My goal with this comic is really to make everyone hug.
In writing this scene and thinking about how Taash would be handling all this, it really struck me that Taash is the youngest of the team (being around 20ish, with Bellara being 23 and then everyone else over 30) and goes through some of the most dramatic personal changes. They've lost basically everything, including who they thought they were before they joined the team. While that was definitely for the better, it's still a loss, and it takes time to move past it. They don't have the perspective and self-assuredness that can only come with age and experience.
So yeah this all just sucks particularly hard for them.
I finally got to update! I'm hoping to be a bit more regular after next week. Maybe. Hopefully.
See, logistically, I know putting this much effort into this fan comic is ridiculous, but also, when I stop to ask myself "is this enough" my hyperfixated ADHD brain says "NEVER" so here we are.
Honestly, doing this comic brings me joy, quite unlike my thesis, and I need to give my poor ADHD brain a treat, so this is me giving myself treats for writing boring grownup words all day.
If you didn't know (or need reminding, I guess), this is part of the comic I'm doing about what the team in Veilguard got up to while Rook was trapped in the Fade. These pages come after this one (ugh) I posted earlier.
You might notice it looks different. The big changes are 1) everyone looks grubby now, gotta add those effects the game couldn't, and 2) I got the Art of The Veilguard book and now finally have access to perfect reference images for everything. I highly recommend the book if you're a Dragon Age fan or concept art nerd in general, by the way. It WILL make you really sad about everything the team was not able to do because of EA execs being massive assholes, but it WILL definitely fire you up to create S-tier fanwork.
Shadow's of Ones Past
A collaboration with the lovely @scuttlingcrab for the @thefadediscordserver's lastest zine: What Comes After
Emmrich remained in the bath for an unspecified period, basking in the silence, detaching from reality, tangling himself in possible timelines where he hadn’t forsaken Lichdom. In contrast allowing Manfred to rest—as it should’ve been, what was the natural order of things—remorseless at how often he’s brooded over his biggest mistake. He had been so close to his aspirations, moments away from grasping it, cradling it in his palms, from savouring the sweet taste of athanasia. All the years of work wasted by a mere lapse in judgement. How could he have been so pliant, bringing in a stranger to help him make such a momentous decision?
Read Nia's wonderfully angsty story here on Ao3
this is potentially the first chapter of a fic detailing how my Rook, Marisol de Riva and Viago originally got together (romantically lmao)
i'm not sure i'll continue past this point, but just wanted to at least share this SOMEWHERE because i am proud of it lol. i'll post it more officially on AO3 if i do end up continuing it uwu
very quick context is that Marisol (at age 20) was sent on a contract with a Crow from the house of who is (at the time) the Fifth Talon. the other Crow comes back without her and claims he had to kill her when she became an abomination. in reality, she was sold out to the magister who kept her enslaved as a child. she's a somniari/dreamer, so this is essentially her finally managing to reach out to Viago to give him a warning.
***
It's not like he hasn't dreamt of her before.
At first, a vague recollection in his mind - a soft body pressing against him, taste of honey in his mouth and on his lips, hands carding through long silk - ghosts of a touch, non descript, sensations of feeling that could come from any body, any figment of a person.
He would pull warm flesh between his teeth, soft sucking at the blood vessels, at the pulse point of the neck, and then he would hear a gasp, a moan, a bell of laughter.
And suddenly, all at once, the shadow of a figure had a shape. Had a face.
Marisol.
And then Viago would wake up, eyes wide as the realization hit him that he was dreaming about his protégé.
30 years of age, and he's waking up in his own mess like a freshly minted fledgling.
She had kissed him once, drunk from wine and riding the high of celebration — officially a Crow, officially a de Riva — eighteen, impulsive, beautiful.
Trouble.
And, Maker, he couldn't help it.
He had kissed back.
What had started as a drunken, slight press of her lips to his had sparked something in him — he had shoved her back into the bed he'd been attempting to put her down on, about to tell her to sleep it off, but she had been quicker.
She had caught him off guard.
And as he had groped her through her clothes, embarrassingly fumbling with the buttons on her blouse, mouth sucking and biting at her warm neck — she'd passed out, leaving him hard and wanting and —
He had stopped then, had sighed and smacked her cheek to wake her back up so he could force a glass of water into her.
Neither of them mentioned it again, but there was a shift.
And he began to dream of her.
The ways he could have her, the ways she would let him have her — the way she already belonged to him, how he could make that possession physical, could imprint himself into her body and soul and every part of her.
So, yes, he had dreamt of her before.
But now she was dead, and after the first time he dreamed of her bloody and disfigured — demon burst through her, defiling and destroying her, imagining what she must have looked like in that final moment, that moment when he wasn't able to be the one to end her life — he had begun to take a tincture before bed to drive away dreams of any sort.
Dangerous to sleep so soundly.
Unlike him to be so affected, to allow such a risk to his own safety.
But the nightmares hounded him, and being tired, exhausted was just as much a danger as a dagger surprising him in the night.
He had definitely taken the tincture tonight, he knows he did.
And yet…
He finds himself in his room, but not his room.
There's a fog, an unreality about the space around him that can only be the Fade, could only be a dream.
And Marisol, of course.
She's there, alive.
Beautiful.
She's laid out on his bed, like the beginning of so many of his dreams before.
But there's something —
She beckons to him and he's there, head on the pillow next to her, and he's pressed his forehead to the side of her face, into her hair —
Honey and rust.
His bones feel too large, his skin too tight, he's burying his nose in the golden locks that frame her face, he's breathing her in with a terrifying desperation.
Has it been so long since he's dreamed of her that this feels real?
Her hair on his face is a physical thing, he can taste the heat coming from her body, can hear her breathing, can see the blood on —
He blinks, and she's turned towards him, clean and whole.
She's cupping his face and her lips are moving, saying —
He's staring at her mouth, he knows she's speaking, but there's an ache, a hole in him and he burying his face into her neck, inhaling her.
Honey…
And rust?
She's grabbed his face to force him to look at her again. For a moment, he sees her face bruised, sees blood caked to her forehead and in her hair. It flashes and then it's gone again, and she's beautiful and looking at him.
"Viago," he finally hears. Terse, almost scolding.
Her scolding him? He wants to laugh, but there's an intensity that finally makes him pause.
"Viago, you're in danger," she says, and she's stroking her thumb through his beard, rubbing a soft circle under his cheekbone.
He can't help but huff a laugh, moving to try to press close to her again, to feel her lips against his. "I'm always in danger, sole mio."
She presses her fingers to his lips before he can reach his goal. He can taste blood on her fingers and he grabs them to examine, to see where it's coming from — her fingernails are gone, they're —
Her hands are clean. She presses her index finger under his chin to make him look at her again.
"You've been betrayed, Viago," she says softly. "The Fifth Talon thinks Caterina wants to replace him — he knows that she has been eyeing you, that you have her favor."
His mind is racing, the unreality of the dream space clashing with what she's saying to him — words he wouldn't dream of her speaking, carrying the weight of a real voice in his head, not the Fade ring of a figment approximating the sound of her.
"Sole, what do you —"
"His Crow sold me out," she says, and it's the bitterness and bile in her voice that makes Viago finally — finally — realize what this is.
She's here.
In the Fade.
She's found his dream and walked into it, risked demons and possession and —
"Alive," he whispers, and he's acutely aware of the fact that he had just been rutting against her like a desperate animal, that every vague pretense of distance or space he's forced between them has just been shattered. That now she knows. The secret he's kept for years.
Does it really matter?
Marisol smiles at him, and he sees the glimpse of what she must really look like right now — the blood, the wounds, the —
"For now," she whispers. She's running her hand through his hair, and he can't help it — he sighs and leans into it, relishing the feeling of her against him. Maybe he'll regret it, but the for now rings in his head and he forces himself to break through the dream that keeps trying to pull him in.
"Where are you?" He's cupping her face with his hands now, pressing their foreheads together. She's alive.
Alive.
Alive.
He feels her shake her head, a soft sound coming from between her lips, and she pulls away enough for him to look into her crimson eyes and see…acceptance?
"There's no time for that, Vi," she sighs. "Doing this, reaching you, I've been trying. I don't have much left in me."
And, at that admission, that horrible fact — Marisol leans forward and presses her lips to his. A sweet taste, a bitter copper.
Viago surges forward, pulling her fully against him, prying her mouth open with his tongue. This is both a dream and not a dream. She's alive. She's not alive. She's here. She's dying.
She moans into his mouth and he grips her hair tightly, relishing that the Fade has loose rules and whatever approximation of clothing he had imagined separating them is gone with just a thought and he can feel the warmth of her through his entire being.
"Sole," he's pleading against her lips, "tell me how to find you. I will find you."
Marisol just laughs, and it's a sad sound.
She bites his lower lip and he bucks against her, groaning deep from his core.
This is the Fade, but it's also…
Why had he not let himself go? He had held back, and for what?
"You need to live," she's saying now, eyes staring into his, and something…
She's fading.
"Interrogate Icaro, find out what Morandi is planning." She's frantically running her hands along his face, as if trying to commit it to memory. She kisses him again. "Please. Stay alive."
hey i’m obsessed with lucanis (and spite) as well! I’m wondering if you would be interested in a mourn watcher elf rook x lucanis and have it be the week (or weeks i can’t remember) of rook being trapped in solas’ regret prison. i feel like spite would be pissed and confused as to why rook is missing! thank you and best wishes :)))
Lights Out
Pairing: GN!Rook x Lucanis (x Spite)
Summary: Rook is gone. Lucanis is grieving. Spite is restless.
A/N: I’m sorry this isn’t longer! I felt like dragging it out too much takes away from the visceral gut punch it is.
DATV Masterlist
Death was all Lucanis had ever known.
It clung to him like a shadow, a constant presence in his life as a Crow. It was his trade, his art, and his curse. The blood he spilled lined his pockets but left scars on his soul, marks he carried with him even when he tried to move beyond the life he once embraced. But death had always been something controlled. Until now.
Rook was gone. You were gone.
He stood in the doorway to your room, once petrified by the thought of how it reflected the Ossuary, now only drawn to what was left of your presence. His hands flexed at his sides, his chest feeling hollow.
The night was heavy with silence, the Lighthouse mourning the loss of its leader. Spite stirred uneasily in the recesses of his mind, his voice a low growl that rippled with confusion. “Where. Is. Rook?” The demon hissed, each word sharp as one of his daggers.
Lucanis didn’t respond immediately. He had no answer, and the truth stung worse than any wound.
Spite pressed on, his voice gaining a harsh edge. “Where. Is. Rook?!”
Lucanis could feel Spite’s frustration growing as he was ignored. Your absence was a gaping void, a wound that bled frustration and fear and loss. There was nothing he could do. The Fade was something so far out of his understanding, even with the demon possessing him. Still, he’d spent days searching, combing every lead, every thread of information he could grasp, only to find himself standing here, fists clenched in futile rage.
“Lucanis!” Spite snarled.
All he heard was you screaming his name as you were pulled into the Fade. He relived that moment every time he closed his eyes. What could he have done different? You had survived against impossible odds, and he had gotten his second shot at Ghilan’nain, somehow killing her. That high was quickly dashed as he watched your wide eyes, saw you reaching for him, screaming for him as you were dragged out of his reach.
“Where?” He demanded, pushing against the boundaries of Lucanis’s mind as though searching for you.
“I don’t know,” Lucanis’s voice was ragged as he huffed, taking a step further into your room and closing the door behind him. He ran a hand through his already-mussed hair. “They’re gone,” he repeated.
The faint scent of Nevarran spices drifted around the room, and the lingering smell of your oils. The things you had on a day to day basis haunted him. The Nevarran urns around the room and hastily scribbled notes on Elven architecture and the runes you’d found during the group’s travels.
Lucanis didn’t have the heart to go any further in the room, his back pressed firmly against the door. His chest was tight, and he was finding it almost impossible to breathe, but all he wanted was to drink in your scent as long as it lingered. It was all he had left of you.
He had fought his way through countless battles, defied impossible odds, endured the Ossuary, and survived Ghilan’nain’s wrath, but none of it mattered now. The one light in his life had been extinguished. Every breath hit him like a blow to the chest, the tangible reminder of your presence that made his breath hitch. Every object in this room screamed your name, echoing in the silence that now filled the space.
Lucanis pressed harder back against the door, his legs threatening to give way beneath him. He forced himself forward, gripping the edge of the chaise lounge as he sat down heavily. His head fell into his hands as the weight of his grief threatened to crush him. He had dared to hope. After years of blood and shadows, he had begun to believe he could have something more---someone more. And now, that hope lay in ruins.
Spite stirred uneasily in the recesses of his mind, his presence a simmering heat that was neither comforting nor intrusive. The demon was quiet at first, an uncharacteristic stillness that only deepened the ache in Lucanis’s chest.
The room seemed to shrink around him, the walls pressing closer as the grief threatened to suffocate him. He reached out, almost without thinking, and picked up one of the notes you had left on the desk. The parchment was worn, the ink smudged in places, but your handwriting was unmistakable. His thumb traced the curves of your letters, his hands trembling as he clutched the note like a lifeline.
“You were my freedom,” he whispered hoarsely, his voice barely audible. Tears blurred his vision, spilling over to streak down his face. “The only thing that made all of this worth it.”
Spite’s presence shifted, his usual arrogance subdued by something almost… mournful. “Rook…” the demon murmured, his voice a low growl that trembled at the edges.
Lucanis’s grip on the note tightened, his teeth clenched as guilt and rage swirled within him. “I failed them,” he hissed,his voice trembling with self-loathing. “I should have done more. I should have saved them.”
Spite didn’t argue. Lucanis wasn’t sure he was listening at all. The demon was restless, his silence heavy, a shared grief that settled over them both. “Rook.” Spite said again, pushing against Lucanis’s skull. He wouldn’t settle. He couldn’t. Spite wouldn’t stop moving, stop searching, looking through Lucanis, looking through the room, searching for his Rook.
“Spite…” Lucanis said wearily. “Spite, they’re gone,” he repeated, his voice cracking.
“Rook!” Spite pounded against Lucanis’s mind, screaming as though it would do anything to bring you back.
“Spite, enough!” Lucanis yelled finally, hands tangling in his hair. “Rook is gone! Gone! The one good thing---” His voice broke, and he couldn’t finish. The anguish in his chest was too much, a wound that refused to heal.
Lucanis pressed the note against his chest, his shoulders shaking as he fought to contain the sobs threatening to escape. For a long moment, he simply sat there, the silence of the room broken only by his ragged breaths. The scent of you lingered, faint but persistent, wrapping around him like a ghostly embrace.
Spite shifted again, his presence like a smoldering ember in the back of Lucanis’s mind. “Lucanis…” the demon growled quietly.
Lucanis’s hands stilled, his breath catching. “I know…” he whispered. “I know.”
Hello! Today I’m very excited to finally share this final project in my editorial design specialization: a children’s storybook album, inspired by the dialogue in The Wake written by Mary Kirby, where Illario talks about the time he went with Lucanis to hunt wyverns as children.
I must mention that I took the liberty of introducing my own headcanon about their ages, with Illario being the oldest, because Lucanis strikes me as having a very clear "younger brother" behavior.
For this project, I’ve poured blood, sweat, and tears into it. I ended up doing absolutely everything myself when my classmate, who was supposed to help me with the layout for her part of the team project, just decided not to, but I feel content enough with the result to share it. Originally in Spanish, I translated and edited it into English so more people can enjoy it!
There’s a lot I’d like to say, I’ll be posting some sketches, the development process, the designs, and my usual notes [here], and I can answer any questions you might have about the project in the editorial area (or anything else about the project really), but for this post in particular, I just want to give you full, free access to this illustrated book and thank you because this has been on my mind and occupying my time for the last six months.
First, thank you to everyone in this amazing fandom who has supported my creative projects, whether by leaving kudos on AO3, liking my posts here on Tumblr, leaving comments, sending messages, or any form of support! You motivate me to create every day, make me feel welcome, and it’s so nice to be here.
Thanks to @woundedsoul12 for being the first person to welcome me to the fandom, read my works, and be vocal with me about it! In the beginning, I was so afraid of writing again, of making mistakes in some way, and I was very shy about showing what I was doing, but thanks to you, I’ve been able to gain confidence. Without your support, I don’t think I would have decided to keep creating for this fandom. You’ve allowed people to get to know me and have been incredibly kind about me and my work. I owe you so many thanks, I hope you never change, you’re an amazing person!
Thanks to @theheartmold for getting me interested in Illario as a character. Without your posts sharing your interest in the character, your analysis, and your overall enthusiasm, I honestly wouldn’t have been interested in reading Tevinter Nights or The Wake. After two playthroughs in the game, you made me decide to sit down and see that Illario had MUCH more to offer than his tragic portrayal in Veilguard. Maybe I don’t interact much with you, but I definitely wanted to let you know that without your posts, this illustrated story and in general, my content about Illario Dellamorte wouldn’t exist. You introduced me to my new favorite character, thank you so much!
And again, thanks to EVERYONE who has ever interacted with my work and with me as a person! Who has liked my art, fanfics, whatever! I hope you can now enjoy having this book that I give you with so much, so much happiness and love!
The wonderful @y00ms - who has been so busy in recent months - kindly took the time to make me this saucy number, inspired by a direct scene in my fun little fic A Little Death
It’s fun, it’s sexy, it’s very Darcy and I adore it! Thank you so, so much Yomi for taking my hilariously bad sketch and making it into this wonderful work of art!
It’s hard to imagine I’ve only been writing in the Dragon Age Veilguard fandom for little over a year. In that time I have written so much and despite my fear and pain and anger and tears, I am incredibly proud of each and every piece I have created in that time.
This lovely comm feels like a wonderful send off and kiss goodbye to a set of characters that I loved so much. Thank you to everyone who read/liked/commented on any of my wild projects over these last 16 months! 🥰
You will never know how much your words and kindness kept me going, even in the darkest days. 💛
