It's midday by the time they've reached their camping spot, what's left of an old stone building well inside the forest line; three crumbling walls that protect a little from the wind and the sun. A careful bit of knot-work is carved into what once must have been part of a door frame, and Hawke likes to trail her fingers along the pattern and wonder who lived here once, who carved the stone and what they would think to see a group of apostates having a picnic here. Or Fereldens. Either one is damning enough, depending on the Age.

"I think it'll be Templars and Mages today." Father says brightly as he tucks into his meal, and Hawke is sure this is the punishment for teasing Carver all morning. Not that her brother looks one whit happier for it.

"Oh Father, please don't make us-"

"I don't need her help!"

Everything's a fight between them, even a battle to decide who gets to protest first, and loudest.

The names of the games are always changing, along with the rules, and the teams. Andraste Takes the Field is a good one, or Maric's Eastern Assault, or the Black Fox Dodges his Creditors, with Father hiding from all three of them for as long as possible without using any spells. As Bethany's magic's grown stronger, more and more the teams have been fixed - Hawke and her sister versus Carver and Father, with a few mismatched socks tied to sticks standing in for the prize to be won.

The prospect of taking on two mages at once is always an exciting one. Having to do so while keeping an eye on her little brother is slightly less thrilling.

"He never listens to me."

Carver rolls his eyes. "If you'd shut up once in a while, maybe I would. You always think you know everything."

"I know enough to keep from landing arse up at the bottom of the world's most visible hill."

His eyes widen, almost theatrically so. "That was the one time. One time! Nobody even asked you to be there, you know that? Nobody ever asks you to be anywhere but you just keep showing up."

Hawke sighs. "Is this about you trying to show off for that girl again?"

"I wasn't trying-"

"Listen, if you'd just told me what you were on about, I wouldn't have-"

"YOU COVERED ME IN JAM!"

"Maker, that was brilliant." Hawke says wistfully, as Bethany tries to stifle a giggle, both hands over her mouth. "You never saw it coming."

"My darlings," Father's mild tone cuts through the sound of Carver's grinding teeth, "do please refrain from murdering each other until I've finished my lunch."

"Yes, Father," they chirp in unison, though her brother seems poised to go for the hilt of his sword anyway, and Hawke's eyes narrow, giving him the smallest approving nod. The rules stand that they're not allowed to fight each other with anything but training weapons, nothing sharper than the blunt side of a broken chair leg - sorry Mother, it was his fault! Was not! If he thinks the threat of live steel is enough to keep her quiet, though - well, he doesn't. It's the reason he's smiling back.

"I don't understand what it is with you two." Father says, well aware of what they're on about, amusement mixed with resigned dismay, " Your skills ought to compliment each other nicely. If you worked together, it could be a great advantage."

"She doesn't listen," Carver says. "In a proper army they'd have her in the stocks before she even signed up."

"Balls to a proper army," Hawke says, and grimaces at her Father's disapproving frown. It's one thing not to be a proper lady like Mother or her sister, it's another to act as if she grew up in the back room of the Refuge. "I mean, I don't want to join an army. Besides, Carver's the one who won't take orders. He's a… he's…"

"Insubordinate," Bethany says quietly, twisting a bit of clover between her fingers.

"That's the word."

Carver looks at his twin in betrayal. "Oh, don't help her!"

Father laughs a little, though when he sets his gaze on her it is steady, and serious. "A leader has to rely on and protect those under her command, pup, even when they don't get along. Especially then. You have to be able to put everything aside when danger comes. Or do you think a demon would sit back and wait for you two to finish your argument?"

Carver scoffs. "She'd feed me to it first."

"Might give it a stomachache." Hawke mutters, and that's enough to get him moving, Carver lunging to his feet as Hawke rolls gracefully to her own.

"I'll give you a stomachache-"

It's familiar, the small bolt of energy that crackles in the space between them, Father's magic sparking harmlessly off the stones, just enough to keep them apart. Neither of them jump, though Hawke takes a step back, shaking out her fingertips, smoothing down the hairs on her arms now standing on end. She can't imagine how people who aren't mages deal with their children - a lot of doors with locks, perhaps, and some strong ropes.

"All right, then. All right. It'll be Mages and Templar and Templar." Father points to each of them. "The two of you are up for a promotion, and there's only so many apostates to go 'round."

Regular people think all the Templars everywhere are the same, that they all serve the Maker nobly and pray to Andraste faithfully and work as one to protect the world from dangerous apostates. Which is kind of crap, obviously. Templars are just people, like anyone else, and they fight with each other as often as they fight mages, which can be dangerous but also surprisingly useful. Father likes to tell of the time he'd been captured right at the border between Nevarra and Orlais by Templars from both sides, and how it hadn't taken much on his part to get them arguing over who deserved the reward and where he ought to go. Which had quickly turned into an argument on how Orlesian Templars couldn't find their own helmets with both hands and the Maker's blessing, and where they ought to go, and what they could do when they got there.

By the time they'd finished bickering, Father had managed to escape with two of their packs and enough gold to make it all the way through Nevarra and well into the Free Marches. Mother still uses what's left of one of those packs to load up vegetables in the garden.

"Guess you should have put a sword on that shield instead of the dog." Hawke says, and Carver looks at her suspiciously, searching for the hidden slight before he gives up and shrugs. It's hard to find much to say when they're not insulting each other.

Father and Bethany move off together towards the trees, though they'll likely split up before long, and Hawke can guess where her sister will end up. The woods have one or two places well suited for a cautious mage to make a stand. Hawke reaches into her pack, the sock unfurling with a snap of her wrist.

"You want to be the defender of our precious Templar dignity, or should I?"

He holds out a hand, and she tosses it to him. It's a ragged bit of stitching, knitted with a rough approximation of what Mother said was the Amell crest. Hawke had always wanted a matched set, but Father had no colors or a coat of arms, which had always seemed markedly unfair. Carver lifts his shield up, the sword still strapped to his back. She admires his tenacity, even if he's going to have all the grace of a drunken bear stumbling through the forest. Just like a real Templar, then.

A few quick steps up the wall and Hawke can catch a handhold and pull herself up to perch properly on the edge of the stone, drinking in the cool air, the only sounds the rustling of the leaves in the wind and her brother's irritated sigh. She didn't climb up just to show off, but it's not a poor bonus.

"Are you going north or south, Carver?"

"Which way are you headed?"

"North."

"South."

No real surprise there. She grins. "Watch out, Knight-Commander. The big one's strong but that little girl, I hear she was born under a bad sign. I'd hate to see any more like her about."

It's difficult for Carver to manage a vulgar gesture what with the shield and all, but he throws up a pair of them with impressive speed and accuracy.

"You'll be a fine soldier yet, my boy." Hawke calls out, watching him stomp off into the undergrowth.