I got my ass tagged by spiritscalling so here goes
Fav pic of your
I have a lot of feelings about Fae with her hair down for real
Two headcanons nobody knows:
There aren’t any at least one person knows :’D there is that one that is v.sad and possibly triggering that will (probably) never come up and therefore have never spoken about that very few people know but if ya wanna know it come and ask cus I don’t really see the point in posting when it probably won’t ever actually be relevant.
Three things they love doing in their free time:
Whittling, drinking and sparring
Six people they love:
Malcolm Hawke (deceased), Leandra Hawke (deceased), Carver Hawke (deceased), Bethany Hawke (incarcerated)
*that’s it unless you include AU verses such as*
Amelia Rose Bertrand (deceased), Theo Tanu + Sparrow Surana (sh they come as a pair)
gUESS WHY SHE TRIES NOT TO LOVE ANYONE 8’I
Three fond childhood memories:
Learning to fight with Malcolm, beating Beth’s bullies up with Carver, and her first night in the King’s Army.
One thing they’d go through heaven/hell to change/save:
Well, the deaths started with Malcolm… maybe if she’d been able to save him, he could have protected their family better than she did.
Birthday: January 1st
Fav. colour: Green
Something in caps: THE HIIILS ARE ALIIIVE WITH THE SOUIND OF FUCKYOUUUU
Fav. band/musician: Rn it’s In This Moment but I have too many to count.
Fav. number: 4
Fav. drink: Rn it’s cranberry and raspberry MacB water.
consider urselves tagged!
It was a rare occasion that the bard herself is content to remain silent
in favour of listening to her companions trade stories of drinking entirely
too much. It is not a subject she particularly wants to lend her experiences
to (though that is not to say she did not have them) and instead lithe arms
curl around her knees and a gentle smile curves her lips.
It is easy then, to forget about the world that has crashed around their ears,
that their idle banter is an easy distraction from questions such as What next?
And where do we go? But Leliana cannot be distracted from the silence of one
particular companion, whose shoulder slump further than the others, whose
troubles are not so easily ignored.
She says nothing as she rises, crossing the few steps to approach the white-
haired rogue. Where with another she might offer words of comfort, Leliana
simply sits beside her. Where another might promise a better tomorrow, Leliana
sighs softly as Fae’s fingertips instinctively rise to get lost in short red locks.
Nothing needs to be said. The warmth is enough.
Lithe fingers dance along the etchings of the fine leather the
elf turns over in his hand. Almost reverently, his touch ghosts
upon the silken thread, the intricate design that decorates them.
There is little sentimental value to be put in objects, he finds, but
he cannot escape the warmth that these articles offer — more
than a simple guard for well-used hands.
But when a shadow darkens the firelight and the soft pad of
footsteps grace elongated ears, his hands halt. Smoothly as
ever, the gloves are tucked aside, hidden beneath bent knees
as he tilts a pointed chin upwards and his signature smile pulls
at his lips.
“Ah — Leliana.
To what do I owe the pleasure of your beautiful company?”
The smell of the bar is enough to make his lip curl, but it’s
no better or worse than the rest of Pyke. Still — any excuse
to show off how much he hates this place. That it’s better than
the burning ruins of Kirkwall is ignored entirely in favour of his
moodiness, and he scowls at the few patrons who bother to lift
their attentions to the blazing sword on his chest.
Already it was a source of unwanted attention, the residents of
Westeros being unfamiliar with the insignia. It had been a source
of pride on first landing, but now, it was an irritant. Then, his sights
spot the mop of curly hair and the caterpillar moustache that his sister
It was a rare day he followed her suggestions, but he was in the
mood for a fight and that’s what Fae had promised he would get from
the… prince? — Judging by how he acted towards the tavern girls, he
could see why. He doesn’t look much like a prince. Carver took a place
by the bar not far, narrowed eyes watching the man before finally, he spoke up.
“Hey, you. You’re Theon Greyjoy?”
"What? She’s gorgeous, what d’you want from me?"
"Maker’s arse father you stink. Keep it in your pants.” >:U
Again he did nothing as she struck him, stamping down his old instincts. A proper beating was no less than he deserved, failing his family as spectacularly as he had. If she needed it she would have it.
"The dead do not mourn the living, Fae. They are beyond grief and hurt. I know it is a small comfort." Hardly a comfort at all, truth be told. If there were a way for him to turn back time so he could have been there, had a chance to save them or take their place, he would do it in an instant.
But such thoughts were no more than dreams, and he had reality to deal with. That reality being the loss of two of his family and the wrath of the one before him.
"I am sorry I have caused this pain, love. If there is a way for me to help mend it…if that is possible at all…" His voice failed him then and he took a shaky breath, his shoulders still trembling as he did his best to keep from falling to his knees and weeping.
She wanted to hit him. She wanted to reel her fist back again
and feel his nose crack beneath her strike, as though she could
translate physical pain into the hurt that had torn her apart for
almost ten years.
Her fingers flexed at the notion, and that was when she finally
noticed her right hand was soaking, and it was enough for her
to pull her attention, to raise her palm flat. The gash in her palm
was not deep, the bleeding making the wound seem worse than
it was, and she cast a scowl at the knife that lay behind her on
the ground. It shouldn’t have made her feel better, but it did.
She hated healers; always had. But she had never denied her
father. But she would do so now as she turned on heel and
stalked into the estate (though not before retrieving the half
finished mabari and the whittling knife).
She didn’t say a word, but that she left the door open and did
not slam it in his face would be the best invitation Malcolm could
hope to receive. She dared not invite him into her life with words;
not when she was still unsure she wanted him there.
The younger snorted, rummaging trough various food
items to see if there was anything beside the eggs that
was worth taking as well. Or something they could afford
to loot from their meager supply. He turned up empty handed.
One glance at the box in Fae’s hand told him there were more
than enough eggs to make up for a lack of adding something else.
“If you don’t deserve respect, you’re never getting it.
The Viscount himself can kiss my ass if they think
respect is something you can just demand from people.”
While they showed it in different ways, their inability to
blindly respect people without a good reason often
proved to be a great way for them to bond. Their own
show of disrespect seldom worked out for them, but that
was entirely beside the point as far as Carver was concerned.
“Don’t make it sound like that was my fault.
You’re the one who was shoving at me when
I made the damned throw. Either way, worry not
about my aim, sister. I am quite good at this.”
The bright smile she wore was not one she had expected
to wear upon receiving the opened letter from Gamlen. His
grim expression — more grim than usual for surely he had
intended to revel in Carver’s profits — had made obvious that
there was no good news in that letter but she had held out hope.
But, if there was one thing she had it in her to doubt herself of,
it was her ability to cheer Carver up. Despite the fact she found
herself capable when it really mattered, it remained a fear she
waited for with baited breath — the day that he stopped listening
to her entirely, for reasons good and bad. It had been a thing of
nightmares in the past.
But now was not the time for such thoughts, and box in her arms
she skipped past him and to the door.
“I’ll believe it when I see it! I look forward to hearing all of your
excuses as to why you miss after!” This was the kind of ribbing
that could either be playful or infuriate her little brother, it was her
hope that in this context, he’d find it in himself to laugh.
"Then you are a freak of nature," he decided, though his mischievous, rumbling chuckle betrayed his teasing. "And grow three inches when out of your shoes. A man might feel emasculated by being shorter than his female companions."
Sufficiently distracted from that brief moment of inexplicable sadness that had passed over him, he picked up a fresh towel and tossed it to her, aware that they were both covered in dust and sweat from their sparring. Eager to be in clean clothes, and (though her disguise really was admirable) eager to have Hawke out of sight from prying eyes, he gathered up their training swords and turned towards the barracks. “I can help with that,” he said, glancing to her hair as she fussed. “I have scissors in my rooms; my hands are quite steady.”
She caught the towel and almost immediately buried her face into it, finding it a pleasant relief to wipe the dampness from her neck and forehead. She had never been a fan of the heat and that had only exacerbated with the fact that too much moisture made the skin powder fade. In the past those who had seen her without it had swiftly met their end, especially if they saw the tattoo. And it occurred to her then it might be nice to show it off again. It had been the bane of her disguise over the years but it remained a point of vanity for her, even of she didn’t possess the quality otherwise.
She fell in step with him again, suddenly all too aware that she had no idea where she was going and even a little nervous. Would the residents of the palace question Fenris’ scruffy new friend? Would they ask where he had come from, break out arms when he told them he had jumped the ten foot wall that surrounded the compound? Security had proved lax enough that Hawke had made it in unnoticed, but she could say nothing for the power Fenris had over her anonymity. “That would be nice,” she said, an unfamiliar tightness to her voice. “I fear the back is somewhat… Uneven. Perhaps you’re familiar with cutting your hair yourself, I never did get the hang of it.”