roquenxnar

[roquenxnar]

I am an impulsive roleplayer.

I let my muse take the reins and decide what threads to start or reply to in a given day. If the muse doesn’t feel it, it isn’t happening. That doesn’t mean that I hate you or that I no longer want to interact with you; I probably either lost our thread or my muse just said, ‘nah bro.’

I’m sorry I drop threads. I’m sorry I don’t reply to memes. I’m sorry I ignore my asks. I’m sorry I plot things and then don’t do them. I’m an impulsive roleplayer: my muse guides me.

Roleplaying isn’t my job: it’s my hobby. I do it for fun. My muse isn’t my coworker: my muse is my friend. We have fun together. If I started treating this as a job, it wouldn’t be enjoyable for me anymore, and the quality of my content would diminish greatly!

And while we’re on the subject, just because a thread gets dropped does not mean the relationship between our muses is dead!! Thread =/= relationship! We can start something new and continue building their bond! Relationships are important to building new aspects of our muses!

I always want to roleplay with you. Just…perhaps not with that thread. You feel?

[roquenxnar]

|| super out of practice with 2d stuff but i got the itch to draw a young belthan while unreal was syncing for work. a baby fruit, if you will.

[roquenxnar]

|| used a hireling to make one of bel's kids.... now i hurt

[roquenxnar]

@dreadwxlf || plotted-ish starter

Something had roused the ire of the larger part of the clan, that much was certain. In the few years the ex-slave had been with them, Belthan had learned that it took very little to draw their suspicion... even less to cause a scene. An ear flicked as he heard quickened footsteps through the forest, away from the larger settlement and toward his little camp. With a quick glance back to his own lop-sided tent to ensure his young granddaughter remained asleep— nap-time, after all, was his only reprieve from her constant buzzing about, like a little bumblebee— the old elf leaned forward, trying to catch a glimpse of the commotion... Only to give a befuddled scoff as he watched another elf making his way from the clan's encampment— taller than any other elf Belthan had ever seen, and in fine armor, to boot. He sat back on his log, absently poking the dying fire as he watched the stranger flee. The stranger could be trouble, certainly... but he could, instead, need help. The old elf stood slowly, clearing his throat before calling out. "You there!" he barked— just loud enough for the stranger to hear, hopefully not loud enough to awaken his granddaughter, "Are you the source of the commotion in camp?" A silver-flecked brow flicked upward, his head tilting as he took the measure of the man. He seemed so old, and somehow still young; odd, really. "I fear their hospitality leaves much to be desired; I had the same reception when I first arrived. I am curious, though..." He turned back, beckoning the bald stranger closer. "What in the creator's names did you say? Did you bring up the Keeper's height? He is sensitive about that."

[roquenxnar]

He should have known from the moment he'd stepped into that wretched swamp that something horrid would happen; redcap-infested, littered with poisoned fruit and beasts and barbed plants— Belthan should have allowed the party to press on without him, waited to rejoin them once they'd come to their senses and found greener— and less muddy— pastures. But that was not the duty of a paladin. Especially a paladin of Eilistraee. whose grandson relied on the good graces of this band of misfits to survive this mind-flayer issue. So, with as few complaints as the old warrior could manage, he followed after the rag-tag party, through the muck and mud. Too distracted by redcaps and mad frogs, the old Paladin hadn't even seen the trap... not until its rusted, metallic jaws had sunk into his leg. And that, now, was the least of his worries. Marsh Fever set fire to his veins, sweat rolling down his neck, down his forehead, soaking the bedroll he laid upon; and worse, his little granddaughter was still there with them, in the camp, powerless to do much but watch the elder drow fight his illness. An eye cracked open as he heard the cloth flap of his tent shift, and his usually crimson gaze— now a sickly yellow— met Dalamus's. After a moment, he shifted back, letting his eyes fall shut once more. When he opened his mouth to speak, all that came forth was a series of weak coughs, and a groan. The elder drow eyed the water set beside him, before looking up to study its bearer. Should he trust the water? Did he have a choice? "I will feel better when my Seldus returns from the grove," he said, voice a fraction of its usual fortitude. "I am sure, though, you have other ideas about how to ease my suffering." He shifted, slowly inching to prop himself up on the bedroll. "You did not have to bring me water, you know."

[Sick] My muse is ill and bedridden. + reverse for belthan :3c

Dalamus cautiously pushes open the flap of Belthan's tent to see the older drow laying on a bedroll. He seems pale, his brows furrowed in discomfort.

Frail old man. Condemned to rot in his tent until healing works or the illness runs its course.

Dalamus enters and closes the flap behind him, then sits beside the older drow, glad to be out of the sun. He places a glass of water within Belthan's reach, water which he had been entrusted and tasked with bringing to the tent, in addition to checking on Belthan's status.

Why Dalamus had been chosen, he does not know. Perhaps the others assume a kinship between them because they are both drow. Perhaps it was simply 'his turn'. Would Belthan complain? Demand a different watcher?

There is a tickle at the back of his mind which tells him Belthan is weak, and perhaps it is simply his time. Dalamus could even help it along.

Instead, he sighs. What good would it do? Would it please Lolth? Perhaps. But it might deprive the group of a valuable power and resource. Not to mention how suspicious it would look.

"I have brought you water," he announces. It is not even poisoned. "The others wish to know how you are feeling."

[roquenxnar]

|| anyway pls accept more pics of dragon age!belthan shotout to the shadow dragons for having the best drip in the game tbh

[roquenxnar]

|| i might only get to two drafts tonight but it's two more than I've done in a month

[roquenxnar]

|| really starting to get a feel for dragon age!belthan. starting to think he became an agent of fen'harel shortly before inquisition. he sees the future the group wants as the best he could give his grandbaby haleth...

[roquenxnar]

|| there he is.... dragon age! belthan.....

[roquenxnar]

okay SO. formulating ideas. I'm thinking Belthan started as a slave in tevinter (original, I know), then got kidnapped by the qunari, then had to go BACK to tevinter so he could steal his kids, and by the time he got there he only had his granddaughter, Haleth. this all happened when she was only a year old, between da2 and dai. since then, he's found a dalish clan near arlathan and taken up as one of their scouts and protectors, even if at sixty-eight (around the time of dai) he's too old to be too much of a threat. He decided to get elgar'nan's vallaslin because he identified with the idea of protecting his family, and how he wishes he could have saved his kids. dav sees him back in minrathous, helping the shadow dragons with intel, and occasionally helping out in light work.

soooo I may or may not be cooking up a dragon age verse for belthan...... (and haleth naturally)

[roquenxnar]

soooo I may or may not be cooking up a dragon age verse for belthan...... (and haleth naturally)

[roquenxnar]

|| I'm so sorry activity's been so slow. work has been tough, and I've been trying to wrangle my brain out of depression over irl/the state of the world/ and a//i bullshit fear. in the meantime if anyone would like to chat or plot, I'll plop my disco under the cut

drip_fromtheinkwell

[roquenxnar]

reblog if you are firmly against the use of AI in roleplay spaces. this is not the place for AI-written drivel or generated images.

[roquenxnar]

|| thinkin about belthan again 🕷️🌙

[roquenxnar]

|| sometimes i just get slapped in the face with bg3!belthan and haleth emotions....

[roquenxnar]

His home was cozy enough, for a cave on the bitter north coast of the Waking Sea; cozy enough, certainly, for the cats he'd taken in after being rejected by their Hightown breeders, or left to fend for themselves in the wilds. It brought a brief, sad smile to his face— the cats and himself, and his young guest... none of them were so different, really. Runilaros finished preparing the satchel of tea, and reached over to the hearth to remove the kettle from the fire. He pulled a dusty pair of lenses from his pocket and peered into the kettle itself, and gave a quick, sure nod. "Not too hot; good, good," he muttered to himself, before turning on a heel to bring the tea to the table. He watched Anders pace the cave's living space quietly, one of his cats— Buoy— tucked in the younger mage's arms, and the elder's smile fell into something more thoughtful. "I am sure Buoy there enjoys the exercise," he began, settling onto a rock he'd taken for a chair, "but you are going to pace a rut in my floor." He waved a hand and scoffed. "Creators know the last thing I need is one more thing to stumble over in here." He dipped the silken satchel into the tea kettle and replaced the lid, only afterward interlacing spidery fingers to rest his chin upon them. He looked up over his glasses as the young man brushed off the worry, how his friends apparently spoke to him. "Everyone is someone to worry over, at some point or another," he said, voice gentle as he portioned out a bit of bread each, alongside a bit of butter. "You have friends that care for you, da'len. You should embrace that, not brush it aside. Not all of us are so lucky."

❝It's a silly thing, isn't it?❞

Asking the old mage with a shrug of his shoulders as he paced the cave, cat in arms. Why he was so bothered by his friend's concern was beyond him.

❝That's only natural, to be worried for your friends, but what is there to be worried about? I'm not someone to worry over.❞

Really he was probably the one to be the most worried about, but not in his mind. Never in his mind. Especially not when he was different than a "normal" apostate.

@dragxnsfire.

[roquenxnar]

A soft laugh rolled in the old necromancer's chest— not quite loud enough to be heard well, unless someone were really listening. "They did, by far. Unfortunately, when a bard was performing, they were usually in the city to kill someone. A rather double-edged blade... but a treat for those of us who were not in their sights." His smile fell, though, and he shook his head sadly, shaggy mane of silver flipping with the action. "I doubt they will return any time soon though. Too much trouble in the world to justify long travels; to this area, it seems, in particular. Not that I blame them, mind you: this city has—" He paused, looking around with an unfocused gaze— "well, it has always been some shade of 'positively wretched'." His gaze returned to the Knight-Commander, though, as she fumbled over his correction; a silvery brow slowly rose at her apology, and a small, half-smile pulled at one corner of his lips. He canted his head, taking the situation in for all it was worth: how very odd, to have so quickly flustered a warrior of the Chantry. "Apology quite accepted," he said, gnarled hands folding on his staff (barely covering the runes carved down its length) and dipping forward in a short bow. "Not every Chantry warrior would have been so quick to make amends." He gave a sharp snort. "That is how I found myself on the side of the road, once, with a broken knee for my troubles. What a better world it would be if more of you lot—" he stopped just short of tapping her chest plate with the end of his staff— "would listen to an old man with nothing but a staff and a sharp tongue. Meredith's own question for him, though, gave him pause; he opened his mouth once to try to answer, then again, but no words quite felt right— or safe to admit to the likes of a Knight-Commander. "I live in the wilds, but I am not of them," he corrected once more, dipping his head, before turning to look over his shoulder. Through the curling smoke of cookfires, he could see the upper branches of the vhenadahl. "So... no, I am not Dalish. This city will always be my home. Just as it will be yours, I imagine; it takes commitment to a place and its people to want to protect it."

"I imagine they perform better than whatever... that was."

Irritation still lingers in the rough rasp of the Knight-Commander's voice, though it fades when it becomes clear that the 'performer' is not in fact a mage and thus, rendering her presence no longer necessary. Her gaze, however, focuses on the elf before her, noting the way he seems to bristle after recollecting memories of the once distant bakery -- and her earlier, initial comparison to the First Enchanter seems not entirely too far off.

His correction, however, catches her off-guard; her nostrils flare slightly, taken aback at such fearlessness seldom met directly to her face (though seldom do citizens and others speak to her in public, either).

"I... you are correct in that assertion," She speaks first, carefully choosing her words; such an elf is well beyond her jurisdiction as Knight-Commander, and public demeanor and appearance remains of an upmost importance (though correct, in assuming a background within the nobility She clears her throat, and straightens up. "My... apologies, Runilaros," The name rolls off her tongue awkwardly, emphasizing one syllable more than the rest; unfamiliar with elven custom beyond a basic knowledge of the alienage within Lowtown, she cares little for knowing more than that.

However, his inquiry makes her jaw set once again; the crowd begins to slowly disperse, some casting longing glances over towards her before carrying on with their day in the market.

"No. It is not an official interrogation," Clarifying, she does not yet move. "I am merely inquiring." Eyes move to that staff within his grasp, then back to his gaze, brow raising. "You mentioned you are of the Wilds. Are you... Dalish?"