We never had the chance to see a cinematic of the romanced companion reacting to Rook's actual return from the Fade Prison after two (?) weeks like WHY LOL and so I drew it just because I couldn't get it off my head hajksdhah
throws this comic like a grenade and runs away
Also, drawing Neve's expression here hurts so much—why must I draw to hurt myself lol
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So I had this idea for the Fade Prison server, with a group shot of the Lavellans there, and this is the result. 😅 this was such a fun challenge for me! I absolutely loved it. And look at all these amazing ladies and gentleman ( Ilmare in the lower right corner).
And just for fun, a wild Solas appeared 🤣
Can you spot all the Easter eggs in this? 🫢🤣
If you haven't yet, join Fade Prison server here
https://discord.gg/qKEaQ4Nnr
Such a great community and awesome people, you won't regret it!
Quiet was an old friend, but not tonight. This silence stuck to the edges of grief like muffled corrosion, rusting away at sharp edges and leaving something dull and cold behind. Viago made little sound himself as he walked up the stairs and down the stone corridor. There was no need to disguise his passage, but years of habit lent a very scant comfort in an unfamiliar place, and that was in short enough supply.
He paused at the door, unexpectedly ajar. An image of his house in Salle, long since left to caretakers while strangers invaded his country, flashed across his mind as he hesitated. Rook's room. Carina's room. The door open, with her sitting on the bed in a mess of papers, looking up as he walked by to shoot him a smile. Or stick out her tongue. It didn't matter how silent his footfalls, she always knew when he was there.
Her door was only ever open when she was at home.
She wasn't.
Viago's knuckles in his right hand still ached with the memory of punching Lucanis when he'd told him that she'd been lost. Taken by Solas and stranded in a prison meant for gods, exchanged for his freedom like a piece on a chessboard. Discarded. Tossed aside so someone else more 'qualified' could carry her fire.
He didn't like how familiar that felt.
With a light brush of his fingers against the wood, the large door swung inward, bathing him in the watery glow from an impossible vista. A vast underwater expanse just beyond the glass, fish moving by in schools like birds in flight. Rook had described it to him in one of her letters, of course, but being who she was, she had left a few details to the imagination.
I've got fish in my room. Great stonking fish that just watch all the time. It's worse than living in the dormitories, except for the smell. You know how much I hate water. Especially a lot of it. There was one bad night where I dreamed they were spying against me for Solas somehow. Spite ate them.
I'm still not sure if that really happened.
Stepping into the room, Viago swung the door back into place as quietly as it had opened for him. As he turned back he froze, seeing for the first time a person seated on a couch. Even in the hazy glow, the silhouette was impossible to mistake. Lucanis.
Smells like. Poisoned tea. Revenge and lavender.
"Demon," Viago nodded in acknowledgement, choosing to ignore the personal commentary. A flash of purple around the eyes. Now somewhat familiar, but still entirely unsettling. Rook had explained. He hadn't liked any of it.
Spite.
"Spite," he agreed, walking forward. The glowing gaze followed him as he moved into the room and came to a stop at the bookshelf. A small mirror. A rather nice chess set. An open box of ribbon-wrapped packets of letters. He recognized several of them addressed in his own hand, Teia's and others.
She never did remember to burn her correspondence.
"Spite, why are you here? Alone?" he asked, putting the letters back into their box, unopened.
Lucanis won't. Visit Rook.
"Visit?" Viago looked up sharply, irritation sharpening the question to a razor edge.
It is ROOK. All. Home.
Smells like. Rook. And dust.
ALL. Rook.
Spite brandished a pillow from the couch, and a waft of rosemary, mint, and skin painted the picture of her hair across his thoughts. Color she crafted, ground into oils, leaving her a distinct purple among a sea of blacks, browns and reds. The scent was light, but unmistakable for anything else if you'd spent any time close enough to her to notice.
She slept on the couch? Idiot.
Viago nodded vaguely at Spite, sweeping his eyes around the room more thoroughly. He recognized some of her things, but the couch and small table in front of it were crowded with a whole collection of items he didn't recognize, or didn't make any sense to him. Jars and bottles, a bar of soap, several different types of candles. An empty bottle of wine filled with coffee beans. Two boxes that looked familiar among the other things, but he couldn't quite place them as hers.
Why. Are you. Here alone?
"I suppose I am here to visit as well," Viago ran a hand through his hair. "Clear a spot for me, demon. Explain your collection."
Spite! the purple flashed and a scowl appeared, but he began to move some of the jars and bottles closer to him, creating an empty spot at the other end of the couch.
"Yes, I am aware," he waved a hand dismissively, and sat down. "Tell me what you found."
Home. Old. Fish and bees.
Viago picked up a square wooden box that Spite pointed to, about as long on each side as his hand and light for its size. As he tilted it open, he recognized that it was a smaller version of the palette training boxes he had some of his more promising fledglings use to appreciate wine and finer foods. Each box telling the story of a place where something was made or grown. He carefully opened a small, black velvet bag in the bottom corner with the de Riva crest stitched in glossy purple thread on the outside. Though the scent was clearly faded from what it must have been almost two years ago, it painted a distinct picture of a memory at least a year older than that.
Summer night in Salle, barest of breezes in his office carrying the scent of mint, rosemary, tiger grass, warm beeswax. Undercurrent of polished wood, ozone, and a slight hint of fermented fish.
"Yes, I see. Home," Viago closed the lid gently and put the box back down, fighting the feeling that it was somehow heavier with the weight of that memory. He didn't need to open the smaller, paper box inside with his personal crest on it, but it tugged at a spot in his chest even untouched.
"Where did she get this?"
Rook. Made it. To remember.
Gave. Treviso to Spite. And Lucanis.
On the crowded table in front of them sat a much larger box, newer with an etched design of crow feathers along the edges. Viago could almost picture what she would choose. The Diamond. The canals. The gardens around the abandoned Chantry, still tended anonymously. A gift to a man who hadn't seen home in years, and a demon who didn't understand what that meant.
For herself, something much smaller. To carry with her in unfamiliar places. He wondered why she'd carried his office in Salle with her this whole time, of all things.
"Are you sure? You know I can get you any kind of furniture you need," Teia had asked abruptly, tapping the letter he had been writing to his seneschal with her gloved finger. Her eyes had searched his face when he didn't answer right away. "It won't be easy, and I know you don't like to wait."
"I can be patient," he had replied, feeling sour even as she shrugged and patted his shoulder lightly.
Probably for the same reason he'd brought his desk with him to Treviso almost two years ago, even with the monumental inconvenience of getting it up into his space in the Diamond. Teia hadn't complained, but he knew she questioned his sanity more than once during the several hour endeavor to get it into the room on the top floor undamaged. More damaged, if he were being honest with himself. It had seen better days, as well-made as it was. Burns, scratches, and at least one hole that he left, choosing not to fill or repair it. You could almost count the number of times he'd called Rook an idiot by tallying the damage.
Almost.
She hadn't been 'Rook' then. Just an idiot.
A wine bottle waved under his nose ripped Viago abruptly into the present. His hand shot out instinctively to catch the bottle mid-wave, and he looked to see Spite's purple eyes regarding him solemnly. There was still a bruise across the bridge of his nose where Viago had broken it. Healing magic could have taken care of that by now, but apparently Lucanis had left the injury.
"What is this then?" Viago took the bottle irritably, tipping it slightly to look inside. He had thought it was entirely filled with coffee beans, but up close he could see that there were other objects inside, less distinct through the dark glass.
Home. And family. US.
"Family?" Viago pulled the cork and looked inside, tilting the contents back and forth to see them better. The scent of roasted coffee beans was overwhelming, but behind it was … ah, a charred skewer, very small bits of burned food stuck to the side. Acrid ink from a broken nib. Blood on a few of the beans. Some sort of dust. A throwing dart that looked suspiciously like one of his own. Two very large feathers and one small purple one. A small, burned potato. And, at the very bottom, the bone from the tip of a finger.
He re-corked the bottle and handed it back to Spite, who put it carefully with the boxes.
Wine box. Home.
Rook will know. Where to. Find us.
Spite nodded at him sagely. Viago suppressed the urge to point out that it was not a box and just passed a hand over his eyes instead. Leaning forward, he looked around at the other items, but apart from the soap, couldn't see any connection to each other or to Rook.
"What of the rest? Candles and jars?"
Smell like. Her.
Spite passed Viago the soap, a candle, and two very carefully selected jars. Her soap, of course. A jar of her hair dye, long since used, but with a faint smell of rosemary and mint, sharper without the smells of skin and hair. Some kind of thick balm with a faint trace of lemon peel that he didn't recognize. Turning the container, he read the very unhelpful label reading 'Finger Food,' which it clearly was not. The smell was inviting, but that meant little by itself.
Sighing, Viago removed one of his gloves and lightly touched the tip of his ring finger to the surface, then dragged the small amount of cream onto a piece of paper pulled from a pouch at his belt. Emollient, slightly acidic, not noticeably poisonous or toxic. He lifted his finger to his tongue to see if he could taste any trace of something unusual, only to have Spite abruptly hiss and bat at his hand.
NOT. FOR. EATING.
"I was—" Viago stopped, looking at the demon's expression. "I understand."
Spite learned. Lotion. Candles. Not for. Eating.
Rook. Explained.
Cuticle cream. The thought rose up as he rubbed his finger and thumb together. The name wasn't that bad.
The demon picked up a small, dark bottle and handed it to Viago after he'd drawn his glove back on. Time had long erased the label on the front, but as soon as he took it in his hands he recognized it immediately. He pulled the small cork, and sniffed gently. Acrid, bitter, orange and almond. No trace of fennel.
"She called this 'Felicitations' of all things," Viago snorted, remembering the absolute disaster she had made of their small lab developing this. "It's the first one registered as hers, alone."
Rook had spent days refining, redoing, and improving on the first Crow poison she'd encountered as a child, an inadequate variation on A Letter from the Crows she'd given an equally ridiculous name. As then, he was momentarily tempted to tell Illario that his amateurish effort at potion-making had engendered something far more deadly in her hands. He enjoyed knowing something the other assassin didn't far too much to entertain the idea for long.
"You have her homes," Viago gestured to the boxes and the bottle. "And you have things that remind you of her. Why bring them together?"
So Rook is. HOME. Spite will bring. Rook here.
"Bringing together something of her and her homes," Viago sifted through what the demon had said, piecing together words unsaid, an unexpected ache in his chest. "To help bring her home?"
YES. Thoughts real. Here. Spite is helping.
"The Fade, you mean?"
Yes.
"And Lucanis?" he asked.
Viago had wondered how much Lucanis and Spite shared. Rook's explanation had been obscure, but the more Spite talked, it made a terrible sense. As far as he could tell, they were distinct, even if forced into the same body together. He had enough work inhabiting his own flesh to feel a deep unease at the idea of ceding any level of control to something else, much less an unwilling spirit. However, nothing like abominations were described by the Chantry. Not that their ignorance in this area was any kind of surprise.
We. Kill. Venatori.
"As do I," Viago conceded with a curt nod. There was little he could directly do to find Rook, any more than Lucanis or Spite could. He felt that frustration aching like a burn that didn't take healing, worsening the longer Rook was gone. Raw, exposed nerves demanding action where there was none to be had. He sat staring at the fish in and uncomfortable silence with Spite. After several moments, he felt the smallest shift in the air, like the direction of the wind had changed outside. The man next to him stilled completely after a sharp intake of breath.
"Viago? When did you—" Lucanis asked slowly, then cut off. Out of the corner of his eye, Viago could see him rub a hand across his face as he shook his head. "Mierda. I apologize for Spite. He keeps yelling about home, but keeps bringing me here whenever I try to get some sleep."
"It's the only place she is that he can get to right now," Viago replied as he stood, tilting his face towards the other man. "Emmrich wanted to meet with us on the hour. He may have news."
"I—" Lucanis bit back another question, his expression pained. "Thank you. I will be there."
Viago nodded, and turned to go, careful to avoid the bottles and other detritus the demon had collected around them while they talked. He could hear Lucanis moving some of them around as he started to walk out, and paused briefly without turning around.
"You should make time to let your detective friend fix your face before you see Rook again. You look like shit."
Ok, theory time. If Rook was able to get out of the Fade Prison simply because they faced their regrets with forgiveness and coming to terms with things in a healthy manner then imagine what it will be like for Lavellan.
Lavellan, whom no doubt, has a lot of regrets but has come to terms with them.
Lavellan who loves a broken man, forgives him for leaving. And I'd argue the reason why Solas falls for her is because she genuinely shows empathy, care and has no ulterior motives in knowing him/befriending him/loving him. He has never not been a title; Mythal's Advisor/Mythal's lapdog, Fen'Harel / rebel etc. But to Lavellan he is Solas.
Lavellan, would no doubt have more regrets to face, especially with Varric and not stopping Solas soon enough. But who has time and again has healed from their past.
So, I imagine, with guidance from Lavellan, that the Fade Prison would change. The whole point it was awful was due to regret. The only reason it could hold the Evanuris was negative emotions. But what would healing and positivity do it?
If Rook could have a healing experience with Varric, and escape so easily, then it shows the Fade Prison isn't all that awful depending on the prisoner.
"It won't be awful if you're with me" - that may be so for Lavellan, but the Fade also warps based on the individual *such as Here Lies the Abyss* and in my opinion, Lavellan is strong, she has had to be, she has healed and the Fade Prison will heal too.
@bankabb A short fic based on your art here. Emmrich breaking into the Fade Prison to save his beloved!
The Fade had never felt like this.
When Emmrich stepped through the Veil, he expected dreams—ethereal colours, strange echoes, wandering spirits. Anything—or perhaps everything—he'd grown accustomed to in his decades of research.
But this place was different.
Ash blanketed the ground like snow, bitter and lifeless. The air hung heavy with cold that sank into his bones, and the gravity felt fractured, shifting beneath his feet like unstable stone. Worse still was the weight that crushed his chest—misery, thick and cloying, radiating from every shadow and broken whisper around him.
This was indeed a prison. Not built with bars, but with sorrow.
Solas' curse.
He turned, hoping for the comfort of the portal's glow—but it was already fraying, green light cracking at the edges like splintered glass.
He didn't have long.
"Dahlia!" he cried, his voice swallowed by the grey mist. "Dahlia, my love, where are you?!"
He moved quickly, the twisted path beneath his boots crumbling with each step. Soon, the ghosts began to appear—not true spirits, but fragments, statues reduced to rubble. One was Neve, tangled in Blight, half her face chipped away. Another was Harding, her stone eyes wide in silent accusation. And then Varric: mouth open in a frozen scream, a blade plunged between his ribs.
Emmrich stopped, clutching his chest as grief surged raw inside him. He could only imagine Dahlia seeing them again and again—fingers pointed, voices warped by rage and loathing, blaming her for their fates. This curse didn't merely trap her. It tormented her.
Condemned her.
"Dahlia!" he shouted again—louder, more desperate. "Darling, please!"
Then he saw her.
In a clearing of shattered memories, she stood like a ghost herself. Motionless. Trembling. Her arms hung at her sides, fists clenched, jaw tight. Her eyes were squinted shut, as though refusing to watch the nightmare around her.
"Dahlia!" Emmrich gasped, running to her, stumbling as the ground quaked underfoot.
The moment he reached her, he pulled her into a fierce embrace, his arms tightening enough to hurt. Her face pressed to his chest, and he sobbed—ragged, uncontrollable. It had been so long. So achingly, unbearably long.
Pure torture.
"You're alive," he rasped, barely able to stay upright. "I thought I'd lost you."
But her arms didn't move. She was paralysed—breath shallow, skin cold. His relief curdled into panic.
"No..." he murmured, pulling back to cup her face. "Dahlia, can you hear me?"
Her eyelids twitched. Lips parted, ever so slightly.
"...You have to leave," she choked. "Before I kill you, too."
"...E-Emmrich?" Her voice was strained, weak, buried under layers of pain.
"Yes. Yes, I'm here, my love! I'm right here!"
"No." He shook his head fiercely. "Don't say that. None of this is your fault."
He tried to summon the portal—reaching out with everything he had—but it wouldn't move. It flickered in the distance, fragile and shredding like cloth.
Not enough time.
"Darling, we need to go," he urged. "Now."
"I can't." Her throat clenched. "I deserve to be here. Everything—everything that happened—it's my fault."
"No," he declared, gently brushing the tears that slid from her still-closed eyes. "Harding knew the risks. Neve knew. Varric knew. This is the gods' doing, not yours. Don't let their sacrifices be in vain."
She flinched, her brows twitching, but the spell held firm.
"Do you think they regretted meeting you?" Emmrich asked softly. "Do you think I do?"
No answer.
"You make lives better, Dahlia, not worse. You made my life better." He leaned in, his voice warm with emotion. "My darling, you gave me something to hold on to. A reason to stay mortal. I... I need you."
Her lips parted, quivering at his words. Her eyelids fluttered once, just faintly.
The portal behind him gave a deafening groan.
It was failing.
"Tell me..." he said, so close she could taste his aftershave. "Do you regret meeting me?"
Her brows furrowed.
"Do you regret this?"
His lips met hers, fervent and true, brimming with all the longing, all the terror, all the love that had swelled in her absence. He kissed her like it was the last chance they'd ever have—each shuddering breath between them sparking fire, every touch igniting a hunger neither could deny.
And then, she responded.
Her fingers gripped his sleeves. Her lips pressed back. Her eyes opened.
Vivid lilac—Maker, how he'd missed it.
When they broke apart, she stared at him, eyes shining with gratitude. "I could never regret loving you," she whispered.
Emmrich smiled—bright, wild—and took her hand. "Come, darling. Let's go. Everyone's waiting for you."
Together, they ran—hand in hand, soul to soul, through the cold and ash and heartbreak, towards the faithful light.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
I really really like the part of the Fade prison where you see everyone's little curios floating behind the statue of your companion. it's such a great little detail to me so of course I went into photomode to get a better look, and heres the details!
This is an overhead shot as you continue further up the path, but the pics I took of each item were from the bottom next to the statue.
Harding: a vase of flowers, and plants growing in soil
Davrin: his armchair where he sits and whittles, with a bone on the floor for Assan
Emmrich: a bookshelf of scrolls and skulls (which we can remember aren't just decor, but spirits he can call upon and talk to if he wants)
Bellara: the Nadas Dirthalen, open to reveal its secrets, a book floating above it
Taash: a dragon statue surrounded by treasure, and those firepots they can activate/blow up with their flame breath
Neve: her bulletin board for a case with lots of notes, books, and papers around
Lucanis: his elaborate coffee service and tray. Hopefully all the coffee didn't spill out as it floated away...
This is the first Dragon Age comic I made! I actually made this twice sort of, the first version had really bad composition & other stuff so I remade it pretty much lol. I'll be posting a bunch of stuff retroactively I think, starting with this!
