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queenmuzz · 1 month ago

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Ballrooms and Bloodlines: Chapter I

A steamy story set post Veilguard

Read HERE on Ao3

It’s not what she’s used to. She’s used to wearing rugged leather, chain mail, her shield and greathammer. Not tonight. She wields and wears neither. She’s used to having her hair in a rough, practical ponytail. Not tonight.

She’s used to going barefaced, no need for accentuation of features that get obscured by dirt and grime. Not tonight.

She’s used to wearing minimal jewelry, and aside from one item, is for battle scenarios, with enchantments for necrotic damage, or defense against demons. Not tonight.

Tonight, she is draped in bangles, rings, necklaces, all generously borrowed from her Ingellvar ‘ancestors’. As much as she finds it distasteful to loot from their crypts, she knows that the long extinct noble family is more than happy to lend their grave gold to the hero that bears their name.

Tonight, Myrna gently brushes the eye shadow on her eyelids, blending the shades together, before tutting at her to remain still as she applies eyeliner. How women and men are able to point a sharpened implement straight at their eyes without flinching is beyond her. Still, there are few people she would trust more than Myrna to do such an intimate and delicate thing.

Tonight, Vorgoth rumbles contentedly as it braids her silver hair, working on what will probably be one a set of twenty or more separate tiny braids, all entwining together , resembling a string of pearls adorning her head.

Tonight she is wearing a full length dress made of the finest Nevarran velvet dark green, almost black, with the accents of lilac in the bodice. The amount of times she’s worn a formal dress in her lifetime can be counted on a skeleton’s hand. With two fingers removed.

Each of these times, they had been an ill fitting dress, borrowed by an old watcher, several seasons out of fashion and she’d removed them at the first opportunity she had. This one is the latest in Nevarran fashion, fitted perfectly to her stature, and hugs every curve. And for once, this dress is not borrowed, it is her very own to keep.

For tonight, she is no longer Watcher Ingellvar, disgraced Cryptguard.

She is Lady Ingellvar, Slayer of Gods.

Well, that’s the name on the ball invitation.

A ball given in HER honour.

It still surprises her that she, a foundling with no name, is the star attraction at this gala. Although, at this point, she ought to know better. She has spent the past three years walking the length and breadth of Thedas, traveled to the Fade, fought battles that only take place in legends. And come face to face with the most dangerous entities that have ever existed. That people wish to celebrate their champion, especially when she comes from their own soil.

Of course, she would be the first to say that she wasn’t alone. That she had the best of the best at her side. People with far more experience than her at practically everything. All she happens to have is the skill to bring said people together. Somehow that makes her something Varric called her all the way back, a ‘Leader.’ A person that people can look up to.

“IT IS FINISHED.” Vorgoth rumbles with apparent satisfaction as it floats back a bit, and Mryna gives a final brush of blush.

She sees herself in the mirror, almost completely unrecognizable. She shimmers in green, gold, and silver

“Are you ready?” Myrna asks, doing her best to keep her voice settled “They are waiting for you.”

“HE IS WAITING.” Vorgoth adds.

She nods, swallowing all her doubts as she makes her way to the door, followed by the two people she is the closest she’s had to parents.

The double doors open revealing a figure. He stands there, looking resplendent in his formal Mourn Watcher garb, glittering epaulettes on his deep green and burgundy uniform. He looks the definition of dignified. Aside from the waves of anxiety that he’s exuding, the way he quickly hides his hands behind his back, trying to look stately, but not quite quick enough to hide the way they tremble. She sees his eyes widen as he takes her in, the sharp intake of breath, the way he wets his lips, and her heart thumps painfully. Even if the worst should come to pass and she makes a complete fool of herself, seeing him looking at her with such adoration will have made it all worth it.

He straightens his back, takes one hand from behind his back, now still and under control, and takes her hand. He bows low, and kisses it. Ever the gentleman.

“You look… he struggles to find the right word, glances at the two people behind her, “stunning, my dear.” It’s not the word he’s looking for, and she knows it. Whatever word he wanted to use is not for a gentleman to say, especially in front of a lady’s parents.

“Shall we?” He offers her his arm and she hooks hers with his as the four of them make their way to the hustle and bustle of the ballroom.

-----

It seems that the entire Mourn Watch has shown up, as well as the cream of the Nevarran nobility. There’s even a few Tevinter nobles, several Antivans, even a very out of his depth Orlesian, who keeps nervously looking at the undead servants offering hor'dourves on golden platters. The only conspicuous absence is King Markus, but no doubt he’s far too busy to attend.

Besides, there’s more than enough people to make up for one reclusive Royal. There’s elderly men who are wheeled about by their skeletal servants, enjoying one of their last social events before they too will join their ancestors in the crypts. There’s a gaggle of small children, most of them utterly entranced and entertained by the magic show Manfred is performing for them. She idly muses on how well he works with children, his happy hisses as the children cheer as he juggles fireballs. He only pauses his show to wave at them when he notices them.

But a good chunk of the party goers are young, attractive, and most importantly, unmarried men and women, all circling her like vultures. She involuntarily moves closer to Emmrich, who notices her discomfort and squeezes her arm reassuringly.

“May I have the honour of having the first dance?”

If she had her way, she would have ALL her dances with him, she muses as they dance, his one hand chastely at her waist, the other entwined in hers, guiding her around the ballroom floor, as the band played a traditional Nevarran waltz. (Sadly one of the few things that the undead couldn’t do was wind instruments). He’s delicate with her, his touch barely noticable as they move to and fro with the other dancers. It feels so out of place, almost a regression to when he first started courting her. Fade knows that he has been much LESS gentle with her lately, not that she’s been complaining. But she knows she must appear… ‘Available’. In high society, you can make so many more connection if you have the potential for a marriage alliance. It feels dirty, leading all these people on, having no intention of even considering a union with any of their relatives, but that's how the upper crust works. It's not unique to Nevarra, sadly.

“You dance so well,” he murmurs in the shell of ear, causing a shiver of pleasure to run down her spine, driving away the shame at her deception.

“Well, I had a good teacher,” she tells him, “an incredibly patient and kind teacher,” and she can see a flush appear in his cheeks. This is not idle flattery, as she has spent the last few weeks having her feet being taught to follow a set pattern, instead of reacting on the fly. It was a hard thing to learn, until he had come up with the idea to treat it like a battle, that when her his left foot moves forward, her right foot should move backwards and to the left. There’s a fine line between offense and defense, and she learns to recognize the signs when the roles should reverse.

“It didn’t hurt that he is incredibly handsome as well,” and she senses, much to her satisfaction, a tiny little hitch in his step, and his blush deepens.

The song draws to an end, and he gracefully leads her off the floor. She’s aware that a silent crowd follows her, all eager for a sample of her attention.

“My dearest, as much as I would love to keep you to myself for the entire night, they are here for you. It’s time…”

She stiffens, as this is the one thing she had feared about this event. It is one thing to command a fire breathing Adari, a possessed assassin, a Tevinter detective, a magical dwarf, a Warden who has killed an archdemon and lived, a savant in ancient elvish technology, (and an incredibly charming necromancer) to kill Gods. It’s quite another to be the star attraction in a ballroom, where everyone wants her attention, even for a brief second.

Still, she swallows her fear, pastes a polite smile on her face, and goes to greet her followers.

She starts out easy, picking out a tall lanky teenage boy who seems awed by her mere presence as her next dance. He stumbles over his words as he tries to play the gentleman and take the lead on the ballroom, before she gently smiles at him, and lets him relinquish control, and then leads him across the ballroom, round and round again. He attempts to talk to her, stammering out questions about her adventures. It’s adorable how he’s transfixed by her, not love precisely, but she knows he will go to his grave, many, MANY, years later (she hopes) with this moment etched into his bones.

By the time the song ends The poor boy is as red as the tomato sauce Lucanis canned for her as a gift before they last parted company. She places a chaste kiss on his cheek, and he practically flees the room, overwhelmed by his feelings.

The next dance is elderly matriarch, who starts out deceptively easy to dance with. That is, until the woman reveals she has several sons of marriageable age.

“My eldest, Edwin, runs a tailoring business! He’s high in demand by both the living and the dead, you MUST come see his work the next time you’re out…”

“That sounds nice”

“And there’s my boy Lothar. Shame he couldn’t make it, busy supplying masonry to Minrathous rebuilding efforts. He also hosts the best soirées!

“Lovely”

“And my youngest, Cyril! He’s part of your Mourn Watch! No doubt you’ve been acquainted with him. He’s such a gentleman! You two would definitely get along!”

“I’m… sure we would.”

The song is mercifully shorter than the previous one, and she’s thankful she can disentangle herself before the woman starts arranging invitations for her to visit her manor when her sons are in town.

She takes a quick break from dancing, sipping a drink, making small talk with guests, thanking them for coming, all while she makes her way slowly towards Emmrich, who is in a conversation with Vorgoth. She needs to get to him before the next song starts, she needs to take her on the ballroom once more.

He sees her approach, and she loves the way his eyes light up, the way he apologises to the entity that he really must be going, and makes his way towards her. They’re about to embrace…

“Lady Zea Ingellvar!”

An iron voice rings out, sharp and demanding, but coated in a thin layer of gold plate, to make it sound palatable and pretty. Emmrich’s brows furrow as he looks towards the intruder, and she follows his gaze.

It’s a young man, around her age, his wavy rose gold hair perfectly combed. He wears the Mourn Watch uniform, but unlike Emmrich’s, it’s garishly decorated in an assortment of medals, relics, and other gold flimflammery from long dead relatives. Whoever dressed him seems to think quantity is more important than quality. Still, he has a presence that cannot be ignored.

“I don’t think we’ve been acquainted,” he holds out his hand, palm up, and she places her hand in his as he gives his a kiss. It’s not gentle, like Emmrich’s, it’s more possessive, as if he’s entitled to her hand, “Lord Heinrich Karppinen, heir to the Duchy of Cumberland.” She can’t help but wince at his emphasis on his title, like he clings to it like grave gold. “May I have the next dance?”

She can’t help but see Emmrich stiffen and bite his lip out of the corner of her eye, but he makes no move to voice his disapproval. She weighs her options. To spurn a ducal heir, even casually and with good reason, is not something that is done lightly. Strangely, she’s intrigued by this challenge. Perhaps she could humour him, allow him to think he has a chance to receive her grace.

She gives a quick glance at Emmrich, nodding curtly, and he backs up, accepting her decision, despite not liking it at all. She allows the young man to escort her to the ballroom floor, proud of his latest ‘catch’, and not afraid to show his accomplishment off.

“You’ve become quite the talk of Nevarra, Lady Ingellvar,” Lord Karppinen says as he smoothly guides her across the floor. “It’s been quite a few years since we had one of our people reach such a renowned status.”

“Yes, it’s strange to be compared to Cassandra Pentaghast, even if it’s a high honour.” She does not feel worthy enough to be associated with that woman that Varric liked to talk about, who wrote romance novels specifically for her enjoyment.

The name seems to irritate the young man, as he does his best to suppress a grimace. “Pentaghast!” He says, the P sounding like he wants to spit out a wad of mucus. “She was the Right Hand of the Divine, Founder of the New Inquisition, and what does she do with that power? Goes off and marries a Dwarf. A DWARF! Doesn’t even protest when the Inquisitor disbands her organization. All that power… gone…. And she ruins her family name.”

Insulting Lady Cassandra, a risky move. Zea thinks. She already doesn’t like the man, but out of necessity, she pastes a smile on her face as they continue their dance.

“You, on the other hand, have single-handedly accomplished so much more than her.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that, I didn’t do it alone.” She honestly argues, “I had many friends and allies. I had one of the best Antivan Crows, a brave Grey Warden, (it’s still hard to keep her emotions in check whenever she thinks of Davrin), and of course” She takes a glance at the gentleman across the room and her heart seizes as she sees him watching her, “the eminent Professor Emmrich Volkarin.”

That name brings out a face of outright disgust.

“Volkarin… a man who doesn’t know his station in life, deems himself as far too important to be bound by it. Plays at being a noble, despite being nothing but a commoner. In fact worse… a butcher’s son .” It’s the way he says those last few words, the way his voice drips with disdain, as if Emmrich’s father was vermin that repulses. She frowns, and she catches Emmrich’s face from across the ballroom, seeing how concerned he looks. He must know something is going on. But she tries to remain diplomatic.

“Honestly, I find that to be very noble, to take on such a lowly profession to support your family. To suffer the social stigma, to bear it willingly for the ones you love, is there not honour in that?” It is the truth. She has never had the pleasure of meeting Rupert Volkarin in life, but she knows that he must have been a good man, someone his son emulates to this very day.

Lord Karppinen scoffs, “You are very naive to think like that, Lady Ingellvar.”

“I am not,” she argues back. “Don’t forget, I am an orphan. A foundling. I claim no title nor lineage. I am no better than that butcher you disparage.” From the corner of her eye, she sees Emmrich now acting agitated, with Myrna placing a supportive hand on his arm. The situation is getting out of control, and Emmrich may do something he will regret if he sees that she is being upset by this arrogant noble.

“You are much different.” He responds, his voice now returning back to its honeyed state. An attempt to ingratiate himself to her. “You are a founder, a once in an Age person who has the potential to start their own dynasty. But…” his voice dips deeper, “In order for a dynasty to take root, it must also be grafted with other trees, not with the weeds that wither and die miserable short lives. It would be beneficial to join roots those with the pedigree of us nobility. We are the ones who have fought dragons, after all.” He’s trying to woo her, to bring her glory and accomplishments over to his household. But he has no idea how much it has backfired on him.

There it is …she sees it now, his weakness. In a battleground this is the moment that she would find the chink in their armour, a flaw in their fighting technique. Nobles and their everlasting love for dragon hunting. A butcher who carves up meat to feed starving bellies may be considered sacrilegious, but a noble’s taste for killing majestic creatures merely to decorate their halls with is apparently considered virtuous.

“Are you?” she asks sweetly, a true smile now creeping into her face. “Tell me, Lord Karppinen, how many dragons have you killed?”

The man sputters… looks shocked that she would ask such a question, but she continues. “How many generations has it been since a Karppinen has slain a dragon? Your father? Your Grandsire? Your Great Grandsire?”

“This hardly matters…” he protests, but she has him with his back against the wall. Now her warrior mind tells her to put her shield away, and bring out the metaphorical greathammer.

“Because Emmrich Volkarin has personally helped me hunt…” she makes an exaggerated act of calculation, “One… two… three… four… five? Possibly more, since one of the archdemons had multiple heads… but he has taken down AT LEAST five dragons. Who is the more noble now?”

He loses his sense of speech and she grins, as she is now the one to lead him across the ballroom floor. Emmerich seems to have calmed down, reading the situation as not as dire as he thought, but there is a perplexed look on his face.

“Emmrich Volkarin has helped me personally dispatch not only those dragons, but also two ancient elvish gods. He has broken into one of the most secure prisons ever created, and,” she thinks back to the conversation between Emmrich and Solas in Minrathous on that dark final day, “he has earned the respect of the Dread Wolf himself.”

At any other time, she might feel sorry for the man, the way he splutters and stammers, but today, she feels no mercy. In fact, she feels like she ought to pay him back for his slander of her beloved. She pulls him in for the kill, and whispers in his ear.

“Let me tell you a secret, my little ducal prince, you might think you wish to claim me as your own, but I carry the child of the wisest man in all of Thedas in my womb.”

He stiffens, and their dance comes to a complete halt, causing a disturbance as other dancers have to make last minute swerves to avoid crashing into them.

Lord Karppinen has gone a deadly shade of pale, or green, but perhaps the veilfire lighting is to blame as he releases her immediatly, as if she is infected with the Blight. His lips are moving, but no sound comes out. He looks like one of those freshly caught fish she had seen in Docktown, gasping and suffocating in an environment it did not belong in. Except this time, she feels no sorrow, no sympathy.

And with that, without a word, he turns around and storms away from her…

And goes straight for Emmrich.

Oh. Crap.

#dragon age the veilguard #veilguard spoilers #emmrich x rook #emmrich volkarin #emmrook #First Chapter is completely safe for work #my writing

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howlingday · 2 months ago

Note

Jaune, the half giant barbarian is sent to "Guard" the "prisoner". said prisoner has a crisis because they absolutely refuse to fall to the wildmans charms, its a matter of principle!! behind her we see master scribe ren in the cell, resolving to climb three quarters giant nora like a tree

Took me a while, but I had to find this post since it reminded me so much of this ask.

Also, I think this post is similar to this ask.

-------------------------------------------------------

In the mountains between the Kingdoms of Vale and Vacuo lies a city much larger than any seen before. Those traveling by land must pass through this city to reach the other side for safety. The Grimm who prowl the outskirts are hardy beasts, some capable of snapping up convoys whole with one bite. For this reason, the people of the city rely on the stewardship of the mountain-folk, also known as...

GIANTS

"Let me out of here!" The bars rattled. "Let me out at once! Do you know who I am?!"

"You are Weiss Schnee, daughter of Jacques Schnee, Chief Executive Officer of the Schnee Dust Company." The thin man replied. "You were caught trespassing into Titania and are now awaiting trial."

"You missed the part where I denounced my father and I'm trying to flee to Vacuo to get away from him."

"The Kingdom of Vacuo won't be kind to you." He turned away. "You're paler than I am, and I get a bad sunburn without stepping foot there."

"I don't care if I get sunburnt!" Weiss called back. "It could never compare to the idea of being under the same roof as him!"

"You say that now, but you haven't been sunburnt yet either." He scribbled on a clipboard. "We've already contacted the Kingdom of Atlas for guidance. A response team will arrive shortly to handle your affairs."

"They're coming here?!" Weiss popped her head through the bars. It was at this point she realized how big the gap really was. She could easily escape if she could just...

"UUUHN~?" A booming groan caught here attention. Looking up, she saw two statues glaring down at her... except these statues blinked at her. The one on left was the shorter of the two, grinning wide with teeth the size of her fist. There was a manic glee in its sky-blue eyes, as if it were begging for Weiss to escape.

"OOOGH." The responding groan came from the right, where the much taller figure of the two watched her. Its pillar-like finger was pressed to its lips, which must have been as wide as a coffee table. The gaze from its darker-blue eyes were more intelligent, as if it were studying her. If she were forced to fight one of the two, this one she was less likely to engage. She slipped back into the bars, and the giants returned to their seated positions.

"These are not giants." The man explained. "They are the children of giants." He gestured to the taller one. "He is the son of a giant, making him a half-giant. While she," he gestured to the other, whose face was tinged pink at his gesture, "is the daughter of a half-giant and a giant, making her three-quarters-giant."

Weiss blinked. "But she's shorter than him."

"Giants are a masculine race, meaning that while the men are much taller than the women, their muscles are more spread than their fairer counterparts. Jaune is a powerful warrior, but Nora could easily overpower him."

"REEEN~!" Nora bellowed. There was a blush on the man's face.

"Beyond this prison are the true giants, whose size and strength are what the legends tell of. If you value your life, you will wait here until your trial and then wait for the Atlas liaisons to arrive."

"And what if I choose to fight my way out?" Weiss growled.

"You are welcome to try, but-" Before Ren could finish, there was an earthquake that shook Weiss off her feet. Ren, however, remained standing, even while a massive greathammer, the size of a one-plane hangar, buried itself into the ground. At the end of the hammer was the furious face of Nora, teeth grit in indignation. Weiss shivered at such rage. "I wouldn't recommend it." He looked to his clipboard. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have other duties to attend to."

With that, he turned to the exit, Nora's hammer lifting from the ground and out of his way. She huffed, her large nostrils flaring like industrial vents. Weiss looked to Jaune, who was still staring at her, and noticed the massive sword close to him. She gulped at him.

"JAAAUNE." Nora bellowed. He looked to her. "BOOOR DUUUN VAAAR."

"OOOBOOOR NOOORAAA." Jaune covered his face with his massive palm. "TOOOR VEEEN SHAAAL."

Nora looked to Weiss, then to Jaune. She belted a thunderous laugh at him. His other hand pounded the floor, making Weiss unsteady. She caught herself on the bars, listening as the two continued to speak in Giant. It was an old language, as old as the world itself, and one she didn't know how to speak.

"Do either of you speak Common Valian?" The two giant-kin looked to her, then looked to each other.

"ME." Jaune placed a hand to his chest. "NOT GOOD."

"Good." She sighed. "Please, I need to escape! My father cannot be allowed to collect me! If he does-"

"STOP." Jaune held out his hand, and it almost felt like a gust wind pushed against her. "TOO..." He paused. "FAST."

"Oh..." Weiss pursed her lips, blushing a bit. "I... go! Else... Dad... Take me!"

"DAD. BAD?" At this, Weiss' eyes lit up.

"Yes! Yes! Very bad! Very, very bad!"

Jaune looked to Nora. "DAD..." Jaune clenched his fist, flaring his nostrils. "GOOOM DOOOR SHUUUN."

Nora looked to Jaune, narrowing her eyes, then looked to Weiss. She then looked to Jaune with a grin. "BOOOR DUUUN VAAAL~!" He clenched his fist again. He was about to pound the ground again.

"WAIT!" Weiss called to Jaune. He looked to her. "Me... Help... Uh..." She looked to Nora. "Her... With... Ren!" At this, Nora rolled to in front of the cage, the anger in her eyes revitalized tenfold. Weiss looked to Jaune for help.

"NOOORAAA. YUUUN NOOOR REEEN."

Nora looked to Jaune. "NOOO?" Weiss heart sunk as she dismissed the request. Weiss really was trapped here, and she could almost cry about it.

"SHE." Jaune said to Weiss. "WANT. HOW."

"How?" Weiss blinked. "Uh, well, um..." Nora scowled at Weiss. Nora was much larger than her, but looking past the size, Weiss could see a girl's attire to her. If this was what giants liked, then it must be cute, right? "Uh... Help. Clothes?" Weiss offered.

"NOOOR VEEEN." Jaune translated.

Nora sat up, looking at her clothes. She then got angry, growling. "NOOORAAA VEEEN POOON."

"CLOTHES FINE." Jaune said.

"Okay, uh..." Weiss pursed her lips, looking over Nora. Her hands were rough and calloused, likely from being her experience as a guard. Maybe something with her hands? "Maybe... Help... Hands?"

"NOOR KROOOSH?"

"NOOORAAA KROOOSH POOON." She snorted. She splayed her fingers at the bar. "JAAAM KOOOR?"

"HANDS FINE." Jaune translated, gulping. "UNLESS WANT SEE."

This was getting worse and worse. If Weiss flubbed up the negotiations one more time, she would have to see her father, unless of course Nora decided to present his daughter to him in a fine paste before that. She was helping Nora with Ren, but how? What would she be able to help her with.

"Nora..." Weiss gulped. "Nora... Nora..."

"NOOORAAA NOOO RAAAA."

"WAIT! NONONONO!" Weiss was two seconds from becoming a Weiss-cake, so she covered her head.

"NOOO RAAA NOOO?" Nora asked.

"Huh?" She looked to Jaune, who looked just as confused as Weiss.

"HOW TALK HOW?" He repeated.

"Oh, uh... I could... teach you... Valian Common!" She looked to Jaune, who was still trying to catch up. She sighed then tried again. "Me. Help. Talk... Me!"

"TEEEM NOOOR RAAA TEEEM."

"Talk... Like... Ren!"

"RAAA HOOOB REEEN."

Nora was quiet for a moment, then nodded. Okay, the hard part was over. Now she just had to teach a three-quarters-giant the intricacies of speaking Valian Common. Great.

"NOOO RAAA EEEM?" Nora asked.

Jaune blushed. "HOW... TALK..." He grunted. "HOW... TALK... BED... STUFF."

Bed stuff? It didn't take long to click together 'bed stuff,' 'blushing,' and 'Ren'. "Uh... Sex?" Jaune nodded. Weiss could teach Nora how to say something as crass, or she could be squashed like a pancake. The choice was hers. Unless...

"Better!"

Jaune blinked. "HOOODOOOR?"

"HOOODOOOR NOOO?"

"Say... good... about... Ren! You like!"

Jaune nodded. "IIISHOOOR REEEN."

Nora was quiet for a moment. Was she thinking of something nice to say about Ren, or was she thinking of how she could get away with the murder of the former heiress? She nodded before speaking. "REEEN SKOOO."

"REN SMALL." Jaune translated. "LIKE JORMUNGANDR."

Ah, yes. Jormungandr, the tiny snakes outside the city the size of freight trains. Of course. How else would these monsters be described if not by their clearly smaller size. Wonderful.

"So, something like he's cute?"

"REEEN SKOOO." Jaune translated back. Nora got angry again, judging by her flaring vent nostrils.

"Okay..." Weiss took a deep breath. "REN. KYOOT."

"REEEN. KOOOT." Jaune snickered at Nora, earning a smack from her. It knocked the wind out of him, boding well for Weiss' soon-to-be-flat form.

"REN."

"REEEN."

"REN."

"REEN."

"REN."

Weiss nodded. "REN. KYOOT."

"REN. K... KR... KL... KYOOT."

"REN. KYOOT." Weiss repeated, eyes gleaming with excitement.

"REN! KYOOT!" Nora cheered.

"What's going on in here?" Ren asked on return.

"REN! KYOOT!" Nora cheered. He blushed.

"Uh, Nora... I don't think you understand what- WHOA!" She scooped him into her arms, pulling him into her chest. "N-Nora!"

"REN! KYOOT!" She rolled around, leaving him helpless in her grasp. "REN! KYOOT! REN KYOOT!"

"NOOORAAA! EEEMAAA!" Ren shouted.

The room fell silent as everyone stared at the couple. Ren pulled himself free, blushing. He huffed. "NOOORAAA EEEMAAA. GOOONB EEEMAAA. REEEN JAAAM NOOORAAA." He sighed, gesturing to himself. "REEEN SKOOO. REEEN GOOONB SKOOO. NOOORAAA RAAAG."

Weiss had no idea what was going on. Jaune held his fingers to his lips in surprise, his face red as a tomato. Nora was also red, her eyes shining with tears. Ren stood silent; his gaze fixed to the floor. It wasn't until Nora laid down, her nose pushing his back. He turned to her.

"REEEN OOOM SKOOO." He turned to her, and his chest was suddenly pushed by her nose until he was flat on the floor. "REN KYOOT." She pushed her lips to his face, smothering him. She pulled away, leaving a drenched Ren laying there. As he stood up, he shivered.

"NOOORA." He faced her. "EEEMAAA~."

Faster than Weiss could track, Ren moved, tackling Nora and toppling her over. She could hear the sounds of smooches be pelted over Nora as she giggled and writhed at his affection. Weiss held a hand to her head, blocking her view of the kissing couple.

The door came open, a large finger curling it ajar. Weiss stepped out, looking to the very, very large man. He smiled at her and offered his hand to her.

"Um... No, thank you." She held up both hands. She walked towards the exit, only for her to be picked up by those same large hands. "Hey! Let go of- Mm!"

"Shh!" Jaune hushed. "No noise."

Pushing open a door with one hand, the half-giant man and Weiss left the cell, leaving the three-quarters-giant woman and her human beau alone to share their love with one another. Shutting the door behind them, Weiss was grateful to be out of her father's grasp but concerned about where this much larger man's grip were guiding her to. Speaking of...

"Ahem!"

Jaune looked down, noticing his hand was pressed against her breast. Blushing, he set her down and clenched his fist. Apparently, that was a thing he did when he felt stressed. Weiss was glad to be freed before his hand had the chance to do the same around her torso. No longer a pancake, but a ketchup bottle. Now she was starting to get hungry.

What luck that they'd arrive passing a mess hall at such a time.

#rwby #jaune arc #lie ren #nora valkyrie #half-giant!jaune #three-quarter-giant!nora #weiss schnee #white knight #renora

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blackjackkent · 3 months ago

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Ask prompt fill for @jennycalendar for this ask meme: Major Arcana Tarot Prompts Jaheira + The Chariot (Control, willpower, success, action, determination) Ty for the prompt! <3 This one's a little stream of consciousness but I enjoyed writing it. c:

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He is alive.

The thought rings like a bell inside Jaheira’s head, a cold clear burst. He is alive. He is alive. He is alive.

She watches Minsc curl his battered body into itself on the floor of the sewers, pulling his arms underneath him, struggling for balance, for strength. His face is darkened with bruises from Hector’s fists, lined with the scores from her own wildshaped claws. His eyes are half-closed and his breathing labored; any sane man would collapse under the beating he has taken.

But she knows him. Minsc will rise, and rise, and rise.

“He won’t stay down for long!” she cries out.

The relief in her is like a taste of madness, a snapping free of impossible tension. For months, she has traveled in curse-laden darkness chasing the Absolutists, but in truth she did not believe it could be for anything more than vengeance. Surely Minsc was dead long since, dead in that terrible hole he forced her to leave him in; there was nothing left to her but to see that those who killed her old friend might suffer for it.

She never dared to believe, until this moment, that she might be wrong.

He is alive. He is alive. He is alive. They have poisoned and stolen him but he can still be saved.

She rounds on Hector, for a moment unheeding of the solicitousness in her own expression. Everything - dignity, decorum, self-control - falls away in favor of the precipitate need. They must not have him a moment longer.

“Tell your illithid to protect him from the elder brain’s influence. Quickly!” she barks.

Hector nods, his fingers white-knuckling as he grips the Prism with both hands. A muscle works in his jaw and his eyes roll back in his head.

She looks down at Minsc, her pulse thumping in her temple like hammer blows. The muscles in his back are twitching with strain as he balances on knees and fists.

She has fought at his side so many times, for so many years; she knows every line of him, every quirk of movement, with more detail than she has ever known anyone short of a lover. She knows the twist of weight that will bring him onto his feet, a slight favoring of the left knee over the right - not because of the scar wound on the outside of his thigh, but because he will pivot the great bulk of his weight and lash out a kick like a greathammer.

And she knows the madness in his eyes, too. She has seen that flat blank rage sparked by a thousand righteous causes, rising to beat back evil at every turn. But here it is corrupted and wrong, turned against the good by the machinations of the evil. Turned against her.

“Hector!” she snaps.

Hector’s head jerks slightly. His eyes work violently under their lids and his breath hitches with a low groan of effort. Jaheira’s jaw tightens and her eyes go narrow as she realizes what is going on.

The illithid is fighting back. Of course it is. What use will it see in Minsc, a thrall already corrupted by the Absolute’s taint? What use will it see in saving him purely on the basis of her friendship? It is a brutal, cold, pragmatic thing, and it will rebel against such fickle sentimentality. It will try to convince Hector to leave Minsc behind, that he is worthless, dead mad weight.

But if Minsc is allowed to rise, he will keep fighting. And after everything - after the illithids and the shadowlands, after the road and the city, after the grief and the anger and the terrible lonely pain… she will be forced to kill him.

Everything in her rebels at the thought. No. Not here. Not ever. I will die myself first.

“The mind flayer pours poison in your ear, I think.” Her voice is all of a sudden very slow and very cold.

Hector’s eyes open to slits and his fingers flex on the Prism’s surface. His head jerks in a slight nod.

Minsc’s head lifts; he makes a wordless noise of rage and pain and Jaheira feels something twist and snap inside her heart. No, my friend. No, I will not leave you behind, illithid be damned. We will both die here in the heart of this cess-pit before I will turn my back on you again.

She meets Hector’s agitated gaze squarely, looking past his eyes to the monstrous creature battling inside his mind. “Tell it,” she growls, “I will tear the Prism from your grasp and throw it in the deepest lava pit I can find!” Her fists clench at her sides. “Long after our bones are dust and ash, the walls of its prison will still be burning!”

She means it, too. Perhaps in a moment, she will not, because of course it would be to doom everything… but as the words emerge from her, they are a statement of absolute fact, bitter determination from a woman who has been hurt too much.

Her voice lifts, echoing weirdly in the waterlogged sewer cavern. “NOW HELP MY FRIEND!”

Almost in time with her words, Minsc finally gains his feet and roars like an animal.

“Jaheira--” he bellows, towering over Hector’s slighter frame. “You KILLED HER!”

And they are the same in that moment, Jaheira and Minsc - two wounded creatures each ready to rend the world apart for the threat of the other’s death. They have lost so much and hurt so terribly, and they cannot bear it, not again, not again, not again--

“You are being dramatic,” she says softly, a hint of bitter humor in the words even in this moment of terrible strain. I am here, my friend. Whatever happens… I am here at your side. And her words catch him, draw him back a fraction of a step as he turns and looks at her with puzzlement poking through the rage.

Hector’s eyes open and his grip on the Prism loosens, and there’s a whipcrack of power through the air that even Jaheira, with no worm in her skull, can feel. Minsc’s head snaps backwards and he cries out, his dark eyes rolling to show the whites; staggering, he rocks back on his heels, clutching at his temple.

Relief floods through her, carrying with it a wave of exhaustion so deep it is almost painful. It’s over, she realizes. It’s over. The illithid gave in. The battle is won. He is alive, and he is safe.

She can see the moment where the terrible blankness fades from him, where her old friend looks out of his own eyes again. And so she’s able to laugh, just a little, when he turns and looks at her, the Stone Lord’s calm replaced with the befuddled good humor that she knows all too well.

“Jaheira?” he mumbles unsteadily. “I… do not understand.”

“Good.” She chuckles low in her throat and reaches out to rest a hand on his forearm, real and warm and solid as an oak. “That means you are back to your old ways.”

#ask meme #jennycalendar #jaheira #minsc #jaheira bg3 #minsc bg3 #hector carlisle #ngl idk if this is my best work; trying to warm up my brain again after this week XD #but i hope you enjoy; thank you for the prompt! c:

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lesbiansforboromir · 1 month ago

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The fact hera is called hera in wotr takes me out of the movie so much. Cause when I think of hera i think of the greek goddess. I saw someone say in a yt comment they wanted a name starting with h and someone on the team knew of a famous icelandic singer named hera. But not looking into the name more confuses me since they changed tauriels name in the hobbit to fit more. Makes it seem like they didnt put too much thought into the movie, especially with all the lore breaking as well

IT'S LIKE... one of those things I would have forgiven if the rest of the film was at least thoughtful, but becomes emblematic when it falls inline with all the rest of the just ZERO thoughtfulness in the adaptation. I did not know about the icelandic singer thing but that is actually so so much worse to me like OH SO YEAH, YOU ALL JUST THINK OF ROHAN AS YOUR IDEA OF A NORDIC CULTURE... LIKE FOR LITERALLY NO CANONICAL REASON BEYOND IDK... KNOTWORK PATTERNS ARE COOL? no wonder you keep putting them in coarse brown fjords or withered heaths instead of warm rolling hills of bright green meadow grasses. It's just so bland and lacking in even surface level consideration, vikings are cool and white and have a reputation for having HARD men so I guess that's what Rohan has to be! Give Helm a horned helmet and a greathammer haha what the fuck are horse archers, Vikings wouldn't do that that's girly, only Frealaf would do that because he's from Gondor and they're a bit you know ��

#chats #Anonymous #wotr critical #erran vs peter jackson #war of the rohirrim #wotr

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blackknight300 · 1 year ago

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Nora Perception Check

Team RNJR playing DND waiting for Qrow to wake up before Vol. 5 …

Jaune - "On the horizon of this forest path, you see a group of dark-cloaked figures slowly trudging towards you. What do you do?"

Ruby - "My half-orc barbarian braces her greathammer and- That's a one"

Jaune - "Critical fail. Ren, what do you do?"

Ren - "Well, I believe in anticipation, my rogue would try and hide behind a tree- ...Okay, I rolled a one"

Jaune - "That's another critical fail. Nora, what does your human bard do?"

Nora - "Active Perception Check"

Jaune - "...That's a natural 20"

Nora - "Let's fucking go" ( Starts playing a flute and singing)

I feel it in my fingers

I feel it in my toes

These muthafuckas mean to harm us

And they got to go

So come on, get 'em now!

You picked the wrong day to fuck around with my

Tight crew

There's no escaping it

I can perceive you

Here's what we're gonna do

Me and my boys gonna mess you up

Ruby - I rolled a one

Ren - I rolled a one

Nora - Fuck!

My boys are otherwise engaged

So I'm gonna bring it all myself

Nora - "Hey, I forgot, you're supposed to tell me what I see, right?"

Jaune - "Yes, thank you. Let's just slow it all down a bit. So, you notice that one of the hooded figures is a little shorter-"

Nora - "I cast Vicious Mockery, nat 20, let's go!!"

You're a short muthafucka

And nobody likes you

SHORT!

Everybody says "Look how fucking short that guy is"

And that stops you from forming meaningful relationships

When you were born, everybody thought that you were just a head

But then the doctor said

Nora - "Wait, this stupid muthafuckin' tiny short ass baby got a tiny little itty bitty body and I hate it"

Jaune - "Your attack lands and absolutely shatters the mind of the cloaked figure. Perception check, please"

Nora - "Nat 20, let's go!"

Jaune - "You perceive the figure was so short because it was a CHILD"

Nora - "It's always a kid..."

Jaune - "Specifically, the child you've been looking for for the last 15 days game time and 5 days of our actual lives"

Nora - "Okay, I'm sorry, I didn't know, I'll be better. His body's just lying there, right? ...Right?"

Jaune - "Yes...? Don't-"

Nora - Loot that body

Gotta loot that body now

Loot that body!

Gotta loot that muthafucka!

Play my flute when I loot that dead kid's body

Bitch!

youtube

#rwby #rwby jaune #rwby ruby #rwby ren #rwby nora #rwby v4 #team rnjr #rwby dnd #tom cardy #perception check #jaune arc #ruby rose #lie ren #nora valkyrie #Youtube

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yokowan · 2 months ago

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the g in "greathammer" stands for "girl"

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modeus-the-misanthrope · 2 months ago

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Weapon Ideas that I hope show up in Elden Ring: Night Reign.

1. A Greathammer* that's head is made of some form of stoney material with raw glintstone spikes sticking out of it. The intent being that it can be a hammer weapon that does Strike & Pierce damage, alongside it being able to have magic damage while not needing to have any magic scaling attached to that damage. (Would enjoy it being a Weapon Catalyst, but that might be a little much.)

2. A shortsword/whip combo weapon....just...just give me Ivy from Soul Caliber's weapon. Make the light attacks the standard shortsword affair, then have the heavy's cause the sword to extend/segment for better range/crowd control.

3. MOAR FUCKNG BEASTCLAW WEAPONS!!!!!!!! PLZ I BEG YOU!!!!

4. Fume Knight Ultragreastword. Gimme gimme gimme my fav strength weapon from DS2.

5. A pair of Dryleaf art or Gauntlet weapons that are made of pure energy. No not like the Cypher Pata. I mean like they are clenched fists made of like...magic or some shit. Lemme punch people with energy fists that do pure magic damage.

#modeus's autistic ramblings #Weapon concepts #Elden Ring #elden ring nightreign

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death-rebirth-senshi · 2 years ago

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Not to gush about my own characters again but I so adore the juxtaposition of the brutal look of the great stars as a weapon and the golden Erdtree armor. Poetic.

And patches is there because this was my first playthrough and I wasn't sure if I should join Volcano Manor immediately. Kind of unfortunate that you miss this encounter with him if you go to Volcano Manor immediately upon reaching Altus Plateau.

#me vs elden ring #idk what I was on about before when I was like 'oh I feel like I should be using the claymore on this character'#claymore has been such a staple for my faith builds since dark souls so that's why #and like. I LOVE making paladin characters that are all about the aesthetic. Like painfully so #but god I love the great stars it's such a good weapon.#I don't really like the look of the great mace in this game #bleed is also really nice.#prayerful strike and wild strikes with bloodflame blade are both very useful for so many situations #I love greathammers they're always my favorite #and I do sometimes really love how out of place it looks. How it isn't gold and shiny but rather dull and red.#imagining my character using the weapon almost reluctantly because it's too powerful and useful *not* to use #but also it's not gold or shiny :/ it's a brutal and terrifying looking weapon :/#I like the idea of constantly being up against these realities. Like with using certain heretical incantations #we're here to put the demigods to the sword. Greathammer. We can't keep our hands clean.#We will sin again and again to protect the Golden Order.

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machine-herald-archive · 2 months ago

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A Quick Fix - Anthony Burch

Any fool could have predicted that Viktor would strike back at some point. If one weren’t a fool, one might predict the exact date and time of an attempted counterattack.

Jayce was not a fool.

He stood in his workshop, bathed in sun rays from his skylight, surrounded by dozens of artifacts of his own genius: Gearwork boots that could cling to any surface. A knapsack with articulated limbs that always kept the user’s tools within easy reach.

Greater than all these inventions, however, was the weapon that Jayce now held in his hands. Powered by a Shuriman shard, Jayce's transforming hextech greathammer was renowned throughout Piltover, but he tossed it from hand to hand as if was any other tool from his workshop.

Three sharp taps echoed from Jayce’s door.

They were here.

Jayce had prepared for this. He'd run experiments on Viktor’s discarded automata. He'd intercepted the mechanical communications. Any second, they’d beat down his front door and try to rip away his hextech hammer. After that, they'd try to do the same with his skull. “Try” being the operative word.

He flicked a switch on the hammer’s handle. With an energetic sizzle, the head of Jayce’s masterpiece transformed into a hextech blaster.

He took aim.

Stood his ground.

Watched the door open. His finger tightened on the trigger.

And he almost blasted a seven-year-old girl’s head off.

She was tiny and blonde and would have seemed adorable to anyone who wasn’t Jayce. The girl pushed the door open and walked in with shuffling, tentative steps. Her ponytail swished to and fro as she approached Jayce. She kept her head down, ever avoiding his gaze. He had two hypotheses regarding why she might refuse eye contact: she was hugely impressed to be in the presence of someone so acclaimed, or she was working for Viktor and about to surprise him with a chem-bomb. Her blushing indicated it was likely the former.

“My soldier broke,” she said, proffering a limp metal knight, its arm bent backward at a perverse angle.

Jayce didn’t move.

“Please leave or you’ll probably die.”

The child stared at him.

“Also, I don’t fix dolls. Find somebody with more time on their hands.”

Tears began to well up in her eyes.

“I don’t have any money for an artificer, and my muh–,” she said, stifling a sob, “mother made him for me before she passed, and–”

Jayce furrowed his brow and, for the first time in quite a while, blinked.

“If it’s so precious to you, why did you break it?”

“I didn’t mean to! I took him to the Progress Day feast and somebody bumped into me and I dropped him, and I know I should have just left him at home–”

“ –Yes, you should have. That was stupid of you.”

The girl opened her mouth to speak, then stopped herself. Jayce had seen this kind of reaction before. Most everyone he met had heard the stories of his legendary hammer and his unyielding heroism. They expected grandeur. They expected humility. They expected him to not be a massive jerk. Jayce inevitably disappointed them.

“What is wrong with you?” she asked.

“Most facets of my personality, so I’ve been told,” he replied without hesitation.

The child furrowed her brow. She shoved the broken doll into his face.

“Fix it. Please.”

“You’ll just break it again.”

“I won’t!”

“Look,” he said. ”Little girl. I’m very busy, and–”

Something flitted across the skylight, casting a quick shadow on the two of them. Anyone else would have assumed it was nothing more than a falcon passing overhead. Jayce knew better. He fell silent. A wry smile spread across his face as he yanked the girl toward his workbench.

“The thing is,” he said, “machines are very simple.”

He lifted a large, thin sheet of bronze and began to hammer its corners with sharp taps. “They’re made of discrete parts. They combine and recombine in clear, predictable ways.” He beat the sheet over and over until it took the form of a smooth dome.

“People are more complicated. They’re emotional, they’re unpredictable, and – in nearly every case – they’re not as smart as me,” he said, drilling a clean hole into the top of the dome. “Now usually, that’s a problem. But sometimes, their stupidity works in my favor.”

“Is this still about my doll, or–”

“Sometimes, they’re so insecure in their inferiority – so desperate to take their revenge – that they make a foolish mistake.” He grabbed a shining copper rod, and screwed it into the center of the dome.

“Sometimes people fail to protect their most precious assets,” he said, nodding at her tin soldier before holding aloft the newly-formed metal umbrella. “And sometimes, that means instead of assaulting my workshop through the more obvious front door, they try to take…”

He looked upward, “...the more dramatic approach.”

He handed her the umbrella, which took all of her meager strength to keep aloft.

“Hold this. Don’t move.”

She opened her mouth to respond, only to yelp in surprise as the skylight shattered above her. Glass bounced off the makeshift umbrella like rain as a half-dozen men leapt down to the floor. Tubes of bright green chems protruded from the base of their necks, connecting to their limbs. Their eyes were dead, their faces emotionless. They were definitely Viktor’s boys, alright: drugged punks from Zaun’s sump level whom Viktor had pumped full of hallucinogens and hypnotics. Chem-stunted thugs who would follow Viktor’s every whim whether they wanted to or not. Jayce had been expecting to see automatons, but Viktor likely couldn’t have gotten so many through Piltover unnoticed. Still, these chem-slaves were just as much of a danger. They turned toward Jayce and the girl.

Before they reached the pair, however, Jayce’s hextech blaster exploded with voltaic energy. An orb of hextech-powered lightning shot out of its core and detonated in the middle of the group. The chem-slaves slammed into the workshop's immaculate walls.

“So much for the element of surprise, huh, Vikto–”

A hulking brute of a machine leapt down amongst the pile of unconscious chem-slaves. It looked, Jayce thought, like a cross between a minotaur and a very angry building.

“Watch out,” the girl yelped.

Jayce rolled his eyes. “I am watching him. Stop panicking. I have the situation well in-ow!” he said, interrupted as the metal beast rammed him in the chest.

The beast sent Jayce hurtling backward. He landed on a rolling cart, his back cracking from the impact.

Grunting, he pulled himself to his feet as the beast charged again.

“That’s the last time you touch me,” he said.

Jayce swung his hextech weapon as hard as he could, transforming it back into a hammer mid-swing. The minotaur lowered its head to ram Jayce again, foolishly ignoring the weapon’s arc.

The hammer found its mark with a resounding crunch. The minotaur, its head caved all the way back into its metal neck, collapsed to the floor. A cloud of escaping steam hissed from its carcass.

Jayce pulled back the hammer again, readying for another attack. He watched the skylight. A few minutes passed. Soon enough, he seemed satisfied the assault was over.

He tried to step back toward his workbench, only to double over in pain, grasping at his stomach. The girl rushed to his side.

“Still hurts where he tackled you, huh?”

“Obviously.”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t have let him,” she said. “That was stupid of you.”

Jayce raised an eyebrow at the kid. Her eyes widened, unsure if she’d crossed a line. A slow smile crept across his face.

“What was your name?”

“Amaranthine.”

Jayce sat at his workbench and grabbed a screwdriver.

“Gimme the doll, Amaranthine,” he said.

A massive grin broke out on her face. “So you can fix it?”

Jayce smirked at her.

“There’s nothing I can’t fix.”

#jayce giopara #standalone art #short story #machine herald archive #amaranthine #defender of tomorrow

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queenmuzz · 2 months ago

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5 Stages of Grief

Takes place after Tearstone Island, so beware of spoilers

Read HERE on Ao3!

It’s just a moment. It’s the time it takes for a man to fall in love at first sight. The time it takes to place a kiss on a lover’s throat. One moment she’s there, bloody, bruised, and yet determined to grab that dagger out of a would be god’s corpse. The next, she’s gone.

He blinks, assuming the distortions of the veil have just obscured her from him. She’ll be there, grinning as soon as she knows that Harding and he are okay, only to look back at the pit where Davrin and Assam gave up everything for Lucanis to take his shot. Knowing her, she’ll try to remain stoic as she mourns their loss, before making her way towards Elganan, her greathammer slung over her shoulder, determined to avenge their deaths, and to rescue Bellara. And he will be at her side the entire time. But she does not appear. The light of the crackling veil settles down, as a figure, no bigger than her, stands in her place, his hands resting behind his back. Emmrich has never laid eyes on this unexpected newcomer, but the spirits whisper his name in his ear as loudly as Harding hisses it. Solas… The Dread Wolf…

Harding instinctively (or because unlike him, she already knows what he purposely remains blind to) lets loose an arrow, which would strike true, if it didn’t shatter into fragments inches from the elf’s face.

“Your Rook has played her part admirably.” He states with a hint of pride, “I must give her due credit. She has outdone my expectations, not only leading a group of such disparate people, but taking out a would be God. You all should be pleased.” He looks sad, even remorseful maybe. Or maybe it’s all an act. He is the God of Lies and Betrayal after all. “Which is why your part in this, and hers, has finished. You have succeeded in killing Ghilan'nain, at the cost of two of your companions, but Elgar’nan is a different matter altogether. You cannot hope to best him.” He looks up at the eclipse and the gathering storm clouds that threaten to obscure it.

“Where is she?” Lucanis growls, speaking the words Emmrich is unable to say.

“There is a term in chess,” Solas speaks slowly, deliberately, “called ‘castling’, where the King can exchange places with the Rook. If there is any chance for this world to be saved, the Rook had to be sacrificed so that the King would not be captive in a prison of regrets.” No, he’s using a metaphor. She can’t be gone… she can’t be dead.

“Your part in this story is over.” His eyes look at them with passivity that barely conceals a deep well of guilt, “And as a token of thanks, I release you from any obligation, and I highly suggest you make haste with your companions to get off this island.” “We can still fight!” Harding yells out, but Solas gives her a small pitying smile, the type a person would give to an ant trying to climb a table leg to reach a plate of food, before flicking it off.

“And how indeed will you do that, Lace Harding of the Inquisition, without… this?” One of his hands reveals itself, holding a dagger that glows defiant against the ever increasing gloom. “Again, I urge you to leave. Elgar’nan’s wrath is terrible to behold, and nearly impossible for any mortal to withstand.”

Emmrich is willing to take those odds, even as the first of many lightning bolts strikes nearby, setting a blight tendril ablaze. The others begin to back off, even as Solas walks away, with barely a glance. Emmrich takes a step to follow him, to demand where his Rook, his Zea is, but he’s yanked off his feet by burly arms. “No way, bone man, you are not going to get yourself fried. I’m not telling your creepy little butler that you got zapped.” Taash’s voice is harsh, but not unkind, even if it’s hard to make out over the roar of the wind and thunder.

“Release me!” He yells at her, but his voice is swallowed by gale force winds as he struggles against the unyielding bonds that are Taash’s arms as The God of Lies grows smaller in the distance, until finally, the swirling clouds obscures him from view.

The rest of the trip back is barely controlled chaos. No one speaks, but each takes their role without instruction. Taash is directing the boat through perilous waves. Harding keeps a lookout for Antaam ships, most of whom are capsizing under the storm. Lucanis and Neve secure the rigging, and Emmrich… he stands there holding the mast, his eyes never leaving the rapidly receding island.

That is, until a beam of light, more brilliant than the noontime sun erupts from it, blinding Emmrich. There’s a few moments of silence, only punctuated by Neve practically screaming to everyone to hold on to something, and then a blast of an ungodly roar as the island explodes, sending a shockwave through the air, and a tidal wave that lifts their tiny boat in a swell that causes his stomach to drop. The irrational part of his mind is thankful that Rook’s not with them, she hates deep water, and this would be a nightmare to her. The other part of his brain is trying to insist that Solas must have sent her to the Lighthouse. Surely even if he didn’t have confidence in them taking down Elgar’nan, he had enough respect that he would not lock her away in the same prison he had resided in.

As their vessel spins and gets tossed on the chaos of the sea, he clings onto that hope as hard as he clings onto the mast.

_______

They stumble through the Eluvian, all of them soaked to the bone from sea water. The ‘landing’, as Harding euphemistically put it, had been rough, and it was a miracle all of them managed to jump off before the boat smashed into a rock, and to swim to safety. He now fully appreciates Rook’s aversion to any water deeper than a bathtub.

“What do we do now?” Harding asks, sounding lost and for over a minute there is no response as the adrenaline wears off and they come to the harsh realization of what has happened. Usually, Rook would give instructions if she was feeling confident, or a suggestion of what to do next if she was unsure. But now…

Maybe she is unaware of their arrival? Perhaps she’s with Manfred. His mind will not accept any other explanation.

“We ought to…” he hesitantly suggests, “Get ourselves cleaned up and then meet up in the dining room to plan our next step.” Yes, that seems to be a reasonable small thing that anyone can do. “That sounds good,” Lucanis agrees, letting the tension in the air slowly ooze out, “And I’ll make us something to eat, something light, perhaps some bread and cheese.”

Everyone nods numbly as they make their way to their rooms, and Emmrich can’t help but notice the way they pair up, Lucanis supporting Neve, her prosthetic leg somehow bent from all that has transpired. Taash all but scoops up Harding and carries her to the dwarf’s room, with Harding only protesting with a surprised squeak. That leaves Emmrich standing there… alone.

Bellara, the dear girl, should be running ahead, her agile mind already trying to figure out if there’s a way to kill a god without a dagger. He can see her now, going through complex theoretical formulae as she thinks of enchantments she’s studied from the blade. Darvin should be standing there, ruffling Assam’s feathers, trying to remain stern as he praises the griffon for his timely help during the final battle, promising a truffle hunt after all this is over. Assam, of course, would only hear the word ‘truffle’ and start squawking until Davrin gave in and remembered he had a stash of truffles in his room.

SHE should be there, at his side. Ready to have that little talk that they had promised each other. About his ridiculous anxiety about mortality. About his absurd concern about their age difference. They’ve faced so much together, they’ve slain a GOD together. What more does he have to fear? He doesn’t try to answer that as he hurries up the stairs. She must be there waiting for him. She MUST.

It’s uncomfortably quiet as he enters his study. No hissing from Manfred as he attempts to solve a block puzzle. No griping from Johanna’s skull as she attempts to plan another way to get out of her bindings. And no soft humming of Nevarran folk crypt songs as his Rook reads another of his books.

“Zea, darling?” He speaks into the room, and is answered by a startled hiss.

Manfred clambers down the stairs, dragging a knitting project he’s been working on, and the ball of yarn bounces down with him.

“YOU BACK!”

Emmrich doesn’t bother at correcting Manfred’s grammar, and looks frantically around. “Where’s Rook?” “DUNNO.”Again he ignores, or is too preoccupied to even hear the incorrect pronunciation, especially as a flash of gold catches his full attention. There, pinned to Manfred’s lapel, is a gold skull, its eyes filled in with gems that match Zea’s eye color. It was her first piece of grave gold, given to her by him. Seeing it on Manfred causes his spirit to soar. She must have been here! Left it with Manfred as a sign! “Manfred… where did you get that brooch?” The skeleton looks down, adjusts it, so its eyes send out sparks of light. “ROOK GAVE BEFORE YOU LEFT.” His mouth feels dry like grave dust. He remembers shortly before they had departed, he had seen her talking softly with his protege, and had just assumed it to be reassurance that they’d be okay. She hadn’t spoken to him about that conversation, had barely spoken to him at all until they had crossed that bridge where he attempted to bring the previous night’s argument up. He hadn’t seen her wear the brooch in her hair, or affixing her cloak, and had assumed she just carried it out of sight, where it could not fall off in a fight.

“ROOK GAVE TO ME TO KEEP SAFE.” Manfred continues, unaware at the rising panic in Emmrich’s mind, that perhaps he’s been deluding himself the entire trek home. “SAID SHE WOULD KEEP EMMRICH SAFE! AND SHE DID!” The skull looks around, its emerald eyes twisting in an appearance of confusion. “WHERE IS ROOK?” It’s a question he desperately wishes he could answer, but doing so might destroy him.

And a fear, deeper than death, darker than any chasm in the Necropolis, fills his chest.

#dragon age the veilguard #veilguard spoilers #emmrich x rook #emmrich volkarin #Time for angst!#my writing

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