Leandra Amell had always considered herself a smart and ambitious woman, a woman who knows what she wanted. She had been twelve year old when her father hired a governess from Orlais who was supposed to teach Leandra good manners and continue in educating her when the Chantry had taught her everything a good Andrastian should know. But Madame Leticia did much more than that. She trained the young Amell in powers of femme fatale; how to seize the attention of wealthy and influential men, how to make them beg for a single glance from her, how to make them fall to their knees with one brief wink of her eye. Leandra never pretended she wasn't interested in the life of a noble woman in Kirkwall. A grandiose estate, a respected and rich husband, opulent soirées, beautiful dresses and jewelry and later even children – those were the things Leandra Amell was interested in the most. Her dreams were coming true soon enough since Leandra finally nodded to one of the many proposals she received, of course, after she had discussed the whole matter with Madame Leticia and she had approved of the carefully chosen man. He was the Comte Gaston de LaGenuy; not very bright, but kind and high-minded lad whose family was marvelously rich and well-respected.
Leandra Amell was twenty year old when the wedding date had been set and the best Kirkwall tailor was about to sew the most beautiful wedding dress Kirkwall had ever seen. Leandra was properly proud of herself, Madame Leticia stood vigilantly in the shadows like a grey eminence and nothing seemed to be bothering the Amells in those early summer days. Until Leandra met… him.
She was at the tailor's that day along with her governess, taking one final look at her wedding dress and then she was supposed to deliver a package to her mother's friend working at the shop at the Gallows courtyard. Leticia stopped to chat with friends of hers standing by the gate, so Leandra skittered across the courtyard when some lout with a bowed head bumped right into her. She gasped in surprise, her package slipped out of her hands and Leandra staggered a step back. The head of the stranger slowly rose, obscured by the veil of thick long black hair and the two of them stared at each other for a moment. Narrowed amber eyes were reaching into the widened grey ones. The man's face wasn't the prettiest Leandra had ever seen; not at all. It was chiseled into a bit hard-bitten curves, the chin was strong and square, with a dimple in the middle of it, and the aquiline nose looked rather peculiar, yet she found herself genuinely interested in him and her quickened heartbeat confirmed that disturbing thought as well.
"My apologies, Miss," the man finally broke the fragile silence although he didn't seem nervous under Leandra's wordless scrutiny. The young woman just gulped when he made a decisive step towards her, reaching his hand holding the package to her.
"Hands off, apostate!" Madame Leticia would love to slap herself for not supervising her dear girl for a moment as she hastily crossed the courtyard and stepped between them resolutely. The amber eyes flared in outrage and the man slowly turned to the elder woman who somehow shrank back like the fire within his eyes had burned her.
"Please, say that again," the man sneered down at the elegant governess and his right hand started emanating a dull bluish light, "so I could wipe that condescending smirk off your face." The mage raised his hand and the blue light within his palm became dazzling.
"Malcolm!" A high, magisterial voice sounded like a whip lash as the tall Templar rushed to them from a distant corner.
"Ser Carver." The young mage jerked, glanced at the Templar, but he obviously wasn't willing to let this go.
"Put that away, Malcolm. Now." Ser Maurevar Carver would have never admitted it, but he was quite fond of the young bright mage he was admonishing right now.
"As you wish. Templar." Malcolm granted the petrified woman in front of him one last annihilating glare, then his palm slowly closed into a fist and the light died away. "Have a pleasant day filled with shallow gossip and boring embroidery in Hightown, ladies." Malcolm's eyes went back to the young Amell woman and slid along her whole body shamelessly this time. It was enough to make Leandra's heart racing again. Malcolm then derisively dropped the package down on the white flagstones again and made his way through the small crowd of nosy onlookers.
"Get lost, you… you," Madame Leticia blurted out, but she did make a cautious step towards the Templar.
"I'm truly sorry for this little unpleasant encounter, ladies." Ser Carver's eyes followed the mage slowly strolling away from them. "He's a very talented mage and a great asset to the Circle of Magi, although he's a bit… unstable." The Templar coughed in uneasiness and didn't dare mentioning it would have helped if Madame Leticia hadn't of insulted him.
"Leandra?" Madame Leticia turned to her thoughtful protégé. Although the young woman tried hard to get a hold of herself again, Leticia noticed the eager questions in her young innocent eyes, that disconcert in her soul the young mage had left there, and her tensed body craving for a possibility to run after him.
"Let's go." Leandra couldn't recognize her own hoarse voice as she bolted out of the Gallows. The package was forgotten for now. Everything was forgotten right now for Leandra Amell, replaced with a face of the young impertinent mage.
Madame Leticia knew it from this very moment. Her precious Leandra was doomed from now on.
oOo
Comfortable and easy life was far away from Leandra now. Pretty dresses, wholesome meals and drinks were far away from her, too. The memories of her previous life seemed so distant; she wondered if they were really hers or someone else's.
Leandra Hawke shivered as she slowly rose from a sagging mattress. A pale hand brushing her forehead, almost inaudible sigh escaping her dried lips. She couldn't even remember the name of an inn they were currently staying in for three days. Bethany was sleeping while sitting by the shabby table; her book was under her head and the shortening candle was flickering in a draft coming through the decrepit walls and a single window. Distant voices made Leandra to wrap herself in a cloak and press the ear on the chipboard door.
"… told you he'd ruin everything and here we go, father!"
"Hey! I wasn't the one brandishing daggers around, so watch your mouth, brother!"
"Shut up! Both of you! You're worthless when working together. I should've known it wouldn't turn out well with you two included!"
The indignant voices were growing louder and Leandra recognized the voices of her husband and two sons, quibbling over some nonsense again no doubt. The door was kicked open and Carver marched in, brooding, crunching curses between his teeth. He was followed by Leandra's first-born son Samael who looked like he was about to murder somebody. Well, more likely his own and only brother judging by the look he sent his way.
"Malcolm…?" Leandra's eyes were full of questions as she glanced at her husband, demanding an explanation. Malcolm just shook his head like he wasn't prone to discuss it right now, while Samael revived the fire and started pacing around it.
"Samael…" Malcolm tried to calm down his son, but he just shook father's hand off his shoulder, hurled another scorching glare at his brother and continued pacing. "Calm down my son." Malcolm tried hard not to slap his defiant and quick-tempered son this time.
"I told you!" Samael halted and his long black hair whirled through the air as he turned to his father suddenly. "I told you I work alone, father!" he aimed his index finger at Malcolm in a rather accusatory gesture. Leandra couldn't help herself and wondered for the hundredth time about the unbelievable resemblance her husband and her son shared. The same height, same broad chest and muscular shoulders, long black disheveled hair, exactly the same blazing eyes with a fire within them.
"And I told you countless times we are family and we work as a family!" Malcolm's voice gained a threatening undertone and both men fell silent, glaring at each other.
"Malcolm, please…" Leandra walked between them cautiously. "Don't argue," her eyes pleaded with Samael who set his jaw rather than adding some scorching comment.
"You're right, my love." Malcolm's eyes softened as soon as his gaze landed on Leandra's worried face. "Let's sleep. We should leave in two or three days, so we're going to enjoy ourselves tomorrow," he rounded up his explanation with a coarse smile.
"We should leave tonight." Samael couldn't help himself and stubbornly droned his opinion.
"I said we're leaving in a few days!" Malcolm jerked and looked back at his son, challenging him to try even harder and get himself kicked out of their room.
"I don't trust that bartender. I told you so as soon as we've arrived, father!" Samael stalked closer to his father and this time it was his eyes pleading with Malcolm to listen and start packing their modest property.
"That bartender is well-paid to leave us alone, son!" Malcolm's voice was about to flip into roaring in anger. Samael said nothing to his outburst; he turned his back at Malcolm and walked ostentatiously to his corner of the room where he had his own straw mattress and his one valise which was never fully unpacked. Malcolm carried his only daughter to her bedroll carefully and smiled to himself when she mumbled something undecipherable.
Leandra looked around the dreary room before she went to sleep. Sleeping Bethany in one corner, her short dark brown hair was disheveled into a thatch. Sulking Carver in another corner who won't speak to them for at least a day no doubt because of what had happened that day. Then there was her nineteen year old son Samael who was cleaning his fingernails with a dagger, occasionally stopping and hearkening to the sounds behind the closed door. And finally – Leandra's husband who fell into their bed, obviously exhausted. Yes, Leandra's old life seemed very much like a dream right now. But would she want to swap those two lives? I think not.
oOo
The trees were whispering and a weather vane creaked as the wind was growing stronger before the storm. The whole village seemed to be asleep and the watchman counted silver he had received from somebody.
Samael's eyes flashed open although there was no sensible reason why should he be awake in 2 AM. Then he heard it. Lots of unobtrusive sounds, clink here, low thud there. Painfully familiar hushed voices and cautious steps on the stairs.
There was no expression whatsoever on Samael's face as he got to his feet and pulled his high boots on. Samael whispered only two words when he woke his father up and checked on the twin blades swaying by his hip.
"They're coming."
oOo
Samael had learned years ago to count the Templars with nothing but his weapons. One Templar's head was rolling down the stairs. Two Templars were intertwined in a deadly embrace when Samael made them to pierce each other with their own swords. One Templar gurgled on the blood-stained floor. The way forward was open as the Hawke family made their way through the inn in the middle of night. Malcolm came up with a plan as always, but he was well-aware that all it would take was one mistake and they would be all dead in a second since the whole village was swarming with Templar-hunters and bounty hunters.
Samael couldn't help himself, but he was despairing. Their situation was never more dire and serious as it was right now. They had no escape routes lined up; they had no allies and no money. As they were running for their lives through the village, the door in a wrecked old house creaked and an old woman beckoned at them. Samael and Malcolm exchanged a glance, musing about the very same thing no doubt. Could they trust that strange woman? Malcolm glanced back at his fuming younger son. His wife and Bethany were already lagging behind them, barely catching their breath.
"Templars have a wagon with horses by the Chantry's side entrance," the old woman nodded at Malcolm, "take it and lead them to the woods." The old veiled eyes then watched as the rest of the Hawke family reached her home. "I'll keep your family safe, but you must distract them. Head north. You can lose them in the gorges. Go!" she almost ordered Malcolm and reached for Bethany at the same time.
"Just how do we know you won't —" Samael started, but his father's raised hand silenced him.
"I'll come after you, granny, if this is a trick," he growled at the old woman, but he did push his kin inside one by one. Everyone, except for…
"Are you insane? I'm not going to hide while you're being chased through the wilds!" Samael yanked his arm out of Malcolm's hand with a disbelief in his widened eyes.
"I'm not arguing about this, Samael! Get inside and —"
"No! I'm coming with you!" Samael hissed at him, then turned to his siblings and mother. "Be quiet, hide, we'll be back soon," he ordered them and wondered for a second if he'd see them again. "Can I borrow it?" he asked the old woman and nodded towards the small bags stuffed with straw. Before she could answer, he grasped three of them and bolted away from the little house, leaving his father no other choice than to hide as well or follow him. They made sure the bounty-hunters saw them taking the horses and the wagon and the witty Samael stuck the bags on the wooden sticks, planting them that they looked like heads from behind.
"Clever…" Malcolm sneered at his son while taking the reins and seating himself on a coach box in haste.
"You sound almost surprised, father…" Samael muttered his reply and jumped on the wagon. The horses neighed when they felt a whip on their backs and they darted forward into darkness. Arrows wheezed through the air and rained onto the wagon, but Samael managed to cover himself with a rusty shield he had found inside the wagon, though Malcolm wasn't that lucky. An arrow was stuck in his shoulder, but he just ripped it off and hurled it away. The pursuers on horses were closing in when Samael pushed a huge chest off the wagon right under the hooves of bounty-hunters and six Templars; the rest of the squad had died by Samael's hands.
The young assassin noticed one arrow was stuck in a straw "head", so he pulled it down, intending to preserve the illusion the whole Hawke family was on this wagon and one of them was dead already.
"Samael! Get on the damned horse! We can't continue on the wagon if we're heading into gorges." Malcolm's voice was slightly colored by the pain in his shoulder, but Samael couldn't see the dark spreading stain on his father's under tunic. Both men jumped onto the horses, Samael cut off the wagon and soon they were dashing through the woods in an insane tempo.
"Now they know we're all they can get here and others must be someplace else," Malcolm shouted back at his son whose horse seemed it would drop dead at any second.
"They won't turn away, don't worry," Samael panted and heeled the exhausted horse, "not now, when they think they're about to capture us," he glanced back at the once again closing enemies. They crossed a narrow dusty road and suddenly their horses covered in sweat halted, nickering. A huge mass of rocks were looming ominously above them.
"The Whispering Gorges," Malcolm breathed out and slid down off the horse. "No way we're forcing those horses to enter." He felt his own blood streaming down his back, but there was no time to heal it or at least bandage it.
"We will show them how to play hide and seek…" Samael cackled nervously, but the sound of it frightened them both. "Are you all right?" he approached his father, noticing he stood there in a stiff pose, clenching his arm.
"Maybe…" Malcolm whispered and glanced back. "Maybe you should go alone, my son." Those words died away and Samael couldn't breathe a word for a second. What was he saying? That he should leave his own father, his own blood, at the mercy of several seriously pissed off Templars and countless warped bounty hunters?
"Nonsense!" Samael flared up and pushed his father roughly into the narrowing gorge. They started running since the arrows hammered on the stone above their heads again. Samael lost count of the long minutes they had been running through the meandering dark corridors, narrowing, spreading, and branching off into several possible ways. They had no order when choosing the next gorge. They just knew the moment they'd stop, they were dead. The bounty-hunters were hounding them, shouting at each other or yelling at the refugees, mocking them, laughing at them. At least the Templars seemed to be slower than the others, possibly because of their plated armor.
It happened in a second. A stray arrow found its way through the corridor they had been scooting through and at first Samael didn't know nor he cared about what had happened. He felt his breath stuttering, he felt his legs slowing down, he felt the moist fabric on his back, but he refused to believe something was wrong. Well, other than being chased through the unknown landscape by the avaricious bounty-hunters and overzealous Templars.
"Samael! Which way?" Malcolm went into a skid and turned back at his son who just stood there at the crossroad of six possible ways. "Samael?" Malcolm almost whispered when his son remained still. Finally the lad slowly reached his hand behind his back, and then he brought it back, staring at it in moonlight. It was covered with black fluid dripping into the pebbly sand. Malcolm was fast enough to catch his son's body which started collapsing on the ground helplessly.
"No, no, no, please, not this..." Malcolm fell to his knees with his son's writhing body in his arms. He realized they were about to be found, captured, killed, whatever the pursuers intended to do with them. As it turned out – definitely kill them since the first scoundrel who appeared right in front of Malcolm roared in both anger and perverted joy, then he launched forward. Malcolm didn't know how many of them he had killed right there on the crossroad, but when he was done with them, he found himself encircled with corpses and he was covered with blood. And his son was dying. Covered with blood… Utterly covered with fresh blood. Bathed in it actually. And Samael was dying.
Malcolm didn't think twice before he kneeled by his son's cooling body, smearing the blood on his face; his own blood, Samael's blood and the blood of every bastard he had killed. Distant mumbling of the long forgotten words, ghostly feeling of the flames dancing inside of his veins and piercing pain in his back – that was all Samael was realizing at that moment.
"Wake up, my son," the voice in Samael's head commanded. Well, why the hell not, right? If only Samael could, right? Well, to his eternal surprise, he could.
"Wake up, damn it, son!" the voice commanded again, now properly peeved. Before he knew it, Samael was standing, leaning on the rock, still shaking, still covered in blood, but… somehow alive and unharmed. Unlike Malcolm who was barely able to stand on his feeble feet, completely exhausted, hurt, pale and defeated.
"We must… ehm… go." Samael still had problems to fathom that he was dying a minute ago and now he was simply not.
"Yes," Malcolm agreed almost inaudibly, "you must go, my son." He set his eyes at Samael and the boy was able to see the fire within them was smothered.
"W-what are you talking about?" the lad faltered and took a step back from the elder man.
"You heard me! Run! Save yourself! Save our family!" Malcolm rasped his reply and pushed his son up the middle path which seemed to be the right path out of the perfidious gorges. But the boy just stood there with his mouth hanging.
"No." Samael finally found his voice again and he was surprised how brutally that one word sounded. The clinging of armor and terse words reached them. The Templars. Six of them.
With the strength Malcolm didn't even know he possessed, he slapped the defiant yet beloved son to wake him up and see the truth. Malcolm was exhausted, he was done here. But his son could live on, but he was willing to die here side by side with his father. Malcolm clasped the boy's head with his both hands, leaving the black disheveled hair flowing through the callous fingers.
"You told me once something, son." Malcolm breathed out after a minute of silent staring into his son's eyes. "I want you to remember it," he shook the boy's head urgently. Samael knew perfectly what his father was speaking of.
"I serve to no one —" Samael whispered and a lone tear dropped down his cheek.
"— and you bow to no one." Malcolm finished the sentence for him when it was clear Samael wasn't able to continue. "I'll hold the barrier as long as I'm alive, son, which won't be for much longer, it appears." Malcolm chortled shortly, but the lad didn't buy his pretended repose.
Malcolm Hawke stumbled a few steps back, supporting himself on the stone overhang; his eyes were still locked with Samael's. The mage's hands started emanating silver light and it flowed between the two f them. It was beautiful. It was dreadful.
"Go, my son," Malcolm nodded at the lad to ensure him it was all right, even when it wasn't at all. "RUN!" Malcolm cried out through the barrier when the Templars appeared around the corner with a victorious hue and cry. And Samael ran. He ran even when the distant sound of combat reached his ears. He ran even when the dazzling lights were crossing the early morning sky. He dared looking back just once, right before the path turned left. The silver barrier was still blocking the path Samael had taken. Then it flickered and went out.
oOo
Samael woke up completely disoriented. Vaguely, he remembered running and nothing but running away from his father and the Templars. He remembered he had found an old hut deep in the woods once he was able to emerge from the gorges labyrinth. He also remembered entering that dilapidated shack, rummaging through broken furniture, dozens of old personal things and going upstairs. Then he lost it. He cried, yelled, kicked anything in his way, shattering the already shattered things. Then nothing. Judging by the fact he had been sleeping downstairs on the floor and by the huge hole in the ceiling, his rampage had apparently exceeded some acceptable point.
It was evening as it turned out when the lad cautiously peered outside. The only thing that made sense was to go back to the village to find out what happened to the rest of his family or to run far away and never look back. During this dilemma, Samael's legs started slowly moving on their own, walking back to the gorges in their own footsteps. Well, at least this matter was resolved for now. Samael dragged himself to the place where the barrier had been last night. Drops of dried blood in the sand, one Templar corpse and a staff. Malcolm Hawke's staff. Scratched, even cracked, but it really was his father's staff. With a blank expression, the boy picked it up and started reeling away, leaning on it. Samael's confused and tired mind half-expected someone would scream at him: patricide.
oOo
The village seemed calm and deserted-like in the light of the moon, but Samael knew he couldn't allow himself to be reckless or fooled by this placid façade again. It wasn't hard to avoid the perennially-drunk watchman as the boy slipped through the village like a shadow.
The old woman had awakened when the candle sizzled and went out, but she did feel presence of somebody else in the room and she was way too old to be afraid of anything that could be lurking in the shadows behind her.
"So you've returned, young man," she rasped into the silence when she had spotted the lad devouring the whole loaf of bread she had baked for breakfast. "Or should I say new head of the family, hm?" Woman's eyes roamed around the room for a while, but there was nobody else.
"Where are they?" Samael asked with his head hanging, holding his breath. Maybe out of spite, the woman took her time before answering.
"They're all alive and asleep in the basement," she replied and even smiled when the lad collapsed on the chair in relief, hiding his head in palms.
"Why?" was the young Hawke's first question when he was able to talk again. "Why would you help an apostate family, hag?" he watched the old woman and broke off yet another huge piece of bread.
"I have done many things in my life I need to atone for, lad." Old woman stood up abruptly and tried to revive the fire. "I'll even help you to get out of here. You head south tomorrow. There's a little village named Lothering. There's a Chantry and my sister is the Revered Mother there. Do tell her the truth about you and your family. She'll help. Now get some sleep and don't try to steal anything." The old woman glanced at the one prepared bedroll and hobbled into the other room without the subtlest glance back.
"Wait! Shouldn't I… tell them?" Samael's throat constricted when he realized he had to tell his family their father and husband won't be coming back. That he had abandoned him; listened to him and ran away like a coward.
"There would be plenty of time for that tomorrow, lad." The old woman shot a pensive glance over her shoulder. "Let them sleep now. Oh yes, let them dream while they can…" her words trailed off into some undecipherable ramble. It was like she hit the young exhausted lad with some spell, because he was sleeping right after his head touched the pillow.
oOo
"Mum! It's him! Samael is back! I told you they would return!"
Those frantic words didn't make much sense to Samael who was woken up by his little sister smothering him in a tight hug. Clumping of boots and hushed excited voices coming from basement told Samael the rest of his family was on a way up.
"Oh, my baby, you made it back!" Leandra threw herself at her eldest son and Samael's eyes met with Carver's narrowed ones. He just stood there with his arms folded on chest; no joy over his alive brother.
"Where is father?" was his first, almost truculent question. Samael gulped, speechless. Then it became even worse when they all stared at him, their eyes widened in suspense.
"I… He… Well…" Samael started fidgeting and he was searching the faces around him one by one.
"He's dead." A raw voice stated dryly the obvious. The old woman limped by them, not even looking at any of them. A deafening silence followed.
"I don't believe you! You liar! That's not true!" Carver was the one ripping the silence apart.
"Samael?" Leandra, her eyes swimming in tears, wanted to hear it directly from her son.
"I'm sorry, mother," the lad downcast his swollen eyes. "He's gone," he mumbled towards his bare feet.
Only crying and sobbing was heard in the room for the next hour. The three Hawkes were holding each other, wailing over the lost father and husband; one Hawke stood the whole time apart from them. Samael was surrounded by his family, yet he was all alone from now on.
oOo
Percy Stanton, the bartender and also owner of The Three Horsemen inn threw out the last drunken customer, counted the coins, sneered and went to pour himself a beer. His wife had died four years ago and he was proud of himself that he was able to maintain the inn on his own. Living in this little village had turned this kind, small and chubby man into an opportunistic and cunning charlatan, but the neighbors liked him nonetheless since he went to the Chantry every Sunday and he contributed regularly to the poor.
Whistling, Percy locked the door, gulped down his delicious dewy beer and headed for his bedroom upstairs. He stopped whistling when his gaze landed on a fat pouch of silver he had received from the Templars two days ago. Should he be worried for the immortality of his soul? Should he be praying for those he had betrayed?
Nah.
Percy figured he had a tough life, so it was perfectly all right to keep the bribe and let those Templars do their job. Right. Actually, he didn't do anything wrong, did he? Apostates belong to the Circle of Magi after all. So, Percy was just a humble servant of the Maker when he said to the Templars there was an apostate family in the room 2 upstairs. Yeah, let's leave it with that.
Quiet whistling resounded in the bedroom again, but it sounded different this time. Percy glanced every ten seconds at the pouch and his blithe whistling was slowing down. Finally he couldn't bear looking at the fat pouch of silver anymore, so he snatched it and tossed it into a closet, closing the door carefully.
"It won't make you feel better you know," a gruff voice spoke from the dark bathroom.
"Who… What's… How dare you…!" Percy squeaked and fumbled for a sword hidden beneath the bed. Samael grasped him by the neckline and dragged him into the bathroom along with a candlestick.
"Look at yourself," Samael hissed into the old man's ear, forcing him to look into the oblong mirror. Percy resisted, but the young man overpowered him easily. "Look at yourself," Hawke repeated and shook the man to open his eyes in front of the mirror.
"Please, Messere, I didn't mean to —" Percy started begging and genuine tears shone in his piggy eyes.
"Yes, apparently you didn't mean to take my father and my sister from me. The dangerous apostates. I'm afraid, that huge pouch of coins tells me otherwise, you stinker." Samael squeezed the old man's throat and leaned down, so his face appeared in the mirror right next to Percy's. Clearly he intended to ask another question, though he had no idea how to say it. "Stay here," he growled finally and disappeared for a half of minute, only to re-appear with the pouch of silver, hurling it into the porcelain basin which was under the mirror. "Open it," he ordered the old bartender and he indeed didn't dare defy the clearly deranged boy. "There's a lot of silver, don't you think?" Samael added a nonchalant comment while his fingers raked through the coins. A nervous nod from Percy along with a loud gulp.
"Messere, I promise, I won't do anything like this ever again. Take the silver, take anything you want, I swear; my mouth will be shut forever..." The words were jabbering out of Percy's mouth uncontrollably.
"Yes." Samael's face was bloodless and looked like a wax mask. "Yes, your mouth will be shut forever." He slit the old man's throat, making sure the fresh blood would coat the coins in the purse he intended to take with him. After all, he had a family to take care of now. The heavy body thudded on the floor and Hawke took the pouch. Only now did he noticed his face had been sprayed with tiny drops of Percy's blood. Samael shrugged, blew out the candles and disappeared into the night.
Three pairs of sad eyes were waiting for him on a small shaky wagon the old woman had borrowed them along with her only draft animal.
"We're heading south," Samael answered their mute question and scanned the vicinity with his trained eyes. Everybody seemed indifferent to his statement, so Hawke took the reins and forced the donkey to move. He bowed when he was passing by the old woman standing on the doorstep of her shabby home. She nodded and smiled mischievously, sucking on her toothless gums.
"Five Hawkes came to this village, only four are leaving this place," the old woman muttered to herself and nodded again like everything was just the way it was supposed to be.
