PSL: and I don't care if I live or die;

[unyieldingly]

[Kirkwall is very different from when she left.

The night they had fled had been disastrous, with fires raging in some sections of the city, crumbled walls and debris littering Hightown and the upper districts in Lowtown. She remembers bodies and blood, ash in her eyes. She remembers grabbing what few belongings she couldn't part with, taking her dog, and fleeing like a demon was on her heels. And she remembers when she said goodbye and disappeared into the night four days later, when it was time for all of them to separate.

Now it looks...stable. Relatively so, she thinks. She doesn't dare go to any of her old haunts in Hightown, though she spies the Amell mansion and the locks on the door, city officials hoping to keep robbers out. It's probably been ransacked to the Void and back, she assumes. It doesn't matter any longer.

There are enough poor refugees in the city that no one notices her, not now that her hair is longer and her clothes are tattered, hidden beneath the folds of an old rust-red cloak. She's sent the dog along down to the Hanged Man to look for Varric, assuming he's finally returned from his gallivanting with the Inquisitor. She'll need some sort of backup if this meeting goes south, after all. If she even makes it out without being pummeled into the floor.

She doesn't dare try the Viscount's office. Wouldn't dream of putting her head on a public pike. No, she waits until dark and skulks out Aveline's new refuge, somewhere between Hightown and Lowtown and inconspicuous, very austere and Ferelden. It's here that she knocks on the door five times, a visitor's knock instead of the thundering, jovial punches against the wood that she might have attempted years ago. It'd be too obvious.

Hawke steps back and takes a breath, swiping some of the long strands of black hair out of her eyes. Maker preserve her, she hopes Aveline's all right.]

Comments

[indomitably]

[ Kirkwall has changed. For the better, Aveline wants to say - much has been rebuilt over the years, but the people that still remain, many fearful still, or mourn lost loved ones in the explosion that night all those years ago or in the events after. Crime is still commonplace, looting, vandalizing, thugs still prey on the inhabitants - a constant battle, that.

She herself hasn't much changed, a scar that runs over the bridge of her nose and across the side of her face, and more worn around the edges, tired as much has called onto the Guard since the remaining Templars disbanded, as well as Cullen's departure.

And since Varric rarely comes around to bother her anymore since returning (not that he tended to bother with things like knocking when he did tend to come around), one of the Guard would knock with more urgency if it were a matter that required her attention, she can't guess who'd be coming by so late. More complaints, likely. ]

Can I help...

[ When she opens the door, the words simply die in the back of her throat as she looks on a face she hasn't seen in years. Hawke looks different, older and in cover but it's unmistakably her. Fury spikes deep in her chest once the initial moment of shock wears off. Aveline wants to grab her by the shoulders and demand answers - had to hear that you were alright from Varric after all this time -- instead she steps aside to allow the woman to pass without causing a scene. ]

Come inside.

[unyieldingly]

[She's not foolish enough to think Aveline would welcome her with open arms or even be happy to see her. She'd fled Kirkwall over three years ago, determined to throw the Chantry and Templars off of her heels. When she'd told the Inquisitor she shouldn't have bothered, she meant it; so many lives had been displaced, so much infighting and death and pain, and she hadn't been around to help. So when Aveline opens the door, stares at her, and then allows her inside, Hawke knows she's in for it and, frankly, she deserves it.

Instead of removing the hood, she ducks her head and follows Aveline's motion to come inside, stepping through the threshold and into the small house. The inside is quaint and speaks volumes of her friend's position. No trinkets, nothing too shiny. It's a practical hole in the wall, but it's furnished, well-lit, and cozy. It's a sanctuary for her and her alone, and Hawke feels now like she's intruded and dragged in all of the baggage and memories of four years ago, and she hadn't the decency to leave them at the door.

It's only when she hears the door shut behind her that she dares to reach up and shove the hood back, black hair swept to the side with the ends almost reaching the tops of her shoulders. She'd only cut it once when it began to look too much like her mother's and that was it for her, caring only enough that she kept the ghosts at bay and little else. There are dark circles under her eyes from sleepless and lonely nights, ones that tell a story the same way Aveline's scar does - and how frustrated she feels, seeing it, knowing her friend had been injured and where in the Void was she then? - both of them tired soldiers with nothing else to hold onto.

She turns back to her friend and, for once, is at a loss for words. At length, she reaches up and briefly rubs at the back of her neck. Her voice is quiet]

It's good to see you.

[Which is about as foolish as 'nice night for an evening'.]

I...I don't know where to start or what to say.