a major paradigm shift

first crush, squish, and/or lust

first word(s)

pet peeves

fatal flaws

prejudices/biases

first experience with killing

triggers

stims

nervous habits

handedness

introvert, extrovert, ambivert

something they wish they were good at

something they THINK they're good at

something they ARE good at

how they got x scar

how they got x nickname

special interests

empathy type tendencies

childhood favorite story

[mkpthedas]

MKP’s Thedas

Dragon Age II {work in progress}

last updated 03/12/18

Prologue:

The Hawke siblings are all younger, and there are two sets of twins, not one. Against their parents’ wishes, f!Hawke, a rogue, snuck off to help defend Ostagar. That would’ve been bad enough, but m!Hawke, a mage, followed her.  Their father, still alive, went after them, trying to overtake them before they joined the battle or m!Hawke’s magic was revealed. He got there as the battle was reaching its bloody climax and it was only through using his magic that he found the twins in time to get them out alive and in more or less one piece. They ran the whole way back to Lothering, staggering from exhaustion, terror, and injury by the end, only pausing long enough to grab Leandra and the younger twins and a bag or two of whatever necessities they could manage before beginning to run again.

It is Malcolm, out of mana and slowed by exhaustion and injuries sustained from the trip to Ostagar, who is slain by the ogre, and it is m!Hawke who just barely manages to slay the ogre in turn after and an already injured f!Hawke is sent flying. In desperation, his own mana near depletion and Bethany and Carver huddled behind him, he called upon what his father had impressed upon him again and again must always be a last resort - blood magic.

Leandra blames the elder twins, especially f!Hawke, for Malcolm’s death. They would have left sooner were it not for the twins running off to Ostagar. If f!Hawke hadn’t been so foolhardy, this all could’ve been avoided. m!Hawke was more cautions. He would never have gone to Ostagar on his own, not with his magic to hide and the younger twins to protect. Malcolm wouldn’t have had to go after them. He wouldn’t have been out of mana and exhausted. He would have seen the ogre coming. He would have defended them easily, and if for some reason his magic hadn’t been enough, well, f!Hawke wouldn’t have already sustained a broken arm. She’d have been able to properly fight. m!Hawke would have been rested and able to help. He would never have resorted to that ugly, base, evil form of magic. He would never have needed to.

Malcolm would have known what to do with this Aveline and her blighted Templar husband. He would have gotten them safely to the port without making some foolish, dangerous deal with a woman who was somehow also a dragon. He would have gotten them into the city somehow without having to make this kind of devil deal. Her children wouldn’t have had to sign years of their lives away, and to criminals!

Instead of one year of essential indenture, the elder Hawkes each have two - payment for both their own passage into the city and for that of the twins and their mother. Wary of anyone discovering m!Hawke’s or Bethany’s magic, they opt to work for the smugglers - they might end up over a blackmail-filled barrel, but at least they’re unlikely to get turned into the law. Aveline does her own year of indenture, working for the smugglers right alongside the Hawkes and hating every damn minute of it. At least she’s able to keep an eye on the twins, both sets of them. She owes them that, at the very least.

{Acts I - III, such as they are, under the cut}

Act I:

f!Hawke romances Isabela, for a given definition of romance - it’s more like close friends with benefits, as f!Hawke doesn’t have the words for it, but she’s what in other times and places might be called aromantic. She becomes a Grey Warden after contracting the Blight during the expedition to the Deep Roads.

There were several long weeks in between Bartrand’s return to Kirkwall, with his woefully spun tragic tale of loss,  and m!Hawke and co’s escape from the depths of the ruins in which they were trapped. During those weeks, Leandra alternated between long fits of quiet weeping and brief explosions of angry expletives and broken crockery as she spat vicious accusations at the ghosts of her elder children. Bethany and Carver would hide from her during those times, Bethany trying not to cry and Carver fighting the urge to break things himself.

Bethany loses control of herself several times during those weeks, more times than she had in the entire twelve-month before. People are starting to notice again, and this time there isn’t a steady, gentle m!Hawke to coax folks to look the other way, nor is there a sharp, clever f!Hawke to fast-talk their way out of any sticky conversations.

Carver’s no good at fast-talking, and he’s not very good at getting people to do him favors, either. They don’t have money or status, nothing to protect Bethany if the Templars come calling.

They don’t really even have enough money to feed themselves; the coin left behind by the elder Hawke twins was dwindling fast. (Carver knew but couldn’t prove that Gamlen was dipping into it to subsidize his gambling, but it hardly mattered anyway. It was just a matter of time.)

He tries to get a position with the City Guard. Aveline flat-out turns him away. “You’re too young,” she says bluntly. “I’m not letting you sign up for a job that will get you killed.” She softens and tries to reach out to him, but he’s not having any of her false maternal bullshit. He knocks her outstretched hand aside with a sneer and storms out, scowling.

He needs a way to protect Bethany. It’s his job, f!Hawke’s and his, they’re supposed to watch out for Bethany and m!Hawke, protect them from templars and slavers and all the various dangers of being a friendless, moniless apostate. And f!Hawke isn’t around. Maybe she won’t ever be around again. So it’s just up to him now.

They don’t have money, or status, or friends in high places. (Aveline might be a guardscaptain, but that hardly counts, not when Templars have the run of the city and the Knight-Commander rules in all but name.)

There’s nothing to protect Bethany if the templars come calling, not when Templars have the run of the city, not when … wait.

m!Hawke returns home with the sobering news of Bartrand’s betrayal, of f!Hawke’s injury, and of the terrible price of her cure. He is met with the sobering news of Carver’s betrayal, of Carver’s sacrifice, of his training to become one of the armored monsters who’d terrorized their childhood - and the letter he’d left behind, letters awkward and sprawling across the page, telling them all why Carver, of all people, had decided to become a Templar.

Act II:

During the Qunari mess, f!Hawke flat-out disobeys orders and joins up with m!Hawke and the rest. She’s the reason Isabela comes back. The Arishok doesn’t know her, though, so she isn’t considered [respected]. She can’t challenge. m!Hawke can.

And so he does, because how can he not? If there’s the slightest chance he can stop all of this before more people die, he has to take it, risk of exposure or not, risk of Bethany’s exposure or not.

If he’s exposed, it’s more than just his own freedom at stake. Everyone knows magic runs in families, and Bethany’s still young enough that her control isn’t all it could be. If the Templars took it in their heads to look at the Hawke family in earnest, the odds are that Bethany’d be packed off to a life of imprisonment too.

He’s pretty good at keeping his magic hidden during fights by now - his staff is topped with a good ten inches of sharp steel, and he’s lightning fast with it. His magic is tamped down, controlled. It has to be, to avoid notice in a place like Kirkwall. It’s not just a matter of keeping the visual signs to a minimum; he has to actually hold the magic tight, channel it directly through himself or his weapon. He doesn’t dare let it loose except in the most dire of circumstances or the most deserted of locations. Magic doesn’t need to be showy for a Templar to notice, if he’s good enough at his job, which - thankfully - most aren’t.

So he’s learned to be subtle with it. Keep it close, controlled. It lends power to his strikes, speeds his reflexes just a hair. Gives him protection against magical and elemental attacks.  

It’s not enough. He hadn’t really thought it would be.

He’s losing, badly. He can see the Knight-Commander across the room and hesitates, the fear of a lifetime of hiding warring with the fear of imminent death. That hesitation is his undoing. The Arishok gets past his guard and disarms him, breaks his staff.

The gathered people gasp. Some cry, choking on their own despair. He’s weaponless now, defenseless. There’s no way he can win. They are all going to die.

m!Hawke is still and silent in his own despair for several long moments. The Arishok attacks again, and people cry out in alarm, turn away not wanting to see the certain brutal end.

m!Hawke lets go of his control and unleashes his magic as he hadn’t since that fateful day,  all those years ago, since the ogre and the terror and his father dead on the ground. He lets it lash out in a wild, violent defense. The power surrounds him, runs through him, burning and buzzing in his bones, no staff to use as focus and take the brunt. There’s the smell of burning ozone in the air, the metallic taste of blood in his mouth.

It’s still not enough. He tries and tries, using every combat spell his father, Merrill, Anders, ever taught him, and a few he makes up on the spot. He’s wearing the Arishok down, he can tell, but he’s running out of mana fast. He’s losing blood, too. He’ll never manage to end it before he’s depleted entirely or goes into shock, and he can’t lose, the stakes are too high.

He’s already bleeding. He thinks an apology, whispers a prayer, and for the second time in his life resorts to that violent primal force known as blood magic, wildly hoping with the frenzy only possessed by those about to die that somehow the watching crowd won’t notice the way his flagging power flares back to life, that they won’t suspect the crazy, forbidden thing he’s just done -

and then it’s over. The Arishok is dead. m!Hawke has won.

The next thing he knows, he’s being cheered by the entire crowd. He’s the Champion of Kirkwall and mage or no, he’s untouchable.

Act III:

[to be continued]

[shamelesslymkp]

this is dreadful and was meant to be far more sir-patrick-spens-like but you're getting it anyway because i spent way too much time on it

The King he sat in Denerim town Drinking the blood-red wine ‘O where will I find good soldiers to win this blight of mine?’

Up then spoke a wise old knight who knew his history ‘The stories of the olden days They spoke of allies three.’

'Deep in the dread forests of the East is where you’ll find the first- take care they know you come in peace for the Dalish expect of us the worst.’

'Next to the lakes you must away, to seek a Circle’s aid for it is the spells of mages that the first grey wardens made.’

'Then to the depths of Orzammar under the mountains you must go they are no strangers to this war, these children of the stone.

Far and wide should you send out the call to join the might of men for it will take the might of all to the darkness stem

then to battle must we all go and fight the endless horde till finally we spy the dreaded foe and a path to it we carve

for o, my king, remember this: for all your armies strong your allies fierce and brave Ferelden shall not stand for long without the wardens’ aid their skill their strength their sacrifice in the end will the demon slay