#the invisible elf saga continues

[preciouslittle-bhaalbabe]

Asty baby you forgot your uh, torso.

[saiyukiitaliaandinternational]

Monthly Minekura Christmas edition

Day 11 “Elf”

I know this might seem strange but the background is actually linked to the theme of 'elf' because that's Alden Valley, based on this photo that inspired me with the subject. Alden derives from Old English ælf ('elf') + denu ('valley'), thus meaning 'elf-valley'. I didn't want to use the Christmas version nor the Tolkien-based elves, and I couldn't find an equivalent in Chinese mythology. I prefer to stick with old traditions but it is complex and sometimes even confusing, so I preferred to use a place in England that was once associated with elves. Elves appear in some place names, though it is difficult to be sure how many of other words, including personal names, can appear similar to elf. The clearest English examples are Elveden ("elves' hill", Suffolk) and Elvendon ("elves' valley", Oxfordshire); other examples may be Eldon Hill ("Elves' hill", Derbyshire); and Alden Valley ("elves' valley", Lancashire). These seem to associate elves fairly consistently with woods and valleys. In Old English, elves are most often mentioned in medical texts which attest to the belief that elves might afflict humans and livestock with illnesses: apparently mostly sharp, internal pains and mental disorders. The most famous of the medical texts is the metrical charm Wið færstice ("against a stabbing pain"), from the tenth-century compilation Lacnunga, but most of the attestations are in the tenth-century Bald's Leechbook and Leechbook III. This tradition continues into later English-language traditions too.

Because of elves' association with illness, in the twentieth century, most scholars imagined that elves in the Anglo-Saxon tradition were small, invisible, demonic beings, causing illnesses with arrows. This was encouraged by the idea that "elf-shot" is depicted in the Eadwine Psalter, in an image which became well known in this connection. However, this is now thought to be a misunderstanding: the image proves to be a conventional illustration of God's arrows and Christian demons. Rather, twenty-first century scholarship suggests that Anglo-Saxon elves, like elves in Scandinavia or the Irish Aos Sí, were regarded as people. Keep in mind that like words for gods and men, the word elf is used in personal names where words for monsters and demons are not, so elves are people. In Old English, the plural ylfe (attested in Beowulf) is grammatically an ethnonym (a word for an ethnic group), suggesting that elves were seen as people.

Elves are known in Norse tradition, notably in Snorri Sturluson's Prose Edda, which talks about svartálfar, dökkálfar and ljósálfar, but these terms are attested only in the Prose Edda and texts based on and it is now agreed that they reflect traditions of dwarves, demons, and angels, partly showing Snorri's "paganisation" of a Christian cosmology learned from the Elucidarius, a popular digest of Christian thought (this is why I take with a grain of salt Prose Edda when I want to learn about Norse religion). I prefer to focus in Old Norse poetry, particularly the Elder Edda. Elves are frequently mentioned in the alliterating phrase Æsir ok Álfar ('Æsir and elves') and its variants. This was a well-established poetic formula, indicating a strong tradition of associating elves with the group of gods known as the Æsir, or even suggesting that the elves and Æsir were one and the same. There are other sources that talk about elves such as Sagas of Icelanders, Bishops' sagas, and contemporary sagas. In Kormáks saga there is the mention of álfablót ("elves' sacrifice"), and in Eyrbyggja saga we can find the existence of the euphemism ganga álfrek ('go to drive away the elves') for "going to the toilet".

Fun fact: by the end of the medieval period, elf was increasingly being supplanted by the French loan-word fairy. An example is Geoffrey Chaucer's satirical tale Sir Thopas, where the title character sets out in a quest for the "elf-queen", who dwells in the "countree of the Faerie".

I imagined Gojyo (I find him the best for these kind of works) being alone in this place, pondering about his life and letting thoughts roam freely before maybe elves try to steal them. Here you can see two versions, a black and white version which resemble a manga page and another one where Gojyo chromatically stands out. I was unsure which posting, so asked a dear friend of mine and she liked both and eventually I decided to post both. Gojyo's pose was partially inspired by the famous painting of Caspar David Friedrich, Wanderer above the Sea of Fog. Ok again sorry for long post.

Credits:

Saiyuki Reload Blast © Kazuya Minekura, Platinum Vision, 2017-present

[langwrites]

How to Make Friends and Influence People

I have been toying with a revamp of my Dragon Age fic, so... I guess it might end up being a bunch of drabbles? Here’s a sampler.

A Discordant Note

“This is the story of how I died.”

…Morbid, I think, and perhaps not particularly accurate despite its pithiness.

“An elf, a witch, and an abomination walk into a cave…”

I think not.

Perhaps I should start from the beginning, without all of this posturing. I should leave the tale-spinning to true masters of the art, and instead tell my story as I remember it.

My name is Nyx.

This is certainly my story—my memoir, if you will—but the story as the world sees it is not mine, you see. I am, at best, something of a background figure in the epic saga of the Warden-Ensigns who ended the Fifth Blight. I should know; as a Warden myself, I am hardly ignorant of the trials they faced in their journey.

But once, I was in their position.

I was a bright-eyed youth with no notion of what my future would hold. All I knew was that my mistakes had somehow earned me a second chance—a chance to be free of Kinloch Hold, to turn away from blood magic that marked my recent past, to find a future with those who would value my power over the source. I owed my future to those who allowed me to live long enough to have one.

I joined the Grey Wardens when I was twenty and never looked back.

This is not the story the Wardens remember.

Per Weisshaupt’s records, I joined Warden-Commander Duncan of Ferelden in the Frostback Mountains, during the early spring of 9:24 Dragon. By all accounts, I was already a seasoned apostate who had successfully evaded Templar notice for years before volunteering to join the Wardens as an adult. That I was already afflicted with the Taint was a confounding variable, but not an insurmountable one. The Grey Wardens have had many strange and unique recruits over the years, after all.

By my own account, I was recruited through the Right of Conscription in 9:30 Dragon. I have a reason for it, and it does not involve madness outside of the ordinary course of the life of a Grey Warden. No, that comes later.

That story will follow.

With regards to fellow historians, Senior Warden Nyx Surana

??? Dragon

Crawling out of a fetid swamp and breathing in the sort of air cold enough to freeze your lungs solid: Not anyone’s idea of a pastime, I should think.

I would have honestly preferred to take a second shot at that Eluvian and just face-plant in the Brecilian Forest in the middle of a werewolf infestation but, alas, it was not to be.

On the other hand, I am now dry, clothed in actual cloth as opposed to mail, and not freezing to death. It was a near thing, but it seems I have survived. When I get my hands on that bastard, I will make him rue the day he dared step foot out of his cozy lair and strip the flesh from his spongy bones while I am at it.

First, though I need to get my bearings. Then I may properly contemplate taking up demon-slaying in addition to darkspawn-slaying as a lifelong career choice.

1 Drakonis, 9:24 Dragon

Even looking at that date, written longhand, gives me chills.

Something is very wrong.

2 Drakonis, 9:24 Dragon

My worst fears are confirmed. The Eluvian does indeed lead to a world beyond the Fade, after a fashion. But it does not lead to a place farther from the Thedas I knew—rather, further. Backward.

I have to wonder if Morrigan knew what I was about to do.

Lesson learned: When a great big demon makes a point of herding you toward the mirror, Nyx, do not let him do so. Certainly not if the mirror is active.

Lothering’s Chantry has at least been helpful, assuming that the Revered Mother indeed believes that I am a mere misplaced Dalish tribeswoman. Were she clever enough to identify me as an apostate, Grey Warden or no, I would have a fight on my hands. Not for the first time, I appreciate how little humans understand about the Dalish. While I myself am no expert, I would hardly expect the Templars to be so forgiving to a tattooed elf woman wielding a staff such as I have.

Hiding my equipment outside of town worked out well. I only have to hope that no hapless farmer comes across it. Not all of the things I carry on a mission are safe to handle.

Addendum: Or, if someone does so anyway, that the farmer in question has two apostates in the family. Himself included.

7 Drakonis, 9:24 Dragon

Perhaps running south hadn’t been his best idea.

It was the sort of thing that made Anders regret his penchant for escaping without an actual plan, per se.

Slightly.

The Frostback Mountains composed most of the border with Orlais, which was part of the reason why he hadn’t expected to run into the foothills so soon. The maps in Kinloch Hold didn’t really do it justice—after miles upon miles of green hills and gently rolling landscapes dotted with fir trees, the Frostbacks rise up out of the earth like spines on a dragon’s neck. And the path just kept going up.

It wasn’t cold yet, but sunset would probably bring a brand new array of interesting frost patterns and icicles soon enough. The grey-streaked green slopes were hardly inviting, snow or not. Spring came slowly to a place like this, meaning that there was enough snow far enough down the slopes to be unnerving, almost as much as the lack of humans in the area. Thus far, he had only seen scattered herds of sturdy mountain goats, probably tended by handlers no other living human had seen in ages. The lack of human contact was downright disorienting—after Redcliffe and Honnleath, he’d made the mistake of supposing there would be more people to talk to, even well into the mountains’ shadows.

At the very least, the inevitable templar pursuit party was probably going to have just as much trouble as he did. The frigid weather in the Frostbacks didn’t agree with the metal armor templars insisted on wearing. Granted, it didn’t much agree with him—see the robes? Not insulated!—either.

If he looked back, down through the vale he’d already passed through, Anders was almost certain he could see the faintest gleam from a pack of the helmeted bastards following in his footsteps.

Or maybe it was a trick of the fading light.

Anders turned back to the seemingly endless uphill climb ahead of him, sighing. His breath made a translucent white cloud.

It would all be worth it… Well, if he could get out of the country. True, Orlais was on the other side, but White Spire didn’t have his phylactery. The jurisdiction confusion could hold the templars up for a day or two, if they realized they’d popped over into the next country. Unless they just handed the tracker over to the Orlesians, anyway.

Of course, by the end of the day he still hadn’t gotten out of Ferelden, properly run away from his niggling worry about the pinheads inevitably dogging his heels, or managed to find shelter.

Worse, it got astoundingly cold as soon as the sun finally decided to drift off behind the peaks. Almost without thinking about it, Anders found himself speeding up whenever he saw a patch of rock or greenery still bathed in light—there, at least, it would be slightly warmer. Eventually, though, there was no more light and the wind continued to howl mercilessly across the rock, and he shivered in his suddenly too-thin robes.

Clutching his staff, currently more of an expensive lyrium-infused walking stick, he continued onward and upward into the thin air.

Sometime after the sky began to darken in earnest, and every breath he took was wheezy and showed up in the air, Anders crested a small hill and stumbled into something he hadn’t expected. The tree line had started to clear out a little, probably because there was a little game trail winding through the cliffs, but there was still a grove a little ways off and up.

Ringed by knotty mountain trees, crammed against the meeting place between a rock and a tree, was a sort of improvised tent made of evergreen boughs, moss, and dirt. The camp was well above the road, providing a perfect vantage point while being almost invisible to any creature passing below. In fact, Anders wouldn’t have seen it at all if he hadn’t smacked right into the low-grade illusion over it and known how to dispel it.

(Though he was certain that he would never tell anyone that he’d poked it with his staff first. That sort of thing could have cost a foot off the end of it, with a different spell.)

After confirming the camp was empty (by throwing a rock into it), Anders crept into it with curiosity leading him by the nose. Not for the first time, really.

Well, for a camp there wasn’t terribly much in it. Aside from the evergreen bedding, a campfire that didn’t look like it had yet been lighted, and a burlap satchel sitting on the ground, it looked like no one had bothered to do much at all to the little clearing. Anders didn’t have much experience with camping or tracking, but he did have enough book knowledge to know to test for traps. He prodded experimentally, looking for ankle snares or tripwires that most people used when trawling for thieves.

Granted, if the illusion had been cast by the sole owner of the campsite, then at least he might have a sympathetic ear (of the sort that didn’t generally use traps. Nasty things).

Though one of the trees nearby looked like it had taken a sword to the trunk at some point, peeling the bark back, which was less encouraging.

Still, nothing in the campsite looked abandoned, precisely. No dust (…did the outdoors gather dust?), no extra ashes in the fire pit…

Hm.

Well, if his options were staying here and probably being captured by Templars again, versus trying to run off on his own and likely being eaten by a red lion or breaking his fool neck trying to scale a cliff, Anders could honestly say that the former managed to win out by the slightest of margins. Assuming that the Templars were close enough to reach him in a day or so, anyway, he’d probably be woken by a kick to the head and have to trek downhill again.

…At least they couldn’t kill him. Not after he passed his Harrowing. In hindsight, perhaps it was best that his first and second attempts at apostasy had been short-lived.

Anders sighed to himself and began to settle in. Hopefully, the campsite’s owner wouldn’t be any angrier about his presence than the Templars would be, though he was at a loss to imagine such a thing.

[rollforpersuasion]

The idiots go to Saltmarsh pt. 2

Sept. 16

Illyria glanced up from her novel, a thrilling and eyebrow raising Dwarvish saga, and said hello to the tiny stranger. The goose hissed at the interruption, furious at being woken before dawn.

The gnome, Rackham Byrnne, told them to head toward the deck and lend a hand to the sailors who were struggling to navigate through the burgeoning storm. Cleis immediately sprung to her feet and tossed her satchel around her chest. She was three steps away from the door when Len began tossing on a pair of discarded shoes and a cloak… though as she was lacing the boots she realized absentmindedly that they weren’t hers. 

In moments Illyria was at Cleis’ side, clinging to her arm as if it were a life raft. The pirate scowled and shook the larger woman off as best she could and began climbing the stairs to the deck. Illyria clung tighter and followed her into the night. 

As Len and Talia emerged they heard faintly from the cargo hold, “Where’s my boots? Wait, where’s my cloak?” Len glanced at Talia and shrugged before turning to assess the chaos into which they had emerged. Several sailors that had been sleeping below burst out behind them, one barefoot and cursing his bad luck. 

The sky was black and the waves were rising ever higher, sloshing onto the deck with frequent fury.

They were fucked. 

But the tiny gnome was yelling for them to make themselves useful. 

The wind whipped back and forth and the rain continued to pelt the deck. Illyria let out a soft hum at the sight and then shrugged .

“It’s just, I don’t know, drizzling,” Illyria said. She held up her holy symbol with a smirk, casually remarking that she would be fine before turning back toward the stairs. 

Still clinging to Cleis, Illyria inched closer. She lifted one thin, auburn hand and ran her fingers down the side of Cleis’s face. 

“Bless you child,” she whispered. Cleis stared in rising horror the longer the cheek cupping lasted. Illyria suddenly patted her cheek with a firm pop. The elf cast guidance on her still bewildered counterpart before letting go completely, turning dramatically on her boot, opening her book and descending the stairs back toward her cot. 

Cleis peered up toward the stars, or what few she could glimpse among the rolling clouds. She used her navigation tools and began to quickly calculate a course toward the still invisible shore. Sprinting to the quarterdeck (thank you very much to the roll 17) she was able to discern a familiar constellation. They were 15 degrees too far west. Pointing toward the east she yelled directions and Captain Grendanna Stormbreaker immediately shifted the wheel. Perhaps she was in awe of her confidence, perhaps she had nothing to lose. 

Talia glanced around and with a rising wave of determination she strode toward a barrel at the center of the ship. The warlock knew a riveting prayer would rally the gods toward their plight and boost the morale of the crew. She felt it in her bones. And who was she to let the crew down?

She hefted herself up onto the barrel and eyed the hustling sailors. At the top of her lungs she began. 

“We cal—” and immediately Talia fell through the rotten lid. (You see Talia unfortunately had rolled a three). From within the now cracked and sagging barrel she glanced around and thankfully realized no one had noticed. Though that also filled her with frustration. How dare those peons not listen to her call upon the gods?

Rotten potatoes clung to her clothes and squelched inside her shoes as she pulled herself from the wreckage. At least the rain was cleaning the muck from her. She’d have to give her socks a good washing though. 

Len meanwhile had decided her best bet at being any matter of assistance would be to ascend to the heavens. She headed toward the mainmast, determined to lower the highest sails. (Len rolls a 5) Leaping up she grabbed the first and second handles with ease. 

If only Goose could see this, she thought as pride at her own incredible acrobatic skill rose within her.

As she reached for the third peg her hand slipped on the wet wood and she fell, knocking the wind out of her lungs upon the brutal impact. 

An hour passes. Len climbs over and over and never makes it more than halfway up the mast. She was thankful Goose had stayed below deck after all. Talia prays and mutters — perhaps the words “powers that be” and “eternal darkness” slip through — she’ll never admit just who she had attempted to summon to save them. The sailors start to wonder if she is the cause of their obviously celestial damnation. 

Cleis and the Captain plot course after course and fight the wheel as they attempt to remain pointed toward Saltmarsh. Illyria discovers the next chapter has a saucy turn of events she hadn’t predicted and eagerly turns the page. The thin paper slices at her fingertip and she frowns before sucking the gently bleeding thumb and starting the next paragraph. When she reads what was oh-so-thoroughly described her eyebrow raised. 

The waves are now the size of the mast. Captain Stormbreaker yells to her crew, muscles straining to hold the wheel in place. 

“I’ll need everyone to try even harder! We have to work together in order to —”

A wave crashes over the side of the boat sending Cleis face first onto the floor. She banged her head on the wheel on the way down and saw a new assortment of stars when she closed her eyes to block the pain. Illyria went flying from her perch on the cot. Thankfully her quick reflexes shoved her finger inbetween the pages of the book so despite the tumble she didn’t lose her spot. Len and Talia luckily are able to stagger and remain on their feet. 

Captain Stormbreaker grabs Cleis by her drenched black linen top and lifts her to her feet. “Do. Something.” She growls. “Anything!”

Illyria — as if sensing someone else was touching her new favorite creature — runs from below deck up toward Cleis. She possessively rips her away from the captain and holds her face in both of her hands. Gazing into her eyes she asks, “Do you understand boats?”

Frustration wars with disbelief and Cleis glares back at the elf. Her fingers flex, itching to rip the dagger free from its holster in her boot, but when the orange elf begins speaking again she pauses. 

“Tell me what to say and I can use Thaumaturgy to project my voice across the ship,” Illyria promises with a smile as if she had suddenly solved all of their problems with one compassionate gesture.

Cleis hates the fact that she needs her. But the plan isn’t bad so she nods once and closes her eyes in an attempt to abate the murderous thoughts running through her mind. Tapping into the plethora of stressful fights against the sea she’s been a part of over the years Cleis takes a breath, glances at Illyria and turns to the rest of the crew.

“You will listen to me. Listen!” Cleis bellows. 

Illyria raises to her full height and gestures dramatically toward the crew, her voice ringing in all their ears. 

“You will all listen to me! Listen!” She echoes and sends a wink Cleis’ way.

“Sailors all over the world will be looking to us, to the Sharkfin to lead!”

“Sailors! Blah blah blah… Sharkfin! Leaders!” Illyria yells. Her hand gestures intensify. It’s obvious her years of community theatre are paying off. 

“And what will they see? Frightened bilge rats aboard a derelict ship? No! No! They will see free men and freedom!” Cleis continues with narrowed eyes glaring at the elf beside her.

“Umm are they going to see rats? Probably. Maybe free men? Freedom? Not sure how you can literally see that, but alright. You’re the director.” 

“Here’s what you’re going to do,” Cleis said. “Man the stations to which you were assigned at the start of the voyage.” 

“Do this! Actually wait, I don’t understand what she’s saying right now,” Illyria says with a finger raised to her chin. As she taps she mouths the words Cleis had just said as if attempting to solve some ancient riddle.

“Man the fucking stations you were assigned.” Cleis breaths out through gritted teeth. 

“OK, OK I see. Man the stations you were assigned! At the start of the voyage?”

“Do your fucking jobs or we will die!” Cleis says. Her nails dug into the railing as she dares Illyria with the sheer weight of her gaze to screw up such a simple statement. 

“What is fucking?” The elf asks, voice still booming. She turns to the captain. “What is fucking? I don’t know this word. We don’t use it on my island back home. What does it mean?”

“YOU’RE OLDER THAN ME BY SO MUCH!” Cleis yells. “How do you not know what I’m saying?” “You’re older than me by so much!” Illyria echoes to the now staring crew. 

“I’m ending the speech,” Cleis says as she runs her hand over her aching brow. 

“I’m ending the speech!” Illyria repeats before waving her hand and bowing to the crew. (Cleis rolls a 17)

The crew found the performance...  confusing. However, upon watching Cleis’ face turn bright red and a vein emerging along her neck and forehead they began to get the gist of the message, or at the very least the threat behind it. Lightning flashed in her eyes and Cleis’ skin began to turn green with unchanneled magic. 

To say the least they are terrified and the soaked sailors begin to work even faster at their tasks. 

“I think it worked, but you’ll have to explain what a fucking was for me later alright?” Illyria whispers to Cleis as she passes. The half elf grinds her teeth and keeps moving. 

TBC

[preciouslittle-bhaalbabe]

The invisible elf saga continues. It just takes a while for the outfit to load in but he looks so cute in it I can't change him ;w;