#veilguard30

[skyhavens]

What began as a personal project of mine has spiraled into something way bigger and way more intense than I anticipated, so I figured I might offer it up to the Dragon Age fandom at large in case there was any interest in participating!

So, here's my idea for #VEILGUARD30:

Starting on October 1st and going day-by-day until right before Veilguard's launch on the 31st, this little event will begin! Whether you're inspired to write Dragon Age fic before the game's release or interested in developing your Rook, you're more than welcome to participate! And don't feel pressured to post every single day if that day's prompt doesn't appeal to you — this is meant to be engaged with to inspire you rather than bully you into writing every single day in October.

I posted this early to give everyone a running start, if they intend to participate or fish for curiosity and interest otherwise!

All sixty prompts are written down beneath the cut.

GENERAL WRITING PROMPTS.

Joining. Armor. Vhenadahl. Deep Roads. Bards. Carta. Dragon. Sovereigns. Potions. Orlais. Harrowing. Romance. Andraste. Campfire. Vallaslin. Lowtown. Mabari. Close Call. Elfroot. Demon or Spirit. Qunari. Templar. Halamshiral. Blood Magic. The Inquisition. Darkspawn. Dalish. Red Lyrium. Dreadwolf. The Veilguard.

ROOK DEVELOPMENT PROMPTS.

Name. Age. Race. Background. Class / Spec. Gender. Sexuality. Parentage. Siblings. Early Childhood. Adolescence. First Love. First Hate. Favorites. Injuries / Scars. Distinguishing Features Voice Type. Vices. Virtues. Homeland. Height / Build. Hair / Eye color. Personality. Aspirations. Fears. Hobbies. Views on Magic. Views on Elves.. Views on the Veilguard. Views on Solas.

[kirkwallsfinest]

Ichor

Day One // Prompt: Joining Full List HERE

You've gotten used to the nightmares -- cacophonous whispers of the Darkspawn, the earth-shattering shrieks of the Archdemon... it's become a routine, at this point. Sometimes you can delude yourself into thinking you understand them, that you're gaining some sort of information. Nightmares like these, you've come to accept. But some nights, you're treated to memories, instead. Memories that you would, frankly, rather forget.

Or, in which you have a nightmare about the Joining, and Alistair takes it upon himself to distract you. Quick little ficlet I whipped up once I remembered it was, somehow, already October!

Alistair Theirin/Reader

Blood — familiar, yet foreign. Lingering on the tongue, curling — no, clawing — its way down your throat, repulsive ichor lacing itself between the gaps in your cells. Changing you. Becoming part of you. Almost-friends laying at your feet, the three of you unified now only by the blood pooling in your mouths… only yours isn’t your own. — what made you different?

Not all nightmares are useful.

Some of them, like this one, just hurt.

You wake with a start, breath catching in your throat as the light of the fire draws you to the present, and despite the pounding of your own feeble heart you choose to focus on the flickering shadows, instead. Their rhythmic dance, strong and bright, chases away the too-vivid memories soon enough, but the taste… the taste of the Blight lingers. You squeeze your eyes shut, willing your mind to focus on anything else, but the darkness only serves to amplify the whispers swirling in the back of your mind. Barely audible, but still, present.

Resigned to yet another sleepless night you pull yourself into a sit, only to be met with a familiar pair of brown eyes staring at you from across camp. You startle, and evidently he wasn’t expecting you to catch him either with how he jumps, too. Alistair clears his throat, looking back at the fire once, but then seemingly realizing that there’s no point in trying to play it off, looks back at you.

“Sorry, I, uh, wasn’t just staring. You know, uh,” he clears his throat again, “Just trying to figure out if I should wake you or not. Nightmares again?”

You smile wistfully, sighing as you pull yourself to your feet to sit down by him, instead. You can’t imagine you’re getting any more sleep tonight, anyways.

“Yeah, but what else is new?” You breeze past the topic — it’s not like the two of you are foreign to the nightmares… even if this one wasn’t the usual one.

“Well actually, now that you mention it, your dog did the damndest thing while you were all cozied up,” Alistair starts, and you get comfortable by his side — soaking up the warmth of the fire as he launches into your pup’s shenanigans of the night. Realistic at first — something about how he stole yet another bushel of herbs from Morrigan — and then progressively stranger, and stranger, and part of you wonders if he’s finally had a mental break, or if he’s just seeing how far he can push it before you call him on it.

You raise your hand to your mouth, stifling your laughter as best you can, but the idea of your dog wielding her staff to command an army of nugs is a mental image that you can’t quite seem to shake. You lean into Alistair a fraction, trying to gain your composure lest you wake up the entire damned camp, and he puts his arm around your shoulder fondly to support you. This, this is new — he’s held you like this before, chiefly in the moments after your joining, but somehow, it feels different. Not done out of necessity, or comfort, but… Your lips curve upwards, and you let yourself drop into him just a fraction more. It feels right.

“Poor things,” you giggle, “He’s a piss-poor leader, you know.”

“Ah, but he is quite the talker, I’ve heard. Takes a lot of charisma to convince an army to lay siege to the dreaded Witch of the Wilds.”

“And is that why I keep hearing frogs out in the woods?”

“Exactly — see, you catch on quick.” He squeezes your upper arm — again, unmistakably fond. “They should count themselves lucky, I thought she was going to burn down the whole forest.”

You hum, amused. “I see. And what of my little commander?”

He points over his shoulder, and you follow his movements to spy the hound sleeping soundly on the edges of the fire’s light. He sleeps on his side, nose twitching in his sleep as his tail wags softly — clearly, he hasn’t moved since you set up camp earlier.

“A battle like that takes a lot out of a man, or uh, dog — I imagine he won’t be up ‘till the morning’s first light.”

You chuckle to yourself, turning back towards the fire, and let the conversation fall into silence as you rest your head on his shoulder. You blink, suddenly aware of how heavy your eyelids have become. The fire has begun to die down, crackling louder now as the logs begin to disintegrate into embers… but the cracks and pops aren’t competing with anything, not anymore.

The ichor in the back of your throat is gone, and the whispers have gone silent.

“Thanks, Alistair.”

“Of course.” He tentatively traces a half circle along the exposed skin, before continuing: “It’s what I do.”

And as you let yourself fall into sleep, you hope he never stops.

[thedeadthree]

-ˋˏ .·:·. ⊱ 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐘 𝐃𝐀���𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐕𝐄𝐈𝐋𝐆𝐔𝐀𝐑𝐃 𝐛𝐲 @pavus — day one: 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞.

— 𝐈𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐄 𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐕𝐀𝐑 . 𝐕𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐈 𝐃𝐄 𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐀 . 𝐂𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐀 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐄.

𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐈𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐃𝐀𝐒. 𝐄𝐍𝐉𝐎𝐘 𝐈𝐓 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝐈𝐓 𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐒.

— 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 (mutuals can opt in/out via 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭 <3):

@loriane-elmuerto, @carrionsflower, @auricfog, @girliefailure, @sunsofdawn

@risingsh0t, @griffin-wood, @lilywatt, @full---ofstarlight, @grapecaseschoices

@tommyarashikage, @shadowsofrose, @shadowglens, @weisshaupts, @queennymeria

@deadrlngers, @d-esmond, @courtana, @gothimp, @wlwaerith

@unholymilf, @aezyrraeshh, @socially-awkward-skeleton, @shellibisshe, @florbelles

@celticwoman, @neonshrike, @cloudofbutterflies92, @adelaidedrubman, @carlosoliveiraa

@pinkfey, @spookyrares, @yharnams, @aceghosts, @confidentandgood

@theelderhazelnut, @leviiackrman, @ellierenae, @anoras, @lavampira

@dialdrunk, @full---ofstarlight, @imogenkol

[captastra]

DA:TV Rooks (WIP)

Officially introducing the current idea I have for my Rooks in preparation for Veilguard and prompted by @pavus post:

Rooks Yasmin De Riva (Left) and Nesiri Mercar (Right)

Yasmin is an Antivan Crow mage and Nesiri is a Shadow Dragon mage, but most importantly...they are half sisters! Only finding this out later in life tho. More info to come about these two! (picrew)

Taglist: @olliesaurus-rex @poetikat @confidentandgood @spaceratprodigy @darkfire1177

@theelderhazelnut @shegetsburned @jellisdraws @oh-nostalgiaa @seliviawanders

@thisisrigged4 @bitchesofostwick @orionlancasterr @incognito-insomniac

@amadeus-lmao @finding-comfort-in-rain @gayafsatan @euryalex @mxanigel

@cassieuncaged @alterdaes @adelaidedrubman @aceghosts @iobsessoverfictionalmen

@inafieldofdaisies @nowandthane @bearcina @shellibisshe @mathlann

@cloudofbutterflies92 @imogenkol @undyingembers @carlosoliveiraa @tommyarashikage

@neonshrike @isobel-thorm @icecutioner @ronqueesha @miscneilleaneous

@saintvalentinex

[liaragaming]

DA October Prompts

I have gathered all of the 2024 DA prompts I could find. So if one doesn't strike your fancy, try another.

Credit to (and original posts):

@alexchawke - Dragon Age October

@nurabelmax - DAtober

@harkonnin - Veiltober

@pavus - Veilguard30

@pavus - Rook Development Prompts

@thievinghippo - 31 Days of Dragon Age

@elfroot-and-laurels - OC-tober Dragon Age Edition

[dell-amor-te]

Psssst, have two Dadcanis one-shots as a treat. ✨

Day 3: Race. (Also: meet Jude, my Rook and Lucanis’ firstborn daughter.)

Day 6: Gender. (feat. Illario, a very eager uncle-to-be.)

Yes, they’re my daily entries from @pavus’ Veilguard30 Rook development prompt list. But they can also stand on their own. ;)

Let's parentify that sad, sad man!

[arcandoria]

Prompt: Armor

for Veilguard30, featuring Alythess Cousland and Alistair Theirin

It doesn’t sit right.

Of course it wouldn’t – not like tailored armor would. The tasset is almost too big for her, and as such she has to compensate for the weight by buckling the straps tightly. The leather digs into her hips, and even though it’s simply uncomfortable now, it was going to chaff tremendously later, especially if she had to wear this for too long.

And by the way smoke filled her lungs alongside the stench of death and decay coming from the Wilds where the darkspawn waited for them, she was going to wear it for a long time.

She was a Grey Warden now, not Alythess Cousland.

There were no more tailored armor sets with perfectly fitting pieces that minded her size and frame. Her own set of armor - a gift on her 18th birthday - had been left behind amidst the burning stones of Highever.

She looks down to the weapons laid in front of her. They’d given her two new swords, but she’d handed one back. Sure, she was a Grey Warden now, not Alythess Cousland. But she will still carry her family’s sword from now on.

Alythess senses him before he’s close — and assumes he’s able to do the same. It’s weird, so incredibly weird, and she knows that the bile and darkness crawling inside her now is responsible for it, but she is just fresh from the joining, and sensing the people around her is still unsettling.

“Sorry to hurry you up, but the king is waiting and all that.” Alistair says from somewhere behind her. “How’s the armor?”

It’s too big. The leather straps dig into her hips and ribs. It’s going to chaff eventually.

“It���s fine.” She answers, her voice even as she works the last few straps and buckles.

The other Warden hums behind her, and she assumes he’s nodding.

“What about you? Are you— you know, alright?”

There’s death crawling inside her. There’s been death crawling inside her since Highever burned and she had to turn her back on it. It’s stuck in her throat, thick.

“I’m fine.” Her voice comes off the same.

“Right… We’ll be waiting for you then.”

He doesn’t sound concerned. The correct word might be disappointed. 

Alistair had been trying, at least, to make things sound and feel normal. He knew how much it wasn’t, but maybe because he was the most recent addition before her own, he felt bad about her state. Or maybe he was just that compassionate - she had to believe there were still people like this in the world. She couldn’t allow Howe to taint how she saw everyone from now on.

She breathed.

“Alistair?”

He’d already turned to leave, a few steps away from the armory corner she’d been using to don her armor.

“Yes?”

“It’s a bit too big and the straps can’t sit in the right place, and I can’t adjust them properly on my own. Can you help?” She half-twisted to face him over her shoulder.

His face lit up, and Alythess controlled the urge to roll her eyes, or smirk, or both.

“Oh, right! Of course. Shame we can’t make these universal sizes, huh?” He’d walked up to her then, hesitating awkwardly at first to touch the straps badly fastened against her ribs, before starting to help out with them. “Although I guess you might just be too small.”

She shot him an annoyed glance that was almost convincing, before quipping back. “I suppose they needed me at a disadvantage so you don’t get too embarrassed when we’re fighting.”

[veshialles]

#Veilguard30 - #1: Joining

not sure how many of these prompts I'll end up doing, but I wanted to take an honest crack at a few, at least. original prompts by @pavus. Featuring my poor tortured and conflicted Warden-Commander, Kieshara Tabris, and an unknown Warden-Acolyte I made up on the spot. Probably set sometime after Awakening & Witch Hunt, but also some point during my canon-continuation/canon-adjacent fic, A Quest Of Her Own.

It was her most dreaded duty to perform since the promotion. Every aspect of her service, tumultuous as it was, had been a gamble between life and death for the people around her. But none seemed so cruel as this. While she held much disdain for the secrecy of it all, Kieshara had already been reprimanded by the order for revealing too much too soon. A leak that was threatened to be violently patched if further incidents occurred.

History weighed on her mind as Kieshara’s pale fingertips reached the cherry oak box and passed over the carved griffon emblem, trying not to think of the hundreds of times this sacred ritual had been done before, by those who had long since heeded their Callings, or otherwise followed their oaths to the inevitable end. Finally, she opened its wrought iron hinges to reveal the delicate glass vials within. 

They were all of them stained a dark sickly red, just the same shade as the pendant she kept worn under her tunic; the glass was tainted as the blood held within them was. The blood of darkspawn, and the late Archdemon Urthemiel, slain by her very own hands. Beside them, a small jar of lyrium dust gave off a gentle rhythmic glow, and though she could not hear its song, it highlighted the ripples in a leather pouch of herbs in the adjacent divot. 

It was all here. Everything they needed.

Turning to face the silver chalice placed upon the altar, Kieshara set the box down. Traditionally, the blood was to be collected by the recruits themselves, but in the wake of The Blight, and the ensuing raids, there was no shortage of darkspawn blood. Even still, she began removing the box’s contents with utmost precision; there must be no chance of waste. There would be enough of that later, should any of the recruits fail. 

Lifting the first vial from its case, she poured the entirety of its contents into the ritual cup, and the second, and the third. The putrid smell of iron and rot wafted up from the slick surface, as she took the fourth vial in hand, allowing a single drop of her slain enemy’s essence to fall into the mixture, where it billowed in the murk like black tendrils. Kieshara stepped aside, allowing the Warden-Acolyte to make the final adjustments; precisely measuring the lyrium and herbal blend, before whispering unintelligible incantations.

The Acolyte was a human woman with wavy blonde hair that peaked out from beneath her hood. Kieshara did not even know her name, and thought it best that she never find out. She hated how this role had hardened her heart, but the simple truth was it would make their work easier, knowing what they were about to do. 

With a flash and a fizzle, it was done. The woman nodded and retreated to the edge of the room, leaving Kieshara alone to stare at the sunburst emblazoned on the side of the Joining chalice, a symbol older than the very Chantry itself. Surely no loving Maker would create a world such as this.

How many will die this time?, she solemnly wondered, staring into her own eyes through the vile concoction’s ripples. How many have already lost this battle? How many more after this? But this was the duty that could not be forsworn, as she had once been told. And having witnessed the horrors of the Blight firsthand, she needed no reminders of why these sacred rites were so vital in their fight against the dark and hungering hordes. 

Steeling her resolve, she rehearsed the monologue she had prepared in her mind, the one she had been given years ago, just as countless Grey Wardens had recited before her. Just as many would be doomed to recite after her. Looking up at the other Warden, she nodded. One by one the new recruits filed into the room, the door silently locking behind them.

Softly, Kieshara began. “At last, we come to the Joining…”

[stachedocs]

Thirty Days of Veilguard by @pavus

Story No. 1: CLARITY

Prompts used: Joining, Darkspawn Rook: Dina Laidir

Fandom: Dragon Age: The Veilguard Rating: Mature Words: 963 TW: blood and gore, fear of death, mentions of death

If she were to drink from the chalice, she would die. She would die, surely. Brosca may had been casteless, but the Ancestors had seen her fight and they recognized her courage and they blessed her. In the end she had proven herself. Her house had been elevated to nobility. But what of Dina?

With her exile, mother had severed them from the Ancestors and from the Stone both. Either would only remember a child's shame, and when she finally entered the thaigs in a later life, she did so as an unbelieving Surfacer, a plunderer, and a thief. No favors were given to those like them. The Taint would kill them and it would kill them slowly enough for them to realize she was disappearing. The Taint would make them disappear completely from the memory of the world, same as mother had them disappear from the Memories of the dwarva. There would be enough time for them to know she never was and never will be allowed to join anything meaningful. Not the Grey Wardens like Brosca, not her people. Not the Stone. There would be nothing to embrace their spirit after their body had gone.

Read the whole story on AO3

[echthr0s]

#VEILGUARD30 | vhenadahl

"So… Anansi… you ready? To… you know. See the Alienage?" Alistair's voice is tentative, shy about the sensitivity of the subject, but earnest. Always earnest, Alistair, even in his jesting. Anansi suppresses a chuckle, but before he can clarify what amused him -- before Alistair is wounded -- Morrigan is ready with a comeback.

"Yes, Anansi, are you ready? Being, you know…" She drops her voice to a quavering whisper. "One of those… surely you must--"

"Maker's sack, Morrigan, do you ever--" Alistair bites off the rest of his sentence, squeezing his eyes shut and appearing to struggle for composure. Morrigan smirks and settles back in her seat, having done her wicked deed for the hour.

"I will say, 'Maker's sack' is a good one. You've spent all the standard oaths on me many times over, I'm happy to see you getting creative."

Anansi has long since stopped trying to intercede between them. It is like ritual, now -- Alistair is clumsy but kind, Morrigan teases him for it, Alistair clearly wants to strangle her with her own scarf. Neither of them has ever cornered Anansi and begged to be kept away from the other. It is a dance -- not one Anansi would ever be able to follow the steps of with any grace, but both of them seemed to be doing just fine.

"Thank you for asking after my comfort, Alistair." Anansi tucks an errant strand of straw-blond hair behind Alistair's ear, tracing his stubbled jawline with gentle fingers as he brings his hand back down. Alistair's shoulders unbunch and he blushes. Anansi doesn't have to be facing Morrigan to know she's rolled her eyes, nor does he have to be clairvoyant to know she would later pointedly perform the same gesture on Anansi before grasping his chin and kissing him hard enough to bruise. Mockery is Morrigan's way, but there is flattery in it for the chosen few, if one has eyes to see. "I am anxious, to be sure. Anora has painted a grim picture. But I am well-accustomed to horror."

"Well, sure, but…"

"You think it is worse, that it happens to… 'my kin'?" Anansi tosses back his thick raven hair, revealing pointed ears, but these ears are adorned with bone charms, much like his neck and his wrists: a witch's fetishes. A Chasind witch's fetishes. "I am not elven, Ali, my love. I am of the Wilds."

"Barely," mutters Morrigan, who has never forgiven Anansi for being dragged off to the Circle.

"I know little of elven culture, city or Dalish. When I walk into that place, they will see pointed ears, yes. But they will not see kin."

Alistair nods, teeth worrying at the inside of his lip as he considers. "I am Fereldan, but… not. To me, I am Avvar. But people insist on seeing a Fereldan, when they look at me." He blinks, refocusing on Anansi. "But that's the opposite of what you're saying, isn't it. Sorry. May have misunderstood."

Anansi's smile is soft, appreciative. "I think you understand just fine."

--

When Anansi walks into that place, that place with its structures sagging with disrepair and its peoples sagging with despair, that place with its defiant garlands and tapestries made with hands desperately trying to recall arts lost, that place lousy with plague -- not just sickness, but the crawling presence of the Tevinter Imperium -- he feels a queer sickness descend upon him like a smothering shroud. His vision doubles, trebles, then snaps back. He sways on his feet, and Alistair, used to this, steadies him with a hand.

"All right?" the other Warden asks, quietly.

"No," Anansi sighs, "but it matters not." He scans the landscape, his eyes continually catching on coughing beggars and wilting gardens and wailing children. "There must be a... a leader of sorts around. Let's--"

He'd stepped forward, intent on finding someone to question, but in an instant the alienage goes grey in his vision, and he knows he is gone. He rides the wave of vertigo, swallowing the rolling nausea, softening his eyes as colours and shapes shift and recede and expand. Acute and aching sensation of being stretched like soft candy as he is pulled up and out and sideways, away from his body, into the Archdemon's dream. Were the darkspawn here, too? Was this their plague? No… he senses Urthemiel's psychic intercedence has another cause.

Steadied in the Fade-shift, he looks up. The thick, gnarled tree at the center of the Alienage stands stark against the blackened sky, thrumming with energy, electric with it. < Burn. Burn. Burn! >

Urthemiel's capacity for eloquence is variable, and it seems today he is too riled to bother with clarity.

< Took our ichor. Grew tree from it. Grew in power. Hungry hearts, hungry elvhen hearts. >

Anansi looks upon the alienage's tree with new eyes. Yes. The power, though greatly dimmed with the passage of time and the ravages of neglect, is still there. Stolen, warped, reforged. He can feel the Archdemon's psyche surging, as if it is standing up, preparing to fly. A blast of heat at Anansi's back, dragon breath, dragon rancor. The tree is engulfed in flames, and Urthemiel sinks its great teeth into it, ripping, ripping. Nothing will ever quell Urthemiel's rage, nurtured over ages, but this… this would at least bring a savage pleasure.

"-- wouldn't smell all that great, either!" Anansi swallows against another heave of his stomach as he is wrenched back into his body, the tail end of whatever retort Alistair was delivering to Morrigan clanging like dented bells in his ears. Alistair, sensing Anansi's return, flinches guiltily and looks down at the head he is cradling in his lap. "Ah, love, you're back."

Anansi's gut aches, and he misses Sten and their delicately brewed root tea terribly. Maybe he would leave all this to the senior Warden and run off to the forest where the Qunari, misliking human cities, had gone on a personal investigation. Maybe he would leave it all. Take Sten and head south, to… the Wilds, the Wilds that were now overrun with darkspawn, the fens and marshes and swamps festering with Blight, and his people…

"Anansi?" Morrigan queries from behind her scarf, wrapped around her face against the sour smells of the alienage. "What ails you?"

He then feels the tears trickling unheeded from his eyes, and the weariness that weighs him down as he struggles to sit up. Some elves had crept close to them, wary but curious. He shakes off the malaise. "I'm just tired. Unfathomably. It matters not. We have a job to do."

Later, Morrigan would wreathe him in silk-soft magics and let him weep, let his exhaustion and his grief flow out of him like the Blight that would soon flow out of Urthemiel's ravaged body at his command. Later, Alistair would bring him sweets and some up-charged but admittedly amusing trinket from Wonders of Thedas and squeeze him tight against his big, warm body until the tension shudders out of him and is replaced with desire's sweet ache. Later still, Tevinter would be purged from Denerim's alienage and a tired but hardy Hahren Valendrian would offer Anansi a boon, and Anansi will ask only to visit with the tree -- the vhenadahl -- awhile. He is not elf. He is not dragon. And yet, he is. It is being elf and being dragon that have brought him here, to this place: core threads of the multiplicitous fabric of his existence. When he approaches the vhenadahl, he knows it to be kin.

[skyhavens]

PROMPT : Joining. DRAGON AGE: ORIGINS ERA. Words: 1094. Characters: Halva Aeducan, Duncan, Alistair Theirin.

… know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten.

The words slithered eerily between her ears as she fought to stand upright, as rivulets of night-dark blood stretched towards her worn boots from Jory’s body and Daveth’s sagging mouth, as she watched Duncan lift the silver chalice of darkspawn blood for the third time that night. Her stomach pitched, and her hands curled at her sides, and her breath stilled on chapped lips.

In the moonlight, a smear of saliva on the rim of the cup gleamed like dew – another harrowing reminder of what might be delivered right into her hands.

Sacrifice. Death, prettily painted over.

She’d become strangely acquainted with the concept over the past month’s events and travels, but even familiarity did nothing to quiet the fear that burrowed through her veins alongside the hot pulse of her blood.

As she’d proven in the Deep Roads, Halva Aeducan was not ready to die.

… will not be forgotten.

Glancing towards the Junior Warden who stood at her side, she found that he was staring at her and her alone, pointedly avoiding looking at the pair of fallen men scattered across the ground. It would be difficult to rouse them with an eager, almost hopeful stare. Better off giving that to the living, and that was what she got – wide eyes, hazel and astoundingly pure, as if nothing ill had ever befallen him.

Halva knew better than to believe that, but even still, there was an anticipation in how he looked at her that proved to be almost contagious.

She lifted her chin.

A whistling wind slipped through Ostagar’s ruin, thieving them of a nearby torch and extinguishing the better part of the light that remained to them. But in doing so, the shadows brightened rather than deepening, and her vision cleared. 

Duncan set the chalice in her hands.

Against the cup of her palms, Halva felt every rise and fall of the griffon’s wings that had long since been etched into the surface. She knew not when the chalice had been beaten to shape and etched with all the precision one could muster. With a half-curious, half-anxious brush of her fingertips, she found that the individual feathers had been detailed down to the shaft and the vane, as if the Wardens’ griffons could easily take wing from the exterior of the cup.

Would she follow suit, if given the option? Would she take the sky over the bloodied ground?

Her eyes slowly drifted shut as steady breaths shoved the fear down. It reached back without a moment’s hesitation, tethering itself to her hands and wrists and forearms, unwilling to let go. The muscles in her chest seized, and she clamped her teeth down on the soft inside of cheek to keep from gasping uselessly for air. Instead, her nostrils flared as her fingers gripped the silver chalice’s slender throat as if she sought to choke the thing.

Jory’s panic earned him a dagger in the ribs and a widow and an icy grave. The same would not be given to her. Cowardice was her brother’s weapon, not her own.

Breathing would be easier once all of this was done.

Surviving would be. 

Or – perhaps – she would die in a heap like Daveth, with darkspawn blood boiling black at her gums and a glitter of feeble struggle in her lightless eyes. Perhaps the first and only sip would be a poison to her. Perhaps she’d drop like a royal food taster. Perhaps she’d linger, blighted, unable to think for herself aside from the wretched throes of agony.

“Drink,” Duncan murmured to her. Gravitas clung to the sound of his voice. The Joining was no small thing. It was a matter of life and death. It was a matter of the Grey Warden order. Alistair watched the two of them with that same look, reflected from a deeply different face, and gestured with a jerk of his chin towards the chalice after their eyes met. “We will not get our answer if you refuse to drink.”

Yes, we will. The answer will be your knife, Warden.

Halva peered down at Jory’s corpse before looking back into Duncan’s face with a disapproving furrow in her brow. They could have convinced him to move forward with the Joining, had Duncan given them enough time to speak to the recruit. Not that such a thing mattered any longer. The man was dead. Both of them were, and she was the only remaining recruit, holding a massive ceremonial chalice full of blood and standing on unsteady feet beneath two very different stares. She was their last hope for another to join their ranks.

She took another breath. It smelled of iron and rot, and as she lifted the cup, the thickening blood within clung to the rounded silver surface.

Vile. Vile vile vilevilevile.

The chalice was heavy. How many wardens had the cup she held birthed? How many men and women had died after drinking from it? One thought chased another, but the only word that shone above all was a discordant echo.

Sacrifice, the chalice spoke to her. Just one sip.

Halva exhaled, lifted the cup to her mouth right where Daveth had drunk from, and she sipped.

She sipped. She drank. She sobbed at the wretched taste. She shoved the cup back into Duncan’s waiting hands, and she hunched over as her stomach twisted into agonized knots. She gagged and coughed and wept, spit trailing from her dry lips onto the bloody ground below as she waited to see if her end was sacrifice or warden.

“Good.” Duncan’s voice reached her as if he stood miles away. The frenzied pulse of blood in her ears forced the sound of him away, and she was grateful for it. He spoke as if her survival was a sure thing, but her guts cramped and her throat seized and her mind provided her with any number of grisly things that might yet come to pass. “You will survive.”

Halva choked back another rush of tears and rubbed her gloved fists into her eyes. Calming down seemed like an impossibility. Her body was a panicked thing that locked onto the pain that convulsed inside of it, thinking that the clawing at her stomach and the roiling in her guts was nothing more than a prelude to death. 

But Duncan knew better.

Duncan was convinced she would not die.

As the suffering burned through her, though, Halva was not so certain. She was not even sure that she didn't crave it.

[kirkwallsfinest]

Five Sovereigns Says...

Day Eight // Prompt: Sovereigns

Full List HERE

It was never about the money, but you'll be damned if you lose a bet.

Garrett Hawke/Reader

“Five sovereigns says…”

It’s a phrase that has, over the past few years, for better or worse, become a staple in your vocabulary. It started as a bit good-natured prodding between you and your little ragtag band of misfits — half of the joke being that none of you really even have five gold pieces to spare between the lot of you — but you and Hawke really latched onto it as your own little inside joke. A hand nudging you, urging you to look across the way to gossip about a templar who is most definitely cheating on his wife — five sovereigns say so, anyways — or perhaps to coax you into some horribly thought out stunt for rather alluring grand prize that would, truthfully, never pass between either of your hands.

“Five sovereigns say you can’t steal Aveline’s sword out from under her,” you say, just before Hawke goes slinking off into the shadows.

“Five sovereigns you can’t break into that noble’s estate,” he says, just as you take a running leap to scale the outer wall.

It’s a fun little game the two of you share, and its one that quickly regulated itself to be between just the two of you. Not that you’re complaining, of course.

You smile to yourself, tongue darting out to wet your lips in preparation for a murmured jab at someone in your peripherals, only to find Hawke already gazing down at you. With those pretty brown eyes glimmering in the dying sun he steals your breath away, and you’re fumbling to recover with some half-baked comment. For what reason, you don’t know, although you feel it has less to do with being startled and more to do with the unreadable, yet unmistakably fond look in his eyes, brewing there long before he was caught staring. You’re vaguely aware of the fact that the words that fall from your lips are rather different than what you had planned — something about the man across the way, perhaps to do with his slacks? — but you suppose you can’t be blamed too harshly. The damnable rogue does have quite the penchant for stealing your words right from under you.

If he catches your slip, he doesn’t seem to mind: even as they become more frequent — less bashful, but more enamored — he doesn’t seem to mind. He prods and teases, sure, but it’s all in good fun — no different from the game that you play every day. And if he starts to lose his tongue too, you choose not to comment on it, tempting as it may be. It’s rare to catch him in such a fumble, and perhaps that’s why you keep those little moments so close to your chest — a moment of vulnerability, saved for your eyes only. But sometimes it’s tempting to talk about it… like now. The sun long gone, the pristine walls of his estate lit only by the roaring fire in the hearth, and a mere microcosm of distance between you as you laugh softly about the events of the day… it tempts you.

“Five sovereigns” was never about the money.

“Five sovereigns say you won’t kiss me,” he grins at you from over his glass, with that same fond look in his eyes from the first time.

But you’ll be damned if you ever back down from a bet.

Barely-there walls finally, finally crumble to dust around you as years of wanting are poured into a single moment — his lips on yours, pressed chest to chest. The fire dulls to embers as time passes, untended to in lieu of drinking the aftertaste of wine from the lips of the other — far, far sweeter than the gold could ever be.

[divademonic]

#VEILGUARD30 - rook dev. prompts 1 - 4

name: Elín "Rook" Ingellvar

age: 20s, early

race: dalish elf but city raised

background: mourn watch

[milesmentis]

Bards

Day 5: Veilguard 30 (Filling in for @daisymeade with a snippet featuring her Hawke, the best worst only bard in Kirkwall ... DA2 didn't give us the bard spec because they knew that Marion would've been literally unstoppable.)

“And now, gentle patrons, I shall pass my hat.”

“What for?” A loud voice cut through the grumbling, catching the attention of very nearly everyone in the room. Cyric squinted. The speaker was a lanky man sitting in the far corner nearest the door. He was leaning back, his chair precariously balanced against the back wall, his booted feet up on the table. A heckler.

Cyric pulled himself up to his full height. “For the evening's fine entertainment, serah.”

“Oh, and when does that start?” The patrons snickered into their stale mugs of ale, even the ones who had been pointedly ignoring his luteing. “Sorry,” the man continued with a cocky grin, “but the Hanged Man doesn't run on credit.”

That really got the room going, a few whistles and stamps mixed in with the raucous laughter.

Cyric’s face burned, but he managed to snap back, “Well, I'd like to see you do better!”

At once, the man swung his leg down in a casual motion so smooth that it had to be practiced. As soon as his foot hit the floor, so did the legs of his chair and he was up and moving. He crossed half of the crowded room in a breath and Cyric couldn't help but gulp. The man was taller … and significantly wider than he'd originally assumed. His chest was broad and his arms rippled with lean muscle beneath his rolled up sleeves. His mouth still curved up in a languid grin, but from this close it looked much less friendly.

“That sounded like a wager.”

“And … if it was?” Nothing to do now but call his bluff … or possibly, he realized belatedly, take a very comprehensive thrashing. “Fancy a go?”

He held out the lute by the neck as if it was a dead chicken and the man's smile actually spread into a full grin.

“Well … I'll try anything once.”

“We know!” called one of the other patrons and the room cracked up again.

He turned to yell back over his shoulder, “And how was I supposed to know that was your sister? If she’d been mule-ugly and drunk, I'd have known to ask permission first!”

Ignoring the latest round of hoots and jeers, the man rolled his shoulders like he was loosening up to lift something heavy then held out a calloused hand.

“Terms?”

Cyric thought for a moment. “If you can play a song - any song - I'll cover all your drinks for the night.”

The man grinned. “Think you’ll get enough to pay up when you lose?”

Cyric stuck out his chin. “Having second thoughts about showing your ass in front of your friends?”

“Good one,” the man snickered. “But that assumes they haven't all seen it. Assumptions are like that.”

The man turned the lute back and forth, giving the instrument a critical once over before slinging the band over his neck. He settled his arm around it, a bit as if he were cradling a newborn calf and began to fidget with the tuning. Cyric snorted. Despite trying to look confident, the man’s “fiddling” would only take it out a tune - this was likely going to be more painful than embarrassing.

He plucked his first note, sour as curdled milk, and Cyric grit his teeth. More notes came in succession, trailing like lost ducklings in an arhythmic mess. He almost went to snatch his precious instrument back from the lout when he strummed a selection of discordant notes in a chord. It hummed sympathetically to the jarring notes hanging in the smoky room, creating a bridge. The man plucked again, a quicker run through the notes followed by the same chord twice, reigning in the chaos. Cyric winced again as the man’s rough fingers slid down the strings in a screech but it ended again in a chord, this one much more pleasing. The firelight danced on the man’s face, catching at his lips which now turned up in a less harsh expression, one of private satisfaction as if he’d just brought a difficult horse into line. The music was still not to Cyric’s taste, but there was a certain wild beauty to it. It sounded like a drunkard's waltz, swaying back and forth across the room until it bumped against those oft repeated chords.

As the phrase repeated again and again, the man began to embellish, adding trills and sympathetic chords until the song carried something remarkably close to a melody. The tempo increased and as the man began to stomp in time, Cyric realized with a start that not only was he swaying along with the beat, so were most of the patrons. Even the most hardfaced drunks were nodding in time or tapping mugs against the worn and sticky tabletops. The music built to a crescendo, quick triplets and a muddled mess of chords all crashing together. It came to an abrupt end with one final stomp from the redheaded man, but as a few cheers and some raucous applause drifted towards them from the table in the back he stomped again. And again. And again. Expectant quiet fell then, all attention drawn to him like metal shavings to a lodestone. And he began to sing.

Fortune, fortune, smile and fade

Haven't seen you much of late

His voice was like his luting: unpolished, lilting, and undeniably Ferelden. The cadence of his words swayed in an almost dirge-like rhythm as he continued:

Need you now, I cannot wait

But when I look you’re not around

Cyric startled when a few patrons joined in, the strongest voices coming from a table full of laborers, judging from the stone dust on their clothes.

Never minding what we do

The night’s still good for a dram or two

I’ll be drinking late with you

Until the morning comes around

Yea, I must be good for something

Yea, pray tell?

His crooning dropped deep into his chest at that last part, aching with a desperate longing. A tremulous chord hung in the air for a breath before the man threw back his head and, followed by almost two dozen voices, launched into the chorus.

Oh sinners come down, come gather 'round

Oh sinners come down, lay-o-lai

Dancing on cold feet

Marching down cobbled streets

Oh sinners come down, lay-o-laaaiii

[grapecaseschoices]

I decided to use #veilguard30 by @/pavus as an excuse to flesh out my rooks!

DAY 1: Name.

ESTHER THORNE

Esther: Esther is a feminine name derived from Hebrew or Persian, possibly meaning "star". It is also the name of a biblical queen who saved her people from destruction.

Vashoth; Grey Warden; Mage (Spellbinder)

cis woman; she/her

arrogant, expressionless, playful, attentive, charismatic, unyielding, picky

fc: stephanie yeboah

Possible LI: Bellara.

FREYR INGELLVAR

Freyr: The name Freyr has its origins in Scandinavian mythology and holds great significance within the Norse pantheon. Derived from Old Norse, the name Freyr is translated to mean Lord. In Norse mythology, Freyr is a prominent god associated with fertility, prosperity, and peace. (source)

Nickname, besides Rook: Fre.

Orzammar (Dust Town)-Born, Surface-Raised; Mourn Watch; Warrior (Reaper)

gender subject to change cis man; he/him

straightforward, political, sweet, respectful, patient. insecure, covetous

fc: ???

Possible LI: Taash

VALENTIN DE RIVA

Valentine: Valentine is a gender-neutral name of Latin origin meaning “strong” or “healthy.” It is derived from the Latin word valens, and is related to the Latin names Valentinus and Valentinian. Valentine has biblical roots with over 50 saints and a pope sharing the same name. (source)

Nickname, besides Rook: 'Tín

Tal-Vashoth; Antivan Crow; Mage (Death Caller)

trans man; he/they

daring, quirky, lively, protective, meticulous, thievish

fc; blake leahy & laith ashley (somewhere in-between)

Possible LI: Davrin

FARRYN LAIDIR

Farryn: The baby boy name Farryn is also used as a girl name. Its pronunciation is FAA-RihN †. Farryn is used chiefly in the English language and it is also derived from English origins. Farryn is a variant of the name Farrin (English) (source) | In English Baby Names the meaning of the name Farryn is: Adventurous (source)

Nickname, besides Rook: Ryn.

half-(surface) Dwarf & half-(city) Elf; Lords of Fortune; Rogue (Saboteur)

nonbinary; ey/em

gremelin nonfussy, sentimental, pragmatic, impulsive, LiarTM, self-centered

fc: bailey bass

Possible LI: Neve or Lucanis

[dell-amor-te]

“A Conversation For Another Day”

Otherwise known as my Veilguard30 Day 3: Race entry, but I used it as an excuse to write some Dadcanis.

Word Count: 2,001.

Warning(s): Mildy suggestive language. Very mild.

Pairing: F!Rook x Lucanis Dellamorte.

Summary: Putting her daughter to bed turns into more of a struggle than Nöa is prepared for.

“Alright, da’len, are you ready for bed?”

Nöa smiled as she watched her daughter scurry back and forth across the breadth of her bedroom, setting toys where they belonged for the night. This was entirely her daughter’s rule, mind you. Not a rule inflicted upon the five year old by her mother or father’s design.

A giant stuffed crow had to go back to its nest (her bookshelf, on the highest shelf she could reach) for the night. Any books she had pulled from their homes also had to go back. Any pieces added to her personal art collection were also collected and replaced as she saw fit: on her little writing desk by her garden window, on top of her dresser, in the sill of another window.

Nöa chuckled, watching from the doorway, arms crossed over her chest.

“That’s everything! I’m ready.”

With judgment passed and her declaration made, the half-elf made for her bed. Everyday the girl grew and grew and grew, the more and more and more that her parents’ decision to name her Judex proved itself truer and truer and truer.

Nöa joined her daughter, taking a seat on the side of the bed while Judex herself made herself comfortable under the covers.

“Mama, I have a question.”

“Ask away.”

“You’re an elf.” Judex said pointedly.

Nöa blinked before recovering from her surprise, laughing softly. “Last I checked, yes.”

“And baba is a human.”

“Also guilty as charged.”

“And your baba is human, too.”

“And my mama was an elf.” Nöa finished for her.

“But you’re all elf and I’m not. How come?”

You know, if someone had told her before she became a mother that moments like this came along with it, she would have made up her mind about having children a lot sooner in life than she did. Who else would ask such a question entirely out of nowhere other than her daughter?

Nöa nodded thoughtfully, considering her words carefully. “Well, little lady, that’s because your baba and I made you ourselves.” She said evenly, brushing her fingers through her daughter’s curly hair. “Your baba gave you to me, and I grew you in me.”

She chose each of her words carefully, lest Judex’s quick mind ask questions she wasn’t old enough to have proper answers for.

“Did nonno not give nonna you?” The little girl’s brow scrunched thoughtfully.

Nöa sighed. To her credit, she suppressed the way her mouth wanted to cringe. “Da’len, I’ll be honest with you, you know how there are some things that you’re not quite ready to learn yet?”

Judex nodded seriously, hugging the colorful sash-turned-sling-turned-comfort-blanket that had once belonged to Bellara tightly. “Like how you mix your poisons. But I can know what plants they come from so I don’t hurt myself.”

“Like that.” Nöa nodded proudly. “That is one of them, my little fledgling.” She told her. “I had a mama and baba who made me, but they couldn’t keep me. I never met them. I was barely a week old when they were taken from me.”

“You mean they died.”

“Yes.”

“That’s sad. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, Judex. Jude, Jude, Jude.” Nöa’s heart swelled as she hugged her daughter. “Fledgling, you’re too sweet sometimes. It is sad. I would have liked to meet them, and I would have liked for them to meet you, too. But, I got to meet mama and baba, and then because of that path, I got to meet your baba and all of your aunts and uncles. I got to have you. I wouldn’t trade that, even as much as I wish I could have known them.” She kissed Judex’s mess of hair. “I hope that answers your question.”

“It does.” Judex paused. “Can I ask another?”

“Of course.”

“Since you and baba can make your own babies, does that mean you’ll make me a brother or sister?”

“Alright, Jude. Time for bed.” Nöa rose swiftly, moving to tuck the little half-elf into the knotted blanket that enveloped her bed.

“Mama!”

“No, no, no!” Nöa chuckled, leaning in to kiss her forehead. “It’s past time for you to go to bed.”

“You know I won’t go to sleep.”

“Yes, I know. But it’s passed time, and I gave you extra time.”

“Fine.” The girl said capriciously. “Love you, mama.”

“I love you, too, da’len. Don’t stay up too late.”

“I won’t.”

She would. And Nöa knew she would. The poor girl was a living example that sleeping habits could, apparently, be genetic. And she had inherited her father’s instead of Nöa’s own.

A Dreamer who rarely slept. A joke even Nöa couldn’t have conceived of herself.

Well, she had conceived said Dreamer, but…

Nöa shook her head, releasing the spell that kept the candles illuminated in her daughter’s room, before leaving her beloved child to her nightly routine. Once the bedroom door was closed between them, Nöa chuckled to herself.

As she made her way to her own bedroom, the elf hummed to herself. A Dalish poem her mother used to recite to her, one she now recited to Judex when the girl couldn’t sleep.

Dalish, Antivan, Nevarran.

While the girl may have taken a great deal after her father in a great deal of ways—a fact Nöa adored—she had her mother’s voracious hunger for knowledge. Both parents had made a conscious effort to teach her about each piece of her heritage, they had even since before her birth.

Her father loved speaking to her in Antivan—whether he was explaining a recipe, reciting an old nursery rhyme he had been taught at her age, or simply giving her a stream of consciousness presented in his own tongue.

Nöa taught her elven and Nevarran. From history lessons, to the names of things as compared to their names in other languages, anything and everything. The girl was a sponge, so alike her mother in that way, and yet Nöa could only dream of what it was like to have the mind of a Dreamer.

She hummed at the thought, strolling toward her own bedroom to retire for the night. Unlike her daughter, Nöa would be impressed if she was still awake by the time her head hit her pillows. She yawned just imagining it.

She practically snuck into her room, closing the door behind her, her hand lingering on the knob for a moment.

“That took longer than usual.” Lucanis noted.

“When did you get home?” Nöa asked excitedly, face alighting at the unexpected sight of her husband. “I thought you weren’t due back until tomorrow.”

“Just after you went into her room. Viago is finishing things, so I took my chance to cut and run early.” He chuckled as she made herself comfortable against his chest, snaking his arm around her shoulders to pull her in all the closer before they shared a kiss. “I also reminded him that of the two of us, I actually married my love. Once he does the same with Teia, maybe I won’t use it against him anymore.”

“Oh, but then you’re still the only one with a daughter to get home to.”

“A very good point, anima mia. But I don’t know if I want to strike that particular nerve.”

“Well, it’s not like they minded asking us when we were going to get around to it.”

“And it’s not like you had any trouble telling them exactly when.” He smirked.

“If you’re going to ask a question like that, you should be ready for the answer.”

“Fair enough.” He chuckled. “However, I suppose it’s not surprising that he’s a little hesitant about it. Wouldn’t you be the slightest bit nervous to ask the king for permission to marry?”

“Not if I could easily kill said royal father, no. Definitely not if I was proposing marriage to Andarateia Cantori, no.” Nöa said definitively. “Besides, I had to perform the banns with Illario when I married you.”

“You didn’t have to.” Lucanis reminded her, kissing each of her knuckles before lacing his fingers in the spaces between hers, smiling knowingly. “You wanted to. Because you’re ridiculous.”

“And you love it.”

“I do.” He kissed his forehead. “I love you.”

Nöa hummed before kissing him back.

“So, what took so long tonight?” He asked her once they had both properly shown the other just how much they had been missed.

“She had questions.” Nöa told him, sighing.

“Oh? And what did our diavolina come up with tonight?”

“Oh, nothing too crazy. I did narrowly avoid the classic how babies are made talk.”

Lucanis nearly sputtered. “What?”

“She wanted to know why we both had parents who are elven and human, and yet I’m a full elf and she’s only half.”

“Ah.” He nodded, relaxing. “And…did she accept your answer?”

“For now.” Nöa confirmed, absently picking at a loose thread at the edge of their bed covering. “I very carefully explained that sometimes people can make children, and sometimes people can’t. And that some of those people that can’t will choose to take care of someone else’s children.”

A pause. Very uncharacteristic of his wife, Lucanis noted.

The Crow raised an eyebrow. “She had another question, didn’t she?”

Nöa nodded deliberately, her pursed before giving her rather coy response. “She did then follow it up by asking when we were going to make her a brother or sister since we can clearly make our own.”

Lucanis snorted, then laughed properly. He could imagine their daughter, in her tiny but confident voice, asking such a thing.

“She gets that from you.” Lucanis told her.

“Yeah, right. Just like she got her sleeping habits from you.” More seriously, she added: “I’m…not opposed to the idea.”

“Really?”

“Really.” Nöa nodded. “Although I do hope we don’t start trying this time only to find out I’m already pregnant. Again.”

Lucanis shrugged. “What are the odds of it happening twice?”

“A terrible question to ask where we’re involved, vhenan.”

“So much for being married to the Lucky Hare.” He feigned a sigh.

“Ha, that’s only where the Venatori are involved, I’m afraid.” She smiled against his lips. “Are you sure you want this?”

“How exactly did you tell our daughter we went about bringing her into the world, hm?”

“I told her that we made her together, and then you gave her to me.”

He smiled before kissing her tenderly. “Is that how you see it?”

“Lucanis, love, unlike our daughter, I’m not five. I know how it works.” She thought for a moment. “But…I suppose just because it’s poetic doesn’t mean it’s entirely inaccurate.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” He kissed her again, more hungrily this time. “I’ll give you another. And another. As many as you want.”

“Crows and rooks usually have similar sized clutches, you know. Anywhere from three to six.”

“Well, maybe not as many as you want, then.” He teased.

“Oh, definitely not six. Or five. Or four.”

“Three?” He suggested. “Or two?”

“I…think I could live with three.” She decided after a moment of thought, eyes set on studying him. “What about you?”

“Isn’t that supposed to be the perfect number?”

They shared another kiss, deeper, more lingering. And then another, and then another, and then Nöa was pushing him down on the bed.

“Should we get to work?”

“No time like the present, right?”

Not a moment later, the sound of something breaking stopped them both in their tracks. Nöa sighed against her husband’s lips, drawing back, her hand still against his chest.

“Judex Panöwen Antonella Aldwir Volkarin-Dellamorte!” Lucanis called, his voice lacking an edge beyond the slightest reprimand, his accent thick and pronunciation quick.

A beat.

“It was an accident!”

Nöa chuckled, shaking her head. “Maybe just one for a little while longer.” She suggested as her husband pulled himself away to go and see what their inquisitive only daughter had gotten herself into this time.

“Maybe just one until this one’s fifteen.” Lucanis shot back.

Their second daughter would be born within the year.