#ursali

[rrbobani]

Remember those three girls I redesigned? I felt the strong urge to draw them again, and honestly, I'm super excited how this piece turned out~

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Continued on Ani's blog

[levvdpeepsart]

My Dragonborn sorcerer for an upcoming game.

[rotworld]

21: Fellow Traveler

art by @exorbitantsqueakingnoises

a visit to a remote haven for scoundrels on the fringes of the imperium leads to a fateful meeting with a kindred spirit.

->warhammer 40k. original aeldari outcast character/reader. contains graphic descriptions of violence, gun violence/combat situation, murder.

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The scrap metal sign hanging in the entrance corridor doesn’t say anything helpful like which way to the marketplace, nor does it even give a perfunctory greeting like “WELCOME TO SINISTRA STATION.” The collage of old pipes, ship wreckage and station detritus all stuck together shape the words “LOST AND FOUND” in Low Gothic. That’s how a lot of people come to know this place. Sinistra is a galactic dumping ground, the shore where vanished things wash up again. Deserter Capital of the Sector, some call it. If you can’t find it, it might be here. Some things came here by being stolen, traded, lost in a bet, sold to some unscrupulous sort. Some came because they had to.

If the bar has a name, only the locals know it. It’s an unmarked blink-and-you’ll-miss-it hole in the wall. There’s a fire hazard of a bootleg augmetics shop with more whirring, overheating machinery and sparking cables than a crashed voidship, and a self-service booth advertising forged ID chips, and a rickety flight of steps up to the next eye-burning level of humming neon and contraband. The bar is right there, tucked under the stairs. Awash in shadows and flickering light in burnt orange, it’s dimmer and moodier than what’s right outside. People come here for discretion. To find what they’re looking for and be left alone.

It’s a dangerous crowd tonight. You see a lot of weapons, holstered but clearly displayed in a wordless threat, a lot of tense shoulders and suspicious glances. You make guesses for every pinched, scowling face; a smuggler? An Inquisitor in disguise? Ex-Administratum with sunken, despairing eyes? Another deserter from another hopeless frontline meat grinder? You order something at the bar just to blend in. While you’re leaning against the counter watching cloudy swill pour into a glass, you see him.

There, standing in the shadows at the far end of the bar—someone different. Someone you can’t quite place. He’s wearing a long cloak with the hood up, like just about everyone else here, but he’s unusually, eye-catchingly tall. Positioned in the corner with his back to the wall, it’s clear he’s being cautious but he doesn’t look worried, either. Expecting trouble? About to start some? Both of his hands are concealed beneath his cloak. 

His head turns slightly and you feel like you’ve been spotted by some slinking, prowling thing in the underbrush of a forest, moments from feeling bestial fangs in your throat. Your breath hitches. You wait for something to happen, but it never does. His head lowers like he’s lost interest but you can still feel him watching. He turns again, feigning a glance to the side and a cough. His index finger lifts, making a subtle but pointed motion at you, and then at the seat closest to him at the bar. 

You’re not sure why you don’t leave. You don’t know him, but you feel like you could. Something about his self-imposed isolation, noticeably distrustful and distant in a room full of people feeling the same way, calm rather than bristling with fearful energy. Hiding in plain sight. Maybe you relate, or maybe you admire him.

You’ve barely sat down when he asks, “Where are you from?” 

“Ursalis-III,” you say. 

“No, you’re not.” 

You watch him come slightly closer, leaning against the bar and looming over you. You can just barely make out a few details beneath the shadow of his hood—smudges of black greasepaint around dark green eyes, the hard edges of a mask covering his mouth. “I’m not?” you echo. 

“Ursalis-III is gone. Consigned to oblivion for treachery most foul against the Emperor’s holy design—that is to say, centuries of skipped tithes culminating in an attempted uprising. The entire populace was conscripted or shipped off to labor camps. A fresh batch of loyal colonists was lost in transit.” He has an accent you can’t place, something subtle and only noticeable on a few words. 

“I’m well aware,” you say wryly, plucking a pair of jangling dog tags out of your shirt. 

“Those aren’t yours,” he says. “You traded for them when you got here. Some rations for an easy ID.” 

“Have you been following me? For how long?” 

“Off and on since you landed at the starport.” The admission comes easily and without shame. He doesn’t feel like a threat.

“And what did you think when you saw me?” 

“I was curious, mostly. Your ship is very distinctive. I’ve never seen one like it.” He studies your expression for a moment, head tilting in interest. “You look disappointed,” he notes. “Were those codewords? I’m sorry I’m not whoever you’re looking for.” 

“I’m not looking for anyone,” you say. You don’t like how intently he’s looking at you. If he can tell you’re lying again, he doesn’t mention it. “So where are you from?” 

“Nowhere you’ve heard of.”

The bar shakes slightly, a gentle quake rattling the bottles in the back and tipping some glasses over. There’s a moment of tense, breathless silence before the lights stabilize and everything settles back in place. The stranger is watching you when your gaze returns to his. “Frequent visitor?” he asks. “You don’t look alarmed.” Neither does he.

“I know about the star,” you say. Sinistra orbits dangerously close to an unusually active stellar body infamous for its frequent and violent stellar flares. Most of them fizzle out harmlessly against a state-of-the-art atmospheric shield, a precious and poorly-understood relic that tech-priests travel from across the galaxy to observe, but a big one sneaks through every now and then. “Have you lost someone recently?” you ask him.

You’ve caught him completely off guard. He straightens out of his casual lean and narrows his eyes. “What a strange question,” he says. 

You shrug, taking a testing sip of your drink and deciding immediately that you’ve had enough. “I won’t push. I was just trying to figure out why you looked so familiar when I know we’ve never met.” He’s grieving. That must be it. It’s the numb kind, past the stage of open-wound rawness, the empty feeling that comes when you finish weeping. Maybe it was a recent death. Maybe a distant one that casts a long shadow, or something even more difficult to explain. He looks at you like he’s only just started to see you for the first time.

“Would you walk with me?” he asks. 

You push your glass around absently, looking down at the bar counter. “Your turn to ask strange questions, huh?”

He nudges your glass out of reach, laying his hand on top of yours. He’s wearing gloves; some kind of soft, flexible leather, his fingers long and spindly. You can just faintly feel warmth through the material. “I’d like to speak with you more. Elsewhere.” He closes his hand around yours, threading your fingers together. It really seems like he’s propositioning you—or planning to kill you—but he sounds so solemn and urgent that you aren’t sure what to think. Nobody pays you more than a passing glance when you stand up and follow him out of the bar.

Back on the bright, busy streets of Sinistra’s labyrinthine markets, he draws far less attention than you expect. Everyone is suspicious here, you suppose, rushing around and concealing their faces, but your stranger towers above both you and the crowd. He walks in a practiced graceful manner that reminds you of trained dancers or extremely skilled soldiers—no movement wasted, everything precise. 

“This station doesn’t have much time left,” he murmurs, so quiet you barely hear him over the rattle of machinery and exuberant voices. “Imperial authorities have swarmed the system in increasing numbers, preparing to seize Sinistra from the current administration. Many of them are here now, biding their time for a signal. They mean to take the station by force and care little about how many fall along the wall.”

“How do you know?” you ask him.

“It’s my gift. I see what will come. I advise you leave as soon as you’re able.” 

“Thank you for the warning. Are you going to be alright? Do you have a way off the station?” 

He’s quiet for a while. You look up and find him staring at you again, his gaze softened. “You’re from out here, aren’t you?” he asks.

“Out here?”

He hunches slightly, lowering his voice even further. “Far from the Emperor’s light. So far, perhaps, it has never touched you.” 

“There isn’t a world in the galaxy untouched by the Emperor’s light,” you say carefully. The station shudders again, buffeted by harsh solar winds. Steel creaks and rumbles. You stumble but the stranger catches you by the forearm. 

“If I could have one honest answer from you, it would be how you came into possession of your ship,” he says. “But I think I already know.” 

“Why?” you ask warily. “It’s nothing special. A few mods, sure, but—”

The next tremor is stronger and far louder. There’s a flash in your peripheral vision and then the acrid smell of smoke floods your nose. Not a flare, you think. An explosion. The stranger moves while your mind is still reeling, dragging you down behind the protective bulk of a forgery kiosk and crouching beside you, a hand on your shoulder tugging and urging you to keep your head down. Bolterfire scours the street where you were standing mere moments ago, blowing holes through rusted walkways. Someone is shooting; someone else is shooting back. You hear alarms and shrill, mindless panic.

“You need to breathe,” he says. 

You didn’t realize you’d stopped until you inhale shakily, one of your hands tangled in his cloak. You’re frozen, remembering all the stories that had been passed down, generation after generation, to you: of the steady, constant advance of inhuman soldiers who feared and felt nothing, and the deafening roar of weaponry in cramped corridors, and the end of everything come with swift, bloody cruelness. You were taught to run. Always run. If you can run, you can survive. If you can get to the safety of your ship, you can slip away into the vast dark. 

“Breathe,” the stranger urges. He cups your face in his hands and you realize you’re trembling. “Listen to me. You are alive. Your heart still beats. And you must keep living. You must, no matter what happens. Do you understand?” 

You nod weakly. It suddenly occurs to you that you’re seeing him clearly, no hood or shadows in the way. His brows are furrowed. He has dark hair and he wears it in a low ponytail. His ears are elongated, pointed at the ends. The dawning confusion on your face makes his eyes arch in amusement. 

“Do you have a weapon?” he asks. 

Breathe, you remind yourself. You feel for the small pistol holstered at your waist. A last resort; you can’t recall the last time you’ve had to use it. “Yes,” you say. 

“Do you remember the way to the starport?” 

“Yes, but—” 

He shrugs, his cloak parting to reveal strange, carapace-like armor underneath. The smooth, flexible plates clinging to his body are a startlingly bright, sunny yellow. He was concealing a rifle, a slender, long-barreled weapon, strangely elegant and studded with small, circular crystals. “You’re going to run. Take advantage of the chaos and stay out of sight,” he says. He speaks quietly and calmly, even as he turns and raises the rifle, lifting the scope to his eye. “I’ll provide cover.”

“But I—” 

“Don’t say you can’t. You can. You’ve survived this long. You will keep surviving.”

You hear pounding footsteps and the shriek of lasfire. “What’s your name?” you ask him.

Someone comes around the corner—soldier, Imperial, heavily armored, finger on the trigger. He dies in an instant, head and helmet blooming apart like the unraveling of a scarlet flower. The stranger’s weapon makes no more noise than the soft hiss of wind when it fires. He looks at you only briefly before he returns his full attention to the rifle, waiting for something else to stray into his line of sight. 

“Murai’ethlienne,” he says with quiet surprise, as though the sound of his own name has become unfamiliar. 

Sinistra is falling apart. Every district you run through flickers red with dying neon and raging fire, combustible ammunition igniting chemical pools and faulty electronics. Shredded metal grates and missing floor panels open into bottomless chasms and an alarm somewhere is warning that the gravitational stabilizer is losing power. The dead and dying are everywhere. The Imperials have superior numbers but Sinistra’s resistance knows the station better. You see the grisly aftermath of firefights and explosive traps. Bodies lie bleeding from hundreds of shrapnel wounds and unidentifiable lumps of flesh litter the narrow lanes between market stalls. 

Sometimes, you’ll hear a soft sound—the rush of waves up a beach, or the long breath of a sigh—and something in your path will collapse in a burst of red mist and splattered flesh. You can’t see him but he keeps reminding you he’s there.

There were stories like this, too. Not just of the end but of the wonderful beginning; a world that was not a world. A galaxy that was not so lonely. 

The “LOST AND FOUND” still hangs where it always has, clattering ominously as another blast rocks the station. The starport is carnage. Hundreds have already fled this way and the floor is slick with blood. The air is thin and your movements are sluggish as the shielding and stabilizer arrays separating you from the void of space falter. A blockade of Imperial warships lurks in orbit, surrounded by a glittering ring of splintered metal—all that remains of those who tried to escape. Sinistra’s star is a blinding behemoth in the sky, surface churning with arcs and ripples of stellar plasma.

Your ship is still here. The shields are rippling like a heat haze, a telltale sign that they’re about to fail, but that means it’s still undamaged. The electric thrum of fight-of-flight adrenaline surges through your veins, overshadowing your fear. 

“I’m a fool.” You didn’t hear anyone approach but Murai’ethlienne is mere steps behind you, rifle clutched in one hand. His shoulders are heaving with labored breaths but he looks uninjured. He looks up at the dark, imposing shapes in orbit with jutting prows and enough artillery to obliterate a planet. “Of course they’d blockade the station,” he mutters. “And after everything I said to you before…”

“I can get through,” you tell him. The certainty in your voice visibly startles him. “Do you have a ship? You can come with me.” He hesitates, glancing up again. “Murai’ethlienne,” you say. It’s a slightly clumsy attempt at the sounds he made before, consonants bumbling into each other. He looks at you with a bittersweet expression, something like misty-eyed acceptance. “Come with me,” you insist. “You saved me. Now I save you. We’ll figure out the rest later.” 

“What have I done?” he says hoarsely. “This galaxy will tear you apart someday.” 

You take his hand. He looks down and watches as you lace your fingers with his. “Look at me,” you urge him. “My heart is still beating, isn’t it? I’m alive right now, and so are you.” You squeeze his hand. “And we have to live.” 

You see calm wash over him. Not slowly but all at once, like a flipped switch. He closes his eyes and when he opens them again, he’s just as composed as he was when he pulled you to safety in the marketplace. He nods curtly and squeezes your hand back. 

Once, there were many ships like yours. Sleek and beautiful with gentle, organic-looking curves and a flexible surface of interlocking, membranous protective plates. There were large ones drifting through the cosmos with the slow, majestic grace of ocean giants, whole fleets of city-ships were children were born and hybrid plants from a thousand worlds blossomed. There were small ones, narrow and minnow-like beside the slow-moving giants, stinger-sharp guardians and mandible-prowed scanner-gatherers and—just like yours—winged explorers. 

You know this ship better than you know any planet you’ve ever landed on. You slide your fingers over the pilot interface with precise, muscle-memory movements, activating emergency takeoff protocols. Murai’ethlienne is visibly startled by the sight of a chair beside yours, sharing space and even a swath of controls. You direct him to sit down and hold onto something. The engine hums to life. The navigation program comes online with a warble and proposes several different launch trajectories. You study them briefly before making a decision.

You can feel Murai’ethlienne watching in silent fascination. “This is a family ship,” you explain. “All the ones that are left are like this.” 

He does not ask the obvious question—why is it empty, then, if it is meant for a family? “Is it old?” he asks. 

“Very. It was my mother and father’s. They inherited it from their parents, and so on.” 

You think he’s smiling under his mask. 

Takeoff is smooth. You ease into a rapid acceleration that makes Murai’ethlienne inhale sharply and rocket straight for the Imperial blockade. Their tight formation is jostled by the stirring of Sinistra’s star. It’s slight, nothing like the quakes that affected the station, but the subtle drift will affect their aim on a small, fast-moving target. The ship’s wings—solar sails, veined membranes that pulse and shimmer as they soak up electromagnetic bursts—unfurl. Murai’ethlienne clutches the armrests of his seat as you veer straight for the largest ship in the formation. He mutters something that might be a prayer or a curse, but not in a language you recognize. Defensive systems warn you that the ship is being targeted. You see enormous turrets and void cannons swiveling towards you.

You’re sure the naval captains staring you down have had a fair amount of training and practical experience in the Imperium’s constant wars, but their ships are a means to an end. Yours is everything. They don’t know the arrhythmic pulse of stars. Their gargantuan beasts could never hopscotch between gravitational wells like yours can. The opening volleys, spears of sizzling light, miss you entirely. By the time the next shots are fired, you’ve spun into the narrow, thorn-lined gap between warships, voidshields crackling so close you can feel them like turbulence. Smaller Interceptor vessels briefly give chase but they turn to small silver dots in the void behind you.

Murai’ethlienne hunches over in his seat. You dispense a sick bag from the ceiling for him and set the ship to autopilot, setting course for another active star. You don’t need any more fuel, but the shields need to be recharged. “I’m from here,” you tell him, nodding to the serene, glittering darkness beyond the window. “That’s what my parents told me. I asked them once if we were from nowhere, and they said it wasn’t true. We’re from everywhere. To the Diasporex, all of this is home.” You relax in your seat, suddenly fatigued now that the danger has passed. You look over and find him staring again. 

He’s taken his mask off and set it in his lap. You see his lips for the first time, pursed into a thoughtful frown. “We’re very much alike,” he tells you. “My home is…well, it feels reductive to call it a ship. An ark, maybe. An ancient, scarred place where the dead outnumber the living.”

“Is that where you want to go?” you ask.

“No,” he says. He doesn’t even think about it. “I’m going wherever you’re going.” 

“You are?”

“Is that not the way of your people? Unity, or something like that?” 

His smile is pretty, you think. “It was,” you say. “But that’s how we were found in the first place. The fleets were too big. Now we have to stay away from each other.” 

He nods. “I understand. If you’d rather be left alone—”

“I didn’t say that.” You extend your arm into the space between your seats, palm up and waiting. Murai’ethlienne looks at it with surprise and amusement. His hand is so much larger than yours, easily engulfing it. It feels nice. Warm, you think, and safe. After everything, you finally give him your name. The sound of it on his tongue, the way he stops to savor it, makes your eyes fill with tears.

Alarmed, Murai’ethlienne asks if you were injured on the station. He’s even more confused when you smile and laugh through the tears and when you insist that, for the first time in a long time, everything is fine.

[madamefluffnstuff]

Tagged by @hircines-hunter! 3-5 facts about your OC!

I feel like I talk about Ebony and Brenda a lot, so let's spice it up with my Breton mage Ursalie.~

Ursalie is very, very shy. She hates being the center of attention and all this "Hero of the Covenant" business makes her want to curl into a ball and let Oblivion take her.

Despite her shyness, if she's pushed hard enough she can, in fact, stick up for herself. Which will then result in her disappearing from the public for the next 3 to 5 business days.

Her favorite colors are black and yellow/gold; her mage robes are jet black with yellow accents. Kind of the Tamrielic equivalent of goth.

She has a heroic reputation from helping the Daggerfall Covenant, but it turns out Ursalie is very easy to persuade. All Jakarn has to do is give her a little smirk and Darien a wink and the poor mage will be second guessing every conversation from the last five years.

I shall tag @i-simp-for-fennorian, @fangsandsoftgrass, @rvnwtch, and @lithiumrev 💜💜💜 (never obligated to participate, but always welcome~)

[tellurian-in-aristasia]

Aristasian Slang Q-Z

Slang terms, marked with "a" to signify that these are terms adopted from the Motherland or "t" to denote specifically Tellurian words unknown in the Motherland.

REPARTEE a: Cheek, backtalk, argument. It also has the normal sense, but in this sense is used in such phrases as "Don't give me any repartee" or "All I got from her was a lot of repartee".

RIVERMOUTH t: A speaker of Estuary English.

SCHIZZIES a: (Pron skitsies) Schizomorphs.

SHINY a: An optical disc. Kinnie Shiny: a kinematic optical disc.

SILLY MONKEY t: S/M.

SNAPSIE t: A photograph.

SPLOT a: To throw or flick a messy substance so that it splatters on someone or something.

SUISPLOT a: "To commit suisplot" = to spill or drop something messy on oneself.

SWOGGLE a: to steal.

TROGGIE t: An interrogative lift - referring to the bongo habit of ending sentences that are not questions with the rising inflection that would normally signify a question. This also gives rise to the verb to trog, as in: "she was trogging all over the place."

UP-TO-DATE a: From the Western provinces, but especially from Trent, Vintesse and Novaria. We speak of up-to-date cars, songs or films (a bongo would make the gaffe of calling them "old"). Arcadian ones would be "old-fashioned", and bongo ones "outdated" or "obsolete". Things from Quirinelle can be up-to-date, but never quite ultra-modern or up-to-the-minute as things from Vintesse might be.

URSIE a: Short for Ursie-doll or Ursali-doll. Aristasian equivalent of a "Teddy-bear".

VIRCHERS: Virtualia. Aristasian deployment in Virtual Reality. Cf. Fizzers.

WINDIE a: (Wind rhymes to mind.) A magnetic tape. Kinnie Windie - a videotape.

YEEK, THE t: Colloquial, but now very frequent, term given to Pit-england - from the Pit-english habit of saying "the U.K." rather than "England" or "Britain" , and the Pit-english pronunciation which corrupts the "oo" sound to "eeoo" or "ee".

YELLOW PERIL t: Hideous fluorescent yellow as used in the Pit for tennis balls, policemen, cyclists, etc. As in: "Here comes the Yellow Peril".

ZIPPY a: Neat, nifty. Often seen as a direct equivalent to the Tellurian word "cool". Mostly used by teenagers.

Source

[madamefluffnstuff]

Ooooh, haven't done a Tag game in a while, this will be fun! :3

Tagged by @arisenlicious, thank you hon! <3 (Also gonna borrow your color-coding idea because that is *very* helpful. Tagging @darkfire1177. Rules: [ Bold what applies, italicize sometimes ]

Ebonymist

Flaws:

moody | short-tempered | emotionally unstable | whiny | controlling | conceited | possessive | paranoid | liar | impatient | cowardly | bitter | selfish | power-hungry | greedy | lazy | judgmental | forgetful | impulsive | spiteful | stubborn | sadistic | masochistic | petty | unlucky | absent-minded | abusive | addict | aggressive | childish | callous | clingy | delusional | cocky | competitive | corrupt | cynical | cruel | depressed | deranged | egotistical | envious | insecure | insensitive | lustful | delinquent | guilt complex | reclusive | reckless | nervous | oversensitive | rebellious

Strengths:

honest | trustworthy | thoughtful | caring | brave | patient | selfless | ambitious | tolerant | lucky | intelligent | confident | focused | humble | generous | merciful | observant | wise | clever | charming | cheerful | optimistic | decisive | adaptive | calm | protective | proud | diligent | considerate | compassionate | good sportsmanship | friendly | empathetic | passionate | reliable | resourceful | sensible | sincere | witty | funny

Brenda Steel-Heart

Flaws:

moody | short-tempered | emotionally unstable | whiny | controlling | conceited | possessive | paranoid | liar | impatient | cowardly | bitter | selfish | power-hungry | greedy | lazy | judgmental | forgetful | impulsive | spiteful | stubborn | sadistic | masochistic | petty | unlucky | absent-minded | abusive | addict | aggressive | childish | callous | clingy | delusional | cocky | competitive | corrupt | cynical | cruel | depressed | deranged | egotistical | envious | insecure | insensitive | lustful | delinquent | guilt complex | reclusive | reckless | nervous | oversensitive | rebellious

Strengths:

honest | trustworthy | thoughtful | caring | brave | patient | selfless | ambitious | tolerant | lucky | intelligent | confident | focused | humble | generous | merciful | observant | wise | clever | charming | cheerful | optimistic | decisive | adaptive | calm | protective | proud | diligent | considerate | compassionate | good sportsmanship | friendly | empathetic | passionate | reliable | resourceful | sensible | sincere | witty | funny

Ursalie Fanstiana

(even though she's still a WIP character we'll include her ^^)

Flaws:

moody | short-tempered | emotionally unstable | whiny | controlling | conceited | possessive | paranoid | liar | impatient | cowardly | bitter | selfish | power-hungry | greedy | lazy | judgmental | forgetful | impulsive | spiteful | stubborn | sadistic | masochistic | petty | unlucky | absent-minded | abusive | addict | aggressive | childish | callous | clingy | delusional | cocky | competitive | corrupt | cynical | cruel | depressed | deranged | egotistical | envious | insecure | insensitive | lustful | delinquent | guilt complex | reclusive | reckless | nervous | oversensitive | rebellious

Strengths:

honest | trustworthy | thoughtful | caring | brave | patient | selfless | ambitious | tolerant | lucky | intelligent | confident | focused | humble | generous | merciful | observant | wise | clever | charming | cheerful | optimistic | decisive | adaptive | calm | protective | proud | diligent | considerate | compassionate | good sportsmanship | friendly | empathetic | passionate | reliable | resourceful | sensible | sincere | witty | funny

OC Flaws & Strengths Tag Game

Found this tag game awhile ago, but wanted to bring it back. So here I am. Causing chaos.

Tagged by @wildhexe Gonna Tag @madamefluffnstuff

Rules: [ Bold what applies, italicize sometimes ]

Sifkni Flaws

moody | short-tempered | emotionally unstable | whiny | controlling | conceited | possessive | paranoid | liar | impatient | cowardly | bitter | selfish | power-hungry | greedy | lazy | judgmental | forgetful | impulsive | spiteful | stubborn | sadistic | masochistic | petty | unlucky | absent-minded | abusive | addict | aggressive | childish | callous | clingy | delusional | cocky | competitive | corrupt | cynical | cruel | depressed | deranged | egotistical | envious | insecure | insensitive | lustful | delinquent | guilt complex | reclusive | reckless | nervous | oversensitive | rebellious Strengths

honest | trustworthy | thoughtful | caring | brave | patient | selfless | ambitious | tolerant | lucky | intelligent | confident | focused | humble | generous | merciful | observant | wise | clever | charming | cheerful | optimistic | decisive | adaptive | calm | protective | proud | diligent | considerate | compassionate | good sportsmanship | friendly | empathetic | passionate | reliable | resourceful | sensible | sincere | witty | funny

[misskazehana]

(I think I am losing the will to make content which is things have been so slow)

Lady Yancy with great vigor and ferocity, attempts to apprehend a flighty Karnefur. Her only desires at this point is to retrieve her young master Astrid and rip apart this idiot who has taken him. Refusing to be deterred or afraid, the older godling flees whilst clutching on this the younger protectively. He manages to briefly hinder his pursuers progress back erecting a wall of thick ice. Alas, Lady Yancy isn’t easily swayed by pathetic obstacles as she takes a slightly different route to her moving target. Karnefur expresses his remorse to the sleeping Astrid as he keeps on running. 

He believes he’s safe after deploying that wall. Unfortunately for him, he spoke too soon. Lady Yancy has already caught back up with him and isn’t about to allow him to pull his little trick a second time She hisses with pure vitriol her demand- hand the boy over. Karnefur fires back with a resounding reason for not complying. He firmly believes he’s doing the right thing in spite of only knowing Astrid for a short time- he’s attached (totally healthy by the way guys-NOT). His chaser is quick to point this particular fact as she’s closing the gap between them. He retorts with throwing her argument back in her face and implies that she and Lord Phos only use Astrid as tool. Lady Yancy’s seething over this audacity of this bitch as she’s cared for the young man along side her lord since he was small and feeble. She lunges and forcefully pins Karnefur down as she coldly asks him to die. Astrid somehow lands safely on a patch of ferns.

Meanwhile, Sir Verte is toying with an overly peeved off Ursalis. Exchanging snappy insults and even snappier pot shots at each other. He taunts her over how he has stalled her long enough for his ladyship to catch her brother. Verte vanishes for a moment, upsetting her even further. A crowd of henchmen try to seize her. This fails horribly as Ursalis roasts them alive in everything sense of the word. Of course, Sir Verte takes this chance to land another cheap shot on her. As he goes in for the finishing blow, his neck is tightly grasped as he’s forced to face Ursalis at eye level. She burns him alive and tosses his charred body aside as she scoffs in disgust. Her mystical twin senses pick up on the fact that her twin just fucked up. With a exhausted, heavy huff- Ursalis storms off to finish this...

Plague and it’s characters belong to me, misskazehana

[batscrem]

Holy shit I managed to finish a picture in time

D&D flavored Pride featuring Lavanne Canterbury (gay trans man), his husband Thumar (bisexual) and their son Wilhelm (aromantic), who I haven’t done a proper picture of yet but he’s a Beast Master Ranger.

And also Pepper.

[actuallyaltaria]

A fantroll? In 2017?! @martias7 joined a Homestuck RP group and I am SICK JEALOUS, so I drew a Khoura. Happy 6/12!

[alternimundi]

have you not realized? i don’t care about you. your grief is a weightless currency. your life is a weightless currency. you are a wall i will demolish a hundred thousand times if it means conquering the city that lies beyond. if it means fixing this broken world we have inherited, if it means shattering the chains that bind arios and zhevas and the clinging skeletons of their dead namesakes, then manius ursalis ignasius, divine bastard son of a slave and a slaughterer, emperor of nothing, i would do anything to you.

[insert the whole XXXXX 9999 thing]

i would do anything to him.

i would even let him win.

[them-spicy-trolls]

Ursaly Gaposs!

the nice voidrotten goldblood

her condition doesnt stop her from making pranks and shapeshifting here and there

[rrbobani]

Happy Holidays everyone~!

 I hope everyone has been getting ready for the holidays, or have been enjoying them thoroughly! I wanted to draw something with the Prismatica girls to celebrate, drawing different outfits with them as they enjoy their own gathering!

 Vampunya was in charge of getting cookies baked for the season, plating some for Santa alongside a glass of milk. Ursali insisted she get the decorations set for the gathering, absolutely adoring all the starry ornaments and lights she got to choose and arrange. And Florienna was in charge of getting everything wrapped and being extra help where she could be! Her Cattamole helped as well, making sure everyone was happy during the celebration.

 I know this season can be rough for some people as well, I get pretty down during these times too - thanks seasonal depression. But I just want everyone to know that as we approach the end of the year, and this is also aimed at comforting myself too, to not be afraid of what's to come. The world may be falling a part around us, but it's certainly not the end of it. There are people out there that are still fighting for you, even if you don't know them. There are still people out there that care about your voice. The years before have been such a wake up call. It's up to us to turn things around, and you're certainly not alone in doing so.

 We're all in this together. You matter to this world. Be kind to yourself. ♡

 I hope you, I hope everyone has a comforting end of the year. And thank you for sticking around~

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This post on Ani's Blog

Check out my Commissions Page!

[madamefluffnstuff]

I have since decided; here's a list of all of my current ESO characters!

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 1. Ebonymist - My main and longest running Vestige. She's a Khajiit Nightblade with a black tabby coat and baby blue eyes. Eye of the Queen and Champion of Anequina and Blackwood. Bows and arrows are her specialty, along with alchemy (specifically Invisibility potions) and lockpicking. However she's not part of the Thieves Guild or Dark Brotherhood. 

She's a very sweet and motherly Khajiit who firmly believes in the Found Family trope. Her friends are her family, her gaggle of pets are her family, Taznasi and co. from The Stitches are her family, etc. Her most recent "adoptees" are Fennorian, Ember, and Isobel. Razum Dar and her were as close to being a couple without actually being a couple. Now Ebonymist is working up the nerve to confess her feelings to Bastian Hallix. 

She tends to be more on the sentimental side, holding on to anything of value (like her Urn from Coldharbor, a shield that was gifted to her by a friend who fell in battle, Jakarn's dagger he gave as thanks for helping, the like).  As well as pretty much any remotely shiny object or fascinating knick knack she finds. She collects.

2. Brenda Steel-Heart - Tall, blonde, can hold her mead, and can swing a greatsword with the best, Brenda is a Nordic Dragonknight warmaiden. She is fiercely loyal to the Ebonheart Pact and her homeland of Eastern Skyrim. In fact Brenda's loyalty is so strong and she's helped the cause so much, Prince Irnskar has dubbed her "The King's Arrow".

The concept of family and friends is weird to her- she doesn't remember her biological family (since Mannimarco wiped her memories), and she moves around so much she doesn't have time to make friends. Instead she considers her fellow Pact soldiers her Shield Brothers and Sisters. Centurion Gjakil and his wife Irna are the closest thing Brenda has to a "family" family, after she helped save their farm. (And her dogs, of course! All five of them.)

As far as romance goes, her heart is open. Woman or man, lady or lord, Dunmer or Nord, she doesn't care. Strangely enough she has a thing for Dark Elves. Specifically one Morag Tong assassin. Which would definitely be breaking some protocols if word got out, so they have a long distance relationship and exchange letters as often as they can.

3. Ursalie Fanstiana - Bretons are known for their innate ability for magic. Ursalie is no exception. She is a skilled mage in her own right, though she is just starting out and getting her feet under her. "Dark" magic and crystal magic seems to be her specialty, but she has been known to summon the odd unstable minor daedra or two (whether its intentional or not is unknown). 

She is terribly shy and has always had trouble making friends. Her summoned familiars are her more preferred company, though she's been making more efforts to open up more. Unfortunately her lack of experience in friendships has led to a few mishaps of not reading the room; Poor Ursalie has fallen for Jakarn's silky smooth words on more than one occasion, and Darien Gautier's shameless flirting has had her staying up overthinking conversations more times than she cares to admit. Crafty Lerisa has been helping her though.

Ursalie is the least developed of my Vetiges, as I haven’t played much of the Daggerfall Covenant storyline yet but I still adore her.~

4. Reldaleyna and Peliion - Reldaleyna comes from a long line of respectable  Altmer mages. From a young age she excelled at the arcane arts, and was trained by her grandparents in the art of upper echelon etiquette and borderline royalty manners. She is very popular amongst her family's circle of nobles. 

Peliion, on the other hand, is a feral gremlin of a Wood Elf with absolutely no concept of social graces or presence of manners. He claims he was raised "in the woods" (which would not be entirely unusual for a Bosmer, but he also claims he was raised by wolves). Thankfully very few people take his claims seriously.

They are dating and very much in love. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Special thanks to @gortrash @arisenlicious and @alaxon <3

[misskazehana]

HAPPY 200 PAGES EVERYONE! It took me so long since I didn’t know what to do with this mile stone. WELP- HERE WE GOOOOO!!!!!

Before she leaves, Lady Yancy rallies up her subordinates and gives them their orders. Nurse Crimson is assigned to care for Lord Phos and make sure he survives this mess. Sir Verte has rounded up a massive search party and he’s coming along to make sure things run smoothly. Botanist Mauve and Hypnotist Azul are tasked with working on the cure which they eagerly get into. With all preparations complete, Yancy mentally steels herself for whatever may happen next. She is well aware a lot is riding on her success and she can’t afford to make any more oversights. With one last rallying cry, everyone’s ready to get to it.

Meanwhile, Astrid is still trapped in his own subconscious. Visions of events he cannot fully comprehend engulf his dreams. People he cares about, people he barely knows; it’s all so disorienting for him. How long may it take for him to wake up, only the gods would know and they’re mostly gone save a couple.

Lord Karnefur and Lady Ursalis are still fleeing the search party’s with their younger sibling in hand. Karnefur’s panicking as he begs his dear sister to stall their pursuers. Ursalis frantically points out there’s far too many on their tail to effectively stop them. All of a sudden a massive flash of lightning stops all their progress in its tracks. Sir Verte cruelly taunts them as he confronts the mystical duo. The elder godling is quick to be on the defensive, cradling Astrid close to his chest as Sir Verte makes his demands. He refuses to hand him over on the grounds that he believes Astrid was being treated like a lab rat rather than a real person. Ursalis chimes in with the point that they’ve done similiar things with other plague victims. 

Verte tries in vain to get them to realize how terribly unequipped they are to care for Astrid properly. It doesn’t stop the twins from arguing with him that his lord’s methods are disgusting without elaborating much. The masked swordsman grows increasingly frustrated with these entitled idiots. He makes the very valid point that the twins themselves have only just met Astrid not even a week or so ago- practically strangers. Karnefur fires back with the fact that Ursalis and himself are Astrid’s biological family or at least a part of it. This tedious chat irritates the younger twin to the point she’s about to blow her top.

Sir Verte attempts one last time to get them to cooperate and hand over Astrid without the need for further violence. Ursalis chooses to further violence as she gives Karnefur much need cover. Verte barely dodges out of the way of her brilliant flames. He’s blinded by her onslaught he hardly notices the other twin slipping past him with a slumber Astrid in his arms. Ursalis cruelly gloats about her previous victory over Lord Phos, feeling embolden to roast this cloaked man alive. 

It isn’t long before the fleeing Karnefur is confronted by another obstacle, Lady Yancy herself has arrived. The masked demon hisses with great vitriol her desires for the young master’s return. She makes it plain to him and his arsonist sibling that she has no intention of letting escape without consequences. Severe ones since they’ve essentially put her beloved lord in grave pain and messed with their plans to cure the plague. She gives Karnefur a generous five seconds to gently place Astrid on the ground and beg for his life.    

With the coldest glare, the stubborn mystic refuses to give up his little brother to anyone...

Plague and it’s characters belong to me , misskazehana

[misskazehana]

(I appreciate your patience, it may be a while yet; I’m not sorry for the time this took)

Nurse Crimson is snoozing at his work station, blissfully unaware of the tragic events below him. That is until the alarm goes off. He stumbles out of his chair as it blares an urgent warning. As he picks himself back up, he inquires his young master...who isn’t in his bed. Nurse Crimson does the logical thing, and freaks out because the poor lad isn’t fully recovered among other things. His worry is only heightened when he does hear Astrid chasing down Sir Olric. He’s basically helpless as magic’s being fired like a mass barrage of bullets at each other. Without further delay, the panicked overseer contacts his master Lord Phos. Phos gives him the command to initiate a lockdown of the entire facility.

Alarms ring out much like the death toll of church bells. Umbrol is attempting to escape with Olric’s deteriorating body. The prolonged exposure to his divine magic and years of trauma has finally caught up in the form of the plague. He couldn’t careless for his puppet right now, as he’s running from Astrid. He’s unwittingly accelerating his path to his ultimate demise. On the other side of this chase, Astrid’s blaming himself for triggering this whole mess. He knows he’s responsible for this and laments seeking answers. He doesn’t care anymore about those answers, as he sees his ex-brother slowly succumb to the plague. Echoing a similar sentiment of refusing to be consumed, Astrid refuses to let the disease take another if he can help it.

A vivid clash of flashing visions viciously rouses the twins from their not so peaceful slumber. There’s a lot of yelling back and forth between them as the alarms continue to screech out. Ursalis claims Olric’s going to be drop dead, whilst Karnefur believe it’s Astrid who’s going to cease. They argue a little bit before the elder twin questions the presence of these wretched alarms. Ursalis insists they go and see what’s up. They attempt to open the door, only to discover it’s been locked from the outside. Possibly as a consequence of initiating a total lockdown. Karnefur tries to keep calm before Ursalis bodyslams her way into freedom. Before Karnefur can make sure she’s ok, she barks at him to move it.   

The twins are confronted by a nasty brawl between godling and god. Astrid is blasting powerful volleys as Umbrol blocks them. It escalates to a full on physical assault as one tries to dominate the other. Ursalis is utterly disgusted as the target of her previous affections has become sorely hideous. Whilst Karnefur notices Astrid’s shedding tear as he struggles against this. Biting the bullet, the young distraught man is forced to keep on fighting. Umbrol’s desire repeats over and over, refusing to be eaten- whether it’d be by Astrid or the plague. Severe distress overwhelms this sobbing lad as he’s facing a shell of someone he once knew. He never wanted any of this. He wants to make things right between him and Olric- a mad man he barely knows anymore and who’s tried to kill him. Such details seem to no longer matter when the plague’s concerned....

Plague and it’s characters belong to me, misskazehana 

[misskazehana]

( I am so sorry that this took so long, the pandemic has been rather busy with me working on some stuff at home. I hope you like this, :3 thank you!)

Lord Phos peers through his bedroom window to gaze upon the quiet morning scene. Muna is a ghost town and it’s where his research group resides after the incident six or so months ago. As he dons his garments in preparation for the day, he quietly tries to calm himself. He’s growing restless from all the waiting and mishaps to find a cure for the plague. Upon completing his outfit, he’s inquired by Lady Yancy about his readiness for today’s chat. He gives her the go ahead to retrieve the first two ‘prisoners’ and meet him in his study.

On the flip-side, Ursalis grumpily gets up as the blaring voice of that cantankerous woman demands everyone to ready themselves. Karnefur is making his bed tidy and idly chats with his snobby sister. Their little back and forth doesn’t go far. Mostly squabbling over this situation they find themselves in. 20 minutes pass with little to no developments. Only that Ursalis asserts she’ll take the lead when the questioning starts. She refuses to hear anything from her herbivore sibling as his decisions are what got them here in the first place. She scowls crudely when Lady Yancy bitterly presents herself as their escort to Lord Phos. 

While waiting for everyone else, the masked noble finishes reading up on Sir Vertes’ status report and Nurse Crimsons’ progress. It seems Astrid is still asleep from the long trip. This puts Phos’ anxieties at ease as he inquires of Sir Olrics’ willingness to talk. It doesn’t look too good as that guy refuses to talk and continues to pester Sir Verte relentlessly. The conversation is cut short with the arrival of his dear right hand and her two charges. Yancy forces Karnefur and Ursalis to bow their heads in respect for her lordship. 

This in turn causes Ursalis to bluntly insult the man’s appearance. She makes it clear that she views him as beneath him. That doesn’t sit well with her brother or Yancy, who hisses obscenities at her insolence. Lord Phos slams both of his gloved hands onto the mahogany table and demands silence. Everyone settles down like a bunch of fearful dogs with tails tucked between their legs. Phos makes it clear he isn’t looking for much out of this chat, just information that wasn’t in the report. 

Introductions are quickly taken care of and Ursalis dominates the meeting immediately. Her version of events are vague outside the obvious excuses. Even noting that everything that occurred prior to those events were utterly irrelevant. That alone sparks major suspicion from Lord Phos and Lady Yancy. Also, Karnefur is staring at his mouthy sister in utter disbelief. He then musters up the courage to call her out when she implies he did nothing to save her. It leads to a petty argument between them with the masked lord watching in silence. Understanding that this’ll going to be a bit of a long story. Ursalis reiterates how her imprisonment wouldn’t have ended had not Sir Olric or Astrid come and light a fire under Karnefurs’ butt... 

Plague and it’s characters belong to me, misskazehana