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Character Age: 35
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Specialization: Knight Enchanter
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Asmodeus Hawke


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Nov 1 2017, 10:06 PM
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Only a few moments had ticked by at the start of the day and already Hawke was ready to be rid of the company which still swarmed within the reaches of Skyhold. The Champion had been called here to be an unwilling companion of the Inquisitor despite the hatred which laced every lyric to rise from his throat. There was no hiding it, it had been shown since day one of his arrival to this forsaken place. And with the acts that had already been committed within the walls towards those the Inquisitor herself sympathized with the man was a little disappointed action had yet to be taken against him.
Words had fallen from many lips. Ire of their own directed at the Viscount who wore a cracked crown and now paraded himself about the battlements. Sympathy was not something to find itself upon the heart of a man who had come to be accustom to denial when faced with so many problems in Kirkwall. Even before being drowned in the sorrows of others, his family included, there had to be a point where the line was drawn to declare when enough had been all which was willing to be taken. Yet still they threw themselves at his feet, begged for the guidance he withheld.
Skyhold was supposed to be a temporary thing and it was turning into something far greater than that. Already a month had passed and a second was slowly creeping up behind it much to the mage’s dismay. Entertainment wearing thin as action could only be taken so far beneath the prying eyes of others. So many had grown tired of the Champion’s presence and it was no mystery as to why such thoughts crossed their minds. Too many had begun to wear a grimace as the human drew to near, flight or fight sparked within their hearts were they not prideful enough to face the dominant air which surrounded him.
Scrutiny could only be returned as those prying sights were settled with a defiance against them even as feet set down with determination against the battlements. Asmodeus Hawke was a serpent who had drawn back on a string and struck too many times in the past few days as the Inquisitor’s company was a forced presence, the Western Approach was not exactly neighbors with the castle and the trip back was far more excruciating than the way there. For a moment, a solid second of being in the chosen parties company, Hawke had believed there was a chance to remain civil – though conflicting views proved to be the wedge of prevention.
So nearly as soon as feet found themselves upon the grounds proclaimed to be Skyhold’s the man found himself on a mission to erase the memories which had been bore into his thoughts. Each conversation burning within a conflicted creature, a beast who so longed to lash out, tension had become nothing but a spring waiting to pop. A gait with a purpose which would not be stopped by those who may have sought him out for information. Which to be honest was far and few. It left the walk to be fairly uneventful as most beings found themselves ducking out of the Champion’s way.
There was no slowing down in that determination till boots hit the wooden flooring of the Tavern. Voices rising as background noise as the human easily found himself settled into one of the tables. Asmodeus was neither expecting company nor was he particularly looking forward to it should some vagrant soul find themselves at his side. Though as the so called Champion drank away such inhibitions perhaps a tongue would become stilled – yet that was unlikely. For only aggression seemed to build in such moments towards those who dared offer a challenge.
Oct 30 2017, 06:03 PM
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All of Thedas was trying to turn itself over. The Fade itself split rifts against reality to allow any to have a glimpse into the realm of demons. Templar, even those once loyal to the Viscount, had turned on a heel as corruption ran rampant through their veins. Eyes bleeding red as the lyrium, red with a powerful song, split their hides as they moved about Kirkwall. Hawke turned from them as there was no loyalty to the corrupt and sights were turned towards researching further into the crystals with a song which even cried out to the unwilling mage. Haunting lyrics shaken from thoughts as it was passed in his travels over the Southern reaches of the maps.
Only was a chance of course offered when a letter found way into a serpent’s clawed grasp. The parchment crumbling against the rough touch applied to it as question could only rise against the words. Varric had sent a calling to come to Skyhold in a hope the Champion of Kirkwall could offer some assistance for the one known as the Herald and now the Inquisitor. Yet it was not left at that, no, the dwarf thought to add in a chiding message – Behave yourself, Hawke. It was that which drove hands to crumble the letter, tearing it with what could only have been anger, as the pieces were tossed down. Those written words were a warning and a hateful being knew the implications resting beyond them.
They allowed a bitter heart to harden, for hatred to fuel each step, while the magical plague within the man’s veins burned at the thought. Though it did not stop the change of course. Carver would be left with the task that had been set upon the Templar which still held tight to the fading trust of the serpent as a mage, who would rather swing a blade than a staff, set off towards the Frostback Mountains. Cradling the reigns of the chosen mount as everything now became a race against the clock. Varric had made things sound urgent and had willed the Champion to come soon as he could. It did not mean it was wished of all parties.
When greeted with the gates of Skyhold the armored mage did not slow down the chosen gait even as he dismounted the horse. Steps were as defiant as the actions taken for he pushed past the guards at the gate for they should have been expecting the arrival of a man elevated far beyond a point he ever should have been. Power allowed hatred to run rampant and it was an ire that never found peace as the fire only burned hotter. A dark gaze cast against each mage who had swarmed into the walls of this supposed safe haven. Fingers still curled into fists, clenching till they white knuckled before slowly unfurling as the bitter mage moved across the battlements.
Varric was the first to find him and the only one who put a stop to the way those clawed boots came to step with too much force, an ousting for anger. A towering figure looking down with a hardened stare even as the dwarf found peace in guiding the heretic from the battlements. Steps bringing them up a couple flights of stone steps as Varric spoke of various things and Hawke could only listen silently as sights twisted upon each and every face. It wasn’t until the two of them came to stand upon a landing on the wall that the dwarf left him with a message, <i>“Now wait here Hawke, I’ll get the Inquisitor.”</i> A scoff rolled from the man’s chest followed by sarcasm, <strong style=color:#698492>“Can’t wait.”</strong>
Hands found themselves braced against the edge of the stone wall as fingers drummed upon the flat surface. A dark gaze watching all those below work though anger swelled within the man’s chest the more staves that came into view from this vantage point – it was sickening. And thoughts were only allowed to linger up it as Varric took his time in getting back with the Inquisitor. It left a man to seethe, to grow unsettled, as the mage who took after the devout Templar began to pace the stone sector with a plan of vengeance.
It was only when the dwarf’s voice rose against the murmur of the crowds below as steps lead him up the staircase. In tow was a worried looking woman, small and delicate, an elven creature with the power of the Fade wrapped about her in a gentle coat. Singing out to any who could hear it. Though Asmodeus could only see her as that – a mage and one who chose the wrong side. She was too merciful in the eyes of a man who so willingly allowed himself to be named a traitor. <i>“Inquisitor, this is Hawke.”</i> A gesture followed those words as a muscles tensed upon the towering human as arms came to cross against his chest.
<i>“I’ll just leave you two too it.”</i> Those were the parting words offered before Varric began to leave the poor shaken lamb alone with the coiled serpent. Weight shifted in that haughty stance the man had taken upon seeing the small woman and it wasn’t until the dwarf was already descending the steps did he final speak, <strong style=color:#698492>“Great, another mage. That’s exactly the type of hero Thedas needs.”</strong> Like there were not enough stories that spoke of such beings saving the world. An arm suddenly unfolding from against his chest in a vague gesture towards the mages below scattered about skyhold. <strong style=color:#698492>“And a sympathizer too,”</strong> Words were laced with venom as they bit upon a serpent’s tongue, <strong style=color:#698492>“Wonderful.”</strong>

Oct 30 2017, 03:34 PM
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It had not taken long for the lyrics which had risen from Fenris’ lips to take a sour tone against Asmodeus’ mind. Now with a tight lipped expression and teeth clenched the would be warrior shifts through the corridors of Skyhold with a fire lit within a heart of ire. Dark eyes shifting against each face that came to cross his path but a tongue was stilled when they did not match the description that had been given. Even as the Fade bathed them in an unmistakable power Hawke was forced to turn away with a bitterness.
There was a specific mage in mind, an elven man, whose features had been taken from a bitter tongue as a gentle touch sought to heal those parted wounds upon the lyrium ghost’s form. Fingers had been dug into the wound and coupled to the movements Fenris shouldn’t have been doing in the first place, fighting with such injury, it only helped to draw more pain. Though such scolding, a critical tongue, was held against a stilled thought though Hawke was certain, each of them knew the implications of the look the elf had been leveled with upon returning to their shared quarters.
Smaller beings shifted away in discomfort as the brute of a mage looked down at them, panic in their eyes when they dared to meet that dark gaze. Though refusal of greeting was all which was passed as Hawke turned with a constant angered expression yet those eyes lingered, for an uncomfortable amount of time, upon each mage who brushed shoulders with him. Scrutiny picking them apart as they were the lamb brought to slaughter before a hungry wolf who could only look at them with a predatory eye. Their only saving grace was the affiliation they held with the Inquisition, a ward which offered some protection, though it could never stop the ivory fangs from snapping about their throats. For not even the one named Inquisitor was safe from such a violent hold.
Asmodeus did not allow himself to linger upon the unimportant beasts, their time would come, for now there was one specific man who would not find himself escaping the strangling hold of a serpent. A nameless creature, an elf of chestnut hair and branching tattoos, that was all the snake had to go on as he peered into each fearful eye of the unfortunate elven folk who had been given the title of mage within these walls. An unnerving calm settling only when the titled Templar’s dog turned away for they did not match the image constructed in a racing mind. An unknown mage had stepped on toes no one had in a while enough to push Fenris into action. This boy he spoke of a so called Champion’s violent acts detailed in a book written by a dwarf – perhaps it was time to show him the truth behind the Tale of the Champion.
By the time searching turned towards prospect the sun had brought itself to rest high against the walls of Skyhold. Overlooking the battlements and the beast who was on the prowl. Eyes fixated upon a stumbling man, bruises against a tattooed face coupled to the magic that could be felt pulsing in the elf’s veins was enough to draw the heretic closer. Neck craning to the side as a shoulder rolled up to greet it as a serpent poised himself to strike. Waiting for the mage to draw near to a wall before moving up against him. A fist quickly finding its way to knit against the fabric of the man’s shirt as a thick forearm was hefted against the Dalish’s scrawny form.
Force was put behind the action as the human lurched forward as all the weight a body could offer was set against the elf as hatred bled from that burning fixation. Hawke held a blind hope that the other’s skull would have cracked against the stone wall but he knew it was not enough as the stranger’s drunken limbs scrambled. A knee found itself pressed against the wall settled between the other’s thighs as that forearm was settled across the smaller mage’s chest, weight refusing to lift as Asmodeus pinned him against the wall.
If this happened to be the wrong guy it really didn’t matter. Influence of hatred for what the man was was enough to etch disappointment and anger into every curve as assumptions left those lips. Even if he was wrong, the action still fit into the history that fell upon the shoulders of a forceful Champion. <strong style=color:#698492>“Who do you think you are <i>mage</i>?”</strong> Bitterness laced upon each word of hatred despite their shared connection to the fade. But Asmodeus was a hypocrite, a Templar’s dog in so many stories, and it could only ring true in his speech. <strong style=color:#698492>“Word gets around fast <i>boy</i>,”</strong> distance was taken as Hawke’s crown lowered slightly. <strong style=color:#698492>“Welcoming demons to Skyhold? Why that’s a crime worth punishing don’t you think?”</strong>

Oct 22 2017, 05:13 AM
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<h1>Asmodeus Hawke</h1>
<h2>35 years old . Champion / Viscount . Mage . Michiel Huisman</h2>
<h3>Craig . 25 . GMT -6 . PM or Discord</h3>
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27 Haring 9:06


<ol>Race & Nationality</ol>
Human – Ferelden (Amaranthine)


Neutral Evil


<ol>Family Members</ol>
Malcolm Hawke – Father (Deceased)<br>
Leandra Amell – Mother (Deceased)<br>
Bethany Hawke – Sister (Deceased)<br>
Carver Hawke – Brother (Living)


Staff – Expert<br>
Hands – Expert<br>
Daggers – Advanced


Primal – <small><i>Sometimes called the School of Power, it concerns the most visible and tangible forces of nature itself. This is the magic of war: fire, ice, and lightning. This is what the vast majority imagines when they hear the word "magic."</small></i><p>

Creation – <small><i>The School of Creation, sometimes called the School of Nature. Creation magic manipulates natural forces, transforming what exists and bringing new things into being.</small></i>

Knight-Enchanter – <small><i>These rare mages received special dispensation from the Chantry to serve in battle. Different from an arcane warrior - knight-enchanters summon blades from the fade to fight.</small></i>



In the Coastlands, high in the Norther reaches of Ferelden, in a small village near a place known as Amaranthine was were the now known Champion was born. Asmodeus Hawke knew this to be his home beneath the banner of a union of Amell and Hawke, beings with magic coursing through their veins. It leads so many to question why a son of such found so much hatred for those with a connection to the Fade. In the eyes of a hateful man it was not hard to piece together given the events of his life – despite the magic which came lately to bloom within the man’s own veins.
But early on life was simple, but that was when Asmodeus was an only child growing up at the side of his mother Leandra who worked as a seamstress and his father Malcolm who found use as a farmhand. Each of them hiding the truth beneath a skillfully crafted lie so that none would know the truth of a runaway bride and her love from Kirkwall. Even to their son the place of chains was left to be nothing but a storybook, a mark on the map that a child could not find a will to care for. That was not were feet touched down to make a home.
So secrets were left to rot. Shoved beneath the rug as if they would forever be forgotten there as the years dragged on and a youthful soul was tended to by a doting mother. Even after the twins were born, Bethany and Carver, peace seemed to hold fast in place. Excitement mixed into dread as an older brother looked upon those who would steal a mother’s undivided attention which lead eyes to twist upon a father, chasing him down with a child’s plea. So early on did the youth follow after Malcolm to the farm to help were he could.
Without having the heart to turn down his own blood Malcolm was willing to allow Asmodeus to follow. A child given menial tasks, which were a struggle to any that age, but it kept him occupied and out of the way of danger. Over the years the tasks the boy was given changed in routine for soon strength began to find a once lean and small frame, it allowed for a change in pace. A pace which only continued to shift as play soon twisted into training and the elder son dragged Carver into the process. It was more fun when someone else had to suffer alongside side the designated party.
Slowly, over the next couple years, Asmodeus began to grow bored of the repetitive tasks thought they were still carried out. Rise before the sun to head to the farm a man had graciously employed him at, train on breaks, return to work till it was time to head home, and further ready a body for the future. A dream to be something greater than a farmer’s aid. Though a cog was out of place, someone refused to turn with the rest of the children in the family, as Bethany ruined what had been built up. Everything came crumbling down the day magic glided from her fingertips.
Assaulting another, at least in the eyes of her brothers, with a raw talent that was unnatural. Parents thought differently and they scrambled to protect what falsehoods had been built around their name here. Scooping up their children they fled that small village only to relocate outside of Lothering, a town further to the Southern reaches of Ferelden than Amaranthine had been. Yet even as things calmed down there was nothing which would draw a cease to the bitterness which had developed upon an eldest son’s tongue. Everything that had been was now lost, a potential build upon a reputation destroyed. And for what? An up cropping of a mage within a family who thought they did not pass on their magic.
Bethany, she was careless and a danger no matter what company she chose to keep. Even if she was restricted to only family members she had thrown a flame against the kindling of a fire. Hatred was already upon an aggressive tongue and it was fed to another till even Carver seemed to side with Asmodeus on the matter. If they became hunted it would be the fault of their sister who had brought a curse against their name. Leandra and Malcolm attempted to deter their sons from saying such things though nothing would stop the resentment guided towards a younger sister.
Though fate is a fickle thing, a wretched mistress who will pull the chain to raise an iron curtain and change the reality of a boy who was on the path of a warrior. For less than a year after they arrived in Lothering Asmodeus was greeted with a startling discovery, one that was uncalled for but most importantly highly undesired for the views which had been directed upon it – Magic. A curse sparking upon an angered touch upon a sibling, both of them drawing back in bewilderment. It wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Magic, at least from what had been heard, developed early on not after a man reached his teens.
Anger was turned inward, bitterness with this disbelief as harsh lyrics turned against Bethany as if she had somehow caused this. Somehow cursed the one who had started the aggressive tones against her from each brother’s tongue. Surely she had done it, he wasn’t sure how, but there was a positivity in the violent motions that followed. Hands finding his sister in that rage before Malcolm swooped in to play the hero between two very different children. And it was in that moment that surprise even found a father who now tried to offer careful explanation to an aggravated boy.
Shaken, Asmodeus was anything but calm and there was a reluctance given in further harnessing these so-called talents. Though a father was instant, there was a way to wield magic in the way his eldest child wished to fight and for a while all that could be offered was disbelief. For how could a mage move as a warrior would upon the battlefield? A mind blinded by rage to not even consider Malcolm in the equation as eyes were fixated upon Bethany for she was surely but a witch who has given a hateful spirit a taste of what spurred such words against her.
Over the years, though it was fought for quite some time, there began to be a small embrace on Asmodeus’ part towards his magical prowess. And though a sword had been traded in for a staff the beginning of his history was not easily forgotten as a long blade made up a majority of the shaft. It worked and his father should only offer suggestions he hoped a son would accept into his heart. Though it was hard up until the day came Malcolm came forth with a proposition. A specialization which would allow the mage to move as he wished but have an extended reach as magic would be involved. At first a father was met with uncertainty and eventually acceptance.
Then, but a year later, illness swept through Lothering and of the Hawke family Malcolm was the one to contract the sickness. A father fought it as long as he was able but eventually on one of the nights he found surrender as Malcolm was unable to keep fighting. It was only in the truth of his death that Asmodeus found himself without emotional reaction taking his features. Instead they were bottled up inside, reserved and devoured into a soul that could not figure out how to process what emotions raked a racing mind. His father’s death was only the first mark of destruction against a once fragile heart.
Life could only continue even as protection and support of a family was settled against Leandra’s shoulders. But a mother was not willing to bear such a burden alone as it was quickly extended to rest upon her eldest son, a bitter creature. A new responsibility put into place did not change the actions of a boy. Farm work was still the chosen fate while they lived in Lothering and magic, in a hope to please a father’s ghost, made itself more welcome in the heart of a grown child. Though acceptance was not branched out from the human himself for there was only enough room in Asmodeus’ heart for one mage. Maker knows it was going to be himself.

It wasn’t until three years later that the Blight ran rampant and drove a family to flee from Lothering in the name of survival. Leandra was quick to offer the suggestion of Kirkwall, a story of uncle Gamlen and a forgotten estate that the youth had heard but whispers of before. Though it seemed to be were a mother’s mind had quickly settled on as no other option was entertained. So Kirkwall it was then, the city of chains which weighed upon the souls of all who dared cross between the statues that lined the channel from the sea.
On the way there another strike was made against Asmodeus’s decreasing family as Bethany was struck down by an ogre. A great beast who came to interrupt the travels towards the ship alongside the rest of the Darkspawn. Mother attempted to mourn, a curse towards her sons for not defending their sister as if they were granted an opportunity as the beast had charged them. Fingers pointed towards an eldest son, he was meant to protect her, magic was at his fingertips and still nothing had been done before a mother’s only daughter was cut down.
Another strike for mages as bitterness was all that could find the future Champion’s tongue. Blame was not his to accept nor would he allow it to be thrown against his name by a desperate and mourning mother. Thoughts expressed to drop it, they would mourn later once on the boat to Kirkwall, and as one would expect such thoughts were met with retaliation. Though as a man began to move others soon followed, something that remained true after arriving in Kirkwall. Only here, beneath so many eyes, a mage was beneath the scrutiny of all he came in contact with. Every one of them met with violence as a newcomer was not going to standby and be treated like trash.
Soon the gates parted for Asmodeus, but only after a name was made in the first year beneath the guidance of some smugglers. It was after that hatred was free to roam and be placed upon the crown of the innocent and guilty for all would be forced to face the wrath of a man who held a deeply rooted hatred for his own. A violent hold found many who came to cross the future Champion’s path even when it came to the few companions who found themselves tolerating the hateful and angry tones spewed against them at first.
When given the choices a man chose to control the mage population even if it meant turning to deadly measures. A streak of violence against the magically inclined only when he was tossed into the Deep Roads for the purpose of wealth, an expedition alongside two dwarves. Carver, despite his pleas, was denied the opportunity to join in the fun. So he was driven by his own bitterness that seemed to resound strongly within each of the Hawke boys. Actions leading the mage’s brother into the arms of the Templar.
In all honesty it was the only action as of recently which had brought about a supportive tone from Asmodeus’ lips. Supporting his sibling to become a mage container for one of them was already a mage killer. And as the years went on the elder Hawke could only find himself diving deeper into the Templar Order, cozying up to those involved as he offered a twisted deal upon an imploring claw. For the right price he would bring about the apostates. Lure them into a false hand before twisting it around to send those who shared his talents to their deaths in the gallows.
Soon as this deal was struck, as a mage began to hunt his own kind, whispers rose within the streets of Kirkwall. For now they spoke of a mage who was but a dog beneath the Templar’s commands, held tight on a leash in a desperate attempt to bring an end to the apostates who ran amuck in the city. What little did they know was how wrong they truly were, for if Asmodeus was a dog he was the rabid one who had devoured his Master’s hand. A runaway who was on an endless hunt to bring snapping jaws about the throats of any who dared to cross his path.
Though as so many had hoped it was not merely mages who found themselves within the ire of a stray. Ravenous eyes were turned upon slavers at the tones of a fugitive, a runaway who had worked himself against the heart of a hateful mage. And spurred by what few morals found themselves within the man he helped to bring their end as well. Perhaps it had helped that Fenris too offered a voice of suppression, of resentment, and of hatred towards those magically taken. Thoughts torn away from how such a voice had once upon a time been directed at him.
None of that mattered now for Asmodeus was becoming something to be feared within the city of Kirkwall. So willingly did the teeth of a dog continue to snap and tear out the throats of mages who crossed him. Oh, how they feared a mage who so easily hunted them down and turned them over to their doom. It was a direction which was not deterred even as Leandra was soon torn from the man’s heart – Gascard meeting the fate so many had before as well as offering yet another strike against mages. How easily they made it to be hated, how easily they caused a man to wish to hold a dagger to their throats.

Eventually war came to put a stop to the actions of a spiteful mage, starting with the siege of the Qunari. They spoke of a stolen relic which Asmodeus was quick to retrieve though a woman, a found companion, named Isabela would not see it returned. Claims made that it was hers before making herself scarce and leaving Hawke with nothing to offer the Arishok apart from the deals Fenris was able to strike up beneath a judgmental eye. A duel, a fight to the death, with the Qunari leader and the winner would decide the outcome.
In the end, even with Hawke coming out on top, war did not simply fade away. The title of Champion was bestowed upon the shoulders of the Tempalr’s dog who only watched with a building amusement as tension remained. Mages and Templar would never be at peace with one another no matter how many were eliminated. Accusations danced between each party for a number of months before it seemed one could no longer take the pressure it brought about and Anders blew up the Chantry.
Sharp tones were the first thing to meet the revolutionary mage who could only offer a lashing tongue and a plea that this was the only way. And to put it simply, Asmodeus was unwilling to accept such a bold claim. This was far beyond the final straw which would have broken the back of an aggressive mage hunter who refused to accept so called rights. Far too hateful to allow such things to be a part of his reality when it came to enlist themselves upon the mage population. Action twisted upon Anders as a dog, who was truly a serpent, struck out – though so disappointedly it seems Anders survived.
With such actions fresh on the mind when it came time to choose sides it was a natural gravitation into the arms of the Templar. Though in the end it didn’t appear as if choosing truly mattered for both the leaders of the Kirkwall struggles, Orsino and Meredith, were brought to their end. Orsino merely for being what he was and Meredith for attempting to bring about the execution of the Champion. Little did she know was that Hawke was a beast unwilling to die. And it was as the dust began to settle, the violence dying down momentarily, did Hawke seize the moment and steal the crown. Titled as Viscount of Kirkwall for the choices he made, a stolen throne no one was courageous enough to challenge for.
Thus began the years were a man by the name of Hawke had a story circulating about him throughout all of Thedas. All thanks to a little book knows as the Tales of the Champion written by a dwarf who was considered to be a strange friend, Varric. Explicit details were woven into an intricate tale so all who chose to bend the binding of the book and turn through the pages would be met with the life of a mage who sought the destruction of his own. It offered the notions which fueled each decision required in the life of the Viscount mixed Champion. Delving into every detail the dwarf had been able to pull from the tongue of his spiteful companion and were there were blanks, well, he did as any storyteller would do – he elaborated.
So to Thedas the name Hawke became known as a symbol of dread to mages for it was an offering, a threat, to those who harbored a connection to the fade. For even though the man spoken of was a mage himself, he so willingly sought their destruction. How easily it was to hunt them down as their connection to the ethereal world full of demons radiated from their pulse. They were terrified of the one titled the Templar’s dog. But Asmodeus was no dog. Rather he was a serpent coiled about the crown of Kirkwall, a symbol of power, as fingers sought to ring themselves about the throats of Mage and Templar alike.
Asmodeus, the Serpent, allowed bitterness and greed to guide a tongue which resounded with hatred. It flicked with a lying grace as there is no differentiating the truth from the lies which spill from the man’s lips. A striking nature which lead to the marks upon his judgment. So many would learn of the path bathed in crimson that lay in wake of a should have been hero. Innocents, guilty, it did not matter who had gotten in the way for they still lined the road Hawke now walked.
Hawke was violence, more than a legend in a book, though not all accounts of a man’s life are displayed within the pages of an aged novel. Yet all that remains unwritten is the present. There is no guidance to tell were the restless serpent now wanders after his throne was stolen in the rise of the Red Templar. There is no notice, no warning, to be offered as a sadist creature who has grown weary of the mundane has once more set out against the world without mercy.

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