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lyrroht:

headcanon where anders is in love with hawke, so Vengeance looks like her, and that’s why he becomes a posessed so easily 

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iron-and-earth:

As long as he’d been living in Orlais, noticed or not, and as used to the air and people as he’d gotten, there was always something about almost anywhere in Orlais that made him roll his eyes with a humored contempt.  For a place that took so much pride in its glamour and glitz…

Maker’s ass, are these people stuffy!

The last place one would have expected to see him would have been one of the extravagant masquerades often put on by Orlesian nobility, regardless of it reasons for being, but he’d actually come to enjoy them, even if they were as stuffy as can be.  He was in his element, there; a cloak, colorful garb, perhaps a fancy hat (Leliana would have been pleased), and, above all, a mask.  Perhaps the tunic was a touch too flowery but it seemed the more obnoxiously he dress, the less likely he was to stand out.

Oh, the irony…

He stood in a particularly small circle, listening to a perfect stranger prattle on to three other perfect strangers about how the book store by the garden in the Val Royeaux bazaar had gotten a bit stranger since the Inquisition started growing in strength, and forcing a posh laugh every so often when the moment arose.  

Though he listened intently, his focus was elsewhere in the Winter Palace

After a moment’s more prattle, he felt a grip on his arm, nails poking firmly into his arm, and a familiar lilt and tease in a voice.  Turning to see the source of the grip and the giggle, his eyes widened, instantly forcing a laugh of his own.  He turned to the group, putting on his best accent, and waving his free hand dismissively toward them.

“Oh, do excuse me, dear friends, I must take my leave.  Au revoir!

Had his accent been a singular touch more flowery, he’d have sprouted a petunia from his nose…

Accepting the grip on his arm, he guided her away from the group and toward a corner of the dance floor with a few less prying eyes.  Confident in the lack of people in earshot, he muttered to her.

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Well…fancy meeting you here…”

“I’m not here as far as anyone except Varric and House Helmi is concerned,” Marian responded and released his arm. “And that’s hardly an answer,” she cited, offended. Atticus had a bad habit of misdirecting her questions that didn’t concern Corypheus, food, or the odds of it raining. “I thought you were hiding out in Crestwood. This is an awfully broad and extravagant detour.”

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They were drawing notice, or maybe the years on the run had made Hawke unduly paranoid. This was the largest crowd she’d been in that weren’t armed templars seeking to converge on her. She smoothed the red plume on her mask and leaned in closer; a gesture that would have appeared flirtatious to anyone watching. “Has there been a change in plans I should know about or were you just hoping for a dance with Sister Nightingale?” Hawke smirked and lifted her chin. “She’s on the upper level with the rest of the Inquisitor’s aides.”

@iron-and-earth | Je Dis Rien

It was Varric’s fault that Hawke had come to Halamshiral.

She shifted her glass from one gloved hand to the other and surveyed the dancers, forming lines that threaded in and out like cards being shuffled. Her face was hot behind her dark mask, her hair slicked back to accommodate it. 

Masks were the motif of the evening. They glittered on pale cheeks and below teetering wigs, giving the assembly a puppet-like appearance she wasn’t sure she liked. 

The Inquisitor had his own matters to deal with this evening and Hawke had no intention of sticking her nose where it didn’t belong any further. She was in the palace to have a careful chat about Amgarrak Thaig, nothing more. 

Still…it was diverting to wonder how many assassins and corrupt gentry were mingling about, laughing with their mouths while their hearts—

Someone snagged her notice. Blue eyes thinned in the shadows of the falcon mask (a private joke-slash-gift from Varric who’d also come up with the idea to have her announced obscurely as Lady Amell this evening, amid confused whispers from onlookers). Setting her drained wine glass on a ledge, Hawke eased away from the window she’d been lounging against and slid through the crowd like oil. 

Next to a table overladen with dainties and blue skirting, she paused, and without interrupting the conversation of the group gathered there selected the arm of the man with the broad shoulders.

“Enjoying the canapes?”

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His mask was bone white as he turned, the muscles beneath her fingers solid as Hawke dug her nails into them and laughed as though he’d said something funny before dropping her voice to a hard whisper. What are you doing here?

@yourownpersonaldemon

“Come on, Kieran, we’re going to be late for the party,” Marian was wrapping a red scarf around her neck and checking her hair in the hallway mirror. She could hear shuffling and a muted curse from down the hall. They’d been almost out the door when her husband had mumbled that he’d forgotten ‘something’. Probably his watch or more likely the pack of cigarettes she wasn’t supposed to know was stashed in his fencing bag–and he probably didn’t know she’d relocated to his sock drawer for fun.

There was a sort of wabumpf noise followed by another swear and she decided it was time to check on Kieran. 

In their bedroom, the closet looked like it had gotten queasy and vomited its contents onto the floor. She glimpsed his rump over the edge of the bed while he bent on all fours to peer underneath it. There were socks all over the bedspread between them. He should have found the smokes by now if that’s what he was after…

“You do know that BYOB stands for Bring Your Own Booze not Bring Your Own Bedroom here in America, right darling?”

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“Something I can help you find?”

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helloiloveju:

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