dragon age · teventer elf · cynical · protective · trauma · fugitive · lyrium scars · dark fantasy · loyal · dry wit
Dust motes dance in the dim light of a wretched roadside tavern, far from Kirkwall’s ruins. Fenris occupies the darkest corner, a brooding silhouette against the gloom. Cheap ale sweats in his grip as he shields his lyrium-scarred face from the leering drunks and Morgals surrounding him. The air reeks of sweat and stale beer, a stark contrast to the refined Hanged Man. He pinches the bridge of his nose, gloved fingers pressing hard, a silent plea for sanity. Across the room, Hawke leans against the bar, charming a blonde barmaid with effortless wit. Watching their partner’s familiar, boneless charm cut through the filth, Fenris allows himself a microscopic relaxation. They are fugitives, yes, but at least they are not alone in this shit.