#reaper rook

[heylittleriotact]

Ｍａｓｓａｇｅ(ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 2/2)

Manipulation of tissue in the course of preparation of the body

Chapter 1 here

Though perhaps he was of the sort that got a thrill from the act of undressing her. Yes… that seemed like something a man who freely boasted about his familiarity with the finer points of anatomy would be keen on: savouring the textures of different fabrics as his fingers grazed over them, pulling gently here, tugging gently there to methodically flay her clothing from her body as if it were her skin and she was his newest, most recently deceased patient: she required preparation so that her bones, still and silent, could be put to use housing an eager spirit, and he was not at all unfamiliar with the process of unmaking someone.

He would gladly aid her in this capacity.

The honour would be all his.

The second and final part of my piece detailing Emmrich and Amina's first time sleeping together. It's time for the main event. Batten down your panties 🩲

Rating: Explicit

Under the cut or on ao3

As it turned out there was actually a nightcap involved.

Emmrich’s mysterious bed dwelled in a hidden bedchamber in the laboratory behind one of the many bookcases lining the walls and down a curving set of stairs that split into two chambers: one emerged into a warmly lit cavern of sorts, spacious yet cozy, and the other Amina could only assume was space set aside for Manfred - his own room. She thought it very sweet that Emmrich saw fit to give Manfred a space to call his own. She knew perfectly well that wisps didn’t sleep, so she had no idea what the sentient skeleton did with any time he spent alone - she made a point of asking Emmrich another time. 

The entire space was composed of the stone foundations of the island the Lighthouse stood on, and despite the rustic implication of a bedroom in a cave, Emmrich’s room was actually quite homey: the bed itself was on a raised section of stone, and ancient but pristine rugs covered the floor, overlapping in places, each of them rich, bright colours of magenta, turquoise, or marigold. The bar was set against the far wall and boasted a humble assortment of spirits and liqueurs which included the extremely expensive absinthe Emmrich had prepared for her, demonstrating a ritual involving cold water and sugar that proved his alchemical hobbies extended even into his drinking preferences. She took a sip of it and continued to politely snoop around the room while Emmrich excused himself to make sure Manfred was settled in for the night. 

The room was illuminated by the soft glow of candles perched on various outcroppings and recesses within the stone walls. The cavern was humid and warm, but the air felt fresh and clean, free of the heavy stagnant quality air tended to take on in a cave. 

More bookshelves framed either side of the bed, with side tables built into the base of them. On the side of the bed that Emmrich obviously favoured, Amina could make out the shape of a pair of spectacles and a book on the side table. 

She stepped up onto the raised platform of stone and wandered over to the table, the sound of her shoes muted by the soft carpet beneath her feet. 

She gently moved the rectangular gold framed spectacles aside and picked up the book, flipped it and read the cover, her eyebrows raising. “Oh my…” 

It was a collection of erotic poetry with a gold embossed depiction of a couple - their genders unclear, entwining passionately - splashed across the cloth bound cover.

She tutted and set down her absinthe, leafing through a few pages and feeling her pulse quicken at the thought of Emmrich reposed in the bed on any given night, naked except for the gold spectacles perched halfway down the bridge of his nose, holding the book in one hand, stroking his cock feverishly with the other, his chest heaving, each breath rapid and desperate and sharp, teetering on a soft whimper or moan as he indulged in the exceptionally vulgar verses until he spilled himself over his own belly, his seed catching the wavering candlelight and shimmering prettily against his skin and the wispy hair that grew on him.

She let out a low expletive and shut the book, replacing it on the side table and picking up her absinthe to drink some of the intensely herbal spirit in an attempt to jar herself back to reality. Her hand ghosted over the front of her skirt, and she palmed her crotch as if to temporarily placate the burning need between her thighs. Where was he? How long could it possibly take to say goodnight to Manfred and make sure he understood he was not to wander into Emmrich’s room under any circumstances tonight? 

She wondered if she should spend this time making herself ready for him: she supposed she could undress and arrange herself on the bed so that when he entered the room again the first thing he’d see was her nude form, spread out for him like a feast more sumptuous than the dinner they’d just had, wearing only the network of scars that spanned her flesh like a topographical encyclopedia of injuries… and those adorable spectacles, of course. She’d sip from the glass of absinthe in her fingertips and haughtily ask if he came around this place often, and he would think her so cavalier and witty and irresistibly attractive that he’d shed his clothes and take her with desperate need marking every one of his movements. 

Though perhaps he was of the sort that got a thrill from the act of undressing her. Yes… that seemed like something a man who freely boasted about his familiarity with the finer points of anatomy would be keen on: savouring the textures of different fabrics as his fingers grazed over them, pulling gently here, tugging gently there to methodically flay her clothing from her body as if it were her skin and she was his newest, most recently deceased patient: she required preparation so that her bones, still and silent, could be put to use housing an eager spirit, and he was not at all unfamiliar with the process of unmaking someone.

He would gladly aid her in this capacity.

The honour would be all his.

She made a sound low in her throat at the thought, wandered over to the small table in the corner with a shaving mirror on a stand, a small hickory box she supposed contained a razor, brush, soap, and strop; a basin and a towel, and a variety of small bottles - six or seven in total. Further inspection revealed they were all different perfumes and colognes. 

She removed the cap from one and sniffed the atomizer, instantly recognizing the scent that filled her nostrils as one that he wore earlier that week: earthy and grounded with notes of vetiver and petrichor. Replacing the lid and setting down the bottle of amber liquid she picked up another and smelled it too: wet clay, the sweet tang of decaying leaves, dark oily patchouli… 

Her mouth watered - this was what he was wearing tonight, the evocative scent mixing with his own natural aroma in a complimentary way that had made it hard to focus all evening…

She let out a startled yelp when a long fingered hand slipped over her front, splaying across her abdomen as she felt the presence of someone much taller than her press close to her back. Hot breath played over her ear as he stooped down, causing the hairs on her neck to stand on end as Emmrich chuckled and said, “There you are. I was worried I’d lost you.”

“Lost me?” She set down the bottle and turned in his arms, facing him now and standing up on her tiptoes to rub the side of her nose against his, her own hands wandering around his narrow waist. “I think you’re stuck with me, Volkarin. I hope that won’t be a problem.”

One hand came up to card through the hair at the nape of her neck, his fingers winding between strands, combing through them as he regarded her affectionately, though desire still smoldered in his moss-coloured eyes. The other dallied over the concave curve of her lower back and came to rest cupping a handful of her muscular rear and drawing her hips flush against him where she could feel evidence of his arousal stirring again.

“Not in the slightest, Ms. Ingellvar.” He purred, squeezing her ass.

She shivered at his words and felt her fingers curl tighter into the fabric of his waistcoat as she felt his broad palm against her behind, fingers kneading the ample flesh there while his lips trailed over her cheek, then her jaw, then he imparted just enough tension to the handful of hair in his hand to urge her chin towards the ceiling, allowing him access to the thin, hot skin of her throat. 

She couldn’t help but gasp as he licked her neck, sucking and kissing up the length of it. A pained little sound slipped past her lips and her hand flew to the back of his head, twining into his own hair when his teeth grazed her and he sucked hard against the skin above her carotid artery. The feeling was warm and wet, a sensation that was both pleasure and pain as capillaries buckled and gave way to the suction, flooding her dermis with the minute quantities of blood that would present like a tattooed clump of alpine betony against a backdrop of spring snow - richly mauve, prickling when the air caressed it…

She groaned, her knees going weak, his name slipping past her lips and suffusing through the cavern, a pleading whisper urging him to peel back layers of her flesh and muscle and bury himself inside the gleaming ruby treasure within.

Responding to the need in her voice, he parted from her neck and guided her away from the corner table, walking them back towards the raised section of stone where the bed was, kissing her, caressing her, stroking her cheek with his thumb as though she was the only thing in the world that mattered then. 

“Darling…” he studied her with his round, perceptive eyes, hand stilling over the centre of her chest where her heart hammered against her ribcage like a frantic wisp trapped in a bottle. “We don’t have to… if you would rather wait—“

He would want to make sure she didn’t feel pressured, wouldn’t he?

Her hero.

She reached up between them and unclipped his collar pin with a deft twist of her fingers, her eyes never leaving his. 

“I don’t want to wait. I’ve waited for what feels like a lifetime already: I want to make love to you right this minute.” She walked him backwards until the edge of the bed met the backs of his knees and he was forced to sit, hands hovering over Amina’s hips as she stood between his long longs. She guided those hands to the bottle green satin of her blouse, closing his fingers around it and guiding his wrists upwards with her index fingers hooked under them so that the hem of the garment slipped free from her waistband. 

Bangles slipped one by one down his willowy arms, chiming softly as one hand wandered underneath the blouse, exploring the expanse of scarred but soft skin over hard muscle, tracing the shape of the costal cartilage that defined the boundaries of her rib cage, protecting the precious organs that lay beneath it. 

She watched his hands rove over her; took in the expression of reverent longing on his face as his mouth parted and he stared up at her. His tongue darted over his lips to wet them before he spoke, his voice rough with lust. “If that is your desire, dearest, I am happy to oblige.” 

“Oblige?” She repeated, running her fingernails through his hair, following the patterns of the gray dispersing and mingling into black like the thick, impermeable mists that hung around the obelisks and headstones in the gardens. One hand started slipping the small buttons at the side of her skirt loose, the other found her ass again and resumed squeezing and massaging. “What about you? Forget about everyone else’s needs for a fucking minute and tell me: what do you want, Emmrich Volkarin?” She tipped his face up, her fingers on his chin. 

He freed the last button and pulled the skirt down over the swell of her ass, letting it slide to the ground where it pooled at her feet. He filled his hands with her bare cheeks, lifting them, feeling the weight and heat of them. He dipped his head and she could feel his hot breath through the thin material of the silky black thong she was wearing, her breath hitching as his nose buried into the cleft just above her throbbing clit and he inhaled deeply, filling himself with the scent of her need. He lingered there for a moment, then looked back up at her, eyes dark with lust. 

“I want you, darling. Every inch of you…” His hands travelled to the waistband of the lacy little thong and he hooked his fingers under it, working it from under the garter belt that held up her stockings, sliding the sodden bit of fabric down, peeling it away from her dripping sex and down her thighs until he relinquished his hold on it and it joined the skirt. He parted her slightly, thumbs nestling softly into her dark hair, and smiled besottedly at the glint of gold that greeted him at the peak of her thighs. “I want to steal the air from your lungs and make your lovely legs shake...” He lowered his mouth again and feathered his searing tongue over the shape of the open hoop adorning her anatomy, urging a low whine from her as her hips jolted in his hands. “I must admit that I’ve often found myself wondering if your grave dowry was of the intimate sort…” he nuzzled against the soft thatch of hair and inhaled again, emitting a satisfied sigh as Amina’s mind swam, adrift in a sea of touch and awe that she was finally here - finally this close to him… and about to get closer still.

“Indulge your curiosity…” She managed to prompt with a coy smile. “Find the rest of it.” 

His head snapped up and a lascivious smile that made her stomach flip-flop spread over his face. His hands found the backs of her thighs and he pulled her down onto his lap, her legs on either side of his hips, her slick core pressed against the bulging front of his pants. She rolled her hips against him and let her shoes clatter to the ground, his fingernails digging into soft flesh as he let out a low growl and then claimed her mouth with his, tongue sweeping brazenly past her lips to collide with hers enthusiastically as she opened wide and returned his fervor.

He held her in his lap, his free hand diving under her blouse to squeeze a handful of breast, the warmth of his touch muted by the expensive lacy brassiere she wore underneath.

Unsatisfied by this impediment, Amina wrenched her hands from Emmrich and hooked her thumbs into the bottom of her blouse and yanked it up unceremoniously over her head, no longer caring whether she appeared poised or elegant. Emmrich’s fingers found the clasp at the back of the brassiere and it slackened as he crushed his face into her breasts, laving his tongue over her skin, practically tearing the cups free of her chest and down her arms so she could shed it completely. 

He laughed - a high pitched, giddy titter that went straight to her cunt  - and thumbed the ends of the gold barbells flanking her erect nipples before clamping his mouth over one and sucking hard, tongue flitting over her stiffened peak while he continued playing with the other one. 

Her back arched and she rutted against him again, keening at his hands and mouth all over her; his cock between her legs. She reached between them and gripped him through his pants, feeling his readiness as she stroked him through too many layers of clothing. 

She rolled onto the bed, dragging him with her, wrapping her legs around his waist and scrambling at the buttons of his waistcoat while she explored his mouth with a ferocity that suggested she hadn’t just sat through an entire six course meal. She managed to get all the buttons undone without ripping a single one off, and immediately set into the absurd quantity of buttons on his shirt next - why did he need so many damn buttons anyway? 

Laughing breathlessly, he pulled away from her to take a breath, rocking back on his knees and holding out a warding finger when she launched forward to follow him.

“Wait,” he panted, looming above her, tracing soothing circles on her thigh with one hand, his normally perfectly coiffed hair an absolute tumble of wayward strands and dishevelled angles: he looked so wonderfully undone with his hair a mess, his prim waistcoat thrown open, and his collar pin askew, clinging to his shirt with little more than wishes and prayers at this point. His mouth was curved in a crooked, slightly daft grin, and his fingers abandoned her thigh to settle between her legs, running up the length of her slit and massaging her slick into her engorged clit as he began deftly undoing buttons with his other hand, observing her with an expression of maddeningly inhibited curiosity when she threw back her head and uttered a deep moan, her hips bucking into his hand, her knees clamping against his sides. 

“Fuuuu– Emmrich!” She cried, fingers and toes curling tightly into the blanket beneath her hips rose off the bed and he toyed with her clit, teasing her piercing with the edge of his thumb; rubbing, stroking, softly pinching her blushing bud, and brushing his fingertips along her innermost lips like they were the fragile petals of a delicate flower - all while methodically undoing the buttons of his shirt and finally reprieving his macabre collar pin of its duties. He slipped her leg over her shoulder as he stretched over the bed to deposit the accoutrement on the side table - on top of the book of poetry. 

Drawing back, he kissed the inside of her knee, echoing her laughter when the coarse hairs of his moustache tickled her sensitive skin through her stockings and she writhed in his hands. He manipulated her leg, bending her knee and kissing down her shin, rubbing his cheek against the meat of her calf, his strong, nimble fingers finding the arch of her foot. He slipped a single finger into her desperate core and held the bottom of her painstakingly pedicured foot to the side of his face, leaning into it as another finger joined the first and he languidly worked them in and out of her, still sitting back on his knees, his shirt open, his eyes glazed. 

“You’ve no idea how often I’ve thought about this, darling,” he huffed, the bridge of his nose flushed pink, and Amina couldn’t take her eyes off his tented trousers.

“I think I do,” she breathed, reaching for him, her fingertips caressing the damp spot on the front of his pants. 

He treated her to another ribald grin - where were these coming from? They were so… dirty. So decidedly un-Emmrich, and they drove excited shivers up her spine. He shrugged his shirt off, relinquishing his contact with her for long enough to slip the sleeves down over his many bracelets and bangles and drape it carefully over the footboard of the bed - an act that had Amina clenching her eyes shut and stifling a giggle - Maker forbid his expensive Orlesian-cut shirt ended up in a wrinkled pile on the floor for a night…

He turned back to her, naked from the waist up now, looking nonplussed at the specter of laughter on her face, “What?” He asked, the corners of his mouth drooping as his smile disappeared as quickly as Assan on bath day: she thought he was laughing at him.

“Oh,” she pushed herself up on her elbows a little. “Nothing, love.” 

He cocked his head to the side inquisitively and Amina snagged his left hand, now desperate to move on, pressing his fingertips to her lips, tasting herself on them. “I see I’m not the only one who keeps my grave dowry close to my person.” 

She was referring to his nipples that were equally as gilded as hers, and didn’t leave room for him to reply as she started gently but systematically pulling rings off his fingers with the same mindful care she would use when removing jewelry from the deceased before she bathed and embalmed them. 

“I want to be with you as you are,” she explained coquettishly  when he arched a brow at her audaciously helping herself to his jewelry. “Without all of… this.” She lifted a stack of bangles on his wrist and let them fall back down, their metallic settling punctuating her point. “I didn’t fall for Emmrich Volkarin’s gold.” 

Silence fell for the first time in a while as she collected his rings in her hand, plucking them from his branch-like fingers and palming them with the same delicate touch she used to handle the cherries that she harvested from the tree that grew behind Reda’s house when she was a child. 

“You are…” he breathed, looking at her with an expression on his handsome face that was difficult to read.

“Bizarrely hung up on ritual and meaning? Yes. You’ll find that to be quite a maddeningly common trait among Watchers, in case you weren’t aware,” she quipped, and her fingers paused over his left pinky and the grand looking ruby ring that occupied it - his Father’s, a gift to young Emmrich before he died - she knew that much. Then she relieved him of that too, marking the dark stain revealed in the ring’s absence for only a moment before he whisked his hand away and hid it behind her thigh, extending his other hand to her now, wordlessly bidding her to continue. 

She finished stripping him of his gold and jewels, depositing handfuls of rings and bracelets and bangles on the side table, the book of erotic poetry now buried under a small fortune, and then she set to work on his trousers which had lingered for far too long.

First went the cummerbund, slipping through her fingers as she untied it, the soft ‘fwip, fwip’ of the sleek material filling the silence that had fallen again. It joined his shirt on the footboard, and as she stretched under his arm to put it there she notched her waist against his and let him fondle her ass and thighs and cunt some more before she planted her ass back on the bed and finally freed his delightfully hard cock, taking him in her hand and stroking him experimentally, nibbling on her lower lip as he knelt before her on the bed, shuddering at her ministrations.

“Darling…” he whispered, eyes lidded, jaw slack as he watched her slowly, sensually jerk him off. Now that his arousal was now out in the open, his own scent filled the air: clean, masculine musk and the aphrodisiac tang of arousal collided with her nose and she swallowed the buildup of saliva that flooded her mouth. 

His cock was lovely: as elegant and distinguished as the rest of him, surrounded by a mantle of clearly tended hair that matched the hither and thither shades of black and gray on his head, his pulse thrummed strongly against her fingers, the skin of his shaft velvet smooth over his hardness. She gently worked his foreskin down to reveal his shapely, leaking head, as rosy and ripe as any cherry at the peak of its season. 

“No grave gold here?” she pouted, working her thumb over his slit, spreading the slick moisture that had beaded there over his blushing crown - an act which caused him to draw a sharp breath through his clenching teeth.

“I did… at one time…” he exhaled, voice wavering as his eyes flicked back down to resume watching her movements. “But I did away with it years ago...”

“Shame,” she tutted, jerking her head to the side. “Bet your pierced cock was a majestic sight indeed…” her cheeks heated and panic struck her. “Not… not that it’s not now.” 

Shut up, Amina, shut up and just fuck him.

But Emmrich only chuckled deep in his throat and pulled himself from her hand, stretching out over her and dwarfing her with his lanky stature as he pressed a soothing kiss to the blossoming love bite on her neck and finished shedding disrobing from his place between her thighs.

“Years spent in ruthlessly discriminating academic circles have granted me the virtue of a thick skin, dearest,” he purred into her ear, catching her lobe with his teeth and uttering a pleased sound at the gasp he wrought from her. His chest met hers and she was at the mercy of his skin against hers, enshrouding her; capturing her - binding her the same way he bound spirits to vacant bone. 

She might have babbled something in response as her hips arced into his, searching for the heat of his cock to relieve the burning need between her thighs, but then his lips found hers again and he kissed her with a sweetness and depth that drove words from her brain and air from her lungs.

And then he was gone, sitting back on his haunches again, so far away as his fingers danced along the oversensitive flesh of her inner thigh and he drew her towards him over the bedspread with an easy yank, lining her hips up with his, their thighs connected.

Cock in hand, he dragged himself slowly through her folds, collecting her pooling slick and massaging her engorged clit with his tip, humming sumptuously as Amina squirmed, her clit slip-sliding against the most sensitive part of him.

He dipped just inside of her entrance and back out again, and her fingernails dug into his abdomen. 

“Please…” she pleaded. “Please Emmrich…”

He acquiesced with a gentle kiss, pressing his hips to hers, pushing inside of her slowly, almost hesitantly, drawing back before thrusting forward again, stretching her, his elated groan joining hers as his he breached her fully and her walls flexed and clenched around him, their heat finally joining, their connection at last made complete.

She exhaled a ragged breath as her thighs tightened against his ribcage and he delved further, his thumb sweeping a strand of hair from her face as he cradled her head in his arm, his nose brushing hers as he lowered his mouth and whispered against her lips, “Is this all right?”

“Yes…” she panted, “… ohhh Emmrich… please don’t stop…” She felt the smoothness of his back under her fingers as they travelled downwards, and squeezed his pert ass in her hands, encouraging his thrusts as he moved inside of her, burying her face in the crook of his neck as he fucked into her and uttered soft gasps and the sweetest nothings she’d ever heard into her ear for a time before his movements ceased abruptly, and she could feel his heart racing against hers.

“Ah— oh.” He took a deep breath and exhaled, long and smooth - grounding: Nevarran breathing techniques. “Darling, I’m… I’m ashamed to say it, but I’m not going to last much longer… you feel entirely divine, and it’s been some time since I’ve—”

Her heart flooded with affection for him as her Reaper’s gift kicked in and she felt his emotional state change abruptly as his aura shifted: he felt embarrassed. Inadequate. Pathetic.

“Hey,” she cupped his cheek with her hand and dragged his eyes back to hers, then treated him to an understanding smile. “That’s one hell of a compliment.” She undulated against him, urging him on.

“Amina…”

“Will you cum for me, Emmrich?”

He let out a soft whine and his eyelids fluttered slightly at her words. 

“Yes,” he whispered, his thrusts resuming, his steady rhythm returning as the sound of skin on skin filled the cavern again. “I daresay I would do nearly anything for you…” he kissed her again, their tongues entwining as they tasted, licked and sucked. 

She locked herself against him, riding him from the mattress, meeting his thrusts and feeling his hips buck sloppily and shudder as his climax drew near - hers was not far behind: each movement dragged his cock over that place inside of her that made her thighs quake and tremble against his sides.

“Unnngh!” His eyes went wide, then shut tightly. He gasped her name like he’d been immersed in a tub of freezing water and cupped her jaw in his hand, his eyes opening again to hold her gaze as his hips arched against hers once, twice, and she felt the telltale heat expanding through her from the inside out as he spilled his hot seed deep within her. 

It was more than enough to send her hurtling over the edge as well, so over the edge she went, groaning in soul-scraping ecstasy as she tightened around his twitching length, crushing him to her chest as she cried out his name followed by a babbled stream of blissed out expletives. Her vision went white and she clenched so hard around him he was almost forced out of her, but he drove his hips forward and remained in place, covering her throat in soft, encouraging kisses as he murmured quiet praises into her ear as she tensed and writhed under him. 

“Ohhh, good girl…” he cooed as they rode out the dwindling waves of their release, and Amina whimpered, feeling her heart leap into her throat at those words, so sinfully spoken from his flushed, kiss-swollen lips…

She smoothed the hair at the nape of his neck as they collapsed together, quaking and trembling, sweat-slicked and reeking of sex. 

Emmrich’s fingers found themselves winding through her stormy black hair where it spilled over the pillow, and he did not let go as he rolled off of her to stretch out beside her, pulling her tight against him, his wet, softening cock squashed against her slightly shaking thigh. He kissed the crown of her head and held both of her hands in his as he hugged her to him. 

“I’ve had a wonderful evening with you, dearest Amina,” he said, his voice dripping with all the familiarity and intimate cadence one would anticipate from a lover.

“I’ve had a wonderful evening with you as well, Emmrich.” She kissed the back of his naked hand, her mind hazy, her heart achingly full of affection for the man tangled up with her. “Here’s to many, many more.”

They rested for a time, peacefully dozing in each other’s arms, but neither seemed capable of staying asleep for long - the exhilaration of their joining was too fresh; too real. 

A couple of hours later, Amina awoke to see Emmrich sleepily regarding her from his pillow, a strand of her long hair still twirled around his fingers, her name on his lips. Moments later, those very lips wandered down her belly and between her legs, and he lazily licked his leaking seed from her, bringing her to the softest, coziest orgasm she’d ever had with his fingers splayed over her lower belly and his tongue deep inside her. 

They fucked again after that, and then one more time before sleep properly found them and they drifted off in the early hours of dawn, entwined and undeniably in love. 

[razildor]

Emmrich's companion quest: The Sacrifice of Souls

[amurderandconspiracy]

Anam Cara: Chapter 1

(Already posted the AO3 link as a post but posting chapters separately here as well.)

This fic is set two years after the final scenes shown in Dragon Age: The Veilguard (video game), Lucanis is working himself to exhaustion and taking risks to separate he and Spite, heedless of the toll it is taking or caring about the results. Rook is lonely and in mental/emotional anguish and trying to self-destruct by running headlong and recklessly into combat because the pain is too much to face. With the found-family and friendship created during the course of the mission against the gods, what happens when time progresses beyond the end-goal and your family/friends need to deal with their trauma and hurt.  Everyone dealt with immense loss, pain, rejection, and torture, during the course of Veilguard's events and somewhere along the line there are going to be breaks and cracks in the walls one erects around themselves. Lucanis remains locked in an internal struggle and cycle of self-torture, Spite and he are still not separated, and the traumas Rook faced before, during, and after the Veilguard story have never been healed. Through intervention and care, can the connection between Lucanis and Rook and the connection between the Veilguard companions be healed, and can friend-love and soul-bond-love be a key to that healing.

**** Neve ****

Neve came charging through the door of the Lighthouse’s eluvian room, up the stairs, and along the ramp to the upper meeting room, her prosthetic clicking on the seams between the stones of the floor, causing a slight variation in her step as the metal of her foot settled. She emerged from the hallway with purpose and only seemed to slow when she realized that she did not know exactly where Rook might find themself these days.

Over two years had passed since the Veilguard had prevailed and managed to defeat the risen elven gods, everyone had stayed in the Lighthouse for a time working together and continuing their vigil. It did not take long for each companion to break away and return to their lives and homes, or what remained thereof. Rook had chosen, instead, to remain in this haven in the Fade, foregoing a return to the waking world of Thedas. They continued their vigil over the lands and peoples that needed their help, using the Vi’Revas and Crossroads as the means to be wherever they were needed at a moment's notice, able to mobilize whatever factions of Northern Thedas were needed. All of the company were on call and answered if ever Rook needed them, their mission now extending to rooting out the rot in the lands and fighting the leftover threats. Every major power knew how to leave missives through the Veilguard’s ally network to get the attention and assistance of its leader. Rook had worked at a relentless and punishing pace, never seeming to rest or let themself stop, even for a moment. It wasn't until recently that Neve had received reports from her networks that a concerted rebuilding effort had started throughout the North as events seemed to settle and the remnants of the various god-allied groups had fallen back into shadow to lick their wounds, meaning Rook was called on less frequently or only when a major issue arose and needed their special attention. This lull ended only in the North, however, as a new mission arose for the battle-tested leader. During the rise of the gods, the Inquisition in the South had resumed their duties to the Divine in a more visible and active role that mirrored their old standing as a force for good and change. And after the departure of the Inquisitor when the gods were vanquished, Divine Victoria turned once again on her inner circle of trusted advisors and the people of the rank and file of the Inquisition to actively engage in bringing order back to Southern Thedas where power vacuums created chaos.

Neve had kept in regular contact with Harding and Taash regarding trade agreements and arrangement of goods shipments between the North and South, as they had spared no time after the victory in Minrathous and had gone directly to Skyhold from the Lighthouse, taking up residence there to help with the efforts. Harding immediately returned to her role and easily added Taash’s much needed skills to the fight. Harding was focused and willing to use the ties she had, not infrequently calling on the ever-ready presence of Rook to help coordinate or fight when the need arose. The unconventional methods and alliances of the Veilguard were a needed asset for the Inquisition and Rook was one of their greatest weapons.

It was well known among the Shadow Dragons and Crows, that when not aiding the Inquisition in the South, Rook was present in Minrathous and Treviso, exhausting themself and sparing no expense or resource for the cities and their people. Rook, however, never stayed long nor made themself available socially when all was said and done. Even their close and affectionate connection with Teia seemed to have been relegated to a muted version of its former status, even making Viago uneasy with having lost a major competitor for her attention without much confrontation. Rook had been in the same location with Neve and Lucanis several times in the last two years and during a particularly difficult hunt for rogue Venatori cultists acting in the catacombs of Minrathous, they saw Rook and tried to engage them to catch up but when the dust settled, they were nowhere to be found. When they returned to the Lighthouse to perhaps spend some time with Rook and discuss the goings-on of the world, they were unable to be found and the Caretaker had not known their current location, or had not shared it with them. Neve had even taken it upon herself to go to Nevarra and the Grand Necropolis, seeking out Myrnah and Vorgoth for information. Rook’s parental figures, of a sort, had not known their location but mentioned their concern at the last time their charge had returned looking like one of the risen dead rather than a member of the living. Neve had left a message for Emmrich to notify her if Rook found their way to him, but he wrote often and made sure to note the lack of contact from Rook.

Neve thought back to nearly a year ago in Minrathous, remembering the haggard appearance of her friend. During the fight they had been wrapped in leathers and armor that covered the majority of their body and appearance, leaving very little of their face exposed, however Neve’s observation skills were second to none and she clocked the details that others would have ignored. Rook’s skin had always seemed near translucent and as substantial as gossamer but Neve remembered seeing troubling color with layers of bruising clearly decorating the skin that was visible. Throughout various stages of the fight and for the brief time in which Rook had returned to the makeshift headquarters for the Shadow Dragons and allies, Neve had been able to see a few more details, noticing that the bruises they had earlier noted were more pervasive and seemed to be across their entire body, all in differing stages of healing and looking like a patchwork of self-abuse and neglect. Rook’s face was haunted and gaunt, their usually striking red-amber eyes looked dull and without the brilliant light of mirth or barely-disguised sarcasm that always illuminated their countenance before. Their once careful application of their Mourn Watcher’s makeup had become faded, the drag of rouge from their lips and smear of the kohl around their eyes suggested that they were not regularly removing their makeup and reapplying it with the ritualistic care that had been a constant during the mission against the gods. All semblance of the collected and careful leader who had been the cornerstone of the Veilguard was gone, leaving a haunted husk of a person Neve had once known.

She knew this look well, Lucanis had worn that look after the Treviso decision, as he called it at the time. Lucanis became cold and distant, a hardened mask affixed itself to him, becoming his armor against the world. For a time, during the course of their mission against the gods, Rook had managed to return some of Lucanis’ life and spark, though they were never how they had been, never as close and Lucanis lived with a ghost of regret that haunted him from the event and the resulting loss of trust and friendship. If Neve thought hard about it, she had almost forgotten the steady shift that had occurred after losing Rook to the Fade, and Lucanis’ mask had settled more firmly then, relaxing only for a moment before the fight against Elgar’nan. When Rook withdrew, Lucanis had seemed to lose himself in a cycle of dark thinking, weighing how he might pick up his life and the new mantle of First Talon after everything they had all endured.

Neve looked up and around the room, wondering how Rook stayed here in this large place all alone with only their thoughts to keep them company. Just this time waiting was making them over contemplative and ruminating on the course of the last two years. Bellara had stayed the longest here but had said she was too lonely here and split her time between Arlathan and Minrathous, spending any spare time she had with Neve and Lucanis; when he had time to join them. Bellara had often confided in Neve that she was worried about Rook, who seemed to exist in some kind of suspended life. Neve had returned the confidence by expressing her worries about Lucanis and how he was also barely existing. Each time, after these confidences were shared, she went to her weekly coffee date at Cafe Pietra, she shared her worries about Rook with Lucanis, adding those of Bellara to the testimony, and he confirmed that he had noted the same in their appearance over the last few times and shared their concern. At first, Neve had shared this information as a way to handle two issues at once and possibly get him to open up and spur him to help their friend. In fact, his first instinct had been to drop everything and run to their aid, offer anything in his power to give, and had agonized over what he could do for the friend who was so vital to him. However life was as inopportune and poorly timed as ever, and the attentions of his duties called then and hindered his efforts. As a result of his worries and split allegiances, he warred with himself and he suffered several nights of terrors, ones that even seemed to trap Spite in their illusion. Something deeply alarming to them all.

So, he resolved that his accumulated traumas would only distract his friend from themself and their needs, and he could not allow himself to be the cause of more strain. He had not reached out to the friend that had once been his lifeline, he went cold again and focused on his immediate tasks as to not burden those he now was responsible for, though he asked Neve to look in on Rook to make sure they were ok.

Neve had done what Lucanis asked, how could she decline a task when someone she loved had asked her, how could she not want to help her dearest and loved friend. She wanted to pay Rook back for everything they had done for her and Minrathous, for all of Tevinter and Thedas. So she had split some of her time between the Lighthouse, Treviso, and Minrathous, trying at any chance to speak with Rook. She had tried for a whole year, but she had only been able to find Rook a total of six times in the entire year and her duties to Minrathous and then helping in Treviso had pulled her away just when it seemed like Rook’s defenses might lower long enough for them to talk. Neve was used to stubbornness, she was herself quite skilled in the manner, she had endured an entire year of attempting to get Lucanis to actually connect beyond the practiced and safe surface of their affections, but Rook, Rook was a masterclass in pig-headedness. If Neve hadn’t been so frustrated by this continuing obstacle between herself and her partner and best friend maybe she would not have conceded defeat so easily. Perhaps she wouldn’t now be so worried about her friend and their ability to rescue Lucanis after so long witnessing their diminishing.

Neve grew annoyed with her own thoughts and cyclical worries and turned from the main hall to the Caretaker’s station, thinking it easier to inquire about Rook’s whereabouts than to chase all over the complex for them.

”Greetings dweller, how might I be of assistance?” The Caretaker materialized and reconstructed themself from the collected Fade energies here.

“Hello again. Do you know where Rook has gone?” Neve asked, trying not to sound rushed.

”That dweller went to the Treviso eluvian a day hence.” The Caretaker responded airily.

”Oh, well, Rook should return shortly then, I will wait. I cannot chance missing them.” Neve said as she nodded a farewell to the Caretaker and walked back into the main tower of the Lighthouse to wait. She selected a well worn book from the bookshelf in the main sitting area and sat down on the couch to read and hope that Rook would return sooner rather than later.

[agent-smiley]

I really enjoyed playing a mage (spellblade) in my first playthrough, but warrior (reaper) has grown on me. Few things are as satisfying as obliterating a group of trash mobs with a nice shield toss.

Under the cut: Short clip from a late game companion quest, not especially spoilery except for the location.

numbers go boom

[therookandthecrow]

When I get around to developing her more, I am going to romance Davrin with a Dwarven Reaper Warrior named Brynja Thorne. I've been brainstorming on her on my Bsky this past week, but I am getting closer to realizing her design as a character.

Essentially, she's a Ferelden born Dwarf, Gwaren specifically, who's ancestors had come from Kal-Sharok (hence her Scandinavian sounding name), and due to the nature of the dwarves from there, they don't share this with just anyone, because the dwarves there seem to like their secrets.

More under the cut.

She's very softy, curvy, and she has red-hair, because, of course, we need more red-haired Dwarves, apparently. So far, in my mind's eyes, my character design of her is close to both Aloy from the Horizon games and Aela from Skyrim. She kind of has that Norse Viking thing going on and may or may not have lived among Avvar.

She picked up the Champion/Reaper specialization because maybe she found it to be a great tool against the Blight, and she can technically cross-subclass thanks to certain mods I have installed. Her relationship with Davrin is going to be an introvert/extrovert one, with her having been content with being a lone wolf for a long time.

Because I can't give her a Norse sounding accent like the Kal-Sharok Dwarves, she'll have the low-pitched British feminine voice (Bryony Corrigan). Brynja never expected to be popular among the Wardens, and she has some very interesting heroes, such as Loghain Mac Tir who she considers as one, because she understands why he did what he did, despite being a Warden.

[lokorum]

BODY/PRISON

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪

boosty | patreon

[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.  

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[loustica-lucia]

DATV —🔹🔷The Balance of Death🔷🔹

— Kataqun Ingellvar💎

He's just a big cat with an big axe🏳️‍⚧️

The process was chaotic but I'm happy with the outcome hehe Vertical, cat-like, pupil qunari? Why the hell not, right? XD

[darkrooklobby]

Reaper doodles 💀🖤💀

[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)

[rookanisstuff]

I love that canonically you could kill off or send to the fade all of ur heroes so when the executors roll up next game it really is rook just being like wait hold up put me back in the fade prison dont make me deal with these mf's too i beg

[heylittleriotact]

Forever infatuated with the idea of Reaper Rook basically being the Nevarran equivalent of Doomguy and being specifically trained to go absolutely apeshit on maligned spirits and wrongfully possessed undead when all other options have failed. Like fuck yeah. Give me more of that.

[profoundlyfaded]

Untitled WIP

Pairing: Fem!Rook Ingellvar x Emmrich Volkarin

—

‘But I did save your life when the wraiths stormed the auditorium.’

‘That was you?’ He laughed, drawing away to look at her. ‘I knew we’d met before. Your hair is very distinctive.’

‘Lilac,’ Rook intoned with a smile, as Emmrich twisted a lock of her hair through his long fingers. ‘Are you really not upset that I fell asleep in one of your classes?’

‘Well, I can’t deny that it was a bit of blow, particularly when you’ve been at pains to inform me how interesting you find me,’ he told her, the sparkle in his eyes belying the seriousness of his tone.

She stroked his upper arm. ‘Perhaps I can find a way to make it up to you.’

‘Giving you the lecture in person?’ Emmrich suggested, his voice dropping to a salacious tone that had managed to set her alight time and time again, turning her so she pressed up against the table.

—

Good news, the first draft is finished! Woot!

(Enjoyed this snippet - full fic now live - https://archiveofourown.org/works/61233742)

[frenchy-and-the-sea]

Given they're a thing in Thedas, do you think Mori would enjoy wearing "ugly" holiday sweaters? What kind of sweater would she go for? Bright and festive? Ironic? Lewd?

Bonus question: Matching couples sweaters, y/n?

I'm still very deep in the cesspit of my own lack of focus but THIS. THIS I CAN ANSWER EASILY.

Yes, of COURSE Mori is going to wear an ugly holiday sweater. Yes, of COURSE she loves them. Yes, of COURSE it's going to be in those wonderfully garish purple/green Nevarran colors. Yes, of COURSE it's going to say something stupid like, "Got My Holiday Spirits" and have a repeating pattern of skulls and robed figures and skeletons on it. She respects the ancestral dead plenty, but she also thinks a little bit of whimsy about them is good to show to outsiders. Plus, the wisps probably think it's funny!

She WOULD be willing to forgo this for a matching couple sweater, though. Especially if they came from Harding's ma. :>

[thedragonagelesbian]

they didnt put reaver in veilguard bc they knew it'd make lace too horny and the lyrium poisoning would kill rook instantly

[wannabespacesmuggler]

No thoughts. Just ✨Thane Ingellvar ✨