Damn this all. Damn the Grey Wardens and their stupid song, damn Corypheus, damn the venatori. Trevelyan could honestly say he never felt so much rage coursing through his veins. Just for fucking once, he would love for something to just make sense. But no, Corypheus had to go and make the Grey Wardens believe their time was at an end, to ultimately bind them to Corypheus's service in the most insane plot he had ever heard.
Well not this fucking day, not if Trevelyan could help it.
He wanted to charge in and wreak havoc. He wanted to exact justice for the Grey Wardens who already were lost. He wanted, he wanted, he wanted -
He wanted to get completely obliterated. Which was probably why he was in the tavern by himself, already halfway through his first ale and trying very hard not to shoot a fireball at anyone who so much as looked at him wrong. That...probably wouldn't show the world that mages could be trusted. So instead he sat there, imagining Corypheus's head on a spike while far better people were off making the plans necessary to take back Adamant Fortress. There was nothing to be done and wait, and this was the only way Trevelyan could do so without going absolutely ballistic.
She's still seething. And sure, by Stroud's judgement, it could be said that Hawke acted like a proper bitch when it came to the big reveal, but - fuck. When she entrusted Carver to them in the Deep Roads, it was with the hope that finally she could keep at least one family member safe from death. It turns out now, that not only did she take Carver down to his near death but she also signed him up for potentially a life in the service of an archdemon.
Booze is not going to fix the massive issue at hand, but it might make her feel less like snapping at every person who looks at her with that aren't you the Champion of Kirkwall look in their eyes.
The tavern's blessedly empty at this time, because they arrived from the Approach late in the evening, but the bartender's still pouring shitty ale for whoever's buying. And Hawke is willing to actually pay for it this time, instead of challenge the Chargers to duels for drinks.
The Chargers themselves must be off on Inquisition business, with their boss recovering from the fortress kerfuffle somewhere in Skyhold (possibly working frustrations out on Dorian's lucky ass), so the tavern is quiet for a change. Nevertheless, there is a corner of it that's unignorable, because the man taking up a table for himself is getting some tentative looks from the other patrons.
Oh, his fucking holiness. She grabs her tankard of ale and walks over to Trevelyan's table, deciding that if she's going to be angry tonight she's going to be angry at the fact that people either worship him or fear him - and he clearly hates either option.
"Drinking alone is the first sign of a problem," she points out as way of introduction, and pulls a chair out from under the table to drop herself into it, affecting a slouch that the Iron Bull would be proud of. "You look like you wanna punch some people with fire."
Trevelyan looks furious, which is quite honestly putting it lightly. He can't recall the last time he felt so much rage within him. Had he ever been in such a state before? Even when he was dragged to the Circle as a young boy, he still had hope in his heart.
Now, it feels like the hope has been completely extinguished.
"Yes, well, I needed to do something to keep from tearing this fortress apart," Trevelyan mutters, still seething. The ale is helping a little, but he still is a long way from feeling completely zen. Maybe he can rope Bull into letting him whack him with a wooden board a few times and call it practice despite the fact that Trevelyan will certainly never need to utilize melee combat anytime soon.
At least he fucking hopes not or Thedas is well and truly fucked.
"I do, I really do. I need to save this for when we meet up with that fucking asshole Erimond again, but fuck the wait is going to be unbearable."
Having never experienced the austerity of a Circle before has gifted Hawke with maybe better coping mechanisms for rage. She knows where the best sparring grounds are, even if the fortress isn't hers. She knows where she'd go to shoot some fire out of her mouth and pretend the practice dummy is a particularly corrupt and idiotic Grey Warden, or a complete and utter jackass of a Magister.
"Well, chief - it's a big mountain," she points out. Takes a swig of ale from her tankard and sets it down. "We could trek up it somewhere with a lot of snow, and fight the shit out of each other?"
Trevelyan is honestly not sure why he hadn't thought of that before. Probably because he had been trained so heavily not to use magic just because, but this seems like a far better channeling of his energy and of his emotions. Bottling it up no longer feels like an option.
Besides, he wants to be ready. He wants to hone his power so well that when there is a next time, he can be sure not to miss.
"That sounds like a terrible idea, so naturally I'm in." Could one of them get hurt? Probably. That just means bringing more healing potions with them.
She flashes him an immediate grin, and knocks her tankard with his in a pitiful attempt at a toast. "That's the spirit! That's how I got Varric to be my best friend, you know?"
So they're on the right track for this, whatever it is. "Let's pack some healing potions, I'm shit at healing spells." It takes some effort for her to not think about who was good at healing, about what he did, and how life turned out for Marian Hawke - in part - because of him.
Although, in hindsight, that might be as much about Anders as it could be about her father.
"My sister was better at them." It slips, the Facts About Hawke moment. Bethany, sweet Bethany, however sweet and good at tending to bruises and scabs and burns, however loving and dear, and how fucking young...
The fucking Blight.
She stares into her ale for a long pause, then looks up, pulling on the mask of self-confidence again. "Anyway, finish these and go? Seems a waste not to."
There is something rather touching about Hawke turning her attention towards reminiscing about her family. While he had not studied Varric's account of Hawke that closely, the one thing he did pick up on is just how much she lost.
Some of Trevelyan's anger dissipates at that, and his face softens, just slightly. He never really felt all that close to his family. As soon as his magic surfaced, he was tossed away, hidden at the Circle where he couldn't tarnish the family name. But he still thinks of his sister, pushing past their parents to give him a hug just before he was dragged off, and wonders if she still lives or if this damned war got to them, too?
"Yes, I think that's an excellent idea," Trevelyan replies after a pause, his heart hardening once more as he recalls what they had initially settled on doing.
In the end, it doesn't take him long at all to finish his ale. Between the anticipation of getting his aggressions out and needing a general distraction from the pain that threatens his heart, he has enough reasons to drink quickly.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
02.
Well not this fucking day, not if Trevelyan could help it.
He wanted to charge in and wreak havoc. He wanted to exact justice for the Grey Wardens who already were lost. He wanted, he wanted, he wanted -
He wanted to get completely obliterated. Which was probably why he was in the tavern by himself, already halfway through his first ale and trying very hard not to shoot a fireball at anyone who so much as looked at him wrong. That...probably wouldn't show the world that mages could be trusted. So instead he sat there, imagining Corypheus's head on a spike while far better people were off making the plans necessary to take back Adamant Fortress. There was nothing to be done and wait, and this was the only way Trevelyan could do so without going absolutely ballistic.
Re: 02.
Booze is not going to fix the massive issue at hand, but it might make her feel less like snapping at every person who looks at her with that aren't you the Champion of Kirkwall look in their eyes.
The tavern's blessedly empty at this time, because they arrived from the Approach late in the evening, but the bartender's still pouring shitty ale for whoever's buying. And Hawke is willing to actually pay for it this time, instead of challenge the Chargers to duels for drinks.
The Chargers themselves must be off on Inquisition business, with their boss recovering from the fortress kerfuffle somewhere in Skyhold (possibly working frustrations out on Dorian's lucky ass), so the tavern is quiet for a change. Nevertheless, there is a corner of it that's unignorable, because the man taking up a table for himself is getting some tentative looks from the other patrons.
Oh, his fucking holiness. She grabs her tankard of ale and walks over to Trevelyan's table, deciding that if she's going to be angry tonight she's going to be angry at the fact that people either worship him or fear him - and he clearly hates either option.
"Drinking alone is the first sign of a problem," she points out as way of introduction, and pulls a chair out from under the table to drop herself into it, affecting a slouch that the Iron Bull would be proud of. "You look like you wanna punch some people with fire."
no subject
Now, it feels like the hope has been completely extinguished.
"Yes, well, I needed to do something to keep from tearing this fortress apart," Trevelyan mutters, still seething. The ale is helping a little, but he still is a long way from feeling completely zen. Maybe he can rope Bull into letting him whack him with a wooden board a few times and call it practice despite the fact that Trevelyan will certainly never need to utilize melee combat anytime soon.
At least he fucking hopes not or Thedas is well and truly fucked.
"I do, I really do. I need to save this for when we meet up with that fucking asshole Erimond again, but fuck the wait is going to be unbearable."
no subject
"Well, chief - it's a big mountain," she points out. Takes a swig of ale from her tankard and sets it down. "We could trek up it somewhere with a lot of snow, and fight the shit out of each other?"
no subject
Besides, he wants to be ready. He wants to hone his power so well that when there is a next time, he can be sure not to miss.
"That sounds like a terrible idea, so naturally I'm in." Could one of them get hurt? Probably. That just means bringing more healing potions with them.
no subject
So they're on the right track for this, whatever it is. "Let's pack some healing potions, I'm shit at healing spells." It takes some effort for her to not think about who was good at healing, about what he did, and how life turned out for Marian Hawke - in part - because of him.
Although, in hindsight, that might be as much about Anders as it could be about her father.
"My sister was better at them." It slips, the Facts About Hawke moment. Bethany, sweet Bethany, however sweet and good at tending to bruises and scabs and burns, however loving and dear, and how fucking young...
The fucking Blight.
She stares into her ale for a long pause, then looks up, pulling on the mask of self-confidence again. "Anyway, finish these and go? Seems a waste not to."
no subject
Some of Trevelyan's anger dissipates at that, and his face softens, just slightly. He never really felt all that close to his family. As soon as his magic surfaced, he was tossed away, hidden at the Circle where he couldn't tarnish the family name. But he still thinks of his sister, pushing past their parents to give him a hug just before he was dragged off, and wonders if she still lives or if this damned war got to them, too?
"Yes, I think that's an excellent idea," Trevelyan replies after a pause, his heart hardening once more as he recalls what they had initially settled on doing.
In the end, it doesn't take him long at all to finish his ale. Between the anticipation of getting his aggressions out and needing a general distraction from the pain that threatens his heart, he has enough reasons to drink quickly.