#he's SO OVER Nevarran politics

[askfordoodles]

My man really said 'the only good noble is a dead noble' 🤣

[jaal-ama-daravv]

Are Nevarran Circles different than the southern ones, in that mages are allowed to marry, or retain noble titles? I know in previous games we had codex entries about Circles in the Anderfels, the Free Marches and in Rivain, but I can't recall anything being said about how they are generally run in Nevarra.

"Ever forward, ever deathward."

I love Nevarra and mages so this is such a good question for me! I'm giddy with excitement.

So, Nevarran Circles and their relationsip with magic are different compared to Southern and other Northern Thedas areas. I'll break it down for you:

Nevarra & Factions

Nevarra is known for it's unique approach to death and it's relationship with magic. Nevarra is unique in that they do not burn their dead but mummify them instead; they are then placed in tombs such as the Grand Necropolis. Nevarra also believes that when a person dies, their soul displaces a fade spirit when their soul crosses the veil - they can manifest as wisps that you see in the Necropolis, where some will take the form of remains or objects.

Nevarra is also unique in the sens that they have fraternitys among their mages in additiion to the Circle of Magi. One in particualr known as the Mortalitasi. The Mortalitasi are tasked with the responsibiliyu for the transfer and mummification of Nevarran Elite, other fraternites such as the Mourn Watch, will tend to the dead of other Neverrans. The Mortalitasi hold significant polital power and influence in Nevarra - the most in Thedas.

The Mourn Watch is a sub-faction order within the Mortalitasi who hold absolute authority over funeray dead. You must be invited to join this order. The Mourn Watch serve as the keepers of the Grand Necroplis and deal with magic that had gone awry - particularly corpse possession and funeray rights. The Mourn Watch assist the living and the dead with the process of death - often guiding he lviing to visit their passed loved ones in the Necropolis. It is a honour to join the Mourn Watch as they hold themselves to very high standards.

The Mortalitasi and it's subfactions (i.e., Mourn Watch) are privy to wealth, status, and political power. These mages are considered mysterious and fearful to members outside of the organisation and other parts of Thedas due to their reputation of being a death cult.

Circle of Magi

Mages within a Circle, including in Nevarra, are permitted to marry other members of the circle and individuals outside of it, with permission. Despite it being impractical, this permission is purely dependant on the circle itself. Some forbade it, and other allow it. It can also depend on the reputation of the mage itself.

For Mortalitasi and Mourn Watch mages, the rules are more looser due to their power and influence in Nevarra. Due to Emmrich stating in Veilguard that he had wished to of been married one day, it is likely that these rules for mages within these factions do not apply as strictly. This is due to the regional belief in about the relatiosnhip between death and magic and the Mortalitasi being the gatekeepers.

Whilst the Chantry still has absolute law of mages, Nevarra has more free reign due to it's culture.

Templars are welcome within the walls of the Grand Necropolis, however there is a tactit agreement that the Mourn Watch is better equipped to deal with any issues within the Necropolis.

Tldr, it is likely possible for members of the Mortalitasi to hold titles, own land, and be married due to the power and influence they hold within the region.

Hopefully that answers your question ♥

[lavenderprose]

Also, on a hornier note, please tell me more about the Mary Shelly thing? 😉

Assuming you're asking about the Emmrook version of events floating around my head and not the actual story about Mary Shelley losing her virginity on her mother's grave (This is a story I heard a long time ago and might be an urban legend/exaggeration of history. God I hope it's not it's the gothest thing I've ever heard. Either way, cannot be assed to check) Here's how it goes:

After a few nice garden picnics with Emmrich, during which Rook always takes a moment to pay her respects to Emmrich's parents--because she's a Mourn Watcher through and through, and when your in-laws aren't alive to have Family Sundays with, you make due by putting flowers on their grave and politely NOT bonking their son within eyesight of their headstones--the subject of Rook's origin story comes up. Maybe organically, maybe Emmrich's curious about her last name but he's been too polite up til now. Maybe the curiosity has been burning a visible fucking hole in his chest and Rook finally sighs and braces herself and says, "Go ahead and ask," and Emmrich, despite himself, launches into Twenty Questions Mode.

Either way.

"I know almost nothing about myself," is what Rook tells him, and she's made her peace with it long ago, but the sight of his sad eyes makes the old, stale heartache attempt to rise in her again. "No, don't do that. Don't pity me. I don't really care who I started life out as. What matters is who I am now."

"Rook," he says, and it's a statement. He's so intuitive that way. Yes, she's Rook, and that's who she chooses to be every day when she wakes up in the morning. If she tires of it, she'll tell him and they'll go from there. They've probably had this conversation before. Then he says, "I'm curious, dearest--"

"I'm shocked," she teases, and he tuts.

"Curious about the name," Emmrich sighs, and shifts into something she likes to call lecture mode, though it looks a bit ridiculous when he's sitting there on his own boot heels, hands folded in his lap like an eager and precocious boy. "The name Ingellvar is classic Navarran, of noble origin, though the family line has been extinct for over a century. Foundlings aren't uncommon in the Necropolis, and the naming conventions are rather specific. I was wondering--"

"Do you want to see it?" she asks, and leans herself onto his lap. He, as always, simpers to find himself full of her. "I know where it is. Been there a few times over the years. I'll show you the grave where they found me."

"I would quite like that," says Emmrich, so she takes him there.

The upper levels of the Necropolis are sometimes oppulent and sometimes just as dusty and ominous as their lower counterparts. They tend not to shift around as much, but there's no guarantee that anything in the Necropolis will stay in one place forever. Rook keeps track of this particular row of Sarcophagi, for obvious reasons. Several of the most important Nevarrans of the Blessed Age are interred here. Accordingly, it is beautiful and well-lit. The stones under their feet are neatly cobbled and the air is floral.

"They found me there," Rook says, pointing to a particular grave. A low, flat sarcophagus. The epitaph, huge and vaguely glowing even all these years after the initial enchantment:

HERE IS LAID TO REST WILHEM INGELLVAR COUNT OF RUNDEL. GREAT-GRANDSON OF KING BERTRAND PENTAGHAST. HUSBAND AND FATHER. HIS BONES WILL SERVE AS HE DID IN LIFE AS HIS SPIRIT WALKS BY THE MAKER'S SIDE.

It continues in that vein all down the sarcophagus, Nevarran patriotism and Andraste. Rook could recite it all from memory.

"Why this grave, I wonder," Emmrich mumbles.

"No idea," Rook says, which is true, and then, "Haven't really thought about it," which is the biggest, fattest lie she's ever told him.

Emmrich knows it too, because he looks at her and raises his eyebrow.

"Anyway." She slides herself onto the surface of the sarcophagus, which is polished to an almost reflective sheen. "Here's where they found me. Screaming, crying, wah-wah-feed-me." She falls onto her back, legs curled up towards her chest in a mockery of an infant. She wiggles her feet and her eyebrows in his direction. "I was smaller then."

"Evidently," Emmrich says, dryly, and sits down on the end of the sarcophagus. He glances around and, almost to himself, muses, "This chamber is quite busy, comparatively. It's popular for tourists, and close enough to the surface to be part of the Mortalitasi's regular rounds. Whomever put you here must have intended for you to be found."

"Whatever," Rook sighs, and drapes her legs over his lap. "I screamed and screamed until they found me. And the rest is history." She toes off one of her boots. "I have a fun story to tell you."

Emmrich visibly chooses not to address the flippancy with which she thinks of her own origin. Someday, maybe in a few years, she'll wake up in the middle of the night. She'll stumble like one of the dead into another bedroom in their top-level Necropolis townhouse and cling their newborn son to her body. When Emmrich finds her after waking to a cold bed, she'll look at him and with a voice like her own throat is haunted say, "Did she hate me enough to get rid of me? Or love me enough to let me go?" And he'll know she's talking about her own mother. And they'll start looking.

Here, on this day, she isn't yet a mother unless you count fire-slinging skeleton sons. Here, on this day, she plants her socked heel against Emmrich's crotch and curls her toes and says, "Once upon a time, there was a woman, and she was in love with a very beautiful and spooky man, and one time that very beautiful and spooky man fucked her in a sarcophagus and now she can't look at one without--"

"Darling," Emmrich gasps, and wraps his hand around her ankle and very decidedly does not move it. He'd put bangles there, and a chain that disappears into her sock and connects one of the bangles to a thin band that lives underneath the knuckle of her largest toe, and when he did so he looked at her with dark eyes and then did something with his mouth that she still thinks about at least once a day. "This isn't...very respectful of the noble dead."

God, she loves him.

"You've fucked me worse places. Besides, this guy," Rook slaps the surface of the sarcophagus, "was a huge monarchist asshole who's probably been spinning in his grave for the past thirty years because of the little elf girl running around with his last name tacked onto her. Maybe one of these days he'll stop spinning because I'll have a different last name." She's only a little amused that that's what makes Emmrich's cock jump against the sole of her foot.

"Dearest," he says, still consciously sitting still for what her foot is doing, "This really is a very highly trafficked area."

"Good," she says, low and slow.

"Oh," he sighs, and he sounds almost annoyed, like ink has dripped onto his favorite shirt, but he's moving to kneel between her thighs now, pressing her back into the relative concealment of the large flower bushes flanking the sarcophagus. A bit of privacy, such as it is.

"Whatever shall I do with you?" Emmrich asks, even as he shoves clothing aside. He takes off his coat and pillows her head with it, then pulls his shirttails out as some weird attempt at modesty, and she laughs until she feels him inside her.

"You'll figure something out," she tells him.

Emmrich Volkarin, the latest in a long line of esteemed Mortalitasi to be presented with a strange foundling discovered on a long-deceased noble's grave, smiles and makes love to her.

[hallahart]

here's 2000 words of self-indulgent solavellan veilguard reunion fic that is wildly noncanonical, apropos of nothing~

-

The Lighthouse, for all its depressing divorcée energy, is gorgeous—lots of magic lights, frescoes and paintings, high ceilings. Definitely nicer than the mud hovel Rook used to sleep in. But one mural (in what Rook is generously calling the living room—it has more of a tomb-like feel at the moment) is particularly eye-catching, seeing as how it’s about a story high: a woman reaching skyward, rising from the jaws of a snapping wolf with some kind of weird green geometric patterns surrounding her. 

“Who’s she?”

Rook doesn’t know Solas well enough to read him—the man is as impenetrable as Nevarran poetry—but they can hear his teeth grind from across the room. For a thousand year old god (or whatever), he sure is touchy.

“Must you pry into every nook and cranny?”

Rook ignores him, peers closer. “Oh, wait, I see it now. Green glowy hand, pointy ears. You know the Inquisitor?”

“I am surprised that Varric—“ he stops himself, starts over. “Yes. I knew her.”

He’s so obviously annoyed and uncomfortable that Rook has no choice but to wiggle their eyebrows. 

“Knew her, knew her?”

“The Inquisitor is of no concern to you.” Most people would probably backpedal when Fen’Harel looks at them like that, but Rook isn’t most people. They never really had a knack for survival instincts.

“Oh wow, you did, didn’t you?” Rook can’t quite imagine the standoffish man in front of them being romantic with anyone. He’s pretty…severe. They’re pretty sure he’s never smiled in their presence. “You know, I’ve never seen her in person, but those recruitment posters they put up back home—was she really so, you know…” Rook mimes some unlikely curves. 

Solas pinches his nose, and Rook is delighted to see a blush spread across his cheeks. “This conversation is over.”

Rook almost takes mercy on him. But apart from the sad silverware situation, this is the first glimpse of Solas they’ve gotten as a person and not some freaky wolf god with great taste in real estate. 

“So did she break up with you before or after she learned you were an evil trickster god?” They wiggle their fingers in mock menace.

Solas’ eyes flash and Rook knows they’ve gone too far. Whoops. Solas can’t kill them, not without possibly frying his own brain (or spirit, or whatever, Rook’s fuzzy on the details), but they’re sure he can make their life pretty damn unpleasant.

But all he does is sigh, the dark circles under his eyes deepening by the second, and holds up a hand. “Let us please focus on stopping the evanuris. Anything else is a…distraction.”

His voice is hoarse, and Rook immediately feels bad. Clearly this wasn't some meaningless fling (the twenty foot mural should have probably clued them in)—Solas is in it. Present tense. The sad empty rooms start to make a whole lot more sense.

You are the loneliest asshole I’ve ever met, they want to say.

“Yeah,” they say instead. “No problem. Plenty else to discuss. Ancient blighted gods freed from their eternal prisons, etcetera. Say no more.”

Rook can’t be certain, but they’re pretty sure the look on Solas’ face is grateful relief. 

What the hell happened between this guy and the Inquisitor that makes thinking about the gods that want him dead a relief?

___

Rook is lying on the couch pining over Taash and her stupid sexy crystal horn when Varric and Solas enter, already deep in furtive conversation.

The polite thing to do would be to let out a discreet cough to announce their presence. Rook burrows deeper into the pillows and holds their breath.

“Absolutely not, Varric,” Solas hisses. Sometimes he reminds Rook of a sad stray cat they used to feed. Very similar auras.

They come to a stop behind Rook’s couch. “Listen. I get it. Trust me. But if there’s anyone who can help us—“

“No. It is simply out of the question.”

“You’re going to have to face her eventually, you know.”

“There is no reason for the Inquisitor to involve herself. These are my mistakes to fix. Not hers.”

Rook can picture the pitying expression on Varric’s face. “Look around, Chuckles. Your Lighthouse isn’t empty anymore. Like it or not, you have to rely on the rest of us. And Ellana is already involved, even if you don’t want to admit it.”

“The Inquisitor is not—“

Varric scoffs in exasperation. “Took her arm off and can’t even say her name?”

Took her arm off? Whoa. Rook’s heard rumors, but…

There’s a brief pause. Rook can imagine the seething look Solas is giving Varric—it’s been pointed at them often enough. 

“Perhaps I should find a crossbow to name after her. Would that please you?”

Varric lets out a breath that’s half sigh, half chuckle. “Too soon. Way too soon.” 

Rook’s tried to pry into this whole romantic situation, of course, but Varric always deflects, saying something like Don’t even get me started or You’ll just have to pre-order my next book.

Another silence. Then Solas speaks again, his tone softening. “I have caused her enough grief.”

Varric sounds unmoved. “Yeah, by avoiding her for ten years. Has anyone ever told you that you’re impossible?”

“On occasion, yes.”

“Seriously, if you think she’s going to sit this one out now that she knows you’re here—“

Any gentleness is gone. “Excuse me?”

Varric’s nervous laugh makes Rook cringe deeper into the couch. “Yeah, about that… listen, you know it’s impossible for Sparkler to keep secrets from her. It was going to come out eventually, what with the whole ancient evil gods thing. I think she could put two and two together.”

Rook can practically feel the frost radiating from Solas’ voice. “You will tell her you were mistaken.”

“A little late for that,” Varric says sheepishly. “She’s, uh, arriving tomorrow.”

Rook winces at the slammed door that follows in the wake of this new information, and the movement is enough to give away their hiding spot. 

Varric peers down at them, his eyebrows raised. “You heard all that, huh?”

“Yeah,” Rook says, sitting up. “That was, uh…”

“Tell me about it.”Varric sighs, rubs a hand down his face. “Tomorrow is going to be a shitshow.”

___

Inquisitor Lavellan is very short in person. And she looks almost as tired as Solas. And she’s pretty–dark hair and skin, bright green eyes and a wry set to her mouth that looks out of place on the person who was supposed to be Andraste’s prophet. Rook was expecting someone a lot more dour and…Chantry-y. 

She’s also really obviously out of Fen’Harel’s league. No wonder he’s been pining for a decade.

She shakes their hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you from Varric,” she says.

“It’s an honor, your Worsh—uh, your Inquisitorial—“

“Ellana is fine,” she says—kindly, but impersonally, and Rook supposes she’s had this same interaction about ten billion times.

“Ellana, then,” Rook says, and she rewards them with a small smile.

“So you’re the one who interrupted the ritual,” she says. “With some rather interesting side effects, I hear.”

“You mean being magically linked to the grumpiest elf in Thedas? Yeah, interesting is one word for it.”

They’re arrested by the Inquisitor’s hand on their arm. “You could have been cruel to him, and few people would have blamed you. I must thank you for that.”

Her eyes are piercingly kind, and Rook suddenly understands how this woman had entire nations bowing to her will. They have no idea what to say, mouth dry.

“Still, I can’t imagine it’s been easy,” she continues, the wry smile back.

Rook shrugs, hoping their blush isn’t as red as it feels. “In terms of difficult personalities, he ranks a little below my Aunt Beryl, though Aunt Beryl couldn’t turn people to stone with—“

Then they spot Solas over the Inquisitor’s shoulder, hovering in the doorway like a ghost. He’s about as white as one, too.

“Inquisitor,” says Solas, his voice so void of emotion that it gapes like an open wound. 

Rook has a front row seat to the expression that plays across Inquisitor Lavellan’s face. Shock — she grabs the shoulder of her missing arm. Then something Rook can’t quite name—a deep well of some dark thing that makes them shiver, something they hope they never have to feel. 

And then her mouth settles into a grim line, eyes closing for a moment before she turns, back ramrod straight.  

“Solas,” she says, voice steady as she releases her shoulder. Solas’ eyes track the movement with his jaw set.

“You look well.”

It’s like he’s commenting on the weather. 

Rook, frankly, wants to throttle him. The woman you’ve painted onto every other surface of your house is right here, you idiot! Say something better than you look well! They try to communicate this through a series of glares, but Solas seems to have forgotten anyone but the Inquisitor exists. Fair enough.

“You look terrible,” she replies, stepping closer. Her voice is thick. Solas takes a step back.

“I think it best if we—“

“Solas,” she says, stepping forward again, and there is nowhere left for him to retreat. She has the Dread Wolf cornered. Slowly, as though taming a wild animal, she raises her hand to him, coming up to touch his face, the line of his jaw. “You’re really here.”

Rook backs away, knowing this is very much not for their eyes and ears, but—well, they’re nosy, and so they pause in the doorway, shamelessly eavesdropping. Luckily the two elves seem to have forgotten Rook’s even there.

Solas exhales roughly at her touch, ten years of tension rushing out of him in a moment. “Inquisitor—Ellana, I—“

“Hush,” she says, and drops her forehead to his.

Solas’ face crumples. “How can you—I do not deserve—” Rook can barely hear him.

“We have plenty to catch up on,” the Inquisitor murmurs, her voice gentle. “But you are alive, and safe. For now that is enough.”

Like a dam breaking, Solas reaches out, his arms wrapping around her like a drowning man, tight as a sieve. Rook is pretty sure he starts to cry, a sob coming from deep in his chest and shaking his entire frame.

Okay. Enough. Rook’s pretty sure Solas would actually murder them if he remembered they were still there. So they make their exit and ease the door closed without a sound.

They’re happy for him, despite everything. And they really hope they don’t fuck on Rook’s favorite couch.

[curiouswisp]

OC Tag Game

Tagged by beautiful Francesca's owner @trashwithvariety, not that I need any encouragement to yap about Ruk 💜

Tagging @hellomehlo (I need more Rue on my dash!) @dirthavarens @quaksi @albino-pony @scottysketches @flowersforthemachines

or anyone else that wants to share!! If you don't want to post just DM me all the deets about your Rook so I can look at them and think about them all day.

OC: Rukhana Ingellvar - Mourn Watch Necrotic Warrior

General:

Name: Rukhana Ingellvar (Eventually Rukhana Ingellvar-Volkarin)

Alias: Ruk, Rook

Gender: Female (she/her)

Age: 34

Spoken Language: Nevarran, Common, conversational in Tevene and Orlesian, can read some Tomb Script.

Sexual Orientation: Bisexual

Occupation: Mourn Watch - Political Advisor & Guard Captain

Favorite…

Color: olive and emerald green

Entertainment: any sort of games or puzzles, playing piano

Pastime:  History nerd, overly competitive board game/card player, kicking ass in the sparring ring.

Food: Ruk can't cook well, but she's not picky when it comes to food. Started eating some meat after leaving the Necropolis, but deep down will always love anything made with potatoes.

Drink: Yes, please! 😉 She has a pretty decent wine collection and will never turn down a fresh cup of tea.

Have they…

Passed University: Yes! She majored in history and politics (with a minor interest in theoretical magic)

Had Sex: Yes, both casual encounters and in relationships.

Had Sex in Public: Yes

Got Tattoos: She has one. It was an act of rebellion as a teenager and has no meaning other than she liked the way it looked at the time.

Got Piercings: She has no piercings

Got Scarred: Some minor scrapes here and there and a prominent scar on her chin.

Had a Broken Heart: Only from one relationship, although she had an equal role to play in the heartbreak.

Are they…

A Cuddler: Yes, Ruk is much more comfortable with being physically affectionate over verbally affectionate. She loves resting a hand on a thigh or lower back, or draping an arm or leg over someone to show affection.

Scared Easily: No. Honestly, it's the opposite most of the time, she's pretty confident (overly so) and less fearful than she should be of some situations. She tends to assume she'll figure out a solution or a way out of anything dangerous but had a few wake-up moments during the events of the game.

Jealous Easily: Hmm... yes and no. It depends on the person and situation. She's comfortable in polyamorous situations and is capable of compersion, but every now and then a situation will get under her skin and she doesn't tend to handle it well.

Trustworthy:  Absolutely. She's a sealed vault unless you are asking her not to tell her partners something, then sorry 🤷‍♀️ they know everything she knows.

Family…

Sibling(s): None that she knows of.

Parents: Ruk is unaware of their status.

Children: Other than Manfred, one daughter years after the game's events.

Pets: She gifted Manfred a black cat that she adopted after it followed her for an entire afternoon around Minrathous. She gifted it to him to accompany him during his time as an apprentice and he named it Cat. They hiss at each other and adventure together.

[kikuwaters]

The fear of being seen

A little scene I wrote in which DK has started to really become close with Emmrich, and the raw vulnerability is scaring him. Lucanis is there to talk to him about it. Mentions of sex and sexual intimacy

For the past three days, DK has been wandering around the lighthouse with a stare more empty than a successful crow's wine cabinet. 

Lucanis tried to ignore it at first. He knows the man can become ill at times, and he's seen the way he lays down midday with a cold compress for his forehead and a mean-looking mug pointed at no one but his own pain. He told himself maybe DK was tired, as he knows on long treks how the man struggles to stand. How he needs a longer moment to rest than others at times, gripping his staff less like a weapon and more as an aid in his exhausted, thin fingers. But DK made no indications he was hurting or even upset. He was just... quiet—moving like a somber ghost in their home. 

By the third day, Lucanis was running out of lies to tell himself. For he knew how DK behaved; as much as he hated to admit it, he knew DK. And when he spotted his polite but distant smile that even left Emmrich looking hurt that morning, he knew this couldn't keep going on. 

“DK...” Lucanis says, his voice careful as he approaches. DK was currently sitting behind the lighthouse, legs dangling over the edge, his gaze lost in the endless expanse of the fade beyond.

DK takes a second to register, his attention locked out far beyond where anyone else can see. He slowly reels them back to this world before turning them briefly on Lucanis. “Oh... hello, Lucanis,” he murmurs, his shoulders rounded forward in a way most unlike the laid back and open posture Lucanis is used to.

Lucanis frowns lightly. He's never been the best at talking feelings, especially with others. He can feel a clawing deep inside, though, a need to check on DK. Spite is worried... he is worried.

“Are you okay?” he asks carefully 

“Mm. Yes, I'm fine.” DK says without looking at Lucanis again. His tone is calm and even, but it lacks any of his typical play. It was too calm, like a tranquil mage from a circle tower.

Lucanis hesitates, wondering if he should just accept that answer.

‘No!’ Spite hisses inside, deep enough where DK can’t hear his pressing. ‘Something’s wrong!’

Lucanis closes his eyes and takes a calming breath. He knows that; obviously, he knows that. But he also knows he can't make DK talk about it if he doesn't want to. 

After he opens his eyes, he tries again with a different approach. “I, uh.. I was going to make some coffee.” He tells DK. “Would you like a cup? Or perhaps a tea? I have some of those Nevarran leaves that Emmrich gave me.” He offers 

The faintest frown appears in DK’s expression at the mention of the professor. It was gone just as fast, hidden by the slight shake of the man's head. 

“No, thank you.” DK murmurs. “I think I'll just turn in for the night here soon if you don't mind.”

About a month ago, Lucanis would have accepted that this was where the conversation ended. But unfortunately, he can't get DK out of his mind, and he especially won’t after seeing an expression like that. 

‘He made that face after mentioning Emmrich.’ Lucanis thinks, trying to piece together a story he has no information on. It was no small secret the two were getting involved rather seriously. Did something happen between them?

Lucanis hesitates by DK even as the man gets up to leave. “Wait—” Lucanis reaches out quickly, his hand grabbing DK’s shoulder. DK freezes, startled, his gaze locking onto the crow in surprise.

That bright spirit green catches Lucanis off guard, and his fingers instantly peel back. “Sorry...” he says softly, feeling more flustered by his beautiful eyes than intimidated by them anymore. He looks away, so as not to be caught in their view. “Don't go. I'm worried about you.” He admits gently.

DK still seemed startled, though by now if it was by being grabbed or what Lucanis said, it's hard to say. He takes a second to let his words process, his eyes falling off Lucanis and out back towards the fade.

“Oh.. I didn't realize I was causing concern for anyone lately. My apologies, Lucanis. I just,” DK hesitates on his words, “I have a lot on my mind.” he admits

Lucanis looks back at DK, hopeful about getting him to talk finally. “What's going on?” He asks, lowering his voice. “Did something happen with Emmrich?” he tentatively presses

That little frown comes back, and DK sighs heavily. “Yes.” He states, sinking back down onto the bricks that hung over the fade.

Lucanis lowers himself beside him as carefully as he'd rest on a rooftop in Treviso. “What happened?” he pushes cautiously 

DK takes a deep breath and gives his mind a moment to form the words. “A few nights ago, Emmrich planned this. Date.” He starts, his words choppy as he tries to muster them forth. “It was,” he waves hand vaguely in the air before settling on a term, “Wonderful, actually. Amazing even. He took me to this lovely little place down in the necropolis. Moon lilies grew as thick as carpet, and the wisps lit the walls like stars of the dead.” He spoke with a gentle smile that Lucanis couldn't help but match.

“That... sounds beautiful, actually.” Lucanis notes

“It was,” DK agrees, “but afterwards we... Well we went back to his place. And things got,” DK licks his lips as he fights for the nicest way to explain this, “intimate.” He explains slowly 

Lucanis' smile drops lightly, and worry grows in his stomach. “Intimate?...” he repeats, fearing for the worst. 

DK can tell what he's thinking and raises a hand to calm him. “Relax. It was the normal kind. I just—” He hesitates, struggling to find the words to explain himself. “I suppose it's been hard, really, to process it since then. I've never… Well,” DK clears his throat, lowering his eyes to his lap, “I've never done what we did..” he admits very softly, a slight flush to his ears as he thinks about it again.

Lucanis’ expression grows more confused, his brows knitted together tightly. “DK. I don’t understand. I know for a fact that you have—well...” He trails off, looking away with some embarrassment. He doesn't want to think about the intimate details, but Spite is proof enough that wasn't the DK's first time getting physical with another person.

DK rolls his eyes. “Not just sex, Lucanis.” He states blunt enough to make the other man blush. “I've had plenty of sex before. That's, y’know, whatever. That's easy and casual and can be done with anyone or anything. What Emmrich did..” DK hesitates, that soft, far away look coming back as he recalls the evening. “... I've never had anyone do that with me before.”

Lucanis can realize now that what he's seeing in DK is a new emotion. He can recognize when the man is happy and in a good mood. When he's tired or has a headache. When his body hurts and when he's focused. But he's never seen this before, and now he understands it.

DK is scared. 

This is the kind of fear of a rabbit with wide eyes, frozen in the middle of the floor with nowhere left to run.

“Ah...” He says in understanding, taking a moment to find better words. “I think that's why it's called making love. You're right, it's more than ‘just sex.’” He murmurs

Making love. Being loved. DKs expression twists lightly, a deeper turmoil within within him when he considers that. He takes a deep breath to push the emotion down again, a twitch of rabbit's ears as it considers its options and still finds none. “I don't think I like that,” he admits, a tight whisper scraping out past the feeling he keeps trying to swallow.

Lucanis feels his heart ache. To yearn for love but to feel this way when you get it… He hates how painfully familiar that feels. Gently, he reaches out to lay his hand over DK’s. “Its okay, Deamortuus.” He murmurs.

Small tears spring in the corners of DK’s eyes. More want to come, but he's just not ready yet. He turns to press into Lucanis with eyes shut tight, finding his place to hide against the other man. 

Lucanis sighs and places his hand on DK’s back, rubbing softly to comfort him. He lets them sit for a moment before smiling weakly. “Why don't I go make that tea now, okay?” he offers again.

DK nods weakly against Lucanis’ chest. “I'll take a cup,” he mumbles.

Lucanis sighs, his hand shifting to the back of DKs head to hold him gently. “Of course,” he murmurs, his grip gentle with DK. The rabbit has been seen, trembling but no longer alone, with nowhere left to run except into the safety of another.

[serbarris]

Dragon Age: the Veilguard: Modern AU Pairing: F!Rook Ingellvar x Emmrich Volkarin  Rating: E, not really sfw lol Chapter: 6 Words: 2400 Summary: Emmrich Volkarin has been a civil servant for nearly 30 years. He intended to be an instrumental force in making real change across the country. Calliope ‘Rook’ Ingellvar was stuck in a job that brought her no joy. Now, she is the head of office for Minister Lavellan, right in the heart of Thedas’ government. He's disenfranchised, but she’s keen to change the world. The wheels of government turn slowly, but their relationship is anything but. Read on AO3

Friday 13th Justinian

Calliope rechecked her phone, as she had consistently done so throughout the day. She was waiting for a message to the contrary, that she shouldn’t come over. It was just before 6 o’clock and she was slightly early, as always. Emmrich’s house was barely a five-minute walk from her flat. His house was surprisingly similar to Calliope's flat. In that, Emmrich lived in a townhouse, and Calliope (and Lace) rented the top floor of a townhouse probably built around the same Age. It had the same red brick facade; however, his was covered in winding wisteria, its pale leaves bright in the sunset, along with the rose bushes he mentioned.

The spare time gave her a chance to check that she was presentable.

Hair: out of its usual ponytail and instead trailing down her back.

Makeup: dark enough to make her pale eyes glow and, more importantly, not smudged.

Dress: a strappy green summer dress covered in black flower motifs hugging her bust and full hips before ending mid-thigh.

Heart: pounding.

Hands: slightly sweaty.

Within a few seconds of knocking, Emmrich opened the door and immediately swept her into an embrace, pressing his mouth to hers, washing away the blanket of anxiety that had settled over her skin. His Henley was a muted mauve, clinging to his toned body, and he was wearing dark trousers. It was a much more casual look than she expected from Emmrich, who was normally so dapper in his suits, but she was pleasantly surprised by it. Somehow, he made it look regal.

“Come in, come in. Dinner is almost ready.”

Emmrich's living room was beautifully decorated; dark green lined the walls, and Nevarran artwork took centre stage, tableaus of skeletal figures featuring heavily. Bouquets punctuated the decor: roses in white, yellow, and purple; a deep purple flower that had striations of white and pale pink. His bookshelves were full of reference books and some novels she recognised, a few keepsakes punctuating the shelves. Calliope followed Emmrich at a leisurely pace, taking in her surroundings and adding to the pieces of the curious puzzle that made up Emmrich Volkarin.

The table was set with a spread of salads, a variety of dips, and flatbreads. A veritable Nevarran feast that echoed their meal that first day they met. “This looks amazing!” she exclaimed. When Emmrich brought out the final dish, a plate of roasted vegetables, Calliope could smell that they had been spiced Tevinter-style, just like the ones she had remarked were delicious at the restaurant that day.

“Antoine was kind enough to provide some assistance with the recipes.” As they ate, her hands brushed against his, sending a thrill through Calliope. Wine was freely poured as they got to know each other and basked in the easy comfort they found themselves in. As they neared the end of the meal, Calliope found the wine-begotten courage to raise what had been on her mind all day. If she was honest, it had been on her mind since the cemetery.

“I have a list.”

“Whatever for?”

“It’s what I do. I plan, then I contingency plan. I anticipate." It was the only way she was able to control her anxiety. She had tried countless methods, two medications, and one free therapy appointment, and only through thorough planning could she put her mind somewhat at ease. It was also what made her such a good secretary. Even if politics sometimes scuppered all of her plans.

“I got the impression you thrive in chaos.”

“I—work is easier to manage. This… It’s new, and we’re keeping it a secret. We need ground rules. I need ground rules.” He was humouring her. She knew he was. He had a lopsided grin, and his eyes sparkled with amusement at how much thought she had put into this. Into them.

Their (Calliope’s) conclusions were simple:

Limit any 1-on-1 meetings with each other. Meetings such as yesterday’s are limited to once a month to keep with general conventions.

No personal messaging on any work-provided technology.

Where appropriate, Calliope should have the most contact with members of Emmrich’s team, rather than him, for any work.

Absolutely no touching, kissing, or anything else improper in the office. Or Parliament.

No meeting for lunch.

No one within MOURN could know about their relationship.

“What is our relationship?” Emmrich asked pointedly, putting her on the spot.

“I suppose it's whatever we want to call it. We can just… have fun?” Andraste save her, she sounded pathetic. What was she meant to say, that not a day had gone by in the three weeks since their meeting in Parliament that he hadn’t thought of him? That her life already felt like it could be divided into Before Emmrich and After?

A featherlight touch on Calliope’s arm took her from her thoughts. Emmrich’s slender fingers squeezed reassuringly, his eyes soft as he looked at her. “This has been a surprise, Calliope, the compliment of your interest,” Emmrich admitted. “This doesn’t have to be anything more or less than what you’re comfortable with, okay?”

She nodded, reassured by Emmrich’s words, even if she was… scared was a silly word to use. Tempted? Eager? Keen? To voice her flourishing infatuation. She could offer him a “thank you” with a smile. She was grateful, truly, even if Emmrich perhaps underestimated her feelings for him.

“I’ll clean up,” Emmrich offered. “Make yourself comfortable.”

~

Emmrich opened another bottle of wine, the cork popping was a distant sound as Calliope studied the photographs on his wall. Emmrich's graduation photos were front and centre, one from his undergraduate and one, she assumed, from a master's degree. His hair was perfectly styled in both, though in different fashions. The younger Emmrich had a small grey streak front and centre of a lock of hair curling over his forehead, his moustache similar in style to how it was now but paired with a goatee. The elder Emmrich had a more prominent grey streak in his neatly cropped hair, and his moustache was thick and slightly turned up at the ends. She spotted the familiar sight of the Necropolis logo at the bottom of the print.

Another picture caught her eye. It was again of a young Emmrich, possibly taken sometime between the two graduation photos. He was with a young woman, around the same age, with wildly curly hair that surrounded her like a mane and large spectacles covering her eyes. She looked oddly familiar, though Calliope couldn't place why. The pair held up a small trophy between them, grinning widely at the camera, obviously celebrating some kind of win.

“Ah, I see you've spotted Johanna.” Calliope's eyes widened, taking the glass of red wine from Emmrich.

“Johanna?” She asked, nearly choking on her drink. Johanna Hezenkoss? Smiling?. Calliope had never seen her smile or even deign to slightly lift her lips in a possible smirk when Calliope had helped unblock an issue or tried to lighten the mood with polite banter. Seeing a picture of her as a young woman almost felt wrong, as if she should have been born with grey hair and a dour expression. “We won a Paths of Glory tournament at university.”

“I didn’t realise you were friends.”

“We had some overlapping classes at the Necropolis. Our work ethic complemented each other, and that translated well at MOURN too.”

“What did you study?”

“Bachelor of Fade Studies and a Master’s in Corpse Whispering.”

“Archival Studies and Funerary Rites.” She looked up at him, remembering she couldn’t reciprocate his earlier question from Parliament. Emmrich could have been famous for corpse whispering, known at least throughout Nevarra, if not all of Thedas, for his gift. “What made you join the civil service?”

“A work placement during my master’s, and well, I'm still here 30 or so years later.” He drank from his glass, hoping the wine would rinse the bitterness from his throat. “It’s difficult to change the trajectory of one's life without fearing the consequences.”

Calliope nodded sagely. She wouldn’t be here with Emmrich if she hadn’t taken the leap he apparently feared. “I used to work in the Annals. Recording and preserving history. Then, one day, I decided I wanted to have an active role in making history. So I applied for the first role I saw in government, which was at MOURN.”

“And here you are.”

“Here I am.” She coyly smiled, teeth sinking into her plush bottom lip, her cheeks flushed from the heady mix of wine and Emmrich. She could feel the brush of his clothing against her skin. Their closeness never felt forced or awkward, just a natural state that made her heart soar.

An arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her flush against him. His hard length pressed into her soft belly, sending a rush of heat pooling between Calliope’s legs. Emmrich continued his journey on her neck, nipping and sucking her flushed skin. Gentle enough not to bruise, hard enough to be maddening, her thighs clenched with every press of his lips. His shaved jaw scratched intoxicatingly at her skin. Light moans vibrated her skin when she rolled her hips, feeling Emmrich’s cock twitch against her. She wanted to touch him, ride his thigh to find some relief, some glorious friction between her legs.

Rising to the tips of her toes, she turned and braced herself with hands splayed on Emmrich’s chest, her lips hovering over his, echoing their kiss in the cemetery. The one that sent them down the path of secrecy.

He moved, trailing wet kisses across her jaw. Calliope chased, their wine-tinged breaths mingling as he teased her.

She could torture him back. Trail her hand over his shirt, nails lightly scratching over the planes of his body, drifting down until her palm was flush to his cock. So she did. Emmrich jolted, sucking slightly too hard on her neck before releasing the skin with a wet ‘pop.’ Under Calliope’s other hand, she could feel his heart racing. She guided Emmrich back until his legs hit the sofa, his knees buckling as he sank into the cushions without any of his usual grace, eyes wide.

Calliope climbed atop his waiting lap, the skirt of her dress biting into the soft flesh of her thighs, fabric taut and straining as she straddled Emmrich. Emmrich’s hands began their journey along her body, starting at her thighs, squeezing and holding onto her. “So soft,” he muttered to himself. His fingers danced over her hips and waist, tickling and teasing, setting her nerve endings alight with anticipation. Her hips moved without command, testing the boundary between the delicate fabric of her knickers and his trousers, if any friction against her aching clit could be found.

The splayed hand at her waist drew her closer, her hands draped over his shoulder. Swollen lips crashed against his, hot and feverish. Emmrich sucked and teased with his tongue. Her lips parted at his request, a moan escaping. Her hips rocked rhythmically. Her cunt danced over his bulge, the pressure building pleasure between her legs, surely making a mess of Emmrich’s clothes.

Panting—she was panting and keening for more. Heat thrummed through her veins as she moved wantonly, circling her hips to find the right spot. Emmrich pulled her closer with a tug on her hips, their torsos flush. She felt his clothed cock stiff against her clit, her moan becoming a gasp as she found the friction to scratch the itch of the need that had pooled in her core. She broke the kiss for air, her moans more frequent as her hips continued to move rhythmically. Maker, when was the last time she had this much fun? Blissfully free from the anxious voice that popped into her head, settling doubt over every interaction. There was no doubt that she and Emmrich liked each other, that they both wanted this.

Emmrich’s hands roamed from the grip on her hips, cupping under her breasts. If there was any doubt, he now knew she was not wearing a bra. His deep groan confirmed it as he caressed her stiff nipples through the thin fabric of her dress. The rolling of her hips became jerky, moving with abandon rather than the practised rhythm of before. “Emmrich, fuck,” she moaned, her head falling to rest in the crook of his neck as she was worked closer to the edge.

“That’s it,” Emmrich cooed as he held her steady, his hands guiding her hips against his. She began to nip and kiss at Emmrich’s neck, where his shirt collars could hide any evidence. His pulse thundered under her tongue and lips, and his strangled moans were the only evidence of his resolve shattering. Fuck, they were both about to cum, weren’t they? Dry humping on a sofa like horny teenagers.

Emmrich’s hips bucked into hers fiercely, her body becoming loose and listless. She suppressed a moan as Emmrich made her see stars, her teeth clamped down at the base of his neck.

“Calliope, I’m—” He didn’t finish, his sentence instead a guttural moan that reverberated in his throat. His hips snapped into hers, tipping Calliope over the edge. Her body stiffened as she came, crying out, waves of pleasure coursing through her before she relaxed. Emmrich’s movements slowed as he rode out both their orgasms.

~

“-utterly beautiful,”

Calliope caught the words as she emerged from the haze of pleasure. Emmrich’s hand was warm as it traced up and down her spine, and he continued to murmur into her hair.

“Are you okay?”

She nodded, her head still buried in the crook of his neck, before she rose, cheeks and lips bright and flushed with pleasure. “Yeah,” she began, breathless, “I’m good.” Her smile was wide as she leaned in to deliver a peck onto Emmrich’s lips.

[teamtakagi]

Language of Flowers Ask #3

Wisteria: Write a scene where Rook dances with their partner.

Original prompt located here

Thank you for the ask, @elfmaid!

I absolutely went overboard with this one, so it got pretty long.

(Is this accurate to Nevarra culture? Probably not. But I fell into a deep rabbit hole of researching Regency dances and etiquette, so here we are. Just let me have a cute fluffy Pride and Prejudice-inspired scene. 

Also: Jerran now has a Swear Jar where it's a bit more limited. It's slipping out in real life and the mini-mes are delightful little parrots right now)

HUGE Thanks to @a-mumbling-nerd for entrusting me with Eleanor and previewing it to make sure that I did her and her family justice, as well as providing some dialogue. I am so honored to be allowed to work with such a wonderful character).

______

The crowded Nevarran ballroom’s air of stilted politeness, centuries of tradition, and social sparring weighed upon Jerran as heavily as Davrin’s ceremonial armor. Gold and other precious jewels dripped from the high chandeliers to the wall reliefs depicting the Cycle of Life and Death, to even the human attendees themselves. A few elves dressed in dark clothing stood around the edges of the room, only springing forward to assist when needed. 

Glancing around, Jerran subtly tried to slip a finger under his richly embroidered jacket’s collar as it dug into his neck.  He accidentally caught the eye of an older woman, who seemed offended at his very existence. She gasped when he winked at her before she turned to whisper with a companion.

A skeleton waiter offered a tray of glasses filled with a mysterious amber-filled liquid. He automatically took one and thinned his lips at the cloying stickiness coating his tongue. Maker’s Breath, I’d rather drink from the Joining Cup again.  At least that knocked him unconscious.

A small hand squeezed the crook of his elbow, and he turned to see Eleanor beaming up at him. “Isn’t this so exciting? I’ve always dreamed of attending these. I’ve never been to one, at least, one where I danced with someone. But I've read about them,” she giggled, waving her own crystal goblet.  

Jerran smiled back. Eleanor, of course, looked beautiful in a white gown with flouncy gold-trimmed sleeves and a black jacket where matching gold threads shimmered in the candles lining the room. He squeezed her hand, trying to hide the sour feeling at the pit of his stomach.

From where they stood next to disapproving matrons and nervous young people waiting for their turn, he observed couples gracefully bobbing and weaving in a lively dance. As the music ended and the next dance was called, they bowed and scattered, exchanging places with those next in line. 

A couple of young ladies paused to speak to Eleanor, who slightly jumped at their attention. “Cousin Eleanor! Oh, it’s such a delight to see you again,” one with hair coiled with golden beads gushed, sounding as overly sweet as the punch. “Such a shame Uncle Khoen and Aunt Yesult couldn’t make it this time.”

“But what an honor for their daughter to attend. You must come again with your… beau.” Her pale-haired friend glanced up at Jerran, amusement in her blue eyes. “He seems… interesting.”

Eleanor made introductions; Jerran instantly forgot their names. He mumbled, “Nice to meet you.” 

The young women acknowledged him with a slight head tilts, but they made no reply as they giggled about the fashions this year. Jerran tuned them out.

How the hell did I get here? He absently took another sip of the punch, not bothering to hide the grimace. 

Oh yeah. Three days ago, a panicking Eleanor had burst into his room waving a missive in his face. A relative, a great uncle five times removed or something – Jerran’s eyes glazed over while trying to remember all of Eleanor’s extended relations – was holding a very important yearly ball that Eleanor’s parents were absolutely required to attend, due to family obligations and honor. 

Or something.

The only problem? Apparently, Eleanor’s parents were neck deep in some sort of Spirit Research (again, Jerran’s eyes glazed over when she tried to explain) and just couldn’t possibly attend. 

Perhaps Eleanor and that Grey Warden beau of hers could go in their stead? Dance a few dances, smile at the relatives. It would be easy. Never mind that the gods were trying to enslave everyone with the Blight.

And for Maker and Andraste's sake, be sure to greet the Duchess Isla Ingellvar properly. As one of their patrons, it was of the absolute utmost importance. 

It seemed dumb. But what was important to Eleanor was important to Jerran. If that meant dressing in awful clothes and sip sickly-sweet punch for one evening, so be it. 

Only Emmrich had gasped when Jerran told him the news. “My dear lad, you would be eaten alive at such an affair. One must know the proper etiquette to avoid offence. And the dances! They are equal parts diplomacy as well as entertainment. Which… please don't take this the wrong way, is not your strongest suit.”

Before Jerran could protest, the Necromancer clapped his hands together as he turned to Manfred. “We must begin at once for you to learn ‘Death Becomes Us’ and at least the waltz. Ironically, ‘Death Becomes Us’ is a lively dance, meant to evoke the fleeting….” He continued muttering under his breath as he pulled out several dancing instruction books.

They'd recruited Bellara as a substitute partner; she’d happily agreed after being sworn to secrecy in exchange for allowing her to use the experience in her budding romance serial. Between investigating suspicious Venatori sightings and haunted candlehops, Emmrich instructed them in his room.

“Dancing is remarkably like combat. There’s a rhythm and pattern to it that once you recognize, you’ll be able to apply to anything. This will help you in battle as well,” Emmrich said as Jerran spun Bellara the wrong way. “Do it. Again.”

Thankfully, Eleanor hadn’t noticed Jerran’s absence. She’d been too busy practicing the proper bowing and worrying over the right words to say to the Duchess. She was representing her branch of the family after all.

Two nights later, Jerran was semi-confident that he might be able to conquer the livelier dances; they were remarkably similar to the folk dances he'd been forced to learn as a child. If drunken nobles could do it, Jerran could do it – Emmrich assured him, pulling out a chart listing Ingellvar relations and how to address them properly.

The social stuff? He was doomed. “Sorry, Doc,” Jerran muttered. 

“Hmm? What was that?” Eleanor’s slightly anxious voice brought him back to the present.

“Nothing.” He glanced down at her as she stood slightly on her tiptoes to peer over the other Ingellvars’ shoulders. “Relax, you’re going to give yourself a headache at this rate.” 

“I know.” She bit her lip as she curtseyed slightly to a passing older bearded gentleman and greeted him. “Mother and Father put a lot of emphasis on greeting the Duchess tonight. I just want to do it right.” 

“I’ll let you know if anyone seems Duchess-y.” He noticed that her cup was empty and took it from her as a stately older woman with sharp eyes and wearing enough jewelry to fill a Minrathous shop window stopped in front of them.

“How unusual to see Khoen and Yesult’s …. daughter here. I suppose they couldn’t make it?” she asked brightly, smiling.

Eleanor’s hesitation told him that she hadn’t recognized the stranger either. Jerran cleared his throat. “Yes, they had some sort of business in the Necropolis.”

The woman’s smile froze for an instant, and a slight look of disdain flashed in her eyes before her face smoothed over. “How … delightful. I suppose this is your suitor, the Grey Warden. Yesult was telling me all about him.” 

“Jerran Thorne. And you are….?” 

She winced as though he’d stomped all over her fine robes in muddy boots. “My dear, we have not been properly introduced. I would have expected even a foundling daughter of Khoen and Yesult to know her manners better.”

He bit back a choice retort; Eleanor had made him absolutely promise not to swear at this function. It was getting harder to keep his word. “Then I guess you’re not worth —”

Eleanor grabbed his arm, looking absolutely horrified. “Duchess Isa Ingellvar, may I present Junior Grey Warden Jerran Thorne? My suitor and the leader known as Rook,” she blurted out.

So, this was that Duchess. Jerran raised an eyebrow. “Charmed,” he said dryly.

“Mmm.” The duchess’s lips twisted. Then she dismissed him and took Eleanor’s hands. “Eleanor, please extend my courtesies to your parents. Tell them that they were sorely missed and we may need to discuss budget cuts the next time we meet.” The woman immediately turned away and began loudly talking to a matron sitting along the wall. 

Jerran glanced down at Eleanor, who looked like she was visibly wilting. “Ellie?”

“That was her. The one that Mother and Father wanted me to greet. I failed to recognize her and now….” She hesitated, blinking rapidly. “Jerran, just let me speak with people, all right? Please.”

Shit. “Ellie, I —-” 

“It’s not your fault. You didn’t know.” She forced a smile, but he could still see a hint of tears in her eyes.

 Distantly, he heard a female calling out the next dance: Death Becomes Us. He knew that one. 

“Do you want to try to dance?” he asked, desperately trying to salvage anything left of the situation.

“I… I don’t think I feel like dancing now. I’m sorry.” She took a deep shuddering breath. “I think I might need more punch with some chocolate and strawberries.”

“Sure.” He gladly fetched a plate, noting that word must have gotten around. Although not overtly unfriendly, there was just the imperceptible hint of chill from the people surrounding him. Just the slightest avoidance of the shoulder from one lady so there was no chance of his arm brushing up against her as he passed. A bold stare and smirk from the man across the way. A girl seeing him, stopping, and moving in another direction.

His ears – honed from hundreds of hours on patrol hunting Darkspawn – caught snippets of whispers:

What do you expect from a Grey Warden? 

How disappointing. I thought he’d be more impressive. Khoen and Yesult spoke of him so highly. 

That jacket… Arnfried had one like it earlier. Did he steal it? It wouldn’t surprise me.

When Eleanor excused herself to “powder her nose” (Does that mean those rooms had vats of powder in them?), he waited alone, holding an empty cup as his mind raced through the evening so far. The only thing that could be worse is someone attacking us. 

He stared at the ornate gold-rimmed glass in his hand; a set of these could feed an entire family for months. He'd known that Eleanor’s family was well-off, some sort of nobility. But seeing it with his own eyes was different. 

I’m a Grey Warden. We improvise. Go with our gut. But this…. this was a whole different world with its own rules and invisible chains.

And now, thanks to him and his big mouth, Eleanor’s parents wouldn’t get the needed funding for their research.

The stupid coat suddenly felt too tight and hot. His lungs struggled to get enough air. 

He had to get out. Now.

Slamming the stemware on a passing skeleton’s tray, Jerran escaped to a nearby balcony and leaned on the railing. 

The infernal collar choked him; he unbuttoned it, wishing he could rip the jacket off entirely. It wasn’t even his, not really. He’d scammed it off of a drunk Nevarran noble in Minrathous during a game of Wicked Grace the night before. 

Now, the richly embroidered clothing trapped Jerran as surely as one of the gold-encrusted sarcophagi standing in the nearest corner. The glinting threads mocked him in the dim light. 

For an instant, he was nine years old, cowering in a Vyrantium alley as slumming nobles in embroidered robes surrounded him. They’d tossed him a gold coin covered in dung and laughed at the little liberati as he scrabbled for it.

Eleanor deserved better. 

He wasn’t sure how long time passed before Eleanor’s slightly worried voice came from behind. “Jerran? I went looking for you, but you disappeared. Are you all right?”

Jerran forced a smile. “I'm fine.” He nodded toward the ornate garden below where skeletal workers labored below. “Nothing like watching skeletons weeding and carting dirt.”

She ignored his attempt to deflect and joined him at the railing, her shoulder touching his. “No. You're not.” A strand of pale golden hair drifted across her face. She brushed it away, looking at him. 

He swallowed hard. “I’m sorry, Ellie. I screwed everything up and ruined your night. Now your parents’ research is in danger because of me and everyone’s upset. You didn’t even get to dance.”

Sighing, he scratched the back of his head, looking away. “I tried practicing some of the dances with Emmrich and Bellara to try to impress you. But this society thing, I just don’t get it. I guess I’m just a dumb liberati after all.”

The lightest touch rested on his arm, and he glanced up to see her beautiful forget-me-not eyes glistening. “What matters is that you’re here with me. You took the time to learn all this for me. That is far more special. I wouldn’t want to be here with anyone else.”

“But your parents’ research –”

“I’ll speak with them. They’re used to dealing with people like her.” She smiled. “The dances – will you show me? I’d love to see.”

Faintly in the background, he could hear the band starting the last song of the night, a waltz. Straightening, he bowed with an exaggerated flourish and extended a hand. “M’lady,” he intoned, mimicking Emmrich’s posh accent. “Would you care to have this dance?”

Giggling, she curtseyed. “Why, yes, my dear Warden. I shall.” 

Dancing is remarkably like combat.  Pulling her close, he instinctively fell into the pattern that Emmrich had practically beaten into him, guiding her around the balcony. She fit perfectly against him and the tenseness in his body seemed to evaporate. 

It wasn’t perfect – he barely managed to avoid her toes with a  little hop several times, and he was often out of sync with the music. 

But her eyes sparkled as he whirled her around, her dress swirling around them. For those few minutes, he forgot about the gods and the lurking crowd in the room behind them. 

All he saw was her smile.

As the music came to an end, she pulled his face down to hers and kissed him softly, tasting like the strawberries that she'd eaten earlier that evening.  “That was absolutely wonderful,” she said once they came up for air. 

“Next time, I'll take you out to a tavern and we’ll do some folk dances,” he whispered in her ear. 

[biowaredisasterbisexual]

Reflection Ruesday

Rules: Go through your writing, art, gifs, etc. that you started but never finished and find something you love. Brush it up a bit if you want and share it. Tag me and use the tag Reflection Ruesday (it'll grow on you, I promise) and I'll comment and reblog. Then tag some other folks you think might enjoy it.

I’ll taaaaaaag: @hyperions-light, @thedissonantverses, @basedonconjecture, @bygonesigh, @dymme, @lurkiestvoid, @mageofquandrix, @mythals-whore, @jouskaroo, and @davrinsleftpectoral.

Why fix what ain’t broke? I am cleaning up and conscripting politely finding beta readers for the other Josephine/Leliana chapters-turned-fics, as I was…encouraged…to post them for reals. This chapter, however, doesn’t lend itself super well to that, so it is less likely to see the daylight of AO3. So part of a chapter of the forgotten Josephine/Leliana WIP below the cut.

Of all the things that could have been occurring when the Herald first found his way to her office, Josephine supposed it was only fitting that it be Marquis DuRellion having a fit over the Inquisition’s continued occupation of Haven. His tantrum had been, of course, a foregone conclusion. His grasp on Haven was tenuous and, without the goodwill of the Divine, there was little to stop anyone - the Inquisition, Ferelden, or perhaps even Orlais - from seizing it from him outright. The Marquis had to make his move now, to retain his family’s weak claim, or risk loss by acquiescence.

Unfortunately for him, Josephine had no intention of conceding. The faithful flocked to them every day; where they were was known, now, and there was no turning back. And, besides, there was great value to associating the Inquisition with where the Holy of Holies once sat. It made the likelihood that the Herald’s divine mandate was believed all the greater.

Lord Trevelyan was silent as Josephine introduced him, simply inclining his head in greeting, and he remained silent until the Marquis had finished his rant about how the Inquisition could not stay on the Divine’s holy ground.

The Herald brought a hand up - the marked hand, she noted - to tap his thumb against his chin. “Interesting,” he mused, “considering the Inquisition was begun by the Left and Right Hands of the Divine.”

What his Worship could not have known was that the Marquis had already demanded documentation that Cassandra and Leliana had the Divine’s mandate, and DuRellion immediately launched into his speech on that topic. Still, the Herald’s reminder of their ties to legitimate power put the Marquis on the defensive, and allowed Josephine to finish him off.

“If he won’t take her at her word, I’m afraid Seeker Pentaghast must challenge him to a duel,” Josephine told the Herald. He showed no overt reaction, but that hardly bothered her. After all, Lord Trevelyan was not her intended audience.

“What?” The Marquis gasped.

His focus now solely on her, Josephine leveraged him to her metaphorical needs. “It is a matter of honor among the Nevarrans. Shall I arrange the bout for tonight?”

There was something enjoyable about watching the blood drain from the skin visible around the edges of his mask. Cassandra’s reputation - Hero of Orlais, Right Hand of the Divine, Seeker of Truth - preceded her. To duel Cassandra was to resign yourself to death for every warrior with whom Josephine was familiar. Even Commander Cullen lost to her frequently when they sparred.

The Marquis’ tirade thus halted, Josephine reminded him of what lay ahead of them, what was at stake. The Divine would not have wanted the faithful to war with the Inquisition, and she told him so. They would need to forge new alliances to help all of Thedas; the Divine had understood that.

Indeed, that was why Josephine was there.

“I…will think on it, Lady Montilyet. The Inquisition might stay in the meanwhile,” Marquis DuRellion finally conceded. He left, glancing over his shoulder at the Herald before Josephine’s door closed behind him.

“Do the DuRellion’s have a claim to this place?” Lord Trevelyan asked her.

She wondered how much the answer mattered to him, and why. But these things she could learn from observation. Instead of asking, she answered honestly, “Not one so strong as he represents. Despite their Ferelden relations, the DuRellions are Orlesian. If he wishes to truly claim Haven, Empress Celene must negotiate with Ferelden on his behalf.”

The Herald quirked an eyebrow, looking something akin to amused at the idea of the Empress of Orlais bothering to do such a thing, and personally, Josephine was inclined to agree with him that it was somewhat ridiculous. Particularly given recent events.

“Still, I am pleased that the Marquis will not be trying to toss us out into the cold,” the Herald said, nodding his head towards her in thanks.

“His Grace is only the first of many dignitaries we must contend with,” she warned him, lest he grow too comfortable with their precarious situation. Though Josephine was hardly one to raise unnecessary alarm, neither was a figurehead without any understanding of their situation of much use. He could harm them if he flailed blindly in the dark. The least she could do was shine some amount of light; enough that he could follow the path that she, Leliana, Cullen, and Cassandra laid for him.

Lord Trevelyan looked a touch curious. It seemed, so far, that he was not a man with an expressive face. That was actually somewhat fortunate, as a blank face was always better than one that truly offended. “You expect more people in Haven?”

He could not know the efforts that she, and Leliana, had gone to to ensure that pilgrims would be coming to their door for days and weeks yet. “Undoubtedly. And each visitor will spread world of the Inquisition after they depart,” she promised boldly.

Josephine let his eyes follow her as she sat authoritatively behind her desk. “An ambassador should ensure the tale is as complimentary as possible.”

“Ah.” Less than a moment’s hesitation, and the Herald took the seat opposite hers. An interesting choice. It put them on the same level, implied they were equals, or at least that he saw them as such. “May I ask you what brought you to work for the Inquisition?”

“Sister Leliana approached me.” Or, more accurately, broke into her home and played mental games with her in that manner that only Leliana - or an equally well-trained bard (and there were none) - could. “We’ve been acquainted for quite some time.”

As always, the easiest way to diffuse curiosity was with a bland, and broad, version of the truth. The second easiest was to gently nudge the conversation along to another topic. “For better or worse, being the Inquisition’s diplomat has become as interesting as she promised.”

“So you were a diplomat before all of this,” he surmised.

“For some years I was the royally appointed ambassador from Antiva to Orlais,” Josephine said, nodding. “The nobility of Thedas is a rather singular sphere. Those I am not acquainted with, I know through reputation.”

“Well, then, the Inquisition is quite lucky to have you as an advocate, Lady Montilyet,” the Herald said, bowing just slightly from his seated position. Oh, but he was something. Not the most handsome man she had ever seen, nor the most charming, but he had a natural aura of trustworthiness and genuine humility.

Combined with his good manners, and his calm demeanor, it made her feel at ease with him.

If it was not cultivated and trained, it was simply extremely lucky. If it was not so natural, then he was an excellent study. In any case, she could work with him as their face.

And there was no time like the present to begin shaping his view forward to more closely align with her own. “Thank you. Let us hope so.

“Thedas’s politics have become…agitated, as of late. I hope to guide us down smoother paths.” Very much aware of the value of ending on that note, she added, “but please excuse me. I have much work to do before the day is done.”

He stood, bowed slightly - that would need to be trained out of him, he needed to look as though he conceded rank to no one - and took his leave.

Interesting, interesting. Josephine pulled out two letters she had received since the morning, both replies to her inquiries about the Trevelyan family.

He had, it turned out, two younger siblings, neither of whom still lived in the family’s estate. One a templar, the other a mage who had been sent by the Bann and his wife to the Circle. Interesting. She noted that down for Leliana.

More interesting, however, was that he had been present in most negotiations the Bann had conducted in recent years. Indeed, he had been present for more of them than either of his elder brothers, both of whom would inherit before he did. An administrator for the family, perhaps. Or, as Leliana had seemed to suspect, a spy.

As though the very thought had summoned her, her door opened and shut with hardly a sound as the Inquisition’s Spymaster let herself in.

“Ambassador,” she greeted.

“The Inquisition’s Spymaster,” Josephine returned, lips curling into a slight smile. It grew as Leliana snorted, removing her hood even as she shook her head in disbelief.

“After so many years together, and still Cassandra remains as she was when we met,” Leliana lamented. She leaned against Josephine’s desk, looking down at her notes. “Still, I suppose there are worse things she could be than honest.”

That was certainly true, Josephine had to agree.

“So, tell me,” Leliana said, “what do you think of our Herald?”

So they were to immediate go into the sparring ring, then. And this would be a battle, of sorts, for whatever either of them thought of the Herald, both needed to use him. Just as he needed to use them. They would forever be jostling for control, this Josephine knew.

“His noble upbringing is a boon for us. The Trevelyans are famously devout, and he is both taciturn and polite. Even without him saying anything of substance, he benefits the legitimacy of our cause,” Josephine said. “But he seems like he may even have substance.”

She liked him, so far, at least superficially, but that went without saying. Still, the quirked eyebrow on Leliana’s face indicated she had heard as much in Josephine’s words and tone.

“I see.” Well, she was somewhat unimpressed. “Be careful, Josie. He has not told us any lies, but there are lies of omission as well as of commission.”

“You think he is a liar?” Josephine asked, sounding skeptical. More skeptical than she felt, in fact, in order to tease a rise from Leliana.

“I think he is a bard.”

Well. That was unexpected. “I have not heard about him having spent much, or indeed any, time in Orlais. Certainly not long enough to train there,” she said slowly, thoughtfully.

If Leliana had information to the contrary, or that might shed light on her accusation, she did not share it. Instead, she simply shrugged her slim shoulders and rose. “You may accept my counsel or not. But do be careful, Josephine. We’ve known him only one day.”

She had ghosted out of the room before Josephine could point out that length of acquaintance did not guarantee a lack of secrets. She had been friends with Leliana for years, acquainted for more than a decade, and as such was an expert on such relationships.

Ah, well. Josephine returned to her work. She would undoubtedly have to continue this conversation with Leliana later.

[nerdanel01]

Another great day to practice necromancy 💀. How do you do? 💚

So, we know that Emmrich, as an esteemed member of Mortalitasi, is expected to attend the gatherings of the Nevarran nobles from time to time or visit them in their estates. Has Emmrich ever met Lord Halkias then, I mean Agnes's father? Was Agnes present? If not, did he tell her about it afterwards?

Or maybe they've met during or after the events of The Veilguard? How would such a meeting play out, I wonder?

in short: badly! 3.5k+ below the cut

9:51 Dragon

Emmrich had been told the extravagant excess of Tevinter’s Altus class made the indulgence of the Nevarran nobility look quaint by comparison—but truthfully, it tested the bounds of his creativity to imagine exactly how that could be the case. 

At the Dietrich estate, the nobility glittered like a swarm of beetles, jewels dripping from fingers and ears and necks, women swanning in crystal-crusted dresses that gleamed from a distance like the most brilliant carapace. Two quintents had been booked, instead of the customary one, so that the music would continue ceaselessly when the first group of musicians took their rest. The wine flowed freely from two golden fountains at either side of the wide hall—both red and white. Flanking the walls were banquet tables piled high with food that looked almost too good to eat: butter and ice and sugar carved into elaborate shapes (the Necropolis; the Nevarran palace; the face of a revered Dietrich ancestor); pyramids of glacé fruit preserved at the peak of its freshness; flaky finger foods arrayed on plated towers. Indeed, it appeared that hardly anyone had touched it, preferring (if the general atmosphere of the room was any indication) to indulge in libations instead. 

Emmrich himself had avoided the wine. He had never been a wistful drunk, not really… but over the past year or so he had learned that even the slightest taste of alcohol was likely to turn him morose. 

And Johanna had dragged him here to be the opposite. It was a precarious time in Nevarra, with King Markus in such ill health, and still no clear heir to replace him. Already there were political machinations, assassinations and deals being cut to determine whom among the Nevarran nobility would be left sitting on that throne once King Markus passed, and who would wield the most influence over the country’s new regent. Worse, in recent years, the accusations that the Mortalitasi ruling by proxy through the weakened King had reached a fever pitch… not whispered as they used to be, but speculated out loud in the open. For his part, Emmrich could not say whether or not those rumors were true. That was the business of the priest-mages, not the Mourn Watch; and anyway, Emmrich had never been keen on politics. 

But, “You are charming,” Johanna had implored him, though Emmrich thought that was not quite accurate—he had, perhaps, been charming once upon a time, but he felt himself growing more and more into a bitter, withdrawn old man with each passing month. “The nobles adore you,” Johanna had continued—that, maybe, was still true. He had spent much of the past year in seclusion, and had not yet burned the bridges of amicability and influence he had so carefully built during his time as part of the Mourn Watch. Finally, the coup de grace, her plea: “Please do not make me attend Lady Dietrich’s party by myself.”

Emmrich wanted nothing to do with parties—it was difficult to imagine he would ever be light hearted and mirthful enough to enjoy the gaiety of such gatherings ever again—but he did love Johanna with a strong, brotherly affection that was difficult to deny. She had been patient with him, this past year, as he had crumbled into a shadow of his former self. For as long as she could, Johanna had shielded him from the social responsibilities of his role, giving him time to grieve Agnes’ absence and the smothering guilt he carried for having caused it. More than once in the past year, he had behaved in such a way that Johanna could have dismissed him from the Mourn Watch—it would have been entirely right of her to do so—but she had not. She had protected him. And it was so small a thing: one evening, swanning among the nobility, eating fine food and pretending to laugh at bad jokes. It would not be pleasant, certainly, but it would not be terrible. 

Or so Emmrich had thought. 

Lady Dietrich had cornered him; literally, had backed him into the corner of the room and now stood in front of him, gesturing in such a way that it was difficult to get past her. Her efforts to bed him, never particularly subtle to begin with, had become more overt and outlandish in the year since her husband had passed. Regrettably, by now, Emmrich was quite used to her flirtations; he knew how to make her feel heard without really listening, when to nod his head or smile for emphasis, when and how demure in the face of her more lascivious suggestions without offending her. He occupied her thusly now as his eyes scanned the room, wondering how Johanna was fairing.

His eyes locked first, however, on a man he had never seen before. That was odd. Emmrich had been part of Nevarran society by blood before he had ever become Mortalitasi; there was scarcely a family in the noble class with whom he had not been acquainted since childhood. And yet there he was, this old man standing beside the nearest fountain and filling a wide goblet to the brim with more wine, his wrinkled face ruddy with drink, cheeks looking all the more splotched and red in contrast with his white beard. 

Strangest of all was that—although Emmrich was quite sure he had never met the man before—there was something painfully familiar about him. 

“Forgive me, Lady Dietrich,” he interjected, interrupting her as she was telling him (rather too pointedly) that the extravagant decorations she had imported from Minrathous for the party extended even to the estate’s bedrooms, “That gentleman over there, beside the fountain. I do not think I have had the pleasure of meeting him before. Who is he?”

Lady Dietrich blinked in surprise—Emmrich rarely interrupted her, and when he did, it was often with far more grace (or “charm,” he supposed, to use Johanna’s words)—then turned to follow his gaze. When she saw the old man, her lips curled back in distaste. 

“That is Lord Halkias,” she answered disdainfully. “His estate is out west, you know. Far west, in the borderlands. Practically Orlais,” she intimated, her sense of superiority dripping from every word. 

Emmrich had not drank a sip of wine yet that evening; suddenly, he dearly wished he had. Now that he had the man’s name, the resemblance between Halkias and his daughter was undeniable: the arch of his nose, the v-shaped peak of his hairline over his brow. The deep, sensual bow of his upper lip. It was not in fact Lord Halkias who had been painfully familiar to him; it had been the ghost of Agnes, staring out of her father’s face. 

“His wife just passed,” Lady Dietrich continued, rattling off gossip; Emmrich barely heard her. “He accompanied her body to its final resting place in the Necropolis last week. Did you not know?”

He had not. He did not think for a minute that it was a coincidence. Johanna would have done everything in her power, no doubt, to prevent Emmrich from having anything to do with Lady Halkias’ last rites. 

Emmrich tried and failed to keep the bite from his voice when he replied: “He does not appear to be grieving the loss of his wife too terribly.”

Lady Dietrich shot him a glance, surprised at the uncharacteristic venom in his tone. She leaned closer, whispered to him conspiratorially, not bothering to hide her distaste: “He has extended his visit to the city. There is great speculation he has done so in order to hunt for a prospective bride—although he is kidding himself if he thinks to accomplish that aim in this household. None of these self-respecting families would marry a daughter into a family such as his.”

Emmrich was staring. He knew he was staring. He could not pull his eyes away. Could not help but think how much it must have pained Agnes, to grow up and see the resemblance to her father marked so plainly on her face—her father who had abused her mother, her father who had been anything but fatherly to Agnes herself. Who had made every effort, for his own personal gain, to see Agnes forced into a marriage that would ultimately serve him. That Lord Halkias had failed spectacularly in his aim to sell off his daughter like a common whore did not make it any less despicable. 

“Are you alright, dear? You’re looking rather pale.”

Lady Dietrich was looking up at him again, her watery blue eyes filled with uncharacteristic concern. Were Emmrich not so consumed by this feeling building inside of him (unnameable; ichorous; dark) he might have been touched. Instead, he made a hasty retreat. 

“Yes, Lady Dietrich, I'm alright—just feeling a bit peckish—if you’ll excuse me…”

And he slipped past her, making his way towards one of the banquet tables. But he had no interest in eating. His heart was racing, his pulse thundering in his ears. He held his fingertips to his temples, rubbing them gently, trying to slow his breathing. But it was impossible. The food, the drink, the luxury, the excess—and the memory, seared into his skull, of how Agnes’ father had reacted to her desertion. 

…because of course, though Emmrich had told Johanna emphatically and repeatedly that Agnes would prefer to die in the gutters of Nevarra City rather than return to her father’s estate, Johanna had sent guards to check it nevertheless. ‘Due diligence,’ Johanna had called it. 

Lord Halkias had called it a ‘grave insult.’

Among the many gems of hard, crystallized hatred that had made up the missive he sent back with the soldiers, Emmrich would never forget how he had concluded the message:

‘If that ill-conceived, misbegotten issue of mine had dared to come back here, I would have beaten her bloody and senseless for the disgrace she has brought upon our family and my own good name. Whatever was left of her afterwards I would have returned without delay to the Mortalitasi, happy to be rid of her and happy for whatever additional punishment you sought to bring to bear upon her for her betrayal and her cowardice. When you do find her, be harsh with her. Tranquility is too mild a punishment for that thankless slut.’

At the memory alone, Emmrich was clenching his fists so hard his nails threatened to draw blood. 

Food was not going to help him. Drink was likely not going to help him either, but at this point he was going to take his chances. Morose was not good company, but it was still preferable to murderous. Spinning on his heel, he let his feet carry him to the far fountain, opposite the fountain flowing with red wine that Lord Halkias was still lurking beside. Emmrich did not prefer white wine, but he also did not trust himself to secure a cup of red while fully resisting the urge to grab Lord Halkias by his white hair and hold him beneath the fountain’s surface, drowning him in the drink he was so besotted with. 

But as he stood with his back against the wall, taking polite sips from his goblet (resisting the urge to down the glass in one long swallow) Emmrich did not feel his mood mellowing. On the contrary. As usual, the drink summoned visions and phantoms, memories. How Agnes would side-step any questions he used to ask her about her childhood; the cursory answers she would give about her family, her step-siblings. The upheaval that followed her mother’s death; the trauma of learning exactly who and what her father really was; the fear and injustice and lovelessness of being kept under his roof. Her obsession with neatness, with cleanliness, with cleverness; the remnants of the impossible standards she had been held to in Halkias’ household, never good enough, never as good as her legitimately born siblings. The last argument they had before Agnes had left: “you are not my father,” the words spat with more hatred and vitriol than Agnes had ever used with him before. 

‘Indeed, I am nothing like her father,’ Emmrich thought to himself darkly, brooding over the rim of his goblet. ‘Unlike him, I loved her.’

And he should have told her that, then. Should never have tried to keep his love secret from Agnes, who had lived so much of her life starved of the love that her family should have given her, who had spent so many of her years feeling alone and was now alone again, for all Emmrich knew. 

Perhaps if she had a father who loved her, Emmrich would not have felt obligated in some way to step into that role himself. To guide her. To protect her, to watch out for her in a way that no one else ever had. To protect her even from himself, when Emmrich’s desires and feelings for her became anything but fatherly. Perhaps he could have been honest with her, then; perhaps she would not have had to leave. Perhaps she would still pass her days in the Necropolis, safe and loved and cherished by him. Perhaps….

But ‘perhaps’ meant nothing now. Agnes was gone, and more likely than not, Emmrich would never see her again. His fault. More than a year had passed since her departure, but time had not blunted the ache of her absence one bit. 

The ring Agnes had gifted him—the one he could not bear to wear on his fingers, that he could not endure the sight of any more than he could discard it—felt twice as heavy on the chain it hung on around his neck, resting beneath his shirt, close to his heart.

…and here was her father. Drunken, merry, undisturbed in the least by her disappearance. Worse than that, maybe. Gleeful that she was gone at last, that his bastard child, his eldest, his firstborn, had removed themselves from the picture and would never darken his doorway again. 

“You are charming,” Johanna had said, “the nobles adore you.” But over the past year, Emmrich had discovered he was much more than that. Capable of a darkness he had never quite acknowledged before he sank into it. He had been charming, upbeat, optimistic, inquisitive. Now, he knew he was also spiteful, prone to isolating himself from others—and, occasionally—inclined toward acts of great cruelty. 

The wine had loosened him up just enough that he no longer felt any inclination to resist those darker impulses. 

Emmrich tucked his right hand behind the small of his back, near to the wall where no one else could see it. Affecting a calm and collected demeanor, he sipped politely from his goblet as behind him, his fingers curled, wrist revolving, spinning the magic out of the Fade into the waking, shaping it into horrors. It had been so long since he had cast magic without the foci of a staff. The danger and thrill of it was exhilarating. 

No one else witnessed him, nor the curse, as it curled around the party-goers’ feet, slithering like an adder across the room towards Lord Halkias. Into it Emmrich poured all self-hatred, all his rage and his loneliness, all of his regret. Let Lord Halkias take a wife, if he so desired. She would never know a night of peace while she shared a bed with her husband. 

Johanna grabbed him by the shoulder so tightly and abruptly he nearly spilled the rest of his wine over the front of her gown. 

“What,” she hissed, low enough so that she would not be overheard, “do you think you are doing?”

“Nothing!” Emmrich answered, a little too loudly and perhaps too quickly. “I’m not doing anything.”

Emmrich could see her fighting to keep her face pleasant, just in case any of the other guests should look in their direction. But her nostrils were flaring, and the fixed grin on her face looked more like a grimace by the second. As a servant passed by them, Johanna plucked Emmrich’s wine goblet out of his hand and set it down upon the serving tray, the wine sloshing over the rim with the force of the impact. Then, with just as much authority and force, she steered him out of the main banquet hall, guiding him down the hallways of Lady Dietrich’s estate until she was satisfied they had found a corner where they would not be overheard. 

Then she turned on him. And Johanna may have been a full head shorter than Emmrich, and he may have loved her like she was his sister, but she was still utterly terrifying to him when she was furious. 

“I would not call hexing Lord Halkias nothing,” she said, her eyes shining with indignant rage. “Maker’s breath, Emmrich—the rumors about the Mortalitasi are bad enough already. Do you have to make it worse by putting a curse on one of the nobles in public? At a party?”

Emmrich folded his arms defensively over his chest. “It was a very light curse,” he lied through his teeth. This much, at least, was the truth: “He would not have even noticed it—not until he laid himself down to sleep tonight.” With a self-satisfied smirk, Emmrich could not help but add, “Or, well, until he tried to sleep. The night terrors would have kept him from true, restful sleep until the end of his days.”

Perhaps he should not have been so bold in public, that much was true. But Maker preserve him, he had been so close to succeeding, and it had felt so good. 

And he had expected Johanna—all command and spitfire—to argue back at him. Instead she just stared at him, stunned. 

Somehow, that was worse. 

“And do you think that is appropriate behavior from one of the most senior ranking Mortalitasi of the Mourn Watch Guard?”

Probably not. But sometimes, exceptions needed to be made. “I think it is entirely appropriate, given what a brute he is. You are aware, are you not, of how he violates his servants?”

Or at least, that he had violated one. Forced her into submission more than once under the hot countryside sun—

“Emmrich…” Johanna began, entirely too much pity in her voice. She closed her eyes and sighed. “This is my fault. I should have known he would be here, after his wife’s final rites earlier this week—”

“—strange,” Emmrich interjected, “since as a senior ranking member of the Mourn Watch, I’d have thought I would have known about any recent interments—”

“Not strange, but calculated,” Johanna countered, the heat returning to her voice. “Brilliant, to keep it from you. Fucking prophetic of me, really, because I just knew you would not be able to act professionally about it, to get through it without pulling some shit like this.” She bared her clenched teeth, sucking an unsteady breath in to try and calm herself. 

“It is my fault,” Johanna repeated, at last. “I should not have asked you to come. So now I will correct my mistake. Emmrich, go home.”

“What?”

The night was yet young. He had not yet had a chance to greet each of the nobles properly, as was custom. If he left now, his absence would be noticed… not least of all by their host, Lady Dietrich herself—

“I said go home, Emmrich!” Johanna was not shouting—she would not raise her voice loud enough to be overheard—but she was close to it. “I’ll make an excuse for you.”

“I don’t need you to—!”

“Agnes is gone.” Johanna articulated each word carefully, brought them down in him like a hammer in an anvil. “You are not defending her from anyone. You are not protecting her from anyone. And as I suspect she is not likely to return, you are unlikely to have the chance to regale or impress her by recounting your clever ‘little’ curse in the future. Your judgment is compromised; I am, quite frankly, embarrassed for you. Go home,” Johanna repeated, turning him around and shoving him in the direction of the estate’s entrance, back towards the street and the city. “I will not repeat myself again. And you will not enjoy the consequences if I am forced to escort you.”

On the carriage ride back to the Necropolis (the city streets at night were too haunted with memory for him to walk) Emmrich found himself replaying the argument with Johanna in his head over and over again, incensed. She was wrong, he was certain of that much, no matter how well she thought she knew him. Emmrich was not a fool. He knew Lord Halkias posed no further danger to Agnes—that cursing him, as Emmrich had intended to do, was not something he had done to defend or impress her.

But that left him with the nagging question of why he had done it. Because he did know better, or should have, had he not still been deep in the throes of his grief. With Agnes gone, his position in the Mourn Watch mattered more to him than ever. The work was the only reliable distraction, the only thing that kept his head above the waters of despair. What had possessed him, to make him risk it with so little thought?

The answer, as it turned out, was worse than anything Johanna had accused him of. It was guilt.

Guilt that he had driven Agnes away. Guilt that he had not seen her love for what it was and returned it with every breath, with every beat of his heart. Guilt that there was no amount of self-hatred or debasement or shame that would bring her back; guilt that he would never get the chance to tell her how sorry he was. Guilt for whatever it was she now suffered in the world, shut out from the shelter of the Mourn Watch that had been all she had known for over twenty years.

He could not punish himself enough for having caused her departure. And so he had tried to turn at least some of that pain and punishment upon her father.

…but what was the greater sin? To have never loved her, as a father ought to love a daughter? Or, as Emmrich had, to have loved her deeply—to have blindly spurned her love—and sent her to wander the wide and dangerous world, feeling rejected and unloved and alone?

Johanna was right, of course. No curse would ever fix that mistake.

Nothing would.

[cafiffle]

ok it's time to be cringe on main (like I ever wasn't)

in honor of the new game finally maybe happening, here is a collection of the Dragon Age OCs I've developed over the last decade or so. only two of them were my actual video game protags and have evolved a lot from there, SEE IF YOU CAN GUESS WHO (or don't, I'm not your dad)

(L to R, top to bottom)

Sina, Keeper's First of Clan Dahlasanor and baby lesbian who had to leave her clan in search of healing for the anime wasting sickness that claimed her life in her early twenties. She was all about that good good Dalish nature magic and thought of it as a sort of healing. A gentle soul with strong convictions, she spent her last months securing the union of her (small, decimated) clan with a larger, thriving one by marrying their male First.

Cade Harimann of Starkhaven, the second son of a noble family who gave him to the Chantry at a young age. He endured Some Bullshit at the monastery, leaving him already somewhat unhinged before he served in Kirkwall prior to the Mage-Templar war. He was kicked out of the Templars "for his own good" due to his massive PTSD-induced emotional problems, and now lives in the woods with his chill elf gf who doms him when he needs it.

Teren von Skraedder*, from a po-dunk town on the border of Nevarra and Orlais, is every bit the Grey Warden stereotype: a liar, a convict, and just generally kind of an asshole. She was recruited in her early 40's as an alternative to being executed for treason against the Nevarran crown, and has settled into Wardening over the last twenty or so years. She loves her younger siblings-in-arms, even if she's mean to them, and she gets a little more deranged every time one of them gets their Calling or dies in combat while she continues to grow older.

Benedict Quintus Artemaeus is an Altus mage from Minrathous who preferred to spend his days getting high and fooling around with other rich boys, shirking his studies and the politics of his Magister mother, nearly into his twenties. He finally had to get serious when his tutor aligned with the Venatori and got them both captured by The Enemy (the canon good guys), leading to a rocky but gradual ascent from hedonistic fuckup to Sort of Competent Guy Who Cares Occasionally. he's been compared to Emperor Kuzco and that's not inaccurate ok

Josephine "Fifi" Mariette* is a regular ol elf from Val Royeaux who, after failing to make it in the city ballet/opera/ye olde whatever, made her way as a cabaret dancer and prostitute until her marriage to a human accountant, Jacques. His family never accepted her, so when he was drafted and killed in the War of the Lions, she left town to briefly join the Freemen of the Dales. Finding that she was as invisible there as anywhere else, she opted to put her status to use and become a spy for (and on) the Good Guys while working as their housekeeper.

Obeisance "Just Barrow Please" Barrow*, a farmer's son from Crestwood, went off to join the Templar Order as a means of finding adventure, leaving home, and making his extremely religious parents happy without having to take over the farm. He served in the Jainen Circle for many years without incident, but very casually deserted when the Mage-Templar war began (hit da bricks, just walk out etc). He spent some time afterward as a mercenary, and his MO is to bop around being helpful where he can while also absolutely never talking about what he used to do. it's none of your business

*if you think you know her/him from somewhere else: you do, I recycle these shitheads constantly

there have been a few more but they didn't Take in the same way, so just these for now. ok byyyeee

[emmg]

Aftertaste

Chapter 6: Inter-fucking-lewd

Breakfast with benefits: Emmrich swipes his card, Rook shows gratitude by giving him a thorough tonsil inspection via tongue deployment. The Sugar Daddy AU no one asked for.

I keep forgetting to throw this on here. Lol, skipped a chapter again but we ball.

On ao3 or below the cut

She isn't self-conscious. Not in the usual, pathetic way, at least. People, Rook has decided, come in exactly three flavors: the certain, the hesitant, and the shy. Sure, there are endless subcategories, but at its core, this is the only division that matters. Emmrich, for example, is hesitant. Painfully, excruciatingly hesitant. The kind of person who apologizes when someone steps on his foot. She, on the other hand, is certain.

She used to be sweet. She used to be good. She used to smile at the right moments and say the right things in the right tone, like a perfectly programmed social robot. And what did that get her? Jack shit. So now, she asks for what she wants. Not that it works miracles, but at least when the barista massacres her order and she makes them redo it—once, twice, three times—she eventually walks away with the drink she actually paid for. A small, hard-earned victory. Even if, as she leaves, she can feel the heat of a middle finger aimed at her back.

Life, she has learned, is not a heartwarming fable where kindness wins in the end. It’s a glorified scam, a poorly-run customer service line where the only way to get what you’re owed is to be just annoying enough that someone begrudgingly hands it over.

Which is why she feels absolutely no shame as she rolls out of Emmrich’s bed, tiptoes into his bathroom, and starts rifling through his cabinets like a particularly nosy raccoon. There’s an indent next to where she slept—evidence that he existed at some point—but no Emmrich. She feels a little sad about that. Then she feels stupid for feeling sad. And then, because self-awareness is exhausting, she gets back to the important task of snooping.

The usual offerings greet her: mouthwash, floss, a fresh toothbrush standing at polite attention by the sink, and a towel so pristine it might have been confiscated from an angel. But, as always, the real treasure lies behind the mirror.

"Hm," she murmurs, staring at the neat little lineup.

Three orange prescription bottles, arranged as precisely as toy soldiers, standing at ease beside an inoffensive roll of extra floss. For a fleeting moment, she assumes they’re the famous blue pill, and starts giggling like an idiot. But then she actually reads the labels.

Alprazolam—Take 1 tablet by mouth as needed for anxiety. May cause drowsiness. Do not drive or operate heavy machinery.

Sertraline—Take 1 tablet by mouth once daily. Do not stop abruptly.

Hydroxyzine—Take 1-2 capsules by mouth as needed for anxiety. May cause drowsiness. Avoid alcohol.

"Hm," she says again, this time closing the cabinet with a little more care.

She walks away with two invaluable pieces of knowledge.

First, despite floating around in a sea of gold jewelry, clinking and shining like some minor deity of excess (it’s a Nevarran thing, Bellara told her, jewelry is cultural), Emmrich is not, in fact, above the humble embrace of generic pharmaceuticals.

Second, and perhaps more pressing: she is a fucking monster.

She takes a shower; quick in practice, but utterly decadent in spirit. The kind of shower that would make an environmentalist clutch their pearls. Then, still glistening, feeling like some sleek, well-oiled animal, she anoints herself with his undoubtedly overpriced, unreasonably divine-smelling body lotion.

Then she finds the face cream. And oh, bless this man. Bless his fragile little vanities, his meticulous devotion to self-maintenance, his quiet, desperate battle against the inevitable collapse of youth. Because not only does he have a proper moisturizer, no, he has eye cream. A tiny, expensive jar dedicated exclusively to the bags under his precious eyes.

It doesn’t even matter that the label says For Men, as though it’s been engineered with testosterone and car engine grease. She does not give a single shit. She digs in, smearing it on like she’s a prize racehorse in need of maintenance.

There’s a robe, too, a robe that is very much Emmrich-sized. She is tall herself, but Emmrich, in all his spindly glory, has the proportions of a lamppost, so when she wraps it around herself, the hem kisses her heels. Thus swaddled, she shuffles downstairs, following the distant hum of sound.

Humming? No, talking. Muffled, quiet, and decidedly unimpressed. She follows it to the kitchen and, ah, well—would you look at that—it’s an Emmrich, one hand gesturing through the air, the other clutching a phone.

"How about I do precisely the contrary?" he murmurs, taking exquisite care to keep his voice polite. "I have attended an egregious number of administrative functions at the expense of my own sanity. I have published beyond the requisite metrics, despite the institution’s draconian funding model. I have, against my better judgment, served on not one but two outreach committees, despite my well-documented lack of interest in performative bureaucracy. Forgive me, but this time, I will not be participating in the Sisyphean farce of ‘going above and beyond.’" A pause. An exhausted sigh. "Pease do pardon my tone, dear Myrna, none of this frustration is meant for you, of course. You have been, as always, a beacon of patience. I will bring croissants on Monday. Good day."

In academic speak, this translates roughly to: kiss my tenured ass.

She does exactly what she did the night before: shuffles up behind him like some kind of affectionate specter and winds her arms around his waist. Partly because he seemed to like it, partly, more selfishly, because there is something deeply satisfying about watching a distinguished, well-respected professor momentarily short-circuit like a schoolboy handed a love note.

And also because she is still marinating in the deep, briny guilt of being, in every conceivable way, an absolute asshole.

Emmrich tenses for a fraction of a second before his hand settles gently over both of hers, where they are crossed around his middle, as though securing a particularly insistent backpack.

"Good morning, dear," he says at last.

"Mhm," she replies, tilting her head toward the little table. A pot of coffee, a small, unnecessarily delicate vase, and inside it, lavender. Real, fresh lavender.

"Lavender," she observes, brilliantly. "You actually have it."

"I choose my words carefully and I mean what I promise."

"Good to know," she says, finally letting go after inhaling deeply, because his soap smells good, and she is nothing if not indulgent.

She sits, watching as he pours her a cup. In the morning light, with his sleeves rolled up and his reading glasses perched precariously at the end of his nose, he looks strangely soft. As if sensing her scrutiny, Emmrich removes and sets them down, like some small act of self-defense.

"That was hot," she says over the rising steam of her coffee, the heat dampening her cupid’s bow.

"Oh?" He frowns slightly.

"The whole firm but exasperated yet very polite routine. Very sexy."

There is a small shift. A recalibration. "Ah." He glances toward the window, smiling. The color in his cheeks deepens just slightly. "I'm glad you think so."

A strange kind of silence settles as she drinks her coffee and he absently adjusts the edge of the tablecloth. Every now and then, she tries to catch his eye, only for him to suddenly become engrossed in something else entirely. The ceiling. The floor. A rogue tuft of dog hair drifting by with the tragic slowness of a lost soul.

"Do you want me to leave?" she asks bluntly, because there is no graceful way to phrase it.

His eyes widen, and she realizes too late that she has startled him.

"No, no," Emmrich says, immediately, with such startling sincerity that it nearly undoes the whole moment. "That is very much not…" He exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I had intended to apologize for last night, but regrettably," he gestures vaguely, laughing under his breath, "it appears I have misplaced my usual verbosity, and I am not entirely sure how to proceed."

So that’s what this is about. She hums. Not a tune, not even anything in particular, just an aimless vibration of thought. Then, casually, she says, “Do you want to know what happened the first”—a brief pause for reflection, because, really, what a moment—“time I tried to have sex?”

Emmrich does not flinch, but there is a subtle change in the atmosphere, a flicker of something in his expression that suggests he is considering an immediate escape. “Oh, Rook, you do not have to share—”

“So he started crying, right—”

“—hardly a crime,” Emmrich interrupts, looking to the window, fingers now tapping against the table. “Some people are more sentimental than others.”

“I didn’t say it was. But imagine this: you’re naked, a bright-eyed young woman, about to embark on what should be a delightful new chapter of your life, and suddenly—your partner, the man in this scenario, is sobbing into your tits. And not just a few cute, tortured tears. No. We’re talking full-body convulsions, wet, choking, gasping-for-air ugly crying. Snot on my skin, weird little hiccup noises, the whole fucking show. So obviously, my first thought is what the actual fuck. My second is did I do something? And my third is am I really so fucking ugly that this man took one look at me naked and had a complete emotional breakdown?"

“You are not—”

“Then he starts talking about his sister—”

“His sister?”

“Apparently, I looked like her.”

A long pause. “Oh Maker.”

“So this second coming of Oedipus, this absolute fucking specimen, this... Well, I don’t even know what to call him, and I am usually pretty good at coming up with creative insults—”

"Yes," Emmrich agrees. "You have a rare gift."

“Exactly. So there he is, weeping over his sibling while also, simultaneously, making a very determined attempt at fucking me. He gets about a third of the way in—just enough to make it legally concerning—before something, maybe divine intervention, maybe the ghost of his grandmother, whispers in his ear and suddenly, he stops. Pulls out like I’m cursed, stares down at himself as if he’s seeing a dick for the first time in his life, and then, as the grand finale, has a fight with the condom, rips it off while telling me his sister is so very nice and pretty, and blows his fucking load on my knee.”

Silence.

Emmrich, someone who has likely endured entire week-long academic conferences on molecular chemistry, complete with keynote speakers droning on about enzyme kinetics in excruciating detail, now stares at her as if she has just proposed that gravity is optional. His expression shifts through several stages of intellectual agony—denial, disbelief, reluctant acceptance—before he very, very slowly lifts his eyes to the ceiling, as though hoping that if there is a higher power, now would be an excellent time for a well-placed lightning strike.

Then he starts laughing. Not some polite, measured chuckle, not even the kind of laughter that suggests mild amusement, but the real, undignified kind. The kind that briefly robs a man of whatever intellectual superiority he thinks he has. He buries his face in his hands for a moment, then rubs at his eyes as if trying to wipe the mental image away.

"But do you want to know what the worst part was?" she asks, tilting her cup back to get the last few drops of coffee.

"I would have assumed it was the matter of the sister. But I see now that was wishful thinking. Please, continue to traumatize me."

"Noooo," she drawls. "The worst part was that the fucker ate nothing but red meat. And I don’t mean he had a steak every now and then like a normal person. I mean every fucking meal. Just shoving beef into himself like he was personally keeping the cattle industry afloat. Which, fun fact, turns jizz into the worst-smelling substance known to man: a thick, hot, gamey blast of pure death." She makes a face, shaking her head at the memory. "Like, imagine if a butcher shop and a used sock had a baby. I was practically gagging. The dude nut on my knee, and I swear to the fucking gods, I could smell it before I even registered what happened."

Emmrich props his chin on his fist. His smile is small, a little detached, a little shy. "Well," he says at last, "thankfully, I do not eat meat, darling."

She blinks. Her brain lags a little, just enough for the full meaning of that sentence to settle in and punch her straight in the gut.

"Oh," she says. And then, again, "Oh," as something horrible—something hot and shameful and deeply inappropriate—crawls up her spine and detonates in her cheeks. She is not supposed to be the one blushing.

"Anyway," she blurts, desperate to redirect. "All that to say, you have nothing to apologize for. I'm sure you have your own tricks that will surprise me."

“No tricks, no,” Emmrich muses. “Well, perhaps just the one.”

She narrows her eyes. “One?”

“Indeed. Would you like to see? It tends to be something of a crowd-pleaser.”

"Sure," she allows.

He doesn’t go far. Just turns, retrieves a laptop perched on the kitchen counter, and deposits it in front of himself. His glasses slide back onto his nose as he unlocks it and nudges it across the table toward her.

She eyes it, then him. “What’s this about?”

He tests the warmth of the coffee pot with the back of his hand, seemingly indifferent to her skepticism. Satisfied, he pours himself a cup, takes a careful sip, and only then answers, as if the thought had only just reemerged from some distant place.

“You reminded me last night of something I did not particularly enjoy in graduate school.”

She raises an eyebrow, waiting.

He breathes a soft laugh, shaking his head. "The grind,” he clarifies, wincing a bit as if the word itself is distasteful. “The endless, mind-numbing process of running oneself into the ground for the privilege of standing in the exact same place. It is a special kind of stupidity, I think, to build a system where intelligence is measured by how much exhaustion one can endure. A mouse in a wheel at least gets the benefit of ignorance. People, apparently, have to be aware that they are getting nowhere and keep running anyway.” He tilts his head toward the laptop, urging her on. “Let us pay your tuition.”

She stares.

Emmrich, however, simply takes another sip, and shifts slightly to escape a particularly offensive ray of sunlight. “You mentioned you are working three jobs,” he continues, with a polite sort of incredulity. “Perhaps this will allow you to scale it down to two. Or, dare I say it, one.”

Her fingers move before she has the time to think. “You do realize I’m not going to say no, right?”

A slight, knowing smile. “That is rather the point.”

“I have late fees at the library too.”

He frowns, his mouth pressing into a thin line, followed by a pointed tsk, tsk, tsk. “Universities have a remarkable talent for extortion. They charge a king’s ransom for books, guilt alumni into philanthropy, and still have the audacity to fine students for daring to hold onto a volume for a day too long. You would think an institution allegedly devoted to learning might have more interest in providing knowledge than hoarding it like a miser.”

She is already in the portal, already typing in her password. “You know,” she says, watching the page load, “this is how you get taken advantage of.”

A quiet chuckle. He swirls his coffee. “That is not how I see it.”

Her name, her address, tuition staring her down. Just one step left. “Then how do you?”

A pause. The faintest crease of his brow. He makes a contemplative sound, like someone tasting a dish they can’t quite identify. “Less about being taken advantage of,” he finally decides, “and more about taking care of someone. Right now, for instance, I would very much like to take care of you.”

Now she feels a little sheepish, mumbling, “I need your credit card,” like a grifter who suddenly has to confront the mechanics of grifting.

Because she, much like Emmrich, has a tragic inability to shut the fuck up, she keeps going, determined to personally escort this moment straight into the gutter. “You shouldn’t do that for someone you just met,” she adds, helpfully, like an absolute idiot who has no idea how to accept generosity without immediately trying to light it on fire.

“Allow me the dignity,” he says mildly, “of deciding what I should and should not do.”

He slides the card across the table. No hesitation. No need to fetch his wallet. No moment of deliberation.

Interesting.

This means he had already decided. Before this conversation, before she even woke up. Sometime this morning—perhaps while buttoning his exquisitely pressed shirt, perhaps while staring pensively into his overpriced mirror—he had apparently thought, Ah, yes, let me deepen my commitment to reckless philanthropy. Let me turn my casual acquaintance into a full-fledged tax deduction.

She wonders who in this sordid pas de deux is the greater object of pity: him, solemnly presenting his credit card like some banner of surrender, an apology for what he appears to consider a disastrous campaign in the coital theater (something, something, let me financially compensate you for last night’s tragic case of whiskey dick) or her, contemplating the thing with the twitchy, covetous gaze of a sewer rat glimpsing a discarded éclair.

Well.

Far be it from her to stand in the way of such noble self-destruction. She has, after all, just enough self-awareness to recognize when the universe drops a solid gold horse into her lap and suggests she take it for a leisurely gallop. So, suppressing whatever misguided instinct she has to earn things, she grabs the credit card with the dignity of a pickpocket swiping a wallet in broad daylight—slightly clammy-fingered, vaguely ashamed, but absolutely taking it.

He watches her take it, something unbearably kind in his expression. “Remind me,” he requests, “how did Bellara describe me?”

She doesn’t even look up as she enters the numbers. “Smells good.” Expiration date. “Rich.” Security code. “Lonely.”

“Touché,” he murmurs, setting down his cup with a small, satisfied clink. “But let us be thorough. Add ‘lacking good sense’ to the list.”

The portal flashes an acknowledgment in a smug little strip of green. Payment processed. Accepted. She has, in the eyes of the institution, paid her dues.

She keeps looking at the screen for a moment, then past it, through the window, before her eyes land on his laptop wallpaper: his dog, sitting obediently in front of a flower bed, looking irritatingly photogenic.

She wants to kiss him. To say thank you. To do something appropriately grateful for a moment like this. But, unfortunately, she is not sentimental. Or rather, she isn’t sentimental anymore.

Sentimentality turns you into a dreamer, and she is no longer in the business of dreaming. Because when you’re a dreamer, you dream, and when those dreams don’t materialize—when they give you a wink, steal your wallet, and skip town—you’re left standing there like a dumbass, wondering how you got scammed by your own imagination.

Also, there’s the unfortunate fact that kissing him right now would look alarmingly like she is handing out physical affection in exchange for goods and services. Which—well. Technically. But also, no. She might have questionable motives, a flexible sense of morality, and a general disregard for order, but she likes to think she is at least one step above that. At the very least, if she’s going to kiss him, it should be for the right reasons. Like, for example, the fact that she wants to.

"Thank you," she says, deliberately avoiding his eyes and focusing, instead, on his shoulder, which has suddenly become an object of great fascination. A truly remarkable shoulder. The pinnacle of fine fabric and bone structure. A shoulder so riveting, so compelling, that it is absolutely necessary she study it in detail rather than acknowledge whatever this moment is trying to turn into.

She doesn’t want him to think too much of it. She also wants to do it anyway.

So, with great finality, she shuts the laptop, sealing away the dangerous possibility of sincerity, and tiptoes toward him, suddenly acutely aware of the cold tiles beneath her feet, the way every step lands just a little too carefully, as if she’s trying to sneak past her own mawkishness.

"Thank you," she repeats, and, before her brain can interfere, she takes his face in her hands, tilts it up, and kisses the corner of his mouth, light and quick.

His hands close around her wrists and, of course, he begins to speak.

“As I have already said,” he starts, and oh, here it comes, the intellectual dissection of his own inadequacies, “I am quite aware of my limitations, and I do not imagine myself to be the kind of man you would naturally consider. However…” A pause. A dramatic little inhale. “Perhaps I can offer you stability.”

She needs him to shut up. Immediately.

She does not want to blush, does not want to feel warm and tender and whatever horrible, unacceptable, mushy thing is currently trying to jelly-up her spine. She refuses to be some meek, trembling thing, undone by his ridiculously well-articulated generosity.

So she kisses his cheek, then his lips, and if he insists on continuing, he can do so inside her mouth.

The good thing about kissing someone you just shared coffee with is that you don’t taste it; two equally caffeinated forces canceling each other out. What she does taste, however, is his tongue, which is, inexplicably, soft. Softer than she remembers. Suspiciously soft. The kind of soft that suggests he not only brushes his teeth but also, without a doubt, scrubs his tongue. Just like that, mid-kiss, she is struck with the realization that she should probably be doing the same. 

Eventually, Emmrich stands, and just like that, the dynamic shifts; no longer is she leaning over him, keeping him captive in his chair; now he’s the one towering over her. The kiss drives her back, step by step, until her thighs bump against the table. He gives her a small, wordless tap, a silent suggestion, and she obeys without thinking, hopping onto the surface blindly. The cups protest with a delicate clink-clink-clink as the impact shudders through them.

He pulls away, and she takes in the details: the flush of his lips, the slow blink of his eyes, the way, almost absentmindedly, he lifts a strand of her hair to his nose, breathing her in before tracing a path of kisses up her cheek, to her ear, to the very tip of it. 

"Do you want to pick up where we left off yesterday?" she asks, and for once, for the first time in her sorry life, she wishes she could inject some actual emotion into her voice. 

Normally, sounding like a soulless cunt is a feature, not a bug. Keeps expectations low, deters unnecessary social interaction, and, much like a well-deployed resting bitch face, acts as an industrial-strength shield against men who think a smirk and a you’d be prettier if you smiled counts as flirting.

But right now, she is, tragically, attempting to be sexy. Or something in that general category. And yet, against all odds, she still sounds less like a woman seducing a man and more like a weary call center employee offering him one last chance to extend his car’s warranty. 

Emmrich kisses her cheek again, humming against her skin. Murmurs, ever the gentleman, "If you would be amenable." 

She snorts. "I would be amenable, yes." Who could resist such an old-world proposition?

Her hands find his belt, tugging him closer. He steps between her legs, and she tips her head back, offering up her neck like some sacrificial lamb—one that is, admittedly, rather enthusiastic about the whole ordeal. He takes the invitation immediately, kissing a slow path up and down, his hands wandering from her back to her waist, to the front of the robe, pausing briefly before sneaking inside. Skin meets skin, his palm cups her breast, and when she sighs, he does too; his melting into hers, hers swallowing his. 

He lets out a high, lovely little sound when she grinds against him, half yelp, half moan, entirely pleased, before pulling her toward the edge of the table. Not roughly, not even urgently, just effectively, like adjusting the position of a beaker in a lab. 

"May I?" he asks, absurdly polite, as if requesting permission to adjust the tilt of a painting. His fingers hover near the tie at her waist, patient, careful, prepared to wait an eternity if she so much as hesitates.  

She nods, quick and jerky, because language has officially abandoned her. Heat crawls up her neck, floods her ears, spreads down her chest, pooling low, deep, hot enough that she swears even her knees feel it.  

And now she understands why he wanted her half-hanging off. 

Emmrich sinks down, positioning himself between them until his mouth is at her thigh. His lips press there, just lightly, just once. Chaste, if it weren’t there. His breath is warm, the tip of his nose barely brushing, a ridiculous, insignificant little thing, except that it isn’t.

Inevitably, with no grand announcement, no hesitation, his mouth settles against her cunt. She gasps, a short, humiliating thing, because there is no preparing for it, for the way his lips catch, for the heat of him, for the way he seems entirely undisturbed by the fact that he is currently kneeling on the kitchen floor between her legs while she clutches the wood grain of the table like it’s about to launch her into the fucking stratosphere.  

She sucks in a breath through her teeth, and, with a frankly heroic level of restraint, manages to say, "Oh gods," instead of screaming it, instead of yanking at his hair, instead of shouting, holy shit, this is actually happening, what the fuck, what the fuck.

Then she feels his fingers. A touch up the inside of her thigh. Higher, higher, a little higher still, pressing lightly against her, sliding through her slick and swollen folds, gathering everything, coating themselves completely before pushing inside.  

She claws at his shoulders, wordlessly telling him to come back up, and he does, rises, leans in, smiling, kissing her chin. She tilts her head for him, unable to say anything, just panting into his mouth as he kisses her again, as his fingers stroke, curl, move.

She fucks herself on them the way she did last night, except this time she doesn’t have to be quiet. This time there’s no one to hear them. But she doesn’t know how to be loud, how to moan and sigh and keen in a way that’s attractive, so she just moves, just shivers, just thrusts against his hand, presses her face into his neck when he shifts his wrist, and—  

Oh gods—  

"Let's move," she rushes out, too fast, too sharp, because, unfortunately, an absolutely tragic cramp is forming in her ankle, and she refuses to let a minor muscular rebellion ruin this. 

Another kiss. Hurried, fleeting, just a punctuation mark between her hopping off the table and their mindless trek back to his room. Just long enough for her to taste herself on his lips.It makes her giggle, high and a little unhinged; it’s hardly the most depraved thing in the grand scheme of debauchery, and yet, somehow, it still is.

This time, when he lies over her—kissing her, being kissed in return—it's all lips. Wet, then dry, then chapped, then wet again, teeth occasionally knocking. And this time, she feels him. Feels the outline of his cock through his trousers, the warmth, the shape of it. She reaches down, presses her palm against him, and smiles when he shivers. Does it again. Each time, he rocks into her hand, helplessly eager. 

"Rook, Rook," he gasps, catching her wrist to stop it. Sheepish, he adds, "A little slower, darling, or it will be over much too quick." 

"Ah," she says, mercifully relenting. "I don’t care, I don’t care." Why is she saying it twice? Who knows. "It'll still be miles better than the clusterfuck I told you about." 

At this, his eyes immediately lurch to the left. 

"There has been," he swallows, "no one since?" 

"No one," she confirms. 

And now his eyes dart hard to the right. At this rate, they might just pop out of his skull entirely, and then she’ll have to deal with the awkward logistics of catching them mid-air and pressing them back into their sockets. 

"We can, we can," he stammers, "take things slowly." 

The way he says can has a distinct whiff of should, and frankly, she is not in the mood for whatever moral crisis he’s about to spiral into. Emmrich is perfectly free to disassociate or have a deep, introspective moment about the sanctity of human connection—on his own time. But not here. Not now. Not when she is finally, finally about to get laid like a normal, functional adult.

So, no. Absolutely not. And she tells him as much—"No."—before shoving her tongue down his throat like she’s trying to personally realign his moral compass through his tonsils. Just to really drive the point home, she gives his cock another thoroughly encouraging squeeze. For posterity. 

He clearly takes care of himself; lean, tall, the kind of body that suggests an active lifestyle but also a healthy respect for good food and a decent mattress. Still, he’s older—not old, but older—and she sees it in the slight narrowness of his chest, the soft give of his stomach as she undresses him. It’s endearing. It’s real.

He sits back to finish peeling off the last of his clothes, and she shrugs off her, well, his, robe, watching as whatever remained between them falls away. When he moves to settle back over her, she shakes her head, presses a hand to his chest, and pushes him back down. 

She climbs over him, kisses here and there. The dip of his sternum, the stretch of his throat, the slight protrusion of his Adam’s apple. Traces the faint trail of hair down his stomach, following it lower, lower, between his thighs, all the way down to his knees. Biscuit knees, her mind helpfully, uselessly supplies. The kind that would absolutely shatter on impact if he ever fell. Then again, given his height, it would take him a solid three to five business days to actually hit the ground, so maybe it’s a non-issue. 

She strokes his cock, careful not to squeeze too hard, which is already more strategic planning than she usually applies to anything. She even attempts some fancy little wrist maneuver; something she thinks she saw once, something that looks very professional in theory, but immediately cramps up like a fucking amateur.

But that’s fine. She has two hands. And she highly doubts Emmrich, currently sprawled out in front of her, will object to her switching tactics. Now, now she actually feels it. The weight of him, the heat, the way the veins on the underside swell under her palm as he thickens, blood rushing in, skin growing taut and flushed.

She leans down, takes the head into her mouth, licks the salt and musk from his skin; clean, warm, threaded faintly with soap. Gathers spit and lets it drip down his length, then strokes him again, watching the slickness ease the motion, watching the way his hips jerk, his cock pushing eagerly into the tight, wet tunnel of her hand.

She does it again. Once more. Loosens her grip, then constricts it, watching the way the blood surges through him, the way the head reddens, leaks more freely, twitches under her touch. And when she leans once more, swallowing him until the blunt head of him brushes the back of her throat, she barely has time to register the fingers threading into her hair before he’s pulling her off. Not forcefully—Emmrich is nothing if not maddeningly careful—but enough that she knows to stop.

She relents, dragging her mouth off him with a slow suction, admiring the slick sheen of her spit stretch between them before finally breaking.

He settles back over her, and for a while, he just strokes her. He doesn’t even need to wet his fingers; she’s already slick enough that they slide inside easily. But patience is not her virtue, and soon enough, she’s shifting, pressing, urging him on. 

He exhales, soft yet jittery, then withdraws just long enough to search the nightstand. His fingers shake—barely, but enough for her to notice—as he pulls out a condom, struggles briefly with the wrapper, lips pressing together in the slightest show of frustration before he finally rolls it down his cock. 

She doesn’t wait. Yanks him back in, suddenly way too eager, her blood running way too hot. His cheeks are painted pink, and for some reason, she really, really wants to lick them. Or rather, the cheekbones specifically. High, protruding, and—what’s the word? Aristocratic. 

So she does. Just drags her tongue along the bone and, immediately, laughs, breathless, right into his cheek. 

"You smell so, so good," she murmurs, voice hazy, pleased. 

It would probably read as corny in a novel, she thinks. The way his thumbs brush over her cheeks, the softness of the kiss that follows, how everything is patient, unhurried, careful. His hand moves between them, wrapping around himself, guiding his cock to her entrance.

She feels it before anything else—the smooth, warm press of him against her clit, the slow, teasing glide downward, the subtle shift in his grip as he angles himself just right. And then—pressure. A steady push, inch by inch, stretching her open. It isn’t pain, not exactly, just a deep, foreign ache, something unfamiliar, something to adjust to.

Above her, Emmrich shudders, exhales hard against her skin, his face buried in the curve of her neck.

"Rook," he breathes, then again, and again, voice unraveling, a lovely, little litany against her throat, Rook, Rook, Rook, like her name is something essential.

He finds a rhythm, and now—now—it really starts to feel good. The steady drag of his cock inside her, pushing deeper with every roll of his hips. He’s whispering something, words she barely catches, low and breathless, something sweet, something kind, though it barely registers past the heat pooling in her stomach. One of his hands moves over her, palms her breast, fingers pinching lightly at her nipple, sliding down, lower, pressing over her stomach like he’s feeling himself inside her before slipping between her legs.

A slow stroke over her clit, then another, massaging, circling, his pubic bone grinding into her with every thrust, a perfect friction, a sharp little pulse of pleasure each time his hips press flush against hers. Her toes curl, a smile forms. The sound that slips from her mouth is more desperate than she wants it to be; a mewl, something high, something needy, and he hears it, because it has an effect on him.

His hips snap harder against hers, the rhythm shifts, deepens, the sounds between them getting louder, and it’s good, fuck, it’s good, until suddenly it isn’t. A sharp pressure, too much, too deep, something inside her clenching in a way that isn’t pleasure at all.

“Hold on, hold on,” she gasps, legs tightening around his hips to stop him from pushing any further. "Just... Can you not move for a second?"

He stills instantly, breath hot against her skin, his cock buried deep, his body held in place by the tight grip of her thighs. "Did I—?"

"You're sort of..." she begins before cutting herself of. How do people say this sexily? Seductively? In a way that doesn’t make it sound like she’s filing a noise complaint? She gives up. Goes for bluntness. "Long."

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, a tad hoarse, moving to pull out. "I'm sorry."

She doesn’t let him. Her arms tighten around him before he can go anywhere, legs wrapping firmer around his hips, holding him inside. She arches, moves against him, slow, rolling little circles with her hips so his cock isn’t thrusting so much as gliding, caressing her from the inside.

She gasps as she finds the spot he’s already rubbed raw, the one that made her thighs tremble when he had her spread open on his kitchen table. Heat surges through her, another rush of slick rolling around him, and he groans before settling into a slower, more controlled pace.

"Is this all right?" he asks, bracing himself on his forearms, shifting his weight to one side long enough to ease a palm beneath her head, fingers weaving into her hair.

"All right," she echoes, a smile tugging at her lips, too wide, too much, barely able to contain the sheer rightness of it. "So, so all right."

It doesn’t take long before she feels it. His breath catching, his hips starting to stutter, the rhythm breaking into something messier, inconsistant. A shudder travels through him, down his spine, his body pressing flush to hers, a quiet, choked noise escaping his lips as one hand finds purchase beneath her knee, pulling her closer.

"I'm afraid it has been a while," he admits, breath hitching between ragged little half-moans. "I will not be able to—"

"Come," she interrupts, fingers threading through his hair.

She moves with him, against him, tilting her hips to chase every last bit of friction she can get, feeling herself clench, flutter around him, sighing in time with the erratic jingle-jingle of his bracelets, the sound intertwining with the pulse between her legs.

She feels the heat of his release, the way his breath stutters into a quiet, helpless whine as he rides it out, still moving, though his thrusts grow slower, lazier, his body gradually yielding to exhaustion. She feels the steady, insistent thud of his heartbeat—against her chest, inside her, everywhere—before he finally stills, the weight of him pressing down for just a moment before he lifts himself slightly. 

He kisses her, languid and deep, the kind of kiss that lingers in the space between wakefulness and sleep, his eyes drifting shut as if he could rest right here, against her. Without opening them, asks, "How would you like to finish?" 

"What?" she says, dazed, the word barely formed as he kisses his way down her neck, over her breasts, his tongue dragging, teeth catching, lips closing over every sensitive inch he can reach. It’s a stupid question, made even stupider by the fact that she has no idea what she’s even asking.

His hand curls around her knee, pushing it outward, widening the angle until the muscles in her inner thighs stretch, taut and trembling. Then his mouth is on her, lips raw from all the kissing but quickly slicked as his tongue glides through the heat of her, lapping up the mess between her legs.

A sharp jerk in her thighs, the involuntary arch of her back, the sudden, helpless stutter of her breath breaking apart into something that is almost a keen but not quite. Just a strangled sound she doesn’t have the presence of mind to control.

Two fingers spread her folds, slick and flushed, pulsing with every aching throb of blood beneath her skin. His thumb presses down on her clit, firm but careful, at the same moment his tongue pushes inside, slipping past the entrance, licking up everything his cock dragged out, pleasure wet and tacky and slippery.

The heat of his mouth moves with purpose; his tongue curling, stroking, fucking her open between warm breaths and the quiet vibrations of his humming, the sound sending little sparks of sensation straight through her. Praise spills from his lips, soft and slurred and half-formed, slipping between flicks of his tongue, as though every slow, wet drag is a conversation, a promise, a confession whispered straight into the slick, trembling heat of her cunt. Good, lovely, darling—words lost between the obscene suck of his mouth and the way he eats her, like he means every syllable, like he wants her to feel them inside her just as much as his tongue.

Her breath wheezes, her legs tense, her slick drips down over his chin as she grinds helplessly against his mouth, overstimulated, wrung out, gone.

It's the praise that finally pushes her over. It’s not earth-shattering. It's not the kind of orgasm that tears through her in some great, cinematic crescendo. She doesn’t scream, doesn’t see stars, doesn’t arch like some desperate, pornographic thing. No, this one is different. It creeps in slowly, melts her from the inside out, something deep and final, something that leaves her limp and spent and done.

Maybe, just maybe, this is what a proper one is supposed to feel like. Not leaving her restless and ready to go again, but making her tender, sweating, like even the brush of a hand against her ankle would be too much.

He keeps working her through it, lets her ride it out as long as she needs, until she’s limp and tired, nothing but heat and pulse beneath him. Only then does he finally ease away, planting one last kiss against the inside of her thigh before moving back up, his mouth slick and shining, cheeks flushed.

He says something, but she doesn’t catch it before he slips away. The sound of running water drifts from the bathroom, and when he returns, it’s with a damp hand towel, which he presses between her legs, cleaning her up before setting it aside. 

"Thank you," she breathes. 

He makes a sound, not quite a word, more of a hum, something deeply pleased. If a smile could be heard, that’s what it would sound like. Then he leans down, presses a kiss to her forehead, and climbs back into bed beside her. 

It’s morning. They should probably get on with their respective days, but she has no interest in leaving the warmth of the bed just yet. So, instead, she pulls the covers up over them, settling deeper into the cocoon of lingering heat. 

"How early did you get up?" she asks suddenly. "You weren’t here when I woke up." 

"A quarter past five," Emmrich says, and there it is again—that small, almost bashful glance as he takes her hand. She rolls into him, content to leech off his warmth. 

"Criminal," she declares. "But at least that explains why you weren’t there." 

"Oh, I wasn’t beside you at all, I’m afraid. That would have been Manfred. He refused to be displaced." 

"Ah. Hence the mouthful of hair." 

[cybershock24601]

Highlights of my Fancy Crow Party fic are as follows:

Lucanis in a fancy outfit looking so hot Rook forgets how to speak

Rook in a fancy outfit looking so hot Lucanis forgets how to speak

Exploring Crow politics (I have a lot of Thoughts on the matter)

Two Rooks meeting in the wild as Ingellvar and de Riva become besties

Viago all but having an aneurysm in the background as the Rooks become besties

Illario making a Scene

Exploring Illario and Rook's horrible in law relationship because Rook was the one who had him imprisoned due to the optics of the First Talon letting a traitor go without any punishment but also the one advising Lucanis on how to integrate his disgraced cousin back into the Crows because Lucanis wants to try and reconcile their relationship and Illario is really resentful towards Rook for both fucking him over and then trying to help him afterwards. Rook doesn't like him because he's an ass and hurt Lucanis. They both have to play nice because of Lucanis

Rook and Lucanis dancing together

Someone dying during the party because it inst a real Crow get together unless there are at least three attempted assassination attempts and sometimes they succeed. Lucanis' first thought is "ugh, I hope the blood doesn't stain the marble" before remembering Rook is there and immediately turning to check on her only to see her glowing with necrotic magic and muttering under her breath before the corpse gets back up, cleans up its own mess, and walks right out the room which causes so much more of a stir then the death itself because the Crows aren't used to the Nevarran response to "sudden assassination at a soiree"

Rook cementing her position as not only Lucanis' partner but as the First Talon's very scary necromancer lover that you should probably think twice before crossing (Rook's not even really trying to be intimidating, she just keeps letting her freak flag fly because turns out there's a surprising amount of crossover subjects between the work of an assassin and a mortician and while murder doesn't really bother the Crows, everything after death is a lot more disturbing especially when the person you're talking to just raised a corpse in the middle of the room not even half an hour ago)

Rook being upgraded from "tolerable annoyance on the path to great grandchildren" to "active threat" by Caterina as Rook who might prefer to act the clown, shows off that she's actually decently good at politicking because Rook is a mortalitasi and the ruthlessness of mortalitasi politics is not too dissimilar to the infighting between Crow Houses (not to mention me being able to explore my own headcanons about the factionalism within the Mourn Watch and Rook growing up dealing with the politics of both the living and the dead in the Necropolis because lets not forget Rook was kicked out of the Mourn Watch for stopping a civil war between undead nobility)

[bubblecat-co]

A New Place - RRAU

A little bit of some Mourn watchers for y'all

Word Count: 811

Rooks involved: Osla ( @moonbunecho), Reto ( @tiravi), and Ezra ( @lunammoon)

When Elysia first arrived at the lighthouse, she navigated it pretty easily. The fade was an old friend, one she had learned to grow familiar with in dreams and working alongside spirits. The caretaker was a simple yet sweet spirit. before heading for the lighthouse, the Nevarran had never left Nevarra, so she took her time navigating the crossroads and was brimming with excitement to see more. Even if the thing that led her to be sent away was upsetting the pompous ass that was Elias Pentaghast, she didn’t regret it because now she wouldn’t be expected to attend to his beck and call when he decided he needed to flaunt the mortalitasi.

She found herself wandering around the lighthouse, exploring the different places that had formed from the fade. The kitchen was cozy and large able to fit the growing army that seemed to began to occupy the space, Vorgoth had told her that many people had been sent there or found themselves being drawn to the work that they were doing. The elven gods, it was astonishing to Elysia. She knew very little about the elves' past or any of their traditions, but the idea that their Gods were real and currently were in Thedas was something she couldn’t shake from her mind. It was exciting all, be it terrifying at the same time. She wondered around the lighthouse itself, finding herself in what she could only assume was the mourn watcher commons based on the Nevarran decorations and the light darkness that coated the area from the faint veilfire light that lined the walls. On the floor was a sleeping elf, curled up beside a bookcase with stacks of books surrounding her.

“Is she seriously sleeping on the floor again?” a voice grumbled as a male elf appeared from around the corner already working on getting the elven girl off the floor. Once he noticed Elysia was standing there watching the two, with a bag over her shoulder, he stared at her with furrowed brows before carefully moving himself between the sleeping elf and Elysia. “Who are you?”

“I’m Elysia, Vorgoth recommended I come and you are?”

He watched her carefully “Reto.” he plainly stated before returning back to lifting the sleeping elf into his arms bridal style. “See you around.” he disappeared, carrying her off with him.

“He’ll warm up to you eventually.” she turned to find another elf they had curly white hair and gave her a very small smile. “Glad you could join us, I’m Ezra. I suppose I’m technically a leader here, I’m not too sure when that happened.”

“It is quite lovely to meet you.” she smiled as she absentmindedly twisted one of her golden rings around her finger. “I hope I’ll be of some help here, and the elf that was sleeping?”

“That’s Osla. It’s a habit of hers. She tends to find the most interesting spots to fall asleep in. Rooms appear as people join, I’m sure one opened up for you… You said your name was Elysia?” Ezra began to walk, and she followed, passing by bedroom doors and bookshelves.

“That is correct, yes.” her eyes wondered around, taking in the decorations. It was so much like home, which made sense. The fade would build around for the people who stayed, adding in detail for people specifically to make them feel more comfortable. How anyone could feel unsettled within a space made to fit for them always astonished Elysia.

“Everyone here is pretty friendly. The crows are standoffish, and so are some others from different factions, not many feel comfortable with the undead and spirits."

“I can handle standoffish.” the two came to a stop in front of a door.

“That’s good to hear. This door wasn’t here before, so I’m assuming it’s for you. Get settled and welcome again, Elysia.” Ezra gave her another tiny polite smile before walking away, leaving her alone to get used to the area. She carefully pushed the door open and was met with a room that had a good amount of space. It was brightly lit, the walls barren just as the bookcases were. There was a small window right above a lavish bed and pushed with its side to the wall was a smaller twin bed right beside a desk that faced the wall. Clearly, it knew her role, a healer.

It would be a lovely place to stay, filled with new people from different backgrounds and some people with a sense of familiarity with them. Truly, she couldn't wait to see the world outside of Nevarra or hear about it. Stories were her favorite thing, and now she had empty bookshelves to fill with new stories and new bones to add to her collection. She was determined to make the lighthouse comfortable for those of the mourn watch who struggled with socializing. It would start with a snack drawer.

[dendroaspis-viridis]

The Hunt Ball

Katareth is the unfortunate recipient of an invitation to one of the Pentaghast’s famous hunt balls. Thankfully, a certain necromancer will also be in attendance.

Rating: T (Content warnings listed under the read more.)

Read it on AO3

Content warnings for unwanted physical contact (though nothing overtly sexual), depictions of overstimulation, consumption of alcohol, and a very brief blink-and-you-miss-it mention of losing a child.

9:42 Dragon

With the Mortalitasi’s autumn rites concluded and new initiates welcomed into the Mourn Watch, Harvestmere’s arrival was heralded by cold winds and the crunch of dead leaves underfoot.

Pulling her cloak tighter around broad shoulders, Katareth walked alongside Johanna to the little Antivan restaurant they frequented for dinner. It was within walking distance to the Necropolis, and they were always greeted by the delicious scent of spiced meats and a friendly ‘Hullo!’ from the owner as soon as they stepped through the door.

After ordering their food, they sat at their usual table by the window, sipping at warm glasses of cider to chase the chill away.

“What’s been going on in that head of yours, Kitty? I could practically hear you thinking on the way over here.”

“…Can you teach me to dance?” the qunari quickly whispered, glancing around to ensure none of the other customers overheard.

Johanna blinked a few times. Of all the things she expected Katareth to ever ask of her, that certainly wasn’t one of them.

When the older Watcher didn’t respond after a few moments, Katareth hastily explained, “I know you’ve been to several balls over the years and are much better acquainted with the more aristocratic side of Nevarran culture than I am-”

Johanna raised her hand, gently halting the reaper. “First: stop rambling. Second: of course I’ll teach you what I know. Third: why?”

She rubbed at the back of her neck. “So, you know how the Prelate invites all of the higher-ranking Mortalitasi to his family’s hunt ball every winter?” Johanna nodded disdainfully, rolling her eyes. “According to him, this one will be more of a celebration of the Inquisition’s victory, instead. He stopped by my quarters yesterday to tell me my attendance ‘will be expected at the gala to display both the Mortalitasi’s and Pentaghast’s support of the Inquisitor’s divine mission,’” she sneered.

It wasn’t that Katareth disliked Inquisitor Adaar—she'd never even met the poor kid. But she did dislike how some of the same humans who once glanced at her with wary contempt now fawned over her, viewing her as an extension of the Herald’s supposedly sacred origins simply due to the horns that rose from her skull.

Johanna sighed empathetically. “Yeah, that’s politics for ya: ‘You’re not worth my time until there’s something I want from you…’”  She thought for a moment, tapping her chin as she scrutinized the reaper. “…But it shouldn’t be too hard to teach you; you’re a quick study, and it’s honestly not that different from combat footwork. We should have… what, six weeks before the ball? That’ll be plenty of time.”

-----

Six weeks came and went, stripping trees of their foliage and supplanting dormant gardens with heaping piles of snow. During that time, Johanna had resumed her place as Katareth’s mentor. Rather than imparting the qunari with the knowledge and expertise one needed to become a Mourn Watcher, she instead taught the younger woman the elegant art of ballroom dance during lessons that often ran into the wee hours of the morning. Johanna was far more patient with Kat than she’d been during their earlier days, but found that patience chipped thinner and thinner every time her feet were smashed underfoot.

Mercifully, that happened less frequently the more they practiced, and eventually Katareth was deemed a more or less proficient dancer. She was by no means perfect, but Johanna had teasingly assured her that most of the attendees would be too drunk after an hour or two to notice her crushing their toes.

“Just tie the sash around your belt once or twice… a bit tighter-too tight! Ugh, just let me do it, Kat.” The human had been helping her prepare for the ball, ironing out the finer details of the Watch’s formal grey-green dress uniform and tossing quick glances at the door every so often.

“Hm... Okay, give me a twirl,” Johanna requested as she perched herself on the edge of a table.

Katareth did as she was told, feeling very much like Thedas’ largest dress-up doll.

“Great… now do it again, but try to not look constipated this time.”

Muttering a curse under her breath, she once again turned, recalling the many many hours dedicated solely to pirouetting properly. Evidently, they paid off when the fine, crimson silk scarf that had been looped around her waist fluttered with her movements, mimicking a glittering arc of dragon’s blood. The little red ribbon that held her ivory hair in a low bun swayed as she stopped, tickling her nape.

“Oh, very good! Well done, Katareth!” Johanna praised, elated to see her teaching put to practice.

A wide grin spread across the qunari’s face. Maybe tonight wouldn’t be as miserable as she’d feared.

“And I believe with that you’re ready.” The older woman began herding her towards the door, offering advice as they went, “Remember: just grin and bear it. You shouldn’t need to be there for more than a few hours—just long enough for people to see and meet you. But there’s no shame in retreating to a terrace to get some fresh air if things get overwhelming, either.”

Opening the door and gesturing for the qunari to lean down, Johanna made some minor adjustments to the matching red silk cravat tied around her throat, plucking invisible pieces of lint from the fabric before smoothing down her waistcoat. “There should also be a few familiar faces. Most of the Pentaghast Mortalitasi will be there obviously, but I know a few other Watchers are attending for one reason or another…” She leaned to the side, looking past Katareth down the hall.

As if on cue, Emmrich appeared from around a corner at the far end of the corridor. His elegant fingers carded through greying hair as he approached, drawing Katareth’s attention to the rich maroon lacquer that adorned each manicured nail. Like herself, he was clad in their order’s formal attire, decorated with shimmering red silk that seemed to flutter and flow with his every move. In contrast to her more reserved placements, Emmrich chose a bold arrangement that accentuated his shoulders by fastening the sashes to his epaulets, letting the fabric billow behind him like wings.

“Good evening, ladies. Apologies for my tardiness; evidently I didn’t start preparing early enough,” the necromancer admitted.

Johanna’s eyes raked over his form as she appraised his work, “I’ll let it slide this time, Volkarin—but only because you clean up nicely.”

“You look wonderful, Emmrich.” Maybe it wasn’t her most elegant or articulate compliment, but an unexpectedly large portion of Katareth’s mind was now dedicated to taking in every aspect of his appearance.

He was beautiful. Not that he wasn’t attractive before, but it wasn’t something Katareth normally paid attention to, too focused on whatever trek or project or corpse they were working on at the time to pay any mind to how someone presented themselves. Suddenly struck by his visage, however, she scanned his features greedily. The carefully-applied kohl around his eyes made their umber depths seem deeper. More entrancing, somehow. His moustache was neat and tidy, sharpened to points so razor-thin the qunari could slice the pad of her thumb on one if she were ever brave enough to try, and… was that a dusting of rouge upon his cheeks?

“Thank you!” he beamed up at her. “I could say much the same about you. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you in the Watch’s formal attire, but you wear it well. Red suits you.”

Before she could respond, Johanna interjected. “Yes, yes, you both look lovely. But ‘most everyone else has already left, and there’s a fine line between being fashionably late and just late that you two are tight walking.”

“Right you are. Katareth?” The necromancer gestured down the corridor in the opposite direction he came from, beckoning the pair’s departure. The two said their goodbyes to Johanna, including a quiet, “Thank you. For everything,” from the reaper.

Johanna waved her away. “Bah, get out of here! You can thank me by not embarrassing yourself tonight. Now go!”

-----

“I was roped into this by Prelate Pentaghast, but what brings you to the hunt ball, if you don’t mind my asking?” They made a quick detour to the stables, saddling their undead mounts with varying degrees of success. Katareth was an old pro, having worked with horses on and off at her adoptive parents’ ranch for the past two decades, but Emmrich found the near-endless buckles and straps needlessly convoluted and normally left anything involving them to their resident equestrian.

“My parents insist upon it…” he sighed. “Despite Philomena’s recent betrothal and even Ulrich’s wife giving birth to my third nephew, they still maintain that I—as the eldest child—find a suitable spouse, and all but force me to attend every high-profile event I can.” Emmrich twisted a tip of his moustache as he watched her secure the last few pieces of tack. “Some parties are better than others—and I admit the Pentaghasts do know how to celebrate—but they all still have the same insipid gentry who are far more interested in what you have to offer on parchment than what you have to offer as a person.”

“That sounds… exhausting.” Her hands hesitated as she slipped leather through metal. “…I apologize if it isn’t my place, but it’s not right that they place so much pressure on you. You shouldn’t have to tolerate that. After all, it’s not as if you could control being born first.”

Katareth had been spared from the reproductive stresses of succession simply by virtue of her heritage. Being Albrecht and Petra Naletski’s only surviving child (adopted or biological), however, meant that the more practical responsibilities related to the estate were slowly being handed over to her as she matured. That was nothing, though. She’d choose a few annual meetings to review finances over having someone constantly breathing down her neck to breed like some prized horse...

The necromancer’s fidgeting hand stilled as his eyes dropped to the stone floor, ruminating over her words. “I suppose you’re right…,” he went quiet for several seconds before stating in a lighter tone, “But I think we’ve bellyached enough about family for one night. Let’s attempt to make something fun of the evening, shall we?”

She stood, satisfied that everything was properly secured before offering a strong hand to help the other Watcher into his saddle. “I’d like that. After all, the party can’t be that awful, can it?”

-----

As a matter of fact, it could be.

Within minutes of handing their overcoats off to a servant, both Mourn Watchers were swarmed by party-goers vying for their attention, herding the two in opposite directions. The small crowd surrounding Emmrich seemed more or less familiar with him, if the way they pressed themselves against him and wantonly flirted was any indication.

The humans that corralled Katareth, on the other hand, kept at least a foot of distance. At first. With every successive question they asked and every clipped answer she gave, they inched closer and closer until she felt the uncomfortable squeeze of a hand on the muscles of her bicep.

Apparently, she’d been the center of some speculation ever since Albrecht first brought the then thirteen-year-old girl to Nevarra City, but as she’d never attended any of the social balls during her youth, they’d never had the chance to pry. The Watcher briefly explained how he discovered her working in one of Hossberg’s stables during the maladaptive sabbatical that followed the death of his only child while simultaneously trying (and failing) to subtly remove strange hands from her person. ‘Just grin and bear it,’ she reminded herself.

While the qunari’s towering height drew unwanted attention wherever she went, it did have a few advantages. One such boon was her ability to reach over the gathered gentry to pluck beverages from passing waitstaff. It didn’t matter what it was, so long as it was alcoholic. After tossing back a few drinks, she reached the pleasant state of intoxication where the sharp edges of the evening’s vexations were sanded, while still remaining more or less aware of her faculties.

After almost an hour of enduring questions that ranged from vapid to downright obscene, King Markus Pentaghast rose from his throne atop a black marble dais to give a short speech, thanking Andraste for sending the Herald and commending the Inquisition for its valiant efforts to protect Thedas. He also drew attention to a few key members of the Inquisition who were in attendance tonight, praising them before ending his speech with a warbled declaration to enjoy the night’s festivities.

As he returned to his throne, the large orchestra started up again, prompting couples to take to the spacious dance floor. Katareth turned upon hearing someone clear their throat behind her, greeted by the outstretched hand of an older Pentaghast man clad in dazzling armor. The alcohol in her veins muddied his given name, though she was able to recall that he was one of the handful of Pentaghasts competing for the throne that actually stood a chance at claiming it.

“It’s not often such a beautiful, enigmatic Watcher crosses my path, and I’d be remiss if I didn’t invite her to dance. Would you do me the honor, my lady?”

‘I’d sooner flay myself and roll around in natron,’ she bit back. Maybe if Katareth was a young blushing maiden waiting to be swept off her feet, or enjoyed any of the tawdry romance books Myrna tried to get her to read, she’d be swooning at the thought of dancing with one of Nevarra’s elites. Instead, she wanted to recoil from his insincere compliments and melt into the floor.

“I believe the honor would be mine, Lord Pentaghast.” Eugh.

The dancing itself wasn’t bad, per se, but… everything else was. For someone happiest in the dimly-lit repose of the Grand Necropolis, the bright chandeliers, intense cacophony from the orchestra, and searing touch of Lord Pentaghast’s wandering hands had the reaper wanting to crawl out of her own skin. Just grin and bear it.

When the song finally came to a close, Katareth thought that would be the end of it, and she could slink to some far corner to recuperate for the rest of the evening while still technically remaining present.

Before she could even turn to leave, her hands were grabbed by another human. This one was a cocky young man who loved both alcohol and the sound of his own voice, according to his incessant, slurred chattering.

Each arrangement subjected the reaper to a new face and new grievances until a gentle hand tapped her elbow during a lull. A tall, svelte human about Katareth’s age with dark hair and oddly-familiar features grinned up at her.

“Everyone looked like they were having such a wonderful time dancing with you that I had to see what all the fuss was about,” the woman laughed good-naturedly.

Katareth gave a quiet acknowledgement, dutifully twirling and dipping and spinning her partner when the orchestra picked back up again. About two-thirds of the way through the arrangement, the sudden off-key shriek of a violin’s bow across catgut was the final nail in the qunari’s mental coffin. The cacophonous floodgate of stimuli that’d been held back by a handful of drinks gave way, overwhelming the reaper.

The clanking of armor, the boisterous laughter of people who were somehow enjoying themselves, the blinding dazzle of crystals dripping from chandeliers, it was all just too much. Even the woman’s feather-light touch upon the small of Katareth’s back might as well have been a dagger attempting to carve out her kidneys.

By some great miracle she managed to finish out the dance, but knew she had a narrow window of time before the band would pick back up, trapping her in a snare of social conventions that she knew she'd be unable to manage graciously. Wide, yellow eyes darted, scanning for the path of least resistance to somewhere—anywhere that wasn’t here. Johanna’s earlier advice echoed in her mind. A terrace, yes! She just needed to find a nice, quiet terrace to lick her wounds for the rest of the evening before she could make her escape.

“Leaving so soon, Lady Naletski? I was hoping for another,” the noblewoman teased. Wait. Had Katareth given her name? Ah, who gave a shit—she had bigger issues right now. The reaper’s distress must’ve been apparent, as the woman’s tone became tinged with concern. “Are you okay…?”

“Hm? Oh, um, I’m fine! But I might slip away for a m-moment—if that’s alright, of course? Uh, I-I just need some air.” She managed to flounder out. Maker, even the sound of her own voice scraped against her ears.

Unconvinced, but now well-aware of the Watcher’s dire condition, the human pointed toward the closest flight of stairs that would lead her from the worst of the crowds, “That should be your safest option. It was delightful getting to finally meet you, as well! Hopefully we can cross paths again under calmer circumstances soon!”

Katareth wasted no time, tossing the familiar stranger a thankful wave over her shoulder as she squeezed passed throngs of humans.

Skulking off to a blessedly-empty terrace with only a handful of little blackbirds hopping about for company, the brisk Haring air was a balm to her frazzled mind. While she could still hear the orchestra, it was muffled to a pleasant background music that Katareth could tune out, should she so choose.

She wasn’t entirely sure how long she spent leaning on the balustrade recuperating with her head in her hands, but she supposed it didn’t really matter; she’d spent more than enough time mingling with the living for one night. She’d earned this. Lifting her head to look out upon the landscape, she breathed a long sigh of relief that billowed in the cold. Both moons were full and bright, casting Nevarra City in a silver glow that glittered gently off yesterday’s snowfall. It was nice. It was quiet. She could think.

And massage at the sore muscles of her neck. Humans were certainly an interesting bunch. They were resourceful, superstitious, and individualistic, among other things. But the one detail about them that consistently caused the qunari the most grief was just how short they were. Emmrich was one of the taller humans she spoke to, and she still found herself rubbing cramps from her neck on occasion…

“Sorry to interrupt your quiet time, but I couldn’t resist introducing myself,” a rough, gravelly voice came from her left. Katareth glanced, looking down—then further down still—to see a dwarf with red hair and mischievous eyes. You’ve got to be shitting me.

“Varric Tethras. Rogue, storyteller, and according to a certain Seeker, ‘conniving little shit’,” he snickered, holding his hand up to shake. The man had a warm smile, though the confidence that dripped from his words left her wary. Even though he was one of the heroes being celebrated tonight, she’d endured her fair share of self-important men for the evening. When Katareth said nothing and made no move to take his hand, he let it fall to his side, carrying the conversation for her. “The strong, silent type, then? I can work with that.”

“It’s been a long night… Uh, Katareth Naletski. Mourn Watcher.” He didn’t seem offended when she didn’t meet his eyes, instead following the little blackbirds as they flapped about.

“Katareth… that sounds like a very Qunari name to hear in the middle of Nevarra…”

She manifested a handful of Veilfire before dismissing it with a clenched fist. It required fewer words than explaining the nuances between Qunari, Vashoth, and Tal-Vashoth, and most people understood just enough of Qunari culture to know mages weren’t viewed fondly by those who still followed the Qun.

“Ah. Yep, that’ll do it. So, does that make you one of the death mages I’ve heard so much about?”

“Not really,” she waved her hand dismissively. “I’m a bit shit at magic, truth be told. There’s another Watcher here named Emmrich Volkarin, if you’d like to talk to a real Nevarran death caller.” She felt bad trying to make the dwarf Emmrich’s problem, but the necromancer was far better equipped to speak on anything arcane. Really, he was better equipped to speak on anything.

“And miss out on the pleasure of your company? Never,” the dwarf teased. “Besides, you seem like someone worth knowing.”

She hummed inquisitively.

Varric ended up being surprisingly easy to talk to, easing her into the conversation with questions she could answer with a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’. It almost made her suspicious, as multiple times during their quid pro quo, Katareth found herself divulging information she hadn’t spoken on in decades. It certainly helped that he made her quietly chuckle a few times, regaling her with stories of some of his earlier misadventures.

After a while, she saw his head turn to one of the doors leading back into the castle proper from the corner of her eye. “And that’s probably my cue to get back to the party. It was great talking to you, and I’d love to stay in touch if you’d be willing, Rook?"

“‘Rook’?”

“Yeah. Those birds you’ve been watching the entire time? They’re called ‘rooks.’” He began counting on his fingers, “They’re sociable, dark-feathered, chatty, and tend to stay in the same place their entire lives—it’s perfect, if you ask me!”

Ah. She understood, now. “If you say so.”

Varric gave her one last farewell, passing Emmrich on his way back inside.

Taking the dwarf’s place on the balustrade, Emmrich handed her a steaming mug of mulled wine. “Philomena suggested I come check on you,” he explained. “I hope I didn’t interrupt anything…?”

“No, nothing like that! Uh, he just thought I was interesting—but nothing more. Wait, your sister?” She sipped, reveling in the warmth that spread through her.

He nodded, nursing his own mug, “Yes, said you were an excellent dancer, too. I’ll have to pass her praise along to Johanna; I’m sure she’ll be ecstatic.”

“I thought she looked familiar… Please give Philomena both my thanks and apologies, I was a bit… um, unpolished toward the end of our dance and she handled it very graciously.” Katareth took a longer drink, hoping he would assume the pink on her cheeks was from the cold.

The necromancer waved her shame away, “I wouldn’t worry about it too much, you certainly handled tonight better than I handled my first hunt ball, after all. And you caught the eye of one Varric Tethras.” He smirked, “…You know who’ll be kicking herself for not attending tonight?”

“Myrna!” They laughed in unison. She was probably his biggest fan, collecting signed copies of every book she could get her hands on. She was even their main source of information regarding the Inquisition due to her scouring every report from Ferelden for even a passing mention of her favorite author.

“On top of that, he even bequeathed you with one of his famous nicknames. What was it, ‘Rook’?”

“Apparently,” she grumbled.

“I could see it… After all, they’re immensely intelligent, committed, and often misunderstood by small-minded fools.” The necromancer took a long drink of wine, surveying the skyline.

“…I think I prefer your explanation.”

He smiled softly, huffing a quiet laugh.

The two Watchers stood there for several long minutes, silently basking in each other’s company as they inched closer and closer, blaming their increasing proximity on the biting cold. When their pinkies brushed against one another on the balustrade, neither retreated, and Katareth was pleasantly surprised to feel that his touch didn’t cause her to shy away. It wasn’t too much. As a matter of fact, it wasn’t enough.

Emmrich must have somehow sensed her desire, as he pulled his gaze from the cityscape to look up at the qunari. “Katareth… would you care to dance with me?” he almost whispered.

“I’d love to.” she couldn’t hide her lopsided smile. “Shall I lead?”

“If you’d prefer. I’ve no objections either way.”

The reaper nodded, moving from the railing to allow the necromancer to step even closer into her space. He placed one hand in hers, resting the other on the small of her back. Listening to the orchestra, Katareth found her place in the music, guiding her partner through the motions.

Dancing with him was overwhelming, but not in a way that had her recoiling. Instead, it was a cacophony of sensations in all the best possible ways: exhilarating and soothing and intimate and perfect. The rest of the world seemed to fall away around them, leaving the Mourn Watchers in a silvery spotlight.

Emmrich’s eyes traced along the multitude of scars and creases on her face, though she felt no judgement or derision under his umber stare. As he followed a jagged pearly scar down to where it sliced her lips, Katareth watched as a pink tongue subconsciously darted out to wet his own.

 She allowed her eyes to wander across his features, in turn. Though Johanna teased Emmrich endlessly when she first noticed the silver hairs at his temples, Katareth thought they made him even more handsome. More distinguished. Like the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes that deepened whenever he smiled, or the singular paper-thin scar at his hairline.

As the music built to its conclusion, she guided the human into a few quick spins, watching in awe as the sashes at his shoulders enveloped them both in a scarlet cocoon. The grey hand at Emmrich’s waist moved to cradle the space between his shoulder blades when the orchestra hit their crescendo, concluding with a dip that left the qunari’s face hovering above his own.

The final echoes of the music faded, though neither Watcher made any attempt to right themselves, practically sharing their breaths. Maker, she wanted to close the distance… Surely, he’d taste of the rich, spiced wine they shared. But I really shouldn’t… The wine was stronger than she’d anticipated, and while she was more than capable of holding her liquor, she couldn’t definitively say the same for the man in her arms.

Besides, doing something drastic and impulsive like that would most certainly qualify as ‘embarrassing herself’ in Johanna’s bespectacled eyes.

Katareth pulled the necromancer into a standing position, placing a steadying hand on his shoulder when Emmrich swayed slightly. Whether it was from vertigo or the alcohol in his veins or an unfortunate mix of the two, she wasn’t sure.

Nevertheless, Emmrich quickly found his balance, looking between the moon’s position in the sky and the ongoing gala inside before breathlessly declaring: “And with that, I daresay we’ve stayed long enough to satisfy social norms if you’d like to return home?”

“Yes, please.” Home. She supposed it really was home, wasn’t it?

They made their way back inside, skirting around the worst of the crowds before donning their overcoats and collecting their mounts. The entire time, Katareth’s mind was fogged with a warm fuzziness that she knew wasn’t brought on by the wine.

-----

“So, what did you think of your first hunt ball?” The Mourn Watchers were a little over halfway back, riding through a gentle fall of fluffy snowflakes.

“Maker-willing, it’ll be my last.” In her opinion, there were only two positives to the evening, and her favorite was currently riding alongside her.

“Can’t say I blame you…” After a few thoughtful moments, Emmrich looked at her and quietly hinted, “You know, I think this might be my last, as well…?”

“Oh?”

His brows furrowed with determination as he took a deep breath. “I… I hate them. They’re miserable, torrid affairs, and I’m quite certain this is the first one in years where I didn’t despise every moment of it.” The necromancer’s cheeks flushed. “I just… I’m so exhausted trying to appease my parents at the cost of my own happiness—if that makes sense? I mean, Andraste’s breath, I’m closing in on forty-five and still seeking their approval!”

She nodded sympathetically. While the qunari never had to grapple with disappointing her biological parents, she had given up on trying to make Petra proud of her years ago, determining the resentful woman was a lost cause. “Trust me, I understand that sentiment all-too-well. And you have my full support, should you need it.”

He expressed his gratitude, and the pair rode in companionable silence for the remainder of the trek, returning to the Grand Necropolis just as the snowfall began to pick up.

-----

Emmrich spoke again as they entered the residential area, “While I can’t say the same for the rest of the evening, I enjoyed our time together.”

They stopped outside Katareth’s door. “Likewise. Um, we should go out more.” The reaper heard her own words and realized how they could be misconstrued with a wince. “I mean—I go to that little Antivan place not far from here with Johanna on Tuesdays and get coffee with Myrna on Saturdays. We could do something like that—if you’re interested, of course?”

He either didn’t notice her misstep, or was too polite to draw attention to it. “I’d love to. Did you-,” he paused, covering his mouth to stifle a yawn. “My apologies, ah, did you have anywhere in particular in mind?”

“Not yet, but we can decide on that in the morning.” It was rather late, and the qunari found her eyelids growing heavier by the minute.

“I'll hold you to it,” Emmrich smirked. “Oh, and one last request: could you wait until I’m at breakfast before telling Myrna about your meeting with Tethras?” he sheepishly asked.

“Of course. We’ll have to wait for Johanna, anyway, as I’m almost certain she’d throttle me if I didn’t,” Katareth snorted.

“Good point. Well, I’ll see you in the morning…” he turned to walk away, stopping briefly with a playful glint in his eyes. “…Rook.”

When she gave him a withering look, the necromancer defended himself, “You have to admit it’s better than ‘Kitty Kat.’”

“Go to bed, Emmrich,” the reaper groaned at his invocation of Johanna’s obnoxious nickname, unwilling to concede. “Your lack of sleep is making you delirious.”

He laughed, and it was the most wonderful music she’d heard all night. “Maybe you’re right… Regardless, sweet dreams, Katareth.”

“Sweet dreams, Emmrich.”

[persephoneggsy]

I'm too excited about The Veilguard so I wrote a little fic trying to figure out my prospective Rook, Phryne. Tried to keep stuff re: the Mourn Watch vague since I'm sure we'll learn more about them in the game proper. This is mainly just me succumbing to the brainrot lolol

***

People often said that the dead looked like they were sleeping. All the tension and worries of the corporeal had vanished, leaving only an expression of peaceful repose.

Phryne had seen her fair share of dead faces – she’d been a mercenary for several years, and besides, she was Nevarran. Death was seeped into their very marrow.

Sometimes, it was true. Other times, she’d look down at see a face twisted with pain, shock, sometimes even sadness. She just never thought it mattered. Who cared what someone’s final expression was? Dead was dead; the mortal soul was gone, and if they found their bodies possessed, then the most expressive the corpse would be was dependent entirely on the spirit doing the possessing.

Now, though. Phryne looked down at her son and wished he looked like he was sleeping.

Rothe’s expression was much like it had been in life; hard and stern, his jaw stubbornly set and eyebrows furrowed as if he were in the middle of an inspection. Even in death, her eldest child was not able to relax, it seemed. She used to tease him for that, wondering how he and his sister had turned out so uptight. He’d always answer, “It’s obvious, Mother: we had to make up for your carefree nature.”

Even when his tone was light, his mouth would twitch into a short approximation of a smile before resuming its usual stoic state. And now, that was the face he would carry into eternity.

Phryne tore her eyes away from her son’s face – his too young face, he was barely thirty, why had she outlived her son – and focused on the rest of him. The Mortalitasi in charge of preparing his body had done a fine job of repairing… the damage. She’d been told his cause of death was a blade to his heart. It would have been quick, or at least quicker than bleeding out or starving or drowning. Small mercies, she supposed.

He was wearing his finest suit, the same he’d worn at his wedding, but with an added red-orange sash and emblem pin denoting the symbol of the Inquisition. His arms were crossed over his stomach, hands resting on the hilt of his trusted blade – it was broken in two when his body arrived from the Arbor Wilds, but Phryne had found a reliable craftsman able to repair it. One could hardly tell it was broken, now.

Rothe had left instructions for the sword. When he was old enough, and if he wanted it, it would go to his son, Quirin. It would be some time before that happened, thought Phryne. Quirin was barely five years old.

Maker. Phryne closed her eyes. Poor Quirin. Still a child, and both his parents gone. His mother was lost to fever just two short years ago, and now his father, lost to a cause halfway around the world. Her daughter, Elke, was going to take him in, raise him alongside her own son, Halig. She’d given Phryne a pointed look when she made that declaration, as if expecting her to argue. Of course, Phryne did not; Elke was a good mother.

Better than Phryne thought she had been, anyway.

A polite cough drew Phryne’s attention away from Rothe’s body. A man around her age was standing in the doorway of the funeral hall. Judging by the staff in his hands, topped with a skull, he was a mage, and he seemed vaguely familiar to her. Perhaps she’d crossed paths with him in the Watch.

“I’m sorry,” he began. “I didn’t realize there were still mourners here.”

Phryne glanced at the candles illuminating Rothe’s still form. They’d nearly burnt to their ends. Had she been there that long? It seemed that just minutes ago, the hall was filled with mourners, Rothe’s friends and acquaintances. Elke and the children had been among the last to leave, but now, it seemed she’d been alone with her thoughts for some time.

“It’s… fine,” Phryne managed to say. She smoothed down her mourning dress and turned away from the corpse. “Are you here to administer his final rites?”

“Yes, but if you need more time…”

“No, thank you.” Phryne managed a weak smile, which the necromancer returned, though his was much more sincere. He was quite handsome, she noted distantly, and if the body on the altar had been anyone’s other than Rothe, she might have said so out loud. As it was, she merely gave her son one last look over her shoulder. “He’s as ready as he’s going to be. Me too, I think.”

The necromancer chuckled kindly. “A relative?”

“My son.”

“Ah. My condolences.”

He stepped forward, joining Phryne at the altar. Shrewd eyes scanned over Rothe’s body. Phryne found herself watching the mage. She was a part of the Mourn Watch, and she suspected he was as well – last rites were typically conducted by Watchers, especially in cases where it was another Watcher’s relatives that had died – though she never saw much of the mages that made up the bulk of the order. Most tended to stay in their studies, talking to skeletons and doing research long into the night.

“Inquisition, hm?” he murmured. “They’ve been doing good work. You must have been proud.”

“I suppose I was.”

“It’s in question?”

“I am proud. But no mother wants to outlive her children.”

He gave a sympathetic nod at that. “True enough. But it’s clear that you loved him. I’m sure his spirit sits well at the Maker’s side.”

“I hope so.”

They then lapsed into a contemplative silence, which Phryne took as her cue.

“I’ll leave you to your work, sir,” she said, straightening her back as if she were in uniform. To her surprise, he waved a hand at her.

“Oh, no, please not ‘sir’. Emmrich is just fine.”

She spared him another smile; this one smaller, still tinged with grief, but genuine nonetheless.

“Emmrich, then. Thank you.”

Emmrich inclined his head towards her, watching as she turned and left the funeral hall. Once she was out of the darkened room, she let out a long breath. Emmrich. The name was familiar, too. Perhaps he was one of the more famous Watchers… which meant, hopefully, that Rothe was in good hands.

Her heart already feeling lighter than it had been for weeks, Phryne started making her way home.