#oc angharad

[wizardlocation]

made a convoluted and messy relationship chart a few days ago ? and i wasn't gunna post it anywhere but i keep thinking abt it so here..... !

[dragons-bones]

FFXIV Write Entry #29: Only the Good Die Young

Prompt: thanatopsis (free write) || Master Post || On AO3 (coming in October)

A/N: Sooooo you remember how I was mildly bummed at the end of last year's FFXIV Write because the prompt could not at all fit the idea I had wanted to cap the challenge off with?

This is that idea.

---

The King of Ruin was dead and it should have been a momentous, joyous day.

Instead, as news of Theodoric’s death at the hands of the Resistance spread through Ala Mhigo and its citizens began to raggedly cheer, the clouds had parted above the city, and Garlean airships had begun raining down blue fire. And while the city shook and cheering turned to screams, someone opened the Ghimlyt Gate, and the ranks of the XIVth Legion entered the city.

No matter what the Ala Mhigans did, their city would fall. Five years of the Mad King’s rule had drained Ala Mhigo of her vitality; the Resistance had broken the Corpse Brigade, but they had neither the numbers nor the experience to stand against the Black Wolf. There would be no throwing back the Garlean advance.

But every warrior and mage still capable of fighting could ensure as many people escaped as possible.

And so, Tyr Greywolfe raced through the family manor, doing a final check of each room to ensure no one was left behind.

The last of the servants, including little Synnove’s nanny and the housekeeper, had slipped away a few days ago as the tension preceding the king’s overthrow began to reach its crescendo, fleeing the city should the Resistance fail. But there was always the chance one might have returned to fetch a forgotten belonging, or that someone was trying to seek shelter as ceruleum fell from the sky and destroyed walls and homes and history. Today, at least, every room was empty.

Maybe one day they wouldn’t be.

Tyr flew down the hallways, through the entrance hall, and out of the front doors so fast that his sheathed blades slapped bruises into his thighs even with being safely strapped down. His mother’s gardens were trampled and ruined, but he doubted her ghost would mind; their widower neighbor, Walcher Steelwolfe (cadet branch of a completely unrelated House Wolfe that had long since died out), had brought his chocobo carriage, and he was soothing both frightened birds as Havardr and Father got the women and children into the back. The roar of cannons echoed overhead and the clash of swords came from the east; the Wolf’s Den was one of the neighborhoods closest to the Ghimlyt Gate, and the XIVth was trying to push further in.

“House is clear!” Tyr called out.

His goodsister was carefully moving into the back of the carriage to allow the rest of the family onboard; he saw her clutching a satchel that he knew was full of important documentation, and hoped that Isolde’s foresight wouldn’t be needed in the coming days and sennights. Faramund was lifted up after her, but Father paused briefly to pull his only grandson into a crushing hug. The boy clutched back desperately; he was just old enough to have an inkling that today might be the last time he received such a hug.

Tyr darted across the yard to join his family, heart in his throat. Faramund was now up on the edge of the carriage, but his nephew leaned over and Tyr obligingly pulled him into his own hug.

“Love you, Uncle,” Faramund choked out, voice muffled by his face in Tyr’s leathers and another cannon shot exploding just blocks away.

“Love you, too, Far,” Tyr said, pulling back and ruffling his hair, turning to the others as Faramund followed after his mother.

Eydis was right there, head at his chin, and gods, how quickly she had grown. Nearly eighteen and his spitting image: dark brown skin, deep red hair, hawk’s nose and thin lips. But her eyes were the same green as his mother’s rather than Greywolfe gold and right now, they were filling with tears. Even more than her cousin, Eydis knew.

His daughter, his only child, crashed into him, and Tyr could do nothing except hold her as tight as he could as she sobbed into his neck.

“I love you, Papa,” she said. “Please, please…”

“I love you, Eydis,” he said, hoarse with emotion. “You are the best thing I ever helped put into this world. I will always be proud of you.”

Another sob heaved through her and Tyr pressed a kiss to her temple. After long moments, they drew apart; Eydis’s eyes were red-rimmed and still streaming, but a steely determination had descended upon her.

Tyr wiped the tears off her cheeks and held her face in his hands. And then he helped her up into the carriage.

Little Synnove had already been carefully placed into the carriage bed by her father, but she stared up at him with the same huge green eyes his daughter had. Her favorite plush wolf—sewn for her by his mother—was clutched tightly under her arm, but she reached for him with the other. Tyr gathered her close, gentle as always with her even as he made his hug as fierce as possible. With her nanny gone, Synnove had slept the last few nights with himself and Angharad, tucked safely between them and even joined by Eydis as initial clashes between the Corpse Brigade and the Resistance had echoed through the streets. But his niece had always been one of the bright spots of his life and she had always been frightfully smart; her solemnity now would be unusual on any other five-year old.

“Love you very much, Synnove-cub,” he whispered to her. “Be good for your ma and da and aunt.”

“Love you, Unca Tyr,” she lisped, then drew away to be scooped up into Eydis’s arms.

Angharad was next to him now, and Tyr took a moment to drink in the sight of his wife.

Strong shoulders and straight spine and light steps, trained in Gyr Abanian dance, Angharad was grace personified. Her chestnut hair had a few stray greys hiding at the temples and her dark eyes, normally laughing and bright, regarded him now with resigned grief.

His wife reached for him and Tyr took her hands in his, raising them to his lips to kiss the knuckles of the right, then the left, and then Angharad lunged forward.

Their kiss was messy, and desperate, and tasted faintly of the salt that Angharad had cried earlier but refused to let fall now. Twenty years of passion and love and joys and sorrows and mistakes and triumphs; Tyr tried to put it all into the kiss, arms tight around her waist even as her hands stroked through his hair. When they drew apart at last, they rested their foreheads together and stared into one another’s eyes.

“I will love you long after the stars grow cold,” Tyr said to the love of his life.

“And I will love you even when the memory of stars is gone from creation,” Angharad said thickly, finishing the familiar refrain.

Tyr put his hands on her waist and lifted her up into the carriage bed, as easy as when he had lifted her onto the stage for their first dance at their wedding. Angharad cupped his face in her hands, staring at him with the same solemnity has Synnove had as she memorized him. Then she dropped her hands, and stepped backwards to sit at the back and gather up the girls to her.

Walcher had hopped up into the driver’s seat and just in time—dropships roared overhead, and through the estate gate, Tyr saw a group of Resistance fighters pelt full tilt down the street towards the eastern barricades. Walcher slapped the reins, and the kwehing chocobos dutifully began to draw the carriage across the lawn and through the open gates. Tyr, Havardr, and Father followed after, Havardr just a few steps ahead.

Tyr felt eyes on him, and canted his head to the side. Ivar Greywolfe looked at him, golden eyes worn but determined. He flicked his gaze towards his younger son.

Tyr nodded.

As the carriage cleared the gate, Walcher guiding the chocobos to head west, Havardr began to turn east. That was when Tyr and Father grabbed him by either arm, and hauled him towards the carriage.

“No!” Havardr shouted, loud even over the battle raging down the street and throughout the rest of the city, bucking and struggling against their holds. “No, no, don’t you dare make me leave you behind, don’t you dare—”

Tyr managed to wrestled his brother’s arms behind him even as Father let go to grab either side of Havardr’s head. “Someone has to protect the rest of the family!” he yelled, pitching his voice over the explosion of yet another ceruleum cannon. “That’s your job now, Havardr! You have to keep them safe, for me and for Tyr!”

Havardr sobbed as Father pressed a kiss to his forehead. Tyr let him go, and then he and Father were engulfing his brother into a fierce three-way hug. Havardr clutched at them, hands scrabbling for purchase on their leathers, gasping out, “I love you I love you I’m sorry I love you—”

“Love you, too, brother mine,” Tyr said. And then he and Father picked Havardr up and threw him into the carriage.

“Walcher, GO!” Father roared, turning to bolt down the street to shore up the defensive line at the end of the street. Tyr ran after him, drawing his swords as he did.

One of the mages had brought down one of the buildings to create a barricade, but Garlean reapers had joined the fray and their cannons were making quick, awful work of the stone. Bladedancers clashed with conscripts, swords clanking loudly against shields, knuckledancers wove through the melee to disable enemy combatants, a firedancer was standing atop the rubble to aim her destructive magicks at the backlines of the advancing enemy. Tyr and his father crashed into the Garleans, swords sweeping through their foes and blood flowing. They hadn’t been with the Resistance when they stormed the palace, their job to put down any Corpse Brigade curs should they begin attacking civilians in the city, and thus they were fresh, their stamina still high.

The heavy whirr of machina echoed down the street, and another reaper fired its cannon. The blast partially hit both the downed building and the street, and for a moment, Ala Mhigans and Garleans alike were unbalanced as the force of the blast shook the block. Tyr reached out to stabilize his father, eyes forward, and saw one of the backline officers raise their gunblade—

Tyr Greywolfe never felt the bullet.

[maxahlia]

The Fool Angharad for Fang Fest

[tentacleteapot]

here, have some of my half-orcs dressed in modern clothes!

Perilandre is a half-orc, half-tiefling thaumaturge who studies esoteric magic as she tries to track down her demonic mother, Garda is a half-orc sorcerer who was exiled from her warlord father's clan after messing with his magical artifacts turned her right arm red and gave her fire magic, and Angharad is a half-orc fighter and aspiring knight-errant, formerly the squire of a famous dwarven knight! they are doing their best. probably. well, Garda isn't, but don't worry about it.

[elqctra]

[original-character-championship]

Bracket C Round 1

Poll 13

Angharad Brosca (@rlainarin) vs. Arya Velorë (@panek-at-the-disco)

153. Angharad Brosca (@rlainarin)

He/Him

tldr: he's gay ginger dwarf Jesus

5'0 twunk with long curly auburn hair, a short beard, and big dark brown doe eyes

154. Arya Velorë (@panek-at-the-disco)

she/her

Arya should win because she is a very kind and caring alchemist who is starting to learn magic from one of her friends. She was originally a human from a city that was stuck in a time-loop repeating the same day for nearly three years before escaping to try and find someone to help. When she returned to help free her home, her soul was split and half of her was sent back in time to become one of the reoccurring minor antagonists while the other half remained in the present and placed herself into her new clockwork body so she is strong enough that she won't be hurt like that again. Everyone who loves cute blorbos with ~trauma~ who will do anything for her friends (including betraying them) will love her <3

She has a clockwork body made out of brass and ivory with the cylinder of a music box in the center of her body. She has long red hair and purple and green eyes. Her clothes are technically part of her body, but she wears a long cloak with fluff lining the end of it and several pockets sewn into the inside of it. In combat she carries a clockwork staff made of a music box cylinder, a small pair of wings, and an amethyst to power it.

Art by baerryjj on tumblr (commission)

[galpalaven]

Dragon Age OCs in this picrew!

DA:O -> Kira Cousland | Theodora Tabris | Isra Mahariel

DA:2 -> Kohava Hawke | Angharad

DA:O + DA:I -> Nadia Surana

[m-m-m-myysurana]

A gentle kiss from Elior Surana to Angharad Brosca (my beloved dwarf Jesus) 🙏

Angharad belongs to @rlainarin and is a particular blorbo of mine 😌

[protoformx]

Making that uquiz made me realize I have no good drawings of Adelrik that r recent because his design has shifted quite a bit kjdnsgkjnskgjn

[kmnchii]

one of my favorite girls ever; my oc angharad

she's a river nymph who doesnt really remember all that much about where she came from

[tentacleteapot]

THESE ARE SO CUTE I’M GONNA CRY AND THROW UP I LOVE THEM!!!

Using pride month as an excuse to make my wife @tentacleteapot a pwesent ^u^

We love making OCs together, and understandably, a lot of them ended up being couples.

So here's some art of them all being goddamn lesbians 🧡🤍🩷

[dragons-bones]

FFXIV Write Entry #11: Maternal Instinct

Prompt: surrogate || Master Post || On AO3

A/N: This one is likely to get a rework or big expansion come my October edits, as I've got Covid and am not operating at full capacity. But I wrote something, and that's what matters!

---

Synnove will never tell a soul, but there have been multiple times in her life where she nearly slipped and called her Aunt Angharad, “Mama.”

It’s not that Auntie didn’t deserve the title; far from it. In every way except blood, Angharad Greywolfe has been her mother.

Ensured she had food in her belly, even during their poorest days in Ul’dah? Auntie.

Comforted her after her nightmares of the Fall of Ala Mhigo, and her grandfather and uncle dying, even as she was still processing her own grief? Auntie.

Snuck her sweets and slices of cake, or made sure dinner included some of her favorite foods, once gil was more plentiful? Auntie.

Sewed Synnove trousers and shirts in which she could run around Ul’dah with Rere and Heron? Auntie.

Fought to get Synnove her own mathematics tutor once Rere’s had mentioned her aptitude for numbers, despite Isolde’s recalcitrance? Auntie.

Encouraged her to apply to the Arcanists’ Guild, celebrated with her upon her acceptance, helped her pack, and saw her off at Vesper Bay?

Hugged her after her screaming row with Isolde and made sure Isolde wouldn’t touch what remained of her things in a fit of pique once Synnove fled for Rere’s for the rest of her autumn break? Auntie.

Always, always, always it was Auntie.

Even in her fuzzy memories of Ala Mhigo, when a nanny had been her primary caretaker, it was always Grandfather, and Uncle Tyr, and Auntie who were the ones showering her with affection.

Aunt Angharad was the model by which Synnove operated when treating her youngest students or the carbuncles, but most especially little Amandina and Roksana. Everything Synnove knew about cooking and baking had been learned at her Auntie’s knee, serving as her obedient kitchen helper before they got into laughing flour fights. And what she had decided she wanted from romance—when the idle thought broke through the never-ending arcanima equations—could all be sourced back to what Auntie had told her of her marriage to Uncle Tyr.

And yet, Synnove hesitated. She was fairly certain Auntie wouldn’t mind, but the small, wary voice at the back of her mind that belonged to the little girl bowed beneath the yoke of her birth mother’s ambitions, always cautioned no. That little voice hissed of the unfairness of being saddled with another small child to raise in the depths of her mourning. Doubted the sincerity of yet one more adult.

Synnove was likely making this far more complicated than it should be. She did, after all, have a terrible habit of doing so. But she still hesitated.

Even though in her heart of hearts that while Isolde Greywolfe was her mother, Angharad Greywolfe was mama.

[maxahlia]

Did I minor redesign of my first ever vtm character and changed her name from Angelica to Angharad.

[tommycorriander]

My Tarnished OC, Morgan. I'm so normal about him

He likes Morgott (whom he only knows as Margit) a normal amount (lying). More under the cut, they're memes and a bit of rambling but they make me smile sooooo big 😁

This last image is based on the hypothetical idea of Morgan, being someone who's goal is to unite all the races of the Lands Between, attempting (and failing) to convince Mohg's Dynasty to be on board with the liberal 'peace and love' message he's got going on. I don't think he would get very far. (I am aware the dialogue of the Sanguine Noble may not be lore accurate, tis for the funny)

Additionally, if you care to read this far, I have two other Elden Ring OCs, an Omen child named Angharad and an old Tarnished woman named Evelyn. Mayhaps I will post about them as well 🔥

Questions about Morgan, Angharad, and Evelyn are appreciated, I'd also be down to talk about my headcanons and the fanfiction I'm writing about them in the meanwhile.

[wickedsnack]

she's sooooo prettyyyyyyyy

gonna promote lae'zel to a red dragon rider if you know what i mean

[achillean-knight]

Nothing fandom-orientated, but I bestow upon yee my character Angharad JKHJSDGDS

I've been having so much bloody fun doing pixel art/sprite work, that I might just do more for my oc story + my undertale ocs HEHEHEHE