#Inkling Phantom

[galactic-feelins]

Inkling Danny Phantom. Just cuz. No reason other than "I can"

Image taken March 15, 2024 and you can tell by now I don't have a consistent backdrop for photographing these notecard drawings!

[meowdyjac]

HAPPY GHOST SWAP WEEK!!

This was created for @fyeahghosttrick's Ghost Swap!

My prompt: Block A - 74. The man in red dressed like Pearl from Side Order

Bonus sketch : Pearl as the man in red and Marina as Cabanela

[fenneladeline]

Notice of Resignation 10/1/24

As of October 1st, 2024 of the Mollusc Era, Fennel Pine Adeline, Executive Manager and Radio Director of Grizzco Industries, Inkopolis Square officially files her resignation from the company.

All of Fennel's assets will be spread amongst the executive staff, with the exception of ownership of the Grizzco Domestic Affaors group, which she retains full ownership and control over.

(Grizzco Domestic Affairs was previously co-owned by Madison Seltser.)

Signed,

Fennel Adeline, Owner and Operator of Grizzco Domestic Affairs

[sable-roteuth]

Some agents from yesterday

[muse-write]

I’ve been absorbed in Sondheim’s Passion for the past two days and still don’t know what I think of it. Severe late night/early morning rambling ahead, perhaps incoherent, be warned.

It’s interesting that it was released in the same general timeframe as Phantom and yet was received with so much more hate. Maybe part of that is that Fosca’s obsession/infatuation with Giorgio is so much more explicit in Passion than the Phantom’s? And while the Phantom is presented as a powerful mysterious figure until close to the end, Passion is devoted to showing Fosca as intensely, uncomfortably human—without shame, without mercy, without any real understanding of boundaries. There’s a close symmetry in how the Phantom and Fosca have been treated by the world and how they wish to be seen, and for both of them their actions can be explained (though not justified) by the lack of love and kindness they have been shown. And why do people feel such sympathy for Erik but famously yelled at Fosca to die from the audience? It could certainly have something to do with misogyny, but I can’t believe that’s the entire reason. It might have more to do with the way the shows respectively frame and focus their actions.

I also find it interesting that Phantom shows Christine making the rational, safe choice, almost certainly the healthier choice, in leaving with Raoul, while in Passion Giorgio comes to the realization that “no one has truly loved me like you have, Fosca” and rejects his relationship with Clara specifically because she treats it as a practical arrangement (see, I completely understand Clara’s suggestion to wait until her child is grown to leave her husband for Giorgio, and I would argue that if the affair is inevitable, then that’s the best, most logical way to go about it.) Giorgio decides, based on the unconditional, irrational love he has been shown by Fosca, that treating love as a “negotiation” is as wrong in the other extreme as Fosca following him to Milan.

Whether or not I can sit here and say, “yes, he should have gone with Clara, should have taken her up on her logical arrangement and waited to resume their relationship in the future,” and whether or not Fosca is necessarily a healthy love, his choice to go to Fosca works thematically. The musical is titled Passion. It is antithetical to logic. He gives in—and though it may be seen as a “sudden surrender” I think it really was “tender and slow”—to the one person able to view love unhindered by social conventions and other responsibilities.

[bookworms-and-bluestockings]

We've been slowly working to revive our blog, so here's our first post in a while! Autumn book recommendations from several of our members! Enjoy!

[waywardsalt]

they shouldve put bellum in ssbu as a spirit. come on

[thr0ttle]

status  .  closed  to  @drftings  ,  xile  rosario.

setting  .  at  rodani  wheels  around  8am,  a  few  days  after  the  new  year  party.

it's  much  too  early  for  tania  to  find  any  reason  to  be  here  at  all  —  that  is,  if  reason  doesn't  come  in  the  form  of  one  xile  rosario.  alas,  here  stands  reason  herself,  just  some  feet  away  from  them.  probably  waiting  for  them  to  cross  the  threshold  now  that  they've  thrown  the  door  wide  open.  well,  here  goes  nothing.  shoving  the  black  frames  of  their  sunglasses  higher  onto  their  nose  and  already  crossing  the  room,  they  start  the  conversation  off  with  a,  "you  doing  better?"  then,  staring  her  down  through  the  rims  of  their  glasses,  they  add,  "you  didn't  stay  here  all  night,  did  you?"

[truthdawn]

out of 5 fights I won 4 of em

Honestly tower control can be very easy if one person protects and stays on tower while the other goes off and fights :P

[deadsetobsessions]

Fae adjacent! Danny pt. 2

Timothy Drake hadn’t figured out what Danny Fenton was. The shop keeper had been kind, something the nine year old hadn’t expected when he walked into Danny’s shop, willing to trade away his name and soul to get Jason back.

As the young man tilted his head at Jason’s grave, something distinctly inhuman crossing his face as he smelt the soil, Tim had the slightest inkling that he didn’t want to know.

Tim, despite what most people would say, had some kind of self preservation instinct. He wouldn’t have survived traipsing after vigilantes in Gotham this long if he didn’t.

He did not want to find out what kind of creature Danny Fenton could be when enraged. (Despite the fear, something in Tim trilled in Danny presence. Safety, it said. Acceptance.)

——

Danny hummed. The soil here had been disturbed. The dead had not stayed dead. Danny smirked. He knew a bit about not staying dead.

“Your Jason isn’t here, little Sparrow.”

“What?”

“See the soil?”

The little sparrow- Tim- curiously looked down. Danny was sure the kid was smart and a few seconds later, he was proven right.

“The soul’s fresh. Overturned. Someone dug him up? No. An indent. No soil on the outside of the burial, it’s not square- he dug himself up?”

Danny sent the little sparrow an approving smile. “Well, Gotham was never known for its rule abiding citizens, dead or not.”

The little sparrow sighed. “Great. He’s a zombie now?”

“Not quite. Come, we will find your brother.”

“He's, uh, not my brother.”

Danny blinked, pausing. “You would give your name for someone who isn’t family?”

Tim flushed. “He’s- he’s my hero!”

"He'd better be thankful for this, then. What a good friend you are, little sparrow."

Tim lowered his voice, "He doesn't know I exist?”

Danny stared at him and wondered if Phantom ever had anyone who would give their names for him. He also wondered if the standard for human stupidity had lowered since he woke up.

“You see how that's worse, right?"

"Can we get this done, please? Preferably before Batman comes out at night?"

"There are worse things than the Bat, but yes, we may. This way."

As Danny led the way, following the scent of a newly retethered soul and trace amounts of what this world called Lazarus Pits, he found himself wondering who taught this kid his self preservation instincts because they needed to be fired. Tim had followed him, through shady alleys and darkened roads, without a thought for his own safety.

They reached the door of what clearly was a pixie den. Before Danny entered, he turned to Tim. "You, little sparrow, would be the first to be murdered in a poorly done horror movie. Now, stay here while I get Jason."

With that said and satisfaction taken from Tim's flabbergasted and insulted face, Danny headed inside the pixie den to collect the wayward soul.

——

"It's Danny!"

"Danny!"

The pixies in the room cheered as he walked in. Their teeth were a bit too sharp, ears a little too pointed, with shirts that did not fit quite right at their backs.

"Hey, guys." Danny strode to the room, following the scent of Jason's soul. "

"Ah, interested in our fresh catch?" One of the more... prolific pixies sidled up to him. "I think we'll make good entertainment of this boy yet. Maybe even the king would like a gift. His soul's pretty strong, mind's almost dead though."

Danny turned to the pixie and smiled. "I'm coming to collect on my contract, unfortunately."

The bar fell to complete silence. The mist and haze of the bar settled and drew back from the tinge of green in Danny's eyes. Oberon might have ruled his court but Danny's court was above even his.

"Oh- I. Yes, of course, please." The pixie stepped back hastily. Danny strode the rest of the way, content in the unnatural silence of the normally chatty pixies. He picked Jason up from the seat, frowning as he caught the scent of mind numbing herbal paste in the food in front of the kid.

"The children," he uttered commandingly. "Are off limits."

"But-!"

Danny clicked his tongue chidingly as he began leading the unsteady kid out the door.

"It isn't quite the days of old anymore, where people are aware of normal trickery. If an adult falls for your schemes, then that is on them. Children? No. To pick on a newly tethered soul is too far into my court for me to turn a blind eye."

"How are we supposed to do anything with the bat watching the skies?"

"Then fly below him," Danny drew his lips back, allowing Phantom to flicker onto his human face and warping it to something more inhuman. Like them.

"We understand," the bar's proprietor agreed. "Your word will be heard and heeded, king of another court."

"Much appreciated."

——

"Jason!"

"One second, little sparrow." Danny focused, drawing upon the chaotic magic that laid beneath the thrum of ectoplasm. He, oddly enough, has had enough practice returning memories to make this process as easy as a twist of his hand. Jason went limp.

"Jason!" Tim's cry had a little more panic in it.

"Worry not, he's simply sleeping. Regained memories tend to be quite taxing." He shuffled Jason a little closer to Tim. "Here you are, little sparrow. One Jason, whole and generally unharmed."

Tim glanced at Jason and then at himself. He sheepishly looked at Danny. "Would you mind helping me get him back home?"

Danny tilted his head back and laughed.

[goldenstring6123]

Lnds: Reconciliation

Warning: Still a bit angst-y. no teeth-rotting fluff. lots of drama.

Author's note: Please read "Lnds: Fighting with them" first before reading this one.

Zayne:

Well, most of the problems have been resolved already when you have heart-to-heart talks with him in his office. Although it was inevitable that you would shed a tear of frustration, Zayne would never let you go to sleep with a heavy heart.

Despite being mentally exhausted from your work and your fight, his genuine kindness will never flicker, especially towards you. When he gets home, his first instinct is to find you and check on your state—sure, you've resolved the issue through the conversation. Still, he isn't naive to think that lingering afterthoughts of the fight won't weigh your heart down.

Zayne loves you, and albeit he can't say it directly, he'd show it to you instead.

When he finds you, you are most likely lost in your thoughts, reflecting or distracting yourself in one way or another, but it will almost always be the same scenario: you will be sitting out in the garden in your nightwear.

Zayne would place his bag down and head to the kitchen to brew your favorite warm drink, doubling the amount of sweetened cocoa powder. It's not healthy to drink, but it was okay once in a while. You could hear the clinking of the teaspoon hitting the mug, and shortly after, Zayne was behind you, draping a knitted shawl over your shoulders.

He would hand you the drink and simply sit beside you in silence. He wasn't on his phone and dared not speak, letting only the chilly air envelop you both.

It wasn't awkward; there was no tension. Just silence.

And a little warmth as his hands clasped onto yours, his thumb grazing your palm.

That moment made you think that whatever you fought about felt trivial and tiny.

"I'm sorry for getting mad," you tell him lightly. "Thank you for the drink."

Zayne had said his sorries, and he didn't really need to hear one from you, but nonetheless, you were heard. He felt your head rest on his shoulders, and together, you basked under the full moon.

Xavier:

Xavier was looking for you. He went to the office and to that small hidden field, searching for an inkling of your presence. He didn't know what he would do once he managed to find you, but it was the last thought in his mind.

You weren't in your apartment, and it had already been 24 hours. Xavier waited patiently in silence, reflecting on your fight. A phantom of pain from you slapping him amplified the fear in your face, sending an ache through his heart.

He shouldn't have done that. He didn't know why. You never had the habit of running away during a fight, so he was unsure why he was unconsciously pressing you against the wall. Xavier is more than aware that his strength is incomparable to yours. You would, quite frankly, stand no chance if he used force, but that was precisely the point; he had no reason to use it.

He wanted to apologize to you, and he wanted you to reprimand him. He could take another hit from you, but what he can never accept is seeing that frightened, cornered look on your face.

You arrived pretty late into the night, and he was still there on your sofa, patiently waiting for you, almost like a little puppy. You spared him a few seconds of your glance but turned away soon after, taking off your coat, dropping your bag, and heading to the bedroom to speak.

You lay in your bed, facing away from the door because you knew too well that he would come in after you. Even then, you didn't lock the door. Xavier looked more than dejected when you didn't speak to him. You kept your position and closed your eyes shut.

Quietly, the silver-haired man made his way to your bedroom, peeking before carefully entering and lying beside you. Lightly, he clutched onto the hem of your shirt. "I want to apologize," his voice cracked a little, almost making it seem he was on the verge of tears.

"I don't like it when you corner me," you told him.

He scooted closer. "I know, I'm sorry. I won't do it again. I promise."

"I don't like it when you don't listen to my side of the story."

"I'll listen to your side next time," Xavier said, his voice faint yet closer.

It was the perfect time to let go of your anger. You never really talked about his habit when you fight, and you were partly at fault for tolerating it, hoping he would just listen one day. But how would Xavier change something when he didn't know how it affected you so much?

You rolled over to finally face him, his eyes going wide. You stroked his cheek, the side which you slapped the day before. "I shouldn't have slapped you. I'm sorry." Luckily, you didn't hit him too hard; otherwise, the ring on your finger would've cut his face.

Relieved that you had forgiven him, Xavier grabbed the hand that stroked his cheek. He closed his eyes and basked in your warmth. "Don't be. I scared you, and I deserved that." It was a quiet moment for you. Neither of you really knew what you had to say to each other. All was forgiven, and what awaits is simply the both of you fulfilling the end of your promises.

To fill in the silence, Xavier scooted closer and closer, kissing the exposed part of your collarbone shortly after, burying his face in your chest. You smell like coffee, he thought, but rather than stir him awake, it lulled him to sleep.

It didn't take long for him to snooze off to dreamland; after all, he waited for you for a day, not once sleeping in the hopes that he could see you face to face.

Rafayel:

In this relationship, you're almost always the one who needs to go after him, coddle him like an infant, and practically mend the entire relationship. Almost.

On rare occasions, Rafayel would apologize. That was the case for that big fight between you two. You had gone no-contact, leaving him on read most of the time. You avoided the place where you could likely find him wandering about; after all, it was him who should be going after you in this fight. You didn't owe him anything.

You ended up on the sandy shore of the bay, watching the tides threaten to soil your shoe, only to retreat and slither back into the sea. The cold air brought with it the salty scent of the ocean water, bringing a slight comfort to your nose.

The roughness of the waters masked the crunching sounds of Rafayel's footsteps; only then did you notice his presence when those familiar, gentle arms circled around the dip of your waist.

Silence.

"I was looking for you," he uttered under his breath.

"Why?"

"To apologize."

"Do you even know what you're apologizing for?" That came out of your lips monotonously, yet it struck every fiber of Rafayel's being.

"I said too much. I was mad, and so were you, but that's not an excuse to insult you and your feelings." To Rafayel, the waves were ready to swallow him whole. Like a poor little crab, unable to run away from the sea. "I was wrong for doing that, and I was wrong for shutting you out."

The apology wasn't enough. It was sincere, but it wasn't enough. "You can't keep doing that to me, Raf. You don't even get to give me a chance to speak." You pried away the hands that tried to bring you comfort. "You curse at me, you insult everything about me, and then kick me out like I'm just a major problem you can toss aside."

You could see your lover bite his lip. Anxious.

You love Rafayel, and there's nothing that can change that, and even if you were the one running after him during your fights, he fails to comprehend that you get tired, too.

"I'm an adult," you started. "We both are, Rafayel. But when we fight, why do you belittle me so much? Do you really think that low of me? Do you think you can push me around and make me follow all of your emotional whims?"

"No!" Rafayel exclaimed, in disbelief that your thought process had led you to say what you said. "I was mad. I didn't mean anything that I sai—"

"Then treat me right, Rafayel. Is that so hard to do? Is it really complicated to just…talk? Is it so hard to just sit down on your couch and listen to me?" You kept your lips shut, eyes staring at him without much thought. The usual cheery tone of your voice, nowhere in sight, in its wake, exhaustion. "I can only do so much for you, and I'm growing tired the more you do this to me—I get tired as well, Rafayel. You need to realize that."

The poor man didn't know what to say. Your words invaded his head, ridding it of any thought. They hurt. They stung at his heart. His fingers raised to lightly pull the hem of your sleeve, eyes meeting yours, glossy and flickering with fear; with hesitation, he asked: "Are you…breaking up with me?"

"I love you too much to break up with you." You took his cold hands. "I want to make us work. So help me. I can't do this alone." You tell him.

Your fingers were tiny against his own, yet they belonged in the in-betweens. You closed them and placed a kiss on the back of his palm.

He pulled you into an embrace, tightly, like the world was about to end in a matter of seconds.

He was cold, but his hug was warm. "I promise I'll work on myself. I don't want to hurt you again, and I don't want you to get tired of me." Rafayel whispered in your ear. "So don't give up on me. I'll change…"

The spare hand that hung on your hand gradually crept up his back, finding its usual place between Rafayel's shoulder blades. You rubbed small circles, the only comfort you could provide despite your exhaustion.

"I'll hold you to your word." You pressed a kiss on his cheek. As you did, you realized something you didn't a few minutes before.

Rafayel's exposed neck, his thin clothing, and his sandals didn't cover his whole feet. In the cold seaside, Rafayel looked like a madman wearing an indoor outfit, as if he had just walked out of his home without much thought. No wonder why he was so cold. He was shivering both at the thought of you nearly breaking up with him and because of the chilly mists of water hitting his way.

You unrolled the cotton scarf that warmed your neck, wrapping it around him instead. "Let's head home, I don't want you getting sick."

He quietly complied, pulling away from you but keeping your hand locked with his.

Sylus:

The same things happen again and again; it makes you feel numb. Empty.

There was no difference when you woke up alone or when you woke up in his embrace. Not when you were fighting.

Not tonight.

Sylus was awake. You couldn't see him due to the sheer darkness of his room, but he was there, his thumb brushing against your nape while a leg crossed over yours. You stared off into the corner of the room, wondering who was going to speak first.

"We're not breaking up, sweetie." It was more of a demand rather than a statement.

"We won't," two can play at his game. "If you apologize." Nobody would want to be abandoned and left hanging for a month. Especially not you.

You mustered the strength to push yourself up, expecting a bit of restraint from your lover—to your surprise, he let you stand up.

"Apologize for what, exactly? It was you who decided to test my patience. You were the one who cursed at me, calling me names and even throwing things in my way, so pray-tell, sweetie, what do I have to apologize for?" He stared at you, his gaze unfaltering and intense.

"I'm sorry," you stood your ground, yet the apology was long due. "I don't remember what we fought about, but I apologize. For cursing at you, for throwing things in your face. That won't happen again."

A lengthy breath escaped his lips, sounding unsatisfied with your seemingly half-hearted and shallow apology. Sylus wouldn't want to admit it to you, but he doesn't even know why he was mad; all Sylus knew that evening was that he was overcome with too much anger, one that he would usually release through violence. But it involved you. He doesn't want to hurt you or lay a hand on you, so the best option he has is to get away.

He didn't know for how long he should be gone, and in the blink of an eye, a full month had passed.

His anger had long been gone the same time as your loneliness began to fester.

As simple as the apology sounded, it was more than enough for him. "You're forgiven. Don't do that to me ever again."

The man stood up, and you watched his figure as he strode closer to you. He could see the look in your eyes, the anguish mixed with despair, and as he was about to pull you into a hug, a reverberating slap echoed in his room.

The back of his hand stung. And so did your palm.

"You're not going to touch me until you apologize, too, Sylus." Your throat burned at your own words. Your feet felt like they were buried half an inch into the floor, preventing you from running away. He looked down at you, low-lidded eyes devoid of any life.

"Why should I?"

You wanted to laugh at his crap.

"Why is it that you demand compensation every time I leave you on read for more than 3 days? Why do I have to explain where I've been, who I was with, and why I was gone while you—" A bitter laugh bloomed out of your mouth, "While you come here and not even offer a single bit of an explanation nor an apology?"

Sylus offers nothing in exchange for your words. He avoided you, that he can't deny. He used his work as an excuse to bury you at the back of his head and intentionally minimized your presence in his life.

"Hah," the ache at the back of your neck crept to the back of your head, nearly sending your head to throb all over. "You're unfair, Sylus. You're so goddamn unfair that…" You couldn't continue the words you wanted to say. It will only fan the flame in your heart and his.

"I just," the shiver in your breath snapped Sylus into reality. The feeling in your throat was uncomfortable. It was slowly becoming tangled, choking you of air. "I just want an apology from you, Sylus. Even just a small apology for abandoning me." And the fact that you had to beg him for it is just…

Sylus wrapped his hand around you, keeping your arms in place. You tried to break free from his grasp, but he held on to you tightly, not offering you a way out. Your face was smashed against his chest, and you could hear his heartbeat, pumping, beating all too fast.

"Forgive me," Sylus whispered. "There's no excuse for what I did."

His words were like the key to your eyes as tears began to cascade down your cheeks. There was no need for him to say anything else; it was enough for you. There was no strength left in you to reciprocate his hug, but you wanted to.

Sylus slipped his hand underneath your thighs and lifted you up. Carefully trudging to the bed, he laid you down in the same place you got up, tucking a blanket over you. He got on the bed as well, pulling you closer to his grasp.

"I'll make it up to you tomorrow." He stroked your cheek and placed a kiss on your eyes. "We can talk properly, and I'll apologize again," Sylus said. The same hand that touched your cheek slid down onto your shoulders, caressing it up and down.

The weariness began to settle in. The soft mattress and pillows and his warm touch.

It was getting harder and harder to keep your eyes open, and you didn't know why you were fighting the fatigue, but Sylus' promise helped you settle down.

He doesn't go back on his words and doesn't say things he doesn't mean. You hold him up to his words.

And quietly, you drift off to sleep.

Author footnotes: I changed the writing style to a somewhat story-telling format. I hope you guys don't mind.Layout by me, using canva premium | Do not repost |

[stars-obsession-pit]

After a reveal went wrong, Danny and Phantom are forcibly split apart by a new and improved Fenton Ghost Catcher.

Even once they both escape, they find they can’t just phase back together. And unlike before, this version of the device doesn’t offer an easy way to re-merge.

Danny thinks he’ll be able to fix it with enough time and resources, but he has to get to a safe place first. Thus, he ends up absconding to Gotham, hoping its natural ectoplasm levels will help hide him.

Which was going great at first, until they started to get the sense that someone, or perhaps something, was spying on them—or more specifically, on Phantom.

They think it might be a ghost, but it doesn’t feel quite like the ones they’ve fought before.

Boston Brand thinks he might be out of his depth. He’d never seen anything like this spirit before, but he was pretty sure it was a lot stronger than him. But considering how it was controlling the body of a teenager, he couldn’t just leave it be either.

Luckily, it didn’t seem to be able to clearly see him. It definitely was developing an inkling of something, but not enough to outright confront him yet. He only hoped he’d be able to find something of a weakness before it managed to lock onto him.

[fenneladeline]

Grizzco Domestic Affairs; Log 1: Formation

Grizzco Domestic Affairs

2019 (Mollusc Era)

Founded by Fennel Adeline & Madison Selster

Grizzco Domestic Affairs is a group consisting of its two founders plus 4 Salmon Runner squads hand picked for their tenacity at dealing with internal Grizzco, Splatlandian and Inkadian home affairs related to the Salmon Run phenomenon, Eagle Squad, Grizzly Squad, Kingfish Squad and Wolf Squad.

Grizzco Domestic Affairs is dedicated to dealing with domestic threats to Grizzco Industries' operations. From corporate espionage, to thieves and protesters, to even salmonid breaches into Inkfish territory (most notably, the theorized potential Big Run phenomenon.)

Grizzco Domestic Affairs also assists local police units in tracking down offenders related to Grizzco, such as rouge employees and vandals of grizzco property.

The GDA is here to protect the company and its profits, no matter the cost. Inkfish or Salmonid.

Signed, Fennel Adeline & Madison Selster.

Junior Managers, Grizzco Industries, Inkopolis Square

[sable-roteuth]

My silly splatoon biology headcanons!!!

[lady-quen]

Places this in the sea of "Trahearne survives" AUs. Presenting Trahearne Inmorte, resident seething Firstborn plant bonded to a frankenstein bug. Alternatively, Trahearne if he picked ferocity in the character creator.

Anyway, finally posting about my version of the good ole Marshal, lovingly dubbed Crankhearne - aka Risen Lich Trahearne, revived immediately post-getting to know his sword too closely, courtesy of Morivitae, ( @commanderteag ) the Pact's pet Scion of Zhaitan. Having kept a dragon of dubious morals on a metaphorical leash, Trahy promptly gets UNO reversed. These two start toxic but get better over time, creating a fun contrast to the Commander of the verse, Aestus, who belongs to @mithosis.

Similarly to my own Commander, Mael, he keeps his condition as a lich secret from everyone aside from his closest circle. I swear I'm not collecting undead plants, the Zhaitan Scion Champion opportunity was just far too good to pass up. Have some more screenshots, and more (a lot more) lore ranting below the cut.

The very last thing the Pact Marshal expected when waging war against Zhaitan was to strike a bargain with Zhaitan's child. Information against his master and aid in cleansing Orr - in exchange for freedom once the Elder Dragon was slain. But, still, keeping a beast of that caliber on a leash proved a challenge, even when he could shapeshift more or less into mortal shape. After all, an ancient beast that subsisted on eating life force and grafting foreign body parts to itself did not take to Tyrian morals immediately. It wasn't a partnership by any means - a monster was a monster, but so was a promise. As long as the creature called "Morivitae" behaved, he could prove an asset against the other Dragons. A weapon. A wildcard. But then, awakened Mordremoth. The Maguuma disaster. His greatest failure, and, ultimately, his end. A final request for the Commander to take Caladbolg from his shaking hands and strike. But something within the Death Scion stirred at the sorrow. At the Commander's cries. An inkling of emotion, a faint flicker of something unfathomable. And gold eyes opened again. Welcome, O Champion of Shadow and Death. And now, the Marshal was on a leash of his own.

Trahearne went to the Domain of the Lost when he died, and time flowed differently there. So he spent "days" wandering and fighting the phantoms that took his name and face, just like the Commander. He met the Judge but there was no crisis in the Mists, so no offer to come back like during PoF, just gotta accept death but also have to process it first. Poor Trahearne was dissociated the whole time, thinking he was Mordremoth. He had to be given a second name to latch onto until he found his real one - and then he was ripped out of the Mists by Mori just before he could claim his rightful rest. Needless to say, waking back up a Risen of all things and cut off from the Dream did not do his mental health any favors.

"I don't remember my name but I was something horrible. You mustn't let me into the afterlife. I can't destroy it, too..." "You must find your name before you continue onward, wherever your final destination lies. If you fail, your soul will fade." "Good. I want to fade. I need to." "No, you must find the truth. That is the law of this place. Your spirit is noble, there is no malice in you. But there is suffering, and this isn't your final punishment." "I'm fading. I can't tell how - why - I can't move anymore. I need to... what am I..." "You are.. Inmorte, The Lost Wanderer. This name I give you now so you may continue. Hold onto it tightly and find your purpose. Your real name." "...I... I will."

Following his resurrection, he continues to lead the Pact as its Marshal, and is adamant on never using a mask nor mesmer illusions to cover his face - wearing his disfigurement openly in solidarity with all the other sylvari mutilated by Mordremoth's influence. There are questions as to why the Marshal was torn from the Dream and his glow changed to a necromantic green, but not many dare seek the truth of their own accord. Trahearne becomes a much more fearsome, decisive leader - going from scholar to truly formidable strategic mastermind, wanting nothing more than to ensure the tragedy of Maguuma never repeats.

"It's not mere confidence, it's pathological. As though everything stopped mattering back in that jungle, and yet I am ever more determined to see things through til the end. It's the only reason I can justify existing in this state."

The only instance where he does use illusions (excluding stealth missions, of course) is over his hands - due to an unfortunate incident where Caladbolg completely burned off the flesh from his fingers. As a result, his real hands are skeletal. This is due to his obsession with the sword, practically never letting it go, to the point he once fell asleep holding it. Since he no longer feels pain correctly, the damage was done before he woke back up - and Mori does not seem to possess the ability to mend, only animate that which should already be dead.

Trahearne's obsession with Caladbolg stems from the fact he initially believes the weapon to be the only thing keeping his soul from being fully corrupted by the Dragon he is bound to - clinging to a hope that the Thorn could purify the death magic in him just like it had once purified Orr. Alas, that is not the case, but also he eventually finds he is not as doomed as he had once believed - growing into a Champion of Death and Rebirth under his Scion patron as they both find their greater purpose - a balance to Aestus and Aurene's light. Still, his destiny remains irrevocably tied to the very land that haunted his Dream and cursed him with a seemingly impossible task.

"You're the First of the First, born in the garden of Eden and destined to purify a sunken hell risen from the depths on the other side of the sea. A task thought impossible, especially as your siblings begin to rise around you with destinies that seem more achievable. Compelled, you spend over twenty years studying the land of the walking dead, so much that the stench of it all is all but branded into your flesh. It's all you see when you sleep. The neverending expanse of bleak, gray-brown rock and twisting anemone and tide-torn ruins. Nothing living grows in Orr. It's all absolute desolation. There are none of your siblings there and you're so terribly lonely. ...In all your years, you never thought this could happen. With the Commander at your side and the son of Zhaitan mutinying against his father, Orr blooms again. The Artesian waters run clear, and life wanders slowly back into the land. It will take years, many more years than you'll be alive for, but the weight is lifted. You can leave. It's over. With hope in your heart, you feel like whatever comes next will only be easier. It's not. You die. And you rise. You never left Orr, because Orr never had the intention of leaving you."

Perhaps, just perhaps - one day, when the sunken kingdom heals completely, his soul will be allowed its due rest. Until then, he has some work to do.

[wereavocado]

Do any other werecreature/shapeshifter nonhumans experience shifts where it’s like you can feel your body trying to transform?

It’s one of my most common shifts and it’s genuinely so distressing for me. It’s like there’s this churning in my chest and stomach that races through my limbs and head, trying to escape, but there’s nowhere for it to go. I will experience a phantom sensation of a muzzle, claws, teeth, etc forming, but in the end that is all it is—a feeling. Every time it happens there’s an inkling of hope that maybe this time those sensations will finally amount to something more than just an inexplicable feeling in my body, but of course, every time I am left feeling like some part of me is held hostage in this skin.