Dear friends,
I find myself at a loss. The Arishok was right. The world is not descending into madness; it reached that point long ago. Perhaps… no, I will not dwell on the past. Fenris, if you have faith in me, let me go. If I do not return in one year, then you have permission to tear the world apart to find me.
Written in sound mind,
Garrett Hawke
(This missive was found at the remains of a small fire off the Wounded Coast.)
Many had assumptions. Only one knew who he was.
Templar, yet ally of mages. Reaver. Murderer. Mercenary. Warrior. A sign of freedom for slaves. Bane to those who wronged him.
He kept solace in his companions. A pirate. An abomination. A former slave, though chains still shone through. A blood mage. A dwarven noble. Captain of the Guard. Prince of Starkhaven. For Andraste's sake, he even had a dog (aptly named Cat).
He was strange. Unpredictable. Yet no one doubted him.
No one below the caliber of this man could call himself
Hawke. Champion of Kirkwall.
Cassandra Pentaghast bellowed in fury. She slammed the book in her hand into her audience's face, pivoting to scream orders to her underlings. Leliana watched in misery, grieving for her lost friend and now the Champion. Muttering a prayer, she and the Seekers of the Chantry set out for war.