♡ howdy! i'm rain ( 30, he/they/she ). this is primarily a place for me to make video game gifs & talk about my ocs. ♡
i play all sorts of games and like all sorts of genres, so you'll see all kinds of stuff here; from gifsets for psychological horror games and RPGs to long rambles about or art of my OCs. that being said, dragon age does make up a pretty meaningful proportion of what i gif.
#nonsense. is my tag for non - edit chatting. questions re: mods i use can be found here. i rarely reblog anything to this blog; that's saved for my main. my backloggd is here!
i'm not getting into fiction vs. reality debates, but i'm very triggered by the romanticization of abusive dynamics, sexual abuse, incest, etc. please keep that in mind when sending me asks or the like.
I RARELY TAG SPOILERS! if i'm playing a game you're trying to avoid spoilers for, feel free to ask me to tag & i'll do my best — but i am very forgetful. the best way to be 100% sure you won't see any spoilers for a game i'm playing is to blacklist my URL until you're caught up. i generally won't tag spoilers more than five months post-release, even on request. most triggers will be tagged, and feel free to ask for particulars.
thinking abt her....wrote a little summary of The Arc
Brena learned young that having dreams only got you in trouble. Hoping for anything beyond your lot in life made the drudgery and the quiet — and sometimes not so quiet — disrespect harder to ignore. It made you cocky, so you mouthed off. It made you believe you deserved better, so you couldn’t take the hurt laying down. Being a servant who dreamt, who bet on miracles, who expected the world to be on your side — she saw how other servants suffered for that, sometimes outwardly, sometimes internally. She saw how other elven servants suffered the most.
She wasn’t unhappy. She found joy where she was and the people around her. But she learned young not to dream. The word most would use to describe her was practical. If a foal was injured and another servant insisted there was some chance to save it, but the risk was high and the hope was small? She’d put it out of its misery herself. If a servant saw a chance at another way of life, but it was slim and dangerous, and asked her to come along? She’d say no. Another servant, her best friend and not-quite-lover, Eleri, dreamed of seeing the world — and Brena tried again and again to put her feet on the ground, to get her to stop dreaming so much, because that would keep her safe.
Brena was loving, everyone knew that. She was kind. But she was always practical. It made her a good stablehand. She knew limits. She didn’t get blinded by hope or sentimentality. It kept the disrespect from humans tolerable, because she'd never imagined any other kind of treatment. It kept her from attracting too much attention from visiting nobles or guards — and when it didn’t, it kept her from inviting further trouble. This is all to say — not dreaming kept her alive. It didn’t always keep her safe.
Eleri dreamed, and when she and Brena had no choice but to flee Redcliffe, that dreaming killed her. Brena stayed practical. It made her a good Warden. Until they returned to Redcliffe and Connor — sweet Connor, who she’d made laugh, who she’d taught to sneak food from the kitchen — was infected with a demon. And the only ways to save him involved a blood magic ritual from a mage she didn’t know or trust; or a trip of two days, minimum, to the Circle — where she had no idea the state of the mages, or if they’d even help — during which they would simply have to hope that the demon possessing Connor didn’t slaughter more.
And what had her life taught her? What had humans and nobles and knights taught her? That it was foolish and selfish and dangerous to hope. It was foolish and selfish and deadly to try for the hopeful but impossible thing. Life had taught her that you looked at reality and accepted it, and did not expect to be spared or to be lucky. Life had taught her to be practical. And so she killed Connor.
Alistair, who’d been her occasional playmate and friend in childhood, when he still lived with Eamon, screamed at her back at camp, called her cruel, a monster, said Eamon would never forgive them. Alistair loved Arm Eamon. Alistair saw Eamon as a father. To Alistair, Brena had destroyed a family her loved out of petty revenge. He imagined that she resented the family for her years of service, and that she’d harmed them on purpose. Her attempts to explain got nowhere — how could Alistair, who hadn’t had his dreams frightened and beaten out of him, understand her kind of practicality? How could he understand when she inisted that she hadn’t wanted to kill Connor, but that it was the safest option, the one with the fewest unknowns, the ones that did not require the universe to be kinder or luckier than it had ever been for her? The one that did not require the sort of miracle that she knew would never come to her. It didn't matter.
Their bond shattered, and Brena retreated into herself, hollowed and ashamed. She still fought and worked, but there was nothing in her face. At camp, she spoke to few, the bare minimum, seeming sometimes catatonic. She wondered if Alistair was right. She wondered if Eamon would see it the same way that Alistair had. She wondered if her actions had doomed them all if Eamon would refuse to be their ally because of her eminently practical choice. She grieved the boy she'd murdered, who she'd cared for and loved.
Alistair had put Brena into the position of being the leader because he didn’t want the risk of making choices. Now, Brena felt frozen, unable to make any further calls, unable to trust the practicality that had always been praised, that had kept her alive — but unable, too, to risk the hope that she’d watched ruin others. It didn’t last long; without Alistair stepping up, there was no other choice. But she hesitated where she never had. She was hard on herself. She hated herself. She did her best never to speak to Alistair, and she became deeply self-sacrificial.
It’s this fresh hollowing that sets the stage for her growth. As a child, she’d taught herself not to hope. As an adult, that lack of ability sees her isolated, punished by one of few familiar elements in her new and traumatic life. She feels empty in the aftermath, but with the support of the party that understands, or at least tries to — Sten, Zevran, Leliana especially — and their willingness to hope for her, to be impractical in their attempts to care for and protect her, her heart slowly fills.
It’s for someone else the first time — she does something impractical for Zevran’s sake. It doesn’t pan out like she’d hoped, but it doesn’t fail entirely. And while she never ceases being practical, she slowly dares to dream. For others first. It takes years to dare to hope for her own future and her own sake, but with support, she gets there.
summary: Emmrich can’t stop his grin; his excitement for her is palpable, and it is so good, to see the girl who was once a very lonely, inexpressive child so beloved and so aware of it.
“Emmrich!”
He can’t help but smile — he’d know that voice anywhere, even if the joy in it, the excitement, still feels new. He hasn’t seen the woman in months; the letters flow freely, but it’s good to greet Dimitra, to see her smile, to catch her as she runs into his arms. When they’d met, she winced from every touch, afraid to be reminded that she had a body; now, she receives love and gives it to those who she chooses without hesitation. He embraces her back while she laughs, softly, breathy and at ease.
When Rook pulls away, he looks her over properly; more freckles, more time in the sun. Her hair is longer, dark roots showing past the red, and it’s curly again, as it had been when they’d met. Her eyes, once flat and inexpressive, seem to almost glitter, even as the smile goes softer, more ghostlike the way he knows so well from her.
“Hello, Rook! It is so good to see you again.” He allows her to step back, his hands falling to his side as hers tuck behind her back. She loves Ferelden and her life with Harding, he knows; she writes him often regarding her joy at their home, their lives, the work both do to soothe and settle the war-torn nation. But he can tell, too, that she’s happy to be back in the Necropolis.
“It is good to see you, as well. I missed you very much. Lace would have come, were she able.”
“I’m sure it won’t be long until I see her, though I do have a small gift for you to take back with you for her. I was thrilled when your letter said you wanted to speak in person. And very excited, given that I suspect you’ve got rousing news for me.”
Her cheeks darken, but her smile only grows; goes helpless, somehow. As if she is overwhelmed at the force of her happiness. She breathes out a laugh.
“I knew the spirits would share before I could. So they told you?”
Emmrich inclines his head kindly. “Let me see the ring, my girl!”
She laughs again and does so, outholding her hand. There are always spirits with her, many from the crypts, or split off into parts from them, who come and go — she must have known when Lace proposed that the news might well get back to Emmrich before she could tell him herself. She doesn’t seem like she feels deprived; not when he takes her hand, examining the ring with a wide smile, so ecstatic for her it nearly aches. He squeezes her hand, looks from the ring to her face to the ring again. “I simply must know everything. Walk with me to the gardens, and tell me on the way?”
“Yes.” He gives her her hand back, still warm from his touch. He watches her toy idly with the simple band upon her finger. He notes the way her smile doesn’t fall, doesn’t seem like it can. As they walk, she says, “Lace proposed. We’d talked about marriage a bit — enough to know we both wanted it. She asked if I’d rather propose or be asked, and I said I’d rather be proposed to. She was a bit surprised.”
“Was she?”
“Only pleasantly. I get the impression that she’d wanted to propose from the start, but was not sure if I’d enjoy it. I wouldn’t have, at the beginning.” She smiles, hums, as if the thought’s indulgent. “A few months passed, the conversation slipped from my mind…I didn’t think much about marriage, admittedly. Not because I didn’t want it, but because…we lived together, and have for more than a year now. We work and cook and fight and sleep beside one another. I felt like we’d been married for a very long time. And then…” Her hand raises, and she smiles softly at the ring upon it. “It was her grandmother’s ring, you know.”
Emmrich can’t stop his grin; his excitement for her is palpable, and it is so good, to see the girl who was once a very lonely, inexpressive child so beloved and so aware of it. “How did she propose?”
“Quietly. We were sitting under a large tree not far from our home, eating a small dinner. The sun was setting, and I said that it was beautiful. It was…the colours in Ferelden are so different. Than the crypts, of course, but they’re different from Nevarra’s upper worlds, too. It’s so…golden there, the light. It’s warm. It’s fall, all red and yellow. I said it was extraordinary. Lace said she had something else special for me to see, and when I turned to look at her, she was holding out the ring.”
The elder necromancer’s laugh is warm and adoring. “Did she kneel?”
“No. I asked about it later. She said it already hurts her neck to look up at me, let alone on a knee.”
Emmrich laughs again; Dimitra joins this time. She says, “She’s been explaining Ferelden marriagae rituals to me. We’re going to hold it in Ferelden, as that’s where her family is, but she’s promised me I can include Nevarran and Mourn Watch rituals as well, if I’d like.”
They enter the gardens. Several wisps surround the woman in mere moments, chimimg excitedly, welcoming her home. Her head tilts, lifting hands to allow them to touch her, almost nuzzling one that comes near her face.
“I believe they missed you.”
“And I them,” Rook says softly. The wisps give her space after a few moments, but remain nearby, watching, content to be close to one they love. And sensing, perhaps, a blooming, quietly joyous nervousness building in the young woman. Emmrich notices it, too; she’s suddenly unable to meet his eyes, but hers are bright where they lower. “And, um — ah. She told me about many rituals that are common in Ferelden, around a marriage. A lot of them seem very silly to me. One, uh…” She laughs quietly at herself. “Maker. In Ferelden, it’s common for a bride to be…given away by her father during the wedding. I confess that when she explained it to me at first, I thought it very…quaint. Like a father is his daughter’s owner? Or she’s a possession. But she explained that, in practice, it’s just that…a father walks his child up the aisle to meet her groom, sharing a moment with her before she becomes a wife as well as a daughter. It doesn’t even have to be the father, strictly speaking — what’s important is a parental bond, signifying the bride moving from living within her parent’s home to her partner’s. She intends to ask her mother to give her away. She is certain she’ll say yes. And I…”
Her nerves rush out of her, cheeks darkening in the dim light. Emmrich feels his heart swell at the question he’s almost too afraid to hope for.
Rook continues, slowly, “I…don’t know my biological parents, and we’re both brides. But I…was jealous, when she told me her mother would do it. I felt envious. And when I imagined who I — who I would want, walking me down the aisle in place of a parent, I —— no. That’s wrong, I’m being…a coward, a bit.” She breathes slowly. “I want you to give me away at my wedding, Emmrich, as my father. Because that is…how I see you. I have seen you that way for — a very long time, if I’m honest, but I never mentioned it. I was afraid it would be overstepping.” Her dark eyes raise to his face, timid, hopeful. “I — there is no obligation, if you’d rather not, but ——”
“Rook!” His voice nearly breaks; he’s so joyous he might cry, though he avoids staining such a joyous moment with tears for now. He wraps her in an embrace, and she squeaks before returning it. “My dear girl, I would be delighted!”
Her eyes widen; not with surprise, exactly, but something like relief. She pulls away to see his face. “R - Really?”
“Nothing would honor me more than to be a part of your wedding. I adore both you and Lace, and I want nothing more than for both of you to be happy. To be a part of that…oh, nothing could possibly make me happier. Except —” His grin softens, just a bit, “— perhaps, knowing that you think of me as your father.”
This time, it is shock on her face. “Oh! Oh, I — I had worried. I didn’t want to…put you into that role unfairly, just because —”
“I’ve thought of you as my daughter at least since the end of our battle with Solas, Dimitra. And — ah. It is a difficult memory, but do you recall when you were twelve, and you returned to the Mourn Watch?”
“Yes.” The single syllable is flat, if not pained; it is a memory that aches for both of them, for different reasons. But it can’t hurt them now.
“We spoke. I welcomed you back. I remember thinking…that I wished I could be a father to you. Protect you as a father ought. I didn’t see an opportunity then; between my duties often taking me far from the Necropolis and your lessons, I knew I would see you only rarely, if at all, going forward. I felt it would be cruel to attempt to be a large part of your life when I would be absent so often. But I am grateful, now, that I am able to be for you what I couldn’t be all those years ago.”
Dimitra’s eyes shine, and he feels that familiar surge of paternal affection, pride at how much she’s grown, how much she allows herself to feel. How much she accepts what she feels, and the body that processes those emotions. Her hands fall from his arms to take his, and her fingers squeeze around his palm. She murmurs, “I am…so grateful. To have a father.”
“And I a daughter.”
“It’s strange…I didn’t mind not having parents when I didn’t see the value in life. But as I learned, it became…it was as if the more I learned to love my...alive-ness, and that of those around me, the more my lack of parents grieved me.” Her eyes raise, and she smiles at him, still crying. “Now I do not need to grieve.”
His heart swells so full it might crack, he thinks, and he wouldn’t even mind. “It has been…an enormous privilege, Dimitra, to have known the girl you were and to know the woman that girl grew into. I am proud of you, beyond measure.”
Her dark eyes widen and well, and she embraces him again, hiding her face and her tears in his shoulder. He smiles softly as he holds the girl in return. He has held her many times before, but never as her father. The thought is all it takes — he feels tears in his eyes, too.
by the time of the landmseet getting called elen's Development has happened enough that she's
pretty much over her moral issues with killing* and in fact actively enjoys when she gets to murder
rightfully convinced she and the gang are basically unbeatable, any time anyone tries to fight her shes just like lol. lmao even.
anyway i love every cutscene where someone shows up 2 try and kill elen while she's moving thru denerim's back alleys because it just is like "damn these guys think they can kill us. haha. that's funny. i'm going to make them blow up with magic now." ad nauseum
the thing is i really don't like when video games or movies or etc have elves and the only difference between them and humans is that elves have pointy ears. like i get it in live action film to some extent because like. all the actors are humans what are you gonna do. but otherwise it's just so fucking boring. make them trend taller or shorter or give them weird freaky eyes or distinct facial features or weird proportions or SOMETHING. it doesn't even have to be extreme. but give me SOMETHING. and obviously just like there are humans who are taller than average or shorter than average there can be exceptions sometimes and maybe some elves just kinda genetically wind up looking vaguely human sometimes but on the whole i want them to be distinct in some obvious ways.
anyway this is why i havent gotten very far in-game with any of my veilguard elves i just get annoyed theyre not weirder looking
