"I always thought these were full of booze," Hawk said, picking up one of the bottles placed on the back table.
He turned it over, and tried to read the label to no avail. The only thing he could make out was the small box written in multiple languages at the bottom that said: Do not ingest.
"An import from Orlais."
Varric pointed at another bottle. "From Tevinter, the rest are from Orlais."
"Are these poisons?" That would make sense. He held one of the flasks up to the light. The contents looked oily.
Varric shook his head. "Careful. Pint for pint these are worth ten times more than the Black Hand."
"Then what are they for, exactly?"
"Grooming."
"Grooming?"
"Being a Paragon of Manliness is hard work," Varric said, pointing at his chest.
He wasn't sure what to think. If it were Merrill, he would have expected it. Or maybe even Isabela or Varric, given the right time of day and enough alcohol.
"Why do you do it?"
They were friends, but this was a little strange, considering the person in question.
"It keeps me limber."
"Is that a tutu?"
"You'd be amazed at how hard it is to find a tutu with the correct shade of brown to match my outfit."
Hawke crossed his arms, studying his companion. "So what you told Varric was the truth?"
Fenris stopped mid-stretch and shrugged. "Best way to keep a secret from Varric."
He should have come fully equipped.
He only had his weapon with him. That alone had always been enough for the riff-raff populating Lowtown, and he hadn't been expecting such a well-orchestrated attack in broad daylight outside Merrill's house.
A poor assumption and one he wouldn't make again. He had suffered a humiliating defeat in record time.
The kittens continued attacking, chewing mercilessly at his feet.
"Wouldn't it be better to collect flowers, or maybe tattoo designs?" He suggested. Tattoos and flowers seemed like two things Merrill would like. Anything that didn't move would work.
"Oh, but aren't they just adorable? I find them adorable."
"How did this happen?"
"The brown one, no not that one, this one," she picked up a ball of fur and held it to his face, "followed me from the market one day. At first I didn't know what to do, because I've never taken care of a kitten, or really anything, before, but it looked so lonely and I couldn't just leave it all by itself. That would be cruel. Wouldn't it?"
They were kind of cute. He sighed in defeat.
The brown one meowed and bit his nose.
He watched as she worked the blade, pushing it diagonally across the stone with firm, alternating strokes.
"Something wrong?"
Back and forth. Back and forth.
"This seems like an odd way to spend your weekend."
"I have a class to teach later."
"A class?"
Back and forth. Back and forth.
"It is important to know how to properly handle a blade, in case certain situations arise."
She wiped the blade, gently stroking the metal with a piece of cloth.
"…I see." He managed.
"There's a certain feel to properly wielding a blade that needs to be learned. I'm sure you know," she said with a wink.
"Isabela."
"Hmm?"
"We're not talking about daggers, are we?"
"Care for a demonstration?"
He stepped out of the room, Isabela in tow.
"We should get more girls next time. They liked you," she purred into his ear.
"That would be –"
The door of the room next to theirs swung open, and he stared.
A man dressed in noble regalia strode into the hall, holding a book in his hands.
It couldn't be.
It was.
"Sebastian?"
Sebastian froze, face flushing crimson.
"This. This is not what it looks like," he stammered.
"Do you need guidance? I wouldn't mind giving lessons, you know." Isabela snickered, eyeing the manual in his hands.
Sebastian scowled, lifting the book and jabbing at its cover.
The title read: A Virtuous Life FOR DUMMIES.
"I volunteer my time here to help the lost souls return to the path of light. Perhaps it is you who needs –"
"Isabela!"
A girl ran up the stairwell, flinging her arms around Isabela in a hug. "I'm sorry I couldn't attend today, I'll be there next time," she said.
"Isabela teaches self-defense here," Hawke whispered.
"…" Sebastian emoted.
Hawke stuffed the last doll back into the new drawer, and closed it with a thud.
Hopefully he wouldn't get billed for this. He hadn't known Free Marcher craftsmanship could be so poor. Plenty of non-chair pieces of furniture held his weight back in Fereldan.
It did feel like his clothing was getting tighter, though. He picked at his tunic.
"You can't tell anyone, Hawke. Not a soul."
"I won't."
"I'm serious Hawke. Not a soul."
He placed a hand on her shoulder.
"You have my word, Aveline."
It wasn't bad.
There was no tingling sensation in his fingers or toes, and it hadn't tasted like burning. Both were good things as far as he was concerned.
He stuck another spoonful of the soup into his mouth.
It was quite delicious, actually.
"So, what do you think?" Anders stood over him in an apron, triumphantly grinning from ear to ear.
"It's great," he said. "Where did you learn?
Anders beamed even wider, obviously impressed with himself.
"I learned over time. The Warden-Commander couldn't cook at all."
"That is rather," Hawke hesitated, "tame."
"Tame?"
As opposed to say, bedroom debauchery, or plotting the destruction of Chantry property, his mind quipped.
"Nevermind."
and then anders blew up the chantry and hawke was like "FFFFFF- why couldn't you stick to cooking?" ...i own nothing