#randy dowager quarterly

[heylavellan]

So, there's a line of banter between Lucanis and Emmrich where he mentions there are 'a few dozen. Only 5 I'd recommend.' so then I got interested in seeing which named Crow houses I could track down.

First, starting with named ones in the game:

House Dellamorte

House Cantori

House de Riva

House Gegar Mercantile

House de Acutis

House Velardo*

House Egrativi**

*Mentioned as the house that killed Lucanis' parents. Likely no longer exists.

**Created during the game based on Jacobus' training.

Then, looking at Tevinter Nights to find other houses.

House Nero

House Balazar

House Valisti

House Kortez*

House Arainai

House Gaspari*

*Dead, killed by the Dellamortes.

It's worth noting that after the events of Eight Little Talons, House Kortez is set to be eliminated for killing four of the Talons.

Lastly, there are a few people listed on the DA Wiki, but I'm not confident in the sourcing on some of them. Allegedly Nuncio's last name is Lanos, implying the existence of a House Lanos. There are also a few codices in Inquisition with writing attributed to an alleged Crow, Vierre Lazar. Lazar might be a house or this could be a fake name.

So, of these Houses listed when Lucanis says this line, there are 10, maybe 12 if you count Lazar and Lanos. Of the five he respects, I'd guess:

Dellamorte

de Acutis (took part in the mission detailed in the short story As We Fly and they actively work with Viago)

de Riva

Cantori

The fifth one stumped me, so on the sole basis that you can get their banner by completing A Slow Poison, I'd propose House Gegar Mercantile.

EDIT:

More notes.

House Arainai is referenced in VG. Missed that dialogue.

Chance Candide as a character in VG suggests that there is a House Candide. @sachinighte pointed out Chance's last name came from Orlais.

House Borgiani and House Amato are mentioned in the Vows and Vengeance podcast, ep 6&7. These appear to be noble houses, otherwise disconnected from the Crows.

[heylavellan]

im really taken by crows stealing promising fledglings/recruits from each other.

if you want to inflict a lot of emotional damage on viago, imagine your rook has been poached from house dellamorte. viago trains them up, shapes them into someone he wants to be his successor. things are good in house de riva.

then lucanis tries flirting with viago with the knife. viago takes this as a threat that the dellamortes are out to get him. not only that, they want rook back. lucanis does not take them back, but also things are awkward between them.

then rook fucks things up with the antaam. the talons are angry, viago is angry. he's trying to smooth things over with the other houses and then rook takes a contract to retrieve lucanis. okay, fine. but the payment isn't specified. if caterina uses this to reclaim rook...

it doesn't matter because caterina is "murdered" and now the remaining dellamortes are illario and lucanis. but lucanis is now supporting rook in their mission. which is fine. he made that knife threat years ago and never followed through. but maybe its finally time to execute his scheme.

when lucanis and rook start flirting in front of viago, he has a mental breakdown. his perfect crow, choosing someone from house dellamorte. if rook falls in love, he could lose them. teia tries to suggest they may actually like each other, but viago refuses to believe it. obviously lucanis is trying to seduce rook into house dellamorte and he won't stand for it!

anyway, just thinking about this a bit.

murderers are hobbyists

[winter-wise]

The Salty Mermaid:

The Randy Dowager:

[kissingagrumpygiant]

Solas notes on the randy dowager quarterly Inquisition Exposed (illustrated) but its just hundreds of "she wouldn't fucking say that" in the margins

[sammakesart]

A blood-splattered annual edition of the suspect quarterly: The Randy Dowager welcomes the new year with the complete romantic—and ribald—epic, Ladykiller in Love, being a tale of betrayal, betrothal, and bloodshed. And those were just the first twenty pages.

The Randy Dowager: Exhibitions for the noble of thought, but spry of step. The Lady herself says: “Quite puts the Orlesian expression “le petite mort” into a new perspective. Five scarves fluttered in shock out of five.” - RD

The back cover reads thus:

Illario is the disgrace of House Dellamorte. After failing in his plot to become First Talon, he never expected to be forgiven by his cousin and new First Talon, Lucanis. Still, Illario knows there will be a price to pay for his betrayal. The last form of penance he ever expected was an arranged marriage to the Second Talon’s only sister, Sancia Balazar, his childhood friend and first love. And a woman he thought he’d never seen again.

Sancia is clever, beautiful, and exceptionally skilled with a variety of deadly weapons—the perfect bride for assassin royalty. By rights, she should be wed to Lucanis, yet it is Illario who she demands. Illario may be incapable of such finer feelings as love now, but he can hardly object to a marriage with Sancia. He might even enjoy it. It is too good to be true, of course. As soon as the contract is signed, Sancia wants nothing to do with him. In fact, she seems to have completely forgotten their youthful infatuation for one another and actively despises him now. Each day—and especially each night—becomes its own special form of torture. This may be the perfect punishment, after all.

[sky-scribbles]

I wrote a Rook!Blackwall fic, because I couldn't stop thinking about him having a bi awakening in his fifties. ~2000 words. Discussed Emmrook, background Dorian/Bull.

Small cw for discussions of societal and internalised queerphobia, and toxic masculinity.

—

‘I was wondering,’ says Thom Rainier, looking everywhere except at Dorian’s face, ‘if I could ask you for advice. About… something personal.’

Well, now, this is interesting. In all their time serving together in the Inquisition, Dorian can’t recall Rainier ever asking for his opinion on anything. Which is a pity. He could, for instance, have attempted, oh, Dorian, please advise me on how to stop smelling like the saddest stable in the South! Or, Dorian, you are so boundlessly charming – however can I become like you? And Dorian would say, alas, no one in Thedas could ever be me but me. And it would be a delightful little moment of friendship.

These touching scenes did not occur, however. And now, a decade later, Thom Rainier is in a Shadow Dragon safehouse, glowering at the ground, and belatedly realising how valuable Dorian’s opinions truly are.

So Dorian smiles and leans forward across the table. ‘Oh, do tell.’

Rainier doesn’t lift his head, but his eyes flick across to the door where his Qunari friend has disappeared to talk with Mae and Tarquin, as if checking it’s still closed. Then they snap over to where Ashur’s flicking through reports on Venatori movements. ‘It’s private,’ he says gruffly.

Ashur must hear this, because he gathers his papers and melts out of the room without comment. There's a pause as his footfalls vanish from earshot. Then Rainier glances up at Dorian across the table and says, ‘You know how your lot have been helping Taash figure out their… everything?’

‘Yes,’ Dorian says slowly. Does he disapprove? No – he’s not the type. Rainier’s worst crime is being a sloven, not a bigot. (Well, his worst crime was probably the murder, but, still.) No; far more likely that Rainier wants to know how to offer support. ‘If you’ve questions, ask away! Though it’s not my personal field of experience – you’d do better talking to Maevaris and Tarquin.’

(Actually, better not encourage him to talk to Tarquin. Two bearded ex-soldiers with crass tongues and a fondness for mocking the aristocracy might be a bit much.)

‘No. It needs to be you. I was wondering…’ Rainier swallows, and when he speaks again, it’s as if every word is being dragged up with a great, humiliated effort. ‘If you could talk about… something like that. With me.’

Dorian stares at him. He wants to… to talk about these matters. In regards to himself.

No. He can’t be. Thom Rainier?

‘How do you know if you –’ Rainier stops, flushed as red as a youngster taking their first peek at the Randy Dowager Quarterly. For a short period, he seems to struggle with concepts larger than his brain is used to containing, then manages, ‘If you like… men. How do you know?’

Oh. Oh, this is absolutely happening. Dorian leans against the table, a grin forming on his face. ‘Oh, my.’

Rainier holds up a hand. ‘Don’t start.’

Unfortunately for him, this is a glorious moment that Dorian will savour for the remainder of his living days on Thedas. He cannot wait to tell Bull. ‘Warden Rainier, I would never have guessed. Having naughty thoughts about some strapping lad, are we?’

‘Please,’ Rainier says, and there’s a note in his voice that makes Dorian stop short. Something pained and confused. His eyes finally meet Dorian's, and with a jolt Dorian is thirteen years old and at one of the Pavus family parties, watching an older boy laugh, eyes hungrily taking in the set of his shoulders, every last twitch of the muscles around his mouth – and thinking oh, yes and oh, no.

And Dorian looks back at the hairy, irritating man who spent a year in the Inquisition trading barbs with him. This is the man who strode unflinching to the gallows and declared that he had never been Blackwall. Looking at Dorian, so clearly scared.

Dorian’s grin fades.

‘Forgive me,’ he says. ‘That was... unhelpful.’ If the man is going through he kind of crisis that it looks increasingly apparent that he is, he needs aid, not belittlement or goading. He pulls up a chair and sits down, and Rainier, after a minute of continued awkward staring, does likewise.

Where to start? How does one know that they like men, Rainier asked, and – well, how is Dorian to answer that? Looking at men with admiration and, later, with lust, had been so obvious, so easy, sopowerful.

‘Well,’ Dorian says at last. ‘Let’s start at the beginning, shall we? What set your mind on this particular line of thought?’

Rainier picks at a flaw in the tabletop, his head still bowed. ‘There’s someone I met recently. And he’s…’

A long pause. That seems to be all that’s forthcoming. Kaffas, this is going to be like trying to get wine stains out of silk. ‘And he’s caught your eye, has he?’

‘He’s… he’s a gentleman. Graceful. Clever. Treats everyone around him with respect, and sees the good in them. Even when they don’t deserve it.’

Ah, the good old Rainier self-loathing. It’s almost nostalgic. ‘And you think you might be taken with him, hmm? And you’re trying to figure out if it’s just a respectful admiration, or something rather more disrespectful.’

Rainier’s head comes up sharply. ‘Do you have to make it sound like that?’

‘My apologies.’ Dorian makes a placating gesture. ‘Quite seriously, though: what is it you want from him?’

It’s the question he asked himself a dozen times, sweat-soaked and breathing hard, tangled in Bull’s limbs and sheets. Every time the kisses became that little bit softer. Every time Bull ran his hands down Dorian’s chest without any hunger, just with quiet tenderness. The question howling in the back of Dorian’s head: what do you want from him?

‘I want –’ Rainier begins, with another difficult forcing-up of words. ‘I want to… to treat him like he deserves to be treated. He doesn’t say it, but sometimes, the way he talks… he’s lonely. I see it. He’s spent too long in the dark, with his bones and his books, and he’s got all this – this feeling and no one to give it to. A man like that should be courted. Given flowers and a shield to stand behind and someone to make him feel like he’s…’

‘Cherished? Worshipped? Like he has a faithful knight ready to lay the world at his feet?’

‘Yes. All of that.’

‘And you like the idea that you might be the one to do that?’

A nod.

‘Then… forgive me, but what on earth would make you believe that you don’t have an interest in men? Have you never looked at a man that way before?’

Rainier blinks. His lips start to shape a no, then stop. Dorian watches something complicated happen on his face.

‘I won’t say I’ve never looked at a man to admire him,’ he says slowly. ‘Or had one I wanted to please, or pay me attention. But – don’t all men sometimes see each other that way? Everyone has to a little bit, unless they’re not interested in anyone like that –’

Dorian laughs; he can’t help it. And then he seems the bewildered look on Rainier’s face, and laughs harder.

‘Oh, big man, no,’ he says, when he’s finally got a hold of himself. ‘And I rather think men who are interested in women exclusively don’t tend to fantasize about being the courtly knight who gives the lonely gentleman the romance of his dreams.’

The longest silence yet. Then Rainier says, ‘Oh.’

‘Oh indeed.

Rainier sighs. The tension that’s been brimming in his entire frame starts to trickle away, and he looks… tired, now, more than anything else. He sits for a minute in silence, and Dorian, sensing that he needs the quiet, waits.

‘I’m getting toward sixty,’ Rainier says at last. ‘Shouldn’t I have figured this kind of thing out by now?’

‘Not necessarily. You’re from Markham, yes? I’ve heard that this kind of thing can be just as much of a scandal in the South as it is here, if not done discreetly. Not to mention…’ Dorian flicks his eyes over the man, taking in the hands calloused from years holding a sword and shield, the weather-beaten face, the old scars. ‘You were a soldier, weren’t you? Surrounded by all that manliness. I know the type – people for whom having a way with ladies is what makes them a man. Around such pitifully small minds, acknowledging interest in another direction tends to be unwelcome.’

Dorian has no experience of the culture of soldiers, of course. But Tarquin’s spoken a little of his time in the army: the judgement, the snide remarks, the disgust flung at anyone who dared to live beyond the narrow roles Tevinter prescribes for its people. Tarquin, even then, had the confidence to make an obscene gesture at his fellow soldiers and tell them to go and have sex with themselves. But Rainier… no, Dorian can’t see him as having that certainty. He’s always distrusted himself too much.

Rainier stares at the tabletop, perhaps recalling a time ten years ago where he mocked frilly Orlesian cakes and pink bloodstone weapons. At last he says, ‘You ever been around people who’ll jump on you if you like anything too…’

 ‘Soft? Oh, have I.’ Maker, is Dorian really having a moment of understanding the man? Are they relating? ‘And when all those good, masculine fellows don’t talk about what they feel… well, how were you to reach any conclusion about your own interests? You never saw anyone like yourself who would confess to such feelings. That was for dazzling fops like myself.’

Rainier laughs, but there are all kinds of realisations happening behind his eyes. Sympathy surges through Dorian, so powerful it’s startling.

‘You’ve never seen or heard anything that might suggest a man like you could have an interest in men,’ he says gently. ‘No suggestion at all that you could simply be allowed.’

And Rainier presses a hand to his forehead, covering his eyes. He says, quietly and with deep feeling, ‘Maker’s balls.’

‘Oh, don’t fret about it. If it’s any reassurance: I know for a fact that in some circles, large hairy men are considered very, very attractive indeed.’

To his delight, this is enough to make Rainier look both flustered and a little flattered. Dorian grins at him, and gets to his feet. ‘Do you know, I think it’s high time we both had some wine.’

He pats the big block of a man on the shoulder, feeling inexplicably fond of him, and heads to the storeroom. By the time he returns, bearing the essential comfort of a nice Vol Dorma vintage and two glasses, Rainier has propped his elbows on the table and is resting his chin in his folded hands. He looks... calmer. Close to smiling. Dorian pours him a sizeable glass and pushes it over to him.

Rainier takes it, considers it for a moment, and takes a sip. ‘Now what?’

‘Now? Well, first of all, why don’t you have a word with this gentleman of yours - what's his name?’

‘Emmrich,’ Rainier says, like it's a phrase from the Chant of Light.

‘Ah, Nevarran.’ A broader-minded people than either of their own. ‘Do you happen to know where his interests lie?’

‘He’s been with men,’ Rainier says slowly. ‘Women too. But I don’t… I don’t know if he…’

‘Might have an interest in you? Well, you have two options.’ Dorian sets his glass down and taps one finger. ‘One: you can take the route I always did, which is to get drunk well past the point of good sense, make sure you get him equally so, then wake up in his bed the next morning and go again. Then you proceed to not talk about it at all, and you wait until a few days later when you suddenly find yourself peeling off his clothes. Repeat, because you’re scared to say that you want him, not just his body, and you’re terrified it’ll end if you dare voice that aloud, and so sex is the closest you can get to the closeness you want with him.’ He gives Rainier a broad smile. ‘And then several months down the line, you haven’t slept in your own bed in weeks and he’s started to call you pet names, and you still haven’t told him you adore him, and now it’s awkward.’

There’s a pause.

‘Which all worked out splendidly for me, I might add,’ Dorian says, fingering the chain around his neck that bears a dragon-tooth pendant, hidden beneath his robes. ‘Though perhaps it wasn’t the most graceful way of falling into a relationship.’

Another pause, while Rainier stares, blinks, and finally says, ‘And option two would be?’

Dorian taps a second finger. ‘You roundly humiliate me by doing what I never could. Namely, you walk up to that man, tell him you’re rather taken with him and want something closer, and have the courage to face him saying no. Or, still more terrifying, saying yes.’

Rainier seems to consider this. Then he sweeps up his glass and tips the whole thing back in a way that’s both tasteless and – Dorian has to admit it, happily committed though he is – just a tiny bit hot.

With a decided motion, Rainier sets the empty glass down on the table. ‘Option two it is, then.’

[pierkyn]

Lucanis Dellamorte loves romance books!

I didn't manage to screenshot the whole banter, but it started with Harding asking him about his favorite book genre.

Now - where's the option to discuss The Randy Dowager quarterly with him?

(...I guess he still has to catch up on the newest issuess. Y'know, because of his time in the Ossuary and all.)

also hey bioware let my rook join the veilguard's book club my rook totally can be trusted with joining the book club he will be very sane and reasonable about it

[deeproadsdarling]

[Varric: Hey, Rook. There's a complete collection of Randy Dowager Quarterlies here. I see Chuckles in a new light now.]

Solas keeps dirty magazines stashed under the bed confirmed.

[brekkie-e]

The only line about Sera you'll find in the Randy Dowager Quarterly.

[tinkerbitch69]

Bellara’s face when I find The Randy Dowager Quarterly Vol. 4

She knows… O_O

[heylavellan]

its actually fucked up that no one is talking about cheese wheel shield and golden crow mask. like everyone saw the crow head and called it a day. but i'd like to invite barry thorne to model the cosmetics we should be talking about.

BUT LOOK AT THE CHEESE SHIELD. is this gamlen's cheese? is the knife removable? how did they add the straps to the cheese? has someone been hit in the missing wedge?? the description implies that varric told rook stories of fighting with cheese wheels. hello???

next is the fucking golden crow hat. i just... i spent five minutes laughing at this when i first found this. who is it for? obviously for the crows, but... how do you see out of it? why is the leather mask underneath clipping through? who decided the gold on the front wasn't enough and stuck a golden bird on the back (in case you missed the golden crow on the front). i'm obsessed with how the beak lines up with the brim of the back part of the helmet.

anyway, thank you for your time

[teamdilf]

The first chapter of my three-chapter fic looking at the weeks Dorian and Solas were fighting together in Minrathous is now up! A preview:

On account of the whole “Solas probably won’t kill him” thing, he’s taken the task of fighting alongside Solas much of the time; a truly lovely experience that harkens back to the good old days when the worst they fought was a blighted magister. Funny how gods make you nostalgic for blown up temples. Today, they’ve rescued civilians from a swarm of darkspawn, contended with the blighted tentacles, which do seem to show a particular fondness for Solas, and not in the Randy Dowager Quarterly sort of way, and now they’re in the process of clearing a path in a collapsed alleyway using gaatlok swiped from a group of Antaam Tarquin and Ashur downed yesterday.

[arlathen]

as we're all finding new copies of randy dowager quarterly in veilguard i do feel the need to remind you that The Randy Dowager is in fact brother ferdinand genitivi.

[melkeyway]

Solas reading a book (totally not the Randy Dowager Quarterly) while in his Dread Wolf blanket hoodie.

[lagunapoint]

Cassandra swung the sword and inflicted a few sharp blows on the mannequin. Series of precise and hurried strikes were replaced by seconds of concentration, spent on controlling breathing and thoughts. She took several smooth steps to the side, directing the tip of the sword at the mannequin’s chest. Inhale. Exhale. A swing, and a few straws burst out of the mannequin, scattering under the onslaught of her sword. A couple of passersby recoiled in fright and, casting a surprised glance at Cassandra, hurried toward the tavern, looking back and whispering among themselves.

"Damn!" Cassandra cried out and lowered the sword, tightly gripping the hilt. She closed her eyes and tried to subdue the anger rising again, which her training had only been able to extinguish for a short while.

"Hey, Seeker, not a bad strike," came the brisk voice of Bull, who was watching her training nearby.

"Not bad," Cassandra repeated and looked at Bull, "but not perfect."

"You demand too much of yourself, and that’s not always good," Bull leaned his shoulder against the tavern wall and followed the redheaded church attendant with an interested glance. Cassandra noted the remark to herself but decided not to continue the conversation. At least out loud. She did not think she demanded a lot from herself. She demanded from herself only what was necessary. Necessity in her worldview was not determined by the concepts of much or little. It was necessary to train. It was necessary to deliver precise strikes. The blade must not slip. The steps must be exact and thought out, and even a slight unconsidered shift of weight or improper foot position would lead to a sprain or an ankle twist. She knew firsthand how lousy that was, and the thought of it caused an unwelcome memory of her first sprain and the subsequent lectures from her brother about carelessness that could kill her.

Besides that, she understood the need to find the sender of the new "gift" the Inquisitor had received this morning. The news that the Inquisitor had almost been lethally poisoned by a flower whose bud and petals were studded with poisonous spines invisible to the human eye spread around Skyhold faster than the new issue of The Randy Dowager Quarterlie. And Cassandra was enraged by the fact that she did not understand why Leliana and the Inquisitor were ignoring the danger of the moment, preferring slowness to action. And at that very moment, Solas and Dorian couldn’t resist the opportunity to flaunt their wit instead of delving into the magical nature of the problem. Their collaboration was too slow, reluctant, and usually accompanied by mutual reproaches. It was precisely Solas’s harmful, quiet snort under Dorian’s haughty gaze that became the last straw for Cassandra at the general meeting regarding the poisonous flower.

Yet no matter how angry Cassandra was at everyone around her, the main object of her anger was herself. This incident showed how surprisingly easy it turned out to be to get close to the Herald of Andraste, and her protection meant absolutely nothing.

A warm breeze touched her face, offering her comfort. She breathed, trying to calm the storm in her chest. Servants and refugees, messengers and revelers passed by her again, and every so often she noticed quick glances in her direction. She tried to ignore everything happening around her, but suddenly a conversation reached her ears, and she couldn’t help but listen.

"…they say there was an Orlesian crest on the pot…" "Yeah?.. And I heard that this plant is from Tevinter and is grown by mages on the blood of slaves who offered themselves in sacrifice without resistance." "How awful!" "Yes, Merelin. They say that if a slave resists, his blood is not suitable for certain rituals, but if he dies voluntarily, then it contributes…"

Cassandra could not stand it and snorted indignantly. What the hell do they allow themselves? Unthinkable. She sighed, trying to ignore the gossips’ chatter and return to her tension-relieving training. But their voices did not die down, and she lifted her gaze to the heavens, praying to Andraste that they would either fall silent or change the subject.

"And is it true that the Inquisitor was actually poisoned, and-" "No, that can’t be. The Inquisitor has court mages who should have lifted any poisoning right away-" "But one of them is precisely from Tevin-" "Enough!" Cassandra could not bear it. "The Inquisitor is fine. Stop speculating. And yes, you are undoubtedly right that our mages can handle any such troubles... Therefore..."Cassandra cut herself off. "Damn it!"

She abruptly turned to the mannequin and delivered a dull, chopping blow, hearing how behind her the quick footsteps of the gossipers were retreating. She thought she was forever stuck in her rage, until suddenly, as if from nowhere, a familiar voice sounded next to her.

❤️

[crossdressingdeath]

Well-Loved Book A battered copy of the illustrated novel Inquisition Exposed. Rated five scarves fluttered in shock out of five, by the notorious Randy Dowager Quarterly.

Who's been writing smutty RPF about the Inquisition? Also, can I read it?