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Similar Deviations
I shake the most when I've never felt stiller than a mountain of laundry flattered by the detachment of fastening my jacket before dying feigns the sheets wonder of bed life like before the linen shelf was filed or lightheaded domination died in the drying of people as special as you're making my feeling like a car salesman in a Plato costume we're seeing through and through seeing the bonafide fibers and stupid gold chains of the softest names for real hardness parting reigns so we're black horses waving back to tunnel ending strangers so like life that the translucence is sucking death off our shadow for new grossness's beginning fresh as baby's supernova so murmurous of the purpose poised in my superfluous point of speaking from the peak of Whateverest that I bet nothing ever better than a wet bone to gnaw was never left alone to press bare paw right against the raw stone so I let her know it's a dog feeling patience like panacea is knowing the weather and when to be or not to be alone because sometimes you never know that you're so damn close to the overflow of being better known by a person saving seats with lilt hubris but lovingly still checking the prior phrasing of yes this seat is technically occupied while you stand by dripping mechanically like holy shit stopping everything
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For :iconpaulstagg: :heart: :tighthug: :love:

Initial sketch in pencil, then coloured in photoshop.

© 2010 Janice Duke
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Full title: 'Pushing Boundaries - Push The Envelope; or, A Short History of Art'
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Complete antidote to my last fiction, haha. This little bit of silly takes place long before the previous post when Kirkwall sat in the eye of the storm. Hawke and his companions enjoy the peace, unaware that - between them - it is they who will bring about its end.
Just a bit of stupid fun, but bitter sweet if you know what's to come ^_^


"Okay so - stop me if you've heard this one."

It's late, probably very late, in the Hanged Man. Cortland Hawke looks absently around the room, as if the time might just leap from the boarded walls and make itself known.
It doesn't.
Heaving another draught from his tankard, the newly-dubbed 'Champion of Kirkwall' gives up any pretence of caring what time it is anyway and lets his head rest on his arms, his gaze moving toward the party's resident healer. Anders is holding court, having seemingly nominated himself as entertainer for the latter part of the evening in the absence of Varric. Considering how rarely the blonde mage lets himself so much as smile these days, no one is about to stop him. He is currently stood on his chair, swaying ever so slightly as he excitedly waves his arms to garner as much attention as he possibly can from the small and rapidly depleting group; depleting not through any desire to leave the cozy inn, but through the gradual state of unconsciousness working its way around the table. Varric at least had a room to escape to; one that Cortland couldn't help but notice Norah follow him to, the sly dog.

Hawke grins lazily at Aveline, the latest to fall prey to the Hanged Man's fowl but potent brew. Her lips murmur something like "Do it to me, big D" as her cheek rolls a little on the sticky table surface, causing Hawke to snort with laughter in a very unchampion-like way before giving in to Anders's beckons.
"So," the Mage begins his opus with a flourish "an apostate, an abomination and a grey warden walk into a bar. And the barman says..." at this juncture he holds out a hand and closes his eyes in a mock regal expression "Pause for effect." Then the amber eyes open again, refocus and twinkle as he throws out the punchline with panache. "…The barman says 'Hello, Anders'!".
Anders throws out his hands in a wobbly tadaa gesture, and grins eagerly at his audience, awaiting the expected applause.
There's an awkward silence as those still able to speak wonder if they should. Their healer had been in uncharacteristically high spirits all evening, but no one could quite discern whether the joke now was made in pure jest or with some bitterness. It was, after all, accurate. A pout works its way onto the apostate's face as he stumbles to get down from the table. "Well, I thought it was quite clever."
Hawke lets out a breath as Merrill giggles and offers a hand to help Anders back down to his chair.
"Well I thought that was very clever. The way you made it sound like three people, when really it's…well, it's just you, isn't it."
Anders doffs his tankard and throws her a wink as he lounges gregariously back into his chair, booted feet on the table in front of him. "That's the general gist, yes." He sips his drink as confidence returns "You know, I do have the stamina of three men, I've been told."
While the comment gets nothing but a slightly confused expression from Merrill, who's clearly out of her depth here, Isabella can't help but bite at the obvious bait.
"Oh, is that so? Says the man who can't stand straight after a bit of healing magic."
"Listen, sister", the blonde leans one arm on the table in an attempt to look nonchalant "You should have known me before…all this." He waves an arm at life in general. "I'll have you know, I was ireshista..iressishtab…a catch."
The pirate's eyes widen with delight at this new Anders, old Anders, whichever he is. "Sweetheart, you intrigue me."
The mage leans both arms on the table now, leaning conspiratorially in towards Isabella. Hawke catches Merrill's eye and they share a grin before Anders continues, eyes squinting as if to add levity to his tale. "Well, the Hero of Ferelden just couldn't keep her hands off of me."
Isabella raises one eyebrow. It speaks a dozen words. Words that cause the apostate to add hastily "At least, she wouldn't have been able to, if she hadn't – you know – been married to King Alistair. Who, let's be honest, is pretty ireshist…iressishta…nice himself. Andraste's knickers, even I wouldn't fall for me if I was with him every night…" Just as it seems his own reminiscent babbling has utterly destroyed any line of argument he had intended on making, Anders shakes himself and finishes with a level gaze at Isabella "So, yeah. Hot stuff. Right here."
It's too much for Isabella, who splutters out a laugh, which only grows as the mage's face falls and Merrill pats him on the shoulder. Cortland watches the scene play out and smiles broadly. This is the first time he's seen Anders truly being…well, Anders. Maybe the alcohol has dampened Justice's hold on the man, but whatever the reasons, he's enjoying the change and can't help his mind pondering on exactly what it would have been like to know the apostate before his life became such a seemingly dark place.

In the pause, Hawke's eyes dance tipsily around the table, taking in his companions. That Isabella is still going strong is no big surprise. The woman bleeds alcohol. She's probably downed twice as much as he has himself and all she has to show for it is a slight blush to her cheeks.  Anders had let on enough about his life before Justice for them to assume he could knock them back when he wanted to. The man is drunk, but he's a fun drunk, as they're discovering. Merrill is a surprise.
He'd had her pegged as one of the first to fall. But, then again, he'd also assumed that Sebastian would be one of the last, and look how wrong he'd been on that count. As if to affirm the statement, the slumped Prince next to Isabella chooses that moment to let out a contented sigh in his sleep, causing all present to lean in and listen, just in case the chantry boy should give away anything, well, un-chantry-like.  It's the third time they've gone through the routine since he passed out an hour ago. When no further sound is forthcoming, Isabella sinks back in her chair with a grunt.
"Well, balls.  I could have sworn he'd be a talker. We'll get him yet. You wait, when I'm properly drunk, I'll offer some encouragement." She raises a hand and wiggles her fingers as she cocks an eyebrow in Sebastian's direction.  To think that he was out for the count before even Carver. Ridiculous as it is given their new life, Hawke can't help but feel a little smug as his gaze reaches his little brother's sleeping face, chin resting on his chest. It would have been just embarrassing to pass out before Carver.

Their laughter is interrupted momentarily by a throaty groan, as Fenris lifts his head from the table where it's been for the past fifteen minutes. A line of drool connects his lips to the wooden surface as his lidded eyes try to take in their surroundings and this sends Merrill over the edge as she creases with laughter.  The Tevinter elf frowns suspiciously, shakes his head and sits up, a clawed hand mussing white hair.
"I was…asleep?"
Isabella leans forward across the table at him, full and swelling breasts resting conspicuously on the wooden surface as no doubt intended "You were indeed. And you make just the sweetest little sleep face. All pouty lips and fluttering lashes." She dips a finger into her tankard and then sucks the mead from it slowly as she locks her eyes to those of the elf. Her efforts are rewarded when Fenris sits bolt upright in his chair with an expression of absolute embarrassment. With a chuckle, she sits back, job done, and idly tangles her fingers into Sebastian's hair "You're just too easy."
Anders and Merrill exchange amused glances and snicker into their tankards as Fenris scowls a little, before allowing his face to soften into an amused smile.

Hawke wants to bottle this moment. This night. Just this. The group of people he has come to call friends is an eclectic one, he knows. There are just too many differences, too many conflicts for them to remain together indefinitely; he knows this. But right here and right now, they are friends.

As if he can read Hawke's mind, Anders suddenly springs to his feet without warning, steadying himself with one hand on his chair back as the other thrusts a tankard out in front of him. He then slams the tankard down on the table with enough force to wake Aveline, Sebastian and Carver with a start. Blurry eyed, they blink in the low light of the Hanged Man and are variously back-slapped and shoulder-clapped by their more lucid companions. The warden mage waits until it seems everyone is aware of their surroundings and then gives a pointed cough. As the group look to him, Anders raises the tankard once more and his voice rings out clearly:

"Misfits, renegades, fugitives and and outcasts, I'd like you to join me in a toast. A toast, to the new Champion of Kirkwall."
"To the Champion of Kirkwall" comes the chorus.
Hawke's eyes glisten just a little as he adds "And to you, friends of the Champion"
There's a pause as eyes meet and glances are shared. Then the chorus picks up again,
"Friends of the Champion."
Long before the traumatic events towards the end of DAII, Hawke and his companions share a rare evening of merriment. This is very silly, just a bit of fun. But bitter sweet considering what's to come. ^_^
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Work following on from

© 2010 Janice Duke
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I was seventeen when I first understood what it was to be a woman. It wasn’t the moment years before when I began my period. It hadn’t been the instant in which a boy first touched his lips to mine when I was twelve. It wasn’t when I put on my first prom dress, or the first time I wore heels. I knew that women had breasts, and men did not; men were taller, and stronger than women; women were fairer and meeker than men. That was the way things were, and always had been. I was born and raised to accept those facts, and that is exactly what I had done.

I watched the deep, crimson blood drop and fan out in the water beneath me. It was like dropping food dye into oil, or dropping paint onto wet paper. It spread through the basin, dancing slowly over the white porcelain boundaries. My hips and legs and stomach ached for the fourth day in a row despite following the directions of countless concerned friends. “Drink water”, “avoid salt”, “exercise”, they said. I had shaken three cylindrical brown pills out of a stark white bottle two hours earlier, and the ache had subsided but a little. And in that moment, watching the blood fall through the water, I realized that I was a woman. I was born to be slender and graceful. I was expected to instinctively know the recipe for the most delicious soups and cakes. Chairs were to be pulled out for me, doors were to be held open for me, and bed sheets were to be pulled aside for me to climb between. I was meant to be held at night, woken with a kiss in the morning, and have the composure to do everything with dignity.

For my entire life, without even knowing, I had conformed to these ideals. I had dyed my hair shades of red nature had never intended hair to be. I painted my fingernails browns and blues and purples. I wore dresses and skirts, and washed and brushed my hair so that it was always soft and smooth. I wore shoes that made my feet ache, and graciously allowed boys to pay for things and take me places. I had never built anything with my bare hands. I didn’t know how to change the oil in the car that my father had bought me: a car made for a woman with its pedals placed close together for dainty feet to easily reach. Every moment of my life was dedicated to impressing potential mates: men to whom I had never taken interest. I strove for the epitome of womanhood, grace, and beauty.

But I never felt more vibrant and alive as I did when my painted lips first met those of a notorious man: a man dangerous enough to seduce me into letting go: a man who saw me for me. I never felt more loved and appreciated than I did when we sat in the rain on cold blacktop drinking beer from the bottle talking about our theories of life. I never felt safer than I did when his strong, soft arms snaked smoothly around my exposed waist, a hand quietly, subtly finding my breast. I never felt as much a woman as I did when I was doing unwomanly things: driving fast, drinking hard, forgetting to wear a bra. I never felt as feminine as I did when I listened to hard, loud music, letting my knotted hair fall around my shoulders like a hood of rebellion. I was a woman because I did unfeminine things. I was a girl because I wore men’s pants for comfort. I am feminine because I don’t mind being in love. I am secure in my womanhood because I have more male friends than female friends, and that is my identity. I am a woman because I am not the epitome. I do not have cascading curls, a slender waistline, or dainty hands. I am not subtle, or meek, or quiet, or soft. I am not afraid, and I can open doors and pull out my own chairs. I do not know how to accept a compliment. I do not know how to properly apply eyeliner. I can’t match a purse to a dress, or walk in high heels, but I am a woman nonetheless.
This piece isn't ecactly poetry, but it didn't fit any of the prose catagories I tried to put it in. It's about my thoughts on being a woman, and what that entails, and what it means. It's kind of like a short essay on the feminine stereotype.
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silently they stalk the night
lost between this world and the next
hear the cries of their victims
as they bring thee "THINE" own death.
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This time, it's Star Wars... Went a little too crazy with the permanent marker. :shrug:

Bounty Hunters
easy to see
undoubtedly monitoring
reach for either
born rich
"message received"

succeeded to assent
approaching daylight
orange sun
must not see them
rapidly wish to report
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I want crawl inside
a cleft in your
& live among people
who don't know
me much.

Sleep awkward
under typewritten words—

the print mistakes
my constellations

the white page,
my passion diffused.

In a world of
good sense

like the static on
old echocardiograms,

cities like
beautiful people
walking across
the Hollywood sign,

I could be small—
circle myself
into austerity.

I wouldn't shake
from the lapse
of cigarettes
or my
centrifuge heart.

I could be
the antithesis
of vanity—

no mirrors
to see
the future inside
like film screens.
This needs to be edited, badly. It isn't at all how I want it to be. It's too much about mememe.

It's for someone lovely, but not in a romantic way.
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