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Early morning sketch ☕️

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Day 7: Celebration ✨🥰

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anchor me remind me, remind me, remind me

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And it turns out they both had Idontwannabeabother-itus

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Footnote Preferences

So I'm writing a fic that requires footnotes and a glossary (yes I recognize this is insane), and I'm torn on where to put them exactly.

I see two main options:

Footnote the very first time a term appears, no matter what, even if the term is being used in a context where it's not necessarily essential to understanding the action of the scene. For example, think of a footnote that explains what a chevalier is because one is present at a dinner or offhandedly mentioned in conversation, even though they are peripheral to the action.

Footnote the term when it first appears in a context that it's directly relevant to the action. In this case, an earlier off-handed mention of the chevalier wouldn't be footnoted, but it would be defined in a scene where the chevalier invokes their rank to sway a decision and their function is directly impacting the stakes of the scene.

(Examples are made up because the theme of the fic is secret.) (reblogs appreciated)

[wishforhome]

This was shared in a resource channel on one of my discords recently and I wanted to add an extra entry to it.

Pocket watches – canon (in supplementary materials)

Tevinter Nights (Eight Little Talons, specifically) confirms the existence of some kind of pocket-based timepiece. It's not described in any detail, but based on it being drawn from a pocket, one might assume it is ... a pocket watch.

“They’re holding out hope she’s correct. Speaking of which,” Viago paused to retrieve a silver timepiece from his jacket pocket. “They should be back by now.”

We can probably assume that pocket watches would be incredibly expensive and only owned by the wealthy.

Telling Time in Thedas

bc i wanna talk about clocks n shit

Mechanical Clocks - canon

There is a modern mechanical clock in the Winter Palace, also extracted from the game’s files called the “Maid Clock.” Gaider has also confirmed that clocks indeed exist, though not universally owned. The technology is dwarven-made and thus difficult to come by. Also, there are clocks that are in Orlais, and one could reasonably assume that perhaps there might be a public clock in a city square or in the Winter Palace or a rich noble’s estate.

Sundials  - canon

You can find sundials around in Origins, for example in the Circle Tower, which is slightly ironic since one would have to be outdoors to get direct sunlight, and outside Orzammar’s gates. Also consider how sundials may not be the most useful in cloudy places in Thedas or in places that do not get much direct sun light dense forests. Or at night…

Moondials - likely canon but not useful

If there are sundials, it’s believable that moondials (or lunardials) exist as well. However, they’re only correct on the night of a full moon. However Thedas has two moons (though only seen together on certain nights) so light being cast from two different angles would most likely make the reading near impossible. So once the sun goes down, one could reasonably say that telling time becomes considerably more difficult.

Hourglass - canon

You can also see these in various spots in the games, though they are not nearly as useful to the average person as a clock or sundial. It’s rare even now to find an hourglass that measures more than one hour, and it would have to be manually turned to use as a time-telling device versus a time-tracking device.

Water clocks - canon

Varric mentions one. Water clocks, though they can be made with other viscous materials like sand, are like hourglasses but can be made to measure more than one hour at a time. They rely on water moving from one pot or bucket to another slowly but steadily, with each mark in the receiving bucket denoting an hour has passed. It functions just as an hourglass would, though could not give the time of day, just how long has passed since it was started. Also, these can freeze, so they’re not great to be used everywhere.

Candle clocks - likely canon

Candle clocks are candles that are made from certain slower-burning wax where notches or marks are made for every hour that the candle burns. It’s by no means exact, but it’s reasonable for a character who often uses the same type of candles to look at how far it has burned and estimate “it’s been about an hour and a half.” It’s a casual time-tracking system, for certain, but not a time-telling one. Not a clock but a timer, like a water clock and an hourglass.

Extra: thoughts about Public Time-Keeping via Bell Towers

It’s quite possible that many cities and towns have a bell tower, either in a city square (like many of the spires in Val Royeaux) or perhaps in the local Chantry. One could assume that the person in charge of ringing a city or chantry bell each hour, on the hour, would have a clock or sundial to go by. Historically there were many ways bells were used in the keeping of time–for example, some places only rang the bell from sunrise to sundown and thus made nighttime time-keeping difficult, or other places that changed how long an ‘hour’ might last depending on the season (and thus the number of daylight hours). Thedas could do any number of these things.

[wishforhome]

morning

A little bit of softness for day one of @dragonagekissweek, set in the sibling spouses AU where @mxssful's Rosa, @wishforhome's Vero, and my Marisol are all involved with Viago, Teia, and each other. Soft kisses and teasing set the morning following the first night that Rosa stays after sex 💜

Rook/Rook/Rook/Viago/Teia | G | 955 words | No CW

(divider credit)

Marisol comes to awareness slowly, like a spoon through honey. The muffled chirping of the earliest birds chases the barest stripe of sun through the cracked window, and a whisper of cool air brushes over her legs, left bare of the blankets Teia’s cocooned herself in. But even without them she is—

Warm. As she rarely is. Oh, she knows heat, the lick of fire beneath her skin and on it. Anger that snaps its teeth and throws its rider and burns, up and out. But this is something else—something softer around the edges, a well-tended hearth rather than an unfettered blaze. And there are fingers in her hair, carding lazily along her unbound curls.

She makes a pleased noise, low in her throat. And then, sleep still heavy in her throat, “Does this mean if I snap my fingers at you I can wake up like this every morning?”

The fingers still against her scalp, but Rosa only hums. It’s Viago, sitting against the headboard, who snorts.

“You’ve not put in enough time for that by half.”

That finally gets Marisol to open her eyes, just so she can roll them in his general direction. It’s half-bitten ire, though. The softness of the morning clings to Viago, too—his sleep-mussed curls, spectacles perched on his nose, one hand occupied with a little leather notebook. The other is looped around Vero where they’re slotted against his side, in the space between Viago and Rosa that fits the shape of them so well.

Her first sharp thought— what, one dog stays, so the other should too?

And she almost says it. She does not pull her punches, not for anyone, certainly not for Viago, certainly not around them. And there is a smugness in the corner of Viago’s mouth that she never can let lie, so her tongue is on her teeth, like the striking of a match.

Except—

She’s used to waking in a bed half empty, only the ghost of warmth where Rosa, or Vero, or Viago, or all three of them should be. And she’s okay with that, or maybe she was okay with that, because she didn’t realize how soft, and warm, and nice it would be to wake up with all of them here.

So the barb slides away, and there’s something to that that she’s not of a mind to consider at the moment, so instead,

“Is that poetry?”

“No,” Viago says, at the same time that Rosa says, “Yes.”

“You’re reading poetry, and spending the morning in bed?” A smile, a tease, curls around the question that isn’t particularly a question at all. “Has the world already gone to pieces, and we’re just waiting for it to end?”

Viago glares at her over the top of his glasses. “We were enjoying some peace and quiet. What are the odds on you going back to sleep?”

“Not particularly high.”

“Of course not,” he huffs, turning the page with his thumb. “So that’s the end of our peace.”

“You’d rather I be quiet?”

“When has the answer to that question ever been no?”

If he’d still been looking up, he would have seen the wicked gleam in her eye, the one that makes him feel as though he’s landed slightly to the left, caught off guard, unsettled and out of control. But he’s gone back to his poetry, so he doesn’t see Mari lift a hand to Rosa’s chin.

She brings their lips together slowly. Softly. It is—odd, in a way, between the two of them. With fire and storm scratching beneath their skin and clashing in the space between them, with sharp edges and sharper tongues, they are not soft. Not with each other, not like this.

But—

Rosa does not stay, either. And Viago does not read poetry, not where the rest of them can see it, anyway. And the five of them do not spend mornings like this, like they might be more than an arrangement with some hazily drawn lines. So perhaps it is okay to kiss Rosa without teeth, without scratching nails, as an indulgence, just this once.

Rosa blinks, almost surprised, and Marisol can’t help the smirk that tugs at her lips when they part, and Rosa’s pale pink eyes sharpen, interested.

“Do that again,” she murmurs, and Marisol quirks a brow, holds herself just a breath away from Rosa’s lips.

“You’re asking?”

“It’s—“ Rosa’s tongue darts across her lips, nearly closing the barest space between them, She catches the unbuttoned tails of whoever’s shirt Marisol has slept in and tugs. “Just do it again.”

And there’s really no reason to argue, so Mari slants her lips back against Rosa’s, and keeps them there long enough that Viago pointedly clears his throat.

“Really?”

“What?” Marisol asks, the picture of innocence, other than the smirk now colored with the last of the lipstick Rosa never took off last night. “I thought you wanted quiet?”

“What I want—“ Viago begins, but doesn’t get to finish, because when Rosa gets a taste for something, she has no patience for waiting. She murmurs something too low for anyone other than Mari to properly hear, something like jealous and ignore him, and annoyance prickles down his spine. He snaps the book of poetry shut—

Fingers snake around his wrist before he can drop it. There’s a small smile still lingering on Vero’s lips as they pull him down into a kiss of their own, gentle and placating and the tension—always the tension—that had threatened the softness of the morning ebbs away.

“Happy now?” Marisol can’t quite help herself, even now, lips barely pulled away from Rosa’s.

Viago rolls his eyes, and lets Vero kiss him again.

[wishforhome]

dragon age kiss week – morning

a little bit of vero/viago for you for @dragonagekissweek.

Vero has a routine, most mornings.

They wake early, before Viago stirs. They slip from his bed, doing their best not to disturb him. He always wakes – he is, light most Crows, a light sleeper. Still, when he realizes it is only them starting their day, he will bury his face once more in his pillow, to make the most of the hour of rest that remains to him. By the time he fully rouses, Vero will have prepared their coffee and set whichever documents are most urgent on his desk.

This – this is not one of those mornings. Vero wakes, groggy and disoriented, blinking into sunlight that filters in through the parted curtains. Their head pounds. Their skin prickles uncomfortably against the soft sheets, feeling somehow stretched and ill-fitting over muscles that ache.

“Vero?” Viago’s voice is soft. “How are you feeling?”

“Time ‘s it?” They try to push themselves up into a sitting position, but their body will not cooperate. Every attempt at movement brings pain. Memory comes in fits and starts – the toxin Viago had administered, the hour of exquisite agony as it had run its course, their subsequent intimacies in his bed.

It is one of those mornings, then.

“Don’t worry about that,” Viago says. He perches on the edge of the mattress, already dressed in his suit. They must have slept through him waking. “You are unwell.”

“I’m fine,” Vero insists, and an expression passes quickly over Viago’s face – amusement tinged with concern.

“You have been dosed with a potent neurotoxin that is still clearing your system,” he reminds them, his tone clipped. “If you are ‘fine,’ then my calculations need to be revised.”

Viago’s bristling pride makes Vero chuckle, but it quickly turns into a hacking cough as their diaphragm spasms. The attack leaves them winded and panting, and Viago smirks at the evidence of their frailty.

“I might be slightly under the weather,” Vero agrees when they can speak again.

“You might,” Viago deadpans, and he draws the glove from one of his hands before pressing his palm to their forehead. “You’re still running a mild fever.”

“Mmm.” His hand is soothing against their brow, a comforting contrast to the all-over ache of their exhausted body.

“You should rest today,” Viago says.

“The fledglings –”

“– will manage without you. Heir has things well in hand.”

His hand shifts, moving to stroke through the tangles of their hair, sweeping a the loose stands back from their face. Vero sighs, letting themself relax back into the soft mattress, relishing his gentle touch. Viago does not show affection easily or often, but on mornings like these, he allows them both the comfort of this tender contact.

“All right,” Vero agrees at last.

Viago smiles, then – soft and a little indulgent. He leans forward, pressing a kiss to the corner of their mouth. Vero makes a soft sound, turning their head to catch his lips properly. The kiss is soft at first, reassuring rather than demanding, but it deepens as Viago’s hand moves through their hair. He tastes of mint and the faintest bitter edge of his coffee, his tongue moving gently against theirs.

“Rest,” Viago murmurs when he finally draws away, pulling his glove back on in a swift, practiced movement. “I’ll bring you up some breakfast from the kitchens in a little while.”

[wishforhome]

Viago is like a human Poison-Dart-Frog, I jest. Thakur learning they hard way as a treat

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If you ask me, Teia always looks beautiful in a red dress <3 Trying to get into VGen! ^^

vgen.co/Avvarqueen

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✨Contributor Spotlight✨

✒️ Calendar Writer: alix | wishforhome

alix has played Dragon Age since Origins, but only dipped their toes into fandom with Veilguard. Now they're done lurking and excited to create again! When not writing, you'll find them drinking cocktails, watching horror movies or hockey, and quilting.

🔗 @wishforhome | AO3

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wip wednesday

dammit people keep tagging me in wip wednesday except i don't have wips i can share because i've shared so many of my old ones that i can't keep track and everything new is secret so what can i feed you with, hmmm?

i have found this – a little tidbit that begins a segment from the sibling spouses au i share with @mxssful and @inquisimer, in which vero exists alongside fellow crow protégés rosa de riva and marisol cantori. vero is sixteen here and deeply needy and possibly probably definitely nursing an unacknowledged crush on a certain very repressed fifth talon.

edited to add: because i am half asleep i forgot to say that i was tagged by @inquisimer and @nirikeehan and also i am too tired to tag anyone but you should post your wips if you have 'em.

****

Sometimes, Vero thinks Viago uses up all his words with Rosa and Marisol. With them, Viago talks. Well – perhaps it is not talking. Often it is arguing. Or if not arguing, then lecturing. Listing and categorizing the ways they have displeased him, enumerating their perceived failures. The mages like to push him, to rile him, to find the tender places of his pride and press until his temper flares.

Sometimes – sometimes they do talk. Vero has seen them. Rosa and Viago in his office, the mage settled comfortably at his feet, his hand carding absently through the silken strands of her red hair while they talk about House business or philosophy or sometimes things too quiet for Vero to hear. Or Mari and Viago standing on the balcony that overlooks the training yard, debating Crow politics with such easy comfort, minds sharpened by the familiar verbal duelling.

Perhaps, Vero thinks, he had a finite number of words, and by the time Vero had come to House de Riva, they had already been allotted.

He talks to them, of course. There are the lessons in his office, or in the laboratory, when Viago will spend hours explaining the finer points of contract law or the specifics of some alchemical theory. There are conversations held over a chess board, while he explains how and why the pieces move, the strategy that governs the game. Vero likes listening to him, to the cadence of his voice as he lays out ideas and concepts, sometimes delving into tangents, or the way he always sounds particularly pleased when they ask a question he finds clever. Still, that feels different, to Vero. Teaching, rather than simply talking.

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object of the game

i bring you some band au madness that was born from various sources. ages ago, my friend @effelants told me about this party trick she has where she hands people random objects in the midst of conversation and sometimes they don't actually notice until she asks for it back.

if you have read band au, you are aware that Viago is an idiot who, in the first scene of the first chapter, after vero kisses him for the first time, panics, hands them his wine glass, and runs away. so i got this idea of a fic where the band starts teasing Viago by just handing him random objects with no explanation. and then it sat in my WIP folder as concept.

until today, @inquisimer and i were arguing about whether a fic about blighted treviso could ever truly be described as fluff, and mer said that if i wrote fluff in which nobody was actively traumatized, she would admit that blight treviso is not fluff, regardless of the so-called "context" she keeps insisting on, and because i need to win at all costs, i brushed off this ridiculous concept in which nobody is traumatized but everyone makes fun of Viago because he deserves to be mocked.

it's not quite @dadrunkwriting in my timezone yet, but this was written in the span of a couple hours with zero editing, so i think it fits the bill.

1046 words | rated teen | crowlycule (viago/teia/lucanis/rook/rook) | band au

The first time it happens, it’s after Teia has kissed him. They’re in the kitchen, and she leans up to press her mouth so sweetly to his. It’s affectionate and warm, and he loses himself in the comfortable familiarity of her lips until she pulls away.

It takes him a few seconds – just a few – to notice that at some point, she has pressed an empty coffee cup into his hands. He stares down at it, confused.

“What –” he says, but Teia is already walking towards the living room, leaving him there with the mug.

He sets it down on the counter.

****

He is sprawled in his bed, the sheets bunched around his waist, Rosa half on top of him. Her pale eyes are half-lidded, red hair spilling across his chest, as she watches his face. Intent, always, despite the languor of her posture, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of her pink mouth.

“What?” Viago asks.

“Nothing,” she says. “Why must you always assume there is something?”

“Because there always is, with you.” Always something, always some plot, some wheels in motion in that head of hers, unruly creature that she is.

She stretches like a cat and presses a kiss to the underside of his jaw before she sits up. She reaches into the tangled sheets, her slim hand searching for something until she withdraws a thin scrap of red lace and thrusts it into his hand – the underwear he had stripped from her an hour ago, crumpled into a ball.

“What are you doing?” he asks, but Rosa just gives him one of those strange smiles of hers.

“Nothing,” she says. “I already told you.” She slips from the bed, comfortable in her nudity, and steps out into the hall. Viago tosses the bunched up underwear at her receding back, only to hear the low sound of her laughter.

****

They are, all five of them, settled onto the enormous sectional in the loft that Lucanis and Vero share. The air is hazy with smoke and the smell of weed as Viago sinks back into the cushions. Vero lies with their head in his lap, eyes closed, fingers drumming absently against their thigh, keeping time with the song from the record player.

Next to them, Teia and Rosa lie entangled. Rosa gestures vaguely with the burning joint, her voice soft and rough as she spins some new tale – something about her strange co-worker and some potentially cursed artifact from some cave in the Anderfels, Viago stopped paying attention when the cannabis started making everything fuzzy around the edges, his awareness now limited to the slip of Vero’s hair beneath his fingers and vague impressions of layered sound.

He is drifting this way when Lucanis stands from his opposite side, crossing the room to where a small succulent sits in an earthenware pot. He returns, and presses the plant into Viago’s free hand, dark eyes dancing with amusement. Viago’s brain stutters and stumbles to catch up as he stares down at the tiny green thing in his palm.

In his lap, Vero peers up at him and then starts laughing, soft and sweet.

“It’s a plant,” Viago says.

“Yes,” Lucanis agrees, and sits back down next to him, leaning his head against Viago’s shoulder.

“Why are you giving me a plant?”

“No reason at all,” Lucanis says, and now Teia and Rosa are laughing too and nobody will explain.

****

Viago is, at this point, beginning to notice a pattern.

During band practice, Teia hands him one of Rosa’s guitar picks – simply plucks it from Rosa’s fingers and presses it into his palm with no explanation.

Later, at the loft, Lucanis gives him one of Metro’s cat toys, a plush mouse stuffed with cat nip. Viago frowns at it before tossing it across the room, watching as the black cat pounces after it.

It is over dinner – take out from the Antivan place around the corner that they all like – that Vero, sitting next to him, hands them the half-empty bottle of their IPA and then leans over to kiss his cheek. Viago glares at the bottle in his hand, the condensation cool even through the leather of his gloves.

“You’re all up to something,” he declares. “You keep giving me … things. Why?”

His bandmates exchange glances; Teia is grinning, while Vero wears one of their small smiles, their amusement obvious despite their usual restraint.

“What?” Rosa asks, all infuriating faux-innocence.

“For weeks,” Viago insists. “You all keep … handing me stuff. Random items. Glassware. Plants. Last week Vero gave me a triple-A battery while we were in bed together – what is – why are you all laughing?”

“What, Vi?” Teia asks, attempting to smother her giggles. “We’re just showing you affection.”

“What?”

“Isn’t this how you do it, Vi?” Rosa asks.

“What are you talking about? I don’t –”

“But you did,” Lucanis insists.

“I didn’t –”

“You gave me your wine glass,” Vero says, and they are grinning broadly now. “When I kissed you.”

Viago flushes with embarrassment at the memory. “I –”

“So we thought that was how you show someone you like them – you know – in your culture,” Rosa says.

“In my culture?” Viago echoes, his voice peaking on a jarring, indignant high note.

“You know, the ancient and dignified culture of extremely repressed Antivan bassists,” Rosa says, her tone entirely too helpful. Infuriating woman.

“I am not repressed,” Viago insists, though without real conviction. “You’re all terrible.”

“Oh, honey,” Teia says, still laughing, though her tone is softer now. “You know we’re just teasing you, right?”

“Because we adore you,” Vero adds, “even when you panic and hand me your half-full wine glasses.”

“It was one time.”

“Yes,” Lucanis acknowledges, “but it was objectively hilarious, and as your bandmates –”

"– and lovers –" Teia adds.

“– we’re required to hold it over you indefinitely.”

Viago glances down at the beer bottle still clutched in his hand, filled with bitter ale he doesn’t even like. Despite himself, he takes a swig, making a face as the hops hit his tongue.

“We love you, Vi,” Vero says, leaning over and kissing his cheek. Their lips are soft against the line of his beard. “Now give me my beer back, you don’t actually have to drink it.”

[wishforhome]

Both. Both is good.

[wishforhome]

“Once upon a time, going out in a blaze of glory was the end goal. But now, I think I’d rather grow old with you.”

[wishforhome]

A love so bittersweet they call it medicine

Finally finished the sketch I started weeks ago, thank you to all the grey hair modders out there for giving me divine inspiration (Viago’s silver streaks)