Hero Fabled

𝑨𝒇𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔, 𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒈𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒅, that includes the little things such as taking in the view from the Light House. Even now as he finds himself in comfortable standing and far from poverty he knows that riches are not something that matters to those in the life after - and for now they are simply shiny bobbles that can add a bit to life. But it's not the things that make it worth living - it's more often than not the people and the things one learns along the way. And this experience while certainly heavy on their shoulders and one that could end with the world in utter devastation - it's an opportunity most would never get.

𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄, yes, but also a truth that she struggles to let herself believe. It is easy, she thinks, for him to speak of beauty in chaos when he himself is so capable of finding it, so willing to believe in the potential of things she can no longer see. She watches him, dark eyes thoughtful beneath her lashes as he speaks of blooming flowers and new trees, of hope amidst ruin. Something deep in her chest twists gently at that▬▬the conversation with Varric drifting to the surface of her mind. He'd warned her about missed chances, about carrying regrets, only hiding in the what ifs▬▬he had been right. And now, standing here with Emmrich, she feels it more clearly than ever. Her gaze drifts momentarily downward, her throat tightening slightly. He too moved closer▬▬close enough that she can feel the warmth of his presence, that soft, reassuring steadiness he carries with him. Suddenly she’s keenly aware of the distance shrinking, but she doesn’t step away, doesn't pull back from the pull that draws her toward him. She lifts her eyes to his face once more, her heart quickens its pace in response, a quiet flutter that she tries to quell as she glances up at him through the shadows cast by the lighthouse. Warmth spreads anew over her cheeks like the bloom of a flower. ❝ Beauty een chaos, ❞ she murmurs, as if testing the words, allowing herself to imagine that hope, to hold it even briefly. ❝ I want zat to be true. To know zat after all ze ruin, something good will come of eet. ❞ She pauses, chest rising and falling softly with each careful breath, her fingertips brush gently against the glass of the flower’s case again, finding grounding in its glow. It’s hard, sometimes, to reconcile his hopeful words with the harsh truths she's known. Yet somehow, standing close to him, those burdens feel lighter, manageable, less daunting.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 several times in his lifetime. The blight, the rifts, and now this and so much more in between. The in between much smaller than the three listed in comparison. And yet they still survive, they still live to fight another day. Though it can be exhausting and one might wonder what will be left at the end of the day - if they don't fight they'll never know.

𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄'𝐒 𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 about the way he looks at this place▬▬not just as a scholar, as someone who seeks knowledge, but as someone who feels it. How she used to look like that at the world, before it all became about saving the world. Before the Lords of Fortune, before she carved out her own path, she was Cassandre Chevalier of Orlais▬▬granddaugther of a noble Chevalier, raised in halls of grandeur where everything had a place and a purpose, including her. Her world had been one of endless expectations, every movement choreographed, every decision made for her before she could so much as take a breath. She had learned to smile where it was required, to bow where it was expected, to speak only when it was appropriate. But she had always longed for more, for something beyond the endless cycle of courtly games and carefully veiled words. Even then, she had dreamed of adventure, of something beyond the confines of gilded walls and politics. She had devoured stories of explorers and warriors, of those who took their fate into their own hands rather than letting it be dictated to them. But dreams had been all they were▬▬until the day she finally left. Until she had found the Lords of Fortune and, with them, a life she could choose rather than endure. Her fingers, calloused from years of wielding bow and quill alike, tighten around the glass case as she lowers her gaze to the flower once more. She lets her gaze lift again when he speaks of the lighthouse, the way it bends and shifts with those who now inhabit it. It is true▬▬the place almost feels sentient in its way, responding, adapting. Perhaps that should be unsettling, but somehow, it is not. Instead, it is an assurance that they are not simply intruders here. That▬▬perhaps▬▬they belong here, for now. And then, he turns to her, that smile brightening, coloring his cheeks in a way that sends warmth curling through her stomach. A chuckle escapes before she can stop it, soft but real, shaking her head as she finally meets his gaze fully. ❝ Non, Emmrich, I do not mind. ❞ The words are quieter, but they carry something honest beneath them, ❝ Eef anything, I envy eet. ❞

𝑨𝒇𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔, 𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒈𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒅, that includes the little things such as taking in the view from the Light House. Even now as he finds himself in comfortable standing and far from poverty he knows that riches are not something that matters to those in the life after - and for now they are simply shiny bobbles that can add a bit to life. But it's not the things that make it worth living - it's more often than not the people and the things one learns along the way. And this experience while certainly heavy on their shoulders and one that could end with the world in utter devastation - it's an opportunity most would never get.

𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒐𝒆𝒔𝒏’𝒕 𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒇𝒕, doesn’t tense, doesn’t act like this is something unfamiliar. Instead, he just lets her lean against him, lets her rest. Feels the weight of her head settle against his shoulder, her breath evening out, and mierda, it does something to his chest▬▬something tight, something unnameable. It isn't what he’s used to. He knows how to fight, how to bleed, how to keep people at arm’s length so they don’t see the cracks. But this ? This, it seems he can do. Just be here. Just stay. She’s warm against him, real in a way that cuts through all the other bullshit. And if staying here like this keeps her from feeling like she’s falling apart, then he’s staying put. He feels the way her fingers tighten around his, just a little. She laughs, soft, and he doesn’t miss the way her voice turns brittle at the edges. It’s funny… she says, but there is no real humor in it. He listens. Doesn’t cut in, doesn’t fill the silence with words that don’t mean shit. Just lets her talk, lets her spill out years of questions she never thought to ask, the weight of it all it must be pressing into her lungs like stone. And when she goes quiet again, when she shifts closer, Lucanis exhales slow through his nose. His free hand lifts▬▬hesitates for just a beat▬▬then settles against her back, fingers pressing firm around her shoulder. A steadying touch. Not pushing, not pulling, just there. ❝ Yeah, ❞ he mutters, voice lower now, ❝ Nothin’ ever does, ❞ His thumb brushes once, slow, against her knuckles before he smirks, just a little. ❝ But if we waited for shit to make sense, we’d never get anythin’ done. ❞ He leans his head back, his own eyes flicking to the dim glow of the room, the fish drifting in their tank like they ain’t got a single care in the world. Mierda, must be nice. No past clawing at their heels, no demon whispering in their ears, no fight that never seems to end. Lucanis exhales slow, watching them, and for a second, he almost envies the mindless ease of it. Because he never had that▬▬not once in his godsdamn life. A killer. A Crow. Nothing but a man with something dark curled up inside him. And maybe that’s why he stays. Why he lets her lean into him. Because she knows what that’s like, doesn’t she ? To have something bigger than yourself hanging over your head, something that changes the way people look at you before you even get the chance to speak.

𝑯𝒆𝒓 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝑳𝒖𝒄𝒂𝒏𝒊𝒔 𝒈𝒓𝒆𝒘 𝒅𝒂𝒚 𝒃𝒚 𝒅𝒂𝒚 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒔𝒉𝒆 𝒌𝒆𝒑𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎 𝒕𝒐 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒚𝒇𝒖𝒍 𝒒𝒖𝒊𝒑𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒇𝒍𝒊𝒓𝒕𝒔, but the truth is she always felt closer to him than anyone else here with them. Varric aside, of course, as he's family. But Lucanis seems to share so much with you that there is an unspoken bond between them that she finds herself holding on to.

𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐎𝐄𝐒𝐍'𝐓 𝐀𝐍𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐑 𝐀𝐓 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓. She just watches him, watches the way his smile lingers even as the exhaustion tugs at the edges of it. She hates that he sees her so easily. He calls her Bunny, and it makes her exhale sharply through her nose, her lips pressing together in something between amusement and frustration. As if he needs permission. He’s been calling her that since the moment they met, and every time, it worms its way past her defenses, settling into something almost comforting. She doesn’t let herself sit back down. She doesn’t trust herself to. Her grip tightens around the book at her side as he speaks, as he tries to wave off his injuries. She knows he is trying to make her feel better. That he is brushing off the pain, the near-miss, the way he is stuck in a bed while the rest of them are still moving forward. But she was there. She remembers the blood, the fear, the way her heart had stopped when he hit the ground. That guilt is one she carries every day. And yet, here he is, smiling, telling her she has to take these moments when she can. That there is no perfect time. That love is worth it, even in the chaos of it all. She wants to believe him. But▬▬Maker, how is she supposed to ? Her whole life, she has been running toward something. Toward adventure, toward purpose, toward anything that wasn’t the cold, gilded cage of Orlais. She had left behind the world of tight corsets and painted masks, choosing instead a life filled with meaning, with action. She thought she had figured out who she was. That she had become the kind of woman who could face anything. And yet▬▬ She has never faced this. She has never let herself have something that could be taken away. Not like this. She has loved before, but not like this. Never this deep, never this real. It is something terrifyingly permanent. She lets out a slow breath, shaking her head, her voice quieter when she finally speaks. ❝ And what if I do, Varric ? ❞ Her gaze flickers to him, sharp but uncertain. ❝ What if I let myself ‘ave this, and we lose anyway ? What if I ‘ave to watch ‘im fall ? What if I do ? ❞ Her throat tightens. ❝ What if ‘e ‘as to watch me…? ❞ And just like that, she falls▬▬tumbles headfirst into it.

𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒕'𝒔 𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕, 𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒊𝒅 𝒔𝒂𝒚 𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒊𝒅. He somehow hoped she wouldn't hold on to that part, but she did and now he finds himself looking away. Still he smiles as the memories flood his mind of a Once upon a Time that was nothing like his stories ... no happy ever after at the end of it all. He wishes it did, but he can't find it in his heart to regret it ever happening.

𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐄, her gaze drifts back to the flower in her hands, the glow of it flickering against her fingertips. A fragile thing, yet resilient, much like everything that lingers in this strange place. She wonders if it truly is the only one, if it exists because Solas wills it so, or if it is just another secret waiting to be unraveled. A gentle smile tugs at her lips as her gaze flickers back to his face, searching for something in the way his eyes linger on her with that smile resting on his lips. So calm, so unknowingly disarming▬▬with no jest in it, no teasing lilt. He means it. And that trust settles over her in a way she is not sure she deserves. Nontheless, the gesture settles over her like a warmth, sinking beneath her skin, visbily blooming across her cheeks before she can stop it. ❝ I appreciate your trust een me, ❞ she says softly, fingers tightening ever so slightly around the glass. ❝ And I will. Thank you, Emmrich... . ❞ she holds his gaze a beat longer than necessary, as if there is more she wants to say but cannot bring herself to.

𝑺𝒉𝒆 𝒉𝒂𝒔 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒘𝒏 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒔𝒕𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒉𝒚 but it's not only that. It's what she brings with her when he's around her. He can't even begin to explain it. All he's known since the loss of his parents is the feeling he's had in the Necropolis, in his studies and learning all the things he has about the dead and the tales they tell. With her, with this whole team he's amongst the living, the truly living. It reignites something i n him he thought unfamiliar and foreign, or simply locked away deep and almost forgotten about.

𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐊 𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐒 draw together, almost sadly, as if some part of her wishes she could believe him, wishes she could let herself hold onto that simple truth. But instead, her chest tightens. Because she knows what he’s going to say before he even says it. She watches him as he rises to his feet, slower than usual. Careful. He still moves with the ache of his wounds, the near-miss that could have taken him from them▬▬from her. And it still hurts to see him like this, knowing how close they came to losing him. How close she came to failing him. That guilt settles heavy against her ribs. She carries it every day, the quiet knowledge that there are so many who rely on her now. Varric relies on her. To get this done. And yet, here he is, smiling at her, peeling back the layers she desperately tries to keep in place. Her throat tightens. Perhaps he is right. Perhaps she and Emmrich are good for one another. Perhaps her feelings aren’t just some distraction she should push aside. Because what she feels for him is real. It is genuine in a way she has never known before, in a way that terrifies her with its depth. It isn’t a game. It isn’t a masked ball, where affections are fleeting and safe behind layers of pretense. And she has never been more unprepared. Cassandra exhales sharply, a small, heavy smile tugging at her lips as she finally turns to face him fully. ❝ Per'aps, ❞ she murmurs, the word softer than she means it to be. Honest. Her fingers tighten around the book at her side. ❝ But is eet something I can afford right now ? ❞ She shakes her head, not in dismissal, but in uncertainty. A rare thing for her. ❝ I barely know ‘ow we are going to keel dragons, let alone stop gods from tearing apart the world. ‘Ow am I to figure out what to do with my ‘eart ? ❞ She lets out a quiet, bitter laugh, but there’s no humor in it. Just exhaustion. ❝ We could all die, Varric. I almost lost you. ❞

𝐇𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬, it's a look that Orlesians usually get when they're contemplating something. For others it's usually how to scam or keep a fortune, or how they're going to punish a servant who put one feather out of place in their hair. For Cassandra it's always something more deep, more meaningful and about everyone else other than herself.

𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒗𝒂𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 hits him like a blade slipping between ribs▬▬silent, sharp, something you don’t notice until you’re already bleeding. His jaw tightens, just a little. Not from anger. Not at her. Never at her. He’s seen what judgement looks like, felt it cut through bone and breath. And he knows, just knows, that’s what she’s expecting now. Lucanis lets out a slow breath through his nose, dragging a hand over his bearded jaw. He doesn’t have some grand revelation to give her, doesn’t have some poetic truth to offer that will make this sit any easier in her gut. But he does know what it’s like to be tied to something dark, something that makes people look at you sideways, like they’re waiting for the moment you show your true colors▬▬waiting to see if you’re worth trusting. His fingers twitch before he realizes he’s still got them near hers, so he tightens his grip▬▬not much, just enough so she feels it. Enough so she knows he isn’t pulling away. ❝ Ehh… merda. ❞ The curse is quiet, muttered under his breath. He drags a hand through his raven hair, then exhales, shaking his head. ❝ Ophelia,… I hope you don't think I'm goin' to sit 'ere an’ look at you different because of dat. ❞ He huffs, tilts his head, ❝ Or dat dis makes you any less you. ❞

𝐈𝐭'𝐬 𝐚𝐧 𝐮𝐧𝐟𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐫 𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞 tied deep into her bones. She holds on to his hand and lets her head fall back against the sofa that she calls her bed. Hearing Lucanis' words make her smile even if it's a ghost of a thing along her lips. He is bringing her comfort, but if he came with coffee then that would make this a little more better.

𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒆𝒍 𝒊𝒏 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒃𝒐𝒏𝒆𝒔, fire in her heart▬▬her mother’s fire, her mother’s stubbornness. And his own. She wields it like a weapon, turning it against him, as she should. Therefore, her anger does not surprise him. He expects it, perhaps even welcomes it. Anger is easier than sorrow. Anger does not beg for reconsideration. He exhales, but there is no trace of humor, no relief in the breath he releases. Only weight. He can hear the echoes of the past in her voice, from a woman who once stood where Ophelia stands now. A woman who fought to understand him, to love him, even when he had already decided he could not afford to love her in return. It is not the accusation that cuts, but the familiarity of it. A thread of the same grief he has carried for too long. He has long since learned how to suppress such emotions, to let them surface only for the briefest of moments before casting them aside. There is no room for hesitation. He does not move. He should not listen. He should not let it in. And yet▬▬he lets himself feel it, just for a moment. Love. Love was never enough. Love did not save her. Love did not change what had to be done. She does not understand. How could she ? To her, it is a betrayal. To him, it was a means to an end. A sacrifice among many. It would not end for a friend who had once tried, in vain, to pull him back from the brink, nor for the woman who had loved him despite the ruin he carried. Not even for the child who shares his blood. ❝ You think I do this for myself ? ❞ his voice is quiet, but a flicker of tension pulls at his jaw, the barest crack in an otherwise unshaken exterior, ❝ I let her die, because I had already doomed her the moment she loved me. ❞ A storm brews in his gaze, not of rage, that darkens his expression, but of the truths too bitter to voice. Not directed at her. No, she is merely the one who has forced him to face it. ❝ You know nothing of what I have lost. What I have chosen to lose. ❞

𝐒𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐝𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐫, as there is no changing DNA. There is so much of him that runs through her veins as much as her mother and now she sees it all too clearly. Just how much of her there is in her ; what of her is made up by him. And it kills her knowing that it doesn't matter. Not this time. Maybe, somewhere in another universe it would have counted for something but here he is still so determined to do this. Tear down the veil, kill them all. Not all, he's managed to reduce the damage done. And yet people will still die, because as he said that's what they do.

𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒕𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒔 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒇𝒕, the small smile she throws his way. It ain’t right. He’s seen it too many times before to fall for it now. She jokes, and he snorts. ❝ Eh, I dunno. I think-a Varric might bounce. ❞ He flicks a glance toward the window, like he’s actually considering the logistics of chucking a dwarf off a lighthouse. A joke, light, easy▬▬but he knows she’s masking something under all that humor. And then she drops it, piece by piece. Identity crisis. Leadership. Trust. Godsdamn gods. He doesn’t move at first. Just leans forward a little, elbows on his knees, watching her. He knows what it’s like, to feel like the ground’s shifting under your feet, like nothing is what you thought it was. To wonder if the people standing beside you are gonna look at you different when they find out the whole truth. It ain't a good feeling. And it sure as hell ain’t one he’d wish on her. Because he’s been there. Is there. Carrying his own demons, and one with real sharp teeth and a voice that don’t ever shut up. People see him and they see Spite, and they assume the worst. That he’s dangerous. That he’s got no control. ❝ Y’know, ❞ he says, voice lower now, more even, ❝ there is not a soul in this place who don’t got complicated stamped all over ‘em. ❞ He gestures, a lazy wave of his hand like that explains every single person they ride with. ❝ You think you’re the only one tryin’ ta figure out where the hell you fit in all this? We’re all makin’ it up as we go. ❞

𝑶𝒉, 𝒔𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅𝒏'𝒕 𝒍𝒂𝒖𝒈𝒉, but the thought of him bouncing is a funny sight to imagine, especially across the light house and in the fade. Where he'll go, no one will know. Maybe he'll somehow pop back out through the Eluvian. She has to cover her mouth because the very thought will make her laugh too hard - and maybe that's what she needs right now. A good laugh ; but she fears that laughter will turn into tears and she hasn't cried in years.

𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐒 as he speaks of the Fade, of the flower’s possible properties, of the mysteries that shape this place into something both ethereal and unknowable. His curiosity is infectious, his musings unraveling in a way that makes her own mind wander. She used to be like this▬▬filled with wonder, always seeking, always moving. But now, she has not even noticed how much she has lost sight of the little things, the simple joys that once made her heart stir. Perhaps that is why she finds herself so drawn to him. Emmrich, with his endless fascination, his way of marveling at the world as if he has not yet been hardened by it. He still questions, still wonders, still lets himself be swept away by the beauty of a mystery simply for the sake of it. It is easy to be pulled into that orbit, to let herself remember what it feels like to pause, to listen, to allow herself even a moment’s indulgence in something that is not dire or necessary. When he speaks, she listens▬▬not just out of habit, but because she wants to. Often, she does not even realize when her lips begin to curve into a small, lingering smile. Even now, as he muses aloud, she finds herself considering his words, trying to find the answers with him. Her gaze drifts for a moment, catching sight of Manfred hunched over something, hissing happily at whatever small treasure he has unearthed now. Cassandra tilts her head slightly, amusement flickering across her face. He is ever the eager explorer, finding delight where others might see nothing at all. She is not sure what he has discovered, but the little creature’s enthusiasm is infectious in its own way. Then, as Emmrich continues, she shifts her focus back to him just in time to catch the subtle press of his lips, the flicker of mild exasperation that softens into something almost fond. ❝ I think ‘e will never learn, non ? But I suppose that makes ‘im who ‘e is. A troublemaker, but a charming one. ❞ Her laughter is light with a fondness and warmth in the way she glances at Manfred once more before returning her focus to Emmrich, the corner of her lips still faintly curved. She does not expect what comes next. Emmrich lifts the flower, the faint glow of it casting delicate patterns across his fingers. As he turns to her, the soft light catches in his eyes, and she watches▬▬caught as the flickering glow plays across his face, tracing the sharp angles softened by the moment. For a fleeting second, she is still▬▬not because it is something so rare like he said, but because it is from him. Her fingers brush against the glass as she reaches out, cradling it gently as if it might vanish under her touch. The warmth of his hands lingers on the smooth surface of the glass, and for a second, she simply studies the delicate shift of color within the petals.

𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝒔𝒐 𝒎𝒖𝒄𝒉 𝒉𝒆 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒔𝒐 𝒎𝒖𝒄𝒉 𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒐𝒆𝒔𝒏'𝒕 and that will always keep him going. There is always something to learn , so many things to discover. And with Manfred to teach as well. As she mentions Manfred he turns to watch him digging, looking for something and he just smiles.

𝐂𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐑𝐀 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖𝐒 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑. She should know better. An Orlesian of her standing is supposed to play this game with ease▬▬to dance around the subject, to mask feelings with charm and wit, to never let anyone see what truly stirs beneath the surface. She tries▬▬really tries▬▬to keep her expression schooled, to hold onto that carefully placed poise she was raised with, but her heart betrays her. It always does. Too easy to read. She has always been too transparent when it comes to the matters of the heart. She has spent her life observing, watching. A keen eye, sharp and trained, picking up on the smallest shifts in tone, the tiniest changes in body language. But herself ? Non. She is terrible at seeing herself. Her fingers tighten around the book still held in her lap as she exhales through her nose. And then▬▬because she cannot sit still under his gaze any longer▬▬she pushes herself up from where she sits. The movement is swift but not abrupt. She hopes it looks natural, that Varric won’t take it as the retreat it is. Her lips part, and for a moment, all she can do is stare at him before a helpless scoff escapes her throat. She places a hand over her chest in mock delight, though the way her fingers press against the fabric betrays her. A nervous tick. Her stomach flips. A rush of heat floods her face. There is no escape. Varric tickles▬▬that is the word for it. He prods, gently, persistently, unrelenting. Not out of cruelty, but because he sees, because he already knows▬▬and because he will always get it out of someone, no matter how well they think they can dodge. Perhaps that is why he is so damn good at what he does. Not just in writing, but in everything else▬▬the things no one else steps up to do. She inhales, exhales, tries to will her pulse back to something normal. ❝…Strictly professional, ❞ she echoes at first, a desperate attempt at feigning nonchalance. But the words taste wrong even as they leave her mouth. Because how could she possibly ignore what she feels ?

𝑯𝒆 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒔 𝒃𝒆𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅 𝒑𝒆𝒐𝒑𝒍𝒆, all the while writing a mystery or two. Those around him he'd rather know and keep whatever secrets he can in his stories. With Bunny it's pretty easy though he wouldn't dare tell her such a thing. After all it would be on the side of 'rude' to call her out on her obvious feelings for Emmrich. And how she seems to play almost the role of a doting figure to the one they call Manfred, or Fred if you're Neve.

𝒅𝒊𝒅 𝒉𝒆 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘? There is no hesitation. No faltering of breath or shift of expression to betray uncertainty. Of course, he knew. The moment her blood touched the Veil, when her existence rippled through the Fade like an echo of something familiar yet long abandoned, he had known. A tether formed, undeniable, unshaken. He had felt the shape of her magic, the rhythm of her soul brushing against the ancient fabric of his own. A remnant of a choice he once made▬▬a choice he had long since cast aside. There is no need to feign surprise, nor to indulge in sentimentality. That part of him, the one that might have lingered at the idea of her, at the thought of a life beyond the ruin he has committed himself to, has no place here. It died along with the dream of what could have been, buried beneath the weight of all he must undo. His gaze lingers on her▬▬studious, discerning, but distant. She bears the Inquisitor’s fire, the same spirit, though tempered by something rawer. Something that is his. He wonders if she has ever realized how deeply the Fade has always known her, how the spirits have whispered around her, drawn to her. Just as they had once been drawn to him. But it does not change the path before him. It does not change what he must do. ❝ The moment your blood marked the Fade, I knew. ❞ His voice is quiet, but there is no softness in it. No warmth. A truth he has held alone, just as he has held all his truths. But it was not knowledge that mattered. Not in the way she wishes it did. What good would it have done ? To turn back, to waver, to burden himself with yet another shackle in a world already so bound by chains ? He has spent centuries severing ties, unraveling bonds that would tempt him to hesitation. Why would he stop now ?

𝑺𝒉𝒆 𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒉𝒂𝒅 𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔 of who she is. Even when she felt like there was something uncertain and different about her she simply chalked it up to being the daughter of two elven mages. That her connection to the fade was something similar to all mages and in that touch the veil was just something of a tingle yet quiet and nothing important in her veins. Not like to her mother who had the anchor, or to her father.

𝒍𝒖𝒄𝒂𝒏𝒊𝒔 𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒏𝒔 𝒂𝒈𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒔𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒐𝒐𝒓𝒘𝒂𝒚, arms crossed, one boot braced against the frame. He ain't the kind to linger outside a door, least of all hers. But here he is, standing in the dim light of the lighthouse, fingers twitching at his sides like they’re waiting on orders his body won’t give. He doesn’t knock. Just listens. His brows pull together. Lucky ain't a word he’d ever use to describe himself, or any of them. Not when they’re out here, standing on the edge of something bigger than they can grasp, trying to hold back a tide that don’t give a shit about how hard they fight. But her voice▬▬Ophelia’s voice▬▬it’s different tonight. He knows the way she sounds when she’s frustrated, when she’s teasing, when she’s got that spark in her eyes that makes it too damn easy to forget the mess they’re in. This ain't that. This is… something else. Something in her tone makes his gut twist. He doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like this. She doesn’t get quiet like this. Even in the worst of it, she’s always had that sharp bite to her words, that fight buried in her bones…in those eyes. But this ? This sounds like someone who’s running on empty, and he knows damn well what happens when people get there. He’s seen it. He’s been it. People got their ghosts, their demons, their shit they don’t want no one touching. He’s got no right to pick at hers. But does he want to. Wants to step in, sit down beside her, figure out what the hell’s going on. Then she says it. ❝If Varric knew about this, I'm going to throw him from the roof of this lighthouse.❞ Lucanis exhales slow, lips twitching despite himself. Figures now’s a good a time as any. So, he steps inside. ❝ Dere’s more delicate ways ta get rid of someone, y’know ❞ His voice is lighter than he feels, like he’s trying to draw her back to something easier. Because she’s not fine. Because she’s so damn far from fine he doesn’t even know where to start. He leans against the back of a chair, close enough that she knows he’s there but not so close that she feels cornered. He’s not that good at the whole comforting thing▬▬never has been▬▬but he can be here. He can do that much.

𝐒𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝𝐧'𝐭 𝐛𝐞 𝐬𝐨 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐧𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐬 𝐢𝐧 ; 𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐰. Assassin by trade. To make himself unaware is part of the job, but she would also like to think she stays on her toes ... just not today. As he says there is a more delicate way to get rid of someone she sits herself back up , looking over the sofa with a hint of a surprised expression and gentle smile.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄 of a treasure hunter had always been one of unpredictability, and that suited Cassandra just fine. Leaving Orlais had been the best decision she ever made, trading gilded cages and suffocating expectations for the thrill of adventure with the Lords of Fortune. She had set her own rules, shaped her own destiny, sought out treasures not for wealth, but for the sheer exhilaration of the find. And yet, even with all the relics and lost wonders she had come across, nothing quite prepared her for this▬▬hunting down dragons and gods. It was madness, truly, but how could she have said no when the plea had come from Varric ? Some things were simply not up for debate. This evening, however, is a moment of reprieve. A breath of air away from strategies and dangers, a chance to simply exist without the weight of what looms ahead pressing down on her shoulders. She steps out from the lighthouse, craving the somewhat salty breeze, the openness of the world outside these stone walls. It is then that she hears her name, the voice unmistakable, calling to her with enthusiasm. Emmrich. Her head turns, and as soon as her gaze lands on him, a smile stretches across her weary features, lighting them up despite her exhaustion. There is something about him▬▬about his presence, his mind, his way of viewing the world▬▬that draws her in every time. Even now, as he gestures for her to join him, she does not hesitate, her steps unhurried yet certain. Manfred is close by, his energy ever boundless, still observing the area with his usual eagerness. Cassandra spares him a glance, fond amusement flickering across her face before her attention shifts to what Emmrich wants to show her. A flower, glowing softly behind glass, its colors shifting like a prism in the midday light. Her heart-shaped lips part slightly in awe, fingertips grazing the edge of the case as she takes in the sheer delicacy of it. ❝ I cannot say I ‘ave, ❞ she murmurs, voice colored with fascination. ❝ But nature truly ‘olds the most beautiful treasures. ❞

𝐇𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 ; 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐬 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭. True, Bellara also offers up her own enthusiasm just the same but she has her own things to deal with, such is the archive the young elven woman seems to be bickering with more often than not. He'd love to help her, but that is far from his specialty. This though, this is something he can use as downtime though some might consider it still, work.