A/N: So long story short, I finished this one first. And I just can't really do Fenris as a vampire. I know the armor and broodiness are totally fitting with the teen-vamp stereotype propagated by Twilight and such, but I like to think Fenris is just a bit more manly. That's why I like him as LI better than Anders (NO ONE moves in together the first time they hook up!). But I digress...

Warnings: violence, Leto appearance (dark hair, no tattoos)


Hawke hears the faint shift of a footstep behind her in the shadows and lowers her head a trifle to conceal her smirk. She feigns nervousness, glancing over her shoulder and hurrying her steps, gripping her umbrella close to her stomach. The gesture gives her time to check the knives hidden in her bodice and she pauses at the intersection between street and alleyway as if lost. A perfect mimicry of vulnerability, the ultimate lure for the thugs and filth that wander the dark streets of Kirkwall.

She turns into the alleyway, knowing that it branches twenty paces onward and that one branch leads to a darkened dead end. Her friends wait at that dead end: Aveline, the Chief of the Yard, with the saber and nightstick that serve more than a decorative purpose; Varric, the well-connected merchant prince dwarf with his dueling pistols and dapper coattails; Merrill, the elfin-looking sorceress with a grimoire of deadly spells and a belt full of casting materials. Their group can defeat dozens in short measure, and Hawke has never failed in her mission as bait for the monsters prowling the streets.

A low growl sounds in the shadows to her left just as she prepares to turn right.

It is not a human sound. Hawke freezes in place, turning her head slowly to look in the direction of the growl. Green eyes flash at her from the shadows and she takes a step back.

"Hello?" she whispers, backing into the right branch, toward her friends. A hundred and six paces to where they wait, she thinks, edging along the wall. Her heart pounds and the green eyes disappear in the dark. She lifts a hand to her chest, her leather-gloved fingers spread across the rapid flutter as if to slow it. She takes a deep breath in an effort to compose herself, not sure why she should be so perturbed by that brief glimpse of eyes.

Something barrels into her, stealing what breath she has. Her back slams into the wall. Her umbrella clatters to the ground. Strong claws (claws?) grip her arms and green eyes engulf her line of sight. Hawke blinks and can see the face of a man, the man who is holding her with clawed hands. Pitch black hair hangs over his eyes and pointed ears and a wolfish smirk covers full lips. He is very handsome, she realizes, and promptly despises herself for thinking such of a mugger or rapist. His lean frame holds surprising strength, and she finds herself unable to struggle free.

The man leans forward and his nose brushes along the side of her neck. Hawke shivers in spite of herself, grateful that her jacket's collar comes up so high. He clearly means to rape her and she will not enjoy that. But the man pulls back, staring at her with a perplexed look, and releases her as he steps away.

"You are not one of them," he states, brows rising as he stares at her.

In an effort to calm herself she smooths her skirt and jacket, checking those blades again. "I do not know who you thought I was, but I assure you that I am no gang member or prostitute," she sniffs, injecting a note of offense that is not entirely pretended.

He snorts as if this is amusing, but does not smile. "Clearly not," he says. "No prostitute is so well-armed." His green eyes flick significantly down the length of her body and she feels the stare as tangible heat through her clothing. He bends to pick up her umbrella and cocks his head at the weight before passing it back to her. Then he pauses. "But you are not a Hunter, either."

Hawke draws in a breath at his statement. "Hunters are after you?" she asks him, her face going rigid with the cold fury in her blood. She grips the umbrella with white knuckles and takes it from him. The Hunters, who operated out of the hostile nation of Tevinter to the north, were known for gathering up the poor as slaves. More than that, they were known for abducting any supernatural creature they encountered, be it a witch or a werewolf. To be taken to Tevinter as a slave or experiment would be far worse than any fate the witch-hunting Templars of the Inquisition could devise.

"My name is Fenris," he says. "I'm an escaped slave."

Her gaze moves to take in his features: luminescent green eyes, pointed ears, the unnatural strength of his body and the clawed hands, which she realizes now are merely specially-made gloves. "But you're no ordinary slave," she says, thinking about that growl. She realizes she's staring at him just as he looked over her and flushes at his smirk.

Fenris shakes his head. Before he can say anything, there's a shout down the alleyway. Both of their heads turn at the same time in the direction of the noise. "Hunters," he growls, and it sounds all too much like that feral sound she heard before he accosted her. She needs no further encouragement. Pulling her skirt up around her knees, she sprints down the alley in the direction of the fight. To her surprise, Fenris also runs in that direction, quickly outstripping her speed. Hawke is fast, but he is faster.

The clamor comes from a group of Hunters that have emerged from some hovel at the end of the alley, apparently lying in wait for Fenris. So many Hunters for one man means he is no ordinary man. Hawke springs to action at once, her left thumb pressing the catch on her umbrella to release the blade at the end as a dagger slides from a sheath in her sleeve to land in her right hand. Her dark cloak and skirts flare as she moves to slash at the men around her, blending with the shadows to obscure her and create illusions of her form that make her that much harder to hit, or even to see. Varric, too, has melted into the shadows but the crack of his pistols gives his location away. Hawke is certain he's moving from time to time, however, as the angle of shots changes. Aveline has drawn the majority of the attackers' attention, but she fends it off with ease, her nightstick serving as a barrier to the strikes of knives and blades and shoving the weapons back as her saber slashes at them. Merrill's chanting makes the Hunter's blood gush faster, or makes them stagger slowly through their strikes, or burns them with some dark energy.

As he literally leaps into the fray, Fenris changes into a massive white wolf with glowing silver-blue patterns woven into swirls across his fur. With a snarl, he tears through Hunters with vicious teeth and claws, slamming them to the ground in twos and threes and mauling them. Under their combined onslaught, the Hunters fall dead within minutes. The wolf pads back toward the pile of clothes left behind by the transformation and shifts back into a man. Fenris crouches beside his clothes and puts them on with deft speed, keeping himself concealed as if he's done this many times.

"You're a werewolf," Hawke says, staring at him. Her friends glance between her and Fenris and she ignores them for the moment, awaiting his answer.

He shrugs uncomfortably. "That I am," he says. Green eyes glitter intently and he takes a step closer to her. Out of the corner of her eye she sees Varric's thumb flick to cock his favored pistol, Bianca. "You fight very well. I do not think I could have faced all of those Hunters on my own. Thank you."

"Won't there be more?" she asks.

Fenris nods. "Yes. I have eluded them for three years now and they just send greater numbers," he answers. He pauses and stares at her a long moment. "There is a way to stop them, however, and to break my curse." When she raises her brows he licks his lips and his feral smile reveals that there is still some blood on his teeth. "I have to kill my maker."

She does not hesitate to say, "If there's anything I can do to help, let me know."


Up next: Wild West (cowboy Fenris!) then we're going to do Superhero Age :D