Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Hair like fire cascading across freckled shoulders.

Hazel eyes lock on grey.

Their bodies intertwine under pale moonlight.

The pads of her fingertips trace the curves of her bosom.

Pert nipple, sensitive to touch.

Lips part, hot breaths mingle.

Small moans escape amidst the rhythm of their embrace.

Her core set ablaze with desire.

Worms.

What?

Worms tumble from the sky, writhing on the nape of her neck, burrowing into ears.

A dreamscape now torn asunder.

Rook peels her eyes open, pupils adjusting to the hues of her lighthouse chamber. An abrupt squawk catches her unawares. She whips her head to the doorway to find the source, to be met with the curious gaze of the fledgling griffon angled in curiosity.

"Assan? How did you..." As much as she enjoyed her little dream escapade, pre-worm that is, she could not muster any anger towards the innocent face staring back at her. "Never mind. Wouldn't be much of a Grey Warden if my dreams didn't turn into hellscapes."

With a heavy sigh she gathers herself from the settee and walks over to the door, left slightly ajar. Had I left it that way?

"There you are!"

Davrin flashes into view. Rook swears he can teleport. He is clearly out of breath and somehow looks more bedraggled than her. Has he been chasing Assan all night?

"Ah, Rook, sorry about him. He's taken to gallivanting around the fade, instead of staying sentry with his bodyguard." Davrin gives the young griffon a pointed look, clearly unimpressed. Without another word, he turns abruptly on his heels, berated cub in tow. Poor Assan.

Once safely out of view, thoughts return to a particular dwarven scout, and arousal now pools between her legs. Their interaction earlier that day had been awkward, to say the least. Being near Lace sometimes felt like being stripped of her heavy armour during combat. Laid naked and bare. She felt, vulnerable? It was a disquieting feeling, the power the sprightly Ferelden dwarf had over her. Clearly she's a Venatori spy, sent to fry my brain.

Thinking back to that touch, it was a unabashedly chaste. Hands briefly laid on top of each other, nothing more. Was that really all it took to turn her into a hot mess? Did all those years cooped up at Weisshaupt render her THAT touch starved? The answer is, unequivocally, yes. She will take any small crumb of intimacy and make a feast of it.

Realisation hit that she was thirsty, in both senses of the word. Abandoning the idea of a blissful slumber, she traipses off to the kitchen to, at the very least, quench her literal thirst.

As she enters, Rook's eyes fixate on the stove. Emmrich's lavender tea she muses. Since learning of her preference for tea over coffee, Emmrich had been kind enough to share his supply with her. She is still half-asleep, as she peers into the expanse of the tea caddy, looking for answers to questions she did not know to ask.

"A penny for your thoughts?"

As though she had laid hand on naked flame, Rook's arm shoots up and the caddy is hurled into the air. Dried tea leaves are displaced like confetti, covering Rook from the top down. Neve, Bellara and Lace (Lace!?) stare back at her, each bearing a small, apologetic smile.

"Maker! Shit, Neve!" Rook had failed to notice the coven of companions lurking in the darkened corner. Rook wonders how she has even survived this long with her head stuck in the clouds.

"Come 'ere."

Lace pads over to where Rook is stood, eyes downcast as to not meet hers. Rook is simultaneously relieved and disappointed. Did I do something wrong? She wonders. Grabbing an old washcloth from the basin, Lace vainly attempts to dab at leaves now firmly embedded in the fibres of her tunic. Rook takes a sharp inhale of breath, very much aware of the proximity between them as her heart pounds in her ears. She really should tell Lace to quit while she is ahead, but a part of her is enjoying the thrill of their closeness.

As the shorter woman works below her, a familiar scent meets Rook's nose; slightly floral, heather, combined with something earthier, akin to granite on a rainy day? It is intoxicating, and all she wants is to fill all her senses with Lace Harding. One moment at a time, she tries to quell jumbled, desperate thoughts.

As she dabs at fistfuls of cloth, Lace's fingertips accidentally meet a slither of exposed skin. Like in the greenhouse earlier, it fills Rook with that same drunken nausea, causing her to grimace. Did the dagger do this to Lace? Rook tries to collect her thoughts. The sensation was certainly familiar to her. Before she can quite place it, Bellara snatches her from her musings.

"Sorry! Let me make that tea for you, hm?" Rook is about to decline, but Bellara is already scurrying over to what remains of Emmrich's prized tea caddy.

I really need to reimburse him for that.

"So..." Rook pipes up, "what are you all doing, in the dark, in silence? Have I stumbled on some kind of meeting of the demonic arts, some kind of witch thing?"

"We've been having trouble sleeping." Lace replies, her eyes finally meet Rook's for a fleeting moment. Rook detects the faintest hint of colour in her cheeks. Has she been dreaming of me, of us? No, of course she hasn't. She feels her own cheeks burn as the thought passes, and averts her gaze to the ceiling.

Neve clears her throat. "It's not dark magic, sadly. Bel thought we'd try a type of elven meditation. Thought it may help to still our thoughts."

"To be honest, I've never been very good at it myself." Bellara fidgets in the corner. Rook agrees that stillness was never something she would associate with the elven bundle of nerves.

Acknowledging the futility in salvaging Rook's tunic, Lace grunts before casting the washcloth aside. "I could give this a proper wash. Or... I could make you a new one? Something that hugs your nice figure a bit better! I think I'd like to take your measurements first though." Catching herself, a dusting of pink returns to her cheeks. Rook's eyes are now fixated on the door to Lucanis' room. Her mind would probably implode if she chances another look at Lace now. She likes my body?

Neve hums and gives Rook a knowing look. "Don't worry, our dashing Crow is still in Treviso, and I doubt he'll be back anytime soon.” She gestures to the seats in front of her with an expectant look. “Come, why don't we sit and talk awhile?"

Rook really should salvage what little sleep there is to be had, but she is not quite ready to return to the isolation of her chamber. She enjoys the company of others more than she cares to admit. The four gather around the small table, mugs in hand.

Rook is startled to see Lace's hand reach up to her head; an attempt to relieve her hair of stray leaves. The Warden instinctively flinches from reach. "It's alright Lace, I'll bathe later," she explains, as gently as she can muster. Lace nods, but Rook recognises that look of dejection, filling her with an all too familiar guilt.

"Oh! Has anyone finished the novel for next week's book club yet?" Bellara asks in her usual peppy manner, drawing Rook from her brooding.

"Book club?" Rook's eyebrows practically shoot up to her hairline. "Is this something you all do?" The three other women exchange sidelong glances. Great, I'm basically the de-facto leader turned social pariah.

Bellara suddenly finds the handle of her teacup very fascinating, as if it bore the answers of the Nadas Dirthalen itself. "Well, yes, but I already feel bad that you can't participate, because, you know..."

Rook's confusion is palpable, "know what exactly?" She has no idea what Bellara looks genuinely torn up about.

"That you're, how should I put this, illiterate?"

Wait, what?

Bellara's eyes are now darting in all directions, as if they want to vacate her skull. "But, one of us could always teach you? If that's what you want of course. I'm not sure if it's a cultural thing, I didn't want to offend or anything..." She sheepishly cuts off her rambling to meet Rook's now stone cold stare.

"Illiterate?" Rook asks incredulously.

"Yes, it means you cannot read or write," Bellara responds, a bit too plainly. Rook was not sure whether to break down in hysterics or dropkick her off the side of the lighthouse.

"I know wh..." Rook bites her lip, deciding to give Bellara the benefit of the doubt. She chooses the diplomatic option. "Dearest Bellara, pray tell, what has led you to believe that I am illiterate?" She chews the inside of her cheek, as if to prevent her from saying something she may later regret.

"Well Taash said you were a warrior of the Orth people. You know, the nomad people from the Wandering Hills? Not that I mean to explain your own culture to you, I'm sorry!" Bellara was now covering her face with her hands. Rook knew Bellara was being completely sincere.

Perhaps a certain Qunari with a dragon fetish needs a good dropkick instead.

"Bellara, it's okay, but what else has Taash been saying?" Rook purses her lips, as much as she wants to put her out of her misery, she needed to know the full extent of these tall tales.

"Oh, were they not supposed to tell us!? They did say that it explains why your accent is funny."

Shit, is it?

"Oh and your name means something special in Orth, right? Something like 'Upright Druffalo?' I mean, that's quite lovely isn't it? I didn't even know they had Druffalo in Northern Thedas. I think it's really nice actually, how multi-cultural our group is! I'd love to learn more about Orth customs, like the facial scarification, I see that it's not something you've done, but I -"

Bellara is cut off by a loud, surprisingly un-ladylike snort from Neve, who is burying her face in a nearby cushion. Glad you're getting something from this Gallus . Rook chances a glance at Lace, a smirk dances across her face; an amused twinkle in her eye. Oh, so she also enjoys these jokes at my expense?

Allowing herself to smile, Rook has to give it to Taash, assuming it is the figment of a comedic imagination. At least, she hopes it is a jape.

"Bellara, I can read and write. My mother taught me. Also, as far as I'm aware, Eris Thorne does not mean 'Uptight Druffalo...'"

"Upright," Lace corrects, a grin stretching from ear to ear.

"Upright, uptight, whatever, but sorry to disappoint Bellara, I'm not Orth. The reality is much more mundane."

Bellara furrows her brow. "Wait, so your name isn't Rook Rook-Na-Rook?" This earns another snort from Neve.

How is she this gullible? A chuckle escapes Rook, "sadly not, although I do like the way that rolls off the tongue."

"Rook is just a nickname Varric gave her, he did that a lot, but this one kind of stuck around this time," Lace explains.

"The chess piece." Neve hums.

Understanding flashes across Bellara's face. Rook would be lying if she said that it did not amuse her to watch Bellara put all the pieces together. It is as if her whole world has been turned upside down, as though someone has told the poor girl that Thedas itself was nothing more than the passing thought of a nug.

"Okay, I understand Bellara, but why hasn't anyone else invited me to this book club?" Rook is not going to let Neve or Lace off the hook that easily.

"I just assumed you were too busy" Neve replies, in her signature matter-of-fact way. Eyes now turn to Lace.

"Well, I was going to ask you actually. I thought it would have been nice if we could read together, under my canopy?" She sounds expectant and both their faces burn furiously.

"That's sweet, actually, I'd like that," Rook replies, in almost a whisper. They share a shy smile. Damnit, you recovered from that one, you petite charmer.

Something then dawns on Lace. "Come to think of it though, I could tell you where everyone in this lighthouse is from except you Rook..."

Rook shuffles in her seat. "I thought it was already known that I trained with the Ward-"

"Before that," Lace interrupts, "Wardens have lives before they join, right? Nobody is born a Warden. You must have come from somewhere. Where were you born Rook?"

Rook did not want to be burdened by her past; joining the Wardens had been a sort of baptism; a woman born anew. At the same time, she kept everything bottled up for so long that if she started, she may not be able to stop. Perhaps this is what I need . And, well, it was Lace who wanted to know. The mere notion that she was interested in Rook sent her pulse racing. Definitely a Venatori spy..

Neve cocks her head to the side. "I'm curious too. With the dangers my line of work brings, I've been accustomed to doing background checks on those I work closely with. Except this time, I left it up to Varric's sterling taste in character." Neve reaches behind her to pull something from under her chair. "But.. .This requires something a bit more exciting than the tea of our mild-mannered necromancer." She holds a pair of brown corked bottles aloft. "Tevinter Red, just what we need to loosen some lips."

Before Rook can even think to decline, Neve is already pouring a hearty measure into her now emptied mug. "So, Rook, do reveal all." Neve winks.

Rook straightens her back, suddenly finding her chair distinctly uncomfortable. She considers myriad ways to phrase it before simply settling on -

"Brothel. Hossberg."

This answer sends Bellara into a coughing fit.

A loud groan from the dwarf next to her nearly sends Rook bolting for the door. "Ugh, Rook! Is this one of your weird jokes? Really, where were you born?"

Weird? First my accent and now my humour? Rook can do nothing but stare blankly at her.

Lace narrows her eyes, scrutinising Rook's expression - "huh, wait, you're actually being serious for once aren't you?" For once? Rook gives her a small nod. "But, we've been to Hossberg, you never said anything."

"We've been to some villages in the wetlands," Rook corrects, "Also, the place doesn't exactly fill me with hometown pride. People don't come from far and wide to wade in our blighted bogs and sample our depressing ham."

Neve chuckles as she re-fills her cup, just how much can this woman knock back? "I'll admit, the food in the Anderfels makes that of Ferelden look like haute cuisine." Lace glares at Neve, but the detective continues. "But a brothel? Isn't Hossberg full of religious zealots? It doesn't strike me as a place for that particular kind of leisure time?”

"Like with any city, there's corruption. Believe me, the Chantry tried to close it down, but a few well placed bribes prevented that.” Rook's mind reflects on the disconnect between her own mother's devout Andrastianism and the world she inhabited. Before she could philosophise further, she notices expectant eyes, prompting her to continue. “ As for the clientele, merchants still come to the city to trade. You can't grow shit in the Anderfels, a lot is imported from Tevinter and Nevarra. We'd see a mix of traders and hot-blooded Wardens, desperate for the company of a willing woman.”

Lace looks at her with an unreadable expression.

Rook clears her throat, “It wasn't allowed, but I knew of Wardens who'd slip out of camp when they thought no one was looking. I think a lot of the commanders turned a blind eye anyway."

Lace gives Rook a sideways glance, "did you..?"

Oh, she thinks..

"No. I know far too much about what goes on in those places for it to ever entice me. Also, I'd probably know some of the ladies..." Rook's face recoils at the thought.

Bellara recovers enough from her coughing fit to speak again, "is it common, to be born in such places?" For some reason she felt compelled to whisper the last word, Rook could tell that this must be as alien to Bellara as the relics in Arlathan are to her.

"It wasn't terribly uncommon for a working girl to find herself with child, it was however to keep it." Rook knocks back the contents of her mug, for which Neve is all too eager to refill. "The mistress of the house, a Madame Tatiana, kept as much witherstalk on the premises as ale. When she learnt that my mother hadn't had her moon cycle and refused the stalk, well, she was nothing short of furious." Rook imitates a raspy, gravel-laden voice "don't be selfish Camille, it's not just about you. It's bad for business and you'll put all these girls out on the street again!"

"Sounds like a charmer," Neve chimes, sardonically.

Rook can sense Lace's stare boring a hole into her skull, she glances at Lace's mug and notices that she's barely taken a sip. "Camille, your mother's name, right? It sounds kind of Orlesian."

Rook smiles at that observation. "She was Orlesian, as far as I could tell."

"As far as you could tell?" Lace asks, raising a curious brow.

"You see, some of them had personas, either to appeal to the particular tastes of their clientele or, well, to spice things up. Sylvia had the Rivaini pirate shtick. Lina pretended to be a Ferelden milkmaid. We even had our own Orth called Karella Blueaxe actually, except her actual name was Gertrude, daughter of a pig farmer from Nordbotten."

Neve snorts, "sexy."

Rook continues - "but as for my mother, it was a bit too convincing. If it was an act, she'd never drop it, even for her own daughter. Plus, she was fluent in the language. She'd recount lines from these famous novels and plays in Orlesian, I remember one of her favourites, The Setting of the Light," Rook looks off wistfully.

Neve mulls, "doesn't sound like the typical tastes of a peasant either."

"She was an enigma," Rook admits. There were times when Rook felt she barely knew her at all.

"Oh, can you speak Orlesian?" Bellara asks.

"I understand more than I can speak. Definitely enough to understand Antoine's frequent cursing."

This earns a giggle from Lace, and Rook's heart swells. "Take that back, Antoine is a saint." Lace jokingly protests.

"Maybe in the common tongue he's Andraste's second coming, but the filth he comes out with in Orlesian, by the Maker!" Rook loves to make Lace laugh, it is sweetest music to her ears.

Rook spies Neve pouring herself more wine, Seriously Gallus . "So anyway..." Neve adds, "this Madame Tatiana, she let you and your mother stay in a whorehouse? Mundane my arse Rook, a most unusual upbringing if I must say so."

She is definitely getting drunk.

"Ah yes, despite her best efforts to slip witherstalk into mother's soup, yours truly was born into Thedas kicking and screaming. My mother was popular with her clients. Apparently, it wasn't just the sex she as paid for, but the poetry, dancing, the theatrics. It was as close as you could get to a high-class courtesan experience outside the royal household." Rook swills her wine. "And, for all her sins, the Madame allowed me to stay. Of course, I had to earn my keep."

Taking a generous mouthful of wine, Lace frowns. "Erm, Rook, you didn't have to, you know..."

"HAH no!" Rook exclaims, louder than she intends to, this wine is going straight to my head, she considers. "As I grew, the Madame would always complain that I would be a waste of good arse and tits, but my mother shielded me from having to partake in that life. She used some of her earnings to pay for music lessons. The Madame had me play most nights for her patrons. Mostly rude folk songs. When I wasn't doing that, I'd do odd jobs, like cleaning the bed chambers. I HATED doing that." Rook scrunches her nose, a visceral reaction to the memory of a smell, like rotten eggs in saltwater.

Something stirs in Lace, she is now practically vibrating with excitement, earning a somewhat concerned look from Rook, is she having a seizure?

"Rook, this is great news!"

"Eh? Cleaning seed-stained bedsheets?"

Strange lady. Strange gorgeous lady...

"Ew no! Not that. I mean, you're musical!" Lace extends and waves her hands in front of Rook, like a farmer trying to sell their prized cow at market.

Neve gives Lace an exasperated glare. "I think I know where this is going." She sighs, "Harding here has been petitioning us to join a choir. Apparently, the Inquisition had something ridiculous called 'The Sing-Quisition.' Honestly, I'd run while you can Rook."

"And here I am trying to promote a healthy team dynamic, while Minrathous' number one detective spits more bile than a deepstalker," Lace protests.

She's pouting, cute.

"I do my best," admiring her nails, Neve serms proud of herself.

Eris cannot remember the last time she touched an instrument. She wonders if she can still play. "I'll think about it Lace. Who knows, maybe after listening to our rendition of Sera Was Never, Solas may reevaluate his plans to tear down the veil."

"Or expedite them." Neve snipes.

They share a moment of silence, which Neve uses to furnish herself with further libation. A familiar nervous energy is emanating from Bellara. Rook notices that she has abstained completely from the wine in favour of more tea.

At least one of us would remain sober.

"Rook, your father, did you know him... Ah sorry, again! Too personal, I know."

"No, it's fine Bellara." Rook had already said this much, why not divulge more? "My adoptive father was a man named Tobias Thorne, as for the man who sired me, mother remained tight-lipped and the girls all said different things. The candidates included a junior Warden, whose seed hadn't been blighted beyond repair. There was also an ailing Tevinter merchant, although Gertrude was pretty sure he just paid mother to recite The Chant of Light."

"How raunchy," Neve slurs.

Okay, she's definitely drunk.

"There were a few more suggestions. A Dalish nug fancier, a Teyrn from Ferelden, an escaped Circle Mage, oh, and my personal favourite, a Ben-Hassrath agent.

"What?" Lace exclaims, “you're not even Qunari.”

"Well observed," Rook teases. Would she prefer if I was? "That was one of Lina's suggestions, let's just say she wasn't paid for her brain."

"Me-OW."  Neve is practically swaying by now.

With a sleight-of-hand Rook didn't know she possessed, she manages to hide what remains of the wine from the inebriated detective. There. Try solving that one Gallus.

Feeling her lips loosen, Rook presses on - "Honestly though, it could have been anyone. I'd pass men in the streets, the halls of Weisshaupt, just about anywhere looking for some resemblance. Hells, I was even fixated on the shape of the First Warden's nose at one point." She absentmindedly paws at her own nose before scowling at the thought, anyone but him.

Lace offers her a sad smile. "I'm sorry Rook, it must have been tough, not knowing."

"Don't be sorry" Rook cuts in, harsher than she intends to. "I had my mother's love. Others have had less."

Eyes turn to Neve who was now snoring into Bellara's shoulder. Someone is going to feel fresh tomorrow, Rook muses.

"I should probably get her to bed... She was supposed to help me with a relic malfunction tomorrow, but we may need to reevaluate that... Goodnight everyone, oh, and Rook, it's been fun getting to know you." They exchange smiles as Bellara guides the ambling detective out of the kitchen. The door clicks behind them.

"Guess it's just you and me now, Rook." Lace speaks with a cocktail of hope and apprehension.

"That's never a bad thing, Scout Lace Harding," Rook's sing-song voice is both playful and flirty, kindling flame in Lace's cheeks. Rook absentmindedly leans towards her; their faces now dangerously close. She swears she can feel a sort of static charge envelop them. Did her eyes just glow?

Lace's eyes suddenly dart downwards; she starts playing with the straps of her apron. Something Rook notices she does whenever struggling to articulate something. Rook never wants Lace to feel as though she has to walk on eggshells.

"Lace, did you want to ask me something?"

"Rook, you're starting to know me too well. It's just about what you were saying earlier... I can tell you loved your mother as much as I love my own ma. I don't want to overstep, but you keep mentioning her in the past tense. Did, did something happen?"

“She, erm...”

A piercing scream, harrowing, animalistic.

"She..."

Fragments of glass trail to a mirror without reflection.

"My mother..."

A single black feather atop blood soaked bedsheets. A crumpled note - Honorez Votre famille.

Rook is now braced with her head hung low, hands clasped behind her neck.

"Rook? Are you..." Nothing.

"Rook!" Still Nothing.

"Eris?" Her heart skips a beat. Grey eyes meet hazel. Gentle, caring eyes . An eruption of nausea jolts her from her trance. She snatches her arm from Lace's tender grasp.

Great job; she probably thinks I'm unhinged.

"Lace, I..” Words to remedy the situation fail her, she settles on a simple “I'm sorry,” but it rings hollow. Shame overcomes her and she turns away.

What feels like an eternity passes between them. Rook's self-pitying is interrupted by a prickling sensation on her scalp. She runs a hand through her hair and startles as a flurry of tea leaves drop to her lap.

Lace lets out a breathy laugh.“ Please look at me.”

Rook cautiously complies.

"Don't be sorry... Also missy, go and wash! I don't want my Uptight Druffalos steeped in tea."

"Upright," Rook corrects.

"Huh?"

"I'm your Upright Druffalo."

Chapter Text

Hossberg, The Anderfels - 9:33 Dragon

Humidity clings heavily in the air like a thick, damp blanket as market goers meander through piss stained streets. The blazing sun casts a brilliant glare that makes the cobbles shimmer like a mirage; a young Eris considers that this is as close to beauty as is possible in Hossberg. She is pulled from her spell by the persistent buzzing of flies, drawn to the decay of the nearby abattoir. She envies the city's stray dogs, who laze in pockets of scarce shade. A ragged hound ambles lazily to retrieve a discarded pig's trotter. He eats better than I do, she muses. What few spice stalls populate the square do little to mask the overpowering stench of decomposing flesh. She has grown up here, it is all she has ever known, yet she has never been accustomed to it. She brings a small handkerchief doused in rose oil to her nose. A mother's blessing.

Her skirt clings with sweat to her thighs. Her hair already sodden. She wipes sticky palms on her cotton blouse before taking inventory of the coin purse placed in her care, this is more than the Madame usually gives, tonight must be special.

The sharp clank of a meat cleaver as it collides with bone jerks her from her reverie. She looks up to see Swen, butcher of choice of The Maiden's Wish. Probably because he's the cheapest, Eris thinks. He seems particularly fraught today; his head practically shines in the midday sun as he uses the back of his cleaver to swat at pestering flies. His ill-fitting, blood-stained apron perpetually at war with his ever corpulent frame.

“Afternoon Ser,” she addresses him.

He looks up from the pig he is dismembering to acknowledge her. “Oh, if it isn't the whorehouse girl. The Madame said you'd be round to pick up her order.” He uses the back of his hand to wipe sweat from his brow before disappearing under the counter to retrieve something. “Maker... a capon! Quite the rarity in these parts. She planning something special? Normally, I wouldn't put it past the miserly cow to pass off rat as venison.”

“Some rich people from the south, politicians or something,” Eris mumbles, whatever is happening, it sounds like hassle. Extra cleaning duties, joy.

“Heh, some people really pay a pretty penny for that stuff your mother does. Not into that fancy poetry business myself, just like a nice pair of jugs,” he cups his hands in the air, as if to gesture fondling breasts. Eris just wants to finish the transaction and be on her way.

“Oh yeah speaking of, I saw your mother yesterday, walking in that direction” He gestures towards the abattoir. “Woman on a mission that one, wouldn't even say hello.”

Eris thinks the man is delusional. Her mother would never linger around these parts willingly; she found the scent unbearable, even from The Wish, which was practically on the other side of the city.

“These are pricy birds, just make sure it's prepared well...” He eyes Eris' sceptical expression. “Hells, nobody here can cook for shit. Just don't burn it.” With surprising finesse for a man with fingers resembling sausages, he packages the capon with a love and attention his wife will never know. “Okay pet, let me just get the price for you.”

Eris reaches a hand to her left hip to find only empty air. She frantically feels to the right. Nothing. Shit shit shit, have I dropped it!? “Just a moment Ser!” she exclaims before making a mad dash to retrace her steps. She scans the cobbles of the market square, to find only the usual grime and debris. It was with me just a moment ago! Her heart is now in her throat. I'm already on thin ice with the Madame.

Her peripheral vision catches the flash of a wafting cloak. A wiry figure clad in dark hooded rags observes her from a nearby doorway; their beady eyes taking in Eris' form. The way this shadowy spectre holds themselves practically screams thief, nothing short of a cliché she muses. The thief darts into an alleyway, and against her better judgment, Eris gives chase.

The thief weaves artfully through a labyrinth of crates and barrels, their body squeezing through narrow gaps with seamless fluidity. Eris' feet pound against the dirt below her. What she lacks in grace, she makes up for in strength; surprising for her age and size. She knocks the barrels aside like a charging bull, each stride filled with an almost rabid determination.

As she rounds the corner, she nearly collides with a prostrating beggar. She narrowly manages to vault over him; no harm caused to either party. “Stupid bitch!” he curses behind her, throwing a discarded apple core to the back of her head. Eris feels bad, but her veracious need for justice propels her forward.

Despite the thief's best efforts to elude her, Eris can feel the gap between them closing. Her hand reaches forward, grasping at the trailing cloak in front of her. She grabs a handful of cloth, unmasking her assailant in the process. They whip around to meet her steel gaze, but it is not what she expects. Before her stands a girl not much older than herself. Locks of wavy hair the colour of molten copper escape a clumsily tied braid. Emerald eyes set in alabaster skin leer back at her. Eris should be furious, but she finds herself entranced. She does not react, as if held into place by an invisible force. A sort of wooden truncheon crosses her field of vision. Her world turns to black.

“Deary me, what trouble has sought you now?”

Wait, that voice is familiar.

Her eyes take a while to focus on her surroundings. Standing over her is a stout, grizzled dwarven man. His ashen hair is neatly combed back, not a single strand out of place. It stands in stark contrast to his wild and unkept beard, with its flecks of browns, reds, greys, hells, every hair colour imaginable. Her mother used to joke that at night it would leap off his face to forage in the wilds.

“Uncle Toby?” Eris props herself up on her elbows, wincing at the throbbing sensation in her left eye.

“Hey there, slowly now.” He leans down to help support her, his face scrutinising the extent of her injuries. “Took a good hit to the noggin there, but you're quite the fierce one aren't you? I better get you back to The Wish, and have one of the girls clean you up.”

Tobias Thorne's seemingly gentle disposition would appear at odds with his status as hired muscle for The Wish. Eris had seen him fight though, and knew that the wee man could fell an Antaam easily if he wanted to. He was one of the few men in this world who had her respect.

Something dawns on Eris. “Shit, the Madame's order. That bitch thief took my coin pouch!” The fury that had failed her before now crashes into her like tidal wave.

“Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?” Tobias warns. “But, here. You can pay me back some other time.” He places the packaged meat in her lap.

Eris' face scrunches in confusion. “You saw what happened?”

“I saw you give chase, little duck”

A ridiculous nickname, Eris thinks, I'm taller than he is.

“I tried to go after you, but well, you're a bloody fast one! These old legs of mine couldn't keep up.”

“I.. thank you,” she offers him a small smile before scrambling to her feet.

“In the future, don't count your money in public. This city is crawling with wronguns.”

He's not wrong.

“I think I can manage to get back by myself.” Eris knew that braving the Madame was the hero's journey she must do alone, she did not want to drag Uncle Toby into another one of her dramas.

Tobias does not appear best pleased, but he knows when to concede to Eris' stubborn nature. “Hm, if you say so little duck... Oh, but before you enter the dragon's lair, here.” He places a small bag of almonds in her blouse pocket. “You need to eat more. Share some with your mother too.” Before she can open her mouth, he is already sauntering off in the direction of a nearby tavern.

Enjoy your ale Uncle Toby.

As she enters The Maiden's Wish, Eris gives a curt nod to Ulwen, Tobias' second in command. “Keeping the riff raff out as always Ser?”

“Apparently not, I've just let you in.” He chuckles to himself, running a hand through his handlebar moustache. “I'm not going to ask questions like, but ye might want to cover that up before the Madame sees you.” He gestures to the left side of his face.

“Oh, yeah. Good idea.” Thankfully her hair remains damp, making it easier to fix into position. She unties her braid, covering the offending left eye with locks of raven hair before making her way to the bar area.

“Camille's girl, here, now.” Madame Tatiana leans languidly against the counter. She holds a long cigarette holder between yellowed fingers. Hollow eyes, set against skeletal features peer back at her with contempt.

Eris approaches, diffidently. “Madame, I got your order,” she carefully places the packaged meat on the counter. The Madame's penetrating stare does not waver.

“You're late,” the Madame growls. She takes a drag of her cigarette, exhaling a cloud of smoke in Eris' face. Between bouts of coughing, Eris tries to open her mouth to speak, but is abruptly cut-off anyway.

“I don't want to hear it. You know we've got a couple of special guests tonight from the south, and they've specifically requested your mother.” She flicks ash onto a small bronze tray. “When you get on stage tonight don't sing any of those common songs, play something fancy.”

The gears in Eris' mind whirl; she is not sure she knows how to play anything beyond the usual ditties and common folk songs. “Madame, what kind of fancy songs?”

The Madame rolls her eyes, “you know-” she clicks her fingers, “the Orlesian one about the lady on fire.”

“Empress of Fire?” Eris asks, unsure of herself. “You just want me to play that, over and over again?”

"Tch,” the Madame crosses her arms. “I don't pay you to give me cheek like that.”

You don't really pay me at all, Eris thinks.

“Do as I ask, no questions. Also, you stink, more so than usual. Go up to Sylvia and share her bathwater.”

“Yeah, yeah, grouchy old arse,” Eris mumbles under her breath as she proceeds to climb the staircase.

“What was that girl!?” The Madame bellows behind her.

"Yes Madame, I will do as you ask at once!” she turns her head to offer a disingenuous smile and curtsey.

Eris lightly taps on Sylvia's door and receives squawk-like “come in!” from the other side. She sighs before tapping again, this time receiving a more human-like version of the same response. As she enters, she spots Sylvia's azure parrot, Captain Pickles, who is wearing - wait, is that a miniature tricorn hat?

According to Sylvia, he was gifted to her by a visiting Antivan merchant trading in exotic fowl. He was a bother to keep, but Sylvia reckoned any great Rivaini pirate would not be caught dead without a feathered friend in tow. Sylvia had clearly never been to Rivain, or met an actual pirate.

Somehow, the Madame was not clued into the parrot's presence. Sylvia feared he would have been baked or stewed if she knew. So for the past couple of months, Sylvia pretended to have developed a speech affectation, which to Eris' astonishment, the Madame bought. It was either that or demonic possession, Eris remembers. It was also fortunate that the Madame never thought it worthwhile to wander beyond the bar area. Too far from the brandy and tobacco.

“Yarr me hearty. Loving the hat!” Eris gestures to the parrot, who bounces on his perch excitedly.

“Come on my tits! Come on my tits!” he squawks back, spinning around in circles.

“Hehe, please ignore him. He's picking up more by the day.” Sylvia shuffles into view. Fastening a robe around her waist, the exposed parts of her tanned skin still glisten with droplets of bathwater. “Oh sweet pea, you look like you've had quite the day.” She brushes strands of hair away from Eris' left eye and inhales sharply. “That's quite the shiner. There a good story behind that?”

Eris shrugs. “Eh, not really, chased after a pickpocket and, well, fill in the blanks.”

“For what it's worth, I hope the Maker gives them their just desserts.” She squeezes Eris' shoulder. “Bath is still full, water is a bit tepid though. Once you're done, we'll try and do something about that eye.”

“Thanks Sylvia, you're the best.”

“I know it sweet pea.”

The bath has done Eris some good in making her feel marginally more human again. She changes into clean-ish clothes and lets Sylvia plaster her face in foundation. She is pretty sure it was at least three shades darker than her natural skin tone. She feels ridiculous, but if it keeps the Madame off her back, so be it. As she exits Sylvia's chambers, Captain Pickles bids her farewell with a spirited “sit on my face!”

She spies her mother leaning against the staircase bannister opposite her chambers. Her brow is furrowed as she considers a piece of paper in her hand. “A letter from one of your fancy men?” Eris asks. This startles Camille who quickly stuffs the note in the cleavage of her bodice.

“Oh mon chou, do not creep up on your mother like that!” She lightly bats Eris on the head. “Wait, are you wearing Sylvia's makeup?” She cups Eris' face with her palms, studying her features. “Trying to impress a boy are we? I hear the blacksmith's son has been asking about you.”

“Ew no! Absolutely not!” Eris retorts, earning a small laugh from Camille. “It's a long story, but I feel like a clown caked in this muck.”

“The shade is completely wrong, but you'd never look like a clown in anything mon trésor, you're a very pretty girl.”

Eris gives her a doubtful look. “You're just saying that because I'm your daughter.” She suddenly remembers something. “Oh! Uncle Toby asked me to share these with you,” she produces the bag of almonds.

“Merveilleuse, my favourites. Such a sweet man.” She clutches the bag to her heart.

“Can I go in the room? I need to get-” Just as she is about to place her hand on the doorknob, Camille blocks her path, why is she acting so strangely? Eris wonders.

“Non, please do not go in there, it is in a state of, how should I say? Disrepair. Please, tonight will be very busy and there will be many things to prepare for. Do not enter.”

“Okay...” She's definitely hiding something.

“You are performing later non? Go and get your lute from the cellar and practice for a bit. Has she given you any songs to perform?”

“Empress of bloody Fire.”

“Eh, not one of my favourites.”

Eris is about to leave in the direction of the cellar, she feels her mother's hand on her shoulder.

“Eri, I love you, and I always will.” She offers Eris a sad smile before planting a small kiss on her right cheek. Camille retreats into her chambers, the door clicking behind her unceremoniously.

Dread. A weird sense of dread is all Eris felt in that moment.

As the sun set, Eris is preparing the stage for tonight's most 'riveting' performance when she spots two eccentrically dressed gentlemen ascend the staircase. They wear, what Eris considers to be, purple lady's bloomers over striped tights; the type of attire a Hossberger would associate with a court jester. Even more outlandish are the masks they wear; a kind of metallic half-mask that leaves their mouth and the tip of their noses exposed. Each mask is engraved with an intricate pattern, which Eris cannot make out from a distance. Am I being axed for circus entertainers? She wonders.

“Fucking waste of griffons,” the Madame comes charging behind the bar. “Didn't even eat the damn Capon.” Eris realises the two men must be this evening's 'special guests,' she stares back at a now unoccupied staircase.

“What are you looking at girl, don't think you're not playing what we agreed.” The Madame storms off the retrieve a bottle of brandy from a patron's table and sulk in the corner.

This is going to be a long night, Eris thinks.

Empress of Fire

In the reign of the lion

Eclipsed in the eye

Of the Empire

Of we Orlesians.

Empress of Fire

What season may come

We fight for the day

You'll restore our heart

And bring us to glory

Eris did not dislike the song, at least the first five or so times she performed it. What number is this now? She is losing count of how many times she has prattled on about empresses and glory. The words simply fell from her mouth now without purpose. Her fingers strum the strings of her lute almost mechanically; she can feel her soul leave her body.

She catches sight of Sylvia walking around the bar area to the kitchen looking somewhat frazzled. Odd.

Eris tries to mix it up with a few instrumental numbers here and there, but she is always pressured by the Madame's omnipresent glare, to return to that pyromaniac empress, or whatever the fucking song is about. Not all the patrons are best pleased. Tobias has already ejected a few hecklers for being a bit too passionate in their pleas for 'the song about Jenny's hairy hole' or 'the one where the bloke marries a pig.' Eris feels like she was on the verge of orchestrating a riot, and she relishes the power.

As Tobias is evicting a drunkard for throwing a tankard at the stage, loud wheezing sounds can be heard from upstairs followed by an almighty thud. The Madame is about to order Tobias to check up on it before Ulwen offers to go in his stead. Perhaps he's sick of this crappy song as well. The Madame snaps her fingers at Eris, “no daydreaming, play girl!”

Oh I'll play alright. She gives Tobias a mischievous smile, and his eyes blow wide. Shaking his head fervently, he steps forward to stop her, but it's futile. Eris will do what Eris does best, wreak havoc. 

Temptress for hire

Never came for Brian

His dicks in her eye

Their love so dire

His knob has lesions

Temptress for hire

There's cheese in his cum

This might turn her gay -

“NO NO NO!” The dragon rears its head. “Tobias, get her OUT of here!” The Madame slams a fist on the counter.

Eris could feel Tobias gripping the back of her shirt. “Come now little duck, you know the drill.”

Worth it, Eris muses.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Admit it, you found it funny.” Some moments had passed and Eris found herself in the not unfamiliar position of clearing horse manure from the adjoining stables.

Tobias sighs, scratching at the untamed expanse of his beard. “Maybe a little, but you rarely help yourself little duck.”

“Eh, this beats acting as the performing monkey any day.” In truth, Eris never thought of cleaning the stables as much of a punishment. She liked dealing with the horses. Plus, Hossberg already carried a pungent smell, several in fact; the manure did little to add to it.

“Right, I see you've learnt nothing, as usual. I better go back inside before the dragon turns her fire on me.” He ruffles her hair, something which never fails to rile her up. “I'll check up on you later, maybe see if there's any of the capon still lying around.” He cricks his neck before disappearing inside.

Eris is grateful for the reprieve of the cool night air. The atmosphere is unusually tranquil, her meditative state interrupted only by the occasional distant bark. With her natural strength, she often makes light work of this sort of thing. She contemplates slowing down, just to remain outside for longer. Stacking the hay, her thoughts wander to her mother and the jester-like men from earlier. She glances up in the direction of her mother's chambers, to notice the window has been flung wide open. Strange, mother usually keeps it closed tighter than the Madame's purse strings. She can't bear the smells of this city.

Shovel in hand, she turns to face the wheelbarrow, when a piercing scream sends it clattering to the ground. Panic engulfs her. Was that from her room, oh please no.

Eris darts into the entrance, but before she can make ground, Ulwen grabs her by the scruff of her jacket collar. “Stay here pet, s'not your concern. Tobias is onto it already.” Eris was having none of it though. She shimmies out of the jacket to leave Ulwen grasping at empty, formless fabric. The sound of his protestations do nothing to deter her from sprinting up the length of the stairway.

She spots Tobias frantically pulling at the handle of the locked door. Like a man possessed, he pummels at it with his other fist. “Open up, Maker damn you, open now!” He fumbles in his trouser pockets. “Where are my fucking keys!?” His focus is singular, he pays no heed to the girls gathered in their doorways, faces etched in concern, or to Eris, who is practically standing beside him. “Fuck it,” he growls. He gives himself some distance between the door before charging at it shoulder first. He repeats this three times before it relents. Before his brain can catch up, Eris is already beyond the threshold. “No little du-”

In that moment, her world fell apart.

Chapter Text

The towering figure of Rigor the Barbarian emerges from the shadows; the brutishness of his form softened by the shimmering silver light of the moon. “Darlena, me want you. You so nice to Rigor, make Rigor feel like heart go boom boom.” His voice rumbles like rolling thunder cascading across the plains of her desire. His hulking arm reaches out to her, calloused fingers brush against delicate porcelain cheeks.

“Oh Rigor, I may be a dwarven princess, but I will break free from this gilded cage. Take me. Here. Tonight. Be my wild storm.”

Rook slams the novella shut. “What an absolute load of shite,” she complains. She turns it over in her hand, tutting at the trashy cover art.

She's probably close to throwing it in the pond, Lace worries.

Rook continues her rant - “It's all a bit problematic isn't it? Posh lady tames the heart of a verbally stunted savage, who, before they met, just wants to smash stuff with an axe. Who even recommended this for the club? Was it Taash? Is this another joke about me or are they actually into whatever the hell that was?”

I mean, you do spend a lot of time smashing crates and barrels with an axe, Lace considers.

Lace is almost ashamed to admit that she found the novella, riveting, dare she say, titillating? Granted, her libido is rampant and all because of the kiss that nearly melted her poor girlfriend's brain. Rook, the antidote for her horniness was so close, and yet so far. Stupid lyrium infused body.

They had both told each other that their relationship was more than physical, which was true, in part. There is a lot she loves about Rook. She loves her kindness, her utter selflessness in helping her through the maelstrom of emotions the Titan's power had brought. She even loves the dumb jokes and the weird accent. Still, Lace knew that day by day an intense hunger was growing inside her. A hunger for touch, for intimacy, for unbridled passionate sex that would make her come from one side of Thedas to the other.

She knows it is not exactly one sided either. The other day she had walked in on Rook doing chin-ups in nothing but her bra and shorts. Rook mostly wore heavy armour in the field,

hiding that sexy body of hers.

So when given the opportunity, all she could do was gawp at the statuesque musculature presented before her. Broad shoulders and perfectly chiselled abs, complemented by rounded hips and buttocks; a perfect hourglass figure. She remembers the flush on her face from exertion, her hair tousled, lips puffy and eyes dilated with want. Also she was tall,  taller than the average human, and the height disparity was a definite turn on. Lace had subconsciously brought a hand to her crotch, pressing the fabric of her trousers against her own very engorged clitoris. She was mortified when she realised, until Rook stripped the rest of her own clothes off, and encouraged her to do the same. Before they knew it, they were face-to-face, stark naked and playing with themselves. It was fucking hot, but Maker, I still need to taste her.

“Me Rook Rook-Na-Rook lick dwarf lady boobies!” Lace is pulled from the horny prison of her mind by another one of Rook's 'humorous' attempts to fluster her.

Two can play at that game, dearest Rook.

“Oh Rook Rook-Na-Rook, I am but a fragile dwarven princess! Put down your axe and let me civilize you with my pussy.”

Rook was not quite expecting that retort; she lets out a curious sound; half-laughter, half-choking. Lace is certainly getting more brazen in her remarks. 

They eventually settle into a comfortable silence. Their relationship has developed to the point where they could just enjoy each other's company, without the need to necessarily fill every void with idle words.

After a while, Lace notices that Rook is using her index finger to idly trace the length of a scar on her other hand. “How'd you get that one?” she enquires.

“Hmm, Warden training, not long after I first joined. I originally trained in sword and shield, but I was never amazing at blocking attacks.”

“You've got a lot of scars, do they still hurt?” Lace inwardly recoils as soon as she asks. She thought she had learnt since that night in the kitchen, to let Rook offer information about her past only when she was ready to, but sometimes Lace could not help herself. Too damn curious.

Rook offers her a gentle smile. “No, ma belle reine, not anymore.” Lace does not speak a lick of Orlesian, but her heart swells at what she suspects is a term of endearment. “I'd like to say that the ones on my back were the result of some epic darkspawn encounter, but in truth, ehhh, insubordination.” Lace is taken aback by Rook's rather breezy tone.

“They whipped you?” Lace asks incredulously.

“Well, yeah, it's a military order. Lashings are one of the more heavy-handed punishments, but they happen more than you'd think.” Rook lifts up her tunic and angles her back towards Lace. “You see the cluster of scars there, running down from my right shoulder blade?” Lace nods. “Ten lashes. Given to me that night before I had to take a leave of absence.”

Lace is visibly appalled by what she considers a gross injustice. “But from what Varric told me, you saved those villagers from unimaginable horror. You saved children. You were a hero Rook, the shield against their night, hells, you still are.”

Rook is now looking down at her lap, deep in thought. “I, erm, that's nice of you to say Lace, but orders are orders. There's a chain of command, and apparently I'm too much of a loose cannon to follow it,” she mutters, almost bitterly.

Lace is trying to restrain herself from placing her hand over Rook's. She thinks it is impossibly cruel she cannot provide simple physical comfort right now.

Perking up slightly, Rook straightens her back. “Say Lace, I haven't told you about how I ended up with the Wardens, have I?” It isn't like Rook to be so forthcoming with stories of the past, at least in a sober state, and Lace cannot deny that she is beyond curious.

“I don't think you have,” Lace tries to sound as nonchalant as possible, but her body language is likely betraying her.

“When my, erm, mum, when she died...” Rook takes a moment, fidgeting with one of her belt straps. “Uncle Toby adopted me as his own, and we lived just on the edge of the city. He took out a loan to start his own business as a farrier. Apparently making horseshoes was something he did with his own father. Most of his customers were Grey Wardens with Anderfel Coursers.”

“I noticed you seem to like horses,” this fact only endeared her more to Rook, although personally, Lace had always been a bit wary of them since falling from one in childhood.

“They're pretty ace; pain in the arse to keep though. Sometimes we dealt with other types of mounts too.” Rook suddenly starts laughing to herself as a memory appears in her mind's eye. “There was this one time someone brought a nuggalope to him, the thing was fucking massive. Toby is probably shorter than you, definitely fatter. He looked like a rotund stoat next to it... It got out of its pen once and-” Rook is now shaking with laughter; she wipes a tear from her eye. “Oh Lace, you had to see it, his little legs scampering after it, getting covered in mud, swearing his head off. I wouldn't mind, but the thing was just running around in circles. All he had to do was run in the other direction.”

Lace grins, mostly at Rook's own amusement. “I take it you just watched the whole thing unfold?”

“Of course. I did yell back a few words of encouragement. Even set it to music with my lute.”

“You didn't!” Lace does not know why she is surprised, it is definitely in character for Rook.

“I'll have to sing The Fat Dwarf and the Nuggalope to you at some point.”

I'd love to hear you sing anything, Lace thinks.

Rook's mood suddenly darkens; the tonal shift is giving Lace whiplash. “The problem with Toby was he always liked a drink, but after mother, it got worse. A few years went by and his debts started piling up. He borrowed from some shady characters who were essentially extorting him.” Rook shifts from a crossed-legged position and stretches her legs in front of her, resting her weight on her palms. “I knew I had to help him out financially. I joined a gang, recruited by a sweet talker who pickpocketed me once. Her name was Cerys; she was bad news.”

Should I be jealous, Lace wonders, and Rook appears to have read her mind, “ah, I was attracted to her; it was the first time that I knew for certain that I only enjoyed the company of women, but if I saw her now, I'd want to toss her into The Waking Sea.”

“Good to hear,” Lace says with a chuckle. “What did you do for the gang exactly?”

Scratching the back of her neck, Rook peers into her lap. “Many things I'm not proud of.”

“Like pickpocketing, theft?” Lace was having a hard time visualising Rook, her gentle giant, as part of a criminal gang.

Rook lets out an indignant laugh. “Do I look wily and nimble? No Lace, I threatened and beat people for money, and I was good at it too. Cerys tried to convince me that they were deserving of it, that they were fools with false ambition that needed to be put in their place. I'd say that she tricked me, but I'd only be lying to myself. I knew what I was doing at the time was wrong, but I still did it anyway.”

“But you did it for Toby, you did it to hel-”

“I always had a choice.” Rook cut in, her stare was hard and intense, and it scared Lace. Gone was the tenderness she usually saw within those stormy grey eyes. “I wouldn't blame you if you thought less of me now.” Voice laden with regret, Rook's voice cracks around the edges. It is breaking Lace's heart. 

“Roo- Eris,” Rook perks up at the mention of her real name. “One thing my time with you has taught me is that people are complicated and that life is full of second chances. Take the Mayor of D'Meta's Crossing, he sold his own villagers out for gold. At the time, I was willing you to leave him there, to let the blight take him. A just punishment for a wicked soul. I thought you'd hit your head when you sent him to the Wardens, or that perhaps the blight had sent you cuckoo. But what did that Mayor go on to do? He saved those lives in the Wetlands. I'm not going to believe that my gorgeous girlfriend, who has the biggest heart out of anyone I know, has not changed from the person you just described.” Rook's face has turned almost cerise, she stares back at Lace bug-eyed. Wait, is she flustered? That's usually my thing.

“Girl-f-f-friend?” Rook splutters.

That's what she took from all of that? Such a boob.

“Err, yeah, that's what we are. Girlfriends. Unless you prefer another word for it, maybe lovers, partners, significant others, inamorata...”

“No no, girlfriend is fine.” Rook springs to her feet, waving her hands around frenziedly. “It's nice. I like it. Being your girlfriend. It's just my fir- I've  never been with, in that way, or had-”

“Wait, are you a virgin?” Lace is honestly surprised. Rook seems to know a lot about 'the art of love making,' so to speak. She's also a serial flirt. I guess she learned a fair bit, growing up where she did?

“Maybe. Yes. I think I'd rather finish my story from earlier.”

The thought that one day she would be Rook's first,  is igniting something between her legs. As arousing as that thought is, Lace really wants to listen to Rook's story. I'll have to file that one away for later. 

Rook clears her throat, settling back down next to Lace. “One day I was asked to visit a tavern for my next job; the place was pretty much the main stomping ground for the gang itself. When they told me my next target's name and location, I refused outright.”

“It was Toby, wasn't it?”

“Somehow they weren't aware of my connections to him. When I tried to walk away, one of them glassed me on the back of the head.” Rook bends her head slightly and points to a scar running down the nape of her neck. Lace winces. “A bar fight then took place, which spilled out onto the streets. I probably felled maybe seven of them? I'm not sure. Before I knew it, someone had called the city guard and I was surrounded. Some of the people I had previously extorted for money also came out of the woodwork, pleading with the guards to punish me.”

“Let me guess, then you were recruited?”

Rook hums in the affirmative. “If it wasn't for that Grey Warden recruiter, my fine arse wouldn't be here today.” Rook shifts to the side to give her own rump a playful slap.

I should be the one doing that, Lace pouts.

“Andraste, bless the Grey Wardens and their impeccable taste in asses.” Lace throws her hands up in the air in a faux display of devotional praise. They both giggle like naughty children caught talking too loudly in the Chantry.

Rook lies down on her back, face focusing on the blooming flower overhead. “Lace, I know you said I didn't need to, but I still want to apologise for weirding you out in the kitchen that night.”

Oh Rook, forever self-flagellating.

“You're always weird; it's part of the Rook experience.” This earns a short snort from Rook.

A moment of silence passes before Rook speaks again. “She was murdered.”

Rook had said it so quietly that Lace has to question what she heard. “Your mother? Oh Rook, you don't-”

“I want to Lace. I need to tell someone. To stop running away from this.” Rook props herself up on her elbows, staring into her eyes pleadingly.

She looks so vulnerable.

Lace nods with a sympathetic smile. “I'll get us some tea, you can tell me as much as you want to.”

Rook offers Lace everything she knew about that fateful night at The Maiden's Wish; the details pour out of her with surprising ease. Lace listens intently, trying to put some of the pieces together in her mind. Some of it was just not adding up.

“So you didn't see your mother's body, it wasn't in her chamber?” Lace was trying not to sound too callous, but it was bizarre.

“The City Guard found her a couple of days later floating in The Lattenfluss. They said they'd cremated the body the same day. Some Ander hang-up stemming from the Fourth Blight, apparently. I never saw her myself. I think I always counted that as a blessing... Lace, there was so much blood in her chamber...”

Lace winces. Perhaps she was pushing Rook too hard, but she can still sense something is very off. She wonders whether her girlfriend has seriously considered this herself, or whether grief has cornered her into some form of blind acceptance. “Were there any suspects?”

“They said that given the black feather, it was maybe the work of an Antivan Crow? The two men in her chamber were never seen again, not that they gave their real names to The Madame anyway.” Lace thinks that this kind of explains why Rook keeps pleasantries with Lucanis to a minimum.

If it wasn't for the prospect of an immanent apocalypse, she'd probably be at his throat.

“So they think a Crow murdered her, dragged her body through a second-storey window, and dumped the body in a river?” Lace asks, sceptically.

“So I was told,” Rook says defeatedly. “Look, Lace, I spent years questioning parts of that story. I may sometimes only think in straight lines, but I'm not a fool. What was an Ander peasant girl of no renown going to find out on her own anyway?”

“We have one of Thedas' most renowned detectives, just across the way.”

“Lace,” Rook says curtly. “Don't.”

“Come on Rook. You spend all your time helping others overcome their personal issues. You've been so incredibly selfless. Let us do something for you.” Lace is practically staring Rook down, the adrenaline is sending her heart racing. “I know revisiting ghosts from your past is going to unearth a lot of complicated feelings, but always know, that I'm here, and all I ever want is your happiness.”

What seems like an eternity of silence passes. Only the light fluttering of the fade butterflies can be heard. It is the type of silence Lace considers far from comfortable. Wordlessly, Rook gets up from where she is sat, gesturing for Lace to move out of her way. Lace mournfully complies, and Rook heads towards the door.

Great, you've pushed her away Lace. You just had to overstep, and now you've lost the most amazing person in your life. 

To Lace's surprise, she does not hear the door open and close, rather, she hears the door lock from the inside. Rook turns to her with a small smile, “Okay, in the morning you can tell Neve.” Thank the Maker.

“But for now, ma biche, I'm sleeping next to your bedroll tonight. Your snoring distracts me from the dulcet tones of the Archdemon.”

Lace gives her a toothy grin. Wait, what did she just call me?

Chapter Text

The Maiden's Wish stands before Rook like a monument frozen in time. Like a turd trapped in fetid amber, she thinks. Whilst she herself has grown, the facade of her unusual birthplace remains largely untouched. Not even the cracks in the stonewall have succumbed to the sprouting of weeds. Nothing flourishes in Hossberg. It stagnates. She glances up at the painted sign; it bears the portrait of a young blonde maiden in a flowing white gown. Between dainty fingers she holds a single white rose. A depiction of purity, of chastity, of an innocence waiting to be claimed. Rook thinks it smacks of false advertising.

It was Neve's idea, to return to the scene of the crime. Rook had tried to protest; “it was so long ago, surely any evidence would be long gone?” Neve disagreed; “a crime scene always has something to say.” Rook knew that she was merely trying to find another excuse to flee; to retreat into her new identity and let the that harlot's daughter with the lute fade forever into obscurity. Her fist is now clenched so tightly, the knuckles are turning white. Lace motions to reach for her forearm, it hovers for a second before retreating. The intent is appreciated nonetheless.

From her Warden gambeson, Rook retrieves a white handkerchief scented with rose oil. She thumbs one the four finely embroidered birds that adorn each corner. It was one of the few mementos gifted to her by her mother; her talisman to ward off the pervasive Hossberg stench. It always smells worse than the blight here, even in winter, she thinks. She cups the handkerchief around her nose and inhales deeply. It provides some semblance of comfort.

Behind Neve and Lace looms the curious figure of Taash. Rook had questioned why they were here, only to be met with a no nonsense - “because this shit might be interesting.” Great, Rook thought, word gets out and now the team wants to partake in my childhood trauma likes it's a social-outing. Neve tried to temper Rook's annoyance by vouching for the young Rivaini's heightened senses as a useful investigative tool. Rook now wonders what their nose is telling them.

“Smells worse than a dragon's cooch,” Taash complains. Are they a mind reader?

From a nearby upper window, an elderly woman empties the contents of a bedpan onto the cobbles below. The splash narrowly misses Neve, who pivots on her prosthetic with surprising dexterity. “It has a certain charm,” Neve quips.

Rook focuses her attention on the doorway and attempts to shake the nerves from her legs.

“You ready?” Lace asks.

“No, but let's do this anyway.”

Much like the exterior, the interior appears to have remained largely untouched. It perturbs Rook, how almost two decades can pass in the blink of an eye. She takes stock of the familiar surroundings. The same yellow stained ceiling, marked by years of substance abuse. The same hideous salmon pink wallpaper, slightly warped and peeling at the seams. The same kitsch paintings of nugs playing cards, an Uncle Toby favourite. The same azure parrot in a miniature tricorn hat, wait... Captain Pickles!?

“Eris, Eris! Stick a finger up me wazoo.” The Captain bops up and down in delight of his new company.

“Up your what?” Lace asks, as though he will enlighten her further.

A familiar voice approaches from behind the bar, filling Rook with an unexpected sense of homeliness. “Shut it you silly bird, the lass hasn't been here in years.” It was Sylvia, The Wish's not-so-authentic Rivaini pirate.

To Rook's knowledge, she was a similar age to her mother, meaning she was now approaching around fifty years, give or take. Rook did notice that unlike the building, time has changed Sylvia. Not just in terms of a few extra wrinkles and added pounds, but also in the way she dresses. Gone are the items of gaudy costume jewellery, shiny bandanas and animal print sarongs that barely kept her modest. Instead, she sports a cream imperial weave blouse, accented with bow sleeves and a long plaidweave skirt. She looks almost professional, Rook muses.

“Oh sorry my loves, I just thought Pickles here was nattering to himself again. Welcome to The Maiden's Wish, Hossberg's number one pleasure palace. Huh... You're an unusual bunch I have to say. No offence!”

“None taken. My name is-” Neve cannot get a word in. Rook should have given prior warning that Sylvia is loquacious one.

She rarely comes up for air.

“Let's see - a Grey Warden, someone from Tevinter, Minrathous maybe? A freckled dwarf in light armour and a feckin' tall Qunari! If you're here to * ahem * work, we may need to work on those characters.”

“Oh no, we're here on other business, you see-”

Neve is once again stopped in her tracks. Her mouth hangs open like a goldfish.

“The Qunari is probably the easiest, some of the men have a thing for muscles. As for the Warden, it's pretty niche. Some might go for the 'purge me of the blight' thing, if you catch me? The dwarf is a bonny one, but it'll still be a challenge... Aha! You could pretend to have some kind of power! They call your people the children of the stone or something? You could make men rock hard by-”

It's now Rook's turn to cut Sylvia off, not with words, but raucous laughter. Oh, if only you knew Sylvia.

Lace is flustered. Very flustered. “Rook! Shut up. It's not funny!”

“But ma chérie, it very much is. Forget using that Titan power to move a bunch of rocks, you could be saving the world, one erection at a time!” She fist pumps the air triumphantly. Lace rewards her with a swift kick to the shin. Motherfu-

“Huh, the Warden lass, there's something familiar about you. Are you from around here?”

Rook stops nursing her battered shin. She is genuinely surprised that Sylvia has not caught on yet. “Sylvia, I was born right here.” Rook points down to where she is stood.

Sylvia closes the gap between them. Her flickering gaze studies every line, bump and scar on Rook's face. Her eyes grow as big as saucers. “Well fuck me sideways and spank me daddy, if it isn't my sweet pea Eris!” Before Rook can confirm, she is pulled into an impossibly tight hug. Rook tenses; her body rigid. She has not been held like this in a long time. She inhales deeply, allowing the comforting scent of jasmine and sandalwood to envelop her. She quickly melts into the touch, leaning down to rest her chin on Sylvia's shoulder.

After a while, Sylvia reluctantly breaks it off to take a step back. “Maker, you're a tall one... and you've bulked out, bloody hell!” She lightly squeezes one of Rook's triceps and beams brightly, the corners of her eyes crinkling, “you look good, Eris.” Rook smiles shyly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

“But wait, that uniform, are you really a Warden?” Questions Sylvia.

“Yep. Have been for a few years.” Absolutely not going to tell her I've failed to be promoted in all that time. “It's a long story. Rather not get into it.” Rook purses her lips, hoping to move the topic of conversation on.

“I err, I heard what happened at Weisshaupt. Bloody awful affair that. I'm sorry love.” Sylvia reaches up to stroke Rook's hair. Rook subconsciously leans down into it, enjoying any morsel of touch she can get.

“I...” Rook is still processing it herself. She remembers in the immediate aftermath, sitting in a darkened room with Davrin and Assan. Nothing was said that night. Only tea was brewed.

She cannot dwell on this. Not now. “Anyway, does anyone else still work here who I may know?”

“No sweet pea. The girls you knew are too old to have remained in this line of work. I only work here because, well, I own this piece of paradise now.” As Sylvia extends her arms to flaunt her surrounds, one of the nug paintings drops unceremoniously to the ground.

The place is falling apart at the seams. 

“So, The Madame...” Rook suspects that she knows the answer, but wants to hear it anyway.

“Passed away last year. Honestly surprised it wasn't sooner given the life she led. I'd extend my condolences and that, but with the way she was, I'm not sure you'd appreciate it.”

In truth, Rook was not sure how she felt. Perhaps it was nothing at all. She would have liked to have said that The Madame had been an almost surrogate-mother-like figure in her life, but that would have been a barefaced lie. The woman had been about as nurturing as Hossberg itself.

“She pretty gave it to me on her deathbed to next to nothing. Said the place was cursed and a lost cause since your, you know what.” Sylvia reaches over to rub Rook's shoulder blades. She has always been a very tactile person. “I've been meaning to give this place a new lease of life, but ehh, finances and that.” She shrugs. Her carefree disposition betrayed by the stress lines carved into her face. “But please, enough about me! Take a seat at the bar and you can introduce me to your friends.”

Rook introduces the other three to Sylvia, who falls over herself to apologise for the prior assumptions.

“She's your what sweet pea, gelfrunde? What's one of those?”

Rook loves being Lace's girlfriend, truly, but whenever she tries to explain their relationship status to others, she is overcome by a peculiar affliction. It is as if her mouth is full of cotton-wool and she cannot get the syllables right.

“Gilfreud!” Rook flaps her arms around, as though that will increase her odds of being understood.

Lace looks simultaneously dismayed and humoured. “She means girlfriend. It's another one of her weird quirks.”

Excuse me?

“Awww, that's lovely, I'm chuffed for you both! So Eris, you like women eh? That explains a lot.”

Does it?

Taash is busily feeding seed to a pampered Captain Pickles, they look between the parrot and Sylvia. “So you pretended to be a Rivaini pirate?”

Sylvia grins at Taash. “That's right sweetie. Pretty exotic in this neck of the woods.”

Uh oh, Rook thinks, concerned that Taash may take offence to the caricature of old.

“That's cool. Rivaini pirates are cool.” Huh, the young Qunari never fails to surprise Rook. “Nice parrot too. Isabela had one just like that. She's a pirate. Bought it with some chick called Merrill. She drew the line at getting an eyepatch and peg-leg though.”

Taash turns to Rook, pointing to Sylvia with their thumb. “Hey. I like this lady. She sounds funny like you too.”

Thanks?

Sylvia eyes Neve. Rook notices that she has been paying closer attention to her since their introduction. “You know, I've heard of Neve Gallus. I just assumed she was a character from a storybook though. Strange to think she's here...”

“Sometimes I wish my life was a work of fiction,” Neve adds.

Sylvia turns to Rook, her face marked with suspicion. “Eris dear, something tells me you didn't come here after all this time just to have a chin-wag with 'ol Sylvia. I mean, the detective." She motions to Neve. “This is about that night, isn't it?”

Rook places her hands in front of her on the bar counter, an open countenance. “Yes. I need to know. Just took me near twenty years to realise it.” I'm done running.

“Hope you don't mind,” without waiting for a response, Sylvia reaches behind the counter for a corked bottle and pours herself a shot of some kind of spirit; dark and thick like molasses. It is downed in one. “Anyone else, and I'd chew their ear off about how this was a terrible idea, but sweet pea, it's you. You'll do whatever the fuck you want anyway.”

“Ahh you know it.” Rook winks.

“But I have one condition.” Sylvia sways before her in a serpentine manner.

“I'm not going to like this, am I?” Rook already sounds as though she is ready to concede.

“Probably not. My usual entertainers, Vatra the Fire Breather and Pumpkin the Dancing Mabari can't perform tonight. An unfortunate incident involving The Divine and a dozen cheese wheels.”

Yes, because that's a perfectly normal sentence.

“Fire breather?” Taash's interest is piqued as they sit up to attention.

“Aye my love, it's quite the spectacle! You see, she lights a match, takes a bottle of dwarven ale, places it near her twat and-”

“Lace, cover your ears,” Rook playfully interjects.

“Why? Afraid I may pick up a few tricks?” Lace asks, voice laden with sultriness.

The Warden falls ungracefully from her barstool. Only Taash's reflexes prevent her from meeting the brunt of the hard wooden floor. That little minx.

Neve palms her face in embarrassment. “You wouldn't think we were here to investigate a murder,” she grumbles, as Lace mouths a silent apology to her.

Rook brushes invisible dust from her shoulder; a poor attempt to restore her dignity. “So your entertainers aren't here, what am I to do about it Sylvia?” I already know what she wants, may as well make her work for it.

“Don't play coy sweet pea, I've got a lute with your name on it. I'll answer whatever questions you want to ask, let you poke in any nook and cranny of this building. All I ask is for a few of the classics.”

Rook knows that there is little point in arguing. Also, she feels strangely indebted to Sylvia, for all the times she saved her hide from The Madame's wrath. “Fine, but Instrumental only.” She can feel Lace's silent protestations, knowing that the dwarf is freakishly obsessed with getting her to sing. “And some of that Nordbotten fruit stew I can smell.”

“Deal!” Sylvia claps her hands in giddy delight.

Neve looks as though she is thin on patience. She whips out her notebook in an exaggerated motion. “Now that's resolved, let's get to the matter at hand? Sylvia, could you answer a few questions about Camille and about that night?”

“I'll certainly try.” Sylvia eyes the detective like a puppy wanting to please its master.

“When did you first meet Camille?”

“Oh blimey, let me think... Around the year 9:20. I had only been here myself around a couple of months. We were similar ages, young, sixteen. I remember it was the last month, the month of Haring. I only remember because it's the month of my birthday.”

Rook furrows her brow. “Are you positive? I was born on the month of Solace 9:21. Doing the basic maths, that would mean that I was born seven months after she arrived here.”

“Ah.” Sylvia looks as though she wants the ground to swallow her whole.

“Sylvia.” Rook says curtly. “Are we really going to stumble at the first hurdle?”

“Okay, sweet pea, don't be mad like. Your mother and I hit it off pretty quickly. She told me that she hadn't had her moon cycle for a couple of months or so before coming here. When you were born, we played it off as an early birth, by Andraste's mercy and all that. The Madame sometimes didn't know her arse from her elbow anyway, too smashed on brandy... Hah! You were a big fat bairn too!”

Rook is not sure what to make of this information. On the one hand, she feels mildly resentful for being misled. Years of wild theories about her birth father, probably told on a lark. On the other, it opens up new possibilities. Maybe my mother loved him? No Eris, that's not the world you live in.

Neve places a hand on Rook's shoulder, pulling her from her stupor. “Congratulations Rook, you weren't conceived here. I still have more questions to ask though.” She turns the page of her notebook, “Sylvia, what was Camille's relationship like with The Madame?”

“Eris probably already knows this, but their relationship was strained, at best. The Madame took a gamble on her. This place wasn't doing that well you see. She knew that the simple... err... horizontal refreshment offered by her current girls wasn't cutting it. Well, in comes a well-spoken Orlesian girl who could sing, dance, recite poetry, all the other posh stuff; Camille quickly became her golden goose... Hm, I think there was perhaps a bit of resentment, that her business was beholden to her, but I can't imagine her wanting to off Camille like that. It wouldn't make sense.”

Rook knew that Sylvia was affording her mother far too much credit in single-handedly propping the business up. Hossberg is the seat of Anderfel power and culture, and other than living under the constant threat of darkspawn, the other thing Anders are known for is their fervid dedication to the Chantry. The Wish is a place to indulge in hedonistic desires in an otherwise austere and dour society; an oasis in a desert of oppressive performative piety. The freedom within The Wish, was not just limited to expressions of carnal desire. Hells, Rook had seen patrons use the space to simply read copies of The Qun and other banned books; an act that beyond these four walls, could lead to dismemberment or worse at the hands of The Royal Tribunal. To put it simply, there is a very good reason why this place survived nearly two decades without Camille.

Neve, deaf to Rook's contemplation, carries on her questioning. “How did the business survive the time Camille was pregnant, and when Eris was young?”

Rook's back straightens at the use of her real name, it feels somewhat misplaced coming from Neve's mouth. I'm not sure I like it.

“Err” Sylvia gives Rook a sidelong glance, who responds with a curious brow. “She still did all the posh stuff of course, but... Shit, how can I put this? Some folk get off at the sight of a visibly fertile woman?” Grim, Rook thinks. “When this little beaut was born-” she reaches over to sling an arm around Rook, “the girls took it in turns to sit with her. I always looked forward to it. We had fun playing dress up, didn't we?”

Rook frowns, leaning away. I absolutely did not.

“Oh don't be like that sweet pea. It could have been worse! Remember when Gertrude pretended you were hers, so she could glean support money from her ex-lover?”

Wait, what!?

A sharp exhale of breath escapes Neve, “focus please.“

“Sorry Ms!” Sylvia calls out, like an errant schoolchild.

“What was the relationship like between Camille and the other ladies?”

“Mostly we all got on. Without meaning to put the lass on a pedestal, Camille was a different class to the others, probably literally too. The likes of Lina could barely keep conversation with her; their interests were worlds apart. Maybe there was some jealousy, only natural like, but most of us were just grateful she was keeping the candles lit in this place.”

Rook remembers how the ladies of The Wish rallied together to perform a small memorial service. At the time, it did not seem like there was any duplicity to their mourning.

“You think Camille was perhaps once a noble, of higher class?”

“Hah, if it was an act, it was a fucking good one! Pardon my Orlesian. She didn't tell me anything about her previous life though. That one was a closed book.”

“The doormen, Mr. Thorne, and Ulwen is it? What was her rela-”

“It's not Toby” Rook interrupts. “Don't treat him like a suspect.”

Neve gives her a pointed look. “You know I have to ask the questions. Let me do my job Rook.”

Rook sulkily slumps down further into her bar stool. Her spirits lifted somewhat by the sight of Lace petting a contented Pickles. Is is possible to be jealous of a bird?

“Oh Camille loved Tobias, they were very tender with each other. If you didn't know the truth, you'd assume they were courting. The poor soul tormented himself when she died. As for Ulwen, he hadn't been with us for very long but he was polite enough... Come to think of it, maybe he was acting, I don't know, odd?”

“In what way?”

“Sooo Pickles here managed to escape my room that night. Had yourself a nice ol' jaunt, didn't you? You little prick.” She gives the parrot a barbed look.

“Harder baby, faster!” Squawks Pickles. Thinking he is giving orders, Lace increases the pace of her pets.

Lucky bastard.

Sylvia continues - “Anyway, I'd just about finished with a client, so I went looking all over for him. Was afraid The Madame would have him roasted for one of them Orlesian blokes. Heard they like to eat shite like that.”

“I saw you that night, going around the bar to the kitchen,” remembers Rook.

“Aye sweet pea, that'll be why. Anyway, Ulwen went up when there was that weird noise, sounded like something hitting the floor. I went back up a little bit later, and he was outside her door looking, well, sheepish. I asked him if he was okay, but he just told me I had another client. I went back to my room, and that little bugger was there too,” Sylvia nods towards Pickles. “That all happened a bit before that awful scream.”

Neve taps on the side of her notebook. “Interesting. Ulwen, is he still in Hossberg?”

“I believe he may be. He joined the City Guard soon after Camille's death. Could still be there.”

Neve looks to Rook, “we should look into this later.” She continues her questioning, “did you at any point see or meet the two men Camille was hosting?”

“No love. They went up to Camille's chambers soon after arriving. The Madame was furious that she'd forked out for that fancy food they didn't eat.”

Neve spares a glance towards the stairs. “I think that's enough questions for now. Could we look around Camille's old room?”

Sylvia snatches a key from her belt. “Aye my lovelies. There's someone in there at the moment, but the room has only been recently re-occupied. Most of them refused to use it for years, said it was haunted and such nonsense. You may also want to visit the cellar. There's a trunk in there with some of Camille's old things. The Madame was a grouchy mare, but she could be weirdly sentimental...” She rubs the back of her neck, avoiding eye contact. “Just to warn you though, the bedsheets are in there.”

“They were drenched in her blood! What the fuck Sylvia!?” Rook cannot fathom why anyone would keep such a macabre reminder of a young woman's tragic end.

“Watch your fucking language sweet pea,” Sylvia warns. “You used to handle the sheets, you should know The Madame paid more for Camille's. She tried to have them cleaned. Probably just kept them on the off chance she could salvage them in the future.”

Rook wonders what other grim prospects await her in that trunk.

Slipping her notebook away, Neve straightens her back. “I think it would be worthwhile looking at the room first. Sylvia, if you'd kindly lead the way?”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They follow Sylvia up the staircase. Rook can feel her palms getting clammy. Her chest tightens. Breathing ragged. In her mind, she can still hear the desperation in Toby's voice; the creak of the door as it finally relents to his charges. Be brave she repeats to herself like a mantra. There's the briefest sensation of touch on her thigh. Lace gazes up, hazel eyes brimming with compassion. A silent reminder that she walks beside her, always. You're too good for this world mon ange.

Sylvia knocks on the door. There is no answer. “Hm, Claudette must be out.”

They make their own way in. It is uncharacteristically dark given the time of day. The window shutters have been firmly shut. Their surrounds illuminated only by sparse candlelight. In this moment, Rook expects to be hit with a whirlwind of emotions; perhaps trepidation, anguish, rage? Instead, she is simply bamboozled by the peculiar décor before her.

There are white banners hanging from each of the four walls. They depict an upright sword with four wavy lines bordering each side. Templar banners, but why here? In one corner stands an ominous rack-like construct made of sturdy wood. It is equipped with iron restraints for hands and feet. Next to that is a stand displaying whips, ball gags and various feathered implements. It is a markedly less refined space than the one Camille inhabited. As they try to make sense of it, they hear a rhythmic clank of metal approach from the corridor. Rook recognises it as the footsteps of someone heavily armoured. She clutches the the lyrium dagger, anticipating conflict.

The door swings open. A woman with curly chestnut hair and heavy eyeliner leans against the door frame looking mildly surprised. She is donning what looks like Templar armour, only some parts appear shoddily forged and poorly cobbled together. Where you would expect to find the sword motif on her chest plate, there is the image of an erect penis. I don't want to know what those squiggly lines represent, Rook thinks.

“A bit different from my usual, but I guess coin is coin,” purrs the counterfeit Templar. Sylvia  frantically gestures for her to cease talking; it goes unnoticed.

The fake Templar seductively saunters over to Neve. “Have we been a naughty mage hm? I think Claudette needs to put you down and make you tranquil darling.” She runs a finger down Neve's sternum, which is swiftly batted away.

”Not my kink, darling.” Neve responds flatly.

Rook stares at Sylvia in utter disbelief. This is so very wrong, on so many levels, even for this place!

“Hahaha what a jape Claudette, isn't she a funny one? Now sweetheart, why don't you go downstairs and get yourself some fruit stew.” Sylvia hurries Claudette out the door and slams it on her face. Sylvia straightens her blouse, an attempt to regain her composure. “So... murder investigation anyone?”

“Can't wait to meet the other characters here, especially the Tevinter slaver and Qunari Arvaarad.” Rook exclaims in faux excitement.

Sylvia rubs at her temple. “Please. She's about as taboo as we get.”

Their attention is drawn to Neve opening the window shutters. Sunbeams filter into the room, brightening the space considerably. “Let's get down to business.” They all nod in unison. “So the City Guard reckon the assailant left through here, with Camille's body?” Neve fumbles with the window latch.

“So they said.” Rook confirms. “When I was cleaning out the stables, I noticed her window was wide open. She usually kept it closed.”

Neve opens the window as far as it will budge. She sticks her head out, surveying the areas on either side and below. “There's not much to hold on to, so it'd be difficult to climb down safely. Also the height... I reckon it's nearly a 6 metre sheer drop? They'd have to have some level of acrobatics as to not injure themselves.”

“Like a Crow?” Rook questions.

“Hm, not an unreasonable assumption. I'm still doubting the Crow angle though. When I spoke to Lucanis about it-”

“So much for discretion” Rook snipes, her jaw clenched.

“My apologies, but he is our ally here, Rook. I needed a Crow's opinion.”

Rook replies by dismissively swatting at the air with her hand.

“She's just trying to help,” Lace pleads.

Neve clears her throat. “Regarding the feather, as well as calling it 'tacky,' he agreed that it wouldn't make sense to sign-off a kill like that, only to then dump the body so crudely in a river.”

Rook scratches her chin, she could not deny her own doubts about this too. A memory comes to light. “There was a note, on the floor, to the right of the bed. It read... honorez votre famille? Or honour your family in the common tongue. Maybe someone my mum knew put a hit out on her? Maybe some family connection?”

“I'm not going to rule that out Rook, but there's definitely more I need to look into.” Neve and the others survey the room, obtaining a general understanding of its layout. “Rook, you said that there was a broken full length mirror in here?”

Sylvia interjects. “It was over there, where that torture-rack is, or whatever Claudette calls it. Most of the glass shattered at the very top. There was some blood around that area too.”

“How tall was this mirror?”

Sylvia furrows her brow. “It was tall, maybe over 190cm?”

“Rook!” Lace has suddenly become animated. “You once told me  your mother wasn't nearly as tall as you, she was pretty short for a human, wasn't she?”

“Yeah, no taller than 158cm, give or take. Why all these questions regarding measurements?”

“To satisfy a curiosity.” Neve explains. “If it was a head on collision, and it was Camille, it'd be difficult for her head to have reached the very top given the mirror's height.”

Rook is not quite satisfied with the detective's line of thought. “I mean sure, but there could be many explanations. Perhaps it wasn't head on, perhaps she caught it with an extended hand or maybe her assailant lifted her up. Maybe it's not even connected to her murder at all? This all just seems like conjecture.”

“For now, perhaps.” Neve hums. Why does she have to be weirdly cryptic sometimes, Rook wonders.

Lace places a hand on an adjoining door, “Sylvia, where does this lead to?”

“That's the latrine my love. There are two entrances to it. One from this room and another from the main corridor. I guess the Madame thought Camille and her clients special enough to have their own entrance.”

Rook groans, “It was such a pain. You'd have to make sure both doors were locked when you wanted to go. The Madame was the worst for forgetting that.” She shudders. “Sometimes I used the outhouse just to avoid the bother.” Never thought I'd be here, explaining my toilet habits...

“A lot of the girls use the outhouse love.” Sylvia adds.

Neve inspects the latrine door. “I see you can lock this one from both sides.”

“Aye” Sylvia replies. “Just this one though, not the one in the corridor. It was to stop unwanted guests finding their way in here... Hm, hang on...”

“Something wrong Sylvia?” Rook enquires.

“That night. Both doors to the latrine were locked after the murder, but nobody was in there. I remember we had to get someone to refit the locks.”

Neve perks up, “meaning someone had to be in the latrine at some point to lock both sides.” She beckons Rook with her hand, and the pair huddle into the small room together.

Rook nearly collides face first with one of the bundles of lavender hanging from the ceiling. A futile means of masking the smell of what lurks below. The latrine itself is on a sizeable raised ledge. A large, varnished wooden panel frames a hole, allowing a person to do their business in relative comfort. Hossberg's finest attraction, Rook muses.

“Where does this lead to?” Neve asks.

“Eh? Never used one before? This one has a shaft that runs most of the length of the building. It empties into a pit outside. Most of the time the pit is covered, not this one though...” Hossbergers love their odours...

“Interesting”

Is it?

“Does this lift off?” Neve asks, gesturing to the wooden panel.

“It does.” It is already implied what Neve's next question will be, so Rook moves to lift the panel off and prop it on its side against the wall.

“I see the panel provides the hole shape, but the shaft itself is reasonably wide.” Neve pinches her nose and sticks her head into the shaft's entrance.

The glamorous life of a PI, Rook thinks.

“You can see the daylight at the bottom where it empties out. I take it there's not much height between the exit and the pit?”

“No. A metre at best,” Rook responds. Wait, she's not implying...

Before Rook can question her further. The detective pulls out her sceptre and flicks her wrist. An orb of light now illuminates the shaft's entrance.

“Trying to shine a light on Sylvia's bowel movements?” Rook teases, earning a lopsided smile from Neve.

“Not quite. I think I saw something stuck to the side, some kind of cloth maybe? There, do you see it?”

Rook peers into the shaft, her eyes light up in recognition. “I think I've got an idea what that is. It's a bit of reach to get to it though...”

Neve simply looks at her, arms folded.

Sticking her hand in excrement was definitely not on Rook's agenda today. She could not leave however without confirming her suspicions. “Fine. I'm taking this off though,” she gestures to her gambeson. “I refuse to trail my sleeves in...” She wrinkles her nose, “you know.” She steps out of the latrine, unfastening buttons.

“For someone regularly covered in darkspawn viscera, you're oddly squeamish about this.” Neve observes.

I don't see your hand in there, Gallus.

Rook undresses her top half, leaving only her bra on. From her periphery, she catches the intense glow of Lace's eyes. At least when the time comes, I'll know whether she's faking it or not. She offers the red-head a cheeky wink and is rewarded in kind with a furious blush.

Rook re-enters the latrine. She limbers up, as though she is about to do combat in the Hall of Valor.

“Just stick your fingers in there!” Lace barks behind her.

I'd love to darling.

She holds her breath, leans over the entrance and stretches an arm into the expanse. Shuffling her body forward, she manages to pinch one of the edges of the cloth between her thumb and index finger. In one swift motion, she retrieves her prize. A prize sodden in all manner of bodily fluids. She recoils in revulsion, holding the offending item at arms length. “I can't quite make out the detail. It's caked in-” she dry heaves.

Sylvia tilts her head. “Aww poor sweet pea... There's a water pump outside, a bar of soap near the outhouse too.”

Rook hotfoots it out of the building, whilst Lace chases after her; her girlfriend's clothes bundled in her arms.

Sometime later, Rook returns fully dressed, holding the now cleanish cloth between her fingers. “Maker, there was stuff on there only fire could truly cleanse.”

“And we thank you for your service, brave Warden.” Neve quips. “I take it your latrine treasure is familiar to you?”

Rook retrieves her own rose-scented handkerchief and holds it side-by-side with the one recently recovered. “Certainly is. This was my mother's. She gave me an identical one on my fifth birthday.”

Neve bends down, carefully inspecting the embroidered pattern on each corner. “This looks almost heraldic... Rook, could I take one of these for further research? That symbol... Could be affiliated with some group or house.”

Rook weighs up both in each hand. “Hmm, but which one..?” With a shit-eating grin, she passes one to Neve, “here, you can have the one that had poo on it.”

“Gee, thanks.” Neve retorts sardonically. “I assume you've come to a similar theory regarding the latrine?”

“You think they may have lowered my mum's body through the shaft?” Rook grimaces at the thought of her mother's body being further defiled in such a way. She was a woman of grace, beauty and charm; not a thing to be cast into a literal cesspit.

“It's a decent possibility, given our findings.” Neve concurs. “Safer passage for the assailant too; looked easier to climb down.”

Neve gives the room one last look over. “Hm, I think we've gathered what we can up here. To the cellar?”

As they file out, Lace lines up next to Rook. She brushes her little finger against Rook's trouser leg. “You good?” She asks.

“Better with you here, mon cœur.” 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As they descend the stone staircase to the cellar, the scent of must and stale ale linger. It is not unpleasant, but rather nostalgic. Rook's fingers brush past notches carved into the wooden bannister; there are depictions of people in stick figure form, a bird and the head of a dragon. Nights of boredom and unspent energy manifested into primitive artwork. Uncle Toby probably regrets gifting me that pocketknife.

Sylvia motions to a corner adjacent to crates filled with favoured libations. “The trunk with your mother's things should be to your left there, where your old cot used to be.”

Lace frowns. “You slept here?”

Rook shrugs, unsure why this would surprise her. “Yup. Mother could be with clients all night.”

A rat scurries behind Lace, darting into an overturned barrel. “Maker!” It gives her quite the fright.

Rook chuckles. “Ah don't mind them my delicate dwarven princess. It's all part of the ambience down here.”

Lace sticks her tongue out. “At least I don't lose my mind whenever I see the tiniest spider. By the way, you're still going on that camping trip.”

“I was up for it, until I heard that Ferelden has these spiders the size of bears, and that they're everywhere! How do you people sleep at night?”

“I should tell you about the time I slept in a cave near the Brecillian Forest. This cluster of giant spiders descended from the ceil-”

“Noooope! Not going there!!!” Rook can feel her skin crawl. It is rare times like these that she feels blessed to have been born an Ander.

“Hey. This your mom?” Their Qunari companion asks, holding aloft a canvas oil painting.

An icy chill runs down Rook's spine as the vestige of a woman with deep brown eyes stares through her. It is an undeniably striking portrait. Masterful brush strokes create a play on light, giving the painted woman an eerily life-like appearance. Her long locks of raven hair flow generously behind a crown braid, cascading across her slender pale neck. She is neither smiling nor frowning. Forever cryptic in her disposition. In her left hand she holds an embroidered handkerchief. The twin to Rook's own.

Rook grips at the collar of her gambeson tightly. The air around her feels heavier, cloggier. She is struggling to breathe, let alone speak. Thankfully, Sylvia is never short on words.

“Aye, that's Camille! Completely forgot that was still down here to be honest. It was painted when Eris only came up to my knee. Aww, I remember how cute you were sweet pea.”

“She still is... Just in a different way.” Lace remarks, blue orbs manifesting for the briefest moment. “Their build and eye color are different, but there's a definite resemblance. Who painted this?”

Sylvia looks thrilled to regale them all with another story. “An artist who was from a neighbouring city, Kassel, I think? Anyway, he was a strange fella. He paid Camille just so he could paint her. Didn't want anything in return. Not even a hand job!” Sylvia shakes her head in disbelief. “I think his sponsors were some Hossberg royals or other... They're a bit up the Chantry's arse around here; all the want is religious shite. Poor bloke probably got fed up of painting Andraste all the bloody time. Wish he'd painted me though. I would have tickled his balls.”

Stay classy Sylvia.

Taash moves to set the painting down. “Huh.”

They all look at Taash expectantly.

“I heard something move in there.” The young Rivaini explains, tapping on the side of the canvas.

Lace pads over to them, taking the painting in her own hands to give it a jostle. “You're not wrong, I hear something too.” She leans the painting against the wall, so that the back of it faces them. “There's a thin sheet of wood mounted to the back. Anyone got anything to pry it off with? Rook?”

“Hm?” Rook is brought back into the present, her startled expression is met with Lace's concerned one. “Oh sorry, just seen a ghost...” Rook pulls out a pocket knife from her boot “Let's see... I'm going to have to be careful, don't want to accidentally knife my mum... Now that'd feel weirdly symbolic of something...” Rook wedges the blade under one of edges, with a bit of a wriggle she manages to loosen it. She repeats this again for the other three edges until the backing lifts off.

A small unmarked envelope falls to the floor. Rook takes it in her hands, “it's been opened. Not sealed.” She pulls out a sheet of good quality parchment, admiring the artful penmanship. Evidently, its author had a penchant for calligraphy.

“Rook!” Lace exclaims. “Stop gawking and tell us what is says!”

She's a bit too excited for this.

“Erm... It's in Orlesian. I'll do my best... Dearest Aurélie, words cannot attest to how overjoyed I am to know it is you. Many a night I lay thinking of your... Oh... OH... His pillar of manhood... The reverse bogfisher... What?”

“Just skip past the Orlesian sex talk, Rook,” Neve requests, fingers drumming impatiently against the crate she leans on.

“Okay... The day draws near, but I trust you will procure the necessary items before we meet. I have also made some necessary arrangements on my part, and it was easier than anticipated. Even the ones sworn to protect are coaxed by the jingling of coin. Until the eve of Friday, when we shall embrace once more – H.”

“That told us fuck all.” Taash complains.

“Quite the contrary.” Neve corrects. “Firstly, Aurélie, could this be Camille herself?”

Rook is not sure what answer Neve expects. Yes, Camille was her mother, but she was also the eternal enigma. Perhaps she was Aurélie, and Camille was as much a pseudonym for her as Karella Blueaxe was for Gertrude, or any of the other girls who assumed characters. But why lie to me, her own flesh and blood?

Neve eyes Rook knowingly. “I wasn't expecting an answer, but keep it in mind.” Rook gives her a half-smile. “Secondly, this 'H' and Aurélie had either met or corresponded previously, and from the sound of it, he wasn't sure if it was her until then. They obviously had history.”

“He was banging her,” Taash chimes.

A lot of men were.

“Thirdly they were both making arrangements, and for Friday, which I assume was the day the murder happened?”

“Aye my love,” Sylvia confirms.

A memory replays in Rook's mind:

“Please, tonight will be very busy and there will be many things to prepare for. Do not enter.”

“That day, mother wouldn't let me enter chamber. Normally, she had no issues with it, as long as a client wasn't in there. She mentioned having things to prepare for. I just assumed it was for all that arty crap she did.”

“I didn't speak to her much that day,” Sylvia adds, “but she did seem a bit on edge.”

Neve hums, “possibly worried about careful plans going awry... Finally, the jingling of coin suggests this 'H' made a few bribes, but who could 'the ones sworn to protect' be?”

“Wardens are the main protectors in the Anderfels, but there's also the Royal Army, and on a more local level, the City Guard. If you call what the latter does 'protection' that is.” Rook explains.

“That's right lass, those halfwits spend more time in the tavern than they do on patrol.” Sylvia grumbles.

“Good job we already have plans to visit the guard.” Neve eyes the trunk containing Camille's things. “Fancy unearthing more?”

Rook makes her way to the trunk, running a hand along the varnished ashwood surface. Her shoulders curl forward as bile pools in her throat.

As if sensitive to her plight, Lace materialises beside her. Steady eyes trying to trace her thoughts. “Let me, Rook.” Rook gives her a small, grateful nod before stepping back, allowing Lace to swing the lid open. The first thing she retrieves is a bundle of parchment, haphazardly bound together. Squinting eyes scan the pages for meaning.

“Anything revealing?” Neve enquires.

“Just a bunch of meaningless sentences, like 'I go there,' 'I will go there,' 'he went there,' and then some kind of drawing of a woman with a poop on her head... I think those are stink lines coming off it..? It says 'the medam' at the bottom.” She thumbs through the other pages, eyebrows knotted. “Maker, this handwriting is terrible!”

“Rude.” Comments Rook. “I'd like to see your childhood scribblings.” Rook snatches the parchment from Lace, waving it under Taash's face. “See Taash, literacy!”

The young Rivaini offers her a toothy smile. “Well done. Proud of you.” Rook looks deflated.

Well played.

“Ooh pretty!” Their attention is drawn to Lace, as she runs her fingers over the boning of a finely embroidered bodice. With both hands she holds it up to the light, admiring the panels of shimmering silk brocade in rich plums and cocoa. “Looks expensive.”

“Probably was love,” Sylvia joins Lace in appraising the garment. “Gift I think, from a client. Maybe that Tevene tailor.”

“Jealous, Sylvia?” Rook jests. “You received gifts too... Like that foul-mouthed parrot.”

Sylvia chuckles. “Beats the plaster-cast of a man's cock. Lina was strangely pleased with that one.”

Lace attentively lifts out more items of clothing, as she does so, something metallic and shiny comes loose and rattles along the ground. Rook retrieves it. In her palm lies a gold medallion depicting a woman crowned by fire, her palms outstretched.

“Andraste,” Lace remarks.

“She slept with this under her pillow. Every night without fail.” Rook herself had an ambivalent relationship when it came to matters of faith. Not that Camille had ever noticed; she was too wrapped up in her own impassioned contemplation on Andraste to care too wildly about her own daughter's piety. In truth, there were times when Rook found it disquieting. She eyes a flickering candle above them, recalling a memory:

Door slightly ajar, Eris peeks curiously through the gap into her mother's chamber. In the dim light, her mother stands entranced at the foot of a burn of candles. Gripping her medallion in one hand, she hovers the other above naked flame. It lingers, longer than it should. She winces, but does not retreat. Her jaw clenches. Muffled grunts escape her. Eris scrambles into the room.

“To burn the sin away,” Rook mumbles.

“Hm?” Lace is looking up at her inquisitively.

“Ah, never mind.” Rook pockets the medallion. It feels weightier than it should.

“These the sheets?” Taash asks, as the crimson stained sheets lie draped over their muscular arm.

Rook freezes. She wants to turn away, to recoil from it, but paralysis overrides her senses.

Young Eris stands frozen. The odour of rust and iron shavings assault her nose. Crimson pools at the foot of the bed, trailing from dripping sheets.

Rook is ejected back into reality by very audible sniffing noises coming from Taash. The Qunari flares their nostrils, cavernous holes pressing against the sheets in their arms.

“What the fuck!?” Rook objects.

“Not human.” Taash notes. “Pig.”

“Are you positive?” Neve questions, earning a cutting glare from Taash. She throws up her hands in an apology.

Animal blood. Not hers...

Rook hunches over a nearby crate, resting her chin on propped up elbows. A memory:

“Oh yeah speaking of, I saw your mother yesterday, walking in that direction” Swen gestures towards the abattoir. “Woman on a mission that one, wouldn't even say hello.”

“Erm, that day, I went to Swen for the Capon... He said that he saw her... The day before. She went to an abattoir?” Rook is not quite sure whether she is questioning herself or the plausibility of it.

Neve is animatedly scribbling something in her notebook. “The blood. This could have been part of her preparations... This is good Rook.”

If it's not her blood that could mean... No Eris. The body. The river. Don't hope.

Neve peers into the chest. “Doesn't appear that there's anything else of interest in here... It's getting late, and I can tell you need sometime to process what we've gathered today, Rook.”

Rook is still hunched over the crate. Her eyes are downcast as Sylvia gives her a gentle squeeze around her waist.

Neve gives her a small smile. “We'll call it here today, I've got some connections to contact. Tomorrow we can visit the City Guard's barracks. I'd also like to check the cremation records. I've heard the Chantry around here keep them.”

“I'll stay for a while.” Rook straightens. “I made a deal with Sylvia after all.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Some kind of mixed fruit, citrus, cinnamon, cloves... Smells nice, but Maker, this is sweet!

“It's... nice,” remarked Lace.

Sylvia looks at Lace, gauging her expression. She lets out a small laugh “Oh please, you don't have to be nice about it lass. It's not to everyone's taste. Most things around here aren't.”

Lace sits at The Wish's bar. The soft light of the oil lamps shimmer between the steam wafting from her mug. The smell of winter spices blanket her in a warm glow reminiscent of cold days by the fire back in Ferelden. Combined with the natural warmth of her partner in conversation, she feels unexpectedly cosy. It is only for a fleeting moment though. She was after all in Hossberg's only brothel, surrounded by drunkards. Did that guy just vomit half a bottle of Antivan Red into that flowerpot? She wonders.

“For fuck's sake, not another one.” Sylvia complains. “They need to learn to hold their drink around here.”

A barmaid scurries out of the kitchen with a bucket in hand. Lace does not envy her job.

Sylvia takes a rag and wipes at condensation on the counter. “Look petal, I just want to say thank you,” she looks into Lace's eyes earnestly.

Lace shoots her a curious brow. “Thank me? You're the one who let us poke around your business.”

“Oh that's no bother. Honestly that whole tragic affair has been playing on my mind ever since... I mean to thank you for being there, for Eris. I've not observed you two for very long, but I can tell you make her happy... I only knew Eris the girl, not the woman though. I wish I did...”

Lace can almost feel the regret entrenched in Sylvia's voice; her usual upbeat and carefree disposition now eclipsed.

Sylvia busies herself, arranging bottles on the shelving behind her. “When Camille died, Eris moved out with Tobias and well... we just lost touch. Maybe I could have done more to track her down. To keep in contact... I don't know.” She stands with her hands on her hips, gazing off into the distance. “As the years went by I'd look at young lasses around this city and wonder if it was her... I didn't have much of an actual family, and well... Eris was like a...”

“Daughter?” Lace asks, a soft smile playing on her lips.

Sylvia chuckles. “Nah, she was always Camille's. Maybe like, a very good niece.” She coughs lightly. “Anyway, I'm just being maudlin. You should check up on that lass, she's been in the cellar a good while now... Hm, she better not be carving more shite into my bannister.” Lace giggles. “Here you go petal, take some stew down to her.” Sylvia decants the contents of a pan into a mug and hands it to Lace with a wink.

As Lace descends the cellar staircase, she pauses to admire the rich tapestry of warm sounds resonating across bare stone walls. She spies Rook, perched atop a crate. She has forgone her gambeson in favour of a tight undershirt, better accentuating her toned martial frame. Her muscled form wields not axe, but a polished lute, the colour of honey. Calloused hands dance delicately across frets and strings, creating a pleasant melody, albeit one edged with a melancholy. The very tip of Rook's tongue protrudes from the edge of her mouth. Her brow is furrowed in deep concentration. Cute, Lace thinks, but also, incredibly sexy.

Rook closes her eyes, a rumbling hum escapes from her chest. Is she about to- before Lace can finish that thought, Rook breaks out into song. Lace finds her voice exquisitely layered. Rich and velvety tones are woven with hauntingly beautiful, breathy nuance. An otherworldly power has ensnared her soul.

Not from halls of stone, but in pastures strolled,

Does her laugh dance among the sunlight rays

She nurtures my soul with her spirit bold,

And frees me from my night with burning gaze

Queen of my heart, bright as the fires glow

Walk in my dreams and unravel me whole

Queen of my heart, bright as the fires glow

Walk in my dreams and unravel me whole

In the grasp of twilight, she scouts my core,

To map the cavern where her treasure lies,

So that with freckled face she may once more,

Bring forth the passion trapped behind grey eyes

Queen of my heart, bright as the fires glow

Walk in my dreams and unravel me whole

Queen of my heart, bright as the fires glow

Walk in my dreams and unravel me whole

Rook's eyes remain closed, head slightly bowed. Lace has moved within a hair's breadth of her. So close that she is not sure whose heartbeat she can hear right now.

“Rook.” She whispers. Rook does not stir, she is evidently in some form of deep rumination.

“Eris, darling. Open your eyes.” As if commanded by some spell, grey eyes flutter open.

Lace is sure that she herself resembles a sentient tomato, but all sense of self-consciousness is quickly abandoned, as she loses herself freely to silvery orbs. They hold their gaze. Neither of them retreating. It is though a thousand unspoken words are shared in that moment. Their meaning elusive, yet telling. But their connection is severed by a pained murmur from Rook. Blue tinted veins emerge around her neck, creeping their way around her jaw. Lace realises in horror that she has been holding Rook's hand. She snatches it away and with a thud, Rook slumps to the ground.

“Rook, I'm so SO sorry!” Lace is frantically pacing back and forth. All I had to do was not touch her!

“La- mmmfph” Rook cuts her words off to clutch at her throbbing head. She motions to dry heave.

Lace's panic intensifies. “Rook, are you okay? Rook!? Shit! Maker!”

“It's fi- nrggh.” Rook pinches the bridge of her nose.

“I understand if you don't want to continue with this, with us... Argh! Terrible girlfriend! I mean me, I'm the terrible one, you-”

“Lace!” Rook has propped herself up on her elbows.

Wait, why is she smiling?

Rook breaks out into a fit of laughter, it resounds around the room.

Shit, I've done it, the lyrium has turned her brain into soup.

In her episode of blind panic, Lace has failed to observe that Rook has fumbled her way to her feet. “Is that fruit stew? Aces!” She moves over to a barrel where Lace had placed the mug, taking casual sips as though nothing had happened.

What is she made of?

Lace spins around to where she is stood, her voice incredulous. “Are we not going to talk about how I nearly killed you?”

“You didn't though. Hmm... Not enough honey, too bitter.”

Lace knew that there was little point in trying to lecture Rook on the deadly consequences of lyrium poisoning; she would just brush it off the way she always did with her breezy facade. She sighs. “I should be giving you pickled onions...”

“Hm, why onions?” Rook asks confused.

“Ferelden cure-all. It's a bit of a joke in the south. Fever? Have a pickled onion! Pox? Pickled onion! Decapitation? You bet it's pickled onion time.”

Rook laughs. “Sounds better than the gurgut bile I was once given by Toby.” She hops up onto a nearby crate and gestures for Lace to join her. “Don't worry, I don't think there will be any more accidental touching today.”

“Fine...” Lace joins her. They share a moment of quiet, Lace enjoying the aromas emanating from Rook's mug. I can't NOT ask her about it... “So... That song...”

Rook freezes. “You heard that... All of it?”

Lace nods, sending Rook a sly smile. “Was that just a fancy way of asking me to eat you out?”

Rook nearly chokes on her stew. She averts her gaze to the ceiling “...Maybe?”

Lace grins from ear to ear. “We'll get there. I promise you Rook.” The pitch of her voice drops, her eyes half-lidded, “I'll suckle at your core until you're shaking like a leaf in my freckled arms.”

“Mmmf,” a small moan escapes Rook, Lace notices that the edge of the crate is pressed against her crotch.

Fuck, I need to hear more of that.

Rook smiles shyly. “Yes, please.” She whispers. “I want you to take charge... To have your way with me.”

While Lace would not class herself as experienced, she was no stranger to amorous encounters with humans. Normally, given her size, and people-pleasing front, it was expected that she would be the submissive one. While Rook did not have quite the same scale as Taash, she was still a heavily-armoured, axe-wielding force of nature on the battlefield. A muscled battering-ram. The fact that she could easily overpower Lace, but instead, wanted to be at her mercy was certainly novel, and not exactly unwelcome.

“I can't believe I just admitted that in front of her.” Rook gestures with her head to the portrait of her mother. Nut brown eyes staring through them in silent judgment.

“Sylvia said it's yours to have. Are you going to take it back to the lighthouse?”

“Maybe. Not sure where I'd hang it though. Definitely not anywhere in eyeline of the settee.”

Agreed.

Rook sighs. “Camille, Aurélie, whoever you are... I'll learn the truth... Lace?”

“Hm?”

“Is it wrong to hope?”

Before Lace can answer the cellar door slams open, the sound of desperate feet scramble down the stairs. They are met with the fatigued face of Bellara, who leans against the wall, trying to regain her breath.

“Bellara?” Lace exclaims, “What are you doing here?”

“We...” She inhales. “We got a missive... For Rook. It's Tobias... They're going to administer last rites for him at the Chantry... I'm so sorry Rook.”

Chapter Text

Somewhere, 9:20 Dragon

In the darkness, a person can forget themselves. It was the state of how things were before the dawn; when the light cast its shadow on the ego, and man knew what it was to sin. But what does it mean to live, without ever having been exposed?

Philosophy is the privilege of the mind when the body is sated. Right now, the chasm of her stomach yearns. It is hollow, yet writhing; knotting like it will bear something monstrous as it gnaws at her every waking thought. In this moment, she worries not for the foul stench of excreta, or for the shackles that cut into her flesh. For she is not herself; she is hunger incarnate.

The rocking of the wagon comes to an abrupt stop. From outside they hear the thud of boots at they land on dry, barren soil; padding their way rhythmically towards the rear of their cruel confines. She shields her eyes, knowing what is to come. The rattling of metal resounds as the locks disengage, and an assault of light barrages its way in, revealing the plight and squalor of those around her.

Their cruel masters sneer at their wretched forms. Tevinter slavers. Husks of the Maker's creation. Their light extinguished in their avarice.

The slavers throw scraps of bread and the droves of slaves writhe like a bucket of eels. Elves and humans lurch forward, their arms thrashing, grasping at air in their primal urgency. Hunger finds herself too weak to mirror their movements.

“Another treat, just for you,” snickers one of the slavers. From sacks, they produce rotten fruit, its former identity unknown behind layers of thick mould. The slaves are pelted with it, including Hunger, who laps feverishly at the juices running down her arm. Hunger knows no pride, only need. Frantic fingers squelch through rancid fruit skins as she brings morsels of decay to her parched lips.

“Here.”

An outstretched hand bearing a piece of bread. She snatches it without further word. Manners and decorum were the petty concerns of a girl she thought she once knew. The taste of it, the texture as she chews seems like a distant memory as the pains of her want continue in their torment.

“You'll make yourself sick eating that fruit, possibly drunk too.” The hand offers another tear of bread, and Hunger seizes it with clawing hands. Little by little, some semblance of the self is restored. “Thank-”

Words are forgotten when she meets his powerful gaze. Grey eyes, like a gathering tempest; destructive and yet transformative in their hold. They are framed within the face of a young, handsome elven man, albeit one who bears the scars of a life that has only known hardship. His sharp, angular jaw turns up in vexation. “Tch, shem.”

“You, elf. Here. Now," one of the slavers barks, pointing at Tempest.

Tempest does not even look in their direction, his eyes fixate on Hunger, as though she is the only thing worth gazing upon in all of Thedas. “I would, but you chained me up, Ser,” his voice drips with venom as he spits the last word.

The slaver jumps into the container, furious footsteps pound to where Tempest sits. With the back of his hand, the slaver strikes him across the face. Tempest's gaze does not waver from Hunger, a sly upturn of his lips. The slaver unshackles his leg restraints, barely managing to drag his burly form to the front of the container. Hunger has never known an elf so brawny.

“Let he be an example,” growls the slaver. He pulls out a short wooden club and strikes at Tempest across his stomach. Tempest braces himself against the slaver's shoulder, nearly pulling the Tevinter down with him. In a fit of rage, the slaver's fist collides with his face, sending him clambering to the floor. A blooded tooth rolls on the ground, and the souls around murmur in quiet fear.

The slavers eventually return Tempest to where he was sat. As a 'treat,' mainly so the merchandise doesn't fall ill, she considers, the Slaver's 'benevolence' extends to leaving a small panel open at the back. It is enough to illuminate some of the space in their dire container. A pair of elven women, one blonde with a lisp, the other dark and tanned with a raspy voice chat near her.

“Did you get a look outside? It looks like we're near a mountain range; you think it's that one with the secret dwarf people?” asks Lisp.

Raspy tries in vain to peek through the small gap, shaking her head in resignation. “I guess it would make sense to travel through the Anderfels, hardly anyone lives there outside the capital. I hear patrols are all over Nevarra, fewer places for shem slavers to get away with their shit.”

The Anderfels? The only thing Hunger knew of that place was that it was barren land still scarred by the Fourth Blight. A place far removed from the comforts of the château.

She looks to Tempest, for a long while he has had his eyes closed, head angled towards his lap.

“Monsieur, are you hurt?” she asks. Her voice garners curious looks from her unfortunate cellmates. He does not stir, remaining in perfect meditation.

“I wanted to thank you, for the bread...” As she utters the last word, she grimaces at her hunger pangs, it will take a lifetime before she is truly sated. If I have much time left... Non, I can't think that way. I need to distract myself... “Allow me to introduce myself, my name-”

“No. Child.” Sitting diagonally from her is a human woman with a shock of white hair. Her face is a map of the world with its numerous sunken creases and folds. She looks through Hunger with unseeing milky orbs. “Do not offer your name so freely. Once a person knows your true name, they will hold power over you.”

Lisp scoffs, “the shem muttering her nonsense again. While the rest of us will toil in the kitchen or in some fat Tevinter's bedroom, you'll be playing the wise old seer, weaving your bullshit for gullible assholes.”

“I never profess to have supernatural powers. I've merely lived a long time,” Milky's expression grows morose, “I do not know what they will do with me, and I take no pleasure in knowing the potential ill-fate of others.”

“A knife! You'll get us all killed.” Frantic looks turn to Raspy as she glares at Tempest, her lower jaw shifting forwards.

Hunger sees it, the tip of a small blade peeking out from a closed hand. Is he a madman?

He glowers at them, making himself larger than he already is. “A dog might slink back to the hand it has bitten and be forgiven, but a slave never. If you would live, and live without fear, you must fight.”

Hunger finds herself subconsciously grasping at the medallion hidden in her skirt lining, as if to draw strength from it. “I do not recognise this verse.”

His indignant looks gives her chills. “Then shem, you do not know your own faith.”

“The Canticle of Shartan.” Milky notes. “Stricken from the teachings.” Heresy.

He looks up, as if to speak to some invisible presence, before shaking his head. “Another form of subjugation.”

“I am merely stating historical fact,” Milky responds, candidly.

Tempest laughs to himself, his eyes possess a strange glint as they meet Hunger's once more. “That's what you can call me.”

“Monsieur, I do not understand.”

“Shartan, and I will call you Andraste.” Sacrilege. He must be deranged, but why does my body tingle all over?

“Why do you mock me?”

The question goes unanswered as as series of events unfolds, for which she is only able to recall brief glimpses. She is unsure if she lost consciousness, or whether she has buried the experience in the deepest, darkest corners of her mind, far from light's exposure. Part of her would have dismissed it all as a dream, had it not been for the tracts of blue and purple bruises that blemish her lithe limbs.

She remembers an almighty creaking, groaning sound, followed by the sensation of falling. The sonorous wails that chilled her to the bone. Blooded tangled limbs. Milky's face oddly at peace as entrails spilled from her gut. The mutterings of a quiet prayer. The pleas and cries for help that went unanswered. His face, Tempest's, blurring into view. Being pressed against his shoulder and carried into the howling wind.

It all happened some days, maybe even weeks ago? The passage of time seems to be in a dazed malaise as they trek through the Anderfels, an endless expanse of desolation.

“Eat.” Tempest gestures to the fire where he is roasting some kind of bird. He had proven himself quite the adept hunter. Of what little there is to hunt, that is. She joins him, not wasting any lump of the gristle or fat.

Every mouthful is a blessing.

They had fallen into a familiar routine. Walk, camp, eat, sleep, ad infinitum. All the while, Tempest barely says much, responding in mostly one word answers. Two, if he is feeling talkative. She was getting the impression that he barely tolerates her existence. Then, why save me?

“Aïeuh putain!!!” Distracted in her reverie, her hand strays too close to the fire she is stoking. An inflamed red mark now mars soft skin. She winces as she feels the skin tighten and the sensation of heat pulsate.

“Here.” Tempest empties an animal skin of water onto the burn. She sighs in relief as it delivers some respite from the pain. “I can always collect more snow from the hilltops in the morning.”

More than two words today, lucky me, Hunger thinks.

What happens next surprises her more. He takes her hand in his, tilts his head slightly and plants a small, delicate kiss on the affected area. The implication of his actions dawns on him. He scrambles backwards, and a flush of crimson journeys from his cheeks across the bridge of his nose. “I'm sorry!” Stony eyes soften as he shyly looks to his feet.

This is a very different side.

The throbbing of her burn is long forgotten as she cracks a smile. “Do not be, monsieur.”

From that point, conversation between the two flowed more easily, and she had learnt a few things as the days passed. He was born a city-elf in Denerim to single-mother called Eris, but had been a slave in Tevinter for most of his life. He has escaped once before by concealing himself in a cheese wagon. He loves horses, he fears spiders, and he hates the smell of cheese. Also, his smile was magnificent. Its rarity made it all the more precious, and nourished her in ways their scarce campsite meals could never.

It was not always cordial between them however. With more conversation, came the arguments. It all started when he called her that name, Andraste.

“Do not call me that. I am no bride of the Maker, and you are no noble liberator of elves. If you were then...”

“Then what, shem?”

“You would have gone back for them. Saved them, not some 'shem' girl”

“So I save your life, and you hold it against me?”

“I also bear the guilt, I should have-”

“What? Carried them across the Anderfels on those slender shoulders of yours? Shem, you fancy yourself more of a savior than you realize.”

“Shem shem fucking shem. Why do you hate me so?”

She felt the tingling sensation return, as the air grew heavy.

“It's what I call people who don't know what we go through. What the do you know about growing up in an alienage, then sold as a piece of meat and traded between one cunting Tevinter to the next?”

“I was sold, I-”

“The way you talk, the way you carry yourself, shem, you know nothing of what it's like.”

Tempest collected his things and stormed off.

They had barely said a word to each other since. Long treks and time by the fire punctuated by awkward silence. She did not even know where they were going any more. The plan had been to travel to the capital, and lay low for a while. At least until the slavers had given up on the chase. She just hoped that wherever they ended up, they would part ways quickly.

“Nrgh.” Tempest was thrashing in his sleep again. She notices that most of his nights are wracked by nightmares. He never seems rested. “N-no, pl-please.” As angry as she still is with him, it pains her to see him in such distress. “I don't, nrgh... Ple-please leave her... leave her alone.”

She finds herself kneeling at his side, a powerful need to assuage him of his torment. She does not know what has come over her, as she contorts herself around his bulky frame, slender arms barely managing to encompass his massive form from behind.

“Andraste?” He awakens, but he makes no attempt to move.

“Sssh.” Her hands move under his shirt, delicate fingers trace the fissure of a scar that snakes its way from his sternum to his navel. She journeys lower and lower, until she feels it, the hardness of his erection pressing against his breeches. The sensation elicits a soft moan from him. He subconsciously thrusts his hips, pressing his groin further into her palm.

“Mmph... I'm sorry!” He blurts out. She finds his bashfulness utterly endearing.

“Turn over and look at me,” she pleads. I need to see him.

As soon as he does, her lips are pressed against his in a burning, passionate kiss. Their tongues collide, at first in a joust; as one tries to reign over the other. It eventually simmers into a languid dance, each enjoying the steady rhythm of their beat.

“Do you want to?” Her voice is thick and husky. She licks her lips, still tasting the smoky, gamey flavour from his tongue.

“Please.' He whispers, his warm breath on her neck. He peppers her with small kisses, trailing from her jaw down to her collar bone. “Allow me be your champion, Andraste.”

Moments later she find herself wrapped in his arms, both relishing in the afterglow of their carnal embrace. She nuzzles into the crook of his neck, idly running a palm along his toned abdomen. “You know, in Hossberg, I hear they hang people for the type of heresy you spout.”

He chortles. “Really, Andraste? Such romantic post-coitus conversation... I know, say something in Orlesian.”

“Mon Dieu! How did you know I was Orlesian, monsieur?” She exaggerates her already noticeable accent, and a giggle escapes her. “Okay, okay, ton sperme a bon goût, mon grand.” 

“Mmm, beautiful.” He replies with an almost smirk, gently nibbling on her earlobe. She narrows her eyes, questioning whether he actually understood it or not.

They both hear it, the sound of distant barking. In an instant, they are on their feet, scrambling to clothe themselves. “I think it came from over there, just across the ridge.” She panics, trying to pull her blouse on. They both peer over, spying the torchlit procession of the slaver convoy.

He rushes over to the campfire, desperately trying to extinguish it. It is too late, they have been rumbled. Indistinct shouts can be heard as the swarm narrows in on their position. “Shit, shit, shit!”

He haphazardly shoves what little supplies they have into a crude bundle and thrusts them into her arms. “Andraste, listen, run. Keep going northeast, until you see the largest settlement.”

“Non, I-”

“You're going to go, and not look back. Make what I did for you back at the wagon worth something.”

I need him to know. I don't want to become the nameless woman of a distant memory.

“Aurélie.”

Cupping her chin with his hand, he presses a tender kiss to her lips. “Oh shem, you give yourself to me too freely.”

He grabs his knife, and disappears into the night.

She never did learn his name.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Chantry, Hossberg, Anderfels 9:52 Dragon

Is is wrong to hope? Apparently so.

Rook had not seen him since leaving for Weisshaupt, some years ago. She was supposed to have severed all ties. Abandoned her old life to become the embodiment of an ideal; a shield against the night. Even if that night is ultimately indomitable.

She remembers her joining, how she willed that blighted blood to erase the parts of herself she wanted to purge.

Recruit Thorne looks down to the squirming form of Recruit Beneke below her. He clutches at his throat. Retching, gagging and heaving before his neck becomes improbably taut. Muscles contract. Blood vessels constrict. It is though some invisible serpent has wrapped itself around his neck, intending to crush his windpipe. He releases one final croak before succumbing to his fate.

It is her turn next. After what she has witnessed, she should want to flee; a natural survival instinct, surely. She embraces it, taking a generous mouthful. It is warm and viscous. Bitter, rusty, strangely effervescent. She is hopeful.

At first she wonders if it is all a prank as nothing happens. Suddenly, her vision blackens. A searing pain erupts within her, as though molten lava flows freely under her skin, scorching every fibre of her being. A terrible screech reverberates around her skull, and then she sees it, the grisly visage of the Archdemon. Howls and shrieks of some indecipherable ancient language. It calls to her. She calls to it.

Please. Please. Take it. Please.

She awakens Warden Thorne, connected to the darkspawn hive-mind. She can still feel it though. She is disappointed.

“Wow, this definitely larger than Redcliffe's Chantry.” Lace marvels at the sheer scale of the Hossberg Chantry. It was not only the largest, most imposing building in the Anderfels, but it was somehow more palatial than the Royal Palace itself. Anders often place their faith above all else, and it shows. It's one of the few building with actual decoration.

Rook's vision is drawn to vibrant colours of a large stained glass window. It depicts the death of Andraste's father, Elderath. Andraste herself is in chains, being dragged away by Tevinter slavers. Rook is not pious a person, but it feels particularly poignant.

“We should hurry though, to the western wing,” Lace urges.

Ah yes, the west, where the sun sets, and where beloved adoptive fathers wait to die.

Rook very nearly did not go. She wanted to remember Toby in his prime; a stalwart dwarven man with slicked back hair, a wild beard, and a proud barrel chest. Not whatever husk of a man he is now, wasting away in a building he had barely spent much time in himself. It was Lace who convinced her in the end.

“You should have closure. It's going to be difficult, but you'd only regret it if you didn't see it through.”

And she is absolutely right, as she is about most things. Well, except for spiders, fruit stew, Rigor the Barbarian, and how toasted toast should be. She's very nearly perfect.

As they make their way down the long cloister, the scent of incense made from prophet's laurel wafts from the burners hanging overhead. Long shadows cast by candlelight, and the silvery glow of the full moon, dance across stonewalls. In any other circumstances, Rook would probably feel wistful in such surrounds, but a terrible foreboding persists. From a heavy set of doors emerges the Revered Mother, followed by a pair of Chantry sisters. “Ah child, you must be Mr. Thorne's next of kin?” The Mother enquires. Rook is somewhat tongue-tied, she has never been able to speak with ease to Chantry authority.

“She is,” Lace answers for her, “Is he...”

“For now, he remains alive, but he will soon enter the fade and join the Maker. Last rites have been performed, to prepare for his passing. He has also been given some spindleweed, to ease his fever.” The Mother dips her head slightly as a mark of respect. They respond in kind.

When she sees him, it does nothing to quell her growing dread. His already small frame seems somehow smaller. Although Rook wonders whether that is because in her own mind, he was always a larger-than-life figure.

His eyes are closed, a sheen of sweat on his brow as he mutters indiscernible words under his breath. As she draws closer, she is struck by the changes in his appearance. His rosy complexion now yellow, his stomach protrudes like a boulder, and his once proud mane and wild beard have thinned considerably. These are physical markers of a man who spent years seeking refuge at the bottom of a tankard. And I should have seen it coming. All the days and nights of heavy drinking, and the inordinate time spent laying in bed, awake but listless. He had given up on living a long time ago, and I did nothing about it.

His eyes peel open as he lets out a hacking cough. She darts to his side, holding her rose scented handkerchief to his mouth. It now bears his blood.

“L-little du-” he coughs again, she reinstates the handkerchief, no longer caring for its ruined state. “You came,” he musters a weak smile.

“Yeah,” Rook replies, a melancholic smile playing on her lips, “I'm glad I did, and to be here with my gullfiend.”

Tobias narrows his eyes, “mu-must be the fe-ver-” he tries to wet his lips with his tongue, Rook brings a small cup of water to his mouth. “Can't understand the shit you're saying.”

Lace lets out a breathy laugh. “Ser, she means me. We're together.” She moves closer.

His eyes widen, mesmerised by the sight of the dwarven woman. “Maker, have I passed? It's Andraste herself; a vision of beauty.”

Rook chuckles, “not quite the bride of the Maker. She is gorgeous though. Toby, this is Lace.”

“Nice to meet you, Ser,” she smiles gently.

“No,” he gestures to the cup, Rook brings it to his mouth once more, “not Ser, please my magnificent rose, call me Toby, or Toby-bear, if you'd like.”

She absolutely will not.

“Hey, don't flirt with my Lace, you pervy old man," Rook protests in jest.

Tobias feebly signals for Rook to draw closer, as she does, he paws weakly at the collar of her gambeson. “Look little duck, treat that princess right, or I'll haunt you in your dreams.”

You've only just met her!

“I'd like to see that. My dad and the Archdemon, doing a duet together.”

Tobias attempts to laugh, but it splutters into a cough. “Heh,” he turns to Rook, a surprisingly keen glint in his bloodshot eyes. "You've never called me that before... Must be dying...”

He was right. Rook had always called him Toby, Uncle Toby, or, if she was feeling particularly cheeky, the nuggalope whisperer. She does not know why exactly. She knows he is the only man in her life worthy of the title, blood be damned.

“You're right, sorry...” Rook fidgets with her sleeve, “guess we've never been good with these, erm...”

“Feelings?” he croaks.

“Yes,” she sighs. “Thank you though. For adopting me... I'm proud to... Shit.” She turns away, a tear threatening to spill. “To be your daughter.”

“Rook,” Lace says, almost on a whisper, “he's gone.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Rook finds herself outside the Chantry walls, unable to recall how she got there. Her mind and body act as strangers; neither conversing with the other. Nothing to her seems quite real, as though she is watching some cruel play about a woman who experiences loss after loss, while simultaneously bearing the weight of the world on her shoulders. It was not her life, surely. It must be that of some fictitious character named Rook.

“Rook, you're shivering.”

Why am I still watching this?

“Eris?”

Ah, another name for the protagonist of this depressing yarn. Hm, I can feel my body shake, this is all very immersive.

Lace shimmies out of her bear hide jacket. She makes a fruitless attempt to scale to Rook's height, as if to drape it over the taller woman's shoulders. Even if she had managed, it would never have covered the expanse of Rook's shoulder blades. She groans in frustration, reclaiming the offered article for herself.

“Maybe you could wear my cape as a sort of scarf?” She jests. Rook does not respond. “Come on. We should get you to bed. I can tuck you in, if you'd like?” Lace smiles warmly, but the rays of her sunshine fail to reach the Warden.

“Well, well, the rumours were true. You've actually shown your face again.” Lingering in a darkened doorway is a pale woman in dark leathers. It is a wonder that a woman with skin almost fluorescent can keep herself so well concealed. Beneath the woman's hood protrudes long wavy hair the colour of copper. Her narrow hips sway dramatically as she sashays over to the pair.

Lace does not appreciate the unwanted interruption. It had been a long day, and her bedroll was calling to her. “And you are?” She sighs at the svelte woman.

“I should be asking you the same, short stuff. Eris and I go way back. She used to run little jobs for me, like a good pup, didn't you?” She gestures to Rook with an outstretched palm. Rook remains inscrutable. “Until you bit the hand that fed you, that is,” she snaps her palm to her side, a sneer etched into her features.

“Oh, you're her.” Lace stares daggers at the woman known as Cerys. Despite what Rook had told her, she was still of the opinion that this criminal had duped Rook into joining her merry band of arseholes. “My girlfriend and I were just leaving, actually.” She tugs on Rook's sleeve, a wordless imploration to walk away.

Cerys cackles. “I'm flattered she told you about me. Oh to be on her mind, after all this time! I see she obviously has a thing for redheads...” Cerys inspects Lace from from the bottom up. Cavilling emerald eyes trained to hone in on every perceived imperfection. “Never took Eris for liking dumpy midgets though.”

Unfazed, Lace simply rolls her eyes. She has heard it all before.

Cerys rocks her hips closer to Rook, running a hand down the length of the Warden's torso. “Ooh, nice costume. I do love a woman in uniform myself... But I digress. We have unfinished business Eris. That little bar fight of yours, remember that? You still owe us a job, and then some.”

For fuck's sake, when will this end? If I play the part of this Rook, Eris, whatever, can I finally rest?

“What are you going to do exactly, beat us until she does your bidding?” Lace asks, patience wearing thin.

“Oh sweetie, let the adults talk.” She snaps her fingers in front of Rook's face, “what the fuck is wrong with you anyway, cat got your tongue?” Rook snatches Cerys' wrist from the air, drawing it backwards.

“Now Eris, is that any way to treat an old friend?”

I need a character motivation if I'm to play this part. What does Eris think about Cerys? Well, she's the one who recruited her into that gang, and ultimately got her lumped with the Wardens... And if she wasn't a Warden, then maybe someone more competent could be leading the charge against the elven gods... Eris instead could have been there for her dad, and... Stopped him from harming himself... Maybe he didn't have to waste away... Maybe the world would be safe by now...That's right, Cerys was to blame for this shitshow. Cerys has to be punished.

The flames of Rook's fury have been lit. The stony façade has crumbled giving way to wrath incarnate. Wrath's grip on Cerys' wrist tightens, now viselike. She looks close to removing the thief's arm from its socket.

“Argh, E-Eris, you're hurting me,” Cerys pleads with Wrath. Her eyes are nearly all sclera, as if her pupils are trying to seek refuge elsewhere. All bravado has evaporated away.

“Good,” Wrath hisses through gritted teeth. With her other hand, she seizes at Cerys' throat, shifting her weight forward to send the thief crashing to the cobbles below. Both hands now clutch at the alabaster neck beneath her. Short fingernails dig into taut flesh as the pencil-thin woman kicks and squirms. Her slender hands frantically claw at larger, calloused ones as pained gurgling sounds blight the once serene night.

Need. To. End. This.

“Rook, Eris, NO!” Lace vainly tries to pull Rook's arms away, but it is like trying to move castle from its foundations. Wrath is unrelenting; singular in its purpose. “Please. No. I can't Eris...” Lace looks down at her shaking hands. “Please. Please don't make me hurt you.” Each word a choked sob, as tears threaten to cloud once radiant eyes.

This isn't right. She wouldn't hurt Lace. She wouldn't make her cry. Rook, Eris loves Lace Harding.

I love Lace Harding.

Wrath simmers away, as the inferno of her fury diminishes to embers. With clarity, she looks to the woman below her and releases her grasp. Already pale skin is now ghostly white as Cerys wheezes and splutters for air. Horrified, Rook staggers backwards, nearly colliding with Lace in the process. Her entire body quakes as realisation hits her.

This is real, always was.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Need more, just to be on the safe side.

Lace was rummaging through her belongings, throwing articles of clothing into a disorderly pile. It is growing by the second. At its peak, it is nearly as tall as Lace herself.

She hears the door to the greenhouse creak open, and in creeps Rook in a sombre mood. The Warden had not uttered a word since leaving Hossberg and travelling back trough the Eluvian. She had soberly followed Lace, toddling behind like duckling would its mother. Rook still wore her gambeson, with the addition of a heavy set of leather gloves. Unusual attire before bedtime, but Lace had been very insistent.

Good, she hasn't run off somewhere.

Lace could not deny that what she had witnessed terrified her. Sure, both her an Rook had taken many lives, but it had always been in self-defence and in aid of a just cause. Seeing those hands, capable of crafting beautiful melodies being refashioned into instruments of primal rage... No Lace, that wasn't her. Focus on the now.

“Okay, one down.” Lace fumbles putting on a pair of tight woollen glove before grabbing a second pair made of druffalo hide. Right, I can't feel my hands, so she shouldn't feel the lyrium.

Next, she retrieves a large, trailing jacket made from gurgut webbing. The merchant who sold it promised that it had been enchanted for lyrium resistance. He was a merchant of repute, so Lace had once been told by Varric... Originally, she had procured it with a different intention in mind, one perhaps a sprinkling more sensual. Overcaution however had prevented it from seeing the light of day, until now.

Lace was wearing so many layers, she was straining under the weight of it all. “What do you think, winner of the Val Royeaux Fashion Festival 9:53?” She places one hand on her hip, the other behind her head, modelling her 'glamorous' new attire.

Rook remains mute as she sullenly slumps into the chair beside the canopy.

Lace, what are you doing!? Trying to joke around after the night she's had.

Rook quietly observes Lace wrap a scarf around her face. Her stormy eyes look to Lace like they are trying to silently convey something; she can take an educated guess as to what.

“I no wuh urr ffinkin.” Lace pulls the scarf away from her mouth, to prevent further muffling her words. “You're not scared that I'll hurt you. It's the opposite. You're scared you'll lose control again. Strangle me in my sleep and leave Neve with the easiest murder to solve in all of Thedas.”

Rook smiles sadly, shrinking into herself as her chin dips to her chest. Lace would give everything to relieve her of weight she carries.

“Well, news Rook. You're not going to hurt me.”

“But-”

“No buts. You would never hurt me.”

“Cerys, she-”

“You didn't kill her. She's alive! You had a breakdown. You momentarily forgot who you were. It wasn't you.” Rook stays in her slumped position, expression pained. I'm not having this, Rook. I'm not going to let it eat away at you.

Lace rests one hand on Rook's knee, the other she uses to prop Rook's chin up, so that their eyeline is now level. The Warden goes wide-eyed. 

“Here's what's going to happen. You're going to cuddle up with me and fall into a state of blissful slumber in these stubby deepstalker arms of mine.” She steps back, lurching her body forward to mimic the stance of the lizard-like creatures. “Then when you wake up tomorrow morning, you're going to say: 'Gee Lace, that was the best sleep I've ever had, all thanks to you my dreamy honey-pie princess with an ass blessed by the Maker himself.' Except you'll say it in Orlesian, because it sounds better.”

Rook shimmies her jaw, trying to suppress a smile. She is failing miserably. “Yes, I was... I am terrified of hurting you... I was also thinking you look a bit like a hamster dressed as an assassin.”

“You bit-” Neither can remain serious, as giggles spill out. It makes Lace's spirits soar to see mirth on that big dopey face again.

She extends her hand out to Rook. “Trust me Eris, as I've always trusted you.” Rook takes it, gloved fingers intertwining. Even underneath the wool and animal hide, Lace knows that their hands fit together perfectly; like two pieces of a puzzle.

She guides Rook to a pair of bedrolls laid side by side. Lowering herself down first, she motions for Rook to lie her head on her bosom. Her girlfriend diffidently complies, eventually settling with a contented hum as she nuzzles into the faint outline of the dwarf's curves. Lace runs a gloved hand through raven locks, mild frustration that her fingertips have been deprived of a new sensation. They look so silky and soft...

Despite the layers, Lace can feel it. The smallest sensation of damp pressing against her chest. Her eyes roam down to spot the quiver of Rook's shoulders, her breaths becoming shorter, ragged. Lace holds her closer, as much as her dwarfish arms permit. “It's okay. You can let go now” she whispers.

It was the permission Rook needed, as the floodgates open. The human's body trembles as the sobbing intensifies. Years of shame, regret and self-hatred pool onto her girlfriend's chest. Lace is pretty sure that there is some snot mixed in there too, but it does not matter, she'll always make my life beautiful.

In the arms of Lace Harding, Rook begins to make peace with herself.

Chapter Text

Darlena stares in disbelief at the sight of her estranged identical twin sister, Carlena. “I'm so sorry dearest sister, I should never have pushed you away.”

Carlena, decked in red from head to toe stomps her feet, her face a picture of rage. “How can you accept what the elven countesses did to us!? They stripped us of our birthright, took our power!” Carlena's fury knows no bounds as she pushes her sister to the ground. “You're their puppet, their dog!” she screams.

The mighty Rigor the Barbarian battles his way through the hordes of rampaging golems. His bulging muscles flexing as he shatters them with wild swings of his enormous axe. With each golem slain, he is a step closer to reaching the quarrelling sisters.

His voice booms with authority. “Sisters! Me Rigor think you make up now! Darlena, you accept sister's anger. Carlena, you know Darlena is kind. If work together, you strong and honour memory!”

“Oh Rigor, you're so wise and handsome!” Both twins coo in unison as they drape themselves seductively over the ravishing form of the brave warrior.

“HA HA, Rigor always right.”

So profound, Rook considers, as she turns the page.

The door the kitchen opens, and in walks Lace and Taash. Rook observes that Lace finally looks rested for once, the bags under her eyes fading fast. Perhaps confronting the Titan's shade has freed her from her nightmares at last.

“Hey sexy.” Rook peers over her book to greet her.

“Hey,” Taash replies, and Rook arches a brow.

“Morning Rook! We're still waiting on Neve it seems. Should be interesting to discover what she's learned.”

It had been a few days since their visit to The Wish. A few days since she witnessed the passing of her father, had a mental breakdown, strangled a petty-criminal, and cried thirty-one years of tears into her girlfriend's chest. And what a day that was. Rook was grateful for the break in the investigation, as she kept her mind occupied helping the others. It had been a hard time for all of them, Lace included. Rook can still see the beating heart of the Titan in her mind's eye now. The terror on Lace's face as the wrath for the Evanuris nearly consumed her, threatening to wipe out the woman she cherished and loved. Rook knew that she had to be there, to hold her, to remind her of who she was and what she could be. Nothing else mattered.

Thanks to the powers that be, Lace is seated next to her now, still the sprightly Ferelden dwarf she had come to love, notwithstanding a few new ancestral memories and party tricks.

I probably shouldn't refer to them that way in front of her though, wouldn't want to end up with a column of basalt up my arse... Wait, what is she eating?

Rook notices half a slice of toast, the colour of charcoal on Lace' plate. “Is that all you're having?” I guess it's none of my business, but I swear she's eating less...

Lace shifts around uncomfortably, evidently wanting to avoid the topic of conversation. She clears her throat, an amused glint in her eye as she spies the book in Rook's hand. “Never mind me, I know your dirty little secret Rook, about a certain barbarian and his dwarven princess.”

“No idea what you're talking about.” Rook brings the book closer to her face, hiding her startled look.

“You're reading the fifth book in the series, right now.”

“No I'm not, I'm reading...” Rook turns the book over in her hand, reminding herself of which fake cover she is using to mask her shame, “The Noladar Anthology of Dwarven Poetry.”

“Okay then, my erudite sweetheart, what do you make of the work by Paragon Seeva?”

Shit, think of dwarf things. “Oh, erm, I like the sonnet about... Stone... and...Deep Roads? It has nice... words?”

“Rook, I just made that up. There is no Paragon Seeva.”

Damn.

“No need to lie Rook. Axes and hot dwarfs. Rigor is peak fiction.” Taash gives her the thumbs up, but Rook would rather bathe in the viscera of a thousand blight boils than openly admit to liking Rigor the Barbarian.

Moments later, Neve and Bellara traipse into the kitchen, carrying bundles of parchment; a re-assuring sign of their fruitful research. They are followed by an extravagantly dressed woman Rook has never seen before. The olive skinned beauty glides effortlessly into the room, her highever weave skirt floating behind her. Rook feels remarkably underdressed in her fatigues, as she admires the woman's silk brocade blouse; its sleeves abound with elaborate puffs and ruffles.

The woman looks around in wonderment. “This is quite remarkable, I cannot say that my travels have ever taken me to a pocket of the fade before.” Rook notices the woman's thick accent, notably her use of unaspirated consonants, and slight rolling of her 'Rs.'

Antivan, I think.

“Josephine!” Rook jumps at the unexpected excitement of the dwarf next to her, as Lace shoots out of her seat, launching herself at the opulent Antivan. “I take it you got my letters then?”

“Oh Harding! What an absolute pleasure to be in your company again.” The two share a brief embrace, both clearly delighted by their reacquaintance. “Of course, I've been more than happy to assist your detective friend with her enquiries.” Josephine spots Rook's bewildered face. “How terribly rude of me, you must be Warden Thorne and Taash? My name is Josephine Cherette Montilyet, pleasure to make your acquaintances.” Rook nearly falls off her chair as the fancy Antivan offers her a curtsey.

Rook gesticulates wildly. “Ah please, no need for the formality. I'm just a landless Warden, nothing to see here!”

Josephine smiles apologetically. “Sorry, I did not mean to make you uncomfortable. I suppose you have an air of the Inquisitor about you.”

This triggers a snicker from Lace. “Please. The Inquisitor is all poise and composure, Rook is...” Grimacing, Lace's mind tries to unearth a fitting descriptor. “She's... Rook.”

Wow Lace, high praise.

“She's a chaotic nutjob,” Taash adds. I'm sorry, who runs around half-naked, roaring like a dragon?

Neve hands Josephine a freshly brewed cup of coffee. “As Harding has probably already told you, Lady Montilyet served as a diplomatic liaison for the Inquisition. Her knowledge of the Orlesian nobility has proven most useful.”

“Montilyet... Does that name have an Orlesian connection?” Rook questions.

“It does, we were a prominent naval power in Antiva with strong ties to Orlais until our unfortunate spat with Du Paraquettes... Anyway, long story short, the Montilyets have re-established themselves in Orlais once again. I understand, you speak Orlesian yourself? Vous aimez parler Orlesian, non?” [You enjoy speaking Orlesian, no?]

Rook stiffens, it feels as though she is being schooled in the language by her mother again. “Err, J'ai quelques notions de Orlesian. Désolée, je comprends beaucoup plus que je ne parle. Je peux dire des petits noms d'amour pour Lace...” [Err, I have some knowledge of Orlesian. Sorry, I understand more than I can speak. I can say pet names for Lace]. At the mention of her name, Lace warily narrows her gaze at the pair, drawing a small laugh from Josephine.

“UGH Orlesian!” Taash groans loudly.

“Désolée!” They apologise in unison.

“Here, I thought you'd like this back.” With an outstretched hand, Neve holds the handkerchief recovered from The Wish. It feels cleaner than when Rook last saw it, and she wonders if it has been laundered since. Even if its newly pristine appearance feels ill matched with the bloodied one that sits in her pocket, she is grateful to reunite the pair.

“Rook, take a look at this.” Across the table, Bellara lays out a sheet of parchment. There is a skilful sketch of a large black bird within a pentagonal border. In its right talon, it clutches a fleur-de-lis . “Neither Neve nor I are remotely artistic, so we asked Davrin to do a scaled up drawing of the motif on your handkerchief.”

Rook admires the drawing, surprised that her fellow Warden could make out so much detail from such a small embroidery. “I always thought it was just a bird.”

Bellara bounces in her seat. “Oh, to be precise it's a member of the corvid family, you know, crows, ravens, jackdaws...”

“And Rooks...” Lace comments, mouth turned upwards. Hah, more than just a chess piece.

“Thanks to the drawing, I was able to identify that this crest belongs to that of House DuPlessis,” Josephine explains.

“Eris DuPlessis...” Lace mumbles under her breath.

My name is Thorne.

“Lace DuPlessis...” Lace's mouth contorts, as if weighing up whether she likes the way it sounds or not. She looks over to Rook, they both blink several times before averting their eyes elsewhere.

It has only been a few months Lace...

“Are these DuPussies rolling in money?” Taash asks.

Why does the Lord of Fortune want to plunder my treasure trove?

On the table, Neve rolls out a map of Orelsian territories. “They're a minor noble house, so not a major player, but they're quite comfortable.” She points to an area just slightly north-west of Val Firmin in central Orlais. “They have a few landholdings, mostly vineyards, but around here is where they have their main estate, Château DuPlessis.”

“They're fairly well known in Orlesian wine production. The red isn't bad, a little dry for my palate though,” Josephine adds.

Rook mulls over the map, trying to imagine what her mother's life would have been like. Rook has very little first-hand experience of the upper-strata of society. Sure, she shook down the occasional monied person during her former-life of crime, but before visiting Treviso, she had never even seen the inside of a manor house. Plus, her only experience of châteaux had been in the form of trashy romance novels full of spectacle, intrigue and dashing topless rogues on horseback. Seems like a life far removed from drab, stinky Hossberg, where the only topless rogues riding anything are at The Wish.

Before Rook gets carried away, she needs to get some facts straight. “So I assume with all this talk of House DuPlessis, there's either a Camille or Aurélie DuPlessis?”

Josephine takes a seat next to Rook. The smell of oud and bergamot gives the Warden a heady thrill, not one she would readily admit to Lace. “We have tracked down a mention of an Aurélie DuPlessis, although it is quite, how should I put this? Scandalous, by Orlesian standards.” She gestures for Neve to hand a large sheet of parchment to Rook. “I know a rather eccentric archivist at the the L'université de Orlais, he keeps all manner of news articles... Would you like me to read it out?”

Rook examines the sheet of newspaper from La Val Royeaux Tribune, unsurprisingly, it is written entirely in Orlesian. “I can try. Truthfully, I need to practise more anyway. Let's see... Divine Beatrix accosted by cheese juggling mabari-”

Josephine interjects, “ah no, the one down from that, although that is an entertaining read.”

“Top 10 tips for removing Eggs à la Val Foret from your chaise lounge.”

“The article to the left of that, Mademoiselle Thorne. Honestly, I don't know why these are all on the same page. They're quite the eclectic mix of articles.”

“Please, no honorifics, just call me Rook... Ah, I think I've found it!”

Partners in Wine: Aurélie DuPlessis, heiress to the DuPlessis wine fortune is missing following reports that she has fled Orlais to elope with an elven stable hand. Sources close to DuPlessis report that she is with child. Current head of the estate, Baron Benoit DuPlessis has refused to comment, although it is understood that his son, Alain DuPlessis will become the sole beneficiary of the estate.

“Oh...” All eyes turn to Rook as she uses her thumb and index finger to pinch at the helix of her ear. Maybe it feels slightly pointed..?

A fidgeting Bellara appears to have read her thoughts. “The few elf-blooded people I know are indistinguishable from humans.”

Am I elf-blooded? Is there are part of me whose ancestors' physical form was originally born from the blood of Titans? Rook gives Lace a sidelong glance. I hope this doesn't change anything.

Lace rolls her eyes, it would appear Rook's face is an open book today. “Oh don't be such a boob Rook, my feelings for you won't change.”

Ah, still lovingly sassy.

Rook needs to know more. “Do we have any more information on this elf?”

“Sadly not, Madam- Rook.” Rook can tell that informality troubles Josephine as much as formality bothers herself. “We tried to reach out to the former house staff, mostly elven servants, but they either feigned ignorance or remained tight-lipped.”

Rook baulks at the idea of house servants. She would personally hate the idea of being waited on hand and foot. “Any more information about the family and the estate then?” Rook is not quite prepared to refer to them as her family.

Josephine snaps her fingers. “That I can do. Your grandmother, Manon DuPlessis, sadly died during childbirth, when she had twins. This would be your mother and your uncle, Alain. As for your grandfather, Baron Benoit DuPlessis never married again. Also, he was so incensed by the article, that he challenged the reporter to a duel in Val Firmin.”

Taash perks up, on the edge of their seat. “Did he cave their face in?”

I'm not sure you understand how these posh-people duels work...

“The duel never took place. Baron DuPlessis was rather old and ailing at the time. The reporter declared that there was no honour in such a poor match. Of course, this only served to humiliate the DuPlessis name further. The Baron passed away a couple of months after the article's publication. The estate was eventually inherited by Alain, who oversees it to this day.”

Taash grunts, disappointed by the distinct lack of gore. “Boring. So we going to this Gâteau DuPussies or what?”

Josephine nearly spits out her coffee, stifling a cough. “Apologies, that was not very becoming.”

Neve hands the noblewoman a glass of water, responding to the Rivaini for her. “For the time being, it's probably for the best if we keep our distance. We've got other avenues to explore at the moment, ones that pertain to the murder itself.”

Rook appears entertained, as she plays out a scenario in her head. “Imagine if we stroll in unannounced. 'Lo dearest uncle, tis I, your elf-blooded niece, here to reclaim my part of the family's fortune.'”

Lace's eyes widen, brimming with excitement. “Wait, can Wardens hold titles and property?”

Rook eyes her suspiciously. “Unlike most military orders, we can, as long as it doesn't get in the way of our duties... Why?”

Lace blushes. “Oh, no reason...” She turns to face the floor, muttering quietly to herself. Except, she is not as quiet as she thinks she is. “Hmm Lady Lace DuPlessis... but wait, ugh, it's Orlais, and there are Orlesians there...”

Getting ahead of ourselves, aren't we Lace? Rook considers that Lace would make a poor noblewoman of leisure. This is the same woman who sleeps on roots and in spider-infested caves, for fun. Rook knows that her girlfriend is in her element when she is fulfilling her wanderlust; charting the rugged, unexplored territories of the great unknown. Like what's between my legs, hopefully. She tries to imagine a Lady Lace DuPlessis, dressed in a bouffant ballgown, fanning herself on an opera house balcony. Rook feels her cheeks warm, simultaneously amused and aroused by the mental image.

Something then occurs to Rook regarding her mother's death, “Josephine, sorry, Lady Montilyet, did word ever reach Orlais of my mother's murder?”

“Josephine is fine.” Rook spots the faintest hint of colour in her tawny cheeks, unsure what to make of it. “So, I had a contact attend a soiree at the DuPlessis estate last week, apparently your uncle is a bit of a renowned party animal."

“You sure we can't visit this Gâteau DuPussies!?” Taash pleads.

It's funnier if we don't correct them.

Rook laughs. “You'd find their parties exceptionally boring compared to what the Lords of Fortune get up to.”

Rubbing circles along her temple, Bellara remembers their previous bout of reverie. “I've still not recovered from shot roulette, or that game of pin-the-tail on Isabela.” Pin the what? “Especially when you set it on fire Taash.”

Okay, this is far more intriguing than the murder...

Neve taps her prosthetic against the chair leg, drawing attention. “We can discuss fiery arses later. As you were saying Josephine?” Rook wonders if the Lady has any regrets in offering her assistance.

The Antivan hides her small smile behind a coffee cup. “To answer your question Rook, no, there doesn't appear to be any awareness of your mother's fate. They still treat her as a missing person.” Rook supposes it makes sense, no one in Hossberg is aware of her true identity, as far as she knows.

Wait, shit, the date!

“Oh Eris, you absolute tit!” Rook scolds herself, and all eyes look to her. “Sorry, Josephine, what was the date on that newspaper again?”

Josephine fishes around for the paper on the table. “Solace 9:20.”

“Exactly. The seventh month. I was born the same month a year later, and I'm pretty sure most pregnancies don't last twelve months.” Rook wonders whether she should kiss that fleeting 'experience' of being elf-blooded goodbye.

Neve crosses out a line of text in her notebook, scrawling something next to it. “Apologies, I should have picked up on that myself. The article describes a source close to your mother as having revealed that information.”

Rook pinches the bridge of her nose, feeling a headache come on. “Could my mum have been mistaken regarding the pregnancy?”

Neve gives a doubtful hum. “Or, it's someone trying to spin a lie, maybe to add credence to the elopement story? Shame we haven't got a body for Emmrich to work his necromancy on, I could do with confirming my suspicions... Sorry, poor taste.” Rook bats her hand as if to communicate that no offence has been taken.

“There is another thing my contact learnt at the soiree.” Josephine adds. “I'm not sure how pertinent this is, but some of the nobles heard of liaisons between your mother and your uncle's friend, a Hugo Charroux. Liaisons of the libidinous kind.”

“She couldn't keep her legs closed for one minute.” As soon as it left her mouth, Rook regretted it. She knew that it was unfair, but a part of her resented how freely her mother gave herself to men. In truth, she often felt neglected. Nights spent in a cold, dank cellar, listening to rats scurry across the floor while mother-dearest lay on crumpled sheets above, doing the deed with strange men.

Rook repeatedly clenches and unclenches her hand into a fist, as an awkward silence envelops the room. My childhood angst can wait, this isn't fair on Josephine. “Sorry Josephine, what were you saying about this Hugo character?”

Josephine adjusts her collar chain, and Rook wonders just how much it weighs. “Hugo Charroux was a merchant's son training at a prestigious military academy. He and your mother were rumoured to have been on amorous terms, sometimes disappearing into the ageing cellars on the estate for extended periods of time.”

Neve moves over to lean on the edge of the table opposite Rook. “Rook remember that letter we found hidden in the portrait at The Wish?”

“Yeah, the one signed by... H!” They look at each other with a shared understanding. “That letter went into a lot of detail about their... Bedroom habits.” I'd still like to know what the reverse bogfisher is, for research purposes...

“They were humping on a wine rack. Not on a bed.”

Thanks for that Taash.

Rook's interest is piqued. “This Hugo Charroux, is he still around?”

Josephine sighs. “He is not... Which is fortunate for Orlais and Ferelden, but not for this investigation.” Come again? “He graduated from the academy sometime in 9:21 and rose to the status of Chevalier some years later. As you're aware, following the Fifth Blight, Ferelden was fractured, and in a state of recovery...”

Lace purses her lips. “I think I know where this is going, he was part of a plot wasn't he? I've heard about the Orlesian nobles who sought to 're-claim ' territory in Ferelden.”

Josephine nods. “Indeed Harding. He obviously incurred Empress Celene's ire when he met his fate at the end of an executioner's axe in Val Royeaux. It happened around Harvestmere, 9:33.”

Neve leans over the table, peeking at the map. “Judging from the letter, we do know that H, or Hugo was potentially one of the two Orlesian gentlemen who visited your mother on the night of the murder. From what you've told me Rook, the murder happened in August 9:33. So he must have returned to Orlais in order to have been executed two months later.”

So Hugo was likely one of the two men, and from the sounds of it, it appears he was trying to help mum. Otherwise, why tell her to make such elaborate preparations? Was the second man the murderer? “Shame we don't have an identifying information regarding this second person.”

Neve turns to Josephine, readying her notebook. “Just a thought, considering he became the sole beneficiary of the estate, and therefore has a vested interest in his landholdings, did Baron Alain DuPlessis have an alibi?”

Josephine smiles wryly. “I anticipated this question. He does. I've had sight of minutes from the wine merchant's guild in Val Firmin showing that he was in their attendance on the evening of her murder.”

Neve puts away her notebook again. “We could do with ascertaining the identity of the second person, and more importantly, a motive. Shall we make tracks to Hossberg?”

Josephine glides out of her seat, offering the group a small bow. Please stop doing that. “It has been a pleasure to meet you all. I of course will continue to correspond with Detective Gallus, aiding where I can. Oh, and Harding, there is a box of Carastian candies waiting in your chambers.”

Lace grins. “That's very sweet of you Josephine. Keep in touch?”

“Of course. Truthfully, I've missed this kind of group dynamic. Even if this one is rather less... polished...”

Savage.

As she moves to leave, Rook feels a hand on her shoulder. She turns to face warm amber eyes, flecked with sunlight in autumnal rain. “Rook... Tread carefully. Orlesian nobles are known to dabble in a little subterfuge when it suits. I should know, I've had first-hand experience of it... De Plus, vous êtes une belle femme. Tu dois rester en sécurité.” [Plus, you are a beautiful woman. You should stay safe].

Without looking back, Josephine floats away, leaving Rook to question whether she truly understands Orlesian or not.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Oh Hossberg! How I've missed you dearly. The home of my most cherished memories!

As the group wander through the winding cobbled streets towards the Chantry, they spot a commotion erupting from the market square. Curiosity gets the better of them, and they make a short detour to locate the source of the ruckus. The closer they get, the more pungent the smell; burnt pork, singed hair, coagulated blood. It is horribly sickly sweet, assaulting all of their senses at once. They see a group of guardsmen surrounding... Oh Maker, not again. A familiar fear crept up Rook's spine.

Young Eris is about to hand over a coin purse to the stall holder when she jumps at impassioned cries of a man to her left.

“Look on all ye faithful and bear witness to the cleansing fire of the Maker's Bride. Only through suffering will you find your redemption!”

Eris notices that the man's clothes are drenched in some kind of thick, tar-like substance. He suddenly bursts into a roaring inferno.

The blistering heat sends her staggering backwards, and she yelps as she slips onto the cobbles below. The man's howls of agony stab at her eardrum, as the ghastly stench of scorched flesh continues its relentless onslaught on her nasal passage. Despite the torridity, she is frozen in place, bearing witness to this man's perverse act of devotional praise.

Rook can almost feel Bellara shaking next to her, “oh goodness! Is that a body? Who would do such a thing?”

“They did it to themselves," Rook manages to say, despite her tongue feeling like lead.

Neve lowers her eyebrows. “Self-immolation. I suppose I was correct when I said Hossberg had its fair share of religious zealots.”

Rook remembers her mother's hand straying too close to the burn of candles at The Wish. She reckoned her mother had done it a few time before and since then. I wonder if there was a part of her that would have taken it this far? She finds herself absentmindedly clutching at her mother's medallion, as though it will provide some psychic insight into the inner machinations of her mind. Aurélie, what made you feel so guilty..? Rook wrinkles her nose, she was not going to find answers standing around here. “Come on, we need to move.”

As they enter the Chantry record room, the sound of their footsteps echo off the stonewalls, adding a dramatic flair to their entrance. Rook notices just how bare the room is for its vast size. Nothing adorns the floor or the walls, and there is no other furniture, except a single whitewood desk at the centre of the room. This is taking minimalism to a new level.

The desk is occupied by a gaunt, balding man. He looks up from the book he is studying to let out a phlegmy cough. The sound barrels around the room making Lace nearly jump out of her skin. I wonder if the stone ever complains to her? Rook notices the unusual markings etched on his face, as they draw closer, she realises what they are, scars carved into a elaborate circular pattern.

“Oh, are you Orth!?” Bellara may as well be hopping up and down in glee given how chipper she sounds.

The man narrows his gaze. “I once belonged to an Orth tribe yes. I don't anymore though.” The man's voice is decidedly boring. It surprises Rook, given how atypical his facial features are. Each word uttered is monotone, and drawn out at a snail's pace.

“Do you have a cool name?” Taash asks, also excited to be in the presence of a former nomad.

The man simply taps on his name badge. It reads... Dave. He lets out another phlegmy cough, and this time it is Rook's turn to flinch at the abrasive noise. Dave catches Bellara's disappointed look. “I did have another name, when I was with the Orth.” She perks up again.

“Ooh what was it? Ferocious Fennec, Hardy Halla, Cantankerous Cuttlefish, Bashful Badger...?” Rook wisecracks. She thinks she is being funny, that is.

“No. Nothing like that.” His voice remains devoid of emotion.

Has he been made tranquil?

“It was...” There is a long drawn out pause, the suspense is killing them. “Gary.”

“Oh...” Bellara is crestfallen. “I notice you're also reading...”

Dave cocks his head curiously. “Yes. I read. I have done since I was a child.” As he puts down his book, Rook spots the title, Cabbage: More Than a Simple Vegetable. “What is your purpose for being here, or are you simply here to poke fun at my culture?”

He has a point.

Bellara turns as white as a sheet, flapping her arms around in panic. “OH SORRY!”

Neve clearly has no time to entertain this. “We'd like to see the cremation records between Friday the thirteenth to Monday the sixteenth of August, 9:33.”

“Yes. One moment please.” The man ducks behind his desk for an inordinate amount of time before retrieving a behemoth of a tome. His noodly arms struggle to lift the monstrous thing, as he plonks it on the desk, causing it to rattle. “Hm, 9:33. That was almost twenty years ago.”

Well, yes.

He thumbs through the pages at a sluggish pace. Rook feels herself ageing by the second. “This is the wrong book. One moment please.”

You're kidding me?

Dave disappears behind the desk again, and Rook questions where he is storing all of these records, is there are magic portal behind there? With a resounding thwunk he drops another colossal tome onto the desk. Once again, he opens the book at the beginning, slowly turning each page at glacial pace. For Rook, the experience is nothing short of torturous.

Just how many cremations take place here anyway?

Lace clears her throat. “Have you maybe considered indexing it, perhaps some tabs down the side?”

Dave's greying face looks up at her, his eyes devoid of life. “Just give it time please. I don't tell you how to do your job, whatever that is.”

“She's an accomplished scout who moonlights as the emissary to ancient dwarven gods.” Puffing out her chest, Rook's voice brims with pride. 

"Sorry to hear that. That must be terribly boring.”

Okay, cabbage man.

Some time passes, how much, Rook is not quite sure as she sits cross-legged on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. They may as well be in a pocket of existence outside of time and space. Out of sheer boredom, Neve starts filing her nails, whilst Taash does a series of press ups with both Lace and Bellara perched on their back.

Rook nudges Neve, who leans next to her, keeping her voice low, “you have knowledge of time magic don't you? Can you cast some kind of haste spell on him?”

Neve smirks. “I'm afraid that one isn't in my repertoire. I could cast slow on him however?”

Oh Maker, please don't, I don't want this to be the last thing I experience before my calling.

“Here it is.” Dave spins the open book around to face the group. Rook questions whether she has reached her forties by now. “If we don't know the person by name, a description of the person's appearance is provided. I don't get to do that. That's delegated to my colleague Jannick.” He sounds almost bitter about the fact.

Rook and Neve eye the pages within the provided date range:

Gusti Ebinger – Dwarf Male, approximately 48 years of age. Suspected cause of death – Blue death (cholera).

Sabine Ferstl – Human Female, approximately 55 years of age. Suspected cause of death – Black lung.

Unidentified Human Male, approximately 40 – 50 years of age. Cause of death unknown. Features: Medium build black man, around 178cm. Long braided hair.

Franz Gabel – Human Male, approximately 62 years of age. Suspected cause of death – Nostalgia.

Petra Katzen – Human Female, approximately 65 year of age. Suspected cause of death – Lobster.

The pair continue to scan through the pages, including a few pages beyond the given range. “I'm not seeing anything here that would remotely describe my mother.” Rook mutters. She looks up at Dave. “Do you record all the cremations? Could the City Guard cremate a body and not report it?”

The usually expressionless Dave almost glowers at her. “No. the City Guard aren't allowed to perform cremations. Any bodies discovered must be handed over to the Chantry by law. Only Wardens are allowed the privilege of burning their own dead.”

Either the City Guard are breaking the law or she was never cremated at all, which could mean... Don't get ahead of yourself Eris.

Neve's finger skims to an entry on the page for Sunday fifteenth of August. “This may not be your mother, but a curious entry, don't you think?”

Unidentified Human Male, approximately 25 to 35 years of age. Suspected cause of death, possible strangulation or choking due to marks around the throat. Cuts and grazes also present on the forehead. Features: Tall with blonde hair, around 188cm. Eccentrically dressed like a circus performer. Wore a half-mask.

Rook's eyes widen. “This pretty much describes one of the men I saw climbing up to mum's room. The second man perhaps, the one who accompanied Hugo?”

Neve records the description in her notebook. “Can't just be a coincidence. We know Hugo was executed two months later in Val Royeaux. So, unless Hossberg was teeming with fully-peacocked Orlesians around that time, this may well be our second man.”

Rook remembers something about that night. “There was a weird wheezing sound, followed by the sound of something hitting the floor, and the cremation record mentioned either strangulation or choking...” If the second man died before my mum's scream, was Hugo the murderer all along?

“Hm, this adds more fuel to the idea that he is our second man. Also, Sylvia said that happened a little before your mother's screaming, and that Ulwen went up to investigate... We should really track down this Ulwen character if possible. Also...” Neve looks to Dave, who has returned to reading his book. “Ser, do you happen to keep records on where the bodies were located?”

Dave does not bother to look up from his book. “No. We are not privy to such information. You would need to ask the City Guard. Though I warn you, their administrative abilities are severely lacking. They can't even sort out a rota between themselves. The incompetency is staggering.”

Meow Dave.

“Just another question, when an unidentified body is found, are the possessions on the body stored anywhere?” Neve enquires.

Rook notices that Dave has been reading the same page for a while. Must be the chapter on Kale. Dave lets out a small hum. “Yes. There's another outbuilding behind this one. All possessions become property of the Chantry. They either sell them on to help with their operational costs, or if they can't find a buyer, they simply gather dust. My colleague Timo catalogues the items and oversees their storage.”

Neve signals for the others to rise to their feet. “Well, I think we've got our next location sorted. Let's go children.”

Yes mother.

Rook salutes the former nomad on her way out. “Thanks Dave. Enjoy the riveting world of leafy-green vegetables.”

“Oh I will, Ms. Warden!” Dave exclaims, genuine joy lighting up his once dour expression.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The group enter the miniscule foyer of the storage building, they are pressed shoulder to shoulder as they struggle to all fit in at once. At the counter sits a young, waif-like man with curly auburn hair. Akin to Dave, the man is also reading for leisure, leaving Rook to question if there was any actual work to be done. The book in his hands is titled, Qunlat for Beginners.

Is that even Chantry approved? Rook wonders.

Neve squeezes her way to the front of the counter, nearly elbowing Bellara in the process. “Hello Ser, Timo is it? We'd like to see whether any items are stored here once belonging to an unidentified person, cremated on Sunday fifteenth of August, 9:33.”

The man's eyes remain glued the page he is reading. Everyone seems to hate working around here. “Yeah I'm Timo... Do you have form 4A?”

Neve frowns. “I require a form? What if I am a private investigator-”

Timo sighs. “Doesn't matter. Anyone could say that. Unless you're in the City Guard, I need the form. It needs to be counter-signed by the Revered Mother and at least two Chantry sisters. We also require two identity documents and one proof of address.” He sounds like he is reading from a script, having had this exact conversation a thousand times over.

Rook spots the open archway to their right, leading to where she assumes the items are stored. She is very tempted to make a mad dash for it.

Neve's mouth is pressed into a thin line. “There's no other way, other than this form?”

Timo turns the page, eyes never straying form his precious Qunlat. “As an alternative, there's form 17B, which needs to be counter-signed by King Wilhelm Augustin himself. I doubt you'd manage that though. Oh, and if you're a mage, we'll also need a phylactery of your blood.” Rook is struggling to determine whether that was joke, or whether this place is undoubtedly a bureaucratic hellscape.

“That's vashedan [crap],” curses Taash.

“Qunlat!” Timo slams his book down so fast, the draft it creates tousles Rook's hair. He hones in on Taash, blue eyes glimmering at the sight of the Qunari. “Shanedan [greetings] my friend.” He giggles, twirling a lock of his curly hair.

“Hey,” Taash replies, practically grunting.

Rook reckons she has found a way to create a distraction, but she would need to get everyone outside for a briefing first. Quick Eris, think of a good excuse, and make it sound natural. “Hello fine members of my team. Can we step outside one moment... I need your opinion on a... Rash.” Fuck's sake.

“Ew Rook, don't show them that! I already had Emmrich make a salve for you.” Lace spots Rook's crazed eyes, the Warden's head subtly nodding in the direction of Taash and Timo. “Ohhhh yeah, that rash, and what a sight to behold it is! I think it will need the group's full attention, immediately.”

She should be on stage.

Rook and Lace scoot the group out of the foyer, their confusion is evident.

“Is it on your butt?” Taash asks.

“Wait, no.” It is. “That was just an excuse to talk out here, where Timo can't hear us.”

Neve stifles a laugh. “Have an idea for a distraction do you? Please share, I don't fancy traipsing around Hossberg, from one quill pusher to the next.”

Rook pats Taash on the shoulder, they seem mildly perturbed by the act. “Our boy Timo obviously has a thing for Qunari-”

“I'm not humping him,” Taash cuts in.

Rook throws her arms up in a defensive stance. “Woah woah, I'm not expecting that. Just flirt with him a little, so Lace and I can sneak into the back and grab what we need. Can you do that? Maybe compliment his eyes, his hair, teach him a bit of Qunlat?”

Taash snorts. “He likes Qunari. Kashlok [flirting] needs to be done the Qunari way.”

“Yeah, whatever works...” Rook prays this does not lead to them behind bars.

Taash re-enters the foyer area, their determined walk reminiscent of when they are readying themselves to go dragon hunting. Rook and Lace linger in the doorway, doing their best to look inconspicuous.

As Timo spots Taash, the book slips out of his hand and onto the floor. “Oh, you're back! I was hoping I'd see you again.” Timo looks up at Taash, all doe-eyed and lovey-dovey.

“I felt our bond in my asala [soul].” Taash leans forwards against the counter, their face inching ever closer to Timo's. “I bet your defransdim [genitals] are like pekkap [melons].”

Timo cocks his head to the side, not fully comprehending what was just said. “One moment!” He disappears behind the counter, frantically seeking the book he had dropped a moment ago.

“Psst Rook, follow me.” Lace drops to the ground and starts crawling towards the open archway. Rook tails her, all-the-while ogling her curvaceous buttocks as they sway hypnotically back and forth. 

So unfair.

The pair manage to reach the storeroom, blown away by the sheer expanse of it. Rook ponders whether the place is enchanted, to appear much more diminutive on the outside than it is. “Shit, where do we start?” Rook whispers, as they are met by a labyrinth of shelves, piled high with crates. Just how many unidentified bodies are there!?

“Rook, some of these have years on them. The earliest I can see starts here at 8:85. So if we keep following along this way...” They wander for a while, Rook questioning whether the Chantry has a hoarding problem. “9:31... 9:32, here, 9:33! Let's see, August is... all the way up there.” Lace sounds frustrated, as the desired crate sits at the very top of the shelf's column, out of reach for either of them.

Rook strokes her chin, taking in her surrounds. “There's nothing really for me to stand on that would support my weight.” She looks to Lace expectantly. “I know you're a skilled climber, it's part of the scouty things you do.”

Lace simply glares at her, arms folded. She wants me to negotiate with her.

“Fine. I'll go on that camping trip and meet your mum.” Rook is not sure what she is scared of more, the abnormally large Ferelden spiders, or mama Harding. Even before she has finished that thought, she notices the scout has scaled to the top of the shelf, having navigated it with ease. That wily fox, she was playing me there.

“Hey Rook, this crate is pretty light, if I let it drop, can you catch it?”

“On it.” Rook hovers below Lace, arms outstretched in anticipation. The crate plummets to the ground, smashing into a pile of splinters at arms length from her. The sound of the impact leads them both to duck for cover, but they appear to have gotten away with it.

“Ugh! You have the reactions of a drunken snoufleur.” Lace complains, as she sorts through the debris strewn across the floor.

“Moody are we, because you've barely eaten all day?” Rook teases.

Something about that response puts Lace in a foul mood, as she picks up a random piece of shrapnel and hurls it across the room. “Rook, shut up. You're always running that smart mouth of yours.”

What in the hells has gotten into her? Is there residual rage from the Titan's shade?

Rook considers that this is not the best setting for an argument, given the very real possibility that they could be caught and incarcerated, so she lets it slide for now. “Anyway... these have tags on them with descriptions similar to the cremation records.”

They sift through an odd array of items, including a red and yellow glass eye, a lengthy essay entitled 'In Defence of Denerim Rabbit Stew: Who cares if it's Rat,' the top half of a Rigor the Barbarian figurine and a pair of lacy knickers with 'Varric be mine' embroidered on the back. Rook considers pocketing the latter to present to the grizzled dwarf back at the lighthouse, the smell wafting from them tells her that it is a decidedly terrible idea. “Ah, here we are!' Rook finally unearths the half-mask described in the cremation note. As she turns it over in her hand, she notices that it is covered in white metallic paint, There is a small engraved cross on the forehead, with red gem inset in the centre. The gem is however dull, and there is no shimmer as she holds it up to the light. A fake ruby or garnet maybe? The eye-holes are rimmed with what could be bloodstone, but it could also be a bogus imitation of the real thing. Rook thinks the mask looks somewhat clownish in appearance, but she has never been one to appreciate Orlesian fashion sensibilities.

“Rook. I couldn't find anything else with the same tag on it.” Lace's temper seems to have simmered down, as she offers Rook a small smile.

“Thanks for helping, ma tigresse.” Rook's palm hovers over Lace's scarred cheek, who looks back at her with glassy eyes. “You know I lo-”

They are interrupted by the sound of something clattering to the ground, followed by the exclamations of an older man.

“Blasted hells! They're everywhere!”

It is coming from the row of shelves adjacent to them. They cautiously peep around the bend, to see a portly man hunched over next to a crate marked 'FOR APPRAISAL.' Rook notices his most striking feature, a enormous white handlebar moustache that dominates his pudgy face, giving him a walrus-like appearance. He seems to have accidentally emptied the contents of a pouch onto the floor, as he scrambles to pocket a number of bracelets, necklaces and gold sovereigns. Wait, is he stealing from the Chantry? I mean technically we're doing the same, but the items we're taking have been deemed worthless... The man's eyes survey the room, as if used to checking for unwanted observers. That is when he spots them. “Shit! A Warden!” The man shuffles as fast as he can out of the room and into the foyer, andRook and Lace give chase.

“Stop that moustache!” Rook hollers to her companions.

As the man tries to hotfoot it out of the building, he makes a peculiar yipping sound as he is suddenly propelled through the air. With an impressive splatter, he lands face first in a puddle of Hossberg's signature grime. Bellara, with her leg still outstretched, seems rather proud of her accomplishment. “Oh, that actually worked!”

Taash pulls the man up by his collar, pinning him to the spot where he stands. His once brilliant-white moustache is now caked in sludge and rainwater. Wait, is that.. It is only now in the daylight that Rook realises who this pitiful man is. It's Ulwen.

Rook hopes Neve will play along, as she could really benefit from Ulwen's compliance. “We caught him red handed detective. His grubby hands stealing from our most cherished Chantry. Oh may the Maker have mercy on this wretched one, for it is as though he spits in the very face of Andraste herself!” Rook's voice is brimming with faux despair, she places one hand over her heart while the other extends to the sky. In her mind, she is giving the theatrical performance of a lifetime.

Neve subtly rolls her eyes at Rook's hammy feat of acting, she is smart enough to maintain the charade though. “Fine work most noble Warden, there will surely be a place for you at the Maker's side. Let us make haste, and take this fiend in for questioning.”

Bollocks, where do we take him...? Well, I know at least one place. “Follow me.” Rook prays the fine citizens of Hossberg do not bat an eyelid, as their curious band of misfits manhandle a uniformed guardsman from one side of the city to the other. Thankfully, many leap out of the way at the very sight of Taash, their intimidating appearance parting the crowds to ease their passage.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They finally reach their destination, Hossberg's 'number one pleasure palace,' The Wish. “The brothel!?” Ulwen questions. “Wait, are ye even a legitimate Warden and detective like?” He gives them a strange smirk. “Ohhh, I see what's happenin' here, you work here don't you, and this is my belated present from Oskar, isn't it? Aye, he did say I'd get a private show. I 'ave to say, this is a very creative way of doing it like.” He lets out a salacious snicker, as he rubs his hands together like a horny racoon. Rook feels a dry heave coming on.

Dream on walrus.

They haul Ulwen though the entrance, and the sudden noise startles Sylvia at the bar, who manages to catch a tankard just as it is about to hit the ground. “Oh sweet pea! You're back, and with... Wait, is that Ulwen?”

Ulwen looks dismayed. “Fuck no, I don't want the pirate whore. That lass is a proper hag now!”

Rook knows what happens when you enrage Sylvia, her accent thickens tenfold. Her mouth is a hurricane of expletives as she looks to cut the deluded guardsman down to size.

“Pirate whore!? Hag!? I canny believe ye used to hae manners like, you propa gobshite. Who the fook d'ya think ye are, cumin in to me gaff, wi yer shite mooshtash, ye tosspot. Ah bet ye mam wished she'd takin' the stalk ye waste o' air. Yer da shud've cum intae a sock. Jus' look at state of ye, ye meff, propa rank...”

Sylvia keep pressing on with her tirade of Ander insults. Even Rook, who considers herself well versed in Ander slang, could benefit from a translator.

“Erm, Sylvia, can we use your cellar? We need to question him on a few things in relation to that night.”

It is like a switch has been pressed, the sound of Rook's voice bringing Sylvia back to her coherent, warm and pleasant self. “Of course my darling sweet pea!” She throws the cellar key towards Rook, who fails to catch it as it bounces off her forehead.

I really am a drunk snoufleur.

Sylvia scowls at the guardsman. “I'm coming to watch though. I can think of a few creative ways to extract the right information from this one. One of them may involve Captain Pickles and his ball sack.”

They lug the uniformed walrus downstairs, and seat him on a stool positioned in the middle of the cellar. Rook considers that the dingy surrounds make for a rather apt interrogation venue.

Sylvia holds a piece of coarse looking rope, presenting it to Neve like a child would present a drawing to their mother. “Look Ms. Detective mam! You could tie him up with this, to make sure the lard-arse doesn't waddle off somewhere. Looks really uncomfortable too, like it'd chafe at his wrists.”

Sylvia's bringing her sadistic side.

Neve smiles wryly. “That won't be necessary, Ms... Sorry, what is your last name?” Huh, even I don't know that. For some reason, Rook just assumed Sylvia was like her, who had no surname for the first twelve years of her life.

“Oh, it's Sylvia Wolfeschlegelsteinhausenbergerdorff.”

Yeah, I'm not using that.

Ulwen rubs his hands along his knees in barely contained excitement. “Am I getting a private dance like? Hoho, this is gonna be good.” He looks across at each person in the room. “I've already said no to the pirate wench, the Warden...? No, I like my women to look like women...” Rook gives him the evil eye, contemplating using that rope to hoist him up by his bollocks. “Oh aye, I know which one, that Dalish lass, I'd like a good squeeze of her bun like. You know what they say about 'em knife ear lasses too...”

Wordlessly, Bellara snatches the rope from Sylvia's hands. She stomps over to Ulwen where she kicks the stool out from under him. With a satisfying thud, he slumps to the ground.

“This some kind of rough play? Not usually into this kind of thing, but...” The moustached guardsman remains wrapped up in his own lecherous fantasy.

As if she has done it before, Bellara then proceeds to deftly hog-tie Ulwen, tightening the rope around his chubby limbs. “There. I hope the rope is extra abrasive.”

Remind me not to get on her bad side.

Sylvia whispers a “well done” into Bellara's ear as she stands to rejoin the others.

Neve jabs the bound walrus with her foot. “Ulwen, you're not here for any 'private show,' you're here so we can ask you questions regarding a murder, do you recall Camille?”

Ulwen furrows his brow, his disappointment is palpable. “Shit... Why should I tell... ? Ah because you know about the theft...”

Rook slowly claps her hands. “Glad you've finally caught on. I'll tell you what, answer our questions about my mum's murder, no bullshit, and we won't tell the Chantry that you've been taking from their coffers. Just don't do it again. Deal?”

Ulwen lets out a muffled whine, as he presses his face to the ground. “Fine. Deal... Wait-” He looks up, eyes narrowing on Rook. “Your mum? Fuck a duck, you're that girl... Didn't recognise you pet, you're built like a brick shithouse now.”

Rook straightens her back, extending her height further. “I guess I've been eating my vegetables.” Eating anything but ham is a luxury in this shithole.

“Lass, I'm sorry about the way I acted, it wasn't very gentlemanly like. My legs are cramping, do ye think ye could untie me?”

Rook bobs her head to the side, “I dunno, Bellara, should we untie him?”

“Sure, but if he calls me that slur again...”

“I won't lass, I won't!” The guardsman pleads. With that, they proceed to remove the ropes, allowing him to sit unrestrained on the stool.

Neve readies her notebook once more. “Ulwen, the two Orlesian men that visited Camille that night, had you met either of them before?”

Ulwen lets out a sharp exhale. “I met one, a couple of days before at the tavern closest to here, The Stubborn Mule. He simply went by the name of 'H.' Always wore one of 'em silly masks.”

Rook presents the mask she found at the crematorium storehouse, holding it up to whatever scarce light there was for him to have a decent look. “Did it look like this?”

Ulwen peers at it, “hah silly things them Orlesians. I saw 'H' wear two. When I first met him, he wasn't wearing one like that. It looked more refined like, and it was gold, I think? When I saw him here that night, both he and that other bloke were wearing ones exactly like that.”

Neve looks to Rook. “If you give me that mask later, I'll send it to Josephine to look into.” Rook nods in agreement.

Neve returns to her questioning. “Did you know the other man, the one with H?”

“No. The first time I saw him was that night. He...” Ulwen fidgets on his stool. “Never mind.”

“I mind, Ulwen.” Neve admonishes, “we know that a wheezing sound followed by a loud thud was heard from the bar, and that you went upstairs in Mr. Thorne's stead. Why did you have to go, Ulwen? What did you see?”

Ulwen squirms, as his pupils perform a frenzied dance around his eyeballs. “Nothing, mam, nowt important like.”

Neve takes the mask from Rook's hand, twiddling it around in front of Ulwen's nose. “Ulwen, we have seen the cremation records. We know that this mask belonged to a man found and cremated on Sunday fifteenth of August 9:33. Two days after Camille's murder. I think you know what happened in that room.”

Rook looks between the two. She knows Neve does not have a direct link between the noise from her mother's room and the second man's death. I hope this gambit pays off Gallus...

Ulwen's leg bounces wildly, Rook can feel the tremors from where she stands. “Uh... Well... You see... Argh yes, I went up! He had asked me to. 'H' that is. He said that if there were any strange noises, to not let Tobias or anyone else in. I was to enter alone.”

"And why would you do what 'H' asked?” Neve cocks her brow, she has a hunch, he just needs to utter a few words to confirm it.

Ulwen's fingers start drumming on his knees. “Well, because... He promised me things.”

“Like money?” Rook questions.

“No..” He looks off to the side, eyes refusing to meet theirs.

“May I remind you what happens to those who commit acts of crime against the Chantry, it's treated the same as treason, isn't it?” Rook bends down, she taps Ulwen on the side of his neck, causing him to blanch. “King Augustin sure does love his collection of severed heads.”

“Okay! Shit! Okay! He said he was some Orlesian knight or some bollocks. He definitely looked and sounded the part. Said he had connections, and that if I just followed some basic orders, he would get me a cushy job on the guard.”

“The orders were?” Neve asks.

“Ehh, it was near twenty fucking years ago pet... I had to not let anyone in the room... I also had to, erm, show him a way you could leave the building without using the corridor.”

“Such as the latrine?” Neve questions.

“How did you... Yeah, like the latrine. He never said why he needed an exit route, I didn't ask like. Look, I just wanted to leave that shitty paying job, I had a wife and kids! The Madame sometimes only gave us part of our wage, fucking awful woman.”

Rook almost feels sympathetic. She recalls times when her dad would complain about the irregular pay packets, and the struggle to keep his head above water. She reckons he simply stayed as long as he did out of a weird dedication to her mother.

Neve is scribbling in her notebook so fast, her hand is almost a blur. “Ulwen, as I asked earlier, did you see anything in the room when you went up?”

Ulwen lets out a strained gargle, as his head bops down into his lap. Rook responds by tapping him on the side of the neck again, causing him to jolt. “Okay! Yes I did! It was the other man with 'H.' He was on floor by the smashed mirror, I think he hit his head on it or something? Camille was simply sat on the bed, and 'H' asked for help carrying him to the latrine... So I did... No idea where he took the body. Apparently, he asked some of the Guard to dispose of it for him. Sounds like they did a shit job of it though... After that, I waited outside the room for a little bit, to give them time to do what they needed to do, and then I went back downstairs. I didn't go up again.”

“Hm, I saw you in the corridor, you looked like you'd seen a ghost.” Sylvia adds.

Rook scoffs. “So you abetted a potential murderer in the name of a cushy job. This reflects well on you Ulwen, it really does.” Something then dawns on Rook. “Wait a second, you said that you weren't to let anyone go in the room. So when my mum screamed the place down, why was it Toby who went up to check?”

Ulwen scratches the back of his neck, still refusing to make eye contact. “You see lass, he said after the latrine that my job was done. I shouldn't go up again, so I didn't.” So you kept her in harm's way, you piece of shit.

“Blood. Was there blood on the bedsheets?” Everyone is surprised at Taash's interjection, but Rook thinks it is a very pertinent question.

Ulwen squints, as if trying to recreate the scene in his mind. “No... I think I would have noticed that. The room did smell kind of bloody though?” So we know the sheets were stained after Ulwen went downstairs.

Neve sucks on her teeth, something is still bothering her. “The City Guard reported to Rook that they had found her body in the Lattenfluss and that she was cremated. Except, we've checked a number of records and none of them match her description...”

Ulwen throws his hands up in defeat. “Because that was another thing 'H' asked me and the Guard to do, to lie. As far as I know, Camille was never found in the river or cremated.” He sights Rook's furious visage, and shields his head for protection. “Shit, please don't hurt me! That's everything I know about the night, about 'H' and that man!”

The veins in Rook's neck threaten to burst as all she can do is see red. She is frighteningly close to smashing his jaw open with the hand she is currently balling into a fist. “You lied to a twelve year old girl.” She seethes.

Rook feels arms loop around her waist. She half-expects it to be Lace, but remembers the current complications that would bring. She spins around to find Sylvia, drawing her into a comforting hug. “Oh sweet pea. He's a poor excuse for a man, but you're better than that.” Rook merely hums, as she lets herself melt into the embrace.

“So she's not dead?” It took Taash to ask the question that had been playing on their minds for a while now, but one that no one had dared to ask out loud due to the implications.

Rook mumbles into Sylvia's shoulder. “She must be dead. The scream.”

If she was still alive, that would mean... she abandoned me.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Surely, she's going to stop. Any moment now.

The scent of boiled berries and winter spices permeates the kitchen, as Rook pours endless quantities of honey into a pot of Nordbotten fruit stew she is concocting.

It had been a couple of days since their last 'adventure' taking in the sights of Hossberg, and Neve was still in the process of corresponding with Josephine over their latest findings. In between their usual efforts to foil the plans of the twisted elven gods, Lace had been trying to find other ways to keep Rook distracted during what little downtime they had. Their latest activity involved making this syrupy slop her girlfriend salivated over. Anders are strange folk.

“Erm, about the honey...” Lace is visibly stressed, as the viscous fluid continues to spew forth like a tooth-rotting waterfall. She's going to go blind with all that sugar.

“I know right! I'm going to need a fourth jar. Can't have it being too bitter again.”

Has the blight corrupted her taste buds?

Lace's anxiety cannot take watching Rook any longer, so she turns her attention to fixing herself one of her famous 'ham and jam slams.' It is a snack she has tried countless times to convert Rook to. Sadly, her girlfriend has eaten enough 'depressing Ander ham' to put her off pork for life. Lace takes two blackened slices of toast from the oven, earning a withering look from Rook.

“Want any bread with that ash?”

Lace shrugs. “Toast should be toasted.” A thin layer of jam is spread on each slice, before she packs on three thick slices of ham. She pauses, I probably shouldn't, before removing two. She runs her hands across the length of her hips down to her thighs. Tch, no change.

“Lace.”

“Hm?”

“I've noticed you've been eating less.” Rook, why do you have to be so perceptive?

“Have I?” She tries to play dumb, but Rook's pointed look tells her the game is up. “Fine... Growing up around humans, I was probably called every name conceivable, kids are cruel and all that... I thought it didn't bother me anymore, it's just after seeing Cerys...”

“Lace, you do know that Cerys and I didn't get far. Also, I was young, dumb and probably just smitten because she feigned interest in me.”

“Yeah, but our bodies...”

“What about them?”

Don't make me spell it out Rook.

“You know, I'm...” Lace makes a wide gesture with her hands. “And she's...” Lace brings her hands closer together.

“You're a dwarf. She's a human.”

Stop being such a boob, you know what I'm getting at.

“Did you want those other slices on your monstrosity of a sandwich?”

“I do, but...”

Rook reaches over, layering the desired ham on the near cremated bread. “That toast is criminally overdone. Also...” Rook bends down to snake her arms around Lace's waist, her warm breath fluttering against the dwarf's ear. “Your body drives me crazy Lace Harding, don't ever doubt it.” Resting her chin on Lace's shoulder, her scarred hands journey across her form, lovingly mapping the valleys and peaks of scout's curves. Lace inhales sharply, her girlfriend's fond caresses igniting all of her senses at once. She feels a fierce hunger spreading to areas beyond her stomach. “Mmm, this in particular,” Rook cups her buttocks, giving each a generous squeeze. Lace instinctively parts her legs, she can feel the gusset of her underwear stick to her increasingly wet vulva. Rook takes this as an invitation to slide her palm over the redhead's inner thigh, inching ever closer to her aching want. “Absolute perfection, mon impératrice.” 

“Umm.” The low rumble of Rook's voice elicits a soft moan. Maker's breath, I need her! Wait... SHE'S TOUCHING ME!?

“Rook!!! We're touching! I'm not even wearing any extra layers or anything, and I'm pretty sure you touched skin at one point”

Rook freezes, tensing her muscles. Their bodies however remain pressed together, like loadstone on iron. “So we are... But I'm not dead, I think? Unless I'm dead and this is the fade. Well, technically this is the fade, but... Are you Andraste? Am I groping the Maker's bride? No. Why would I say that? That's fucking weird.”

“Rook, shut up. I, err...” Lace takes a moment, trying to recollect her thoughts. “I felt a change when the Titan's memories came flooding into me, when I reconciled with that shade... I felt like I had gained some semblance of control, now that I'm able to accept that anger. Does that make sense?”

“I can't pretend to fully understand it, but at least the only thing I'm going to get drunk on now is Neve's wine and our love for each other.” Rook lips ghost over the nape of Lace's neck, causing the hairs to stand on ends.

“Mm, so sappy.” Lace giggles. “I want to test it first, just to make sure you're not going to puke your guts out.”

“One sec.” Before Lace knows what is happening, she is being scooped off the ground and seated on the edge of the dining table. “Sorry, normally I'd ask first, but I wanted to save your neck from straining.”

“Forever considerate.” Lace bites the bottom of her plump lip, using her hand to tuck a stray lock of hair behind Rook's ear. So soft... Lace takes a moment to savour her scent; like chicory, pine and sweat? Lace wonders how much the blight changes the way a person smells. Either way, she is getting a heady rush from it.

“Now, think dirty thoughts about me.” Rook purrs in a velvety tone, as her thumb caresses Lace's cheek.

The redhead's eyes transfix on her slightly parted, chapped lips; filled with an urgent need to nourish them with her own. “Bold of you to assume my thoughts of you aren't always dirty, Eris Thorne.” Lace is surprised she can still form coherent sentences as her mind migrates southwards.

Foreheads touching, they smile into each other. Whilst they have kissed before, the absence of touch since has made the flame of their want burn ever brighter. With lidded eyes, coarse lips press against plump ones. There is no urgency as their tongues glide in an attentive waltz, each taking their time to be in step with the other. A blue aura encompasses them. It does not seek to ward off Rook's touch, but instead amplify it. Positive emotions feeling more resonant and intense. The scout laces her hand behind Rook's head, deepening their kiss to draw honeyed moans. Amazing.

Eventually, they break off for air, a small string of saliva forming a delicate bridge between the two. The sight of Rook's flushed face makes her heart blossom. We can't just stop here... She shares a knowing look. This will definitely distract her.

“Mine or yours?”

“Yours is closer. Climb on.” Rook spins around, patting her shoulder. “Ride your upright druffalo to your garden of sensual sin.”

Lace laughs brightly, exhilarated by thoughts of what is to come. “Don't ever call it that again.” She climbs onto Rook's back, appreciating the feel of her breasts against the lean mass. Using her foot, she playfully kicks at Rook's side. “Giddy-up”.

“You can mount me anytime... I mean, moooo!”

“You think druffalo moo?”

“They don't? Cut me some slack, we don't have them where I'm from.”

“It's more like a nyuuuuur!”

“NYUUUUUUUR!” She makes a gesture akin to a horse rearing.

Lace is in a fit of giggles, interrupted only by muffled protests from the adjoining room. “It's getting late. Take your sex-crazed animal noises elsewhere.”

Rook scowls in the direction of Lucanis' room, mouthing silent obscenities. Lace snorts.

“Anyway, to the greenhouse! There's a fiery bush I need to trim.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Rook makes sure to 'treat' Lace to a few laps of the courtyard. Nyuuuring all the while with wild abandon, much to the dismay of the lighthouse's residents. She even enlists Manfred and Assan; forming a bizarre parade of druffalo noises, shrieks and squawks. Perhaps Lace has found her new Sing-Quisition at last.

The pair stagger through the greenhouse door, kicking off their shoes and socks before collapsing on the bedrolls in a bout of laughter. The sight of her girlfriend, so brilliant in her jubilation captivates Rook's heart. The only sun I never want to see set. “May I?” She gently tugs on Lace's braids, receiving a hum of approval. Flaming locks cascade down the dwarf's back. Rook has never seen hair so vivid, So alive. She runs her fingers through it, marvelling at its dazzling lustre. Stunning.

“Mm, as nice as this is, I hope you're not here just to play with my hair.”

“Of course, I, erm...” Rook is suddenly overcome with a shyness; so close to having everything she wants, but inhibited by her own inexperience. Theoretically, she knows what goes where and how all the different parts work. Actually putting it into practice is another matter...

Rook has little time to ruminate, as a shock of force topples her onto her back. When did she get this strong? The scout has her pinned to the ground, her short arms anchoring long brawny ones into place. Lace licks her lips, eyes locked on hers with a smouldering intensity, like a volatile volcano threatening to erupt at any moment. Rook has never been more turned on.

“You wanted me to take charge, right.”

Unsure whether it is framed as a question or an assertion, Rook nods regardless.

“Good. Remove your tunic and bra.”

With Lace releasing her grasp, Rook shoots up into a seated position, hurrying to unburden herself of her top layers. She enjoys the warm, mossy air as it greets her bare chest. All the while, Lace's ravenous eyes hone in on her mark; hawk-like orbs eyeing her ever-hardening peaks. She's tackled to the ground once more. Freckled hands grope at her biceps, taking in all the hardlines and contours, while her tongue swipes feverishly across toned abs. Rook is ready to be eaten alive; for her tiger to claim her piece of meat. Before her mind can turn to the rapture to come, she gasps, as the tongue scouts further north, zoning in on her perk, rounded breasts. Another sharp, ragged inhale, the internal voice of her want willing her to take it, to consume it. Answering a silent prayer, Lace curls her tongue around the areola, flicking across the nipple before taking it into the warm chasm of her mouth; her barred teeth planting their claim to her summit. Yes, Lace...

As though reading her mind, Lace peers up, her face a picture of lust. “I know you're thinking it Rook, but say it.”

“Please Lace, please, have your way, please!” Rook knows she is a hot, ineloquent mess, but forming words is hard when you so desperately want to be unravelled.

“So polite.” Lace growls, before planting a few small kisses along Rook's wide clavicle, worshipping its prominent ridges and grooves. She teasingly places her knee between Rook's parting legs, just out of reach of her sodden vulva. Rook whimpers, overcome by the delirious need for friction as she groans in frustration. Lace's laugh is a mocking one, only thrilling Rook all the more. There's a derisive look, before she uses her biting mouth to suck on Rook's neck, marking what is hers and nobody else's, her territory.

“Mine,” the redhead asserts. 

“Mmhm always,” Rook eagerly concurs, there was never any doubt of the dwarf's dominion over her. The thought sends her core screaming for attention, and she squirms erratically, her pelvis attempting to inch closer and closer to the precious source of release.

“You're an absolute mess Rook," Lace mocks, "once a big, strong Grey Warden, now look at you.”

Lace's harsh words only serve to arouse her further. Rook wants to beg for it, to be utterly at her mercy.

“Please, La-” Rook's voice hitches in her throat, as Lace's hot breath lingers above her navel. Stomach quivering in anticipation, Lace lustily eyes the rise and fall of her toned midriff. The redhead is enjoying her command, as stubby arms take authority once more, pinning Rook's firmly to the ground. The scout changes direction, heading further south until the tip of her nose prods at Rook's needy nub, still locked behind fabric. Nostrils flaring like a curious predator, she takes in her scent, readying her prey for the chase to come. The slightest touch sends Rook's back arching, her core crying out for sensation once more. The thirst is maddening. “Pleeeeease,” she pleads. Take me, ravage me! 

“Now, now, don't be so impatient. You smell delicious, by the way.” Lace removes her own top layers, leaving Rook bewitched at the sight of her voluptuous bosom. Areola the size of small teacups frame pert nipples. “Feel me Rook,” she demands. Lowering herself, she presses one of her grapefruits against the Warden's mouth. Rook moans into it, greedily sucking at the soft mound as though it is needed more than the air she breathes, while her calloused fingers dance across a freckled waist. Hands dipping lower, she pulls down Lace's patchwork trousers to knead at the tracts of her curvaceous hips and thighs. That shape, so perfect...Lace's eyes are closed, full lips slightly parted as she concentrates on each sensuous touch as though it'll be her last. 

“Mmm, good girl. I think you deserve a reward.” Lace shimmies out her trousers and flings her underwear across the room. The scout practically tears Rook's breeches from her, as hazel eyes stare thirstily at the want between her legs. “Fuck me Rook, you're soaking wet.” Rook does not have time to reply, as Lace's nimble fingers are already parting the lips of her dripping peach, shattering the higher brain.

“Maker, yes, please, break me!” Rook moans. Lace's tongue skirts the perimeter before plunging headlong into intimate folds. Rook pushes down into it, hips bucking as a deft tongue spars with her desperate clit. Bursts of blue energy cradle them, as wave after wave of ecstasy crash into her. 

Before Rook rides the final wave, Lace withdraws, her chin glistening with her girlfriend's juices. 

“I'm going to break you now.” There is a sly look on Lace's face as she takes her middle and and index fingers, guiding them into Rook's needy crevice. More sharp, stuttered breaths. The Warden's hips continue to thrust as the dwarf pumps through silken wetness. Lace composes a steady tempo with the musician, grinding her own nub against Rook's firm calf. A master of her craft, she curls her fingers slightly, aiming to enkindle Rook's G-spot, while her tongue laps nimbly at Rook's clit once more. Rook yelps, uttering nonsense as the tsunami of pleasure continues to build.

The wave hits its apex, with Rook's head flinging backwards. She is on the precipice of greatness, as her voice scales up in pitch to a near perfect soprano. "La-Laaace." With one last pump, Rook's nails dig into the bedroll, her intimate walls contract around dwarven fingers, while her body contorts into a cat-like arch. She shudders into a glorious orgasm, as she screams her girlfriend's name into the night. The warrior remains a wreck on a shore of bliss.

With an impish grin, Lace flops on top of Rook. “Mm, never thought you could hit notes that high...” Hooking freckled arms around her neck, Lace takes her mouth into hers, the Warden moaning at the taste of her own sweetness on the redhead's tongue. “So hot... Finish me off darling?” Lace asks. 

Body still awash in the afterglow, Rook hums, who was she to deny her highness. “Of course. What do you like?”

Lace reluctantly peels herself off, facing away to lie on her side. “Spoon me.”

Rook wraps one of her strapping arms around Lace, palm gliding across the faint paunch of her stomach. Rook always admired the softer parts of her. “I fucking love your body.”

Lace chuckles. “You've made that clear... Now, take the thumb of your other hand and...” She reaches around to guide Rook's hand to her aching pussy. Rook presses her thumb against the dripping want, causing the scout's breath to hitch. “N-ow, my butt.”

“And a fine one it is.” Rook purrs, as she lubricates her thumb with Lace's juices, aroused by the sheer volume and viscosity. Using that thumb, she guides it past the dwarf's plump buttocks and into her enticing hole.

“Ye-yes, Roo-”

Rook smiles into her back, wiggling the thumb, while her fingers strum at an engorged clit to entice a marvellous chorus of lewd sounds. Her other hand cups and squeezes at a Lace's pliable bosom, thumbs rubbing circles over the erogenous zone. The redhead gasps at the stimulation, with Rook attentively observing each stuttered breath, each spasm of her hips as the thrill mounts. She would please her queen no matter what. “This good?”

“Ye- Eri-” Lace's buttocks clench and unclench as her hips push forward into the touch. “Fi-ingers... in...”

Rook slides two fingers from Lace's clit into her soaked pussy, so inviting, so demanding, beckoning a low guttural sound that fries her brain. She uses her mouth to suck on Lace's shoulder, feeling the redhead buck with increased fervour. Rook can do better, she needs to push her over the edge. To blow her fucking mind. “One more?”

The dwarf nods, and a third finger slides in. There is a raspy scream as her neck cranes backwards, euphoric in the sensation of fullness. Slick fingers slide to and fro, planting more raw, earthy groans in an already flourishing greenhouse.

“Erissssss” Lace's groans are muffled as she presses her face into the bedroll below. Then Rook feels it, the tremors of Lace's stout body as the most fantastic orgasm ripples across her freckled form. Salacious sounds sear at Rook's thoughts as she is blinded by an explosion of sapphire. It is an eruption of pure, unfiltered ecstasy, like nothing she has seen or felt before, and it's magnificent. She wraps her rugged form around the small Titan, riding the blue rapture together.

After a while, the redhead turns to face Rook, face glowing with an improbably large grin. “Well done.”

Rook snorts. “Do I get a medal?”

“Mm, making me come like that is its own reward.” Lace tenderly rubs a hand along Rook's abs.

Rook sighs. “Shame. I've always wanted to wear one. I'd love to make Antoine jealous with my 'No. 1 dwarf fondler' medal.” Lace giggles. Rook notices Lace's hands still roaming across her chiselled midriff. “You really like my muscles, don't you?” Rook sounds almost astounded.

Lace's brow arches. “I mean, of course I do. They're really hot! How can you even ask that?”

Rook blushes, she has always considered her adult body as too hard, too martial in its design. It wasn't the pliable, bountiful curves she often desired. “It's just that they're not very... My body isn't very... feminine?”

Lace frowns, shaking her head. “Rook, shut up. I don't even know what that means.” Lace presses their mouths together once more, forming a languid, steamy kiss. It told Rook all that she needed to know, that Lace craved to touch the power of her build. As they break off, Lace lovingly strokes her cheek with the back of her hand. “Eris, you're the cutest woman I've ever met.” Rook has never felt so lucky, as she beams so hard her jaw aches.

“Oh shit!” Rook scrambles to her feet so fast that her head collides with the roof of the canopy, causing its near collapse.

“Rook!? What's wrong?”

Rook frantically pulls her clothes back on in a mad dash to vacate the greenhouse. “My fruit stew!”

“That fucking stew.” Lace groans as she buries her face into the bedroll.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

There was a certain je ne sais quoi in the way Rook carried herself around the lighthouse that night. It only took a mind-altering orgasm to reminder her of just how lucky she was. Yes, the impending doom brought by the power hungry gods still hung over them, as did her own personal issues regarding her mother's fate. Regardless, she had Lace, and side by side they would face whatever comes at them. Together.

Also the fruit stew was fine, ace in fact!

As Rook enters the library from the courtyard, she sees Strife. The Veil Jumper's eyes are intently scrutinising something leant against the door to the music room. By now, she was used to seeing Strife around here, usually at odd hours in morning as he and Emmrich pursued their romantic liaisons.

As Rook passes on her way to her chamber, she spots what Strife has been looking at, my mother's portrait. “Oh Lace must have brought that over from Hossberg. We've been meaning to find a more permanent spot to put it.”

Strife flinches slightly, as though the sudden noise of Rook's voice has yanked him from a deep state of contemplation. “This woman Rook, I think I know her...” What?

Rook freezes on the staircase. “You knew her from Hossberg or from Orlais?”

Strife shakes his head. “Not knew, past tense. I know her now. She lives on the edge of Arlathan.”

What the fuck!?

“With her daughter.”

Daughter!?

Right. Under. Our. Noses.

Chapter Text

**Warning contains a scene of attempted rape**

Château DuPlessis, Orlais 9:20 Dragon

“You know, if the wyvern isn't to your taste, I could always ask the kitchen staff to prepare nug-nug for you?”

Aurélie appears beside her twin, feeling somewhat guilty for having invaded his sanctuary for quiet reflection.

“Pah! I'm not a child anymore.” Alain's tone is one of discontent, nevertheless, he shimmies along the garden bench, allowing her room to perch beside him.

Alain has relieved himself of his mask, and Aurélie opts to do the same. She idly traces her finger along the etched engravings, depictions of vine leaves embellishing its brushed bronze surface. She already feels infinitely lighter without it.

Moments slip away, as they simply enjoy the tranquillity of their garden retreat; a space away from the prying eyes of the meddling blue bloods. They fall into a trance, focusing only on the cascading sound of the water, as it flows with abundance from the ornate fountain opposite. That is until they both hear it, its din puncturing the stillness of the night. That damn harpsichord. The resonant timbre of each depressed key tearing them back into reality, reminding them of their duty.

“I suppose we better go inside, non? I'm sure papa will retire to bed soon,” Aurélie speaks with a sense of urgency, but makes no move to leave just yet.

The Baron, their father, was fading by the day. The healers said it was the wasting illness, and that soon death would claim him. Despite the severity, he still insisted on hosting what she considers frivolous social gatherings. All in the name of keeping up appearances. 'A bottle of House DuPlessis wine needs to be on the table of every affluential person of this grand nation,' he had told her. The man valued status and profit above all else, and she was never shy about making her bitterness known.

Aurélie looks to her brother, who simply stares at the gash on his hand; it is as ruby red as the family's famed tipple. A new scar, from his tuition?

“Alain, you known if Master Emond has been hurting you, I'm sure fath-”

“Non!” His head snaps upwards, as panic engulfs his features. “It's necessary. It allows me to control it.” He sounds oddly resolute in his statement, as if he has repeated it to himself countless times over.

Technically, they were not supposed to speak about it. Not even in private. Their father said it would sound the death knell of their family name. Her mouth may be bound, but her hands are not. She reaches for his arm, hoping to impart some comfort, but as if scalded by boiling water, he recoils from her touch.

He's growing more distant by the day, and to think we were once joined at the hip...

Wordlessly, he rises, adjusting his cravat. Aurélie notices that it sits on his neck strangely, like a hangman's noose. His eyes glaze over, as though his mind resides somewhere beyond Thedas. Forcing one leg in front of the other, he drifts off towards the atrium. His face tells Aurélie that he is already resigned himself to an unfortunate fate.

She worries, but does he ever worry about me? Her name may mean 'golden' in the common tongue, but Alain is, and has always been the favoured child.

Probably because he just agrees to everything father asks of him, she mulls.

As much as she would like to enjoy the balmy night air, and the sweet smell of lavender as it drifts across the château grounds, she knows her absence will only stoke the prattling of the gossip-mongers further. Just a little more time for myself, she thinks, as she glides across the manicured lawn towards the servant's entrance.

“Merde!” She often forgets just how many layers her new dresses have to them, the thick material of the underskirts and petticoats create a rather distended silhouette. Unfortunately, one that is impractical, and prone to catch in doorways.

“Mademoiselle, allow me.” She recognises the sunny lilt of Lilou's voice, as the shapely elf eases her passage into the kitchen.

“Thank you mon amie. This fashion for wider hips is becoming absurd. Soon mine will extend beyond the Western Approach.”

Lilou laughs. “Ehh, Orlesian trends are as fleeting as the rain in Rivain. At least those oversized codpieces are out of vogue...”

“Oh, really?” Aurélie takes an aubergine from the worktop, placing it in front of her crotch, while she ostentatiously struts up and down with the pomposity of a peacocking patrician.

“Mon dieu! Truly the crème de la crème of trouser snakes. How can you even move ten paces with such a massive feat of manhood?”

They both fall into a fit of giggles. Although born of different stations, Lilou was one of the few people Aurélie could express true joy around. To have fun. Something that was mostly off-limits, almost taboo during her childhood. Undeniably, her father would not be best pleased that she was cavorting with servants, but he's mostly bed-bound these days, so he doesn't get to decide anything right now. Leaning against the worktop, she slumps down to rest her head on Lilou's shoulder. “Where is everyone anyway?” Aurélie questions, only now aware of the deserted kitchen.

Lilou sighs. “The rest are performing waiting duties for that little soiree your father is hosting... By the way, Master Emond came here a few hours ago.”

He never wanders anywhere beyond Alain's chamber, lest he draw unwanted attention to her brother's 'talents,' thinks Aurélie. She furrows her brow. “Do you know why? Did he want anything?”

“Meat.”

Just food?

“I thought he had all his meals brought up to him, non?”

“He wanted raw meat.”

Raw meat? Aurélie's mind wanders to the wild fables her nanny regaled her with about werewolves. Bestial creatures born from hunger demons. Their humanity abated by their insatiable need to hunt, mate, and survive. She suspects it was a means to prevent her and Alain from wandering the grounds long after their bedtime. For many years, it worked. I was too scared to take a piss, let alone a midnight stroll. She also remembers the times she would flinch at the mere sight of a poodle or whatever petite pooch the ladies would parade around Val Firmin. That nanny really did a number on me...

Lilou shifts slightly, a clear sense of unease in her voice. “The Master, he disturbs me greatly mademoiselle.”

“Same.” In her mind's eye, she sees his biting, glacial-blue eyes stare through her, while his thin serpentine tongue licks at his fleshy, cherry-red lips. A shiver runs down her form, the man does not look as though he belongs to the natural order of things. Is this what an abomination looks like? She didn't want to spend anymore time thinking about him. Her life was full of enough drama, and Alain is old enough to fend for himself if he's to run this household. “Anyway, Lilou” She playfully prods at the elf's side. “Please, none of this mademoiselle nonsense, I thought we were way past that.”

Lilou grins, wrapping an arm around Aurélie's waist to draw her closer. Aurélie can hear the steady thump of her heart, each beat a gentle reminder that with Lilou, she was in a place of sanctuary; her barrier from the politicking and the backbiting festering beyond the heavy-set doors. “You make for a strange noblewoman, mon amie. Your dearest friend is an elf from an alienage who scrubs the dishes and empties shit from your father's chamberpot. Personally, I think you need to get out more. Maker only knows what they're saying about you.”

Aurélie chortles, pressing a small kiss to Liliou's cheek. “Eh, I wouldn't have it any other way. As for the hyenas out there, let them spew their gossip. I've already heard what they say about me and Hugo.”

Lilou stiffens at the mention of his name. “I saw him in the parlour earlier, dancing with Vicomte Robideaux's daughter. He looked... miserable? Like he was being forced to do so at knife-point. After noticing your absence, he took the next carriage back to the academy.”

Aurélie smirks, the thought of Hugo doing L'Allemande under duress entertaining her. “He's probably still in a strop after our row.”

“You know...” Lilou bites her lip, weighing up the limits of her courage. Tonight she's had enough of dancing around their feelings, forever fearful of the one misstep that could end everything. She inhales deeply, a soft hand props Aurélie's chin up; her obsidian gaze lays her intentions bare. “Mon bijou, such a man is undeserving of you.” Closing the already narrow gap, she takes her mouth into hers.

Aurélie is bewildered. How did I let it get to this? Yes, objectively speaking, she considers Lilou pleasant to look at, but I don't enjoy the company of women, not in that way. Just as Lilou teases a tongue, looking to explore further, Aurélie peels herself away.

“Lilou, non. I like you very much as a friend, but...”

Lilou casts her eyes downwards, the cheerful cadence of her voice reduced to faint muttering. “Désolée mademoiselle DuPlessis. Please forgive my transgression.”

What's with the sudden formality?

Aurélie opens her mouth to respond; an urgent need to tell her friend that it's okay, a simple misunderstanding. Something they can laugh about later. Before she can conjure the words, Lilou has fled.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Bravo Mademoiselle! Très magnifique!”

A small round of applause carries through the parlour as Aurélie stands in front of a sea of rouge and powdered wigs. She offers a curtsey to her willing audience. What other tricks will you have me do now, papa? She is a classically trained singer, used to being rolled out for such occasions. She would like to think her father is a keen patron of the arts, but her training is simply the product of his many investments; another means to curry favour with the elite.

The murmuring of polite exchange resumes, undoubtedly interlaced with veiled defamation. Chatter rumbles on around her, but despite the high ceiling and marble floor amplifying each sound tenfold, exact conversations cannot be discerned. After all, Orlesian nobles are raised to be the masters of the hushed whisper.

Elven servants weave their way between the crowd of bouffant dresses and stuffed doublets, carrying aloft trays of canapés and sparkling wine. Always available, but never to impose. Aurélie stands on her tiptoes, trying to spot Lilou among them, damn these ladies and their impossibly tall wigs.

A shock of colour imposes itself on her vision. Monsieur Lobineau, a wine merchant from Montsimmard, rumoured to deal in more illicit trades; drugs, lyrium, people. He stands out like a sore thumb, the vibrancy of his clothes at odds with the soft pastels currently àhas mode. Aurélie takes him in, noting that his sparkling magenta doublet, embroidered with white lilies, contrasts horribly with his sunset orange mantle. More notable however, is what sits between his legs, an immense golden dome. It's one of the largest codpieces she has ever had the misfortune to see. My crotch aubergine had more style.

“My dear, a most resplendent performance.” His breath reeks of port and halitosis. Talon-like fingernails dig into her delicate palms, as he wrests her hand, planting a wet, sloppy kiss to the back of it. Feeling her father's gaze upon her, she musters every ounce of willpower to not snatch it away in revulsion. To allow Lobineau to lose face in such a manner, would be unfitting of a 'compliant' noblewoman. Per usual, she was expected to take it, with grace and charm.

She feels a twinge in her jaw, as she forces a strained smile. “Monsieur, you are too kind. I hope you are finding tonight's arrangements most satisfactory?”

“Indeed Mademoiselle, your father has always been a most gracious host.”

It was all idle, vacuous conversation, but one has to do the dance of the pleasantries to stay ahead in this game.

“Mademoiselle, I was hoping you would honour me later with a dance? A radiant lady such as yourself should dance only with a man of unparalleled strength, stamina and coordination.” There is a sudden clinking sound, as he taps his gaudy gold sovereign ring against his scrotal shield.

Subtle as a brick through a window, she thinks. Evidently, Lobineau is ill-versed in etiquette, his natural speaking voice bellowing boorishly, as he brags about himself in a decidedly uncouth manner.

His muddy, closed-set eyes leer back at her through his peridot encrusted half-mask. It's fashioned to look like the head of a lion. Pah, the man fancies himself the king of the jungle, or even emperor of Orlais itself. His look is not expectant, but imperious, as though he bears exclusive rights to her body.

An elven servant materialises beside them, light footsteps catching the two unawares. “Mademoiselle, your father wishes to speak with you.” It's Lilou, her perfectly-timed appearance fills Aurélie with relief, although she's saddened by the elf's detached countenance.

“I hope you will take me up on my generous offer later, Mademoiselle, before I find myself preoccupied with the many dazzling beauties on display tonight.”

They can have you, as far as I'm concerned.

Lilou guides her to her father's study at the far end of the parlour. The elf is about to turn on her heel, until the Baron interrupts her mid-step.

“Non girl, stay. I need you to escort me to my bedchamber later.” Before he can continue, he hunches over into a coughing fit. His trembling hand presses a handkerchief to his mouth, as his body wracks with tremors. There is not much any of them can do, but wait for it to pass. Thankfully, this time, it's short lived. “I trust that what is said here stays within these four walls, lest you want to find yourself destitute at the alienage that is.”

Lilou gives a small nod, hesitantly hovering behind the baron, who remains seated at his imposingly large mahogany desk. Aurélie's eyes are drawn to the oil painting hung proudly behind him. Her late mother, Manon DuPlessis. Russet eyes stare off into the distance from her heart-shaped, sunkissed face. As though observing something beyond mere human perception. Although not her fault, Aurélie still bears a sense of guilt for her passing, and not a day went by without her yearning to know what her life would be like if she'd known some semblance of maternal affection. Or do I simply paint an idealised version in my mind, she wonders. The hearsay of the servants had told her as much. Stories of her madness; a woman plagued by visions and voices of apparitional entities. Allegedly, she'd once tried to set her own bed on fire, incessantly rambling of a need to be 'cleansed.' Perhaps it was a small mercy that she passed when she did.

The Baron clears his throat. “I'm sure you'll be delighted to know that I want you to stay away from Monsieur Lobineau.”

Oh no, how could I possibly tear myself away from such a desirable specimen of virility?

The Baron gives her a knowing look, a rare glint of amusement in his eye. “The man is the odious sort. A pathetic upstart with all the decorum of a ghast brute. Nevertheless...” The hint of mirth perishes. “Business has been profitable with him lately. At the very least, try to remain polite... Onto other matters... I should have arranged this sooner, but you must understand that it is time for your betrothal.”

The twisted part of her had hoped her papa would have perished before it ever came to this. She had seen the matchmakers saunter into her father's study, with reams of parchment, containing long lists of names and intricate, almost arcane diagrams. Aurélie wasn't sure whether they were planning for matrimony or warfare. She holds her breath, expecting the worst.

“We are to travel together to Val Foret on the morrow, to discuss the arrangements with his guardians. I believe you have met him, Vicomte Giroux's first son, Raphael.”

She exhales, feeling somewhat whoozy. While she would still prefer to marry for love, Raphael Giroux was certainly the least terrible option of the names she had listed in her mind. She had met his acquaintance on a few occasions, the last at a garden party held at his estate. He struck her as affable, somewhat bashful at times, but she'd take that any day over pompous and cocksure. Also, he's not bad on the eye, a clean cut man of dark complexion, his umber hair neatly tied into folded braids. He was a man who cultivated his appearance with a quiet confidence. Not the overbearing ducon [arsehole] Lobineau is.

The Baron thumps at his chest with a fist, as if trying to loosen his vocal chords. “There's a problem we need to address first.”

Merde she thinks, this is about Hugo, isn't it?

"You must stop making merry with the servants. It is highly unfitting for a lady of your station.”

Oh, this.

Aurélie realises she hasn't been exactly unsubtle about it. Her sleepless nights led her to wander into the servant's quarters, where she and Lilou would share a cot, chewing the fat, until one or both of them nodded off. Her roommate, Valerie, didn't seem to mind. That woman could sleep through a thunderclap, a volcanic eruption and a siege battle and still not stir. I sometimes had to check she was still breathing...

After a brief coughing spell, the Baron resumes. “They are to serve us, nothing more. If you want to keep a pet rabbit, we can see about getting you the real thing.”

How fucking dare he. “Va te faire foutre! [go fuck yourself!].” Did I just say that aloud!? She had been known to have outbursts in the past, but nothing quite this vulgar. Aurélie tries to catch Lilou's eye, but she is looking anywhere but in her direction. She does however detect the faintest upturn of her lips.

The Baron is anything but amused. Pulsating veins bulging across his bald head down to his neck. His jaw clenches tightly as his face turns claret red. He looks highly volatile, as though the slightest motion will kickstart a calamitous explosion.

“Bed,” he hisses, “take me to bed. Now.”

The fallout would be something she would have to contend with in the morning, as Lilou guides him into his wheelchair, wheeling him away from his source of ire.

Goodnight dearest papa.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Aurélie watches from the upstairs balcony, as the guests start to file out. She takes a drag of her cigarette, propped on the end of a holder. Inhaling deeply, she's desperate to calm her nerves; to take the edge off the creeping anxiety she feels clawing at her throat.

The dulcet hooting of the owls helps somewhat. I'd quite like to experience more of nature, she ponders. The closest she ever got was accompanying father on a hunt many years ago, and even then she spent most of the time bundled in the back of a carriage or at the family's plush hunting lodge. Non, I simply want to walk among the trees, listening only to the sound of birdsong.

“Hm?” She flinches when she feels an arm snake around her waist from behind. “Hugo, I-” Except it's not Hugo, but Lobineau. Before she can cry out, his crone-like hand covers her mouth,  lips twitching into a malignant smile as he bears his weight against her small frame. She can feel it pressed against the layers of silk brocade, the firmness of his wicked want, no longer shielded behind his absurd codpiece. Her heart pounds, and her breath feels as if it has been snatched from her lungs. No no, please, no! Unkept claws move to fumble with her skirt. Her vision turns white, as the air around grows thick and heavy, like the onset of a ruinous tempest.

SMASH. The sound of pottery shattering to the ground. I don't feel him anymore? Little by little her vision is restored. Blurring into view is Lilou, her flushed face panting as she holds onto the fragment of a destroyed vase. “Mon amie, are you alright?”

“I-” She looks down to see Lobineau's unconscious form at her feet. “Is he dead?”

“I don't think so?” There's some grazing to the back of his neck, but Aurélie spots the rise and fall of his chest. A shame.

“Aurélie, you better go. Don't worry about him, I'll think of something.”

“Lilou, non-”

“I mean it. Go!” Lilou has never commanded her like this before, the surprise of it compels her to comply without further protest. As she passes, she places a hand on her shoulder, planting a small, chaste kiss upon Lilou's cheek. “Merci, mon amie.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A book of poetry lays open on her lap. Nut brown eyes scan the page but her mind does not register the words. She has been sat in bed in this state for a few hours now. Simply staring at the same cursed page, while thoughts rage on elsewhere. 

Talons clawing at her thigh. The foul odour of his breath as he pants in arousal. The sensation of his... Non! No more! She feels a great nausea bubbling within her, threatening to spew forth. 

The candle on the bedside table has long since melted away, leaving the wick to float in pool of wax. I'm not sleeping tonight, that's for certain.

She slinks out of bed before tying her silk robe around her waist. As she moves to leave the chamber, her thoughts turn to Lilou, and the feelings of guilt associated with her. There were times when the elf would look at her, not as an employer or a friend, but as something to be admired. She had caught her longing glances, she could no longer play ignorant of that fact, and it gave her a thrill? She had played with the poor woman's heart, knowing full well that she could never desire her in the way she wanted. A shame really, Lilou would be quite the catch for anyone, not only was she funny and compassionate, she was fiercely protective. Traits she could only hope to find in a male suitor. I need to sort this out with her, I owe her a lifetime of apologies...

Strolling down the hallway, she hears a peculiar sloshing sound erupt from her twin's room, accompanied by a series of muffled shouts and screams. She had promised herself a while ago to leave Alain and Master Emon to their business, whatever that consisted of, but something about those sounds filled her with a persistent need to know what lay beyond, despite her initial fears. The hairs stand up on the nape of her neck as dread pools in her stomach. With a shaking hand she tugs on the door handle, the hinges creaking slowly to reveal... No no no!

Viscous, deep red fluid pools around her feet; her nose violated with the stench of rusty iron shavings. Alain stands at the far end, his eyes glowing as ribbons of blood weave and contort in the air around him. By his feet she sees her. Lilou, or what remains of her.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Arlathan Forest, 9:52 Dragon

Odd place to settle mother...

Rook bends over, catching her breath as she retrieves her axe from the skull of a slain sentinel. Arlathan offers breathtaking vantages and panoramas, but there is a reason why few resided around these parts, with the exception of a small number of Dalish clans, foolhardy humans and the Veil Jumpers. The forests had been marked by unstable magic far longer than anyone's living memory, that was a known quantity. It was the increased darkspawn activity that most concerned Rook. Whatever she feels about her mother, the last thing she wants is for her to succumb to the blight, a fate worse than death.

Rook lifts the visor of her helmet, allowing the crisp air to cool her clammy face. Still getting used to wearing this blasted thing, she complains. Prone to claustrophobia, Rook is normally one to forgo such headwear, except on this occasion.

Earlier that day...

Rook finishes adjusting the straps on her frontline plated mail. She picks up a helmet from the armoury, it is a large cumbersome thing with golden griffon wings bordering each side. Rook tuts at the thin sight, wondering how anyone could see out of it. To her, it looks more suited for jousting than hand-to-hand combat. Must be easy to sneak up on a Warden, it's like blinkers on a horse.

Lace leans against the doorway, one hand on her hip. She's about to give me an earful, isn't she? Rook mimics her body-language. It's a teapot stand-off.

“Go on then, call me a boob.” Rook grumbles. I like boobs anyway, so there.

Lace arches her brow. “Remind me again of your idiotic plan.”

“Lace, she can't know it's me. She won't divulge the information I want if her estranged daughter suddenly barges in, wanting to know it.”

“Such as?”

Right now, Rook feels as vulnerable as that twelve year old girl left quaking at the sight of crimson stained bedsheets. Abandoned. Left only with lies. She feels embarrassed and ashamed to feel this way, but also... incredibly fucking angry.

What kindled her temper more than anything were the thoughts of her father, Tobias Thorne. The stalwart dwarf clearly adored her mother, a sentiment unrequited. To disappear. To fake your own death. To you mother, he and I meant nothing. We were your collateral damage.

Lace should understand this. The mania born from deceit.

“Lace,” Rook warns, “you know full well.”

Lace's expression softens, she hadn't meant to fan the flames of Rook's ire. She moves to free Rook's hand from her hip and take it into her own. Her thumb brushing over the Warden's knuckles. “You're really set on doing it this way, aren't you?”

“Yup.”

Lace snickers, shaking her head in disbelief. “Always one for theatrics, aren't you? I'm not going to lie, I'm kinda looking forward to the big reveal when you whip the helmet off.”

Rook isn't sure if it'll even come to that. The cowardly part of her would prefer if she never has to present herself as the Eris, the sad little daughter of a whore ever again. However, she can't deny that she'd be somewhat entertained by the drama of it all.

She is a mess of emotions right now, but she does what she always does when she feels this way, bury it with humour.

Rook drops to her knees, arms stretching out towards the ceiling. “MOTHER!!!” Her acting is getting hammier by the day.

“You boob...”

“Strife said it isn't much farther, just north, over that ridge.” Bellara points to the Horizon, her breath a little ragged as fatigue sets in. It had been a long trek from the Eluvian, and although Strife couldn't make the journey, he recommended bringing their peppy Veil Jumper companion along. Supposedly, Aurélie was on good terms with the Veil Jumpers, why exactly, Strife wouldn't say, and Bellara swore blind that she had no idea a human Orlesian woman lived within its great expanse. Rook just hopes her mother will talk by virtue of association.

While the others are flagging, Lace of course shows no signs of fatigue, her stamina boundless. After all, she was the lead scout for The Inquisition. “Am I going too fast? Sorry, force of habit.”

Rook gestures ahead. “Just keep doing your thing, the view is great from here.”

“Do you mean the majesty of nature or my ass?”

“Yes.”

With an impish grin, Lace presses ahead, zipping across the land with the speed of a hail of arrows. While Lace has always outpaced the others, Rook swears the dwarf is moving at a brisker pace. She probably thinks I'll chicken out if we don't get there soon.

“I was hoping to stop somewhere before imparting this information, but I don't think our resident scout is slowing down anytime soon.” Neve quibbles.

Neve has Rook's attention, as she turns her head to the dog-weary detective. “More news from Josephine?”

“Indeed. I sent over the mask you recovered from Chantry storehouse. It seemed to have caused a great deal of... alarm.”

“Is she okay?” Rook asks. The Antivan aristocrat didn't strike her as someone prone to panic easily, but then again, she barely knew the woman.

“She is. I think it may have stirred up a bad memory. The mask is fashioned to look like that of an assassin from the House of Repose.”

“Oh!” Bellara pipes up. Still managing to sound chirpy, despite working up a sweat. “They're like the Orlesian version of the Antivan Crows, aren't they?”

“Something like that,” Neve confirms, “except, it's a poor imitation.”

“I did notice the garnet, ruby, or whatever precious gemstone it was supposed to be didn't look quite real.” Rook adds. “Was our second man playing dress-up? Why not just hire the real thing?”

“A good question,” Neve says between pants, as she nearly breaks out into a light jog just to keep up with the speedy scout. “I should cast slow on that one.” Neve's head bops towards Lace. “Anyway... Josephine, had a look around for some missing persons reports, she wasn't hopeful.”

“Ah, no luck then?” Rook manages to ask, despite the burning sensation flaring in her lungs. She grimaces in Lace's direction, I should make her wear heavy armour, see how she likes carrying all the weight around.

“Well, not on the reports, but she did hear something interesting at a salon in Val Firmin. There was a man who frequently attended your uncle's soirées, his name was Jacques, but he liked to call himself 'The Grand Crow.'”

An utterly ridiculous name

“Ooh, so cool,” Rook mocks, “let me guess, did he deck himself out in black leather, wear a cape, play with small sharp pointy things, like Lucanis?”

Neve gives her signature lopsided smile. “You know, you're not far from the truth. Apparently, he had a thing for assassins. Used to brag about... One second... Sorry.” Neve comes to a halt, her back pressed against a tree trunk in an attempt to regain lost energy.

“Lace, mon guépard, stop! We're taking a break!” The Warden barks at Lace, who bounces  back like a boomerang in dwarven form. Has she got a second pair of lungs? Rook wonders.

The quartet settle between a stand of trees. Rook is on her back staring up at the forest canopy as she listens to the melodious chirping of the larks above. Do I have to get up?

Bellara moves to fill her canister at neighbouring stream when she comes to an abrupt stop. “Guys, do you hear something?”

Yeah, some adorable little birdies, Rook thinks.

Neve's eyebrows knot, she goes to retrieve her sceptre as though sensing something Rook cannot. “Magic...”

This whole forest is permeated with magic?

Despite it being a clear blue day, the air all of a sudden feels dense, blanketed in a thick humidity, as the pressure around them drops.

“A storm?” Lace questions.

A static charge envelops them, then CRACK. A blinding bolt of lightning turns a maple tree into a roaring inferno. Rook desperately scrambles to her feet, pulling down the visor on her helmet. She'll have to rely on the others to cover her flank.

“Va-t'en! Leave now! That was a warning, the next one won't be.”

The voice carries through the forest as though amplified by some magical energy. It's a familiar accent, unmistakeably Orlesian with a hint of Ander intonation.

Mother?

Chapter Text

The Maiden's Wish, Hossberg, 9:21 Dragon

“Te gueule! Espèce conne qui mange du porc!” [Shut up! You pork eating twat!]

Sylvia uses the remains of a sponge to dab at the sweat forming on Camille's brow. “I know sweetie, well, I don't, but I'm guessing those aren't nice words. Still sound fancy like, but anything in Orlesian does.”

It had only been a few months, yet Camille had rapidly formed a tight friendship with the fun-loving Ander woman. Except right now, I could kick the bint in the teeth.

“Where's Vera with those towels? You'd think I asked the lass to travel to the middle of the Boeric Ocean.” Sylvia pads around Camille's chamber for whatever rags she can cobble together, but as the pain courses through her, with her vagina propped up, 'proudly' on display, Camille could care less if she causes irreparable damage to the Madame's prized sheets.

"Fu-urrrrrgh!”

At first it merely felt like the urge to go toilet, later developing into a dull aching sensation across the abdomen. Now they were more frequent, the pain intensifying as waves of pressure ripple from the small of her back to the front of her stomach. It's gaining ground each time, testing the vulnerabilities of her defences.

“Is she alright!? How are we doing?” Tobias bursts into the room like a dwarf possessed, carrying a tower of towels. It looks as if he's raided every bathhouse in Thedas.

“Oh Toby love, you're a saint.” Sylvia jogs over to where he stands, relieving him of his precariously teetering stack. Sylvia does a double-take, her eyes narrowing in the on the loose clump of wispy hairs sprouting from his chin. She stifles a laugh, at least, she tries to. “Nice bum fluff you've got going on there.”

For a dwarf, Tobias is lacking in the facial hair department. Many a night he fantasised about a wild face-mane to call his own. His index finger plays with the scarce strands, as if to fluff them up to create the appearance of volume. It's futile. “Cheeky wench. Perhaps I could borrow some from that shaggy caterpillar taking your lip hostage.”

Using her palm, Sylvia covers her top lip. “You absolute tosser, I-”

“Uurrrargh!”

Deep guttural cries rumble from Camille as the pain mounts another attack. Her cervix threatening to blow wide open while an invisible mallet pounds at her stomach.

Tobias angles his head to get a better look. Fantastic, she thinks, invite the whole of Hossberg while you're at it. Maybe even charge five silver a pop. It's the closest thing these people will get to cultural enrichment.

Realisation hits Tobias that he's ogling her genitals, and he sheepishly scampers away, muttering a silent apology to Andraste. “I err, don't have one of those... but I think it looks... wider?”

Sylvia bends down to scrutinise the Orlesian's orifice, and feeling emboldened by her presence, Tobias joins her. They 'ooh' and 'ahh' between themselves, as though watching one the Madame's terrible cabaret shows. “Oh, I see! Lass, I think we're dilating!” She sounds gratingly jubilant.

I'll fucking dilate you.

Sylvia leans in closer, gripping Camille by the shoulders. “Okay, do you know our Marie, the drunk pig farmer with the cauliflower ears?”

“Non.” Camille reckons that could describe most Anders.

“You'll know her. She's the one that got caught stealing lead off the Chantry roof dressed as the Revered Mother. Anyway, I was at the birth of her stepmother's cousin's daughter's niece.” What the fuck are you even saying? Camille wonders, as the Ander continues her incessant rambling. “When you feel the next wave of pain, I want you to push as hard as you can.”

“Sylvia, mon amie, kindly shu-uuuarrrgh!”

“Push Camille!”

Instead, Camille resists, clenching at the contraction, trying to harden herself against the oncoming pain.

“No sweetie, you must push!!!”

Camille grabs Sylvia by the hem of her collar, not caring as a fine shower of spittle flies in the Ander's face. “Push!? Somebody should push you off-nnuurrgggggh!” I sound like a druafflo.

Clenching her jaw so tight she thinks her teeth will shatter, her knuckles turn white as she clutches onto either side of the bedsheets, tears clouding her vision. She has to do it, welcome the invading pain, to let it breach her bastille. She pushes, oh Maker, does she push.

“We're crowning sweetie, I see it!”

Just one more, one more.

Another onslaught, the worst yet. Her entire lower half screams in agony, threatening to tear her apart. Then the release. Defences crumble entirely and the pressure disperses, as it rides out of her in a slop of viscous clots. Camille is expended, there's nothing left to give, or as these Anders would say, 'I'm propah fookin' knackered.”

Sylvia is grinning from ear to ear at the sight before her. “Just going to deal with this.” Camille hears the snip of the scissors as the cord is cut. “Oh ho ho, she's a big one! Chunky one aren't we, my beautiful sweet pea.”

Sylvia's smile wanes, her eyes cloud with worriment. A deafening silence descends on the room.

“Sy-Sylvia?”

Camille can't see much from where she lies, other than the alarm springing on the Anders' faces, as Sylvia rushes the bundle over to where Tobias stands. It feels as if there's a vise around her throat. A primordial panic igniting in the pit of her stomach. Was I not meant to bear life? She thinks. Makes sense, I don't deserve to.

Tobias lays the infant down on its back at the foot of the bed. That's when Camille sees it, sees her, a slimy mass of dulled pink with a grey undertone. With two fingers, he starts rhythmically pressing on the baby's breastbone. “Heard about this once..” He picks up his pace. “Come on little duck, come on...”

This is her baby, her child, and her life to give. She looks at her hand as it starts to prickle; as if each tingling nerve presses lightly against a bed of a thousand needles.

Sylvia looks around in a daze, disassociating from what's happening. “The air... it's... heavier?” Camille feels it too, a familiar sensation, the maelstrom soaring within her.

“I, err... I should get some help!” Sylvia's mind snaps back into focus, as she sprints out the room.

Camille scrambles to where her baby lies, knees wade through the piss, and the viscera born from her womb. She knows her purpose, and nothing will stop her from seeing it through. Tobias' hand is batted away as she places her own on the infant's chest. The tingling in her hand momentarily surges before discharging into the soft flesh below. The act causes the baby's body to jolt, her tiny shoulders rocking with the motion.

No response.

Please, tu es ma raison de vivre, le sais-tu? [you are my reason to live, don't you know?]

The power surges through her again, weeping into her child's heart, and the little body convulses once more.

Again, no response.

Tobias watches on forlornly, his eyes never straying from Camille's hand. “Camille, that's magic? I don't-”

“Silence!” She's taken aback by the sound of her own voice, now rattling with a cacophony of thunder. Deep brown eyes, stare back at closed ones. An insatiable need, no, a hunger, to see them open. Maker! Laissez-moi faire du bien! [let me do right!]

The hand reassumes its position. Squeezing her eyes shut, she mouthes a prayer to the Maker, to Andraste, to anyone who will listen. Zzzp! This time she feels it nip at her fingertips, causing her to wince at the pain. All is forgotten however when she hears it, the most wonderful sound to have ever graced her ears. Cries. Sweet, wonderful bawling as the infant's face scrunches into a crumpled mass of vibrant pink displeasure. Camille has never known her heart to burst with such love.

Nut brown gaze into grey.

Grey, like a gathering tempest.

His eyes. Her Eris.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Arlathan Forest, 9:52 Dragon

A raging inferno abated with the simple flick of the wrist, as Neve encases the tree in a sheet of shimmering ice.

Rook has always envied those able to draw upon the fade. To destroy, to create, to restore. The limits of her ability have always been tied to the mundane. Namely, how hard she can swing an axe. Compared to the likes of Neve, Bellara, Emmrich, hells, most people, she thinks herself painfully unremarkable. And now her mother, truly a slap in the face, she thinks.

Zzp! Rook blanches at the sound of static, very aware that she has encased herself in metal from head to toe; a perfect conductor for her mother's wrath. Searching eyes try in vain to survey their surrounds, hampered by the slither of a sight on her cumbrous helmet. Although she cannot see her, she can feel her? Rook and the others have been enshrouded in a cloak of clammy pressure, bearing down on them as though to affix them into place. It's like mumsey is giving me a magical hug, Rook muses. Only one spiked with homicidal intent.

“We mean no harm!” Rook almost jeers at the cliché of Neve's statement. The detective tries to project her voice; vibrations squeezing their way though the dense, syrupy air. “We're with the Veil Jumpers,” she adds, voice muffled.

There's a rustle in the undergrowth, Rook cannot see what is going on, but she hears and feels her mother drawing ever closer.

“You don't look like Veil Jumpers,” her mother comments, voice barbed with distrust. “Except, maybe you.” Rook can only assume she is referring to the elf beside her.

“Yes mam, my name is Bellara, I work with Strife. I understand you know him...?”

A turbulent silence grips the forest, even the larks have ceased their tuneful chirping. Everything waits in a state of limbo, as the Orlesian woman takes measure of the group.

“He did mention your name.”

Rook can hear Bellara rummaging around in her satchel to produce something, Rook isn't sure what, but it seems a step closer to gaining the Orlesian's trust.

“Okay...” notes Camille, Aurélie, whatever she goes by now. The atmosphere lightens somewhat, as though several blankets have been lifted leaving behind only a thin sheet. “So which one of you is Rook?”

Rook's seizes up, panic coursing though her as her heart beats like a stampede of Halla. Just how much does she know about the person behind that name?

“It must be him,” the Orlesian decides.

Rook hates being mistaken for a man. This usually happens when she's heavily clad. In this instance though, she'll take it, if it means keeping her identity hidden. 

Nausea ferments within her, she tries not to retch as her mother crosses her field of vision at last. Rook has to angle her head awkwardly to get a better look. Has she always been this small? She always appeared larger in her mind's eye. I can't... Rook expects to be overcome with an unmitigated rage; a fury born from her abandonment. Instead, all she wants to do is curl into ball and be held by the small woman, some reassurance that she was... loved. The anger she anticipated misfires at herself. Pathetic, I have everything I could ever want, as her thoughts turn to Lace.

Aside from the height, Rook is taken aback by her general appearance. Gone are the sweeping locks that pooled around her neck and shoulders, framing elegantly embroidered bodices that attach to layers of floaty skirts. The woman peering back at her wears her hair in a short, cropped style, age-touched at the sides with grey. Clothing wise, she wears, wait, trousers? It may seem inconsequential, but to Rook, seeing her like this is as mind blowing to her as Lace awakening to Titan powers. This was a woman who finely tuned her appearance to meet the demands of the world she inhabited. Where does the line between the character and the real woman lie? Rook ponders. Is this her freedom?

Despite her appearance seeming rustic by comparison, her mother still manages to look oddly, chic. Something Rook considers must be an innate in most Orlesian women, but not necessarily inherited. I just look like I've been tossed around by a dragon. 

“Doesn't say much, does he?” Her mother questions. Rook holds her breath, nerves rattling as she feels those deep brown eyes stare through her visor.

Does she know?

Rook is tempted to disguise her voice, after all, her acting has been on point lately, alongside her delusion. Her mouth doesn't move though, doubtful that she'll be able to splutter a word as suspense slithers around her throat.

“He's the strong, silent type, ya know?” Lace explains, to Rook's gratitude.

“Is something wrong with his neck?” Her mother queries, face contorted in concern? Rook is aware that it sits askew, and she really should stop staring, but her eyes have a will of their own right now.

“Erm... Nasty accident at a Nuggalope rodeo, that's why we don't see him without his helmet.”

Bravo Lace, you should write fiction.

Her mother grunts. The mere act serves to astonish Rook further. This is a woman who had a carefully chosen word for any situation. Her lexicon once as carefully manicured as the topiaries at her Château of old.

“Strife said you had questions, about what exactly?”

“About your murder, Camille, or should I say, Aurélie?” Neve says it with air of confidence, but Rook knows full well that the ice mage is readying her sceptre, just in case.

Once again, the air congeals. Rook wants to tear off her helmet, but she remains steadfast.

There's a glimmer of amusement in her mother's voice. “It's Elise these days.”

Great, another Orlesian name to remember.

“Come to finish the job, have we?”

“We're not assassins from the likes of the House of Repose or anyone claiming to be.” Despite the tension, Neve stands her ground, chest stuck out proudly, hands on her hips.

“Huh.” It's said with piqued interest. “You're a detective, non?”

“That's right, Neve Gallus.”

“Okay then Neve...”

Straight to familiar names, where has the formality gone?

The Orlesian continues, her voice dangerously calm. “Tell me, who is your client? Who is so desperate to learn more about my 'murder?'”

Rook's breathing accelerates. She trusts Neve though, she trusts them all. Through her visor she can see the shadows cast low on the forest floor. Just how long have we been stood talking like this?

“It's not enough to say professional curiosity?” Neve asks, almost as a jest.

“Non.”

“Okay... Here goes client confidentiality, but let's say it was someone you were close to at The Wish, someone with a near unpronounceable surname.”

The Orlesian lets out a breathy laugh, knowing full well who Neve is referring to. “She must be doing well these days if she can afford you.”

“Eh, sometimes I do things out of the kindness of my own heart, but Eli... Actually, what do you want us to call you?”

“You know my real name, may as well use it.”

“Aurélie, just know that we won't take it further. We just want information to get a complete picture. We're not here to place you in any harm.” Neve's voice is carefully measured, she is evidently a dab hand at gaining the trust of others.

“Fuck it.”

Did I just hear that right, she never cusses.

“We're not discussing it here though, my arse needs to sit on something cushioned.” The Orlesian signals ahead. “Follow me, we'll go to my cabin, but...” Aurélie's voice drops an octave lower. “I don't care about myself, but if you do anything to my daughter, I won't hesitate to light you up like it's Satinalia.”

There we go, the other daughter, the one she traded me in for. Jealousy is an ugly thing, and for Rook, it's rearing its head in spectacular fashion.

The group follow behind Aurélie, any attempt to ask further questions met with monosyllabic grunts.

“So you can use magic?” - grunt. “How long have you lived out here?” - grunt. “So you like it out here?” - grunt.

The latter question seems hilariously misplaced to Rook, as they walk past more of the 'tree people,' as Lace likes to call them. Elves turned to bark; their writhing, fleeing, pleading forms cruelly immortalised for generations to come. Some don't even retain their full form; reduced to mere limbs protruding ghoulishly from trunks. Really, it should be a warning to anyone against settling here.

“They used to terrify me.” Bellara comments, her hand ghosting over the arm of one. “They still kinda do, but now, I wonder who they were. What were their names? Someone once told me there's a lot of power in a name...”

At that, Aurélie pauses, something indescribable flaring across her features. The Orlesian seems hardened enough to not pay the tree people a second glance, however, there's one that captures her attention. The husk of a woman kneels hunched over, in her arms lays the tiny body of an infant. The worst moment of her life laid bare for all to see. Rook hears the mutter of something in Orlesian. “Je vous vois” [I see you both]. Rook wonders whether the kindest thing would be to set them ablaze. To give them the finality they deserve. It's not her place though.

Aurélie chokes back something, a suppressed emotion stirring within her. “Come on, it's just around the bend.”

Lace files in next to Rook, fingers entwining around a gauntleted hand. “You know, I see a lot of her in you.” All Rook can do is sneer.

They finally arrive. A modest logwood cabin perched behind an outcrop of rocks. Two great boulders flank the building, standing sentry against those with predacious intent. Standing aloft on one of them is a gangly elven woman with a curly mane of jet black hair.

“Leyla! Put the kettle on, we have guests mon trésor.” Aurélie hollers, but the woman seems deaf to her request. From her quiver, she retrieves an arrow, twirling it elegantly around her long fingers, before she nocks it on the string of her polished ashwood bow. Straightening her back, she squares her shoulders, eagle-eyes hone in on their target. Just what is she aiming at? Rook wonders. Chest rising and falling in a steep tempo, she composes her breathing to curb a thumping heart. Three trained fingers take position, and the bowstring yields to her draw. Defined deltoids and traps tense with anticipation. There's a moment of silence, a twitch of her jaw as she releases.

It didn't suffer. The nug that is. It lays limp a good hundred metres from them. Arrowhead and shaft protruding between the eyes. With a satisfied hum, Leyla hops down to retrieve her kill.

“I guess dinner is sorted,” Aurélie jests.

Lace lets out a low whistle, clearly impressed. “Nice shot.”

Leyla saunters over to her, a light blush dusting her cheeks. Amber eyes survey the scout's body, in what Rook can only describe as attraction. The green-eyed monster rears its head again, and Rook quietly seethes. First you take my mum, and now you're trying it on with Lace?

“Th-Th-Tha.” Leyla groans in frustration, clenching her eyes shut. “Tha-Thank you,” she blurts. Rook thinks her manner of speech appears at odds with her proficiency on a bow.

“Leyla has a bit of a stammer, tends to ease as she gets to know people better.” Aurélie notes, much to the rangy elf's displeasure.

Rook's eyes fixate on Leyla's pointed ears, and a perverse relief washes over her. At least they're not blood related. Rook feels dirty for thinking it. I was not of Toby's blood, it didn't make him any less of a father to me.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Don't be such a jerk Rook.

Lace watches on as her girlfriend pointedly ignores Leyla, looking straight ahead as the archer tries in vain to hand her a mug of tea.

Lace beams at Leyla, much to the Warden's annoyance. “Ignore him, he was raised by bears. He can barely function in society on he best of days.” Lace has to admits, she was having fun painting an outlandish backstory for her beloved.

Rook sits next to her, each atop a cushion on the floor. Aurélie's cabin isn't exactly equipped to handle this many visitors at once, so the two elect to go chair-less. Due to their proximity, Lace swears she can hear the grinding of teeth.

“You-you-you kno-know, you-you have pre-pre.” Leyla stamps her foot, the disconnect between her brain and mouth amplifying her frustration.

“It's okay, take your time.” Lace encourages. She recognises that this must be vexing for the young woman.

“Pretty hair.” Leyla blurts out hastily, a shyness compels her to turn on the spot and retreat into the kitchen, away from her source of allurement.

Lace notices Rook has removed her gauntlets, and is holding her middle and index finger upright in a 'v' shape, with her palm facing inwards. Sylvia once told her that this was an Ander insult, akin to 'flipping someone the bird.' Very mature Rook...

Aurélie enters, slumping her weary form on an armchair between them all. Lace is drawn to how the woman sits, her legs spread far apart, similar to how Rook sits back at the lighthouse. Like mother, like daughter. Lace recalls how her ma would gently slap her on the thigh whenever she spied an 'offensive chasm' forming between her lower limbs. 'It's just not ladylike, Lace,' she was reminded ad nauseam. The scout finds it hard to imagine Aurélie ever sitting like that during her Château years.

“I've been meaning to clear some of these books out, I'm a bit of a hoarder, as you can see.” Aurélie gestures to shelves surrounding the room from floor to ceiling, each piled high with novels, tomes and various pamphlets. It was like a grand library kept in miniature, some of the shelves even protrude over the windows, barring the light from flourishing within the darkened abode.

Seems like a great place to brood, Lace considers, right up Rook's alley.

Lace turns around to have gander at some of the titles stored behind her. Most of these are in Orlesian, she realises. Just how did she obtain such a vast collection in the middle of nowhere? Her musings are cut short when one particular title grabs her attention. 'Rigor le Barbare: Le miroir du temps.' “The sixth Rigor book!!!” Lace hadn't meant to exclaim it aloud, let alone so passionately. It's just, I wasn't aware this even existed!

“Eeeee!”

Wait. Did Rook just squeal like an excited schoolgirl?

All eyes turn to the Warden. If only I could see her face right now. The self-conscious woman decides to 'play it off' as the onset of a sneeze, letting out the most ludicrous facsimile of an 'achoo' Lace has ever heard. Bemused, Aurélie flings a handkerchief in her direction. It lies draped over the Warden's visor.

“Oh, Lace is it, non?” The scout nods. “You can have that one, I've already read it. I'm not sure if you speak Orlesian or if anyone in your company does?”

“Rook can!” Shit.

“C'est bien cela, Rook?” [Is that right, Rook?]

“OUI.” Rook declares, in the lowest register she can muster. The sound echoes around the immense metal bucket on her head, adding an ethereal quality to her speech. Lace covers her mouth to mask a giggle.

I'm courting Vorgoth here.

Aurélie puckers her brow “Hm, perhaps I'll ask Leyla to add some honey to your tea Monsieur.” The Orlesian rises, retrieving the trashy novella from the high shelf, to place it in Lace's care. “It's an entertaining one. Rigor and Darlena travel though these mirrors to re-live the memories on an ancient elven warlord.”

“Ooh! I may have to ask Rook to read that one to me,” Bellara adds, “I wonder how the author comes up with such imaginative ideas?”

You know, I've never paid attention to who the author is. Lace peers down at the cover sat on her lap, under the title it reads 'Hasat Rinqua.' Lace racks her brain, something feels oddly familiar. Nope, no clue, she concedes.

“Alright.” Aurélie sighs, re-assuming her seat. “Questions. About my murder.”

“If you wouldn't mind,” Neve chimes, grabbing her notebook. “We know that prior to that night, you were in communication with a Hugo Charroux. He asked you to make some preparations, presumably to fake your death?”

“Ah, oui. Hugo sent me a letter. It had been the first I had heard from him in twelve years, at first I was even doubtful it was him. I took an extraordinary gamble Neve... In his letter, he said that my brother, Alain, had heard rumours about an 'exotic' Orlesian lady matching my description at a brothel in Hossberg, of all places.”

Neve hums knowingly. “So you think Alain may have been the one to put the hit out on you?”

The Orlesian gives a scornful laugh. “He'd be my prime suspect, alongside that contemptuous Monsieur Lobineau.”

Aurélie spends the next few moments detailing her former life at the Château, her brother's foray with forbidden magic, and the terrible night that befell Lilou.

“It's no coincidence that a few days later, I ended up in chains in a slaver's caravan.” Aurélie mulls. Lace thinks that she has a knack for surrounding herself with people who have lived eventful, often tragic lives.

“You were a slave then, before ending up in Hossberg?” Bellara asks, invested in the Orlesian's story as she perches on the edge of her seat.

“I was en-route to being one... Until...” Her right hand starts to tremble, she grips it with her left, a desperate plea to still it. “Sorry, this is a story I'd rather not tell.”

“It's okay,” Neve reassures, “so you think your brother collaborated with Lobineau to sell you, and that he later wanted you dead?”

“A few days after Lilou...” Aurélie retrieves a corked bottle of something, before dispensing a good measure into her mug. Lace can smell it from across the room. Smells lethal. “I received a letter telling me to travel to Val Floret. I was to visit a seamstress there. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, I was in the process of being betrothed to a Vimcote's son there you see...” She takes a generous swig. “While on the way, my carriage was apprehended by what I thought were highwaymen, turns out, Tevinter slavers...”

“Must have been difficult.” Bellara comments. She extends her arm, pausing before reaching the Orlesian's shoulder. Reading into her intentions, Aurélie shrinks away from her near-touch.

“Désolée... It was, I've never known hunger like it, but there were others and...” Another generous mouthful. “Non! Enough of that, and yes my dear detective, I reckon Alain didn't want it getting out that he indulged in blood magic. Not to mention, any vested interests in our family's wealth... You said, this will go no further, right?” A flicker of uncertainty dances across Aurélie's face.

“Yes,” Neve concurs, “we're not here to apprehend anyone.” Why not? Lace internally rages, the bastards should pay. Lace studies the Orlesian's face. The scarce light filtering in illuminates only one half of her face, the other condemned to grieve in the shadows. You've dreamt of revenge, I know you have. The visage of the Titan's shade flickers in her mind's eye.

“Don't tell her this, Sylvia, I mean.” Aurélie worries. “I'm free out here. Free to be with my daughter.” Lace hears a dissatisfied tut next to her, she isn't sure whether it's born from jealously for Leyla, or Rook too recognises that Aurélie can never walk free, not while the men who seek to harm her relish in their own liberty.

“We won't,” the detective states plainly, “onto questions about the specifics of that night, just to get a full picture... Did you know the second man, the one sent to kill you?”

The shaking in Aurélie's hand appears to subside. “Not personally, he was from that House of Repose, non?”

“Not exactly...” Bellara admits. From her satchel she retrieves a sketch of the mask Lace and Rook retrieved from the warehouse. I see they've been putting Davrin to work again, Lace muses. The Veil Jumper also retrieves a small portrait of an actual Repose member, allowing Aurélie to do a side-by-side comparison.

“The mask he wore was a fake imitation, note the differences. We believe he may have faked his way into getting the job,” Neve explains.

“Stupide, Aurélie!” The petite human reprimands herself. “Pah! Explains why he was such an imbecile. So over the top. Handing me that ridiculous note about honouring my family. I scrunched it up an threw it in the bastard's face!” She shakes her head, annoyed with herself. “Then there was that silly feather, I don't think he could work out what kind of assassin he was pretending to be... All the posturing, and bragging. A real assassin would have done the job swiftly, without further word.”

Lace once overheard Lucanis tell Davrin that there had to be 'merit' in a kill, and she wondered if the Repose adopted a similar code of honour. Perhaps that's why Alain didn't hire the real thing. Then again, was there any 'merit' in that hit put out for poor Josephine.

Neve continues her questioning. “How did he die?” At that, Aurélie turns pale, Lace is adamant that she feels the pressure drop around them.

“No further, remember?” The detective reminds her, setting aside her notebook as an act of good faith.

“In quite a ridiculous manner... He forced himself on me, like many men have...” She closes her eyes, re-living a lifetime of unpleasant memories. Lace spies Rook balling her hand into a fist. “He stuck his tongue down my throat, but then... He started choking? It was most peculiar... Anyway, he collided with that mirror and Hugo and I finished the job.” She cups her hands to gesture choking an invisible neck.

Neve's eyebrows are a knot of puzzlement. “A reaction to something perhaps?”

“ALMONDS,” Rook bellows, in that Vorgoth voice.

Aurélie whips her head around at the heavily-armoured warrior, so fast, Lace is surprised she didn't dislocate it. “Oui, but how did you... My daughter, she gave me that bag... I had a few...” Her voice trails off, a strange blend of curiosity and grief?

Lace can't help herself, this was the first time Aurélie acknowledged out loud that she has another daughter. “Eris, what is she like?”

Rook's back jolts upright with the force of a bucking stallion, causing a loud clanking sound to reverberate around. Aurélie fails to notice, too busy re-filling her mug, hoping to numb whatever pain afflicts her.

Lace knew that this is a question Rook had wanted to ask, but would be too proud to admit. The least she can do for her girlfriend is afford her this kindness.

There's a long, drawn out exhale. “You know, these questions were supposed to be about my murder.” She smiles forlornly, eyes focusing on a damp patch staining the ceiling. “She was...” Aurélie's voice starts to waver. “Funny. She was funny. So quick with it too, and always getting into trouble with the Madame, the petit revelle she was.”

A small voice emerges from behind Lace, as Leyla casually leans against a bookshelf. “Te-te-tell them that story about so-so-souls day.” The archer finishes her sentence with a toothy smile, this is clearly a favourite anecdote.

Aurélie beams with an infectious smile as she recalls the event. “Ah yes, All Souls Day! We didn't do it in Orlais, but the Hossbergers would dress up as spirits and walk the streets late at night. Ironically, it's the most alive I've ever seen the place! Anyway, the Madame gave my Eri some vague instructions, pestering the poor girl to use the event to draw in custom. So Eri-” Aurélie's shoulders start rocking back and forth, as a belly laugh threatens to charge forth. “She made these posters telling people to come and see 'the genuine spirit of surliness born in flesh.' The rascal even offered a cash prize to whoever could make it laugh.”

“The spirit being the Madame, I take it?” The question is directed to Aurélie, but Lace looks to Rook as she asks it.

“You catch on fast! Next thing we know, jesters, jongleurs, mimes, mabaris in tutus, a stack of dwarves on a unicycle, you name it, they all come bounding into The Wish, foisting their terrible brand of humour on the miserable woman. It was absolute chaos. Toby's beard even caught on fire at one point. Of course Eri never had to pay out, that woman never cracked a smile.” Aurélie shifts in her seat, her face fully illuminated by the slither of light.

“Gee, imagine being in the presence of such an agent of chaos,” Neve quips, with a sideways glance at Rook.

In the blink of a moment, glassy eyes recall twelve years of cherished motherhood. “I miss her so much... She wasn't just funny, she was beautiful of course. Not that she'd ever believe me.”

Was? She still is, Lace argues.

Lace doesn't need to see her face to know what's transpiring under the layers of armour. The stuttered breaths, the sniffles, they tell her all that she needs to know. A freckled hand reaches out, taking hold of the warrior's in a tender embrace. Leyla's curious eyes fixate on the two.

“Sorry to put a downer on everything again, but Aurélie, would you mind telling us about your escape that night. I believe you left via the latrine?” Neve's face is half-masked by her precious notebook.

“Oui, Hugo and I left that way...” The Orlesian grimaces, tongue sticking out in clear disgust. “I was barely with it, but I remember the amount of filth Hugo and I had to wade through in that cesspit... The man was remarkably organised though, he already had a carriage waiting for me, which he manhandled me into... I think he said he couldn't join me immediately, he had to return to Val Royeaux to attend to business. Little did I know said business would result in his execution.” Lace finds it strange that Aurélie sounds notably nonchalant about the whole thing. It's not gone unnoticed by Neve.

“You're not upset over his death?” The detective questions.

“Oui and... non. He saved my life, yes, but a part of me always suspected it was some contrived means to 'get in my knickers,' as the Anders would say. Plus, I support Celene, and well, the man committed treason!” Aurélie shrugs. “I was always in two minds as to whether I trusted him or not. I don't trust most men these days.”

“So where did the carriage take you?” Bellara asks, “I mean you're here, in Arlathan.”

“We are!? Merde, so this isn't the beachside villa in Rivain?” Aurélie wisecracks. How Rook cannot see herself in this woman, I'll never know. Lace thinks. “Désolée... The carriage first took me to a safehouse, on the outskirts of the Anderfels. Hugo wrote to me a few says later, to tell me he was delayed, and another carriage was arranged to take me all the way to some Marquis' estate in Antiva. I was to find good work there as an Orlesian tutor to their children. En-route however, news got out about Hugo's execution and.. well... realising they weren't getting paid, they dumped me here.”

Bellara points to Leyla, who is taken aback by the sudden attention. “Is this when you met your daughter? Did you build this house? When did you meet Strife? Oh, Oh, when did you know you could use magic?”

Bellara is reeling off questions at the rate Varric told puns, Lace muses.

“Respectfully, I believe I've answered enough of your questions, and then some.” Aurélie peels herself from her chair, motioning to leave, but the abruptness of Rook's voice stops her in her tracks.

“ERIS, WHY DID YOU NOT GO BACK FOR HER?”

A deathly silence, the calm before the storm.

“Go back to what!?” Aurélie erupts into a thunderous outcry, the pressure plummeting as the room turns near pitch black. Aurélie leans in, a hairbreadth from Rook's shielded face. “What was I supposed to do, return to an urn of ashes!?” What?

Rook springs to her feet. Lace doesn't know how she manages it, with all the added weight, but the suddenness of her movement sends Aurélie careening backwards. Is this the big reveal? Lace anticipates.

It's not. The helmet sits firmly in place as the Warden retrieves her axe propped against the doorway. A single word is uttered. “Darkspawn.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

So these are the creatures born from the magisters' hubris?

Aurélie had never seen darkspawn, until now. The Orlesian looks on as boils manifest around them, ghoulishly pulsating, threatening to burst and tarnish everything once lush and bountiful. Bloodthirsty, tainted creatures hurl themselves out of the great slop, sprinting towards them.

A volley of arrows soar around her, Leyla and Lace each perched atop a boulder, raining down their fury as they find their mark. In mere seconds, an entire row of red-eyed creatures lay stiff before them.

Fleshy bombs are hurled in their direction, but their aim is woeful. A grotesque hurlock readies another barrage, but Bellara, with lightening reflexes projects a barrier, denying the brute its kill. From the fade she conjures an ethereal bow, nocking a series of magical arrows, before releasing them into its monstrous torso. It succumbs to her brilliance, thumping to the ground as she performs a gleeful dance.

Frost permeates the air, a mighty blizzard forming around Neve. With a sweep of her sceptre, the icy chill grips at writhing limbs, holding them into place. Rook follows through, charging in head-first. His axe spins around like a terrific tornado, shattering their forms in a thousand frost-touched pieces.

She should be scared, but she isn't. Not when surrounded by such magnificent, capable women.

Then there is Rook.

She watches on as the muscled battering-ram fearlessly cleaves a path ahead, parting the bloodthirsty sea with tremendous swings of his axe. She has always envied the raw power of men. Yes, she can call upon the fade, but there is something special in clinching victory through sheer physicality alone.

“Maginifique Ro-” she is about to shout out her praise to the Warden, but her voice is plucked from her mouth, as she hurtles through the air, for what seems like an eternity, before the impact. Her spine collides with a tree trunk, and every nerve in her back spasms with the pain.

Somehow, she hadn't spotted it, the greater hurlock honing in on her position. Rook calls out to her, but she can't make out what he's saying as her senses refuse to meet the world around her. From her periphery, she sees Rook being hoisted in the air by an ogre. With colossal power it thrashes the Warden around like a mabari with a chew toy, before discarding him unceremoniously like a pile of rags.

Merde, it's gaining on me! A flash of red appears in her field of vision, as Lace releases her bow with a flourish, piercing her quarry in the eye. The hurlock keels over like a mighty redwood, forcing Aurélie to dart from her position, lest she be crushed under its burly mass. Her back still screams in agony, but she's grateful for another chance to live.

The ogre however remains at large, bounding towards Rook's listless body. There's a hunger in Aurélie to protect, no matter the cost to herself. An energy surges though her, emanating from her toes and rippling into readied fingers, but she knows she'll need a lot more to take it down. A thick layer of grey clouds blot out what little daylight remains. Strands of cropped raven hair stand up on ends, the static enshrouding her petite frame. Like many a mage before her, she manipulates layers of the fade to bend to her will, like putty in my hands. Vision awash with white, it reaches its peak, and with a guttural scream she discharges an immense bolt, the largest she has ever conjured. She watches on in satisfaction as the ogre writhes and convulses, the primal electricity coursing through it. It releases one final death rattle before collapsing in a heap of grey, fetid flesh. It smells rancid, like gone off meat roasting on an open fire.

Lace rushes towards the Warden's listless body. Aurélie notes he, no... she, is now without a helmet. Mind elsewhere, her feet carry her forward, an overwhelming urge to look the woman in the face.

“Rook! Rook!!!” Lace grips the tall woman's shoulders, demanding a response with each jostle. From her side, she retrieves a green bottle, a health potion. Frenzied fingers prize Rook's mouth open, as she pours the contents down her gullet. There's a faint glow, but Rook remains just as unresponsive as before. “No, no, NO!” Lace lets out a scream, blood-curdling and animalistic. Aurélie recognises that sound, the desperation of someone about to have their life's meaning snatched from them. The dwarf wails once more, the primal pain knocks Aurélie senseless.

Clearly, they were in love. She moves towards the broken scout, then she hears it...

“Please, Eris.”

...That name. Maker, no.

Aurélie cannot remember how she came to be at her eldest daughter's side, but Lace sits on the ground behind her, a haunting mess of choked sobs. Her hand cups the warrior's face, eyes feverishly taking in every minute detail. First they hone in on the bump on the bridge of her nose, from when she fell down the cellar stairs at the age of four. They journey to the small mole, dotting the bottom left of her lip, Sylvia assured her it was a 'beauty spot.' Finally she reaches the defined dimple on her chin, or her 'arse chin,' as she'd proudly call it. There was no denying it, this woman is her. Her Eris.

Aurélie doesn't blink, scared that if she does, Eris will fall through the ground, never to be seen again.

There's a surge of panic, but she remembers what to do, like some peculiar muscle memory from thirty or so years ago. “Help me remove this!” She screams at Lace, who materialises next to her. Deft fingers remove her breastplate and under-armour at a speed that tells Aurélie she's done it countless times over. “Stand back!” The Orlesian demands. Her hands lock over each other, pressing against Eris' breastbone. I don't remember you being this big, ma fifille. A tingling surges through her arms, gnawing at her fingers as a bolt shudders into Eris' heart. The expanse of her chest lurches forward, but the woman does not awaken. Et maintenant que je t'ai trouvée, je ne peux pas te laisser partir [and now I've found you, I cannot let you go].

There's a memory imprinted in her mind, one she'll need to follow with textbook precision. Squeezing her eyes shut, she embraces the temporary void, searching for the Maker, for Andraste, for any deity merciful enough to hear her cries. In the nothingness, she finds the core principal elements, beyond the control of most, but not her. Not today. She would be its willing vessel. Sparks playfully nip at her fingertips, sending her heart soaring with verve. An oscillating volley weaves its way into her daughter's heart, forcing it to dance along to her rhythm.

From the black, emerges a shock of vibrant pink. A wriggling infant centres its gaze on her, ensnaring her very soul. I feel, complete again? As soon as it appears, it fades back into the nothingness. Grief threatens to conquer, until she feels it.

A calloused hand clutches at her sleeve, and the tall woman gasps, thrashing into a seated position. Aurélie's eyes open to a wondrous sight.

Nut brown gaze into grey.

Grey, like a gathering tempest.

His eyes. Her Eris.

Chapter Text

Hossberg, The Anderfels 9:21 Dragon

The oppressive sun blares down on them, casting long shadows on the grime stained cobbles below. Camille catches her own, made more menacing by the black cloak she wears to conceal her face. Although stuffy, she is grateful to have something covering her nose. That smell. So ripe in the summer... The nearby butchers and tanneries do their best to offend her senses at every turn, while the flies enjoy their own soiree on a buffet of decomposing flesh.

“It's just down here.” Tobias motions to a narrow, darkened alley. Tall buildings on either side deny the sun's embrace. She follows behind, feet barely dodging two rats as they play tug-o-war with the remains of a pig's snout. “Err, sorry Camille, this part of town isn't exactly glamorous.” This is Hossberg, name one part that is.

Tobias taps four times on a small arched door, inconspicuously sandwiched between a broken cart and a disused water pump. The door creaks open, seemingly on its own accord, with nobody present to greet them. Peering inside, the two see a steep, winding staircase. The steps vary in length and depth, with edges worn with age. “Be careful,” Tobias cautions, as he shuffles down sideways, arms held oddly overhead. He moves like a crab, Camille thinks.

The sole oil lamp, scarcely illuminating their passage, threatens to diminish entirely. The flame barely holding onto what little sustenance remains. Camille instantly regrets wearing a long, trailing skirt; one wrong step, and her smashed skull will decorate the already ominous interior.

She needs to take her mind off it. She knows one way.

“OoooooOOOOOoooo” She sounds in jest, channelling the voice talent of a ghost.

“Sssh!” Tobias scolds, amusement waiting in the wings.

After an unnecessarily arduous descent, they reach another small door. The yew-wood is noticeably weathered; peeling, warped and held together by hope alone.

Tobias knocks on it four times.

Toby better not knock too hard, he'll put his arm through it.

He knocks four times once more; this time he follows it up with an uttered phrase - “the circle remains broken.”

Really? Camille questions, barely containing a laugh, this whole cloak and dagger shit is ridiculous.

There's no response.

Tobias readies himself to knock again, until the door swings open to reveal a dishevelled man in rags. He peers back at them through his one eye, his patchy beard scarcely covering his scarred lips. He looks utterly terrified to see them.

“Hello there-” Tobias is about to introduce himself, but the man has other ideas, barging past Tobias with a force that sends the dwarf clambering to the ground. With awe inspiring finesse, he sprints up the length of the stairway, disappearing from sight.

This is surely a magical place, Camille muses.

“Come in.” The voice of an older lady beckons them to enter. “Don't let the draft in!” She complains.

Tobias told her that this was a place where magic is practised. The realms of her imagination envisioned a sort of enchanted library; a space illuminated by floating candles, and wisps that frolic to and thro along the rich mahogany panelled walls. A space with a high vaulted ceiling that peaks above the clouds, lined with towering bookcases and carefully curated cabinets, containing tomes, relics and antiquities. A space where the mundane is discarded, and the esoteric regarded.

What she didn't expect to find is - somebody's bedroom? She shuffles into the cave-like dwelling. It has a noticeable damp problem. The musty smell of dank, sodden wood lingering in the air. The room doesn't contain much, just a simple cot, and a small desk housing a crate of glass vials. Her head nearly catches on something hanging overhead, a brassiere? It drips water, pooling on the exposed floor below. An errant droplet hones in on her, working its way down her neck and along her spine. She shivers at the sensation. Craning her neck to get a better look, she sees more undergarments hanging overhead.

She dries them here? Camille wonders, figuring they won't air out much in the dewy den.

“Do all your clients run away like that?” Tobias questions.

The woman adjusts her oil lamp, perched precariously on the edge of her diminutive desk. At last, Camille can see her face, and she looks, unremarkable. Again, her imagination had conjured something that defied her reality: a mysterious, robe-clad figure, their face shadowed by a tall hat, but with glowing eyes that could pierce the night as they bask in the rays of ancient wisdom. This woman however was like any other Ander she had seen. More likely to sell Camille a bag of pig's testicles than arcane secrets.

“My clients are apostates, they get jittery.” The woman explains.

Apostate. That's what Camille is, technically. The Circle of Magi is a facet of The Chantry, and she is, in their eyes, a heretic.

Forgive me Maker, she prays.

“I'm guessing you're the one I need to see?” The woman asks, gesturing to Camille. “I mean, it can't be the dwarf.”

“Oui, err...” Camille draws closer.

“Don't worry, I don't need to know your name love. It's better if I don't, but you can call me Silja. It's not my real name, obviously.”

Neither is Camille, she thinks, wondering if her life will be a series of pseudonyms from now on.

The woman adjusts the thin, wire-framed glasses perched on the edge of her nose. Camille notices that they are clouded with dirt, and scuffed with scratches and marks. She'd be better off without them.

“When did it first manifest?”

“Manifest?” Camille asks, in a daze.

“Your magic, love.”

Camille baulks at the memory, but she tries to steel herself against the turmoil curdling her innards. “I was fifteen, this man, he... He forced himself...”

“Ah, I get it.” Silja adds, a sympathetic smile spilling on her lips. “What does your magic look like, may I ask?”

“Like... lightening bolts?”

Camille notices Tobias staring at her hand. He had been the one to bring her here, after she had pulled her precious Eri back from that vast emptiness.

“Elemental magic.” Silja confirms. “Usually the first kind to manifest in either childhood or adolescence. It's often triggered by strong emotion.” There's a twinkle of mirth in her eyes. “You know, one day I caught a boy I was courting necking my sister. His hair caught on fire, some freak accident, surely?”

Camille chuckles, feeling herself relax in Silja's presence. She seems good natured enough, and more eloquent than the average Ander she knew.

“Can you show me, love? You'll have to come closer, these eyes can't see very well.”

Camille wonders how much closer she can get, as her breasts hang a hairbreadth from Silja's nose. She awkwardly holds out her palm, willing the sparks to present themselves.

“You're new to this,” Silja assures, “try to conjure a strong emotion, something that maybe triggered this previously.”

There were a few, but one in particular loiters in her mind's eye, like an unwelcome visitor.

Blooded entrails. Tangled limbs. Shrill wails of grief and despair. His face-

“Non!” Camille pulls away. “This was a mistake, I've gotten by so far...” She turns to leave, only to find Tobias blocking her exit.

“It's not just about you,” Tobias warns, “they'll take her away.” His hands clutch at her shoulders, stern eyes aiming to petrify her into position.

Connard! Tu t'prends pr qui toi? [Motherfucker! Who do you think you are?]. How dare you use my daughter to manipulate me!

There's a sudden surge of energy, and a bolt of amethyst sends the dwarf hurtling backwards. He slumps against the wall, and her heart catches in her throat.

“Toby!” She rushes forward, terrified that she may have slain the one man who cared. That is until she sees the upturn of his lips. “Désolée, I didn't mean-”

“Just help me up.” He holds out his arm, and she hoists him up to his feet. The Wish's doorman seems remarkably intact, all things considered. With the exception of his hair, which stands tall on ends, singed at the tips. Once a crab, now a hedgehog.

“Well, that's one way to demonstrate it,” Silja quips. “Also, you may have been able to contain it so far... But magic, when not properly channelled, it becomes unpredictable. It can breed hedge magic, or worse... tempt demons.”

“Don't tell me-” Camille considers fighting back, but her memories pivot to her own mother. The woman was mad, but perhaps that madness was fostered by wild magic all along. “You can... give me control?”

“Yes love, I can teach you... I don't work for free though, I have this place to maintain.” Just as Silja says that, the battered desk gives way, collapsing  into a pile of splinters.

Just what do you spend your money on?

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Lighthouse, 9:52 Dragon

Vines – stretching, knotting and weaving their way across a field of flesh. Some ripe in rich hues of Shiraz, Merlot and Malbec, while others a more delicate white Zinfandel. Some no longer bear the fruits of recent pain, twisting ropes of raised skin, a distant memory of lifeblood once shed. They are geometric abstraction, imparting no direct insight, but they conceal nothing. Symbols of sentiment and ideal; honour, vigilance and duty.

Then there are some that are just... weird.

“This one?” Lace asks, fingers grazing over two small incision marks, about a centimetre apart.

“Fishing hook,” Rook replies matter-of-factly, “I was the best thing Antoine caught that day.”

Lace silently chuckles against her back, warm breath pooling on the Warden's shoulder blade. “Quite the catch you are too.” She plants a delicate kiss to the affected area, earning a satisfied hum from her gentle giant.

Her index finger scouts westwards, until it reaches a dusty-pink abrasion, clearly caused by neither blade nor foe. “This one, it's not like the others...”

There's a murmur of recognition from Rook. “Ah yep, fondue.”

That's a joke, surely?

“We were playing Wicked Grace, I lost my shirt... Turns out I'm not very good at it! I bent over because I dropped one of my cards, and, well...”

Just how hot can cheese get? Lace wonders.

“So, right next to the scar you got fending off darkspawn, there's one for molten cheese?” Lace can hardly believe this woman sometimes, and the absurd scenarios she gets entangled in.

Rook shrugs, “it's cheesily done.”

Lace likes puns, in fact, she'd go as far as to say that she loves them, however that one earns an emphatic groan. That was no gouda.

Lace's eyes then consider three small dots imprinted on the Warden's left hip. “Wait, were you stabbed with a fork!?”

“Evka.”

“Twice? There's another on your right.”

“Oh don't be silly, that was Mila.”

By Andraste's tits, what did you do this time? Lace wonders. “Accidents, I hope?”

“The first one, yeah...” Rook starts to squirm, evidently, Lace's tender touches are having an effect on her. “Do you...?”

“...Thought you'd never ask.”

Lace has to admit, despite the plethora of scars, marks and abrasions, touching Rook's back, feeling the hard definition, the built curves, it kindled something fierce within her. There's a sudden yelp, as her body is swung around in one fluid motion. Her stout frame now lies pressed atop the bulky warrior's. From her periphery, she sees the open door to the infirmary, stay in your rooms guys...

Rook winces, still reeling from their recent skirmish. “Just need a better look at you.” It comes out as a husky purr, sizzling Lace's mind. Since their greenhouse rendezvous, every scarce moment alone had been flush with tender touches, fond caresses, and, privacy permitting, passionate lovemaking. Her mind turns to their last frenzied session - it was just her and Rook, in a stalled lift in Dock Town. It took thirty or so minutes for the engineers to correct the problem; time the pair put to good use. She recalls being pressed against the metal bars, straddling Rook, her fingers clutching at raven locks as the Warden grazed eagerly on her neck. With her body now flush against Rook's once more, the mere memory was enough to send her spiralling.

Her eyes hone in on the smug upturn of Rook's lips, a burning desire to wipe it off her face, but then...

You were gone, you left me.

Her mind careens off in an entirely different direction, extinguishing any flame of desire in a mere moment. Memories of desperation, despair, hopelessness, they all come flooding in, threatening to drown all that is rational.

Closed eyes imprison her spark, body lies listless, unresponsive to her countless pleas.

That was not how you were supposed to go, you big lug! Lace internally screams.

“Rook, are you feeling better?”

“Yeah, quite a bit, why- OUCH!!!”

Lace slaps Rook across the forehead. She held back most of her strength, so figures she must be overreacting in her usual comedic style. “I'm not having you... go in some random fight like that. You can't just...” She can't finish the sentence, it doesn't even bear thinking about.

“Die?” Rook finishes, much to Lace's displeasure. Don't say that! The redhead is about to give her an earful until she spies the warrior pawing at her own breastbone, her face contorted in deep thought; trying to extract meaning from an imperfect memory.

“Wha-What was it like?” Lace teeters on the precipice of a sob, her shaking hand joins Rook's, to feel the solid thrum of her beating heart. I could listen to this all day, she considers, reassurance that tomorrow will be made beautiful again.

“Well, there were no bright lights... No bride's hand reaching out to mine...”

“Did it scare you?” Lace whispers, as Rook's thumb wipes away the single tear spilling down her scarred cheek.

“No.” Rook's voice is raw with something, neither fear nor sorrow. “It just... was.” Grey eyes glance to the side, mentally reaching for someone beyond the walls. “This thing happened when she... When mum did whatever she did. I saw something. This is going to sound insane...” Rook pauses, unsure of herself, but Lace nods, gently encouraging her to continue. “As I was coming to, I saw her in the void, but she was younger and I felt... tiny. It was like we were connected, our hearts beating in synch, like she was giving me a part of herself...” Rook's chest suddenly heaves as it hurls itself into an incredulous laugh. “Ah, the mad Ander woman strikes again!”

Lace leans in, briefly reuniting their lips. The metallic taste of blood still lingers. Pulling away, Lace's look is one of complete acceptance. After all, this isn't the wildest story I've heard over the last few months. “You're not mad... Well, you are, but regardless, I think you owe your ma some precious mother-daughter time.”

“You're right... At least he's not here to have seen this.” Rook comments, glancing over at an empty cot. Lace's confusion is palpable. She really did hit her head hard. Rook scooches over, rolling onto her side. The two now lie on the cot face to face, the Warden's lumbering frame hanging awkwardly off the edge.

“Where is she by the way?” Rook questions.

Lace doubts Rook can recall much about their long trek back to the lighthouse. After returning to her, by some miracle, her girlfriend remained barely conscious. It took the concerted efforts of the entire team to haul her mass around the various perils and pitfalls Arlathan had to offer. Good job she's courting the best scout in Thedas.

“Oh err...” There's hesitation in Lace's voice. “I said she could rest in your Chamber...”

“You what!?”

“Rook, she used to work in a whorehouse, I doubt she cares about your smutty novella collection.”

A creeping blush sprouts on the warrior's cheeks. “That's not what I... It's just... This is going to be awkward.”

“She'll only be here for the night, then her and Leyla will spend some time with the Veil Jumpers, until they find a spot to rebuild.” Lace notices that Rook's mind appears to be drifting elsewhere. “Are you still angry with her?” She questions. The Rook before her seems markedly less bitter than the day prior.

“Yes... No... I don't know Lace.” Rook runs a hand through her hair, sliding off the cot. “She thought I was dead?” She scratches nervously at her forearm, the soft light of the infirmary blurring the contours of her shadow. “I guess, I'm sort of happy for her though, she seems... free?”

Lace can't help herself as she sneers. The Titan's Shade flickers in her mind once more, barred teeth screaming for bloody vengeance. It was pure torture sometimes, to have the weight of their wrath bearing down on her, threatening to crush her whole. It's their anger, but also, very much her own. Sometimes she wants to foster it, allow it to cultivate in the minds of others in the name of justice. This was one of those times. “Rook, she's not free. She never will be, until-”

“Lace,” Rook interrupts, voice stern.

“Rook, she was sold into slavery! He tried to kill-”

“It's not for us to decide.”

Has your sense of righteousness been made tranquil? Lace can barely believe this is the same woman she'd been travelling with for months.

“You decide things for others all the time Rook! An entire city-”

“Lace!” Rook roars, but as soon as it escapes her, she shrinks into herself in shame. "Maybe, sometimes, the best thing is to...” Her voice trails off, questioning her own conviction.

“Forgive!? Is that what you were going to say?” Lace snaps. “Her brother, the Master, that slaver, they built their lives on her suffering, and not just her!” Lace thinks back to the story about Lilou, the spark of a young life snuffed out for a grotesque experiment.

How many more have there been since? She wonders about the extent of the suffering these men have wrought. And Rook can't even seek justice for her mother!?

Rook's shrinks further, hand swiping at her temple. “I'm not doing this... I'll come back later, when you've simmered down.” She exits in a flash.

That's not something you get to decide.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Diffidently, Rook creeps into her chamber. Mouth dry, palms clammy, she'd feel more at home confronting an a entire army of ogres then the ghosts of her past. A dark silhouette stands with her back turned, small, yet imposing; an apparition set against a watery blue expanse.

She fights the churning in the pit of her stomach to will her feet to move forward. That's when she sees it, the flicker of a flame dancing upon a wick. The phantom is drawn to it, like moth to flame. A small hand edges closer, seeking release in its warm, tantalising embrace. Rook won't allow it though, thwarting their efforts as she snatches the wrist mid-air. Through the smell of hot wax, the Warden detects something earthier, like damp moss on wet stone. The wrist in her grasp grows hot, sending a prickling sensation to course through her fingertips. She's warning me, Rook observes.

“Aurélie, it's me!” Like that, the smell evaporates as quickly as it arrived. The prickling subsiding to a warm flush. Still, a silence grips the room, with her mother growing increasingly rigid under her hold. “I, err... I'm going to release you now, but I'm... I'm going to need you to stop doing that...” Rook inwardly curses at the nerves on display.

“You sound different...” Aurélie trails off, voice still mourning the twelve year old girl she once knew.

Releasing her grasp, Rook wets her lips, steeling herself for the conversation to come. “Well, I'm not a girl anymore.”

Aurélie slumps slightly, limbs starting to relax. “No. No you're not...” She slowly spins around to meet Rook's gaze, or at least, she tries to; her eyeline naturally settling on the tall woman's breasts.

“I'm up here,” Rook quips, remembering how they were near enough the same height, the last time they spoke.

Wide brown eyes scramble their way up the incline of Rook's form, to finally reach the grey summit. “That's going to take some getting used to.” Aurélie chuckles, a soft smile trailing on her lips.

They remain like that for a while, their gaze flickering between themselves, neither quite sure how to advance from here. Aurélie fidgets, swaying on the balls of her feet while her hands flit between her sides and crook of her neck. Rook has never seen the woman so hesitant.

There's something weighty in Rook's trouser pocket, somehow drawn like loadstone to the woman in front. She digs it out, brushing a thumb around its smooth, metallic rim. “This is yours, isn't it?” The medallion of Andraste lies flat on Rook's palm, offered to its original owner.

It doesn't go as Rook expects, Aurélie flinching at the sight of it, her face ghostly white. “Non, please, that thing has only brought disaster.”

It's just a hunk of metal?

Rook glances down at the visage of the flame-crowned bride. “You'd rather... I have it?”

“I'd rather you didn't ma douce, that thing belonged to my mother; a curse passed down from daughter to daughter.”

Too distracted by the term of endearment, Rook doesn't even register what her mother said, pocketing the medallion once more.

Aurélie seems to have picked up on Rook's surprise, swallowing hard. “Désolée, it's not my place to call you such things anymore... Rook, is it?

“It's not that, it's-” Rook has never paid much thought regarding what others call her, but the nickname Varric 'bestowed' upon her doesn't feel quite right coming from the lips of the woman who birthed her. Rook was the name of the insubordinate Warden, catapulted into a new life of high-stakes, world changing consequence. Rook is a role, the name of the leader she never wanted to be. Plus, to her, Lace is the only one who should be able to flip between the two on a whim. “Eris, please just call me Eris.” You did give me this name, after all.

Aurélie smiles at that, advancing closer once more. “You wanted to talk? I owe you that much...” Her eyes trail down Rook's torso. “But, maybe you should put a shirt on first?”

Caught up in the moment, Rook only now realises that she left her shirt in the infirmary under Lace's sulky care. “Yeah! I probably should...” Pivoting on the spot, she moves towards the wardrobe. There's a sharp inhale behind her, followed by mutterings in concerned Orlesian. A small palm presses itself against the small of her back, fingers tracking the raised, knotted vines. “Eri... I'm...”

It shouldn't, but bearing witness to all the scars she's collected, all those moments manifest on a canvas of skin, it fills her with a perverse pleasure. Rook wants her to acknowledge that her life has been one of hardship, one you weren't there for. “I live a dangerous life,” she manages to say in a monotone voice. She shirks from her mother's touch, shimmying her way into a new shirt. “I imagine your back still hurts, it.. err... took quite the hit. We should err... We should sit. Yeah, let's sit.” Rook winces, not from pain, but the embarrassment of stumbling through a simple sentence.

“Ah oui, do you mind if I smoke?” Aurélie is already pulling out a rose pink, metallic cigarette case.

“Only if you give me one.” Rook replies, seating herself on the edge of the settee.

“You smoke?” Aurélie asks, more surprised than reproachful, as she slides one out, handing it to her daughter with ease.

“Used to. Last time was a couple of years ago.” Rook remembers sneaking off with a couple of the other Wardens 'for a quick puff' behind the ramparts. She always wondered where Greta sourced her endless supply from. “Don't tell Lace, she hates this kind of thing...” Rook's guilt starts to creep up on her, a sentiment she tries to quash with reason. She can't expect me to be saint all the time.

Aurélie approaches the burn of candles once more. Spying Rook's pointed look, she holds her hands above her head, like a criminal offering themselves freely to a guardsman. She bends down, lighting the cigarette perched between her sandy pink lips. Taking a long drag, a contented moan escapes her upon exhale. “Horrible habit.”

Returning to Rook, she leans down, imparting the fire from her smoke to kindle the one in her daughter's mouth. The act feels oddly intimate, until-

That smell? Medicinal, herbal...? This isn't like any cigarette Rook had smoked before.

Taking another puff, Aurélie watches as the smoke flitters between the otherworldly blues of the chamber. “Hah, great role model I am...” She looks around. “Do you have an ashtray?”

“Here.” Rook lifts the lid off a jar sitting atop the bookcase.

“Is that a... Canopic jar?”

“Yeah, from Nevarra. There's nothing in it, don't worry... Didn't fancy having some bloke's entrails chilling in my room.” Rook takes a drag, before flicking ash into it. “I had Emmrich remove them, obviously.”

Rook tries to remember how she even acquired it in the first place, was this a gift or did I just... take it? She wasn't that much of a kleptomaniac, surely?

“It always baffles me how they can't just burn their dead...” Aurélie looks around the room, eyes centring on something propped up against the wardrobe. “You have quite the collection of stuff...”

Rook spots what she's looking at, suddenly invigorated by a giddy glee. “Oh my cheese shield! Beautiful, isn't she? I have to hide it from Lace though, I swear she keeps taking chunks out of it.”

Aurélie laughs brightly, and the two start to relax around each other. “You haven't changed Eri, still my little oddball... She seems nice, your partner. I can tell she cares for you deeply.”

“She's... incredible.” Rook takes another puff, this time noticing that there's something off about the taste. “I think I'm in her bad books at the moment though.” Rook sighs, acknowledging that there were still a lot of things left unspoken between her and Lace. “Anyway, come, take a seat.” She pats the empty space next to her, but as she does so, her fingers skirt the pages of an open book. Shit, is that...

“Not a bad collection.” Aurélie admires. “That one however...” She pulls a face similar to someone sucking on a lemon. “It's like the author has never touched a woman. I mean, how can she squirt that hi-”

Denying Aurélie her rant, a crimson Rook snatches the novella from the settee, tossing it behind her. The hardback slides off somewhere into the lighthouse library. Bedtime reading for Manfred later.

“Dramatic as always, I see.” Aurélie chuckles, as she sits down. “Did you want to talk about you and Lace?”

Rook bats her hand in the air dismissively, taking a drag of her cigarette once more. A light-headedness takes hold, but it's not a unwelcome sensation. “I'd rather talk about you and I, mum... Like how you thought I was dead?”

“Ah, oui...” There's a sense of ire entrenched in her furrowed brow. “Hugo.”

“Hugo told you I was dead... and you believed him, just like that?” Men have been playing you your entire life, and you went along with it?

“Eri... “ Her voice is charged with contrition. “After Hugo had I dealt with that silly assassin, he urged me to leave with him... I told him about you... He said the assassins had gotten to you and-” The tremors in Aurélie's hand return, Rook finds her free hand reaching out on its own accord. I should still be mad, she tells herself, but I can't bear seeing her like this. “I screamed the place down... I thought, because the music had stopped, maybe there was something to his story...”

Rook purses her lips, thumb brushing over her mother's small hand, it seems to calm under her touch. “Ah, I was cleaning the stables...” Rook explains, like a guilty admission. She wonders how differently things would have gone, had she just sung the song the way it was written.

“I didn't believe him at first, I tried to run downstairs, but he held me from behind, there was this... cloth? He drugged me with something. It didn't knock me out, but I was barely with it... The only thing I really remember afterwards was all the shit we had to wade through...” She forces herself to look Rook in the eye. “I tried to go back for you, you know?”

“How?”

“Hugo had someone posted outside the safehouse, I managed to sneak out one night. When I reached The Wish, there was this young woman smoking outside... Maybe one of the Madame's new hires? I wasn't sure... Anyway, I asked what happened to the girl that lived here... She just looked at me with this sad smile, telling me you had gone to a better place...” She shakes her head, bitterly disappointed with the Camille she once was.

Rook's sternum almost lunges forward into a derisive laugh.

“Uncle Toby... I mean, dad. He adopted me. I took his surname. I didn't have one before. You never told me about our family. You didn't tell me much of anything.” She feels her anger bubbling to the surface again, as she prizes her hand away. From her trouser pocket, she retrieves the blooded handkerchief, flinging it in her mother's direction.

Aurélie cowers from it, allowing it to drop to the floor. “Eri, whose blood is this!?”

“Toby's. He's dead. Gave up on living after you left.”

Aurélie seems to slink further into her bottomless pit of self-loathing. She can't maintain eye contact any more, her entire body now quivering. “Another good person dead because of me.” After discarding her cigarette butt into the jar, she buries her face in her lap; a curious grovel for clemency. “Lilou... The people in the wagon... Your father...”

Rook's gaze hovers over the burn of candles, the guilt she wants to burn away.

“Maybe that's why I believed Hugo... I felt that losing you was what I deserved...”

A terrible screech reverberates around her skull, and then she sees it, the grisly visage of the Archdemon. Howls and shrieks of some indecipherable ancient language. It calls to her. She calls to it... She awakens and is disappointed.

My joining, I was sad to be... alive?

Years of self-loathing had made her scorn her very survival, and all because she had convinced herself that she was deserving of pain, of hardship. She knows what it's like to see one's shadow as more menacing than it truly is.

You're your own tormentor, mum.

A mind conscious of guilt is a terrible instrument for self-destruction. One thing Rook has learnt is, that more often than not, we're eager to tie the noose around our own necks before the judgment has been made.

Rook will put any anger aside to make her see the woman, not the shadow.

“Did you really kill any of them? Toby adored you, but he was a troubled man. You didn't prize his mouth open and force him to drink.”

“.....”

“Lilou, did you deliver her yourself to Alain that night?”

Aurélie tears herself from her lap, eyes bloodshot, with the tracks of her tears glimmering in the soft light. “Non, but what if I hadn't left her with Lobineau... What if I went to find her earlier...”

“All what ifs.” Rook responds, more gruffly than intended. She figures it's for the other woman's benefit. “You've never told me about the people in the wagon... The other slaves right? And the man who sired me..?”

“I don't want...” One look in Rook's eyes and Aurélie's reluctance withers away. “Non, you showed your scars, it's about time I show mine...” She holds out her hand, twirling her fingers. Sparks of purple energy frolic from tip to tip, before interweaving to create a mesmerising display of controlled elemental magic. Rook's eyes widen at the sight. “It brings me joy to know that you don't have this curse, mon amour.” Curse? Rook thinks, such beauty is a gift, surely?

“Your magic... You think it killed them?”

“My memory of what happened is hazy, but I remember getting angry with him, then I felt it... It all went black... When I came to, I saw glimpses of the blood... Of the carnage.. I must have caused it?”

“But...” Rook's brow knots, how does she know? “You don't remember using your magic, right?”

“Non, but it was before I could control it.”

“How do you know the wagon didn't get into an accident? Maybe it collided with something, maybe the horses bucked, maybe it fell down a cliff-”

“All maybes.” Aurélie spits back.

“Yes” Rook states sternly. She stubs out her cigarette before placing a hand on each of Aurélie's shoulders.” Maybe your magic did play a role, but how can you ever know? Is it really worth letting it eat you alive over maybes?”

“But I deserve-”

“You don't. Also... you're not that important!”

Aurélie looks astonished, not quite prepared to be yanked out of her brooding by an insult. Nonetheless, Rook knows she understands, that in the grand scheme of things, she is a mere spec of dust in an impossibly large world. Perhaps the ego should dwell in the shadows, for the sake of our own sanity.

“I mean...” Rook's eyes start to glisten, no longer sure if she's imparting advice to herself or the other woman. “You're a good person...” Her voice wavers. “Look at Leyla, how did that happen?”

“Hmph...” Aurélie cannot restrain a smile, as the memory plays on. “Not long after I was dumped in Arlathan, I had given up, I looked for somewhere to drown myself... I reached a lake, but I heard a scream. Standing there was this tiny, thin elven girl... Oh Eri, she was all bone! She was surrounded by these deepstalkers, and well...” Aurélie twirls her fingers once more, allowing sparks to dance playfully along her slender digits.

“You fought them off?”

“Oui, then the little shit started following me, wouldn't leave me alone for one moment, not even to take a dump.”

Rook can't hide her surprise at the colourful choice of language.

Aurélie laughs, gently prizing Rook's hands from her shoulders. “I was around those damn Anders for too long... Anyway, I tried to take Leyla to the nearest Dalish clan, she lasted one night before materialising behind me, just as I was tying a rock around my waist.”

Rook remains bewildered by her casual tone. You'd think you were describing what you ate for breakfast...

“She told me her parents were dead, whether that was ever true or not...” She shrugs. “Maybe I kidnapped some random girl?”

“She gave you a reason to keep going.” Rook affirms, voice soft and layered with empathy. Her thoughts shift to Lace. My raison de vivre.

“She's a stubborn bitch, like you.”

“I take it back, you're not a good person. Terrible in fact.”

Aurélie cocks her brow in feigned indignation. They can no longer maintain the melancholic tone, as the pair explode into a fit of giggles.

Rook knew that the crushing weight of her mother's guilt would not magically relieve itself overnight, but at least for now, she felt that tiny bit lighter.

She doesn't want to drag her back into the pit of despair, but she can't envision a better opportunity to ask. “What was he like?”

Aurélie doesn't hesitate to tell her, as though she had anticipated it all along. “He was... rude. Moody. Arrogant. Thought he was some elven 'breaker of chains.'"

So I am elf blooded, after all... For Rook, it didn't change much, she had only ever known the privilege of passing for human.

“He was also... bashful, compassionate and... unbelievably sexy.”

This time, it's Rook's turn to suck on lemons.

“Did you love him?” Rook asks, her voice small, as she inwardly curses her own naivety.

Aurélie's smile is tender. She draws Rook in, pulling the warrior towards her, inviting her head to rest upon her lap. Normally, this would startle Rook beyond measure. After all, such acts were an anomaly, even in childhood. Yet, she feels oddly sedated, peaceful even. The rhythm of her mother's heart beats in tandem with hers, and she feels at home in her embrace, like a lost ship returning to port.

“Your head, ma chérie, it's like a boulder.” Aurélie chuckles, “you don't get your size from me, I can tell you that.”

Rook reckons that from an outsider's perspective, it must look utterly ridiculous, to have a giant of a woman cradled by this small Orlesian.

“Whether I loved him...” Rook can almost hear the gears of Aurélie's mind whirl. “I don't know, there is much I didn't know. He was however... the best I've ever had. The sex Eri, oh it was magnificent! He did this thing with his little finger-”

“NOPE!!!” Rook declares, covering her ears to shield herself from tales of her mother's libidinous exploits. “We had a beautiful thing going on, and you had to ruin it with filth!”

He may be the reason I'm here, but there's no way I'm listening to this.

“Such a prude.” Aurélie protests, as she lovingly combs her fingers through Rook's locks. “You have my hair, but.. you look so much like him... He disappeared the night we, you know...” The guilt hangs heavy in her voice again. “I always assumed he sacrificed himself for me.”

“Again, you're not-”

“That important. I know.”

You erm, you are to me though, because...” Rook's voice feels thick with decades of suppressed sentiment. She struggles to say it in the common tongue, it'd feel too... exposed. "Je t-aime, maman.”

Aurélie's hand freezes in Rook's scalp. Rook isn't sure whether the declaration has spooked her, until -

“Your pronunciation is terrible!” Aurélie splutters into another fit of giggles. It must be contagious, as Rook can barely curb her own chortle.

“Wh-what is in those cigarettes?” Rook manages to ask, between peaks of laughter.

“Ehh, just a sprinkling of elfroot.”

What the... My own mother got me stoned!?

Rook has already resigned herself to the earful to come. “She's going to throw a hissy fit if she finds out...” The laughter wanes, as her thoughts pivot to their prior argument. “Maybe I've been to flippant about what it all means for her. How could I possibly know what it's like to reconcile thousands of years of injustice?”

“I feel as though there's a lot of context I'm missing here.”

Rook proceeds to tell her mother about Lace's power, the heinous acts committed against the Titans, Isatunoll and the lasting legacy for the Children of the Stone.

Rook isn't sure if it's the elfroot, but her mother seems markedly blasé about it, with Rook questioning whether she had been listening at all. I don't think I need to work on my storytelling either...

After a moment of quiet, Aurélie finally speaks up. “The anger, it's a gift, I think... Not something to be tamped down, forgotten, hidden behind a facade of sunshine and rainbows, because... it'd be an injustice to ignore it, to not-”

“Use it to make the world a better place.” Rook finishes, at last understanding. As much as she wants to hold onto the bright, giggly ray of sunshine; her beacon in the storm of her own mind, Lace's shade has to be respected, has to be nurtured, has to be-

A sneeze from behind catches the two unawares, and Rook jolts upright to find the subject of her thoughts leaning against the door, a sheepish smile on her face.

“Sorry!” The titian Titan exclaims, “I erm, just wanted to drop this off.” She thrusts Rook's shirt at the dresser. “I'll leave you two alone now.” The scarlet scout moves to take flight, until Aurélie's voice halts her retreat.

“Lace, you love my daughter, correct?”

Lace slowly turns around, eyes blown like glass. “Erm, Ms DuPlessis...”

Way to put her on the spot, mum.

The sunlit forest of Lace's eyes reflect on Rook, she smiles, kindling a light in the Warden's heavy heart. “I do, more than she'll ever know.”

Rook instinctively knows how Lace feels about her. Still, to hear it aloud, it never ceases to send her heart soaring.

“Well, then.” Aurélie claps her hands together. “Lace, you're part of my family, and you're staying.”

“Oh, Ms DuPlessis-”

Aurélie wrinkles her nose. “Don't call me that, you make be feel like an old lady.”

“I mean you are-” Rook interjects, receiving a bat on the head. This noggin is taking some abuse today.

“I have all of my daughters, with me, together. It's a fucking miracle and a cause for celebration! I'll go an get your sister... Hopefully she's not been tracking that weird chicken thing.”

Chicken thing..? Assan? Rook lets out a snicker, amused at the image of Davrin frantically fending off a stuttering elf looking for her next dinner.

“I'm starving, are you?” Aurélie asks, eyes all pupils.

Yeah mum, because we're stoned off our tits.

“There are Halla cakes in the kitchen,” Lace suggests.

“That'll do nicely!” The baked Orlesian springs into action, embarking on her crusade for Bellara's renowned snacks.

Lace turns to Rook, nervously rubbing at her bicep.

“How much did you hear?” Rook asks, beckoning her to come closer.

“Enough to know that I wasn't exactly fair on you back there, in the infirmary.” She snuggles next to her on the settee, Rook's arm drawing her in around the shoulder. “What I nearly said, about Minrathous and Treviso... You couldn't be in two places at once, there was no right call... I had no right to make you feel bad for that...”

“It's okay, really.” Rook nuzzles into Lace's hairline, appreciating the faint scent of heather. She still gets butterflies from being so close, even now.

"You forgive too easily, Rook.” There's a glint of levity in her voice. “But speaking of forgiveness... I'm a bit of a hypocrite, aren't I? When I'm the one wanting to hear Solas out, after what he did. He made the Titans tranquil, Rook!”

Rook did find it curious how out of all her companions, Lace had been the most willing to parley with the Dread Wolf. Not only after he betrayed the Inquisition, but after what be did to her entire people; severing the Children of the Stone from the fade. For Rook, that wasn't a weakness, but a strength of character. “You try to find the good, where others can't.” Rook adds, planting a kiss to her forehead. “But... People are complicated, and you're not wrong about wanting justice for my mum either... These Titan powers of yours, that anger, they're a blessing, to be used to give a voice to those who had theirs taken from them...”

“Since when did you get so wise?” Lace asks, cocking a brow.

Definitely not since I'm high as a kite.

“At first, I thought this power was a curse. Why me, and not some dwarf from Orzammar or Khal-Sharok? They're closer to the Stone than some Andrastian surfacer.” She rests her head further into Rook's bosom. “Now I know it's an incredible gift, a chance to be closer to my heritage, to my people... To share that proclamation that once united us all.”

“Isatunoll,” Rook remembers. It's a beautiful thought, Rook considers, a collective state of consciousness beyond her comprehension. It also made her sad, however, that she could never experience it herself. “Honestly, I'm jealous that I can't get closer to you in that way.”

Lace plants a delicate kiss to Rook's jaw, her hand slithering its way towards her inner thigh. “We have our own language, man cherry.”

Rook lunges into a belly laugh. “Orlesian isn't one, obviously.”

“Shut up! I'm trying to be romantic you boob!” Lace flicks Rook on the nose, but as she does so, she finds herself angling her head for a better look at the Warden's eyes. “Your eyes look weird.” Without warning, the redhead's nose is buried deep within the fibres of Rook's tunic, audibly sniffing away, like a pig hunting for truffles.

Uh oh, Rook worries.

“Smoke, elfroot?”

“My new cologne,” Rook lies.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Please tell me this isn't a dream, some figment of my imagination or a cruel deception?

Aurélie' cannot fathom how full her heart is, as she watches her two daughters, sat cross legged on floor. They regale each other with jokes, laughing brightly as they share wine together. Right now, she feels like the richest woman alive.

Wait, what is Eri doing?

She spots her eldest curling her fingers into a loose fist, moving it up and down with a flick of the wrist, as if giving an invisible hand job. The Ander hand gesture for wanker.

“Eri, stop teaching your sister such vulgarities!”

“It's my culture mum!” Rook complains.

“Yeah mom, you told me to learn about the world, to broaden my horizons!” Leyla chimes, earning Rook's eager approval.

It didn't take them long to get along. Aurélie thinks, noticing the lack of stammer.

Aurélie picks up her glass, filled with the light claret of Tevinter red. It's, drinkable... Light-bodied, low tannin, with a medium acidity. Part of her still misses the wine of her home country, the wine of her family's vineyard. Closing her eyes, she can still taste the complex profile with her palate; rich plums, candied cherries with a hint of tobacco and pepper. The yearning disquiets her.

Why am I reminiscing? I was in a gilded cage, now I'm free!

“Are you okay Ms... Aurélie?” Lace asks, earnest eyes looking up with concern.

“Ah oui, just thinking about the past, ma puce.”

She peers back into her glass wanting to savour the wine, but a memory overrides her senses. No longer does she get a whiff of fresh strawberry, but the dirty, coppery smell of rust. The thin liquid thickens, expanding in the glass at an alarming rate, until it oozes over the sides, maroon slop pooling in her hands, spilling into her lap to stain everything it touches. In the glass's reflection, she sees Lilou, or what remained of her.

The glass smashes to the floor, drawing the attention of those around.

"I'm not free.” Aurélie concedes. “All my life, I had no agency. I was at their mercy.. and they're still out there, making merry on the remains of others.”

“What do you want to do?” Lace asks, re-affirming that she has a choice. That she has control.

"I want to...” Aurélie looks to Rook, an unspoken understanding is shared, as her mouth twitches into a smile. “I want to fuck shit up.”

Rook stands up, bold and determined. “Lace, write to Josephine. We're going.”

“Where?” Lace questions, bemused.

“To Gâteau DuPussies!”

Chapter Text

In her lighthouse chamber, Rook does her best to take in her appearance in the meagre reflection of Varric's shaving mirror. She had contemplated using the one in the infirmary, but to be truthful, the thing perturbed her. Each time she'd gaze into it, something would change. She'd wind up with a larger nose, a different haircut or ginormous glutes! The Warden swore she once had two full sleeve tattoos that vanished into thin air. Annoyingly, nobody believed her. Each adamant that she had always looked the way she did. Lace had even checked for signs of fever, force-feeding the worried warrior pickled onions by the bucket-load.

It's not delirium! That thing is cursed! I won't go near it again, lest I grow a green afro!

She pitches the hand mirror at an angle where she can better take in the length of her frame. Running a hand along her side, she notes how novel it feels to wear a gown that accentuates her more feminine assets. It's a world away from the baggy fatigues, gambesons and layers of armour that hide any curvature from sight. She palms her waist, observing how the material is fitted there, underscoring the disparity in width between that and her hips. The dark mauve colour gives an air of luxury and decadence, with the repeating fleur-de-lis motif on the skirt paying homage to the DuPlessis family crest. Eyes travelling north, she is taken aback by the sight of her own cleavage; modest compared to some, but still very noticeable due to the plunge neckline. Rook wants to admire herself like this, deep down she knows she looks good, but a thick grey cloud hangs heavy in her mind, impeding any trace of self-confidence.

A few days earlier...

“Rook, the tailor needs the measurements for your suit. I've got the tape measure ready-”

Lace enters Rook's chamber, pausing at the sight of Rook's uncertain expression. The tailor's catalogue lays open on the Warden's settee; the page ripe with illustrations of frocks and gowns. With a tilt of her head, Lace considers it, her eyes flitting between Rook and the open page. Finally, she understands. “Sorry, I just assumed...”

Most people in Rook's life made assumptions. Not that they had poor reason to. Memories of her adolescence flash in her mind: the older boys at the meat market, ogling her breasts. Of being told to smile as wandering hands groped at her rear end. She hadn't been ready for those changes; for that kind of attention. But then again, who was?

Unable to look at Lace, she stares ahead at the shoal of fish swimming by her underwater view. Her hand has a mind of its own, as it scratches at her left bicep, leaving it red, raw and bloody. “This is stupid, not only would it look ridiculous, it's not practical, at all.”

“Oh Rook...” Lace pads over, seating herself beside her neurotic lover. “I don't think it's stupid.” A freckled hand finds Rook's, halting further damage to her already beleaguered skin. “I'll wear one too. We can even coordinate on the color, on the style-”

“It's different for you though.” Rook interrupts, to Lace's bewilderment.

“It's really not, Eris.” A gentle smile forms on Lace's lips, as she caresses her girlfriend's cheek.

Rook wants to question what she means by that, but Lace continues - “It's just clothing, Rook. You're attractive to me as you dress now... But also...”

Rook purses her lips, preparing for the worst.

“Just because you're taller... Much taller, and a bit mus... Very muscly...” Lace's mind drifts off elsewhere. Absorbed in some rousing daydream, her hand trails down to the length of the warrior's torso.

“As you were saying, my randy queen?”

“Oh yeah, I was saying something... That's it! It doesn't make you any less of a woman. Rook, you're a very beautiful woman with...” Her thoughts wander again.

“Lace?”

Lace shakes her head, trying to dispel her racy reverie from the forefront of her mind. “Ahem, anyway, I can tell you want to wear one of these.” She grabs the catalogue, her index finger pointing to an illustration of an elegant, gracile woman; she wears an immaculately sewn teal and gold dress. “And I bet you'd look hot. Like, really hot!” The last few words tumble out of the flustered dwarf at breakneck speed.

“Yeah?” Rook asks, hopeful.

“Yeah.”

They beam at each other, filled with a surge of sudden excitement.

“Now get up so I can measure that fat ass of yours.”

“It's that mirror! It's full of dark, arse altering magic!”

Lace sighs. “Not this again Rook...”

Present day 

Who am I kidding, I look nothing like the figure in that catalogue... This is like putting lipstick on a hurlock.

She jumps at the sound of someone hammering at the door, so close to dropping the hand mirror. “You've been in there a while, can I come in already?” It's Lace, and Rook's heart sinks at the prospect of disappointing her lover. If she is to be a laughing stock, she may as well make light of the situation herself. Outrageous Orlesian accent in 3, 2, 1.

“Comé een! We should 'urry, we simplee canat be laté fair la partay!” Rook can already feel Lace rolling her eyes as the door swings open, but she's not quite prepared for what she sees, and the mirror slides from her hand. Thankfully, its fall is cushioned by the settee. Rook opens her mouth to speak, but cannot, as her voice is nabbed by the bewitching beauty before her.

Rook has been attracted to Lace from day one. Drenched in sweat, with dirt and ghastling viscera covering her from head to toe, she was the most magnificent thing Rook had ever seen. The dwarf could wear anything and pull it off, even the hollowed out carcass of a monstrous spider and-

Well, maybe not, but seeing Lace like this, it's something else!

Lace floats towards her in a similarly coloured dress. Except, the sleeves on hers are shorter, puffier, and there's a panel of plum coloured fabric patterned with an elegant floral design. It runs from the hem of her skirt to her-

Maker's breath! Have they always been that big?

There's a wide grin plastered on Rook's face. She can't help herself. Lace will be on her arm tonight, and complete strangers will know that this kind hearted, courageous, and sassy beaut had chosen her. Lace could have her pick of anyone,

and yet, she picked the mad Ander with mummy issues and a rash on her arse.

Rook isn't particularly religious, but she feels the light of the Maker's bride shine upon her. Except-

That's right. I look like... this. She turns away, eyes downcast.

“Eris.”

Rook doesn't look up. She can't bear to. I've already ruined her evening.

“I'm pregnant.”

“WHAT!? Who's the fath-” Rook swivels around to find the redhead tugging her by the arms, forcing her to bend over. Their lips collide in a searing hot kiss. With unbridled passion, Rook leans into it, their tongues melding in a sweet symphony of moans. Hands are everywhere - waist, hips, buttocks. It's as though they're exploring each other for the first time; charting each dip, each curve in their age of discovery. 

Lace pulls away, but the flame has already been lit; she isn't about to stop. “You're perfect. Eris,” she states, channelling all the sincerity she can muster. Rook finds herself being pushed backwards, collapsing onto the settee in a seated position. With a sly smile, Lace straddles her lap. It's a bit of a struggle, with all the material bunching together, but the daughter of Redcliffe's No 1. seamstress makes it work. Rook moans as her neck is peppered with kisses below the jaw line, wanting nothing more than to live in this moment forever, if only-

“Wait!” Rook sounds desperate, halting Lace in her sensual stride. “I don't want to hurt the baby.”

“You boob...” Lace sighs. “I just said that so you'd look at me!”

“Thank fuck I-” There's no time to think. Lips crash into hers once more, and the taste is too moreish for Rook to resist. Lace withdraws once more, and Rook cannot hep but grunt in frustration; pleading eyes begging her lover to continue.

“Oh, we're just starting, Eris. You're my woman, my gorgeous woman, and after tonight, you're never going to question that again.”

“Lace.” Rook pants, thirsty for sweet release.

“My lady” She kisses the back of Rook's hand with a regal flourish. “Allow me to curtsey.” With a smug smile she slides off the tall woman's lap before disappearing under a cloud of silk skirt and cotton petticoat.

Rook can feel her hot breath on her thigh. There's a sudden gasp when hands clutch at her hips, affixing her in place. For Rook, there is something deeply sensual about not being able to see Lace in this moment. Her mind trying to anticipate the scout's next move, each new touch, each new sensation a pleasant surprise.

“Orlesian.” A muffled command wafts from her dress. Lace has a thing for the language during intimate moments like this. Rook normally obliges, uttering some nonsense phrase, typically involving fish. Tonight however, she wants to try something different.

“Halp! Ai 'ave been takén by zis 'ornee dwaerf!”

“Mmm yes my love, say something else.” Either Lace is too absorbed in the moment, or she really has no clue regarding her westerly neighbours.

“Is that what I sound like to you?” Aurélie leans against the door frame, as she considers the pair with an air of amusement.

By Andraste's lilly-white tits, why are you here!?

Rook has never seen Lace move that fast. A blur of purple flying out of her dress; face as red as her hair.

“Congratulations mon trésor, you've given birth to a thirty year old dwarf!”

Rook slinks further down the settee, wanting to slide away from her mother and further out of existence.

“Hehe Mrs DuPussy, I was just... Plessis! DuPlessis!” Lace looks mortified.

“It's okay ma chérie, you were just straightening Eri's petticoat, non?”

Lace nods profusely, enthusiastically latching onto any excuse to disguise her licentious intent. Really, Rook knows her mother is simply extending her a courtesy, allowing Lace to save face in this moment. “Si si señora! Sorry, that's Antivan! Wee wee madame gazelle?” Lace blabbers on.

Aurélie shrugs. “Ehh, still a touch better than Eri's pronunciation.” Mouth flapping open, Rook is about to protest, but her mother continues. “We're on a tight deadline, and the Lady Montiliyet grows impatient. We're to take the eluvian to Val Poisson, and from there, a carriage to the outskirts of Val Firmin.”

Lace angles her head in thought, her brow furrowed. “Erm, Mrs DuPlessis, what exactly is the plan here? Are we just gate crashing your brother's party?”

“Yes and no.” A wry smile spills on her lips. “Apparently my daughter's reputation precedes her, particularly her connection to the Inquisitor, and by extension of that, Divine Victoria herself.”

Who has been spinning bullshit? Rook thinks, has Varric already published a book on me?

The dwarven gears in Lace's mind churn out a thought. “So... He thinks we have powerful connections that can... Make him money?”

“Money, power, a fancy new stable of coursers. To be honest I'm surprised, my brother used to be the reclusive sort; never one for partying or power mongering”

Rook's finding it hard to concentrate on her mother's words, not just because of the unspent sensual frustrations, but because of the sound reverberating around her chamber, as Aurélie taps her foot against the bare stone floor. “Are you nervous, about the big family reunion?”

“Ah, that obvious, non? It has been thirty-two years Eri. I've spent most of my life now either slumming it in Hossberg or in the... What's that Ander expression? Something end of Arlathan.”

“The arse end of Arlathan,” Rook adds. “Don't worry, you'll have me with you! Your half-elven child born out of wedlock at a brothel. Who, I'll quote you here, 'speaks Orlesian like she's got a mouth full of potato.' We'll be the belles of the ball!”

“Hm, your words of encouragement are noted.” Aurélie curmudgeonly responds, adjusting the silk cravat tucked into her brocade waistcoat. The once noblewoman paints a dapper picture, her three-piece suit tailored to perfection. “You look lovely by the way, both of you.”

“Yeah... Thanks.” Rook isn't terribly used to being complimented on what she wears. At least her mother wasn't making it a big deal that it was a dress, unlike Manfred, whose skeletal finger poked and prodded at her cleavage, hissing something vaguely akin to 'honkers.' His vocab grows by the day, Rook considers dryly.

“Anyway,” Aurélie continues, “do hurry... Also...”

“Yes?”

“Ma chérie, next time, if you angle your hips, it'll allow Lace's tongue to-”

“OUT. NOW.”