#./m/da4

[astrariums]

DRAGON AGE: THE VEILGUARD

DAVRIN & ASSAN

[doomedyuri]

EMMRICH VOLKARIN in DRAGON AGE: THE VEILGUARD.

[fukiana]

DRAGON AGE: THE VEILGUARD (2024) dev. Bioware

[dragonagewlw]

Neve Gallus from Dragon Age: The Veilguard

Detective | Private Investigator | Shadow Dragon

[inquisimer]

For arlow and viago 😭 ❛ i don’t want to understand, i want you to stay. ❜

THANK YOUUUUUUU I am ALL up in my feels about them ;-; this is set well pre-canon, right after Arlow is released from (my version of) "how not to get possessed" Crow Edition

Arlow de Riva & Viago | 972 words | cw: implied/referenced torture, child abuse | @dadrunkwriting - veilguard

-

She is ragged, rubbed raw when they dump her on the stoop of Viago's estate. They rap on the door, once, twice, three times, because she could not lift an arm to do it herself. And then they leave her there, shivering and utterly drained, still bleeding where the manacles had held her. Still aching where the Fade had dug its claws into her.

But she is alive. That is more than most of the others can say.

Viago opens the door himself--of course he does, because he does not employ a staff, would not give anyone such access, no matter how thoroughly vetted. She wonders, as a soft string of curses fall from his lips, how they even knew to leave her here. Its location is a closely guarded secret.

(She will never know about the gold and threats exchanged, when first she was taken. As soon as she has passed, he insisted. Not a moment longer.)

His arms are gentle, slotting carefully under her legs and at her shoulders; he is trying to avoid the bruises, the welts, the weeping wounds. If she could find her voice, she would tell him not to bother--there is nowhere that does not ache, in some shape or form. But he is trying, and she focuses on that, rather than how the world spins as he lifts her, carries her down the hallway to a familiar room. It is not hers, but she spends a great deal of time here, being poked and prodded--poisoned--pressed for answers and learning how to describe what he needs to know.

The cot she usually sits on is made up with softer blankets and pillows than is typical. As if it were waiting for her, and knew that she would not be in a state for the harsh, cold crinkle of paper. But that is foolish--there is no one in the estate except Viago, and Viago is not the type to prepare such creature comforts. If her mind were not so muddled--

She blinks, and Viago presses a vial to her lips. He does not need to tell her to drink; she lets him tip it down her throat without hesitation. Bitter elfroot, and acidity. At her side, over her knuckles, and where it is seeping down her temple, blood clots as her skin knits itself back together. Though the gash over her shoulder blade only gets about two-thirds of the way there, and she knows that it will be a scar.

Experimentally, she reaches for it with her magic. It is new, this power within her, and awkward like a third arm, or second tongue. It is also weak, drained by the price the Crows have exacted. But she has paid it--she is alive. She has been judged, and not found wanting.

For once. Perhaps for the last time.

"Stop that," Viago snaps, as if he can sense that she is pushing past limits that have long since been flattened. "You will make it worse."

The tendril of mana blinks out into nothing. He cuts her ruined tunic away, pursing his lips together as each snip reveals bruises, burns, and more ribs than he'd been able to see three weeks ago. But he is not surprised. Necessary, as so many painful things are. When the pain fades, confidence will take root--in confidence, safety.

With short, clinical strokes, he cleans her skin and a tiny sigh parts Arlow's lips. She has nearly forgotten what it is like to be touched with an intention that is kind.

He takes his time. Tends each of the wounds with the appropriate salve, or balm, or serum. His gloved hands are more gentle than they have ever been when he urges her to lean forward, but he offers no apology when he draws the needle through her flesh, sealing another mark into her skin.

When he is finished, he wraps her in fresh clothes and brings her to rest before the fire. Hands her another potion, diluted this time, and gives strict instructions to sip, slowly.

Despite the fire, despite the ghost of his care lingering over her skin, Arlow feels a chill. This is the part where he leaves. She knows--understands, even. So much more than a child should have to. Of all the ways Viago covers his skin, he has never treated her with kid gloves.

She does not want him to leave. But it is not her place to ask him to stay.

Her eyes drift closed; for a moment, her heart stutters, afraid of the darkness that waits behind her lids. But the fire makes it warm and orange; the cold and dank to which she has been relegated remains firmly--if a bit too near--in her memory.

In that halfway place between waking and sleep, she imagines tender hands tucking a blanket around her. Shifting her on the pillow so that her neck will not be so terribly cricked in the morning. It is nice of her mind, to cushion her recovery with such niceties.

Gloved knuckles brush a stray hair back behind her ear. A softness that she will not remember in the morning, nearly gone to the Fade already as she is. Which is why he offers it, of course.

"Well done, parajito," Viago murmurs. She will not remember that, either, or the smile that tugs at the corner of his mouth. When he is stern and exacting in the morning, she will not remember that he was proud of her, or relieved to have her back under his purview.

But that does not change the fact--he is.

He tucks the blanket more snugly under her chin, smooths the wrinkles over her legs. For the first time in three weeks, she is resting easy--and he leaves, for the first time in three weeks, to do the same.

[mothdogsgifs]

💜💜💜💜

[sakharinedragon]

Emmrich's expressions make me weak 🫠

"I did have someone to come back to."

[irradiatedtea]

Average Mourn Watch behaviour

ft my Rook Kadan (he/him)

[vampiremommyinquisition]

Someone who stands in the shadows always has a harder time making the right choice

I'm afraid if I put a spoiler tag I'll make people think this situation will be in the game's plot, so do without a tag from me

[askfordoodles]

The way he says "my love" 🥹 send tweet

[astrariums]

DRAGON AGE: THE VEILGUARD (2024)

Official Launch Trailer

[doomedyuri]

SOLAS in DRAGON AGE: THE VEILGUARD.

Hey, Chuckles.

[fukiana]

DRAGON AGE: THE VEILGUARD (2024) dev. Bioware      “Sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt.”      “Please do. I need to hear an actual voice now and then.”

[pixelizedprince]

A sleepy morning with Bishop and Emmrich; 1.5k

💀💀💀💀

m!elven rook x emmrich (gilf x gilf fans rise up)

fluff w/ angsty past relationships & fade to black shenanigans mentioned

pre-labelled relationship

oc companion mentioned (margaux, bishop's niece)

my old man elf has a big bushy mustache. i'm not sorry.

💀💀💀💀

The simulated mornings in the fade would never get easier on Bishop. The pseudo-sunrise gave no heat, the off-colored glow reminded him more of the coast before a thunderstorm than the golden rays he loved. The elf shrugged his robe closer, trying to keep the warmth of sleep on him as he puttered his way across the courtyard, up floating stone steps towards the kitchen. His mind wandered from the eerie glow of the “sky” to this morning's first few blinks of restless sleep into dim candlelight, supernatural in source as well, but much more welcomed. 

-

Bishop's good eye adjusted quickly, taking in the shadow of the figure he was tangled up with. Sheets wrapped around both their bodies. The taller man still slept, his usually pristine coiffed hair currently soft and natural, gently covering his brows. It took everything in Bishop not to trace over every line, every mark across Emmrich's sleeping face and neck; peppering more kisses like he had mere hours before. He decided against it, the weary mage deserved to sleep like the dead a little while longer. 

Bishop hadn't intended to stay in the Necromancer's chambers that evening, but after encounters with blighted beings the previous day, they had tested the limits of their ragtag guard. Emmrich insisted Bishop use the necromancer's self made disinfectant (a combination of hearth laurel, deep mushrooms, and some kind of enchantment. The smell was a tinge medicinal, sharp with magic, but also earthy); an old Nevarran blend for after working with the undead. The mage requested he personally check that none of their wounds went without care, and Bishop offered the same in turn…. the process had gone much later into the night than intended… 

Now breathing in the remnants of the odd almondy-earthy-magic spiced scent, feeling the warmth of the man beneath him, Bishop's heart fluttered. He was no stranger to the excitement of l̶o̶v̶e̶  companionship, but this was the first time in a long time it made him feel lighter, it was almost dizzying the way Emmrich had enchanted him in such a short time. The elf slowly pulled away and watched Emmrich's chest rise and fall, faintest snore following the rhythm. 

Bishop had been using his chest as a pillow, an intricately stitched pattern of his sleeping gown now temporarily traced over Bishop's cheek. He ran a hand across the delicate indents and grazed the shadow of a beard. Bishop had been too preoccupied with the recent run-ins with darkspawn to care about how his appearance had been the last several days. “Scratchy-” a comment muttered from the quivering lips of the necromancer the night before resurfaced in Bishop's mind and a flush bit his face and ears. He'd have to remember to shave the unwanted stubble this morning, else he'd get an earful from both Emmrich and Margaux about the importance of “self care” again. His niece had been all but too excited to tell the other man all about Bishop's “selfless to a fault” habits - the necromancer instantly joined Margaux in her ongoing battle to get her uncle to take care of himself. Bishop's eye gazed back down to Emmrich, admiring his immaculately thin mustache - a far cry from Bishop's own bushy lip. The candlelight of the study, soft, but enough to see the traces of bruises blooming across his jaw, neck, collarbones - gown hiding even more Bishop knew without a doubt were nested against Emmrich's lily pale skin. He also knew he fared no better. If he was to ask, the marks could be magicked away without a second thought, much like those from the battle the day before were worked out with trained hands. However, a scarf for a few fleeting days to keep the fluttering in his stomach was something the elf was choosing to remain selfish about. It made his chest tight to know without a doubt Emmrich's high collars wouldn’t just be his eccentric fashion choice, but a practical one as well. Echos of desperate pleas reminded Bishop the marks weren't only welcomed but hungrily requested. 

A gnawing feeling in Bishop's mind was trying to signal that this was foolish, that there were more important things at stake and there would be dire consequences for being distracted, but Bishop used a significant amount of energy to tell the wolf to shove it and the thoughts bitterly dispersed. He knew it wasn't all the unwanted passenger taunting those ideas though. Ghosts of his past had trained his heart to be wary. Everything about this c̶o̶u̶r̶t̶s̶h̶i̶p̶  f̶l̶i̶n̶g̶  r̶e̶l̶a̶t̶i̶o̶n̶s̶h̶i̶p̶  connection had felt more real than anything he'd had in years. Bishop had found that Emmrich treated him in a way where the elf felt not just needed but wanted, and not just for the physical advances, but genuine quiet moments of intimacy, lingering glances, actual caring conversations. It didn't seem like this was only a quick fun thing to relieve the stress of their situation. Bishop was damn near as terrified to define this good thing as he was to take down the Gods of his kinship, but gods if he didn't wish to spend not just this moment but tomorrow and the day after that with the man who had allowed him to feel like himself for a few moments. Selfish, his niece demanded he be more selfish, so Bishop leaned in once more and kissed the temple of the resting man. He wanted this to be more, to be his, to be them together with Emmrich. 

The necromancer stirred from the kiss’ touch and his heavily lidded eyes caught Bishop's, a gentle smile instantly rising from his half conscious face. “Good morning my dear.” 

Bishop almost couldn't bear the weight of how those simple words twisted him even more madly i̶n̶ l̶o̶v̶e̶. The elf's own face bloomed into a giant toothy smile, bracing himself once more as he leaned across the bunk, kissing h̶i̶s the mage.

Emmrich leaned up into the kiss, chuckling at the sweet sight of the slightly flushed elf. Through half-lidded eyes, and though his body was still slow from sleep, Emmrich's teasing tone was quick, “It's with a heavy heart that I must rest a while more before I can go another round so early my dear. Though for you I'd try-” their mouths had barely parted when the necromancer sighed his words, reaching a heavily ringed hand to rest on top the one Bishop was leaning down on.

Bishop instantly turned his head and cleared his throat, the thought hadn't not crossed his mind, but it was going to be another long day and they both needed their energy for fighting for now… “As much as we'd both enjoy that-” Bishop linked digits with the hand that had fallen on top of his and pulled the knuckles to his lips, “-we should probably greet the others soon…” he kissed the rings, glittering like stars on Emmrich's hand, gemstones and ornate designs like an entire galaxy, and gave a gentle squeeze to the hand. “Dream a little longer Em. I will go get us some tea and a nibble and be back soon.” 

“A nibble? Why, Bishop, I do believe we had plenty of that last night.” The quirk of Emmrich's lips, framed by his dark mustache and Bishop was undone. The necromancer howled as Bishop pounced down into the crook of Emmrich's neck and rapidly kissed the mage, their laughter combining into a tender song. 

“Wicked,” Bishop tutted, “You are a wicked man Emmrich Volkarin. And I am powerless against your dastardly ways.” Through the laughter and shower of affection, their positions in the bunk had shifted. Bishop found himself now hovering, his face looking down upon the taller man. Calming from his laughing fit, Emmrich now lay flat on his back, Bishop essentially pinning him to the bed. Bishop could feel him taking in the sights, studying the elf like he was a new theory or spell. 

Emmrich looked up at Bishop like he was the universe. Emmrich's hands slid, with all the confidence of reaching for the stars and hoping to come down with one in your fist. The mage's palms found purchase cupping the elf's cheeks, thumbs running across Bishop's greying temples, curved cheeks, across the long scarred gash that ran a good length through his right eye. Emmrich was solving the equations hidden in his freckles, interpreting dreams from each of his wrinkles. Bishop felt like he was drowning, breathless and afraid, to be the subject of such dedicated and wordless admiration. Seemingly satisfied with his research, Emmrich hummed sweetly and closed his eyes once again,  head nestling back onto his silk threaded pillow. “I'd like black tea if it isn't too much trouble, Love.” His words were a whisper. 

Bishop swallowed and finally caught the air his lungs had been screaming for. Like he was freed from the sea’s cold grasp and allowed to gasp for anything other than saltwater. Bishop leaned down and carefully pressed his forehead against Emmrich's, closing his eyes. His hair framed their faces, a curtain of grey and black, a soft night's sky, to capture the moment of intimacy in a perfect bubble. Gods, this could be love, huh?

[maedaeme]

pov your boyfriend just heard someone say a confidently incorrect creature fact