thebestestbat

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mouthwashing just downloaded on my computer no problem! look at me i am a king of storage space and i have dragon age origins, dragon age ii, and mouthwashing all at the same time. i will have to start playing video games other than dragon age at this rate

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“this character should kill their abuser” i agree. unfortunately they wouldn’t do that.

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This might be her magnum opus and she wrote where are you going, where have you been?

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Drawing my catboy as images that bring me pleasure Monday

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gamer boyfriend yells GODDAMNIT! from the other room and throws his headset and you walk in all what's wrong babe :( and he's playing a story-driven indie game

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fenris

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does anyone know if we have fun tomorrow?

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TWIN PEAKS | 2.07

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its here (pre-orders only)

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t-shirt that says ‘I’D RATHER BE DEBASING A CHASTE AND VIRTUOUS KNIGHT RIGHT NOW.’

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Really the kicker about discussing colonialism intrinsic to certain fictional tropes/archetypes/genres/what-have-you is that white bitches et al get SO mad about it. "Ohh so I'm not allowed to play farming sims? Wearing a silly hat makes me a fascist now?" I was just exercising critical thought but yknow what? Just for you? Yeah it does

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LOGHAIN GIVES AWAY A SECRET! UH OH !

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Loghain was not a good man. He grew up a poacher then a rebel, coveted both the king and queen of Ferelden in his youth, then dallied with men while neglecting his own lady wife. He commanded armies and took the responsibility of each dead man and woman, human or elf. He had never suffered the illusion that he was a good man. 

He worked instead to be an honorable man. He never disgraced his wife publicly by flaunting his liaisons, he truly adored his daughter, and he fought to defend his king and Ferelden. 

This illusion lasted a long while. It lasted until Maric disappeared. It lasted, even, until his own daughter stood against him in front of the Landsmeet. On his knees in front of the elf Gray Warden, he looked steady at his death, and behind her shoulder at the Warden Alistair and thought, Maric, my friend, your son is dead without an heir. It all crumbled away like sand.

There was no honor in the son of a farmer fighting to steer the destiny of a kingdom; there was winning or losing, and he had lost. The fight now was between Ferelden and the darkspawn. So he lived as the Warden Commander’s soldier, as long as he could still fight. Honor played no part in his ability to hold a sword, just as goodness did not. 

So he crushed the boy Alistair against a tapestry in an unused room in Denerim’s palace, as he had done to others over the years when away from Gwaren. 

Alistair had sought Loghain out in order to argue.

“Tomorrow you’ll leave and I’ll never see you again. You’ll fall to darkspawn, in a day or thirty years, it doesn’t matter to me.” 

“Perhaps I’ll meet you on the Deep Roads,” Loghain said, though he doubted too that he would outlive this Blight. He had no patience at all for this stupid, weak boy who would marry his daughter and sit the throne. 

“Doesn’t matter to me. But you owe me before you get out of my sight.” Alistair squared his shoulders as if bracing himself for a blow. “Tell me about my father.”

Loghain laughed. “Is that what you want from me? There are plenty of people to tell you the tales. You don’t need me for this.”

Alistair shook his head. Stubborn boy. “You knew him. You were his friend.”

“He was my king.”

“You killed the king, and Duncan, and you tried to kill me. Twice!” Alistair’s hands were fists. “You owe me.”

Loghain thought of Maric. It was impossible not to. Maric’s anger when he was younger was quick to come and he could never hide it or wait, but only let it out like he did all his feelings, when and where he felt them. His forgiveness had come just as easily. 

He cataloged the things unfamiliar to him about this boy. The armor. The goatee. The slight point to his ear-tips, illuminated in the moonlight for one who knew to look. His dark eyes, also from his mother. The barely-concealed hatred in them, focused on Loghain. 

The differences were what allowed Loghain to do with this boy what he had never been compelled to---or, if he was honest---allowed himself to do with Maric: he shut the boy up. 

A hand on the back of his neck was all that it took. Alistair was slightly taller than Loghain, as Maric had been. Loghain pulled him down to look into his face. “There is no use in this line of questioning. Maric is dead, you did not know him, and I will not speak of him to you.” 

Alistair’s eyes widened. They were his mother’s eyes, that foreign elf’s, but for a moment they looked just like Maric’s and Loghain’s stomach twisted as he expected them to fill with tears. Instead Alistair shoved Loghain’s hand off his neck and glared. 

He looked so young. He looked so familiar. 

Loghain turned away first. “You could ask Arl Eamon. Surely now that you will be king, he will part with a story or two.”

Alistair snorted and muttered, almost to himself, “Eamon still sees me as an eleven year old throwing a tantrum in the Chantry. He only spoke to me about my mother.” 

“He hardly ever knew the elf,” Loghan said. “I doubt he had much to tell.”

Behind him it was suddenly very silent. More so than he had ever known this boy to be. Maric had only learned silence after Rowan’s death.

Loghain put his hand to his eyes, where he’d had a sharp headache ever since the Joining. “Ah. The farce about the servant girl. You didn’t know?” 

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oh thats. that's fluff. that's fluff of my favorite gore character.

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i think in palisade broun should get either a well meaning romantic interest that they continuously spurn bc of their Unprocessed feelings towards valence OR they should have a full on shitty rebound partner . whos with me

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another fairypost

i don't usually think about tiny fae but imagine a tiny one that is bound in nettle branches threaded through with strands of iron that burn its skin where it touches. it's gagged on a cottonball or whatever scraps you can find in your apartment, its not like you had time to properly prepare past the bindings. you were very strict about the bindings.

when you clench it in your fist you only see its neck and head sticking out and some of its feet. it's making little muffled noises but you can hardly hear them through the gag so it's kind of like it's not saying anything at all.

you have to put it in a little mesh cage when you're away, that was hard to find because a lot of the small animal cages have bars it could slip through. the iron gives it a sickly pallor.

maybe one day you come home a little drunk or stoned and you see it huddled in the corner and you want to be nice so you take it out to play. you wanna paint or something, maybe it does too!! so you get a thimble and fill it up with red acrylic paint and take the fairy out of its cage and tell it to fingerpaint, isn't that fun, but it just kind of stands there shaking.

yeah, the thimble comes up past its knees but- oh. ooooh. in fairy stories they don't really make the art, do they? there's the leanan sidhe, who gives artists inspiration...and they steal musicians and painters all the time...so maybe it CAN'T paint? ugh, surely it can do SOMEthing, even something shitty? like a neolithic cave painting or something else. come on.

you urge it to at least try, you give it a little primer on symbols and representation, see, this stick figure can be a person, here's the head, etc, i bet you can do something as simple as that, right? but it doesn't get any closer to the paint so you decide to help it. you grab its arm between two fingers and pull it to the thimble, the fairy's body jolting to follow.

"fing-er-paint," you enunciate, and take one of its fingers to emphasize. it's hard to get ahold of something this small, you basically have to pinch it between your nails. it's not quiiiite down to the thimble yet, so you pull-

oops. there's a popping noise and the fairy groans around its gag. the finger's so small it's just kind of...come off in your hand? and red blood is leaking down to mix with the red paint.

okay. ugh. it's not like it's LIFE THREATENING for it, they grow back that stuff like...lizard tails. it's trying to sit down. okay, it doesn't look like it's going to pass out or anything. and it's closer to the scrap of paper that spreads out like a bare rug underneath it.

well, it's a good thing you chose red paint because who could tell the difference. you can compromise-maybe it can paint something with the red coming out of its hand. go on, you urge it, really anything will do. it's therapeutic. it'll make you feel better. but the fairy just clutches its bleeding hand and rocks back and forth, curling up on itself.

you wait a bit longer. but your patience, never robust to begin with, is wearing thin, and you have pepperoni rolls in the freezer calling your name. come on, you say, once more, and when it STILL doesn't move you scoop it up and put it back in the cage.

bad fairy, you whisper to it as you lock the door. no moonbeams for you. or whatever the fuck you all eat. no dewdrops or spider tears or aphids or dust motes. it can't even die of starvation so it's not rrrreally a punishment....just an inconvenience.

you put a towel over the cage and, since it's been bad, you store it up in a high corner shelf of your closet. you're already thinking about your snack (there's leftover garlic knots in the fridge too, you can bake them crispy again and have some herbal tea since it's so late) and maybe you forget about it up there for a little bit since you're slammed at work and have to help your grandma get to some doctors appointments the day after and then an ex-coworker has invited you to a birthday party....

maybe next week you hear a few little thumps when you're showering and remember all at once it's in your closet, a wash of guilt for having not checked on it followed by relief at the indication it's still alive...but of course it's still alive so there's no need to feel guilty, they can't really die the way humans can, kind of arrogant really, that you could die and be put in the ground for years and years and all the while the fairy could stay subsisting on dreams curled in the fetal position in its little cage...

well. you'll just have to take it out again soon. show it the truly inspiring things humans can get up to.

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lol i tricked you i actually have no soul or interiority. my actions are merely a hollow imitation of a complete being. and you totally fell for it too