Just A Normal Day In The Life Of The Champion

The Lowtown tavern was dimly lit, as always, with shadows pooling in every corner. The air smelled of spilled ale, damp wood, and desperation—the usual trifecta that made the Hanged Man feel like home. Sari Dalen sat at a crooked table in the far corner, the hood of her cloak pulled low over her face. She nursed a mug of lukewarm mead, her fingertips idly tracing the grooves in the battered wood. The moment the barman had said, "Hawke might be in later," she'd decided to wait.

She needed a favor, and who better to ask than the Champion of Kirkwall himself?

Sari was a former smuggler, turned reluctant merchant, turned... well, she wasn't quite sure what she was anymore. The Qunari invasion had ruined the precarious network of trade she'd spent years building. The docks were a mess, and half her old contacts had fled or vanished into the chaos. With the city trying to rebuild, a clever person could find opportunity—but Sari needed protection. She'd heard Hawke had a knack for helping people (or getting them into trouble). Either way, she had little to lose.

The door to the tavern creaked open, and Sari's eyes darted toward the entrance. A tall man strode in, his staff strapped across his back and a confident grin plastered across his face. Garrett Hawke.

"That's him," the bartender muttered as he slid another mug onto the counter.

Behind Hawke trailed Varric Tethras, the storyteller himself, already tossing a wink to the nearest waitress. The pair moved through the crowd like they owned the place, and judging by the whispers and stolen glances from the other patrons, they might as well have.

Sari straightened in her seat, trying to quell the nervous flutter in her chest. This was it.

Hawke spotted her almost immediately—probably because her "attempt at blending in" was terrible. He gave her an exaggerated bow, his grin widening.

"Well, well. Someone looks like they need a hero," he said, pulling out a chair and collapsing into it without waiting for an invitation.

Varric took the seat beside him, leaning back and crossing his arms. "Or someone made the mistake of thinking you're cheap help," the dwarf added with a smirk.

Sari hesitated, her hand tightening around her mug. "You don't even know what I want yet."

Hawke gestured grandly. "Ah, but that's the fun part. Lay it on me, mysterious stranger. What dire plight has brought you to the great Champion of Kirkwall?"

Varric snorted. "Ignore him. He just likes hearing himself talk. Go ahead, sweetheart—what's the job?"

Sari sighed. "It's not exactly a 'heroic' sort of job. More of a... logistical nightmare."

Hawke raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "I love nightmares. Especially logistical ones. Do continue."

"I need to recover a shipment," Sari said, keeping her voice low. "It was supposed to come in before the Qunari attacked, but everything went to Void when they took over the docks. It's still out there somewhere—probably in one of the warehouses near the Wounded Coast."

"Ah, the old 'missing cargo' dilemma," Hawke said, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "Classic. What's in it?"

"Supplies," Sari said evasively.

"What kind of supplies?"

"The kind you don't want guards sniffing around," she admitted.

Hawke's grin widened. "Oh, I like her. She's direct."

Varric chuckled. "Sounds like our kind of trouble. What's the catch?"

"The catch is that the area's crawling with raiders," Sari said. "They've moved in since the invasion, picking off anything the Qunari or the city guard didn't secure. I don't stand a chance on my own."

Hawke leaned back in his chair, looking entirely too pleased. "So, you need me to stroll into a raider-infested warehouse, fight off a bunch of cutthroats, and recover your illicit cargo. Is that about right?"

"...Yes."

"Sounds fun. I'm in."

Sari blinked. "Just like that?"

"Of course! Varric, you in?"

The dwarf rolled his eyes but smiled. "Someone's gotta keep you from getting yourself killed. Besides, I'm curious about what's in this shipment."

"It's nothing illegal," Sari said quickly.

Hawke leaned forward, his grin turning mischievous. "That's exactly what someone smuggling illegal goods would say."

Sari groaned. "Do you want the job or not?"

"Relax," Hawke said, waving a hand. "We're just giving you a hard time. We'll get your cargo back. But you owe me a drink when this is over."

"Deal," Sari said, relieved.

The job, of course, turned out to be more complicated than expected. The warehouse near the Wounded Coast was teeming with raiders, and the "supplies" turned out to be a mix of medical goods, rare herbs, and several crates of high-quality wine.

"Wine?" Varric said, dodging an arrow as the three of them fought their way through the warehouse. "All this trouble for wine?"

"It's really good wine!" Sari shouted, hurling a knife at a raider who was trying to flank them.

Hawke, meanwhile, was having the time of his life. He'd already set half the warehouse on fire with one well-placed fireball and was laughing as raiders scattered in panic.

"You know," he called to Sari over the chaos, "you could've just asked me for wine. I have a whole stash back at my estate!"

"This is not the time for jokes, Hawke!"

"It's always time for jokes!" he retorted, sending a bolt of lightning crackling toward the raiders' leader.

By the time the dust settled, the raiders were either dead or fleeing, and the cargo was safely secured. Sari leaned against a crate, catching her breath.

"You're insane," she said, staring at Hawke.

"Probably," he said cheerfully, wiping soot from his face. "But we got the job done, didn't we?"

Sari couldn't argue with that.

As they loaded the crates onto a borrowed cart, Varric nudged her with his elbow. "You know, you're lucky you caught him on a good day. He's usually much worse than this."

Sari smirked. "I think I can handle it."

"Don't say I didn't warn you."

As the trio returned to Kirkwall, the sun setting behind them, Sari couldn't help but feel a strange sense of hope. Maybe, just maybe, she'd found allies she could trust—or at least tolerate.

Hawke grinned at her as they reached the city gates. "So, about that drink you owe me…"

Sari rolled her eyes but smiled. "Fine. But you're buying the second round."

"Deal," Hawke said.

Varric chuckled. "You two are going to get along just fine."

Later that evening at the Hanged Man

The Hanged Man was in full swing, the usual din of drunken laughter and off-key singing echoing through the tavern. In a dark corner, a rowdy group of three sat around a rickety table, their mugs raised high.

"To barely surviving!" Hawke declared, sloshing ale onto the floor as he toasted. His face was flushed, his words slightly slurred.

"To barely surviving again," Varric corrected, clinking his mug against Hawke's.

Sari Dalen raised her own drink hesitantly, shaking her head at the two. "I feel like that's not something we should be proud of," she muttered, but her lips betrayed a smirk.

"Oh, come on," Hawke said, leaning back precariously in his chair. "Surviving is always worth celebrating. Especially when you do it with style. And fireballs."

"And wine," Varric added, grinning as he gestured toward the unopened bottle of the high-quality vintage they'd pilfered from the shipment. "Speaking of which, I think it's time to open this bad boy. A proper victory drink!"

Sari groaned. "I'm pretty sure that wine belongs to a client."

Hawke leaned forward, his elbow on the table, and gave her a crooked grin. "Do you really want to explain to some crusty merchant why you let a perfectly good bottle of wine go to waste?"

She hesitated, then sighed. "Fine. But if this comes back to bite me, I'm blaming you."

"It always comes back to bite me," Hawke said cheerfully. "Welcome to my life."

Varric popped the cork with a flourish and poured the wine into their mismatched mugs, even spilling a little in the process. Hawke raised his mug high.

"To terrible decisions!"

"To regretting this tomorrow," Sari muttered, but she clinked her mug with theirs anyway.

Two hours—and several rounds—later, the three of them were thoroughly drunk. Sari had long since abandoned her usual guarded demeanor, her laughter ringing out across the tavern as Hawke regaled her with increasingly ridiculous tales of his exploits.

"So there we were," Hawke said, gesturing wildly and nearly knocking his mug off the table, "in the Deep Roads, surrounded by darkspawn. And who do we find in the middle of it all? A dwarf who thought it was a great idea to set up shop down there. Selling boot polish, of all things!"

Sari doubled over, clutching her stomach. "Boot polish?!"

"I'm serious!" Hawke said, laughing so hard he had tears in his eyes. "And you know what the best part was? Varric actually bought some."

"It was good polish," Varric said defensively, though his smirk betrayed him.

"You're all insane," Sari said, still giggling.

"And you love it," Hawke shot back, winking at her.

Her laughter faltered for a moment, her cheeks flushing—not entirely from the alcohol. She shook her head, taking another swig of wine. "You're impossible, Hawke."

"Impossible to resist," he said with a roguish grin.

Varric groaned, covering his face with his hands. "And there it is. The inevitable 'Hawke flirts with the newcomer' phase. Maker, help us all."

"Hey!" Hawke said, feigning indignation. "I don't flirt with everyone."

"Just anyone who's breathing," Varric quipped.

Sari snorted into her mug, but she didn't pull away when Hawke leaned closer, his eyes glinting with mischief. "Ignore him," he said, his voice dropping just enough to make her stomach flutter. "He's just jealous."

"Jealous of what?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"This," Hawke said, gesturing to himself. "The complete package. Hero, mage, devastatingly handsome…"

"And humble," Sari added dryly, though her smile betrayed her amusement.

By the time the tavern was nearly empty, the three of them were slouched over the table, laughing and bickering like old friends. Hawke had taken to dramatically reciting snippets of poetry—terribly—and Varric was egging him on, offering increasingly ridiculous prompts.

"I think you've had enough," Sari said, plucking the mug out of Hawke's hand.

"Enough? Never!" Hawke declared, though his words were slurred and his head was wobbling dangerously. "I could drink... forever."

"You can barely sit up," she pointed out, stifling a laugh.

"Not true," he said, leaning toward her with a lazy grin. "I'm perfectly capable. Watch."

He tried to sit up straighter, but instead, he toppled forward, his head landing on her shoulder. Sari froze, her heart skipping a beat as his warm breath tickled her neck.

"You're comfy," he murmured, his voice muffled.

"Oh, for Andraste's sake," Varric said, rolling his eyes. "I'm out. If you two are going to make moon eyes at each other, I'm not sticking around to witness it."

Sari flushed, gently pushing Hawke upright. "I think we've all had enough for tonight."

"I'm fine," Hawke insisted, though he was swaying slightly. "Perfectly fine. And you… you're amazing. Did I tell you that?"

"Only about five times," she said, smirking.

"Well, it's true," he said, his tone suddenly sincere. "You're… amazing, Sari. Brave. Smart. And… really, really pretty."

She blinked, caught off guard by the earnestness in his voice. "You're drunk," she said softly.

"Maybe," he said, his lopsided grin returning. "But it doesn't make it any less true."

They stumbled out of the Hanged Man sometime before dawn, the cool night air sobering them slightly. Varric had long since disappeared, leaving Sari and Hawke alone as they made their way back toward Hightown.

"Thanks," Sari said, breaking the silence.

"For what?" Hawke asked, glancing at her.

"For… tonight," she said. "For helping me. For… everything."

He smiled, his expression unusually soft. "Anytime."

They stopped in front of the gate to his estate, the city quiet around them. Sari hesitated, glancing at him. "I should go."

"You don't have to," Hawke said, his voice low.

Her breath hitched as he stepped closer, his hand brushing hers. "Hawke…"

"Stay," he said, his eyes searching hers.

For a moment, she hesitated. Then, throwing caution to the wind, she closed the distance between them.

By the time the sun rose over Kirkwall, the city was stirring to life, blissfully unaware of the chaos that would come later. For now, though, in the quiet of the Champion's estate, the world could wait.

The next Day…

Hawke stretched lazily in bed, the sunlight streaming through the curtains doing nothing to ease the pounding in his head. His estate was unnervingly quiet. Normally, his dog would be at his bedside, drooling on his boots, or Sandal would be clattering around with his enchantments. But today? Silence.

He rolled over and found himself face-to-face with Sari, her hair tousled from sleep. For a moment, he blinked, as if trying to piece together how they'd ended up here.

"Good morning, Champion," Sari said, smirking, though she looked just as groggy as he felt.

"Good morning," he replied with a grin that was entirely too smug for someone clearly suffering from a hangover. "How's the head? And don't say 'attached to my shoulders.' Varric's already used that one."

She groaned, rubbing her temples. "It feels like someone shoved a Qunari warhorn into it. And blew. Twice."

"That's the sign of a proper Kirkwall night," Hawke said, sitting up and ruffling his already messy hair. "And of course, the sign that something terrible is about to happen."

As if on cue, the door to the estate slammed open.

"Sodding raiders!" Varric bellowed, storming into the bedroom without so much as a knock. "Hawke, you idiot! You couldn't just let sleeping dogs lie, could you?"

Hawke blinked, looking between Varric and Sari. "Did I do something, or is this one of those 'guilty by association' things?"

Varric sighed dramatically. "The raiders from the warehouse? You remember them, right? Big, ugly, smelled like fish? Well, their leader is alive, and he's not happy. He's taken over the Hanged Man."

Sari sat bolt upright. "Wait, what? The Hanged Man? Why?"

"Oh, I don't know," Varric said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Maybe because you lot burned down his operation, stole his wine, and embarrassed him in front of his lackeys? He's demanding you show up—or he's going to burn the tavern down with everyone inside."

"Everyone?" Hawke repeated, his face suddenly serious.

"Everyone," Varric confirmed. "Florianne, the barmaids, half the usual drunks. Even Corff."

"Not Corff," Hawke said, standing and grabbing his staff. "Who will pour my drinks?"

Sari was already moving, buckling her belt and grabbing her daggers. "This is my fault," she muttered. "If I hadn't dragged you into this, they wouldn't—"

"Stop right there," Hawke interrupted, pointing his staff at her like it was a scolding finger. "If anyone's going to take the blame, it's me. I'm the one who burned down half the warehouse. And besides, what's the point of being the Champion if I don't get to have fun with it?"

Sari gave him an incredulous look. "This isn't fun. This is people's lives."

"Exactly," Hawke said, grinning. "That's why we're going to go save them. And maybe blow something up along the way."

The Hanged Man was eerily quiet as they approached. The usual rowdy laughter and clinking of mugs were replaced by the sight of raiders patrolling the outside, weapons at the ready. Smoke wafted from the windows—not from fire, but from overturned barrels of ale being wasted on the floor.

"Bastards," Varric muttered under his breath. "That's good ale."

Inside, the raiders' leader, a scarred and hulking man named Kael Ravok, paced the room with a sneer. He was flanked by a handful of lieutenants, and the patrons of the tavern were huddled together in a corner, watched by armed guards.

"Are you sure about this?" Sari whispered as they crouched behind a stack of barrels outside the tavern. "This is my mess. I should go in alone."

"Not a chance," Hawke said, his expression uncharacteristically serious. "You're not getting rid of me that easily."

"She's not wrong, Hawke," Varric added. "This is her mess."

Hawke shot him a glare. "I thought you were supposed to be on my side."

"I am," Varric said with a shrug. "Which is why I'm staying out of the way while you two charge in there like lunatics. Don't worry—I'll cover you from the door."

Hawke sighed. "Fine. Just don't steal all the glory."

What followed was pure chaos. Hawke kicked open the door, announcing their arrival with a blast of fire that sent the nearest raiders scrambling for cover. Varric's crossbow, Bianca, sang its familiar song, and Sari darted through the melee like a shadow, her daggers flashing in the dim light.

"Ravok!" Sari shouted, vaulting over a table and landing a kick squarely in the chest of one of his lieutenants. "You want me? Come and get me!"

Ravok laughed, stepping forward with a massive sword resting on his shoulder. "Sari Dalen. I was wondering when you'd show up."

"You know each other?" Hawke asked, fending off three raiders at once with a sweep of his staff.

"She owes me," Ravok growled. "A ship. A crew. And a reputation."

"Yeah, well," Sari said, circling him warily, "you weren't exactly using them for honest work."

"You're one to talk," Ravok snarled, swinging his sword at her.

The fight was brutal. Ravok was fast for someone his size, and his strikes forced Sari to stay on the defensive. Meanwhile, Hawke and Varric worked to clear the room of raiders, with Hawke making quips between fireballs.

"Careful, Ravok!" Hawke called. "She's got a thing for leaving men disappointed."

"I hate you," Sari muttered as she ducked under another swing.

"You love me," Hawke replied with a grin, sending a lightning bolt crackling across the room.

Eventually, Sari found her opening. As Ravok overextended on a swing, she darted in, driving one of her daggers into his side. He stumbled, cursing, but before he could recover, Hawke hit him with a blast of force magic that sent him crashing into a table.

The patrons of the Hanged Man erupted in cheers as the last of the raiders were dealt with. Florianne immediately started scolding everyone for the mess, while Corff poured celebratory drinks.

"You really know how to make an impression," Sari said to Hawke as they slumped into a booth, battered and exhausted.

"What can I say?" Hawke replied, raising a mug of ale. "I live to serve."

Sari hesitated, then smiled. "Well, I guess I owe you another drink."

"And another night?" he asked, his tone teasing but his eyes sincere.

She laughed, shaking her head. "We'll see."