Varric Tethras can't stand holding back the truth about Marian Hawke after the Inquisitor leaves her in the Fade to die. What he can't stand more is no one is trying to get her back. With the assistance of friends in surprising places, he fights in...
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"Hawke, for instance, is not weak." Fenris had said to Anders long ago. Knowing her strength—your strength—if there's a chance you're out there, I'm not gonna stop until I know.
Hawke could have rejected Varric's letter. She could have stayed away. He could have never told her, but a threat as big as Corypheus returning, and waging war on Thedas, she would have found out, and it's best it came from him. After all, he was captured, interrogated, and spilled the beans. Maybe not all the beans. Not once has Hawke spoiled any of his tales with exuberant lies. She's too good for him. Could be that strangely virtuous side of hers parallel to her sassy nature. How does she balance the two? He supposes a bit like how he does but with a smaller coin purse.
Varric finds the Inquisitor drunk at the tavern, although he summarizes she hasn't been sober since the ball. He was going to buy a pint for Solas to soften him up before he metaphorically punches him in the gut, but the strangest thing just happened. Varric's not hallucinating, is he? He didn't just slam a keg solo then waltz in to see this hallucination. At the bar, sitting with Ms. Handglow, is the lithe bald man himself. Laughing.
Laughing. Resting beside his drink is a half-eaten cake.
Varric backs up through the door but—
Solas spots him trying to slip out backwards.
"Varric!" Solas shouts.
And Varric paces forward again, with a pained grin plastered on. The tavern stinks of booze leaking out of pores and soaking their clothes—the bard puts more wood on the fire, but Varric's ready to toss the lute in after she starts playing a chipper tune about a merry band of misfits.
