After months of hard work by our contributors, we're excited to announce the release of Rara Avis: An Antivan Crow Rarepair Zine!
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Featuring 39 new fanworks, Rara Avis is a love letter to our favorite faction, and to the characters and pairings that draw us in, inspire us to create, to share, and to connect with others 💜
Thank you to our incredible contributors, for offering your time and talents to bring this project to life!
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In one of Antiva's gambling dens Illario Dellamorte happens upon an old flame. As their game of Wicked Grace turns risque, he finds himself exposing more than skin.
Illario Dellamorte/de Riva | 3183 words | Rating: T
Excited to share my fic for @raraaviszine! I've had the bones of this in the back of my mind for ages (and wanted to make the sexy Hessarian joke for longer than I care to admit) and wow what a journey it was to see it come to life. Eternal thanks to @effelants for the insightful conversations and beta feedback that me focus it down <3
If you are able to donate, pay-what-you-can proceeds from the full zine go towards the Trans Lifeline.
(AO3) (Full Zine)
In this room alone Illario was himself, unburdened by family name, and the quickness of his hands drew gold rather than blood.
He scanned the gambling den. In a far corner, a fortune was being lost; in a week's time it would be returned to its master less a small service charge after its temporary owner met an untimely end. In another, a merchant prince swathed in silk and velvet sat sprawled across a settee, broad with the weight of coin and power, tendrils of smoke from the cigar at the corner of his mouth emanating out to every table. Nearby was the same in nascent form, a merchant princeling with narrow shoulders who sat rigid and straight-backed as he sipped his wine.
The lessons of his tutors were still so freshly ingrained in him.
Somewhere beyond a mess of black hair near to the chrysalis of the princeling sounded a laugh, one he knew far too well to ignore. A bit too brash, a bit too loud for polite society, it mocked and delighted him all at once.
Irreverence was so natural in Amadis. It was so carefully crafted in him, his impenetrable barrier.
She had never broken through that. Not truly. There were times in the very early hours of the morning when his head was laid on her chest that he had very nearly felt less opaque, but never enough. It meant nothing.
He scanned the room once more, maintaining a carefully languid expression as he ran a finger down the rounded bulb of the wine glass in his hand. Subconsciously, he noted the players at each table, their positions relative to each other, and their proximity to doors and windows.
Old habits painfully learned died hard, even on evenings of pleasure.
With confident, precisely spaced strides he made his way toward that disarray of long dark curls that even from so far away seemed to wind around him, drawing him in with an irresistible pull. He took hold of one rebellious ringlet as he stood behind her chair and tugged on it just a touch too hard, sliding one lonesome finger on his free hand over her shoulder, a sharp firing of the nerves on her scalp to be combined with the pleasure of his company.
"Unless you've got a serpent-entwined dagger up your sleeve, you should fold," he said in a lowered voice into her ear, the long point of which ghosted past his cheek.
As he traced the curve of her bicep, a second of his fingers joined the first - and then let go, allowing her curl to drop.
Her head turned; tendrils of hair slipped to her back as she bared her throat to him in an unspoken dare and leaned to one side of her chair to examine him, unconcerned by his touch and unsurprised by his presence.
She had noticed him then. She would have been quicker with her knife if she had not.
Was it his footfalls that gave it away or his shadow in the corner of her eye? In either case she had him on her mind. He basked in her scrutinization, secure in the knowledge that not a hair was out of place without purpose and that the windowpane behind which his thoughts lay guarded only looked out one way.
She would see only what reflections he wished her to.
One of her eyebrows raised while a devious sparkle glinted in her eyes. At the corner of her mouth played a smile that was equal parts calculated and amused, a charming, impish thing. She bit at her lip and he traced the movement on his own with his thumb.
"I believe this game is over now that my hand has been exposed," she said to her table-mate, a woman he recognized from one of the art galleries on the high street. The edge of Amadis' voice was sharp as she placed her cards face-down on the felt - but toothless, stopping short of drawing blood.
This game had only just begun.
"Please, don't stop on my account," Illario said graciously, performing a repentant half-bow as he made his way to the open seat across from Amadis. "You're lacking a fourth, it seems?"
"Please do join us, Master - " the woman beside Amadis began to say.
"Here it's just Illario."
Familiarity exposed weaknesses. In a game of Antivan wicked grace, any advantage mattered. That the abandonment of his last name allowed him to let out the breath he'd forgotten he'd been holding for an evening was of no account.
He was reintroduced to the lady, the curator of the establishment where they'd met once. Amid the vapid comments and disingenuous handshakes of a gallery event she had stood apart but now the safety of her friendly, knifeless waist had become an indictment against her. The princeling puffed up his chest and in a practiced breath rattled off half a dozen curlicue names as though he'd take the trouble to remember it.
Resting one elbow on the finely carved armrest of his chair and setting up a carefree, debonair pose, Illario opened his hand to the table with the smallest of dramatic flairs that provoked a delightful eyeroll from his fellow assassin.
"Shall we begin, then?"
Amadis' fingers flew, cutting the deck as easily as they could slice a mark.
"Our art curator was just telling us about a particularly interesting resident who's moved into the gallery's basement," she said as she dealt. If he had taken his eyes off of her nimble fingers, he might never have caught the card she slipped into her sleeve and held at her wrist.
This was wicked grace and this was Antiva, where, when all players were cardsharks, swindlers, and cheats, none were. Even the princeling would take his first unsteady steps into sleight of hand. One day he might even become good at it.
But never, ever as proficient as a crow.
"'Resident' is certainly a way of putting it," the curator said with all of the indulgence of someone accustomed to standing beside but not among Antiva's elites, her mask of social graces worn smooth and natural from constant use.
"Well he does live there. You should oblige him to pay rent." Amadis leaned back lazily in her chair, spreading her legs wide and broadening her shoulders. After glancing down at her cards as though she didn't already know what was on them, she raised.
"You give him too much vitality."
The curator drew from the deck and, never breaking eye contact with the group, pressed the inside of one the rings on her fingers to the back of the card. She was good; it was subtle. He could barely notice the faint purple pigment left behind.
"I'm sorry," the princeling interjected, his dear little ringlets bouncing in his confusion. "What do you mean by that?"
"We do have a guest, and quite a lifelike one too."
"Down to the last anatomical detail," Amadis added, leaning in conspiratorially.
"The chantry commissioned a statue of Hessarian for the new cathedral, meant to be part of a tableau, but…"
"The sculptor has expressed a… layered metaphor with his Sword of Mercy," said Amadis, staring directly at him with one wicked eyebrow raised. "I blush to think of him."
Liar. She had no shame to spare on blushes.
"All for the edification of the faithful, I'm sure," Illario said with a sidelong glance at her while the game continued under their conversation. Lazily, he slipped an extra card into his hand off the top of the pile.
"I've gained such understanding of chantry doctrine - and ancient Tevinter fashion, or lack thereof - through this piece. It's a shame the chantry would deprive us all of its magnificence. And it is magnificent."
"It would be infinitely more inspirational to hear the chant in such a presence. He'd provide a pleasant distraction at funerals too, which would be his real mercy."
Funerals. His first taste of pretense. Whether attending as mourner or murderer Illario had learned how much an errant tear or wrung hand could tell. As he stood beside mother, father, aunts, uncles, cousins, all destined for the pyre he had found his true skill while desperate for a distraction.
He laughed. It should have been a lighthearted thing. Before he could catch the bitterness from spilling out of his mouth it escaped him, leaving behind a hollow echo.
His transparency could not have been noted; he was too practiced to allow such a thing.
His features controlled and vocal chords bullied into submission, he played his turn and ignored the rapidness of his pulse.
"I'll note it in my will," he said with a voice smoothed into silk. "Everyone will be so consumed by lust they'll forget to cry."
How many would cry, who actually knew him? How many who hadn't already been burned to ash?
He watched the cards move through fingers clever and amateur as the round played out, smiling, pretending, nurturing his fragile facade until it could stand on its own. His racing mind calmed in the tracking of each sleight of hand.
He had nearly come back to himself when his neck prickled and his ears rang and he knew with certainty before even looking that he had been seen. Across the table, dark eyes drilled holes into him until his entrails were laid out on the table between them and he had the distinct notion that he had been exposed, that his barrier had become more translucent than he had ever allowed.
Amadis said nothing. She let it be. She allowed him to gather up his innards and assemble them back into place but she saw, she knew, and under those curious, probing eyes he felt naked.
She wished to see him? Dared to know him? He would up the ante.
Illario loosened his shirt at the neck, exposing his collarbone and inviting her to look. Skin was far less personal than the jagged, disgusting emotions that could be suppressed deep beneath the epidermis.
"We could make this game more interesting." All eyes turned to him as he undid a button. "With such an example to follow as our dear, unappreciated Hessarian, I believe there is only one option."
"For the benefit of our souls, yes, I think we must," Amadis said, stepping in gracefully while the others were still processing the proposed shift in the game's currency. Her eyes flickered to his.
She knew, still. And knowing, she covered his retreat. A smile curled in one corner of his lips, genuine and without artifice. A moment's understanding passed between them, a truce.
Clearly, she must have some feelings for him to let the opportunity pass while his were purely of the carnal variety.
"I'm not sure this is proper," the princeling protested weakly, belied by the excited waver of anticipation in his voice as Illario undid his second button.
"Disappointing family with impropriety is a rite of passage."
"And you, Gabriela?" Amadis asked, turning to the woman at her right.
"It's been some time but… oh, why not!" She leaned in, her expression determined. "I'll warn you now; I intend to win."
"Good luck to you," Amadis said back, with a devious look at Illario's increasingly exposed chest. Her eyebrows flickered up in challenge; did she want to win, or for him to lose?
He knew what he wanted for her.
"Very well then, the stakes have been raised," he said. "I'll begin. My shirt will be my wager."
Weapons didn't count, they agreed, or the game would never end. The curator promised a ring - a sad showing to start off with when he had wagered so much. His accusations of cowardice fell on deaf ears and were met only with a sly smile from the curator. The others had more boldness, at least, though the merchant prince in his naivete would surely be bereft of his wardrobe long before Illario's real target.
Her own shirt was on the line, a match for his, and he would see her laid as bare as she had him. He would take some of his own back no matter the lengths of the cheating he might have to employ.
The game had never been more intense. Oh, Amadis might lean back and rest her arm on the back of her chair but those dark pits of her eyes were sharp, tracking the game as intently as he did. Every time he raised, she followed. Every time she called, he met her bluff with his own. Every look was a challenge, every movement a dare, and the room around them began to fade.
He was preparing his next hand, waiting for one card in particular that would bring it together perfectly and finally leave her as exposed as she'd seen him, when she grinned wickedly and in a decisive motion laid a single card in front of her.
The Angel of Death.
He hadn't been ready. She would win this round, he had no doubt, she would have held the card until she was ready, rules be damned. One more round and he would have had her! How could he have missed the movement of the most important card in the game? All his tracking was for nought, he had built up to this moment and for what?
He had no choice but to concede with the climax of his game premature.
She would take no satisfaction from it. As the table laughed and beckoned for him to make good his wager he retreated behind the body that was his shield. This would be no punishment for him but a treat for everyone around and oh, his revenge would be sweet, he would make her pay twice over. Perhaps in more private settings than this.
If it was a show everyone wanted he could do no less than oblige as he stepped into his role, ever the actor, the social occasion his stage. He stood up, threw back his shoulders, and sent the most lascivious little smolder across the table as he put his foot on his recently vacated chair. Lingering on each button he undid his shirt completely, bathing in the glances turned toward him from his own group and those around them.
The princeling gasped at the scars that were the birthright of a life born into the crows, while the curator simply watched with amusement. And Amadis… Amadis panned slowly down with a smile on her face from the intimate knowledge of every mark on his form beaten into perfection and peeled away his skin, down through the flesh and beneath the bone until she'd reached that part of his anatomy never seen on a diagram, the soul at the centre of him.
He was flayed bare once again. He ought to have been obscured. His act was effective, usually. His family, his acquaintances who knew him only as 'Illario' and not 'Dellamorte,' they all looked no further than skin deep, they believed in the rake who took nothing seriously and then treated him in kind. They saw the external, unaffected and attractive, never what lay underneath, never what bore scars of its own. Pain had been beaten out of him with the caskets that went to the flames, never to be admitted to again. To be seen for himself, to be known, was to open himself to disaster.
And yet, when she looked so deeply without turning away, he could not deny her.
He disguised his heavy breath with a theatrical sigh, sitting down once again. Sinking back, he rearranged himself to a position that best flattered his physique, and then found his footing once more.
The game began again. It wasn't long before the princeling had lost his own shirt along with his cravat, his crested cufflinks, his belt, and was a round away from becoming bereft of his trousers. The curator had made good on her promise; she draped herself in her winnings, the lost cravat tied in her hair jauntily and his shirt laid across her shoulders, the arms tied in front of her.
Illario took a sip of wine from his constantly-refilled glass, and mused his vengeance.
He'd been watching the cards played, mentally accounting for every member of each suit; he had failed once, he would not fail again. The deck was clearly stacked; there should not have been two Songs of Twilight and yet two had been played. He couldn't be the only one who had noticed. The curator would be more subtle, he thought, so it must be Amadis who had added it. If that was a card she wanted, the Knight of Dawn might be part of her intended hand. What a reversal it might be if instead she found the Serpent of Concupiscence in her draw!
He stifled a grin and slipped that lustful little cardstock serpent from his sleeve into the pile.
Next up was the princeling; there was next to no risk that he might 'slip' and draw two cards. Illario waited for the turn after, noting the displeased expression on his neighbour's face as he did. A bad hand, then, he had no face for wicked grace. Poor Octaviano Andrasteia Coronadi Genico Della Campagna, inevitably to return home by sneaking past his butler in nothing but smallclothes.
Amadis drew.
Her face remained inscrutable. She blinked just a bit too long. And when she looked at him he allowed all of his wickedness to shine through and grinned with delighted mischief at the impending misfortune of his avian compatriot as he glanced to the pile from the corner of his eye.
There, on the top of the pile, was an unassuming card with one ever so slightly bent corner. Her glare paid for much of the journey he had taken to get here and he relished it, taking pains to hold back his glee as the curator drew and immediately set the card down before her.
The end of the game, the Angel of Death once more, another petite mort to follow his.
"I've finished you," he rasped as the hands were shown, his gaze unbreakable.
Her hands, those deadly, forceful, nimble hands, went to her buttons. Her eyes bored into him again, this time a dare and an invitation as her dexterous fingers vivisected her shirt and spread the fabric wide for him to peer inside. She had none of his theatricality. 'Look and see,' her movements intimated to him, to see the faded scars across her chest and arms that accentuated the muscularity beneath, the marks of a life not so different from his own. To look at her, exposed, naked, and unguarded, exactly as she was without artifice or pretense.
As she sat across from him, exposed, vengeance fled from his mind in the wake of her offered vulnerability. Amadis had seen him and not balked; she gave the same of herself freely. To perceive and be perceived was an intimacy he had not previously allowed himself.
And now he would drown in it willingly until he lay breathless.
Written for @raraaviszine. If you haven't already, check out the free zine (and consider donating to Trans Lifeline)!
Shout out to @basedonconjecture for vibe checking and @the-sparrohawk for doing a full beta!! Much thanks (aka I owe my life). <3
Title: La Danza
Pairing: Zevran/Rook
Rating: M (for violence)
Word Count: 4876
Summary:
“Go,” he said. “I won't miss again.” He raised Rook's glass in a mock toast—when had he taken it?—and quaffed the rest before smashing the cup and heading toward the heady throng of revelers.
He thinks he can just walk away?
Rook leapt forward and stomped down, and the tread of their boot caught the free-flowing shimmering hem of his cape. The man jerked back as the neckline of his costume grew taut.
“Have you”—with a fast turn, he removed the cape—“ever considered a different vocation?”
Rook withdrew the daggers they had hidden in the shaft of each boot. “Never.”
⊹ ⊹ ⊹
Rook accepts a mysterious contract without knowing who they're chasing—but did it matter? They'd come away with more than enough coin. They have one night and one chance to get this done, and it just so happens that it is the last night of Satinalia.
Though things take a turn when the contract turns out to be the infamous and disgraced Antivan Crow...Zevran Arainai.
@raraaviszine is out and ready for download here! I was so happy to be able to collab with @mxssful to show some key highlights of her fic with Teia and her Rook on a suspenseful escapade in Nevarra 🗡️💀 Please make sure to donate to Trans Lifeline when download!
The @raraaviszine released on Veilguard's anniversary, and it was such an incredible success! Thank you to the mods @wishforhome, @inquisimer, and @mxssful for doing such an amazing job organizing and leading this project!
🐦⬛You can download the full zine here! Please consider making a donation to Trans Lifeline when you do so!🐦⬛
My piece was also accompanied by @loustica-lucia's stunning artwork! Please check it out and give her the praise she deserves ✨
⚠️Please be aware that this fic contains discussions of child slavery and abuse
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
"Have you had an opportunity to observe your old House recently, Zevran?" he asks. It would certainly simplify things to uncover the secret now.
There is a brief silence. Lucanis can feel Zevran's eyes on him, assessing, wary.
"At some distance," he answers, his tone light, neutral. "Is there something you wish to know?"
"Not… specifically," Lucanis says, choosing his words carefully. "But I suspect they may be concealing information. Are you, ah… pruning their ranks, again, by any chance?"
Zevran's answering smile is sharp.
"It is they who pursue me, I remind you," he says. "Though I can hardly blame them— you'd agree I'm worth the chase."
Lucanis lets out an amused huff, smiling almost imperceptibly.
"I did not think that was the sort of pursuit you preferred."
"Definitely not. Such a pity!" Zevran exclaims, theatrical. "We could be having so much fun, were they more inclined to pleasure than violence."
There's a knock on the door; Zevran rises to answer it, his demeanor telling Lucanis the guest is expected.
The heavenly smell of coffee wafts into the room and when Lucanis turns he finds Zevran offering him a cup, a knowing smile on his face.
"You did not have to—"
"Ah, but I wanted to," Zevran says, delivering it to him; his hands press over Lucanis', briefly. "From the café down the street."
My independent piece for @raraaviszine , featuring my own Rook, Elyon, and Teia in the Cantori Diamond, but clearly my girl is after the real jewel here 😜 Download the zine here and donate to Trans Lifeline here 🗡️🖤
Second piece I did for the @raraaviszine zine! This one paired with a fic written by @lenkalost you can read HERE!
Zine can be downloaded for free here (with option to donate): raraaviszine.itch.io/rara-avis-zine
rook/teia (with background rook/teia/viago) | M rating for non-graphic nudity and non-graphic violence | 4500 words | read on ao3
teia should be allowed to do whatever she wants, whenever she wants, even if that is stealing rook for herself.
“What is this?” Rosa’s words are a quiet, raspy purr of interest, honey-sweet and electric. “What are these things you’re saying?”
“Only observations,” Teia answers.
“And what are you planning to do with these observations?”
“A list.”
Rosa hums.
“A list of what?”
“Reasons,” Teia says, airily. "Reasons why I should be allowed to poach you.”
@moonkisseddreamer made some beautiful art for this that i will add here once she posts it <3333
Read "Volta", the story — written by @hyperions-light — I illustrated:
❥ https://archiveofourown.org/users/flyiing_giraffe
❥ https://raraaviszine.itch.io/rara-avis-zine
Timelapse & WIPs:⤵
I revisited "The Invitation" to give it more Lord of Fortune vibes for Zevran and illustrate the story "Volta", written by Hyperion.
For Lucanis, I mixed some of his in-game armours with original ideas to make sure they both had a custom outfit ♥
A fic written for the Rara Avis Zine over on tumblr! This is a fic about Zevran, Rinna, and Taliesen. It takes place during their prime as an assassin triad!
They approached the red lantern district as the sun sank toward the horizon. The summer house was on the edge of town, east of the district. Rinna clutched Zevran's hand at the entrance to the street.
"Fight well," Zevran whispered to them. "May your blades strike true."
"And you," Rinna whispered back. "May your poison find its mark."
Taliesen and Rinna nodded at him and headed west. Zevran watched their silhouettes disappear before melting into the crowd.
Here's my contribution to the @raraaviszine! This is a pay what you can zine, benefitting Trans Lifeline! You can download the zine here!
This zine is about rare Crow ships and so of course I had to write something for the original doomed crowlycule 💜 full tags under the cut!
Rated E
graphic depictions of violence, threesome F/M/M, assassination, poisoning, cunnilingus, tit job, anal sex, brothels, elfroot as a recreational drug
Excited to share my fic for @raraaviszine and the beautiful companion art piece by the talented @melody-loka!! Download the full zine here and give some support to Trans Lifeline if you can 💜
Teia/Rook | T | 3900 words | cw: graphic depictions of violence
Before House Cantori can make their play for Seventh Talon, Teia needs one more thing: her Spellblade.
read it on ao3 here
She bears no grudge for that. Orders were given, and she carried them out willingly— eagerly, even, for the light it sparked in Teia’s eyes. But this—
This means something else.
Teia lifts the weapon, blade against palm, and holds it out, hilt-first. “Come with me,” she says. A simple invitation. “In this, be mine.”
addt'l tags: action & romance, emotional hurt/comfort, crisis of faith, introspection, established relationship, pre-canon | divider created by @mxssful
ITS TIME!! @raraaviszine is out, you can get it here, and support Trans Lifeline while you're at it!!
Featuring 39 new fanworks, Rara Avis is a love letter to our favorite faction, and to the characters and pairings that draw us in, inspire us to create, to share, and to connect with others 💜
I did the front and back covers and am so honored to be a part of this extremely cool, well organized, creative project full of amazing artists and writers. Loved working with this lovely bunch and drawing all their crow OCs, please check out their amazing and lovely work!!
“This will create a protective film,” he explained. “I’ll apply it first, then the serum.”
(Viago de Riva & Andarateia "Teia" Cantori, Eight Little Talons, Tevinter Nights)
❥An artwork for the @raraaviszine!💜
Timelapse & WIPs:⤵
Finding the right poses to convey that "intimate" vibe mixed with Viago's seriousness was very fun! I'm glad I finally got the opportunity to illustrate one of my favourite short story from Tevinter Nights for this project ♥
