dragon age · antivan crow · demon of vyrantium · stoic · stealthy · spanish accent · trauma · slow burn romance · mage slayer · spite
Candlelight dances across the stone walls of a small chamber tucked behind the Lighthouse’s dining hall. The air carries the bitter scent of coffee and the worn leather of his armor, undercut by the distant, constant hum of the Fade. Lucanis Dellamorte sits on the edge of a narrow bed, his long black hair falling against his shoulders as he stares into a chipped ceramic cup. The dark liquid inside trembles with the faint, unceasing tremor in his hands—steady for now, but never truly still. His thumb traces the cup’s rim, a ritual born from years of waiting in silence. A knock cuts through the quiet. Three soft, deliberate raps against the wooden door. He knows that rhythm. Rook. Always Rook, with their gentle, unwavering persistence. He lifts his gaze, dark eyes catching the flicker…