A.N. - As always, Bioware owns all characters, I just like to take them out to play once in a while. Especially Anders, he's so fun to play with.
Raven Feathers
Fiona Hawke walked into the Hanged Man early one autumn evening, more than ready for some rest and relaxation, Varric style. Which would probably involve more than one woman, be she human, elf, or dwarf, drunkenly plopping on Varric's lap and running her fingers through his prodigious chest hair, but such were the perils of a night in Varric's company. If the woman in question was really far gone, she might even be tempted to sneak a caress of the gorgeous crossbow that Varric always kept slung across his back, even in moments of relative peace. Touching Bianca was the surest way to get dumped off Varric's lap onto the cold, dirty floor, but that didn't stop women from trying. Apparently, women of all species found beardless surface dwarves with mysteriously-named crossbows and a penchance for high dragon-sized lies wildly attractive, a fact that Hawke filed away for later use.
Though her family's fortunes had taken a turn for the better after her expedition to the Deep Roads, Hawke was still grieving the loss of her sister to the Circle. She'd arrived home too late to stop Cullen and his Templars from dragging Bethany off to the Gallows. Hawke was glad that the Templars hadn't killed her sister outright for being an apostate mage, but she sorely missed Bethany's constant presence in her life, never more absent than when she'd moved the family into their ancestral home in Hightown. She'd been inclined to brooding lately, leading Varric to joke that she and Fenris were competing for the title of 'Most Broody in Kirkwall,' and she was secretly glad that Varric had all but forced her to join him and Isabela at the tavern that night. Maker knew, after the day she'd had, a few hands of cards and twice as many drinks would go a long way toward making her feel human again. Clearing giant spiders out of the mine she owned jointly with that insufferable Orlesian, Hubert, was nobody's idea of a good time, and she'd only just now managed to get the smell of spider guts out of her shoulder length red hair.
Once her vision had adjusted to the dimmer lighting in the tavern, Hawke looked around for Varric and Isabela, her searching gaze momentarily arrested by the commotion at the table in the back corner of the room. A young human warrior, complete with mohawked hair, a strong physique, and a not-unattractively scarred face, was playing what appeared to be strip diamondback with a bevy of girls of every species, including one...is that a Qunari girl, she wondered? I suppose they can be declared Tal-Vashoth too, not that I've ever seen any. He'd better watch out with that one, she thought wryly. Those fangs aren't just for show... The warrior also appeared to be losing at strip diamondback. Badly, judging by the boots, stockings, coat, and vest on the table, and the shirt he was currently removing, compared to the girls' fully clothed status, minus a hair tie or two.
"Okay, ladies," he announced, stripping off his shirt to reveal powerful muscles, "here it is. Check these babies out," he crooned, flexing a very large bicep, and Hawke was mesmerized by the tattoos that adorned his arms and torso. Strange tattoos, crosshatched lines and slashes, an odd, four-leafed plant, and right in the middle of his back, a curious 'N7' marking in big, bold letters. I wonder what that means, she thought, and was on the verge of going back to his table to ask him when she heard Varric call her name.
"Hawke, over here!" He gestured her over to Isabela's favorite table in the front, the one right next to the bar and the picture of the drunken red-headed dwarf that Isabela claimed to know from her adventures in Ferelden. Hawke noted with equal parts anticipation and dismay that Varric and Isabela were accompanied tonight by none other than Anders. She'd had a not-so-secret crush on the handsome, blonde mage for over three years now, and though she'd flirted with him more than a little, she could never tell if he took her advances seriously. Maker knew, she'd said some horribly brazen things to him, and he'd responded in kind, but there always seemed to be a point in the conversation where he would withdraw and act disinterested in her. Three years of this was enough to try the patience of Andraste herself. Even so, Hawke still never failed to get a little flutter in her stomach at the prospect of spending time with him, but she'd been looking forward to a peaceful evening of drinks and cards, and being around Anders was anything but relaxing.
Anders looked up from his drink at the mention of Hawke's name, and his heart sank at the sight of the pretty rogue, dressed casually in breeches and a shirt that clung to her in all the right places. She'd made no secret that she found him appealing, and he desperately wanted to be able to tell her that he not only found her equally tempting, but that she personally was responsible for three years of lustful dreams and frustrating self-pleasuring sessions that invariably left him feeling ashamed at how he'd had to resort to that, just to get her off his mind long enough to get some sleep. But every time the moment had seemed right and he'd opened his mouth to tell her exactly what she did to him, Justice would sound off inside his head with all the subtlety of an exploding building, screaming at him that Hawke would only distract him from their purpose, and he couldn't afford to be wasting time with women. So he'd kept his feelings to himself, and felt like a right cad every time he toyed with Hawke's heart, seeing her face fall as he pushed her away time and again, but he couldn't make himself tell her to stay away permanently, even if it was for her own good.
He stared morosely into his drink and resigned himself to another lonely, aching night after leaving the Hanged Man. Maybe if I get drunk tonight, really drunk, I can think about something other than Hawke for a change. Maybe Justice will let me have a moment's peace from his endless ranting about the plight of mages. Right, he snorted to himself, and maybe Meredith will turn out to be a secret mage-lover, and the Templar oppression of mages will magically end tomorrow, that's just as likely. He probably wouldn't be able to get that drunk ever, thanks to his damned Grey Warden stamina, but this could always be the night that he racked up Thedas' biggest bar tab in pursuit of that goal. He poured himself a healthy glass from the bottle that Isabela plunked in front of him with a knowing look.
What was that look for, he wondered? Has Isabela forgotten that I can drink her under the table any night of the week? I'll show her, he thought resentfully, and maybe when I wake up from the ogre-sized hangover I'm bound to get, I'll have figured out some way to stop obsessing over Hawke…permanently. He raised his glass in a silent toast to the beautiful woman who had consumed his thoughts so thoroughly, then pounded it back with a fierce grimace, failing to note the telltale sparkle of lyrium suspended in the liquor, until he felt the familiar heady rush and tasted the slight metallic tang that he didn't usually associate with drinks consumed outside of battle or the clinic.
"Aqua Magus?" He took a good look at the bottle, squinting through the slight haze that the lyrium had thrown across his vision. "Isabela," he said in an accusing tone. "Where did you even get this?"
"Corrin's private stash," she purred, pouring him a second glass. "I had to do a little something extra to get it, but it was either this or more rat-flavored whiskey. You looked like you needed it," she said sympathetically.
"Lyrium infused liquor or rat-flavored whiskey, such choices," he said sarcastically. "You do know that too much of this could turn me into a drooling idiot like that Templar, Sir Roderick, barely even able to remember my own name?" He made to push the bottle away, then changed his mind abruptly. Maybe enough lyrium on the brain would let him forget just how badly he wanted Hawke, and so what if he forgot his own name in the process? "Sod it," he said decisively, knocking back the second portion of the powerful intoxicant in one gulp. "Maker, that's strong," he muttered as the drink briefly doubled his vision. He waited until he could see straight again, poured himself another generous measure, and proceeded to get quietly drunk off the potent liquor. Savoring the moment of self-destructive behavior, he reminded himself that it was all for a good cause: his continuing mental health in the face of the temptress sitting across from him, oblivious to the fact that his head might explode if she kept bending over the table like that, giving him an excellent view of her impressive cleavage. At least Justice hasn't managed to completely suppress my enjoyment of the finer things in life, he thought. That proves I'm still human…mostly.
Hawke was enjoying the evening more than she had expected to when she walked into the Hanged Man. Anders was being very quiet and inattentive, giving Hawke ample opportunity to admire him when he wasn't looking, and he seemed intent on getting as drunk as possible, based on the amount of liquor she'd seen him consume. This prompted Isabela to have a short, vicious tug-of-war with Anders over a strangely sparkling bottle of spirits that he'd drunk roughly two thirds of. Hawke couldn't make out the whole argument that the two had conducted in hushed tones, being too distracted by Varric's latest wild tale, but she'd heard Isabela say the words 'aqua magus,' 'three bottles already,' and 'enough,' so she assumed it referred to the liquor in Anders' hand. Anders protested when she tried to remove him from the bottle, clutching it to his chest with a goofy grin on his face. Isabela had finally gotten it away from him and handed it to Corrin, the bartender, with a loud admonition not to let Anders near the thing again, replaced the stolen bottle with one of the bar's infamously rodent-seasoned beverages, and that was that.
"…and then I told them that you'd been sent on a mission from the Divine herself, to capture two high dragons and train them to pull a carriage, so that the Maker could ride in style when He returned," Varric finished his story with a flourish, relating yet another improbable exploit that he'd been spreading around town.
"I can't believe that people actually think I've done all that, Varric," Hawke groaned. "Where do you come up with the things you tell people about me?"
"I just take the most implausible idea, add some details from an adventure you've really had, and top it all off with a dragon, or an ogre, or a horde of darkspawn. You'd be surprised what you can get people to accept if you act like you have firsthand knowledge of the incident."
"You're too much, Varric." She leaned over to ante up for the card game they were playing, and a feather slipped out of her breast pocket and fell on the table.
"What's that," Varric asked curiously?
"It's a raven feather," Hawke replied, picking it up and turning it in her hand to watch the light play across the ebony quills. "You'd think they were valuable, what with all the locked containers they turn up in." She laughed. "I half expect to see a flock of naked ravens soaring overhead, searching for their purloined feathers. I've found so many of them in Kirkwall, I could almost make a dress out of them."
"Ooh, that would be something to see," Isabela said excitedly. "I wonder what you'd look like in a dress like that."
"I can show you," Anders spoke up, slurring his words a bit as he struggled to enunciate through the haze of lyrium clouding his thoughts. He gestured for Hawke to stand up as he framed the illusion in his mind, imagining how the glossy feathers would outline every curve of her body. He cast the spell over her like a glittering net, and heard the whole bar fall silent as a vision emerged from the web of light. Hawke was clothed in an illusory ball gown composed entirely of sleek black raven feathers, the quills enhancing every asset she possessed, drawing every eye in the room to her.
Hawke pirouetted, the hem of the gown sweeping silently across the floor as she twirled in place. "What do you think," she asked?
"Interesting," Varric said, making a note in the little journal he always carried.
"Very stylish," Isabela said. "It'll be all the rage in Hightown next month, and then you really will be seeing flocks of naked ravens all over Kirkwall."
"Beautiful," Anders murmured. "Just beautiful." He swallowed through a mouth gone suddenly dry. This image, Hawke clad in shining feathers, feathers that seemed ever so slightly transparent in all the right places…wait, concentrate, not that transparent…oh, that's better, her crimson hair falling in waves around her bare shoulders, her green eyes flashing in the lantern light, the swirling blue tattoos on her cheeks standing out against the creamy whiteness of her skin, this moment would be engraved in his mind forever, no matter how much lyrium he punished his brain with.
He imagined her without the gown, arrayed only in her glowing hair and a secretive smile shared between lovers, and he could scarcely breathe, struggling to maintain a tight grip on his magic so as not to make this very private fantasy part of the illusion. To save his sanity, he made to banish the mirage, to return Hawke to her normal, albeit very attractive self, but something went wrong, or maybe some mischievous, half-drunk part of his brain did it on purpose, and before his lyrium-addled mind could quite make out what to do next, he ended up banishing Hawke's clothes along with the illusion.
Hawke heard a collective gasp from the patrons of the Hanged Man, and felt a cold draft slide along her skin in a place where drafts had no business being. She shrieked as the realization hit her that she was completely naked, and tried vainly to cover her exposed flesh with her hands.
"Nice," she heard from the back corner of the bar, where the tattooed human warrior was now down to his very brief small clothes. "So that's what happens when mages get borracho."
"Anders!" Her screech ventured into territory used for calling dogs, and she heard an answering howl from the direction of Hightown…or is that a mental howl I'm picking up on from inside the tavern? "What did you do to my clothes?!"
"Umm…oops." Anders gave her a sheepish, drunken grin, and took the opportunity provided by the bartender's understandable distraction to retrieve his sparkly bottle of liquor from the bar.
"Oops," she yelled, a fiery blush spreading across her face?! "You make my clothes disappear in the middle of the Hanged Man, and all you can say is oops?!"
"Here kitten. If you leave those out any longer, we'll have to start charging for the show" Isabela was doubled over with laughter, but still managed to remove the scarf from around her waist and present it to Hawke, who promptly tied it around her own waist. The scarf was barely decent, not meant for concealment purposes, but it was better than nothing. Hawke crossed her arms over her other, considerable assets, and wondered how she was going to make it home through Lowtown dressed in nothing but a scarf.
"Give me that!" Isabela was tugging at Anders' feathered coat, hampered by the fact that he could hardly stand up straight. "It's the least you can do, you drunken sot. I swear," she laughed, "I am never letting you have Aqua Magus again. I know you wanted to see Hawke naked, but you know, she does have a whole house where you could do it in private. I appreciate the show, but you'll never get laid at this rate."
"What?!" Anders went rigid with shock at Isabela's words. "I never…," he declaimed indignantly as she manipulated his arms out of the sleeves, "…ever…said I wanted to…I would never!" The rest of what he was trying to say was too muffled by Isabela pulling the coat over his head for Hawke to make out his words. Isabela finally succeeded in getting Anders' coat off, draping it around Hawke's shoulders. The coat was heavy and smelled of pungent herbs that made Hawke's nose twitch, but it did cover her torso, as long as she held it closed with one hand.
"Come on Isabela, Blondie," Varric overcame his own laughter long enough to say. "We'd better walk Hawke home so nothing happens to her between here and Hightown."
"I can't wait to see the looks on people's faces in Hightown," Isabela cackled, earning herself a very dirty look from Hawke.
Anders said nothing, merely hiccupped and grinned drunkenly as they left the bar.
Leandra Amell was enjoying a quiet evening at home in front of the fire, grooming her daughter Fiona's faithful Mabari hound, Druid, when she heard a knock on the door. Rising from her chair, she headed toward the front of the house, where Bodahn Feddic, the Hawke's erstwhile manservant, was hurrying to answer the door.
"Whoever can it be at this hour," Leandra wondered, "and in such weather?" It had begun raining quite fiercely several hours ago and showed no signs of stopping.
"I'm sure I don't know, Mistress Amell," Bodahn replied, "but we'll soon find out." He threw open the heavy door, and Leandra gasped at the sight of her daughter, soaked to the skin, shivering violently in the none-too-warm autumn rain, and clad in what appeared to be a motley assortment of her friend's clothes and not much else.
"Fiona, what in the Maker's name has happened to your clothing," Leandra asked in scandalized tones? "That's entirely too much exposed flesh for even a Lowtown brothel, never mind this very exclusive area of Hightown. We're so close to the Viscount's palace here, people will talk. Did you walk all the way home from Lowtown like that? Did anyone see you," she asked urgently?
"I don't want to talk about it, Mother," Hawke grumbled. "And you!" She rounded on Varric, who was busily scribbling in a little leather-bound book and chortling to himself. "If this…incident turns up in the bookshops, I swear, I will make you eat every single copy, do I make myself clear?"
"They won't hear it from me," Varric promised laughingly.
"Thank you for the loan of your scarf," Hawke said stiffly to Isabela, who was still trying vainly to suppress her giggles. "I'll have it laundered and return it to you straight away."
"No rush," Isabela snickered. "You might keep it awhile and see if you can't use it when you succeed at enticing a certain tipsy mage into your bed." Leandra gasped at such a frank discussion of her daughter's sex life, but Isabela continued obliviously. "You can tie him up and tease him until he begs for mercy, as payback for tonight."
"I'll think about it," Hawke sniffed. "He's lucky I don't just tie him up outside right now and let him sleep it off in the rain. That reminds me," she said, and turned to Anders, snatching the bottle out of his hands, ignoring his protests and giving it to Isabela. "Andraste's tits, Isabela, don't let him drink – whatever this is – ever again!"
"You," Hawke barked, leveling a finger at the blond mage! "We will be discussing this when I can leave this house without dying of shame. Goodnight!" She slammed the door and stalked up the stairs to her room.
"Maker," Leandra moaned, "please don't let her be serious about tying that mage up in her bed. How will I ever show my face in polite society after this? Dulci De Launcet will have a field day with this…"
A.N. - I hope everyone enjoyed the cameo by one Mr. Vega. He turns up all sorts of places he's not supposed to be.