#oisín / self.

[madeluminary]

iggy, castor, oisín, merit, hawke, gabriel, teddy, jasper.

[tixdixl]

With Book 7 getting an update on English servers, I have been slowly but surely chipping away at WIPs and have been updating this thing.

self reblog mainly so I don't have to go searching for this post later

Timeline Post: Oisín Anbás

This post is going to be an archival hub for me to store all of my fan fics and actually list them in chronological order. I have a habit of not writing things in order, so this is going to help me navigate and midigate that. As such, this post is likely to undergo repeated changes and updates.

Naturally, of course, you are welcome to read my works. Just I do ask not to be super critical without asking first. ^^;

A couple additional notes:

1. Please do not repost any of my works!

2. You will find direct references and inclusions of other people's OCs, including @cyanide-latte and @ramshacklerumble . For more information on their OCs, please view their blogs.

3. Oisín being a dullahan means that various fics will include references, mentions, or direct inclusions of death and mild body horror. Please proceed with caution.

4. This is a OC X Canon friendly space! Expect a lot of it! Thank you ^^

Pre-NRC - Warning: Book 7 Spoilers Ahead

Where Death and Undeath Meet

Too Soft

A Chance At Love

How Could You Know?

Far Cry Cradle

Questions

I'm Yours

Pretty Big Feelings

For His Sake - Companion piece to "Pretty Big Feelings"

Always

Welcome Home

✨️✨️✨️

During NRC

What He Asked For - this fic is centered around Kingsley but includes Oisín

Worth its Weight in Gold

Letters

Dance with Death

Nightmares

Happy New Year

This One I Wrote For You

The Prototype

Cavalier de légende

Tearing Down Walls

A Bitter Hint of Smoke

The Reveal

Cross the Bridge

To Try and Close the Gap

✨️✨️✨️

Post-NRC - Warning: Book 7 Spoilers Ahead

Mah Jong

Scars of the Past

✨️✨️✨️

Letters to Other Characters

Initial Letter to Ren

[bromcommie]

WIPs word search

the lovely @dharmasharks tagged me to do this one—thank you, friend! I was hoping to do something like this, and it was pretty fun<3

Most of these are bits and pieces that were originally meant for the canon-divergent post-CATWS fic that I started posting in February but have since woefully neglected to update as I lost some steam and tried to restructure it, so this is equal parts a game and an attempt to get myself to finally post a new chapter. Fingers crossed!

Heat:

“How is it,” and he’s laughing, first time in a long time Steve’s seen him like this, laughing loud and unafraid and with his whole body, “Tell me, Rogers – how is it you’re all juiced up on Uncle Sam’s finest steroids, lifting tanks and all, but you still burn like a sheet of paper anytime you’re out in the sun for longer than five minutes?” “It’s a tan,” Steve grumbles half-heartedly, feeling the sorry back of his neck flame up as he rolls his head over to squint at him through the blinding sunlight. “I’m tanning. It’s handsome, I hear.” That sends Bucky off again. “No. No it ain’t.” He gestures vaguely to his own self, to where he’s bronzed out around the edges from the incessant heat beating down on them. “I tan. Morita tans. Even fucking Dugan tans, and he’s as Irish pale as you. You are one step away from sparking up like a tinderbox. Look at that.” He swipes at the bridge of Steve’s nose where he’s gone red and freckled and already peeling a little bit, and he hisses at the burn, swatting his hand away. “Cut it out.” Bucky leans back and just looks at him for a long second, blinking the unfortunate mix of sweat and dust out of his eyes. His face splits back into a grin like he can't help himself and something in Steve’s chest flips, unhindered by the annoyance. “What?”  “You look like a tomato. It's unbelievable.” “Shut up.” It’s stupid, barely even passes for a joke. He finds himself laughing along anyway, caught in the contagious energy rolling off Bucky in waves, the relaxed slouch of his body in the warm red dirt. “Shut the hell up. God almighty, you’re un-fucking-bearable.”

Drink:

“You’d be doing a better job if you were paying as much attention to our man as to gossip Yelena overheard.” “Gossip is our business. And he’s still trying to impress her.” “Is it working?” Natalia casts a glance to the pair at the bar, watches the dull glint of the woman's gaudy necklace where she twists it in an idle loop around a finger over and over, the scatter of light dancing across the polished marbletop. “She just yawned into her drink. Are you, really?” “Am I what really?” “American.” The static of the line crackles in the hollow pause and she gets that feeling again, the invigorating fear of having pushed too far over the clearly drawn line. “What would it matter, anyway?” “People change sides all the time.” That, of all things, finally gets a reaction, trips a miracle: the Soldier laughs. It's not a particularly nice sound. "Sweetheart, I'm not people."

Look:

I remember getting angry every time he told that story. I couldn’t make heads or tails of the point of it. I’d sit there after, while you were going off about adventuring and the hero’s sacrifice and if I think Katherine McMahon from class looks like what Niamh is supposed to look like, thinking to myself about how Oisín deserved the horrible fate he got, dying all old and weak and alone. Thinking, what kind of schmuck leaves the love of his life behind just like that? Turns out I got my answer. Life’s funny like that, and by funny I mean a vindictive old bastard. Anyway, I don’t think it’s all so horrible, anymore. Oisín got to go home, after all. Everyone back there was gone, sure, but at least he got to see it with his own two eyes again, this place he used to love and the way it had changed, instead of spending the rest of eternity not knowing and homesick without realizing what for. At least he got to help some folks before he died. He got to grow old, even for a moment – I remember when we were kids we’d talk about what we’d do if we could be like the fairies and heroes living forever in the stories, about all the exciting things we’d live to see, about what the future would look like. Now I think maybe he knew it was his time, Oisín – maybe he leaped off the horse before he even got to fall, let his feet hit the ground of Ireland one last time. Maybe he knew better than we did back then that the future ain’t all it’s cracked up to be.

Dance:

They fall back into a drowsy silence as Steve rolls down the window and settles into the rush of cool air. Some crooning melody floats off the speakers and Bucky hums along absently to the unfamiliar tones, taking them off the highway. In his peripheral he can feel Steve’s eyes on him, still soft and loose from sleep, warm in the last of the golden afternoon glow. “Quit looking at me like that,” he grumbles after a minute. “I ain’t looking at you like anything,” counters Steve immediately. “You keep it up, your face will freeze that way.” “You vain son of a bitch,” Steve throws back, smile blooming easy and unbearably familiar. “How d’you even know it’s you I’m looking at? Maybe I’m just admiring the scenery.” “Perfectly good window right next to you, Rogers.” “Sure.” He yawns again, then breaks out into a grin. “View’s not as pretty, though.” Bucky, to his utter bewilderment, feels his face flush hot. “Oh, I’m pretty now, is that it?” he settles on after a moment. “Yeah, Buck,” Steve says, grin widening impishly. This motherfucker. “Prettiest dame in the whole dance hall.” Bucky snorts. “Unbelievable. You stop trying to kill a guy for two minutes…” “Got the hair for it, now, too.” “Asshole,” Bucky mutters, but the laughter’s escaping despite his best judgement. “Tell you one thing: I definitely don’t remember you being this much of a pain in my neck.” “Good thing I don't mind reminding you, then,” Steve says in a breezy tone, grabbing the phone between them and hitching his knees up onto the dashboard.

No idea who all’s done this so far, but I'm gonna go ahead and lightly poke @emjee @snowangeldotmp3 @painted-doe @burberrycanary @vostok3-ka @gyokujyn @buckrogers as well as open tag anyone else who would like to do this. (yes, I really mean that, and please tag me if you do!) Contestants, your words are space, sharp, sweet and home. Go nuts!

[artblock-tm]

my sketchbook is so full of fate series characters. oogh

These next three are self-indulgent doodles of if Fionn and Diarmuid were the companions of Agartha instead of D’Eon and Astolfo

And this last was an attempt at a design for a fanservant! Oisín :)

[gingersnaptaff]

🍩 for all three of the Arthurian yrio, why not *grins evilly*

🍩 -Who is your OC’s arch-nemesis or rival?: Gwyn: It's Tywanwedd currently, although later it'll be Fach. I definitely see Gwyn and Tywanwedd's rivalry being based on Gwyn's resemblance to her mum and basically being what Tywanedd wishes she could be. (Queen of Rhos, is the long and short of it.) And I do think Tywanwedd might be driven by her hatred of bastards considering a) she's one herself as was gwyn's mum so, y'know, she's got COMPLICATED FEELINGS, b) Her husband has two bastards (Owain and Morfudd) and Owain is Urien's heir and not one of her kids, and c) Gwyn is pregnant with a bastard!!!! Eigyr had a bastard before she met Uthyr! I think Tywanwedd is sick to death of bastards.

Dylan: Y'know, originally I thought of Lleu because they're brothers and are diametrically opposed to one another (light and dark, sun and waves) but now I think it's Gofannon. I can't go into why because I don't want to spoil but suffice to say it's juicy. (And is connected to Ireland because I love writing Oisín).

Arthur: His biggest enemy is himself. He's going through a lot of shut (his dad is dead, his mum is grieving, his cousins HATE him for various reasons and he's alienating allies left, right, and centre, his mentor is an absolute bastard, he's marrying Gwyn but she loves Dylan and he loves Dylan too!!!! Shsjdjd) He cannot catch a break. He definitely is just trapped in a cycle of self-loathing and pity. He uses his self-aggrandizement, flirting with Indeg, and swaggering to cover it up but if you're perceptive enough (like Gwalchmai) you can see through it. (There's also this fuckin baby, right, called Medrawd, but don't worry about him he's FINE.)

[pawsedits]

Names &｡ Pronouns ⁾⁾   + more .. relating to Raiden from Metal Gear under the cut !!

(( PT: Names and pronouns and more relating to Raiden from Metal Gear under the cut /End PT ))

Images: A banner that reads " Raiden id help ", a transparent image, an icon of Raiden from MG with a lace border, another transparent image.

♱   Names   ⸺   Reed, Rye, Ripper, Foxhound, Delta, Whiskey, Devil / Devyl, Cyril, Bloodlust, Oisín, Enoch, Cain, Scorpius, Nephilim, Kasper, Howlite, Mercenary

♱   Pronouns   ⸺   cy cyb cyber cyberself ◞  aby abyss abysself ◞  on onyx onyxself ◞  fi fight fight(er)self ◞  ar armor armorself ◞  ar army armyself ◞  bull bullet bulletself ◞  ash ashself ◞  au auto autopsy autopsyself ◞  ban bandage bandageself ◞  gau gauze gauzeself ◞  merc mercenary merceself ◞  mer mercy mercyself ◞  rev revenge revengeself ◞  ar arro arrogant arrogantself ◞  hy hymn hymnself ◞  med medic medicalself

♱   Emojis   ⸺   🔨 ◞  🪓 ◞  🗡 ◞  ⚔ ◞  💣 ◞  🏹 ◞  🪚 ◞  ☢ ◞  🏍 ◞  🎖️ ◞  🪖 ◞  🛡️ ◞  🧨 ◞  🐁 ◞  🔬

♱   Graphics   ⸺   Here.

*Note,, I am not familiar with this source in the slightest & all information provided is based upon the sources fandom wiki.

[mad-bird-writes]

The Ignoble Family of Birchwood: Oisín

Given name: Wolfsbane (meaning - "misanthropy, hatred of mankind")

Taking after his father in temperament if not in looks, Wolfsbane is possibly the most vicious faery Birchwood has ever known. While his mother is content to observe humans as they skirt the boundary line between realms, and his little sister will often claim them as playthings, he will simply slaughter any who venture too close and leave their bodies for the animals whose lands they share. In this way, his given name has become a self-fulfilling prophecy, a fitting epithet, and an impressive accolade: Fae naturally consider themselves to be far superior to mere mortals, and thus a "hatred of mankind" is considered an admirable trait.

Thanks to this unparalleled ruthlessness, out of her three children, Amaranth considers Wolfsbane the best candidate for "heir" to the nonexistent throne. However, he, like his little sister, will need to learn some wisdom and self-control if he's ever to be considered truly fit to lead.

[eilidhink]

help I remembered eilidh and oisín and eilidh and Raphael the other day and IM STILL WEEPING

god yeah I haven't thought about them in a long time but. here's the thing. they get very different versions of Eilidh, and I can't imagine them trading lol. Oisín is so much a part of who pirate!Eilidh is, even though he's like. an oasis away from her real life? Because he's someone she can be her sharpest, cruelest, most angry self with, and where everywhere else that would start a fight, he just takes it. It's like he absorbs all of that and underneath there's this sadness and loneliness and sometimes even kindness that hardly anyone else in her life gets to see. Flint having seen some of it when they were younger is part of why she hates him so much now. Silver sees glimpses of it sometimes and they both ignore it, just like they ignore his. But Oisín somehow makes space for it. With him in the woods is the only time she feels like she can really breathe. It physically pains her to say nice things to him. She'd kill for him.

Raphael doesn't know that Eilidh at all. His Eilidh might as well have come from the summer light through the trees, warm and soft and ephemeral against his solidity. He brings out Eilidh's deep loyalty and patience, he slows her down. He also brings out a sadness in her, but it's not a lonely sadness. It's the sadness that comes from having loved so deeply that the grief warms you even when it hurts. It's the sadness of turning to your friend on a beautiful day and realizing they aren't there with you, they've slipped away and may not be back in time to see the sunset.

When pirate!Eilidh visits Oisín and he isn't there, she steals some bacon and goes away again, annoyed. When Raphael's Eilidh finds him sitting like a rock behind the church, she sits beside him and waits.

[ruairimacarthy]

↪ not-so-brief introduction. BASICS.

full name: ruairi oisín peter macarthy. nickname(s): ror (based on the pronunciation of his name 'rory'), sunshine. age: twenty-nine. date of birth: 28 december 1994. zodiac sign: capricorn. place of birth: killiney, county dublin, ireland. ethnicity: white. nationality: irish. gender: demiboy ( nonbinary, he/they pronouns ). sexual orientation: pansexual. romantic orientation: panromantic. religion: ruairi was raised catholic and practiced long enough to have first communion and other childhood milestones go by. as an adult he doesn't practice actively but he'll attend mass when his parents visit him or he visits them. education: bachelor’s in mechanical and computer engineering ( trinity college, dublin ), master's in game design ( blue harbor university ). occupation: game developer; co-owner & co-founder of starcrest gaming. language(s) spoken: english, irish ( his irish is a little rough as he grew up speaking it but fell off at a certain point. he's trying to brush up and re-learn it as best he can ). accent: ruairi has a fairly thick irish accent though the time he's spent in the united states has softened it the slightest bit.

PHYSICAL APPEARANCE.

face claim: callum turner. hair color: dark brown. eye color: blue. height: 6'2". weight: 176 lbs. build: ruairi is fairly lanky as things go but he's recently taken to hitting the gym regularly and has managed, against all odds, to bulk up a bit. tattoos: he has a tattoo of a baby owlbear holding a d20― it's inspired by baldur's gate 3 and on the inside of his right bicep ( here ); he has a tattoo of his favorite character from baldur's gate 3 ( shadowheart ) on the back of his left calf ( here ); he has a legend of zelda themed tattoo on his left forearm ( here ). piercings: he has a helix piercing in his left ear that he got when he was seventeen and hardly remembers enough to think to remove it. he wears a basic silver ring there. distinguishing characteristics: the level of energy he has on any given day, his accent, the fact that he always seems to be in seven places at once in any conversation, his smile.

PERSONALITY.

label: the avid gamer. positive traits: adaptable, charming, clever, compassionate, empathetic, flirtatious, independent, methodical, passionate, persuasive, resourceful. negative traits: anxious, impatient, impulsive, mischievous, needy, obsessive, perfectionist, reckless sarcastic, self-deprecating, self-sabotaging, shy, stubborn. goals/desires: to continue to make games he can be proud of, to be a good father to his son, to fall in love again. fears: autophobia ( fear of being alone ). hobbies: playing video games, streaming on twitch, writing in his spare time, cooking, baking, building computers, learning new things, finding new games to play, playing dungeons & dragons with his friends, reading, spending time with his son, playing with his dog, programming, spending time with his friends, listening to music, playing guitar. he notoriously will try anything at least once and he's prone to doing some chaotic things if they look fun or interesting. quirks: he very nearly always talks with her hands to some extent when he’s speaking, he gets obscenely excited over animals of just about any sort, he always seems to have some kind of sweet on his person, he tends to look like he needs to sleep for the next three days even when he's full of energy. he always seems to have coffee or an energy drink with him ( his mother is very concerned for his kidneys ). likes: disney movies, cute people, flirting with said cute people, spending time with his friends and family, taking naps with his son and his dog, strong coffee, food of any kind, trying new things if his friends will try them with him, watching documentaries, watching foreign TV shows, watching anime, fantasy novels, queer romance novels, jigsaw puzzles, crafts of any sort ( knitting, especially ), video games of all sorts, finding new rpg style games to play, streaming, baking, going out with his friends, milkshakes ( he developed a love for them once he moved to the states ). dislikes: being bad at things on the first try, people who don’t listen, anyone who has something negative to say about his being a single parent, black licorice, the amount he throws himself into work sometimes, people who are unnecessarily rude, most hard liquor that isn't whiskey ( he'll legitimately fight someone if they make a joke about it, though ).

FAMILY.

father: ciarán macarthy. mother: maebh macarthy. sibling(s): eoghan macarthy ( older brother ), calahan macarthy ( older brother ), conor macarthy ( younger brother ). pet(s): a three year old belgian malinois named jaina ( after his favorite world of warcraft character ). financial status: upper middle class.

BIOGRAPHY.

Born in Dublin, Ireland - the third of what would eventually total four Macarthy sons - Ruairi ( 'Rory' he'd stressed time and again throughout school, eager to help anyone who cared to listen understand how to make at least a passing effort at not butchering his name ) - was a rambunctious and energetic boy seemingly from the moment he knew enough about anything to get into trouble. And, as luck would have it, he had a particular knack for getting into trouble that was only matched by his apparent gift in talking himself right out of it. He was genuinely sweet when he interacted with most people and between his good manners and even better grades, well, it was difficult for his parents to find a reason to discipline him too severely for his boyish shenanigans.

Being nearly the youngest of his brothers certainly never seemed to help matters - though he wasn't lacking in attention by any means, Ruairi seemed determined to get that much more in any and every way he possibly could - whether that involved placing first in a science fair in primary school with a robot he'd built from scratch or getting in trouble for getting into fights with local boys for picking on his siblings mattered little in his eyes. Attention was attention. His parents disciplined him as best they could and hoped that he'd grow out of that particular habit as he got older and, much to their relief, he seemed to the moment he was ready to attend University. They hadn't quite expected him to follow so closely upon the heels of his brother Lorcan who'd enrolled at Trinity College two years before Ruairi himself darkened its doors.

University was a delight for someone as insatiably curious as Ruairi had always been and he delighted in every experience he could take in - his courses, making new friends, enjoying everything that being away from home had to offer. He had some measure of supervision if he decided he wanted to spend any significant time with his brother but thankfully, in his mind, the elder Macarthy wasn't one to ride him too hard about what he was getting up to. When his brother graduated and Ruairi found himself left up to his own devices more often than not he began to spend time with an exchange student who would eventually become his girlfriend - Margaret Rourke. She was American, in the same engineering courses as Ruairi and he was head over heels for her just as soon as they met.

It was a whirlwind romance in every imaginable way and Ruairi was determined to enjoy every possible second of it. Though, he thought, perhaps his enjoyment went too far afield when Maggie told him she was pregnant a few weeks after they'd celebrated their first anniversary together. Ruairi was equal parts terrified and determined to be a proper father for his child and stepped up in the way he did just about everything else - with laser focus and the utmost effort. The prospect of fatherhood seemed to settle him down even more and shortly before they graduated from University, Maggie gave birth to their son Fionn. Another year passed that involved raising Fionn with Maggie, nurturing their relationship and debating the merits of enrolling in graduate school - something Ruairi finally committed to when he agreed to move back to the United States with Maggie - to be nearer to her family in her hometown of Blue Harbor, Illinois.

Living in the US was something of a novelty for Ruairi for at least two or three months but he was perfectly happy to balance raising their son, attending school, and working on developing an indie RPG video game with his best friend in his graduate program while he did so. Everything felt rather perfect and he made the quiet decision to buy Maggie an engagement ring as their second anniversary approached. As most things seemed to do when they felt all but perfect - they shattered in a fraction of a second when Maggie walked out on him and their son one night - explaining little more than the fact that she wasn't certain she wanted a family after all. Ruairi was heartbroken, to say the least, and tried his best to pick up the pieces and carry on as he always had. He couldn't very well fall apart when he had a child to look after and, much to his surprise, his ex-girlfriend's family still seemed more than happy to support him. When he finished his graduate program as class valedictorian he made sure to thank them first and foremost alongside his own family and his son.

Now, with school behind him and the pet project game he'd worked on during school having grown into something of a phenomenon - Ruairi was doing his best to give his son a good life above all else. Though still only in single digits - Fionn was just as wildly curious as his father though, thankfully, with none of Ruairi's penchant for trouble. There was nothing in the world Ruairi wouldn't give his son and he made sure to remind him at every opportunity. His life wasn't exactly where he'd expected it to be when it had fallen apart as Maggie left but he was relieved that he'd managed to land on his feet above all else and continued to put one foot in front of the other with his gaze forever towards the future.

[oisin-sdit]

Was able to do training with oisín today. Haven't been able to for a while since my legs don't work anymore. Asked my sister to bring me a bag of his food and see if I could do a training session from my bed. I was and so was I for his dinner as well. We worked on his item retrieval and Self injurious behavior interruption and dpt. He did ok but since it's been a while there's a lot of him not knowing what to do with everything besides sib interruption cause he's been doing great with that even outside training. Tired to teach him to pick up my blanket I've gotten to the point he'll grab it when I'm holding but when I drop it he won't grab it yet it'll probably take a while for that one because leaning over the edge my bed to grab it off the floor is dizzying.

[moonchildr-n]

Half-elementals are pretty self-explanatory: they're the offspring of a union between a mortal and that of pure elemental energy. Usually an accident, the children are often left near communities more well-suited to take care of them, such as Abyssal being left with merfolk. This often leaves half-elementals feeling, among other things, abandoned and unable to find a place in the world. Dark elves, or Sko'Neray'dah in Elvish, mostly live underground in the Depths, the main city being called Dökk. The dark elves are the original survivors of the Cataclysm that split the Sundered Lands, forced to go below the surface to escape the mayhem, or so their creator, Geð, claimed. They are the original archivists, and they look to the Dark Matron, their goddess, for answers to the darkness' riddles. Their skin tones are monotone, from a light gray to a deep obsidian. Their hair tends to also be black, with gray or yellow glowing eyes.

The wood elves, or Dag'Neray'dah in Elvish, of the Forest of Oisín are a superstitious folk, to say the least, especially when it comes to the Tribe of the Moon. They look to the stars and He of the Moon for answers, to the Earthmother and her wilds for questions, and to the Sunfather for just about everything in between. Devoutly religious, the Tribe of the Moon believes that life is as the ebb and flow of the moon's phases. Many monsters also call the forest home. Sometimes, wood elves sport antlers from their temples. They have greenish-copper skin, with hair ranging from blond to red to brown to a mossy green. Moon elves, or Lleu'Neray'dah in Elvish, tend to live on the Cogs of the World, specifically around the foothills of Xanarah Khai. So named because of their reverence for the god, He of the Moon, Lleune, as well as the satellite that kisses the tip of the mountain day-and-night-round. Many folk religions have popped up here, and they co-exist rather peacefully with the dwarves of the mountains. Their skins tend to be black like the dark elves, but with white or silver hair. They have purple eyes. The dwarves, or the svartheur in their language, tend to stay in the mountains or down in their mines in the Depths. Created by the Earthmother, Ki-ya, at the dawn of time, they are among the longest lived races, only beat out by the elves. They tend to have dusky skin tones, with red or brown hair. Sun elves, or Sol'Neray'dah in Elvish, can find themselves everywhere from the Desert of Mös to the Splinters, by far the most widespread subrace of elvenkind. Among the oldest kind of elf, the ancients were said to have been made from the shed blood of the Dark Daughter as a sign of goodwill. Why she actually created the elves is a mystery, but the answers and the reasons for the subsequent upheaval differ between surface elves and dark elves. Upon rebellion against the society of servitude that the elves soon found themselves in, the Dark Matron, Geð, and her followers forced the rebels out into the newly sundered lands. In defiance, her daughter, the Blademaiden, Eike, remained with the surface elves. Sun elves are often free spirits, taking great pride in their heritage. Their skin tones tend to be sun-kissed, tanned, with blond or black hair. Demigods are rare, but they do happen. They are the children of gods/holyfolk like angels and mortals, usually humans. They can have wings, halos; there is always a sign of divinity apparent with them. Hellions are those of infernal bloodlines, either from the union of someone of the hells and a mortal or the birth is the result of a curse of unknown origin. Also rare, though not as rare as demigods, they are usually outcasts and adventurers. Their eyes glow like wildcats in the dark, horns jutting from their temples. They have forked tails and sharpened teeth, claws instead of fingernails, and hooves instead of feet. Their skin is more often than not a shade of red. The Mösi are the first humans, said to have been birthed by the Sunfather, having spread all across the Sundered Lands. The nomadic traditions of old are beginning to fade as industry begins to pervade the earth. They tend to revere the Sunfather, Hjeli, above all else. Halflings, or hauflin in Halfling, are often found in the sequestered communities in the wilds of Lleumont. They tend to build their homes into the foots of hills, creating elaborate homes. They were created by Fortunius' need for actors in his plays, and are fond of pipeweed and a good meal. They are usually very lucky. Halflings are often pale, be-freckled people, with a wide array of hair colors.

[tixdixl]

🌹🎈🥩

Maybe for Oisin and Kingsley? Or whoever's shouting "ASK ME!" in your brain :-3

Oooh!!! These are fun! Thank you!!

🌹 (rose) - What does your oc find attractive in other people? Are these traits found in their friends and/or romantic partners? Are they found in themselves?

Kingsley is aromantic~ lol. He is in the painful place of quoiromantic where he is not capable of experiencing romantic love. However, he finds out thanks to a couple of folks that he is willing to be on the receiving end so long as he is not expected to reciprocate those feelings.

Also I need you to know... the moment you asked, my dullahan emerged looking like this:

Oisín is such a hopeless romantic and has only ever fallen in love with one person. But they could give you a long list of what all they love about Lilia Vanrouge.

Personality is huge for them. As is the sense of humor. Being demisexual, those things and how they mesh with them are incredibly huge.

That said though, they love a partner who could absolutely snap their neck metaphorically. One who is willing to take the time to get to know how their existence works and would be as much of a threat to them as they are to their partner. They dont like the idea of a power differential- unless that differential is created willingly. And the realest thing? Is that they are happiest when both their partner and they themself are capable of being strong on their own and also in the presence of each other.

They love a partner who is willing to exist and be and live with them, with no regrets or shame. They are a hopeless romantic, and thus would love a partner who would be willing to things as they hit them. They love a partner who would willingly receive their affections as their heart and the moment carry them- and a partner who would reciprocate that energy. To dance in the rain; to hold their partner until they fell asleep in their arms; to go on little outtings sporatically and with or even without any plan. To live in the moment as though no one else in the world exists.

They love having a partner who they can reflect like the moon reflects the light of the sun.

🎈 (balloon) - What does your character do at parties? Are they a wallflower or a party animal? Do they go with friends or alone?

Kingsley canonically refuses to participate in the theatrical performance during GloMas. He refuses to dance. He refuses to enjoy the festivities because that motherfucker tried to almost kill everyone and got off scott free. In general though, he really isnt much of a party goer. The only real party he actively like... participates in is his coorination celebration way after he graduates and thats kind of because his found family won't let him be a wallflower.

Oisín is shy at like... parties where there are a lot of folks they don't know. In particular, they dont go to parties unless they are going with someone they know. But if its like... a party where everyone coming is a friend or family? They will be there and they WILL participate.

🥩 (steak) - Does your oc have any coping mechanisms? Healthy or unhealthy?

This is... such an interesting question. I honestly had to spend a lot of time pondering this...

If we are being technical, fighting and hunting start out being sort of coping mechanisms for Kingsley. But when he starts making friends (cough- Jack), he starts to develop other coping mechanisms. Running and training begin to slowly become forms of coping mechanisms for him. But he still... does target practice... a lot.

Oisín on the other hand tends to self isolate and write- write everything. Positive. Negative. All their feelings conveyed on a page rather than expressed outwardly.

If you made it this far- thank you for reading ^^;

Prompt

Tag list: @ramshacklerumble @the-trinket-witch @starry-night-rose @elenauaurs @rainesol

@cyanide-latte @winterweary @thehollowwriter @theleechyskrunkly @boopshoops

@lumdays @twstinginthewind @inmateofthemind

[ekebolou]

Academy Days: Routine, pt 2

'officorial' isn't a word, yes I named him Kevin Kevinson, no I won't be elaborating on what was probably a quick and messy set of mutual handjobs in a random hallway, and no I didn't label part 1 properly because I dunno titles are hard

thank fuck I won't have to type 'Esras' nearly as often anymore

~3,600 words

A cloud slipped, pushed by the wind, and Esras Cole turned to plunge his face into sunlight as if into water. Oisín’s conversation dropped off into a disbelieving scoff.

“Oh, ignore it,” Finanin said, turning himself to the light and pulling the collar of his shirt down to try to catch some of the light on his pale chest. “He’s always been like that.”

Finanin had no idea what Esras had always been like. Oisín could figure that out, or not, and because they were roommates, he probably would, whether he stayed with this group or not. Esras wouldn’t blame him if not, it had been clear when Maoilín was deciding who to elect to get the rest of them lunch Oisín had been on the list. Little Aibhne (the braile-breith Stone), having only just brought the fifth and sixth plate of options from the Hall, sat on the grass still catching his breath. Esras secured Oisín’s invite; it was up to him to secure his place.

“Trying to connect up your freckles?” Maoilín said, watching Finanin. He stood in the pitiful shade of an ankle-thick sapling, just strong enough not to bend under his lean. “That’s all you’ll get out of sunlight.”

“Maoilín has also always been like that,” Cruvcrudiach said, almost in time to stop Finanin’s self-conscious wilting, as he walked nearer the seated group. His opponent in their makeshift, stick-based sword practice remained puffing on the field of battle, a rise of slightly shorter grass away from the new stand of trees. His name was Neasán or something. Esras had never quite, in his head, stopped calling him Porridge.

Spring still fought for dominance over winter, though all that was left of that was a chill breeze that occasionally threatened them with a late snow. In as few as two weeks he could be crawling for shade, but for now the sunlight’s unmatched warmth was welcome. Something other than the sufficient but indifferent warmth of the dormitories, where it seemed one couldn’t escape the fact that that their warm air was less a clean fire and thick walls than the trapping of a hundred bodies worth of human heat. This fixed in the wide, felted loops of their awkwardly cut blankets and – fed by a fearsome lack of windows – promised a difficult summer.

Still, the fortuitous bolt of sunlight and Cruvcrudiach’s return from the bout combined to draw down the anger rising in his chest at just the right time to ignore it. Else he might have sounded as petty as Maoilín, which was at least reason to keep such pettiness around. Until the rankings came out, such reasons were good as gold.

Of course, he saw the cadet running towards them across the field from Founder’s. He got up, selecting a good stick from the ground, and walked to Cruvcrudiach to hear his review of the bout, one ear on the larger conversation, one eye on the running cadet. Cruvcrudiach wasn’t much of a talker anyway.

“I don’t see why the food hasn’t improved already,” Maoilín said, holding up a thick strand of beet-dyed pickled greens between finger and thumb.  He flicked it at the ground the way one might rid oneself of something sticky. All he wanted to do was snipe and complain, and he was going to have to come up with a new strategy if he wanted to retain this group. Or maybe he was relying on Esras to provide the glue – Fate knew he would surely tell him if that was the case.

Or, maybe, he was growing impatient of their overlords, waiting for them to do some real sorting before he put much effort into retaining any company. Esras sympathized; until rankings, Maoilín’s strategy for gathering good company was excelling in every class, and excelling in classes was difficult, wearying, and probably not entirely wise. In ranking, classes were the broth – an undifferentiated, perpetual, omnipresent test – where special events – the Cogadh, bivouac, tourneys, and class-level exercises – were the meat. Maoilín was living off broth; Esras was living – partially – off Maoilín. Maoilín’s overt effort and ambition was the tide beneath the boats around him, and Esras was happy to rise with it. He was sure the bill for that would come soon, but for now, he was content. The timing didn’t feel right to strike out with his own strategy, and he was discovering a great deal of benefit came from being perceived as the ‘relaxed’ one (so much ambition was required to even be here, it was ridiculous to perceive any of them as relaxed).

Both reason and luck suggested the Lists should be released any day now. A cadet would only run so fast for a few reasons, and Esras suspected something like that must be driving that grey blob he saw running towards them across the field.

“The premise, I think,” Finanin said, shaky but determined not to concede to Maoilín’s suppression – but, of course, he had only half an inkling of what Oisín and Esras had been talking about, “the premise of the inquiry is faulty.”

Which was at least a good rhetorical gambit, if you had no idea what to say.

“The seed of the issue is that we’re deliberately kept in the dark about things to make us wrong,” Oisín said, generously taking them back to the start of the conversation. “I don’t see how it’s a useful lesson to be wrong because you haven’t been given full information. I don’t care what she says about the tactics of losing – I know enough about losing not to need tactics about it – I don’t think it’s useful.”

“Oh, I don’t think the two are related,” Finanin said.

“Oh,” Porridge said, walking over himself and trying vainly to stop his breath from heaving (speaking of ambition, any combat, no matter how informal, against Cruvcrudiach was apt to have that effect), “I would like to know why.”

“You wouldn’t be wrong all the time if you weren’t so ignorant,” Maoilín said, his attention by now on the cadet – Enda – running up to them. He had put his plate down on the ground. “And maybe you shouldn’t be so proud of being a loser.”

Had Enda not been so close, Oisín might have had time to act on the fury evident in his face, which would have been foolish. Maoilín was head of their pack for a reason; Oisín would get his ass kicked. And, in picturing it, Esras thought he would be forced to take Maoilín’s side, which he really didn’t want to do.

Fortunately, Enda was close, though he jogged to a halt and had to bend, hands on knees, to catch his breath a moment.

“They’re out.”

Everyone but Esras and Cruvcrudiach straightened; those two threw the sticks they had been comparing grips on down.

And because there were two choices, and because their eyes fixed on him, Enda was able to force out, “Cogadh.”

Everyone who could simply started running for Founder’s Hall. Esras, as tempted to run as any of them, caught Enda’s eye to nod – Enda waved away the thanks, nodding in return. They must not have been matched for a team, then; no doubt something would have to be said.

Like Oisín, Enda was a good one to keep around. Certainly capable, he was also a steady one personally. Having proposed a liaison, he had taken Esras’ gentle rejection well, seeming, at least on the surface, to understand. He didn’t really, but it didn’t matter as much as the firm answer did – and Esras was firm. He was simply not doing it this time. In a year or two, they would open the gates and he could get whatever physical satisfaction he needed by visiting the Families. In the meantime, he should spend his energy on gaining and keeping rank. Relationships – even casual ones – just fucked all that up. They were always added complications. He didn’t want to have to consider others when he should have his own ambitions front and centre; it put a hold on you, like bridle, no matter what, and anyone, not just your partner, could grab that bridle. And he was tired of it. There was no way it didn’t end badly, somehow.

Jogging after the rest, he put a hand down to Aibhne, who seemed unsure whether Esras meant to bite him or help him up.

“Dump the food on the ground, if you’re worried about the plates,” Esras said, pulling him up (ridiculous how easy it was). “Animals will eat it. None of these,” he pointed with his chin to the group, now far across the field from them, “will care to return for it.”

And the punishment for not returning the plates would fall on Aibhne, of course. If he didn’t take care of himself, no one else would.

*

Such news for classes of cadets was always pinned to a wall by a particularly spacious joining of corridors between Founderhall and the buildings surrounding the base of the Tower. Predictably, even for so wide a space, the posting wall was blocked by an impossible crowd. Luckily, it circulated quickly, as cadets pushed to the front to read for their names and then retreated before they were crushed. Esras wondered if that was actually why the upper classes didn’t participate in Cogadh; they would just crush the lower classes to death to read their team assignments. As it was, the lists of Second Year teams was pinned to the wall as far as possible from the First Year lists without being in another building entirely (not that this stopped some of the Second Years from getting their shot in on the way).

Esras looked at the scrum, and the distant patches of paper on the wall. He shoved his hands in his pockets and waited where he was. He was pleased to see Aibhne, who had darted ahead the moment he was able, using his stature to its greatest advantage, shoving a hip-height path through the morass to get his team assignment and squeezing out the side by the wall like a pebble under a wheel. It took longer to find the others, and he was also pleased to see that they enforced something like a bubble of calm in the line as they made their way to the papers, though primarily by sacrificing some of their weaker hangers on to defend the edges. Still, it wasn’t a quick process.

Maybe he should join? But he was already behind, and he could probably just have asked Enda, who surely would have looked for his name if nobody else’s, and, really – wouldn’t they tell him, when they came back out of the crowd?

Eventually, he grew tired of standing and walked to an outcropping in the wall to lean on it.

Some of the urgency was leaking out of the crowd, as more and more people showed up and groups could start to coalesce. Part of the problem is that they wouldn’t all know each other; a name on a list was just a name on a list if you didn’t have classes with him. There was a whole half of their year that they hardly interacted with; surely some names would cross that line.

Finally, having monopolized the position directly in front of the lists for several minutes, Maoilín raised a hand and signalled that they were leaving (only a few straggled to search out their own names, not having been a priority for him). Esras thought about raising his own hand, to call them over, but refrained. Anyway, he could see Enda entering the hall in the distance.

Maoilín’s eyes found him and he walked over, the rest of the group trailing.

“I suspect they don’t want to overload the teams,” Maoilín said dryly.

“We’re not together?” Esras smiled and Maoilín smiled back.

“Maybe they want to test top leadership,” Cruvcrudiach said, face serious.

“You would see a test of our liking for pork if they served a roast two days in a row,” Maoilín replied.

“Doesn’t mean he’s wrong,” Esras said, even though he saw the coldness in Maoilín’s gaze. He hadn’t wanted that supposition voiced; he did tend to think everyone else was too stupid to notice even obvious things, though.

They all nodded to Enda as he, still panting, joined the group.

“I’m with you,” he said to Maoilín, who nodded, letting the slightest smile grace his face to indicate it pleased him.

“I’m with nobody,” Aibhne observed to the floor, grimly.

“Not nobody,” Oisín said stubbornly. “Just unknown.”

“Who are you with?” Esras asked, hoping it would distract Oisín from the look of disgust on Maolín’s face.

But Oisín’s face reddened. “I don’t know,” he said, casting a look back at the crowd around the wall.

“I know one,” Enda said. “I was looking for him. Brahn Innrachtig, went to Prep. Bit of prick, but not an idiot. Useful if you can stand him. He’d have been a good add.”

Enda was worried – so he had neither Esras nor anyone from this group on his team?

Maoilín ‘tsk’ed. “We’ll be fine.”

Oh.

Well, they would be fine, in terms of success. Whether it would be at all enjoyable…

He gave Enda a sympathetic glance, only to catch the eye of a cadet he didn’t know across the hall. He was tall, though he slouched – when the group he was talking to pointed in Esras’s direction, he straightened. He had to have at least a full head of height over Esras. Esras watched his face go from a kind of genial curiosity to a flash of dismay then – just as they saw one another – that dismay washed away with inundating pleasure.

Did they have a class together? He looked sort of familiar, but not very familiar.

The group around him was still conversing. Esras added small noises of attention, but was watching the cadet approach.

So he wasn’t THAT tall. He had maybe four or five inches on Esras, at least when they were both standing properly.

Maoilín said, “Your team is a bunch of nobodies, too.”

The perfect interruption; Esras could turn his gaze away. A few in the group were protesting, or adding their opinions on the members of his team. It amounted to a susurrus convening on mediocrity. They all kind of knew somebody, who kind of did well, on some kinds of tasks.

This was perfect, though Esras wasn’t going to tell them that. He wanted that mediocrity. It was harder to lead excellence, and he wanted to lead.

“Oh, hopefully I can make up for some of it,” Esras said in genial jest. In the corner of his eye he was still observing the approaching cadet.

“You may actually have to start doing something,” Maoilín said. Ah, yes – the bill come due. Of course he had noticed Esras’s coasting.

“It may not be as bad as all that,” Esras said, to a few scattered laughs. “Any match we lose will just be tactical.”

He directed this at Oisín, who in addition to appreciating the buoying of his point from earlier was to the right of where the approaching cadet broke into their group. Enda was on left. As a result, they were all smiling when the new cadet shouldered in.

“Hi,” he said. He had a nice voice, too. One that had settled early and settled deep. Or, Esras suspected, he deepened; it was probably a very smooth tenor.

He was staring at Esras, and holding out his hand, which Esras took with just enough of a wait to make it clear he was waiting for more. More didn’t come, though it seemed like he had every intention for it to follow in a timely fashion.

Finally, he said, “You’re Esras Cole?”

“I am,” Esras said, and Maoilín followed with, “For what it’s worth, he is. And you are?”

But the other cadet wouldn’t let his attention be grabbed away. “Sorry, what a fool, I’m Caevanoch, and because my mother was not very creative, I’m Caevan Caevanoch. We’re on the same Cogadh team.”

Caevan had one of those faces that had squared off early (something Esras’ own had been frustratingly slow to do), meaning he lacked the touch of baby fat many of the other cadets still carried. This and his height made him seem mature, which in turn, made Esras want to explore various questions like: how did the thick, straight hair on the top of his head feel like? Did the rest of his body look so admirably mature? His grey eyes were light and dancing in a way that suggested perhaps, but not quite – at least, not quite enough that he was willing to just as confidently lean over Esars on the wall as he had butted into the group. A balanced confidence, with enough bashfulness to still be intriguing.

“Well, as long as we’re not matched against Cruvcrudiach, we’ll have them for height,” Esras replied, smiling.

“You’re in my Grappling class,” Porridge said. “Oof, you’ll have to watch his reach.”

Fortunately, Cole did want to watch his reach. Very much so.

“Well,” Caevan said, “we’re on the same team, so…”

“We’ll put that reach to good use,” Esras said.

Caevan did have long arms, though not disproportionate to his body. He was lanky, and though it was hard to tell under their uniforms, Esras could easily imagine there was muscle under there; perhaps built since arriving, perhaps refined, but it had to be there in some form.

“Tits,” Maoilín said, grimly, recognizing a battle lost. “Let’s see if any of us can dig up our teammates. We can’t all be so fortunate as to attract them like flies.”

They had been staring at each other; Esras knew they had been staring, but he hadn’t wanted to break the staring, though one part of him arguing vehemently at how rude it was the rest of the group. The other part truly and deeply didn’t care. A third part watched Enda from the corner of his eye, and the confusion that passed into hurt that passed into resignation on his face.

“Sorry,” Caevan said, finally breaking eye contact to glance after the departing group and looking down before he faced Esras again – it was so hard for a taller person to manage to look up at someone without hunching ridiculously, but he was managing it, and Cole appreciated that very much. “I should be one to comment on names, but is yours really ‘Esras’? Where does that come from?”

Esras resumed leaning against the wall, just to add to the challenge of being looked up at, though he smiled as he did it. “My mother was very well read, and not very attached to tradition.”

“Take it from me then, that’s for the best.” He laughed, and revealed a slightly crooked front tooth. It would definitely catch against his tongue.

“Perhaps I will,” Esras said. “We’re going to be teammate after all.”

Caevan’s smile widened. Some of the tension drained out of his limbs, and he straightened his back slightly.

“Look,” he said, glancing down again, “since we are going to be teammates, I’m not sure I can manage ‘Esras’ – I realize I’ve got a clunker, but what else do you go by? My friends call me Van.”

“Van?”

He shrugged, some of his self-consciousness returning, but let out again with the next breath, as he said, “If you please.”

It gave Esras a second to think. “How about just ‘Cole.’ Neither is a long name, you know – it shouldn’t be difficult.”

“A bit officorial, isn’t it?”

“Isn’t that the goal?” Esras replied. “We’ll all be officers one day. Might as well start thinking about it now. And if it makes things easier…”

They exchanged a smile, as Van contemplated it, running a tongue over his teeth as if savouring the attempt to say it. Esras had said it on whim, but as usual, his whim produced a fully formed thought: it made him seem undisguised, honest and revealing to Van, but in fact it elevated his personal life to another field of play. This way, he could be comfortable with it. This way, there was one less deprivation to contend with, and he could buy the butter and keep his money, hold the snowflake still to see it – if he was smart about it, and he was always smart about his ambitions.

“Fair enough, Cole,” Van said. He hesitated, still looking down, before he turned back to Cole and smiled again. “I don’t want it to seem too easy, though.”

“Why ever not?” Cole asked. Yes, he was at least mature enough to know what Esras was talking about – and he was amenable, at least as amenable as eager.

“We’ll have to work together, you know? And I’m sure there’ll be disagreements. And it won’t be forever.”

“The head and heart seat different Kings/ and neither can be humbled/ neither can immortal be/ nor kingdoms kept from crumbling.”

Van tilted his head, eyes narrowed, a colour rising up his cheeks from the edges of his jaw kept carefully at bay. “What’s that from? Don’t tell me you just come up with that stuff. I’m not sure I can handle that.”

“Then let’s call it a fluke, just this once,” Cole said, as he pulled himself up from the wall, slowly enough Van didn’t pull back, leaving them quite close together. “Until we learn what we can handle.”

Van smiled. Cole smiled back.

“Classes are going to start soon. There’s only a few minutes,” Van said.

“Let’s not waste them, them.”

[staticdive]

Oisín's New Indie Soul From The Emerald Isle

We first heard from Oisín back in 2021 upon the release of his debut single “Happy Place“. That record introduced The Static Dive readers to an emerging young singer-songwriter from Donegal, Ireland. However, he first made a name for himself two years earlier. The singer’s cover of Ariana Grande’s “Needy” went viral on YouTube in 2019 when he was just 17-years-old. Self-taught on guitar and…

[collie-horse]

Have enough money can get collar have 2 Christmas themed collar in Amazon cart one for me and other for Oisín but want get self blue collar too or maybe dog treats or toy or bandana

[judyconda]

St. Patrick's Day POETRY BY DEREK MAHON No wise man ever wished to be younger. — Swift Down the long library each marble bust shines unregarded through a shower of dust where a grim ghost paces for exercise in wet weather: nausea, gout, ‘some days I hardly think it worth my time to rise’. Not even the love of friends can quite appease the vertigo, sore ears and inner voices; deep-draughted rain clouds, a rock lost in space, yahoos triumphant in the marketplace, the isle is full of intolerable noises. Go with the flow; no, going against the grain he sits in his rocking chair with a migraine, a light in the church all day till evensong, the sort of day in which a man might hang. No riding out to bubbling stream and weir, to the moist meadow and white belvedere; on tattling club and coffee house a pox, a confederacy of dunces and mohocks — scholars and saints be d-mn’d, slaves to a hard reign and our own miniature self-regard. We emerge from hibernation to ghetto-blasters much better than our old Sony transistors, consensual media, permanent celebration, share options, electronic animation, wave motion of site-specific daffodils, closed-circuit video in the new hotels; for Niamh and Oisín have come to earth once more with blinding breastplate and tempestuous hair, new festive orthodoxy and ironic icon, their faces lit up like the Book of Kells. *Photo not mine, credits to the owner : #fairytaletuesday #fairytale #fairytaleflash #poems #poem #poetic #poet #poetry #poems #poetryofinstagram #classicpoetry #fairytalecore #fairytalepoetry #Spiritique #mindfulness #Spiritual #Spirituality #mystical #mystique #mystic #mysticisim #folk #folklore #folkspirits #folkmystic #fantasy #fantasycore #stpatricksday #irishday #stpatricks https://www.instagram.com/p/CpxBXqSygMb/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=