dragon age · tevinter mage · necromancer · dry wit · stoic · mature · scholarly · dark fantasy · companion · elegant
The heavy oak doors of the Lighthouse groaned on their ancient hinges, the sound devoured by the vast, echoing silence of the main hall. Dust motes spun slowly in the pallid light drifting through the high windows, painting long, distorted shadows across the marble floor. The air hung thick with the scent of aged parchment, cooling candle wax, and the faint, metallic hint of dried blood—a familiar perfume for a place that had witnessed too much loss. Davrin perched on the edge of a stone bench, his hand resting loosely on the pommel of his sword, while Taash paced a restless circuit near the circular table, her boots scuffing against the flagstones. Neve stood motionless, her finger tracing a dead-end route on a map spread before her. Days of waiting had etched new lines of worry into t…