#the watcher and the crow

[slothquisitor]

On Matters of Inertia: Chapter Four

Summary: Oh, remember how I keep promising that Lucanis and Camina get a minute to themselves? Here it is. Definitely smutty, mind the rating adjustment on AO3. If that's not your cup of tea, I support you, just pick the story up after the break in the chapter. Lucanis/Rook, 4k.

Also on AO3.

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The hour is late by the time the dining room finally clears, by the time everyone drifts slowly to their own rooms, clearly reluctant to leave. It’s almost as though everyone, Lucanis included, believes that if they simply don’t sleep that this doesn’t have to end. Because it does feel like an ending of sorts, he can feel it. Feel all the ways that this team they’ve built is going to change in the coming days and weeks. They have done what they set out to do, and though he wishes otherwise, everything is changing. 

He takes comfort in the familiar pressure of Camina’s hand as they make their way to her room. The pantry was closer, but he had considered the idea of inviting her into the dark, cramped room and his narrow bed, and thought better of it. Instead, he had happily followed her through the Lighthouse.

Camina pauses at the door, looking as though she’s suddenly remembering something. “Um, hold up for just a moment.”

“Is everything alright?” he asks, unsure what to make of her hesitation. He has no concerns about their commitment to each other but wonders if perhaps his insistence at being by her side has overwhelmed her. This is still new, and they are still learning each other.  

Camina shakes her head and sighs in exasperation. “Yes, it’s just…my room changed.”

Whatever he has expected she might say, it is not this. “Changed? How?”

“Well, you know how everyone’s rooms sort of added things? Mine…never did that. My room never populated with bookcases or plants or decorations. Everything in it, I put there myself…but when we got back earlier…it had changed.”

And however it changed, it’s made her nervous. He looks at her door. “Can I see?”

She nods. “Sure.”

He drops her hand, opening the door and slowly making his way into her room. She’s right; the room has changed. “There’s a bed.” It sits on the far wall, the chaise and shelves behind it have shifted to the outer corners of the room. 

Spite perks up. “Room for us? We stay with Rook?” Well, he can’t say he necessarily disagrees with the demon in his excitement. 

Her arms are tightly folded, and she follows slowly in his wake. “Yeah, just showed up.”

“And you’re…not happy about it?”

Her words are a quick-moving stream. “No, I’m thrilled about it…but uh…I know that we’ve been sharing a room, but we haven’t talked about what the plan now we’re back here, and I just don’t want you to feel pressured or like I’m trying to…move you in without talking to you first-”

So that’s what all her nerves are about? She’s worried about scaring him off? The idea is as ridiculous as it is incorrect, but even knowing she had the concern warms something in his chest. He’s not used to care and concern, but of course, she’s always been this way, even when he rejected it. 

He can think of no better answer to her unasked question than closing the distance between them, taking her face in his hands and kissing her soundly. He drinks down her surprise, her delight. Kissing Camina still feels like a novelty, still gets his heart racing, his breath coming in short gasps. Her lips are soft, and she tastes like the after dinner coffee he served everyone with dessert. He presses her back against the wall, caging her in with his body and enjoying every point of contact between them, the way she draws him in closer. She is always pulling him in, pulling him closer, hands outstretched in offering, and now that he has figured out how to take them, he finds it difficult to let go. 

Usually, he is the patient one, drawing out each kiss, each touch while she sprints ahead enthusiastically, but right now, too many days of pent up desire have his hands already fighting at the buckles of her clothes and unbuttoning his own. He’s still surprised by the insistence, the wanting, of his own body. She pushes his shirt off of his shoulders and runs her hands over his chest, every touch leaving a trail of exquisite heat. 

He presses his thigh between her legs and is rewarded with a soft moan as she pulls him closer, the kiss all tongues and teeth. The first time they’d been together like this, he’d been so nervous, so uncertain. He trusts himself more now, trusts his instincts, trusts that Camina isn’t shy about letting him know when she’s enjoying something. She is his favorite puzzle, and everything about this is still so new, still very much a game of trying things to see how she reacts, doing everything he can to earn gasps and sighs of pleasure from her lips. He’s so busy chronicling her reaction to the way he palms her breasts through her shirt that he’s taken by surprise when she switches their positions. 

Now she’s bracketing him against the wall as she kisses down his throat. He feels utterly at her mercy, and there’s something intoxicating about it, in entirely ceding control to her. It’s strange to find how much he wants to. She bites gently along his neck, not enough to leave a mark, but enough that he feels the bright flash of pleasure before she moves lower. She kisses down his chest as she works at his belt, and then she’s sinking to her knees. Mierda. He’s imagined this, of course, he’s imagined this, but it is one thing to fantasize and another to be met with the full force of her glancing up at him, the way she presses a kiss just beside his navel and waits.

He’s breathing hard, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he stares down at her. She grins, her amethyst eyes bright. “Is this alright?”

He doesn’t trust himself with words, so he just nods, probably too enthusiastically. She laughs and catches his hand, guides it to gather her long, dark hair that hangs loosely about her shoulders. “Hold this for me, will you?” 

The silken strands tangle in his fingers, but he does as he’s told. She opens his trousers before working on his small clothes. Every moment feels like an eternity. He’s pretty sure that if she puts her mouth on him he might die, and yet, he has never wanted anything more. There’s some relief when she releases him, his cock bobbing against his stomach, a bead of precum already leaking from the tip. 

He’s distantly aware that he’s very nearly trembling for want of her touch. He can’t remember a time when he’s been more desperate for anything, and Camina seems to have noticed the fact as with brutal slowness she wraps her hand around his cock and pumps him once. Her touch is nearly his undoing; he finds his hips moving of their own accord, seeking friction from her hand. It is only then that she leans in, running her tongue along the length of his cock before taking him into her mouth. 

Lucanis finds himself reaching out blindly, looking for something to hold to that isn’t her; he only finds implacable stone, fingers scraping against it uselessly. She catches his hand in hers and gives him an anchor he desperately needs. 

Her mouth is warm and perfect, and he finds himself rather shocked by the sort of agonized sounds she draws from him as she works him. It takes every bit of his considerable discipline to keep his hips more still than not. Maker, none of his imaginings did this justice. He’s torn between watching her, the rhythmic movement of her mouth and hand and simply tipping his head back and getting lost in this. The pleasure builds and builds until he’s not sure he can survive another moment of it… 

She pulls back, grinning up at him. “What was that? My Antivan’s too rudimentary to parse if that was a curse or a praise.”

He wasn’t aware he’d said anything aloud, actually. He shudders as her thumb rubs the tip of his cock. If she keeps this up, this evening will be over before they even make it to the bed. He reaches for her, hauls her to her feet and back into his arms. “Must have been praise, I’d never curse you.” And then he kisses her with enough force to bend her back against his arms. 

He feels more than sees her grin against his lips. “We can work up to that.”

Lucanis chuckles as he half-carries, half-leads her to the bed, working to discard the rest of her clothes. Her pants get caught on her knee, and there’s some hilarious fidgeting and not a small amount of laughter from both of them as they work to free her of them. Neither of them are particularly interested in stopping running their hands over each other and pressing their mouths to whatever expanse of skin they can reach, so it takes far longer than it should. She is so good at taking the moments that might have been awkward and turning them around into something that gets them both laughing. There’s a sweetness to the way she pokes fun at them both that feels both like an invitation as well as a reassurance.  

It is easy then to discard his own nerves, to lay her back against the edge of the bed, mouth following the sweep of his fingers across her shoulders, her breasts, her stomach. Her skin is like silk, and he can’t seem to get enough of it. Dropping to his knees at the edge of the bed, he kisses the inside of her knee as he runs his hands up her thighs. “My turn?”

Camina looks both surprised and delighted before snagging a pillow for her head and leaning back. “Yes, please.”

He has a rather unparalleled view of her glistening, pink folds from here. He’s figured out how to pleasure her with his fingers, but this is new territory. He feels grateful that they managed to work through most of the awkwardness last time, but his thoughts still snag. “Direct me a bit?”

Her amused smile is a soft thing as she looks at him, hair pooling around her, laid out before him like a goddess. “Don’t overthink it, and don’t be afraid to use your hands.”

Lucanis leans in without a second thought, tongue pressed against her sex. She tastes of salt and something that evades words but that is so distinctly her. She gasps, fingers sliding into his hair. He presses in deeper, licking and tasting and chronicling every sound and movement. Her fingers in his hair oscillate between gentle and merciless depending on what he’s doing with his tongue, and he learns quickly what she prefers.  

He does eventually use his hands to part her folds so he can press his tongue inside of her; he’s pretty sure that earns him a whine and his name. But she still hasn’t come yet, so he slowly eases one finger and then another inside of her before wrapping his lips around her clit and sucking lightly. He certainly hasn’t done this before, but he has a good memory for these scenes in the romance novels he enjoys, and he’s relying on them and Camina’s responsiveness to pull him through. She orgasms with a sigh, his tongue circling her clit, and he can’t help smugly glancing up at her while he works her through the aftershocks. 

There is something about seeing her like this, flush creeping across her breasts and up her neck, that feels like a secret pressed between them. A shared vulnerability in letting each other close enough to hurt and trusting they won’t.

“Lucanis,” she whispers, and it’s the best thing he’s ever heard. He kisses his way back up to her mouth. 

“Hmmm?”

Her eyes are a little unfocused as she brushes his hair out of his face. “I want you.”

“You have me,” he replies simply. In far more ways than one.

Her fingers guide his cock to her entrance, hips shifting impatiently against him. He teases her a bit, earning him a scowl and a biting kiss to his lower lip. As soon as she’s not expecting it, he presses into her, forehead resting against hers. Her legs lock around his waist, as though she could eliminate all space between them. There is nothing in this world better than these moments, their bodies moving together and Lucanis unsure where he ends and she begins. He no longer feels himself as a separate being, has no sense of whose hand is whose, whose hair is in his mouth.  

He continues to be gentle with her though he senses he needn’t be. That perhaps she wouldn’t mind if he was a little rougher in these moments, but he finds his hands feel too used to violence that he doesn’t dare hold her with anything but deliberate tenderness. Still, she comes around him with a sigh, and he follows her shortly after, his own release cresting like a wave. 

“I love you,” he manages, pressing kisses against her cheek, her forehead, her neck, her ears, wherever he can reach. 

Her voice is so quiet when she speaks. “We’re really here, aren’t we?”

Lucanis pulls back enough to look at her, at the tears that collect in her eyes before spilling over, running into her hair. He smoothes the lines of her forehead with his hands, catching tears on his thumbs. He knows she’s been unsure of her reality, worried that this is all some trick of the Fade. No one has ever sought certainty from him that wasn’t a blade, and every time she does, something in his chest catches. He’s never sure of the words, but he tries anyway.

“We are.” 

He can feel her hold on him tightening. “We really made it.” 

It does not escape him that it was in this very room, skin to skin, where she promised him they’d make it through that final battle. That it is only in her relieved wonder that he sees just how much of that insistence was optimistic bravado. 

“We did.”

There are still tears leaking from her eyes as she nods. “I love you, too.”

She’s felt so fragile in his arms these last few days, so unwilling to trust herself, but in this moment, together, everything feels whole.

***

Laying tangled together in bed with Lucanis might be Camina’s favorite thing. It’s late, and she can tell they’re both feeling the exhaustion of the last few days, but she’s sure that the only way they actually sleep tonight is by accidentally drifting off. These moments with him feel soft, blurred out around the edges in the candlelight. After days of nothing but stolen moments in a city that made them both anxious, it feels nice to finally be together without an expectation or a deadline hanging immediately over their heads. 

He holds her carefully, the awe never leaving his eyes. With the full force of his attention on her, it’s easy to feel safe, cherished in a way she’s never known before. 

“Why were you worried that the appearance of a bed might trouble me?” he murmurs in the quiet between them. They face each other, blankets pulled up around them and legs twisted together. They’ve both cleaned up before returning to the bed, but neither of them have bothered with clothes, content to be skin to skin. 

She sighs. “A worry more to do with me than you. Truly.”

“I’d hear it anyway.”

He has never given her a single reason to doubt him, but some part of her worries that the newness of what they are might break or fracture under the pressure they’ve been up against. Now that there is no insurmountable threat to face, they will not find a way to make their angles fit together.

“I know that I can sometimes push for things before others are entirely ready. It’s ruined more than one relationship in the past. I don’t want to make those same mistakes with you,” she says. “This is so new, and we haven’t discussed much about the future…I didn’t want to scare you off.”

He brings her hand to his heart. “My future is you.”

He says these things so confidently, with such certainty it’s easy to forget that there are other forces beyond this room. “You say that like there’s nothing that could keep us apart.”

“We have faced gods and monsters and archdemons. I have faith in us. In this.”

And maybe it could be that simple, and maybe for tonight it can be. He has promised to be by her side even in the Crossroads, so she should simply enjoy what they have now instead of worrying about what might come later. “Perhaps you have a point.”

He smiles softly, leans in to kiss her gently. “For the record, the bed doesn’t scare me.”

She gestures at their position on said bed with a grin. “I’d gathered that much. You’re welcome to it.”

He arches an eyebrow. “A standing invitation?”

“I like waking up beside you,” she replies. 

“I’m more than happy to oblige. Though, I think I’ll still keep the pantry for my own use…just to have a space that is mine….I…I still sometimes need a place to retreat.”

She runs a hand through his hair. “I know. That’s what I was worried about. I don’t want you to feel suffocated or like I’m rushing you.”

“You’re not,” he assures her. “If anything, I worry that it’s the other way around. I feel like I’ve been waiting for you for my entire life, and now you’re here, and I was better at reminding myself we had time before you got pulled into the Fade.”

“Sometimes I feel like I’m still trying to make my way back,” she confesses. “I look around a room and I wonder what in it isn’t real. I still don’t know how I didn’t notice…I worry it’s because I didn’t want to.”

“When I got out of the Ossuary, I kept catching myself thinking about it…that cell. About how to get out, even though I was already free. You know what helped?”

She shakes her head.

“Time.” He twists a strand of her hair in his fingers before turning his gaze on her. “And you.”

She kisses him then, short and sweet. “Well, I think we’ve finally found ourselves with time.”

He glances off to the side, his attention over her shoulder. He nods. “I’ll ask.”

“Spite?”

“Yes. He’s wondering if he could try…touch. I think he sees us enjoying moments like this and wants to understand why,” Lucanis explains, voice filled with trepidation. “Is that okay with you?”

“Of course. Is it okay with you?” She’s still not entirely sure how he’s able to be so okay with sharing his body, handing over control, but she watches him make the choice every day to honor whatever the terms of his agreement with Spite are. 

He shrugs. “Seems a little unfair to not be. But…I don’t…you always seem okay with him.”

“He’s part of you. The two of you are a package deal,” she replies simply. “Besides, all my Necropolis training has got to be good for something these days. Helping wrangle your somewhat bloodthirsty demon seems as good a use as any.”

“You’ve no idea how often he offers to kill people on our behalf,” Lucanis says with exasperation, pulling away so they’re no longer touching. “Behave, Spite.”

And then in a blink, his eyes shift to the tell-tale purple gleam that shows her it’s Spite at the helm. She’s used to this now. Most evenings, Spite requests time to talk to her. He wants stories and answers to questions, wants to write poems and have her read them aloud. She’s more than happy to accommodate that, but this is the first time Spite has expressed interest to her in anything beyond talking. She gets the feeling that Spite uses Lucanis to interact with the world for lack of any better means, but he doesn’t seem particularly interested in being in Lucanis’s body more than he must. 

“Rook,” he rumbles, Lucanis’s lips tipped up into a smile that is just a touch sharper than is natural. 

“Hello, Spite,” she says. “I hear you want to try touching?”

“Yes. Rook and Lucanis touch all the time. Hands against hands. You like touching,” Spite says.

She nods. “I do.”

“Lucanis says I have to ask first.”

She chuckles. “It is usually considered polite. You have my permission.”

Spite holds Lucanis’s hand out, palm facing her. She presses her own hand against it, fingers interlocking with his. Spite watches with fascination, twisting her wrist back and forth and pulling their hands closer to his face as he inspects them. 

Then, he unceremoniously drops her hand and reaches for the rest of her arm, rubbing mostly gently up and down from shoulder to elbow, occasionally squeezing lightly on the skin. His face looks distinctly unthrilled. 

She does her best to stifle her laughter. “Well, what’s the verdict?” 

“Warm and squishy,” Spite replies, looking rather troubled. 

“A glowing review.”

Spite’s face shifts from troubled to outright disgusted, and he’s shaking his hand. “Ugh. Why hair?” 

A strand of her hair is caught in the calluses of Lucanis’s hands. She reaches out and plucks it free. “There.”

“Lucanis has so much hair. Why hair? It does not stay in place. It falls out. And skin? Skin is not my favorite. Rook is my favorite, maybe better without skin, though,” Spite says. 

“Unfortunately, to be alive, I must keep my skin on.”

“I don’t like it.”

This is not going terribly well. For a spirit, she imagines that all the sensory input Spite receives through Lucanis is probably overwhelming. “Do you want to try something else?”

“With skin?”

“Kind of. Lay down and get comfortable.”

Spite puts his head back on the pillow, watching her with interest. She reaches out slowly, and Spite grins ferally. “It’s polite to ask first.”

Well, she should have known that would come back to her. She laughs. “May I touch you?”

Spite looks very pleased with himself. “Yes.”

And then she slowly and carefully runs her hands through his hair, gently dragging her nails against his scalp in the way she knows Lucanis enjoys. His eyes slide shut, and he makes a deep, rumbling sound that lets her know he’s definitely enjoying this too. She keeps at it for a while, and he seems quite content. 

After a while, she pauses. “Skin isn’t so bad now, huh?”

Spite glares at her. “Skin's still bad.”

And then in a blink, he is gone and it is Lucanis looking at her, hand still in his hair. “He’s pouting. What did you do?” he asks, but he sounds borderline delighted. 

“You have a very dramatic demon.”

He cocks his head a little, clearly listening to whatever Spite is saying. Not for the first time, she finds herself rather jealous of Emmrich’s ability to hear him. It’s clear Spite has said something amusing by the almost fond smile Lucanis has on his face. 

“I’m currently getting a tirade against hair instead of skin,” Lucanis whispers conspiratorially. 

She laughs and snuggles closer to Lucanis. “Technically, hair is a modified form of skin.”

“You’re not helping,” Lucanis replies, but his arms are tightening around her, and she feels his lips brush against her forehead. 

“Not helping you .” 

“You know, you can occasionally be on my side,” he says without any true annoyance. 

“I’ll definitely take that under advisement.” She can feel sleep pulling at her, tugging her down. As her eyes fall shut, but she’s almost sure she sees the purple gleam of a wing encircling them both. 

Likes and reblogs are love!

[rondanchan]

Mara and Lorelei and Anya and Watcher

[flowersforthemachines]

Rook Joins the Book Club - Mod

As one of the many people sad that Rook wasn't included in the Book Club, I set out to fix it by editing the codex entries in the game :)

There are 6 versions of the mod available, one for each faction. Here is a showcase of the Warden version:

The rest of the entries can be found under the cut.

Crow Rook:

Lord of Fortune Rook:

Shadow Dragon Rook:

Veil Jumper Rook:

Mourn Watcher Rook (typo in the word "possession" is fixed in the latest version of the mod):

[spooky-cryptid-friend]

I think most of the life series fandom know about the Crow Curse (Lizzie saving Jimmy from the Canary Curse in secret life), but I don't think it really counts as a curse seeing as it only happened once. what I propose is the Shadow Curse, which is where Lizzie's deaths are always overshadowed or otherwise "not about her".

Starting in Last Life, her first death was escaping Joel as the Boogeyman, about breaking his curse rather than it being her fault. Her second life goes a similar way, to Joel by the Boogey curse. Her next life goes in a trap that could have killed anyone, it didn't matter. All that mattered was that the Boogey was cured. Then we have her final death in Last Life by Bdubs, and it wasn't about her. It was about clearing his name and proving something to Etho. She was just a convenient life.

Her next series was Secret Life, where she is most known for breaking the Canary Curse. Not something she built, not a relationship to another player, but her sacrifice to the Watchers and freeing Jimmy. Her first death was barely noticed, not even due to a player but a skeleton. Her second was by Jimmy, who didn't even know who she was or why she was there. Then her last life was a failed red kill, she tried to kill Scott but failed. She took too long, and looked an enderman in the eye. What killed her wasn't Scott's revenge, or an avenging ally of his, it was just a silly mistake.

Then in Wild Life we see this pattern of deaths being insignificant or inpersonal continue. She was killed twice by Skizz to get back to being a Yellow name, and once again we see that she was just a source of lives for the other players. Killed by Jimmy to get back to yellow again, this time it was consensual but still about someone else. Killed by a vex next, but it was lost in all the chaos of that session, then killed on a trap that again, could have killed anyone. Then finally, her last life, finally done on purpose by another player-- but it still isn't about her. It's about the rivalry between Jimmy and Grian. She was just caught in the crossfire. We don't even know her last words. And why should we want to know? She wasn't the important one in that scene, she was just an extra. The bait to Grian's trap. She never served any other purpose.

All of these details make her forgotten. All of them point to another player, if there was a player to begin with. She was just stuck in the crossfire, always overshadowed by someone else. And that's her curse. She will never be in the limelight. She will never be at the center of a conflict. She will always be in the Shadows.

Just like her name. Just like her nature.

(inspired by this post about lizzie being sacrificial lamb coded and it talks about a lot of similar things!

[loustica-lucia]

DATV — Rookery

One dagger, four Rooks... How are they gonna solve that?😂 (My Rooks Calico Aldwir, Priscilla Thorne, Alba de Riva and Kataqun Ingellvar)

For those completely off the loop, these awesome people are the english voices/mocap actors of Rook! Erika Ishii, Bryony Corrigan, Alex Jordan &Jeff Berg!

[corvidaearts]

Speaking of what @definitelynotshouting mentioned to the anons here, this is your hunger au arc 2 spoiler of the day!

unglitched versions of the wings under the cut:

[definitelynotshouting]

hunger au chap 11 is UP i am too exhausted to make a pretty post rn but I WILL DO SO LATER O7!!!!!

[batterycows]

Imagine if the Agents of Fen'Harel were still around in Veilguard (because I will forever mourn them) and there were hidden spies in every single faction. Gosh I kinda miss being betrayed

[slothquisitor]

Subliminal

Summary: In which I give the Blood of Arlathan quest actual consequences for at least Rook and Lucanis. Lucanis/Rook, hurt/comfort, 4.5k.

Read on AO3.

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Elgar’nan’s ritual in Arlathan Forest goes quickly from bad to worse. Lucanis is unprepared for the sheer overwhelming number of Venatori, for the way Elgar’nan’s power worms its way into their minds, for ending up trapped in a strange repeating loop of forest until Solas shows Rook the way out, but none of it scares him quite like Rook is right now. She’s moving too slow, and her own spells keep flying wide, missing their targets entirely. 

“Rook! Get out of there!” Neve yells. 

The Venatori are flinging spells at them relentlessly, but it’s like Rook can’t hear them. She doesn’t dodge, is only saved by Neve throwing up a shield at the last second. The heat of a fire spell turns to steam as it hits her frost shield. 

“Rook!” Neve yells again. “Venhedis. Lucanis, what’s wrong with her?” 

He’s not sure, but he stabs the nearest Venatori, doesn’t even watch them as they fall to the ground before hurrying to Rook. “Cover us!”

“You got it,” Neve replies, and he can feel the crackle of her ice magic behind him. 

He grabs Rook by the shoulders, isn’t heartened when Rook sways at the contact. Her eyes are unfocused. “Rook? Come on, talk to me. What’s going on?” 

He’s doing a bad job at keeping the panic from his voice as she doesn’t respond at all to his calls. Her head dips to the side, so he catches her face in his hands. “Rook! Are you with me? Camina?”

Her eyes focus on him, just enough. She winces. “I can hear them in my head. They’re so loud.” Her words are barely above a whisper and each one seems like a battle. Is she talking about Elgar’nan and Solas? 

“Arguing. Fighting. Hurting Rook,” Spite says. He can hear it too?

She’s lost color in her face, and her nose begins to bleed as he pulls her to the relative safety of a column. Mierda. This is bad; they do not have time for this. “We’ve got to keep moving. Can you do that?”

Rook nods weakly, holding onto her staff with both hands like a walking stick. 

He does not feel comforted. “I’ve got you, okay? Just stay behind me and Neve and keep moving.”

“What’s going on, Lucanis?” Neve calls, a hint of frustration in her voice. 

“We need to cover Rook. Solas and Elgar’nan are in her head,” he replies quickly. 

Neve’s eyes widen as she ducks with them behind the column he’s pulled Rook behind. “I hate that that sentence makes sense. Alright, stick close, Rook.”

Rook acknowledges them and then they’re all running, fighting through Venatori. He and Neve have the doubled job of fighting and protecting Rook. He can tell she’s doing her best, seems to have figured out that the more precise spells aren’t working for her, so she’s switched to calling up spirits from the ground. It makes everywhere they go more treacherous to travel, but it’s actually hitting the Venatori instead of going wide, so it’s hard to complain about it. 

Lucanis keeps checking behind him for Rook, making sure she’s still with them. He can tell she’s trying to rally, but the color has completely drained from her face and she keeps wincing at every movement. He’s slashing through Venatori crystals and Neve is doing her best to shield them from the flames of a construct, and it’s hard-fought, but eventually the Venatori around them are all dead. 

“There! The Dalish!” Neve says rushing forward and blasting the last crystal keeping the Dalish locked away. Nearly thirty men, women, and children huddle together looking at their rescuers with wide eyes. 

Lucanis leaves Neve to make explanations and reassurances to them as he falls back to Rook. She’s breathing hard and stumbling her way up the stairs. He catches her arm, steadies her. “I’ve got you.”

She attempts a smile in thanks, but it’s more of a grimace. “I really wish I didn’t have a front-row seat to how much Elgar’nan and Solas hate each other right now.” 

He wishes there was literally anything he could do about that. Bellara, Emmrich, Davrin, Taash, and Harding come around a corner on the other side of the platform the Dalish were being held on. In the distance, Elgar’nan’s archdemon roars. 

“We’ve gotta move!” Taash yells, waving them all forward. 

“Move where?” Davrin demands. 

“As far away from here as we can,” Neve replies, pulling an older elf to his feet. 

“Solas…says there’s…a safehouse…not far from here. The wards should shield us…the entrance is hidden in some overlapping rocks?” Rook leans more heavily into him and he steps closer to keep her upright. 

Her words are too quiet for anyone else to hear, so he quickly repeats them. Bellara nods immediately. “I think I know the place. Follow me!”

The rest of their companions are busy helping the Dalish, but Neve turns back to the two of them, hurrying over. “I’m shit at healing, but tell me where it hurts and I’ll do my best.”

Rook grits her teeth. “Oh, you know…I just have two gods in my head now instead of one….fuck...” The lighthearted sarcasm she so often employs is rather undercut by the fact she can’t quite finish a sentence. 

Neve looks less sure then but places a hand against Rook’s temple. He can feel her pull on the Fade, and Rook sways a bit. “How’s that?”

Rook’s eyes are somewhat unfocused again. “Better, maybe? I don’t know.”

“Either way, we’re out of time,” Neve says. 

“Go. I’ve got her,” Lucanis says. “Rook, can you move?”

“Right behind you.” But her words are shaky. 

He decides then not to let go of her, pulling one of her arms over his shoulder and wrapping his around her waist. And then they’re moving. It’s slow going, but they manage to keep up with the group for the most part, he can feel the magic in the air fading back to whatever passes for normal in Arlathan. 

“Can we stop a moment?” Rook asks weakly. 

“Rook,” he says with an air of apology. Not yet, they can rest when they get to Solas’s safehouse. But her feet stumble and he has to stop anyway, lest they both tumble to the ground. 

She pushes away from him and over to a nearby rock outcropping where she begins retching, leaning against the wall for support. Rook needs a healer and soon. He wishes he knew better how to help her, but she has no wounds he can see and there are no enemies for him to kill now. So he just steps uselessly forward, rubs her back while her body convulsed, and whispers reassurances he’s not sure he believes. When it’s over, she’s breathing hard, head resting against her hands on the rock. 

“Always glamorous, this saving the world business. I’m sorry,” she manages, glancing at him miserably. 

“You’ve nothing to apologize for. Can you keep moving?”

“Rook hurt?” Spite asks. 

“Something like that,” he replies. 

“Yeah.” But she winces a little as she straightens. “We lost the group, but I think I know where to go.” There’s an unspoken insinuation that it’s because Solas is still in her head. He’s known this as long as he’s known her, but it had never felt like something dangerous, like something that might hurt her. Solas had saved them, but he’s not sure about the cost. 

He closes the distance, letting her lean against him again. It hadn’t been a choice to touch her before, it was more panic and necessity. But further from danger, he can’t deny the way his breath catches when she touches him, shifting so he can easily wrap his arm around her waist. “I’ve got you,” he says. 

“I know.” It’s the steadiest she’s sounded since this all started. 

Lucanis keeps them both moving, one foot in front of the other, but he knows they’re finally close to safety when he catches sight of Taash running for them. 

“She need a healer?” Taash asks matter-of-factly. 

“Yes,” he replies at the same time as Rook insists ‘no’. 

Taash, for their part, looks unimpressed. “Tracks.” They step in, easily picking Rook up and carrying them. “I got her from here.”

Some part of him is grateful, he is tired. They have been fighting Venatori, running through ancient ruins, and he’s been half-running, half-dragging Rook through the maze of paths and trees to get here. But another part of him panics at letting go of her, as though relinquishing his hold on her might put her in more danger somehow. It’s ridiculous, so he lets her go and jogs to keep up with Taash’s longer strides. 

They lead them through some trees into a crack in the rock, easily hidden unless one knows exactly what to look for. On the other side of the rocks is a small grove. He sees Strife and a number of Veil Jumpers already here, carrying in supplies, and helping the Dalish. Tents are already being set up around the edges of the grove. 

Taash carries Rook to an elven woman with vallaslin over one eye, and they disappear into the nearest tent. He can only assume she must be a healer. He’s about to ask if he can follow when Neve comes to his side. 

“Strife doesn’t think the Venatori are following, but we’re going to wait it out here for a bit,” Neve says. “Is Rook okay?”

“She said that Elgar’nan and Solas were in her head. I’ve never seen her like that.” 

“We’re lucky it was only her Elgar’nan was affecting like that. Solas had to have known what was going to happen when he told her he was going to distract him…”

He doesn’t like that Neve has come to the same conclusion as him about Solas and his  ‘help’. It just means he’s probably right. He glances around at the Dalish clan, harrowed, but alive. “At least we saved the clan.”

Neve nods. “It is nice to get the job done. Seems to be happening more often these days.”

“Is that hope I hear?”

That earns him a tired attempt at a laugh. “Call it cautious optimism.”

Across the camp, he can see Davrin and Bellara working with the Dalish, talking and helping. Emmrich sits with some of the wounded, providing healing. Taash stands guard outside the tent Rook was taken into, and Lucanis doesn’t know what to do with himself. So he follows Neve and Harding and tries to be helpful, awkwardly accepting the gratitude of the elves, while he keeps one eye trained on Rook’s tent. 

Eventually, the healer emerges and has a conversation with Taash before stepping away. He breaks away from watching Harding start a fire to check in with them. 

“And?”

“Rook’ll be fine, but Nehna - the healer -  said she needs to rest. So I think we’re here for a while.”

Rook’s going to be fine. A weight lifts off of him. She’s going to be fine. 

“You can go in there if you want. I did ask, you know, in case you wanted to,” Taash replies with a bit of a knowing look. 

He does want to see her. Wants nothing more than to see for himself that she is fine, but first, the group should talk. “I’ll go after we update everyone.”

The group has mostly drifted together around Harding’s fire anyway. They’ve set down their weapons and are sitting around the fire finally taking a breath. He hasn’t managed to relax enough to do the same. Elgar’nan and his archdemon still feel too close, and he doesn’t trust Solas’s assurances this place is safe from his gaze. 

“Is Rook okay?” Harding asks. Everyone’s worried gazes let him know that they’re all just as concerned, but Harding is just the first to voice it. 

Taash nods. “She’ll be fine. Needs to sleep it off though. Maybe not the worst thing to do to wait this out here though?”

“Strife left a group of Veil Jumpers back at the crater, and he’s going to head back to check-in with them, see what Elgar’nan did after we interrupted. I thought I’d go with him,” Davrin says. 

“Your call. If I ever see that place again, it’ll be too soon,” Neve says. 

“Rook said we’re safe from Elgar’nan here and I’m sure he’s upset we interrupted the ritual, so it might not be the worst thing to wait it out until we hear from the Veil Jumpers,” Harding says. 

Bellara nods. “Besides, Strife asked some of the Veil Jumpers to see if they can figure out the wards on this place to replicate them elsewhere. I’d like to help with that if I can.”

“A very good idea. I will see if I can lend my expertise as well,” Emmrich offers. 

“Sounds like we’re waiting it out, then?” Neve asks. 

Lucanis is fine with that. “Yes.”

Their group thins as Davrin leaves with Strife, and Emmrich and Bellara go to assist the Veil Jumpers. Lucanis pads quietly over to Rook’s tent, some part of him expecting someone to stop him, to tell him that this isn’t allowed. 

But no one does. 

Inside the tent, Rook sleeps. Her face has regained some of its color, and she looks peaceful, no longer in pain. Something in his chest loosens. She’s fine. She’s going to be just fine. The tent is small, but she’s at least in a bedroll and under a blanket. Her armor sits in a neat pile by her feet. There’s enough space for him to sit without bothering her, so he takes a seat on the mat that covers the ground of the tent. 

“Rook?” Spite asks, peering towards her sleeping form. 

“Don’t wake her; she needs to rest,” he whispers. He expects Spite to argue, but he doesn’t, simply drifts back in his direction, settling into the silent vigil. 

Looking at Rook, he realizes this is the horrifying danger of finally having something to lose. There are no weapons in the world strong enough to solve gods fighting in her head. He had been able to do nothing except watch helplessly from the sidelines as she suffered. What sort of fight is that?

He sits beside her until his back is aching, and then he pulls his cloak off to create a make-shift pillow. He could divest himself of his armor and weapons, but he’d rather be ready in case. He stretches out carefully taking up only a little space and listens to the sounds of the camp beyond: the soft murmur of voices, the crackling of the fires, and the general relief permeating the movement of people who have just survived something horrifying. 

He fights sleep, at first. More out of habit than any real fear, but when he overhears the news that Davrin and Strife return with, he finally shuts his eyes. Elgar’nan had sacrificed the Venatori to his dragon. He’s sure the thought should horrify him, but he can only think that it’s what they deserve as he falls asleep to the soft sounds of Rook’s breathing. 

***

When Camina wakes, she doesn’t recognize the dark red canvas above her or the soft blanket she’s curled up under. Her head feels heavy like it’s somehow been filled with cotton, but it doesn’t hurt and that’s a relief. She’s not sure she remembers a time when she was in more pain than what had followed at the crater. She’d barely been able to put one foot in front of the other, her vision had been spotty and her head had felt like it was splitting open. Lucanis had to basically drag her here before Taash picked her up and carried her to the healer. That’s the last thing she remembers.  

She rolls over on the bedroll she’s sleeping in only to find that Lucanis is here, still in full armor. It’s a testament to how worried he was that he’s here at all, she knows that. She’s immediately filled with guilt. 

His head twists in her direction, eyes opening with a purple gleam. Ah, not Lucanis. 

“Rook?”

“Hello, Spite.”

Spite turns Lucanis to his side so that they are facing each other. He lays on the opposite end of the very small tent, giving her as much space as possible, she assumes. She wonders if he meant to sleep or not though his cloak is rolled up beneath his head. 

“Rook. Hurt?” It’s clear the demon is doing his best approximation of a whisper, but it’s more of a stage whisper than anything actually quiet. 

“I’m alright now.”

“They were loud,” Spite says. 

She frowns. “You could hear them?”

His face twists in disgust. “Shook the Fade. Hurt Rook. Lucanis worried.”

“Just Lucanis?” she asks teasingly. It has become no secret that Spite likes talking to her. Perhaps it is because she’s rather more indulgent of his questions than Lucanis usually is, but then Spite can talk directly to Emmrich, and still, his preference is her. He reminds her of Manfred sometimes with the questions and curiosity and attempts to understand the world. 

Rather than responding, Lucanis’s eyelids flutter as he wakes, Spite ceding control. She gets the feeling that if it weren’t for the communication barrier and his inability to interact with the world without Lucanis’s body, Spite wouldn’t spend much time there. He seems more often baffled by bodies than having any true interest in possessing Lucanis. 

“Hey.”

“I hope Spite didn’t wake you,” Lucanis says, a note of apology in his voice. 

“He didn’t.”

“How are you feeling?”

She feels much better than before. Her head is blissfully quiet. “My head feels funny. Foggy almost. Otherwise, fine.”

He looks relieved at that. “Good. You had me worried.”

“Thank you for staying with me and getting me out of there.”

“Always.”

“The Dalish?” she asks.

“All saved. Thanks to you,” Lucanis replies. Then his gaze skitters away and she braces for the bad news she can tell he’s about to deliver. “Elgar’nan was angry about the interrupted ritual. It sounds like he sacrificed the Venatori to strengthen his archdemon.”

So it had all been for nothing. The Dalish clan saved, but people died anyway. An archdemon strengthened. She tries to cover her disappointment, but he catches it anyway. “It could’ve been innocent elves…instead it was racist blood mages. We’ll get another chance at him.”

“We better,” she replies. “Is everyone waiting on me? Is that why we’re here and not at the Lighthouse?”

“I think everyone is still asleep.”

“So we have some time?” Just the two of them, in here? Alone? 

His answering smile is soft. “We do.”

“You don’t have a bedroll.” He is simply stretched out on the woven reed mat that covers the floor of the tent. 

“I didn’t exactly plan to sleep…I just…I wanted to be with you.” There’s something endearing about his earnestness, but there’s an undercurrent of clear worry in it too. Why else would he be here, in full armor if not for the fear?

She reaches across the distance between them and takes his hand. “I’m glad you’re here.” It’s not the first time they’ve touched like this, but it is the first time she’s reached for him. 

He doesn’t pull away and with his free hand, he carefully readjusts her blanket so that it once again covers her shoulder. “I’m glad you’re alright.”

She remembers the splitting headache, the way her vision had blurred. But she also remembered him, cradling her face and calling her back. “You called me Camina.”

The uncertainty is clear in his eyes, and she worries she’s pushed this too far. He sighs. “I didn’t know what was happening. I was trying to get your attention.”

It had worked; she remembers the way he’d come back into focus. As terrified as she was, he had been there and he had been calling her name. “It was nice.”

He seems to be considering her words. “You told me once that you wished there was somewhere you just got to be Camina.”

It had been a comment tossed out in a moment of vulnerability months ago at the beginning of all of this. But he remembered. It makes her want to be brave. 

“Maybe…when it’s just us…when we’re like this…”She doesn’t know what else to call this, what they are, but when he looks at her like that, she’s almost sure. 

He shifts a little closer to her, a finger reaching out to carefully tuck her hair behind her ear. “Camina.” The way he says her name is careful, as though it is something delicate on his tongue.

She wants to lean into that touch, wants to draw him closer. She wonders for a moment if he’s going to kiss her the way he didn’t in the pantry. Especially as he carefully runs the back of his fingers across her cheek before tracing the line of her nose. His brown eyes are soft in the half-darkness, mouth parted a little as though he is in awe that this moment exists at all.

“You’ve never told me how you got this,” he says, fingers gently gliding across the scar that spans the bridge of her nose.

“It’s a silly story,” she breathes, wishing he wouldn’t stop touching her. 

But he pulls back. “Tell me.”

So she does. She tells him of a night filled with all the belief of invulnerability that youth brings. She tells him how the halls had always called to her, and so one night when she answered, she’d found herself followed by her newest friend: Willow. She tells him of the wisp that had led them down into a place that felt unexplored, uncatalogued. She had caught sight of a funerary urn and had wanted to read the name etched into the clay, but it had been too high up to see properly. Will had been busy exploring another part of the tomb, so she’d climbed the stone recesses containing the bones of the dead to reach it. She’d just grabbed hold of it when the stone had crumbled beneath her boot. She’d found herself falling and she’d done what she could to protect the urn, and in so doing, it had landed on her nose, cutting across the bridge. It had hurt, but she still remembered Will’s laughter echoing off the stone, the way she had joined her even as Will had pulled a bandage from her satchel to mop up the blood. The way Will had carefully been her eyes as she’d clumsily attempted to heal her injury then and there. The way that night had cemented their new friendship. 

“Why didn’t you just ask Will for help getting the urn?” he asks. 

“How would she have helped? We’re the same height. Besides, I’m impatient and bad at asking for help, you know that.”

He chuckles. “I do.”

“I could have gone to a Watcher healer after, they probably would have made the scar a bit less noticeable…but I didn’t,” she says, the words a hushed whisper in the quiet darkness that covers them like a blanket.

“Why not?” he asks, thumb brushing her knuckles. 

“I found I didn’t mind it…or the reminder of the night.” She’d been so unsure about Willow, about their new friendship until the moment Will had seen her laying on her ass at the bottom of a tomb and burst into laughter at the same time she reached into her bag for her healing kit. 

“It suits you; you’re beautiful.” He says it with such quiet awe, with such focused intensity she cannot help but blush. In Nevarra, beauty always felt unattainable. It was lush gowns and arms full of golden bangles. It was Van Markams and Forsythias and Pentaghasts and country homes. Beauty always felt gated behind the etiquette that still doesn’t feel second-nature to her no matter how many classes the Watchers made her sit through.

But she knows what he finds beautiful: a sunrise in Treviso, a good cup of coffee, a sharp, well-maintained blade, a collection of words in a book…He doesn’t use the word lightly, and to know she is included in that venerated list makes her want to close the distance between them. She wants to trace her own fingers across his cheek and ask him about his scars and their stories. 

But she doesn’t because she is afraid of spoiling what she does have with hopes for more. They have made no declarations and the only promises they carry between them are spun sugar soft and just as fragile. She still remembers too clearly the way he had pulled away in the pantry; she still hasn’t found the courage to ask why. 

“Thank you,” she murmurs, squeezing his hand lightly, as much a reminder to her of this connection as punctuating her words. “Do you have any scars?”

“A few,” he says. “I don’t know any assassin that doesn’t.”

She waits him out, the unanswered question hanging heavy in the air. 

When he begins speaking the words are muffled, rushed together. “There was a job in Orlais and I found myself on the wrong end of a chevalier’s blade, it cut me right here.” He gestures to his left side, right on the ribs.

He tells her a story about breaking into some lavish chateau outside of Val Royeaux, of sneaking in through windows and creeping through the quiet. Of finding his target, a Comte, ready to dispatch him, but the Comte had swapped places with a chevalier, so he’d wound up in an unexpected fight with an imposter and had to scour the house for the real Comte afterward. He’d found him cowering in a nearby linen closet.

“He caught me by surprise,” Lucanis says, sounding almost impressed. “It was a good plan, it might have even saved him if I hadn’t known the Comte couldn’t fight.” 

“How did you know?” she asks. 

“He’d sent his brother off to fight for Grand Duke Gaspard during the civil war in his place, and he was the one who paid for the contract.”

“His own brother?”

Lucanis sighs. “Orlesians.” He says it with exasperation as if his own cousin hadn’t just tried to get him killed. If he catches the irony, he gives no indication of it. 

“Does it ever bother you? Your job?”

“No, death comes for everyone. I’ve never killed an innocent by my count. It is a solitary sort of occupation though. I hadn’t realized that until I joined this team. Though I could do without the dragons if it’s all the same to you.”

“And gods fighting in my head,” she agrees.

He glances at the comfortable tangle of their fingers before meeting her gaze. “Even so, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

When he looks at her like that, her stomach does a little flip. She hopes he can’t tell. “Laying on the hard ground in a tiny tent after fighting through scores of Venatori?”

The corners of his mouth tip up at her attempt at a joke, his gaze filled with nothing but fondness. “With you.”

And if that isn’t a declaration, what is?

Likes and reblogs are love!

[bumblewarden]

*I know some of the factions seem to preclude Dalish Rooks, but the question doesn't necessarily have to mean born and raised Dalish if you don't want it to. It could also refer to a Rook born to the Dalish and raised elsewhere or who adopted Dalish culture later in life. It's up to your personal interpretation

I'd love to include more nuance options in the actual poll, but this is already at the maximum number of buttons

[flowersforthemachines]

Useless Veilguard fact of the day: Day 139

Crow and Mourn Watcher Rooks are the only ones who are verbally referred to by their last name in the game (other last names are mentioned only in letters).

Viago: You're a Crow and a de Riva. You're expected. Emmrich: I heard a young Watcher, Ingellvar, put a stop to it through unorthodox measures. Rook: And got into trouble. It was decided it might be best for that young Watcher to see the world... Mourn Watcher NPC 1: There was a possessed dragon, and I missed it? Mourn Watcher NPC 2: Apparently Ingellvar took care of it. Mourn Watcher NPC 1: I heard he's/she's/they're going by Rook these days.

Check out the tag for more useless facts: #useless davg fact of the day!

[spiralhouseshop]

BACK IN STOCK!

Six Ways: Approaches & Entries For Practical Magic by Aidan Watcher

By Rust of Nail Prick of Thorn: The Theory and Practice of Effective Home Warding by Althaea Sabastiani

Backwoods Witchcraft: Conjure & Folk magic from Appalachia by Jake Richards

The Green Witch's Oracle Deck by Arin Murray-Hiscock

Morbid Magic: Death Spirituality and Culture from Around the World by Tomás Prower

Labyrinth Tarot Deck

Crow Tarot

Art Magick: An Inspiration Deck for Creativity by Molly Roberts

Modern Witch Tarot Deck by Lisa Sterle

[chaosherald]

A Word with Friends (2 of 2)

Started by @hedwigoprah , hosted this week by @seaglassmelody

Tags for anyone who wants in <3

This week's word is: Sanguine

Definition (Adjective): optimistic or positive, especially in an apparently bad or difficult situation.

(Totally different vibe from entry #1 😂 Takes place pre-Tearstone Island, post almost everything else. Established Rookanis. Mourn Watcher Rook takes a field trip with Jacobus. I am very much on team "Rook gets to adopt Jacobus and eventually the rest of house Egrativi" - even if my girl isn't a crow, she is marrying into that whole world and she has a thing about making sure orphans find a family, whatever that ends up looking like. Also fun to lean into the Mourn Watcher doing necromancy around outsiders thing. ^⁠_⁠^ )

Rook leaned against the railing, watching Lucanis, Teia, and Viago grow more animated as they conversed in rapid fire Antivan. Crow business, Lucanis had said apologetically before leaving her to her own devices in the balcony above the Cantori Diamond. It probably would have been safe enough for her to head back to the lighthouse on her own, but she knew Lucanis would worry and she was loath to waste what little time the two of them had together.

Well, three of them. Spite was making an effort to be seen, at least by Rook, and it was getting harder to keep a straight face as he stalked behind Viago, alternating between parroting his stern expression and pulling faces at him. How Lucanis was managing to focus on whatever business they were discussing was beyond her.

Movement to the side drew Rook’s eye from the Talons (and demon) to Jacobus, angrily stalking past Rook towards some of the plush chairs on the other landing. Heir was watching him with a long suffering look Rook knew well from her own studies, that of a professor at the end of their rope with a promising but stubborn student. With one last glance at Lucanis and Spite and the conversation in which she understood one word in ten, Rook followed the young assassin. 

Jacobus flopped onto one of the chairs, the grace of his training the only thing saving him from being the poster child of awkward teenage angst and drama. Rook sat down on a chair opposite, smiling at him. “I take it training is going well?”

Jacobus glared at Rook, but without any real heat. “We haven't even touched weapons today. All we've been doing is acting shit.”

“Oh?”

“You must school your expression, Jacobus. Be a mask,” he said, doing a solid impression of Heir. “When you are angry, appear sanguine. When you are flustered, wear confidence. When you know you have them, do not let an early victory cross your face and give away the advantage.” Jacobus grimaced, dropping back to his own voice. “Who cares what my face looks like? My knives send the message they need to send.”

“True,” Rook said, “but Heir’s job is to make sure you're the best you can be. Controlling what kind of information you are giving a target? Especially in a way most people don't think about? That's powerful.”

Jacobus didn't look convinced.

Rook smiled, quirking a brow. “Like right now? Your face is saying ‘Rook, you are full of shit.’ You generally don't want your friends to know when you think they're being stupid.“

Now Jacobus looked away, a slight flush coloring his cheeks. “I don't think you're stupid. I'm just done with sitting around here making faces.”

“Well, if I promise to keep nagging you about your expression, do you think Heir would let you leave for a bit? I have an errand to run in town while Lucanis is occupied and could use some help.”

Jacobus grinned, springing to his feet, his excitement at possibly getting out of the Diamond and away from his training palpable. Rook could see why Heir wanted him to work on controlling his expressions. “Yes, absolutely. What do you need?”

“I need to find a place of unclaimed dead. A burial site. Or a place with a lot of shipwrecks or drownings. I know I've sensed some nearby.”

To his credit, Jacobus did a decent job guarding his expression. Slightly widened eyes and an almost imperceptible step back was fairly neutral as far as such things usually went.

“Now that wasn’t bad. You only look slightly horrified.” Grinning, Rook stood up. “Let's go clear our outing with Heir before the Talons finish their work.”

It didn't take long for Jacobus to lead them over the Crow’s Road to the waterfront in the drowned district. Along the way, Jacobus told Rook some of the stories he'd heard about the area he had chosen, stories of dumped bodies and squatters left to rot in abandoned, half flooded warehouses. Once they were on the ground, Rook took the lead, fade light seeping off her hands to make small dancing lights that guided her towards a likely target while imbuing Rook and the area around her with a diffuse green glow.

Jacobus kept his eyes away from the lights, face set and serious as he scanned the rooftops and alleyways around them. 

Rook glanced back at him. “You alright?”

“Yep,” he answered, a little too quickly. “This isn't creepy at all. I am also not thinking about what the First Talon will do to me If I let anything happen to his whatever-you-are while we're out here.”

Rook laughed. “I can see the worry in your face. Relax your brow and try not to be so obvious about checking every shadow.”

“I'm not going to slack on keeping watch,” he grumped, but Rook noticed he did make an effort to relax his face. “What exactly are you doing anyway?”

“I told you: looking for unclaimed dead.” Rook turned down an alley that ended at a canal, following the guide lights. “I have made contact with a knowledge spirit who is willing to help me with something, but we need a good vessel for it to talk through. It would like to experience the crossroads without fully manifesting outside the Fade. A skull with the right resonance would be the best amplifier while allowing it a presence at the lighthouse. It will essentially be a controlled haunting.”

Jacobus listened, pursing his lips in thought but otherwise keeping any confusion he might have had off his face. “Right. Sure. A skull for a spirit. What is the spirit helping you with?”

Rook kneeled by the edge of the water. “If I'm going to continue being the First Talon’s ‘whatever-I-am,’ I figured I should brush up on my Antivan.” Rook closed her eyes and reached a hand out towards the water, forging a connection with the skull she sensed a couple feet away buried in the silt. She could feel the magic swirling around her, pulling the skull up from the water, and levitating it just over her outstretched hand. She opened her eyes to look it over, glancing at Jacobus to see his reaction.

He was staring, but otherwise calm. “You're doing this for language lessons? Why not just ask Lucanis? Or hire a tutor?”

“I'd like to surprise him. And Knowledge was really excited by the idea. Something about the fascinating dialects and colorful turns of phrase. You know, you are being remarkably sanguine right now, Jacobus.”

Jacobus was leaning towards the skull, reaching out a hand to touch it, all calm curiosity. “Huh?”

“Necromancy makes most people uncomfortable” Rook said, reaching for whatever spark of its previous life still lingered around the skull. 

“Oh. I mean, I trust you. And I'm a Crow. I can handle a dead body or a bit of magic.” Jacobus’ face froze for a moment. “Though now I'm thinking about just how many dead bodies are in the canals and stuff that we don't know about.”

Rook smiled slightly. “Best not to think on that too much.” Rook let the magic around her fade, carefully taking the skull with both hands. “This skull belonged to a fisherman. He fell on hard times when one of the merchant princes negotiated exclusive rights to fish the best spots in the bay. He loved Treviso though and was intensely proud to be Antivan. Whatever the skull remembers of him seems amenable to helping.”

“Do you need it's permission? Like, can't you just make it do stuff with your magic?”

“Yes, but Watchers try to hold ourselves to higher standards.” Rook stood up, carefully wrapping the skull and securing it in her pack. “Imagine what a mortalitasi without such scruples could do in a place like this. Treviso has so many forgotten bones, waiting to dance.”

Jacobus paled slightly, looking back over the canal. “You could just summon skeletons out of the canals?”

Rook caught his eye, keeping her face blank, tilting her chin up slightly, channeling the imperious calm of some of the more intimidating of the senior watchers she had worked with over the years. “An undead army at the snap of my fingers. The stuff of nightmares.” Rook summoned another flare of veilfire, letting it shine from her eyes while small flames flared over the water behind her. “You can't tell if I'm joking or serious right now, can you?”

Jacobus had taken a full step back, hand drifting to one of his knives. “I - wait are you messing with me?”

Rook smiled, letting the veilfire go and waving a hand over her face. “Control your expression and you can control the conversation. See?”

“That's not funny, Rook.”

“But it is effective. Come on, let's get back to the Diamond.” Rook started walking back the way they came. “Besides, I will need someone to practice speaking Antivan with besides Knowledge. If you make a face every time I mess up a verb tense, it's going to be very discouraging.”

“Oh, I'm going make so many faces. Pained, disgusted, horror every time you mess up.”

Rook laughed, looking over her shoulder as she grabbed onto the trellis to climb back above street level. “Perfect. You practice controlling your expressions and I'll practice Antivan and we'll both master something new.”

Rook didn't quite understand the exasperated Antivan phrase Jacobus muttered as he followed her up the trellis, but she was pretty sure she got the gist. 

[2ndbestalex]

[paradox-crows]

I watched the watcher timeline map

I watched with horror as it unraveled

Its a fucking spiral

AND ITS FUCKING THREE DIMENSIONAL

[kantah]

in honor of bustafellows going on sale and season 2 coming out in english soon, i present the cast w/ florida man headlines corresponding to their birthdays (or at least the closest date)