#I BEEN WORKING ON THIS FOR MONTHS... LORD

[jaehaeryshater]

The King Come Over and his bride Ygritte Firekissed

art by : @shripscapi

Look at my King dawg we’re definitely getting through the Wall!!!

For the last month and a half, I have been working closely with Liesl to design concepts for Jon as King Beyond the Wall and Ygritte as his Queen. Personally, I’m not invested at all in Jon becoming King of the Seven Kingdoms despite him being my favorite character. He’s not very connected with the South and I don’t feel that it’s his birth right or anything, even being the son of Rhaegar. I am significantly more interested in him becoming King in the North, but my interest in Freefolk culture has led me to be far more invested in the idea of him rejecting Southron society as a whole and becoming King Beyond the Wall (this isn’t necessarily mutually exclusive to being King in the North later on).

The motivation for Jon becoming King as opposed to Mance stems from a theory that has been around since AGOT has come out: that the Others will only treat with/negotiate with a Stark. In the prologue of AGOT, when the Others are speaking among themselves before killing the Watchmen, what if they were confirming with each other that Waymar Royce was not a Stark and that they could go ahead and kill him? All in all, it doesn’t really matter if this is true, but rather that this is a plausible rumor that could easily have been passed down among the Freefolk which could lead Mance to conclude that Jon as a leader would give the Freefolk the best chance of survival. It’s not very hard, at least in my opinion, to imagine an AU like this, since survival is the most important thing to the Freefolk during the events of ASOIAF. But is it plausible that under these circumstances that Jon would abandon his Night’s Watch vows? I think so if he can be led to believe that only Stark blood could defeat the Others, but that is not the only factor. Jon Snow is insecure about his bastard status, plain and simple. He’s always lived in the shadow of his Robb, though he loved him. He’s wanted Winterfell, though he didn’t want to nor had any intention to take it from Robb. But he’s known since he was a small boy that he could never Winterfell and that would never inherit anything because he was a bastard. Jon also has thoughts, at least in passing, that Ned loved Robb more than him. He perceives Ned as having been more proud of Robb, of looking at him differently than himself. He’s seemingly always believed this, but there is a sort of confirmation of Jon’s feelings when Ned allows him to join the Night’s Watch without much preparation on what the Watch is actually like. Fully me making assumptions here, not something Jon has explicitly thought, but it’s unlikely that Ned would have sent Bran off at 14 to the Watch without much warning of what it was like, had Bran not become paralyzed. While we never get this exact thought process from Jon, in my opinion it fits into his psychology and insecurity. All this to say, if Jon is offered to be a figurehead, King, a title equal to his brother, but without taking anything away from the Starks or from Robb, that would almost certainly scratch that itch in him. It would be of his own merit, and there would be people behind him that don’t care that he’s a bastard, don’t see him as less than, and are willing to accept him for who he is. Not to mention that it also lets him feel like a hero and as if he is saving something far more precious than himself. And it probably doesn’t hurt that he would be able to remain with Ygritte as well.

We know from the descriptions of Mance and Dalla, as well as from being told directly by the former, that the King and his wife dress like all the other Freefolk, in thick furs. While the Jon and Ygritte arts from above are not particularly ostentatious by Southron standards, they are in obvious contrast to how Mance and Dalla are dressed. My idea was that Jon, having lived South of the Wall in a Lord’s keep all of his life, brought his own ideas to the Freefolk and added a distinction between a King and all other men. Nothing like in King’s Landing, all changes are inspired by his experience at Winterfell. I tried to think of what was achievable by the Freefolk, that would be difficult enough that it can’t be easily replicated for everyone else, but also keeping in mind of what could be done relatively quickly seeing as the Freefolk are focused on migrating South and saving themselves from the Others. The cultures I took inspiration for the clothing from are the Byzantines, Russians, Incans, Aztecs, and Mongolians. I wanted more “open” and flowy clothing, as opposed to more closed off and excessively modest clothing of 1300-1500s Europe that most of Westeros is based off of. Ygritte is still wearing furs, but they are dyed and there is weirwood embroidery in symbolism of the Old Gods and flame embroidery to symbolize her being kissed by fire. Her jewelry are simply clay beads that have been powdered blue. I didn’t want to give her any jewels as I felt it would be too difficult for the Freefolk to cut them directly and just overall would be against the spirit of the Freefolk. However, getting the blue on the clay like that still would be expensive and take a lot of time. I tried to keep the main color scheme surrounding gray as obviously that’s House Stark’s color. Jon’s clothes are similarly nice, with my main concern being him looking intimidating. I want the furs around his shoulders to be black because I wanted to call back to his time in the Night’s Watch without him keeping his psychical cloak, because I’m sure the Freefolk would not want him to do that. The furs are massive and make his shoulders look far larger, in an effort to make him look more intimidating, especially on a battlefield or in negotiations. He also has weirwood embroidery and his sigil is on the front of his outfit (my original idea was for him to have a flag with his heraldry on it, in which case the sigil would have looked far different, with a full length direwolf). There’s a white wolf on one side and either a crow or eagle on the other side (up for interpretation, both are relevant to Jon and one is one of the animals that can be used a symbol of the Freefolk) and the flame in the middle to represent Ygritte. The sigil is more than about Jon, after all, as it’s for the entirety of House Whitewolf, the House he founds. I thought the name fit far more in to Freefolk culture than something like Whitestark or something along those lines. Ygritte was supposed to have sewn on the sigil herself, and was very adamant about it, and that is meant to be why the thread is uneven and more visible than it ought to be. She’s not very good at the craft!

As I indicated before, crowns are not something common to Freefolk. That would be something else Jon would implement. Ygritte’s crown is very much like a hat, very casual. The beads are nice but obtaining them wouldn’t be unheard of, and holly most likely would not be particularly hard to come by. The reason I gave her a crown with holly is that during Christmas in the Tudor period and even before during pagan celebrations, people would go out into the woods and find holly and ivy to decorate their houses with. Holly was a symbol of masculine energy and ivy feminine energy. If you found more holly, it was meant to indicate that the man would rule the household for the year, and if you found more ivy then the woman would rule the household in the coming year (this was a way to “tell the future” not a rule lol). I liked the holly better for Ygritte so I’m just saying the Freefolk had the opposite belief. Jon’s crown is made of weirwood, which was important to me as I feel like his connection the Old Gods is also important as it is something that him and Freefolk both use to guide them. It ties them together. That being said, a weirwood crown is often used for Bran so I did not want to use a design that was too similar to the one used for him. Bran’s weirwood crown usually is made of weirwood branches, however, and not weirwood bark or logs, so I feel like it’s different enough. The frozen weirwood sap, as far as I know, is also unique to this design. There’s also some ivy to parallel with Ygritte’s holly.

The remaining bits and bobs I wanted to explain are the blue rose and then the face paint. The blue rose is obviously something associated with Lyanna Stark, who is widely accepted to be the mother of Jon Snow. I originally wanted to give him a rose somewhere, whether he was holding it or it was in his embroidery, but I forgot to ask during sketching, and then it was too late. But Ygritte holding the blue rose isn’t just about Lyanna. It’s also about Bael the Bard, a most likely fictitious person (or at least, the tale is fictitious, though I personally choose to believe it’s real) that went South of the Wall posing as a bard. He impressed the Lord of Winterfell so much that he granted Bael anything he wished; all Bael asked for was the most beautiful flower in Winterfell. This was granted for him, but the next morning he had stolen the Lord of Winterfell’s only child, a girl, and had left the flower in her bed in her place. He hid in the crypt with her for a year and they had a son together. Bael eventually went back North of the Wall and eventually Winterfell, having no other heir, passed to Bael’s child. Under this story, Jon is descended from Ygritte’s idol (maybe idol is stretching it, but she really likes him), Bael the Bard. Not only him, but all the Freefolk including Ygritte, according to her story. Following the story’s premise, Jon also poses as Bael and Ygritte as Winterfell’s daughter, with Jon joining her home under false pretenses and “stealing her”, as she calls it. So the blue rose has significance regarding both the Starks and the Freefolk. The face paint is inspired by tattooing done by cultures indigenous to North America. Indigenous Americans are not the only groups to use facial tattooing, the Vikings were famous for it as well, but Viking facial tattooing had more patterns based on shapes rather than lines and dots. I didn’t like the shapes so much, but the chin tattoo was one was that observed in all sorts of different cultures. Usually the chin tattoos with the line were on women in indigenous America, but I found some on men in other outside cultures. The dots I didn’t see outside of Native American culture and the claw marks on Jon’s cheeks I found mainly among Vikings. Because these all are an amalgamation of different cultures, we did them as face paint instead of tattoos because it seemed disrespectful otherwise. Not enough research went into it to be a proper representation of any one culture so paint was a better bet than a permanent body modification that is sacred to a number of cultures. The only thing that was meant to be a tattoo was the chin tattoo, which like I said, actually is from an amalgamation of cultures. Among the Freefolk (in this AU), dots on the cheeks are widespread, one of cultural mainstays of their people, and are generally a sign of peace, whereas the claws are meant to look intimidating and is applied to look like blood (Ygritte applies it for Jon) and is specifically used for military leaders. I really wanted to drive home the point that the goal with Jon’s whole look is to look fearsome.

I have so much more to say about Jon as King Beyond the Wall, how he negotiates with the Wall, the different rules he sets in place, how he sets up being King as a hereditary title once his daughter Bael is born, etc etc, but then I’d be here all day and approximately one person total read through all this. Oops! Ask in my inbox if you have any questions because I would love love love to answer them. All in all, shripscapi (Liesl) is so talented and she worked incredibly hard for me. She was extremely accommodating and changed as much stuff as I wanted. She never complained about the million times I decided something was not quite right and she sent me so many updates. I would recommend working with her to just about anybody. It was very cool what she was able to achieve and I got it in time for the holidays so I can enjoy my winter themed pfp on twt. So thank you from the bottom of my heart Liesl, and I hope everyone showers her with compliments because she deserves it. I also hope that people that don’t enjoy Ygritte very much can still appreciate the art and the concept of Jon as King Beyond the Wall. Hopefully I’ve gotten across how much I love and care for these characters to a chronically online degree and nobody accuses me of mischaracterizing them because that would make me!!!! very sad!!!

Bonus Jon with weirwood leaves:

[auroras-zenith]

what doesn't kill you // part 3

you had your whole life planned out for you; start an agency with your best friend, scale the charts and make japan your bitch. but when a tragic accident leaves you incapacitated and out of a job, you find you just need to start fresh. you cut ties–and for two years, you've all but disappeared. until they need you again and come knocking at your door.

bakugo x retiredpro!reader

prologue ✧ previous ✧ next

"They say there's a chance you could learn to walk again." He offered, trying to be as optimistic as he could. Lord knows you didn't need another thing to feel bad about.

"How big a chance?"

He flushed, looking away.

He had caught you after you had passed out, moving to sit beside you afterward.

The nurses were beginning to bustle about. You had caught a few pitying glances already–each one only making you wish your bed would swallow you whole.

"It's been done before."

"I know you know the stats." You said with a sigh.

He sighed too, squeezing your hand. "I just... I don't want you to feel like you can't. I know you can."

"Izuku."

He winced. "One in a hundred."

You sunk a little lower beneath the sheets at that.

The silence stretched on, neither of you knowing exactly what to say after that.

"Sorry I'm late." The door quietly swung shut behind the heterochromic boy as he moved to take a seat beside you; saving both of you from the awkward tension. "I couldn't get out of the press conference."

Right. Because for the rest of them, hero work went on.

You pushed the thought to the corner of your mind, adding it to the list of things you'd think about later.

He pulled a chair over, blank eyes softening as he saw you. He leaned over to give you a quick hug. "I'm happy you're okay." He said softly.

"How'd it go? Have you guys found him?" You asked, ignoring the last comment for no reason beyond its awkward nature.

You had learned from Midoriya that you had been out for two weeks, but he hadn't any other information. Apparently, he had spent most of his time here with you.

Todoroki nodded. "Bakugo did. The day after the incident." He informed you solemnly.

Your heart clenched oddly at the name.

"He got to the fucker before the authorities could. Beat him up pretty bad. For a second it looked like Bakugo was going to be charged with assault because the villain could barely walk after, but... given the circumstances..." He looked down, shaking his head.

You flicked a piece of lint off your blanket glumly. "Suppose he's been pretty busy then." You muttered bitterly.

That was the next question you had grilled Midoriya for. Turned out, in the half a month you had been in a coma, Bakugo hadn't dropped by once.

Todoroki looked at you, blinking slowly. "Y/n, it's not like that."

You scoffed but said nothing.

"It really isn't. He was so angry. He is so angry. He didn't go home that night. He stayed up until dawn looking for the villain and didn't stop till he found the guy." He told you. "He's just processing."

You sighed, turning to look out the window. "I guess." You just wished that he could process here. With you. And maybe some better food.

"He'll visit soon."

It was like that for the next couple of days. All of your friends, acquaintances, even a bunch of people you knew only by name–all showing up to wish you a speedy recovery and look at you with their pitying gazes that made your skin crawl.

And yet through it all, Bakugo never showed up.

"Are you up for another visitor?"

You looked up, slightly surprised to see a purple haired girl standing in the doorway. Jirou, as you recalled from high school–or rather, Earphone Jack she went by now.

You shrugged, nodding sulkily. What did it matter, really?

"Thanks for coming." You spoke quietly. So unlike your usual self.

She stared at you for a minute as you stared firmly at your lap. Everyone's pity was starting to drown you alive–and you had concluded that the only way to survive it was to pretend it wasn't there.

"Hiroshi and Yutaka Kota." She finally broke the silence.

You glanced up, confused. "What?"

"The children you saved." The girl answered. "Those were their names."

You shook your head. She must've been confused. "I wasn't able to save them." You whispered, hands clenched tightly together in your lap. "I was too slow.

"You're wrong. They were a bit banged up, but thanks to you they had just enough time to escape before the building really collapsed."

That couldn't have been right. And yet you wished so dearly that it was. You felt tears welling up in your eyes again–whether because you were happy or sad you weren't quite sure.

"I'm really sorry that this happened to you." She said quietly.

But there was something off about her tone. It wasn't pitying. Didn't feel like nails on a chalkboard as most people's did so often nowadays. It was... understanding. It was actually quite nice.

"But I thought it'd be nice for you to know that it wasn't for nothing. Including those two, 326 people accredit their lives to you, Cordelia."

You looked away, feeling the tears leak down your cheeks now.

"Thank you." You whispered. "It was getting really tiring hearing people tell me how 'at least I didn't die,' or some other unrealistically optimistic bullshit."

She snorted. "That's lowkey a weird thing to say to someone."

"Tell me about it."

She looks at you, and smiles.

Why had you two not been close before? You had both gone to UA together–hell, you two had more mutuals than you could count. And yet, you had never found yourselves in the other's company; and even after you both graduated, you never saw her on the field.

"Are you going to go to the hero gala?" She asked after a beat of pause.

Right. The hero gala. In the grand scheme of things, it just seemed so trivial now. "I didn't think I was still invited." You said honestly, letting your shoulders rise and fall.

"Of course you are." She corrected. "Cordelia, if anyone can learn to walk again? It's you. And even if you can't, that doesn't change your legacy. You're amazing, dude."

You smiled softly down at your sheets. "Yeah, I guess. Maybe. I'll think about it."

"Do. It's in three days. I'll see you there, okay?"

"Wait." You called as she stood before she could make it all the way to the door. "Why did you visit me?" You asked at last.

She smiled to herself, as if thinking upon a fond memory. "You're awesome. I always see you on the news. You're revolutionizing the space. Paving the way for women. It's amazing. Honestly." She told you proudly. "You're amazing, Cordelia."

For the first time in weeks, the load in your eyes lightened slightly, and you felt your lips tug into a small smile. It didn't erase the ache in your heart or bring back feeling to your legs, but it was something.

a/n: istg my tags are broken 🥲 sorry if ur tag doesn't work

taglist:@floverisland @biancatomlinson @rosaryia @highlandhyena @sarashu @rednicotine @emmaiscool22 @your-mum3000 @whoreforfictionalmen18 @sikuthealien

permanent tags: @phtmmsqrde @pikachuzhc

[girlfriendsofthegalaxy]

tuesday again no problem 11/26/2024

i don't have a good anecdote this week, i have the flu. look at my cat

listening

ty @shinygoodrock for the rec! billy bragg's the marching song of the covert. i was startled by the british accent but briefly forgot the uk's been colonizing way longer than god's favorite country, the usa

so SO cheery and so catchy! samples When The Ants Go Marching In!

Here we come with our candy and our guns And our corporate muscle marches in behind us For freedom's just another word for nothing left to sell And if you want narcotics we can get you those as well

it reminds me a lot of this poster i have framed but not hung up yet, jesse purcell's "A.G.F.T.P.O.T.U.S.O.A. (A Gift From The People Of The United States Of America)" (getcher own print at the link through justseeds)

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reading

my favorite tinned fish newsletter is back! i like this newsletter for its dry anecdotal voice, but i coincidentally have a tin of mackerel in tomato sauce in the pantry for mackintosh name reasons. seems like the best way to have it is fairly plain with some light seasonings. the author was a senior editor at vice and has been out of work for a bit since that site's collapse, so it's good to see him back doing silly free nonsense like his tinned fish newsletter

i had Dreadful by Caitlin Rozakis on hold for nearly six months so it extra hurt when i didn't particularly care for it.

like, what a premise! a beautifully written blurb that got my attention! i think i got an ad for this one on instagram. either that or it was floating around on this site.

A sharp-witted, high fantasy farce featuring killer moat squid, toxic masculinity, evil wizards and a garlic festival - all at once. Perfect for fans of T. Kingfisher, K. J. Parker and Travis Baldree. It’s bad enough waking up in a half-destroyed evil wizard’s workshop with no eyebrows, no memories, and no idea how long you have before the Dread Lord Whomever shows up to murder you horribly and then turn your skull into a goblet or something. It’s a lot worse when you realize that Dread Lord Whomever is… you. Gav isn’t really sure how he ended up with a castle full of goblins, or why he has a princess locked in a cell. All he can do is play along with his own evil plan in hopes of getting his memories back before he gets himself killed. But as he realizes that nothing – from the incredibly tasteless cloak adorned with flames to the aforementioned princess – is quite what it seems, Gav must face up to all the things the Dread Lord Gavrax has done. And he’ll have to answer the hardest question of all – who does he want to be? Dread Lord Gavrax has had better weeks.

this is a debut novel based on a friendgroup's DnD campaign, and it does show a bit. maybe you have a friend who’s freshly into improv? it gets a little wrapped up in Doing Bits. at several points i did think “i could be reading terry pratchett right now instead of enduring this bit.”

the writing itself is solid on a technical level-- there's a good balance of dialogue to description, no word choices really slammed me in the face, it flowed pretty nicely and was a fast read. flounders a bit in the middle but does pick up speed, a middling-okay pacing. if this were not a debut novel and felt a little bit more done on purpose i would be interested in talking about how the frantic lunge from plot point to plot point mirrors our protag's internal sense of self.

i do not think this rises to the level of farce, or even pastiche. it is a darkly comedic but fairly straightforward fantasy. very light PG romance elements.

so much of it is concerned with perceptions/expectations/visual tropes and then the big baddie is simply a baddie with no further interrogation. like a lot A LOT of philosophical musings on the nature of evil and the expectations thereof creating self image and morality and has unionized goblins. everything else in this book is questioned. you can’t go halfway with a deconstruction or you’re just writing more of the genre you’re trying to deconstruct. there was a scene that really clicked satisfyingly in my brain with a female sorceress, where she goes basically everyone expects me to be a bitch and a whore so let's just cut to the chase and have fun being a bitch and a whore. this alternate viewpoint of misogyny making you evil does not successfully contrast with our protag's internal calibration and view of evil but damn if that isn't the experience of being a woman in stem.

the protagonist, gav, wakes up with No memories and thereby becomes Good. or at least Better. does rozakis feel that everyone is born good and your reactions to things happening to you shape your morality? there's a reveal that one of the murders amnesiac!gav is most torn up about didn't actually happen bc his staff faked it and smuggled her out. i think this seriously undercuts the moderate amount of thinking and soulsearching and figuring out how to atone for past actions he does previously. and then it doesn’t really address any of the problems it tangled with in favor of a movie ending. it did tread a bit into therapyspeak for me. fewer shades of gray than i would have liked.

this book is also extremely heterosexual for what i expect a modern comedy fantasy to be. it neatly sidesteps the gay=/= evil conundrum but it was startling to find our protagonist with not even a curious homosexual thought.

occasionally irritating, but it was funny, except when it had to unfold some plot and forgot about being funny. this was a perfectly pleasantly written debut novel but wasn’t quite what i wanted or expected. it tries a lot of things and it’s interesting to watch the rube goldberg machine of a plot work and fail in some parts, even if it really did not carry through on its central philosophy.

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watching

breezing through a lot of stuff bc it's easier to sleep propped up on my couch arm than in my actual bed. i usually don’t long DNFs but has to remind myself never to try Quo Vadis again. my god is that a tiresome film. and not even pretty costumes or pretty set design for the first forty minutes. whereupon i bailed. all of these were first time watches, dunno why I haven’t been reaching for comfort movies lately

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playing

genshin update knocking it out of the park and also really reminding me of link tearsofthekingdom. also introduces a really good bird you can possess and fly around with. lots of vertical sky/coastline exploration which is so so so fun. i have done most of the things in this update inside a week bc i don't think they anticipated unemployed people like mainlining it between applying for jobs.

this girl's village has background music that reminds me of classic american westerns like bernstein or copland? heavy billy the kid ballet vibes. the music in this update is SO good im excited to yell about it in an future week when they drop the next album.

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making

still fallow baybee. currently incubating the influenza. no longer feverish thank u nyquil

[jasmineandcedar]

Thy lips, a bloom in rosy, soft delight | Azriel the Bard, part 1

An Elriel one shot (Azriel’s POV)

So… this might be a slightly strange piece of writing that I have been working on nearly every day for the past two months. In line with my wish to provide some joy and laughter in these troubled times, here's the first instalment of my new series – Azriel the Bard – in which I attempt to combine Elriel, poetry, romance and comedy and, to the best of my ability, only use words that have been used in Shakespeare’s work (because why not?). In the first instalment, I reimagine how Azriel and Elain stayed up together until dawn that one fateful Solstice night. With both a slightly naughty and a slightly (perchance exaggeratedly) Shakespearean twist.

Summary: A Shakespeare coded Azriel has developed a nervous habit of composing sonnets in his mind whenever Elain is around. But fair Elain Archeron keeps making dirty jokes, which has the shadowsinger very flustered and confused, urging himself to contain thyself, thou fool!—for most unruly is the part of his wayward body that hath, eager and unbidden, risen to the occasion beneath his breeches!

Warning: Ealin's subtle dirty jokes, but nothing explicit.

------

Azriel, dreaded Spymaster and shadowsinger of the Court of Night, could scarce believe his fortune—to find himself alone with fair Elain Archeron upon the longest night of the year. Yet fortune, the shadowsinger knew, had little to do with this blessed circumstance, for he had by underhand means laboured to align the stars to his wishes. Excuse upon excuse he had devised, each more feeble than the last, just to linger but a moment longer near Elain throughout the Solstice night. In sooth, he had been but a hair’s breadth from thrusting the High Lady Feyre Archeron headlong into the very abysm with scarce regard, so fierce was his yearning to be the first to bid Elain a merry Solstice.

Yet who could fault the shadowsinger, when fair Elain Archeron summoned him with an unseen force—one he had not the strength of will resist?

The sitting room lay steeped in the amber glow of the hearth's gentle flame, the fire casting shadows that danced and leapt upon the walls. Cassian had but just staggered off to his bedchamber, quaffing the last dregs of his liquor as he went, resembling a surly knight bereft of his lady's favour. And perchance, it was so, for Nesta had cast a parting glare of fury upon him ere she took her leave. Mor, too, had departed soon after Cassian, raising a weary sigh, as though the night itself were but a burden upon her frame.

‘Twas well past three in the morn when Azriel caught the gaze of High Lady Feyre. Her eyes sparkled with delight and a coy smile graced her lips, as though she were some scheming matchmaker, meddling with the threads of fate itself. In silence, she slipped into the night, hand in hand with the High Lord Rhysand. Their steps faded into the shadows, leaving naught but silence and the dancing flames in their wake.

And so it was that the shadowsinger found himself alone with fair Elain Archeron. He could scarce contain the grin that tugged at his lips, for he felt in that moment like the most fortunate knave in all of Prythian.

The room had settled at last into a restful stillness—the kind that, in Azriel's experience, only graced the Inner Circle's residence when all save himself had drifted off into the honey-heavy dew of slumber. ‘Twas a welcome retirement, a sequestration that gentled the very night, weaving a quiet tenderness into it.

Elain sat beside him upon the sofa, her notebook spread across her lap. She spoke most sweetly of her designs for the gardens, of new blossoms yet to unfold, eyes sparkling with visions she sketched with delicate strokes of her pencil.

Of a sudden, she halted, the pencil lingering upon her nether lip.

Azriel's head tilted, as though fair Elain had bewitched him with some silent and unheard spell. His gaze lingered, enthralled, upon the pencil that rested betwixt Elain’s rosy lips, held there in idle thought. The very vision stole his breath away, like a thief in the night. His lips parted of their own accord as a wicked smile curved his lips.

O, to be but a humble pencil graced by the kiss of fair Elain Archeron’s lips. The thoughts danced through his mind like the shadows twirling upon his shoulders.

The shadowsinger need not resort to poetry—yet what else could capture the beauty of fair Elain Archeron? Alas, he could pen a hundred sonnets to the perfection of fair Elain. He had not the strength to withstand the pull of those beauteous lips.

A glimpse of thee, as riseth fairest dawn, Thy lips, a bloom in rosy, soft delight. Thou whisper’st secrets dear, my lovely fawn, Each gentle word doth set my soul alight.

Azriel sealed his lips shut with a snap, as though he feared the sonnet might otherwise escape them. He blinked swiftly, to shake the unbidden verse loose from his straying thoughts and muster his wits anew. Contain thyself, thou fool! he scolded himself inwardly, pressing his eyes shut in a feeble attempt to gather his wits together.

But nay, it seemed his unyielding will faltered in the radiant presence of fair Elain Archeron. For no sooner had he opened his eyes than his head tilted anew of its own accord, like some puppet tugged by unseen strings. His gaze was ensnared once more by the pencil that slid with ease betwixt Elain's tender lips.

What else, Azriel mused with a wicked curve of his lips, might slip so pleasantly betwixt those sweet lips?

But then, on the sudden, the pencil slipped from her lips, rousing Azriel startingly from his wanton fantasies. He sat up straight, as though caught in some guilty act. Elain lowered the pencil to her notebook, pointing to one of her sketches.

"I do seek to erect a paling fence betwixt the flower beds and the—"

Azriel near choked upon his own breath, falling into a cough as he struggled to mask his reaction. Erect? By all that is holy, why must she say it like that? So blithely? So… eagerly? Of all the words she could have bid her lips to speak, fair Elain chose this one, uttering it with the innocence of a maiden, yet the sly wit of a jester.

Azriel shifted upon his seat, astonished that such saucy words should spring—so unbidden, so unbridled—from fair Elain’s sweet lips.

Heat flushed his cheeks, rising swiftly, and hastily did he seize a pillow to set it square upon his lap, like a shield of modesty. Silently, he sent a prayer to any deity who might deign to have mercy on his poor soul this most perilous of nights.

He closed his eyes but for a fleeting moment, summoning his strength. Contain thyself, thou fool! he chided anew within the unruly chambers of his mind. Each breath he drew was slow and measured, as though he might quell the stirrings of his wayward body through sheer strength of will. But alas, what hope had his wretched soul against the unrelenting fancies of his sinful desire?

It appeared his fancies led him astray in fair Elain’s presence.

For a most unruly part of him had, eager and unbidden, risen to the occasion beneath his breeches. It seemed the shadowsinger could not withstand the siege of his own desires.

“—Yet the one that hath caught mine eye doth appear of such large proportion, methinks it may be too large to fit,” quoth Elain.

Azriel nearly gasped aloud, as though betrayed by the very air. He fought to keep his countenance as unmoved as a marble bust, but—Mother above!—was fair Elain Archeron jesting with him so merrily on this fine night? Could she mean to do this with purpose? Azriel knit his brow in suspicion, and perused her visage as a wary courtier might study the face of a cunning deceiver.

But nay—fair Elain Archeron’s face was as calm as moonlight upon still waters, the very portrait of innocence. ‘Twas as though she had been taking secret lessons in the art of aloof restraint and stony countenance—nay, marble bust visage—from none but the Spymaster himself.

If only, he ruminated dryly, and the sinful stirrings of his unruly flesh rose once more beneath his breeches.

It seemed, indeed, the shadowsinger, had not the strength to withstand the siege of his own desires.

“What think'st thou?” Elain asked, gazing upon him with those wide chestnut eyes—so large, so innocent—they might well have belonged to a doe in a sunlit glade.

“Methinks...” Azriel's began, his voice emerging hoarse. He loosed a discreet cough, and tried anew, “Methinks thou shalt thrive—with proper preparation.”

“Dost thou think so?" quoth Elain, her eyes alight with keen curiosity, leaning ever so nigh.

Azriel swallowed hard, a crimson blush creeping up his neck. “Ay,” he whispered, the word forced forth with valiant strain, his voice trembling as though on the brink of faltering entirely. He clutched the pillow still poised upon his lap and, as befit a true warrior, fought a gallant battle against the untoward urge to adjust himself upon his perch.  

For the mischief brewing beneath his breeches left him most sweetly vexed, caught betwixt desire and the chains of his restraint.

“Perchance thou mightst grant me thy help?” Elain entreated, her alluring brown eyes—so wide, so earnest—they seemed as though they might well charm the very stars from their nightly vigil.

Azriel's gaze strayed downward to her lips, then swiftly back to her eyes. Nay, gaze not upon her lips! he silently chided himself inwardly.

“I—I am certain I could…” he muttered at length, breathless and faint, his voice scarcely louder than the fire’s soft crackle, “… lend thee my hand?”

The words stumbled forth in the manner of a question, for it seemed courteous to phrase them so when she had so utterly bereft him of his wits. Was she still speaking of her garden, or did fair Elain’s jest conceal a coy courtship? Gone was the shadowsinger’s stony countenance—nay, his marble bust visage—shattered beneath her gaze as easily as glass beneath the strike of an axe.

“Hast thou any... skill in such matters?” quoth Elain, her tone sweetly innocent.

For mercy's sake, fair lady, bite not thy lip! Azriel pleaded inwardly.

Yet, as though she were a witch privy to his very thoughts, Elain's teeth caught her nether lip.

Azriel swallowed hard at the sight. For but a fleeting moment, he raised a piteous sigh, his brow knitting together as, unwittingly and in like manner, he bit his own lip—until he caught himself, and swiftly forced his disposition back into the unmoving mask of a marble bust.

“Thou couldst say so, ay,” he uttered at long last, though the quiver in his voice betrayed the tempest of his growing confusion. He knew not what they spoke of any longer; all he knew was that his gaze did cling, shameless and unbidden, to the beauteous lips of fair Elain Archeron.

And that his wayward body did make but feeble attempts to remain still beneath his breeches, granting him little reprieve. His grip tightened upon the pillow, as though it were the sole shield betwixt him and the reach of the abysm.

“Marry...” Elain ruminated, her voice soft and innocent as a dove's coo. Yet anon, the pencil slipped with alluring charm betwixt her lips, and a twinkle kindled in her eye—a glimmer of something Azriel could not name. “Just as I had thought,” she mused.

What intent does she harbour, with such coy words and sly smiles? The shadowsinger marvelled. Azriel's train of thought had, most assuredly, lost its course, like a ship adrift at sea. He could scarce discern whether they still spoke of gardening, or if they had drifted into far more wanton waters. Had they wandered into realms of mischief? Had they veered beyond the paths of innocence?

To compound his woe, his mind settled back upon its new, most untimely folly: the endless writing of sonnets to fair Elain Archeron, whenever she drew near.

Thy laughter danceth, drawing me so nigh; With daring twinkles in thy chestnut eyes. Thy lips of crimson do grace smiles so shy, In every glance, a charge of pure surprise.

The words assailed his tortured mind unbidden, a skittish habit he seemed unable to abandon. Worse still, the heat did begin to rise, creeping up his neck as were he naught but a fever-weakened youth caught in the grip of his first love, bereft of all reason.

Azriel tugged at the collar of his tunic, as though the very fabric had betrayed him this fatal night. Mother above, he thought, overcome by alarm, shall I become naught but a puddle at fair Elain Archeron’s feet before Solstice night is through?

Contain thyself, thou fool!

“Art thou well?” asked Elain, her voice laced with gentle concern. “Thou dost appear flushed and warm, art thou taken with fever?”

Azriel made a strangled sound—a disordered stream of words that spilled forth with no coherence of any sort.‘Twas naught but prattle, but he could summon no finer reply in his present state.

Before he could recover his wits, Elain's fair hand reached forth. She drew ever nearer and put her hand flat over his brow.

The moment her sweet, flowery scent embraced him, Azriel fought fiercely against the desire to allow his eyes to close. ‘Twas as though the heavens themselves had opened and the gods, in their mercy, had graced his wretched soul—blessed by the mere presence of fair Elain Archeron. A tremble shot through his fever-weakened limbs, fraught with a burning ache of boundless longing, and much to his dismay, his traitorous mouth did near groan aloud with both relief and need.

He gazed into Elain’s eyes, his resolve undone, as though her charm had bewitched him wholly.

“Thou art hot beyond measure,” Elain breathed, gazing upon the shadowsinger with her wide, innocent eyes, her fair hand still cool against his burning brow.

“I thank thee,” the shadowsinger croaked, before his enthralled wits could resume control of his unruly tongue.

“How now?” said Elain, her brows lifting in gentle confusion.

Scarce in breath, Azriel loosed that strangled sound anew—half a cough, half a plea for the ground to gape and swallow him alive, or perchance for the heavens to bear him hence before they shut their gates once more. Nothing seemed able to quench the burning of his cheeks. “Forgive my folly,” he managed, voice ragged and hoarse.

Confusion, fleeting and faint, swept across Elain’s beauteous visage, yet yielded to a coy smile. With graceful repose, she sat back upon her seat, a twinkle of sweet mischief dancing in her eye.

Might it be that gardening hath ever held such… allure? The shadowsinger mused. Have mine eyes been shrouded, bereft of so vital a truth? Perchance I have chosen the wrong path in life. Pray, is five hundred years of age too late a time to forsake my trade and seek a new profession?

Or could it be, perchance, that fair Elain Archeron, sought to woo the shadowsinger?

Azriel sharpened his gaze, tilting his head as though he were observing some rare and curious creature. To his quiet delight, Elain mirrored him sweetly, though her lip curled in charming jest—a honey-sweetened challenge.

Ah, reckoned the shadowsinger, a twinkle kindling his gaze like a spark of knowing. I dare presume the fair lady doth seek to woo me.

Charming little darling.

In spite of himself, Azriel’s mouth, too, did curl with a subtle mischief, unfolding as slowly as the first light of dawn, to spread at last into a full, unbridled grin. And Elain’s visage—so coy, so sweet— radiant and inviting as a blossoming flower in spring, broke forth into boundless mirth and delight. She was as gentle as the petal of a rose, yet within her dwelled a secret boldness, humble but unyielding, that stirred his yearning heart to listen.

Fair Elain, thou art exquisite beyond earthly bounds, whispered the silent voice of the shadowsinger’s aching heart.

“Must I make my intentions plainer still?” Elain whispered through delicate laughter, as melodious as bird’s song at dawn. Her words danced with coy mischief, yet Azriel’s enthralled eyes took silent heed of the blush that rose in her fair cheeks. “I have sought to woo thee all Solstice long, shadowsinger,” she whispered on a soft breath.

Her eyes lowered, drawn downward as though by the weight of her own confession. With a demure smile lingering upon her lips, here gaze fell to her notebook. Only then did Azriel notice it was filled with naught but scattered scribbles.

A fresh flush of heat rose upon Azriel’s cheeks, and his heart burned with a desperate desire. The enticing paradox of Elain’s sweet, innocent countenance, mingled with that wicked tongue, ignited him hotter than a blacksmith's forge. For the first time in centuries, the shadowsinger found himself utterly undone—felled by a single, beguiling smile from fair Elain Archeron. How fiercely he yearned to claim her hand, cradle her in his arms, and whisper in her ear the secrets of his heart—the truths he could no longer endure to keep hidden.

“Thy smiles become thee well,” Elain whispered, her voice soft as a summer's breeze. That demure smile still played upon her lips, and her fingers twirled the pencil as were it a wand holding the shadowsinger spellbound.

And the sonnet to Elain Archeron’s lips kept weaving itself into verse within Azriel’s mind—a poet's curse he could not flee:

Thy blooming lips, in every smile and part, Through Solstice night, the longest of the year. Perchance will heed my fervent, yearning heart, And weave sweet words that only I shall hear.

“I could say the same of thee, Elain, but it would not suffice,” quoth the shadowsinger at long last, voice raw with emotion. “No words could ever do thee justice.”

Her steadfast gaze ensnared his, as though daring him to turn away. Azriel, for all his strength, could no more turn away than pluck the moon from its perch upon the night sky for his heart were held captive by her gaze. Softly did Elain’s gentle fingers trace the back of his hand, which lay still unmoving upon the pillow in his lap. From her touch flowed a warmth, sweet yet consuming, as though it had awakened a slumbering need in the shadowsinger.

“Good night, Azriel,” quoth Elain at length.

His name upon her tongue struck him into trembling silence, bereft of words to speak. With celestial grace, Elain rose from her perch, drifting past him as silently as the shadow of a shadow. Wordless, but for the echo of his name carried on her lips, she made her way towards the stairs.

Azriel turned in his seat. “Elain?”

She halted at the threshold, though she turned not to face him.

“I did speak in earnest,” quoth the shadowsinger, his voice low and tremulous, “as to the offer of mine hand…”

He swallowed hard, and a blush rose anew to his cheeks. “Shoudst thou desire it, my hand is thine to claim.”

Slowly, Elain turned, her eyes finding his with a gentleness that stilled his troubled mind. A rosy blush bepainted her cheeks, and upon her lips there bloomed a smile—so tender, so true—it was as though sunlight had pierced Azriel’s despair with its golden light, warming the depths of his wretched soul. Wordlessly, and with that smile still blooming upon her beauteous visage, Elain clasped her notebook closer to her bosom, and hurried away.

Azriel loosed a long, measured breath, turning once more to the quiet of the room. His gaze settled upon the little jar of headache powder Elain had given him, which sat upon the table like a silent token of her care. A smile did play upon his lips, followed soon by a soft chuckle. Slowly, he melted into the sofa’s embrace, his head resting upon its back, as a sense of peace washed over his weary soul—so rare, so unknown—it was as though he had stumbled upon some sacred treasure, precious and pure, found after centuries lost.

O, to be but a humble pencil graced by the kiss of fair Elain Archeron’s lips.

And with that, the sonnet composing itself within his mind came to a gentle close:

O, how thy perfect lips inspire verse, A story penned in every whispered word.

----

Click here to read Azriel’s Solstice sonnet in full (I have hidden quite a few canon moments in it!).

This is the first instalment of Azriel the Bard. In this instalment, I focused on comedy and wit, but future instalments might lean more into the romance.

My ACOTAR canon inspiration was Elain in ACOFAS laughing at Rhys suggesting he should model lingerie for them and Elain telling dirty jokes to Azriel in his BC (showing she has a bit of a naughty side to her…), and Azriel’s claim to not needing to resort to poetry, despite repeatedly doing so for Elain.

I don’t claim of this to be of any literary quality and my goal has simply been to create something that might bring some joy and laughter (I hope it did!). Because I am a big fan of Shakespeare and his unmatched wit, my idea was to create something a little unusual by (nearly) only using words and expressions that have been used in Shakespeare’s work. I stuck to that plan as much as possible and have been living inside the pages of Shakespeare’s work for the past two months. If you’re a fan of Shakespeare, you might recognize some expressions of his I’ve adapted and incorporated in this story.

If anyone is interested, Folger Shakespeare Library has an excellent feature where you can search through all Shakespeare’s works. I used it relentlessly to study how Shakespeare use certain words and expressions.

Thank you for reading!

[deadlysoupy]

finally had the courage to present the boy i've been obsessing over for weeks

(two templates use because i just could not decide on which one to use! huge credit to halkuonn and @biowarescreenshotsdump for all their lovely work)

[SPOILERS AHEAD]

i also made a compilation of his best moments (some are missing since i tinkered with his look a lot and only settled on this one right after the finale. i'm replaying the game with him yep)

a couple of notes for the curious:

he stinks. period

first romance was lucanis, but had a crush on neve through the entire adventure. he confessed MONTHS after the events of the game because he sucks

tevinter slave background is here because i only heard the "galley slave" phrase after i made up a backstory for him so i made peace with the fact that it's not really canon. lof got fucked over by the devs so i get to juggle canon however i want

was born into a slave family, got taken into the lords and lived about 10 years in rivain

got his name (or nickname) from the lords because he didn't even have a name as a slave (as affectionate as it was he's rook now)

likes tinkering with things (has a lot in common with bellara) and trouble is literally the air he breathes. an adrenaline junkie

adoptive little brother of the team

(bonus feature) apparently looks and resembles a lot of my partner's traits

always love talking about my boy and i'm actively writing some of his backstory as a fic

[toopimpabutterfly]

mouthwashing headcanons and important NOTE. Being mentally ill/experiencing trauma doesn't equal it's okay you do horrible things / be a horrible person. You got that?

TW for certain headcanons and subject matter.

Jimmy

-CSA survivor, lived in a low income household, unstable life growing up

-This leads him into trouble in his younger life before Pony Express, IE violent outbursts , theft, ect. He didn't commit any acts of SA till onboard (Seriously guys one of the games points is capitalism is horrible but they're not going to allow a convicted sexual deviant onboard, especially not without informing his crew+Curly knew Jimmy before)

-The trauma of his childhood left him as aggressive, having violent outbursts, and undiagnosed schizophrenia and BPD, turns into the psychosis he experiences during the events of the game

-Speaking of Curly he is aware though that Jimmy is not well mentally but tries to see the best in Jimmy, believes Jimmy is more than what he was on Earth and whatever happened in his childhood (this doesn't work out obviously)

-Tried to off himself in early life multiple times (the reason why he was quick to try and kill himself the first chance he got when caught, and in the end)

-The way he grew up leaves him to not eat a lot, mostly to drink liquids or things on the cheaper side/off brand, he sees most things as luxury's one must earn, but at the same time sees them as not helpful in his situation

-malnourished and has been since childhood and growing up but has a beer belly tbh

-Jimmy is jealous of Curly as he lived the ideal life he wanted, went to school, had connections, went to University, got a high paying job, ect. Jimmy sees this as unfair for all the suffering he went through growing up

-Also he's Mexican don't ask

-His favorite movies are the Matrix Trilogy (the others suck and that's just true) ,Mysterious Skin, The Talented Mr Ripley, and Akira

Curly

-Grew up upper middle class, met Jimmy in elementary school

-He tries to see the best in everybody, a true everyman, believes everyone can let go of their past/can be rehabilitated

-His favorite movies are Starship Troopers, Back To The Future, Alien II, and Avatar

-Used to watch those true crime YouTube videos growing up and always thought they deserved souch better

-Bro has WAYY too much empathy and sympathy

Anya

-Favorite moves are Girl Interrupted, Good Will Hunting, Jennifer's Body, and The Shape of Water

-Grew up lower middle income, wanted to further her career to help people back on Earth

-Didn't have the cash to go to a proper university though

-She has the best movie recommendations 100%

-Really good at boardgames

-The SA leaves her split, her mind slowly cracking more and more

-She feels a hate towards Jimmy and Curly, Jimmy for assaulting her, Curly for enabling it almost

-Obsession with cleanliness after the SA and up to her death

-Had violent outbursts on the ship in the last months of her death

Daisuke

-Youngest of the crew

-Wanted to make his family proud

-I feel like he's a middle child tbh

-Really loves racing simulators

-Favorite movies are Clerks, Jay and Silent Bob Rebooted, Cheech and Chong, Mallrats, Idiocracy, Adam Sandler movies, and Lords of Dogtown

-Skater backhome

-LOVES to hosts movie nights

-Comic nerd, he's a DCU forever, Dark horse branch his shit specifically

-Loves techno and rave music

-Draws short comics

Swansea

-Favorite movies are Django Unchained, Hellboy, No Country for Old Men, From Dusk Till Dawn, Kill Bill, ect. Huge Tarantino fan tbh

-Was in ROTC in highschool, ran that shit like the navy

-He watches requiem for a dream to remember his alcoholism isn't worth it, trainspotting too maybe.

-He loved to get handmade gifts over bought ones, letters, arts and crafts, drawings, ect

-Woodcarver

-Former Red Cross Worker/Salvation army worker tbh

[dammjamboy]

AREN'T YOU A SIGHT FOR SORE 'EYE'!

(bills belong to: @tesscourtes @nostalgink @annacpadilla @/floeflan @/B__BAM_ and @/midknightfell!)

[jagalart]

Peacock Prince

[raynewolferune]

Battle of the Not It

Just me pushing my personal agenda that the Battle for the Cowl makes no freaking sense once again.

I want to see the Battle of the Not It, Nose Goes, Worst out of 126+ Rounds of Rock Paper Siscors Takes It, etc. Basically, the Batfam throwing down in Bruce's absence to Not Be The One Who Inherits (TM). No one wants dear dad's emo fursona but they all agree someone has to take it. The resulting Loser Gets Batmanned sibling war throws Gotham into chaos, Oracle's keeping score of everything, the one with the lowest score at the end of every week is stuck with Batman Duty the following week.

Damian hates loosing his swords everytime he gets stuck doing Batman. Tim can't stand losing his tech. Jason misses his guns. Cass hates having to talk on can't use words days. Staphanie hates doing the voice. Dick can't tolerate being unable to smile. Duke needs his freaking sleep. The list goes on because they've all agreed they hate to embody Bruce's Batman, no one can put their own flare on it (Gun!Batman will not happen on their watch and they won't risk any other equally horrible variation either.) The resulting sibling war takes place 24/7 in the masks and the criminals and citizens of Gotham are as awed as they are horrified by it.

The strangest alliances form and disolve week to week. Dick cheats whenever he gets close to loosing and dips out because "Bludhaven needs him." Cass flits off to China on a last minute mission when too many of her siblings start forming up an alliance against her. Steph breaks her leg (she says it's an accident but Tim has very vocal doubts about that). Tim, Duke, and Damien start teaming up against Jason frequently and Red Hood gets stuck doing Batman practically every other week. Other weeks, Jason picks one of them as Robin for his Batman week (rotating between them as revenge) and forces a temporary alliance to make another of them Batman for the next week. Alfred encourages the four's little rivalry and manages to finagle them into all staying in the manor full time with him.

Just Batfam bonding shenanigans over how much they all Do Not want to be Batman.

And when Bruce comes back Babs naturally has a highlight reel waiting for him. Some of the gems include: Steph in a cast with crutches say "oh no, I broke my leg, however will I be Batman now" in the most deadpan voice. Dick 'answering' an obviously turned off cell phone pretending it's an emergency calling him back to Bludhaven. Cass saluting the security camera as she leaves with a full duffle bag in the dead of night. Jason in the Batsuit, minus cowl, storming into the kitchen shouting "you little shits are conspiring against me!" As Tim, Duke, and Damien are crowded around the island with a bunch of documents clearing planning something. A heated game of Rock Paper Scissors between Dick, Jason, and Tim with the rest of the batkids watching (having already won their freedom from the cowl for the following week). Duke wearing the cowl and asking Oracle repeatedly over coms if it's time for bed yet. Damien throwing a full on tantrum trying to get out of wearing the physical cowl "it's unnecessary and impractical!"

Oracle sends him the reel a day after his return during the standard Justice League team meeting, helpfully projecting it so everyone can see. The reels starts with an argument in the Bat Cave between all of Batman's (previously unknown to the Justice League) children:

"Well, Dickhead, I guess this means you're it now." The clip starts with a red helmeted man speaking.

"The fuck?" Nightwing asks on screen.

"You're Batman now." The teenager with yellow bandoliers replies from where he sits in front of an enormous computer. A girl in purple and another in black both nod. (At this point, it begins to dawn on members of the Justice League that this is footage from the fabled Bat Cave they're seeing.)

"Oh, fuck that!" Nightwing answers. "Not it!" He shouts. The boy with the bandoliers jolts and then says seemingly reflexively.

"Nose goes!" Bandolier boy calls out hand shooting up and touching his nose as he speaks. Both girls and Nightwing react immediately following suit. A smaller boy with a sword copies them a half second later. The red helmeted man sputters.

"Wha-that-NO! NO NO NO NO NO! I am not the one! Fuck no!"

"You snooze you loose, Bro." Nightwings tells him.

There's a pause, red helmet starts laughing, pulls the helmet off slowly to reveal a red domino underneath, and lazily touches his nose with a sharp grin.

"You're right, Bro." He says teasingly. "And Signal's still sleeping." A short pause and then all the people on screen are laughing.

"Oh," bandoliers gasps out between giggles. "He is gonna be so pissed in the morning."

[magnusbae]

The Endless Family Death, Dream, Desire & Despair

[powerfulscribbles]

Hot take: Even though I love that he beat the Miquellallegations, pre-dlc Mohg was so much better and had a lot to go for in terms of power, potential and how conniving and dedicated he was to achieve his goal. I miss him.

Also the premises for a Lord of Blood ending were right there. It would've been an interesting alternative option where you as a player, not only as a Tarnished, are giving up both your role as main character and your quest to become Elden Lord, thus letting someone else seize that opportunity.

I understand Miquella's plan for godhood and the creation of a gentler world (which is still ultimately destined to fail if we intervene and avoid having our heart stolen by him), but it removed so much agency from Mohg in particular, in my opinion.

[darija-morgan]

I can't help but adore that there are not one, not two, but six gods of death in FR lore!

Like...

God of Death

In pretty okay grim reaper way

God of Death

In bloody stabby stab way

God of Death

In dominant daddy bbc way

God of Death

In chaotic stupid bullshit way

God of Death

In fair unbiased judge way

God of Death

In insidious alien insect mummy way

They warms my dark soul in an inexplicable way :3

[sauronpilled]

finally get to draw melkor <33 for @mirkwood

[smittyw]

drew these as a cooldown yesterdy & decided to post bc i dont give a care plus they make me laugh. number one dungeon lord campeón del mundoooo (más patético del mundo) who tf left their demon baby unattended guys i dont think this is normal

[camgoloud]

you ever just. become overwhelmed by a sudden out-of-nowhere wave of tenderness and affection and longing for reconnection directed towards someone to whom you no longer speak for Very Good Reasons

[takamoris]

Mutuals and followers, I just ran through a leveling roulette as WHM, and used Cure III the whole time because I haven't touched WHM in a while, and forgot which icon was which, and the tank called it out (politely, I might add). I am not much longer for this earth. Please tell my cat I love her.