A prompt set five years after the fleeing of the Qunari (courtesy of the DA kink meme, there are some great ideas there and this is one of them) The sections are broken up by flashbacks (marked in italics) and the rest is one night, one encounter. Enjoy all of you Qunari fanatics and Arishok fans. This contains war (violence and blood), language and sexual situations, Rated M and not for the faint.

Disclaimer: do not own Dragon Age of any kind, shape or form...just a copy of the game.

Several of them - all large and shifting in between the slim, snake-like jungle trees, searching, sniffing and hunting – they were on the right trail.

Archers, all of them; scouts. Not one had pulled off a decent strike through the thickness of the terrain, but the knowledge of their skills said that eventually that would change; eventually they'd send a fast one at just the right angle…and Hawke would surely be struck.

The sun was low, but the canopy of vines - curving branches (smooth and shiny) with thick native leaves the size of serving trays - made the forty feet below as dark as any starless night.

Water ran fast, somewhere – the sound of droplets and white falls striking against hard rocks was like white noise, helping rather than hindering the straining of her ears. It wasn't enough to just see them following her in the growing dimness, she also had to hear them, smell them…anticipate them.

Their scent traveled slowly – the density of the vegetation was insurmountable and stifling enough that the smell of decaying organic matter was still thrashing inside her nostrils. The musky and bitter smell of their exotic sweat was near lost on the other various exotics around her. This unleveled and moist environment was unknown; alien in a way, despite the familiar smell of water and the sight of what she assumed was the last rays of sun filtering in through the cracks of dense branches above. Soon the sun would be entirely gone, and the danger that that left Hawke in was painfully obvious.

Sweat that was cold the moment it left her pores was trickling down her cheeks, sliding down her neck and becoming one with the soaked shift against her skin. Never before had she been so uncomfortable in her own skin. The sweat, the oil, and the dirt were only a few of the things that made movement a vile act, but even as the cloth between her legs squished as she stretched from one flat ascending rock to the next, Hawke knew it was pleasant compared to the feeling of steel Qunari arrows in her body. She'd received her far share of them over the years when she'd been inKirkwalland the memories of those encounters only brought misery – and even then she had two healers on her the moment they struck.

The sweat from her face was falling with each step – like rain it made little audible pats on the stones, leaving dark circles in their wake.

Somewhere in her body, she told herself it was wrong to lean on the trees as she climbed her way silently up to the higher elevation, but the muscles in her thighs were stinging, as if the fibers were tearing thread by thread. The smaller trunks bent when grasped; their leaves rustling loudly in the fuzzy silence.

At the same time that terrible straining sound started and grew (the sound distinct to a tensing bow) a soft fruit – pink and yellow – fell from the shivering tree around her hand. When the fruit hit the crispy leaves between the stones – the released arrow echoed beside her ear; displacing the air with a fast noise that was as quick to end as it was to instill a bead of fear in her gut. That shot had been too close…

The cold of the wet air seemed to saturate her bones with a familiar chill; one that did more for action than it could for anything else.

As quickly and quietly as the trained rogue she was, Hawke crouched, bent her pounding knees and ducked her head even though her spine protested by popping softly. With each measured trod, her fingers crazed the sedimentary rocks (some broken and cracked, but all gritty and worn).

The sound of water grew nearer, and there was that brief wave of relief as the ground ahead dipped back to a mild incline. Greater, that feeling of relief grew when she stole one curt glance over her shoulder; yielding nothing but dense jungle and dark depths. It should have been that Hawke would have estimated the hiding of their shadows with the declining sun, but for whatever reason (be it physical, mental or environmental) she didn't, and the moment her head turned back; arm raising to accommodated for her shifting knee, an arrow pierced straight through the flesh of her arm. Blood was thrust from her arm in small droplets as the arrow head burst from her skin.

In a moment of gruesome curiosity, Hawke wiggled her fingers, watching as only three out of five moved properly. The steel arrow head was dribbling with fresh blood – a full two to three inches sticking out from her forearm. Another kind of sweat ran down her back as the belated pain started to burn and sting all the way from the tips of her fingers, to the ball of her shoulder. There was no time to scream, curse, or even whimper softly – she needed to move…fast, ignore the pain and tell herself it was power of will or death. The Qunari would not bother capturing her now – not after she'd put four members of their infantry down.

Each touch of the fleeting stones against the fingers on her pierced arm left a sudden clamp of pain in its place; tendons, veins and bone bumping along the strong nut wood of the arrows shaft. Leaves flapped against her sides, branches cut along her bare arms and calves with each gallop…and all along the pain grew worse.

Distantly she'd concentrated on the light steps of the approaching horned beasts, but that sound was growing all the more hard to pinpoint as her breath came in garbled shudders. The sun was all but gone now – just the orange and red scatters of light between the leaves ahead, casting dots of ending rays on the ground under her hasty feet in patchy gatherings.

The evasion was turning into one against the pain and the limited light, not just one from the worst enemies Hawke had ever fought. Her own men's blood was soaking into the wood of arrows flung much earlier in the day, farther away near the original flank, and she herself had been running for hours on end from the remaining numbers they hadn't anticipated. The archers were large – as all Qunari were – but if anything Hawke had learned today that their size did not factor into their stamina or their speed. No longer did she assume those still following the Qun should ever be compared to those who'd abandoned it. They were demonically fast and agile – so much so that at this moment there was nothing Hawke hated more than a well honed Qunari.

Reaching the last arched stone – perfectly shaped by weathering to hold her cupped hand as Hawke lurched her body up once more, finally reaching leveled ground with zigzagging trees and short dirty grasses – was only relished once that last foot pulled up from rocky cut earth to the soft underbelly of the jungle floor. It was here – on the sanctuary of even soil – that she ran, bounding between thick and thin trunks, repeating the process of snapping branches and breaking bridged vines in her way towards the increasing laps of water.

This easy terrain allowed her ample time to bite down on her upper lip, bend her jaw at just the right angle so as not to sever said lip, and promptly snap the imbedded arrows shaft. Pain blinded her – that side of her body seizing in pain as her curled fist slipped on the arrows head while fresh blood broke free of the cracked and clotted chunks.

On the sudden yank – the arrow slipping out no more easily than an old book from a packed shelf – Hawke plowed into a tree. The air left her comically, her face loosened in shock just before tightening at the unexpected loss of breath and dull pain as she was thrust back on the (not so soft anymore) ground - her blades skirting at the fabric on her legs and cutting easily into the first layer of soil.

Holding in a hefty breath brought nothing but a burn in her lungs and silence – no hunting archers ready to fill her body with sharp steel, but most of all that meant no more running. Her arm throbbed with such stabbing pain that finally – without creeping enemies growing near – she whimpered. The pain she allowed didn't get another chance to relish in its inflexible selfishness. There was still danger, and being ever aware – Hawke's eyes cracked open past the gunk that'd started to solidify at the creases.

She just needed to find an alcove of any kind – a dim fallen tree, high roots, the cut of a cave, or even an old animal burrow, but as if the Maker knew of her sudden moment of rest – the tree she'd bounded into started to make soft noises…noises that were comparable to a sleeping or satiated beast; noises that Hawke had heard in the Fade…in the comfort of her own bed when no one was aware of the destination her fingers had scouted out.

Upon looking – craning her protesting neck and bending back her shoulders till they popped softly – it was the one man (or beast), Hawke had never thought she'd see again.

Steely eyes – hooded in shadows – stared down. Hardened lines of tension and age ran under such eyes, bellow ebony twirling horns and around thick lips; white with strain.

Ashen skin shown with a light patina of moisture, highlighting the shamefully well remembered swells of muscles that besieged his body. Mass alone – he was tormenting from far away, menacing near and up this close…he put that same thrill of shame back inside her gut – the same sensation a grown woman would have acted upon, if not for the fact that the recipient was near seven foot and horned; churning a war axe at one thigh with promise.

The Arishok, with his characteristic bowing horns and impossible presence, was peering down at her with the slightest offset angle to his gaze. As still as any tree, he did nothing but watch – the faded brown and orange of the dying sun turned his eyes a color that had her imagining death. Would it be as painful to allow him the satisfaction of slaying her, than to have given into the maiming of that last arrow and be done with life already…or at least halfway there?

There was no answer as the tops of his eyes lowered and that beastly purr tumbled from his nostrils again. If she'd touched him now she knew her fingers would vibrate from the commotion such a sound would make.

Life had played many games with Hawke; countless occasions she'd felt as though someone was laughing at her from afar, as if some demon were paving the groves of her life with thorn bush rather than cobbles. The proof of this ideal was staring right at her - a gaze that did more than turn her to stone – it even pulled her mind from the spreading flushing in her arm; dull pain that would have grown more painful if not for the way she concentrated on the minor twitches and lifts of his face.

There had been a brief moment of panic; panic that could only be felt when the precipice of dealings with demons and thieves were at their last ends, as if as a recipient – the worry of being backstabbed was always a hair's width away. But the ending moments of the Arishok's honor bound compact was no feeble one. He would leave, as promised, but not without solidifying what had been a brewing curiosity for Hawke, into that of such a detested desire for something so unobtainable. With one look, Hawke was taken breathless in such a way that later on she'd laugh at herself for being the epitome of all Orlais romance novellas.

Catching her foot in a spiders webbing was about the proper description for the feeling his eyes held upon her then. Dark, unwavering and teasingly unreadable as those yellow eyes were – Hawke had felt something distinct about that moment. If he had been any other man – even of his lower ranking Qunari – Hawke would have assumed such a look to promise pleasantries of the flesh, but as it were, all she saw was a threatening show of staking dominance. Even if he had to flee back to Par Vollen without blood on his hands, he would strike fear in her heart…a promise she could have easily brushed off…or let consume her – she chose the later.

He had stared her down countless times, each and every moment she'd came to him - he had left her with that dreadful feeling of mites crawling under her skin as her feet pulled her out of sight, yet this was…different – it lasted too long and not a single sound echoed, as if both their breathes had been held in while they stared. Silent promises passed (it had been easily apparent to Fenris and Varric, as they'd confess that night), but Hawke hadn't known what his was…hadn't even bothered to try deciphering it..

They had locked eyes, broken them and then he and his men had left as agreed – Isabela still protesting loudly against the decision made for her further away; caught in the tight hold of two large Sten. There was still no pity for the pirate, even when the Arishok's mass pulled the air away from her side; heat flaring through the clothing on her left. It may have been a weary mind that had a growl vibrating in her ears, but she'd never really know.

Hawke hadn't even bothered holding in the desperate last looks she'd branded over his stressed back as it left through the Viscount's doors, thinking, but not knowing it would be her last one.

Fate, by the Maker, was a droll little thing.

How long had she thought of seeing him again since the second his gaze had left hers all those years ago? – up until the moment she'd began running from the archers. This decision to lead groups from Donark to theHunterthornMountainshad actually fueled such delusions of catching him in battle (well, delusions at the time) – it had even seemed reasonable to the expeditions previous. They had yet to try the flank down the west mountains…but, judging by the hole in her arm and the sight before her - the Qunari expected such a desperate endeavor; ever keen to humans nature.

"Hawke.", at her name on his tongue – thicker with a flange that she could only atone to an accent – Hawke's eyes shifted and without hesitation her good arm slipped and shifted, fingering her sharpest blade; eyes still on his own and waiting for the first movement of hostility.

Still – despite private wishes – she'd perceived that last look as any other threat. Never first hand, or even second hand, had Hawke been privy to his form in battle. If he chose to strike her now then she ought to be primed.

Dried blood flaked from her fingers as they thumbed the hilt on her blade of Woe; proof of the wound that she'd forgotten until now. Disregarded pain came swimming back, but the sight ahead was more worrisome than any infection. The Arishok still exuded such the presence that almost all beside himself was ignored; other thoughts seemed so fleeting, even the necessary one that kept her fingers at her weapon.

When she didn't answer him, he seemed perturbed. That axe – the smaller of the two weapons, but of the swifter – cut through the air, slicing a falling leaf in its way to rest on one of those thick shoulders.

The action was so quick, Hawke hadn't pulled a fist around her hilt until the moment after that axe had settled – it was beyond embarrassing; near upsetting.

"I did not expect the likes of you either, Hawke, yet I do not drool or gape at the air like a mutt. It suits you less than armor does."

Her eyes watered and her cheeks prickled with heat as she pulled her lips back together; mouth having hung open at some point, whether because of her poor reflexes or his appearance. The Arishok had surly changed in these past years. One serrated scar ate into his bicep that hadn't been there before, fine wrinkles were abound and more thick gold squares littered his ears. What had been short cropped locks when she'd seen him last were now long and stark white. How he fought with such a hazard as that, she didn't know, but admired all the same. Even his eyes; eyes that had been darker and sunken were now bright and denser with a heavy pupil; trained on her as the pain in her arm brought her shoulders to the tipping point of shuttering like a freezing child.

"Rise.", he demanded; a sound low but sharp…and filled with everything she'd been bent on purging since he'd respected their agreement and fled.

Salty sweat dribbled into her mouth and as she tensed to rise; body burning and arm throbbing bitingly, she spat out the rich concoction of her own fluids.

"Arishok", she uttered in a raspy tone – not bothering to be ashamed of her parched throat. She had run far too long and was still being drained of the water her body had worked feebly to keep her functioning. "I would have assumed you to be at the base of the mountain…not…with…" Why would he be here? In the thick of the jungle…unless he knew they would try something like this.

"Assuming is one of the flaws you have not been rid of. The Qun has made clear how easy it is to predict your movements. Another infantry is subduing your east-ward flank as you lie here.", so easily he seemed to speak, yet his tone seemed as dull as when he'd first spoken to her, as if he'd lost what little respect he'd developed for her the moment he'd turned his back on her…wouldn't that have been irony.

Instead of showing her insult on her face, Hawke pulled her lips tight before speaking, "I have more faith in them than to think your men would squander them so easily."

"As easily as they squandered the ghosts at your side?", he said thickly; eyes running over the dense growth behind her, making it obvious that he hadn't overlooked she was without company.

His pinning question sent her skin aflame. The sweat becoming warm as the speculation became fact. Knowing the Arishok – he was right. Judging by what she'd seen of her own men – the rest were probably suffering the same fates, but the horror didn't filter past her cold expression. Five years had changed her enough that she knew now how easy Qunari could read her face if she didn't keep herself on a tight threshold.

Years ago she may have been mortified to find herself before him now…with the sour smell coming from her drenched clothing, or the fact that it was the spilled blood running down her arm that was the only color to her skin – she'd gone from flushed to pale.
Thinking about the moment she'd see him again in the comfort of her own bed (glorifying ever detail), was much different than finding him in the heat of battle, or more precisely, in the heat of fleeing from the certain death her own platoon had found.

Her legs buckled briefly, but the pride to remain standing before him was greater than any numbness sprinkling up her shins. She may be weak and wounded now, but if he chose to fight, Hawke would not show her sexes disadvantage without her will crumbling first, and if anything Hawke prided herself on her strength of will above all. The Arishok would sooner sever her head than see her collapse before him, though the Viscount's grim lopped head came to view just as the crisp leaves crunched under his approaching steps.

He had already been close, but now his heat had the sweat beading in greater quantities against her forehead, as if he knew this and grew nearer for that very reason.

"One armed as you are, I expect no easy struggle. Even though you are female I will not deny…I relish this.", the axe at his side was flung into the soft earth, standing on angle and unwavering as he pulled forth the two toned sword; arm bunching and stretching in the blue of dusk, resting at his side and twirling menacingly just as before…the separated tips almost teasing the earth at his feet.

"I…", Hawke started but drew in a breath; her shoulder dropping as the other yanked out her blade, stretching it at her side as he had done, but not twisting (she had no energy for flare), "…am a selfish creature, as I have found…despite the rebuttal of my companions. I have grown to regret our deal, Arishok."

His brows did a slight separation; eyes barely catching any light but birthing the smallest change. Hawke didn't doubt he wasn't curious, but at least he would listen.

"Battling you would have been the end of at least one problem, now both track me no matter the terrain I cross.", feeling the beginnings of battle lust, Hawke relished in the cracking of thin skin along her lips as she smirked. With the edge of her blade – face tightening to keep solid – she scraped the fresh blood from her arm, gathering the thickening pool delicately with a dragging sound before flicking it against the ground between their feet, marking their arena's boundaries wherever they may step.

The signal was clear and the actions resulting were warranted, but despite Hawke's instigation, she stumbled back when their weapons edge first smacked loudly, limbs straining with past exertion; rebelling against such prideful action. He was so deafly quick that her eyes still fogged with the arch of color his first movement made.

At least – Hawke surmised, as she parried to the side, watching him lean forward and then back from the removed resistance with a sneer – if she befell to him, it would be a better death than to gurgle around an assassins blade alone in her bed, or linger on blood loss as his subordinates wrenched their arrows from her body.

There was one step where her foot caught under a twisted root, part of some tree she'd never had to familiarize herself with, and simultaneously - with her resulting fall – Hawke's blade sparked with his own in the darkness and was promptly knocked from her fist as the downward slope pulled her into a tumble. Bony roots, sharp rocks and slippery moss did wonders to slow her painful roll and ease her slower to the water filled grotto beneath. This was where the comforting sound of running water had come from – the source she'd been fleeing towards and ironically it was what stopped her fall.

The water was frigid, colder than anything her warm blooded nature was used to, but it was also the best medicine for the growing bruises and oozing wounds.

Engulfed by water; back hitting the smoothed pebbled bottom, slipping further out into the rippling pond – Hawke released a fountain of bubbled, water filling her lungs before her legs stiffened up and she tasted air in her mouth.

Past the sting of water in her eyes, she could see his darkness easing fluidly down the slope she'd fallen – ever measured and confident.

Her tumble had flattened plants, procured skid marks in the mossy dirt and dislodged sunken rocks where many lay at the bank of the crystalline pond.

The water moved softly around her upper thighs – not deep and not even the least bit murky from her flop. The hole in her arm stung, but the bitter pain was better than the weak throb before the water had seeped in.

It wasn't until she heard his bare feet squish over the soppy mud near the water, that Hawke reached back for her secondary blade…and found none but air in her fist. The sudden realization hit like an expanding coil; running from one end of her body to the next in such a fury, she paled.

His body was the closet to nude she'd ever seen. Under the choking water he must have tossed aside his gauntlets, bracers, and body armor. The tight leathers around his waist and thighs were little against not only a blade, but her eyes; her sick and hated imagination.

The Docks had been the simplest journey for sanctuary. After an arduous day, making the journey to Hook Coast was as taxing as sitting through one of Varric's embellished tales.

At dusk most of the dockhands were in the taverns, in the Blooming rose, or at home with a family of their own – leaving a deserted-scape of nothing but empty ships, billowing sails, and lapping waves for Hawke to solely enjoy. It had been a frequent indulgence to just enjoy sitting by the wall of stone along the darkest dock and watch as the constellations formed above her; hidden by all that tried to seek her out.

Aveline had been making it a point to know what she did, when and in what pretence ever since she'd joined up with the smuggling elf. Even though she'd been on her own for the better part of the month – the guardswomen still seemed to feel the meddlesome urge to spy on her, for reasons that still made little sense. It was almost coming to the point that Hawke assumed the woman had a crush on her – it wouldn't have been the first time the same sex had courted her, but Hawke appreciated a semblance of privacy every now and then.

The wind was just beginning to ebb against the city docks when the heavy sound of rattling chains pulled her attention over the low stone wall at her back. The light gusts tossed loose hair in her eyes just as the grey forms began intruding towards her dock.

Her fingers tugged at the rebellious strands; eyes wincing when ticklish hairs stuck against the wetness of her eyeballs, flooding them with tears as she blinked them away.

At first, as guilty as it'd make her feel later on into the night, Hawke had thought there were adolescent ogres running amuck, but the closer the horned giants stepped – the more Hawke saw how human they were compared to such dumb beasts. These, she realized – with finger nails picking at the loose gravel along the edge of her stone wall – were the Qunari.

They had been in Kirkwall no longer than a week, and yet Hawke had been surprised she hadn't yet run into them until now. Many spoke of their appearance; many hailed their prowess and warned of their mannerisms towards humans. All of such gossip, Hawke had pulled in, but didn't hold any of it very close to true.

They did not appear to have teeth like Darkspawn, nor did their horns look as deadly as a bulls…but she did see the reasons of why so many were nervous about their very existence. In a fight they easily outweighed any seasoned Templar, and with legs and bodies moving so taught – even just meandering down the docks – it intimidated her just the slightest.

Between two Qunari – both appearing the same, with the same triangular criss-crossing of (possibly) a red war paint or tattoos – there was a bound one; larger than the two, even without the bent horns topping his crown.

After years of learning to anticipate individual actions; watching for signs of hostility or fickleness, Hawke felt that knowing slug in her belly as her eyes followed the Qunari down a stoned path against the deepest portion of sea.

Their movements reminded Hawke of those whose professions were to lead the vile to justice; a noose. The bound one's shoulders were taut and low, and yet still imposing.

There was that whisper of death, of Charon waiting in his ferry for his occupant patiently, and Hawke only sank further into the stone as they reached the end of the path.

One of them gazed her way – a brief glance that told her she was unimportant but not unnoticed the slightest; eyes as dark as the sky, and as bright as the stars shining with the hue of a dying ember that stared back out to sea. What ever they did – it did not matter whether she bared witness to it or not. They did not care. She was irrelevant.

The glimmer of steel – a polish against the harvest moon – was all Hawke saw before it was sunk into the bound ones throat, slipped with the simplest of movements and dropped back into a sheath at his hip. The bound one dropped; knees making the only noise Hawke had heard besides his chains at the start of this…then…as if the scene was as beautiful as it was morbid – a fire erupted from the dying skin. Blood painted the stone and lead into the water by rivulets before turning black as the fire licked them too.

In moments there was left a still form of flaking ash – a statue of what had once been a Qunari. A simple gust of sea breeze brought the ashes out into the waves, simply and effortlessly while the two painted ones bowed their heads briefly before going back the way they came.

What Hawke had witnessed was an execution; one that would carry beside her each time she found herself visiting their compound…and most of all when she'd watched the Saarebas (the bound one) cast himself in the same gorgeous petals of fire. It was, in a way, a perfect impression of everything they were…

"I expected more from you, Hawke. Females, as the Qun says, do not belong in battle, lest be at the heart of it. I do not see passion anymore than I see a male…", that axe settled on his shoulder, as if he'd already decided she'd lost; already taken up the victor's position for himself with just a tilt of his chin.

She had no excuse to give him, and even if one had happen to come to mind, she wouldn't use it. Making excuses seemed like something a child would do, and before him, she looked enough as a child as she'd ever wanted.

"It was fruitless that you travel this far from your corrupt home, Hawke. We Qunari do not admit defeat easily, if…at all. These lands are ours, these kabethari will be the people of the Qun, and no matter how hard you believe victory is possible, it will not come. Your death will have been unfortunate. A pity."

Belittling – it was all Hawke had ever heard from him. She had risen from the lowest scum to that comparable to a hero, and most of that journey had been before the scrutinous eyes of him and his fellow shipwrecked brethren. He – as much as anyone – should have given her the credit of not only surviving but flourishing where she had no right to.

"You look weak, fallen and in pain. Submit and we will speak.", it was an ultimatum. If she kneeled to him and his Qun, he would show her mercy. If anything she took comfort in knowing he had a thread of respect left for her as she came to a swift decision. By the Maker she would not cave under anyone, including a beast such as he.

The grooved leather of the blade in her boot was soggy; slippery from the water, but it took to her grip all the same, and when she raised her short blade beside her breast – the Arishok's eyes seemed to shine. He seemed to relish her choice, just as he'd said. At least she wasn't the only one that'd been anticipating this moment.

The pain in her arm was long gone; numb with a rush of adrenaline pumping under her damp skin – without the distraction, Hawke felt that confidence (natural before every battle) swelling her chest.

"Meravas.", he uttered gutturally – axe lifted and standing poised at his thigh; ready.
The near bleak duel began. Her thighs taking her through the water in an almost comical display before she grit her teeth and hurled forward – pointed blade poised forward.

The fruits of her effort landed Hawke with her knees in the muck – the result of an ineffective lunge and stab. The quick whisk of air behind her had her thrusting her body back against the bank; narrowly avoid the imbedding axe beside her ear. For a second she gazed into his yellow eyes, as he did hers before her feet found the will to move and managed to bend themselves between her body and his; tossing him back a good few feet with a grunt leaving her lips.

"Pride.", she spat before rolling swiftly in the mud, flopping up to her feet just before arching her blade to skid off a swipe at her shoulder – the force made her cry out; pain exploding in the ball of said shoulder as if the two bones had bypassed any cushioning and decided to bang hard against the other.

His empty hand came to her, evading the slice of her shocked arm easily while grabbing and yanking at her punctured forearm. Pain had her panting, but as he held her – striking down to fatally maim her – she banged into his body, his axe missing her and the weight and velocity pushing him into the pond along with her.

There was a moment of brief excitement – catching him off-guard was as pleasurable as any major victory – but as the cold splashes of water hit her face and her lower body fought to keep steady, her shoulder was ripped free of it's socket with a terribly dramatic popping sound; as much part of her effort as his.

Something about an arm hanging limp from her body - banging back and forth by the waves and the male handling her – was sickening. The pain was blinding, if only for a second. What was worse than the pain was the blade slipping from her hand as her fingers went numb and fuzzy. It was as if she could feel his past words – granting her mercy – like a bastards laugh in her face.

A curse lingered on her lips, but it was cut off when she was pulled further into the water as he recovered. Her good arm (the one fit with an arrow wound) scrambled beneath the three foot deep pool, scraping fingers along the pebbles below for her only life-line. Tears of pain clouded her eyes, but were instantly washed away as she was pulled under the slapping waves. Quickly she slammed her steel-toed boots into the offending limb – the grip on her loosening enough that as she ripped free, her hands found the blade a foot away.

Stuck between the pebbles and thick layer of sediment, Hawke tugged free her blade, blindly driving up from the water with a knife shining cryptically on the moon – it slipped with certain ease right into the thick muscle of the Arishok's side.

All that she heard was the roaring water between them stilling and a soft grunt as her hand rested against the warmth of his skin; blood heating where she'd stuffed the dagger in hilt deep. The occurrence of such a sight…was almost…regretful – that is, until, a strong unyielding hand wrapped around her neck, squeezing her until her eyes opened up like miniature moons.

He drug her by her neck – either ignoring or not noticing how she began to drool as her mouth rotated; jaw pushing into the calloused blade of his hand as he bruised her tender flesh by the second. Honestly – as the water left her calves and her feet drug into the bank while he pulled them ashore – Hawke assumed her lungs would never taste the succulent air again. She would die with her chest constricted in pain, but that didn't appear to be what the Arishok wanted – he tossed her into the ground, her shoulder slamming against a flat rock and it was then…that she screamed.

In moments of desperation, creatures of thought did drastic things; things like repeatedly shoving their own dislocated shoulder into the blunt portion of bedrock…until…eventually that sickening pop and flush of relieving pain fixed their dilemma entirely – Hawke was one of these creatures, and it appeared as though she had the Arishok and his curiosity to thank for the extra time on her side.

When she tossed her head up – sweat, tears, spittle and blood from superficial cuts creating an interesting combination on her face – she saw the Arishok examining her with eyes and cambering horns tilted down at her. Bleeding as he was – he was also sword-less, possibly lost somewhere in the water, but why he hadn't reached for it while she struggled with her shoulder, she didn't know.

His bare feet were covered periodically by the shifting pool of water behind him; toes almost disappearing in the mud as he stared with an expression she couldn't read – it tainted his eyes, and…unsettled her more than anything else.

Slowly - as if staring down a wild animal - Hawke rose to her feet.

The past days worth of pain and exertion had turned into a tight warmth; weak but also fluid in it's own strange way. Her arms moved easily - her legs came and rested just as they would after a hardy sleep, but even then she seemed so close to buckling under her own weight.

When her foot fall fell, and she stumbled to regain her balance, Hawke's eyes caught the dark reflection of her blade of Woe; dug into the trail she'd left behind on her way into the grotto - it became her one priority instantly. If he so chose, he would have his sword back in his hands moments before she could gather hers...but like a swindling weasel - she eased around him in a semi-circle, watching as he followed to keep them at the same angle. Their roles of predator and prey never changed…but either one must have seen such roles in opposing views as the other.

There was no way he wasn't privy to her plan. Never had Hawke assumed she could outwit him, in or out of the battlefield, but the slight shimmer of her blade called to her, regardless of that itch in her mind. To him, Hawke was prey, but to her…he was the perfect game – the one thing she'd dreamt of hunting; of dominating.

Four feet away from pouncing for her blade - the Arishok made a sudden low and chortled growl; freezing her with one foot spread closer to her weapon. Why she stopped for such a noise, Hawke didn't know, but there was no time to answer such a question. As soon as she realized her lack of movement, she bent forward fast and shucked her curved blade from the muck; hearing small rough rocks scrape against the metal in the process.

Victory was on her lips, as sure as the sweat that mixed with the clear water still wetting her body, but of course - it was short lived. The Arishok was already upon her - footsteps so quiet, his mere presence pushed her back in a fit of shock. Again he made that growl, but without weapons - the tension she'd felt otherwise was muted.

His sharp claws slash at her face (as dark and sharp as her blade) - so close she felt a tickle against her nose. She avoided the assault with the bend of her back; heart pounding in her ears like a kettle drum. Even with a stab wound in his side he seemed adamant on acting as though it'd never happened; prowling after her as she dodged down a curled fist aimed for her weakened shoulder.

When his body bent to accommodate her side step - raising another tight arm - she made her attack, slicing for the unprotected flesh of his neck...and watching in sick surprise how his blood slapped in short droplets over her face and neck when the blade made contact.

He howled, grunted and pulled at his cut throat - his other hand stabbing into the junction where her shoulder met neck (catching her as she had him, off-guard), claws digging deep past the thin layer of skin. Pain was duller than it would have been an hour ago, and for that Hawke was thankful even as her tendons tightened at the intrusion in her body.

Dark blood dribbled down his closed fingers - a small amount compared to what she'd prayed was a winning strike. His skin must have been thicker than that of a dragons for him not be choking on his own blood right now - in fact, he seemed able to hold his wound and drag his claws in an arch down her chest; maiming and slicing her fat curiasse like it were made of the finest butter. Cut and open went her leather straps, open went her under shift, and open went a thin portion of the flesh between her breasts. If it had been any other time she would have been incensed at the exposure of her pale flesh before an attacking male, but in moments of struggle and hidden cravings, she didn't care if he'd cut her of all her wears.

He didn't seem anymore thrown off by her sudden nudity than she did, but something must have been the culprit for her sudden opening while he wiped the already clotting blood from his neck.

It would seem that he'd been ready to slam his forehead into her own, but Hawke could feel the cool air wiggling between the frayed slips of her clothing, touching her back and exposed chest like a calming caress from the Maker himself, giving her that extra sagacity as she punched the point of her blade into the hard muscle below his collar bone. She chocked her luck up to him underestimating her - possibly assuming he had little to worry about, regardless of his lack of weapon...or maybe it truly had been pride that had him treading around her as though she were as easily beaten as a child...though...that didn't sound like the Arishok.

Why's or reasons - though - were pointless now as she let out a heavy cry of rage, using his moment of pained surprised by jumping her weight on him to take them both down into the rocky alcove just before the soppy bank of water. The momentum of their fall drove her blade deeper into his body, until Hawke was certain the end of her blade was digging into the ground beneath him; fixing him stock still.

Hawke watched. His face was tight and sneering; lines in his face deepening below his horns, above and between his eyes - the only expression he gave that said he felt the blade in his body as she pressed in deeper. Her legs were agape over his chest; fingers wrapped tightly around the hilt of her snake-curved blade, as if letting it go meant he'd will the blade out himself. His hard, bulging body shuddered and vibrated under her; skin heating between her legs and... finally...Hawke realized that his uncharacteristically wide eyes expressed that he was…taken aback. Honestly - he must not have expected her to get this far...and that was enough for Hawke to smirk as the sweat fell in droplets from her nose to his bare bloodied chest.

So cold was the morning in the mountains that the heat piling up off her flesh after the slaughter was steaming in billows from her outstretched arms. Every breath released was as thick as the wintery clouds over head. Two years she had been gone from Kirkwall, and yet the empty hole that a worthy purpose would have filled was still as large as any organ in her body.

Chilling piles of rabid wolves lay near motionless at her feet - some twitching in their last moments of life...and others freshly dead enough to still have matted clumps of hair bow in the breeze. Already the thin shards of ice and snow were collecting around where their carcasses touched the bare earth.

Everything here was dead - trees like brown skeletons, plants blacken and crisp, homes deserted, and villages ghosted - and yet the need for constant distractions had landed her here. The dead wolves - stepping over them to carry on through the empty town - may have at one point been loyal companions...but abandonment had turned them rabid and violent.

The snow was frigid - it was unlike anything she had experienced...and at the same time it was perfect. New things - however uncomfortable and terrifying - were becoming the only things Hawke could find that pulled her mind away from the frivolities of want. Men, licking her ankles at her beds end, had not filled the gap. Violence, however unwarranted, did little as well. Even friendship, of the highest caliber, had done nothing to stifle the desire for a man that not only did not want her, but could never...and would never.

Mind wandering aimlessly about as her eyes touched the snowy mountain peaks - black on white, of the cold and hibernating vegetation - she walked through the open district of hollow stalls and crumbling homes. This village, at one point, had to have been beautiful, but now it lay on the brink of collapse and now it was her goal to fetch an item from a dwelling before the seasons blizzard came through. The old woman propositioning her for the deed had remained bleak about almost all she'd have to tackle on her way…yet something about it was what she'd preferred from the start. Let it be a challenge…let the local obscurities try as they might...

A sword was what she was after. A dark silicate, with aged steel and warped edges - a type of blade Hawke saw no use for and no picture in her mind could bring the sword to view. If it were an ambush, well...that would have been fine too. Money or blood would be at the end of this, and if she were lucky - it would be both.

Even though a life of luxury and sweet cakes was short-lived, and long behind her now, there had been a bakery besides the home of her propositionere and something about that smell had her wishing for a few silver to purchase one of their pastries. Hunger was satiated far too often and too easily, and now she was growing bored of dried meats and rock bread. As if on queue her belly felt sour and empty – the breakfast that morning was already a far behind occurrence…

Inside the square of town the hard, brittle breeze seemed blocked by the tightly packed row of homes. Each family crest was covered by a sheen of crusty ice, but the one she was pinning for was as unique as they came.

Four horned dragons inter-laid with four daggers, each slicing open a large heart as it bled gold was what formed the heart shaped crest.

If anything the blistering trek up the mountains would yield a personal trinket for her - a memento of perhaps a wax seal or even something as trivial as a family ornament, anything with the crest depicted she would take. Her own crest – Hawke had found boring and droll - a crest built around exceptional wealth and peace.

Peace…Hawke couldn't recall what it felt like. War was in her blood since her ending days of dreary youth, and now, life without blood seemed as boring as sitting at those noble banquets.

The very house was not as Hawke expected. It was on the outskirts of the village, only noticeable by a half shown black roof under a patch a similarly colored trees and bright snow. It was ominous - the way her gut leapt over her tongue as the home grew near. The dwelling was old; showing its age and the age of the village around it by the crumbling stone of its fortification, the concave weathering of it's roof and the ogre sized hole at its right angle. At a point in time it would have been extravagant, if not a bit small for the lavish crest tarnished at its pine wood door.

Inside it was as any abandoned house. Snow filtered in from the holes, piling up like soft clouds on the dark floor. The light from the winter sky was equally as soft as it lit the corner of the rooms - not a single space being without cracks or open fissures in their walls and ceilings.

In a house this small - it was easy finding the latch to the basement. She pushed a layer of snow to the side, lifted, and climbed down the steep stairs into a pitch black...pit.

Sparks from the friction of flint and steel began the blaze around her soaked torch - it was a small source of light, but the room didn't seem too large, and the brilliant orange glow illuminate enough to shower a three foot radius..

For a moment her eyes wandered, skimming over the various eaten and weathered crates, running over shattered bottles and stains until she found a winding rusted chain to the far back wall, following it.

Bones, dark and yellowed (relatively fresh), lay with legs open - large bones as well. Casting the light upon the rest brought up the scene of two more heavy sets of bones; full skeletons of horned…Qunari. Some looked older than the next, some newer, but none as recent as that of her own birth.

Sleeping - inside the broken chest of one wide ribcage - was the squirming sword. It was small for a sword but large for a bladed dagger - an edge like that of a winding snake in thick steel the color of ash - a hilt that seemed cut from the finest dark stone was embedded with two circular pockets, one empty and one with a lavender opaque gem.

A sword had never seemed so pure and beautiful, even as it lay inside the broken bones of a fierce faced skeleton. It was just the sword in the bones - no armor of any kind left, telling Hawke that the bodies were either stripped before their deaths or had been stolen after, but that didn't explain the intrepid weapon staring at her like she was to be it's only lover.

A breeze that had no right to exist threatened to kill her light, causing the flame to protest loudly - a shiver of cold and other-worldly despair filled her own bones, as if whatever presence existed in the room had found a new host that was warm and fresh. A sudden heavy warmth crushed just under the soft flesh of her labia, another shudder of heat filling her throat and pulling her - like hot hands - to the sword.

An intimate force urged her hand around the hilt, tugging the blade free. She watched the abandoned bones of shattered ribs and sunken eye pits shiver and mewl. A heavy breath went into her mouth, but it wasn't hers, and all Hawke could do was keep her eyes open as the bones began to rise, popping like only dead bones against dead bones could do.

The full size of the decayed body rose before her - Qunari bones that cracked with dust as a large yellowing hand ran musky smelling digits through her hair. The touch was tender, and the breath coming from the sharp jaw bones was warm against her face. Magic was not something she'd ignored. Bethany was a constant reminder of the power it reined, and while she herself could never agree which way she felt...the animated skeleton caressing her body intimately started to sway her a certain way.

Even with the cold outside, Hawke could feel the heat surrounding her - the more the bone-fingers touched the more hot and clammy she became. Her hand tightened around the hilt and at that instant the Qunari skeleton groaned like a lover when fingers skated over the more sensitive part of their flesh. Again Hawke squeezed the hilt at her side and was rewarded with not only another growling moan, but one from her own lips as a cloud of pleasure purred inside her womb.

After this happenstance, Hawke would chock it up to her rampant desires gone awry, but as it were now, Hawke only allowed the skeleton (with great abandonment) to guide her back into the same wall the host of these bones had been chained to before his death. It was here - against a somehow hot wall, with her eyes seeing the halo of the Arishok's body around the moving bones - that her body buzzed with unseen pleasure.

The culprit of such sensations was doing little than opening and closing its tarnished jaws - hollow eyes seeing through her - as she witnessed the Arishok's lustful face in flickers as the barest of touches had her whimpering and clamoring at the wall beside her.

Tight tips of bone poked at her armor, as if feeling her skin without removing anything. Real male breath seemed to dampen against her neck, but the steady growing throb of tension - so good, she called out the Qunari leader's name - was becoming painful as she scraped nails on the sturdy bones of her dead lover.

Teeth rubbed hotly on her throat, and then - while her jaw hung slack and her thighs squeezed shut - she capsized. The Arishok's yellow eyes stared at her through a hollow skull with sharp teeth that opened wide, hissing with promises of more than pleasure.

Instantly the euphoria vanished as the skulls head flung back; signaling it's ready to tear her jugular out; sharp teeth red against her quivering flame.

Her body tightened and her throat squealed, but her arms functioned as always and with the very blade that'd seemed to bring forth the demon, she stabbed into its skull and broke open its cranium with a twist of her wrist – a snarl and pallor to her face.

A noise - like that of an erupting geyser - signaled its release of it's host, filtering out the bones and leaving them more grotesque than her tricked eyes had seen before. Bits of hair and flesh still clung to the bones as they tumbled down into a dusty and rotting pile.

The hilt of the blade in her hand seemed to chill immediately - its necromancer fleeing from the steel and stone. Still, Hawke's torch blazed brightly as if she'd never once moved since plucking the blade...and...that very well may have been true, but what had brought her to release and teased her soul was all too real. No matter what she brought herself to in the end, those yellow eyes and that thick sneer would always haunt her...

In her sudden plunge into memory, Hawke's fingers had begun rubbing wetly into the sheen of his and her own sweat, mixing them erotically as her body quivered softly above his chest, still with one tight hand around the hilt of that very blade she'd found two years ago. It was ironic that she'd slip into the heat of reminiscence, as the steel and stone blade (of which she called Woe) became hot inside the Arishok's thick body.

Hawke let her eyes fall boorishly to the incapacitated beast below her. She eyed him jadedly; gaze hot and unabashed as she let her cold mask down, exposing exactly what was on her mind...and he was not oblivious.

Abruptly she was bucked up in the air, back down on him and then bucked again with an added shove between her breasts - blade ripping from his body in a splatter of blood, as she fell with a surprised grunt. Faintly she heard the echo of his roar of pain against the stone face of the white falls walls, but that was all until his heavy step (fast and quite) came for her.

His body slid hard against her own - for a moment she moaned in pain and, yes, in pleasure as the tips of her bare breasts rubbed against his own nude skin. The enjoyment of that contact wore off considerably as his hateful growl above her followed his sharp hands as they went for her throat. Being as slick with blood and sweat as they were - it wasn't difficult to slide from his grabbing hands until she was flipping him over by the thigh as she filed out between his legs. Hawk turned sharply, blade in hand and aiming to cut into the thick of his back, but a hard clamp of claws on her thigh brought her away from her goal; ripping the thick fabric around her legs as he struggling to yank her down. She was quick and agile, and if her strength ever failed her - at least she was nimble when it came to escape.

On both feet, now, and a good ten feet from the standing Arishok - Hawke smirked as she sidestepped from one foot to the next; breasts bouncing under cut armor with her soaked red blade in hand.

A sudden rush of pure adrenaline claimed her then at the seething look in his eyes. How he hated her in this moment, but he would only hate her more as her lips parted and she broke the long silence with a taunt, "Does the sight of a female frustrate you so that you fumble as you do? - or is it just I?", her voice was so muddled with hormones that it was elevated and shaken, betraying once again the sudden change in her lust (from blood to flesh).

"You are as infuriating as the rest of your kind. Same instincts masked under a different hide. Your form is worth nothing, and your sex is equally…as worthless.", his tone – while low and hot – was steady and betrayed nothing of the two bleeding wounds she'd given him. His expression matched the loathing in his voice.

Something about his vocalized distain for her made her body ill, but with the thrumming pulse of knowing she'd gotten to him, Hawke only gave him a small curve of her lips as he breathed raggedly; eyes set on her as if he could burn her as easily as the sun. She had never seen him so consumed with indignation as he was now…and it was thrilling to be the victim of such wrath.

It was surprising how quick he moved, but not so much so that she couldn't easily jut her neck out at the last moment; avoiding his seizing claws with only a hairs breadth. He seemed keen to yank her blade from her hand – his forearms and fingers slipping against her flesh furiously; a groan of something that truly caught Hawke off guard coming from between his clamped lips. A sudden chill crept up her body, her shoulders shaking roughly as that tight groan did things that a dragon's spew of fire could not, and…Hawke paid dearly for the dithering.

The Arishok found her neck this time; found it with a loud snarl against her cheek and moist breath filling her nostrils – the scent of rich barley and old wine. The grip was tight, and all too soon that rush of blood fixed inside her skull, in her ears and eyes; forcing her to struggle lest she be strangled to death.

An assault she only used in dire circumstances found it's way in between the Arishok's legs – her knee in his groin, slamming as deep and hard as her choking body could allow, and…what she felt, as her knee banged roughly against the sensitive male organ, made her wheeze.

He collapsed to his knees surly - he roared, and yes…he dropped her neck, leaving her to slip on her rear in the muddy bank while her red face began to sweat with the sudden relief of fresh air. Hawke sputtered – both in need of oxygen and at the burn still on her knee where she'd kicked a very bold…and very hard erection from between his thighs. The tight leather around such a problem must have been as agitating for him as her true-to-word taunting. Silently – as he held the earth – Hawke wondered when it was he'd grown such a humiliating problem. Which taunt did he react to, which sight (of her blood or her flesh?), which smell and which slip of skin was it that aroused him with more than just a males lust for battle?

There was no time to feel smug or victorious though (no time to wonder) – he was rising with a hand on his thigh and the other shoved into the soupy muck; panting and humming in what must have been a piercing pain.

If Hawke had been staring down any thing else, she would have laughed at how effortlessly the male organ brought more pain than that of a blade to the tender meat of a shoulder…or the vulnerable flesh of ones waist, but since Hawke was staring down the Arishok of all beasts, she merely rose to her feet; mirroring his movements.

Her filthy hand grazed her raw and sore throat, touching herself tenderly as she stepped to him in quick strides. Before his horns and eyes rose to her – giving off that seething glimmer off the moon – Hawke made as though she would cower, but snarled instead and kicked a foot into his still oozing shoulder, forcing him on his back as a breath of air shuddered through his nostrils resentfully.

No time was wasted – Hawke was upon his chest in an instant; a finger pushing into the clean puncture at his shoulder as a more gallant hand searched behind her rear, ripping at the thick strings holding his pants tight. That straining erection - so hard under her brushing fingers that she actually moaned.

Hawke made another desperate and unrestrained sound in her throat; finger pressing deeper in to his shoulder as he grunted – she was restless suddenly to take advantage of such an opportunity…to see for herself what she could bend him to and how much he'd allow of her nonviolent touches.

"Victor's rights, Arishok…I take all below me.", she uttered under her breath, almost biding her time tugging and yanking at his fastenings before he would gain his sense and smack her off, but his arms lay curled into the muck at his sides, as if he were humoring her with allowing her to come so close to her goal before he'd rip her away from it. "…and what an honor it is to tame you.", he didn't enjoy that last jeer though…no…not one bit.

This time he clutched both her arms (the flesh of her arms giving between his tight fingers), ignoring her own sole finger as it literally slipped joint deep into his collar wound. On a high breaking bellow - the Arishok thrust her into the air; tossed her in the water like she was nothing but a loose pebble slipping past his fingers. The water stung on contact, proof of how heavily she'd been thrown and how damaged her body truly was.

Nothing seemed to dishearten her though. Rising from the water felt good, and Hawke swallowed what water had entered her mouth as she blinked away the blur of water to see the Arishok…standing…flustered. His muddled leather pants were hung half open, exposing the 'V'-like dip of hip and muscle just before the covered bulge – it had to have been the most erotic thing Hawke had ever seen. Blood still painted his chest, almost indistinguishable with the red war paint faded on his torso. His yellow eyes were searching sporadically; near wide, holding unsure rage, as his sharp fingers curled into loose fists. What was he waiting for, an enticement of some sort?- another taunt?

With eyes skimming over his every glossy, blood-smeared, and muddy muscle – Hawke shucked her shoulders back abruptly (ignoring the aches and pinches of pain), letting the tattered remains of her leather armor slide off with a few unabashed tugs. There was no rhyme or reason for her to disrobe as she did, unless she wished further harm upon her (easier than before), or perhaps it was just to feel the air on her skin, or to draw any reaction from the panting beast before her.

Her upper body lay bare as the wet squelching sound of her curiasse hit and began to slothfully sink below the pool lapping at her thighs. The countless nicks, slices, and (still crying) claw marks sang in relief at the abrasive fabric being abandoned, and this time – with the leaves above the grotto dancing in the wind, casting blotches of moon light below – the Arishok stared at her naked flesh this time.

Dangerously – her eyes flashed over the swell between his legs once more – a hardened smirk finding her lips as they parted softly, "I doubt anyone has seen you so ill at ease; so conflict-"

"Flatter yourself as you wish, Hawke.", he spat; fingers curling sporadically around nothing. He seemed aiming to disregard her, but his eyes still hovered over her wet breasts and the harem of claw marks between them.

"What I see needs no flattery.", she spoke before he could gather the patience to speak to her once more. The delightfully twisted thoughts didn't hold inside her mind, instead they sprang free and echoed her every movement, every expression and breadth of air. He seemed unable to find proper words against the predicament he'd found himself in and that was all the sweeter. The blood loss, the pain and the exertion had finally created a cohesive balance of lightness and euphoria, and nothing he did could simmer her back down – Hawke was finally feeling that fissure of emptiness in her body filling.

Again she jested – unable, above all, to keep her teeth from showing, "How many times will you be on your back before the sun rises?", his bull-like exhale had her curling her fingers before delivering the finale, "Is it something you've wished of me since the start…or has a female near beaten you through sheer will alone?"

"Tense your blade Hawke, do not waste what little you have left on jeers you will never uphold. Be gone with words and attack me!", his chest thickened as he tensed his back, amplifying his own goad physically as he scraped his claws together at his sides.

Hawke paused – a part of her hesitating at the sight of his thick arms stretching at his sides. If his goal had been to make her come to him, then he won. Each and every time, whether he urged her or not, Hawke would never turn her back on him…never as she had done the night he took overKirkwall. Never again – and so, with the nerves on her palm stinging as she tightened her clammy fist around her blades hilt, Hawke eased her way to him efficiently.

When her arm rose – tense and prone for a violent movement only a few feet away from him - she savored the rush his very presence gave.

As his lips curled in that characteristic sneer – Hawke handed him the same look; arm tensing and slashing forth to slice his belly open (if he were any other being his bowls would be emptying on the ground), but a rock-hard fist cracked into her jaw before she could skate her blade over his flesh – any thoughts of defense coming only later, when it made little difference.

Pain blossomed in her jaw; teeth rattling and blood already on the back of her tongue when a single hand threw her back. Her body slammed into a tree; head banging into a hard knot of wood and neck bending at a strange angle.

Something below her skull cracked, but the anxiety of what that was never came as the sudden spiral of light brought her to the cluster of high roots beside said tree. Even palming the bark – knowing she was right side up – Hawke felt as though she were hanging upside down, maybe suspended in a pool of cold spiky liquid. It had to have been a bent artery (acting as a minor stroke) that was causing the spots of dark and silver behind her eyes; causing the ringing and the growing wave of warmth stuffing in her ears…or perhaps concussions came on sooner than she'd assumed – Hawke had never had one before.

The assault on her didn't stop there though. It seemed like just seconds before his claws dug into her shoulder, spinning her half-nude body around to then pin her back into the tree – a thick, dense and dangerous forehead slapping into her own, letting the back of her head hit into the bark behind her like a double-tap of epic proportions.

Why had she not blacked-out then? - Why did her body stay awake, even as the pain in her head swarmed into a potentially fatal storm?

If she'd thought she were blind before – Hawke saw nothing now. The darkness seemed permanent and she found her hands reaching out at the hard arms still grasping her shoulders. Pathetically, she whimpered when her body was again pushed into the tree, then released as she heard him take a few steps away.

"To have slain you five years ago would have been best for us both.", his voice sounded stuffy in her ears, like the sound was working past a thick layer of gummy clog…blood possibly? Tentatively – her fingers quivering – she brushed at her neck to feel warm blood dribbling from her ear canal.

"You humans are easily seen. Emotions stain your faces, always, and each one of you seem to believe you are fooling those you cross.", every word echoed, and just the baritone of it hurt.

"Hawke.", he called to her with her eyes blinking and mouth unable to shut from the throbbing of pain. Hawke saw the light of the moon grow bolder, but still…so faint, and worrisome.

"Your desires have been plain to see since you brought word of the Saarebas, and they only grew more evident each and every moment we met.", there was a heavy exhale of air that sounded more like a wild bear ready to charge than a man, "Leaving you and your city had been better than that of the look you bore while seeing your fickle Viscount's head rolling at your feet."

He went on to belittle her; speaking of how apparent her eyes had been and how she slighted him just by her mere presence alone. After all – Hawke hadn't known how blatant her longing gazes had been…but then…just as her will began to tether and break, his grey and red form came into focus and he uttered something…wholly...demonic.

"I have copulated twice since returning to Par Vollen, Hawke." He took a step towards her, that frown deeper now and his eyes; his eyes she had trouble focusing on. Her sight was fading in and out, but she arched with the pain to look up at him as his voice lowered to a deep gravelling tone. "- and every time I saw you and your small body as I seeded my female. You are taboo...but...desirable, and always shall be."

A heat – explainable by either the deepening of what Hawke knew now as a concussion or how viscous his words flowed – it gathered at the center of her belly and trailed downward.

"Escape from this is foolish. One of us will not leave our patch of wet earth. We will stop this nuisance here and now. May death mark the end of this absurdity."

A threat was a threat. The Arishok's words were never meant to be taken with sugar…or honey. When he spoke she listened and even while her vision stuck against past scenes while she turned to search for her blade at her side, she would fight him as she'd wanted all along. For a moment, Hawke felt that her life had been simply progress; progress up until this moment - that everything she'd ever survived through happened for. This was the night Hawke was born to either die or to live. Nothing would be the same when the trickle of light would finally hit her body in the morning, whether she be breathing or stiff.

But the glorification Hawke felt (for this moment, for life and for death) was draining with each swipe as her fingers fell against nothing but thick roots, dead leaves, and gritty mud – her blade was gone. Even upon wracking her brain for when and how she'd lost her Woe – nothing surfaced…

A flicking noise – like that of a door trying to latch but never quite shutting – pulled her still swirling eyes to him. A sharp light caught on the lens of her right eye – a light unmistakable as the moon off her blade. The Arishok was flicking a sharp clawed thumb over the dark silicate edge; head bowed and both hands touching. Even with the line blurred, Hawke could see him inspecting it; could fill in the blanks…knew his yellow eyes were running over it…probably as she had the first time she'd seen it. There was no other like it.

"Qunari steel", he finally stated – just when the air felt so thick and clogging. For a moment the tone of his voice had softened; softened as much as she could have ever imagined.

"The blade of a Kithshok. Older than I am now.", a snort of breath left him, and Hawke wished she could have felt it, "It does not matter whom you plundered this from, it is yours no longer.", he spoke as if she'd brought him a gift of some sort, as if she were standing before him like she'd done in Kirkwall.

Hawke stared ahead - still half blind; hearing him mutter words of his native tongue to himself as he tilted the blade in his hand. Belatedly – she wondered if he was interpreting the grooved markings along the stone hilt, but it was only a hope…and it seemed, as she lay breathing in and out, that the weird feeling of hope, desire, and elation only grew…

He continued remarking his eyes over the blade, but all Hawke could see before her was how his face had sneered at her in that abyssal basement; in that abandoned snow-town years ago – how it felt as thou he were inside her without him being there, or even his puppeteer doing more than caressing her arms near-innocently. The heat and spread of that climax had been corrupting (if she hadn't yet already been corrupted) and not one since had satisfied her.

Again that beautiful glimmer was cast off the blade as it twisted in his fingers; urging a blush of remembered pleasure in her gut that had her lips curving and eyelids going ajar. Hawke's head swam, but it swam with pressure and pleasantries…and anything was better than the pain.

On a breath, Hawke moaned weakly and spoke, "The soul of that sword courted me with your face, Arishok.", past the fuzz of her sight, she saw him look down towards her, "It branded me, pleasured me, and I…crushed it – but now…keeping it seems…the better decision. I could be on the banks of the shores now…lying with my blade as it fills me without truly filling me."

Her numb fingers grasped at the roots beside her hips, rubbing along them and wringing the dying bark from their hides – the urge to touch, anything, was consuming.

"Fucking my sword would be better than dying by it in your hands.", she spoke; solid and steady as her shifting gropes landed on a thick jagged branch - the weight and size of it felt promising in her fingers, and with a half-asleep smile, Hawke added, "Unless you'd like to fuck me instead."

Still, even as the blur slowly become crisp, she couldn't see his face as it surly twisted into one of disgust and rage. Her blade was no longer cradled in both hands, but raised and pointed towards her. "Rise now or I will ruin you where you lie, Hawke.", even though his tone was as terrifying as the call of an Archdemon's, Hawke still managed to enjoy the ironic words and grin with the blood still on her tongue; bitter and…delicious.

Expression - just as asleep as her eyes, Hawke chuckled dryly as he approached; in all his busted and bleeding glory. The listlessness in her limbs wasn't as great as she feigned. He saw her as weak, even with the gouges she'd carved into his flesh, so – with a pitiful noise – she played the weakling as he grew ever closer.

The distance between them was small, and those last several steps felt like a lifetime in suspension before her grip tightened on the branch in a split-second. Just as he struck for her (still oblivious to her hidden weapon) Hawke swung her prickling branch in his face, cutting a section of his cheek open and maiming one eye. As he roared – like an angry waterspout – she rolled her hips, bringing a thigh to his shoulder; once again, bringing him to his back as his teeth bared in a fit of ire and pain.

With no time wasted, Hawke freed the still rigid organ from his leathers; ripping and rending fabric in the process - easy now that the water had weakened the threads and…even easier when the hardness of him seemed adamant to leave the tight confines a much as she'd wanted to pull him free.

Another bubble of laughter threatened to spill past her lips, as the heat of his sex brandished the sore skin of her palm. Just as her loose mind had dreamt up – the Arishok was heavy and thick in her fist, so large that her fingers were no where close to touching as they squeeze around him in a prevailing grip.

He shook briskly and vibrated – angry; mortified almost certainly, but there was a look on his out-of-focus face that had her thrusting her clothed-rear into his length and her own hand. The Arishok was many things, but still a male…and whether it was the concussion or the thrill of death being almost certain in his presence, Hawke hushed him like a child (red faced and upset); mocking him as she dug her nails below his ribs, dragging them down to his navel as he breathed deeply from his nostrils at the contact. Welts and broken red trails bled, mimicking her own crusting wounds between her breasts.

"Your on your back again, Arishok.", her voice was calm and soft, but drenched with brain softening euphoria. Even when he snarled and tossed her down; pinning her – Hawke only grinned while they panted, struggling for the blade above her head as he made to end her; arms stretched and burning.

More than once she felt his sex against her thighs, against her belly and thick by the side of one knee. Each burn of contact – innocent, violent, and almost intimate – was met with the same noise in her throat.

When her fingers began to grow weary, and his own seemed as strong as ever – Hawke slammed her head into the cut on his cheek bone; wincing when his tugging only grew stronger as he loosened the blade from her hand. Once more she head-butt him; feeling her ears ring again…but he kept wringing the blade from her, acting as though she'd done nothing at all.

As he grunted and she moaned - it began slipping from her hands while he began huffing hot breath into the side of her face.

"Cease, Hawke.", he growled on her throat - the feeling sprouting a shiver up her spine.

As her last finger bounded back into her fist as the Woe left her clutches, she tossed a blind and desperate kick of her thigh between his legs, making contact with the hard flush of his exposed sex. She felt more that heard the blade as it fell from the hand over her head; grazing one finger as it landed on a pebble of rocks beside her scalp. Relief washed over her as the new found goal became taking the weapon for her own.

"Cease!", again he warned, but the conviction was muted.

The small scrape on her digit from the falling blade was nothing compared to the deep gouge of claws that fumbled down the length of her arm at her refusal to stop struggling; blood sprung up from her skin in a warm trickle that was as painful as it was pleasant. Slowly but surly it seemed they were flaying each other to death, and that idea was what spurred Hawke on - by the end of it all it'd be him succumbing to her, there was no other outcome in her mind. The matter was settled.

Hot and sweating as they were, Hawke found him sliding up her, pulling her wrists into his one hand as the other went for the blade by her crown - the movement pushed her face into the wound of his shoulder and it was then (with opportunity brushing against her lips) that she bite down on the tender flesh; teeth becoming red and mouth exploding with an iron tang as he made that stifled grunt. With teeth still in his shoulder, she kicked at his sex, driving him back on his knees. Another jab - that was more like a rough sexual thrust than a kick - sent him further back until she was crawling over him once more.

His heavy sex bowed up against his stomach; glistening with sweat that was as much hers as it was his.

With an insatiable appetite wringing in her gut, Hawke ripped with both hands at the frayed leg of her leathers (the one slit he'd caused earlier). With one leg draped over his thighs and a hand quickly grabbing the muscles of his abdomen - she exposed herself, pushing the hanging pants at her waist aside as the slickness of her cleft pinned his erection to his belly (just before his hands got to her arms to shove her off).

Time seemed to stop for several seconds - it was just enough time to catch his furiously bright eyes - yellow but darkened by large pupils - as her hips rolled forward, catching the tip of his sex at her opening, and then fluidly rolled back. The thick head of his length slid inside her - the combined sweat, blood and sexual fluids made it easier than it would have been otherwise to take him in. His size was incomparable to any other, but this moment had been a long time coming; too long, and even if the act of encompassing his girth stung - it was no where near as terrible as the combination of all the injuries over her body.

If there was any true pain that her own shaking desire couldn't ignore - then the look on his face took it away. Never before would she have hoped to see the tightened and exhausted look of guilty pleasure on his features - the half open sneering mouth, the drugged but alert eyes, and the pallor of his skin.

"Demon...", he breathed the word as she choked in her throat; lowering fully on his hips in one slap, feeling the head of him push at the back of her womb; dull and pleasant.

With the tight and painful fullness, Hawke panted softly as she spoke (not daring to move and risk breaking the stillness her actions had birthed in him), "Do not act so opposed Arishok...you have wanted this as long...", a heavy gulp of breath; sweat trailing down her brow, "...as long as I, but it appears...", another deep inhale and a boastful smirk, "...I am the only one determined enough to end both our plights."

The colossal girth inside her trembled, and that - to her - was the winning mark. He said nothing; no words and barely a shudder of a groan as her hips thrust forwards; shifting him inside only a fraction.

Back and forth - slow and careful - Hawke stimulated the Arishok's length inside her, ignoring the snug pull and tugs of her vice around him. Pain was ignorable. She'd been tossed around, cut open, punched by the strongest fist she'd known, and stabbed by Qunari steel - and now that the stabbing was done on her own terms, Hawke wouldn't let the pain take her winnings from her so easily. Soon the sting and fullness would become unbearably good - and that was what she concentrated on.

Slight contact, burning and raw, eased down her back in thin even marks - the Arishok was raking his claws down her back; a bridge of raised welts arching down her shoulder to her backside. The sting had her back arching; driving her impossibly further down on his erection, but the dullness was giving way to a thick sort of pleasure.

A roll of her hips and there was that undeniable spark, and with it came the heady groan of the beast under her.

Hawke turned her glossy eyes to him, splaying her hands over the rippling bulges of his stomach; beside her own sex, as she slipped back and forth; quicker now while the pleasure started mounting.

He looked helpless under her rolling hips; powerless to buck her off, and the very sight made her gasp and writhe with even more desertion than before. This moment was better than what the Maker promised his loyal followers, and while Hawke trusted the will of such a being...never had she been chaste enough (in bed or in life) to deserve such a treat as this. She was taming the untamable - the Arishok - the leader of the Qunari army - one of the three pillars of the Qun, and Maker save her from the utter high of corrupting such a dominate male.

He surprised her; thrusting up into her body sharply and without warning, giving out a muted growl with a hand prickling into her rear. No more was he merely an unwilling victim of her feast, but an active participant in the proscribed act; an act that to him must have been the greatest personal slight against his morals she could fathom, but if he wanted to ejaculate inside her; tell himself it was copulation rather than a base need to fuck…then let him.

She wouldn't ask or pursue anymore than this; Hawke finally had what she'd wanted all along, "Under me...you relish it - being dominated. I...", a shaking moan as his vast hand slipped down the curve of her back, "...dominate you.", she uttered in a series of short statements; almost more air than sound and all deep with the notion of whom she was looking down upon. His expression said it all - she wouldn't be bucking above him much longer. That terse look of pleasure, shame, and vexation; contorting his face like a knife was twisting in his gut, changed into one of nothing but spite.

That bringer of pain - that was his hand - curled up around the ball of her shoulder with malicious intent. His hips bucked up, driving his flesh deep inside her (the sensation piling up her body; shaking her shoulders in shivering pleasure and stabbing pain) - it distracted her enough for him to slide that hand around her neck without her even worrying about it until it squeezed and thrust her back in the dirt; flushing her to the pointy edges of twigs and rock. Still buried deep and snug inside her - the Arishok drug his length from her sex (the feeling was oddly remorseful and cold), but even if Hawke had wanted to, protesting was difficult as his thick thumb pushed against the base of her throat.

"Domination is not done by a female.", he slammed into her just before she thought he'd leave the warmth of her body entirely, "Especially by the likes of you." - the sudden sensation of fullness had her gasping thickly past the vice grip on her throat. Pressure trapped and grew in her temples from the blood backing up in her head, but it only helped her ease into the idea of being fucked into the dirt by him as he teased the flesh of her cheek with his teeth - they were sharper than they appeared; making the swollen flesh where he punched her throb deeply.

Hawke managed a gurgled response, but it didn't even seem intelligible to her - the slow, deep, angled bucking of his hips was slowly driving her insane. His growling grunts and purrs as he shoved and yanked himself in and out had her concussion turning her drunk on her own endorphins. Everything was suddenly fuzzy but crisp; bright but dark and all she wanted was to rip free of him once again (against all odds) and ride him until his eyes told her she'd won. It wasn't just enough to have him inside her; to have seduced him over to the side of carnality...no...she needed him to submit to her like he'd assumed she'd submit to him.

Just before that inkling of the end managed to grow too intense (the far away tension of her impending release), Hawke slipped free of him – the skin between them so slick that it didn't take more than a few precise wiggles and bangs of her hips to get him sitting back on his own knees, plucking her to his chest while jutting his hips up, still lost in a delirium she was near astray in as well. His sex never once left hers as her legs flexed; feet planting on the ground behind him with hands and arms bending to rub and skate nails down his ruddy flesh. Their pelvis' banged brutally - the primal act becoming near animalistic, before resuming to the uneven churn of her hips over his slowing momentum.

To take control of her was laughable – Hawke had struggled too long these past years…and far too hard in the past hour to end up choking in the muck as he asserted his dominance on her.

The Arishok seemed too in-sensuous to complain about the change however, and to Hawke - it was like finding the purchase just after escaping the falling ground of a cliff. Any other woman would allow him the pleasure to win after such struggles, but Hawke had come this far, and if fucking on leveled ground was all her body could muster...then that was better than being pinned into the bank.

She sucked in sharply - a wave of tight pleasure coiling like the twisting tender skin in her belly - still slapping her flesh against his; bounding down tightly around him. If he'd had anything to utter of any kind as she demanded, "By your Qun, harder!" - it only came out a loud rumbling growl while she wrapped an arm over his shoulder to grasp his throbbing neck for balance – the new heightened stability aiding to the sudden upheaval as he punctured the skin of her rear with his claws; banging the tip of his sex against her womb, doing as she pleaded and paining her with the robust thrusts.

Her stomach and breasts rubbed hot and slick against his torso; slipping over hard and tense muscles that only grew more like bedrock the further she franticly slammed herself down on him. Claws skirted from her rear over her back; cupping the balls of her shoulders and pulling her down while curling his hips.

If Hawke hadn't been too far seeded in the timeless act of copulation, she may have relished how insatiable he seemed…despite how resentful of her he'd acted before. Each time she mewled a command, he followed it by tugging at her hair; holding her in place as he stretched her sex with his own - just as she asked. Even when her fingers dug into the broken wound of his neck, he did little but growl and fuck her deeper, making her nerves sing.

The Arishok may have been ardent about killing her before, but at least when he decided upon an action (whether it be one he detested or relished), he devoted himself fully. He was no male of half-action; no Qunari that didn't give as good as he was given.

"Bite me!", she growled - the muscles in her thighs burning - the breath in her throat catching, and the walls of her sex around his girth becoming raw and tighter with each thrust of slick friction. Ever since those puppeteered Qunari bones plucked that horrendous orgasm from her, she'd imagined climaxing with the Arishok's teeth in her...anywhere, as long as they were merciless and she could feel that hot breath sticking to her skin as he tormented her flesh.

With a wide palm - sliding between them - pulling at the weight of her breast tightly, his mouth sucked at her collar bone. The skin he tormented felt tight and painful, but it was perfect with the furious pace inside her and the constant rocking of her body against his. She needed the teeth though - the sting and the blood, but he just ran his wide lips up her neck, suckling roughly while pinching a swollen nipple between his fingers.

"Bite me! - you deviant! corrupt! bast-", his teeth slipped into the junction below her ear with a slick sound of popping flesh. The pressure and mild pain made her head reel and her body stiffen. The blood tickled as it slipped down her neck, over her collar bone and in the mess of his hand on her breast.

Suddenly, even in the open grotto (with the cool falling water and the night air), everything became exceedingly hot. The contact of skin burned. The girth stretching and the length filling felt like a twisting inferno of fire, setting her aflame as her body arched into his own; sticking against his drenched skin as the world suddenly felt like a hot spring of mana and poison all at once. Hawke came in moments with her nails dragging down - opening the cut in his shoulder - as they scratched to his stomach. Every nerve (insignificant and crucial) tightened just as quickly as it relaxed - her body clamping down around the Arishok's sex with little more intent than to tug his own release from him.

Never much for screaming - or very vocal aside from a few moans to show her appreciation - Hawke let out a sudden throttling noise from her throat; half way between a mewl and a loud call that she'd never heard herself make before.

There was a sudden gush of heat inside her, flooding her with euphoria that only the sudden trembling of a lover's sex could give. The Arishok was filling her; coating her womb with his seed and digging his teeth deeper in her flesh - a loud snarling growl muting in his throat and clawed fingers drawing more blood as they gripped her. His body tensed, but his hips kept bounding up into hers; bouncing her body while she hadn't the strength to do so on her own.

His body continued moving until her own form started to slide backwards; weak and worn now that the tension and primal need for release had been fulfilled and the effects of such an encounter were seeping into her limbs and turning her to pliable flesh against whatever supported her. Strong, sharp and bloody hands picked her up, propping her up against a hot and expanding chest as her lids lowered; dangerously close to never opening again...or at least...not for a long while.

Heated wetness stuck her lower body to his, as she poked her tongue out at the flesh against her lips; salty and bitter with blood.

There was an acetous smell as the wind blew; leaves rustling over head as his cloying breath made the hairs on her head feel at though they were under rays of the harsh sun.

Words escaped her at this moment - never was she much of a talker after coitus, but this moment seemed empty...and her gut told her to speak...anything (good or disastrous), and...it was no surprise that Hawke chose the later.

"I win.", she muttered to the stab wound in his shoulder.

A sudden snort blew the damp hairs off her neck - it was followed by the strange rumble and vibration of his chest and a series of short grunts. It didn't occur until moments after the fact that Hawke realized he'd chuckled, or at least the Arishok's equivalent of one. Nothing more could be said, she surmised. The very fact that she was still alive, let alone being supported by him was unfathomable, and Hawke was too weak to give him reason to drop her now.

"The victory, Hawke, is mine...whether you assume it to be yours or not.", his baritone words filled her head with cotton, reminding her that she did indeed still have a concussion.

Soft and without the malice she'd wanted to express, she grumbled into the sweat on his skin, "I assume."

"You are fertile, just as the Par Vollen soil...", his words trail as a sudden sucking of air around her face and shoulder told her he was inhaling against her; feeling colder than his breathing had been, "Your smell is savory...and I have seeded you. It is my victory.", the guttural intensity had her skin prickling with goose flesh, and humiliatingly - he felt them rise on her back, rubbing them back into her skin with another odd grunting chuckle.

Without the strength to do more than remain alert - just to be awake for her own death if he changed his mind and killed her then - she stayed silent against him, unsure.

"This is the end of your war, Hawke. Without you, your men will fall easily with no command and another chapter will be added to our history. In the ending, you are my captive - a prisoner of war."

She stirred at his words - the life in her limbs surging back sluggishly at the threat, "What privies you to believe I will succumb to you?"

A snort on her neck and a rough lick on the puckered flesh of the bite he'd carved into her skin was answer enough, judging by the delighted reaction it pulled from her, but he spoke regardless, "You have bested me, but while you have won the battle, it is I who has won the war. You are barely able to stir, let alone fightme.", there was a widening of flesh at her neck, as if he were smirking against her, "A female becomes so weak after their release...amusing."

Even though she snarled and made a beastly noise in her throat, Hawke knew there were worst fates than this one. The Qunari did not waste those they would benefit from, and if anyone fit that description it was her. She would not be killed, or harmed any further - she would be put to a role that suited her best, and there was no choice to come to in the end. It was either death or service under the Qun, and while those under the Maker's gaze would see which answer was clear - Hawke wouldn't choose death over something she held as dear to her as a compass in a town with a million signs.

How terrible could it be?

"Use this moment to gather your strength Hawke - dress and wash yourself. I will not carry you to camp.", and at that he laid her back in the dirt. Her body molded into the ground; throbbing and cold, as he slipped his softened sex from her to rise and collect his fallen weapons and armor.

On that ground - with rocks, twigs, and their combined wetness coating her back - she watched the moon (bright against the black leaves) illuminate passing clouds as the dull aches in her body turned into a single entity. She thought dimly on what life had been like before now, before the Arishok, and even before she'd began taking life from others. Like a near-death experience, Hawke saw her life pass by quickly; so quickly that she was already staggering to her feet; shuffling into the ice-cold water before the Arishok had even descended the slope – axe in hand.

She waded to the deeper end; close to the falling water-wall. The coldness was a welcome pain-killer, but it would only last a few moments - a hot bath and a healer was what she needed, and Hawke doubted the Qunari camp had any of that; they traveled sparsely and efficiently.

"If you do not wash yourself, I will.", he spoke behind her. Hawke turned to witness him removing the wet pants from his legs; muscular thighs, strong knees, and thick calves' were slick...and it was then she realized how filthy they had been. His scent was bitter when he came to her in the water, but she reckoned the smell from her was no better.

When she weakly evaded his presence; body off-angled and shivering, he growled sharply but didn't pursue her.

"I'd rather not have my scent on you when I take you back.", the sheer enmity in his tone had her sneering, but her body went limp and sank neck deep in the water regardless. In her state she couldn't put up a battle with him even if she gave every ounce of energy forth. There was no winning anymore - so with her eyes closed, Hawke washed the blood and other bodily fluids from her body, already feeling cleansed.

A short grunt had her face forming one of childish annoyance, but a heavy splash and displacement of water that sent her body bobbing in the water had her sucking in a breath. He'd practically jumped down into the water. The shimmering dark mirage of him under the water was erratic - like he was shaking his body of the filth rather than rubbing it off as she'd done.

When he emerged she was reminded of the white water-dragons Bethany and her had read about in ancient books. The water was running off his dark horns, joining over his face to dribble off his chin and lips as he stared at her; eyes open with water trickling down them just as the rest of him.

"Finished?", he said it and then waded from the water - not a single backwards glance.

"My armor...", she added after he'd finished shaking his head of the water trapped in his white hair - the sight had to be watched, just...for no reason at all except that she'd never seem him do it before.

"There will be something better suited for you at camp, where your rags for now. There will be no battle for you in this invasion...and your blade...", he turned to see her; still naked and lacquered with the water, casting an impressive display, "...is mine for now. "

Her eyes found her Woe just a few yards off the bank - he would not keep her from it for long, she knew. The Qunari respected the appreciation and ardor for ones weapon, and honorable as the Arishok was - Hawke was not as concerned as she would have been before running into his trunk like chest. Without making an expression (more than the shift of her eyes back to him), she sank into the water, letting the water lift the dirt and blood from her hair.

Under the inky black water - only growing darker as the muck slipped off her - Hawke screamed; bubbles erupting from her mouth as the sudden realization hit home. There was no loss of family (Bethanylived her own life at Ander's side and Mother was gone), no loss of a purpose and in a strange way there was neither a loss of any freedoms she'd had before now. Perhaps under the Qun that empty pit in her chest would find a plug - with the Arishok, with a role, or...with child - it didn't matter, either way...things would never be the same, and in the end that was all Hawke had ever wanted.