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[battlemaged]

© TESSISAMESS

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[buttonedup]

The dust had settled from Cassandra's confrontation with Varric. She was no longer so focused on her own failures, on the betrayal by a dwarf she had been starting to consider a friend. With that clarity came the realisation that Hawke was actually here, the Champion of Kirkwall, an enigma Cassandra had come to accept she would never meet...

While she had read Varric's book cover-to-cover, more times than she'd care to count, even after having driven a knife through her well-loved copy of the tome, there was something promising, even intoxicating, about the prospect of being able to hear the stories of that time straight from the man himself. Surely Hawke did not possess Varric's tendency towards embellishment, towards untruthfulness. Hawke could simply tell her what had actually happened.

It wasn't as though she doubted the stories of Hawke's great deeds at the very foundation, it was simply that as a touted Hero herself, the Hero of Orlais, she knew how tall tales could grow in the retelling, and to be honest with herself, it wasn't that she wanted to be proven right, it was that a part of her, deep-down, wanted to believe the stories.

Truth be told, Cassandra was feeling more than a bit star-struck, and on one fine chilly day at Skyhold, when she notices the man standing on the battlements, she decides this is the day that she will make her approach. Even though she feels she will never be ready for this conversation, when has Cassandra Pentaghast ever shied away from doing something she felt necessary?

She clears her throat as she nears the mage, not wanting to be accused of sneaking up on him, even though her footsteps are heavy as she walks with intent. After a moment of uncertainty in which she realises she knows not how to address him, she instead dives straight into conversation.

"I'm sure Varric has told you much about me," she starts, a small smile playing at her lips. "The stories are only mostly true."

[battlemaged]

He'd grown used to being alone. Away from the hustle and bustle of cities, out in the wilderness where he led the templars and other bounty hunters out for his head on a merry chase, because it was the only way he could be sure to keep those he loved safe. But after Maker knew how many months of endless traveling, the sky had split open, and the world had gone up in flames. Chaos abounded, the Divine assassinated on the eve of a conclave of peace.

And Maker, to learn that it was Corypheus, a monster he himself had defeated and left as naught else but ashes in the Deep Roads, responsible for this entire mess, well. That burden had been weighing heavy on his shoulders ever since Varric told him.

That burden had brought him here, to Skyhold, "guest" of a novice Inquisitor at the head of a young but growing institution. He'd taken a huge chance, coming here; there were still many seeking to claim the bounty on his head, but this young Trevelyan seemed to have her head on straight, at least. She'd opted to hear him out, weigh her options, and come to the same conclusion Hawke had: Stroud needed to be found, and they all needed to work together to solve the mystery of the missing Wardens (Hawke's brother among them) and heal the Maker-damned sky.

But the noise of a keep was still...unnerving, after so many months of solitude, and Hawke had taken to frequenting Skyhold's high battlements just to gain a bit of peace and quiet. And perspective, lest that be forgotten. He still spent evenings with Varric in the tavern, and the two old friends spent most of the nights talking and drinking, soaking up each other's company to tide them both over during the months - years - they'd have to be inevitably separated.

Most of Skyhold's residents gave him a healthy berth; Hawke had made a point of stating that he was no longer the "Champion of Kirkwall", or the "Champion" of anything, really, and he suspected Varric's hand in making sure that stuck. Nevertheless, he'd heard of the altercation between his beloved dwarf and the Chantry Seeker right after his arrival, and had just kept his distance. Varric was still smarting from it - Hawke didn't blame him one bit - but it did surprise the mage when, one bright but cold afternoon, he heard measured steps approaching and lifted a sharp eyebrow in complete surprise to see the Seeker herself joining him on the parapet.

"Lady Seeker," he replied, inclining his head politely. But warily. Even though he couldn't help his crooked smile at her opening salvo. "Only mostly? That's a shame. Here I'd come to believe you were ten feet tall, breathed fire hotter than a dragon, and ate small children for breakfast." Then he winked at her. "Glad to see Varric was exaggerating."

[buttonedup]

If anything, Cassandra prefers the ridiculous exaggerations, the ones that could not be true even if she tried, because it is obvious that they are not meant to be believed. She makes a noise, somewhere between a chuckle and a scoff, at Hawke's descriptions, only to be completely blindsided by that wink.

Was he...? No, surely not. She was overthinking things, as was her custom in these situations. She clears her throat as though in attempt to regain her footing in the conversation: so many hours, days, months she'd spent trying to find Hawke, how foolish it would be to now grow weak at the knees simply at the mere fact of being in his presence!

"A true pity I am not taller," she says, with an exaggerated sigh, "although anyone would appear to be such a height from a dwarf's perspective."

Speaking of height, Cassandra must admit that the Champion of Kirkwall is even taller than she had anticipated; more solid as well. She has known many mages throughout her life, and none had been quite so muscular. Not that this observation was of any relevance to their conversation, of course.

As usual when it came to more social pursuits, Cassandra had made her approach without much thought about where the conversation would go next. She stumbles over her own thoughts for a moment before finally settling on asking, "How are you finding Skyhold?"

[battlemaged]

Her observation about dwarf height actually made him chuckle, a slanted grin following. But Hawke had to agree. "They don't have far to fall when they keel over at the ale barrel, either." For all of Varric's blustering about dwarven constitutions, Hawke had hauled his drunken friend out of the Hanged Man more than enough times. The memory brought another chuckle, and a cynical sparkle to tired blue eyes.

But to answer her question... "It's damned impressive." At first sight, at least. "Big place, solid enough to hold off a siege for a good while." The mage glanced around the battlements, introspective. "Vulnerable to aerial attack, however. I'd inquire of the commander to perhaps situate a few catapults or smaller trebuchets up here, just in case." But it wasn't his job to plan battles or devise tactics.

"Still, it's a good place for the Inquisition, from what I've seen."

Musing quietly a moment, Hawke eased over to lean against the parapet, hands clasped as he gazed out over the brilliantly white mountainside. "Allow me, Seeker," he said after a minute or so of quiet. "To apologize, at least." Hawke sighed, dark head lowering before he straightened and turned back to Cassandra.

"Varric didn't tell me about his capture and interrogation. Nor did he inform me that you were looking for me. If he had...I don't know. I might have agreed to at least meet with you, discuss a few things...as long as you weren't trying to take my head back with you." Hawke shook his head again, chagrined. Mostly at himself.

"I don't fault Varric for playing his cards so close - I understand why he did and I'm grateful for it, and always will be." He plowed a hand through his hair, wondering exactly how to say it. "I suppose I just...I just wish circumstances had been different, that's all. That we might have been able to save more lives." Hawke gave her a somewhat sheepish grin, expression oddly boyish. "Does that make any sort of sense at all?"

[buttonedup]

Her brows are furrowed as she listens to his apology, not due to a lack of understanding but rather because she finds such words unnecessary. If anyone should be saying sorry to her, it should be Varric, but that conversation was done. Over. While she had started to develop a certain fondness for the dwarf, she knew there were many matters they would never seen eye-to-eye on, and this was simply another one of them.

An unkind part of herself wonders whether Varric had been right, wonders if she'd had friends she'd understand the steps one might take to protect them, but there's nothing to be gained by nurturing that speculation. She didn't understand, and she doubted she ever would.

"It does," she assures him, as she tries to weave some thread of meaning out of the events that had led them to where they were today. "Perhaps he knew you too well. Knew you would agree to meet me." Cassandra knew that she would be furious, in Hawke's position, to have decisions made for her, but she was learning, slowly but surely, that not everyone in Thedas was exactly like her.

And thank the Maker they weren't!

A small smile curves upon her face once more as she continues. "I was not expecting such a sound examination of the castle's defenses. I will have to pass your comments on to the Commander." They certainly could be made use of, she thinks, especially if they encounter more Maker-forsaken dragons. The smile fades slightly as she hunches her shoulders awkwardly; she feels as though she ought to clarify her previous question.

"For what it's worth, I was asking on a more... personal note. That is, have people been treating you well? Are you accommodations suitable?"

Maker, but she is bad at this. These conversations certainly are more the Ambassador's forte.

Still, she cannot deny herself her curiosity.

[battlemaged]

Hawke blinked. "Oh." Then gave a short laugh. "For the most part, yes. There were a few double-takes and long stares when I first rode through the gates, admittedly. I'm not sure if they expected me to implode on the spot or turn into a dragon. But Varric did well in keeping most of the keep blissfully unaware of my presence. Particularly the mercenaries who are now working for the Inquisition."

He gestured down the parapet, silently inviting Cassandra to walk along with him. "And other than being dismally cold, perpetually damp, and woefully underfurnished, my guest room's just fine. It's private, thankfully, so there's not much chance of random folks just dropping by for a visit." But his smile belied any real complaint, and he added, "Believe me, after being on the move for more than a year now, any sort of quarters are heavenly."

Hawke snorted lightly. "I'd even be grateful to bunk down in the stables, if it came to that. Provided the horses could tolerate my snoring."

But he gave Cassandra a speculative glance as they strolled along the battlement. "Although I do appreciate the concern, Seeker, what's your real reason for asking? Or are your queries more academic than sincere?"

[buttonedup]

Cassandra blanches when Hawke asks her about motives; she hadn't intended to be so obvious, so transparent. With a quick shake of the head, she does her best to dismiss any notions of ulterior motives. "I am not here on official business," she assures Hawke, as she begins to stride alongside him, in easy acceptance of his invitation.

She huffs lightly before continuing. "Is it so wrong to want to learn more about a man who I've heard so much about?" A man she had worked so hard to find, she wants to say, but decides that is better left unsaid, perhaps even goes without saying at all. What she cannot help but add, however, is a mild jest.

"If you do decide you would prefer to bunk down in the stables, you may have to fight it out with Warden Blackwall. I do believe he is already quite established there."

[battlemaged]

Her quip actually made him laugh, his humor, though tired and worn-slap-out, coming through with astonishing ease. "I think I'll hold off on declaring war on the Wardens, Seeker, but thank you anyway." Blue eyes sparkled beneath the mop of dark hair. "He can have the stables. My tower is comfortable enough."

Her curiosity wasn't so totally out of place, though. So many people had read Varric's book; it still astounded him how far the tales had spread. And while the dwarf had taken a few liberties here and there, he'd gotten most of it exactly right, much to Hawke's never-ending sorrow.

"Well, what would you like to know?" Blinking, Hawke realized that he'd inadvertently set himself up, but what the hell? It wasn't as if she were going to behead him now. ...was she?

"Tell you what, my lady, let's fetch up with a few barrels of Skyhold's good ale, a quiet corner in which to swill it, and I'll answer whatever question you ask." He paused, then added, "...er, within reason, of course." Surely spending a little time in good company - and somehow attractive company - wasn't frowned upon around here, was it?

[buttonedup]

She is surprised at the mage's easy offer, but not displeased. Perhaps she should not be so astonished; according to her sources (the book and straight from dwarf's mouth itself), the Champion had always been a personable fellow, the type to collect a ragtag group of miscreants and drag them across the countryside.

It amuses her, to think of herself as one of his followers. At first, she offers only a huff in response to the question, but after another moment or two of consideration she smiles, more easily than she had expected. "All right. So long as it's the good ale."

The Ambassador would understand. If anything, Josephine would be delighted to hear that Cassandra is making connections, which only strengths her resolve to not let the other woman find out about it. Not that there's any real point in trying to keep secrets around the hold. The walls have ears. Leliana's ears.

There's one more point which she feels the need to clarify. "And," she begins sharply, "you promise not to call me a 'lady' again." She might be seventy-eighth in line to the Nevarran throne, but she'd like to not be reminded of that fact, thank you very much.

Here Lies the Abyss, the Night Between;

[riftblade]

The thing that bothered here about these nights was that there was nothing for her to do. Skyhold was alive with motion, ever since Stroud and Hawke had returned, confirming the location of the Wardens and the demon army-to-be. But no one needed an Inquisitor just yet.

Cullen was going over maps of the fortress that Stroud had drawn up, going over the choke points they were hoping to use to put pressure on the Warden forces despite their defensive advantage. Everyone had something to do it seemed, but she'd already checked her gear and that of her friends. It didn't make her any less antsy, however.

She wandered between her companions and advisors, as if they might discover a last-minute shortage of Elfroot that would somehow require her personal attention. Eventually Varric suggested she go play cards and have a drink- or sleep, if she could. Maille clinked and swords rattled and provisions were packed for travel to the Western Approach, so the later wasn't particularly likely. She did make a vague attempt. But even had Skyhold not been alive with the sound of a battle to come, she could feel it on her skin. The adrenaline like a tangible thing, the energy of it, and it put her far too on edge.

She'd initially considered the inn, but it was even more packed than usual. The clink of mugs, and the rattle of helmets, boasts and murmurs. Anticipation edged in fear as soldiers stopped running drills and took what time they could before the march was called. But it was a bit too much for El, so she stayed just long enough to grab a bottle to go along with the deck of cards.

Normally it was Iron Bull she'd have asked, but he was in the back of the Inn with his Chargers, and she didn't want to pull him away. But maybe that was just an excuse.

Instead she was knocking on the door of the room that Josie had managed to come up with after moving another guest or two- chambers befitting the Champion of Kirkwall. It was almost as nice as her own, albeit without the view. She had passed him not too long before, and figured he was probably still awake. And she had wanted to get to know him better.

[battlemaged]

The irony of his quarters wasn't lost on Hawke. Yes, he'd lived for nearly a decade in one of the finest mansions in Kirkwall's High Town, but empires always fell even easier as they rose, and for the last several years, he'd laid his head wherever he could. And bless the Inquisitor, she'd insisted that he be given 'top tier' quarters here at Skyhold, although he'd assured the Inquisition's ambassador that wasn't necessary; he'd be just as well off in some quiet place on the battlements, or even the stables, if it came to that. Nevertheless, all of them had insisted, and Varric had quietly advised him to just agree, so he had.

It had proven a welcome godsend, surprisingly; while decidedly more opulent that he'd grown accustomed to, his fortress quarters were comfortable, warm, and above all else, private. He really didn't want to have to make a scene here at Skyhold by burning the daylights out of some coin-grubbing idiot determined to collect the bounty still decorating the Champion of Kirkwall's head.

Hawke and Stroud had only just returned from their reconnaissance of Adamant, and after reporting their findings to the Inquisitor's war council, Hawke, at least, had disappeared into his quarters, pouring over each and every correspondence he'd received from the Wardens over the past years. Particularly those from his brother, Carver. He'd begun this insane quest in attempt to find his sibling, having had no word from Carver since the fall of Kirkwall. And now, Corypheus, mage-templar war, and a Maker-damned hole in the sky.

He was afraid to even breathe the words, "What next?"

Tomorrow, the Inquisition marched. Hawke had met with Cullen earlier, pointing out structural weaknesses in the fortress's defenses, and had also spent a good portion of the afternoon with the Lady Seeker, the young Inquisitor, and the Spymaster, he and Stroud assisting with tactical intelligence and outlining battle scenarios. It was going to be a brutal endeavor, of that he was certain.

But sunset saw him back in his quarters, once more reading over Carver's letters, wondering in the back of his mind if he ever would see his brother again. The only family he had left, now. Then a soft knock on his door brought him out of his broody reverie, and the mage straightened, shoved the parchments back in his satchel, and went to open the door, more than a little surprised to see the Inquisitor standing there, seemingly looking...a little lost.

He could relate, truly.

"Lady Trevelyan." He opened the door further, and gestured her inside. "Please, come in." Although he had no idea what she was doing here, at this time of night. "Um...what can I do for you?"

[riftblade]

She steps inside, holding up the cards with a sort of sheepish smile that definitely didn't suit the image of the Herald they tell in the stories. Either some golden-ringed saint or bloody-fingered demon, depending on their view of the Inquisition. "You mind humoring me with a hand or two of Wicked Grace?" She says it with a bit of good humor, but the shadows in her eyes are heavier, darker than that. But she still looks a little bit hopeful as she peers up at Hawke. Estella is petite, a slender woman with curves usually hidden under the cloth and leather layers of her gear.

"I can't sleep on nights like these, but there's nothing I can do until we get to Adamant." Yes, she knows that being here so late is a little bit presumptuous. But it had been nice -- talking to him on the battlements, having someone that understood what it was to carry so much weight on her shoulders. The way that the name Herald of Andraste tasted like ashes on the air, like the words might strangle her with so much expectation.

"Well, and I think Cassandra was starting to consider having me restrained again if I didn't get out of her hair." There's a wry curl to her lips, a touch of humor to temper the way that she feels a little lost sometimes. Especially tonight. These nights before the big battle when the world holds its breath and all eyes- and hopes- are pinned on her. But for the moment, she doesn't talk about that part of it.

It feels a little bit indulgent, honestly. The prospect of taking time for herself for a few hours this close to the battle, doing something that isn't about the coming fight, or the fight against Corypheus at all, really. Just- there's something about Hawke that she likes. Something to that presence that he has, and it feels like cool air. Maybe she's a little bit charmed, but she's always been a flirt, so that's maybe less surprising. Maybe the more surprising part is that she had always been more interested in Anders, back in the days before the Conclave.

But she'd been young and angry, then. She's still passionate, but her temper has cooled, buried a little bit deeper. Not the same young woman that had snapped at Cullen about wanting her to be a good little mage in those first days at Haven.

"Varric says you're not bad, which is high praise from what I can tell."

[battlemaged]

A corner of Hawke's mouth tilted, hearing her reasoning. So he closed the door behind her, and a wave of his hand saw a few more logs settling on the fire, the blaze leaping gratefully. He wasn't averse to a little chill, but there was no reason for the both of them to be cold.

"Sure. Have a seat." His quarters did sport more than a barrel and a few buckets for furniture, so Hawke pulled out one of the chairs near the desk, and took the other for himself. The quip about Varric made him laugh, though, and he shook his head in mirthful amusement.

"High praise, indeed," Hawke agreed, indicating her to shuffle and deal, if she wished. "But then, he's known for embellishment, so perhaps you shouldn't believe everything you hear, Lady Trevelyan." A smile and a wink followed, the mage's large hands comfortably laced together as he leaned his arms on the desk.

a road between worlds

[knucklesdirty]

The Fade was a strange thing, a strange place. And Francis, well.. this wasn't his first experience with forces that make space and time strange.

When he'd ended up stuck in this strange place, he'd just sort of accepted that he was going to die here. But he made it through the first cluster of demons, and after that he was careful, quiet. Still wasn't sure there was a way out or through, but the blonde wasn't the sort of person that gave in just because the odds were bad.

Francis had smothered his abilities since he'd first realized he had them. That way that his father had insisted that using his powers would lead to the death of them all. But he can't really do that here; light sparks in his fingers, shifts to fire and cinders. It helps him survive almost as much as his arrows.

He could have been there days or minutes or maybe both at the same time, but he's suddenly not alone anymore. The air seems to pull apart and then suddenly there are others and a plan, and the power to get them all out, turning Francis into something of an unexpected tag-along. However, the fact that he doesn't belong here doesn't prevent Nightmare from from catching the echoes of his fears.

<< You can't save them all. You can't save any of them. >>

Words breathed by that voice on the air, as it tries to tug at each of them, pulls their fears to the surface, puts them into words. But the blonde just shrugs it off, lips pulled into a tight line and his next arrow glows as he puts it through the cluster of eyes on one of the lesser fears they've been fighting. "That the best you can do?" It's an easy quip, but his deep blue eyes darken. It says more than he'd like about who he is, who he's been.

He tries to volunteer to stay at the end, says that he doesn't belong here, but Stroud says he's too young to throw his life away, and there's little room for protests before the Inquisitor drags them all back through. They step off the path into a castle of stone, into a world nearly as strange to Francis as the one before it.

He goes with them as they return to Skyhold, has to ride with someone because the young man has never seen a horse, let alone ridden one before. (Most of the soldiers present get a good laugh when he falls trying to get into the saddle the first time.)

He lays low for the most part while the Inquisitor speaks to the war council. There wasn't exactly time for anyone to ask about his background in the Fade, though his clothes were notably strange but he manages to avoid having that conversation with anyone. But Hawke likely notices the way that Francis handles him differently than most people. Like there are no words like Champion of Kirkwall; even if there were, Francis probably doesn't know what it means.

He's in the gardens early, because they're quiet; no one around except Mother Gisele who is wise enough to keep to herself and pretend not to notice. It gives Francis a space to try and practice where he's not too worried about setting everything on fire, or blinding someone. It starts with light in his palm, and then it's fire, snaking tendrils that reach, and then-- and then he loses control, cursing sharply as the power slides back toward the source, and he doesn't have the experience to be able to insulate his body.

When he straightens, he catches sight of a familiar face- Rowen- and he winces. And it's not just because of burning his hand. There's a disquiet to it, a flash of panic, before he pushes it down. Despite having seen Hawke use magic in the Fade, there's this knee-jerk moment like he's been caught, but the blonde turns it into a sheepish smile. Softly running his good hand through his hair even as he bites his lip.

"It's not as bad as it looks," he insists softly. Although it looks like the man could use a bit of healing magic from the look of those burns.

[riftblade]

She slides into the seat he pulls out for her with a slight murmur of not-quite-voiced thanks, and sets the bottle of wine she'd liberated from the tavern with a touch of something wicked. "I came armed with bribery, just in case," she teases. And she does appreciate the warmth of the fire, even if she's rather accustomed to the fury of the elements by this point. She still preferred a bit of heat to the air on autumn nights like this where it was possible. And it did add a certain coziness, an edge of something inviting to the space, although Hawke did pretty well on that account all by himself.

Not what she'd expected of the Champion of Kirkwall, but that was almost a good thing. He was more approachable, more human than she'd thought he would be. He was someone that she could trust, whose aid she welcomed in a fight.

It's nice though, hearing him laugh, and it makes her eyes prick with something playful as she hums thoughtfully for a moment, a slight tilt of her head as she regards him. "You are right about that. So who knows if it's true or not. I suppose I should just find out for myself." And it's on that note that she picks up the deck of cards, shuffling with an ease that definitely hints at familiarity. The Circles might officially frown upon Wicked Grace making its way into the hands of Apprentices, but that just made it more enticing.

She deals the cards easily, that slight glint of her red nails as she deals their cards, setting the deck down and then carefully looking over her cards as she fans them out in her fingers. Not a bad hand, but not great either, but it was the first hand of the night, so she wasn't too worried.

"How are you holding up?" It's a soft question, more earnest, a little raw around the edges.

[taleofthe]

Gamlen’s house is practically full to bursting, with Líadan, her mother, both her brothers, her sister and Gamlen himself within its walls. They’re in each other’s pockets and stepping on each other’s toes. There’s a lot of tension. Maybe that’s why Líadan endeavours to spend as little time there as possible. There’s a lot that needs to be done, if they’re to put together the gold for the expedition. And to return the Amell estate to Leandra.

And being stuck in the house with Carter is… a lot. Don’t get her wrong, she’s deeply glad that he survived the encounter with the ogre; losing him would have been devastating. But Maker’s BREATH is he trying at times. Worse than before, she thinks.

Which is why she meets her twin’s gaze and tilts her head towards the door, an unspoken ’want to get out of here?’ in the gesture. They can hit up The Hanged Man, maybe. Or ANYwhere else at this point. There’s bound to be trouble they can get into something they can find to fill their time that doesn’t involve staying in their cramped abode.

Scarcely even waiting for his response she starts towards the door.

for endof_theline

[battlemaged]

[ ⬅ for previous ]

"But of course. I'm not half the storyteller that Varric is, but hopefully you'll find the tales entertaining."

Hawke frowned somewhat thoughtfully at Bucky's description of the Great Depression, however. He could definitely relate, given what had befallen his home village back in Ferelden.

"'tis a hard thing," he agreed with a sigh, shaking his head sadly. "My family too went through many hardships of a similar sort - one such circumstance was what actually forced us to flee to Kirkwall." And then history had been forever made.

"It seems you're quite right; different worlds but very much the same." He had to grin, slanting it over in Bucky's direction. "Ironic, isn't it?"

[endof_theline]

"Lucky for you I don't know Varric's tales, so I'll never compare."

He figures most worlds can relate to something like the Great Depression, "Most can be traced back to wars, and lead to wars. It's never ending." And Bucky can't stand it. He never wanted to go to war in the first place.

"It's funny- everyone thinks they're the superior country, superior planet, all that crap. We're all the same." He doesn't really smile about it, though.

[battlemaged]

"One day, perhaps." Maker knew, the penchant for the dwarf getting tired of his best friend being a literal world away and taking it upon himself to find his own way here was...fairly high, Hawke figured. Though he sighed and nodded sad agreement with his companion's comments. "Indeed. Utterly senseless. And you're right, never-ending."

He was about to say something else, but suddenly stopped right in the middle of the sidewalk, head up, gaze arrested, and frowning like a thundercloud in the direction of a pitch-dark alley across the relatively empty street. Without even realizing it, Hawke placed a hand on Bucky's sleeve, saying tightly, "--a moment."

The air around them suddenly grew...tight, as if it had been abruptly sucked out of a vacuum, and the mage made a peculiar gesture with his free hand, and without any other warning a bright light suddenly flared in the alley, and the screech of several surprised felines echoed across the street, along with the crash of several overturned metal garbage cans. A bit of muffled swearing followed, then faded in the opposite direction.

The light then winked out, once more swathing the corridor in darkness. Hawke snorted, dropped his hands, and started off again, rolling his eyes.

"Apologies," he offered by way of explanation. "Thought I heard...something over there."

[endof_theline]

Bucky tenses up, shifting into full alert. Whatever goes down has his eyebrows shooting up as he watches the light in the alleyway. He doesn't always carry a gun anymore, but his hand still moves to where a holster would be.

When Rowen reacts so casually, Bucky presses his lips into a thin line, eying him for a moment, then the alley again. "What was that? Who was that?"

[battlemaged]

"That was magic," Hawke answered genially, making a sweeping gesture for Bucky to join him down the sidewalk. "I'm not particularly keen on lurkers in dark places, so I decided to shed a little light on their activities." A pause then a grin. "So to speak."

Amusement faded as he continued to answer the questions. "As to who, well, I'm not entirely sure. If I had to hazard a guess, I believe it to be some of the hoodlums that I ran afoul of shortly after arriving. Those who'd been hassling the Livingstons."

He huffed an exasperated sigh and again shook his head. Idiots were prevalent across the realms, apparently. "They didn't take too kindly to being roundly trounced by a, to them, unarmed, nonthreatening man." Hawke shrugged. "I thought I was quite charitable. I didn't break a single bone among the six of them."

But.

"But, it seems revenge is a lingering dish; I've noticed a few following me here and there. They definitely know where I'm living, but the last two who tried to break into the building...well, let's just say elemental magic is good for more than just making it rain or starting campfires."

[endof_theline]

"You could've warned me that that's what you were doing, man." He's kind of jumpy, but he tries to sound casual about it. "I'm a jump into action kinda guy and I was about to do just that."

It makes sense why Hawke would use it around here but he wonders if there isn't a better way, rather than risking exposure. "You'd think they'd get the hint by now. They don't sound real smart."

Or maybe Hawke needs to be less lenient with them, especially if they're harassing the people of the neighborhood. "Hope you don't get caught."

[battlemaged]

Hawke stared at Bucky for a long minute, then suddenly laughed. "Again, my apologies," he said with a mirthful grin. "You're absolutely right. I knew you were a soldier the moment I set eyes on you, and I should have known better. Forgive me, it's just that I've been a while on my own, and seem to have fallen out of the habit of traveling with others."

Swallowing his further chortles, the mage turned at the next intersection, indicating the large red-brick building at the far corner. "My current residence," he labeled it; it was only a short walk to his current favorite dining establishment.

"And you're entirely correct - I wish they'd get the hint." His brows furrowed as he added, "I really do dislike hurting folks, but I won't shy away from giving a yonker a trounce when it's needed."

[endof_theline]

"It's alright. I know the feeling." Out of the habit of traveling with others. Decades of it. He doesn't want to make a big thing of it though. Rowen has no idea what kind of soldier he was though, or what kind he turned into.

Bucky looks at the building and nods. "Mine looks a lot like this one. At least they kept a lot of the older buildings standing. These new skyscrapers are abysmal to look at."

He gets it though. Progress and all. But he's still getting used to it.

"Listen, you gotta protect you and yours. Nothing wrong with that." Bucky tries not to hurt people anymore but if it's necessary, he won't hold back.

[battlemaged]

"This city does seem to have an overabundance of metal buildings," Hawke observed with raised brows. "It still amazes me how anyone finds their way about, considering how crowded the streets are." With shocking horrors like those horseless carriages, the flashing multi colored lights that served as signals to everyone, but were largely ignored. The former Champion of Kirkwall wasn't daunted by much, but New York City was decidedly out of his wheelhouse.

"Hopefully it won't come to a true rout," he remarked, tucking his hands into the pockets of his jacket. "My days of gallivanting about righting wrongs are on the fall, I hope." He'd done more than his share, honestly. Although, the commentary was truly just lip service - Hawke would never stop protecting where he could and doing his damndest to stop idiots from misusing those unable to defend themselves.

Once they'd reached the front of the building, he swung around to Bucky with a friendly smile. "Well, here we are. The invitation still stands, if you'd like to come in."