#BECAUSE IT ISSSS

[percildanz]

sorry to everyone arguing otherwise but this is fucking gay as shit

[wuntrum]

please, i'm a star!

[barblaz-arts]

How much time passed between Wednesday and Enid meeting and Wednesday's trial? Was Vega created as a baby and she grew up? Or was she created at that age? Did no one wonder how Wednesday just suddenly had a child?

Also how did Esther know she was created using Enid's blood?

I absolutely adore all of your AUs and thus one is so much fun.

I've already answered the first few questions

The community near her cottage are too scared to ask about Vega, so rumors go around. Some think Vega was kidnapped, some think she was sold, some think Wednesday finally asked for someone's first born child as the price for her magical deals. Which is... kind of right? Like, she kind of took Enid's firstborn didn't she 🫤

Vega seemed pretty happy and safe with Wednesday tho so despite her sus origins people didn't do anything about it. Wednesday seemed nicer after Vega came around anyway so nobody was gonna complain about that.

Vega was captured after an incident made her wolf out. Such a young werewolf wolfing out is extremely rare, so it got people's attention. When Esther saw her, she was able to sense their blood relation due to being the big bad Alpha of the packs. It's more like instinct shit tho, so they had witches confirm it as stated in the comic

[lollipopmixclo9]

T-Tarot Club | Lord of the Mysteries

I can't think of a quote for them but PRAISE THE FOOL! 🙌

[drumlincountry]

I am at the stage of trauma recovery that feels like reattaching previously dead limbs.

[ohbandera]

Precipice

The moment of hesitation before inevitable change.

[tatakaeeren]

Happy Himuro-Kun is the cutest! (/≧▽≦)/

[beauzos]

replayed Foreign Turnabout last night and my fucking god it is so funny realizing that Nahyuta and Rayfa act the same sometimes. look at this shit. this is the same shit Nahyuta says to people at age twenty-five, albeit that Nahyuta says this stuff with much more refinement and confidence.

it's so funny that they both do this independent of each other. i've always liked the idea of Rayfa and Nahyuta inadvertently mirroring each other and i feel validated by this moment

[nichiperi]

i am about one more day of artistic constipation away before i just sCREAM INTO MY MIC AND BANG ON RANDOM SHIT AND CALL IT MUSIC GAAAAAH

[mishhe-kht]

i went crazy and made portraits for a trpg with my new son

[existencebringsonlypain]

I have given her a friend!!!

[imissthembutitwasntadisaster]

They say I'm not so good with circles. Or air. Or control. But I can still blast your ass to the end of days if you're not careful, so!

- Derivative High Fantasy Adventuring Duo

[cake-by-thepound]

Happy Richonniversary Ash. 💝 Today I am reading The Next World to celebrate and hoping maybe you will do something like this for TOWL? Pretty please?

Oop, I’m sorry I missed this yesterday! But same to you! ♥️

As for something like TNW, I honestly don’t know if I’ll have the time (ya girl has deadlines 😭). BUT I feel very confident that you won’t need any fanfiction after what we’re about to witness! 🤭

[spiritsong]

day fourteen: campfire

#Veilguard30 by @pavus · writing prompt

wordcount: 1.5k sylathe lavellan fights off the panic that nips at her when the survivors of haven raise their voices in song. continue below or read on ao3.

“Shadows fall, and hope has fled.” 

Sylathe startled at Mother Giselle’s voice echoing out from behind her. Her gaze had been fixed on her advisors — each wore an expression of weariness and frustration. It had not become defeat or hopelessness yet, but in the shadows where the campfire could not reach, she felt those forces lingering, waiting for the first who would falter. 

“Steel your heart; the dawn will come.” 

And beyond the advisors, there were the faces of those who had survived the attack on Haven. Despite beating such odds, many would be unlikely to survive the night. There were mouths set in hardened lines, just as there were eyes that wept openly, everyone free or forced to witness the despondency on display. 

How many heard those muffled cries and felt the ache in their own chests bloom, eager to join in kind? How many were allowed to do so, and how many buried such aches, buried like the snow that smothered the mountains, denied it air so that they might find the fortitude to make it to a day where they could afford such vulnerability?

“The night is long, and the path is dark. Look to the sky, for one day soon, the dawn will come.”

It was a song, Sylathe realized. The survivors’ heads lifted, first those closest to her, and then beyond as the revered mother’s voice rippled out across the camp. Some moved slowly, as though pushing through a fog, while others were startled out of the heaviness that plagued their thoughts. 

None wore the look of confusion that Sylathe felt on her own face. In fact, there seemed to be a connection there; they recognized the words that passed through Mother Giselle’s lips. 

A hymn, then. It had a similar cadence to the songs that Sylathe had heard the Chantry priests at Haven sing. 

“The shepherd’s lost, and his home is far.”

Again, Sylathe jumped when another voice rang out. It belonged to Leliana; the sound was clear and much sweeter than she would have expected from the ruthless spymaster. 

Still, there was a shrill quality to the pitch that was hard to ignore. Sylathe felt the hairs on the back of her neck bristle. 

“Keep to the stars; the dawn will come.” 

Unease settled on her like a pall as other voices joined in the chorus. One by one, people began to rise to their feet, drawing closer to Mother Giselle — and to her. She saw the dejection shed from their faces, replaced with something like…

Something like rapture.

She tried to swallow and found herself having trouble doing so. The muscles of her throat were locked into place. All the same, her feet refused to move, as though winter itself had taken hold of her and rooted her to the snow. The nonsensical part of her mind hoped that if she could mimic winter’s stillness, she would fade into the background, or somewhere else entirely. Anywhere else.

Her fingers flew to her chest by habit, and she felt the way her heart fluttered underneath, like a desperate animal trying to break out of a cage or trap. The blood pounding in her ears was so resounding she could no longer make out the words that filled the air.

A man broke through the crowd and approached her. Fear roiled inside her body; she could not predict what he might do. Just when she thought he would reach out and touch her, the man fell to his knees. 

Sylathe watched in horror as he looked at her with a reverence that no mortal should receive.  It had not been the first time people had kneeled to her in supplication. The cult at the Winterwatch Tower had done so after she had closed the rift that endangered their sanctuary. 

She had made an attempt to comfort herself by writing it off as the actions of a few fanatics, but now, Sylathe saw how that veneration spread from the man to the other survivors like an infection. It was as though some spell pulled their bodies to the ground; drew their faces from the revered mother to her.

“Stop,” Sylathe pleaded, though it came out only as a whisper, so soft that even she could not hear it. She tried again, louder this time, but the howling wind of the valley cared little for her words; it preferred instead to carry the hymn to every ear, to fill the spaces in-between until she could feel it press up against her.

She tried to stave off the fear, looking for a familiar face in the crowd, someone, anyone who wasn’t just a face or a name or a stranger entirely. Her eyes fell to her advisors, but Leliana appeared utterly lost in the song, and Josephine and Cullen had joined their voices to the masses. 

Their eyes met hers, and even they looked at her as though she was something more. Could they not see the terror she knew wrought her features? These were the people she was meant to trust, the ones who were meant to guide her— 

There is but one person who is your guide, Sylathe, and that is your Keeper. When did you start letting the shems mark out your path? 

Her own voice leveled admonishments to her in her head, and along with the frightful keening of the song, her senses became overwhelmed. The sea of faces that looked to her blurred and swirled until it was muddied and featureless.

And for a moment, she saw the elves who had come before; all others who had stood in this very spot, the Shartans of history, used by humanity and discarded once they had been wrung out of all their purpose.

No, it was worse than that; a death exacted twice — one of the body and another of the memory. 

And another vision came to her, this time of her future: she will be propped up as a figurehead for the shemlen institution that had been the cause of so much of her people’s suffering. She would dole out their decrees and enforce their laws and fight in their wars, and at the end of it all, they will have used her past her limit, and there will be nothing recognizable of her left. 

She didn’t want this.

Sylathe felt the cold panic just beneath her skin, more biting than even the blizzard that she had trudged through to get here. She wondered if she would have been better off lost in the snow. Why had she come this way? 

Even as she told herself that she could have left them to deal with Corypheus on their own, that she had done her due in halting the Breach, she knew that it could not be. But perhaps, if she had been slower, the storm could have claimed her and she would be free of her guilt. 

She didn’t want to die, but she didn’t want this.

She took a faltering step backwards and bumped into someone who had shuffled close to her. They were crowding behind her now, too. There was no escape. 

Sylathe felt her consciousness threaten to lift out of her body, and despite everything, she fought against it. She did not want to watch her body from above. The people hungered for a hope that she could not feed them, and she feared to see what would happen to her once the realization hit them, how they might scratch and claw and take pieces of her for themselves.

Her eyes squeezed shut as she tried to give herself some other stimulus to focus on. When they opened again, the details surrounding her were once again distinguishable. In the distance, across the fire and beyond the zealous faces, she saw movement. It was different from the bodies that shambled forward inch by inch.

This was someone moving with purpose through the crowd, not captured by the song like the others.

Solas.

He had survived the attack.

He came to a stop once there was a clear line of sight between them. He had been looking for her. 

Solas stood tall, staff in one hand, the end of it staked into the ground, a kind of pronouncement: this was his spot and he would not be moved from it.

She worried that the others might shift and she would lose sight of him, but they seemed to keep their distance, even without having awareness of doing so. 

The color of his eyes were indiscernible beneath the blanket of night, but still they shone with such clarity. 

She wondered what Solas saw as he stared at her; a misguided Dalish elf, gone pallid and wide-eyed, shaking with fear?

But she didn’t sense judgment or cruelty or even pity in the look he gave her. His eyes bore into her own, and even across the space, she felt as though she could almost hear his soothing voice in her head. 

Look at me, it said. Anchor yourself in my gaze.

Hold steady.

[ohitslen]

Rewatching Stampede because yes I have better things to do but also seeing Nai playing “Duet” by himself sounding the same way it did when Vash played with him, he really must have invested a lot of time into pulling that off and it just makes my gut roll in a certain way that I’m just-

[sealovinq]

goodmorning, i forgot to mention that cowb.oy/ke.vin (a character that gets shipped with jose A LOT) canonically hates men and sees them as animals AND has a former female lover that is very likely still alive