character info
GARRETT HAWKE
— CHAMPION OF KIRKWALL —
❝There’s a recipe to a good hero, Hawke. It’s like alchemy. One part down-to-earth, one part selfless nobility, two parts crazy, and you season liberally with wild falsehoods.❞
Other Physical Traits.
Perpetually unruly hair. Beard makes him look a few years older than he is. Surprisingly boyish without it. Often paints a red streak of warpaint across his face. It looks suspiciously like blood.
Bio.
Fleabitten dog-lord refugee, irreverent apostate, reluctant do-gooder, Champion of Kirkwall. Garrett Hawke wears all of these faces, though none of them quite fit right. The Fifth Blight shattered his old life and left him stranded in Kirkwall, a foreign city that became something like home, where his attempts to do right by his family drew him into a chain of events that soon spiraled out of his–or anyone’s–control. Despite his best efforts, he couldn’t protect the ones he loved most or avert the war brewing on the horizon, proving, perhaps, that being a hero isn’t always enough.
Personality.
The first thing that most people notice about Hawke is that he’s an irritating little shit. He’s obnoxious, sarcastic, and seemingly incapable of taking anything seriously. He thumbs his nose at authority, derails conversations with inane observations or terrible puns, and he cheats at cards. Badly.
His public persona is that of an affable, if somewhat callous, mercenary-turned-noble. He moves through the world with an easy smile and a smarmy remark on the tip of his tongue, feathers never ruffled by the violence and chaos surrounding him. This is what Varric might term “a bit of artistic license” and what might less charitably be called “complete bullshit.”
Beneath the insouciant mask, Hawke is a man who cares more than he'd like to admit. Though he'll always deny any accusations of altruism, he's suspiciously eager to risk his own neck for others. A life spent looking over his shoulder as an apostate mage might have turned him cynical, but instead it drives him to empathize with others who have been cast aside and rejected by Thedosian society. There’s nothing he despises more than cruelty, especially when it’s directed towards those who can’t defend themselves.
Most of all, he’s burdened by the weight of his failures. He couldn’t save his sister or his mother, couldn’t repair his relationship with his brother, couldn’t avert the war that tore his city apart. In the end, he was forced to flee Kirkwall as a fugitive. In his darkest moments, he suspects that his actions, well-intentioned though they were, served to worsen the conflict brewing in Kirkwall rather than assuage it. That possibility will haunt him for the rest of his days.
Decisions / World state.
Note that I am willing to alter anything that conflicts with canonmates' world states (e.g., nixing the Deep Roads choice for a warden Carver).
‣Purple (verging towards blue) mage Hawke, no romance(s) pursued. Both DLC stories completed.
‣Sided with the mages during the final confrontation. Fully cooperated with Anders' plans up until the Big Oopsie; spared his life afterwards. Generally aided mages whenever possible.
‣Did not bring Carver on the Deep Roads expedition; Carver joined the templars.
‣Fought the Arishok in single combat after refusing to hand Isabela over to the Qunari.
‣Tried to resolve conflicts without bloodshed when possible, with a few exceptions for situations in which he felt that nonviolence would lead to a demonstrably worse outcome (e.g., allowing the serial killer from the quest Magistrate’s Orders to go free).
‣Generally hostile to blood mages and anyone trafficking with demons, though he harbored some sympathy for those who turned to blood magic out of desperation rather than a desire to prey on others. Accordingly, his feelings on Merrill’s blood magic were somewhat conflicted.
‣Tried to aid those he viewed as downtrodden and helpless whenever possible, though not always successfully.
permissions
CONTACT: PM
ACTIVE TIMES/PACE: Weekends and weeknights CST.
BRACKETS/PROSE: Prose preferred, but I can match.
OFFENSIVE SUBJECTS & TRIGGERS: Real-world bigotry & hateful ideologies.
INTERESTED IN: Canon Dragon Age characters, including other protagonists. Dragon Age OCs. Anything to do with the mage/templar conflict. Relationships that start out hostile but get increasingly complicated with time. Blurred lines and divided loyalties. AUs of all description (bad endings, role-swaps, soul bonds, and more). Sad, broken men with sad, broken lives. Toxic yaoi.
I'm aggressively cross-canon friendly and love western RPGs, especially CRPGs. Other canons are also fine, provided you're okay with me being canon-blind.
FLIRTING: Yes. Hawke will generally flirt with anyone who shows the slightest interest in him. How smoothly he pulls it off is inversely proportional to how interested he actually is. He'll gleefully trade innuendos with a complete stranger, but if he's got an honest-to-the-Maker crush, then expect a lot of awkwardness and bad jokes.
PHYSICAL AFFECTION: Yes. Platonic touches are fine and will likely be reciprocated. His reaction to anything more intense than a hug depends heavily on context.
PHYSICAL VIOLENCE: Yes. He almost certainly deserves it.
RELATIONSHIPS: Open to shipping with rapport. M/M , M/F, and M/* okay. Cross-canon friendly. Especially interested in shipping with the following characters: Fenris, Anders, Cullen, Varric, other Dragon Age companions/NPCs/protagonists (Amell HoFs and Hawke siblings excepted for obvious reasons), and Dragon Age OCs.
PSYCHIC & PSIONIC INFORMATION: If your character is a psychic, telepath, or similar, ask OOCly before they attempt any mind-reading shenanigans. If Hawke is aware of someone sifting through his mental dirty laundry, he will not react in a mature or reasonable fashion. Which isn't to say you shouldn't do it, just that he'll be a big pissbaby about it.
MAGICAL INFORMATION: Force Mage. Can also cast basic elemental spells (e.g., fireball).
MEDICAL INFORMATION: Various minor laceration and burn scars. Insists he's in the prime of his life, even if his knees and back aren't quite what they used to be.
OFFENSIVE SUBJECTS & TRIGGERS: Family member death. Boy, is he not over that one. Wanton cruelty and violence. Slavery. He's also bound to react exceptionally poorly to any power or device used to rob people of their free will.
THREADHOPPING: In memes, sure. Otherwise, ask first.
FOURTHWALLING: No.
NOT INTERESTED IN: Shipping or sexual content with any characters under the age of 21. Ditto for characters who look, act, or think like children.
AURAL: Even, confident baritone. Posh accent.
OLFACTORY: Leather, cedar wood, soap, sweat, and just a hint of smoke.
DEMEANOUR: Relaxed, languid, and smug. His manner and bearing suggest nobility, but his messy hair and beard give him a roguish, even piratical air. Keen observers may note that his customary shit-eating grin can be a bit strained at times, as though he's keeping up an act that requires a good deal of effort to maintain.
fade shenanigans
Hawke isn’t sure how long it’s been since the others left him to face the Nightmare demon.
He had expected to die. Counted on it, actually. When the demon raised one of its chitinous appendages and swatted him into the abyss, he’d been almost disappointed to not land face-first in the Maker’s bosom. It was supposed to be a heroic sacrifice—a far better end than he’d ever imagined himself getting, all things considered.
What he gets instead is a rather ungentle landing in yet another Maker-forsaken corner of the Fade. He allows himself a brief moment of despair, and then he carries on.
So he walks. And keeps walking. The world around him dissolves and reforms without rhyme or reason; fragments of impossible architecture give way to eddying greenish mist that solidifies into eerily familiar shapes before dispersing again. The mist, in turn, gives way to vast plains and valleys populated only by drifting wisps. Time as well as space seems to expand and contract around him. He knows from his past experience with the dreamer Feynriel that time passes differently in the Fade; minutes here could be days in the real world, and vice versa. He tries and fails to avoid thinking about what might be happening on the other side of the Veil.
After what could be weeks or mere hours, he comes to the shore of a river. Something about it unnerves him. It takes him a few moments to realize that the surface of the still black water casts no reflection—not his face, not the distant spires of the Black City, not the endless green sky. He spends an indeterminate amount of time walking along the water’s edge, but no bridge or isthmus presents itself. With a sinking feeling, he realizes that the only way to cross is to swim for it. He hurriedly strips off his armor, telling himself that physical protection matters little here. It doesn’t help; he still feels uncomfortably vulnerable without it.
He expects the water to be cold. It isn’t. It doesn’t really even feel like water at all, more like mist or steam. As he swims for the other side, doing his damnedest not to think about what might be lurking below, he feels something beneath the surface ghost across his bare legs. It’s light, almost playful. Only with immense effort does he resist the urge to thrash about in panic.
Against all odds and his own expectations, he makes it to the other side in one piece. The Fade here is… different. Welcoming, even. Wisps flit about in the perpetual twilight, their little lights twinkling merrily. If he squints, he can almost convince himself that he’s back in Lothering, watching the fireflies dance in the fields on a summer evening.
Therein lies perdition. Hawke is no fool; he knows that the denizens of this realm have likely been watching him since he and the others first tumbled into the Fade. Weak demons attack outright, but the truly dangerous lull their prey into a false sense of security. He’d bet every copper to his name that he’s just wandered into the domain of the latter.
Well, it will have to work for its meal. He squares his shoulders, draws himself up to his full height. The effect is somewhat spoiled by the fact that he’s currently soaking wet and naked save for his smalls.
“Hello?” He can’t fight his way out of this, so he may as well try and talk his way out. “Just so you know, I taste awful.”