Hawke’s not thinking clearly. How can she, when all she can see is red? His calm only makes her own fury burn brighter, her frustration at her own lack of control evident. She’s been pushed past the breaking point, and her usual approach to combat is gone, swept away in her desperation. “I am. And you’re dead.”

The next move is predictable, her intentions practically announced, and Albert breaking the spear has her staggering. His attempt at brokering peace elicits a bark of laughter, at least— but it’s bitter, mocking. “A game? You think letting the lives of everyone I know hang on the line is a game? I didn’t sacrifice myself to a demon for a blasted game. I did it to save them, and I’m not going to let this place take that away from me. Not you, not anyone.”

Her eyes flash, her grip on what’s left of the broken spear readjusts, and she charges. “And don’t— call— me— Marian!” Hawke doesn’t expect to earn a kill or even draw blood with the wooden remains, just the chance to knock the wind out of him with the blunt end, take him by surprise. As much surprise as acting so brashly can warrant, anyway.