#FORGIVE THE ITALIAN BUT

[stormyoceans]

IF I DON'T GET A HEART ATTACK TODAY IM GONNA LIVE FOREVER

[corseque]

I thought I would just finish creating these for every language as long as I had everything open.

DA: Veilguard 繁体中文 Traditional Chinese Script (Organized)

DA: Veilguard 繁体中文 Traditional Chinese Script (Raw)

DA: Veilguard 简体中文 Simplified Chinese Script (Organized)

DA: Veilguard 简体中文 Simplified Chinese Script (Raw)

DA: Veilguard 日本語 Japanese Script (Organized)

DA: Veilguard 日本語 Japanese Script (Raw)

DA: Veilguard 한국어 Korean Script (Organized)

DA: Veilguard 한국어 Korean Script (Raw)

DA: Veilguard Русский Russian Script (Organized)

DA: Veilguard Русский Russian Script (Raw)

DA: Veilguard Português Portuguese Script (Organized)

DA: Veilguard Português Portuguese Script (Raw)

DA: Veilguard Polski Polish Script (Organized)

DA: Veilguard Polski Polish Script (Raw)

DA: Veilguard Italiano Italian Script (Organized)

DA: Veilguard Italiano Italian Script (Raw)

DA: Veilguard Français French Script (Organized)

DA: Veilguard Français French Script (Raw)

DA: Veilguard Español Spanish Script (Organized)

DA: Veilguard Español Spanish Script (Raw)

DA: Veilguard Deutsch German Script (Organized)

DA: Veilguard Deutsch German Script (Raw)

DA: Veilguard English Script (Organized)

DA: Veilguard English Script (Raw)

BONUS INQUISITON SCRIPTS:

FRENCH:

Dragon Age: Inquisition Organized Script in French

French Dialogue Separated By Character

Everything Solas says in French

Comparison between Solas' dialogue in French and English

GERMAN:

Dragon Age: Inquisition Organized Script in German

German Dialogue Separated by Character

Everything Solas says in German

Thank you to @bluebadger37 for helping me get the Inquisition talktable in German!

ITALIAN:

Dragon Age: Inquisition Organized Script in Italian

Italian Dialogue Separated by Character

Everything Solas says in Italian

Thank you to @amburuthings for helping me get the Inquisition talktable in French and Italian!

(the lines that read like "0x00097cf3" are lines that appear in English that didn't seem to get translated into the other language - they appear in the English script but are not translated in the talktable of the other game.)

(I would like to make organized scripts for Dragon Age: Inquisition in the other languages, but I need the raw talktable for them in order to process them, so if you would like to export the raw talktable in your language for me using Frosty and link me to it, I would be glad to quickly put it through my program.)

[artsarasp]

Here's the lil chart I made to help my boyfriend remember the characters in scum villain (it's still being updated and very biased) Translating the Italian ramblings; Next to YQY: "If SQQ wants to do something he always lets him."

Next to SQQ: Fan <3 Next to LQG: He's got a mole under his eye

Next to SQH: Small, sweaty and a little disgusting <3 Next to Binghe: The book's protagonist!

Next to Yingying: Little oneeeee <3 Lou Binghe's friend

[ask2ps]

this guy's got issues. unfortunately, i love him

[tabrisangel]

welcome to the underground how was the fall

[ink-and-dagger]

54 for some possessive terzo maybe? There's way too much good stuff on that list it's hard to choose

Will you take some soft possessive Terzo? I sure hope so cuz that’s what I’ve written

Papa Emeritus iii x Reader || Smut drabble || Soft possessive Terzo || Wedding night || Love-making || NSFW || MDNI

There are flowers on the floor.

An abandoned bouquet of midnight calla lilies and black satin dahlias, strung together with velvet ribbon.

And there are fine clothes too; embroidered silks in colours so rarely seen around the Ministry. New shoes, worn only once. Papal robes and ceremonial pomp. All of it strewn upon the ground like a trail of crumbs in a fairytale forest, leading not to some gingerbread cottage but to a canopied bed, adorned with gossamer curtains and dark satin throws, and two lovers tangled upon it.

You and Terzo move together like warm ocean waves lapping up sunsoaked sands. No rush, only leisure and bliss. Hands graze over shifting muscles, and soft, pleasure-filled sighs fill the space between stolen kisses. He’s pressed so close that you can feel his heart beating through his chest and straight into yours. It feels apt, today of all days.

“Mio cuore,” Terzo whispers, his breathless words collecting upon your skin as his mouth roves blindly over your cheeks, your lips, your throat, “Sei il mio cuore. Il mio tutto – senza di te morirei. Ti amo. Ti amo tanto. Tanto molto—”

His words melt into a ragged moan as he grinds himself deeper inside your heat. And you too gasp out his name, nails digging pink crescents into his back, and your legs hitching higher around his waist.

He pulls back only far enough to gaze down at you. A  warm, broad palm rises to cup your jaw, thumb sweeping to brush away the single, rapturous tear which clings to your lower lashes.

“Say it again,” he begs, like he hasn’t already spent the entire day at your ear any chance he got, quietly requesting to hear you repeat the two words since you first spoke them in the chapel.

“I do,” you breathe, “I do.”

Your hips roll to meet each of his quickening thrusts. His sudden intensity knocking the air from your lungs until all you can do is gape hopelessly up at him; gaze wide and imploring, swollen lips parted in silent plea.

“Only I get to ruin you like this, you hear me?” He growls, dual-eyes dazzling with the sheer breadth of emotion contained within them, “Only me– O-only me—”

“Only you, Terzo,” you agree, cupping the back of his night-dark head, guiding his brow down to rest against yours, “Only my husband.”

His lips crash against yours, and you lose yourself to him completely.

Bare palms slide over your shoulders, up your arms to lace his fingers together with yours, and press your joined hands into the blankets over your head.

The moon smiles down upon you both, blessing your Union with her silver touch. It filters through the bedroom window and illuminates you both in a pool of ethereal light, and sets the matching bands on your fingers glittering.

Mio cuore. Sei il mio cuore. Il mio tutto – senza di te morirei. Ti amo. Ti amo tanto. Tanto molto. My heart. You are my heart. My everything - without you I would die. I love you. I love you so much. So much.

[lemonerix]

lil scenario where Templar gets HRE'd (same body, different person headcanon) so he's now the Order of Christ (one of the successors of the KT), and doesn't remember anything b4 the disbandment of the Templars bc he's not Templar anymore (technically). 

Anyway, cue Veneziano and Prussia bonding/drinking themselves to shit bc of their childhood/first loves.

🇮🇹:"I see him, and I love him still, but I know it's not really him, and it hurts to see his face and know that he isn't the one I fell in love with all those years ago." *incoherent sobbing*

🐥:"Fuck, pass the bottle, Vene."

°°°

🐥:"It's just so unfair after not seeing him for so long, after mourning his death, and then he suddenly shows up with a new name and looks at me as if we've never met before. He used to look at me with so much love and I thought I'd never see him again, but seeing him regard me as just some other guy– Mein Gott, death would've been a more merciful option than whatever this is." *smashes bottle on the ground*

🇮🇹:"End our suffering. Dio mio, basta porre fine alla nostra sofferenza!" *wails and punches a wall*

tbh I like both the amnesiac hc and the same body, different person hc bc both are just filled with so much angst potential ✨

[thebearincorrectquotes]

Natalie: You’re starting to forget your Italian. You don’t practice.

Carmy: Mi dispiace, sorella mia, sono incinta.

Natalie: You just told me you’re pregnant.

Richie: [To Carmy] Congratulations. You’re glowing.

[incorrect-maraudersaandco-quotes]

Dorcas: How do I look?

Marlene: Tu eres magnífica.

Dorcas:

James: Mals, that spanish

Marlene, blushing: Du bist großartig

Peter: German, not even close.

Marlene: Fuck off!

James: and we are back to english!

Dorcas: Wait, how many languages you know?

Marlene: four, english, german, spanish and tagalog.

Dorcas: oh [starts mentally preparing the wedding venue]

[nerdanel01]

Exquisite, Pt. II

Emmrich/Rook, teensy bit of Lucanis/Rook if you really squint 2k+ wc | SFW [Pt. I Here]

Emmrich had never considered himself to be a jealous man. He did not covet what others possessed, content with his lot and labors; envy had never come naturally to him.

And yet there he sat in the common room of the Lighthouse, seated in the chair with the clearest, unobstructed view of the kitchen, watching Agnes watch the Crow. 

It had been several weeks since he had left Nevarra behind, and the Mourn Watch with it. Weeks of Agnes being short and clipped with him, or outright ignoring him entirely. Try as he might to thaw the chill between them, nothing—not praise, nor flattery, nor thoughtful gestures—seemed to appease her. Any and all attempts he had made to spend time with her, or converse with her since they had returned to the Lighthouse together had failed, many of those efforts ending quite disastrously. Manfred, through the power of his sense of humor alone, had managed to develop a friendly rapport with her—but as for Emmrich, he suspected that Agnes would barely give him the time of day, if he asked. 

That on its own might have been tolerable; after all, given their cataclysmic falling out and the two year separation that had followed Agnes’ flight from the Mourn Watch, Emmrich had thought he would never see Agnes again in this life. Even if she hated him, at least now he had been blessed with the possibility (however remote) of repairing the rift between them. He did not think it would be easy, but he was glad to have the opportunity to try. 

But in the Mourn Watch, Agnes had always been closest to him— even during the period when Rolf Magnusson had been courting her. Emmrich had been her dearest companion, her confidant; he had become accustomed to that familiar place of privilege within her heart. No longer did she cherish him there. And unlike in the Mourn Watch, where she had made little effort at making other friends of her own, the comfort and ease and warmth with which she bore herself around the members of the Veilguard struck a startling contrast to the way she behaved around him. Watching her collaborate with Lace on their next moves, the fascination with which she listened to Bellara speak about her discoveries in Arlathan forest, all while she would hardly spare a glance for Emmrich himself… well. That stung, a little. 

The way she laughed and smiled and practically fawned over Lucanis… that more than stung, it smoldered painfully in his chest. 

Of course, there was no indication her relationship with him had gone beyond the bounds of friendship. But, Emmrich thought to himself—why wouldn’t it? She was lovely, cunning, capable; no doubt Lucanis saw that for himself just as well as Emmrich did. And he was possessed of that dark, enigmatic, Antivan charm—even across the room Emmrich fancied that he could practically hear Agnes’ heart palpitating every time Lucanis spoke in his native tongue, the same language of the operas Agnes had so loved. 

As if he were not sufficiently well-endowed with charm and allure: he was an excellent cook. 

Though Lucanis’ definition of ‘cooking’ clearly did not measure up to Agnes’. Three nights ago he had prepared dinner for the group. The pungent, mouth-watering smells of garlic and cheese had filled the Lighthouse, lulling everyone into a state of anticipation and rapture before the meal had even begun. But when at last it had been served, Agnes had just paused for a moment, looking at her plate, broken hearted. 

“Something the matter, Rook?” Lucanis has asked her, coolly. 

Agnes had opened her mouth, thought better off it, closed her mouth, and shook her head, no. It was not in the least bit convincing. Then she had picked up her fork, but before she had even touched it to her plate, she had dropped it back to the table, unable to hold her silence any longer. 

“How could you do this?” she had asked, sounding crushed. 

“Do what?”

And she had lifted her plate, tilting it towards Lucanis like an accusation. “You spent hours on this, and it must be incredible—it smells incredible, smells beautiful—only to just drop it onto the plate like slop for swine.”

Emmrich had to repress a grin. She was not wrong. But unlike Agnes, Emmrich had not expected the Nevarran custom of cooking—where food was as much a feast for the eyes as it was for the palate—to have held much sway in Antiva. 

The amusement and irritation were both plain in Neve’s tone when she interjected, “Fasta vass, Rook, you’re worried about what it looks like? It’s going to taste just the same.”

“It tastes heavenly,” Bellara added supportively, already twirling more of the pasta onto her fork. “Thanks, Lucanis.”

“It deserves better,” Agnes had muttered, half under her breath. 

“Fine,” Lucanis answered her, with an unbothered shrug. “If it bothers you so much, you can serve the meal next time I cook, jefa.”

By his tone, Emmrich gathered that the comment had been intended as a dig. But Agnes has only stood to reach across the table, extending her hand to Lucanis to shake on it. “Deal.”

And so now, there they were: Lucanis kneading eggs into flour for another fresh batch of pasta, with Agnes hovering around the kitchen island beside him, all questions and insatiable curiosity. Encouraged by her enthusiasm, Lucanis was teaching her how to form the dough into different pasta shapes: 

“And then you pinch here in the center, to make farfalle—”

“Oh!” Agnes exclaimed in delight. “Like little butterflies.”

Lucanis smiled at her, shrugged. “I always thought they looked more like bow ties, myself. Then there’s the conchiglie—shells—you just give the dough a little roll with your fingers, like that…”

“Can I try?”

… and despite his most valiant effort, Emmrich could not repress the slight twitch of his upper lip as he watched Agnes sidle closer, Lucanis peering instructively over her shoulder as her fingers worked the dough. 

Years ago, when she had left—when Agnes had fled the Mourn Watch and left him behind—Emmrich had hoped for her to be happy, to be loved in whatever life she built for herself after leaving Nevarra. 

Of course, when he had made that secret prayer, he had not expected to be present for it—to be forced to endure the exquisite torture of watching it happen before his very eyes. 

Yet there it was: Agnes’ eyes a little too keen for Emmrich’s liking as she watched Lucanis’ hands knead the dough into shapes, taking in the thickness of his scar-covered fingers, covered in handsome dark hairs—

“Emmrich! What’s that around your neck?”

Bellara’s voice startled him out of his forlorn musings. He blinked, then looked down, and lo—the delicate gold chain had slipped between the buttons of his shirt, the lazurite ring that hung upon it swinging like a pendulum. 

Hastily, he tucked it back beneath the fabric. “Oh, it’s nothing really.”

“It’s not nothing!” Bellara replied. “It is a very old and very pretty something, from the little peek I got of it. What is it? A family heirloom?”

It was nothing of the sort. But Emmrich did it feel inclined to explain exactly what it was, especially under present circumstances, and in present company. 

But, “Just show her, Volkarin,” Taash insisted. “She won’t give it up until you do.” The boredom in the treasure hunter’s voice did little to conceal the eagerness in her eyes; like Emmrich himself, Taash had a weakness for shiny things, and her own curiosity had been piqued. Across the table, even Davrin had glanced up from his carving to see what all the fuss was about. 

Emmrich felt himself beginning to sweat under his collar. 

Under the pretense of removing the chain, he unfastened the first few buttons of his shirt. Then, under Bellara’s eager gaze, he pulled the necklace out from beneath his shirt, cupping the heavy ring in his palm. 

“It is not an heirloom,” Emmrich said, as Bellara stood up to join him on the sofa for a better glimpse at it. “It was a gift.”

“Oh, wow, Emmrich, it’s gorgeous! Taash, come look!” Bellara enthused, beckoning the Lord of Fortune nearer before she turned back to the ring in Emmrich’s hand. It was truly a thing of beauty—the brilliant lazurite carved into the perfect facsimile of a scarab beetle, the aged patina on the gold lotus flowers of the setting only adding to its authenticity and charm. “But why aren’t you wearing it on your hand?” Bellara asked, all innocent curiosity. “You’ve still got a finger or two to spare.”

“I used to,” Emmrich answered, a certain melancholy weaving between the words. “I used to never take it off. Someone…” ‘Say it. Be honest, be brave.’ “Someone very beloved to me gave it to me, over ten years ago.”

Emmrich’s heart skipped a beat. In the kitchen, Agnes was no longer paying the slightest bit of attention to Lucanis, or the pasta. Her grey eyes—unreadable as they were—were fixed, adamantly, upon Emmrich himself. 

“So why not now?” Bellara asked, utterly unaware of the powder keg she was about to set off with her questioning. “What changed?”

Emmrich swallowed, choosing his words carefully. 

“I behaved very badly towards them. Hurt them terribly.” His left thumb worried at the base of his middle finger, where he’d worn the ornament for so many years after Agnes had first given it to him—it still felt strangely bare without it. “Pretty as the ring may be, I could not really endure the sight of it, after. The regret I felt for my actions, the guilt… it was profound.” He flashed Bellara a rueful grin. “But of course, by then it was too late to remedy my mistake.”

“So you wear it around your neck,” Bellara said, softly, practically swooning as she misinterpreted the gesture as romantic; “to keep it close to your heart.”

Emmrich felt his face burning, flushed with sudden embarrassment. “That’s—well, indeed, I suppose that’s one way of looking at it.”

“And what’s the other way?” Davrin challenged, not bothering to look up from the wooden carving in his lap as he asked. 

“Master Emmrich is a masochist, Warden Davrin,” Manfred interjected, unhelpfully, from the corner of the room where was playing a dice game with Neve. “He wears the bauble thusly to punish himself.”

“Manfred!” Emmrich hissed. 

“Is he wrong?” Davrin replied, a slight tilt to his lips that suggested he was hiding a smirk. 

“…I would not have used such language myself,” Emmrich replied, his face flushed brighter red than ever, “but yes. I wear it to remind myself never to make the same mistake again.”

“That’s sad, Emmrich,” Bellara replied, eyes fixed on him as firmly as Agnes’, although Bellara’s look was more doleful than intent. “And silly. Whoever gave this to you, I’m sure they wouldn’t want you to be beating yourself up like that.”

Agnes’ eyes slid at last from his face, feigning rapt interest in the pasta dough on the island in front of her. Emmrich cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I would not be so certain of that.”

“You should wear it anyway,” Taash said, straightening from where she had stood behind the sofa, peering at the ring over Emmrich’s shoulder. “Towers Age, isn’t it? It is old, and finely wrought—finer than any of the other rings you wear.” With a raised eyebrow, Tassh added, “Besides, whatever you did, it’s not like hiding it away is going to bring that person back.”

Back in the kitchen, Agnes was back to helping Lucanis roll out little ears into the dough with her thumbs. If she was still listening, she gave no indication of it; she looked rather like she had lost interest (in the conversation; in Emmrich himself) completely. 

Taash was right. Fate may have thrust the two of them back together, but Agnes was not the woman she had been when she left. The two years apart had changed her: made her more confident, more crass, more affable—at least, to everyone but him—and stamped out, he suspected, whatever love she had once borne for him in her young heart. If indeed she had ever really loved him at all. 

“I suppose not,” Emmrich answered, softly. 

Nevertheless, he still tucked the ring back beneath his shirt.

[giotanner]

every few years I rewatch Batman: under the red hood and I cry every single time as soon as Robin-Jason in the end of the story says Robin is magic and starts laughing. A stab wound would hurt less emotionally. (The ONLY movie I ALWAYS hear in the original because Jensen Ackles' voice as Jason Todd is heartbreaking and perfect when he asks to be killed 😭)

[batsplat]

u can really tell the tonal difference in how i talk about motogp and tennis from the last two posts... like with motogp it's always. hope pecco and jorge know what a great job they've done this year <3 the most important thing is that they have fun <3 i'm very proud of both of them <3... such an enjoyable season so happy to watch :D... and then with tennis it's a bit more. men holding tennis racquets should maybe consider setting themselves on fire. you're a spanish or italian tennis player? I Will Kill You On Sight. fuck this sport. fuck everything. tennis is the path to sin. we're all going to hell

[msburgundy]

my beef with ipa comes down to the fact that i simply do not like, conceptually, that there is a contrived writing system intended to capture every single sound in human language. i would much rather just mix scripts (like throwing a fully english word into a korean sentence and vice versa) i UNDERSTAND why we don't (thus i can forgive romanization etc [to a degree]) and i also understand why in academic contexts such a writing system is quite valuable.

in actual life, however, there is simply no need to represent all those sounds, and you're simply better off learning the native scripts of languages whose influence you encounter frequently

[dapurinthos]

peering suspiciously at cavan scott for naming dooku's sister 'jenza' because it's basically the female equivalent of 'yan/jan'.

ioannes > john / jens (danish) / jános (hungarian & various other former kievan rus' territories*) > jane/ jensa / janka

[cookedupinthelabm8]

I may have become a little feral with the besties...

[madhatter0309]

Being able to read the most unhinged and smutty things in public without making any face it’s like having superpowers