The Wounded Coast was treacherously calm at night, the only sound coming from the waves gently rolling onto the sand, breaking against the rocks. Even after all these years living in Kirkwall, the sight of that vast, empty horizon was still uncanny. Though the smell she instinctively associated with dead fish and unnameable things slowly rotting just beneath the water’s surface was much less pronounced down here than it was around the docks. Less sweat and less tar here, too.
Hawke sat down on the sand, running her fingers through it absent-mindedly, and watched the figure almost hip-high in the water, just standing there for a long time, the wind tugging at her hair. Hawke wondered if the water was very cold, with no intention of finding out whatsoever.
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