#Greenwarden Tracker

[anxietytwist]

𝐊𝐢𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐧 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐰

[ 𝟹𝟹 | 𝟻'𝟶" | Trans Man | Demisexual | 𝐁💚𝐍 ]

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⟨Clothing⟩

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⟨Notes⟩

ᴘʀᴏɴᴏᴜɴꜱ➔ He/Him ʙᴜɪʟᴅ➔ 𝘛𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘥ʜᴀɪʀꜱᴛʏʟᴇ➔ Wavy, short, undercut

ᴍᴇᴍᴇɴᴛᴏ ᴍᴏʀɪ➔ Mom's wedding ring💍

𝐊𝐢𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐧 had top surgery (𝘪𝘯𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘛) & is currently taking testosterone (his parents were very supportive during his transition)

He has 𝘤𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘢𝘤 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦

The more layers he's wearing the “happier” he is . . . 🙃

𝐊𝐢𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐧 DOESN'T drink alcohol (preferring to instead order pop when he's out at a bar)

...

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𝐼𝐹: @fiddles-ifs

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Picrew used:

The height difference between Kieran & everybody else makes me so amused, considering how feral/dangerous he is in contrast to some of the other characters...

[incorrectgreenwardenquotes]

tracker: i did something terrible

bautista: it's okay, i have a shovel

tracker: wait, what do you think i did??

bautista: doesn't matter. no one will ever know

[jdstrations]

POV you're watching Nazeri be Completely Normal about a certain Tracker that they definatelt

This spawned from discussing in the discord with someone how Nazeri would be completely abnormal if they learnt that my Tracker's first name is Briar-Rose

Bonus! I there's a template for this below for anyone to use if they want to show their little guys being the Most Normal!

[arty528]

I felt like drawing so I drew my Greenwarden Tracker, Lark Hyde!

I chose Lark from the given names becaue it intrigued me, and picked Hyde because he seems to have a bit of that personality about him. 

Without further ado, here he is! **Warning for blood, needle, and stitches**

So yeah! That’s Hyde, he’s definitely fine...

[fiddles-ifs]

[ID: A banner-style graphic featuring a coyote's open mouth on a dark black background. Orange all-caps text near the bottom of the image reads: "happy birthday Greenwarden." /end ID]

Happy birthday to my firstborn problem!! I'm trying really hard to not think about how long it's actually been, but to celebrate Greenwarden being mysteriously old I'm posting a former Patreon snippet! I'm also announcing that 1) I quit me day job, and 2) I'm going to be compiling a bunch of Greenwarden shorts that would have gone up on Patreon if I had kept it up. More on that to come when I get all my ducks in a line.

GRAVEROBBING AND NECROMANCY FOR DUMMIES

Marianna & Tracker. 16+. Grimdark Fantasy AU. Scofiddle Pepper Rating: Bell Pepper.

Content Warnings: Blood, minor wounds, implied mind-control, mentions of death.

Mausoleums always have a certain smell — mold, mildew, cracking damp stone. The decay of rock and mortar, but never flesh. The sarcophagi are tightly sealed with both wards and wax, partially to keep the smell at bay. No air, nor Light, nor hands will ever creep inside them. The Silent Mercies do their grim work and do it well, keeping them locked up tight. Then they leave — that's the extent of their dues to the dead.

They can count themselves lucky. Corpses don't exactly make great company. Particularly when some of them are itching to come back.

You can't help but feel like there are eyes on you, your torch cutting through the dark, damp guts of the tomb. An intrusion. Indigestion. The violent, flickering orange light makes the shadows greasy. You'd use a magelight, but you're already dancing on the razor-thin line between bravery and stupidity; you don't want to risk waking something. Someone. 

They were people once, allegedly, but you know what pride morphs people into.

Particularly powerful necromancers resist even the cleansing fire of holy Light, their sentience existing in each molecule of ash, slowly piecing themself back together with sheer will and hate. It may take hundreds — maybe thousands — of years, but eventually they will come back. So, the Temple does what it can. The liches are bound, still conscious, and placed in a sarcophagus. The sarcophagus is sealed — with prayer, with wax, with chains and locks both physical and magical — and a mausoleum built around it. The Silent Mercies make their rounds indefinitely, strengthening the wards and installing ever more complex locks. Hundreds of years turn into thousands.

The hopeful end result is a stark raving mad lich warlock that will, if all goes well, blissfully prefer the judgment of the Light before they suffer one more second of silent, unmoving, stagnant solitude. Time and again the methods of the Temple are proven effective. Terrifying, and effective. Most choose to vacate their own bodies than live in the dark for an undetermined amount of time. Unable to move. Unable to see. Slowly withering away, mummifying, rotting in your own skin. Whatever you’re going to find will not be human anymore – if it was ever human in the first place.

You cross the dusty, time-ravaged stone floor to the sarcophagus at the far end of the room. It's a short walk. Mausoleums are traditionally small, most especially the ones outside of temples, reserved for the vilest of the old guard, the lichkings who dared to try and defy death. Beings that rejected humanity, even rejected immolation, and should not under any circumstances be within spitting distance of a residential area.

Zoning laws: the bane of all undead tyrants. 

There's only one — which is nerve-wracking. It sits placidly on a raised dais set with small, half-melted candles, as if it’s waiting for you. A frozen slime trail of old wax meanders down the dais, caught in time. The thrum of magic tickles your fingertips. Brushing, like a cat would, up against your palms and skittering up your arms. Both a beckoning and a warning. Temptation.

It's wrong. A singular coffin is like finding a singular roach. Not wholly uncommon, but it sets your teeth on edge. 

It means one of two things: either the Temple managed to burn the master’s undead servants, even the stubborn ones. Or, worse – they’re afraid of what it might do with nearby corpses, even sealed away.

Your arms itch. You set your torch in a conveniently placed wall sconce and start working to get your mind off things.

The Temple of Light may not like to admit it, but what they do is magic. The prayers wielded by their paladins and clerics are incantations; the talismans created by their monks are charms, woven out of somewhat less mathematically inclined sigils. Magic. They hang and burn people for it in the streets, but it keeps their mausoleums tightly locked and their church in power.

Like any spell, a prayer can be broken with a little bit of reverse engineering. And you are very good at breaking things.

Maybe it's the uniqueness of your situation, or maybe you were just created with something special, but seeing the patterns in the weave and weft of magic comes second nature to you. Almost like a physical thing. A golden projection of arcane artistry.

It's a complicated spell; the Woodsman lived hundreds of years ago, long enough that even its very name was forgotten. The ward is centuries of layers, each one getting more and more complex as the Silent Mercies learned what incantations and motions were most effective at keeping the dead at bay. Trails of cold, melted wax dripping down time. A beautiful puzzle, just for you. You're always half-giddy, knowing that you may very well be the only one who can truly see the work, the history behind it, and that you might be the only one smart enough not just to break it to pieces, but coax it open.

Enough. You need to be fast.

Your forehead tenses, brows knit as you start reversing half a millennia of spellcraft. Delicately, slowly, you work out the motions, but in reverse. A twist of your hand, fingers curled, your arm moving in hypnotic diamonds and stars and spirals. Shapes designed to trap and contain. The fingers on your other hand open and close in the same fractal rhythm half a canto ahead, parsing out the right steps in the dance before you walk the dancefloor.  You're a conductor, ripping carefully crafted sheet music to shreds. The torch flickers.

There's no sound but your own short, elated huff of laughter when your hand slides into place at the ward's terminus. Deep in your hindbrain, a lock falls open with a satisfying click!

“Don't move.” 

Oh. That's a sword — you feel the tip of it caressing the nape of your neck. Slowly, carefully, you raise your hands to the sides of your head. You’re unarmed, and thankful you have gloves on.

“Turn around.” 

It’s not like you have room to argue.

You’re face-to-face with the tip of a shiny, well-polished blade. The silver coating makes your back teeth itch. You feel it vibrating, still coming down, hypersensitive to atomic changes in the air. You’re also face-to-chest with an extraordinarily tall cleric in their classic white and gold armor. An immediate, violent chill settles into your spine.

She’s hard-faced, hair cut bluntly short; she gives you the impression that her only expression is scowl. You prepare yourself to fire and run. It’ll set your research back months – maybe even a year – but you’ll live.

“Explain yourself.” You’re taken aback by that – you do a quick three-point look around the room and with your head and then spread your hands out a little further.

“I mean,” you say, “I think we both know I’m not supposed to be here.”

She doesn’t like that. Her hands choke a little tighter around her sword grip, leather squealing and platemail clicking as she shifts even deeper into a fighting stance. The sword gets a little closer to your face. A sweat breaks out between your shoulder blades.

“You’re a mage.”

“And you’re a cleric.” Impasse. Stand off. Stare down. Neither of you are willing to make the first move – maybe she’s hoping for a peaceful resolution. That you’ll go gracefully to the stake.

Fat chance, but something changes when she opens her mouth to reply.

You don’t like the look that falls over the cleric’s face – wide eyed, eyebrows to the hairline, mouth half-open. The blood leaving her face. The slight tremble in her steady hands. Fear.

Slowly, you twist your neck to look behind you.

The Woodsman’s coffin is open – a deep, yawning blackness slides out of it, liquid trapped inside thin film. On the coattails of the light-drinking sludge, a skeletal hand slides, damn near leisurely, out of the sarcophagus. What follows is a horror of ancient science. Half human, half… something else.

The antlers crown its head, but the head is canine, deep pinpoints of light inside empty sockets. Mummified skin knits across bone, thin as paper and patchy in places. Its teeth are bare to the world and yellowed with centuries. You watch the slick, black flesh form an amorphous mass beneath the skull, the arms nothing but bone haphazardly slapped onto an overgorged slug.

You were hoping it wasn’t in there – everything you’ve learned told you it had probably vacated its body years ago. There had been no activity for so long – no plague of nightmares, no major possessions, no strange activity in the flora and fauna  – and yet. The Woodsman slithers out of its unlocked tomb on a tide of melted void-flesh, rises on it until it has to bend, its shoulders scraping the ceiling of the mausoleum. It opens its mouth wide – skin and gristle clinging to its jaw in loose strings – and shrieks.

It’s shrill and piercing. You’re concussed, briefly, slapping your hands over your ears. You feel it – in your head. Scraping the inside of your skull, dark wordless whispers in your hindbrain. It knows you. It sees you. It’s in your head.

The cleric pushes you behind her, nearly to the door in the tiny mausoleum. You’re confused – still concussed. You don’t run.

“Go!” She shouts, swinging and hacking at the growing sea of rotting flesh. She swings too wide – the silver-steel scrapes against the walls of the mausoleum and sparks. The Woodsman just keeps growing. One by one, the candles and torch are swallowed whole. A deep, endless black. A tidal wave of nothing. 

You’re not about to argue. You turn tail and run out the door.

Two steps past the tomb, you stumble to a stop. A quick, hard-breathing glance behind you lets you know that the cleric already isn’t doing well. She’s fighting like an animal, punching what she can’t cut. Every slice is swallowed up by more reeling, lightless flesh. You still feel the Woodsman’s scritching little claws, furrows in your soft, pliant brain. Every iota of you recoils away from it. But that cleric – she let you go. 

You look down at your hands. The dark leather gloves, fingertips worn, the edges frayed.

Shaking, you slip them off your hands and leave them in the grass.

You grab the back of the cleric’s breastplate and yank her back into fresh air, swapping places in one smooth transition. You don’t know what she sees. If she notices the dark, blue-black corrupted skin of your hands or the bright runes squirming over your arms while you reach deep in yourself for something destructive. The bands around your wrists and throat mark you as a Thing – something broken loose. The Woodsman tugs at your tattered ghost leash with an interested spiritual hand, head cocked. Your programming demands you kneel for consumption, and your knees twitch before you get yourself back under control. You almost see a wink of recognition.

Little homunculus, the Woodsman whispers, curling around the base of your skull like a cat, so far from home.

“Shut up,” you say, and light up the room.

The Temple of Light has claimed the lichkings reject holy fire and immolation – they just haven’t tried something hot enough. Your fire is pure destruction, white with heat, blinding against the greasy black corruption sludge coating the walls. The Woodsman shrieks – pain, rage, confusion. Spikes of pain explode behind your eyes, and you burn them away too.

You wade through the muck, scorching it all to ash, beating the Woodsman back until it tries to seek refuge again in its sarcophagus, huddling in the pit. A child taking refuge in a cellar.  Curled at the back of a cell. Useless, useless.

You reach out with a flame-licked hand and clamp down hard on its muzzle.

“Shut up,” you hiss, and watch fire make cracks in its skull. It rakes your arms with bony claws, opening bloody gashes in your flesh. The blood sizzles and evaporates almost instantly. 

The Woodsman’s head explodes with a loud crack, bone shards ripping through the skin of your cheek. The rest of it goes limp in a heap. What’s left, you turn to coal dust, just in case. When you’re done, all that’s left of the Woodsman is a greasy soot stain coating the floor, walls, and ceiling. It’s a little gruesome. Reminds you uncomfortably of blood.

You coax the flames back in, lower and lower, wobbling with exhaustion, until a comfortable, warm dark swallows you. There’s light in it – ambient, soft reflections of the moon outside. The sarcophagus is a welcome resting spot, using its high lip to stay half-standing. Even then, you see little spots in your vision, the edges going blurry. A few drops of blood slide out of your nose and splatter on the ground. Your ears are ringing.

“You’ve got red on you.” You jump.

The cleric is standing there, wiping blood and slime off her face. One of her eyes is nearly glued shut, an open wound on her brow pouring red down her cheek and under her collar. You give her a once-over before you weakly tilt your chin up.

“So do you,” you say. She nods – holds out her hand.

“Marianna.”

Cautiously, you cross the floor on shaky legs to take it, and give her your name. The one you picked for yourself – it feels nice. To introduce yourself, for once. She almost crushes your hand. You’re comparatively weak.

“You saved my life, mage,” Marianna says. You grin with a mouthful of bloody teeth, an acknowledgement.

Then, your body finally gives up. You’re blissfully unconscious before you hit the ground.

[cozmiccore]

Made a simple character sheet/ID card for my Tracker after reading Greenwarden's new updated demo! I'll put the link below for the template if anyone want it, again it's free, just credit me and support the IF and author @fiddles-ifs

I made one for When Twilight Strikes yesterday because they too got a demo update, link here -> IAOS ID. *forgot to mention, it's a Canva template so you'll need to sign in.

Picrew link | PIRA ID TEMPLATE

[seres-catalogue]

DESIDERIO RUA

(Tracker, Nazeri + Trace Romance, Greenwarden)

JT Music's Rest In Ink

This is a song for the sheep

Who's afraid of the big bad wolf?

Well you shouldn't be

'Cause evil's something I couldn't be

My head's full of teeth, but they're made for smiling

Despite the bodies pilin' up, ignore 'em

And look for a door

Only an exit, open nothing more

I'd rather not get ripped apart

Can I trust you with my heart?

Hahahaha~

Go on and draw your boundaries

But I'm bound to cross some lines

In a world devoid of color

There is one I call divine

Black is the color of laughter

Black is the color of joy

Black is the blood on my casket

It's the palette of the void

Black is happy-ever-after

As tragedy is to befall

I blacken my soul with disaster

Leave it plastered on the walls

Where would a wolf wander without his pack?

As sanity sinks and then slips through the cracks?

Any lingering light will leak into the black

So welcome aboard the train without track

Lay back on the surgery table, my hands are unsteady

But surely I'm able of cracking your cage

And setting your rage free

I'll replace you if you betray me!

Ink hath runneth over

And the tide will only rise

But beware the undertow

Your final throes are growing nigh!

Want a bone? Here's one, I'll throw ya

You woke up in someone's mind

Just like I did, so don't fight it

There is nowhere left to hide

Death is no such dreadful thing

When you can rest in ink

This is your lullaby

He'll set you down to lie

Then hang you out to dry

And make you proud to die

Black is the color of laughter

Black is the color of joy

Black is the blood on my casket

It's the palette of the void

Black is happy-ever-after

As tragedy is to befall

I blacken my soul with disaster

Leave it plastered on the walls

What's an identity but a lie?

'Cause the man that I once was, wasn't I

See a monster is all in perspective

Pretend that this song is your posthumous lullaby

Now your pain is in paint, and I'll watch it dry

Then a permanent stain, you'll become with time

You're the sideshow, don't be mistaken

'Cause I'm the one takin' home all of the bacon

He's always closin' in

The halls are growing dim

The walls are closin' in

And nothing else is holding him

Play your favorite tune aloud

To make you braver through your doubt

You've made your way to proving grounds

Stay and face the music now

Death is no such dreadful thing

When you can rest in ink

This is your lullaby

He'll set you down to lie

Then hang you out to dry

And make you proud to die

Black is the color of laughter

Black is the color of joy

Black is the blood on my casket

It's the palette of the void

Black is happy-ever-after

As tragedy is to befall

I blacken my soul with disaster

And leave it plastered on the walls

Black is the color of laughter...

Death is no such dreadful thing

When you can rest in ink

This is your lullaby

He'll set you down to lie

Then hang you out to dry

And make you proud to die

[amlovelies]

My tracker for greenwarden: lark barrow they’re an asshole and I love them very much

[bitterpossum]

Nazeri’s crush on the tracker is so funny too me cause they’re canonically like just bad at being a human person

I’m begging you to click for better quality lol

[dorkouscogaming]

still thinking about That Scene in chapter two update from @greenwarden-cog ;;;

[anxietytwist]

[incorrectgreenwardenquotes]

tracker: i'm not "showing signs of mental illness" i'm hiding them really well actually everyone thinks i act really normal. i think. i'm pretty sure

[jdstrations]

Just a bit of pose practice/character design that I left more loose than refined, since I really liked my neat sketch

I used my Greenwarden Tracker, Briar, as the subject for this. She’s having a rare chill moment to play some music

[prim-moth]

WIP Wednesday Saturday tagged by @gncrezan hii Najam thank you :] this is my greenwarden mc! No name yet. also this feels like a slightly different style I’m doing?? Maybe it’s the brush lol

[fiddles-ifs]

Do you take asks inquiring your characters in certain scenarios, for example, if I asked what would be each romance options from Greenwarden (can I call it GW for short??) reaction to someone aggressively hitting on the MC after they've been told to back off multiple times? Like, would they step in or trust MC to handle it?

Sure, but I generally consider those non-canon.

The ROs would trust the MC to handle it themselves. There would be about a five? second window where Bautista tries to step in before the Tracker snaps the asshole in half, but someone creeping on the MC does so at their own peril. It would be very quick.

[merry-harlowe]

Revenge for @impossible-rat-babies of Rabbit!! I am enamored with their mullet and capacity for violence uwu