Silah Hawke had just turned twenty years old and was listening to her father, The Viscount of Kirkwall, as he told her of his expectations of her now that she was fully fledged adult. The young woman was a skilled warrior, trained and crafted as such by the woman she considered family, Aveline Vallen. Her father was a mage, as her mother had been, but somehow she had been born without a magical inclination; a once-in-awhile rarity, but an anomaly that did occur regardless. Hawke had been a little disappointed that she hadn't had magic, yet at the same time he had been relieved, knowing his daughter would never have to face the worry of becoming an abomination. Her mother and father hadn't much to teach her, so her honorary Aunt had stepped in and trained her in the ways of swordsmanship. Yet, as all things must go, The Champion and his friends were getting older and life was slowly winding down for them. The Templar/Mage war had gone on for at least ten years, giving Silah a great deal of memories to deal with in her childhood, her father and mother constantly leaving to fight incoming hordes of Templars once the Circles had broken apart. A miracle had occurred, somehow, Silah wasn't told the details just that the fighting would finally stop. And it had, for a while, but then her mother had been killed in a struggle with dragons at the Bone Pit; Silah and Hawke had taken her mother's body back to Sundermount and buried her there, where her Dalish kin had been before they'd moved on, as they always did.
She didn't look much like her mother and, despite being part elf, Silah looked almost exactly like her father; icy, cerulean eyes and a halo of pretty, feather light blonde hair. The only features she had gotten from Merrill had been her dainty features, her small, pink lips and fine nose. Despite being so dainty, in frame and features, she was a strong swordsman and even carried a heavy two-handed blade, much like her Uncle Carver did. The Grey Warden came around time from time, but she could count the times she had seen him in her life on the fingers of both her hands.
"Silah are you listening to me?" Garrett Hawke frowned and sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose for a moment. "Off in your own world again, dear?"
"Sorry, father," Silah gave her father a smirk and shrugged her shoulders, the heavy armor shoulder guards clunking a bit with the movement. "I am still young, must be my youthful impertinence." Hawke's lips twitched, Silah could see it. As much as her father had often gotten fed up with her attitude, he had been the same way at her age; she'd heard the stories. Hell, who hadn't heard stories? At least with her honorary Uncle Varric around stories were the dwarf's specialty. "Youthful impertinence aside, Silah, you should be paying attention. Aveline is going to be retiring soon. I want you to take over for her. You're her lieutenant. I may even want you to take over as Viscount when I get too old, dear. That's why I need you to...grow up, as much as I hate that." Silah started to shake her head, but her father's stern stare had her stopping half through it. "I am being honest, Silah. The war may have ceased, but there is no telling what could happen tomorrow, or a year from now. We can't all stay children and reckless forever." He sighed softly. "Just think about it, okay? Keep it in your mind."
"Yes, father, I understand." Silah stood, the cloth of her back skirt falling to swirl against the back of her long, pale legs. "I have patrols, excuse me, father." With that said, Silah swept from her father's office without another word or friendly, family affectionate gesture. It was unfair, she thought, to be forced into growing up without ever really being a child, or a teenager. That was the kind of world she lived in. Thedas was just that kind of place. Children were often forced into circumstances that they didn't deserve, or want. With a sigh, her booted legs carried her down the steps of the Keep toward the Guard Quarters to pick up her route schedule, her shorts hugging her heart shaped bottom.
The trek took a couple of hours and by the time she reached the coast, the sun was high in sky; noon time, she figured, shielding her eyes with a hand as she gauged it. Without further delay, she went about doing her patrol, not really expecting much trouble.<|im_end|>
Special That was what the men had called him as a child. If it hadn't been for the mass migration of the Qunari, he would have likely had a different life. Half-Qunari, half-Summer Islander, his platinum white hair and violet eyes made him stand out as much as his six-foot-ten frame. Golden brown skin with a hint of copper sheen to it made it impossible for him to hide from anyone or thing. He had always just been called Ari. He knew his father had been killed long ago; his mother refused to speak of it. While they lived in Hightown, he always felt uneasy. They lived as though due to another's kindness - men would come and go on behalf of some mysterious benefactor. He watched them come and go but when he asked questions, the men quickly became replaced by nondescript couriers. He pried no further into the matter. Rather, he trained. He trained with the Tal Vashoth, he trained with the Crows, he did whatever he could to learn. He didn't train with the Guard, however, or the Mages - he trusted neither. They seemed the types who looked at him with a mixture of fear, loathing, and desire much of his life. His well-muscled body had become the object of attention at a young age. He remembered lords being chased from his home by his mother telling them to go to the Rose for pleasures rather than chase him. As he got older, woman after woman came and lingered like hungry vultures awaiting a chance. He'd focused on training instead. He didn't know why, but he always felt as though his father had fallen in combat and the same fate might befall him if he let down his guard. Then, the voice came. Soothing and sweet, it cooed into his ears constantly. It put to blaze a hunger he'd never known. Had he been a mage, he would have been an abomination by now. But the demon existed for the desire he created, far more delicious than the mere thought of entering the mortal realm.
He'd found it harder to resist as it wore on him, so he ran. He found himself one day lost and alone. But there was still hunger. He lured in female travelers who eventually found themselves overcome, leaving them barely alive husks. Those who actually made it back never seemed quite right to anyone. They told tales of an incubus who lived in the mountains who in return for what seemed like your life force offered unending pleasure. One who's touch had forever marked them, one they intended to seek out. However, he got no reprieve. Sometimes he fought, other times he simply obeyed, the demon now a part of him. It gave and took, their symbiotic relationship changing with each day. Sometimes it gave more, saving him from dying when besieged by many, others it took lik when it had him take its toll from his attackers.
Today however it was oddly quiet. He sat near the road pondering on its purpose as he waited for a trader. His hair was wild, his eyes bright, but he had gold in earnest and knelt waiting for a caravan. He could interact with others so long as it did not awaken. He hoped his deep black cloak would hide his body well enough. He'd smeared his face with soot attempting to appear dirty. He'd only been here for a month, or was it two, but he'd never made the attempt due to the risk. This place was fairly new to him, but the path was well trodden. So sitting, he waited. His sword was at his side, not enough to be threatening, just enough for preparedness.<|im_end|>