#and if you see the quest as implying that

[neverending-shenanigans]

Look, I don't disagree with you, per se, but here's the thing: this is all just in theory. The game fails to show this in a meaningful way or in a way that is satisfying from an RPG point of view.

Everybody matters for the success? Cool. How so? If I literally leave them behind in the lighthouse for the rest of the game, it makes no difference.

I love Emmerich, dearly, but what exactly does he do in the Veilguard? Is the game saying the few time he talks to corpses are so vital to our success that the world is doomed without him?

None of the former games (to my knowledge) implied that not recruiting someone screwed everything over completely.

And if the game wants me to see that this is different, because the stakes are higher? Well, game, show me directly what happens if I don't recruit people, make them as vital as you claim they are. And have a number of quests where I can feel their absence if i don't have them around as the experts for necessary tasks (and I mean more than these funky little dagger mechanics or that one final battle, alright). Let me experience how much worse off everyone is if I don't help them. Or if I give them bad advice, if I make them objectively into worse people.

Tie their personal narrative more strongly to the main issue. Balance them out a little. Have Zara's blood magic be a vital part of the ritual Elgar'nan is preparing. Have Isseya actually blight a griffon or two for Ghilly and let them do some hefty damage to the Anderfels or elsewhere. Let Rivain be under siege by the Dragon King and his mind-controlled beasts. Make everyone's issues matter equally with options for real Bad Outcomes.

RPGs used to be about the consequences of my actions, about having choices with actual impact within the game narrative itself, and those were more than just one bad ending option.

This would also be a way to make sure that "these are professionals" can come across. By showing me what happens if they aren't. If we aren't - if Rook isn't.

Don't just have the narrative put up a red tape that says "you cant, because you shouldnt".

Not to mention that I frankly think it does the characters a disservice by saying that "they are professionals" somehow means that they dont have issues, they have to like you, they have to grow as people.

Bioware had a fantastic system in DA2 in the rivalry system which allowed for much more interpersonal nuances. This would have solved a lot of issues here, even if we are in a set-up in which characters will stay with you no matter what. They stay with you for the cause, but they hate you personally. How many professionals feel like that about their Boss and co-workers?How many professionals are great at exactly one thing but still assholes anyway?

And I have seen it be thrown around that "Rook cannot be an asshole because Varric wouldn't have picked them". That feels like cop-out to me. And does not make sense for narrative consistency. He is not some sort of infallible Thedas Jesus. There is precedent for him being wrong about people.

Varric recruited Hawke for his brother's expedition and Hawke had much more potential/freedom to be an ass (to the point in which Varric might end up as a drunkard for it, because Bioware used to include consequences). Varric was as much part of the disaster/tragedy/failure of Kirkwall as the rest of that crew. Varric didn't see Anders' plan coming, either. He also did not spot Solas' plan from miles away.

Varric might have picked Rook up for their moment of bravado that the game always provides, because he was running our of time to stop Solas. Nowhere does it say he might not have ended up regretting that choice a little if you turn out to be a competent ass. Wouldn't that have been a neat thing?

If we and the characters got to experience... regret?

"I wish you could be mean to the companions" it's a story about professionals

"I wish you could have a choice to not recruit companions" it's a story about every single person being vital to success

"the companions are too nice to eachother" it's a story about professionals

"rook puts out people's squabbles too easy" it's a story about a boss who actually cares and doesn't buy pizza to get people to work unpaid overtime

"I wish you could recruit a therapist for the team" based and valid

[solaskisser]

I finished Veilguard, so spoilers ahead!

I didn't really get any pics of the end cause I was focused on what was happening so I didn't capture my Solavellan ending (I think I'll just reload right before it to get pictures before I delete my save) but that truly made me sick I love them sm - when they were speaking Elven to each other like my pookies 😖 Solas in general will always make me so sad. He's so tragic and I love him. Overall though the ending was just wild, I knew something was weird with Varric but I didn't necessarily guess THAT ??? that shit was straight crazy and replaying it is gonna make me like hyper vigilant to how the other characters react cause WHAT do u mean u sit there and let me be crazy as shit low-key. anyway I'm gonna play again and mayhaps I'll play Alya again some time, I still haven't fully decided who I'll play next but I'm excited.

My only complaints really are that I wish there was more romance (which EVERYONE said) Taash's romance was nice, and they're hawt asf but definitely could've had more dialogue and scenes specifically! Especially like I remember telling my partner that I wish I could erase my memory and romance Solas again. His romance was just so good, partly because he's Solas but also I felt there was a decent amount of content in DAI that seemed to fall through in Veilguard. Also, a lot of things felt sort of rushed I guess? Some of the issues or anything like that to me seemed to be briefly brushed upon before we moved to something else. This wasn't everything but it did seem to happen often (like the thing w Solas and Mythal at the very end... there's a lot implied there!)

Overall though the game is very easy to play, which I'll never complain about, I enjoyed most of my companions and it'll be fun to explore other romances, options, and just kind of see what I pick up on now that I know certain things. but yeah, I kinda regret not taking any endgame pics but I'll remake Vela at some point and get that ending again. I'd like to make Phaedrus (my Dorian romance) too at one point so we'll see. It truly has me itching to romance Solas again teehee

I guess one last thing - I'd like to say the theme of the game was very interesting, which I think is why I felt that it fell short right at the end. The theme of regret has a lot of potential and I feel it wasn't as explored as it could've been, but I was still happy for Solas in the end. I can't imagine playing a playthrough where you don't help him 😭 I guess I could maybe understand but I just couldn't do it. I truly feel bad for him at the end of the day. I just wish it explored it a little more like we got to see with Rook in the fade quest.

[starcurtain]

Some Speculation on Kaveh’s Father

I actually started this post right after the Parade of Providence event last year, but never got around to finishing it. However, in light of Kaveh still not appearing on a banner, I decided to dust this one off and get it finished, so that I’d have at least a little Kaveh content in my life after being so cruelly denied by Hoyo.

So, without further ado, some stuff about Kaveh’s father I did not see discussed elsewhere but which I think is especially interesting.

1) Kaveh’s father likely first became depressed/disillusioned with humanity after witnessing (or possibly being the victim of) a murder attempt.

Without knowing the full situation and reading all the additional text from the Parade of Providence event, I feel like this might have been easily missed, but the entire “Kaveh’s dad became disillusioned and depressed and retreated to the desert to help people” seems--at first--like it came out of nowhere. He had a lovely family, was the pride of his darshan, and was eager and excited to win the crown to bring it home to his son. Yet theoretically, he did not win the crown (and, in fact, the crown was stolen before the last event and may not have been there during the Avidya Forest fight, so when, as the non-winner, would Kaveh’s father have come into contact with it to encounter Sachin through it in the first place?) Why would Kaveh’s father’s personality take such a massive turn all the sudden? What would drive an excited, happy person to suddenly withdraw from everything he loved and everyone who loved him, if he didn’t actually win the diadem to be influenced by it in the first place?

The event implies there was a trigger:

Huvishka’s friend (who is described as “honest and kind but vulnerable and sensitive”--obviously Kaveh’s father) went into the Avidya Forest with the other contestants, where no one was watching, and we’re not told what happened except that the Akademiya responded to whatever occurred by shutting down the entire competition and banning any sort of events in the future that cause contestants to become so desperate they would “fight to the death.” 

This is a pretty obvious implication that Kaveh’s father either witnessed two other contestants attempt to kill each other or was the victim of an attempted murder himself, which prevented him from winning the competition even though he was the favorite to win by a long-shot. This feat of betrayal, demonstrating the depths to which humanity would sink, likely shook the idealistic world views of a sensitive person such as Kaveh’s father. This brush with death and with humanity’s capacity for evil in the forest would have been the exact trigger needed to make Kaveh’s father particularly vulnerable to Sachin’s message of nihility and despair, leading to the downward spiral that sent Kaveh’s father into the desert.

- 

2) Sachin may have way more culpability for Kaveh’s father’s death than Kaveh realizes. 

For a while after the event, I was under the impression that Kaveh’s father must have met Sachin’s consciousness through the diadem and that’s where he got the idea to go into the desert. However, something was always a bit odd about the timeline, because...

Sachin was still alive when he gave the Akademiya his estate. This is why no one actually knew/believed he was fully dead, even to the present--because he willed the Akademiya the estate while he was alive and told them he was going to be personally watching over the contestants to award his estate to them if he deemed them worthy successors to himself. 

So did Kaveh’s father run into a fragment of Sachin’s consciousness... or did he run into Sachin himself? The game doesn’t really clarify:

The fact that Sachin’s recording recognized Kaveh’s appearance as familiar makes me think it is much more likely that the consciousness preserved in the diadem already had knowledge of Kaveh’s father at the time it was preserved. Aka, Sachin actually met Kaveh’s father in person. This also makes sense of why, even though the diadem was stolen away during the last event and Kaveh’s father did not win it, he would still know about Sachin and Sachin’s research. (However, as a counterpoint, I guess we could say that the Diadem!Sachin had enough sentience to maybe have its own memory, separate from the real Sachin? And reached out to Kaveh’s father mentally even though he didn’t win the diadem? Maybe?)

Still, there’s one really notable aspect of the timeline that I think is important: Right after the Interdarshan Competition twenty years ago, the one which Kaveh’s father competed in, we know that Sachin went back out to the desert. 

Who else went out to the desert exactly 20 years ago? Kaveh’s father, obviously.

This overlap in the timelines makes it seem very likely that Kaveh’s father, who failed to win the competition because of a murder attempt (and therefore never got the diadem), was nevertheless reached out to by the real Sachin, who saw in Kaveh’s father the kindred disillusioned idealist he was looking for to pass his research torch onto. From this connection, Kaveh’s father was driven to either directly accompany or at least pursue the still living Sachin into the desert. (This works even if we say it was only Sachin’s consciousness he was contacted by--in either case, he would have been driven go to out to the desert to meet the real, temporarily still living Sachin to join his quest to help the desert people.)

Only for Kaveh’s father to meet his end there while trying to aid a caravan that had fallen into trouble. What a tragic coincidence, a completely unpredictable twist of fate.

Or... was it?

How odd, in the same quest that Kaveh’s father’s connection to Sachin is discussed, that we’re given an account of a caravan that appears to have been deliberately sabotaged, where money was taken (from Sachin) and somehow sparked a betrayal, a “trial of human nature” that caused many people to die, with the takeaway being the exact belief Sachin wants to pass on and reinforce in others, that humans are horrific creatures who can only make the world a worse and worse place. 

We know that Sachin’s “research” specifically consisted of doing this exact thing, manipulating situations to test humans’ moral character, conducting trials/experiments on “human nature” to reinforce his belief that humans were fundamentally selfish beings.

(It’s no accident the merchant ledger we receive uses the exact same words as Sachin does, “trial of human nature” and “experiments on human nature.” We’re supposed to assume what happened to the caravan in the note was deliberate sabotage on Sachin’s part, to create a scenario where he could observe the cruelties of humanity.)

Why would the game go out of its way to give us an account of a caravan being deliberately sabotaged and used as an experiment if there was no connection at all between what happened with this caravan and what happened to Kaveh’s father, who was also killed helping a floundering caravan?

It’s just too much of a coincidence to accidental. I think the implications of the ledger Dori gave us and the similarities in the language on that ledger to Sachin’s ideas was supposed to lead the audience to wonder:

Could Kaveh’s father have died in one of Sachin’s final “human nature experiments”? 

Was the caravan Kaveh’s father tried to help one that Sachin deliberately sabotaged, expecting to observe humanity’s selfish, self-preserving nature?

I think there’s enough evidence in the story to suggest that we players are at least supposed to consider this a possibility. (There’s no reason to give us the ledger about the manipulated caravan otherwise.) And if you consider this a possibility, it would mean that Sachin didn’t just indirectly cause Kaveh’s father’s death--he would be the direct cause of Kaveh’s father’s death, an actual murder brought about by Sachin’s beliefs that humanity’s self-centered nature made everyone beyond saving.

This idea transforms Kaveh’s father’s sacrifice into the ultimate rejection of Sachin’s beliefs. This would mean that, even in a situation manipulated to bring out the worst in human beings on purpose, Kaveh’s father gave everything to protect the lives of others, for no gain at all of his own, doing everything he could just to desperately try to make the situation (the world) better.

SO yeah. I’m not saying we have hard evidence here, but I think the quest was trying to lead players to speculate very, very hard on the possibility that Kaveh’s father’s death was no accident.

-

3) Finally, a cuter piece of speculation to brighten things up after that despair bomb I just dropped: it’s highly likely that Kaveh’s father had more than one Aranara buddy!

During the Parade of Providence, we hear about an Aranara who learned to read from Kaveh’s father:

However, this is a bit confusing, because later in the event, we hear someone else say that Kaveh’s father taught an Aranara to write specifically when he was a child:

While of course it is possible that Kaveh’s father taught the first Aranara, Arakasyapa, to both read and write, I think there’s also another possible answer here about why Kaveh’s father would separately mention teaching an Aranara to write:

Because there is an entirely different Aranara in the story which was taught to write by a “good Nara” who was a child--Arashakun, from the quest “Courage is the Heart.”

In this sweet little world quest, the Traveler discovers a flower talisman that has been snatched by some hilichurls, and seeks to return it to its rightful owner, a timid and shy Aranara named Arashakun. 

We learn that Arashakun once had a kind-hearted “good Nara” companion who taught him to write (sound familiar?), and who, in order to encourage the poor Aranara, gave him a single flower dubbed “courage.” In describing this child companion, Arashakun specifically states that his companion was no strong warrior like the Traveler’s twin, but instead a gentle, comforting presence who never teased the Aranara.

All of these descriptions line up particularly well with Kaveh’s father, who the game repeatedly describes as vulnerable, kind-hearted, and giving to others.

To drive home the possible connections to Kaveh’s family even further, this quest takes place very, very near to the Palace of Alkazarzaray. 

Although we don’t have any guarantee, I think it is strongly implied that the “good Nara” mentioned by Arashakun is indeed Kaveh’s father, and the “courage of the heart” that he extended to Arashakun as a child is the very same courage, kindness, and generosity that drove him to reach out to the people of the desert, hoping to make a difference in their lives--even at the cost of his own.

The takeaway? Kaveh’s father was a truly good person who aided everyone he came across, from timid Aranara to people whose very lives were in danger. He never meant to leave his family, and especially not his son, but repeatedly fell afoul of the worst humanity had to offer and was driven into a situation in which all he could do was offer his very life to uphold the altruism that was central to his idealism--the same idealism and goodness that Kaveh carries as “courage” in his own heart.

[electric-plants]

listen we can be boring and just take this to mean “always been” as in post the archon quests OR we can make a bunch of headcanons instead such as:

1) they all meet up so much it feels like they’ve been doing it forever

2) these two were just fucking pretending they don’t know each other throughout the entire archon quest

3) alhaitham was being pedantic with “at the akademia” and despite being personal friends they fully separate their working selves and consider each other strangers in work matters

4) they’ve been meeting up as part of the friend group for forever but never actually talked to each other until this moment making it Extra Awkward™️

and literally so many more like the pathways this has opened up in my brain ughhh

[musubiki]

how was playing hsr? was there anything that you liked in the game and the story?

ITS BEEN AMAZING AS EXPECTED!!!!!!!!! i actually havent played genshin in a while since starting it, i have no motivation to do the filler event while a perfectly good star rail is sitting there waiting to be played :')

but for mechanics, i love they have auto battle so you dont have to nessecarily sit there and invest in every little battle you gotta do....and i love that the resin (resin??) system is a lot more forgiving with a higher cap, lower cost, and allow for overflow...thats nice...i also love that the mc and starter units are very useful. im so emotionally attatched to the star rail crew so im glad they never have to leave my team !!!!

storywise im LOVING IT SO FAR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! i started playing it at the beginning of spring break 2 weeks ago and im almost all caught up!!! i went through belabog and penacony and now im just doing those leftover intermission main quests which im only now realizing i shouldve done before going to penacony LMAO

and of course.....danmarch....im so soft for them......and also i love sampo i cant wait to see what they do with him

[ayrennaranaaldmeri]

bruh they did not release coral island ("full" version) without even finishing a main storyline and slapping WIP in your fucking journal 💀💀💀💀💀

[es-quest]

You stay in the forest for longer, nothing is really, changing. The scene flickers to different areas. A flowerbed, some wolf pups playing, deer frolicking.

The real scene is happening inside a small town, far away from them, but you were being monitored constantly and you liked to imagine what they would do when you weren't there. Maybe it was naive of you to think of it as a peaceful world. Was that rabbit okay? You couldn't be sure. You hoped it was.

(Whatever happened to it must be a kinder fate then being in here though. Your not sure who benefits from this. Someone must right? Or else why would something like this happen?)

You stay in the forest.

[lesenbyan]

man it's completely different bc Fordola did absolutely did War Crimes against other Ala Mhigans but maybe I (and Eve) relate to her so much bc, again, she's hated by her own people for trying to fit in with the empire when she was raised and taught that was the only way to survive and like. Yeah.

[lavandulawrites]

An Escape To Warmer Temperatures

Yandere Capitano x reader

Yandere Capitano is something else<3 Got this idea while doing the archon quest.

Synopsis: Capitano wants to take you with him to Natlan in search of the pyro gnosis

Masterlist

Warnings: spoilers for 5.1, implied murder, implied violence (not towards the reader), obsessiveness, possessiveness, power imbalance

Word count: 1146

The Captain was a righteous man. It was a well known fact. He was tall, way above 190 cm and he was as muscular as a god. He had an aura that made one cower before him, even if you didn’t know about his identity as the 1st Harbinger. His love for you was passionate and over consuming. He sat you above all others and he had told you time after time that he would burn down Teyvat for you. It was no secret that Capitano had shed blood for you. Both his own and the blood of others. He never told you, but you had gotten the glance of blood speckles on his clothing after some had sent you a dirty look and you had overheard his lackeys disposing of what remained of a unfortunate man who had bumped into you.

Capitano was a strange man, but there was no doubt about his love for you.

At night he caged you in an gentle, but firm embrace. His strong arms wrapping around you and keeping you close. At first you had resisted, in fear of what he might do to you, but you caved in when you realised he didn’t mean you any harm.

Capitano was no stupid man, quite on the contrary. He knew about the dangers of the world and wanted nothing more than to shield you from said dangers.

The snow storm had lasted for days, almost a week. The wind hammered against the roof and the snow clouded the sky in an endless stream of white. The old hearth was lit and the flames beckoning you closer. You reached out your hands in an attempt to warm them. The flames were bright and looked like a living breathing being.

The polished floor creaked making his presence known. Your eyes remained focused on the fire rather than his imposing figure. His movements stilled and you knew he was waiting for you to say something.

“You are home” you could almost see your breath in the cold air despite the fire before you.

A low hum could be heard from behind you. A heavy fur trimmed coat was laid around your shoulders in an attempt to stop the shivering of your limbs that you hadn’t been aware of.

“We finished early” the black haired captain replied. His hand stayed on your shoulder. “Are there any special reasons as to why it is so terrible cold in here?”

“The heater broke and the firewood was wet” your eyes were still staring into the flames.

The hand on your shoulder moved its thumb in an comforting manner. “Why didn’t you ask the servants to help you?”

“I don’t mind the cold…” your voice low. The truth was that the temperature inside the grand mansion was one of the few things you could control in your life. It was rather childish, but you couldn’t care less.

“I see…” he sighed. The thumb came to a halt. “There is something I have been wanting to discuss with you.”

The Captain often gave you the illusion that you had something to say in the matter of discussion, but it was only that, an illusion. What he said was final. That much you knew.

“Oh. Go on” your voice was devoid of any emotion as your mind raced through all the possibilities of what he wanted to discuss with you.

“I’m going to Natlan in the search of the gnosis” his hand left your shoulder. “And I want you to come with” his words were filled with authority.

You swallowed as your eyes widened. Natlan…. You had never set foot outside of your homeland. And now he wanted you to come with him to Natlan? You almost wanted to laugh. This was really the last thing you had expected to hear from the rigid man.

You turned around to face him. His beloved helmet was nowhere to be seen. What met you were his dark midnight blue eyes that reminded you of the deep Snezhnayan waters that you could see from your bedroom window. His eyes were deep and you felt like you could drown in the endless blues. His star-like pupils stared right back at you with a whirlwind of emotions you could only hope to place.

A scar ran down one of his eyes and you wondered how he had managed to escape with his eye intact. Multiple other scars littered his skin, but the most noticeable save form the one over his eye, were the one straight over his nose. It had faded to a white colour, but you could imagine it must have looked quite bad when he first got it.

Due to his Khaenri'an blood, his skin was filled with blue veins accompanied with black lines that ran through the entirety of his body. His mouth looked rather normal, but when he smiled or sneered it stretched a little too far for a normal human being. Behind his pale lips were sharp teeth that belonged more in the jaws of a hound, rather than a man. His tongue was long, but he rarely made it known.

Despite the curse he suffered from, he was an undeniable handsome man. His beauty was something that greatly unnerved you as he seemed almost like a beast that made itself appear human in order to come closer to its prey. He was unsettling with his imposing height and muscles, yet you found it hard to tear your eyes from his own.

“Do I have a choice?” your voice were meek despite your effort at sounding indifferent.

He huffed and the corner of his lips turned slightly downward as his dark eyebrows furrowed. “No” Capitano’s voice was soft as if he tried to calm you down. It came as no surprise that he had long sensed your inner turmoil.

His large hands cupped your face gently. His thumbs stroking your cheekbones. He stared at you for a while before he pulled you into an embrace. His strong arms caging you in as your face was pressed against his muscular chest. His hand stroked your back and you found yourself getting calmer.

“I think a change of scenery will do you good” the bit that he was incapable of departing from you for a long period of time was left unsaid, yet the words hung heavy in the air. Suddenly the living room felt as hot as the steps of Natlan.

His hand traveled up to your head were it intertwined with your soft locks. His head came down slightly as he inhaled your scent in a rather desperate motion that seemed unfit for the 1st Harbinger.

“Jeg elsker deg [Name]” the words that left his lips were in the national language of his homeland. Though you didn’t know the language, you understood all too well what those words meant.

Translation

Norwegian → English

Jeg elsker deg = I love you

[solelifauna]

So this NOT to imply the writing is bad

But so far the Batfam fic as me genuinely shaking in anger , the fact that dick is convinced that y/n as to prove herself to be "worthy" genuinely got to me to the point I need a pallete cleanser

Could we please get a small drabble of reader growing close with one of the "outside" batfam members?

Like maybe Kate(batwoman) and Luke (batwing) because they are under used

Or hell, maybe to really grind the family gears, reader gets close to azrael

(you know Bruce would've able to do shit if reader got close with Kate, she would fucking eat him alive)

Hey, You're all good bro! I also just want to put out that my fic is based on an au! The portrayals of any characters in my fic are based off of their canon and fanon counterparts, just with my own twist. Since this is a darker universe/au, the Bats along with other heroes are going to be a lot more brutal and jaded.

Also love your idea bro. But, I'll do you one better. Constantine. Bruce absolutely can't stand him and the reader being friends with/getting along with him? Oh, that's bound to grind Bruce's gears. It would also be easier to meet Constantine too.

Let's just say one day the reader gets caught up in some Justice League Dark stuff that Constantine is trying to solve. She gets kidnapped by a cult that wants to use her as a sacrifice. I mean, she is a pretty huge target, being the daughter of a Billionaire after all. Anyways, shes kidnapped, nobody is coming to get her, not from her family at least. Long story short, Constantine arrives too late to stop the ritual, but things don't go according to plan for the cultists anyway. Turns out that the person sacrificed wouldn't be killed, but would instead become a vessel.

Great, now you have some old, eldrich being living rent-free in your mind. The being is old, donning the title "Keeper of Hell", but you'll just call it (they? him? her?), Adam. Yeah, Adam wasn't too happy with the name. When Constantine arrives, however, hes pleasantly surprised to find you alive. When he realizes that you, a 15-year-old, now carry the presence and power of an eldritch being older than Gotham itself, he groans while lighting up a cigarette. Looks like he'd have to deal with you now.

He checks over you making sure you have no internal and external injuries before explaining your situation. He feels a little sorry for you, but he is in no condition to train you. He asks around to other JL dark members, hoping to see if anyone is willing to help you control your new powers. He sighs again when nobody steps up to the plate, too busy with their own sidekicks and quests.

Reluctantly, he tells you he'd help you figure stuff out. And there begins the blossoming of the amazing "Grumpy old man and kid they didn't ask for" troupe. When you tell Constantine your name, he blanks, because of course he gets stuck with one of the bat's kids. However, based on your tone of voice when discussing your family (and the way you begged him not to let Bruce/Batman know of your predicament), he's guessing things aren't all too great between you all. Well, thats not his problem, his only job was to train you and make sure you don't end up accidentally killing someone.

Yeah...like that thought process is going to last. Training sessions start out bleak and professional, he's only doing a job. Then as time continues, he finds himself enjoying your company, your enthusiasm to learn and your rambunctious/sarcastic comebacks always have him fighting off a smile. It's been a while since he's had company like this. Soon, you're both going out on missions, and then ice cream breaks afterward. He lets you fall asleep on his shoulder, drooling all over his trench coat after particularly difficult missions and he can't bring himself to mind.

He's fond of you, although he never admits it out loud. It's okay though, because even though he's never said it out loud, his actions speak louder than words. You could feel his love and pride for you. Although he wasn't exactly your dad per se, he was still something to you, maybe the wine uncle? You don't know, and you don't particularly care to put a label on what Constantine was to you, you're just glad that he's there.

Shit hits the fan, however, when one day you decide to go on a solo mission. It's nothing crazy, just getting rid of some poltergeists and low-level demons and shades. Now, were you given permission to go on this mission alone? No, but in a normal teenage manner, you decide to go anyway. Everything was fine, you got rid of all the poltergeists in the area and even some of the shades too! It's all going well until you realize that the demon mentioned before was not as weak as you were told. You gulped when its blood red eyes turned to you.

"Well shit." Constantine was going to kill you.

It immediately lunges at you, you barely rolling out of its sharp claws. You hit it with a couple of spells, causing the demon to roar out in pain, burn marks now littering its side. Its tail whips at you, colliding with your stomach as you fly into a wall with a loud thud. You groan as you pick yourself up, clutching your ribs, each breath a jagged pain that ripples through your chest. Your arm is slick with blood, the gashes from the demon's claws burning as if its very essence were trying to sear your flesh. You grit your teeth and weave another spell, calling on Adam’s power to knock the demon back. This time, a burst of raw energy slams into it, shattering its leg with a sickening crack.

For a brief moment, you think it's over, ready to strike the final blow. But the demon’s leg snaps back into place, bone and flesh knitting together as if the injury had never happened.

“Of course,” you mutter under your breath. “Why would this be easy?”

The demon lunges again, and you’re just a split second too slow. Burning pain flares through your right arm as its claws tear into you, ripping through your flesh like paper. You scream, the sound involuntary, but you push through the pain, refusing to go down without a fight.

Drawing back, you unleash another spell, a sharp projectile of energy aimed at its neck. The demon flinches, letting out a low growl. That reaction—panic—gives you the first glimmer of hope. Its neck. That's its weak spot.

With renewed determination, you gather every ounce of strength you have left. The cuts across your body throb, and your arm feels like it’s on fire, but you push it all aside. You can do this. You have to do this.

You unleash a volley of cutting spells, each one aimed at the demon’s throat. It fights back viciously, throwing you around the room with a strength that makes your vision blur. Every hit you take feels like your bones are splintering, but you keep going. You keep attacking.

Finally, one of your spells strikes true.

The demon lets out a gurgling screech as your spell cuts deep into its neck. Blood—thick and dark—pours from the wound, and it claws at its own throat, choking. Its body spasms violently, and then, as if collapsing in on itself, it begins to disintegrate. In a few seconds, all that’s left is dust.

You stand there, panting, barely able to process the fact that you did it. You won. A grin spreads across your face, and despite the pain radiating from every part of your body, you let out a weak cheer.

But the celebration is short-lived.

Pain cuts through you like a knife, sharp and sudden, reminding you of just how battered you are. Blood is still oozing from the various gashes across your body, and your arm feels like it’s hanging by a thread. You stumble, nearly falling, but catch yourself at the last second.

“Crap… I’m bleeding out,” you mumble, wincing. “Whoops.”

With what little energy you have left, you remember the spell Constantine taught you, the one that would tether you to him no matter where you were. He warned you not to use it unless it was an emergency—and bleeding out from demon-inflicted wounds definitely qualifies.

You lift your shaking hand and cast the spell, a sluggish flick of your wrist sending out a ripple of energy. A portal forms, shimmering and unstable, but functional enough. Without much grace, you stumble through it, disappearing from the demon’s lair.

What you didn’t know, however, was that Constantine was currently in a Justice League meeting.

The first thing you feel is a sudden drop, like the ground beneath you has vanished. You barely register the sensation of falling before you crash, hard, onto something solid. Groaning, you blink through the haze of pain and find yourself sprawled across a massive table.

You can hear voices—muffled, alarmed—but the world is spinning too much for you to focus. All you know is that you're lying on something cold and hard, and you’re absolutely drenched in blood.

Forcing your eyes open, you see several figures standing around you, staring in shock. Your vision is blurry, but you can make out Superman’s cape and Wonder Woman’s armor. You try to process what's happening, but the pain in your arm and ribs keeps pulling you under.

"Ow, ow, ow, ow. Fuckkkk." You cry out.

Suddenly, the scent of smoke fills the air. You don't even have to look to know who it is. Constantine’s familiar trench coat brushes against your arm as he crouches beside you, cigarette dangling loosely from his lips. His eyes flicker with a dangerous mix of exasperation and barely concealed anger.

“What in the bloody fuck, kid?” he snaps, his tone harsher than usual, but the concern underlies his words.

You wince, the situation hitting you all at once. Crap. Now I've got to deal with this.

You muster a weak, sheepish grin, wincing as you turn your head to face him. “Heyyy Constantine, how are ya?”

His brow furrows deeper, and he’s clearly not amused. “What did you do?”

You swallow hard, trying to think of how to explain yourself without getting ripped to shreds—verbally or otherwise. “I—well, promise you won’t get mad?”

“Too late for that, kid. I’m already halfway there,” he growls, his eyes narrowing as he looks over your wounds. “Now get to it.”

You bite your lip, trying to find the least disastrous way to explain. “So… I sorta… mighta… gone on a solo demon-hunting mission,” you blurt out quickly, hoping he’d just move past it.

The way Constantine’s eyes widen, and the immediate twitch in his jaw tell you that he’s definitely not going to move past it.

“You did what?!” His voice rises as he stands up, rubbing a hand over his face. “Oh bloody— I thought I specifically told you not to go by yourself! And this is what happens!”

“Hey, well, I’m alive, aren’t I?” you say, grinning nervously, trying to play it off.

“That’s besides the point!” He throws his arms up, pacing as he takes a long drag from his cigarette. “Bloody hell, I should’ve known better with you kids. I swear, this is why I never—”

Just then, a dark, grim voice cuts through the chaos, and your heart nearly stops.

“Constantine,” Batman’s tone is low, authoritative. “Why is my daughter bleeding on our table?”

Oh no. No, no, no. Not now.

You freeze, your mind going blank as you feel the weight of Batman’s presence at the end of the table. You slowly, painfully turn your head to see him standing there, cape draped over his shoulders, his gaze icy and locked onto you. His usual stoic expression somehow looks even more intense.

“Ah… shit,” you mutter under your breath, groaning inwardly as you realize you’ve just landed yourself in the absolute worst situation imaginable. “I completely forgot he was still here.” Wait, did you say that out loud?

Constantine gives you a sidelong glance, raising an eyebrow. “Yes, kid, you did. And now we’ve got more than just your wounds to worry about, don’t we?” He sighs deeply, rubbing his temples, already anticipating the fallout.

Batman’s eyes narrow, arms crossed as he takes a step closer to you, his voice low and dangerous. “Care to explain yourself?”

You’re still bleeding, your head is pounding, and you’re pretty sure at least a few bones are broken, but none of that compares to the fear creeping up your spine as you look up at your father. Your mind races for an answer, but every excuse you can think of feels flimsy at best.

Constantine clears his throat, sensing the rising tension in the room. “Right. Let’s get her fixed up before this turns into an interrogation, yeah? Kid’s bleeding all over the place, and she’s already taken a beating. We’ll save the lecture for later.” He waves his hand, muttering something under his breath as he kneels beside you again.

The tension between Constantine and Batman lingers in the air, thick and heavy, but Batman finally relents. His eyes soften—slightly—as he watches Constantine work to stabilize your injuries with magic.

You can feel yourself growing weaker, the adrenaline finally wearing off as the pain becomes unbearable. Constantine mutters a healing spell, one that slows the bleeding and knits some of the less serious cuts together. It's not perfect, but it’s enough for now.

“I think it’s time to get you all fixed up, huh?” Constantine says softly, his earlier anger tempered by concern as he helps you sit up, his hand firm on your back to support you.

You nod weakly, not daring to meet Batman’s eyes again. You’re in deep trouble, but for now, at least, you’re still breathing. As Constantine gets ready to teleport you to a safer place to heal, you hear Batman’s voice, calm but steely.

“We’re not done here.”

And with that ominous promise hanging in the air, Constantine picks you up, and the world around you shifts once again.

Constantine gently carries you through the halls toward the Justice League’s med bay, muttering curses under his breath with every step. You could feel his frustration radiating off him, and now, in the quiet aftermath of the fight, guilt begins to settle in your chest. The adrenaline from the battle has worn off, and now you're left with the consequences of your reckless actions.

“Hey, Constantine… I—I’m sorry for not listening to you. I really am,” you say, your voice soft and heavy with regret.

He sighs, not looking at you, but his tone is stern. “I’m not going to lie and say I’m not mad at you, kid. You didn’t just ignore my warnings—you put yourself in danger. There are rules for a reason. What if you got seriously hurt and couldn’t cast a spell back to me? Even worse, what if you died or got possessed?”

His words hit you hard, and you wither under the weight of them. You know he’s right. All those rules and restrictions aren’t just him being overprotective or controlling, they’re because he cares. He’s seen the kind of darkness that can swallow people whole, and the thought of that happening to you terrifies him, even if he’ll never say it out loud.

By the time you reach the med bay, the guilt feels like it’s pressing down on you as much as the pain in your ribs. Constantine lowers you onto a cot, tucking you in with a gruff gentleness that only he could pull off. He sits down on the side of the bed, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it with a quick flick of his fingers, his eyes never leaving yours.

“What I’m trying to say, kid,” he starts, exhaling a cloud of smoke, “is that I care. I care about you, I care about what happens to you. I don’t want—” He pauses, his voice softening. “I don’t want to ever have to find your body one day. So please, from now on, let me know before you do something stupid like this.”

His words hang in the air, raw and unfiltered. You nod, trying to process it all, and then something clicks in your mind. Wait… did he just say let him know?

“Let you know? Does this mean—” Your eyes widen as realization hits you. “Does this mean I can go on solo missions?”

Constantine lets out a resigned sigh. “Yes, yes, you can start going on solo missions—”

“Hell yeah!” you exclaim, sitting up a little too quickly. Pain shoots through your ribs, but you can’t help the excitement bubbling inside you.

“—but, only the ones I sanction and authorize,” Constantine finishes, cutting through your excitement with a stern look. You deflate a little at his words, but it’s still a victory in your book.

Without thinking, you throw your arms around him, ignoring the sharp pain it causes in your ribs. “Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you! I promise I won’t let you down!”

He chuckles, patting your back awkwardly before pulling away. “Yeah, yeah, I know you won’t. Now, lay back down and get some rest. You still have dark and brooding to deal with.” He gestures toward the direction of the meeting room, clearly dreading the inevitable confrontation with Batman. “And by extension, I do too,” he adds with a heavy sigh.

You groan, sinking back into the cot, the exhaustion finally catching up with you. “I don’t know why he even cares. If he did, he would’ve figured this out ages ago.”

Constantine glances at you, his expression softening for a moment. He takes a long drag of his cigarette before speaking. “He cares, kid. He just… doesn’t always show it the way you want him to. Doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel it.”

You scoff, though part of you knows he’s right. “Yeah, well, doesn’t feel like it.”

Constantine stands, taking one last drag of his cigarette before flicking it into a nearby ashtray. “Doesn’t matter how it feels right now. The Bat’s going to want answers, and if I know him, he’s going to want to have a very long talk with you. You’re not out of the woods yet.”

You wince at the thought of the upcoming conversation, knowing that Batman’s interrogation will be thorough and far less forgiving than Constantine’s.

“Great,” you mutter, closing your eyes and sinking deeper into the cot. “Just what I need.”

Constantine gives you a small, almost affectionate smile before turning to leave. “Get some rest, kid. You’ve earned it. I’ll deal with the big bad Bat for now.”

And with that, he walks out, leaving you alone in the med bay. As much as you’re dreading what’s to come, you can’t help but feel a sense of relief. Despite the pain and the mistakes you made, you know that Constantine’s got your back. And, maybe, just maybe, Batman does too, even if it’s buried under a mountain of brooding and silence.

For now, though, you let the exhaustion pull you under, trusting that everything else can wait until tomorrow.

-

As you rest, your body finally succumbing to the exhaustion, your breathing evens out and your mind drifts into sleep. The med bay is quiet, sterile, but the tension in the air lingers, waiting for the inevitable. Eventually, a dark, caped figure glides into the room silently, his form casting long shadows across the walls.

Batman—no, Bruce—stands over you, his sharp eyes tracing every bruise, every cut that mars your face. His jaw clenches as a million thoughts swirl in his head, none of them offering any comfort.

What the hell happened to you? Why are you and Constantine so close? How did you even know Constantine? How much had he missed—how little attention had he been paying—to not notice any of this?

Bruce sighs, a deep and frustrated sound. He removes his cowl, setting it on the side table with a weary hand. Without it, he seems less intimidating, less imposing. He stares down at you, seeing the cuts and bruises marking your skin, but what hits him harder is the way your face, in sleep, is still so achingly young. You're his daughter, and yet it feels like you're a stranger to him now.

How did you get so far away?

He knows the answer. The fault lies with him, with the choices he made, the excuses he repeated to himself—telling himself he was too busy, telling himself he would check in later. Later never came, though, and the space between you widened, until it wasn't just him you were drifting away from, but your brothers too.

Bruce noticed the way your brothers treated you, the harsh words, the cold shoulders. He saw the distance, but he justified it, telling himself it was sibling rivalry or something that would pass. He didn't step in. And now, as he looks at you lying there, bruised and battered from a fight he wasn’t even aware of, the reality sinks in: he has no excuse.

With a heavy sigh, Bruce reaches out, his rough but careful hand carding gently through your hair. The gesture is tender, hesitant, as if he's not sure whether he has the right to touch you like this anymore. But as his fingers comb through your hair, you stir in your sleep, a quiet murmur escaping your lips as you unconsciously lean into his touch. It's such a sweet, innocent moment, and for a brief second, Bruce allows himself to feel the warmth of it.

But the moment is fleeting.

He feels the presence before he sees it, the unmistakable smell of cigarette smoke filling the room. His jaw tightens as his hand stills. He doesn’t turn right away, but his voice cuts through the silence.

“Constantine,” Bruce says, his tone gruff even without the cowl to disguise it.

Constantine steps into the room more fully, leaning against the wall, a half-smoked cigarette between his lips. He regards Bruce with that same nonchalance he carries everywhere, though there's a flicker of something else in his eyes—something more cautious.

"Thought you’d still be brooding over in the corner," Constantine says, taking a drag of his cigarette. His eyes drift to you, lying peacefully on the cot. “Didn’t expect to see this version of you.”

Bruce doesn’t respond right away. He pulls his hand back from your hair, his gaze hardening. "What happened?" The question is direct, but underneath it, Constantine can hear the concern, the frustration Bruce doesn't voice aloud.

"She went off on her own," Constantine mutters, taking another drag before blowing out a cloud of smoke. "Went after a demon. Got roughed up pretty bad, but she handled it in the end. Strong kid. Stubborn too. Wonder where she gets that from, eh?"

Bruce's eyes narrow. "And you let her?"

"Let her?" Constantine laughs, a short, sharp sound. "Mate, I didn’t let her. She went behind my back, just like she’s gone behind yours for who knows how long. Difference is, I’m the one she actually came back to.”

That lands like a punch to Bruce's gut. He doesn’t react visibly, but Constantine can see the tension in his posture.

"I didn't know she was…" Bruce starts, then stops, shaking his head. The words feel inadequate. "I didn't know she was involved with this stuff, i didn't even know she was a meta. Or that she knew you."

"Yeah, well, she found her way to me," Constantine says with a shrug, stubbing out his cigarette on the wall. “And she's not a meta by the way, she's a vessel for some eldritch being"

A vague expression of surprise appears on Bruce's face.

"I don't blame you, mate. I was surprised to find her alive afterwards. Not just anyone survives that kind of transformation, she's strong.”

Bruce crosses his arms, his gaze flickering between you and Constantine. “I know she’s strong.”

“Do you?” Constantine raises an eyebrow, the challenge clear in his tone. “Because she’s been running herself ragged trying to prove it. To you. To herself. And, hell, maybe to me too, but at least I see it.”

There’s silence for a moment. Bruce clenches his jaw, turning to look at you again, sleeping soundly despite the tension in the room. He knew Constantine was right. You'd been pushing yourself, fighting to show that you didn’t need them—that you were strong enough on your own. And he had let you. He'd let you because he didn't even care to notice.

Constantine sighs, sensing the weight of the silence. “Look, I didn’t come here to throw stones. But you’ve got to get your shit together with her. She’s tough, but she’s still a kid, and she’s your kid. She needs you.”

Bruce doesn’t answer, but his silence speaks volumes. He watches you, the soft rise and fall of your chest, and feels the regret gnawing at him.

“I’ll handle it,” Bruce finally says, though the words feel hollow.

Constantine gives him a long look, then nods. “You better. Because if you don’t, she’ll be right back with me..”

With that, Constantine pushes off the wall, flicking away the last of his cigarette. “I’ll check in on her later. Try not to fuck this up, mate.” And with one last glance at you, Constantine leaves, the tension in the room ebbing with him.

Bruce remains, standing over you, his mind a whirlwind of regret, guilt, and the desire to fix what’s been broken for far too long. He leans down, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead—something he hasn’t done in what feels like years—before stepping back, pulling the chair beside your bed to sit vigil over you.

He’s still not sure how to bridge the gap, but for now, he stays. It’s a start.

Well, thats all folks! I really enjoyed writing this au, so thanks for the idea! Maybe ill even make a pt. 2 to this? Who knows? Anyways, I hope you enjoyed it.

[andersdotters]

Now that Freminet's lore is out, it's emphasized even more that the Arlecchino of the Fontaine siblings is very different from the Arlecchino of the Harbingers. While she doesn't like weakness, she also doesn't order the members to be willing to give up their lives for the sake of the family. She pushes them to value themselves and their lives. She was incensed when she realized Freminet was lied to regarding his mother, but had the decency to give him time to himself after telling him the truth. She even gave him his mother's keepsake.

The Arlecchino of the Fontaine siblings is the kind of person who values life. She understands the motives and feelings of people. So I'm curious in what way she is the insane person Wanderer and Childe make her out to be.

The interesting thing about Arlecchino is that if you read what Wanderer and Childe have to say about her, she's portrayed to be insane and quick to betray. But when you read Lyney's lore and hear about it in game, she's different. She's cold, but even she talks Lyney out of getting a delusion because she knew that's not something Lynette would want. She doesn't allow for betrayal in her house. So it's curious to see how Genshin will reconcile those two facts later on.

[starcurtain]

Teyvat's "Most Down Bad" Award Goes to Alhaitham for a Second Year Running

Seeing everyone making fun of Alhaitham for his "stalkerish" tendencies in this event is funny, because I feel like a lot of people missed that "Be literally everywhere Kaveh is" has been Alhaitham's MO from the day Kaveh appeared in the game.

From only grabbing his house keys after Kaveh returned from the desert (he couldn't have had both sets of keys at the end of the Archon Quest unless he went home and got Kaveh's copy) to ditching conversations to get back to his house only after Kaveh came home, to showing up without any warning or explanation in Kaveh's hangout with some ridiculous excuse about hearing his voice through noise-cancelling headphones... Refusing to offer any help in the Temple of Silence story quest other than staying in the library with Kaveh...

Since when does Alhaitham willingly cover anyone else's duties?

But this trend of "Be everywhere Kaveh is" didn't start when they were adults. It was already in place when they were still Akademiya students--and it's a trend that didn't end even when they had their fight.

Even when they weren't speaking, Alhaitham dogged Kaveh's every step through published responses to Kaveh's research articles in academic journals. He insisted on keeping a line of communication between himself and Kaveh open, even if the only way to do that was through very public ideological clashes. Pulling Kaveh's pigtails to get his attention lolol. It's implied that, for at least the few years between their fight and Kaveh moving in, this was the only communication between them--Alhaitham's refusal to allow their connection to entirely fade away. (And the fact that this is revealed in Kaveh's character stories--through his precious journal that records the moments of his life that had the most impact on him--shows just how deeply he values the fact that Alhaitham didn't give up.)

Another relevant side note: Alhaitham never asked Kaveh to give up his half of their house. Knowing half of it belonged to Kaveh, knowing that Kaveh may one day want to reclaim his part of it, knowing that it was listed as theirs, Alhaitham moved into the house and made zero effort to change its ownership. He was completely fine with living in "his and Kaveh's house." The stories suggest it was only months later (or even longer) that Kaveh even noticed he had the house, and he transferred away ownership of his portion without Alhaitham ever asking him (or even seemingly wanting him) to do so.

Please, let that sink in. Alhaitham actively left his grandmother's (presumably comfortable) house to move into "his and Kaveh's house," with no apparent explanation for why, and after doing so, he made no attempt to change that "his and Kaveh's" label. He moved into the house with no promise that Kaveh wouldn't show up on the doorstep the very next day and move in too. It almost feels like another deliberate provocation--I've moved into our house, are you going to come stop me? LBR, if Alhaitham had had his way, Kaveh would have been living there with him from Day 1...

There's also the fact that Kaveh literally can't write on a single message board anywhere in the entire nation of Sumeru without Alhaitham hunting his messages down and responding to them (which absolutely no one else does, by the way).

"NUH-UH!" "UH-HUH." "NUH-UH!"

Alhaitham's own character stories tell us explicitly that one of Alhaitham's defining character traits is "He is never where you need him to be," yet somehow...

Shot, and chaser:

Any time Kaveh is in the slightest bit of need or danger or just wants Alhaitham near, Alhaitham is "coincidentally" exactly where Kaveh needs him to be, whenever Kaveh needs him to be there.

Alhaitham didn't just "happen" to run into Kaveh in Port Ormos, an entirely different city from where he was supposed to be working. He didn't just "happen" to read the same terrible book as Kaveh when we know he otherwise would not waste a moment of his time on poorly-written literature...

He didn't just "happen" to appear when Kaveh was upset and needed a distraction in the House of Daena during Kaveh's hangout. He didn't just "happen" to be sitting around waiting when Kaveh needed answers after the Archon Quest. He didn't just "happen" to find Kaveh's academic publications and every single message board posting and respond to them at length and in public.

Which is exactly what Kaveh's mother told Kaveh he needed.

What level of down bad is "Abusing your powers as an Akademiya employee to keep tabs on your crush's library loans"? Just asking for a friend.

The only person for whom Alhaitham just "happens" to be available is Kaveh, over and over and over again--because he is very deliberately making himself a constant presence in Kaveh's life.

(Like, out of all things, I think people really underestimate the devs deliberately paralleling the romantic relationship between Kaveh's mother and father with Kaveh and Alhaitham's relationship. If you want to point to one thing that says "These two characters are intentionally queer-coded," it doesn't get any more obvious than this.)

Alhaitham, are you not embarrassed to be this transparent??? 🫣

[hyperions-light]

Varric's Second: Defining Rook's Narrative Role

"That's why you're my second in command."

Is one of the first things Varric says to Rook in the entire story, and it seems innocuous, on its face; a piece of exposition, nothing more. However, it will define Rook's narrative role far more than may be initially obvious, and tells us some key facts about Rook immediately.

A second, especially in a situation where one may get in a fight (i.e., a duel) is someone who stands for one of the primary participants. They negotiate on their behalf, organize the details, and, in some cases, take over for them should they be unable to continue. They must be someone that the primary has absolute confidence in to represent them.

Now, you know Varric. Liar, Author, Handsomest Dwarf in Thedas. You know what kind of person he is, what he values. What kind of person do you think he'd choose to represent him directly?

There have been many complaints about how nice Rook is, but I submit to you that by placing Rook as Varric's second at the beginning of this story, Veilguard is giving you prerequisites for the sort of person they are.

Bioware has always done this; no matter what else they are, the Warden has to be someone who will accept the responsibility of ending the Blight. Hawke must be someone who tries to take care of their family. The Inquisitor must be someone who, when thrust into a position of power against their will, will step up and take the reins. These qualities are immutable; it maybe that Hawke, the Warden, and the Inquisitor are the kind of people who can save the world relatively alone. Veilguard is telling you Rook is not that kind of person.

On an external level, the reason for this is that if you are going to invest heavily into making the companions lifelike and narratively significant, you have to justify the expense. As many people as possible have to see that content, or the studio is going to call it a waste of resources. If Rook can dismiss them they cannot have major plot arcs, because that's a waste of money.

But diagetically, this problem is solved by Varric's introduction. Does anyone seriously believe that Varric would choose someone to DIRECTLY represent him-- stand in for him morally, physically, and philosophically-- that would abandon their friends? VARRIC TETHRAS, the man who bribed the Templars to stay away from Anders' clinic for years, the man who supports Merrill in her quest to summon a demon, the man who stands by Hawke no matter what-- does anyone think THAT MAN would pick someone to stand in for him who doesn't care about their companions? I think implying he would would have been a gross mischaracterization.

Rook is not the kind of character that would want to save the world alone, even if they could, because Varric wouldn't choose that. They are Varric's second, and that one assertion tells you an enormous amount about them.

This feels like a good place to end for now, and makes this post relatively spoiler-free. I want to talk about Varric vs Solas throughout the narrative in future, so watch this space for links to that.

[nereidprinc3ss]

do you believe me now? | 9

in which we find out how the morning after went for fem!reader. you finally share with spencer after unanticipated anxieties come up. you're continually shocked by his affection for you.

series masterlist

this series is 18+ (angst, fluff) warnings/tags: (preface none of the bad stuff is done by spencer) sexual harassment, slut shaming, non consensual voyeurism of sorts, blood + pain from losing virginity, talk of rape (nothing like that actually happens), implied nonspecific age gap (someone says he looks slightly older than you) non sexual nudity, showering together, intimacy, ewww being in love is embarrassing a/n: I honestly was not gonna post this today but I decided to bc it's just Tumblr its not that deep also you can probably tell I am just creating problems bc I don't wanna let go of them...... ik this is supposed to be a smutty series btw and trust good things come to those who wait!!!but anyways idk what I'm doing and I kinda hate this!! lolol!!!

Friday morning

The air is thick when you wake up—the angle of the sun through the window is lower than usual, and the binding weight of your limbs as you struggle to stretch in place all suggest that you’ve slept in. 

But you don’t check the time quite yet—for a moment, you simply lie there, studying the pattern on your ceiling, downloading the events of the previous night. 

Flashes of skin on skin, lips, breaths, whispers, promises. Phantom sensations. 

Was it even real?

Your apartment is deafeningly silent, you realize. And you have that sinking sense, which you can’t quite explain but know to be true—that you are alone. Spencer is gone. You can’t feel him like you’d be able to if he were simply on the couch or in the kitchen. He’s definitely not in bed with you, and the sheets have long gone cold. 

The truth of it renders about as slowly as your sluggish consciousness does, and you frown, not quite sure what to do with that information. Should you be angry? Should you cry?

Mostly you’re confused. 

As soon as you sit up, sore thighs and abs and a strange ache between your legs confirm that last night was not a dream nor a figment of your imagination. You’ll figure out what to do about your twinging body in a moment—for now you rub your eyes and blindly reach for the bedside table, knocking several things to the ground in your quest for your phone. 

It’s not there, you realize, once you actually try to use your eyes. It’s not in bed with you either as you pat the sheets, and it doesn’t materialize as you sit on your knees and shake out the comforter. 

From this venture, however, you learn two things. First, Spencer must’ve taken it upon himself to get you dressed last night, which you have no recollection of, but you doubt you sleepwalked your way into underwear and a big t-shirt; and second—you bled. 

It wasn’t something you were thinking about in the moment, but now, faced with all the evidence and none of the pleasure of last night’s activities, it’s jarring. A stark, unforgiving archipelago of red on a pristine sea of white. 

People say, at its best, sex brings couples closer. Spencer once told you it could facilitate feelings of deeper connection. But here you are, no longer a virgin, and what do you have to show for it? A stronger bond with your boyfriend? He’s not even here. 

All you have is this glaring red stain marring perfectly good sheets. It mocks you, like something you’ve dropped and can’t pick back up. You can’t think looking at it, and you need to think, and so in a fit of frustration you’re pulling the comforter onto the floor, leaning over your mattress and yanking the fitted sheet free. You ball it up in your hands, breathing heavily—and realize you bled through to the mattress. 

Wonderful. 

Spencer’s just at work, you tell yourself, grabbing the first pair of shorts you see and pulling them on before gathering the ruined sheet once more and stomping on aching legs through your apartment to the hallway, not even bothering with shoes. He can’t just play hooky because his clingy girlfriend lost her virginity and needs to be comforted like some previously celibate high school cheerleader.

But you miss him so much it’s making you angry, so much your eyes are stinging and welling with tears of frustration as you shove your bed linens down the trash chute at the end of your floor’s hallway. You’re supposed to be independent. That’s how you’ve always been. Since when does it bother you to wake up alone? It’s just sex. It’s not as big a deal for him as it is for you. Or for anyone. You’re the one overreacting, you’re the one who expects too much. He works for the FBI, for god’s sake. There are people dying, and here you are—

“What’chya got there?”

The gruff voice makes you jump, and you turn around just as the bundle is disappearing down into the hole in the wall. It’s your neighbor, Jerry—the one in the unit right next to you. You’re not happy to see him, especially like this. He’s got a blue 5 o’clock shadow despite the hour, and is clad in ill-fitting gray sweats and a pair of ratty slippers. His distended belly strains at the confines of an oil-stained white shirt, tied with a dingy checkered robe. You barely meet his drooping eyes before looking longingly back at your cracked door down the hall. 

“Just… garbage.” You shift your weight, hiding a wince as you try to find a comfortable position to stand in. Jerry notices this, and you wish his eyes wouldn’t linger on your bare legs like that. 

“Huh. Looks like someone had a late night.”

“Sorry?”

“It’s just noon and you’re still in your PJ’s.”

Disgusting. And who the fuck is he to judge? At least your pajamas are clean. 

You shrug. “Yeah.”

He scratches his bald head. 

“So that boy tired you out pretty good, huh?”

Your stomach drops. Your brain freezes. 

When you don’t reply, he takes the liberty of continuing on. 

“Saw him sneaking out of your apartment in the middle of the night. He looked a little older ’n you. You like ’em older?” His laugh is a cruel bark. “Yeah… He’s a lucky man. You know, it’s natural for a man to like a younger girl. Fresh meat, ’n all.” You try to speak and can only swallow a gag. Jerry adjusts his stance, hands in pockets like he’s telling you a local news story. “Heard some of it. Sounded like you were putting on quite the show. And sure, a young pretty thing like you? Hell, I would if I could. But I’ll tell you right now, you don’t wanna end up like my daughter. She wasn’t as pretty as you, but still—three kids with three men by the time she was 24. She should'a kept her damn legs closed. You know, she loved to cry rape, but you gotta ask yourself, if your legs are open all the damn time, what do you expect? Back in the day we all knew girls like that—” he bats the air dismissively. “Guess you can’t call ’em sluts anymore—they get what they’re asking for one way or another. See, I think everyone still knows it and they’re just too afraid to say it. So my advice: don’t let yourself get used up, you hear me? Not by men who are gonna ride you hard and put you away wet. So to speak. Men can smell a girl like that from a mile away, and they’ll take it as an open invitation. It’s just human nature.”

When he finally stops talking, the hallway fills with a vacuous silence. It makes your ears ring. Several moments pass, but you’re frozen. Your whole body feels intolerably hot but your blood is freezing. How are you supposed to react? 

“Hello?” He says, voice loud enough to hurt your ears as it echoes. 

Get out of here, your more rational self says to the rest of you, and you mumble something, you don’t even know what, excusing yourself to hurry on stiff legs back down the hall to your door. 

Once inside, you do up every lock on your door, and face your apartment, shoulders tensed practically to your ears and fists clenched so tight your arms are trembling. On autopilot you look around for something to do, but there’s nothing. More importantly, nobody.

I’ll call Spencer. He’ll know what to do. 

No, you won’t, your higher self reminds you. You lost your phone. And besides, it’s clearly not like he wanted to stick around last night. Maybe he doesn’t even like you anymore. 

So you’re stuck here. Stranded. Sharks can smell blood. 

Processing that information, you walk back to your bedroom and close the door behind you—before promptly sinking to the ground and burying your face in the duvet with a deep, silent sob.  

That goes on for a few minutes until you realize you’re too achy and you can’t breathe and you’re forced onto your side, curling up in your blanket on the floor like it’s a nest and not a burial plot. 

You shouldn’t get ahead of yourself. A relationship can’t implode twice in 24 hours.  You don’t have your phone. Maybe he’s texted you. 

But is that really all you’re worth? A text sent after the fact? He couldn’t sacrifice a few hours to sleep by your side? Couldn’t even wake you up to say goodbye? You think about the sweet things he’d said afterward—the way he held you, fingers dancing down your spine. Promises he made when you were half asleep in his arms, so sure he’d be there when you woke up. 

Even fucking Jerry the neighbor—who you think might have just sexually harassed you in the hallway—said Spencer should’ve stuck around. 

Fuck. 

No, don’t think about that. It doesn’t even matter. They were just words. 

Heard some of it. Sounded like you put on quite the show. 

Your skin crawls and your stomach turns as you hold yourself tighter. Something that was supposed to be private and special—and some random man not only had a front row seat to your deflowering but felt comfortable talking about it with you. It feels like a violation. Like he crashed a really important party. If you had known you had an audience last night, you never would’ve done it. 

The way he looked at you, tracing your legs with his eyes like he was touching you—

You scramble up from the floor and walk heavily on your knees to the dresser, digging up a pair of pajama pants and a hoodie. You should be showering, but you don’t want to deal with your body right now. You just want to hide. 

Friday evening—present

After your conversation, Spencer seems eager to make sure the car ride to his apartment is not reminiscent of the car ride to yours last night—he holds your hand, resting in your lap, bringing your knuckles to his lips at a red light. Every few moments he glances over at you, maybe to appreciate the view (though you doubt it’s especially scenic at the moment) or perhaps to gauge your mood. The further away you get from your apartment building the better you feel, and you try to focus on that. Sure—maybe you had a shit day, but Spencer’s here now, and he didn’t leave you after all. In fact, since finding your phone, you’ve seen the series of very sweet and highly concerned messages he sent over the course of a few hours. They almost make your stomach hurt. It would’ve been really nice to have those earlier. 

He doesn’t ask you any more of the hard questions, but you sense an inquisition in the works and getting closer with every curious glance he gives you. It’s like he’s unwrapping you, layer by layer, using his impressive cognitive faculties to drill through your skull into your brain and deeper still into your soul. 

Back in his apartment you sit awkwardly on the bed. Last time you’d been here, things hadn’t gone so well for you. 

The shower starts in the adjoined bathroom, and Spencer comes out a moment later, warm light seeping into the darkened bedroom. Purple and dark blue mixing with yellow, like a bruise. 

“Hey. Water’s warm.”

You hum, smoothing the material of his neatly made bed with your palm and watching the way it flattens. That had been your doing. You may have thought he was on the verge of breaking up with you last time you slept here, but you didn’t want to leave his home a mess. Didn’t want to leave any evidence of your having been here. 

A moment passes. You thumb at a thread and don’t look up. 

Spencer crosses the space without a word and crouches in front of you, hands coming up to cup the back of your legs, running knee to ankle and up again. 

“Can you tell me what’s going on? Please?” He asks softly. His voice wrings your heart out. Now that you’re in a completely different space, and you’re not so alone anymore, you’re struggling to sort out your feelings. It should be fine. You’re with Spencer. Presumably he still loves you. 

And you still feel terrible. 

“I don’t really want to talk about it,” you whisper. 

“I know,” he says, just as quietly. 

Spencer doesn’t say anything else. I know you don’t want to—and yet. Your lips twist to the side. He’s persistent. Even in his kindness. It’s not the kind of care that falters or buckles when you try turning it away. 

“My neighbor said he c—” 

You’re forced to stop, frowning by how overcome you are. It shouldn’t be such a big deal. Worse things have happened to you. 

“He said he could hear us. Last night.”

Spencer’s hands stop on your legs. You can’t meet his eyes. You’re afraid whatever you find there won’t be the right thing. 

“He’s in the unit next to you?”

You nod. “We share a wall.”

There’s a moment’s hesitation and your stomach sinks. He doesn’t understand. 

“What did he say?”

“Just… dumb shit,” you scoff, fiercely wiping away a stray tear. “He said he listened and it sounded like I was putting on quite the show. And then he—and then he told me not to let you… use me up, whatever that means. He called me fresh meat, and said I shouldn’t let you ride me hard and put me away wet, and bad things happen to sluts who can’t keep their legs closed.”

You finish with a sharp inhale, briefly leaning down and covering your face with your hands when you realize how upset you really are. You want to hide it. 

A fraught moment passes. Spencer reaches for your hands, no doubt to try and pull them away from your face. You spare him the trouble, sitting up with a cavalier sniff before he can touch you and brushing your hair behind your ears.  

His voice is uncomfortably quiet. You can’t look at him. “Baby…”

“Don’t. It’s fine. I only told you because you asked.”

It’s not his fault, but you’re mad at him anyway, and so you avoid eye-contact like it’s the plague. Maybe it’s just safe to be mad at him. Maybe he knows that. 

Regardless, you’re not in the mood for coddling. It’s borderline repulsive—like trying to mix oil and water. Anything good slides right off of you because maybe you’re not designed to be able to absorb good things.

Nothing changes for a minute—and then he’s standing, offering you a moment alone as he goes to crank the shower off. 

As soon as he’s gone all the air is vacuumed from your lungs and you crumple, heaving it back in silently as your head spins and your heart races. It’s like your mind is split in two—half is primal, overwhelming panic, and the other a cold observatory eye, full of disdain and scorn for what it deems a severe overreaction to a few nasty comments made hours ago. You’re so tangled up as you curl in on yourself on your side that you can’t even cry. You’re just trying to remember how to breathe, ignoring the crawling feeling up your spine and the tingling heat at the back of your neck. The shower stops on the downbeat of your staggered breath, and then it’s silent. He’ll come back at any minute and see what a mess you’ve become. 

You’ve ruined everything. If only you could’ve kept it to yourself. 

When Spencer reappears in the doorway, and sees you collapsed and curling like paper burnt at the edges, he’s quick to return to you. 

“I’m sorry,” you manage, trying and failing to brush away hair from your cheek, which is wet—so you were crying—and Spencer shushes you, pushing it away for you as he kneels. 

“Why are you apologizing?”

“I’m being dramatic, I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Of course, at the end of that declaration, a sob wrenches its way from the depths of you, so bright and cleaving you half expect the smell of ozone to follow. You follow it with a blisteringly self-deprecating laugh.

“Don’t—don’t do that. Don’t minimize it.”

His hand is warm where it rests over your cheek, affectionate, but he sounds frustrated. You frown and sniffle. 

“What am I supposed to do?”

“Tell me his name.” 

It’s a quiet request, made as gently as his hand cards through the hair at your temple like it’s woven with fragile threads of gold.

“No, Spencer,” you beg, anxiety pooling in your gut and rising in your throat, “please, I don’t want to make it a thing, I don’t want you to talk to him. You’ll just make it worse, it’s fine.”

You look at him imploringly, eyes wide and still welling, hoping to god the gravity of your plead will sink in. His are a bed of coals—somewhere between furious and sympathetic, and you try to appeal to the sympathy. 

“It is not fine. Saying sluts get what’s coming to them is not fine, that is a threat, and I’m not going to talk to him. I’m going to have him fucking arrested.”

You scoff. 

“For talking to me? Yeah, good luck with that. Cops are really known for being helpful when it comes to sexual harassment.”

“Baby. Men who are comfortable violating your boundaries like that are exponentially more likely to commit an actual violent crime. That is not a safe person for you to be around.”

“He’s not gonna rape me, Spencer! He’s just a gross old man! This is why I didn’t want to tell you, because I knew you’d make it a bigger deal than it is! You did it last night and you’re doing it now—you think everyone is out to get me!”

To his credit, he doesn’t so much as raise his voice. 

“Of course it’s a big deal. You’re upset.”

“Yeah, well, it’s my own fault.”

Maybe it’s the wrong thing to say. Spencer goes silent for a moment. 

“It’s your fault?”

“Yes. It’s my fault because… because now everyone knows that I’m…”

His voice goes impossibly soft again. “Knows that you’re what?”

“I mean, what did I expect?” You sniffle. “It’s an apartment. If I didn’t want to deal with the consequences, I shouldn’t’ve done it.”

He says your name like it’s a ring he twists around his finger as he tries to think—to gather the right words. 

“The consequences for having sex do not involve punishment or sexual harassment.”

“It’s the result of my actions, so—”

“No, it’s the result of your neighbor being disgusting. I don’t care what he heard, he doesn’t get to talk to you like that.”

“He—”

“If you heard something you weren’t supposed to hear would you bring it up to the person the next day?”

“Stop interrupting me,” you plead. Spencer looks like he has something to say to that, too, but he swallows it. You close your eyes and take a deep breath. “I… understand that he shouldn’t have said those things to me. But that doesn’t change the fact that he did, and it was really, really uncomfortable and I don’t wanna—I don’t wanna go back now. Maybe that’s dramatic, but…”

You trail off, studying the ceiling as a fresh wash of tears dampen your cheeks. Spencer’s hand slides down your waist as you wipe your face. “I don’t regret the fact that we slept together. I just regret everything that’s happened since, and if I didn’t do it last night, none of this would’ve happened. I feel like he ruined everything.”

The words end on another cry and you put your hand over your eyes like you could stop it all from coming out. You sniffle. Spencer is quiet for a moment. 

“I’m sorry,” he eventually whispers, his own voice threaded with emotion. “I…”

He sighs. You push your hair back and look at him. 

“What?”

He studies you, chewing on his lip like a nervous tick you’ve never seen before. You sit up again, feet balanced on the edge of the bed frame. Spencer’s eyes remain stuck on you. Again, you ask, “What?”

“I didn’t think about it until you brought it up earlier, but—I did see someone. Him, I think, when I went out to my car to get my bag. He was smoking when I came out, and when I got back into the lobby he was waiting for the elevator. We took it up together, he—he said something to me, so I know he saw me going back to you. I don’t know why he made it sound like I left.”

You frown. “What did he say?”

Spencer hesitates. 

“He asked if I had a long night. He was obviously commenting on the fact that I was basically half-dressed and getting an overnight bag from my car at one in the morning, so he could probably gather from context what was going on, but… my point is, he knew I came back and it seems like he was almost trying to make you think I didn’t. So for whatever reason, maybe he was lying about being able to hear you, too. Maybe he just wanted to make you uncomfortable.”

“That’s a long shot, Spencer.”

“I know, but… it’s not that long. He obviously gets off on it—and besides, he said you were putting on a show, but you weren’t… you weren’t loud, last night.”

Heats blossoms in your cheeks and you look down at your lap. “Thin walls.”

“Have you ever heard your neighbors before?”

You have to seriously think about it. 

“I’ve heard them yelling…”

“Nothing else?”

Again, you consider it. The answer comes as a surprise. 

“No.”

“Okay, so… does that maybe help a little bit? I really, really don’t want you to feel like last night was a mistake in any way, or let anyone ruin it for you.”

You breathe deeply. “I know. It… it kinda helps, yeah.”

His hands come to the top of your legs. There’s so much genuine care and concern in his eyes. “Yeah?”

Only when you nod does he relax some. His hands skim your thighs, and you set yours on top of his own. For a few breaths, it’s quiet. And then you laugh. 

“What?” Spencer asks, a tentative smile curling his own lips like he doesn’t know if he should be concerned or participate in your mirth. 

“I—I don’t know how to say it without being cheesy,” you admit, sniffling the last of your tears away and smiling softly down at him. 

“I think you should say it.”

You link your fingers with his on your lap, watching the way they twine like it’s what they were meant to do. 

“I was just thinking about how I had, like, the worst day ever. And how much worse it would’ve gotten if you didn’t show up when you did—I would’ve completely spiraled. But you did show up. And how easy it is to kind of compartmentalize, because I have you, and when I’m with you… nothing feels as hard. You make the bad things feel smaller, I guess.”

By the end, it got a lot more real than you’d intended, and your face feels warm, and your stomach is sort of floaty—but you don’t look away from Spencer. You hold his gaze, though it makes you a little nervous, because you want him to know you mean it. 

He inhales, like he’s going to say something, but he doesn’t—only looks at you, like you’re beautiful and impossible and a defiance of everything he thought he knew, which was almost everything. To him, you’re expansive. A gorgeous anomaly.

And then he stands, holding his hands out for you. Without question you take them, and he pulls you to your feet, absorbing the momentum that threatens to topple you, and he wraps his arms around you tightly. So tight you have to laugh. 

“I love you,” he says against your shoulder, one hand coming to cradle the back of your head. 

Your humor softens, but doesn’t become inflexible—still tinges your words with the perfect amount of euphoria and relief. “I love you.”

“Thanks,” he mumbles, and your laughter flares again. 

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“But I’m grateful. I… I feel lucky.”

Always so earnest, so vulnerable, when you’re least expecting it—which should be always, you’re learning. You pull back to look up at him. You don’t want that concession to go unrewarded. 

“Me too,” you say softly. He’s doing that fond thing with his eyes, where they’re all soft and it’s like he’s trying to take in every millimeter of your face. This time when he goes to touch your hair, you have the wherewithal to dodge it. 

“You’re really brave for trying to touch my hair right now.”

“Why?” He asks, utterly bewildered, and the softness of the moment falls away easily, but not without leaving everything smudged and fuzzy around the edges. Everything is still okay. It’s still good. 

“Because it’s dirty,” you laugh, dodging him again and eventually ducking from the circle of his arms entirely. 

“Oh, your hair is dirty? Should we breakup?”

“Hm. I don’t really like when you take on that tone with me.” You’re still half-laughing, dipping and weaving past him toward the bathroom as he tries to get you in his arms again. And then you stop, toes just short of the tile. 

“What is it?” He asks after another moment. You blink, looking at the shower head as it drips. 

“Um—would it be okay if I had a five minute headstart in the shower?”

“Sure. Is everything okay?”

“It’s fine. I just… I need a minute.”

His hand skims your waist as he passes by you through the open door. “Okay. Why don’t you grab your stuff and I’ll get the water going again?”

Soon enough, you’re remembering how much better his water pressure is than yours as you stand under the torrent, eyes closed as if in prayer. You definitely could’ve stood to shower earlier in the day. But you had other concerns, earlier, and besides—you were afraid of what you might find. 

And you were right to be. The sex was nice. The aftermath isn’t quite as pretty. 

When Spencer taps on the bathroom door, you’re nervous. 

“You can come in,” you call. 

“You sure? If you want it all to yourself, that’s okay too.”

“No, no. It’s fine.”

The door creaks open, and gently clicks into place again, and fabric rustles as he undresses, and soon the shower curtain is sliding aside and he’s stepping in. Unsurprisingly, the space feels smaller with him in it—but not small in a bad way. It feels warmer. Again you’re awash in that safe feeling, which you didn’t realize you’d been missing so much today. 

“Hi,” he smiles, a teasing sliver of what you know to be the most brilliant light in the world, and stunning like the rest of him as you watch the water begin to darken his hair. 

“Hello.”

His smile flickers briefly wider like you’re his favorite thing and he just can’t contain his joy, and then it’s easing again, giving you a moment to catch your breath. 

“Is it okay if I touch you?”

In this alien context the idea has your heart pounding—you don’t really understand the concept of casual nudity yet, but you know he’ll respect your earlier wishes to keep it chaste and so you nod. 

Spencer doesn’t take you immediately in his arms like you’d expected—instead his hands find a rest at your collarbones and carefully push your wet hair back over your shoulders—but his eyes aren’t cast quite low enough to be indecent. They connect dots over your chest and neck, and he thumbs at one just over your pulse point. 

“Oh, man,” he laughs, and you think you detect a hint of self-deprecation. “That’s… wow, I didn’t realize I… sorry. They don’t hurt, do they?”

It’s your turn to smile as he’s suddenly over-concerned. 

“No, they don’t hurt.”

“Good.” He looks relieved, but it doesn’t last as his eyes trace lower—though you don’t sense any hunger in it. He’s just taking you in. “How about everywhere else?”

“Um… it’s not bad. Kind of, like… I don’t know. Sore. But it’s not bad.”

“Still?” He frowns, clearly unfazed by your evident embarrassment on the subject. You shrug and avert your eyes. 

“It’s fine. it was worse earlier, so.”

That does not have the calming effect you’d intended. 

“Worse? 1-10, how—”

“Spencer, it’s fine, I promise. It’s only when I—when I move certain ways, I notice. Honestly the… blood… was way more disconcerting to me.”

“Yeah, I saw your bed… sorry for ruining your sheets. I’ll buy you new ones.”

You shrug, watching the water run in rivulets down your arm and branch off into tributaries and waterfalls from your fingers. “You don’t have to do that. It was a collaborative effort.”

Normally this conversation would have you melting into an embarrassed puddle, but something about the tile cocoon of the shower, the humid fog, the proximity, feels safe. The white noise of water on porcelain, the warmth. You go to him at the same time as he comes to you—his arms around your waist, yours slung over his shoulders. Your eyes flutter shut. Falling asleep standing up has never seemed so plausible until now. 

He presses a kiss to your head. You sigh. 

“Ugh. I don’t want to deal with washing my hair.”

“I can do it,” Spencer immediately offers. You frown. 

“I was—you don’t have to. I didn’t mean to make it sound like I was asking.”

“I know you didn’t.”

“It’s a process.”

“I understand.”

“You would have to do it exactly how I say.”

“I am willing to learn. I like taking care of you.”

You’re glad for the hot water, then, and as he washes your hair. You’re not sure if you’re crying at the tenderness of his touch, or the way he loves you like you’re easy to love. You’re too tired to explain it. 

He doesn’t push you, because he never pushes you. 

He just washes your hair. 

[wearysparrows]

of the Innocence of Beasts

ao3/masterlist

Summary: At your request, your dragon takes you to fish, and indulge in the hot springs of the nearby volcano. You enjoy each other.

cw: dragon Sylus, fluff, cuddling and snuggling, fishing (minor animal death mention), hot springs, oil massage, everything is very touchy feely, implied AFAB reader but no pronoun usage, some mature and suggestive themes, not beta read. 5K

Life with your dragon brought both new complexities and new simplicities. 

Gone were the days of languishing in the insipid whiteness of the Inner Sanctum, being fed tales upon tales of the nature of beasts. Each lie you had been fed was dashed and replaced with the firm grip of reality, burnished by dragon’s fire. You wanted for nothing material – even the barest mention of it caused it to appear before you. You lacked not in your quest to slake your thirst for vengeance, as this too was facilitated by the claws of your dragon. Foes were felled, loot was plundered. Yet, still you desired for something more. An experience beyond taking or receiving. The draw of things you had yet to see with your own eyes outside of the pages of books. 

“Sylus,” you called to your dragon. 

His answer was a questioning hum, which rattled out of his chest like it was crawling from his ribs as it did so. The reply came from directly above your head, as you were nestled in between his legs, lounging together amongst the glittering riches you had mutually accumulated. The low lights of the candles bounced off of the cave walls, and the piles of gold cast imaginary creatures as their shadows. They writhed slowly. Sylus was playing with your forearm in his palms – pressing down on the point on your inner wrist that made your fingers reflexively curl inward. Pressing and releasing. This had been occupying him for some time. You steeled yourself a bit, preparing to present him with your request. It was different from any of the things you had asked of him before, and your heart fluttered with trepidation in your chest.

“I heard talk in the city of a place to catch fish at the base of the volcano. Hot springs further up, too.”

Sylus paused his amusements with your hands, and tucked his face a little closer into the crook of your shoulder. His voice was muffled for his lips on your skin.

“I can bring anything you desire, here. You desire these..fish? These waters? Surely there are delicacies that would please you more in Tarus city. What uniqueness is there in their properties?” 

His tail lashed back and forth, as it often did when he was conflicted about something. It sent innocent invaluable baubles scattering across the floor.

You couldn’t help but laugh softly at how he had perceived the request. You did not doubt he had a way to bring the springs to you – or the fish, for that matter. It was difficult to fathom things yet unseen. You turned in his grip, now kneeling between his thighs, facing him. He was looking at you levelly, awaiting your answer. His pupils were slits in a sea of crimson.

“It is not a desire for ownership, nor a particular uniqueness of property. I simply wish to enjoy these things with you. It’s a popular destination for those who are courting…” 

You found yourself trailing off. Despite your obvious closeness, putting an outward name to your relationship with Sylus still didn’t come as naturally as you would have liked. You weren’t entirely certain that there was a word that could quantify the sharing of a soul between a mortal and a dragon. Not in your language, anyway. Perhaps your dragon had one that your tongue was unable to pronounce. His eyes searched yours for a moment, and you saw the rapid dilation and contraction of his pupils. The thrashing of his tail ceased for a moment, then resumed. A crease formed between his eyebrows.

“You wish to be courted as a mortal man would?”

You placed your hands upon his broad shoulders. Soothing. His skin radiated an inhuman heat, almost too hot to the touch. You felt the places where scale shifted into skin, hardening and softening. At times, you could nearly forget the sword your heart brandished towards the end of his own. Flesh was just flesh, nothing more, nothing less.

“Your thoughts go further than my words. I only want for time we have yet to spend with one another.”

This seemed to calm him, for he relaxed back into your touch. You could see the way he took in your scent with the soft flares of his nostrils, gauging your emotional state.

“You could stand to be greedier for things other than lower creatures and ancient reservoirs.” 

Despite his words, your request would be fulfilled. The two of you procured supplies from the city below, and you packed them neatly into a bag that was securely fastened at your waist, along with a small fishing spear across your hip. Both were paid for by Sylus with a much too heavy bag of gold slung haphazardly into the shopkeeper's waiting palm.

After you were satisfied, Sylus swept you easily into his arms and took to the skies. You clung there to his neck, and worried not that he would loosen his hold. Never once was it not steady and sure, strong and unwavering. You, who had been born to slay dragons, were cradled in the dragon’s grip, now. The rush of his wings beat the air into submission around you, and the beating of your heart matched the steadiness of his own.

As you looked down upon Philos, the black hulk of a great volcano began to rise before you, circled on all sides by swathes of dark trees. There was a clear line of demarcation where the vegetation could come no closer to the mountain, lest the heat burn it away. Here was where Sylus deposited you delicately to your feet, his wings disappearing into effervescent mist behind him. Your lungs had grown more used to the rapid changes in air pressure, and you took less and less time to recover from these frequent flights. You took a great inhale of breath. The air was alive with sound around you. Creatures that had long adapted to this inhospitable environment made their presences known. There was the scent of the greenness of the untapped earth, mixed with the burden of fire; the scent of transmutation.

There was a trail here, too, though surely not well used. Lava rocks, cooled eons before your lifetime, crunched under your boots. It was small and meandering, and you were guided by little else besides this and Sylus’s directional instinct. The two of you walked in comfortable silence until you came upon what you were looking for. 

A deep pool, perhaps no greater than the span of your dragon’s wings across. It was surrounded on all sides by great dark rocks, cradled it into the womb of the volcano with an overhang above. Hardly any of the midday light could reach into its depths, and you wondered for a moment if there was any life here all. It was deeply still. But there – the bright flash of a fish, cast starkly against the strange darkness of the waters. You did not have a name for it. In the Sanctuary, there was no need for knowledge such as this. Your ears caught the sound of the spines on Sylus’s back expanding and contracting in interest, a sort of quiet creak of flesh and scales. He turned to you.

“You will hunt with that?” 

He motioned to your spear with a clawed finger, sounding a little incredulous. The spear was little and lithe – fitting perfectly in your hand. It was hewn from a lightweight wood, native to the area. You pointed its tip at his throat playfully, and he made no move to stop you. The corners of his lips twitched upwards. You couldn’t help but admire him, eyes roving all over the sharp contours of his face to the tips of his spiraling horns. His gaze invited you to press the tip against his skin.

“Unlike you, I wasn’t born with tools for hunting.” 

“You shouldn’t be shy when using me, then.”

You dropped the spear from his neck, unsure of how to fully respond to his request for use, and offered him a smile instead. He still thought of things in a transactional manner, no matter how often you tried to tell him otherwise. You saw his eyes rove from your own to your nose, then your mouth. Your neck. You turned from him.

Your mind was brought back to the pool. You shed your outer clothes, leaving only your undergarments. You could feel Sylus’s gaze still on you, unabashed with its interest. He was without shame as he watched, and he reflected your actions, shedding himself of his own overgarments. You waded into the darkness of the pool before you, and the lava rocks at its bottom pricked your feet with the finest of pains. The water was pleasantly lukewarm. Sylus followed after, and the two of you stood in the thigh-deepness of the water. You felt some trepidation at the darkness underneath your feet, but it was quelled with the quiet assuredness of Sylus’s presence. The fish scattered quickly at your approach, and you were both still as death, awaiting their return. You were nearly frightened out of your skin by the touch of something at the small of your back – but it was just the tail of Sylus, reaching out for physical connection. You saw him then, eyes trained on the water. A hunter in wait. A beast of the air you had brought into the opposing domain.

Gradually, there was a return of the school of fish, and you were given a better view of the creatures. They were strange, with large empty eyes and orangey bodies, accentuated by a row of spines along their backs. Protuberances came from around their mouths, with which they must have used to feel the world around them. You held your spear still above the water, operating on instinct rather than any formal training. You wavered. While the fish swam lazily around your legs, you were unsure of the precise moment to act. You could feel the quiet slip of their scales against your bare skin.

Just as you had made the decision to strike, Sylus moved a moment earlier. A clawed hand shot down and into the water, trapping the slick body of a fish in its vice-like grip. He held it up in front of you expectantly, and it wriggled desperately. You resisted the urge to turn away from its plight. You had seen your dragon eviscerate the bodies of men – but somehow, this image was more distressing. You reached out to him, and then dropped your hand. The eyes of the fish weren’t as empty as you had thought. The orange of its body stood starkly in contrast to the blackness of your dragon’s claws.

“Don’t make it suffer, Sylus.”

Sylus blinked, and looked from you to the fish and back. He raised a silver eyebrow. His grip on the fish tightened, and its struggle doubled, gasping. 

“Why so? I have seen you make men suffer for much less than the crime of being more miniscule of spirit than yourself.”

“These creatures are not like men. They are free from sin.”

Sylus watched the fish for a moment longer as you spoke. He put two of his claws through the gills of the fish and bent them. There was a quiet snap, and the fish was still.  Sylus removed his fingers, and rested his gaze on the limp body in his hand. 

“If sin is the necessary precursor for suffering, then you and I are far beyond recompense.”

The crawl of midday passed, and you cut your spear into the water with varying degrees of success. The tool took some getting used to, and it slipped from your hands into the water more than once. Sylus’s tail retrieved it for you. It was not your intention to take every fish from this place – but just enough for a meal between you. When your arm was exhausted, you waded from the dark water, and your dragon followed after you. 

The fish were consumed with fervor over a fire that Sylus had started with a snap of his fingers. You had half expected to breathe it out from his mouth, and still weren’t wholly convinced he couldn’t if he tried. You tried not to press him with silly notions, though, lest he chide you about the nature of dragons. He sat next to you with the cooked fish in hand, and tore at it with the sharpness of his canines. You watched, chewing your own fish thoughtfully. It wasn’t a taste that was particularly strong, and lacked seasoning of any sort. But after a day of physical exertion, the combination of fat and protein had its own unique draw. 

“How is the taste?” You pointed to this fish in his claws.

Sylus paused. He cocked his head at you.

“What does it matter?”

His frankness made you laugh, which caused him to look a bit sheepish in response. His tail smacked the ground, kicking up a small cloud of dust. 

“Isn’t that the whole reason we came? To experience something new. Whether you like or dislike it matters not – just that you tasted it.” 

Sylus took another bite, this time smaller. You could practically see the gears in his head turning. He was quiet for a long moment.

“It’s…not particularly good.”

Peals of laughter erupted from your chest at his words, and its contagion made a grin spread across your dragon's face. The movement revealed his canines from his lips, meant for tearing flesh from bone, now smiling at you instead. You sidled closer to him on the ground, learning your shoulder against his. The two of you finished the mediocre fish before moving on to your next destination.

The trek up the volcano was not an easy one. Between the heat that radiated through earth through the bottoms of your boots and your tiredness from wading in the water, you were covered in a thick sheen of sweat by the time you reached your goal. Your clothes stuck to you uncomfortably, and you were greatly looking forward to peeling them off and cleansing yourself in the waters.

Finally, gratefully, just as your legs felt as if they were about to give up their uses beneath you – the pools appeared in your vision. As you drew closer, you could see them in the fullness of their glory. They were an opaque sort of robin’s egg blue, the bottoms of which you could not see. Some were wide as the wingspan of three men, and some no wider than the width of your own body. Adjacent to them was what appeared to be humble lodgings – though no one went in or out. It was a stone A frame, supported on the bottoms by rows of short stilts, as if to lift it away from the heat of the volcano. The only semblance of a door was a cloth split down the middle, buffeted gently by the breeze coming off of the mountain. On it was a symbol you didn’t recognize.

“No one’s here.” You mused, surprised at the lack of people. You had expected there to be others, based on the discussion you had overheard in town. You took another glance around, but still saw no one. Even any animal life that could exist here was quiet. Only the scent of ash hung on the air.

“I dislike crowds.” 

It was all Sylus offered in response before taking you by the hand insistently, towards the springs.You allowed yourself to be swept along with him, admiring the way his spine curved into the strength of his tail as you watched his back. He brought you to the edge of one pool, and you needn’t be told what to do. You were more than ready to be out of the soiled clothes.

Sylus watched openly as you again peeled your overgarments from your skin. You cast them aside, thankful to be rid of their now overbearing presence. Sylus stalked towards you as you began to remove your undergarments. He bent at the waist, and hooked a claw under your brasserie. You expected him to lift it away, he instead inhaled deeply, pressing his face there. His tongue lapped at the sweat that had gathered underneath the swell of your breasts. Up his tongue went until it met your clavicle, dipping to the central fissure where sweat had pooled there, too. A breathless, nervous laugh escaped you. Despite the time you had spent together, you still hadn’t quite gotten used to his disregard for mortal conventions for intimacy. He stood to his full height, licking his lips with the taste of you. Your skin burned where his saliva had been left behind, and your stomach warmed with need for him.

“I am still a man, you know.” His voice was accentuated with the click of a purr he produced when he was pleased.

So he said, but you saw in his face the egoless love that only animals were capable of – free from a shadow. The chemical release of testosterone into his bloodstream, the desire to possess and be possessed by another. He who would consume all of you without judgement, without preconceived notion. There was no strangeness in it, for it was his nature.

Sylus shed his own garments without a further word, and you did the same with what was left of your own. You took a moment to admire the nakedness of your lover as he stood before you – young and strong. A King of Beasts who should have inherited Philos. Dusk was beginning to lay gently over the mountain, and the black of his scales rippled like oil in the firelight of the setting sun. Lost in your admirations, you were suddenly hoisted to your feet over his shoulder before you could comprehend his approach. Your feet kicked at nothing, and you grappled at the spines on his back, attempting to force him to let you out of his grip.

“Sylus!”

A chuckle was the only response from your dragon, and he carted you to the awaiting pools of nearly too-hot water. You felt frightened for just a moment that he was planning to throw you in – but he did no such thing. Instead, he went in first, and you were deposited gently in the water when he had deemed it acceptable for your entrance. The water was a purifying, blisteringly warm temperature. The day’s sweat and grime began to immediately slough away for the sheer heat of it. The pool nearly came up to cover your shoulders, but Sylus stood with the upper portion of his chest out of the water because of his height. He was not to let you far from him – his arms kept you pressed against him. His body was nearly as hot as the water you were submerged in. He looked down into your face. Eyes the color of saffron stalks searched your own.

“Does this please you, my beloved?” His voice was nearly lost on the steam rising around you, despite the relative silence. 

You fanned your hands on his chest, petting him here and there. Across the broadness of his clavicle, up the powerful tendons of his neck. He lifted his chin to grant you better access to your whims. You saw his pulse throbbing underneath the delicate skin. 

“You make known to me pleasures that I could not have previously even fathomed.”

It was the truth – there was no world where you did not know Sylus that you would know things such as this. The coldness of the stone arches were wiped from your mind underneath the heat of his touch. Only Sylus remained, now. He framed the world in his image.

Sylus gripped you then, hoisting you up to lean against his chest. One hand supported your back at your shoulder blades, the other held you behind your knees. You flailed for a moment in surprise, but he kept his grip firm, chuckling.

“Cease your struggling. It will be even more enjoyable like this.” 

You forced your body to relax in his grip. Between his support of your weight and your buoyancy in the water, it was practically like being weightless. You put your head back in the water, and your hair pooled around you in little tendrils. Your dragon peered down at you, clearly pleased with your relinquishing of control to him. His support was unwavering underneath you.

“There, see?”

He waded around the pool with you in his arms, and the gentle drag of the water pulled you in and out of a meditative state. The two of you washed, then, hardly parting from each other as you did so. Sylus’s tail stayed wrapped around your ankle as you scrubbed the last of the grime from yourself vigorously. He insisted on having you help him with his spines.

The two of you lounged inside, having dried off what you could of the springs. Your body was heavy with the time you had spent in the water. The lodgings were simple but accommodating – tapestries lined the walls, and a mix of exotic carpets and pillows were strewn about for resting on. A hearth dominated the room’s center. Its smoke exited through a hole in the roof into the cooling air of the night. You produced the bag you had brought with your supplies. Sylus was eyeing it curiously. He tried to pry it open with a claw, but you swatted him away. He huffed out a dissatisfied growl.

“Your actions are too slow.” 

You couldn't help the smile that spread over your face at his impatience. He already knew what was in the bag – he had purchased the contents with his own gold, for you. Still, his eagerness was clear in his hurriedness. 

“Patience is also a form of action, no?”

You produced a bottle of oil from the pack. It reflected a pale green shadow onto the stone floor in the light of the hearth.

“Patience is for men. I have no need for such things. I have been patient enough.”

Images of Sylus bound to the rocks crossed through your mind, a sword through his chest. A being born in the likeness of men, only to be slaughtered by them.

“I seem to recall you referring to yourself as a man, just today.” 

Sylus’s tail curled around your waist, and dragged you closer to his side. You clenched the bottle of oil tightly in your hands so as not to drop it. Sylus seemed to relax, then, and offered you a smirk.You sat side by side with him, now. The carpets underneath you were plush and gave way easily to your movements.

“The sharpness of your tongue never dulls.”

You nudged his arm with your own, feeling your cheeks warm pleasantly at his compliment. The back and forth with Sylus was as natural as the draw of air into your lungs. You were as two children who had never seen the outside, suddenly freed to play in the endless garden. You chased each other, catching, rolling down the hill, laughing, merging. You him and he you – you caught yourself in your own arms. His arms. Yours.

“Sylus, take out your wings.”

Sylus looked taken aback for a moment. You raised the oil bottle at him. Understanding unclouded his features, and you saw him unfurl them. It was as if they came from nowhere and everywhere all at once – ripping out from the curvature of his back in a blackened-red mist that carried the scent of ash and florals. He kept them outstretched just enough, a clear invitation for you to do as you wished. You marveled at them for a moment – and recalled the pain he underwent at their birth. You remembered it as your own. You let the memory pass over and through you, focusing on the now.

You coated your hands with the oil. It was pleasantly scented, infused with myrrh and rosemary. Sylus had paid a pretty penny for it, though he had batted not an eye.

 Reaching for the outermost portion of his wing, you palmed the oil into it, starting just at the top where the bony frame met the membrane. Down you went in circular motions, rubbing the oil into the outer segment. Sylus said nothing, but the appendage shuddered and stilled periodically underneath your touch. As you moved inwards to the middle segment, you marveled at the thinness of the skin that stretched over his appendages. It was so thin that you could see the myriad of blood vessels that supplied the life there, running like so many rivers under his skin. It was pliant and delicate under your touch. You massaged up, down, pinching the membrane between your fingers gently with each downward motion. Sylus was making low noises of pleasure in his throat, and his tail had curled around you as you sat, its squeeze on you gradually tightening as you moved closer to the place where his wing sprouted from his back. As you neared its base, you had to reach around his side to rub at the place where it terminated against his skin, disappearing into the musculature there. 

Sylus, who had been still up until now save for his shuddering and the movements of his tail, reached out. Your legs, which were crossed beneath you, felt the grip of his claws on your thigh. His grip only tightened as you worked, massaging the muscles where wings sprouted. A low hiss escaped from his open teeth as you touched somewhere that must have been particularly sensitive, and suddenly you were sitting astride his lap instead of next to him, moved by two impossibly strong arms. He reclined back on the cushions behind him. Your hands hung awkwardly in the air, still covered in the oil.

“I haven’t even gotten your other wing yet. And the oil–” 

Sylus didn’t let you finish. 

“Forget the other wing. Focus on me instead.” 

Sylus took you by the wrists, and put your hands on his chest. You could feel the quickened pace of his heart, there. You couldn’t help the exhale of a laugh that escaped you at his words. As if his wings weren’t a part of him! They disappeared behind him as if they had never been. His impatience was always there, even now, when you were relaxing together. The oil from your hands was spreading out into translucent rivulets on his skin. You gave his pectoral muscles and experimental squeeze, looking into his face as you did so. There was the twitch in the muscle of his jaw, the dilation of his pupils. His claws crept back and forth between massaging the bottoms of your feet and your thighs, both steadying you and pressing you harder against him. 

You rubbed circles with your thumbs into his diaphragm, marvelling at how large his lungs must be inside of him. You took a peek at his face.

You could see the sweat gathered on his brow, his silvery hair stuck to it just there. You wiped at it with the back of your hand that wasn’t covered in the oil, and lifted it to your lips to give it an experimental taste. It was the masculine, heady, salt of the earth taste of Sylus.

Sylus’s grip on your thighs increased exponentially. His claws were pleasant little pinpricks of pain on your bare skin. You could feel the hard line of his arousal underneath you.

“Sylus.” You soothed, trying to calm him. 

He licked his lips at the call of his name. 

“You claim you do not tease..” 

His claws gripped your wrists again, and forced them flat against his abdomen. His voice had gone low. Dangerous. 

“Yet you taste me,” 

A movement of your hands downward,

“Call me by the name you’ve given me,”

Your hands could be pushed no further, and your palms rested on his lower stomach, now. You could feel the line of soft white hair that disappeared under what little clothing he wore under your palms.

“And touch me just so…” 

He trailed off, as if he couldn’t find the necessary words for your touch. Instead, the ruby of his eyes bored into yours with an iron-hot intensity. He released his grip on your wrists, and instead settled on clutching you about your waist. You saw the increase of his breath, the heave in his chest. You massaged little circles into his obliques placatingly. 

“Did you not ask for my touch?” 

Now you were teasing.

You felt his response before it ever came to your ears. The two of you were one, after all. It was as if there had never been a time where you had not known him as you knew yourself. Words were merely an accessory, an added enjoyment to the depth of your connection. Your soul heard his before either of your minds caught up.

“I did. And I’ll have more of it.” 

Sylus sat up then, and crashed his mouth into yours. There was a clacking of teeth at the depth of his insistence, and it was less of a kiss and more of him licking at the inside of your mouth, as if he couldn’t get deep enough inside of you. You tried to pull away for breath, but Sylus reversed your positions, pinning you down onto the cushions and rugs below. The residual oil on his chest dripped from him onto you. You knew the thin nightclothes you wore would have been ruined under his claws, anyway. It mattered not. You laughed breathlessly, and wiped the last of the oil on his forehead with your thumb, anointing it. Sylus pressed his forehead to yours.

His dominant presence on top of you commanded your attention to him. He pushed the heat of his body onto yours, into yours. The coolness of your body was a salve to his own burning. His mouth would hardly leave your own that night, if only to be on your flesh. When he finally let you free from your mergings, you passed nearly instantly into a dreamless sleep between the mutual nakedness shared between you.

[rpgchoices]

Davrin's past and his Dalish clan and his vallaslin (all mentions I could find)

So much in the game is hidden behind banters between companions (which is ahhhh a bit annoying) so I compiled all the banter and information I found about Davrin's past.

Not really plot spoilers, just Davrin spoilers.

At the end I will summarize everything in a bullepoints list.

Bellara and Davrin banter:

Text here (link)

There are also a few other banters I did not record where it is implied Davrin does not care about the gods or some other late game revelations. The only thing he cares about (and mentions again later in game, in a main scene) is how people see Dalish and elves, and how to minimize the risk of humans hating elves even more.

Taash and Davrin's banter (text in description for each image)

Davrin's quests information:

Here are other mentions from Davrin first quest: Rook: How did it go? Davrin: Poorly. They felt like I rejected them. Rook: Did you? Davrin: Yeah, I suppose. Clan life wasn't for me. I had to get away. Rook: So then what happened? You're out in the world, looking for adventure… Davrin: Got my ass kicked. Went broke. Davrin: I couldn't go crawling back to my clan a failure. Doubt they'd take me back. It forced me to figure out what I was good at. Always had a knack for hunting.

Other info we get from the Halla quest is that: Davrin spent summers tending Halla as a kid alongside Eldrin, who is not his uncle, but like an uncle. So this is a case of Davrin wanting to spend time with Hallas, or being made to by his clan. Eldrin's vallaslin is Ghilan'nain:

So it could be that Davrin's new vallaslin might be Ghilan'nain too. But I think it is Andruil's or a mix of the two.

Davrin could have gotten the vallaslin to honor Eldrin (we know he is the only member of his clan - if he is part of his clan - Davrin has no trouble contacting, even if they seem to have not met each other's in a while). But we also know Davrin was a hunter.

Eldrin was also the one who taught Davrin what to hunt basically. In his first quest Davrin says "When I was a kid, I'd hunt just about anything. Rabbits, deer, fox. Eldrin gave that purpose. Taught me the Way of Three Trees. The Way of the Arrow, Way of the Bow, Way of the Wood."

This is from Andruil and if we look at all three vallaslin:

Emmrich and Davrin:

(they have some discussions about Davrin not believing in the Fade or liking it, this is the one which mentions the Dalish clan)

There are also a few other banters at the Lighthouse that mention the Fade and the sky. Mainly they are about Davrin being uncomfortable with the open space and stuff about him disbelieving the Fade: "Good. Because it's not the sky. Emmrich says it's the Fade. Me, I don't know what to think."

Final banter with Davrin:

So basically, the summary of what we know for certain is:

Davrin left his clan voluntarily because he felt restless, he did not care about tradition and lessons, and he wanted to see the world

He felt like he did not fit in his clan since he was a kid

He was also hunting everything he could find until Eldrin taught him the way of the Three Trees and to protect life by hunting darkness (monsters)

Eldrin is like an uncle for him and lives isolated (unsure if he is part of Davrin's clan) and Davrin used to spend summers helping him with the hallas

Davrin feels like he pissed off his clan, he rejected them and both Davrin and Bellara agree it would be hard for him to go back

In another dialogue, he says he actually did not think the clan would take him back at all even if he crawled back asking for help ("Like a failure" he says)

He does not regret joining the Grey Wardens and looking for adventures, but he seems to regret that came at the cost of leaving the clan and not being able to return or keep in contact with them

Also, he says the outside world was different from what he imagined

PART 2 HERE