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Lucanis has the kind of oil painting Byronic face that belongs in a silver heart-shaped locket. It's the big brown wet puppy eyes. They are teen crush eyes! Posters plastered all over bedroom walls, torn out glossy photo shoot magazine pages for your school binder, wistful sigh inducing eyes!
We need to arrest his character designer for completing their assignment too well. The professional killer has repressed period drama tragedy eyes oozing raw yearning and my heart caN'T HANDLE THE CONFLICT
How do I summon the Lace Harding enthusiasts. Because she has bewitched me and I would gladly join any cult she leads and I. Need to know why we aren't all obsessed with her? Her giggle?! We all heard her giggles right?? Her observant, kind-hearted QUIPS? She lounges languidly when we chat in her mystical greenhouse. She broods! She's haunted by an ancient rage - that's hot! She calls you a BOOB for being lovestruck stupid enough to smooch her dangerous lyrium lips. She's literally the dream titaness next door. SHE'S GOT CUTE FRECKLES! SHE'S A REDHEAD! COME ONNNN
A lost Dreamer Rook meets a familiar Spirit in the Fade.
A perfectly round orb, an impossibly deep indigo like a night sky over an ancient forest, floated in an empty grey clearing in the murky nothingness of the raw Fade. Rook, breathless, stopped just short of it, a mere few footfalls away. The moment her eyes fell upon the orb, it shivered, rippling like a droplet of ink, and melted into a puddle of shimmering black oil onto the ashen ground. Rook took in a sharp, startled breath as a sudden spark lit by an invisible hand sent the pool of oil blazing up into a thin column of bluish purple flames with a resounding hiss.
Rook gazed into the unnatural fire, transfixed, its unwavering alien glow, so bright and hopeful, was stark against the suffocating greyness around her. The flame's ethereal light danced across her skin, like a warm caress, and for a wonderful, eternal moment, all her fears vanished into the air like smoke from a snuffed campfire, and she felt only an unnamed, assured sense of certainty fill her chest.
“Rook?”
Rook blinked and shook herself, startled out of her reverie by a familiar, gravelly, mischievous voice emanating from the flame, which had abruptly coalesced into a humanoid shape. The being's form shifted between a mirror image of Lucanis and a shadowy, spindly, many limbed creature covered in undulating amethyst feline eyes and glistening, dagger sharp black feathers. It seemed as though the spirit was unsure which state to commit to.
“Spite?” Rook tried, voice small and shaking with emotion. Fear that this was an illusory trick gripped her heart as she was overwhelmed with the desperate hope that someone had actually found her here in this improbable abyss, and for the first time in her life she wouldn't have to claw her way out of the Fade alone, like she had so many painful times before -
Rook felt a surge of worry flow from the spirit, who, in the blink of an eye, moved forward to cradle her close to him. Rook vaguely knew her emotions were loud. This was the raw Fade, Spite was a spirit: he had heard, or rather, felt, her distress.
“Not alone,” Spite whispered confidently, his voice a staticky purr, not entirely human or recognizable as spoken words, his sentiments a soft thrum of electricity enveloping her like a warm cloak offered in a rainstorm. “Found us. I will not let go… will be your anchor.” Hot tears began streaming down Rook's cold, wind-whipped cheeks, and she buried her face into Spite's embrace. Nothing is truly physical here in the wilderness of the raw Fade, untethered and free floating as it is in its organic, untouched state; but the memories of physicality reverberate through it, mimicking the feeling of materiality. Spite felt like a steady heartbeat, humming with an endless vitality.
Spite made a soothing chirping noise, like a mourning dove's coo, and pulled away from her to look at her while still holding her close, his hands flickering between spidery claws and Lucanis's own slender, calloused human hands where they rested on her shoulders. Though expressionless, form stuttering between Lucanis and Fade creature, Spite exuded assurance and curiosity. This time, he didn't speak with words, but Rook felt his questioning: What happened? How are you here?
Rook took a deep, steadying breath, her reply clattering out of her like glass beads hitting cobblestones after slipping from the snapped thread of a necklace, a jumble of feelings of what it means to be what she is: a dreamer unwelcome in the dreaming, always trapped in between, a navigator with no compass or stars, struggling to know what's real and what isn't, floating ever further away from her body, a risk, a liability - Spite ticked his head to the side as he looked at her steadily, cutting off her stream of consciousness, plucking that thought from her and regarding it carefully, sadness and fervent disagreement radiating from him. His form finally froze into an exact copy of Lucanis, and he looked at her with Lucanis’ soft, appraising dark eyes, hand delicately tucking and errant strand of hair behind her pointed ear.
“Liability?” Spite said gently, his voice a perfect imitation of Lucanis's. "Never. You open doors. You keep moving, you keep fighting! This,” Spite as Lucanis took one of Rook's hands in both of his, cupping them close to his heart, “is part of you. Makes you whole." Rook gazed into Spite's mood ring mimicry of Lucanis's eyes and felt her heart race at the pure wonder she saw directed at her in them. "A beautiful part," Spite, still in Lucanis's shape, murmured, voice fluttering with an unexpected shyness as he pulled her back into his embrace.
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Anyone else feel like an obsessive plastic surgeon with how often they keep returning to veilguard's character creator to tweak their Rook's face? I'm such a creepy perfectionist... So I'm staging an intervention! Enough is enough! The nose bridge looks normal and totally proportionate! All noses are beautiful!
I've spent a frankly unhealthy amount of time locked in fisticuffs with the head sliders trying to remember what a Human Face looks like. It's like a surprise psychological experiment dressed up as a character creator in a video game
(I love character creators. Shout out to all the weirdo angels I've crafted! Your faces made me question reality a lil bit, but that's part of the fun!)
Snippet from Veiled Souls. As Rook makes an odd choice about a demon in a well in the Hossberg Wetlands, Spite's feelings become a muddled up mess of confusion and awe...
Incense smoke, freshly picked elfroot, rose oil and rain on fallen autumn leaves.
“Smells like Rook,” Spite had rattled curiously through Lucanis’s vocal chords, as the scent enveloped him, so potent and sudden, lulling him toward it. Lucanis had hushed him, cheeks burning at his words, head swivelling behind him toward Rook and Davrin, who were trailing behind them. Spite rolled his spectral eyes and grunted impatiently. Neither mortal had heard him. The words weren’t for them, anyway.
The smell of something clutched close to their shared heart. Lucanis knew that smell almost as well as Spite did. It was merely a statement of fact.
They had been wandering around that desolate farm for hours due to Rook’s insistence. Spite didn’t understand her fixation on unravelling the fates of the snivelling strangers who had perished here. The warden and Lucanis followed her dutifully without so much as a single protest, much to Spite’s chagrin. Their doggedness in searching the fallow landscape was rewarded with fragments of delusional hope, madness, pain and loss. After carefully piecing them together into a picture of blighted tragedy, the group became noticeably sombre. Rook especially seemed to radiate with mourning, her spirit vibrating with a quiet keening Spite found startling.
Spite observed as, finally, a solemn decision was made.
Rook, Davrin and Lucanis grimly set about the work of dismantling and destroying the well in which Desperation dwelt, squatting and festering in its depths. He felt no sympathy for the slavering thing that lay in wait there. It was a creature that would always want and want and want, destined to never be satiated, no matter how much it consumed. It knew only the feeling of want, and not the purpose of it. The very concept disgusted him.
In Spite’s mind, want is merely another word for aim. You must reach for your desire with every fibre of your being. The meeting of desire with purpose - now that is true bliss.
At that thought, Spite’s glowing eyes drifted over to Rook, who had stepped back from the destroyed well with a shuddering sigh, a slender hand absently streaking dirt across her sweatslicked cheek as she rubbed at her red-rimmed eyes. She opened a small, rectangular emerald green leather pouch on her belt and drew out three thin white candles. Placing them in a solemn row on one of the broken stones of the collapsed well. She lit each candle by brushing her fingers lightly over each taper. Her magic, the colour of dewy moss, flowed from her fingertips, igniting tiny veil fire flames on each of the candle’s wicks. She began whispering secret words that Spite couldn’t decipher. But as each hazy word fell from her lips, they felt like a series of caresses… across a frostbitten cheek, a hot sickly forehead, a gentle, rhythmic stroking of hair…
As she spoke, the candlelight grew brighter and brighter, almost blinding in the dim light, their smoke curling upwards into the dank air, spiraling into each other to create a hypnotic pattern. On her final word, she held a small iron bell high and flicked it once. The candles were immediately snuffed out, the chime pulsing through Spite’s very core.
The blighted farm suddenly felt… lighter. Steadier. Less hunted.
Spite was mesmerised.
Spite was also hopelessly confused.
Such a creature as that did not deserve the mercy of calm. Why would she so willingly offer it to them? Could she not see how pathetic Desperation was? This world had warped it, made it into a slave of its inverted nature. It didn't resist. It had behaved accordingly. And yet.
Rook was not content to let Desperation sit in its misery to starve into oblivion, as it so clearly deserved. She sealed it away… and then offered it peace?
Spite didn’t understand.
Why did he want to understand? The attempt was making him feel like he was turning himself inside out with the effort! Wasteful, foolish! He grumbled, eyes still trained on Rook.
She was carefully packing the candles and bell away. The well was now as silent as the graves of the dead in the Necropolis’ Memorial Garden. Desperation had been lulled into an eternal sleep.
As the trio began moving away, back towards the meagre civilization the Wetland's provided, Spite felt Rook’s river water eyes slide over him. She wore a tired smile on her face as she spoke quietly with Lucanis and Davrin about their next steps.
She couldn't see him. But.
Her eyes…
Spite’s thoughts roared to a stop. Silence, except for the image of her eyes.
OK but spirit of wisdom Solas is SO cute to me? I felt actual cuteness aggression at the reveal of his spindly insectoid spirit wraith form in Veilguard. It is adorable in an ethereal eldritch way, I'm obsessed, and I would HAPPILY romance that version of him! Give us our freaky phantasmic bug husband! He's happier like that anyway!!
