driftfleet | (no subject)

[Oh. That part of the conversation already, is it? If everyone is happier with banter, which everyone obviously is, it's a mystery to him why so many people seem to zero in on this, like hearing or knowing changes anything. In the time since Jove told him the whole story, he's mostly spent it alternating between drunk and miserable, with some wiggle room for overlap in between.

He withdraws with a sigh and turns his face away, pretending to study some crumbling architecture or blossoming flowers or something else inconsequential. It may only partially cover the way his expression collapses into something pinched and unhappy.]

Does it even matter what I've heard? Really. Most everyone seems to have their minds made up about me regardless of what I have or haven't done, or do or don't know, or... whatever. Hashing out details is hardly going to help with that. I know it's grim and terrible, isn't that enough?

[ Hawke would at no point pretend to know the whole story, because he isn't Anders; even Anders isn't ...actually Anders. He just knows enough that people keep asking him to make judgments, which is in his estimation a truly stupid position to be in. ]

There are some mitigating circumstances.

[ That with a special kind of dryness; there is tragically no punctuation mark to denote possession, though it seems like in Thedas there sure should be! Regardless Hawke only catches Anders' mostly-hidden expression at this point, before he was watching his fingers lace and unlace. ]

As to the rest of it, it's--look. You're a mage, you must be used to people having made up their minds before they've ever met you. That's Thedas. If you're born with magic you probably know that before you can talk.

[ Unless you're him, but his own mitigating circumstances were exceptional, he knows that. ]

Of course it was grim and terrible. It's still pretty damn grim and terrible in Kirkwall, and it's been years since it happened. But if that's enough--if I ever have an answer to that one you'll be the first to know. I know all you've talked about since I've known you is changing things. I know you spent seven years killing yourself trying to find another way.

I could tell you what the cost is, but I'd imagine you already know. It matters. I have to think it does or-- [ or nothing, that's none of anyone's business ]. Whoever you are now, whoever you become, you're not a monster. I don't know if knowing that makes a difference, but--yes. It matters. I know that.

[ At this point he is making what little eye contact is possible, a rarity even when the conversation is normal. In a second he'll realize he's being like, earnest, and start looking for a spike trap on which to fling himself. ]

[A difference, yes. He wishes it didn't, wishes that he could be as detached from all of this as he wants to be, but you're not a monster sits like lead weight on his chest. One would think he would feel better after hearing something like that, not worse, but it doesn't happen like that at all, because of course it doesn't.

All he'd ever wanted was to live somewhere quiet and unbothered, to not constantly worry about what might behind the next door. He'd accepted that the Wardens were maybe the closest he would ever come to that, signed on to the lofty and melodramatic price tag if it meant familiar, friendly faces and no templars nipping at his heels.

But this is something else. This is massive, personal, a vendetta that he never thought to let himself pursue. Changing things. Like the Circle isn't already rotten to the core, like it would ever bend to become anything other than what it is, like revolution would bring anything besides abject slaughter across the continent.

It sounds foolish. It sounds reckless. It sounds noble. He doesn't know who this person Hawke is describing is, except for that it's certainly can't be him. Not any more than he could imagine Cullen's thoughtless, vicious monster being him, either.]

Well. That was... inspiring. [His voice is weak. He tries to clear his throat. It doesn't really help.] They should pay you to give pep talks to victims of time distortions, you'd make a fortune.

[A pause. Leave it there, he thinks, leave it there and get up and walk away and never speak to anyone with anything even approximating a Fereldan accent ever again.]

Listen. It's... nice, all of that. What you're saying. But I can't be him, this— person that you think I am. Will be. I don't know. Twenty minutes ago I wanted to be anything but him. Now.... [He falters.] Now you've gone and... mucked it all up.

[ Hawke ...laughs, because the alternative is kind of horrifying to contemplate. ]

Usually my pep talks are just promising to get the next round. Of course, I was pretty sure we were all going to die. Hard for anyone to make you pay up in that instance.

[ He thinks of every living person he loved inside a tight ring of Templars, and the moment it opened. Thinks he saw more abominations that day than in the whole rest of his whole life combined. Of Varric later, in the back of some bar in the middle of nowhere, finding out how many people had died. Anders quiet on that box, shoulder blades like wings tucked in a coffin, and Justice, for the moment, finally silent.[ ]

Mucking it all up does sound like something I'd do. Imagine, if you'd just tried to chat up the next person over.

[ Right. No. He should say something not entirely stupid, except he suspects that was about all the inspiration he had left in him for the next year. But maybe this will make a difference, and then he can say out of all the things he ever did, something mattered. ]

If that's who you decide to be you don't have to do it alone, that's about all I've got. I should offer to get the next round, but I'm afraid having been whisked off to galaxies unknown and everything, I'm lucky to be wearing my own underwear.

[Hawke is one of the very few who have framed it like a choice, like the future might actually still be something that's his instead of a slow march of inevitability. Hawke is, so far, the only one who has suggested that there might be some other valuable choice besides "avoid it at all costs." Something about that hits harder than all the rest of it. The idea of choosing, maybe, or the idea that this person he barely knows might be willing to support him still, even after living all the things Anders has only heard about.

It's a lot to take in.

Anders has decided he doesn't want to think about it any more today.]

Oh, that's all right. [He's recovering old levity.] There's nothing I'd like more than to be well and truly drunk right now, and it would be rude to deny you the same after you've gone out of your way to give me a speech and everything.

[The kerfluffle with Cullen a couple weeks back had been, apparently, dramatic enough to net him enough money to drink his way through Dirkwall. That's one benefit to all this mess: it gave him the necessary means to cope with it.]

You can owe me for next time.

[ Levity! Thank the Maker. ]

If I made any speeches we'll attribute that to recent head injury.

[ Dry, but containing at least a kernel of seriousness amidst constant snark. No one must know he sometimes has real feelings! Quickly, change the subject even further! ]

I've never seen you drunk! This should be novel. What kind of drunk would you consider yourself to be?

[ You know, does he just fall asleep, does he get maudlin, does he drape himself over the nearest warm body, etc. Details are important. ]

[Not acknowledging that a speech was made means that they also don't need to acknowledge that he may have been affected by it. With that in mind, Anders is happy to comply.]

Now, now, that would be telling. I intend to keep at least some of the mystery alive, thank you very much.

[A lightweight. A noisy one, and a clingy one.]

Fine, have your mystique. I'll draw my own conclusions.

[ You know, with evidence to support and all. His shiny grin is audible as well as visible, and he sounds entirely, easily, like the previous segment of conversation either never happened, or barely registered on a scale of 1 to arresting. To say which is the more accurate lie Hawke would probably have to know himself.

Also, whatever stretching he may do getting off this bench is totally necessary. ]

All right, then what kind of tavern person are you? I always seem to end up in places with more knifemarks than furniture.

[ An excess of mock-mournful theatrics, as a person who actually frequented the Hanged Man because he liked the ambiance.

PS: It doesn't matter how tiny the fake medieval town is, it has more than one bar. It could have only one resident, and it would still have more than one bar. ]

Edited 2015-03-22 04:59 (UTC)

Well, the seedier the better, obviously.

[He's much more languid about getting up, and that may or may not be because he's settling his weight back on his hands to watch, appreciative and entirely shameless.

He likes this much better, to the surprise of maybe no one. It's easy to flip the switch, to kick everything unpleasant under the rug and focus on what he can do, which is look at attractive people and talk about bad taverns and eventually get drunk on terrible ale.]

There's no point if there's not at least some chance a stranger might shank you for drinking out of his favorite mug, the way I see it. Not that I would actually want that to happen, mind, but the possibility—that's the fun part.

[A pause while he considers, swinging himself up to standing.]

I also wouldn't object to a group sing-a-long of a folk song I don't know any of the words to.

[ Well, Hawke didn't spend all that time making the Totally Necessary stretching look magnificently unstudied just so no one would watch him do it. It's been a while since he's had the luxury though, so this is already nice on the basic level of not, for instance, being constant combat; with the bar set at this level there's no way Anders can fail to prosper! ]

Naturally. And that best sung in a language you don't speak.

[ Having achieved mutual uprightness (shut up) they can begin a search for the seediest tavern possible! Unless Anders at some point in his distant past held a great interest in leading Hawke walks about half a step in front of him by rote; it's the formation he's used to, and his legs are ten miles long.

He hasn't turned on his modulator, so occasionally he's a little distracted by the passing of their fellow fleetmates, or whatever, who come in more colors and species than he is used to, but mostly he keeps passing sideways glances to Anders. Not staring, but making no particular effort to be furtive, either. While he's always been nice to look at Hawke has never seen him this--well, this young, even if he's a warden he can't be more than a year off the time they met. Spirit possession apparently preternaturally ages a person, to ...also no one's surprise. The fact that he doesn't actually seem any less tired is an observation Hawke will keep to himself, at least at this stage in sobriety.

Meanwhile, a helpful wooden placard featuring exactly the illustration one would expect indicates they are approaching (this is a real tavern name) the Vulgar Duchess. ]

Well. This looks like the kind of place your own mother'd shank you over a mug, forget strangers. Shall we?

[If he notices (he does), he doesn't say anything, and if it bothers him (a little), he doesn't show it. He can feel a comparison going on, the way everyone who knew him (will know him?) seems to do whenever they look at him, and even the idea that it might be a positive comparison this time doesn't do much to help the unease.

He'd rather just not think about it at all, which is the goal of this little excursion.

He's eager enough to swing through the door, either way. It's a truly despicable dive; Hawke is a man after his own heart.]

Look at that, they've even torn all the locks off the door. [There's like a 60/40 chance that's on purpose, and this is a show put on for tourists, but the 40%, isn't that exciting.] I should bring you tavern hunting more often.

Barkeep! [He lifts one hand, unnecessarily grandiose in a place like this.] Whiskey. The worst you have, for me and my friend here.

[ The barkeep responds, pre-whiskey, with a gesture that looks suspiciously like spitting something pulpy and horrible onto the floor, so they've either made the perfect decision or the worst one possible.

Hawke sighs contentedly, and with his entire body, so his opinion on the matter can probably be sussed out by people on the moon. ]

This is what I really missed about civilization. Where else can you get something that'll both blind you and clean your boots?

[ Come, they can sit at one of those massive scarred table things that were once giant wooden spools. That may not actually be period correct, but this narrative is a loner, Dottie, a rebel, and it will never, ever be any good. ]

Normally I suppose this would be the point in conversation where I ask what you do, but the uniform does give you away a bit.

[ See, he's perfectly capable of imitating a person who doesn't like ...already know a lot of these details. ]

What do people talk about nowadays on their way to total obliteration? It's been a while.

Edited 2015-03-23 02:00 (UTC)

Shall I regale you with stories of my heroism? [He thumps himself on the chest (careful, of course, to miss his sleeping cargo), and clears his throat. With mounting dramatism:] Getting lost down the same oozing tunnel three times, only to find out you were chasing a pack of rats the whole time. Watching Nathaniel spend a half hour trying to dig his boots out of the Blackmarsh. Trying very hard not to think about how many nipples a broodmother has.

[He sips daintily, makes a show out of considering the ceiling.]

No one ever mentions those things when they talk about the Wardens. I wonder why?

[ Hawke tilts his chin down, eyebrows arching the opposite direction. Since he looks perpetually amused by ...everything it's sometimes difficult to ascertain what he finds genuinely funny, aside from 'himself,' but the uh, rising tide of colorful description does eke out a genuine laugh, mostly through his nose. He leans forward on arms crossed over the table, idly spindling his (mildly filthy, for the tourists) glass in one hand. It takes about ten seconds to work out that if he's not engaged in about six physical or verbal things at once at all times, he collapses like a flan in a cupboard. ]

My brother's a Warden; those are the kind of stories I usually hear. I think he saves the heroic ones for people prettier and less related.

Well. Less related, anyway.

[ Because like, who could find prettier, obviously. ]

[He brightens, encouraged. Whoever said the Wardens never did anything for him were... right, most of the time, save for a handful of moments that happen to include this one.]

Ah. Well, in that case I'm clearly going about this all the wrong way, aren't I? I wouldn't want to suggest that I don't think you're pretty. [A beat.] Or that you're related to me.

[Nailed it.

There are actual stories he could tell, of course. Like that final night at Vigil's Keep, when Amaranthine stayed standing, at the cost of reinforcements for the Wardens. How he very easily could have shimmied his way over the fence and been gone before anyone was the wiser, but instead held his ground and fought for something important to him for the first time in his foolish, cowardly life.

But that would be such a downer.]

I could tell you about how I helped Nathaniel dig his boots out of the Blackmarsh.

[ Hawke's lashes drop shamelessly to half-mast, eyes glittering, speculative slits. ]

I do seem to have distant relations appearing from every angle. Be a pity if you turned to be one though; not even Fereldens ascribe to the whole 'kissing cousins' thing.

[ Nailed it twice. Insert nailing joke.

...insert insertion joke. But meanwhile:

A downer that would net like, +15 Hawke Approval, but he'd probably keep it to himself for the same reason Anders isn't telling that story. Though it's notable Hawke already believes him to be the kind of person who'd do exactly that, stand his ground until his legs wouldn't hold him up anymore--or that at the least that man exists, a lot closer to the surface than Anders might think.

Or want, for that matter! Hawke knows the feeling.

Meanwhile he knocks back the opposite of a 'sip' of whiskey, the tacit implication being that he will need it. This is probably true. ]

Maker that's terrible. [ Therefore: perfect. He hasn't been this relaxed since he died! ] Are we thinking of the same Nathaniel? About so high, wears both a bow and terminally dour expression?

[ 'Resting bitchface' has not yet been invented. ]

Edited (way to eat half my tag, dw?) 2015-03-23 20:10 (UTC)

[That is, apparently, his cue to do the same (knocking back the drink, that is), because really. Is there nothing in his life that's safe from these people? Did the him-from-the-future also chatter on about the time he rearranged all the books in Kinloch Hold's second floor library, in addition to Justice and his cat and apparently, now, Nathaniel?]

The one and only. Do I want to know how the two of you know each other? If I was going to leave Vigil's Keep, you'd think I'd at least bring along someone who's laughed at least once in the past decade.

[He does say "Vigil's Keep" and not "the Wardens," because that's something else he's stubbornly not adjusting to, the idea that sometime between now and whenever, the Wardens are going to stop being the gloomy and awkward haven of contentment they've become for him.]

If it turns out he's somehow the unfortunate link between our sprawling family trees, I'm going to be so disappointed.

You can relax, any involvement on your part was purely incidental. His sister asked me to look for him, after he got waylaid on some Warden caper in the Deep Roads. A few years ago that was happening to me three times a day! 'Hawke, my brother is missing, Hawke, my basement is full of ghasts, Hawke, I've left my beloved Laborer's Guild ceremonial hatpin in a pit full of corpses,' on and on.

[ His put-uponness is so exaggerated as to mean nothing; that time was probably the best of his life, as hideous a prospect as that is. He likes helping people, for all his dramatic couch-fainting, and it was nice to be busy as often as a person with such an active* mind requires. ]

Anyway, I already knew the area - though I could've never laid eyes on it again and died happy - so! Hawke to the rescue.

[ Whiskey? yes. ]

Come on, I'm waiting for this boot story and we don't have all night.

[ Gently goading. If distraction is the order of the evening he's at least going to be dedicated to the proposition. ]

[* like squirrels are active ]

Edited 2015-03-23 23:53 (UTC)

[He makes a face at the mention of the Deep Roads that is not unlike the one he makes when he drinks any amount of the liquid in his glass. One of those things that didn't change at all: he really does hate the blighted Deep Roads.]

Yes, all right, yes. It'll be better since you know him, that means you'll be able to picture the exact faces he was making while I tell it. We need more alcohol for this.

[And it isn't as if he's planning on spending his money on anything else. He swings his arm in the direction of the nearest barmaid, and in the middle of it launches into the story with the air of someone telling the very most exciting story they have.]

You've never been to the Blackmarsh. I know, because no one with a half ounce of sense and no eternal contract to struggle against darkspawn for the rest of their natural lives would ever set foot in a place called "the Blackmarsh." But the Warden-Commander points and we follow, so it goes.

Since you seem the reasonable sort, I'll go ahead and spoil it for you: the Blackmarsh is exactly what it sounds like. Gloomy and mucky, outrageously haunted, everything you'd expect. So, with that in mind, picture this: there's me of course, the Hero of Ferelden, one very drunken lump of a dwarf, and our mutual friend Nathaniel Howe, all marching into the Blackmarsh together. Only a matter of time before one of us gets stuck in the goop and the grime. It's just that the rest of us know better than to go diving into it looking for footprints or darkspawn droppings or whatever it is rogues do sneaking around the bushes.

[And here more alcohol arrives. He leans forward eagerly, palming the glass between both hands, now fully entrenched in telling his story.]

So of course, he gets stuck. Right in the middle of our very serious Warden business, too, it was terribly unbecoming. [beat] Or it would have been, if there were any living souls there besides us to see it.

[ Hawke manages to quell most of the smile that's happening to his mouth, mostly because yes, his memories of Anders' distaste for the Deep Roads have remained appropriately vivid. Of course, he also went on three separate excursions to their various corners at Hawke's behest, a thing he elects not to mention to mention just now.

By rote he's pretty predictable: if the situation is serious he'll tell a joke; if it's dire he'll tell ...a worse joke. Consistencies like that. The surprising thing in this situation, however, is that he's actually a good listener, active in the sense just recently mentioned. When more alcohol arrives it takes him a few seconds to notice, which is probably the highest compliment he can give anyone, short of 'all right, I'll fight the enormous Qunari with the even enormouser spear for you, but only because he refuses to fight you for some reason.' ~~And because love.~~ ]

I can't say I have an answer to that; all the rogues I know would be dead in twenty minutes if you shoved them into the wilderness. Probably of sheer horror.

[ Listen to Varric in Inquisition though, is he wrong?

Anyway! Hawke is what a person might call a professionally functional drinker, so he'll be well into the second glass of authentically awful shoe polish here before he even starts feeling a change in temperature. He's not drinking as fast as he might be either, busy leaning toward Anders on one folded arm with the other propped under his chin. ]

I do hope freeing him involved an elaborate system of winches and pulleys. Or a sled pulled by small animals.

[Anders is, by contrast, probably already a little pink in the cheeks, at that early stage of intoxication where he hasn't quite noticed yet. He's the sort of drinker who tries to maintain heavyweight status by telling everyone about it, and then getting completely smashed the next time anyone turns around. Right now he's a bit louder than he needs to be, maybe, and a little more expansive with his hand gestures than he might otherwise be, but that's just the beginning.]

No, no. [The drink goes down smoother the more he drinks it. He's almost at a stage where he doesn't have to shudder every time he takes a gulp.] I'll do you one better. We had the presence of mind to bring Oghren, you see—that's our drunken dwarven friend, to keep you up to date on the names. I'm not going to go after him, of course, seeing as I'm not completely insane, and we couldn't ask the Commander to do it, what with her being so busy killing darkspawn and rescuing the trapped souls of the village or whatever else. But Oghren is just mad enough and just drunk enough that he offers to give it a try.

But he's, well, you know. He's a dwarf, they aren't exactly known for their wingspan, are they? So he looks to me, he says [and here he imitates Oghren inasmuch he imitates "being dwarf-y"] "Oi, mage, hand over your boom stick." That exactly, I swear on Andraste's singed bloomers.

So, anyway. I'm there, Oghren has been laughing for the past fifteen minutes or so, and Nathaniel is making this face, you know the one. [He copies it for demonstration's sake, an overexaggerated frown not unlike >:C.] I did it, too, I gave my staff to them, because, you know, teamwork and all. And also I wanted to know what it would be like to watch a dwarf try to pull a man twice his height out of a goo swamp with only a mage's staff and his own insobriety as leverage.

And it worked! Which is the really incredible part of the whole thing, if I had to pick something. It took ten minutes, but he popped right out. Fell face-first into the mud and smelled vaguely like fish for the rest of the trip, but [he snaps his fingers] rescued all the same.

[ Predictably, anything resembling slapstick sends Hawke into paroxysms of amusement, so he laughs - chuckles, more accurately, low in his throat and sandpaper rough - in more places than he doesn't. He's actually starting to feel the whiskey just a touch by the time Anders winds up; the deceptive uptick in his body temperature has the effect of making things like 'oi, mage' even more spectacular, and it was already pretty great. ]

Sounds like he got off easy. Maker knows what other odors you could pick up in a place called Blackmarsh. And on purpose, no less.

[ He's definitely still shuddering after every swallow, much like dogs shake off water. Because he is the most Ferelden. Back in Kirkwall he'd gotten into the habit of actually exercising a modicum discrimination when it came to what he drank, but this entire situation seems to call for the most rotgut awful stuff available. ]

Is your Warden-Commander an Amell, by chance? If so we have,in fact, found the missing branch on someone's family tree.

Edited 2015-03-24 15:55 (UTC)

[He chokes, half on whiskey, half on laughter.]

No. [He sounds appropriately appalled, despite the grin that's threatening to crack the edges of his face.] You and the Warden-Commander? Unless there's some very important information you have to share with me about my lineage.

[He doesn't actually think that's possible; he knows exactly who his parents were, which is a luxury not many mages are afforded. Which, ironically enough, almost makes the staggering number of coincidences that are now piling up almost too much to take.]

How bizarre. Am I going to have to fight her for your honor, now that I've discussed phallic tubers with you? Because I don't think I could win, to be perfectly honest.

[Some jokes just don't end. Now we have both of them together.]

Oh, yes. [ He is one step away from literally rubbing his hands together Bond-villain style at Anders' appalledness, meaning he is going to capitalize on it within an inch of his life. ] And not on the Ferelden side, either. The filthy Free Marchers.

Not that I mind, I'm half and half myself. Half Ferelden - [ he holds up one hand, flat, knuckle side facing toward Anders ] - half Marcher [ making a mirror out of the other, fingers pointing toward one another, but not touching ]. I was almost half Orlesian! Can you imagine? Cheese and caviar stuffed up just one nostril, congested and lopsided all the time...you'd have to look sideways at lesser beings just to look down on them.

[ Right, that bit of sensible speculation established, he appears to be giving due consideration to whether or not Anders will have to engage Steffa in like, staff-to-staff combat. Mostly this means he's drinking more. As if this will help his thought process. ]

Hmm. We've only discussed them, so I don't believe any of Ferelden's ancient barbarian customs dictate an immediate call-to-arms. She may want you to declare your intentions, though.

[ :D? ]

[He laughs out loud at half Orlesian, startled and endlessly amused by the mental image. He forgets entirely to temper the reaction, and hardly cares when he does remember.

Hawke is, as it turns out, a little bit delightful, on top of everything else.]

Mm, my intentions, is it.

[He rises up on his elbows, shifts his weight forward. For all their individual none-too-subtle shuffling, there's probably not much distance between their hands now. He's tipsy enough to take advantage, fingers reaching to play idly at the edge of Hawke's sleeve.]

We've known each other a very long time, she and I. If I had to guess, she probably already knows that the answer to that question is best not mentioned in polite company.

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this was /completely unrelated/ to the journal making i swear

i don't believe you

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