*R0KH imad marinus mercar, a rook of da:tv. primarily headcanon based and considerably canon divergent. low activity and mutuals only. this is a sideblog housed on multi hub and follows back from @middener. to send memes for this muse, please use the hub blog askbox. in-depth muse info and bio below the cut. see featured tags for navigation.
CHARACTER BASICS imad mercar (nee marinus), duelist / assassin rogue, he/him, bi with a preference for women, 38 at the start of veilguard, mixed / elf-blooded, tevinter, liberati (former gladitores, born to camerarius parents), his parents moved to minrathous from the scrublands around vol dorma shortly after they were married, believes in the maker but practices a non-andrastian worship and cultural religion not aligned totally with the imperial chantry that both his parents were raised with, former imperial templar and cohortes divinus turned informant against the upper echelons of tevinter society, slaver hunter and shadow dragon, dual-wield rogue duelist / assasin fighter, possessed of magick-nullifying abilities aligned with those of a southern seeker (lyrium branded but not a lyrium user) and the enhanced physical abilities (speed, strength, stamina) imparted on him by the physical transfusion of lyrium in the brand
PHYSICAL IMPRESSIONS / PINTEREST
SEE fc ekin koç, 6'2" and extremely athletic, a lean, cut muscular build attributed to constant fighting, climbing, and bladework, broad-shouldered but lithe, limber and extremely light on his feet, very long dark hair that is usually worn braided and pulled back, always bearded, sharp, dark, striking heavily-lashed eyes, dark and kohl-lined, seeming to liquify to a warm amber when struck with light, thick bent brows that lend an intensity to his face, a long, strong, straight and eagled nose, firm mouth with a generous lower lip, a long cut-featured face, upright slightly tapered ears, handsome but silent, stoic, even brooding, at first appearance, his warmth only gradually revealed, well-groomed, appropriately appointed
SMELL oud and agarwood, the cooksmoke thick in minrathous alleyways and the brine of seawater, the urban petrichor of dusty stone streets newly wet with warm rain, leather and the black seed and olive oil he uses to treat his blades and armour, sandalwood soap, the jasmine and saffron infused oil he works habitually into his long hair after washing
TASTE sesame-crusted fish kebabs roasted over wood, parsley and lemon juice and garlic, chili and red lentil soup, the meat of an artichoke leaf dredged in oil, rice, garlic, and tomato stuffed vine leaves, meatballs of lamb and beef and onion grilled and wrapped in flatbread, roasted streetcorn, a musk-and-sweet-fleshed apricot fresh from a market stall, apricot juice, grape juice, strong double-kettled black tea, lightly sweetened but with a faint astringency
HEAR a dark, low, smooth voice, expressive in its tonality but also controlled into flatness when necessary, often carrying a warm lilt of laughter underneath when he teases, or smugness when he flirts, a low (or social) tevene accent colours his common, revealing his upbringing in minrathous though also edged a little by the throaty and emphatically consonant-heavy northern accent of his parents
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imad is immensely feeling but also pretty deeply internal—he projects an air of calm and quiet and sort of.. in control.. ness.. he's contained, and thoughtful, and very strategic, he is someone that people turn to in a moment of panic when decisions need to be made regardless of whether or not he is /actually/ in charge on paper, he's a strong leader, and he's capable, and because of how stoic he appears people always feel relieved to have him handle things, since he never seems truly rattled—but he's not some automaton, nor is he a cold person, he has a profound warmth to him, both in a brotherly and fatherly sense, and he's sly, and funny, and very patient even as he takes very little to NO bullshit, point is that years of having to defensively contain himself and try to project both competence, preparedness, and a kind of stoic poise haven't rendered him blank, or cold, or unfeeling, but they have made him still, in the sense that, you know, still waters run deep
thinking about it though i feel like felix must have turned him down.. not turned him down because imad never would have like propositioned in that sense that he was asking for reciprocation or a relationship etc like he wouldn't have asked felix to be with him but i do think it was probably acknowledged between them, his feelings for felix—imad isn't one to conceal his feelings from the people he cares about, and he's also not someone who is going to pretend something isn't happening when it clearly is.. i don't think he would have explicitly felt the need to say it, wouldn't have felt the need for felix to hear him say it or anything like that, but there was probably a moment where it came up, where it was implied or understood, when imad could have denied it but didn't.. and felix probably told him something along the lines of like.. there will be a time in both our lives for love, but now is not that time
tamara has made arrangements with the shadow dragons for the body to be brought to her before first light, while the cobbled streets of minrathous are still shades of blue, and cool to the touch. blood magick is as temperamental as it is potent, not to mention, inherently personal. despite ample warning to not give anything of herself, already anonymous in this city, away — she'd needed to create an environment that at least approximates her workstation at home. enough to beckon her more where benedict had taught her how properly to care for a body before their rites when she was a girl, than this stale, sequestered off, underground steam room of a defunct thermae.
she had taken the morning, then, opening her own soul to the deceased laid before her, sharing in silent conversation while she ensured his body was properly embalmed with her own solution. tamara had been firm on that point, too, learning what the morticians in minrathous used was far from effective, and frankly, egregiously marked up. she lights her usual incense — frankincense, sandalwood, marjoram, and a bit of jasmine — complementing her embalming solution, which have worked their way into her limber hands in the process, and make the room feel breathable, less cloying.
she spends the last few hours before her appointed time easing the anxieties and grief of the deceased. they discuss closure, and all of the small ways that grief perseveres beyond death. tamara promises that his cat will remain fed — he shares that she'd particularly enjoyed the fish from hal's stand on wednesdays. she also promises to leave his modest collection of serials with the library. as the hour approaches, the spirit is content to walk towards the fade, and she takes a deep breath, as if awakening from a dream, when the door behind her clicks open.
by design, she does not know anything about the man she is meant to mimic in glamour, and it is meant to remain that way. despite the veil that covers all but her eyes and hands, tamara smiles pleasantly in greeting, holding his gaze when their eyes meet. she gives him a few moments to settle to his surroundings, adjust to the purposefully placed candle-lights. "there is no real dignified way to ask this, but ... i must ask you to remove your clothes."
she is then quick to turn back to the body before her and begin her work, starting with his remarkable eyes — dark, dark brown, but with a molten warmth in this light, like the long, stretched yawn of a late summer's sunset. a decisive, steadfast sharpness to its beautifully rounded shape. she tilts her head slowly, this way and that, carefully observing her handiwork. she finds that she needs only to close her eyes to recall his, and she makes a few small adjustments. when she is satisfied, for now, she lays her fingers reverently to his eyelids to close them. perhaps it is the smell of home, or the urgency of the work at hand, but her heart feels eased; her magical focus comes easily.
she finally looks up to him, again. though her gaze remains clinical, the keen eyes of a watcher on task, tamara, as always, cannot shake her natural inclination to warmth and to apology. the mage is accustomed to bodies of all types without impropriety, but she does not know her companion's experience, specifically, around corpses. she cannot begin to imagine what it is to see your own self, in death; what circumstances have necessitated it. her heart aches as she thinks of his family, who she presumes would be left to mourn. an overwhelming desire to comfort swells warm in her chest, but she quells it on her tongue, swallowing its tide back. "we will be here for a while, i'm afraid ..." she offers, kneading her fingers into her palms, where the current of magick had stung like static off a dry wool sweater to her touch. "are you comfortable?"
her phrasing makes him chuckle. a low, soft sound. imad undresses methodically, unhesitating, lingering in the fore of the room. he is wearing only streetclothes—he toes off his slippers unwinds the length of fabric that belts his waist, removing the short, curved sword and dagger that hang there. then a series of knives, a coinpurse, his coarse kaftan that he slides from his shoulders. he hesitates only when he reaches the ties of the loose, tapered pants that sit low on his hips.. but the mage is working, her back to him, and so imad bends to pull the narrow bottom hem free over one foot and then the other, and steps out of these as well.
his naked skin is richly scarred from a lifetime of fighting. the lyrium brand that renders his blood useless to any mage like her dominates his upper back, a large, strange, and clean-lined tatooo-like scar. much paler than his skin and smooth, pored finely like stone. there are many more tattoos beside this one—gladitores tattoos, heavy and black, set in place meant to highlight the straight, strong, tapered shape of his long body. all this life written on him will be difficult to replicate in the minutia, but imad watches the veiled shape of her as she works, back to him—watches her close the dead man's eyes almost tenderly. the presence of the corpse no more unnerves him than does the idea of standing beside it in only his underclothes. barefoot and nearly naked, imad comes quietly to stand beside her.
she looks at him with her eyes that glimmer, blueing as though the room were dimming around her. imad holds her gaze, relaxed despite how exposed he is. maybe this magick should be jarring, disturbing, to watch the corpse take on his shape—but imad feels nothing. only a calm, open windlessness. something like the swelling possibility of a humid night's sweet rain. he answers the apologetic smile in her eyes with another soft chuckle, "do not apologize, and do not worry for me. i am in your debt—and i have been naked before."
reminding himself that he must not tell her his name, that he must not ask to know hers, imad takes a moment to look at the body on the plinth, found dead on the docks only last night. in a city like minrathous, not many bat an eye at a request for a fresh corpse. imad looks at the man's face, at his features, his increasingly familiar browline. he can smell night-blooming flowers, expensive oils. the man's hair is neat and shorn, his beard trimmed. skin scrubbed clean. ashur had called her a death mage, nevarran—
"you have made a magister of him," imad observes.
bathed him, embalmed him, honoured him. afforded him dignity rather than reinforce the currency of his life through a fittingly cheap disposal in death. luxuries a man like imad would never be offered. the mage looks up at him and imad infers a spike of something. concern, offense. not at his words, but on his own behalf, he thinks. his, and others like him. imad's mouth barely curls in a closed smile at the decency he reads beneath her indignation. he can sense the tentative shift of her mood, as if a cloud had passed before the rising sun, and imad feels a profound sympathy with her in that moment. a notion of their sameness. "what you have done is beautiful.. but i was a slave. the enslaved cannot be interred alongside altus, even if we are liberati. he will not be laid to rest with the other divinus in the catacombs. he will be burned as i would be burned.. on the public pyre. they will discard the ashes with the rest."
it is not like ashur to have left out relevant details, unless he thought the lie of omission necessary to secure her help. imad frowns, searching what he can of her face beneath the veil even as she looks away from him. his voice is stern, though the disapproval in it is not meant for her. "they did not tell you this.. that we will not be able to recover his body."
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do i think that in one of their coldest moments, solas sneers at imad, who is elf-blooded, for volunteering to allow human mages to brand him with lyrium? probably.. and probably after asharen has told imad about the origins of vallaslin, and it's mentioned somehow—and after imad has made a very cutting offhand comment making it clear his opinion of solas's treatment of asharen, one that asharen probably did NOT authorize him to make but—yes i do think solas would go low
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also like.. i don't want to overpower him excessively but maybe i do and if lyrium branding (read this.. we say ala golems.. ala fenris..) also enhances certain physical abilities depending on the extent of the infusion.. i would not be out of line to say that imad is faster and stronger than he otherwise should be.. right
actually having to list chivalry as a toxic trait of imad's feels too tumblr-pilled for me to do it.. like yea chivalry is a trait of his.. no it doesn't come from some inherent belief in him that women or feminine presenting folks are incapable of protecting themselves.. it's just how he was raised
the spirits in the lighthouse are chittery — they make for lovely company in the daytime, but tamara has found she has not been able to sleep soundly for weeks. and so it is sensible enough that only she and rook occupy the foyer, at this late hour. aside from quietly exchanged good evenings, they are equally content to share their silence. a quilted kerchief holds the heat of her steaming kettle, and the herbal tea she has prepared.
usually, journaling helps tamara to quiet the mind; to distinguish her own thoughts from the dissonant voices of spirits that flood through her. she is curled in a too-big armchair with her legs tucked under her knees, smoothing out the pages with the palms of her hands, but she now finds her focus on the page cloudy; lightly drawn instead to rook, who pours over a tome.
time spent alone together has been few and far between, but mara has noticed that with rook, the cacophony in her mind naturally quiets. or rather, his presence, his spirit — drones out the collection of wayward chatter of wisps and spirits. like a rumbling laugh from the belly felt resting the ear against one's chest, than the consistent and erratic pinpricks against the shell of her ear. something of his spirit radiates; warms the room better than a fireplace would. it is a soothing warmth she feels down to her bones.
when she blinks, she realizes that rook has been looking back. the attention of his dark gaze is rich — like a truffle melted on her tongue — sweet and spiced; a warmth that pools slowly outward from her chest. it raises color to her cheeks, but she does not look away. "i am sorry for staring." the soft curve of her lip blossoms slowly into a pleasant, earnest smile. "or, i should say more honestly, for being caught doing so. i was just admiring — ..." mind your words, tamara. they, too, contain magick; bringing feeling into being. always speak from your heart — straight as an arrow. no excuses, no smoke or mirrors. "your soul is remarkably beautiful."
her face pinkens as they look at one another, the faintest tide of colour along her cheeks, visible even in the gleam of her pale eyes. imad returns her smile soothingly, the expression subtle and evident mostly in the gathering of the lines around his eyes. the atmosphere of the foyer is all dim purple light, punctuated only barely by the hum of the lighthouse's heart above them. cool though it is, there is a thickness to the air. it is always between them. not the unsaid, nor the unlooked for, but what imad recognizes as.. potential. peace, and a communal sense of.. ownership, between them. their lives, their eyes, their hearts. the soft, beautiful, ghosting smell of her long, unbound hair.
"thank you," he answers easily in his dark voice, low and sincere and utterly without awkwardness at the intensity of the compliment. he's not a shy man. he does not mind to be stared at, not, especially, by tamara—nor does he feel compelled to hide what is inside him. imad closes the book in his lap to make it plain that all of his attention now is on tamara—a palpable shift, though he is aware that at least half of it had already been on her, even blindly, with his eyes on the text, she had occupied his mind, his senses, like the moon behind a mountain, still present in the fan of the silvery glow in which the mountain makes its silhouette.
"you have seen the lyrium brand on my back." whether mortalitasi leverage the threat of tranquility over their students as is done in the south, imad does not know—but tamara is a powerful mage. imad has no doubt that she is aware of what such a mark means, the effect it has on the person who is subjected to it. "in the south, they call it tranquility. it was peaceful, in a way. i had no troubles. only a sense of devotion. calm. but also of wrongness. like a fish out of water, or a bird in the sea."
air and water are alike enough until it is time to breathe.
"i have since learned to return to that place of peace, to occupy it—before it was barren, but, with my soul in me, i come to it like a garden.. ripe with fruit." he rests his hand atop the book's cover, the other arm coming to rest on the chair's winged back, stretching the muscles of his side and back beneath his kaftan, loosening him where he is sore from their recent and very physical fights against antaam in treviso. "when you perceive the soul in me.. i wonder which you see. the brand, like a wall, blocking out the rest—or the garden that lies beyond it."
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