Macabre Musings

Nia, 34, UK Angels and Demons protect me! First it was Raphael and Minthara... now it's bloody Emmrich Volkarin brain rot. 😫❤️‍🔥 AO3 | Insta | Bluesky: @aloofness

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The Devil's Archive

Behold! All the Raphael (and now Minthara) fiction I've written so far. You can find me on AO3 too!

Currently obsessed with Emmrich Volkarin from DAV, but still accepting prompts from BG3, so send away.

Miscellaneous

The Stranger

Bored at a party, Raphael seeks a delicious new soul.

A Night at the Symphony

Raphael goes to the symphony to check in on a client.  

Too Close for Comfort

What happens when Tav gets a little too close to the devil?

No Time for Love

Don't wish Raphael a Happy Valentine's Day...

Late Night Intruders

Tav thwarts an assassination attempt against Raphael during the wee hours of the morning. And from Raphael's perspective, everything is going according to plan.

A Perfect Fit

Raphael receives an unexpected gift from Tav.

Dressed to Kill

Raphael is caught off guard by his recent gift from Tav, so he decides to pay his little mouse a visit.

Hangover from Hell

Raphael wakes up with a hangover, only to find Tav sleeping on his chest. He desperately tries to make sense of the entire situation.

Dance with the Devil

Raphael attends the annual Baldur's Gate Masquerade Ball and accidentally runs into his little mouse.

Shadowy Deals

Raphael shares a drink with Tav at the Last Light Inn, hoping to entice her with a new proposition.

The Devil's Muse

Raphael gives Tav, his very favourite client, a generous gift after she signs his contract.

Fiendish Rewards

Raphael appears at Withers' party, hoping to finally collect the Crown of Karsus from Tav. However, an unexpected turn of events causes Raphael to re-think his plans.

A Devil's Lament

Raphael brings Tav to an abandoned chapel, hoping to complete one final task before he begins his conquests of the Hells.

Inferna Victoria

With the help of Tav, Raphael fights against Zariel for his seat in Avernus. Much to Raphael's dismay, the fight ends up being more difficult than he anticipated.

Trial by Fire

Tav makes a proposition for Raphael, offering to teach the Devil her craft of sewing in exchange for him relinquishing her creative ban. Raphael finds stitching a wee bit harder than he initially expected.

Only a Kiss

Raphael is fuming after Tav shows absolutely zero decorum, kissing him in the middle of an important meeting between prospective clients. How will the Devil manage? 

Practice Makes Perfect

Raphael takes matters into his own hands when Tav proves to be a less than cooperative model for his latest painting. He will do anything to create a masterpiece, even if that means teasing his little mouse into submission.

Toss A Coin To Your Devil

Tav is on the brink of death after foolishly deciding to fight Auntie Ethel without much preparation. She summons Raphael as a last resort to help her finish the fight.

An Icy Reunion

After fighting Mephistopheles, Raphael finds himself trapped at the bottom of a crevasse, wounded and waiting for the end. Tav shows up unexpededly and Raphael is left wondering if his little mouse will play the role of saviour or executioner.

In the Dark of the Night

After Raphael witnesses Tav committing a gruesome murder, he begins plotting how he could use their vulnerability, and lack of memory, to his full advantage in his grander ambitions.

A Hellish Dealer

Raphael isn't only a saviour, but a proficient salesman. After coming to Tav’s rescue, again, he offers the little mouse an item, straight from his Devilish line of goods, that he hopes will aid her in the fights ahead.

A Devilish Mentor

Have you ever pondered what happened to Mol after she was abducted from the Last Light Inn? In this one-shot, the Devil we know swallows his pride as he ventures deep into the Mind Flayer Colony to rescue Mol, and not because he has a soft heart... he's just looking out for his future assets.

Mortals

Mortals is a collection of short stories about Raphael, where he meets various mortals who have impacted him someway or another throughout his existence, loosely tying into the main plot of Baldur's Gate 3. Each story is stand-alone.

The Curse of Lady Luck

Raphael calls upon his old friend, a priest, who he reluctantly made a deal with many years ago.

A Warlock is Born

Korrilla summons Raphael to aid her in a fight at the Devil’s Fee. Raphael recruits a new warlock to his cause.

A Warlock's Sacrifice

Raphael seeks the aid of his prized warlock after he finds an intruder has broken into his House of Hope. Raphael confronts Tav in the aftermath of combat.

Flowers for a Devil

Raphael meets a blind flower girl named Vera, convinced claiming her soul will be an easy win. However, the Devil soon finds out this mortal in particular does not fall so easily for his lavish deals.

The Great Hunt

In Search of a Hammer

Raphael learns from Korrilla that Tav foolishly sold the Orphic Hammer in an attempt to earn some last minute gold. Raphael hunts down the Hammer before his dreams are destroyed forever.

An Absolute Waste of Time

Raphael is so full of rage and malice he is about to burn down the entire Sword Coast before the Mind Flayers even arrive. In this second instalment, Raphael tears through Baldur's Gate, from the Circus of the Last days to the Blushing Mermaid, trying to locate the Orphic Hammer.

Nightwarden Minthara

A collection of fics about my favourite companion.

Badges of Honour

After another successful fight against the Absolute, Minthara and Jaheira cosy up by the campfire, exchanging stories about their various scars.

Lessons from the Nightwarden

Tensions quickly rise when Minthara is forced to teach a group of aspiring Paladins a harsh lesson.

To the Hells and Back

Night Terrors

Defeating the Elder Brain was supposed to be triumphant, but it was the day Minthara’s world spun out of control. After watching Karlach burn before her eyes, Minthara swore an oath of vengeance against the Archdevil Zariel. She would not rest until she personally smited that vile infernal creature into oblivion. However, navigating the Hells is by no means an easy task, and Minthara is soon forced to make an unexpected alliance if she is to get there in one piece.

The Devil's Den

Minthara makes a proposition to Raphael, very much against her will, for an alliance. It's the perfect plan: Raphael gets Avernus and she will get her vengeance against Zariel for Karlach's death. However, Raphael is not a fan of anything that takes the spotlight away from him. No matter what, Minthara will get what she wants... whether the Devil likes it or not.

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Emmrich Ghost AU - WIP!

Here's a cheeky WIP I've been working on, an AU piece where Emmrich Volkarin is a ghost lol. Thank you @guacamolleee for the tag earlier, apologies for not returning it sooner. 🖤🌟

***

Emmrich Volkarin always knew he was going to die. As a mortal, it was his duty. It was the cost of his existence, the inevitable conclusion of every living being that had traversed through the ages. Oh, it was most certainly inequitable. Of course he was under no obligation to approve of these limitations. If Emmrich had his own way, he would’ve banished it entirely! In fact, he had spent most of his life in fear of its shadow, of what awaited him just outside his periphery; death's black tendrils slowly latching on to his limbs, binding him, suffocating him, along with the excruciating toll of time. 

He had just, rather regrettably, failed to realise it would’ve come for him so soon, and while he was still a quinquagenarian, no less! Since Emmrich was but a boy, he had been vigilant of his surroundings; accessing every person whom he came in contact with, calculating every possible threat, heedful of his diet, down to the exact caloric intake, and partaking in an exuberant amount of exercise to ensure he gave himself the best odds of an extended lifespan. Not to mention, all the pros and cons lists he had crafted for practically every occasion. 

And what did that precipitate? All that palaver, only for Emmrich to meet his end in an automobile collision; unwillingly becoming part of the statistics, part of the percentile of victims getting into accidents a stone’s throw away from their residences. The very same data he had read about in the newspapers, agonising over the tragic deaths of strangers.

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What's Left in Passing

Summary: After Rook is murdered, Emmrich Volkarin seeks revenge against those responsible. And unfortunately for Johanna Hezenkoss, she's compelled to accompany him.

Notes: AKA Emmrich Volkarin as John Wick lmao. First fic of 2026! Also, I've never written something this dark. Hope you guys enjoy! 🖤

Sharing an excerpt below, the rest is on AO3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/79123021

Link to my other Emmrich work in the A Necromancer's Melancholia.

***

No. It couldn’t be. A crucial error. A malicious prank.

"Sir, were you acquainted with the deceased?" A timid voice repeated, the mounting silence devouring almost every syllable.

Deceased? A casualty? Inconceivable.

“I, er—pardon? Mr. Volkarin, was it? If you’re mistaken, then might I suggest we withdraw elsewhere for further—”

No. No! NO!!!!

“Volkarin!” Johanna snapped, though despite the volume in which she spoke, just this once it was not tinged in malice. “It would be wise, don’t you think, to furnish an answer to the inspector’s queries? Do you not wish to return home? To begin arrangements?”

Johanna was always one to remind him of the inevitable, goading him into making rash decisions, to face the things he dreaded most in this plane of existence.

Stillness returned, prolonging, and when he offered no retort, she added in a hushed whisper, “It’s what she would’ve wanted.”

Emmrich’s jaw tightened, hands clutched in front of him, twisting his fingers to the verge of breaking. He could pull out each digit in turn, grind his bones to dust, and yet he’d still feel no pain, no distraction from his spiraling consciousness, from the endless torment.

Lichdom. A poisoned chalice.

Johanna’s skull hung from a warded belt around his waist, thrashing about as veilfire burst from empty eyesockets, the emerald essence trickling down his legs and pooling at his heels like fog. He paid her no heed regardless if she spoke with veracity. As she had done concurrently in the past.

“I can attest to her identity, yes. That is…” His voice caught in his throat, each word grating, more painful than the next, as his stare remained fixed on the stone slab before him, and the body that lay atop it.

“That was Gwendolyn Ingellvar. My wife. Though there are some who knew her simply as… Rook.”

Her body was now vacant, a vessel devoid of any spirit, remnants of her life, of what once was, still flickering sporadically around the corpse. Each strand faded the longer Emmrich stood there, his beloved turning into nothing more than a distant dream. Her toothy smile, always endearing. The hearty laughter that would soon follow, still echoing throughout the recesses of his mind. Her intoxicating gaze, those dark blue eyes more magnificent than the deepest Fade. It brought Emmrich immeasurable warmth—even though decades had passed since a heart had beaten so fervently in his hallowed core—all of which vanished upon Rook’s dying gasp.

It was unforeseen. This wasn’t supposed to be how it concluded.

He had witnessed the length of her life, the weaves foretelling the age she’d pass. 92. Coronary thrombosis. He had calculated, planned for the end, relishing in the time they still had left.

“I see, thank you, sir.”

Emmrich couldn’t recall this stranger’s name—nor frankly, did he care to relearn it—but the inspector bowed, the crown of his head shining against the candlelight illuminating the viewing room, in a feeble attempt to provide mourning, or even a semblance of respect. Scarcely a second had passed before he scribbled into a notebook, pushing up the round spectacles that had slipped down his nose.

“And my condolences.” He added procedurally, flipping to a fresh page. “There’s just a few more questions I’d like to ask you.”

The inspector reached for the white sheet draped over Rook’s body, stumpy fingers pulling it back over her face. Emmrich lurched forwards, grabbing the material in objection.

“Please! If you would be so kind as to leave her uncovered… for a few more moments.”

The inspector’s bushy eyebrows furrowed as he studied Emmrich, middle finger slowly picking at his thumb’s cuticle, nails brittle and chipped. He grunted, lowering the sheet to her neckline.

Such impertinence.

“What was her age?” He continued, tapping the pen against the border of his notebook, showing more agitation the longer it took for Emmrich to answer.

Her age…

To Emmrich, Rook was perpetually vibrant, carrying boundless zeal that never failed to diminish his own in comparison. In spite of her cropped hair that had long ago turned to shades of lily-white, or the wrinkles etched into her spotted skin—crows feet pronounced and highlighting decades worth of laughter, of mutual happiness—he looked past the senescence, past the time stacked against her. Though was it purely to hide his own lingering grief from betraying him, of what constantly lurked in the shadows of his psyche? Of what presented itself behind his growing abhorrences? Even now, her remains still fresh, Emmrich could only picture the woman he had met by happenstance some 40 years prior, whilst the world succumbed to blight and the petty squabbles of elven gods.

The sacrifices. The unremitting toil. The distress to the mind, body, and spirit. All for the sake of Thedas, for their life in communion once the Veil had been sealed. To have had Rook taken so violently in yet another act of selflessness. Of course she couldn’t have just stood idly by. Of course she would’ve charged straight towards peril, lacking any prudence. Of course Emmrich had foolishly assumed her heroics had terminated, that she had left that part of herself behind, floating aimlessly in the Lighthouse’s ceaseless orbit. And what benefits did her sacrifice bring forth this time? No more than a handful of mortals saved, the rest perishing, and the murderers still at liberty. A waste, the capricious fingers of fate always squeezing, taking, having never released their grip from Rook’s neck.

“She was 76 years old,” Emmrich paused, deflating, chest constricting; his new form mimicking the torment he once harbored so extensively as a mortal. A reflex even in undeath, something he had hoped wouldn’t follow him from beyond the Veil, but had nonetheless fused itself to his spirit.

A curse. A reminder.

The inspector’s mouth parted, a hint of a question forming on his chapped lips, but Emmrich spoke before he could finish the intended thought.

“And she was born on the 6th of Haring, 9:19 Dragon. A Nevarran citizen all her life. Though it’s unfortunate to say there is no proper documentation of her birth, save for the records that were drawn up when she had been discovered as a foundling in the Necropolis.”

It was immediate, Rook’s entire history committed to his memory. Everlasting.

The man’s jaw slammed shut as he logged the information, nodding with thanks.

“Her profession then?”

The questions persisted. Further punishments.

How could Emmrich so accurately describe his dearest Rook to this… man? Of the woman she had once been? He would need hours, innumerable pages that could fill libraries when he was through. If he was certain he’d ever be able to accomplish such a task, even with all the time now allotted to him it was beyond imaginable.

No! She could not be summarised by a mere phrase, nor an occupation alone.

Rook was the Hero of the Veilguard!

The Savior of Thedas!

Vanquisher of the Evanurus, of the Sixth and final blight!

The inspector had made no recognition of Rook's name, of the legacy she carried, when Emmrich had revealed it. Were mortals so quick to forget the past, when the blood of all those lost were still fresh on humanity's threshold? Emmrich winced at the notion, eyes shut tightly, but that couldn’t stop the images of Rook from surging past him, through him, sights and sounds, senses alight as they consumed what remained in his memory. He clung to them, but no matter how firm his grasp was, they managed to slip through his fingertips, like most things, diminishing with perpetuity.

Rook was—had been, always will be—the centre of his existence, every fiber of his being devoted to her. She was the best of Emmrich, the last thing keeping him tethered to the past, to the expectations of mortality and the virtues that came with it.

The burden of life.

“Are you well informed with the history of Thedas, Inspector?”

The inspector quirked his head, face morphing with confusion and mild annoyance. Johanna snorted, and his eyes darted to the skull—a pleading look, seeking an explanation—but she only answered with another cackle, veilfire simmering.

“I—why, uh, I’m no expert, sir, but I know enough, the same as any. I don’t see how this pertains to the investigation.”

“And more precisely, the events of 9:53 Dragon?”

The man’s cheeks darkened, “9:53 Dragon… well, er—” He huffed, searching for an answer to one of the simplest inquiries Emmrich had ever raised, flinging his notebook shut when he proved unsuccessful. “Please, Mr. Volkarin, I’m in no mood for such trivialities. This is a police headquarters, not a lecture hall. We’re behind enough as it is, and I’d really like to—”

“You imbecile!” Johanna roared, and the man stumbled backwards as veilfire lashed out at him.

“You should be grovelling on your hands and knees, expressing gratitude for the future that had narrowly been evaded. If it weren’t for Rook—and yes, for Volkarin here, if you’d allow yourself to suspend your disbelief—the world as you know it would’ve ceased to exist; nightmarish abominations walking freely through ruins swallowed in nothing but boils and despair. But judging by your puny disposition, and the inadequacies of your hygiene, I find it rather implausible you would’ve survived even a week, let alone 24-hours, in such an environment."

The inspector blinked, jaw hanging loose. “I-I’m finding this rather—are these theatrics really necessary? I’m not entirely—?”

“No, I suppose not. How could you fathom such a sheer fact, without having a sizable brain in your possession? Yet, it should come as no surprise, really… all you vermin are identical.”

That was enough to give the inspector a clear understanding of where Johanna intended on steering the conversation. He nearly broke his pen in two, pointing a reproachful finger at her skull, while managing to keep a safe distance from the veilfire that still sought to maim him.

“Listen here, Mr. Volkarin! If you don’t keep that thing, er, I mean your pet—or whatever they’re termed nowadays—behaved, I’ll have to kindly ask you to take your leave.”

“How dare you!” She hissed, “My name is Johanna Hezenkoss!” The candles flickered, each flame furiously extinguishing in turn as the veilfire from her skull engulfed the room in a wave of suppressed resentment. “And I assure you, I am NO pet!”

“I don’t care if you’re bloody Andraste reincarnated, there’ll be none of—”

“Please, Johanna. Desist.” Emmrich was surprised they even heard his voice, it was barely strong enough to cut through the bedlam; saddled with anguish, the words sinking lower with what more was yet to come.

He placed a hand on Johanna’s cranium, slowly, delicately, as the tensions eased. The veilfire dispersed upon contact, leaving the room shrouded in darkness, save for Johanna’s pulsing eyesockets.

Rest on AO3! *disappears into the void*

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Moonlight Serenade

Summary: Los Angeles, 1946. Acclaimed Hollywood actor Emmrich Volkarin has faced decades worth of hardships and scandals. He finds unexpected love when paired with Rook Ingellvar, a rising star, in his next feature film. Time will only tell how this budding romance will play out in Tinsletown…

Notes: The AU Old Hollywood fic is FINISHED! WOOO! So proud of it! 😭 This was originally supposed to be just 2 parts, but by the end it got so damn long I split it up into 4 chapters. 🤣 I’ve linked it from Chapter 01 onwards, for those who might've missed the first instalment.  ⭐️

Sharing an excerpt below, featuring Emmrich reminiscing over Johanna Hezenkoss, his ex-BFF turned gossip columnist lmao.

The rest is on AO3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/71675826

Link to my other Emmrich work in the A Necromancer's Melancholia.

***

Emmrich eventually made his way towards the orchestra that was situated near one of the many pools, following the sound of the music as it floated through the chilled evening air. The water glittered with the glow of the soft lamps, reflecting the crescent moon that hung above them.

He leaned against a lonely palm tree, overlooking the musicians and bespoke dance floor, cradling his second glass of champagne. His social battery was nearly empty, pulling on his last reserves to simply keep his face from wilting. He sipped slowly, taking comfort in the alcohol's buzz, gaze shifting to the party’s guests.

Couples shared loungers, drinks discarded as they necked, while others danced the evening away. Different groups were there strictly on business, exchanging hushed whispers, solidifying deals under the comfort of the shadows.

Emmrich did catch a pair of glinting hexagonal spectacles from one such bunch, the owner’s emerald eyes probing, yet he was surprisingly not startled. In fact, he had expected to find them there that evening, as they attended all his premieres.

Johanna Hezenkoss raised her half-finished martini in his direction, red nails pointed, claws wrapping around the stem of the glass. She had donned a fur coat, layered over a green silk dress. Though the outfit's statement piece was another one of her obnoxious headdresses; this time a matching colored pompadour hat, the centre stuffed full of various flower arrangements. Emmrich was quick to raise his own beverage, and she smirked, resuming her conversation with Solas Lavellan, head of Evanuris Studios.

Most called Emmrich a fool for never taking legal action against Johanna’s articles. He had saved every piece she ever published about him—enough in his collection to fill a small tome—but he wouldn’t give up on their friendship, their mutual recollections, regardless if she no longer reciprocated his feelings.

Johanna was Emmrich’s oldest friend, the first actress he had met after making the great pilgrimage across the Atlantic, crossing paths with her in the lobby of a now defunct studio. Like most actors in the early 1910s, he was starry-eyed and in search of fame and fortune, following the tidings of the booming motion picture industry to Hollywood. Film was still very much a new medium, and the possibilities were endless. Directors with unique perspectives assembled from all over the world, experimenting with narratives, constantly pushing the boundaries with sets and camera techniques. Unlike the stage, in the land of make-believe, there were no limitations save for possibly time and budget.

It didn’t take long for Emmrich to become well acquainted with the other studios, landing one gig after another with ease. He began with a series of background roles, but after being spotted by a studio head, those grew to be supporting parts, a few lines sprinkled throughout the films, and eventually, top billing. Emmrich didn’t hog the spotlight, no matter what Johanna would later claim, he simply commanded the screen, understood the director’s intent, the shot language, and most importantly, what his best angles were.

Emmrich and Johanna starred in over thirty silent pictures together, creating a notorious rapport with their electrifying on-screen chemistry, but with the invention of sound came her precipitated demise. The ‘Jazz Singer’ was catastrophic, the implications felt across Hollywood within a day. He mourned the loss of the industry he had come to know and cherish, the other dear friends whose careers all but vanished with the first winds of change, their names fading away into obscurity.

As Emmrich rose higher, using his strengths as a classically trained actor to keep afloat, Johanna remained stationary, stewing in her own contempt at his success and lashing out at him for even suggesting an alternative to her plights. ‘Directing? Producing? Radio presenting? Are you mad, Volkarin?’ She’d holler, throwing plates, teacups—whatever she could get her hands on—at his head with full intent to maim. Howbeit, Johanna didn’t remain in the shadows for long, as she’d never settle for mediocrity.

Through her animosity she began selling private information to the press, random tidbits she overheard during her time on film sets; going so far as to exploit secrets from Emmrich, information he confided in her at his lowest moments, to old colleagues, directors, and studio heads.

Johanna was hellbent on revenge, on seeing Hollywood fall to ruin, creating entire networks of spies who did her bidding. She was overtaken by greed, and when simply selling information no longer satisfied her desires for industry-wide destruction, she began publishing articles herself, changing her name to fit this new act of Hollywood’s Queen of Gossip.

For nearly 20 years Johanna persisted with her attacks against Emmrich, each one systematically more personal. And no matter how hard he tried to aid her, to beg her to cease her performative displays of loathing, she only pushed him further away until they were nothing more than strangers.

Rest on AO3! *disappears into the void*

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The March of the Forgotten transpired once every Firstfall. By then, the autumnal foliage had passed its peak; bright colours already fading from senescence, the beauty of its transition another harrowing reminder of the toll of time. 

Where the Veil was thinnest, in a dense forest near the edge of the Necropolis, spirits, both old and new, strode through mists of quietude. The procession wasn’t met with profligacy, as was the norm for Nevarran pageantries, but with deep reverence. Above all, it was an opportunity to see history resurrected, to mingle with the dead.

A short distance away, Emmrich Volkarin stood, observing the sea of transparent figures drifting past him. Manfred was at his side, emerald eyes glittering. His ward was transfixed, for once his curiosity subdued, not even a hiss escaped him.

Emmrich scanned the thinning crowd, gaze calculating, always searching for two faces in particular. His parents. Yet luck had never been in his favour, no matter how often he paid his respects. 

When the last spirit finally dissipated, its embers rejoining the currents of the Fade, Manfred’s shoulders wilted in disappointment. He turned to Emmrich, expression dim. 

“I’m afraid that was the last of them.” Emmrich’s lips quivered, fighting to keep his smile from faltering. 

A soft hiss, bones rattling as Manfred pointed to where the spirits had been. His naivety just about shattered Emmrich’s heart.

“That won’t be necessary, Manfred. They’ll come next year, surely.” He lied. Though was it for Manfred’s consolation, or his own? 

My writing submission for the @thefadediscordserver's 2026 Emmrich calendar! Art by the wonderful and incredibly talented @paramortality 💀❤️

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Happy Holidays! You've been through so much, you work incredibly hard, you're remarkably kind, and you're honestly an inspiration. You're so positive and creative, and I can't think of anyone more deserving of a perfect Christmas than you—and a Writer's Badge! Please accept this gift as a token of appreciation for your magnificent stories, and have a glorious New Year! 💜💚💜

Hi Anon! This made my night!!! THANK YOU! 😭 (Btw in response to your other message, I figured out where the badges were on the app and found them! 💕)

Happy Christmas!!!

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So Much for Courtship

I wrote a short one-shot for the @thefadediscordserver's Secret Santa! It was for the brilliant Miss_Creative on AO3. 🥰 Now back to finishing Part 02 of Moonlight Serenade lmao.

You can find it here, and a wee snippet below: https://archiveofourown.org/works/76139651

Summary: Emmrich and Rook get stuck in a horrible storm, and must find a way to keep themselves warm to avoid catching hypothermia.

Link to my other Emmrich work in the A Necromancer's Melancholia.

***

Emmrich hadn’t expected to be holding Lysandra’s unclad body in his arms. At least… he hadn’t intended for this to happen so soon. The only articles of clothing she still donned on her curvaceous figure were simple laced undergarments, still damp from the rain and not leaving much to his imagination either. Lysandra’s back pressed firmly against his own bare chest as she sat in between his legs, but he could still make out the intricate dragon tattoos covering the skin along her spine, counting the scales one by one as he fought to keep any semblance of decorum.

He had made plans for courtship, complete with romantic gestures and a sea of bespoke arrangements he wanted to gift her well before they even started to flirt with such levels of intimacy. After all, he had only just realised Lysandra’s motivations of exploring a genuine relationship were in fact, quite serious, and not something he’d conjured up in a dream...

But alas, things rarely ever went according to plan when his romantic pursuits were involved. And the blasted rain was relentless, forcing them closer together as they braced the storm under some shoddy elven ruins. He could barely see through the deluge now, the surrounding Arlathan scenery blurring into one, as if he was peeking behind a waterfall.

Their drenched clothing sat in a soggy pile by a makeshift fire, the flames doing very little to offer any heat, or signs that they’d aid in drying off their articles anytime soon.

Lysandra was still shivering, teeth clattering as Emmrich’s grip tightened around her pillowy flesh. Colour was finally starting to return to her, but only just, and not enough for Emmrich to feel at ease, as it still resembled shades closer to death.

“Lysandra, will you permit me in attempting something rather brazen?”

Her head tilted in his direction, her round nose forming a perfect silhouette against the fire, hair falling loosely on her shoulders; the tight bun she always had fastened slowly becoming undone. “Y-ye… y-yes.” She whispered eventually, voice nearly lost to the rain.

“You have my thanks. We must work to increase your core temperature, or else I fear hyperthermia is inevitable. And in these disastrous weather conditions, I'm unsure when we might get a chance to return to the Lighthouse.”

The morning had started off like any other. Well, it was still far from his old routine, the typical sense of normalcy he’d come to appreciate within the comforts of the Necropolis. In fact, at that precise moment, if he’d never joined Lysandra in her pursuit to defeat ancient elven gods, he would’ve likely been cosied up in his flat within the Upper Mortuary; in his study grading theses or nose deep in an ancient tome, one of the many on his never-ending ‘to read’ pile.

While Emmrich and the other companions dished out breakfast in the Lighthouse’s kitchen, they had an impromptu meeting; going over the various excursions planned, while exchanging updates as to the whereabouts of the Evanuris. It was decided then they’d split up into groups: Bellara, Davrin, and Taash to the Hosberg Wetlands to finish up some business with the Grey Wardens, Neve and Lucanis to Treviso to liaise with an informant, and Emmrich and Lysandra to Arlathan to investigate the growing Venatori presence.

It should’ve been simple. And it was, initially. Emmrich finally got to rub elbows with Lysandra without the prying eyes of the companions, fostering a deeper familiarity with her as they sauntered the forest, following leads from the Veil Jumpers as to the location of the last Venatori sightings. For the occasion Emmrich had even packed a small picnic basket, and with the help of Neve, provided some of Lysandra’s favourite snacks from her time in Minrathous.

Everything had all gone swimmingly, until they actually happened to stumble upon a secret Venatori encampment whilst simultaneously getting caught in one of the worst tempests Emmrich had ever experienced.

They escaped the Venatori, and any serious injuries, but presently, in what Emmrich could only call an act of divine providence, he was trapped with Lysandra in the middle of nowhere until the storm subsided.

Lysandra lifted her arm to form a weak thumbs up, pulling Emmrich out of his racing thoughts. It was a gesture that still perplexed him and one she already, unfortunately, taught Manfred, in addition to a slew of other profanities and crude mannerisms.

He followed her arm down to the rest of her body, breath catching in his throat. He was granted a full view of her, as even though they were sitting, his tall frame loomed over hers. No matter how hard he tried to avert his eyes, his gaze dropped back to her, tracing the edges of her thighs, her bosom. He could only take in snippets of her physique at a time, out of respect for Lysandra, but selfishly, to curb his intensifying hunger. The last thing he wanted was to appear lecherous, for her to feel uncomfortable, to retract her earlier sentiments, and yet… He was only human, a man at that. A desire he had thought was long since dormant, snuffed out by the cruel passage of time, reignited within his core at the mere sight of her.

Lysandra’s curves were defined and lush, bold but soft, like gently sloping hills across an expansive countryside; her well-endowed breasts, full stomach, her radiant flesh melting into his… He was certain he would go mad by the time this was over. He shifted his legs, his member stirring beneath his smalls; repositioning himself in such a way so that Lysandra wouldn’t feel it growing firmer along her backside.

Emmrich flexed his fingers, mana surging to the tips of his digits as they each filled with warmth, emerald essence trickling above the nailbeds like faint trails of smoke.

“May I?” He inquired again, a hand hovering over Lysandra’s chest. She nodded, any words she strove to utter couldn’t make it past her jittering lips.

Rest on AO3! *disappears into the void*

[scuttlingcrab]

Moonlight Serenade

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Summary: Los Angeles, 1946. Acclaimed Hollywood actor Emmrich Volkarin has faced decades worth of hardships and scandals. He finds unexpected love when paired with Rook Ingellvar, a rising star, in his next feature film. Time will only tell how this budding romance will play out in Tinsletown…

Notes: I completely forgot to make a separate post about this, but I wanted to share my Emmrich x Rook old Hollywood fic. It was part of the @thefadediscordserver’s recent AU Zine!

And if you missed it, @timethehobo created a brilliant piece to go along with the fic as part of the collaboration! My hero! 100/10 - best thing I've ever seen lol. ❤️

I'm currently working on Part 02 and should hopefully have that done... soon-ish. My goal is to have it finished by sometime next month. Just swamped with some other IRL deadlines. Screenwriting is hard lol 😭

Sharing an excerpt below, the rest is on AO3!

Link to my other Emmrich work in the A Necromancer's Melancholia.

***

Emmrich departed for Kirkwall Pictures at first light, donning his finest navy blue suit and fedora. The backlot was already buzzing as he showed himself through the front gates, tipping his hat to Davrin, the head of security. His wire fox terrier, Assan, was at his feet, nearly doing a backflip as he barked his own morning greetings. The young man managed to look dapper in that ghastly studio uniform, and if the executives had any sense at all, they would’ve gotten him in front of the cameras immediately.

“Good morning, Davrin!” Emmrich chirped, bending a knee in a way as to not wrinkle his trousers. He pet Assan generously behind the ears, the dog leaning into his hand. “How’s your wife and daughter faring?”

“Morning, Mr. Volkarin. They're both swell, same as the last time you asked.” Davrin grinned, and Emmrich shrugged off the jab. “Beverly wanted me to thank you for those books, by the way.”

“Ah! Marvelous, marvelous. I do hope she enjoys them. When she’s through, you’ll let me know, yes? I’ve plenty more where those came from. She’s welcome to peruse my library if it might interest her. And I’m sure Manfred would enjoy another play date.”

Emmrich bid farewell and strolled through the paths leading to the back of the lot, to Sound Stage 7, or what Varric Tethras typically termed it ‘Lucky Number 7.’ As the head of Kirkwall Pictures, he had every right to name it such a thing; there hadn’t been a so-called ‘Box Office flop’ to emerge from that sound stage in its entire history.

Varric vetted most pictures that went through the studio circulation, making or breaking talent, and hand picking the current slate in production; especially those that were to shoot in the largest and most prosperous building on the property. He was a superstitious man by nature, notorious for shuffling pictures about at the last minute if he felt an alleged shift in the cosmos, or simply, after listening to what his gut told him at breakfast.

Stepping into Lucky Number 7 itself was like opening a portal to another world, or dipping one's toes into a new era all together, given the nature and scope of the project. Pre-production was a highlight for Emmrich, when the words on a page were no longer a figment of someone’s vivid imagination but brought to fruition. Rome wasn’t built in a day, but in Hollywood it could be constructed overnight, only to be replaced with cowboys or ghoulish monsters in a fortnight.

Set dressers, costume designers, assistants, electricians, practically an entire army of crew members, wiggled their way past Emmrich as he stood in awe at the entry point, mouth practically in the palm of his hands at the work underway. They moved as if they were in a chaotic dance, somehow perfectly coordinated despite having their own agendas. The sound stage was big enough to house nearly every location of the picture, pockets of the environments sectioned off throughout the building.

Emmrich ducked, side-stepped, and all but twirled to avoid a plank of wood from clocking him over the head, in time reaching a quieter part of the building that was more secluded for their inaugural cast meeting.

The usual suspects were already in attendance, all within proximity of the refreshment stand. There was Varric, who practically lived in the crevices of the backlot. He paced like a general on the verge of sending his soldiers off to war, twirling Bianca, his ivory Montblanc fountain pen, around his fingers. Despite Varric’s short stature, his presence commanded any room he entered, an intimidating aura clinging to his person. He was hammering off words to Iron Bull, their giant and bulky one-eyed director, who sported a golden eyepatch, changing the colour of his accessory with every new project. Kirkwall Pictures’ prominent screenwriter, Bellara Lutare, was already hard at work making edits to the script. She was perched on a stool, pencil carving into the pages as she scarfed down pastries.

And then there were his castmates. Dorian Pavus, one of, if not the most flamboyant actor in Hollywood, stood with his back straight and head held high, nibbling on a piece of toast with as much propriety as a Duke—not even spilling a single crumb on his plate. Pavus was prone to just as many hits from the tabloids as Emmrich, the pair once sharing a joint scandal after being spotted sitting a little too close for comfort at an after party. ‘We should’ve kissed,’ Dorian had teased, ‘it would’ve shocked the children.’

Lucanis Dellamorte and Cassandra Pentaghast were slouched together in the corner, silently brooding and staring off into the far distance as if they each had their own vendettas against a random set piece. And finally there was Leliana Nightingale, who didn’t bother to make small talk with anyone, she seldom did, and this was their fifth picture together. Emmrich simply attributed that to her being French. Leliana was already sitting at the cast table, taking slow drags of a dainty cigarette. She created tiny smoke rings as she exhaled, her attention fixed solely on watching them dissipate.

The rest of the ensemble consisted of minor side characters, who had one or two lines of dialogue at most, but all familiar faces nonetheless.

“Ah, Dorian. What a pleasant surprise.” Emmrich approached the beverages, making himself a generous cuppa.

“Is it?” Dorian discarded his empty plate, dabbing a serviette across his lips. “We’re on contract, Emmrich. I expect we’ll persist with being co-stars for the foreseeable.”

He waited for Emmrich to finish adding a spot of milk to his tea, before the two sauntered over to the table together.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, Dorian, but didn’t you just threaten to change allegiance and sign with Evanuris Studios at the conclusion of our last picture?”

Rest on AO3! *disappears into the void*

[scuttlingcrab]

A Lich in the Family

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Summary: Set a few thousand years after the Sixth and final blight, Emmrich Volkarin adopts his niece, Rhiannon Ingellvar, after her parents perish in an automobile accident.

Or a look into Emmrich Volkarin’s life in Modern Thedas, as a Lich, after being stuck with Johanna Hezenkoss for a thousand+ years.

Notes: My first attempt at writing a Lich Emmrich fic. Naturally... took a more unserious route lol. 100% in it for Emmrich and Johanna's banter. Hope you guys enjoy. 🤣

Sharing an excerpt below, the rest is on AO3!

Link to my other Emmrich work in the A Necromancer's Melancholia.

***

There had been three knocks, so soft she missed them initially. But the sound came again, a touch louder, pulling her attention towards the door.

“Y-yes?” she sputtered, voice frail.

The doorknob slowly turned and Volkarin’s head peeked through the opening, his silver hair glowing under the fluorescent lights. Rhiannon didn’t mean to gasp at the sight of her uncle. She’d never seen him in such an environment, though he was dressed just as eloquently as if this were another party. He smiled, eyes big and blazing, and far from the same sympathetic gaze she had endured from others since arriving at the hospital. It didn’t leave a lump in her throat, or make her want to hide her face and scream. He regarded her as if nothing had changed, like she were his equal, and not some ignorant child.

“Hello there, Rhiannon,” he started, voice light and airy, like a lullaby. “Am I permitted to enter?”

She nodded and Volkarin crossed the threshold, posture perfect, quietly shutting the door behind him. His long billowing cloak hid his feet, giving the illusion he was gliding towards her. He stopped about midway, leaving a wide enough berth so as to not frighten her.

“Do you recall who I am?” Volkarin folded his hands in front of him, patient, respectful, as he waited for her reply.

Rhiannon hadn’t even noticed Hezenkoss’ skull hanging from his side, but even so, it shouldn’t have been so alarming to find it with him. It rattled furiously against his belt, huffing in disapproval. “Pah! Of course the girl is cognizant of who you are, you blasted poon.” Hezenkoss’ voice boomed through the room like a loudspeaker announcement. “Get on with it, or are we going to squander yet another evening engaging in one of your vain pursuits?”

“Johanna, please, hold your spectral tongue.” He sighed, pursing his lips. “Unless you are otherwise disposed to receive an additional hex? Or perhaps what you truly need is a temporary change of hands? It’s been several decades at least since Vorgoth had you under his care, allowing me a fleeting reprieve from your incessant protestations.”

“You will do no such thing, Volkarin! I will cease, if only to avoid being within eyesight of that miserable floating pile of feculence.”

That made Volkarin laugh really hard, placing both of his hands on his hips as his head shook vigorously. Rhiannon’s dad used to do the same thing when he saw something entertaining on the telly, or if her mum told one of her silly jokes during dinner, going so far as to slap his knees repeatedly. Though for the life of her, she didn’t know what her Uncle Volkarin had found so humourous.

“You must excuse us, Rhiannon. Johanna is actually quite innocuous, despite what she’d like you to believe.” His eyes glowed a weird emerald green colour, a magical-looking essence pouring down his sharp cheekbones like actual tears. He wiped them away with his index finger, the mana dissipating around him. He cleared his throat and carried on, “Oh, that is your given name, yes? Or would you prefer I called you by something else? A nickname perhaps? Those are always quite fun.”

“Sometimes p-people call me Rhi, but Rhiannon is just fine, thank you.” Volkarin smiled, nodding. “And your name—you’re Uncle Volkarin.”

Another laugh came from her uncle, though not as boisterous as the first.

“Precicely, my dear girl, though we can skip the formalities all together. I don’t mind if you called me Emmrich. That honorific has always made me feel rather… long in the tooth, as the saying goes.”

Hezenkoss cackled at his words, and he glanced down at her, an eyebrow raising in warning.

“Is there something else on your mind, Johanna?” Her eye sockets pulsed, but she said no more. “I thought as much.”

Volkarin drifted across the room until he reached the two chairs. He snapped his fingers, and a ghostly green hand appeared, unfastening Hezenkoss’ skull from his belt. Volkarin sat down, just as the hand delicately placed the skull in the seat beside him, positioning it to face Rhiannon. It disappeared once the task was completed and Volkarin allowed himself to get comfortable, crossing one leg over the other. His gaze surveyed the room, inspecting the machines, the scuffed floors, the faded walls, eventually ending back on Rhiannon.

“Have the staff treated you well, Rhiannon?” he asked at last, “I must say, I’ve never been fond of modern hospitals. Compared to the Necropolis, these institutions can be rather forlorn.”

“Yeah. I don’t think I like hospitals very much either.”

There was a long pause, Volkarin tilting his head to study Rhiannon. His expression was neutral, but she shivered under the weight of his attention, a chill running down her spine, goosepimples budding across her arms. He looked at her knowingly, eyes glinting, as if he could see right through her; peering deeper, into the pits of her very being, breaking it apart, piece by piece. She avoided his regard, looking down at the forgotten tray of food.

“My deepest sympathies, Rhiannon. It’s not easy losing one’s parents, especially when so young. They were benevolent souls, until the end.”

Rhiannon jerked her head up at the mention of them. “You actually knew my mum and dad? I never saw them talk to you, like at all. If they were here now, they’d probably be really—” She blinked, vision blurry, stinging. Her parent’s faces flashed before her, an overwhelming sensation, a heaviness growing in her chest she couldn’t quite grasp.

“I can only imagine some of the things that have been said about me, of which, I hope you have taken none to heart. There are such concepts that go far beyond mortal comprehension regarding my unique condition.”

Rhiannon frowned, it was her turn to examine her uncle. “Condition? Are you sick or something?" He didn’t seem any different than usual, in actuality, he always looked the same. She had once overheard her mum griping to one of her aunties about how Volkarin’s hair never changed colour, which Rhiannon found rather odd, because her mum always dyed hers. When Rhiannon had suggested that her Uncle Volkarin was maybe doing the same, she was met with laughs and a hard stare from her mum. The topic was never brought up again.

“Far from it, my dear.” He sat up, perching himself on the edge of the seat, resting a hand on her shoulder. His touch was light, caring, but brought no warmth upon contact. “You likely have heaps of inquiries, and I will answer them all, but shall we save that for another date? When you’ve settled in and had time to process your bereavement?”

She shrugged. “Yeah, okay.”

“Most excellent, Rhiannon, one step at a time.” He rose from his chair, pacing the length of the room, a hand on his hip, the other gripping his chin in thought. He stopped abruptly, looking up at the ceiling. His face turned grim as if he could hear something coming from above. He hummed flatly, muttering to himself. Then, as if nothing strange had just occurred, he turned on his heels towards the bed. “Oh! I heard there was quite an incident in the ambulance earlier.” He declared that rather proudly, like he was thrilled she had nearly electrocuted the paramedics.

Johanna snickered along with his statement, promptly adding, “Ha! I would’ve loved to have seen their petrified faces for myself. There’s nothing like a mage discovering their true potential. Raw power, untethered, released into the waking world. What a grand debut.” Green magic poured from Hezenkoss’ eyes in her excitement, flowing over the seat and pooling at the base of the chair. “Did you know, child, Volkarin once burnt off his vomitous mustache when he pulled too much from the Fade?”

Volkarin groaned, “How kind you are to jog my memory, Johanna.”

“Unfortunately he decided to grow it back. It’s haunted me for over a millennia. Why he proceeds to add such a foul detail to his glamour is beyond me.”

Volkarin said something back to Hezenkoss, pointing a long finger at her, to which the skull's green magic intensified, but Rhiannon didn’t hear a lick of it. She grimaced, clenching her fists and hiding them under the bedsheets. The action did nothing to help the pain coursing through her veins, in fact, it only made it worse. Just like in the ambulance.

The tips of her fingers burned, a sharp crackling filled the air, and with it, the sheets rose. The corners of the fabric caught fire, the air charging, blue sparks collecting from the centre of her palms, growing bigger, brighter. Volkarin raised his arms in alarm, taking a giant step towards the bed. He cupped her hands, icy magic rushing from his contact and enveloping her body, overpowering the electricity that tried to lash out at him. It seeped through her skin, soothing her as the burning alleviated.

Volkarin’s eyes focused on Rhiannon, green and glowing. She had expected more anger from her uncle at the sudden outburst of magic, or maybe fear, as she had experienced from the paramedics, but he remained composed, meeting her frenzied stare with nothing but benevolence. When she relaxed her fists, the sheets fell to the floor and Volkarin put out the flames with his boots. Her palms tingled, despite the electricity no longer threatening to destroy the entire room.

Volkarin gave her hands a good squeeze once the room had quieted, “My dear girl, that nearly gave me—”

Rhiannon fell forwards, hiding her face in his cloak. She sank into his embrace, letting out a loud sob, tears replacing any type of apology she had hoped to exclaim.

“Oh, no, no please don’t fret. It’s quite alright, it’s alright Rhiannon…” His sternum vibrated as he spoke, each word echoing from within his chest, yet nothing else stirred beneath as she anchored herself to him. She sought to find a heartbeat, as she had once done when consoled by her parents—feeling their chests rise and fall with each breath, the loud thump-thump-thump from their cores—yet she couldn’t hear anything the longer she held him. It was like he was empty inside. Her mind instantly went to Volkarin’s ‘condition.’ Was that why her parents had forbidden her to speak with him? Because he was… different?

She must’ve wept for an awfully long time, never once releasing her hold on Volkarin, as she eventually heard Hezenkoss moan. “If you let that child snivel for another hour, she’s going to mar your wardrobe! And then what, Volkarin? The last time you procured a new set of clothing was a century ago, and that merchant has long ago expired. Just give her a blasted handkerchief and let’s be done with this farce!”

Volkarin shifted slightly on the bed, the mattress squeaking under his movements. “Have you lost all manner of propriety, Johanna? Need I remind you that you were once mortal?”

“Pah! How dare you accuse me of such an odious thing. I never once shed a single tear in my entire existence.”

“No? I find that highly unlikely. Not even when you were of this age?”

There was a long moment of silence, Volkarin not moving a muscle. Rhiannon peeped from under his arm, witnessing as the veilfire under Hezenkoss began to boil ferociously.

“Do try to quell that wretched enthusiasm of yours, Volkarin! You know where my mother’s corpse is held. You can converse with the old bat whenever you see fit.”

“Perhaps I shall.”

Rest on AO3! *disappears into the void*

[timethehobo]

Collab piece done for @scuttlingcrab’s amazing fic! 🥰 Part of @thefadediscordserver’s “Unexpected SplendAUr” zine.

💚 Go read it HERE psst psst! 💚

[scuttlingcrab]

LOOK AT THE AMAZING ARTWORK @timethehobo CREATED FOR MY FIC! I'M FLOORED! SHOOKETH TO MY CORE!!! I CAN'T STOP TYPING IN CAPS BECAUSE IT'S JUST TOO DAMN GOOD!!! 😭

THE YEARNING!!! THE PASSION!!! THE ANGST!!! [music swells, camera zooms in for a dramatic close-up]

As part of the @thefadediscordserver's new Emmrich AU zine, I got to collab with Time on my old Hollywood inspired fic called Moonlight Serenade. It can be found here via AO3.

Summary: Los Angeles, 1946. Acclaimed Hollywood actor Emmrich Volkarin has faced decades worth of hardships and scandals. He finds unexpected love when paired with Rook Ingellvar, a rising star, in his next feature film. Time will only tell how this budding romance will play out in Tinsletown…

Part 02 is coming SOON!

[scuttlingcrab]

WIP Wednesday 💀

I'm working on my first Lich one-shot, but with a twist lol. It's set in Modern Thedas, 1000+ years after the conclusion of DAV. Volkarin adopts his niece after tragic circumstances leave her orphaned.

This is a scene that takes place the first morning Rhiannon, his niece, wakes up in the Necropolis lmao

Thank you for tagging me @arquennial! ❤️ Tagging these awesome folks too @emmg @kirain @karawra @sofiemystique @thepalehorsevictoria @deny-the-issue @redheadsramblings @holdingontojupiter @falesiastuff (and anyone I might've forgotten, please feel free to join in too!)

Rhiannon smiled sheepishly, words evading her, biting the inside of her cheek out of habit. Hezenkoss addressed her with a low grumble, but did not join Volkarin. She remained unmoving, floating above the table, yet her fury continued to strengthen. The veilfire that dripped through her clenched jaw curled at the edges, and from that distance, made it seem like she was sneering at her. “Behold! The new pet awakes.”  Volkarin gave the skull a sidelong glance, his pupils flickering with magic. Hezenkoss met his stare, her own eye sockets pulsing rapidly. His annoyance vanished when he turned back to Rhiannon, a smile replacing pursed lips. “I was starting to wonder when you might rise. Please, pay us no mind. Johanna is in one of her… strops. Which you’ll come to find are quite frequent, much to the distress of the entire household.”  “Pah! I care not what those freakish wisps feel, nor what falsities they may chitter in your ears about my supposed behavior. They’re pests, devoid of any intelligence, and don’t deserve to be roaming so freely through these halls.”  Volkarin cocked an eyebrow, “Oh? If that’s what you believe, would you prefer I revoked your own floating privileges? You could always return to your rightful place atop the pedestal in the foyer, bound by wards for perpetuity, like old times sake.” Hezenkoss’ skull fell a few inches, nearly hitting the table, hovering an inch above the surface. All the veilfire that had been bursting from her spirit was now reduced to a measly simmer.  “Touché, Volkarin.”

[scuttlingcrab]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Summary: After one too many shots of tequila, Emmrich confesses his love for Rook and then, whilst she drags him all the way home, proceeds to cry about it.

Notes: This silly crack fic is 100% inspired by the brilliant @emmg and this post they wrote a while ago lol. I took some liberties with it, as it features the same Emmrich and Rook from the AU A Twist of Fate, but it very much includes Emmrich drinking tequila, confessing his love, and getting a bit too emotional about everything. 🤣🥃

Also! Sorry about the radio silence re: lack of new fics, but I've been working on a longer Emmrich x Rook fic that I'll be able to share soon! I just had to take a break from that to get this out into the world lmaoooo ❤️

Sharing an excerpt below, the rest is on AO3!

Link to my other Emmrich work in the A Necromancer's Melancholia.

***

The Hereafter was Emmrich Volkarin’s frequent haunt. Standard bar by day, turned jazz club by night, it was the finest drinking establishment in downtown Nevarra City. It was also one of the oldest public houses in central Thedas, though no one could confirm just how ancient, or what sort of rascality occurred within those walls.

Apparently it dated back well before the formation of the Templars, and served as a safe haven for mages during Divine Galatea’s wrath. At one point, the Pentaghast family had even claimed it as their own, using it to host periodic revels after vanquishing a new dragon in their aggressive obsession with the beasts. There was, however, no concrete evidence to support such claims, merely rumours passed down from generation to generation; some accounts embellished beyond belief for additional flavour, depending on who was delivering said tale.

Johanna Hezenkoss was the one who introduced Emmrich to it intially—back when there were fewer creases along his forehead and his hair was still luxuriant—forcing his first, and ultimately last, whiskey neat down his throat. “Now, this, Volkarin, will surely put some hair on your shrimpy chest.”

He had downed it in one undignified gulp; nearly chundering and ruining the only good pair of trousers he owned at the time. Naturally, Johanna had snickered as she watched him wipe the dribble off his chin, ordering them another round. And then another. And… Well, one could only guess how things progressed from there.

Against his better judgement, Emmrich drank every single glass offered to him that night. He had only wished to impress Johanna, to show her how capable he was, how he could tolerate liquor, despite her jabs against his manhood, or ‘absence of,’ and how she often branded him as a ‘nincompoop.’ He had loved Johanna, truly. A part of him still did. He’d never deny it. Emmrich would’ve crossed the Veil, travelled to the depths of the unknown to bring her a Fade-touched relic of her choosing. Or he could’ve opted for a simpler approach: gifting her all the stars in the night sky, if she demanded such a thing. Instead it was just ‘button your lip and drink, Volkarin.’ And so he did.

It had taken Emmrich days to make a full recovery from the alcohol poisoning. Johanna, as far as he knew, had merely woken up the next morning with a headache; any signs of a hangover cured with a vile looking tonic and an added ice incantation for good measure. His morning after was regrettably spent curled up on the bathroom floor of Johanna’s flat; cheeks pressed firmly against a fuzzy gray toilet mat, the fibers sticking to his clammy skin. He had become acquainted with the floor, counting and recounting the number of tiles that surrounded the base of the toilet, noting which ones were uneven, and finding no energy to even judge Johanna’s negligence when it came to her attempts at cleaning. All the while, he vowed never to partake in liquor so excessively ever again.

The lingering nausea wasn’t the only thing that had haunted Emmrich. After his third drink, or perhaps it was the fourth—Johanna was always inconsistent in her retllings—he had seemingly fallen to his knees and asked for her hand in marriage. There were bruises to prove it, but he still had no recollection of ever doing such a thing unprompted. Emmrich had no ring on his person, save for one piece of grave gold and his father’s wedding band. And he most certainly had no speeches prepared, so Maker knows what ludicrous sentiments he had uttered at the behest of the whiskey that coursed through his veins. No matter how many times he asked Johanna, she never revealed what her response had been, aside from her lips curling into the most sinister looking sneer he’d ever observed on the woman.

Two years later he mustered the courage to face his growing affections and proposed properly in the Necropolis’ Memorial Gardens; Johanna instantly cutting him off to bark, ‘yes, yes, yes! Enough showboating, now let's get back to work.’ The union lasted a decade and a half, longer than anyone could’ve anticipated, before tragedy broke the already fragmented foundations of their relationship.

Emmrich continued to call upon The Hereafter fortnightly, long after the dust had settled from the divorce. Remnants of the past clung to the empty booths around him, flickering under the dim lights. Whispers of spirits long faded intermingled with the sounds of cocktail shakers, and the excited buzz of slightly intoxicated crowds. Under its roof, he allowed himself to grieve freely of the life that had been severed from him, whilst learning how to appreciate what was in the present.

In the early days, a part of him hoped he’d find Johanna sitting at the bar, as if by happenstance, furiously scribbling into the notebook she never left home without; hexagonal glasses resting on the tip of her nose, and only coming up for air to take a sip of whiskey before resuming her inscriptions. She never showed her face there again, or as far as he knew, purposely elected not to make her presence known on the Saturday evenings he visited.

A sudden round of applause scattered his memories, all bouts of melancholia vanishing from the forefront of his mind. He rubbed his eyes, focusing on the intimate stage in front of him and the couple that occupied it. A lanky saxophone player bowed deeply, stepping to the side to make room for the olive-skinned brunette who had been manning the piano. They were known as ‘Death’s Calling,’ a popular jazz duo in Nevarra. And it seemed their set had concluded. He’d been too lost in thought to appreciate even a note. A pity.

Rest on AO3! *disappears into the void*

[scuttlingcrab]

OK.

Does anyone know/recommend any good fics featuring Varric x Cassandra? I just finished playing DA Inquisition for the first time and I swear to the Maker HIMSELF I ship them so hard. I NEED THEM!!! PLEASE!!! 🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣 They're both so damn hot lol. 🥵🔥

Please please please, I need them bickering in front of everyone during meetings, kissing passionately in secret, Varric cupping a feel afterwards and Cassandra nearly punching him in the face. Then ofc pretending like nothing happened 5 minutes later. All the while, Varric writes an entirely new series of smutty books dedicated to Cassandra, but they're the only two people in Thedas who know the real deal behind the inspiration lol. They think they're being sneaky with their romance and romping around Skyhold, but Dorian clocks them a mile away. 🤣

I know I'm 10 years too late, but just can't stop thinking about them. I'm still knee deep in my Emmrich obsession, but I gotta start writing some fics on them soon lol.

Thank you in advance 🤣

[scuttlingcrab]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

I've just posted the second and final chapter to A Twist of Fate! WOOHOO!

Summary: Set in modern Thedas, Rook is an actress and Emmrich a renowned film composer. Although they live in the same posh apartment complex in downtown Nevarra City, they’ve never spoken. After a frightening earthquake, they both get trapped in a lift for 16+ hours—forming a strong bond that soon develops into something more than friendship.

Notes: This chapter is via Emmrich's POV and featuring a cameo by none other than Queen Johanna Hezenkoss herself. *bows down for all eternity*

Sharing an excerpt below, the rest is on AO3!

Link to my other Emmrich work in the A Necromancer's Melancholia.

***

“We don’t have to delve further into the topic, my dear. Though if it’s any consolation, I’m not oblivious to the images I’ve seen of you displayed throughout the Underground.” Emmrich didn’t disclose how he’d mourn when those posters were changed out in their rotation, scoffing at whatever tacky advert took their place. He paused, fingers trailing along the creases of his slacks, deciding whether or not to take a risk, adding, “Nor am I a stranger to your work.”

“I hate every damned photo of myself, all those posters make my forehead look gig—” Rook perked up, her cheeks darkening to the loveliest shade of pink, reminding Emmrich of a darling rose. “Wait, you’ve seen my stuff?”

“A few films, yes.”

“So, you’re a man of culture and violence after all, eh? Didn’t clock you for the shoot ‘em up type.”

Emmrich chuckled, letting go of all the breath he had been holding. Rook leaned forward, waiting for him to speak, as if he was about to reveal all the mysteries of the Fade. He resisted the urge to tilt his head forward, only just, to feel the ghost of her breath against his face.

“I must admit, Rook, I find those rather distasteful.”

“Then you’re more into what? Lemme guess… Echoes of the Departed? Or no, hold on… Whispered Breaths?”

“Fractured Recollections.”

Rook’s hand flew to her mouth in genuine shock, shaking her head exaggeratedly.

“Get the fuck out.”

“Your best work, if not underappreciated.”

Fractured Recollections, a film about sacrifice and unrequited love. The main characters, Katherine and Bernard, navigated their lives as dear friends, suffering through a civil war and famine, while never being brave enough to tell the other how they truly felt. It was clear they adored each other, the way they shared longing glances across crowded rooms, always keen to jump back in each other's arms after being separated due to their unforeseen circumstances.

It was a tragedy, through and through, making Emmrich weep upon each viewing, but it left him optimistic for the future—even if his years were waning thin in his senescence. Emmrich knew every line by heart, quoted it as a means for motivation if he was going through a tough spell in his own life. He owned three different copies of the film, and yet still sat through it all whenever it was on television. He had likely seen it nearly 50 times at that point, perhaps more. A triumph, a modern classic.

“You know that was a box office disaster, right? Varric practically begged me not to do it. Too sappy, and melodramatic. It was shit pay and look what that got me in the end.” Rook lowered her voice, in what Emmrich only assumed was a crude impersonation of Varric, “Critical acclaim won't get you everywhere, kid. Flops scare the execs, they’re only after one thing, and that’s revenue. Throw in a couple awards and you’d be considered a God.”

Rook vanished momentarily, distant, her mind elsewhere, occupied in whatever memory those words triggered. Varric. He was Rook’s agent. Emmrich had heard about his death. An accident, the result of a brawl between him and Solas Lavellan—a star in his own right, albeit racked with impropriety and misery.

Emmrich let the silence sit, not wanting to rush, giving Rook all the time she needed to proceed, if she chose to.

Rook rubbed her eyes and yawned, moving on as if nothing had happened. “I had to do so many stupid action films after that just to shut him up. Big blockbusters full of bullshit. Awful scripts, even worse directors. In between all that I tried to sneak in a few films I really wanted to do. Varric allowed that much. If he was alive, I’m sure I’d still be hearing about it.”

Rest on AO3! *disappears into the void*

[scuttlingcrab]

In my excitement to share the chapter yesterday, I forgot to tag the same cool cats from the first part lol. *face palm* If this may interest you guys, hehe - @emmg, @caughtnyact, @aldisobey, @kirain, @redheadsramblings! 💚💚💚

[scuttlingcrab]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

I've just posted the second and final chapter to A Twist of Fate! WOOHOO!

Summary: Set in modern Thedas, Rook is an actress and Emmrich a renowned film composer. Although they live in the same posh apartment complex in downtown Nevarra City, they’ve never spoken. After a frightening earthquake, they both get trapped in a lift for 16+ hours—forming a strong bond that soon develops into something more than friendship.

Notes: This chapter is via Emmrich's POV and featuring a cameo by none other than Queen Johanna Hezenkoss herself. *bows down for all eternity*

Sharing an excerpt below, the rest is on AO3!

Link to my other Emmrich work in the A Necromancer's Melancholia.

***

“We don’t have to delve further into the topic, my dear. Though if it’s any consolation, I’m not oblivious to the images I’ve seen of you displayed throughout the Underground.” Emmrich didn’t disclose how he’d mourn when those posters were changed out in their rotation, scoffing at whatever tacky advert took their place. He paused, fingers trailing along the creases of his slacks, deciding whether or not to take a risk, adding, “Nor am I a stranger to your work.”

“I hate every damned photo of myself, all those posters make my forehead look gig—” Rook perked up, her cheeks darkening to the loveliest shade of pink, reminding Emmrich of a darling rose. “Wait, you’ve seen my stuff?”

“A few films, yes.”

“So, you’re a man of culture and violence after all, eh? Didn’t clock you for the shoot ‘em up type.”

Emmrich chuckled, letting go of all the breath he had been holding. Rook leaned forward, waiting for him to speak, as if he was about to reveal all the mysteries of the Fade. He resisted the urge to tilt his head forward, only just, to feel the ghost of her breath against his face.

“I must admit, Rook, I find those rather distasteful.”

“Then you’re more into what? Lemme guess… Echoes of the Departed? Or no, hold on… Whispered Breaths?”

“Fractured Recollections.”

Rook’s hand flew to her mouth in genuine shock, shaking her head exaggeratedly.

“Get the fuck out.”

“Your best work, if not underappreciated.”

Fractured Recollections, a film about sacrifice and unrequited love. The main characters, Katherine and Bernard, navigated their lives as dear friends, suffering through a civil war and famine, while never being brave enough to tell the other how they truly felt. It was clear they adored each other, the way they shared longing glances across crowded rooms, always keen to jump back in each other's arms after being separated due to their unforeseen circumstances.

It was a tragedy, through and through, making Emmrich weep upon each viewing, but it left him optimistic for the future—even if his years were waning thin in his senescence. Emmrich knew every line by heart, quoted it as a means for motivation if he was going through a tough spell in his own life. He owned three different copies of the film, and yet still sat through it all whenever it was on television. He had likely seen it nearly 50 times at that point, perhaps more. A triumph, a modern classic.

“You know that was a box office disaster, right? Varric practically begged me not to do it. Too sappy, and melodramatic. It was shit pay and look what that got me in the end.” Rook lowered her voice, in what Emmrich only assumed was a crude impersonation of Varric, “Critical acclaim won't get you everywhere, kid. Flops scare the execs, they’re only after one thing, and that’s revenue. Throw in a couple awards and you’d be considered a God.”

Rook vanished momentarily, distant, her mind elsewhere, occupied in whatever memory those words triggered. Varric. He was Rook’s agent. Emmrich had heard about his death. An accident, the result of a brawl between him and Solas Lavellan—a star in his own right, albeit racked with impropriety and misery.

Emmrich let the silence sit, not wanting to rush, giving Rook all the time she needed to proceed, if she chose to.

Rook rubbed her eyes and yawned, moving on as if nothing had happened. “I had to do so many stupid action films after that just to shut him up. Big blockbusters full of bullshit. Awful scripts, even worse directors. In between all that I tried to sneak in a few films I really wanted to do. Varric allowed that much. If he was alive, I’m sure I’d still be hearing about it.”

Rest on AO3! *disappears into the void*

[emmg]

Tagged by a few peeps and finally doing it! Tagging back my usual suspects @heylittleriotact @aldisobey @thepalehorsevictoria @excited-hiss @silshinobii @davrinsleftpectoral @jainydoe @lavenderprose @thessaralka @scuttlingcrab @caughtnyact @starfleetteddybear and literally everyone else because im bad at remembering usernames

To those who have seen my selfie floating around it won’t be much of a surprise lol but basically you make your face in picrew

[scuttlingcrab]

@emmg I would like to gift you with my creation lmao. Thank you for tagging me, I spent like 20 mins fiddling around 😅 Unfortunately this is the face I typically make on a daily basis 💅🏼🤷🏻‍♀️🤣

[scuttlingcrab]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Summary: Set in modern Thedas, Rook is an actress and Emmrich a renowned film composer. Although they live in the same posh apartment complex in downtown Nevarra City, they’ve never spoken. After a frightening earthquake, they both get trapped in a lift for 16+ hours—forming a strong bond that soon develops into something more than friendship.

Notes: My first ever modern AU! 🙈 This fic is complete and will be split up into 2 chapters, as the word count is a little over 20k lmao. First chapter is via Rook’s POV, the second will be via Emmrich’s. Tagging those who had been interested in the inital WIP 😍 @emmg, @caughtnyact, @aldisobey, @kirain, @redheadsramblings!

Please enjoy the wee snippet below, the rest is on AO3!

Link to my other Emmrich work in the A Necromancer's Melancholia.

***

“Good evening, Davrin!” A rich, lyrical voice echoed throughout the lobby, warmth seeping through every syllable. Rook nonchalantly turned her head at the sound, curious to see who it belonged to, but pretending not to make it completely obvious she was planning to eavesdrop.

“Damn, Mr. Volkarin—you’re back early, no?”

This Mr. Volkarin was tall and stringy, Rook could decipher that much at least, even if the black raincoat he was donning swallowed him whole. His hood was still up, concealing most of the face aside from his mouth. Thin lips and a trimmed mustache were visible, and he was smiling. He stood on the door mat, holding four large, and rather soggy, grocery bags.

“Haste is of the most importance when faced with a blistering tempest at our heels. Did you see the force of those winds? My word! I feared it would whisk me away at any moment, and I’d end up as far as Minrathous by morning!” Both of Volkarin’s hands were occupied, yet he managed to gesticulate every word—like he was on stage, attempting to convey his emotions to Davrin at the very back of the theatre. “The weather reports are forecasting flooding, and I had no desire to be marooned in my offices for the foreseeable.”

“Fair enough. Lucky you’re on the top floor in case we do get washed away.”

“If that were to happen, Davrin…” Volkarin lowered his tone, becoming very serious. “You know you’re more than welcome to join me in my flat.”

“It was a joke, Mr. Volkarin.”

“Ah—” He let out a hearty chuckle, and somehow even that seemed refined. “But of course.”

Volkarin put the grocery bags down and took off his raincoat, shaking it vigorously before he hung it up on the shared coat rack. As Rook had predicted, he was all limbs, and yet his shoulders were surprisingly broad. Even after wearing a hood and fighting against stormwinds, not a single strand of his salt and pepper hair was out of place. Volkarin was also dressed all in black, complete with slacks, a turtleneck, and a small cross-body bag. The only articles in the ensemble with any hint of colour were his brown close fitting boots, and some hints of very expensive gold jewelry around his fingers and wrists.

Rook nodded to herself as she watched the man, immediately recognising him. So that was his name. She had seen Volkarin about in the years she’s lived there, yet never made an effort to speak to him, in spite of his attempts at making conversation. She didn’t interact with any of the other residents, and she liked to keep it that way.

Volkarin stepped forwards, making it appear like he was heading towards the lift, and Rook poked the call button harder. It was still descending, about to reach the 5th floor. She knew it wouldn’t make much of a difference, but she maintained her hold on the button, having no desire to share that rickety old thing with anyone. Least of all him.

“Ah, Assan! I’ve a surprise for you.” Volkarin bent a knee, moving elegantly no matter how much he reminded Rook of a scarecrow. He searched deep into one of his grocery bags and pulled out a small container of dog treats.

“Davrin, may I?”

“Be my guest.”

Volkarin practically squealed with elation as he peeled open the container and beckoned Assan to him. The dog was at his feet in a matter of seconds.

“Alright, Assan. Let’s show Davrin what you’re capable of…”

Volkarin stood tall as he removed a single treat from the bag, delicately holding it between his thumb and index finger. He raised it above Assan and the dog watched the movement, tongue hanging out of his mouth in anticipation.

“Sit.” Volkarin commanded and Assan practically slammed his bum on the tile. “Excellent!” He fed Assan the treat and retrieved another from the container. “Roll over.” The dog did as he was told, turning over not once, not twice, but three bloody times in a row before stopping and sitting up, his back nearly as straight as Volkarin’s, his tail slapping the tiles. “Outstanding work!”

Volkarin went through a whole cycle of tricks, his face beaming brighter while Assan performed. The dog moved as if he was in a trance, following every motion of Volkarin’s to a T. All the while Davin observed from behind his desk. He sat back in his chair, arms crossed, as if judging the little show, but Rook saw it—the ghost of a smirk threatening to crack on his lips.

“Now, for our final trick of the evening…” Volkarin’s voice deepened, the dog’s face matching his new demeanour. “Assan, play dead.”

Assan stood on his hind legs, backing away a few paces from Volkarin. The dog let out a pained bark and fell over on his side, feet twitching before becoming still, eyes shut, and mouth wide open.

There was utter silence in the wake of Assan’s finale, even Rook held her breath in suspense. Then Volkarin immediately burst into applause, reviving the dog from his ‘instant death.’ He retrieved a final treat for Assan, throwing the half-empty container to Davrin, who caught it with ease and slid it into his desk drawer.

“You’re a delightful boy, aren’t you Assan? Oh indeed you are. Thank you for indulging me once again.” Assan leaned into each of Volkarin’s congratulatory pets, nearly toppling over when he reached his back.

“Damn. Not bad, Mr. Volkarin.”

“Well, I do pride myself on my abilities as an instructor, but when there is a willing participant, anything is achievable. Isn’t that right, Assan?”

The dog barked in agreement, just as the elevator dinged. It opened with a hiss, startling Rook, who, much like Assan, had apparently been just as transfixed by Volkarin’s act to notice it getting closer. She jumped into the lift, quickly bashing the 8th floor button, even more eager to press the close door switch, but stopped herself. She wedged her foot in between the shaft instead, the thick door bouncing against her limb as she kept it open.

That man should be thanking the Maker himself. Rook shook her head at the thought, and most of all at her abrupt change of character. If it wasn’t for how he played with Assan, going out of his way to make that damn dog so happy, he would’ve had to wait another 10 minutes for the lift to return. Judging by Volkarin’s physique, he was more than capable of going up the stairs. Though a pang of guilt stabbed Rook’s gut at the image of him lugging those grocery bags up ten flights… It's Volkarin’s bloody fault that his flat is on the top floor. Not a concern of hers.

Volkarin glanced towards the lift and Rook met his gaze with a hard nod—as if to say, ‘If you can kindly hurry the fuck up before I regret my decision, that would be great!’

“Davrin, I do hope you enjoyed this evening’s entertainment. And a friendly reminder, Assan and I will be present all week, if you require an encore performance.”

Volkarin gave his most flourishing bow. Once he was through with the theatrics, and much to Rook’s relief, he picked up his grocery bags, trotting over to the lift at a decent pace for a man of his age. Davrin groaned as he waved him off, swirling his chair back around to face the monitors.

“And best of luck with the remainder of your shift! You know where to find me, if the flood gates don’t hold! ” Volkarin jested as he stepped through the shaft.

“Yeah, yeah…I’ll be fine.” Davrin’s voice faded as Rook allowed the doors to slam shut, a new blanket of silence enveloping them both.

Rest on AO3! *disappears into the void*