#Trammander

[just-another-pigeon]

Just realize I haven't post this one here.

So, Trahearne survived HoT, Orr is restored, and they live happily ever after blablabla.

[just-eyris-things]

We all know I had to :3c

[lady-quen]

Taking Mael through @commanderteag 's story for a lore refresh and had to make that joke

[the-elven-star]

I haven't painted them for a long time….

At first I wanted to make a picture in the application, but decided to mess around~

[icebrooding]

The most wonderful sound in the world...

[averagebreadslice]

@lady-quen ask and you shall receive!

[faehrnem]

Over the years, Faehrnem's gotten self-conscious about his appearance and how scarred he's become due to his occupation. Poor guy feels like his body is falling apart, he deserves a smidge of comfort and reassurance 🥺

[friberchi]

Victory ✨

[myriad-lights]

Trahearne should have been the dead wife who haunts the narrative

[mileroos]

.

.marshal.commander.

[just-another-pigeon]

Erris's fourth birthday is nigh, and here is the commission for this year:

A tour around the new Pact camp while Trahearne updates her on the campaign against Mordremoth.

[muzarry]

"Rest easy"

[lady-quen]

POV: he saw the light of his life 🫵

[i-mybrunettelady]

welcome home, nyra

Summary: Alysannyra makes an attempt at reclaiming her body for herself. Content warnings: Masturbation, Light Masochism Spoilers: Path of Fire Note: Minors DNI. This is Explicit mode. 18+ please. Also implied Trammander!

It’s funny, Nyra sometimes thinks, how she’s faced monsters and dragons and gods, yet it took her years to just sit before a mirror naked. She knows how to find humor in various things now. She always has, in hindsight. She simply did not have the means to make her humor funny to everyone else before. 

Her body is not something she finds funny, though. Her story is far from a fucking joke and it’s all there, on her skin, in every bump, line and burn. It’s in the way she moves, the way she exists in this world. So yeah, maybe the fact that she’s afraid of her own bare reflection is embarrassing and shameful and funny, but the body it shows is very much not. 

Who are you trying to convince, Ainsaph? You’re the only person who will ever laugh at you. 

She kicks her foot in the water and frowns. She knows that, and yet. And yet! Face your enemy and all that shit, but facing yourself is harder than it looks. It’s funny. It’s funny. It’s so hilariously funny she forgets to laugh. Nary a giggle in sight. 

She isn’t flinching, though. That’s good. There isn’t peace when she looks at herself, but there isn’t disgust either. The reminders of what she’s been through aren’t as sharp. That’s good. Little progress is progress too, right? Nyra cringes. Is this how bad she is at being kind to herself? She feels like a little girl, staring up at Forgal all indignant and awkward. Is she being indignant right now? Actually indignant, of all things? 

She buries her face in her hands and laughs. Her life plays before her eyes in all its violent glory, as if she’s dying on the hill of… Manors in Divinity’s Reach, in her own private bathroom, in an estate with her own chapel, and she’s taking her last breaths, wheezing and coughing like an old guy with a lung disease. 

“Take care of yourselves, children,” she croaks aloud, imagining her 12 cats somewhere in the manor, and she knows Aurene can hear her, wherever she is right now. “Your grandpa will pray to Dwayna for you..” 

The image sends her shaking from laughter on the edge of the bathtub, one foot in the fresh smelling water, and she’s the only thing echoing in the whole room and the sound reflects back. She stops laughing one wrong move later as she’s falling in the tub, ass hitting the edge at a weird angle. Suddenly she finds herself doing a half-split above water, with what’s likely a sad, angry bruise on her ass and her shoulders slump forward. 

“For fuck’s sake,” Nyra cackles, straightening herself again. “Wouldn’t be the first ass bruise.” She tilts her body and head to look. The throbbing place looks red. “Yeah, that’s gonna bruise. Great job, Nyra. Great job indeed.”

Admittedly, she does look good like this. The thought startles her. It’s been ages since she last thought of herself as attractive. She knows she is, but it’s different when you hear it from other people and when you think that yourself. She watches the shape and width of her hips, the deceptive softness of her belly, the sheer size of her thighs. Someone should fuck me, she thinks. Hands on my hips, as fast or slow as I want to. 

She sees the curly hairs on the unscarred parts of her legs. When she stands normally again, she follows the line of the scars, from her feet and above, to the messy hairs between her legs that extend to her belly and point toward the scar that stayed after Balthazar severed her spine years ago. She died that day. But she isn’t dead. All she has now is a gnarly, faded line that’s mirrored on her lower back. She isn't flinching. Part of her wants to touch it. 

So she does. She rubs a circle on one random spot, hyperfocused on the intercession between the normal flesh of her fingers and her burned knuckles. It feels like a scar. It feels like death. She can’t say she likes it, but it’s a part of her, the same way her eyes are. 

She takes a deep breath. Her hand stops moving and rests above her cunt, a shiny, white nail in the midst of brown, coarse hair. She raises her gaze to look above that still, to the sagginess and scars on her breasts, the burns on her arms. Her hair, wavy and in disarray, falls on her back. Not half bad, she decides with a strange thrill and pressure under her skin. Not half bad at all.

Nyra slides a free hand up to her areola, and sharply takes a breath in. It feels good, a tease. She loves a good tease. She glides her fingers over the scar on her right breast. Finally, a true Ascalonian, she thinks. I even have charr claw scars now! Maybe the Separatists will stop trying to kill me now. 

No such luck. But a girl can dream, yeah? She cups her breast, feels its weight in her palm. It would’ve been great if Trahearne was there to do this for her. She misses the suction of his mouth around her nipple. But he’s away on business in the Grove, so she must take matters into her own hands. The one positioned on her pubes tugs softly at the hairs there. The sharp pain adds to the physical sensation of having a body. 

What a dream, to not be a physical being. Unfortunately, Nyra’s never had the pleasure. Even before the scars, she was aware she was bigger and stronger than most human girls(and some boys) and that she could take things twice her size in combat. Movement feels good, exertion feels even better; her physicality always informed how she interacted with the world. 

She was fine with it, until Balthazar killed her. She was fine with this hairy, muscular, pale killing machine, that’s now looking less than stellar but it works. She should be dead, yet here she is, feeling her own wetness with her fingers, watching her own face go red with heat. Her fingers should not be able to make full range of motion yet they do. 

Why the fuck should she care if she has scars? She refuses to let her rational mind answer that. This sense of power feels better than anything it could ever provide. It feels as if she has Trahearne on his knees before her, looking up with his one eye, awaiting the chance to just get his mouth on her. 

She digs her nails - manicured and firm, longer than she usually wears them - into the soft skin on the side of her cunt. The scratch feels exquisite, and her fingers inch closer and closer to her wetness yet again. Nyra watches the minimal expressions on her face, eyes set on where the wet sounds of sliding in and out are coming from. The length of the nails doesn’t feel as comfortable as it should, but she likes it. She likes the discomfort. It makes her grunt and breathe heavily. 

She doesn’t question why that is. It’s probably another one of her little idiosyncrasies. Getting off on pain isn’t something a lot of people do, and yet, neither is killing gods and dragons. 

Her free hand comes to grasp her nipple and press it between her thumb and forefinger. She makes a choked noise at the back of her throat. The thumb between her legs digs through the folds - much to Nyra’s small amusement - and finds her clit. It’s a little clumsy, and her hand is weirdly stretched, but she somehow manages to both slide in and out and play with her clit. It’s a talent she’d forgotten she had. 

And it’s good, it hurts a little, but it hurts so well she rests her bruised ass on the cold edge of the bathtub and closes her eyes, to enjoy the process. She has no patience for stopping before she comes, not when she’s riding this power trip, not this time, and she allows the sensation to build and build until it crests. Only sound Nyra makes is a groan at the back of her throat as she slides down to the floor, breathless. She then dares to look at the mirror again. 

The face that stares back is red like a ripe tomato, the fingers sticky and wet before her eyes. She’s shaking a little with the aftershocks, still trying to catch her breath. The scars are still there, glaring from the reflection, but somehow, it doesn’t matter like it used to. The bathroom is quiet and large, too large for Nyra and her reflection only, yet she feels like she’s the gravity in the room, sitting naked on the floor, radiant in the afterglow of an orgasm. 

It’s been a while since he last thought of herself as radiant. 

Welcome home, Nyra. 

[icebrooding]

I keep rotating that one part of 'Retribution' through my mind.

The part where Comm asks Trahearne if he would be their leader. Because so much of Trahearne's life has been following direction given to him; go to Orr, try to cleanse it. Become a leader. These monumental decisions that he doesn't really have a say in. Doesn't want. It's always a 'You have to do this'.

And even though the Commander went through the vision of Orr with him, and knows that the Pale Tree told Trahearne to lead them all through to Zhaitan... they ask him.

"I've already considered that. Trahearne, you've never joined an order, yet they all respect you. You've studied Orr all your life. Will you lead us?"

It's such a small thing, but even though Commander has alreeady been thinking of Trahearne as a leader, they don't force it upon him. They don't say 'You should lead us'.

Will you lead us.

While he has no real choice regarding his Hunt, or being the 'role model' for his people, or leading the Pact to Orr, the Commander is the only person who ever asks him if it's something he would be willing to do. They give him even just the façade of a choice, and I think that meant a lot to him.

Commander gave him the strength to overcome his fear of failure, and gave him that bit of hope; that maybe one day he could have a future of his own choice.

[averagebreadslice]

Go for it, Trahearne!