#veilguard spoilers tw

[mercysought]

person's got to make a living. for maxima

Maxima clicks her tongue, hearing it crack against the ceiling of her mouth as she turns to look at Varric. It hurt her to see him so fragile, it felt so deeply wrong that truthfully if she didn't have to force herself to do it she wouldn't have. The fight against the fear for her own mortality was becoming harder and harder to keep at bay, especially as those around her kept wanting to be heroes.

   "You are going to get yourself killed." she says flatly, slowly getting up from the small couch and looking around the room that had become his, for lack of a better expression, gilded cage. Given the outcome of the last attack that the Dread Wolf had inflicted upon Minrathous, this was likely a good thing, at least more people to prevent him from attempting something stupid again.

Maxima could be asked: 'what could they have done instead?'. And she would not have a good answer. She hadn't heard the details of what had happened, she had been unfortunately too busy to track down the other people and she wouldn't want to pry, the details weren't important. Not if it came at a cost to Varric.

   "You've been making a few more serious attempts as of recent." she adds, narrowing her eyes and glancing once more to him, slowly pulling a cigarette from her golden box and placing it over her lips "If you wanted to sell your portion of our endeavors so desperately, you could have just offered them to me for one gold piece."

She hums, snapping her fingers in front of the edge that hang from her mouth. The flame flickers in and out, holding it between her fingers, it doesn't take long before she has a halo of cherry-scented tobacco around her head "I'd question your mental soundness, but you wouldn't need to twist my arm."

She grants him one half cruel, half amused grin as she turns towards where he rested.

Maxima wondered, pondered, as the silence hang momentarily: why; why all this? And why go through such a dangerous task himself. She knew of the general outlines of the work that he and the Inquisitor were doing. For her own sake, she didn't ask for more details than those that could be useful to keep herself and her nation safe - the Dread Wolf and how that tied to elvhen legend was enough to instill the namesake feeling given everything else that was going on. And yet, he had been there to face him - and from what Maxima had understood - only with three other people.

The fact that no one had truly died was a thing of wonder.

   "What does the Sidria think about what happened?" she asks, though she can likely make an educated assumption. Pausing, she watches as he opens his mouth, her right hand is raised as her brow crooks. It was not often that the magister joined their small meetings, it was often far lighter, more fun, the discussion of contracts, legal arrangements, shifting in priorities - implications of politics and the following steps.

But she had dealt with more bolder venatori since their last meeting, and she also knew enough to tell when a conversation was about to derail. So her hand was raised, golden rings glimmering against the little light in the room "No. Whatever you were about to say, reconsider—"

The smoke of her waving hand follows lazily, warming up softly as it hovered over the dim, soft lights around them. Give it another thought, take a moment and then you can start.

Is what her hands tell him as she makes her way back to the battered dwarf. Only when she sits back down on the comfortable couch just opposite to him does she finally allow herself to look at him properly since she first arrived on that day.

She had hoped he would look better this time and yet not much seemed to have changed. He still looked terribly bruised and the bandages that peeked just beyond the shirt made her feel nervous despite only imagining that he was receiving the best care. She wondered when the line would be drawn and he would need to be rushed to a good physician. If it wouldn't be too late.

   "We both know it's not about making a living." she finally says, waving her hand as one of the bottles of wine that she had brought to float in their direction "So I need an explanation: why does my business partner seem so intent at throwing everything away? I've cleared my afternoon for this, so spin me a story worthy enough."

the banner saga part 1 & midnight cowboy // @extravagantliar (and @martyrmarked) // accepting

[knightwayne]

Yes, I have entered lichdom! And I am not an abomination or a demon or a disconsolate spirit. I have become something more.

Bonus:

[sun-marie]

Something that makes me. insane about Lydia/Lucanis is that, deep down, I think they both have a part of themselves that desperately needs someone to look out for them, and they feel they can be there for the other person when they weren't there for themselves 🥲

[voltaical-art]

whatever it takes

[aesfocus]

Varric and Bianca

[merciawintersageposting]

just throwing a theory out there about lucanis’ basement room:

have you ever been in a place where you can feel the eyes at your back? calculating, assessing, observing- the back of your neck prickling with a thousand heated daggers. you are never able to get comfortable- comfort is a blade turned inward. lucanis has lived with that feeling since he was a child.

at a certain point the claustrophobia of a locked room becomes the only sense of safety he has ever had. the bed is not so comfortable that he would lose his vigilance to oversleep. here his back is always to the wall. here he is never denied food. his things are safe. he has a key to a door that locks. here he can breathe.

and so a root cellar becomes a crow’s nest.

[mercysought]

She cannot stop herself from snorting, that was Varric's gift in all things it seemed. Thin fingers hold onto the bandages a bit tighter as she approached the bed "Of course. You should see the line to visit!"

The Inquisitor was sure that there would be a line, if they had announced it. Varric was that sort of person. As she approached further, however, the smile faded - she was no nurse, no specialist in healing magic but she knew enough. It hurt, hurt to know that if others were to visit that they might feel the same as she did: Varric didn't wear frailty well; it fit him like a suit too small to hold such a larger than life person.

Slowly, she turns around the bunk, her hand undoing the buckle that kept her prosthetic hand. She wouldn't need it, not to do the job of inspecting the woods and changing bandages. It would have made her life easier, but she was not in a rush. Not in that moment.

With a justle, the prosthetic comes loose. Asharen drops it in the larger pockets of her robes. Slowly, she pulls the edges of the embroidered sleeves up to her arm, carefully pinning it before dropping the bandages on the edge of the bed with a sigh.

   "We have a makeshift plan, but Varric—" inhaling, Asharen pushes the red hair off her face, over her shoulder. Her back straightens with a crack at the shoulders. Unsure how to say it, she just opens her mouth "I found Blight in the fade."

She pauses - worry now allowed to fully sink her eyebrows. Her hand moves to her forehead, massaging the budding headache that never quite left her these days.

   "Just... out in the open. In the Crossroads, spilling out of some of the eluvians." and that, that she had never seen. Not in any significant way though she was more than happy to admit she knew very little about the Blight and the ways it spread.

Still, Valyssa didn't seem to be familiar with it either. And that was concerning. As well as a blight that seemingly had no archdemon leading but a corrupted elvhen mage who thought herself a God.

The list of horrors seemed unending. Whatever this meant it was terrible. The ease at which blight could travel coupled with the ease of navigation in the fade, the alteration of spirits within - it could have multiple levels of devastation that she could hardly dream of. Beyond the damage that it was sure to cause in the waking world - so to speak.

   "I showed it to Warden-Commander Mahariel, we're working on it, but..." shaking her head, she turns once more to the bandages, placing them carefully separately from other ointments she would likely use "Orzammar has seen a large spike in darkspawn activity. There is also blight in the Brecelian forest." finally finishing setting up, she breathes "Things are about to get much worse."

But they had a plan, and that had to count for something even if, at times, it might feel hopeless. Them both, above all else, didn't have the luxury of bowing out. Nor would they have accept it, had it been offered. She finally allows herself to smile when her light eyes find Varric's, the wrinkles at her eyes reflecting the warmth in them.

Grabbing her staff again, she approaches the head of his bunk, she sits on the edge. With a nod she points towards the wound at his neck and chest, covered in bloody banadages "May I have a look?"

@mercysought sent a meme: [ patch ] sender carefully patches one of receiver's wounds from asharen to varric, listen a small break before the storm while varric is recovering (not quite early veilguard game given circumstances BUT)

       “ So you're here to fuss over me too, huh? ” Word had assumedly gotten out about what had happened at the ritual site. Difficult for it not to, Varric supposed, seeing as it had resulted in two elven gods breaking free from their prison, ready to wreak untold chaos across the entire continent. He might have regretted taking Rook along to confront Solas, but he maintained that the alternative — ripping down the Veil entirely — would have been much, much worse. From what he'd heard, Chuckles had been contained, too, which at least wiped his piece off of the board for now. The elven god of lies and trickery would find a way out of his prison, the laws of storytelling dictated that a trickster always would, but Varric had faith that Rook could gain an advantage or two before then.

       He shifted on the bunk in the infirmary, sitting up a little straighter as Asharen approached with a fresh set of bandages. He wanted to turn down her offer of help ( he had a feeling that the wound inflicted by that dagger went deeper than any medicine could fix ) but, in the face of the concern writ plainly across her features, he didn't have the heart to resist.

       “ How're things outside of the Fade's answer to Skyhold? ” Varric tried to keep his tone light, but a noticeable edge remained. It was more frustrating that he'd admit to be stuck here at the Lighthouse, away from all the action, bereft of his beloved weapon. Letter writing could only get him so far — and it would take time for replies to be delivered back here. “ I've heard from Rook and company that there's a Blight, but — how far south has it spread? ”

[bardistraee]

DRAGON AGE: THE VEILGUARD (2024) | lucanis dellamorte [4/∞]

[assanstrike]

LUCANIS DELLAMORTE

˚₊‧꒰ა ͏͏͏͏͏͏ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

[lostiel]

mods edits

[whereismywarden]

Let's try this your way.

[mercysought]

what a brave and reckless and marvelous thing you did. — @ever4sking for asharen <3

warrior of darkness // accepting

Asharen watches Rook's sleeping form, standing just a single step behind Tamara. The other continued her work with her tinctures and healing magic; Asharen had done as much healing as she could, worked through what damage she could see, expect despite knowing very little of what he had gone through. She could push herself further, but she knew the limits of her own body and the fatigue that she had pushed and pushed and spurned in order to get to this place, a place where they had finished the dagger and got Rook out. That fatigue had sharp teeth and it was prowling closer and closer.

And there was still so much still to do. Were it any other time, this dagger would have likely been one of her crowning achievements and yet, knowing the inspiration and the reason behind it she could feel nothing but a sense of bittersweet victory.

Light eyes lift to Tamara upon hearing her words; she cannot stop herself from smiling. Giving the other a nod, Asharen takes a single step forward, hearing her prosthetic hand rustle against the fabric of her robes. Her left sleeve was folded as she approached, standing beside Tamara.

   "I still can't believe it worked." she whispers though how deeply the other slept it was unlikely to make a difference.

Truthfully, it had been a massive long shot; and incredibly lucky on so many levels that it could, perhaps, be considered miraculous. Asharen now knew more people that had walked into sections of the fade that no living being was meant to walk away from and having that honour gave her pause. The fact that they had been able to craft as powerful an artifact and managed to narrow down the area that they needed to cut through in order to pull him out was a testament to the power behind this team. Truthfully, much was still unknown, she didn't know what the effects of the prison that Solas crafted would be on him.

The elven woman inhales, glancing once more to Tamara.

   "Mara, I am..." so sorry. She wants to say and yet the words don't quite come out. Her light eyes are on her friend's, brows arched.

But even that wasn't her place. It had not been her that had put Imad in such a place, and yet she still felt guilty. It was not her who had unlatched the keys to allow for such a terrible thing to have happened, but it had been her who had kept pushing for temperance, to not trust but allow for grace, mercy.

And now, now she felt she needed to apologise because she would keep asking for it. Even if doing such a thing felt cruel, even if his actions felt unforgivable. And Asharen could only imagine, she could only imagine truly what both of them might feel. And yet, selfishly, terribly selfishly Asharen knew she would not stop now. There were nights where she wondered how she could ask this of others when she herself sat and wondered where the line was. When would it be too far? Too much? Could she find it in herself to forgive him, when they met again?

Pressing her lips into a thin line, Asharen closes her eyes, taking a deep breath. She touches the side of Tamara's arm with her own hand "I am glad we weren't too late."

Clearing her throat, the Inquisitor pulls back, away from the bed and away from Tamara.

   "When he wakes, tell Imad that I am glad he lives." long fingers dig through her pockets and pull out the brass prosthetic, swiftly pulling it onto her arm and tightening it. She hoped that some of the spirits in the Crossroads could be of aid, to let her know about what was going on within the city, what should they expected beyond just devastation.

She did not need to ask them, she was sure that Solas out of everyone was surely fine, and yet that question too was on her mind. Metallic fingers wrap around her staff, pulling it closer to her as she walks out of the room "Please let me know when he does, I'd like to have a word with him before we leave for Minrathous. I will be in the Crossroads."

@st4ysoft @ever4sking (but also @r0kh)

[knightwayne]

I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night

– Sarah Williams

[houndvoice]

Rook.

ASHUR.

[aesfocus]

[plasticfreckles]

🪶 drunk flirting rookanis enjoy 🪶

"Mmm. Tell me more." Lucanis didn't know he could be that suave.

Or maybe he isn't aware of the effect it would have on Rook, clearly taking her wine worse than he his. She inhales audibly, pushes her glass aside by the stand and reaches to take his own from his hands.

"Say that again." She leans in closer.

"What, tell me more?" Another sigh. He slowly realizes its his timbre that thrills her.

"Yeah."

"Tell me more." The sound out of her resembles the blissful sigh at a delicious sauce.

"That may very well be the sexiest thing I've ever heard you say."

"You've said that before."

Rook snorts, moving her flat hand around the tabletop blindly, looking for her glass. She finds his instead.

"Impossible. You've never been this sexy."

"And you've never been this drunk."

"Tell me one other time I've told you that."

"This morning, when I inhaled some of my coffee and greeted you after I'd caught my breath."

"That doesn't count. You had breakfast ready. And you were a little hoarse. Few things sexier than a rough voice, when it's usually all soft and smooth like silk on skin."

The taste of her lips could mislead him into thinking she had the whole bottle all by herself, as opposed to half a glass.

"Have you eaten enough today?"

She whines, instead of an answer.

"Rook..."

"I'm eating! I'm eating, see?"

Why is she this way? Because she's drunk. So are you! I'm buzzed, not drunk. It's not gone to my head. Not yet!

Lucanis reaches for the charcuterie, pulls the board away from the table center, closer to her. She presses the edge of the table into her diaphragm this deep one more time, she'll start to feel nauseous.

"Three grapes and a cube of asiago don't make a meal."

She blindly grabs another fistful from the plate, curling her fingers into the display as if she was kneading dough.

"...It's more than three grapes. Probably."

"Let me get you some bread, at least."

"Noooo-" She almost tips over both glasses, by her fingers and behind her elbow, as she pulls on his hand. "Don't leave. Finish your glass, at least."

She says it as though he could say No to her.

"Fine," he says, and she looks utterly pleased as she returns his wine to him. "But only because I have such sweet and intruiging company."

Rook giggles into her fist. She's flushed so deep it makes the whites of her eyes pop like silver cufflinks on a burgundy shirt.

"I sure hope I'm not a kiss goodbye."

"The only kiss goodbye I want from you is the one we share before we're both headed for the pyre."

Maybe he is drunk after all. He's prone to letting go of his control around Rook, speaking his thoughts and feelings into existence without a care because with her, they'll be kept safe and sound like Andraste's ashes. Though even so, he's rarely as flirtatious as Illario. He feels like the paramour in a mediocre serial.

"Even so. The kiss goodbye was the coffee. You're speaking of the taste of a first kiss. And of those, you can have as many as you like."

"Well, then." Another sip, another grape, before she leans into him.

She has to hold on to him, for stability, not for intimacy. He can see the way the world starts to spin around her in her iris.

If he squints, it almost looks like the brown in them is making way for the green.

"Woah. Maybe I am a little drunk." She empties her glass like it was water after waking at midnight. Then she reaches past the charcuterie board, toward a new bottle.

"Oh?" Rook giggles. "Are we putting Viago to shame tonight?"

"Mmh! Soon as I can get this bottle open."

"Querida, no. Don't do that. You'll knock all your teeth out." He turns toward the corkscrew a little too fast. His own head starts to spin. Spite spins on his toes like a ballet dancer, and a proficient one at that.

"I won't." She doesn't stop trying to pull the cork out with her teeth.

"Daisy." Lucanis didn't know she's a giggly drunk. Her hands slip down from the bottle neck to the body, holding it toward him in a way that does not remind him of Bellara's serials at all.

"Gods, your arms are pretty."

I like her drunk. She's happy. Cozy. Snuggly like a lapdog. We get her drunk. More often! Every day! Wine for water! You want her to live, you protect her liver, too. You're no fun!

"I'm sorry?" He isn't even doing anything. He's barely twisting the corkscrew into the bottle.

She drapes herself across the tabletop, her right arm close enough to walk her fingers up his arm.

"Your arms are pretty. Your arms, and your shoulders, and your beard, and your hair, and your nose, and your big brown wet puppy eyes-"

"Rook, please." He can feel his elbow dig into her flesh as he reaches over her arm and moves to fill their glasses once more. "I'm a grown man. I have doggy eyes."

"Yessss." She drags out the S until their glasses touch and she stops to take a sip. There's a fascinating tangerine note to the wine. He turns the bottle to read the label. Definitely not an Antivan. "Like a mabari, big and wet and brown and round and full of love."

"You know, you don't need to lie to me for me to refill your glass."

"I'm not!" She blows up her cheeks and frowns. It's poorly executed and blushed and glassy-eyed and adorable. "You are pretty! So pretty, and strong and manly. You're so well-proportioned. Your beard makes your lips all shiny and puffy and kissable." Her eyes flick down to his mouth, and as her mind processes her own words, she starts pouting. "All I know is stuff."

"What on earth are you talking about?" He tries to move her hair over her shoulder, to hold her cheek and have her rest her whole head in his palm, but she moves to sit up straight. His hand lands on her arm.

She needs to hold on to the edge of the table. The wine sways precariously in her glass, almost out of it. She'll never get the stains off her pants.

"Brother Benito - you know, from the Orphanage that found me - he used to say that love comes in at the stomach." So does poison, Lucanis thinks foggily. "But I don't know how to bake, or make drinks, and I hate cooking even less." She needs to close her eyes so she can focus on the words coming out of her own mouth. "So I need to give you compliments, and gifts. Ssoo many gifts! So you know I- I care for you." Her eyes are no longer glassy from drunkenness.

SHE LOVES US. Shut it. SHE DOES. That's not what she said. She WANTS TO.

"Aye, querida, I know you do." He takes her glass from her hand once again. Collects both her cheeks in his hands and moves to kiss her forehead. He miscalculates the distance, and his nose collides with her hairline hard enough to make them both make a surprised noise. "There's a reason I don't use your gifts."

"You don't like them?" The way her voice sounds, small and uncertain, tears at him, and Spite in turn tears into him. YOU HURT HER. USE THE GIFTS. The necklace will choke me at best. DEATH BY LOVER. GREATEST DEATH. This is real life, Spite, not a serial.

"I love them," he says, pulling at her until her chin pokes into his shoulder. "I worry they'll break, or that I'll lose them. They're safe in the pantry. I know you've thought of me every time I look at them. And knowing that... it makes me happy."

"Really?" He aims for her temple, though he's not sure his lips find the target. "I don't even do things for you."

"You love to sleep. And yet you stay up with Spite so he doesn't run off. That seems quite a thing done to me."

"You make it sound like I'm fighting him tooth and nail." You'd LOSE.

"You let a demon pull you into my mind, found a broken man and you did not turn away. That is the greatest thing you could possibly do to me." He doesn't quite find her lips. "And you break up my doomclouds every day."

Rook snorts. Lucanis is pretty sure there's some mucus peeking out from under her nose.

"Your existence next to me is the greatest thing you could possibly do for me." He's just said that two sentences before, but it's all the more true the more he says it.

"Stop being so sweet! You'll make me cry, and then I'll throw up on you!"

But she's laughing and aiming her thumb and forefinger around his chin.

🪶

I've not been drunk once in my whole entire life. or in love. or in a healthy functional relationship. lol.

[~rina]