The morning was drab, clouds covering most of the sky. Hawke was sitting up in her bedroll with her hands on her kneecaps and her gaze on a thread of smoke rising from the shovelled-out campfire. Its drifting scent reminding her of Lothering (or rather, what had become of Lothering). Tomorrow was Molioris if she’d been keeping track correctly. The trees in the orchard behind the Chantry would have been blooming by now.

She watched the smoke rise and thin toward the lonely pearl of the moon whose name she’d yet to learn. This far from from Thedas, from Summerday hymns and flower-strewn steps, she found herself often wondering: can the Maker still see me?

Her travelling companion rolled over in his sleep, breaths deep and even and enviable. Hawke studied him a moment before pulling on her trudgers and rising on protesting limbs to relight the fire, murmuring an old prayer as she chafed flint steadily against steel.

I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Fade
For there is no darkness, nor death either, in the Maker’s Light
And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost.


//Well it’s finally time. Taking my dog to the states tomorrow to see an oncologist on Thursday and not sure how long we’ll be down there. In the meantime, any thoughts or good juju or healing spells you guys want to send this way are greatly appreciated.   x Rune