#atlasveiled

[dwnstone]

starter for @atlasveiled

It all started with a missive, something sent to Harding in the wake of Solas’ ritual. Succinct, formal, sealed with the official Inquisition symbol, inked in green by none other than the Inquisitor’s hand:

We need to talk. Morrigan visited and she said you have access to the crossroads, so you should have no trouble coming to Skyhold. Bring Rook, I want to speak with him alone.

Inquisitor Lavellan.

The Inquisitor is no stranger to the Hunt for the Dread Wolf – a lingering presence, always out of reach but often in contact, or spoken of, or pointedly not spoken of. A decade ago, the man was an unlikely hero, but now? The elf who once stood for Thedas serves as little more than a weapon for Orlais, leader of the Chantry’s private military, conspicuously absent from battle ever since the Exalted Council had repurposed his organisation.

Skyhold sits cold now: semi-abandoned into much more of an outpost than a hub. There are still some who work within its walls, a castle not completely abandoned, but it stands alone and near-lifeless amongst the Frostbacks, far removed from civilisation. Just like the Inquisitor himself, it lacks a heart.

Or perhaps the two things are connected, somehow.

Behind the war table, he stands. Not an elf, or even a person, but something that could easily be mistaken for a lifeless Orlesian puppet at first glance. Decadent clothing obscures a thin frame; one hand gloved, the other made of glistening metal; every inch of his face hidden behind a stiff mask, ears and hair tucked behind some sort of hat. As Rook enters, he raises his head in acknowledgement.

“Rook, I take it?” he asks, voice cold. With the gloved hand, he gestures for the other man to move a bit closer, “I need you to tell me everything that happened in Minrathous,”

No greeting, no formalities. His eyes – greenish grey and the only visible part of himself – are narrowed and suspicious.

[danslabime]

i reach for you on faith alone.

@atlasveiled / this place will become your tomb ( accepting )

The quiet in the abyss is all consuming. He’s spent so many decades down here, silent and unmoving, that this oppressive place feels like normalcy. And it’s quiet, but not silent: the groan of the massive chroma-shimmering blades, the near-silent whisper of air sliding along their surface. Occasionally, one will deteriorate enough to break, crashing to the earth and resettling there. The floating rocks will sometimes crumble or scrape against one another; sometimes, a sound from the roaming Nevrons above in the drafts will drift down, down, down into this pit.

He never blinks or moves, unless something comes close enough to fight. The One Who Brings the Gommage had shattered his thoughts, his mind, his intent: replaced and twisted his purpose until he knew nothing else aside from removing others from this place. 

Does someone so broken think? Do they dream? Sometimes, he does: shattered dreams sapped of color, memories of a world that doesn’t remember him. His journal lies forgotten at his feet, the dim pulse of the chroma casting the palest blue light over the rocky, broken surface. 

Sound. 

His fist tightens 'round the blade. A warning. 

He —— does he recognize this one? Yes —— yes, maybe. He —— how? 

Movement: so slow it’s like stone moving. The pits of those eyes, the shattered scars leaking chroma as golden as the sun. The flutter of the edges of the sash 'round his arm, the Zero cut sharp and clean, the ends snapping in —— what breeze? But he looks to him, he looks, he—— 

The remade one waits. 

[fatedmuses-archive]

@atlasveiled asked: [ almost ] sender and receiver are centimeters apart, about to kiss, but something interrupts them // at Verso

It had become a habit, for the two of them to sit together at the piano and unwind after a long day. Verso found himself enjoying Rook's company more and more. It didn't necessarily make what was happening easier but... it did make it easier to bear.

It was one such night, after a long day in Minrathous. Verso had just finished a song, turning to ask what he should play next, and found Rook's face surprisingly close to his. Maybe that shouldn't have been a surprise, considering, but he still hadn't quite expected it.

His breath caught in his throat. He could-no, he shouldn't.

But what if he did?

A hiss came from the doorway, and Verso very nearly fell off his piano bench. Manfred hiss against happily, and Verso sighed, turning away from Rook to raise an eyebrow at the skeleton. "Can we help you, Manfred?"

[shepcdr]

new msg received @ private terminal — @atlasveiled. subject: re: clown in a cornfield.

" what's legal and what's right are two separate things. "

" SOUNDS LIKE CITADEL CUSTOMS IS GIVING SOMEONE A HARD TIME, " SAYS SHEPARD, his tone almost flippant. He's more focused, momentarily, on tapping through the datapad scavenged from one of the desks outside the holding room. I don't think this is such a good idea, Commander, Alenko had said to him in the main office, the second the room emptied and as Shepard climbed his way behind the counter. Hence why Shepard's in here alone with the 'strange quarian,' as Udina had put it, from Eden Prime; his omni-tool is set to priority alerts from the staff lieutenant, who's currently still lingering in the office. Alenko didn't seem entirely comfortable with the idea of brute-forcing the customs process, but keeping an eye and ear out was his only choice. Short of turning his commander in.

It's somewhat strange, how dismissive the Council were towards the prospect of hearing accounts from the colony's survivors — then again, Saren's complete disregard of the information provided by Powell's testimony had been shockingly persuasive. Shepard wonders, not for the first time, if the SPECTRE's actually the one who has the Councillors all under his thumb; the fuckers certainly act like it. It's no wonder that they wouldn't bother to bring in another witness to the geths' massacre if an eyewitness account of Nihlus Kryik's murder in cold blood is apparently insufficient evidence.

Regardless, their quarian friend hadn't even been cleared for entry into the Citadel yet at the time of the hearing. Expedited customs, his ass. Shepard wouldn't be surprised if they kept the man for hours longer, if not days; the department seems currently drowned under the weight of some of its other ridiculous, self-imposed demands. But that won't be a problem after he takes matters into his own hands.

Shepard slips a chip out of a pouch on his belt, inserts it into the datapad, and scrolls through the forms as he waits for his VI to upload. He punches in the holding room's code into the search — no luck. Punching in quarian nets a ridiculous number of results in customs applications, half of them marked as denied and nearly all of them flagged. Yeah, no idea why he thought that would come up with anything remotely useful. Shepard grumbles, irritation building. No matter the advancement of man- and alien-kind, some things never change. Bureaucracy's a bitch, and nothing is well-organised in places like this where organisation is probably most needed.

" Uh huh. Keep that line ready for when they come after us. " Despite the flat delivery, it's a joke. Maybe. With any hope, he'll have gotten back to the Council with ample evidence for Saren's misdeeds before C-Sec catches on to his little jailbreaking scheme — if he makes SPECTRE, then none of this matters. ( At least, he thinks that's how it works. ) In any case, he gets the idea that that's what Udina and Anderson might be pushing for, come the end of this investigation.

" What's your full name? Or whatever you told them to put into the system. "

[etoilesfantome]

The first thing Rook does when he saw Verso the day after his birthday (the day of he'd spent with his family understandably) was embrace him in a tight hug before smothering his face with many kisses.

"Happy birthday for yesterday, cham!" He finally got out once he'd finished his very affectionate greeting, grinning at his lover. "I come bearing gifts!"

He retrieved two gifts. The first was a small fabric bag that had a hand woven, beaded bracelet within, similar to ones Verso would have seen some of Rook's Romani fellows wearing; though most actually wore it braided into their hair. Excitement turned a little into nervous energy, an almost shy expression falling over his face.

"I know it's not your style really so you don't have to wear it but, um, amongst my people it's a token of affection. I thought a bracelet may work better since it can be hidden beneath your sleeves."

The second gift is wrapped in fabric, a set of fine, purple silk ropes. Now Rook's grin is back.

"And those are for tonight. I have a surprise I think you'll enjoy a lot."

@atlasveiled / verso deserved more birthdays 2k26

The truth is: Verso is not unused to extravagant birthdays. He's of a wealthy family, he has influential friends and connections —— his birthdays have often been spirited, full, and celebrated in their entirety. He's certainly never been left wanting, and this year was no exception. Family, friends —— it was a good day, and yet for one of the first times in years something felt keenly missing.

He couldn't even understand what, precisely, until he has his lover in his arms and a great weight he didn't even know he was bearing seems lifted from his shoulders, feather-light and without a second thought.

" You didn't have to, " and he's pleased anyway, burning with the acknowledgement, cheeks a little red as he accepts the gifts. He's an artist, even if he denies his painter side; he appreciates artistic gestures more than most, and the handwoven bracelet within the box takes his breath away.

" Oh, please, " he says, slipping it on and letting it fall over lean wrists, the drape of the beads delicate over the wiry strength in a musician's arm —— " I'll wear it all day, it's beautiful. " And he's not inclined to hide it, either; he's bold in his little rebellions, fierce in his own way. He's casually flamboyant and just eccentric enough that no one really questions him, anyway; the benefits of the wealthy are many.

But that's not what he's thinking: the next gift causes that little pink in his cheeks to turn absolutely scarlet, but not in a bad way; ice blue slinks over to Rook in a knowing, cagey way, but it's not without a little mirrored grin of his own. " You know me so well, " he says, his voice low and practically a purr. " Do I get to know beforehand, or will I be going in blind? "

[fatedmuses]

"how do i look in your shirt?" He does a little twirl. // for Davrin

"Damn good, Rook," Davrin says, eyes sweeping over Rook's form appreciatively. Of course, he'd prefer Rook not steal his shirts, but if he's going to, at least he looks good in them.

"Although I think you'd look better with it on the floor." He reaches for Rooks hips, holding them gently but solidly in his hands, eyes blazing as he meets Rooks own. "Don't you agree?"

[repeintre]

@atlasveiled asked: " you don't have to do this... "

The cane is a rhythmic sound as he approaches, and with it comes the soft thump of Chroma reacting, almost eager to be shaped, and Renoir's own steps. Until, of course, he halts, and regards quietly this expeditioner, because who else would brave the wilds beyond Lumiere?

He is not, however, a face Renoir recognizes. He offered the most recent expedition the decency of looking at them before killing them, and preventing their Chroma from being lost to nevrons, and he's mostly certain this is not one of them. Not one from the previous one, either.

And Renoir, necessary evil that he is, is many things. Ruthless, and determined as well, but he is not fully heartless. And he's not fully without questions, for all he's a nightmare to most expeditioners.

He knows the risk of leaving one alive. He knows what those from Lumiere will do, how they will react. But this is a question, and he knows he'll need answers first.

"Where do you come from," he asks, in the end, "young man?"

Polite, and steady, and cold as steel.

[uvher]

@atlasveiled liked for a starter

Vax walked along the canal, surveying the wreckage left behind after the attack. In the wake of the battle, her heart had finally managed to stop pounding; now all she felt was a bizarre clarity, as though the adrenaline drop had cleared her head and the noise of battle was gone, leaving only awareness of what was left to do. I need to check on the alienage, she thought. No telling what kind of damage was done there.

As she walked she noticed a small group of people coming from the direction that dragon had left. She recognized the leader—that crazy kid who'd flown into battle like a dervish with a death wish. The person who'd saved Treviso. Viago had called him Rook, before, when he was just some contact working with them against the Antaam.

"Hey," she called out, hoping to catch his attention. "Hey," she called out, hoping to catch his attention. Viago wouldn't like her talking to someone 'important' like Rook, but Viago wasn't there at the moment. "Thanks for scaring off that dragon."