𝘐 𝘏𝘈𝘝𝘌 𝘈𝘕 𝘌𝘟𝘊𝘌𝘓𝘓𝘌𝘕𝘛 𝘚𝘌𝘕𝘚𝘌 𝘖𝘍 𝘋𝘙𝘈𝘔𝘈𝘛𝘐𝘊 𝘛𝘐𝘔𝘐𝘕𝘎.

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.”