#wrathwrites

[wrathbites]

Got to thinking about why Venatori are vulnerable to ice magic, and an answer popped into my head that I had to spin a little scene for, lol.

Seven dead Venatori and not enough gold between them to impress Rook as she empties their pockets.

Or rather, empties the pockets of those left intact enough for any posessions to have survived the skirmish. Lucanis shadows her, head on a swivel and eyes gleaming with the demon's violet light, on the lookout for any still alive and inching for their weapons.

Davrin watches them from where he's slowly working his hands over Assan's left foreleg, back and forth back and forth to chafe at the leftover frost from Rook's magic. There's something to be said about Crows and working in pairs, much like their avian counterparts, but even a whiff of that theory's bound to send them running for opposite hills.

He opts, instead, for safer territory. A question that's been bugging him since he first witnessed Rook swapping out elements as easily as he does an axe for a chisel with the woodworking.

"What's with the ice storms for this lot, Rook? Wouldn't fire be more effective?"

"Against one, yes, but ice is easier crowd control. They can't use blood magic if I freeze the source and cut them off from it, first," she replies. Pauses. "If it's airborne, that is. If I went after the true source we'd all be dead, with how much they hack and slash at us."

Wait. "So you can, what, freeze blood when it's still in our veins?"

"Yep. It freezes just like everything else, there's just more magic involved to overcome body heat. That... complicates the process."

That's... more than a little terrifying, actually. Davrin gently tweaks Assan's floppy ear, mutters into his feathers, "and this is why you need to be careful around mages, boy." Assan clicks his beak and rattles his head in a shake that works the length of his body, using the momentum to reclaim his foreleg and flare his wings in a quick snap.

It's a familiar gesture, a resounding no Remi would've laughed herself sick over, and Davrin sighs as he gets to his feet, rubbing his knuckles atop Assan's head. Stubborn, feather-brained little idiot will be the death of him yet.

"Hey, Rook?"

"Yeah?"

"Think you could call down some fire to unstick my sword from that one's chest? Might need it yet for traipsing around Arlathan."

"Shit, sorry, hang on."

[wrathbites]

Mewyn de Riva's guide to befriending Spite

It starts with a cup of tea, and ends with… uh. She'll get back to you on that one.

Chapter 1/?

"You can't possibly think this is a good idea — he could hurt you."

"I do and he won't."

"Mewyn—"

"What's Spite to any of the ogres or Pride demons we've fought recently?  Have some faith — I'll be fine."

There's no mistaking Spite for human, not with the wings and the eyes and the raw power that can send his dagger cleaving through armour and flesh and bone with terrifying ease.  Not with the rasping hiss his borrowed voice sinks into, catching in odd places and snarling in others as he struggles around the limitations of the common tongue.  Not with the way he carves out his space, mapping the shadows and hiding places and exits (two standard, the doors, but at least four when taking flight into account), stalling at the pots and the collection of improvised weapons stashed in the drawer beneath them.  He throws a look back at her then and Mewyn simply smiles in return, feet tucked up under her, hands clasped loose and easy around her tea.

Set aside the demon and there's still a predator lurking around in that body, wary in an unfamiliar place, one spook away from being danger.

"If Spite doesn't get what he wants —"

"He can throw a bit of a temper tantrum, I know.  But he wants to talk to me, right?  Shouldn't be a problem."

"What if he wants — something else?"

"Well... it'd depend on the something else, wouldn't it?  If he wants to wander around Dock Town then some of us would have to tag along to keep him out of trouble.  If he just wants some freedom to fly then I'm sure Assan would be happy for the company.  If he wants to blow up the kitchen or something, I think I'd be more concerned with the Caretaker than Spite.  Point being, he wants to talk, so we'll talk and we can discuss anything else when it comes up."

"You make it sound so simple."

But keep in mind that he's a demon?  There's more at play.  There's more to him, fickle as a cat after attention but not yet at the stage of knocking things over for it.  Curiosity rather than plain old Spite, but not enough for him to change his spots.  So to speak.

"Out.  I am.  Out?"

"A little bird told me you wanted to speak with me, so here we are.  Hello, Spite."

~

Read the rest on AO3

[wrathbites]

Send help I've got another Rook on the mind now 🤣

"Rook! You're awake! And on your feet - should you be on your feet? You should be resting, right? Your knee -"

"I'm fine, Bellara."

She stops dead at the foot of the stairs and peers up at him with the same intensity she fixes upon her artifacts. Sets her hand on the banister and leans forward. "Really?"

Dammit. "I will be fine," he amends with a sigh and inches down another step, gritting his teeth against the complaints from his knee. He's whole again, freshly healed and awake, but he's tender in the places where magic's cheat against the natural remedy of time, and tendon and bone being spun back into place is a... fragile affair.

And not one that takes kindly to stairs. He's tempted to just haul himself up and over and call it a day, let his back take the brunt of such a fall this time.

The notion must show on his face, because Bellara's suddenly right there, immovable as mountains and stubborn as a mule. Try me, her frown says, and he... really doesn't have the energy for it.

"You should be resting," she says, all soft concern and gently fluttering hands uncertain where to land.

"I've been resting since we got back."

"Rook -"

"I just want to stretch my legs a bit, nothing more, I promise," he says, and doesn't protest the arm she eventually locks around his waist, the hand she fixes upon his wrist to pull his arm over her shoulders and keep it there.

He thanks her instead, when he's safely on the ground floor and not flat on his face. Again when she remains tucked against his side as he makes for the door, not a comment or giggle to be heard for his unsteady, hitching gait.

"How is your leg, exactly? I tried my best but I'm not as well-versed in healing as Emmrich. He said it could potentially scar?"

"It has -"

"Oh no, I'm sorry!"

"- hey no, no it's okay, I don't mind. You did a good job, Bellara. And... I prefer your healing, anyway. The magic, I mean. It's... warmer. Than Emmrich's. More comfortable."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"Huh."

Gods why is it so far to the kitchen?

[wrathbites]

Sister,

Something's changed. I'm not sure what, but it's nothing good.

Are you alive? Are you safe? I have to hope you are. I have to hope this finds you, and that you're well.

I fear... I fear my time's up. I can see it in their eyes, hear it in their laughter, the extra guards posted wherever my duties take me.

Don't come for me, not unless you know for certain you won't be harmed. Not unless you know you'll have the strength to walk away and not look back. I don't know what you'll find.

Live, Mewyn. Be free. It's all I ask.

- Mahanon

[wrathbites]

The Rookening

When one door closes another opens, and a Crow flies the nest.

"You're not one for mincing words, Viago.  If you've something to say, just say it."

It brings him pause for a step, one solitary step that has her flying down ten more, always rushing, never stalling for long.  There's something wrong here, he knows, but what?  What has her so quick to ire?  What has her looking for a squabble?

"You coming or not?" she calls from the door and he hurries after her.

Their target — or hers, rather — is dead, that much is obvious.  Only luck, and that cast by the lady of misfortune, would have someone survive such a fall, and the ice spikes decorating the man's chest like a porcupine certainly ensured he'd be staying down, but...

But her methods are risky, despite their flair, an expense of energy better preserved with the use of blade or poison.  Not to mention an escaped mark would then be a wary mark twice as difficult to track down again.

The few bystanders investigating his sudden introduction to the street scarper as soon as they clap eyes on the Crows headed their way.  A small mercy, no immediate cause for alarm or suspicion of any backstabbing — but he looks to the shadows all the same, the windows, the rooftops (not that Lucanis is likely to be stalking him this night).  A Crow's place in the world is never guaranteed, after all.

"Must you bother with these theatrics, Mewyn?" he asks at last, drawing a blank on how else to call her on such... such... carelessness.  She hesitates, fingers around the dead man's, divesting him of ring and cuff and gold alike at her client's request, fixes Viago with a flat stare as she moves to the coin purse next.

"The House bought me for my magic and your lot poached me for the same damn reason.  Take it up with your Talon if you don't like it, I'm sure she'll love to hear you questioning her judgement."

Your Talon.  Hers, now, too.  Months of meticulous planning ensured that, but Mewyn's settled into their lifestyle now, she lives and breathes the warning that trust is a difficult commodity to trade in their line of work.  Of course she isn't certain of Clara's intentions.

"Mewyn —"

"Oh fuck off, Viago.  You have your methods and I have mine.  Leave it at that and move on."

~

Read the rest on AO3

[wrathbites]

A familiar face

A little observation from a barista about one of her favourite Crows customers.

He's a quiet fixture of her cafe, the Crow.  Soft spoken and perfectly polite, always armed with a few more coins over her asking price, pressed cold and firm into her palm.

He cuts an imposing figure in a crowd, however, every step precise, every movement accounted for, his face a mask of calm and stare so intense it should have her trembling down to her toes.  But there, the easy sway of his body between others, a shadow's courtesy to fellow market goers, sacrificing his own path to dodge out of theirs.  And when she beats him to the biscuits — for her kitchen, not the cafe — he withdraws his hand with a smile that gentles the stern cut of his face.  "Please, after you," he says, even though she's buying the last three.

He's a missing fixture from her cafe, an errant piece to her puzzle, vanished into thin air.  Later, when his compatriots grace her tables in their armour and steel glares, he's confirmed dead.  She can offer little with profit margins so neat, but a free cup to his cousin won't make too large a dent.

"I'm sorry for your loss," she says, and withers under the dead eyes he fixes on her, his curdled smile.

"So am I."

~

There he is again.  Different now, hair and beard grown out, worn around the edges.  He's not quiet, either, his usual solitude gone in favour of the elf beside him.  A pretty little thing, with a riot of silver hair tumbling past her shoulders and painted lips prone to quick laughter, delicate hands clasped around the cup he'd taken to her.

Once upon a time he'd stare out across the water or chance his luck leaning the chair back on two legs to look up instead.  Or he'd be shifty with his looks, a man on the hunt or a man hunted, taking note of every face and sticking to the shadowed corners.  Now his eyes are for her, his smile too, a small thing easily hidden and overlooked.

The elf calls him Lucanis.  He calls her Rook — what an odd name — and comes back with another order and a ducked head.  For tea, this time, the word a stranger on his tongue, and she tucks a giggle into her hand.

She sends him back armed with a tray laden with teapot, sugar, milk, honey... and a plate of his favourite biscuits.

[wrathbites]

Don't mind me just playing in the DA:V sandbox. Under the cut because this deals with something that happens near the end of Lucanis' personal arc - if you haven't completed it, don't read any further.

There is death in Rook's stare. The endless cold of the dark before and after life. It's not murder, no. It's certainty.

Spite holds where he lingers on one knee, fury a scaling burn behind his eyes, curiosity a spoonful of honey on his tongue. What is she planning with the maggot she's hooked?

"You think Lucanis weak? Weak, after what you put him through? You're a fool!" She slams her staff down, crack, and a shockwave of ice tumbles the maggot to his ass. Bites down on his ankles like those traps from the forest. He yells. He h u r t s. Ohhhh.

"You think him weak for his support? His team? What do you have, hmm?" Closer she creeps, fingers Fade-touched where they weave at her side, eyes gleaming with the promise of banked power. Spite slinks closer, too, reclaiming the dagger Illario kicked from their hand in passing. Rook can handle herself, vicious little thing that she is, but she is theirs and it would not do to lose her now.

"What do you have, Illario? The bones droped at your master's feet? A nest abandoned by all the Crows you've betrayed? Nothing?"

A flick of the wrist bats aside the knife he aims at her throat, a twirl of her staff the next at her knee. Her hand outstretched - and Illario screams, pulling taut and contorting as she turns her palm just so.

"You think I'm his weakness to exploit, but you don't know a thing, do you? I'd live for him, die for him. I'll kill for him."

That stare fixes on him, them, as she slings her staff aside and draws the balde from the sheath at her thigh instead. Lucanis' blade, the gift, the plea and promise -

Stay alive out there, Rook.

I might, if you ask me nicely.

"All he has to do..." Rook croons as steel kisses that bared throat, a siren song Spite has no hope of resisting, wings flaring as blood wells in a thin line.

Lucanis.

"... is ask."

She calls. To us. Come.

[wrathbites]

Whistles on in here

Guess who completed a playthrough of Veilguard?

Guess who has a writing muse back swinging from hibernation?

Guess who has a oneshot done already?

That's right, it be me OUO