#alas my brain is fried

[wolfy1298]

Just a little something to keep me sane

[justanotherspeck]

the way sir sparklepuff kept screaming "BLOOD OF CHILD" and i was just like, "oh! :) funny little guy! he's just a little edgy, how cute :)" and then felt like an absolute fool when it was made painfully obvious why he kept repeating that.

[hiyogdh]

sketches of mobei jun...i just think hes Neat yknow

[moonslitmuse]

when you're in a fic wip competition and your opponent is me. abbott elementary inspired jayvik teachers au, complete with mockumentary cuts! the sixth-graders he's in charge of are going to eat him alive

[princeofhags]

i just finished reading about iraestra so wand of twilight for her as well!

Wand of Twilight. Iraestra conjures a spirit from the land of the dead to speak to them.

FANTASY PROMPTS | @foxboyclit

Smoke floods the altar in fragrant plumes, the familiar taste of myrrh coating the back of Iraestra's throat uncomfortably. Her steps, purposefully measured and slow, sound monstrous in the cavernous wings of the ceremonial chamber. The peace is further broken by the occasional murmur of an invocation or rustling cloth. There has been no order given for silence, but the trepidation hanging heavy in the air as the incense enforces the command. They all wait in the lurch of a breathless hush, an animal instinct to a known threat. Still, so that the hunter is not enthralled by your fleeing. Anticipation before the blow.

Does their visitor scent the fear he instills in the air, like a hound? Does the chorus of thrumming hearts beckon to him like the call of war drums? Bodies, so many bodies for him to open and bleed.

Itaestra does not doubt that he often relishes it. Bhaalspawn are such curious, depraved half-beasts.

Prince of the Blood. A self-given title, perhaps, but she has heard the reverence Bhaal's faithful pour at his feet like wine libations. Their honored guest is heir to a butcher's legacy. She thinks him little more than a glorified killer draped in the dressings of grandeur.

Iraestra does not cower or draw back from him, but there is still an instinctual unease at the thought of a Bhaalspawn being familiar with her. The Dread Lord’s wicked heirs do not know friends, only warm bodies to bite with steel. The world to them is already dead, merely waiting to be torn asunder to show its truest color: the crimson of fresh spilt blood.

A hedonistic dogma. She holds her tongue due to the respect granted to Bhaal by her own unholy master.

She observes the preparations for the ritual with only half an eye, attention commanded by the ophidian silhouette haunting the edge of the room. What a disquieting picture he paints. His height causes him to loom terribly, heads and shoulders above the flock of mortal meat. He need not even draw his weapon to kill half the room should he wish it. Each finger is tipped with a talon that catches the candlelight with each of his clenching hand. When he had spoken, his teeth had stood out vividly against the stone-black gleam of his scales. The dried gore on his scales embrace him as intimately as any lover.

The wicked length of a barbed tail flickers in what may be a sign of agitation in his people, or merely a quirk of the extra limb. His attention is riveted on the altar. She half expects it to catch aflame.

She attempts not to concern herself with his growing impatience. Any fool can cast a spell to converse with the departed; a Myrkulite only does so at the behest of another and the blessings of the Bone Lord. She will not disregard the tenants of her faith even for this Prince.

"You're eager," she observes. The dragonborn has not left the corpse's side since it was brought to her. Curious. He must be thoroughly invested in the secrets it would spill. "It was good that you preserved the jaw. A wasted trip had you not," she stops by the head, only the breadth of a few steps between her and the Prince.

At that, he finally regards her. Even in his initial instructions he had been short with her. "What of a tongue?

"Is this a theoretical or practical query?" Short of the patience to wait for an answer, Iraestra snaps at one of the attendants. "Bone Talker, check the mouth."

Questing fingers find only half of the appendage still intact. If removed before death, exsanguination is as likely a cause as any.

"It will do," she decides. "I am ready to begin." Her attendants step back as one.

The body has been prepared as best they can given its mangled state. This man, who can be no older than twenty, bares the marks of a slow death. The skull, partially caved, rests unevenly on the cloth. He does not even look peaceful now, as the victims of violence rarely do.

She steps forward, hands rising from her sides. Iraestra readies herself to speak the ancient words.

"Alone," the Prince's clipped voice rings out clearly. Not a request. Demand.

Iraestra hisses her frustration. Better vexation, than dread. She knows the vestments of anger well, slips into them like a second skin. Her mouth twists, her shoulders draw tight. Her hands are half-formed claws in the air. She hears the pound of her own heart in her ears.

What is so important that it cannot be witnessed by the others? What is to be done with her, who will attend to the questioning herself?

"Mistress?" Every cowled head in the room turns to look at her. They hear the call for her death as vividly as she. One of the fools is brave enough to step towards her, as if they could truly do anything to intervene. She admires them for their stupidity.

The Prince watches her, well aware of what he asks for. Trust or faith or maybe both. Clearly, he is looking for a reaction. Will she falter, will she balk? Could he make a bouquet of the stench of her unease? He regards her with a snake's stare, eyes cold licks of fire. He does not blink.

If he thinks he can subdue her so easily, then he is sorely mistaken. She is drow. She is Oblodra. Her own mother's hands were the first to ever try to take her life. He will find no easy marks here today. Let him slake his thirsts elsewhere. There are other, weaker creatures for him to gorge himself on.

"Leave us," Iraestra does not take her eyes from the Prince. She does not speak or move again until the door clicks shut behind the last attendant. How awfully similar it sounds to the closing stone of a tomb.

She rounds on him, irritation clear. "Why did you ask for me?"

The Prince is the first to look away, back to her hands and then the body. Iraestra does not feel like she has won anything of merit. It is impossible to tell if he is pleased. "The Banite confides in you. I thought to do the same."

He does not give a name, nor does she ask for it. She wonders at what the Prince knows of her talks with the other Chosen.

"And what if his confidence is misplaced?" A theoretical. Her loyalty is not often brought into question. It is rare that she pledges it at all.

"Then I will kill you," the Prince simply states.

She laughs. That intention is only the natural conclusion of the dance. There is no greater aim for those of his depraved bent. "So you say. Did you not plan to do so already?"

His head tilts in a particularly reptilian gesture. His glittering eyes have found the pulse in her throat, her bare wrists. She cares not for his study. It feels too much like a physical caress, high beneath dress and robe. One hunger is not too different from another, and she supposes they may be frighteningly the same for him. Both indulgences of the flesh, in the end. "Do not tempt me. Your blood would spill sweetly on this floor."

Iraestra sneers. "Cast your fetid gaze elsewhere, brute. You will not find easy prey in me."

He chuckles darkly. "Of that I am sure. I would savor the challenge as much as anything else."

"I was under the impression that there were more pressing matters at hand, given your early insistence on haste."

"Time can always be afforded for pleasure, sorceress. Consider the feel of silk on the skin. The burst of fruit between teeth and the rush of the juice down your chin, the clench of a lover tight around you as they sob your name. That final, shuddering breath that flutters out of the throat at death. Do you not feel the drum of the heart in your own chest? Do you not wish to dance to it? If you are so indifferent to it, I could show you how to listen to it once more. To feel it." How reverently he speaks, as if he is at the shrine of his own father-god. His lids have nearly closed in rapture.

There's smoke in the dragonborn's mouth and anticipation in his words, thick enough to choke on. He whispers with the tongue of a snake, words dripping from the depravities he utters.

As mad as his sister, the shape-changer, Iraestra decides with disdain. The seed of Bhaal is truly cursed with madness, complete and true. It was preferable when he was barely acknowledging her presence despite demanding it in the first place.

"You have nothing that I desire." Were she younger, still a fool turned by a pretty face, she may have once allowed herself to be seduced by the offer. She ignores the answering hook of arousal low in her gut, focusing once more on the misshapen head on the pillow. Reminds herself of whose hands exactly have crushed it. There is much to do before she is ready for the grave. "Now, if you will allow me to get on with this, we may be each rid of the other before long."

“A pity that you deny yourself,” but he nods. “Perform your rites. Regretfully, I cannot linger for long.” 

Iraestra does not regret that. She is exhausted and enthralled by him in equal measure. Let this be the first and last time she suffers his company. 

She begins her prayer to the dead. 

[euclydya]

actually though. DE X CCCC crossover..... how totally fucked would everyone be?

on one hand we have Heart Mind and Soul stuck in fucking Revachol in the brain of Fucking Harry Du Bois. they are NOT surviving. and then we have The Skills stuck in a goddamn time loop. they are NOT getting outta Cacophony,

[lunaetis]

for eden, who is still struggling with her own identity, her meaning of existence, her fate and purpose, and the everchanging role she played in the script, her saying " you are my constant. " to someone has such a deep, gratifying weight to it. this means that person is the only person so deeply rooted to her very core that no matter what had happened, what will happen after, or no matter who she was, who she is, who she might be in the future, you are the only one whose existence would not change in her eyes. to her, that statement is like a fact. so immovable and unchanging. and that makes me emotional every time i think about it.

[quietlyblooms]

lads chiyo be upon ye! at some point, i’ll properly format a post with snapshots of chiyo bc i do love how she looks in-game, but for now have these and have a lovely sunday 💜

[levedor-legacy]

the burnout is real but the urge to create remains

might try to just write something or do some stupid doodles??

[viktormaru]

i never got the tea from that random anon.............

[cakebatteronabrickwall]

Three things I love about the steak-chicken convo beyond the obvious:

1) It really reaches back to Roman’s cut line from “All the Bells say” where Ken confesses and he goes “we’re just kids” which... yeah. In a sense they will always be kids and this is a perfect illustration of how their family’s destructiveness reaches out and around the entire country to cause pain, all because someone got hurt too badly once in a matter that seems trivial at best.

2) Kendall once more doesn’t fully recall any of this, while it is literally engraved into Roman’s brain. We’ve seen this at work before in “Prague”.

3) Roman is portrayed as having an ED throughout the show. This probably wasn’t the case back then, but bringing up this food allegory now feels pointed. And even if it isn’t on purpose, I find it interesting to read it sort of like - Roman doesn’t care about food/politics, he doesn’t even like it, this doesn’t mean anything to him. “Nothing matters. Nothing will happen.” But he does feel the need to make a point of “winning” this time around. But it is winning for winning’s sake, not out of ideological convictions; just like children.

[bcneheaded]

ALSO IDK IF I SHARED ELDCN R/NG STUFF but that is my current obsession so i

her name is Cyg (Cygnatratus,,, bc i am ,,, a nerd,,,, and like to make things Mean Things [a play on how the dragons names work! her name is a mixture of words that means 'black swan' essentially jfjfjfhd]) she's a prisoner subclass (and all that comes w it yea) and a draconian <3 playing heavily in the dragon blood thing, wants to purify her blood or whatever jfsdfhsdjf idek!! if thats possible but she sure as hell wants to try (probably why she was imprisoned all those years ago,,, smthng to do with her seeking some kind of forbidden power) ANYWAY she's a little Havoc Wreaking gremlin who did NOT need the flame of ambition at all but now she has it and she's never been so terrifyingly Laser Focused on power FDGFDG anyway tldr, as a good friend of mine once said..... We support women's rights and women's wrong here... she just happens to have a lot of Wrongs

[boysnberriespie]

Will never get over the way actually terminally online people who are attempting to criticize people they perceive as terminally online, will act like your social media is representative of you as a 3 dimensional person… like you’re giving the game away in a really obvious way man

[shikakunaras]

I got a new keyboard that has chunky clicky typewriter keys and I haven’t actually paired it yet with my ipad bc I’m just clicking the keys.

[she-testa-my-burgers-till-i]

mad at u btw

[spoofyleaf]

lmk characters if they were rocks (whatever characters u want btw)?

Sun Wukong- pele's hair

this igneous rock is made up of the thin fibers of volcanic glass- the fibers get formed by molten basalt droplets that get blown in the air, making it look like hair.

it just reminds me of a hairball, like you know how when he made "food"?? to celebrate the new year? yea, that.

Macaque- snowflake obsidian

its also a volcanic glass- obsidian forms from the lava cooling so quickly that there's no time for crystals to grow. The "snowflakes" are cristobalite needles that formed.

Idk it just reminds me how the fandom tends to draw macaque: mostly black hair with some white hair.

Tang- graphic granite

in this textured granite, the quartz in the feldspar makes a pattern that resembles what could be some vague ancient writing.

mans is a scholar what can I say, it just fits him

Mei- olivine basalt

as the basalt was cooling, olivine crystalized/ olivine crystals got "captured" in the lava flow

idk the specs of green amongst the dark grey/ black reminds me of Mei bc of her hair, and also it looks chaotic and impulsive like her

Ao Lie- green soapstone

idk just look at it, it screams Ao Lie, you cannot convince me otherwise! and soapstone is so soft? so I mean????? its literally him. I mean, he isn't a metamorphic rock, but you get what i mean?