My muse just ran their face into a door. How does yours react?



“Ow, cripes! Rick! I thought you were holding that!” Hawke squeezed her eyes shut as sparkles clouded her view of the hallway. She reached up to cover her nose with her hands, groaning into them lowly. Why was it always her nose?


“If you’re still tittering when I open my eyes, I suggest running.”


A note in a small envelope left in front of the door with the dessert:

“Thank you for always taking care of me.”

“Who’s at the door?” Garrett called from the sofa, voice coarse as rust pre-coffee. 

“How should I know?” Marian shot back, padding across the cold linoleum of her kitchen with a hand holding her bathrobe shut. Who the hell was ringing her buzzer so early in the morning?

Bristling, she stepped into the hallway, and nearly onto a platter of—-

“Flowers?” Must be for Isabela, was her first thought, until she picked up the plate and the smell of warm sugar wafted into her nostrils, bringing a knowing smile. “Pancakes.”

A glimpse at the card told her what she already knew: it was from none other than Richard Anderson, who appeared to have bolted already. Vanished off to the hospital for another sixteen hour shift, no doubt. What a way to spend Christmas.

“Close the bloody door it’s freezing!”

“Oh, sorry, Prince Garrett, I didn’t realize you were so sensitive,” coming back in, Marian kicked the door shut with a heel. Her mobile was on the counter next to the coffee maker. She switched on both.

[text: Tiger] Lead by example, I always say.

[text: Tiger] Thanks for breakfast.

Prompt: my character is standing against the wall at a dance. What does your character do?

The night was fairly boring but it was a regular thing with the hospital, a yearly party for the employees and their families, listing their good deeds and honouring the hardworking.

Rick was sitting at the resident table, no family… obviously as all his family was in England. He was busy fighting with a big slice of chocolate cake as the lights dimmed and the less informal part of the night began and people started slowly approaching the dance floor.

As he looked up just for a second, he caught glimpse of Marian, standing on the side, back to the wall, looking half embarrassed as she watched her parents dance carelessly. 

He carelessly pushed his Kurt Cobain style hair back behind his ears – still there from the rebel years – and found himself mildly staring. Rick gave a quick glance at the chocolate cake, then back at Marian. The choice shouldn’t have been that hard but… Rick had anything but overflowing confidence concerning his dancing. 

Finally he convinced himself, embarrassment or not, got up and stepped in front of Marian. “Hey so… why stand around when you can dance with this flagpole here?” and then came serious of unbelievably awkward dance moves from a man who looked more like an out of control marionette puppet. “You could show your parents how to do reaaaally horrible dancing and this is your lucky day, as I’m an expert.”

What am I even saying???

Rick’s mind screamed but hey… if that lightened up Marian just a little, it was definitely worth it.

“Just go ask her, Carver.”

“What?! Ask her? Are you mad?”

“Are you a chicken?”

"No. I just don’t think—”


"Stop that, you jackass.”

Bawk, bawk, bawk!

“Alright. Alright! Anything’s better than standing here with you making that ungodly racket!" 

"You’ll thank me later!” Marian called after her brother as he walked away, leaving her alone at the edge of the milling crowd. 

She dropped her arms – which she’d been flapping for effect – and sighed. In the middle of the floor she could see her mother and father, twirling about making moon-eyes at eachother, just as infatuated as they had been on their wedding day. “Lovebirds,” Marian muttered, rolling her eyes and slumping back against the wall, just out of reach of the starlight patterns swimming circles around the room. She stared at them without really seeing them, bobbing her head absently to the Dandy Warhols song coming through the speakers. 

 “Hey so… why stand around when you can dance with this flagpole here?”

Marian almost did a double take. Richard Anders was the last person she expected to come up and talk to her. In fact, she was fairly convinced he hated her the way he was always avoiding her eyes and excusing himself from the room whenever she came to visit her father at the hospital. 

“You’re kind of a dork, you know that?” she laughed and brushed the long ponytail she’d been toying with behind her shoulders. “But, sure. I’ve always wanted to learn how to impersonate someone being electrocuted.”


Tara handed her friend a set of tools with a wicked smirk, “So I was thinking, it’s that time of year when we should be giving people we care about something that matters right? I figured– since we’re always getting trapped places it takes AGES to pick the locks out of. You needed a new kit– because we’re supposed to be rogues and I’m not breaking anymore lock picks just to get us through doors anymore.”

Her smile warmed, “And I thought you’d like it.”

“Any place it takes ages to break out of is usually the most fun to get into." Marian looked up from her examination of her new torsion wrench and met Tara’s smirk with her crooked one. "With the right company.”


“Thank you, Tara,” she added, meaning it. “I promise I’ll put them to dastardly use.”

           He wasn’t as clever as her when it came to sending gifts; in fact, he would place money on the fact that his gift would not be received in time. Baking a disgusting fruit cake large enough to hide two, rather ominous looking, daggers was a feat he wasn’t about to try and accomplish, considering he didn’t have the slightest clue about how to work about in a kitchen. The Templars watched him buy it, watched him wrap it, then unwrapped it to ensure he didn’t sneak anything else inside, only to have him wrap it again before it was finally sent away to the Champion’s estate.

           Inside, she would find twin daggers, sheathed and chained together, with a piece of parchment resting a top them, practically scrawled rather than written;


Forgive me if you cannot read this; the Templars have tried my patience and this is my fourth or fifth time attempting to write a companion note for your gift. You’ve done much for Kirkwall these past years, for the Circle, and it would be rude to not show gratitude to you in some form or fashion. And, considering I am not fashionista, please do find a use for these daggers.

Enjoy the holiday, Champion, spend time with loved ones.

– F.E Orsino

First Enchanter,

And here I thought no man in Kirkwall knew the way to my heart.

~ Hawke 


Hawke is, perhaps, the person who Fenris has thought longest and hardest about when it comes to gifts. No matter what he comes across in the markets, what books or blades or meaningful trinkets he finds, it is not good enough – not good enough, he chides himself, and cannot help but feel inadequate for not knowing what his Champion might appreciate.

But she is not his anymore – he needs to remind himself of that. It is an ache that dulls only the tiniest amount each day, and he does not think will ever truly disappear.

It is only when he has finished delivering his other gifts that he finds himself at her door last, and his hands are still empty. Nothing had seemed right, and now that he is here it seems like even more of a failure that he has found no meaningful gift, and the lure of his mansion not two hundred yards from Hawke’s doorstep is suddenly very tempting indeed.

But he cannot leave her without some offer, at least, of season’s tidings, and he realises that the only gift he has to give her is himself. It is an unworthy offering, but… perhaps, she will indulge him for a while.

He draws in a deep breath, lifts his hand, and knocks.

Marian’s orders had been strict, measured, and necessary.

‘Stay out of the kitchen, Sandal. If someone comes to the door while I’m in the bath, don’t come get me, let Orana answer it. Or-a-n-a, not Marian,’ she had said, before turning to ascend the wide stairwell with her hand on the railing. He liked sliding down the railings with her; it used to be their secret game, but Marian hadn’t wanted to play since the day the lilies came. She said she hated lilies now, and he found that he hated them too.

By the fire the doggy was sleeping and Sandal sighed, bored. The freckly lady had stopped by earlier with her husband, the one who always talked to Sandal like he was hard of hearing. They’d left a shiny red box with his name on it under the tree but Marian said he couldn’t have it ’til morning if he didn’t knock the tree over. Again.

A knock echoed across the foyet and Sandal blinked. 

His first motion was for the kitchen, because that’s where Orana was, but he wasn’t allowed in the kitchen, but she was supposed to answer the door. Not Marian. Marian was upstairs and he didn’t want to get the wash brush thrown at him like the last time.

Another knock, and Sandal began wringing his hands, a habit he’d picked up from Bodahn. He liked Bodahn. 

He crept over to the peephole, dragging a chair from the dining table behind him. If he couldn’t open the door, he’d better at least see who it was so he could tell Marian and she would let him open the shiny box. Standing out in the snow was the lyrium elf, the one Sandal had said he could use for enchanting before Bodahn had shushed him.

Bodahn was out delivering other shiny boxes for Marian.

Immediately Sandal pushed open the door, still standing on the dining chair as he greeted the elf with wide, eager eyes. He smelled like cedar boughs and woodsmoke, but most of all: Enchantment.




Hawke sat on the window seat in the large balcony just outside her bedchambers, out of view from the estate’s other inhabitants. Dressed in her soft, burgundy robe, one pale knee crossed over the other in a thoughtful pose, she was trying to riddle out why she had received a First Day invitation from someone who was an anathema to several of her firmest convictions.

Why me? And who exactly is on the third floor? she wondered, her fist clenching in an unconscious gesture of vexation against the coalwashed fabric that covered her thigh. An enemy was opening his door to her. He was either very foolish or very prepared and there was only one way to find out. It would have to be done surreptitiously done, though, or Fenris would be apoplectic. 

She looked down at the letter again and reread the meticulously penned words: ‘Those interested in the latter are recommended to bring their own…materials.’

“Oh I’ll bring something alright." Already forming a plan, Hawke rose and padded toward the stairwell, calling out dulcetly. "Sandal!”

The dwarven youth looked up at his name, brightening visibly as his favourite ‘kind lady’ sidled up next to his worktable. “How do you feel about a little science project? You know…” Dropping down on one knee, Hawke picked up one of the softly glowing stones and held it between them.