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@aestuum
this is a private, extremely low-activity, canon-divergent & headcanon based rp blog for GREY WARDEN ROOK of the dragon age games, novels, etc. mun & muse 25+. nsfw content present. written by paladin. they/them.
affiliated with @dreadblaidd @keepslore @avrorean @hemerasiae @extravagantliar
doc. general headcanons. ask prompts.
rules under the cut ...
y'all don't understand the restraint i am exercising in not making a qifr.ey blog ...
celestial entity quiz.
the moon
you are a mystical being. constant yet elusive. apparent yet indistinct. you are reliable in the sense that the moon has its phases. however, even though people know what to expect from you, they still find themselves captivated. you are anything but boring—no, you are hypnotizing. people are drawn to you in the same way they’re mesmerized by the moon on a clear night. the moon is steady and dependable—the anchor of the night sky. when navigating the night, people crane their necks up searching for its light. the moon is not innately flashy, but still manages to catch one's eye. although at times difficult to perceive, hidden by clouds, or hard to capture on camera, the moon is always there for all who seek it. you indiscriminately favor everyone with your light yet only feel truly seen and appreciated by a few. it’s amazing how you manage to do so much with so little, but its still okay to let people close sometimes. the moon cannot illuminate the entire night sky by itself. we will love you even if you ask for help. you probably give good advice and are known for being a good listener. you don’t have many secrets, yet you’re still mysterious. transparent and whole, yet vague. you’re quietly emotional like how the ocean is quietly loud. you feel strongly about certain things even though you don’t always share your convictions. you’re the type to get their feelings hurt but never say so. when it comes to you there’s so much in what is left unsaid if only people are willing to read between the lines. you’re aware of yourself and who you are just not always good at expressing it. those who put in the extra work to get to know you will reap the secret rewards of your innermost self. you are like the comforting familiarity and whimsical wonder of watching a Christmas movie in class in elementary school. you are a steadfast secret keeper and promise maker. you are the reliable pillar and foundation we all trust enough to build upon. you are both benevolent and divine.
tagged by @keepslore & @witchsabre !!
tagging: you
“Give me your hand. I need to feel that you’re real.” - casadh for ameridan …. post regret prison perhaps ?
𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐖𝐈𝐃𝐎𝐖–𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒 | accepting | @aestuum
Time slips through his fingers like sand. When he does not sleep the days away, too exhausted even to dream, he loses them in thought instead. He sits long hours looking out the window, and his thoughts drift like clouds across a busy sky, never staying long, always heading on towards something that is just out of sight in the distance. He knows what that is but doesn't need to look at it even as it closes in. If Abelas is with him, or Dhavi or Casadh, then sitting in the clouded thoughts is pleasant. In the rare moments all of them are away, he tugs a blanket over his shoulders and tries to go to sleep. Every day that folds itself slowly into night is another day closer to rest. He finds himself thinking of that more often than he thinks of Orinna or Telana.
The soft nothingness of rest, and then their hands reaching for him from the other side. That isn't how he pictures it, because he doesn't do anything as deliberate as picturing it. But is is what his thoughts drift to as they fade.
Casadh is beside him now, in the chair beside his. They've dozed off, and he's been sitting perfectly still, even when his back starts hurting and he knows he should move, because he's afraid they'll wake up and not allow themselves anymore rest. But when they do stir, it's only to tilt their head to look at him and mumble, half asleep:
“Give me your hand. I need to feel that you’re real.”
Ameridan shifts, grimacing; Hakkon is far away and slow to react to push the pain down, and either way he shouldn't remove it entirely, because this kind of pain is a reminder. He finds a better position, then reaches over the armrest to twine his fingers through Casadh's.
"I am here, da'len. I am real", he mumbles, tired but not sleepy, as though words and thoughts move through honey. He tilts his head until it leans lightly against Casadh's, their forms mirrors, slumped against each other over the sides of the chairs. "Go back to sleep. I will be here when you wake."
@degild sent ...
CASADH ISN'T REALLY SURE HOW to think of Zevran—they've juggled a handful of titles in their mind, but none of them quite fit the odd family dynamic. Because, yes, at this point, years after their introduction and a world-ending catastrophe and the aftermath between them, Casadh is confident that they can count on Zevran. That's what family is, right? People you can count on.
Still, that doesn't solve the what to call him in their head, problem. So they've just settled for Zevran.
Anyway, Zevran is visiting—checking in on things and collecting a few pieces of intel from Lucanis as he steps further back from the Crows.
Casadh's making dinner, a recipe that does not require Lucanis' attention nor his perfectionism in the kitchen, and listening to the two talk quietly at the dining table. After a good half-hour, Lucanis excuses himself and Zevran walks over to lounge against the worktable where their dinner is currently being assembled.
"You two seem to be getting along a bit better," Casadh observes as they cut into a pepper. "I told you that he'd be a good ally. He's got a lot more to offer than only his fighting skills."
Zevran scoffs and makes a face, crossing his arms.
anyone can learn to fight. hardly anyone learns to think.
Casadh pauses and squints at Zevran.
"You're right. I can't imagine how you make it look so easy. Must be terribly difficult for you."
That earns them a feigned gasp of affront, Zevran's hand flying to his heart.
"You wound me, Casadh."
They snort.
"Why are Antivans so dramatic?" they mutter, smiling, as they return their attention back their task.
GIDEON THE NINTH SENTENCE STARTERS, PART ONE. book one of tamsyn muir’s locked tomb series. change pronouns as needed.
take this much farther and you’re in danger of enjoying yourself.
you chatter so much for a debt.
come here, and i’ll black your eyes for you and knock you dead.
don’t make the mistake of drawing on me.
i’m not that dumb.
save the drama, you baby.
i know of your desires.
i’ll keep my nose clean. keep my mouth shut. i’ll even - you can write this down, you can quote me here - do my duty.
you forget yourself.
will you come of your own accord, or will you disgrace me?
i guess i’ll disgrace you. i feel like i was born to it.
hey, what can i say? i’m a tactician.
take your hand from your sword, you’re humiliating yourself.
you know what i know.
how coarse and ordinary.
i completely fucking hate you.
i don’t even remember about you most of the time.
can i appeal to your sense of duty?
i swear by my mother.
i gave her my whole life.
you make it so easy.
i do fear death, my lady.
let us pray.
she never keeps her promises.
you have always suffered from a want of duty.
you couldn’t spell obligation if i shoved the letters up your ass.
go choke on a dick.
i have work for you.
the only job i’d do for you would be if you wanted someone to hold the sword as you fell on it.
if you want to do something interesting, come with me.
this plan is doomed.
this is your opportunity to come into glory.
i know what you’d do, given half the chance.
oh, i have hurt your heart.
it won’t be the last time i make you weep.
she’ll make me into boots.
while we were developing common sense, she studied the blade.
i would have thought you would have been happy that i needed you. that i showed you my girlish and vulnerable heart.
your heart is a party for five thousand nails.
two out of three is still not three.
anyone can learn to fight. hardly anyone learns to think.
pray they don’t watch you fight too closely.
wherever i go, my heart is interred here.
do you want my hanky?
i want to watch you die.
i came prepared, my sweet.
what can we do, what can we do?
yo, step off.
stand down, you goof.
this is one for the history books.
what must i do to gain forgiveness?
well if we're saying it ...
casadh pegs lucanis .
a prologue …
with @dreadblaidd
The ocean has never felt so heavy before.
Casadh fights towards the surface, though as hard as they try they cannot move their arms, nor kick their legs. Their eyes, too, are sealed shut, and their chest is weighed down by an enormous pressure. It takes them a few seconds to realize they are breathing.
Not water, they think. But they can taste salt through the parting of their lips, dripping in with a tang of sour sweetness, like iron—blood.
Suddenly, they know they must open their eyes, must find where the blood is coming from, must move to get away, must—
“Contendit contra vincula,” someone says from close by. Casadh cannot open their eyes to see who is talking. They do not recognize the voice.
“Renova sanguinem.” Another deep voice, bored, gives the command. Casadh feels something wet and warm on their face, the pressure of a finger drawing a sigil, and what awareness they had is gone in an instant.
***
The room is large, and well-furnished. Not for Casadh’s sake, they’re certain, but in the hopes that it might appease a god, once the god in question decides to show up. Casadh had told their captors that the chance of that happening were slim to none. They should know, since Casadh knows this god better than almost anyone else alive. No one seems to believe them, though.
Perhaps they should be grateful that they’ve been given ways to pass the waking hours. The desk in the corner of the room is stocked with high-quality paper and inks. There is sand, for drying, in case they happen to write enough to fill more than once page in a single sitting. They can’t imagine what they’re expected to write, however, since they aren’t allowed any contact with anyone besides their jailers. No letters. No notes. No kind words.
Truthfully, after a week of this, they’re growing a bit … complacent.
They’ve tried every conceivable thing to wiggle their way out of this, but the cage has been too well-constructed, and the trap too well-set. Their waking hours are spent in boredom, with an occasional supervised walk (complete with magic-dampening manacles), and their sleeping hours, of which there are many, are equally a prison.
Casadh had realized with the first sip from the cup left for them on the sidetable that the pitcher of water was laced with those Dalish herbs that helped facilitate Fadewalking. They’d spit it out and stayed as far from the water as they could, for as long as they could, but eventually they had grown thirsty. That, and one of their captors, a Magister Bellum (Casadh suspects that this is not his actual name, as Master War seems a bit too on the nose) had stopped by to make a few things clear.
1. The Venatori (because it was the Venatori who had abducted them from their seaside home in Antiva) do not need their cooperation. If Casadh does not wish to take care of themself, the Venatori will happily force them to.
2. It is imperative that Casadh not waste away, because their body is an integral part of a larger plan.
3. Casadh will sleep and Dream; never will they close their eyes and not open them in the Fade.
4. Casadh will act as bait for Fen’harel, who is trapped in the Black City and whom the Venatori wish to use for their own purposes. Once Fen’harel takes the bait and steps across the trapline, he will be sealed in with Casadh and his only option will be to possess them, bind himself to them more fully than he had during the war between himself and the other Evanuris, and use their body to break free.
5. The Venatori will be waiting. He will not be free, and neither will Casadh.
Casadh had scoffed, of course, and had bluffed their way through the conversation. They’d acted bored and unimpressed and even, to Magister Bellum’s irritation, a bit condescending.
They truly didn’t expect the Dread Wolf to fall for such a trick, did they? Casadh had asked. They didn’t think that he cared enough about Rook to take the Venatori’s bait?
When the magister had left, Casadh had laid on the feather-bed and stared at the canopy, a lush, scarlet velvet, and tried to make no noise as they cried.
The wards on their room were too tough to break. There were no spirits in the vicinity Casadh could ask for help. And if someone did come, if Solas came, or Lucanis, or anyone else, they’d be trapped here, too.
So, now, Casadh sits at the desk and doodles a seascape. The view from their own bedroom window. They lift the cup of water to their lips and wait for it to make them drowsy. Then they’ll fall asleep like they did before, like they will again.
***
The Fade isn’t as bleak as Solas’s prison had been. There the colors had all been muted, as though drained from the world. Casadh’s normal experience of the Fade had, before then and since, been of color beyond description, feeling beyond sensation. Everything beautiful and unutterable and unknowable, seen but hardly understood.
This place isn’t like that, but it’s not dreary, either.
Casadh is able to mold this part of the Fade according to their dreams, so they’ve been practicing. It won’t let them do anything to break through the barrier, extending in a perfect circle about a hundred paces in each direction, but even so …
They’ve made an image of their home. Not the one they’d shared with their parents and sister—that will always be home, of course, but they have another home now, too. The sea roars gently around them as they perch on a rock, watching the waves lap at the shore. Behind them there is a lone building, not quite a house but not quite a shack. Two bedrooms and a living space. Perfect for two people who just want to slip away from responsibility every now and then.
The worse part of this, though, is that however perfectly Casadh has recreated their home, they will always be the only one in it. They won’t poke their head through the window and see Lucanis bent over the fire, stirring something that smells glorious in a large iron pot. They won’t return from their rounds in the village, checking on patients and delivering medicine, to find Remembrance or Abelas sitting at the table. They won’t climb down into the basement, past the wards, to place their hand upon a sleeping eluvian, nor step through to Skyhold and Clan Lavellan waiting on the other side.
At least, at the very least, no one is trapped here with them. That’s a comfort.
Casadh scowls and picks up a pebble by their hip, tossing it roughly into the water. It doesn’t make a sound as it hits the waves and disappears. There isn’t even a splash.
It seems that their control over the Fade is still imperfect.
***
Day after day, it repeats. Waking, sleeping, dreaming, drawing. It all melts together.
Soon enough, they stop waiting for someone to come for them, and hope that no one does. They don’t want the Venatori to win.
not planning a comeback w/ a plot that’s gonna be so self-indulgent and also make ppl yell at me (& karen)
anyway so i've been knitting a lot lately . that's been taking up all my time .
what if i turned my other dnd pc into a da oc. what then. who would stop me.
Faintly, like an echo from a distant room in a lonely house, Solas heard another voice. He focused on it; the rich baritone, the humor lacing the chiding words, the soft huff of a quiet laugh.
One of Casadh’s companions. The other Grey Warden, he guessed, though he based his assumption on the fact that he did not find the voice grating. Most of Casadh’s companions irritated him. Most everything irritated him, truth be told, which is why he swallowed his pithy response.
“Distracted by what, may I ask?” Solas did ask, and managed to keep most of the sullenness from his voice. Conversation partners were few, and since he and Casadh had survived the more contentious early days of their reluctant partnership, he had no desire to let his irritation spawn an argument. Not when he was so bored.
"Have you found something interesting in your wanderings?"
CASADH SIGHS AND RESIGNS THEMSELF to a conversation with Solas right under Davrin's nose. Lucky for them, Davrin is content to let the silence stretch out, and happy to let nature provide a backdrop for thought and contemplation. They enjoy walks with Davrin. He's a kindred spirit in this regard—that and they're both Wardens, so there's always something to gripe about.
Distracted by you, they think. Then, It's hard having two conversations at once. You were both talking over each other.
Casadh stabilizes themself with their staff and hops up onto a large boulder, clambering up the side to reach the top and catch a glimpse of the valley beyond. Davrin joins them.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" he asks.
"Yeah," Casadh nods. "It is."
They close their eyes and try and send the feeling, big and awed and content to look at the wideness of the world, to Solas.
I know you can't see, but can you feel it?
"You're mortal," Solas decided. "So one is the same as the other."
With a quirk of his brow, the bench became hard, cold stone. Hardly a comfortable bed. “You will attract a spirit of Melodrama at this rate,” Solas snorted. But finally, he relented. "You tire because you are trying too hard, aja'len. The Fade is intent and feeling. You cannot reason it into being or force it to bend to your will. It is a conversation. You have simply to let it flow."
THEY RAISE AN EYEBROW at the collapse of a mortal's age—from their perspective young versus old is very different. On the one hand, you have immaturity, inexperience, and a certain belief that the world is as wide and as welcoming as you could wish for it to be. On the other, you know how the world actually is.
The Fade seems to listen to Casadh's thoughts, turning a bit dreary, tree branches drooping and shadows lengthening. They grimace. Solas is right. Melodrama will appear with another minute of such maudlin thoughts.
"It's different than communing with spirits," they say. The stone bench isn't comfortable, but it's not as though they've never laid on the ground. They stay where they are. "With spirits, it's easy. The Fade fights me at every turn."
Solas greatly disapproved.
But he could rally. "Well," he mused, tapping his chin 'thoughtfully.' "As we have established you have three decades 'and change,'" he continued, lacing his hands behind his back to walk ponderously around them, not unlike a circling vulture, "I can only assume that you tire while dreaming because you are old."
THIS MAKES THEM LAUGH. And since they really do need the rest, and because they want to be a bit annoying, they spin around and lay down on the bench, with their arms behind their head.
"Make up your mind, old man," they say. "Am I a teenager or am I on death's door? It can't be both."
They kick a leg out and rest it at an angle against their opposite knee.
"I suppose I don't have centuries to perfect the art of walking the Fade, but surely it'll get easier at some point?"
The look Solas fixed on them could freeze a volcano. "I created a dagger that severed an entire race from their dreams."
CASADH'S USED TO LOOKS LIKE this by now, so they just blink at him.
"Well, there you go." They kick their feet out, then back. It's not really something to joke about, so they don't.
"You didn't answer my question." Changing the subject might work. "How can I be tired while I'm dreaming?"
Solas tilted his head comically to the side, his arms falling to his sides. "Aren't you?" he said, bewildered. And then his hands immediately returned to his hips. "Then why were you off disrupting rituals you did not understand? You should have more sense than that if you are the same age as Dh - the Inquisitor."
Who, notably, disrupted a ritual she did not understand.
CASADH UNCROSSES THEIR ARMS and leans back on their palms, looking up at Solas with poorly concealed amusement.
"Well," they say, "I was just doing my job. Varric hired me."
They pause, then, "What? You've never done something stupid because it was your job?"
"I am no older than Elgar'nan," he glowered. His crossed arms unfolded to rest disapprovingly on his hips. "And she was not 'much' younger," he said. "You have what..." Solas looked at them - really looked at them. He narrowed his eyes, considered his vast experience with mortals, and came to the only logical answer. "Not even two decades?" That seemed right.
CASADH SCOFFS. They shrug and kick at the dirt again.
"Try three and some change. I'm not old, but I'm not a teenager."
They frown and then look back at him, squinting. "Wait, you thought I was a teenager? You've thought I was a teenager this entire time?"
