The door opened, and the group looked up from their cards to take in the man who walked into the suite.
"Hawke, there you are! We were beginning to think you weren't going to make it," Varric said, throwing two silvers into the pot. "What kept you?"
Hawke nodded in greeting and leaned into his chair at Varric's table, an expression of smug satisfaction plastered upon his face.
"Noooothing." He responded in a sing-song voice.
Varric raised an eyebrow. "Sure doesn't sound like nothing," he said as he reached for his quill and a sheet of paper. "So spill Hawke, I know you're dying to tell us."
Hawke's grin widened as he interlocked his fingers behind his head and stretched his legs under the table.
"Oh Varric, you exaggerate too much. I was just minding my own business. My own boring, unremarkable business."
Varric shook his head grinning, "Hawke, coming from you, boring could mean anything from glitter bombing Seneschal Bran to taming a drake and riding it through the streets of Hightown."
Hawke sighed, "I don't know why Bran was so upset about it. It wasn't that much glitter."
"We're still finding bits of glitter around the Keep, Hawke." Aveline spoke up, rearranging the cards in her hand. There was a hint of smile at the corner of her mouth.
"And here you are smiling like the cat who got into the cream. Do tell then what you spent the day doing that was so boring." Varric motioned to Hawke with his hand, encouraging him to speak.
"Well, theoretically, if I were to do something on a whim, I suppose I'd go for a stroll through the Gallows, wearing a templar helmet on my head, and nothing else." Hawke took a sip from his ale, hiding his smile when the table suddenly went quiet as all heads swiveled to look at him with interest. Merrill's ears turned bright pink as she covered her smile with one hand. Varric shook with silent laughter as he started to scribble furiously upon the parchment.
"You walked through the Gallows naked?" Anders asked slack-jawed.
"And you didn't invite us to watch?" Isabela interjected, her expression torn between delight and looking put out.
"Hawke!" Aveline huffed, masking what sounded suspiciously like a chuckle with her fist.
Hawke raised his hands innocently, "I never said that I did do it, just theoretically if I were feeling a bit whimsical that's what I'd do. Want to hear the details?" He grinned salaciously.
"Oh yes!" Merrill clapped her hands.
"This I have to hear," Isabela chuckled and scooted closer to Fenris, who leaned forward to better hear the story.
"So there I was, on the rooftops of the Gallows with the sun setting behind me, stark blooming naked."
Hawke chuckled as he stuffed his clothes into the black rucksack. He strapped on the helmet he'd stolen earlier from the templar barracks and waited for the sun to disappear beyond the horizon. The tranquil in the courtyard below were packing up their wares, covering the stalls with tarps to protect them from the damp salty breeze. When the last stragglers had filed inside for the evening, the empty grounds fell to the silence of the humid summer evening. Hawke slithered down, wrapping his body around a column like a lizard upon a rock. He slunk over to the dock in the gathering gloom and hung his rucksack underneath the planks, just beneath the water's surface on a protruding nail. He hummed a quiet little tune to himself as he straightened up and shook off the water droplets on his arm. Stretching his arms over his head as he stood on his toes, Hawke reveled in the increased sensations resulting from his delightful state of nudity.
With a barely suppressed snigger, he crept quickly up the stairs, carefully pulling out the set of lock picks he kept pinned in his hair beneath the helmet. He deftly jiggled them about in the door's lock until he was rewarded with the sound of the tumblers clicking into place. It was not a moment too soon as the measured clank of the night watch echoed up from the nearby hallway. Hawke slipped inside and shut the door behind him, relocking it. He knew the templar on watch duty would test the doors to see if they all were locked. Hawke had been very careful in his observations of the routines of the Order. While they did switch up the patrols every so often, the patterns were easy to recognize and predict after a few months of constant watching.
Hawke ducked into the office, and looked around with his hands on his hips. He knew Meredith had retired for the evening, as well as Orsino, but there could always be variation in their established daily rituals. Best to finish up quickly then, Hawke thought as he rubbed his hands gleefully. He checked for the usual tamper traps—a line of flour on the handles, surfaces or the floor, a hair upon the edge of drawers, but he found none. For the leader of a militant force, our merry Knight Commander is very lax about her personal security, Hawke thought. Does she not keep sensitive information in her office? Or is it false information? He unlocked the desk drawers and took note of the layout. He pulled out the ledgers and skimmed the figures, taking note of the number of templars, lyrium intake, notes of misconduct and commendations, and the finance reports. He whistled soundlessly when he saw the amount of gold being shuffled in and out through templar hands. Now where would Merry be getting so much gold to pay for all her little toy soldiers? Hawke thought. Smuggled lyrium is pricey at the best of times.
A sudden thought had him flip open the reports on the number of tranquil enchantments. There were lists of payments as well as names and delivery points. Hawke clicked his tongue in distaste. The demands for lyrium enchanted items escalated, outpacing the production numbers of the tranquil early on in the last year's reports. His lip curled as he noted that the number of tranquil quickly rose in the ensuing months. The prices for the enchanted items remained bizarrely constant. Hawke glared at the prices with suspicion. If demand outweighed supply, every merchant and his grandmother the world over would have upped their prices. Surely Merry wasn't that stupid. So that meant she was getting something else from her dealings with these people. He pulled out the little watertight purse of special inks and quill nibs and scribbled neat but hasty notes upon his arms and legs, writing down names and locations. The ink gleamed upon his arms, but disappeared as it dried, leaving only the faintest of henna markings to hint that anything at all was there.
He flipped open other reports, noting the numerous claims of apostates in various quarters of Kirkwall, writing down the ones he knew to be legitimate and the ones he was unsure of. Many were just ordinary people, and the prison roster showed the swollen numbers that were thrown behind bars whilst the templars proceeded to prod and poke them for any signs of magical ability. Hawke smirked when he came across several names he recognized. The men and women had been released, which made Hawke very pleased. They had successfully fooled the templars. They had only a little magic, barely enough to light a candle. Their recent experiences with the templars' less-than-gentle handling might garner a few more willing allies, and plenty more ill-will among the populace from the Order's roughshod treatment of the citizenry in their hunt for apostates. Propaganda is a wonderful thing, Hawke thought with a smile. After looking over all the other papers in the Knight Commander's office, Hawke carefully arranged everything as he had found it, being sure to lock everything up tight.
Satisfied, he plopped himself down on the Knight Commander's desk and began to rub his gloriously naked arse all over it and her chair. Then, in true Fereldan fashion, in the same way a Mabari would proclaim his territorial dominance, he stood up, took aim, and proceeded to wee all over Meredith's office.
Hawke stifled a very manly giggle as he snuck back out into the courtyard, shutting the doors behind him. He snuck over to the rear of the complex, where he took a deep breath to calm his excited heartbeat, threw open the door and dashed into the templar barracks, waving his arms and screaming at the top of his lungs, "To arms! To arms! The nugs are coming! We're being overrun! The Battle of the Squealing Plains is upon us once more! Summon the butchers' guild!"
The startled sentries jumped, flabbergasted at the sight of a naked man running about the quarters. They soon gave chase, the loud clashing of their armor waking those who had slept through the initial ruckus. Chaos followed, the entire building in uproar from the noise and confusion, all caused by one naked man in a templar helmet. Hawke managed to shake his pursuers, slipping into the darkness. At the pier, he jumped into the ocean below, his cursing of the frigid waters and the noise of his splash masked by the tireless surf. Beneath the planks, he grabbed his pack and pulled out the specially-made, dark skin-tight clothes he had packed. Wrapping the cloth around his body and limbs, he buttoned them up and stowed the helmet, lock picks, inks and nibs into his rucksack and secured it to his back.
Swimming across the harbor, he pulled himself up onto the dock, and looked back across the water. The Gallows were ablaze with light and the commotion was audible even this far from the action. Hawke shivered from the cold, but even his discomfort did not dampen his good cheer as he skipped up the stairs to a little ramshackle house. He pulled out a key from his sack and unlocked the door. Once inside, he stripped himself of his wet clothes, dumped them into a basin, and toweled himself dry. He lit a candle stub upon the table, and dipped his arm into a tub of dye. The inks he had inscribed earlier stood out like lyrium in the Deep roads, shining a pale white against the deep purple of his skin. He pulled a sheaf of vellum over to him along with a quill and ink pot, and proceeded to transcribe the information he had garnered on his latest venture through the Gallows. Once finished, he set the pages out to dry, stepped into another tub and lathered himself up. The dyes came off easily, but a faint purple sheen would remain upon his arms and legs for the following week. Dressing himself once more in his leathers and daggers, Hawke packed up his notes and shuffled off to the Hanged Man for Wicked Grace night.
"And that's how I'd spend an evening in the Gallows. Theoretically," Hawke concluded.
Isabela leaned back and laughed, slapping her leg as she shifted her body to rest against Fenris's. Fenris, for his part, just leaned forward to pinch the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, a faint smile just barely visible through the fringe of white hair. Anders stared at Hawke, and slowly shook his head.
"You amazing, unbelievable, crazy man," he said.
"Wait'll you see what else I can do naked," Hawke arched an eyebrow and grinned.
"Hawke," interrupted Aveline, who had her arms folded over her chest and was giving him one of her Looks. "Did you read the Citizen's Guide to the Laws of Kirkwall I gave you?"
Hawke's eyes widened into a look of unabashed innocence. "Yeeeeeeeeees."
"Did you read the part on public indecency?"
"Oh Aveline, I'm hurt. I did say that this was all just a story of how I would spend an evening in the Gallows, not what I actually did. And on a side note, since the Gallows belongs to the Order and the Order works for the Chantry, technically it's private property. Just sayin'." Hawke said.
Now it was Aveline's turn to shake her head, and heave a much-put-upon sigh.
"Well then, it's not my jurisdiction, is it, " the corner of her mouth twitched upwards ever so slightly, "and even if the templars do file a complaint about an unidentified naked man disturbing the peace, I can't imagine where I'd start searching," she spoke drily, "since no one got a good look at the perpetrator's face."
"It probably was one of the templar recruits. You know how they are," Hawke shrugged, eyes rolled skyward. "Speaking of which, Varric, do you know a discreet buyer I could sell this little trinket I found on my way over?" Hawke produced a templar helmet from under the table.
"Hawke!" Aveline groaned, covering her face with both hands.
"I found it, not stole it. There wasn't anyone around to miss it." said Hawke, acting like a child calling keepsies. "So, Varric." He looked over at the dwarf who was roaring with laughter.
"Yeah..." Varric said between spasms of laughter, "I know a buyer—Maker's piss, Hawke, I don't know what I'm going to do to embellish that story for print!"
Merrill giggled, "Oh you always make it more exciting Varric. Maybe Hawke will fight off a High Dragon with only his wits and rescue a damsel in distress? Not that your story wasn't exciting Hawke," she added hastily.
"And who would the damsel in distress be?" Hawke asked, eyes twinkling.
"Orsino perhaps?" Isabela grinned, "He is already wearing a dress. I should make that a friend fiction!" Her eyes took on a mischievious gleam as her mind conjured up another steamy encounter.
And Orsino looked up into Hawke's eyes, feeling his heart thrumming in his chest. The heat coming off the man was immense, so immense Orsino nearly swooned right then and there from the proximity. He could feel the other man's heart beating out a tempo similar to his own, wrapped as he was in those strong, tanned arms. Hawke looked down at him, perched upon the still-warm carcass of Knight Commander Meredith's pet dragon that the human had just slain in Orsino's defense. The thought of this man, willing to brave the Commander's High Dragon alone and unarmed for his sake set the First Enchanter's heart aflutter. Isabela's voice deepened, mimicing Orsino's tenor lilt.
"Hawke," he murmured, "I...I don't know what to say. How can I ever thank you?"
"For you, dear Orsino, I would do anything to see you safe from harm," Hawke answered, his voice deep and husky, his dark eyes warm enough to melt the elf's heart like a shard of ice in the fierce, glowing heat of summer.
"Hawke," Orsino said breathlessly, as his champion lowered his head, bringing their faces closer together, until their lips finally touched, the heat of the kiss making Orsino gasp with heady intoxication as he ran his hands down Hawke's rippling pectorals— Isabela stopped as her audience collapsed into fits of laughter.
Hawke, overcome with merriment and unable to speak, held up his hands in surrender, entreating her to stop.
"Oh, don't stop now! What happened next?" Merrill piped up. Her shoulders slumped in disappointment when Isabela shook her head.
"I'll write it out later, sweet thing. Otherwise the hero of our tale will expire," she grinned, "you can come help me if you want," she said with a wink.
Merrill brightened immediately. "Oh yes! I would love to help!"
Isabela tapped her chin pensively, then grinned. "Hmm, I'll call it, 'Great Balls of Fire—A tale of magic and lust!'"
Hawke, who had been gasping to get his breathing back under control, collapsed once more into uncontrollable laughter alongside Varric, who pointed a finger at the pirate, but was unable to utter a word for the sake of laughing.
"Andraste's flaming sword," Anders grimaced, the feelings of disgust and amusement warring in his expression, "Really, Isabela? Really?"
"Feeling jealous, sparky? Don't worry, I can work you in as a ménage à trois lover with Hawke and Orsino. Such a distinguished personage, I love how the grey hair goes with his eyes," Isabela chuckled as Hawke laughed harder. Anders rolled his eyes, giving up on the conversation.
"Ooh! Imagine what you could do with two mages in bed!" Isabela's eyes lit up.
"Sweet Maker, what have I done?" Anders held his hands up in mock horror.
"Better watch your step Varric, Isabela's gonna steal your reputation for storytelling if you don't watch out," Hawke said as he wiped the tears from his eyes.
"Oho, we can't have that now!" Varric rubbed his hands together, with a wide smile spread across his features.
Isabela leaned back into her chair and propped her feet up on the edge of the table.
"Write what you will, Varric, but I've got the smutty romance market cornered."
"Was that a challenge I heard uttered from your lips, Rivaini?"
Isabela grinned, "You bet your mother's knickers it was, handsome."
Varric smiled, "Challenge accepted! Whoever's got the most best sellers by Saturnalia gets all the profits from sales of the books written during the contest. Sound good?"
"Very good!" Isabela purred, "Now let's discuss minimum length requirements..."
"Sweet Maker, what have I done?" Hawke laughed.
The merry group of friends stayed up long into the night, talking and laughing until they finally staggered back to their respective homes in the dawn's early light. The sun peeked over the horizon in astonishment, and wondered what it had missed.
Author's note: Thanks to EasternViolet for her wonderful beta-reading skills and going along with my juvenile sense of humor! :D