also, i realize that a lot of great guys were missing! that is because originally, i was going to just do romancables, but there was an odd number, so i snagged in nate to even it out. i hope to do another set of “Why Oh Why Aren’t You Romancable” characters, both male and female! ^u^ feel free to send me suggestions or requests! i will attend to as many as i can.
I love characters that somehow have become more fan-made than canon. Either because they were minor characters that, for whatever reason, became fan favorites, or because every fan writer/artist/creator added depth to the character.
“How do you put up with him? It’s always Chantry-this and Maker-that with him, not to mention that Starkhaven business he keeps complaining about but never fixing…”
The only people prudent enough not to ask were my companions. But I saw it in Fenris’ sidelong looks and Isabela’s sighs and folded arms, and every time I had a conversation longer than five minutes with any Kirkwaller that had met the Vael lad, the question arose in some form or another.
I don’t know who they’re talking about, but it’s not Sebastian Vael.
Sebastian Vael is a man divided between two worlds and two desires. He is repentant and rueful, but full of passion even he cannot quell, not even with a will of steel. He is wistful when he murmurs the Chant to himself, reflexively – wistful because the beauty of being a chanter is lost to him as long as he travels with me. He beams at the opportunity to help some lost Darktown soul because he wants to believe his redemption will be found in the imparting of coin to the downtrodden. After all, he can’t bring the dead back to life, nor can he swallow words already spoken or undo deeds already committed.
He is a diligent witness to the rising of the sun. He is a new adept at the art of deadpan humour, training under the master, Varric Tethras. He bows to my hound without self-consciousness. He treats the crass tavern clientele with courtesy, even when he is spit upon. Even with watery ale dripping off his nose and chin, he stays his hand, and his steady hand on my chest keeps me from starting a brawl on his behalf. “It is merely ale,” he reminds me, softly, wiping it away with a wrinkled napkin. “Let us not shed blood for the sake of pride alone.”
He flushes deeply when Isabela speaks and yet chuckles when Merrill misses yet another “dirty thing”. He is contemptuous of the rash and mad-eyed maleficar, yet he remains seated beside the feverishly rambling Anders at the Hanged Man long into the night, long after the rest of us have given up on him. His arrows fly straight and true, yet his fingers tremble as the wrongdoer cries ‘mercy’. He rails against the Harrimans and the other noble families of Starkhaven, but when the anger has worn down to nothing, all that’s left are broken words of apology to the family he’s lost.
Sebastian Vael is a man between worlds. Sebastian Vael is neither a Starkhaven prince nor a brother of the Kirkwall Chantry, and yet too much of both. Sebastian Vael, like the rest of us, merely wishes the suffering to end.
“How do you put up with him?” you ask? What makes you so much better that you can’t?
Because being the Champion of Kirkwall must be exhausting.
With the last bit of paperwork done, Aveline marched out of her office. “Sorry for making you wait, Hawke. Now what…”
The guard captain found Hawke by the duty roster. Her upright body titled, her hair rustled against the papers, a bit of drool glazing the wooden pillar.
“Here I thought only horses fell asleep standing up,” she said, shaking her head while nudging the Champion towards the barracks. “Come on, then, I’m sure Brennan won’t mind you taking a nap on her bed.”
Varric returned to their corner of the Hanged Man, a frothy mug in each hand, only to come back to his dear friend and partner with her head on the table.
“Hey, Hawke,” he said, laughing to himself, “if you don’t want me to ever tell you about Bianca, just say nothing.”
“Hey, Hawke!” inserted Isabela, swerving into the chair next to her, “if you want me to drink your ale for you, say nothing!”
The Champion responded with a rolling little moan and a turn of the head. “Well, Rivaini,” said the dwarf, “I guess she insists.”
“Hawke, get up,” huffed Anders, looking at the woman sleeping in one of his few clinic beds (if they can even be called as much; they were more like small canopies with holes) with disdain. “I need to use those.”
“Mmph, no, Sandal, this is my sweet roll,” Hawke mumbled, the words dribbling from her mouth. “Wrote my name on it… with icing…”
The mage’s lip flared as he began jabbing her side with his staff. “Hawke, I’m serious. Those are for my…”
“Hrmm…Templars ordered to… miniskirts…”
He rolled his eyes as he tipped the bed over, where she tumbled to the ground, still asleep, muttering nonsense.
“Oh!” Merrill gasped at the sight of it; Hawke sprawled along the shredded, dirt-matted rug. She ran about her little house in search, and came back to the Champion with a flimsy blanket. “I can’t believe someone was comfortable enough in my house to sleep in it!”
The Dalish elf patted away the dust as best she could before lifting it over Hawke. “Sleep tight, don’t let the Dread Wolf take you in your dreams! Wait… that’s not how that goes…”
Hawke tucked her head in one of Danarius’s abandoned chairs, her cheek cushioned by the velvet. An opened but half-finished book rested in her lap, an emptied bottle of wine at her feet.
…Accompanied by Fenris. His lithe body curled along her legs, his head nuzzling on her knee. His feet and nose twitched, as though he were chasing something, even in slumber. Hawke’s hand drifted from the spine of the book to Fenris’s head to bring a gentle rustle through his hair, calming his sleeping spasms.
“Your Grace, this… isn’t what it looks like.”
“Really?” said Elthina, brow raised and arms folded. “Because it looks like you’re carrying an unconscious young woman to your bedchamber.”
Sebastian shrugged, though was careful not to move Hawke as he cradled her. “…All right, it's exactly what it looks like. But I couldn’t just leave her to sleep in the pews! There’s a storm outside and she’s so cold. Look how she shivers.”
The Grand Cleric studied Hawke for a moment. The Champion rubbed her head against the brother’s chest, arms tucked in as though she were already in the most comfortable bed. Elthina caught Hawke’s lip curling and she scowled. “I don’t think that’s shivering, Sebastian.”