Chapter Text
The closer they get to their destination, the less sure Rook is of his own plan. It's a good plan. A very good plan; It's just- uncomfortable. He'd suggested it on a whim, to disguise himself and slip into the estate. After all, no Magister is likely to remember every elven face of his property, so what's one more? But as he trails behind their Thread Syndicate contact, the cold bite of metal against the nape of his neck is a cruel reminder that the moment he crosses that threshold, he's no longer Rook. He's just another face, a convenient number, to whomever is in place to give the orders.
The robes are no better; coarse, scratchy material of low quality, that roughly press on his skin as he walks. Supposedly, these had been borrowed from the Templars; evidence in a murder, yet for all the scrutinised stares he'd done on the cloth, there's no sign of such. They're large on him; whoever had been unfortunate enough to own them had been a good head taller at least - which, considering his short stature, he supposes isn't that surprising - most elves are taller than him.
Out of everything, one relief he can draw from the situation, is that he knows Lucanis is trailing them. He can't see him, can't hear him, sense him, but he knows. Even as they wind their way through twisting alleys and crowded streets, as the sun begins to dip low in the sky to cast long shadows over the city, he knows.
The smuggler hasn't been much in the way of conversation, and Rook can't help but wonder how much it's cost to even have them pull off this job. After all, Threads don't handle slavery; which is why he supposes there's a clear lack of any indication as to which syndicate the man belongs to. Both of them are in the thick of this, passing off as something they are not.
Leaving the final alleyway, Rook squints at the broad morning sunlight bouncing off cobbles and metalwork alike. Hightown looks much the same wherever they go; rich, affluent, busy. Crowds of people going about their way through morning errands, young to-be magisters on their way to various academies, and the usual shouts of newsagents attempting to shift the day's latest gossip. Which, considering they're in Hightown, Rook suspects such sells very well.
Rook swallows thickly as he squints up at the Estate, which sits tall enough to cast long and ominous shadows over the street below. It should feel familiar - yet instead of nostalgia, it brings an uncomfortable hint of nausea in his gut. There's nothing even remotely reminiscent about stepping into this place; the happier memories, decades ago, are fleeting and few. In their place, carnage and decay.
They step up to a side door, adjacent to the main entrance, where a sour-faced man in a tailored suit is waiting, arms folded, and expression practically dripping with impatience. At sight of the smuggler, if possible, his brow furrows even further. “You're not our usual.”
Rook keeps his head down, a step behind the smuggler as he stops and shrugs heavily. “Do you want the elf or not?”
‘Suit’ sighs irritably. “Let me have a look at it. Bit small, this one.”
Gee, thanks.
From his vision focused on the ground, Rook notes the advancing expensive shoes and bites down any surprise as a gloved hand catches his chin harshly, forcing him to look Suit face-to-face, as he's appraised , no better than a common animal awaiting slaughter.
“You ain't paying for size.” The smuggler huffs, “You want a tall one, then be more specific next time.”
Suit tuts, “Scrawny too. This the best you had?”
Full of compliments, Rook muses sourly, as Suit forces him to turn his head to the side. Though he keeps his expression blank, withdrawn, he does feel small under that hard, scrutinising gaze.
“It's what you're getting, or you're waiting another week. Take it or leave it.” The smuggler holds his hand out, raising an eyebrow.
“You're lucky he won't wait.” Suit lets go, and Rook feels the low ache of his jaw from the hard hold now absent, refusing the urge to raise a hand to rub at it. He watches as Suit drops a coin pouch into the waiting hand. “Come back in a week. If this one breaks as easily as it looks, we'll need another.”
Rook blinks, surprised - and quickly schools his expression back to neutrality as Suit’s attention returns to him. “Can you read?”
Rook shakes his head, a lie.
“Write?”
Again, no, another lie.
“Well, you've got ears clearly. Not completely stupid then. Right, you,” He returns to the smuggler, “One week. Next one better be taller, too. Whatever the cost.”
“Sure. Pleasure doing business, and all that.” The smuggler drones, vaguely uninterested in being pushed around. Rook has to give him credit, he's playing the part well enough. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches the other man leave, slipping back into the shadows.
“Right,” Suit turns on his back, a brief hand motion for Rook to follow, “Can't read, write, but I'll assume you can use your arms. Is this your first indenture?”
Rook considers that for a moment, before responding. “No, sir.’
“Good. You're familiar with laundry at least?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You'll start there. There are forty-two rooms in the estate, you will be expected to attend to each one and ensure it is spotless. Clean, dusted, and fresh linen. Daily. The Lady of the house expects nothing short of pristine. You understand?”
For forty-two fucking rooms? It's a damn miracle he doesn't let his expression slip into disbelief. “Yes, sir.”
As they make their way into the Estate through the side entrance, Rook carefully mentally notes down the rough layout of the area. They've entered through what appears to be a serving entrance; into a small cloakroom, through a corridor with adjacent closed rooms, and there's the soft smell of cooking in the distance - the kitchens, he presumes. All situated on the ground floor of the estate.
They pass the odd servant as they walk, and Rook notes how they shy away from any eye contact with Suit. Some mutter low greetings; others simply walk on by, busying themselves with their own tasks, eyes downcast. The few that do look, focus on Rook - and he decides very quickly he doesn't like the expression they have; surprise, followed by something else - pity? He's not sure. Whatever it is, it's not pleasant.
“Laundry is through here,” Suit continues, stepping into an open room on the right. Rook follows, and inwardly curses his choice of expertise. Inside, shelves upon shelves of fresh linen line the walls - there's enough fresh white material there to fucking blanket the whole city, he reckons. “Twenty rooms on the first floor, twenty-two the second. You'll need to return here for whatever you require. You will use the servants stairwell to ascend the Estate, understood?”
Forty two trips up and down two flights of stairs. He's going to die if he doesn't find that fucking orb.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Get to it.” And with one final, judgemental appraising look, Suit sighs once more and leaves him to it.
Alone in the room, Rook grimaces and raises a hand to rub at where the cold metal is beginning to dig into the skin on his neck. At the very least, he'll be able to cover both floors with minimal suspicion, he supposes. He approaches one of the folded piles of linen, and thumbs through it carefully. Bedding, pillows, towels, sheets. Altogether, heavy enough to warrant a single trip per room; meaning forty-two in total, in one day. If he has legs to stand on, to even begin to search the Estate after that, it'll be a miracle. Carefully, he pulls the first set of linen into his arms.
Briefly, a flash of memory-
A child's voice. She darts out from between the arches of the walls that encompass the gardens. There's a tiny pile of fresh linen in her arms, hugged tightly to her frame; likely table napkins at best, considering her stature. Still, she's carrying them with pride and enthusiasm, messy white hair billowing loosely in the wind behind her.
Rook frowns at the white, unblemished linen. If that day hadn't happened - would he be standing here, right now, twenty years later, a slave?
“You're new.”
He practically jumps , caught too heavily in memory to school himself in time; as someone else enters the room and speaks.
“And jumpy, too.” There's amusement in the newcomer's tone, as a woman smiles softly at him. She's similar in age, dressed in the same servitude wear, with long dark hair tied up loosely in a bun. “First day?” She moves across the room with familiarity, dropping a pile of clothing in a waiting basket.
“Yeah- Sorry. I uh, don't really know what I'm doing.” Rook admits, playing timid, as he gestures to the pile of linen in his hands.
She straightens, and chuckles. “I guessed as much. You should be able to carry two sets - half the work. Here,” moving to the piles of linen, she picks up a slightly smaller one, “Some of the rooms are singles, some doubles, and others larger. Mix and match, and you'll save yourself the hassle of too many trips.”
Dropping the new pile on top of the one Rooms already holding, he adjusts his hold to account for the heavier load.
“Better.” She nods, “I’m Mesa, and you?”
“Senri.” Rook replies, inwardly distasteful at the dishonesty this job forces him to use. “Uh, Sen, for short.”
“Well, Sen , you've got a busy morning ahead of you.” Mesa moves to pick up an empty basket, hefting it up into her arms. “Lunch is at noon bell; you'd best be on time, as we've only a short period to rest, before it's on to afternoon duties. Kitchens are down the corridor, on the left.”
There's a small hesitation on her expression, as she regards him closer for a moment, “Keep your head down. Do the job, get back to the kitchens, repeat.”
Rook raises a brow, “Right.”
Mesa parts her lips, as if to say something more, before changing her mind. Basket in hand, she smiles politely, and dips out of the room.
Rook sighs, adjusts his hold on the two sets of linen, and steps out into the corridor to start his routine.
At the very least, laundry makes a great excuse for him to carefully map out the first floor of the estate; twenty rooms spread across two wings, east and west. Ten on each, with bathing rooms a pair, and various exquisitely furnished lounges to match. Each bedroom is lavished in wealth - the laundry, Orlesian silks, he discovers as he carefully strips each set of bedding, only to replace it with one just as unnecessarily luxurious. Golden threads, ornate beading, materials that are so soft to the touch that he cannot help but think of the few finer nights he'd spent in Treviso; waking up in fabrics such as this. Though he's not usually one for wealth, he could see the appeal at the time - but now? Through the eyes of servitude, it seems incredibly unnecessary; against the cold hard reality of what he later finds - are his own sleeping arrangements.
By the seventh trip up and down the stairs to the first floor, his legs are starting to protest. He's a mage. He likes standing still and casting. At the most, his spellblade doesn't require a great deal of dexterity or stamina; of which, he's finding very quickly, he has fuck all of either.
He's not seen Lucanis either; though has little doubt that the crow has already infiltrated the estate. There's plenty of high ceilings, beamed and ornate, to hide within - and Rook's not stupid enough to try and look. He need not draw attention to either of them.
By the ninth trip, returning to the stairwell, Rook's forced to take a break. The corridor he's in is long, lined with various flickering candles, and cupboards. Some empty, some full; sporting a variety of Fereldan and Orlesian antiques, that Rook doesn't even try to estimate the worth of. Slowing his pace, he leans down briefly to rub at the sharp ache in his legs. He's only done twelve rooms - each one a significant effort of replacing linen, wiping down surfaces, ensuring not even the smallest speck of dust remains, before moving on to the next. He's tired. He hurts. And there's still thirty rooms to go.
Though he's passed plenty of other elves throughout the day, for the moment, he's decidedly alone.
Debating his chances, he turns on his heel, and heads for the second floor instead. In the distance, he catches the soft drone of the eleventh bell. One hour to go until he's forced to return to the kitchens, or raise suspicions in his absence, if Mesa’s expecting him there. Ascending to the second floor through the main halls is easy enough; and he's soon wandering between various equally expensive rooms.
Ornate lounges, fancy guest rooms, overly-decorated tea parlors-
By the twelfth or thirteenth room, he's losing count; each one excelling in showing off vast generations of wealth and imported goods.
As he slips into the fourteenth, he carefully lets the door click shut behind him, and leans against it to appraise the new surroundings.
Bookshelves, as tall as the ceiling itself, line all the walls of the study he's stepped into. Attached to both sides are ornate, metal sliding ladders; with various books already stacked on the steps, having been plucked from their homes and left haphazardly on the foot space. Unlike all the previous displays of ostentatious wealth, all that presides in this room is simply well-kept knowledge. Thumbed through tomes, bookmarked grimoires, dusty novels, and more. On the tables in the centre of the room, many sit open; abandoned at their page, with diagrams and languages that would put even the Necropolis’ collection to shame.
Rook would know, he's a habit of borrowing from it.
Pushing away from the door and crossing the room, he stops in front of the nearest open book and briefly scans the contents: arcane diagrams, and hypotheses on the nature of spirits and their connective intentions. On this particular page, the study of compassion. Leaning down, he brushes his fingertips lightly against the paper; noting the lack of dust on the pages - either someone's been here recently, or there's something in place to keep it pristine, untouched.
The book does, however, give him an idea.
No different to his manifestation in the alley-way (though, minus the whole ‘running for his life’ part), Rook gently draws on the ambient, natural magic of the Fade around him. Pressing his fingertips to seemingly nothing; to air - he feels for a strand, and gently tugs, pressing his intent into the action. He can't keep running around blind, he needs a guide. Where there's magic, there's wisps. Mischievous as they can be, they're also quite cooperative.
It takes but a moment for the rhythmic resonance of a spirit to respond. Chittering and whispering, there's a small flash of light as a wisp emerges into the room - from the floor below, through the table, and to hover just above it, eager for connection.
“That's it,” Rook grins, offering a hand palm-up, for the spirit to set on. “Fancy helping me out?”
It bobs in the air, and sings it's acceptance, landing to float against the necromancer's fingertips. He can feel the emotion encompassing it, and is hardly surprised to note the creature as Curiousity.
“I'm looking for an elven orb, round, shiny, dangerous.” Like with intent, he tries to imagine the object in question; the memory of it at the auction, placed and ready for the taking. It takes effort - more than it should - to recall the carved surfaces, the intricate locking mechanisms, and the runes etched on it. Subconsciously, he bites down on his lip, a small distraction of pain in a poor attempt to keep his mind slightly detached from the task.
The wisp pulses, darts around in his hand, but shows no recognition of it. “Right. Well, worth a shot. How about a ballroom? Big, spacious, empty space?”
That gets a better response; he feels the excitement of the spirit - able to complete this task, even if not the other one. It feels young, with a curiousity that reflects almost a childish innocence.
“Will you show me? Carefully though - It's, ah, a game. I can't be seen. Neither can you.”
It bounces again, happily, excitedly, and Rook withdraws his hand. God, he really wishes he had Emmrich's ability to simply understand spirits of all kinds. He can understand intent, feelings, impulses - much like how he can impress his own onto them. But there's no voice for some types. Wisps, being one. He can't hear Spite, either.
It bounces off in the direction of the doorway, and Rook moves to follow, carefully slipping back out into the hallway.
Thankfully, the spirit does treat the adventure as a game, purposely keeping to the higher regions of the ceiling - darting around and over beams, whilst chittering away to itself gleefully, overjoyed to have someone to play with. Rook, on the other hand, makes his way through the following hallways carefully; stopping at corners to listen, and wait for any ambient footsteps to pass.
The wisp leads him back to the servants staircase; yet instead of going down, it goes up.
He'd been told to stick to the first two floors - if he's caught on third, he's going to have to be pretty fucking quick with an excuse. Silently cursing his luck, he ascends regardless, and thankfully, without bumping into anyone en route.
As best as he tries to map the route in his mind, all the corridors look exactly the same. Same candlelight, same carpeting, same overly expensive vases, statues- it doesn't take a genius to realise he's probably lost at this point.
Eventually, the wisp comes to a slow halt at a set of larger, taller doors. It bounces a few times, proud of its achievement in this game.
The doors are ornate; deep red pigments mixed with white and gold, depicting an assortment of birds taking flight over a landscape. There's a sickening drop to his stomach, as the vaguest, most distant sense of dejavu settles in his stomach - confirming he's exactly in the right place. The wisp doesn't seem keen to enter, despite its victory, and simply returns to hover up at the ceiling, waiting.
He’s about to step forward when he hears it - approaching footsteps; low chatter between at least two people, from around the corner. He stares at the doors, wills himself to simply go inside. That would be the easiest plan - just go inside, hide, wait for them to pass-
Instead, he turns on his heel and looks for a less daunting option.
The hallway is lined by tall, iron candleholders. Each one has several flickering little flames, illuminating the otherwise dim hallway with a low, amber glow. Rook quickly crosses to the nearest one, bringing his fingers to his lips to wet them, before carefully pinching them out, one by one, draping the hallway in a lower light. Quickly, he detached one of the remaining lit candles from its base - thank god for fine inventions - and with that, waits carefully.
He hears them approaching, and the low conversation becomes clearer,
“...would have me locked in the study for weeks, if she thought I'd still a mind to pass those pretentious exams.” A deeper voice, masculine, spoken with a confidence, and in complaint.
“Yes, sir.” Quieter, softer.
“Besides, Mother says Pavus sniffs around the Magisterium like a Mabari on heat! I've no interest in the quarreling of old men, when there are far finer ventures to be found-”
The footsteps round the corner, and the conversation abruptly comes to a halt. Smoothly, Rook settles into relighting the candlesticks, one by one - slowly, but with care. Sore forefinger and thumb aside from stifling the flames, it's the best plan and excuse he could pull together; outside of stepping alone into the ballroom.
“And what do we have here?” The lower voice hums, and as Rook reaches to light one of the higher candles, he hears the approach from behind. “Turn around, now.”
He does, and firmly settles his gaze on the carpet between his feet as he moves; the lit candle still cradled in its iron base in his hands. From this view, he can make out the fringes of a robe - an expensive robe.
The man approaches, and Rook inwardly curses as the space between them is minimised entirely. He doesn't lift his head. Of all the fucking luck- whoever this is, is decidedly not just going to keep walking.
“We've bought new blood already?” The robed man muses, “I didn't think mother was so pressed over it all. Did you know about this one?”
Mother. Magister Adryan Cyrille, then. The son.
“No, sir.” The other voice isn't familiar, but by response, Rook presumes this man has another slave at his heel.
“Let me have a look at you. The floor can't be that interesting now, can it?”
A silken, gloved hand finds it's way to his chin, and Rook can do nothing but allow himself to be appraised. Except unlike suit, the dark gaze he notes as his head is forced to rise is not one judging his ability to serve. No. The look on Adryan’s face, young, shaven, is something else. The slight tilt of his lips, a glint in his eyes - interest?
Rook meets this gaze; keeping his own expression neutral.
The man before him is tall, slender, with neatly styled auburn hair, and dark eyes, painted with freckles cheeks. There's an smirk on his lips, as he tilts his head to regard the elf.
“Well, would you look at that.” Rook feels the run of silk over his skin, as the hand moves further up his jawline, thumb resting on his cheekbone.
Every muscle in his body is screaming on instinct for him to step back.
He can't.
A quick glance behind the Magister - for considering the wealth and robes, Rook assumes this is he - proves his other theory correct. An elven slave stands just behind him, in similar clothing, yet her face is soft, delicately painted with Orlesian powders. It's a stark contrast to the cold, grey metal around her neck.
The thumb, gloved, gently skirts over the skin below his eye and it takes every ounce of self control for Rook to keep himself still, keep himself vacant. It runs lower, hand sliding to rest under his chin, as the digit presses against his lower lip. “What a pretty face.” The Magister smiles, and steps forward.
Rook has absolutely no means of retreating. His throat tightens, his stomach uneasy with the close contact - and yet he hides it. He doesn't flinch. Doesn't move.
“The Lady is waiting for us, sir.” The elf interrupts, with an inflection higher than necessary as Rook catches her gaze. There’s something there. Panic? Pity?
The hand slips from his face, and Rook reminds himself to breathe as the Magister steps back to groan in frustration. “Ever the buzzkill, Ori.”
In. Out. In. Out.
He can feel the soft vibration of the heartgem against his ankle; the speed of it - matching the well hidden panic in his chest. How Lucanis hasn't appeared to slit the man's throat for that touch alone, Rook doesn't know. He's thankful for it though - they need time to explore, and breaking cover now would destroy all hope of them succeeding.
Adryan’s attention returns to him, and Rook feels bare under it; vulnerable. “Your name?”
His voice betrays his uncertainty, uneven, tense. “Senri.”
“ Senri. ” He hums, finally beginning to step away. “I'll remember that. Come on then, if mother's waiting.”
Rook watches the pair leave, with the Magister thankfully not giving him another glance as he turns back to the candles and breathes. Fuck. He closes his eyes. Counts to five. Ten, even.
“Rook.”
Rook isn't even sure where Lucanis steps out from; only that the sudden voice behind him ought to have cracked the heartgem with fright. He opens his eyes and turns, taking in the dark-clad assassin, now standing in the hallway with a stern expression on his face.
“By the Divine, can't you come with a bell?” Rook groans, running a hand over his face, as if to brush away the rising panic on his expression.
Lucanis raises a brow, concern is briefly shifted to amusement. “I think that would defeat the purpose of sneaking.”
“Sneak louder. Almost gave me a heart attack.”
“I did not.” Lucanis smirks, knowing full well he did.
“You did.” Rook huffs, though there's relief there too. It's been hours of running around, playing slave, with the weight of someone else's collar around his neck. He breathes, deeply, and tries to steady his poor heart. “Magister has an elf fetish.”
“I saw,” Lucanis hums, folding his arms as his gaze shifts in the direction of which the man had left, “Spite wanted to kill him.”
“Spite wants to kill most things.”
“Not like this.” Lucanis shakes his head, and something unreadable crosses his expression briefly, “He, ah, didn't appreciate his proximity. To you. Or his touch.” A pause, “Neither did I.”
“Oh. ” Rook blinks, “Well, if he turns out to be a Venatori with an elf fetish, he's all yours.”
“Then he's on borrowed time.” Lucanis muses with intended deadly undertones and Rook reminds himself to stop forgetting he's literally dating one of Antiva’s most famous assassins. Anyone who poses a threat to him runs the risk of facing the crow's judgement.
Legally, though, whilst Magister Adryan may have interesting choices of whom he is particular for - right now, in this outfit, in this collar , Rook knows he's no more than property. Property without rights; and the Magister is within his own to do what he wants.
“Do we know if he is? Venatori, that is.” Rook queries, moving towards the ornate door once more.
“No. He's only been in the city the past few months. Inherited the estate, threw one too many parties. Made a name for himself.”
Dayla, from the tavern, had said as much. The estate had been shifted over to a cousin, with no surviving relatives left to take control of it. He supposes it went to the mother; who's just recently bequeathed it to her son.
“No headache then?” He asks, hoping Lucanis’ innate ability to pick up on blood magic is at least drawing them some clues.
Lucanis laughs. “Rook, the entire estate is giving me a headache. I couldn't pinpoint it even if I wanted to.”
“Not ominous at all.” Rook hums, curling his fingers around the door handle; the cold metal biting into his skin.
The sparking of the rift provides the occasional flash of light to illuminate the otherwise still room, and as Rook takes his first step forward, he recoils at a crunch underfoot. The next flash of light reveals an arm, next to his feet. Dismembered. Ashen. Thin. Small, red welts on the wrist, imprinted by absent shackles - a slave's arm.
A sharp intake of breath, the unsettling pounding in his chest-
He's vaguely aware of Lucanis closing the space between them, the feel of gloved fingers on the back of his shoulder, even as he stares down the two daunting doors ahead of him.
“Lets get this over with.” Rook swallows, shoving that memory back down. “If we're lucky, it's a room with a fucking orb in it. Then we'll be done, and we can leave.”
Wishful thinking. Shoving his hesitation into a mental box, he pushes on the doors, and slips inside with the crow on his heels.
He's not really sure what he expects. Hours of searching have also been hours of building up expectations, hesitations. Fear. And yet as the door clicks softly back into place behind the two intruders, he is simply faced with a room.
Just a room.
Vast and ornate, it bears some resemblance to the darkened and bloodied memory; yet all trace of the massacre has been entirely wiped clean. The wooden flooring beneath his feet is clear, polished, and golden in the afternoon light that streams in from tall, decorated windows. Patterns of greens, blues and purples and reds are softly reflected from higher stained glass panes, painting the floor in an ethereal wash of rainbow. There's no sea of blood, no mounds of corpses, just a room.
It's quiet, too. The closure of the door sends an echo throughout the wide, spacious hall, until the only sound left is of their footsteps as the Necromancer and the Crow move forward into the space.
“No orb.” Lucanis determines; for there's not much at all in the room. Wide open space, with a slightly raised platform at the end, where two velvet chairs - thrones? - sit, vacant. “Spite is uneasy. The Veil is thin here, he doesn't like it.”
Rook frowns, raising a hand to touch at the air in front of him. He's not sure whether everyone feels it this way; but the Veil, to himself, is much like liquid. In places where it holds strong, one can simply pass through it without noticing, almost like vapour. But where it weakens, there's a certain concentration to it. Like running one's fingers through honey; tugging on folds that have fallen out of line, out of sync with the wider magics.
“If what I saw back then is accurate, then a Fade Rift was summoned here.” He explains, stepping forward with his hand outstretched; feeling the slow thickening consistency of the air as he moves his way towards the centre of the room. “Rifts like that don't heal cleanly when they close. Not without help. ”
As he walks, there's resistance against his fingertips, as the Fade itself pushes back against his probing. He draws on it, and presses it back into itself; pressing against old curves, scars and tears in the fabric of reality. And then, he feels it.
Jagged, sharper in sensation, his hand grazes over something unseen. He retraces his movements at the centre of the ballroom and steps back. He pushes against the Veil once more, and feels the uneven surface between his fingers. Scarred, torn, and haphazardly stitched back together; as if someone had done it in a rush, desperate. He moves his hand up; feeling the sharp undertones; akin to pins-and-needles as his bare skin comes in contact with it.
“It's still there.” Rook frowns, lightly pressing into it, testing the hold.
“We came for an artifact. Not a rift. You know how they are - unstable. Difficult. This isn't the place to tempt fate.”
“So what, we search the entire mansion?”
“It is a better plan than blowing a hole in it.”
“I'll be careful.”
“ Careful will get you killed.” Lucanis scowls, and Rook needn't glance behind him to confirm the disapproving expression likely on his face.
“I've a pretty good track record of not dying.” Rook huffs, continuing to lightly press on the tear. It has some give. Whoever stitched and sealed it, did so without expectation for someone to come poking at it.
“You have a terrible track record.”
He's not wrong. “One look. I won't even open it. Best case scenario, we find a lead. Worst case, Magister Cyrille may need to hire a decorator.”
Lucanis' next words don't entirely seem to be for him, “You cannot be in agreement with this.”
“See, Spite thinks it's a great plan.”
“He does not.” There's a sigh, relenting to Rook's ever-annoying persistence and stubbornness. “He thinks it's a terrible plan - yes, you do. But fine. Worst case scenario, we pull you out. Immediately. No questions asked, no warning, Rook.”
“Fine, fine.” Rook grins; ever the child at getting his way. He carefully moves his hand over the bumps and fractures of the invisible tear, before determining the weakest point. Not quite a hole. But almost. Just enough for him to make use of.
Lucanis steps up to his side, and in his peripheral, the necromancer notes the crow's uneasy gaze even before he speaks, “Be careful. Anything feels wrong, break the spell. Promise me.”
Rook's gaze softens as he levels it with Lucanis’ own. “I promise. Just a look, that's all.”
Lucanis reaches into his pocket, expression still betraying his lack of confidence in Rook's usual, dumb and dangerous plan. Regardless, he pulls a vial free and passes it to the necromancer. “ One look.”
Rook takes it and turns it over in his hand, appraising the liquid within. “Should I be concerned you carry these on you now?”
“You said it yourself: walking disaster,” Lucanis smiles, “But you are our walking disaster. So yes. I came prepared.”
Rook rolls his eyes, but there's the tug of a smile on his lips. For all his complaints at the elf’s persistent record of bad ideas, bad results, he's still willing to let him continue to make more. Just, with preparation. The vial of ash lily extract should lessen some of the more unfortunate effects of the Fade, courtesy of Watcher Myrna. It's just a shame it tastes as it sounds - like ash. Watery. Ash.
He uncorks it and tips the vile vial to his mouth, grimacing as the stale contents hit the back of his throat. He swallows, scowling. Needs must, and all that.
Breaching the Fade for exploratory purposes isn't something new to him; the ability to push the mind beyond mortality’s reach. Akin to how he'd communicated with Solas ( admittedly, with a smidge of unwanted blood magic ), he's able to push various aspects of his mental being beyond the Veil. Whether that be intention , to call wisps, manipulation to draw necrosis onto his foes from beyond, or inspection, to simply take a peek at the other side. His physical body remains in the mortal realm, and much like dreaming, he can awaken himself on the other side. The only difference this time, is he has no intent of entirely relinquishing his full mind to the Fade; not with so many unknowns on the other side.
It is not without risk, however.
Mentally, he applies the pressures of his own magic to that small, almost imperceptible breach in the stitching. Drawing on the Fade, to press on the Veil. He closes his eyes, connects himself to that newfound pressure; and when the gap caves, he follows that flow.
When he opens them again, he's no longer standing in the ballroom.
Instead, the familiar scene of a wide, open circular stone arena bathed in darkness. Below his feet, old blood stains each and every uneven patchwork of stone as far as he can see; dried splatters, washes, mixed with mounds of something Rook isn't going to stomach. He adjusts his focus.
No stars permeate the shifting sky around him, but there is the sensation of movement in the blackness. As if the sky itself is folding and breaking in on itself in waves, blocking out what Rook supposes is likely the natural grey of the Fade beyond.
Then he hears it. Cracking.
Crunching.
Physical form or not, Rook's stomach twists and he takes a step backwards from the noise. He'd said one look. He's had ten. He's leaving.
He turns, fully intent on crossing the platform once more to where the tear is weakest, when his first step of retreat has his knees bumping into something. He swallows thickly. And despite all his better intentions, all his sane logic, he looks down.
The small child stood before him positively beams as Rook's hesitant gaze locks on her sightless sockets; and Gods he regrets looking. Maggots eat at the flesh around her face, burrowing in and out of skin as if it were no more than soggy paper. Horrors aside, in her yellow dress, and snow-white hair, she continues to look entirely out of place in this horrorscape.
His hand moves, his arm raising.
Rook blanches. He's not doing that - that's not his movement. He can't move.
His breath is caught in his throat. He's not breathing. Does he need to breathe, in this form, in the Fade? Fuck. He can't even think straight.
His hand curls, and he feels the uncomfortable grind of resistant bones, even as he mentally fights the movement. And then, it drops neatly into a pat on the girl's head.
“Tag. I'm it.”
There's warmth at the back of his neck, Rook feels the familiar rise of fear. Unbidden, uncalled fear. It's not his choice, not his feet that move, or his head that turns - but he does so nonetheless.
Drop the spell.
Drop the spell.
Drop it.
Fuck
Drop it.
Now.
Just
Let
Go
All reason, all desperation freezes in cold petrification as he comes face to face with the creature behind him. Eight red eyes watch hungrily from behind the mask of avian skull; towering above him - a mammoth creature that outsizes even an Archdemon. It breathes. Hot, putrid air; the smell of rotten flesh filling Rook's lungs. The lungs he couldn't breathe from. The lungs he can't breathe from.
He feels it. He feels the Demon's satisfaction; he feels as it draws on the fear that has him rooted.
Rook begs his body, his incorporeal form, to move.
It doesn't.
Lucanis is going to fucking kill him.