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This is still my favorite thing...

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This is spot on dialogue! 👏👏👏👏👏

(If Rook is romancing Lucanis)

Sera: I saw that.

Lucanis: What?

Sera: That gooey way you looked at Rook. You know…

Sera: “Grr, I am broody and mysterious assassin, and I will defend my lover with my scary glowy brain ghost!”

Lucanis: That’s what you think I sound like?

Lucanis (Spite): You sound. Exactly. Like that.

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Oh he's like me. Broke af. 😁

I would buy him anything, though.

Doctor Who The End of the World | Deep Breath

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Bad Wolf. 🐺

I never wish to be parted from you from this day on.

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i woke them up in the middle of the night to show you all what they sleep in. murat loves to sleep in sleeveless shirts and at least somewhere he doesn't wear his damn pants. lucanis is the opposite. so they can match and form a whole set of pajamas. + their dog as a bonus. they took her early and the other dogs much later. + bonus spite in his silly little nightcap.

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This is true beauty.

beauty of Arlathan

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He's not wrong!

hit em with that 🤌🏼🤌🏼 Spite

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KISS THAT OLD MAN!

Dragon Age Kiss Week: Day 5-Battlefield

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As he should! 🤣

Emmrich being a judgmental bitch is my favorite thing

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WHY BREAK ME LIKE THIS DURING A WEEK DAY?! 😫😫😫

Romanced Emmrich, Lucanis and Davrin reacting to Rook being trapped in the Fade prison?

Oh, you want angst? I'll give you angst. 😌

Emmrich is in ruins, consumed by despair.

He doesn't eat. Doesn't sleep. He barely drinks unless his colleagues force it down his throat.

His library is in chaos—books scattered across the floor, balls of crumpled parchment in every corner, diagrams scrawled on every wall.

He doesn't bathe. Doesn't shave. He can't remember what his bed feels like.

He's passed out on the floor so often—just for a few minutes at a time—it's a miracle his back hasn't snapped in two. It aches. Everything aches. Every limb, every muscle... but nothing hurts more than his heart.

He needs Rook back.

He needs to touch her, to hold her.

He needs to apologise.

For arguing with her, and for telling her to sever the dagger's connection with Ghilan'nain.

This is all his fault.

He pushed her away—and now, he might have killed her.

"Serves you right, Volkarin," Johanna taunts from her pedestal. "I warned you decades ago. With a mind like yours, you were never meant for love."

Her words break him yet further. They shouldn't. He tells himself not to let them.

But they do.

That same evening, he entrusts her to Myrna and Vorgoth—just until he figures out how to cut through the Veil.

Just until he brings Rook back.

His eyes shimmer with frustration as he tries—for the hundredth time—to replicate Solas' blade. The magic is too potent, too unfamiliar. His body is barely holding together. His hands twitch with pain.

"No, please," he begs, as the lyrium cracks and turns to dust on his desk.

Another failure. Too many to count.

He breaks down, slumping into his chair, tears soaking the worthless schematics beneath him.

At this moment, Manfred might have been a comfort—had Emmrich not entrusted the wisp to Myrna as well. Another decision to feel wretched about, but he couldn't bear the confused, restless hisses—the way Manfred kept glancing at the door, expecting Rook to walk in with her usual bright smile.

The poor spirit simply didn't understand why she hadn't come home.

Why it feels so devastatingly empty without her.

"Darling..." Emmrich sobs. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry."

Exhaustion pulls him under. The world blurs and spins. He cries until there's nothing left; his tears run dry.

Then he gets back to work.

Lucanis rubs his temples, on the verge of collapse as he watches Spite haul another useless pile of junk from the Fade.

The spirit groans angrily, and Lucanis can barely keep his grip steady as he sips his coffee—the same bitter brew that's kept him upright for days.

As if fretting about Rook weren't enough, he also has to play watchdog.

The first night, after he'd passed out from sheer exhaustion, Spite bolted to the eluvian and tried to return to Tearstone—despite being told, over and over, that the island had been incinerated in a raging inferno.

"No! No more. Coffee!"

Spite swings the half-conscious Crow's arm like a marionette, flinging the mug aside. It shatters, steaming liquid seeping through the cracks in the ground.

Wasted.

"You. Sleep! I find. Rook!"

Lucanis huffs, his patience frayed, his sanity worn thin. In this state, he knows he'd be powerless to help—even if Spite somehow did manage to locate Rook.

But even so, he can't lose control. Not when Spite is this erratic.

"We're going back to the Lighthouse," he says, forcing himself to his feet.

"Not. Without. Rook!"

"Enough," Lucanis scoffs. "The team is working themselves to the brink trying to find answers. Meanwhile, you're rock hunting."

"I'm. Rook hunting!"

"You're useless, is what you are... and so am I."

He turns to leave, but a sudden, agonising pain lances through his body, every nerve firing at once. He chokes on a gasp, then clenches his teeth as his legs buckle and blood trickles from his nose.

"I. HATE. YOU!" Spite screams, and with a furious howl, he yanks an avalanche of rubble from the Fade—so much that it drains them both, dropping Lucanis to his knees.

As the dust settles, an uncomfortable silence follows.

They catch their breath amidst the mess: broken stairs, crumbled statues, scattered cobblestone—everything Spite dragged into the world, desperate and directionless.

Lucanis, always so stoic and composed, braces himself on his hands. His head hangs low, chest heaving. He can't tell if the droplets on his face are sweat... or tears.

Deep down, he'd been hoping this would work. Now, he can only stare at the aftermath.

She's. Still. Gone.

"I didn't. Mean it," Spite mutters after a while. "I don't. Hate you."

"I know," Lucanis says.

"I miss... Rook."

"I know, ermano. I do, too."

Though he fights to stay conscious, Lucanis loses the battle. He crumples, lost to the dark, and Spite—still reeling from his outburst—carefully walks him back to the Lighthouse.

Davrin seems unshakable. He wakes every morning, grooms himself, sharpens his sword, feeds Assan. It's what he knows—what he's always known.

He's not a mage. He doesn't have a connection to the Fade. What can he do?

What the fuck can he do?

Only wait.

He's asked around. Approached the Wardens. Worked with the team. But all he can do is wait for someone better versed in elven magic to find answers.

That's fine. He's patient. He's disciplined. He knows how to bide his time.

Assan whines, but Davrin ignores it.

Besides, Rook is strong. Intelligent. She'll probably figure out a way to escape before any of them get the chance to rescue her.

That's the worst—when Assan misses her. When he sniffs around the room, searching for her.

"Easy, boy. She'll be home soon," he says.

He's tired of saying it... but he keeps saying it. As the days drag by, he keeps saying those same four words, over and over:

"She'll be home soon."

Assan keeps brooding, gnawing at Davrin's coat, urging him outside to track her. He doesn't understand she's gone from this world.

No longer reachable.

Assan pulls and pulls, squawks, flaps his wings. He's never behaved like this—but it's not his fault. That's what Rook would say.

He's just a baby.

Davrin takes a breath and resists, tugging back. He tells Assan to stop, but the griffon yanks harder, tearing his coat and sending him stumbling face-first into the table behind him, eyes landing on his shield.

Damn it, why is he here? It should be him trapped in the Fade, not Rook.

In war, victory. In peace, vigilance. In death, sacrifice. That is a Warden's oath. His promise. His duty.

He was supposed to protect her!

With a roaring shout, he swipes his arm across the surface, sending his shield and hand-carved wooden figurines crashing to the floor.

Assan scrambles back, ears down, tail tucked between his legs. He can only watch, quivering, as Davrin wreaks havoc on the room, upending furniture and hurling anything in reach. The commotion echoes through the Lighthouse—until Davrin catches himself.

What a shameful display.

He stares out the window, the eclipse blinding, his fists trembling at his sides.

"Assan, I..."

A delicate knock cuts through the haze, drawing his attention.

"Davrin? Everything all right?"

"I'm fine," he calls back, voice calm as a forgotten grave—though his mind so aggrieved, he can't even tell who's behind the door.

When he hears his well-meaning companion leave, he collects the figurines one by one, lingering on Rook's favourite before placing it exactly where it stood.

In perfect order.

He then steps slowly towards Assan, kneels, and wraps his arms around the griffon's neck, his fingers threading through soft feathers.

"Sorry, boy," he whispers. "She'll be home soon."

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Gods damn it, I'm gonna cry again...

@vonspe Hello! I know you're playing BG3 right now, but I'd wanted to write something for this wonderful piece for a while. I finally managed to take a break and finish it. I hope you enjoy it! 💜

The fever had claimed him like a god demanding tribute in salt and agony.

Emmrich lay in bed, drenched in sweat, his shirt clinging uncomfortably to his chest and back. Every breath rasped in his throat, his body a battlefield of aches and goosebumps. His head throbbed like nails were being driven into his skull, and his vision blurred, the room tilting every time he opened his eyes—the soft glow of candles swimming against the darkened walls of his bedroom.

He'd tried to sit up—once. His intention had been simple: water, maybe a cloth to cool his forehead. Something, anything to make it feel less like he was dissolving from the inside out. But his arms had buckled under him, useless, and he'd collapsed against the mattress with a sad, pathetic grunt.

The isolation hit him harder than the pain. He had always been alone when it mattered. Sickness, grief, long nights and longer regrets—he'd weathered them all in solitude. That aching part of him, buried under decades of ambition and academic pursuits, had longed silently, foolishly, for someone to care for him when he couldn't care for himself.

But no one ever had. That kind of companionship always seemed reserved for others—and romance, love—that was a dream for younger men.

He closed his eyes, resigned. If this was how the night would go, he'd endure it.

As he always did.

-----

The creak of the door was soft—so soft, he almost thought it imagined. But then a piece of fallen parchment crinkled under a cautious step.

His heart stuttered.

He cracked open one eye, just barely. A figure moved through the haze of his vision—short, lean, with long dark hair tied loosely at the nape. At first, it was too much effort to think.

Then he whispered, hoarse and winded, "Who... who's there?"

The shape knelt beside the bed.

"Just me," came the answer—low, familiar, like the rustle of spring wind through a garden.

Emmrich blinked, slowly.

That voice. Of all people.

Was he hearing things?

"...Scipio?" he murmured. "You shouldn't be here. I could be con—" His eyes rolled shut, another wave of dizziness nearly dragging him into unconsciousness. "Contagious."

"Shhh." Scipio gently pushed his damp hair back, feeling his skin.

His bare hand—rarely ungloved—was cool, and Emmrich let out an involuntary sigh, the sensation a balm through the heat.

"This isn't good," Scipio muttered, his brows drawn in worry. "You're way too hot."

His voice, usually rich with dry wit or polite charm, had taken on a softness Emmrich had never quite heard before—intimate, firm, and without a trace of sarcasm. He looked down at the feeble man like one might gaze at a wounded halla; not with pity, but a fierce, instinctual desire to help.

Emmrich wanted to speak, to ask him why—but the moment Scipio slid an arm under his shoulders and lifted his head to help him drink, the world narrowed to the sudden glass at his lips. The water was blissfully cold—everything he needed. He drank fast, greedily, then coughed, the relief overwhelming.

"Easy," Scipio whispered. "There we go."

He set the glass aside but didn't move away. Instead, he climbed into bed behind him, legs encircling Emmrich's trembling frame. Gently, he pulled the older man into his lap, arranging him so his head rested against his chest, then pressed a fresh, damp cloth to his forehead.

Emmrich stirred, disoriented. "Scipio... what are you—?"

"I'm not leaving you," the elf said plainly. "Not tonight. Not when you're this unwell."

His other hand settled over Emmrich's shoulder, the pressure grounding. Emmrich was still shaking, still burning, but in that moment, a different warmth began to bloom in his chest—gentler than the fever, deeper than the pain.

He let out a faint, disbelieving breath and curled closer. He wasn't sure if any of this was real. Maybe he was hallucinating. Maybe his yearning had finally conjured something beautiful in the throes of his illness.

But then he felt it.

Scipio's heartbeat under his cheek, steady and calm. A breath near his temple. The brush of fingers sweeping sweat from his hair. He clung to Scipio's arm with one hand, weak but resolute. Whether dream, or mercy, or miracle—he wasn't letting go.

And as the fever ebbed, lulled by the quiet pulse of affection and the protective presence that held him, Emmrich finally surrendered to a peaceful slumber.

Only this time, he wasn't alone.

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I'm gonna cry...

"He's still out there, somewhere. And I'll find him, Gramps. Even if I have to wait a hundred years, I'll find him."

A speedpaint video of this will be available at my Patreon soon ☺️

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That final line is so profound. Probably one of my faves ever.

Doctor Who Planet of the Ood | 4.03

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This gives me FEELINGS

Morning kiss with Emmrich Volkarin

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He's so delicate omg

Emmrich✨️

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Who could ever resist????

I wish she was me.

Doctor Who The Lazarus Experiment | 3.06

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He tormented the Doctor for so long...