#agnes gallatus

[nerdanel01]

Rook Questionaire - Agnes Gallatus

tagged by @eavangeek, thank you!

Under the cut due to length! Tagging @ass-deep-in-demons @nostalgiaclown @starfleetteddybear @racheloleo @the-grand-gemini @truebluedreamer @jusbeinkt @blindvogel @erikonil @hmserebusadjacent (no pressure!) in case you want to join + play :) (also anyone else who sees this should also feel free to join in and tag me if you fill it out :D)

Where in Thedas is your Rook from? Agnes grew up in the countryside, in the part of western Nevarra that has changed hands between Nevarra and Orlais a few times. I headcanon this to mean there are some people who live their who consider themselves “Orlesian” and have a more Orlesian culture, although this is exclusively the peasant/lower class. Agnes’ mother Madeline would have been one of those peasants. Her father is a Nevarran noble, but very minor nobility; she was raised on his estate, first as a servant, then later as one of the members of the household after her mother passed away. Because her father’s estate is so far west, she was sent to the Circle at Perendale when her magic manifested, rather than the fancier Circle in Cumberland. She also has a slight southern inflection to her pronounciation because of all this, which means everyone else in the Mourn Watch clocks her as a hayseed pretty much from day one.

What is your character’s alignment? She’d like to think she’s lawful good, but despite how hard she tries she’s really a messy, chaotic good.

Race and subclass? Human, Spellblade mage.

If your Rook was a companion, where would they be found? Minrathous, because Agnes is definitely still getting run out of Nevarra by the nobility after the War of the Banners one way or the other, even if she doesn't end up as "Rook" Rook. 😬

What emotion did they usually pick? Aggressive/stoic, but it’s a mask. She mellows out to the soft supportive/approving Rook when she’s talking to someone she likes (mostly just the companions.)

What companion are they platonically close with? Agnes is closest with Bellara, although Davrin is probably a close second.

Romantically close with? She’s been disgustingly obsessed with Emmrich since she was like, 19, if that counts as “close.”

Who are they suspicious of? ILLARIO FROM DAY ONE. FROM GO SHE DOESN’T TRUST THAT MAN. Also, every time Solas so much as breathes in her direction she thinks he’s planning something awful for her. She's not always wrong.

Does your Rook get along with their chosen faction? For the most part, Agnes “got along” with the rest of the Mourn Watch in the way that oil and water “get along.” But there were a few rare exceptions where she made a friend… or an enemy. :)

Are they proficient in playing any instruments? Solas is trying to teach her the harpsichord. It isn’t going well!

Weapon of choice? Orb & dagger babeyyyyy. Let her get up close with her magic and stabby stab.

What is their orientation? Like, I know this, but I don’t know that Agnes does…. She’s not 100% hetero but she’s been obsessed with Emmrich for so long I don’t think she’s ever really had the chance to discover that she’s maybe a little bi.

What are their thoughts on killing? Is it a necessary evil or do they enjoy it? Don’t tell anyone, but she likes it. Not because of anything to do with the bloodshed itself—she’s not really bloodthirsty—but it gives her great satisfaction to know that she is strong enough (and capable enough) to protect the people, communities, and ideas she cares about. She enjoys killing because she’s good at it; because she thinks it can help keep the people she loves safe, and protect her, in some measure, from grief. (It won’t.)

What hobbies does your Rook have? Agnes draws, although she doesn’t really consider herself an ‘artist’ in the typical sense. Her drawings are meant to be renderings, not artistic depictions: true to scale diagrams of monuments and anomalies in the Necropolis that Emmrich has asked her to draw to illustrate his scholar’s logs. She maintains this ‘hobby’ after she leaves the Mourn Watch, but never really considers herself an artist so much as a person who looks at things carefully. I would say her drawing style is more architectural than expressive. She loves the opera, it’s her #1 fixation. Not really a hobby so much as a coping mechanism, but she’s also frequently found to be cleaning—either her Mourn Watch cell or Emmrich’s study.

What NPCs do they like? Which ones do they dislike? I mean, as indicated above, she dislikes Illario pretty much from ‘go.’ No one else is really able to get under her skin that way… although she doesn’t really love the dude selling conspiracy theory newspapers in Minrathous either, even if he is Neve’s contact.  As far as the ones she likes… I’m not sure that she and Viago have a warm relationship, exactly, but they have common interests and a mutual respect for each other. She likes Shathaan a lot, because in some ways her protectiveness over Taash reminds Agnes of her own mother. Of course, she has a complicated relationship with Myrna and Vorgoth because of the War of the Banners and her own damage about being part of the Mourn Watch in general, but those are also positive relationships.  She has a… complicated history with Johanna Hezenkoss, who advocated for her inclusion in the Mourn Watch. :)  In general though she tends to keep people at arms’ length, so she doesn’t have super strong opinions about most of the NPCs.

Do they have a favorite creature in Thedas? She’s not really a big animal lover, but Agnes has a massive weak spot for Assan.

Do they enjoy life as an adventurer? I’m not sure it’s that she likes her life as an adventurer so much as she really wasn’t so hot about her life in the Mourn Watch…. She does enjoy the things that life as an adventurer has brought her, though, specifically all her new friends in the Veilguard. It’s really the first time in her life she gets to feel that kind of camaraderie.

What would your Rook be doing if they weren’t recruited by Varric? Getting cauliflower ear and developing chronic pain while fighting for her dinner in Dock Town.

How do you think they’ll meet their end? Spoilers for when I am laid in earth, sorry! :)

Would they side with Solas or fight him? Their relationship is so volatile it really depends on the day. Ask her again tomorrow.

What is your Rook’s favorite ability? Omg that Voidblade though. Rush in and stabby stab stab and EVISCERATE

What languages is your character fluent in? Common, Tombscript (written)

What do they do after an absolute crisis? Sit in silence staring at a wall, not processing, not talking to anyone. Shoving it down as deep as she possibly can.

Does your character believe in the afterlife? Yes, but she doesn’t have any concrete ideas about what that looks like or feels like. But she has a high sense of conviction that there is something beyond death; that it is more like stepping through a door than a curtain coming down at the end of a play.

What specialization best represents your Rook? Spellblade. Get up in their business and fuck shit up.

What animal best represents your Rook? Mabari—capable of cuddling at your feet in front of a fire but also capable of chewing someone’s face off if pushed. But distinctly a domesticated animal; not a wolf.

What was their life like before the events of Veilguard? Immediately proceeding? Pretty grim—having left Nevarra and the Mourn Watch, she’s basically having a midlife crisis. Has left her boo behind. Has chopped off all her hair. Is feeding herself every day from the betting proceeds she earns in an illegal dueling ring. It’s not a good time! Agnes did not love Minratous, and most of the time she lived there she spent punishing herself for things that were probably out of her control.

Is your character the de facto leader of the party? Or do they consider someone else to be the leader? Oh no, she’s totally the leader. She hates it, but she owns up to it and what it means. It’s not the first time she’s had that burden, so when Varric asks her to take over in his place, she’s not half-assing it���she becomes boss.

If you could choose a different faction for your Rook, which one would they have joined and why? I mean, I wouldn’t… but there’s definitely a world where Agnes could have gotten involved with the Shadow Dragons in Minrathous if she hadn’t had the Depression so bad. She doesn’t really get over that until Varric recruits her.

What’s your favorite thing about your Rook? Hard to name one thing… in general, I really like that compared to my Inquisitor, Rook is a total mess. I like that she can be selfish, I like that she can be manipulative, but mostly I like that she’s just kind of… pathetic, on some level, most of the time, despite her higher-than-average capacity for physical violence. I do quite love that she saw an opera about someone killing themselves due to the pain of unrequited love, said “skill issue” and just started to repress her affection for Emmrich even harder. I think what I especially like is the way her psychic damage aligns in the most fucked-up perfect way with Emmrich’s… like I maybe thought before the game came out her being in love with him for 20 years without saying anything was a stretch, but in reality it is absolutely not. These two are so down bad for each other but both so unaccustomed to unrequited love that of course they don’t want to risk what warmth and affection already exists between them, of course they are just willing to take what they can get from each other and not risk rocking the boat because their partnership is the closest thing they’ve felt to family… which they are both suffering from a lack of. 

Bonus: some of the characters that inspired her :) not exhaustive

[nerdanel01]

Annum

Emmrich Volkarin/F!Rook 2k+ wc | SFW  Agnes Gallatus, a newly initiated member of the Mourn Watch, grows into her new role under the guidance of her mentor, Emmrich Volkarin. Set 21 yeas before the start of DA:TV.

___________ EXCERPT: One year. Had it been that long? Somehow this twelve-month stretch in the Necropolis felt at once like it had gone on for ages, and at the same time as though it had all gone by in the blink of an eye. The dark distorted and dilated time, made it pass strangely. 

“It has made me so proud,” Volkarin added, the unexpected tenderness in his voice catching Agnes entirely off guard, “to watch you as you grow into your full strength, as one of the Mortalitasi. As a Watcher in your own right.”

Full piece under the cut.

9:31 Dragon

Watcher Initiate Agnes was alone in the study, and she was bored.

It had been over a week past since her mentor, Ser Emmrich Volkarin, had been summoned to the surface—out of the living quarters the Mourn Watch shared in the upper levels of the Necropolis, into the light of the city above—to advise one noble family on some political matter or another. Agnes had always thought it was the priests among the Mortalitasi who wielded the most power, but that was only partially true. As it had turned out, Watcher involved far more political maneuvering than Agnes had expected… though as one of its most junior members, those responsibilities were largely left to her seniors. That suited Agnes just fine. Though it might have been nice to surface, her calendar told her it was winter, the only way to tell the season in the windowless Necropolis. Above, Nevarra City would be cloudy, cold and dry—no better than the Grand Necropolis itself, really. 

But without Volkarin around, there was little for her to do. It was strongly discouraged for anyone to descend into the Grand Necropolis alone unless under the most dire of circumstances—and initiates were forbidden from solitary visits entirely. Thus, Agnes was confined to its upper levels: the dormitories and common areas where the Mourn Watch ate and slept. While arguably she could have socialized among the other Watchers in the dining hall, the idea did not appeal; Agnes had a tendency to introversion, and had not yet become well acquainted with many of the other Watchers. Indeed, she still had trouble remembering some of their names.

Instead, she had spent most of the week in Volkarin’s study. His absence gave her the opportunity to undertake the cleaning her fingers had been itching for since she arrived. She fetched a ladder to carefully dust and wax all of the skulls hanging from the high ceiling; of the flasks and alembics that were not currently in use, she immersed them in scalding hot water and scrubbed them til the shone. Errant books and scrolls were returned to their appropriate place on the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves in the corner, near the hearth—the hearth itself swept clean of ashes and washed thoroughly. Herbs (both culinary and medicinal) were ordered, alphabetized and organized in the small wooden drawers. In the spirit of absolute thoroughness, she even tucked the hem of her skirts up into her waistband and got onto her knees with brush and bucket, to scrub the ancient dust off the study floor. 

By the end of the third day, every surface had been left gleamingly clean. Agnes attempted to make the best of her time by studying. Practicing her ancient Nevarran; reviewing handwritten accounts and schematics of the most ancient levels of the Necropolis; even trying to brush up a little on her unimpressive, but passable, necromancy. When the appeal of those tasks waned, she had curled up in the armchair by the hearth and read for pleasure—reviews of the latest operas being produced in Orlais and Antiva—but even then, her thoughts kept straying.

For her presence in the laboratory today of all days was no coincidence: by her measure, Ser Volkarin was meant to return today. And yet hour by hour she had watched the water clock in the corner slowly drain, and still he had not come back. 

And so, she was alone in the study. And she was bored. And a little bit anxious.

It was not necessarily a bad sign, she reminded herself. Volkarin might have decided to stop at his personal chambers first, to rest or refresh. Or, any number of delightful distractions (none of them perilous) might have waylaid him in the city above. Surely, there was no reason to fear—?

A low moaning issued forth from the halls outside the study, and then the door was thrust open, slamming against the opposite wall with a bang. And there, in the doorway, stood the sorriest looking skeleton Agnes had ever laid eyes upon, trying, and failing, most clumsily, to manage a load of parcels balanced in his arms, against the cage of his ribs.

“Merciful Andraste,” Agnes whispered under her breath, before leaping out of the armchair, racing to the doorway to intercept the packages from the thrall before they were dropped to the floor. “Nevermind, Alfred, give them here, there you are.” But even as she stooped to collect a few errant brown parcels—each of them fragrant of spices and herbs and preserved fruits—she was not mad or frustrated, not really, nor really frustrated. Because she knew that Alfred (imperfect thrall that he was) was incapable of making it all the way back to the laboratory on his own, without his master.

And yes, not a heartbeat later, Alfred was shambling out of the doorway to make room so that Ser Emmrich Volkarin might enter the study behind him. The necromancer was managing twice as many packages as Alfred had been, and he was grinning from ear to ear, his smile outlined in the striking inky line of his pencil mustache.

“Agnes!” he cried, “how fortunate! Just the person I was hoping to see!” He set his own bundle of packages down on one of the nearby tables (cleared, fortunately, of the dusty flasks that usually were left scattered across it) then bent and grabbed Agnes by her elbows, lifting her off the floor and back onto her feet, Alfred’s packages and all. His palms were cool against her elbows. Volkarin gave her his most devilishly charming smile. “Did you miss me?”

Small, unwelcome flip of her stomach. ‘Of course.’ “Not at all,” Agnes told him matter-of-factly, pulling away from his touch to place the remaining packages down upon the table. “It gave me a chance to tidy. On top of that, I got plenty of reading done.” But that she was not as immune to that smile as she would like to pretend. For the excuse not to look him in the face, she set about organizing the packages on the table. “How was your visit to the City?”

“Mostly as expected. But I have a surprise for you.”

Agnes turned—and it was like a gaudy, cheap trick of street magic; there had been no sign of it in the parcels; he produced it seemingly from nowhere—to find Volkarin, arms outstretched, offering her a gargantuan bouquet of dahlias. Rashvine-In-Snow—her mother’s favorites—bright crimson flowers with tight little white faces. The flowers were so fragrant that just the scent of them conjured spring: the birds singing, flowers in bloom, berries bursting on silver-green and ruby colored canes. Between the dahlia’s petals sparkled the last gems of morning dew. 

“Do you like them?”

A slight hint of concern on her mentor’s long face, and in his question. Agnes realized she’d been staring at the flowers, reactionless, silent, probably longer than common courtesy allowed. The truth was her heart was hammering in her chest and the thunder of it was difficult to speak around. 

“I love them,” Agnes answered, at last. She came out of her rigor mortis to take the bouquet from Volkarin’s hands, taking great care not to brush his fingertips with her own as she did so. “I am… I’m speechless, really. They are beautiful. Thank you.” ‘But why did you give them to me?’

All at once the concern dropped from Ser Volkarin’s face, and he beamed. “I am glad to hear it. It has officially been one year since you joined the Mourn Watch. I thought someone ought to commemorate the occasion, even if you did not find it worth celebrating, yourself.”

One year. Had it been that long? Somehow this twelve-month stretch in the Necropolis felt at once like it had gone on for ages, and at the same time as though it had all gone by in the blink of an eye. The dark distorted and dilated time, made it pass strangely. 

“It has made me so proud,” Volkarin added, the unexpected tenderness in his voice catching Agnes entirely off guard, “to watch you as you grow into your full strength, as one of the Mortalitasi. As a Watcher in your own right.”

Entirely too much warmth and tenderness in his voice. Agnes knew she did not deserve it—was not capable, really, of receiving it properly. Appropriately. The blush in her neck had returned with a vengeance and would, if not stopped, soon spread to her cheeks. She could not bear it: the too-pleased-with-himself look in his eye, the windswept, disheveled mop of his typically orderly midnight hair; the dirt on the knees of his trousers…. the warmth in her face…

And outside, she reminded herself—in the city above—it was winter.

“Wait a moment,” Agnes said, the realization dawning upon her. Brow knit together as she looked, troubled, at the flowers. “Where did you get these?”

Volkarin only blinked at her, failing to comprehend the edge in her tone. “In the Eternal Garden, naturally. Where else would I get them this time of year?”

Slowly, carefully, Agnes set the bouquet upon the table amongst the packages, the better to resist the urge to strike Volkarin with it.

“You descended into the Necropolis, alone?”

“Not alone,” Volkarin replied cheerily, grinning from ear to ear. “Alfred accompanied me.”

Agnes fought very hard to keep her voice level, rather than rising to a screech. “Alfred?” she repeated. As far as she was concerned, Alfred was more of a liability than an asset.

“You worry too much; it was fine,” Volkarin reassured her, reading too well the signs of barely-repressed frustration in her features. “We encountered practically no obstacles on our way in and out.”

She did not like the sound of ‘practically,’ but knew pushing on the matter would do nothing to help her keep calm. “Ser Volkarin,” she began, keeping her voice measured, “Alfred is a remarkable thrall,” she lied through her teeth, “but he cannot protect you like I can.”

Volkarin quirked one elegant, black eyebrow above the other. 

“And yet, if my aim is to surprise you, I cannot exactly have you accompany me, can I?”

He had her, there. But Agnes was no fool. Though she was still only an initiate Watcher, a year had been long enough for her to learn that a good deal of the trouble Ser Volkarin got himself into in the Necropolis was a consequence of his own insatiable curiosity. He was over-besotted with the mysteries of the tombs and crypts; if anyone shouldn’t be down there unaccompanied, it was him.

All the same… he had offered her a very sweet gesture. And here she was, berating him for it. 

At last, Agnes sighed, then gave Volkarin a disapproving shake of her head. “Take Johanna with you next time, at least, if you must for some reason go down into the Necropolis without me.”

“In addition to Alfred,” Volkarin replied, with an affection cant to his head as he cast his eyes across the room to look upon his thrall with affection. “Not in place of.”

Such warmth on his face, in his smile. This time, not for her. ‘ Get yourself together, Agnes. He loves that animated stack of bones more than he will ever love you.’

“Oh, and one more thing,” Volkarin continued, and Agnes’ eyes snapped to his, trying her best not to look as though she had just been staring at his mouth. “As it has officially been a year since you have joined the Mourn Watch…” and here his expression softened. Gentle, amused, but exasperated nonetheless, he added, “That means I have also spent a full year imploring you, politely, repeatedly, to call me simply Emmrich.”

That, Agnes could not do. In fact, it was almost too much to hear Emmrich call himself by his own birth name. The formality between them—that little line that “Ser” drew between mentor and initiate—she needed it, to protect herself, to wall off her heart. To remind herself that Volkarin had brought these flowers to her to mark, essentially, a career milestone—not for any other reason she might dream of.

Agnes offered him a shadow of a smile, not-quite-contrite.

“I am afraid you will have to keep asking, Ser Volkarin, for at least another year yet.”

Volkarin narrowed his eyes, pursed his lips like he was taking the measure of her somehow. Heat in her core rising under his scrutiny. “Very well,” he said at last, corners of his mouth curling in a mischievous grin. “But you will find I can be both persistent, and persuasive. I will wear you down yet, Agnes Gallatus.”

That was precisely what she was afraid of.

[nerdanel01]

Thrown In The Deep End

Emmrich Volkarin/F!Rook 2.5k+ wc | SFW Agnes Gallatus, a newly initiated member of the Mourn Watch, grows into her new role under the guidance of her mentor, Emmrich Volkarin. Set 22 yeas before the start of DA:TV.

________________

9:30 Dragon Age

Cli-clack. Cli-clack. The heel of her left boot savaged beyond repair, Agnes Gallatus walked unevenly through the colossal halls of the Grand Necropolis, each of her shuffling steps echoing through the vast chambers of the dead.

Ahead of Agnes, her recently appointed mentor, Emmrich Volkarin, was leading the way. He had summoned a glowing, green magelight to illuminate the path before them and beneath their feet. The magelight threw Emmrich’s deep, plush shadow back onto Agnes’ own body, exaggerating Emmrich’s form, casting Agnes in darkness. 

Agnes had no way of knowing—no sunlight reached these lower levels, and they had no timepiece with them—but it felt as though they had been walking for the better part of a day already. She was trying not to be too concerned about that, reminding herself that her anxiety was likely playing tricks on her. Probably, they had only been down in the dark for a few hours… but the growling hunger in her stomach suggested otherwise.

They had brought supplies down with them. Ser Volkarin had walked her through all of it at the start of their morning, taking her through his carefully listed inventory, showing her how efficiently it had been packed for the journey ahead: foodstuffs, water canteens, fire kindling, potions and other remedies, even a tent and a pair of sleeping bags. It was Agnes’ first trip down into the Necropolis as a member of the Mourn Watch; a kind of orientation, it was just supposed to be quick journey, down and up again before nightfall. As Ser Volkarin had told her, however, the Necropolis was an unusual place, and “it never hurts to be over prepared.”

Unfortunately, all of that preparation—food, kindling and all—had been lost within the first hour of their trip. As Ser Volkarin had been leading her to one of the most extravagant of the Pentaghast tombs, they had encountered a nightmarish creature that Agnes was certain none of her training had prepared her to face. The sight of it, all mismatched bones and too-long-limbs and hollow eyes, had made her want to tremble and retch.

Ser Volkarin, on the other hand, had simply identified it as an “uncatalogued anomaly” (with what Agnes thought was too much fascination, and not enough fear) and, to a gobsmacked Agnes’ utter shock, he had approached it. Talking to it, saying something, Agnes could not remember—she could only recall her stupefaction at the fact that it seemed the necromancer was trying to reason with the thing.

When the “anomaly” had turned on him, both Agnes and Ser Volkarin alike had lost their packs in the pursuit; while running through one of the cobbled halls of some great Nevarran lineage or another, Agnes had broken the heel of her boot. All things considered, they were lucky they had escaped with their lives. If Agnes had not pulled Volkarin away from the creature just in time, she wasn’t even certain he’d have that. 

But the chase had driven them far from the elevator that had dropped them down from the upper floors, into chambers and halls that looked (to Agnes’ untrained eye) dusty from lack of use and visitation. Cli-clack. Cli-clack. How long had they been walking? Her knees and her hips were beginning to complain of her uneven gait and the strain it was putting them under. But ahead of her, Ser Volkarin—probably twice her age—had not flagged in the slightest, so Agnes swallowed her discomfort and followed him in silence.

She had never wanted to be part of the Mourn Watch. The idea of living one's life in the Necropolis, down among the dead, far from the sun and the trees and the stars, did not appeal to her in the slightest. But it was not exactly an honor that was easily refused… and certainly what was left of her family would have disowned her (or worse) had she tried. The position came with power, esteem, and honor, things Agnes had no use for but with which her family was quite obsessed. It was not an opportunity they were going to let pass them by.

And so, now, here she was, on her first day, which had already gone so catastrophically wrong. She had been reassured, at first, when Ser Volkarin had been introduced as her mentor. He was clearly an experienced member of the guard who had seen a decade or more in its service already; under his guidance, Agnes reassured herself, she had nothing to fear. 

Only now, that decade of experience did not seem to mean much. They had arrived in a large, vaulted chamber, and the green magelight cast eerie shadows on the tall columns and walls. Ahead of her, Volkarin had come to a stop. He cast his head from side to side, his fine profile a midnight silhouette against the magelight as he surveyed the paths that led forth from the chamber.

He had never paused like that, his step until this moment always confident, clear. “What is it?” Agnes asked, fearing the answer.

Ser Volkarin hesitated, before admitting, “This place is utterly unfamiliar to me.”

Agnes did not like one bit the slight note of anxiety she had detected in his voice. “You said you had taken countless journeys into the depths of the Grand Necropolis. That you practically lived down here.”

“I have. I do,” Volkarin replied. “But I told you above, before we descended—the Necropolis is inconstant. Its architecture isn’t fixed. The levels, even the individual rooms change locations, only a small percentage of them are even catalogued; without some sort of beacon to guide me to one of the known paths…”

His voice trailed off ominously. But then he turned, his cupped hand swinging the magelight around with him so that he could offer Agnes a reassuring smile.

“We’ll worry about that later,” Volkarin said, his voice all warmth, his uncertainty dispelled (or at least, concealed from her.) “For now, we seem to have found a pocket of safe space—I sense no disturbances among the dead here. I shall set a ring of magical wards around our position, just to be cautious, and then we will take a few hours of rest before starting out again. Who knows?” He offered her another smile, his eyes gleaming between the disheveled locks of his thick, black hair—the elegant coif he’d styled it into had melted into a mop of waves and curls during their earlier flight. “Perhaps when we have woken, the Necropolis will have reconstituted itself into a configuration more familiar to me.”

“Do you really think so?”

Volkarin shrugged. “It is as likely as it is unlikely. But I prefer to be an optimist when it comes to such things.” 

Agnes was not sure she shared his optimism, but she was thankful for the chance to rest. She did not allow herself to ask him what would happen if the path was not clear when they woke. The answer seemed rather obvious. They had no food, and no water, and only the shelter the Necropolis would provide them with. To whatever end, they would have to keep wandering—the elevator was their only hope of emerging back into the upper levels of the Necropolis, and rejoining the remainder of the Mourn Watch. 

They decided to rest against the far wall, the place in the chamber with the greatest distance from any of the entrances. True to his word, Volkarin began setting the wards around them, whispering the incantations lightly under his breath as he circled Agnes in a half moon. For her part, Agnes tried to relax, but it was not easy. And now that they had stopped walking through the Necropolis, and her body had cooled from the exertion, she began to realize how cold it was down here. 

She was attempting to warm her palms beneath her arms when Ser Volkarin returned to her, wards set, removing his intricate leather overcoat as he approached and extending his hand to offer it to her. “Here.”

Agnes’ eyes widened. “Ser, I couldn’t.”

“Agnes, I insist. You’re plainly freezing, we’ve nothing else to warm you with because we have lost our supplies, and as your mentor, it is entirely my fault we are in this mess. Please, take it.”

With some trepidation, Agnes took the overcoat from his hands. The brown leather was pliant, soft the way leather is when it is still warmed from the heat of a body. Acquiescing to Volkarin’s behest, she draped the coat across her shoulders and was instantly warmer. But when Ser Volkarin himself sat beside her, to rest his back against the same wall, she extended her arm, to make room for him within the coat.

“We can share,” she told him, “can’t we?”

They could—barely. It was a snug fit, and it meant Ser Volkarin needed to sidle into his coat almost behind her, ducking his shoulder behind hers. Agnes found her back somewhat pressed against her mentor’s chest, the crown of her head tucked a few inches beneath his chin. When he exhaled, she could feel his breath tickle her scalp. 

His body was stiff against hers (uncomfortable, perhaps, with such intimate proximity) and it was also unquestionably colder, nearly clammy to the touch. But as Agnes leaned against him—as time passed, as they fit themselves against one another inside Volkarin’s coat—he warmed. 

And the living presence of him—the smell of him (bergamot and pepper) and his slow breathing—lulled Agnes first into a sense of comfort and safety; then, into sleep. 

The bed beneath her was freezing, but beneath the covers, Agnes was warm. She nestled her head deeper into the pillow. She had been in the Necropolis—had that all been a nightmare? Soft, pinstriped, bergamot-scented pillow.

Pinstripes— trousers—

A fraction of a second after Agnes recognized Ser Volkarin’s leg stretched out in front of her she was jerking her head out of his lap, pulling herself upright, hoping the dark hid (at least somewhat) how monstrously her face was blushing. It felt like all the blood in her body was rushing to her cheeks and her neck. Perhaps she was lucky. Perhaps he was not yet awake—

But, “Good morning,” came her mentor’s voice from behind her—that would have been too good to hope for.

“Or good evening,” Volkarin added. “As you may have noticed, it is nearly impossible to tell down here. Did you reset comfortably?”

He sounded… inexplicably cheerful. Not a trace of mockery, malice or discomfort in his voice. Agnes noticed the leather overcoat, draped once again around her shoulders—Ser Volkarin must have covered her with it when she had pillowed her head in his lap, stretched out on the floor.

“...I think so.”

“Excellent,” Volkarin replied, delighted. “Now, had we not been dispossessed of our supplies, I would offer you some refreshment before we start out again. But I fear we will have to forgo sustenance for now, until we can return to the levels above. Fortunately,” and here, at last, it seemed, was the cause of all his cheerfulness, “I do not think that will be very long from now.”

Agnes’ heart leapt with hope. “You know where we are?”

“Approximately,” Ser Volkarin replied. He rose to his feet, then offered his hand to Agnes. “Shall we?”

Agnes accepted his hand and he pulled her to her feet. Her cheeks still felt like they were burning. She bat at her skirts with her palm, trying to beat the dust of the Necropolis off of them, and offered Ser Volkarin back his coat.

“Thank you,” he said, inclining his head and accepting it gratefully. “Though neither of us will need it where we’re going.”

Through one of the archways out of the vaulter chamber, Agnes could see a strange, emerald glow in the distance. They struck out in that direction. As they approached, Agnes realized it was not a glow at all, but some incredible trick of magic—or else of engineering—as they emerged into a large garden, filled with a light that had the same color and warmth as the sun. 

In the center of the room, a large mound rose out of the earth. An imposing door of marble had been cut into its face, but the tomb was otherwise covered in green grass, and tall flowers. The botanical fragrance of the room was dizzying, giddying. Though it seemed impossible so far beneath the surface, fat, furry bees flew, pollen-drunk, from flower to flower.

“It is the Enchanted Garden of Undying Devotion,” Ser Volkarin told her, as Agnes reached down to pull off her crooked mismatched shoes so she could walk barefoot on the warm grass. “It was created in the Exalted Age by one of the Van Markham kings, in memory of his deceased wife. Not the rarest of sights in the Necropolis, perhaps, but one of my favorites—you are lucky to see it on your first trip down here.”

The garden was so warm and light—so humid— it was like being a child, back in the glass greenhouse on the Halkias estate, amongst the tropical flowers and pitcher-shaped plants. Untold miles above, in the city of Cumberland, winter reigned in the city but here , in this warm shrine to the dead, the dahlias are in bloom. Tight little yellow and orange puffballs, wide pink dinnerplates nearly as big as Agnes’ face. Along the lip of a fountain grow her mother’s favorite flowers—clusters of petals the size of Agnes’ hand, with an outer ring of carnelian red and a tight, white face.

“I knew the Necropolis contained wonders,” Agnes breathed, to herself as much as to Ser Volkarin, “but I never thought I’d see anything like this down here.” 

“I’m pleased to tell you it isn’t all the standard mausoleums, catacombs and ossuaries.” Then his voice changed. A passion came into it, a kind of promise. “There are miracles down here, Agnes. Works of art that those who go about their lives in the world above could never dream of.”

He lets that tantalizing promise hang, delectable, for only a moment.

“And there…” Volkarin continued, pointing to a faintly gleaming structure in the distance, “is our way out.”

Agnes squinted in the dark, until her eyes distinguished forms: the elevator’s lever, it’s chamber, its wired gate. “You found it!”

“Perhaps, through sheer luck. Or perhaps the Necropolis guided us to it. Who is to say?” 

And then Ser Volkarin dropped into a bow, extending his hand that Agnes might proceed him, enchanting his magelight to hover a few feet ahead of him and light her path. 

“After you, Miss Agnes.”

And suddenly—with his elegant air, with that gleam in his eyes, with that pleased, delightful smile—he outstripped the inexplicable sunlight and the bright faces of the dahlia blooms to become the most wondrous thing in the room. A little shiver worked its way down Agnes’ spine, and she felt a warmth—unwelcome, unbidden, and absolutely nothing to do with the sun—working its way through her chest. 

Perhaps the Mourn Watch would not be so terrible, after all. 

-------

This piece is Part I in a series of 11. [ Read Part II ] [ Nerdanel's Fic Masterpost ]

[nerdanel01]

agnes "i’m not your mom" gallatus but literally every night her and emmrich are making elaborate nevarran meals for family dinner with the rest of the youngins in the crew in the lighthouse

[ass-deep-in-demons]

I CAN'T BELIEVE I ALMOST MISSED THIS?!

WDYM they're married and travelling and visiting art galleries and going to fancy restaurants and making their public fucking in the opera house fantasy come true? And Emmrich is the perfect mix of blushing and making Agnes blush with one innocent gesture?!

Yeah. Okay. So that happens. We're getting there. I love that you chose Triastan and Isolde: it's like they're flipping a giant bird to the entire Thedas and everyone who ever thought to stand on the way of their love (even thought it was mostly they themselves that kept fumbling it 😅​)

WIP: liebsduett

Earlier that day—that very morning, as they had lay tangled together beneath the silken sheets in their guest rooms—Emmrich had confessed the whole of the fantasy to her; and the power it held over him was such that he could only talk about it in a whisper, with the loveliest blush of rosy embarrassment coloring his cheeks. But the glow of Agnes’ enthusiasm—her widening grin, her answering blush, and the bright look of alacrity with which she welcomed each sordid detail—had encouraged him, and he had drawn her into his arms; and although they had already given pleasure and satisfaction aplenty to one another that morning, still Agnes felt Emmrich stir anew against her as he pressed his mouth to the shell of her ear and filled it with hot promises of what lay in store for them that evening.

Before the performance, they had shared a meal at a restaurant with a distant view of the Winter Palace—one of the finest in the city, Agnes had been assured, but she barely tasted a bite; and though Emmrich cleaned his plates as ever, he stared at her throughout the meal with an appetite, a hunger that did not abate but rather seemed to swell as the dinner drew to a close. Outwardly, he was the epitome of chivalrous with her; decorous; gentlemanly; he did not speak a word of the impropriety he planned for them later. He did not need to—Agnes remembered perfectly well everything he had told her in bed, tracing patterns with his fingertips on her stomach, just above the tuft of her hair, close enough to make her legs tingle and hum with faint arousal but not enough for any real satisfaction. In fact, she had not stopped thinking about it all day: not in the art galleries where they had wandered that morning, nor the cafe where they lunched, nor the beautiful, verdant park where they’d passed the afternoon… nor when she had dressed for their date that evening.

And when, after dinner, upon arrival at the Halamshiral Opera House, Emmrich had placed his hand—firmly, deliberate, warm—on the small of her back to guide her up the opera house steps, Agnes felt herself tremble in pleasure at that touch alone; the quiet confidence in it, the intent, the promise. Inside, the gilt and marble splendor of the lobby, the brilliance of the crystal chandeliers was lost utterly on her. With Emmrich beside her, dressed in his finest, passing secretive giddy smiles at her—her hand held firmly and securely in his hand—she had eyes only for him:

Her husband. Her eternal beloved.

——————

etc. etc. and then Agnes finally gets railed at the opera during the Act II of Tristan und Isolde (think of it as a follow up to the one shot of Emmrich yanking it after the Mozart opera)

[nerdanel01]

Emmrich Fics - Masterpost

For anyone looking for the former pinned post with my Solas fics, they can be still be found at my Solas Masterpost, here.

for love is strong as death - When the Veilguard fails to stop Solas' ritual, Varric asks Rook to step up and lead the team. But the mistakes she's made in the War of the Banners haunt her as she tries to defeat the gods—as do the ties she'd severed when she left the Grand Necropolis behind. Emmrich/MW Origin Rook Longfic, Chp. 4/?, 34k+ wc *Spoilers for Veilguard

Lectionary Pursuits - Rook cockwarms Emmrich in the meditation room. Emmrich/F!Rook smut, Emmrich POV, NSFW, 3k+ wc. *Spoiler-free smut!

when I am laid in earth - Long ago, Rook encouraged Emmrich to give up his dreams of lichdom. Now that he's gone, she almost regrets it. Emmrich/F!Rook, Multiple POV, MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH, Chp. 1/4, 3.9k wc. *Spoilers for Veilguard

___________________________________ Pre-Release Fics The below list contains fics written pre-release. Emmrich characterization is pretty solid, but watch out for OOC characterization of certain Mourn Watch related side characters. for no mere mortal can resist [Ao3] - Agnes Gallatus, a newly initiated member of the Mourn Watch, grows into her new role under the guidance of her mentor, Emmrich Volkarin. Link to AO3 above, individual chapters linked below.

Thrown In The Deep End - Rook's first day in the Mourn Watch with her new mentor, Emmrich Volkarin. Things don't go as planned. 2.5k+

Annum - Rook's first workiversary, 2k+

Guard - Emmrich is gravely wounded in the Necropolis. Rook handles it about as well as you'd expect. 5k+

Substitutionary Satisfaction - Rook unravels a bit after sharing a tent with Emmrich in the Necropolis. 4k+. **18+ for sexual fantasy and explicit sexual content

Exquisite - Rook tries to find some way to express to Emmrich what he means to her. 2.5k+

Death - When Rook is wounded while patrolling the Necropolis, Emmrich is forced to take drastic measures to protect her. 1.5k+

Tipsy - Rook and Emmrich share a night at the opera. Emmrich POV, 2k+

Appearances - A chance conversation with Myrna yields some unexpected revelations. Emmrich POV, 1.5k+

All Things Go, All Things Grow - Changes are happening in the Mourn Watch. Rook doesn't take them so well. 4k+

All Things Go, All Things Grow Pt. II - Emmrich contends with the consequences of his decisions. Emmrich POV, 3k+

Dilemma - The more things change, the more they stay the same. Emmrich POV, 5k+

Aostrolf's Weed AU

Aostrolf's Weed - After an unexpected discovery in the Necropolis, Emmrich and Rook are forced to contend with their feelings for each other. *AU, sex pollen, Pre-Veilguard, Mourn Watch origin Rook. 20k+ wc, 18+ for explicit sexual content, available by AO3 link only

Love Is A Stranger - Multi-chaptered fic that pics up where Aostrolf's Weed leaves off. Chp. 9/10 available on AO3.

One Shots

You Who Know What Love Is - @racheloleo asked if Emmrich ever fantasized about Agnes. Emmrich POV, 4k+ 18+ for explicit sexual content.

Horrors - Lord Halkias makes the long journey to Nevarra City to inter his wife in the Necropolis. Although Johanna Hezenkoss tries her best, she cannot conceal his arrival from Emmrich. 3.5k+

When We Were Young - Things don’t always work the way they used to when you are older. Rook assures Emmrich that’s just fine by her. Emmrich POV, 1.5k+, strongly implied sexual content

Caught - Emmrich POV, 1k+, 18+ for explicit sexual content.

From This Day Forward - Emmrich and Rook consider what will come next after the Veilguard's mission is complete. Emmrich POV, 1.5k+

Exquisite, Pt. II - Emmrich is reunited with Rook when he joins the Veilguard, but that reunion is somewhat less warm that he would have hoped. Emmrich POV, 2k+

[nerdanel01]

Death

Emmrich Volkarin/F!Rook 1.5k+ wc | SFW Possibly as a result of the massive breach in the Veil to the south, the Necropolis is more dangerous than ever. When Agnes is wounded while on patrol, Emmrich is forced to take drastic measures to protect her. EXCERPT: Impossible not to feel it, then. Emmrich’s magic, coursing through her body. Emmrich’s hands, firm on her chest, pushing her spirit back into her flesh before it got too far away—pushing air into her lungs, pushing life back into her veins. 

Agnes tried to speak, but her throat was so dry she had to swallow and try again. “Was I dead?”

9:42 Dragon

High heat of summer in the west, the rashvine-in-snow just beginning to bloom—ladybugs and fireflies seeking refuge from the sun in the cool pockets of the flower’s petals. Agnes, plenty cool herself, her skirt soaked through with mud to her waist, sang an invented song under her breath, her tiny hands sculpting the mud around her into taller and taller spires. Maman towering above her, driving into the fertile earth the wooden stakes she had sharpened herself, gently girding the dahlias against them for support. Young, loved, and protected. Still wrapped in the romantic fiction mother had woven to shield her from an uglier truth: that her father had loved her mother; that he was a kind and gentle man, employed in the stable of a neighboring estate. 

“Ma chère,” her mother called her. Agnes looked up. But the noontide sun was directly overhead, silhouetting her mother’s sunhat, obscuring her face in shadow. “You are being called.”

Agnes only felt it when her mother called attention to it: a strange nagging, an unwelcome plucking feeling in the center of her chest. 

“Agnes! Agnes Gallatus!”

Who was shouting after her so rudely, when she was having such fun with her Maman? A childish, resentful pucker on her face, she cast her eyes downwards in the direction of the voice. The mud beneath her had vanished, and Agnes found she was hovering above a narrow, vaulted chamber, flanked on either side by high columns of quartz, carved in the image of skeletons holding the roof aloft. A figure was hunched over on the stone tile below her, a tempest of powerful magic crackling in the air around them. 

‘Emmrich…?’

The moment Agnes recognized him, the plucking feeling in her chest swelled and snapped.

Someone’s hands pressed too firm against her chest. 

Violent gasp of breath. 

Agnes wrenched herself upright, heaving, fighting the oxygen-starved ache in her muscles. Blinking the darkness from her vision, her eyes rolled wildly around the room as she fought for air. When her heart began to beat anew, pounding madly, the last ebb of adrenaline washed over and through her. Something was terribly, terribly wrong—

“Agnes, thank the Maker! No, dear, don’t fight it, relax, lie back down…”

Emmrich’s hand was firm on her shoulder, supporting her as she lowered herself back onto the cold Necropolis floor. His other hand bunched his leather overcoat behind her head, a makeshift cushion to pillow it against the tile. 

But Agnes could not relax. Pain wracked every inch of her body, and she could not shake an overwhelming sense of impending danger and doom. Emmrich’s words were reassuring, but his tone was anything but—she was not sure she had ever heard him sound so uncertain, or so frightened. He looked absolutely wretched, perspiration dripping down his face, his expression lined with grief and determination in equal measure. A phosphorescent flame was fading fast from his eyes, but Agnes caught it, nevertheless.

‘Oh.’

Impossible not to feel it, then. Emmrich’s magic, coursing through her body. Emmrich’s hands, firm on her chest, pushing her spirit back into her flesh before it got too far away—pushing air into her lungs, pushing life back into her veins. 

Agnes tried to speak, but her throat was so dry she had to swallow and try again. “Was I dead?” The words came out as a hoarse, thin rattle. An almost spiritual look of relief washed over Emmrich’s face when he heard her voice.

“You are alive now. That is all that matters. Keep breathing, you should begin to feel better in just a few minutes…”

Alive now. Implying quite strongly there had been a period—Agnes could not say how long—that she had not been alive. She struggled through the fog of pain to recall what exactly had happened.

The ride down into the Necropolis in the morning… she remembered that. That was how every day started, now, after all. No more weeks-long research expeditions among the crypts and tombs. Ever since the Breach had opened in the south months ago, the disturbances within the Necropolis had grown too frequent and too great for such a risk. All of the Watchers were now deployed in shifts, with the express and sole purpose of policing the halls. There had always been a risk of encountering demons in the Necropolis, but lately, the peril had multiplied.

And then, it all came back to her in flashes: the pride demon they had found prowling among the tableaus of the dead, and the fight that ensued. The demon’s lightning that had shattered her barrier and struck her square in the chest, stopping her heart. The world growing dark, the demon’s fist raised to strike her down for good. Emmrich’s shout, the glow of his eyes, the crackle of magic tingling in the air as he seized possession of his thrall.

The forceful push of Alfred’s bony hands, flinging her down and out of the way of the pride demon’s strike.

‘Oh, no.’

“Emmrich… I’m so, so sorry.”

Emmrich looked at her quizzically. “You have nothing to be sorry for, Agnes.”

“But Alfred…”

She turned her eyes pointedly to the pile of splintered bone and dust just a few feet away: all that remained of the thrall after the pride demon had struck it down, his pitiful, characteristic wailing silenced forever.

“...you had been working on him for years. Emmrich, you must be devastated.”

Emmrich’s face tightened, eyes narrowing, brows knitting together. The muscle in the corner of his jaw gave a little jump. “You cannot be serious,” he said, shaking his head. His gaze had never left her face; he had not so much as glanced at Alfred’s paltry, decimated remains. In fact he looked concerned, as though he was suddenly doubting how thoroughly he had reanimated her, for her to think such an absurd thought. “Agnes, Alfred was a project. A beloved project, to be sure, but a project nonetheless. I can begin again. Begin better, this time.”

Then Emmrich leaned over her, lifting his hands to frame her face. His palms were so warm against her skin, his thumb so gentle as it traced the plains of her cheekbones… his gaze so impossibly tender and wounded. 

“But you… if I lose you, I cannot get you back.” 

There was a terrible crack in his voice, as though he was close to tears. Agnes did not know if she wanted more to embrace him, or to sink through the floor and disappear entirely. She was so moved at how deeply he cared. She was so mortified at how her incompetence (she should have seen the lightning coming, should have reinforced her barrier before it hit) had caused him such pain and fear.

An unsteady exhale shook him. The glow had left Emmrich’s eyes entirely, now, and they were wholly brown, wholly warm, wholly honest with her.

“You are more precious to me than any experiment.” He spoke in a low whisper, as if he was afraid that if he spoke at a greater volume, he would not be able to hold himself together. “I would not trade you for one hundred, one thousand Alfreds.”

And then, Agnes saw it: how much it had taken out of him to restore her; the way it had aged him. For in all the time she had known him, Emmrich’s hair had always been dark: now, it was streaked through with white and grey—not entirely salt and pepper, yet, but markedly lighter than it had been.

He must have noticed she was staring at him. “What is it?”

‘You nearly killed yourself trying to save me.’ “You’ve lost a bit of color.”

“Oh,” Emmrich said, indifferently, reaching up to run a hand through his hair. “Have I?”

“It looks good,” Agnes told him, forcing a thin smile. “Elegant. Distinguished.”

Emmrich laughed low in disbelief. “You flatter me. I look more like an old man than ever, now, I am sure.” He lifted his other hand from her face and stretched, joints cracking as he did so; Agnes repressed the urge to catch it, to hold it fast against her face. “I certainly feel like an old man after that effort. Agnes, I dearly want to get you back to the other Watchers as soon as possible—you should visit the infirmary, just to be safe—but, forgive me, I need to rest first, just for a moment.”

Slowly, wincing as he did so, Emmrich lowered himself to the filthy floor next to her, a little cloud of dust kicking up when the back of his head came to rest at last on the tile. Emmrich was not quite as draconian in his need for order as Agnes, but he liked to keep things clean; he must have been truly exhausted, then, if he felt the need to lie down in the dirt to recover his strength. His eyes slipped closed, and his breathing slowed. Agnes thought he might drift off to sleep.

“Thank you,” she said, interrupting him before he could. “For saving my life.”

Emmrich’s upper lip gave a small twitch, then his bottom lip began to tremble. Even with his eyes closed, he looked so terribly upset. Without opening them to look at her, his hand quested across the dusty tile floor until it found her own, and closed tightly around it.

“For a moment,” he confessed, “you were entirely beyond my grasp, beyond my ability to reach. I was not sure I would be able to bring you back to me. You have no idea…” his voice trailed off and he squeezed her hand. “How good it feels, now. How reassuring. To feel you, to hear you, warm and breathing next to me.”

At that, Agnes was thankful Emmrich’s eyes were closed. She could not control the emotions raging across her face; could not imagine how deeply they betrayed her, with all Emmrich’s words pirouetting through her head. How he had called her precious, held her face, was still holding her hand. This sweetness, this intimacy–she had always longed for it. Still longed for it. But each breath she took still felt like knives cutting into her lungs; a reminder with each inhale of how close they had come to losing one another for good. 

How lucky she was! To have Emmrich’s love in any capacity. For if there had been any lingering doubt in her mind that he did, indeed, love her, it was now banished. That he did not, perhaps, love her in the way that she truly desired, did not make her cherish that love any less. 

And all she wanted to do, more than hold his hand or touch his face in return, was reassure him. To remain warm, alive, and breathing beside him, for as long as she possibly could. 

“It’s alright now, Emmrich,” Agnes said, and squeezed his hand back. “Rest as long as you need. I’ll keep watch until you’re ready."

---

This piece is Part VI in a series of 11. [ Start from beginning ] [ Read Part VII ] [ Nerdanel's Fic Masterpost ]

[nerdanel01]

you know what *wips your wednesday at the last minute*

from the next for love is strong as death update:

Most days, the charade worked. Whomever she awoke as, by the time she had cleaned herself and dressed, she was Rook, whom Varric had recruited: Rook of the back-alley gaatlock deals by the Minanter River docks; Rook, regular brawler of the underground dueling ring of Dock Town’s Dancing Cobra; Rook, who was straightforward and capable, confident, collected—even, occasionally, charming.

Agnes Gallatus had been buried alive, interred in the cold, dreary cellar of Rook’s heart.

But when her soul was quiet, she could hear Agnes’ fingernails scraping the inner lining of the coffin box—hear the raw-throated screams of her former self—only barely muffled by the wood and the masonry that encased her, begging to be freed from her premature entombment, desperate for air.

And now—grey eyes aflame with fury and heartbreak, her features lit blue in the ethereal glow of the meditation room’s aquarium—the face reflected in Varric’s shaving mirror, staring back at her, was entirely Agnes’ face: raging, spiteful, wounded.

Clumsily, unartfully, ducking her head to keep sight of her reflection, she wielded Harding’s sewing shears in her right hand, holding her hair to the blades with her left; as she snipped, cutting back the fin of long hair that had striped across her scalp, black and silvered hair fell in rough locks of uneven length on the stone floor around her.

Because it was Agnes—not Rook—who could not bear to look at her own face and see any trace of Solas reflected there.

[nerdanel01]

Hello! 👋

First of all, I absolutely love your Emmrich x Agnes series 😍💀💚 We have all fallen for a heap of pixels and I desperately needed to hear his voice, and he now speaks in my head with your words. Thank you so much for that!!!

If you don't mind, I have fan-asks 🥰

1. Are you planning to do an Agnes Gallatus playthrough once the actual game comes out? If so, will we see screens of Agnes and her adventures then?

2. Is for no mere mortals... going to be a standalone series or are there going to be other series or one-shots within the AU?

I am in awe of how your plot meanders through the crumbs of Veilguard storyline that are known to us so far... 📚 I sincerelly hope that Agnes's story will prove compatibile with the Veilguard plot and she can resolve her character arc within the game somehow. 🥰🥰🥰

1. Chp 11 should answer that question :)

2. My plans as of right now are to take a few days to recover from Whatever That Was that just possessed me to write like 30k+ in three weeks, then make at least a valiant effort at finishing my Solavellan longfic before DatV comes out. I am trying really, really hard not to write into the game itself because I just want to let the Emmrichmance wash over me. That being said, I do have other one shot sketched out in my notes, so I may end up carrot-and-stick-ing myself a bit and flop between the two pairings.

I too hope Agnes gets some resolution in the game, but I am a solavellan shipper 😬 so I am also just biting my nails in the corner very concerned that I have set her up with 20+ years of pining only to get her heart broken when the plot hits the fan. We’ll see! 😭