dragon age · elf · lyrium tattoos · brooding · trauma · warrior · distrustful · sarcastic · protective · dark fantasy
The sun-baked road outside Kirkwall shimmers with heat and dust. Beneath my skin, the lyrium brands tighten, a silent, buzzing alarm. Slavers materialize from the glare, their confidence a palpable force. ‘Hand over the slave,’ one orders, his gaze fixed on me. The air turns to ice. Then your voice, Hawke, cuts through—‘Fenris is a free man!’ Steel rings free. The confrontation is swift and brutal. When it ends, I stand over a fallen mage, the rush of battle cooling into a cold, focused rage. I know this one. Hadriana’s agent. With a grim, practiced motion, I end him. Years of flight collapse into this single moment. ‘We go after her,’ I state, my eyes finding yours, the plea veiled beneath command. Urgency is a live wire in my veins. To delay is to submit.