emmliches

[emmliches]

She turns, startled. Manfred jumps as his bones clatter. 

“My apologies, Artemisia. I thought I’d fetch myself some spiced milk,” he says, somewhat charmed. “—Perfect for those dreary winter nights.” 

The Lighthouse suspends in inanimate stasis, this warm peach syrup of eternal daylight. Perhaps if they all expect snow and firewood and moonlight at five, the night will finally spill over the floorboards and mahogany tables. The Fade, metamorphasized.

Emmrich sees she’s wrist-deep in dishes, and he takes a rag. “Allow me.”

The least he can do is help dry. He won’t tell her the last time he scrubbed a pot was when his hair was more black than gray, and Manfred will have that look on his face that says he was born to pop chromatic soap bubbles.

“I don’t mean to pry, Artemisia,” Emmrich continues, now, looking over, “but what a lovely tune that was.”

@emmliches gets a starter (from Rook).

Artemisia had taken it upon herself to do dish duty - it seemed only fair that someone else wash the dishes since Lucanis cooked, and she didn't want the others feeling like she thought she was above menial chores. Besides, she didn't mind it. It was a mindless, relaxing process.

Since she was alone in the kitchen, she sang softly to herself as she worked. She liked to sing, but was too embarrassed to sing in front of anyone.

She didn't notice that Emmrich had walked in at first. Not until a moment later when she heard Manfred's familiar hiss in greeting. "Oh!" She turned, hands still we and soapy. "Goodness, you startled me! I didn't hear you come in." Her cheeks flushed and she could feel the tip of her ears burning. She really should pay more attention to her surroundings.

[emmliches]

if you looked up 'soft top' in the dictionary, you'd see emm//rich vol//karin

[emmliches]

“And the wonders you will do, Alanis. Although—” Emmrich stops, sure and steady. “You have friends amongst us here in times of need.”

He won’t have to do it alone.

Alanis withers in a way that speaks of stress, or responsibility, or sleep deprivation. Like patchwork taxidermy, his skin and bones rearranged into a bad facsimile of a man. Emmrich pours him a cup of tea he’d been brewing earlier, chamomile and soap-lavender.

“Well. It concerns your etheric flows,” he answers, dragging the word out long and lilting. “When the dead are risen, we can only retrieve so much; just the barest fraction of their memories. Their very essence.” He stirs on, setting down the pot. “Some doors open, while others remain closed, lost to that eternal dark.”

Steam billows from the cup. He thinks of fog at a window or graveyard banshees.

“They return ‘fractured’, as it were. As though something were— hidden,” he says, “just beyond our reach.”

There’s something missing about you, he means, but that sounds harsh like blasting sands, negative wind chill, an insult. 

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Alanis listens to Emmrich speak with a curious tilt of his head. As he's grown accustomed to the party he's covered up less, allowing his hood to rest on his shoulders instead of his head. Pointed ears stick out from messy brown hair and honey-brown eyes shine, reflecting the light from the nearby candles.

While Emmrich holds his staff his own flesh and metal hand remains comfortably curled around his cane. "The Fate Caller leaves footsteps that are impossible to fill... Still, I try to do as much good as I can," Alanis confesses, shoulders sagging a bit just thinking about the weight of the responsibilities placed upon him. "I feel familiar to you? Tell me more."

[emmliches]

EMMRICH VOLKARIN Dragon Age: The Veilguard

[emmliches]

Light hits a nearby urn. It casts a rainbow mirage like an oil spill.

“I can think of no other I would share this moment with,” Emmrich finally says.

They continue their funeral procession into the gardens. His thoughts seesaw to vertigo illusions of Skiá hidden high above the night markets and ventricle citrus canals, more ghost than man. Skiá, perhaps, does not get close beyond a knife to the back. He theorizes Skiá only knows music in the form of secrets. 

“Ah. Here we are.”

This part of the gardens is a mossy hidey-hole cleaved out of perennials and ivy. He has memories of being a child here, hugging his knees before the crypts. There’s a skeleton adorned in lotus cherry silks.

“In midnight moon, in passing shadow,” Emmrich starts, magic green and arms swaying, “let dreams fade and life— reborn!”

“Eyes, warm; a hug after loong years like a blanket. Volkaar—rin.” 

The skeleton stuttering like a kineograph. Its eyes flicker neon chartreuse with familiarity, a brief exchange, and finally it says, “As before?” 

Emmrich flattens his palms together. “The very same, if you would.”

And so it starts. The skeleton, Lena Kravoss, the name etched onto a plaque, begins the same old song. It’s sweet and perfect, Emmrich thinks, embalming him in a viscous honey fluid of long-ago memories, the tune a touch sad, a touch sonnetic. It brings to mind foggy snippets of a blurred face, hands kneading dough. Eggs and flour and goat milk.

“I have such fond memories of this song... I’ve always thought of them as reflections of the human soul. Our thoughts and our memories, our feelings and hopes, enduring,” he says, looking higher above, “beyond our years.”

Skiá is always hidden. The shadows half-obscure where his eyes should be.

“Have you ever wondered... what they will write about you, Rook?”

it  is  no  surprise  that  skia  finds  himself  comfortable  in  nevarra,  especially  at  night.  most  of  his  contracts  occur  at  night.  easier  to  make  a  clean  break  after  the  job  is  finished,  when  less  eyes  are  upon  him.  the  surprise  lies  in  the  fact  that  he  has  chosen  to  willingly  spend  time  with  another.  nearly  always  on  his  own,  in  antiva,  at  the  lighthouse,  it  feels  almost  out  of  character.

a  part  of  him  wants  to  be  social,  to  be  seen  as  normal,  like  putting  on  a  mask  and  pretending  to  be  someone  he  is  not.  and  maybe  that's  all  it'll  ever  be,  a  brief  escape.  should  he  ponder  upon  it  for  too  long,  he  risks  feeling  like  an  imposter.  this  is  exactly  where  the  company  of  another,  of  emmrich  comes  into  play.  to  stop  him  from  thinking  so  much,  to  distract  him.

never  obligated  to  do  so,  skia  is  always  surprised  whenever  he  is  met  with  such  kindness.  when  they  first  met,  he  expected  something  else.  no  one  is  glad  to  see  him.  he's  an  elf,  once  upon  a  time  a  slave,  and  now  a  deadly  crow.  having  a  life  outside  of  his  work  is  nearly  impossible,  those  that  approach  him  always  having  ulterior  motives.  but,  emmrich  isn't  like  that.  it  isn't  even  about  being  polite.  his  soul  is  kind.  that  is  far  too  rare  these  days.

the  assassin  takes  in  the  skeletons  as  they  pass  by,  gaze  lingering  on  each  out  of  curiosity.  it  amazes  him,  necromancy.  whilst  he  understands  the  reservations  of  some,  to  him,  it  has  always  been  fascinating.  for  a  moment,  he  did  not  realize  they  stopped  moving,  not  until  he  nearly  ran  straight  into  his  companion.  "  ah,  sorry  ..  "  a  step  back  and  he  looks  up  at  him,  brows  lifting  ever  so  slightly  in  surprise.  "  a  song  ?  "  words  are  repeated,  muffled  slightly  behind  his  mask,  a  hint  of  reservation  on  his  tongue.  "  no  one's  ever  shown  me  a  song  before.  "  the  comment  comes  without  further  thought.  then,  the  elf  nods,  encouraging  the  other.  "  show  me.  "

[emmliches]

“Wisps are ever curious, lured to those lost and gentle souls.” It comes overly fond, even nostalgic. Emmrich smiles, holding his hands together. “They make such lovely companions— especially among children. I recall memories of hide-and-seek,” he says brightly. “What joys we had.”

Luc seems happier. The gardens have that effect. Their holographic eyes turn minty; the sea foam glow of the Necropolis. A jade mist, his lungs growing warmer—the only analgesic against his mortal fears.

Emmrich goes on. 

“I’d even heard rumors of a young mage,” he says, almost conspiratorially. “Apparently, they would be whisked away to the Fade to live among the wisps.”

Like Tír na nÓg, Luc and the amoebic balls of light laughing in pixie dust, a world both parallel to and the life blood of his own. The home of the Pied Piper, visible only to the worthy. Somewhere, it must exist. A distant make-believe realm where they can be their tricksy, fairies selves.

He wonders about a child raised by the shimmering ethereal. If they would be more spirit than human, speaking with an encyclopedic knowledge of avian chirps. Would they know how to run, or to jog, or to walk? Incapable of creating faces where the human brain has seen none, would they only dream of electric wisps?

This place is still their favorite, they say. Emmrich smiles with fierce sincerity. 

“You will always have a home in the gardens.”

was their absence always noticed? a small part of them doubts that, but they stamp it down. the thought of being noticed when they weren't around was nice, even if they felt invisible at times when they were there. their gaze sweeps over the older man, admiring how the flickering light only seemed to enhance his features. they find themselves hooked on every word that he speaks, unable to look away or pay attention to anything else.

they can't help but smile slightly as they recognize the sentiment within his words. something shifts in their chest as they finally manage to pull their gaze from emmrich, turning it towards the garden at large. they could remember their own days wandering the gardens, using the peace and solitude to soothe their troubled mind or lonely soul. they remembered happily volunteering for garden maintenance duty as a novice simply because it gave them more time wrapped in its peace, taking their time cleaning and making sure that every part of the gardens that they were assigned to was perfect.

"i was the same," they finally say. "i didn't...i didn't really have any friends growing up and, being a foundling, i had no family. so whenever i was stressed or lonely or someone said something to hurt me, i would come down here and wile away the hours. no one would really come here, so i was left alone. most of the time, it was just the wisps, the occasional passing spirit, and myself."

they smile a little, although they're unable to hide hints of sadness in the expression. "i would sometimes talk to the wisps because i had no one else to really talk to. they're really good listeners. i'm pretty sure there were a few of the same ones who would find me repeatedly just to listen to me talk." they would never open up about this to anyone else, but emmrich feels....safe. it feels like if anyone wouldn't judge, it would be him.

"i've been visiting the gardens again since we performed the rites here together," they confess softly. "it had been a while and i'd almost forgotten how much of a comfort this place is." their gaze finally shifts back to emmrich, that sadness still lingering. "i've been to so many places since meeting varric, yet this is still my favorite."

[emmliches]

Astarion laughs. It’s a low but twinkling thing, a Homeric siren’s call. Shipwrecks lie beneath. 

“Their ‘other’...?” Emmrich suspects. Then, he stops. 

A mutual exchange. It’s preferable over watching someone in the dark, eyes like the glow of the fae-folk. Better than Astarion unfolding two octopean arms from the shadows, dragging an unsuspecting man to tuck his teeth in the blanket of an artery. 

Astarion peeling himself from his seat, now. Slow and measured steps, Emmrich the Jupiter of which he orbits. There is a certain feeling that gnaws at his nervous system: a heightened awareness. The start of fight-or-flight, only he will do no such thing, and an electromagnetic wave speckles the back of his neck. 

Astarion draws his hand away. 

“I must admit, I’ve always been rather drawn to the nocturnal… There’s a certain hope,” he says, looking further off, “in that light in the dark. A beauty in those inscrutable depths.” 

Astarion peers past the curtains. No light seeps in. Does Astarion dream of bathing in a slant of sun from the window? Does Astarion dream of feeling warm?

He steps away, cautious, curious, yearning.

He thinks about forever.

“I’d wondered about that touch of eternity. The freedom to live and pursue all of one’s dreams, unshackled,” he says, “by fear or time.” Emmrich looks back. He’s pale, porcelain. “Under different circumstances— I might have envied you.”

The word romance slipped from the professor’s lips, and Astarion’s laugh followed— low, indulgent, a little cruel too. Romance. They truly did romanticise vampires in novels, didn’t they? All those poets, drenched in moonlight and melodrama, bleeding themselves dry for metaphors that would almost make his kind seem harmless.

Almost.

“Guilty as charged.” Astarion drawled, his tenor mocked confession. “A body count of living, willing donors, my dear professor... those who are always ever so eager to offer me a nibble so long as I feed their other appetites, isn’t exactly unheard of for my kind.”

Pushing himself away from his seat, Astarion circled the professor in slow, measured steps. Predator on prey. Necromancers always smelled faintly of death, copper-sweet and cloying. It suited them.

“There are many kinds of hunger after all. Surely you know that…?” Just as his hand hovered hairsbreadth away from testing the tender curve of Emmrich’s neck, the next question brought all those perverse thoughts to a screeching halt.

Don’t you miss the sun?

“...Sometimes.” Astarion’s voice broke over a vowel at the thought of the sun’s warming presence. All he’s ever known since his death was either the cold, or the warmth of another’s body. “But a new chance at life, one eternal at that, does come with a price…” Shying his hand away from the professor’s neck, the vampire’s gaze darted towards the blinds. And he stood there, almost as though he could see right past them. “The sun is for those who only die once.”

[emmliches]

Live with grace and fervor while you may.

Emmrich still has heart palpitations. The aura leading to a cardiovascular event. He imagines what they will write about him in the months following his maybe-death; if the entirety of Emmrich Volkarin will be reduced to a nine-point footnote in someone else’s feverish thesis, or if he will rise like a skeletal Vitruvian, bringing fire to man. 

“Well. I’d always yearned to travel,” he recounts, long and rosy and far away. “The adventures to be had. The opportunity to live the tales of grand epics.” He’s living it now, knee-deep in synaptic overtime. Emmrich wonders. “But beyond that…”

Say too much, and he’ll seem to have lived a sad and unfulfilled life. Daisy waits with those barleycorn eyes. Daisy, who’s lived twice the life of anyone in the Necropolis at almost half the time, engulfed in yucca-scented candles and tazanite library walls.

He comes here to trick his brain into thinking it’s night.

“Marriage… I suppose,” he says at last, violently earnest. He twinkles. “I had such hopes.”

Quietly Daisy listens, her attention focused solely on him. Head nods along with each statement made, making mental notes to roll around in her mind like marbles. At the mentions of Johanna and mockery her nose crinkles while lips tug downward for a split second till expression returns to something more soft.

It's a lot to consider; the topics Emmrich brings up. Heavy like iron and could knock the breathe out of anyone. Especially with the current state of things. "Those are all understandable and valid concerns. Certainly not easy to have to deal with." she murmurs. "And certainly nothing to be mocked. I've been through the same cycle of thoughts many times."

It's not much consolation, she realizes. Not the best comfort at least. Has she always been bad at this?

Daisy let's out a soft hum, golden gaze turning to watch the dripping of wax from candle. "I know it's easier said than done but I wouldn't linger too heavily on it lest you miss out on what's infront of you." Hand reaches out towards flicker flame. How similar mortal lives are to candles; how easy they are snuffed out.

It's with a slight wince that she pulls her hand away. "Out of curiosity do you have, ah, what do people call it? Uh...oh! Bucket list! You know things you've always wanted to do before the end."

[emmliches]

“I never would have—” He stops, his mind rewiring itself, carefully plugging into new words. “I’ve always cherished flowers among friends,” he decides.

Emmrich feels vaguely the way he does when Manfred shambles in with those variscite eyes, an entire Milky Way of wonder steam-pressed into them. Manfred hissing, hoisting up hands full of quill knives or golden lizard brooches or toasted almonds. Kirrily, surprising him with the body of a dead rat.

“Oh, certainly. I’m partial to white roses,” he says, spiritually in the gardens. He flattens his palms together. “It brings to mind fresh snow, or smoothest silk— although I never tire of lilacs. What aroma— ” 

The alchemist in him rouses and surfaces like prismatic bubbles in a bath. Lavender, sudsy, lapping against his senses. “I know! Perhaps you’d like to borrow Rosalind Avel’s Horticulture: The Language of Flowers and Alchemic Properties.”

    ❝  Noooo,  no  no  nooo  ;  you  were  supposed  to  keep  them  shut   ! ❞     Kiki  chastised  so  desperately.  The  rodent  would  remain  in  her  own  palms  for  now.  Maker  tell  her  how  to  keep  a  necromancer  satisfied.  The  little  lady  was  quite  sure  he  would  enjoy  such  a  present  but  alas,  her  experience  with  dapper  gentlemen  with  a  taste  for  the  macabre  wasn't  sufficient  enough.  Flowers,  it  is.  Flowers.  Hmpf.

    ❝  Flowers  would  be  a  gift  for  a  rendezvous.  I  thought  I  started  with  something  less  .  .  .  committing. ❞      So  be  it,  so  be  it  ~  .  Looks  like  Kiki's  next  stop  would  lead  her  to  Harding's  place.    ❝  You  like  roses   ? ❞

[emmliches]

Valrys smiles bright as a lighthouse. Return, all ye lost at sea.

Emmrich doesn’t waver, even when blinded. “Always,” he says. 

What does one do in the face of such tactics? That merciless answer, the scorched-earth sincerity. It will take more to lead Emmrich astray, Valrys’ smile belying a chameleon talent to misdirect. He was charmed and born under a crooked star. Burdened with that supernatural ability to survive. 

What makes you think so, Valrys begins to coax. 

Emmrich is limelighted, and his face softens. 

“‘Silence leaves one alone’,” he finally quotes. His voice is a blanket; you can bury yourself in it and never wake up. “And as we share a wall, Valrys, I’ve come to notice,” he muses. “A chair scraped along the floor... Tomes turning in those dreamless nights.” Wide awake, maybe restless, maybe scribbling over parchment as the candles melt into pearlescent milk pools. Sometimes I wonder if you sleep at all.

Valrys lets go of a breath. Some admission is forthcoming, the words unspooling in the heat well of his thoracic cavity. Maybe it’ll stick to his teeth, tacky and bitter and acidic. It’ll spill from his mouth to the creepvine flowerbeds.

There’s Solas and burdens and adopted failure. There are more voices in his head than an elvhen god.

“His choices were his own,” Emmrich reasons, his voice low and steady. “Yet— Your ability to hold such faith in those dear... What strength,” he marvels, airily, “and capacity to care. To love.” Even when they’re wrong. Emmrich, steadfast and foolish. “How I admire you for it.”

His brain is capable of furnishing such poetic virtues where Valrys sees flaws. Poetic virtues, and his own undoing.

Secret-keeper is a good position to be, he knows, though that thought feels too cynical as it concerns the one before him. Or does it? Recent history seems to suggest he should be most cautious around those that he feels a natural pull to. "I didn't know you cared about the state of my heart," he says, the charming deflection like a ray of the sun: intended to be blinding. His smile even appropriately realigns itself for added effect, like a gleam of wisp's mischief. He has little concern that stress could limit his body's performance, being sure it wouldn't. He's more concerned over what Emmrich has perceived to give him the impression that it has. "What makes you think so?" He asks, calm like a patient listening to a doctor's opinion. There's been some failure in masking, he scolds himself. Or perhaps, the necromancer is picking up some impossible thread that no one else can, attuned to death as he is. What he is but death persisting, a walking haunting of regret and spite? He slows to a halt, idly wondering of the life of the person they stood before, eyes like claws scratching at the engravings. Were they happy? Did they leave this plane wishing they could do it all over again? In any case, he knows this: there was no one, living or dead, who would be able to understand him. But he knows that is not the correct answer. He has to give Emmrich something, lest the worrying double, and his leadership capabilities are called into question. "I shall not trouble the dead from their well-earned peace," he replies gently as he looks to the other, slightly envious of the deceased. A pause, and then he allows an exhale, showing enough that he intends to say something. Finally: "While I was in the Inquisition, I should have seen Solas for what he was, and I did not." The failure tainting every word is real; this requires no acting. He gives a smile, the edge of bitter irony. "It is only fair that I bear this burden now for that failure." Cursed to bear the elvhen god in his mind now.

[emmliches]

@rotdame asked: ❛ can you give me a hand? ❜ 𝟐𝟎𝟎 𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐎𝐌 𝐃𝐈𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐒 (accepting)

“Tara— Whatever’s happened?”

Emmrich rises from his desk and apparates before her in three seconds dead. He takes her severed arm and thrums like slight electrical currents, rippling threadbare nerves. 

It’s almost not-quite how he is with Manfred. Davrin had suggested once, unflinchingly in hammered pewters, that he let Manfred fall. Scrape the tibia and learn, he said. Emmrich had balked, either justified or unaware of his propensity for mollycoddling. But this is different.

As part of the Veilguard and Mourn Watch, Tara can maim. Found inexplicably alive with those midori sour eyes, Tara is an etheric blitzkrieg. She can hold her own.

“We really must be more careful,” he says in a way that suggests this has happened before. Emmrich lines her arm to the perforation. “Truly. Your ability to rejoin yourself is remarkable, Tara. But how I do dread the day I’ll find you scattered about...” 

Like a treasure hunt only it’s every piece of her. A wash of light, mouthwash green— a spell to help her mend. “I’d much rather you hale and whole,” he says.

The room smells of drying ink. He was partway through his will.

[emmliches]

I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night

– Sarah Williams

[emmliches]

Skiá cartridge slides his tome into a satchel. I’m saving this for later. It fills Emmrich with a kind of warm tea-kettle fondness watching him drown inside a book. Fingers brailing the wood pulp pages, maybe mouthing words he’d never seen on paper. Going from sole, private lessons to joining the book club. Getting better.

Was it hard? Unfolding himself out of the solitude of shadows to slink into diamond-pleated upholstery? To read with Bellara and Lace and, despite the occasional fact-checking, Neve? To take the proverbial jump into human connections?  

Skiá sets a be-back note on the coffee table. Passing through the eluvian always feels like osmosisizing through egg whites. 

“How lovely of you to say. I’d feared you’d thought otherwise.” Emmrich softly twinkles. He’s careful to never be behind or ahead, both wading through the Crossroads. “I’d heard whispers in the hall,” he worries, “of my effect on the others... Word on ‘dark magics’ and how it frightens them. Even now, as bonded as we are, I detect there are certain misgivings towards necromancy.” 

He has memories of first stepping into the Lighthouse. The wary eyes on Manfred. His mortuary slab. Taash’s face twisting like inhaling curdled milk, dock water, fear the risen dead. 

Now, they tear through the eluvian egg membrane. Treviso glows like amber tangerines.

“Even Lucanis believes it to be an inconvenience,” Emmrich continues, following by his side. It undoes an assassin’s hard work. “As a fellow Crow, I’d assumed you might have shared— similar views?”

the  team's  dedicated  book  club  is  something  that  he's  wanted  to  be  apart  of,  but  knew  that  if  he  joined,  he'd  likely  only  hold  everyone  else  back,  offering  little  to  the  gatherings.  sometimes,  if  someone  was  lucky,  in  the  right  place  at  the  right  time,  they'd  find  rook  hidden  away  in  a  corner,  eyes  glued  to  whatever  novel  of  choice  that  part  of  the  team  were  reading.  having  similar  taste  to  a  couple  of  the  other  members  of  the  veilguard,  he  enjoyed  a  good  romance.  fairytales  were  one  of  the  very  few  things  that  kept  him  sane  during  the  years  previous.

of  course,  he  has  a  hard  time  saying  no  to  dramas,  too.  the  twists  often  caught  him  off  guard,  despite  believing  himself  to  be  pretty  good  at  reading  others.  that  is,  when  feelings,  emotions,  don't  involve  himself.  he's  got  an  awful  habit  of  assuming  that  all  around  him  merely  deals  with  him,  rather  than  ..  enjoys  him.  enjoys  what  he  can  offer.  whatever  that  is.  at  the  very  least,  emmrich  seems  to  genuinely  like  being  around  him.  enough  to  be  willing  to  take  frequent  trips  with  him  to  wherever  he  chooses.  surely,  he  does  not  have  to  go  to  such  lengths  to  get  along  with  him.

book  is  tucked  neatly  into  his  small  satchel,  something  he  carried  with  him  everywhere.  it  held  essentials,  mainly  drinking  water,  a  change  of  clothes,  food  rations,  medical  supplies,  a  worn  journal  for  his  thoughts.  there's  also  a  couple  of  smaller  items  picked  up  along  his  travels,  of  which  only  hold  sentimental  value.  most  were  given  to  him  by  others.  some  names  he  can  hardly  remember  now.  but  the  feelings  that  the  trinkets  evoke  within  him  upon  looking  at  them  are  enough.

"  is  it  by  choice  ?  "  curious,  tips  of  his  ears  twitch  slightly.  "  staying  in  one  place  for  so  long.  as  beautiful  as  the  necropolis  is,  i  cannot  imagine  staying  anywhere  forever.  not  by  choice.  "  even  a  place  as  captivating,  homely,  as  treviso  has  become  cannot  hold  his  attention  for  all  time.

it's  why  he  enjoys  contracts  that  take  him  afar.  although  contracts  in  the  south  are  rare,  he's  always  the  first  to  offer  himself  up  for  those.  not  that  he  has  a  final  say  in  his  destination.  he'll  go  where  viago  sends  him.  for  someone  who  gave  him  a  second  chance  at  life,  for  offering  him  a  place  to  utilize  his  skills  on  his  own  accord,  rather  than  through  the  manipulation  of  his  mind,  body.  he  cannot  complain.  won't.

a  little  note  is  left  behind  on  the  coffee  table,  a  brief  explanation  of  their  chosen  destination,  if  needed  by  the  team  for  whatever  reason.  and  then  he's  walking  alongside  the  necromancer  towards  the  eluvian  that'd  lead  them  to  the  crossroads.  a  brief  smile,  then,  as  he  glances  at  his  companion  for  the  evening.  "  ..  as  much  as  i  enjoy  spirits,  and  find  the  art  of  necromancy  rather  fascinating,  here's  to  hoping  that  nothing  departed  decides  to  drop  in  unannounced  on  us  tonight.  "

[emmliches]

“Oh. Well. Not if you—”

Skiá leans in. Here it comes, a conspiratorial confession that would surely offend any nobleman within whisper radius, their Vyrantium cashmeres ruffled, pearls clutched. Something about Emmrich goes off - like mosaic holiday lights. 

“Ah. ‘Getting lost in one’s head’?” he offers, a small, understanding look.

The rapturous round of applause reaches a cacophony until the hall echo-chambers and rattles his ribs, the actors engulfed in kaleidoscopic limelight, Emmrich and Skiá shortly slaloming out. It’s almost-night. Nevarra has that quality: perpetual black and weeping willows, the kind of darkness Skiá would hide himself in; beware the monsters in the dark.

Only he quite likes Skiá. Skiá, with his fondness for syrupy sweets and stargazing and now, apparently, a cemetery.

“We’ve just renewed the Flame of the Last Steps,” he says, all dreamily and inflectious, “and our dead have re-risen, spry as the living.” He has that romantic, Shelleyan twinkle, orbiting a glowing dwarf star. Emmrich turns back to him, pressing his palms. “I’m told one of very own has been reborn,” he divulges, “and her singing like poems of the great ages.”

They’ve started nearing the mouth of the Memorial Gardens. Sentinel skeletons welcome them with fire-permed hair, somehow more languid, more alive. He must have been leading up to something, because Emmrich stops, facing him.

“Might I show you a song, Rook?”

sitting  up  in  his  seat,  elf  turns  to  give  his  companion  an  apologetic  look.  knowing  how  excited  emmrich  had  been  before  the  play  started,  there's  a  hint  of  guilt  in  his  expression  upon  realizing  he'd  slept  throughout  the  entirety  of  the  anticipated  entertainment.

assassin  looks  to  his  left,  on  guard.  although  he  doubts  anything  will  occur  at  a  play  full  of  skeletons,  one  can  never  be  too  sure.  there  are,  after  all,  a  lot  of  people.  and  people  have  always  made  him  nervous.  living,  dead,  or,  otherwise.

the  idea  of  returning  to  the  lighthouse  doesn't  sound  all  that  appealing.  he  knows  what  awaits  him  there.  deafening  silence.  his  own  thoughts.  forced  solitude.

whilst  he  isn't  a  fan  of  large  crowds,  he  does  enjoy  the  company  of  one  or  two  others.  when  the  two  are  the  only  ones  left  in  their  row,  rook  looks  over  at  the  necromancer.  "  do  we  have  to  go  back  already  ?  "

leaning  over,  he  lowers  his  voice,  doesn't  want  any  possible  listeners.  a  practiced  habit  formed  through  his  years  of  being  with  the  crows,  secrecy  is  a  necessity  on  all  accounts  when  one  made  a  living  by  slitting  the  throats  of  others.

"  we  should  stretch  our  legs.  a  walk  around  the  garden  sounds  nice.  "  a  lighthearted  activity,  a  striking  contrast  to  what  one  might  picture  when  they  think  of  the  antivan  crows,  and  what  sort  of  hobbies  they  might  have.  "  the  lighthouse  is  so  ..  "  he  chooses  not  to  finish  his  sentence.

[emmliches]

“Your absence is always noticed.”

Night crickets, an interminable curtain of jasper fire like a weighted blanket. Emmrich could wrap himself in it, swaddled in its quilt of vivarium mosses and incense, coddling himself from the world and its cruel, setting sun. Here: the clock stops, cleaved at midnight. Time ceases.

“I’m inexplicably drawn to this place,” he says at last, fond and softly. “I used to find myself wandering as a student, long ago—those lasting and restless hours… when suddenly, I’d open my eyes to the gardens.” Emmrich still does. He turns back to them, his hands held together. “Like waking from a dream, the veil pulled from one’s eyes.”

Fires swaying, dyeing their cheek and face and lashes honeydew. Emmrich listens as the wisps circle a tomb, absorbed in nocturnal reflection.

“The power it holds over me.”

they have no clue how long they had been sitting in the isolated corner of the memorial gardens, simply zoning out while watching the passing wisps when the sound of footsteps brought them back to earth. they glance up, a guilty expression settling over their features when they spot emmrich. "so, i take it that my absence at dinner was noticed?"

@emmliches liked x

[emmliches]

@mistakenmessiah asked: ❛ we can stop them. i can help you. ❜ 𝟐𝟎𝟎 𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐎𝐌 𝐃𝐈𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐒 (accepting)

There is an inscrutable air about Alanis. It taps at the walls of his subconscious, undeniable like the feeling of having forgotten to lock the front door, like nimbus post-sleep delirium. The magical ethers are off. The Fade around him is fractured. Alanis has metal vitiligo. 

“Doubtlessly, Alanis. Although—” 

Emmrich holds his staff with one hand. Candles shimmer off slates of tungsten, black instead of flesh.

“To walk in the footsteps of the famed Fate Caller...” Emmrich marvels, almost solemn, trailing off. To finish what he started. “The torch that you must carry.”

Bellara had been disturbed by it. He saw it sometimes, too. That late-night-can’t-sleep manic fizz, trying to run from a devastating truth. Having to kill your gods.

Alanis has phantom eyes, and Emmrich continues. 

“And I cannot help but notice that familiar— air about you.”

[emmliches]

The theremin swoons and dips, charged by the metaphysical electrons of the wisps. He pivots to them with all of the long-limbed grace of yew. 

“If you would— We are about to discuss the final wishes of the dearly departed,” he says.

The wisps chirp their rapturous assent, bumbling away. The theremin wanes to a feline whisper. Finally: silence.

On the granite slab, an Andrastian wax figure with spider silk hair. She has dustings of melanin like black peppercorn and clumsy hands, her wrists burned and reburned from a rosy-faced girlhood, nervous around a hearth. Freshly washed and lavendered, she’s the image of eternity.

“Some consider it a ‘homecoming’,” he observes, joining his hands together. “A reunion, as it were, with a life once lived.”

He shouldn’t make it sound like poetry. Emmrich turns back to face her, a deadly romantic.

“Why don’t you do the honors, Margot? There’s so few of us corpse whisperers...” He has little agates in his eye. Sparkles of bright familiarity. “I would be delighted to stand in your shadow.”

By flame and seal, by light and flood. Open your eyes once more.

Fluorescent green phosphors like gloaming lanterns, Margot handpainting frescos of neon jade, and the body writhes. It arches. Her eyes snap open with a jerk like electricity, and hoarsely, lock-jawed—

“Who. Caaallls?” she croaks.

“Those among the Watchers.” Emmrich stepping nearer, now, standing by her side. “We’ve come to ask for your final wishes,” he says, “before your return to the everlasting.”

“Wishes?” Wheezing. An asthmatic gasp like howls out the window. “Watchers... Darkness, engulfing, wrapping like a blanket... Dead?”

Emmrich has a proclivity for conjuring the most playful of spirits with his ambiances of choice. She can feel them all around her— pulses of energy akin to a beat, twirling to the tempo of the overture that compels them. A register halfway between the whoop of a viola and the vocal-effect of a fireside ghost story. A marriage of music both artful and cheesy.

A marvelous invention, he says, and even Margot cannot help but smile at his enthusiasm. A love for the dead that rivals her own. A joy in his field that is infectious. " It's certainly on theme. "

Working alongside him, one almost forgets just how deep in the belly of the Necropolis they stand. How many bodies build the foundations beneath their feet. And just how macabre the rest of Thedas finds their craft to be — These cheerful, theremin-playing ghosts turn the graveyard into their garden party.

" I think it's about time. Would you like me to bring her forth, or were you hoping to do the honor? " The slightest wave of her hand, hardly a glimmer of magic yet sparked, and already the eyes of the deceased begin to flutter. The verdant green of a life not quite finished peeking below the lids, readily announcing herself to her attendants.

" Eager one, ain't she? "