#drawn without the breastplate

[notthatcount]

Quick and goofy Arthur and John (and alexander) cooldown from the newest Malevolent ep~

[justordinarygirl]

Vicious angel

Sentinel x Megatronus (Hot NSFW)

This sketch is drawn by my friend @missiva12 , please admire her works. Tags: !size kink, praise kink!

The majestic beings, created in the image of God, towered above him, each one of them. He felt a trifle small in himself, and being directly next to them felt as if he were halved even further. It seemed to the Sentinel that everything could be tweaked without overreaching. That the feeling would go away if he kept himself busy, if he worked with the Primes, if he became part of their inner circle. That's when they'd stop seeming repulsive.

But it wasn't like that…

The closer he got, getting more and more personal proxies, the more he was invited to meetings or free events, the more he was ready to scrub his tanks of disgust. Their voices are unnecessarily annoying. Someone's one of their palms presses against his shoulder and squeezes too hard. Someone smells vilely of expensive liquor, but he smiles and laughs with them.

The Sentinel is taught over and over again, he misdistributed the data, he got in the wrong rack, he is asked for the quality of the weapon, even though it is not even his job! The news feeds are once again dotted with headlines about the unrivaled strategy of these great guys, glossing over his existence when the whole tactic was his idea!

Not enough. It's never enough. And in place of the burning hatred, he was strangled by the desire to praise again. Praise tugged at the strings of his spark, especially his praise, the strongest of the Primes, evoked strange mixed feelings that made him want to reach for it again. And the Sentinel was reaching for it.

His frame ached terribly from work and training, more pleasure in staring at his reflection in the training room than twirling his weapon, but once again Sentinel didn't choose. A supine position would relieve the discomfort, but the difficulty lay in the weight of another mech on his back, pressing his breastplates against the long conference table.

«I don't want to pretend not to notice, my friend.» Megatronus' strong palms slid around the curve of another's waist.

«I know you are young, but I do not consider you foolish or ignorant, all instruction is only for the better, for each of us can see that you are capable of more.»

It was an accident to find himself in such a situation. First there had been the conversation with the overworked Prime in the night, then the careless words of annoyance that had come out of Sentinel's vocolizer, and the dialog that had soon turned into clamping down on the smaller mech's figure. He wanted to refuse, was already ready to say something, but Prime gave such a light and reverent compliment to his work that it made him hesitate a little. Of course, another reason this purple bastard was so beloved by the populace, he knew exactly what to say and when to say it. Then another, then another and here was Sentinel, in a completely empty office except for them, pressed against a flat surface and venting noisily at the gentle touches.

«You don't mind? You've worked hard over and over again, definitely deserve a good rest and knowing you, you're more than able to handle…our slight height difference.» he laughs. Of course, it's easy for him to say. But Sentinel really deserves all the attention he can get, doesn't he? And he's capable of enduring almost anything Prime has prepared for him. No one could handle any of the tasks better than him.

Megatronus' palm presses against the interface panel and, covering the entire area with a single manipulator, presses down, rubbing the already heated metal, causing the counsellor to whimper quietly. The plate pressing against the protoform smears the moisture inside in a thin layer and it causes a slamming wave of shame. Just a couple words of praise from him and Sentinel is in such a shameful state. The thought of opening up and showing his feelings is embarrassing and distasteful. A crumb of sanity has returned to him and, withdrawing his manipulator behind his back, the mech wraps his fingers around the others limb, wanting to get up, to end this misunderstanding, but the masked faceplate presses against the back of his helmet.

«You're doing great, its fine, don't worry, I promise I'll take care of you» Sentinel exhaled deeply at the affectionate voice over the audiosensors, his frame instantly relaxed and his fingers unclenched. Again the slight prick inside spark, a sense of rightness, of comfort.

Dimming the optics slightly, Sentinel feels the panel press with more force and it moves aside on its own. Warm metal slid between the slippery servos, a chuckle of irritation from Prime, and the dentoplates clenched only briefly before wet fingers slid into place and the unaccustomed frame began to wriggle. The left manipulator gently pressed the mech tighter against the table. Scooping sticky moisture onto the fingers of the second manipulator, Megatronus gently pressed one into the port. The finger slides in without much obstruction, but the inside is still hot and so tight just for the finger. The tip of the spike rests painfully against his own plates, the desire to be fully inside burning his gut.

There was a click and the sound of an interface panel being pushed back from behind the counsellor, the heated metal touching the open port, sliding between the servos, gaining moisture and pressing its against the bellyplates. Following his curiosity, Sentinel lifted up, looking down between his servos. His optics widened, no, nope, that won't go in, this fragger is huge. Sentinel felt a chill of worry run down the back of his helmet, the blue frame barely flinched, but Prime ran his free palm over the mech, whispering soothing words again.

«It's okay little one, it'll fit you, I'll make you ready.» Megatronus' entire attention is focused only on Sentinel and the latter likes it. He wants to stay just so it doesn't stop, lying in the barely lit cold blue room, with a nice weight on his back and the sounds of systems working behind him.

In a very short time, the walls of the port were already being stretched by three thick fingers, sliding in and out with a sinful squelch. Sentinel vents noisily in response to each movement, not allowing himself to let out a groan at such a simple caress, his not a budding academy student. The port stings slightly, but it is a pleasant feeling, incomparable to anything else. Mech prefers to believe that Prime is here to bring him pleasure, that this is how it should be, these misunderstandings should thank him for all he puts up with, should worship the efficiency and beauty of their counsellor. Megatronus swiped his manipulator across Sentinel thigh, grabbing servo's and lifting it up. Standing like this would be uncomfortable, but long training and stretching had helped noticeably.

Fingers slipped out of the port, a couple strands of lubricant trailing behind them, the now freed palm placed on the curve of waist, as the tip of the spike pressed against the entrance, wiping away a drop of pre-transfluid. Prime gently rubs circles into the Sentinels frame as it enters inch by inch into the prepared but still tight port. The stretching of the walls causes the blue mech to hiss and reach forward with his hands over the surface.

«Shh, it's okay, you're doing great. Remember the breathing practices? Inhale deeply, exhale and relax, you can take it, baby, you can do it.» his voice is velvety, so polite for his height and size. Annoying. Self-confident, huh? Another cocky…but Sentinel follows the advice, exhales, concentrates on relaxing, feels the thick metal filling him in a way he didn't know before, but seems to unconsciously need all his assets. The bumps and bulging segments hit the sensitive wires perfectly, and along with the discomfort comes the pleasure that makes his lips form a circle and a whimpering moan erupts from the energon receiver.

The Sentinel's port is almost suffocating in its narrowness, soft and pliable, it perfectly accepts whatever is given to it, the tip sliding further and deeper, eventually resting against the reservoir. Megatronus looks down, his spike barely halfway in. Good boy.

The counsellor breathes even deeper, clenching his palms into fists and biting his lip to the point of pain. Good, so good, would it be better when he started to move? The answer didn't take long, wiggling his hips slightly, Prime began to gently withdraw so that he could enter again. The sound of joined hips accompanied the shriek and Sentinel instantly covered himself with his manipulators, blocking the path of his voice. The tempo of the thrusts continued to increase, intoxicated by the stretching, he whimpered and moaned, over and over.

«So beautiful and strong, you are unsurpassed, my dear Sentinel, so heavenly» Prime squeezes the base of his spike as tightly as the rest of it is squeezed by crotch. He slides his hand back and forth in time with his hips over the part of the metal that can't go inside due to the limitations of their little counsellor. The wings in front of him are like a magnet, but his hands are busy and he can only stare longingly at their tantalizing twitches.

He's cute. Spicy and cute. Sentinel's scowl and cheeky bottom-up stare made him even more endearing at times, each of the Thirteen agreed with a chuckle. Lucky to get him first, thanks Primus. Lowering the blue servo he'd raised, Megatronus hugged the mech's pelvis and began sliding circles around the most sensitive part of the protoform, causing the hips to twitch and the walls of the port to contract around him. Owning manipulators at the faceplate doesn't help Sentinel be quieter and it's even cuter. Maybe others will hear, find out who got to their mutual favorite and lose their reloads in envy. Yeah, maybe.

The smaller mech rides the slippery caresses on the table, unable to think of anything but the pleasantly cold surface beneath him and the fire between his lower pair of limbs. Full and hot and so good. The quick, rough thrusts make him rub his cheek against a small puddle of his own saliva. The charge of arousal builds rapidly, like a knot tying at the bottom of his abdominal plates, Sentinel presses closer to the caressing fingers, begging not to stop, not thinking about how it sounds, wanting only to feel the release, long-awaited and desired. Just a couple of presses and he collapses, the reboot seeming to come over him in a wave, his legs shaking uncontrollably and his thighs clenching.

As the mech sprawled on the table with muted optics and fluttering port, Megatronus wrapped his large palms around the Sentinel's slender waist and squeezed around it, accelerating his thrusts to as fast and short as possible, with a sigh of pleasure, releasing jets of transfluid inside. Even after rebooting, he didn't want to come out, this port felt right, as if its frame had been restrained by God specifically for this purpose, hes so perfect.

But it is impossible to be inside this wonderful creature for the rest of eternity, so with a slight movement, the spike unwillingly slipped out of the warm mech with a wet squelch. Stepping back a step or two, Megatronus inspected his work with pride. The still stretched crotch clenched around the hollow, the protoform twitching and their mixed fluids flowing down the inside of thighs, golden wings shimmering in the light of the blue diodes on the wall, beckoning again. How pretty…

Leaving him to cool down and rest a bit, Prime walks over to a small sink, and wets a clean rag from a large pile. After tidying himself up, he closes the panels, picks up a new rag, and walks over to the recovering mech.

«Hi again, am I overdoing it?» Sentinel had no words or thoughts in response, everything in his processor blended into a homogeneous mass. He just mumbled something and jammed his faceplate back into the table. There was a hearty chuckle from Prime's side.

"Oh, I beg to differ," stepping closer, the tall mech flipped the figure onto his back and sat him on the table. "but it's more comfortable this way."

The soft cloth gently stroked Sentinels cheek, wiping first the faceplate, then the mech quite unexpectedly slowly knelt down and pulled apart the still twitching servos, causing Sentinel to come to his senses rather quickly. The sight of giant standing like that made the metal heat up again, but there was no more strength left. Meanwhile, the cloth collected the droplets, lines of streaks, and rubbed the sticky thighs with gentle actions. When the purple arm pulled back, the Sentinel's panel slammed shut.

They sat in silence for a while, one staring at his wrists, the other, still kneeling, gazing with blue optics at the features of the faceplate opposite, until he stood up and reached for mech. Slipping his manipulators under shoulders, Megatronus lifted the nearly weightless body and pressed it against his breastplates, holding his back with a hand. His counsellors faceplate expressed complete surprise, to say the least. He didn't seem to have expected such an action from Prime.

Not only did he not expect it, but he was almost furious. What insolence, to hold him in arms like a child or an invalid, this in the spirit of their fragger company!

"Don't look at me like that, my friend, I've tired you enough already, it's up to me to take care of you and bring you to the platform." Megatronus' voice, deep, quiet and poised, echoes off the walls of the palace's corridors, soothing and as if putting him into a trance. Optics fading again, Sentinel snuggles the side of his helmet closer to Prime's frame, sinking into a recharging embrace. Satisfied and smiling beneath his mask, Megatronus runs the fingertips of his second manipulator over the lovely wings and carries hes little prince to personal quarta.

He didn't clean up the drips and streaks on the floor and table, maybe too tired for that and left the job to the janitors. Or maybe he wanted to leave the traces of his little victory for others to see.

(If you like long posts or prefer short posts, please share with me)

[fictionlag]

Part of "Halcyon Days" on AO3.

Hua Cheng's armor, a blend of enchanted pieces and exquisite craftsmanship, held an intimate story of protection and strength and it was made by him. With each piece that Xie Lian gently disentangled, his own heart raced in tandem with the rhythm of his actions. As Xie Lian worked, a profound awareness settled upon him—the realization that he was unveiling not just the physical form of the Winter Guardian, but whatever lay inside. 

The weight of the moment hung heavy, the room a sanctuary of hushed intimacy as the Guardian's armor was peeled away. Xie Lian's hands trembled ever so slightly as he unbuckled the breastplate, a pivotal piece that seemed to hold the essence of Hua Cheng's resilience. It was the piece that safeguarded his heart. 

Beneath layers of blood and mud, the breastplate revealed itself as a masterful creation—a work of art that cradled Hua Cheng's torso with exquisite precision. Detailed carvings adorned its surface. Amidst the engravings, enchanted jewels glimmered like stars embedded within the metal, casting a mesmerizing radiance that danced in the ambient light. Small chains, delicate yet purposeful, adorned the breastplate, their presence a nod to both aesthetics and function. 

Collecting his resolve, Xie Lian drew in a steadying breath and shifted his attention to Hua Cheng's imposing long boots. With gentle yet purposeful movements, he skillfully removed the polyen and the greave, carefully unveiling the sleek, leather-clad lower extremities that lay beneath.

As the last pieces of protective armor were set aside, a sense of quiet accomplishment settled over the room. 

With a focused determination, Xie Lian delicately untied the ribbons that held the leather securely against Hua Cheng's thighs and calves. As each knot gave way, Xie Lian's composure began to waver, his heart racing with an intensity that echoed the flutter of a thousand wings. A flush of warmth crept up his cheeks, and he attempted to avert his gaze, to find solace in the sanctuary of elsewhere. Yet, despite his best efforts, his eyes remained steadfast, drawn to the vulnerable skin before him.

The boots were now tenderly removed, revealing the expanse of Hua Cheng's legs. In this moment, as his heart quickened and his gaze remained unwavering, Xie Lian stood there for a moment, grappling with his own flustered emotions.

He continued by gently removing Hua Cheng's vest, the fabric yielding under his touch as it was set aside. His fingers traced the path, lingering for a moment over the carved lines of the Guardian's form.

As he moved towards the shirt, Xie Lian held Hua Cheng's hands in his own, their fingers interlaced. The unbuttoning of sleeves was slow. Then the delicate hands moved. One by one, the buttons of the shirt gave way, revealing the expanse of Hua Cheng's bare skin. Xie Lian's fingertips brushed against the revealed body with a touch faint and featherlike.

The layers continued to yield as Xie Lian removed the inner flannel, exposing the extent of the Guardian's wounds. The magnitude of the injuries was unveiled, a testament to the trials that had been endured. Xie Lian's heart clenched at the sight.

However, the act of removing the shirt and flannel was not without its consequences. The fabric, sticky with fresh wounds, clung to the guardian's injuries, a painful reminder of the battle that had been waged. As Xie Lian carefully peeled away the fabric, the wounds responded, and fresh blood began to flow—an echo of the cost of duty, a poignant reminder that the act of healing often came with its own trials and tribulations.

The healer within Xie Lian took charge. His hands moved swiftly yet deftly, a symphony of care and precision unfolding as he tended to the wounded Winter Guardian. Prior to any further action, he meticulously disinfected and cleansed the wounds, a process that spoke of both expertise and compassion.

Gentle pressure was applied with a pristine white cloth, a gesture that stemmed the flow of blood, a testament to his skill in managing even the most delicate of situations. 

With the wounds now cleansed and the blood flow staunched, Xie Lian administered a series of carefully selected ailments, each one a reflection of his extensive knowledge and the reverence with which he approached his craft. The patches were meticulously applied, with tender gestures.

Xie Lian's hands skillfully unbuckled Hua Cheng's belt, and he carefully removed the pants, his eyes tightly shut as a shield against the intimate vulnerability that lay before him. The momentary respite from looking, however, was fleeting—soon, the necessity of his duties would require him to confront the reality that demanded his attention.

The healer reached for a cloth dampened with warm rose water and infused with healing herbs. Starting from Hua Cheng's face, he embarked on a journey downward, cleansing the man's skin of the traces of battle—blood, sweat, and mud. 

In his earnestness, his cleansing journey took him to unexpected places, and a moment of awkward curiosity overcame him as he gently probed the man's belly button. An immediate flush of embarrassment colored his face, a self-conscious realization that momentarily eclipsed his focus.

Venturing further, Xie Lian cleansed the wounds that marred the Guardian's abdomen and legs. A subtle tension danced in the air and despite his skilled actions, an undeniable shyness cast its veil over Xie Lian's demeanor. His touch was careful, his movements respectful, as he worked to avoid unnecessary contact with certain areas. The healer's gaze was cast downward and a soft blush adorned his cheeks.

Once the healing rituals were complete, a sense of relief settled over the room—a quiet exhalation that spoke of progress made and trust earned. Xie Lian draped a soft blanket over Hua Cheng, a gesture that blended practicality with comfort, ensuring that the guardian was cocooned in warmth and care.

By the cover of night, as the world outside slumbered, the healer remained a steadfast sentinel by Hua Cheng's side. Xie Lian continued his focused attention on tending to Hua Cheng's wounds, when a growing realization settled upon him—a sobering truth that cast a new light on the Winter Guardian's condition. 

With a furrowed brow and a deepening sense of concern, he observed the subtle tremors that coursed through Hua Cheng's form, the pallor that marred his skin, and the way his breathing seemed shallower, as if struggling against an invisible weight. The healer recognized the telltale signs of hypothermia that had taken hold. And he knew what he had to do.

[relentless-gruul-siegeseer]

the sphinx settles into the quiet wreckage of a former Orzhov gathering and leans onto the now abandoned altar

Gather round my friends, and let me tell you a story on this wonderful Rauck-Chauv.

This is the tale of how I became a siegeseer. As many of you know, I was once a member of the Azorius Senate—

loud booing erupts from the crowd of Gruul

—yes, yes, I know I know, I have been through the rite and that is past. But it is important here, because it meant I had some experience with precognitive magics.

bits of rubble and dust tumble down on her head from above as the wreckage settles

.......I knew that would happen.

some chuckles from the crowd can be heard

Anyways, such blue magic is not really my thing since I left and are often beyond my reach now.

One day after I had undergone the rite and joined the Gruul. I was with a small band raiding an Lyev arresters' office. We were far from the Belt, but those cobble roaches weren't prepared for a raid, so we easily overcame them. One tried to taunt us on how we'd never get the cell open without their cooperation. I used her very well made breastplate to wedge the bars apart. I did not remove her from the armor first.

an uproar of laughter erupts from the crowd

We were bringing down the walls, when suddenly I could feel the potential of this place. I realized that the ruins we were creating were the end of one story, and the beginning of others. I let myself be drawn into this sense, and found I could read it.

she pauses to pick a piece of bereft gilding from her hair with a claw

I could see that the Legion had caught wind of our raid, and that a large flight of angels was soon to be upon us. I warned my clanmates, and we made ourselves scarce, though not before leaving them explosive glyph to find.

she grins and pushes herself up from the ruined altar

Now, do you know what I see in the ruins we have made together here?

she pauses for dramatic effect as the gathered crowd murmurs amongst themselves

I see...that Rauck-Chauv is not over! Onward my friends!

RAUCK-CHAAAUUUVV!

[comicaurora]

This is probably a weird question, but what are some tips you could give on character design? I've been trying to feel confident with my own designs, but they feel kind of bland... what kinds of things would you suggest to help make designs stand out more?

Hoo boy. Hm. I feel like I am not the right person to ask about this because objectively I do almost nothing you're "supposed" to, but if it's working I guess that means I might be onto something?

A lot of my design considerations are practical. I don't want to give anybody a design that's going to be a nightmare to draw over and over again. I've done enough commissions in my time to know when somebody is overdesigned and therefore hugely annoying to draw, and that's a no-no. So I tend to stick with simple patterns at most, not too many layers, no need for five million belts, no need for incredibly intricate hairstyles, etc. This is a practical consideration for the medium of comic art, but other mediums have different considerations - 3D-modeled art, for instance, can overdesign the characters as much as they want because they only need to model them once, and a lot of visual novel characters are limited to a very small handful of poses and some interchangeable expressions, meaning it isn't prohibitively complicated to make them a little Extra. The most time-consuming and frustrating commissions I've ever done were for characters who were frankly never designed to be drawn more than once. A quick sampling of highlights for the design features I swore to myself I would never deal with again-

So on a basic level, if you're designing a character to draw over and over again, it needs to be something you're willing and able to draw over again. Intricate patterns, a lot of interlocking plates, anything with lace - those are all things I try to avoid.

I've often seen the advice that character silhouettes should be super visually distinct, that characters should be very strongly shaped like different things. I think that's great if your style is that flexible, but if you kind of want everybody to be shaped like a human being with a skeleton, this advice is not very useful.

I think a diversity of body shapes is great, but the style I favor requires the anatomy to at least sort of makes sense, which means while there can still be a lot of variation in the distribution of muscle and fat, everyone's bones are gonna be in roughly the same place. I can't just draw a square and fill it with a dude. So instead I try and distinguish my character silhouettes in other ways.

Everyone's hair is different, and because most characters have big hair, this plays a large part in their silhouette. Falst and Erin both have short hair, but Falst's is a bristling mane while Erin's is usually more swept and soft-looking. Dainix and Kendal both have long hair, but even when Dainix's hair is loose it doesn't hang or flow the same way Kendal's does - it gets in the way, drapes in front of his face and overall doesn't move the same. Alinua's hair is bouncy curls. On top of that, everyone's outfits are fairly simple, but no two of them are exactly the same - Erin has a monopoly on poofy sleeves, Kendal has cuffed boots and the back-slung sword, Dainix has the poncho and the poofier pants, Alinua has the v-neck top with slightly pauldron-y shoulders and the slippers, Falst's clothing is ragged at the edges, etc. Even without getting into their distinct color palettes, everyone's at least a little bit distinct.

And this is another place where I purposefully try to avoid overdesigning. If everyone has too much going on it can circle around to being hard to tell the characters apart, because too much is happening. Who can pay attention to the fact that one character is sleeveless and one has asymmetrical boots and one has a mullet when everybody is wearing eight layers of embroidered fabric with four belts and half a breastplate on top?

Avoiding same-face is hard, and I'm not very good at it. But I do try to make sure everyone's face shape, nose and eyes are at least slightly different from everyone else's. It might not show from a distance and it might not be as extreme as a pixar design sheet, but it's something.

Ultimately the main consideration I keep in mind when designing characters is - perhaps a bit redundantly - their character. Who they are as people, and how that will impact the way they look. Everybody stands differently, and shifts their weight differently when a situation is changing.

Despite both being short, lightweight guys with short hair, Falst and Erin are wildly different people and are not going to dress the same, make the same facial expressions or hold themselves the same way. Despite both being tall, long-haired, generally friendly warrior badasses, Kendal and Dainix carry themselves very differently and react to things in very distinct ways. Tess and Erin have the exact same haircut and nobody noticed for ages because of everything else.

The designs aren't complicated, and compared to some, they aren't even that distinct. But I try to make sure that their personality is visible in every aspect of their design. Every "why?" in their design has an in-character answer, and since they're all quite different on the inside, keeping things simple means that starts showing through on the outside.

This is also how I can visually distinguish between Vash and Kendal, who have the exact same body and clothes.

we can never underestimate the importance of ✨body language✨

[zoeysdamn]

||The Witcher tarot | The Moon | Milva Barring||

[Other cards of the Witcher tarot can be found here and on my Instagram art account]

[DO NOT REPOST OR REUSE WITHOUT LEGAL AND EXPLICIT AUTHORIZATION]

When drawn upward, the moon card isn’t really optimistic: fear, anxiety, risk, confusion. But it’s also all about overcoming all of that when picked downright. Those meanings and the general, more classical imagery of the moon led me pretty obviously to Milva. The Moon is historically associated with femininity and the Greek huntress goddess Artemis, famous for her fearlessness and archery skills, no one could have fitted the role better than Milva. She’s probably my favourite character in the whole Witcher Universe (with Regis). I mostly got the outfit inspiration from her Gwent card, and also added some amazon-like elements like the half-leather/half-steel breastplate or the forearm protection. I really wanted to give her that ancient Greece female warrior vibe, because she’s the modern amazon and Artemis of the Witcher ; not only because of her bow and arrows, but also because of how she fights for herself against men’s violence, and the power over her own body (if you know, you know). I love her so much * sob *

[sopheronipepperoni]

Chalant As Hell

[Summary: Davrin and Rook take the measure of each other during their first meeting in the Anderfels.

Assan's not the only one with ruffled feathers, here.]

Davrin’s blood is singing through his veins, his hunter’s focus locked into place.  There’s a certain trick to keeping far enough away from bands of darkspawn to train Assan on their scent, without risking battle and injury every time.  They’ve tracked this particular group over the better part of the day, winding farther up into the high canyons.  The band has kept well enough away from the trainers’ camp for the most part, but Davin’s started seeing more signs of darkspawn closer to where they started this morning.  One hand is close to the hilt of his sword as he scans the scene again, nostrils flaring as he inhales more of the metallic and sour scent of the taint.  Assan shuffles close to him, a soft curious sound in his throat as he looks around, too. Davrin absently places his hand on Assan’s downy head, gauntleted fingers lightly scratching through the griffon’s feathers.

Davrin kneels to study a print in the dirt, mind divided between tracking and trying to gauge how best to hone Assan’s instincts, when he hears footsteps and a scattering of stone chips sound along the small canyon that leads back to their camp.  Assan’s head shoots up, ears twitching and alert, and a small spear of pride shoots through Davrin even as he jumps to his feet, muscles tensed.  The constant hum of the Blight in his veins is too distant to be darkspawn, but he doesn’t recognize the two sets of treads coming closer.  Whoever they are, they aren’t Lancit and Remi.  Assan leaps to a rocky outcrop and begins prowling in the direction of the noise, a low sound in his throat.  With a curse, Davrin hurries to keep up with his charge, losing sight of Assan within a few moments thanks to the fact that Assan can fly, and Davrin has a distinct lack of wings. 

“Assan!”

He hears Assan let out his hunting shriek, and Davrin lopes up the last steep rise before laying eyes on the scene before him.

Assan’s crouched before a lithe elven woman, his head lowered and wings flared as he squawks again.  A small dwarven woman stands by the still-burning campfire. Neither stranger has weapons drawn; the elven woman’s hands are held placatingly in front of her.  He takes a few heartbeats to assess the situation, his keen hunter’s instincts buzzing. 

He certainly didn’t expect to return to a wrecked campsite after a morning of training with Assan.  There aren’t any signs of Lancit and Remi, best as he can tell, not even a blood splash.  It’s small comfort to Davrin, even as he smells the stench of the Blight.  Wherever his fellow Wardens and their charges are, it isn’t here.  He beckons Assan to his side with a murmured, “Easy, boy,” still ready for a fight if it comes to that.  His hard gaze falls on the elven woman in front of him. 

Davrin’s almost embarrassed at how seeing her nearly drowns out the Blight and worry running through him and instead sets another song singing in his blood.  For a second he feels as an untried young man again as he takes in the riotous mass of copper curls spilling across her shoulders, her valleslin and angular face, her tan and freckled skin—entirely too much of it, especially this close to darkspawn.  Her golden armor appears too ornamental to be practical, from the small golden breastplate fastened over bright blue cloth that drips nearly to the ground, to the golden armbands circling up to her biceps, to the woven leather sandals adorning her calves and feet.  However, a mage staff peeks over her shoulder, and a wicked-looking coral knife is buckled at her hip.  Ah. Teeth to her bright plumage.

He hasn’t had much opportunity to cross paths with a Lord of Fortune, but he’s heard tales of their deeds and rumored preening ostentatiousness.  What is one doing here, practically in the ass-end of the Anderfels? 

Where the elf shines like a fire in the afternoon light, the dwarf behind her paints a more tempered picture.  She is much more practically outfitted with what appears to be a serviceable scouting kit, not an ounce of skin exposed to potential threats.  A potions belt is slung across her hips, a bandolier securing a bow and quiver latched across her torso.  The dwarven woman’s auburn hair and bow are lined in gold from the dying sun. 

A wonder-filled smile breaks across the elven woman’s face.  “I’ll be damned…a griffon!”  Her voice is husky enough to weasel past Davrin’s defenses, and he scowls. Assan squawks at her, his wings flared and feathers ruffled. 

“Trouble is, he’s not sure what you are. Neither am I.”  His voice is hard, but the woman doesn’t seem phased. 

“Rook.  This is Harding.  Evka and Antoine sent us.  We’re looking for Davrin.” S he cocks an eyebrow at him, an openness to her face.  He knows what she’s doing, trying to defuse the tension radiating from him and Assan.  Put him at ease.  Mentioning his fellow trusted Wardens helps to quell his misgivings at them finding their hidden camp some, but not completely.

“You found him."  His reply is curt.  "Mind telling me why you smell like darkspawn? Griffons hunt darkspawn.”

There’s a wry tilt to Rook’s lips, and she jerks a thumb towards the tent erected against the cliff.  “We don’t smell that bad.  It’s the tent.  You’ve had company.”

Davrin scowls and inhales, holding out his arms.  “Blight?  Where are Lancit and Remi?”

“The camp was empty when we got here.”  Her voice is pitched to be calming, and Davrin takes a moment to admit to himself that he expected more brashness and arrogance from a Lord of Fortune.  Makes sense some of them would know how to speak honeyed words as well.  As far as he’s heard, anyone with a thirst for "gold and glory"—be it privateer, treasure hunter, explorer, the occasional scholar—is welcome in their ranks.  He’s not sure which category this Rook falls into, and decides then and there to keep his guard up with her until he does.

A sudden scream rips through the air, the cry of darkspawn grating on his nerves and setting a steady aching pulse behind his eyes.  He turns to Assan, signaling with his hand.  “Assan—to the trees!”

Rook is gazing at him, and he knows she’s taking his measure, too.  “We can help.”

He fights to keep down a scoff, even as he’s intrigued to see what Rook and Harding are capable of.  Besides, facing darkspawn alone has never been his favorite pastime, even without the threat of his fellow Wardens being in danger.  Still scowling, Davrin tilts up his chin in challenge, hands on his hips.  “Try to keep up.”

A sharp smile slashes across Rook’s face, and she gestures for him to lead the way.

Davrin is quickly forced to amend his very early—and very biased— first impressions of Rook after they encounter the first band of darkspawn.  She moves like a dervish across the battlefield, mage knife flashing out to rip through sinew and bone alike, lightning crackling around them in a protective field as more darkspawn leap down from the canyon walls, keeping them from getting overwhelmed. In the next heartbeat Rook slams her staff down and out, fire erupting in a wave before her.  Davrin slides his blade between the ribs of a darkspawn, before leaping to knock another aside with his shield, putting more distance between it and her.  He wants to say she’s reckless, the way she fights both at range and up close, what with her lack of protection.  But at the same time he is begrudgingly impressed. 

He pulls his blade from the last darkspawn, noting the proportion of scorched bodies around them compared to those with sword marks and protruding arrows.  He amends his thoughts further.  “Not bad, Rook…for a Lord of Fortune.”

There’s that look again, that almost smug tilt to her lips and eyes, that tells Davrin he’s not fooling anyone.  The word gorgeous flits through his mind, closely followed by dangerous.  He files them away for later, and brings more of his fierce Warden resolve to bear.  He can’t afford to get distracted now.  Not until he finds Remi and Lancit, and knows the other griffons are safe.

—Even if Rook appears to have stepped right out of his dreams, if he’s honest with himself.

He’s never seen anything quite like her.

-------------------------------------------------

“All right.  Come on, Assan.  Let’s get to know our new friends.” 

Davrin’s rich voice twists through her thoughts even after she’s helped Lucanis clean up after their evening meal.  Davrin and Assan had joined them briefly, long enough for Assan to receive many head scratches from Bellara and Harding, much to Davrin’s chagrin.  She could see that the Warden was still not quite sure what to make of their rag-tag bunch.  He had been friendly throughout dinner, going so far as to swap some quick hunting stories with Taash, but Rook read underlying tension in the way he held himself, an aloofness that she herself had tried to maintain at the start of this job.  Her heart gave a small twinge on his behalf when he excused himself and beckoned to Assan, saying he wanted to settle in to their assumed quarters more.  How hard it must be for him, losing two friends and comrades-in-arms, as well as the last bevy of living griffons in the whole of Thedas—all in one day.

She’s had jobs like that, she muses to herself now, as she paces through her room.  That sense of the ground dropping out from under her, that listless pit in her stomach; that’s how it had felt after her last Rivaini job went sideways and she had needed to go to ground for her own safety and keep her distance from the other Lords.  That’s how it felt when she and the others disrupted Solas’s ritual, and got them all in this crazy mess.  Life altered in an instant.  She’ll check in on Davrin tomorrow, but for tonight she’ll let him be.

That won’t stop her from replaying their first meeting in her head, though.  She brings her small strung elven bass to the plush chaise in her room, fingers running absently over the strings.  In her line of work, she’d had to learn how to hold a poker face when meeting new clients or prospective business partners.  Rook thought herself a fairly composed woman who was able to keep her expressions—not to mention hormones—in check.  Davrin had certainly given her a run for her money.

Isabela and her penchant for tall, dark, and handsome had nothing on the monster hunter.  Meeting his dark gaze as he stood on the rise above her, fading sunlight shining around him like he was some sort of avenging spirit, had nearly stolen her breath. His broad shoulders and chiseled jaw, full lips and toned chest and deep voice— he’s utterly bewitching.  Rook feels her cheeks heat even now, like she’s a blushing maiden again.  She plucks out a simple melody by heart, turning over her other impressions like river stones. The way he fought, fierce and determined, cutting a swath through the darkspawn.  And protective—she hadn’t missed the way he had angled himself towards the worst attacks and drew attention away from her and Harding, all on top of keeping an eye out for Assan. 


Rook knows she is competent at ferreting out artifacts and traversing ruins.  She is comfortable in her considerable strength as a mage. And still her heart thrills to think of the heroic knights protecting others, like she reads in the romance serials she secretly loves.  She is no damsel, but can’t help but swoon at Davrin’s actions all the same.  Rook herself is also no maiden; she’s flirted and bedded her way through enough people in her time as a Lord to know what she likes in a lover, and how to be a good lay in turn.  But something about Davrin makes her breath catch, her blood sing in her veins like lyrium.

She bets he’s considerate and chivalrous in bed as well as battle, fierce and confident.  The thought comes to her unbidden, and she nearly slaps herself.  You have just met him.  Have you no shame, Veryl Laidir?  Her fingers still on the strings of the bass.  Having these thoughts as the boss of this expedition won’t do her any good, not with what’s at stake.  But it also wouldn’t be the first time she’s mixed business with pleasure… 

Hmm.

She sets the instrument down across her lap, pressing her hands to her hot cheeks.  Maybe she will ask Varric if he’s ever experienced anything like this raw attraction on any of his previous jobs—she certainly hasn’t, at least not at this magnitude.  Then again, she would sooner burst into flame than discuss crushes with her assumed mentor.  And she’s only just met Davrin.  This doesn’t bode well for her.  At all.  Having a cute and equally fierce companion like Assan certainly doesn’t hurt his odds in her eyes, either.

Rook just hopes her facade of warm nonchalance won’t fail her now.  There’s a lot riding on her as leader of this growing outfit; she can’t afford to be distracted. Somehow, though, Rook hopes she won’t be able to help herself. 

Tomorrow can’t come fast enough.

[Notes:

I just actually can't with Davrin right now. I say I like him a Normal Amount (TM) and then go and churn this out. Is it just me or is he one of the best-looking companions in any of Bioware's games???

Also shout out to my friend's shirt that says "I'm chalant as hell: I care." This one's for you, sweaty.]

[clonemedickix]

So this was a commission done for me by a fellow artist on Twitter (I added the words at the bottom when I made this my IPhone Lock Screen) She brought my OC Lara to life for me. Absolutely in love with this artwork. Can give her reference if anybody wants it.

OC General Lara Lin (Telperion Laurelin) and ARC Trooper Fives

Rating: Explicit/ Adult Content/ NSFW - over 18 only!

Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence,

Category: F/M

Fandoms: Star Wars: The Bad Batch (Cartoon)Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media TypesThe Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. TolkienGame of Thrones (TV)Star Wars - All Media Types

Relationship: CT-7567 | Rex/Original Female Character(s)

Characters: CT-7567 | Rex | CT-21-0408 | CT-1409 | Echo | CT-27-5555 | ARC-5555 | Fives | Hunter (Star Wars: The Bad Batch) | Tech (Star Wars: The Bad Batch) | Wrecker (Star Wars: The Bad Batch) | Crosshair (Star Wars: The Bad Batch) | CC-2224 | Cody|Obi-Wan Kenobi | Mace Windu | Clone Troopers (Star Wars) | CT-5597 | JesseCT-6116 | Kix | Clone Trooper Hardcase (Star Wars) | Cut Lawquane | Suu Lawquane | Yoda (Star Wars) | Plo KoonCC-3636 | Wolffe | Sheev Palpatine | Darth Sidious | Padmé Amidala | Ahsoka Tano

EXCERPT:

Fives and Echo were out in front of Rex and Anakin, leading the group with guns drawn. Fives was quick to notice the warrior was female; her armor was shaped to her body. She wore gleaming white enameled plate of some light metal, with pauldrons, and an ornate breastplate over a fine silver chain mail shirt that reached to her knees. Her biceps were covered by golden guards engraved in some runic language inscribed in silver. Her gauntlets were the same, with more runes detailing something they could not decider. Her breastplate was inlaid with fine jewels, the emblem of two graceful trees, one gold, one silver, with the face and head of a dragon above them, and three stars shining above all. She wore a pair of white breeches beneath the chain mail skirt, with brown patches at the inner thigh and just below the knees, and a pair of well worn brown knee high riding boots with small silver spurs. At her waist was a sword belt, holding the short sword and a stunning, ornate dagger. She had a shoulder scabbard for her great sword and over her left shoulder, a quiver of arrows, with a bow slung across her chest. The two clones stared in admiration of the beautiful armor and how the warrior was loaded for battle with weapons. Clearly she was deadly and prepared for just about anything thrown at her. Her face was half covered by a helmet that covered her temples and the sides of her face. Across her brow there were three white stones that shone like diamonds, glittering and sparkling in the light, but with a glow behind them that was ethereal, like star shine. There was a near opaque visor over her eyes, and they could make out the outline of them behind the glass. Her mouth was sensitive, with a slightly pouty lower lip that they could swear was ready for a laughing smile at any time. Neither clone needed to see anything more to know she was beautiful. Her head turned slightly to check the progress of her mount and a long, thick braid of brown hair shot through with gold and silver highlights fell over her shoulder. The highlights sparkled in the sun, much like the glitter of her armor, but it was the stones on her brow that really radiated power and light; Fives and Echo could not look directly at them without feeling blinded by their light.

The warrior was standing in a ready pose with her great sword in her right hand. As the group of clones and General Skywalker approached, she moved her weight back to her rear foot and drew her short sword in a reverse grip, raising her great sword over her head in a stance Anakin wasn’t familiar with. The clones all raised their blasters, and Captain Rex said in a flat tone, “I’d put away your swords if I were you.”

Without a sound, above them, the dragon lowered its massive head and gave a deep menacing growl towards the clones. They had forgotten it while studying the woman, and with Rex’s threat the beast decided to remind them of its looming presence. The men all looked up into teeth, and a glowing red furnace of a throat. The woman smirked a bit and said, without changing her pose “I think perhaps YOU would do better to lower your guns.”

Skywalker looked at Rex and nodded, saying “Go ahead. Lower your blasters.”

The clones holstered their guns and stepped back the smallest fraction, giving her room. The woman stood up, relaxing her posture. She put her short sword back in its sheath, then sheathed the great sword as well. She raised her visor on her helmet and Fives and Rex both gasped internally. Her eyes were gray blue, but shone with a light from within that radiated like star light. The color reminded them of the sea and sky of Kamino, and both were drawn into them like deep pools of sparkling water. Her beauty gave even General Skywalker pause, and he hesitated for a brief second before introducing himself. She beat him to the first word, resting her arms across her chest and asking “You’re their superior, I presume?”

“I’m General Anakin Skywalker of the Jedi Order and the Grand Army of the Republic. This is Captain Rex, my first in command. The man to your immediate left is Lieutenant Fives and to your right, Corporal Echo. We appreciate your help with this battle today, but I’m not sure we’ve ever heard of someone like you before….”

“Well, since we are going with impressive titles, I am Telperion Laurelin, Guardian of the Balance and Guide of Souls. I heard a cry for help in this galaxy, and I have answered the call. It’s what I do.” She gestured to the giant beast standing watchfully behind and above her. “This is Baiulus the Black Dread. He is my dragon, a friend of many ages and my greatest ally in any fight. He is rather protective of me, and not above eating those who threaten my person.” She said this with a small apologetic smile, but looked at the clones significantly in warning. “I’d hate for our first meeting to go south over a misunderstanding of intentions.” She opened her hands to show she meant no harm. “I’m here to help you in this fight. There is no need for the worry about me or B.”

[enarmor]

to the trained eye of caeda of talys, sain’s depressed state was rather… obvious. she didn’t linger around the mistletoe for too long, but she spent long enough around it to see sain’s many attempts and resulting failures to get a kiss from a cute girl.

so, she approaches him with the intent to add a little cheer to his life. “sain.” she calls out to him, and soon as she is close enough she presses a little kiss to his cheek, smiling softly up at him after she pulls away.

“don’t let those rejections get you down, okay? you’re a wonderful man— i am sure you’ll find someone sooner than you think.”

Sain isn't having too bad a time, if you can believe it.

Rejection hits him like a heavy spear to a breastplate. It smashes against his most guarded walls, driving its tip further into his cracked skin--blow after blow. And Sain is without a shield, only a Lance incapable of swatting away something so big. His ego is hurt by the time Caeda spots him. He mopes about his ill fate.

But the wounds haven't drawn blood. Sain remains intact and unbroken, for his ego is always worn on his chest, not underneath. He is frowning, sure. He has lost the sparkle in his eyes, sure. But his heart is pristine. It pounds back against its attackers, screaming 'I yet live!' in the faces of those who would want to murder Sain's love. The little bits of interaction have been joyful for him, like the sweet flesh of fruit encased by a hard skin. Hope still clings to him, realigning his head to face the Archanean as she mosies over.

"Caeda...?" He finds comfort in calling out that name, enough to forget that his legs have felt like pins and needles for the better half of a minute now. "Haha--"

His fingers glaze over the part of his cheek that had been kissed. As though they had scraped some of it off, he looks at the pads of his fingers. She is just the reminder he needed. "--You haven't been wrong so far. I'd be a fool to not believe you here, right?"

He shakes off his misery with a smile, believing welly and truly that an upbeat face would be a service to his friend. "Thank you, my dear! I'll think of you when my special someone comes. And, while I'm at it," he snaps his fingers, holding the end position so that he's pointing at her, "why don't I try some of your advice? No more cheap date ideas--"

"--I'll show the ladies my most genuine self, just like we talked about!"

[actress4him]

Whumptober 2023 - Day 25 - The Shadow of Death

I finally wrote the story of how Kamaria got The Scar. This is canon verse, but essentially this same scene happens in every universe except college and royal. Mind the tags.

Taglist: @painful-pooch

Masterlist

No. 25: “You’re not delivering a perfect body to the grave.”

Contains: lady whump, self harm, panic attack, implied threats of noncon, blood

.

.

Everything is spinning. Kamaria came into her own tent to get away from everyone, to feel safe, but she isn’t safe at all. Only a piece of canvas separates her from all those men. She can’t catch her breath and the ground keeps shifting beneath her feet and blen, any one of them could just walk in here anytime they want. She isn’t safe. She’ll never be safe.

beautiful                                            beautiful

                   exotic

                                      gorgeous

      beautiful

                              enticing                  beautiful

Clutching her head, she struggles to pull in air and sinks onto her bed. No. No, not her bed, she can’t sit there, not after what he said earlier. She can almost feel his hands on her now, pulling at her, stroking her skin. Catapulting to her feet, she scrubs at her arms, the back of her neck, her chest. All the places he touched. She can’t erase the feeling, though, no matter how hard she tries.

beautiful 

           beautiful 

                       beautiful 

                                   beautiful 

                                              beautiful 

                                                        beautiful 

                                                                  beautiful 

She can’t scream, no matter how much she wants to. They’ve trained that out of her for the most part over the last four years, even if it was unintentional on their part. She thought they’d trained crying out of her, too, but right now there are tears dripping down her cheeks and what little breath she can draw is coming out in broken sobs. 

She doesn’t want to be beautiful. She never asked to be beautiful, never gave a thought to what anyone might think she looked like until human men started taking notice of her. They’ve spent the last years proving themselves untrustworthy in every other way, but she never realized just how horrible they were. Until recently. Until she changed from a child to a woman, and they decided they had a right to put their hands on her and threaten to -

Kamaria lashes out at the few possessions in her tent, scattering them to the ground, picking them up and throwing them again when that doesn’t at all satisfy the stabbing pain in her chest. There’s a pile of armor in the corner that some officer ordered her to shine and she’s about to go after that, too, when she catches sight of her reflection in the breastplate. 

Stopping short, she stares for a moment before dropping to her knees in front of it. That’s her. Brown skin, not as dark as her mother’s, green eyes like her father, loose brown curls like her grandmother, and the pointed ears that define her as Vaya. 

        exotic

                                                                      exotic

                              beautiful

stunning

                                                      beautiful 

Is she beautiful, really? She doesn’t know. But beauty is a curse, at least as a Vaya woman among human men. 

The longer she gazes at her own face, thinking about what they must see when they look at her, the sicker she feels. She can’t keep doing this. The touching, the whispered descriptions of what they want to do to her, the images that burn behind her eyelids of her friends, her family being snatched by soldiers and pinned to the ground…

She can’t breathe.

Something has to change.

The knife from her hip is in her hand without her realizing she’s drawn it. She stares down at it, then back up at her reflection. Her hand shakes uncontrollably as she brings the tip to her face, resting it just below her hairline. It doesn’t break skin yet. She just holds it there, trembling, tears still leaking from her eyes. 

beautiful       beautiful       beautiful      beautiful 

                                     NO!

The blade digs in. She drags it down her forehead, between her eyebrows, alongside her nose and mouth. Blood wells up in its wake, and begins spilling down over her left eye and the bridge of her nose. For a moment she leaves the tip there, on the right side of her mouth, just watching the deep red Vaya blood as it drips.

The knife falls from her hand and clatters against the breastplate before hitting the dirt. Still, she doesn’t look away. The cut isn’t clean, it’s messy from an unsteady hand, but that’s what she wants. She wants it to scar. She wants it to be ugly, to mar her face forever, to make everyone who sees her wrinkle up their noses and walk away.

Her tears stop falling. The men’s voices echoing in her mind finally grow quiet. The cut stings badly, but it’s nothing compared to the pain she’s used to and it seems to take away the pain from her chest and the churning in her stomach. 

Kamaria takes a full breath for the first time since entering the tent, shaky but under her control. 

She won’t be beautiful anymore.

[cosmichorrorsarestillnicerthanme]

Trick-or-Treate

:333

My, my! My first trick or treater! Glad to see you, now, let's see what treats I can give you!

*Spins The Wheel, Yes I Actually Made A Wheel For This*

Your three pieces of candy are!

A Random Line From A Fic

“If I had a fucking 500 yen coin for every socially awkward Special Grade I met I’d have two 500 yen coins, which ain’t a lot, but its weird it happened twice.” Maki sighed in resignation, accepting that God seemed to enjoy giving her the middle finger.

A Three Sentence Fic

Megicula, sitting in handcuffs across from Asta: This is cruel and unusual punishment.

Asta, standing in front of a powerpoint called “How to make friends without cursing them”: I have no Idea what that means.

Vanica, also in handcuffs next to Megicula while eating popcorn: It means keep talking, her introverted ass is memorizing all of this, hell she would be taking notes if she could.

And A Drabble (Though it's much longer than a drabble and based of an old idea of mine that I never did anything with)

“So you're… me?” Asta asked, wary of the stranger in front of him who had not just the same Ki, but the same swords, same hair, same colored eyes, and if that brief glimpse during their clash was to be believed, the same Anti-Magic Arm.

Though that is where the similarities ended, especially in the department of Attire and physique.

The man in front of Asta was almost a head taller than him with a slightly thinner build, despite that, Asta got the feeling this guy was stronger than him five times over in physical strength, and as opposed to the white suit and long red coat he always imagined his future self wearing in his dreams the man before him and his squad seemed more like a mixture of the people Asta admired most among those he wished to succeed.

The Chief Of Elves Licht, The 27th Wizard King, Conrad Leto, and The 28th Wizard King, Julius Novachrono.

He wore a black and red jacket similar in design to the one Conrad once wore that was held closed in the center by a silver five leaf clover, under the jacket was a battleworn silver breastplate and a shirt similar to the one Licht wore when he was brought back though without the blue undershirt underneath, around his waist was the same belt Asta wore at this very moment, though resized and with several more pouches on its outside, presumably for carrying whatever curiosities the man found, he wore a pair of black pants, and black boots where those pants were stuffed into, following what few rules that all squads must follow for uniform, finally, Over this all, was a simple black cape draped over his right arm and held in place by three silver chains that connected to the steel pauldron on his shoulder which went under his left arm and wrapped around his back where it connected to the pauldron once more.

“In a way yes, but also no. It would be more accurate to say I am a possibility of what your future self is. I am The King, and if you want Clover to see the dawn, you will be helping me.” The King stated without hesitation.

“And what if we don’t feel like lettin’ the brat run off with some crazy person who calls himself the “Possibility Of A Future”?” Captain Yami asked gruffly.

“I was asking out of courtesy, whether he wishes to or not this young man is coming with me. Though you are more than welcome to try and stop me Captain Sukehiro.” The King said with a taunting tone of almost absolute power in his voice as he stabbed the massive black greatsword in his hand into the ground.

In an instant Yami was upon the interloper, katana drawn and body low to the ground in a stance not too dissimilar to that of a runner’s as he swung the blade upward at the man.

However by the time the foreign blade was where The Man stood all that was there was air.

From behind Yami the man spoke.

“I had hoped to avoid fighting you Captain, but in a way, I am quite glad I am. To have the opportunity to fight you at the prime of your power and while you are fighting to protect your family, it's not an opportunity I have ever been so unfortunate to be faced with, until now that is.”

“Well then, ain’t this a lucky day for ya… kid.” Yami told the man, keeping his voice quiet enough to avoid telling the entire squad but loud enough for The King to hear him.

“Heh, Indeed it is!” The King muttered with a laugh as black and red flames ignited along the length of his left arm, the battle between the two only just beginning.

[weareallfallengods]

The Battle of Elios, part 1

So now for a snippet of the rough 1st draft of a flashback to Salazar di Carron's formative experience of his childhood.

This takes place during the Battle of Elios, where the Steward of Whitemouth invades a sovereign nation to expand his power base.

Elios is loosely based on Medieval Spain.

Salazar grows up to become a bitter, jaded down-on-his-luck master Swordsman turned to hustling and gambling to survive, and a core member of the Hero's Party.

---------------------------------------------------

Acrid smoke and dust swirled in the air, clearing too slowly in the heavy, dry air of the Eliosan summer, causing the boy buried under a pile of rubble formerly attached to the beautifully carved relief of vines and flowers that adorned even the simplest of windows of the old keep.

Coughing weakly, a small cloud of alabaster dust blew out in a puff that mimicked the larger plumes coming off the floor to ceiling hole where the window he had been peeping out of at the chaos outside had been just a few heartbeats before.

Slowly, his eyes fluttered weakly, sucking in a sharp breath that only served to trigger even more coughing as limbs returned to their owners somewhat feeble control, while outside, horns blared and men shouted in unison. Salazar slowly pulled himself to his knees, shattered plaster and fragments of white stone raining down as smaller bricks tumbled around his small body. Sitting back on his haunches, he blinked carefully, not daring to try to rub the dust from his eyes for fear of making it even worse than it already was to see through the grit and haze around him. Dazedly, his eyes widened slightly at seeing the hole torn in the side of the keep that had been his home for nearly as long as he could remember with the realization that had he been standing on the opposite side of the window, his body would have been a macabre accompaniment to the twisted and smoking-red iron torch sconces poking out of the pile of debris in the upper hallway hallway he had thought would be a safe vantage point to view the spectacle of the army at the gates.

Salazar turned his still shell-shocked attention back to the scene that had drawn him here in the first place. Massed around the main gate of his home was an army of men, clamoring and shouting, their black and red uniforms contrasting sharply with the blinding gleam of bright steel in the harsh Eliosan sun, looking like a stain of infected blood on the sun-bleached plain.

As his senses returned more fully, he became aware of rapidly approaching boots, their owner apparently running hard from the weight of the sound. Before he knew it, strong, rough hands were yanking him off the ground by his armpits, thrown under a burly, wired arm like nothing more than a sack of onions. The jouncing of his ribs against the steel breastplate of his rescuer quickly brought his focus back to the here and now, a smal yelp of pain escaping him as they rounded a corner too fast, and Salazar was briefly squashed as the man carrying him hit the wall briefly before continuing his, from Salazar’s perspective, jolting sprint away from the sounds of the battle, deeper into the heart of the keep.

“Alive after all, are you?” the graveled voice he knew so well bringing a wave of relief to the boy. “Can you stand? More importantly, can you run?”

Alphonso set Salazar down as gently as he could without breaking his stride or slowing much.

“Need to get you to safety, boy,” he grated, half-dragging Salazar as he did his best not to trip on his own feet as they hurtled through halls and down twisting stairs. He recognized where they were headed.

“No! We have to go back! We can’t just run like cowards!”

Alphonso skidded to a stop in a shadowed doorway looking over the sun-drenched training courtyard where they had spent so many hours together. Sternly, he turned to look down at his charge, seeing a dust encrusted ghost, Salazar’s dark eyes standing out even more sharply in the contrast, and his eyes softened slightly. The boy’s eyes were wide with fea,r and a bit of exhilaration as well most likely, but all it served to do, especially as he lifted a grimy hand to futilely attempt to wipe some of the dirt from his eyes, was to reinforce to Ambrose just how young his charge truly was. Even at only twelve summers, Salazar looked younger than he actually was due to his slight but wiry build, his heavy, straight black hair, normally pulled back in the palace-required fashion, which now mostly undone, framing his sharp, bony cheeks, served to continuously deliver even more stone-dust into his wide eyes.

“Cowards neither of us are, but when you’re young, you tend to confuse courage with foolishness.”

“But we can’t leave her there! Who’s going to make sure she’s safe?” Salazar’s voice cracked in near-panic, his eyes welling with unshed tears of passion.

“I know you’re concerned, though the Shards know why. Look boy, there’s more guards in the royal household than will fit in the entire gatehouse - someone there is bound to keep the whole family from harm. Or at least try. And they’ll have better chance than a lone, unarmed, scared little boy trying to take on an army. If they even get that far.”

Salazar sniffed heavily, whether from choking back tears or an attempt to clear his nose, Alphonso couldn’t tell.

He sighed. “I’ll not argue with you more - you can argue all you want once the fighting dies down and you’re safe. Until then, remember your place and do as I tell you!”

Alphonso grabbed Salazar uner the arm and manhandled him down the corridor, the boy’s protests lost in wave of pounding vibrations that shook the keep to it’s bones. Alphonso’s scowl deepened as more silt rained down on them. He’d seen sieges before, from both sides, and he’d never seen an engine yet that could hit walls hard enough to shake a castle this badly. Something else was going on, something much, much worse than just another invading army, even if he didn’t know exactly what it was. Something was not right about this attack he knew, just as surely as he knew the feel of his own boots when getting dressed in the dark, and as much as it confused and worried him, he had decided he very much did not want to be around to find out what it was that was making this attack so different. Old soldiers don’t like the unexpected, especially in battle, and Alphonso was no exception.

Pausing in the doorway to the training grounds, located near the far end of the keep from the gate, Alphonso’s heart plummeted at the sight before him. For a moment, his mind went completely blank, for his plan to find what he had thought would be the most sheltered part of the castle, as far away from the main fighting as possible in order to hide, or better yet, escape, was completely shattered by the grisly sight before them.

Alphonso stiff-armed the boy behind him, pressing him into the wall so he wouldn’t immediately see what he had. His beloved courtyard, where the two of them had spent thousands of hours drilling forms and footwork, was awash with the crimson blood of servants and soldiers alike, their claret-stained livery a sharp contrast to the hard packed dirt, macabre poppies in a field of sunlit snow.

Alphonso put a finger to the boy’s lips as his mouth opened to protest the rough handling. Half a dozen men at arms, the duke’s sun-crest blazing white on their golden tabards were slowly moving through the scattered corpses. Methodically, their leader dispassionately bent to check each body for signs of life, and then dispassionately ran each one through the throat with the long main-gauche held too casually in his hand.

Alphonso eyed the group warily, not yet daring to even breathe. They hadn’t been spotted yet, that much was at least certain, as the soldiers hadn’t altered their careful course through the trail of bodies. His eyes flicked to the door of his small hut on the far end of the training grounds, gauging the distance, silently calculating how much carrying the boy would slow him down, then cursing softly under his breath when the bevvy of guards moved closer, inspecting and dispatching another cluster of victims. He had hoped they were heading the opposite direction, but it seemed they’d only just begun their grisly work. The decision had been made for him.

Kneeling swiftly, he grabbed Salazar by the shoulders, gently shaking him for emphasis.

“Listen boy! We’re in a bad spot – this is no ordinary attack; the king’s guards have turned on us, and there’s a bunch of them between us and safety. You need to do as I say, exactly as I say, no questions, or there’s a good chance neither of us will get out of this alive. You understand me?”

Salazar had gone completely still, for he’d never seen his mentor so desperately intense before. He might have almost believe Alphonso to be scared, if he had believed that was an emotion the man was even capable of feeling. All he could do was nod sharply, his earlier courage quailing in the face of whatever it was that Alphonso was feeling. It couldn’t possibly be terror; after all, his mentor was beyond those sorts of childish feelings, wasn’t he?

“Good. Close your eyes and slowly count to twenty. Once you hit that, you run to the house as fast as your scrawny little legs will take you and don’t you dare look up. You get to the house, you slip into where I hide the oruja, close the trapdoor over yourself, and you don’t come out no matter what you hear. You stay there until you’ve slept and woken to hear nothing. You understand? You stay put!”

The boy just stared at Alphonso, not even caring about how much his shoulders hurt from how tightly the man who had been all but a father to him was gripping him. His mind couldn’t quite process in words what was about to happen, but his heart had plummeted into his feet, and deep in his Song, he somehow knew what Alphonso was about to do. Every part of his body was screaming to grab him, to drag him away from this place, to find another way, but he was paralyzed by both his own fear, and the sheer iron commitment radiating from Alphonso’s eyes.

Alphonso nodded.

He paused for a heartbeat as he stood up again, his back now to the boy, not trusting himself to maintain his resolve if he looked Salazar in the eyes again. This bedraggled sparrow of a boy, thrust upon him when he’d wanted nothing to do with it by the duke, nigh seven years ago, had somehow wriggled his way into his grizzled heart. A quick glance outside had told him there was no other option, and no time to try to think of one anyway.

“I’ve loved you as a son, Salazar. To me, you are my boy. Never forget that.”

And with a gutteral roar, Alphonso burst through the doorway into the training courtyard, sprinting for the broken weapons rack where it had fallen during the previous clash that had resulted in the carnage he deftly wove through.

The soldiers jumped in surprise, their leader leaping to his feet, blade still dripping from his latest victim.

To be continued!

[tomepact]

“i heard men talking ... i wasn't trying to eavesdrop. they wanted me to hear it ... ” vespin sat with his legs drawn against his chest, rubbing the back of his neck. the scar by cerrit's hawk gave off a dull burn, like it could still – like it was still wanting to behead him. “they believe i am a spy. an assassin, sent to gain your trust and strike when your back is turned. like what happened before.” he scratched at the scar, keeping his eyes off the fire, on hymnal. “ ... what happened before?”

it is a rare moment outside of his armor, sitting with vespin as the other tucked himself into as small a ball as he could. hymnal sat with his breastplate laid across his lap, buffing the enameled metal quietly when vespin asks what happened before.

he knows the others talk behind his back of vespin's presence. sometimes they mean to hide and most of the time they want their words heard and known without specifically saying it to his face.

the scar at his back twinges and he sets the armor aside, folding his hands. the room is lit by the fireplace, throwing strange lights from the gold cracks on his face.

" i put my trust in a man who -- mn. i put my trust in someone who either did not put faith in the stories of the saint, or put too much faith into them and believed them utterly true. either way, he thought he would get a foot in the door with the betrayers by cutting me down. "

he rubs the back of his neck like the answer is sheepish, like he's telling a story that didn't involve the sensation of nearly bleeding to death.

" the work of a cleric kept me from dying, but the scar remains. my back aches when it rains. it's not surprising they may think you a spy -- but pay them no mind. they'll do nothing to you as long as i am here. "

[dfroza]

the Body and Bride is waiting for a trumpet that calls us “Up”

but there are also trumpets of Judgment that will be sounded off in the coming wrath.

Today’s reading of the Scriptures from the New Testament is the 9th chapter of the book of Revelation:

Then the fifth messenger sounded his trumpet. I saw a star that had dropped out of heaven to earth. He received the key that unlocks the shaft leading to the abyss, the pit that falls away to nothingness; and he opened the shaft to the abyss. Huge columns of smoke rose from the depths of the cavern—a black, ugly smoke as if from a great furnace so that the sun was darkened and the air was thickened by the blanket of smoke from the shaft. From the smoke, locusts appeared and swarmed upon the earth. They were given power, like the power of scorpions on the earth. However, they were instructed not to damage any grasses, plants, or trees that grow from the earth. Instead, they were given power for five months to torture, but not to kill, the people without the seal of God upon their foreheads. The torment they inflicted was like the sting of a scorpion when it strikes. During those days, people will seek any way possible to kill themselves, but death will not befriend them. They will long to die and end their miseries, but death will elude them.

The locusts looked like horses clad in armor, ready for battle. They wore golden wreaths on their heads, and their faces appeared human with hair as long as women’s hair, but they had teeth as sharp as lions’ teeth. They had armor that appeared to be iron plated; and when their wings flapped, they sounded like an army of horse-drawn chariots rushing into battle. They have tails like scorpions with stingers, and the power invested in them to inflict torture on people for five months lies in their tails. They were ruled by the messenger of the abyss, whose Hebrew name is Abaddon and whose Greek name is Apollyon, both meaning “the Destroyer.”

The first disaster has occurred; there are two more disasters to come.

Then the sixth messenger sounded his trumpet; and I heard a voice from the four corners of the golden altar that is before God, commanding the sixth messenger with the trumpet.

A Voice: Set loose the four messengers who are bound in chains at the great river Euphrates.

Then the four messengers, who had been held in chains until the hour and the day and the month and the year when they would kill one-third of humanity, were released.

I heard that 200 million soldiers rode in the cavalry. This is how these horses and their riders appeared in my vision: the riders wore breastplates of fiery red, smoky blue, and sulfur yellow. The heads of the horses seemed to be like the heads of lions; they breathed fire and smoke and sulfur from their mouths, killing one-third of humanity with the three plagues coming out of their mouths. The lethal power of these horses was not only in their mouths but also in their tails because their tails, which resembled snakes, had heads that inflicted injury.

The rest of humanity, those not killed by these plagues, did not rethink their course and turn away from the devices of their own making. Despite all these calamities, they continued worshiping demons and idols crafted in gold, silver, bronze, stone, and wood. They bowed down to images which cannot see or hear or walk. They failed to turn away from their murders, their sorceries, their sexual immoralities, and their thefts.

The Book of Revelation, Chapter 9 (The Voice)

Today’s paired reading from the First Testament is the 10th chapter of the book of Daniel:

In the third year of King Cyrus’ reign over the Persian Empire, Daniel, who had been named Belteshazzar by his Babylonian captors, received a word from God through another vision. The message proved reliable, and it had to do with a great war. Daniel understood the word and gained insight into the future through this vision. Here is his account.

Daniel: When I received this vision, I, Daniel, had been in mourning for three weeks. I had eaten very little, no meat and no rich foods at all. I had not enjoyed the taste of wine, nor had I used any oils to bathe or groom myself. I continued this way throughout the three full weeks. The vision came to me on the 24th day of the 1st month. As I was on the bank of the great Tigris River, I lifted my eyes and saw what seemed at first to be a man dressed in linen clothing. Around his waist was a belt made of the purest gold. His body had the appearance of yellow topaz; his face was bright like flashes of lightning; his eyes flamed like torches; his arms and legs sparkled like polished bronze; his voice sounded like thunder. I, Daniel, alone saw this man and heard his voice. Though there were others around me who did not see this sight, they were still overcome with fear and ran to hide. I did not. I was left all alone to witness this glorious sight. My strength soon left me. My face was drained of its natural color, and I was confused. I had no energy at all. Then I heard his voice and caught the sound of his words. As I did, I fell into a deep sleep—my face pressed to the ground. Just then, a mighty hand touched me and lifted my trembling body onto my hands and knees.

Messenger: Daniel, you are highly regarded by God. I have been sent to help you understand the destiny of your people. Stand up and listen carefully to what I have to tell you.

As he spoke, I slowly rose to my feet, though I was still shaking.

Messenger: Do not be afraid, Daniel. From the very first day that you began to pursue understanding and humble yourself before your God, your words have been heard. I have been sent in response to what you’ve said. I would have been here sooner; however, for the past 21 days the spirit prince of Persia opposed me and prevented my coming to you. Then Michael, one of the chief princes of heaven, came to my aid because I alone was busy dealing with the kings of Persia. I have come to help you understand what will happen to your people in the last days, for this vision is about a time yet to come.

As he was saying all this to me, I dropped my head and looked at the ground, completely quiet, unable to respond. Then one who looked like the sons of men approached and touched my lips. After that I was able to open my mouth and speak again. I turned to the one standing before me.

Daniel: My lord, what I have seen has left me utterly depressed. I have no strength left. How can I, your humble servant, even begin to address someone like you, my lord? My strength is gone, and I can hardly catch my breath.

Again the one who looked like a man reached out and touched me. With that I felt my strength begin to return.

Messenger: Do not be afraid, you who are highly regarded by God. May peace rest on you and make you whole; be strong; be brave.

At his words, I grew even stronger.

Daniel: Please continue, my lord, for your words have given me strength.

Messenger: Do you realize, now, the reason I have come to you? Soon I must return to continue the fight with the spirit prince of Persia. When I do go, the spirit prince of Greece will come to do battle. Nevertheless, I will tell you what is inscribed in the scroll of truth. No one stands with me against the guardians except for Michael, your heavenly prince.

The Book of Daniel, Chapter 10 (The Voice)

A note from The Voice translation:

Although God has countless heavenly messengers, only two are named in the Bible: Gabriel and Michael. These heavenly messengers fill many functions in the Bible; for example, they are members of God’s divine council, they lead the heavenly army, and they deliver the words of God. In Daniel, Gabriel is a messenger in the most literal sense, bringing a revelation to Daniel through the explanations of a dream and of Scripture. Gabriel’s announcements about the coming Liberator do not end with Daniel. In the New Testament book of Luke, he is the one who announces the impending births of John the Baptist and Jesus to Zechariah and Mary, respectively.

A link to my personal reading of the Scriptures for Sunday, december 24 of 2023 with a paired chapter from each Testament (the First & the New) of the Bible along with Today’s Proverbs and Psalms

A post by John Parsons about a “Star”:

“A Star shall lead from of Jacob...” Amazingly, the pagan seer Balaam – who may have been a forebear of the “magi of the east” (Matt. 2:1-2) – foresaw the coming of Yeshua the Messiah: “I see him, but not now; I behold him, but not near: a Star shall lead from Jacob (דָּרַךְ כּוֹכָב מִיַּעֲקב), and a Ruler shall arise from Israel” (Num. 24:17). Balaam’s prophecy described the coming of the Messiah and his reign in two distinct aspects: “A Star from Jacob shall lead the way (i.e., דָּרַךְ),” this refers to Messiah’s first coming as the way of life (John 14:6), “and a scepter (i.e., Ruler) shall ascend (וְקָם שֵׁבֶט) from Israel,” this refers to Messiah’s second coming to establish the kingdom of Zion after the final redemption.

As I mentioned the other day, the very purpose and goal of salvation is for us "to turn from darkness to light and from the power of Satan to God" (see Acts 26:18). Hashivenu, Adonai... When the darkness seems to enshroud your way, pray for God's light to be rekindled within your soul. The Star still shines! Happy holidays and love to you, friends.

[ Hebrew for Christians ]

========

Numbers 24:17b reading:

https://hebrew4christians.com/Blessings/Blessing_Cards/num24-17b-jjp.mp3

Hebrew page:

https://hebrew4christians.com/Blessings/Blessing_Cards/num24-17b-lesson.pdf

12.22.23 • Facebook

from yesterday’s email by Israel 365:

Today’s message (Days of Praise) from the Institute for Creation Research

December 24, 2023

When God Became Man

“Thou madest him a little lower than the angels; thou crownedst him with glory and honour, and didst set him over the works of thy hands.” (Hebrews 2:7)

We cannot comprehend what it meant for the infinite Creator God to become finite man, even coming “in the likeness of sinful flesh” (Romans 8:3). Nevertheless, we can, and must, believe it, for “every spirit that confesseth not that Jesus Christ is come in the flesh is not of God” (1 John 4:3).

The Scriptures have given us a glimpse of the “emptying” that His incarnation required—the setting aside of certain outward aspects of His deity. He had been “so much better than the angels” (Hebrews 1:4), but He had to be “made a little lower than the angels for the suffering of death” (Hebrews 2:9)—“put to death in the flesh” (1 Peter 3:18).

The eternal Word “was God” (John 1:1), but it was necessary that “the Word was made flesh” (John 1:14). “The world was made by Him” (John 1:10), but “the princes of this world...crucified the Lord of glory” (1 Corinthians 2:8).

He “being in the form of God, thought it not robbery to be equal with God” (Philippians 2:6). That is, He was not fearful of losing His deity and, therefore, did not have to cling to His divine nature and attributes as He became man. Thus, He “made himself of no reputation” (emptying Himself of the outward form of God) “and took upon him the form of a servant” (Philippians 2:7).

Yet, that was only the beginning. “For he hath made him to be sin for us, who knew no sin; that we might be made the righteousness of God in him” (2 Corinthians 5:21). He suffered hell for us that we might enjoy heaven with Him.

Because He was willing to be so humiliated, He will one day be crowned with glory and honor. “God also hath highly exalted Him,...that every tongue should confess that Jesus Christ is Lord” (Philippians 2:9, 11). HMM

[strixcattus]

(Under cut because I end up going into detail about where my memory failed me)

From memory:

Laios is probably going to be the most on-model, unless there's some detail on his armor I'm forgetting. Unsure about the shape of his eyes and the collar of his breastplate.

Something doesn't look right about Senshi, but I'm not sure what. He's the only one for whom I have no clue what he's wearing from the neck down, so I took a wild guess. It feels wrong to have the hole in his helmet showing skin instead of hair. He also looks a little thinner than he should... I think that's an error in my drawing ability, though, not my memory.

I distinctly remember the collar of Marcille's hood being pretty low on her neck. Why this of all things stuck out, I have no clue. I'm pretty confident on the colors of everything, but if I've got a coloring mistake, it'd be on her. I know she has braids, but I don't think they're visible from the front.

If I'm making a mistake on Chilchuck, it's his sleeves.

I'm fairly certain I got everyone's hair and skin colors roughly accurate. Chilchuck's hair and Senshi's skin might be a shade too light, though.

From reference:

(Note: While I included references in the posted art, they were mostly only used for checking colors against—the lineart for Laios, Senshi, and Chilchuck was referenced from the TVTropes character page, and Marcille was referenced directly from the episode, since she wears her hair in a variety of styles throughout the show and this was the one I was aiming for in the original drawing.)

Laios looks a little young in this one. I blame my art style—I don't draw a lot of humans and I'm not used to making characters look older.

Most of the colors were notably oversaturated. That's partially stylistic, but mostly because I list towards saturation when I can't reference a color. The exception is Senshi's beard, skin, and helmet horns, which were undersaturated.

I was right on the money about Chilchuck's hair and Senshi's skin both being a shade too light. In addition, Chilchuck's and Marcille's skin tones were both too orange when drawn from memory. A lot of colors had to be made redder, actually.

Laios's shoulder armor. Of course that would trip me up. And I was right about having an iffy memory of his neck guard and eye shape, too.

Senshi-from-memory is way too skinny, even to the point where I can't say it's a fault of my usual art style. He looks starved. And dehydrated. He looks as though he's been locked up for a week without food. This isn't Senshi, it's his evil twin Ishnes of Adnagzi, who advocates for toxic diet culture and is trying to survive off nothing but air. This is what Senshi would look like if paleontologists tried to reconstruct him from his skeleton alone—no, I think the paleontological reconstruction would still have broader shoulders. This isn't just not Senshi, it probably isn't even a dwarf.

His helmet is also completely the wrong shape in the first drawing. And his horns are on backwards. And his nose is even bigger than I remembered.

And apparently the reason I couldn't remember what he was wearing on his torso is that whatever it is is sleeveless and completely covered by his beard.

I got Marcille's hair wrong. Obviously. Be surprised if many people could draw that hairstyle from memory.

It's also longer than I thought. And her cloak is shorter than I thought. And her eyes are rounder. And I completely forgot about her choker.

...And apparently her eye color.

Aside from color, Chilchuck was actually pretty good. Shame I forgot what color shirt he was wearing, though.

Compared to the shapeshifters in the last episode... Ishnes of Adnagzi wouldn't last half a minute (he's even worse quality than the fake Laioses), and Marcille is pretty obviously not going to pass muster. Laios and Chilchuck would end up getting called out for the minor-yet-obvious details.

Chilchuck would probably have managed to go completely unnoticed if he were wearing the right color of shirt.

Conclusion: I'm Laios

Dungeon Meshi artists hear me out:

Draw each of the main four from memory (bust/portrait is fine) and then draw again with a reference. After, compare to the mimics of each one from the new episode.

[softsan]

NCT WEREWOLF AU (jaehyun)

🖇Chaos Ensues (pt.1)

MASTERLIST

PARTS: | 01 |

WOLF PROFILES | Y/N’S NAMES

GENRE: Werewolf AU, Action, Future fluff

QUOTE: “Jaehyun's chest rumbled, his inner beast coaxing him to continue on his path. He wasn't sure why until he saw you there.”

WARNINGS: Military talk, Implied murder, Talk of violence, 

The arid desert was an unforgiving wasteland, barren and null of the living. One knew better than to trek across the scorching sandhills under the blistering rays of the reddening sun. Furthermore, a constant wind whipped about, its hot sting stirring all that walked past. 

As a wolf, Jaehyun's familiarity lay with his forest-dwelling. The Wicked Woods, a setting of trees and an abundance of green. He knew little about surviving in such a harsh climate, his skills refined to preservation in a more neutral environment. 

Additionally, his thick fur coat proved to be disadvantageous under this weather—sweat dripping from his noes and gathering on his paw pads. 

There has to be a way out? Jaehyun helplessly panted, scanning the surrounding area. 

To his dismay, everything in the desert appeared the same. He had no gauge on how far he had strayed from the forest's border or how deep inside the bone-dry landscape he truly was. 

His mind dwindled on the events that had led him to his moment. Had he taken the time to listen, then perhaps things would have turned out differently.

But he hadn't. He had been rash, his actions impulsive and unlike his usual demeanor. Jaehyun blamed it on the madness of the moon—the silvery orb that hung full beside its fiery friend, the sun. 

The moon had a bizarre hold on wolves. It could make the calmest of beasts uncharacteristically vicious. It could command a wolf to shift and bite, endangering anyone in its close proximity.

I shouldn't have chased after those wolves that had come into our territory. 

Three lotas from a rival pack had wandered into their territory without their Alpha Taeyong's permission. This was a huge transgression for their kind. Wolves were territorial by nature and would defend what they had fearlessly fought to be theirs. 

Jaehyun had been tasked to hunt the trespassers and kill them. This was a customary response as it would send a message to others that might thoughtlessly do the same. 

In desperation, the three lotas ran in the direction of the Scorching Sands. The Scorching Sands, like the Wicked Woods, was not a place one took lightly. 

As for the Scorching Sands, it had an abundance of dangers, especially for wolves like himself.

Winwin had called for Jaehyun to retreat and end the chase, but Jaehyun hadn't listened, which had put him in his predicament. 

He was lost in an endless desert, the three wolves he had initially chased nowhere to be seen. 

───

"Y/N?" One of the scouts called for your attention. 

You unmounted your leather saddle. You rubbed your horse's mane, giving her praise.

"Are you Y/N??" The scout approached, his ribbed uniform and armored breastplate a foreign sight in a camp like yours. 

Had you known no better, you'd have thought he belonged to the East's militant, which was located in the garrison closest to your settlement. As a scout, it was one's obligation to obtain information about enemy forces. To do so, one was required to blend in with the adversary, hence the clothes. 

"That I am," You began to unfasten your small haul of alfalfa and legumes, which was securely tied to the rear of your horse's saddle, "What can I do you for?"

"One of the leaders told me to give you these," He forwarded a wrapped pouch. Inside were some papers alongside a folded map. 

You withdrew the charted paper, observing the intricately drawn circles and crosses. It was a map of the city, most impressively a map of the city's East.

What a peculiar item for one to find. You mused.

"How did you ever get your hands on it?"

The scout shuffled his feet uncomfortably, "I rather not say miss, it isn't the most pleasant of accounts," 

You didn't press any further. You understood what he was implying. Uncommon but not unheard of, a scout could kill to further garner information if the opportunity presented itself. 

Your fingertips traced the route that traveled throughout the width. Like a fever, you were excited to study the map in your hands. You tilted your head sideways, noting it'd take you a few days to transcribe the names of the places printed. 

"Thank you," You folded the map and placed it back in the safety of your pouch, "If you could excuse me, I have duties to attend to," 

The scout raised one arm and doubled over into a bow. Before collecting your goods packaged in cloth, you gave a nod and headed towards your tent. 

You had lived amongst bandits most of your life and had congregated a certain level of esteem for your talents in cartography. Your role in the camp was to analyze and compile geographic data and act as an advisory.  

In the last few years, you had also taken over the position of navigator, directing and at times relocating the camp throughout the hostile desert setting, finding small bodies of drinking water while also avoiding meteorological dangers such as sandstorms and mirages. 

You pushed back your tent's flap, entering the small space you called your own. You laid your goods onto your bed, a bed which consisted of a wooden frame and dried straw for padding. 

"I thought you were meeting with the other camp leaders to discuss the rationing of salted meat and grain." You didn't bother turning around, knowing the man behind you ought to be your uncle. 

Your uncle smiled to himself, "You always know when I'm around, don't you." 

You did. 

As a child, your mother had taught you how to place an imprint on another person. It functioned similarly to a trace that allowed you to mentally pinpoint another's location. Your uncle, who wasn't actually a biological relative but a trusted friend of your mother, was the first person your mother made you imprint. 

As per her last request, you were always to stay by your uncle's side. He'd provide you protection in this world, whereas others would not. He understood your condition and would protect your secret at all costs. 

Your uncle closed the tent flap behind him, taking a seat on your bed beside the other goods you'd been unpacking. 

"I did. It was a rather short meeting." Your uncle filled you in, "There wasn't too much to discuss." 

You raised a brow. You had your own suspicion on why the meeting had been so short. 

"We don't have enough supplies to last the drought of summer." He confirmed, "Even if we cut the rations down for each individual. It isn't enough." 

You slowly nodded, "Without food or water, the people won't have the energy to move before June begins either."

"We cannot tell the others, otherwise pillaging and riots are bound to come," Your uncle advised, "And the recent scouts that have returned back from their assignments... if they were to find out."

You grimaced. They would be discouraged to keep fighting for the bandit's cause. They may even switch sides and turn to the East for refuge. 

"Is there nothing that can be done?" 

"You said the land northwest was fertile, and there was a chance that there could be an oasis?" Your uncle unfolded a map you had drawn him weeks prior. 

Your mouth dried. You had made the map based on the geology trends you had observed, but the map itself was still speculative and offered no guarantee that your uncle would find what he was looking for.

"Uncle," You tried to resonate, "My map it's—"

"It's only conjectural." Your uncle finished off your sentence, "I know, but if by any chance there happens to be an oasis, it could save us." 

You exhaled, still uncomfortable with the idea. 

"Tomorrow before sunrise, I leave with a small group. We'll be gone for at least a couple of days. If we don't find anything, we should arrive before your birthday." He stood back to his feet, his arm rising as he tugged your headscarf lower over your ears, "Remember, to keep you guard. Trust no one with your secret other than I," 

"I'll remember," You repeated, "Come back safe." 

Your uncle left you with one last smile before exiting your tent.

───

Darkness had enveloped the skies above as Jaehyun continued to wander deeper into the heart of the desert. 

The intense heat from the day had drastically flipped, a bone-chilling cold taking its place. Despite Jaehyun's rugged fur, he still felt the severity of the cold, his breath coming out of as clouds of fog. 

Am I seeing things? Jaehyun blinked a couple of times as he noticed a campsite. 

The settlement seemed sizable. Numerous tents had been pitched while their horses had their own makeshift cover made from an overhead of fabric. 

Jaehyun felt a mix of emotions. On one hand, he was happy to find some resemblance of civilization. On the other, these were humans, and humans and wolves had an acrimonious relationship. 

Your teeth chattered as you shuffled your feet in the sand. You were gazed upward to the sky, studying the constellations. With some parchment, you were doodling potential markers and the shapes they made. In the future, you could possibly use these markers as a guide while navigating at night.

You hadn't noticed just how far you had walked from the camp, absorbed in your work. 

Jaehyun's chest rumbled, his inner beast coaxing him to continue on his path. He wasn't sure why until he saw you there. 

You looked away from the stars and to your parchment when your noted something big ahead. 

Jaehyun came to a standstill, consumed by the most divine of scents.

You stared equally as bewildered by the caramel-colored beast with the dark discoloration around his snout and ears. He was a creature of substance, his height as tall as a steed, his mammoth size incomparable to any other that roamed in these parts.

Werewolves were far and few in this part of the world. They were forest-dwelling creatures that conquered the Wicked Woods. Their tales painted them as phenomenally strong yet savage beasts. Other creatures of the night, such as witches and fae, wisely kept their distance—humans, too. 

For generations, humans cowered from the edge of the forests that they flagged as wolf terrain. They had spread prejudice and fear across the four kingdoms, assembling hunting parties to counter the threat they had foreseen. 

Jaehyun's eyes lingered. Your beautiful face was full and animated. You wore a headscarf that covered your hairline, your roots, and the top half of your ears. The rest of your hair was purposefully braided and twirled into a loose bun that hung at the base of your neck. 

The two of your remain starring back at one another. Jaehyun was afraid you might go running if he moved, whereas you were afraid that if you moved, the wolf might pounce. 

A loud sound erupted, shaking the silence. 

An explosion from the center of the campsite roared, disturbing the otherwise peaceful evening. It alighted a storm of colors, oranges and reds replacing the once navy sky. Debris was thrown in all directions, some pieces lodging themselves feets away in the sand, others piercing through the heavy-weighted cotton used for the tents. 

You tore your eyes from the wolf, turning back to face the settlement, horror etched on your features. 

Are we under attack? You frantically tried to make out if it was your people that were trying to make a run for it or if they were enemy attackers. 

Jaehyun slowly shifted back into his human counterpart. He wobbled as he tried to stand upright on the sand that sunk his feet. 

Out of all the places. He held back his disbelief. I find my mate in a desert.

He noticed the sudden change in your eyes, the inconspicuous color your eyes had been before had now flickered to a fiery orange. Jaehyun took a surprised breath, the confusion evident on his face. 

You're not human. He distinguished. Well, at least not completely. A wolf's mate had to carry some human blood. Otherwise, it'd be impossible for the mate tie to come to be. The lore was that werewolves were immortal creatures of the night. They'd lurked the forest depths for centuries until they laid eyes on their mate. From then on, the wolf would begin to age again alongside its human partner. 

In addition, it was believed that if a wolf's mate died prematurely, then the wolf would so to. This belief had, however, been since half disproven due to Haechan and Doyoung's ordeals concerning their mates. 

The pack had come to learn that it was only after a wolf had marked its mate did the two become bounded body and soul. Then the pain or pleasure the mate felt the wolf would experience too. 

Under the bad lighting, the orangy hue of your eyes could easily be mistaken for a wolf's. However, Jaehyun observed they lacked depth and were more one-note. 

What are you? 

You quickly compiled your notes, shoving them back into your satchel. You kicked your heels, ready to run back to the camp. Jaehyun quickly grabbed your wrist, preventing you from going. 

You turned back, stunned at the sight of a handsome man instead of the wolf. His eyes dazzled a brilliant gold which momentary stole your breath, "Let go," You finally found your voice. 

"Your eyes," He said with concern. 

"What about my eyes—" Realisation hitting you. 

You closed them immediately. How could you be so careless? 

Jaehyun gently brushed his thumb over the back of your hand, "It's okay." Whatever you were, he didn't care. What worried him was how other humans would react to seeing them, "My eyes change too." 

You hesitantly reopened your eyes. You watched as the wolf's golden orbs shifted into the shade of crimson red. Your jaw slightly dropped. The color left you with both the feeling of awe and fright.  

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