oh my word.
Sometimes I think about what Carver does as a templar
Picking On Carver is basically Lothering’s most beloved sport.
SO it’s been a while since I drew Carrick, and I’ve never drawn him with the twins. These dorks are half-Rivaini on Malcolm’s side, and this takes place shortly before his death and the subsequent escape from the darkspawn horde, when big brother still had the use of both his eyes.
Carrick, like his father did, is going grey young. He’s also got vitiligo and tends to keep the depigmented patches of skin covered up (except on his hands). He’s not self-conscious about it, he just gets sick of answering the same curious/suspicious/concerned questions about it.
In my DA2 canon Carver becomes a Grey Warden, and the whole experience slowly removes the stick he has up his ass about magic and mages, and he ends up serving under the Heroine of Ferelden in Amaranthine.
It’s actually really nice to dee brown!Bethany and Carver
CONFESSION: I wish we could have had Carver and Bethany interact more.
COME TO MY BOSOM.
I love, love, love Warden Twins stories. I love writing them, and I love reading those written by others. They are the best
Quick barbarian Carver with thong. Because katschy tempted me and… um. Butts.
Is he wearing a bra? LOVE.
It’s a manssiere :P
Carver sketches! All you Hawkes, be warned you might feel some strange feelings towards your lil’ bro!
Also, a male Desire Demon. That was fun to draw! :D
The one top right is mine :3
‘You know, I don’t think we had it that bad. For a while. A short while.’
‘I think I blinked and missed it.’
The thing that makes me so angry about the Grey Warden 30 year death sentence, is that Carver is never going to be an angry little old person shaking his fist at kids
Because Carver would make the best angry little old person. You do not understand
famous last words
He holds on a few extra, stubborn years more than he should. That’s him all over. And he thinks, at last, that he’s become more steel than shield or sword. ‘I’m damn well silverite,’ he tells himself—never out loud; not anymore—while surveying the bleary, bloodshot eyes of fresh recruits on the stingy mornings after their Joining. He knows the shadows in their cheeks, the way their knuckles turn pale gripping their weapons too tight.
Nathaniel Howe—an old, fine friend—left for the Deep ten years ago now; Sigrun and her laughter went with him, and the tunnels swallowed her stories. And Oghren took his belches and his beard the following Satinalia: ax strapped to his back, a carved wooden horse dangling from a belt strap.
‘If you don’t make those sodding ‘spawn shit themselves silly when I’m gone,’ he said, ‘then I’ll know. I’ll feel it in my jiggly stones.’
‘Famous last words,’ Carver Hawke replied.
He holds on a few extra, stubborn years more, but it’s a strange thing to protect. The cracks in his knuckles. The chips in his shoulder healed—only to be replaced by the chips in his sword. Polishing metal. Oiling leather. Nightmares and the stammering, clamoring voices.
Because, he tells himself—never out loud; not anymore—he’s a champion’s champion.
He holds on every day. A little bit; a little bit more.
‘Just the two of us now,’ he says, one stingy morning, gray as the stone and sky of Ferelden.
‘You’re a tit for this,’ Hawke replies. ‘The biggest tit I’ve ever known.’
‘Tit for tat, Champion,’ Carver says.
Hawke stands at the mouth of the cave, framed in light, watching him go. Carver doesn’t look back, but hears the echoes. ‘Famous last words.’
Bethany will come for—comfort him, Carver thinks, knuckles turning pale, gripping his weapon too tight. Father’s arms. Mother will know. It isn’t surrender. It’s time to head home.
Shimmy. I love you. Please never stop.
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