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“Sis, what's that?” Carver Hawke, poor, dear Carver Hawke, is about to go through a world of pain, as happens anytime he speaks to or about his sister, or even thinks about her. It's a family sort of pain, a pleasant sort of pain. He struts up to her where she sits at her shitty desk in Uncle Gamlen’s shitty (but huge) hovel in Lowtown.
Hawke (co-opting the last name like she invented it) brushes a hand over the tearstained piece of paper she's bending over, removing the dust that continuously falls from the ceiling. It's a form, with blank spaces for her details. “An application form, bro.”
“Don't call me that!”
“Why not?”
“It sounds like a joke. Against me.”
“Carver, you need to stop doing whatever it is you're doing that's making you crazy and paranoid.”
“You're making me crazy and paranoid!”
“...”
“What are you applying for? The title of Biggest Asshole?”
Hawke, first of her name, lifts the form so he can more easily read the words at the top of the page. Dust pours off it. Her brother narrows his eyes into nonexistence. “What’s it say?”
“Templar Bakery, job application.”
“Oh. You'll never get a job with handwriting like that.”
“Carver, you've never had a job, ever.”
“I was in the army-”
“You were conscripted by the king.”
“I was in the mercenary company-”
“You were conscripted by me.”
"Yeah, well, at least I have good handwriting!"
"Carver, you can't read."
Regardless, Hawke takes hold of a passing elf (Fenris) and sends him off to deliver her application. When he returns, he excitedly tells her about how Templar Bakery discriminates against magic and mages until she shuts Uncle Gamlen's door in his face.
“Hawke, you ought to invite Anders to try the lyrium shortcake-” calls a muffled Tevinter voice through the rusted iron door.
Half an hour later, the knight-captain manifests inside the hovel with good news.
🥖🥐🥯
Orientation begins very well. Knight-Captain Cullen is the one to walk her to the store's location at the Gallows, while telling her about the bakery’s history. Apparently it was Knight-Commander Meredith's idea, coming to her after the hundredth time some mage attempted to poison her breakfast croissant with lyrium.
“Foolish mages. Don't they realise that we templars live on lyrium? Hahahaha!” the bosswoman cackles at Hawke from her seat in the corner of the attached cafe. In front of her is scattered an array of lyrium filled products. Lyrium croissants, lyrium muffins, lyrium bagels- The bakery itself is housed in a very pretty building, very Kirkwall, being made of white stone topped with giant brass statues of slaves and their adoring masters.
This is Kirkwall though, so shit goes to the void almost immediately. First red flag: Ser Alrik. He staffs the counter, and appears to spend most of his time doodling Kirkwall logos on cupcakes. Pretty black cupcakes, pretty red icing, Dumat dragon. Cullen introduces the new employee, but the tillman only grunts, whilst continuing his icing. That's chill. Hawke can deal with that.
Second red flag: Zoomers. A trio of templar youth linger in the doorway between the shop floor and the kitchens, doing nothing but discussing their fears of empty corridors and their need to take a mental health day. Cullen's glares make two of them weep and the third call the guards. After that drama is cleared up, Hawke and her tour guide can carry on with orientation.
Third red flag: Ser Mettin. Almost the instant Hawke arrives in the kitchen she is blessed to witness the ginger haired head b(re)aker turn to his latest ‘tard wrangler and incite a minor mutiny amongst the bake staff. Blood flies as steel clashes and soon everyone, including Cullen and his newbie, end up covered in red flour. When the fight is over, the psychopathic knight-lieutenant and his surviving cronies drag the losers away.
The knight-captain, who happily munched on a slice of crab pie while this was occurring, turns to his new recruit. “Guess what, Hawke. You're assistant baker now.”
🥐🥖🥯
When the rest of the kitchen staff return, half of them return red and deformed. Hawke ignores this and their sudden civil war, because such occurrences are simply the cost of working with templars - they break out into violent strangeness at the oddest moments. It's partly due to every single one of them being a meth addict, and partly due to many of them being aristocrats. When he stomps back into the room, the noble leader of the victorious posse of bakers stares at Hawke impertinently, but that's just how he is so she doesn't take it as a micro aggression.
“Have we met before?” Ser Mettin asks, still with a psychotic look on his face.
“I helped you kill your last handler in a demon cave.”
“Hawke. Now I recall. Pass me that rolling pin.” Surprisingly, he doesn't attempt to smash her skull in with it.
The Champion of Kirkwall has a pleasant first half of a long shift. Since she's been making fish pie for years, and before that dog pies, she's proficient at whatever needs doing. Alrik shows up now and then for more cupcakes, the Zoomers shriek in the corridor, and Mettin stands in front of the ovens, staring into the flames. He does that for a long while until something in his black brain jerks him back into action.
“We need pie filling.” he grunts, stomping over to the industrial fridges. The other workers in the room look at Hawke like she's supposed to follow, so she does.
Fourth red flag: Blood mage infestation. At least, that's what Carver would tell her was the problem if he saw the wide crimson smears decorating the tiles leading to the fridge doors. To be fair, there is a blood mage infestation in the fridges, but not the way he'd mean. There's various types of infestations in the fridges.
“Here.” The templar baker comes to a stop over the body of a genlock, and hands her a cleaver.