hawkepockets
let’s power up!
now playing: twilight princess
6312 posts
Don't wanna be here? Send us removal request.
Last Seen Blogs
daveyyyyoung
Untitled
viejo-yaoi
El mundo de un viejo yaoi
lana-llama-in-pajamas
Lana Llama Bun Pajamas
gymbookartfan
Gym & books & me
fede941
CAN I SAP YOU? :3
Text
drew a portrait for gale and my necromancer tav niero's wedding :]
190 notes
·
View notes
Text
artists on tumblr stop fukcing lying to yourselves you never draw those sticks and circles when you sketch stuff out you just die and you know it
#mostly lawful evil. sorry#i use references for the more detailed/formal style but idk it comes out so much stiffer#i’ve drawn the sticks and circles! like 3 times in my life
114K notes
·
View notes
Text
still can't believe they facking removed wyllzel flirt banter.
424 notes
·
View notes
Text
if not for this job i would be linking absolute zelda
5 notes
·
View notes
Text
the one bright light in kirkwall
819 notes
·
View notes
Text
Hisa's back to committing atrocities.
133 notes
·
View notes
Text
rats of even lower quality
mini timeline for the inquest detritus. settled on a chestpiece i prefer over the aetherblade coat... my sibling described this look as "evil monk"
104 notes
·
View notes
Text
I really love that the origin playthroughs add real, otherwise inaccessible context for what the origin characters are experiencing and how their world view works, its amazing. That said first experiencing the actual lived reality of Shar's wound on Shadowheart's hand was fucking gutting. Not a mere bad = pain shock collar, but traumatic visions of being abused as a child forced into her head. Your Goddess who you love and who you fear utterly holds a controller that allows her to trigger & retraumatise you at any moment, and she does it when she arbitrarily disapproves of your thoughts and feelings.
Not only is that obviously deeply controlling and traumatising itself, it also captures an experience I think is really interesting, and may be unique to Shadowheart's Lack Of Autonomy Trauma (tm); it turns her automatic internal self, not just her body or thoughts but her Feelings, into things that she fears, and things that betray her. Who she is becomes a threat that she must resist expressing or even experiencing at all, because Shar may notice and punish her for it.
This is why I think of Shadowheart as most likely to be highly dissociative (on top of yknow, the lost time, the focus on oblivion, the routine abuse and the alienation from herself), because she can't really retreat inwards. Even the internal world is unsafe and needs to be escaped sometimes. When thats the case, you either sedate yourself (which I hc that she probably does too often) or you fracture, and numb out.
I think this is why Shadowheart seems to be the least obviously angry of all the companions toward her abuser; anger, even secretly held within to fester into resentment and rage, could not be abided. It had to be totally muted. When she turns from Shar, she is not angry but fearful, regretful, sad, confused. Even when she's free from the wound, she is more mournful than angry. She is ashamed, and deeply devestated. But she doesn't express rage. That emotion is still locked away for her.
I wonder how this impacts Shadowheart's self-trust. Her ability to believe herself, to trust her thoughts and emotions are real. I speculate that Shadowheart internally probably would dismiss lots of thoughts, feelings and desires she had as her being stubborn and disobedient. They were punished as such since she was a child, why wouldn't she believe it? It's difficult to live like that. Nothing feels certain. Nothing but something undeniably bigger than yourself, like faith or a God or the abuser that has put themself there.
When I think about that and the wound on her hand, and Shar's utter cruelty... I'm just floored by how brave Shadowheart is. In most cases, if you've befriended Shadowheart and been nice enough, she will choose to save The Nightsong without any input from you. She is so, so brave. She wants to fight for what feels right, for freedom, and for herself, even when she knows what Shar can and does do to her. She faces down the wrath of a capricious Goddess she's personally angered, and handles it with unsettling grace. Shes so used to pain, and making herself nonexistent, but she still fights for herself. I just love her so much
1K notes
·
View notes
Text
yall gotta be nicer about m/f bc sometimes u guys like the blandest gay sutff ive ever seen in my life
120K notes
·
View notes
Note
prompt is hmmm least normal conversation between your hawke and varric?
alternatively, putting hawke in their least favorite situations, parties or murder, whichever dreads them more?
TYY you read my mind with this, my hawke had SUCH a messed up relationship with varric. and to combine the prompts, skyhold is basically a saw trap for him. so here's varric and hawke having a terrible conversation about hawke and anders' relationship at herald's rest.
The swill they sold at Herald's Rest, Skyhold's only tavern, was unlike anything Hawke had ever tasted before. In his youth he might have been able to bear it - long nights at The Hanged Man emptying barrels upon barrels of the worst drink Kirkwall had to offer had once been his only hobby. But the past few years had softened him. He wanted warm mead, cheap wine, someone to bring him elfroot tea as he put his feet up.
Varric didn't seem to care. He took a large swig from his tankard as if it was nothing, smacking his lips loudly.
"Maker, that hit the spot." He groaned.
Hawke didn't know what to say in response. He stared around the tavern, observing the other people drinking. They seemed on edge, nervous. It reminded him of that last night at Ostagar, everyone more than aware of the fact that they could die tomorrow. Perhaps that was why he was the only one who wasn't drinking like a fish.
"Hawke?" Varric was saying, "you listening?"
Hawke turned his gaze to Varric, "I'm listening," he grunted, pushing his drink away from him.
"Come on. I know you didn't hear a damn word I said."
Varric was suddenly serious. He sat back in his chair, tilting his chin up and meeting Hawke's eye. In this light, he suddenly looked far older than the man Hawke knew; it was hard to believe it had been a decade since they'd first met. Those first few uncomplicated months before the Deep Roads expedition, before a thousand tiny invisible barriers had begun to worm their way between them, felt simultaneously like a lifetime ago and yesterday afternoon.
"Do we have a problem, Hawke?" Varric asked.
Hawke laughed sharply. "No."
It was unconvincing, Hawke knew that. He watched as Varric picked up his drink and took another steady gulp, eyeing him suspiciously over the rim of his tankard.
Then his eyes drifted down, fixing on Hawke's hand before widening. He swallowed, coughed, reddened, looking for all the world like an Orlesian nobleman who'd just been caught doing something exceptionally unfashionable.
Hawke looked down at his hand. It was the same as ever, scarred and rough, nails bitten short in a habit Anders had always found disgusting.
And, against his worn skin, a single sunbeam in a stormy sky: his ring, once worn by his father and now worn by him. It was one half of a pair. The other half, his mother's, was somewhere far away, on the finger of someone he missed very much.
Varric couldn't stop staring at it. He was no longer red. His face was white, his knuckles even whiter.
"Hawke," he said slowly, "tell me that isn't what I think it is."
If he was honest with himself, Hawke had been anticipating this conversation ever since he'd arrived in Skyhold. If anything, he was surprised it had taken so long for Varric to notice. His gaze had a habit of lingering on him for a moment too long, taking in details nobody else saw.
He twisted the ring around his finger, "it's nothing," he lied.
"Doesn't look like nothing."
Hawke took the ring off and placed it on the table. It wasn't anything fancy, a cheap metal band coated with a thin layer of gold. His mother's ring had a small red gem inlaid in it, so bright it could have been red lyrium, but his father had been spared the frivolity.
"Does this make me your wife?" Anders had joked as Hawke had slipped the ring on his thin finger.
Varric reached out and picked it up, rolling the band around in his palm with a sour expression.
"When was the wedding?" He asked.
"A few years ago."
"Right." Varric said, gritting his teeth, "sure."
Hawke said nothing in response. He held his hand out, waiting for him to give the ring back.
Either Varric didn't notice him, or he pretended not to. He continued to fiddle with it, warming the cool metal in his hands, "were you planning on telling me? Or did my invite get lost somewhere?"
His voice was hard as stone but Hawke was harder. "Nobody was invited," he said, "it was just us."
And Bethany. And The Hero of Ferelden. And a few friends. But Varric didn't need to know that.
"Still," Varric continued to toy with the ring, "you could've written. I would've sent a gift."
Hawke snorted, "a gift for a wedding you don't approve of? The Orlesians are rubbing off on you, Varric."
It was hard for Hawke to keep the irritation from his voice. His patience was wearing thin. He reached out and snatched the ring from Varric's hand, slipping it back on his finger where it belonged.
Neither of them spoke for a long time after that. Hawke let his mind wander, thinking about how he'd tell this story when he got home. Would it make Anders smile? Would Bethany chide him for being too cruel? Or would the three of them sit in silence afterwards, navigating the personal mazes they were more and more often finding themselves lost in.
Varric coughed lightly, "I don't disapprove." He said, so quiet that Hawke barely heard him.
"Pardon?"
"I said, I don't disapprove." He repeated, "of you and Blondie, that is."
He was lying. Hawke felt a fire begin to ignite in his chest, "I read your book," he said sharply, "everyone did. All of Thedas knows exactly what you think."
"It was a dramatised version of events. I've said it a thousand times, Hawke, I'm not a historian-"
"-I'm a storyteller," Hawke finished, mimicking Varric's rough voice, "right."
Another silence. Varric had finished his drink by now but continued to fiddle with the tankard, peering into it every now and then as if hoping more alcohol would materialise if he wanted it badly enough.
Hawke had been maybe a hundred pages into The Tale of the Champion when he'd realised Varric was in love with him. The realisation had come over him like a heart attack, finally hitting after years of creeping up on him. Part of him thought maybe he should have realised sooner. It had, in hindsight, been sickeningly obvious.
When he'd asked Anders for his opinion, he'd had the nerve to laugh. (This had been, of course, when he still knew how to laugh. If Hawke had known how few of Anders' laughs he'd have left, he might not have been so angry. But that's always the way.)
"I was wondering when you were going to figure it out," he'd said, doubling over, "Maker, Isabela and I even had a bet, once."
Did Varric himself even know? Hawke looked at him. He was still staring morosely at his empty drink, a few strands of hair falling in his eyes where they'd come loose from his ponytail. Surely if he knew he would have said something by now. He was never usually quiet about his feelings.
"Varric." Hawke said.
"What?"
"Do you..."
Potential hung in the air, a dagger at the end of his tongue. Hawke could ask his question if he wanted. He could do anything if he wanted; he could ruin everything, he could run all the way home and cower beneath his bed, he could tear his sword from his hilt and see how many Templars he could slaughter before someone cut him down.
But he did nothing. Just as he had done nothing every night since arriving as Skyhold. He continued to sit on the uncomfortable chair at the dirty table, continued to ignore his drink. Varric stared at him with his tired, worn expression. There was a look in his eyes that reminded Hawke shockingly of Anders on the day he'd blown up the Chantry. An acknowledgement of an unavoidable fact and an acceptance of it, the mutual knowledge that Hawke could do anything in that moment and he wouldn't resist.
Just as before, Hawke couldn't go through with it. He dropped the dagger.
"Do you want another drink?" He asked.
Varric avoided his gaze and shrugged. "I think I'm done for the night."
"Sure."
"I'm going to turn in."
He slipped out from the table and into the fray of the crowded tavern, dodging stray elbows and swinging knees. Hawke watched him leave, finished his drink, then took the same path out into the cool night.
15 notes
·
View notes
Text
Dont save me, please...
Another tarot dragon age art :>
240 notes
·
View notes
Text
i miss aedira guildwars2 so much dudes
102 notes
·
View notes