#reaper rook

[heylittleriotact]

𝓕𝓲𝓻𝓼𝓽 𝓒𝓪𝓵𝓵:

The initial contact with a funeral home when a passing has occurred to arrange the transfer of the body from the place of death.

He got it: it wasn’t every day the Viscount of Kirkwall strolled into their sleepy little inn, but did they all have to rise deferentially?

“No need to roll out the red carpet on my account.” He adjusted Bianca’s strap on his shoulder, making his way through the room of standing people. “Just passing through for a drink and a ghost story.”

In other words: The story of how Varric recruited Rook to the cause.

A violent gore filled horror fest 🩸

Full under the cut or on ao3

He got it: it wasn’t every day the Viscount of Kirkwall strolled into their sleepy little inn, but did they all have to rise deferentially? 

“No need to roll out the red carpet on my account.” He adjusted Bianca’s strap on his shoulder, making his way through the room of standing people. “Just passing through for a drink and a ghost story.”

The patrons of the inn exchanged wary glances, but one by one they all sunk back down to their seats and resumed their conversations - though the odd look of curiosity was thrown his way now and then. 

Heaving a sigh, Varric made his way to the bar and helped himself to a seat. Only one other person sat at the bar: a tall, gangly elf with a bare face and a mop of messy black curls, had to be in his mid-thirties. A chipped wine glass sat in front of him, along with a nearly empty bottle of wine that Varric knew was an expensive vintage. 

He was the only person in the inn that hadn’t stood up. 

Varric ordered a whiskey (neat) from the innkeep and slipped Bianca over his head, resting her against the bar at his feet, in reach should he need her. 

“What business brings you to Wrenwith, Master Tethras?” The innkeep - a stout older man with a ginger moustache and little other hair - asked, sliding the measure of whiskey over the wood to Varric. 

Varric brought the short glass to his nose and inhaled - paint-thinner… just the way he liked it. He was grateful that at least the innkeep hadn’t insisted on dusting off something expensive and fancy just for him. 

He took a sip and hummed at the familiar burn on the way down, and the warmth that spread in its wake. “You thought I was kidding about the ghost story, didn’t you?” He chuckled and arched a brow when the innkeep visibly paled. “I know, I know: why would the Viscount of Kirkwall personally drag his famously lazy ass here in person just to stick his nose into a bit of trouble with the undead?” 

“If it pleases Your Grace to know: we’ve already got somebody looking after it.” The innkeep babbled. “No need to burden the city coffers with our humble problems.” 

He was nervous - didn’t want to say too much. Wanted him to finish his drink and hit the road. 

“That’s the reason I’m here: I caught word that this ‘someone’ is none other than a Nevarran Mortalitasi - one of their Mourn Watch, in fact.”

He was absolutely making this guy squirm for the hell of it… just a little. It only stood to reason that hiring a professional who belonged to a mysterious and ancient order of people who liked to play with dead people and spirits might be frowned upon by Kirkwall’s authority. 

The innkeep swallowed hard, the guilt on his face suggesting that he may as well have personally been the one to hire the Watcher. “She said she could kill it, Your Grace. Permanently. No funny business or anything!”

The elf a few seats down, silent until now, snorted into his cup of wine. “Nothing ‘funny’ about that one, I’m afraid.” Emerald green eyes flicked up to the innkeep and a smarmy grin spread over his handsome face. “I was here when she came in: got a face like hewn granite and the disposition to match.” He turned on his stool to face Varric, still looking rather like the cat that had eaten the canary. “Doubt she’ll take kindly to you trying to run her off her work - even if you are Viscount.” His eyes roamed up and down over Varric with a haughty scrutiny that reminded him so much of Chuckles he was tempted to yank on his hair and see if it was a wig. 

“That fearsome, is she?” Varric probed. “I heard she was a Reaper. Can’t say I’ve ever met one, but I have heard that they take their authority over the dead pretty seriously.” 

“I wouldn’t want to piss her off.” The elf smirked and downed the rest of his wine, refilling his glass with the dregs of the bottle and tapping it with a fingernail to indicate to the innkeep that he’d like another. 

“You’ve… you’ve been in here all day, ser, d’you really need another whole bottle?” 

If it was true and the elf had been drinking all day, he looked pretty damn sober to Varric’s eyes. 

The elf adjusted the lapels of his road-worn leather topcoat and rearranged his long legs under him. “I’m on holiday,” he drawled. “I think I deserve to indulge a little.”

“Holiday, huh?” Varric swirled his whiskey. “Whereabouts are you from?”

There was an unexpected coolness in his eyes and a tightness to his smile when the elf answered, “Nowhere.” 

Varric shook his head and turned back to the innkeep. “Listen, I actually came here to talk to our macabre friend: can you tell me where I might find her?” 

The innkeep nodded once, “Cemetery, Your Grace: end of the lane, take a right. Can’t miss it, can you? But… are you sure you wouldn’t rather wait? It’s nearly midnight, and the… being… she hunts is vicious.” 

Varric tossed back the rest of the whiskey and waved a hand. “Bah. I’ve blundered into worse things in my day than a pissed off spirit.” He slid a gold piece over the bar with two fingers. “That being said: I’d appreciate it if you had the bottle waiting for me when I’m back… I get the feeling I’m going to need a drink.” 

It was a brisk night: one that creeps in after the harvest when the days are all of a sudden a few hours too short, and the heat of the sun is leached from the soil, scattered away with the dying leaves on a chilly breeze.

If Varric hadn’t already had some idea of what awaited him in this place, he would have been creeped out by the atmosphere alone: between the moonless night, the morose howl of the wind between the headstones, and the rustling of dying leaves and long grass, this place was something straight out of a pulpy horror novel. All that was missing was someone shouting, “Boo!”

He shifted Bianca on his shoulder, trudging through the cemetery, feeling uneasy amongst the dead. 

Of course she had to be a Watcher, this promising kid he’d gotten word of. When he first heard the rumour of a Watcher who had been effectively exiled by the order for single-handedly stopping a war (at the cost of two politically important undead nobles), Varric’s curiosity was piqued: he hadn’t been lying when he said he’d never met a Watcher, but he knew enough about them to know that making the choice between full-blown war, or killing the undead she was sworn to protect couldn’t have been an easy choice - but she made it anyway, knowing full-well it would piss some powerful people off. 

He needed someone like that. The world needed someone like that. 

He found her sitting at the base of a willow tree, her back against the trunk. He would have missed her completely in the darkness if it weren’t for the small vial of captured veilfire she wore around her neck that cast pale light over her face and the gleaming sword in her lap. 

She looked up at the sound of his approach: hewn granite had been a fitting comparison indeed, for hers was a strikingly solemn heart-shaped face with a long scar running from her brow nearly to her jaw. Her cheeks were somewhat hollow, and her skin pallid, with dark circles lingering under celadon eyes the same hue as the veilfire at her neck. Pretty, he supposed, in a very I-spend-most-of-my-time-with-dead-people kind of way. Was it just part of being Nevarran to look intimidating at all times? He thought of Cassandra and made a mental note to send her his latest manuscript when he got back to Kirkwall.

Given her morose countenance, he was instantly taken aback when her lips curved into a warm smile that caused the corners of her eyes to crinkle in a way that sent a feeling of comfort and assurance straight through Varric’s heart. It wasn’t an expression of joy or mirth, but rather one of seeing: of perceiving him and all of his many regrets and sorrows and longings and silently saying ‘I see you, Varric Tethras��. A handy trait for a Watcher to possess, he supposed… if a bit creepy.

“You’re definitely not who I was expecting to see in this place tonight.” Her voice was deep, but the soft rasp that permeated it was inviting and kind. She laid the sword she’d been tending to over her legs to give Varric her undivided attention. Her hair slipped over her shoulder, revealing an ear that had been pointed at one time: something - or someone - had clearly bitten the tip off of it. “Better to come back in the morning to pay your respects, I think: I’ve a spirit to take care of and while the business end of that crossbow doesn’t look like it’s just for show, I’d hate to see you come to any harm on my watch.” 

She thought he was a mourner - someone who lived in the village and had come to visit a dead loved one… and picked the middle of the night to do it.

“Actually, I–”

She was on her feet, sword gripped loosely in her right hand, looking down at him with a wry smile. She wasn’t much taller than him, and she wasn’t wearing nearly as much armour as he’d expected: he’d heard tales of foreboding and grim figures that prowled the Necropolis in moulded plate designed to be form-fitting mirrors of the anatomy underneath. This Watcher, though, wore flexible dark leather and a short but warm looking cloak draped over and around her shoulders. 

“I know it’s not ideal, and if it wasn’t incredibly important I wouldn’t ask this of you, but it’s nearly midnight, and you really do need to be gone from here before the spirit awakens.” 

She was clearly used to telling people what to do… and she was used to them listening.

“I’m not here to visit!” Varric groused, “I’m here to talk to you!” 

Her brow furrowed and her cascading black hair flared in the wind when she shook her head a little in befuddlement. “I’m sorry, you want to talk to me?” She posed the question as though she didn’t quite believe him. 

He switched Bianca to his other shoulder and thrust out his hand, “Varric Tethras - writer, businessman, and most recently - much to my own chagrin - Viscount of Kirkwall.” 

She frowned at his outstretched hand, the keen smile vanishing completely, scepticism replacing it instead. “Shouldn’t I be bowing to you or curtseying or something if you’re a Viscount?” 

“I’m not really into that kind of thing, kid.” 

Her eyes narrowed. “I’m thirty-six.” 

“Just a kid to me. Don’t worry: I’ll come up with a far more endearing nickname in no time.”

Her nose wrinkled a little as though she wanted to laugh, but wouldn’t let herself. Instead she passed off her sword and shook his hand at last. 

“Amina Ingellvar, but I suppose you already knew that if you came all this way just to find me.” The sword was back in her right hand the second his palm parted from hers. “Whatever it is you want with me, we’ll have to talk about it later. Right now I need to focus on–”

A soul-rending wail split the night air and Amina’s eyes lifted in the direction it had come from - it wasn’t far. 

“Shit,” she breathed, turning and scooping up a dented and scuffed steel buckler that had been leaning against the tree. “She’s awake.” 

Not really wanting to know the answer, but having a good idea of what it was anyway, Varric asked, “Who’s awake?”

Amina pressed a finger to her lips. “The Wilis,” she murmured just loud enough for Varric to hear. “The tanner’s daughter died about a month ago. She was set to marry the innkeeper’s son - Gethin is his name, I think - but he called off their engagement and left her for another girl in the village. She died by her own hand, spurred on by the betrayal of her beloved.” She started off in the direction of the shriek. “The raw pain she left life with was powerful enough to draw a potent spirit to this place.”

Despite the hush of her voice, he couldn’t help but notice the melodic chiming that accompanied each footstep. He looked down at her feet and could just make out the leather cord draped around her boots, strung with what looked to be at least a dozen simple golden rings. 

She must have noticed him looking, because she said, “I don’t want to startle her, and the resonation of the metal is known to soothe restless spirits.” She considered him for a moment. “You still have time to leave, Viscount: you may find this… unpalatable.” There was another wail - this one closer.

“You’re going to kill that spirit, aren’t you?”

A humorless smile pulled at her lips. “Is that what the innkeeper told you?”

“Well? Are you, or aren’t you?”

“Of course not!” She looked reproachful at the mere suggestion that she would do such a thing. She ducked around a vine-covered obelisk and peered around the side, trying to get a visual of her intended target. “I’m going to free it - I only told those bumpkins in town I was going to destroy it so they’d let me work in peace instead of running me out of town for peddling my perverse heathenry.” 

“Ah, so you've been in the Marches for a while.” 

“I was recently encouraged to travel by my superiors.” 

“So I’ve heard.” 

A heart-wrenching sob this time - it burrowed in under his skin and robbed him of every feeling of good cheer he might have had up until then. 

“She’s close,” Her breath clouded in the cold air. “Stay behind me and do not address her, even if she addresses you - she’s been taken by Yearning, drawn to the tragic circumstances of the young lady’s death. She may attempt to bewitch you - make you her thrall. That said, I should be able to convince Yearning to relinquish the body as long as nothing upsets it.” 

He knew he should feel confident in her professional acumen, but still he asked, “And in the off-chance that Yearning isn’t keen on returning to the Fade?”

Amina snorted derisively and adjusted a strap on her gauntlet - she didn’t like having her abilities called into question. “Then I’ll have to resort to kinesthetic percussive negotiation methods.” 

It was Varric’s turn to frown. “Which entails…?”

She glanced down at him and smiled again - this time with all the frigid warmth of brittle shale. “Tussling with it until it either kills me or tires itself out.” 

Yeah. This one had the potential to make for one hell of a flea in Chuckles’ ear… if they both survived the night. 

A dark figure rounded the corner of a hedge about thirty yards away from the obelisk. It was too obscured for Varric to make out clearly, but he could surmise from the jerky, spastic way it hovered a few inches above the grass, and the glowing green eyes that it wasn’t the groundskeeper. It turned its back to them, appearing to be looking for something beyond the hedge. 

“Her name was Gisele,” Amina said reverently, her face grim in its disciplined stoicism as though speaking her name aloud was compulsory to her next actions. “And no matter what drove her from this life, her absence is keenly felt by those she left behind.”

She stepped from behind the obelisk, sword and shield lowered but at the ready as she trudged towards the figure, not intimidating, but with an air of confidence and authority that wasn’t lost on Varric. The rings on her boots sang, their melody rising and falling with the wind. 

“Venerated greetings upon you, Yearning,” she called out, coming to a halt when she decided she was close enough to the figure - there was a decent amount of space between them, but not so much that Amina had to shout. 

Varric edged from behind the obelisk, following Amina’s tamped down path in the grass until he was just behind her. As he drew close, the wind shifted direction for an instant and his nose filled with the unpleasantly familiar odour of rotting flesh, pungent and sweet.

The glowing green eyes became visible again as the Wilis twisted to face the woman who spoke its name. A guttural hiss issued from the darkness. 

Amina speared her sword into the ground and with a small ‘click’ flipped the small iron stopper on the vial of veilfire around her neck. The eerie blue-green flame streamed from the opening and floated up into the air where it hung in the air and arranged itself into a roiling sphere the size of a melon, small flares occasionally leaping from its surface. 

He would have taken the time to admire the enigmatic beauty of the thing, had it not illuminated the creature that now stood in its light. 

Death was far from new to Varric - between his own personal losses and the seemingly endless cavalcade of bullshit he’d been dragged into over the years, the occasional appearance of undead, a revenant, or a waterlogged corpse was just another day at the office. This, though - the Wilis - belonged to a whole new category of horror. 

She’d been buried - likely on account of the village not daring to spare the wood for a pyre with winter approaching - and grave dirt hung from the hem of her dress in damp clumps. The dress itself looked like it was once white, but between the flickering green light and the deep brown and ochre stains that had leached into the material, it was impossible to know for sure. 

In life she might have been quite a beauty, but a month in the cold ground had robbed her of that: what once appeared to be thick waves of golden hair was now sparse, matted, and stained like the dress, and her face was a nearly unrecognisable amalgamation of flesh comprised of skin that ranged from a putrescent russet shade, to grey, to black. Her tongue - pale and withered - dangled by a shred of lingering muscle, twitching morbidly as the Wilis struggled to open and close its wasted jaw - it was trying to speak. Frustration flared in the orbs of light nestled in the hollows where her eyes used to be. 

“She was pregnant?!” Varric spluttered, his eyes landing on the obvious curve of her belly, straining against her ruined clothing. 

“No.” Amina muttered sharply. “What you’re seeing is the result of guttural anaerobic activity: she’s full of putrefied gas.” She yanked her sword from the ground and looked back to Yearning. “If you lot actually put some care into the handling of your deceased instead of just dumping them into a hole in the ground as soon as their hearts stop, she wouldn’t look like this - not for a long time, at least… maybe never.” 

“What are you saying, Watcher?” The Wilis demanded, finding her voice at last, though her lips did not move along with the crackling, wet sound that the spirit manipulated into words. She inched forward, her head tilted inquisitively. “What falsehoods… do you share with your… companion’s ears and not mine?” 

“No falsehoods - only an opinion on our respective differences.” She addressed the decayed corpse like an acquaintance one might run into on the street. 

“You think she’s ugly… don’t you?” Nearly skeletal hands gestured over the form of the Wilis as if she were preening in the mirror. Varric couldn’t help but notice a few of her fingernails had fallen off. “This girl… who was so… unlovable, so unwanted… I found her… I wanted her… I love her.” There was a bite to the last words - a challenge. 

“But she was loved, and she was wanted - by many. She had family and friends who cared very deeply about her, and it causes them great torment to see her body like this.” 

Yearning spun slowly in the air, ignoring Amina’s gentle implication that it should leave. 

“Rather far… from home, aren’t you, Watcher?” It observed primly. “You… miss it, don’t you? You long for… the cold… dry air and… the stillness of the tombs. Many call… the Grand Necropolis home… but it is truly… all… that you knew.”

“I do miss it,” Amina conceded, “But I’ll return someday - for now I’m making the best of my current situation: seeing new places, trying new things. Ferelden is a bit weird, but I could get used to the Marches.” She tapped her blade distractedly against the toe of her boot as she spoke. “That’s what we - people - do. We adapt. Change can be painful and challenging, but we weather the storm and keep going anyway. That’s what Gisele’s loved ones are trying to do too, but they can’t do that with the spectre of her haunting the cemetery, so I need you to let her go.”

“Bold lies…” the Wilis made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob, a tooth slid down her chin, trailing black ooze behind it. “I know… what loneliness dwells in your… heart… foundling. You have… no authority… over me here… Let me keep her… I will treasure… her… eternally…” 

The already cold air seemed to get colder in that moment as Amina stiffened slightly, her stance now commanding instead of casual. Varric could see strong muscles tensing and flexing under the leather of her armour - an unspoken promise of disciplined brutality should she be denied. “My authority does not end at the gates of the Necropolis - it is incontrovertible, and you know this. Do not make me ask again.” 

“You… threaten… me?”

“No, but you will be relinquishing this girl tonight.”

It was like watching a stern parent reason with an overtired toddler.

“And your companion… such longing fills… him… too. For things long passed… such things left unsaid… a glib tongue stilled by nerves…”

Don’t address her. Even if she addresses you.

“Gisele!” 

Both Amina and the Wilis turned their attention to the source of the sound: a scrawny ginger kid - actually a kid, couldn’t be older than twenty - had burst from the hedges and into the light of the veilfire. 

“Leave! Now!” The Watcher ordered, lifting her sword and shield. 

The Wilis was shaking, it’s ghostly eyes flaring and sparking at the sight of the innkeeper’s son. 

“I came to help!” He pleaded, voice breaking at the sight of Yearning. “I came to say I’m sorry!” 

“I think we’re a bit past that, kid!” Varric shouted over the bitter wind - it had picked up around them, whipping at their hair and clothing. “Now do what the nice Watcher says and get out of here!” Bianca was in his hands, aimed at Yearning, ready to unleash upon her. Amina had said she might be able to talk the spirit out of the girl’s corpse as long as nothing upset it - it was upset now. 

“You!” Wailed the Wilis, pointing an accusatory finger at Gethin, “You abandoned her! Broke her heart for the love of another! You will fulfil your promise to her! You will join me!”

Nothing about that could possibly be good. 

“Don’t listen to it!” Amina shouted over the gale, moving to place herself between the Wilis and Gethin. “Run!”

“This is my fault!” Argued Gethin, raising his arm to shield his face from the wind. “I shouldn’t have hurt her like that!”

“But you did!” Amina countered. “There’ll be no undoing that fact by throwing your life away! Now stop being noble and fuck off out of here!”

“NO!” Shrieked the Wilis. “She… will have… him! I will have him!!” 

Green lightning sparked in the air around the spirit, and the flames of Amina’s veilfire were yanked and pulled in the burgeoning tempest. Gethin seemed frozen in place as the Wilis raised its rotting arms, loose skin sliding over wet bone. There was a tremendous crack, and Varric heard Amina swear again, and he didn’t have to wonder why for long: all around the cemetery, mounds of dirt appeared on the grass as the inhabitants of the graves below began to burst free, clamouring to their feet with the same gracelessness the Wilis possessed. 

The one nearest to Gethin reached for him, its decomposed hand wrapping around his arm. The boy shrieked - a bloodcurdling sound - and Amina was on him, neatly batting away the corpse with a shrug of her shield, sending it sailing off into the hedges. The hand remained gripping Gethin’s arm. “Stay behind me,” she commanded, resetting her stance and assessing what they were up against. 

Wrenwith was a village - little more than two hundred lived here based on the information from last year’s census, but it was old… at least a few centuries old. Plenty old enough to boast a well-populated graveyard…

Varric could see at least a dozen undead shambling towards the light and wagered there were at least a few dozen more beyond his sight. This wasn’t good: they were outnumbered… badly. 

“Both of you, follow me!” The Watcher barked, and Varric watched as she coiled in on herself and then burst her left arm wide - her shield flew from her, audibly shearing the air as it hurtled towards a cluster of walking corpses, colliding into each with a meaty ‘thud’ and then looping back - she caught it with ease and Varric could see the telltale glow of an enchantment on the heavy buckler that he hadn’t noticed before. “Varric, are you able to keep her at range?” 

His finger was already on Bianca’s trigger. “Yeah I can manage that. What’s your plan?” 

She started backing down the corridor of hedges Gethin had emerged from, her summoned veilfire trailing obediently. “Get some space between her and this one.” She jerked her head at the kid. “She won’t rest until she claims him. I saw a small crypt on my way in here that we can defend, but it was chained up tight and I don’t think I can break the lock.” 

The Wilis appeared around the corner of the hedge and spotted them, a desperate scream tearing from her as she glided towards them. Varric loosed a bolt and caught her in the shoulder, sending bits of sodden flesh into the air. 

“I can deal with the lock. You just get us there in one piece.” 

“Speaking of which - please try to use discretion with your shots: her body is in a fragile state already - I’d prefer if it didn’t suffer more trauma than necessary.” 

Varric gritted his teeth at the absurdity of the request. “Sure kid, I’ll try and shoot her gently.” 

“Feel free to scoff all you want the next time you’re the one that has to restore a corpse in such an advanced stage of decomposition, Viscount!” She snapped. 

He heard the same sound of metal slicing through air as she turned and whipped her shield down the corridor, mowing down a few more undead that would impede their way. As the shield returned to her arm, a corpse sprang from the hedges, scrabbling for her eyes, her throat… whatever it could reach. 

The rings at her feet clinked together sharply as she lifted a leg and drove her heavy boot into its chest, breaking a few ribs and sending dust into the air. It hit the ground and Varric watched as a wisp, luminescent and slight, rose from its sunken abdomen and vanished into the night. 

“How is it controlling them?” 

Amina looked over her shoulder to confirm the proximity of the whimpering innkeeper’s son, and jerked him a little bit closer to her with a gloved thumb and forefinger on his sleeve. “Its need for companionship is so insatiable that it can enthral other spirits. Wisps aren’t robust concepts - they don’t possess the will to resist Yearning.” 

Varric loosed another bolt and reloaded as the Wilis persisted, shaking his head. “I’ve seen a lot of weird shit in my day, but this is rapidly climbing the list.” 

“Best avoid ever visiting Nevarra if that’s the case - this is nothing.” 

They fought their way back through the cemetery, Amina keeping the hordes of undead at bay, and Varric keeping the Wilis far enough away from them that she couldn’t attempt to enthral Gethin. 

By the time they made it to the crypt, Amina’s nose was bleeding and there was a sheen of sweat on her brow. “I’ll cover you,” she panted, adjusting her sword in her hand - they really were against the wall now as the Wilis and a handful more undead closed in around them. 

Varric only nodded and leaned Bianca against the stone wall of the crypt. His fingers found his lockpicking kit in his breast pocket, and he set to work, trying to ignore the fleshy sounds of violence that were erupting behind him as Amina kept her word and bought him the time he needed to pick the heavy old lock - it was slow going: the tumblers inside the lock were rusty and stiff. 

“Stop. Trying. To. Kill. Us.” He heard the Watcher grind out over the pummeling of flesh - hers and that of the undead. “Surely we can come to an agreement that doesn’t involve anyone else dying.” 

He heard the Wilis’ weepy laugh in reply just as the lock clicked. He started dragging the chains free from the bars they were wrapped around, pausing before ushering Gethin inside when it occurred to him that there were undead behind the stone plaques in the crypt. Surely they couldn’t get out… right?

He decided he’d risk it and shoved Gethin inside before slipping through the gate too. “Amina!”

She shot a look over her shoulder, and seeing that they were safely inside the crypt, she darted backwards from the Wilis, breathing hard, eyes wide as the spirit descended on her in a fury. 

She wasn’t going to make it.

A revolting ‘splat’ followed by an agonised scream rent the night as Amina grunted with effort and backhanded the Wilis’ midsection with her shield as hard as she could, bursting her putrefied gut and splattering the ground with a fragrant blend of semi-liquified viscera and reeking bodily fluids. Next to him, the kid immediately blanched and vomited, and Varric wasn’t far behind: the smell was that of a poorly maintained abattoir caked with blood and shit, overflowing with heaped piles of discarded offal left to rot in the sun. The odour of death - because death indeed had an odour - decked Varric in the nose harder than any fist could, ramming its confoundingly spicy but simultaneously cloying fingers into his sinuses and down his throat, fingerfucking his esophagus into submission until he doubled over and heaved too…

Then Amina was beside him, looping the chains around the bars again and locking the crypt from the inside as the Wilis shrieked and rattled the gate and tried to claw the Watcher’s eyes out through the gaps. 

“We’re not coming out until you agree to let that body go,” Amina declared firmly, blinking blood out of her eye as she finished with the chains - she’d taken a nasty blow across her forehead, but it didn’t appear to be slowing her down. The orb of veilfire fluttered between the bars. “If you’re thinking of being stubborn about it, please consider the fact that the three of us will eventually die of thirst in here and you won’t get any of us if we do, so time is of the essence.” 

She marked the disturbing sound of fingernails scrabbling against the plaques surrounding them with half a glance, and deeming them to be of no concern, sheathed her sword and leaned her shield against the base of a small statue. Having apparently tuned out the anguished wails of Yearning, she drew her gloved hand over her face, wiping away some of the purge that had splattered upwards. She heaved a sigh and turned to Varric and Gethin, her eyes going round as she comprehended the state of them. She looked down and wrinkled her nose at the sight of her feet and legs which were shining with the heinous smelling rot that had been contained in Gisele. 

“I’m so sorry!” She said, genuine concern written across her bloodied face. She waited for Grethin to finish dry-heaving before continuing. “I really had been hoping that I wouldn’t have to do that.” She withdrew three roughly cut scraps of what looked to be linen from a pouch on her belt and handed one to each of them. She used hers to wipe the blood and remaining fluids from her face, looking calmer than anyone had a right to look in this situation. 

Varric dabbed at the corners of his mouth with the linen, trying not to think about why someone from Nevarra would have such a thing readily available on their person. “So much for ‘unnecessary trauma’.” He muttered. “You okay, kid?” He turned to Gethin, who looked incredibly pale, but didn’t have a scratch on him. 

The boy nodded and rubbed his arms to ward away the cold, but continued to shiver. His blue eyes were rimmed with tears. “Wh-what do we do now?” His chin trembled and he stared at the gate: the Wilis had gone, likely to search for some other means to get into the crypt. It was eerily silent. 

Amina finished cleaning herself up as best she could and tucked the used linen into a different pocket. “We give it what it wants.” 

Varric and Gethin protested, and she let them finish before saying, “At the very heart of all of this is a young woman’s death. Gisele took her own life when you ended your betrothal for another woman - she was blind to the fact that she was anything more than a failed bride and a burden to her family. She saw herself as a failure… selfish for even daring to crave that which seems so effortless and natural for everyone else.”

“But that’s not true!” Gethin insisted. 

“Your perception or reasoning behind your actions are of little consequence - though they’re repellant.” She levelled a look of disgust at the boy that actually made him flinch. “The fact of the matter is whether you intended to or not, you made Gisele feel unlovable, and that sentiment was so strongly believed by her that Yearning could not help but be drawn to her, even in death.”

“You told me not to throw my life away not fifteen minutes ago, and now you’re urging me to do that very thing?!” 

“You don’t have to die.” Amina said, her voice softening somewhat. “You give it what it wants,” she repeated. “You give it what Gisele wanted: love. Real, genuine, love - not falsified or put on in an attempt to fool her.”

Grethin dragged his hands through his hair in exasperation, “How the hell do I do that?!”

Amina smiled coldly at the young man and crossed her arms. “I’m sure you heard a few fairy tales in your youth.”

Well, shit…

“Y-you think I should… you w-want me to… to…” 

“True love’s kiss to break the curse on the fair princess and set her free. Yeah, that’s exactly what I want you to do.” 

“N-no!” He babbled, eyes as round and pale as the moon. “There… there has to be some other way!”

“Want to let Yearning kill you and stuff an enthralled spirit in your corpse?” Amina taunted. “Because that can be arranged.” 

She was compassionate and warm when she wanted to be, but damn she could be blunt…

“But she… she’s all–”

“Decomposed? Yes.”

“Won’t I… w-what if I catch something?”

She actually rolled her eyes, uncrossed and recrossed her arms, and tapped the toe-cap of her boot against the floor tetchily. “Please. The worst thing you’ll catch is another bout of nausea, but luckily your gut’s already empty so that shouldn’t trouble you any.” She regarded him with those perceptive eyes. “You made a decision that you thought was right for you - for all I know, it was - but there were unforeseen consequences to that decision, and now you are dealing with them… as do we all. It won’t be easy, but I know that you can do this.” 

Gethin sighed; whimpered a little. All the fight seemed to leave him. 

“Alright.” He whispered brokenly. “I’ll do it for her… for Gisele… so that she can finally rest.” 

“It was brave of you to come here tonight,” Amina reached out and squeezed the boy’s shoulder reassuringly - an amusing sight, Varric thought, because he was half a foot taller than her. 

They left the crypt soon after, and it didn’t take them long to find Yearning, sitting on a gravestone, its knees drawn up to its chest, shoulders quaking with quiet sobs. 

If she hadn’t literally raised the dead to try and kill them a short time earlier, Varric almost would have felt bad for her. 

“Yearning?” Amina called out softly, approaching the Wilis with gentle footfalls. 

“I hate this place!” The spirit bawled, not lifting its head. Varric noticed there were still a few of Bianca’s bolts sticking out of Gisele’s corpse. “Everything… is so… unattainable.”

Amina crouched in front of the spirit and looked up into her curtain of tattered, dirty hair. “It’s… it’s not great for a spirit of your ilk, I’m afraid - and that’s not a mark against you. It’s hard enough even for those like me.” She reached up and tenderly pushed some of the hair aside, and Varric could see the green glow of those haunting eyes sunken into rotten flesh. “There are other places in the world that would have you though, if you still want to give it a chance. Why don’t you manifest at the Necropolis? There are spirits there that would thrive under your attention.” 

Yearning’s chin lifted and it looked directly at Gethin. “I want him to come with me.” 

“He’s going to stay here with his family where he’s needed. But if you’re willing to relinquish your hold on Gisele, he has agreed to bequeath you a token of his affection to remember him by.” 

Yearning cocked its head and Gethin stepped forward. 

He raised a hand in awkward greeting and Amina stepped aside so that he could stand before the desiccated remains of the woman he betrayed. “You’ve got this.” She whispered as she passed him by.

Amina stood next to Varric and got his attention with a light tap on his shoulder. 

“This is a private moment - we should give them space,” she murmured. 

“Do you trust that he’ll actually do it?” Varric mumbled in reply. 

“He will.” 

Varric’s eyebrows lifted sceptically, but he turned with Amina and began walking towards the cemetery entrance, noting that she was favouring her right foot with each step she took. 

“I’m fine.” She insisted, clearly sensing his concern. “A mild sprain. Nothing that a hot bath and a few hours of sleep won’t fix.” She flicked open the stopper of the vial around her neck and the orb of veilfire dissipated into it.

“What’s the story with that?” He nodded at the pendant that was once again filled with placid light.

“It’s a wisp that bound itself to veilfire - it was fascinated by it, so it became it.”

“And it’s fine with being stuffed into a bottle and worn as jewelry?” 

She glanced sidelong at him with a rapidly swelling eye. “It chooses to accompany me. Should it wish to leave at any time or shed its current manifestation I wouldn’t stop it.” 

“Why’d you become a Reaper? It seems like painful work.” 

“Sometimes,” she admitted. “But not usually. I was young when I was put on the path of a Watcher: I was good at gathering my bearings - a skill that was demonstrated in my uncanny ability to sneak out at night and run rampant in the city during my youth, always a step ahead of my handlers. A useful trait for someone who wanders the ever-changing halls of the Necropolis.” 

“Bullshit,” Varric scoffed. “Without looking at the stars, point out the cardinal directions right now. Go.” 

She came to a halt and without a moment of hesitation, lifted her hand and pointed in turn. “North, East, South, West.” 

“Holy shit.”

“You should see me at parties.”

“So let me get this straight: some higher-up at the Necropolis saw some kid running wild in the streets who was good at not getting lost and decided to chuck her into servitude to the dead for the rest of her life?”

“Is that meant to be an insult, Viscount?” She raised an eyebrow.

“No, no! Not at all! I just… don’t get it is all. And please - call me Varric.” 

She shrugged and looked forward. “You don’t have to. As for becoming a Reaper, I’m not a mage, and any idiot can swing a sword, but becoming a Reaper is complex and requires just as much study as Necromancy. It’s extremely difficult to make the cut and actually be put on rotation in the Halls.” 

“Why’s that?” 

“Because I knew that spirit’s natural reflection wasn’t Yearning - it was Devotion. They train us in Nevarra to reason with both spirits and living people, and most of us are very good at it for a simple reason.” She heaved a tired sigh and rubbed at her eyes. “Only the most empathetic and compassionate are chosen to become Reapers. Our strength - our power - is drawn from a place of deep understanding and feeling: our ability to comprehend and make the pain of another our own. It’s our blessing and our curse, because I’ll be honest with you, Varric: it’s bloody exhausting.” 

“Then why do it at all?”

She was silent for a time as they continued to walk. He almost thought she’d forgotten the question when she finally said, “Because I love it. It fulfils my soul in a way nothing else ever could.” She smiled again: the warm, kind one she first greeted him with. “Could it ever truly be a burden when it brings such joy to me?”

He didn’t have an answer to that, so he hitched Bianca up on his shoulder. They were almost at the entrance. “You’ve gotta go back and bury her, don’t you?” 

“Can’t leave her sitting out for the crows.” 

“Want help?”

She looked down at him, trying to get a read for whether he was just offering to be polite. “No thank you, Varric,” she said finally, practically beaming at him through split, bloodied lips. 

“I still need to talk to you: I’ve got some work that I think might be of interest to you - when you’re done come find me at the inn. Drinks are on me.” 

“I don’t really drink, but… after tonight, I think I could be amenable to one or two.”

“There’s a whole bottle waiting for us. Whatever it takes for you to hear me out.” 

“Oooh… sounds important.” She wiggled her eyebrows.

“You have no idea, kid.” 

[dilatorywriting]

Monster Mayhem: Don't Fear the Reaper

Gender Neutral Reader x Rook Hunt Word Count: 3.4k

Summary: Running a little pâtisserie is quaint, and homey, and should not in any way get you involved with anything shady. Let alone the strange bounty hunter who prowls through your little town like the Grim Reaper himself. And yet here you are, teaching this literal murderer how to use a napkin.

A/N: Based on this wonderful brain rot from a very lovely anon! Also apologies in advance to anyone who actually knows French, because I do not lol. So Rook's babbling is all Google baby

[PART 1] [PART 2]

There was a murderer at your window, and you weren’t really sure what to do about it.

Well, maybe not actually a murderer. Bounty Hunters tended not to wind up in prison after dragging back the desecrated remains of their latest quarry. But still. You recognized the black plume tucked slickly into his wide-brimmed, purple, hat, and the pale, bright, bob of his hair was nearly luminescent in the dark. He was certainly the least covert assassin you’d ever seen, and you had seen him. It was hard not to. Traipsing through town to deposit every wayward criminal, every long-lost villain, at the doorstep of who’d ever called for him.

‘Rook Hunt’ you thought his name was, or at least, that’s what the old woman in the market would call him before crossing herself and spitting in the dirt. It was all a bit on the nose in your humble opinion, especially with that strange, twisting, ebony, bow of his strung across his back. ‘Hunter’ indeed. But it’s not like you’ve ever done anything to warrant winding up in one of those dripping burlap sacks of his, so you’d let the dude have his drama. It was probably good advertisement. And it’s not like the guy had ever bothered you before.

You thought that reassurance on repeat as you watched said not-quite-a-murderer stare through the front window of your little bakery, as if your rising dough had been kneaded with the secrets of the known universe. But he didn’t do anything—just kept watching with rapt attention as you brushed egg wash over your pie crusts and swapped trays in and out of the ancient, brick, oven.  

In all honesty, he was far from the strangest thing that’d been plastered to your window in the early AM, and it wasn’t like he was licking the glass or anything. So you let it slide.

One of the custard tarts you pulled from the oven had cracked across the top. Nothing out of the ordinary—there was always at least one dud in a batch. Normally you saved the rejects for Ace or Deuce to gobble up (depending on whoever managed to pop by first), but this one you set aside onto a little tea plate. You topped it with a dollop of freshly whipped cream and a spoonful of the blackberries you’d left sitting in sugar overnight. Then you plucked up a spare napkin and made your way out from behind the counter.

When you opened the door to your little bakery, the tingling overhead bell warmed your unwanted guest’s expression in a way that it most certainly should not have—lighting the whole of him with this sort of wide-eyed, innocent, joy that belonged nowhere on the face of someone you’d watched cart literal corpses into town.

“Mon pâtissier!” he chirped. “What a fine morning it is, no?”

The sun hadn’t even started to rise yet. You could still hear the drone of crickets and toads in the distance, basking in the humid darkness of the night.

“Sure,” you shrugged. “We’re not open for,” you glanced at the moon, still full in the sky, “at least four more hours. If that’s what you’re waiting for.”

“Oh—non, non, non,” Rook waved you off. “I just wanted to watch!”

“…Watch?” you repeated.

“It’s quite the fascinating process!” he absolutely beamed. “Taking such basic, individual, components and turning them into something so spectacularly sweet and heartwarming! Quelle inventivité! I’ve heard nothing but excellent things about your marvelous menu!”

‘From who?’ you wanted to ask, because you’d never heard of anyone being able to hold a conversation with this man for more than a stuttered sentence at a time, let alone for long enough to go about giving dessert recommendations. But there was a streak of red blood across his cheek that still looked fresh enough to not even have gone tacky yet, and now that you looked closer, his dark gloves were perhaps a shade too dark to not have been, well…

You sighed and reminded yourself once again that is was absolutely not your business, before handing him the napkin.

He stared at it with that same sort of rapt fascination that had you wondering if this man had ever actually interacted with proper civilization in his entire life.

“Wipe your hands,” you demanded with a huff, and he dutifully scrubbed at his stained fingers. Once he was clean enough that he was at least no longer dripping unmentionables all along your windowsill, you held out the little saucer for him to take.

“Pour moi?” he muttered, looking a bit starstruck.

“If you’re going to say all those nice things about my food, you may as well get to try what you’re complimenting,” you shrugged, and that same eager enthusiasm lit his face all over again. “And it will be a nice treat to take home with you,” you emphasized, with all the intonation of a cheery ‘please get the fuck out before you scare away all my customers for the day.’

But instead of turning and meandering off back to whatever hole he’d crawled out of, he just kept staring at the little treat like he had no idea what to do with it.

“It’s a tart,” you said blandly, fighting the furrow in your brow.

Rook repeated ‘a tart’ under his breath like it was some kind of ancient, forbidden, enchantment, and not like it was literally scrawled into the little menu sign at your door at least a dozen times over.

The Bounty Hunter peered at the little custard treat like you’d handed him a treasure beyond measure. After a moment of carefully poking at the browned crust like it wasn’t literally meant to break apart beneath one’s fingers, he looked back over at you with eyes that were far, far, too green. He lifted the tart up like he meant to give it back to you.

“I ought to offer you la première bouchée,” he smiled.

You blinked, taken aback, and pushed the plate back into his hands. “That’s not how free samples work.”

Rook tossed his head back with a bout of boisterous laughter that should have been loud enough to wake everyone on the block. You glanced around nervously, hoping no one was about to come running out to make noise complaints.

“Ahh~ But how else will I know the best manner in which to savor such a treat?”

“You eat it,” you gaped. And then, slowly, because you weren’t even sure you were dealing with a functional human being anymore. “With your teeth.”

The Bounty Hunter, with his blood smeared cheeks and even bloodier clothes, put all those shiny, pearly whites of his on display in a merry grin. He swept forward in a grand bow that had the feather in his hat bobbing about in a way that reminded you far too much of a wagging tail.

“Of course!” he chirped. “In my home you said, yes?”

Please, you wanted to groan. Go there. Leave.

“Ideally,” you said instead, and Rook ducked his head until that purple hat of his had cast the whole of his face into shadow. He reached up to tap two fingers against the wide brim and tip it forward.

“Merci, merci!” he trilled. “Then I will endeavor to consume this marvelous spécialité humaine in the proper fashion. A very good morning to you then, cher pâtissier!”

He straightened with a merry little hum and began making his way back down the cobblestone road. In the soft light of the setting moon, his footsteps left odd prints in their wake—inky, black, dripping things that had faded entirely by the time you were able to focus enough to get a proper look at them, leaving you wondering if they’d really just been nothing but a trick of the night.

Well, that was fucking weird,you frowned, shaking the fuzz from your head. You slipped back inside and the door jingled pleasantly as it slammed behind you. But then again, when wasn’t customer service a trip? These people were all ridiculous.

.

.

Bright and early the next morning, you were waiting for Deuce to arrive with his delivery of a fresh crate of eggs. It was ungodly early, as it always was. But at least there was no hunter at your window this time around—

There was a bang and a screech, and then an unfortunate sort of cracking-squishing-yucky noise that sounded an awful lot like a couple dozen eggs meeting their doom. You frowned and tucked your rag into the ribbons of your apron and ducked out from the backroom with a sigh. Deuce was at the door. Or, well, Deuce was on the ground in front of your door. With the shattered, yolk, remnants of your shipment scattered all around him.

“I’m not paying for that,” you huffed irritably, and your friend looked up with a squawk.

He looked like he was trying to say something, but his face just kept flashing back and forth between deathly pale and a miserable sort of mottled red.

“I—! You—! And he—!”

“Use your words, Spade,” you sighed.

“I do believe he’s trying his best, cher pâtissier!”

You froze, and turned in near-slow-motion to see a beaming Bounty Hunter crouched at one of the little painted benches lined up neatly along your storefront. Not on one, like a normal person. But beside one. On the ground. There was no blood on him today. None that was very obviously dripping down his face at the very least. He didn’t seem like he’d come bearing any ill will, but your Chicken Dealer was still splayed out on the ground—nearly convulsing—so that wasn’t a great sign either.

“What’s going on out here?” you demanded, hands at your hips.

“I do believe Monsieur Spade had himself a bit of a fright,” Rook beamed, and then turned towards your very gaunt looking friend with a soft tut-tut noise that for all its amiability didn’t sound particularly sympathetic. “You really ought to work on your balance, hmm? Alas, all these petits oeufs have gone to waste.”

“What?!” Deuce immediately bristled, on the defensive. “If you hadn’t scared me, then none of these chicks would have had to die so tragically in the first place!”

“For the last time,” you sighed, grinding the heels of your palms into your eyes. “Unfertilized farm eggs are not baby chicks.”

“But Ace said—”

“Enough! With what Ace said!” you snapped, exhaustion and a sore lack of tea, or coffee, or anything wearing away at your already fragile sanity. “Ace would sell you snake oil and cry to your face about you underpaying for it!”

“Oh?” Rook chirped, unfolding himself from his crouch to stand at his full height. He wasn’t particularly gangly or long limbed—not even especially tall, all things considered. But there was something about him that made him loom. From the sharp cut of his purple robes to the harsh, starched, white of his tight collar. He was neat, composed. And yet… very much not civilized. “Is this not a person who wishes you well, cher pâtissier?”

You frowned, something odd tugging at a sixth sense of yours. Just… a little something on the periphery of your nerves, singing that the words you chose now would mean a lot more than they ought to.

You hummed, low in your throat, and considered.

“Ace is himself,” you said finally, “but he’s a friend nonetheless.”

“Magnifique!” Rook beamed and clapped his hands together with a near lovelorn sigh, all at once perfectly pleasant and soft. “It is such a very good thing to have friends!”

“…Is that what you are?” Deuce asked, enough of that enraged spunk fading away to leave him properly cautious once more. His blue eyes flickered pointedly from the bounty hunter, to you, and back. “A friend?”

You sighed and turned to retreat back into your little shop without a word. Deuce scrambled to his feet to follow you in hesitantly, still dripping with the remnants of too many eggs. You shot him a look, and he immediately darted over to the mop and bucket you kept propped up in the corner. Rook stood in the doorway, nearly just a blur of bruised shadow against the backdrop of the pre-dawn darkness, and you watched him out of the corner of your eye. After a long moment of terse silence, he stepped beyond the threshold with a little hum. He wiped his feet pointedly on your little welcome mat, and then turned to stand at the counter. He fished around in the pockets of his cloak for a moment before withdrawing a strange little flower. He placed it on the countertop with a bright smile that crinkled the corners of his green eyes.

You stepped forward to observe it curiously, and your brows shot up in surprise.

It wasn’t a flower at all. What had looked like the folded arch of soft petals was actually a dainty pair of ­wings. It was a tiny butterfly—caught in a perpetual sort of stillness. It was bright, and colorful, and so carefully preserved that even when you trailed a flour-coated finger along the thin membranes of its wings, it stayed clean and crisp.

“What’s this for?” you asked.

“Payment, of course!” Rook smiled. “For the lovely treat you gifted me the other day.”

You sighed, not at all in the mood to discuss the lack of viable conversion rates between copper coins and bugs.

So instead you settled on huffing, “Free samples are free. It’s in the name.”

Rook just kept on smiling, unbothered. Deuce knocked into some set of drawers or other—or maybe the coatrack. Who knew—and you shot him an irritable little scowl. The guy was like a bull in a china shop on the best of days, let alone when he was trying to multitask, and be sneaky about it all the while. The bounty hunter’s grin twitched a bit at the corners, like the idea of your blue-haired friend trying to stealthily keep a watch on him was just the funniest thing.

You glanced back down at the little, frozen, butterfly. It really was very pretty, even if it was a little odd.

When you ducked back behind the counter, you unearthed a blueberry muffin from one of many stacks of trays there. It was little lopsided, and maybe there were a few too many bits of fruit in it. Surely no one would have wanted it anyways.

You plopped it on the countertop, and both Rook’s eyebrows shot all the way up his forehead. When he made no move to take it, you pushed the confection closer. The wrapper slid along the counter in a heavy, sticky, way. You’d have to remember to wipe it down again after. The Hunter reached out carefully to pluck the treat up between his fingers. He squished it delicately, in a similarly cautious way as to how you’d stroked the little butterfly.

“Is this also for eating at home?” he asked, observing the offering with a wide, wonderous, expression.

“Yes,” you said, just in time for Deuce to nearly annihilate your trash bin. “Please enjoy it.” Please get out. You’re distracting my maid.

Rook Hunt dipped into another of those ridiculous, bobbing, bows and pinched the brim of his hat between his fingers.

“Your generosity continues to warm my heart, mon cher,” he crooned, eyes practically sparkling from behind the sharp cut of his heavily lined lashes. “I will endeavor to return your kindness tenfold! A hundred!”

You waved off his sentimentality with a flick of your wrist and a not so delicate ‘shoo shoo.’

The hunter left your little bakery with a spring in his step and an outpouring of flowery promises that had your head spinning. He melted seamlessly into the shadows of the early morning, and between one blink and the next, he’d vanished entirely.

You would have thoroughly enjoyed the well-earned silence that followed, if not for the veritable storm cloud brewing over your friend’s head.

“Do I get one…?” Deuce asked finally, staring outright at the remaining muffins and sounding small and hopeful. And like that clearly wasn’t what he’d meant to say at all.

“Maybe if I had the eggs to make more,” you lamented, brushing your hands against your apron.

Deuce made a wounded noise which you had exactly zero sympathy for. You got to work wiping down the counters and sorting through the bits and bobs you’d need to start your day.

“…You know he’s not right, don’t you? That bounty hunter?” Deuce finally said, setting the mop aside. “You must have heard at least some of the rumors floating around town. I don’t think anyone even knows if the guy’s human.”

You shrugged.

“Anyone who has to wake up when I wake up each morning has long given up on humanity anyways,” you droned, only sort of half kidding.

Deuce frowned, clearly unhappy with your non-answer.

“You’ll be careful, won’t you?” he asked, stern in his fretting. There was still a big ol’ chunk of eggshell tangled up in his bangs.

“When I am ever not?” you smiled, and carefully pocketed the little, blue, butterfly.

.

.

When you popped by the market stalls after closing shop for the day, the street was abuzz with all the usual gossipy nonsense that you’d long since learned to let settle at the back of your brain like white noise. You were busy debating if you had enough arms to manage balancing yet another bag of strawberries (they were at their height of freshness these past weeks it seemed, and you were like a little fruit goblin hoarding them while you could), when a particularly shrill bit of chatter worked its way past the pleasant curtain you’d let fall across your thoughts.

“There was another one,” the butcher’s wife whispered in a way that was most certainly not a whisper.

“I heard,” chittered the man who really should have been trying to sell you more strawberries if he’d any kind of business sense whatsoever. He turned on you with a look that meant you were clearly about to be dragged into a conversation you were entirely unprepared for. “It was one of yours, apparently!”

“One of my what?” you blinked back into focus.

“One of your regulars,” he said, like a secret.

“That strange Bounty Hunter came through again,” his coconspirator hissed, with a hand lifted as if she meant to cover her mouth. “He dropped off the body the other day—delivered the heart straight to the Felmier’s porch!”

“Who was it?” you asked, just like you knew they wanted you to.

“Sir Hamlen,” the butcher’s wife said. “You know, that awful toad who could eat you out of house and home.”

That sounded like all of your costumers, and more than half of your closest friends, but you gave yourself a moment to sort through your scattered thoughts and try and connect whatever dots they’d been throwing at you.

“Sir Hamlen…?” you said after a moment, slowly putting a face to the name. “With the terrible goatee?”

They both nodded enthusiastically.

“Rotten pig,” the butcher’s wife piped back in. “Served him right, if you ask me. Everyone was expecting the Crown would put him to death anyways.”

You shrugged again. You hardly knew the man, but he’d always paid you well enough that you didn’t really have any ill will towards him. You went back to fussing over balancing bags of berries, but then… Well, there was something a bit funny, actually. He’d been a loud sort of person, with no filter to speak of. One afternoon, he’d stumbled into your little shop absolutely pissed on cheap drink and all but burping bubbles.

‘You know,’ he’d lulled, dropping a full coin pouch on your countertop. Which you’d taken in its entirely with zero hesitation. ‘I’d die happy if my last meal was these fucking tarts of yours.’

‘Is that so,’ you’d drawled, in the bland way you answered literally every customer who spouted off whatever nonsense was kicking around in their heads.

‘Aye,’ he’d sighed, practically stooped over. ‘Gonna have to pry ‘em outta my cold, dead, hands.’

“Huh,” you muttered, thoughts wandering back to a pair of bloody gloves and the little treat you’d pressed into them. Huh.  

.

.

.

TAG LIST [CLOSED]

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[darkrooklobby]

Reaper doodles 💀🖤💀

[plaguebirds]

have an rook

[persephoneggsy]

more work on my Rook, Phryne [last name pending] (i really want bioware to give us the faction specific surnames so i can start tagging her properly dfghkj)

[horcrux-alchemist]

"You recognized the black plume tucked slickly into his wide-brimmed, purple, hat, and the pale, bright, bob of his hair was nearly luminescent in the dark."

"....he looked back over at you with eyes that were far, far, too green."

I may or may not have gotten brain rot from Reaper anon and @dilatorywriting bringing Reaper!Rook to life and I had to draw him!

[woodironbone]

I resisted as long as I could before I started loosely designing one million Rooks, we'll see which one vibes with me most on day one

[little-elf-wanders]

An attempt at Marsh.

The horn obviously isn't broken here and he has some face paint to indicate the Vitaar they'll probably give us. I thought I'd hate the hair colour but it actually works really well with his skin.

[oldxenomorph]

man it's going to be so funny hearing the romanced solas lines come out of zarya'th's mouth whenever i play veilguard

in game lavellan: if there were a way, if he felt the same, if i could leave the world behind and just have him....

zarya'th lavellan, concealed in her lead-woven veil, faint geiger-counter noises ticking away ominously in the background: i need to kill him. the emperor demands that i eat him.

[k-i-l-l-e-r-b-e-e-6-9]

[stormlit]

i hate this game so much (i'm having the best time and i now have a FOURTH rook concept knocking around my brain along with the vg amell companion i've been cooking up with @tragedia )

[dilatorywriting]

Monster Mayhem: Don't Fear the Reaper [Part 2]

Gender Neutral Reader x Rook Hunt Word Count: 3.4k

Summary: 'Hello Darkness, my old friend. I see you've come to stalk my store again.' Or, why fear Death when you can just Pavlov him with cookies into carrying your groceries?

A/N: Based on this wonderful brain rot from a very lovely anon! Continued apologies to anyone who actually knows French, because I do not lol. So Rook's babbling is all Google baby

[PART 1] [PART 2]

“I hear you’ve been dealing with an infestation.”

You arched a brow and pointedly settled the last of the little, strawberry, tarts into its box with a heavy plap. You took your time piping a neat dollop of cream on the top and then fixing the tiny sugar berry adornments into a smiley face.

“You’re free to call the health inspector,” you intoned, handing over the box. “That’ll be ten copper, your highness.”

Riddle’s face went as red as the dessert in his hands.

“Don’t call me that!” he hissed, ducking back further beneath the hood of his cloak. The cloak that was clearly made of the finest, crimson, silks money could buy. The one with real gold embroidered along the crisp edges and an ivory clasp shaped into a literal crown. 

You shrugged. At least he’d moved past demanding outright that ‘of course he wasn’t the prince! How dare you! To think yourself so presumptuous! As if royalty would ever even consider visiting this hovel of yours! Off with your head!’ Those had been a fun few weeks.

You poked around in your stacks upon stacks of baked goods and unearthed a little, cherry, cookie. You slipped it into the box alongside his tart and hoped that counted as a metaphorical pat on the head. There, there, little lord. This humble one will tell no one of your secret, commoner, shames.

Some of that choked-red color started to fade from his cheeks, and Riddle accepted the offering with an expression that on any normal person you might have called a pout.  

“I was trying to be tactful,” he spat, tucking the bribe further into the packaging with a stiff twitch of the fingers. “But I don’t know why I even bother.”

You shrugged again and made brief eye contact with the terribly unsubtle guard stationed at your front door. Cater, or Carter, or something like that. He greeted everyone who walked by with a cheerful little wave and a wink. He was charismatic, and loud, and apparently—as you had discovered when you’d tried to hand him a little slice of cake as a consolation treat for putting up with his charge’s emotionally constipated nonsense—hated sweet things with every fiber of his being. You didn’t trust him for a second.

The pair of you locked gazes over Riddle’s shoulder, and his lips quirked into a smirk that was sharper than it was fond. Ah. So it was one of those days, was it?

“Is there something else you wanted?” you prodded intentionally, as Riddle turned to make his retreat.

The Prince paused for a moment, and you watched his teeth worry a bit at his lower lip—a nervous habit he claimed forwards and backwards he absolutely did not possess. After a moment of silent deliberation, he straightened his spine into something stiff and regal.

“There are rumors going around that your business may be suffering from a… pest problem,” he said, like he was chewing over each word individually. “And while I firmly believe that people should endeavor to work through their own problems, if this is indeed a problem…” he paused, hands tightening a bit around the pastry box tucked neatly between his palms before looking back up to meet your gaze with that harsh sort of determination that always made him seem very much like someone who ought to be ruling over entire kingdoms. “I’m certain the Royal Family would be more than happy to come to the aid any of their subjects, should they ask for it.”

You ducked your head in a nod that you hoped was the appropriate level of polite for such a declaration.

“Your concern is appreciated, your high—”

His face twisted up in a sneer and you beamed.

“—Highly esteemed customer,” you finished with a chirp. “But I’m perfectly capable of crushing a few cockroaches.”

Riddle nodded at you tightly and made a swift exit. Cater flicked his fingers at you in a half-salute and the pair continued on down the cobblestone street and out of sight.

“Do you actually have pests here?” a tiny old lady asked from her place perusing your shelves. She looked like an onion that had been left in the sun for a couple dozen years, and the question seemed kinder than it did probing. Like she would happily help you hunt down the little buggers herself. “Roaches, I mean…?”

“Oh no,” you reassured. “It’s much bigger.”

You watched the poor thing nearly go into conniptions and offered her a cup of fresh chai on the house.

.

.

As much as you had kindly reassured your most affluent patron otherwise, you were indeed suffering under the aforementioned ‘pest problem.’ And while your squishing abilities were normally the stuff of legend, you didn’t think there was a boot big enough in the whole world to rid you of your current guest.

“Quelle très belle matinée! And made all the better by my dearest friend!”

You grunted and let the door slip shut with a tinkle behind him. Rook nearly bounced to your oven and peered inside with all the eagerness of a wide-eyed child. You’d long since learned not to bother yanking him back from the flames. They never even seemed to warm his pale cheeks, let alone melt him into the puddle of charred goo that they rationally ought to.

“Macarons?” he chirped, and turned to you like he was waiting for a Good Noodle Sticker. He leaned closer, and you watched the sputtering heat sway around and away from him like a tangible thing. He sniffed a few times, looking thoughtful. “Flavored delightfully with that lovely rosewater syrup you were steeping last night?

You hummed in affirmation and handed him a little almond cookie for his efforts. It felt a bit like training a dog.

The first time you’d told a dejected looking Rook that he could eat his treat in your shop rather than using it an as excuse to punt him out the door, he’d practically glowed. And had apparently taken the offer as an extension of a permanent invitation. He still waited patiently at the front door each morning, still marveled at the merry jingle of the bell when you allowed him entrance, and always wiped his feet. You’d hoped a bit that perhaps overexposure to your meager, repetitive, livelihood would have him eventually bowing out from boredom. But if anything, he seemed to have become more enamored with your dealings as the weeks passed.

And now that you’d given him express permission to hover, his originally vested interest had become outright sticky. There was no more plastering himself distantly to the window when he could go and literally shove his face into an oven, or perch himself at your shoulder like a wide-eyed owl as you tried to whip egg whites into peaks without repeatedly elbowing him in the gut. He puttered after you like a duck quacking for its mother, spouting off every question under the sun about temperatures, and consistencies, and the merits of baking powder versus soda.

“And these are meant to be… burned? Yes?”

“Dehydrated,” you sighed. “And not these. You’re thinking of the meringue cookies.”

“Ah, I see. Those crunchy delicacies from yesterday that looked to be little clouds,” he hummed, nodding along. The feather on his hat bobbed over a hot coal and sparked with embers. You reached out with a frustrated huff to whack the walking fire hazard back into a gently smoking mess rather than the start of an outright blaze. “Merci, merci!” Rook trilled as you beat him with a damp towel. Black soot floated through the air like dust motes under the sun, and he grinned through your grouchy manhandling as he always did. “Ahh, cher pâtissier! You always do dote on me so!”

You were about to argue back about how keeping him from unintentionally annihilating your entire kitchen was not ‘doting,’ when your eyes trailed over something strangely gunky and off colored stuck on the back of his cloak. You leaned forward to pluck up whatever it was, and Rook’s fingers flew out to snatch up your wrist before you could even blink.

“Please pardon me, mon cœur!” he beamed, the lines of his leather gloves a soft weight against your flour dusted skin. “I have tried to be most diligent in keeping myself clean for our morning rendezvous! But alas, it would seem I’ve missed a spot this time around.”

Part of you was sorely tempted to ask what—who—had apparently dirtied his robes. But you decided ultimately that it was still far too early to be discussing the remnants of the unfortunate victims off his hit list, and honestly you really weren’t sure you would have cared even with another four hours of sleep and a full mug of caffeine in you. So you waved him off and went back to worrying over your spice racks and tallying cups of flour.

Rook pillowed his chin in his hand and watched you putter about with a sigh that sounded far too besotted for anyone’s good. Those eerily green eyes of his seemed to glow in the lowlight, and he only gushed even more ridiculously when you launched a wet rag at the mess on his back and demanded he mop up his own nonsense or get out.  

.

.

You didn’t realize that Rook was slowly staying later and later into the day until Ace came by to collect your weekly booklet of receipts and would not step through the door.

“What are you, contagious?” you harumphed, pointedly leaning over the threshold to shove your collection of bits and bobs into his waiting hands rather than stepping out into the street to join him.

“More like superstitious,” he snipped. He crossed his arms and gave your shop a pointed once over. “I thought Egg Boy was overexaggerating, but you really just…” He waved his hands around his head for a moment before letting out an angry huff that sounded a bit too much like an overboiled kettle. “Don’t you have any sense of self-preservation?!”

“You literally ate raw dough off my floor less than a month ago,” you accused.

“I already told you I didn’t know it wasn’t cooked!—And that’s not the point!” he seethed. “Don’t you realize who that is?” he continued, voice dipping into one of those angry whispers that was never really a whisper.

You rolled your eyes and turned to shout over your shoulder. “Rook Hunt?”

The blonde instantly perked up from his place perched by the counter, where he’d very clearly been watching this entire exchange with a lazily curling grin.

“Oui! However can I be of assistance to you, my lovely, darling, pâtis—”

You turned back to Ace.

“Yes, I know who he is.”

“—And of course I know who you are as well!” Rook barreled onwards, slipping forward to drape himself along your shadow like a cat might settle itself into a sunbeam. He never leaned on you outright, but he always made a point to get close enough that he may as well have. “The wonderful artiste who has shown me nothing but the greatest kindness! Ah, mon humain préféré! With your endless hospitality and words sweeter than even the finest of the confections you craft!”

Ace’s expression twisted up like the very idea of another living being considering you to be even halfway pleasant was a war crime. Which, you know, totally fair. But before your redheaded acquaintance could continue with his appalled gaping, Rook leaned over your shoulder with a smile that looked not quite right on his face. The wide brim of his hat obscured your view of the rest of him—casting the remaining slopes of his sharp features into inky darkness.

“And but of course, I know you as well, Monsieur Trappola!”

Whatever rotten, sour, look Ace had been pulling froze over into something nearly deathlike. He went so pale so quickly your thoughts swung back to wondering if maybe he really was contagious with something.

Your shaky friend? Fellow gossip? associate audibly gulped, but when neither he nor your leech of a guest said anything further, you prompted them both with a vaguely curious, “Oh? You’ve met before?”

“Not recently,” Rook trilled, sounding positively delighted. “But I suppose I am familiar with everyone in this petite ville one way or another.”

You hummed, not particularly satisfied with that non-answer of an explanation. But your brief bought of inquisitiveness was quickly being overshadowed by the very real risk that Ace may actually topple over frothing at the mouth and twitching like a rabid racoon at your doorstep. Which would no doubt be terrible for business.

“You better get going,” you prompted, debating giving him a shove with your foot. “Before you start running behind on your pickups.”

“Right…” Ace muttered, swallowing past a lump in his throat. “I should—I’ll be doing that. Leaving. I’ll be leaving.”

“Adieu, Monsieur Trappola!~” Rook called, as the door slid shut with a pleasant tingle. “I’m certain we’ll be seeing you!”

There was a lingering, creaking, da-dong sound from overhead and you wondered idly if maybe there was something a bit off with your bells.

.

.

That afternoon, after you finally heaved an exhausted sigh of relief and flipped the ‘OPEN’ sign at your storefront to ‘CLOSED,’ Rook was still perched on the little stool you’d set out for him. The late-day sunshine cast him in all sorts of unfamiliar shades of gold, and while the shadows beneath his feet had always seemed to stretch a bit long and sit a bit oddly, they twitched even more strangely in the glow of the summer light. You blinked at him in open surprise, and he blinked back at you.

“What are you still doing here?”

“Mon chéri, I am always here!” he chirped, and you rolled your eyes towards the ceiling in a silent bid for patience.

“No you’re not,” you argued. “I think I would have noticed.”

Rook held a gloved hand to his mouth to smother a laugh and shook his head at you like you were just the funniest little thing.

“As you say, my tenacious pâtissier.”

You sighed and moved to untie the ribbon of your apron. “Whatever. I suppose I could use your help anyways. I need to run to the markets.”

The Bounty Hunter’s eyes lit with that familiar, sparkling, enthusiasm and he clasped his fingers in his lap with a gust of breath that sounded like it rattled every one of his bones as it squeaked its way out of him.You narrowed your eyes at him suspiciously. You hoped he hadn’t caught whatever mystery ailment Ace had been sagging under when he’d arrived at your door that morning.

“Shopping!” he outright beamed, putting the glitter of the afternoon sun to shame. “Une nouvelle aventure avec mon amour! Et en journée! Temps à passer avec—”

“Enoughwith your nonsense,” you groaned, tossing your dirtied apron onto a free hook. “Do you want to come or not?”

“But of course! I would be most honored to—”

You shoved a wicker basket into his hands and hurriedly moved to usher him out the door before he could begin monologuing in earnest.

Rook walked the familiar path to the markets like a tourist on holiday—stopping every now and again to wax poetic about the way that a potted flower looked in the afternoon light, staring in awe at each bizarre crack in the pavement as if it was a natural marvel worth gawking at. He muttered something dazedly under his breath at one point about ‘what messes might embed themselves in these fissures of the earth,’ but you carried on like you’d gone blind and deaf. A skill you’d become incredibly proficient with as of late.

When you finally arrived at the little hub of stalls, there was an audible gasp from somewhere in the thin crowds. You decided once again that you were better off feigning impairment and pushed onwards as if you had no idea that people were parting around you and your new companion like the pair of you were riddled with plague sores. The gossipy man who sold you your favorite strawberries went a bit green when you approached, and you continued merrily with your farce.

You had only just leaned forward to get a better look at some of the berries you tended to hoard like a dragon to gold, when suddenly the bright reds and blues beneath your fingers went nearly grey—nearly rotten. There was a long, sharp, shadow curling along the fruit. Rook was hovering at your shoulder, as he of course tended to do, and you glanced between him and the twisting, creeping, darkness swallowing the contents of the little stall in front of you. Clearly it was his purple-clad frame blocking the sunlight and casting all these weird shadows, but it was still a bit bizarre. It was like the brightness itself was being sucked from the afternoon, rather than just the cool play of the light that it ought to be.

You reached out curiously to poke a finger into the dancing bits of darkness and were surprised to find that it felt like something solid. A tangible sort of bite against your skin. Something sharp, and cold as the grave—

“Perhaps the melons, mon cœur!” Rook chirped loudly, redirecting your prodding with a cheery nudge. “They smell enticingly ripe.”

You hummed, your musings on the unnatural settling into the back of your mind in favor of reaching out to give the fruits a good shake. They did feel quite nice.

Rook swayed a bit at your shoulder, and you glanced up at him with an arched brow.

“Are you alright?”

“I do not often spend time in the sun,” he admitted, and you blinked once again at those lanky shadows before turning on him with a tight, little, frown.

“You should have said something,” you scolded. “I would have brought you a—” your eyes landed on his wide brimmed hat and its cheerful, black, feather as it bobbed in the breeze. “…never mind. But you still should have told me.”

“Ah, your worry is a balm upon ma pauvre âme!” he crooned, resting his palm against his heart. “What has a wretched creature such as I done to earn such warm regard? And alas—what then could this poor beast do to maintain such a blessing?”

“He could help me find a bag of milled flour for one thing,” you sighed, hoping to derail the burgeoning soliloquy.

“But of course!” he chirped and immediately darted off around a corner to hunt down what you’d asked of him.

You gathered up a heaping portion of fresh berries (back to the their healthy, summer, glow now that your shadow had been sent away), and ruffled around in your bag to retrieve the coppers needed to pay for your haul. The vendor reached out a shaky hand to clasp at your wrist and you raised a brow at him curiously.

“Are you okay?” he hissed, still a very unpleasant shade of sea-sick.

“Are any of us really?” you intoned blandly, and dropped the required coins neatly on the cart.

You’d only just turned back around when Rook came trotting back through the rows of carts—three gigantic sacks of flour tossed over one shoulder. It looked absolutely ridiculous, with the mass of them rising far past his head and setting his hat at an awkward slope.

“That seems a little excessive,” you sighed.

“Non, non!” he argued. “You are nearly out! There will certainly not be enough to prepare both the croissants and that lovely chocolate cake you were planning to make.”

“Oh,” you blinked, and mentally tried to tally up whatever had remained of your provisions. He was probably right—you’d gone a bit overboard experimenting with different types of pretzel dough. “You don’t mind carrying that, do you?” you asked with a furrowed brow. “That all looks like it weighs nearly as much as you do.”

Rook chuckled pleasantly under his breath, and somehow managed to dip forward into a bow that didn’t end with the enormous sacks balanced atop his shoulders spilling forward all over the road.

“It would be my pleasure, mon cœur,” he smiled, very nearly a purr.

You shrugged and went back to meandering contentedly through the stalls, happy to push all of the menial physical labor off onto someone who seemed more than delighted to relish in its ache. Rook trailed merrily at your heels—the sun heavy at his back and highlighting each step with those dripping, inky, shadows. The faint outline of a ragged, hooded, robe brushed nearly unseen through the dirt, broken only by trailing, white, puffs of loose flour.

.

.

.

TAG LIST [CLOSED]

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[biancahayda]

praying for that elf ear length slider

[therookandthecrow]

I may just need to make an elf muscle mommy to romance Neve with. I have some ideas about her backstory and her origin/faction. She's definitely Rivaini, and a member of the Lords of Fortune. She's a Reaper Warrior, and she has a bunch of scars and burn marks from her adventures. As far as her name, I am not sure of that yet, but she was born Dalish, and she has a Vallaslin of Elgar'nan (OOPS!).

[obscurecharactershowdown]

KANI MUST WIN THIS ONE RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!

[eavangeek]

POV: you're a mortician at an underground show, about to risk it all