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yvonnesrespite · 6 months ago

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❧ Late to your appointment, sweets? ❧

➵ MDNI; This blog is 21+ ➵ OOC Disclaimer: This is a gimmick blog as Yvonne from the game Love and Deepspace, and is not officially affiliated with the studio which created the game. The blog was merely created for recreational purposes!

❥ Rules

Don’t ask for medical advice. Mun isn’t in the medical field. Take any medical advice/content with multiple grains of salt.

Be respectful of mun and myself. We’re people. Mun is a person behind a screen and you don’t own her, and definitely not me either. Treat us as we are; like people, and certainly do not forget that there is a HUGE and THICCC line between fiction and reality.

All ships and interactions that occur on this blog are all in separate universes. This means that if I (Yvonne) am pursuing someone romantically in one rp, then you cannot have your character cry about it in your own rp with me. If you get butthurt about seeing me in other roleplays with other people, or interacting with a character you admire, that’s your problem. Not ours.

We will not roleplay with canon characters or ocs from other franchises. This limits confusion on our end and yours.

Any heavy/potentially triggering subjects (such as anything considered “dead dove”) in asks or any interactions will most likely be ignored or promptly deleted, and your account will be blocked.

NSFW content will be allowed on this blog, but starting it without either roleplaying with us beforehand to build things up OR without discussing it with us OOC is strictly prohibited. This does not just pertain to roleplaying, but OOC conversations as well. That's the social equivalent off taking of ye fraudulent gucci ass pantaloons and doing a ragtime cbat mating dance without even knocking on the door to tip your hat and say "pip pip cheerio i am here to smashio milady." Please. Ask or interact with us first.

In addition to so, you must be 21+ to interact with this blog.

We are usually busy on the weekends, and some replies may take up to 3-4 days. If you have not heard from us after that time frame has passed, you can respectfully reach out to us.

Your asks must be in English and coherent enough for us to comprehend and respond too. Otherwise we will delete or ignore the interaction.

We prefer literate roleplay, but we will try to accommodate to other styles so long as the English is proficient and it’s comprehensible.

If you read the whole post and not just up until here, respond to this post with your thoughts or feelings about the Shrek franchise.

Due to the lack of official content on myself in the game, please remain respectful and understand that mun’s interpretation of myself is based on her judgement of my character in my 10 seconds of Mike Wazowski style screen time.

Introduce any new characters or yourself if you are trying to roleplay with us for the first time. Whether it’s a character’s name, alias, or an emote so that we can keep track of our interactions.

Don’t god-mod (controlling Yvonne in your rp) with us. We’ll cringe and halt the interaction right there.

Do not feed any content we write or art we share into any AI engines, and credit us properly. If we find evidence of this, we will ask for it to be taken down, or in rare and intense cases seek out legal action, as mun’s work is protected by Canadian Copyright law.

❥ Post and Ask Tags

Info and Rules: ♡ respitesrules

Posts About/From Mun: ♡ nurse off duty

Posts About/From Yvonne: ♡ lnds yvonne

Textposts and Thoughts: ♡ yvonne's diary

All Asks: ♡ akso askbulance

Akso Staff Interactions: ♡ akso staff shenanigans

Akso Gossip: ♡ akso tea time

Ships: ♡ one steep forward, ♡ greYv train, ♡ nightingale; jermvonne

Anon Asks: ♡ [emoji/name] spillin' tea

All Roleplays: ♡ lnds rp, ♡ nurse yvonne's rps, ♡ open rp, ♡ closed rp

Interactions with Canon Characters: ♡ dr grey's blue skies; drgreysonmd, ♡ jer’s lavender lullabies; jeremiahofphilo, ♡ dr zayne’s twilit tundras; zayne-snowman, ♡ astra’s poutings; sasstras-gaze, ♡ talia’s crystalline nocturnes; talia-sings, ♡ nero’s wanderer empire; wandererenthusiast1, ♡ the getaway caw; just-a-normal-crow, ♡ raf’s resonant infernos; flamesque

Roleplay Starters: ♡ defibroleplaytor charge

Fics, Drabbles, and Headcanons: ♡ gauze and glitter pens

Muse/Inspo: ♡ musings to mend

Art: ♡ healing hues

❥ About Me! (Yvonne's Info)

Physical Appearance: Fair skin, hazel/amber eyes, chestnut coloured hair with a side-swept fringe in various styles, and my usual scrubs or y2k fashion.

Personality: What you wish you could be, lol. Witty, playful, and honestly a bit blunt or snippy sometimes. If you deserve the roasting, you’ll get it. Don’t dish what you can’t take, babes.

Occupation: Akso’s prettiest nurse, duh. Cardiac surgery department and sometimes chilling at the front desk.

Canon Relationships: Colleagues with Dr. Zayne and Dr. Greyson. A little gossip about the MC but only brief interactions.

❥ Friends!

❀ Doctor Zayne ~ @zayne-snowman ♡ Doctor Greyson ~ @drgreysonmd ❀ Crow ~ @just-a-normal-crow ♡ Rafayel ~ @flamesque ❀ Jeremiah ~ @jeremiahofphilo ♡ Thomas ~ @thomasicism ❀Jenna ~ @unicorns-captain ♡ Nero ~ @wandererenthusiast1 ❀ Astra ~ @sasstras-gaze ♡ mc ~ @aethercodeevol

➵ This post will be updated as more info comes out and if important things change/come up, or if mun sees typos/errors lmao

➵ Divider art by mun, aka mahalkitart, aka "mahalkitheart" here on Tumblr.

#♡ respitesrules #read it and cry about it later

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ampleappleamble · 11 months ago

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—

Very few ships operating within the Deadfire bothered to make the long and treacherous trip to the lonely expanse of open sea known colloquially as the Windless Wastes. Traversing the unnaturally still waters was, after all, a task hardly worth the effort– excepting a direct route south to Naasitaq or the White That Wends, the area held little of value. No whaler was mad or foolish enough to brave the icy depths for a prize that could be won far more easily in safer waters, and cartographers had yet to make an offer enticing enough for any sufficiently competent explorer to successfully chart the place. The only known ports in which one might find shelter consisted of an abandoned Vailian fortress surrounded by shipwrecks and shrouded in a malevolent fog, and an inhospitable iceberg populated entirely by fanatical Rymrgandian cultists. Therefore, very few ships passed that way, and fewer still dared to drop anchor at the lone settlement frozen into the crevices of the Dead Floe, lest the burgeoning ice issuing forth from the winds of the glacial cliffs freeze their vessels in place for good.

Still, an unlucky or incompetent captain finding themselves bereft of the trading companies' good graces– if not a crew still to be paid and fed– might sometimes need plunge into very unfriendly waters indeed if they were to make ends meet. And even oblivion-seeking zealots needed tallow and firewood, needed vegetables and fruit and grain, and if they had coin or useful sundries to trade for it, who was a desperate merchant to argue? And so ships still, on occasion, reluctantly docked at Harbinger's Watch, offloading whatever wares they had before they spoiled: to the brewmaster, the fishmonger, the innkeeper.

But despite the dangers and the difficulties, one plucky young entrepreneur visited on a more regular basis, one who treated exclusively– and secretly– with the High Harbinger himself. And on this visit, much to her chagrin, he was proving to be a very difficult client.

—

"This is it?" Vatnir picked at the thin, shabby fare laid out before him, an unimpressed scowl stretched across his lipless face. "This is all you have on offer?"

"Per complancanet, fentre, do not sound so offended." The merchant fussed with a loose strand of ivy sprouting from her shoulder and strode briskly across the tiny hidden room, as though she were trying to physically distance herself from her own pathetic muster. "Di verus, it is nothing personal. My sister and I, we have merely suffered a... a lean quarter, ac? A temporary bout of poor fortune. You, more than anyone, should understand that." She narrowed her goat's eyes at him, somehow managing to pout condescendingly.

The son of Rymrgand shot the daughter of Galawain a withering glare as he roughly placed a jar of corpsefruit preserves back onto the table with a resounding crack. "And you, more than anyone, ought to understand the incredible risk I take in simply meeting here with you every month."

He folded his hands behind his back and lowered his horned head down between his shoulders as he spoke, sounding not unlike a teacher scolding a bright but lazy pupil. "I am the leader of this clan, Bela, the very beating heart of this community. My spare time is both exceedingly scarce and incalculably precious to me. If it should ever be discovered how I choose to spend that time–"

Bela huffed indignantly. She had come here to do business, not to get lectured. "Postenago, of course I know that–"

"Then why," he hissed, whirling sharply on her, "do you think you can convince me to trade the products of my limited time and effort– painstakingly crafted, authentic, invaluable jommydra– for dross and dregs?" He thrust a bony, accusing finger at the pitiful display of substandard goods cluttering his table.

For a moment Bela was shocked into silence, but if her miserable childhood as part of a traveling curiosity show in the Republics had taught her anything, it was how to recover quickly from an unexpected blow. "Well, you seem to have very easily put a value on them, High Harbinger," Bela spat back coolly. "Over the years we've been doing business together, you've traded away quite a few copies of your precious lore. For food, drink, smoke..."

Vatnir snorted derisively, waving a bandaged hand at her as though to waft away her insinuations. "Yes, yes, good food, good drink, good smoke," he barked. "Rare foreign luxuries that might lift away at least some small portion of the burdens I bear. Things worth the hours I pour into reproducing my clan's most sacred scripture for a profane outsider. Not this... detritus."

"There's plenty here that's perfectly good yet!" Bela insisted, stomping back over to the table and casting her hand in a broad arc above the sad little pile of miscellanea, trying to convince herself as much as her customer. "Madiccho, I thought you Glamfellen were more resourceful than that. Look, here. This whiteleaf–"

"—is naught but stems and seeds," he scoffed, "more likely to clog my pipe than to ease my pain." He coughed, as though to make his point.

"Well," she countered brusquely, "perhaps a man in your condition should not be smoking so much anyway." She snatched up a brown glass bottle from the table, waved it enticingly at him. "Drink, I think, would be much better to soothe your poor throat, ac? Rum, fine rum distilled in the heart of Neketaka, fit for a Watershaper– no, for the Queen herself!"

"Half empty," he growled, crossing his arms over his chest. "And nowhere near as good as anything I can already get from Nyvardir. For free."

Really, the worst part was that he was right– her stock was shit, all of it. But unfortunately for her, shit was all she had, and she couldn't endanger her proprietary arrangement with the only priest of Rymrgand in the Deadfire, and one willing to betray the sacrosanctity of his office for personal gain at that. Desperation crawled up inside her guys like a creeping vine. "Gellarde. Fine. Fine! All of it, then! I will give you all of it, fentre, everything you see here, if you'll only–"

"Maribel," Vatnir snapped. "I don't want any of it."

She turned away from him.

With any other client, she'd have probably called it quits by now and referred him to a peer to whom she owed a favor. Part of being a good saleswoman, after all, was recognizing when one was simply the wrong kith for the job, and networking with contemporaries was just as important as pleasing one's customers. But if Marri was right– and being an Endings godlike herself, her "sister" did possess some unique insight into the matter– having exclusive access to authentic Glamfellen holy lore could mean the difference between dominating the market in the White That Wends, or continuing to drag along the bottom of the mercantile social strata as they did now, barely making enough profit for the next job's expenses, servicing clients with her body when her merchandise would not suffice. And if they were successful in using their godlike status to capture the custom of an entire country (or the communities along the northern coasts that deigned to trade with outsiders, anyway), perhaps they could capture the attention of the Songretta as well, convince them and the ducs that godlikes did have a place in the Republics, that they could run magnificent businesses, fill a niche that no ordinary kith ever could. She couldn't just give up on that dream. In fact, she refused to rest until this repugnant, boorish, creepy little charlatan of a priest gave her what she wanted; what she deserved, really, for putting up with him for so long. So she turned away from him, and she uncorked the vial of oil of allure strung around her neck for just such an occasion.

When she turned back to face Vatnir again, her eyes were downcast, her full, glossy lips parted just slightly. She fluttered her long, dark eyelashes, willed color into her cheeks, made her voice smoky and sultry and sweet. "In that case," she murmured, "I suppose I only have one more thing to offer you, High Harbinger."

The dozens of tiny orange flowers that crawled up her delicate antelope's horns and nestled throughout the tight curls of her mahogany hair all slowly turned toward Vatnir in unison, as though he were the sun. Her lichen-pocked hand drifted slowly across her soft, round belly, then up and across the plunging neckline of her dress, tugging at a leather strap tucked between her shoulder and her ample bosom.

Vatnir stumbled a step backwards, a bruise-colored blush spreading beneath his mask, bad memories rising up inside him like bile. "N-no," he blurted, "no, no. None of that. Never again. I'll not humiliate myself a second time just for you to–"

"Cuè?" Bela purred, pulling the strap harder to bring her satchel around to her front. The oil burned as it clung to her tongue, its intoxicating perfume billowing up around her as she spoke. "Sientere, but I cannot imagine what you might find humiliating about being offered a perfectly innocent book, fentre."

Vatnir blinked, eyeing her suspiciously before stepping closer again, his shame quickly and mercifully forgotten. "A book?" he muttered, his tripartite gaze fixed on her hands as she opened her bag and produced a thick, heavy volume bound in skuldr leather. "What, a new one?"

"New to you. And to me as well," she sighed, trying to suppress a grin. He couldn't smell it, she knew, but her oil was definitely working on him, drawing him in. And it was working on her, too, loosening her up, making the right words come to her as though they were being whispered in her ear. "Di verus, this item is not exactly part of my regular stock– it is a personal possession, a... gift from another client. I am only halfway through it myself, but if you insist on driving such a hard bargain..."

She coyly proffered the book, holding it just out of his reach, and as expected, he grasped for it eagerly. For many reasons, physical travel wasn't feasible for the High Harbinger of Dusk, but reading afforded him a kind of escape anyway. While narcotics and culinary delicacies could bring great pleasure and powerful succor, his enjoyment of them was also agonizingly momentary, and he was at the mercy of the gods to decide when an opportunity to endulge might fall upon him. A good story, however, was something he could escape into whenever he pleased, for as long as he dared: he needed only find the time to read it first, and then his chanter training allowed him to easily recall a particular turn of phrase or a favorite quotation and slip into another world inside his mind, a fantasy where he could hide away from the endless, miserable drudgery of his life. They were good for inspiring new ideas, too, new imagery and experiences and characters to weave into his sermons and his "visions", to make them sound more meaningful, more believable to his ignorant followers. If he were to be completely honest, a good, thick book was probably his very favorite thing to find among the vendor's wares when she visited– although, in the interests of trying to lower her prices for the damned things, he'd never admit it to her. Noting with relief that this one was written in a language he could actually read, Vatnir took up the weighty manuscript in his arms and adjusted his eyes and his mind to Aedyran script, drinking in the title.

The New Legends of the Eastern Reach: A True and Thorough Telling of the History of the Dyrwood in Anni Iroccio 2823, Detailing the Animancy Trials, the Assassination of Duc Aevar Wolf-Grin and the Defiance Bay Riots, the Rise of the Watcher of Caed Nua, and the Lifting of the Hollowborn Curse.

He sagged in disappointment.

"What in– for frost's sake, what kind of title is that?" he whined, even as he flipped the cover open and began leafing through the pages.

"One that tells you what the book is about, fentre," Bela deadpanned, smirking. "I know you haven't much use for world news down here in the frozen-over asshole of the southern seas, but let me assure you, the events described therein are as exhilarating and enthralling as any fantasy novel or sprawling epic. And what's more, they actually happened! In fact, if rumors–"

"You said this one was new," Vatnir grumbled, licking his thumb before turning another page. "The title says Anni Iroccio 2823. Correct me if I'm wrong, but the current year in your Vailian calendar is 2828, ja?"

Bela bristled slightly at the priest's constant interruptions, not to mention his choice to smear his stinking slobber all over the book she'd worked so hard to pilfer, but she gritted her teeth and pressed on. "I said it was new to you," she reminded him patiently. "And books do take time to scribe and to illustrate, fentre, especially the more comprehensive ones like this. But the really interesting thing about this one is–"

"Ah, so there are pictures," Vatnir mused, happening across one as he rifled through the pages. "And in color, even." Indeed, vivid hues and brilliant goldleaf leapt out at him from the copious marginalia and full-page illustrations, charming and intriguing him despite himself: a Dyrwoodan city district teeming with what looked like the undead, a cluster of adra pillars surrounded by armed kith with painted faces, a bearded meadow folk man in an opulent cloak. He turned another page, and another, searching for more.

He stopped.

There on the page before him was a portrait of an orlan woman in a shining silver breastplate, her bright red hair cascading over her sturdy shoulders, her golden fur glittering against her tawny skin, her long, slender ears arcing gracefully toward the heavens, her violet eyes fixed on a point beyond the edge of the page, piercing and determined.

Vatnir stared, stupefied, powerless to look away. She was breathtakingly beautiful.

Bela, peeking over his shoulder, had to bite her lip to keep from giggling. Oh, she had him now. "Careful not to drool on the parchment, fentre. You'll make the ink run."

The smitten priest abruptly snapped back to reality, blinking rapidly and sucking air in between his teeth. "W-what?" he gurgled.

Now the merchant allowed herself to laugh. "As I was saying," she continued, "the interesting bit about this book is that it chronicles, in part, the rise of a particular hero of the Dyrwood. One who, if rumors are to be believed, has recently arrived here in the Deadfire. And gellarde! You have found her: the Watcher of Caed Nua!"

"Watcher?" Vatnir looked down at the book again, his gaze lingering on the woman's face for a moment before finally spotting a caption woven into the portrait's intricately detailed border, just beneath her clasped hands.

"Axe," he read, then stopped, perplexed. He squinted at the page. "Ocks-ah–"

"Ah-sha, postenago," Bela laughed. "She is Ixamitec. Ah-sha Ma-la is her name."

"Ah-sha Ma-la," he repeated softly, reverently, his eyes roving hungrily over the portrait again. "Axa Mala, of Ixamitl. Who is she?"

Hook, line, and sinker. Now all Bela had to do was reel him in. "To find out, aimoronet, you will have to buy the book," she teased, lightly running a fingertip along the edge of his ear. "Or trade for it, of course."

"Of course," he echoed absently, completely sincere– and then, too late, he caught himself.

Embarrassed, he gritted his teeth and jerked away from the merchant's touch, slamming the book shut. "Of course," he groused, scurrying to the opposite end of the room, the book still in his arms. "Well. You were right about one thing– I have no use for world news. In truth, no one does. So long as the Floe keeps expanding, there will soon be no world, no news. As it should be." The High Harbinger heaved a heavy sigh. "But..."

Bela's grin broadened. "But...?"

He turned his head to peer at her over his shoulder. "But you have piqued my curiosity. You said this... Watcher was here, in the Deadfire, now? What brought her here? I doubt I'll find that out from a book written five years ago."

Bela's golden-green eyes shone with excitement, and she hurried to his side, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. "You have heard of the giant adra man, ac? The one storming across the archipelago, possessed by Eothas, the dead god, devouring souls and luminous adra wherever it treads?"

A giant man made of adra? This was the first he'd heard of anything like that. "I've heard rumors," he lied. "So it's true, then?"

"Oh yes, fentre, it is true," she chirped. "And this Watcher, this Axa Mala? She is here because she is chasing it. It emerged from beneath her castle in the Dyrwood, tearing away her soul with its rising, and Cirono returned her to us from the Beyond to hunt the giant down."

Vatnir rolled his eyes at the mention of Berath, but pressed on regardless. "Hunt it down?" he muttered. "To what end?"

She shrugged. "Who can say? Perhaps Cirono wishes her to reclaim her soul from the dead god, that it might return to the Wheel as is proper. Perhaps she has been tasked with finding a way to stop the giant's rampage, or else destroy it. Whatever her reasons, she has told the Queen of the Kahanga that she intends to sail the seas far and wide, scouring the isles for her runaway god. Who knows? Perhaps one day she'll even pay you a visit, all the way down here. You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Bela winked at him, laughing again as the priest cringed and blushed.

"D-don't mock me, Vailian," he grumbled. "I've grown weary of your company. Just... take the jommydra and go. A book for a book– that will have to stand in for a fair trade, this time." He set the thick tome carefully on the edge of his table, snatching up a significantly slimmer manuscript and coughing into his free hand as he thrust it in the merchant's general direction.

Bela clapped her hands together, delighted in her victory, and flounced over to him to collect her prize. "Agracima, High Harbinger," she gushed, gathering her hard-won treasure– along with her unsold wares– into her satchel. "Always a pleasure to do business with you."

He grunted dismissively, and then again in alarm as he noticed what she was up to. "H-hey, wait a minute– what are you doing? You said I could have all of it if–"

"–if you'd trade me what you promised me you would when last we met, ac," she explained, cocking a slim green vine of an eyebrow. "I did not say you could have all of this and my personal copy of a rare and expensive book. It's one or the other, fentre. Do not be greedy."

Vatnir narrowed his cold, beady eyes at her. "Fine," he spat. "But you owe me better, much better than this next time. And I intend to hold you to that."

"I'm certain you will," Bela chuckled, latching her now bulging bag shut. "If you should ever wish to trade it back to me, my sister and I will return in a month, as per our arrangement. Corès for now, aimico. Use her portrait for your pleasure all you wish, but do try not to fall in love, ac?"

Vatnir growled, reaching threateningly for an empty bottle of rymsjódda. But before he could even pick it up let alone throw it at her, the woman gave him a cheerful little wave and vanished in a puff of smoke– her favorite rogue's trick, and an excellent way to return to her ship undetected by any of the other harbingers. She always ended their meetings that way. Annoying, but at least he was finally alone.

Alone with his new book. With Axa Mala, hero of the Dyrwood, and the tales of her great and terrible deeds. His hands trembled as he cracked the book open, letting the pages fall to either side, parting to reveal the orlan's portrait once more, every bit as captivating as the first time he'd seen it. He suddenly felt nervous, nauseated even, as though she were about to march into his quarters in person and demand to know what he thought he was doing. So he closed the book and took a few deep breaths before opening it again, this time to the first page.

"Well then," he murmured, "shall we get to know one another, Watcher of Caed Nua?" And he started reading.

—

#pillars of eternity #vatnir #fanfic wip #working title: hero worship #honestly that'll probably be the published title too #kinda bummed i had to change the Lords of the Eastern Reach reference #but unfortunately it just didn't quite work #anyway this is the intro and first half #the rest will come... uh later #thanks for reading ♡

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