bakerstreet | The Slave Auction Meme

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The Slave Auction Meme

* Leave a comment with the character's name, fandom, and whether your character will be playing the part of 'slave' or 'master', plus preferences for scenarios if you have any.
* Respond to others with one of the scenarios below or feel free to make up your own.
* Please remember to be respectful of others while you play

Warning: Be aware that this meme deals with dark subjects like slavery and may also contain non-consensual/dubiously consensual sex, violence, and kink.

SLAVES

1. The Newbie - This is your very first auction and you don't quite know what to expect. Hopefully you remember your training and don't disgrace yourself in front of your new master. Hopefully someone thinks you're worth buying at all.

2. The Oldtimer - You've been bought and sold and bought again so many times. You've seen it all before and don't think this time is going to be much different. In fact, the only real anxiety you've got is whether or not someone's going to pay for a more than slightly used slave.

3. The Pet - You're a pleasure slave. A bed warmer. A decorative piece of artwork. You're meant to look pretty and be pleasing and not much else.

4. The Guard - Your master hired you because of your ability to swing a sword or shoot a gun, not your looks.

5. The Escape Artist - Somehow you always manage to squirm out of your master's chains. Too bad you seem to get caught after a while. Maybe your next daring escape will be permanent. Then again, maybe your next master has special ways of keeping you locked up.

6. The Undercover - You aren't a slave at all, you're just pretending to be one. Why? Well that's up to you. Either way, your cover is blown if you don't act the part.

7. The Specialist - You have a skill that no one else has. Something rare and valuable. Something your master needs more than anything else.

MASTERS

1. The Customer - You've owned slaves before and this trip to the market is nothing new to you. Still, you're hoping to find something worth your while.

2. The Gift - Someone bought a pet for you, isn't that nice of them? Or maybe it isn't so nice. Did you even want a slave in the first place? Well you're stuck with one now.

3. The Giver - You're selecting a slave for someone else, and they need to be perfect. Perhaps you'd better test them out first to make sure you're getting your money's worth.

4. The Trainer - You specialize in taming unruly slaves and making them over into perfect, obedient, well-trained pets.

5. The Rebel - You hate the idea of slavery, but the system isn't going to go away any time soon, so the next best thing is to buy up any slave you can get your hands on and free them, right?

6. The Companion - You want someone to be with you always, someone you can talk to and depend on, someone who will never leave your side. It's a good thing that money can buy that these days.

7. The Undercover - You're not actually a Master. You're at the auction for an entirely different reason. Maybe it's special policework, maybe you're trying to hunt down a certain someone. Either way, your cover is blown unless you act the part.

As always, feel free to use a combination of scenarios or make up your own if you have other ideas.

Snagged from here.

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The only sign of just how angry she was, was in how still she was. She didn't miss that usually, and it wasn't a surprise; she hadn't had much hope otherwise, though she'd tried. She'd known Fenris for too long to be naive on that score. She'd lived in the world too long not to expect it.

She packed it up, pushed it aside, to be kept for the later day when reckonings would be reckoned, and made herself focus on the rest. Which was surprising. "That's extremely interesting," she said. "Do you know who might've recognized you? Could you name them?"

"I..."

Freeze.

This came hard against the strictest rules the Sullas had for him; who he could and could not speak to, and what he could and could not speak about. There were certain guests around whom Varric could not show his face. Certain people never saw him, and there were certain topics he was not allowed to speak about in front of certain guests.

It had been his job to know everyone who walked through that door, and enough details to be able to ask them about their daughter, joke about their new apprentice, compliment the new focus crystal in their staff.

Yes, he could name them. But could he?

There was another question. Who might have recognized him. He turned his mind to that. There were traps there, too- it cast his thoughts over the people who had spoken to him, who had seen him. Some over the years had given him unusual amounts of attention, or called him princely, or had a glint in their eye when he was around. The ones whose touches lingered too long, whose eyes gleamed like tigers, who took especial delight in grasping his chin and manhandling him, more so than the other slaves.

"I think I know who recognized me."

Hawke nodded slowly, digesting his reactions more than the words themselves, which were just a repeat of what he said before. She had a shrewd idea as to the problem. It'd take more time to get past that. And maybe some help from Riva and his knowledge of blood magic and mental locks.

"Hold that thought, then," she said, relaxing, mostly in the hope that it would help him do the same. "Maybe we can do something with it later."

Josephine certainly could. But she hadn't gotten as far as telling him about Josephine and the Inquisition yet.

She leaned back in her chair, picked up the book that'd been sitting in front of her all this while. "Anyway. On top of being part of a family with a lot of economic and thus political influence, and being friends with all-too-infamous me..." She hadn't described how or why she was famous yet, beyond that earlier reference to a duel, but nevermind. "You were also a writer. A prolific one. Popular, too, even in Tevinter. Riva had a full set."

She handed him a copy of Hard in Hightown. All copies of The Tale of the Champion had been hidden for now, that one was a little too personal and a lot too upsetting. But this one was safe enough, and just screamed Kirkwall.

He took the book with a smile; it felt like greeting an old friend. His hands ran over the cover reverently, turning it over in his hands, taking in the author's portrait on the back with a surreal silence. That confident, brash person couldn't possibly be him, could it? It felt like staring into someone else's face.

"Donnen Brennokovic," came a soft murmur. He opened the book but another detail caught his mind. "There were fistfights in the barracks over him."

Pause. A confused look at Hawke.

"Weren't there?"

"There were. Half the guard was convinced they were the model used for the cover. Aveline was furious and put them on the worst patrols for a week, then threatened to confiscate your printing blocks." Hawke laughed a little, faintly wistful. "I'd actually forgotten about that. It seems like a long time ago. Probably because it was a long time ago."

Varric grinned, "Donnic never even asked. It was obviously him but- he wasn't the presumptuous type."

After that pleasant little memory surge Varric returned to the book, flipping through it and reading passages aloud here and there. It brought back shocking surges of memory- of where he was when he wrote it, or what events the plots were based on. When Donnen Brennokovic missed his chance at getting the girl in the dark tangle of events, it made his breath catch under an especially vivid sense-memory: Hawke, tangled up in a tall blonde man, kissing him furiously against the wall of a filthy clinic. A sinking pit in his stomach as he turned and fled Darktown before they saw.

Suddenly he realized that he was narrating the thought. Describing it, as he described so many other returned memories. With the other memories, Hawke seemed to enjoy hearing what he was seeing.

Now...

Hawke laughed. "I think Aveline guessed but was afraid to ask. The fistfights among the men were bad enough without the book inspiring crushes on her husband from all the women on top of it."

She all but curled up in her chair, leaning comfortably on one arm and listening to him read, watching his delight as he rediscovered the book, and any number of random memories with it. Not important ones, most of them, but this was almost better, to start with. Color to use to fill in the blank parts in his past.

He was halfway through a memory of walking in on her and Anders before she realized what it was, or the various problems associated with it. She didn't grimace, but she looked resigned. It didn't surprise her to know he'd seen one of those kisses. Once she and Anders had finally gotten started they hadn't been exactly discreet, not during that first year. And thanks to one or two memorable conversations not long Varric had disappeared, she knew why he'd have reacted as he did if he'd come across them, though she'd been clueless at the time.

She shrugged, looking only a little unhappy. "It was a long time ago," she repeated.

He didn't seem to hear her. That memory brought with it a slew of others, ones that he didn't share. Whatever was happening in his head, it looked to be more painful than anything he'd seen before- bad enough that he wiped away moisture from his eyes.

Varric Tethras never cried. He didn't cry for anything if he could help it. The only time Hawke had ever seen him cry was once, for one person.

"Blondie," he said softly. Then his eyes snapped up to hers, looking irritated. "Thanks for leaving him out."

It was pretty obvious why, but that didn't make it right.

She sighed. "I wasn't going to keep him secret. He just seemed like a lot to deal with on your first day back."

It hadn't even been a whole day. Less than twelve hours. They had a lot of ground to cover.

He wasn't really angry at her. That much was obvious from how his irritated gaze fell away and landed on the book again. He stared at it - through it, really, at something only he could see, mulling over a thousand thoughts and hopes and joys and cares, all long, long forgotten.

"He's dead." It wasn't really a question. "Isn't he? And Bartrand."

Almost without permission his hands flipped the book nearly to the end, landing on a page where the ending turned from 'almost happy' to 'this isn't gonna go well, is it.' Varric used to talk about writing endings- how everybody wanted a happy ending, but it wasn't a good story unless the hero died. He used to say, in those days before the Chantry explosion, how it felt like something was about to end. The way Anders had acted, trying to give away his possessions, getting distant and cagey, how the mages in the Gallows knew they were dead men walking.

He knew they were all at the end of a story, even if they couldn't see the finish yet. Time was, the memory of Anders tangled up with the feeling of endings and big finishes and tragedy.

"Yes." Quiet and resigned. She wasn't any happier about it than he was. Her relationship with Anders had ended about as badly as it was possible to imagine, but she'd loved him with all her heart. And he should have had a better ending, and possibly she should have been the one to give it to him.

But she'd let those regrets go, with his death. She was still alive, and she couldn't waste her life over Anders, however much she'd cared about him. He wouldn't have wanted her to, anyway.

Bartrand, well, that was another matter. For Varric's sake she was sorry, but otherwise...there hadn't been much left of him by the time Varric killed him, and given what he'd been doing it'd been a mercy. It still sickened her whenever she thought of it.

She sighed and rubbed her forehead. "You wrote another book about it all. About us. It's not entirely accurate, you left out things that were too personal to be included and embellished other things, but there's enough truth in it that it'll definitely remind you of a lot more than that one. I was going to give it to you later, but if you want it now..."

She let it trail off. It wasn't going to have any better an ending than the one he was holding, much less satisfying, for those who knew the truth of it all and weren't just after a dramatic story.

"I..." He scrubbed his hands over his head, trying not to drag through the braid. "I don't think I'm ready for Tale of the Champion yet."

Another detail. Another burst of pain inside. The Champion- that was Hawke, and that's why thinking about the book hurt.

When the pain passed, he looked up at her again and changed the subject. They kept reading for a while, but he soon ran out of steam. Like a wind-up toy slowing down, as if he only had so many words he could say at once. Without putting on that mask, that other Him, it was hard to talk that much at a time. Eventually they found other ways to pass the day: he was given a journal and a pen and started writing, she did some training to blow off steam, and they both passed the time.

They wanted to leave Tevinter immediately, but there was a problem with a ship. Something about trouble with the Qunari; relations with the Inquisition had broken down and their ship was having trouble getting through. The delay was at least a fortnight, maybe more.

With the blood magic lock on his memories, Varric got things back but slowly: a bit of recall here, a drop of familiarity there. Being in Tevinter didn't help: according to Hawke, he'd only been to the Imperium once or twice before his capture.

He was loath to leave Riva's house, preferring to let Hawke and the household take care of any errands or business. Eventually, though, he thought it high time he showed his damned face in the city, to practice regaining some of that swagger that apparently used to be his trademark.

Hawke was fine with Varric taking the time he needed for his recovery. She was less fine with being stuck in Tevinter. They'd bought Varric (ugh, the idea disgusted her every time she thought of it), all legal and above bored, and gotten the paperwork done to free him officially just in case (which she found pointless; they'd kidnapped a free citizen once, what was to stop anyone doing it again, she hated Tevinter and her hands clenched whenever she walked by any of the slave pens)...she still kept expecting something to go wrong. Three years, three years of struggling to find and free Varric, and it'd all happened so smoothly that it was an anticlimax, and that made her suspicious.

She still couldn't sleep much, not well. She did better when she napped during the day. At night she had to resist the urge to just...sit outside his door as a guard, something, anything. The only thing that stopped her was that Teo did it instead, if he wasn't in Varric's room outright. Which didn't help her sleep any, granted, but which she definitely preferred in the circumstances. She could go short on sleep for a while.

Varric asked questions and read and wrote, Maker he wrote a lot, and she didn't ask to read any of it though she was curious as hell, and Riva would once a day spend a little time carefully trying to undo some of the blood magic locks on Varric's brain and made some progress (or so he said, and she tried to believe it), and she helped however she could and waited, and waited, and waited.

She did a lot of fighting her own shadow. Only her shadow; she'd stopped sparring against other people over a year ago, after an incident where she'd gotten too caught up in things and broken several arms and legs by mistake. Not her own. Her fighting style had changed over the past few years. It was a lot more angry, a lot less controlled. She hadn't turned berserker, but...she didn't exactly trust herself either.

When Varric went into the city, of course Hawke went with him. She tried not to look as pissed off at the entire place as she felt as they walked through the streets, not with any particular destination in mind, just wandering. "Please can I just burn it all down?" she muttered under her breath. It'd become a joke, albeit a dark one with a hint of truth in it.

Half the reason he wrote was instinct. The pen felt right in his hand, the paper at home before him, and a call sounded within him that urged the writ of words on paper. But there wasn't much to say- he wound up rehashing little scraps of regained memory over and over, every time picking out some detail like a loose thread, pulling at it in vain attempts to find where it lead.

Riva wasn't making progress. He thought he was, but it still hurt to think of Bartrand, and saying Hawke's name still made his head ache.

The day they went out, they needed to buy food. Varric didn't have much experience with going to the market- he'd been kept on the property, mostly, and rarely allowed in public. (Now that he knew he was famous, it made more sense.) Still, he had a fundamental idea of how to do this part, so they went out together, Varric chuckling at her dark joke.

"Not while I'm in it," he said, some trace of the old ego flaring like a lightning-flash. Quick, then gone. "We can put down oil on our way out and light a match."

They found some food, and Varric found a book stall- something he gravitated towards strongly. Then Teo scented something fascinating and took off, tearing through the market like a hound possessed. Hawke had to go after him.

While Varric was browsing, a familiar voice turned his blood to ice.

"Hello, little princeling."

Magister Vincentius. The magister the Sullas most often sucked up to, a cruel man with predatory tastes who knew the desperation of certain altuses to gain his favor. He availed himself of their hospitality often, taking advantage of their hope to be his chosen successor. Anything he wanted was his: any book, any favor... any slave.

"No answer, hm?"

When Varric felt a hand on his back and fingers toying with his braid, something in his brain went cold. Handle. That's what he called it- his handle. His leash. Vincentius called him the 'little princeling,' and was almost certainly among the number who recognized his true identity. The magister seemed to delight in bringing the former merchant prince down.

The voice grew colder. "A magister spoke to you, slave." Bony fingers gripped his chin and yanked him in the man's direction. Varric just stared numbly, knowing he didn't need to take this anymore, but unable to say anything. "Do you think that leaving the Sullas makes you free? Mm. A pity we never got to say goodbye, princeling."

Hawke was swearing under her breath as she followed Teo. Normally she wouldn't have bothered, she'd just trust him to find his way back on his own, but...Tevinter. Mabaris were unheard of here, and more than one person had commented on how fascinating he was and how much they'd love a chance to examine him. For a value of examine that she translated as 'take apart and experiment on'. If it weren't for that, she would never have left Varric.

When she got back, only a few minutes later, she knew she never would again. Her blood went cold at the terrified look on his face, while someone forced his chin up and spoke to him. A magister, even gripped by ice-cold rage she recognized the value of those robes, no one else would be dressed that ostentatiously.

She was moving before she thought and drawing weapons before she moved, heedless of the people around or the public location or the fact that this was illegal on a number of levels and stupid on even more of them, she didn't care, he was threatening Varric and she wanted his fucking balls on a place.

With a shriek she kicked him in the side, hard, which pushed him several feet past Varric. Before he had a chance to react, to spellcast, she'd kicked him again in the abdomen to knock the wind out of him, ducked and swept his legs out from under him, taking him to the ground, and then she was on him and one hand was gripping his hair to pull his head back and her knife was at his throat and--

And there she stopped. The blade was digging into his skin, a small thin line of blood forming on his neck, just above the artery.

She still gave him no time to speak or react. She leaned in close, and his eyes focused immediately on her face, eyes widening with recognition, which bought her the seconds she needed. When she spoke it was more a hiss than a voice. "Touch him again, even once, let you or any of your arsekissing goons so much as look at him, and you will never taste lyrium again. The Ambassadoria is very unhappy with you all for abusing one of the Dwarven Merchant Guild's most premiere family members, to say nothing of his own familial relationship with one of the most powerful members of the Ambassadoria itself. And that's without going into the trouble the Inquisition is going to cause you, to say nothing of me. So you will kindly. Fuck. Off. Do you understand?"

He didn't move. Possibly he didn't breathe. She pressed the knife in further. "Do. You. Understand."

He nodded. She cut him a little more for effect, devoutly wishing she could just slash his blighted throat, and got off. They were surrounded by a clamor of people civilians and slaves and merchants and, yes, guards and likely the man's own bodyguards, with weapons pointed her way. She looked at all of them coldly, and stood up, not bothering to sheath her weapons. "I am the Champion of Kirkwall. Threaten me or my friend and you risk antagonizing the Inquisition, the Free Marches, Orzammar, and quite a lot of other people you do not wish to piss off, assuming I leave you alive enough to have the opportunity. I suggest you leave quietly while you can."

She almost never used her title deliberately, much less like this, as a weapon. Not since she'd left Kirkwall. She did it now automatically, pulling authority and threat around her as undeniably as any magister could do.

Varric couldn't help it.

He laughed.

There he was, Magister Fucking Vincentius, king of his own shitty little Blood Magic Rape Mountain, flat on his back in a mud-and-shit-covered market, having just been threatened by a shrieking Ferelden in front of the Maker and everybody. He recognized some of the faces in the crowd; it included some of the magister's rivals, servants of his rivals, allies, and at least one dwarven face that seemed to be paralyzed from shock and recognition. All at once he had the impression of a cold stone courtyard flanked by Tevinter statues, and the vague memory of sauntering out of a bloodbath with proverbial middle fingers raised to the skies.

And the look on that hateful shit's face was priceless. Varric knew all at once that: he was, in fact, an important person, that his position wasn't so shaky and fearful as he'd thought, and that he was deeply in love with the woman in front of him.

So he laughed. A cackle that shocked the hell out of him- he'd never heard that sound from his own lips before, but apparently that was what his genuine, delighted, shit-eating amusement sounded like.

"Oh, you fucked up," he sneered, enjoying the reversal of power more than he ever imagined.

That laugh made her thaw a little, the grim mouth unbending enough to smirk. She turned her back on the fallen magister as though he were nothing, less than nothing, and started walking back to the bookseller's stall.

The complete lack of attention was probably what snapped it for him. Vincentius scrambled to his feet, his face a mask of outrage. "You base-born bitch, how dare--"

He stopped mid-sentence at the sound of a low growl from behind him, the sort that any person, however high or mighty, still knew deep in their bones to fear: the sound of an alpha predator who's snuck up on you and was giving you one last little bit of warning before it ripped your face off and ate it as a snack. Hawke only barely turned her head. "Don't bite him, Teo," she said mildly. "He probably tastes rancid. Come on."

At the word rancid, someone in the audience (which had otherwise been silent) tittered. Vincentius looked around, furious and wanting a target, but there were too many people to possibly discern who it'd been. Too many people with glittering eyes, and some openly smirking.

He muttered a few low threats; Hawke waved her hand vaguely, as though to say yes yes little boy, whatever, now run along and play, still not looking back at him. He gathered up his robes and what little he could reclaim of his dignity and swept off. Hawke walked over to Varric. "Well. That was fun. Have you finished your shopping?"

As though that were a cue, the rest of the market began to move again, though this time with much more gossip going on.

Edited 2018-03-18 16:13 (UTC)

"Just about," he answered automatically, his mouth knowing how to proceed even if his brain did not.

When they turned, the bookseller all but offered them anything they wanted at an extraordinarily steep discount; it was even odds if the man was scared or impressed by the display. Varric paid a pittance for a book he'd found, Tale of the Inqusition: Told From The Notes of Varric Tethras. Written, apparently, by Dorian Pavus and Bethany Hawke, taken from his compiled notes. Judging by the description on the back, quite a few people had believed him dead.

He was reading someone else's description of his life, his work, his disappearance when he gradually became aware that his chest hurt. There wasn't enough air. Suddenly his hand raised several inches under the Teo's fuzzy head; the Maker-blessed dog knew, as always, when he was needed. Varric dug his hand in, getting a good grip on one small ear and rubbing slowly.

The tension eased. His breathing settled. A knot of fear he didn't know he had dissipated into mist, leaving him free to look at Hawke and quietly say, "I think I'm done here."

Edited 2018-03-18 16:29 (UTC)

Hawke stood nearby, ostensibly browsing but actually listening to the mood of the crowd. To her surprise, it was mostly positive. That particular magister apparently regularly made himself offensive, even by the standards of a country that was built on the abuse of power. It was a little startling how much fear people directed towards her, however. At least for the first few minutes. Then she caught "--defeated the Arishok--" and it made sense. Right, of course. No one here cared about the Free Marches, a small-ish set of city-states known for their ports and not much else. But the Qunari were another matter entirely, and she'd killed their war leader in single combat and gotten away with it.

Hmm. She'd been wondering how to apologize to Josephine for giving away so much of their hand, she already knew the diplomat had plans to encourage Orzammar to demand reparations using the thread of halting the lyrium trade. But perhaps it wouldn't be so difficult for Josephine to make use of this incident after all.

One way or another, it was done now, and she wanted even more to get the hell out of this country. When Teo left her side and butted his way into Varric's, and she caught sight of that slightly panicky expression on his face again, it just doubled.

She slipped the bookseller a few extra coins for his trouble, and scared or impressed, he took them quickly enough; with luck he'd dine out on this story for years. At least the day had done someone some favors.

As they walked away, she said "I'm thinking that if that ship doesn't arrive soon, we should just leave on foot. Or maybe dogsled. I'm sure Teo would oblige, if we bribed him."

Varric heard the crowd too- distantly, as it were. Truth be told, Vincentius wasn't anything out of the ordinary for a magister, but even allies were always gleeful to see someone fall, if it meant their own rise. Nobody would mourn Vincentius's humiliation, because even his 'friends' could use it to their own ends. In all likelihood, servants were already running back to masters, and masters were already sending outraged messages and notes of alliance to the Ambassadoria, Magister Tilani, to anyone they could ally themselves with. Tevinter politics were brutal and unceasing.

By the time they started walking, Varric's hand firmly on Teo's head, he felt that vague panic blowing away like so much dust. His hand caught Hawke's almost without permission; thus, between the Champion and her mabari, he felt stronger, grounded, able to hold his head high like (he thought) he once had, even in this Maker-forsaken shit of a country.

"I think... I think I can manage. Who knows, going out with you and watching people shit themselves might even be fun."

"Maybe you can manage. I'm not sure I can." It came out rueful but not unamused. Taking his hand happened so easily and naturally that it took her a minute to realize it had happened, that the weight of it was real and not just something she missed.

She managed not to stop walking or stare blankly down at their clasped fingers. They'd never walked hand in hand before except once. Only once, and that had been on one of the last days she'd seen him.

She hadn't told him about that day yet. She knew he didn't remember.

Focus, focus, keep walking, though she'd completely lost track of a block or two there. Good thing Teo knew where to go. He'd always been the brains of the pair of them. And the looks, and the charm. "Anyway. If we announce who I am we'll get that reaction most places, so it's a good thing you enjoy it." She grinned suddenly. "I usually try to keep a lower profile these days, but I'm crap at it. Though this is the first time it's been quite that dramatic."

Varric had done a few things since being freed that gave him deja vu, and the feeling of old habits: writing, putting on that necklace, caring for his boots and shuffling cards. This - walking hand in hand - didn't have that same familiarity, but it warmed him from the inside all the same. He didn't know if they were together or if they had ever been together, nor did he know if she knew how he felt.

But he loved her. He could tell. It was as firm a certainty as anything else he knew about himself: as sure as his writing, his hatred of beards, or love of good wine. Hawke hadn't said anything or tried to pull her hand away, and he knew she would if she wanted to. So he laced their fingers together and squeezed.

"It was a hell of a scene. Even if it did somewhat scare the piss out of me," he admitted. "We should endeavor to make that kind of an entrance everywhere we go. We'll have the Ambassadoria waving torches and pitchforks within the week."

Her grin turned positively wicked. "For that, it'd be worth it. Let me know if you spot any more assholes who could use some public humiliation and threats. Maybe for the next one we'll sic Teo on them instead of me."

She managed to walk along holding hands with him as though it were ordinary, something they'd been doing for ever. Until he squeezed her fingers.

They'd touched some, but only casually, a hand here or an accidental brush of fingers there when playing cards, and so on. Not counting that first few minutes when his memory had cascaded back on hearing her name and there'd been holding and tears and her saying, the only time she'd said it, just how fucking much she'd missed him. Which had been a brief statement that didn't even touch on the truth. The exception was his hair, which she'd brushed and braided for him more than once; he asked, and she was happy to do it. Something quiet and intimate for when they were both feeling overwhelmed, which was often. She already loved that growing tradition. But it wasn't the same as skin touching skin.

She couldn't help it. She squeezed back hard, her hand shaking a little from emotion that didn't really show on her face. Once upon a time Varric would have been able to read it there anyway; she didn't know if he could now, and there was no good way to ask, even if this were the place for it.

Varric felt her tremble and looked up, searching her face. Once, he was sure, this had been easy- he's an incredibly insightful person, valued by his (former) masters for his keen sense of bullshit and ability to read people. Hawke- fuck, it was Hawke, surely he'd been able to read her like a book once. He couldn't read her as easily now, but he still sensed that something was wrong.

"Alright, Hawke?"

She breathed out a long, slow breath, getting herself back under control, taking a few more steps. She didn't even have to think about adjusting her pace to be a bit slower, it just happened, they'd matched walking speeds together for years. There were so many things she did automatically because of him, routines that had been gathering dust during those horrible, missing years, and now were suddenly being called back into motion. Some worked more smoothly than others.

"I missed you," she said finally, not actually looking at him as she said it, because stuff like this was hard. "A lot." Her hand was still gripping his, not quite as hard as a moment ago but more than usual for two people walking along holding hands. As though she were afraid someone would pull him away from her. Again.

But stuff like this was hard, and they were in public, so she veered off to the equally dangerous territory that was at least a smidge more known. "And I would really, really like to go back and just kill that fucker, even though the humiliation will probably hurt him more in the long run, plus Josie and Mae and Dorian will probably join forces to leave him bankrupt and without any political clout and all in all it will be a much more cold but effective justice, but Maker I'd like to just kill him."

With her bare hands, even. She left that part out.

The Slave Auction Meme

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Please forgive all my £*(%$&£ typos in the last two, sigh.

kissu

<3

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Let's have Mae and the crossbow show up. Yes?

yas queen (although not sure how to write mae OR solve the blood magic thing)

We can BS and timeskip past it a bit? Let's be real, we just want Bianca back. (at least, I do!)

(no subject)

(no subject)

varric: i know u, i shot with u once upon a dream

damn you you got that song in my head for OVER A WEEK sob