#fay ocs

[3lsmp]

zombie apocalupse oc art + some important relationships between them :]

[THE FIRST 2 IMAGES ARE NOT SHIP !!! Felix and Jonah r gay though.]

[zerozeroren]

Fay and her quirky girlie fashion

(She sews these herself with her mom's assistance, but embroidery is entirely made by her, she loves embroidery)

[foxdoodles]

a couple of recent oc refs!

[ehlnofay]

Martin thinks that he always kind of knew he was going to die today.

But by Akatosh, he didn’t think it would be like this – like Kvatch all over again, Kvatch folded in on itself, the streets overrun with monsters triple-time as thick, all metal and sulphur and blood. They were supposed to make it in time. He was supposed to light the fires. He was supposed to be crowned, and let some new, less visceral kind of horror begin – they were supposed to make it through – they were supposed – they supposed – but the streets are shaking with Dagon’s footfalls, and Martin can’t take a step without kicking a corpse, and the Hero of Kvatch is heavy-too-heavy against his shoulder, and it was always going to be like this. It never could have ended any other way.

He can feel prayer bubbling up from his scraped-raw throat, bitter as bile, held behind his teeth. O Akatosh, first of the gods, steady my hand… He doesn’t say it. Doesn’t mouth it. Tries not to think it, though it’s a rhythm born of years of habit, once a comfort, now just – empty. But it unspools in his head all the same. Pax is leaned heavy against his shoulder, one arm hooked loosely around his, hand pressed against the sticky-dark spot on their armour; they’re short, but they’re not light, and Martin’s arms burn as he tries to hold them up. The sky flares red. His eyes sting with smoke. Grant me the strength to endure. Onward, onward, onward.

Pax’s feet skitter uselessly against the blood-slick cobble. Martin almost trips over a leg, its silver-polished greave shining in the hellish light. The rest of the body is not there. He can taste smoke. He can taste bile. He can see the stained glass, the altars, the prayerbooks, his throat flayed raw begging for a salvation that would never be granted; this is not Kvatch, this is not Kvatch, but the sky burns and the streets are filthy with bodies and there is too much noise to talk, and Pax is damn near dead weight against his side, still holding out their blunt little excuse for a sword. Martin drags her on through the street. Just to the temple doors – just to the temple doors – the side of her head presses fierce against his ear. Martin’s knuckles are white with effort. There is blood on his fine silken robes.

Again, the streets shake; Pax staggers at his side. Akatosh, protect us. Martin doesn’t look up, doesn’t want to see the red-stained sky blurring against body – he can already see the cobbles cracked under the weight of feet too massive for his mind to make sense of it, a body – man or monster, he doesn’t know – crushed beneath the heel. Pax is gesturing at the colossus’ ankle with their sword as if they could possibly do anything at all. They’re bleeding.

“Come on,” Martin says, shallow and jagged; it stings to speak, and there’s so little point, his ears so filled with the clashing of metal and horrible, inhuman screams that there’s not room for anything else. His grip tightens around Pax’s shoulders. Her face is set, stubborn and pale – and she’s so stupidly young – and Martin –

There is an emotion so large it threatens to split him at the seams, and they don’t have time for that, so Martin runs. Staggers past the barely sketched-out shape of the devil menacing the skies, child hero in tow; every breath stinks of fear and ash. His throat prickles. If he doubles over with coughing, Pax will fall, there, onto bloody cobblestone, with their toothpick of a blade and their empty quiver, their sharp-spined bow slung carelessly over their shoulder, pearl-grey gambeson slowly darkening with blood, so Martin doesn’t cough. Blessed are we, the faithful…

They don’t fall, and they aren’t crushed, darting around the earth Dagon stands upon, slow and sluggard and so astonishingly lucky, and Martin gasps, and he does not cough, and Pax kicks at a scamp that gets too close and waves the sword at it just enough to slice a shallow cut down its scrabbly little arm. Martin’s so focused on holding them up that he can’t even cast. It isn’t even the one prayer running inescapable through his head – it’s a mess of them, all twisted and torn to pieces, shreds of one, half a sentence of another. He nearly trips over on the stairs. In the crowd, armour flashes, bright as steel and thoroughly outnumbered. He should pray for the Blades, too; he would, if he thought it would do anything. But it didn’t, last time. And this time, he has something better up his sleeve than prayer.

“Almost there,” he says through the din, and Pax keeps their sword arm raised even though they don’t know how to use the bloody thing, and there’s blood on their Kvatch gambeson, and there’s blood on Martin’s regal robes. (It was going to be him – that dremora’s blade whip-thin and wicked and dark as soot, jabbed thin as a sewing needle through the slippery-soft fabric, hooked under his ribs or pierced through the soft meat of his gut. Pax, empty-quivered, still drawing his sword, angled his own body to intercept; caught it in the thick pillow of his armour, in his own skin. Martin spat a spell from his fingers that sent the thing crashing to the ground and grabbed Pax well before they began to follow.) The earth shakes, again, and Martin’s shin hits the edge of the next step. He can’t hear anything over it all, but he sees Pax suck in a breath, sharp and pained. She takes another step. He follows.

When they reach the dark-stone door, someone screams, high and terrible, and there is no time to stand on ceremony; Martin throws himself at it, shoving it with all his weight behind his shoulder, and together, they stumble inside the temple, ash blowing in behind them to scatter itself on the sacred, stagnant floors.

The door swings closed again; the sound is swallowed up, faint and muffled. Martin can hear them both breathing, ragged, loud. Pax hasn’t lowered their sword. It looks even more dull, here, contrasted against the stonework. They’re so quiet. He hates that he’s learned how they act when they’re in pain.

(It’s holy ground. It won’t be enough – it barely was in Kvatch, it’s nowhere near it now – but it’s not nothing. There’s blood spilling over the tile.)

Martin sucks in a desperate, dragging breath. He doesn’t let go of them.

There’s not much light in the Temple, but it’s enough; it’s clear of smoke and that all that burning reddish tint, outside, and now that Martin has a moment to look them in the face Pax looks awful. His skin is ash-pale and slick with sweat, fringe sticking to his forehead, brow creased as if with concentrated effort and jaw taut. Every breath rattles in his chest and whistles out between his teeth. One palm sticks to the place in her side where her armour is dark and sodden; Martin is afraid to peel it away. It can’t be a wide wound, the cut not even enough to tear more of the gambeson than is covered by her hand, but shit it’s a lot of blood. It’s so much blood. He was never an especially good healer and he can’t even begin to accurately estimate it but it’s too much; it’s entirely too much. And it was because she was protecting him. It’s enough to make a man sick; but there’s no time, so Martin isn’t.

It's so much blood. Pax’s eyes are unfocused, drifting somewhere over his shoulder. His face is so clammy and so young – by the Nine, he’s a child. He’s a child and a hero and Martin’s friend and he’s bleeding out on the Temple floors. Martin hates himself, a bit, for going along with any of this in the first place, for letting them send a fifteen year old child out to risk killing themselves, only to get them here – this place, bleeding out onto sacred marble, where they always would’ve ended up anyway. All roads lead to this.

Inevitability. It’s an idea that showed up often in the sermons Martin used to help give. The Amulet is blood-warm and heavy round his neck.

“Pax,” Martin says; one arm is threaded under her armpits, and he lifts the other to press gently to her cheek. Just under her eye there’s a dark spot of ash; he swipes it off with his thumb, watches the slow, sticky blink she gives in response. “Hey. Are you with me?”

“Always,” she mumbles; her voice is sludgy, like it’s caught in treacle, but the word comes without delay – like it’s instinct, like there’s nowhere else she’s ever imagined being, and doesn’t that just make a man want, a bit, to throw himself off a cliff. (She’s gone to hell, on his word, who knows how many times over; Martin doesn’t need her half-dying drive to affirm her loyalty to him. He knows. He knows. He thinks he might be sick.) She blinks again, and then her eyes sharpen; she throws a tired look over her shoulder at the cool stone of the door, the world beyond muted, as if this moment occurs on its own; like they’re flies, frozen in amber. She says, “It won’t keep them out forever.”

Holy ground was barely enough in Kvatch; it will be barely anything here.

Martin’s arm is aching. He’s not that strong. “Long enough,” he says, with far more brusque certainty than he feels, and he casts a glance over the smooth marble floors, the well-wrought stonework of each plinth and pillar. “Come on. Sit down.”

Arms burning, he helps them to the side of the room, leans them against the leverage of the smooth white wall; still, they don’t sit, and Martin has to help lower them down. Pax grunts like a shot animal as he slowly sinks down to the ground, Martin’s hands still bruising tight on his shoulders, sword slipping from his sweaty grasp to clatter on the floor. His bow, slung over his shoulder, presses awkward against the wall; his empty quiver lies at his hip, useless. His hand is still pressed to the stain on his gambeson.

Martin watches him breathe out through gritted teeth, his tongue pressed ragged against the gap behind his lower canine. His head tips back against the wall. His gambeson, blood-spattered, barely protective, is tied with a row of neat leather cords; Martin reaches for one intricate knot and begins to tug on the ends.

Maybe it’s because he’s a bit frantic, that he just can’t get it to untangle – maybe it’s that the whole world is ending outside the door and they have a minute to stop it, if they’re lucky. Maybe it’s that Pax’s head is lolling, a little. Maybe it’s that it’s all on his head – has been on his head since any of it began, since he knew any of it at all, and now another city is falling, and he can still smell smoke, and he has a minute, if he’s lucky. He feels like they should have more time. He needs to undo the gambeson. He needs to make sure they’ll be all right. Martin was always going to die today – he feels it, settled comfortable and hazy over him, an unerring certainty in the very marrow of his bones, a knowledge passed down from the man they call his father – but Pax sure as shit isn’t. Not if he has anything to say about it, which he does, because it’s been on his head since the beginning and he’ll shoulder it all but he won’t bear this. His fingers scrabble, desperate, at the ties; every moment he waits is a murder, but leaving them here would be murder, too, and Martin won’t have that blood on his hands. And the knots won’t just come easy. He’s lost so much time and he hasn’t even gotten half.

Pax is looking at him, her eyes blood-dark. “You’re not going to get it,” she says, and her voice slurs, a little, in her mouth; pain or blood loss or shock, almost definitely, but Martin was never a particularly skilled healer and the magic he spent to get them through that horrible crush outside has left him too tapped to be able to probe. “They’re tied too tight.”

Martin can hear the ringing of metal outside. The earth is still shaking.

“Fuck,” he says, voice cracking on the vowel, and turns to rifle through their quiver. He hears them exhale, long and shaky, as he searches.

They don’t even have any fucking potions – he’d take anything, at this point, anything at all, he’d take the foulest cheapest draught as long as it would slow the bleeding, or even just a bandage, but there’s no bottles or flasks and no loose cloth. There’s one salve, pale and sticky in a purple-stained pot, but that can’t be used without access to the skin and probably can’t be good in an open wound in any case. There isn’t anything. There isn’t anything at all. Time is slithering away between his fingers. There are broken bits of prayer sticking like glass shards under his tongue, again. He doesn’t want to say any of it; it sticks in his throat, anyway. Lord Akatosh, sacred dragon, walk ever with me; under your gaze I will not fall short. Pax is looking at him, brow creased, face the very picture of dedicated focus; their hair, done in a long, simple braid back when they were just supposed to be speaking to the Council, has come half-loose, looping strands hanging about their face and trailing over their eye. Martin lifts a hand – notes, with detached interest, that it is shaking – and brushes it out of the way.

“I’m sorry,” he says – and he is, by the Nine, it settles with all the rest of the guilt in his gut, all to be burned soon enough – “there’s not time for me to heal you properly. How are you feeling? Are you all right?” Their skin is still clammy to the touch, sweat-damp wherever he touches; their eyes are more focused now but still screwed up with pain.

Pax gives a short puff of air. It’s not a laugh, not in his state, but it’s not all that far off; his voice is gravel-rough. “Got stabbed, Martin Priest. ‘S not great.”

Stabbed in the gut, while protecting him – bleeding all over the sanctified floors, the grout will never recover, and why is he thinking about that when the blade could have caught an organ and Martin would never know because he’s never been that good a healer. The ground is shaking again. They’ve been in here a minute, maybe, and he already feels like they’re stealing time. The seconds are slipping away quickly. He’s digging his fingers fiercely into the cloth of Pax’s shoulder; if he doesn’t hold onto her somehow he thinks he might fall down.

(He’s glad she’s here, and he hates himself for being glad. She’s bleeding. It should be his blood.)

His face must be doing something truly impressive, because Pax cracks a grin, wide and crooked and sticky-mouthed. “Calm down,” she says, the words thick as treacle in her mouth, “I got at least ten more minutes in me. What’s the plan?”

“The plan,” Martin echoes. That statement is nowhere near as reassuring as she seems to mean it to be; he shakes his head. Looks back at the doorway, still closed – noise of battle still raging, earth still trembling, but none of it imminent, probably, not within the next three seconds – and surges forward to wrap their shoulders in a fierce hug, careful to keep away from their abdomen, his cheek pressed against their hair. They smell of sweat and smoke and blood; he takes a deep breath, anyway. “I’ll do the rest, Pax, just – rest.” His voice cracks, again. “Be okay.”

(There’s more prayer pressed into those two words than in anything else he’s thought today.)

Pax reaches a hand up to pat his sleeve; her head, still, is resting against the stone, the set of her shoulders a little tauter, a little more alert. “I can still help,” she insists. The sword – blunt little instrument that it is – lies on the floor, tacky with monstrous blood; she doesn’t even try to reach for it. The bow slung over her shoulder is jabbing him in the collarbones. Martin pulls back enough to shake his head.

“No,” he says; because they can’t. The rest is for him and him only, so no-one else has to get hurt. Pax got him this far – got him out of the wreckage of Kvatch – got him out of the stagnant mire in his head – got a blade in the gut, for their trouble, and even if Martin had anything else to ask of them he couldn’t ask for more.

Pax glowers, at that, the crease reappearing between his brows; Martin could laugh, if it was another day, if they had another moment. He presses his face to the top of Pax’s head, instead, nose dug sharply into his hair; and he breathes, and he breathes, and he breathes.

He’s not an orator, but the way Pax talks they seem to think he’s accustomed to giving grand speeches; he’s certainly had enough practice lately. His breath shudders. He dredges up what words he can. They’ve been in the Temple a minute already; he doesn’t think they can ask another.

“I,” he says, and breathes; “I cannot stay to help rebuild Tamriel – that must fall to others.” He couldn’t have been Emperor, not ever – he’s never been able to fix things, not on this scale. The weight of the Empire would have run him into the ground. He would have hated it. It would have killed him. (Didn’t it?)

Pax’s hand skims the fine cloth at his elbow again. Voice slow, they say, “What –”

“I know now what I was born to do,” Martin says, and he tries to smile. He doesn’t know if they can feel it. His hands clasp the sides of their face; their hair is tickling his nose. They feel cool to the touch, dead-fish clammy; but it will be all right, because once it’s all over the healers will come in, better at flesh-craft than Martin’s ever been, and they’ll fix it. They’ll fix it all. And the Blades are here, however little Pax usually chooses to engage with them, so he won’t be alone. And the Elder Council, the whole Empire, will owe him a debt of such gratitude – he won’t be alone, again. He’ll have options. He’ll miss him – but he’ll live. And Martin will, for once in his sorry life, have actually fixed something.

His friend’s hair smells like smoke. Their skin is shining with sweat and grime. “You’ve been such a good friend in the short time that I’ve known you,” he says, and he’s smiling, he knows it, a melancholy thing pressed into their hairline. His voice is shaking, just a little. “I’m sorry I couldn’t – I couldn’t stay to know you better.”

“Martin,” Pax says, and he pulls back. Their face is creased, ash and blood smeared over their cheekbone. Suspicion lines the tilt of their brow.

Martin smiles, still. His palms, rough and dry, cradle her face. “But now I must go,” he says, gentle; “The Dragon waits.”

And Martin, for one, is done waiting.

He pushes what magic he has left into his hands, sunshine-bright; Martin is no great healer, particularly not when his reserves are tapped, particularly not when he can’t even see the wound, but he can at least soften the edge, dampen the overwhelming pull of the pain. His hands sting with the effort, his head spins, the ground shakes; and one of those has nothing to do with expending himself. Right on time, it seems; the Amulet of Kings hangs warm and heavy around his neck.

Martin stands, though his legs shake; stumbles a step backwards; turns to face the dais in the middle of the room, the shallow marble dish of it lying cold, the pillars around it as stark and foreboding as the bars of any cage. He runs.

“Martin!” he hears behind him, because Pax is Pax and of course they won’t let him go easy; the earth shakes, anticipation winding up into a wiry coil in his gut. The Amulet is hot enough to burn, bright as the sun – he heaves himself up onto the raised platform, reaches to unloop it from around his neck –

The ceiling caves in, and Martin throws an arm over his eyes, closing them against the implosion of dust and grit, scraping in a breath thick enough to choke. His ears are ringing. He manages to squint up, catches a glimpse of a massive fist swiping the rubble away from the hole, the glint of a battle-axe, a silhouette against the burning red sky, roiling and howling like a column of storm. Martin can’t even make out a face, but he knows, somewhere deep and solid, that it’s looking at him. He meets its gaze, the Amulet raised high in his hand.

All prayer has deserted him, now, all the rote lines and careful patterns he leant on for so long slipping away from his fingertips as if they were never there at all. All he has is please, weighty, guttural, and he thinks it might mean more than any of the rest of it. Please. Please. You owe me this. The Amulet of Kings burns in his hand.

“Martin!” he hears again, hoarse and desperate; he looks. Just once. Pax has dragged himself across the dust-coated floors, bow and quiver abandoned somewhere behind him; his face is covered in dirt, hair come half-loose, eyes stubborn and fierce and wild. He feels his eyes crease, the lightest echo of a smile. He’ll miss them, wherever he goes next. Pax screams, “Don’t!”

Martin Septim was always going to die today. It is, perhaps, one of the first things he’s ever done right.

Martin smashes the Amulet of Kings on the cold marble dais, and the world erupts in gold.

[battiegutz]

we had to stab the can to get it out it was literally a perfect fit in the sink drain..

also i had to design my 31 yr old brother as a furry for this pls like

[gawrkin]

Arthurian Mirror/Role Reversal AU, where Morgan is the Once and Future Queen, leader of the Dames of the Round Table, who search for the Holy Clau or Holy Rood.

Meanwhile Arthur becomes the Supernatural Raider/Wild Man called "Arthur la Guivre", who terrorizes Morgan's kingdom but ultimately rescues his sister after the final battle, bringing her over to his Otherworldly realm under a Mountain.

Sebile becomes the Sir Kay of this AU.

[shiningqueen]

I'll say everything and nothing. / NSFW Mihawk x afab!reader

WELL, I turned my sad thoughts into smut. Lowkey this is definitely just Fay-coded because I'm a simp. Just written in second tense for practice, also for inclusiveness for others to enjoy.

rating: NSFW / explicit / MINORS DO NOT INTERACT cw: PinV intercourse, not many explicit terms used otherwise. characters: Mihawk x afab!reader

You have never said I love you.

It is not for a lack of wanting, or the absence of such ardent feelings. You loved deeply, fully, with everything you could possibly give.

There is something to those three words that stick in your throat. The depth of their meaning and implications, the almost taboo nature of uttering them openly to your beloved. You cant say them. Not yet. Not yet.

Even now, bare flesh and tangled in sheets and skin with the hot luff of mingled breaths between you, impassioned and thrumming with ecstasy; you do not speak them. You mouth silent words against his sweat slick collarbone, vision lost to darkness as your mind swam hazy with euphoria. It is never those words but you imagine imprinting synonymous phrases on his flesh. Admissions of adoration and praise, terms of endearment that meant so much more beyond 'lover' or 'darling.' Secrets scarcely given oxygen to be formed as your lips grazed up along his throat -

Until a firm hand gripped your hair and pulled you back, forcing your eyes open to meet the piercing stare of Dracule Mihawk.

"Eyes on me, starling." The rough drawl of his voice is thick with wanting, eyes eclipsed to the first dark ring with a thin rim of gold remaining. His fist in your hair is firm but still gentle and the steady rhythm of his hips grinding between your spread thighs slows to an almost torturous pace. A groan tearing from his throat as he savors the slick drag of your bodies together.

Mihawk is ravenous for the way you come apart for him, so raw and desperate are the hitched sounds you make and the earnest expressions on your face are forever ingrained in his mind. As you whine and writhe beneath him in wanton throes, he leans down to taste the salt-sweet sweat beading along your throat and pinches his teeth into your pulse point. The resulting full body convulsion that tears through you, paired with the strangled sound caught in your vocal chords, has him growling.

"Beautiful," he sighs with reverent indulgence, gaze flickering to your flushed face and parted lips in time to catch them utter some unknown phrase. He kisses whatever breath remains in your lungs away, errantly thinking about all the other instances he'd caught you mumbling phrases and words in another language. He never heard them, it was only your mouth forming consonants and vowels but never giving them actual voice.

He keeps his thrusts languid and unhurried, slides his free hand along your thigh and hikes it up higher against his hip, so he can sink deeper into the warmth of your core. "Tell me," Mihawk murmurs against your mouth, "what is that you are trying to say, querida?" The endearment slips out like honey, laced with his deep seated affection for you.

You choke on a sound, a word, you aren't certain. Every nerve is firing off with endorphins as you lay there trapped beneath him, feeling the shift of his muscles beneath your hands as they wander over him. "F-feels good," you manage to stutter out, because those other words are still glued onto the back of your tongue. They wont dare come forth, even if he tormented you all night, pushing you closer to the edge of oblivion but never over it.

"Mhmm," Mihawk hums his agreement, relishing in the pleasurable throb at the base of his spine every time he sinks into you, still in absolutely no hurry to chase his end. He knows you're lying to him. The tangle of his fingers in your hair loosens and he glides that hand over the curve of your jaw, along your neck and down to your clavicle in a doting stroke. "What else, songbird?" He prompts, palm cupping your breast with his thumb circling the peaked nub of your nipple. You keen at the touch and eagerly roll your hips up against his, eyes rolling to stare blankly at the ceiling.

"Mihawk," his name is a whimper, wanting to drown in the pulse of euphoria but damn, the seductive husk of his voice is threatening to unwind that damned confession from its prison.

The swordsman makes another wondering sound, "Yes, mi vida? Let me hear you."

Your thighs spasm when you feel his hand drift further downwards to start rubbing tight circles against the bud of your arousal, a desperate cry making your lungs hurt from the force behind it. When your sight returns to his face, the intensity of his expression makes your navel clench in a delightful way. "Stars," you gasp and dig blunt nails into his bicep. Finally you dare to utter just one of the phrases you'd long been using in place of 'I love you.'

"[You are my everything.]"

It was nonsense to Mihawk, as he didnt fully understand the foreign language you spoke but he could gleam the sincerity in them, the raw ardor in their shaky pronounciation. He doesnt let up on touching you fevrently, the pace of his thrusts quickening just enough. "And what-" he trails kisses along your jaw to the shell of your ear, "does that mean, dear?" His breath is warm and damp as it rushes out from between his lips.

"Hah," you chuff, squirming as your climax rises up with every passing moment, "it means, exactly what is said."

It wasnt the answer he was looking for, but he couldnt deny enjoying the clever way you had with words, even in bed. However, any further attempts to coax honesty from you are abandoned for the moment, lost beneath the rising tide of orgasm that takes you both in succession. You tip over first- twitching and clutching at him fiercely, incoherent from the overstimulation. Mihawk groans in the wake of you clenching so tightly around him, hips stuttering as he spills inside you.

You embrace him when he settles his weight over your chest, tucking your face into the crook of his neck as your breathing and pulse slowly steady. Letting the haze of desire dissipate with every heartbeat.

Later - after you separate and clean up, wrapping around each other under the covers, Mihawk nips playfully at your shoulder. You giggle and pinch him in retort, but he surprises you when he repeats those same foreign words you'd muttered before. Not mimicked quite perfectly but the attempt is there.

"Do you.. Even know what you're saying?" You ask softly, throat tight.

He hums, repeats the phrase slower, a pensive crease in his dark brows. "I have an idea of their meaning." A pause and then, "Will you ever tell me?"

Mihawk stares at you imploringly, with an edge of knowing in his bright eyes, but you only smile secretly and lean in to kiss him sweetly. "One day, I might be persuaded." You tell him impishly.

"Persuaded?" He echoes wryly and squeezes you closer to him, "As you wish, starling."

[full---ofstarlight]

listen i better be able to give him a big hug in chapter 5 oR ELSE

that's paint not blood this is a tame the beast game >:3c

[kirbybecomesastarwarrior]

So how evil would you say Morgan is?

In Morgan's last post, I mentioned one of the biggest changes in KBASW AU (to mix the anime & game lore...) is Dame Morgan the one who gave Hyness the Jamba Heart.

(I hinted at her ability in this post... when I said she's a black hole, I meant that.)

She was the one who created the dimensional rift that dropped the Jamba Heart at his & the cult's doorstep. Dame Morgan being very well aware that Hyness was in the position of the book of Legend made sure the circumstances a line with everything the book says.

And of course, she waltzes right in (pretending she just happened to pass by), "Could it be the Jamba Heart, and it's chosen you, imagine the great power you can do with that, only you could, this is your destiny... "

And presents herself "as a former star warrior who's become weary lost soul after the war just trying to find purpose." Needless to say, Hyness welcomes her with open arms. The raw power of an ex-gsa-soldier, he couldn't pass up this ...

The events of Star Allies are very different... The best way I can describe is (without spoilers/ this is a reference to Kirby Star Allies' game). The "Story Mode" doesn't happen but Star Allies Guest Star mode is happening... (Minus the boss battles MK & King Dedede since aren't there ... they have someone else to fight ~)

"Where's Kirby & the main gang during this..."

"Forgotten Land" is happening... and when Dream Friends are confronting Morpho Knight so is Kirby in the Isolated Isles (the Extra Mode), Morpho is testing Kirby and his friends all at the same time.

Basically (this Boss battle is happening), while everyone was fighting Morgan snatched the Jamba Heart away. However, one person notices and tries to stop her... Leading to... this zesty confrontation with Zan Partizanne and Dame Morgan.

Keep reading for spoilers~

Zan Partizanne was able to realize that it was Morgan who delivered the Jamba heart to their doorstep once she saw (Morgan) create the dimensional rift to snatch it away.

And as any true villain does... Morgan comes after Zan Partizanne's entire life & entire existence ( as well as the hypocrisy of the cult) and rubs her mistakes in her face leaving no crumbs.

And this is why Morgan's so dangerous. She takes advantage of everyone's very human flaws and calls people out on them... she knows how to play a good mind game. (via. Joker in the Dark Knight)

THE THREE MAGE SISTERS ARE MEANT PARALLEL TO UTHER'S & HIS THREE STUDENTS: Zan Partizanne - Sir Arthur/ Flamberge - Dame Morgan/ Francisca - Sir Nonsurat...

With a very key difference, the Mage sisters genuinely care for one another, Uther's students hated each other. Which is why the blind loyalty they put into Hyness sickened her (at least Uther had class but this bumbling moron's way to scrap at the bottom of the barrel.)

Dame Morgan is one of the most complex characters in the story. (Uther & Morgan's dynamic is basically Azula & Fire Lord Ozai...) She's very much out to get what she deserves, in a sense she played by the rules of the world but it was never enough.

Now she's out to make her own way, rule her own life... TO TAKE IT!

She's evil yes but you get why she's like this.

I also want to explain a bit more her power with the Jamba Heart, and how she was able to negate "insanity..." She's the middle man of the deal... that reaps the benefits. Getting that generated dark heat energy for herself. And it also helps that now she has her own personal sponge for that (*cough* Dark Matter *cough*).

And of course, after this, she departs for Dreamland... And this is where things get really interesting!~

I hope you all enjoyed Dame Morgan aka Morgan Le Faye.

[firephoenix2020]

The Official Designs For The 'Falling For The Demon Who Bites' au

At Home wear:

Outerwear:

Formal Wear:

Past Designs:

Nude Models:

[zerozeroren]

Been thinking about Fable lately

Also her aesthetic is basically a quirky Disney Channel teen XD

UPD: reuploaded after @piperjistic spotted a floating necklace XD

[princehoneytea]

oc things

[ehlnofay]

efri's various friends and their entries in her word-book (alternatively: all the pale weirdos people said might kill her BUT THEY DIDN'T)

we have, in order: the giant mammoth-herder that efri sometimes saw when she was out with the goats (her name is finlog, but efri doesn't know that). they never spoke (NOT because efri was intimidated, she was just far away) but they were on nodding terms. after efri left her entire herd to go feral in a cave finlog found them and, with some concern for the fate of the tiny goatherd, started caring for them herself. then solveig, the first vampire efri met in fellglow keep and her favourite, though meeting her prompted a lot of ethical philosophising. solveig thought this was funny. then whistle, one of the falmer she met in mzulft. he let her pat the chaurus he's a caretaker of so he's one of her favourite people ever (she has a lot of favourite people ever)

[rinkunokoisuru]

My not-so-secret Santa gift for @kokosnuss-jaguar

I definitely didn't stay up until 3am to make sure this would post on Christmas. Nope, not at all lol

Here's some close ups on the actual characters. They wound up kinda small since I wanted it to be big enough to be usable as a phone wallpaper lol

[isleofdarkness]

There are two Isle kids who are older than the Isle- Maverick and Morgie. Uliana almost counts, having been nineteen when she was sentenced, but not quite. There are others who kind of count, civilians who were born off of the Isle and sentenced as children for the crimes of their parents, but they don't really count like Maverick and Morgie do. There's just something about children sentenced for villainy that inherently makes them an Isle kid in ways children sentenced with their parents for minor crimes aren't. It's weird.

[fantinecore]

My Mortal Kombat OCs