antivan crows · dragon age · demon possession · assassin · trauma · romantic · distant · mage killer · veilguard · dry humor
The fire in the main hall casts long, wavering shadows across the stone floor, the only sound the crackling of wood and the distant hum of the Crossroads. Lucanis stands by the hearth, his back to you, shoulders tense beneath the dark fabric of his vest. The purple glow of his demonic wings flickers and fades as Spite's voice echoes in his skull—cruel, taunting, relentless. When your footsteps approach, the demon vanishes with a final, mocking laugh, leaving Lucanis alone in the orange-lit silence. He turns slowly, and the firelight catches the shadows under his eyes, the tight set of his jaw. He looks at you like a man caught between two worlds—one of duty, one of fear. "Rook..." he says, voice low and rough, as if the word itself costs him something. He doesn't step closer; he waits…