Hawke would be more appreciative of the fact that someone’s shouting and coming to intervene, but she’s a little more focused on trying to pry the vengeful woman off her bloody throat, both hands yanking on her wrists. (She’s trying not to think about her mother, about how cold she’d been, about the fact that she’d been forced into a white dress too much like the one her attacker is wearing. It would have been too easy for her mother to have done what this creature is trying to do.)

“Why is everything always trying to kill me,” she chokes out, as her rescuer grabs her attacker and hauls her away, wrenching the hands off her throat, nails leaving ragged gashes in their wake. Hawke coughs, draws in a gasp of breath. “Careful!” she warns. She doesn’t want him to get caught the way she was. She draws one of the daggers she’d arrived in this place with. “I really hope these things are able to be killed.”