What began as a personal project of mine has spiraled into something way bigger and way more intense than I anticipated, so I figured I might offer it up to the Dragon Age fandom at large in case there was any interest in participating!
So, here's my idea for #VEILGUARD30:
Starting on October 1st and going day-by-day until right before Veilguard's launch on the 31st, this little event will begin! Whether you're inspired to write Dragon Age fic before the game's release or interested in developing your Rook, you're more than welcome to participate! And don't feel pressured to post every single day if that day's prompt doesn't appeal to you — this is meant to be engaged with to inspire you rather than bully you into writing every single day in October.
I posted this early to give everyone a running start, if they intend to participate or fish for curiosity and interest otherwise!
All sixty prompts are written down beneath the cut.
GENERAL WRITING PROMPTS.
Joining.
Armor.
Vhenadahl.
Deep Roads.
Bards.
Carta.
Dragon.
Sovereigns.
Potions.
Orlais.
Harrowing.
Romance.
Andraste.
Campfire.
Vallaslin.
Lowtown.
Mabari.
Close Call.
Elfroot.
Demon or Spirit.
Qunari.
Templar.
Halamshiral.
Blood Magic.
The Inquisition.
Darkspawn.
Dalish.
Red Lyrium.
Dreadwolf.
The Veilguard.
ROOK DEVELOPMENT PROMPTS.
Name.
Age.
Race.
Background.
Class / Spec.
Gender.
Sexuality.
Parentage.
Siblings.
Early Childhood.
Adolescence.
First Love.
First Hate.
Favorites.
Injuries / Scars.
Distinguishing Features
Voice Type.
Vices.
Virtues.
Homeland.
Height / Build.
Hair / Eye color.
Personality.
Aspirations.
Fears.
Hobbies.
Views on Magic.
Views on Elves..
Views on the Veilguard.
Views on Solas.
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Maybe you just like his hands on you. Maybe you just feel more secure, knowing he's safe.
Or, in which you and Dorian help each other get dressed before setting out into battle.
Dorian Pavus/Reader
“I don’t know how you can stand it,” Dorian says, tugging firmly at the leather laces binding your chestpiece together. “I mean really, they might as well put you in a corset at this rate.” One last firm tug and he’s tying the armor shut, and running his hands over the breadth of your shoulders, finally satisfied.
You laugh, moving this way and that to test the bindings yourself — secure. Perfect. You gesture to him to turn, smoothing out the tanned leather adorning his own upper body before taking the laces in your hands to repeat the process yourself. You suppose you could both suit up alone — you did it for years before, anyways — but this has become a sort of ritual for the two of you over the past handful of months. Call it sweet, or call it superstition — in the end, the result is always the same.
“Don’t tell me you’re missing the Orlesian frippery already, Dorian.”
“Maker, no. But Ferelden seems rather attached to their barren-wasteland brown, wouldn’t you agree?”
You grin to yourself —“I’ll put in a request.”
“Marvelous, that’s one issue solved.”
“And the others being?” You slip a hand beneath the backing, and unhappy with the tension, pull the material a touch tighter. This pulls an startled gasp from his lips, and he shoots you a half glare from over his shoulder.
“Exactly this. We don’t all enjoy being trussed up like a Wintersend roast, amatus.”
You grin in return, tugging again for emphasis. “When did that change, exactly?”
“I’ll have you know that there is quite the difference between silk and leather—”
“And there’s quite the difference between a sword to the chest, and a sword to a chestpiece. Now,” you gently guide him to look forward, placing a quick kiss on his cheek before turning back to the task at hand, “let me save your life, before you waltz into battle in your pretty little robes.”
“Ah, I do adore it when you talk so sweetly.”
Laces, buckles, overcoat — each piece is put together with immense care, with not a single second of expense spared. The title of “Inquisitor” brings with it immense power, and with it, immense danger. Tragedy has woven its way into your life, whether you want it or not — all of the power in the world couldn’t keep death from your door. Perhaps its the power that brought it here, in the first place. But, if nothing else, you’ll keep it as far from your lover as you can manage. And so when the bindings are secure — checked twice, then thrice — you wrap your arms around him one last time, in anticipation for the road ahead. With your hand on his chest, you revel in the heat of him. Steady breaths beneath your palm, heart surely beating strong, even as its normal roar is muffled by the lightweight armor — he’s alive, and safe. And you intend to keep it that way, at all costs.
Officially introducing the current idea I have for my Rooks in preparation for Veilguard and prompted by @pavus post:
Rooks Yasmin De Riva (Left) and Nesiri Mercar (Right)
Yasmin is an Antivan Crow mage and Nesiri is a Shadow Dragon mage, but most importantly...they are half sisters! Only finding this out later in life tho. More info to come about these two! (picrew)
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for Veilguard30, featuring Alythess Cousland and Alistair Theirin
It doesn’t sit right.
Of course it wouldn’t – not like tailored armor would. The tasset is almost too big for her, and as such she has to compensate for the weight by buckling the straps tightly. The leather digs into her hips, and even though it’s simply uncomfortable now, it was going to chaff tremendously later, especially if she had to wear this for too long.
And by the way smoke filled her lungs alongside the stench of death and decay coming from the Wilds where the darkspawn waited for them, she was going to wear it for a long time.
She was a Grey Warden now, not Alythess Cousland.
There were no more tailored armor sets with perfectly fitting pieces that minded her size and frame. Her own set of armor - a gift on her 18th birthday - had been left behind amidst the burning stones of Highever.
She looks down to the weapons laid in front of her. They’d given her two new swords, but she’d handed one back. Sure, she was a Grey Warden now, not Alythess Cousland. But she will still carry her family’s sword from now on.
Alythess senses him before he’s close — and assumes he’s able to do the same. It’s weird, so incredibly weird, and she knows that the bile and darkness crawling inside her now is responsible for it, but she is just fresh from the joining, and sensing the people around her is still unsettling.
“Sorry to hurry you up, but the king is waiting and all that.” Alistair says from somewhere behind her. “How’s the armor?”
It’s too big. The leather straps dig into her hips and ribs. It’s going to chaff eventually.
“It’s fine.” She answers, her voice even as she works the last few straps and buckles.
The other Warden hums behind her, and she assumes he’s nodding.
“What about you? Are you— you know, alright?”
There’s death crawling inside her. There’s been death crawling inside her since Highever burned and she had to turn her back on it. It’s stuck in her throat, thick.
“I’m fine.” Her voice comes off the same.
“Right… We’ll be waiting for you then.”
He doesn’t sound concerned. The correct word might be disappointed.
Alistair had been trying, at least, to make things sound and feel normal. He knew how much it wasn’t, but maybe because he was the most recent addition before her own, he felt bad about her state. Or maybe he was just that compassionate - she had to believe there were still people like this in the world. She couldn’t allow Howe to taint how she saw everyone from now on.
She breathed.
“Alistair?”
He’d already turned to leave, a few steps away from the armory corner she’d been using to don her armor.
“Yes?”
“It’s a bit too big and the straps can’t sit in the right place, and I can’t adjust them properly on my own. Can you help?” She half-twisted to face him over her shoulder.
His face lit up, and Alythess controlled the urge to roll her eyes, or smirk, or both.
“Oh, right! Of course. Shame we can’t make these universal sizes, huh?” He’d walked up to her then, hesitating awkwardly at first to touch the straps badly fastened against her ribs, before starting to help out with them. “Although I guess you might just be too small.”
She shot him an annoyed glance that was almost convincing, before quipping back. “I suppose they needed me at a disadvantage so you don’t get too embarrassed when we’re fighting.”
The evening light had darkened to gloam, silhouetting the ruined towers of Ostagar against the western sky like the ribs of a monstrous, black beast. Below, nestled in the belly of the beast itself, the armies of King Cailan had taken shelter.
Telhara was careful not to look up as she scuttled beneath the looming shadows. She had kept to herself since arriving at Ostagar. When she made the mistake of lifting her head, she was invariably mistaken as one of the elven errand runners. At best, this resulted in her being chastised for her idleness; at worst, in shouted slurs and threats of beatings.
When she had finally arrived at the meeting place, she saw Daveth and Ser Jory waiting alongside Alistair. Before she approached, Telhara observed the three human men to gauge their mood. Jory was pacing – as expected. That man could not go more than five minutes without either complaining or pacing. Daveth seemed to be doing his best to ignore the other man while Alistair watched him anxiously.
A makeshift altar had been erected beneath the statuary, and upon it was set a silver chalice engraved with a motif of griffons rampant.
When he saw her approach, Alisdair gave an awkward wave and a crooked smile; Telhara pretended not to notice.
“Why all these tests?” Ser Jory grumbled. “Have I not earned my place?”
Daveth rolled his eyes. “Maybe it’s tradition. Maybe they’re just trying to annoy you.”
“I only know that my wife is in Highever with a child on the way. If they had warned me…” Ser Jory shook his head, seeming at a loss. “It just doesn’t seem fair.”
Telhara had wanted to laugh. Fair? Had it been fair when she was taken from her clan by the Templars? Had it been fair when the Chantry sisters ripped her children from her arms, moments after they’d been born? Had it been fair when she was dragged out of bed in the middle of the night and told that she would be slaughtered if she could not defeat the demon they had prepared especially to tempt her?
She wanted to say this, and much more – but she said nothing.
By the time Duncan arrived, Telhara was more than ready to get on with the business at hand. Even a gruesome death would be preferable to watching Jory whinge and pace all night.
“At last, we come to the Joining,” spoke Duncan. “The Grey Wardens were founded during the First Blight, when humanity stood on the verge of annihilation. So it was that the first Grey Wardens drank of darkspawn blood, and mastered their taint.”
“We’re…going to drink the blood of those…those creatures?” Jory stammered. His face had turned as pale as a sheet.
“As the first Grey Wardens did before us. As we did before you. This is the source of our power, and our victory.”
“Is this not some manner of blood magic?” Telhara queried. “Drinking the blood of another to gain power? Even if the blood is that of a darkspawn, surely it qualifies as blood magic under the tenets of the Chantry.”
She thought she saw Duncan smile, but perhaps it was merely a trick of the torch light.
“It is no blood magic. Not of any sort that the Chantry would recognize,” Duncan reassured the anxious Jory. “This ritual predates the Chant of Light. And even if it did not – the Grey Wardens do not answer to the Chantry.”
Telhara locked eyes with Duncan in that moment. It was as if he was speaking to her, and to no one else. As if he was letting her know – you are safe here.
