Part 1: Inception

Fenris had been scrubbing his chest plate when he heard a loud knock at the front door of the manor. It had been a week since he had occupied it, partially out of spite; he had even considered leaving the demon corpses to rot in anticipation of Danarius' inevitable return. Eventually, by the third day, the smell had become unbearable, and he had dragged them, by moonlight, into the sewers below the city. Hopefully, his presence alone would be enough to tarnish the manor for his former master.

Scrubber still in hand, he walked over to the door. Surely, slave hunters would not be so kind as to knock. Gingerly, he opened the door, and was greeted by the grin of the woman who had helped him the week before.

"Fenris!" she exclaimed and pushed past him into the foyer. "I'm back, to ask more unwelcome and probing questions about your past, probably. You busy?"

Her assertion might have made him bristle, if not for the obvious jest, and maybe the pretty smile. "Not anymore," he wryly replied.

"Good," she said with a wink, and strolled with Fenris into the main hall, up the stairs, and into the room where he spent most of his time. A fire roared heartily in the fireplace. "Cozy," she remarked, and slung her cloak on the back of a chair that faced the fire as he hastened to move his chest plate from the table. She sat down gracefully, Fenris following suit on the bench across from her.

"So, Hawke, how can I help you?"

She laughed. A contagious thing. "Maker, it does seem I only visit my friends when I need something, doesn't it? Forgive the presumption, but I am simply dying to try the wine you were using to decorate the walls a few days ago, if you'd indulge me."

"With pleasure," he murmured, and brought a bottle from his bedroom. They were friends, apparently. No one had ever called him that before.

"Wonderful," she said gratefully, and gave a satisfied sniff as he poured the dark red liquid into two chalices. She stared directly at Fenris with an unreadable look as she sipped, which soon turned into a toothy grin. "Now I'm truly angry with you! This is exquisite!"

Fenris snorted and took a sip of his own. "Danarius was always a creature of luxury. I was a luxurious object to own and display as much as this wine."

Hawke sobered, the unreadable expression returning to her face. "No longer," she murmured. "I can't imagine anyone ever being able to own you."

It was meant as a compliment, he knew, but the words still stung. "I didn't exactly have a choice in the matter," he said bitterly.

Seeing that she had touched a nerve, she balked, eyes wide. "Oh, Fenris, of course, I know that. I just meant that you seem… indomitable, so to speak. I admire that about you," she said, and casually, lightly placing her hand on his forearm, continued, "I'm sorry."

He couldn't help but smile. How could he resist such sincerity? "Now who's the flatterer?"

With a laugh, she withdrew her hand, going back to the goblet. Its absence left a warm tingle on his arm, and he dared not glance at it, lest she notice the lyrium that he suspected had lit up there.

If she had, she said nothing about it, instead remarking, "Since we're switching sides here, I'll have you know that I am very open to answering any probing questions about my past you might have. It's only fair."

She stood and picked up the wine bottle, giving it a shake to determine its fullness, and poured some more into what Fenris realized was his empty chalice. He nodded appreciatively. "I'll bite. When you arrived in Kirkwall, after fleeing the Blight, what did you do?"

Hawke bit her lip pensively. "My uncle, bastard that he is, gambled away my family's inheritance. We got off the boat expecting an awkward family reunion, but I never thought that we'd have to try to bribe our way into the city with no coin to speak of. Bethany and I sold off the only thing we had – our skills – to a mercenary band, in return for passage into the city. Guarding cargo and hunting down bandits, mostly."

Listening to her talk was nothing short of delightful. Fenris couldn't help but stare at the elegant gesturing of her shapely hands, the teeth she flashed so mischievously from time to time. "Do you have any good stories?" he asked, egging her on somewhat selfishly, he realized.

She sighed. "It was rather dull, for the most part, but I did get into a fistfight with a bandit leader at one point, that was fun."

"Oh?" Fenris could hardly imagine her lithe, agile form, best suited to dodging and slicing the enemy right where it hurt most, engaging in a common match of fisticuffs. He poured more wine for them both. The bottle was nearly empty. Only a glass or two left.

"Yes, I'm hardly a fist fighter, I know. We had been contracted by some merchant to eliminate bandits preying on his caravans, on a trail near Sundermount. Standard job, as far as they go. It was towards the end of our year with the mercenaries, so I suppose Bethany and I had made a bit of a name for ourselves. Regardless, a few mercenaries, Bethany, and I baited the bandits with an unguarded wagon and followed it from a distance. When they inevitably attacked the driver, we emerged to valiantly protect it, only to have them yield immediately."

"And then?"

"One of them pointed at me and yelled that they would yield to 'the Hawke' only, and that they would leave the caravans alone if I would meet with their leader, who styled himself as Bran of Broken Oar."

"'The Hawke'?"

"I think they thought it was a nickname. I went along with it, went to some cave or other, and there was Bran of Broken Oar, a lumbering oaf if I'd ever seen one. He declared that he'd only yield to the Hawk if I faced him in one on one combat. No weapons, just fists."

"Sounds like he was looking to make a name for himself, too," Fenris remarked, finishing the last of his wine. He was feeling rather drunk, mostly on the wine, but the headiness of Hawke's company was undeniable.

"Had some delusions of grandeur, I'm sure. Maybe he was expecting a song out of it, 'There once was a hero named Bran of Broken Oar, who defeated the Hawk of Kirkwall with his bare hands' or something," she sang out of key, this time placing a hand on Fenris' shoulder and gesturing as if to a great crowd. As soon as he became aware of the thinness of his linen shirt, she removed her hand and leaned back into the chair. "I think he greatly overestimated my fame. Either way, there I was, daggers set aside, in a damp unpleasant cavern, wrapping my hands and listening to Bethany scold me for agreeing to do it."

Fenris chuckled. "That sounds like her."

"I thought it'd be easier than trying to fight all of the bastards. We stand three strides apart, Bran's henchman counts down, and at the very moment we are face to face, he winds up to strike, I dodge left, and he loses his balance, falls right over and dashes his forehead on a rock."

"You're joking."

"I wish! Not my proudest win, but his henchmen counted it as such, and we left. Caravan was never attacked again. Oh, and they all swore fealty to the great Hawk of Kirkwall while their former leader bled out on the ground. I go and visit sometimes, it's much less damp in the summer months and the tributes are unrivaled."

"Now, you must be joking," Fenris declared incredulously, with a laugh.

"Yes, yes, you got me. No, they dispersed, and I frankly have no idea what happened to them. We got our pay from the merchant, and that was that. The mighty Hawk of Kirkwall had bested Bran of Broken Oar."

"You should ask a bard to document this impressive feat," he said wryly, pouring the rest of the wine into their chalices.

"Maybe someday." Hawke raised her goblet and declared, "To new adventure!"

Her optimism was infectious. Fenris smiled broadly and touched her glass with his own. "To you, the Hawk of Kirkwall."

They drained their chalices, and sat in content silence for a few moments, staring at the fire. She was a charming storyteller. And, as capable as she was, she didn't seem to think too highly of herself. Fenris liked to think himself a good judge of a character, given how difficult it was to earn his trust. Something about Hawke felt right, in a way that he had never felt before. It wasn't even her beauty, which was undeniable: full lips that were always moments away from a grin, bright eyes that glinted impishly in the firelight, her graceful, almost feline figure that was both athletic and feminine, something he had never seen in a female warrior before. Her earnestness and sincerity, without naivete or ignorance, were perhaps what attracted him the most. Everyone else he had ever met always had a hidden agenda, some goal they were pursuing and hoping to use him for. As far as he could tell, Hawke was just doing her best to make enough coin for her family to be comfortable, and not much else.

The subject of his thoughts sighed contentedly, and placed the chalice on the table. "Well, you've indulged me long enough, I think; first with the wine, and now listening to my inane stories." She laughed to herself in self-deprecation and turned to face him. "Thank you very much, Fenris. I hope you wouldn't mind if I come back to pester you again."

"How can I refuse? I'd rather not end up in fisticuffs with the great Hawk of Kirkwall," he replied sardonically, and to his immense satisfaction, she laughed heartily.

"Indeed, I'm very threatening."

She donned her cloak and he followed her as she sauntered through the manor and out the door. He watched her go, she shooting a last grin his way as she left his sight. He returned to the embers of his fireplace with a warm feeling in his stomach and tingling skin where she had touched him.