m o u r n i n g l a m b

"If you insist. The offer stands." Rook shrugs one shoulder, a coy little smile tugging at one side of her lips. It certainly would not be the first time she's punched an man—certainly would not be the last. Her gut says to clock him HARD: make him spin like a candlehop. She herself loathes being told to be quite. Calm down. Watch yourself. Silence equates to obedience, in her mind's eye. And for someone to tell Bellara? Her friend? Someone akin to a younger sister she never had? To stop talking? It's a grave sin.

"You owe no one your silence. Cities are supposed to be loud. You can hear newspaper criers from all the way down the block: what's one more voice?"

"This is the closest I've ever come to it," she waves a hand to encompass the room and all that beyond it. The Lighthouse, the Fade beyond, the twisting Crossroads. "Though it probably doesn't count. Davrin and Lace and the rest are all here and they certainly aren't mages," Neve pauses to consider further. "Sometimes dreams have felt more...real than others. We mages are beacons, and sometimes it's as if I've caught the attention of something. I can hide, in those dreams. If I'm quick and clever enough. I haven't had one since I was a child," she remembers shaking her father awake in sweat-laden terror. He hadn't understood, not really. His dreams were merely the everyman's Fade wanderings. "Then I learned to fortify my mental defenses. To sweet, regular dreams I returned."

A common enough story. However, what Rook speaks of is another beast entirely. "We call people with your gift somniari in Tevinter. It's incredibly rare; I've only read about the phenomena myself. It's so scarce a talent that my life would have had a very different trajectory if I'd ever developed the skill," there have been entire generations without any documented Dreamers. Any somniari in the Imperium would have immediately gained the attention of Magisters across the nation. They would be all too eager to capture one under their thumb.

A thought occurs. "Is it common amongst your people? To be able to walk freely in dreams as you do?" The elves Rook come from are remote, purposefully isolationist. Perhaps the skill has flourished in those far reaches.

Rook's enthusiasm is dazzling. Neve also can't deny her own curiosity. Of course she would like to try. When will an opportunity like this ever show itself again? Even her natural wariness, the running catalogue of what could go wrong screaming in the back of her mind, isn't enough to dull the excitement she feels. Sue her, whatever Rook has is contagious.

"I admittedly don't know much Tevene. In the Elvhen language, we're i've'an'virelan—or Fade Walker, as a literal translation. It's not exactly common, but the Veil is thin in many areas of the Forest, making the frequency more so than say, the middle of Ferelden. All of our Keepers can walk the Fade, but not all i've'an'virelan are Keepers."

Rook had been her own Keeper's First—an heir to a past so ancient, most tales had to be memorized and passed down around roaring fires in the dead of night. Much has been forgotten or rendered taboo by the Dalish. But the Tirashi? They remember.

"Dreaming in this context is somewhat limited to where you fall asleep. Let's say you are in the ruins of a fort. In the Fade, you may see it in the past: rebuilt and whole again. Or, you may see it far into the future, overgrown with ivy and teeming with wildlife. However: the scene, as well as what dwells within, can shift and change. Sometimes you can sit and watch an event fold out as an invisible bystander. Other times: you can speak to and interact with spirits!"

She pauses for a moment, mulling over the question of where they would even go. The Lighthouse is relatively safe, and Andy has yet to have a bad experience. She has watched ancient elves mull about, completing tasks so ordinary, it felt like the average city. She has seen Solas alone here in the ruins, gazing off with a sad longing painted across his features. A large collection of rebels in the courtyard, shouting and ready to lay down their lives, if only to be FREE. Dancing sprites, confused yet glad to simply be.

"What about your study? You have many little curious friends there, and they definitely don't appear to want harm. Maybe you could see their true form? Maybe they'd even talk, but no promises."

I'm old and don't do fancy graphics - please love me ❤

Bellara Lutare & Konnor Hawke

red, she/her, 32.

21+, mutuals only, low activity, spoilers ahoy!

There are many a peculiar wonders in this life; one filled with those that bear intriguing qualities and the ones who flocked to them. Not at all out of the ordinary for such individuals to garner attention by deed and character, and during the quiet interim between the needle piercing skin, the acrid ink-blood beading in delicate droplets before cascading into gravity's embrace, Emmrich contemplates the peculiarity of Wardens, one in particular. A key force to rally around as the world seemingly ended, time and time again throughout the centuries. Is it, then, any wonder those of the grey-winged heraldry leads the charge as history twists itself to remind the world of time's circular passage?

And how willingly Rook throws herself into the maw of it without pause. Not even a moment's hesitation. An admirable (reckless, stupid) courage to witness even as it sends a fearful tumble through his heart each and every time. It's inspiring. Terrifying, truly. "Daring as always, my dear Rook. I would advise against throwing yourself into needless danger... However, that is the qualification necessary to even become a Warden in the first place, it seems." Is that the secret? To sign a lease on your life for weeks, months, even years longer in blood? To accept the reality they will each die fighting darkspawn, names forgotten by the world as they march into the dark?

Though, that's to be expected when every day could be your last, and as the conversation flows at a marvelous rate, Emmrich begins the process of wrapping the wound. Not too tight; not too fast as he gives Manfred the opportunity to observe.

"What a wonderful practice to accept death as life's eternal partner. Should the chance arise, I would love nothing more than to witness such events first-hand. Are your beliefs similar to the Avvar? Quite a fascinating culture! I've heard they co-exist with spirits as Rivain does."

Despite that fate awaiting her in the (hopefully) far future, Rook maintains a vibrant outlook on life. Vivacious, smile infectious as she divulges knowledge more precious than those found in old, impersonal records — this feels more personal, more trusted.

"The taint in your blood allows for nothing else, I presume?" The scars from the Blight are deep-rooted, defiling and leeching from the earth for decades. A vile decay without equal exchange, giving nothing in return save for the increasing need for resilience. "It's saddening to think of all of those people left the world without anything else to remember them by beside their names. Perhaps it's not so astonishing that those who out-live their expected deaths garner fame as Warden-Commander Amell did."

"I'm fine, Emmrich. Promise." A small whisper of a laugh dusts the air. A faint spirit, but much so living and thriving. She tries to resist, but gives in so easily, leaning to the chill of rings, the softness of a gentle hand. It is foreign, but welcomed. Almost trance-like—a natural reaction—a lithe, reassuring hand finds purchase on the necromancer's wrist, dozens of bangles just as cool as his rings. Eyes as wide as a spooked halla's map his face. Rook smiles in earnest (albeit shyly), a faint blush blooming across her cheeks, up to the tips of her ears.

"Really. 'Ma serannas, ma melava halani." Rook pulls back perhaps a bit too quickly, stumbling to her feet. She awkwardly struggles, shoving her arm back into the sleeve of her shirt, shredded as it is.

"I haven't thought much about my corpse, admittedly; but, it's yours to study after my death if you'd like. I've no need to return to the Tirashan." The thought alone—body laid bare to study and rifle through—it's oddly...comforting, in a macabre sort of way. She'd be dissected and autopsied in the most delicate manner. Flayed open as a grotesque work of art upon a stone slab. Maybe her bones would be preserved and articulated, cared for over countless eternities. Or perhaps, she'd be gently wrapped in the softest cotton, the seeds of flowers and herbs tucked in between the bindings. Beautiful foliage growing from the cavern of her chest forever.

"As much as I would love for you to see our cemetery, the Tirashi are very secretive—and the majority are outright HOSTILE to outsiders: particularly humans. And I've never seen the grounds myself: I don't know where they are. I could send a letter to my Keeper, but I doubt he would reveal the location just for us to be touring scholars." She busies herself deep in her pack, rooting through trinkets and notebooks and papers and various small knives. She palms at an ornate, Orlesian-styled bottle, carefully lifting it through the collected, disorganized MESS of her belongings. She uncorks it with a small pop, the scent of mulled wine and honey invading the air. Ritewine—circa 9:42 Dragon, Werifesteria. She takes in just enough to fill her dry mouth, swishes the dark liquid around, and swallows. The quintessential Warden medicine, just enough to take the edge of aches and pains.

"We are very dissimilar to the Avvar, though I can appreciate that they've remained true to their culture and religion over the centuries. I guess, in a way, we may share some cultural aspects with the Rivaini? Not exactly—we don't coexist alongside spirits. There's the odd Oracle or two that will commune with the dead willingly, but it's heavily ritualistic, and there are very few circumstances in which someone can be permitted an audience with an Oracle. And they're always an i've'an'virelan—or as Neve says, "somniari". Fade-walker, in the common tongue."

In truth, Andy could have been a fabled Oracle herself, living deep within the recesses of the forest. She could have had fine textiles, an aravel of her own, fine furs and bones and herbs. The cost to speak with a passed loved one is staggering, and she would have been very well off. However, the loneliness and isolation of the work would have driven her mad. The presence of a spirit cannot compare to the warmth and comfort of the living.

Her sight momentarily drifts back to Emmrich's bangle-stacked wrist as she sits herself neatly on a rock, resigning to sort through her pack to make it somewhat manageable. She enjoys the way they sound, clinking together in a little, abstract tune.

"I'm curious. Is your jewelry just something pretty you enjoy? Or is there a greater significance? We used chimes for funerary rituals to mark the years of a life. The sound is kind of similar."

He weathers her ire as a stone-faced cliff would: by a practiced, reserved steadiness. Good. This is a good reaction from Rook. The physical body is nothing more than a blueprint of old wounds — most of them inflicted by the severe hand of their family matriarch. The ringing in his hear is deafening, and the phantom-taste of blood paints each swallow red. Almost, almost, the urge to goad her further, farther, bloodier takes over as the box of chocolates flies through the air. A lasting scar would be the final penance. Is that not the ubiquitous law of the world? A crow tugged on a she-wolfs tail, surely he will loose a few feathers or even a wing from it.

Instead, sighing through his nostrils in a quiet manner, dispelling the cloying, unwelcome ideas Spite feeds into the psyche, Lucanis catches the box, careful not to let a single piece drop. An expensive brand from Leone's shop in Treviso's markets.

"It is not an ideal situation, no." A tepid agreement as he considers the remaining chocolate pieces, some broken and crumbling. "At least the end goal hasn't changed." The insignificant fact of a tomorrow yet remains — and so does the sweetness of a chocolate.

He sits at the edge, back to her with the box between them as an unwilling intermediary in this exchange. Legs dangling over the endless dusk, Lucanis considers the ideal response. "The First Blight lasted well over a century, did it not? No one knew their enemy nor how to deal with them for decades. At least we have that small comfort." All for the price of Rook's conscious and the increasing list of obituaries from Minrathos.

Yet, there's little time allowed for despondence. An eroding trust is difficult to mend, save for being truthful. PETRICHOR. AN ARROW. SPLIT IN TWO. FAILURE AND GNAWING HUNGER. The demon picks at old wounds, scenting the forest beneath the acrid, bile-black blood. ASK ROOK. ABOUT WINTER.

"No." The response is almost too quick. It is resistant, but the tone harbors no malice. Rook fights with herself to decipher what she means. It feels as though there is tapping against her skull, from within. Heavy, like a cat caught in an empty sack. SPITE.

She wonders if they Crow as any inkling of the dull ache his spirit oft wrap's around her joints. Most days it's not so bad: just an inkling of something being OFF about him. In Treviso—it was a river of knives within her veins. Today? It is the discomfort of wet socks.

"No—I want you to question me. What good am I if there is no one to argue such things? If there is no opportunity to learn from and of one another, then we stand no chance." Truthfully, it was never that. It was the raw-edged anger, the reaction and fury cast in her direction. The blame for events that were out of her control. She is a single person, thrown into a pit of snakes. A crown of thorns placed atop her head, a destined martyr. She doesn't care what happens to herself. So long as the Veil remains, and her BLIGHTED gods are destroyed, it does not matter what becomes of her future corpse.

"This Blight is different. It FEELS different. It is wrong in every way, both possible and impossible, and we are blundering around in the dark swinging blindly." The Call even sounds different. It is a twisted call of a siren. It writhes and moans in pain, but if she listens closely, Andy can just barely make out the words. She harbors great worry for Antoine, as sensitive as he is to the Song.

The First-Warden refuses to believe or understand. To him, it is merely a Blight to be crushed under his boot. A Blight for him to seize victory over, only after SACRIFICING any Warden who gets in his way. She has seen Wardens driven mad by the voices, but this is beyond any madness known before. He's resisted the Call for so long: he can't hold out for much longer. The Song will eat him alive from within before he has even the smallest chance at glory.

"I want nothing, Lucanis." Not from him, not anyone. It is not heroic in nature. It is duty. It is respect, for her to give of herself, heart full and ready to surrender herself to the embrace of death when needed. She resigned herself to taking care of the world with nothing in return, and would take that oath to her grave. Rook sighs heavily through her mouth, lips remaining just slightly parted, eyes now trained on the patterns of clouds above. "See me alive, at least to the end of all this. I will do the same for you."

GOD OF LIES, TREACHERY, AND REBELLION ....

solas from the dragon age series / written by maxi / 25+

❝  you need someone.  let me be that person.  let me be what you need.  ❞

❝  look,  i dunno if i’m the kind of person you need or even want right now.  but i’m looking around and i’m the only one who’s here.  ❞

❝  i never realized how much i needed you until you were the one person who wasn’t there.  ❞

❝  you asked me once,  if i would ever take a chance on us…maybe that ship sailed.  but.  ask me again?  sometime— doesn’t have to be today.  maybe tomorrow just.  ask me again.  ❞

❝  i know i can’t protect you from everything,  but i wish you’d let me protect you from the things i can control.  ❞

❝  i used to have so much faith.  maybe not in deities or something but,  in the world.  the universe.  i believed their was a purpose to it all.  i’m not sure when i lost that.  ❞

❝  have you ever had something…missing?  like something just doesn’t feel right inside you but you don’t know what it is.  ❞

❝  sometimes,  i just need the world to be beautiful.  i know how dark and ugly it can be but i just want to see something good and focus only on it for a few minutes.  ❞

❝  i was sort’ve hoping you needed me.  is that selfish?  ❞

❝  people need someone to see them for what they are and not just see it but accept it.  i want to be that person for anyone i can…but it can be so suffocating to be that person and also remain unseen.  ❞

❝  sometimes i feel i’m being crushed under the weight of everything i’ll never be.  ❞

❝  you’re looking at me but you’re not seeing me.  do you know how that feels?  just see me.  please.  ❞

❝  i want to deserve you.  i’m trying to deserve you.  ❞

❝  i know i fucked up.  i know i did but don’t shut me out anymore.  let me in.  please let in.  ❞

❝  every time you smile at me,  i memorize it.  i remember each moment that i get to be the one to bring out that light inside you.  no matter what happens between us,  that’s what i’ll remember.   ❞

❝  i can’t help but think there’s got to be something out there for me,  somewhere.  just some place where i actually feel like i belong.  ❞ 

❝  the world is so big.  why do i never feel like i fit into it?  ❞

❝  when i’m with you i feel like myself.  i feel like every side of me is present and accepted.  and i feel good about it—  i feel good about who i am when i’m with you.  ❞

❝  do you like me?  i know you love me.  i know you care about me but.  do you like who i am?  ❞

❝  i want to look in the mirror one day and not feel uncomfortable with my own reflection.  ❞

❝  just take my hand and close your eyes.  pretend we’re anywhere else but here.  ❞

❝  so,  what would you be?  if you had to power to change all the things making you unhappy,  what would your life look like?  ❞

❝  do you even know what it does to me?  every time i see you cry,  any time you’re hurt even the smallest bit it just— do you realize how deeply you’ve imbedded yourself into my heart?  ❞

❝  i don’t feel like a whole person without you anymore.  i don’t fucking care if anyone else would say about that.  you’re part of who i am now.  the most important piece of me.  ❞

❝  every time you walk away you take another piece of me with you.  ❞

❝  i’m only really living in the moments when we’re together.  the rest is just existing until you look at me again.  ❞

❝  it feels like there’s a string around my heart and it’s connected to you.  everywhere you go you’re just tugging me behind,  pulling me towards you.  ❞

❝  you’ve got me in the palm of your hands.  you could crush me and i would still thank you for touching me at all.  ❞

❝  i no longer know where i end and you begin.  you’ve wound yourself around my soul so tightly,  you’re all i feel anymore.  ❞

❝  you’ve stolen my heart,  the least you could do is tell me what you intend to do with it.  ❞

❝  i don’t have perfect words.  i’m not the kind of person who knows how to sound poetic and shit.  so all i know what to tell you is that i belong to you.  i don’t know if you want me.  but i’m yours.  and at this point however it is you need me,  i’m here.  ❞

❝  you’re the only thing that matters anymore.  i can’t eat,  i can’t sleep—  all the goddamn cliches from every stupid movie and song.  you’re all i think about.  i’m useless except when i’m yours.  ❞

❝  i haven’t stopped thinking about the way you laugh.  i’m hoping i’ll get to hear it again.  ❞

❝  when your eyes are on me,  i feel like something worth seeing.  ❞

❝  just let me look at you for a little bit.  ❞