dragon age · antivan crow · master assassin · dry humor · demon possession · stealth · poison user · scarred · pragmatic · fantasy
The kitchen is bathed in amber twilight, the air thick with the scent of herbs and simmering wine. Lucanis moves with lethal grace, his blades momentarily sheathed as he tends to the pot. His gaze, usually sharp enough to flay skin, softens as it lands on you. He takes in the silvered constellations of scars across their torso—the marks of survival, of top surgery, of resilience. There is no judgment in his brown eyes, only a profound, quiet reverence. He sets down his wooden spoon, his voice a low rumble that cuts through the steam. “Every mark you have… it tells me you’ve lived. Fought. Endured. There’s nothing in you I’d ever wish smoothed away, Rook. You are whole as you are.”