#silverskin

[roughridingrednecks]

Silverskin

[timmysaint]

Randy “Randia”

Creador/Creator: Jadenova

[celestite-caroline]

I've been thinking about several hypothetical changes to KB such as "what if they all had coffee names" or "what if they still looked a lot like coffee beans" and "what if the newer KB stuff kept the gritty, aggressively 2000's vibe" and to sum up I ended up making an entire AU based off all of these

[icecreampizzer]

Some fun portraits for characters I haven't thought of in a hot second! If you recognize them and still remember their very first versions you're eligible for a veteran's discount. Finally getting some inspiration for them but I am just working on stories in general...you know how it is

also, I've decided to remake this story's title into THE MAGIC WE CREATE. Never really vibed with the last one. If you're new here those words probably dont make a lick of sense but that's ok

[butcherbitching]

if you come into my shop, look at my display case and say, “is this it?” in a snotty tone of voice, I am disinclined to custom cut anything for you.

[whothehellisjoe]

The thing about toddlers is they’re basically psychopaths. If they find something fun, they’ll keep doing it until they get bored or someone stops them from doing whatever it is, regardless of any moral or social considerations.

Usually this isn’t a problem, because watching over kids and keeping them safe from themselves and other threats is basically the entire purpose of a good percentage of society.

Ava (donor: Ava Kaihau) and Oli (donor: Olivia Tellos) Silverskin were not protected, and are now metaphorical brains in jars in actual robot bodies. The research groups of Anzerite Republics (Kuwari) do not allow experimentation on people, so Ava and Olivia aren’t; they’re simulacra, homunculi, maybe even (whisper it) de-corped copies of the original children, children who were paid for their time in toys and candy and stories of heroism. Their families were also paid and promoted, moving from the lowest rank of non-citizen to mid-tier citizenship with only the barest delay; now, five standard years later, both girls have been enrolled in the Far Horizon boarding school on Arale. By the ambient morality this makes it okay to create new proto-human subjectivities and force them into a life of war.

The not-girls, meanwhile, have been raised as skirmish sisters, adopted into the family of Silverskin Advanced Projects, alongside counter-Manaia printsec, project NIGHT METAL LIBRARY, and the lunatics in the Lugus L2 God’s Revolver team.

Ava and Oli have had their emotional processing crudely re-wired; now following orders is fun, combat is interesting, refuelling and rearming feels like eating a nice meal, and harming ARK assets blooms pain across their simulated cheeks like a slap from a parent. At least, that is the intention: the Silverskin sisters are human enough that active observation of their mental state is beyond current Republican technology, and must be inferred by observation and communication.

Even with this advanced control system, Ava is prone to wandering off and exploring when she doesn’t have an objective active; though even when she escapes her handlers, her integrated navigation systems mean she never gets lost for long, and has always returned in time to work. She appears to enjoy being refitted, and whispers softly across all open channels while undergoing maintenance.

Oli’s donor used to pull the wings off flies; now Oli Silverskin kills the feral anvix that get too close to the base, shooting the creatures out of the sky with her missile defence lasers and watching them fall, struggling and on fire. On one occasion, witnessed by Thane August Tan, she leapt five times her own height and tore open the side of an incorrectly flagged atmospheric transport blimp, puncturing the outer vacuum-segments and riding the crippled machine to the tarmac in a manner that put the observers in mind of a kitten biting open the back of a human neck. Thane Tan has since been attempting to acquire his own Silverskin incarnation; negotiations are ongoing.

[evesaintyves]

for @remadoramicrofics october 3rd prompt, "cellar"

698 words. warning for violence and implied sexual violence

read it below or on AO3 🩸

In the last week of the waxing moon, Remus dreams that he is crushing the rat under the heel of his shoe, feeling the crunch and snap of little bones, hearing the pathetic squealing until it concedes to a satisfying silence. Sometimes he wakes up laughing. He dreams he is eating a hank of raw meat, not a steak but a long ragged silverskinned muscle, tearing it with his hands and teeth.

He's never quite sure if it's the stress of what's coming or if it's his other half making itself heard through the membrane that separates them, singing to him of its hunger and its lust.

He dreams he is fucking Tonks.

Sometimes she's taut with pleasure, incisors gleaming in her open mouth, bracing her hands on the headboard, breathing yes—yes—yes with his thrusts.

Other times, though—she's not.

And lately more and more she is there in his bed when he wakes up, cupping his cheek in her hand, cooing, "Shh, It's okay. It's all right. You're here with me." Not understanding that that's part of the problem. And when it happens he turns and lets her enfold him in her arms, tuck his head against her chest where he can shut his eyes and inhale that scent of salt and powder that lives in the smooth lowland there. He puts the dream away in the deep dark place where those things go. It's a physical feeling of pushing, cramming it down, shutting a lid on it.

He's quite efficient at it.

"I'll be there with you tomorrow," she's telling him tonight. She's rubbing his back like she's trying to keep him warm. The state the dream has left him in—sweating, tingling, heartbeat skipping, hard and digging into the flesh of her thigh—isn't as easy to stuff away. "Just outside the door."

He'd rather she wasn't, but he's in no shape to argue and arguing wouldn't do any good. She's better at it than he is, because she doesn't care about annoying him, losing her composure, making a scene. She only wants to win.

"I could read to you," she goes on, "or play some music."

"It wouldn't make any difference."

He can feel her heart rate spike.

"You know, you're living for free in this bonkers fucking house, you've got a safe place to go and—and do your thing, you've got Sirius, you've got me, I'm dragging a pillow and blanket down to the fucking cellar door and spending the night there with you—maybe you could count yourself lucky, mate. Maybe you could say thank you, Tonks, I'm glad you're here. "

"Thank you, Tonks."

She's quiet. It's a relief. His body is calming down too, his eyes start to roll, and he could forgive himself for falling asleep there in that shallow solace of her stroking hands, her swells of breathing.

"Sometimes," she says, startling him, "I have this dream that I've got the cellar door open, I'm standing at the top of the stairs, and you're at the bottom. You don't look like a werewolf, but you've got… these eyes… I know you are one. I've got my wand on you, and I'm going to kill you before you kill me. It has to be that way, it makes sense, the way things just make sense in a dream."

Tomorrow night, it will be as if they never spoke of this—he will kiss her before he walks his aching bones down the stairs. Standing behind her, Sirius will pull a smug-looking face. Remus will lock the door behind himself and hear the muffled thump of her weight as she sits against it. He'll find his way in the dark to the alcove where he puts his wand, his clothes. He'll still feel watched and want to cover himself, even in the dark, even alone. And he'll be afraid. Not of the breaking bones or the blood he'll wake up covered in: of the wanton, abandoned release he'll feel when he changes.

Now, she runs her finger down the vein that stands out in his neck. Her arms around him are as much comfort as restraint. 

Softly, she asks, "Do you know what I mean?"

[modern-inheritance]

Modern Inheritance: Over the Edge (Pre-war)

(A/N: WIP title. It's not really abuse, but wanna say that there's a very very brief moment of rough-handling of a kid. No hitting, only a brief shake to a kid the size of, let's say a 7-8 year old human. Also, we get to see Islanzadí for the first time in pre-war, with this taking place probably a month or two before The Promise and Arya's oath with Brom. She's struggling with the turmoil after the Fall, the loss of Evandar and not really having the time to mourn him due to the sudden rush of responsibility and new duties {that sounds like a theme for this bloodline huh} and she is barely keeping her head above water. Because of that, she tries to tell herself that it's okay to focus solely on her duties as queen, because, through trickle down and big picture, her doing well as queen keeps Arya safe from Galbatorix and the Forsworn. That's what she tells herself. If she believes it is up to you as the reader at this point.)

~~~~~~

MODERN INHERITANCE: OVER THE EDGE

Out of nowhere the door to the queen’s study slammed open with a horrendous bang. Däthedr, Fiolr and Islanzadí all jumped as one.

“What is the meaning of this int–” Islanzadí’s thunderous voice was immediately silenced by the equally stormy eyes that snapped to her. Despite his frail nature, Oromis’ presence filled the doorway, looming over them like a threatening anvil cloud. 

“Leave us.” The Rider’s voice held unmistakable steel. The two elf lords flicked their gazes to the queen, unsure of who was in control. Slighting one would be dangerous, though which was more threatening at the time was yet to be decided. “Leave!”

A great rumble shook the roots arrayed beneath their feet and a massive golden eye suddenly glinted outside the window overlooking the courtyard.

Däthedr and Fiolr were out of their seats and bowed just low enough to show apologetic respect before they fled, kicking up moss in their haste.

Silence but for the soft whooshing of Glaedr’s great lungs outside the walls filled the room. 

Islanzadí slowly settled back into her chair. “Can I help you, Oromis-elda?” The brittleness that accompanied her clenched teeth and the hard line of her shoulders was not masked in the slightest. Islanzadí was livid at the intrusion and far beyond angry at the subversion of her authority, in front of her advisor no less! 

“Do you have any,” Oromis paused to collect himself. His own rage was very close to boiling over. “Any inkling of just where your daughter is?” 

The queen blinked. Arya? When was the last time she had seen her? Surely not that long ago. Breakfast, probably, scampering out the door. Or did she see her in the Menoa tree while on a walk? No, that was yesterday, she had a meeting with the Council after that, so it had to be yesterday. 

A heavy stone of guilt dropped into Islanzadí’s stomach. Could she really not tell him when she last saw her own child? The days had been going by in a whirlwind, filled with meetings pushing for more resources for the border, more spellcasters to maintain the barriers, power struggles in Ceris–

Islanzadí had no earthly idea where her own daughter was.

“I…” 

Oromis reached behind him and marched into the room. “Spare me the attempt, Islanzadí.” 

A small yelp of indignation followed him, or rather, was dragged alongside him. Arya let out a half feral yowl at the Dragon Rider pulling her by one gangly arm, silverskin glowing a muted flush of pink anger at her cheeks at the unintentional roughness. 

The elfling’s hair was wild, though that was nothing new. Her braid was half undone, the tie at the base loosened. Knees scuffed, elbows bruised, knuckles scraped, pine needles stuck to her clothing with sap. Yes, that was her Arya, scowling up at her from where Oromis had planted the child in front of him with his hands on her shoulders. 

“Tell your mother.”

Arya’s scowl deepened. Stars. She looked so much like Evandar during combat when she did that. Her brows met with the same lightning pattern, jet streaks of midnight above endless emerald green. “Nothing happened.”

Another growl rattled the window hard enough to send it gliding inwards on hidden hinges. Glaedr snapped his massive jaws, a sharp crack loud enough to make the gathered elves flinch. Outside, a trio of pines juddered from the impact of his tail before he subdued the lashing.

‘Hatchling!’ His voice was thunderous in their minds. At the dragon’s mental touch Islanzadí felt the sensation of wind pushing against her body, a momentary inkling of confusion, then a fear of failure, fear of the outcome, and then…relief. And rage. ‘We have warned you!’

Against all odds, Arya snapped her own teeth, a defiant snarl rattling her thin chest. “I’m not scared of you, Glaedr!” 

The golden dragon audibly balked. That stung more than he cared to admit. Especially coming from one so small.

“What is this about?” Islanzadí snapped. That surge of fear felt through Glaedr’s memories twisted her stomach into knots. Besides the usual scrapes, though, Arya seemed unharmed. “I have work to do. You interrupted a meeting that was planned weeks in advance!”

Outside, Glaedr shifted. 

Arya bared her teeth. With a hollow mental wave of her hand to put it aside for later thought, Islanzadí noticed the girl’s canines had fallen out. When had that happened? Not too recently, it seemed. The tips of wickedly sharp ancestral teeth were already poking through, giving the child an almost comical appearance with both top canines barely coming in while the lower set were nearly level with her incisors. 

Oromis’ eyes flashed at Islanzadí’s words. His grip on Arya’s shoulders tightened. “We found your daughter after she leapt off the Crags, Islanzadí.”

Islanzadí’s heart dropped, the wind knocked from her lungs. “What?” 

‘We were flying and caught the hatchling after she jumped off the Crags of Tel’naeír.’ 

Arya…jumped from the cliffs? 

Islanzadí was around the desk in an instant and seized her only child by the arms. “What were you thinking?” There was only panic thudding in her chest, the image of a small body crumpled in the beds of pine needles flashing to her mind. “Have you gone mad?! Answer me!” 

“Islanzadí!” Oromis’ bark was sharp and swift. It was only when Arya stifled a squeak did Islanzadí realize she was shaking her. 

The queen released the elfling as if stung, hands hovering an inch away from the pink blotches blooming on silvered skin. “Arya…?” 

Arya lifted her gaze from where she had dropped it to the ground. 

Was…was that fire in her eyes?

Defiant but calm. Determined. The lanky child squared her shoulders as best she could under Oromis’ grip and met her mother’s conflicted storm of golden lightning and locked them eye to eye.

Arya’s voice was soft, deadpan. “I wanted to fly.” 

Fly. Said as if it were entirely normal for elf children to take to the skies after a quick breakfast. Islanzadí stared at her child, unsure if this was some sort of elaborate ruse to hide a darker motive, some childish cry for help, or if her daughter genuinely had planned to leap off a thousand foot cliff and sprout wings.

The queen closed her mouth, suddenly aware that her jaw was hanging open a good half inch in dumbfounded bewilderment. 

“...Fly?” 

Arya nodded. Never broke eye contact. Never changed her expression. “I wanted to test the spells I made. The Crags are the highest and clearest launch point.”

A dull headache began to throb behind Islanzadí’s forehead.

Why? Why did it always have to be her child. Couldn’t she find something normal to do? Couldn’t she see that Islanzadí was struggling to keep the entire elven nation together just over a handful of years after the Fall? Arya was known to be remarkably observant but how could she not understand, after her father–

The fear for her safety was quickly turning to white hot anger at the center of Islanzadí’s chest. Of all the foolish things….

The queen inhaled and held her breath for a long moment before letting it out in a tight huff. “Arya. You are far too old to be pretending you can fly, and far too young to be meddling with experimental magic!” Arya opened her mouth but Islanzadí cut her off. “No. Enough of this. You know how important the meetings today are.” Islanzadí rose from her kneeling position and knocked the knees of her dress free of dirt. “You and I will discuss this at length in the evening. Now go to your quarters.”

Again, Arya tried to speak. She even took half a step forward, something flashing and flaring bright in her emerald eyes. “I–”

“Enough!” Unmistakable. The voice she used in court. Commanding. The voice of a queen. “To your quarters!” Islanzadí threw an arm in the direction of the door, pointing sharply. “Now!” 

The elfling’s mouth snapped shut, jaw clenched.

Islanzadí couldn’t tell if it was horror, pain, or anger that surged to her throat when her daughter straightened into a smart attention, knocked her knuckles to a disheveled shoulder as she had seen countless times before, and bowed. 

“As you wish, my queen.”

Hollow, detached. Quietly and barely masking the seething underneath it all.

Arya was at the door when Oromis called out. “Arya.” She turned to him, never once looking back to her mother. “Lessons early tomorrow. Bring your books and your training blade.”

“Yes, ebrithil.” The murmur held more respect than anything she had said to Islanzadí. “I will be there.”

Once the door was closed, Islanzadí took a moment to rub her temples and just breathe. She could still feel Oromis staring at her, anger not yet gone, thunder still in his eyes. 

“What?” She didn’t mean to snap. She bit her tongue. The Dragon Rider merely shook his head. “Speak, Oromis! I do not have time for games! I have two more meetings, not counting the one you interrupted, and I have a stack of reports on attempted border incursions by Wyrdfell waiting for me.”

“You don’t have time?” The words stung hard against Islanzadí’s ears with flabbergasted accusations. Oromis must indeed be outraged if he was acting this emotional with her. “You do not have time for your own daughter?” 

The queen whirled back to her desk and stalked around it. “My daughter should know better than to jump off cliffs and think she will fly!” She shoved a stack of papers to the side roughly and sat. “She knows how important these weeks are. Arya is capable, she should be able to take care of herself.”

“That is not the matter at all, and you know this!” Oromis followed her, bracing slim hands on the back of one of the chairs. “Islanzadí, Arya is hurting! She is still trying to come to terms with Evandar’s death–”

“Get out.” 

“Islanzadí–”

“Get out! You will not lecture me on how to raise my child by invoking the name of my dead mate!”

For the first, and quite nearly the only time, Islanzadí witnessed Oromis Thrándurin in a true, uncontained rage. 

The unmistakable rumble of dragonfire swelled in the crippled Rider’s chest. Islanzadí shrank back instinctively as the elf seemed to grow before her, white teeth flashing, fingers cracking through the chair’s wood as if pierced by ivory claws. 

Oromis’ voice was harsh with crackling flame, roaring at her above the din. “Then raise your child, Islanzadí Dröttning!” His thin chest heaved, as if the effort of holding back true fire taxed him to the limit. “Arya needs her mother. Not a queen. Go to her. She is a child! She only wants to be held by her mother and told that it will all be alright while the world is falling apart!” 

The words had Islanzadí shooting to her feet yet again. “Yes! The world is falling apart! And right now, the only thing keeping us safe are magic barriers, far too few uninjured spellcasters, a handful of cities lending all the strength they can to fortify them, and spells that are millenia old and in desperate need of repair!” The queen threw an arm out, gesturing to the expanse of Du Weldenvarden mapped out on the wall of pine. “Everyone is hurting! And I am the queen of an entire race that is hurting! I do not have time to lie to my daughter that everything will be fine when we cannot know for sure! My time is spent endlessly fortifying our defenses, trying to make sure we last to the end of the month in case Galbatorix decides to send his entire collection of Wyrdfell to sweep the forest with dragonfire! Time not spent with her is time spent keeping her alive!

“Arya will just have to learn how to live with some sacrifices. I will not hold her hand when it means the possibility of losing this entire nation.” 

Oromis once again looked every year his age. 

“Are you finished?” He asked softly.

The queen lowered herself into her chair, hands shaking. “Get out. And take Glaedr with you.”

Oromis again shook his head, as if in sad disappointment. “You will lose her if you continue like this, Islanzadí.”

Islanzadí did not look up from the piles of reports on her desk. 

When the door finally clicked closed behind him, the queen of the elves buried her face in her hands, and cried. 

Oromis was not halfway down the hall when the soft sound of sniffling caught his attention. A small droplet splashed on the back of his hand, warm like a spring rain in the dead of winter. 

He looked up. “Oh, little hatchling. Come down from there.” He gave a small, sad smile. “Please?”

Another quiet sniffle, the rustle of woven pine boughs, and the lanky elfling dropped from one of the skylights in the hall’s ceiling. Arya wiped her nose on the back of her arm, scrubbed at her eyes with the heels of her palms and stifled a hiccup before squaring her shoulders as she had earlier. 

“Arya. Were you listening?”

She nodded. Blinked. 

“Oh, little hatchling. I’m so sorry you heard that.” Her eyes shone with tears when she met his gaze, throat convulsing as she swallowed another stuttered gasp of misery. Oromis opened his arms, chest aching. “None of that, now, Arya. It is okay to cry.”

Arya sniffed again. “F…fighters don’t cry.” 

“My dear girl, everyone cries.” But she was already in his arms, face pressed to his ribs and eyes squeezed shut. 

He let her sob out her frustration and pain there in the hall, tucked into his embrace and in a little sheltered bubble of silence where no one would be able to hear her tears. She pulled away when she was done, rubbing at her face, trying to hide the evidence again as the two of them retrieved her training blade and books before beginning the long walk to the Crags. She would sleep under the stars there, an unspoken agreement forged by the many times Glaedr had awoken to the elfling tucked against his paw, or curled under the roots of a tree at the edge of their cliffside dwelling. 

“I’m…” Oromis flicked his gaze to the child at his side. Arya heaved a few deep breaths, forcing herself to calm fully. “I’m going to fix it.” 

“Fix what, little hatchling?” 

“The world.” Arya nodded in affirmation to herself. The Rider at her side couldn’t help the small grin that tilted his lips. Leave it to the youth to declare such things with so much confidence. “I’m going to fix the world. Then Mum won’t have to work so hard, and you and Glaedr won’t be so sad all the time.”

The matter of fact mentioning of his and Glaedr’s pain hit like a stone loosed from a sling. He pushed it back, did his best to keep the soft smile on his face. “Do you have a plan for this?” 

“Yeah.” 

Oromis nearly missed a step when he glanced down. Arya’s face had transformed from the light frown to a near frighteningly wild smile, teeth bared in fierce determination. Her eyes were alight with brilliant fire, brows lowered in challenge. 

“I’m gonna fight.”

~~~~~~~~

[xx-vergil-xx]

as a huuuge fan of your fanfic, anything non-fannish you turn your hand to is gonna be spectacular 💚 intrigued and enticed by your wip list; particularly slaughterhouse 101 👀 -- luv, tumblr user monty whatifwekissedinthesawbathroom 💚

my guy right back at you ur style is sublime <3

slaughterhouse 101 asks the question: what if u had a one-sided codependent relationship with ur boss, who hit someone with a car? started this short story after watching just so much succession which i think will be blindingly obvious <3 it’s been thru so many rounds of edits and i still haven’t rounded it out tbh

“I need you to do this for me,” says Mercy. “Okay?”

She has some sort of small grain lodged between her right lateral incisor and her right canine. To regard Mercy’s physicality –– or really, any body’s lumbering, clammy insistence –– feels gauche. But when the waters of happenstance begin to tilt towards Charybdis, Russ finds it helpful. Such blunt truths –– lunch, loitering in the teeth –– are concrete bits of gravel to collect in his pockets, themselves immune to drowning. Like charms.

The sun sinks into its overblown tapestry of departure, its long and tawdry goodbye, red-eyed and bruising over the black tree line, and Mercy is unremitting, stood starkly on the double yellow lines of the road.

Russ has a knack for good graces, their securing and maintenance. The trick is to be the pipe cleaner, the mirror in an unobtrusive shirt. Distort and reflect until you are so indistinguishable from someone that their selfishness includes you by default –– that they’re as good to you as readily and unthinkingly as they might be good to themselves. Mercy sniffs out this quality in Russ early –– something about the heads on the pike comment must have clued her into his mind for homogeneity –– and now Russ is her unthreatening supply of extra limbs. Useful in the correct ways. So naturally a self-extension that her request, her demand, isn’t so much either of those things, but a line of executable, already executing, code.

It’s autumn, in the sense that the leaves are as painted up as the dusk, and it’s also some sort of corporate autumn, as Mercy has often implied. A post-harvest season of rising scarcity, in which phrases like “trim the fat” and “unsynced synergies” are exchanged. Russ looks at their current situation and wonders, sort of far off, how badly this might rank next to Watergate. If they might find themselves silverskin on the butcher’s block over something like this. The answer is obviously yes. The corollary: is it worth it?

[pulpsandcomics2]

Spicy-Adventure Stories    June 1939       cover by H. J. Ward

Blackbirder’s Pearls by Robert Leslie Bellem

Silverskin by Robert A. Garron

I Cover a Killer by Luke Terry

Druid’s Doom by Ray Varick

Hell’s Holocaust by Wyreck Brent

Prisoner of Kublai Khan by Harley Court

[shinakkyo]

description of how to clean a cut of beef

wrap your hand on the hilt

of a knife that knows you well

a blade that is sharp is best,

but in familiarity there's confidence,

assurance that the blood

soon to be in your hands,

won't be your own

the board in which you'll lay

has to be solid and secure

has to be big enough to hold all of it

comfortably in your hand

(the one not holding the knife)

you choose one made of plastic

one you can pour bleach when you're done

that will never stain with red

first you'll have to find the bone

is it the chest? the legs? the back?

either way you'll find it,

a rib, a femur, a vertebrae

with the tip of your knife

and softly you slide underneath it

between layers of fat and muscle

hold it firmly, lay your knife

close as you can get

and pull it out

the knife should always be gentle

don't hurry, let it rest easy against your hand

let the fat drag across its blade

and then you astonish me

as you drop the knife,

and tear the silverskin with your teeth

i would've thought you'd like to sear it first,

let fire change the taste, make it softer

coat with spices and herbs

silly of me to think

it would be the taste that you'd want to hide

when it's the knife itself,

that you can't bear to hold anymore

i can see, finally,

in your hands that are stained red

you didn't pull the bones clean

and the meat hanging from your teeth

is jagged and wet,

and still warm

but i guess

the only thing left now

is to eat

[timmysaint]

Who is Marifer o Karen? 

[lowpolycule]

the best and worst thing about being an adult is that theres no one to stop me from making myself sick by eating insane amounts of olives&pickled silverskin onions

[ladyphoenixnineai]

Silverskin

[carvethemarkquotes]

I did the best I could to pretend I was all right until we reached one of the stairwells, out of sight. Then I stopped to lean into one of the walls, breathless. My skin pulsed around the silverskin. Akos’s touch was taking away the pain of my currentgift, but there was nothing he could do to save me from the rest, the carving of my flesh, the battles I had fought for my own life. “Okay, this is just ridiculous,” Akos said. He put a hand behind my knees and swung me into his arms, not quite as gently as I would have liked. But I was too tired to object.

Carve the Mark, written by Veronica Roth

[horademagic]

Armadura Prateodérmica/ Silverskin Armor

Artefato - Equipamento 

Custo de mana: 2 incolores e/ou de quaisquer cores

Equipar com 2 manas

Por que ela é interessante? A criatura equipada com ela recebe +1/+1 e passa a ser um artefato além de seus outros tipos. Se seu deck tiver foco em artefatos, esse te ajuda a fazer com que algo se junte aos números.

Preço da carta: em torno de 0,10 até 1,50

Disponível em Português

Link: https://www.ligamagic.com.br/?view=cards%2Fsearch&card=Silverskin+armor&tipo=1

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