Author's Note: Yeah, another fic…I should work on my other stuff but I couldn't resist writing bits of my Hawke. She's…different? That's one way of putting it, I guess. Basically, I played through DA a few times with a moderately 'nice' alignment before getting the idea for a Hawke who wasn't just randomly a bitchy character, but who came with all of her own issues. An extremely sarcastic Hawke who is not the heroine everyone later makes her out to be(Good ol' Varric and his glossing of petty details :P !). Also think the Fenris friendmance/ Anders rivalmance is the best thing since sliced bread. I edited out a titanic amount of angst with the help of my fellow party members/beta's of the LOLs: Delphinium(a totally awesome dwarven tank also known on FF net. as DamascusRibbons) and one William Cousland, wielding the mighty greatsword of Crack Plot Ideas. That being said, this may have some crack, but it shouldn't be too cracky. There's a little angst, a little fluff. Loose chronological order…

"Seeker, let be straight with you: if you're looking for the Champion because you think she can help you you're wrong." Looking at Cassandra Pentagast, most people would piss there pants. I'm really not that worried, she clearly isn't planning on killing me. Chantry Seekers can get away with a lot of shit but they're not without a conscience. She just wanted a story and I, Varric Tethras, am a master of good story telling. It probably helps that the story of Kirkwall's 'Champion' is one of my all-time favourites.

Though everyone thinks I exaggerate the amount of drinking that went on. I don't.

"I know she can help me!" Nothing like the righteousness of someone who believes their actions have the backing of the Maker. Though I have to give Cassandra some credit; if I hadn't been there and experienced the whole thing myself, I might be inclined to think Streyga Hawke was my best bet for rallying templars or whatever else.

"Even if she can-" She's definitely not going to. Hawke had always been in it to win it, to the Void with almost everyone else. She'd had two moods: Cheeky and royally pissed off. A strange penchant for collecting torn trousers to the point of abandoning more valuable loot. She couldn't cook, bake and/or reliably create anything but chaos. The short attention span had lead to many more accidents with pyromancy than any mage I'd ever met. Every title she earned, every achievement was almost always an accident. The story I could tell Cassandra was not the story of the brave, honorable heroine and I wasn't exactly eager to disappoint the angry looking Seeker, even if I was ninety-nine percent sure she wasn't about to kill me.

"Start talking, dwarf."

"Right, I will. I just…" I shifted slightly in my chair and looked down at the manuscript I was holding. Though an apostate, the Champion of Kirkwall was a tall, fair-haired woman of astounding character originally hailing from Ferelden. She showed impressive bravery and moral fiber in the face of the Qunari-

"Well, my work here is done! This book tells you everything-"

"The book is a bunch of propagandized bullshit. I need the truth." Cassandra plunked herself down in the chair across from me, drawing her blade and setting it on her lap. You had to hand it to the Seeker, she knew how to send a message

"The truth hurts, Seeker. But if you want it, I'll give it to you. Just promise me you wont kill me if you hear something you don't like…" A dagger buried itself in the wood of the chair just above my head, "Alright, alright! I'll tell you!"

And without further adieu(and with very little embellishment from your's truly), I give you the tale of Kirkwall's Champion.

"That was mean, sister." Streyga Hawke blinked her startling blue eyes against the blazing sunlight that graced the streets outside Gamlen's hovel, stretching her neck luxuriously and smiling back over her shoulder. Mhm, it was a good day to be a Ferelden in Kirkwall. And shouting and threatening Gamlen had filled her with a comfortable sense of satisfaction that only conflict could stoke. Carver frowned at her and folded his arms over his muscle-bound chest.

"That's life, Carver. And Gamlen's a prick." She purred, brushing a hand through her long, snow white hair and sweeping it into a severe bun at the back of her head, two tendrils escaping to frame her face. She pulled the cowl up over her head and adjusted it so it shielded her eyes. Making sure her staff was secure in it's sheath over her shoulders she trotted down the stone steps, listening to her younger brother's whinging.

"If it wasn't for him we'd never have gotten into the city! We owe him-"

"Maybe you owe him, Carver. For justifying the poor little brother act…I don't owe him a thing." She goaded lazily as they crossed the square in front of the Hanged Man, heading into the bizarre. The clout across the back of the head came as a surprise and she stumbled and clutched the back of her neck, turning on him in shock. The anger swiftly followed at the sight of Carver's firm, furious stance.

"What the Void was that for?" The injury was more to her pride than anything else, Maker knows Carver could have taken her head off if he'd punched her full force.

"Don't mock me! You have no idea what it's like playing second fiddle to you! The careless, insensitive, conceited older female sibling!" He spit aggressively, glowering down at her.

"This again? Maker's breath, Carver. Grow up." She stepped down into the bizarre courtyard, reeling slightly.

"Fine! How about we have it out, right here! See who should have been relied on to lead the bloody family!" He shouted, his fists balled at his sides. Lowtown residents were starting to take notice. Streyga felt the fury rise and boil in her throat, her head, her chest. Like the roar of a fire, the tension that had been building for days now finally brought to a head.

"Oh go ahead and lead, brother! I certainly won't stop you…" She turned her back again, her body shaking and quivering. She felt abnormally cold under the glow of the sun, her belly and head aching in tandem. Her pale skin was coated in a sheen of sweat and she started to quicken her pace. She needed to go to the Gallows…the Tranquil there typically sold a bit of lyrium on the side. Just a little and she'd feel better-

"Little Hawke and Hawke, causing a stir! Why don't we just tone things down a little so that Aveline doesn't need to-" Varric had just emerged from the Hanged Man pub, the sun glinting off the gold that adorned his throat. Hawke blinked a bit of sweat out of her eyes and saw Isabela slink up from behind him, hands on her hips and her face amused.

"How can you just ignore your responsibility after all that's happened?" Carver'd stepped up closer than she remembered him being, towering over her. Something in her twisted at the invasion of her space and she stood on tip toe to sneer at him, swaying like a cobra ready to strike.

"I'm warning you, little brother. Don't test me." His hands came down on her shoulders and shoved her back hard enough that she stumbled slightly. Oh, you sniveling little gutter shite-!

"How could you just let Bethany die?" He shrieked across the bizarre, Carver's words finally hit home. Let. Bethany. Die. "You should have been the one to take that blow, not her! Not my twin!"

She stepped into his space, catching his hands with enough force magic to prevent him pushing her down again. His eyes widened with fury but he grinned down at her viciously, one lip curled back into a fighting snarl. She mimicked his facial expression, deaf to Varric's soothing words of warning.

"Your survivor's guilt isn't my problem, Carver." She pushed with the force magic, catapulting him backwards so that he landed squarely on his arse. Hawke cracked her knuckles and grinned as Carver found his feet. "So, let's get this over with so I can get some lyrium for my scrambled eggs, shall we?"

Anders was walking sedately out of Loreen's clinic when the dye merchant's stall beside him exploded in a fount of purple and green powders. His survival instincts kicked in and he threw himself under the trinket sellers table without a second thought, nearly ousting a poor woman from her hiding spot. Maker, this can be one of two things: please let this just be bandits and not…he heard that familiar, battle-hardened laughter. Hawke. And she was using magic in the bizarre! Maker curse that foolish woman, she'd better have had a good reason to-

"Come on, get up! That's it, little brother! Come on, take the fight to the enemy!" No, of course not. Of course she'd be risking exposure for the sake of a sibling quarrel. Carver barreled past the table he was ensconced under like a charging bronto, roaring his rage at his older sister. Anders bolted out from beneath the table and raced up the steps to where Varric and Isabela were watching the proceedings with grave looks on their faces.

"What the hell is going on?" He hissed angrily, inserting himself between them and glancing up in time to witness Hawke receive a fierce punch into her ribcage. Her laugh cut off as the breath whooshed out of her lungs and she slammed her palm into her brothers chest in an effort to launch him off her. He clung and the force of her own magic sent them both tumbling across the bizarre, kicking and punching and scratching at one another.

"Carver's having a tantrum, Hawke's dealing with it." Varric shrugged, counting out some copper in the palm of his hand. Anders eyed him with disbelief, jostled by the men and women behind him trying to get a better look at the combatants.

"Are you taking bets on them!" He sputtered indignantly, wincing at the sound of shattering timbers as Carver landed on a merchants table.

"Why? You want to put some money on Hawke? I'll give you three to one odds…" The dwarf nodded and thanked a man as he placed some gold in his outstretched palm.

"On which-" Anders recovered and glowered at the two rogues furiously. "No! This is horribly dangerous and I'm going to put a stop to it-"

"Easy, Tiger." Isabela placed a placating hand on his arm and shook her head. "She's not ready to be talked down. Besides I haven't placed my bet-"

"I wasn't going to talk to her about it." Varric gave him a sound tug on his belt and shook his head firmly.

"Don't, Blondie. You'll only make it worse." Anders glared ferociously at the Hawke siblings as they circled each other, Streyga limping slightly. There was blood crusting all down her face and neck from her bloody nose, glistening in the sunlight. She was grinning savagely, one of her eyes swollen shut. Mages just weren't built to go head to head in a physical fight without the aid of their magic. Carver lunged forward and she dodged the ham-fisted blow, capering neatly only to cry out as her injured leg failed her and stagger awkwardly to the side.

"This is stupid-"

"What is it? Has Isabela started dueling again?" The soft voice pricked everyone's ears with it's faint dalish lilt, it's owner slipping between the crowd to stand beside him. "Oh dear…"

"They're going to kill each other and bring the templar's down on us!" Anders snapped furiously, appealing to the chuckling dwarf beside him.

"Relax, Blondie. What do you think we have rooms in the Hanged Man for?"

"That's not the point! It's bloody selfish and irresponsible…" Anders trailed off when he saw Varric shrug helplessly. Isabela slid a companionable arm around the mage's waist, her sultry grin bright with mischief.

"That's our Hawke, take her or leave her." The pirate rogue watched Carver land another punch and winced. "Come on, sweet thing! Dodge a few of…oh, mages…"

"Varric-"

"You two can hide out with me…besides, Hawke's doing fine. You have to be crafty to notice she's casting at all-" A fireball consumed a refuse wagon five feet from where Carver was standing, Streyga Hawke's eyes glowing like the embers of a forge and flames licking her wrists to the elbow.

"COME ON THEN! I'll light you up like the piers at Ostagar! After all, it's not like I'd be robbing you of your looks!" Carver narrowly avoided a few fist-sized fireballs, yelping like an injured mabari.

"Maker's breath! Now will you stop them? Before she burns down the bloody bizarre…On second thought, wait, don't! I bet being thrown in the Circle'd do her some good." Merril made a soft noise of upset, covering her mouth with her hands and casting Anders a horrified look. There was a battle cry as Carver tore across the bizarre roaring like a bear. Streyga dropped into the aggressive stance of a battle mage, magical flame rippling over her spine like the mane of a jungle cat as it writhed and crackled over her arms.

"Hawke!" Merril shrieked, her voice tearing through a few octaves as she struggled to be heard over the din. Hawke's head swiveled at the sound of the dalish mage's squeak, the fire coating her arms dampening somewhat. "Stop! Or I'll…I'll-! I'LL TURN THE ARAVEL AROUND!"

There was a brief moment of puzzlement on her blood caked, rage suffused face before Carver plowed into her and sent her sprawling. She managed to throw up a hand and fling him over her head with force-magic even as she slammed back into the hard, sandy colored stone, catapulting him over her prone body and into the stairs leading to the upper courtyard. He flew over the heads of the spectators before landing amongst them with screams of terror and disgruntled bellowing.

"Bloody void, Daisy. What did you say?"

"It's something the Keeper used to tell us when we were misbehaving…" The Dalish elf looked appropriately chastised, wringing her hands as the crowd made haste to disperse.

"I've decided what I'm going to call this story, Rivaini." Varric was speaking to Isabela even as Anders shoved his way down the stairs, eager to reach Hawke before the templar's peeled her up off the ground: "The Day Little Hawke Junior Learned to Fly."

Anders elbowed his way past the audience that was fast making itself scarce, some rushing off to inform a guard that was no doubt already on it's way. Meredith herself is probably leading them down here so she can personally execute an alleged blood mage. Anders bitterly wondered why he was bothering as he finally spotted Hawke, sprawled in a small puddle of her own blood. She was pushing herself up to her knees with no small amount of difficulty. He grabbed her by the shoulders and quickly bustled her into an alley he would have thought twice about otherwise, shoving her into a narrow alcove half-hidden behind a stinking heap of garbage. She slumped to an awkward sitting position, wheezing through the dried blood and clutching her skull. Anders squirmed into the space next to her, their shoulder's wedged together almost painfully.

"You stupid, selfish-" He felt her head flop onto his shoulder, out-cold. Maker preserve me, I'm crouched in a stinking alleyway with an unconscious female apostate who I barely know and am fairly sure I despise for her lack of morals and mage pride bleeding all over my robes. Up until this point, Anders had repeatedly stated the mantra 'At least it's better than the Wardens' in an attempt to keep himself sane. "You don't even have the common decency to remain conscious for tirade."

Grunting, he shifted his position in the cramped area so she was draped over his chest. He couldn't heal her, just in case there were templars close. They'd immediately sense the magic and have them both trapped like rats. He fished a healing potion out of a hidden pocket inside his coat and cradled her bloodied face against his shoulder. Gingerly, he slipped a finger under her swollen lip and emptied the vial down her throat, rubbing vigorously to encourage her to swallow. She wasn't too badly off, Carver had been pulling his punches for the most part. Still, the needless damage made Anders feel mildly anxious. It's just healer-patient concern, that's all.

"Come on, you stubborn witch. Wake up and-" She coughed feebly, some of the precious liquid dribbling down her chin before she choked it down. Her right hand clutched convulsively at the feathers across his shoulder, it's knuckles skinned and shiny with the reddish pinkness of scraped and broken flesh. It would heal within the next few minutes that it took for the potion to take affect. What was important was that the tonic allay the symptoms of the concussion.

"Carver is a son of a bitch." Came the quiet admonition, murmured against the stitching of his great coat. Anders snorted, one arm slung awkwardly around her knees to keep her from stretching her legs out into the alley.

"You share a mother, Hawke. That's like saying Leandra is a bitch."

"How do you know my mother?" The earnestness in her voice was unmistakable and Anders made a soft sputtering sound to shush her. Concussed, she was far more manageable than she would have been otherwise. Which was a blessing, considering-

"Well, well. Unlikely love birds." Isabela's sultry voice was unmistakable even as his heart stopped at her sudden appearance.

"Maker, Isabela! I nearly attacked you-"

"Shush." The pirate rogue placed a finger to his lips and spread a threadbare blanket over them.

"Where the bloody hell did you find this? It's probably full of diseases-"

"There's gratitude for you. I dashed back to my room at the Hanged Man for this-" She tucked the blanket in around Hawke's shoulders and straightened.

"Then I know it's diseased-" He grumbled, casting the raggedy fabric a disdainful look. Hawke snuggled up under his chin, still smelling of blood and yawning like a kitten. Appearances can be deceiving…she's just like Mahariel…only Mahariel was definitely meaner.

"Shut it! The templar's are not twenty feet away…just cower under here and pretend to be sick refugees! They'll leave you alone and then I'll come back and tell you when it's safe." Anders clamped his mouth shut as Isabela and her ample bust disappeared back into the alley. He sighed long-sufferingly and glaring down at his burden.

"I have half a mind to give you to the templars, do you know that? Maybe then you'd stop quoting their bloody rhetoric." He muttered into her ears, wincing as her long fingernails scraped at his collarbone.

"We could share a cozy little jail cell."

"Shut up."

And they were still fighting four hours later, sitting in the cramped confines of Isabela's unused closet. The only thing that had really changed was the additional presence of Merril and the moldering chest Hawke was perched on, a delightful pattern of purple bruises spread all over her face and arms. Other places, too, but she hadn't had the privacy or the care to take a full inventory of her injuries. She was currently dozing off with her head on one stone wall and her knees tucked up to her chest.

"Hawke. How can you sleep at a time like this? Don't you even feel the vaguest bit guilty that you've caused-"

"Oh shush, Anders. You nag worse than Leandra. If you don't have the presence of mind and the strength of body to hide from the templars, then you bloody well shouldn't be an apostate in the first place." She muttered against the wall, curling her aching body tighter into a protective ball.

"I wonder if you'd be so cavalier if it was Merril who got captured? Or yourself?" Hawke scoffed at Anders glower and sat up fully, glaring down at him.

"Alright, show of hands: Who here has been captured at least once by the templars?" Merril looked puzzled as she leaned up against the door, shaking her head.

"I've never even been questioned by a templar. At least, not that I can remember. None of them have ever accused me of being a mage. I think-" Hawke interrupted the dalish elf's tangent, rolling her eyes and returning her gaze to Anders.

"Yes, the only one of us who's ever had trouble is speaking from bloody experience. You're a rubbish hider, Anders. Now, move away from the door. I need a good stiff drink." She stood up, and reached for the latch, she had it partially open before a booted foot slammed it shut, tearing the sharp latch through her fingers. Anders folded his arms over his chest, shaking his head.

"Are you insane? You can't go out there…they'll spot you immediately!" Streyga bit her lip hard and counted to five, quelling the pyromancy that made the one lamp in the tiny space flare enthusiastically. Warm blood seeped out of the scratch across her fingers and palm and she felt a vast, powerful blackness crowding at the edge of her mind. Don't use it, don't strike him. Just…relax.

"So?" She murmured, raising one eyebrow and stepping on his ankle. He jerked it out from under her foot and she pulled the door open and slipped out in one easy movement.

"So? Maker, woman! Do you want to end up in the Circle?" Anders pathetic argument faded behind her as she strode through Isabela's suite-snagging a kerchief to wrap her hair and face in-and ventured out into the corridor. She took a right at the door to Varric's and trotted down the stairs into the tavern proper.

Anders was right about one thing: The Hanged Man was crawling with templars, the dim light cast by the eclectic assemblage of cheap torch holders and hanging candelabras glinted harshly off their armor. Far less somber with some ale in their bellies, the men were raucously taking part in a game of Wicked Grace. Hawke wove her way between the many patrons, some she recognized and some new additions. The presence of so many lawmen was clearly making the regulars et al. uncomfortable and she carefully but casually made her way to the bar.

"Hawke, sweet thing." Isabela greeted Streyga with a smile and placed a tankard in front of her. "Living on the edge I see."
"Maker, Isabela, I'm well over the edge." She took three steady swallows and smacked the empty cup down on the bit of ragged wood that served as the bar counter. The pirate woman's eyebrows arched and she gave a low whistle.

"Take it easy, love. Wouldn't want you to attract any more attention than strictly necessary, tonight of all nights." Isabela's breasts pressed together as she crossed her arms an leaned over the counter, beckoning to the young barkeep. Streyga threw back her head and swilled down the dregs before letting the man refill it for her, leaning back against the bar.

"How many?"

"Whew, least twenty…and that's not counting the ones who aren't wearing any armor to distinguish themselves from the common lot. The more drink Nora gives them, the sloppier they get. But still…you're sailing dangerous waters for the sake of a little rubbish ale…" Hawke didn't reply, swiping her drink off the counter and taking a swig. She glared blackly into it's depths, reveling in the steady burn of the alcohol through her system. The welcome way it soothed a little of the post-brawl ache and left behind a not altogether unpleasant, tingling numbness in her fingertips…

"I got sick of listening to Anders complain. Sick of listening to Carver complain, too." She sniffed, took another swig. The familiar feeling of smooth, casual candidness of the drink was taking effect. Isabela's elbowed bumped against her own and Streyga smiled lazily stretching her neck a little and nodding her head from side to side. Her limbs felt mildly leaden, pleasantly so. No pain, just pleasantness.

"What did Carver do to you, poor sweet thing?" Isabela's voice was like soft honey, amber and sweet and heavy on her tongue.

"Family matter. Nothing really…none of your damn business, leastways." Her eyelids fluttered and in the blackness behind them she saw Bethany's face. No, no. None of that! Her glass was full again and she tipped it back and swallowed the vile brew like penance. A smile split across Hawke's face like a gambler's grin. "Where's Fenris? I think I'd very much like to smash something…"

"He said he wouldn't be here 'til later. Hawke-" Streyga pushed off the bar, stumbling slightly. It really, really didn't take much for her to become inebriated. She looked around the sea of faces, picking out one of the newer occupants. He was tapping two coppers together against the bar, lighting sparks off them in his nervousness. You hide like a coward, boy. Like a rabbit who dove down a fox's hole, so sick with fright your about to piss yourself. That was the height of pathetic behaviour, clearly the man wasn't a strong enough mage to be out of the Circle. She was doing him a favour, and she was not going to spend a week crouching in Isabela's closet while these cocky templars lurked around like a plague, listening to Anders lay blame at her feet.

The buzz of the templars chanting some strange bawdy drinking song at the top of their lungs broke through some of the clouded numbness like the playful barks of hounds before a hunt. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted the two hardened veterans; sitting at opposite sides of the table, barely sipping their drinks. Shrewd, uptight…less clever than they thought they were if she was any judge. She really wasn't. She was drunk.

"Oh shit." Varric breathed, already reaching for Bianca.

There was an abomination lying dead at Hawke's feet. She was standing over it blood smeared and grinning like a cat with a canary pinned beneath it's paw. Twenty templars stood, their weapons still out, some of them fallen over in drunken heaps on the ground. Rivaini had her back pressed to a wall, her daggers out and her chest heaving. She glanced up at him and shook her head once, minutely. He heaved a sigh, slumping against the wall.

"Varric, what the hell just happened? By the Maker, Varric! Tell me she's not lying dead on the floor-" Blondie was practically twitching with nervousness, his face almost the same shade as Daisy's in his panic.

"Get back to Isabela's suite, go on! Just a bit of trouble, nothing Hawke couldn't handle. Blondie, go." Varric descended the staircase as Hawke helped a young templar to his feet, swaying slightly.

"Serrah Hawke? Is that you?" The boy stood up and clapped her on the shoulder, perhaps one of the only forces keeping her upright. Keran. Thank the Maker…

"The one and only." Hawke tottered in an ungainly bow, smiling merrily. "How's the sister?"

"Macha? She's doing well-" The eager young recruit was silenced as his commanding officer glided between them, teeth showing like a shark that's scented fresh blood.

"Odd to find you here, Serah." The templar lieutenant admonished, nudging at the abomination with the toe of his boot.

"Is it? This tavern's not but a five minute walk from my home." Hawke spread her arms in a magnanimous fashion, stumbling slightly.

"Indeed. But you have been oddly…absent. One would think to run into you more than once on a search through Lowtown." Alrik. According to Varric's various contacts, the worst possible templar for any mage to run afoul of.

"Aw, I was missed! Touching…" Hawke poked Alrik's breastplate, flirtatiously waggling her eyebrows at the unamused Templar. Varric shoved his way through until he was standing where Hawke could see him and made a frantic cut motion across his throat, shaking his head frantically. Streyga glanced over at him and burst into a snorting, drunken giggle.

"Do you find this amusing, Serah Hawke? Perhaps after a night in the Circle's dungeon-" Varric felt his heart sink and dearly hoped that Blondie and Daisy had taken his advice and returned to hiding. The last thing they needed right now was an all out battle between some very important templars, one very pissed off spirit, an elven blood mage and a violently, blithely drunk apostate. They'd destroy the Hanged Man…not to mention each other.

"Hold on there, we just met! Ohhh…you're not joking." Streyga dipped forward, staggering slightly and squinting before righting herself by leaning over a table. She cleared her throat and struggled to recover what tiny amount of composure she had left. Eyeing Alrik with an expression of utmost seriousness, she uttered the words that would either fling them into chaos or persuade the Templars to leave:

"With all due respect, Ser, I have been drinking. Heavily. Here. In this very tavern, since shortly after the disturbance in the square. That's your apostate, is it not? And surely, you've spent long enough in the hospitality of such a fine and upstanding establishment. I think it's time you-"

"Hawke! There you are! Good ser's, Keran. You'll have to excuse us, we were just-" Varric tactically positioned himself within tripping distance of Alrik, taking a quick few sidesteps around the abominations corpse.

"Leaving. I'm sure Ser Alrik understands and will be taking his men back to the barracks…thank you for your aid, Serah Hawke." Cullen removed his helmet, tucking it under his arm and shooting Alrik a severe look. Varric grabbed Hawke's sleeve and gave a hard yank, miscalculating the amount of balance she possessed. She stumbled sideways with a wave like a comedian being dragged offstage, giggling like a little girl. Isabela inserted herself into the awkward crowd as the templars recovered and started attending to the body of the abomination, the drunken patrons creeping out from the corners they'd rushed to.

"Alright, all of you! Who wants to buy me a drink?" Thank you, Rivaini. Hawke tried to wander back towards the bar and only his firm grasp on her elbow and belt kept her from reaching her goal.

"Oooohhh, Varric. You dirty dwarf, I had no idea you were so fond of me! Where are we going?" Varric sighed at the lewd commentary and leers they were getting as they made their way deeper into the Inn.

"If I've told you once I've told you a thousand times Hawke; I'm a dwarf's dwarf. Careful on the stairs-" She tripped on the first step as he turned back to help her and earned a face full of bosom for his trouble.

"Whoops! Sorry, Varric…I, oh. Oh no. I feel sick." The rogue extricated himself immediately from Streyga Hawke's clumsy grasp and got out of projectile vomiting distance. Hawke winced and dragged herself up to the second floor, her pallor looking mildly green. Nora strode by, glaring disapprovingly down at Hawke's prostrate form and then back up at Varric.

"If she's sick, I'm not cleaning it up." Hawke tugged at the serving maids skirt weakly, peering blearily up at her.

"Nora…I think another drink would make me feel better." The adorable smile was ruined as Hawke's eyes crossed and she made a hideous retching sound. Varric winced at the dry heaves and carefully helped Hawke stagger into a semi-standing position against the wall.

"Come on, Hawke. Let's get you back to Isabela's room-"

"Ble…BLECH…Ahhh!"

"Nice, Hawke."

"I blame…the mages…" All one hundred and thirty five pounds five foot, seven inches of Hawke crashed to the ground like a dead weight. Varric sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose before gathering her up in his arms and carrying her back down to Isabela's suite and the furious looking Anders who stood in the doorway.

"Present for you?" Varric flashed the mage his most winning smile. "Chin up, Blondie. This is our Hawke, and we wouldn't want her any other way."