#metallic-scaled-scarf

[ego-osbourne]

Child of the Stars (Secret Santa for @metallic-scaled-scarf !)

I had the pleasure of drawing Assur for Secret Santa this year in the Cult Server!

Happy holidays Dovah!! I hope you like it <:]

[tallysingatsby]

A collaboration with @ego-osbourne for @metallic-scaled-scarf! Ego did the lineart and I did the coloring! For those who don’t know, this is Nonvul and his dragon, Krotumir.

[bforblitz]

Guess who watched the last unicorn recently

Anyways this is Sera’s Daedric horse (she is absolutely a horse girl). He may or may not eat people

[carl-tabora]

The Necron and the Baby

An-nakhrimun awkwardly stares at the tiny human in her hand, confused and unsure. The human stares back, extending tiny hands towards her while making incoherent noises, clearly unafraid of the soulless Necron.

What is she supposed to do, is she supposed to eat her? She quickly glances up, seeking instruction from the mature human couple, yet to her dismay only receiving their smiles.

Ever since awoke from the Great Sleep and subsequent exile by Illuminor Szeras, she has been drowning in despair and sadness, wallowing at the memory of her failing her entire species and the terrible fate upon herself and her mother. Landing her ship on this nameless planet, she sat upon the top of her ship's exterior and fell into unmoving catatonia, with only the maintenance of her mother, now a mindless warrior, drove her to act slightly.

Not even herself realized how long it had been, but before she realized, an alien race that called themselves “human” appeared. Time has been hard to grasp for An-nakhrimun, as the humans have been in a completely different state each time she paid attention to them. From colonizing the planet, building gleaming cities, fighting among themselves against their robotic servants, collapsing into primitivism, and rebuilding their society with even more inferior technology. She is the only unchanged constant on this planet.

Humans have long used to her presence, sometimes even scaling her ship to try to communicate with her. Now, with her ship buried under dirt, humans have built a park around her seat, these interactions only became more frequent. Sometimes when she pays attention, she could even see humans sketching her figure with primitive pen and papers.

Most of the interaction has been quiet and distanced, but only once, she was forced into physical confrontation.

On a heavy snowy night, two tiny humans, male and female, wearing tattered clothes, stumbled to her seat, cold and shaking. They have no home to return to, and in the winter’s chill, they will not see tomorrow’s sunrise. They embraced the metal alien lady, waiting to die, instead, they found a warm energy dome around her. An-nakhrimun, frozen in confusion and flustered at the tiny humans grabbing onto her, channeled a deflection shield to repel the coldness, in order to try scaring them away.

She sighed a silent relief when they finally left when the sun rise, and didn’t even realize just for that night, she paid so much attention to those two humans, she even forgot to wallow in her own sadness.

Since then, An-nakhrimun sometimes would find small trinkets and items on herself and her mother, scarf, small flower, sachet. She does not understand the purpose, yet keeps them as it might be of some significance she doesn’t get.

Now the two humans have matured, and they came to her with their own offspring, like a female feline eager to show its master what she produced, and asked her to join them on a “family dinner”.

The word sounds so foreign, yet so familiar. Though she lacks the flesh to consume food anymore, she remembers how her mother used to be smiling at the dinner table even with barely any food. She glances at her mindless mother, and allows both of them to be dragged out of the park.

The interaction with humans has distracted her from her own sadness, and she doesn’t hate it.

Yet, such a time would be short lived, as the current Terra time is 850.M30, and the 16th legion of power armoured genetic soldiers, serving the self-proclaimed Emperor of Mankind, will be arriving into the system in less than a year…

Scene art for my tabletop campaign, depicting the pre-campaign story of Lone Cryptek An-Nakhrimun, who sat on a planet being depressed for 10k+ years until Great Crusade came knocking. And the baby that would become the origin of her fake human face.

Reddit Source

[rosiewalks]

Restyling G3 Lagoona: A Saga

I like Lagoona's makeup and theming in G3, but boy do I hate the shade of pink chosen for her. So I've been on a year-long journey to customize her to my liking: trying to cover up the pink as much as possible, and make her fit my style. (If I had the skills to airbrush her blue and repaint her face, I would -- but I definitely do not have those skills.)

This is my first Goona; she's Skulltimate Secrets series 1. I really liked her octopus shoes, jacket and shorts. Gave her a fish hook lip piercing, painted more scales on her face (using a toothpick and acrylic paint), and dressed her in an OMG fishnet bodysuit.

The fish hook piercing may be the single best idea I've ever had.

[cut for length]

Then the Monster Ball line came out and I fell in love with her dark makeup and OTT 80s vibe. So I got Monster Ball Goona, sold Skulltimate Secrets, and did some more customizing. Of course she got a pierced lip. I tried out a different method to make the scales (acrylic paint over mesh), but I don't like how how it turned out. She looks okay irl, but in photos she just looks kinda grimy.

I kept dressing her in purple, sea-themed things, based on the Monster Ball accessories. I don't hate this 'fit -- in fact, I quite like the purple -- but it wasn't wowing me.

I was gifted Clawdeen clothes, so I tried Goona in a moon shirt, gave her some more jewelry, and put her hair back up. I also scrubbed off some of the silver paint, and it's still not great but I think slightly improved.

Once her hair was in the side ponytail, I realized we needed to lean into the 80s, while still keeping her leg fins and sea monster accessories.

So I spent the day leaning ALL the way in on restyling.

First attempt:

I like the animal print bodysuit, denim jacket, and shoes; don't like the shape of the skirt (though I do like the color). Based on my light research, she needs more layers and accessories, and preferably some lace, fishnets, and bows.

And finally here she is, in her hair metal/Cindy Lauper inspired look!

Miss Fish cannot look at the camera to save her life.

Not only does she have a better 'fit now, I was also able to use pieces that I hadn't been able to style. Putting Lagoona in red was definitely not what I would have picked first (or second, or third, based on my many restyling attempts), but it works!

Outfit details, top to bottom: Accessories Hair bow is OMG Rocker Boi's scarf Earrings are G1 MH Kala Mer'ri (they fit perfectly) Pink choker is ?? Shark tooth necklace is Skulltimate 1 Lagoona Belt is OMG Ferocious Metal bracelet is Barbie Fashionista #146 Bubble bracelet is her own Clothes Jacket is OMG Melrose Bodysuit is OMG Ferocious Dress is OMG Alt Grrrl Socks are OMG Punk Grrrl Shoes are SH Uma Gloves are SH Moral of the story: don't be afraid to try a random pile of clothes and accessories on your dolls.

[ahollowgrave]

-pokes you gently- so what's it like getting a reading from Selenite and how likely is she to tell you outright when you'll die? For reasons :)

(Mentions of: Bones, Animal Sacrifice below the cut.)

The reading room is small and cramped -- Nite prefers the word ‘close.’ Scarfs dyed hues of blue are draped over the light sources, casting a watery mosaic onto the low ceiling. The smell of incense hangs in the air, hazy. There are no windows and only two doorways; the one you just came through has a fall of fabric serving as its door. As it drapes shut behind you it muffles the waiting room and the city beyond, making the sounds distant and otherworldly.

The center of the room hosts a small, round table with a lip around the edge. Two equally plush chairs face each other over it. Shelves line the walls, each one filled to bursting. Jars of buttons, of coins, of metal shavings, bags of varied materials and sizes, some with drawstrings open and their contents spilling out: dried seeds, teeth, bits of bone. Locks of hair carefully glued and pinned into intricate knots or frames or braids. Bits of rock and brightly gleaming crystals in wide-ranging hues. Feathers and scales and claws of beasts. Not to mention the trinkets; Lockets, charms and their bracelets, rings, keychains, and necklaces fill the empty spots, or their own jars, or hang precariously from the corner of shelves. It is hard to take it all in, truly. As your eyes adjust they find that Nite is already waiting for you. A low, pastel light emits from her hair and in the quiet room, barely audible, you can make out the whirring of her eyes as they focus on you, take you in.

(I talk about bones and animal sacrifice from this point on!!) What happens from here depends so much on the customer and their question! Nite uses bones in her reading in the forms of Osteomancy and Scapulimancy. The former is when one is ‘casting’ with bones and other objects and diving things from the way the objects fall. The latter is divining the future from the markings on the shoulder blade of an animal; often an animal sacrificed in the name of the question asker.

Her strongest, clearest readings are done via Scapulimancy. However, because this involves venturing outside of the safety of S9 most of Selenite’s customers don’t reach for this method. Mostly, hunters or fighters of The Arcadion. Thankfully, if a client truly wants a reading done this way, Obsidian (@iron-sparrow's S9 beauty) is happy to do the perilous part for them. For a fee, of course! Maintenance isn’t cheap, even if being done by your best friend.

So, most of Selenite’s readings are done via Osteomancy.

For reference, Osteomancy heavily features bones (of animals) hence the name! However, a practitioner will mix items of importance in with the bones. Hence all those trinkets! Depending on the client, depending on the question, depending on recent events, and the vibes of the day, Selenite will change out the items in her basket.

Selenite does not wear a regulator anymore and when she realizes a client will meet with death soon she makes a promise -- often just to herself but sometimes directly -- to remember and mourn them. Sometimes she asks for something of theirs on that last meeting and often this gets added to her collection and used when she feels moved too.

Not all her clients are seeking answers related to their death! In fact, few are. But that doesn’t mean Selenite doesn’t know, doesn’t learn.  If they haven’t asked directly she won’t tell them directly! S9 already fears death and grief too much for her taste and she won’t add to it. Truly, this knowledge is a burden and it is not one Selenite seeks to give to lay on her client’s shoulders. Mostly she wants them not to be scared when Death comes.

When asked directly she answers directly.

Thank you for the ask! And your patience in my answering!

[pinksugarscrub]

Heartstrings

Hobie Brown x fem! black cat! reader

Inspired by a post by @undobutton , I'm sorry I can't link it to the story. It's been so long I can't find it. Thank you again!

Word count: 1,162

Part(s): 1, 2, ???

~

Art is a freedom of expression. That’s something that your mother drilled into your head when you were young. Your small fingers littered with paint or covered in clay as you listened to her speech for the umpteenth time.

Before, you hated the constant lessons. English, math, science. All centered around culture and the history of man. It was unbearable until…it wasn’t. Until you saw him. His voice cracking as he sang and his fingers missing every other chord on his borrowed guitar.

That’s when you finally understood what she meant.

Art, is freedom.

-

The streets of Camden were always full of life. The back streets anyway. That’s where Norman Osborn’s authority ended.

Kids running around carefree as music played from a scrapped radio. It always brought a smile to your face.

You greeted everyone you passed briefly. Blending in with the crowd easily as you weaved through the many makeshift homes.

To the government you were outcasts. But this, this was home.

You eyed one home in particular. Freedom fighters laughing as they knocked their glasses together.

Pursing your lips as you bite back a smile as soon as you spot him. His wicks give him away instantly. There were too many people around so for now, Hobie would have to wait.

Tearing your gaze away from the tall punk, you came to an alleyway. Narrow enough that you would have to suck in your breath and position your body to the side to even squeeze through. You grinned at the challenge. With a quiet huff you gracefully scaled the building. Your footsteps silent against the concrete. It was exhilarating.

Rolling to a stop you cause the spray paint cans in your backpack clink together. Your expression only brightened as you quickly tore your bag open. The familiar cat eye shaped goggles you adorned along with a black coat and gloves folded neatly inside.

Gingerly you slip the leather on before fixing the metal studded belt around your waist. Of course, you offset the intense color with a pair of jeans and chucks.

Keeping your identity was a priority. Just like that new Spiderman swinging around the city. He was a sight to behold. If you managed to catch a glimpse of him that is.

You shook your head to pull yourself from the cloud of your imagination. It was time to search for the perfect canvas.

You nodded mostly to yourself as you slid a scarf over your nose. Dropping down with a thud onto an abandoned apartment building as you scoured the skyline.

Not noticing the curious gaze on your back.

-

You popped open a can of fresh paint. The cap clattering to the ground as music blared through the walkman attached to your belt. You took a deep breath as you glanced down at the sketch in your black book.

“Here we go,”you murmur as the hiss of the can echoes through the air. The colors blending together seamlessly as you tapped your foot to the beat.

Normally, you would tag your name into any and every surface you could find. But today, you decided to go the political route. An outline of a young girl appearing on the brick. She was messy, unkept. But bright and bold against the black background.

You wanted your work to embody hope. For a better future, for freedom.

That’s why you had made it this far right? You had to have some purpose as the people closest to you passed on and left the picture of your life.

That’s what you cling to on the days you miss your mother.

You blend out of the confounds of your outline. Flicking open a can of blue paint before shaking it. It was almost impossible to find paint now that the police had caught wind of you and other artists so you had to make this can last.

Your eyes shifted every once and awhile as you kept an eye out for officers. Used to their angry shouts as they tossed objects at you. It was hilarious watching them as they doubled over, gasping for air as you mocked them from above. There was even a device in your bag in case things went south but that day had yet to come.

After what seemed like hours which was actually only a matter of minutes you were met with silence. Your hand lowered as you paused the walkman. Stepping back to critique your work.

There were some errors here and there. Places where you colored in a different color than you had intended and empty spaces but overall, you were happy. Ten minutes below your normal time.

“No expectations?”

You froze at the unfamiliar voice. Gripping the can in between your fingers as you slowly turned to look behind you. And if you were holding your breath before you were sure you had nothing left as you exhaled.

“I think I see what you’re tryin’ to say but-” The loud thud of his boots causes your skin to crawl. By the tone of his voice you assume he has a smile underneath his mask. Possibly even smug. “-be a dear and humor me.”

It takes him not one but two strides before he’s at your side. He’s so nonchalant, hands dug into his pockets as he towers over you. Spiderman. The Spiderman. You feel faint.

“What, cat got your tongue love?” Tilting his head to the side as he chuckles.

You bite your bottom lip, anxiously watching him as you resist the urge to bolt. You did not just steal a new set of supplies only to leave them in the hands of Spiderman. Regardless of how noble he seemed. They were yours. Taken fair and square.

“What’s it to you?” Posture stiff as you eye his form for the hundredth time.

He seemed amused by your response. Head moving back to its original position. He can practically see the cat ears atop your head. Maybe even a tail flicking angrily against the back of your thighs.

“You wound me love.” Shifting his weight so he’s facing you directly. “Thought us rebels had to stick together.”

You purse your lips. Casting a glance to your bag before returning your gaze to him. “Rebels are just as disloyal as cops. Save their own skin if the situation calls for it.”

He scoffs at your threat. It’s cleverly disguised.

“What do you want with me?” Your eyes narrowed beneath your goggles. Beginning to slowly circle him like a predator eyeing its prey. Like a cat ready to crush a nuisance of a spider.

He practically fell over with laughter. Hands on his knees as his body shook.

To anyone else he would seem entirely relaxed. Showing vulnerability to a civilian was natural of course. But you weren’t just some civilian. You weren’t helpless like the rest of Camden.

You were the Black Cat.

You were a wanted woman.

And you were ready to pounce.

[theink-stainedfolk]

Silent Strokes

Snippet

---

Today’s outfit.

Wystan Argent’s inner voice chimed as he finished fastening the last button of his oversized forest-green cardigan. He tugged at the hem, ensuring it fell just right over his patterned cream shirt, which boasted a series of tiny golden moths embroidered along the collar. The shirt was tucked neatly into his favorite pair of wide-legged, chocolate-brown corduroy trousers. They swished faintly as he moved, a delightful sound he loved even if no one else could hear it.

A mustard-yellow scarf was draped loosely around his neck, the threads slightly frayed at the edges—a detail that added to its charm, in Wystan’s opinion. His socks, of course, didn’t match. One was a rich burgundy with tiny foxes, the other a pale lavender with tiny stars. He slid into his scuffed loafers, their battered appearance only adding to their character.

He gave himself a once-over in the mirror. “A solid seven on the whimsical scale,” he thought, twirling briefly to test the movement of the cardigan. Satisfied, he grabbed his leather satchel—another thrifted treasure covered in small doodles he’d painted on the worn material—and headed to the museum.

The moment he stepped through the heavy glass doors, he felt the familiar warmth of his second home. The smell of old books, faint floor polish, and something vaguely metallic filled the air. Wystan clutched his satchel to his chest, grinning to himself as he made his way toward the reception desk to collect this month’s museum card.

The staff were busy today, more than usual. Wystan noticed the hum of activity immediately—guides escorting groups of schoolchildren, museum-goers bustling about, and papers being shuffled at the front desk. He tapped the counter lightly to catch someone’s attention but realized quickly that no one he recognized was available.

Then, he saw him.

Dark Academia, his mind supplied immediately.

The man was tall, with broad shoulders draped in a perfectly tailored black coat that looked both practical and elegant. Beneath it, a dark turtleneck and gray trousers completed the aesthetic. His hair was dark and unruly in a way that seemed intentional, framing his sharp, angular features. He had piercing hazel eyes, focused but distant, as though he was perpetually lost in thought. He carried a clipboard close to his chest, the sleeves of his coat rolled slightly to reveal a simple silver watch.

Wystan caught himself staring and quickly looked away, clutching his satchel tighter. Very Dark Academia. A bit too serious-looking, though. A scholar who broods about forbidden knowledge, he mused, his lips twitching into a small smile.

The man, as if sensing Wystan’s gaze, turned and looked directly at him. For a moment, Wystan froze. He wasn’t prepared for the quiet intensity of those eyes.

The man stepped toward him, his movements fluid but deliberate, stopping just a few feet away. “I’m Sylvan Emberley,” he said, his voice low and smooth. “I’m new here. Can I help you with something?”

Wystan blinked rapidly, his cheeks heating. He quickly dug into his satchel for his notebook and scribbled a note:

Need a guide. Hard of hearing. Written explanations work.

He turned the notebook toward Sylvan, who read it with a slight furrow of his brow before nodding. He grabbed a pen from his clipboard and wrote neatly on the back of a flyer: I’ll guide you. Where would you like to start?

Wystan gave a grateful nod, gesturing toward the art exhibit.

As they walked together, Wystan couldn’t help sneaking glances at Sylvan. Everything about him was composed, efficient, and self-contained. He didn’t speak much, only writing explanations as needed, but Wystan found himself intrigued by the precision of his words and the subtle way his gaze softened when Wystan lingered on certain pieces.

When they reached the painting of the ancient deity, Wystan’s steps faltered. The towering figure in the painting was breathtaking—powerful, otherworldly, and captivating in a way that made his heart race.

Wystan immediately wrote in his notebook: This painting. It’s my favorite. I think I’m in love with it.

He handed the notebook to Sylvan, who read it silently. Wystan noticed a faint blush creeping up Sylvan’s neck, though the man quickly looked away, clearing his throat. He wrote something on the back of the flyer but hesitated before showing it to Wystan.

When he finally did, the words were simple: It’s... a good choice.

Wystan tilted his head, his curiosity piqued. For a fleeting moment, he thought Sylvan seemed oddly familiar, though he couldn’t place why. He decided not to dwell on it, instead letting his gaze drift back to the deity in the painting.

As they moved to the next exhibit, Wystan couldn’t help thinking: Dark Academia fits him perfectly... but there’s something else. Something more.

---

My ♡'s: @paeliae-occasionally @willtheweaver @drchenquill @wyked-ao3 @the-inkwell-variable @corinneglass @seastarblue

[kom-poetry-channel]

In my daughter's defense, she no longer says "capitalism" with ThatSpecific Intonation; much to my surprise, her school has apparently done its job of indoctrinating her in the Correct ideology by exposing her to "The Girl in the Red Scarf". However, I wrote the poem before that happened; it took me a long time to put the videotogether. Nonetheless she still does not appreciate the enormousmind-boggling scale of our civilisation; perhaps you have to have seen it increase, before you can really notice it.

Tolkien's "no beautiful things" is a throwaway line about goblin workshops, and it's possible I'm defaming the man by taking it to refer to all the products of industry (and also he might respond that nothing mass-produced can be "well built", but there he'd be JustWrong); but in the depiction of Mordor and the Scouring of the Shireit does seem that he was against industry generally, not just as applied by goblins. The hell to which I consign him would, obviously, consist merely of living in the Shire with nothing machine-made. There's an ironic punishment, if you like.

I can no longer remember which language I first composed this in, it may have varied line by line.

There's a highway between my house and my office. I cross it in the morning going to work; and in the afternoon, coming home. If you stop, at the apex of the bike bridge, and think about life for a minute, as one does - though you will have to do this one; I have things to do,and bills to pay - perhaps a thousand cars might pass beneath your feet.

A thousand cars?A thousand tons of metal! Glass, steel, titanium, copper, tungsten, platinum, rhodium, lead. Metal ripped from the uncaring Earth, smelted and forged, cunningly wrought so that it leaps at the lightest touch of foot to pedal. "Many clever things,'' the gentleman poet says, "but no beautiful ones''; well. To hell with him. He never sat the front seat of a coach-and-six and shivered through the rain that his patron might make an important meeting. Call me a goblin if you like: There's beauty in things well built.

An unending stream of shaped iron: Power beyond the dreams of kings. No committee decreed this, no czar nor emperor commanded it. A thousand tons of iron were ripped from the uncaring Earth; but not to make tanks for defense of the Motherland; not to build a monument to the glory of kings; no heroic patriotism dug the coal that smelted this iron. People did this, uncommanded: Because we had things to do,and bills to pay.

My eldest doesn't see what I do, standing on the bridge. She has things to do, but no bills to pay; a mere kiloton of iron passing every minute beneath her feet has no power to impress her. "Capitalism,'' she says, and there's venom in her voice; copied from a dozen streamers. That's irony, if you like: A thousand tons of it, ripped from the uncaring Earth, forged and streamed, cruelly wrought to get the most clicks. Capitalism doesn't sell.

It's all right, though. No doubt I, too, was unimpressed when my father tried to point out some miracle of logistics that he had not been born to. It's hard to be mindful of the sheer boundless power of the beast when you sit atop it and it obediently carries you as it has done all your life.

When all's said and done - provided only words are said, and no violence done - the wealth beyond the dreams of kings, the power and the glory, is only what we build because we have things to do, and bills to pay.

[katastronoot]

My part of the art trade with @metallic-scaled-scarf !!

[ego-osbourne]

Once He’s Gone

//click for better image quality//

Nonvul singing a dirge.

A commission for the mighty @metallic-scaled-scarf ! Their dragon priest OC :]

[metallic-scaled-scarf]

Commissions Open!

That's right, I'll be opening up for commissions! I figured there's no better time than the present to try for it, and I'm very excited.

Commission info below, alt text provided.

I'll be using Discord largely to communicate, if you would like to ask about commissions, DM me on Tumblr and we can arrange to talk on Discord.

I'll be using PayPal for payments. Half paid before, half paid after, just for security for myself and the commissioner.

Even if you can't commission, do reblog! Spreading the word helps us artists worlds more than liking and scrolling by.

More examples of my art will be under the cut, if you need to see anything else. I also will link my art blog, @metallic-scaled-scarf-art , if you'd like to scroll through everything I've posted art-wise since I rejoined Tumblr.

[thana-topsy]

WIP Wednesday 7/26/23

Wednesday again already!? I was tagged by @mareenavee and @kookaburra1701 who I'm pretty sure have already read snippets of this, but here you go again some more. (Oh and @skyrim-forever thank you!)

I'll try to tag people that I know aren't already getting bombarded with tags lol. So let's go @throughtrialbyfire @greyborn2 @what-with-you-dear @metallic-scaled-scarf @mongoose-bite @yesjejunus @nientedenada @moriche show me ya wips.

This is from the broader Enthir story I'm now working on, including 100% more backstory.

---

Word count: 1260

Urag was a fixture of the College of Winterhold just as much as the statue of Shalidor himself. When Enthir had first arrived, newly freed from the rigid curriculum of the Imperial University, ripe with enthusiasm and fresh charisma, he’d quickly gotten himself into the old orc’s good graces. In his near fifty year tenure in academia thus far, Enthir had but one rule: always befriend the archivist.   

Of course, Urag ran his Arcanaeum very differently than the stuffy bastards at the Imperial University. Differently from the University of Gwilym, for that matter. And the Synod’s archives weren’t even worth mentioning in comparison to the College of Winterhold’s vast collection, much of which (Enthir later found out) was locked away in some secret archive and put out on rotation. A large chunk of the collection—known colloquially as the Forbidden Archives—could only be accessed if you knew what you were asking for, presented a thesis and outline detailing the nature of your study, and clearly stated your reasons for needing said research materials, all stamped with the Arch-Mage’s seal of approval. 

Or, bypassing all of that, one could attempt to make nice with the librarian. 

“Please?” Enthir was on the tips of his toes as he leaned across the high desk, jutting out his lower lip. “I won’t even take them out of the Arcanaeum. You can hover behind me menacingly while I read, even.”

“Nope. I’m going to need to see your proposed outline,” Urag repeated, crossing his arms over his chest. 

Enthir curled his lips against his teeth and narrowed his eyes. “Well, here’s the thing—I don’t exactly know how to propose anything without knowing whether or not my theory is even feasible.”

“I believe you just described a hypothesis,” Urag said, a shimmer of playfulness behind his gruff expression. “Which would be a great way to start your outline.”   

Enthir smiled thinly before pushing away from the desk and spinning on his heel, expression dropping into a scowl as soon as his back was turned. He sat down at one of the long tables with an audible huff and pulled a scroll from his satchel, all while contemplating what he knew of Urag’s character thus far and the likelihood of the orc accepting a blowjob in exchange for reading material. Something told him it wouldn’t work quite as well as it had at the Synod.

He began to furiously scribble his ‘proposed outline’ with more ink on his quill than necessary, the first sentence’s letters bubbling and blending together in a physical manifestation of his petulance. Soon enough, he’d tricked himself into actually completing the task at hand, lost in his own theories. He blew across the page as he finished, reading it over while he waited for the ink to dry, before rolling it up and marching back over to Urag’s desk. 

“Here,” he said, offering the proposal to Urag with a scowl. 

Urag took it, unfurled the scroll, and proceeded to read the outline at a leisurely pace as Enthir drummed his fingers on the top of the desk. Urag’s eyebrows slowly crept upwards as he read, his eyes darting to Enthir only once while wearing an expression that was hard to parse.  

“Interesting theory,” Urag said at last, rolling the scroll back up and handing it to Enthir. “Bold, even. But it’s missing something.”

Enthir quirked a brow in silent question. 

“The Arch-Mage’s seal.”

“Come on, Urag!” Enthir exclaimed, throwing his arms up. “I don’t have time for this bureaucratic bullshit!” 

“This bureaucratic bullshit, as you call it, is how our collection has survived as long as it has,” Urag all but growled. “You’re a formidable scholar. That much is clear. But you’re not above the rules.”

Enthir hissed through his bared teeth. Final play, he thought, and marched around the desk. Urag managed to look surprised as Enthir rounded the corner and took a knee in front of his chair.

“What–?”

Before Urag could finish his question, Enthir was already pulling the necklace from the satchel on his belt with steady hands. The palm-sized opal charm shone with a brilliant light, almost too bright to look at directly. Enthir glanced up at Urag to find the orc’s expression slack with awe, the multicolor refraction glistening in his dark eyes. 

“Where… did you get that?” 

Enthir allowed himself a sly smile. “I have my connections,” he said, turning the necklace over in his palm, rolling the charm between his fingers like a captured star. “And I have a buyer, but it’s time-sensitive. And this little trinket is not something I’m going to be able to sell to just anyone. Hence the… expeditious nature of my request.”

Enthir saw Urag’s throat bob as he swallowed. “May I?” he asked quietly. 

Enthir hesitated, his fingers tightening around the charm almost unconsciously. But then he smiled. “Sure.”

Urag took the opal from him with the reverence of a temple priest, turning it between his fingers as he continued to stare. He glanced back at Enthir with an expression he, once again, couldn’t quite interpret—it could have been respect, possibly even a hint of being impressed—but there was a nervous pull in the pit of Enthir’s stomach that told him that maybe he’d misjudged. That Urag would confiscate the necklace and report him to the Arch-Mage for possession of Daedric artifacts. 

“You’re dealing in dangerous territory, my friend,” Urag said at last, handing the opal charm back to Enthir. “But I have good news, at least. You don’t need permission to access anything from the archives. One moment.”

Enthir watched Urag push out of his chair and walk away from the desk, disappearing around the bend of the bookshelves. He returned the shining necklace to his satchel and got to his feet, leaning back against the lower edge of the desk with crossed arms. Urag returned several minutes later holding a nondescript tome.

“Here,” he said, setting the book on the lower desk between them, hidden from any possible student that might pass by. The title read: The Knights of the Silver Rose. “Familiar with the order?” 

Enthir just shook his head, leaning in close enough for their shoulders to brush as he flipped open the cover and began to skim the table of contents.

“Group of anti-daedra crusaders. The only thing that makes them stand out from any of the others we’ve gotten over the past few millennia is that they kept records on the artifacts they confiscated, as opposed to outright destroying them. This book is part history, part catalog.” He reached over to turn the page, his hand brushing against Enthir’s, dry and warm. “Here. Page one-seventy-five.”

Enthir let Urag flip to the appropriate page, glancing up at the orc’s face. He wore an expression of concentration—studiousness. Enthir felt a light fluttering beneath his ribs, stirrings of conspiratorial excitement. Not only had Urag recognized the artifact on sight, but he had known the exact book to pull for further information. An obscure one, at that.     

“The Opal Charm of Meridia,” Urag said, tapping the page with a thick finger and looking to Enthir with an air of smug satisfaction. “There you have it.” 

“Thanks,” Enthir muttered, unable to pull his gaze away from Urag’s face. 

“Just say what you want more directly from now on,” Urag said with another smirk, eyes crinkling with amusement. “You’re not in Cyrodiil anymore.” 

Enthir’s expression split into a wide smile, and he clapped a hand against Urag’s broad shoulder. “Urag, my friend, I believe you and I are going to have a very fruitful relationship.”

[g0atmama]

More dragon stands au, this time with a few OCs

Beach Boy is a sea serpent that's itty bitty, he's the same size class as Babyface but he has it mostly in length. He likes to sit around Pesci's neck like a scarf.

BB and Babyface are constantly wrestling. His hook teeth only extend when he's actually trying to hurt someone, so she's not in any danger.

Stone Free's glasses are a pattern around her eyes.

White Snake's discs are sort of like. He takes the soul of the dragon + memories of the master. It's a certain way he inhales that does this. The discs themselves are scales off his stomach. He's a legless serpent.

Foo is a colony of more than a dozen dragons that shoot younger versions of themselves. Think the Dreepy line.

World is the gold subspecies, Splat is the platinum. The gold subspecies is a very typical Western dragon, with a roar that stops time. Meanwhile the platinum is more visibly Eastern, but has small wings from Western ancestry. Their timestop roars are a little quieter.

Killer Queen is the size of a lioness. Like all the dragons of Morioh, she's an Eastern dragon. Diamond is the only exception, having wings due to his Western dragon father. They're vestigial however and don't let him actually fly, just glide a little further and jump a little higher.

CD is a little bigger than KQ, but her breath is explosive, she blasts out fire that explodes on contact. Over longer distances, there's a few snaps that get louder closer to the point of impact. If Kira wants them silent as he usually uses them, he needs her to bite down on the target and send the attack that way.

(Oh shit this ended up really long I'm sorry have a cut to save mobile users)

Watchtower are the 53 "cards". They have their usual hierarchy and different patterns. The Joker is still top dog and lounges on Murolo's shoulder most of the time, or sits peeking out of his pocket. They're all extremely small, but do have wings. They're like an annoying swarm of bugs. The kings have a more elegant "crown" of horns, the queens have more of a tiara, etcetera.

(OC) Symbiotic are twins, both little golden scaled dragons. They're small enough to wrap around a person's finger and turn into a metallic substance, locking in place. One has wings, the other does not.

Babyface creates Juniors with her stomach scales. They are specialized scales that act as "seeds". Melone soaks the scales in a blood sample, which Babyface then holds in her mouth to incubate until it's formed. The resulting dragon resembles the dragon of the target with similar powers. IE, the one we see in canon made from Bucciarati, it looks like Sticky Fingers with blue scales and portal generation- though it still has the typical Junior ability of turning living matter into inanimate objects.

However she can implant the scales into human women for faster incubation and less strain on herself. The baby dragon will consume the mother for energy. This is the method Melone usually chooses for a job.

(OC) Faultline functions similarly, being Babyface's sister. She takes a DNA sample and swallows it. When Melagrana needs to pull up a file, she "vomits" a scroll that contains all the information on the target.

Faultline is only the tiniest bit smaller than Babyface. They're not together often due to their masters' different jobs, but the second they are, one of them is pouncing the other for a wrestle.

(OC, Not Mine @jellyluchi) Since I've written about Fire Woman in this AU, my thoughts about her are that she's a drake with vestigial wings on her forelegs. Her mouth has a pattern that looks like bars are covering it, and it glows intensely bright when she opens it. As (one of) Grateful Dead's mate(s), he is constantly preening her scales and the small shock of feathers along her shoulders. She is a smidge larger than White Album, resulting in a lot of chaos when she's chasing Symbiotic and can't stop in time when one of them climbs into WA's fur.

Sex Pistols all have trouble getting up into the air, but they are extremely fast once they do. When the team is flying long distances, the six of them usually sit on another dragon's nose until they're at altitude, then dive off and zoom off up ahead of the leader- which is usually Sticky until GER is in the picture, then its her.

Purple Haze likes when their thunder sleeps in a pile. He will always choose to be the base of the pile. He likes the weight.

Lindwyrms technically can fly if they have wings on their forelegs. Purple Haze does- while Grateful Dead only has false wings. This is why only MiTM and LF can fly + carry someone in La Squadra.

There is one Metallica that seems to have a higher rank than the rest. This one is more of a "salamander" type of dragon, with an extra pair of legs and a longer body. Put any of them on a wood floor though and they're all scrambling to get traction.

White Album sheds every spring. Ghiaccio has considered gathering up that shed fur and having it spun into wool to make a scarf since it's so soft.

Grateful Dead will bite you if you try to walk into where he's hiding during molt. He has even bitten Prosciutto.

Moody Blues likes wearing hats. He will trill happily when he has literally anything on his head like a hat. He's also constantly nudging Abbacchio to try to make him smile.

Pre-PHF, Fugo had a harness to collect the saliva that Purple Haze would drool. The virus is in his saliva but it sent out in a smoke when he's fighting. When Haze is stressed, he drools the saliva, he just can't help it. And since Fugo hated him, he was constantly drooling, and needed a harness to catch the saliva to keep people safe.

The World can and will scruff smaller dragons. Do not test him, he will scruff all of his children.

Since Boho is a phenomenon stand that we never actually see at all, I'm picturing it as incredibly small. Small enough to fit under Ungalo's hat. It would grow a bit over time, assuming it had been given that time.

Gold Experience and Sky High would love to play together if they ever met. Sky High and his colony of rods would have a blast flying around Gold and dodging her as she snaps at them. Meanwhile, however, Under World wound think he's too good to play around and snap at his siblings if they get too close to him in their play.

Epitaph's eyes are usually closed as he rests on top of King Crimson's head until he's giving Diavolo or Doppio a vision. If Epitaph spits on you, he can give you visions too. Sorry, he gotta spit.

Stone Free is very similar to Crazy Diamond in being mostly Eastern, though her vestigial wings are a liiiittle bit bigger, making it so she actually can fly short distances.

(OC) Dream Again are triplets. One of them produces ink in a gland in his body, and he writes with his tail. The other two crawl on a person or object to read out its history. King Crimson tolerates them crawling on him, Epitaph is always snapping at them if they get too close. King Crimson's head is HIS seat.

Sticky Fingers enjoys preening his thunder, but he's not as much of a perfectionist about it as Purple Haze. Once the harness is off and Haze is allowed to preen the others, he goes ham cleaning every speck of dirt off GER.

Metallica and Sex Pistols both enjoy just letting gravity land them wherever when their thunders sleep in piles. The others will pile up, and then those two little colonies will just flop and fall. Gravity chooses one of Metallica to sleep on Grateful Dead's snoot, that is what gravity has decided.

When Beach Boy yawns, his hook fangs extend out. Be careful putting your hand near his mouth, he will accidentally hook you.

[linda-likes-to-draw]

🏴‍☠️SHIPS AHOY!🏴‍☠️

Featuring the Salt In The Wound crew!

Velehk Sain, Scuttle and Ego by @ego-osbourne

Rhytma by @inkhajiitswetrust

Kynreeveby @the-troll-of-the-bridge

Heracles by @mellowscrolls

Diana, Luce by @bostoniangirl21

Calamity by @metallic-scaled-scarf

Lorelei by @liches-covered-in-lich

Landlubber, Capsize by @bforblitz

Morale by @kiir-do-faal-rahhe

OK YEETS THIS IN YALL FACES BAIIII

[muses-inn]

Things your Muse can be identified by

colors

vibrant green | bright orange hues | warm yellows | cherry-red and pinks | generally vibrant, bold and exotic

scents

fruity perfumes | light earthy scents akin to sandalwood or vetiver | uncanny core mix of floral, fruity and spicy | metallic accents from her time inside the spaceship | usage of disinfectant before handling rare specimen

fashion

always bright and colorful | practical pants and boots for explorations | gloves | scarfs | dresses | color-matching | earrings, necklaces & bracelets | fashionable jackets | colorful overalls | unintentional strong 'Earth during its 80s' vibe

objects

Ferengi pad | binoculars | specimen tubes and jars | scales | microchips and tags | signal transmitters | infrared cameras | pH meters and water test kits | data loggers | a couple of latinum strips in her pocket | cute keychains on backpacks and bags | Ferengi science vessel | drones | acoustic monitors ¦ antivenom | science contracts and permissions | microscope

body language

confidence through broad stances | crossed arms when discontent | small pouts | articulates with her hands a lot | head tilts when confused or irritated | rolling shoulders to easen up when tensed | rolling eyes | tapping her feet when impatient | very straight posture in general (to compensate for lack of height)

aesthetics

frogs and toads | bugs | vivid and exotic flowers | bright eyeshadows | painted fingernails | large holo monitors | plants and large terrariums inside a spaceship | terrariums and vivariums in general | natural ponds | jungles | futuristic city with towers, tubes and daily rain | lots of rain in general | colorful yet cozy space ship interiors