#rogue hawke

[thatjayjustice]

It's my birthday! For my birthday wish today, may I humbly request y'all share my Dragon Age cosplay? I made this Rogue Hawke costume + daggers, (and I also cosplay Isabela!) and am DEFINITELY cosplaying at least 2 characters from Veilguard. Just two more months until we return to Thedas!! 🥹🥹🥹

[blighted-elf]

Dragon Age II - Isabela Romance 6/?

[hollyand-writes]

Rating: Mature   Word Count: 6,064 Pairing: Arishok/Male Hawke Other characters: Fenris, Qunari, Varric Tethras, Anders, Merrill, Purple Rogue Hawke, Herbert the Goose Other Tags: POV Fenris, Humor, Wild Goose Chase, Light-Hearted, Canon-Typical Violence, Untitled Goose Game References, Comedy, Slapstick, Horrible Goose (Untitled Goose Game), Accidental Death, Implied Sexual Content, Fade to Black, Dead Goose: Do Not Eat

Summary:

The Arishok gives Hawke a special task to prove his worthiness as kadan: to get rid of a goose that is pestering his men at the Qunari Compound.

Written for the Dragon Age Create-a-thon 2024 @dacreateathon!

———

‘This is a foolish plan,’ Fenris told Garrett Hawke when the latter asked him for advice on the Qun, and—more specifically—how he could become the Arishok’s lover. Fenris had almost added ‘for a foolish man,’ but realised his warning would fall on deaf ears.

For Garrett Hawke had decided that he wanted to sleep with the Arishok—his latest harebrained scheme in this equally harebrained city—and once the dark-haired bearded rogue had decided on something, not even his beloved sister Bethany would be able to dissuade him.

Somehow, things had a way of working out well for Hawke, even though they really shouldn’t. Either the man was incredibly, ridiculously, extremely lucky, Fenris thought—or the Maker was real and loved Hawke very, very, very much.

‘But I want him,’ Hawke whined, ‘and I don’t know anything about the Qun or the Qunari. That’s why I need your help. You do.’

Fenris sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose: as much as he regarded Hawke as his friend, a competent fighter and wielder of dual daggers he respected for his skill as much as his can-do attitude, sometimes Fenris swore that the man’s occasional idiocy would be the death of him.

Read more on AO3...

[dragonagecinema]

Today is dedicated to the Champion of Kirkwall 🛡 My Garrett Hawke is a humorous (purple) rogue.

Did you also change your Hawke's look every act?

[mozzawind]

{ The Heroes of The Dragon Age }

.

.

So I have a fun little Multisave canon where my first ever playthrough & my favourite playthrough are canon and their events & choices interlink and overlap :)

[finchmarie]

Happy Dragon Age Day friends!

I've been playing since Origins and I do love this world, the characters, and all the resulting OCs. I don't engage with it as much as I want to in fandom spaces but considering how much art I've made for it this year I hope that changes!

[beetnik-jay]

Alia Hawke- Champion of Kirkwall

Done for @cherryvaliant

[daysofauldlangsyne]

sketched this during work

don't worry they won't trip over each other, they have practiced this!!

[frecklef0x]

Aurelia Hawke shooting daggers for @bitchesofostwick 🔪

[milesmentis]

Bards

Day 5: Veilguard 30 (Filling in for @daisymeade with a snippet featuring her Hawke, the best worst only bard in Kirkwall ... DA2 didn't give us the bard spec because they knew that Marion would've been literally unstoppable.)

“And now, gentle patrons, I shall pass my hat.”

“What for?” A loud voice cut through the grumbling, catching the attention of very nearly everyone in the room. Cyric squinted. The speaker was a lanky man sitting in the far corner nearest the door. He was leaning back, his chair precariously balanced against the back wall, his booted feet up on the table. A heckler.

Cyric pulled himself up to his full height. “For the evening's fine entertainment, serah.”

“Oh, and when does that start?” The patrons snickered into their stale mugs of ale, even the ones who had been pointedly ignoring his luteing. “Sorry,” the man continued with a cocky grin, “but the Hanged Man doesn't run on credit.”

That really got the room going, a few whistles and stamps mixed in with the raucous laughter.

Cyric’s face burned, but he managed to snap back, “Well, I'd like to see you do better!”

At once, the man swung his leg down in a casual motion so smooth that it had to be practiced. As soon as his foot hit the floor, so did the legs of his chair and he was up and moving. He crossed half of the crowded room in a breath and Cyric couldn't help but gulp. The man was taller … and significantly wider than he'd originally assumed. His chest was broad and his arms rippled with lean muscle beneath his rolled up sleeves. His mouth still curved up in a languid grin, but from this close it looked much less friendly.

“That sounded like a wager.”

“And … if it was?” Nothing to do now but call his bluff … or possibly, he realized belatedly, take a very comprehensive thrashing. “Fancy a go?”

He held out the lute by the neck as if it was a dead chicken and the man's smile actually spread into a full grin.

“Well … I'll try anything once.”

“We know!” called one of the other patrons and the room cracked up again.

He turned to yell back over his shoulder, “And how was I supposed to know that was your sister? If she’d been mule-ugly and drunk, I'd have known to ask permission first!”

Ignoring the latest round of hoots and jeers, the man rolled his shoulders like he was loosening up to lift something heavy then held out a calloused hand.

“Terms?”

Cyric thought for a moment. “If you can play a song - any song - I'll cover all your drinks for the night.”

The man grinned. “Think you’ll get enough to pay up when you lose?”

Cyric stuck out his chin. “Having second thoughts about showing your ass in front of your friends?”

“Good one,” the man snickered. “But that assumes they haven't all seen it. Assumptions are like that.”

The man turned the lute back and forth, giving the instrument a critical once over before slinging the band over his neck. He settled his arm around it, a bit as if he were cradling a newborn calf and began to fidget with the tuning. Cyric snorted. Despite trying to look confident, the man’s “fiddling” would only take it out a tune - this was likely going to be more painful than embarrassing.

He plucked his first note, sour as curdled milk, and Cyric grit his teeth. More notes came in succession, trailing like lost ducklings in an arhythmic mess. He almost went to snatch his precious instrument back from the lout when he strummed a selection of discordant notes in a chord. It hummed sympathetically to the jarring notes hanging in the smoky room, creating a bridge. The man plucked again, a quicker run through the notes followed by the same chord twice, reigning in the chaos. Cyric winced again as the man’s rough fingers slid down the strings in a screech but it ended again in a chord, this one much more pleasing. The firelight danced on the man’s face, catching at his lips which now turned up in a less harsh expression, one of private satisfaction as if he’d just brought a difficult horse into line. The music was still not to Cyric’s taste, but there was a certain wild beauty to it. It sounded like a drunkard's waltz, swaying back and forth across the room until it bumped against those oft repeated chords.

As the phrase repeated again and again, the man began to embellish, adding trills and sympathetic chords until the song carried something remarkably close to a melody. The tempo increased and as the man began to stomp in time, Cyric realized with a start that not only was he swaying along with the beat, so were most of the patrons. Even the most hardfaced drunks were nodding in time or tapping mugs against the worn and sticky tabletops. The music built to a crescendo, quick triplets and a muddled mess of chords all crashing together. It came to an abrupt end with one final stomp from the redheaded man, but as a few cheers and some raucous applause drifted towards them from the table in the back he stomped again. And again. And again. Expectant quiet fell then, all attention drawn to him like metal shavings to a lodestone. And he began to sing.

Fortune, fortune, smile and fade

Haven't seen you much of late

His voice was like his luting: unpolished, lilting, and undeniably Ferelden. The cadence of his words swayed in an almost dirge-like rhythm as he continued:

Need you now, I cannot wait

But when I look you’re not around

Cyric startled when a few patrons joined in, the strongest voices coming from a table full of laborers, judging from the stone dust on their clothes.

Never minding what we do

The night’s still good for a dram or two

I’ll be drinking late with you

Until the morning comes around

Yea, I must be good for something

Yea, pray tell?

His crooning dropped deep into his chest at that last part, aching with a desperate longing. A tremulous chord hung in the air for a breath before the man threw back his head and, followed by almost two dozen voices, launched into the chorus.

Oh sinners come down, come gather 'round

Oh sinners come down, lay-o-lai

Dancing on cold feet

Marching down cobbled streets

Oh sinners come down, lay-o-laaaiii

[seizethemage]

“how rare and beautiful it is to even exist”

Caitlyn Hawke and Fenris sharing a rare moment of softness with each other.

Quote from Saturn — Sleeping At Last

[queen-scribbles]

❛ it should have been you. ❜

for anybody really

Hawke sibling angst? In 2024? It's more likely than you think! Sigi + Bethany + first anniversary of fleeing Lothering (624 words) ----

The windowsill creaked and Sigi tensed, mentally rolling the dice on who was about to ruin her vigil.

"I thought you might be out here." Bethany. The better option, in some ways.

Worse, in others.

"S'quiet," Sigi mumbled, looking out over the city rather than at her sister. "And out of the way. Only place our beloved uncle won't nose around."

"I know... you probably want to be alone." Bethany hesitated. Her voice shook. "But Mother is just..."

A heavy sigh, head tipping toward the empty space next to her. "C'mon, Beth."

The sill creaked again as Bethany climbed over it, carefully balancing on the slanted roof. "Maker's breath, Sigi, did you drink all of that?"

Sigi laughed, hollow and empty as the whiskey bottle swinging between her tented-up knees. "Maybe? I didn't see how full it was when I picked it up." She hefted it to examine. "There might be a few sips left if you want..."

Bethany shook her head, nose wrinkling. "No, thanks."

"Suit yourself." Just as well, the bottle did look empty. It slipped from her grasp as she leaned her head back against the wall. Rolled to rest at the roof's edge.

She held her silence. Bethany had sought her out, she could carry any conversation she wanted to happened.

The silence stretched, Bethany's breathing uneven but never quite breaking on an actual sob. "It should have been you, y'know," she finally said, the words soft and free of rancor.

Not an indictment, just fact.

"I know." Sigi sucked her teeth stared up at the stars. Different stars, different angles on constellations he never got to see.

Can't believe it's been a whole fucking year.

"And I don't... I'm not wishing it had been, or that you died instead," Bethany rushed out, twisting the hem of her blouse in knots. "You're just always the one to rush in to protect us, and..."

"I know. The one time that little shit was faster than me..." She sighed.

It had been different with Father; wasn't much she or anyone could do about a wasting sickness. But that damned ogre... she could fight, had fought, tooth and nail, to protect her family, knuckles bloody, lip split. And she'd do it again.

Except for the one time it mattered. The one time she was too slow.

'This is your fault...!' She still heard Mother's recriminations in her head some nights.

'It should have been you...'

I know.

"I'd let him brag about fightin' an ogre and winning if he was here," she muttered, trying to pretend her eyes didn't sting.

"No, you wouldn't," Bethany laughed with a hitch at the end. "You'd duck his head in the water barrel and ask if he wants to take the rest of the horde instead next time."

"...Guilty." She still wished he was here, bragging, grumbling, dogged loyalty and all.

'It should have been you.'

"'M sorry he's not, Bethy," she whispered, near choking on the words. I should have moved faster, been paying more attention-

"Me, too. I'm glad you are, Sig," Bethany leaned her head on her shoulder and Sigi grimaced at the nickname only the twins got away with. Only Bethany got away with. "I just wish he was, too."

"I know." She didn't pull away, letting Bethany take solace from the contact, wrapping an arm around her sister's shoulders.

"I miss him."

"I know." So do I.

It should have been you--he was only eighteen.

It should have been you--maybe you would have killed it.

It should have been you--you promised you'd take care of them.

I know, I know, I know.

They sat on the roof for a long time, and didn't speak of that night again for far, far longer.

[clairedelune-13]

If you ever wonder why I now exclusively play rogues in Dragon Age, you can blame 2 for introducing me to the Absolute Murder Machine that is Rogue Hawke and with a few mods, made me drunk on pure Stabby Power and thus, I can play nothing else.

Mages? Pshaw, squishy bitches.

Warrior? Boring.

Bring on the Stabby 🔪🔪

[immawraffle]

Edited the DA Keep rogue Hawke tile so the background is red instead of blue.

[dragonagecinema]

Today we have another love story ❤️ In Dragon Age 2, I wanted to romance the elf boy 🧝🏽‍♂️ again (Fenris), but I couldn't deal with his angst, so my Hawke ended up with Anders 🧙‍♂️ That didn't go well at all, Anders being executed and all.

So in my last canon playthrough, my humorous rogue Hawke is in love with the unpredictable Isabela 😍 Who did you romance in Dragon Age 2?

[lostinforestbound]

Countdown/Self-Destruction

(Spoilers for Dragon Age 2)

Just a little longer. He can hang on just a little longer. Five seconds is all he needs.

Five.

Hawke drops his daggers and pack, immediately tearing apart his room in Gamlen’s pathetic, run down house. Fuck that bastard, he threw everything away for a damn gamble. Everything they could’ve had, to be comfortable, gone for gambling.

Yanking sheets, tearing up the floorboards near the door, throwing a chair out of the way- where the fuck is it?

Four.

It’s late at night, and while he can pretend he doesn’t listen, he can hear his mother’s wailing on the other side of the wall. Maker, he wants to comfort her more, but all of it is his fault, as much as he wants to blame Varric’s brother.

Bethany wanted to go on the expedition so badly, and he couldn’t say no. He should’ve said no, then maybe she would still be-

“My baby,” Leandra cries, “my baby girl!”

Three.

Hawke finally finds what he’s looking for under the bed, a bottle of Fereldan whiskey. He was going to share this with Bethany when they got back, but now…

She hates whiskey anyways, she was more of a wine person. She would’ve been kind enough to share a shot, at least. Maybe she would have convinced him to switch to wine instead.

Two.

He grabs a glass to pour himself a drink, but his hands are too shaky. The burning liquid hits the table, soaking into the wood and he growls. Roughly pushing the glass away, he lets the thing shatter onto the floor as he starts drinking straight from the bottle.

One.

There’s stinging in his eyes, and he realizes his face is wet. It’s hard to breathe, and not long after his sobs mix in with the sound of his mother’s.

First father, then Carver, and now Bethany. He failed. He failed as the eldest, he was supposed to protect them, protect them both, and now they’re gone. He left her body to rot in the Deep Roads.

Most of his family is gone.

He drinks until the bottle is empty, and then he drinks some more.