#emmg

[lafaiette]

Seven deadly sins

Tagged by @emmg! My Rook is a Very Dense™ man, but also very extroverted, the total opposite of my Lavellan.

He was supposed to be the Enasalin from an old fic of a mine (and his first name is still Enasalin), but in the end he became a very different character (also due to the game's roleplaying limitations)

LUST. desire for connection. pursuit of pleasure. emotional intelligence. obsessive. lovesick. one-night stands. seductive encounter. flirtatious conversation. erotic party. seductive attire. revealing clothing. passionate gaze. provocative makeup. sensual expressions. suggestive gestures. flirtatious smiles. lingerie. love letters. perfumes. provocative behaviour. love poems. erotic art.

GLUTTONY. indulgence in experiences. savouring moments. hospitality. generosity. hedonism. culinary expertise. wine-tasting. excessive snacking. overloaded plates. excessive portions. bloated stomachs. messy eating. greasy fingers. full tables. indulgent spreads. overflowing cups. satisfied expressions. wine bottles. just can't get enough. fast food wrappers.

• He grew up as a city elf, so the first thing he did when he found himself in the Lighthouse was robbing Solas' pantry.

Harding: "Oh wow, that's a lot of raisins."

Rook: "OH SHIT, RAISINS, I HAVEN'T EATEN SOME SINCE 9:49 DRAGON"

ENVY. motivation. competitive spirit. strategic planning. observational skills. bitter rivalry. contest. envious gossip. resentment-filled argument. social media jealousy. furrowed brows. clenched jaws. side-eye looks. pursed lips. tense posture. whispering behind backs. crossed arms. gossip magazines. keeping up with the joneses. the grass is always greener. feeling inadequate.

• He's always feeling inadequate - he knows he's not supposed to be in that position, he's just hired help 😂 He's not really envious, more like "Please let this person deal with this" or "I wish Varric was feeling better enough to help me handle this group"

GREED. resourcefulness. entrepreneurial spirit. negotiation. materialistic. aggressive investment. lavish spending spree. resource-hoarding. get-rich-quick schemes. auction-bidding war. property acquisition. piles of money. overflowing wallets. luxury items. locked safes. penny-pinching. rare collectibles. selfishness. unwillingness to share.

• He knows what being poor means. He is a very resourceful man, knowing how to barter or save money, always yearning for a house he can call his own, since things in the alienage were a mess - shared shacks, shared spaces, shared food.

SLOTH. calmness. stress management. nonchalance. relaxation techniques. lethargic. apathetic. inactive. lazy weekend. binge-watching marathon. neglected chores. skipped workout. long nap. lounging on the couch. missed deadlines. unkempt appearance. messy hair. pajamas. blankets. slippers. procrastination station. self-care routines.

PRIDE. confidence. self-assurance. self-respect. dignity. public speaking. self-promotion. arrogant. conceited. egotistical. self-important. vain. boastful speech. puffed chest. raised chin. smug smiles. spotlight. tooting your own horn. showing off. refusing to admit mistakes. feeling entitled. personal branding. leadership development.

• He feels inadequate leading, but he also has a hard time admitting his mistakes. Leaving Solas' prison was so easy for him - "Hey, my friends made those choices, who was I to argue with them? Let me out, thank youuu :D "

WRATH. assertiveness. decisiveness. strength. intensity. boundary setting. courage. indignant. heated arguments. road rage incident. physical altercation. angry outburst. clenched fists. glaring eyes. tense muscles. raised voices. reddened faces. aggressive gestures. stormy demeanour. intense frowns. destructive actions. broken objects. punching bag. out for blood. fists. simmering anger.

I don't know who to tag 😭 @lateforjianghu and @traveltigress if you want to give this a go!

[lafaiette]

@emmg I have something a bit sad for you 🫠

“You’re pitiful,” the statue continued, his voice filled with more anger and contempt. “I should have never followed you. I should have seen you for what you really were and left you to rot! You…”

“I’m sorry for your death, lethallin,” Scarlet interrupted it, raising her voice a little to drown out the regret’s grating one. “And Solas is sorry, too.”

“Being sorry won’t absolve him.”

“What is he supposed to do, then? Do you want him to wallow in misery and sorrow for all eternity? Would that be a fitting punishment?”

She glared at the statue, at what it represented. It was a trap, perfectly conceived by the regret prison, Solas’ magicks turning the Fade into the most efficient of weapons.

“Or would you perhaps want to see him dead by his own hand, killing himself to pay for everything?”

“That’s the easy way out,” the statue spat, glaring at her in return. Unlike Varric’s, Felassan’s regret had no problems addressing her directly. It spoke to her, reacted to her, almost as if she were Solas, or as if she shared his same faults and crimes.

Was the prison changing tactics to make things even harder for Solas? Was that even possible? She would need to ask him later.

Give my yalls WIPs

@heylittleriotact @adinfernumadinfinitum @jainydoe @lafaiette @thessaralka

Also literally everyone else and pls tag me, I’m in a rut and need inspiration lmfao

[caffeinatedmunchkin]

absolutely insane, out of pocket WIP that no one asked for that's not in my usual tense OR style, but I needed to exorcise it, under the cut

Ummm slight NSFW? Religious themes ? Dub-con? Age gap? Canon-divergence AU for the explicit purposes of (eventual if I continue this) smut ?? Under-age (female reader is a high-schooler of unspecified age, probably 17 ?? almost legal but not? idfk)

I've never written anything in the reader-insert or present tense ballpark. I have no business doing this. Anyway here's some of it! xoxo

Heels click the tile in brisk approach, luring his attentions to Mrs. Grady, an attendant of the main office, with you in toe. The rubber soles of your mary janes fall silent in your step, though your head is held high behind her, assured with the saunter of your hips. You're but a girl, though your walk is a womans. You carry yourself with the oversized confidence of a fatale. One who looks into his tired eyes and wary posture and sees herself staring back, wicked and red. A devil. His devil.

You come upon him like you know it all. Wiser than your years, lethal in your innocence feigned. You fix yourself to Mrs. Grady's shadow as if the position offers you to him meek, but your posture holds to a maturity that betrays you.

Father Brennan straightens with an amicable smile in greeting. Mrs. Grady returns it, though the quirk of her lips raises and falls so fast it's almost missed. Her skirts hem modestly swishes below the knee, three inches below to be exact. Three to four inches or so longer than yours had often been. Your waist band rolled twice to achieve the shortened length. An act of rebellion, a stab at the salacious you pretend yourself heedless of. Too pure to be deliberate.

The stunt with the skirt has landed you in the main office many times. Only until recently, when they turned to him for disciplinary action.

Their sole priest. One of but a few male staff members. They came to him at their wits end, and suddenly, you behaved. So mild and pious, suspicious with how quick you bent the knee. Confirmation he loathed.

Yet here you were, dragged before him once again. The same long walk to his domain, after school hours, when your studies wouldn't be interfered.

Not a walk of shame, but a strut.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

"What's been troubling you, my child?

He doesn't recall when my began to precede child, but he notes the way you're alight with covetous pride, and it beams up at him through the white of your smile, and glint in your eye. He basks in it with rueful conflict, one whose favor tips the scale in disappointment, both in himself, and you. Or at least he tries to tell himself that, shift part of the blame.

He sits on the edge of his desk before you, a bold maneuver, a vulnerability, but one he subjects himself to willingly. A deliberate ploy to show he can. To assert you have no hold over him, a display of his strength, his determination. Lofty and unaffected by your wiles.

Wiles you somehow seem unaware of even as you wield them; in your blushed cheeks and gaped lips, sighing his name minty fresh and bubblegum sweet, from the chewing gum you sneak, and the tinted lip balm that has sent you to his office more times than he can count.

A little silver crucifix collars your neck, dainty and simple, it signals your virtue, brands you as one of his own. He finds himself captured by it, dangling from your throat.

"What has you acting out so?"

He observes with the same raw anguish settling in his gut like a brick with how you sit before him. Your leg crossed, one over the other. Foot bobbing from a small ankle, restless and blurring. Your kilt slides back over your leg, hinting bare thigh above the thin green cotton of your knee-high.

The girls of St. Marys are supposed to sit straight back, hands clasped and ankles crossed. Demure, innocent, juvenile. You've been told not to sit the way you do, as if the correction itself scolds you for the impurity of which he fears you implicit. The way you are now. Alone in his office. Looking up at him.

He wonders if he shouldn't correct it again himself, but thinks better of it.

Weakness. He thinks. He chants. He affirms.

Baseless, primal, profane. He shouldn't pay any mind to how you sit. Like a woman.

You sigh, long-suffering, and troubled. Pouty lips and pleading eyes. Your lashes flutter, jet black and spindly with mascara applied so light it might go unnoticed. It doesn't.

Weakness.

Red flares within him, pointed, sleek. Igniting with a spark that fizzles and fades to gooey pink, soft and tender. And then golden again. Reverential. The sun setting on a dismissed mass. The aftermath of grace and due deference to his person leaving him hazy and contented. A school of faculty and students alike who adore him. Without them he's left to the sobering of an empty chapel, one whose light then shuns him. Daring him to continue to fester with the new, hungry monstrosity that swells and stiffens, ugly and blunt.

Heavy on his shoulders, digging at his back. A cross to bear, he drags it along his pilgrimage to the hill, where he will stake it in the ground, climb to its center, and crucify himself on the broad tines. And you're both the hammer and the nail. Sharp and unforgiving. A pierce of his flesh that damns his rotten soul. A giggle through his left hand, a sigh through his right, and kiss through both feet. He takes the pain and bleeds. He bleeds for you.

Weakness.

"I don't know, Father." You surrender, fingers picking the pleated hem of your skirt at your knee. A budding chest rising and falling beneath your buttoned blouse. His molars crack as he clenches his jaw firm. "I don't feel like I'm supposed to be here. I don't feel like I do any of this right."

His brows bow and his eye droops. Frosted brilliance chilled in pity. How wistful and lost his little lamb bleats.

"Do what right?" His voice is old and hoarse, and it catches in his throat. He hopes you think its breaks from disuse. From solidifying, stoic and cold in his lonely office, his clearing throat and crisp strokes of pen all that keeps him company there.

And not because of the way you take your bottom lip between your teeth.

"Belong." You reply, plain and real. So ahead of your years, and the vapid nuance that fill the heads of your classmates. Boys and lunches and status. He sighs, his smile so thin it disperses imperceptible in the deep lines that etch his face.

"We all belong, lass." He lilts around the pet names, feeling one weight lift in place of the new.

His vow of celibacy is a mutt gone rabid, and you're the child unawares, as you pull his ear and yank his tail, pushing at the warning ripple of jowl to get at his canines. Slick and yellowed by marrow, the memory of it's taste a perpetual haunt from the decades since it last soaked his tongue.

You're no Jezebel.

He almost sinks to his knees and sobs in relief. You're wayward. Wayward he knows. Wayward he can curve, he can herd, he can appease. And all without so much as a scuff to his shining piety. His stirred faith settles. Balls back up tidy, and tamed.

"You speak of nothing the Lord cannot quell." He eases himself into this routine, to the familiarity in advice he's since taken to using as a shield against your temptation. Or a muzzle to his own. "You need not but turn to him."

His suggestion is reasonable. One any good mentor, or spiritual counselor, should provide. You shake your head before his graveled words have the chance to settle.

"I try." Your insistence is earnest, as is your defeat. It strengthens his pity. "He doesn't listen to me. He never responds."

"My girl, of course he listens." You remain unconvinced. He sees it in your furrowed brow, and pout. "Come, I'll show you." He holds both of his palms out and open to you, thick and creased and stable. "We'll talk to him together."

[fenharel-babe]

WIP Wednesday

I got tagged by @emmg (you can still tag me on this blog btw tho it’s not my main. This is my DA only side blog lmao) AND THANK YYOUUU!!’ LOVE YOUUY💙💙💙💙.

This idea was supposed to be Solas going to see my Lavellan when he exits the Fade prison because he’s worried for her. This is all I got lol.

———

Solas cut open the Fade with the dagger and stepped through. Though he did not know Rook too well, he felt guilt and a certain sadness at this betrayal. He turned to look over his shoulder before the gap closed him off, and saw Rook’s wide eyes as she fell off the cliff, dragged by her own regrets, and trapped her in his place.

The gap closed and he was back in Minrathous, back to finish his plan. Well, his new plan. He needed to stop his fellow ‘companions’ from destroying the world, only for him to then change the world himself, whether it led to destruction or not. He found a certain irony about the entire situation, but he didn’t have time to think about it, to let his guilt consume him. He pushed it down, locked away in a dark part of him, like he’d always done.

He knew he could not roam the streets to find one of his hideouts in his current attire, knowing people would immediately report him if they even saw a flash of him. He hated doing it, but he decided to change into his wolf form, the regular one and not the dread wolf.

That would be later. Most likely if everything went to plan. Maybe his fourth plan will go accordingly. A man could hope.

He focused his magic, letting it flow through him and change his form. When his magic stopped, he saw in the reflection of a puddle of water on the street, a wolf looking back at him.

He instantly turned and ran, weaving through alley ways and moving items in his way. He kept his ears on high alert in case anyone said something important, in case he heard any hint of information about the Evanuris and where they could be.

The entire time he walked, he had to be extra careful. No one would suspect him like that, but the blight was everywhere in Minrathous. Paths he usually would’ve taken were blocked by blight, making him take new paths and led him deeper into Minrathous. He had to hide at specific points to make sure people didn’t see him, especially the venatori. He did not feel like dealing with them at that time. While hiding in an alley near the Cobbled Swan, he managed to hear some…unnerving information.

“Did you hear the inquisitor came to the Cobbled Swan?” A noble lady said.

The other person gasped. “Yes, yes I did! She was meeting with one of the few remaining Shadow Dragons.”

“Another woman was with her. Pretty fancy with a weird headpiece. They seemed be speaking about the blight.”

“Well, of course they would! The Inquisitor is dealing with much in the South if I’m hearing right from my cousin.”

[heylittleriotact]

🕯️WIP WEDNESDAY 🕯️

I feel like I’m living in the stupidest simulation ever, and have no idea what to do except balm the agony of existence with shameless smut.

Fuck all the other WIPS - the soul yearns for plotless porn that I guess is a second part to Algor Mortis.

@aldisobey @caffeinatedmunchkin @emmg @xxnashiraxx and anyone else who has a WIP: I wanna seeeeee.

Under the cut for porn.

💚💚💚💚💚

It was before dawn when she found herself drawn from sleep. She might have closed her eyes and resumed her slumber had she not found herself completely discombobulated: confused at the feeling of the soft feather mattress beneath her and the surely offensive thread count of the smooth sheets that covered it. Her surroundings smelled unfamiliar, and the air was too dry.

It was pitch dark where she was, but that didn’t stop her from lifting her head from the pillow that was steeped in the memory of a wealthy but dead Tevinter woman’s perfume: a depressing and faint medley of stale florals and and bergamot blended into something cloying and powdery. It was the sort of perfume that judgmental old money wore purely because it was an old and very exclusive label. Whether or not it was a complimentary fragrance was secondary to the prestige of owning a bottle and dousing oneself with it to the point where no one within a mile radius could escape the stinky clutches of the pungent status symbol.

She swallowed past the fear and uncertainty that had tightened her throat and felt around in the dark, finding the grounding and familiar shape of Emmrich.

A trembling sigh of relief spilled from her lips and she instantly felt herself relax as her fingers danced along the shape of his bare abdomen, dipping into concaves and skimming over lines, trailing over the soft hair that grew under his navel and up over his sternum.

She didn’t need to see him to know the shape of him… to know every inch of his elegant, carefully groomed and diligently cared for body.

They had spoken of plans during their bath, and she had elaborated on a few of her own with the full intention of seeing them through until exhaustion had triumphed.

Unsatisfied with the unwanted interference in her carefully crafted designs for the beginning of their future together, she left Emmrich’s side, keeping her palm flat against the gentle rise and fall of his stomach.

Slipping across the sleek surface of the sheets as she moved down the bed, her thumb swept over the shape of his hip bone and she placed a row of little kisses just beneath the joint of his thigh, dawdling a lazy path on his soft skin until she reached his cock.

Soft, warm, and smelling faintly of the fragrant oils from their bath and his own natural musk, she nuzzled against him, burying her nose in the coarse, well maintained thatch of hair before gently drawing him into her mouth.

She loved feeling him expand in her mouth, filling her and brushing against her cheeks as she patiently coaxed him to attention.

Almost soothingly she stroked his lower belly as she swirled her tongue around his flaccid length, hollowing her cheeks and wrapping her other hand around his base to pull back his foreskin and impart a broad, firm lick to the underside of his head.

A groggy moan warbled through the darkness, and she smiled against him before using the tip of her tongue to collect the moisture that was already collecting at his tip - an action that wrought a sharp gasp of air through teeth she couldn’t see.

Filling her mouth with his rapidly hardening cock again until she felt her fingers bump against her lips, she sighed around him, revelling in the taste of him… the heat of him… the texture of his prominent veins against her tongue.

Long fingers twined into her hair and she drew back slowly, knowing the wet drag of her cheeks felt sinfully good in his increasingly aroused state.

He uttered a heady little sigh when she released him with a lewd ‘pop’, the vulgarity of the action exaggerated by their shared inability to see one another in the room that was as dark and still as a tomb.

She let a robust quantity of saliva drip from her partly open mouth onto his twitching cock, spreading it over him with a few lazy strokes.

Taking him in her mouth again, she eased him deeper still, spurred on by the symphony of gentle panting and whispered moans coming from the head of the bed. She stopped when she felt him hit the very back of her mouth, and swallowed around him before beginning to slowly bob her head on his cock.

With an enraptured hiss, the fingers in her hair loosened and disappeared, returning to tenderly sweep aside some that had fallen into her face.

“Good morning, darling,” he whispered over the sloppy squelching sounds of her pleasing him.

Moaning around him, she continued, picking up her pace, stroking him with her hand in rhythm with her mouth. She heard the soft ‘thump’ of his head falling back to the pillow and he offered her name up to the utter blackness like a prayer.

[caffeinatedmunchkin]

@emmg this has your Rook all over it

Sorry Harding, I hope you didn’t need that Defy rune for anything 🤣

Want more of this? Support me on Patreon!

[starfleetteddybear]

I got tagged by @nerdanel01 for the first line challenge.

It’s supposed to be just the first line but…I’m being naughty and doing the first page from my wip.

It’s not time for it yet and subject to change but…. Just a teaser.

Im tagging @profoundlyfaded @sunny374940 @andthekitchensinkao3 @emmg @salladin-abelasan @choccy-zefirka

Maybe this might be from Rook and Emmrich’s honeymoon. 👀

————

“Oh, Emmrich.” I cried wantonly into the bed sheets, my bare bottom in the air.

“You are doing so well, my darling.” Emmrich praised. He held my hips steady as he stroked into me from behind with devastating accuracy. “Lift your hips a bit higher for me.”

“Mmmf,” I managed to reply, trying to follow his instruction but my legs felt like jelly from the last orgasm.

“Ah, good girl.” Emmrich moaned, increasing his pace. “I love feeling you unravel around me. My perfect, beautiful Rook. If you would let me I would never let you leave our bed. We’d stay like this for years. Decades. Until the flowers and ruins grew around us.”

I whimpered a high pitched sound I didn’t know I was capable of, tightening around him at the mental image. My breath came in harsh pants as he pulled out and gasps of pleasure when he thrust back inside.

“Yes, darling. Those sounds you make are glorious.” Emmrich sounded just as breathless with the fantasy he painted. “Just imagine. Making love with no one to bother us. On our bed, in our sitting room…on my office desk. I’d have you bent over it just like this-”

We groaned in universal satisfaction when I climaxed, shuddering around him for the fourth time this morning.

[lafaiette]

WIP Thursday

Tagged by @emmg ! I'm actually finishing the last chapter of a fic unrelated to DA, but I wrote this short snippet after watching all the review videos and getting inspired. I missed writing my Scarlet 😭

I don't know who to tag, to be honest - please feel free to participate if you see this on your dash!

Varric walked into the room with a weary sigh. There were times when the years weighed more than usual on his short frame, as if heavy boulders filled with regrets were pressing on his shoulders.

He forced a smile back on his face when he saw the Inquisitor standing next to a table, studying what looked like a map of northern Thedas - just like he had left her a few hours prior, when he had gone to rest his dusty old bones for a while.

"Ah, Shy, you work too hard."

She smiled at him, but her eyes quickly went back to the map, as if she couldn't look away from it even for a second. The fingers of her real hand were dirty with ink, meaning she had been taking notes, or perhaps writing letters.

She looked tired, pale, and Varric felt a pang of fatherly concern, mixed with pride.

"At least use another candle." he said, lighting one up for her and placing it on the table. Better, but the room was still a bit dark, and her golden eyes looked as bloodshot as ever.

"It's alright, Varric. I'll go to sleep as soon as I'm done checking some things here."

She nodded at the map, and Varric noticed the small symbols she had written on it with a pencil - arrows, some sort of trail leading from Antiva to Tevinter, question marks...

"I doubt Solas' hideout will appear on there, no matter how much you keep glaring at it, Shy."

He regretted his words as soon as they left his mouth, but she laughed, the sound very similar to the one she would make in the past, back when she was still Inquisitor.

"You're right, but I can't help it."

She pushed back her red hair from her face, trying to put some rebellious locks behind her long ears. He noticed her prosthetic arm moved stiffly, and made a mental note to ask Dagna to check it later.

"We'll find him, Scarlet." he swore, locking eyes with her. Her face, free from vallaslin ever since that night at Crestwood, suddenly looked younger as she stared at him, eyes wide.

Then a melancholy smile curled her lips, timid like his nickname for her, but also filled with hope.

"If this 'Rook' you found is as good as you claim..."

"Oh, they are! They're basically my right hand, at this point."

"... Then I'm not worried."

"Last time I heard them, they said they had a good feeling about a new trail." He sighed, staring at the strong flame of the new candle he had lit up. "I think this is it, Inquisitor."

She swallowed and glanced back at the map, just for a moment, the fingers of her left, fake hand twitching at her side.

"I just hope you and your friend will have better luck at talking with him than I did."

"You know me, Inquisitor." Varric gave her his famous lopsided grin, puffing out his chest. "I can be very convincing when I want to."

"Yes." She smiled again, another small victory. But she got serious and worried again, making Varric tense up. "But please - promise me you and Rook will be careful."

"I promise." He even crossed his heart, hoping to make her smile or laugh again. But Scarlet kept staring at him, pale and gaunt, anxious and worried, her love for Solas still burning strong in her heart after all those years.

Varric knew he still visited her dreams. He had - without meaning to - heard her talk about it with Dorian.

"But first..." He glared at her. "Promise me something in return."

Scarlet's eyebrows rose in surprise, and she nodded.

"Please, please, take care of yourself while me and Harding are away." Varric snorted, crossing his arms. "Solas would weep if he saw how exhausted you are. And I don't want him to skin me alive when we'll manage to drag him back to you."

Scarlet giggled - a third victory! Varric cheered - and nodded, the jawbone hanging from her neck swinging back and forth.

"Good! Now go eat something and rest. I'll tidy things up here."

"Thank you, Varric."

She left the room, her fake arm stiff, almost still. Varric turned to the table, instictively stared at Minrathous' icon on the map for a few seconds, then sighed and started putting away all the notes and letters scattered here and there, hoping he would have good news to share with her soon.

[adinfernumadinfinitum]

Welcome to my silly little fan theory @emmg:

How Raphael is the ‘Mastermind’ behind the plot of Baldur’s Gate 3…

…or how I give him more importance than I should.

DISCLAIMER:

In this ‘dissertation,’ I present my take on things based on Dungeons and Dragons 5e lore from the Forgotten Realms universe, along with fandom theories and headcanons where they suit me. This is NOT an in-depth analysis of anything, so I won’t be reciting specific quotes, etc.

I repeat, this is just MY take on things. If a similar theory already exists, feel free to reach out, and I’ll gladly tag the material!

Oh, and there are a lot of spoilers about, well, everything, so read at your own risk ⚠️

I thank the lovely @bitethedevil for allowing me to tag their posts, making it easier on me so I don’t have to write everything out! I also want to take this moment to appreciate their work and contributions to this fandom! ☺️

Introduction

Baldur’s Gate 3 is a brilliant, complex, multi-layered game filled with multiple villains, heroic figures, and a plot that weaves players in seamlessly. That’s why we love this game—at least, that’s why I do—the gripping storyline and its faceted characters.

The game is set in the Forgotten Realms with DnD lore and rules, while still adding and maintaining its own unique features and twists.

But what if we entirely take a look at it from DnD lore perspective?

Section 1: Raphael as the core character in Baldur’s Gate 3

Fans of the Emperor might argue with me here, but oh man, have you seen how many pies Raphael has his fingers in?

This narcissistic little shit of a cambion plotted his grand design to take the Crown of Karsus for over 2,000 years, planning everything with terrifying precision and putting in a staggering amount of effort—all to manipulate Tav or Durge into giving him the crown.

To understand just how far back his scheming goes, we have to start with the fall of Netheril. As Raphael himself tells us, this is where it all began, and when his father seized the crown, it became impossible for Raphael to obtain it himself.

Baator—the Nine Layers of Hell—has its own system and rules. The plane is aligned as lawful evil, and by its laws, anyone who breaks them is punished; in other words, theft is a crime (don’t try this at home edition).

Am I going to explain the system and rules of the Nine Hells? Hell no, or I’ll be sitting here until next Halloween. Sorry, maybe in a separate post sometime (or not) 😭

So Raphael had to get creative if he wanted to get his greedy claws on the crown.

You can read about how much Raphael’s involvement is actually found in the game Baldur’s Gate 3 here.

What’s relevant for this ‘dissertation’ are the following points, which all show how he orchestrates the plot:

1. Raphael, Vlaakith, and the Astral Prism —

Raphael even plots to capture Orpheus. Not personally, of course, but with the knowledge that it could benefit him and would even serve its purpose in the future. This is a crucial detail.

However, I don’t believe Raphael would craft or have someone craft an item like the Astral Prism, as well as the bindings of Orpheus (the mask, chains, and binding crystals) and the Orphic Hammer. It’s more likely these objects already existed in the Hells, with Raphael profiting by dealing with them.

Sadly there is no official information on that, I really find that interesting.

As for why the Orphic Hammer is called Orphic Hammer - why is Orpheus called Orpheus? He’s a liberator for his people, having inherited the power of Mother Gith, who freed the Gith from mind flayer enslavement. The character of Orpheus draws heavily from Orpheus in Greek mythology, a symbol of liberation, love, and the attempt to rescue a soul from the bonds of death. The term “Orphic” reflects this sense of breaking free from constraints or seeking transformation (of course, it has other meanings, too, but this one feels like what the developers were aiming for).

So the hammer’s name has both symbolic depth and a bit of pun, as it’s intended to free the character Orpheus from his chains.

ANYWAY

2. Raphael, Moonrise Towers, and the Gauntlet of Shar —

The amount of interwoven contracts Raphael has made in the Shadow Cursed Lands is suspicious, and each and every one of them is too , an important point.

Isn’t it just a bit too convenient that Ketheric’s misery plays right into Raphael’s hands? The Shadow-Cursed Lands—Reithwin, once ruled by Ketheric, formerly full of Selunite worshippers but ruined by schemes of the Dark Lady who turned a grieving worshipper of her sister into a Shar follower and leader of an army of Dark Justiciars—is a whole breeding ground for contracts and a stage for Raphael’s play.

Hold on, I’m not implying that I believe Raphael had a hand in Shar’s mischief here, but I do think Raphael handpicked Ketheric, a grieving and obsessed madman (a truly tragic character, honestly), to be an unwitting pawn in his schemes, without directly involving himself. To do this, he contracted with desperate beings like the Architect, Yurgir, and the last Dark Justiciar.

To understand why Raphael would even need Ketheric, we have to look a step further.

3. Raphael and my beloved raccoon boy, Gortash —

Raphael buying Gortash from his parents was a calculated move and the final piece in the Netherbrain plot scheme.

I believe Raphael specifically chose Enver Gortash, a boy with potential, for his plans to get the Crown of Karsus.

Look, Gortash is anything but dumb; in fact, he’s the exact opposite. He learned the ropes in Hell, literally imprisoned in Raphael’s House of Hope. All jokes aside about pot-scrubbing duty and overhearing Raphael and Haarlep getting it on, Gortash is a quick learner.

Raphael just had to watch as Gortash escaped the House of Hope with vital information about the crown. With this, Raphael set up an ambitious, cunning man with the drive to steal the crown.

And this is where Ketheric returns to the picture. Ketheric, the chosen of Myrkul; Gortash, the chosen of Bane; and Durge, the chosen of Bhaal.

As for how Raphael might have gotten his hands on Durge? I’ll leave that as the theory’s plot hole.

I could fill it with headcanons—like Gortash and Durge knowing each other even before Gortash was sold—but that feels a bit far-fetched.

Actually, all of this is a bit far-fetched, but hey, it’s my silly little theory.

But hey again, we’re slowly coming to a conclusion how Raphael is the mastermind behind BG3, do you see my vision?

All Raphael needed was patience. The chosen ones, Gortash and Durge, set the stage by planning the Netherbrain coup and, in stealing the crown, executed Raphael’s plan. All they needed was the third chosen, Ketheric, to carry out the rest of the plot: building the Absolute’s army, etc., the rest we know...

So, what was left? Just someone desperate enough to make a deal with Raphael and actually hand over the Crown of Karsus. And how would he pull that off?

✨The Tadpole Gang✨

Every single one of them fits the bill. Especially if the player chooses Durge.

The next question is: how could he manipulate the group if they were under the Absolute’s influence? Well, that’s where the Emperor comes onto the stage.

Because, hear me out one more time: isn’t it convenient that the Emperor, of all people, finds the Astral Prism? A figure obsessed with freedom and manipulation, ambitious and clever, who would serve perfectly as a kind of protection shield from the Elder Brain’s influence for the gang? And to that even a disposable figure as it is a mind flayer who would not be trusted in the end.

(Naturally, in the game the player is the ultimate executional force, making any kind of higher plan or scheme either perfect or useless)

Nevertheless, this is as far as I will dive into this specific pond.

I just think it adds up nicely.

But Björni, if you have a Section 1, what about a Section 2? you might ask. Well, here it comes…

… how this ‘dissertation’ is actually about Mephistopheles being the ‘Mastermind’ behind the plot of Baldur’s Gate 3.

Section 2: Raphael as the Scapegoat

DnD’s lore about fiends—and, specifically, cambions—teaches us that they’re doomed to fail from birth. While they may think they’re in control of their schemes, they’re actually playing into the hands of their fiendish parent.

Ever wondered why Mephistopheles would even bother devouring Raphael if we defeat him? Sure, cambion sons are nourishing (yum yum), but given Mephistopheles’ personality, I’d guess he does it to humiliate his son, even in death, for being a failure—a failure to retrieve the crown for his father.

But wait, Mephistopheles already had the crown—why would he bother plotting all of this just to get it back? Isn’t that a bit over-the-top, Björni?

Bear with me: it’s not officially written anywhere, but it’s more or less canon based on what we know of the Archdevils Asmodeus and Mephistopheles.

Asmodeus rules the Hells, while Mephistopheles, as the Archduke of the 8th layer, Cania, is arguably the second most powerful being in Baator. Mephistopheles has never stopped dreaming of overthrowing Asmodeus, even after repeatedly failing miserably. But if he openly tried to use the crown against Asmodeus, it would be a direct affront, and Asmodeus would have shut it down from the start.

Mephistopheles has other children besides Raphael, and Raphael isn’t exactly useless, he’s actually the complete opposite. Strategically, it wouldn’t make sense to discard such a puppet (call him son)—unless Raphael had done something atrocious. And for someone as mighty as Mephistopheles, controlling his little cambion son would be child’s play. So, then why does Raphael hate his father so much, and why is Raphael ‘residing’ in Avernus?

As we know, Avernus is the armpit of Baator, a plane for exiles and outcasts.

I think Mephistopheles intentionally filled his relationship with Raphael with hatred, so Raphael’s ambition to overthrow his father would ignite and one day serve him. When Mephistopheles got the Crown of Karsus, unable to wield it himself, he set the stage for his son’s scheme—by casting Raphael aside, Mephistopheles set him on the path to steal the crown, with Mephistopheles only indirectly involved in overthrowing Asmodeus. Raphael would do the dirty work—taking over the other layers—before ultimately facing his father, who could then just snatch the crown from him. And yes, I do believe Mephistopheles is arrogant enough to think he’d still be more powerful than his son, even with a god-like artifact. He has that bloated of an ego.

BUT (Nr. 36,252), what about Asmodeus? Wouldn’t he step in and crush the plan?

Here’s the thing: Asmodeus generally doesn’t mind if his archdukes fight for control of their layers, as long as it doesn’t threaten his supreme authority or destabilize Hell’s hierarchy. In fact, he encourages a bit of rivalry and ambition among his archdevils, as infighting serves his purposes.

And can you imagine THE Asmodeus being worried about an over-ambitious cambion?

However, this leads to the TRUE instigator and the true subject of this ‘dissertation’…

… how Asmodeus is actually the ‘Mastermind’ behind the plot of Baldur’s Gate 3.

Section 3: Asmodeus doing things, just because

Joke’s on you—it’s been about Asmodeus all along, because even if he’d lose (not that he ever would—he’s just that powerful), he’d claim at the last minute that it was his plan all along. Losing trusted allies? What a bunch of traitors—perfect excuse to clean house. Losing Baator? Finally, he was sick of the job.

All jokes aside, Asmodeus being the cunning bastard he is, would likely pull off everything mentioned above.

To understand why he’d even bother, let’s take a quick (really quick, this is already getting too long) dive into his background and shenanigans in DnD.

Throughout DnD’s development from 1e to 5e, Asmodeus has gone through quite the evolution, eventually becoming a Greater Deity, the Embodiment of Evil, and one of the mightiest beings in existence, rivaled only by Ao.

While 5e keeps things vague to allow player interpretation, Asmodeus has consistently been the most powerful entity in the Hells—a schemer, strategist, and supreme manipulator.

(Here’s the only quote I’ll reference:) “[…] His sinister machinations could take centuries, if not millennia, to come to fruition, and his master plans extended across the entire multiverse. His labyrinthine, insidious intrigues could seem inexplicable to most outside observers, for Asmodeus let even his own servants stew in fear of his next move. With all the planes as his board, the Lord of Lies maneuvered the forces of evil like chess pieces in his grand designs, slowly and subtly manipulating everyone from deities to, when needed, lowly mortals.”

He’s described as being a thousand steps ahead of everyone. And while most of his plans serve greater purposes beyond even godly comprehension, some things he does just because—just for fun.

CONCLUSION

Of course Asmodeus knew Mephistopheles had the crown. Of course he knew Mephistopheles would never use it openly against him. And of course he knew Mephistopheles would keep scheming to use it indirectly, bringing his cambion son Raphael into the game.

Why would Asmodeus let all this happen, and why am I saying he’s the real mastermind?

Like already mentioned, Asmodeus often (indirectly) encourages and manipulates his archdukes to scheme and fight among themselves as a means to reinforce his dominance, foster survival of the fittest, and test loyalty within the infernal hierarchy. However, he maintains strict boundaries, and any conflict that risks his supreme authority, disrupts Hell’s role in the multiverse, or leads to excessive chaos would be swiftly and ruthlessly quashed. In Asmodeus’s mind, such rivalries are a useful tool—as long as they remain safely under his control.

In my view, the Crown of Karsus was never a real threat to him; this whole plot served his entertainment, tested loyalties, or helped him gauge his chess pieces.

And that’s how Asmodeus is the real mastermind behind the plot of Baldur’s Gate 3.

Thanks for reading this mass of nonsense ❤️

Why I even bothered with all this shit? It’s one of the key plot points in my longfic, Ah, You Devil!

[postcardsfromheapside]

No what we really need to talk about is the fact that the corpse flower's scientific name means "large phallus”

I AINT SEE NO ONE TALKIN ABOUT HIS GODDAMN DESIGN

Mayhaps I missed it from early discussions, but they made this man a goddamn corpse flower...

His designers deserve so many kisses on the forehead for this especially since he would have been a botanist if he wasn't a necromancer

[aldisobey]

Fuel to Fire

AO3 Link - Fuel to Fire

A gift on this eve! Finally got it to a point where I don't mind sharing. Emmlich content, come get some Emmlich and Rook angst. It's got comfort and warmth and I've been with it too long just take it before I start hating it again. Tagging @emmg you asked for it! (oh yeah and the title is just the song I listened to the most, it's how I'm naming things because eugh naming things how). Technically part two in a series, check out Nascent Blight if you need more.

Word Count: ~3k

Relationship: Rook Thorne x Emmlich, M/M

Full story below because why not

Emmrich paced the room, green flickers of his skull mixing light with the soothing glow of the water’s reflection on the ground. Rook sprawled out on the divan, head back on the armrest, eyes closed, and rubbed at his temples. Peeked a moment at the towering necromancer gleaming soft in the muted room.

“Rook.” Emmrich’s stern tone made him squeeze his eyes shut. The lich ceased pacing and stood near the small table at the center. Hands folded behind him he faced the waters. “That was reckless.”

The Warden was still coated in lingering blight from the Wetlands. He’d meant to clean up and go celebrate the Eruption’s destruction on return to the Lighthouse, but it was all he could do to drag himself here. He could still feel the echo of it. Too close, too much.

He gripped his head, pressed hard as he dared to drive away the thrumming recollection of whispers. Thank whatever luck graced him it hadn’t…his hands dropped. One to the ground, the other his chest. Their pressures had provided no relief. It would fade, always had, should have stopped when they burned the thing, but something of it’s nature let that damnable echo persist. That or a head injury, he’d taken some hits.

He sighed. Slowly opened his eyes and turned his head to glance at Emmrich’s back facing him.

“Had to be done.” Equally stern in a quiet way, exhaustion clear.

“You might have left the matter to Davrin.” A resounding voice. The folded hands clenched, then released, flicked to the side as Emmrich turned round to fix Rook with his hollow stare, “Or Evka and Antoine, or any number of other Wardens in Lavendell.”

“Emmrich,” Rook responded more softly, slowly, but kept firm, “I had my reasons.”

“And?” The skull tilted, frustration snipping, “Were those reasons worth it?” Emmrich gestured towards Rook, everything said in that tone and movement. Today had not been easy for the rogue. Taash had to half carry him back.

“Yes.” Grumbling, he swung his legs off the divan, sat up properly to face Emmrich’s accusations. “They were.” He straightened his back and squared off his shoulders, suppressed the pulse built on his forehead with a heavy blink. “Look. I brought Taash because they can burn whatever comes their way. And I brought you because you’re undead.”

Emmrich twitched, almost imperceptibly, at that. Rook might’ve missed it had his attention on the lich been less than absolute, but the movement sent his stomach falling. He bit at his tongue and rushed on.

“We got the job done alright? Lavendell can thrive. Everyone safe.” He rushed the words. Kept them short. Folded his arms. He might’ve looked petulant, but the wear of the day was too loud. Holes in the sleeves, tears on the sides, slash on the leg, all red stained, all healed flesh below, but memories of wounds. Everywhere.

“Darling. What about you?” Emmrich’s voice shook, seeing more than the evident physical. Undead eyes exposed a roiling of lingering red pain whispers, swirling confusion, exhaustion like a leaded blanket.

“Hmm? I’m already blighted, it was no concern.” Rook shrugged, doing his best to appear at ease. Brush off the worry, confirm the wellness of the situation. They were here, they were whole, they…

“Enough.” A snarl of exasperation, Emmrich stepped closer, seeming ever taller as he approached, “Davrin would have joined us had it been no concern. You brought Taash.” There was finality in the words, a stillness as the simmering anger evened and burned with purpose, “I was there, Rook. Your Warden friends were quite clear on the danger that Eruption posed to you.”

Rook grimaced, rubbed his hands, felt over callus, cut, and bruise. It hurt. He added pressure, focused the pain there.

Emmrich was right of course. The lingering pounding in his head was testament to that. What if the Eruption had sparked something? It felt safer for Taash to be there with their fire. Why put more than one Warden at risk? How many was it if not him? If not Davrin? Thoughts roiling he shrank below that green gaze burrowing into him feet away. Rook realized then he’d gone slack jawed, unable to think of an acceptable excuse. But no. He had made the right call.

He snapped his mouth shut.

“Fine!” Rook growled and stood using the armrest with a stifled groan. Patience worn thin after all the drumming in his skull he put his hands to his hips when he reached his full height and glared up at Emmrich.

He didn’t shout, but matched the steaming frustration, “I knew it was dangerous for me. Alright? But I had to do it.” The words came out through grit teeth, biting back the desire to escalate.

Emmrich drew back. Not a step, but into himself. “Dearest...”

“No, don't dearest me.” It came out like a hiss, and Rook leaned the smallest degree forward, “The Grey Wardens need every last person after all this.” His hands flailed out, gesturing vaguely to the world at large, “After Weisshaupt…” A breath found him. The fury caught on his tongue. This shouldn’t be so hard.

He cleared his throat, kept strong, “My jobs done once we’ve killed those gods.” His hands returned to his temples for a moment to steady himself, applied pressure to calm the beat. The blood flushing to his face couldn’t be helping.

Rook gave his head a shake and looked askance, maker how did a skull appear sad, he pinched the bridge of his nose. Unable to face Emmrich in that hunched posture before him. Bent, mourning, pathetic…no, Rook swallowed. Not that. The necromancer didn’t stand alone. The lean was enclosing him, protective. He dared a glance forward.

The lich stood draping the Warden in shadow like some gilded ribbed vaulting. And Rook, an insignificant supplicant come, with soft flesh aching, stinking of blight. Before a cathedral.

“Davrin’s got a book in the works!” He sputtered before he forgot all of the pieces reinforcing his decision. “Antoine makes such things?” Because it had been the right decision, “Can you imagine things if left to Evka’s hands?” They would all flourish after he did his part.

“You think I’d risk a single one of them?” Voice a hushed whisper of desperation. He couldn’t bear it.

No. The gods died next. No one else.

Tomorrow. His mind kept at a furious pace. A last check on Lavendell. Then Treviso, the Crows had word. He could feel cold sweat on his neck, they might have a location. Almost there. Not much longer now, almost safe, and all at once his legs went weak. Rook sank, barely controlled, back down to the divan. He settled with elbows on his knees, hands holding his head, and stared down at the floor. Could feel welling in his eyes, blinked it away.

“Rook,” Emmrich’s voice was slow, the gentle echo of a creek; water over stones as it traveled through him, “I’m sorry.”

Sincerity. Rook could feel it. Feel his nerves still at the serene appeal, “You carry the weight of every decision. Don’t you?” Not a question, a declaration, and in hearing it, so firmly spoken, Rook quaked.

“You were exemplary today.” Finally. A shuddering breath, a tiny lift, that voice of praise, a warming balm.

“My love,” The words sank deep past the skin, something in the tone kneading them firmly within the chest, past bone and into heart where a soul might sit, “let me help you.” Rook sniffed, didn’t trust his voice, dipped a nod once. Emmrich extended his hand, gestured towards Rook’s head.

Movements small, close, Rook leaned in, but then gave start, bit his lip, froze, “..wait.” He still needed to scour, make sure every speck of blight was gone, that could take awhile for hair.

“That’s of no concern.” Emmrich smirked.

Rook looked up as that comforting palm settled soft on his head. Peered past the linen, memories flashing of that arched brow, those lidded eyes, and met a crowned skull, flickering flame. He’d heard it in the tone.

His eyes went wide, tight pain gripped his chest. That was the cost wasn’t it? But then, he felt his heart beat. There was that…the desire...ever since…

'Rook’s Necromancer. An excellent subject to test how long one could go back and forth between life and death.'

Rook blinked at the perfect, beautiful, loving undead skull staring back at him, the whisper of hope escaping from dreams and solidifying here and now.

“You’re safe.” Rook choked out the words.

Then collapsed. Gone so limp he would have fallen from couch to floor had Emmrich not anticipated the movement and dropped to his knees to catch him in his arms.

They dropped together a moment, Emmrich’s arms a cushioning guide. And once stable, once still, he lifted, held the trembling man close, and carefully settled down on the divan with him. The Warden, for his part, was all snot and tears, clinging to the lich’s robes. His arms wrapped tight around the ribcage as he pressed close as he could.

"Emmrich, it can't…” His voice and body shook, words closing off in the shudder of relief.

Emmrich cradled Rook as tight as he dared, a soft hush drifting from him as he brought calm in his firm embrace. There was no measured breathing to guide the man hiccupping into his cloak, so Emmrich purposefully rubbed Rook’s back in the rhythm of a breath, and with a few extra movements green sprites darted from his fingers. All at once sound was still and calm around Rook’s hearing, and then began the sigh of trees, wind through leaves, in measured cadence to help level the rogue’s racing heart.

Rook almost felt a cool breeze on his skin same as he heard it, and the glow of water and flame mixed like light through the leaves to his eyes. He sighed, then lifted his head, buried it beneath the lich’s chin, felt his final quivers fade as a hum traveled in waves through the bones embracing him, back and forth, kissing skin where it touched, a fleeting doting touch. The beginnings of a smile and easy breath came to him at last.

Emmrich’s voice sounded quiet around…in…where his head lay. The traveling hum returned deep and pleasant, warming the skin where it passed. “My love. To think…you worried over me, to such...” Disbelief mixed with adoration, Emmrich’s voice eased its way into Rook’s waiting ears, pure love. The lost words saying more than any uttered.

Rook was steady now, melting instead of shivering, he clung to that genuine smile dawning on his lips, he could have this at least. They couldn’t take this. Rook tilted his head up to whisper to the air where Emmrich’s throat might’ve been.

“I love you.”

He put his head back down as he felt both of Emmrich’s hands move up to massage his scalp. The room was incandescent with green, the necromancer’s palms the epicenter of the glow. Focused. He plied at the Warden’s head. His movements were rhythmic, the magic alive with a pulse and rippling at his direction.

Rook could feel the echos become sated, the answering ebb of the necrotic channeling a path of release, carrying the riptide tight and rebounding in his skull back out to sea. Ease and push, gentle waves of magic and fingers worked the movements with Fade and physical, gently towing that ache out from the Warden’s skull.

Rook yawned, almost a thrum while in Emmrich's care, “Of course I was worried.” And he stretched in small movements, “You immortal fool.” His voice was low, pining, enraptured by the fool he entrusted with his care. Emmrich didn’t reply, his voice occupied in the ending incantations. Otherwise they kept in silence, the soft green glow encasing Rook’s scalp continuing to pulse, dancing with the shimmering from the tank.

“Darling,” when Emmrich's voice finally graced Rook again it sent warmth flashing through him, “I’m safe.” A rolling delight, the aches and pains losing hold, Rook groaned, toes curled as every muscle seemed to tighten, and hold. Then release.

The magic dimmed. Rook breathed heavy, then slow, then measured, calm. Almost asleep.

Emmrich sighed, his voice an echo that resounded through the room. He took a long laborious moment to take off his crown, and with utmost care placed it on the table behind them. Then, barefaced as possible, spoke gentle, the deep echo private now, tumbling only to the Warden’s ears, “But, Sir Thorne.” He looked down at Rook, tilted the man’s face to look up from where it lay on his sternum, kept his tracing fingers there, touch yearning. “You are most unsafe.”

Rook felt his eyes go hot at the words, if only because Emmrich’s couldn’t, and he could hear the despondent tears held in the lich’s tone. He tried to look away, but that meant leaving that soft touch on his chin, he pressed down into the palm instead.

“I’m sorry.” he twisted his head deeper into the hand, whispered the mumbled words into Emmrich’s thumb. The thumb traced Rook’s lips a moment, but seemed distant, moving further away.

“Those are words, Rook.” Emmrich’s hand withdrew, Rook looked up, sensing the gravity in the next words had been stressed by absent touch. “Please. If only out of love for me. Take more thought and action towards your safety?”

Rook gave the barest of nods, mind rebelling against the gross hope of self preservation. He nestled back down and away from the skull’s sight. Emmrich’s voice grumbled in old exasperation, his hands moving to cradle the Warden’s skull and massage along his neck. “If you remain so determined to put your life at risk I’ll have no choice but to drag you to the deepest tombs of the Necropolis. Seal you there until you develop a modicum of sense.”

“That a promise?” Rook’s voice surprised them both, and had Emmrich been able to feel heat his hands might have burned from where they held Rook. So quick and fierce was the flush on the man, so immediate the reply, it came without thought, driven by something deeper.

He could feel the lich’s fingers dig hard into his skin. Maker he really did want...The skull was staring up and away from him now. But Rook could hear the words resound in his own chest, “Don’t tempt me.” A low rolling warning, like thunder from a storm still away. But Rook could sense the ache, felt his heart quicken at what some choice words might lead to, felt the barest tremor in the hands holding him, but then they were gone. The storm gave way to trickling laughter at the thought.

Emmrich moved to extricate himself from the divan, took extra care to settle Rook comfortably in place. Hummed away the lighthearted mirth as he stood free and took off his cloak, gently draped it over the fading Warden, “Seriously, dearest, you mustn't jest.”

Rook held tight to the lich’s cloak and burrowed into it, buried his face deep in the lapel as he muttered half asleep already, “Don’t tease, you started it”.

He yawned. Felt warm, eased his mind to think of falling quiet, but the shiver of dreams crept up at him. The Fade always awaited, didn't it. Rook bit at his cheek, blinked an eye open to peek out from beneath the cloak. Emmrich was still there, though his back was turned to him now, he had taken to quiet pacing again, fish in the tank following as he glittered in the pale light.

“Emmrich.” Rook whispered.

“Hmm?” Emmrich paused midstep, fish paused midswim.

Rook stifled a chuckle, overcome at that moment with overwhelming adoration. He could ask this, a beaming smile hidden beneath the cloak, eye twinkling from beneath the fabric he muttered, “You once comforted me by saying the lich lords were, ‘Unlikely to visit your slumber’.”

Rook mused, calling back to that first time, that first terror. Emmrich had been so excited to share, so animated when explaining, the first time Rook heard the word ‘Lich’. Ice had taken Rook’s veins then. Fresh terror, new fear, but what emotion did he know better? And what a blessing it could be? His blood ran cold. Something deep in his gut warned him, but he ignored it. Looked long at the lich before him, fish following Emmrich’s concerned sway, and let the prickling sensation thaw, there could be warmth here, “Is that…something…you could do?” He finally asked.

“Oh.” The lich seemed to stand taller, an edge of excitement to his tone. “I hadn’t the time to consider it.” He started towards Rook, came to kneel at his side, put a hand on the cloak where the man’s shoulder lay, head tilting in question, “Would that interest you?”

Rook poked more of his head out so that his lips could be read, voice a hush, “Maybe…if you can, just uh check in?” He swallowed, “That song, it's in dreams…it’s worse…” Emmrich’s hushing tones cut off Rook. One hand going so far as to pull the cloak back up to cover the Warden's mouth and tuck him in.

“My love, speak no further. Sleep. Nothing will dare trouble your dreams.”

“Thank you…you know you can troub…”

“Another time darling. Please. Rest.”

Eyes closed Rook could hear the smirk again, felt a heaviness settle in his limbs, swore he was already dreaming when he heard the warmth in the immortal’s voice holding him, was that a lullaby? And sleep took him.

[lavenderprose]

I was tagged by @emmg to do the first line/first page/whatever thing so HERE. I'm angry at my main WIP so I won't be posting that one but here's some nonsense I started writing on vacation. Woe, vaguely modernish AU wedding be up ye.

--

Rook’s dress is long and beaded and everything she’s ever wanted or envisioned for her wedding. Emmrich, in that subtle yet insistent way of his, had made it so. He, it should be said, is in a no less elaborate outfit; dark purple, dripping in gold, a gorgeous silk sash wrapped around his middle and ornamental chains dangling from every conceivable part of him. The music he makes as he walks almost upstages the pianist. If Rook wasn’t already in love with him, this would be the tipping point.

Emmrich, however, conspicuously does not have a cathedral-length train to contend with. Very early on in the picture-taking process, they’d decided that the best way to tackle the situation was to keep Rook in the middle as a kind of central axis around which everyone else revolved. She stands between two massive flower arrangements and they cycle through all of the group photos with all the proficiency that the photographer’s hefty price point would imply.

They place Emmrich next to her and she looks at him like the new sun in her solar system and he looks at her like he never knew daylight before he looked into her eyes, and the photographer has to clear his throat three times before they realize it’s time for Emmrich to inch carefully around the train, yes Professor, thank you, we’ll get you back to your bride as soon as possible—okay, first group—

The first group is the girls. Neve, Bellara, Harding. They surround Rook in a warm gaggle, pet her hair and coo. Harding says she’s stunning while squeezing both of her hands, giddiness audibly bubbling in her throat. Bellara showers kisses over her face, overwhelmed with happiness. Neve softly, carefully arranges Rook’s hair at the most tasteful angle and fiddles at the chains around her neck—selected by Emmrich, of course; a funeral dowery fit for a bride—until they lay precisely, and these touches are just as affectionate as Bellara’s kisses.

“Okay, thank you, ladies,” says the photographer, loudly, because he’s learned his lesson. His vendor’s fee is in the five digits and he is exceptional at his job. “Groomsmen next, please.”

Davrin and Lucanis glue themselves to her, each winding an arm around her waist. Taash, who stood with the boys to even the numbers, positions themself behind her and asks what they should do with their hands.

“FLEX,” Harding says from off to the side. A table has been set up with snacks and drinks for those missing the cocktail hour, i.e. the wedding party. Harding has champagne in her hand, something bonkers expensive and authentically Orlesian

[thepalehorsevictoria]

WIP - The Internship

An EmmRook gift for @emmg who has told me in no uncertain terms that I needed to write this idea out. Behold. A Silicon Valley AU. ETA: I tacked on some more to this and made it chapter 1 on AO3.

“Good morning! Welcome to your first day at Volkoss Systems! We’re so honored to have you join us as a small step of what we are sure are very bright futures in tech. My name is Bellara Lutare and I started in the exact same place as you three years ago, so I’m happy to answer any and all questions you may have in your internship orientation.” 

She holds up her access badge, smiling just like her photo. “Please be sure you have your badge visible on you at all times for security purposes,” and the badge snaps back to the reel when she releases it. Her left arm is covered in an intricate full sleeve tattoo of circles and glyphs and rings, now waving the group of students down the hallway for the office tour.

Iris swirls her iced coffee in its plastic cup and takes a long sip. It is too early for her to be functional, and the orientation leader’s effervescence is too much to handle right now. All she wants to do is get assigned a space, get a laptop, take a branch, write some code, check it, merge and go back home to sleep. Even her new badge photo shows that she is not really keen on being here, the half-smile as the bare minimum. Fucking photographer telling her to smile and shit. She’s going to get a badge reel as soon as she can so that she doesn’t have to see her own face looking up at her from around her neck. 

But if she wants the cushy work from home developer jobs she’s been dreaming of so she can work from some sunny poolside in Cumberland or whatever, she has to do this, which is … fine. She’ll do it. 

It’s going to be a long twelve weeks of summer, though. 

/. /. /.

“Pah. Like rats in a maze. They won’t know what they’re in for,” she cackles while thumbing the chunky acrylic pieces of her ostentatious statement necklace. 

“If you’re quite finished looking down on our prospective employees, Johanna, we haven’t quite finished solving this problem.” Emmrich sighs and absentmindedly runs his hand over the stack of bracelets on his left arm. Staring at the equation on the frosted glass whiteboard isn’t helping them either. The algorithm needs updates to reduce its computational needs in order to work properly with the new advancements in Evanuris hardware. “Or, at least, if you insist on continuing, perhaps you could do so in the comfort of your office down the hall.”

Thank goodness the architect put the boardroom in between their offices. And well away from the main floor so the company can’t hear her spirited opinions on a daily basis.

“You’re wasting your time, Volkarin. Evanuris is on its way out and we all know it. They know it. We really should be courting the AI being worked on in Seheron.” 

“That would require a complete reorganization of Engineering and Operations.” 

“And it’s about time. We are more than your algorithm.” 

“That algorithm has sent all your children to very fine schools, Johanna. Like the ones that sent us the interns you’re fond of mocking and tormenting,” he shakes his head, getting up from his perch on the back of the couch. “It’s a wonder we were able to get any interns at all this year, no thanks to you.”

“They’re just cheap labor. Barely worth the time for much we have to explain things to them like they’re five.”

Emmrich bristles. “I’ll …” he sighs, “I’ll keep working on this. But meantime if you’ll please excuse me. I've asked Bellara to include my office as part of the tour so I may greet them.” He caps the dry erase marker and puts it on the bottom tray of the whiteboard while his partner scoffs and grumbles on her way out.

He can’t quite understand what he’s missing. His life’s work is laid out before him in the exquisite universal language of mathematics that he had been able to bend to his command for decades. But something seems to be missing. 

Three knocks shake him from his thought work, and Emmrich reminds himself that he asked for this interruption. Plus it’s not like he was being productive, anyway. “Please come in,” he idly twists at the filigreed ring on his thumb, and prepares a well-rehearsed smile. 

“And now I’d like to introduce you to one of the two halves of our founding, Dr. Emmrich Volkarin,” Bellara opens the door to his office and walks in backwards to shepherd a group of students. Their eyes widen at the wall of accolades, framed feature articles, and the iridescent crystal disc of his famed Order of the Nevarran Kingdom. It makes him stand just a little bit taller to watch them stunned. 

Goodness, they’re all so young, he observes.

“Hello, and welcome. I’m so glad you’re able to join us this summer, everyone,” Emmrich greets them. “Volkoss Systems is only made possible by the true collaborative spirit of science that has been the same foundation of your education, I’m certain, and we are honored to welcome your brilliant young minds and energy to our work.” Bellara is beaming at him, ever the biggest fan of his work, but the rest of the students look intimidated. 

He presses his hands together and gestures with them, bracelets jingling softly. “Please, I absolutely encourage you to share your whole selves with us, and bring your curiosity and questions. While I do unfortunately have some very busy days every once in a while, when I am not in those, my door is always open.”

“Right,” Bellara says, “We’ve got just a few more stops on this part of the tour and then we’ll get you to Hardware and Ergonomics for setup. Thanks for your time, Doctor Volkarin!” The gaggle of interns turn to leave, except one. 

They’re reading the whiteboard. “What’s this?”

Bellara sticks her head back through the door. “Oh! Sorry, Doctor, we’ll just be out of your hair.” 

Emmrich holds up a hand, intrigued by their curiosity. “It’s quite alright, Ms. Lutare,” and he watches the young intern walk up to the equation he had been working on. 

They’re such a young thing–they get younger every year, he thinks. They’re at least one if not two heads shorter than him, with pointed ears peeking out of jet black hair like his was once upon a time. Their eyes are darting around the whiteboard’s neat rows of his handwriting, but he can see that they’re a delightful, rare shade of light purple. And very attractive.

His eyes fall to the badge around her neck. IRIS INGELLVAR, she/her. 

A rattle of the cup of iced coffee in her hand shakes him out of his reverie.

“I’ve been working on updating a calculation so that it can be further compressed without loss of computational power.” 

“For Evanuris,” she says, still reading. 

“Why, yes.” He’s impressed. Iris has been reading up on the company. “Is this in your field of study, Ms. Ingellvar?” 

“Eh, for fun. I’m really just here for work experience so I can fish for a code monkey job to pay the bills.” 

From the doorframe, Bellara squeaks in secondhand embarrassment, but Emmrich finds her reply refreshingly honest, and smiles. 

“Well I am glad that we have the honor of your talents for the summer, then–” he gasps as Iris wipes out an entire row of his work. “Miss–” She picks up the marker from the tray, uncaps it, and a string of characters appear in a haphazard, jagged handwriting. 

“Fixed it,” she sips her coffee and puts down the marker.  Emmrich is speechless, mouth slightly open as he reads over her work, and reads it again.

She did.

Emmrich could kiss her.

Where did that feeling come from?

[elgarwhore]

Too bad @emmg is always trying to put me in prison. It's only a safe space UNTIL I open my mouth 😔

yeah it's called my mutuals circle on tumblr

[kirkwall-tourism-department]

Dirty Chai Latte

Modern AU where Emmrich is an anthropology professor and Rook is a barista at his favorite coffee shop.

Thank you so much to @ziskandra for beta reading!

also shoutout to @emmg for solving the "what subject would Emmrich teach" question

An oppressive mist hung over the parking lot, waiting to be dispelled by the sun that was preparing to creep over the horizon. The only thing illuminating  the area were the flickering streetlights  hovering in the air, dim bulbs fighting a losing battle against the early morning haze. A thick blanket of leaves rested over the pavement, wet from rain the night before. Silence hung in the air thick as fog, making Rook feel like she was the only person in the world. The plaza was always empty this early in the morning, save for Rook and her prehistoric  CR-V. 

Locking the car door, she passed by the collection of shops that comprised the Crossroads Business Park: a calzone shop she was convinced was a money-laundering front; a computer repair shop so chock-full of spare parts you could barely see the floor; and her favorite, the liquor store. Reaching her own storefront, she grabbed the keys to the door from her carabiner. The door's advanced age made it maddeningly stubborn to unlock. She pulled the wooden slab towards her, pushing it up and then away, all while slowly turning the key in the lock. Once she satisfied its demands, the door groaned open, revealing the still sleeping shop. Shelves lined the walls, housing hundreds of pre-loved books.  Mismatched wooden chairs sat upside down on tables, arranged haphazardly before the serving counter at the far side of the room, which was plastered with posters for avant-garde art exhibitions and shows of local bands. 

She flicked on the neon light that hung in the window- The Lighthouse Cafe. It was the first step of her decade-long morning routine. Despite her nocturnal tendencies, Varric, the owner, had told her she was the only staff member he trusted to be able to handle the morning rush. Especially this time of year- school had started just a month before, the rapidly increasing difficulty curve of the classes now demanding students stay up later to handle the workload. Which meant hordes of demanding, caffeine-deprived college students who usually neglected to tip. She continued through the rote motions of her mornings, clicking on all the different lamps that dotted the floor and tables of the cafe. They filled the small shop with a warm glow, turning it into a refuge from the persistent gloom that haunted the town this time of year. 

Making her way to the back room, she turned on the roaster and threw in a fresh batch of coffee beans. Waking up the ovens, she began to warm up the various pastries  Davrin had made the night before, preparing them for the display case. If she could only smell one thing for the rest of her life, this would be it. The sweet smell of croissants in the oven, punctuated by the pleasant acidity of roasting beans was the perfect thing to start the morning. Walking back to the service counter, she began to pull a triple shot of espresso and foam some milk, an extra-strong latte being the only way she survived mornings this early. Pouring the fresh coffee into her favorite mug, she layered the milk overtop, forming a perfect heart design with a practiced hand. She leaned on the counter, nursing her drink, wishing she could be back in bed.

The bell over the door rang out, reminding her of the one upside to the morning shift. Professor Emmrich Volkarin, an anthropology professor at Northern Thedas University, was always her earliest customer. Emmrich had been a regular at the cafe for several years, and was by far her favorite. As they opened before dawn, it was rare for someone besides him to come into the shop before sunrise, meaning they usually spent at least an hour in the mornings alone together. 

“Good morning, Rook,” the professor greeted her, unspooling the scarf that had been wrapped around his neck. He was always sharply dressed, radiating an aura of refined dignity, and never had a single silver hair out of place, meaning he stuck out like a sore thumb in this dive of a cafe. She never totally understood why he came here, besides how early they opened. When she had asked him a few years ago, he’d simply said that he liked to support local businesses, especially ones that made such good coffee. That had never felt like the full story to her, though.

“No such thing,” she laughed, starting to make his order before he could ask for it. It was always the same thing- a dirty chai latte, served in a mug she had reserved solely for him. She had found it at Target a year or two ago, decorated with little cartoon skulls and gravestones. Fitting, given that his area of academic expertise was funerary traditions from around the world. It was surprising, given his warm demeanor, that he would spend his life focusing on such a depressing topic. She finished her work, handing him the drink. 

“Thank you, Rook.” He took the mug, giving her a warm smile. He handed her his card and, as always, deposited a significant tip in the jar next to the cash register. His generosity was one of the many things that made him number one in her customer ranking. Taking his drink, he walked to his usual spot in the corner closest to the cash register, moving the chair from on top of the table to the floor. He sat on it, bringing out a laptop from his bag and beginning his work in earnest. This was always how he spent his mornings- carefully sipping his drink, poring over a book or working on something for his classes. He wasn’t bothered when Rook hadn’t finished completely  preparing the store by the time their doors opened, and she didn’t mind the extra company as she concluded her routine.

She finished her final opening duties, flipping over the rest of the chairs to the ground, organizing food in the display case, and grinding the freshly roasted beans into a usable medium. As she worked, she allowed herself to steal the occasional glance at the professor. In the best way possible, he looked like he belonged in a black-and-white horror movie. By far, the most anachronistic part of his appearance was the neatly trimmed mustache that she had never seen on another living human being. Somehow, he made it work.

“What are you working on?” she asked, peering over his shoulder as she walked behind him towards the cash register.

“Grading papers- the first of the semester.” 

“What about?”

“My students simply had to choose a funerary practice not used within their own culture. Honestly, the true purpose of the assignment was to allow me to gauge their writing and research skills more than for their own edification. I hate to assign busy work, but it’s a necessary evil to learn where all my students are on their academic journey,” he sighed, staring at his computer screen with dread.

“You’re usually excited about new students. What’s going on?”

“Frustratingly, the administrators of the College of Humanities decided to add my global funeral traditions class to the list of courses that satisfy a general education requirement. Which means I have significantly more students, and very few who seem to actually care for the subject matter.” He rubbed his temples, clearly trying to hide the extent of his annoyance. It was obvious that he made a concerted effort to maintain his composed appearance. His eloquent manner of speech, his refined sense of style, his unwavering kindness all contributed to the image of a perfect gentleman.

“I’m sure once you show them how interesting it is, they’ll get more into it. I mean, I know I have,” she reassured him. Over their many years of friendship, she had learned a lot about funerals- arguably, a concerning amount. It had gotten her many weird looks at parties when someone said something that reminded her of some obscure, morbid trivia fact Emmrich had taught her.

“Rook, what I would give to have more students with your enthusiasm for learning, " he said, giving her a grateful look. Rook felt blush start to prick at her cheeks, wishing she reacted to praise from him in a normal way. As much as she hated it, she couldn’t stop herself from getting butterflies when he smiled at her, complimented her, or generally gave her any positive attention. She had never had a more out of her league crush in her entire life- but as hard as she tried, she hadn't been able to stamp out the flame she carried for him. Obviously, she knew nothing would ever come from it, but that didn’t stop her from trying to impress him. One morning, she had figured out how to make a skull design in the milk foam of his latte.  Davrin had been working that shift with her, and had mercilessly roasted her for pitiful attempts to flirt with a man who was thirty years her senior. It had begun a constant deluge of daddy issues jokes. Her response, that it was impossible for her to have daddy issues since she never even knew her dad, only made the teasing worse. Thankfully, it was rare that their shifts overlapped.

“I see you made a new addition to your gallery.” He pointed to her wrist, seemingly oblivious to the reaction his complement got from her. 

“Yeah!” Rook rolled up her sleeve, revealing the remainder of the tattoo that had been peeking out from underneath it. A griffon was perched on her forearm, its wings wrapping around the sides, the tips of the feathers reaching the sides of her wrist. It was nestled in a sea of other designs, ranging from a small blue dagger she had gotten as a Friday the 13th flash to the waterfall of coffee from a mug on her shoulder that spilled all the way to her elbow. “Left arm is officially finished.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, what compelled you to get that design?” he questioned, regarding her arm with academic curiosity. 

“There was a storybook I loved as a kid about a griffon learning to leave the nest and fly. My mom read it to me all the time. I thought it would be cute and it was the perfect shape to fill in the last gap,” she explained, flattered by the genuine interest he showed in something as small as a tattoo she’d gotten. Admittedly, this was not the first time it had happened. He always pointed out when she got a new tattoo or haircut. She always assumed it was a side effect from the analytical eye he’d had to develop for his work as an anthropologist making him overly observant.

“Such an ancient practice. Comparing historical motivations to modern American attitudes towards them is quite fascinating. I recently had a colleague publish a paper on the tradition of Buddhist Sak Yant tattooing in Thailand- I’m sure you’d find it intriguing.”

“I feel like you overestimate my ability to understand stuff like that,” she joked, thinking back to how much she’d struggled to make it through the books she had been assigned back in high school English. As interesting as the topic was, she doubted she would be able to get anything from it.

“Quite the opposite, Rook. I think you underestimate yourself,” he responded, his tone serious. This happened every now and then- she would make an off-handed self-deprecating comment, and he would immediately refute her point, no matter how light-hearted it was intended to be. “I feel like  you would excel, given the proper support in an academic setting.”

The blush returned to her cheeks as she imagined what exactly “proper support” could mean. Going to office hours, somehow ending up laying on his desk, him on top of her, whispering things in her ear that would make her do more than blush, pressing his mouth against her neck, traveling down to…

The doorbell rang out again, snapping her out of her daydream. Neve stood in the entrance, calm appearance belying the tangle of anxiety and stress that always lay just beneath her icy exterior. Neve had been coming to the Lighthouse since she was a freshman, and Rook had watched her caffeine addiction get worse and worse every year. 

“Rook, I need a trainwreck.”

“Neve, you are a trainwreck.” 

When Neve had started her master’s program for journalism, Davrin had added a modified red eye- swapping normal coffee for cold brew- to the menu just for her. Neve walked to the closest table, and slammed her shockingly heavy backpack onto it. She unzipped it, and a waterfall of textbooks that absolutely could be used as murder weapons flooded out.

“My god, Neve, what are you working on?”

“What am I not working on?” she sighed, exasperation weighing heavy on her voice, slumping in the chair and putting her head in her hands. Neve was more than a student- she volunteered all over the city, ran the journalism club, and worked as a TA. She lifted her head up to look at Rook, and raised an eyebrow in question when she saw who Rook was sitting with. “Dr. Volkarin?”

“You know him?” Rook questioned, surprised at Neve’s recognition.

“I know of him. I just wrote an article about him winning the J.I. Staley award for the school paper,” Neve explained slowly, still processing her surprise at seeing two wildly different people sitting at the same table.

“When did you win an award? Why didn’t you tell me?” Rook whipped her head around, Emmrich meeting her surprise with an embarrassed smile. 

“About a month ago, and I can find much more interesting topics to discuss with you than my own achievements," Emmrich explained, before turning his attention to Neve.  “And I read your article- you’re a very skilled writer.”

“I… Thank you, Professor.”

“You’re not my student- you’re welcome to just call me Emmrich,” he said, before his attention was drawn away by a small ding from his laptop. “Ah, I’ve lost track of time. If you’ll excuse me, I must take my leave. I’ll see you tomorrow morning, Rook.” He packed up his things and stood, waving goodbye to her as he ventured into the fresh dawn air. As soon as the door closed behind him, Neve snapped her head to Rook, her brows furrowed in confusion.

“Rook. Why do you have a vibe with one of the most successful professors at the school.”

“What?!” Rook gave a laugh of disbelief, staring at Neve like she just told Rook aliens were about to invade the city. She had never fallen under the scrutiny of Neve’s investigative eye before, and she was not a skilled enough liar to obscure the truth that she deeply, desperately wanted Neve’s accusation to be true. “What vibe?”

“Oh my god, the ‘see you tomorrow morning’ thing?”

“He’s just a friendly guy.”

“Rook, someone like him would not come to a coffee shop like this without a special reason to.”

“Have you considered that I’m good at my job and make great coffee?”

“He could get great coffee a million different places in the city- but this is the only place he can get you.”

“Neve, if I get you your coffee, will you drop this?”

“Maybe. No promises.”

Sliding Neve’s trainwreck to her and leaving her to her work, Rook walked back behind the cash register, making herself look busy cleaning espresso machines to avoid any further conversation with Neve. Her comments stayed at the forefront of her mind, making it impossible to actually get anything done. What if Neve was right? Had Emmrich been flirting with her this whole time, and she had misunderstood it as a kindness he extended towards everybody?  What if he was interested in her? What would a relationship between the two of them even look like?

As her thoughts started to get away from her, she dragged them kicking and screaming back into reality. Why would someone like him have any interest in someone like her? Emmrich was successful, handsome, and painfully kind. He wouldn’t have any interest in a broke barista with no direction in life.

Right?

[fenharel-babe]

Meow

@emmg Here’s chapter 1 (though you’ve read the first half). And……..I’ll be brave and add @thessaralka too since I love both of y’all’s content and comments lol.

Chapter 1: The Incident

Solas gets some interesting news about the Inquisitor….and everyone has to find a way to fix it.

.

He honestly didn’t know how to deal with it. When he heard whispers of the news, he was shocked and saw it as a joke rumor that Sera spread.

But hers usually were physical pranks, not this.

Bloom was supposed to arrive at Skyhold that morning. Solas, like he always did, waited in the rotunda for her. She always came there when she arrived, no matter how tired she was. She loved getting a quick hug from him before she did whatever other business she needed to do. She’d also maybe sneak a kiss or two before she would leave. But that morning, she didn’t arrive as herself. She arrived as…

A cat.

A. Cat.

At first, he didn’t know it was her. He waited and waited that morning, but she never came to greet him, and he even heard the people whisper and say, “The inquisitor is back!” He assumed that maybe she had urgent matters to attend to, not even having time to stop by and see him. He understood that, and wouldn’t blame her. Even if a small part of him was sad he didn’t see her.

That is, until Cassandra came marching into the rotunda. He stood up quickly, expecting some kind of emergency, but instead saw her coming towards him with a small cat. The cat was white with orange and black spots around her face and on her body, and had a tail that was black. The eyes were bright blue, which was not usually found in cats.

Cassandra walked up to him and gently placed the cat on his table. She sighed and ran a hand across her forehead. “So, we have an issue.”

The cat immediately walked over to Solas, carefully avoiding his books, and sat on the edge of the desk. It stood up and reached its paws towards him. It meowed at him, and kept meowing and reaching for him.

He sat back down with an unease look on his face. “What’s the issue involving a cat?” At the mention of its presence, it reached out again for him, meowing. He gently pet the top of its head, smiling when it leaned into his hand, arching its back when he trailed his hand down.

“The cat is the inquisitor,” Cassandra said blankly.

He froze and looked up at her with wide eyes. “The cat is what?” He looked at the cat and pulled his hand back immediately. The cat meowed multiple times again, as if she’s trying to explain, but she gives up and makes a growling sound.

Cassandra sighed. “There were some mages that attacked us, and they cast a spell and it must’ve gone wrong.” She looked down at the cat—who she claims is Bloom—and gently taps her paw. “She seems to be conscious and not completely a cat, but…she’s stuck looking like this.” Her face and tone was completely serious, but she was worried. As a cat, Bloom had more chances of being hurt or even carried away by someone.

“Bloom?” Solas asked. The cat looked over immediately and meowed. He thought of how to prove it was her, and not a random cat. “Show me where my sketchbook is,” he ordered. Only Bloom knew where it was, and a regular cat couldn’t just find it by chance. The cat immediately jumped down and went over to the paint cans in the corner of the room. They were covered by a big cloth, but she squeezed her way under it, and he could hear some scratching on the floor. Only a few moments later did the book come sliding across the floor, with her following soon after.

“I have never seen a spell like this before,” Solas said. He picked up the sketchbook, quietly laughing when Bloom ran over to him and pawed at his arm. Guessing what she wanted, he picked her up and carried her back to the desk, setting her on top. “I’m assuming some sort of transformation spell went wrong.” He sighed and looked above to the library. “I’ll have to do some research to fix this issue. I’m not certain about how long it will take.”

Cassandra nodded and glanced at Bloom. “Well, what do we do about her? She can’t just walk around Skyhold like a normal cat. She could get injured, or even taken away.”

“Have someone watching her at all times, then,” Solas suggested. He went to speak again, but the door opened again. It opened quick and loud, causing Bloom to yowl and moved to be beside Cassandra.

“Where is our lovely inquisitor? I have heard some…interesting news,” Dorian said with a barely contained smile. He gasped when he heard Bloom let out a high noise, and he went still as he saw her jump down from the desk. She ran over to Dorian and pawed at his leg, meowing very loudly. “I thought Sera was pulling my leg,” he said as he picked her up gently. She meowed at him even more before he laughed and gently poked her noise. “Dear, remember I cannot understand you. Talking like this is a waste of time.” She growled slightly before she went quiet again.

“Do you have a guess of how long this will take? I already know Josephine is panicking about all the things she has to put on hold,” Cassandra said with a little snort.

Solas looked away as he thought. “It can probably take a few days?” He guessed. He looked at Dorian. “I will need assistance to fix this as quickly as possible.” He ignored the small feeling of jealousy at seeing Bloom relaxing in Dorian’s arms.

“Aww, we can’t just keep her this tiny for awhile?” Dorian cooed. He rolled his eyes when Bloom growled again. “Fine, fine, we’ll fix this as soon as possible. Let’s go to the library and see what we have. I bet Vivienne is already on the case,” he said with a little chuckle. He walked over to Solas and held her out, almost dropping her into Solas’s arms.

“Be careful!” Cassandra scolded the two.

“Cats always land on their feet, she would’ve been fine if she fell. Besides, dear Solas would never let her fall.” He gestured towards the stairs that led to the library. “Now, shall we?”

.

A Few Hours Later

.

Dorian had heard of this magic before, but only in passing. Almost everyone has heard of transformation magic, but not necessarily casting the spell on someone else. He had never seen what happened if it failed, and, well, he got an answer.

The answer was Bloom, the Inquisitor, curled up in a little ball as a cat sitting on his favorite chair in his little corner of the library, purring as she slept peacefully. Dorian was just climbing back up the stairs to the library after dinner and he found her there, not in her specific chair that was right in front of his!

He sighed from the top stair and considered what to do. Wake up poor, innocent Bloom who rarely ever slept even in her regular elven form? Or let his chair get covered in cat hairs and sit in her smaller chair and most definitely hurt his back?

She shifted in her sleep and put her paws over her eyes.

Her chair it is then.

He took only a few steps forward, mind you quiet steps, before Bloom’s ears twitched and her head popped up a moment later. He sighed. “I tried not to wake you, Petal, but your pointed ears are even stronger than your normal pointed ones,” he joked as he gently scratched her head. She meowed and lean into his hand, making his heart just swell up from cuteness.

She stood up and stretched before she jumped from his chair to hers. She sat and meowed at Dorian, seeming to smile, if that’s possible for cats.

He smiles in return and places a hand on his chest. “Aww, you’re so cute. Sometimes I forget you’re you.” He sighs again and heads to his regular bookshelf. He goes back to the task of looking for books mentioning even a hint of transformation information, which is quite a few. He takes out five to start and sets them next to his chair. “I would prefer our regular banter, but I know that cannot happen, so I must find a solution.” He looks back at her and goes quiet when he sees her curled up in a ball again, fast asleep. He snorts with amusement and whispers, “Don’t worry your little head. We’ll all figure this out.”

.

Later that Night

.

Solas sat at his usual desk in the rotunda, surrounded by different books. He was looking through different paragraphs and pages, and when he didn’t find what he needed, he put the book on the ground by the desk. It wasn’t unusual for him to be surrounded by books, but what was unusual was that Solas had a little cat in his lap. He was never too fond of letting animals in the rotunda because he didn’t want them to get hurt from his supplies or mess up his study.

But he gave in when Bloom came hopping down the library steps and sat by his desk, looking up at him with those blue eyes of hers. She looked even cuter as a cat, which he considered cheating in some way.

Bloom messed with the string of his jawbone necklace and meowed. Loudly. She had been doing so every few minutes, which made him concerned. “Are you all right, Vhenan?” He looked down from his book and gently pat her head, and trailed his touch down her body to test for any reaction, but found none. She jumped down and ran over to the couch in the rotunda, sitting down and meowing again. She seemed to try and pat the couch and this time meowed lowly at him, like she was mad. He was confused for a second until he remembered what usually made her mad at him. It was when he worked too hard or was up late in the night, whether studying or painting.

He sighed and looked back at the book, searching for information to fix this spell. “I’m sorry, Vhenan, but I have to keep looking. There must be a fix to this spell so we can get you back to normal.” She ran back over to him and bit his leggings, and tried to pull him out of the chair, though failing miserably. He didn’t give her another response, since his answer was going to be the same, and she did not like that. She jumped up on to the desk and sat right in front of him, right in the middle of his book. She sniffed his nose and gave him a small lick, and meowed innocently.

He sighed and went to pick her up, but she swatted at his hand (with claws out) and growled. He had a feeling that this was a losing battle and he didn’t want to stress her out when she’s already stuck in a cat body and is stressed. He would give in. Just this once. He stood up with defeat and smiled as he pet her head. “Fine, I’ll rest for tonight.” He picks her up and holds her against him as he marks his page on the book and heads to the couch. He sits her down first and then lays down, and wraps the small blanket around himself before he relaxes.

He falls asleep that night to the soothing purrs of Bloom as she kneads the couch and then curls up next to him.

.

The Next Day

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Solas wakes to noise of something scratching against the floor, and quiet giggles. He opens his eyes slowly, groaning as his eyes adjust to the brightness. Once they do, he groans for a different reason. Sera is standing in the corner of the rotunda, holding a piece of glass and is aiming the sunlight that touches it onto the ground. She moves it around fast, failing to stifle her giggles when Bloom chases the light, trying to catch it. Then suddenly the door swings open and Vivienne steps in with a book in her arms.

She glances at Sera, at the glass in her hand, and then at Bloom. She sighs and shakes her head, choosing to not even address what’s going on. “I have come to deliver some good news.” She heads to the desk and places it down, it opened up to a certain page. “I have not found an exact solution to getting you out of this,” her rave twists with a little disgust, “form, but I found a spell that can help you for right now. It will give you the ability to speak.”

Sera giggles. “So she’ll be a talking cat? For real? Like in the crazy books or drunken stories?”

“Yes, just like that. It’ll help with Josephine’s stress and you’ll be able to attend meetings.”

Bloom jumps up onto the desk and nods with a meow. Though she wishes to get out of this form, being able to talk is a good step up. She’s tired of only meowing and having no one understand her.

Vivienne looks at Solas and claps. “Come on, let’s get up. I want to work on this as soon as possible."

Solas gets up with a yawn and then smiles when he feels something tugging on his sweater. Bloom’s leaned up on her hind legs, her front paws on his chest. He chuckles and pets her head, and scratches under her chin. “Come on. Let’s get this done.” He wouldn’t say it aloud with others there, but he did miss the sound of her voice.

Vivienne, Solas, and Bloom head to the undercroft, Bloom laying in Solas’s arms and only jumping onto the nearby table when he puts her down. Vivienne has a few bottles already on the table, and Bloom resists the urge to knock them over. She feels more like a cat than yesterday.

Vivienne grabs a vial and mixes some of the other potions into it, adding a few leaves of some herbs as well. She mixes it all up and pours it into a small bowl. She places it in front of Bloom and gestures. "Please, drink for me, Inquisitor." Bloom sniffs the liquid and recoils at the nasty smell. She looks up at Vivienne with a sort of "do I really have to drink this?" look, which makes her nod.

She growls and leans down again and drinks until the bowl is empty, which takes awhile given how she can only drink with her tongue. Once it's empty, she gags a little. "Maker, that was awful!" Her eyes widen and she gasps. "Oh, I can talk again!"

"It seems this spell has worked to at least give her her voice back, but not her body," Solas says.

Vivienne messes with her clothes and sighs with annoyance. "Yes, I have not found a spell yet to give her her form back."

Bloom twirls in a circle and giggles. "But I have my voice back! That's a good start, yes?"

Solas smiles and pets her head. "Yes, it is. But we must continue our research, and I'm sure you should attend a few meetings, yes?" He picks her up gently and scratches under her chin to ease her annoyance. He knows how dislikes long meetings, but they are a necessity.

She sighs. "Fiiine, take me to see Josephine."

They bid Vivienne a good day and Solas brings Bloom to Josephine's office. Josephine looks up when they enter and smiles wide, unable to stop it. "Good morning, Inquisitor."

"Good morning, Josephine."

She gasps. "You can speak now?" She smiles for a different reason now. "Oh! This will makes things much easier!" She stands up and grabs her clipboard and quill. "Are you able to speak with the council for a bit? We'll address only the important ones since I'm sure this form is," she looks at her with sympathy, "tiring, yes?"

Bloom sighs and her ears tilt down. "Very tiring, Josie."

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