Life is a journey, and no one is more proof of that than the woman who once begged at the gates of the city she now rules. Past decisions have evidently been miscalculated however as the conquering giants from the top of the world return in force to keep a promise that was made five years ago. Graver still the Champion is at her most vulnerable. Inevitable loss will lead to one last adventure and a long journey.
Set two years after the Kirkwall Mage rebellion with flashbacks to different dates. Character appearances of different magnitudes including Warden Brosca, the Arishok and the Cousland family. Possibly (probably) more.
Chapter One: Remembrance and Regret
9:39 Dragon, Kirkwall (The Free Marches)
Present Day
There was a calm that had settled over Hawke as she sat in the window of her estate's upper floor, erasing the state she had worked herself into earlier that day. The early evening sun was still dancing through the glass, though it had dimmed somewhat since when she had first sat down. She had been watching the nobles go about their business below for sometime. Some faces she recognised: the grizzled Lord Riserush and his two yellow haired daughters (Hawke had rescued both girls from kidnappers six years back), a harried looking Lady Irnbry, followed by three even more harried looking servants carrying her afternoon purchases (It wasn't widely known but Lord Irnbry was a practising Bloodmage, before Hawke put an end to him and saved his wife from a sacrificial ritual), and the young Lord Cottonham, as usual carrying three leather bound books (his youthful features had lit up when Hawke had presented him with the ancient Tome of the Red Islands which she'd discovered during an escapade on a remote costal peninsula).
Other than the steady panting from the old Mabari, the estate was silent while she gazed out on the city. There were times when Hawke would miss the noise: Sandal knocking something expensive over and the apologetic flurry from Bodahn that would follow, but there were times such as these where she was grateful to be alone, able to settle herself… or convince her heart to act more like her head.
Out on the streets there would no doubt be excited talk and eager shoppers due of the fast approaching celebrations. Nobles loved a good excuse to buy exceptionally expensive hats and gowns and shoes and delicate silk gloves. Though most usually made extravagant purchases most days of the year, festivities were always an agreeable justifier that made them believe their spending was a worthy cause (without having to touch dirty people or muddy their said delicate silk gloves). However, for Natalie Amell-Hawke, Viscountess of Kirkwall and Champion of the City, past incidents setting the president left her positive that the more expensive a gown was the more likely the city would explode on the day she wore it. To add bitter irony, the most expensive dress she had ever owned (and hopefully would ever own) would be worn inside a building that had only recently been rebuilt from a devastating explosion, though caution was taken to prevent history from repeating itself; the new Chantry was built with no undercroft, solid foundations and Aveline had vowed to lead her guards in a sweep of the shiny new building no less than three times before the ceremony. It was an honest and dedicated vow that Hawke had joked about at the time, but deep down it made her feel better.
Rubbing the strain from her eyes, Hawke decided it was probably time she moved from the window before more people started looking up and noticing the puffy faced Champion. They would probably start shouting congratulations from outside if they did. She moved her limbs from their slump and stood up indolently. Her muscles had gone limp from the day's rest and it took a few minutes to shake, rub and stretch life back into them before she moved towards her bedroom. The light was draining out as the sun set behind the buildings of Hightown. Hawke lit a few candles next to the elaborately decorated gilded mirror which Lady Elegant had bequeathed after her passing. It was a beautiful thing which had taken Hawke aback when it was delivered, though she had gladly accepted it once past the initial shock of hearing her long-term contact had passed away so young. Friend wasn't the right word for the socialite herbalist, though Hawke regretted that it wasn't every time she looked into the mirror. Friends were hard to come by, and it was a reminder that she should have made more of an effort with people she liked.
Perching herself on the quilted stool, the Champion studied her reflection: her hair was dishevelled, fawn coloured strands were sticking up from where her hand had held her head and her eyes were still red and stiff from dried up tears. She wasn't ashamed she'd cried, sometimes she needed to, and it always left her feeling a little better afterwards, if a little headachy. Hawke always waited until she was alone before venting her distress however. A weepy Viscountess would be an embarrassment to the city. A weepy Champion would be an embarrassment to herself. Cleaning the salt trails from her cheeks, the recovery began and a dab of sickly sweet smelling Orlesian powder later and she felt human again.
Stripping off her relax wear, Hawke hunted around for her chain mail and leathers in only her small clothes, throwing cotton shirts and fancy slippers over her shoulder as she went. Routing through piles of clothes that needed folding or washing or something made Hawke realised just how much she missed Orana's cleaning. The elf had only been on her honeymoon for four days and already the build up of mess on the estate was frustrating. She discovered a single boot and her undershirt beneath the large four poster bed, her leg mail in her small clothes drawer, gloves on the bookshelf and breastplate and coat and tails under a pile of rejected gowns in the corner. Hawke dressed in what she had found before descending the stairs to continue the search for her elusive left boot only to be faced with a concerned looking Aveline coming in through the hallway door. The mighty Champion spun on her heels and hopped on her booted foot back up the stairs as quickly as she could.
"Hawke!" Hawke gritted her teeth as she stood motionless on the top step, back turned to the Guard Captain, "I was worried… Have you been here all day?"
"I needed a nap," Hawke replied jovially, regaining her composure and descending the stairs once again. "Why, what disaster, how many dead and whose responsible for it all?"
"No disaster yet. But if you keep missing meetings with foreign dignitaries so you can take naps, there will be. Peace needs to be tended to, otherwise weeds appear."
"I know you need to keep yourself entertained now you're not following me about as much, but I wouldn't have pictured you as the gardening type."
"I don't want to lecture you but-"
"Do you wear a straw hat?"
"Hawke..."
"Does Donnic like your 'green thumb' up his-"
"Hawke."
"Stopping now." Hawke tightened her lips into a restrained smirk and watched as Aveline's irritated frown eventually crumbled into something softer. The Guard Captain suddenly noticed her friend's armour.
"Going out?" Hawke shifted uncomfortably, tugging the edges of her coat down.
"Yeah, just for a little while. It's past the bedtime of most nobles. I won't have to make polite conversation about my dress." She crinkled her nose in distain.
"I thought it looked rather nice, though I can't say the same about the ones you picked out for us bridesmaids."
"Ah-ah-ah, you're a bride's-matron."
"I'm a bloody bridesmaid, and if you call me matron once more I'll be a kicker-of-bride's-arse," Aveline's frown wavered again as she saw the grin tugging at Hawkes lips, obviously pleased that she'd baited another reaction. "One of these days, I'm going to get my own back on you, Hawke."
"You love it. Though, if you're really not happy with your dress we could just paint your armour to match the colour scheme. It's such a part of you I'm pretty sure no-one would even notice."
"It would put me a little bit more at ease," Aveline sighed, walking over to the fireplace. "I don't doubt my guards… but it should be me watching your back."
"You will be, you'll just be prettied up first." Hawke replied with a wink before heading towards her front door, suddenly in need of fresh air.
"Hey, Hawke?" Aveline called from behind her. The Champion turned and was promptly thrown her left boot. "Why in Thedas do you keep this on top of the fireplace?" Hawke grinned and pulled the spike covered leather over her bare foot.
"Lock up for me, would you?" Hawke shouted as she opened the front door of the Amell-Hawke estate and walked out into the temperate Kirkwall night.
Just as Hawke had hoped, there were few people still out and those that were tried to avoid her, unaware that their shady activities weren't far off from what the Viscountess was still apart of less than six years ago. It seemed much longer to Hawke, or as if her less above board adventures had happened to someone else. It was roughly nine and a half years since she had climbed off that creaky old ship, followed by a nervous Bethany, a distant Aveline, and Mother, tired and sad though with the tiniest amount of excitement in her eyes as she returned home.
Though Gamlen's shack wasn't what the family had expected, it provided Hawke with opportunities she wouldn't have otherwise have been presented with. A rag-tag band formed up around the young rogue and the most unusual friendships grew during the years of watching each other's backs; within the first two years of Hawke's arrival she had been involved in most of the situations that later become the foundations for some of the biggest disasters and changes in the city (along with a fair amount of personal turmoil).
"Many happy congratulations, Lady Viscountess!" a voice called from above. Hawke cringed slightly, but turned and gave a little wave to the young woman who was leaning out of her window. She must have been in her earlier twenties, wearing a white nightgown and matching frilly cap. At her age, Hawke had been convinced by her brother to join the military and frilly caps weren't in abundance at Ostagar. Though it may have been a catastrophe when King Cailin's army marched against the rotting monsters, Hawke's mind never dwelt too long on the battle itself. The avoidance of the memories were most likely to do with stress or trauma, however, not one to admit weakness easily, she put it down to bloodlust and being 'in the moment'. Whatever the case, the Champion preferred remembering the comrades she fought beside by the time they spent together before the major clash against the Darkspawn. Drinks were passed around plentifully and men and women would compare combat techniques, brag about the families they had waiting for them and compete with each other in drinking, arm wrestling and gambling games.
9:30 Dragon, Ostagar (Ferelden)
A heavy fist slammed heavily down on the wooden table causing the strong alcoholic contents of multiply resting mugs to leap up and splash back down violently. The heavy fist belonged to a heavier man, his neck nearly the same size as his shoulders.
"You calling me a liar, squirt?" he slurred, a little dribble catching in his beard. "I've 'bin hacking heads off before your mother popped you out!" Hawke couldn't help but smirk as she watched Carver from across the table turn even paler than usual. He was stringing together a defence, determined to prove to the other soldiers he wasn't going to be intimidated.
"I probably should step in." Hawke said, turning back towards the mercenary who'd been feeding her mugs of ale all evening. She noticed he hadn't drunk any himself, only talked and laughed and watched her get drunker.
"Probably. Are you going to?" An unfamiliar accent rolled against his words. She grinned and shook her head, almost swooning when he returned it with a slight smile of his own, narrowing his greyish eyes and running a hand through deep auburn hair… she stopped herself before she worked herself up any further. "You usually fight your brother's fights for him, though?"
"Only when he's a minute away from getting his arse handed to him, though usually stepping in doesn't mean getting physical."
"You are good to him. He is lucky to count you as a sister."
"We have another sister as well… back home. Her name is Bethany."
"She is not a fighter then, not like you?"
"She's…" Hawke chewed her words for a second. She would never be drunk enough to reveal Bethany's secret. "She is, just in a different way." The mercenary appeared contented, he seemed as if he preferred vague answers and riddles anyway. Most of his answers to Hawke's questions had been of that sort: I fight on foreign land for the enemy will not stop at borders… Coin is not as important as you believe… To die for this cause would be better than to die without purpose.
Distracted by her conversation with the striking warrior, Hawke hardly noticed a different voice floating from the end of the table where Carver's standoff with the burly soldier had been. It was a soft voice, humorous and female. Glancing briefly over, Hawke caught a glimpse of a dark haired dwarf, armed and armoured in rusted equipment. Her face was marked with three black tattoos, though the patterns were distorted by an easy smile. Hawke stared curiously as the dwarf shook hands with both Carver and the large man he'd offended, until she was interrupted by four fingertips placed softly on the back of her hand.
"It is getting late." The mysterious warrior murmured. Hawke hummed in agreement, lightly brushing his fingers with the back of her thumb. Quietly, both humans slipped away towards the empty section of tents, far from where most the others were drinking. A stern looking, ginger haired officer raised an eyebrow but said nothing as they passed further into the camp.
Tumbling themselves into a small vacant tent, both fighters began to undress each other, sharing warmth and intensifying already heated kisses with each movement made. At that time, Hawke had no idea that she had passed on her chance to meet the future Hero of Ferelden to share herself with a stranger.
"I've just realised I don't actually know your name." She said in a hushed giggle, tangling her hand in his hair. His lips were pressed down on her neck so the response was quiet, but the foreign words were unmistakable.
"I am Tal-Vashosh." He replied.
Hawke found her face growing warm from the unexpected memory and placed the back of her gauntlet against her cheeks. The cold steel felt refreshing as her feet led her further into the darkness and hopefully towards something else unexpected. With luck a fight. She suddenly had an urge to get rid of some tension.