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.
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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.