#torchlight: infinite

[neona]

Warcries are way more impactful than you thought.

[savingcontent]

"The Frozen Canvas" SS6 of Torchlight: Infinite releases on October 25th

Continue reading “The Frozen Canvas” SS6 of Torchlight: Infinite releases on October 25th

[sonsofks]

Prepárate para una experiencia de juego increíble! Torchlight: Infinite lanza su temporada innovadora a nivel mundial.

¡Torchlight: Infinite anuncia su lanzamiento global con un nuevo héroe y reworks de juego revolucionarios! XD Games, Shanghai – 22 de abril de 2023 | ¡La fecha de lanzamiento mundial de Torchlight: Infinite ha sido confirmada después de su éxito en beta abierta durante un anuncio en vivo para la comunidad! A partir del 9 de mayo, a las 1:00 am BST, el ARPG de saqueo y exploración de mazmorras…

[theclaravita]

Live now with Torchlight Infinite!

I have no idea what this game is; I literally just found it today!

Let's experience it for the first time... Together! 🥺

Come hang out here:

[stupendous-spiff]

Wait torchlight infinite is actually a good game? But...how????

[luiscosta13]

Nem Sei o Que Dizem playing Torchlight: Infinite

[worldbolding]

The only things I enjoy about Torchlight Infinite are the loading screen animations and the weird way that the script was clearly machine translated, resulting in delightful non-sequitors in every cutscene delivered by voice actors who didn't think about what they were actually saying.

The rest of the game is just as much of a mess as it was last year, and I'm not sure how to write about it exactly. "This game is bad and you shouldn't play it" only works for so many paragraphs.

[n0cturn4]

Character: Adult!Damian Wayne x Reader Summary: “I offer you my heart,” he murmured, his voice now an intimate whisper. “And the freedom to do with it as you will.” Word Count: 1185 Music: Habibi

It was a night of scorching heat in the infinite desert, where the sky, dotted with stars, reflected the glow of a fate written long before the birth of kingdoms. In the palace of Al-Nadir, grand and carved in marble and gold, Prince Damian Wayne, now a grown man, wandered silently through its vast corridors. His firm steps echoed like a whisper of responsibility and power. Damian, the prince who carried the weight of two legacies within him, had always been an enigma, a man made of shadows and steel. But that night, something beyond the throne unsettled him. He felt an emptiness, an absence that neither gold nor glory could fill.

The festival of Al-Nadir pulsed like a living heart in the city below, where the people celebrated, and the arts flourished under the desert heat. On that special night, dancers from all corners came to showcase their talents, but there was one in particular, a presence that stood out among all, like a rare flower in the sands of destiny.

And then he saw her.

You, a dancer whose movements seemed to defy the very stars. Your feet glided across the stage like a gentle breeze over the dunes, and your eyes, burning and mysterious, revealed stories that words could never contain. Your body, adorned with veils and jewels that shimmered in the torchlight, moved with a grace that did not belong to this world. Every gesture, every curve of your body was silent poetry, a promise of freedom and power.

Damian, a man accustomed to hiding his emotions, felt his heart waver. The serenity he always carried like armor shattered before your dance. He, a prince of steel, was captivated by a flame he did not understand but could not ignore.

When the music ceased and the applause echoed, Damian knew he had to meet you. He ordered to be taken to you, not with the arrogance of a prince, but with the curiosity of a man before a mystery he longed to unravel. In the palace’s private gardens, beneath the shadows of exotic trees, he waited. The sound of water running through the fountains was the only noise besides his own heartbeat.

You arrived, your eyes raised, firm and fearless, as enigmatic as your dance. There was no fear in your posture, only calm curiosity, as if you knew this encounter was inevitable.

“You called for me, Your Highness?” your voice was a thread of silk, as soft as the night breeze.

Damian tilted his head, his green eyes analyzing you as if he could read your soul through every subtle movement.

“There is something in your dance,” he said, his voice deep and controlled, “something that goes beyond art. There’s a story behind every one of your movements. A battle... a freedom.”

Your lips curved into a slight smile, something enigmatic, like a moon partially veiled by clouds. You observed him with the same care, surprised by his insight.

“Every gesture I make carries the weight of my own story,” you replied. “Dancing is the only freedom I truly have.”

Damian stepped closer, his words like veiled promises in the warm night air. “What if I could offer you more than just that fleeting freedom? What if I could give you something greater?”

You raised an eyebrow, your eyes sparkling with curiosity. “What exactly would you offer me, Your Highness?”

He did not hesitate, his words were precise, like the arrows he so skillfully wielded. “A choice. Stay by my side. Not as a prisoner of my will, but as an equal. Someone who challenges my spirit and shares the burden of power with me. I see in you what few would—strength that deserves to be honored, not tamed.”

The night seemed suspended between you, the wind carrying only the echoes of something forming, something neither of you had anticipated.

“And if I accept this offer,” you asked, your tone low but filled with meaning, “what do I get in return, besides power and your wealth?”

Damian took another step closer, until his eyes, intense as the desert itself, penetrated yours.

“I offer you my heart,” he murmured, his voice now an intimate whisper. “And the freedom to do with it as you will.”

You stepped forward, reducing the distance that still remained between you. Your eyes, deep and mysterious, met his with firmness. It was like looking into a distorted mirror—you, the free dancer, and he, the chained prince. Two worlds so different, yet drawn to each other as if the universe had conspired for this moment.

“And what would you do, Prince,” you began, your voice flowing like a soft melody, “if I took your heart and turned it into my own dance? If I made it part of who I am?”

Damian smiled, a rare smile, almost imperceptible, carrying both melancholy and hope. There was something vulnerable in his stance, a man who had always been a fortress now lowering his defenses before a stranger, yet still, a soul he seemed to have known forever.

“Then,” he replied, with a soft gleam in his eyes, “I would become part of your freedom. Because in the end, there is no greater power than being in the hands of someone you trust.”

For a moment, the world around you seemed to stop. The sounds of the festival in the distance, the murmuring fountains, even the soft breeze among the leaves, all silenced in the intensity of that moment. The moon poured its silver light over the garden, as if the heavens were watching and approving of what was unfolding.

You stepped even closer, until you were so near that you could feel the heat emanating from his body, his presence strong and solid. Your fingers, delicate and skilled like in your dance, gently touched Damian's chest, right over where his heart beat. The touch was light, almost like a breeze, but the connection that formed was deep, instantaneous.

“Your freedom and mine are like two stars dancing in the sky, Prince,” you said softly. “I accept what you offer, but know that I will not be a silent companion. My soul is not meant to be contained.”

Damian breathed deeply, as if your words had the power to ignite something deep within him. His eyes never left yours for a moment.

“That is exactly why I chose you,” he murmured, his voice dense, full of promise. “I don’t want someone who bows, but someone who walks beside me. I want someone who challenges me, who makes me question the world as it is.”

You tilted your head slightly, studying him, as if deciphering the final secret hidden in his soul.

“Then, Prince Damian,” you said, a light smile on your lips, “we will dance together.”

And so, under the stars that silently watched, the bond between you was formed. The Prince of Al-Nadir, with his heart in the hands of a dancer, and you, with the promise of a love that could not be contained by borders or duties. The night, a silent witness, became the stage for the first act of a story that would defy fate and time.

And in that dance of souls and hearts entwined, Damian Wayne's world began to change, one step at a time.

[belleisnowhere]

Gale's Revenge

"Isn't that right, Astarion?"

"..."

"Astarion?"

You trail off as you realise your vampire companion, who was following closely behind you as you trudged through the dimly lit underground passage, has fallen silent. As you turn to check on him, a knot forms in your stomach.

Astarion is gone.

Lae'zel and Shadowheart, too.

You are utterly alone in the darkness.

The black void beyond your weak torchlight instantly feels thicker, more oppressive. Your wide eyes dart around, trying desperately to penetrate the darkness that stretches out infinitely in every direction.

A smooth voice echoes through the passage from behind you.

"Hello."

Whirling around, your torchlight faintly illuminates a figure standing a few feet away from you in the gloom. A man, draped in shadow, the deep purple glow from his eyes cutting through the dark like a knife.

"I'm Gale of Waterdeep. I'd shake your hand, but... well."

He raises his arm towards you. A chill races up your spine as you see the bandaged stump protruding from the base of his sleeve. You recognise your own handiwork immediately. This is the man you found trapped in the unstable rune near the nautiloid - the man whose hand is currently rotting in a pouch in your camp.

The man you thought was dead.

Gale observes you silently for a moment before folding his arms across his chest. He tilts his head as he speaks again.

"It appears that you're alone, and in desperate need of aid, my friend. Just as I was, once."

You reach for your dagger but find the sheath at your side hanging empty. Before you can turn to run, Gale lifts his remaining hand in front of him, muttering an incantation under his breath, eyes locked on yours. Your eyes widen as you feel your body become rigid, your limbs held firmly in place by an unseen force.

"I needed you then. You could have rescued me. Instead, you butchered me and left me to perish in that stone."

You try desperately to give him an explanation but your clenched jaw refuses to release the words. As you struggle in vain, Gale slowly begins stalking towards you, his flinty gaze never leaving your face. As he approaches, he moves his fingers through the air in an intricate pattern. Your breath catches in your throat as your own dagger appears before you, suspended a hair's breadth above your chest.

"Unfortunately for you, my friend - I didn't perish."

His hand comes to rest on the hilt of the blade, his face inches from yours, eyes radiating malice and hatred as he begins to press the blade down.

"And now it's my turn."

[speaker-of-the-void-cats]

Final attempts to understand before the Shape is unveiled

What is the Light?

Matter. Creation. Complexity. The Light is all these things, and in all things. Look up at the Sky. Light reveals. Light blinds.

What is the Traveler?

A manifestation. A generator. A projector. A computer and storage drive for one form of existence. A cage. A source. A wellspring. A Gardener seeking to sow. A half-truth.

What is the Veil?

A manifestation. An enigma. A blueprint. A mirror. A cocoon and a web. A matrix. A devourer. A reaper. A recycler. A chalice. A xenotaph. A prism. A prison. A black box. Katabasis. Minds; yours, mine, ours. Its. Rivers. All-in-one and one-in-all. The other half.

What are we meant to be?

Not soldiers given orders by the general of a grand campaign of conquest. Not warlords granted power to rule over the weak. Guardians, vested with a singular, true purpose; protect this reality and those passing through it in mortality. See them safely along the path so they may realize their potential. Steadfast sentinels, insatiable explorers, mindful truth seekers; a trinity that ripples across the ocean of life itself.

What are the Ghosts?

A Guardian's guardian. A link. A proxy. A go-between. A stopper on death.

When one dies and vacates their form of Light, the soul is reclaimed to the bottle from which we all once poured... all except Guardians. Guardians remain because another soul stands in the way, one already taken from life but torn back from death and given a new shell. A ghost, holding the reaper at bay. For now.

What is the Witness?

Not the Shape, but the shadow of one. The first child, the first knife to carve flesh and stone. Not the pyramidion, but the block supporting it, lifting it up, making it possible. Many in one, an aspirational reflection of that which was seen darkly beyond the Veil. A seer. An observer. A summoner. A false prophet. A thorn. A witness to the end, to the true Shape.

What is the Darkness?

Thought. Memory. Emotion. Consciousness. Collapse. The mirror's image. A byproduct. You. Me. The universe. The Deep.

What is the Final Shape?

Beauty. Fear. Sorrow. Majesty. A winnower to shape the garden, to give it ultimate purpose. A singular mind with a singular vision and a singular purpose which is what it is because it is all it ever could be. A force of nature yet shaped by a hand. Created to devour you, me, everything and everyone we know. The pyramidion. The peak. The pinnacle. The inevitable.

Choose the form of the destructor.

What is the truth in the Darkness?

Light casts shadows. The shadows dance upon the cave wall, lies projected to convey the truth, the meaning; there is no meaning. We are all the same.

We are all pinched silhouettes impaled on the twitchings of infinitely long spiderlegs.

All the while I thought on the truth of Bashaarat’s words: past and future are the same, and we cannot change either, only know them more fully. My journey to the past had changed nothing, but what I had learned had changed everything, and I understood that it could not have been otherwise. If our lives are tales that Allah tells, then we are the audience as well as the players, and it is by living these tales that we receive their lessons.

— The Merchant and the Alchemist's Gate by Ted Chiang

V. What the Thunder Said After the torchlight red on sweaty faces After the frosty silence in the gardens After the agony in stony places The shouting and the crying Prison and palace and reverberation Of thunder of spring over distant mountains He who was living is now dead We who were living are now dying With a little patience Here is no water but only rock Rock and no water and the sandy road The road winding above among the mountains Which are mountains of rock without water If there were water we should stop and drink Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think Sweat is dry and feet are in the sand If there were only water amongst the rock Dead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit There is not even silence in the mountains But dry sterile thunder without rain There is not even solitude in the mountains But red sullen faces sneer and snarl From doors of mudcracked houses If there were water And no rock If there were rock And also water And water A spring A pool among the rock If there were the sound of water only Not the cicada And dry grass singing But sound of water over a rock Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees Drip drop drip drop drop drop drop But there is no water Who is the third who walks always beside you? When I count, there are only you and I together But when I look ahead up the white road There is always another one walking beside you Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded I do not know whether a man or a woman —But who is that on the other side of you? What is that sound high in the air Murmur of maternal lamentation Who are those hooded hordes swarming Over endless plains, stumbling in cracked earth Ringed by the flat horizon only What is the city over the mountains Cracks and reforms and bursts in the violet air Falling towers Jerusalem Athens Alexandria Vienna London Unreal A woman drew her long black hair out tight And fiddled whisper music on those strings And bats with baby faces in the violet light Whistled, and beat their wings And crawled head downward down a blackened wall And upside down in air were towers Tolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hours And voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells. In this decayed hole among the mountains In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing Over the tumbled graves, about the chapel There is the empty chapel, only the wind’s home. It has no windows, and the door swings, Dry bones can harm no one. Only a cock stood on the rooftree Co co rico co co rico In a flash of lightning. Then a damp gust Bringing rain Ganga was sunken, and the limp leaves Waited for rain, while the black clouds Gathered far distant, over Himavant. The jungle crouched, humped in silence. Then spoke the thunder DA Datta: what have we given? My friend, blood shaking my heart The awful daring of a moment’s surrender Which an age of prudence can never retract By this, and this only, we have existed Which is not to be found in our obituaries Or in memories draped by the beneficent spider Or under seals broken by the lean solicitor In our empty rooms DA Dayadhvam: I have heard the key Turn in the door once and turn once only We think of the key, each in his prison Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison Only at nightfall, aethereal rumours Revive for a moment a broken Coriolanus DA Damyata: The boat responded Gaily, to the hand expert with sail and oar The sea was calm, your heart would have responded Gaily, when invited, beating obedient To controlling hands I sat upon the shore Fishing, with the arid plain behind me Shall I at least set my lands in order? London Bridge is falling down falling down falling down Poi s’ascose nel foco che gli affina Quando fiam uti chelidon—O swallow swallow Le Prince d’Aquitaine à la tour abolie These fragments I have shored against my ruins Why then Ile fit you. Hieronymo’s mad againe. Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata. Shantih shantih shantih

[neona]

I think im winning at painting

[savingcontent]

Torchlight: Infinite battens down the hatches for a new season on January 12th with "Blacksail"

Torchlight: Infinite battens down the hatches for a new season on January 12th with “Blacksail”

(more…)

[sonsofks]

TORCHLIGHT: INFINITE PRESENTA UNA NUEVA TEMPORADA EN EL ÚLTIMO TRÁILER

¡La actualización importante presentará nuevo contenido, equipo, habilidades, compatibilidad con el controlador y mucho más! XD Games, Shanghái — 20 de diciembre de 2022 | Icen esas velas, rastreadores de mazmorras; ¡La nueva temporada de Torchlight: Infinite está lista para echar el ancla! Lanzado en enero de 2023, “Blacksail” verá a los jugadores embarcarse en una nueva aventura que los…

[minecraftbookshelf]

So I was going through the ‘AU in which all marriages are arranged’ tag and I’m going to be honest, I love it. But I also was kinda skimming just to find some pix content lol.

I adore the Copper King and Pixandria and he will definitely be popping up a lot. He's going to be getting at least one backstory fic all his own and honestly probably another couple of oneshots here and there.

Also just, Pixandria is so much fun for worldbuilding, i will happily ramble at length about it given half the chance. Feel free to hit me up about it anytime!

Thank you for the ask and have some Pixlriff words! (With bonus Joel)

"They're calling me 'The Mad King' now," Joel says, apropos of nothing as he passes the wineskin back to Pix without looking at him. Pix takes a sip and corks it, laying it between them on the roof of the Matral Palace as he contemplates his response to that. The Pixandrian mead leaves the stars a little wiggly and fuzzy, the cosmic dust scattered in the night blurring together into an infinite skyway of distant light. "You don't sound upset about it."

Joel shrugs, the movement tugging on the blanket they're laying atop just enough to slosh the mead in its skin, barely audible beneath the chirping of insects and the distant sound of the surf on the terracotta shores. "'S true enough, really. And makes sense anyway." "It makes sense that you're mad?" The mead dulls the sharp edges of the world, but leaves Pix feeling a bit as if he's been blindfolded, and left to stumble his way through darkness where he is used to the clear illumination of a desert sunrise. Joel rolls over, his eyes glinting in the torchlight. "Pix I'm four hundred years old. Give or take a decade. Humans 'n't s'pposed to live longer 'n a quarter that at most. We aren't made for it, 'course its gonna mess wif' our heads." He drops back down flat onto the roof, slurring slightly, whether from the mead or exhaustion, Pix isn't sure. It's probably both. "We're not like Lizzie, or Jimmy, or even the fae folk. It breaks us a bit. I think. And its lonely." Pix hums an agreement, "it is just us, isn't it." "Yeah." They lay a moment longer, staring at the sky in silence before Joel speaks again, on the edge of sleep, so soft Pix can barely hear him. "I don' regret it tho. D'you?" He's asleep in the next instant, his breaths evening out and growing raspy with almost-snores. Pix stares into the stars, contemplating the sky and the night and the empty halls of a realm long abandoned. "I don't know."

-

AU Masterpost

[dddragoni-drabbles]

Harlan descended into the cave, the flickering light of his torch seeming more and more inadequate with each step he took. He could feel the guardian's steadfast gaze on his back, watching his every move. His footsteps echoed off the cavern walls, the only sound besides the faint flickering of the torch and the pounding of his own heart.

He lost track of how long he walked. The sunlight had long been lost behind him by the time the tunnel walls started to open out into a wider space. His breath grew tight in his throat. This was it. His steps slowed, each one measured and deliberate.

Suddenly, a massive reptilian face loomed out of the darkness ahead of him. Obsidian black scales absorbed nearly all the torchlight, and its deep purple eyes were nearly as tall as he was. Twin horns twisted back from its brow, and sharp, blade-like fangs lined its jaws. When it spoke, its voice was smooth and deep, filling the entire chamber without the slightest hint of echo. "Who are you, that walks so boldly into my domain."

It took all of Harlan's composure not to scream. Instead, he knelt and bowed his head. He was glad he'd had time to practice what he was going to say, otherwise his mind would have gone completely blank. "I-I am Harlan Walder, a humble tailor."

A second face emerged from the gloom on his left side, identical to the first except for its deep red eyes. It spoke in perfect unison with the first. "And why have you come here, Harlan Walder?"

He dipped his head lower. "I have come to entreat your aid, O wise and mighty Queen of the Depths."

The Queen's third head appeared on his right, midnight blue eyes looking down at him with what he hoped was curiosity and not contempt. "And what is the aid you seek?"

"My wife has taken deathly ill, Your Majesty." Harlan said. "The healers said she only had weeks to live. I beg of you, Your Majesty, please restore her to health. Our daughter needs her mother."

This time the right head spoke alone. "This is within Our power to grant."

"But Our aid comes with a price," added the left head.

"I-I know, and I am prepared to pay it."

All three heads laughed, the triplicate sounds threatening to overwhelm Harlan. The middle head's eyes staryed to glow as it spoke. "Then the pact is sealed."

One of the Queen's talons rushed forth from the darkness, driving itself through Harlan's chest with enough force to lift him off the ground. He gasped in shock, but there was no pain, no blood whatsoever. Instinctively, he tried to grab the talon, but he found his arms refusing to obey him.

Harlan felt a strange force as the claw pulled forward, something deep in the core of his being being stretched to its breaking point. He tried to cry out, but his mouth was as unresponsive as his arms.

The talon suddenly lurched forward, tearing itself free of Harlan's body and vanishing back into the dark. Harlan heard the sound of something fall to the ground as he stumbled forward, nearly topping over himself. He recovered, then looked back to see- himself. Lying there in a crumpled heap, eyes glazed over and mouth agape. He looked down at himself and saw no flesh, no skin, no blood- just an ethereal blue glow around him.

Then he turned back forward to see the Queen's jaws yawning wide in front of him, a cavernous abyss of infinite darkness and shadow. He let out a brief involuntary cry of terror before she lunged forward, her jaws snapping shut around his soul, and Harlan Walder ceased to exist.

[dalliansss]

prompt: Terrible excuses. Cringe-worthy, awful excuses.

Secret Dating Things

Angrod surveys his younger brother move about, packing loaves of bread in a hardy cloth. Egg is pretending to not notice his scrutiny; the tall, tanned, muscular and flaxen-curled elf moves about, whistling merrily even, as he surveys jars of jam, decides on orange and strawberry, and adds those to the basket.

"Do we have goat cheese?" Aegnor asks, turning to him, cheery, perhaps overly cheery. Angrod narrows his eyes. "Yes. In the pantry."

Egg snaps his fingers, turns heel, and skips off toward the pantry. To Angrod, the nightmare of the year past where Egg and Finrod had their most terrible quarrel seemed inexistent. He remembers it still, how he and Edhellos were hard-put, panicking, unable to know which brother to pacify first: Egg, who was shouting vitriol and words of hatred toward their eldest brother -- or Finrod, who has never raised a voice against each one of their siblings, but on that day only fury was on his face, distorting his visage even.

I will never grant you that blessing even if you crawl for it! Finrod had screamed, and it was terrible to behold. Angrod might not have been the object of his ire, but this was Finrod, who never got angry with them, whose patience extended as infinitely as strands of Varda's starlight hair.

But now, one year later. Egg is here, unnaturally cheerful, hoarding food...for what?

When Egg emerges from the pantry with the cheeses, Angrod clears his throat. "Where are you going, Aikanár?"

Egg freezes, still clutching the cheeses. He looks at Angrod like a deer caught in torchlight, smile frozen on his tanned face.

"Picnic," Egg says, smile still stiff and contrived. Of all of Finarfin's children, Aikanár was the most hopeless of them when it came to lying. "I'm going on a picnic...I eat a lot...and I like cheese."

"Huh. And where are you taking this picnic? You won't need that much if you just want to sit by the shores of the Aeluin," Angrod points out.

That smile gets tense. "I'm gonna...." Egg gestures vaguely. Angrod could see him scrambling all of his brain cells for an excuse. "I'm gonna ride a bit. Ladros, you know? See some of my friends from Bëor's-- yes."

"I thought you avoided Bëor's people after the--." Now it is Angrod's turn to gesture.

"Huh? I did? Haha!" Aegnor's smile hitches up, blindingly brilliant, and he hurriedly shoves the cheeses into his loaded basket. "Erm. And then I'll uh, ride west!"

"West...?" Angrod repeats.

"I'm going to picnic with Artaresto, and so there! Stop asking questions! I'm a grown Elf!" Aegnor cries out. Taking advantage of Angrod's surprise at the vehemence, Egg quickly snatches his basket and escapes the kitchen.

Somewhere, a rooster crows outside.

Angrod relaxes in his seat. He sips another mouthful of coffee. Huh. But he does have an idea where Egg might be going. Dor-lómin. A journey that is only five days on horse, really, but Egg will get lost, and the journey will take 8 days, maybe 10. So the food is more for him, really, than a picnic. Though Angrod knows the cheese will go to a cousin of theirs, named Fingon.

A slow smile appears on Angrod's lips. Eru. Finally.