#amina ingellvar

[heylittleriotact]

⚰ＷＩＰ ＷＨＥＮＥＶＥＲ⚰

I've been tagged by @xxnashiraxx and love seeing their work pop up on my dash - thank you <3

The Soup du Jour is... smut! Plotless, pointless, porntacular, horny Emmrook smut.

We've got praise kinks, we've got flashing, we've got grinding, we've got trying-to-distract-this-poor-man-from-his-work, we've got Rook biting off more than she can chew when Emmrich calls her bluff. It is in this piece that I am (ultimately) going to make good on my threat of Emmrich reciting erotic poetry intimately into Rook's ear while he makes deeply passionate love to her, because that idea has lived rent-free in my head for days now and I need to manifest it. But first I need Rook to be a brat, and for Emmrich to... deal with that.

I was having doubts about this one because I am forever afraid of writing OOC, but honestly I'm just trying to chuck it in the fuck it bucket and have fun.

Tagging: @preciouslittlebhaalbae (you have TIME now MWAHAHAHA), @allofthebarks (don't hold out on me), @emmg (I know you're cooking 👀)

Under the cut because it is ✨EXPLICIT✨

𝒱𝒾𝓈𝒾𝓉𝒶𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃:

A funeral event where the prepared body of the deceased is reposed in the casket (open or closed) so that mourners may pay their respects, say their goodbyes, and grieve communally prior to the formal funeral service.

She knew exactly what she was doing when she pulled on the flimsy little camisole. She had very specific plans in mind when she slipped into the thin leggings that she knew were just a little too tight. There was a distinct reason she had chosen to completely forgo underthings. 

She tied her thick hair into a low bun at the base of her skull so her neck was clearly visible… as was the somewhat faded love bite from their previous encounter - the one that made Lace turn beetroot when she laid eyes on it at breakfast. The one that prompted Taash to reach over the table with a congratulatory high five. Emmrich had coughed awkwardly and subtly adjusted his own collar, clearly hoping the marks Amina had left on his neck in return were concealed.

She padded barefoot down the hallway to the laboratory, stomach fluttering and turning on itself in a not unpleasant way with the sheer anticipation of being in his proximity again. She couldn’t help but be drawn to him - his immense gravity could not be ignored; her need to be near him was insistent. She put little stock in the novelty of fate before Emmrich, but there was no doubt in her mind that there must have been some sort of cosmic ruling in which they were unwittingly sentenced by the stars to find one another. Her belly smouldered at the thought of such a thing… of such belonging.

She knocked gently on the door. “It’s me - may I come in?” 

She didn’t have to wait for an answer, nor did she have to turn the knob herself: she heard a chair scuff over the flagstone, the muffled jingle of gold - a sound that set her heart racing more often than not these days - and the door was flung open. Emmrich stood in the threshold, beaming affectionately down at her. 

“Of course, darling.” He took her hand and pulled her into the room, reaching over her shoulder to shut the door once she was inside. She might have been embarrassed that the sound of the lock clicking behind her made her breath catch solely due to its implication, but she was having a hard time feeling much of anything but barely restrained lust for the man in front of her. 

He drew her in close with an arm around her waist, still holding her hand between them, massaging her palm with his thumb as he bowed his head to kiss her sweetly. Her knees went weak when his lips met hers and his familiar scent filled her nose, rendering her brain incapable of anything other than inwardly chanting the same base sentiment over and over for as long as the kiss lasted: Home! Home! Home! Home! You’re home!

He straightened and looked at her, smiling as though he hadn’t heard the hungry little moan that had slipped from her, nor perceived the way she’d pressed as much of her body against him as she could during their embrace. “How are you today?” He asked, genuinely interested - as always. He knew. Surely he knew that she was positively bursting with need for him.

“Fine,” she breathed, returning the smile, watching as he started back towards the desk that was covered with books, inkpots, and parchment. “I’m well, thank you. Just thought I’d come say hello, see what you’re up to.”  

He pulled a chair over to the opposite side of the desk for her to sit on. She opted to remain standing instead, her eyes flitted over the pages of drying ink spread over the desk. 

“More letters home?” She waited until he was settled in his chair again, the quill back in his hand, and she bent at the waist to take a closer look at a recent anatomical drawing he’d completed. She could feel the cozy heat of the laboratory caress the exposed peaks of her breasts as the insubstantial shirt draped downward, offering a generous eyeful to anyone who might be sitting directly across from her. 

Her eyes flicked up from the drawing when Emmrich didn’t answer right away, a clever smile pulling at the corners of her mouth when she caught him red-handed; his eyes locked on the dainty swell of her breasts. 

He came to his senses when he felt her eyes on him and he comprehended the coquettish smirk on her face. “Yes.” He licked his lips. “Yes. Maintaining alliships and channels of communication is vital as we draw closer to our confrontation with the gods.” He swallowed and smiled again as Amina straightened and rounded the desk, settling against the wood on his side now.

“A fine plan,” she concurred, leaning back on her hands, her very visible nipples more or less eye level for the handsome academic to admire. “I hope I’m not distracting you: it’s so rare that I get a few hours to just relax these days.” She made a bit of a show of tilting her chin up and slowly rolling her head from side to side, stretching out the muscles of her neck and making sure Emmrich could see the soft plum-tinted bloom of colour he’d imparted on her skin as he sent her over the edge with his name on her lips, buried to the hilt between her legs as she clenched hard around him, her fingers curled tightly in his soft, thick hair. ‘You are incredible, darling,’ he had sighed against her tingling skin afterwards when they were little more than a tangled, panting heap of limbs. It had taken a good hour after that before she could walk again…

Amina squirmed against the desk a little at the thought, aware of the burgeoning wetness that was accumulating at the juncture of her thighs. 

Somehow Emmrich managed to maintain the discipline required to look back at the letter he was working on, his lips curling quaintly. “Not at all, my dear - quite the contrary in fact: I’m so glad that you’re finally taking some time to look after yourself.” He dipped the quill, tapped it once, twice, and then brought it to the paper.

She observed him in silence until he seemingly made peace with the fact that she was not going to sit on the chair he’d brought over for her, and instead pushed his own back slightly, pulling her down onto his lap where she perched gleefully, having gotten what she wanted. 

“I must concede that you are somewhat distracting, so I will need your assistance in proofreading these before they’re sent out - I do have an academic reputation to maintain, regardless of the beautiful woman on my knee.” 

“Is that so?” Amina purred, nuzzling into his neck, her lips barely ghosting over his skin that smelled organic and clean - crisp soap and freshly cut sage… a lingering hint of pipe tobacco and expensive brandy. 

Oh yes, she was going to be one hell of a distraction…

“She sounds like a real piece of work, this woman. It’s a marvel that you get anything done at all with her around.” She tilted her hips ever so slightly. Not enough for it to be claimed that she was trying to get a rise out of him, but enough so that the fingernails of his left hand dug into her side a little where he gripped her. A pleased smile took her lips at the feeling of him against her, already half hard: he could pretend to be aloof and composed all he liked, but she knew that there was only one possible outcome for this encounter. 

“I was just having a similar thought, as it turns out,” he murmured, breath catching slightly when Amina ground against him more deliberately this time. “She’s cornered me in my laboratory no fewer than three times this week, you see: my productivity has utterly plummeted.”

The way he whispered those words, his voice so sinful and cunning…

“Oh dear…” Amina tutted. “Well we can’t have that now, can we?” She moved to slide from his lap, fully prepared to at least pretend that she cared a whit about Emmrich’s ‘productivity’ of late. 

He held her fast though, keeping her on his lap with his hands and arms, and the sheer fact of his existence alone. She rewarded him with a satisfied hum and another agonizingly slow roll of her hips, suspecting that she was probably beginning to soak through her thin pants.

His hand dropped from her waist to her thigh and he palmed the expanse of hard muscle there, dragging his fingers towards her hip as he leaned forward and his hot breath washed over the sensitive shell of her ear, driving a small gasp from her as she flinched in his grasp: he had not been idly boasting during that dinner date about his anatomical prowess.

“I fear I wouldn’t have it any other way…” he confided, those artful, nimble fingers of his straying to her waistband and slipping beneath it. He sharply inhaled through his teeth and uttered a soft ‘oh’ when he found her waiting for him, slick and needy. There was a slight tremor in his voice when he said, “She is intoxicating, you see…”

She moaned encouragingly as he swirled a finger through her, clearly enjoying the experience of her arousal alone: she could distinctly feel his hardness against her rear now.

Oh how she longed to ravish him - ride him to completion on this very chair, or on the floor perhaps. Maybe against one of the many bookshelves that lined the room - they had dallied against one the week before, her leg hitched up around his thin waist, pulling him deeper as he set a pace that stole her breath from her lungs and hit angles that caused her to see stars. 

Or she could bend over the railing of the balcony upstairs and feign interest in the curious nature of their environs while he slammed into her over and over again, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her hips… 

Of course there had been the rather awkward instance a few days earlier where Manfred had wandered in on them both in a state of partial undress: Emmrich’s waistcoat hanging open, Amina dragging her hands through his hair, her own shirt piled in a careless heap on the floor nearby and Emmrich’s hand down her pants as she tried to kick off her high-heeled lilac slippers without removing her lips from his skin. Manfred had launched himself between the two of them with a consternated hiss, clearly interpreting their entanglement to mean they were fighting instead of well… the other thing. The following day, Emmrich gave his first in a series of many lectures to Manfred about the birds and the bees - and reiterated the invaluable virtue of always knocking before entering a room that might have someone else in it.

She was snapped from her musing at the sublime sensation of Emmrich’s finger dragging along the ridges of her walls as he slid the digit inside of her. She let out a small gasp at the intrusion and reflexively clenched around it, hips rocking against his once more. 

“... but I really must finish these letters.” There was a playful, coy edge to his voice as he slowly withdrew his finger and slowly pushed it back in. “This striking woman of mine will need to exercise patience today, it seems…”

Something about being his striking woman in particular sent a jolt of arousal straight through her very soul. She could feel the cool metal of his rings against her feverish skin as he cupped her sex, his thumb brushing almost tauntingly over her aching clit. 

“Please, Emmrich…” she whined, arching up into his touch, making her need plain. 

The demonstration of manners earned her a second finger, but her lover did not deviate from his task as he leaned forward, dipped the quill, and began to write once more. “In good time, my precious love,” he soothed. “Try to relax for the time being - I shan’t take long.” 

“It feels so good though…” 

“That’s wonderful, darling - I want you to feel good.” 

She fell silent, the wind in the sails of her desire to argue stilling as she let her head fall against the back of the chair and closed her eyes, allowing herself to exist in the moment - holding on tight to every emphatic response of her nervous system as Emmrich touched her with a capable familiarity that suggested he’d touched her a thousand times before; the erotic symphony of the quill scratching over the parchment mingled with the sound of his fingers moving within her… her breathy moans… his many bangles shifting gently with each purposeful gesture…

“You’re doing so well,” he murmured eventually - she had lost track of time - kissing her shoulder before returning to the letter. He had to be nearly done, hadn’t he? “So good for me… my sweet Amina…”

She whimpered at his words - the reverent praise tolling something deep within her that was starved and lonely. She writhed on his thigh as he placed tender kisses all over her cheek and crooked his fingers, stroking that euphoric place inside of her that made cognizant thought impossible and made her thighs tremble like she’d been in the training hall all day. He took her apart slowly, casually… effortlessly, and before long she was fluttering around him, cheeks and lips flushed a delicate pink, staring down an orgasm that was about to be everyone in the building’s business - she could feel it: the deep fire in her belly roiling and twisting on itself, going taut, so tense and eager that one more touch could snap it, yielding the most decadent release…

And then he was gone, the absence of his touch keenly felt as her walls flexed and tensed around the sudden nothingness. 

She glowered at him, though her stomach flip-flopped enthusiastically as she watched him taste her on his slender fingers with a dignified poise she should have expected. “That was cruel.”

“Is it cruel to strive to linger in a garden of untold majesty forever, even knowing forever is unobtainable?” He stroked those same fingers gently over her lips and she caught the tip of one between her teeth, flicking the very tip of her tongue over the fleshy pad of it. “I want to savour you, my dear.” He buried his nose in her hair and inhaled her scent. “Let me take my time.”

[heylittleriotact]

💐WIP WEDNESD-ENEVER 💐

@emmg asked for a WIP so here's a chunky one. It's also spicy. Under the cut for length.

I wanted to elaborate on what I imagined Emmrich and Rook banging in a coffin was like. So....

Pairing: Emmrich x Female Rook

Rating: Explicit

Casket Spray:

A large, ornate floral arrangement that sits on top of the casket. It is usually the centrepiece of the funeral flower display.

“What I said the night we had that argument…” she trailed off, not sure what else to say. Was it stupid? Obviously. She knew that even before she got unceremoniously thrown into Solas’ prison in the Dread Wolf’s  place. Was it upsetting? Very - for both of them. Reiterating that now would be pointless. “It feels like it was just yesterday for me, but it was over a fortnight for you.” She squeezed Emmrich’s hand tighter and sidled even closer to him on the stair that they were occupying in a quiet corner of the Necropolis. 

It wasn’t that she was afraid that at any moment she might be dragged away from him again - this time for good, except, well… that was actually exactly what she was afraid of. 

“Thank you for not giving up on me.” 

That was the sentiment she ended up settling on. Thin and somewhat trite, even to her own ears - she had little doubt that he could see through it too. She might as well have told him it wasn’t his fault.

She just hoped he understood that she wasn’t solely referring to rescuing her from the Fade. 

And… there it was - that smile: effortless and comforting by virtue of its existence alone. 

His cheeks were once again clean-shaven (Amina’s gentle suggestion that maybe he should give the beard a chance was politely rebuffed), and his hair was washed and neatly coiffed as usual. One would never guess by looking at him now that only a few hours earlier he looked like a man on the very brink of insanity. 

Over her. 

Over a few poorly chosen words uttered out of fear and pain. Over being plunged into the sudden reality that those might have been the last words exchanged between them. 

Something deep within her stirred at the knowledge that he had been so undone by what had happened at Tearstone Island. If she’d had any doubts that his affections towards her were genuine, they were long gone. There were no lengths that he wouldn’t have gone to in order to retrieve her from that prison, and as flattering as that fact was, she was grateful that Emmrich had not ultimately been called to challenge his definition of what was ‘right’ in this scenario…

People probably wouldn’t have understood…

People probably wouldn’t have liked it. 

And he was nothing if not palatable, right? What with his deliberate togetherness that he presented to the world: a reassurance in and of itself. 

Take that away though…

Watchers were indeed oath-sworn caregivers of the living and the dead, but their approachable, kind nature was of a deliberate sort designed specifically to foster trust. Beneath that compassionate altruism, they were fundamentally guardians and protectors… and they were capable of staggering violence. One only had to consider the damage Johanna nearly caused to understand that a Watcher willing to operate outside the boundaries of their oath was dangerous.

Her beloved Emmrich was no different in that respect, though she was probably one of the few who knew it.

And still he had made a point earlier of talking her down from naming Solas as a ruined spirit and vowing to destroy him for his betrayal and cruel manipulation…

She wasn’t sure if this section of the Necropolis was particularly drafty this evening, but she felt the small hairs on her arms raise slightly and forced her mind away from such thoughts. 

Instead, she thought about how much she loved him. The way his eyes glittered cleverly in the light of the veilfire, and the soft shape of his lips. He was looking at her like she was the center of the universe, and she knew that she didn’t want to go anywhere without him for the rest of her days: she wanted to see his face in the morning when she opened her eyes, and when each day was done, she wanted the last thing she tasted to be those soft, slightly pouting lips. 

She’d see to it that he never felt alone or unwanted again: she would want him always.

She wanted to come back here to the Necropolis when all was said and done and make a home with him and Manfred. The three of them would be so happy together.

And… oh.

Her breath caught as a new thought stole into her mind.

In time - if they desired it - she could cease imbibing the weekly tonic she’d taken for so many years to ensure her monthly cycle. His seed would quicken within her and they would create a child borne of their loving union - blood magic in its purest and most literal form: a legacy crafted of their own flesh. And Manfred would make such a fine big brother with a little sibling to dote on…

Her stomach flip-flopped as arousal curled up through the very marrow of her bones and set a fire deep within her belly. Of course when she was young she’d thought she’d like to be a mother one day, but she’d given up on genuinely putting any thought to such an aspiration years earlier: she never thought she’d find someone who’d truly want her.

Now Elgar’nan and Solas were the only ones in the way of such a future. It was so close she could practically taste it…

She swallowed roughly, feeling her heart hammering away in her breast as the future unveiled itself in Emmrich’s eyes and she burned for him with an imminent need to be united with him utterly.

They might die tomorrow, after all…

“Amina? Are you alright, darling? You look as though you’re a million miles away.” He gently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and she nuzzled into his hand. 

“I’m sorry, love.” She dragged herself back to reality with a smile. “I’m listening.” 

“I was just saying how relieved I am that you’re safe.” 

And he was. He really, really was. Amina suspected he had been counting each of her breaths since she tumbled out of the Fade; kept an eye on the steady thrum of her carotid artery when he could glimpse it just for the visual reminder that she had a pulse and was in fact alive and not just a figment of his grief addled imagination the way Varric had been for her.

“I did have someone to come back to.” She took his hand and stood. 

She gently pulled Emmrich to his feet too and rocked up onto her toes, rising through her knees – up into her hips… lengthening her spine until she could press her lips to his, kissing him and putting all of her devotion and love and fear and sorrow into it along with all of her hunger and yearning. 

When she drew back, the sight of that hunger reflected back at her drove a small gasp from her - it wasn’t an exclamation of surprise, but rather the sound one might make when they find themselves suddenly breathless upon viewing a deeply moving piece of art.

He had apartments in the upper levels of the Necropolis - as did she - but when one considered their surroundings – this quiet, esoteric corner of the wing and the privacy that had clearly been paid for; the fact that this was an owned but unoccupied plot… and the individual it belonged to was suddenly kissing her again – his intent was clear. 

Her fingers twisted into his soft hair and a sumptuous moan rumbled through from him at her touch. Her jaw slackened and his tongue swept past her lips with a desperation that would have shocked her if she hadn’t been privy to the knowledge that he thought she might be dead for the past two weeks. 

Then he was walking her back, back, back, and she offered no resistance, feeling herself bump up against the raised stone sarcophagus in the center of the room. She didn’t need to remove her lips from Emmrich’s to spare a look, nor did she need to remove her hands from his to spare a touch: she knew that the stone wasn’t humble lime - none of the monuments in this section were: they were all at least marble or high-grade granite. She’d stared at the classic, hexagonal shape of the sarcophagus while he was telling her about Hope and Devotion, and as he talked her down from her determination to destroy Solas for his betrayal. She’d stared at it for long enough this evening to mark it as a monument hewn of coveted blue granite from the Anderfels. It had to have cost a fortune – interesting for a man so terrified of his eventual death to sink so much gold into it, she had thought at one point.

She captured his lower lip between her teeth as she leaned against that monument and posed a wordless question as she bit down gently: Are we really doing this, love? 

He whined in response as she worried at his lip, soothing the sting of her bite, his slender long-fingered hand slipping around her waist and splaying across her lower back to bring himself close and erase any space between them.

The familiar and welcome sensation of his hardening length pressed against her in spellbound and equally silent answer: If it pleases you, dearest. 

Every day it seemed he found a new way to surprise her. She shivered at the thought of how many other surprises might await them…

It wasn’t that they both knew that this section - regardless of how serene it was - was ultimately open to the public and anybody could happen by them at any time, though that had its own ribald appeal…

No, it was for the very fact that Emmrich I-Choose-My-Words-Carefully Volkarin did nothing accidentally and left no room for coincidence when his actions were called into question. He was just as aware as Amina that a comfortable feather bed in a warm apartment complete with a crackling fire, expensive Orlesian massage oils, and a selection of the finest wines were all things they could have within minutes should they desire them - all they needed to do was take the lift a hundred-odd levels up, and that was that.

But he wanted this.

After all, what could possibly be more sacred than making love in your eternal resting place on the eve of the end of the world? 

So she shimmied up and seated herself on the edge of the sarcophagus, her legs parting so he could slot himself between them. She could feel the slickness between her thighs clinging to her underthings as she ran her hands over him, dragging his coat down his long arms. 

“I love you, Emmrich.” 

The words were still so new to her tongue and her ears, but it felt like her heart had been beating to the rhythm of them for her entire life. 

“And I love you, my darling, precious Amina.” He shrugged out of the coat and draped it over the side of the cold stone. 

“I don’t think I’ll ever tire of hearing you say that,” she grinned against his skin, kissing up his neck - tasting the slight saltiness of him and the tang of his cologne. She nibbled at his earlobe and he tensed against her, another pained little gasp slipping past his lips. 

Unable to bear it anymore, she gathered him to her, wrapping her legs around his waist in a fluid movement that sent them both tumbling backwards into the soft velvet lining of the sarcophagus - it was surprisingly soft: quilted and down-filled. There was even a pillow at the head end - a proper one with a silk slip trimmed with scalloped lace, also probably down-filled… not one of those dreadful thin ones filled with wood shavings that offered little to no support for the reposed decedent when it came to the purpose of viewing them.

Indeed Emmrich appeared to have spared no expense when it came to the question of quality and craftsmanship of his final resting place - or was it more accurately theirs now? Destined to be put to use sooner rather than later depending on the outcome of tomorrow?

Most married couples shared the space of an owned crypt but each had their own sarcophagus or niche based on what they could afford. But as Amina’s lungs filled with oxygen, and her rib cage expanded, and she and Emmrich suffused into the cramped space, filling it completely with their bodies and limbs, she decided that the existence of things like space and stone between them for eternity simply wouldn’t do.

No, whichever one of them went first would rest in gentle repose in this exact spot, patiently waiting until the day when the heavy gilded lid was slid aside and a second set of remains were introduced, lovingly deposited and tucked in alongside the other: a cold, rigored hand posed with experienced fingers would lovingly cradle a dry, waxy chin; a leg would be positioned delicately over a fragile lower torso, bony fingers artfully arranged to look almost like it lovingly stroked the recently embalmed flesh of a thigh that would maintain its weight and mass for a few years at least.

Their heads would be gently maneuvered - a chin tucked down here, a jaw tipped up there - to create an enduring tableau of the memory of this exact moment and the reverent, passionate kisses she was tracing along his mandibular foramen: an eternal embrace in which the passing of time was inconsequential when compared to the irrefutable and immortal permanence of their affection. 

A yearning sound escaped her, urged on by the adoring vulgarities and soft praises Emmrich was whispering into her ear as they writhed against each other in the too-small space, his fingertips digging into the curve her ass, guiding her movements to help her rut needily against his thigh, each roll of her hips sending a wave of blissful sensation through her aching core.

She managed to free a hand and wriggle it down between them so she could palm his straining cock through his pants, feeling a hot wet spot against the fleshy base of her thumb where it passed over him - exhilarating evidence of his mounting anticipation. 

“Your cock is perfect,” she whispered. “Beautiful… made for me...” 

Emmrich’s response was a ragged groan and her hips pushed the flat of her palm against him through the fabric of his trousers as she bent her other wrist somewhat awkwardly to start coaxing his collar pin free.

Undressing in the limited space was easier said than done, but something about the obligation of their proximity caused the pooling heat in her belly to intensify with every huff of breath that skittered over her face and neck as they both twisted and groped in the tomb-light, tempering genuine attempts to gain purchase on things like buttons and clasps and ties with exploratory, wandering touches that lingered, caressed, and teased. Lips and tongues dragged over freshly revealed swaths of skin, trailing oaths and tender promises in their wake: sacred incantations that invoked the ancient magic that was responsible for the existence of this place to begin with. 

Amina managed to dislodge herself from between Emmrich and the wall of the sarcophagus, and used her newly found mobility to straddle his lap: her legs might fall asleep if she stayed like this for long, but the angle it provided her allowed her to deftly finish unfastening his waistcoat and shirt. 

“This shirt has about two dozen too many buttons,” she complained breathlessly as he finished with the last of the many moonstone fastenings, and Emmrich sat up to slip free of the clothing in question. 

“I can’t help but notice that their presence didn’t slow you down terribly, dearest.” He regarded her with a lascivious smile as the sleeves of the shirt slid down over his numerous bracelets: it was a filthy expression that only she was privileged to bear witness to - one of lidded eyes and swollen lips quirked in a decidedly smug countenance… the perfectly combed moustache in disarray. Almost a sneer… so vastly different than the compassionate, kind face he presented to the world. It called to something absolutely feral within her – it drove her wild when he looked at her like that, and with his torso now bare and his hair slightly mussed just the way she liked it…

She managed to exercise enough patience to allow him to strip away her own shirt before returning to her self-assumed duty to taste every inch of him that she could reach. Her hips pressed against his from her place atop him, and she closed her mouth over a nipple, lingering in place for a moment to suck gently and flick the delicate gold hoop there with the tip of her tongue. She caught it with her teeth too and ever so gently tugged on it, earning a stammered exclamation from Emmrich before she began trailing kisses downward over the warm flesh of his abdomen, seeking his ribs with her lips, counting each one in her mind as she descended: five, six, seven… onto the false ones – a silly name really – eight, nine, and ten… 

Her fingers curled into the layers of expensive red silk at his waist and she looked up at him then with lust-darkened eyes.

“Lay back,” she ordered, her voice a sensual husk that was not remotely lacking the authoritative cadence of a Reaper who was accustomed to being obeyed when she issued instructions to anyone this far down in the crypts. 

So lay back he did, and Amina made short work of any fabrics and fasteners, freeing him into her waiting hand. 

[heylittleriotact]

Further to my post last night, here's Suture, a quickly thrown together, sweet oneshot with lots of yearning feelings where Emmrich patches up Rook and she's extremely awkward about the entire thing.

Full under the cut, ao3 here

“Hmmm… yeah that’s going to need to be stitched up.” Amina clamped her gloved hand back over her thigh and squeezed as hard as she could. She’d hastily bound it with one of the many lengths of linen scrap she carried with her, but now that they were back at the Lighthouse, it needed to be tended to properly, and soon, judging by the blood that was pooling on the floor under her right foot.

She slipped her arm free of her shield and it clattered to the stone floor as she began limping in the direction of her room, crimson ruin in her wake. Pain ripped through her leg the instant she placed the faintest bit of weight on it, but despite its desire to wobble and give out, she didn’t flinch - didn’t make any indication to her companions that it felt like someone had just dragged jagged steel over her bones. She couldn’t afford to show that kind of weakness… she didn’t know these people. Not really. 

“Where are you going?!”

Evidently someone wasn’t fooled. 

“My room: stitches,” she reiterated calmly, coming to a halt and twisting to look over her shoulder at Emmrich. Her leg protested under her with a violent shudder. “It should come as no surprise to you of all people that I know my way around a needle and thread.” She smiled at him - effortless and genuine even in the midst of blossoming agony.

It was perfectly true - never mind suturing shut the abdominal cavities of the deceased post-organ removal: she had been on the receiving end of more than enough injuries during her twenty year tenure as a Reaper of the Mourn Watch that she knew the name of every healer among the Necropolis’ infirmary staff - and the names of their spouses and children to boot. They’d pieced her back together more times than she could count, but there were occasions where she’d been injured somewhere within the catacombs that was too far and too deep for her to waste valuable blood and energy trying to get back before she bled out. 

In those cases, the only solution was to find a safe place to sit down, assess the damage, and deal with it herself using the small field kit she kept on her belt. 

Sewing her own dangling pinky finger back onto her hand in a dimly lit tomb while a corpse occupied by a rather persistent rage demon shambled around nearby looking for her had been a bracing experience, but she either needed to try and save the appendage or leave it behind, and she wasn’t keen on losing a finger. The nerves didn’t heal quite right, and it ached when it rained, but at least she still had it.

The gash in her leg was nothing she couldn’t handle. No one else needed to burden themselves with her - not when they had themselves to look after.

“Preposterous!” Emmrich proclaimed. “Look at the state of you! Clammy skin, rapid breathing… pale as the moon–” 

“That’s just how I look!”

Unwilling to relent, Emmrich lifted his chin in that scholarly way of his. “You are going into shock, dear, and endorsing you to perform any kind of medical procedure in your current condition - on yourself or anyone else - would be a grievous ethical oversight on my part.”

“He’s not wrong,” Lucanis said calmly, looking up from painstakingly cleaning the blood from one of his daggers. “You’ve lost too much blood already. I’d take him up on the offer if I were you. I would volunteer to do it myself, but I suspect you’d prefer not to sit on a sack of flour while I tend to you.” There was something of a shrug, a suggestion of a grin - he was too obscured by the shadows to see clearly. 

She still hadn’t gotten around to asking why Lucanis chose to sleep in the pantry, and now wasn’t the time to find out: he’d been just as forthcoming with the offer to help as Emmrich. 

“Really it’s not necessary. I’ve dealt with worse and I don’t want to trouble either of you… thank you though,” she turned back and took another step towards her room. Her right leg convulsed aggressively then gave out, sending her to one knee. Dammit. 

She realized she felt rather lightheaded then, and she was hoisted back to her feet by a set of arms on either side of her.

“Now that you’ve demonstrated to all of us what a tenacious and valiant Watcher you are, will you please consider letting us help you?” Emmrich was on her right, arm around her waist. He was a lot taller than her, but she could make out the wry smile on his face. She felt the hairs on the backs of her arms raise and a chill ran through her, and it wasn’t from the blood loss… it was because of him - being this close to him made her feel–

“Alright then,” she nodded, turning to Lucanis on her left, who was gripping her upper arm in case she dropped again. “Thank you Lucanis… I think I can manage with… with Emmrich’s assistance.” She felt her cheeks heat at her own words. Stop it, stop it, stop it… She pressed down harder on the wound, partly to continue staunching the bloodflow, partly to distract herself with the fresh wave of pain that rippled through her at the sensation. 

“Off we go then,” Emmrich said lightly, starting them off in the direction of the stairs, “Nice and easy… take your time, that’s it.” 

If she had it her way Amina would have preferred to sprint - the fact that Lucanis and Harding were still in the entryway watching this unfold was utterly mortifying. 

Emmrich paused when they got to the top of the stairs. His lips quirked to the side thoughtfully as he peered down. “Perhaps we should have had Lucanis along: I would offer to carry you in this circumstance but…” 

“No, this is fine!” Amina said quickly, grateful then for the eighty-some pounds of plate armour she was currently wearing. She chanced a step down and inhaled sharply through her teeth - descending the stairs was going to be a challenge, but she would get through it.

She felt Emmrich’s eyes on her, never straying from her side as she took each step, but she ignored the urge to look at him. Instead she stared forward, her left hand gripping the railing to keep herself steady while she concentrated - went to that familiar safe, bright place in her mind where the pain couldn’t reach her. 

By the time they got to the bottom, her brow was damp with sweat from the effort it had taken her. The warm scent of the fire in the hearth meshed with the aromas of various disinfectants and parchment. It immediately brought her comfort for reasons she couldn’t quite define. 

“Amina?”

She blinked and found Emmrich’s face, concern apparent upon it - he must have asked her a question that she hadn’t heard.

“Hm?”

“I said we will need to remove your armour… for the shock, you see - to help you breathe,” Was that a hint of colour on his own cheeks? “If that’s alright with you, of course,” He added. 

Exhausted, Amina could only nod, and Emmrich guided her to the carved granite slab opposite the stairs and she hauled herself up onto it so she was perched on the edge. 

“I follow extremely rigorous sanitation procedures,” He assured her as if assuming she cared at the moment that she was sitting on a working autopsy table. 

“Good. You can keep pressure on my leg while I start dealing with this armour,” she didn’t wait for him to inevitably declare that he needed to wash his hands before even dreaming of laying a hand on an open wound. She seized his wrist with bloody fingers and jammed the palm of his hand down on her thigh, holding it in place when she felt him start to pull back. “Please don’t let go — it’ll be faster if I do this.” She set to work loosening the straps of leather that held her armour together, starting with her shoulders and working her way down her arms, the sound of jingling buckles and the slip of leather through metal cutting through the silence. She worked quickly with well practiced fingers, carelessly tossing each formed piece of silverite to the floor. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Manfred shuffling towards the slab, curiousity piqued. 

“Manfred, would you kindly fetch a stack of clean rags?” Emmrich asked over his shoulder. Manfred’s shoulders tilted and he emitted an arrangement of concerned hisses. “Oh no, Ms. Ingellvar will be just fine - her femoral artery remains quite intact, but I do need to close the wound rather urgently before she loses any more blood, so pip pip.”

Manfred clicked his teeth together and set off for the rags, and Emmrich turned his attention back to Amina in time to see her struggling to reach the straps of her breastplate - they were too high up her side to reach with one hand. 

“Here, allow me,” he offered kindly, leaning forward, putting more weight on her leg as he reached under her arm and began working loose the straps with his free hand. 

“Thank you, those ones are the hardest to get at no matter how many times you do it. I’ve put this armour on and taken it off thousands of times and–” her words cut off abruptly: she had happened to glance down at Emmrich as he worked and apparently forgotten how to talk. 

His gaze lifted at her sudden silence, and the sight of his deep hazel eyes and the tip of his tongue poking from the corner of his mouth - the lingering remnant of his broken concentration - made Amina’s stomach leap in weightless abandon as if she’d just trodden on a collapsed grave. 

His positioning with his hand on her thigh and the angle he was at to reach the straps he so gallantly offered to help with put the pair of them in a somewhat compromising position, she realized: she had parted her legs to help him reach, and he was so close she could feel the heat of him; could smell whatever product he used to slick back his hair. It smelled good… like ripe cherries – burgundy and sweet - the kind that stained your lips red and filled your mouth with juice when you bit into them…

Very unprofessional… she chided herself. “ And it never gets any easier!” She completed the thought, though her voice sounded too high to her ears, as did the laugh that followed it. 

Emmrich’s brow furrowed for only a moment before she felt the weight of the breastplate lift, “There we are!” He exclaimed, all courteous decorum and effortless good cheer. He pulled the heavy chestpiece away from Amina and set it on the floor gently, leaning against the slab. “Oh dear,” he frowned when he straightened and caught sight of Amina’s face again. “Your complexion was ashen only a moment ago, but now you appear flushed… how unusual. You had better lay down.” 

“But–” 

He held up his bloodied hand, bangles singing. “Please, Amina - I am afraid I must insist.” 

Sheepish, Amina did as she was told, the armour that still covered her from the waist down scraping against the stone beneath her. He was just being nice - just doing what he would do for any of them, and here she was smelling his hair like some garden variety pervert…

From her place on the slab she could hear Manfred approaching with the rags. She craned her neck to see him, but couldn’t. When she turned her face back to the ceiling she saw Emmrich above her, a grin spreading across his face as he took one of the rags from Manfred and pressed it against her wound.

“Thank you, Manfred - and I see you’ve brought my kit as well: excellent thinking - and you came up with that all on your own! Well done!” She felt him lift his hand to examine the rag before the pressure resumed. With his other hand he set his kit beside her and flipped it open. “Feeling somewhat better with most of that heavy armour off?” 

“Yes.” She still felt lightheaded, but it was indeed easier to breathe now. 

“Splendid.” He offered her a reassuring smile - the kind that everyone who worked with the dead was capable of, herself included - but there was a subtle, relieved quality in the way the corners of his mouth turned up that surprised her. It wasn’t possible that he had been genuinely worried about her, was it? The question was left to linger in her mind when Emmrich set about loosening the straps of the remaining parts of her armour to better access the wound. 

His long fingers were dexterous, and though his movements were quick and concise, his touch was never harsh or callous. 

It was a strange position to be in, having him deliberately and methodically husk her armour from her body, piece by piece. It called to mind other circumstances in which one might expose another, one article at a time…

Stop it. Fade take me… dead animals… wet food stuck to plates and bowls… having the shits…

He removed the rag and peeled aside the damaged cuisse gingerly, humming to himself softly as he surveyed the wound without touching it. “Manfred, could you please bring a fresh rag and continue holding it over Ms. Ingellvar’s wound with as much pressure as you can muster? The bleeding has slowed enough that I can close it now, but I need to wash my hands first.” 

Amina felt Manfred sidle up alongside her on the slab, the hair-raising sensation that anyone would feel when in close proximity to a being of the Fade alerting her to his presence. He chattered at her soothingly, clearly attempting to mimic Emmrich’s tone and cadence with his soft hisses and squeaks. 

“Why am I ‘Ms. Ingellvar’ all of a sudden?” She called out in the direction of Emmrich’s retreating footsteps. She heard the soft woosh of him shedding his coat and his footfalls as he paced over to the wash basin. 

“Old habits, I’m afraid,” he chuckled in answer. “But I will refrain from the formality going forward.” 

She found she rather liked his formality, but she said, “If it’s not too much trouble.” 

There was only silence, sloshing water, and the sound of soap being lathered into skin for such a long time that she nearly sat up to see if everything was alright, but he returned to her side, freshly cleaned hands held aloft - he’d rolled up his cuffs and removed his many rings. 

“It’s no trouble at all,” he said warmly, his voice verging on a whisper, and Amina’s stomach did that strange leap again. He relieved Manfred and reached over her to his kit. “You’ve lost a good deal of blood, and there’s little we can do about that but replenish your fluids and let your body rest for a time.” Amina caught the glint of steel in Emmrich’s hand as he straightened. “I do hope these pants hold no priceless sentimental value to you - I’m going to have to cut the right leg away, I’m afraid.” He looked genuinely apologetic at this.

Hang the pants - Amina was more caught up in the realization that if he cut away the leg of her pants, her entire leg would be bared to him. She’d had far more intimate places bared to infirmary staff over the years, so she wasn’t sure why that mattered now, but it did.

“Can… couldn’t you just widen the tear in the material around the wound?” She ventured hopefully. 

Clearly sensing her apprehension, Emmrich’s already soft eyes softened further. “I will need to dress and bind your leg once I’ve placed the sutures,” he explained gently, “You have my word that I shall conduct myself with nothing but the utmost propriety - I am aware of the vulnerable position this puts you in and will do everything in my power to make this as comfortable for you as I can.” 

She nodded once, understanding that she had little other choice. “Do what you have to do.”

He dipped his head in acknowledgement and started near her ankle, shearing a line up the leg of her pants with his scissors. Amina already felt cold, but as the air hit her leg, she couldn’t help but shiver. 

“There are some blankets folded on the shelf above the cosmetics and restorative waxes; Manfred, would you please take one down and place it on the chair near the fire to warm?” 

Somewhere nearby bones clicked and rattled with devoted efficiency to carry out their task.

As he set about cleaning the wound, Emmrich spared another lingering glance at Amina. 

“What is it?” She asked.

“Hmmm?” A clean rag appeared in his hand and he soaked it with a pale pink fluid in a frosted bottle that smelled floral - Amina recognized this as a common disinfectant used in the wounds of the living, and in the dead to slow decay. He pressed the saturated rag to her flesh and held it for a moment before using it to wipe away the last of the blood. It stung, but Amina knew that meant it was working.

“You keep looking at me.”

He laughed again - a light, amused sound. “My dear, are you aware of any particular patient treatment strategies wherein looking at said patient during the application of the treatment isn’t advantageous?”

Well when he put it like that…

“No, I just…” she trailed off, watching him draw another clean rag from the pile with a flourish and douse it with a pale green concoction this time - a fungal tincture that would stave off infection. “You didn’t have to do this… thank you.” 

He gently swept the rag over her skin and made sure the tincture penetrated the wound. “The work that we do can be lonely. We are often misunderstood by those unfamiliar with the role we fill, and even amongst our own there are politics and petty talkers that divide us from within in the hope that isolating perceived threats will further their own aspirations.” He set the rag aside and reached over her into his kit again. “We will always be better… think better, learn better, when we are of a unified mind, rather than a fractured one.”

“I had no idea you were such a romantic.”

Emmrich dropped a curved needle into a small cup disinfectant and swirled it around. “Or a foolish dreamer perhaps… either way: I may not have to do this, but do not doubt for a moment that I want to.” 

Amina didn’t know what to say to that. His sentiments made her wish that she had known Emmrich before she’d been exiled from the Watch. Perhaps things would have turned out differently for her had he been a presence in her life then…

“This is going to be somewhat uncomfortable for you, but I’ve been told I have a soft hand, and I’ll work as quickly as I’m able to.” The introspective, somewhat somber demeanour had vanished and Professor Volkarin had returned. He held up the curved needle and thread he must have prepared without her noticing. Green light danced up his side and illuminated half of his face, casting sharply defined shadows over his brow and well defined cheekbones. 

Amina didn’t bother asking if it was the living or the dead who had praised his so-claimed soft hand, but as the needle punctured her skin and the first loop was drawn, she felt herself relax against the cold stone table.

He worked with utter precision, his left hand carefully holding her thigh, trickling gentle healing magic into her as he guided the needle cleanly through one side of the wound and out the other, his pace almost rhythmic. Amina lost herself in the steady sound of his focused breathing and the whisper of his knuckles brushing ever so softly over her skin until at last he tied off the final suture and cut it free from the needle. 

“That’s the worst of it done. I daresay I’ve worked on corpses who put up more of a fuss than you.” He set aside the needle and helped guide Amina into a sitting position with a hand on her back. 

“If you’re that gentle with the dead, I don’t think they have anything to complain about.” She looked down at her leg and the textbook perfect row of stitches on her leg that spanned about four inches in length over the top of her thigh: it would almost certainly scar, but it would be just another one of many - she’d long ago stopped feeling self conscious about them. “You know what you’re doing, I’ll give you that.”

Emmrich placed a hand over his heart and bowed his head, “From one professional to another, I am humbled by your praise.” 

Professionals, right… they were professionals. This was entirely professional.

“Now if you’ll please bend your leg somewhat… yes, like that - right there is good - I’ll dress and bind this and you’ll be well on the road to recovery.” 

Professionals. 

The word kept bouncing around her head as she silently observed Emmrich apply a poultice to the wound, and with each pass of the linen roll around her thigh it got louder and louder: she’d been a ‘professional’ her entire life up until this point… what if that title didn’t fit the person she was anymore?

“There. All done.”

Amina slowly shifted in place and dangled her legs over the edge of the table: the dressing was tight but not too tight.

“Ah!” Emmrich’s eyebrows jumped up his forehead and he rushed to tuck in the end of the linen dressing that had popped loose when Amina moved. “My apologies - can’t have that coming loose, now can we?” A stray strand of his hair that had worked itself free as he stitched her up brushed against Amina’s forehead as he fussed with the dressing and she went rigid at the contact as if it had sent a current through her.

Emmrich froze in place as well, and slowly lifted his eyes, apparently only now becoming aware of how close his face was to hers: she could feel his breath on her skin, warm and alive… could count the rust-coloured flecks that were scattered around his dilated pupils. He was between her legs again, hips pressed up against the slab. How had that happened?

She felt him run his thumb ever so softly across the linen on her thigh, and her breath hitched in answer to the unexpected but not entirely unwelcome sensation. 

He cleared his throat, eyes darting from hers. “That should hold now.” 

Though his hand did not linger unnecessarily, she could swear she felt the ghost of his caress one more time as he drew away. 

“Thank you,” Amina managed. “I’m uh… I’m quite thirsty - could I trouble you for some water?” She slid onto the floor, gingerly testing her weight on her injured leg - it still throbbed, but she was accustomed to being in pain. Her knees felt rubbery, but that had nothing to do with the blood loss at this point. 

“Of course!” Emmrich answered just a little too quickly. “The blanket that Manfred set by the fire should be warm by now - I expect you’d like to retire to your own room to recuperate, but it would be no inconvenience to Manfred and I if you wanted to warm yourself by the fire and stay for some tea? You need to consume plenty of fluids to make up for the blood you lost, you see. As I’m sure you know, the average person circulates approximately five liters of blood through their body, and you surely lost at least–”

It wasn’t that she didn’t want to hear him talk - she actually quite enjoyed his academic rabbit trails - but she definitely did want to sit by the fire, and… she didn’t want to leave. Not after all the fuss it took to get her down here in the first place. Staying awhile longer was the least she could do to demonstrate her gratitude, right?

“Yes!” She all but blurted out over Emmrich’s developing lecture on hematology. 

He was practically beaming as he helped her limp over to the plush winged armchair in front of the fire, and as she sat she realized this must be his preferred place to unwind after a long day: there was a small table next to the chair that held a selection of dog-eared books, a pair of rectangular, gold framed spectacles, and a pipe. She stared at the objects, intrigued by the intimate peek into Emmrich’s life. 

She glanced to the right where a matching chair should logically be, but there was nothing there - only empty space that made her sad for some reason. 

She snapped out of her daze  when Emmrich placed the blanket over her, but left her to arrange it to her preference. “Comfortable?” He asked. 

“Very.” Amina couldn’t help but smile: he may be doing this out of the goodness of his own heart, but there was no denying that it made her feel special to be fussed over by another person like this. Sure there was that strange occurrence with the dressing, but it was probably nothing - just a misunderstanding on her part. Emmrich was just an uncommonly generous person, that was all there was to it. 

He pulled over a stool and kept her company by the fire as she sipped her tea, feeling warmed inside and out by the crackling flames and relaxing chamomile brew. She dozed off eventually, drifting off to Emmrich expanding on his thoughts regarding the use of ectoplasmic reagents in binding rituals… it was genuinely fascinating… but her eyes were so heavy, and her head too. She tried to keep listening once her eyes were shut, but she was so comforted by the scent of fire, parchment, and disinfectant… a scent that she realized reminded her of home just before sleep took her at last.

Home…

[heylittleriotact]

Eulogy

I know there has been talk of Emmrook smut, but this short one shot took precedence in light of what day it is - it'll be a year tomorrow that my Grandma passed away, and I'm feeling reflective. So what do we do when we're stuck in our own heads? We write! (Full text under the cut or on ao3)

Summary: Emmrich finds Amina drinking wine alone in the dining hall relatively early in the day, but not for the reasons he might think.

A fluffy oneshot about loss, grief, regrets, and saying goodbye to the ones we love... and keeping their memory alive.

It wasn’t the most palatable combination: the herbal bitterness of the licorice was a poor compliment to the fruity sweetness of the wine, but Amina couldn’t think of anything in the world she wanted more at the moment. The clashing flavours took her back to warm houses and loud laughter, a bowl of the same candy within reach, and the chiming of crystal to punctuate the end of an amusing story told to gathered company.

Reda did love to tell stories. 

Staring forward, lost in memories, she held the gold pendant around her neck in her hand and nestled the pad of her thumb into the slight indentation in the center, the metal warming to match her temperature until it felt almost lifelike. 

That ridiculous game she could play for hours as a child - the one where one person sent a gulder rolling across the floor on its edge and the other person rolled it back… Reda would cater to Amina’s boundless joy and play as long as she wanted even though her knees complained and her back did too. Achy joints proved many times over the years to be of little impediment to Reda’s passion for playing games. 

She smiled and rubbed the pendant. 

“Darling?” Amina glanced up from her chair, her smile widening at the sight of Emmrich. “I didn’t realize you snuck in.” 

“I was looking for you to–” his eyes found the bowl of candy on the low table and then the bottle of wine, and then the glass in her hand - it was only just past midday. “Is everything alright?” His tone pivoted from one of enthusiasm to concern.

“Hm?” Amina hummed distantly before she comprehended his cause for concern: she didn’t drink often, never this early in the day, and never by herself. “Oh - this. This must look strange.” She felt her cheeks redden: it wasn’t that Emmrich wasn’t welcome, she just thought that with Lucanis and Neve visiting the market in Treviso today, she’d be able to take a moment for herself in the Dining Hall. “I’m fine. Why don’t you join me?” She straightened and gestured at the empty lounging chair across from her, the pendant in her hand dropping back onto her chest. 

She supposed she could have sat at the main dining table, but it just seemed so large and empty for one person to sit at with no company. 

Emmrich sat without hesitation, looking unconvinced by her assurance. 

“Today marks a year since Reda died. She and her husband, Gortan took me in after I was found in the Necropolis and they raised me like I was one of their own. Closest thing I ever had to family, those two and their kids.” 

Ah. There it was: the face Emmrich was making - the Mortician’s Mask: the expression that every single mortalitasi in the Necropolis could don at will. It wasn’t an unpleasant expression, nor did it look forced or disingenuine - the opposite, actually: it was an expression of true compassion, sympathy, and unspoken affirmation that the person making it was listening, should one want to talk about it. 

He was very, very good at it.

“My deepest condolences, darling.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I sense that I’ve clumsily intruded on a private memorial.” 

“You haven’t intruded on anything,” she popped another piece of licorice into her mouth. “Just taking a moment or two for some memories - you’re more than welcome to join me… she always did love a party, and she would have thought you were a perfectly charming young man.” 

The corners of Emmrich’s mouth lifted at the compliment. “In that case, I would be remiss to decline such a graciously extended invitation.”

“Good answer, love.” Amina rose to her feet and set down her glass before crossing to the cabinet against the far wall and returning with a second wine glass for Emmrich, smiling the entire time.She filled it and handed it to him, sparing the time it took to brush her fingers across his. “The sweet ones from the Anderfels were her favourite - wine, I mean. Not… not lovers if that’s what you thought I meant.” 

Always so eloquent around this one, aren’t I?

“I assumed you were referring to the wine.” He looked at her like she was personally responsible for the existence of the stars in the sky. “Will you tell me about her?”

So Amina did. She told him all about Reda, and how she was a mother, and a matron at the Necropolis, passionate and devoted to her work for her entire life. She told him how she raised Amina in a household of love and acceptance, and how she proved that family was not defined by blood alone. She told him of her champion’s heart that compelled her to spend what little spare time she had advocating for those in the city that needed a voice - how she was still that voice for others even until her dying day. She told him how she found joy in simplicity and companionship, licorice and sweet wine; and how she found comfort and peace in her faith that saw her through life’s kindnesses and its hardships in equal measure. 

“She wouldn’t be bullied around by anyone - and even when she was standing up for herself or anyone else, she was always kind - firm as a bronto when the occasion called for it, being a matron and all, but always… kind.” The pendant was back in her hand, and she poured herself and Emmrich another glass. 

“I didn’t… I wasn’t… I’ve always felt different than everyone else. Like I’m a mismatched piece trying to blend into a world of people that are kindred in ways that I can never attain, no matter how hard I try.” She looked down at her fist clenched around the pendant. “Reda was one of the few people I’ve known who always made me feel like I belonged.” She cleared her throat; steadied her voice. “I miss her a lot.” 

“She must have been tremendously proud of you: I daresay you’ve inherited many of her virtues by the sound of it.” 

“The stubborn streak a mile wide? Entirely her fault.” She laughed then, and it felt good when Emmrich joined her: it made her heart feel a little lighter.

The laughter faded though, as it will in such circumstances. 

“I didn’t get to spend as much time with her as I wanted to when she got sick. I wanted to be there for her and take care of her like she took care of me… and I did when I could, but I was still an active Watcher, and she fell ill right around the same time as the War of The Banners, and of course then I was… ‘sent to travel’ and fell in with Varric.” She looked at her knees. “I was in Cumberland when the Watch sent word that her death was imminent. Rode as fast as I could without killing my horse to get there in time.” 

“Did you?”

A thin smile. “I did.” Amina whispered, the faint pride in her voice unmistakeable. “Have you ever been at someone’s side during their last moments?” 

Emmrich nodded but did not elaborate.

“Then you know what it’s like - the way time seems to pass glacially, and how the air itself buckles and stills. The very existence of life is so colossally tangible and concrete just before it dims… yet we spend so much of our own lives dulled to its majesty, wrapped up in other things…” she was staring into her wine glass as if it might reveal some answer to her. “It was a privilege to be with her in the very end: to be able to repay a small fraction of the love she showed me, and companion her onwards to her next adventure.” 

There was a shuffling sound as Emmrich left his chair and took up the one closest to Amina, shifting it closer to hers. Still leaning forward, he held out a hand to her, his long, ringed fingers unfurling. Amina placed her hand in his and he softly pressed his lips to the back of her hand, his thumb brushing her fingers soothingly. 

“A remarkable woman. Thank you for sharing her story with me, darling.” 

“Thank you for listening.” 

“It’s what we do best.” 

She didn’t feel like crying. There was absolutely nothing wrong with crying when the time to weep insisted on itself, but while there was regret tied to Reda’s passing, there was little sorrow. Instead she was filled with a feeling of joy and love unique to situations like this that she didn’t have a word for - she wasn’t even sure such a word existed for the feeling. The closest thing she could think of was: grateful. 

“Want to hear about the time she and Gortan took me to the woods for a relaxing getaway when I was about nine, and I wound up getting stung in the ass by a wasp and hiding in a cave because I was so mortified at the thought of her tending to it?” 

“Ah, so your proclivity for refusing to accept assistance stretches back well into your childhood, I see.” His eyes glittered with mirth and she wanted to kiss him then: Emmrich had impeccable timing when it came to lightening the mood.

Instead she smirked and said, “Oh shut up and top up our wine, won’t you? You’ll need it for this one.” 

He acquiesced, his hand on her knee a physical reminder that he was there and would stay for as long as she’d have him. 

“To a remarkable woman.” Amina raised her glass, and Emmrich echoed her. 

Their cups met, and they drank to a beloved memory. Stories were told well into the afternoon, and as Emmrich walked her back to the Lighthouse, Amina’s heart felt full to bursting: perhaps the wine had gone to her head, but her face hurt from smiling and she couldn’t stop giggling as she walked arm in arm with her favourite person: she wouldn’t have wanted to spend this day with anyone else. 

[heylittleriotact]

It takes a while, but one of the Lighthouse gang finally realizes that Emmrich and Amina offer different transactional greetings and farewells than most people.

Seriously, they almost never say “Good morning/afternoon/evening” to anyone. Instead a polite “Hello” or “Greetings” is offered.

They notably steer clear of “Goodbye,” and “Farewell,” and never encourage anyone to have a nice day. Instead they simply say, “Take care.”

It’s Neve who puts it together: bidding a person who’s just lost someone a good morning might come across as callous, even if it was meant with the best of intentions. Even the word ‘goodbye’ might be salt in the wound of a broken heart.

[heylittleriotact]

Absolute dorks.

[heylittleriotact]

Rook Questionnaire

inspired by @cassieuncaged's BG3 Character Development Questions but for Rook instead!

@emmg tagged me in this, so here you are - thanks for making me think about a lot of these because I hadn't considered them 😅

Answers under the cut due to length (teehee)

1: Where in the Thedas is your Rook from?

Nevarra, probably.

2: What is your character's alignment?

I entered Amina’s answers into an online quiz just for shits and giggles knowing full well that my Lawful Good girl would make Steve Rogers look like a knuckle-dragging thug with the moral fibre of a used car salesman.

3: Race and subclass?

Elf, Reaper

4: If your Rook was a companion, where would they be found?

Probably in a cemetery in a small town on the continent trying to put a wayward spirit to rest. Or at an extremely expensive boutique hotel in Orlais (she got a discount for offering to stay in the allegedly haunted room).

5: What emotion did they usually pick?

Positive/optimistic with the occasional purple choice. She reads the room and doesn’t act overly familiar with people she doesn’t know well.

6: What companion are you platonically close with?

She becomes quite close with Bellara. Amina admires her optimism and passion for life despite her own regrets and hang-ups. Her excited, keyed up energy compliments Amina’s manic border collie energy and somehow their energies sort of like… harmonize and cancel each other out. It’s really wholesome. Like you know how they sometimes assign dogs to cheetahs so they don’t get too stressed out and die? That’s basically the vibe with Amina and Bellara, except they both think they’re the dog and not the cheetah. 

7: Romantically close with?

She is romantically VERY close with Emmrich. In fact they get married and live happily ever after, and enjoy an adventurous sex life, and have exactly one (1) child.

8: Who are they suspicious of?

She tends to give the majority of people she encounters the benefit of the doubt, but is inherently wary of anyone who telegraphs any indication that they see spirits as lesser/tools/pests/evil because she fundamentally doesn’t understand why anyone would treat a spirit differently than a person.

She’s not sure what to make of people who treat their families poorly/disrespectfully. She understands that there are all sorts of dynamics out there, and not all family relationships are good, but she would give her left kidney to have a petty argument with her mother, or have her dad question her life choices. She’d much rather take the hardships that come with family than her reality where she has none.

9: Does your Rook get along with their chosen Faction?

For the most part. She’s extremely dedicated and passionate about her work, and she takes her oath to protect the living and the dead very seriously. She’s well-principled, disciplined, and is above corruption and political machinations. She’s very approachable, however, and has a knack for getting people to like her - even the ones that initially don’t. 

Obviously some people are of the mind that she’s an inflexible hard-ass, but she truly believes that rules exist for a reason and order is infinitely better than chaos. If someone chooses not to like her for that fact, she doesn’t take it personally: she let go of people-pleasing years ago. 

Varric always thought she and Aveline would have been fast friends.

10: Are they proficient in playing any instruments?

She taught herself to play the lute when she was 14 because she thought people would be more keen on being friends with her if she knew an instrument. It didn’t help much, but she can still play a little if she feels inclined.

11: Weapon of choice?

Sword n board baybeeee. 

12: What is their orientation?

Pansexual.

13: What are their thoughts on killing? Is it a necessary evil or do they enjoy it?

She doesn’t love it, and will actively exhaust every other option before entertaining it as a solution. If she’s decided she’s out of options and killing you is the only one left, better kiss your ass goodbye though, because if she’s decided the only solution ends with your death, you’re absolutely going to die very soon.

14: What hobbies does your Rook have?

Shopping. Fashion. Sewing - if she didn’t end up with the Mourn Watch she would have pursued becoming a clothing designer/tailor. If she ever did decide to permanently step back from the Watch I could see her opening a quaint, bespoke lingerie shop or something. 

15: What NPCs do they like? Which one's do they dislike?

She pretty much likes everybody until they give her a reason not to, and even then she doesn’t take it personally. The First Warden really wore on her because his willful ignorance was actively endangering other people, so she wasn’t keen on him for that, but she also knew he was just another poor bastard trying to do his job and yeah sure he’s an idiot, but he’s not a malicious idiot. 

16: Do they have a favorite creature in the Thedas?

Wisps hold a special place in her heart. She makes no secret of the fact that she wants a dog/mabari after she moves in with Emmrich, and when he says that the Necropolis apartments are no place for a pet, she reminds him every moment she gets a chance (in writing, via three separate students, and on one occasion in the form of a corpse who recited her wishes as a limerick) that he also owns a sprawling estate on the outskirts of the city with OODLES of room for a dog. Why, they could get a whole kennel of them and a dog would be such a lovely way to teach Manfred about caring for other creatures…

17: Do they enjoy life as an adventurer?

Yes and no. She’s grateful that she can be a force for good in the world, but the danger and uncertainty of it tends to wear on her especially after she and Emmrich get together. Life as a Watcher is dangerous enough as it is - what kind of crazy person actively seeks MORE of it when they have someone waiting for them at home? 

Emmrich actually forces Amina to stop for a minute and consider her mortality and her legacy. She thought she didn’t matter before. That her life would be a blip in time: inconsequential and certainly not worth mourning when she dies, but he seems devoted to showing her that’s not the case at all.

18: What would your Rook be doing if they weren't recruited by Varric?

The Thedosian equivalent of being a Ghostbuster lol. 

19: How do you think they'll meet their end?

Oh she will die old and comfortable in bed, with her family beside her and a smile on her lips as she announces that she’s off to be reunited with her sweetheart. It’s all happy endings here. 

20: Would they side with Solas or fight him?

After the ritual, she wanted to see Varric’s goal through: she wanted to finish what her friend started and make Solas see that he didn’t have to do what he was planning to do. When Solas’ spiritual origins were revealed, she felt further compelled to help him see reason: no longer was he just a man burdened by guilt and regret, but a spirit dealing with them, and it was her sacred duty to help spirits whenever and however she could. In this case, she saw her responsibility change from “stop a foolish man from ruining the world” to “aid a tormented spirit."

That said, after the truth of what happened at the ritual site became clear, she was livid. She felt hurt, tricked, and as though her own kindness and tendency to believe in the best of people had been used against her. Her own grief was used against her in a cruel trick. She questions if Solas can actually be reasoned with anymore, and has about hit that point I mentioned earlier where she starts to see death as the only remaining option. Emmrich is the one to talk her out of this, urging her to remember her oath as a Watcher and encouraging her to not give up hope. 

So Solas really has Emmrich to thank for happily ever after with his vhenan because Amina was 10000% done with his shit.

21: What is your Rook's favorite ability?

The thing with the big spectral scythe always feels extremely badass no matter how many times she does it.

22: What languages is your character fluent in?

Common, Nevarran, Orlesian, and Tevene. She knows conversational Antivan and next to no elven despite her ancestry. It’s important for Watchers to be fluent in many languages, as the dead tend to be quite chatty, and the spirits that reside in the Necropolis can’t all be assumed to speak Common. 

23: What do they do after an absolute crisis?

Keep finding things to do. If she sits still for too long it’ll all catch up with her at once and become overwhelming, but if she keeps finding people to help and helping them, she can put it off indefinitely. This has led to burnout in the past, and without someone like Emmrich around to basically force her to deal with things rather than burying them under work, it would happen again.

24: Does your character believe in the afterlife?

She thinks that anyone who says they have a definitive answer to that question is lying. There are so many things about magic, the Fade, spirits, and the soul that aren’t known or understood, but she has witnessed enough evidence that she feels confident in some sort of continuation of a person’s essence beyond the veil of death. What that ultimately looks like/entails is a mystery, but she finds comfort in not knowing every detail. It would be anticlimactic to set out on that next Big Adventure if everything was spelled out in advance. 

25: What specialization best represents your Rook?

She is the Reaper-est Reaper who ever Reaper-ed. She’s capable of keeping up with the insane physical demands of the work, but also possesses the compassion, empathy, and patience that make a good Watcher. She loves caring for the living and the dead, and approaches her work enthusiastically. Also, she’s just kind of… odd. A trait that many Mourn Watchers possess. 

26: What animal best represents your Rook?

Border collie. Needs purpose. Needs activities. Needs to be contributing in a meaningful way. Otherwise will get severely stressed out and die, probably. 

27: What was their life like before the events of Veilguard?

Amina was having a crisis of belonging before Veilguard. She’s questioning her purpose and place in the world after being soft-exiled from the Necropolis and is just kind of drifting from place to place and doing the only thing that she knows, which is Watcher work, but the people she’s helping aren’t exactly tripping over themselves to thank her for any assistance she renders because of the inaccurate assumptions most make about the mortalitasi. 

She’s not in a great place. She’s struggled to feel like she belongs anywhere her entire life because of her start as a foundling, and by the time she meets Varric she’s largely of the mind that she’s a burden that people simply tolerate out of politeness and moral virtue. But Varric… he really seems to like her. Care about her even. The more time she spends with him, the more she starts to think that she’s not just a receptacle for pity and charity, and that maybe she actually deserves to connect with people. 

28: Is your character the de facto leader of the party? Or do they consider someone else to be the leader?

Amina has zero qualms with taking charge of a group of people and telling them what to do… especially if it keeps them alive in a dangerous situation. 

29: If you could choose a different faction for your Rook, which one would they have joined and why?

I think her sense of honour and duty would have made her an excellent Grey Warden. She’s got too much of a conscience to be in the Lords of Fortune or Antivan Crows.

30: What's your favorite thing about your Rook?

She has this quiet, understated strength about her that could easily be mistaken for shyness or passivity, but she’s actually just so humble and kind and good that she tries to make herself as approachable as she can, even with her scarred face, somewhat crooked fingers, and the tip of one of her ears missing. She wants to be someone that people can trust during their darkest times, and if given the chance will unequivocally prove herself to be that person. She is literally a knight in shining armor with a pure heart and so, so, so much love to give. 

[heylittleriotact]

𝓕𝓲𝓻𝓼𝓽 𝓒𝓪𝓵𝓵:

The initial contact with a funeral home when a passing has occurred to arrange the transfer of the body from the place of death.

He got it: it wasn’t every day the Viscount of Kirkwall strolled into their sleepy little inn, but did they all have to rise deferentially?

“No need to roll out the red carpet on my account.” He adjusted Bianca’s strap on his shoulder, making his way through the room of standing people. “Just passing through for a drink and a ghost story.”

In other words: The story of how Varric recruited Rook to the cause.

A violent gore filled horror fest 🩸

Full under the cut or on ao3

He got it: it wasn’t every day the Viscount of Kirkwall strolled into their sleepy little inn, but did they all have to rise deferentially? 

“No need to roll out the red carpet on my account.” He adjusted Bianca’s strap on his shoulder, making his way through the room of standing people. “Just passing through for a drink and a ghost story.”

The patrons of the inn exchanged wary glances, but one by one they all sunk back down to their seats and resumed their conversations - though the odd look of curiosity was thrown his way now and then. 

Heaving a sigh, Varric made his way to the bar and helped himself to a seat. Only one other person sat at the bar: a tall, gangly elf with a bare face and a mop of messy black curls, had to be in his mid-thirties. A chipped wine glass sat in front of him, along with a nearly empty bottle of wine that Varric knew was an expensive vintage. 

He was the only person in the inn that hadn’t stood up. 

Varric ordered a whiskey (neat) from the innkeep and slipped Bianca over his head, resting her against the bar at his feet, in reach should he need her. 

“What business brings you to Wrenwith, Master Tethras?” The innkeep - a stout older man with a ginger moustache and little other hair - asked, sliding the measure of whiskey over the wood to Varric. 

Varric brought the short glass to his nose and inhaled - paint-thinner… just the way he liked it. He was grateful that at least the innkeep hadn’t insisted on dusting off something expensive and fancy just for him. 

He took a sip and hummed at the familiar burn on the way down, and the warmth that spread in its wake. “You thought I was kidding about the ghost story, didn’t you?” He chuckled and arched a brow when the innkeep visibly paled. “I know, I know: why would the Viscount of Kirkwall personally drag his famously lazy ass here in person just to stick his nose into a bit of trouble with the undead?” 

“If it pleases Your Grace to know: we’ve already got somebody looking after it.” The innkeep babbled. “No need to burden the city coffers with our humble problems.” 

He was nervous - didn’t want to say too much. Wanted him to finish his drink and hit the road. 

“That’s the reason I’m here: I caught word that this ‘someone’ is none other than a Nevarran Mortalitasi - one of their Mourn Watch, in fact.”

He was absolutely making this guy squirm for the hell of it… just a little. It only stood to reason that hiring a professional who belonged to a mysterious and ancient order of people who liked to play with dead people and spirits might be frowned upon by Kirkwall’s authority. 

The innkeep swallowed hard, the guilt on his face suggesting that he may as well have personally been the one to hire the Watcher. “She said she could kill it, Your Grace. Permanently. No funny business or anything!”

The elf a few seats down, silent until now, snorted into his cup of wine. “Nothing ‘funny’ about that one, I’m afraid.” Emerald green eyes flicked up to the innkeep and a smarmy grin spread over his handsome face. “I was here when she came in: got a face like hewn granite and the disposition to match.” He turned on his stool to face Varric, still looking rather like the cat that had eaten the canary. “Doubt she’ll take kindly to you trying to run her off her work - even if you are Viscount.” His eyes roamed up and down over Varric with a haughty scrutiny that reminded him so much of Chuckles he was tempted to yank on his hair and see if it was a wig. 

“That fearsome, is she?” Varric probed. “I heard she was a Reaper. Can’t say I’ve ever met one, but I have heard that they take their authority over the dead pretty seriously.” 

“I wouldn’t want to piss her off.” The elf smirked and downed the rest of his wine, refilling his glass with the dregs of the bottle and tapping it with a fingernail to indicate to the innkeep that he’d like another. 

“You’ve… you’ve been in here all day, ser, d’you really need another whole bottle?” 

If it was true and the elf had been drinking all day, he looked pretty damn sober to Varric’s eyes. 

The elf adjusted the lapels of his road-worn leather topcoat and rearranged his long legs under him. “I’m on holiday,” he drawled. “I think I deserve to indulge a little.”

“Holiday, huh?” Varric swirled his whiskey. “Whereabouts are you from?”

There was an unexpected coolness in his eyes and a tightness to his smile when the elf answered, “Nowhere.” 

Varric shook his head and turned back to the innkeep. “Listen, I actually came here to talk to our macabre friend: can you tell me where I might find her?” 

The innkeep nodded once, “Cemetery, Your Grace: end of the lane, take a right. Can’t miss it, can you? But… are you sure you wouldn’t rather wait? It’s nearly midnight, and the… being… she hunts is vicious.” 

Varric tossed back the rest of the whiskey and waved a hand. “Bah. I’ve blundered into worse things in my day than a pissed off spirit.” He slid a gold piece over the bar with two fingers. “That being said: I’d appreciate it if you had the bottle waiting for me when I’m back… I get the feeling I’m going to need a drink.” 

It was a brisk night: one that creeps in after the harvest when the days are all of a sudden a few hours too short, and the heat of the sun is leached from the soil, scattered away with the dying leaves on a chilly breeze.

If Varric hadn’t already had some idea of what awaited him in this place, he would have been creeped out by the atmosphere alone: between the moonless night, the morose howl of the wind between the headstones, and the rustling of dying leaves and long grass, this place was something straight out of a pulpy horror novel. All that was missing was someone shouting, “Boo!”

He shifted Bianca on his shoulder, trudging through the cemetery, feeling uneasy amongst the dead. 

Of course she had to be a Watcher, this promising kid he’d gotten word of. When he first heard the rumour of a Watcher who had been effectively exiled by the order for single-handedly stopping a war (at the cost of two politically important undead nobles), Varric’s curiosity was piqued: he hadn’t been lying when he said he’d never met a Watcher, but he knew enough about them to know that making the choice between full-blown war, or killing the undead she was sworn to protect couldn’t have been an easy choice - but she made it anyway, knowing full-well it would piss some powerful people off. 

He needed someone like that. The world needed someone like that. 

He found her sitting at the base of a willow tree, her back against the trunk. He would have missed her completely in the darkness if it weren’t for the small vial of captured veilfire she wore around her neck that cast pale light over her face and the gleaming sword in her lap. 

She looked up at the sound of his approach: hewn granite had been a fitting comparison indeed, for hers was a strikingly solemn heart-shaped face with a long scar running from her brow nearly to her jaw. Her cheeks were somewhat hollow, and her skin pallid, with dark circles lingering under celadon eyes the same hue as the veilfire at her neck. Pretty, he supposed, in a very I-spend-most-of-my-time-with-dead-people kind of way. Was it just part of being Nevarran to look intimidating at all times? He thought of Cassandra and made a mental note to send her his latest manuscript when he got back to Kirkwall.

Given her morose countenance, he was instantly taken aback when her lips curved into a warm smile that caused the corners of her eyes to crinkle in a way that sent a feeling of comfort and assurance straight through Varric’s heart. It wasn’t an expression of joy or mirth, but rather one of seeing: of perceiving him and all of his many regrets and sorrows and longings and silently saying ‘I see you, Varric Tethras’. A handy trait for a Watcher to possess, he supposed… if a bit creepy.

“You’re definitely not who I was expecting to see in this place tonight.” Her voice was deep, but the soft rasp that permeated it was inviting and kind. She laid the sword she’d been tending to over her legs to give Varric her undivided attention. Her hair slipped over her shoulder, revealing an ear that had been pointed at one time: something - or someone - had clearly bitten the tip off of it. “Better to come back in the morning to pay your respects, I think: I’ve a spirit to take care of and while the business end of that crossbow doesn’t look like it’s just for show, I’d hate to see you come to any harm on my watch.” 

She thought he was a mourner - someone who lived in the village and had come to visit a dead loved one… and picked the middle of the night to do it.

“Actually, I–”

She was on her feet, sword gripped loosely in her right hand, looking down at him with a wry smile. She wasn’t much taller than him, and she wasn’t wearing nearly as much armour as he’d expected: he’d heard tales of foreboding and grim figures that prowled the Necropolis in moulded plate designed to be form-fitting mirrors of the anatomy underneath. This Watcher, though, wore flexible dark leather and a short but warm looking cloak draped over and around her shoulders. 

“I know it’s not ideal, and if it wasn’t incredibly important I wouldn’t ask this of you, but it’s nearly midnight, and you really do need to be gone from here before the spirit awakens.” 

She was clearly used to telling people what to do… and she was used to them listening.

“I’m not here to visit!” Varric groused, “I’m here to talk to you!” 

Her brow furrowed and her cascading black hair flared in the wind when she shook her head a little in befuddlement. “I’m sorry, you want to talk to me?” She posed the question as though she didn’t quite believe him. 

He switched Bianca to his other shoulder and thrust out his hand, “Varric Tethras - writer, businessman, and most recently - much to my own chagrin - Viscount of Kirkwall.” 

She frowned at his outstretched hand, the keen smile vanishing completely, scepticism replacing it instead. “Shouldn’t I be bowing to you or curtseying or something if you’re a Viscount?” 

“I’m not really into that kind of thing, kid.” 

Her eyes narrowed. “I’m thirty-six.” 

“Just a kid to me. Don’t worry: I’ll come up with a far more endearing nickname in no time.”

Her nose wrinkled a little as though she wanted to laugh, but wouldn’t let herself. Instead she passed off her sword and shook his hand at last. 

“Amina Ingellvar, but I suppose you already knew that if you came all this way just to find me.” The sword was back in her right hand the second his palm parted from hers. “Whatever it is you want with me, we’ll have to talk about it later. Right now I need to focus on–”

A soul-rending wail split the night air and Amina’s eyes lifted in the direction it had come from - it wasn’t far. 

“Shit,” she breathed, turning and scooping up a dented and scuffed steel buckler that had been leaning against the tree. “She’s awake.” 

Not really wanting to know the answer, but having a good idea of what it was anyway, Varric asked, “Who’s awake?”

Amina pressed a finger to her lips. “The Wilis,” she murmured just loud enough for Varric to hear. “The tanner’s daughter died about a month ago. She was set to marry the innkeeper’s son - Gethin is his name, I think - but he called off their engagement and left her for another girl in the village. She died by her own hand, spurred on by the betrayal of her beloved.” She started off in the direction of the shriek. “The raw pain she left life with was powerful enough to draw a potent spirit to this place.”

Despite the hush of her voice, he couldn’t help but notice the melodic chiming that accompanied each footstep. He looked down at her feet and could just make out the leather cord draped around her boots, strung with what looked to be at least a dozen simple golden rings. 

She must have noticed him looking, because she said, “I don’t want to startle her, and the resonation of the metal is known to soothe restless spirits.” She considered him for a moment. “You still have time to leave, Viscount: you may find this… unpalatable.” There was another wail - this one closer.

“You’re going to kill that spirit, aren’t you?”

A humorless smile pulled at her lips. “Is that what the innkeeper told you?”

“Well? Are you, or aren’t you?”

“Of course not!” She looked reproachful at the mere suggestion that she would do such a thing. She ducked around a vine-covered obelisk and peered around the side, trying to get a visual of her intended target. “I’m going to free it - I only told those bumpkins in town I was going to destroy it so they’d let me work in peace instead of running me out of town for peddling my perverse heathenry.” 

“Ah, so you've been in the Marches for a while.” 

“I was recently encouraged to travel by my superiors.” 

“So I’ve heard.” 

A heart-wrenching sob this time - it burrowed in under his skin and robbed him of every feeling of good cheer he might have had up until then. 

“She’s close,” Her breath clouded in the cold air. “Stay behind me and do not address her, even if she addresses you - she’s been taken by Yearning, drawn to the tragic circumstances of the young lady’s death. She may attempt to bewitch you - make you her thrall. That said, I should be able to convince Yearning to relinquish the body as long as nothing upsets it.” 

He knew he should feel confident in her professional acumen, but still he asked, “And in the off-chance that Yearning isn’t keen on returning to the Fade?”

Amina snorted derisively and adjusted a strap on her gauntlet - she didn’t like having her abilities called into question. “Then I’ll have to resort to kinesthetic percussive negotiation methods.” 

It was Varric’s turn to frown. “Which entails…?”

She glanced down at him and smiled again - this time with all the frigid warmth of brittle shale. “Tussling with it until it either kills me or tires itself out.” 

Yeah. This one had the potential to make for one hell of a flea in Chuckles’ ear… if they both survived the night. 

A dark figure rounded the corner of a hedge about thirty yards away from the obelisk. It was too obscured for Varric to make out clearly, but he could surmise from the jerky, spastic way it hovered a few inches above the grass, and the glowing green eyes that it wasn’t the groundskeeper. It turned its back to them, appearing to be looking for something beyond the hedge. 

“Her name was Gisele,” Amina said reverently, her face grim in its disciplined stoicism as though speaking her name aloud was compulsory to her next actions. “And no matter what drove her from this life, her absence is keenly felt by those she left behind.”

She stepped from behind the obelisk, sword and shield lowered but at the ready as she trudged towards the figure, not intimidating, but with an air of confidence and authority that wasn’t lost on Varric. The rings on her boots sang, their melody rising and falling with the wind. 

“Venerated greetings upon you, Yearning,” she called out, coming to a halt when she decided she was close enough to the figure - there was a decent amount of space between them, but not so much that Amina had to shout. 

Varric edged from behind the obelisk, following Amina’s tamped down path in the grass until he was just behind her. As he drew close, the wind shifted direction for an instant and his nose filled with the unpleasantly familiar odour of rotting flesh, pungent and sweet.

The glowing green eyes became visible again as the Wilis twisted to face the woman who spoke its name. A guttural hiss issued from the darkness. 

Amina speared her sword into the ground and with a small ‘click’ flipped the small iron stopper on the vial of veilfire around her neck. The eerie blue-green flame streamed from the opening and floated up into the air where it hung in the air and arranged itself into a roiling sphere the size of a melon, small flares occasionally leaping from its surface. 

He would have taken the time to admire the enigmatic beauty of the thing, had it not illuminated the creature that now stood in its light. 

Death was far from new to Varric - between his own personal losses and the seemingly endless cavalcade of bullshit he’d been dragged into over the years, the occasional appearance of undead, a revenant, or a waterlogged corpse was just another day at the office. This, though - the Wilis - belonged to a whole new category of horror. 

She’d been buried - likely on account of the village not daring to spare the wood for a pyre with winter approaching - and grave dirt hung from the hem of her dress in damp clumps. The dress itself looked like it was once white, but between the flickering green light and the deep brown and ochre stains that had leached into the material, it was impossible to know for sure. 

In life she might have been quite a beauty, but a month in the cold ground had robbed her of that: what once appeared to be thick waves of golden hair was now sparse, matted, and stained like the dress, and her face was a nearly unrecognisable amalgamation of flesh comprised of skin that ranged from a putrescent russet shade, to grey, to black. Her tongue - pale and withered - dangled by a shred of lingering muscle, twitching morbidly as the Wilis struggled to open and close its wasted jaw - it was trying to speak. Frustration flared in the orbs of light nestled in the hollows where her eyes used to be. 

“She was pregnant?!” Varric spluttered, his eyes landing on the obvious curve of her belly, straining against her ruined clothing. 

“No.” Amina muttered sharply. “What you’re seeing is the result of guttural anaerobic activity: she’s full of putrefied gas.” She yanked her sword from the ground and looked back to Yearning. “If you lot actually put some care into the handling of your deceased instead of just dumping them into a hole in the ground as soon as their hearts stop, she wouldn’t look like this - not for a long time, at least… maybe never.” 

“What are you saying, Watcher?” The Wilis demanded, finding her voice at last, though her lips did not move along with the crackling, wet sound that the spirit manipulated into words. She inched forward, her head tilted inquisitively. “What falsehoods… do you share with your… companion’s ears and not mine?” 

“No falsehoods - only an opinion on our respective differences.” She addressed the decayed corpse like an acquaintance one might run into on the street. 

“You think she’s ugly… don’t you?” Nearly skeletal hands gestured over the form of the Wilis as if she were preening in the mirror. Varric couldn’t help but notice a few of her fingernails had fallen off. “This girl… who was so… unlovable, so unwanted… I found her… I wanted her… I love her.” There was a bite to the last words - a challenge. 

“But she was loved, and she was wanted - by many. She had family and friends who cared very deeply about her, and it causes them great torment to see her body like this.” 

Yearning spun slowly in the air, ignoring Amina’s gentle implication that it should leave. 

“Rather far… from home, aren’t you, Watcher?” It observed primly. “You… miss it, don’t you? You long for… the cold… dry air and… the stillness of the tombs. Many call… the Grand Necropolis home… but it is truly… all… that you knew.”

“I do miss it,” Amina conceded, “But I’ll return someday - for now I’m making the best of my current situation: seeing new places, trying new things. Ferelden is a bit weird, but I could get used to the Marches.” She tapped her blade distractedly against the toe of her boot as she spoke. “That’s what we - people - do. We adapt. Change can be painful and challenging, but we weather the storm and keep going anyway. That’s what Gisele’s loved ones are trying to do too, but they can’t do that with the spectre of her haunting the cemetery, so I need you to let her go.”

“Bold lies…” the Wilis made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob, a tooth slid down her chin, trailing black ooze behind it. “I know… what loneliness dwells in your… heart… foundling. You have… no authority… over me here… Let me keep her… I will treasure… her… eternally…” 

The already cold air seemed to get colder in that moment as Amina stiffened slightly, her stance now commanding instead of casual. Varric could see strong muscles tensing and flexing under the leather of her armour - an unspoken promise of disciplined brutality should she be denied. “My authority does not end at the gates of the Necropolis - it is incontrovertible, and you know this. Do not make me ask again.” 

“You… threaten… me?”

“No, but you will be relinquishing this girl tonight.”

It was like watching a stern parent reason with an overtired toddler.

“And your companion… such longing fills… him… too. For things long passed… such things left unsaid… a glib tongue stilled by nerves…”

Don’t address her. Even if she addresses you.

“Gisele!” 

Both Amina and the Wilis turned their attention to the source of the sound: a scrawny ginger kid - actually a kid, couldn’t be older than twenty - had burst from the hedges and into the light of the veilfire. 

“Leave! Now!” The Watcher ordered, lifting her sword and shield. 

The Wilis was shaking, it’s ghostly eyes flaring and sparking at the sight of the innkeeper’s son. 

“I came to help!” He pleaded, voice breaking at the sight of Yearning. “I came to say I’m sorry!” 

“I think we’re a bit past that, kid!” Varric shouted over the bitter wind - it had picked up around them, whipping at their hair and clothing. “Now do what the nice Watcher says and get out of here!” Bianca was in his hands, aimed at Yearning, ready to unleash upon her. Amina had said she might be able to talk the spirit out of the girl’s corpse as long as nothing upset it - it was upset now. 

“You!” Wailed the Wilis, pointing an accusatory finger at Gethin, “You abandoned her! Broke her heart for the love of another! You will fulfil your promise to her! You will join me!”

Nothing about that could possibly be good. 

“Don’t listen to it!” Amina shouted over the gale, moving to place herself between the Wilis and Gethin. “Run!”

“This is my fault!” Argued Gethin, raising his arm to shield his face from the wind. “I shouldn’t have hurt her like that!”

“But you did!” Amina countered. “There’ll be no undoing that fact by throwing your life away! Now stop being noble and fuck off out of here!”

“NO!” Shrieked the Wilis. “She… will have… him! I will have him!!” 

Green lightning sparked in the air around the spirit, and the flames of Amina’s veilfire were yanked and pulled in the burgeoning tempest. Gethin seemed frozen in place as the Wilis raised its rotting arms, loose skin sliding over wet bone. There was a tremendous crack, and Varric heard Amina swear again, and he didn’t have to wonder why for long: all around the cemetery, mounds of dirt appeared on the grass as the inhabitants of the graves below began to burst free, clamouring to their feet with the same gracelessness the Wilis possessed. 

The one nearest to Gethin reached for him, its decomposed hand wrapping around his arm. The boy shrieked - a bloodcurdling sound - and Amina was on him, neatly batting away the corpse with a shrug of her shield, sending it sailing off into the hedges. The hand remained gripping Gethin’s arm. “Stay behind me,” she commanded, resetting her stance and assessing what they were up against. 

Wrenwith was a village - little more than two hundred lived here based on the information from last year’s census, but it was old… at least a few centuries old. Plenty old enough to boast a well-populated graveyard…

Varric could see at least a dozen undead shambling towards the light and wagered there were at least a few dozen more beyond his sight. This wasn’t good: they were outnumbered… badly. 

“Both of you, follow me!” The Watcher barked, and Varric watched as she coiled in on herself and then burst her left arm wide - her shield flew from her, audibly shearing the air as it hurtled towards a cluster of walking corpses, colliding into each with a meaty ‘thud’ and then looping back - she caught it with ease and Varric could see the telltale glow of an enchantment on the heavy buckler that he hadn’t noticed before. “Varric, are you able to keep her at range?” 

His finger was already on Bianca’s trigger. “Yeah I can manage that. What’s your plan?” 

She started backing down the corridor of hedges Gethin had emerged from, her summoned veilfire trailing obediently. “Get some space between her and this one.” She jerked her head at the kid. “She won’t rest until she claims him. I saw a small crypt on my way in here that we can defend, but it was chained up tight and I don’t think I can break the lock.” 

The Wilis appeared around the corner of the hedge and spotted them, a desperate scream tearing from her as she glided towards them. Varric loosed a bolt and caught her in the shoulder, sending bits of sodden flesh into the air. 

“I can deal with the lock. You just get us there in one piece.” 

“Speaking of which - please try to use discretion with your shots: her body is in a fragile state already - I’d prefer if it didn’t suffer more trauma than necessary.” 

Varric gritted his teeth at the absurdity of the request. “Sure kid, I’ll try and shoot her gently.” 

“Feel free to scoff all you want the next time you’re the one that has to restore a corpse in such an advanced stage of decomposition, Viscount!” She snapped. 

He heard the same sound of metal slicing through air as she turned and whipped her shield down the corridor, mowing down a few more undead that would impede their way. As the shield returned to her arm, a corpse sprang from the hedges, scrabbling for her eyes, her throat… whatever it could reach. 

The rings at her feet clinked together sharply as she lifted a leg and drove her heavy boot into its chest, breaking a few ribs and sending dust into the air. It hit the ground and Varric watched as a wisp, luminescent and slight, rose from its sunken abdomen and vanished into the night. 

“How is it controlling them?” 

Amina looked over her shoulder to confirm the proximity of the whimpering innkeeper’s son, and jerked him a little bit closer to her with a gloved thumb and forefinger on his sleeve. “Its need for companionship is so insatiable that it can enthral other spirits. Wisps aren’t robust concepts - they don’t possess the will to resist Yearning.” 

Varric loosed another bolt and reloaded as the Wilis persisted, shaking his head. “I’ve seen a lot of weird shit in my day, but this is rapidly climbing the list.” 

“Best avoid ever visiting Nevarra if that’s the case - this is nothing.” 

They fought their way back through the cemetery, Amina keeping the hordes of undead at bay, and Varric keeping the Wilis far enough away from them that she couldn’t attempt to enthral Gethin. 

By the time they made it to the crypt, Amina’s nose was bleeding and there was a sheen of sweat on her brow. “I’ll cover you,” she panted, adjusting her sword in her hand - they really were against the wall now as the Wilis and a handful more undead closed in around them. 

Varric only nodded and leaned Bianca against the stone wall of the crypt. His fingers found his lockpicking kit in his breast pocket, and he set to work, trying to ignore the fleshy sounds of violence that were erupting behind him as Amina kept her word and bought him the time he needed to pick the heavy old lock - it was slow going: the tumblers inside the lock were rusty and stiff. 

“Stop. Trying. To. Kill. Us.” He heard the Watcher grind out over the pummeling of flesh - hers and that of the undead. “Surely we can come to an agreement that doesn’t involve anyone else dying.” 

He heard the Wilis’ weepy laugh in reply just as the lock clicked. He started dragging the chains free from the bars they were wrapped around, pausing before ushering Gethin inside when it occurred to him that there were undead behind the stone plaques in the crypt. Surely they couldn’t get out… right?

He decided he’d risk it and shoved Gethin inside before slipping through the gate too. “Amina!”

She shot a look over her shoulder, and seeing that they were safely inside the crypt, she darted backwards from the Wilis, breathing hard, eyes wide as the spirit descended on her in a fury. 

She wasn’t going to make it.

A revolting ‘splat’ followed by an agonised scream rent the night as Amina grunted with effort and backhanded the Wilis’ midsection with her shield as hard as she could, bursting her putrefied gut and splattering the ground with a fragrant blend of semi-liquified viscera and reeking bodily fluids. Next to him, the kid immediately blanched and vomited, and Varric wasn’t far behind: the smell was that of a poorly maintained abattoir caked with blood and shit, overflowing with heaped piles of discarded offal left to rot in the sun. The odour of death - because death indeed had an odour - decked Varric in the nose harder than any fist could, ramming its confoundingly spicy but simultaneously cloying fingers into his sinuses and down his throat, fingerfucking his esophagus into submission until he doubled over and heaved too…

Then Amina was beside him, looping the chains around the bars again and locking the crypt from the inside as the Wilis shrieked and rattled the gate and tried to claw the Watcher’s eyes out through the gaps. 

“We’re not coming out until you agree to let that body go,” Amina declared firmly, blinking blood out of her eye as she finished with the chains - she’d taken a nasty blow across her forehead, but it didn’t appear to be slowing her down. The orb of veilfire fluttered between the bars. “If you’re thinking of being stubborn about it, please consider the fact that the three of us will eventually die of thirst in here and you won’t get any of us if we do, so time is of the essence.” 

She marked the disturbing sound of fingernails scrabbling against the plaques surrounding them with half a glance, and deeming them to be of no concern, sheathed her sword and leaned her shield against the base of a small statue. Having apparently tuned out the anguished wails of Yearning, she drew her gloved hand over her face, wiping away some of the purge that had splattered upwards. She heaved a sigh and turned to Varric and Gethin, her eyes going round as she comprehended the state of them. She looked down and wrinkled her nose at the sight of her feet and legs which were shining with the heinous smelling rot that had been contained in Gisele. 

“I’m so sorry!” She said, genuine concern written across her bloodied face. She waited for Grethin to finish dry-heaving before continuing. “I really had been hoping that I wouldn’t have to do that.” She withdrew three roughly cut scraps of what looked to be linen from a pouch on her belt and handed one to each of them. She used hers to wipe the blood and remaining fluids from her face, looking calmer than anyone had a right to look in this situation. 

Varric dabbed at the corners of his mouth with the linen, trying not to think about why someone from Nevarra would have such a thing readily available on their person. “So much for ‘unnecessary trauma’.” He muttered. “You okay, kid?” He turned to Gethin, who looked incredibly pale, but didn’t have a scratch on him. 

The boy nodded and rubbed his arms to ward away the cold, but continued to shiver. His blue eyes were rimmed with tears. “Wh-what do we do now?” His chin trembled and he stared at the gate: the Wilis had gone, likely to search for some other means to get into the crypt. It was eerily silent. 

Amina finished cleaning herself up as best she could and tucked the used linen into a different pocket. “We give it what it wants.” 

Varric and Gethin protested, and she let them finish before saying, “At the very heart of all of this is a young woman’s death. Gisele took her own life when you ended your betrothal for another woman - she was blind to the fact that she was anything more than a failed bride and a burden to her family. She saw herself as a failure… selfish for even daring to crave that which seems so effortless and natural for everyone else.”

“But that’s not true!” Gethin insisted. 

“Your perception or reasoning behind your actions are of little consequence - though they’re repellant.” She levelled a look of disgust at the boy that actually made him flinch. “The fact of the matter is whether you intended to or not, you made Gisele feel unlovable, and that sentiment was so strongly believed by her that Yearning could not help but be drawn to her, even in death.”

“You told me not to throw my life away not fifteen minutes ago, and now you’re urging me to do that very thing?!” 

“You don’t have to die.” Amina said, her voice softening somewhat. “You give it what it wants,” she repeated. “You give it what Gisele wanted: love. Real, genuine, love - not falsified or put on in an attempt to fool her.”

Grethin dragged his hands through his hair in exasperation, “How the hell do I do that?!”

Amina smiled coldly at the young man and crossed her arms. “I’m sure you heard a few fairy tales in your youth.”

Well, shit…

“Y-you think I should… you w-want me to… to…” 

“True love’s kiss to break the curse on the fair princess and set her free. Yeah, that’s exactly what I want you to do.” 

“N-no!” He babbled, eyes as round and pale as the moon. “There… there has to be some other way!”

“Want to let Yearning kill you and stuff an enthralled spirit in your corpse?” Amina taunted. “Because that can be arranged.” 

She was compassionate and warm when she wanted to be, but damn she could be blunt…

“But she… she’s all–”

“Decomposed? Yes.”

“Won’t I… w-what if I catch something?”

She actually rolled her eyes, uncrossed and recrossed her arms, and tapped the toe-cap of her boot against the floor tetchily. “Please. The worst thing you’ll catch is another bout of nausea, but luckily your gut’s already empty so that shouldn’t trouble you any.” She regarded him with those perceptive eyes. “You made a decision that you thought was right for you - for all I know, it was - but there were unforeseen consequences to that decision, and now you are dealing with them… as do we all. It won’t be easy, but I know that you can do this.” 

Gethin sighed; whimpered a little. All the fight seemed to leave him. 

“Alright.” He whispered brokenly. “I’ll do it for her… for Gisele… so that she can finally rest.” 

“It was brave of you to come here tonight,” Amina reached out and squeezed the boy’s shoulder reassuringly - an amusing sight, Varric thought, because he was half a foot taller than her. 

They left the crypt soon after, and it didn’t take them long to find Yearning, sitting on a gravestone, its knees drawn up to its chest, shoulders quaking with quiet sobs. 

If she hadn’t literally raised the dead to try and kill them a short time earlier, Varric almost would have felt bad for her. 

“Yearning?” Amina called out softly, approaching the Wilis with gentle footfalls. 

“I hate this place!” The spirit bawled, not lifting its head. Varric noticed there were still a few of Bianca’s bolts sticking out of Gisele’s corpse. “Everything… is so… unattainable.”

Amina crouched in front of the spirit and looked up into her curtain of tattered, dirty hair. “It’s… it’s not great for a spirit of your ilk, I’m afraid - and that’s not a mark against you. It’s hard enough even for those like me.” She reached up and tenderly pushed some of the hair aside, and Varric could see the green glow of those haunting eyes sunken into rotten flesh. “There are other places in the world that would have you though, if you still want to give it a chance. Why don’t you manifest at the Necropolis? There are spirits there that would thrive under your attention.” 

Yearning’s chin lifted and it looked directly at Gethin. “I want him to come with me.” 

“He’s going to stay here with his family where he’s needed. But if you’re willing to relinquish your hold on Gisele, he has agreed to bequeath you a token of his affection to remember him by.” 

Yearning cocked its head and Gethin stepped forward. 

He raised a hand in awkward greeting and Amina stepped aside so that he could stand before the desiccated remains of the woman he betrayed. “You’ve got this.” She whispered as she passed him by.

Amina stood next to Varric and got his attention with a light tap on his shoulder. 

“This is a private moment - we should give them space,” she murmured. 

“Do you trust that he’ll actually do it?” Varric mumbled in reply. 

“He will.” 

Varric’s eyebrows lifted sceptically, but he turned with Amina and began walking towards the cemetery entrance, noting that she was favouring her right foot with each step she took. 

“I’m fine.” She insisted, clearly sensing his concern. “A mild sprain. Nothing that a hot bath and a few hours of sleep won’t fix.” She flicked open the stopper of the vial around her neck and the orb of veilfire dissipated into it.

“What’s the story with that?” He nodded at the pendant that was once again filled with placid light.

“It’s a wisp that bound itself to veilfire - it was fascinated by it, so it became it.”

“And it’s fine with being stuffed into a bottle and worn as jewelry?” 

She glanced sidelong at him with a rapidly swelling eye. “It chooses to accompany me. Should it wish to leave at any time or shed its current manifestation I wouldn’t stop it.” 

“Why’d you become a Reaper? It seems like painful work.” 

“Sometimes,” she admitted. “But not usually. I was young when I was put on the path of a Watcher: I was good at gathering my bearings - a skill that was demonstrated in my uncanny ability to sneak out at night and run rampant in the city during my youth, always a step ahead of my handlers. A useful trait for someone who wanders the ever-changing halls of the Necropolis.” 

“Bullshit,” Varric scoffed. “Without looking at the stars, point out the cardinal directions right now. Go.” 

She came to a halt and without a moment of hesitation, lifted her hand and pointed in turn. “North, East, South, West.” 

“Holy shit.”

“You should see me at parties.”

“So let me get this straight: some higher-up at the Necropolis saw some kid running wild in the streets who was good at not getting lost and decided to chuck her into servitude to the dead for the rest of her life?”

“Is that meant to be an insult, Viscount?” She raised an eyebrow.

“No, no! Not at all! I just… don’t get it is all. And please - call me Varric.” 

She shrugged and looked forward. “You don’t have to. As for becoming a Reaper, I’m not a mage, and any idiot can swing a sword, but becoming a Reaper is complex and requires just as much study as Necromancy. It’s extremely difficult to make the cut and actually be put on rotation in the Halls.” 

“Why’s that?” 

“Because I knew that spirit’s natural reflection wasn’t Yearning - it was Devotion. They train us in Nevarra to reason with both spirits and living people, and most of us are very good at it for a simple reason.” She heaved a tired sigh and rubbed at her eyes. “Only the most empathetic and compassionate are chosen to become Reapers. Our strength - our power - is drawn from a place of deep understanding and feeling: our ability to comprehend and make the pain of another our own. It’s our blessing and our curse, because I’ll be honest with you, Varric: it’s bloody exhausting.” 

“Then why do it at all?”

She was silent for a time as they continued to walk. He almost thought she’d forgotten the question when she finally said, “Because I love it. It fulfils my soul in a way nothing else ever could.” She smiled again: the warm, kind one she first greeted him with. “Could it ever truly be a burden when it brings such joy to me?”

He didn’t have an answer to that, so he hitched Bianca up on his shoulder. They were almost at the entrance. “You’ve gotta go back and bury her, don’t you?” 

“Can’t leave her sitting out for the crows.” 

“Want help?”

She looked down at him, trying to get a read for whether he was just offering to be polite. “No thank you, Varric,” she said finally, practically beaming at him through split, bloodied lips. 

“I still need to talk to you: I’ve got some work that I think might be of interest to you - when you’re done come find me at the inn. Drinks are on me.” 

“I don’t really drink, but… after tonight, I think I could be amenable to one or two.”

“There’s a whole bottle waiting for us. Whatever it takes for you to hear me out.” 

“Oooh… sounds important.” She wiggled her eyebrows.

“You have no idea, kid.” 

[heylittleriotact]

Your Rook and Emmrich for the Halloween ask? How do they spend Halloween together? - Chez

omg THANK YOU for asking, wonderful Chez <3

They are both definitely working on Halloween lol. All Souls Day is a big deal in the Necropolis for obvious reasons. Emmrich (with Manfred's assistance, of course) is probably running an open house style educational event in a safe, approachable section of the catacombs where the tamer, non-intimidating wisps tend to frequent as a way to introduce young people and curious travelers to Nevarran death philosophy, science, and how magic works into all of it. I think he's really passionate about stripping away the negative preconceptions people may have about what they do, and being able to have them interact personally with spirits in a safe environment is a great way to do that.

Amina, being a Reaper, is strolling the passageways and mausoleums of the Necropolis that night, on the lookout for anyone that might cause trouble: unfortunately All Souls Day tends to mark an uptick in grave desecration and unsanctioned rituals by misguided folk who think they know what they're doing, but inevitably don't. Also, the local kids have a history of daring each other to sneak into the Necropolis on this night for reasons that she still doesn't understand. Regardless, she'll keep her eyes and ears open and do whatever she has to do to ensure that the spirits and the dead that she's responsible for are left in peace, and that anyone foolish enough to go wandering around alone on this night leaves in one piece.

When the dawn comes and their work is done, they find each other and head home, hand in hand, Manfred shuffling alongside them, chattering enthusiastically about the night. Amina has a bath while Emmrich unwinds with a book in his study, and she finds a beautiful box of expertly curated sweets waiting for her on her pillow - all her favourites - along with a single red rose: they didn't get to partake in any of the traditions and festivities like most people do - and they likely never will due to their responsibilities - but Emmrich won't stand to see her miss out if he can help it.

They curl up together in bed and fall asleep as the sun rises, Emmrich's nose buried in Amina's hair and his hand curled on her chest over the steady beat of her heart. The inherent reminder of All Souls Day is fresh for both of them: they will die like everyone is destined to die... but what is there to fear in death when they've been blessed with such love in life?

👻💀💚

(List of asks is here)

[heylittleriotact]

𝒶𝓂𝒾𝓃𝒶 𝒾𝓃𝑔𝑒𝓁𝓁𝓋𝒶𝓇 | 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓇𝓉𝓎-𝓈𝒾𝓍 | 𝓂𝑜𝓊𝓇𝓃 𝓌𝒶𝓉𝒸𝒽 | 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓅𝑒𝓇

[heylittleriotact]

💌 Post 4 pictures from Pinterest that describe your OC. Send this to 3 other blogs to keep the chain going! ~ a friend (Cause I love your writing and now I'm in need of some visuals!! 💚💚)

Awww I love you! Thank you!! Here's some Amina aesthetic for you! <3

[heylittleriotact]

bb girl hasn't had a decent night of sleep in weeks and doesn't care, as long as she's helping literally anybody through a crisis.

[heylittleriotact]

Snippet-Sunday (but on Monday)

Tagged by @xxnashiraxx - thank you!! ❤️

I am tagging @allofthebarks (because I'm going to continue to annoy you into feeding me) and anyone who reads this and wants to do the thing!

I'm currently working on a one shot all about the first time Varric meets my Mourn Watch Rook, Amina Ingellvar. She's been encouraged by the powers-that-be at the Necropolis to take some time off and see the world, so naturally that means she's working in the Free Marches because all she knows is death and spirits.

First Call:

The initial contact with a funeral home when a passing has occurred to arrange the transfer of the body from the place of death. 

He got it: it wasn’t every day the Viscount of Kirkwall strolled into their sleepy little inn, but did they all have to rise deferentially? 

“No need to roll out the red carpet on my account.” He adjusted Bianca’s strap on his shoulder, making his way through the room of standing people. “Just passing through for a drink and a ghost story.”

The patrons of the inn exchanged wary glances, but one by one they all sunk back down to their seats and resumed their conversations - though the odd look of curiosity was thrown his way now and then. 

Heaving a sigh, Varric made his way to the bar and helped himself to a seat. Only one other person sat at the bar: a tall, gangly elf with a bare face and a mop of messy black curls, had to be in his mid-thirties. A chipped wine glass sat in front of him, along with a nearly empty bottle of wine that Varric knew was an expensive vintage. 

He was the only person in the inn that hadn’t stood up. 

Interesting. 

Varric ordered a whiskey - neat - from the innkeep and slipped Bianca over his head, leaning her against the bar at his feet, in reach should he need her. 

“What business brings you to Wrenwith, Master Tethras?” The innkeep - a stout older man with a ginger moustache and little other hair - asked, sliding the measure of whiskey over the wood to Varric. 

Varric brought the short glass to his nose and inhaled - yup: paint-thinner… just the way he liked it. He was grateful that at least the innkeep hadn’t insisted on dusting off something expensive and fancy just for him. 

He took a sip and hummed at the familiar burn on the way down; the warmth that spread in its wake. “You thought I was kidding about the ghost story, didn’t you?” He chuckled and arched a brow when the innkeep visibly paled. “I know, I know: why would the Viscount of Kirkwall personally drag his famously lazy ass here in person just to stick his nose into a bit of trouble with the undead?” 

“If it pleases Your Grace to know: we’ve already got somebody looking after it.” The innkeep babbled. “No need to burden the city coffers with our humble problems.” 

He was nervous - didn’t want to say too much. Wanted him to finish his drink and hit the road. 

“That’s the reason I’m here: I caught word that this ‘someone’ is none other than a Nevarran Mortalitasi - one of their Mourn Watchers, in fact.”

He was absolutely making this guy squirm for the hell of it… just a little. It only stood to reason that hiring a professional who belonged to a mysterious and ancient order of people who liked to play with dead people and spirits might be frowned upon by Kirkwall’s authority. 

The innkeep swallowed hard, the guilt on his face suggesting that he may as well have been the one to hire the Watcher. He wasn’t: the village would have pooled together their gold for this. “She said she could kill it, Your Grace. Permanently. No funny business or anything!”

The elf a few seats down, silent until now, snorted into his cup of wine. “Nothing ‘funny’ about that one, I’m afraid.” Emerald green eyes flicked up to the innkeep and a smarmy grin spread over his handsome face. “I was here when she came in: got a face like hewn granite and the disposition to match.” He turned on his stool to face Varric, still looking rather like the cat that had eaten the canary. “Doubt she’ll take kindly to you trying to run her off her work - even if you are Viscount.” His eyes roamed up and down over Varric with a haughty scrutiny that reminded him so much of Chuckles he was tempted to yank on his hair and see if it was a wig. 

“That fearsome, is she?” Varric probed. “I heard she was a Reaper. Can’t say I’ve ever met one, but I have heard that they take their authority over the dead pretty seriously.” 

“I wouldn’t want to piss her off.” The elf smirked and downed the rest of his wine, refilling his glass with the dregs of the bottle and tapping it with a fingernail to indicate to the innkeep that he’d like another. 

“You’ve… you’ve been in here all day, ser, d’you really need another whole bottle?” 

If it was true and the elf had been drinking all day, he looked pretty damn sober to Varric’s eyes. 

The elf adjusted the lapels of his road-worn leather topcoat and re-arranged his lanky legs under him. “I’m on vacation,” he drawled. “I think I deserve to indulge a little, aye?” 

“Holiday, huh?” Varric swirled his whiskey. “Whereabouts are you from?”

There was an unexpected coolness in his eyes and a tightness to his smile when the elf answered, “Nowhere.” 

Varric shook his head and turned back to the innkeep. “Listen, I came here to talk to our macabre friend: can you tell me where I might find her?” 

The innkeep nodded once, “Cemetery, Your Grace: end of the lane, take a right. Can’t miss it, can you? But… are you sure you wouldn’t rather wait? It’s nearly midnight, and the… being... she hunts is vicious.” 

Varric tossed back the rest of the whiskey and waved a hand. “Bah. I’ve blundered into worse things in my day than a pissed off spirit.” He slid a gold piece over the bar with two fingers. “That being said: I’d appreciate it if you had the bottle waiting for me when I’m back… I get the feeling I’m going to need a drink.” 

[heylittleriotact]

New avatar doodle sketch thingy

[heylittleriotact]

I’m grossing myself out with some of the descriptions that are going into this one shot about how Varric met Amina. Like I knew it was going to be gross. I didn’t know it would be ✨this✨ gross.

I’m having so much fun.

[heylittleriotact]

@chaezaru is my favourite enabler and asked what Amina’s bond is like with her other companions.

Contains spoilers through the end of act 2 so putting it under the cut:

Harding: Grief isn’t an emotion exclusive to people dying - Lace is running the gamut, grieving the person she was before her new powers, grieving the injustices her people were subjected to, and grieving the person that she thought Solas was. That’s enough to really mess someone up if they don’t have a solid support system, so Amina takes extra care to make sure Lace is included and looked after. She spends a lot of time in the greenhouse, asking her to teach her how to grow things. It turns out this is good for both of them: Amina isn’t accustomed to the practice of cultivating new life and finds it very rewarding, and Harding gets to feel like she has some control over *something* in the damn world for a few minutes.

Bellara: She carries a lot of guilt that manifests in self-doubt and over-caution. She’s afraid to fail because she’s haunted by the consequences of past failures. Amina relates to this more than she’d care to admit, and doesn’t really feel equipped to help Bellara with her feelings when she’s still struggling with her own guilt. She knows she should encourage her to grow past it, but wouldn’t that make her a hypocrite if she’s still caught up on her own regrets? She does enjoy spending time with her though - the two of them start writing a smutty romance together, trading a thick leather bound notebook back and forth every few days. Anyone who inquires about this activity is met with feigned obliviousness.

Neve: It’s a professional relationship through and through. Amina is still very much figuring out that outside of Nevarra, being mortalitasi is either a conversation starter or a conversation ender: there’s no in between. More often than not when she alludes to her work when talking to Neve because it’s really all she knows outside of her own name, it’s a conversation ender. Amina is low key jealous that the wisps of the lighthouse prefer to converge in Neve’s office. That doesn’t stop her from finding ridiculous excuses to visit the mage just to spend time with the wisps.

Davrin: Sometimes Amina wonders if Reda and Gortan experienced similar frustrations with her as Davrin seems to experience either Assan. Granted, she was a person and not a griffin, and Reda and Gortan specifically volunteered to raise her when she was found in the Necropolis as an infant. But still. Raising a child that isn’t your blood is different than raising one that is - no denying that. She likes spending time with the warden and Assan, and while she thinks Davrin is indeed a knight in shining armor straight out of a fairytale, she’s rather disillusioned with the fact that he seems committed to the idea that his existence is meaningless if it doesn’t end in a heroic death.

Lucanis: Amina catches Lucanis off guard by how completely unbothered she appears to be about Spite. She was more taken aback by how much he spends on coffee in a month than the fact that he’s inhabited by a spirit. She sees how other people treat him and act around him because of it and feels bad for both Lucanis and Spite: none of this was either of their faults. So she just treats Lucanis like she would anyone else, and any appearance by Spite is met with patience and kindness that surprises the spirit too. Most mornings at the Lighthouse start with Amina and Lucanis sitting at the dining table in complete silence as they drink their coffee. Lucanis tried to strike up a morning conversation once, but was met with a series of one word answers and distant “mhmmm’s” until he realized that Amina was either unwilling or incapable of conversing before she found the bottom of that first cup after waking.

Taash: Amina doesn’t seem to unnerve Taash quite as much as Emmrich does, but she doesn’t understand why. Sure she’s not a mage and she doesn’t do *exactly* the same work that Emmrich does, but she converses with spirits, bathes, embalms, and dresses the deceased, repairs undead, and leads funeral services just like anyone else in Watch is expected to do. If anything Amina thinks Taash should be MORE creeped out by Amina because of how casually and optimistically she talks about her own eventual death. Maybe it’s Emmrich’s moustache? Either way, she tries to find common ground with them that is unrelated to anything death-ish. They work out a lot. Amina is determined to out-plank Taash one of these days. Amina really dislikes Taash’s Mom. Having been envious of other children that grew up knowing their parents, Shathann’s relationship with Taash diminishes Amina’s idealized view of what parents should be like - what hers would be like if she had them. She struggles to understand why a parent who has put so much effort and sacrifice into raising their child would treat them with such coldness when they’re clearly trying to live up to unattainable expectations.

Emmrich: Amina is so incredibly smitten with him. He makes her feel seen and valued in a way that no one aside from her adoptive family has, and she considers herself incredibly lucky to have found him. She’s never had more engaging and fascinating discussions with another person, and though they have very, very different perspectives surrounding death and mortality, the contrast compliments their relationship. Amina is comforted by the idea of mortality and the natural cycle of life and death: the order and guarantee of an End, but having Emmrich in her life gives her pause and reason to take better care of herself and approach battles more cautiously instead of throwing herself into them like the armour-clad Reaper that she is. She’s very understanding of Emmrich’s thanatophobia, however: it’s an incredibly common affliction, and the fact that he’s a scholarly necromancer who happens to be terrified of his own mortality doesn’t diminish his accomplishments or make him a fraud, and it doesn’t change the fact that he is an amazingly kind, compassionate person to everyone he comes into contact with - alive or dead. Sometimes he has nightmares about dying. She makes him chamomile and lavender tea and writes gentle love notes on his back with her fingertip till he falls back asleep.

Bonus - Solas: From their first meeting in her dreams, she felt there was something different about him, but dreams can be misleading and mercurial, so she didn’t put much stock into it at first. Once it was revealed that Solas was a spirit that manifested physically, Amina’s entire perception around their interactions changed: what was Solas if not another lost spirit in need of assistance? Sure, she’d never encountered a spirit of his magnitude, age, and power before, but… the fundamental approach to handling him couldn’t possibly be that different, right?