#faceless inquiries

[auburnhairedwaiter]

[rody had gotten a call on his phone,who could be calling him now?]

“Rody? It’s Vincent.”

( @littlewormmuncher )

[ He was very sleepy, having just gotten up. He groggily picked up the phone, his voice deep from the rest. ]

"Vince…? Why're you callin'…?"

[elkkiel]

I don't remember why I follow you but let me get this straight it's 1 to 4 in roman numerals + vessel? Or is it 1 to 3 ? Bit confused

/lh if I need to add that

hello dear anon it is good to have you here (even if you don't know why lmao)

So it goes: Vessel (singer), II (drummer), III (bassist), and IV (guitarist, a lot of us nickname him Ivy too since it's like saying the numerals out loud)

[inmensapotentia]

Mun Tags

From the Shadows [Matt Speaks]

Moblr -Mobile tag

To be Filed [Queue]

The Faceless Ones Are Whispering [Anon]

Files Found [Asks]

Hell Butterfly [NSFT] (Non-sexual Not safe For Tumblr)

Inquires to be made [Memes]

Sinful Inquires [Sinday Memes]

[heylittleriotact]

*banging pots and pans* Come get your angst! Delicious, heart wrenching Emmrook angst!

𝑀𝑜𝓇𝒾𝒷𝓊𝓃𝒹

adjective

1. near death

2.  stagnant; without force or vitality

One of us needs to consider my mortality.

Had he known what would happen hours later, he would have chosen very different words indeed.

It was a foolish assertion in hindsight - a weak argument and he knew it: Amina was always considering mortality. His, hers, and everyone else’s.

A study of Emmrich's perspective after Rook goes missing: we get to bear witness to a scruffy, smelly, devastated man up to his neck in self-loathing, as well as the spirits that help him.

Contains heavy Act 3 spoilers - proceed at your own risk!

Full under the cut or on ao3

Day 0:

It was extremely unorthodox thinking - there was no evidence or theory supporting any circumstance where it might work: without a body on this side of the Veil to serve as a ballast, it was wishful thinking at best, but he had to try. Not trying meant accepting, and he refused to accept that she was gone - lost forever to the Dread Wolf’s prison. Not with their exchange from the night before being what it was…

That couldn’t be the end. 

He excused himself curtly from the others upon their arrival back at the Lighthouse, expertly sidestepping any inquiries after his own wellbeing that followed him doggedly until they were silenced by the laboratory door slamming shut behind him. Might he have come off as callous? Perhaps. Did he care? Not presently. The time for contrition would come later.

Questions lingered about the specifics of what had happened, but it was easy enough to infer by the fact that Solas walked free and Amina had seemingly vanished from existence, she had been made to take his place in the prison he’d been trapped in. Solas had been able to survive there in that pocket of the Fade, so that meant that Amina could too… for a time at least, if not indefinitely. 

He was going to get her out. 

But first…

He stood in the middle of the room and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath in, holding it… then slowly letting it go in a measured, disciplined exhalation that helped to slow his racing heart as he forced his body back into a state of calm: no mean feat when one comprehended the heaviness of the air as it pressed in around him, the tragic gravity of his task weighing on him.

He lifted his hands, felt the comforting susurrations of the Veil playing over, through, between his fingers as he trailed them through seemingly empty space: a lonely conductor at the podium, leading an invisible orchestra… the melancholy composer of a poignant dirge. 

Threads unravelled with the morose, introspective swell of a cello’s baleful hum, and the vast mystery of Beyond sang to him, a faceless, nebulous chorus of voices, ageless and legion. Some were joyful, others despondent, but they all maintained a pristine harmony that would cause even the most cruel and unfeeling of souls to take pause for the sheer perfection of their sound.

He swallowed away the tightness in his throat. Forced strength into his craven voice. Focused on the familiar verdant light that filtered through his eyelids. 

“Hear me, Amina - with my voice I am calling you!” He sent the words beyond the Veil, where no one may ever hear them again. “I set this beacon for you now: a beacon that will guide you home. Follow my voice. Follow me home: we are waiting for you…. I am waiting for you.” 

With a gesture of his hand that would look very complicated to anyone observing, he tethered the invisible line he had cast into the Fade to the only body in the room: his. Traditionally this particular spell was called upon to guide wayward spirits back to their hosts, or in rare cases, draw the spirit of a dying person back from the Fade before it was too late to resuscitate them. That anchor point in the world of the living was vital for the magic to work, but since Amina left behind no body, Emmrich could only live in hope that her spirit was as tightly bound to him as he suspected his was to her. 

It was likely folly: what affection could survive his cowardice? His preening ignorance? His vainglorious proclivity for driving something away as transcendentally pure as love itself?

But he had to try: at the very least she could live to despise him for the rest of her days. 

The green light faded as his hands stilled and the notes of the symphony resolved. Silence returned so harshly it physically hurt. He opened his eyes and clasped his hands together as he so often did. 

“I need you, dear…”

Perhaps she would hear that too. 

Day 2: 

He was awake well into the early morning hours communing with the dead, listening through the Veil for a whisper, a rumour - any rumblings amongst the spirits that would avail him of his darkest thoughts: even confirmation that she was alive would be enough. 

The spirits were indeed talkative, but not a single one seemed aware of the presence of a mortal woman in their realm.

He wept for the first time that morning as her absence in its totality hit him all at once - the first of many times that tears would be shed in the coming days as he curled around her scent-heavy pillow on the settee in her room. 

The couch which ordinarily felt rather cramped when they both shared it now seemed devastatingly wide and empty without her tangled up in him, giggling softly as she slotted her thigh between his and slipped a hand up the back of his shirt to shock him with the coldness of it against his skin.

Gone. She was gone, and it was entirely his doing…

Day 4:

It had taken precisely eight words to destroy everything, as Johanna’s remains were so eager to point out before he had her temporarily removed to a quiet alcove elsewhere in the Lighthouse. It was an astute observation, and he couldn’t find it within himself to offer a rebuttal to her further assessment that he was a ridiculous gloating twat with a truly awe-inspiring gift for cataclysmically fucking things up for every single poor soul that happened to cross paths with him.

One of us needs to consider my mortality. 

Had he known what would happen hours later, he would have chosen very different words indeed.

It was a foolish assertion in hindsight - a weak argument and he knew it: Amina was always considering mortality. His, hers, and everyone else’s. If life was a sentence in a book, death was simply the appropriate punctuation that marked the end of it: without it, the sentence lost all of its weight and meaning. 

She always spoke so romantically about the inevitability of that final mystery - the peace and freedom from pain and fear that would come with it, and the comforting guarantee of an end in a world where one could seldom rely on the guarantee of anything: food, fortune… love. To her, it was part of a treasured natural order, responsible for everything from the stars in the sky to the worms in the dirt. She was enchanted by mortality… he loathed it.

He dragged his hands through his greasy hair, hunched over an old and fragile tome.A tear splashed on the page, and not wanting to damage the delicate paper even in this state, he wiped it away.

His eyes itched and felt swollen - he didn’t need to look in a mirror to know they were bloodshot from long hours of focusing on print, missed sleep, and periodic bouts of pain and regret that would descend upon him like some great, vicious bird of wrath. It ravaged him with its talons and plucked at his insides with its wicked beak, discarding his guts methodically as it rooted around inside of him for its favored meats: his liver and his kidneys - bloody and succulent. His heart was left untouched by the cruel raptor… it wanted him to feel everything, and he welcomed its agonizing ministrations as he toiled endlessly, trying to find a way to fix his mistake. 

It was his mistake after all. 

“It wasn’t your fault!” Neve had insisted the first time he dared to speak the truth aloud. 

A thoughtful sentiment, but worthless when held up to the light: he had instructed Amina to seize the dagger from Ghilan’nain’s corpse, and she obeyed without question because she trusted him implicitly.

He had been told after the collapse that the death of his parents wasn’t his fault either - as if that was of any real comfort to a traumatized child, newly orphaned and numb with grief. 

Of course it wasn’t his fault - even as a young boy he knew the catastrophic failure of the building wasn’t his doing, but people said ignorant things when they didn’t know what else to say. Things that took root in the heart of a young man, replacing his grief over the years with a solemn and defiant indignance: ‘it wasn’t your fault,’ ‘it was the Maker’s will,’ ‘they’re in a better place now,’ ‘at least they didn’t suffer…’

Why would the benevolent and loving Maker will that a small child should be made to grow up without the love and protection of his Mother and Father? What divine goodness was there in stripping him of that and forcing him to carry the burden of their fates for the rest of his life?

Did people really put any thought to the shallow platitudes they babbled to fill space and tidily rationalize that which is utterly and completely irrational? Or was it merely a performance to give the one who offered them some measure of absolution - a sense that they’ve done the ‘right’ and ‘helpful’ thing in such a circumstance, when in fact they’ve unknowingly heaped another layer of despair on top of an already smothering, lonely mound of it?

Dizzying, petulant questions he had pondered for years… bitter, angry little things that buzzed around his head like grave-flies: when one died, three more seemed to take its place. 

A small, dark part of him - a squirming, fanged thing with gnashing teeth and a tongue like a wooden switch had been sorely tempted to enlighten Neve to the futility of her words… perhaps subject her to what would come across as an overly curt and somewhat sardonic lecture on what one might instead choose to say to a bereaved person that wasn’t the verbal equivalent of spitting in a wound and rubbing salt in it. He might have made her cry, and he would have felt shameful for it later, but in the moment he would have taken what glee he could find in the seed of misery he planted in the world.

Instead he stuffed that wicked, bristling, fanged shade of himself away and reminded himself that Neve was grieving too… as were the rest of them. Not only was Rook gone, but Harding had bravely given her life to defeat Ghilan’nain. Bellara had been captured by the enemy, her fate unknown…

The Lighthouse had taken on the solemn stillness of a mourning parlor, and he should have been the most understanding and compassionate among them of their shared sorrow. He should have been helping them:  shepherding them ably through the tribulations and challenging waves of emotion they would grapple with over the days and weeks to come like he was solemnly sworn to do, but he couldn’t… not when his every thought was occupied by her and the sheer, unrelenting compulsion to right this wrong: he was responsible for her being caught in Solas’ trap - it fell to him to get her out. 

Her hips swayed with her familiar feminine gait as she strolled away from him in a memory, and her dark hair was piled on top of her head in a messy knot… she was breathtakingly radiant in the morning.

He never got to tell her that every morning he got to spend with her - disheveled, heavy-eyed, and often in a state of partial undress - was more precious than life itself to him. He never got to tell her how much he admired her maturity and well-organized mind, because the truth of it was that despite his enviable list of accomplishments and considerable years of experience, Amina possessed an enterprising bravery he knew could not be learned from a book. 

Before the day ended he called through the Veil to her again, and as it had each time, the echo of his words came back empty.

“Oh darling…” He said to the absolute silence of the laboratory. “I’m so sorry.” 

Just like Neve, he knew she’d tell him it wasn’t his fault.

Day 7: 

He had been immersed in the dagger: the act of shaping the raw shard of lyrium into something deliberate and precise. It hung in the air, rotating slowly as he manipulated the Veil around it, giving the material form and purpose. Solas’s dagger was the key to the prison, and he had reclaimed it when he freed himself. Rather than wasting valuable time trying to get it back, it had been communally decided that attempting to duplicate it would be a wiser course of action. Letting Amina go - abandoning her to her fate - was no more of an option for their companions than it was for Emmrich.

He had thrown himself into the work - it gave him purpose and an outlet for the despair that threatened to overwhelm him when his hands and mind stilled for too long.

It was momentum. A direction. 

“Pondering, planning, praying–”

Emmrich nearly leapt out of his skeleton - the shard of lyrium clattered to the workbench. He put out his hand to keep it from bouncing over the edge and shattering on the floor. 

“Never a man of faith - but what else is there to turn to when reason has fled? ‘Please keep her safe.’ Words whispered through a curtain of song: ‘Darling, come home.’”

He took a breath and turned around, finding himself face to face with a spectral woman with ragged, dirty hair and a tattered, stained gown. Her translucent, faintly glowing form was in an advanced state of decomposition: her tongue dangled morbidly from her mouth, attached by the smallest scrap of connective tissue. Her skin was mottled and discoloured and sagged tenuously from the outline of her skull. He could see all of her teeth - not due to a smile or a snarl, but because her lips had dehydrated and withered away.

A rather unusual form for a spirit of this variety to take, he decided. It was a blessing she decided to manifest here in the laboratory and not Taash’s room - she would have given them quite a fright. 

But was he truly so wretched that he had drawn Yearning to this place?

The spirit seemed to pick up on his moment of self-pity and it stiffened slightly, smoothing its decayed hands over the skirt of its ruined dress as it tossed what remained of its hair testily. 

“At least there exists one Watcher who can identify me correctly.” Her voice was an autumn breeze, sharp and stinging. 

He examined her closer, lifted a hand and felt her aura tingle against the bare skin of his palm. “Oh, my apologies,” he pulled the hand back and twined his fingers together in front of himself. “Devotion. I’m humbled by your presence given the circumstances. It couldn’t be that you’ve heard anything in the rippling currents of the Fade?”

“No.” The answer was abrupt but not unkind - the spirit did not dally with unnecessary semantics. “The Lost Watcher is hidden from all but the oldest and most sensitive of us, but she is a being of unique substance and did a great service and kindness unto me once - as she has done for many before me.”

Though the sting that came with confirmation that she was deeply, deeply hidden in the Fade hurt, he couldn’t help but be warmed with a sense of pride by the reminder that his Amina was a champion for spirits like Devotion and had spent her life aiding such beings… a fact that was clearly known amongst spiritkind. 

Glowing green eyes landed on the rough likeness of the dagger on the workbench. “I have heard of you, Professor Volkarin. The others whisper of you even in the deepest halls of the Necropolis as I soothe their loneliness and seek to mend that which has broken them. I would not have found them if not for her.”

He’d heard rumours months earlier of a spirit that had manifested in the deepest, most rarely travelled corridors of the Necropolis. Despite its lesser classification it allegedly sought out the maligned and tormented and cared for them stalwartly with a dedication that was nothing short of admirable. If Amina had been the one responsible for it manifesting in the Necropolis in the first place…

Another thing added to the ever-growing list of things he wanted to ask about - there were so many stories he wanted to hear… but he wanted to hear them from her.

“I will remain here with you, Corpse Whisperer while you toil to reunite with your beloved. I cannot do much, but I can keep the likes of Sorrow and Diffidence at bay, for they are drawn to your labours as I was. Work, Watcher… and I will keep you safe.” 

Day 11:

Was she even still alive? The thought burst into his mind unbidden, taking immediate precedence over the words he was half trying to read. Had she languished away by now, her mortal body incapable of sustaining itself in a prison designed for immortal gods? Beyond the need for obvious necessities like food and water, what horrors lurked in that place as retribution for the sins of the gods? Could she defend herself indefinitely? And if she had died, were those final moments peaceful: the welcoming of the sunset at the end of a long day? Or were they desperate seconds that stretched into eternity as she realized her impending and unavoidable demise, her entire being gripped with loneliness and terror as life slipped from her grasp like the finest grains of sand…

“No.” The assertion possessed defiance he didn’t think he was capable of. “I cannot think like that.”

She isn’t dead… she can’t be dead for the simple fact that there’s so much I have yet to say to her…

Denial, this was called, and it was a common coping mechanism amongst the bereaved. The mind was tremendously skilled at protecting itself during times of immense emotional and psychological strain. Comforting rationale would parse itself into a neatly packaged alternative that was easier to confront than the truth - a temporary neurological repair not meant to last forever, but rather allow one to withstand the immediate shock of a loss. But was he suffering the rigors of grief, or was he on the right path with his stubborn refusal to accept anything that didn’t result in Amina warm and safe and alive in his arms?

Did he even deserve her back after how he’d treated her? 

Devotion was a welcome companion and had been a tremendous balm to his soul with its presence alone, but as hours drained away and days seemingly raced past, it was becoming more and more difficult to ignore the mounting odds that there may not be a favourable outcome to this problem. 

He heaved a sigh and straightened in his chair, his spine protesting at the sudden shift in positioning. He ran a hand pensively over his chin as he stared at the pages upon pages of notes, figures, and calculations before him, decently lengthy stubble rasping against his palm. He normally wouldn’t be caught dead with even a day’s growth shading his jaw, but these were extenuating circumstances indeed. That’s what he told himself at least - the truth was that he couldn’t bear to look himself in the mirror for the guilt he carried. 

He could have just ignored it - that persistent tightness in his chest that forecasted the all-encompassing terror that would consume him in short order, stampeding through his body and reducing him to a shivering, clammy skinned likeness of a man. He could have done the intelligent thing and kept it to himself instead of trying to appease it by feeding it more pain. But no. He was Emmrich Volkarin - a smart man; an overachiever; an academic and philosophical force of nature - he knew what was best for him in that moment… and what was best for her, because for all of her quaint cheerful talk about death over breakfast, she hadn’t the faintest idea what she was talking about, and honestly, that pointy, vile little part of himself that he kept shackled with clever repartee and gentlemanly manners wanted to break that naive innocence.

So he bit. He lashed out like one of the dirty, malnourished, terrified strays that scurried between the narrow gaps of the crumbling buildings in the part of the capital that he called home in his youth. His brittle fangs caught skin and drew blood as he called her age and maturity into question, and he knew it wouldn’t be long before someone hunted him down and put him out of his misery - too dangerous, you see: the world has no need for a creature prone to such violence, even if it was shaped by its circumstances…

Perhaps he belonged in that prison with the gods. Perhaps the Maker had seen fit to free his parents from him: if they were dead, they no longer had to deal with the burden of a third mouth to feed while earning enough gold to maybe sustain one. Perhaps death had been freedom and relief for Rupert and Elannora Volkarin, because there was something wrong with little Emmrich, and it was in everyone’s best interests that he was alone. Perhaps the Maker looked upon Amina with that same kindness and called her away too, not willing to subject this kind, lonely woman to the wrongness that was Emmrich, and his carefully crafted palisade of goodwill that could only temporarily conceal the utter rot that dwelled beyond it. 

He stared sullenly at the now room temperature bowl of roasted tomato soup Lucanis had brought him hours earlier. He couldn’t remember the last thing he’d eaten. Maybe a handful of the spicy peppermint candies that Amina was so taken with. Shortly after she started spending more and more time in the laboratory with him, she strutted through the door one day with a bowl full of them that she set on the mantelpiece, declaring that she was tired of going back and forth to her room to get more every time she fancied another. 

He was always telling her that she couldn’t live on mints and needed to eat properly and look after herself. He ought to take his own advice, but the very thought of food only made his already unsettled stomach turn on itself more. 

His eyes returned to the page as he tried and failed to summon the formidable academic concentration that had gotten him this far in life. 

It was so odd how the words on paper kept replacing themselves with the words he should have said to Amina that night instead of hurling insults at her.

I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you…

He sniffled and rubbed his eyes again, wiping away tears with the heels of his hands. He was so tired of crying. He had cried so much already. Couldn’t he be finished with crying?

He knew if he asked her that question, she’d look at him with that serious but perceiving smile of hers… maybe run her hand soothingly down his arm and say, “I’m afraid it doesn’t work like that, but I’ll keep you company if you’d like: shared sorrow is a halved burden.” 

Fade take him… what a fool he was…

“Professor?” 

Emmrich flinched at the unexpected greeting and looked up. Had Davrin been standing there long? His eyes flicked over to Devotion standing by the door only a few feet from Davrin - it seemed that she was invisible to everyone but himself.

“Davrin,” he put on what he knew to be a cheerful, amiable tone that might have been believable if not for the complete absence of vitality behind it. “What can I help you with?”

He’d spent so much of his life helping the living and the dead to avoid confronting his own horrors… the loss of his parents, his fear of death, the deep and persistent suspicion that he wasn’t worthy of love - why stop now? 

The warden considered him, his handsome face grim and somewhat drawn; that usual fiery spark gone from his warm eyes. Emmrich watched those eyes take note of the untouched tomato soup, then the tear tracks on his gaunt cheeks. “Assan is going stir-crazy, and honestly I think I am too. I thought I’d see if you and Manfred wanted to come for a walk with us. The fresh air and a change of scenery might do you some good… inspire some grand epiphany or whatever you want to call it.”

The mockery of a smile slid off of Emmrich’s face. Davrin surely meant well, but even the fact that he’d asked was yet another painful reminder that she was gone: Amina was the one that usually ventured out with them. “Oh. That’s… that’s very kind of you to offer, Davrin, but I simply haven’t a moment to spare. Every second that passes is precious, and I believe I’m nearing a breakthrough with the tuning of the metaphysical oscillations in the lyrium dagger… I dare not walk away now.” 

It was a blatant and terrible lie: the dagger was on the other side of the room on his workbench where it had sat untouched for two days. Despite this, Davrin seemed to possess the decency to pretend he bought the falsehood. 

“You’re always on her case about taking care of herself - maybe consider taking your own advice, Emmrich: you can’t find a way to bring her back if you’re dead.” 

There was truth in the warden’s words that echoed his own thoughts, but Emmrich struggled to feel inspired by them. 

If he had been the one to retrieve the dagger instead, he could be the one to die alone in the Fade, and she would still be here… safe. Broken hearted, surely, but she would have recovered in time…

He bid Davrin farewell and paced over to the workbench, sitting into his hip and wrinkling his nose slightly. He stared at the softly glowing twin of the dagger bound to Amina’s fate. It would not be arrogant to say that it was an impressive fake. He’d never handled the original personally, but he’d watched Amina fidget with it enough that he was confident that he hadn’t overlooked a single seemingly insignificant detail - he was willing to bet that it was identical right down to the weight. 

A shame that a pretty fake was all it would ever be. 

Their plan to duplicate Solas’ dagger had screeched to a gutting halt when it became clear that there existed no means to enchant the dagger such that it would function the same as the original - not without accessing the unique aural resonances of the Fade that remained a mystery to anyone who didn’t happen to be an ancient elf. His theory was that Solas and the evanuris’ connection to the Fade was fundamentally different on a physiological level than that of a modern mortal. Whether that was a byproduct of their spiritual origin, or the result of them manifesting physically millennia earlier, he couldn’t rightly say… all that mattered was that unless he found a way to transform himself into an ancient elf, the dagger would remain as useless as Neve’s platitudes... 

It was a petty, childish fantasy to stare at the dagger and imagine what it would look like buried up to the hilt in Solas’ eye socket, but when he could feel himself becoming overwhelmed with hopelessness and despair, it helped keep him going. 

Few could guess by looking at him, but he was a creature driven by quiet anger: injustices and wrongs, big and small, collected and deliberately curated; claimed with the same detached fascination one might feel when they spot an interesting stone on a riverbank and slip it into their pocket. 

As he amassed success and wealth and renown, he remembered those who had done wrong to himself and others, and he learned how to smile easily at them with warmth and kindness in his eyes as he shook their hands. He even learned to forgive some of them. 

But he never, ever forgot what they were capable of, and he never ever let himself be fooled into believing that they were good and decent people. 

This ire for a spirit was unusual for him, but impossible to let go of: had Solas known? Had he any idea what Amina meant to him? That she was a beloved person, and so much more than the piece on the chessboard that she was named for? Certainly as a spirit Solas would struggle with the seemingly static, immutable nature of people, but that hadn’t been enough to stop him from falling in love with the Inquisitor, had it? He was not so bound to his spiritual nature that the concept of love was beyond him. 

The fact that Solas was originally a spirit and Emmrich was sworn to protect his kind did not excuse him of the fact that he betrayed Amina… perhaps even killed her.

Her. Amina. Rook. The woman he’d known for such a short time, and whom he could no longer imagine life without. He needed her back - was that so hard for Wisdom to comprehend? Life without her was as much a shallow mockery as the dagger he’d crafted. 

He had waited so long for her - all but resigned himself to a life empty of the companionship and love that he craved with a desperation that had hollowed him out over the years, etching unwritten sonnets and love notes into his ribs until he was certain those words would die with him: an epitaph on the monument of his bones. He would take them to his grave where they would desiccate and become dust with him - imbibed and consumed slowly by uncaring, unfeeling time. 

He could have spent their last night together reading those words to her: letting her peel away his flesh and muscle so she could split open his chest and bear sacred witness to every secret hope and abandoned dream. He should have breathed them directly into her lungs between long, hungry kisses that would serve as his confession that the that his sacrosanct duty as a Mourn Watcher was little more than a facade now, for he no longer belonged to the living and the dead: he belonged to her, body and soul… with what life dwelled in his breast and what eternity his soul could endure. 

But he had done none of those things, and he could almost hear the Dread Wolf laughing at what his hesitation had cost him.

All he could do now was keep working… keep trying. Keep thinking. 

Day 15:

In his dream, he found himself in the vast center of nebulous nothing. There was no sky, no ground, no walls. Nothing with which to orientate himself - up, down - such things appeared not to exist here. 

The only other thing occupying it aside from himself was a faintly shimmering golden haze. It stretched into eternity in all directions. Endless. Incomprehensible.

He might have been gripped with terror at the idea of being alone in a place as strange as this, but he knew better than that: he was most certainly not alone. Of course he was terrified, but more awestruck than anything: if this was what he suspected it to be, this was a very, very rare encounter.

“To what do I owe this great honour?” He spoke into the golden eternity.

Two small suns burst into existence before him. They glowed with white hot fire, but radiated only a gentle warmth that permeated every cell of his being. Slowly the miniature stars rotated around each other, and a voice spoke that he perceived not with his ears, but with his soul, the agelessness and sheer power of it driving the breath from his lungs.

“One who has been drawn to this place many a time as I wander to and fro. Were you aware that it was once a refuge for the newly liberated?”

Its voice almost hurt - it felt like it was vibrating through him at such a frequency that it might rip him apart. Not its fault… it was a trait that likely came with being older than measurable time…

“I was aware,” he responded collegially. “It makes sense that such souls would attract Hope.” 

The orbs of light circled each other slowly… passed through one another in a smooth, hypnotizing motion.

“Verily,” it said. “It stood empty and still for a long time, but still I would visit now and again, if only to revisit the memory of that which dwelled here once.”

“And now?”

“A lone spirit called to me without knowing it. By the time I returned, it was gone. I found you in this place instead.”

The lone spirit it spoke of could only be Solas…

“It’s as plain as anything that you are most certainly not Wisdom. There’s a sort of… desperate imprudence about you that gives it away.” The suns stilled for a moment, shivered, and resumed their languid orbit. “So what are you?”

Did Hope just insult him? How unexpected…

“Only a man of little importance on a journey of great urgency.” He felt emboldened, though he wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it was the spirit’s existence alone that made him feel such a way. “Perhaps you could be of assistance with the matter in question?”

The suns flared slightly, streaks of streaming colour sparking over its surface. His surroundings went slightly rigid, the auric mist prickling his skin. “You carry brittle echoes of death within your spirit. There is bone dust in your lungs. The scent of corpses lingers inside your nose though there are none nearby.”

Emmrich swallowed hard, but remained in place.

“You shepherd the living and the dead towards purpose and convalesce unsettled entities all while fearing your own demise. Despite this you willingly relinquished your only chance to live on in perpetuity - why?”

The immensity of Hope was overwhelming. The fact that a spirit of this magnitude existed was remarkable on its own - the fact that he was conversing with it… unimaginable. But it had asked him a question, and he knew that the manner of his answer was of utmost importance if he was to obtain the aid of this being.

“Because with her I am less afraid to face that fear. It may always hold sway in my heart, but with her beside me, I have hope that all of my days won’t be dark.”

The orbs of light rose and fell… trembled faintly as though excited…

“Fascinating,” it breathed and its air caressed him like a triumphant spring breeze, smelling of honeysuckle and luscious young grass. “I feel the pull of the one that you speak of: she is palpable.”

He was glad to know he and Hope were of the same mind in that respect. 

“The prison she is trapped in is designed specifically to keep me - and others like me - from penetrating its walls, but despair not - you are close to finding the one you seek: there is a ripple in the firmament that you may exploit - a fold in a place of significance to her… a crack.”

Emmrich’s stomach dropped - that could be almost anywhere, and even with a network of eluvians at their disposal…

“The beacon you have set for her is strong and although she cannot hear you, her spirit is joined with yours: look for her in the same place where the initial spark of curious infatuation between you quickened and became flame.”

He looked down at his hand slightly obscured by the actuality of Hope, and turned his mind to the puzzle: was there a single defining moment? Was it a culmination of weeks of stolen glances, shy smiles, and utterly fabricated excuses to find themselves in each other’s proximity once again - innocent and coincidental? 

Yes - there had been a lot of that: dancing around one another politely, both undeniably smitten but neither willing to set aside the consummate professionalism that their vocation burdened them with. 

It could have gone on forever. They might have passed like ships in the night for all their efforts if it weren’t for that one evening that seemed like so many other evenings until it wasn’t: a night of research and reading - both of them hunkered down in the library well past midnight when everyone else had retired. 

The comfortable silence that dwelled between the soft husk of a page being turned every now and then. The easy conversation that flowed between them as they discussed matters ephemeral. Their knees almost brushed more than a few times on that uncomfortable couch. Amina, smothered a yawn here and there; Emmrich glanced up at her every time. 

“What?” She’d ask, a confused little smirk on her divine lips.

“Nothing,” he’d answer. 

He suggested she get some rest: he could continue reading - it was more important that she slept. 

A defiant shrug and a polite refusal - but she did tuck her legs under herself and rest some of her weight against him - nothing familiar… just her shoulder against his. 

Shortly after, he asked for her take on Orlok’s Theory of Asomatous Transitory Regression, and he thought she was taking time to consider her response, but when she remained silent for far longer than he knew was typical for her, he chanced a look down to find her sleeping soundly, her head on his shoulder and her book still spread open on her knees. He thought to rouse her - send her to her room where she’d at least be able to stretch out properly, but something held him back and he found himself gently slipping the book from her hands and setting it aside. Felt himself readjusting his right arm slowly - carefully - so it was around her, and he could share his warmth with her in the drafty space. 

His heart had leapt into his throat, and apologies and placations lined up on his tongue a few minutes later when she made a soft noise from behind her curtain of hair and shifted, lifting her head enough so he could see slivers of green under heavy lids. 

His lungs ceased working.

But instead of lurching away from him, blushing furiously and stammering her own stream of awkward, rushed excuses, Amina just blinked… once… twice… smiled groggily… shuffled down the couch some, rested her head on his thigh and fell back asleep, her hand on his knee.

He read until the morning - the same book three times cover to cover, in fact - because he didn’t dare move her - didn’t dare be responsible for ending that moment because whatever he had glimpsed in her sleep-filled eyes when she looked at him was a kind of magic he had never seen before. 

Everything about it felt like home.

Even when he plucked up the courage to softly capture a strand of raven hair between his trembling fingers… even as he guided it away from her face as she slumbered, even as his touch lingered and he stroked down the silken length of it, his heart thundered. 

That was it. That was when everything had changed for him - and for her. 

“The library,” he croaked, throat tight. “It was in the library. I– I need to go. I need to go there now!” Tears filled his eyes as hope flooded him for the first time in days. A broken laugh burst from his lips and he clutched at his hair, aware that he looked like a madman. “Thank you!” He wept. 

The orbs flickered again - rather like twinkling eyes - and then blinked out of existence. 

“Live well, creature, and of all things that you may choose to abandon in the days to come, may hope be the last of them.” 

He woke on the too-large settee to the cool green light of an aquarium that made no sense. He scrambled to his feet, flipped his hair out of his face, and bolted for the door.

Muffled voices… all familiar - one in particular. His voice. 

Then his shape - his outline - a shape she would know anywhere. 

A hand - a beautiful, soul-shatteringly, heart-achingly artful hand that was capable of healing and holding… destroying, creating, and calming; teasing and caressing - and everything else in between. 

She heard herself sob as she seized that hand with her own and felt muscles and tendons reflexively tense in surprise for a fleeting instant before slender fingers clenched around her wrist in an unexpectedly bruising grip that wrung a clipped scream from her. Her feet left the ground as she was dragged into the bright light, and she was falling forward, up, down, and in directions that didn’t exist all at once. 

Then something solid. Something warm and firm. The feeling of well-worn wool and meticulously cared for linen against her face… a familiar scent, though it was more rustic than usual…

The excruciating pain in her wrist persisted as her eyes struggled to adjust and she looked up. She blinked… once… twice…

“Emmrich?” 

He had a decent start on a beard for one - that was new - and his hair was messier and dirtier than she’d ever seen it. The dark circles under his eyes were a particularly haunting shade of aubergine, and his sclera were dull and bloodshot. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a week. He looked terrible…

“Where’s Varric?” She demanded hotly, panic rising in her chest as she tried to step back so she could get a better look at him - he wouldn’t let her, and she already knew the answer to her futile question. The grip on her wrist tightened and so did her throat as her mind raced to try to comprehend the situation. The grief she felt in Solas’ prison at the revelation of Varric’s death was rapidly being replaced with incandescent rage directed at the Dread Wolf: she was going to destroy him - spirit or not, he had gone too far… “Emmrich!” She yanked her wrist free and let out a cry of surprise as he toppled forward into her arms, a disheveled, weeping mess that took them to the ground. She managed to keep them both upright and Emmrich caged her in an embrace that took her breath away.

“I’m sorry, darling - I love you - I’m s-so very sorry…” He half-sobbed into her ear as he stroked her hair. His voice was so ragged... She felt tears splashing against her, wet and abundant, and her own joined them: confusion and anger and joy converged on her in a baffling wave - she couldn’t house all of this. And Emmrich…

How long have I been gone?

She managed to pull far enough away from him so she could cup his scruffy jaw in her hands and meet his gaze - his haunted, hollow gaze. 

“It’s all right now,” she soothed, summoning up enough calm for both of them - she was beyond furious, but he was despondent, and like any experienced Watcher she knew she needed to meet him on his level - manage herself for the time being. 

She softly traced her thumb down the familiar plane of his cheek and he leaned into her touch, his hand covering hers. “I love you too… I’m here and I’m safe, and I’m–” her voice trembled and broke. “Oh Emmrich… I’m sorry too.” If what she was beginning to suspect was true - if she had been lost to that place of regret for much longer than a few hours - it meant that Emmrich had been sitting on that argument for days at least, judging by the looks of him - her promise that they would talk about it at home a dangling thread that would remain forever untied if she never returned… 

She pressed her lips to his and he sighed into her, some of the tension finally leaving him. “You found me…” she murmured against his skin. “You got me out. Of course you did.” Her arms tightened around him and she kissed him properly - deeply. 

“I couldn’t live with myself knowing the state I had left things in.” He rested his forehead against hers and twirled a strand of her hair around a finger as they sat on the floor, both aware of their audience of companions - both utterly unconcerned about their presence. “Will you forgive me?” 

“If you’ll forgive me,” she offered: she carried her own regrets about that argument… though evidently not as long as he had.

His mouth curved into a smile for the first time and he chuckled weakly. “There is nothing to forgive, my dearest Amina.” His eyes continued to sweep over her as he took her in, mapping every line and angle of her, committing it to memory as if it would ensure she could never be taken from him again. 

“You really love me, huh?” 

“I have for some time, and I’m afraid that rather than embracing that fact with the deference owed to it, I acted like a cowardly fool. If I had only–”

She silenced him with another kiss, his mouth opening as her tongue brushed the seam of his lips. Her fingers stroked through the coarse, straight hair that covered his jaw and she realized with a jolt somewhere around her midsection that she rather liked it. She made a mental note to discuss the future of the beard with him later on, but for now…

“No academic theories right now, Professor…” she whispered. She was exhausted and overwhelmed. She needed to take a minute and just… come to terms with everything. With Varric, Harding, and Bellara; with how long she’d been gone… what the hell she was going to do next. What she was going to do to Solas when she got her violent, creative little Reaper hands on him… 

“Humour an old man,” he smirked tiredley. 

“I’ll consider humouring him in the bath.” 

“You’re no basket of roses either, dear.” 

“Regret bringing me back yet?”

He caught her hand and brought it to his lips, placing a chaste kiss to the back of it, his eyes locked on hers - as red and puffy as they were, the love that dwelled within them was unmistakable, and Amina knew they would never be parted in this life again. 

“Never.” 

[pendwelling]

hello, pen-nim! I just wanted to ask about the "ether children"(!?) that CYC apparently has???? Like holy shit yes?????? They have kids??????????

It's been keeping me up at night ngl sjjsakaks

THEY DO HAVE KIDS and honestly it's so genius. I laugh about it all the time LMAO (anyway please brace yourself bc this ended up becoming a really long post WKFHDJ)

In non-romance fantasy settings, I always wonder about high-status characters like Crown Princes of the like and how they would make/appoint successors—even more so when it's implied that it'll probably be faceless characters who we never even meet (take Alver Crossman in LCF, for example, who iirc also mentioned he would just appoint one of his siblings' children as his future heirs). Even though TWSB is not a romance, its political setting has always played a prominent role and influence in the story, and even long before CYC have their "children", characters such as Cédric (a Crown Prince and future Emperor) and Christelle (previously a Duke's daughter) had been subjected to inquiries about marriage and about fulfilling their duties. Naturally, as these character's are ones whom we've followed for so long and through several trials and adventures, readers of course would want them to be happy with whomever they have to make successors with. But BECAUSE they are character's whom we know and have grown to know, we also know that a political marriage would not make our characters necessarily happy, or that it's something they'd even want (and to readers, would be an unsatisfying outcome to see).

Ham Ga-in Christelle actually isn't that interested in marriage (not to mention has a complicated relationship with and idea of parenting/parental figures, and thus, mothers/motherhood) as has expressed that if she WERE to marry, it being with a close friend where they'd be like roommates or in an eternal sleepover like, say, Yeseo, wouldn't be a bad idea since it sounds fun (such as in that one part when Cédric and her were being questioned by Fred and Aurélie about their fake relationship during Jesse first house arrest arc LMAO). As for Cédric, naturally, as a Crown Prince, he is very understanding and diligent as to what his duties expect from him, as such, even when there were discussions over whom would be the best political partner for him (high-ranking nobles such as dukes' children such as Vérénice Mendy, even affluent daughters of merchant families, etc), he most probably would have accepted anyone his mother and godmother decided would be most fitting as his partner. Love was never really a factor for a Crown Prince's marriage (though, I should notably state that his mom, Empress Frédérique, basically enthusiastically kidnapped(willingly) and eloped with her husband out of love against the wishes of his affluent mage family LMAO), though, that isn't to say that they won't take into account his feelings to—but it's clear that his feelings are, all-in-all, that of duty and acceptance (and buried reluctance, which Yeseo and friends bring up and consider when these talks were happening, and tell him that his feelings DO in fact, matter).

ANYHOW, all this is to say that both Christelle and Cédric (ESPECIALLY Cédric) are characters who qpuld inevitably have to continue their family lines.

So, how does our author Sookym resolve this?

Answer: They basically both respectively end up accidentally making magically-adjacently created magically-genetic babies with Jung Yeseo as the mother (LMAO)

CYC's firstborn daughter is actually an "age-regressed/reincarnated" version of one of their past adversaries, Lynn Isenia, a water-attribute Cardinal-level Holy Knight from the Divine Kingdom of Venetiaan who was part of Wilhelmina Sneijder's apostles. After Christelle and Jibrip Diop defeated her in battle [530s], she ended up activating her stigma which resulted in her physical body melting into water before disappearing. Both Christelle and Jibril presume her to be dead after this encounter. Prior to her "death", Lynn had actually expressed interest both in Yeseo (for his pure and bountiful ether) and in Christelle (for the divine power and ability that the Blessing of the Azure Ocean gave her), so it's many not out of nowhere that her resurrected body became Christelle and Yeseo's "child". (Side note: on the continent, Water has often religiously been symbolic of resurrection and new beginnings.)

So, how was "Lynn Isenia" (re)born?

Prior to her "birth", Yeseo was actually visited in a dream by a little baby expressing how hungry they were ("I need pure ether to grow big!" [693]. Yeseo, blearily under the impression that Rhea is the one asking for ether, eventually gives in, and the baby satisfying responds about how delicious his ether is, before finally thanking him ("Thank you, Dad.") which jolts Yeseo awake. Suffice to say, this was basically conception dream of soon-to-be Mama Yeseo.

Turns out, after using her stigma, Lynn Isenia became a wandering puddle/water-blob existence, and eventually found herself tagging along with Yeseo and Co. She was able to cultivate herself back to a human form by basically using Christelle's water-attribute ether as an embryonic sac, which was then had been further nourished and natured by Yeseo's pure ether. I call Yeseo the mom here because he's also the one who technically(?) "births" her LMAO—as in, she emerges/phases out from his belly and pops into existence in his arms out of the blue 😭😭 Everyone is so shocked by this scene that they pretty much forget that Yeseo has been "forever single", and in her shock, Christelle even asks him if an annunciation(LMAO) just happened, before Yeseo reminds them all, flustered, that he literally physically cannot give birth by himself and that the child couldn't be his 😭

That aside, turns out, the baby was born more water than human and without much of her memories, but she does remembers bits and pieces about being "Lynn Isenia", and so people draw the dots together from there. Despite this, she is undoubtedly her own, new, separate existence from the previous Lynn Isenia, with her own personality, wants, and needs (she is also pretty much just a baby, and not a Holy Knight who tried killing them once lol). This arc was actually super interesting to me, because throughout it, Isenia has shown attachment to Yeseo, but ESPECIALLY Christelle, whom Lynn actually considers very firmly to be her "mom" (since Chris' ether was also what helped nurtured Lynn). I love this arc a lot because it delves even deeper into Ham Ga-in as a person, as well as her suppressed anxieties and traumas regarding her own identity crisis, her outlook on parenthood, and subsequently, her relationship with her new mother-figure, Isabelle and her ever growing and increasing, yet suppressed, guilt over taking over her daughter's place. Christelle actually dislikes the idea of Lynn being her "baby" so much, to the point where she even feels hatred towards her own self for being such an "irresponsible/childish" adult. Of course, her worries are very valid, because Lynn is basically a "baby she never planned for", and even worse to her guilty conscious, one who sincerely loves and admires her so much despite Christelle's aversion. But eventually though, after very well-written emotional build-up and resolution, Christelle reconciles her relationship with her new mother Isabelle (one of my favourite parts EVER of the novel btw) and even more so with Lynn, whom she proposes that they reformulate the nature of their relationship and asks that Lynn instead call her "unnie". In the end, Lynn gets adopted by Isabelle, and officially becomes "Lynn Rambouillet" 🥹 Christelle and Lynn have a very fun and playful relationship after this, now that they can fully open their hearts to each other, and Christelle herself does her best to be an adult figure worthy of Lynn's sincere admiration and love.

So that's the first CYC child! Of course, Chris definitely acts more like an auntie/older sister, but does sincerely comes to care for the baby, and Yeseo, being the one with the most (momCOUGH) older brother instincts, takes to child-rearing pretty much like a fish in water. I think that I should also note that Lynn is very much Christelle's family. The baby takes after Christelle in their disliking and bullying of Cédric LMAOOOOOOOOO (at one point, Lynn refers to someone as very handsome, and Yeseo, naturally, assumes it's Cédric, before Lynn confirms that Jibril's looks are more of her style LOLOLOL and even picks up on the trend of calling Cédric a pig too. I think at one point, she even calls him ugly 😂😭)

BUT ANYHOW, NOW FOR CEDYES'S CHILD LMAO

Surprise~! Congrats to CYC on being the family of another daughter! Tbh, I think it's really fitting, because CYC all feel like Girl Dads.

SO!!

Their second baby is also a reincarnation. This one is MASSIVE SPOILERS regarding character death and some parts of the ending, because this happens like. in Chapter 797 and into the 800s.

Cédric and Yeseo's "child" was actually born from a seed. It was initially empty, and needed a core ingredient in order to germinate. This core would eventually be the body of the deceased Elise Venetiaan, who died at the end of the Riester and Venetiaan war (by whom, i will leave thay to you to find out *winks through tears*. Her death was very well-written and she's such a beloved and tragic chatacter oughhhh). Collecting her body, the Spirit of Eranda of the earth-attribute used it as a vessel to nurture the Seed and looked after it, pouring divine power into it and keeping it safe. It needed much more than just the Spirit's divine power, however, and eventually asked for Cédric to give it some strength. With this request, Cédric uses his abilities to offer it a sacred ether flame, which the Seed absorbs into its membrane [812]. His gift and offering of holy flames was not enough however, and the Spirit eventually reveals that in order for the Seed to fully achieve growth, it would require the "sacred moon" to finally bear fruit, and that no other ether would work. Naturally, the moon in question is our Jung Yeseo. Things gets a bit complicated because there's a lot going on in this arc (it's one of my favourites OUGHHHHH it's so damn good I swear) but basically, Yeseo was pretty much forced home by the powers of the Narrative and the Three Sisters (Bozena), and with that, he also took with him the literal moon of the TWSB world, as well as everyone's memories of Yeseo in the process. So, when the Spirit said that they need to moon to finally bear fruit from the Seed, it further propels Christelle, Cédric, Jibril and the original Jesse's (Losna, whose body he retook following Yeseo's second expulsion from their world) mission to bring back their "moon", gradually recovering their memories of him and growing all the more determined to get him back.

And eventually, they do finally reunite again 🥹 Upon returning back to the TWSB world (and establishing a permanent link between the TWSB world and Yeseo's world), Yeseo is finally asked by the Spirit to bless the Seed. Pouring his golden ether into it, the Seed cam finally begin its process of sprouting, now that moonlight has returned to the world and with Yeseo blessing the red seed [887].

The baby is finally born from the fruit in Chapter 917. Empress Frédérique is actually the one to first hold her, and is instilled with a feeling of familiarity/nostalgia upon holding a baby with hair as dark as Cédric in her arms once again. We can definitely assume she got that dark hair because of Cédric's influence on the Seed, but her eyes are still blue like Elise's were. It's an emotional birth for sure, with Losna and Cornelisse eventually getting their turn to hold her, too, and they both cry over their older sister having finally been reborn with a clean slate—chance to live a now more happier and relaxed life, one that will be full of love, especially with her new very extended family.

Because the colour of the fruit she was born from was red, the baby Elise Riester eventually gained the nickname of 'Cerise' (first coined by Yeseo and then picked up by everyone else)(lmao he really is her mom), which is additionally really fitting because "Cherry" in French sounds really close to Elise's own name hehe. She's a cute baby, and also gets officially declared by Frédérique as a "granddaughter/descendant of the Empire" (basically saying that she has chosen to adopt her, and Cédric has gained a younger sister despite the absence of the Prince Consort wfkfkdkdk but because her birth was miraculous and witnessed by many, it's easily accepted). Maartje, her only genuine friend and reliable adult companion in her life before her death, becomes her Godmother TvT and the Venetiaan siblings always visit her and shower her with love.

Also, you may perhaps wonder why she wasn't made a Venetiaan again, but keep in mind that this is right after the end of the Riester-Venetiaan war, where trials against the main villains have occured, Christanne has declared that she will be stepping down from her position as Queen, and that Venetiaan is now under Riester rule. The Venetiaan Royal Family's mistakes and history are now all basically made public, and while the people are still very loving towards them, the Royal Family themselves acknowledge that their family has done and has allowed many back things to happen to Venetiaan under their rule, and that a lot of cleaning up in the kingdom has to be done. Though, it's implied that Cornelisse will eventually come to be the new Queen, once all things are settled.

"Won't baby Cerise and her siblings be separated, then?" Actually, think of it like a joint household wkwkkkw. It definitely helps that Cerise was born near the Temple of Boundaries, and the (new) Pope's residence (which Cédric has enthusiastically proposed to fund and construct, and even build a new portal that leads there directly from HIS ROMERO PALACE 😭😭😭😭 just so that he, Chris, and friends could always visit Yeseo and vice-versa now that he's Pope)(almost forgot to mention that the portal to Yeseo's home in Korea is also in this location, so Cédric literally offered to build him a new home that is both near his second home in Riester, as well as his first home in Korea so that he can easily switch between worlds....... He's is just like his great-grandfather Romero. A SIMP 😭). Thus, Cornelisse can easily visit her little older sister, and even Losna actually expresses a desire to remain in Riester, too, since he didn't have many good memories in Venetiaan, anyway, aside from his sisters 🥹🥲 So he'll be able to visit Cerise easily! He's actually even been offered to be the stand-in regent of Yeseo's territory estate in Sérénité when Yeseo is away, which works out now that Yeseo will probably have to take up Popal duties now too WKDHJDKDKD

OH I COMPLETELY FORGOT TO MENTION THIS TOO LMAOOOO

Their second child was actually foreshadowed by Jung Hyunseo of all people, who, prior to all the events of these chapters, actually had a conception dream where Yeseo came home with a baby girl with dark hair and blue eyes 😂😭😭😭 Pray for this guy, he's gonna get grey hairs early. Hyunseo was actually really worried that his troublemaking younger brother would actually come home one day with a niece out of the blue.

AND TURNS OUT....... YESEO REALLY DID JUST THAT LMAOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

At some point, Yeseo takes the portal back home with Cerise and Cédric in tow so that he could introduce her to Hyunseo. But for some reason..... this guy....... the way he does it was pretty much:

"Ta-da~ It's our baby!"

(WHY IS HE LIKE THIS 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭)

Hyunseo is literally hacking up a lung from how shocked he is, meanwhile Yeseo is sincerely praising (bragging) about their baby to his dumbfounded brother while Cédric is watching this chaos with a very smug and proud expression (THIS BRAT.... WHAT ARE YOU, THE FATHER?? 😭)((PRETTY MUCH......))

I'm actually really amused by how she might potentially grow up, because so far, it seems that she is really taking after Cédric 😂 She's already a Holy Knight despite being a baby—fire-attribute like her dad!! Hyunseo wondered if she inherited this from Cédric, too, to which Cédric merely responds with more smugness 😭 Hyunseo really hates Cédric, I cannot express how funny this is. His younger brother got caught up with an arrogant guy!!

BUT ANYHOW. SORRY THIS WAS SUPER LONG. Also a pretty late reply bc it just takes so much time to write these LMAOFHDJDJKS but omg. TWSB is really just..... it's so good. Sookym single-handedly solved the Heir Question by making her MCs magically manifest children together that could inherit their families/continue their bloodlines in their stead. Chris is awarded her own title of Marquess after the war, so Lynn is probably set to inherit the Rambouillet family after Isabelle, and if Chris doesn't have kids of her own. As for Cédric, his political and religious partners are most probably going to be Christelle and Yeseo, and since ChriCed's relationship is the cat-and-dog way that it is (HAHAHA) even despite having grown closer and partners, I think it's fair to say that Cerise would be 2nd‐in-line to the throne, and if Cédric never has children, if Cerise ever does in the future they can be eligible to become the next Crown Prince(ss), or otherwise they'll adopt from collateral lines. But in the end, I sincerely hope these girls would grow up with LOTS of love. They both deserve it after all the troubles they went through in their previous lives... 🥲 Elise's wish before death was for the cleansing of her country, too, so in this new world and era of peace, it's SO reassuring and deserving that she could be reborn in families that would give her so much love.

OH I would also like to point out that both girls have similar colour palettes, as in, Lynn has blue hair and dark eyes, while Cerise has dark hair and blue eyes. Sookym has actually admitted to purposefully doing this so that they could really look like sisters, and we as readers can absolutely assume that they will could grow up as such, too... 🥹

(Sookym behind-the-scenes from their blog! This was in reference to Lynn's appearance in the latest official illustration of the Rambouillet family: https://sookym.tistory.com/m/2) :

Anyhow, it's fair to say that they are pretty much spiritually CYC's children, just with the official roles as their adopted younger siblings haha. The sibling relationship is more so with Christelle and Lynn, but Cédric and Cerise..... Dude. I can literally see this guy as a Girl Dad. He's already so smug that she already takes so much after him and that she was born with both Yeseo and his own help, it's so damn funny. LIKE YOURE NOT TECHNICALLY ///ACTUALLY/// HER FATHER, BUT YOU SURE ACT LIKE IT HUH...... 😭 Cerise is going to be the most spoiled and loved baby in Empire for sure, and Lynn will naturally follow too, since they both share a crazy family and have the most powerful people taking care of them hahaha (look how Gerrit is being treated—he's not even a Riester but he's always doted on and gaining absurd amounts of pocket money from everyone, even from Cédric hahaha)

ANYWAY I HOPE THIS WAS ABLE TO SATE SOME OF YOUR CURIOSITY!!!!!!!!

I love the CYC children so much....... their mere existence fills me with such joy, and I hope we see more of them in the upcoming side stories 🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹

[gripes-withthesun]

Issue #2 of New Riot Inc is out!

This issue focuses on Disability and Chronic Illness. You can download the zine here

I am extremely grateful to all the contributors and to Eevie of eevie echoes for the interview. I hope you will all enjoy it. Also many thanks to everyone who reblogged the call for submissions!

Submissions for Issue #3 are open, any and all art and writings are welcome. We're going back to Punk rock and riot grrrl for the next issue, stay tuned! Email any submissions or inquiries to newriotinc@gmail.com

[ID/ first image is a banner in red with yellow writing that says New Riot Inc.

second image is the cover page, the background is black and there is red and black flowery washi tape on two margins. The title says 'New Riot Inc.' in golden letters and 'Issue #2' beneath that. There is a drawing of huge steps with a gathering of very small faceless figures trying to climb them. Some are helping the others and some seem to be looking up where a massive set of legs is visible, easily skipping two steps. a dialogue box leading to the legs reads 'Keep up, guys!'. The drawing is set on a background of newspaper clippings and below it the theme is given as 'Disability and Chronic Illness' /end ID]

[miss-sophia-blog]

You know Lord van Zieks better than anyone. Who would you say is his favourite, out of all the other residents at the manor?

Good day to you.

Apologies, but any inquiries to His Lordship are best addressed directly to him at @barok-vanzieks on Tumblr, or via letter to the manor. As intimately as I know His Lordship, it's not my place to divulge his personal thoughts and feelings; especially to a faceless inquisitor.

—Mme. Sophia

[kaygee-doodles]

TL;DR: Please remember that when you send in asks, you are talking to an actual person, not a content machine.

TW: upsetting topics below the cut

Hey guys, I know I mentioned this a while back, but it's a thing again. I'm not naming names. I'm not pointing fingers. And I know the Bad Sanses have a certain amount of dark, edgy, bad-times that comes standard. But there has been an increase in asks like this:

I'm sure you can guess what I've censored, but if not: it's not great.

I know I've answered a few darker asks, which may have invited this sort of escalation in questions. I also know some of you want to get a feel for what the guys would do in a situation that pertains specifically to you.

But there are some things I can not or will not entertain, simply because I'm a real person with real feelings, and some subjects are distressing to me.

So I'm putting a veto on things like: Self-harm, suicide, dead babies of any kind, mental illness that would require hospitalization IRL, general plotless maiming and disfigurement, and dead-dove themed inquiries.

All that to say: I understand why, and I know I'm mostly just a faceless weirdo with an internet connection, but I will no longer be answering Heavy Questions for my own mental health.

I don't want to close my askbox. Most of what I get are lots of fun! Questions about a chapter in particular? Great! Speculations and guesses about the future? Fantastic! Telling me Nightmare is the stinkiest of stinkers and you want to flush him down the toilet? Hilarious!

I'm just a fanfic writer.

[ofcruelheart]

level 3 of the faceless ship / open to anyone

What an exquisite tableau of authoritarian playthings this soiree has metamorphosed into—an exhibition not merely of cosmetic and leisure technologies, but a parade of surveillance and identification marvels, all bedecked on a pristine stage for collective admiration. It's enough to make anyone with precious little autonomy nauseous.

A collective gasp courses through the assembly as a weapon scanner pierces the ambient hum. Security personnel surge forth, and amidst the tumult, a man adjacent to Janus jostles him in an effort to escape. Janus grimaces as a swift-footed attendant brandishing a handkerchief arrives at his side in mere moments, just as security drags the stranger away with his heels digging into the floor.

"What kind of fool succumbs to the scrutiny of the most rudimentary scanner? Any idiot with a magnet could have sniffed him out," Janus pivots toward his companion with an air of mild inquiry, eyes unblinking behind his mask. "I didn't get any on you, did I?"

[uncracked-case]

I... Wait, what exactly are we here? What gives you our questions?... Curious. Are we, askers. At least the anons. A bunch of faceless, blank toons that only exist momentarily to ask a question? Or are we something else that only gains awareness to be curious of what is happening in your world... Curious...

h-Huh? Oh right! Question! Ahem. Got any particular thoughts or insight on the... Dangers... In each floor?

What is the living situation of you and your crew like? I apologize, I am a very curious being. I am just gonna assign myself a little name here.

-Sunny Anon

Ah, yes… I knew I was bound to receive an inquiry like this sometime.

Well, generally, whenever I receive an ask, a file appears in the elevator.

This file contains the question, a designation [if the asker hasn’t chosen to stay anonymous, of course], and a time and date of when it was sent.

[(OOC) 🌙: Time runs differently for Rodger and his crew compared to real life, of course. He interprets things differently than you guys do.)

However, for special asks…

I’m certain you can work it out yourselves.

[You guys are worthy of being detectives - so why not have a go at solving the mystery of how I receive those kind of asks?)

Anyhow, to answer your second question; there’s a great abundance of danger in each floor.

Personally, I do have a lot of thoughts about it… I’m simply hesitant to share it.

Additionally, we have Goob to divert the Twisteds away from us. (It’s been difficult for him, however, considering we have Brightney with us… she might be a liability to both this case - and to our safety. I should do something about that.)

…Ah, our living situation…?

To be frank, it’s not the best.

Ever since Gardenview was abandoned, we’ve had to make due with what we have, and we’ve been doing relatively okay.

We could be doing better, but I’m rather glad that I still get to undertake my investigations like I used to.

(…It feels rather strange, to be able to conduct investigations at a time like this… I thought they would’ve told me to stop by now.)

[auburnhairedwaiter]

"Ah, there you are- I've been looking for you. Though I suppose you don't remember me from what I've heard."

( @do-you-atone )

(Also hi hello I've returned from the dead :3/ooc)

"... do we... know each other...?"

[noiranamnesis]

closed started for: @empirexsin

based on: "Why are you here?"

...

That voice. While she never once believed she would hear it in such close quarters, it was burned as though a brand upon her mind. Tensing, Marinette offered a polite smile whilst bowing her head in greetings. “My uncle received a summons from the Senate this morning. I chose to accompany him, but was not permitted inside, so I thought it best to wait in neighboring halls.” Her words lack warmth of familiarity with sanctuary in the faceless strangers milling about a distance. In the knowledge there is little room for solitude. “Would it please you if I find another place?” A genuine inquiry for there were several halls, all with variations of potted plants and statues to keep her more than occupied and out of immediate sight.

A servant passes then, earning a small in passing before her attention returns to the Emperor. There is something she wishes to address, on the tip of her tongue, yet the idea of speaking it aloud gives her pause. Unsure of whether it would be appreciated or even worth mentioning. “Caesar. If I may," A tentative step shortens the distance between them as her voice falls quiet, "I would like to…thank you for the other day.” Despite her time spent in the rain, her household had only commented on her prolonged absence and nothing more- seemingly chalking it up to a quirk or perhaps homesickness.

[velvetwarfare]

[ Cont. ]

She quirked a brow at his response, now sitting upright with her hands daintily folded in her lap.

“ On the contrary, darling. I have no idea who you are. What I DO know is that you part of that ‘heroic’ band of misfits aiming to stop the Skaven and Rotblood infestation.

To that, I would desire you to humor me with my inquiry, “

Her head then tilted, less than human eyes dilating in thought,

“ Why? Why are you a hero and why do you feel the need to save a place that could care less about your faceless name in the end?

You do realize that once all is said and done, the mortals will go back to forgetting your name and resort back to their selfish, heinous mannerisms? They only care to remember you now because they NEED you — but once that favor is accomplished, you are nothing more than the soot blowing away from a fireplace to them.

Nonexistent. “

@imperialknxght

[kaerinio]

@messanique approached her grace: ❛ is it really you? ❜ / from rhaegar!

Where has her mind gone? A trap, it could be a trap set to ensnare a lonely soul ; and, gods above, wouldn’t this be the perfect moment? Where the Sorrowful Man had failed, evident in the manticore's grotesque, smeared remains ( its nearly human face, somehow intact, stares up at her, unseeing . . . venom stings her throat ), a Faceless Man could surely complete the task. So many enemies, she collects them like an enchanting lady collects favors from lovers. Ser Jorah must be thinking the same, the way he extends a powerful arm to shield her, his shining sword braced in the other. However, it is futile, for there is nothing that can stop her advance, and with ease, she shoves past, dodging the staying hand, ignoring gruff barks of protest.

That voice, it is . . . it is — — — a song : a song she dances toward with reckless abandon, conducted by the indigo of his eyes and the silvery-gold of his hair and the stunning angles of his face. His is a face she ought not recognize ( despite how, in his visage, she finds her own ). He'd been banished, exiled to the cold ends of the earth before her mortal wails shook Dragonstone and ripped their mother from this world. In visions, she has seen him, stares locking as he murmured over a lovely Princess and precious babe. In dreams, why, she has embodied him, driven by some perennial closeness ( always imagined, now made real ), adorned in armor glittering with rubies. “I am who you know me to be,” she whispers, eyes swimming in tears imbued with inquiry, with wishes. Hands lift, not to banish those descending drops, but to cup his cheeks in affectionate wonder.

This may be no more than some sweet mirage, but she does not care. If she is doomed to die here by an assassin’s blade, let it be her cherished brother’s face that guides her to the night lands ( into the embrace of her sun-and-stars and the darling son who never drew breath, who would never know his namesake ; sorrow flickers, a dim candle in the darkest spot of her heart, and is promptly extinguished by resolve ). To look upon him, to hear him, to lay, even, a hand against him . . . It will have been worth it. Worth it, indeed, to gaze unflinchingly at fate and choose temptation.

A rasp emerges from the Old Bear's throat, going wholly unacknowledged as she soars ; the leap is anything but graceful, and even less regal, her arms wrapping heartily around the cloaked neck. “This is no scheme, it cannot be! I would know you anywhere. It is you, Rhaegar, truly you . . . and you are here!” How utterly foolish and clumsy she must sound. It is no matter, not when joy rouses and bursts, summoning the first genuine smile quivering lips have formed in ages. She is like a wild, new thing. A stranger to feeling, those quaking fingers touching his features tentatively : stroking cheeks, fluttering over hair, brushing over ears. “How is this possible? Did you escape the Wall? How did you find me?”

[denatured-alcoholism]

Dan Halm's series "Goodbar" explores the intersections of self publishing and dating profiles.

I spent an hour or so last week spending time at the Iridian Gallery, a queer focused art space located within Diversity Richmond. I try to pop in and see their rotating exhibitions every time I'm home for the weekends. It gives me a moment to step away from MFA life and see what's out there in art spaces and communities I want to be a part of. I was absolutely captivated by Dan Halm's newest exhibition and body of work Goodbar, a series of UV prints on aluminum of blurred dating profiles.

The title Goodbar is a reference to the Judith Rossner's novel Looking for Mr. Goodbar and nod to the ways queer dating apps and virtual dating are replacing many of the physical experiences that queer people used to congregate to (bars, clubs, social events, etc.). The work is installed in a series of grids, with highlights of some profiles that are slightly larger in size. These mimic the scroll and grid format of many queer focused dating apps.

Stand alone and larger prints mimic the experience of clicking on a dating profile. The blurring of the image reminds me of how dating apps will often obscure profiles beyond the paywall. This creates a pay-to-play space, where those not willing to are left to speculation. I find myself attempting to find profiles of people that are similar to me. As a queer person that has used dating apps, I'm too familiar with seeing a profile I'm interested in beyond the paywall.

This body of work is highly curated focusing on Halm's own curatorial vision on what profiles are shown from the culling process. What's missing here is the faceless or no image profile. These are often weeded out and looked-over within the queer community. Halm chooses to omit them albeit the physical presence they have on these platforms.

The artist works in the 8" by 10" or the 16" by 20" format, sizes often printed in standard commercial print shops. I'm critical of the use of UV printing in this body of work, considering how prevalent UV printing is used in large format signage and printing on alternative substrates. What this work does successfully, is highlight the nuance of blurring an image and outputting via a commercial process. In a way, this can be read as an act of censorship that artist instills. I read this as a means of concealing and not outing the queer community in public spaces, but also as a way of bypassing many of the stipulations print shops place on the explicit content. Ultimately, this is how the artist blurs the relationship between image, place, site, and process. Halm uses the words "anonymous fictions" in their artist statement, a nod to how perception is a tool for navigating the digital platforms of online dating. It also introduces a conversation about the information and data loss associated with publishing an online dating profile.

This works leave me wondering if dating profiles are a form of self-publishing. Through printed media and the blurring of the portrait, Halm creates a space for inquiry and speculation on the implications of putting yourself online. How much information is needed to effectively communicate who you are? What can people do with this information and is this the new normal for dating within queer communities?

[zhongrin]

Riiiin I have an inquiry since I'm drawing anon's appearances... 👉 👈 May I know how you look like? Not irl but as a general concept of your sona! I've been drawing my own self because I want to put down some concept designs and my brain went "wait what if I drew everyone else with their self ships?"

And so here we are WWWW

I wanna draw you with Zhongli and Ansy with their husband Dain but I'm very shy asking Ansy HAODJDODJD that's it—

— 🌸🍒

*screams into my pillow, kicking my feet* /pos

my sona is something like this hehe plssss if you draw me with zhongli i will.... i will cry. bc i literally teared up when ansy and mochi did that. and whenever my friends send me pov drawings of him bc they support my selfship i just melt into a puddle hskdjskdjls /pos

yall are too nice... you absolutely can do it but pls don't pressure yourself!!! and do you have any references for your sona cause i would love to draw you and kazuha with my meagre drawing skills!! only if you are comfortable to share tho <3 <3 <3

and pls don't be shy to ask ansy, i think they would love getting drawn with their hubby heheh we'll all just ignore al haitham and faceless!ayato lurking in the background-