Blood soaked the decadent carpets of the Viscount's Keep, darkening the red to a deep burgundy. It's metallic scent hung thickly in the air, accompanying the strange silence which overtook the city of Kirkwall. A large contingent of Qunari rested on the rise of stairs leading up to the now vacant throne of the recent viscount. The bodies of the dead had been long since removed from the castle, and were now burning in the courtyard; moved there by the might of the recuperating soldiers.
The Arishok sat at the top of the stairs, his arms resting against the tops of this large, muscular thighs. Several fresh welts criss-crossed his chest, blossoming with splatters of deep red blood, and a sanguine smear highlighted a shallow slash on his left cheek. His temples pulsed as a trickle of blood pearled on his skin and rolled off towards the cold stone floor.
Several bottles of Sweet-Wine had been opened, and cups had been passed around filled to the brim with the succulent alcoholic nectar. The Arishok himself partook, along with his soldiers; the liquid coating his throat in warmth as he downed it in one mouthful. The beverage was refreshing and true to it's name; with hints of a foreign fruit and sugared honey, it was difficult to distinguish the amount of alcohol within the brew itself.
It was not long until the Arishok had nearly finished a bottle to himself. And this was normal; alcohol never had much of an effect on the War Leader, so it was common for him to partake in a large amount in times of rest. Many Qunari could do the same with little consequence, so they exploited this strength and did so whenever it was appropriate. A drink in the honor of the Qun was well earned.
Ash fell from the dark, tumultuous sky like generous puffs of snow. The acrid stench of burning filth permeated High Town, blown up from from the smouldering, cleansing fires of Low Town's burning factories and shanties, by the unrelenting wind. A cloud of vapour rose above the warriors as they moved out from the conquered keep, their bodies shielding the Arishok who stood in their midst, his great black horns curving high, nearly invisible in the midnight sky save for the glint of the golden bands which defined their arches. The Arishok stood at least a head taller than his companions, and looked nearly immortal in the eyes of the passersby who lined the streets as the Qunari guard escorted the War Lord towards the docks.
The Arishok could feel a strange heat spreading from his belly as he moved in formation, surrounded by his quiet but excited guard. He could feel the warmth as it flowed through every vein, filling every limb and digit with it's welcome heat. It was late spring in Kirkwall, but the wind still managed to hold the bite of winter in it's breath, and the blossoming heat was welcome.
The odd thoughts and sensations following however, were not. He had thought of her as hit cut down the bas on his way to the Keep; the look in her eyes as she denied him—and the Qun. The way her mouth had dropped open from a stiff line as she fell into a fighting stance on basic instinct. The way her face had fallen when the Arishok had given the order to attack. He had watched how she moved, dodging his Sten's spears without blinking, without thought. And his mind began to wander to dangerous things; how she would move and bend under his own touch, how her brow would crease if he pushed himself against her.
It was getting worse.
The Arishok could smell the sharp scent of salt as they neared the docks. The wind whipped his hair, staining it with the familiar essence of the sea. A sense of order and comfort washed over him—it would not be long now until Par Vollen would be within sight, the remedy for this ailment within his grasp. The pale mirage of sails, the sound of rippling fabric and groaning wood were welcome sights and sounds to the Qunari as they alighted the docks of the waterfront.
A great ship creaked and bumped against the dock, covered in a layer of silver ash. Shadowed forms moved along the expansive deck, occasionally revealed to be Qunari by the lamps hanging along the length of the boat. There was a solemn drone of whispers from those that remained; prisoners and viddathari alike. A large, heavy plank was lowered and the group moved swiftly on board, unceremoniously. Tonight they would depart, leaving a sizable part of the army to hold what remained of Kirkwall. The city had fallen to the Qun, and soon it would be rebuilt under it.
An excited flurry of whispers and exclamations swallowed the ship as the Qunari rejoined their brothers-in-arms, the viddathari their missing family members. As the ship prepared to move out with the other galleons, the celebration truly began. Food and foreign wines were passed about to all those on board. The viddathari were boisterous, but the Kossith, although jovial, rejoiced quietly compared to the converts, smiling to each other over giant mugs of brew and through bites of fresh food.
The Arishok joined his men for some time, but his thoughts were elsewhere. Was he successful in capturing the Basalit-an, to add to the triumph of retrieving the Tome of Koslun? The pirate bas was being held on another ship, awaiting questioning upon their return to Par Vollen, he was told. And the basalit-an was being held below deck.
New wave of heat washed over the Arishok; his limbs felt light and tingly, and he found his mind and lips wander more often than usual. He found himself gathering a small amount of food on a plate; cheese, fresh bread, cooked meat, and strange red fruit, all before descending into the hull of the galleon.
A hand curled around Hawke's in the darkness. She lay among the thick downy bedding of the mattress, curled up on her side, Karasten's steady breathing at her back calling her back to sleep. But she remained awake, her eyelids fluttering against the sharp light of the large candles Karasten had lit earlier in the night. The gravity of what had happened between Hawke and her friend had not settled in quiet yet. She lay wrapped in her blankets, the leather and chainmaille of her scant armour still biting into her bare skin, the wetness of her arousal still remaining between her legs even though more than a few hours had passed.
Hawke's memories of the events only hours before were muddled from the grip of reverie which still, even now, beckoned her return. But she felt the heaviness of watchful eyes skim across the exposed bits of her skin, raising goosebumps upon her limbs, and she could not sleep. Yawning, she moved her arm and tucked it beneath her head, and gazed through thick lashes about the room, the odd sensation of being watched growing. Her dark eyes flitted over a huge, dark form standing in the shadows by the door.
"Basalit-an."
Hawke rose quickly and without thought from the bed, her heart threatening to break through her ribs. Her eyes widened in shock as her fears were confirmed—as the Arishok's features stood out sharply in the candlelight as the warlord stepped forward.