makinglies | The Reign of Lawrence Hawke

The Reign of Lawrence Hawke

World State:
☫ Hawke has an Aggressive, bordering on cruel personality
☫ Warrior with a templar specialization
☫ Sided with the Templars and became Viscount
☫ Both siblings dead, killed Bethany during Mage Purge
☫ Anders (Rival) Romanced, spared
☫ Fenris (Friendship) given to Danarius
☫ Isabela (Friendship) came back with the Tome, given to Arishok
☫ Merril (Rival) Clan Sabrae killed, Mirror destroyed
☫ Aveline (Rival) did not remarry
☫ Varric (Rival), Bartrand 'healed' and then killed

☫ Took nearly every cruel or self-serving option
☫ Feynriel made tranquil
☫ Made a deal with the Rock Wraith demon in the deep roads
☫ Killed or turned over every apostate
☫ Blackmailed Thrask
☫ Killed Javris Tintop
☫ Sided with Patrice, held anti-Qunari Sentiments
☫ Turned Zevran over to the Crows
☫ Told Varric to keep the Red Lyrium Piece

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It's early morning when the sound of crackling fills the Bone Pit. A pair of unlucky miners immediately bolt from the noise, not even bothering to look back considering they've already kept their lives through such prudence in the years previous, through drakes and dragons and terrible management. They don't even see the strange crystal formation appear in the air behind them, creaking as it grows and shifts in unnatural jerks, an undulating cloud of veilfire bathing the area in its sickly green light.

First it spits out a man. White hair, small beard, holding a staff and dressed in artfully crafted if well used regalia. He lands heavily with a sudden exhale of breath, moving to his feet with a quick poise despite clearly having had the wind knocked from him and he holds the staff as an extension of his arm as it becomes apparent what caused his haste and defensive stance.

Demons. Six of them. Mostly the tall, spindly forms of terror demons shrieking their bone-rattling cries to echo along the cliffs surrounding the Pit, but one carries the slowly floating form of Despair, drifting mournfully towards the man as it leaves frost in its wake, the creeping chill surrounding it causing his breath to come in small clouds. But not even that has the newcomer's full attention.

A deep laugh resounds across the valley and another, much larger demon steps through. This one of Pride, its many-eyed head turned towards its target teeth bared in a gruesome smile. It leaves the rift entirely, and with its entrance into the world, the gate it used closes behind it, leaving the one mage to face them all alone.

"Brilliant," is all the mage seems to have to say, taking a breath and twisting his staff between his hands as he gathers mana to him.

The change in the air was the first sign of something wrong, the miners' fleeing path taking them past the healer as he strides towards the source of the energy. It didn't sit well with his demon, which put him on edge.

His staff swings out at the ready as he waits for whatever felt like it was about to snap. What snaps is the sky and a rift so like and yet so different from those once found in the Blackmarsh peels open and throws out a figure. Before Anders can react, the man from the fade stands and faces the tear as though ready for the demons that come through next. Fear, Despair, Pride and Anders' breath catches in his throat for a moment. It's been some time since he's fought alone...or maybe not as alone, as the man's mana flares to life, still Anders can't and won't count on him in this.

As he gathers his own mana and feels the splinter of the fade cracking across his face, he has the distant thought that either the miners or his curfew will see the Viscount told, no matter what happens.

Black energy gathers at his feet and lightning strengthened by Anders' energy lances out at the fear demons to fill their screeching mouths as he channels Vengeance's energy.

Great spiking pillars of ice form themselves from nothing to combat the demonic foes. Terror falls first, more for Adalwolfe's focus on them than anything. The screeching makes him grind his teeth and puts a spike through his mind. Nothing like the avatar he'd fought at the feet of the Nightmare, but enough that he wants them gone first for the distraction. Pride is easily avoided with its stomping around, Wolfe keeping it in view as he picks off the rest with force, winter doing less to Dispair for its similar nature.

He's half through the smaller demons, having taken superficial wounds, when he notices Anders there. His magic feels... wrong. Off. But Wolfe has little time to dwell on it as he turns to finally face the pride demon. What he does do is take a brief moment to wink at Anders as if they'd just shared some private secret, before he dives into the fray. His staff twirls and he dodges and ducks around the great beast with a practiced ease, landing both spell and blow and taking little in turn.

At least, taking little until the demon heaves itself into turning around faster than should be possible for a monster of its size and rakes three great claws across Adalwolfe's back. He cries out and stumbles away, having done a significant amount of damage to it but not enough to fell the thing just yet...

But his drive to keep the monster's attention on him and away from Anders is strong, and Adalwolfe whirls and continues to fire spell after spell at the thing despite the bleeding wounds in his back. Anders will see to it, he knows.

The wink is...unexpected but there’s no time to think or deal with that. This random apostate clearly wasn’t from near here and didn’t know who Anders was if he was even lightly flirting or being nice to him, but his form was well practiced and magic powerful. It pulled at his demon enticingly, especially with how close to the surface Vengeance was like this.

Lightning arches and fire chars Despair’s form as the unknown mage dances through his foes until Pride whips around like the lightning it wields. Anders knows in an instant the man has been injured, but there’s nothing for it now.

He pulls more from himself, his crushing prison twice as strong as it forms white telekinetic lines of mana around Pride and crushes it’s own weight against it. The demon roars, trapped in place and pained and slowly concaving under itself until it’s many eyes roll back.

“Die, bastard!” He yells, though Anders’ voice is not the only one that echoes in the quarry. The mana flashes and holds until finally breaking around the demon’s lifeless form, leaving it to drop heavily to the ground.

A moment of a heavy breath, pale cracks of fade energy shattering the skin on Anders’ hands and around his eyes, before they slowly faded and the black energy at his ankles dissipates with them. He felt strained and invigorated all at once and none of it was anything he wanted to think too much on right now. He waves his hand and sends healing magic towards the man, the cool mana slow to stitch the skin. Maker, he was out of practice. That was it, he was sure, not the stirring strings of Vengeance still clinging to him like a cobweb.

"Andraste's knickers, when did you learn to do that, Anders?" Adalwolfe makes his way around the fallen Pride demon, gingerly picking his steps and using his staff so he doesn't trip while the mana does its work. Slowly, he notes, and without the warmth he's accustomed to in Anders' magic, but there's enough familiar to it that he doesn't think much of it.

Not until he comes close enough to see his love is not his love at all but a shadow of him instead. Dark circles under the eyes, dark clothing on a slightly stooped form, a gauntness in the cheeks. Immediate concern crosses Adalwolfe's face, especially at the fade-scent that still hangs in the air around the other man. "You're still- No..."

Finally, now that reality is taking the place of the rush of battle, Adalwolfe takes in where he is. The Bone Pit. Kirkwall. Thedas. He brings his hand to his mouth, eyes darting around as if he can't comprehend what he's seeing.

"Fuck."

His name in that voice jolts through him sharply in a way that pains as much as it soothes, even as the tone seems so...innocent. Yet it’s wrong, a trick, another demon from the fade-? Impossible and yet-he’d fallen from the sky as well hadn’t he?

Anders takes two steps back, his staff held out with spirit energy building around his hands. “Who or what are you? What sort of act are you trying to put on here?” Because it had to be an act, that frustration, confusion, it couldn’t be genuine.

Magic whirls around Anders' hands and Adalwolfe immediately puts his hands up at the level of his shoulders in surrender. If what he thinks is going on truly is, he's going to have to do a lot of convincing. But first, he needs to know exactly when he's dealing with. Justice is still within Anders, he can feel it, much less see it in the cracks that had spidered over the healer's skin while they'd been fighting, so the year has to be before they'd left Kirkwall. Well, not them technically. If this was his Thedas, he would have been recognized.

"I mean no harm, I'm just-- It's very complicated, but I'll explain everything. I just need to know what year it is."

He had to proceed with caution, if this were a demon, his words would sound sweet and enticing and hold a promise for something that Anders wanted, whether he knew it or not. Would it feel the same out of the fade as in it, that pull and cloud of intense feeling? Would he even be able to tell?

Could he even trust himself to handle this?

Maybe he should simply wait, one of the workers would surely have gone to Lawrence and- his head throbbed and he winced but kept his guard up. Maybe this man was simply a man and the only demon here was him...he should at least listen, no matter how insane that question already sounded. The energy dissipated from his hands and his staff lowered, but his posture was stiff and cautious and waiting, ready to fly back into aggression at a moment's need. "Alright...this ought to be good. 9:39 Dragon. Divine Justinia reigns and you stand on the edges of the city-state Kirkwall in the Free Marches."

"In the Bone Pit, I know... 9:39?" His eyes widen a bit at that year. "Why are you still here, if it's 9:39? Shouldn't you have fled with your Hawke and the rest?"

It takes all of his willpower not to step towards Anders in concern, so much so that it shows dramatically in his expression. How is he still here yet free? Adalwolfe is certain that if Anders had stayed in Kirkwall after the Chantry, the remains of the Templars would have clapped him in irons in an instant. Or worse, done what he'd offered Hawke the chance to do and take his life.

"What... what's happened? What's going on?"

"With my Hawke?" That stood out more than any of the rest for a moment, the inflection too precise to have many meanings. "You say that like there ought to be multiple Hawkes I should be aware of." Even as he said it, the part of his mind that had keyed in to the sound of this man's voice flared up, like a child jumping for attention it wasn't receiving.

There were theories out there about time magics, an impossible thing certainly, but in principle possible. What about alternate times? No, it couldn't be-

Unless...

Anders' expression faltered, something uncertain and a touch vulnerable flickering through his eyes before it hardened again and he turned away from the man to start walking. With a flick of his wrist, he motioned for the stranger to follow, but didn't stay to find out if he did. This was as much a test as anything else running through his mind.

"I think it's time you told me who you are before I go around answering entitled questions like you've missed out on something that was yours to experience. Not here, though." Thee was too much risk of eyes and whispered rumor and the last thing he needed was Lawrence hearing he'd been seen talking to some stranger in the Bone Pit like he was trying to hid something. Even without the aspect of that someone falling from the Fade, that sort of thing would not go over well.

He led them into a cave whose opening was only visible when you were nearly on top of it and didn't stop until he'd taken them to a small bend in the path. Drakestone and silvrite glimmered from the wisps that danced in the air around them as Anders turned on this increasingly impossible person, expression stony. "Now...who are you really and why did you come out of the Fade? How were you there in the first place and why, by Andraste's Grace, should I treat you any differently from the Demons that came with you? Maybe I'll answer your questions then."

Anders breezes past him in ire and leads towards the caves, the hidden crack in the wall Adalwolfe is fairly certain only he and his cohorts ever cared to explore due to his own penchant for being thorough when drakes are involved.

"You're not going to believe me," he mutters, half under his breath but still echoing as they enter the cave just for poor timing. He sighs and speaks more normally, knowing there's only forward from that statement. No backpeddaling. "But as a man who's seen some impossible things with the Wardens - breaks in the veil and spirits in the waking world - I hope you'll at least consider that it might be true whether you believe it or not."

They stop walking, Wolfe awkward for the echo in the small cavern. He rubs the back of his neck, looking anywhere but at Anders as he searches for a place to begin. Ultimately, he lowers himself to sit on a rock, and resolves to just start talking. "My name is Adalwolfe Hawke. My family and I fled Ferelden during the Fifth Blight and made our fortune in Kirkwall. The details are likely different, but the story is largely the same. An expedition to the Deep Roads for riches. The Qunari uprising. The Chantry..."

Wolfe exhales a long breath, looking up to meet Anders eyes, trying not to allow his worry at just how sallow the other mage looks show in his expression. "It seems a unique story but its been told a thousand different ways by a thousand different Hawkes, Varrics, and Anders in a thousand different versions of Thedas all existing alongside one another. I'm not a learned mage like you, no formal magical education to speak of, but I know there's theories written about this and I know them to be true because I've met other Hawke's. I've met different versions of the others too. Fenrises, Isabellas. Cullen, even, all from different points. I'm not sure if there's a rhyme or reason to it, but there it is.

"The last I remember from my Thedas, its 9:41 Dragon. I fell out of the Fade here after what feels like years in other places. Odd places with different technology, magics, oppressive systems and fantastical people. I'll spare you those details for sounding too far-fetched even for Varric's stories, but for Thedas, I remember. I've lived this time. We'd settled in a small cottage in eastern Orlais by now, the Circles rebelling across all the south." He leans back, not sure what proof Anders will need to make any of it ring true, but he sits open, vulnerable. He sits ready to explain whatever is demanded of him.

He sits very tired as he looks up at Anders and waits patiently for what he expects to be utter rejection. What he'll do in the face of that he's not sure, but he's also not certain he can leave Anders to whatever fate this Thedas has in store for him either. He's gaunt, hollowed out. Something fundamental missing, or at least buried under an ugly weight that the more Adalwolfe looks at him, the more he realizes he's faced before. Fought off repeatedly over years of fruitless attempts at meeting with the Grand Cleric, at finding his pamphlets in gutters, at not being heard. Hopelessness. Helplessness. A listless shell of himself.

There are less lines on his face, Wolfe realizes. No crows feet, no starts of wrinkles around his mouth so used to turning up in wry amusement. Yet he looks older and broken and Wolfe has to look away before he does something rash like embrace him.

His ire fans uselessly with the events listed so casually like they're given and obvious and not cruel turns of fate to him and he man he loves, thrown their way by a life too uncaring to either of them. Yet they were facts to this man, points in history meant to establish and guide Anders' understanding. As foreign as it seemed coming from him, it worked...until things turned on their head and left Anders feeling more and more hollowed for each word.

It wasn't meeting other Hawkes or their other...friends...that went along the same route of vague disbelief as this man also being a Hawke. Somehow, that part seemed impossible and yet easier to swallow than the last part. The part about Orlais and Circles rebelling and this Hawke is a mage? Did that...did that mean he'd helped the mages even when his Anders had fallen to his weakness and hurt so many?

Even considering it for just a moment caused a flicker of blue-white across his brow he hadn't felt stir in some time, self-satisfied as the demon in him had been in it's assumption that spark would do anything at all. There'd been some stir in the White Spire recently, but to what end it was too early and vague to tell, but full-on uprising in the Circles?

He thought 'good' and felt pride and vindication and knew it wasn't his at all. Damn this man for stirring Vengeance with his lies.

And what if they aren't lies?

Anders rubbed his forehead, the lines fading and leaving a viscous pulse of migraine behind as he turned away from...Ha- Adalwolfe.

"There is no rebellion. If the Circles try to rise up, they will be slaughtered. It's foolish and wrong to wish for it. The Chantry won't allow it to happen." He didn't know who he was trying to convince of the three presences in this cavern, but he said it with heavily resigned conviction. "The circle here is nearly non-existent, the Templars did as they were meant to and ensured it was purged. The White Spire is gripped in a tight metal fist and Kinloch sits isolated on a lake where many will either fall to a blade or drown attempting to swim the lake to a freedom that doesn't exist. I hope you know a way back, Serah, because if all you've said is true, then you won't know the home you've come back to."

His mind was pulsing, buzzing, cloudy with thought and wonder that he was desperately trying not to let get too far, and above it all, he felt the righteous anger and affront fall away in him, leaving him cold and confused and vaguely wishing he'd wake up from whatever nightmare this was.

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The Reign of Lawrence Hawke

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