I had so many plans for @davrookweek - but I've been so busy I'm even a day late to the event WIP Wednesday. But a big thank you to them for hosting and inspiring lots of Davrook ideas! I can't wait to see what everyone shares.
Here's a snippet of some pre-relationship angst I was working on for the 'Tend' prompt:
"If this had been slightly deeper, it would have damaged your artery."
"I've had worse," Davrin said, sounding tougher than he felt. He didn't know why he bothered. Rook was never impressed by his stories, even on a good day, and they had run out of those a long time ago.
"You will get worse if you continue to act without regard for your safety," Rook continued, "or the safety of others."
"Wait." Davrin twisted and winced at the pain that sliced up his side. "I stepped in to cover Taash."
"Taash was fine," Rook said quietly, correcting Davrin's posture with a single fingertip to his shoulder. The healing magic had warmed Rook's hands, but the poke had all the menace of a wyvern fang, delicately testing before a bite.
"The plan we discussed was for Taash to provide a distraction while I unlocked the wards. You and Assan were to provide additional cover if Venatori reinforcements arrived. Does this sound familiar?"
"Things don't always go to plan, Rook. At Adamant -"
"I know."
The forest went silent around them, as if Rook had screamed. The wind, the crickets, the birdsong all stopped. But Rook hadn't screamed. Davrin hadn't heard him raise his voice, not in Arlathan or anywhere else. He hadn't screamed at Adamant. Across the battlefield, Davrin had known the words on Rook's lips without hearing them.
Kill it.
The words were meaningless without the face that spoke them. The pale, narrow face with the sorrow of a silent, empty forest.
Rook looked away and began organizing the aid kit. By the time the birds and wind returned, Davrin tried to find something to say.
"Look, Rook, you can hold your own. Better than anyone I've ever met. Those Venatori? They weren't afraid until you showed up."
This is not my regularly scheduled programming so i'm not going to do tags, but I like tags, so if you like tags, guess what: you're tagged!
For @shadow-dragon-week! Big thank you to them for hosting. Somehow what I managed to write for this lovely Shadow Dragon event is a glimpse into the time Erasmus Mercar accidentally-on-purpose became a Venatori. He is simultaneously the best and worst undercover agent.
Day 4: Enemies (Venatori)
(Rook Mercar Pre-Veilguard | ~1800 Words | CW: Slavery, canon typical fantasy racism, ableism, brief gore and horror)
"Erasmus," the Grand Cleric of Vyrantium said from behind his desk, voice as soft as black silk. "Stay."
In the doorway, two steps from freedom, Erasmus stopped. The rest of the clerks filed out of the chamber and passed him with undisguised glee, obviously believing it to be the last time they would have to lay eyes on the inconvenient elf. Coolly, he looked into each of their slimy, powdered faces. I'll kill you, he thought. The pale, wormy lips. The blushed cheekbones. Teeth bleached until they were as white and fragile as eggshells. I am the truth and I'll kill you all.
With his hands folded delicately behind his back, he approached the desk. His slippered feet made no noise on the woven carpet and there was nothing but the heavy darkness hanging outside the windows to muffle the beating of his heart.
The Grand Cleric signed the last of his papers and gestured Erasmus to a chair across from him with an oversized hand. He was a man large in every sense, except for the irony of his gentle voice. Broad shoulders and a thick neck supported his massive head, its size and squareness exaggerated by a closely trimmed beard and a scalp he shaved smooth each morning, lathered with nothing but cold water. Still, his bulging eyes were the biggest part of him. The thin lower lids sagged, revealing too much of the white below the gray of his irises, and he did not blink as often as a man should. This often gave Erasmus the impression, especially in their moments of confidence, when the Grand Cleric was moved by emotion, that they might pop out and roll across the floor.
This evening, Erasmus met those haunting eyes with a respectful bow, trying to ignore the dagger that sat on the desk between them. To the dismay of other Magisters who wished to bribe him, the Grand Cleric scorned adornments. His bulk was wrapped in the same thick wool one would find on the back of a soldier, and outside of worship his neck went bare. The dagger was a decadence, out of place. Its hilt was polished onyx carved into the writhing body of a serpent dragon, eyes shining rubies set in gold.
"Have a drink with me, my child."
Silently, the slaves poured the wine. Although Erasmus did not look at them - he wasn't expected to - they were familiar to him. Two women, not much older than himself, one human and one elf with black curly hair. Their blank faces were a better disguise than he could ever muster.
The Grand Cleric raised his crystal glass, dwarfed in his grasp. "To change."
"To change," Erasmus echoed. He had to focus on not choking on his first sip of wine. His throat was so tight, as if it were trying to block his heart from climbing into his mouth.
"If you had told me a year ago that I would have an elf on my staff, I would have thought you were mad," the Grand Cleric said mildly. "Now people believe I am the mad one for keeping you in my council."
Erasmus kept his face still. The Grand Cleric was watching him carefully, unblinking.
"Tell me, Erasmus, am I mad?"
Yes. "No, your Eminence."
"So why do I keep you?"
Because you are a weak and lonely man who is easily manipulated. "I'm assuming you retain me because of my charming disposition."
A short, whistling exhale went through the man's nose, as close as the Grand Cleric came to laughing.
"True, you lack the temperament that makes a pet. They do say that the elves of Seheron carry a certain ferocity." He lingered on the word, eyes widening in the low candlelight, then sighed. "If you were one of the docile kind, they would not come whining to me. They are afraid of you."
He meant it as praise. They were afraid of the Grand Cleric too.
"And while I find you useful, your presence has become a distraction."
Erasmus found himself clutching his wineglass, palms beginning to sweat. "Your Eminence, I serve you and the holy glory of Tevinter. I will not be distracted from our goals by the whims of bureaucrats."
"Our goals?" The Grand Cleric's voice softened further, sliding under Erasmus' skin.
"To bring true faith back to the Imperium." Erasmus leaned forward over the desk like he was leaning over a ledge, eager for the fall. This rapturous face was one he wore often, and although he despised its pleading eyes and wicked mouth, the mask had unlocked much. He had been wearing it when the Grand Cleric first told him of his dreams, of a new voice speaking in an ancient tongue from behind the throne of the Maker. I believe it to be elvhen, he had confided. That night, Erasmus had sent a raven back to Minrathous, stomach a knot of sickness and pride over his discovery.
"A reformation the like of which the world has never seen," he continued. "Your Eminence, what you have told me of your visions - you have been chosen as Thalsian was."
The Grand Cleric blinked, his lips wide lips twitching into something like a smile. It looked painful. He picked up the dagger and turned it slowly, thoughtful.
"I have spoken to you of my beginnings. To many among us, the third son of a Laetan Tribune has no more right to be in this room than a rattus. I see something of myself in you, my child. Is that strange?"
Again, Erasmus bowed his head. He could almost feel the edge of the dagger on the back of his neck. "You honor me."
"I do," the Grand Cleric agreed, nearing a whisper. "Vibius plans to kill you tonight."
Vibius. The one with the egg teeth. The ill-tempered fifth son of a propertied Altus family. He resented that his family had gladly given him to the Chantry, where his poor judgement could pose no danger to their considerable profit streams, but as a priest he had found every shameful way to line the pockets of his black robes with gold. For a time that been enough to quell the jealousy - until the day he was informed he was to share a table with an knife-ear.
Erasmus kept the scorn in his voice. "He has tried that before."
Two assassins had been sent in the first week of his appointment. One had been incompetent enough to carry notes in the front pocket of his jerkin. Since Vibius believed he had only a fraction of the riches that had been denied him, he hated to part with coin; Erasmus wasn't surprised he had sought out the cheapest assassins in Vyrantium. How embarrassing would it be to spend too much money on the life of an elf.
Of course, the Grand Cleric was not surprised by this disclosure. "Yes, but never directly, that I am aware."
Erasmus paused. That was idiocy. Vibius was no match for him. Even if the man bloated himself with blood magic, Erasmus was by far the superior mage. Why would the man who wouldn't risk a single spare coin make such a foolish gamble with his life?
The knife glistened as the Grand Cleric turned it again in his hands.
Kaffas. Vibius wanted his plans known. He believed the Grand Cleric would put an end to Erasmus himself, to save himself the scandal. How embarrassing to have your ferocious elven pet bite the company.
Erasmus did not flinch from the blade. Lightly, he set his half-empty cup on the desk beside the dagger, and then lifted his gaze to meet the Grand Cleric's stare.
"Do you wish me to die, your Eminence?" he asked. The Maker sent him strength and his voice did not waver, although the candles behind the Grand Cleric betrayed his fear. The flames danced and quivered in excitement as his mana touched them; if he grasped them, the room would be alight. He could go for the window, then. He'd have a better chance breaking his fall than fighting his way down the tower steps.
Or perhaps he should stay and watch the Grand Cleric burn. Let the heat melt those sickening eyes out of their sockets.
"No, my child." The Grand Cleric finally answered. "I do not. I tire of these squabbles. United, the priests of Tevinter were once a power greater than the Archon; so many have forgotten the old ways. They name an invalid child Divine. A weakling, made from weak blood."
Ashur. Erasmus had tried to banish the name from this dark place, along with the memories attached to it. The smell of jasmine, night air against his lips, the golden light of his last dawn on the rooftops of Minrathous. He had been lying for his Perfection since the day they met, but he knew he would never be able to hide his love for him.
Thankfully, after months of careful sycophancy, the Grand Cleric had taken to interpreting his silences as reverent agreement.
"I am well within my right to dispose of Vibius - however, killing a child of an ally to protect an elf isâŠunusual. It will lead to questions. Questions that must be answered with loyalty."
"Yes, your Eminence."
"Erasmus, in this war, I believe the Gods sent you to me for a reason. So I offer you a favor unknown to your kind: a chance to rise with the Venatori."
The Grand Cleric stood to his full height, towering over Erasmus, who sat silent in the chair. He'd been waiting for this moment, given everything to reach it. (I fear no evil, he had told Ashur on that rooftop. The light of the Maker guides us to truth.) Now that it was here, the truth, his insides were cold. Around him, the candles shrunk. (Ashur had been quiet in the new morning light. Then I must be afraid for you.)
"It is a dangerous blessing. It will not be without sacrifice," the Grand Cleric went on.
Erasmus kept his eyes on the dagger, even as the Grand Cleric dragged it across one of his massive palms. Blood bubbled out lazily.
"But it is an opportunity to cleanse your blood, to become a true man of Tevinter."
With an air of benevolence, he held out the bloody dagger, as if Erasmus had a choice beyond this vile lie and death.
I'll kill you. Erasmus rose and took the knife. It was too heavy, as if it carried the weight of every needless drop of blood it had spilt. Palms still slick with sweat, he lifted it level with the Grand Cleric's chest. The candles blazed.
There were faces reflected in the blade. The slaves - they were still standing behind them! Erasmus' stomach lurched. He had forgotten them. In his rage, he would have set the fire, burned them alive.
The elven woman was looking at him with all the hatred he felt inside his chest. Even on the dirty metal, her dark eyes shone bright, like stoked embers. If he stuck the knife into the Grand Cleric's neck now, told them to run, he knew they would never get out of the tower alive. In this moment, all he could offer them was a moment of freedom on the window's ledge.
But there was a dawn waiting on the horizon.
Maker, forgive my lies. He turned the dagger on himself, slashing into his hand. The knife went too deep and blood splattered onto the desk, covering the drops given by the Grand Cleric. With a thick finger, the man stirred them together into one and painted a simple glyph onto the wood. The instant he finished the last stroke, a horrible, writhing pain ignited in Erasmus' hand. Maker! With a cry, he dropped the knife and clutched at the wound, at the terrible mistake. Maker! I am your child! His knees hit the rug without a sound. From the back wall, the slaves watched his trembling with stony faces.
When Erasmus' shaking finally stopped, the Grand Cleric looked down at him with pleasure. His eyes buldging, he stuck his bloody finger in his mouth. Horrified, Erasmus watched as he licked it clean.
"To the rise of a new Tevinter," the Grand Cleric said.
"A new Tevinter," Erasmus whispered, his voice as soft as his master's.
Last day of @dragonagekissweek, I went for two OCs. A sneaky kiss mid-experiment. Nothing to see, Niamh (my cullavellan baby) and Cicero clearly hate each other, they're sworn enemies, each other's nemesis, as you can clearly see.
Under the cut: first traditional version!
I had half a plan of doing this traditional, with gouache. Then I started with an acrylic marker I'm not sure whether I like or hate (the patches on the lilac hair? Somehow it coloured in two different colours. Yes it's dry. Don't ask me why.). And I went on with regular tube gouaches... And realizes I should have finished the drawing BEFORE colouring. And used a bigger sheet of paper. The pose wasn't sneaky enough, but tell me what you think!
trying to communicate ideas through language and it doesnt suffice so you turn to the abstract image and then people want to be talking to you about the images NO!!!!!! ! ! ! ! ! !
Thank you @theluckywizard for the tag!! I have been slowly trying to finish this Hawke/Sebastian AU where Sebastian comes to Lothering instead of Kirkwall, Hawke takes him to the Deep Roads, and he becomes a Warden instead of a chantry brother. I just got my wisdom teeth out, which has been an excellent excuse to lie in bed and write đ¶
Tagging @fawnpalmer, @midmorninggrey , and @florallychaotic if yâall want to share anything you are working on!!
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âSebastian!â
He rushes over to the commanderâs tent. Stroud is running one of his blades against the whetstone. He doesnât even glance up when Sebastian enters. âA letter for you, man. Miracle anythingâs made it out of that city,â he mutters.
From Hawke. He stills, his grip slackening. Damn, heâs creased it. He shakes the thought free, thinking that itâs just paper. But still, despite himself, he lifts the paper to his nose. Could just be his imagination, and it likely is, but he swears he can catch a bit of perfume on the paper, something earthy. Or just the grime that coats all of Kirkwall.
He opens up the envelope carefully. There is a letter, though he is struck first by the necklace inside. The one that hung around his motherâs neck, the one she was never seen without. He lifts it out and it glints in the low light.
Why did she do this? For him? Offering him her violence in the palm of her hand. Because she owes him? Worse is the idea she pities him, that this is out of guilt for the choice she made not to save him, years and years ago.
She doesnât owe him this. If Sebastian truly thinks about it, he wants her to do it because she loves him. Even the thought is enough to make his stomach turn. Love. How can there ever be love between them? He should resent her. She likely doesnât think of him at all.
But she has thought of him. Enough to lay Johane Harimann down in her own blood in her family home.
Sebastian goes to bed with his motherâs necklace at his throat tucked into his gambeson. Carrying a secret inside of him. Some want, some desire. A liability.
None of us are truly free. Is that what he had told Fenris, so long ago? He feels it acutely now. He clasps it around his throat, a weight. The metal pressed to his lips, the tang of it on his tongue. And he falls asleep with it lying against his tongue. Oil and sweat and the impression of fingerprints. If there was any blood, heâs licked it off as well.
He dreams of her then. Not his mother, but of Hawke, and that doesnât surprise him one bit. Even in the dream it is familiar, that she walks in front of him, just barely out of reach. The scent of blood and smoke trailing after her, and the faintest tinge of soap. Even when he kisses her he seems to burn alive.
Imo don't run a pottery studio if you can't face telling people you broke their pots. It sucks. Mistakes happen. But blaming the student is such a bad move.
titsay
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