#arlow & viago

[inquisimer]

Happy Friday!! 💚👀

How about: the last thing i want is to see you get hurt. Featuring Arlow and Viago?

thank you for the prompt!! it hit really well, which is to say that it got much longer than I intended 😂 but here we go, from the requisite "Viago routinely poisons Rook de Riva" bit to Angst and Feels and Crow Politics 🤌

Arlow de Riva & Viago | 2035 words | @dadrunkwriting - da4 spoilers

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Not for the first time, Arlow hesitated outside Viago’s study door. She knew he was within, but her stomach churned with worry and anticipation. She was happy, unbelievably happy, and he had the power to crush that with a single look.

She unclenched her fist and stared down at the ring. Dragon bone, inlaid on a band of intertwined nevarrite and obsidian. Black and purple and gold—the colors of the Crows. But she had always been a Crow; this represented something so much more.

“I can hear you thinking out there. Come in, or go away—do not linger. It’s rude.”

It was so typical, so normal in a way that things had not been for a very long time, it almost erased Arlow’s concerns. Her fingers closed, hiding the ring from view, and she pushed the door open.

Viago had a spread of vials on his desk, and a tray for checking antidotes in the middle of the array. Emil was curled around his shoulders; his tongue flicked out at Arlow in greeting as she shut the door at her back.

“Hello Emil,” she said dryly. “Viago.”

“Come here.” He beckoned her forward with one hand; the other held a pipette filled with a murky brown-green solution. “Perfect timing. I need to test this.”

Arlow eyed the mixture warily. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d laid her up for days with one of his concoctions. But her constitution was better now, and so was his estimation of what was and wasn’t ready to test. Plus, if he knocked her out and the ring fell loose, she wouldn’t have to explain.

She propped herself on the free corner of his desk and opened her mouth. Viago dropped three precise dots of the solution on her tongue and waited, watching expectantly.

“Oh,” she choked, hand coming up to her throat. “That burns.”

Viago quickly scribbled a few notes in his journal. He set the pipette down and cupped her jaw, prying her eyelids back and turning her face toward the torchlight. He hummed, nodding to himself and making a few more quick notes. Arlow’s fist pressed hard against the polished wood of his desk, but the pressure did little for her—the poison might have burned her throat, but it was numbing her extremities now. It hurt, knowing she couldn’t roll her eyes to tell Viago to hurry up with the antidote.

She focused on her breathing. Despite her joking, she didn’t actually want to pass out in Viago’s study—she’d never hear the end of it.

“Okay, now this.” Viago drew a few drops of a yellowish liquid into a fresh pipette—if she had more control of her facial muscles, Arlow would have eyed it warily. It would not be the first time he fed her piss under this guise. But at the moment, she cared more about regaining her faculties, and she didn’t have the control to close her mouth, anyway.

She couldn’t tell how much he dropped onto her tongue, only that when enough of it hit, her nerves started buzzing like an angry beehive. He followed it with a spritz of something clear and vaguely acidic, then handed her a glass of water. She tossed it back, swished, and spit into the bucket on the edge of his desk.

“Well?”

Arlow flexed her fingers, running her tongue around the still-tingling inside of her mouth. “Assuming you wanted instantaneous numbing, I’d say it needs work. Not that I’d be precise or anything, but I definitely would have been able to haphazardly stab someone for at least the half minute you had me sitting here.

And as they both knew, half a minute was more than enough time to kill someone. Viago pursed his lips, nodding and muttering under his breath as he made more notes. “Good, good. Did you need something?”

“Yeah, um.” Arlow licked her lips, letting him think she was still recovering from the poison’s effects. It wouldn’t alter his results that much. But in truth, the sweat on her palms and the shake in her voice had nothing to do with what he’d given her. She took a deep breath and reminded herself that she was an adult and this was a choice she was allowed to make. Whatever Viago decided, no matter how much it hurt, would be on him. “I have to tell you something. And also ask a question.”

Her deliberately evasive phrasing drew his shaper attention as he corked one of his vials and set it aside. He folded his arms and raised a brow at her. “Out with it, then.”

Right. She uncurled her fingers and the torchlight caught fetchingly in the metal edges of the band, danced tantalizingly off the angular face of the stone. Viago froze, and she knew he had stopped breathing.

“That is a Dellamorte ring,” he said after a moment. Arlow’s throat constricted; it was both easier, and not, that he recognized it. “The Dellamorte ring, if I’m not mistaken.”

“You’re not.”

“Why do you have it?”

“Lucanis gave it to me,” Arlow said. “When he asked me to marry him.”

Emil’s tongue flicked out in a hiss; it was the only sound. Arlow pinched the ring between her fingers and held it up. It really was beautiful, and there was strength in both that, and the promise it represented. Barely breathing, she slipped it onto her finger and clenched her fist. “I said yes.”

She forced herself to look directly at Viago as she said it. Not defiance—determination, and respect. Her heart cared about what he thought, but as a Crow she owed her Talon at least this much, and she respected that.

“Of course he did,” Viago finally said. Arlow didn’t visibly relax, but her gut unclenched; he didn’t sound angry. “And of course you did. Mierda.”

His brow furrowed as he studied her, silent, and Arlow deeply regretted not doing this when Teia was around. Teia, at least, always knew what to say, and just said it, right away. And she could read Viago better than anyone—Arlow might suspect what the working of his jaw, or his fingers twitching in their gloves meant, but Teia would know for sure. And would say it, even if Viago wouldn’t.

But this was more than a matter of her personal relationship. Because of who Lucanis was, because of who they were, as Crows, this was a matter of politics. And Teia, dear as she was, was the Talon of another House. This was between Arlow and Viago.

“Are you sure?” Viago’s voice cracked, and he covered for it by stepping forward and taking her hand. His gloves were thick enough that she felt no warmth through the leather; she simply watched as he swiped his thumb over the ring. “I know you have been happy. I know he makes you happy. But he is the First Talon. Tying yourself to him in this way will have consequences. Lethal consequences, if you aren’t careful—and I think we both know you’ve struggled with that in the past.”

Arlow couldn’t help but laugh, soft and melancholy. It was so fitting, and she didn’t even cringe when Viago’s concern sharpened into a glare at her amusement.

“I am sure,” she said, curling her fingers around his and squeezing just once before letting go. “More sure than I’ve been of anything in a long time.”

Viago nodded slowly. “Very well. I—well. I suspect you would do what you wished, regardless of my thoughts. As you always have. I simply do not wish to see you hurt.”

A warmth bled through Arlow and the corners of her mouth ticked up in a slight smile. “It’s just a formality, Viago. If anyone plans to leverage me against Lucanis, they will do it whether I wear his ring or not. And if Lucanis hurts me, he will cut off his own hand before you ever get to him.”

“Good.” Viago huffed. He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “You had a question, as well?”

“I rather thought you would ask it for me.” Arlow bit her lip. “I—well. It’s the matter of Houses, and which one I’ll belong to when this is done.”

Viago’s fingers clenched on the edge of the desk. Around his shoulders, Emil hissed, slithering around his neck in a reaction the distress Viago was holding back. Wordlessly, he removed the snake from his collar and deposited him back in his tank. He stayed there, staring down at the fire rune, back turned to the desk, and to Arlow. “That isn’t a question.”

“Cazza, Viago, do you need me to spell it out for you?”

“Yes!” he snapped, whirling around. “If you are asking permission to leave my House for his, then I would hope you have the decency to say it to my face.”

Okay. So maybe she did need to spell it out for him.

“That’s not what I’m asking,” she said softly. She slipped off the desk and walked to his side. “When you made me a de Riva, you saved my life. You made my life. And you made it one worth living. My heart belongs to that history as much as it does to Lucanis, and I am not so quick to cast it aside.” She took a deep breath. “But—there is only one way in which I truly stay a de Riva, and also marry Lucanis.”

Viago’s lips had parted with surprise as she spoke, an unknowable emotion shining in his eyes. Now, he pursed them, as she led him to the question she was actually asking.

“You want me to give you to him,” her murmured. Arlow nodded.

“But I know what that means,” she added hastily. “I know that it is not a choice, or a promise to be made lightly. If I thought for even a moment that it would be a detriment to our house, I would never ask. But—I do not think it will mean anything that you would not already do.”

She swallowed. “But if you’re not willing… I understand. And I will accept your decision, either way.”

“Well, that would be a first,” Viago snorted. He clasped her by the shoulders, and Arlow was surprised by how clear and certain his gaze seemed. She’d never known Viago to make a decision so swiftly. Usually, there were days of agonizing, debating, considering the angles. But not this time. “Arlow. Pajarito, you think I would let you get away? It was my hand that lifted you into this House, and it was my name that you wore out to change the world. And when I gave it to you—“ he swallowed, throat bobbing awkwardly. Arlow covered his hands with her own, eyes shining. It was the most words she’d ever heard Viago string together at once outside of a lecture and she thought she might be able to live on this forever.

“When I gave it to you, I didn’t know, but I was giving it a life beyond poisons, and scheming, and grief. I would not force it on you now, but de Riva is yours as long as you wish to wear it. And though he is hardly worthy, and it is dangerous, if you are asking, then yes. I will find a pair of gloves suitable to give you to him.”

Arlow threw her arms around his neck, lifting herself up onto tip toes, not caring that he was stiff under her for just a bit too long before he wrapped his arms around her torso and buried his face in her hair.

“Thank you,” she said against his chest. “I—thank you. Thank you.”

Viago drew back, his smile genuine, but worried. “Of course,” he said, even though they both knew no such assurance had ever been real. “Have you told Teia?”

Arlow shook her head, and to her surprise Viago threw back his head and laughed. Then he gestured to the door, grinning a bit too smugly for Arlow’s taste.

“Come,” he said. “I want to see her face when she finds out you told me first.”

[inquisimer]

Ahhh this is lovely!! Can't wait to check out all of the food <3

Throwing my own hat in, I have works for all four DA games on my ao3, but most recently have been primarily vibing with Rookanis and Viago & Rook in my series no matter how far and hands scarred from murder - a mix of moments in-between and canon rewrites to suit my childhood friends to lovers Rook, Arlow de Riva :3

Okay! I had a thought yesterday!

We all know that our poor BW fic writers (and all the other fic writers, really) are starving for comments. It’s hard to keep making stuff with no feedback + encouragement. So BW fanfiction comments Saturday?

If you want, rb this post with your fic (or one you think is underrated or something!) and I’ll try to read + comment on as many as I can today? I might not be able to get through everything, but I’ll do my best!

Everyone is free to join in the commenting and stuff of course, and I’ll rb this post again with the fics so ppl can see.

(Idk how many visual artists I have listening rn but maybe we can do fanart tomorrow? Probably in a different format )

Anyway, go ahead if you want! It’ll be a little while before I start, but I’ll keep an eye on it !

[inquisimer]

is it even a dragon age fic if you haven't spent hours hunting down every scrap of canon from which a timeline can be extrapolated

[inquisimer]

something loosely inspired by the Rook Codex Prompts by @shivunin - it was an idea I had, but the format didn't come together for me until I saw this list. It also fills multiple possible prompts, but I didn't write it with any specific one in mind? So I'm just posting it like this asldgjlkdfh.

Arlow de Riva & Viago | 449 words | @dadrunkwriting - da4 spoilers, a letter written before Tearstone Island, for Neve to deliver in the event of Arlow's death

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A letter written in Antivan, crumpled and smoothed out many times over. It is pinned to the library table by a dagger embossed with the sigil of House de Riva.

Viago, If you knew I was writing this, you’d slap me upside the head. But I’m writing it anyway, because you should hear it from me. It isn’t your fault. Whatever happened, if you’re reading this, it is not your fault I’m gone. And it’s not Lucanis’ either, so don’t blame him. I made my own choices. I hope they were the right ones, and that I’m not gone before the job was done. A Crow always finishes their contracts, right? I hope I didn’t let you down, in the end. (Here’s a break for you to yell at my ghost. Come back when you’ve calmed down.) You saved my life, you know? You didn’t have to. I know you would have made Talon, regardless. But you saved me—changed me, so much I don’t even know who I would have been otherwise. And I’m glad for that. I wouldn’t have wanted to be anyone other than who you made me. Yes, I mean that. Yes, I’m sure. Don’t argue with me when I’m not there to argue back. Just—believe me, for once. It doesn’t matter how it ended. We had a good run. A really good run. And despite it all, I wouldn’t have changed a thing, except maybe that I’d like to be hearing your lecture in real time right now. Wherever I am, I’m missing you. But don’t spend too much time missing me. The others need you—if the job isn’t done, help them. For my sake—a contract signed with my last breath. You help them save the world, and then you take Teia back to Treviso and you live. Have a really good cup of coffee; watch the sun rise over the canals. Keep going, because even when the world fell apart in my hands, you were the one thing that stayed the same. If there was anything I could leave this world knowing, it’s that that hasn’t changed. So. Keep living. For me? We’re not big on words, and I’ve already used up most of mine. But the seal on this letter wasn’t poisoned—as you undoubtedly tested—and that should tell you all you need to know. I love you, Viago. I’m sorry that I wasn’t good enough to make it back and tell you in person. But I always have. Thank you. For everything. -Arlow de Riva

The loopy signature is blotted with tears. Some smear the ink; others appear to have been left after the letter was opened.

[inquisimer]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For once. Perhaps for the last time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[inquisimer]

happy friday! i was looking at the feeling safe prompts and saw "[ interrupt ] sender stops a confrontation between receiver and someone else, stepping between them and coming to receiver's defense." maybe this would be nice for teia to step in when viago is being a bit too harsh on arlow?

oh ho ho this was a GOOD one, thank you!! here's some Viago Reactivity™️to Arlow and Lucanis' relationship >:]

Arlow de Riva & Viago | 831 words | @dadrunkwriting - da4 spoilers

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“Come with me.” Viago’s gloved hand took Arlow by the elbow and pulled her away from the refreshments. He cast a disdainful look at the wine. “You don’t want to drink that, anyway. Illario has stingy taste when it’s not for himself.”

Arlow rolled her eyes. “Sure, Viago. No problem, Viago. There’s nothing else I was doing at the moment and I definitely have time to chat, Viago.”

“You’ll make time,” he growled, dragging her into a room off the opera house’s main theater. “You’re certainly making time for worse decisions.”

Arlow wrenched her elbow out of Viago’s grip, eyes flashing. “What in the void is that supposed to mean?”

“You know damn well what it means.” The tails of Viago’s cape snapped angrily as he spun around and pinned her in place with a glare sharper than any dagger. “Working a contract with Lucanis is one thing, but what are you playing at? He’s not even the First Talon’s grandson any longer—the actual First Talon? Have you lost all sense?”

“That’s what you’re upset about?” Arlow scoffed, folding her arms protectively across her chest. As much as she loved this dress, it was not the armor she preferred to wear when Viago’s temper flared. “It was a dance. And a kiss.”

“It was a little more than a kiss. And it was in front of the entire House of Crows,” Viago hissed. “Every Talon, every would-be Talon, every rank-and-file assassin is out there taking notes. And you just handed them information that they will use!”

“To do what? What could they possibly do to our house? If anything, this exposes House Dellamorte, not us.”

She had considered the implications, after all. Despite what Viago seemed to think. A Crow never forgot their place in the hierarchy—the very nature of the guild ensured that. Arlow knew quite well that she had been far below Lucanis’ station even before tonight. Now he was First Talon; he couldn’t even see her from where he sat at the top of the ladder. Metaphorically.

But—the dance had been his idea. She had made sure he thought it through.

Still, Viago’s nostrils flared. “Of course it exposes House Dellamorte. They were already weakened, even before Lucanis disappeared and Illario’s stunt. Now, Illario is deposed and Lucanis is possessed. And Caterina is aging—their position is precarious.” His fingers tightened against his hip. “They will need a shield, when the other houses come for them.”

Arlow reared back. “Lucanis wouldn’t do that. Not—not the way you’re suggesting. He would talk to me first.”

“Would he?” Viago raised a brow. “His family, his blood—they are everything to him, no? Do you really think your dalliance means more to him than their legacy?”

“That’s enough, Viago.” Teia’s voice cracked like a whip from the doorway. She laid a supportive hand on Arlow’s shoulder. “This is neither the time nor the place for this conversation.”

“Nor is it the place for your soft heart,” Viago huffed. “I will not have my house hung out for the taking because Arlow cannot keep it in her pants.”

Arlow’s rage flared hot and white. The rage that often got her into deeper trouble with Viago, but she didn’t care. “Oh that’s rich. I suppose I should have waited until you and Teia were back on, that way you’d have a chance of understanding—“

Teia’s nails dug painfully into Arlow’s bare shoulder. “That is not helping,” she muttered.

Viago had gone very, very still—and like his snakes, Arlow knew that was the moment before the greatest danger. Before the strike.

“You overstep,” he hissed, stalking forward with precise, pointed steps. Arlow’s throat bobbed with a nervous swallow, but she glared up at him, chin tilting back the closer he came. He took her jaw roughly between his fingers anyway. “Your contract may have you brushing elbows with people of import, but you will not forget your place in my house.”

Teia’s other hand fell on Viago’s wrist. “Time and place, Vi. Let her go.”

He released Arlow and the skin where his fingers had pressed into her jaw thudded in time with her racing pulse. “Get out of here,” he said, not looking at her any longer. “Go back to the Fade—if you want to keep making mistakes, make them somewhere no one else can see.”

“Vi—“

“It’s fine, Teia.” Arlow took a shaky breath, but her voice, at least, was as cold and level as she wanted it to be. “It’s fine. I’m—I’ll talk to you later.”

Teia’s hand left her shoulder, artfully smudging the lines of purple and black that Arlow’s held-back tears had started to ruin. “There,” she murmured. “Go. I will talk to him.”

For what good it would do. Arlow managed a small smile, painted on in strokes of disbelief and resignation. She pressed a grateful kiss to Teia’s cheek, steeled herself to face the party again, and left.

[inquisimer]

Loving the rook and viago dynamic, chefs kiss 🤌.

If your taking requests, I love the idea of rook slowly becoming more angry or snappy after the regret prison. Thought the "I've been taking care of myself for a long time and don't need your help" prompt would be perfect for an angry rook to their bro. viago

YESSSS I love them so much, Crow Dad makes me [screeches unintelligibly]. And yes, I always take prompts, thank you for this one!! It had me looking at Arlow & Viago's relationship through a different lens, which was great 💜

Arlow de Riva & Viago de Riva | 680 words | endgame spoilers, referenced major character death

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Arlow’s fingers slipped against her armor’s leather straps again and she huffed, frustrated. It was a buckle, it shouldn’t be so damn hard—

“Need a hand?”

She stiffened, fist clenching around the strap instead. “No. I’ve got it.”

Viago stepped into the meditation chamber anyway, the door shutting with a deafening click behind him. The blackout curtains over the windows kept the room dark, save for a few clusters of candles that flickered over the sharp, familiar planes of his face. Arlow stared pointedly down, cursing under her breath when the strap slipped from her grasp again.

“Yes, clearly,” Viago said dryly. He leaned against the buffet at the back of her couch and folded his arms. “The offer stands, if at any point you’d like to be less stubborn about it.”

Arlow ignored him. She wasn’t going to tell him that dregs of Solas’ Fade prison lingered on her, a numbness in her fingers and toes, a persistent chill that no fire or blanket could ward off, an unmistakable sense of being watched and judged and found wanting. He didn’t get to kick her out of the nest and expect things to be the same once she’d found her wings; she’d gotten this far and she would get through this, too.

Her fingers slipped once more. “Cazza,” she muttered.

“Arlow—“

“No, Viago,” she snapped. “I just need to—“ She pinched the strap between her nails this time and pulled it through the buckle. It left a little half-moon indentation in the purple leather, but it was fastened and it would fade. Much like she assumed the bitter coating on her teeth when she looked at Viago would fade… eventually.

She knew he was proud of her. She knew that he cared, in that closed-off, brusque way of his. But her heart was only getting about two-thirds of the way to letting him back in, because Solas’ trap finally had her dwelling on the way this contract started.

If Viago were caught in a prison of his own regrets, would he see her, leaving with Varric? She’d told Lucanis that she knew he didn’t have a choice, with the other Talons out for blood. And she did believe that. But the job had finally scraped her too raw for that to be anything other than a cold comfort.

He could have saved her. And someone else might have tripped into Varric’s crosshairs—someone who might have saved him. And Davrin. And Bellara.

Guilt and regret crept up her throat. They curled around her neck and trailed after her like a smoky shadow she just couldn’t shake. So she clung to the anger instead and let it shield her from the breakdown they threatened.

“Did you need something?” she asked, pulling on her gloves and flexing her fingers. “I should go check on my team.”

“Look at me.” His stern, quiet voice brokered no argument; it never had. Reluctantly, Arlow put the wardrobe at her back and did as he ordered. Her eyes were steely and the hard line of her jaw invited no comfort—not that she expected he would have offered, anyway.

His own expression was as inscrutable as always, almost foreboding in the odd shadows cast by the half-melted candles. For a moment, Arlow had the sense of how everyone else must see the Fifth Talon—terse, unyielding, the quiet threat of an expert assassin without any of the care that she was accustomed to.

It almost chilled her enough to make her relent. Almost—but her hands were still numb, and her heart still hurt. She still needed the anger, or she was going to get someone else killed.

“No, I—“ Viago cleared his throat. “No. You should go.”

Before we say something we both regret, Arlow thought. She knew what it would be for her. As he glanced away—he never looked away first—she wondered what he was afraid of letting slip. And she wondered, as she gave him her back, if he, too, felt the painful echo of watching her walk away.

She left.

[inquisimer]

Arlow and Viago “can you hear my cry, an old lullaby drifting through the sky?” >:]

HELLO MY LOVE I am kissing you on the lips, I put that one on the list and was like "this is an arlow & viago prompt", thank you for reading my mind

Arlow de Riva & Viago | 808 words | for @dadrunkwriting - da4 spoilers, Viago ruminates (regrets?) Arlow's absence from Antiva

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Viago missed Salle.

Not that the accommodations in Treviso were lacking—his apartments here were more than sufficient. But they were suffocating without Arlow there to fill the empty spaces where she usually was. He wished things were such that he could lock the door and flee to his villa in Salle.

But the Antaam remained. And he had no right to be missing Arlow, when he was the one who sent her away.

As she deserved, he reminded himself. If she had simply thought before launching herself at those Antaam, they would never have been in this situation. Yet, the ache in his throat remained.

Treviso’s skyline was bathed in the pink and orange hues of sunset. From the balcony, it was easy to imagine that the city was still theirs, and that Arlow would be tripping off a zip line any moment, reporting in on this contract or that surveillance. Smirking and insufferable, but alive and there.

“You’re brooding again.”

A Qunari war horn blasted Viago’s reminiscence to pieces. His fingers tightened on the railing. “I’m always brooding. You like it.”

Teia’s bare feet padded softly against the slats and Viago wrinkled his nose. Off the top of his head, there were half a dozen poisons easily concealed in wood stain and best absorbed through the skin. But she didn’t care about that—or, at least, she knew that he had the antidote for any toxin that could touch her only a whisper away.

“it is not half so attractive when you are truly troubled,” she murmured, propping herself as close to his side as she could without touching him. Her hair fell loose and unruly over the collar of his shirt. But even that only just hitched the melancholy tune of his thoughts. “You miss her.”

Viago huffed. “She is the most competent assassin in my House and we are under an occupation. It is like being without my best blades.”

“Do not pretend she is nothing more than a weapon to you,” Teia chided. “Lie to yourself, if you must, but do not lie to me.”

Viago’s nostrils flared, as they always did when Teia saw straight though him. He was learning to trust the tightrope she asked him to walk, but after a lifetime without a net, it was a hesitant process. Luckily for him, she had a penchant for hard cases.

“I have never sent her off for so long, nor so harshly,” he admitted. “And I do not know when she will return. It is… difficult.”

“You could know,” Teia suggested. “You could summon her back.”

“She has a contract.”

“And how will she know if she’s allowed to report in on it if you do not tell her that Antiva is open to her again?”

“You read my letter?” Viago raised a brow, but Teia’s smirk was unabashed. She shrugged and his gaze followed the fluid motion of her exposed collarbone.

“I wouldn’t have recommended leading with ‘idiot’, but she’s probably used to it.”

“If she wasn’t such an idiot all the time, she wouldn’t be,” Viago muttered. He looked down into the murky canal below and frowned. “She did not write back.”

Teia laughed, which only deepened his scowl. “Did you expect her to?”

“If the job was done, yes,” he snipped. “But it has been months.”

“And you sent her on an open-ended contract. I’m sure if anything drastic happened, Varric would write. That is why you hooked her up with him, no?”

Viago pursed his lips. “He has a track record of pulling asses out of fires. But I am not confident in his definition of drastic.”

“He is perfectly competent, as you well know. You’ve never let your conscience get in the way of logic before, don’t start now.” Teia laid her hand out, palm up on the railing. After a beat, Viago laced his gloved fingers with hers and she squeezed.

“If you want her back, Vi, you will have to face the other Talons and tell them so. Tell her so, in no uncertain terms. This is the corner you have painted yourself into.”

Viago glowered at the neighboring building. He hated few things as much as he hated Teia being right in a way that grated on his nerves. She could have at least done him the courtesy of acknowledging that he was not the only party at fault in this scenario.

“She will tell me when the job is done,” he said stubbornly. “When the job is done, and her lesson is learned, then we will bring her home.”

Teia sighed and shook her head. The sun slipped below the horizon and a familiar cloak of darkness covered them both. Covered Arlow, too, in the east. In Tevinter.

His throat tightened. Use it well, he thought. Use it well, and come home.

[inquisimer]

Happy Friday! From the protective prompt list: “If they want to get to you, they’ll have to get through me first.” – I think this would be something super sweet platonically with Arlow de Riva & Viago - AnonymousInquisitor

it COULD have been something super sweet—instead, I have made it something angsty 😌 have the moment when, with the Talons out for blood, Viago sends Arlow away from Antiva

Arlow de Riva & Viago | 1281 words | cw: suicidal ideation | @dadrunkwriting - da4 spoilers

-

Inside, Viago was fuming. Vision red, chest tight, anger roaring in his ears. In his head, he’d bellowed his fury out so loud, they heard it clear across the Free Marches.

In reality, he’d been glaring at Arlow in terse silence for nearly twenty minutes. Her foot had been shaking for the last ten, and her fists had been clenched and tucked under her arms since he called her in. Neither of them had said a word.

How could she be so stupid?

Actually, he knew exactly how. He’d been watching her spiral, untethered in her grief, for half a year now. Since Lucanis died, every contract, even the simple ones, was an excuse to throw herself on the fire. And he’d done nothing. As angry as he was with her, he was equally furious with himself. But there was nothing left now except damage control.

“The Talons want your head.” Her jaw clenched when he finally spoke, the tension between them snapping like a bubble popped. “All of the Talons. Myself included.”

She mumbled something under her breath and Viago’s nostril’s flared. Part of him had expected contrition; the rest of him knew that was a foolish thought. He raised an expectant brow.

“Not all,” she said, over-enunciating as she repeated herself. “Not Teia.”

Viago slammed his palm on the desk and she flinched. “That is not the point. They would have your throat under the guillotine and frankly? I should let them.”

Her throat bobbed, the first hint of uneasiness he’d seen since she came in, covered in Antaam blood and sparking defiance. Maker, what would it take to get through to her?

“Then why don’t you?” she whispered. Viago froze.

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do!” she snapped. She stood, kicking the chair aside and pacing angrily across his office. “What good am I doing you like this? What good am I doing anyone? One of these days I won’t be quick enough. Why don’t we just get it over with?”

“You don’t mean that,” he repeated. “You don’t.”

He was not one to hide from the truth. But perhaps if he said it forcefully, insistently enough, it would drill through her thick skull. Grief was a heavy burden to bear; especially unexpected, unavenged, it was the yoke around your neck, the ball and chain around your leg. But it did not have to be the death of her. There were other paths to peace; he would not let her take this one.

“I do.” She sagged, righting the chair and spinning it around to sit in it backwards. She rested her chin on the back of it. “I… I’m sorry, Viago. But haven’t I caused enough problems? Haven’t you stuck your neck out enough for me? Let them have me,” she said bitterly, not looking at him. “It’ll be easier for both of us.”

Viago leaned over the desk and yanked her chair forward. Once she was close enough, he gave her ear a sharp flick.

“Snap out of it,” he scowled, sitting back as she clapped a hand to her ear. Shock twisted her face—good. So she could still feel something. That meant she wasn’t beyond pulling back from the edge. “You are grieving—fine. You are angry—fine. But you are worth more than the way you are treating yourself. I won’t have you throwing your life away—despite your best efforts, I won’t allow it.”

Her face fell back to an expressionless mask as he spoke. He pinched the bridge of his nose and frowned. “But neither can I allow you to go unchecked. So—“ he steeled himself; this was a punishment for her, but through the ties that bound them it reverberated on him “—you will leave Antiva. Tonight.”

“What.” Her jaw fell open. She stared, and Viago stared firmly back.

“You heard me.”

“No.” She shook her head, fingers clenching around the frame of her chair. “No. Don’t send me away—this is my home. I don’t belong anywhere else. I’d rather you let them kill me!”

“Which is why this is a better penance.” What he didn’t say was that they would kill her if she stayed. Sending her out of the country was the only way—and they’d barely agreed. He would be putting out fires and soothing egos for months before she could ever come back. But she would come back, he reminded himself. That was the only consolation he would get, since she could never know how it ripped his soul from his throat to send her away.

He withdrew a freshly inked contract from his cloak. It had been a surprise to see the dwarf among the captives she freed—an unwelcome one, at first. But he was offering a way out that was marginally better than shoving her over the border alone. He handed the scroll to her.

“You will go with Varric,” he told her as she read. “Maker willing, the scale of this job will put things in perspective. I’ve heard he works miracles—maybe he’ll be able to brush up your judgment.”

She crushed the parchment between her fingers. “And if he doesn’t?”

“Then you better do it yourself.” He steepled his fingers and leaned forward. “Death is a Crow’s way of life. We do not lose ourselves to it, no matter who it takes from us. We accept that, and we are stronger in spite of our grief. It is not stronger than us.”

Maker, he hoped his words weren’t falling on deaf ears. Half the time with her… well, even when she heard him, it did not always stick. But he could do nothing else. She had taken the control away from either of them when she launched herself from that rooftop.

It was in Varric’s hands now. And hers, assuming he could pull her head out of her ass. Not that he wasn’t motivated—Viago would kill him if she came back with so much as a scratch.

She pursed her lips together. Hurt flared in her eyes—betrayal, disappointment, but at least it was something. Feeling something was good. Someday, when she was back, and Treviso was free, she might even understand. As long as she was alive to see that day.

“Fine.” She stood, contract balled in her fist. “Are we done?”

His throat constricted. He wished, desperately, that decorum at all allowed Teia to be here. She would have the words they needed to bridge the gap he could feel widening between them. But no—this was a matter between a Talon and his Crow. Even if it left a schism too wide to come back from. “Arlow…”

She paused, and he froze. Her name had fallen from his lips without any thought behind what he would say. He cleared his throat and frowned. “Leave your cape, and your leathers. You can have them back when you find that better judgment.”

She stared at him, disbelieving. Then her hand went to her throat. She tore the clasp from her cape and threw it at his feet.

“Here,” she spat. “Take it. I won’t need it where I’m going, anyway.”

“Arlow—“

“No.” She held up the scroll between them like a barrier and Viago felt the months to come lengthen the distance that was already there. “You want me out? I’m going. I’m gone.”

And then she was. Slowly, Viago bent down and picked up her cape. Gunpowder and market spices wafted off it, and the odd film that came from her magic coated his teeth

Maker, keep her, he thought, folding the fabric between his hands. Keep her, or we’ll be having words.

[inquisimer]

FOR VIAGO AND ARLOW "keep it. i have more where that came from." (in my head it is a POISON)

of COURSE it is a poison, it was either a poison or a Real Live Snake and I simply couldn't think of a good premise for the latter so here we are.

for @dadrunkwriting - da4 spoilers, some pre-canon Crow Dad

-

“If you’re looking for something a little more subtle, I’d go three vials over. That one leaves a distinctly bitter aftertaste that will clash with the chowder Teia is having catered.”

Arlow flinched, rattling the cabinet of neatly labeled vials. When she turned around, Viago was leaning against the doorframe, arms folded and brow raised. Her fingers closed around the vial in her palm.

“Who said it was going in the soup?”

“If you were planning on putting it anywhere else, I’ll have you back in lessons with Heir for the next six months.”

Arlow rolled her eyes. “I’m not going to poison anyone. Not tonight, anyway. And not without reason.”

“I’m sure you have a reason.” Viago beckoned her forward and she went, expecting him to hold out a hand for the vial she’d nicked. Instead, his gloved fingers caught her chin and tilted it back, inspecting her face. Whatever he saw made him frown.

“What is it for, then?”

“An insurance policy,” Arlow said lightly. “Never hurts to be prepared.”

She knew she sounded like a liar, but she didn’t care. She didn’t care about much, these days, not since confirmation had come down from Caterina.

Lucanis. Dead. Even thinking it made her eyes burn with unshed tears; she forced them to stay open, even as Viago’s harsh stare blurred before her. She knew better than to admit such open weakness to his face. Not that he wouldn’t see it anyway; but admitting it would be a mistake nonetheless.

Viago released her chin and wiped an escaping tear from her cheek. “You cannot go like this,” he said lowly, holding his finger so that her tear glinted the torchlight. “You know that they will use it against us.”

“I don’t care,” Arlow snarled, looking away. “Let them play their games; I am allowed to miss my friend.”

“You are. But it changes nothing. If you cannot keep composure, I will lock you in the villa with Emil.”

“At least I’m allowed to call him a snake to his face,” Arlow muttered. She dabbed at the corners of her eyes with her free hand, careful not to smudge the eyeliner Teia had painstakingly painted on as she willed her tears to dry and forced her sorrow back into the tight knot it had kept in her gut since the announcement. “Better?”

Viago glanced her up and down, and Arlow forced herself not to stiffen. Crows of House de Riva did not squirm under inspection unless they wanted a half dozen lashes and a mild paralytic under the tongue. She was better than that.

“Passable.” Viago stepped back. “You must keep your head tonight. Grief is a heavy thing, and I do not hold yours against you. But the other houses will.”

“It’s his funeral,” Arlow whispered. “Is nothing sacred?”

“You know the answer to that.”

She did. It didn’t lessen the sting, or the twist of bitterness in her throat. The Crows were too familiar with death for grief or mourning to be left in peace. Arlow took a deep breath.

“I won’t do anything rash,” she promised. The look Viago gave her said enough to make her roll her eyes. “I won’t ruin this for Teia. I know how long she spent planning.”

“If that’s what it takes,” Viago sighed. He gestured for Arlow to go ahead of him, and she cocked her head curiously.

“Aren’t you going to make me put it back?”

“I have more.”

“You’re not worried about what I’ll do with it?”

“Do I need to be?”

Arlow snorted. “I think we have different measures of what you do and don’t need to be worried about.”

“Without a doubt.” Viago turned the lock of his study door, scraping the metal pointedly as he placed the key back in his pocket. Arlow kept her face perfectly blank; her picks were well hidden, and she knew she hadn’t left any scratches. What he knew and what he could prove were different things, as he’d been the one to teach her. She slipped the vial into her hip pouch.

“I trust your judgment,” he said, sending her down the stairs with a jerk of his chin. “Do not make me regret it.”

[inquisimer]

7 or 35 for Arlow from the Rook story prompts, whichever catches your fancy more c:

thank you mo!! going with 7, as it suits a headcanon I've been meaning to write out for a while re: Rook's inability to swim.

Arlow has hydrophobia and water-related trauma, and though she can swim (physically at least) by the time of Veilguard canon, she could not when she originally joined the Crows.

Mind the CWs - in the early days, especially before he is Fifth Talon, Viago is far more focused on ensuring Arlow's survival and usefulness as a pawn than he is on kindness.

7. Rook being taught an important skill

Arlow de Riva & Viago | T | 1460 words | cw: child abuse, hydrophobia, whump

-

She cannot swim. Viago learns this, not because she tells him—for which she will face his wrath later—but because one of the other fledglings teases her for it. She decks him, which is fair, and the trainer brings them both before Viago for admonishment.

He taps gloved fingers on the edge of his desk. Sends the boy off with Heir to learn the value of trust within his House. But Arlow—Arlow he keeps for himself. As always.

“Is it true?”

She’s standing loosely at attention, hands clasped at the small of her back, chin jutted out a bit too defiantly to convey respect. Her gaze is fixed somewhere over his shoulder. She nods, just once.

Of course it is. His question was only a formality—she would not have assaulted the boy over a falsehood, he knows. He made her more resilient than that. Still, his jaw tightens; his lips purse into a thin line.

She is not meant to keep secrets from him. Even by omission. Anything could be a weakness; anything could leave them vulnerable, and she is meant to be the one piece on the board that he can move without thinking—without doubting. He lets his anger bleed into his eyes, into the flare of his nostrils, and he sees her teeth dig into the flesh of her cheek. So, she knows that she is in the wrong.

Of course she does, because she is not stupid. An idiot, and a fool, sometimes, but not stupid, never stupid. They take contracts on, in, and around the water with great frequency. Under the water, even, on the rare occasion. With this, she puts herself at a disadvantage, she puts herself at risk—and by extension, puts him, puts their House at risk.

Unacceptable.

In theory, she could weave spells to breathe and propel herself through the water. But such a thing leaves her vulnerable, in turn, to dispels and Purges and magebane, to simple exhaustion at the end of a fight. More importantly, no mage casts well under the pall of fear—and he suspects that this is not a simple lack of skill, because she knows that he will teach her. Harshly, and with a demand that offers no yield, but he has always taught her, as needed, no matter where her abilities faltered.

No, she kept this hidden, for a reason, on purpose. Concealed carefully for years, which is vexing on its own. She should not be able to hide such a weakness, not from him, not for so long. Concern gnaws behind his careful mask. How deeply embedded must the claws of terror be—in her gut, her throat, her chest—that even knowing the consequences, knowing that eventually her secret must recoil with a snap, she had not been able to unclench the protection her mind had warped around it.

Frustration simmers in his mind as he turns over his options. She would need to learn—to swim, yes, but also that she cannot keep secrets from him. Not of this magnitude; ideally not of any magnitude, but absolutely not one that leaves them so blatantly vulnerable.

Learn is not quite right, though. That lesson has already been taught. She must be reminded. This insubordinate impulse burned away and the instincts of fear replaced by the muscle memory of rote training. He stands, suppressing a sigh.

It will not be pleasant. But it must be done.

“Come.”

She falls into step at his shoulder, not looking half as contrite as he would have liked, though her lower lip pulls into her mouth when he scowls.

He watches her from the corner of his eye. As they walk, she keeps the normal surveillance, checking idly for tails or threats or movements of interest while he winds their way down the roof paths and through the market. In this way, he sees the exact moment when she realizes their destination; her teeth release her lip and her eyes widen, ears flattening against the side of her head. Her fingers tighten around the spellblade at her hip, but she does not stumble, stays in perfect step in his shadow.

Her tongue darts out over her lips. “Viago—“

“No.” The word is steel and sharp and in one syllable it is the verbal whipping she was clearly expecting before. She flinches, and lapses back into silence.

In the shadows farthest from the bustle of the city, there is a dock without any vessels and this is where Viago leads her. Still watching from the corner of his eye, so he sees when she loses control and begins to shake. Little shivers that pass over her from tip to toe, like a breeze rippling through an endless wheat field, as much at the mercy of her fear as the chaff and straw in the wind.

The lapping of the water against wood is not bothering him today, but her ears twitch with each wave that comes to shore. Ignoring that, he stands aside and jerks his head, indicating her to walk ahead of him.

She hesitates, and he glares. Hesitation gets an assassin killed. She knows this, and he knows that she knows how to quash the instinct. That she is receding like this, falling backwards into bad habits, is almost as maddening as the secret that she kept.

The secret that he failed to notice.

He does not move his head again—Viago does not ask for things twice, and Arlow does not need to be told more than once. Not by him. This time she pushes past the hesitation; a thread of relief slips through his anger and frustration.

Her shakes come more violently as his presence at her back forces her forward at a steady pace. Released from her blade, her hands fist at her side and she stares resolutely at the sky, as if keeping the murky, dark waters of the Rialto Bay out of her gaze will remove them from proximity as well. Finally, when the toes of her boots align with the last plank of the dock, she stops.

“Give me your weapons,” Viago orders. Mutely, she unhooks her blade and her focus and passes them to him. “Your leathers, as well.”

Her fingers slip on the fastenings of her cape—not yet the finery of a full-fledged Crow, but a mark of…something, something like security and belonging, nonetheless—and it takes her several tries to strip it and her armor from her skin. Left only in a thin tunic and leggings, barefoot and shaking from the cold now, as well, her toes curl over the wood and she looks back up at the sky.

He does not give her any warning before he pushes her into the water.

Because she is expecting one—he can tell. She thinks he will ask her to jump, force her to take the fear into herself and swallow it, disperse it, tie it away in her gut where it cannot see the light of day. That is what they would have done, had she revealed this to him in the normal course of things, and they had come to this point under different circumstances.

That would have been a lesson. This is the reminder.

There are guildmasters who would find their pleasure here, take this as a hobby rather than a necessity. But Viago’s stomach sinks as Arlow does beneath the water. This is not a pleasure. And it is only a necessity because she made it so.

He glowers at the bubbles that mark her depleting breath, counting a measure of sixty before he lowers his walking stick into the water, handle-end first so that she can see where moonlight catches on the metal snakes, and latch on.

Back on the dock, she sobs and splutters, spitting the bay water out of her lungs and struggling to replace it with air even as fear seizes them. Better here than on a job, he tells himself, schooling the sour taste on his tongue into careful neutrality. Better here than at the mercy of a rival House. Better here than anywhere without him, anywhere that he could not supervise and smooth out this chink in her defenses that she has allowed to fester.

He presses his walking stick into her shoulder and she gasps, winces, turns her eyes—wide and glassy with fear—up to him.

“Viago, please, let me—“

“Do not beg,” he says. Not coldly, not quite, but not kindly, either. Stern, unyielding; like the hands that break a poorly healed bone before it can be properly set. “Know yourself. Control yourself, and you will control this.”

He shoves and she rolls over herself, back into the water once more.

[inquisimer]

Hi! For Arlow and Viago: "Thank you for being here when I needed you"

thank you for the prompt!! here's me wondering WHERE my crow dad was when I drove that dragon out of treviso

Arlow de Riva & Viago | 517 words | @dadrunkwriting - da4 spoilers

-

Even though Teia had assured her Viago was simply elsewhere, the knot in Arlow’s gut did not unclench until she laid eyes on him, upright and whole, if smoke-streaked and harried.

“You came. Good.” His approval washed over her, but Arlow just nodded. As if she would have gone anywhere else. Treviso was her home. “The dragon, is it—?”

“Gone.”

“Gone? Not dead?”

Arlow scowled, clenching her fist. “I know. Ghilan’nain called it away, we’re not sure why. Next time I will end it, Viago, I swear—“

“I know you will.” Viago jerked his head and Arlow fell in step beside him, headed back to where Teia waited. She wondered, idly, if he had some sort of sense for where she was at all times. “Crows do not leave a job unfinished.”

“Did you even thank her before reminding her of our duty, Vi?”

“She does not need me feeding her ego.”

Teia rolled her eyes, squeezing Arlow’s shoulder with a tired smile. “It is thanks to her that Treviso has only the Antaam at our door tonight, and not the Blight as well.”

Arlow couldn’t help it: she preened at Teia’s praise. At least, until she saw Viago’s unimpressed expression.

“Do not let it go to your head,” he scowled. “You did not actually kill the dragon.”

He was right. Arlow pursed her lips; her quarry’s escape was a persistent itch beneath her skin. She might have saved Treviso a slow death from the Blight, but she had also seen the havoc wrecked before she arrived. It was not an out-and-out win—it was simply not a loss.

But with how things were going these days, she would take even that. And her blade had tasted the blighted dragon’s blood; she had looked into its sickly eyes and met it blow-for-blow—it had made an enemy of Treviso, and in doing so ensured that she would end it, one way or another.

But not today. Arlow sighed. “We should—“

“Rook!”

Davrin skidded up to the Crows, out of breath and favoring his ankle. Lucanis was hot on his heels and the storm in his expression made the bottom of Arlow’s stomach drop out.

“What is it? The dragon—?” she asked, pressing a healing tonic into Davrin’s hand. Less than a day on the team and she’d gotten him injured.

“Not the dragon,” Lucanis answered as Davrin knocked back the potion. “Well, not ours. Word from Minrathous.”

Cazza. “Neve?”

Lucanis shook his head. “Haven’t heard from her. But another messenger got word through. We need to go. Now.”

“Now? But—?”

“Go,” Viago said. Arlow’s protest died on her lips as she glanced over her shoulder. There were some looks you simply didn’t argue with, and Viago wore one of them most of the time. “You’ve done enough here for tonight. We can handle the rest.”

You’ve done enough. Arlow blinked, stalled out long enough at what was almost a compliment for Viago to raise a brow at her. “Go.”

“Right,” she spun away. Move now, process later. “Minrathous. Come on.”

Hold on, Neve. We’re coming. Hold on.

[inquisimer]

25. Notes taken by Rook when they were young/in training plzzzz :D

ehehe thank you!! and to @the-rebel-archivist and @shivunin for the same request (: I had fun with this one, which is about poisons, because of course it is lol

Rook Codex Prompts | 25: Notes taken by Rook when they were young/in training

-

Codex Entry: A Primer of Poison Reagents

A collection of hand-drawn botanical diagrams, labeled and annotated for their use in poison making. Some appear more artistic than academic. Errors and corrections have been marked in red ink.

Andraste’s Mantle

Herb, wyvern venom antidote. Slow boil chopped leaves, stems, and concentrator overnight to create an extract. Add one part for every three doses mixed. Below, in Viago’s handwriting: —Crush the leaves by hand, do not chop them.

Deathroot, Arcanist

Causes disorientation, dizziness, and hallucinations. Shave thinly and burn for aerosolized effect, or grind into paste for epidermal applications. Do not use in liquid solutions—substitute madcap essence instead. —Amend this after you revisit Ortega’s essay on different varieties of Deathroot.

Ghoul’s Beard

Alleged combustible if ingested. Combine with a stabilizing agent before use in any recipe. Do not mix with Rashvine Nettle. —We do not rely on alleged poison effects. Where did you hear this? Hastily scrawled below, in a script similar to the main report: —Lucanis swore it was true. —Refrain from trusting the Dellamorte boy with questions of poison. You are a de Riva, you should know more than him.

Mushroom, Deep

Fungi with hallucinogenic and lethal properties that grow underground near Blight and lyrium veins. Best used as an additive to dishes with strong flavor, to disguise their odd taste and scent. —This is so broad as to be useless. Redo it with acknowledgments for the variants.

Vasanthum Sap

Strong fragrance with little to no taste. Naturally toxic, but more potent if distilled. Harvest under Satina for stronger effects. —Specify the meaning of strong fragrance. Sweet? Foul? Amend with implications for use.

Added below the last entry, in Viago's handwriting:

Stop rushing through your studies. Be thorough. Do better.

[inquisimer]

19 from the Rook Codex list for Arlow (if you are taking them c:)

thank you mo!! and thank you for making the list, it's a good one (:

Rook Codex Prompts | 19: Inventory of personal belongings Rook left behind when they left their faction

-

Codex Entry: To Be Returned

A list in neat, sharp handwriting, attached to a small chest on a shelf in the Fifth Talon’s office. There are tracks in the dust, as though the chest has been removed and replaced several times.

Unstitched vellum and ink pouches

Throwing daggers, old

Assorted magical theory tomes (bookmarks added) and associated notes (indexed as standard)

Half a jar of coffee beans, roast unlabeled, and set of mugs (washed before storage)

Bag of yarn, three unfinished strangling cords, and one set of hooks

Three vials of unknown substance(s), labels singed off (she did that to annoy me)

One bloom each crystal grace and embrium, pressed and dried

Crumpled funeral program, ink smeared (should have intervened sooner)

Crow leathers and cape, retrieved in person

(Below, in Teia’s handwriting, and then Viago's)

—It is the dark cinnamon roast. You know perfectly well she doesn’t drink anything else.

—It is unlabeled.

—That does not matter. You know.

[inquisimer]

something wretched about this

Lucanis Dellamorte/Female de Riva | T | Ch 1/3 | Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Fear of Drowning

✨ read it on ao3 here! ✨

Arlow spent the last year coming to terms with Lucanis' death; now, she must come to terms with the circumstances that kept him alive. - And then the wings came out. Bloody efficient, was her first thought. Nimble and graceful were always a given with Lucanis, and the wings only added leverage. Despite whatever he’d been through in the last year, his targets never stood a chance. “Kaffas,” Neve hissed beside her. Yeah. That was her second though

[inquisimer]

Hi! I have a question if you would like to answer: what made you want for Arlow and Lucanis to be best friends prior to the events of the game? Like what was the moment where you went „that would be a great idea“ and why?

Ahh yes, thank you for asking!! I am always happy to talk about them (:

Short answer: I'm a sucker for friends-to-lovers, especially with some kind of mess or drama in between.

Long answer:

Before Veilguard dropped, I was being so careful to not let myself get out of hand building a Rook, because even though I like to bend canon, I also like to know what the canon sandbox is before I do that. I wanted to know the backstories, the faction vibes, and the relationship/quest beats before I got my heart set on an OC. At the same time, I was battling the overwhelming urge to immerse myself in character building because I was so hyped. So, as a compromise (and this is the "moment" I would say), I let myself pick exactly one (1) thing about my Rook: she knows how Lucanis takes his coffee and he trusts her to make it for him.

(which became infinitely funnier once it dropped that crow!Rook was a de Riva, because of the poison angle. serendipity, lol)

Having read the short story The Wake, I knew that there would be some fuckery regarding Lucanis being "dead" (and I was already planning to romance him after reading Tevinter Nights). I wanted to give him and Arlow enough of a relationship history that his death would mean more to her than just "ah shit, the First Talon's grandson got got", but I didn't want that history to be romantic, because I wanted to watch the romance arc play out in game.

So, best friends. And with how intense Lucanis is about his platonic relationships with all of the Veilguard, I'm really glad for that choice - I think it suits both of them, and the stories I want to tell for them (:

Thank you again for asking!! Kicking my feet and twirling my hair whenever I get to talk about them 💜💜