Because there are scarves in SWTOR. (And because I owed him a better version of this particular crossover. I left it all rough and sketchy…just like me. >_>)
[The Jedi] Order will be restored.
Snippet of fiction… because I was having pangs for Thedas.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
A man walks into a tavern at night. It sounds like the start of a joke, but his purpose is quite serious, even if the tavern bears the name Maid of the Brine.
He finds the downstairs empty, save for a burly woman wiping dishes at the bar. She’s beefy, really, with short-cropped red hair, and muscles straining against her shirt. The man briefly wonders what they feed people in these parts.
By way of greeting, he receives a grunt from the ginger proprietor, so the man lays on the charm, all soulful eyes and dashing grin. The tavern owner practically throws his mug of mead in his lap.
So the man waits a bit, patient. He drinks the surprisingly tasty brew, orders a meat pasty and tucks slowly into his late supper before launching into his questions. He first asks about the frequency of travelers - idle conversation really. He is met with a scowl. He asks about guests upstairs. He is met with a terse “not your coin, not your business.” He asks about a missing mage, fugitive from Kirkwall, Champion who started a war, a woman with ice blue eyes and raven hair.
He think he hears the proprietor’s jaw crack from clenching.
And when she glares but refuses to comment, he rises and moves to the bar, swift and deadly, as he was trained.
She surprises him by catching his wrist before his hand reaches her throat. She shocks him when, fast as lightning, she slams that wrist down upon the polished bar. She makes him feel fear for the first time in years when the pain from bone grinding against bone momentarily blurs his vision.
The proprietor orders him out, in a voice low and deep. She reminds the man that Kirkwall was years ago - a tale best forgotten, a city of chains turned to ash, a place that should remain in shadow and she won’t tolerate him bringing ghosts into her business. Neither ghosts, nor weapons, she says, eyeing the dagger he attempts to unsheathe.
And so he leaves, steps back into the night and the cold, no closer to answers. He has suspicions but also a broken wrist. He won’t be returning. Not anytime soon, that is.
When the door closes behind the man, the proprietor turns to find the cook standing behind her, a mallet in one hand and a cleaver in the other. His beard is mighty enough to make a dwarf jealous, but he still carries himself like the guardsman he was.
He nods once to the proprietor, and then once to the woman descending the stairs - a pirate tucking two lethal blades into her tall boots, never breaking stride.
The three confer for a moment, and the cook takes on the task of riding out to warn their friend - a woman with ice blue eyes and raven hair. He pauses, wondering if it’s safe to leave the women alone, then shakes his head, remembering how capable each is on her own. Together, well…he might just feel pity for anyone foolish enough to cross them.
When he leaves, the pirate comments on the change of tide, the squall on the horizon that means her imminent departure. The proprietor scoffs and says good riddance, complaining that she had long grown tired of hearing the other woman moaning through all hours of the night. And in response, the pirate laughs, scolding the proprietor for listening in when she should be doing some moaning of her own.
The proprietor reddens, calls her companion a poxy tart, then goes to pack her bag and retrieve her sword.
“Going to charge off towards danger and meet it halfway?” the pirate asks with mirth in her voice.
The proprietor smiles for the first time that night. “Let you and Hawke get ambushed and killed? Not on my watch.”
And the pirate nods, mischief in her eyes. “That’s my girl.”
More rough sketchy sketch stuff. I had doodled this a few weeks back but made some tweaks and then never really cleaned it up.
I dunno… maybe I like some things a little messy?
Inspired by a song from Mulan.
There’s just so much that Aveline would be (and has been) scowling over.
Blame the weather. Blame the overabundance of ME melancholia that still lingers.
I revisited an old dusty story, brushed it off, reworked it into a bit of DA2 fic somewhere in the theme of the unrequited love between Hawke and Aveline, and some time in between Acts 2 and 3.
Somber ramblings of a sort below the cut. Standard disclaimers remain. Demons are exorcised.
Hasty silliness, because I found myself staring at the calendar earlier and realized there was only 28 days this month.