The demon’s form surprises him. In his experience, most demons prefer to turn their victims’ memories against them; they assume the shapes of past lovers, dead relatives, old friends and enemies. This man—tall and distinguished, even stately—is no one Hawke has ever seen before. Perhaps this demon is simply eccentric, or perhaps it’s so powerful and dangerous that it doesn’t need to stoop to base manipulation to ensnare its prey.
The man—no, demon, he forcibly reminds himself—does not seem perturbed by his presence, but neither does he seem to have been expecting him. Odd. Bereft of anything even vaguely resembling a plan, he does what he usually does whenever he’s been backed into a corner: he flashes what he hopes is his most winning smile.
“A vegetarian spirit? That’s a new one.” Best to keep him talking, Hawke reasons. The longer their conservation lasts, the more time he’ll have to find some means of escape. Besides, the fellow seems charming enough. Easy on the eyes, too. (Of course he is, idiot, he brusquely reminds himself, he’s a bloody demon.)
“It’s a long story,” he continues. “An old friend needed some help with a rather thorny matter, and circumstances conspired to toss us arse-first into the Fade. I’m, er—” A pause, just on the wrong side of awkward. “—Taking the scenic route back.”
He casts a dubious glance at the proffered sash. Isn’t there some old wives’ tale about not taking gifts from demons? Or was it fairies? He hesitates for a moment before deciding that he’s in no position to be refusing anything from anyone.
“Much appreciated.” He throws the sash over his bare shoulders; the silk is pleasantly soft against his skin. Clearly, this demon has expensive tastes. Is he imagining things, or does a hint of cologne cling to the fabric?
The sash, however, does little to ameliorate the fact that he’s still soaking wet and mostly naked. He shivers against the cold. As if aware of his thoughts, the hazy Fade-mist around him swirls and shifts. After a moment, it solidifies into a perfect replica of the parlor of his old house in Hightown, right down to the blazing fire in the hearth and the Amell coat of arms hanging above the mantle.
He lets out a low whistle. “Well. That’s uncanny. Still, I would be remiss not to take advantage of the hospitality.” The armchair that he collapses into is indistinguishable from the real thing. All told, it’s rather unnerving.
“I’m Hawke, by the way.” He gestures at the chaise opposite his armchair, offering the demon a seat. As he does, his eye lands on the wolfskin rug near the hearth and he winces, remembering that vegetarian comment. “Don’t mind the decor. It’s very Fereldan, I know.”
no subject
The man—no, demon, he forcibly reminds himself—does not seem perturbed by his presence, but neither does he seem to have been expecting him. Odd. Bereft of anything even vaguely resembling a plan, he does what he usually does whenever he’s been backed into a corner: he flashes what he hopes is his most winning smile.
“A vegetarian spirit? That’s a new one.” Best to keep him talking, Hawke reasons. The longer their conservation lasts, the more time he’ll have to find some means of escape. Besides, the fellow seems charming enough. Easy on the eyes, too. (Of course he is, idiot, he brusquely reminds himself, he’s a bloody demon.)
“It’s a long story,” he continues. “An old friend needed some help with a rather thorny matter, and circumstances conspired to toss us arse-first into the Fade. I’m, er—” A pause, just on the wrong side of awkward. “—Taking the scenic route back.”
He casts a dubious glance at the proffered sash. Isn’t there some old wives’ tale about not taking gifts from demons? Or was it fairies? He hesitates for a moment before deciding that he’s in no position to be refusing anything from anyone.
“Much appreciated.” He throws the sash over his bare shoulders; the silk is pleasantly soft against his skin. Clearly, this demon has expensive tastes. Is he imagining things, or does a hint of cologne cling to the fabric?
The sash, however, does little to ameliorate the fact that he’s still soaking wet and mostly naked. He shivers against the cold. As if aware of his thoughts, the hazy Fade-mist around him swirls and shifts. After a moment, it solidifies into a perfect replica of the parlor of his old house in Hightown, right down to the blazing fire in the hearth and the Amell coat of arms hanging above the mantle.
He lets out a low whistle. “Well. That’s uncanny. Still, I would be remiss not to take advantage of the hospitality.” The armchair that he collapses into is indistinguishable from the real thing. All told, it’s rather unnerving.
“I’m Hawke, by the way.” He gestures at the chaise opposite his armchair, offering the demon a seat. As he does, his eye lands on the wolfskin rug near the hearth and he winces, remembering that vegetarian comment. “Don’t mind the decor. It’s very Fereldan, I know.”