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“You know you can put the axe down.”

Rook sits bolt upright on the bedroll, clinging to the shaft of her axe tightly, as though her life depends on it. “I think I saw something before, from the corner of my eye, it may have had eight legs?”

All of a sudden, there's an eerie shriek. The sound reverberates off the cave walls, seemingly coming from every direction. A shiver runs down the Warden's spine, she is now hyper-aware of every slight noise or shadow, as it all feels menacingly reduplicated in their enclosed surrounds. Heart pounding in her ears, she springs to her feet, braced to strike at formless entities.

Lace sighs, wondering if this is the same woman who, without a second thought, will plunge head first into a nest of darkspawn. “Rook, that was an owl.”

Axe still readied, Rook's body remains rigid, as crazed eyes stalk every flickering shadow cast by their campfire.

“Maker, give me strength.” Lace stomps over to the cavern entrance, “see, no spiders.” She moves around the space, repeating the same several times in a frustrated mantra. Finally, she lifts the lid off a pot of turnip stew, currently bubbling away for tonight's dinner. “Oh wow, there's a shocking revelation, there are no spiders in here either!”

Much to Lace's annoyance, Rook had it in her mind that Southern Thedas was one big spider-party; with conga-lines of the eight-legged creatures crawling out of every nook and cranny, ready to pounce on unsuspecting faces. Unhelpfully, Antoine and Evka had regaled with such stories, including one about giant spiders in a latrine, and my city-girl laps up their every word, Lace despairs.

“Can we sleep outside? I think I'd feel better out there.” Rook manages to peel herself away from the cave walls, her puppy-dog eyes pleading with Lace.

“No. It's raining cats and dogs out there, and the wind is picking up too!”

Lace studies Rook's reaction. The dwarf's irked disposition softens at the sight of the taller woman's jittery state. Truthfully, although frustrating, it was oddly cute to see the muscled Warden blanch at phantom arachnids. “You know, part of my Titan power means that I can communicate with the stone. This cave is telling me that there are no spiders to be found here.” Lace knew that was a blatant lie, but she really needed her girlfriend to relax, lest she forget to breathe or burst a blood vessel.

“Really?” Rook performs one last sweep of the room, her axe all-the-while held aloft. “Okay then...”

Lace is struggling to suppress a laugh, she shouldn't make light of Rook's fear, but she found it adorable all the same. “Come here you boob.” Seated on the bedroll, she stretches her arm out, inviting Rook into an embrace. Rook plops herself next to the scout, her large frame leaning awkwardly against a welcomed shoulder. Ever since being able to touch again, Lace had come to learn that Rook was an eager cuddler. Probably a product of all those years without, Lace ponders sadly.

Rook yawns. Lace notices her eyelids droop as she teeters on the edge of slumber. “Enjoy your hike today? I hope it wasn't too much?” Lace questions.

“Mm, I hike with the Wardens you know, but keeping up with you is like trying to chase a bolt of lightening. You're just full of beans, and you fart like it too... Yeouch!” Lace elbows Rook's side, causing her to yelp, more in surprise than pain. “May as well get comfy.” Rook lies down on her back, her face gazing up at freckled loveliness as she rests her head on Lace's lap. “I've really enjoyed today. Who knew grass could be so...”

“Green?” Lace laughs, as she combs her fingers through raven locks.

“So many shades of green too! Before the last few months, I hadn't really ventured much outside the Anderfels. Now look at this brothel-born gal. She's jumping through mysterious elven mirrors, seeing the world with her sassy stoner girlfriend.” Lace snorts, that's really not the correct usage of that word, she thinks.

“Aww, well, I'm glad you had fun. Are you ready for...” The magnitude of tomorrow suddenly dawns on Lace, she frowns slightly as her hand freezes above Rook's hairline.

“Lace?” Rook asks, concerned by the abrupt change in mood. “We're meeting your mum right? Isn't that what you wanted?” Rook reaches up to caress the redhead's cheek, startling the dwarf in the process.

“Oh, yeah, sorry. It's just that it may be a little awkward, you see, she doesn't know you're...”

“Aha. She doesn't know that I'm not a dwarf, does she?”

Lace erupts into a chuckle. “She'd be surprised if you weren't human! I meant to say, she doesn't know that you're... a... woman...”The last word trails off, Lace's guilt manifesting as she refuses to meet the Warden's gaze.

Rook's mouth forms a perfect 'o,' as she wonders just what exactly Mrs Harding does know about her. “Seriously, people care about that kind of thing?” Rook supposes that the circles she gravitates towards have always been the open-minded sort. Plus, even though she grew up in possibly the most religiously conservative city in the entirety of Thedas, she cannot recall anything in their faith that forbids a woman to lie with another.

“She's only seen me with boys... I think she has these preconceived notions regarding what my life would be like. She named me Lace, expecting me to be all delicate and demure. Now look at me, covered in mud in a dank cave with a mad Ander woman.”

“It's a good look,” Rook teases.

“I think, in her mind, she expects me to eventually settle down... With a man. She probably romanticises about her daughter in a cottage not far from here, awaiting her darling lumberjack husband to return home to her and their ten bright-eyed, redheaded children.”

Rook furrows her brow. “I thought human-dwarf children were exceptionally rare.”

Lace lightly bats her on the head. “Don't be such a pedant Rook, you get my point.” Lace finally manages to meet Rook's gaze, her thumb tenderly traces the outline of Rook's jawline. She wants Rook to know that she is, and will always be, wanted. “I don't think me being with a woman has ever entered into her imagination... I love her to bits, but I remember the days when she'd try to play matchmaker, singing my praises to random tall, strapping Ferelden men. She's gotten better about not doing that, but still...”

Rook playfully curls one of her biceps. “You're with someone tall and strapping. They also just happen to have stunning tits.”

Lace splutters into a giggle. “I'll need your head to fit through the cave entrance, otherwise you'll be stuck in here alone with your ego... Err, but Eris...” Lace's gaze shifts again, this time focusing on the ceiling as she chooses her words carefully. “She may say things, but just so you know, it's not from a place of malice. She just hasn't seen much of the world beyond Redcliffe and Lothering."

It took me years to leave Hossberg, Rook thinks, uncertain how a lack of travel factors into anything.

“Anyway, this is a matter for tomorrow...” Rook grabs Lace by her collar, pulling her down so that their lips meet. They share a passionate kiss, thoroughly enjoying the taste of each other. “For now, I have you all to myself, and I don't really fancy thinking of your mum as we do the ham and jam slam.”

“Such a way with words,” Lace snorts.

They spend the evening exploring each other's bodies. The only sounds echoing around the cavern were their lewd moans and groans.

As Rook awakens in the middle of the night, with her arm draped around Lace, she thinks - it's just my beloved's mum, it won't be that bad... surely?

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By the time they leave for the outskirts of Redcliffe, the storm has cleared, giving way to brilliant sunshine and clear blue skies. Rook is in awe of their surrounds, as they wind their way past sumptuous green glades, lush pine forests and crystal clear streams. Everything feels so alive compared the Anderfels. Admittedly, the colours aren't quite as vivid as they are in Arlathan, but Rook is grateful for the distinct lack of 'magical weirdness,' as she enjoys the relative mundanity of their journey. As usual, Lace is storming ahead, navigating varying terrain types with a familiarity only a seasoned scout could possess.

Rook pulls out her lute, strumming a few notes as she lets her mind wander.

Lace slows down, turning to Rook with a grin stretching from ear-to-ear; she always loves to listen to Rook play. “I can't believe you brought that thing with you, not that I'm complaining.”

“Eh, I thought about going AWOL from the Wardens, to become a travelling minstrel.” Rook jokes. “Hmm, I know a good one...”

Rook starts to hum as she breaks out into song:

“Scout Lace Harding
Swift and cunning
Her arrows cut you
Down to size”

“Rook, where did you hear that!? I paid Maryden good money to stop singing that. Apparently, she must have broke our deal if it made its way to the Anderfels!”

Rook merely gives her a sly grin as she continues her song:

“Scout Lace Harding
Taut bow taunting
Life so light
Will flee your eyes”

Lace is now hopping up and down, trying to relieve the teasing Warden of her instrument. Rook however keeps drawing her lute higher and higher, just out of reach of freckled hands. Uncharacteristically for Lace, in one last attempt to jump for it, she loses her balance, twisting her foot and landing awkwardly on her ankle.

Rook throws her lute down, hurrying to her side. “Shit, Lace, are you okay?”

The dwarf nods through gritted teeth. “Think I may have twisted my ankle.” Removing Lace's boot, Rook spots the bruising as the ligaments begin the swell.

“Sorry, this was my fault. I'll carry you on my back for the rest of the journey.”

Lace manages a faint smile. “The last time I rode on your back like this, it ended with me deflowering you. I don't think you have any more innocence to take.”

Rook scoffs in jest. “How poetic. I can assure you though, they'll always be a bud to attend to in that greenhouse of yours.”

They continue their journey along, Rook seemingly unburdened by the additional weight she is carrying, with the dwarf enjoying a higher vantage point. They eventually reach the edge of the farmstead bordering Mrs Harding's cottage.

Rook's heart swells as she spots it. I love it! In the field, with its head perched over the granite wall, stands a chestnut coloured pony with a shimmering flaxen mane.

“My ma's pony, Honeysuckle,” Lace comments.

As Rook sprints over to it, Lace has to hold on for dear life to avoid being unseated from her own mount.

“Hi there, beau-ti-ful!” Rook gushes over the pony, who repays her in kind by licking her hand. Rook then leans in, making kissy faces at the animal.

“Ew Rook, you better not let her lick your face.”

“Just sharing the love. I let you lick me all the time.”

Lace chuckles, kicking Rook with the side of her foot. “Giddy-up, we're nearly at my ma's.”

They press on, it doesn't take long for the pair to spot the charming, timber framed, thatched roof cottage. It's like something out of a fairytale, Rook thinks.

“There she is! Ma!!!”

Rook spots the figure of Rosemary Harding, her stout form hunched over a rose bush she is tending. At the sound of Lace's voice, she rises to meet them. It shouldn't surprise her, but Rook is struck by how similar to Lace she looks. Her complexion is rosier, with a few grey streaks dotted around her loose plaited ponytail, but the resemblance is uncanny. She could easily be a version of Lace thirty or so years from now.

The older dwarf removes her gardening gloves and sun hat as she meets them half way along the garden path.

Rook lowers her back, allowing Lace to perform a graceful dismount onto the gravel below. Lace winces slightly, as she puts pressure on her swollen ankle.

“Lace dear! Come here my darling!” The two embrace, and from the way Rosemary's face lights up, it is clear that she holds unmatched maternal bond with her daughter. She pulls back to inspect Lace, rubbing at clods of dirt caked on the scout's bearskin jacket. “You've been playing in mud since you came up to my knee, I see absolutely nothing has changed!” The corners of her eyes crinkle, as she sports a toothy grin that practically acts at its own light source. The rosy-cheeked matriarch exudes warmth, like the dwarven embodiment of an inviting log burner on a crisp winter's day, Rook muses.

Rosemary's face grows concerned, as she bends down to inspect her daughter's foot. “You were limping a bit earlier, did you hurt yourself?”

Lace scratches the back of her neck. “Just a mild sprain to the ankle. Happened when Rook and I were fooling around...” A terrible way to phrase it, Rook thinks.

With a sly expression, Rosemary lightly prods Lace with her elbow. “Ahh the pitfalls of young love.”

Lace blushes furiously. “Oh no, not like tha-”

“Where is he anyway?” Rosemary cuts in, “I see you've brought a friend, nice to meet you by the way!” Rosemary notices Rook standing there, shuffling from foot to foot. Before Rook can reply, Rosemary continues. “I've really been looking forward to meeting him Lace, he sounds like something from one of those swashbuckling adventures Mr. Tethras writes.”

Maker, I really hope not, Varric's heroes always read like they're dripping in venereal disease, Rook thinks, just how much embellishment is there in Lace's letters?

“Ma, so here's the thing... This is Rook.” Lace's face burns crimson as she gestures to the Warden.

“I don't see him Lace, is this a trick?” Rosemary's confusion is palpable.

The awkwardness is making Rook wish she'd had her calling by now. At least the darkspawn horde care little about what's between my legs.

“No. Ma. This woman. In all her... womanliness. This is Rook.”

Rosemary's eyes widen at the tall woman, as her mouth opens and closes several times, no longer sure how to form words. After a prolonged and uncomfortable silence, she manages in the end. “But Lace, this is a woman.” Mon dieu!.

Rook is so very tempted to look down the front of her gambeson and feign surprise, but for the sake of establishing cordial relations with her girlfriend's mum, she settles on a simple, “nice to meet you Mrs Harding.” Rook extends her hand to Rosemary, as she does so, Rook notices it involuntarily shake. She may physically loom over the dwarf, but figuratively, she feels tiny under her gaze.

“Oh, err, I see. Hello Rook.” Rosemary's once welcoming tone has turned aloof, there's not even a single ember left in that log burner. Reluctantly, she accepts Rook's hand. It's a short-lived handshake, with Rosemary snatching it back to inspect the slippery residue on her palm.

“Pony saliva.” Rook hadn't meant to say that out loud, it just sort of happened.

“Uh huh...” She uses her apron to wipe up the offending fluid. Cocking her head to the side, her penetrating stare surveys Rook from the bottom up. “Lace. I was going to ask who the man was in this relationship, but I guess it's clear.” It's fine, Rook thinks, it's not as if I'm insecure about my own femininity or anything...

“Ma.” Lace warns.

“Orlesian.” Rosemary furrows her brow. “Lace. You told me Rook was fancy and Orlesian. She sounds weird, but not like, Orlesian weird.”

Rook speaks up, “Oh erm, I was actually born in Hossberg. My mum was the 'fancy' Orlesian.”

Rook notices that the matriarch doesn't speak directly to her, as she channels all of her questions through her daughter. “Hossberg?” Rosemary pulls a face, akin to biting into a rotten apple. “So she doesn't come from anywhere fancy?”

Rook isn't sure if it's the adrenaline, but her mouth is lacking a filter today. “Haha no. I hail from a brothel.”

Rosemary pales, her eyebrows nearly leaping off her face. “Lace darling. You know I've always respected your decisions. It's just, never in a million years did I think you'd enter into relations with a gay prostitute.”

“Mrs Harding, you misunderstand, I'm not a prost-”

“Lace. A word please.”

Lace mouths a silent apology to Rook, as Rosemary hurries her daughter into a corner of the garden.

Rook would like to think that her joining had afforded her heightened senses, like a keen ability to hear from afar. Sadly, all that drinking the Archdemon blood gave her was a shorter lifespan and a sense for the blight. Like a blight sommelier, where the only tasting notes are brimstone and torment. She tries to inconspicuously inch closer to where they huddle, as much as her lumbering frame will permit. She is only able to discern a few words and phrases, including something about 'a phase,' 'this is something Orlesians do,' 'syphilis,' and 'unmentionable pie,' although Rook questions if she misheard the latter.

Lace appears to be gesticulating angrily at her ma, evidently it's getting heated. Rook slowly shuffles forward for more effective eavesdropping. I have a right to know what they're saying about me. Suddenly, her foot jabs against something long and sturdy, a raised tree root. She looses balance, toppling sideways into Mrs Harding's prized rose bush. Rook desperately tries to fumble her way out to assess the damage. Not a single blossom was spared under the mass of her frame. Shiiiiiiiiiit

The matriarch comes bounding over, her face a picture of devastation as her fingers comb through the fallen petals.

Rook shrinks into herself, offering several bows to the older dwarf. “Ach, I'm sorry, so sorry, so very sorry!”

Rosemary's eyes remain glued to the damage. “First you accost my daughter and now you rummage through my bush. Lace, I think you should take Rook inside...” It isn't said in a shout, or a growl, more like a quiet seethe, which Rook finds infinitely more unsettling.

Before Rook can utter another apology, she's being dragged inside by the sleeve of her gambeson.

Rook finds the interior of the cottage as picturesque as the exterior. The ceiling is supported by exposed, low hanging beams, their earthly tone complementing the sage green paint on the walls. Various tapestries adorn the surrounds, displaying deft needlework, with intricately woven images of Ferelden fauna and flora. Must be Mrs Harding's work, Rook thinks. A sizeable stone fireplace sits in the centre of the living room, serving as the focal point. On either side sits two plush-leather armchairs, adorned with knitted throws in varying shades of terracotta. Rook can imagine how inviting it must be on a chilly winter's evening, listening to the gentle crackles and pops of burning logs while snuggling up with a good book. It's the kind of domestic bliss that would have, many years ago, seemed just as fantastical as the adventures she finds herself on now.

“Fuck her rose bush!” Lace exclaims, the abruptness of her statement yanking Rook from her country-life fantasy.

“Lace!” Rook admonishes, voice edged with amusement.

Lace rubs at her temple, hobbling back and forth in frustration. “I knew she'd be a bit weird about it, but this is even worse than I imagined!”

Rook squats slightly, so her eyeline is level with Lace's. “Hey hey, I'm sure I can win her over.”

“You shouldn't have to Rook, she should be making amends.”

Rook looks off to the side with a sullen expression. “Are you ashamed of me, of what we have, is that why she didn't know I was a wo-”

“No no no!” Lace says in a panicked state. She cups Rook's face, so their eyes meet once more. “Being with you Eris, it's the best decision I've ever made. I've just been a coward...” Her hazel eyes gaze lovingly into Rook's stormy-grey ones, as though trying to impart meaning to the jumble of emotions present. Lace knows one way to express her feelings, as she pulls the Warden by the collar, pressing their lips together into a tender kiss.

Rook hears the front door creak open, followed by the soft padding of footsteps. Her first reaction is to pull away, to create distance between her and Lace. To her surprise, the redhead is lacing her hands around the back of her head, deepening their kiss further. With one eye open, Rook spies Lace giving a sidelong glance to who she can only assume is Mrs Harding; their kiss serving as a strange act of defiance. Is this the teenage rebellion Lace never had?

“Mmmpfh.” Lace makes a rather theatrical moaning sound, giving the impression the kiss is racier than it actually is. Rook then sights the matriarch storm past them, her face like a bright-red tomato as she enters the kitchen, slamming the door shut.

Lace pulls away with a wry smile. “Sorry, couldn't help myself.”

“Hmm, what's next for you, a nose piercing perhaps? A new found love for Qunari heavy-drum music?”

Lace laughs. “Nah, my lesbian prostitute girlfriend will suffice.”

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Rook and Lace unpack some of their camping gear, making idle conversation around the fireplace. All the while they hear the clatter and banging of pots and pans from the kitchen. Rook had knocked on, offering to be of assistance, only to be met with perfect silence.

After some time, a muffled shout comes from the dining area. “Lace, tell Rook it's dinnertime.”

Lace rolls her eyes. “Apparently, dinner is ready Rook.”

In the centre of the dining table sits an impressively large pie with a flaky, golden-brown crust. Steam bellows out from its centre, filling the room with the meaty scent of game and red-wine gravy. Famished after a long trek, Rook is eagerly prepared to devour whatever is put in front of her. If only there is a way to check if my slice has been laced with poison...

Standing at the foot of the table is Rosemary, frazzled, a sheen of sweat plastered on her brow. Rook isn't sure if it's from the stress of cooking or from Lace's prior 'performance.'

As the pair attempt to sit next to each other, Rosemary speaks up at last. “Lace, let Rook know her seat is on the other side of the table.”

Rook spots the placemat and cutlery laid out on the far-side. So far from Lace and her mother, it may as well be in the Frostback Mountains. She can't have me sat too close to her daughter, Rook thinks, lest she catch THE GAY.

Lace moves to argue, interrupted by Rook's hand on her shoulder. “Her house, her rules,” the tall woman states plainly.

They awkwardly take their seats. Rook reaches over the expanse of the table, but even with her long reach, she struggles to grasp at a pitcher of water.

Rosemary eyes her warily. “Lace, tell Rook that before we eat, we like to recite a verse from The Chant of Light.”

“Ma!” Lace protests, “she's right there, you can tell her yourself.”

“It's okay, I can lead, if that's okay?” Rook has absolutely no idea what possesses her to offer. Whilst it's true that she is technically Andrastian, by virtue of her mother, she isn't exactly the pious sort, and she can't recite a line to save her life. Ahh how hard can it be? I doubt Mrs Harding knows all of it anyway. You've got this Rook, just improvise. Rook clears her throat, as they proceed to bow their heads in reverence.

“Andraste, Ferelden lady of yore.

Betwixt your bosom, you ignite my core.

Oh Bride of the Maker... Shake thy money maker?-”

“Lace,” Rosemary interrupts, “ask Rook which canticle this if from.”

Lace looks to Rook, a shit-eating grin plastered on her face. “Yes dearest Rook, which canticle is this most enchanting verse from?”

Rook is starting to find the room stiflingly hot, her panicked eyes dart around her surrounds, as though to look for inspiration. There she spots it, pressed up against the window pane. “The Canticle of the... Druffalo.” Wait, druffalo? Standing on the other side of the pane is the head of the largest bovine Rook has ever laid eyes on. Its face a cloud of fur and nostrils. Its hot breath fogging up the glass with condensation.

Rosemary peels herself from her seat to peer out of another window. “Looks like Farmer Padraig's druffalo got out again.” She swings the window open. “Hey! Stop eating my peonies!!!” With a frustrated sigh, she retrieves her coat from its stand. “I was supposed to be patching up a jacket for a customer today, but it appears I've got other plans now... Time to wrangle some druffalo.”

“Oh, Mrs Harding, I could wrangle them for you?” Again, Rook has no idea why she has offered, with her limited experience of animal husbandry, beyond a stint as a farrier. How different can a druffalo be to a horse? Piece of cake, she thinks.

“I'll come with,” Lace adds, “you won't know the way otherwise.”

Rook motions to Lace's injured foot.

“It's okay, I'll ride you again.”

Lace tries to hide her snicker from her ma's alarmed expression.

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Usually, when Rook downplays the difficulty of something, it turns out to be an utter disaster. However this time, Rook reckons she has found something she may be actually good at, aside from hitting things really hard with an axe of course.

Rook intuitively reads their movements, to adapt her posture and know just the right amount of space to put between herself and the druffalo to keep them pressing forward. Her commanding, yet calm presence enables their passage from Mrs Harding's land through wide tracts of fields and valleys. Rook moves seamlessly with the herd, like she has become an extension of it. With the wind in her hair, she feels one with the druffalo.

“Hey, nice work Rook, I think that's all of them.” Lace sits perched on Rook's back, praising her girlfriend's newfound talent. "Wait, where is it?" She questions, knotting her brow. “Err, Rook, you were tracking the calf, right?”

“Calf? There was a calf?”

The pair retrace their steps. Around half a mile away, they move across the riverbank bank once again. She thought that she'd successfully navigated the herd around the currents, until she spots the calf, that is. In the centre of the river is slither of land. On it, stands a tiny, orange-furred druffalo. Its innocent face looking back at the pair expectantly, as a strong current flows on either side. You've got to be shitting me, how'd it end up there!?

“The water is kind of deep, you can put me down here and go and get it?”

Rook squats, allowing Lace to hop off. She timidly moves to the water's edge, dipping her toe in. Yep, this is still very much a body of water.

“Rook, you can't swim, can you?”

“I'm an Ander. There weren't really any rivers or lakes that weren't still blight infested. The closest was the Lattenfluss, which also happened to be a popular spot to find dead bodies.” Hey, a few bloated corpses could have made for excellent flotation devices, thinking about it...

Before Rook knows it, the dwarf has kicked off her boots, removed her jacket and is now moving towards the river.

“Lace your foot!” Rook feebly warns. It's too late, Lace has already taken the plunge. Rook shields her eyes, she really should be keeping a lookout, but she can just imagine the headlines in the local newspaper tomorrow, “Local sweetheart and adorable baby druffalo drown while brave Grey Warden picks her nose on the riverbank.” In this moment, Rook feels as useless as tits on a bull.

“Done.”

Rook nearly jumps out of her skin. Appearing next to her, as though she has teleported, is Lace, cradling the calf in her arms. Rook isn't sure whether to sing her praises or enlist a mage to dispel whatever dark magic is afoot.

They drop the druffalo off at its rightful home, and make their way back to the cottage. As they enter, Rosemary scurries over to the wet, shivering form of her daughter. After demanding to know what happened, Lace offers her a brief account. Rook feels improbably small under the matriarch's glare.

“Lace, tell Rook how you nearly died.”

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It was evening, and Rook finds herself sat cross-legged on the floor by the fire, as Lace and  her mother settle into the armchairs.

There had been hours of uncomfortable silence. At least it may have been hours, Rook wasn't sure, as each passing second feels like an eternity.

Rook usually didn't mind silence. Her mind is often a mess of noisy distraction, and once in a while, she benefited from learning to simply be present in the moment. However, she couldn't exactly do that here. Rosemary's presence only amplifies Rook's anxieties tenfold. Her mind screaming at her to say or do something to relieve herself of this dreadful feeling gnawing away at her mind.

Rook knows one way to fill the void. She reaches over to her camping gear to retrieve her cherished lute.

As usual, Lace's face lights up at the sight. “Oh ma, you should listen to Rook play, she's really talented.”

Don't set expectations too high Lace! Rook worries.

Rosemary eyes Rook curiously, but only offers a monosyllabic grunt.

Rook begins strumming, racking her brain for a song Mrs Harding may appreciate that isn't one of the bawdy ones she was used to playing in her youth. There was that Ferelden folksong my teacher taught me...The Lady of Highever?

Rook's fingers dance across frets and strings, forming a buoyant, cheerful melody that was bound to lift any spirit. Surely a crowd pleaser.

As she plays on however, she notices Rosemary's shoulders slump and begin to shake. It doesn't take long for slight sniffling to devolve into heavy sobbing. The older dwarf gasping for breath as streams of snot run down from her cerise nose.

Rook's hand freezes on the fret board, crazed eyes looking to Lace for meaning.

The younger dwarf leans over to her. “Err Rook, the night my parents separated, my da took ma to this tavern in Redcliffe, that was the song the bard played... 

Oh Maker! Rook wonders if there is a record for how many faux pas one person can commit in a single day

Rook notices Lace's lips begin to tremble. “That was also... The night... My, my mabari, Contessa, pa.. Passed away."

Now Lace is sobbing uncontrollably, her face contorting with raw emotion.

Rook sits there stunned, as the two dwarven women in front of her embrace, crying into each other in a potent display of shared sorrow.

“La-Lace, tell Ro-Rook she's heartless.”

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It's bedtime, and of course Rosemary won't let Rook anywhere near her daughter's room. Rook had considered spending the night in the stable with Honeysuckle, but didn't want to make Lace jealous, so she settles for a bedroll in the living area. Here's hoping for some respite in my sleep.

As Rook drifts off into a state of slumber, she's met by the familiar visage of the Archdemon. Fuck's sake, not you again. 

Intense roars and shrieks resound in her mind as the scaled monstrosity sears through every fibre of her being. It beckons to her, as it always does, drawing her into the rhythmic pulses of the darkspawn hivemind. An indecipherable, yet alluring message concealed within each beat of their frightful drum.

Then something out of the ordinary happens. The scales of its face shatter, revealing the fleshy face of an older dwarven woman. Mrs Harding?

Red-eyed and furious, the dwarf bellows a thunderous outcry LEEEEESSSSSSSSBIAAAAAAAAAAAN!

Rook jolts upright from her bedroll, sweat pouring off her brow. Well, that's new.

“Lace, tell Rook it's nearly noon.”

“Argh!” The unexpected sound of Rosemary's voice nearly makes Rook wet herself. Speaking of, she feels nature calling.

Still dressed in her undershirt and loose-fitting trousers, Rook trundles outside to the outhouse. As she enters she remembers, bugger, it's a squatting toilet. She looks around it several times, unsure how to perform certain bodily functions without removing her bottom layers entirely. With a sigh, she concedes, draping her trousers over the door. She's still half-asleep as she begins to squat. As she does so, she feels it; something thin and pointed tickling her arsehole.

“Mmm, hehe, Lace hehe, now's not the time.” Hang on, why would Lace be in the toi... Fuuuuuuuuck.

Rook ever so slowly rises from her squat. Diffidently, she turns her head to investigate the hole below. Looking back at her curiously are eight beady eyes, furry mandibles twitch before the beast hoists itself out with its pedipalps, letting out an almighty Hissssssssssss!!!

Rook screams, hitting notes she previously thought were outside her vocal range. Her screams are so deafening, they can probably be heard in the deepest halls of Orzammar, forging new fables to scare dwarven children with. She ploughs through the outhouse door. Her bare arse flapping in the wind as she is chased by the vile creature across tracts of farmland.

The spectacle appears to have attracted the neighbours. An elderly man with a pipe leans against the pasture wall, chatting to a middle-aged man with a black bushy moustache.

“Is that the one courting Rosemary's daughter? I heard she's a Warden, they're not recruiting the finest are they?” The pipe smoker says.

“I heard she's a gay prostitute from the Anderfels.” The moustached man comments.

“By the Maker! How disgusting. Imagine being with an Ander!?”

“Also, she likes to drown baby druffalo and knows all the heretical verses of The Chant.”

Soon, what looks like the entirety of Redcliffe has gathered to form a prayer circle for Lace's salvation. Rook thinks that amongst them, she spies the pointed hat of the local revered mother.

Not that Rook has the luxury to pay too much attention, as she runs around in circles, the eight-legged monster inching ever closer to her buttocks. All of a sudden, she hears the thrum of arrows as they fly through the air. The spider curls into a ball, releasing one final bloodcurdling screech before it succumbs to death. Even in this state, she finds the thing too repugnant to look at.

“Rook, are you okay?” Lace asks, genuine concern on her face.

Rook picks her up in a bear hug, her panicked breathing slowly normalising. “Lace, my hero! My gorgeous, beautiful scout.” She peppers the befuddled dwarf with kisses. “I was going to die! Die I tell you! Die with no trousers... I should really put some trousers on...” She puts Lace down, hotfooting it back to the outhouse.

Lace hobbles behind her, covertly admiring the sight of Rook's rear end, along with the rest of Redcliffe it would seem. “I kinda feel bad. It was just a spiderling, a little baby spider,” Lace says solemnly.

Baby!?

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Unsurprisingly, the rest of the day proceeds as awkwardly as the last. Mrs Harding continuing her onslaught of passive aggressive comments including, “Lace, are you sure this is the same woman who slew an Archdemon?” and “Lace, tell Rook how she embarrassed me in front of the whole neighbourhood.”

The sooner I leave Ferelden, the better. Rook inwardly mutters.

From the corridor, she can hear rapid, shallow breathing coming from Lace's room. Rook had been 'barred' from going in there, but as a thirty-one year old woman, she isn't about to let some old dwarf stop her if Lace is in distress.

As expected, perched on the edge of the bed is Lace, her eyes red, puffy and downcast. Rook sits next to her. The dwarf makes no move to hide from her, as she rests her head on the tall woman's shoulder.

Rook offers her a tender smile. “You know what my next question is going to be.”

Lace lets out a knowing hum. “Ignore me. I'm just being self-indulgent in my sorrow. This is the type of thing children cry about, their parents separating. I just thought they'd be the type to stay together for life...”

“Do you see much of your father these days?”

“Not since he went to Amaranthine. I do miss him, but to be honest, I've always been closer to my ma.”

“She's a fierce lady, just like you.”

Lace peers up at her with an incredulous look. “fierce is one thing, but the way she's been treating you is nothing short of shitty.” Lace purses her lips, trying to think of the best way to phrase her next sentence. “ I'm not trying to justify the way she's been acting, but ever since the separation, she's changed.”

“How so?”

“It's hard to say, maybe more jaded? Resistant to change?”

Rook rubs circles along Lace's shoulder blades. “I think I understand why you're upset. We all want stability. It's nice to have some form of dependability we can fall back on, and as children we often expect that from our parents... But, they're flawed, just like any of us. Mine perhaps more than most.” Rook chuckles to herself, remembering how messed up her upbringing must seem to the average onlooker.

“Is it selfish?” Lace asks on a whisper.

“Hm?”

“That I hope you'll become my new source of certainty. Somebody I can anchor myself to?” Lace's gaze is raw, unguarded as she bares herself to Rook. Rook has never seen someone more exquisite in all her life.

“I'm a pretty poor choice Lace.” Rook caresses the redhead's cheek with her calloused thumb. “But no, it's not selfish, and to be truthful... I hope you'll be mine.”

They press their foreheads together, simply smiling into each other as they relish their state of shared understanding.

An abrupt clatter averts their attention to the doorway. They both see a flash of colour, and hear the frantic padding of footsteps as someone flees the scene.

“Ma.” Lace sighs.

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Rook and Lace are busily packing in anticipation of their departure. Rook never thought she'd look forward to returning to Northern Thedas, and throwing herself back into the fray. The Evanuris make for easier adversaries than Mrs Harding, she thinks.

“La- Rook, a word please?” The matriarch loiters in the kitchen doorway, looking unsure of herself.

Rook scans the room, half expecting there to be another Rook behind her. She's addressing me directly? I'm not dying, am I?

Rook cautiously approaches Rosemary, all-the-while looking out for hidden traps and unwanted surprises.

Rosemary forces herself to make eye contact, she has to strain her neck to do so however. “Rook... That's what you like to be called, isn't it?”

“It's sort of a nickname, but yeah, Rook is fine.” The Warden notices Rosemary's hand tremble slightly. I'm not scary am I?

“....”

“Mrs Harding... I err...” Rook closes her eyes, inhaling deeply. “Iloveyourdaughtershe'samazingandtrulythegreatestthingthat'severhappenedtomeandjustsoyouknowI'ddonothingtohurtmyqueen-” Rook nearly passes out at the speed of that outburst, she staggers a little from lightheadedness.

“I know you do you bumbling buffoon.” Rosemary says, with an upturn of her lips. She's smiling? Is she the one dying?

A blush creeps up from Rosemary's neck, inching its way towards her nose and cheeks. “Here.” She thrusts a knitted pair of gloves and a scarf at Rook.

Rook rolls out the scarf, admiring the repeated pattern running along its length. The chess piece, the Rook.

“Thank you mam!” The tall woman bows to her, as though prostrating herself to a Ferelden monarch.

“It's nothing, a terrible way of making amends after what a bigot I've been.” Rosemary turns away, as she plays with the hem of her apron.

“Mrs Harding, it's okay-”

“It's really not Rook. It shouldn't matter that you're both women, or that you have a funny accent I can barely understand, or that you don't know anything about our faith, or that you were a prostitute...”

“Mrs Harding, I've never been a prost-” Never mind.

“What matters is that you make Lace happy.”

Rook simply nods. “Can I hug you?”

“No.” Probably for the best.

As Rook turns to resume her packing, Rosemary pipes up again, her eyebrows furrow as if trying to decipher one of life's great mysteries.

“Rook, can I ask you a question?”

“Absolutely Mrs H.” 

“What is scissoring?”

In the background, Lace chokes on her ham and jam slam.