🥀 What figure from Rook’s personal past would be added to the regret prison?
I hope I don’t sound like a broken record bringing up Viago so much, but it definitely would be him.
His statue would have a ball and chain shackled to his ankle. His head with a large prominent crack cutting across his face. Things he would say(in the prison) ⬇️ did you ask for angst? Because here it is
“You really can’t do anything right, can you?”
“An embarrassment to house de Riva.”
“You cause the Antaam to hit us hard. We send you away so you couldn’t cause more trouble and what do you do?”
“Do you ever stop and think before you act?”
“I should have left you where I found you.”
🌿 Does your Rook have any tattoos? What was the moment when they got them like? If they’re a Crow, where is their de Riva brand located?
Yes!
On his chest and lower back. There was no real meaning behind them, he just thought they would be cool, but being a Crow is a point of pride for him. He felt like sitting through the pain of getting them was a good training exercise.
As for the brand. I wish I could find what it looks like, but my searches kept coming up with nothing. But I think whatever it was they could have a relatively small one that could fit in the palm and that's where it would be, in his left palm.
🍂 What was it like the first time Rook killed someone? How did they react afterwards?
He was nervous. His heart pounded in his chest so hard, at times he was afraid she could hear it drumming against his ribs. He was 21 and she looked the same age. But he was here because she wasn’t. She did every and anything this group of blood mages wanted so they would shape her face. Azlo was supposed to walk her home and leave, but he could tell she was thinking something else as they ate their dinner. The way her eyes lingered over him, peeking at the dip in his collar, while caressing his knee under the table.
Goosebumps pickled at his arms. Two, three more glasses of wine for the gorgeous young lady. He did walk her home. Just outside her door, she got what she wanted. Pinned against the wall with a kiss and seeking hands. Once inside, he got what he wanted. A swift knife to her chest her fluttering heart immediately stopped. He really felt nothing of the kill itself other than what it was supposed to be, clean and quiet. But he was tremendously thrilled by the completion of the contract, his first job on his own completely solo, and it felt so easy. If only he could have bottled that feeling.
"I just don’t believe violence is ever the answer—it is a question" from the night vale asks for Flynn!
“I just don’t believe violence is ever the answer—it is a question.” Eorthan sighs philosophically as he hunkers down next to his brother, staking out some supposed Venatori hideout on a rooftop across the way. It’s been a boring few hours so far, just watching hooded figures pace the long halls of this estate.
Flynn rolls his eyes almost audibly. “And what the fuck is it asking?” he mocks, sort of humoring his older brother. His eyes stay glued to any movement in the windows they’re supposed to be watching.
“Shut up,” Harding’s voice is quiet but firm next to Flynn. Her bow is aimed, an arrow at her fingertips ready to be nocked the second their target shows their face again.
“Ooh, you know you fucked up if Lace is telling you to—“
“Shut. Up.” Harding nocks her arrow and looses it in the same second and curses under her breath when it silently goes sailing into a now-empty space. “Dammit. Flynn, you distracted me!”
“…sorry. We gotta move now. They know someone’s here…” Flynn whispers, already standing and poised to leap across the rooftops. “Eorthan, I swear, if you make me fuck this job up, I’m telling Viago to take it out on you.”
“And what would that sort of violence solve?” Eorthan asks, though there’s a hint of amusement in his voice.
“You’re not a pacifist. Shut up and help us take out these fucking blood mages or go back to Tevinter to be with your dumb husband.” Without waiting for a reply, Flynn drops down onto a balcony and enters the estate they’d been watching, on alert for any Venatori.
He was born in Umbralis of 9:06 Dragon, so he’s 45-46 now. He’s the same age as Nicky Hawke, a fun fact of which Varric was quite fond of reminding him. Constantly. Rexus just rolled his eyes and reminded Varric right back that he and Hawke are still younger than he is, and Varric is the only one who looks his age.
6. What was the reason that brought Rook to Minrathous?
It’s home. He was born and raised there, in one of the wealthiest districts until his father kicked him out, lived on the streets and in an attic storeroom by the harbor in Dock Town for a decade, had his own favorite street vendors and dive bars and brothels and informants, knows all the secret ways into, out of, and around the city, neighborhoods rich and poor alike. He loves talking shit about Minrathous but hates having to live anywhere else. He’s had to leave twice, first in his late 20s after being framed by his brother for a mass assassination, and then after The Incident with the Shadow Dragons when he ended up hunting Solas with Varric. He’s had to keep a lower profile since he came back the first time so it isn’t that much of an “oh no not this asshole” situation when he walks into a room anymore - and believe me he is nostalgic for the days when it was - but it’s still home, and even though he still loves talking shit it’s a place he genuinely loves enough to do what he can to make it better.
42. Something Rook regrets:
A shorter list would be things he doesn’t regret. He was incredibly bitter and spiteful through his youth and said and did a lot of hurtful things to a lot of people in the name of trying to feel powerful. I think his biggest regret, though, is how he treated his brother. The kid was literally only born because their father couldn’t stomach the embarrassment of having a non-mage son, and their mother never made any effort to hide that she didn’t want to have him at all. Rexus tormented him as a child; he’d break his toys in front of him and pinch his toes when he was a baby to make him cry, and later he would do anything in his power to embarrass or discredit him, or give his brother’s name as his own while being a jerk or skipping out on a bill so he gets the blame later. He realized way too late that he should’ve been protecting his brother instead, been somewhere safe for him to escape their parents, the pressure to be perfect and the constant reminders of being unwanted. The kind of person his brother could have become if Rexus hadn’t been so bitter and spiteful about his own situation haunts him, as does the knowledge that it’s too late now to do anything about it.
49. What will always make them laugh?
Someone getting their comeuppance, like being a jerk about people getting in their way while walking and then they run straight into a pole or trip or something. Or, similarly, someone being overly confident they can do something and then failing miserably. People getting annoyed with him and giving him a certain kind of glare makes him giggle like a little girl.
despite the very fragile and well-maintained exterior, Lysander is a giant goof at heart and laughs very easily - it’s just unfortunate that he’s gotten used to trying to hide it. he’s quick to turn away and cover his mouth in a casual gesture, scratching at the side of his nose or thumbing away an itch above his lip, and then when his attention returns, he’ll be wearing that stone-smooth expression again.
Lysander slowly starts falling out of his old ways the longer he spends with the Inquisition, and when he does allow himself that little bit of joy, it’s a lovely sound. soft and crumpled as though the sound is cut short, but rich, like a luxurious silk clenched in a fist.
19. Them drunk
Lysander is a very careful man, by nature and from experience. although his anxieties surface, the only people he’s ever really let his guard down for are Rion and Dorian -- everyone else has only ever seen the quietly charming Tevinter alchemist, and nothing more.
he’s aware of that, and sometimes when a habit is so deeply ingrained, it gets a bit stuck when you do try to unravel it. alcohol helps with that, to an extent. Lysander hates going overboard, but he likes enough of a tipple to break down some of those more stubborn snags, and he becomes quite the conversationalist after a glass or two of a choice vintage. he smiles more, and his eyes have a noticeable spark to them. he’s also much more amenable to physical contact, and even his entire posture seems to melt away into something much looser, not wound up and coiled tight like a serpent waiting to pounce.
10. Their interactions with an enemy/rival
he can be particularly scathing, a leftover remnant of his time in Tevinter amidst the diabolical elite. it’s a cold cruelty that surfaces when he faces off against a rival, and it’s jarring to see from a man known for his gentleness. he’s not particularly forgiving, so it’s probably a good thing he hasn’t made many enemies in his time.
Since apparently I’m struggling to string words together in coherent sentences, I figured I’d share what I would have written for these prompts if I weren’t suffering from crippling writer’s block.
For this one, I had the idea to write a humorous Dragon Age short fic about my mage-hunter OC, Aeden Fletcher, tracking an abomination with their templar handler -- only it turns out the demon has possessed a cow instead of a person. Idk why but this concept is absolutely fucking hilarious to me, and I wish I’d been able to write it.
↖ - The diary entry from the day our [characters] met.
13 August, 9:41 Dragon.
I met the fabled Man Of The Hour today. Well, I met him twice. The first time, I got a fairly dirty look when I addressed him. He found me on the roof, and I asked what it was like to be the only one left. I’d seen him coming up on the ladder against the wall of the building. I mostly saw the ears and the mostly-shorn hair, which were the two things I was told about this Herald man, so I made an assumption.
Had to go down the ladder to actually meet the Herald. It’s a little odd still, calling him that, but it feels improper to refer to him by his given name, and every other descriptor, surname and all, could refer to his twin.
His twin, I can easily refer to by his name. Han Lavellan. He seems raw, somehow. I suppose watching the building your brother was in blow itself to hell would do that to a person. I suppose I would know. I wonder if he thought the same about me.
At least he got his brother back from that.
- an excerpt from the personal journal of Halla Trevelyan, future captain of the Inquisition’s “crack team.” Notes: a) Han Lavellan was later under Lady Trevelyan’s command as a member of said crack team, b) Lady Trevelyan’s brother Luke did survive the Conclave explosion, having been just outside the blast radius. She found this out two days later.
"I didn't lie about anything. I swear I didn't" for Darren?
“I didn’t lie about anything. I swear I didn’t!” Darren’s voice trembled as he spoke, and for a moment Hanin found it impossible to put aside just how young he was. How inexperienced.
“I understand you want to protect he others,” Hanin continued slowly, hands clasped behind his back as he paced the room, “but this is serious. Commander Rutherford wants answers, and so do I.”
“W-Why from me?” The boy was rubbing his hands nervously along the tops of his thighs, the chair squeaking slightly with the force of the motion. “I wasn’t at the fight. I didn’t see anything.”
“You and I both know the others talk. And we both know you would have heard that discussion.” Hanin paused and turned to face Darren head-on, bringing the full force of his disappointment to bear. “I need you to tell me the truth.”
Darren’s mouth opened and closed, the aborted beginnings to several sentences struggling and failing to find purchase on his lips. “I don’t… they just… it wasn’t… they didn’t mean…”
A tight sigh from Hanin cut the boy off. Being a Captain wasn’t what he had expected. The petty squabbles between squads was one thing, but his own lying to him? He had to draw the line. “I need to know what happened. I can’t help any of you if I don’t. You and I both know the others won’t say a word even if it means making their own lives easier.” Hanin leaned against the hearth with a heavy elbow, fingertips rubbing his eyes. “Be strong for them. Don’t leave me in the dark.”
When Hanin glanced at the boy from behind his hand he witnessed the sagging of his shoulders, the descent of his gaze to the floor. Part of Hanin hated himself for putting so much pressure on the weakest link, but sometimes it just had to be done. At the end of the day, Darren’s conscience would get the better of him. That much, Hanin knew.
“It was Captain Reynolt, sir.”
That caught Hanin’s attention. His brow snapped into a frown. “I was told it was a disagreement between your squads.” No one had even mentioned Reynolt.
Throat bobbing, Darren shook his head, eyes still downcast. “I… no. I mean, it was, but Reynolt started it.” He pulled in a short, shaky breath. “The others said no one would take our word over his. They said to just… keep quiet. Hope it all goes away. I-I said I would, but…”
In that moment, Hanin was glad the boy wasn’t able to look at him. He might mistake the cold fury on his face as being directed at the Dawn Squad. By his sides, his nails bit crescents into his palms. “What did Reynolt do. Tell me.”
Whatever self-consciousness had kept Darren from speaking earlier cracked and shattered like glass beneath the weight of Hanin’s demand. “W-We were coming out of the Herald’s Rest, and he was outside, and…”
Hanin could barely hear over the thrumming in his ears. The heady pounding in his veins. “And what?”
Darren’s lower lip trembled. “H-He was drunk, I think. Started saying horrible things. It’s stuff we usually ignore. We’re used to it. But then… he started following us and Lyrene told him to leave and…” He shifted in his chair, a faint flush crawling up his neck, as though the memory triggered something shameful and humiliating. This time, Hanin just waited until he had collected himself enough to continue. “He said some really… awful things to her. About her. About… being an elf. And um… what her place was.”
Hanin could practically feel Reynolt’s windpipe crushing against his palm. “And what was that, exactly?”
Darren winced, cheeks reddening. “Um…. under him. But not because he was a Captain and she wasn’t. It was, um… m-more like…”
It took all of Hanin’s will to unclench his jaw to spare Darren the need to explain. “I know what men like him mean. What happened after that?”
“Cyrus punched him. Right in the face.” That information, surprisingly, came with much more ease. In fact, Darren sounded almost approving. Good. “We knew we were in trouble. People have been kicked out for just talking about assaulting an officer.” He looked up suddenly, for the first time since beginning his recount, blue eyes wide and panicked. “We were scared, sir. We didn’t want to lose him. It wasn’t fair! Ralon said he would’ve done it if Cyrus hadn’t. The stuff Captain Reynolt was saying… it was so rotten and crude and… we know he shouldn’t be talking to recruits like that. But Cyrus has been in so much trouble and we were afraid he might be…”
Hanin raised a staying hand, forehead creased in worried contemplation. This was serious, and it explained Reynolt’s squad’s retaliation the following day. Clearly the coward was too embarrassed to deal with the issue head-on, so he sent his recruits to pick a fight. Goad a reaction. Create a new precedent for Hanin’s squad to face punishment.
And he knew exactly what would work.
“No one is going anywhere.” Hanin was surprised by his own resolve, despite knowing the decision was not ultimately his. All he knew was that he wouldn’t allow it to be made. Whatever it took. “I will deal with it. If another Captain is involved, it is my fight, not yours.”
Darren must have picked up on his certainty, because he relaxed almost immediately, a breath of relief practically pouring out of his chest. But the relief quickly morphed back into uncertainty. “Lyrene didn’t want this to get you in trouble, sir. She… said she was used to being treated that way. That it didn’t bother her. But it did. We all saw her face.” He sniffed slightly. “She’s just… always so fun and happy… I hated that someone tried to take that away.”
Hanin’s head was pounding. Creators, he could kill the man. Eventually, he nodded stiffly, levering himself off the wall. He crossed the space, resting a firm hand on Darren’s shoulder. “I don’t expect any of you to go up against a ranked officer. For the reasons you have already said. It is why you need to come to me if anything like this happens. Understood?” Darren sniffled and nodded. Hanin gazed down at him for a moment, then added, “Thank you, Darren. For telling me the truth. I know it was hard, but you have done the right thing by your squad.”
Darren gave another faint nod, seeming almost exhausted by the emotional ordeal. When he spoke his voice was barely audible. “Sir… what happens now?”
Hanin gave his shoulder a light, reassuring squeeze, then headed for the door, expression growing colder with each step. He would do right by them. All of them.
They’re always so loud, the voices in his head. They’re loud and they’re many, they’re so many! So many minds voicing so many thoughts and singing so many songs at the same time. A cacophony more than a melody.
Each of them wants to have the final word, but none of them ever has it. It’s endless, and never agreeing with anything he does.
Wrong word, wrong story, wrong time, wrong, wrong, wrong!
They have an opinion on everything, but seldom give advice on anything.
He’s exhausted and frustrated, but he will understand them.
He will see what they saw, he will know what they know.
