It had been approximately three weeks since her mother had died in her arms, bloodied, ravaged, unduly tortured and disfigured by a madman. She had walked the streets at the midnight hour, the coastline at twilight, and watched the morning sun rise at the docks. She fulfilled errands, did some favours, and wandered by her own whim. No one had been able to find her until recently. No one knew how she had spent her days in mourning.
It had surprised her to learn that her friends had been spreading word of her absence; worried that they might have lost her. Anders had been vigilant, and knew of her return before any of her companions. Isabela was second to know, being a frequent patient of Anders'. The fiendish young woman was the one who initially whisked her off to The Hanged Man, prescribing Hawke a tankard of honey brew to drown her sadness. Hawke honestly didn't know if the pirate was being thoughtful, or if she wanted an excuse to share a couple of ales with someone, but Hawke chose to accept it as a good gesture. And here she was, drunk, breathing in the stale polluted air of Kirkwall's Lowtown, which she understandably preferred over the musty, salty stench of the tavern and it's regulars.
Dust pricked her burning eyes, the smell of moonshine, honey ale, and spiced wine heavy on her breath. She leaned against the wall of The Hanged Man, splinters and stones digging into her bare shoulders from the half abused, half rotted wood, brick, and what seemed to be plaster of the building's walls. Shadows slid from the edge of Hawke's vision, taunting and prodding as they danced under hazy lamp lights. She wore a long, soft, embroidered tunic which laced up in the front and back, a pair of doeskin knee-high boots, and some uncomfortably form-fitting leather breeches borrowed from Isabela. The absence of the familiar weight of her armour increased the dull ache which settled heavily within her heart.
Carver, dead. Bethany, caged. And now, the last person she held closest to her, senselessly murdered.
"Mother." Hawke bit her lip, her eyes brimming with tears; cursing herself before heaving a bottle of spiced wine to her lips and taking a long drink. She gasped for air after forcing down the rest of the bottle of firewater; her head rolled back to rest against the wall behind her, willing the tears to go away.
She died with a smile on her face, Hawke thought, eyes distant with memory. I saw her smile. I saw the spirit leave her body.
She moved to press the bottle to her lips for another swig, but found that it was empty. She sighed exasperatedly, and threw the bottle into the darkness, waiting for the inevitable sound of shattering glass. Instead, she heard a dull thud, and the sound of hardened leather flexing.
Hawke fell into defence mode almost instantly, her hands groping for her shield and blade. With a curse, she realised that she had left them at home, and settled for the diminutive dagger hidden in her boot. The form of a huge darkened figure moved just out of the lamp light's reach, but it's eyes glinted a deep crimson, somehow radiating their colour in the void. An angled face, curving horns, a shock of long, dark silver hair glinted as the figure moved to partially reveal himself.
Hawke's breath hitched in her throat. She did not know whether to stand down or hold position. Kirkwall was on the edge of war, it seemed, and she did not want to be responsible for a moment's drunken stupidity. Her mouth opened to utter an apology, and her head dipped in both greeting and supplication. "Forgive me-"
"Hawke, will you not drink with me? I bought you another pitcher and, be damned if I admit this, I wasn't expecting to drink it alone." Isabela sputtered, slamming the door of The Hanged Man roughly on its hinges before making an intoxicated entrance. "Hawke?"
Hawke turned on heel, tucking the dagger into one of her billowy sleeves. "Isabela." She stuttered, shifting on her feet awkwardly. She received an odd stare.
"Talking to shadows, are we?" Isabela laughed, her voice sounding like sharp chimes in a wind storm. "I never thought I'd see the day. Get back inside, we've got much more drinking to do." With that, she stumbled inside and slammed the door behind her.
Hawke heaved a sigh and spun on her heel once more, facing the shadows in which the figure had stood. After a long moment, her muscles loosened as no movement betrayed the man's presence. She ran her fingers through her hair and rolled her shoulder to loosen up the tendons there, pacing in front of the tavern door.
"Shanedan, Hawke. I did not expect to see you here." The figure stepped out into the lamplight, highlighting a toned, well-muscled body; strong, angular face, and a pair of large, curved ivory horns. The Qunari easily stood over a foot taller than she, and his blood-tinted eyes watched her closely as she drew in a short, surprised breath.
"Shanedan, Karasten. I am equally curious to see you away from the compound at this time of night." Hawke replied, a small sound of relief escaping her lips. This particular Karasten had become a friend of sorts over the past months. It was easy to remember him; his hair was a light sooty silver shade, his face younger and smoother-looking than most of his comrades, though his brow still creased in that unique Qunari way, an expression which caused a deep stirring of curiosity and a sort of respect from Hawke for all Qunari. It was not everyday that an individual thought beyond the mundane about his or her actions. It was something she shared in common with Karasten's people.
The Karasten watched her closely, his red eyes glistening in the flickering yellow light. He was holding a bladed staff firmly at his side, but Hawke knew that he meant no harm. The streets were never safe at night—and even though she had kept them clear for many a day, it was logical to stay vigilant. That, and the Karasten had always made his thoughts on his weapon clear—without it, he was useless to the Qun. His life relied on its safety and presence on his being. Without it, his life would be forfeit.
"You have not answered the Arishok's request for your presence." He rumbled, gesturing with his large, clawed hand to the place in which she stood. "It has been eight days."
Hawke paled and sweat suddenly glinted on her face. She had be courteous and helpful to the Arishok in the past, but she could tell the weight of the troubles he had been facing thus far had begun to weigh heavy on him. More than once she had been turned away at the gate by the guards, or snapped at in conversation. Considering the amount of calmness and patience he normal carried, she assumed he was nearly at a breaking point. She had, of course, almost willingly pushed her duties aside to keep the peace, because of her mother's death, but now she was beginning to regret it; especially since she was finding it hard to come up with an answer for the towering Qunari before her. Friend or not, the Karasten was a powerful, imposing figure. She didn't want to shame him.
"I've been dealing with personal matters. My mother was murdered, and I ignored any messages I received at my estate." Hawke replied, shifting her weight from foot to foot. "I did not realise it was urgent enough to have you search for me at this hour."
Karasten's chest rumbled with a grunt. Hawke was unsure if he understood her, or if he had no other way of responding to her previous statement. She had a lot to learn about the Qun.
"It is my duty to fulfill the wishes of the Arishok and the Qun." He retorted, stepping towards her with measured grace. Hawke noted the gold-embroidered, red silk bands wrapped around the curves of his horns, the way the light glanced off the fire of his eyes and the gilt thread of his horn piece. The embellishment, as she recalled, didn't exist previously on his person. "And he still requests your presence, Basalit-an."
Hawke resisted the urge to back away. As much trouble as it would've caused in the future, she didn't want to listen to Arishok's problems and run about Kirkwall to thwart his ill-informed enemies. At least, he had asked her to do such things until the last few times she had visited. He merely seemed intent at having her at arm's length, recently. Hawke didn't know his reasons, but she didn't mind the Arishok's company or the company of other Qunari.
The clink of her thrown bottle at the Karasten's feet wrested her from her thoughts. It probably wasn't such a good idea to throw that around, she thought, realising she was still on a fading high from the enormous amount of alcohol she imbibed. I shouldn't be doing this to myself.
"Basalit-an, listen." Karasten touched Hawke's arm with startling gentleness, startling her from her thoughts. "The Arishok is waiting."
Hawke looked up at her friend, and licked her dry lips. His eyes burned holes through her soul; unblinking, flaring with spirit and... something else? No. It wasn't the way of the Qun to show that sort of emotion... Or was it? Hawke had no way of knowing, but Karasten's closeness to her was proving otherwise. He smelled sickly sweet and spicy; he was warm, and she could feel the heat coming off of his glistening body. Hawke swallowed uncomfortably.
"If he requests my presence this very night, I will go to him." Hawke finally ground out. Karasten's grip on her arm did not relinquish, and her arm prickled as his hand slid down to grab her hand. His face remained stoic as ever, but Hawke caught a glimpse of some kind of emotion burning behind his crimson eyes before he turned and pulled her towards their destination.
"Then I shall take you to him."
Hawke felt a jolt run down her spine as the Karasten guided her towards the Qunari Compound. She was thankful no one was around to see them holding hands. She wasn't sure if he just did not want to lose her in the void of night, or if he was showing a very... Human gesture of affection. Either way, the wrong people witnessing such a simple act could trigger more trouble than it would be worth.