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Nonverbal RP Starters

I’m finding it difficult to find memes for nonverbal characters ( be they mute, or just not fond of talking ) so I thought I’d make a few!

Neutral

☝️ Tap my muse on the shoulder

👉 Point to something for my muse to see

🤙 Bump into my muse

😊 Sit down next to my muse

🤨 Sit down across from my muse

📓 Push/Slide [an object] across a table to my muse

✍️ Pass my muse a note

🙄 Roll their eyes at my muse

🚪 Tap on a table/door/wall/chair to get my muse’s attention without speaking

Aggressive

🐺 Growl at my muse

😬 Snarl/show teeth at my muse

😠 Death Glare at my muse

🙌 Push/Shove my muse

👊 Punch my muse

👖 Kick my muse in the shin

👠 Stomp on my muse’s foot

😵 Knee my muse in the gut

💀 Knee my muse in the groin

🔪 Point a weapon at my muse

🖕 Flip my muse the bird/a similar gesture

👔 Roughly pull my muse down by the collar

💢 Bang on a door/wall/table to get my muse’s attention- angrily

Angst

👩‍⚕️ Put pressure on my muse’s wound

🌡 Push my muse down to give them medical attention

🥣 Bring my muse soup/medicine when they are sick

🤢 Hold my muse’s hair back/Rub my muse’s back while they are sick/throwing up

👐 Hold my muse when they are badly wounded/dying

👁 Wake my muse up during a nightmare

🐱 Hold my muse after a nightmare

😭 Hold my muse when they are crying

😢Touch my muse’s shoulder while they are crying in secret

💧 Wipe away my muse’s tears

💥 Try to calm my muse during an overwhelming emotional moment

⛈ Find my muse after some kind of trauma

Soft

👕 Tug on my muse’s sleeve/shirt/skirt

🐈 Lean against my muse’s side

🤝 Hold my muse’s hand

🤗 Pull my muse into a hug

🐕 Rest their head on my muse’s shoulder/knee

🐶 Nuzzle my muse with their nose [specify a location]

✋ Touch the back of my muse’s hand

🤝 Reach for my muse’s hand to hold it

👗 Fix/Straighten my muse’s clothes

�� Stand by the bed to see if my muse will let you under the covers with them

🛌 Crawl under the covers with my muse

🥪 Set a plate/tray/bowl of food down for my muse

😚 Kiss my muse on the cheek

Playful

🌸 Put a flower in my muse’s hair

✨ Playfully shove my muse’s shoulder

💃 Pull my muse onto a dance floor/up to dance

🤞 Come up beside them and tap the shoulder opposite where they’re standing

😈 Jump out of the shadows to scare/startle my muse

😛 Stick their tongue out at my muse

😱 Make a silly face at my muse

🤭 Tickle my muse

👃 Poke my muse’s nose

💪 Pick my muse up

Sensual/Sexual

💘 Pull my muse in for a rough kiss

💕 Pull my muse in for a tender kiss

💞 Pull my muse in for a messy/desperate kiss

💖 Lean in to give my muse a sweet/chaste kiss

❤️ Lean in to give my muse a tender kiss

🔥 Pull my muse down by the collar/by their clothes - in a sexy way

😉 Pull my muse in by the hips

😲 Smack my muse’s butt

💋 Kiss my muse’s neck

👌 Push my muse down and give them a massage

👙 Pull [an article of clothing] off my muse

👀 Push my muse down on the bed

👄 Pull my muse onto the bed

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stcrmscngs​:

Updated Interest Checker with new added muses! 

Rules can be found here and Muses + Bios (many of which are still WIPs thank you for your patience!) here!

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lunarant​:

@stcrmscngs​ asked: 

“ spare me your flattery! “ ( embarrassed tsun noises from Minyue to Sagra )

          An amused laugh leaves the pirate’s lips, his gaze not moving from the young man that stands before him. “’t ain’t flattery, Firecracker. ‘t’s the truth. Y’look cute as can be ‘n somethin’ like that.” 

          He adjusts his glasses, ensuring that they are securely upon his face before he continues. “’nless my eyes’ve somehow gotten even worse? But that can’t be the case, since ‘m sure that even a blind man could see jus’ how stunning y’are.”

Face burning as scarlet as the petals in his hair, the smaller au ra huffs, turning away from the dancing mismatched eyes that remain fixed upon his every ilm. The silk and lace that hugs his figure is fitted to him perfectly— quite the achievement, considering that most things tend to be far too big. 

Minyue’s skill with a needle and thread has been granted some much-needed polish in recent months, however, and finally, tailoring his clothing to himself is hardly any challenge at all. 

That is, until Sagra saw him. 

It’s not as if he minds being looked up and down by a handsome pirate captain, quite the contrary, actually— it just so happens to be that he’s actually fond of this handsome pirate captain. Emotional attachments make all the difference, particularly when it comes to Sagra looking at him like that. 

     “N-nonsense! You’re just trying to embarrass me!” Freckled cheeks puff slightly as the Raen pouts, tail flicking behind him in irate twitches as his blush creeps down his neck, beginning to blend with the crimson of his garments. “Surely I don’t look that different from usual, do I?”

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defortemp​:

     The heir felt pressure against his knees, gaze dancing from the half-filled glass to where Khaida stood, so easily fitting between them. There’s a sense of tension that filled the ilms between them, he is certain of it: but it isn’t uncomfortable in any one way. It teeters the line of cozy and wanted, a sip between tipsy and drunk.

     Artoirel had always strayed on the side of conservative. It was in his blood to do better, to lead well once his father stepped down. To leap into unknown waters was not him. He could not afford such risks, when he knew the one who could take his place was four years his junior, too soft for the world and too naive to lead as he would.

     But Khaida’s bravery - even with something as small as trying a new beverage that had sat in their cellar for Halone knows how long - was catching. It was more than just that. The Auri had him entirely, fully ensnared, his easy stepping into new territory and into battles that did not belong to him making Artoirel realize how much he still had to grow.

     “I wouldn’t offer it to you,” he said, “if I did not intend to follow through. What a bad host I would be, to throw a guest into uncharted waters without the stones to at least trail behind.”

     A little quirk came to his lips, plucking the glass from Khaida’s fingers, an easy back-and-forth of grazing skin and scale. With a swirl of the glass, it was now his turn. The other man’s words were true, as was the brew’s title: it was sharp, sweet and spicy in a way he couldn’t fully put a word to, and when he swallowed he could feel it prickle down his throat.

     Not for the first time did the movement of his tail catch Artoirel’s attention, watching as it swayed, the movement akin to a pleased animal. Only now did his expression grow, the little twitch to his lips blooming when the end tapped the bone of his ankle. Artoirel wrapped his leg around the back of his, heel in the crevice of his knee.

     “I can see how one might drink more than intended,” he said, blue irises meeting Khaida’s. Even with his back against the cool stone, the warmth of the Auri - of his drink, of the man being so close to him - had him feeling pleasant and a little too comfortable. He raised the bottle itself to his mouth, eye contact only ceasing when he tilted his head back and drank deep. After a few gulps, he lowered the bottle, reaching up to wipe at his mouth.

     Maybe a leap was long overdue.

As the Fortemps heir hooks his ankle around Khaida’s leg, the au ra can’t resist the urge to move closer, even if only by a subtle fraction. An ilm from brushing horn against cheek, Khaida’s tail curls its way around the elezen’s leg, just above where his knee sits snug against a scaled hip, pointed tip coming to rest against Artoirel’s inner thigh. This dance of theirs, this back and forth, it had to come to a head one way or another— the tension lingering between them, taut enough that Khaida swears he could use it as a bowstring, if pressed, would have to break. Whether by Artoirel pulling back, or...

     Preferably, another way.

The auri man’s eyes remain transfixed, azure limbal rings burning in the dim light of the cellar as they watch the nobleman take first to the glass, and then to the bottle. His gaze follows the line of Artoirel’s throat as his head tips back, Khaida’s own throat suddenly feeling terribly dry. Sharp canines snag a bronze lip betwixt as the other man’s words float in the air. 

     Yes, Khaida replies silently, eyes traveling back up to catch the shimmer of light against wetted, honey-touched lips. I can certainly see how one might lose himself.

Artoirel’s hand lifts, elegant fingers poised to wipe his mouth free of the lingering touch of the stingbrew, and Khaida follows it with his own, gently catching and cradling the heir’s wrist in his palm and keeping it from completing its course.

     “...You are far from a poor host, my lord. Easily the best I’ve had, drink or no.” Blue meets blue once more and the burning in Khaida’s eyes has stoked itself into a deep smoldering glow, his head tilting, leaning so close that the tip of one horn grazes the line of Artoirel’s jaw. His thumb glides a stroke over the pulse in the lord’s wrist— a soft, tender ministration, though not at odds with the heat of his gaze. “If you will indulge me, I’d like to repay your hospitality.”

And then he closes the gap— slow and steady, giving Artoirel ample time to object before he covers his lips with his own, tasting the lingering drink upon them with a dart of his tongue.

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hiraethyr​:

It hadn’t been until Estinien mentioned his drenched garments did he feel the chill of bitter cold set into his aging bones. He expression remained taciturn as he grunted a soft hum in reply. 

“ In the den I happened to see a fireplace.” He began and motioned for the other to follow him downstairs. He ran his bandaged hand through the tendrils of his messy dark strands, they stuck to his face and neck in the most annoying way. Gaius was half tempted to cut the remaining strands and go military short. Apparently a good pair of cutting shears were hard to come by in the wilderness. 

He traveled down the steps, taking each one with care, despite the place being abandoned, it was in decent shape. 

“ I am curious to know, Estinien.” he spoke up as he entered the den. Beside the fireplace laid a stack of already chopped wood. How fortunate. He turned to look to the Dragoon. “ What cause do you have to be out here, from what I can tell, there is nothing out this way.” 

He turned back to grab a piece of wood and threw it onto the fireplace. He began patting his pockets for flint. He had some stored somewhere on his persons. When he found it on the inside of his ratted coat pocket. He knelt down with a great effort–his knee feeling the aching burden of his person–he would ignore such trivial pain as he set to light the fire. Within moments the cabin was filled with a pleasant warmth, and light cascaded into the small room. 

Gaius turned to Estinien as he shook off his coat and laid it before the fireplace. 

“ Are you hiding from the Scion’s receptionist?” He couldn’t help himself but tease him a little. 

“ They say she is as fierce as our Warrior of Light.” 

Estinien naturally gravitates towards the fire once it’s lit— A lingering bit of Ishgardian life still carved deep into his bones. There may not be any snow, but the cold and damp can kill just as easily, if given the opportunity.

Propping his lance against the wall beside the fireplace, the dragoon settles cross-legged beside it as he unwinds his soaked scarf from his neck. If truth be told, he hadn’t been here for long before Gaius arrived— long enough to check through the abode, but not long enough to settle. His own clothes and hair are still wet, though not drenched to the same extent as the Garlean beside him. 

Sharp silver eyes catch the twitch in the other man’s jaw as the former legatus kneels and tends the flames. Estinien is no stranger to the effects of storms upon old wounds, having plenty of his own to contend with. It isn’t long before Gaius moves from that position, however, so the dragoon sees little reason to comment...yet.

     “I am only passing through...or rather, I meant to only pass through. My destination is further on.” It’s not exactly a good explanation, but it’s more than nothing. More than Estinien would give most others about this particular leg of his journey.

The wind gives an especially forceful howl from outside, whipping at the hut and rattling the doors and windows with a ferocity that makes Estinien flinch at the sound. At this rate, there’s no telling when the storm will pass and he’ll be able to keep moving. The stagnation makes him tense. Anxious, even. How much longer must he wait?

     Gaius’ ribbing draws a low laugh from deep within his chest. Tataru Taru is certainly a force to be reckoned with, though he had made it clear the last time he had been in the Rising Stones that his own duties would come first, for the time being, now he had done his part beyond them. 

     “Aye, you’ve found me out. I am a man on the run.” Pushing damp silver locks from his face and tying them up into a haphazard bun atop his head, he shakes his head, the barest hint of a smile upon his lips. He shrugs off his own coat and flattens it out beside him in a similar fashion to Gaius’ hoping it will at least dry quicker than the other man’s. “But, no, as frightening a woman as she is, I am...looking for something, is all. There may be naught here now, but once there was and finding whatever may remain is...important to me.”

To me, alone, perhaps, but nevertheless...

     “And what of yourself, Wolf? What has dragged you out into the middle of stormy nowhere?”

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ɪᴛ sᴇᴇᴍs ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴍʏ ʟɪғᴇ                                   ғᴏʟʟᴏᴡs ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏᴏɴ       𝕒𝕥 𝕥𝕚𝕞𝕖𝕤 𝕚𝕥'𝕤 𝕙𝕒𝕝𝕗 𝕖𝕞𝕡𝕥𝕪                                                 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐢𝐭'𝐬 𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐥

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@lunarant​ said: 👘 for vel uwu

screenshot meme / accepting!

Send 👘 to see them in an outfit traditional to their culture

Just one Xaela Miqo!! I loved this prompt so much he looks so good and honestly now I can’t help but think about how when he was a kid, every piece of clothing available was way too big for him so his adoptive dad would have to fix things for him just so he wouldn’t be stuck swimming in every outfit hjgdfjhgsf

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milesducemdominus​:

A preference for quiet solitude is always taken when experiencing pain or discomfort - Aymeric had been the very same since a youth. Any injury - a scrape to a knee, a cut from sharp parchment - he would deal with by himself. Ever resourceful, he would much rather the time of healers and those of medical knowledge be available for those in absolute and dire need; thus he would compress his suffering and silently get on with it. 

Now was no different. A very recent skirmish beyond the Gates of Judgement had caught him and his meagre team off guard and thus he had not been the only one to gain unfortunate injury or two. Thankfully - all had survived and thus a mild weight had been lifted from his shoulders. If he could be injured in place of another, he would take the blow. His men worked tirelessly as it was - they needed rest, support and recuperation - he would pick up the pieces in their stead. 

But from time to time even he had to admit defeat. Already exhausted from countless days of immediately important events the very last thing the commander had needed was an injury; and one that throbbed pain immensely, no doubt. To the upper right side of his chest, nearing his shoulder, poised the deep laceration - intently cleaned through various means though still bled and indeed, would benefit from a tight compression the bandage could offer if only his tired (and cold) fingers would co-operate. 

There is but a moment where a thought is planted - to retaliate- - to brush aside the concern and offer and yet it is the tone used and the weariness of his own form that simply has the Commander silently relent. With nary a word does he place the neatly rolled bandage into his companion’s hand, blue gaze casting aside toward the heat of the hearth; 

“I don’t enjoy being a burden.” 

     Vel takes the roll of bandages in hand and exhales a soft huff of breath, half amused and half...relieved, perhaps? He’s no healer, not by a long shot, but he knows his way around cleaning, stitching, and bandaging. He’s spent his fair share of late nights with nothing but a needle and thread, a bottle of cheap booze, and a torrent of Xaelan curses. Thankfully, from the look of things, the Lord Commander’s wound won’t need any of that, provided the bandages are enough to stem the blood. 

The miqo’te watches as Ser Aymeric looks away from him, gaze cast into the fire as he offers a much simpler protest than Velkyn had anticipated. Long tail curling around himself, he settles at the other man’s side with an apologetic quirk of his lips, brows furrowing on either side of the scar splitting his face. 

     “I get it. I’m not any different,” He mutters in reply, setting himself to his task— cutting off a bit of the fabric to fold and pack against the wound before binding it in place with a practiced steadiness. “and I don’t enjoy making you feel like one.”

He keeps his voice low, his hands never ceasing in their work, even as he speaks. He wonders how it happened, as he wonders how many of the scars littering the knight’s skin came to be, but asking feels out of the question, for now. Vel is a man of few words for many reasons, and his propensity for battering his way through conversations as he does through battle is only one of them. 

     “If you were a burden, you’d know. I wouldn’t hold back telling you. The steps of faith? That was a hell of a burden, not that that’s on you. Still glad I did it, but...” A smirk eases onto his face, his words hinting at playful ribbing, though his hands remain gentle as they guide the bandages around Aymeric’s torso, nearing the end of their task. “But this? It’s only bandaging a wound. Not like I have to go out of my way to do something I’ve done a thousand times.”

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milesducemdominus​:

@stcrmscngs || 𝐿𝒾𝓀𝑒𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒮𝓉𝒶𝓇𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝒞𝒶𝓁𝓁

Stubborn - If wounds received in battle were not life-threatening or dire enough to require immediate medical attention, you could be absolutely certain that Aymeric would choose the privacy of treating them himself. A variety of scars littered his form, collected over the years of rising through the ranks and facing winged monsters; more seemingly added as the frequency of attacks continued. 

Thus, it is tucked away in the Congregation - in the tired, early hours of the morning that Aymeric takes pause long enough to remove armour and begin to clean wounds that were previously obscured beneath torn cloth. He emits the odd hiss as herb-infused salves are used to sterilise wounds and (with hope-) prevent infections occurring. 

it is only when he begins to fumble with organising bandages that he casts an eye towards the door, noting a brief cold draft, only to find himself with company; 

“Ah - pray , take a seat aside the fire - the snowfall grows stronger by the hour, you must be perished.”

     Velkyn is no stranger to scars. Possessed of an overabundance of his own and, apparently, a similar tendency to deal, alone, with the wounds that leave them, he hardly bats an eye when he crosses the congregation’s threshold only to find Ser Aymeric in such a state. Since meeting the man, he’d never seen him in such an unarmored state— literally and figuratively. The knight isn’t aware of his presence ( a good thing. At least the miqo’te’s skills aren’t getting rusty, thanks to all this ‘hero’ nonsense. ) and he looks...

     Tired.

That Aymeric is the sort to deal with his injuries in such a way, by himself, tucked into a corner before the sun has barely begun to rise, is not surprising, per say. Nor is the fact that he looks as though he could fall dead asleep at any moment, if given the chance. The Elezen is stubborn, no doubt about it, and Vel has never met another so insistent on working himself to the bone. 

Still, though, the so-called warrior of light’s ears lie back in concern when his eyes fall upon him, and instead of announcing his presence, he can do nothing but linger, like a ghost in the doorway— a smudge the color of snow and stone just beyond the Lord Commander’s peripheral. For that moment, he considers turning around and stepping back out into the blizzard.

     It only lasts a moment, though, before Aymeric turns his head.

Without much coaxing, Velkyn steps further into the room, inching into the glow of the firelight and the warmth held within. He’s freezing, but he’s always freezing in Ishgard. He’d like to think he’s gotten used to it by now, but with the minimal heat he’s able to generate for himself, it’s not likely that such a thing is even possible.

He doesn’t settle beside the fire, however— not immediately. Instead he steps closer to where Aymeric has set himself. One pale brow arches as he gives the cleaned wound a cursory glance, recalling the fumbling he’d just seen with the roll of bandages still held in the knight’s palm, and he holds a hand out to him— scarred palm facing up. Expectant.

     “Here. With that location, you’ll have trouble wrapping that yourself. You’re no stranger to this, from what I can tell, so you know I’m right.” Vel anticipates denial, so why not barrel right through it? The hour is still too early for the blunt-edged blade that is the Miqo’te’s tongue to carry any of the grace needed to persuade.

     “I’m not here to drag you to a healer, at least, so humor me.”

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@lunarant​ said:  🎀 for minyue!

screenshot meme / accepting!

Send 🎀  to see them in a cute outfit

Cute AND comfy!!

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@againthemartyr said: 💖 for vel :> but also if you are feeling like it also pick another character to Show Me … looks respectfully

screenshot meme / accepting!

Send 💖 to see them in their favourite outfit(s)

Vel’s favorite non-combat oriented outfits tend to be unrestrictive and simple. Dark colors, some form of boots, simple jewelry, and (more often than not) a lack of sleeves.

Minyue’s favorite outfits will always come in shades of red, usually with jade and gold accents. He’s much more accustomed to dressing lavishly than simply, and has a weakness for fine embroidery. He’s also fond of floral motifs and hair pins or other hair accessories.

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(( today was a homework day and my brain is fried so no writing today, but I will be answering some screenshot memes!! ))

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maskedmuses​:

The playful grin still stretched across the woman’s features as she peered down at the man, the goading successfully working upon bristling his britches, which was immeasurably humorous to Koya. His soft features were filled with annoyance, something that seemed so natural upon his countenance that she couldn’t help but dig at to have emerge. His smile was always welcome, but in a situation like this, it was all she could do to avoid the fact of how much he had genuinely rescued her only barely half a bell before.

Despite how much he had done so well, her back very literally saved in the moment, the Hybrid nearly falling to a surprise, piercing attack, how it had been the ringing sound of staff hitting skin that alerted her to the presence of than man behind her. He had nearly attempted to slice open the mage before Koya had stepped in to serve knuckles directly into his nasal passages.

Dirt and dried blood battered her skin and clothing, nothing usually for when Koya tumbled with opponents, looking worse for wear than the man, but with much more spry in her step and energy to linger. She was accustomed to the battering of the battlefield, and he was not; a simple fact of their dynamic that Koya refused to change between them.

“Nah, but there might be a requirement when you try to whack the shit out of an enemy and not expecting your ass to get kicked.” She couldn’t help but chuckle, taking the situation lightly and grinning down at him before her arms swung up, crossing behind her head lazily, noting the small wince and pain that surged through his body. He could hardly hide away everything from her perspective eye, even if she decided to turn it blindly away. “But if you ask me…”

Her gaze shifted upwards towards the looming buildings of Ul’dah, the gates not far now from their stride. “The head would’ve been a good spot, but reachin’ his crotch. He might’ve been down for the count then. That was a good hit though, since you stunned him.” Her lips curled cheekily, her gaze returning down towards him. Truly there was remorse for how beat up he looked, but Koya wouldn’t let it slip out.

That was far too affectionate to admit to the man whom had taught her so much and didn’t laugh at her lack of magic.

“Food it is, then!” She laughed, letting her hands fall and hang by her side. “Come on, I heard they opened up a really good food stall in the Exchange that I’ve been wantin’ to try out.” Such an easy thing to do, thanking him, but such a thing felt too personal right now. As if admitting she had needed him in the moment, and every fiber of her being refused to utter such a thing.

“It’s way less exhausting to fight and hit things than it is to cast spells. That shit is so drainin’.” She almost whined at the idea, recalling the last time she had attempted anything. It had been another time he had saved her that she refused to acknowledge. “Besides, you need to get some muscle on you. You goin’ to let me always save your ass in a fist fight, Mini?” Another prodding goad at him as they began to encroach on the Gates of Nald.

     Minyue heaves a sigh, shaking his head at his own foolishness. In the moment, simply hitting the man as soon as possible was far less important than where he hit him, but Koya is right, of course— maximum damage should have been his goal, and it was his own fault for losing sight of that. Still, he had managed to get his attention and prevent something awful in the process. That counts for something, even to his own critical mind.

     “I’ll keep that in mind for next time, violence guru.” Despite the smirk that tugs at his lips, he’s far more sincere than he lets on. Koya is able to handle close combat far better than he believes himself capable of, so her advice is taken duly to heart. They balance one another, in these matters, Minyue’s spellcraft more than making up for Koya’s lack of mana, and Koya’s prowess in knock-down, drag-out fighting doing the same for Minyue’s inability to throw a single solid punch. 

Perhaps he’ll manage to learn, if he stays at her side, but so long as he is at her side, he knows he’ll seldom need to— regardless of the woman’s insistence that he needs to gain muscle.

     “We saved each other’s asses, back there, if you’ll recall, so I’d say we’re even on that point— or, at least, we will be after dinner.” The Auri man huffs, round cheeks puffing slightly as he purses his lips at the indignity, barbed tail flicking sharply down near his ankles. “Perhaps I’ll give some thought to that sort of training, eventually, but I wouldn’t want to get too good and put you out of a job.”

The playful jab is accompanied by a flash of sharp teeth as a grin breaks through the cover of his pout. Bantering with Koya like this almost makes him forget the aches and pains he drags along as they begin climbing the steps up to the gates of the city. His legs protest, but at least his staff has made itself useful outside of combat as well as in. He doesn’t need to lean on it too heavily, but it does provide some much-needed balance to his otherwise dragging strides. 

     Still, though, a question nags at him, even with the promise of food so near and the company so engaging. “...If I asked you to teach me how to throw a punch, would you?” 

Minyue isn’t a fan of the idea of throwing himself headfirst into a guild and having to struggle in front of everyone in it. He’s been a prodigy in both magic and machines since childhood, but he’s certain that this will be no easy subject for him to learn.

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is wyrmblood truly Estinien's family name? do you think he had another before his town was razed? and if so - what do you think it was?

unprompted // always accepting!

I definitely think ‘Wyrmblood’ is a title and not an actual surname. Ishgardians seem to do that— Aymeric the Blue, Stephanivien Brightsun, Artoirel Ironbone, Alberic Quickwater, etc. It wouldn’t surprise me if ‘Wyrmblood’ was picked up during Dragoon training or perhaps after he became the current Azure Dragoon. Chances are that before that, and after Ferndale, he was called by ‘Bale’ due to being adopted by Ser Alberic.

As for what his family name actually was while he lived in Ferndale, I don’t imagine it was anything too impressive or extra, the way Ishgardian nobility is with their surnames. He was a Shepherd’s son. 

If we can assume naming conventions for lowborn Elezen are anything like real life naming conventions for the average french families of a corresponding-ish time period, then his surname could have been patronymic— or basically, a reference to his father’s given name, a way of saying Estinien, son of _____. For instance, I HC Estinien’s father’s name to be Cyrille, So Estinien’s name would have been Estinien Cyrille. Unless it’s been decreed that surnames have to be set and passed down, then I would just have to go back in his family tree, naming every father along the line until deciding on one whos first name would have passed to his son, and would have been the settled surname at the time sjhdfgjsd. 

Occupational surnames were also very common, so it could have very well been that Estinien’s family name was simply Berger, or “Shepherd”.

Yeah, I realize that a lesson on Actual French Naming Conventions aren’t what you came here for but sjhgfjhsfd. 

TLDR; Estinien doesn’t have a fancy family name to pass down, because he’s lowborn, so in Ferndale, his family was the Berger family, the occupational surname for Shepherds, after being adopted by Ser Alberic, his surname becomes Bale, and after becoming a Dragoon, his given title is Wyrmblood.

[stcrmscngs]

aprisatm​:

@stcrmscngs​ said: [ taste ] for Vel to cook for Wei Ying

The sound of someone cooking in the kitchen isn’t too surprising, especially in the Lotus Pier where there’s more than a few people who live there. Especially within the Jiang household. No, that hadn’t been what had made Wei Wuxian pause—It’d been the fact that those sounds were coming from his kitchen in his part of the house that’d been what made him pause for a moment from where he was tucking A-Yuan into bed.  ( Already asleep, tired from a day spent playing and being doted on. Safe.  All that matters. )

Someone who was trying to kill him would be a lot quieter and they wouldn’t be stopping in his kitchen in all places to make a meal—Maybe A-li’s stove had went out and that was who was in his kitchen, though his fingers still go bone white around Chenging as he steps out of A-Yuan’s room and heads into the kitchen. 

White ears, white hair, fluffy tail—It only takes a moment for Wei Ying to realize who’s in his kitchen once they’re in his eye sight and he slinks quietly up behind the Miqo’te before making his presence known by resting his head upon one of Vel’s shoulders, wrapping his arms around his waist. “You know,”  he murmurs, lips pressing to one of Vel’s cheeks. “ you could have let me know you were coming. I missed you.  “

     Vel gives a short huff of breath— perhaps a laugh, or perhaps a scoff— as he pinches the dough of the buuz shut around the filling he’d just browned, setting each finished dumpling into the box to steam. As engrossed in his task as he is, the miqo’te nearly misses the presence of the other man entirely, but it takes only a moment before one ear flicks towards the near-soundless rustle of Wei Ying’s clothes as he moves. Velkyn catches his scent in the room and, as arms wind around his middle, a smile tugs at the corners of his lips. 

The tension that seems to linger always in the warrior’s form unwinds as he tips his head back to lie against the other man’s chest. With his hair pulled up and out of the way, it’s no difficult task for Wei Ying to nose his way to his cheek and press lips to his skin— a kiss and a pout, mixed into one completely Wei Ying gesture— as he speaks.

Vel smirks and shakes his head, fluffy tail flicking and curling its way around the taller man’s waist as its owner moves on to the next dumpling. “Wouldn’t have been much of a surprise, then, would it?”

     Turning his head, he catches Wei Ying’s lips, replacing his cheek with his mouth and kissing the voidsent for one long, tender moment before parting enough to speak. “I missed you too. I’m...sorry that it took me so long. I don’t mean to keep...disappearing on you.”

[stcrmscngs]

Oh to be a princess sneaking away with her personal guard, who she’s incredibly close with...

[stcrmscngs]

lunarant​:

       Gaius is no stranger to the cold. Having grown up in Ilsabard, he is far too familiar with the freezing cold winters– And while the coldness and dampness of the Shroud is unfamiliar to him, he is more than able to manage. 

        Of course, his eyes cannot help but drift to his newest companion. The Miqo’te seemed to be struggling, clothes soaked through to create a rather pathetic sight. It was that sight that prompted his decision to cover him with his own, much larger coat. After all, it seemed as though the other man needed it much more than he.

        After all, from growing up in his homeland, he was more accustomed to the chill that was in the air at this particular moment. 

        He should have expected the other man to return his coat– But Gaius simply shook his head. “Do not worry yourself about me. You are the one who is not acclimated to such weather.” He makes no movement to reach for the returned coat– Leaving it for X’ruhn to cover himself once more. “You are soaked through. Simply accept it. I shall manage.” 

The mercenary is far from wrong. X’rhun is quite certain he couldn’t be less acclimated to the weather if he tried— each gust of wind blows right through him, tossing pale locks of hair this way and that and buffeting his face with more rain than he thinks he’s ever seen during the entirety of his time in Thanalan.

However, shivers racking his body or no, he’s not the sort of man to take another’s only source of warmth. It doesn’t feel right to walk alongside the other, securely tucked beneath his coat while the gunbreaker subjects himself to the storm on his behalf. His attempt to return the garment is met only with a steadfast refusal, though, which leaves him little choice but to resituate the large coat overtop his head and shoulders, flattening his ears back for comfort’s sake.

The miqo’te’s brows furrow as he looks up at ‘Shadowhunter’ from underneath his coat, a frown sticking stubbornly to the corners of his lips as he watches the rain soak into the Garlean’s hair, clothes, and bandages. X’rhun is far from pleased with the result, but insisting will likely just be met with the same stoic denial as before. 

The red mage decides to forgo wasting his breath, this time, in favor of exhaling a sigh and offering the taller man a grateful smile. “This is...very generous of you, ser, although I would still rather you warm yourself than me. It was I who did not dress for the weather, after all, the price should not be yours to pay.”

     “I am used to much warmer climates, you see. It seems Gyr Abania will forever be in my blood, no matter how much time has passed since I’ve last seen home.” X’rhun laughs lightly, his voice catching on an errant bluster of chilly air. “I would hate for you to catch ill due to my lack of preparedness, Shadowhunter. Perhaps we might take shelter when next we reach a settlement, instead of pushing onwards?”