OMNIA OMNIBUS (4/?)
anonymous
August 10 2011, 20:34:09 UTC
‘You won’t get any argument from me on that point,’ Varric said. ‘Except I know how you hate to be second in anything.’
Anders didn’t want to stare, but he couldn’t look away, either. He hurried after Varric, who was clearly so used to this routine by now that he paid it no mind. The gangplank creaked ominously under Anders’s weight, the thin wood flexing as he crossed from the safety of the dock onto the relative unknown, the unremarkable deck of The Champion.
He’d hoped that its outward appearance might have been an illusion-a dismal sham meant to put off pirates and raiders and lawmen alike by making the ship only look as shabby as possible-but upon boarding, it became clear that wasn’t the case. The Champion was completely functional, just with none of the polish and trappings Anders had seen on the majestic merchant vessels lining the docks.
‘I know that look,’ Isabela said, coming up behind Anders and setting a jeweled hand on his shoulder. ‘But don’t you dare judge her before you’ve seen her in action.’ Swiftly, before Anders had the time to exhale, her hand dropped and pinched his ass beneath the coat. ‘You don’t look like much yourself, after all, but that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t be willing to give you a test run.’
‘Rivaini,’ Varric said.
‘Present and accounted for,’ Isabela murmured cheekily, adjusting her bodice instead of offering a salute.
‘Where’s the captain?’ Varric asked meaningfully.
‘Also present,’ said a gruff voice from just above and behind Anders’s head. He took the opportunity to sidestep away from Isabela, and turned to squint again into the sun.
It was beginning to be a thing-or rather, par for the course-that Anders was taken off guard, ambushed from his blind spot, just like The Champion cornered her enemies on the tumultuous waves.
There was a tall man making his way down from the helm, a coil of rope twisted around one of his bare shoulders. His arms were muscled, skin half-bronzed and half-burnt from days on the open water; he had a broad, hard face with what looked like a smear of dried blood marring the bridge of his nose, and Anders’s fingers twitched at the sight, fighting the well-worn urge to heal.
Just as Varric had promised, the captain had a beard as dark and thick as his hair; he pushed his bangs from his forehead before he held out a hand in greeting.
‘Hawke,’ the captain said.
‘Yes,’ Anders said, fully aware he was staring outright, fully incapable of making himself stop. ‘I know.’
‘I think he’s heard of you, Captain,’ Isabela said. With a cheeky swish of her hips she stepped forward, brushing past Hawke like he wasn’t all warm muscle and sun-burnished gold, looping the rope off his arm and around her wrist.
‘Who hasn’t?’ Varric added, grinning.
Anders forced himself to swallow, to lick his dry lips. It wasn’t every day a man met a legend. It wasn’t every day a wanted apostate set foot on board the most famous ship in Thedas, bound for sights unseen, lands unknown, treasures untold, and came face to face with a dastardly hero-part villain, like all the best heroes were, when it came to compromise and sacrifice and glory.
‘Don’t suppose there are any stories about you I might have heard?’ Hawke asked, testing a knot on the mainmast, then leaning against it to inspect a broken nail. He watched Anders over one split knuckle, waiting, and not exactly patient.
Once again, Anders felt small. That was a recurring theme of the day, as well; he didn’t have his sea-legs yet, the bobble of The Champion beneath their feet making him unsteady while the others stood firm. Hawke’s gaze, too, stripped him like splintered rigging from a ship dashed against the rocks, and Anders shifted where he stood to find some pale imitation of equilibrium, holding out his hand at last.
‘Anders,’ he said. ‘And there are stories about me, now that you mention it. They’re more sort of…local, though. Not exactly wide-spread. Not exactly flattering, either. In fact, it’s probably best you haven’t heard of me.’
Anders didn’t want to stare, but he couldn’t look away, either. He hurried after Varric, who was clearly so used to this routine by now that he paid it no mind. The gangplank creaked ominously under Anders’s weight, the thin wood flexing as he crossed from the safety of the dock onto the relative unknown, the unremarkable deck of The Champion.
He’d hoped that its outward appearance might have been an illusion-a dismal sham meant to put off pirates and raiders and lawmen alike by making the ship only look as shabby as possible-but upon boarding, it became clear that wasn’t the case. The Champion was completely functional, just with none of the polish and trappings Anders had seen on the majestic merchant vessels lining the docks.
‘I know that look,’ Isabela said, coming up behind Anders and setting a jeweled hand on his shoulder. ‘But don’t you dare judge her before you’ve seen her in action.’ Swiftly, before Anders had the time to exhale, her hand dropped and pinched his ass beneath the coat. ‘You don’t look like much yourself, after all, but that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t be willing to give you a test run.’
‘Rivaini,’ Varric said.
‘Present and accounted for,’ Isabela murmured cheekily, adjusting her bodice instead of offering a salute.
‘Where’s the captain?’ Varric asked meaningfully.
‘Also present,’ said a gruff voice from just above and behind Anders’s head. He took the opportunity to sidestep away from Isabela, and turned to squint again into the sun.
It was beginning to be a thing-or rather, par for the course-that Anders was taken off guard, ambushed from his blind spot, just like The Champion cornered her enemies on the tumultuous waves.
There was a tall man making his way down from the helm, a coil of rope twisted around one of his bare shoulders. His arms were muscled, skin half-bronzed and half-burnt from days on the open water; he had a broad, hard face with what looked like a smear of dried blood marring the bridge of his nose, and Anders’s fingers twitched at the sight, fighting the well-worn urge to heal.
Just as Varric had promised, the captain had a beard as dark and thick as his hair; he pushed his bangs from his forehead before he held out a hand in greeting.
‘Hawke,’ the captain said.
‘Yes,’ Anders said, fully aware he was staring outright, fully incapable of making himself stop. ‘I know.’
‘I think he’s heard of you, Captain,’ Isabela said. With a cheeky swish of her hips she stepped forward, brushing past Hawke like he wasn’t all warm muscle and sun-burnished gold, looping the rope off his arm and around her wrist.
‘Who hasn’t?’ Varric added, grinning.
Anders forced himself to swallow, to lick his dry lips. It wasn’t every day a man met a legend. It wasn’t every day a wanted apostate set foot on board the most famous ship in Thedas, bound for sights unseen, lands unknown, treasures untold, and came face to face with a dastardly hero-part villain, like all the best heroes were, when it came to compromise and sacrifice and glory.
‘Don’t suppose there are any stories about you I might have heard?’ Hawke asked, testing a knot on the mainmast, then leaning against it to inspect a broken nail. He watched Anders over one split knuckle, waiting, and not exactly patient.
Once again, Anders felt small. That was a recurring theme of the day, as well; he didn’t have his sea-legs yet, the bobble of The Champion beneath their feet making him unsteady while the others stood firm. Hawke’s gaze, too, stripped him like splintered rigging from a ship dashed against the rocks, and Anders shifted where he stood to find some pale imitation of equilibrium, holding out his hand at last.
‘Anders,’ he said. ‘And there are stories about me, now that you mention it. They’re more sort of…local, though. Not exactly wide-spread. Not exactly flattering, either. In fact, it’s probably best you haven’t heard of me.’
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