#ooc I know it is a crow

[mossattack]

(Some silly headcanons about Mortalitasi and Nevarran traditions that ended up leading me to Emmrich. How typical.)

We don't actually know all that much about Nevarra and their customs. World of Thedas and some of the in-game codex tells us some key points: strong royal families, a rich history of dragon hunting, an elite group of mages rumored to be heavily involved in makings of the country, and, of course, the thing that this country is most famous for - the fascination with the dead.

Our very own Nevarran companion mentions a couple of things about her home country:

And even though she doesn't seem fond of Mortalitasi practices or Nevarran customs surrounding the dead, she admits that some stories that pervade the South are greatly exaggerated:

(I feel so called out)

This makes me think that this interest in the dead is still a personal choice. I doubt that an average Nevarran is obsessed with those rituals any more than an average person from Ferelden is with theirs - those are just a part of their traditions that obviously affect their lives in unique ways, but that is all.

Now, Nevarran nobility are a different matter. They are said to start the construction of their tombs very early in life - lavishly decorated palaces with gardens, ballrooms and bathhouses. A sign of power and wealth for them, and that I can believe.

But when it comes to Mortalitasi, do they, in general, care as much? Do they take all these things, all these rituals, to extreme somehow, professional pride and all?

How much would a Mortalitasi care about their own tomb? Would Mortalitasi friends and colleagues ever promise to lead the other's ceremony depending on who dies first? "Oh, I'll totally mummify you if you're the one to go first, don't you worry, I know you think that Markus is getting sloppy".

The coffin sharing is also not unheard of (the spouses from The Flame Eternal), and I wonder if it's ever used as a grand gesture - to ask someone to be placed in the same tomb?

(And just imagine how messy this could get, the way people are. Building a tomb together only to have a falling out, what are you even supposed to do after that?)

Would it be romantic then, to tell your significant other that you don't want to ever part from them, even in death?

Beacause imagine Emmrich writing a quick letter to his friend from the Mourn Watch (Johanna, if they are still friends after all these years, or Myrna), "doing fine, on a saving the world business trip, will be back when I can; could I trouble you with a favor - a bigger coffin, installed in my tomb, not urgent, just whenever you have the time."

When the reply comes and his friend is (obviously) asking for a reason for such a sudden change, he just looks at Rook from the corner of his eye and replies with "no particular reason, just felt like it."

[shit-people-probably-didnt-say]

Wylan: I dont know how to flirt but I can argue in 4 languages

Also Wylan: *Cries at the first sign of conflict*

[perditus]

It literally is just the principle of the matter. Hence why, for whatever reason, Lucanis chose to stand on the hill of “you wardens keep secrets” as if that somehow made the Crows long and rich history any better.

[songsofreason]

writing v is fun cuz leaning into him being openly aware of all the ways vergil ignored his "self" while still having to be very cagey and stuff is exciting. plus while the way i write v basically makes him 'humanity' incarnate his sense of humanness is still so fucked. he's totally ok with beating people up for money and clothing but then he's like AHHHH THE GUILT OF DOING THIS (the qliphoth) TO EVERYONE IS LITERALLY KILLING MEEEE its so funny. needs to be studied

[misericorsalvator]

An Epitaph

Henry didn't know where he was. It was cold, freezing, but that was all he could tell, from the sharp chill that tore through his damp clothes, to the frigid air that felt like icicles in his lungs when he breathed. Even if he was someplace familiar, it would have been impossible to tell through the veil of rime in the air, the thick hoar that coated the ground. But wherever he was, he had to find shelter. soon, before his limbs grew any number that they already were and he lost the three fingers he had left on his right hand to frostbite. It took a good deal of walking, trudging through the snow, before he found something resembling sanctuary. A rocky hovel dug deep into a mountainside he hadn't even noticed was there. The crooked mountaintop loomed far overhead like a wind-swept pine tree, towering over the barren expanse and shielding the small patch of land near the cave's entrance from the worst of the snowfall. It was a narrow fit, the opening more narrow than a coffin, but it opened up into a wide chamber beyond, dark, lit only by the little light reflecting on the snow outside.

Panic stabbed at him suddenly. That chamber felt familiar, though he couldn't recall from where. The rockface of the walls was smooth, man-made, and the stalactites hanging from the domed ceiling above were unnatural, all the same length, jagged and sharpened to fine points. But he had no time to waste on the unnerving interior. The weather outside was getting worse, the wind howling like wolves on a hunt, and soon his shelter would be just as cold and dangerous as the outside. He had to think, find a way to keep the warmth in. Henry returned to the entrance. He twisted around in the narrow space as best he could and began piling up snow with his numb hands, stacking it, pressing it into shape, mouthing breathless curses to himself, until he had built a solid wall halfway up to his neck. It should last. He didn't know for how long, but at least for now, until he could catch his breath. It had to last.

Henry slumped against the wall of the cave. The barrier he had built offered some protection, but he could still feel the cold creeping in, seeping through the gaps and cracks in the snow. A damp chill gnawed at his bones, freezing the air in his lungs. He knew he had to keep moving, to do something, anything, to stay warm and awake. He couldn’t afford to fall asleep. Not here. Not now. But his limbs were leaden and his body creaked in protest with every movement. His teeth chattered as he tried to think, tried to remember where he was and how he had gotten there. The harder he tried, however, the more his thoughts seemed to slip away, like sand through his fingers. Panic clawed at his chest once more as he looked around the cavern. The walls seemed to close in, the smooth stone shimmering with a thin layer of rime frost. The ceiling above with the unnaturally sharp stalactites, loomed over him like a mouth full of fangs. He had to get out.

Henry pushed himself off the wall, his legs shaking beneath him. The snow was piling up faster now, further in through the entrance than the wall he had built, and he frantically began to shovel it away with his hands, trying to clear a path through the narrow gap. He shovelled harder, floundered, grappled til his fingers were too numb to move, but for every tiny hopeful opening he made, more snow took its place, as if the storm outside was determined to bury him alive. The cold was unbearable now, seeping into his very soul. Outside, the wind roared, a feral sound that echoed through the cavern and made the air thick with cold. Each breath now was a knife to the chest, each inhale burning his lungs. The snow crawled closer, blocking the entrance fully, and began to cover the cave floor inch by painful inch, forcing the hunter back step by painful step.

Henry's mind was reeling. He stumbled further into the cave, away from the encroaching cold, the bones of his legs creaking in protest. The deeper he went, the more the walls seemed to close in on him, the smooth rock pressing down, suffocating. The quiet there was unnerving, an oppressive stillness that made him painfully aware of his own laboured breathing and the pounding of his heart. The silence of the grave. For what felt like an hour, he pushed himself forward against the stone walls, cowering under the stalactites which were now low enough to graze the top of his head. No matter how far he went, the snow followed close behind, blocking the way back. Henry's movements grew slower, more sluggish, until he could no longer outrun it, and that white frost began piling up around his boots. He felt the fight leave him, his breathing weakened, his heartbeat slowed.

Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw it—a single snowflake, delicate and perfect, drifting down from the ceiling above. His breath caught in his throat as he watched it fall, impossibly slow, through solid rock. It glowed faintly in the dim light and Henry’s eyes followed its descent, almost hypnotized, until it landed softly on the ground. On something dark, something that wasn’t stone. He crouched down, his stiff knees cracking in protest, and wiped away the snow, his fingers brushing against a cold, unyielding surface.

A hand.

His hand.

His breath caught in his throat. He was looking at himself, at his own lifeless body, crumpled and broken, half-buried in the snow. The wounds were horrific—deep gashes and punctures that were draining the life out of him-- and the realization hit him like a sledgehammer.

This wasn't real.

The snow, the cold, it was all in his head, growing blurry as his brain ran out of oxygen. And the cavern wasn’t just familiar—it was the place he was dying, right now, in the real world. The place where his body was lying, bleeding out into the cold ground, his blood darkening the stone ground.

For a third time, panic surged through him, but it was laced with a deep, bone-weary exhaustion. The wind howled louder, and now Henry could make out voices, battle cries, screeching and yowling in twisted satisfaction. The snow now poured into the cave through the solid ceiling above, burying everything in its path. He wanted to claw his way out, to escape this nightmare, but his limbs wouldn’t respond. The snow was too thick, too heavy, pressing down on him from all sides. As his vision began to blur, the walls of the cave pulsed, breathing with a life of their own, in tandem with his own slowed breaths. The snow continued to fall, endlessly, burying him, until all he could see was white. And then, from the heart of the storm, he saw a figure—a tall, imposing silhouette that moved with unnatural grace, cutting through the blizzard as if it were nothing. Henry tried to focus, but his mind was slipping, the edges of his consciousness fraying like old cloth.

His final thoughts drifted to Bran. A deep guilt welled up inside him. He wouldn’t make it home for Christmas this year. He wouldn’t see his boy’s face light up when he opened his presents, wouldn’t hear his laughter echoing through the house. Regret gnawed at him, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. In his last moments, as the darkness closed in, Henry barely registered the sharp pain in his chest—a bite, cold and searing, as if winter itself had latched onto his heart, and his eyes froze over with unshed tears until the world faded and he breathed his last.

In a long-forgotten catacomb in Wales, as the last drop of Henry's blood soaked into the humid ground, something ancient stirred. Beneath the layers of earth and stone, within the crypt that had long been forgotten, a pair of eyes snapped open. After centuries of entombment, something awoke. The blood of the dying hunter seeped into its consciousness, filling it with the remnants of Henry's life, his memories, his regrets. And once the blood had ran dry, the ancient knight rose from his tomb, his eyes burning with a cold, unholy fire.

He tore through the killers, the blood-thirsty beasts who had chased their prey to the ancient tomb, splattering the walls with their undead blood that burnt to ash, until none were left. Then, he looked down at the broken body of the hunter who had unwittingly become his saviour. With a grim sense of purpose, the knight knelt beside Henry’s lifeless form. He whispered words in a dialect long dead, a prayer, perhaps, or a vow. Then, with a reverence reserved for fallen comrades, the knight lifted the hunter’s body and carried him deeper into the crypt, where heroes were once laid to rest, where the knight's own tomb stood, broken apart from within. The hunter was gone, his spirit entwined with the ancient knight’s own, but his legacy would live on, honoured by one of the very creatures he had once sought to destroy.

The knight sealed the tomb with a final, solemn gesture, then left the catacombs behind and stepped out into the warm summer night, into a world which had long outlived him.

[spitedriven]

when i finally actually do that analysis of lucanis and caterina's relationship i might elaborate but. lucanis sees himself as a weapon and guess what! he is! he's caterina's finest tool, the keenest knife in her arsenal. he is a dealer of death of the finest order and has only gotten more deadly with age and the addition of spite.

[acoraxia]

cotl au where i take billford (mysticdeath) and make it worse

[ninehclls]

🎉

[cloudruler]

I have a few critiques about veilguard but considering how much I love it compared to seeing other ppl complain about perceived Lore & writing issues it makes me feel like this as I'm offline trying to finish the game

[pixelpaladin24]

I've had this boy for an hour, and I'm ready for him to pick me up in his strong, heavy metal arms and carry me to safety. 🥴

I must protect this boy. At all costs. 💙

[akvigilantecrow]

You asked a version of dick Grayson how he got his name from Richard to Dick.

Boy have I got the answer. Credits to Wikipedia.

Oh my god. Omg what? I didn’t actually know this. Thank you??? He didn’t even know, so this is actually amazing

[ghostsandmirrors]

i don't wanna know who i am, 'cause heaven only knows what i'll find. i don't wanna know i'm not capable of coming out alive. i don't wanna see what's inside. i think i would rather be blind. i don't wanna know i'm not capable, i'm capable.

- it's alright by mother mother —

@superboyandtheinvisiblegirls sent 🎨for a bucky and catalina aesthetic or mood collage.

— original images catalina: [x] | [x] | [x] | [x] | [x] | [x] bucky: [x] | [x] | [x] | [x] | [x] | [x]

texture credits! n/a

[theodosiani]

Oh my body simply fuxking hates me. What did I ever do to you, Jesus?

[quietautumn]

apparently this is a hot take but i don't think the p5 adult woman confidants are bad characters just because you have the option to romance them. keyword is option because you can literally play the whole game without getting with any of them and they just treat you normally. something something you control the buttons you press

[moonrevolutions]

what do u do when tumblr pretty much demolishes ur tags?

i un and re-installed xkit it didn't work.

[skyheld]

thinking about the burning of halamshiral and that codex entry that said the crows have promised that if nations march on the elves antiva will not stay silent and.

did the crows just not notice this. did they forget. did they not stay completely silent but silent enough that we haven't heard anything about the private complaint they raised with celene. does it not count if no one calls it an exalted march.