#i love withers XD

[blackjackkent]

OK. Some of the slightly less consequential Act 2 ending conversations now. Rakha has a lot fewer people in the Moonrise lobby than Hector did since pretty much all the tieflings are dead and Halsin has not shown up. (I'm assuming Halsin is missing for the same reason that he doesn't get his own tent in camp anymore, because the game didn't account for the possibility of him and Minthara both being around at once.)

The biggest remaining convo is probably Aylin and Isobel, but the one most immediately drawing Rakha's attention is Withers, who is being unusually vocal, plus she's surprised he's even here.

Rakha still doesn't really like Withers - he's mysterious, which pisses her off, and also takes no damage when she gets violent with him, which pisses the beast off. He did win back a few points with her by bringing her back from the dead after the Lathandrian monastery exploded, though.

So she gives him a sort of noncommittal grunt and waits to see what he has to say.

"Thy hunger denied. Selune's faithful yet shines. The balance shifts."

Rakha's head snaps up and suddenly she is playing much closer attention. Thy hunger.

Withers has shown little or no interest in the internal struggles that have plagued Rakha in the time they've traveled together. He keeps to himself; she never sees him unless they're camping, but he is always just... there, taking up space in a quiet corner, unable to be dislodged but not interacting with anyone unless he is spoken to first.

He has never said anything to her about her murderous tendencies. He only acknowledged Alfira once, in refusing to bring her back, and he seemed utterly unphased by the terrible night just recently where she practically turned into a howling animal. He has seemed utterly disconnected from all of it - until now.

"Thou hast seen with thine own eyes, and felt in thine Urges - the Dead Three unite. There are depths to this alliance yet unplumbed. Consider, mortal - do illithids possess souls?"

Rakha blinks, then scowls.

She wants to know what he meant by that first part. Her Urges connect in some way to the Dead Three, these gods that stand behind the Absolutist cult. It is not simply her nature, but something directly connected to her presence at Moonrise in the memories she's lost.

But of course he does not explain or elaborate, but instead mocks her with a question she cannot answer.

"Forget that," she says curtly. "What are you doing here, Withers?"

"Where matters of balance are concerned, I am eternally called," he says placidly, unbothered as always by her irritation. "I shall ask yet again. Do illithids possess souls?"

She breathes out sharply through her nose, briefly debating the viability of delivering her dagger straight between his eyes. It wouldn't have any impact on him, but it might make her feel minutely better.

But she sets her jaw and resists the urge yet again. He is being very insistent about this, and she must admit to a flash of curiosity through her exhaustion. "I don't know," she says after a long pause. "Don't all living things?" Such is her extremely limited knowledge, at least. Metaphysical questions haven't been a common camp topic of conversation.

"No," Withers says flatly. "Nor canst thou count mind flayers among them. Yet the Three amass an illithid army, void of apostolic souls that could imbue them with power." His eyes narrow to slits, focusing on Rakha with more attention than she has yet seen from him. "A flock without souls. Yet to what end, O tempted one? This is the question thou must come to answer. Until that time - be availed of my services."

(A/N: I'm wracking my brains and I can't remember if Hector was ever actually provided an answer to this question. :O Was this a plot thread that got dropped or did I miss something? I don't think we ever really learned a ton about the Three's motivations for fucking the world up. Maybe this is something we learn more about in Durge land.)

Rakha stares at him, baffled. It takes her a moment to parse through what he's saying. Gods, then, are powered by the souls of those who follow them. These gods, however, are converting people to mind flayers - and making them soulless.

Why?

And why do *I* need to answer? There was something unsettlingly specific in the way he said that.

"You know of these Urges," she says hoarsely. "What can you tell me?"

Withers looks back at her, steady and unreadable. "Nothing thou dost not already know."

A lie, she's almost certain of it, and her scowl deepens. She wishes she could take him by the throat and squeeze and shake until the answers he hoards fall out of him... but it would get her nowhere and only anger the beast in her head.

"You seem to know a lot about the Dead Three," she says instead, between her teeth.

"Yes," he answers. "Bane, Lord of Darkness. Bhaal, Lord of Murder. Myrkul, Lord of Bones. Once judged, ascended, then vanquished - as one, and as three."

Again his eyes narrow. Again that sudden, uncharacteristic intensity as he speaks words that make no sense at all. "The alliance is reforged, mortal. The planes thus quake, and the gods shudder."

[sourtomatola]

Not but a fool, but can a fool be trusted?

intro comic | Prev | Next

Master post

[theimpossiblescheme]

I think I've finally settled on an answer to my long-standing question of "Is it better for Cyrano to simply let Valvert off with a warning at first or to kill him the first chance he gets after the Ballade Duel"? And my answer is "It depends on how good a swordsman Valvert is."

If Valvert actually puts up a good fight against Cyrano, then it makes sense to me that Cyrano isn't going to keep him around long enough to keep being a threat. And in a weird way, it feels more fitting as a conclusion to a fair fight between equals who've both gotten to show the extent of their talents. That's why the 1950 movie's version of the duel is probably my favorite--it feels like Ferrer's Cyrano is actively putting in the effort to keep Cavens' Valvert at a distance. He's not just coasting through the fight, like he would with a less skilled opponent, so the kill at the end feels more earned. But I feel like you don't see that outcome as much in various productions...

If Valvert poses no actual threat to Cyrano, then he's not going to waste his time taking the duel seriously at all. He's purely in it to teach this little pissant a lesson about messing with him, and ultimately Valvert isn't worth the effort of killing. In those cases, it also hits harder when Valvert decides to fight dirty and strike while Cyrano's back is turned--he knows he stands no chance in a fair fight, so he's not going to fight fair. And if Valvert isn't, then neither is Cyrano. I used to think that this staging was mostly to make Cyrano look more sympathetic, but upon reflection I think it shows off his more ruthless side just as well. It not only demonstrates that Cyrano could've easily ended the initial duel almost instantly, but it also shows that he's not afraid of returning the cruelty others show him.

I feel like either way, it still conveys the idea of "Cyrano is not to be fucked with, so watch what you say around him or you're next."

[stardestroyer81]

Five Nights at Freddy's 2 saw its ninth anniversary just a couple of days ago, and to celebrate, I wanted to attempt a redesign of perhaps my favorite animatronic from the game (And one of my favorite animatronics overall)— Toy Chica! 💛✨🍕

[diofasolia]

Aftermare Week 2023 Day 5: Fall

Aftermare Week by @bluepallilworld

Original Nightmare by jokublog

Original Geno by loverofpiggies

Original Askoltale Nightmare & Geno by @bluepallilworld

I made sort of a "fall version" of Blue's Askoltale Nightmare and Geno, cuz they're originally dressed in flower-made clothing

It's kinda a thought like: the flowers/leaves will begin to wither in autumn, what will both Nightmare and Geno look like when they're in the season of fall?

So the results are in here

Askoltale! Nightmare & Geno (Fall Version??)

[vitanithepure]

Durge storyline got me thinking about Withers, and Sal and Ariel's very different reactions to him, which has me curious -- what was Vitani's reaction to Withers?

Is that a lich? Will they die here? Absolute terror. Vitani knows next to nothing about undead except for the fact they are evil and usually are not up for a conversation first thing out of their tomb. I don't remember who was with them finding Withers but I'm sure they had to stop Vitani from freaking out and hurling some fire cantrips at him😂

So imagine their surprise when he did, in fact, want to... just talk. Vitani got insulted for their assumption they are in any position to judge who deserves to live or die (very valid of Withers) and at that point, when finding him at camp, it was mostly annoyance at the grumpy skeleton refusing to explain anything while obviosuly having some kind of...spooky things going on.

Vitani did appreciate him helping out Arabella though. (and I'm here headcanoning Vitani knowing a Durge [or two, lol, that is some multiverse kind of headcanon, and their names might be Ariel and Ciaran, by complete coincidence too 😌] who owes Withers their life, so that is a big game-changer for Vitani)

After their adventure is over I imagine someone going "Hey, but you do know it was actually an avatar of Jergal, right?" and Vitani just dismissively waving their hand "Whaaat? Nah, that was just my good pal Withers! Pretty decent guy for a skeleton, too." Clueless little thing😂

[jessamine-rose]

Aahh what a lovely brainrot!! I hope you don’t mind me adding some of my own ideas :’3

Aside from taking your Vision and weapons, Capitano forbids you from continuing your training regimen. And don’t even think about secret workouts that can be done without equipment, because Capitano will find out.

Eventually, your muscles will weaken from physical inactivity, to the point that you can no longer fight like you used to. But that’s okay!! Your new body is more suited to this life of frills and luxury <3

cw: yandere, lock you up

Capitano, the one who always believed in your independence and strength and respected you. After witnessing your suffering in the wars of the Gods, falling like a withered flower to the flowing blood, he locked you away in the manor. Your weapons and vision are confiscated, and your clothes are only fluffy, elegant and cute...

[demonic0angel]

Worthwhile (click for clarity)

I think a lot of people are already aware, but I LOVE it when I make Jazz tall, long, and creepy. Something about the thought of her being like a model, beautiful and tall, but when people look at her for too long and go, ‘wait a minute, is a real person supposed to look like that…?’ is really delightful to me XD

I actually made this a while ago, but I could never find an opportunity to post it…

Image description:

Panel 1 has an image of Jason and Jazz standing together. However, instead of looking normal, Jazz is faceless, scribbled over with black and looks very elongated and unnatural. She leans over a brightly smiling Jason like a monster. Jason has his arm on around her waist, while a clawed, withered hand rests on his shoulder, presumably Jazz’s.

Damian narrates: My brother recently got a girlfriend.

Panel 2 has an image of Damian’s terrified face. He looks extremely unsettled and frightened. He continues narrating throughout the entire comic.

D: I think she’s the most terrifying thing I’ve seen.

Panel 3 has him standing in the background as a little chibi, shocked as Stephanie and Tim approach Jazz without any hesitation, seemingly accepting her “horrifying” visage. Jazz’s face cannot be seen, only her long red hair.

D: Though no one else seems to notice but me.

Panel 4 has an image of Damian flinching backwards as Jazz’s clawed hand reaches for him. He looks terrified of her. Jazz’s body cannot be seen, only the hand.

D: But even if she’s horrifying

Panel 5 has Damian ducking downwards, closing his eyes, as Jazz’s hand finally reaches him, patting his head. Her hand is surprisingly not scary-looking, but instead, human.

Panel 6 has Damian looking shocked and confused, reaching up to touch his head as a little chibi in the background as Jazz slides out of view, nothing being seen but her red hair, as she leaves.

D: *continuing the narration from panel 3* She has never hurt any of us.

Panel 7 has an image of Jazz’s back again, her skin still being scribbled over and with only her long red hair being shown. She looms over Jason, who’s beaming up at her, supposedly completely oblivious to her terrifying looks.

D: So if you chose someone like her, ahki…

Panel 8 has Jason and Jazz together again, noses touching as they smile at each other, completely wrapped up in one another. There is finally a glimpse of Jazz’s face and she looks normal, smiling happily as Jason beams at her. She is also of a more normal height, although still taller than Jason.

D: Then surely, there is something worthwhile about her….?

[shaiyasstuff]

wilted promises | sylus | chapter 2

synopsis : Sylus once vowed to love and protect you, but love, like flowers left untended, withered beneath the weight of silence and duty. In the hollow halls of your shared home, he watched as you faded—slowly, quietly—until the day you collapsed, slipping between life and death like a ghost of the woman you once were. Now, with regret heavy in his chest and your absence suffocating, he is left grasping at wilted promises, wondering if love, once lost, can ever bloom again.

content : non-canon!, marriage!AU, self-loathing(?), ANGST with little comfort(?), reader goes insane, set in somewhat victorian era, painter!reader, childhood lovers, sylus is a noble.

writer’s note : I wrote this because I wanted to put some of Sylus’ perspective. I thought it’d be interesting. Enjoy :D @phisen btw hereee you goo xd

parts : one | two

quote : "The saddest moments come when we realize the time we’ve lost cannot return." - unknown.

“I promised to protect you, to love you, to stand by your side—yet here you are, shattered by my own hands. Tell me, how do I live with that?”

It had been years since that first promise—the one he made while holding a datura to you, vowing to protect you, to love you, for all eternity.

He still remembers the way your eyes shone with trust and belief.

But the weight of his family’s expectations and the harshness of reality have stolen those promises from both of you.

He never wanted it to be like this; he never intended for the love you shared to rot beneath layers of indifference.

He knows he’s been cold, distant and cruel.

But every word he says, every action he takes, was all to protect you.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

To Sylus, in some twisted sense of belief, he thought pushing you away, if he made you hate him, it’s because the world was cruel.

He couldn’t bear the thought of seeing you hurt by its sharp edges.

He became cruel because he thought that would shield you from the storms he’s endured.

Because he would rather you hate him than face the reality of a world that doesn’t care about you.

He couldn’t bear to let you in, to let you see just how broken he’s become, how trapped he was by expectations that were never his to begin with.

Perhaps that was his biggest mistake.

Every time he saw you, he sees the woman who once believed in him, who trusted him to keep his promises.

And he dies a little more inside.

He promised you forever.

And forever, he will protect you—from the world and from himself.

Because for him, he never stopped loving you.

—•

The car screeched into the emergency bay, tires screaming as he barely managed to pull it to a stop.

He threw the door open, his breath ragged, his hands trembling as he pulled your frail form from the passenger seat.

You were too light. Too cold.

His heart pounded against his ribs as he carried you through the hospital doors, his grip on you desperate, his mind spiraling.

“Not like this. Please, not like this.”

“Help!” His voice was raw, the sharp edge of panic bleeding through as he staggered into the corridor.

A group of nurses rushed toward him.

“She’s losing too much blood.”

The words rang in his ears like a death sentence.

The gurney wheeled past him, hands pulling you away from him, and all he could do was stand there, frozen, useless.

A doctor turned to him, frowning. “Has she been unwell recently?”

His breath caught.

“She… she just started to paint,” he choked out, his own voice foreign to him. “She’s barely been eating, but I never—” His throat closed. He swallowed against the rising panic. “I didn’t think it was this bad.”

The doctor’s expression didn’t change. He simply nodded, signaling his team to move faster.

Minutes felt like hours.

The walls were too white. Too quiet.

Sylus stood there, gripping the edge of the counter, his knuckles bone-white, watching them work on you.

His hands shook. His stomach churned.

“How did I let it get this bad?”

The doctor returned, face solemn.

“We’ve stabilized her for now, but she’s in critical condition. She’s severely malnourished, and there���s internal damage from the blood loss.”

The words hit like a hammer.

“We need to run tests, but it’s too soon to tell how this will play out.”

The words faded out.

“Can I see her?” His voice was barely a whisper.

The doctor shook his head. “Not yet.”

The world blurred at the edges.

He could only watch you being taken away, limp and lifeless.

His blood ran cold.

He didn’t deserve you.

He never had.

He whispered to the empty hallway, his voice breaking.

“I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t protect you. I didn’t love you like I should have. But please—don’t leave me.”

He didn’t know if you could hear him, but he didn’t care.

He needed you to know.

He needed you.

—•

Sylus watched as you consigned your art to the flames.

Your movements were steady, calm in a way that unsettled him.

He remembered how you used to speak of your paintings with quiet passion, how your eyes would glow with pride as you lingered over every brushstroke.

He’d thought the portraits were your sanctuary, the only place you could escape him, escape this life.

And now, you were burning them.

“Why?”

The question left him before he could stop it, rough and strained.

You didn’t look at him. Didn’t pause. Another painting slipped into the fire, its edges curling, the flames devouring it.

“Because I don’t need them anymore,”

Your voice low, steady. Final.

“They were only ever reminders of what I could never have.”

Your words struck harder than any accusation.

Sylus felt something twist in his chest, a confusion that spiraled into guilt.

He wanted to stop you.

Wanted to pull the paintings from the fire.

Wanted to say something, anything.

But he stood still.

Frozen. Watching.

Your voice was cold, resolute.

“Everything can burn for all I care.”

The flames crackled between you, licking at the remnants of what once was.

And for a fleeting moment, he wondered if you meant more than just the paintings.

If you meant him, too.

But he said nothing.

Because deep down, he already knew the answer.

—•

Sylus sat in the sterile waiting room, staring blankly at the door to your room.

His fists trembled at his sides.

The weight of everything—his mistakes, his cruelty—pressed down on him, suffocating.

He felt helpless, unable to undo the damage he had caused.

“What have I done?”

The question repeated in his mind, mocking him.

His guilt was overwhelming, gnawing at him like a constant ache.

He had pushed you to this point, broken the woman he loved with his pride, his anger, his neglect.

And now you lay there, unconscious, fighting for a life he had destroyed.

He ran a hand through his hair, frustration rising as he fought back tears.

“Please wake up.”

He was desperate.

He couldn’t lose you—not like this, not after everything.

His regret gnawed at him, bitter and relentless.

Every moment of your marriage felt like a failure now, a cruel joke played on both of you.

When the nurse appeared, her calm demeanor only made him feel worse.

“She’s stable,” she said, but it didn’t matter.

Stability wasn’t enough.

He collapsed back into the chair, his chest tight. All he could do was wait, pray, and beg for forgiveness in silence.

Then the phone rang.

He didn’t need to look at the caller ID to know who it was.

“Where in the world have you been?! You haven’t been answering your messages,”

His mother.

“And what’s this nonsense about your wife? You need to pull yourself together.”

His father’s voice joined in, colder than ever.

“You’ve made a mess of things, boy. Marrying her was a disgrace to this family. A commoner. We raised you better than this.”

He hadn’t thought about their disapproval in weeks.

The shame they’d cast on him for marrying someone beneath their social status, their constant insistence on duty and legacy, had been a constant pressure from the start.

“She’s not just a commoner,” Sylus muttered, but his voice faltered, barely a whisper.

The words felt hollow, like they didn’t even matter anymore.

The reality was, he didn’t know what he had expected from them.

Understanding?

Compassion?

But instead, all he received was disdain.

“You’re throwing away your life for someone who can’t even stand on her own two feet!” his father barked.

“You owe it to the family to move past this and fix the mess you’ve made.”

Sylus’ hand tightened on the phone.

His knuckles were white, and for a moment, he felt his anger flare.

They didn’t understand. They couldn’t.

They didn’t know the woman he’d married—the one who had filled his life with color, with warmth, with purpose.

“Watch your tongue,” he growled, his voice raw.

“Do not act like you know me.”

There was a long silence on the other end.

“This charade cannot go on. If she remains in that state, then tell me, what purpose does she even serve?” She didn’t even pretend to care.

“You will be at the family gathering next week. I will not ask again. Do not make me come find you.”

The line went dead.

He sat there in the oppressive silence, the phone still pressed to his ear, staring at the empty room around him.

They hadn’t cared about her, or about him, in years.

Everything was about status, about their own wealth and image, and he had foolishly believed they could ever understand the depth of what he had with her.

His stomach turned as the reality settled over him.

The love he had once taken for granted now felt like an isolated island in a sea of cold indifference.

He wanted to scream, to shout at the void, but he just sat there instead, feeling small, helpless, and utterly alone.

Tears threatened to fall, but he swallowed them back, blinking them away.

How did we get here?

The silence that followed was deafening, and he could feel the weight of his family’s expectations pressing down on him.

In the end, they didn’t care.

His marriage, his life, none of it mattered.

It was all about the name, the title, the legacy.

Could he fix what he had broken?

Could he?

The weight of his family’s expectations was suffocating, a constant, invisible force that had shaped every decision, every move he made.

They had built a future for him, a legacy he was expected to uphold, to continue.

Their voices, their unyielding demands, had always been in the back of his mind, a chorus of what he should be, who he should become.

But in the quiet of the hospital room, as he frowned at your unmoving body, lifeless and vulnerable, he realized the cost of it all.

The life he had imagined for both of you, the woman he had once loved so deeply, had been crushed under the pressure of his obligations.

The weight of his family’s approval had turned him into someone who could barely recognize himself.

He had traded your warmth, your love, for the cold, suffocating grip of duty.

He had always told himself that the sacrifices he made were for you, that he was doing it for your future, for your happiness.

But now, seeing you in this state, he understood the truth.

He had destroyed everything you once had, all for the approval of people who would never understand what he had lost.

The guilt gnawed at him, relentless, as he held your hand, praying you would wake up.

Every breath you took felt like a thread he was desperately clinging to, and in that moment, he hated himself.

He hated what he had become.

He had let his family dictate his choices, and in doing so, he had ruined the one thing that ever truly mattered—you.

“I failed you,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I’m so sorry.”

Sylus sat by your bedside, his hand trembling as it rested lightly on yours.

The sterile smell of the hospital, the beeping of machines, the bright, harsh lights above—it all felt so foreign, so wrong.

His mind was a mess of thoughts, of guilt, of sorrow.

Sylus buried his face in his hands, the overwhelming weight of his regret threatening to crush him.

“Why can’t I stop hurting you?”

His breath came in short gasps, his chest tight as though the very air had thickened with guilt.

“Please, stop,” he muttered, his voice breaking. “Please, just stop.”

But the memories didn’t listen. They flooded him, relentless, suffocating.

He saw you again, standing in the garden, your hands trembling as you held a single datura flower.

“..stop..”

The plea, broken and fragile, echoed in his ears like a haunting song.

He could hear it over and over again, your voice shaking as he crushed your beloved flowers.

“…please..” you had begged him, and he hadn’t cared.

He wanted to hurt you.

The image twisted in his mind.

He saw you crumpled on the floor, the broken flower petals around you, your heart shattered like the fragile stems you’d nurtured.

“No!” Sylus shouted, slamming his fists into the armrests of the chair.

But the memories surged forward, unstoppable.

He saw your pale face in the dim light of your home, the hurt in your eyes as he had spat those cruel words at you.

“I don’t want them to know I’m married to an ugly woman like you.”

He remembered you recoiling, the pain flashing across your face as the reality of his cruelty set in.

But instead of stopping, he had hardened, refusing to let you see the cracks in his own heart.

He clenched his fists, a shudder wracking his body.

“I didn’t see you,” he whispered to himself.

“I didn’t see… what I had. What I was losing.”

His mind flashed to your wedding day, your first slow dance in that abandoned chapel, the way you had glowed with joy.

You had believed in him.

“I will always protect you,”

He had promised you.

But somewhere along the way, he had forgotten the weight of that promise.

The memories were suffocating, choking him.

“Stop, please… I can’t take it anymore.”

But they didn’t stop.

They kept coming.

Every word, every action, every moment of cruelty.

He could feel his heart breaking with each one.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

His voice cracked as the memories flooded him, his words slipping into the empty room, as if hoping you could hear him, that you could somehow know he had finally realized the truth.

Then another memory.

“I’ll cherish this datura until I die.”

The voice of the girl he’d once known—the one who had laughed easily and followed him everywhere, her joy as bright as the sun. The girl who had trusted him without question.

“You’re the worst!”

The memory strikes like a blade, sharp and unrelenting.

Back then, he had only laughed, dismissing your words as playful frustration—a harmless jest from the days when love was simple, unburdened by the weight of what was to come.

It had been routine.

You would pout, he would tease, and the world felt lighter, wrapped in the warmth of childhood’s fleeting innocence.

But now, the memory feels different. Heavier. Bitter.

There is no laughter, no teasing, no safety in the past. The words that once meant nothing now cut deeper than any blade.

Because now, he understood.

He really is the worst.

The worst man to stand beside you.

The worst person to bear the title of the one who was supposed to love and protect you.

And worst of all, he had let it happen.

“Enough.” His voice cracked as he sank deeper into his hands, as it would block them out, the guilt, the shame.

But you cannot turn back time, can you?

He wondered when exactly that promise had been broken—when the boy who vowed to protect you became the man who let you drown in the depths of his cruelty and neglect.

The weight of that memory pressed against his chest, suffocating and relentless.

He had promised to save you, and yet, there you were, drowning in the coldness he had wrapped around you like a shroud.

And he had stood by, he watched, doing nothing.

It wasn’t just the past that haunted him.

It was the knowledge that somewhere along the line, he had stopped being your saviour and had become the very storm pulling you under.

But it was too late now, wasn’t it?

Too late to reach out. Too late to offer his hand.

—•

The dim light from the single lamp flickered, casting long shadows across the studio, and Sylus felt the weight of it all.

The suffocating air of regret and remorse clung to the walls like a heavy fog.

Your paintings, once a reflection of your love and joy had turned into a grotesque reflection to your agony, each brushstroke a cry he had never heard until it was too late.

The thought of how far you had fallen because of his cruelty tore at him.

His gaze fell on the last canvas you’d worked on, the most twisted of them all.

The datura’s petals stretched like fingers.

Your blood, now cold and dried, had splashed all over it.

He could almost hear you cackle in his mind, a hollow, sarcastic laughter, mocking him.

“Do you like it? Is this what you wanted?”

The question lingered in his mind, reverberating with every beat of his heart.

His fingers twitched at his sides, he wanted to destroy the canvases, to rip them down, to erase the painful reminders.

But he couldn’t. Not this time.

He already tore your flowers apart once.

“..what..what did you..”

He ran his hand over his face in despair.

“…what did you see in me…?”

His voice cracked beneath it all, as he stared at the countless datura piled in the studio, the cacophony of red laughing at him, mocking him.

His gaze then fell on something different, something that stood out starkly against the sea of dark red.

A sliver of light caught his attention, something vibrant, full of life.

The colours of warm oranges, soft purples, and golden yellows seemed to glow in the dimly lit room.

The contrast was so jarring that it felt as if the painting was screaming at him, begging him to see it.

When he finally pulled it free, his breath caught in his throat.

Two figures, so young, so full of hope.

The field bathed in the golden light of a sunset, the two of you standing side by side, hands intertwined, holding daturas in your hands as you smiled at each other.

The painting was a reflection of everything he had lost—before the cruelty, before the distance, before the world he had shattered.

The sharp contrast of the vibrant colors against the oppressive, angry reds of the daturas surrounding it was almost painful.

The innocence, the love, the peace of that moment—it was all gone now.

His breath hitched as the tears began to rise, each one like a wave crashing against his chest.

“I… I remember this,” he whispered, his voice raw.

“I remember us. I remember you.”

You had stood before him, radiant, as though you had stepped out of a fairy tale.

The way the sunlight caught in your hair, turning it into a halo of gold, it made you seem almost otherworldly.

Your eyes had met his, blinking slowly, as if they were the galaxy themselves, deep and endless, drawing him in.

It was as though he was gazing into the very heart of the universe, lost in the infinite expanse of your gaze.

Your scent, soft and sweet, had been like honeysuckle, delicate and intoxicating, the kind that made him forget everything but you.

He could still remember how your presence had made the air feel lighter, brighter, as if nothing could ever go wrong when you were near.

Your laughter.

Your smile.

You.

That was before everything had begun to unravel.

That was before the cruelty, before the silence, before he had destroyed the one thing that had ever made him feel whole.

Now, the memories of that day were a painful reminder of the cold, broken silence that had replaced your presence.

The pain of losing you, of realizing how deeply he had hurt you, had settled into his bones like a permanent ache.

And all he could do was remember that look in your eyes, the way you had smiled at him like he was the center of your world.

He had believed it too, back then.

But now, he was left with nothing but the haunting emptiness of what he had destroyed with his own bare hands.

The tears fell faster now, unstoppable, as he sank to his knees.

He clutched the painting to his chest, the only remaining piece of you he could still hold onto.

“I was supposed to protect you,” he whispered, his voice raw and broken.

The words were barely audible, but they clawed at his throat, sharp and suffocating.

“I promised you the world. And I…” He faltered, his breath hitching as his chest tightened with the unbearable ache.

“I’ve ruined it. I’ve ruined everything.”

Every word, every moment of regret, felt like a blade twisting deeper inside him.

The daturas around him were tall, suffocating, like a field of poison that seemed to encircle him, their dark beauty a constant reminder of how he had poisoned your love.

“I’m so sorry,” he gasped, his voice cracking under the weight of his remorse.

His entire body trembled with the grief that overwhelmed him.

“I’m sorry for every word, every moment I hurt you. For every time I… I pushed you away.”

He could hear nothing but the deafening silence of regret, the oppressive weight of the daturas closing in on him, each one a grim reminder that the love he had once had was now buried under a sea of thorns and poison.

And as he sat there, clutching the painting tighter to his chest, he realised it.

Nothing could bring you back.

Not the apologies, not the tears.

All he was left with was the haunting reminder of his failure, surrounded by the overwhelming, mocking presence of the daturas.

He had created this hell, and now he was trapped in it.

He wept.

The sobs racked his body, raw and uncontrollable, each one like a jagged shard of agony lodged deep within him.

His chest heaved with the weight of it, the pain too great to contain, too great to silence.

Tears poured from his eyes like rivers, hot and relentless, each drop an excruciating reminder of the destruction he had wrought.

It wasn’t just you he had lost.

He wept for the shattered man he had become, for the love that had once bloomed between you, now choked under the crushing weight of his mistakes.

The tears were an outpouring of everything he had denied—guilt, regret, longing, and a deep, gnawing sorrow for what was irreparably broken.

This was the last thing he had of you, the only remnant of the woman you had been before the darkness had consumed you both.

If only he could reach back into those moments, pull you back to him, make things right.

But he couldn’t.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped through his tears, his voice trembling with the weight of a thousand unspoken apologies.

“I’m so sorry… for everything… I didn’t see it. I didn’t see you. Please…”

The room felt colder, darker, as if the very air had thickened with his regret.

The bright contrast of the painting only amplified the emptiness around him, so full of life once, now nothing but a hollow echo of what had been.

The memory of you, once so vibrant, now faded, buried beneath the weight of his sins.

The memories were cruel.

The day of your first dance came rushing back—the soft echoes of your footsteps in that abandoned chapel.

He remembered the warmth of your hands in his, the joy on your face when he’d finally gotten the steps right.

“You’re terrible at this, Sy,” you giggled back then, your eyes sparkling.

“I’ll get better,” he’d promised, holding you close. “As long as you don’t let me go.”

But now, he chuckled bitterly to himself, tears running down his face.

“But I let you go, didn’t I?” His voice cracked.

“God, I let everything go.”

—•

Sylus woke to the sharp sting of daylight piercing through the room, and for a long moment, he didn’t move.

His body ached with exhaustion, weighed down by the weight of his emotions and the remnants of his guilt that clung to him like an unbearable fog.

The floor was cold beneath him, and as his blurry eyes focused, he realized that he was still on his knees, the stillness of the room almost suffocating.

His hand instinctively went to his face, feeling the roughness of dried tears, the lingering evidence of the storm that had raged within him the night before.

His chest tightened, his breath shallow.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt this hollow.

The guilt was a constant ache in his chest, an ever-present reminder of how he had broken the one person who had meant more to him than anything.

You.

It was painful, the weight of his failures pressing down on him.

His heart clenched at the thought of you.

The woman he loved, the woman he had torn apart with his pride, his cruelty, his selfishness.

The thought of living the rest of his life knowing he had destroyed the woman he loved, knowing he had caused you so much pain.

It was unbearable.

“What now?” he asked himself, the question hanging in the air like a cruel, unanswered prayer.

He thought of you, still lifeless in that sterile hospital room.

The silence around him was deafening, a constant reminder of the space you no longer filled.

He was waiting for something, some sign, some miracle that would pull you from the void you had fallen into.

He could still see you in his mind’s eye.

Your face, pale and tranquil, the softness that had always been there now lost behind a veil of uncertainty.

When would you wake up?

Would you even want to look at him?

These questions rattled in his mind, each one more suffocating than the last.

“Please,” he thought, almost as a silent prayer, though he couldn’t find the words.

He couldn’t escape the gnawing fear.

That you might never return.

—•

He sat in his study, the cold glass of whiskey heavy in his hand, the amber liquid swirling lazily within.

The burn of the alcohol down his throat was a familiar, fleeting solace—a cruel balm to the wounds that festered in his chest.

His thoughts were scattered, his mind a blur of regret and self-doubt, but the sharp sting of the drink helped him forget, if only momentarily.

Time stretched on in the dimly lit room, the silence thick and oppressive, when a voice—soft, haunting—slipped into his consciousness.

“You promised.”

At first, it was just a faint whisper, a sound barely louder than a breath, but it made his hand falter.

He froze, the glass poised before his lips, his entire body stiffening.

The voice came again, this time clearer, more real.

“You promised me.”

His heart stuttered, the glass slipping from his fingers and crashing to the floor with a shattering thud, but his mind was focused entirely on the voice—your voice.

He could hear you.

He could your presence like a faint caress, reminding him of the promises he had made long ago.

The world around him seemed to tilt, his vision blurring as he closed his eyes, fighting to hold on to the fragile reality he knew was slipping away.

“No…” he whispered to himself, a desperate denial, but the voice only grew stronger.

“You said you would protect me. You said you would never leave me…”

The words cut deep, their weight sinking into him like an anchor.

He staggered back, his breath ragged, as if he had been struck. The guilt surged again—unrelenting, suffocating.

The cruel truth of it, too much to bear.

His trembling hands reached for the desk, gripping the edge as he bent forward, staring down at the empty space before him.

“I promised… I promised and I—”

The words died in his throat, a raw ache strangling his every attempt at expression.

For a moment, everything seemed to still.

The fog of regret, the numbness from the alcohol, it all began to fade away, leaving only the undeniable clarity of his failure.

“Forgive me,” he whispered, his voice barely audible, but it was enough.

The voice in his mind grew faint, but still, he could feel it, still lingering in the shadows, soft and fragile, like a thread connecting you across the space he had destroyed.

He wanted to deny it.

Wanted to escape it.

But the past was a ghost he could never outrun.

His thoughts strayed to you, to your laughter, to the way your eyes glistened under the sunlight.

He could still picture it so clearly.

The two of you, young and hopeful, in the meadow, surrounded by flowers you loved so much..

You had been alive then. Together.

Now, all he had was emptiness, and the broken pieces of the person he had become.

The ghost of his regret came again, softly.

“You can’t undo the past.”

But Sylus shook his head, trying to shake the noise out.

“No, but I can start over.”

“You can’t.”

“I will be better,” a tear ran down his face.

“You destroyed them.”

“N-No..!” His voice cracked.

“You killed her.”

“I’ll fix this. I’ll fix us.” He was desperate.

“She’s never coming back.”

“…no…”

[the-cat-ara]

my friend the amalgamate

extras:

I had this going around in my head a while ago, I had to get it out somehow so I drew it, I love the withered Starlo design from the game but it's a pain to draw it XD

[michanvalentine]

Since I talked about my favorite sad Astarion lines, today I’m indulging in some of the funniest ones instead! There are obviously so many—he’s always a delight, at least by my standards. I adore him because, among other things, he’s truly an embarrassing little gremlin. I swear, I don’t know how anyone finds him annoying when teasing him is the most entertaining thing in the world! xD

"Next time? No, no, no." This entire scene has become iconic. It’s simply amazing—what he says, how he says it. I could watch it on a loop with a dumb grin plastered on my face the whole time. He’s absolutely losing it, completely unhinged, and I love him for it. I don’t care about the disapproval, I don’t care that he got splattered under Lathander’s monastery, and I don’t even care about the gold I had to pay Withers for his resurrection. I’d do it a thousand times over, just to have him scream in my face again! xD For the record, the first time I played, I had no idea what was going on and grabbed the weapon without thinking. Then, in full panic mode, I smashed the whole contraption, not even realizing I could escape. The second time, I did things properly and solved the puzzle. But the third time? I went there with the sole purpose of making Astarion lose his mind. It was premeditated. I left him there while I happily ran away, fully knowing what would happen to him. Forgive me, little Star, you know I love you. <3

"Can we kill them? Please, pretty please?" This one caught me off guard, but I absolutely adore it. Neil is, as always, brilliant. It kills me because everything about his body language—on top of the tone of his voice—screams how badly he wants to do it. After all, he’s a vampire, a predator, and as such, he has certain instincts. He crouches slightly, leans forward, and just the thought of it practically makes him pant. A real, proper vampire, who’s almost about to come in his pants at the mere idea of spilling blood. <3 But there’s also a bittersweet note here. The line makes me laugh so much, especially because, among other things, he’s asking for permission to do something horrible in such a cute and playful way. But that’s just it—Astarion is asking for permission from Tav/Durge, subtly emphasizing the dependent relationship that binds them, especially in the beginning. It’s almost like he’s addressing his new master.

"It's not you, it's me. I have standards." I die every time I hear this line, every time I see that smug, punchable face of his when he says it. It’s never actually happened in any of my playthroughs, but it always makes me laugh out loud—complete with a head shake at how utterly… insufferable he is. Seriously, how can you not love him? And let’s be real—his actual standards? The average Astarion-approved partner is a drunken whoremonger at a brothel, probably a full-blown degenerate. I love how he tries to act all refined, as if he’s some discerning, high-class individual who only picks the best. Yeah, sure, babe. Anyway, Tav/Durge must have really pissed him off to get a response like that. But still, I can’t help but laugh—and, weirdly enough, find it kind of endearing. Because even though he’s got the most slappable face in that moment, he's also hiding his vulnerability, and that’s exactly what makes it so good. Astarion is a walking contradiction, and that’s what makes him such a brilliantly layered character—one who constantly makes you feel a whirlwind of emotions, often conflicting ones.

"Gods above, look at you..." No, I’m done. I’m dying. You transform into a horrifying monster with unsettling fangs and four clawed arms, you get horrified stares, concern, and even a full-on scolding from the entire camp—and then there’s him. He just lifts his gaze, completely unfazed, and says this in an almost admiring, even flirtatious tone. The contrast in reactions absolutely kills me. Sure, Astarion is a vampire, a monster in his own right, but there’s a big difference between a smelly Slayer and a pale, well-dressed, ridiculously handsome elf. There's also the possibility that, after everything he’s been through with Cazador, nothing truly horrifies him anymore. But what I love—besides how hilarious this moment is—is that, out of all the companions, he probably has the fewest lines where he actually judges Tav/Durge. At most, he might call them naive if they act like a hero or see the world as a just place. But beyond that? He doesn’t criticize. He accepts almost everything.

"You have a type, don’t you? Elven prostitutes." This line completely caught me off guard—I had to actually stop and think about it to fully get it. And even then, I kept questioning whether he was really saying what I thought he was saying. And yes. Yes, he absolutely is! I lost it. At first, I didn't even connect the dots that he was talking about himself, so obviously, if I’d been visiting brothels and then ended up with him, I had a type! xD I know, I know—the subtext is actually kind of sad. But that's exactly what makes the line so brilliant! Once again, it’s layered with meaning. There's a bit of resentment, his low opinion of himself, his harsh realism, and of course, his ever-present sarcasm. And yet, it’s still funny. Honestly, I’ve never encountered a character before Astarion who can express so much and evoke so much in just a single line. <3

"I'm actually a princess of House Nightstar." This one kills me every time. Especially the way Neil spits out the name of the tarrasque, Jhonatan. The moment I hear "Jhonatan," I completely lose it. This is, of course, pure sarcasm—his go-to defense mechanism to keep people at arm’s length and wriggle out of uncomfortable situations. Tav/Durge is telling him not to hide things anymore, and we all know Astarion hates talking about himself, especially when it comes to painful or difficult topics like his scars or the deal with Mephistopheles. And naturally, this is how he responds. I just can’t! He’s such an idiot! I love him. And for the record... Jhonatan is one of us! A fantastic husband, I’m sure of it! Someone should absolutely write an Astarion x Jhonatan fanfic. xD

I'll stop here for now. I have a million more favorites I could add, but honestly, pretty much everything Astarion says deserves a discussion of its own! Maybe, when I just can't help myself anymore, I'll make another post about his other fantastic lines. xD

[blackjackkent]

I'm going through Withers' dialogue with a PC who romanced Karlach at the epilogue party after she dies (for Reasons), and I'm not going to make use of this in the thing I'm writing but I NEED EVERYONE TO KNOW that this dialogue exists:

PC: "I'm being strong. It's what she would have wanted."

Withers: Truly? Most of the time it was she who was strong for thee. Didst thou not employ her ever to carry all of thine loot?

PC: Are you making a joke?

Withers: It is said that mortals require levity, that it is the antidote to any of the darkest hours. And who knew that better than she?

Alternatively:

PC: It was scary how many goblin clubs she could carry.

Withers: With thee, she couldst do anything.

😭😭😭😭

[haveihitanerve]

The Book Game: Slugs and Chinese-

WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU DON’T READ CHINESE?!?!?!

(I am working on Toby’s Pocket commentary I swear) I saw this one yesterday and its too fucking funny and also shorter so here you all are :) hope you enjoy

Tom: did anyone come to a comedy show- Audience member: *my time has come* Tom: *wait I wasn’t done with my epic monologue, its really funny I swear :(*worried that it would be boring as hell- Sam: *laughing maniacally* AJ: jesus

Aj: *opens book, stares, shock, turns to audience*

I love how the second the audience starts laughing at AJ’s shock, Tom immediately knows its because of him and cuts off to look at him. They’re so fucking cute

Luke going to inspect the book, finding nothing amiss in the title, and then exploding when he sees the writing inside- I’m having flashbacks to Lonely Planet When Europe

Luke so delighted he has to cross the stage and almost falls into Tom 🫠😭

Tom having to inspect the book too because ok now Luke has been laughing for too long and he’s curious lol

“Yeah tom you bigot!” Sam needed an excuse to join the chaos and of course, insulting tom is the way to go XD

Tom’s resigned sigh and drop of the book as AJ and Luke lose it. They delight each other so much its absolutely wonderful to see

“So lukes gonna introduce this game now-” Tom wants to be a part of the chaos XD

“Make sure its not racist okay?” Tom had to shift the attention to someone else lmaoo

I just adore how they did not, in fact, think to return the book and get one they understand because, for the bit, they know this book is best, and that they specifically made AJ keep it, because he is the chaos king and would do best by it XD

“A little knowledge…” Luke: *waiting expectantly for him to finish the sentence, then finishes it for him because the sentence in the book is not that* i love them so much omg

“OH! BAD TEMPERED THOUGHT!” LMFAOOO WHAT???

“Ooh… ohhh malice!” Sam i adore you XD

Here comes aj XD

“What does that say?” YESS AJ!!! SNEAKY CLEVER BOI!!! YES!!!

“YOU MEAN YOU DON’T READ CHINESE??!??!” BETRAYED AJ HELPPPP- his life is flashing before his eyes dude is panicking

Audience member: *frantic* my dad does! AJ: *quickly scoots further* oh!

Aj having to break for a second and just lay still as a dying slug because what even is his life XD

“Play hateful, this.” His face helpppp-

Also love how that actually worked really well in the scene???

Tom: *introducing himself into the scene, literally* Sam: *reciprocating* AJ: [desperately] does anybody else speak chinese?!?!

“It goes with high heels.” AJ needing to fold his head into his arms to laugh, Tom pausing the scene because he heard that and what, Luke laughing at AJ’s pain, and Sam trying to keep them focused XD

AJ’s little leg kicks im crying

“MAKE NO MISTAKES!!!” Tom sounds genuinely distressed lmaoo

“OOOOHHHH!” *frantically trying to find a good line comeback*

“Variation in your tactics!” Confirmed that all that matters while speaking is proper tone because that sounds withering coming from Tom, but is actually a very mild sentence lol

Aj standing and Tom genuinely surprised while Luke and Sam fake surprise XD

“THAts not FAir!” Tom’s hands shooting up in surrender and his little grin at AJ that makes AJ smile back 🫠😭

Sam: “Troublemaker!” it is true 🤷‍♂️ AJ: *flipping open his book, forgetting he doesn't speak chinese* chapter four. Brilliant words, truly eloquent aj🤧

Aj and Sam doing “and scene” in unison, every time they do it it kills me for no reason

AND SCENE

Ahhhhh that was fucking glorious. Loved every single second of it, and this means that when I finally get to go to one of their shows, I’m bringing a German book, it has been decided lol. 

Anyway hope you guys found as much enjoyment in AJ’s distress and the other guy’s mutual delight as I did, and I shall return as quickly as possible with Toby’s Secret Pocket and Jingle Boys commentary :) 

BYEBYE!!!

@snek-of-eden @dawn-speckled

[hurthermore]

Hello I hope you're doing well!

I have a little question about the chapter (I've lost the number sorry) where Alastor and reader go for a picnic. How would Alastor have reacted if the reader had made him a ring with a flower?

A ring like that, that she'd made right in front of him, for him, as if it were a "wedding ring"

Feel free to ignore! I love your work :D

Oh my god this is so cute and I kind of wish I wrote this into the chapter now… damn.

He would take it as a marriage proposal if I’m being honest XD He would be so happy and he would cherish it even after it had withered away and died.

It would melt his heart and he would probably be so love-drunk he’d have to hide his flustered face from you whilst he wished he could kiss you and hold you close.

Also, sign the marriage certificate here -

[doormatty3]

Surface-Dweller Traditions: New Years (Orm Marius x Reader)

Masterlist Ao3

Ocean Eyes Masterlink

Summary

[Orm Marius x Female Reader] [Orm Marius x You] Life with Orm is always a mix of discovery and contrast—his Atlantean heritage often colliding with your everyday human traditions. From decorating trees and trying festive foods to marvelling at fireworks or enduring bustling crowds, Orm’s reserved demeanour softens as he experiences the joy and warmth of human traditions with you. OR: A series of unrelated one-shots and mini-fics about the many types of festivities Orm and you share.

Wordcount: 3803

A/N: Happy New Year, guys. In this one Orm is confronted with another important tradition-New Years Eve XD

The stars shimmered brilliantly, their light scattered across the vast midnight-blue expanse of the sky, each one like a finely cut gem set into an endless velvet tapestry.

A silvery layer of snow blanketed the beach behind your seaside cottage, glittering softly in the moonlight. The waves rolled lazily against the shore. Their edges tinged with ice, the rhythmic sound a soothing undercurrent to the quiet night. 

The tree you and Orm had decorated together stood like a centrepiece, its branches adorned with twinkling lights and glittering ornaments that reflected the glow of the roaring fire in the hearth. The colourful lights spilled softly through the frosted window panes, their hues blending with the moonlight and casting gentle patterns on the snow outside.

Inside, the atmosphere was alive with laughter and warmth. Plates of food filled every available surface, a feast for the senses with dishes representing both your world and Orm’s. 

Golden-brown roasted vegetables glistened beside soft, buttery rolls, their rich aroma mingling with the briny scent of delicately seared fish. Seaweed-wrapped morsels, intricate and artfully arranged, brought a touch of Orm’s world to the table, their emerald hues a striking contrast against the warm, earthy tones of the other offerings.

Orm stood near the table, and he wore a simple knit sweater, the soft, charcoal-grey fabric hugging his broad shoulders and hinting at his strength. Faded jeans completed the look as they hung low on his hips.

His face, usually clean-shaven and sharp, was softened by a few days' worth of stubble, giving him a rugged, approachable charm. The firelight played across his features, accentuating the familiar intensity in his blue-grey eyes but tempering it with warmth. 

His blond hair, slightly mussed as though he'd run a hand through it one too many times, fell naturally into place, making him look effortlessly handsome as if he’d just walked out of the ocean, its salt-kissed waves still clinging to him.

The soft strands, a mix of silvery platinum and sunny gold, framed his face in a way that made him look almost ethereal in the warm glow.

He looked like someone who had finally found a moment to breathe.

Every now and then, his gaze would meet yours, and in those moments, warmth would fill you from within as you felt the pure love he radiated.

Arthur, Orm’s half-brother, lounged comfortably at the dining table, a casual ease about him as he nursed a drink in one hand. His signature smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth, his sharp eyes sparkling with amusement as he watched his brother. 

“Well, well,” Arthur drawled, lifting his glass in a mock toast toward his older brother. “Who would’ve thought the great Ocean Master himself would be so... domestic?” His grin widened, clearly revelling in the rare chance to tease Orm in such an ordinary setting.

Orm, standing a few feet away, stiffened slightly at the jab but didn’t take the bait. Instead, he cast Arthur a withering glare, his sharp features settling into an expression of icy composure. 

Without missing a beat, he returned to help you arrange plates on the table, his movements precise and unbothered. 

“I fail to see how assisting my partner equates to domesticity,” he replied, his voice cool and measured, though the faintest edge of irritation crept into his tone.

Arthur’s grin stretched wider, a mischievous glint flickering in his eyes. He leaned back in his chair, clearly enjoying the shift in the conversation. “Partner?” he repeated, his tone dripping with playful sarcasm. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

You chuckled, stepping in with a lighthearted tone before the teasing could escalate any further. With a playful smile, you raised an eyebrow at Arthur. “Arthur, do you really want to challenge the man who decides if you get food tonight?”

Arthur’s smirk faltered just slightly, and he lifted his glass in a mock gesture of surrender. “Fair point,” he said with a dramatic sigh. “I’ll behave.” 

Orm turned to you, his lips curving into a soft, almost imperceptible smile as his deep blue eyes locked with yours. There was a quiet warmth in his gaze, a tenderness that seemed reserved just for you. “Thank you,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble, quiet enough that only you could catch the words.

You met his gaze, a gentle smile playing on your lips as you brushed a hand lightly against his arm, your touch warm and reassuring. 

“Always,” you simply replied—and you meant it.

The hours passed in a haze of good food and lively conversation, the three of you slipping into a rhythm that felt surprisingly natural. Arthur, ever the storyteller, regaled you with tales of his adventures, his voice rich with humour and exaggeration. 

Even Orm, sitting beside you with his arm casually draped across the back of your chair, couldn’t suppress a few wry comments about his brother’s flair for the dramatic.

His presence was comforting, his strong, broad frame leaning slightly toward you as he spoke, his blond hair catching the light of the candles that flickered on the table. His hand rested just above your shoulder, his fingers brushing lightly against the fabric of your clothing, and the steady warmth of him was a reassurance you didn’t know you needed until you felt it.

When he smiled, it was subtle, a slow curve of his lips that hinted at quiet amusement or fondness rather than the wide, effortless grins that Arthur often wore. 

It was a smile that reached his eyes—those deep blue-grey eyes that softened with affection, holding a depth that only you knew intimately. 

A smile that made his whole face warm, as though it was something reserved just for you , and in those rare moments, the sharpness that often defined him seemed to melt away, revealing a softer, more human side of him. 

He didn’t need to say anything; the way he smiled spoke volumes—gentle, knowing, and undeniably magnetic, conveying how much he enjoyed being here with you.

As the clock neared midnight, you suggested stepping outside to watch the fireworks. Arthur immediately perked up, his grin widening at the thought of the spectacle, but Orm looked slightly sceptical. He raised an eyebrow, his piercing eyes narrowing as if trying to make sense of the idea.

“Fireworks?” he repeated, the unfamiliar word rolling awkwardly off his tongue, his deep voice tinged with confusion. It was clear the concept didn’t quite fit into his world, where beauty was more often found in the stillness of the sea or the power of the waves.

You smiled softly, understanding his hesitation, and reached for his hand. The warmth of his strong fingers intertwined with yours, grounding him as you gently reassured him. “They’re beautiful ,” you promised, your voice calm and encouraging. "You’ll see."

Orm’s gaze softened, the faintest glimmer of curiosity replacing the uncertainty in his eyes. Though he didn’t fully understand what fireworks were, something in your tone seemed to ease his reservations. With a quiet nod, he allowed himself to be led outside, his broad frame casting a shadow as he stepped outside with you.

The night air was crisp and biting against your cheeks, a sharp contrast to the warmth of the cottage behind you. Arthur leaned casually against the railing, his posture relaxed, scanning the dark sky with easy confidence as if the night held no surprises for him.

His eyes were alight with the anticipation of the spectacle, a grin playing at the corners of his mouth as he made idle chatter.

Orm, however, stood close to you, his tall frame casting a long shadow in the dim light. His hand remained firmly clasped in yours, the warmth of his touch grounding you amidst the chill of the evening. 

Despite his relaxed stance, the tension in his broad shoulders was subtle but unmistakable. His eyes, usually sharp with focus, were narrowed in quiet wariness as he scanned the horizon; the same alertness that had served him well in countless battles now turned toward an unfamiliar form of potential danger. 

It was as if he couldn’t fully relax, his instincts still primed for a threat that didn’t seem to exist here. His eyes, reflecting the faint glow of the porch light, tracked every shadow and movement in the night, his wariness ingrained after years of living on the edge.

“It’s just a celebration,” you said softly, your voice cutting through the quiet tension. You gave his hand a gentle squeeze, your fingers laced firmly with his, hoping to ease the unease that lingered in his posture.

Orm glanced down at you briefly, the guarded look in his blue eyes softening ever so slightly. He nodded once, the motion small but enough to show he trusted your words, even if the concept was still foreign to him. 

Yet, even as he acknowledged your reassurance, his gaze returned to the dark expanse of sky, his features still taut with quiet vigilance. The steady rhythm of his breathing and the subtle strength of his hand in yours were the only signs that he was beginning to settle, grounding himself in your presence.

When the first firework shot upward, its trail carving a glowing arc of orange against the inky black sky, Orm stiffened beside you. 

His body, usually so composed, became rigid, the muscles in his arms tense as if preparing for battle. The sudden explosion that followed was loud and jarring, a thunderous boom that shattered the stillness of the night. The sky erupted into a cascade of golden sparks, their dazzling light reflecting off the snow-dusted ground and rippling waves, painting the scene in fleeting, brilliant hues.

Arthur let out a low whistle, leaning back against the railing with a murmured comment about the spectacle, but his words barely registered. Your attention was fixed on Orm. 

His hand, still clasped in yours, tightened with almost crushing force, his knuckles pale against the knit of his sweater. His gaze was locked on the sky, unblinking and intense, his lips pressed into a thin line as the bursts of light and sound continued.

You could see the flicker of something unfamiliar in his eyes—shock, confusion, perhaps even a trace of unease. For a man who had faced countless battles and commanded armies, this simple display of light and sound seemed to unsettle him in a way you hadn’t expected. It was as if the raw power of the fireworks reminded him of something far more dangerous and unpredictable.

“Orm?” you whispered, your voice barely cutting through the sharp crack of another firework streaking into the sky. This one arced high above, its shimmering blue trail splitting the darkness before erupting into a magnificent burst. The explosion sent cascading tendrils of electric blue, and silver sparks raining down, illuminating the snow, the waves, and Orm’s tense features in a ghostly glow.

He flinched violently as the firework burst with a deafening crack that echoed across the beach, his head snapping toward the sound as though he expected an attack. The brilliance of the explosion reflected in his wide eyes, which darted across the sky, scanning for unseen threats amidst the bursts of light. His breathing quickened, each sharp inhale causing his chest to rise and fall unevenly, the muscles of his broad shoulders coiled with tension.

Another firework soared upward, its fiery tail spiralling as it climbed before detonating into a dazzling explosion of gold and crimson. The burst lit the horizon with a flickering radiance, but to Orm, it seemed less a celebration and more a chaotic display of unpredictable power. His grip on your hand tightened to the point of discomfort, as though anchoring himself to you was the only thing keeping him steady.

“It’s an attack,” he muttered under his breath, his voice tight and edged with barely suppressed panic. His piercing blue-grey eyes were wide unfocused, as though he were seeing something far beyond the fireworks in the sky. His words were low but urgent, filled with the certainty of a man who had faced countless battles. “They’re coming ,” he said again, the tension in his tone a stark contrast to the festive display above.

You recognised the signs immediately—the way his free hand had curled into a white-knuckled fist at his side, the subtle tremor in his frame, and the way his chest rose and fell in shallow, rapid breaths.

Orm wasn’t here anymore; his mind had pulled him back into the depths of his past, to battles fought in the shadowy expanse of the ocean, to the chaos and unrelenting violence he had endured as both warrior and king. The brilliant bursts of light and sound weren’t a celebration to him—they were explosions, signals of an impending assault, echoes of a life defined by conflict.

“ Orm ,” you said firmly, stepping directly into his line of sight. Your voice cut through the tension like a blade, steady and grounding. “Look at me.”

You placed your free hand gently against his chest, feeling the rapid thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palm. His gaze wavered for a moment, his eyes darting toward you as though unsure whether to focus on the present or remain trapped in the haunting echoes of his past.

He didn’t respond, his entire body jerking as another firework shot upward, splitting the sky with a deafening boom that sent waves of colour cascading into the night. His expression twisted with raw, unfiltered fear, a vulnerability so unlike him that it took your breath away. His sharp features, usually so composed, were tense with the weight of memories that seemed to drown him.

“Orm,” you repeated, your voice louder now, firm but filled with concern. You tugged on his hand, your grip steady and grounding. “Come inside. You’re safe , but we need to go inside.”

For a moment, it felt as though he didn’t hear you, his mind too clouded by the chaos of the past—the flash of explosions, the roar of battles fought beneath the waves. His chest heaved with uneven breaths, his gaze darting wildly between the horizon and the fireworks that painted the sky with bursts of light and sound.

Then, slowly, your voice seemed to cut through the haze. His eyes flicked down to meet yours, wide and glassy, as if seeing you for the first time since stepping outside. Recognition began to surface in their depths, the storm in his mind momentarily stilling as he focused on you. His grip on your hand slackened slightly, the strength of your presence pulling him back from the brink.

“Please,” you said softly, your voice steady yet imbued with a quiet urgency. Your hand squeezed his gently, grounding him in the present. “Come with me.” The gentleness in your tone was insistent, a lifeline pulling him away from the chaos in his mind.

Orm hesitated, his broad chest still rising and falling in uneven bursts. His gaze flickered between the door and you, uncertainty etched into his features, but he didn’t let go of your hand. You stayed steady, your calm presence anchoring him, refusing to let him slip back into the storm of his memories.

After what felt like an eternity, he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, and you began to lead him toward the warmth and safety of the house. His steps were hesitant at first, his body tense and his shoulders hunched as though bracing for an attack that would never come. But he followed you, his hand gripping yours like a lifeline.

Once inside, you closed the door firmly behind you, the sound of the latch sealing away the cacophony of the outside world. The fireworks continued, their muffled booms now softened by the walls of your home, distant and far less threatening. The warm glow of the living room embraced you both, the hum of safety wrapping around him like a comforting cocoon.

You guided him to the couch, your touch firm but gentle as you eased him down onto the soft cushions. His movements were stiff, almost mechanical, as though his body hadn’t yet caught up with the safety of the moment. 

He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands trembling as they gripped them tightly. His head hung low, his silver-blond hair falling forward to partially obscure his face, while his uneven breaths filled the quiet space around you. He was fighting—fighting to claw his way back from the memories that held him captive.

“Orm,” you said gently, lowering yourself to your knees in front of him so you could meet his gaze. Your voice was soft but steady, the calm anchor you knew he needed right now. “You’re safe. You’re here with me. No one is attacking.”

His shoulders trembled faintly at your words, the tension in his powerful frame still visible, but he didn’t respond. You reached out, placing a hand over his, which was gripping his knees so tightly his knuckles had gone white, and you were sure that he’d bruise himself with the sheer strength he used to hold on to it. The warmth of your touch seemed to break through the barrier of his fear, drawing his attention.

He glanced up at you then, his eyes still shadowed with the echoes of panic. But there was something else there, too—something searching, desperate for the reassurance your voice and presence were offering. You held his gaze firmly, your touch and words steady, silently willing him to let go of the battle raging inside.

His breath hitched sharply, his chest rising and falling as though he were trying to steady himself, but failing. His head shook almost imperceptibly, as if he were trying to physically dispel the memories clawing at his mind. “The sounds...” he murmured, his voice low and strained, laced with raw vulnerability. “They’re the same . The explosions, the echoes—it’s too much.”

His words trailed off, but the haunted look in his eyes spoke volumes, a silent cry for solace amidst the storm. You didn’t hesitate, gently threading your fingers through his trembling ones. His fingers were ice-cold, his knuckles still rigid from the intensity of his grip, but you held them firmly, grounding him with your touch.

“It’s not the same,” you said softly but with unwavering conviction, your voice cutting through the haze enveloping him. “Look at me, Orm. You’re not there anymore. You’re here, with me.”

Your words hung in the air, a lifeline tethering him to the present. Slowly, his head lifted, and his eyes, still clouded with fear, met yours. The storm in them began to waver, the familiar warmth of your presence pulling him back from the abyss. You gave his hands a reassuring squeeze, leaning in slightly so that your steady gaze was all he could focus on.

“You’re safe,” you whispered. “I promise.”

In his eyes, you saw the shadows of a lifetime’s worth of pain—raw and unhidden. It was the kind of pain that burrowed deep, etched into his very being by years of war, betrayal, and loss. The guarded walls he always kept so carefully in place had crumbled, leaving him exposed in a way few had ever seen. His lips parted, and for a moment, you weren’t sure he would speak, but then he did, his voice low and unsteady.

“I hate this,” he admitted, the words barely above a whisper, but the weight of them was immense. His hands trembled slightly in yours. “I hate feeling like this.”

Your heart ached at the vulnerability in his tone, at the man before you who had endured so much yet still felt trapped by his own mind. You squeezed his hands gently, your thumbs brushing over his knuckles in a soothing rhythm. “I know,” you said softly, your voice steady and full of understanding. “I know how hard this is for you. But you’re not alone. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

Your words seemed to pull him back, the storm in his eyes flickering as he focused on you. His breathing, still uneven, began to slow as your presence cut through the fog of fear gripping him. Bit by bit, you watched as the tension in his broad shoulders eased, his body no longer braced for an invisible attack. He let out a shaky breath and closed his eyes briefly as if to steady himself. When he opened them again, there was a clarity there, faint but growing, as he leaned forward.

Orm rested his forehead against yours, the gesture both grounding and intimate. His silver-blond hair, slightly dishevelled, fell forward, brushing lightly against your skin. He exhaled deeply, his voice low and filled with gratitude. “Thank you,” he murmured, the words carrying the weight of his sincerity.

Your hands stayed clasped around his, unwavering. “You don’t have to thank me,” you replied, your tone tender but firm. “I love you, Orm. And I’ll always be here for you.”

Outside, the fireworks began to fade, their brilliant colours dimming until only faint bursts of light painted the horizon. The final echoes of explosions gave way to the gentle hum of the night, the world returning to its quiet, peaceful rhythm. 

Inside, the glow of the Christmas tree bathed the room in a soft golden light, its gentle flicker casting dancing shadows across the walls. The warmth of the room wrapped around the two of you, creating a sanctuary against the chaos of the world outside.

Orm let out a long, shuddering breath, his hands remaining tightly clasped around yours, though the tremble had eased. His eyes, still shadowed but calmer now, searched yours as if trying to hold onto the reassurance you offered. “You’re my anchor,” he said softly, his voice carrying a rare vulnerability that made your chest tighten.

You leaned closer, your voice steady as you replied, “And you’re mine.”

The words hung between you, a quiet promise that needed no elaboration. Orm closed his eyes, a faint, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corner of his lips—a sign that he was beginning to let go of the fear that had gripped him. He still held your hands as though afraid to lose the grounding they provided, but his grip softened, his trust in you evident in the way he allowed himself to relax, if only slightly.

For what felt like hours but was only moments, the two of you remained there, wrapped in each other’s presence. The world outside faded, the sounds of the last firework disappearing into the silence of the new year. The steady warmth of the room, the flicker of the tree lights, and the quiet rhythm of his breathing created a cocoon of peace. At that moment, everything else seemed to fall away—no past, no fears, only the love and solace you offered each other as the new year began.

[artist-in-training-wheels]

Updated designs as of: 8/20/24

Remember when I said I was knee-deep into SAMS/LAES? Welp, I still am- so here's my (mental) designs of all the core characters (Not scaled for height)! Some notes/extra thoughts under the cut :D Added their pallets to make coloring easier!

Main 4:

Work:

I swapped Sun and Moon waist thingy; I just think they would do that since they're close. Their arm ribbons were also changed to purple to match!

Moon has a cape instead of a ruffle like Sun because... idk, I think he'd like it!

Earth and Lunar also have matching cuffs; theirs is pale/light cobalt blue.

Gave Earth's dress more Princess vibes; why? Idk, just felt like she would like it!

Sun's joints can be seen since he hasn't died and been "placed" in a new/updated body!

Casual:

Moon and Earth (kinda) have casual outfits, so I thought I'd make something for Sun and Lunar.

Sun HAS his matching friendship bracelet with Dazzle- I finally decided to draw it ^^

Sun's shirt says, "Here comes the Sun" I feel it would mostly be a gag gift, but he likes it!

I almost gave him a sweater (cause he gives me sweater vibes, tbh), but then I saw his Q&A video and went, "damn, never mind, I guess".

Lunar's hoodie was also a gag gift (cause its color scheme is similar to Gemini)- but he likes it too much, plus it's soft :D

Made Earth's sweater a bit darker, mainly cause she has a lot of light colors already (the pink comes from the sprinkle sweater!)

I also feel like the boys would take off their bells when they're not working.

It was asked how and... idk they made an interdimensional portal- I'm sure they found a way to take off the bells lmao

The other 4:

I hate how I did Ruin's rays and hat. But nothing was working for me, so... oh well...

I gave Jack the two tips for his hat because I think he'd like those- same with the arm sleeves!

Also- yes he has a friendship bracelet with Dazzle- he keeps it protected under his arm sleeve, it's identical to Sun's!

I really like how Solar came out. Specifically his boots and shirt design!

He gives me knee boot vibes, so I gave him shoes with a sun and a moon on the back (they lace up just didn't feel like adding those details)

I Like how Eclipse came out- Miiiight redesign him... depending on how the Eclipse and Puppet Show goes, but for now, I'm content :)

I never mentioned it, but I do imagine that Eclipse has a second set of arms. I would think Solar did, too, but those were taken away during his revival because of the "Eclipse sees other Eclipses as inferior" stuff!

The Evil 4:

I made Dark Sun look like Regular Sun... cause that's kinda his whole thing! But if I were to give him a different outfit- it would be Eclipse's!

Few changes to Nexus (I can't take him or his model serious tbh, I kept laughing XD), decided to give his hat a Wither shard at the tip because power (and possible corruption) go BRRRRR (Side Note: Made an AU on it :D)

I'm not sure how visible it is, but on his right cheek, you can see a virus of some kind—I really like that, so I put it on him because I really like the idea of him slowly being corrupted due to his insanity!

He has a darker shade of boots similar to Solar because... well, Solar :)

World President Earth (or WP Earth) has a lovely wine-red dress with her flag as a cape (the same flag seen in the thumbnail)!

The flag is held together by a smiley pin because why not =)

Evil Lunar (while tempting to go with Current Lunar design) has the design of the previous version because, well... that's the form he gained the power in (from my understanding)

The tip of his hat is a dying Star because that feels appropriate, in my opinion.

I MIGHT do Foxy, FC, Monty, and Puppet, but I'm not too sure, tbh, since my mental image isn't too far off from their models. Anyways, time to return to my little gremlin hole and watch the series :)