#timeweave

[abysskeeper]

Rating: M

Tags: Gale/Tav (F!Tav, unnamed), angst, Gale character study

Summary: Come morning, they would be fighting Ketheric Thorm in Moonrise Towers.

Tonight, Gale considers. He has no need to be alone, but he cannot bear to be with her.

Word Count: 4,382

(Weird, experimental stream of consciousness-esque. As always, I need to get weird about divinity. Sometimes I need to get weird about Gale too.)

*****

Gale Dekarios is no stranger to solitude.

In truth, he is quite the companion to solitude, just as it is to him. Solitude is the only presence he has had at his side for the past year. It has stood by him as readily as any friend he had ever made. It has stood by him when no individual he considered a friend ever did. Gale Dekarios knows solitude quite well and often welcomes its reappearance with a heavy sort of openness. It is, perhaps, not always what he wants to be greeted with, but it is, undeniably, comfortably familiar.

It is solitude that walks with him tonight along the blackened bank of the Chionthar, traveling aimlessly in the Sharran cursed lands that are promised to be his final resting grounds. He has no real destination, just a need to walk, to be in motion, to be…well, he does not wish to be alone, but solitude had pulled the hardest at his thoughts all evening. It had still been his choice to heed its siren’s call.

And, perhaps, that is the issue, why his mind is so disquieted even as he relents to his unyielding desire to be in motion. It is his choice to continue indulging solitude even when it is not necessary. He does not need to be alone—truer still, he probably should not be alone tonight, standing on such a precipice as he is. As they all are. Come morning and they would all be facing Ketheric Thorm in Moonrise Towers. Come morning, and the choice that rests before him finally forces its way into being made.

This is, likely, the last night he will see, and he is walking alone along a Shadow Cursed riverbank, barely able to see past his own hand and bound tightly in his own thoughts.

He has no need to be alone, he could be with her…he should be with her. He needs to be with her—as readily as he needs to draw breath—but still he is here, alone. Still, the allure of solitude had pulled him harder, had called louder to the tangled thoughts of his mind—no, no she still calls louder to the thoughts in his mind, even now, but solitude calls louder to the grief. It sings to the guilt and the regret.

He pauses his walking, a sigh escaping his lips as he turns to look out across the water. On a night like tonight, the stars should be glittering in the calm waters of the river. Perhaps the moon’s ethereal glory should be reflected too, though he would admit that since they had stepped into Shar’s curse, he had lost track of what appearance Selûne should be taking now. Instead, the only hint there even is a river flowing next to him are the ripples reflecting the faint firelight from camp, and the light of his own staff—a gentle reminder from her so as not to lose him entirely to the curse…this curse—illuminating the shallow waters near his feet on the bank.

He stares out into the darkness, far beyond the small spot of light his staff is casting, and wonders if anything or anyone would be able to answer him if he calls out to it. Nothing would, he knows this, but the heaviness of solitude’s presence draping itself over his shoulders makes him consider trying regardless. He has never felt quite so crushed—quite so oppressed under the weight of solitude before now. It is enough to labor his breathing, enough to bring tears to his eyes, enough to feel his heart beginning to crack under the pressure and that is…that is something he has not been allowing himself to consider.

In truth, Gale Dekarios is no stranger to heartbreak, either.

Loathe as he is to admit it, melancholy and despair have been constant companions to him for the past year as well. If he were an honest man, he would allow himself to consider them companions for far longer than that, given how many years he has been holding the sloughed off pieces of his heart in his hands instead of his chest. The pieces are more plentiful now, heavier and larger in his palms.

His heart has been breaking since Elminster had found him and delivered the message from Her. His heart has been breaking since the resident next to it had been demanding tribute at an ever-increasing pace to keep itself satisfied. His heart has been breaking for a year under solitude’s constant, all-consuming presence as he alone had toiled away in his tower to find some peace from his mistake. If he were to allow himself to consider, his heart has been breaking since the night he had been cast from Her side; his heart has been breaking since he had lost the only place he had ever felt like he belonged. His heart has done nothing but break and break and break in its search for belonging and being denied at every attempt.

Another sigh pushes past his lips and he closes his eyes. When he opens them again, he glances down at his hands, flexing them in the dim light of his staff before they drop back to his side and he resumes his aimless wandering of the riverbank. If he were to allow himself to consider, it has been a year nearly to the day since that night had happened, the timing impeccable and surely no coincidence from Her. And, in truth, it is not the first time he has indulged a night like tonight, driven by solitude and melancholy. The former had not been quite so prevalent that night, and the latter had been all too heavy.

He had had nowhere else to go that night, no chance to walk and appreciate solitude’s heavy companionship. Instead, its presence had lingered at the corners as it had allowed space for other emotions to preside. Melancholy, certainly, but more importantly, desperation. He had paced the floors of his tower that night pained, ravenous, and confused. She had banished him from Her side—punishment for a crime he still did not understand beyond base disobedience he had thought (foolishly, foolishly believed) would be quickly forgiven in the grand scheme of what he had intended to offer.

Such was never the will of a Goddess.

In place of pride from an expected gratitude, desperation had wound its way into his very marrow, and every step he had taken was that of a prowling beast searching for the answer to all of his problems. He had been ready to howl for forgiveness, for relief, for understanding towards what sin he had committed that warranted a punishment such as this. He had been willing to do anything, speak to anyone, scream and beg as needed for Her if that had been what She so desired…but he had been alone. Solitude had remained steady in the corners, just as it did now.

Well, no, not as it did now. He is alone, but that is his choice, and that choice is making itself more and more prevalent now with each step he takes. Each footfall is substantial, weighted with solitude’s choice forcing him to consider that what stands before him now is not nearly as simple as the heartbreak he had felt that night.

The regret is somehow—impossibly—stronger still than it ever was that night. Desperation does not claw at him now so much as somber sobriety stands quietly in its place. And the guilt…the guilt. The guilt in wronging her rings far, far more hallowed than hollowed than it ever did that night when he wronged Her. The only similarity between now and that night is that he is alone, just as he was then and yet not at all as he was then, and he is still just as uncertain what to do with any of the noise screaming in his heart.

He brings a hand up and rubs at his throat, hoping to ease some of the constriction he can feel wrapping around his neck. It does nothing, and he knows this is his choice he must contend with. He has no need to be alone, his breath remains with her, but it is easier to be here by himself. It is easier to contemplate on self-pity and regret and guilt in isolation, where he does not have to weather the condolences of others. It is easier when he does not have to withstand the quiet, consistent, hopeful pleading from her.

It is easier to contemplate on self-pity and guilt in isolation as opposed to facing the one he knows he is committing a most severe crime against. And he can acknowledge that, perhaps, in hiding from her tonight he is only committing a far greater crime against her still.

He should go to her. The thought—the desire—has not left him since he—she caved and they became one. How easily she holds him—all of him, the despair and the guilt and the self-pity—in her hands is the balm to his soul he has been seeking for a year. For well over several years. Yet solitude’s call is stronger still, because it tempers him. Because he should go to her, but he is not so cruel a man.

It is not a question of worth—though that is a question turned over and over and over again in the recesses of his mind—but a matter of her. He will not harm…will not ruin the woman who so delicately balances his heart between her teeth. It is not something she ever asked for. He still had placed it there with all the grace and sorrow of a drowning man. And she still holds it with all the gentleness of a whisper on the warm, summer breeze of the seacoast he still calls home.

Home.

He hesitates, foot coming down softly on the rocky riverbank as discerning eyes stare back out over the water. Is that why solitude had called him here to the riverbank instead of allowing him to seek her arms? In order to create some weak facsimile to the seaside of Waterdeep? To attempt to at least ease some longing in his heart, even if it is not the one he worries over fixing?

He releases another, long breath, the constriction still prominent in his throat. The Chionthar, darkened as it is by an ever-blackened night from these cursed lands, holds nothing compared to the ocean waves of Waterdeep. There is no comfort in it akin to the warm, sandy beaches just outside of his tower, and there has never been any comfort in walking either of them alone. There is no comfort he can claim at all tonight—outside of her—and he accepts that.

Movement pulls his attention away from the water to the underbrush along the riverbank. He stills, watching silently as a few, sickly birds emerge from the leaves and fly off into the blackened skies of these cursed lands they had been calling home. He watches them well after his poor, human eyesight can no longer see them in the darkness, his hand half-raised as if beckoning them to stay. To also accompany him. To allow him to help them, as sickly, as lost, as confused as they are. As he is.

They do not return, and he acknowledges, mournfully, that is their nature. It is a shame. They will carry what these lands did to them for an eternity, and he wishes—he so desperately wishes—they will turn around and allow him to assist, but perhaps that is foolish of him. Perhaps it is selfish to deny them their very nature.

But they will carry it with them for the rest of their lives. And just like that, there is no denying she will carry his heart in her mouth with her far into a future he is not destined to witness. That is who she is. And for that, perhaps, he is a cruel, selfish man. He should not have let her first taste of something as grand as love fall into such ruin.

He should not have left his mark on her, but he had, he had, and he could not undo that sin either. He should not have left his mark on her, but he needs it to mean something. It is a far cry different to his thoughts a year ago, but he needs a reason to be able to do this beyond Her decree, and if it is for her then so be it. He can die for her. He will die for her, not Her. But he is a selfishly cruel man for needing to leave his mark on her in order to have the strength to complete it.

In order to know that something of his will live on, even when he does not. And it will, because she will. Because she will carry it, as is her nature.

Shame washes over him, and he hangs his head. His mouth runs dry at the sight below him, his gaze tracing over the small, broken body of a bird eternally resting at his feet. He can just barely make out that it holds a similar appearance to the ones that had just scattered—the primary differences are its stillness and the hole ripped through its chest by some, shadowy creature it could barely comprehend.

His fingers twitch at his side, an overwhelming urge to call forth the Weave and attempt to heal the poor thing resting on his tongue. It would do no good, he knows this. The bird is long dead, but he is apparently not beyond wishing for miracles. He quashes the thought before allowing it to go further; there is nothing to be done but to mourn.

Defeat worms its way into his gut, and he wonders, briefly, if the flock he had just witnessed flying away had watched their fellow die. If the little bird had left in search for food or had chosen to be the one to protect a nest—some semblance of a home that could be built in these lands—and had died valiantly on such an endeavor.

If the flock had watched him die, he wonders if they will carry that with them for eternity as well. He wonders if they will hate their friend for it. He wonders for the birds, because he knows she will.

Gale sighs, a few tears rolling down his cheeks, and turns around to return to camp. The defeat in his gut coils tightly enough to permeate each breath he takes as he labors back up from the riverbank.

He does not need to be selfish in such a way. He had her now, and she offered—had been offering—another chance. But a night ago, he had held her in his arms. A night ago, he had held repentance in his arms, had tasted salvation on her lips and had discovered paradise over and over again and again as she had come undone for him. As she had unraveled and wrapped herself around him in such a way she had never allowed another to bear witness to, let alone be the cause of. His name had spilled from her lips in such beautiful, agonized bliss as she had shattered around him and had drawn him deeper and deeper into her—her body, her heart, her very soul—until there was nowhere left for either of them to go.

And it was not a prayer, it was not in reverence, but how she had cried his name that night was done with nothing but pure, concentrated love and that…that was far beyond what he had ever imagined asking for. Far beyond what he ever imagined he could ask for. But the sun had risen the following morning, and as he had looked down at her smiling up at him in his arms, he had never been more certain and less certain of what he needed to do.

He had never directly asked Mystra what She would have him do, but She had given Her answer anyways. She wishes for his death.

“What would you have me do?” He did ask her.

“Live.”

Live, live, live, her answer is always that she would have him live.

The love she offered—offers—is a redemption he had barely fathomed a possibility for him, and she offers it without hesitation. The trepidation to accept is all too grand. He wishes to, he would if not for knowing that a year ago he had committed his sin. And while he wants to take the second chance she offers him, it is not hers to offer, but Hers. He did not sin against the goddess resting in his arms a night ago, he had sinned against the Goddess he once held in his arms a year ago. And though he is convinced her love could save every part of him, it is divinity that needs to accept such salvation.

Love bids him to live. Divinity bids him to die. And he is torn in two between them.

His feet carry him back to camp near his tent. The light on his staff dims to nothing as he allows the spell to dissipate, and he stares around the grounds covered in firelight. It is late, most are not awake, but she still is. His eyes land on her sitting outside of her own tent, curled in on herself, quill scrawling along the paper of her journal. He can only begin to imagine what she may be writing or drawing, what new idea she has had or what inspiration has struck her.

It is a scene he can see himself watching fondly for an eternity, a life they could have shared. That only tears his heart further.

Desperation finally floods him, just as it did that night. There is no warning, just as there had been no warning that night, it simply comes with all the strength and force of the rains of a storm. It rips through him as easily as the gales of a hurricane tear through all in their path. It shakes him to his core, just as it had shaken him that night, just as the storm leaves nothing but wreckage and ruin in its wake.

Look up.

He bids her, he begs her, he does not say a word. He does not use the connection between them nor the magic at his disposal, he simply…thinks. He puts the request into the air and holds his breath. He wants her to look up, he needs her to look up as much as he needs to take another breath, but he cannot call to her. He cannot ask—he will not ask. Just the once he wants to know—needs to know if kismet, whatever that may be—the gods, nature, the human condition, her—could ever find it within itself to smile down on him. Just once, just once.

Look up.

Mystra did not turn around for him that night. She had ordered him to his knees and then cast him from Her side. He had begged that night. He had pleaded, cried, attempted to seek answers, attempted to seek forgiveness and repentance. Nothing he had said that night mattered, and when words had finally failed him, when his mouth had run dry and his tongue had finally rested dead in his mouth, he had fallen silent and simply…thought. Prayed. To the back of the very Goddess whose audience he had requested, he had prayed. In Her own domain, he had prayed.

If Mystra would not listen to his words, then the only chance he had left in his grasp was to pray. A prayer for Her to simply turn around. A prayer for Her to witness him. He had still believed himself a pious man, endlessly devoted to Her domain and all She stood for. His heart still beat for no one other than Her, and if he could still pray to Her after this, if She would still hear him and answer, then he still stood a chance—or so he had believed.

She never turned around.

Look up.

It had been a mercy in the end. Though he knows now it was never Her intention to spare him the humiliation of being so undone and witnessed by a God, it was a mercy that She had granted him. He did not need to be seen by Her like that, no matter how desperately he had wished for it.

Before him now, though…

Please. Look up.

Mystra did not need to see him such a state, but her? The woman who soothes his very soul? The one who speaks to him with a resonance he could hardly fathom existed before making her acquaintance? The one who has been fighting for his life with more vigor, with more frigid determination than anyone else has ever granted him in his life—more than even himself? The woman who has already wept for him while he still yet draws breath?

Well…he does not want her to see him like this, so disheveled and uncertain. So readily grappling with the jaws of Death snapping at his ankles. But he needs her to. The desire for attention is not a new wish for him, but in this moment, it enflames him and engulfs him like no other. If there is one thing he knows, it is that he is capable of all of it and more for her. All of it has meaning so long as her eyes are on him, and it strikes him that perception of such a nature is, perhaps, the holiest feeling a mere mortal could ever experience.

It had been a miracle Mystra did not answer his prayer that night. It would be a miracle if she answers his prayer now.

Please. Look up.

Slowly, she moves. The quill in her hand drops to the page with trepidation. As if against her will, as if bid by forces she could not see, her head rises. It is a heavy movement, weighted by the phantoms of her own mind telling her how awful an idea it is, desperately begging her not to look. And he knows it is instinct at feeling someone’s eyes on her, but in the split second before her eyes meet his, he wonders how many glances she had spared towards his tent tonight.

But then her eyes meet his gaze, an immediate, immeasurable sadness permeates her soft eyes, and all the breath disperses from his lungs. The last tethers coiling in his gut undo themselves and fall away, leaving nothing but a rawness to him that even he cannot begin to explain. It is how he is often left feeling under her gaze.

No words pass her lips, though her mouth opens as if to speak. What is there to say? Their thoughts are the same, their minds both keenly aware of the time and all that lies before them come morning light. All of this could soon be over. For her, that means freedom—well-earned, well-deserved freedom to allow her to return to her life. For him…all of this could soon be over. A year of torment could come to a meaningful end, and if one begets the other then…all the better. It is doable.

It is more than doable, it is necessary. For her.

Because, in this moment, she answers his prayer. In this moment, she sees him, and perception of this nature is, undeniably, the holiest feeling a mere mortal could ever experience. The storm quells, though the rain still falls.

It is a salvation he has sought for a year, but it still claws at him. It tears him apart to see the glossy veneer in her eyes. It is devastating to know he is the cause of her devastation. And it is unfair to find Life staring at him now, begging him to reach out a hand, pleading with him to believe he deserves more than what he has been sentenced with. It is unfair, so damnably unfair that Life finds him now while standing on this precipice. He longs to reach back—yearns to grasp her hand and walk towards the future she speaks so certainly of, but he cannot—he cannot—as marred and as claimed by Death as he is.

But if it is for her, then it is for Life. And if it is for Life, then it is enough.

And that is why, as much as he longs to go to her, to kiss her tears away and to shed and mix his own, he does not. He smiles at her—smiles at the very Life she is and all the future they could have if born of different circumstances, if discovered at another time—and turns away. It is for her, it is all for her, but he cannot bear to cause undue pain.

He cannot bear to cling to Life when he knows he is Death’s claim. It is for her. Because of Her. He will not drag her—his heart, his soul, his Life—down with him.

He indulges himself only once—when he reaches the opening of his tent—glancing back at everything he desires and everything he must deny. He shouldn’t have indulged. A few tears reflect in the firelight as they roll down her cheeks, and she is still staring after him. Still, she is looking after him, and she watches, and she watches.

Thank you, for answering a dead man’s prayer.

He recedes into his tent. It is the most merciful thing he can do for her now, prevent her from watching. Prevent her from witnessing what is to come in some attempt to spare what she must carry with her into a future he will not see. But perhaps it is foolish of him to believe he can prevent it.

Still, she will watch, even as it destroys her. As she always has. As Life always must.

[shifting-fixations]

My commission from @redreart, signed by Tim Downie!

The day is young, and there are thousands more days ahead of us.

[potesocs]

jin and aithen are homophobic but only about each other (theyre dating)

(more OCs // fanart blog)

[askthetimekeepers]

Hello again I was wondering do you all have any furniture in the time pocket oh also I brought a gift for each of you.

A BLAHAJ - The Wanderer, Guardian of Omndell

TimeHunter Cookie: We don't really have any furniture here in this time rift. We just usually sit or stand.

TimeWeaver Cookie: And we truly appreciate the gift!

TimeTrapper Cookie: *hugs the shark cutely*

[sorathecookie]

i finally finished it(also didn't feel like coloring it. I think it looks better that way)

Daylight Cookie belongs to @sunshine-1nc

the Timekeeper Cookie on the far right(idk if they have a name) belongs to @chronorific

[shifting-fixations]

Oh, you said the magic words. Apologies, I’m usually better at this.

“At introductions?”

At infodumping. I’m just trapped at work right now, but I will always get excited about my Tav if people want to hear about him. And a fellow Galemancer, at that! What a brilliant companion to have found!

Anyway, meet Nireni Har’Aujir. He’s a modding WIP, as I’m trying to give him longer ears and tail jewelry these days (much harder than it seems, for some reason, second pic is most accurate).

He’s got some height on his future wizard husband… damn, I love mods.

Ahhh, you know what? I really like him so I’ll do an actual story post in a bit to kinda outline how this homebrew dragon of mine gets to a point where he’s kissing a wizard. I dunno if anyone wants to hear me ramble about him but I’ll do it, and yes that’s a threat, lol.

Send me your Tavs!

If you're new here, BG3 has inspired me to draw again after 6 years of not drawing. I would like to practice drawing something that isn’t Gale and Auroria smooching other people’s characters!

Inspired by @sorceresssundries post about loving Tavs because I'm obsessed with everyone else's Tavs just about as much as I'm obsessed with mine, and I'm very obsessed with Auroria.

Anyway, shoot me an ask or a message if you want! Just make sure your Tav is easily findable or include a link to yours in a message!

Here's my art tag for examples

[icandoodlebutnotthatgood]

I've recently played and finished mystery dungeons, Never regretted it. Also Celebi's crush issues makes its funnier for me. I shall now called the future trio's group team timeweaver!

[sunvmars]

｡･ﾟ･ღ¸.✻´ fic masterlist `✻.¸ღ･ﾟ･｡

*navigation/directory | request box | taglist | old masterlist

-updated: 01/15/24

-writing and taking requests for marvel, bullet train, the gray man, stranger things

✮ smut | ♡ fluff | ❄ angst | ❀ general romance | ☽ misc.

Bucky Barnes

one-shots:

stars around my scars ♡ ❀

during a day off, you and bucky reminisce about how you met and your past experiences.

sunshine ♡ ❀

you and bucky host a get-together for the team, an expected surprise causes you to confide in steve.

you showed me how ♡ ❀

bucky was never one for love, unsure he was even capable of it- but then there’s you.

Steve Rogers

one-shots:

tangled ♡ ✮

(archived for revision)

honeybee ♡ ✮ ❀

steve knows everything about you, his best friend, and he strives to make you happy. you make the first move and steve wants to learn how to please you in other ways.

sunday morning ♡ ❀

a rainy day ruins your date plans, so steve brings the date to you.

if i could give you the moon ♡ ✮ ❄ ☽

your relationship with steve is nothing more than a string of lies and promises in a hearty affair.

only you ♡ ❀ ❄ ☽

on a night out with the team, only shortly after you and steve’s breakup, you end up drinking a little too much and refuse to go home with anyone but steve.

afterglow

06/20/24-06/27/24

a quiet hue ♡ ❀

you meet steve during a creative block, and he eases you out of it.

two-shots:

01. fireworks ❀

everyone but you and steve realize you like each other.

02. sparks ♡ ✮ ❀

 just steve fulfilling his craving of you.

01. a quiet hue ♡ ❀ ☽

during an extreme case of art block, you meet steve on your apartment's rooftop. he helps cure your blocked creative flow, and sparks something else along the way.

02. a brighter hue ♡ ✮ ❀

you and steve go on a date, deepening your connection in ways you couldn't have even dreamed of. (01/20/24-01/25/24)

wip series:

bitter sweet series you've grown to resent steve after he breaks up with you and you give him the cold shoulder for weeks. you soon discover you're pregnant and show back up on his doorstep to tell him the news. he tells you the real reason for his leaving forcing both of you to work together and cooperate. will things go back to how they were, or is it forever unfixable?

01. bitter sweet ❄

02. sour ♡ ❄

03. tart ❄

04. citrus ♡ ❄

05. sickeningly sweet ❀ ♡

06-1. as sweet as cake ♡ ✮ ❀

06. fresh start ♡ ❀ ☽

rogue series

01. rogue

timeweaver (mini-series)

01. coming soon

Wade Wilson

one-shots:

i love you, wade wilson ♡ ❀

a simple, lazy weekend with wade. (coming soon)

Billy Hargrove

one-shots:

remember ❄ ♡ ❀

billy's first and only love returns

you're so good ♡ ✮ ❄

you and billy connect, forming a close bond.

Steve Harrington

one-shots:

i missed you ♡

{steve confesses after nancy leaves}

Tangerine

one-shots:

kyoto ✮ ❀

tan stumbles (literally) upon you on the way to kyoto

Ladybug

coming soon

Six/Court Gentry

coming soon

Lloyd Hansen

coming soon

[moondialdoodles]

TW: some blood imagery! But I made a quick animatic in one night for some backstory for my version of Timekeeper Cookie and how she slowly snapped over time. For a very TLDR version of context:, the younger version y'all are seeing is named Levain Cookie! I like to think she's a separate cookie from Croissant, and blatantly lied to her to toy with, and convince her to become the next Timekeeper. They're not at all the same cookie.

Hope y'all like the animatic tho! Worked real hard on it! :) Explanation for the AU under the cut! TW for death n' murder, there's quite a bit o' crime involved.

So! Pain Au Levain Cookie, or just Levain Cookie for short, is my au version of Timekeeper. She's been around almost as long as the TBD has. A young wizard, following in the footsteps in the creator of time magic and the TBD, Cinnaswirl the Great. Over years and years, she thrived, grew, and learned more and more about the power and potential of time magic. However, seeing Cinnaswirl having the reach that she never could with the power of the Timeweaver's Scissors, she grew... jealous. This unending hatred and burning anger for the man. The stagnant, monotonous everyday life wasn't enough for her. She wanted what he had. She wanted that power at her fingertips, and she was going to get it. She slowly began to hatch a plan. By the end of it? She would be the Director of the TBD, and no one would ever suspect a thing. In the dead of night, she killed Cinnaswirl in cold blood with his own invention in his own office. For a moment, she was in shock and disbelief at what she had done, yet she felt a rush she had never felt before. The thrill of breaking something, destroying something, because of the power in her own hands. With the Scissors now in her hands, she finally had everything she wanted. That thrill was permanently in her grasp. Endless possibilities, endless fun, and in her mind? Not a single consequence that a cookie could punish her for. Taking the goggles atop her now crumbled mentor's hat, she finally made her leave, sealing away Cinnaswirl's office in a time pocket forever. With everything she'd ever wanted, she did all as she pleased, destroying timelines, toying with whatever cookie she liked, and simply disposing of them when she grew bored. None of the TBD suspected a thing, all under the guise that Cinnaswirl had passed his role onto Levain. And as years and years passed? She had given herself a new name. Timekeeper Cookie. This version of her never did get redeemed, and remains a villain. She disappears on her own little adventures for months at a time. In her absence, the TBD seems to function just fine without her.

[clockbreadcroi]

Finally got to finalize the design of Timeweaving Light... woohoo!! Lightkeeper is real

[abysskeeper]

Today has been shitty, and I have no idea when I'm going to get the chance to work on this again, so here's a snippet of the act 2 Gale x Nox angst I'm proud of.

*********

“What do you want of me, Nox’ani?!”

“I want you to live!!!”

The area they were in was forested and not particularly cavernous, but her scream echoed around him in beautiful, torturous repetition. It reverberated through him, shook him, stilled him as every last spark of his frustration calmed at her declaration. She stood across from him, her pacing finally stopped by the very same enormity. Her chest heaved, her hands flexed at her sides, and her jaw started clenching and unclenching in a desperate bid to keep her composure the longer they stared at each other.

She did not hold.

Nox crumbled. He watched in excruciatingly slow motion as the dwindling flames of her anger burned out completely only to be replaced with their true kindling—despair. Tears returned to the edges of her pretty violet eyes, and she caught her bottom lip between her teeth after it trembled just once. Her gaze dropped from his before she turned away from him completely, submitting to defeat.

“I want you to live, Gale,” she repeated softly.

Of course she did. That was what she had been saying from the start, that she wanted him to live. That he didn’t need to die. That it would be a waste of a brilliant mind and a beautiful soul. And he knew it, something in him had read between the lines of all the words she had spoken and yet he never comprehended how deeply her desire ran. But of course she wanted him to live, of course she did.

His gaze traced over her frame, nearly collapsed in on herself as she released a few, shuddering breaths in an attempt to recollect herself. After a moment, she turned back to face him, and her eyes met his again with a shine of desperate, despondent honesty. With blinding clarity, he realized the answer to their problem was strikingly simple.

“Then ask it of me.”

Her lips parted as if to speak, but all that came out was a small, strangled cry. Nox shook her head quickly—violently—and her arms came up to wrap around herself. “I will not,” she breathed out and shook her head again. “I shouldnot. I-I-I…I cannot,” she choked out as her tears finally spilled over.

He took a step towards her, and then another when she did not shy away from him. He came to a stop in front of her, and though her gaze dropped from his again, he tentatively reached out a hand towards her with the intent to wipe away her tears.

“I…I cannot be expected to breathe life back into a man resigned to his fate.”

Gale faltered. She…was correct. That…was an incredibly unfair expectation.

Nox swallowed and shook her head again before turning up to face him. “I cannot ask a good man to take the selfish route, and I…and I…”

She blew out a long breath. Before he could cup her cheek, she reached out and grabbed both of his hands. She did nothing further, just held his hands in the space between him and her. She took another deep breath and forced herself to meet his stare. “And I cannot ask you to condemn your soul for me.”

The bitter, biting truth was that she could. She could very easily ask that of him, and he would follow her desire in a heartbeat. It was a bitter, biting truth that he realized far too late in their endeavors, but one he found blindingly simple now. Nothing else mattered but her. There was nothing he wouldn’t do in this moment so long as it appeased her and stopped her crying. And if that was what she wanted, he wished that she would ask, but the bitterest truth was that the reason she could ask that of him and he would readily agree was the very same reason she never, ever would.

Gale sighed and detangled one of his hands from hers. Gently, he cupped her cheek finally, swiping his thumb over the small stream of tears running down her face. His eyes searched hers, patiently awaiting her to speak anything else if she needed. When it became apparent she had run out of words, he sighed again.

“It is already yours to do as you please, Nox’ani,” he whispered gently. “You should know that.”

“Gale…” She squeezed her eyes shut, almost pained, and swallowed roughly.

He lightly brushed down her cheek until he moved his hand to tilt up her chin, his thumb lazily tracing over the outline of her mouth. Her lips parted with a shuddering breath, and her glassy eyes cracked open to look at him in question. Gale hoped she understood his intention, given how similar it was to what he had done a few nights ago on the frozen river…moments before the Orb ruined it.

“And if it is not something you desire,” he continued, just as soft, “speak on it now, and we shall lay it to rest permanently.”

Nox didn’t speak. Her gaze flickered from his eyes and down his face to his mouth before snapping back. She bit her lip, indecisive, and he felt the miniscule shake of her head against his hand. “It…it does not feel proper for me to claim…”

“I assure you it is,” he breathed.

Before she could protest and allow for her own lack of self-worth to refute him, he surged forward, pressing his lips to hers in a show of certainty. It was how he would have liked to have kissed her a few nights ago—how he should have kissed her a few nights ago, Orb be damned.

[shifting-fixations]

So, hear me out, what if Tav was a huge dragon and Gale fell asleep on his tail…

Classic Nireni & Gale behavior. Sometimes one should let the wizard have a dragon. You know, for fun.

(No, this may not be to scale, and yes, Lae’zel is a little jealous. 😂)

[chaotic-fey]

Spellbook of the Timeweaver

Personal Item design i did for an OC- Please do not use <3

[askthetimekeepers]

Welcome to the official ask blog of TimeWeaver Cookie(middle), TimeHunter Cookie(right), and TimeTrapper Cookie(left)! Here you can ask questions to get to know them better or dare them to do or say whatever you want!

There are a few rules however that must be followed:

Do NOT ask or dare any sort of NSFW/Fetish related contents. If asked, the answer will be an automatic 'NO'

Please be specific to which of the 3 your question is directed towards.

When submitting your fan works, once again, please refrain from submitting any NSFW/fetish content

In the meantime, enjoy your time here and ask away!

[sorathecookie]

TimeWeaver Cookie colored!

the story behind her is that she's a Timekeeper Cookie from a timeline where Croissant Cookie was a wizard in Parfaedia rather than an engineer. Long story short: she studied Time Magic in private, got a little too curious and reckless and screwed up a lot of timelines unintentionally and tried her best to fix them up. She succeeded, but lost her memory in the process. The Sonic Needle she has allows her to stitch up open time rifts and trap enemies.

TimeWeaver Cookie, despite the similar color scheme, isn't affiliated with the TBD, but rather works independently with her counterparts TimeHunter Cookie and TimeTrapper Cookie