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Not sure if anybody made it already b u t

the world is ending

and you are a horrible goose

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also a poem from the new, unreleased collection. very possibly my own all-time favourite.

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Still house of turquoise and partly cloudy. I think the weather betrayed that one.

Bank of Sapphire Cold?

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i couldn't get this out of my head ;A;

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In the chaos of Ghilhan’nain’s defeat, Emmrich watched Rook trade places with Solas. One moment, she was reaching for the ice-shard dagger skewering the at-last-dead god. The next, she was gone. The sky tore open where she stood, and a wolf stalked snarling from the wound.  The two immortals locked eyes across the bloodied battlefield and shared a moment of pained understanding. I know, he seemed to say, eternity is agony.

The final chapter is live.

Exclusus Amator by MelHathNoFury

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favorite character from any media BUT it has to be a woman. in the tags now go (pls talk to me about your favorite fictional women pls pls pls pls)

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WIP Wednesday

This week has been total shit so far with surprise lay offs at work (not me, but a good friend who stood up for me before our former abusive supervisor "retired"). So I thought I'd post one of my snippets. Cheer me up, loves. If you want.

Emmrich stepped in front of the mirror wearing the exquisitely embroidered black jacket and trousers. Happily, Rook watched his lithe body turning this way and that as he adjusted the fine fabric around the seams. Padding behind him on bare feet, he quirked an eyebrow as he caught sight of her reflection. 

“A bit tighter in the shoulders than it should be,” he sighed, smoothing the high collar against his neck, “but not so much that it need be altered, which is fortunate.”

He continued to fuss with the jacket, deep furrows forming around his mouth and between his eyebrows. She knew that frown. He’d soon start in on his grey hair, then the wrinkles, bemoaning all the subtle changes of age time had wrought. 

She ran her practiced hands over the flawless tailoring.

“A little too loose in the middle too,” her fingers skimmed the side seams, which did look as if they were meant to fit a little closer to the body, but not excessively so. “Wonder how that happened? Not as if you’ve been swinging a staff around and hiking miles in rough terrain lately.” Rook smirked, wrapping her arms around him. “If your waist gets any smaller, love, you're going to disappear. Though I have to say,” she took a step back, lifted the back hem of his jacket, and gave him an appraising once over, “your arse looks marvelous.” 

“Indulgent as ever, dearest,” Emmrich undid the first of the delicate gold clasps at the collar, a pleased smile curling around his mouth. 

“Of course,” she pressed her face between his shoulders, breathing in the scent of cedar clinging to the fabric, her hand drifting below his waist, “how else am I supposed to sweet talk you back into bed.”

“Ah!” He caught her wrist and brought it up to his lips, bussing a kiss on the back of her hand. “We still have packing to do.”

She flopped back down on the bed with a huff, turning her head to watch him change out of the suit and pull on his dressing gown. Whatever he might think, to her mind, he wore middle age very well, beautifully in fact. Distinguished was not a euphemism in his case, just an apt description of what he was. 

She stared up at the canopy above their bed, tracing the pattern of the dark chintz with her eyes. It was hard not to wonder sometimes what she might look like at a similar age. Would golden hair give way to silver or simply turn white? Would she have laugh lines? Worry lines? Would she be wizened, hard and thin, or plump from a life of more comfort than she could have ever dreamed for herself? Would Emmrich still hold her like the most precious thing in the world no matter how she aged? 

It wasn’t very likely she’d ever know. Feeling a growing tightness in her throat, she sniffed and rubbed at her brow. It was borrowed time she was living on as it was. She was only waiting for the inevitable, the broken tune that only she would be able to hear. She wished she knew who to pray to, who to beg, for a few more years with Emmrich and this life that finally felt like her own. But there was no Maker, only the Blight made of rage and stolen dreams.

“Failing to prepare won’t change the fact we must go, Rook,” he folded the suit carefully and packed it away in the trunk laid open at the foot of the bed. 

“Already done,” she said flatly, giving a little flick of her chin toward her field pack. 

Leaning against the side of the bed, hands in the pockets of his dressing gown, he raised a disbelieving eyebrow, “you’ve stowed something appropriate for a ball in your rucksack?”

“No, but my good armor’s in there. That’ll have to do,” she steepled her index fingers over her folded hands. 

“And by good armor we mean?” 

“My only armor,” she met his eyes with a light shrug of her shoulders. 

“There's nothing wrong with wanting to look one’s best,” he said quietly, resting his hand on her ankle and smoothing his palm up her calf. “It’s not simply frivolity in this case, given the occasion.” 

Rook closed her eyes, “I’m not going to parade jeweled and gowned like prize pony in front of a load of nobles for the Chantry. Either Chantry. I led as a Warden and a Warden’s what they’ll get.” She knew she was raising her voice, but she was so tired of pretending she wasn’t angry about this situation into which they’d been thrust after all they had done and lost. “It was a Blight and I did my bloody job. If that’s not good enough for them, if they want more from me, too sodding bad.” She pushed the heels of her hands into eyes, “I’m not Ellana Lavellan. I won’t be their new Herald.”

“I understand that sentiment, certainly,” he took her hands and, placing them back at her sides, held them, thumbs rubbing soft circles on her wrists. “But the ball is meant to be in celebration of your victory. Of you, my love.”

“Of us,” she threaded her fingers through his, squeezing both of his hands. “Not me.”

“As you say,” he murmured. “But, I had hoped you might be able to take a moment and bask in some well deserved adulation.” 

“And I need to be in a fancy dress for that?” She gave him a quizzical look.

“No,” he straightened the neckline of her shift with a frown, “I suppose you don’t.”

She sat up, eyes suddenly bright with realization, arms winding around his neck as a warm thrill ran through her,  “Emmrich, do you just want to see me in a fancy dress?” 

“I admit, the idea does appeal,” he gave her a lovely lopsided grin. Scooting up onto the bed, Emmrich guided her by the waist to sit in his lap, kneeling on either side of his hips. “But not if you’re dead set against it.” 

“As long as it’s for you, not them,” she ran her hand through the sparse salt and pepper hair on his chest. “I’m sure Teia has a friend who knows a chap that might be able to help on short notice.”  

“Oh dear,” he kissed her forehead, the tips of his fingers running lightly over her spine, up and down, “you make it sound as if you’ll be engaging in something quite unscrupulous.” 

“Only crimes of fashion, old man.” 

Emmrich let out a pained groan and dropped theatrically onto the mattress as Rook laughed, leaning down to press herself against him. Folding her arms over his chest and resting her chin atop them, she made herself comfortable as his fingers continued their ministrations down her back. The muscles beneath her belly clenched pleasantly at the subtle stirring of his cock under her, though he made no attempt to rouse them out of this quiet repose.   

She propped herself up, lifting her face above his and letting her head droop sideways to look at him, all relaxation and tousled hair. 

Rook never really gave much thought to her lack of ability as an artist with pen and ink, but she wished she could capture this. This soft, uncharacteristic laziness when all worries finally melted from his mind and nothing remained but contentment. It never failed to awe her that she was in some part responsible for this look of bliss. How could it be simultaneously humbling and arousing, she had no idea. 

He let out a small sigh, one hand lifting to trace over the shape of her mouth, while the other found its way under the hem of her shift. The ticklish feeling of his light fingered touches on bare skin had her wriggling in a way that spread a wicked, self-satisfied look over his face.    

“Such a bounty of loveliness” he murmured almost to himself as he raked a long fingered hand through her hair, fingernails grazing her scalp in the most delicious way, “that I, so late in life, should be so fortunate.” 

Her mouth twisted wryly at that comment. She leaned in to catch his bottom lip between her own and gave him a little nip of her teeth.  

“No maudlin thoughts right now, love. Just be here with me.”  

“My very favorite place, darling,” he pushed himself up on his forearms, meeting her plunder of his mouth with equal vigor.

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But, importantly, could never be a “one black coffee” dad.

Emmrich is the “we have food at home” killjoy btw

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Has anyone written anything about Emmrich as an elder queer? Especially, re: gender presentation with Taash? I just feel like that could be a super interesting dynamic - not something I could do with any authenticity, but still super interesting.

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Yep. Yep. Yep.

(Sound on.) We’re all doomed.

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Let's be real for a second

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So, I'm working on perfectionism.... I figured I'd try with some writing. I've got a few things cooking, but I've got a little character moment for my Warden Rook hanging out talking relationship and Warden stuff with Davrin. I don't know, there are bits I like. Maybe someone will find it entertaining....

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“Isn’t he, you know, a little old for you?” Davrin gave her a side-long glance as he laid his knife against the block of wood slowly being peeled away to reveal a slender halla underneath. 

“Probably,” she admitted, fiddling with a curl of wood she’d picked up off the floor. “But I’ve been a Warden longer than you.” A lot longer, but none of them knew that. She didn’t need them fussing, looking at her with worry whenever she was quiet for a little too long, wondering if she’d heard something singing at the edges of her mind. Especially since she, blessedly, didn’t hear anything but Solas’ constant nagging in her sleep. She wanted to enjoy the sweetness as long as she could before the sour and the sorrow. “I figure, with this blight, why waste time? I might as well enjoy what I’ve got left.” 

Davrin’s hands stilled and he stared into the fire for a few long seconds. He swallowed, mouth pulling into a wry expression before the steady rhythm of his blade returned. 

“Well, I hope you two are happy. Doing mage things together.” 

Rook barked a laugh, “what are ‘mage things?’” 

Davrin shrugged and set his carving on the table, “I need a drink. Do you want one?” 

Pushing the lid of a wooden crate aside, he pulled a bottle out of the last case of stout ever brewed at Weisshaupt.   

“No really, what ‘mage things’ do you think we do? I’m curious.” 

“I don’t know,” he wiped out a dusty glass with the hem of his shirt, poured the dark, bittersweet beer, and handed it to her. “Tandem fade stepping? Using those sparks of yours for something I really don’t want to know about?

“Hey, my sparks are perfectly innocent, thanks very much,” she wiggled her fingers letting a frisson of energy bounce from fingertip to fingertip. 

“That’s handy,” he pointed with the bottle of stout, “you can restart Emmrich’s heart with those if you’re too much for the old man.” 

“How do you know he’s not too much for me? There’s a lot of magic in those bones, or you know…that one bone.” 

“Thanks. Just the image I needed,” Davrin choked. “Seriously though, an older man, with a kid. Kinda. You ready to be a mom? Make sure Manfred’s joints are oiled?”

“What are you on about,” she snorted into her glass, “I’m already a mum, to you needy lot.” 

“What does that make Emmrich then?” Davrin squeezed his eyes shut, realizing he’d just set up the joke perfectly. “Oh Fenedhis, don’t say it…please.” 

“Oh, he’d never be called that…”

“Well, that’s a relief, I guess…”

“He’s really more of a papa don’t you think?” 

She smiled as he dropped his head on the table, “are you trying to make this worse?”

“It’s you it bothers,” she shrugged, “not me.” 

“What about this whole…Lich thing,” his eyes grew serious. “That bother you?

“Good question,” she tipped her chair back, forcing the front legs off the ground before letting them clatter to the floor again. “It’s his life’s work, and I can’t imagine there’s any part of it he hasn’t considered…”

“But?” 

She took a drink and shrugged, “what am I supposed to say? ‘Emmrich, love, do you want to talk about what it’s really like to almost, sort of die and unmake yourself to serve the greater good? I know it sounds like I’m questioning your motives and literal decades of preparation, but why not chat it out with some half-educated, backwater Circle rat who's done it, eh? Just to make sure?’”

“Why not?” Assan chirped from the curled ball he’d been laying in on the floor, earring himself a hardy scratch on the rump. “We’re probably the only two people he knows who do sort of understand the choice he’s making. And you’re not all those things you just said. You’re a Grey Warden, and more importantly, Emmrich cares what you think. He always has, even before you started climbing into his coffin at night to ride his bone.” 

“I’m gonna start keeping a tally of these bone jokes. We’re even at this point.”

“Double points if they make sense?” 

“Triple if they’re funny. Just don’t tell Emmrich. I want to keep jumping his bones, and he might not let me if he finds out.”

Davrin snorted and stroked Assan’s wing, a feather coming loose in his hand. He handed it to Rook who took it with a sort of reverence, running her fingers up the soft plume. 

“Would you do it again?” Davrin asked, “the Joining?” 

“Maker, Davrin,” she said, tipping back the rest of her drink. “We’re going to need something a lot stronger than this piss if you’re going to keep asking me these sorts of questions.” 

“I know what you mean,” Davrin clapped his hand on the table, momentarily startling a slumbering baby griffon. “Hang on.” 

He got up and started rifling through his field pack. She started laughing the moment he came back holding an old square bottle with half the label peeled off. 

“That isn’t…”

“Sure is. Grey Whiskey. Vintage: Warden Davrin, genuine Monster Mash.” He held out his hand, a challenge on his face, “your glass, Warden.” 

“This isn’t fair,” she handed him the soon to be poison cup, “mine got lost after that tunnel collapse in Nordbotten.” 

“Life’s not fair, recruit, drink up.” 

She eyed him and the glass he’d slammed in front of her warily before accepting her fate, knocking the bottom on the table and then into her mouth. 

It tasted like cherry flavored lamp oil with a hint of turpentine and anise seed, “oh, Andraste’s flaming arsehole, that’s terrible.” 

“Yeah,”�� Davrin smacked his lips together in distaste, “too much of Lucanis’ good stuff. Our taste buds are growing back. Want another?” 

“You still want the answer to your question?” He nodded. “Then, yeah, give me another.” 

“So?” 

“I don’t know,” Davrin gave her a very dissatisfied look, though it was the only honest answer she had. “It wasn’t a choice for me.” 

“Petty theft?” He raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. “I know, pedaling potions without a licence. Although you are a mage, so I’m guessing it was just plain old apostasy.” 

“Circle conscript.”

“You weren’t kidding about time running out,” Davrin’s face dropped into a grave expression. “How old were you?” 

“Old enough,” she tipped her glass into her mouth and told him the truth, “seventeen.” 

Davrin whistled, running his hands over his hair, “does Emmrich know?” 

She swallowed her throat growing tight, “no.” 

“But you’re going to tell him, right? Rook, you’ve got to tell him. He’s a good man, he doesn’t deserve…” 

“I will,” she folded her hands between her knees. “Just…not yet. I…let me have this, yeah? Just for a bit.”

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In bed but awake, Guim Tió (because)

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OC Vibe Games

No one asked, but here she is! Because I want to play too!

The Rules: Post a picture of your OC and then 4 random (or whatever number you'd like) photos with no explanation that conveys their vibe! Want to know why a certain picture represents the OC? You'll have to ask <3

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Beautiful art, but also can I just say. I've seen the half moon Dumbledore glasses, but Emmrich Volkarin wears pince-nez like Poirot. That's what's connected to one of those chains on his waistcoat. This person gets it. Fussy men wear fussy glasses.

Emmy doodles.

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do you think that dalish weddings ceremonies have rituals to “appease the dread wolf” as a blessing for the couple? like dressing up the fen’harel statue at the edge of camp with flowers and burning strong incense near it so he cant catch their scent. or symbolically “tricking” the wedding guests by baking a single pepper into the cake that ends up in someone’s slice for fen’harel’s enjoyment. basically doing things to make sure fen’harel doesn’t feel neglected so he won’t bring nightmares to your wedding night and misfortune to the marriage

and when lavellan marries the dread wolf she gets great amusement out of dressing him in flowers and giving him spicy cake

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you can only reblog this today