sorceresssundries

[sorceresssundries]

How to care for your skeleton

(3 page comic)

EmmLich might not need bathing and sleeping ✨ magic ✨ ,but I like to think he would do it to spend time with Rook.

[sorceresssundries]

The Snake and The Crow: Everlasting

Pairing: The Viper x Female Rook (Bianca, an Antivan Crow mage) Words: 3.3K Rating: Mature

Summary:

After two months of fighting all over Thedas, Bianca attends a memorial for the Shadow Dragons, seeing Ashur for the first time since saving him from the Venatori. Stories are told, tears are shed, and she wonders over churros if she can begin to move on.

AN: Playing with the timeline some more. Technically in game you can do this quest right after saving Ashur from the Venatori, but I have pushed it closer to the end game to up the angst because of who I am as a person. Comments and reblogs are appreciated!

Read on AO3! Previous Chapter

Even after being in the Lighthouse for months, Bianca never seemed to figure out why there was an aquarium in her room. Was it even an aquarium, or some Fade trick to make her feel like she was under the ocean? Still, there was a reason everyone called this room the meditation room and a reason the Caretaker saw fit to assign it as her room, she thought as she watched the fish and aquatic plants sway back and forth. The thoughts that ran through her head always seemed to quiet—just a little bit—when she was alone and stared, unfocused, at their gentle movements. She sometimes found herself swaying with them, imagining herself weightless and carried away by the currents, even as the weight of the things on her mind threatened to push her through the ground. Weisshaupt, Arlathan, the gods, the Venatori, Minrathous. The Blight. 

Ashur. 

She sighed, shifting in her seat on the floor and trying once again to quiet her mind by focusing on the small details. The glint of light off the fish scales. The way the light glinted off his armor in the sunlight. The way the plants moved slowly, then quickly when a fish swam by. The way he effortlessly jumped from rooftop to rooftop. She closed her eyes. Three deep breaths. In and out. In and out. In and out. There was a method, she had found, to relax enough for the constant buzzing of anxiety to subside just long enough for her to form the beginnings of a plan. She could sense things were coming to a head as the gods ramped up their displays. Two blighted dragons in Hossberg, attempted sacrifices of Dalish clans in Arlathan, meeting with Morrigan in just a few days to discuss final preparations…it felt like they were both nearing the end and only getting started somehow. There had to be a way, a plan, something she wasn’t thinking of to make the defeat of the gods seem like less of an impossible task.

A knock at the door. 

Meditation wasn’t in the cards today, it seemed. 

“It’s open,” she called back, hearing the door creak and shut behind Neve, given away by the gentle clank of her prosthetic on the floor. 

“I’m sorry, was I interrupting a talk with Solas?” she said, sitting on the sofa. 

“Oh, no…thank the Maker,” Bianca laughed. “Just trying to think. Is something wrong?”

“Ashur is holding a memorial for fallen Shadows at the Wall of Light tomorrow, and I’d like you to join me. Lucanis is going as well, while the rest of the team stays here to come up with plans.”

“If it wasn’t for me, they wouldn’t have fallen, would they?”

Neve let out a soft hum. “You know, if you had asked me that months ago, right after the dragon attack, I would have said yes. But, Rook…you know that’s not true, don’t you? Look at all you’ve done for Dock Town since. It was an impossible decision—you’re from Treviso, of course you’d try to save your home. I understand that now,” she said, reaching over to rest a hand gently on Bianca’s shoulder. “But do you?” 

Bianca didn’t respond, instead going back to watching the fish. Neve sat with her for a few long moments in silence. 

“You should come. I think it would be good for you to move past the guilt I know you’ve been carrying since that night.” She paused for a moment before adding, “Besides, Ashur wanted me to invite you, specifically.” 

“Oh? Why would he—”

“You can stop pretending, Rook. I know the two of you had…something,” Neve said. Bianca thought she could hear a smile on her voice. “Almost had me fooled until we saved Ashur from the Venatori. Everything started to make sense when I saw the way you two looked at each other. Now I feel like I was blind to not notice. It explains so much.” 

“Like what?” Bianca leaned back against the sofa, closing her eyes once more. She thought she was so good at hiding things.  

“Why you were always so tired before the dragon attack, for one,” Neve laughed. Bianca couldn’t help but join in. It was true, she prioritized nights with Ashur over sleep. “And why you have seemed so…sad since everything happened. I thought it was just stress, but you really care for him, don’t you?” 

“It doesn’t matter anymore. We both know how it ends. Besides, Lucanis and I—”

“Ah, yes. Don’t think that hasn’t gone unnoticed either, especially the smiles that never quite reach either of your eyes, no matter how much you want them to. But it makes sense, doesn’t it? Two Crows—one the new First Talon, one in charge of saving the world. A powerful couple. Good for Treviso, good for House Dellamorte and House de Riva, but…is it good for the two of you?”

Bianca couldn’t say anything, so she went back to watching the fish. 

“We’re meeting at the eluvian after breakfast. I need to check on some other memorials anyway, so this will be good for all of us. I hope you come. I want you to, and I know Ashur does, too.” 

She heard rustling as Neve got up, the sound of her footsteps headed to the door. 

“You know…Lucanis figured it out the night of the dragon attack.” She heard Neve’s footsteps pause.

“Mierda!” Neve laughed, doing a spot-on Lucanis impersonation. “Maybe I should work with him on some cases. See you tomorrow, Rook,” she said before closing the door and leaving Bianca alone with her thoughts again. 

Bianca was the last one to enter the small courtyard at the temple of Andraste. She didn’t belong here. This was for the Shadows. No matter how many times she told herself it wasn’t her fault, a small whisper of guilt gnawed at the back of her mind, telling her that if she had just chosen differently none of this would be happening. But then it would have happened to Treviso. She closed her eyes, took three deep breaths—in, out, in, out, in, out—and walked in. Lucanis and Neve were already at the Wall of Light, where some memorials had been dimmed due to lack of magic. Neve had set to tending to them, but then she leaned in and said something to make Lucanis laugh, his eyes crinkling at the corners. 

“Rook,” a deep voice rang in her ears. She didn’t realize how much she missed hearing it, even though her heart cracked when he didn’t call her by her name. Her magic surged within her toward the source, always desiring to be near to him just as much as she did. “Here to remember the fallen?” 

It had been almost two months since she last saw him, and she hadn’t been able to bring herself to look at him until now. Neve told her Ashur went into hiding to take the heat off the burgeoning reformation of the Shadows, but seeing him now…Bianca wondered if part of it was due to his condition. The blight was taking hold of him. The webs around his eyes grew ever thicker, and she thought she could see the tiniest reflection of red in his pupils. He was different, less focused somehow, his eyes darting away every now and then. She wondered what he heard in his head, if it was growing louder with each day that passed. 

“The lights are magical and require a mage’s touch. I—”

“Let me,” Bianca interrupted. “Save your strength.” 

She could hear how tired he was. He needed to conserve his magic to fight the blight inside him and she had plenty to spare. She set to lighting them, placing a hand on each light and closing her eyes to remember a fallen Shadow—Hector, Lorelai, so many more she never met and never would. When she was done, the area around the statue was awash with a pale glow, made hazy by the ever constant misty rain near the sea. It was beautiful. So many things about Dock Town were beautiful, she had found.

“For those we have lost, and those we may still lose,” he said. Could he have been referring to himself? “May you shine bright in our memory—always cherished, never forgotten.” 

It was too much, all at once—the thought of him dying, of someone saying these words for him, of her not being able to do anything about it. She felt the sting of tears threatening to form, her breathing picking up, her heart starting to race. Her brain knew that Ashur was going to die, but no matter how many times it was said out loud, her heart had refused to listen. She thought maybe it was starting to understand now. She moved to a nearby bench, her head in her hands. 

He sat next to her. 

“In the long hours of the night when hope has abandoned me, I will see the stars and know Your Light remains,” he said softly.

“The Chant?” she asked, cursing her lack of religious knowledge. A single word darted through her mind at its mention—Divine. If that note they found was true…would he finally let her in on who he was now that they neared the end of things?

“Drilled into my head from childhood, I couldn’t forget it now if I tried,” he said with a soft laugh. It appeared the mask would remain firmly in place today along with all of the secrets it concealed. “Though it does provide me comfort in times like these.”

The two sat in silence, something they seemed to do more often than not whenever they saw each other, which was becoming less frequent as the final showdown with Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain drew near. It wasn’t awkward though. It never was. They never were. If she had ever believed she was meant to be around someone, it was him. It would always be him. And he was dying. 

“How are you?” He asked, breaking the silence. 

“Feels like I should be the one asking that,” she said, looking at him. “It’s gotten worse since the last time I saw you.” 

He nodded. “It has. I am fighting it, but it takes a toll. I have to see this through to the end, though, whatever that end may be.”

She wanted to reach out and take his hand, to give him some comfort. He seemed just as weighed down as she was—more, honestly, as his death was just around the corner. She wanted to hold him tightly, to tell him that he could unburden himself to her, even though she knew he wouldn’t. So, she decided to open up to him. To tell her own story to him, finally.

“You know, I still owe you an answer from our first night together, when you asked about my history, if I was a slave.”

“You don’t have to—“

“No, I want to. I was born in Tevinter, in Vyrantium, to a slave. It’s funny, sometimes at night when I can’t sleep and all of this feels too much I end up asking myself if my life is fated or my own? Has everything been predetermined or have I had any say at all in the way my life will go? You know, the really light questions,” she laughed softly. “All I can come back to is this—I was born an elf in Tevinter to a slave. I was nothing, nobody. I didn’t have a father. My mother died when I was five and my aunt and uncle took me in.” 

“That was generous of them,” he said, looking at her, his brow furrowed. So many orphans did not get that chance. 

“You would think so, but raising another person’s child in addition to their own on a slave’s wage was near impossible. I assume it still is. When I was seven, my uncle died and my aunt took me to the slaver to sell me. They couldn’t afford me, and I wasn’t theirs. I was just an extra mouth. I try not to be bitter about it, but if I ever saw her again she would remain a stranger to me.” 

“Is that how you ended up in Antiva?” he asked.

She nodded. “Somehow, a Crow was in Minrathous that day at the auction, and that was that. Instead of a life as an anonymous slave to some noble getting beaten every night, I was purchased along with several other children to make the long trek back to Treviso. I was terrified most nights that they would see me stumble and send me back.”

“And your magic? I assume you didn’t have it when you were…when you were purchased,” he said, anger edging the tone of his voice. “Like you were a common good at the marketplace.” 

“It didn’t manifest until I was nine. I think that was lucky for me, really. There are way more rogues than mages in the Crows, so I became valuable. Much better than the alternative had I remained here–where I likely would have been of value only for my use in amplifying blood magic rituals.” She paused, taking a deep breath. How close she had come to a life of pain and torment if just a few things hadn’t worked in her favor that day at the auction. 

“I worked hard to get where I am. I endured so much, and that was all me. I know that. And I wouldn’t call myself religious but whether it was the Maker or fate, something had to have also played a hand in getting me here, now. With my team, with this mission, with you. I was born an elf in Tevinter to a slave, and now here I am, trying to save Thedas. I could not have done that just on my own, not with how I started. Nothing, a nobody. I haven’t told anyone my past outside of a few Crows in House de Riva. Consider yourself lucky,” she smiled, bumping into his shoulder with hers. 

“I do,” he said. "And you were never nothing." 

“All that to say…there has to be a reason we crossed paths, Ashur. Fate would not be so cruel to bring you to me only to take you from me so quickly. It wouldn’t make me go through everything I have gone through and then let me find you, only to…” she trailed off, unable to speak it out loud. “And yet, if I could change anything in my life, I wouldn’t. Even knowing it would always bring me here, to this moment. Because it would always bring me here, to this moment.” 

“The path of righteousness is full of hardship, but the Maker smiles upon its travelers,” he said. She felt the brush of his hand against hers on the bench. She would take it. 

“I wouldn’t change anything either,” he added, softly.

“What will your memorial be like? Something simple like this?” she asked, a tear rolling down her cheek.

“More than likely not, though I wish it would be. I am just a man, no matter how everyone else sees me.” he sighed before looking at her. “Thank you for coming, Bianca. I am…glad I got to see you. I don’t know if we will cross paths once more before this is over.” 

“Oh so this was all just a ploy to see me again, hmm?” she teased, smiling at him. “I see how it is.” 

“I am just a man, after all,” he said, and she could see the smile reach up to his blighted eyes. 

She sat on the floor of her room once more, eyes unfocused as tears rolled down her face, watching the fish and plants as she always did. She didn’t want to think, she didn’t want to sleep, she didn’t want to plan. Gravity pressed on her once more coupled with the weight of preemptive grief, and she didn’t want to feel anymore. She wanted to just exist—a dust mote floating in the sunlight, a leaf blowing in the wind, a frond of one of the plants bobbing in the current mere feet away from her. She thought of waves crashing against the shore in Rivain, sunlight filtering through the trees in Arlathan, the coo of the mourning dove in Hossberg. So much life remained in these places that had been taken over by greed, power, or blight. As her heart cracked and cracked and ground itself into fine powder, she had to believe that it still had life in it, too. That it would be like the flowers in Lavendel, thought gone forever but just waiting to be found once more. It had to be. It had to be. 

Her stomach protested the long hours spent locked in her room, demanding her to move and go to the kitchen. She had undoubtedly missed dinner but perhaps there was something to forage for. 

“Rook, there you are,” she heard Lucanis say as she opened the door to the smell of cinnamon and dough. It smelled warm and comforting, like a hug when she needed it the most. 

“I wasn’t expecting anyone to be around, what are you up to over there?” she said, walking to the cooking area where he was fishing fried dough pieces out of a bubbling pot. Bite sized churros, her favorite. She hadn’t had them in so long—not since leaving Antiva with Varric.

“Stay back, I don’t want you to get hit by oil,” he said softly. “I’m glad you’re here, I was going to bring these to your room, but they’re better fresh. And they pair well with ciocolata calda.”

“Wait…you made these, just for me?” she smiled, taking one and popping it into her mouth. The dough was hot, soft, and melted in her mouth, leaving only the taste of cinnamon and sugar behind.

“There’s enough for everyone,” he said, looking away shyly before handing her a mug of hot chocolate, also freshly prepared. 

“You said they’re best fresh, and there’s no one else here,” she teased.

“Alright, alright,” he laughed, motioning for her to sit at the table.

Her mind wandered while sipping on her drink, watching the muscles in his forearms flexing as he finished fishing out the pieces of dough before dusting them with a generous helping of cinnamon and sugar, just the way she liked them. She imagined his hands on her, how his forearm would flex as she rode his hand, his lips on her neck, her hands in his hair. She blinked quickly and took a drink, the vision dissipating as quickly as it came. She had spent too many nights alone, she thought. 

He walked over, sitting the plate in front of her before taking the seat to her right. She quickly ate another churro. They were best fresh, after all. 

“You didn’t have to do anything special for me, Lucanis, but these are amazing. You know, if the First Talon thing falls through somehow, you can always just make churros. Oh! Or be a private investigator with Neve, you two could be unstoppable,” she laughed, turning to look at him. 

He was staring at her, his expression serious.

“What?” she asked, her smile starting to falter. “Do I have cinnamon on my face?”

“I did have to do this for you, Rook. I know things have been difficult for you, since the dragon attack. But you have been there for all of us. For me. No questions asked, no thanks expected. I still don’t know how to apologize for…everything. This? This was nothing. Or not enough.”

She laid her hand on his, and his fingers intertwined with hers. It felt…nice, simple. Like it could be the start of something.

“It is, and you are, Lucanis.” 

They sat there with their fingers laced together as she ate more of her dessert. She found herself attempting to picture a future, the two of them working together on contracts. They would be a fearsome couple, the First Talon and whatever people ended up calling her, though she would prefer to just be Bianca. Coming home at the end of a job to a quiet night, just the two of them in the kitchen. Being part of something, to not have to hide who she was, to have a life of both adventure and quiet moments…it was all she had wanted her entire life. To have breathing room, for once. 

She could see this future, but it was hazy-like it was tinged with the thinnest layer of disappointment, that it wasn’t what she really wanted. Was she ready to close one door and open another? She didn’t know, truly, if moving on was something she could do, at least not yet. Not until she had no other options. Her heart remained stubborn as a weed. Perhaps Viago was right in calling her Idiot all of the time. This, with Lucanis, was everything she should want.  

She took another sip of her hot chocolate, and found it was started to grow cold. She looked at Lucanis again. He was smiling at her.

Neve was right though, the smile never quite reached the corners of his eyes. Not like the one he gave Neve at the memorial. Not like the one Ashur gave her that afternoon. She knew it wasn’t fair to Lucanis that every other thought was about Ashur—how he touched her, how he said her name, how he felt inside her. How he looked today, knowing it would only get worse, knowing he was halfway through the Veil already. She thought back to the flowers in Lavendel, surviving— thriving—after the blight was pulled away from them. Perhaps…

A thought crossed her mind, fleeting, a small speck of light in the eternal abyss of her sadness. She wouldn’t let it fully form for fear it would ruin her if it never happened. All she knew was this: 

She couldn’t let him go. Not yet.

[sorceresssundries]

Hi I started replaying cyberpunk again and I’m going to make it everyone’s problem 😎

[sorceresssundries]

Livi Lavellan for @orangekittyenergy 💚

[sorceresssundries]

Party banter with Rook!Blackwall

(but it's just the part where he falls in love)

—

Thom: I have to say, Emmrich, you’re not what I expected. Thought necromancers would be all about commanding corpse armies and the like.

Emmrich: (sighs) Whatever depictions of our practice gave you such impressions, I assure you they are inaccurate.

Thom: So there aren’t corpse armies?

Emmrich: The Mortalitasi have not the least interest in conquest. We comfort the bereaved. We speak with our beloved dead, passing on their final messages, ensuring any last requests are met. We soothe the frightened spirit and calm the watchful.

Emmrich: Love is our business, Warden Rainier. How could we possibly be uncaring?

Thom: … Right. Well, that’s me put in my place.

—

Thom: Sorry about what I said earlier. Should’ve known better than to run my mouth about something I don’t know a thing about.

Emmrich: I appreciate that, master Warden. And I apologise if I was oversensitive. I think I was unprepared for how many… opinions everyone outside Nevarra would have about my art.

Thom: Well, I’ll keep mine to myself from now on.

Emmrich: Oh, you needn’t. I would much rather you be honest than continue to carry unspoken doubts that I cannot put to rest.

—

Thom: You said I could talk to you about the whole death ma – necromancy. Thing.

Emmrich: I’m entirely at your service. I hope I can set your mind at ease, even a little.

Thom: Look – there’s no question your heart’s in the right place. I don’t doubt your intentions. But all those skeletons walking... all those corpses speaking…. It’s not natural.

Emmrich: Magic is a part of our world, master Warden. A smith forged your sword into metal, giving raw metals a shape. Likewise, necromancers merely take a form of magic present around us, and give it shape.

Thom: But it’s not right. Moving a body around. Waking up bits of their memories. The dead should stay at peace.

Emmrich: I promise, every soul laid to rest in the Necropolis does so with the express hope that a spirit might inhabit their remains someday. The few who request to remain untouched… well, we simply don’t put hinges on their sarcophagi.

Thom: But how can anyone be at peace with that? How do they know it’s going to be a good spirit who finds their body? What if… because of who they are, they draw something… twisted? Wrong?

—

Emmrich: I know you find necromancy unsettling, master Rainier, but I hope our visit to the Memorial Gardens was able to provide you a deeper understanding of it.

Thom: It made some things make sense, certainly. I wasn’t expecting a necropolis to feel comforting. Suppose I’ve always thought of the dead as distant and haunting. Cold.

Emmrich: Whyever would they be? The dead are still people, as full of feeling and as fond of connection as ourselves. And what are the people we mourn, but repositories of our boundless love?

Thom: And what if the dead have reason to hate you?

Emmrich: Ah. Master Rainier… do you have someone to fear among the dead?

Thom: … Find me later. I’ll give you the full sorry story. And drinks for both of us.

—

Emmrich: If I may… I wanted to express my thanks for trusting me with your story.

Thom: I should be thanking you. For not turning your back on me.

Emmrich: Perish the thought! You’ve shown me no reason to look at you with anyone other than the deepest respect.

Thom: Well, now you know why I wouldn’t expect the dead to have any good feelings toward me. Callier and his family… they’d never love me. They shouldn’t. If anything of them’s out there, they deserve to not think about me at all.

Emmrich: But you love them. You have let them change you. Their memories guide your decisions. In every innocent you protect, every moment of compassion, you honour them.

—

Thom: What you said, about me honouring Callier’s family. Feels like a twisted legacy, to live on through your murderer. I doubt they’d find much comfort in it.

Emmrich: Perhaps not. But what of your comfort?

Thom: It’s not about me.

Emmrich: I beg to differ. That poor family is gone; you are alive. The living deserve peace as much as the dead.

Emmrich: If you ever wished… I could perform a memorial ritual. Some candles lit, a few prayers uttered. A simple tribute to them.

Thom: It wouldn’t help them.

Emmrich: My dear Thom, mourning rituals are not really about those lost to us. A memorial would not help them, no – but it may help you.

Thom: … I might need a stiff drink afterward.

—

Harding: You seem different, lately.

Thom: Different? Different how?

Harding: I don’t know. You’re talking a bit more. Smiling. Like someone took a weight off you.

Thom: I suppose going to the Memorial Gardens helped. All these years, pretending to be a Warden, then actually being one… I’ve been trying to make up for what I did. Even if it never feels like enough.

Thom: I suppose I never took a moment to think about… doing something for me. To help me live with it. Not ‘til Emmrich suggested it.

Harding: Hard to be kind to yourself ‘til someone else shows you some kindness, huh?

Thom: (chuckles) Well. Guess it’s a good thing for me that he’s not in short supply of that.

Harding: Look… maybe if there’s anything of that family out there, they do hate you. But I don’t think you need to hate you anymore.

—

Thom: Neve, you know you said you were going to check in on Dock Town? Could you take a note to Dorian for me?

Neve: Sure. But you could just come talk to him yourself. He’d actually be glad to see you.

Thom: And that’s how I know the world’s ending. (sighs) Look, it’s just… it’s one of those talks that’s easier to do by paper.

Neve: Hm. You’re nervous. Everything all right?

Thom: I think so. I just think… I need to ask his advice on… something personal.

Neve: If it’s that personal, isn’t it better you do it face-to-face?

Thom: Probably. And it’ll be fucking awkward.

—

Emmrich: Do you mind if I ask – are you still unsettled by necromancy? I hate the thought that I might be making you uncomfortable.

Thom: I think I’m getting used to it. When I heard about your mages, I thought it was some… obsession with death. Disturbing bodies that should be at peace.

Thom: But it’s not about that, isn’t it? You’re talking to your dead, all the time. Letting them help you. Care for you.

Emmrich: Exactly so! We maintain a dialogue with the dead, and in doing so, try to find peace with death itself. (sighs) Even if some of us still struggle with a certain cowardice.

Thom: You’re no coward. Cowards run from what they fear. I know; I was one. You look it in the face, work with it, even when it frightens you.

Emmrich: I… thank you. (clears throat) So are content with my art, then?

Thom: I think it’s admirable.

—

Thom: Lace, those flowers in your room. Are they real plants, or…. Fade plants?

Harding: They’re Fade plants! But Emmrich says they’re sort of… becoming real? Because I believe in them, or something.

Thom: So if you picked them, they wouldn’t, I don’t know… disappear, or something?

Harding: Haven’t so far! Why? Wait, are you giving someone flowers? ‘Cause I bet Emmrich could tell you which ones have meaning. You should ask him!

Thom: No, I’ll just… get some that look… nice.

Harding: Why not? He’ll be happy to talk about it, he loves flowers – oh!

—

Davrin: So, Rainier. Emmrich came by to ask if I knew who left flowers on his desk. I told him he should keep asking around.

Thom: You – what? No! Davrin – stay out of it!

Davrin: What’s the point of getting a guy flowers if he never knows? Can you face an ogre but not an old necromancer?

Thom: Look, it’s… it’s easy for all of you. You already know who you are, and what you like, and I… didn’t think I… (groans) Never mind.

Davrin: Oh. I see.

—

Taash: So, you talk with Dorian?

Thom: I did. It’s up there with most awkward experiences of my life.

Taash: So what’d he say? Did he help you figure shit out?

Thom: Well… I asked him how you know if you like men, and he asked me some questions about what was going on, and I told him. And then I said, ‘Doesn’t every man look at other men like that sometimes?’

Taash: And?

Thom: And he laughed at me for ten seconds straight, then said, ‘Oh, big man, no.’

—

Bellara: So, um… I know this is kind of nosy, but... what made you realise? About the professor, I mean?

Thom: No keeping secrets in this fucking Fade house, is there?

Bellara: I… sort of guessed a little while ago. You kept being protective of him in fights. I mean, even more than you usually are with everyone else. And you were helping him climb up things, and giving him little looks, and asking about what he liked…

Bellara: And I… maybe also saw you sneaking into his room with a load of flowers.

Thom: (sighs) I… look, he’s a gentleman. Treats everyone with respect and kindness, even when they’re dead. I like listening to how he talks. And… watching how he moves. He’s graceful.

Thom: Someone like that deserves to be courted. Honoured. Someone to make him feel as important as he makes everyone else feel. And I realised… I wanted to be the someone.

—

Taash: Hey. You know it’s okay to still be figuring yourself out, right?

Thom: (chuckles) When'd you get so wise?

Taash: I dunno. It's what Mae and Tarquin keep telling me.

Thom: Look, you’re young. It’s only to be expected that you’d be working this shit out at your age. But me… I’m getting toward sixty. Shouldn’t I have figured this all out by now?

Taash: That’s vashedan. You already proved it’s never too late to find out who you are.

—

Harding: You know, Thom, I’ve been thinking. Emmrich’s graceful, and good with words, and he’s kind to everyone. He even wears gold.

Thom: Uh… what’s your point?

Harding: The point is that I remember Josephine. You have a type, Warden Rainier.

—

Davrin: So, are you ready? Trimmed your beard? Found a shirt with no bloodstains? Had a bath for once?

Thom: Look, it’s just a visit to the Necropolis. For all I know, he just wants my help killing a demon of… mild disgruntlement or something.

Davrin: Hey, battle’s a good opportunity for this kind of thing. Just make sure after you kill it, you turn to him, wipe the blood from your mouth, and put our your hand to pull him up…

Thom: He’s the healer. You don’t think he might be the one helping me up?

Davrin: Good point. All right, after the fight’s done, you slump down, wincing bravely. Make eye contact as he treats your wounds.

Davrin: Better yet, take your shirt off so he can give you a proper look over. He’ll get in real close to do the healing magic. Play your cards right, and… well, there’s no one down there to see how far things go.

Thom: Keep on like that, and I’m going to put all my wood shavings in your bed.

Davrin: Sure, old man. I saw your eyes go all distant there.

—

Emmrich: Thom, my dear. Would I be right to assume that you were behind those flowers that kept appearing on my desk?

Thom: Sorry to keep you guessing. I was… figuring some things out.

Emmrich: Well, I did have my suspicions about who my secret admirer might be. I only hesitated to talk to you about it because I feared I might simply be… seeing what I wanted to see.

Thom: … Oh. Well, then.

—

Neve: So, Emmrich’s wearing a new bracelet, you’re bathing twice as often, and both of you keep smiling at nothing. Any chance that’s connected?

Thom: It… might be.

Neve: Good. You two fit well.

Thom: Glad you think so, 'cause I worry about that. A necromancer and a Warden? Sounds like the start of one of Sera’s jokes.

Neve: Well, let’s see. Emmrich reads romance novels in our book club as if he’s aching to have them become real for him. And you act like you’re ready to swear deathless devotion at the drop of a hat.

Thom: That a bad thing?

Neve: (laughs) No. I mean that neither of you do half-measures when it comes to feelings. Like I said: you fit.

—

Davrin: So, you and Emmrich took your time showing up to breakfast. Guess you showed him some swordplay last night? Or did he show you his favourite bone?

Thom: Davrin. Don't. Start.

Davrin: (chuckles) Seriously, though... glad you two are making it work. Not every Warden's brave enough to risk something, with the Calling hanging over them.

Thom: I've been a soldier and a Warden. That's a lot of death for one life. Being around him, it's... like taking a breath.

Davrin: Take your comfort where you find it, old man. Even Wardens deserve to get some. (pause) And to get some.

Thom: Maker help me, I will shove a chisel somewhere chisels where not meant to go.

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Spicy Blackwall commission from Bluesky 💙💙💙

Full here

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trying out some new brushes with dorian

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Pride and Prejudice 1995 text posts, part 6 of ? - prev set

More: Persuasion 1995 text posts | Sense and Sensibility 1995 text posts | Northanger Abbey 2007 text posts | Emma. 2020 text posts

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If I had a nickel for every game I played where my OC was manipulated by a bald, centuries old, morally grey dude who resides in their unconscious and *technically* doesn't lie to them then I would have two nickels.

Which isn't a lot, but it's weird that it happened twice.

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new items on my etsy page!

i've been keeping myself busy over the gloomy winter months and working on new crowns and pieces. got an idea to make a choker, so put up my first design on sale!

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No sleep, words all gone.

I just forgot the word for 'armour' and called it 'metal protection suit'.

Which technically is correct, but saying 'He lovingly loosed the straps and buckles of her metal protection suit' does not have the right ring to it.

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Gale x Tav Wedding Commission 🩷🌻

Comms info here

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🎶Happy trails to youuu🎶

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Someone better with words than me please write a post about how that whole ''don't base your feelings on kudos/likes, just create for yourself 🤗'' is borderline toxic positivity and puts the onus on creators to temper their feelings while relieving anyone viewing said creation from any responsibility of actually interacting with it at all.

(I mean I appreciate the idea behind it I really do) But It's really hard to put yourself out there with something you create and it's totally okay to feel kind of bummed when it doesn't do well. I'm just saying feel your feelings. Dust yourself off and keep going.

And reblog to feed your local artist/writer/creator. Otherwise they truly will just start creating only for themselves.

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Not sure about anyone else but I re-read all my favourite AO3 comments when I’ve had a rough day so if you’ve ever taken the time to write a deep, funny, or just kind comment, thank-you.

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Emmrich is confident in himself and knows what he brings to a relationship. Doesn't seem himself as someone who experiences a great amount of angst when it comes to his appearance; he knows he takes care of himself, looks good, dresses well. The way he carries himself alone is, he's been told, a turn-on. Back straight, regal. Always seems to know what to do with his hands. He's got it locked down.

That said, he's a man in his fifties. Time marches ever on. He's been graying since he was a young man--time was kind enough to let him keep the thickness of his hair, if not the color. He remembers being young, ladies and gentlemen alike telling him that they considered his coif, inky black at the time and so stark again his pink-alabaster skin, to be one of his finer features. The color was all but gone by the time he was thirty. Time marches.

There are multiple things like this that he's aware of, as a man who monitors his own appearance to the extent that he does. Once one reaches a certain age, there is a certain softness of the belly that won't vanish for even the most active of individuals. He's watched his hands grow aged. His knees aren't what they used to be, though he takes potions for this and it doesn't affect his abilities. In the end, he knows he's aged gracefully, and continues to do so--but 'gracefully' and 'imperceptively' certainly have different definitions.

Enter Rook, who is not the youngest of their companions. Old enough to have confronted her own fears and come out on the other side knowing her desires--at least in some way. He knows he's desired by her. He's known since a particular look in her eye on their first excursion to the Memorial Gardens; an unmistakable, though brief, spark of want.

In that moment, he could have had her. If he'd known her then as he did now, and understood that she wasn't the sort of woman to be above a giggling fuck in a bush with an attractive acquaintance, he might have let himself have her. As it was, it had taken time. Their first night spent together had been sweeter for it. Not that the bush wouldn't have been sweet.

Admittedly, there had been one other item holding him back, other than that of her virtue. There are decades of time between them. She came screaming into the world around the time the first gray hairs poked themselves out of his skull, premature though it was. It's something to consider. He assumed at the time--and now knows--that she'd never had a lover much older than herself. Though Emmrich knows himself to be a perfectly capable lover, a quite attractive specimen of a fifty-hmm-shh year old man, he knows (and does all the time) that he can no longer reasonably be compared to the same standards as a person twenty years his junior.

It stayed his hand.

A hand which Rook, when given the slightest opening to do so, grabs and yanks and places exactly where she wants it.

"I love your hands," she says, tracing tendons and veins, places where time had taken some of the elasticity from his skin. "They're beautiful. Touch me. Maker, touch me."

It's praise that goes straight to his core. The hands aren't one of his greatest insecurities, but he feels at times like a warrior fighting a ceaseless battle against time when it comes to his skin. Creams for softness, oils for moisture, poultices to block sunlight on the occassion he did leave the shaded Necropolis halls. He marvels, still does, at the fact that she doesn't even seem to notice the imperfections that had seemed utterly unignorable to him.

Far more of an insecurity is, of course, the belly--which he knows to be healthy, normal and fine, but which he purposefully hides nonetheless. Davrin is young, an objectively attractive man, and can quite commonly be seen shirtless around the Lighthouse. Some comparisons can't help but be drawn.

Rook, of this evening, unwraps the sash from around his waist with the glee of a child on her nameday and slides her hands down the buttons of his shirt. She frees his body, soft stomach and all, and presses her nose directly to his navel.

"Your body," Rook sighs, ecstatic. "I think about it all the time. I swear, Emmrich, I'm losing my mind. Do you know how sexy you are?"

"A question I could pose in return," he chuckles, and they both know he's deflecting--at least a little.

She's not having it on this night. She crawls back up, rests the perfect softness of her ass directly on top of his straining erection. Pushes her hands into the steely hair sprinkled about his chest.

"You're so--" she sighs, then seems to get distracted, and spends a moment tracing her thumbs circuitously around his nipples. He hisses, twitching against her. "I've never been with someone I was so attracted to. That sounds bad. I was attracted to them. But you, I mean..." She descends on him, mouth open, and he cries out to feel her teeth sink into his chest.

"You're going to give me quite the ego, dearest," he tells her, once he's gotten a hold of himself--figuratively and literally. He's palming himself, fingers gripped around the fabric of his pants and his own straining flesh, and the back of his hand basks in the humidity between her thighs.

"Good," she coos, and then traces her thumb over his mustache, follows it with her lips. "You're so beautiful. I think about you all the time. Your hands and your nose and your fucking--chest hair--"

"It used to be black, you know," he whispers, and she draws back. They share his vulnerability for a moment. He can see her realize and catalogue something, in the back of her intelligent eyes.

"It looks better gray," she whispers back. "And when it turns white, I'll throw a fucking party."

He cries a little--something that surprises even him, because he hadn't realized how close to his chest he'd been holding some of this...dread--and even that doesn't seem to bother her. She coos and kisses him and, when he slides inside her, yowls and clings and calls him perfection.

He believes it.

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SAY NICE THINGS TO PPL