Hawke stood guard, sipping on an empty goblet to keep up appearances, nodding at the nobles passing by. "Come on Tallis," he muttered to himself through a false grin, "any time now."

An Orleasian nobleman had stopped nearby to... engage a pair of ladies sitting on the garden bench. While the young man's knee length leather boots and tightly cinched waistcoat had attracted Hawke's eye, it was the ridiculously big hat lavished with colourful oversize feathers that captivated his attention. It was simply so preposterous that Hawke couldn't keep his eyes off it. He side stepped a little closer to the threesome, just within reach of those extraordinary feathers. When the ladies stood and they all moved off together, Hawke reached out and gently pinched the bright white plume in the fop's hat. As the young man walked away the feather simply slipped out from the bunch and Hawke was left standing alone, admiring his new prize. He had to bring the empty goblet back up to his lips to hide the amused laughter attempting to escape him; the entire nonsensical affair of this day was starting to take its toll on his mind.

Hawke's attention returned to the current task of waiting for Tallis who was still attempting to procure the Chateau key from Lord Cyril. When she finally emerged she was visibly frustrated, "This, is officially my worst night ever," she said.

"Not Lord Cyril's type?"

Tallis sighed, "Maybe he just doesn't like elves. Or... women. In either case, you're the answer. He has the key. Go get it."

Hawke stood there trying to string together the logic Tallis had just presented about the situation. "Are you suggesting..."

"What?" she said. "It's your turn Hawke. Go on."

"I...I really shouldn't," Hawke replied feeling a hot flush cross his face.

"You're not actually concerned about what people might say, are you?" Tallis was rather taken aback by Hawke's sudden hesitation.

"No. Not...them...", he coughed.

"Ooooh right," Tallis said suddenly coming to the realization that Hawke was rather concerned with his... companion. It was endearing really but, not exactly helping the situation.

"Remind me again why I can't just go in there and hit him?" asked Hawke.

"If anyone finds Lord fancy pants in there lying unconscious with a broken nose, they're just going to heighten security and I don't really want to make this any harder than it already is, do you?"

"Seems like I could save time and just assume a plan will fall apart from the start."

"It hasn't fallen apart." said Tallis, putting on her most charming, encouraging smile. "It's just... not entirely cooperating with reality. Just... go try something."

Hawke took a breath to try and shake the future image of his very annoyed, displeased, lamented, resentful lover from his mind. "Right," he said to himself, "come on man, just bite your lip and think of Kirkwall."

Tallis couldn't quite hide her amusement, "So, good luck with that."

Hawke sneered as she moved to close the door behind him as he entered the room, "Thanks."

Hawke's sudden company inside the secluded room gave Cyril cause to rise from his chair, the most charming smile adorning his face. "Tell the elf that her pleas are for nothing," he said, crossing the room to meet Hawke. "She's pretty enough, I suppose. No doubt there are some men who would like that sort of thing."

Hawke began to play the game, giving the most immodest performance, "I thought you might be a man of... refined tastes," he said. Hawke twirled the white feather between his fingers as made an obvious seductive appraisal of Cyril from head to toe and back again.

Cyril stepped closer, rather boldly. "I'd heard the same of you, Monsieur Hawke," he said.

'Oh good,' thought Hawke. 'I have a reputation...in Orlais - ungh.' He pushed that thought away, forced a smile and a gave a short, persuasive laugh out loud. Hawke held up the white plume giving it an aloof examination before drawing it along the underside of his chin and across his sharp jaw line. He laid it gently across Cyril's shoulder, "I must admit, I have grown accustom to some of the... finer things nobility has to offer."

"Ah yes, nobility does have its charm," said Cyril, taking the feather from Hawke and touching it gently to his own lips. "But, I grow weary of the same tired games." He reached out and caressed Hawke's stiff shirt cuff, 'incidentally' brushing the back of Hawke's hand. Cyril looked directly at Hawke and spoke with a thick drawn accent, "It is truly exciting to entertain the renowned Garrett Hudson Hawke. I admit I have been looking forward to this for quite some time."

Hawke grabbed the hand Cyril had reached out to his and held it up by the wrist. He drew his own palm upwards over the back of Cyril's hand and curled the Orlesian's fingers inwards with his own. The leather of Cyril's gloves creaked under the gentle pressure. "And has this faired well to your expectations so far?" Hawke said. He pulled Cyril's captured fist to his own face and breathed in the scent of the leather.

Cyril's breath and body hitched at Hawke's actions, "More than I could 'av hoped for."

When Cyril seemed to lean forward searching for a kiss, Hawke had a brief moment of alarm and squeezed Cyril's hand perhaps a bit to hard. Cyril gasped and rolled his head back and to the side. Hawke released his grip but Cyril's response was one of obvious disappointment rather than relief. From that, Hawke understood exactly how to play out the rest of this bluff. He couldn't help but smirk and raise his eyebrows in wicked amusement.

Cyril tried to recover himself, realizing just how much he had revealed in that moment of distraction. "Ah.. yes.. a man... you have proven... well mannered charm, a sophisticated wit, true strength of character," he said. Cyril traced a daring finger down the embroidery of Hawke's vest, "A man of fortitude and such physical...hardness. " Cyril flattened his palm against Hawke's chest, a daring attempt to have it snatched up once again. Hawke didn't move this time. "But truly", Cyril tried again, "I would have expected nothing less from the... Champion of Kirkwall." Cyril had breathed deep and named Hawke's title with a low growl.

"Well now, Orlesian hospitality just keeps getting better and better" said Hawke, his tone changing from demure to something more aggressive. "But I wasn't talking about my title." Hawke slid his hand underneath the strapping belt across Cyril's chest and slid down its length. Toying with the buckles and pulling the knot of Cyril's belt a little - the key wasn't there.

"Oh?" Cyril was transfixed by Hawke's commanding silver eyes and wandering hands. "Oh."

"You said," Hawke pushed gently on Cyril's chest making him take a step backwards, "that you have been looking forward to this-". Another little push and another step backwards for Cyril. "You and I," Hawke pushed, "have already met" Cyril took two steps back, "in the courtyard." Cyril coyly took another step backwards without being coerced, his breath quickened and his eyes begged Hawke to follow. "Tell me Cyril," said Hawke, stepping in, "is this exactly what you expected?" With Hawke's final advance, Cyril's back found the stone wall with a gentle thud.

"Ah ha...no- well yes..." Cyril gasped as Hawke clasped his shoulders and slowly ran those strong hands down his arms. "Ah..I... perhaps I may have tossed a few of my own caprise into the fountain yes."

Hawke gripped Cyril's wrists and leaned in close to his ear, "Oh no no no my Lord, a man of your standing shouldn't have need to wish for such things." Hawke nudged Cyril's feet apart so he stood a bit more open against the wall. "They should be demanded," he said, forcing his knee along the inside of Cyril's thigh. "Or... taken." Hawke pushed his leg upwards finding the strained erection that Cyril had hid so well under his long tunic.

Cyril's eyes closed as he gaped in pleasure, "Oh my Monsieur Hawke."

"Call me... Champion" demanded Hawke.

"So formal-"

"I insist." Hawke pulled his knee away and Cyril protested with said longing eyes. Hawke responded with a shush; placing his finger against his own lips with such a sly smile. "You see Cyril," Hawke moved that finger across the the Orlesian's flush cheek, "one does not become the Champion of anything without siesing opportunity." Hawke brushed his thumb over Cyril's lips, crimson and full with desire. Cyril licked them gently as Hawke's hand came to rest at the base of his chin. "Taking what is desired when it's within one's reach," said Hawke. "And I am the epitome of a Champion," Hawke clutched at Cyril's chin and jerked upwards so that Hawke could dominate Cyril with his gaze, "you said so yourself, didn't you Lord Cyril."

"Yes, Champion," Cyril's voice was barely a whisper; his breathing shallow and the need in his cock overwhelming his senses.

Hawke slid his hand along Cyril's throat and toyed with the laces of the satin white shirt; a thin dew born of anticipation was shimmering at the apex of Cyril's chest. "But perhaps I don't understand the game well enough," he said, turning away from Cyril ever so slightly. "I was not raised with such nobilities, the game is still new to me, perhaps you are too far above me to -"

"No!" Cyril cried out with the sudden realization that he could no longer feel the heat of Hawke's body so close to him. "I want...uh the meaning," Cyril was almost incomprehensible, near delirious with lust, " the game.. demands- it is perfectly acceptable I assure you." Cyril leaned back against the stone wall, "You are a self made man," he pressed his shoulders backwards, "Champion." Cyril leaned his head back as though he was offering his throat to a wild animal, "and I would not ask you to be something you are not..."

Hawke happily moved in for the kill. "Something I'm not?" he said, his hands moving boldy to Cyril's waist. He pushed Cryil's long green tunic upwards, shifting it and the belt just enough to manuever his hands underneath. The heat of Hawke's rugged hands against cool wanting flesh had Cyril painfully distracted - Hawke's searching along Cyril's taut waist found the key tied to the side laces of his breeches which sat slow on the Orlesian's hips ... this was going to go very well.

Hawke looped each of the side laces between his fingers and leaned in roughly against Cyril, "Then it truly doesn't matter, after all, that I am still just a Ferelden dog?" Hawke skilfully pulled at the laces, releasing the knots. He worked at loosening them further and growled in Cyril's ear, "a filthy," first the left side, "ruthless," then the right, "brute of a man." Cyril's clothing came undone at the hip, giving him a brief moment of freedom from the tortured pressure his cock had been enduring. It was fleeting. Hawke pulled and twisted the green fabric in one hand and palmed the newly liberated key with the other.

Hawke's fisting of the fabric, pulling the breeches even tighter caused Cyril to arch and shiver. "No, Champion," he said. "I would never..."

Hawke couldn't just leave, he had to continue the game to avoid suspicion. Truthfully, he was enjoying watching the Orlesian writhe from the slightest aggression; Hawke had his prize, now he was just having fun.

"And here I thought the Duke's Wyvern belt was my prize," said Hawke, brushing his free hand across the small of Cyril's back. "But it looks like I've found something better. Wouldn't you agree... mon trésor?"

Cyril's could only let out a strained whimper at Hawke's voice resonated through him, the rush of blood thundering in his ears.

"What was that... mon trésor?" Hawke reached up and firmly grasped Cyril's throat; placing his ear close enough to Cyril's wanting mouth so that he could feel the ragged hot breath from the lustfully tortured man.

Cyril's closed his eyes and it took every ounce of him to whisper, "Yes... Champion, please... I..."

Hawke let go of his grip on the breeches, they fell loose but stayed in place. Cyril let out a slight breath of release and pressed his trembling body further back to the wall to balance himself.

Hawke brought his own lips so close to Cyril's that the Orlesian tried in vain to reach out and embrace them in a kiss. Hawke's hand stayed tight on his throat, thwarting Cyril's advances. So very close, so very close that when Hawke next spoke Cyril could feel the Champion's hot breath on his own lips, sending waves of pleasure rippling down his very core. He tried to arch his hips forward, his cock searching for friction, desperately deprived it found little more than the barest graze of Hawke's thigh.

"Perhaps," said Hawke, steadying his one hand across Cyril's stomach, again reaching under the tunic, "you should have used your caprice to wish I'd remember my nobility instead." Hawke pushed his thumb into the tender flesh at Cyril's hip and caused him to gasp sharply. "Because the things I want Cyril..."

Hawke pushed straight down the inside of Cyril's breeches, he found there were no small-clothes to bind Cyril further. His heavy palm pushed across coarse hair, roughly brushing Cyril's desperate cock with the back of his strong fingers. He wrapped his hand closed around the very base of the rigid shaft, grazing his fingers along Cyril's equally tight aching scrotum as he did so. Cyril moaned into the abrupt sensation and fell forward for a moment, leaning, giving himself over to Hawke's bracing hands around his throat and cock.

Hawke jerked his hand around Cyril's cock with a short and quick motion, not a stroke but a command. Cyril's head jerked up and back and he let slip a deep groan. Hawke slowly pulled his hand up along the shaft, a long slow smooth motion until he reached the tip. His callused thumb slipped over the head and massaged the moist pre-cum along the heated flesh.

"Beg me to stop," said Hawke. He could feel Cyril's cock throbbing under the pressure of his hand.

Cyril could not raise his head, could not open his eyes. His breath was ragged and his accent thick, "I cannot Champion."

"Well then," said Hawke, continuing to squeeze and stroke Cyril with a heavy hand, "it would appear that my wish from the fountain actually came true."

A sweeter lie Cyril had never heard. He bucked at the agonizing slowness of Hawke's hand, desperate to come. As Hawke felt Cyril's cock pulse he gave the tip one last quick swipe with his thumb and cruelly pulled both of his hands away. He whispered in Cyril's ear, "Not now mon trésor, not here."

Cyril staggered and Hawke moved a deft foot to the back of his legs forcing him off balance and sending him crashing to his knees. Cyril's head was spinning and his body trembling. His breeches had slipped a little and the tip of his cock was now agonizingly brushing against the fabric of his tunic. Looking up, he was at Hawke's mercy- the Champion's own growing hardness barely hidden behind the fine trouser fabric, right in front of him. Cyril reached up to caress but, Hawke caught both his wrists and pulled upwards.

With Cyril's arms extended above his head, Hawke leaned down and spoke close to Cyril's ear, "Why don't we talk again... after the party."

Cyril's eyes went wide, "Champion?"

Hawke dropped Cyril's arms and stepped away. Cyril fell forward on his hands and knees, glistening cock still exposed and throbbing uncontrollably . He could not look up, seeing the heels of Hawke's boots as his Champion walked out the room. Cyril clutched at the white plume he found on the floor - it had dropped from his grasp in the passion from just a moment ago.

"And don't forget my feather," said Hawke over his shoulder in a commanding tone as he opened the door to leave.

'Yes Champion' was barely heard by Hawke as he stepped outside... he'd gotten away with ... everything.

Hawke leaned against the closed wooden door and the tension drained away from his body. Letting out a long breath he tried to adjust himself, embarresed over the mild arrousal from the ... situation.

Tallis was at his side in the blink of an eye. Her hope and eagerness beaming from her face. "You have it," she said, "tell me you have it."

"I have it," said Hawke, finding the key from his belt. Hawke couldn't help but laugh as he handed it to her, "Voila! Mon trésor."