We have all seized the white perimeter as our own and reached for a pen if only to show we did not just laze in an armchair turning pages; we pressed a thought into the wayside, planted an impression along the verge. - Billy Collins
RIP Anthony Stewart Head, an incredible actor, musician, singer, LGBTQ+ ally and activist, devoted girl dad, and father figure to many of us as we grew up.
hero of ferelden rook romancing emmrich and the main conflict of their relationship is the calling vs emmrich's fear of death instead of rook being significantly younger
oddly specific thing that brings me joy: The way my dog flops when she runs after a ball.
phone wallpaper: Lock screen: Big Basset Ears. Wallpaper: A fucked up paint pallet with a black ink spot in the center.
are you a morning or night person? Night, night, night. If I could outlaw the morning, I would.
favorite scent: Roses, but also fresh bread and Nonna's sauce cooking on the stove.
origin of your username: “Ferocious notes” is taken from the first line of the Billy Colins poem “Marginalia,” which describes people’s interactions with literature.
song on repeat: Pink Pony Club keeps worming its way into my brain, but probably Work Song, Hozier.
i will always order this food: Sandwich (any)
current favorite show/movie/book? Love Margo Has Money Trouble, but rewatching MASH for the umpteenth time. Howl's Moving Castle (thought I like the book more); The Witches of New York
last thing you hyperfixated on: Dragon Age :Veilguard, or more precisely Emmrich Volkarin
what's your job/occupation, if applicable?: Local Government Archivist - though I used to do academic and I feel like that's where my heart is, just not a living wage.
I think this might be the most beautiful meme I've ever seen. I just spent five minutes extolling all its virtues to my husband:
It doesn't even mention Julius Caesar or the Ides of March.
It's from a very different segment of the play
It's not even the famous part of that segment that everyone knows by heart
The "I'm just sayin'" attitude of all the Seinfeldians in the screenshot (although if memory serves, what they're actually saying is, "not that there's anything wrong with that")
It just comes at the whole situation in such an oblique fashion
I don't think I've ever seen an Ides of March meme do anything like this before
hey so anyone else just, feel thin. sort of stretched. like butter scraped over too much bread. like you need a holiday. a very long holiday. and you don't expect you shall return? or is that just me and bilbo baggins
Look at this man's face after he says deep. The way he looks at Rook as their eyes are closed, trusting him. You can't tell me he isn't feeling the tension in the air and helping to feed it.
[Pictured below: a man feeling that delicious tingle of desire race up his spine.]
I am reminded of what Emm says when you are standing outside of Blackthorne and choose that moment to compliment him.
Not only does he choose his words carefully, but he's also very aware of his tone, cadence, and use of pauses. Thus, the pause he takes after he says deep is very deliberate. A test and tease for both of them.
Then the way he gently lifts their hand by their inner wrist [The skin of which is very sensitive.], long fingers guiding their movements with control and purpose. Only willing to drop his gaze from their face when he feels he must. Watch his eyes.
"Stay with me..." - Day 3 of the Fade Discord server's Valentine's Prompts
“Stay with me, my love!” Emmrich’s sweet voice echoed and she might have felt herself smiling. If that was the last sound she would ever hear, she’d at least be grateful she’d lived long enough to hear him call her his love.
Rook's attention wanders to disastrous effect.
Read on Ao3 or Below the cut
Too hot. It was far too hot. And sweaty. And something itched under her cheek.
Blearily, Rook squirmed under the suffocating blankets, trying to kick them off until a groan from her scratchy, sticky pillow startled her fully awake.
“Never again,” Emmrich wheezed on the breath tortured sigh, his chest moving under Rook as he started to stretch his neck and shoulders.
“Morning.” Rook raised her head, blinking into the soft, semi-darkness of the meditation room, the shadows of glittery Fade fish darting over the ceiling and walls.
“An accurate assessment.” He yanked his arm out from where it had undoubtedly been pinned against the back of the chaise for the whole of the night and flexed his hand, attempting to restore some semblance of circulation. “It is, without a doubt, morning.”
Rook hid her smile in the crook of Emmrich's arm. They had never spent the night together in her room before, and for good reason it turned out. Why should they ever forsake a perfectly snug and comfortable bed behind the false bookcase on the upper level of Emmrich's laboratory for Solas’ lumpy old couch? Surely, such a notion would be the height of madness? But last night, upon arriving home from what should have been a routine trip to the ruins of Arlathan, neither of them had possessed much in the way of sense.
The weather in the forest had been surprisingly mild that afternoon, sun streaming through the trees and dappling the ground with patches of light. The air was sweet with the smell of fresh earth and blooming leaves born from a night of soft rainfall, and it all left Rook giddy for the promise of a lively spring after so many months of cold and Blight in the Hossberg Wetlands and endless rain and torment in Minrathous. By midday, the sun had thoroughly baked away the morning’s damp and, while Bellara and Emmrich fiddled with some misbehaving elvhen contraption, Rook shucked off her sense of duty with her field tunic and occupied herself by skipping stones across a nearby pond.
It had been so idyllic that she, perhaps, could be forgiven for dropping her guard to enjoy a fine afternoon in nature. Whether or not she could ever forgive herself for the terrible scare she'd given Emmrich was another matter entirely.
Watching a stone jump three times across the water, she stood on the bank of the pond with her fists on her hips, staff leaned against a boulder rather than secured on her back. The forest was quiet, devoid of bird song or the rustle of wind through the trees. In any other place, both were things that might have put her on her guard, but she was growing so accustomed to the peculiarities of Arlathan, she barely noted either.
It was not until she heard the frantic, faraway voices of her companions that she took any notice at all of the creeping cold that had started to turn the water lapping up on the shore and around her boots to ice.
“Rook!” She’d heard Bellara yell from somewhere in the distance. “Behind you! You’ve gotta move!”
The force of Despair’s aura pushed her to the ground and she landed hard on her front with a sickening thud, breath knocked from her body. Her staff rolled away, far from her hand, and she fumbled to her knees, trying to gather and project as much power as she could. It wasn’t enough, not near enough, and Despair blasted through her barrier as if it were made of gossamer.
With no other defense, the sinking freeze of Despair penetrated the core of her magic. She felt the gutting yank of her mana and life force being siphoned by the demon in equal measure, strengthening it while she faded. Faintly, she could hear Emmrich and Bellara shouting as her vision clouded, graying with every sharp wrench.
“Rook, hang on! We’re coming!” Bellara still, she thought, but so far away…it was so cold and so dark.
“Hold fast!” Emmrich shouted and she shivered.
Oh, to have found the warmth of his affection only to lose it so quickly, mused some despondent voice in her mind that did not feel completely hers. It would have always been thus, one way or another. Lichdom, the Calling, the march of time. If only she could have staved their parting off a little longer.
“Stay with me, my love!” Emmrich’s sweet voice echoed and she might have felt herself smiling. If that was the last sound she would ever hear, she’d at least be grateful she’d lived long enough to hear him call her his love.
Fire and Blight, but Despair's a bastard, her own thoughts groaned above the influence of the demon as her vision went dark and she took a strained breath that felt like icicles shattering in her chest. This isn't how I'm supposed to die.
Light came back to her with the cloying, chalky taste of a lyrium potion being poured down her gullet, making her mouth tingle so sharply it boarded on pain. She choked and a familiar hand helped her sit up, leaning her over the side of the hard cot where she’d apparently been laid in the Veil Jumper’s camp some hours earlier, the day now having given way to dusk.
“Thank the Maker…” Emmrich whispered under his breath as he settled her back down, running his hand over her cheek and pushing her hair, now unbound, away from her face.
“Emmrich?” She mumbled, squeezing his hand. “You alright? Bel?”
“Yes,” he brought her hand to his lips, kissing her fingertips, the strain around his eyes evident even to her swimming vision. “We’re perfectly fine. You on the other hand…”
“Davrin!” Bellara squealed from behind her head. “She’s okay!”
A snuffling beak pushed its way under the hand resting on her belly until she could scratch at a crooked ear covered in downy feathers.
“What are you two doing here?” She looked up as Davrin came into focus and immediately regretted it, her stomach pitching with angry nausea.
“We were going out for a walk and heard you got your ass handed to you. By one demon. I came to see if you'd died of embarrassment."
“Your concern is heartwarming, Davrin,” she groaned as Emmrich helped her sit up, displacing Assan’s head from her middle. "Well, sorry to disappoint, I seem to be alive. Did you stay just in case I took a turn?"
"Eh, thank Assan. He planted his butt next to you and wouldn't get up." Davrin shrugged, a cheeky grin on his handsome face.
“All of it please, darling. I know it’s unpleasant.” Emmrich raised the cup of lyrium back to her mouth and she swallowed carefully, frowning when she noticed a lurid red blotch had crept up his neck and edged its way over the top of his collar. “Very good.” He flashed her a quick smile that, even drained of mana and mush brained, she didn’t believe for a moment.
After a few doses of elfroot, another of lyrium, and a lot of Davrin's teasing, Rook felt strong enough to make the walk back though the Crossroads to the Lighthouse. She absolutely refused to give into Emmrich's insistence that she be carried on a litter, but did accept his arm and Bellara's shoulder.
Back at the Lighthouse, Bellara and Davrin bid Emmrich and Rook goodnight, Assan snatching a few more scritches behind the ears before bed. She leaned on Emmrich as they moved slowly up the stairs and into her room.
Once behind the door, Rook gasped when Emmrich pressed her against it with a possessiveness that had never been a part of their coupling before then. Mouth pulled to his by strong, insistent hands cradling the back of her head, he kissed her. It felt consuming, desperate; and, when they parted, the rasp of his breath was too sharp, too fast. She opened her eyes to find his wild and slightly unfocused.
“Please, stay with me,” he panted against her lips, thin and strained. "Please. Please."
“I'm here.” She tightened her hand around his nape. “Emmrich, I’m right here. I'm alright.”
Dusting his fevered cheeks with light kisses, she removed the stud holding his starched collar to his shirt, and then the pin and chains holding it closed. Undoing the first few pearl buttons, she revealed the extent of the angry, red hives that had erupted on his neck and chest in his panic over her damned carelessness.
"Oh, Emmrich," she sighed, risking a little of her regained mana to cool her hand and lay it against his inflamed skin.
He brought her hand to his mouth, pressing it to every fingertip and the center of her palm, resting for a long moment over the beat of her pulse in her wrist.
Pushing him gently backward, she sat him down on the green chaise in the middle of the room and knelt at his feet, helping him remove his boots and unbuckle his greatcoat.
They shed every stitch including their smallclothes before she joined him on the sofa, pulling her blankets around them. She coaxed him to lie with her, his head on her chest, her hand carding through his hair.
“Death won't have you,” he whispered, his ear over her heart.
“Not today. I'm alive and so are you." She left a kiss on the top of his head and tried to forget the truth of it all: she had given herself to death long before they'd ever met. “But no matter what happens, part of me will always be with you. Always be yours. You carry my heart, old man.
Raising his head, he laughed a wretched gasp and leaned his forehead against hers, hastily wiping tears from his cheeks.
“Oh,” she cooed, cupping his face in her hands and wiping away another tear with her thumb, “none of that. There’s no call for that, love.”
She shuffled down so they were nose to nose, cheeks resting on the green velvet cushions, her arms wrapping around his torso while his hand ran over her hip, up and down. It wasn't long before they both succumbed to exhaustion, soothed by soft breath and caring arms.
“You didn’t sleep well, I take it?” She asked with a wry chuckle.
“This chaise is an insult to the geese who lent their feathers to its creation.” He shifted awkwardly out from under her, moving so they were both laying on their sides facing one another. “I have absolutely no notion as to how you’ve slept on this wretched pile for nearly a year.”
“It doesn’t help that you’re a bit too tall,” she glanced down at his long, bony feet hanging over the open edge. “Cozy though,” she teased, wrapping an arm around his waist and nuzzling his sternum, planting a kiss in the center of the thatch of sparse salt and pepper hair that had earlier tickled her cheek.
“There is that,” he sighed again, wistful this time, stroking her hair back before guiding her gently by the waist up the length of his body.
He tightened his arm around her, pressing them flush with a broad hand at the small of her back. He brushed his lips chastely against both her cheeks and forehead, letting the tip of his nose graze down the slope of hers.
"This is looking better," she said brightly, running her hand over his neck and down his chest. His pale skin was still a bit blotchy in places, but nowhere near as irritated as it had been.
"Don't you dare waste yourself as you did last night." He caught her hand under his. "It's uncomfortable and unsightly, but completely harmless."
"Alright," she agreed, tracing her fingers over his collarbone. He allowed himself to be pushed onto his back and she settled herself over his long frame. "I'm so sorry I gave you such a fright." She frowned, shaking her head. "Stupid…"
"We all succumb to distraction now and again." He absently twisted her hair around his fingers . "I must apologize as well. For being so…" He paused, searching the inside of his eyelids for the right word, and shrugged when found it. "Forward, I suppose."
"Forward?" she said, the word tripping out of her mouth on a laugh. She rose up on her hands and knees, her face hovered over his and she tucked a fall of hair behind her ear as it fell over her shoulder. "Is that what you were being when you pinned me against the door?" She pulled his bottom lip into her mouth, earning a soft moan and the taste of his kiss. "I might like forward. If it's you."
"Indeed?" He sat up, chasing her lips and switching their positions so she sat beneath, firm hands coaxing her thighs up and around him. "What a delightful admission."
There was a sudden knock at the door and they both froze, as if doing so might will away the intrusion into their bliss.
He moved to get up and she caught him by the shoulder. "Stay with me," she whispered.
And then there was another.
“Rook?” Harding called through the door. "Are you ready to go to the Hilt?”
A sinking bolt of remembrance lodged itself in Rook’s brain only too late. “Damn it, I completely forgot.” She rubbed her eyes in frustration.
“A meeting with Isabela, I presume?” Emmrich sat up, taking the blanket to cover what precious modesty he had left and offering her a hand up.
“Sort of,” she looked around for her shift and jumps, discarded on the floor and left in their exhaustion. “I promised Lace and Taash…”
“Rook!” Taash shouted, pounding on the door. “Get off Emmrich’s dick and let’s go! We’re going to be late!”
“Charming,” Emmrich drawled, arranging his hair with a swipe of his hand, a twist to his lips.
“Give me a minute!” Rook shouted back. “We don’t all fight starkers like you lot!”
Rook shook her head and gave him a tight smile. “I promised Lace and Taash we’d finally visit the Hall of Valor. I’ve been putting it off.”
"Do you feel entirely up to such exertion?" He frowned.
"I was up for it a moment ago." She pulled her shift over her head. "Warden stamina, remember?" She shot him a wink and his cheeks went a little pink.
“Why have you been putting off visiting the Hall of Valor?” He pulled on his trousers and shirt before starting on the other innumerable pieces of kit. "Surely, doing so will gain easy esteem amongst the Lords."
“I don’t know,” she finished lacing her bodice and pulled on her own leather breeches. “It seems a bit mad, doesn’t it? All the fighting we do for real, to do it for sport…” she shrugged.
“You spar with Davrin, do you not? Meditate with me?” She stared hungrily at his graceful, talented hands as he began the ritual of donning his rings and bangles. “How is fighting in the Hall of Valor different from any other form of training? I can’t imagine a more exhilarating way to commune with spirits myself.” His hands stilled and she flicked her eyes up to his knowing smile. “Unless that’s the problem?”
“We can talk about this later.” She finished buckling her field tunic.
“My dear,” he huffed, somehow both amused and exasperated. "You're perfectly comfortable with Manfred. With Spite, for heaven sake! What makes these spirits of Valor, or any other benevolent spirit with which you’re not yet acquainted, so fearsome?”
“Did I ever tell you about Valor haunting the upper floors of Kinloch Hold?”
“Rook, it didn’t haunt anything. It wasn’t a ghost. It simply existed there.” She rolled her eyes and went to retrieve her staff, leaning against the wall across the room, only to have Emmrich catch her by the wrist and draw her into his lap. “This prejudice of yours is very unbecoming,” his voice rumbled, low and playfully chiding. She melted against him and the press of his lips on the sensitive skin behind her ear. “Whatever am I to do with you?”
He never pushed, but he did prod at the hundreds of half-truths that kept her from delighting in the magic with which she was born and finding companionship amongst the inhabitants of the Fade as he had. And she loved him for challenging every belief she’d been brought up on and for every sliver of self-acceptance he instilled in her.
But she still wouldn’t go happily into a nest of potential demons if she had any other choice.
“You could take my place,” she whispered against his mouth, her kiss loose and tempting. “They just need a mage to balance the group.”
“And deprive you of this educational opportunity?” He leaned back and patted her cheek. “I think not.”
“Oh, will you be keeping me after, Professor?” she purred, her fingers sliding into his open shirt and up the bare column of his throat, a feral half smile turning up the corner of her mouth when he groaned softly half in want, half in annoyance that his rank was invoked in an intimate moment.
“Rook!” Harding called again.
“Andraste’s tits, you’d think we were walking to Rivain rather than just stepping through the Eluvian.” She reluctantly rose from Emmrich’s lap and grabbed her staff. “Keep your hair on, I’m coming!”
“I must say,” he mused as he did up the last of his shirt buttons. “I wouldn’t mind attending as a spectator. It sounds like a fascinating display.”
“We’re meant to fight ten bouts. You could freshen up and meet us.”
“My goodness, so many! I will be there by the second.” He bent down and fished his starched collar out from underneath the chaise. It was crumpled and looked very worse for wear. He frowned. “Or perhaps the third.”
“I’ll be waiting for you to throw me your favor.”
Emmrich looked up at her with a slightly shy smile. Rook felt a rush realizing he quite liked the idea of her as his knight-errant.
“I have the perfect handkerchief. ” Pecked her lips and gave her a mock salute. "Fight well, darling. ‘For gold and glory!’"
“‘In war, victory,’ old man,” she corrected with a tip of her chin and moved to the door.
“Yes, of course. Victory,” he said quietly, rising from the chaise with his waistcoat and red sash draped over an arm. He reached out, resting his hand on her elbow. “Dearest? If we’re extolling Warden virtues, perhaps a bit more vigilance today. If not for your own sake, then for the sake of the heart you carry with you. Mine.”
“No sacrifices." She pulled him into a tight hug and pressed a kiss to his cheek. "Understood, love."
Suddenly, the door flung open and bounced against one of the end tables that bracketed the door, sending a lamp crashing.
"Good, you’re dressed. Let’s go hit stuff," Taash said, mostly devoid of affect except for a hint of anticipation. "Hey, Emmrich."
“Evataash. Scout Harding. Good morning." He inclined his head with dignity.
Harding dropped her hands, uncovering her eyes, and mouthed ‘sorry’ as she stepped into the room behind Taash.
"I'll be waiting," she said with one final squeeze of his hand.
If you're at my funeral and you think it's a little boring, just spice it up. Drink a little too much. Flirt with a few people here and there. Start a fight. It's what I would've wanted
A headcanon: If Grave Gold is seen as something eternal, it stands to reason that giving it to someone while they’re living means that there’s a wish for part of them to keep on existing, even after death.
If their body is found with those things, it’s a testimony to who they were. (I imagine the Mortalitasi keeps records of who has what when buried, just in case something comes up missing) It helps to preserve moments in time, like rings in a tree.
While I wouldn’t necessarily call it a status symbol, it’s definitely symbolic of someone who is seen and cared for. Even the ability to buy something for oneself is probably a privilege. And it’s a well known cultural mark of Nevarra itself, beyond just fancy jewelry.
Grave gold is also there to acknowledge that death lingers on the horizon. If one dies right then and there, you are buried with the things you curated for your body.
With all this said, I’d like to point out the significance of an orphan girl never receiving any Grave Gold through her life. If she dies, which may very well be soon, what will there be to remember her by?
Grave gold is the physical manifestation of the desire for persistence beyond death. It's the "wish for part of them to keep existing," but in that sense, ritually it also IS the person's immortality. Especially if it's catalogued at their burial (that's really good, btw, I like that).
In the Iliad, Achilles is given the choice of immortality through the persistence of his line (descendants) or the persistence of his name (fame). What if in Nevarra there is also the choice of persistence through one's gold? Massive reliquaries putting European Catholicism to shame. Cults of saints focused on their grave dowry even more than on their skeletal remains. Families handing down significant pieces of dowry not just as a memorial to a famous ancestor but, in a very visceral way, as the actual and ritual presence of that ancestor. There are whole protocols for discovering long-lost tombs in case the dead there have gotten bored and lonely.
And so it is a status symbol. The more gold you have the less likely you are to truly die. And the little orphan girl not only isn't remembered, she doesn't even get an afterlife.
Jumping off on this, you could start getting really weird with destruction and reconstruction, as well as forgeries. Since you can subdivide or melt down gold, does gold made with a piece of famous gold (however small) automatically inherit the spiritual significance of the previous piece? Is it a holy water situation (half+ of it has to be significant/holy)? Does remaking a thing destroy it, even if the material is still there? If something does not have provenance but everyone believes that it did belong to famous ancestor xyz, does belief instill it with the properties of immortality regardless of its actual origin?
Does Emmrich Volkarin, noted orphan corpse whisper, rebury the little orphan girl with a small piece of gold after putting her soul to rest? Maybe it’s only a guilder. A ferryman’s toll. But it marks that she existed and is remembered by one who could have easily shared such a fate.
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