#just use veilguard as a prompt at this point

[littlegalerion]

The fanfiction scene for Dragon Age is about to get insane. With the recent leaks on Veilguard, I just wanna say: write your own ending. We ain't getting a good conclusion, and we deserve one.

So come forth, great multiverse tides of fanfiction stories, and show me your conclusions to the great Dragon Age franchise's story!

[mcflymemes]

DRAGON AGE: THE VEILGUARD PROMPTS PT 3 *  assorted dialogue from the third and fourth hour of the video game

my information was accurate.

now you realize the danger is real.

you are asking for knowledge no mortal in this world is privy to.

i need to know what makes you the right person to lead the fight.

i stopped you, didn't i?

i find a way to get the job done, whatever it takes.

how do we stop them from doing it?

that will give you time.

i gave no orders. all i offer are suggestions.

i... regret what happened.

you've gotta take point on this.

i can't do what you do.

i've barely been holding it together in the short time you've been out.

you just need to get it done.

remember when we first met?

you did most of the work.

you've got a knack for finding your way through the wildest shit i've ever seen, with a plan no one expects.

don't worry. i'll still be here to talk if you need me.

how are you feeling about it?

it doesn't matter how i feel about it.

you made a decision with the best information you had. sometimes you do that, and people end up hurt. or worse.

a good leader isn't someone who never makes mistakes. it's someone who admits when they make one.

not everyone was happy about my decision.

i wish i could be out there with you, [name].

you're here for leads.

who do we hire to fight that?

i've heard of you.

we don't even know what we lost.

you're busy. i shouldn't interrupt.

what's important is that you're happy.

if we forgot something so important, what else did we forget?

i don't expect you to have an answer.

thanks for letting me babble.

we're short on options.

i cannot protect you.

we can talk business when we arrive.

one day, i will see a knife through every would-be tyrant's throat.

sounds like there's more to it.

what i say doesn't leave this room.

you didn't think to tell me?

well, we're not going that way.

i can't believe all this is underwater.

we're looking for a killer.

who are you? who sent you?

they can use it to control me.

in return, i want help killing some things.

this is what success looks like.

we got your target.

the job's done.

we clearly have things to discuss... somewhere else.

i'm ready to get out of this place.

i don't need time. i need a target.

you just got here and already you want to leave again?

how do you get rid of them?

what's everyone talking about?

that can't be the only solution.

you're bleeding.

i know things have been complicated, but i'm glad you're here.

i owe you a debt.

[amurderandconspiracy]

Five Stages, Two Talons, and a lost little Crow

****Dragon Age Veilguard spoilers AHEAD, read at your own peril ****

>>> 

Follow up scene with Lucanis and Viago – After “Scents and Grief” and the letter This scene is prompted by what was not shown of the companions during the Regret Prison. Viago is a worried older brother, just do not tell him I said so. My Rook is a nonbinary Crow!Mage!Rook but this scene does not necessarily give any descriptions of Rook, other than their name, so you can inject your own into the scene if that helps you.

>>> 

The sound of the room’s double doors slamming woke him from his depressed slumber.  Darkness flooding his sight as he opens his eyes to the still dimness of the wardrobe and with a brief intake, the comforting perfume slips into his nose and settles into his lungs.  The feathers of the blanket brush against his skin and a crumpled parchment clutched in his hand falls to the floor of the wardrobe as he comes back to himself.  Remembrance dawns for a moment, chilling the brief warmth in his chest.  The void of anguish spreads and Lucanis starts to sink back down as his mind fights the web of miserable exhaustion and emptiness, only to remember that the loud sound of the double doors slamming woke him.

“Where the Maker are they!?” booms an angry voice laced with deeply seated fear and worry.  The familiar and irritated lilt of Viago’s voice travels through the stone chamber and bounces off the aquarium glass, barely muffled by the wardrobe doors.

Lucanis cannot seem to muster a mood to deal with Viago in this moment and Spite uses the lack of response from Lucanis to jump to the fore, responding with irritation and unkindness, “GET. OUT!”

Lucanis rolls his eyes, and directs a thought at Spite, thanks for that, pissing off Viago is not the best idea…especially when we failed to tell him what happened to Rook...

Spite seems to catch on this thought and tilts his head, NOT GONE. ROOK IS OURS; WE WILL FIND THEM. ADDER’S MUSTACHE CAN WAIT.

Lucanis goes to respond when the doors of the wardrobe are furiously pulled open, the flood of watery shimmering light from the aquarium casts a tint of greenish-blue into the dark cupboard, an enraged Viago speaking with clipped tones as he attempts to bodily drag Lucanis into the room, “Hiding Dellamorte? Answer me!” Viago is speaking through clenched teeth and the grip he manages on Lucanis’ gear feels like claws dug into flesh.

Lucanis’ emotional reserves may be numbed to the point of oblivion but his instincts are well honed and the hostile way that Viago is demanding Lucanis answer to him allows the cool exterior of indifference to slide into place as the innate need to defend himself and his safety takes hold.  Lucanis surges forward from his nest and uses the offset of Viago’s footing to push up and out of the wardrobe while grabbing the forearms of the raging Fifth Talon.  Viago senses the shift and tries to throw his mass to reorient the balance and allow Lucanis’ sprung energy to overbalance him.  In the same instance Viago attempts to drop his weight, Lucanis anticipates the use of encumbrance for leverage, feeling himself cross the center line and performs a slight spin to disengage, freeing his hands of Viago’s forearms and preparing for a more concerted response.

“Where are they, Dellamorte!?  Where is my…Rook?!” Viago seems to strain to contain an emotional reaction as he yells the final question and Lucanis makes a quick assessment, seeing the always brooding but usually composed Viago breathing irately; a wild look about his features.

Lucanis immediately disengages and holds up his hands, stepping just out of range. “Viago, I…” he responds with a stripe of shame and guilt seeping into his voice.

“Don’t you fucking dare!  Where is Rook?  And don’t you fucking say what you almost said…where is Fae!?” Viago steps forward, pressing the advantage, fear and anger mixing in his voice as he fights for some semblance of control to get an answer. An answer that does not involve apologies.

“They…were…pulled into the Fade…” Lucanis starts to explain, the guilt and the weight of his emotional decline is evident in the way his voice drops in timbre, almost breathy as he forces out words he has not wanted to say.

“And when in damnation were you going to tell me that a member of my House was in the bloody Fade? Were you going to leave me to wait obediently in Treviso without a single word?!” Viago continues to advance, though his shoulders are dropping as if a weight is dragging him past composure.

“We…I do not have answers. They were there…one moment…the next they were not and they cried my…” Lucanis swallows and stops then, unable to say more without losing face. “I was going to come to Treviso to tell you, to tell you to your face.” Lucanis almost pleads, the mask of the assassin’s calm drawing back to reveal a haunted expression.

Spite circles Viago, stalking and observing him. SMELLS LIKE POISONS…AND…ROOK. He seems perplexed by this and tilts his head like a bird, assessing the rumpled look of Viago’s hair and the puffiness of the skin below his eyes. DROWNED IN ANGER AND GRIEF. Spite steps closer at this point, knowing Viago cannot see or hear him.

Spite, back away. Viago is Fae’s teacher, their older brother of sorts. Do not push him. Lucanis mentally tries to pull Spite away from Viago.  Watching the man absorb the response.

Viago sees the strain on Lucanis’ face and the pieces of fragmented information starts to paint a saddened expression of understanding and commiseration, “Who and what do I have to kill to get them back…is there another of these so-called gods that we need to sacrifice to bring them home?” Viago looks directly into Lucanis’ eyes, the wheels of negotiations and plans already churning in his mind.

Lucanis hesitated for a moment, not knowing the right answer and after their little breakdown last night, he was not currently apprised of the battle plans or developments from the rest of the team.  He knew Emmrich had been formulating some theories; Neve as well.  Harding and Taash had immediately started reaching out to their contacts and network.  The loss of Davrin and Assan, and the capture of Bellara had not even been discussed, everyone avoiding the subject all together.  The team had been in shock, disassociated from the reality of their losses when they had mercifully escaped Tearstone Island following the firestorm that Elgar’nan had kicked up in response to the slaying of Ghilan’nain.

Viago looks at him in anticipatory silence, Lucanis shakes off his hesitation and responds with a voice of surety he is certainly not feeling, “Let us go down to the kitchen table, we can put on coffee and discuss with everyone our strategy going forward.” Lucanis steps forward then and places his hand on Viago’s arm, redirecting him with very little effort toward the doors.

“We will get them back Viago. We must.” Lucanis promises, not entirely to Viago, not allowing acceptance of anything less.

WE WILL. Spite affirms, settling into Lucanis with purpose and determination.

[nessacousland]

can i ask what was ur problem with treviso? i actually found treviso and the crows to be the most interesting faction out of all of them so maybe im just biased LOL

Okay, full disclosure: I was on vacation and didn’t get to play Veilguard until the 8th of November. Couldn’t take the potential spoilers everywhere, so I've been cramming these past few days to finish the game asap (I still did every side quest, had all factions at max strength and got the “best” ending etc. but didn’t do every chests/stats puzzle). By the time the Treviso questline concluded, I'd been fully marinating in the sauce of all the other criminally stupid quests, is what I’m trying to say, and Treviso was emblematic of every problem I already had with this game. It was my breaking point.

To start with, the questline is offensively generic and an actual insult to the players’ intellect. Painfully linear, cartoon villains abound and nothing of any substance was ever said during its run.

The moment Caterina told us about Lucanis’ non-death, I called Illario being the traitor. There were no clever misdirects, there were no other leads, nope, they showed us his hand *immediately*. Grandma First Talon of the murder guild has a clear favorite and didn’t tell the ‘spare’ heir about her suspicions? Yeah, okay. Repeat FAMILY as often as you want, you piss-poor Godfather knockoff of a questline, I ain't buying.

So, from the start, all tension is gone, I'm just sitting there waiting for the rest of these “capable” assassins who “rule Antiva from the shadows” to catch on to this incredibly obvious plot twist. Meanwhile, the quests had absolutely nothing interesting to say - about the Crows or Treviso. The first bad guy was, predictably, an evil evil Venatori, super more evil than the evil evil Venatori you've seen before, guys, she literally BATHES IN BLOOD. Omg, right? 🙄 (I found Tevinter infinitely more compelling when their entire ruling class were power-hungry tyrants out of self-interest instead of being hit over the head with the mustache-twirling villain/crazed cultist stick).

Mr. “totally not the traitor” kills Zara before she can tell us anything of substance, she dies,clearly shocked, calling him “Amatus”...AND NO ONE CATCHES ON. You can have Neve on the team, Bellara regularly reads Tevinter serials (the whole team has a fucking book club in the middle of an apocalypse), you can play a freaking Shadow Dragon Rook, but nah, nothing. We don’t even get to ask “Uh, what was that?”. Instead, we get to sit through more pointless missives/quests while the ever capable Crows are totally investigating the traitor.

Now, you could argue that the “Amatus” was a reward to tip off those of us who’ve played the previous games and know what the term means. But with a plot this threadbare and obvious…did the writers think they’re Agatha Christie here? Did they really think I was at the edge of my seat, desperate to find out “whodunit” and grateful for any crumbs thrown my way?

Well, anyway, we are told a million times over that super charming (where?) Illario is just “like that” every time he acts super freaking suspicious. (The funeral thing with Caterina's ashes was especially funny.)

You'd think those instances would start to add up and prompt someone - anyone - to start using their brains (don't we have a goddamn detective on our team?!), but NOPE. We have to corpse-whisper to progress this questline. One of the biggest ass-pulls they've introduced via this game in general, in my opinion (is this Forbidden Realms and we just unlocked the Speak with the Dead spell?) - and it acts as the deus ex machina here to finally give us a clue. Wow, thanks.

The entire sequence of Lucanis confronting Illario in front of the assembled mafia felt like something out of an Antivan play. So goddamn goofy. I thought that vibe was charming in Josephine's romance quest - Antivans live for the drama - but they wanted us to take this moment seriously. This is Lucanis confronting his “all he has left” (don't get me started on the Fade sequence - apparently we the players can’t grasp anyone's motivations without having them spelled out for us over and over again) for putting him through hell and changing his entire being forever. Should I be laughing right now?

To make matters worse,we're told that the Crows are the perfect killers who never leave a contract unfinished - and then Lucanis spares Illario because the humiliation is the biggest punishment??? Like, I'm fine with him faltering here, that’s human. But this should have had consequences. This is the murder guild we're talking about here. Lucanis’ parents were literally killed in a different house’s coup attempt. He was just made the head mobster, immediately showed weakness in front of the entire mafia and everything is just dandy fine??? Because FAMILY?

Another personal gripe with this is that - as always - Rook had zero agency. No matter what you do, Lucanis will forgive or spare Illario. Imagine if we had the option to convince him to kill him instead. Imagine the resulting resentment tainting our bond with him and having us actively engage with fixing or breaking it. Imagine us going along with his mercy but hashing out the painful consequences for his house with him. But that’s not the game Veilguard is.

Anyway, the quest then becomes even more ridiculous. We've long learned that a human traitor helped the Antaam claim Treviso overnight. Someone with great knowledge of the city and the necessary power to make it happen. Gee, I'm sure the human GOVERNOR regularly hanging out in the Crow headquarters or the market bitching about the Crows’ interference 24/7 - the ONLY town official we get to see - had nothing to do with it. Five scarves fluttered in shock out of five, great job, guys.

The Butcher thing was just…weird. Like, we get to hear and build him up as this totally different antaam leader, cruel but cunning and calculating, someone who will be difficult to dethrone. Only for him to show up out of nowhere and serve no other purpose than to move the main plot forward asap and die. Lol, thanks for your service, I guess.

Then Ivenci, for no fucking reason, decides that they, like any good cartoon villain, should reveal themselves to us just in order to gloat. Um, why don’t they simply order the Antaam to murder us dead right then and there? If Rook and their plucky team of friends are too powerful for that, why haven’t we taken Treviso by force already? But nah, lol, our plot armor doesn’t have any cracks yet, so they literally tell us to go away and try to disturb the gods’ plans, because those guys will totally kill us for them.

Now, we wait again. Excuse me, isn’t this a questline about assassins? Why aren’t we trying to, y'know, assassinate Ivenci? Cut off the snakes's head, how often have we heard this phrase otherwise? Nah, let's wait till we get another letter that shit is going down that the Crows totally didn’t anticipate and THEN let's confront them. (Ofc, the Crows’ investigation of the qamek stalled forever. Cause they’re incompetent.)

But the thing that really broke me…we KNOW Ivenci stole a bunch of special qamek. We run at them THROUGH A GREEN POISON CLOUD. And my Rooks's just like “Huhhh? Is something possibly messing with my mind right now?”. YOU STUPID POS.

And then, ofc, we end the questline and Jacobus pops outta nowhere to spare Ivenci because a good pirate never steals and a good assassin never kills, I guess. Jacobus founds his new house to basically become a big mafia family for orphans like him which everyone is super proud of, because, if the previous installments of the game have taught us anything, it's that the Crows are deeply concerned with the well-being of orphans. Whoop dee doo, the end.

Okay, more notes. It’s been mentioned plenty already that this game has completely neutered the Crows and turned them into edgy found family freedom fighters. Personally, I'm not okay with the explanation that this is simply a different house than House Arainai. Because what the actual fuck, game. Why is Ivenci the bad guy when they're literally right about everything?! Where's my option to agree with them that a fucking murder mafia shouldn’t be the ruling force of a town, let alone the entire country? Why is the municipal government the enemy while my non-Crow Rook keeps shouting “Viva the Crows”??? Are you really telling me that the Crows are the good guy mafia and House Arainai was the bad outlier? Is that what this is?

Look, I'm fine with allying with the Crows if that’s what necessity dictates. We're trying to stop the SUPER BLIGHT here. But don’t sugarcoat that this is us joining forces with the mob. The way Veilguard presents them makes me cringe cause they're basically just leather-clad incompetent fools larping as birds. Show us the reality of this alliance. Get into the nitty-gritty. Make this world feel real. God.

I *wanted* to like this questline. Out of every country in Northern Thedas, I've always been most interested in Antiva. The whole medievalesque guilds system and merchant princes, the mediterranean romance and drama, pirates and Crows, the snazzy outfits and Spanish accents, god, normally, I'm eating that shit UP. I didn’t even think twice about which city to save. Partially because Minrathous was better fortified and Venatori seemed like the lesser evil vs. blighted water, of course, but mostly because Treviso is absolutely gorgeous and Zevran and Josephine instilled a lot of love for Antiva in me that I just don’t feel for Tevinter. I also thought that the setup was very interesting - professional assassins turned into freedom fighters of their occupied turf. And it *would* have been if they had let them remain, y'know, the actual murder mafia they always were.

But aside from my gripes about the Crows’ portrayal, the entire questline was just a total nothing burger. This is the first time ever that we're actually in Antiva, our introduction, so to speak, and what do we learn about the place? That there’s strife and betrayal among the Crows? Um, yeah, Zevran covered that fifteen years ago. There’s nothing new whatsoever. Imagine if our primary goal had actually been to help the Crows free Treviso. That we're working to loosen the Butcher's grasp on the town via strategic assassinations (i.e. actual Crow missions) that also introduce us to Treviso's people/Antivan culture (taking out someone during a theatre play, for example! The drama!), the internal politics of the Merchant princes and the municipal government's struggle to keep this occupied city from imploding. Imagine us getting caught up in this web of intrigue as we get closer and closer to the Butcher and then suddenly, we're being played. And only *then* do we start to suspect a traitor among the Crows’ ranks and the whole thing unravels. Spitballing even further, why repeat the Crow/Venatori romance in a random side quest with random people? Why not have Zara and Illario be actually in love, but he kills her for his ambition anyway? And instead of taking responsibility for his actions, he blames Lucanis for forcing his hand? Or maybe, they both thought they were playing the other and as another power hungry asshole, Zara almost respects Illario for the hussle as she dies? *Some* messiness and drama? (Cause Varric’s initial narration sequence made Zara seem like this blood-soaked femme fatale but the actual narrative gave zero fucks about that vibe. Discount Countess Bathory wannabe).

That might just be what I would have wanted and nobody else, but I still maintain that anything would have been better than this cookie-cutter, baby’s first mafia story that is beat for beat exactly what you'd expect and have seen before.

Well, this was a long rant. I don’t intend to make a habit of shitting on things others enjoy on here, but my emotions are still running high after finishing the game yesterday and you did ask. Sorry.

[inquisimer]

Happy Friday! From the hurt/comfort prompts: "I don't need a break, I'm okay" for Arlow de Riva/Lucanis

thank you for the prompt!! a little pre-canon sparring between these two (:

Arlow de Riva/Lucanis | 676 words | @dadrunkwriting - veilguard

-

He knows from the moment her blade touches his that this is different. It is still practice--but it is not.

Ordinarily, she is a well-oiled machine. Viago would not open their House to critique by offering a novice assassin to train with the First Talon's best. She was already a sharpened blade; Lucanis was simply the whetstone against which Viago intended to hone her, shape her, direct her.

Usually, she touches her blade to his, the universal start of a duel-dance that has been worn throughout the ages. She steps back in the typical moves, gauging where he will take their fight. Content to let him set the pace, the mood of the engagement.

Not today.

Today, she crackles like the oncoming storm. Her edges are fuzzy with--frustration? Anger? He can't quite read it; this is the one thing she has always had on him, the balance that levels their playing field. She reads him like a book and it compensates for her slightly delayed reactions, for the moves he knows that she does not, for the speed he executes that she cannot.

When they part, she is on him in a whirl of spellblade and violet electricity.

He does not usually see her like this. Their practice is a controlled thing; mage versus mage killer, as they've been trained to be. Very few mages survive in the Crows. Even fewer Crows have survived in House Dellamorte. They are, the both of them, the promise of legacies lost, of better things to come. They are controlled. They do not disappoint.

Perhaps that is why she is wild today. No--not wild. Still controlled, but a controlled chaos, driven to a point as white water drills against stone, tearing the path that it wants, regardless of the path nature says it should take.

He tastes it though, as he parries her forceful strike, and ducks under the lightning that flows so naturally off her fingers. Regret, almost; guilt, certainly. He does not make the mistake of thinking it makes her vulnerable. If anything, her emotion makes this more of a dance than it usually is; gives a flow to their spar that is normally more clinical, studied. He finds himself giving over to it, as well. His offhand blade catches at her ankle before she can flip away--tears the leather--then the skin--

She falls to one knee, her blood pooling as it runs down her footwraps and finds a new home on the stone floor. Her shoulders shake with something other than her heavy breaths, and Lucanis does not need to know her as well as he does to recognize the wrestle for control.

He shoves his blades into his belt, but he only takes one step toward the healing chest when she objects.

"No. I'm fine." She lifts her face, sweat-streaked and a frenzied twist, brought to heel. Her eyes are just out of focus, but the set of her jaw is firm. She struggles to her feet. Lucanis gestures to the injured one she's favoring.

"You won't fight well on that."

"I will," she insists, throwing her arcane focus back up into the air. The tether she uses to hold it snaps into place like a whip and she assumes the stance that beckons him back into the dance. "I must. There would be no other choice on a contract; there is no other choice, here."

She raises her spellblade. Waits.

And he knows--he knows that this fight will not do what she wants. It will not burn away whatever Viago has said that left her in such a state. There is nothing that could do that. Some words linger like a brand, forever, and he suspects that Viago's words sink their teeth into her farther than any others. If this were an honorable duel, he would refuse to engage her, force her to take the potion, or the bandage, before they start another round.

But this is not about honor. They are Crows.

He pulls his blade from his belt, and touches it to hers.

The dance begins again.

[jean-optimal]

I'm here with some prompt. So, let Renesmee and Lucanis speak for you. they can do it best)

What first attracted your Rook to their LI? What attracted their LI to your Rook?

Renesmee: "I was attracted by his his kindness. He was like a knight in shining armor in front of me at the library of the villa where me and Viago lived. I was 14 when Catherina and her grandsons paid a visit there for the audience of the new Fifth Talon. She tried to unite the Houses much earlier before the storm approaching. So, it was a first time I and Lucanis met.

He was 20. Very nice. Very handsome. I was just staring at him and Illario with the adoration. Oh, Maker, they both were beautiful... Before Illario opened his mouth in my direction. I had my chest already growing since I was a teenager so... If translate his phrase from Antivan, it meant something like "Hey, gal, your brain grown to your tits, isn't it?" Actually, it was pretty rude, according to the point he was talking to the little Crow of House de Riva. Lucanis interrupted him and apologized... It all was because I accidentally overheard them briefing about their future contract. I was embarrassed so much for the interrupting! Of course, my alchemy studies dropped out of my head. But... I even didn't know how fateful will be this meeting for me in future.

We started to meet more, to talk between our studies and contracts. And once...

We started our relationship officially when I was 22. Before all happened, not so long before he became called 'The Demon of Vyranthium'. We accidentally took the contacts on the targets nearby each other. Two brothers here, at Treviso. And he saved me. And standing on the rooftop... I said the words I had in mind. "Te amo, mi corazon..." I still remember his surprise. He didn't expect such words from the other Crow. But... He accepted them. He relied on me. But we both didn't know what will spoil our relationship.

We broke up because of rumors. He believed them and doubted in me. In us. We argued, and once... He left me alone. I was broken. Then Illario found me... I don't remember what happened but I remember myself waking up next morning in the cold bed. Lucanis already left and... I even didn't manage to find him, to say 'I'm sorry'...

My life gave me a chance to fix it when Varric found me. And I had in mind only one thing. I needed to find Lucanis. But I didn't know, will he agree to join the Veilguard or not. But maybe my charm still worked, maybe Neve's presence did, he agreed. It was our chance to fix everything, to show how we appreciated everything.

I... Still loved him. And he did too. Two broken people united again to help each other. I couldn't fail. Not again. So we did everything to rebuild our love. I'm grateful to my fate and to Lucanis that we made it."

Lucanis: "I never thought of the relationship. I was alvays concentrated on my work and targets to kill. Even when I met her first time... She was a beautiful and insufferable one in her 14 and it didn't change with the years passing by. Her pragmatism was infecting. Her charm... Undeniable. Did I know that she's in love with me? Of course, I noticed. But I didn't want to trust the first woman in love I met. The love, the trust... Is a weakness in our line of work, you know. But once I decided to let her in.

Maybe, it was a mistake I made but... The beautiful mistake. She's as stubborn as I am, I knew she will go to the final. I felt the same attraction she had to me. But this love... Its final left me torn apart. She broke my heart and I wished to never see her again, afraid of falling back in this deep blue eyes of the master of the lies and forgery she was.

But... I couldn't deny her own suffering. And we... I... I decided to start again when she proved her words. Love and trust are the weaknesses in our world but we both became too attached to each other to deny it. I let her in back again to never let go."

---

Is their relationship a secret? Who knows about it?

Renesmee and Lucanis: "Well, we tried to keep it secret. But Viago got to know before we even started. Of couse, he was suspicious but then he started to trust too, concidering it as a good chance to unite the Houses de Riva and Dellanorte. Just Catherina was cautious. But... All changed after the events with the evanuris and the Dread Wolf.

Neve was the first one in the Veilguard who got to know about us. She just saw our reactions to each other, it wasn't hard to guess that things were deeper than it seemed. And then... Everyone in the Veilguard. But we didn't let them into our private life. It was ours."

---

If your Rook took their LI on a romantic date, what would it be like?

Renesmee: "Hm... Maybe, I'd took him onto that roof where I confessed him in love again. And then we'd go to Cafe Petra to taste the new blend of coffee. Knowing Lucanis' preferences, it could be the perfect time to do it.

---

What does life look like for your Rook and LI after the game?

Renesmee: "You already know, Lucanis made me a proposal at Satinalia festival. Our marriage was two months later. So, I became the lady of House Dellamorte. And then, about a year later, I got to know I was pregnant with our first child. Our daughter, Catherina Vithelia, was born at the beginning of the next year. And two years later our son Vincenzo was born. And... If my first birth giving went well, the second... Was hard. Lucanis was wounded on the mission, I was worried about him and than went ill and laid down. The birth giving of Vincenzo almost killed me. But... I can't hate my own child. Even if he's a mage. I'm just happy that Lucanis is surrounded by the family, the people he loves and can rely. Even in the Crows."

[divorcedwife]

hi! i was wondering what exactly you mean by characters that are kind on purpose? i have an idea but im curious about the details. could you give some examples?

i was also wondering how you like the characters in tevinter nights compared to how you like them in game, just your opinion on them. oh and did you read the book before you played the game or the other way around?

oh of course!! i meant characters who are extremely kind and selfless and never take things personally, but are written this nicely on purpose, to make a point. like the idiot in dostoevsky's book - the prince is kind and sweet and doesn't hold a grudge, he's disarmingly sincere and always compassionate, he has great insight into other people and why they behave the way they do. and it's on purpose in that this makes him extremely singular, a mystery to other people, cause every other character is held back by social conventions or pragmatic desires or cruel impulsions, and the prince simply doesn't have those. i think this idea also applies to hareton in wuthering heights to some level, he's not saint like and doesn't talk people through their issues, but he is patient and willing to endure cruelty, to take violence inward and not look for revenge. everyone else is thinking about revenge and who they can torment as proxy for revenge (like heathcliff taking revenge on hindley by mistreating hareton, little cathy is mean to hareton because heathcliff makes her miserable) but he is willing to defend little cathy from heathcliff and to defend heathcliff from little cathy, even thought that puts him at risk. he's very selfless in a book where everyone else is pretty selfish, so it stands out

i really love both of these characters, i just don't like it if someone is meant to be a normal regular person but they're a saint in social interactions anyway, or if everyone is also like that - i dont remember for sure what prompted me to make that post in the first place but i was probably vaguing veilguard, i imagine. that's just my personal bias but i cant imagine someone insulting me to my face and responding by trying to coach them through their feelings, and it doesn't feel like a natural human response to me, even less so when everyone else is also like that. i wouldn't mind kindness if there was one character who was a ray of sunshine and always selfless, but we have TOO much sunshine in this beautiful guard of the veil for it to feel like a trait specific to anyone

i read tevinter nights after playing dav! i went in dav with zero info on the companions aside from very very basic things, like i saw some gifs. that's about it i ended up not finishing tevinter nights because of the eight little talons story - i disliked that one SO thoroughly that i needed a break after. but that's so weird, because i only realized recently that the author for that also wrote the lucanis story that i really enjoyed?? so idk what happened there, i don't get why courtney woods would do that to me. i hesitate to call anything objectively bad, but i found that story painfully sexist in how it handled the characters of teia and viago, and also not very good as a murder mystery (i guessed the killer based on the fact that the character spoke ominously and had otherwise nothing to do). i liked teia and viago way more before i read this, i will never look at them the same again </3

but i did still like the lucanis story, and it has made me sympathize with illario way more lol. it's a shame he's written with zero subtlety in the game, because i do like their dynamic in this one! if i had to help my cousin on a special mission and he kept changing objectives and getting us in danger by being too kind and sweet, i would also want him mega dead tbh. i'd think about it at least. looking back though, i think the issues with lucanis do start in this story ; in that he's an assassin with a moral code who doesn't kill innocent witnesses and will draw out a killing to make the target suffer more - i think that's 1) unprofessional 2) contradictory? for example, in this story, he kills a bunch of guards. were they all guilty? to the level of deserving death? i wouldn't think so. the idea that someone can be a good & moral assassin who only kills bad guys is a total dead end, it's not possible. especially if he's not a vigilante, but a hired mercenary. it shows in his banter in dav, his sense of morality made him sound more deluded and sinister to me than if he'd said "i kill people for money, whatever" i still think this story is fun in itself, and i enjoyed it. i think this contradiction in lucanis could have been interesting if it had been on purpose and explored in the game, but i think the writers really thought they found the loophole to have an assassin who is morally unquestionable....... too bad i liked neve's story, i thought her bitterness and the way she assumes the worst outcomes and the worst of everyone, but still never gives up, that was fun. if neve was written by the same person who wrote the story (and i think so?), then she was written by the same woman who wrote evka, which i think is amazing because i thought multiple times that they were pretty similar, but i like how it works for evka more. i think it's because evka is balanced by antoine, the optimist to her pessimism, who knows her deeply and allows her to show a softer side without it feeling jarring or contradictory like it did for me with neve

i also liked the first story, the one that had strife, thought i felt VERY unprepared for the first named character in the book to be extremely elf racist. it's not bad, it's definitely on purpose, it's just that since you never see anything like that in da:v, i didn't think it would be on the table. i liked the action scenes and the little twists and reveals, which i think may what weekes is best at writing tbh... my favorite dragon age book i read is probably still the masked empire, and i remember liking that about it, the action and the suspense and the twists

i like the story with antoine and evka, who are great and i love that we get to see them before they fall in love. i think this story benefits from the fact that i know they will come back later and their relationship will grow - on its own, i probably would have found it just ok, but the book and game feel very complementary and work together well in my opinion :-)

other stories have already slipped out of my mind for the most part, i just remember liking the one with emmrich and really disliking the one with dorian. maybe i'll finish it at some point, there probably arent that many stories left anyway... just for completion's sake

[thatapostateboy]

we all have a hunger

Pairing: Rook & Lavellan (platonic), brief hint at Solas x Female Lavellan

Word Count: 1675

Synopsis: In which Rook and Lavellan finally get to talk.

Prompt: Day Two: Rebellion from the Veilbound challenge by @/nympthi and @/citadrells on Twitter

Warnings: Mentions of slavery, Veilguard mild spoilers/speculation

Crossposted: Here on AO3

Rook wasn’t entirely sure what to make of Lavellan. She’d heard the stories of course, from rumours whispered amongst slaves and nobles alike in Tevinter to hearing it straight from Varric’s mouth, and yet none of them were quite able to do the fabled Herald of Andraste justice. Solas had painfully little to say, often cutting that line of questioning short whenever she so much as hinted at a connection between them. Harding had been the most honest, telling her that yes, she was a hero, that she had walked in the Fade and slayed would-be gods, but that she was a woman, a person, same as the rest of them.

Rook found that all but impossible to believe when the legend herself had strode through the Eluvian like she owned the place, demanding to know what was going on and why the Evanuris were rampaging across Northern Thedas. She looked like one of the illustrations in Varric’s books come to life, minus the flowing hair and waving standard of the Inquisition planted behind her.

She had not taken charge, though Rook would not have protested to someone more qualified taking control of the situation, but there was a respect and reverence around her. When she so much as entered a room, everyone paid attention, even Assan.

It took weeks of hard-fought battles at each other’s side, even harder fought conversations as the two differing personalities attempted to work together, but Rook finally saw her.

It had been the early hours of the morning, or whatever counted as morning in the Fade, but as the other members of the Veilguard had found sleep, Rook had found none, and it seemed that neither had Lady Lavellan. Rook found her already sat at the kitchen island, a cup of tea in her hand, staring contemplatively down into the steaming liquid.

“Can’t sleep either?”

Lavellan looked up at her, letting out a sigh, “Is it that obvious?”

“I hate to break it you, but the circles under your eyes give it away,” she pointed out, pouring her own mug of tea and leaning against the counter to look at her, “Does it ever get easier? Finding rest after everything we see?”

“I’ll tell you when I know,” she gave a soft snort into her mug as she took a mouthful.

Rook sipped at her own mug, humming at the taste, “Is that honey… with hints of dragonthorn?”

Lavellan’s eyebrows rose, “You have quite the palate. It’s my own special blend. I guessed there wouldn’t be much tea here so I’ve been mixing my own.”

“No, the Dread Wolf doesn’t seem to be a fan of tea,” Rook noted, “Or most things, I’ve found.”

“Not entirely true, he does have a taste for tiny cakes.”

Rook smiled at that, “And what about you, Lady Lavellan? What do you have a taste for? Aside from excellent tea blends.”

“Honey cakes,” she admitted, “I used to make them all of the time when I was young, my papae’s family recipe… I can’t remember when I last had the time to bake. Everything just been so…”

“Yeah,” she agreed, “It has… Y’know, I never thanked you.”

“Thanked me? Whatever for?”

“Coming out of retirement, being here to keep my ass out of the fire,” she said.

“Sweet as it is for you to say, I never actually retired,” she pointed out, “Keeping people’s asses out of the fire is what I’ve been doing since the Conclave exploded.”

Rook examined her for a few moments, then gave a resounding nod, “Breakfast.”

“What?”

“I’m going to make you breakfast.”

“I couldn’t impose-”

“It’s the least I can do, all things considered. Besides, I enjoy cooking, so c’mon, what do you…” she trailed off, eyes landing firmly on the one unused pan that still hung on the rack, “How about an omelette?”

A smile spread across Lavellan’s face, “They are my absolute favourite, how did you know?”

“What’s with the one omelette pan?”

The conversation had occurred within the first week of living at the Lighthouse, not long after the full team had been recruited and they had truly begun to explore what the Dread Wolf had to hide away. And for all of the mysteries and magics here, there was only one thing that truly bothered Rook.

The irritation in Solas’ voice was palpable as he turned to look at her, “I’m sorry?”

“You have the most depressing kitchen setup, you own one fork, spoon, knife, plate, bowl and cup, all which look like they’ve never been used… and yet you have a top-of-the-line Orlesian omelette pan.”

He huffed, “Of all of the inane queries you have used this tenuous connection for- How do you know it’s Orlesian? And that it is designed for omelettes?”

She put her hands on her hips, “I know my way around a kitchen with my eyes shut. So, what does a god who doesn’t eat need with an omelette pan?”

“That is none of your business.”

“Very well,” she nodded, “Lucanis was looking to use it, I just wanted to make sure it wasn’t some hidden magical art-”

“No!”

She glanced up at him with a mirthful smirk at his protest, “No?”

“It’s…” he regained his composure a little, “I was saving it for a special occasion.”

Her smirk only grew, “I’ll tell Lucanis to get his own. The omelette pan will remain untouched until you can escape the Fade and treat yourself to breakfast.”

Oh that old wolf had it bad.

“Educated guess,” Rook smiled.

“I’ve had a love for them since I tried them on my first trip to Orlais, back when the Breach had just opened. I had to adjust to shem food, but the omelettes, I fell in love with them.”

“Then you’re in luck. Omelettes are my signature dish.”

“You’re sure it’s no trouble?”

“As I said, it is literally the least I can do.”

Rook grabbed the pan that had sat untouched for Maker knows how long, setting it to warm up on the stove as she gathered ingredients out of the cold storage. She set to work, cracking three eggs and whisking them through a sieve, creating a smooth mixture.

Lavellan watched her, still nursing her tea, “I have to admit, I’m impressed that you got the dragonthorn on the first try. I thought it was quite subtle. I didn’t realise I was in the presence of a connoisseur.”

Rook hummed as she whisked, “Hardly. I spent the better part of my youth being trained how to cook by only the finest of Orlesian slaves. My master wanted nothing but the best when we prepared his meals, so I was taught very young how to taste test everything.”

Lavellan met her gaze, “Varric told me a little of your past when he said that you were working together, but he mainly brought up the Shadow Dragons.”

“I can only imagine the spin he put on it,” she rolled her eyes a little, slicing off some butter to melt into the now hot pan, “The slave breaking free from chains to rebel against the system and bringing freedom to the Imperium.”

“Is that not the story?”

“It a version of the story. I’m just… doing what I can.”

“It’s more than most do.”

Rook turned, pouring the egg mixture with care into the pan, hands steady as she guided it to fill every part of the surface, wanting an even cook, “Do you know why I enjoy cooking? Despite my past?”

“Tell me.”

“My master hated eggs. He wasn’t allergic, but he had a distaste for them so bad that he would physically strike us if there was even an egg in the kitchen,” she said, eyes fixed on the omelette as it began to take shape, “So I decided that I would learn to cook every egg dish that I could cram into my head. I would learn them, cook them, and perfect them. And I would feed everything I cooked to the others in the household.”

“You took that risk?” she asked.

Rook grabbed some of the cream cheese mixture that Lucanis kept pre-made in the cold store, piping it delicately through the centre of the omelette, “When I was a child and was first sold to him, I knew that I couldn’t fight him. I was too young, and even if by some miracle I could kill him, I had nowhere to go. So I took solace in my little acts of rebellion. It kept me alive, gave me a reason to never truly give up on the idea of freedom… And the fact it brought joy to the others? That small act that was just for us? It gave us hope.”

She missed the smile on Lavellan’s face as she folded the egg over the cream cheese, the Inquisitor finally realising why Varric had chosen her as his second in command, just as Lavellan couldn’t see the soft look in Rook’s eyes as she told her story, finally opening up to someone.

She slid the omelette delicately onto a plate, finishing it off with some quickly chopped chives and some black pepper, placing it in front of the former Inquisitor.

Lavellan looked positively ravenous at the sight and dug in as soon as Rook handed her a fork, devouring it one messy mouthful at a time. She glanced up at Rook, tears pricking at her eyes, “This is the best thing I have ever eaten.”

Rook snorted, “Shut up, no it’s not.”

She swallowed down her mouthful, “Rook, I’m telling you, I’ve eaten at the Orlesian royal court itself, but this blows their chefs out of the water. This is so good,” she shovelled another forkful into her mouth, “Thank you.”

“Eva.”

“What?”

“My friends call me Eva.”

She smiled at her, “It’s a pleasure to meet you Eva, I’m Brenna.” She lifted her mug of tea towards her, “To small acts of rebellion.”

Eva grabbed her mug and tapped it against hers, “May they see us through.”

[wickedwitchofthewilds]

Hello and welcome to dadwc!! For a prompt, for Bellara/Neve, may I submit: “I… can’t actually remember the last time I had something to eat.”

Thank you! A little pre-relationship musings

@dadrunkwriting slight Veilguard spoilers!

Neve walked into the dining room to the scent of buttery pastry and rich meat. Her eyes immediately went to where Rook leaned over the counter, carefully slicing open a wellington she had been working on all day, with Lucanis hovering over her shoulder until she asked for his help. The corner of her mouth twitched into a soft smile. They were good together and would be even better if they stopped dancing around what existed in front of their noses. Neve's eyes shifted to the table where Taash, Harding, and Davrin were already waiting and deep in conversation. Emmrich was off to the side decanting a red to go with the dinner Rook had worked so hard on.

Only one of them was still missing.

Neve wasn't the only who noticed as Rook looked over her shoulder. "Would you mind telling Bellara that dinner is almost ready?"

"Sure thing."

The forever dusk sky over the Lighthouse made telling time nigh difficult, but most of them still managed to settle into a routine. Mostly centered around meal times since all of them struggled with sleep in some way or the other. Still, Bellara often managed to get stuck in her own cycle or working on something until time ceased to exist for her. This wasn't the first time one of them had to track her down to get her to eat or even just to leave her room and stretch her legs. Get some air. Kill some Darkspawn.

Neve gently pushed the door open and sure enough, Bellara was hunched over her desk with goggles on, gently prodding at an artificat with a small metal tool with a focusing crystal embedded in the top. For a moment, Neve just watched as Bellara tilted her head side to side and muttered under breath as she tapped different parts of the artifact with the crystal. A stray lock of hair tickled her cheek and Bellara pushed it away with an annoyed huff. Neve smiled. Watching Bellara deep in her element was something special. The scrunch of her nose as she concentrated. The times she'd worry her bottom lip with her teeth as her thoughts raced to solve a problem. Even when Bellara launched into tangent after tangent, her original point pushed to the side, Neve couldn't help but find her endearing.

She ignored the extra skip of her heartbeat as she crossed the room so Bellara could catch a glimps of her out of the corner of her eye.

"Oh! Neve!" Bellara sat up, mouth curving into a smile. "Did you need something?"

"How long have you been working on this, Bel?" Neve asked instead, leaning her hip against the desk, careful not to jostle anything.

"Oh, only a few hours! I'm so close to getting the etheric tuning right; I just know it," Bellara said, looking back down at the artifact.

"Yeah? Just a few hours? When was the last time you ate?"

Bellara snorted. "I know what I last ate. It was…I…" Her eyes darted around as she tried to mentally calculate the hours. "Well…I maybe, actually, can't remember the last time I had something to eat."

Just as she thought.

"Dinner is ready. Why don't you leave that for later and come join us?" Neve asked, nodding towards the door. "Rook's made something that smells delicious. Would hate for you to miss out."

Bellara looked back to the artifact for a moment before putting down the instrument and taking off her goggles. "Right. I can just pick this back up later."

"You can," Neve confirmed.

Bellara hopped up with a spring in her step, smile blinding, and Neve couldn't ignore the way her heart skipped several beats. This was not part of the job but she couldn't help but lean into Bellara as the woman hooked their elbows together and told Neve all about her project as they walked the short distance to the dining. Neve wished it was longer. That they could have a little more time alone. A thought she tried to quash but it lingered in the back of her mind rather than going into its neat box.

She was in trouble.

[exalted-dawn-drabbles]

Happy Friday! From the touch prompts: "Offering a hand to help them up after they've fallen" for Deanna de Riva/Lucanis

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THE PROMPT! I just love Dee and Lucanis' relationship and this was such a fun opportunity to explore it. I want to study them under a microscope >:] Hope you enjoy a lil rivals-to-lovers sparring sesh uwu for @dadrunkwriting - Veilguard ahoy! Rated G: Romance, Banter, Slice of Life

Ignorance Is Bliss | Exalted_Dawn

Dee blinks up in undisguised surprise to find his hand waiting there, just in front of her eyes.

It was far from the first time Lucanis Dellamorte had put her out on her ass– an occurrence that grew more frustrating the more familiar it became to her. But this? This was new.

She studied him skeptically, and then his hand again. “I could trip you, you know.”

He laughed. “You could try,” he agreed. “But, yes, I know.” 

“Or stab you,” she also pointed out, pushing up from the dirt-and-gravel coated stone of the Lighthouse courtyard. Small bits of dried gris flaked away from her back as she rolled her shoulders, feeling for injury. She could feel nothing that needed immediate tending, but by the winge of pain in the ball socket of her left arm, she might need to see Emmerich about her tendon tomorrow if she couldn’t sleep it off. 

“Also true,” he hummed. “Provided you were quick enough and caught me on an off day. Throwing me would not be out of the question either.” His hand remained outstretched. 

“I was thinking something closer to pinning your arm,” she said after a moment, and slid her grip smoothly into his. “All it would take is a twist to your elbow and a blow to your knee. You’re quick, but you’re a bit of a lightweight, garrito. Wouldn’t take that much to hold you down.” 

With a tug, Deanna felt herself lifted from the ground, her balance righting itself once she found her heels properly under herself again. Setting her feet, Dee let go of Lucanis’ hand to brush the dirt from her pants. It stood out too much on the black. 

“Just as it wouldn’t have taken much for me to simply drop you again as I was pulling you up.” He grinned slyly. “And yet, here we are.”

Deanna scoffed. “Smug bastard. You should be careful-” She tapped the sheathed scimitar still strapped to her hip. “Contentment will kill a man.” 

Dellamorte’s heir crossed the stone to retrieve the small dagger he had disarmed her of not but a few minutes ago. Flipping it in his hand, he returned and presented it to her hilt first. “As will Ignorance, or so I’ve seen. But in spite of myself, I trust you to use neither against me for now.” 

There was that word again: ‘trust’. For the grandson of Caterina the Blackshrike, he tended to throw that one around far more than one ever should. Why she was so intent on having him succeed the seat of First Talon was beyond her. His soft heart would bleed easily beneath the knife.

Moving quick as quick, she snatched the knife from between his fingers and had the blade pressed to his internal carotid artery before either could even blink. “And that, Dellamorte, is exactly how Ignorance kills best.” 

She sheathed the knife and turned to leave. Annoyed as she was to admit it, he was right– she wouldn’t kill him today. Not yet. 

Until they killed these puffed up mages, she would begrudgingly continue to accept his offered hand. And perhaps one day soon, that would then be the death of him.

~*~*~*~ Tidbit 1: Deanna's name for Lucanis "Garrito" means "Little Talon", and basically stems from Dee claiming Lucanis didn't really earn his position within the crows and was instead given it by Caterina Tidbit 2: Deanna's blades are in fact called Contentment and Ignorance, and she is quite proud of their names XD

[ghostwise]

from the veilguard artefacts prompts! 5. Letters taken from the library in Weisshaupt, tied in a bundle

LOVED THIS ONEEE this one was so fun, thank you! Some notes: In my worldstate Alistair is Warden Commander, and Var'myathan, the Dalish land boon, thrives in the South.

“I washed my hands of Warden business long ago,” he says, and it hurts, though it shouldn’t.

That their shared brotherhood—their only commonality at this point—is so distasteful to him, so very worth forgetting, hurts. But then again, if there’s one thing Alistair knows about the Blight, it’s that people choose how they remember it.

For him, time has distilled those feelings and experiences into something potent, terrible, yet formative. Every instance of the man he has become is touched by it. No Blight, no Alistair. And there’s the rub.

For Hamal, his memories of the Blight are something to be discarded.

Both of these viewpoints are correct, or at least, no more reprehensible than the other.

Alistair smiles. He slides the letters across the table once again. Hamal fixes him with an uneasy stare.

“Is this an order, Warden Commander?” he asks, his glasses giving him a rather owlish appearance.

“Maker, no. It’s a gift,” Alistair replies. “Can’t you tell by how nicely I’ve wrapped them for you?”

Hamal doesn’t laugh, but the corners of his mouth lift for a moment. He reaches for the papers.

“And what gift is so important you have made the trip all the way to Var’myathan to deliver it?”

“Letters,” Alistair says with a sheepish smile. “My letters.”

“Letters are traditionally mailed, Warden Commander.”

“Not when they contain controversial or suppressed knowledge,” Alistair says. “Knowledge about the Blight. Knowledge about the Taint. Such letters might be best hand-delivered.”

Hamal’s fingers are steady as he unwraps the parcel. There are stamps upon the envelopes, the sort that were used in the old days; simple cork and blue ink, and, in this instance, magical enchantments that light up against the touch of warm hands. The envelopes have been waiting to be opened, all this time, patient in their knowledge.

“I smuggled them out of Weisshaupt,” Alistair admits.

Hamal eyes him for a moment. “Why?”

“We’re not getting any younger, my friend.” Alistair reclines in his seat and for a moment remembers that he has, by now, outlived Duncan—but he refocuses sharply on the conversation at hand, scored as it is by an ever-present dirge. “In the years following the Blight, I encountered many strange things. Darkspawn that could speak and reason like men. Wardens that had extended their lifespan in unnatural and twisted ways… these field reports were buried, as so much of what we lived to this day has been buried… never to see the light of day. I speak of your own miraculous survival as well, you see.”

Hamal sets the letters down and watches him with an inscrutable expression.

Alistair smiles.

He’s mastered the knack of instilling a healthy dose of fear into his Warden recruits, while never betraying his friendly exterior. Now he’s convinced he has delivered his message adequately, and made his good friend squirm long enough.

“In any case,” he concludes, “It will do more good in your hands than in the First Warden. The Order is—well.” Alistair stands, his blue cloak fanning out with an elegant sweep of his arm. “I wouldn’t bore you with all that. It’s all things you already know, or things you are better off not knowing. Just understand that in keeping these… you would be doing me a favor. And in reading them, even more so. No orders. No obligations. Just… a favor, from an old friend.”

Hamal flips through the letters, occasionally pausing to squint at the writing on the envelopes. He finally groups them together again, tapping them against the table to line up their edges neatly. He doesn’t look up.

“Thank you for the audience,” Alistair says. “If you do ever read my ramblings, let me know what you make of them. Take care.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, sit down Alistair,” Hamal says. “Haven’t even given me a chance to find my reading glasses.”

[wishforhome]

happy friday and welcome to dadwc!! (: a prompt for whatever combination of the wardencrow polycule suits you: ❛ hard to sit here and be close to you, and not kiss you. ❜

Viago/Rook - Veilguard as usual. I guess this is an outtake from Wings of Change.

@dadrunkwriting

hard to sit here and be close to you, and not kiss you

As a Warden, Rook avoided the medics as much as possible. In ten years, she attended maybe two of her annual physicals without needing to be compelled with the threat of latrine duty. It isn’t that she hates needles, or healers, or anything of that sort. She just doesn’t like the attention, being poked and prodded and examined. (There is maybe something there, something about watching the way they’d inspected slaves in Vyrantium, pulling at their lips to see their teeth, watching and knowing it could be her. She does not look at this idea too closely.) And besides, she knows enough healing magic to get by on her own.

 And yet this routine has become familiar: here she sits, perched on a stool in the small laboratory in the back of the apartment Viago shares with Teia, watching him as he prepares the materials for another blood draw.

He is always asking for more blood, too cautious to keep a sample on hand for more than a few hours. She tries to tease him about it – Vi, seriously, you could open a blood bank at this point – but his fingers tighten on the glass vial in his hand and he looks pained, so she lets it drop.

Viago is tense today – more tightly wound than usual. He’s been like this lately, more distant, harder to pin down. Caution in public is one thing, but even alone, he’s kept a careful distance. Rook frowns from beneath the fringe of her bangs, watching him as he leans over his desk, consulting his notes for what feels like the fifteenth time.

“Vi,” she says.

He looks up at her with an expression that is somewhere between inquisitive and annoyed.

“You’re doing that thing again,” she says. The thing where he overthinks a procedure that they’ve done together what must be a dozen times by now. “Just come over here and get it over with.”

It is something she never thought she’d do – pester a man to take her blood. To analyze her. Examine her.

He huffs a sigh and then presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose. He gets that furrow in his brow that Teia always teases him about.

She parts her thighs when he steps closer to her. It is one of the few intimacies he allows them, the way he comes to stand between her legs when he takes her blood. They both know what he’s doing, getting that close. She does not comment on it, or he will stop. He stands between her knees, and she stretches out her left arm for him.

The routine is familiar. He ties the strap around her bicep, taps the vein. She waits for the perfect moment, when he is most focused, his eyes sharp as he peers at the the thin skin in the ditch of her elbow, rubbing a thumb over that spot to bring up the vein.

“This is very difficult for me, you know,” she tells him.

“You don’t like tests, I remember.” He spares her a quick glance. “I am sorry we have to do this so often.”

“No, not that,” she says. “It’s just hard to sit here, and be close to you, and not kiss you.”

His fingers tighten on her arm, the way they always do when she says something flirtatious during their moments together in his lab. He really should be used to it by now, she thinks, as she watches the blush rise in his cheeks.

“Rook, please,” he says, a note of warning in his voice. He sounds serious. Perhaps that was too far, today, when he is already so unsettled. There is a thin line with him, that she is always navigating, and it shifts so often with his moods.  She wants to touch his elbow, to make some reassuring gesture to calm him, but she knows it would not help.

She offers him a change of subject instead, making her tone curious. “What are you testing for today, anyway?” It’s funny, really, how the simple question helps drain the tension from his shoulders. Give him something to explain, and he relaxes.

He lifts the slender needle from the table. His hands move deliberately, without the slightest tremor, as he pierces her vein. He begins to talk about baseline resistances and toxin cross-reactivity, and Rook doesn’t know what most of it means, but she loves the lilt of his accent and the way his fingertips brush the inside of her arm as he works.

[ohsweetflips]

A Letter from Inquisitor Lavellan to the Hero of the Fifth Blight Regarding “Current Events”

i was so captivated by #7 of the rook codex writing prompts, "something written by a character from a previous game about rook," that i immediately had to write it — this became 50% inquisitor and warden soft lore dump, 50% camris' thoughts on rhodes as "rook"

@anderfels thank you for asking to be tagged!!! :D <3

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

Electra,

First, some messages that many will chastise me for if I do not immediately inform you of:

-Kira is worried about you, and is thrilled to “finally put that cursed training to use” in defending the clan. As much as they are able to stay out of the conflict, it is unfortunate that some fringe Venatori have proficient scouts. She holds her own, though, and is happy despite the odds. Clan Lavellan is happy to have her.

-Adaranni laments that her and Kira are apparently destined to be saddled with “sisterly worries” over the two of us, and that this is not something she thought would “run in the family.” She teases, but I know my sister — she wants this to be over just as badly as the rest of us. She is, however, doing well; tells me that she is just hunting and raising the kids, but I know she is not staying entirely off the front-lines. Ironically, she does not want me to worry. (She also says hello and that, when this is all over, you should visit.)

-Garlan, Cher, and Illora are thankfully safe. Garlan (almost sixteen now, can you believe it? Dorian laughs at me when I say I feel old) is really coming into his own as a hunter. Makes me proud. Cher is getting a better hold of her magic. She will make for a great First, and I personally think her wit just adds to that. Illora is a bit jealous of her sister’s magic but reads more than any other child — she asks Dorian for books constantly. She has incredible smarts, and I hope she can find something to do with them.

-Parents are healthy and taken care of, and both hope that you are as well. My father says to write when you get the chance.

-Both Dorian and Morrigan say hello. Dorian also politely requests that “the South not fall entirely to ruin” seeing that we have all dedicated many years of our life to its protection. Morrigan wishes that you are well, and hopes to see you again.

Now, the actual reason for why I am writing (do not tell anyone in the aforementioned list): I met Rook.

Varric used to write about them so cryptically and Harding stresses that I should do the same. They have done a good job at keeping them a secret; I would not have been able to point “Rook” out in a crowd if they had not been personally introduced to me. Hiding a very obvious person in plain sight — it will make more sense if you have the chance to meet them.

So, I unfortunately cannot tell you much, but I can tell you this: they are the right person.

They are fierce in everything they do. Loyalty, determination, kindness, fight. They already have some formidable allies (and friends, I should note) and have already made an enemy of the First Warden. I cannot necessarily say that they move gracefully, but they move fast — and headfirst. I can see why Varric and Harding chose them.

They are, however, still claiming that they are not the leader of the Veilguard. They talk a lot about Varric and what he taught them. How they want to make him proud, how they are just doing what he would. He really left an impact of them; he had that effect on people.

They are doing well, despite everything.

[A note in the margins: Have you heard from Hawke? Ever since I wrote to her about Varric, I have received less and less letters from her. Not that I can blame her, but I worry.]

I told Rook that they will make a good leader of the Veilguard, and they said that they are just here to do good. That they will do whatever it takes to help us. All with a smile.

There is an optimism, a hope, a light in their eyes that is both heart-warming and blood-chilling.

They are the age I was when I became Inquisitor. I have seen what can be taken in times like this, and they have already lost so much. I worry how this will change them; I fear what else they will lose.

I am sure you will agree that these past twenty years have taken from us people, dreams, and time that we will never have back. I am no longer the person I was when I attended the Conclave, and while I can never know the horrors of the fifth Blight, I unfortunately imagine that you feel similarly.

We have also found unending joy with our loved ones. I would not trade Dorian for the world, nor do I think you would give up Alistair and Feynrith for anything. They have become the ones who keep us upright. But still — the thought lingers.

Perhaps it is because we found the "right person" for the Veilguard that I worry about this more. The right person to save the world, as we have both learned, is a person who must give up something to do so.

... Well, I always bring you happy news, right, cousin?

I hope one day we can send letters that are not dated by tragedy. I believe our family deserves that.

Send my care and regards to Alistair, Feynrith, Queen Anora, and the princess. In times like these, I can only wish that you all are safe.

I know Denerim is in good hands with you, as it always has been. Leave the South to me, and the North to Rook — despite my worries, I have a good feeling about them.

They might even be the one to end this.

Sincerely yours,

Camris

(A crudely drawn rook chess piece, with an arrow pointing to it and a note: Varric used to draw these on all of his missives about them.)

[princess-aeducan]

Dragon Age: The Veilguard Gameplay Reveal Thoughts

Okay for one thing, I am so happy to be making this post. Going from people voicing doubts about the game coming out at all to a Fall 2024 release window is so exciting. 10 years and it’s finally almost here.

-The game is absolutely gorgeous. I love the design of Minrathous, I love how gobsmackingly different it is from Ferelden. Dorian’s complaints from Inquisition all make sense now, and it’s fascinating to see a place that is not repressive of magic- the fact that it resembles sci-fi levels of tech but is all powered by magic is sooo fun and interesting to me. I also think it’ll be an interesting contrast to the more classic fantasy style locations we see at the ritual site and throughout the screenshots the developers have posted. It makes the world feel so much bigger, diverse, and more fleshed out.

-Unpopular opinion and I totally respect why others dislike it as it does look quite different, I’m actually looking forward to the combat. It honestly just looks more fun to me, as I tend to favor a more action/real time style anyway. That being said, I do dislike the 3 person party change for banter reasons and do think that’ll make it feel significantly less like classic Dragon Age. I feel like I’ll get used to it pretty fast, but it is a disappointment. Controlling companions isn’t mandatory for me but it was always nice to be able to try out all the classes, so that’s a loss as well, although one I’m less bothered by.

-I like the way the characters look, but do understand it could take a little bit of adjustment. Harding got a massive glow up, she looks gorgeous. So excited she’s a companion, and that we’ll have our first romanceable dwarf! Not a huge fan of the way Solas looks in this style, but I don’t feel particularly upset about it anyway. Not sure what it is. Varric looks great, but like many others, missing his ginger hair. All in all, less drastic changes to returning characters than we’ve seen in previous titles, I will never be over how much they butchered Alistair in Inquisition. I love the designs and vibes of the new companions, Neve is a fashion icon and sooo fits in with what Dorian has set up for us to expect from Tevinter. I can’t wait to meet Davrin in particular, because god I miss Grey Wardens.

-On that point: Factions have me maybe the most excited. I cannot wait to be a Grey Warden again, I’d been holding out hope! I liked that the faction was referenced in the gameplay reveal as well, and hope it’ll change small things throughout the game, at least through dialogue. Also will have to play as an Antivan Crow at some point. A bit sad this won’t include a playable prologue like Origins, but since DA2 and DAI I wasn’t expecting it. Just always something I’ll miss.

-A red flag for me is how little Rook was prompted to make dialogue choices. I hope that because this is simply the prologue and therefore focused on binary plot progression, that this will be different in more dialogue-driven sections, but it’s something to look out for and be wary of. I’m okay with Rook speaking on their own occasionally, but if that continues, I hope it’s at least like Hawke where there’s some variation based on personality.

-Also yes, excited about the return of the purple Hawke icon! The dialogue wheel in Inquisition felt more bland to me than in DA2, so if the wheel is what we’re stuck with, I’d rather it lean more to its DA2 execution.

-On narrative: I cannot BELIEVE the game just jumps into “let’s confront Solas RIGHT NOW!” I was not expecting so much plot from the gameplay reveal. I am very intrigued by what’s coming next with the evanuris, and what it will mean for Solas’ role in the story. I’m kind of obsessed with the fact that it begins with Rook fucking things up worse, I think that will be magnificent to explore for roleplay and the repercussions for Thedas will be massive. I know there were concerns about tone, but this gives me hope that we’ll have the fucked up shit Dragon Age is known for. “Just some guy who makes things worse” is a great start for a protagonist, and reminds me of DA2 in some respects.

-My brainrot is horrendous. I have so many more thoughts all of the time, but tried to just center on the gameplay reveal so I don’t yap forever. But always feel free to send asks, and expect more posts as we get closer and closer!

[thedragonagelesbian]

following the kiss with a series of kisses down the neck? :D

Kiss Prompts!

um this got quite out of hand! will probably polish it up and put it on ao3 at some point, but for now thank you for sending such a generative prompt! (major veilguard spoilers below cut)

13. following the kiss with a series of kisses down the neck

"Now, remember: the whole point of this is to relax." Varric was smirking at him, and were that gesture, those words, and this location paired with any other man, Cyrus Hawke might've come to a very different conclusion about the nature of their visit. "You do know how to do that, don't you?"

A much more pleasant one too.

Cyrus considered trying his luck--as he had a handful of times before, the chest hair really was irresistible--with a why don't you show me. Instead, he gave a soft huff. "I can relax in the estate."

"That doesn't count, when you finally have enough coin to relax here." Varric swept his hand across the room, one of a few dozen private chambers within the Hightown Baths. Like so much of Kirkwall, the room and the bathhouse both bore Tevinter stylings, dating back to when the city had been Emerius-- marble and columns and bronze filigree and stained glass windows to hide the smoke from the Foundry. A privacy divider separated two tubs set into the floor, one steaming and another overflowing with rose-scented bubbles. "I've seen you shop around for those fancy Orlesian soaps whenever you have a few silvers to spare." Cyrus' cheeks warmed, embarrassed less by the habit--every other coin of his had only ever gone to the family, permitting himself only this one indulgence: the occasional hot bath with the scent of lavender--and more that Varric had observed it. "This is all that, except more, and you don't have to worry about saving or sparing. You don't have to worry about anything at all: you get to just be."

"Be," Cyrus echoed, and for all his effort, the word still came out sounding hollow. It was accompanied by an appropriately timed twinge in his chest, where his right lung had collapsed all too recently under a templar's boot. He resisted the urge to ask if that was the real reason for all of this. Kindness as distraction. Placation.

Everyone else had tried their hand at it already. Lectures from Aveline and Anders and drinks from Isabela and Fenris and hugs from Merrill and divine forgiveness from Sebastian and steely silence from Bethany. Furious at how much of himself he had risked trying to rescue her from the Circle.

"Right."

Cyrus shrugged off his tunic, the silk finer than anything he'd ever had against his skin and still his body was coiled tight beneath it. Varric hurried to the other side of the room, but before he ducked behind the privacy divider separating the two baths, Cyrus caught him glancing at his stomach. Smooth plane and angular bones and a spiral scar circling his navel, the skin still rough and new.

Better me than you. That's what he had said, when the last of the rock wraith's electricity had dissipated and Anders had roused him back to consciousness and Varric was struggling to look him in the eye as he mumbled out his gratitude for Cyrus' willingness to use his body as a shield.

Better him than anyone.

"Let me know if you need anything, Knightly."

The inspiration for the nickname.

"I'm fine," Cyrus said instinctively as he stripped his breaches and small clothes too. Finally, he let his hair down, auburn spilling between his shoulders, and yet he hesitated at the edge of the bath, listening to the water shift and splash around Varric's body on the other side of the divider. It would be all too easy to submerge himself, and that was what frightened him. How effortless it would be to float away from his body and all its aching responsibilities. To forget that Bethany was trapped in the Gallows by the same marble that now tiled his luxury.

And yet he couldn't repudiate Varric's kindness, could he?

And it was. Easy. To let the warm water swaddle him, heat burning away a month's--a lifetime's--worth of pain in his muscles from holding them taut, as if he'd lose something--someone--else if he let his guard down for even a second. But he couldn't keep that up now. Sinking through the soap suds to the smooth basin beneath, eyes shut and weightless, his every defense stripped away beneath the distorted hum of the world around him.

Relax. Indulge. Be.

At what cost?

He kept himself under the water until his lungs began to burn, emerging with a gasp and gulping down mouthfuls of steam to keep his insides warm and his head fuzzy and the regrets at bay.

Combing back strands of wet hair, Cyrus caught a glimpse of something that made him frown. A trick of the light, maybe, playing across the length of his palm, or maybe he'd been under the water longer than he thought, but as he lowered his hand again, the skin seemed weathered. Spotted with age and furrowed and scarred in places he couldn't remember being hurt.

"You know sacrifice well, Champion, but not as well as I. You are not ready for what is to come. What will be required of you."

Pain spikes behind his eyes. He screws them shut, balls his hands into fists, holding fast to something clenched against his palm while something else--weight mantle manacle--tears at his other wrists. Tries to break him in two.

"Knightly?"

"What am I supposed to make of that," it's his voice now, echoing through his thundering skull, spitting with a bitterness he doesn't know himself to possess, "of all the stories you tell about me, of the damned nickname, other than that I am supposed to be the world’s savior?"

"I just gotta ask, if only so I can check it off my 'good friend responsibilities' list for the day... Are you okay?"

Cyrus jolted. Blinked. He was back in the baths, all pains gone except for one, a familial grief strangled through the valves of his heart. "I told you I'm fine."

His voice, his words, and yet he sensed them on his lips a moment before he said them. As if he already has. Had.

Varric clicked his tongue in response. "See, you shouldn't try to lie to a professional bullshitter.

"It's not--"

"And denial is all well and good, but Blondie did mention that the wrong sort of templar caught you poking around the Docks and left you for dead." Cyrus' chest tightened, as if it was all about to cave in again. Better him than anyone else, except this pain hadn't gotten him any closer to saving Bethany. If he had fought back harder-- "Now, personally speaking, I'd rather keep you not-dead... And I know your mother and sister feel the same."

"This is your fault! How could you let him run off like that? Your little brother. My baby boy!"

"She wouldn't want you to blame yourself."

"You don't know my mother."

More voices, more pounding against his skull, suddenly too hot and too sick, but when Cyrus tries to stand, he can't move. Yanking against the water, shoulders wrenching from his sockets, but he can't--

"And I know it's not the same thing because your sister is made of pure sunshine and my brother is made of nugshit, but I... I get it. The turning it all over, wondering what you could've done different, the regret--"

That word. That's it. Regret.

It is the undertow. Catches him by his throat and drags him under screaming. Water in his eyes mouth lungs stomach, its weight a suffocation, leaden with it and sinking into the depths, nothing left of the world around him except this. Contrition's current wound not only around him but inside, dragging him down by the entrails.

Each burn along the tract of his spasming body has a voice, a question, another enough. Strong enough, fast enough, smart enough, good enough, sacrificial enough, not yet enough of himself given to save them.

...save who?

No.

No, this is wrong, he's let go of this, hasn't he? These are not his ghosts, not anymore, Creators save him, he has already broken his fingers trying to bury his family, hands scraped raw and bloody against the unforgiving earth, but by Falon'din, he did it, three little trees planted in Lothering and the fourth, finally freed over a decade ago, and with them, he put all these regrets to rest too.

He's learned how to let go of things without leaving claw marks behind. So he stops fighting. Closes his eyes and lets the water and the weight wash over him, and he prays. Sylaise enansal. Tel'vella ar'avas, melanda vir atish'an ar ghilas la ar'athlan vhenas. Mae'aise'mala ir'eth, mae'aise'mala ir'lath, mae'aise'mala ar'hamin. Vir suledin sa'vunin, la ar'hamin.

Words Merrill taught him after Kirkwall. Words he chanted over and over and over again after Adamant, just trying to keep the fractures of his mind and body together.

Peace, peace, peace.

Everything crashes. The ocean vanishes, and Cyrus hits the ground. Cracked stone comes into focus beneath him, firm where he kneels against it, certain and sturdy and yet... and yet at the edges of his vision it turns to vapor. Solid in that way that only things in the Fade are: so long as he believes it.

Fuck.

He lifts his head, heavy again, aching again, his moment of peaceful suspension vanishing out in ragged gasps as he takes in his surroundings. An expanse of harsh light and cold shadows greets him, like a painting left out in the sun too long, its colors drained pale.

The Nightmare's lair was all sickly sheen. Kirkwall--where the Fade had dragged him after Inquisitor Trevelyan closed the Rift behind her--was pure wet darkness, a viscous womb still leaden with the aborted blood magic experiments of ancient Tevinter mages. This place, this prison visited so many times from the other side, is familiar in its cruelty, even as its nature, its emptiness, is different.

Familiar too is the longest shadow of them all: the Black City, looming. Oppressive. Watching.

Is it listening too? Can the blighted fragments of his goddess hear him when he starts to shudder? "Sylaise enansal. Mae'aise'mala ir'eth, ir'eth, ir'eth, please, please, please, not here, not again, please..."

"Cyrus--!" The wretched bellowing--the death rattles of a man pressed too many times too close to the grave and what lay beyond it--stutters as Cyrus feels hands against him. One on his shoulder, another on his cheek, fumbling and grasping tight as if to secure the edges of both their bodies, both warm and solid and real, but it can't be. It can't. Because what Cyrus sees when he blinks the tears from his eyes is a ghost. "Easy now, Cyrus, please, I've got you."

This thing with Varric Tethras' face and body and scent tries to hug him close. Like the real Varric Tethras had a hundred times before, tucking him safe against his chest, the only point of grounding Cyrus had when the world kept dropping out from underneath him. After the Arishok. After Kirkwall. After--seven years after--Adamant.

After the gods escaped. After Treviso. After Elgar'nan and Solas raged in his mind and something broke, something in the curled whisper of you do not even remember what the Dread Wolf took from you scratched against a tapestry of blood magic and sent it--sent him--unraveling. And with them the body in the infirmary. The figment that comforted him so many times. Pretended to, at least. Words never quite right, touches never quite there, hollow memories and manipulation, the Dread Wolf's wool could never wholly fill or cover up the cavity his grief carved into him.

An absence he could always feel but never understand.

It is the fact that this thing is present--that its chest hair rubs Cyrus' cheek same as the real thing, no invention or imagination, no gap to be woven over by the god of lies--that makes him howl. Fear turns on a hairpin to fury, and he throws himself against it snarling, "Ir emah'la shal, Fen'harel! I will not fall for this again." It clings to him, stubborn, no matter how much Cyrus writhes, so he throws his hand back and strikes it hard across the face. "You vile bastard!"

"Maker's hairy ass!" It finally recoils, rubbing its face like Cyrus has actually hurt it. Like it actually feels anything. "What did I do to deserve that?"

"Fenedhis," Cyrus snaps back and reels to his feet. Something deep in his chest mourns the distance, and that's all the more reason to take several steps back, staggering toward the precipice from which Solas peered down at him. "I do not know if you are a spirit or a figment of my grief or both, but whatever you are, you are not real."

It doesn't jump to its own defense. Not like the thing in the Lighthouse would, so quick to dismiss him and his concerns. To run its fingers through his hair in a callous approximation of comfort and whisper that he has nothing to worry about. Instead, this considers him carefully. Forehead furrowing and unfurrowing, jaw clenching and unclenching, the anxious working of muscles like he always does when he's deep in thought.

Did. Used to. Because this is not him.

"Guess I've gone about this the wrong way, huh," it says at last, accompanying the words with a long exhale and its hands held high. "Sorry, I really didn't mean to cause you any more pain."

"You spent months haunting me. Months I should've spent grieving and moving on instead of having this-- this--" he tries to find a word for it, the immensity of what he's been carrying, and all he can do is gesture wildly to all of it, all of him, "festering inside of me without even knowing it!"

"Solas did that to you," it insists, matter-of-fact. "He used blood magic to fuck with your mind something awful, and I'm sorry about that too, but I'm..." It pauses to regard itself, and Cyrus hates himself for staring too, beard collarbone belly hands, ungloved and spread in invitation, welcoming Cyrus to come inspect it all more closely. A body that doesn't make his skull throb the way the one in the infirmary did. Too much stimulus to override, too much magic drilling through his brain. "A bit more complicated."

"You are a trick put here to torment me."

It's familiar--something not just sterile and mimetic but really, truly perfect--the way that Varric's brow knits together, weighing down on a set of sad eyes beneath. He made that expression most in the years after Kirkwall, but sometimes before that too, when Cyrus was at his most severe. Harshness made for a most unruly survival mechanism. And then as now, seeing it hit upon the right wrong target, his heartstrings tug.

Then as now, his instinct is to apologize for what this world has made of him.

He almost listens.

"No, that's just it. I'm not. Call it a peace offering if you're feeling generous, a bargaining chip if not, but no matter how much Chuckles may regret using you up and locking you away, he'd regret it even more if it meant you'd be alone." Professional bullshitter, liars the both of them, if Cyrus had met Solas first, he would've fallen eyes open into that wolfish smirk, he knows better by now. Should know better than to listen to a single word from this thing's lopsided mouth. "Don't tell him I told you, but he's secretly quite the romantic. I think he had a soft spot for us in particular."

"...I still don't understand."

"Say someone dies right as the Veil is being torn apart at the seams, and then a fragment of their soul gets pulled in along with the most sorrowful bastard in the history of Thedas. Said bastard then dedicates his copious new free time to nurturing this soul to distract himself from the ruinous things he's doing to its--my--poor widower." Varric--it--smiles sadly and begins to reach out, as if to take Cyrus' hand, as if it feels the same pathetic yearning clawing at its ribcage, before retreating again. "And then, one day, there I was: someone to keep you company for all eternity."

Soul. He said s o u l.

It's dizzying. The implication, the temptation, the sweetly sickening thought of cracking this thing's body open and seeing just how deep the verisimilitude runs. Hunting for that originary kernel from which Solas spun all this out, this thing that is so agonizingly close to being right and Cyrus cannot help but long to run red with it. Every jagged edge where the illusion might break down just to sink his nails into whatever could be real...

"Something." He makes himself spit it out so he doesn't choke on it. "Something to keep me company for all eternity."

"Really, that's the part you object to? Not that last bit about eternity?"

Cyrus shouldn't answer it. He glances away, eyes sweeping over the colorless landscape and ruins, and he should just pick a point and start walking toward it, but instead he shrugs. "How long is forever, really?"

"It'd be a lot shorter if you found a way out." Its voice is firmer now, less storyteller and more like the man in the bathhouse trying to talk his way around a truth too painful to circumnavigate. "Solas did it, that must mean there's a way for you to do it too."

"Must it?" And he sounds like his younger self too. Like everything he's spent the last decade trying to outgrow, all that work undone, left hollow. Defeated. "There wasn't last time." It wasn't for lack of trying, for the first year at least, before Kirkwall's chains had wrapped around his bones, hooking on ribs and vertebra and the curve of his pelvis to bind him there forever.

This doesn't hurt as much, at least.

At least there's something here that looks like his husband, right?

No, no, that's what the Dread Wolf wants, that's why it's here, to lull him into staying, so why does it reply, "Still, I've never known you to shy away from a challenge"?

Cyrus charges at him, grabs the lapels of his jacket, and screams, "You don't know me!"

Be something else. Be anything else, other than something he could love.

But Varric just shakes his head. "Trust me, I wish I could lie about this too. Give you a clean break and a quick goodbye. Easier that way, right? Except I know... everything. All of us. That day in the bathhouse, the nights you spent in the Hanged Man with me after Leandra died, the siege at Adamant and all the years afterward spent missing you before finally, finally getting you back..." It covers Cyrus' hands with its own and squeezes them hard. "And I remember promising after I nearly got you killed in the Deep Roads that I wouldn't lie to you again. So, yes, I do know you, and I know that you can't give up now."

"Why not?!" Cyrus is shaking again, knuckles aching either from the tightness of his own grip or its or both, and why does the leather feel so real? Smooth and worn and supple, too textured to be spun from blood magic and guilt. "Why not? Why, Creators, Varric..."

He gasps his name and now there's no longer any pretending that this is anything other than his husband.

Cyrus falls to his knees again, and this time, he doesn't resist when Varric cradles him to his chest.

"I can't," he sobs, "I can't. I thought I could do all of it again. The adventuring, the saving, the bleeding and the hurting all the fucking time, why doesn't it stop? Why can't I just... stop?"

"Cyrus--"

"I could make a home here." Blabbering now through the tears, falling faster as Varric strokes his hair like he always used to, steady hand against his skull to hold him still. "I could be safe here with you."

Flush against Varric's body, he scarcely has the strength to lift his head, but he does, to look up at Varric, mouth parted and eyes wide and pleading. Another hand catches him by the cheek to wipe away some of the tears, and Cyrus is certain that if they vanish from his body, he will fall away into nothingness.

"Please, let me stay with you."

Cyrus kisses him before he can say no.

He never kissed the thing in the infirmary. Never even wanted to, perhaps because it was more than blood magic could simulate, breaths and saliva and stubble and the taste of Varric's tongue, so the Dread Wolf stole that from him. So Cyrus takes his desire back. Forcefully. Biting, bruising, panting, like he needs to get his teeth around Varric's throat from the inside out, the only way to hold him tight enough between his jaws.

(He did learn how to let go of things without leaving claw marks behind, but the Dread Wolf stole that from him too.)

And this thing kisses back, and it feels real. The scratch of its beard, the heat of its mouth, the crushing drag of its lips moving against him, equal in force but agonizing in pace, slow and deliberate to Cyrus' desperate nipping. Varric, gentle, caressing the back of his skull, Cyrus, ravenous, nails scrambling for purchase against the leather and catching on the skin beneath.

Residue. Remnants. A ghost's particulate traces.

How much more of Varric's body can he keep like this? Under his nails, in his mouth, between his legs.

Cyrus' lungs start to burn, but he doesn't pull away to breathe. Lips slick and open, Cyrus keeps kissing him, chin, jaw, neck, down the center of his throat. Varric tilts his head back with an obliging groan as Cyrus' teeth scrape against his jugular. And further down still, sprinting the length of his body as if it might vanish the moment that he hesitates, collarbone and sternum and ripping open the last buttons of his shirt to kiss his navel too.

Devouring without savoring. No moment to linger, to enjoy the fat on his hips or the shape of his nipples, just one long breath with which to swallow him whole... until the hand in his hair pulls him away from Varric's happy trail.

"No," he's holding onto the cloth of Varric's belt like it's the last lifeline he has left in the world, "no, wait, please..."

Varric tilts his head back, and Cyrus sees that him blinking back tears too. "Sorry, love--"

"One more time, I need to feel you one more time, please, please, please..."

"But we shouldn't make this any harder than it needs to be."

"It won't be hard if I stay."

"But you're not staying." He says it so definitively that Cyrus can't think of anything to do but whine in response. Unable to find the words to beg or the tears to sob more, just whimpering in Varric's arms. "The world still needs you."

"Fuck the world."

Fuck me, or let me fuck you, and then maybe you won't make me go.

And then even if you do, I'll have more left of you than the memories a god scarred into me.

"And more than that," Varric insists softly, "your friends still want you. So we can play pretend all we want. Maker only knows how much I want," it makes Cyrus shiver every time--the last time--when Varric speaks of desire, smoldering and real, pretension stripped down to a husky growl and the tightening of his grip on Cyrus' body... before he shakes his head, "but we both know how this will end."

"I don't like this ending. You were supposed to write me a better one." That was the promise, made the night Cyrus' heroism nearly killed him, indistinguishable from all the others except that for the first time Cyrus was scared that he had finally gotten himself hurt in a way that he couldn't come back from. The night Cyrus knelt before Varric and begged him for a different story. A selfish, happy one. Not this tragedy he seemed to have been reciting all his long, miserable life. He said yes then, why won't he say it now? "Why don't you want me to stay?"

"Because I want what he would've wanted: for you to keep living."

And despite himself, Cyrus smiles.

Sadly, bitterly, still crying, still hurting, and maybe it won't ever stop, but still he tucks his mouth against Varric's sternum as he hugs his husband close one more time.

"Damn it. Damn you, of course you'd say it like that. How predictable am I, so much better at living for someone else than living for myself."

Varric chuckles, the dryness undercut by the teary hiccups. "Look at that, I've finally found a way to use your selflessness against you."

"I'll always be yours..." Cyrus whispers into his heart. "Just tell me what you want me to do, and I'll do it, I swear."

Inevitability is one thing. Service is another. The only thing Cyrus has ever known, and what was impossible moments before suddenly seems so easy: when everything else he's had to hold on to has been taken away, he can still choose this. Devotion.

"I want you to keep going. I want you to find a way out of this damned prison, and I want you to kick a couple of gods' asses, and then I want you to find somewhere safe to live a long and happy life, and I don't want to see you again until you're even more wrinkly and grey than you are now."

As he speaks, Varric rocks him gently, voice like the tide, back flat in the Amaranthine harbor before Cyrus was even old enough to realize he was a boy, letting the world cradle him. Varric always felt like that-- chest and arms and legs big enough to float on top of.

Is it not a blessing from the goddess of love to feel him--if not all of him--one last time?

"I'll still talk to you, you know," Cyrus says, weepy rambling bloodletting of the heart, "you didn't leave us a body to burn, so I'm going to plant a tree in Kirkwall for you, even though you'll hate it. Especially because you'll hate it, and I'm going to make sure it grows into something beautiful, and every time I visit it, I'm going to sit in its shade and tell you everything about my life, and it won't be nearly as interesting as how you'd tell it, but you'll have to listen to it anyway."

"You've given this a lot of thought."

"That's what I did in Lothering for my family, when I finally laid them to rest..." Cyrus frowns. "Do you think the trees I planted for them are still there?"

"I think you have to leave this place and find out for yourself."

"Of course..." Another form of service, another reason to keep going, and still Cyrus cannot help but linger some few moments more, nuzzling up to his neck, the closest, safest thing to home he's known in so long. "I love you."

"I love you too. More than I could ever put into any words or story."

"You bloody hypocrite," Cyrus gives him a small shove, "telling me not to make things harder than they need to be and then quoting your wedding vows."

They all thought Varric would have some long-winded speech prepared, but it was just this: the simple acknowledgment that some things are too big, too much. Love, grief, the way they've bent and bowed their lives around one another a thousand times over.

"Sorry," Varric laughs again, softer this time, apologetic hands massaging Cyrus' back, always knowing exactly where and how to touch him, "I just couldn't help it. Who knows when you'll get to hear it again?"

"Two can play that game, you know." Maybe some small part of him is still hoping that he'll win. Cyrus takes Varric's hand, brings it to his mouth, and covers the ring there with his lips. "Sylaise enaste var aravel. Lama, ara las mir lath. Bellanaris."

Bellanaris. Eternity. Come all too soon.

Everything aches as Cyrus pulls himself to his feet by Varric's shoulders. The constant low hum of his chronic pain turning sharp, stiff, brittle, knees and back groaning loudest of them all. "Creators, I'm too old for this..."

"You'd think Chuckles would've done you the courtesy of leaving you some forearm crutches too," Varric tsks. "Well, you can lean on me for now."

"For how much longer?" Despite himself, an inkling of fear worms it way back into Cyrus' voice as he once more takes in their surroundings. Splintered cobblestone and twisted arches and fog parting, slowly, to reveal the silver-tipped grass growing up between the gaps. He glances back down at Varric and drinks in every detail of his visage that he can. Eyes burning warm, wood in the hearth. "I can't stay, but... would you stay? With me? Until the end?"

"Of course, love. Every step of the way."

[thevulturesquadron]

3. A letter from Rook to someone in their faction

@black-rose4 Thank you!!!!! 💜 Using this Rook Codex Entries prompt list. This one is a bit self indulgent because it covers a couple of choices from my world state that weren't touched on during Veilguard.

3. A letter from Rook to someone in their faction [Where Legends Vanish] Rowan.

I’m writing to you because Isabela’s going to spend weeks locked in her cabin, just staring at the seal on the envelope, and it’s safer this way, since the Lords don’t consider any amount of gold good enough to justify opening a seer’s correspondence.

We made it out of Weisshaupt. By the skin of our teeth, but almost nothing else did. I can count the remaining wardens down to a few dozens. The events of that night are still a blur most of the time, with nothing but the thought of getting my crew across the finish line racing through my head. If I had trouble sleeping before, now I can’t even close my damned eyes without seeing a horde of rabid darkspawn lunging at me.

But I still tried, you know? For Isabela. For Varric. We crossed the libraries and vaults but couldn’t find any mention of Hawke.

A couple of days ago, I went back to check on the remaining Wardens that settled in Lavendel, lend any help we could. So I started asking questions. Didn’t expect much, but then someone pointed me towards their make-shift infirmary, said one of the First Warden’s old guard made it out; after seeing the state of that poor bastard I don’t know that I agree.

At first he seemed willing to talk, either cause I was the only one able to spare the time, or because it reminded him of better days, but he said he was at Weisshaupt in 9:41 when the Wardens were expelled from southern Thedas. (Turns out Magister Pavus wasn’t bluffing after all). Said Hawke arrived with them, but when I asked where they went after, he suddenly turned tight-lipped. Tried to sell me a story about how he couldn’t remember, with all the fighting that was happening within the Order, but after spending so much time among the Lords I can smell rat shit when it’s on the table. Had to remind him there’s no one left to give a damn about the fortress’s secrets and also had to part with the chocolate I brought for the blacksmith’s daughter, but it got him talking.

Rowan - Hawke went into the fucking Deep Roads. And that’s not even why he was avoiding my questions…. Isabela’s going to hate this - while she was there, Hawke learnt that Anders had passed through Weisshaupt. THAT Anders. The one in Isabela’s and Varric’s stories. Has to be. That’s how I found out he was a Warden. Guess both left that part out for a reason.

He refused to speak anything coherent when I tried to push for more information about the events, so this next part is a bit of a patchwork: seems like Anders returned to Weisshaupt looking for an Orlesian Warden Commander or something like that, someone he knew? Based on how his entire face darkened, it wasn’t anything pretty. He mentioned something about deserter wardens, about old feuds on how to cure the blight, all things I told Evka and Antoine to look into, but from what I gathered, a couple of years back, this one Warden Commander caused a schism and disappeared into the Deep Roads taking with them almost half the Order that was stationed at the fortress at that time. He mentioned something about their approach towards the darkspawn and the blight being unethical? Then, years later, Anders shows up and there’s a whole argument about turning him in or judging him as a Warden. He finds out the Warden Commander is gone, asks for passage into the Deep Roads, same way they went, and the Wardens agree as they consider it suicidal - at least he meets his end like any other Warden. And like a hole that keeps eating people, same story when Hawke arrives. She finds out which parts of the Deep Roads Anders went through, and against the Wardens’ warnings she follows. And …she’s gone.

I… don’t know what to do with this, Rowan. Maybe that’s why I am actually writing to you. I don’t even know if it’s something I want to tell Isabela. There’s no closure in it. But I don’t want to hold it from her either. She’s going to pretend it changes nothing and then she’s going to drink herself to oblivion and back. So I leave it with you. She listens to you. She allows herself to cry and get angry and drop the cynical act when it’s just you. And I know you’ll find a gentler way than I ever could to speak to her.

Thing is… I think I get Hawke; why she did that. From what Varric said about Anders, he might have been a mess, but he was their mess. Looking back at what happened at Weisshaupt, I almost lost Davrin to the archdemon; almost lost Lucanis. All of that cause I was so focused on what we were meant to do that I failed to see them. To see their own struggles. And it cost us so much, but it could have cost us everything. I think that’s how Hawke feels. So wherever she is, if she is still breathing, she’s trying to fix that. Hope Isabela can understand it too.

Love, Rook Magdalena.