Chapter Text
Before she was the Veilguard’s infamous ‘Rook’ de Riva, she had just been ‘Rookie’—to Viago at least—the name always huffed in a rather annoyed and exasperated tone. And before she was Viago’s favourite ‘Rookie’, she had simply been Isadora—a curious half-Antivan, half-Tevinter slave.
Though she couldn’t remember much of her life before moving to Antiva, there were three things she would never forget.
The first, the memory of her mother, singing a rhyme in soft Tevene to her in the darkness of the slave quarters in Qarinus—when curfew was on and all the candles had to be snuffed, and the only light was the moon streaming in through the barred windows, a sliver of silver against her pale arms.
The second, the frozen stare of her first victim, a simple guardsman, gazing down in disbelief at the bloody shard of ice impaled through the centre of his chest. She had been eleven and she hadn’t meant to kill him. But between the screams of her mother and the magister, and the guard and the door, she had felt a pull and a pulse of something beyond her gathering and exploding out from within her in a blast of icy fear. The shard of ice that she could still feel chilling her hand, outstretched that day and tingling with magic, and a power she had only barely begun to know.
The third memory was the first time she had seen the face of Viago de Riva. Though she herself favoured the Antivan half of her bloodline, or so her mother and everyone else had always told her, she had never seen an Antivan man before this moment. But on the day she had killed her first man, he was there—dressed not like a Crow but as a Tevinter mage, as was his disguise at the time, bronzed skin and slicked back hair, and that distinctive moustache that curled at the ends. He had just entered the room when she pierced the guard with a blade of ice, his gloves still wet with the blood of his own successful kill. Everyone had frozen for a moment in shock, and it was like the world stood still. Then it all moved at once, and all too quickly.
Her mother, begging for their lives in rapid Tevene to who she thought was another Tevinter magister, and then Viago swiftly galvanised into action; checking the guard was dead before removing the ice shard and replacing the still flowing wound with his own dagger. He replied in Tevene, slightly accented but otherwise perfect in pronunciation, warning them to make themselves scarce, for the house was about to discover his handiwork upstairs. Her mother had stiffened at his voice, at the elongated vowels of his accent, then switched instantly to Antivan. Isadora hadn’t even known she could speak Antivan.
“You’re from Antiva, signore? A… a Crow? You must be a Crow?” she had gasped, for why else would an Antivan man be here, arm drenched in another’s blood while he covered up her daughter’s accidental murder.
Viago had been surprised too. He squinted suspiciously at her mother. “You have met one of us before?" His gaze slid to Isadora herself. "...The girl’s father?”
“N-no, he wasn’t… At least, I don’t think so… but I’ve heard the stories. Please, you must take my daughter with you. She cannot stay here, if the magister is dead as you say, and she has magic. They will take her and mould her into a monster!”
Viago looked reluctant. “A Crow’s life is no less monstrous,” he replied, “She is better off at least, with her mother.”
She had shook her head adamantly. “She will not be with her mother once they know she is a mage. They will take her from me. Please, at least let her live as a free person, in her father’s country. Where she might find others that look like her. A life she was always meant to have.”
Looking back, Isadora was never really sure exactly what it was, (though she had her suspicions that she reminded him of another girl, though not quite as young, but another wild-haired, poor elf girl with big Halla eyes, struggling for a better life), but Viago had relented. It happened in a matter of minutes, but it had changed her life.
Viago had gripped her tiny chilled hands in his own bloodied gloved ones and they had run together from the magister’s manor into the dead of the night. She had barely the time to say goodbye to her mother—only a fevered kiss to the forehead and she was gone.
They were sailing across the ocean that same night. Viago had barely come to grips that he’d stolen an elven child slave from his mark’s house, and the realisation hit him abruptly as they pulled away from the docks. He had spent half of the sea journey in a stunned silence, and Isadora had been no better. They sat side by side on the prow of the ship, just a girl destined for greater things, and the then newly promoted Fifth Talon of the Antivan Crows, with the full moon hanging low above the horizon.
When asked, Viago de Riva would deny he felt anything that day. He certainly had not felt anything more than just the interest of an opportunity, and a promise of a new Crow. And he certainly had not felt anything close to affection for the cheeky little girl.
“Rookie! I told you not to climb the windows in broad daylight!” he snapped for the third time that month. Giggling came from the silhouetted shape at the arch of his window, and then a young girl vaulted herself through with the fearless confidence only a child could have. She flipped neatly in the air before landing in a dramatic bow in front of his desk, wild hair flung over her shoulders.
“Don’t worry, Viago. No one ever looks up,” she retorted with a smile. “And besides, if I never climbed your windows, you’d never come to see me.”
He leaned back in his armchair and pinched the bridge of his nose as she danced her way into his office. “I have been home for less than a handful of hours—forgive me if I didn’t go visit the Fledgelings within the first,” he said snidely. “I’m only the head of the house with two weeks’ worth of paperwork to catch up on.” He gestured violently at the mountain of papers on his desk.
Though he actually enjoyed the administration side of running a Crow House, it was a different story when the work piled up like this—several contracts had been completed while he was away that he needed to verify, and countless more requests had come pouring in. These needed to be read and researched carefully before being accepted (or rejected) and written up.
Isadora groaned and flung herself in the nearest chair. “You’re always working. You never have time to teach me something cool anymore.”
“Teach you something cool? I have your progress reports on my desk too, you know.” He smacked a thick wad of paper in front of him. “You could certainly be using this time you’re wasting breaking into people’s offices to study up on your geography. How could an Antivan Crow label Fereldan as Orlais on a map?”
She sniffed. “I thought Orlais was further south. And besides, I’m doing good in the skills that matter. I can speak Antivan now just as well as anyone here, and the trade tongue.”
Viago rolled his eyes. “Your pronunciation may have improved but your accent is still atrocious.”
“Well, Julio also said my knife skills have been improving the fastest! And Emmeline said that I can start moving onto Electricity spells soon, since I’ve got such a good grasp on Cold magic!”
“Being a Crow is more than just learning to stab someone or turning them into an icicle,” he said exasperatedly. He stood up from his desk, realising he was unlikely to get much more work done while his young protégée was in the room. “You’ll find out soon enough when I send you one day to kill a mark in Orlais and you end up in Ferelden.”
Isadora scowled. The corner of Viago’s mouth twitched.
“Come then, Rookie. If you’re not going to give me any peace, you might as well make yourself useful.”
She perked up and followed him cheerily out the door.
The sight of the peppy Fledgeling at the heels of the Fifth Talon was not an uncommon sight within House de Riva. No one had expected him to bring home his own Fledgeling that fateful day he returned from his assignment in Qarinus, let alone get so visibly attached. Though he complained and bemoaned about her constantly, her cheerful and eager attitude to her new Crow life had brightened the halls of the assassin guild in a way he hadn’t expected.
As a very new Talon, Viago was under a lot of pressure to whip his House into shape and build a reputation respectable enough to ensure he kept his position for any length of time. His royal parentage was an ill-kept secret amongst the older Crows of the guild, and many assumed he had gotten to where he was through nepotism. His surly attitude endeared him to few, and he had become even more reclusive since he had been promoted to Talon, focused as he was on cementing his station.
His first act was to rehaul the training program for the new Crow recruits. Any recruits underage were labelled affectionately as Fledgelings—too young to send on contracts, but able to be sent for fieldwork. While most of the general public assumed all Crows were assassins, this was not really the truth. In fact, within a House, Master Assassins who were ranked highly enough to accept and complete contracts were a minority. The majority of a House was made up of Fledgelings still in training, who could only be sent for information-gathering assignments, and novice assassins who could not accept contracts of their own, but could assist Master Assassins in their work.
The training of Fledgelings then, was a crucial thing for a House. House Arainai, for example, was known for their brutal regime. They churned out plenty of little Fledgeling assassins but not many that made it to Master rank. The result was a few ruthlessly skilled killers, but many more dead trainees. Viago hated wasting lives—in their line of work, even the best of them could die at any moment. No, it did not make sense to senselessly pit young recruits against each other when they already had a short enough life expectancy as they did. In his opinion, a system that produced lots of skilled assassins was better than one that produced only a few.
Viago instead insisted that his recruits were trained thoroughly in many life skills—not just athletics, acrobatics and martial arts, but also languages, geography and politics. While some Houses employed Heirs (Crows who were dedicated solely to training the Fledgelings), Viago believed in learning from a diverse selection of tutors who were more specialised in their field. From a young age, they were also sent regularly into the streets of Salle, dressed as beggars or paper boys or fishmongers, to hone their skill of eavesdropping, information-gathering, and the art of observation. From the ages of twelve onwards, they were sent for weeks at a time on these assignments, left to fend for themselves on the streets. They dragged themselves home skinnier than they left, but scrappier, hardier, and hungrier for the comforts of their House. In his opinion, this built good work ethic.
Isadora would have just returned from one of these trips the week before, Viago thought idly as they walked. He surreptitiously glanced at her. Her cheeks had lost some of their baby fat over the past year, which just made her adorably large ears stick out even further from her head. There was a never-ending rotation of half-healed scrapes and gashes on her arms and shins, peppered with fresh ones—a result of her constantly skulking around where she shouldn’t and paying the price for it. She seemed much more like a gangly pre-teen than the terrified child he met the year before.
“So where are we going?” Isadora asked as they passed several Crows on their way through the building. Viago pointedly ignored their amused expressions.
“Where you haven’t been allowed yet,” he replied cryptically. “Tell me about your fieldwork last week.”
She shrugged. “It wasn’t too bad. I was at the docks for most of it—only just starting to get the fish stench out of my hair. But the sailors taught me how to make lots of knots! And I guess I know how to scale and debone fish now. Won’t say I want to do it again any time soon though.”
They passed through a long spiral staircase that led to a tower she hadn’t been allowed access before, as the lock on that particular door had been more advanced than she could pick.
“Viago,” she said as they entered a narrow hallway. It was silent here now, which emboldened her to finally ask the question she’d been wanting to ask. “Do you think… Do you think my father was a Crow?”
Viago glanced at her, surprised she would ask after so long. Or perhaps it shouldn't come as much of a surprise. He knew her Tevinter background made her stand out amongst her peers. It was only natural she was looking for something to anchor her to this country.
“I suppose it is possible. Not many Antivan men travel to Tevinter without good reason. Your mother never said?”
“No,” she said quietly, “She only ever said he was a traveller from Antiva. That he never planned on staying long. She had no way of contacting him about me. Not that he could’ve done anything anyway. Since we were slaves,” she added helpfully in the ringing of Viago’s silence.
It was a likely possibility, Viago mused, but no real way to find out. Though she bore no resemblance to anyone he knew himself, there were hundreds of Crows throughout Antiva from all different Houses. And besides that, there was a good chance he was already dead. Most Crows didn’t live long.
Still, his Rookie was turning out to be quite athletically gifted. That could point to a Crow patronage. She had been slow to start—stunted by her youth as a slave—but hardened in a way that most of her peers had not. She was ambivalent to most pain, and took to the freedom of running and climbing and fighting with tentative interest at first, and then unbridled enthusiasm. Her affinity for magic was progressing steadily as well. Mages were rare in a Crow guild, as they took longer to train to become useful, but were prized once they were promoted. Under the keen eye of one of their best enchanters, Emmeline, he knew it would only be a matter of time before she herself grew into a deadly mage.
“Well, either way, it matters not,” he said at last, as they finally came to a stop at the last door. “Parents matter little once you’re a Crow. You’ve no need of a father anyway, girl. You’ve lasted this long without one.” Viago himself knew that first hand. “Now, put your gloves back on. You’re going to need it.”
Isadora’s eyes widened. Then she quickly started tugging her battered leather gloves out of her pockets where she’d stuffed them.
“When we go in, don’t touch anything! I will tell you what you’re allowed to touch,” he warned.
Then he turned and pushed open the door.
It was a menagerie, she realised in awe as they walked in. A huge circular room filled with all sorts of creatures. Crows of course, but other rare birds, various rodents, spiders and even snakes. Ornate cages and containers stacked on top of each other as well as a library collection of books she assumed were to do with the creatures that resided here.
“I didn’t know we had animals here!” she said excitedly spinning around.
“It is my private collection of rare species,” Viago explained, “As I said, no touching any of the cages or creatures. Many of them are deadly. But the crows are all right.”
With that, he made a clicking sound with his tongue and teeth and stretched out his arm. A huge crow answered his call, swooping down from the rafters and landing heavily on his gloved arm.
“Since I’ve been away for the past two weeks, you can help me feed all the creatures. As long as you listen to my instructions. Am I clear?”
Her eyes brimmed with excitement. “Yes, Viago!”
When Isadora was first formally adopted into House de Riva, she stood out like a stray cat. Her strong Tevinter accent had her peers snickering whenever she spoke, let alone her poor Antivan (the basics of which she had only just learned from Viago on the ship home).
Though quite a few of the other Fledgelings were from poor backgrounds, ex-slaves or from alienages, or orphans scraped from the streets across Antiva, none had come from Tevinter. And while she luckily favoured the Antivan side of her parentage in looks, she was much smaller than others her age; her large elf ears sticking out dramatically from a bush of wild hair. She was also largely lacking in a lot of common skills—she didn't know how to read or write, never touched a weapon, not even danced in the sun.
But what she did have was tenacity. If a slave child knew how to do one thing, it was to prove themselves useful. In such a new environment, it was all Isadora could do. Make sure Viago didn't regret bringing her here.
She made herself speak Antivan as much as possible. It didn't matter if she was hardly coherent at first, if she sounded stupid. She learned words she didn't know yet, asked questions, and repeated phrases back to others until she was conversational. Until the others no longer laughed at her grammar, but because of her cheeky humour.
She read and wrote voraciously. Every night before bed, she practiced her letters, then words, then sentences. Pestered her peers for help. Traced the lines of her books. Copied out the missives Viago had left pinned around the House, written in his distinctive looped hand. Her determination earned her pity and annoyance at first, but eventually grew to grudging admiration. For Isadora was nothing but a quick learner.
Making friends in the Crows was trickier. Most were suspicious in nature, and wary of others at best. But there was something about training together, sweating together, bleeding together, that helped them grow closer. She dragged herself back into the mud to lend a struggling recruit a helping hand. Smuggled her bunkmate her share of dessert, when she confessed it was her birthday. Assisted the others when they were learning Tevene, even if they had spurned her before when she tried to speak their language. Small kindnesses, her mother had taught her, was the way to make friends. Kindnesses without the expectation of reciprocation.
Her standing with their Talon also did not go unnoticed. Though Viago didn't visit the Fledgeling's barracks often, he would watch on occasion when they sparred or ran the obstacle course. His eyes were always assessing her. The other recruits kept their heads down, flinching under his barking criticism, focused on performing the best they could under his watchful gaze. But Isadora always made sure to skip to his side afterwards, beaming with excitement and peppering him with questions. He would ignore her for a while, then give reluctant answers until he grew annoyed enough to huff and leave. But he always came back the next time for a repeat performance, her nickname sharp on his tongue, exasperated but with begrudging fondness.