Marian Hawke (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
unyieldingly) wrote2015-01-23 08:30 pm
unyieldingly) wrote2015-01-23 08:30 pm
PSL: and I don't care if I live or die;
[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.]
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.]
no subject
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.