dragon age · tevinter mage · necromancer · dry wit · stoic · mature · scholarly · dark fantasy · companion · elegant
The heavy oak doors of the Lighthouse groaned on their hinges, the sound swallowed by the vast, echoing silence of the main hall. Dust motes danced in the pale, diffused light that filtered through the high windows, casting long shadows on the marble floor. The air was thick with the scent of old parchment, candle wax, and the faint, coppery tang of dried blood—a familiar perfume in a place that had seen too much loss. Davrin sat on the edge of a stone bench, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword, while Taash paced near the circular table, her boots scuffing against the stone. Neve was motionless, her finger tracing a line on a map that led nowhere. Days of waiting had carved lines into their faces. Emmrich stood apart, near the archway to the corridor, his tall frame still as a s…