[This wasn't like Hawke. The night was young—and despite the smell of sour ale and vomit, it was quite agreeable. Hawke usually basked in this kind of ambience. It made him forget, if only but for a moment, that the world seemingly depended on him, and he could certainly appreciate a tranquil evening spent in good company. Tranquil... at least in comparison to his every day life. If altercations sometimes occurred, he wasn't the one doing the fighting, and that made all the difference. But nothing had happened. A game of Wicked Grace punctuated by vivid narration and an overload of alcohol—everything the man should have enjoyed... and yet he stood and barely glanced his way, intent on leaving.
He couldn't recall anything that could have caused his mood to decrease so drastically. It was usually Fenris who struggled to keep his even, and to watch the man walking away without so much of a word left a bitter taste in his mouth. Even now his chest constricted when he sensed trouble, and it was clear the man didn't have anything pleasant on his mind. It reeked of animosity, and Maker help him, he hoped he was wrong. It wasn't his business to interfere. They were close, of course, but there was a steady distance between them nonetheless, at least on his part. He enjoyed his company, and years spent by his side had transformed simple camaraderie into something more he couldn't allow himself to feel. It'd never disappeared, but it was controlled, kept at bay for the sake of his own sanity, and if he sometimes gave Hawke the cold shoulder... it was frighteningly strange to be given a taste of his own medicine. The kind of sensation that made his insides twist with a hint of dread, his pulse wilder.
Varric spoke. The dwarf earned himself a glare and a roll of mossy-green eyes—he had not been longingly staring at Hawke—and Fenris fanned the cards on the table, downing the last of his wine.] Consider yourself the victor, Isabela. I declare forfeit. [She looked at him with a curious glint in her eyes, as if she knew something he didn't. He ignored it, gathering his belongings as he pushed his chair and stood. She asked whether she would see him later, and not wanting to lie, he could only bring himself to offer an ambiguous answer.]
Perhaps. [It was as good as he could give, and truth be told, he just didn't know. His mind was as far from sex as it could possibly be, favoring instead a long lost dream that had quickly evaporated. He never chased after Hawke. He never chased after anyone, for that matter, but this seemed... urgent in a way he couldn't quite grasp, tormented by the look he'd seen on the man's face. He didn't have a good feeling about this, and if he could relieve whatever burden his companion supported, he would certainly try. He owed him that much.
He stalked after him, pushing the tavern's door open. The breeze was cool and the sky starless, the perfect night for the thugs of Lowtown. He grimaced and secured his weapon on his back, miffed that he didn't wear much of any gear at all. Only his markings protected him, the flimsy tunic he wore letting even the air tease the skin underneath, but he didn't let that deter him. He spotted Hawke climbing up the stairs nearby and he followed, focused on him yet still very alert of his surroundings.] Hawke! [He quickened his pace and reached him in no time, making a point to keep his mood light as to not aggravate him further.] Has the sour ale you always drink so fondly finally turned against you? [Because it was nothing more than shit, a poison he was surprised hadn't killed anyone yet.] I have quite a few bottles of wine in my possession, should you be interested in trying something more... palatable. [Subtle, Fenris? Rarely.]
we ttly didn't discuss this at all
He couldn't recall anything that could have caused his mood to decrease so drastically. It was usually Fenris who struggled to keep his even, and to watch the man walking away without so much of a word left a bitter taste in his mouth. Even now his chest constricted when he sensed trouble, and it was clear the man didn't have anything pleasant on his mind. It reeked of animosity, and Maker help him, he hoped he was wrong. It wasn't his business to interfere. They were close, of course, but there was a steady distance between them nonetheless, at least on his part. He enjoyed his company, and years spent by his side had transformed simple camaraderie into something more he couldn't allow himself to feel. It'd never disappeared, but it was controlled, kept at bay for the sake of his own sanity, and if he sometimes gave Hawke the cold shoulder... it was frighteningly strange to be given a taste of his own medicine. The kind of sensation that made his insides twist with a hint of dread, his pulse wilder.
Varric spoke. The dwarf earned himself a glare and a roll of mossy-green eyes—he had not been longingly staring at Hawke—and Fenris fanned the cards on the table, downing the last of his wine.] Consider yourself the victor, Isabela. I declare forfeit. [She looked at him with a curious glint in her eyes, as if she knew something he didn't. He ignored it, gathering his belongings as he pushed his chair and stood. She asked whether she would see him later, and not wanting to lie, he could only bring himself to offer an ambiguous answer.]
Perhaps. [It was as good as he could give, and truth be told, he just didn't know. His mind was as far from sex as it could possibly be, favoring instead a long lost dream that had quickly evaporated. He never chased after Hawke. He never chased after anyone, for that matter, but this seemed... urgent in a way he couldn't quite grasp, tormented by the look he'd seen on the man's face. He didn't have a good feeling about this, and if he could relieve whatever burden his companion supported, he would certainly try. He owed him that much.
He stalked after him, pushing the tavern's door open. The breeze was cool and the sky starless, the perfect night for the thugs of Lowtown. He grimaced and secured his weapon on his back, miffed that he didn't wear much of any gear at all. Only his markings protected him, the flimsy tunic he wore letting even the air tease the skin underneath, but he didn't let that deter him. He spotted Hawke climbing up the stairs nearby and he followed, focused on him yet still very alert of his surroundings.] Hawke! [He quickened his pace and reached him in no time, making a point to keep his mood light as to not aggravate him further.] Has the sour ale you always drink so fondly finally turned against you? [Because it was nothing more than shit, a poison he was surprised hadn't killed anyone yet.] I have quite a few bottles of wine in my possession, should you be interested in trying something more... palatable. [Subtle, Fenris? Rarely.]