- Cover photo more visible and less shitty found here deviant art /Fenris-Mage-Hawke-Fanfic-Cover-Photo-471456785

Basically AkiDragonwings on DeviantArt

-This is a humor and adventure-infused story. There's going to be a lot of sarcasm, deep discussions, psychological insight, epic battle strategies. A slowly forming friendship romance - not like SUPER slow, I'm NOT going to bore you.

- I always STRESS that you can skip whatever part or chapter that does NOT interest you. Somewhere in the first 30- something chapter numbers there's a purely invented quest with Zevran in Antiva. Don't care about action in-between the humor and whatnot, DO SKIP!

BUT TO HELP THOSE WHO WANT TO SKIP BECAUSE I HAVE NO IDEA WHY:

- Act 1: Ch.1 - 6/7

- Deep Roads (new stuff): Ch. 8-11

- Time before Act 2: Ch. 12 til 42. HERE: Ch.12 -23 is Kirkwall stuff (yes has romance in it, stop it). from 23 on decribes the road to Antiva and epic and fun stuff until Chapter 42 (yeah, it's fun, there's romance too, stop it).

- Act 2: Ch. 42 - then on.

-Very short monologue at first, you can skip right to the dialogue. It goes to third person from there. Enjoy!

-Enjoy, review, spit on me, revile me, I welcome it all; I love you all regardless.

Sunset, The Hanged Man

Father used to say that in difficulty lies opportunity, and if there's none to meet the eye, all the more valuable the opportunity gets. Every moment and action exist backed up by a force more powerful than any superhuman abilities one knows (I guess he meant magic there) or can imagine, the core of it lying in the primal energy of love. Hate is as much love as it can get too, indifference was the actual counterpart. Ignorance was the path carved in seemingly meaningless frustrations and questions like "Why is this happening?" while looking too close to actually see. At the expense of others, your flame seems to burst but it actually just sparks on some occasions and you yourself throw water at it thinking it is fuel, and then you question… but you don't ask the right one.

Don't waste your days trying to find the good things in your life by counting and comparing the stars, else you'll miss the moon right above your head. We've all been manipulating that energy that lives in and outside of us, getting in and getting out, either more pure or more corrupted, but the important part was that each speck caused ripples and in turn each ripple caused another and the choice was ours in terms of what kind of energy we send away into the world that affects everything and everyone else.

That was all that mattered at the end of the day, and of the world. But the purpose of it, the functionality of such natural laws is distinctive and blurred by the experience of life itself, the actual living and manipulating of that mighty energy always depending on the offsprings of being alive - emotions, in short, there is a catch. Of course there's a catch, life is a catch; I suggest you catch it while you can, the Flemeth witch said to Hawke when she saved them no more than a year ago. Well, when she put it that way… "Bet you 50 silvers Bianca can shoot the first arrow right into the viscount's portret's nose? Hawke! Uh,... Hawke?"

"Oh leave my sister to brood on her eggs; when she spaces out like that and you go near her she flips out and you, the concerned well-intentioned friend, meets the end of her reflexes; as in getting your ass kicked, or worse, fried," Carver said to Varric while nursing his beer and shaking his head.

Varric raised his right eyebrow in disbelief and gazed at Hawke, who was sitting with her arms on the table, seeming more like one of those holy statues of Andraste in deep meditation than the young, cocksure and funny woman who drank the whole pint like a mighty tiger not five minutes before. In the weeks he had known her, he had seen the living proof of all the rumors about her in the underworld; she kept cool and resisted under pressure, she mastered the battlefield and controlled the crowd, whirlwound her blade when she got cornered and dove forward to defend others instead of keeping to her business and putting on a show. Well, she inevitably put on a show. Where she learned how to both strike with might and flex speedattack, not to mention jump on enemies, duck, pummel strike and form barriers with her sword while still throwing others, Maker only knew. He was no stranger to being a scrapper, his years of forming tactics ensured him and Bianca never to misfire while still being able to deflect attacks, but while Hawke was a fearsome damager, crowd control was the first thing she aimed to take care of; she'd make a quick unexpected move on the enemy at first and use it to her advantage to control the battle from there on, shouting directions at her companions and jumping anyone who came near the weaker ones. Taunting was her favorite way to mock people and assert herself, not just in combat, but also in conversations, be they friendly or the old let's-talk-before-I-kill-you-anyway.

He still wasn't sure if the way she flipped people off with her sarcastic relaxed remarks made them see her as an intimidating enemy or a lowlife jester. His train of witty thought ended there, as he started picturing Hawke with a buffoon's hat on her head juggling knives. Maybe pints though, she might be an angry drunk.

"What?" Hawke suddenly asked grumpily and her eyes rose.

"Another drink?" Varric asked awkwardly.

"If I were sitting in front of her instead of you Varric, I'd have said she was cupping my breasts with her mind," Isabela said with a laugh.

Hawke broke into laughter. "If you were sitting in front of me, Isabela, I'd stare at your chin piercing and wonder about telekinatically moving it to your lips, where they'd do you more credit."

Mischief aside, perhaps honesty was what Isabela spewed with such charming radiance, "So you could feel it while biting my lips when I take advantage you after the next three pints?"

"So it would saw them shut," Hawke muttered, seeming bitter, but then she grinned at the pirate and retook her easygoing bright face that just screamed I'm making fun of you.

"Nothing's gonna saw this mouth shut, honey, not even your force magic," Isabela laughed and took a sip from her pint. Ah right, how could she forget. She knew her secret all too well. She wondered from who exactly... Carver in a fit of horny drive or Varric in a fit of over the hill dramatic storytelling mode.

Ah, whatever. What did it matter now anyway. She rubbed her eyes nonchalantly and inhaled; deeply unimpressed she seemed. "If I ever get a blow to the head and sacrifice my predicament to the flame, sure, the most important thing that my incredibly tricky dangerous magic will have a use for is sawing a drunken wench's mouth shut. "

Varric had been keeping himself from asking Hawke for the reason why if she had already been putting on a heck of a show in combat, she wouldn't have made it a magic show too. Sure, he saw her throw a fireball once or twice to distract enemies, but maybe his eyes were getting older and she actually just used explosives. After all, she kept a bunch of them in her purse dangling up and down ready to burst. At first, he thought Athenril was bullshitting him about Hawke being a mage, the girl fought, acted and looked nothing like one. Maybe the sword was actually some twisted innovation of a staff and she wasn't actually that strong. But no lightning? No fireworks? No stonefist to the head or gliphs on the ground? Just swooping, a whole lotta swooping.
There was definitely a story behind this, but knowing Hawke, he'd have to take his good time getting into her good graces and making her talk; pints didn't work, that was for sure. She'd get drunk and talk about blade sharpening or ask weird questions like "Well, I've never been to Seheron, so I wouldn't know, but don't you ever wonder what a giraffe is like if it's sick? How does it even, you know, throw up?". If Varric knew how to do something with a master's tact, other than handling Bianca and charming people, it was being patient and letting things go their natural way, until some unexpected shit happens and things get leaked. Swooping was not the answer in this scenario, no, swooping was bad. There was always space for little mistakes, speech errors or wrongful grabbing of an object, moments in which the person acted a little differently than their general attitude, it was all there, he just had to wait, in the shadows, notice the vulnerable spot and strike. Or in this case, go like "Aha!".

"If she ever started using that magic, she'd probably use it to make Junior here stop hitting his head with his own pommel while we're at it," Varric said and laughed.

"Maker I hate you dwarf," Carver muttered while crossing his arms.

"If I ever started using it, Varric, you'd be my bitch by now. You can kiss Bianca goodbye, because the only hair she's gonna want is the shiny red kind," Hawke said with a devious grin. They had a mutual understanding, that these were perfectly harmless jokes.

Varric raised an eyebrow.

"On my head, Varric, I don't have chest hair," Hawke rolled her eyes, but then stroke a mischievous grin "... Or do I?"

He shook his head as though he was a father appalled by a daughter growing up. "I don't know if I'm more intrigued by the sudden magic talk, in which you've already outlined some very questionable and creepy hints by the way, or by you having or not having chest hair. Andraste's tits, and red chest hair for all it's worth."

Hawke frowned, looked down and smirked. "Look, I'm a former blood mage plagued by a guilty conscience of all the kittens and virgins I've sacrificed to augment by powers and now I'm seeking atonement by swearing off magic and defending innocents with a greatsword. The greatsword is a symbol of my vow, but also of my punishment; getting humpback with every moment I carry my cross through the world. Such is my plight, and well-met will be my death. That is when the Maker has judged that I've paid my debt in full to him, every innocent I help for every drop of blood I took away from his children."

"Even I can't come up with that kind of bullshit," Varric mused in amazement. "I think red chest hair would be enough of a punishment on a woman like you"

"And what is a woman like me exactly?", Hawke asked raising an eyebrow and smiling at Varric.

"Right now, a grumpy drunk and soon to be left alone by the nosy charming dwarf before he gets suckerpunched, I think," Varric said charmingly, raising his arms in the air as a sign of peace.

Hawke rolled her eyes joyfully and grinned. "You should see me when I'm actually drunk. You'll know it. This is just the old buzz. And since when am I grumpy?"

"You were staring at the table like it ate your whole family and you were deciding exactly how to torture it into a graphic confession before you smashed it mercilessly and I had to put it on my tab," Varric made fun of Hawke, trying to ease her off.

She sighed. "What would I do without my trusty dwarf? You always know what to say just at end to make people feel better"

"That's me, I'm useful that way. What do you say, another pint? I'm buying," Varric said, grinning, knowing Hawke would notice his last sentence as testament to her previous remark.

"As much as I like feeling so warm and loved, I think I'll hold you on that pint for tomorrow, after we get those blighted Grey Warden maps. I'm heading home"

"Oh, leaving so early for your beauty sleep?," Carver mocked Hawke with the ever-lasting arrogant smirk.

"You should try it sometime," his sister smiled, sizing him up. "But no, you'd rather sleep piss drunk and fainted on a table and maybe in a debt of tens of sovereigns after you lose at Wicked Grace." She shrugged nonchalantly. "You've made your bed, as they say."

"Is that a quote from the Lectures of the Guild of the Migthty Warrior-Mages?" Carver asked mockingly. He poked once, she poked back, he poked twice, she beat him with a bat. Poked another few times and she'd bite him straight. But not tonight. Hawke rose and looked away, like she didn't even hear him.

"Yes," she said, with a sarcastic and cocky tone.

Right. And there it was. At least she didn't bite him.

"Good night, Varric, I hope you get some sleep despite the bestial moaning that will be coming from Isabela's room tonight while she pounds a barrel mistaking it for a man." Varric and Isabela laughed and wished her a good night sleep. Then she looked at Carver. She seemed bitter, why was that? "Carver," she stated calmly, nodding in a salute.

Once Hawke got out of the Hanged Man and gained a bit of control over her walking, she orientated herself to the slums. But she didn't really want to go home nor did she want to sleep. In turn, she wanted to get out of the city and run along the paths of Sundermount and camp there, just for one day, just to remember how a tree smelled like, for Maker's sake. Anything short of that was not going to satiate her, not even the Deep Roads expedition, unless there were darkspawn trees growing there. Hah, darkspawn trees, good one… Darkspawn trees? Maker's breath, my jokes are coming out of my ass now. I should have stopped at pint number three.

She took a detour into the market place in Lowtown to stall. Maybe she would even bump into Aveline while on patrol and blow off some steam cutting dog lords and street thugs. But there was no Aveline and no dog lords. Shit, it's almost too quiet tonight. Should I just walk or go back? She looked behind her, the path that led to the slums and the sudden smell of old cheese in Gamlen's room hit her like a brick. Forward.

She swayed onwards trying to walk as straight as possible, but she tipped off a bit from her straight line of pace to the right and the metal spikes on her shoulder pad creaked as they brushed against one of the walls on the street and she heard someone flip and scream.

A dwarf was standing not too far from her near the weaponsmithy stand, working on something in his small caravan before she gave away her position with the squeaky noise of the spiky shoulder pad that bumped into the wall, making him flip his shit.

"Sweet mother of Partha, you can't just run into somebody like that", the startled dwarf said and panted. He looked like he was going to stick his head into the ground like an ostrich.

"Did you think I was going to attack you?" Hawke asked the dwarf, trying to restrain from laughing.

This dwarf was just hanging around alone at night, unguarded and unarmed, minding his own business, but jumped at the softest sound? He was terrified. If Hawke's head would have been clearer, she would've smelled a trap. She did think of that, but forgot about it a second later, getting distracted by the excruciating ball of anxiety that stood in front of her.

"My apologies human… I haven't been on the Surface for long. I keep thinking I'll fall into all that sky up there any minute. M-my n-name is Anso."

"Anso? I think I know that name… uh, Anso, Anso… well, my bell isn't ringing, but my ears are listening. Aren't you a little uh, very poorly prepared to just sit around your skirts in the dark in an open field? Don't get me wrong, I admire your sense of stone or stoned courage or whatever you dwarves call it when you feel inspired to be led by intuition rather than reason and then save the world at the last minute, but I highly doubt that applies to Lowtown, or Kirkwall, or the Surface, really. Should I accompany you out of this hole? Give you directions? I don't bite," Hawke said smiling, surprised that she said all that in one breath.

"No, that's fine, I appreciate the thought," Anso said, shuddering and looking away. He placed one hand onto his other arm as though it was the only pole of balance in the world.

"You still think I'm going to attack you? Rob you? Maybe I should slow down and build up some trust." She gestured cockily. "My name is Hawke, pleased to meet you. How are you this evening?"

Anso arched an eyebrow. "Hawke? Then aren't you the one who used to work for Athenril? She said she would direct a human with this name to me for a job, actually."

"Maybe that's how I know your name," she said with an analyzing frown. Raising an eyebrow, she started to recall. "I did receive a letter this morning, but I didn't have time to read it properly. My day schedule was already full with work."

"Well luck might just be my strong feature, because you couldn't have picked a better time to show, actually. This is a night job and a simple one, i-if you're interested," Anso said in a shaky voice looking up at Hawke. Maker, if I scratch my nose he'll flinch and scream, won't he?

"Night jobs are my favorite. Especially when they're given by lone dwarves haunting the streets and jumping at their own shadow. There's always a catch when I meet one of those," Hawke said, becoming snarky and trying not to let the weariness take over. She kept her drunken smile. He couldn't hae known that was different from her usual sober smile anyway.

"I-I need help rather badly, in fact," Anso said in a controlled tone, half-desperate to deny. "Some product of mine has been… misplaced. The men who were supposed to deliver it decided not to. If you retrieve my property I could reward you handsomely."

"And just what did these men steal?" Hawke asked nonchalantly.

"D-did I say steal? I don't know if I would go that far. They seemed like perfectly reasonable smugglers," he said sarcastically. "They smiled and everything. The goods a-are … valuable, however… and illegal. My client wants them very, very badly." Ah there it was. Stupid Templars. Maker's soggy testicles, how incredibly devoid of pride this dwarf us, even in his position. "The gentlemen stored it into a little hobble in the Alienage," Anso said nervously, stuttering, calculating every word.

"A dwarf, a shady product, perfectly reasonable smugglers, a chest in the Alienage… and nightfall". If Hawke weren't drunk, she'd have sorted this all out in a second instead of taking all that time to bullshit the dwarf and think aloud to make a sense of it. "I'd bet your reward you're smuggling lyrium to the templars. No wait…" she stopped, raising her index finger up to focus, "I take that back, I'm not betting well-earned future money on this. You dwarves just ask for it, don't you". I'm getting too used to placing useless bets with Varric. "But it is lyrium, isn't it?"

"Sh-sht, by the Paragons, not so loud! My word, I'm not cut out for this. I should have taken that job sweeping stables like Mother insisted." he said sorrowfully, suddenly realizing the irony in his life evaluation.

"I'll get it for you.," she said, rather unbalanced in her posture. Swaying and stumbling on her feet aside, she remained in her couldn't-care-less posture. She beckoned for an answer like a true general. "Two questions, before I move, though. One: are you politely trying to imply I should kill them?"

"N-no! Well, yes, if you circumstances force you to kill them..." Anso contemplated in make-believe, then shrugged innocently, "then I guess it can't be avoided."

"Understood, Sir Dwarf. I will try to avoid it, mind you," Hawke said smiling and then giggled, imagining Anso searching for a noble's lost jewelry through horse feces and jumping every time the animal moved a leg. He'll only take that kind of job if the horse shits lyrium and he can sell it just as well to numskull templars.

Anso looked at Hawke waiting for something. She wasn't getting it.

"What?"

"What was the other question?"

Hawke seemed to ponder on something for a while. Her eyes rose decisively, "Oh, right, I'm going to scratch my nose now, would you please sit tight and trust that I won't turn into a dragon or something?"

Anso scratched his head, seeming all the more regretful now that he had chosen this woman for the job. "R-right. Good luck, human. May the Stone be with you."

"I can't wait to get stoned," Hawke laughed while already walking towards the slums.

"I-i…Oh, sweet mother of Partha, she's going to get killed," Anso said to himself.

Nightfall, Outside the Alienage

Even in her state, Hawke operated within reason. There couldn't have been more than six or seven smugglers shacked up in a hobble, since no one was outside in the Alienage. And what was the worst case scenario? Lyrium smugglers were just like poor mercenaries, they lacked skill both in individual and in team fights, they were more than likely poorly armoured and equipped with daggers and maybe some tar bombs or debilitating poisons, which she knew how to avoid all too well. Their number could have been a strong advantage, had she not have a greatsword to throw them all to the ground at once with. Lastly, they wouldn't be expecting a single and well-equipped woman to show up and stir up trouble, that was the thing that would sweep them off their feet, if that was the case. Maybe there wasn't anybody inside and she would just play delivery-man. Now that's always fun, why do I never do that?

She checked for traps first. Always check for traps if you wanna keep your boots, Varric used to warn her. After feeling the explosives in her pocket, she reached for her sword and entered the house.

Nighttime, Old building nearby the Alienage,

Fenris gripped the pummel of his sword as the footsteps became louder beyond the door. The building he hid in was old and forgotten, an abandoned slave compound no doubt. The disgust in his bones creaked, ignoring his growling stomach, now immune to any desire to eat. Dirty walls adorned with rusty chains meter-by-metre, thumbscrews used to crush slaves' fingers if they didn't work hard enough and what could only look like an old torture rack turned into a table. "Get up, slave. Less moping, more fighting", "Kill them, kill them all!" "Come now, Fenris, we have guests for you to... entertain"

"You wonder why he feeds you rotten limes and peas? No? They look just like your elven eyes. One day you might just be given one of these slaves' eyes and you wouldn't know the difference"

"Is that a blank stare, Little Fenris, do you want to strangle me right now? Plunge your fists into my heart? But you can't, can you? Even if you did have the guts, the chain would snap your neck back. Fitting, don't you agree, little wolf? Ahahaha"

The falgard* offered his knowledge of this place as it was the highest building in Lowtown and the last floor was long abandoned. A huge iron bell was squeezed above that space, but nobody beat at it for years, since one of them hung lose and fell, almost killing the crowd on the street. He rose from the floor and raised his sword when the door opened.
"Aah, sweet MOTHER of Partha, you people just can't give me a break, can you?", Anso cried and put his hands on his face, trying to defend himself.

"I'm sorry, I'm too used to preparing for an ambush. I start to see hostility everywhere," Fenris apologized to the helpful dwarf, placing his sword back into its holder against his back.

"I've found someone willing to be hired," Anso said in an uneasy, unconvinced voice. He gestured. "The human is already heading to the Alienage, I suggest you hurry now. And be careful, I still haven't spotted any Tevinter armory about."

Fenris nodded chivalrously. "Thank you," he said in a rush, then a force stopped him in place. "You said only one human?"

Anso scratched his head. "That one's a nutcase, I tell you. But I don't know, maybe Hawke went for reinforcements"

"If you sent this Hawke to their death, it's on your head. What did you even say the job was?" Fenris asked angrily. He shook his head and sighed. There was no time for trivialities. "Ah, nevermind, benefaris."

"Don't thank me, serah, I do owe you my life after a-"

But the elf had already vanished into the dark.

"May the Stone guide you," Anso said almost in a faint whisper, looking at the door harboring only empty darkness beyond its way.

(*Falgard = dwarf in Tevinter)

Fenris got to the ground floor and stopped to analyze the field through a remote crack in the wall. The street was quiet and empty, but he could hear swords weaving and a lot of screaming. He moved to a wider part of the crack and could spot the ground of the Alienage full of blood and a red-headed figure circling the Vhenadahl chased by the Tevinter bounty hunters. After the figure tired them off with a few circles, it quickly paced backwards and scythed into the group and whirlwound, then circled the tree again. What kind of crazy man went there alone, especially someone who was clearly not well-equipped, was shorter than most human men and much skinnier. He had to save the poor bastard.

He rushed into the shadows of the streets and hid when other Tevinter soldiers came from the market area.

It was quiet, too quiet. The apparent leader of the group ordered what seemed to be a lieutenant to stand watch with the others while he paced towards the Alienage. He could hear a sword plunge right through heavy armor and something explode, a man gasping before his death.

Venhedis, too late. He couldn't take it. He ran for it. He went into lyrium haze and faded through them, throwing most of them meters away into the sharp iron spikes on the edges of the street (that for some reason the incompetent viscount of this filthy city didn't order to get removed). He shoved his fist into a remaining soldier's chest and partly solidified it, crushing his insides and with the other arm he pierced his sword through the last one standing. He calculated every move and fought with ease through these situations usually, not even making a sound.

"Lieutenant, I want everyone in the clearing, now!" he heard, and he pushed the still standing but inevitably dying soldier towards the stairs that led to the Alienage. The Tevinter muttered something like captain and fell to his death. He walked slowly now, since there was clearly only the leader left, and he'd give him a piece of his mind before making him beg for death.

"Your men are dead and your trap has failed," he said in a perfect tone of content, but...

… Two of them. No, one Tevinter soldier and a woman standing behind him with with a full frown and full fists, ready to move, but petrified in the process by the unexpected turn of events.

Will wonders never cease. He assumed the woman raising an eyebrow while watching him was telling herself the same thing.

He walked past the Tevinter, appearing as calm as one could be. In truth, he was tired and angry. The last time he encountered bounty hunters in such numbers was a few months before up north. He had gotten cornered and barely survived. For all his abilities, even the lyrium markings, he was still only one man. A constant one-man army isn't much of an army, especially when one has to work twice as hard to move through the crowd unnoticed and repeatedly starve oneself for days on end to spare the little food and water one could get. Sure, stealing was never difficult - he'd wrap himself with two layers of old cloth and lyrium-snitch the purse away - but the only time he didn't feel dirty and no better than the people who put him in this position was the few and short-lived moments in which he felt the taste of fresh food and the cold and soft threads of water dancing in his mouth. What followed after was nothing short from disgust, more for himself than anyone else.

He'd seen noblemen snatch both young elves as well as humans for their weekly slumber parties, servants working and being treated like slaves, men being ripped off by greedy merchants, commoners being denied their rights to their own lands, rendered unable to provide for their families, he'd seen countless murders and men locked up for the slightest defiances. He could only run and not look back, not because it would have been a sign of weakness, but it wasn't far from that either. He'd die inside every time he allowed himself to watch and be filled by the pain of these injustices, he'd die inside because he could do nothing about it, yet he was the victim of such a one and he should have retaliated.

If he could have sat in one place and moved freely, he would have been there where his presence could have influenced for the better, but, no, he had to run for his own life's sake. Survival of the fittest, nothing more, nothing less. He was fooling himself; that line hadn't given him comfort for a year, if not two. He couldn't even tell time anymore. He couldn't keep a calendar. Sometimes he'd walk to neutral figures and ask them what day and month it was and he'd realize he had ceased to understand what the dates meant at all. He'd know only daylight and nighttime, sunrise and sunset. The sun would rise, he'd feel it against his skin for a few moments, then get back to the eternal vigilance. The sun would set, he'd have to hide.

He felt a sudden release of tension in his chest when he learned that the sound of that man in heavy armour dying was misdirection, for the poor bastard he thought he drove to his own death was not a he at all, and it was she who plunged the sword in the other's body. How she managed to survive was inexplicable; it remained to be seen. He didn't look the Tevinter sack of filth, but kept speaking:

"I suggest running to your master while you can." Ah, would it not for this dire situation, this was certainly the case to break in laughter at himself. Either his choice of words were poor from the sleep deprivation or was he actually implying he'd show this man mercy? He was not the head of of it all, though, he was not Danarius, nor any other magister, he was just a soldier following orders blindly.

Maybe he would have, but he next choice of words the soldier used set the flag in place. "You are going nowhere, slave." T

That was it. That word was all it took. He grabbed the captain's arm, pulled it away from his shoulder and drove his clawed gauntlet into the man's heart. He turned his back and didn't even look at the corpse. "I am not a slave," he muttered decisively, not sure if he said to himself or to the woman in front of him.

Ah, yes. The woman.

The burning flow of anger suddenly froze and bits and pieces of the current situation, details he thought about didn't actually have time to analyze or understand, they all darted into his head and jolted him. What was he going to say to this witness who he also tricked and almost got killed? How was she even alive; there were roughly two dozen corpses on the ground. Why was her hair so red, did she stick her head into the core of the bloodbath? What was in the chest? Why wasn't she flipping out, attacking him or at least, thanking him? Right, thanking. He should be apologizing, not getting gratitude. Too much information was pounding on his head.

"I apologize," Fenris said courteously, keeping a neutral tone in his voice. "When I asked Anso to provide a distraction for the hunters, I had no idea they'd be so … numerous. But I see you've had little difficulty in terminating them without my intervention," he said, turning his back on her. He wasn't used to looking people in the eye, explain, let alone state facts that sounded like compliments because of her being female...and she was eyeing him with spears.

There, he did say it. The apology meant nothing compared to her own life, but at lea-

"You were responsible for this?" Hawke asked just as calmly, all of it now sinking in, just how easy the job sounded, why the chest was empty, why Anso was more than just anxious about falling into the sky.

"I am the reason you're here, yes," Fenris replied nonchalantly."These men were Imperial bounty hunters, seeking to recover a magister's lost property - namely myself." he said with a both disgusted and mocking expression. "Crude as their methods were, I could not face them alone. Thankfully, Anso chose wisely".

Right, it's just that simple. One slave escapes and the whole Imperium goes after him as if he's the best shoe shiner in a thousand mile radius. This is either another trick or I'm meeting someone crazier than myself. And then it hit her, she forgot what just happened in front her eyes just a minute ago - the elf randomly swooping in covered in white yet burn-like markings, lighting them in a blue glow and then, as if he were a ghost, crushed the man's insides. What had just happened there, she had felt a shock or a pressure or something in that moment, now that she thought about it and then it was all become a blur for two seconds. Right, I'm drunk. I forgot that because I'm drunk I forget what's happening. And now I forgot my train of thought… white hair, black feathers in his gauntlets, nice legs, markin- yes, the markings.

"That seems like a lot of effort to find one slave," Hawke stated suspiciously.

"It is", Fenris replied shortly.

"But you're no ordinary slave, are you?" she said, pointing at his arms.

He looked down upon them as if he forgot he had even had them.

"Oh, yes, I imagine I must look strange to you." This conversation was harder than the combat itself; never in his three years on the run did he feel obligated to explain himself.

"Not really," she said with a nonchalant shrug. "I'm more confused about why you're grizzled at your age than what those markings are." He arched an eyebrow and she cauht up on it. She grinned childishly, "Aaand I also sort-of-usually-always find myself surrounded by crazy."

"Hair of blood and went alone into a clear danger zone," he fired back calmly.

Hawke raised an eyebrow. "Which you haven't made any less dangerous, thank you very much. I take it Anso lied his ass off."

"Not everything was a lie. Retrieving what was in the chest was still the main mission," he said calmly. Too much to ponder on right now. He gestured in peace, "Your employer was simply not who you believed."

She seemed to take it all in and understand the logic. Her purpose was fulfilled, either way. A brief silence occurred, she was thinking something thoroughly. She was nodding briefly while staring blankly at the ground.

That's the time when he had to ask her for help. He only got out two syllabes, "I-i," which made him start to sound like Anso, when she interrupted.

"If you couldn't face them why not just run?"

"There comes a time when you must stop running. When you turn and face the tiger," he said decisively. She noticed the his tone. This had not been a creed in which he believed for years, but rather an impulsive revelation, hurtled onto him forcefully. He seemed fearless, but he held her as a condition to his drive for vengeance.

She watched him carefully say this and seemed to agree with her eyes alone, as if she understood him and actually expected that answer.

"If they really were trying to recapture you, I would have happily helped you crush their blighted souls either way," she said calmly. She shrugged. "You just had to ask."

"Perhaps the deception was unnecessary," he said perceptively, sizing her up in silence. A sudden rush of sorrow or shame came about his blank expression as he lowered his gaze. "I... have met few in my travels who would help without sought for personal gain."

What are you talking about? We saved you because you were dying and now you are free to do what you want. You could stay with us, too, if you wish. But just to be clear, I'm not your master, nor is anyone else" . He tried to open his eyes again, but couldn't until he heard her saying with confidence,"Well, you've met me now. Look at my masterpiece," Hawke said, grinning and pointing at the numerous Tevinter corpses lying around them.

"It is impressive, indeed...If I may ask, what was in the chest?"

"It was empty. What were you expecting?"

"It doesn't matter any longer," he said bitterly. "Even so, I had to know."

She smiled at him, an action far from being the natural result of the sudden turn of events. "Teh, all that for an empty chest? Nonsense."

"Not precisely. Forgive me one moment". He searched the captain's body and found a note with a map of encircled locations in Kirkwall where he may have been spotted and a house in Hightown marked with an X. There was writing too, which he couldn't read, but that filthy calligraphy he could recognize anywhere...

"It's as I thought. My former master accompanied them to the city," he said in disgust, boiling, contained anger destroying this calm demeanor he strove to display. Hawke stepped closer to him, seeming ready to get illuminated on the new information.

"I know you have questions, but I must confront him before he flees. I… will need your help," he said nervously, looking ashamed or guilty, like a dog with its tail between its legs, or either way, uncomfortable.

Her first response would have been obvious, she was going to help him. It was the right thing to do. But something seemed to block the words from coming out. Her survival instinct kicked in.

"You lured me into a trap… and now you want my help?" she asked suspiciously, making it seem utterly logical for him to take his note and carry his lousy bones up to Hightown himself.

He didn't yield, although he had lost grounds to outwit her already. "If Anso had told you to divert an ambush of Tevinter bounty hunters, would you have done it?"

"Of course I would have done it!" she gestured angrily. "I just had to walk twenty more feet to ask my friends to accompany me so I wouldn't almost die."

Such lunacy, deliberately going alone either way. He knew why he lacked advantage of numbers, but what was her excuse? Ah, whatever. He needed help and sought to divert from any other trivial points to argue over. "Had I known of you earlier, I would have asked you myself. Everything I have said until now was true and I am asking you now, please," he said chivalrously.

He was worse than Anso. Not in the way of panting and gasping and stuttering and jumping at his own shadow, on the contrary, he kept it all together, leaking only a little of how uncomfortable, confused and scared he was. It seemed to Hawke this was his one chance to be free for good.

"I hope we're not going to him just to talk," Hawke said grumpily. How clever and devoid of personal interest was her expression, how passionate with justice.

Maybe it was enough to say the least, "Danarius wants to strip the flesh from my bones and has sent so many hunters that I've lost count. And before that, he kept me on a leash like a Qunari mage, a personal pet to mock Qunari custom." His eyes were filled with personal drive for justice now. "So, yes, I intend to do more than just talk," he finished mockingly. She knew this expression all too well, eyes hiding under frowning eyebrows, pressed lips, prepared to fight until it was over.

"Seems like this is going to be a long night… Come on," Hawke said smiling. She relaxed and assumed her headstrong, abruptly supportive attitude.

They walked past the slums, fighting some thugs on the way and finishing them off in one breath. The woman didn't dance on the battlefield, she jumped and swayed at the same time, making every blow and punch count. She barely wore any armour from what he could tell - a big spiked shoulder pad, clawed gauntlets, metal boots, but any other part of her body could have easily been cut or crushed, had she not forseen every move the enemy did. He wasn't used to fighting along somebody, but they paired effectively while it lasted. He drifted off from her tanking four at a time and one rogue tried to reach for his back, but she threw her own greatsword like a spear in the air and it landed brutally right into the man's head. She rushed to get it back, those few seconds would have been critical to her own safety, had he not finished the others off easily after that.

He thanked her and she thanked him at the same time. She laughed and turned her back to get her sword back and vacate the dead man's head. He watched her curiously for she had a belt full of pockets and what seemed to be little explosives and his eyes drifted away to her shapely hips. She looked behind at him and asked if he found anything useful on their corpses. He looked away confused, blushed and shook his head.

"Wait. I'm not going to risk this again. Whatever we're going to face up there, it's not going to be just ugly little slavers and I don't think we should be going alone. I have to get my brother and a friend from this building," Hawke explained while pointing towards the Hanged Man.

"We'll meet in the courtyard of those Hightown estates, near the Chantry." He lowered his gaze and seemed to kill a thought in his head. Finally, he said, Please hurry." In a second, he ran up the stairs through the market and headed towards Hightown.

What? We spend an eternity discussing the situation in the Alienage, but he can't wait two minutes to get my reinforcements? No, he just runs and … he just runs. Of course that's what he would do, that's what he's used to. Asking for my help was probably hard for him and since he trusts that I'll be there he doesn't need to follow me every step of the way until I get my shit straight. Speaking of that shit, …

Middle of the night, Varric's room, The Hanged Man

"Heeeey, Varric," Hawke said awkwardly, trying to wipe off her crooked smile as she entered his bedroom. He was already in bed and Carver was, yes, just as she predicted, lying facedown on Varric's table.

"I'm not going to like this am I," Varric muttered grumpily as he woke up and saw Hawke trying to ease the introduction of the problem.

"You're not going to believe, is what you won't do."

Varric shook his head as if to snap out of his weary state and sighed,"Well, now I'm listening."

"No time, get dressed. Meanwhile, I'll poke at my brother and try to wake him up," she issued strategically. "Come on, I'll tell you everything on the way."

"Ugh, this better pay," Carver muttered harshly, trying to lift his head up.

Next up, magic show anyone?