#oc: minovae arangeir

[silversiren1101]

Like the old adage of an unstoppable spear and impenetrable shield

[Absolutely adorable sketch page comm from @germanich thank you so much! I adore it!!]

[sadruru]

It's sad that only one person responded 🥲

So... I filled the last two spots myself.

Hold your daughter @kafkaesqxe 🤍

The next one was just the first one I saw 🤫:

@arendaes 🧡

@silversiren1101 💙

I'm having deadly "fun" at work...

But I've gotten better at drawing with pencil!

[offsidekineticist]

I (finally!) finished my first OC Kiss Week fic! A little familial bonding between Theoven and @silversiren1101's wonderful OC Minovae for the prompt "Lost."

CW: Grief-driven depressive episode, implied child death, referenced chronic pain, reference to an angry outburst resulting in violence against furniture

You were not expecting visitors, so it takes you a moment to get to the door. The second it swings open, you are blinded with an explosion of sunlight shining past the silhouette in the door. Wincing, you raise an aching hand to block the sunlight from your eyes, but it’s no good. Even if you weren’t blinded by the flaming ball of gas in the sky, you haven’t been able to find your glasses since you threw them at the wall in frustration about ten minutes ago.

“Agh–damn. Sorry. I left my glasses inside–who is this?” you ask.

“It’s Minovae,” the figure replies, and you’re at once confused, concerned, and horrified. Confused, because ever since you reconnected with your brother, Gilly has been adamant that he not be allowed to know where you live, lest he and his wife tell the Order of the Rack where you are. You pushed back by pointing out–several times–that the Rack could probably find you on their own, given that you live in the apartment above Gilly’s alchemy shop; his name is literally written on the side of the building. Nevertheless, Gilly was insistent, and everyone involved thought it better to humor him than waste time arguing. For Minovae to be here, either he finally caved or–and this is the source of your concern–something has gone very, very wrong.

On the other hand, you are horrified because you stayed home for a reason! You are not in any state to be seen today, especially not by Regill or his wife. Your hair is unwashed and clumped together from greasiness; you haven’t shaved in days; you probably smell awful; and you don’t even have the energy to bother with proper facial expressions. You’ve been absolutely miserable to be around the past few days, constantly holding yourself back from snapping at people, including the kids (thankfully you haven’t slipped–yet), and so you chose to spare everyone that experience. Let Gilly take the children to a picnic with Aunt Mino and Uncle Regill. Give your family a break from walking on eggshells around you. Nobody was supposed to come to your house in the middle of your temper tantrum.

“Is everything alright?” you ask.

“Oh, yeah, everything’s fine. Giliys just found these in his pocket and thought you’d need them. I volunteered to bring them so he wouldn’t have to cut the outing short.”

‘These’ were a pair of black fingerless gloves she was holding out close enough for you to see. The very gloves you’ve been raging about not being able to find. You remember now–Gilly had dragged you out of the apartment for a walk a few hours before the heatwave finally broke, so it felt too hot to keep the gloves on. The children had taken your bag at the time, and your usual clothes don’t have pockets, so you gave the gloves to Gilly for safekeeping.

It would have been nice of him to remember that before he–

You cut off the thought. You’re being unfair again. It was an honest mistake, one that he immediately took steps to rectify. You would have preferred Minovae not see you in this state, but you know Gilly doesn’t trust her or Regill enough to leave the children alone with them, and you’d rather suffer a little embarrassment than cut short the children’s fun.

(Though you’re not sure that leaving Regill and Gilly together unsupervised was a good idea. Hopefully Harper will be able to keep them in line–your daughter has them both wrapped around her finger)

You reach out with a shaky hand and take the gloves. “Well, thank you. I appreciate it. I won’t keep you any longer, then. I’m sure you’re eager to return to the picnic.” You begin to close the door, but Minovae’s arm shoots forward and holds it open.

“Actually, it was a pretty long walk here from Kite Hill. No shade the whole way, and I forgot to grab a waterskin. Could I come in and sit down for a second? Maybe get a drink of water?”

She expects you to believe that she’s tired and thirsty after walking–without armor–for less than two miles in pleasantly warm weather. You want to slam the door on her arm for her obvious excuse to stay here any longer, but that would be rude. You step back into the apartment and gesture for her to enter. You almost close the door on her tail because you can’t see it without your glasses, but it (thankfully) springs forward at the last second and (less thankfully) almost slaps you in the face. It takes your eyes a moment to readjust to the darkness in the apartment–you’ve closed the curtains trying to reproduce the heat of the last week to stop your hands from aching–but your heart sinks when they do. This floor of the apartment is a single room, with a kitchen and dining area in the half nearest the door and a den area in the other half. Minovae is staring at what used to be the den. You can’t see it very well, of course, but you don’t need to be able to see it to know what she’s looking a: chairs overturned, books strewn across the floor, a bookshelf on its side, broken glass scattered by a pile of copper pieces, toy blocks spread across the floor. You know it’s all there without having to see it because you’re the person who made it like that.

“Oh. Yes.” You pause as you consider how to explain, and settle for understatement. “I was a bit overzealous while looking for my gloves. I was going to clean that up before anyone came home, but…” you gesture towards her. “Anyway, you wanted water.”

“Ah, yes, that would be lovely. Is it alright if I sit here?” You think she’s pointing at the dinner table, but she could be pointing at the bookshelf you knocked over. You don’t care which it is.

“Oh, that’s fine,” you say, moving towards the sink and taking a glass from the counter to fill it. When you turn around, a full glass in your aching hand, Minovae–or at least a large blob you assume is Minovae–is, indeed, sitting at the kitchen table. It’s a comical sight once you come closer. You have furnished your apartment with furniture made for smallfolk, so she is sitting in a chair too small for her, her knees poking above the top of the table. “Here you are,” you say, sliding the glass towards her before retreating to the wall opposite her.

“Thank you,” she says, taking the glass and taking a long sip. “Oh, that’s nice after a long walk.”

You stare at her flatly. You’re fairly sure she invited herself in because she found your appearance concerning. Now that she’s probably even more concerned, you’re morbidly curious as to what excuse she’ll make for why she still can’t leave.

“So, you did all that just since Giliys left with the kids?” Minovae asks, gesturing towards the den.

Ah, so she’s dispensing with subtlety entirely. Then you can do so, as well. “Despite my appearance, I am not so senile as to need a minder. You should go back to enjoying the day with your family.”

“You’re my family, too. And…” she hesitates “...I’m worried about you.”

“Because my face is blank,” you say. There are other reasons, you’re sure–your appearance, the den, your missing glasses, your absence from the picnic–but you’re not willing to discuss any of them, so you ignore them.  “Believe it or not, this is my natural level of expression. After the bleaching, my emotions became…muted, but also disconnected. My face doesn’t naturally express much emotion. People find that unsettling, of course, so I learned to put on a face for them. Best not lend any credence to the idea I didn’t have emotions anymore.”

“Don’t tell me people believe that nonsense!” she exclaims in disbelief.

“One of my childhood best friends became completely hostile towards me because she believed it. Tried to get me fired several times. Even tried to steal Qweck away from me once,” you say, and while she does a good job of keeping it from her face, the way her tail is squirming in agitation tells you she’s furious on your behalf. 

“So you learned to put on an act for them, because otherwise they would treat you like a pariah,” Minovae says, and you think you hear a note of bitter sympathy as she does.

“It’s not exactly an act–I think of it more like speaking a foreign language. My thoughts are in my native tongue, but my native tongue won’t be understood. So instead I speak as the locals do. Through facial expressions.” You briefly put on a wry, if somewhat melancholic, smile before again dropping the mask. “I just don’t have the energy today, I’m afraid. The change in the weather aggravated my hands. Better I stay home and rest for the day.”

“It’s not just today, though, is it?” she asks with a gentleness that feels patronizing. “You’ve been feeling…off…for awhile. Mayhew let me look at his sketchbook. And I accidentally saw–”

“His artistic impression of his father moping at the kitchen table,” you say, and you are glad she can’t see how exposed you feel by that.

Mayhew’s style is unusual, especially for a child of his mental age. He senses people’s emotions as naturally as you hear sounds, and that colors the way he sees the world to such an extent that “realism” to him means conveying feelings even at the expense of physical form. He usually does this through his use of color, choosing colors based on the mood. Mayhew’s most recent portrait of you, however, was more than just a recolored portrait. He drew your face, shattered and distorted like a broken mirror, against a dark red background, with black seeping through the cracks in your face like some kind of anti-light.

“He said that he made it to show you that your feelings are lying to you,” she continues.

“Did he now?”

Of course he did. Mayhew is a child–your child–and he’s idolized you since the day you met. Gilly calls him Junie–short for Theo, Jr–and it’s not just because of the resemblances in your coloration and mannerisms. Mayhew thinks the world of you, dreams of being like you, and this is the time of year when you remember just how unworthy you are of his esteem. Of course he thinks your feelings are lying. 

You hadn’t realized that was what he was trying to show you, though. It felt like a very correct portrait to you, so you had assumed he finally saw through you.

“He’s worried about you,” Minovae says. You lean back against the wall with a soft sigh through your nose.

“I know. I know he is.”

“I’m worried about you.”

“Well, stop that,” you say, almost immediately kicking yourself for it. She isn’t used to deadpan Theoven. “That was a joke,” you clarify.

“I’m serious. You don’t seem alright.”

You close your eyes, bracing yourself. Clearly, she isn’t going to leave until you've given her some kind of explanation. You choose your words carefully before you open your eyes and speak. “It’s nothing permanent. It’s just a few bad days–entirely expected. It should subside sometime next week. Anniversaries of mistakes prompt reflection. And reflection is not always a nice experience.” You force a friendly smile to cap off the reassurance. “But I’m sure you don’t want to hear about that.”

“I want you to be alright.”

“My dear, you are several years too late for that.” You can’t see her expression from where you’re standing, but the lack of reaction tells you the joke fell flat. “That was also a joke,” you clarify.

“One that you believe.”

“Of course. Those are the best kinds of jokes.” 

She sighs heavily. “Just…is there something I can do?”

You shake your head. “No. It is too late for anything to be done. I checked. It can’t be helped now.”

“I meant to help you.”

“I know.” Because what else could help you? You are like this because you are guilty. The only way to get rid of the guilt is to pluck out its source–and that can’t be done.

“Are you sure nothing can be done? I’m willing to help–there are things I can do that most can’t.”

“Yes, things such as running the first successful Mendevian Crusade in decades, closing the worldwound, and convincing my brother to marry. But even the great Knight-Commander herself can’t resurrect a soul that’s already been judged.” The bitter words slip out before you can stop them. You stop to center yourself before–

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Do not patronize me!” you snap, and you immediately regret it. You close your eyes and breathe in deeply. Balance, you remind yourself. She is tearing open old wounds. She is trying to help. Both can be true. Both are true. Let that guide your words. “I’m sorry. That was rude. And uncalled for. I just…I don’t like that phrase. It…” 

You search for words to explain safely, but can find none. There is no safe way to explain the way it grates for other people to apologize to you for a loss that is entirely your fault. 

“Would you like to talk about it?” she asks.

“No.” Of course you don’t want to talk about it–you haven’t even told Gilly about it. He assumes this annual pity-party is about your arrest. He’s right, partly. It’s just that it’s not the arrest itself that haunts you.

Leave Mister Theo alone!

Minovae doesn’t hear the cry echoing through the years. She only hears the silence that rings after you say no. Perhaps now she’ll understand that you want her to leave.

“You’re going to need help if you’re going to clean this mess up before Giliys and the kids get home.”

“By the gods, do you ever stop?” you demand, fixing her with an exhausted glare. “What do I have to say to make you go? Are you going to stay until I tell you about her? Is that it? Gilly gave you our address, so now you’re entitled to see me bare my soul to–” you cut yourself off. You’re putting words into her mouth, expecting her to read your mind and know you want her to leave when you haven’t told her that’s what you want. “I’m sorry. That was unfair of me. What I’m trying to say is that I need to be alone today.”

She doesn't answer right away, seemingly needing a minute to deal with the whiplash of your outburst and immediate apology. You can’t blame her. 

“Would it be alright for me to clean up while you rest?” she finally asks.

You stare at her, trying to search her face for sincerity but unable to make out her facial expressions without your glasses. She seems to have gotten her tail back under control, so the only clue you’ll get to her intentions (without squinting and moving closer like an old man in the comedies, at least) is her tone. “Why?”

“Because Mayhew is worried about you, and I think coming home to something like this will make it worse. And I don’t think you’ll be able to do it by yourself in the state you’re in.”

She’s right. She’s absolutely right. You’re a mess, and it’s hurting the children, and you can’t fix it yourself. And even if being alone is what you want, it’s not what’s best for your children.

Maybe it’s not even best for you.

You lean your head back against the wall and do your best to swallow the lump in your throat. “I’m sorry,” you finally say. “You shouldn’t have to spend your day off cleaning up after me. This is why I didn’t go today–none of you should have to put up with this. Especially not without warning.” 

She gets up from her comically undersized chair and approaches you. She’s short for tallfolk, but you’re so small that she still towers over you. She puts her hands on your shoulders and looks down at you with an expression of earnest care.

“I understand if you didn’t have the energy, or if you didn’t want to be seen like this. But if it’s for our sakes, I think both Regill and I would rather that you let us help you.” She hesitates, and then says “I would rather that you let me help you.”

You don’t want that. You don’t want to be a burden. But you also know that mentality isn’t healthy–and how many times have your attempts not to be a burden hurt the people you were afraid of inconveniencing? You take a long, deep breath and remind yourself: when you feel the urge to do something self-destructive, do the opposite. 

You bow your head, staring at the floor. “I think I will work on the mess. I don’t think lying in bed will help me much.” You have to fight yourself to get the next words out. “If you…want to help…I would appreciate it. Just…” you pause, wanting to make sure you say the right words, wanting to be fair but firm. You raise your head, looking her in the eye as you speak. “Do not ask me about it anymore. I don’t want to discuss it.”

She leans over and kisses you on the crown of your head. “I understand. I’m sorry for pushing.”

You take another breath. Breathe. “You were–are–worried. I can’t hold that against you.” You turn your head towards the mess of blurry shapes that used to be the den. “You know, without my glasses, it looks much less intimidating from here. We should consider cleaning from here. And if we find my glasses it might be effective to re-lose them. It may be easier.”

There’s a moment of silence, and for the third time you’re kicking yourself for forgetting she’s not used to picking your jokes out from the rest of your words without tone markers. You’re about to clarify–“that was a joke”–when she snorts.

She isn’t fluent in your native tongue, but you think she might be learning–and that means everything.

[silversiren1101]

Somewhere in the background, Woljif is running a betting pool and getting richer by the minute skimming a cut off the top :)

[Thank you again! Mino and Rosa look amazing!]

Minovae arm wrestling Rosa with an audience comm!

Thank you @silversiren1101 !!

[silversiren1101]

The grief among those that had served her during the Fifth Crusade was stirring when the Knight Commander announced she would be leaving them, now that the war had been won. Truthfully, she couldn't bear to tell them the truth.

Her mind was already some place far, far warmer and sunnier than dreary Drezen and the frigid Sarkoris wastes she was sick of.

[Comm from @darkergrey !! Of a very happy ganzi back in the sun and sand where she belongs and stunningly shiny scales to match!]

[offsidekineticist]

💎💎💎 Qweck for Mino? Since Giliys and Theo did theirs before!

I owe you a massive thank you for this one because this is how I learned Qweck, Servant of Irori on the Path to Perfection, has a very hard time not causing a scene when someone she respects has Wrong Opinions at a family gathering, and I love that flaw so much.

Qweck sighs. "Did Giliys put you up to this? Nevermind. Look. I like Mino - no, really, I do. She is disciplined and passionate and generally follows her conscience. Generally. And of course I respect her refusal to cling to unearned abyssal power, regardless of how the situation ended. But we can't seem to have a conversation without arguing. I think it's because we seem to have similar values, but we actually disagree fundamentally on some very key points of our respective worldviews. So one of us will say something assuming it's uncontroversial, and then the other will disagree vehemently, and then it just devolves from there.

"An example? Well, she made a comment once about the ultimate 'self-obsolescence' of the hellknights. The hellknights, she claims, are ultimately working for a world where they're unnecessary, and will disband once that world is achieved. I think that's nonsense - institutions like the hellknights are self-perpetuating, not self-obsolescent - but of course I had the good sense not to say so. Instead I just said that world she envisions isn't achievable as long as the hellknights continue perpetuating the cycles of violence that make her feel their existence is necessary. From there it turned into an argument about what hellknights actually do and whether caring for the foundlings they indoctrinate and groom for recruitment outweighs routinely employing torture, slavery, and terror tactics to achieve their ends." She clears her throat. "Just to be clear: I did not know she had ever worked with foundlings at that point, and I would never have pressed the point so hard if I had. We've had other disagreements, but I think you get the idea.

"It's unfortunate - like I said, I like her. I have tremendous respect for anyone who has the wisdom not to cling to unearned power, and the fact that she was able to recover from her ordeal with the demons while also running a crusade - I am a cleric of Irori. Of course I admire the strength of will that took. Unfortunately neither of us shy away from speaking our minds, and our minds are apparently ideologically opposed."

[silversiren1101]

What other choice do you have but to keep marching forward?

[Skeb comm from @itsbaydews - thank you]

[silversiren1101]

All that armor and so little to protect her heart 💙💜💚

Thank you so much again!!! This came out so perfect I blush every damn time!

commission!!

[dujour13]

A Health to the Company

A little follow-up on our pwotr pals discord RP. Many many thanks to @yunessa for the idea, it was super fun and helped me out of the blues.

cw: Act IV spoilers, alcohol use, angst

For context. A spatio-temporal anomaly at the Bad Luck Tavern resulted in a paradoxical meeting of a handful of Knight-Commanders from different timelines: Siavash, Yunessa (@yunessa), Katya (@three-of-crows) , Lenarius/Leonosa (@undyingembers), Raphaël (@jean-dieu)

Theoven (@offsidekineticist), Kadira (@spyridonya), and Minovae (@silversiren1101).

They gossiped about their companions, shared their hopes and fears—although mostly their angst as this period of exile in the Abyss is a low point in their careers—and bonded (and argued) over a few—or a few too many—beers.

---

“Seelah!” It’s meant to be a whisper. “Hey Seelah, wake up.”

“Hunh? What’s happening?” The paladin sits bolt upright in her bedroll and gropes about for Radiance.

“No no no, sh, it’s just me,” Siavash laughs, stumbling into a squat next to her, even in this position somehow managing to sway on his feet. “I’m uh. I could use your help.”

“Have you been drinking?”

“I’m fine.”

“Yeah… I can see that. Smell that.”

“You won’t believe who I met at the Bad Luck. It was some kind of temp—temporal thing. They were all there. They were all different! And the same!”

“Hold on. Just—sit down, will you?”

“Thanks, yeah.” He plops down heavily.

“Despite what you might think, this is not what the Inheritor lends me her power for.”

“Yes it is.”

She rolls her eyes heavenward.

He reaches out to cling to her sleeve, eyes swimming with sincerity. “Because you have a good heart. And Iomedae says to follow your heart. And your heart says you need to hit me up with some restoration before Wol—“

Too late.

“Whatcha doin’ chief?”

“I’m fine.”

The tiefling stands over them, tail twitching. Somehow, half the camp is awake now even though Siavash swears he was quiet as a mouse when he crept back into the Nexus.

He is formulating his act of contrition as his eyes travel up but he’s suddenly distracted by how cute Woljif looks in his nightshirt and forgets what he was going to say. And then Seelah’s spell takes effect and it’s like letting all the warm bathwater drain out of his mind, leaving him heavy and shivering on the cold floor of the Nexus mine.

“I thought we were on the same sleep rotation,” says Woljif.

“We are. I just went out for a bit.” Siavash uses Seelah’s shoulder to get to his feet, giving it a squeeze of thanks as he goes to wash up. A few minutes later he’s scooting his bedroll alongside Woljif’s and when he closes his eyes the floor is blessedly stationary. Again he begins formulating his apology. “I just needed some time to think. I mean, a distraction. I do my best thinking when I don’t think.”

As usual, Woljif’s mind is already ten paces ahead. He’s figured out what happened, weighed the risks considering the recent Battlebliss incident, repressed any uncomfortable memories pertaining to alcohol and Gran, and debated whether and how to scold him. “It ain’t safe. Next time take somebody with who won’t hassle you. Take Regill, he won’t talk to you.”

“Oh, yes he will,” Siavash says with feeling.

“Or me. I can keep my trap shut.”

“I don’t mind you.” His heart aches but he can’t tell him he and his shadow are the principal reason he needed the break. Before Woljif can wonder aloud why he didn’t invite him along in the first place, Siavash brushes his cheek with his knuckles and speaks low in his ear, just under his horn. “How are you holding up? Really?”

“I thought Kenabres was bad, and then I saw the Worldwound, and I thought that was bad, and now this. I think my nightmares are gonna start havin’ nightmares.” Woljif sighs, then adds in a tender, embarrassed whisper, “But havin’ you around takes the edge off.”

“Same.” Siavash kisses his shoulder. “I won’t duck out again, I promise.” Even as the words leave his lips he winces at echoes of the same words, uttered too many times in the past, and hastily adds, “I mean it.”

Woljif’s eyes look almost green in the pale light, wide open and searching the vault of the mine far above. “S’aright. You do what you gotta do, chief. Always works out in the end. Or, usually I guess.”

“Thanks for trusting me,” he murmurs, already drifting. He closes his eyes, never noticing the inky pool of darkness that settles between them.

Woljif lies utterly still until he hears the breathing at his side ease into a low rhythm. At last he relaxes just enough to allow his tail to swish beneath the blankets. He clasps his hands on his chest as if he’s praying, or dead, and stares up into the darkness knowing he won’t be getting back to sleep tonight. Waiting and dreading… and presently, like clockwork, it begins: a velvety hiss in his right ear, making him scrunch up his shoulders:

Trust no one but yourself.

A thousand thoughts crowd in in answer: but I want to – but I love him – but he’ll live up to it this time – but I don’t want to be alone.

You’re not alone. I’m here. And I won’t hurt you like everyone else has.

What are you, anyway?

Your shadow.

With a fingernail he taps the gem in the Moon of the Abyss where it’s lodged in the dip in his collarbone. You in here?

It hesitates. I’m part of you.

And that’s how come you’re lookin’ out for me huh? Vested interest?

Correct. That’s why you can trust me: I am you.

That’s a little creepy.

Next to him, Siavash sighs through his nose and shifts. Impulsively Woljif starts to reach over just so his fingertips can steal a little warmth from his skin, but as his hand passes through the shadow it feels cold and he pulls it back and tucks it into his own armpit instead.

I am part of you, and you’ve come home to me.

The Abyss? That what you mean by home?

Home and family. Your legacy, if you have the courage to take what is yours.

Really? What’s mine? Quit talkin’ in riddles and gimme some numbers.

The mansion in the rich quarter I pointed out to you, and everything it contains, and everything it represents.

But I want—that’s not all I want.

He glances over. In the dying firelight all he sees of Siavash is the faint orange outline of his mussed hair and half-elven ear and it feels like if he reached over to touch him, it would turn out to be a mirage and his hand would pass through thin air.

Get used to disappointment. You should have, by now.

But I want—

Forget him. You’ll have to someday anyway. Might as well start now.

I don’t want to! Why can’t I have it all? How come just ‘cause I’m a tiefling I always gotta go hungry?

Oh, stop whining. Yes, you’re a tiefling! Seize the Abyss within you and use it like you use magic—shape it to your own design, dominate it, direct it against your enemies and fill yourself with its power so that you become smoke and shadow, elusive and free. Reach out with both hands! Take what is yours, by right or not!

Whoa, whoa, waxin’ a touch demonic there, ain’t we?

I am part of you. I am the Abyss.

Woljif shudders and pulls the blankets up to his chin.

Use me. That’s the only way for someone like you to take what you are owed.

Someone like me.

He grits his teeth as it starts: the prickling under his collarbone where the necklace rests, rivulets of icy blue fire streaming down his arms to his fingertips, sizzling in his hands, boiling in his guts, making his hair stand on end, making him want to jump up and let loose: power.

His thrashing must have disturbed Siavash’s slumber, because he feels an arm tossed across his hitching ribs. Its warm weight soothes the energy crawling under his skin and forces him to breathe steadily.

Woljif clings to the arm and presses it harder to his chest.

I want it to be real.

Only power is real.

I want someone to really think I’m… important.

Come to me. I’ll give you something real you can hold in your hands. Something yours and no one else’s, that you are free to use as you see fit. Then you’ll be important.

The firelight dies. He can no longer make out even a dim silhouette by his side in the darkness; it’s as if he’s alone in this lifeless, cavernous Abyssal mine and if he reaches out no one will be there but his shadow, seething around him, keeping him safe—and keeping everyone away.

Maybe the Abyss is the only home someone like him can hope for.

Even before he opens his eyes Siavash reaches out for the warm body next to him and his palm slaps on cold, flat stone instead. He’s alone, he’s still in the Abyss, and he’s hung over. A dull hammer thuds behind his eyeballs. Seelah’s restoration took care of most of the consequences of his actions, but not all—probably by the paladin’s design.

Hesitantly he opens one eye and then the other, and is grateful to find that Woljif hasn’t disappeared after all. He’s kneeling over him, carefully draping a cool cloth across his forehead. “Y’aright there, chief?”

Siavash’s eyes widen as he turns to stare at him. “I had the strangest dream.”

He can’t tell anyone. They’ll all think he’s cracked once and for all. Other Knight-Commanders from different timelines? Imaginary friends?

Why does that remind him of Regill?

[zazrichor]

OC Minovae Arangeir for @silversiren1101 ✨

[silversiren1101]

My favorite girlie in the style of my favorite game - so excited for Okami coming back!! I can just imagine the feather tail covered in ink 💗

[Comm by Byakkotea on kofi! AKA kaienma]

[silversiren1101]

The Survivor (Neutral Good, Constitution) represents a person who has been through an ordeal of some kind. Surrounded by his fallen comrades, the figure represents someone or something thought lost forever, but found once more. It can also represent rebirth.

Minovae- she's so cool!! Not my character but I love her design!

[arrow-alrakis]

A thank you gift for @silversiren1101 !

Mino is special to me, if not for you and her I might still not have an active Tumblr account, and wouldn't know we have such an amazing community! I'm grateful to be here and have all of you as friends! Thank you! ^^

[dujour13]

OC Kiss Week - day 1

This one goes out to my friend @silversiren1101 featuring her OC, my dearest Hellknight, Minovae Arangeir 💜

“So you’re the one who taught Woljif to dance.”

Siavash is a competent but infuriatingly unpredictable dance partner. Minovae corrects smoothly by counterbalancing with her tail, wondering if he’s being even more infuriating than usual just because he’s aware of the weight of Regill’s leaden gaze following them across the ballroom floor.

“Woljif’s a quick study,” she says proudly.

“That’s for sure.” The suggestion in his voice makes her laugh.

By his sudden step back and raised arm she guesses he must be giving her a twirl, and takes him up on it. Her skirt flares out, sparkling in the light of chandeliers. Now it is she who is aware of Regill’s gaze.

“And I think by teaching him to dance you kept him alive,” Siavash says into her ear as they come together again, bodies not quite touching.

“I hoped it would help. Close quarters scared him.”

He nods silently as they sashay in tandem to the music, and she realizes he’s tongue-tied because he’s becoming emotional. Only she can see the moisture in his eyes.

“I owe you,” he whispers.

And she finds herself bent back, overwhelmed by his height and the suddenness of the movement. He pulls her into his arms and lays his cheek against hers.

“What are you—”

Then Mino realizes. From Regill’s angle, it looks like he’s kissing her—dramatically, passionately. She feels his shoulders shaking with laughter as heavy boot tread approaches.

[silversiren1101]

Falling from Favor...

To know highest heights and lowest lows, always falling towards an Inevitable Paradox

[Comm from Mai Pham/thanhuki!!]

[silversiren1101]

Eeee! Thank you so much once again!!! I keep looking at the lighting and the muscles with big hearts in my eyes!

I had the honor of drawing beautiful Minovae for @siren1101 (on twitter) 💛✨