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“You seem quite unbothered by Spite,” Lucanis notes, handing the warden mage her coffee before settling down too - grateful to have some company that isn’t Spite in the night. Even if its company he’s worried about. Whatever has her awake has her looking haunted - then again he’d noticed that Davrin was banging around too. It was probably the Blight.
She blinks at him over the rim of her cup, apparently tired enough not to hide her confusion. Or come up with a quick quip in reply, having to actually puzzle through what he’d just said.
“Why would I be bothered by you having one of the gods with you? It’s strange that you’re not a mage but I had a guardian when I was a child. It’s a bit weird but honestly I’m more freaked out by Taash’s fire shit.”
Spite pauses his observations about Rook - she and Neve are in fierce competition for the position of the spirit’s favorite - head cocked at the new terminology with the sort of amusement flashing in his gaze that usually spells trouble.
“ Mierda ,” he groans. “Don’t give him ideas - what are you talking about?”
Rook blinks again, slow and owlish, before her eyes widen: “Fuck - lowlanders . Right. I forgot that’s an Avvar thing. The possessions, I mean, not the calling spirits gods when speaking Trade.”
Lucanis tilts his head, “I hadn’t heard that you were. Is that why you have those tattoos?” He’d meant to ask about them at some point - the mask of tattoos spreading across her face just makes him certain that Grey Wardens have never known the meaning of the word ‘subtle’.
“My tattoos are because my Ma’s Chasind, they’re traditional for her family,” she shrugs, silver-bright eyes amused despite her exhaustion. “She met Da when she fled from the Darkspawn during the Blight - the last Blight - and she stayed with him in his hold but she taught me some traditions.”
“Forgive me - your name does not sound very Avvar.”
“‘Ingunn Finndotten of Razor Thorn Hold’ doesn’t sound Avvar enough for you, Dellamorte?” she smirks. “Our trader uses ‘Thorne’ when he leaves the hold to sell our furs and crafts. I did the same when I had to go. It draws less attention and the Wardens don’t care what name you want recorded as long as you do the Joining and kill Darkspawn like you’re told.”
He laughs - “Forgive me - I stand corrected. Do you really worship spirits?”
“It’s…not worship like you’d do with Andraste or the Maker. Not with the little ones. The great spirits, like the Mountain Father, we don’t expect direct attention from - they’re the true gods in that sense - but the smaller ones we sacrifice and pray to because it helps them stay who they are and they watch over us and ours in exchange. We treat them as a part of our community mostly, it’s more about giving thanks to a neighbor?”
“What about this guardian - you were possessed ?”
She snorts, “All young mages are given guardians to live with us. By being ‘occupied’ it keeps trickster or evil gods from finding us and leading us astray instead. They help teach us our magic, and when we are strong enough and know enough to keep ourselves safe without them we help them return to the Fade to continue watching over the hold.”
Lucanis straightens at that - switching from languid to razor sharp at a speed that made Rook wince for his spine. “You know a way to end possession?”
“Not the way you and Spite are. I don’t know that our ceremonies would work. I would want to speak with the Augur and consult the gods about it. The two of you are tangled so deeply you bleed into one another - Spite didn’t agree to be with you, he didn’t know how to keep himself and you apart - if he even had enough sense of ‘self’ to know what it meant to be a ‘him’. The guides that aid young mages are gentler ideas - usually some form of Wisdom - and they agree to it and are looked after by both the Hold and the Hold’s other gods.”
Lucanis looks down - “You never felt like you were losing yourself to your guide?”
“‘Wonder at the Evening Star’ is what they call themself,” she shook her head. “Star is ancient - they felt like a friend or family. They also had taught seven magelings before me and watched over the Hold for longer than that. Spite would have lacked the complexity that the Augur would look for in a guide.”
“Rude!” Spite hisses annoyedly at the implication that he’s simple.
“If the way I treat Spite ever bothers you, just let me know, Lucanis,” she adds, leaning back. “This place - having all of you around - it makes it easy to slip into old ways of thinking.”
“Any other habits from the mountains?”
“I keep thinking of Assan as our Hold Beast,” she shrugs a little. “And I asked Emmrich about what he thought a pattern in a flock of birds meant the Lady was saying when we were in Arlathan.”
“And did he have an answer?”
She laughs, “No - but he did have so many questions that I quite forgot what my concern about a potential omen was about. I guess the Mourn Watch hasn’t gotten a chance to speak with many of us.”
They fall quiet for a while, both drinking their coffee and ignoring what has them up so late into the evening.
Rook stifles a yawn behind her hand.
“Rook falls asleep! You’re boring her,” Spite grouses.
“You should try to get some rest,” he notes.
“Tell that to the Blight,” she huffs at him before adding quieter: “I think the Blight we’ve been seeing is going to get worse soon. I dreamt of an archdemon, that’s not supposed to happen except if one’s Calling the Blight.”
Lucanis grimaces at that. “A true Blight would make things worse.”
He doesn’t know how Thedas will survive an Archdemon on top of the Old Gods - not with how much destruction they cause. Not when the scars left by Dumat still linger blighted across the landscape.
“The last one took less than thirty Wardens to end,” she offers, forcing a soft laugh. “And there’s some veterans from it left down South, I think - if it is really a Blight maybe we’ll get lucky and they’ll let a pack of crazy Fereldans after the archdemon instead of the whole Order. It seems to work a bit better.”
“Are there many Fereldan Wardens? The Blight is twenty years gone, surely that country has begun to forget.”
“There’s still pockets of Blight that you stumble across in the wilds, still too many Darkspawn on the surface, and still not enough Wardens to clean it all out. That’s how I got sick: a bereskarn I stumbled into, then I got lucky enough to find some Wardens after I killed it. Well, not lucky, but…y’know.” She shrugs.
He raised a curious brow in reply, “Warden secrets?”
“More…I don’t know how to explain how the bits of the Blight we each carry calls out to the other parts of it? I never explain it in a way that really gets it across. And I don’t know if it works the same way anymore - this new Blight the gods wield we’re not seeing ghouls, people who get sick are getting reshaped bone and blood into true Darkspawn.”
“Mierda,” he mutters, shuddering. “You, my friend, have a terrible job.”
She laughs, “Yeah - but someone has to do it. I don’t mind being a Warden - just wouldn’t have been something I think I’d choose. Figure you understand that .”
Lucanis raises a brow at her, but nods his concession to the point. He doesn’t mind being an assassin most the time - it’s the politics of his family’s legacy and his grandmother’s expectations that make him feel like he’s drowning. Watching a flicker of purple in the corner of his eye he wonders if he will reach the point where he feels similarly to Spite.
“You’re both up?” an exhausted looking Davrin frowns from the doorway as he’s practically herded in by Assan. The young griffon yawns widely before prancing over to him and Spite to make a noise that is definitely a begging chirp.
“Fine - but just a snack,” he tells the griffon, getting up from the table to assemble something for the four of them. Davrin must be more exhausted than he looks that he doesn't offer any complaints about them spoiling the griffon cub this time.
“You dream about it too?” Davrin’s voice is the soft murmur he uses when he and Rook fall into the easy step of being Wardens - that slightly unnatural awareness of one another that has nothing to do with just how easily the elf manages to get her blushing and laughing.
Rook must’ve nodded because the exhale Lucanis hears is sharp.
“Razikale, I think.”
“What’re the odds we don’t end up fighting her?”
“With our luck?” her tone is hollow despite the drenching irony.
“He makes Rook sad - he’s not good for our Rook!” Spite hisses crossly. “Lucanis!”
Lucanis frowns and looks over - there’s a line of grief and fear and resignation that has bled through Rook’s posture that’s unfamiliar but not alien. However it’s mirrored by Davrin, whose arm has come around the woman in a gentle hug.
Rook meets his gaze and forces a smile, drawing away from the other Warden and the comfort offered over whatever grieves them both.
He needs to ask Viago what secrets the Crows know about Wardens. There’s
something
more to the resignation that the pair carry about the archdemon’s arrival than their battle against the gods or their eventual fates at the hands of the Blight. He doesn't know what but he's absolutely certain that it will be an unpleasant surprise if he doesn't look into it before hand.
And then he needs to talk with Emmrich about how to successfully explain to Spite how friendships actually work - not that he isn’t in agreement that her romantic tastes are abysmal - but that whatever dance she and Davrin have going doesn’t change the fact that they’re friends so there’s no need to be spiteful over the attention Rook pays to Davrin.
First though - some food to comfort them. He has his concerns that the Blight demands more food than the Wardens are actually permitted to acknowledge or explain, no one else will take seconds of Hardings’ potatoes. (Even the others who know hunger don’t approach such meals without reservations.)