thequeendomhqinspo

[thequeendomhqinspo]

Welcome to Clown Town where I deliver to you something incredibly silly and just for fun. Below are an assortment of personality quizzes that the court jester has compiled and writer's are encouraged to take them in character! It's a fun little way to maybe get to know your character better and have a giggle or two. Please feel free to screenshot or copy and paste your results and post them in the thread provided! Quizzes! Which RPG Class Would You Be? What is Your Alignment? What Fantasy Archetype are You? Which Glee Character are You?

[thequeendomhqinspo]

𝔗𝔥𝔢 ℌ𝔞𝔫𝔡 // “ℭ𝔯𝔢𝔢𝔭”

"But I’m a creep I’m a weirdo What the hell am I doing here? I don’t belong here."

[thequeendomhqinspo]

NORNWATCH LEGIONNAIRES ;

Years of friendship, turmoil, isolation and fighting against an enemy that few believe in anymore. They still live.

The ground walked here is a wonder It ceases never to hunger And all things nature's given She takes all things back from the living

@alucardrakul / @riandur / @vicoya / @haelimthewatcher

[thequeendomhqinspo]

@froyofthe-ironwood

Luna & Froy

They are the children of the Ironwood forest, childhood hours were composed of playing hide and seek in the groves of the forest, building forts out of tree trunks and on tree branches, and making homes for the fairies. Magic called their names even before they learned what existed within, a druid and a werewolf who would protect the creatures within the woods that belonged to their world and to what existed beyond the stars.

[thequeendomhqinspo]

friend·ship

Aristotle declared that "Friendship is a single soul dwelling in two bodies." It is the most unselfish of all loves, for it seeks only the happiness and good of the other. Describe your muse's friendships! It can be done through simple bullet pointed notes on what your muse values in a friend, it can be a drabble of a memory, a moodboard, a playlist, or an edit. Feel free to get creative, tag team something with another writer, write up an entire Craigslist ad on what your muse is seeking in an BFF, it's just gotta center around friendship! This task is more of an exercise to get you to dig a bit deeper into your muse and their relationships and there's no deadline for writer's to complete it! Potential Prompts How did your muse and their closest friends meet? What hobbies do your muse and their friends share? What is something your muse values the most in a friend? Has your muse lost touch with a friend? How come? Would they like to reconcile?

[thequeendomhqinspo]

Queendom Text Posts + 2 / ?

@casimirnoctis @sakkarathekeeper @suyinskiss @vuldak-juneau @hiddenvaldis @elokian

[thequeendomhqinspo]

Queendom Text Posts 1 / ?

@alucardrakul @ormir @emissaradia @ikarosx @heroic-ignus @lunadarkwoodx

[thequeendomhqinspo]

Character Appearance Meme:

A faceclaim only goes so far, and even then sometimes their accuracy next to the vision in your head is only so-so. Send a symbol for a clearer picture!

☼ How does your character usually dress in daily life?

♔ How does your character usually dress for a fancy event?

✍ How does your character usually dress when going to work/school?

✂ How does your character usually style their hair?

♔ What (if any) jewelry does your character usually wear?

∇ What (if any) make-up does your character usually wear in daily life?

▼ What (if any) make-up does your character usually wear for fancy events?

👠 What kind of shoes does your character usually wear in daily life?

👓 What kind of mobility or assistive devices (if any) does your character use in daily life? (Glasses, canes, hearing aides, wheelchairs, etc.)

✗ What (if any) scars does your character have?

♠ What (if any) tattoos does your character have?

☾ What (if any) birthmarks does your character have?

Ұ How tall is your character compared to their peers?

■ How thin/heavy is your character compared to their peers?

[thequeendomhqinspo]

II Minor Details About The Muse– Ask Meme

How does your muse answer their phone? Do they get nervous or panic if they hear it ring? Do they answer it immediately or let it ring out? How do they greet the person on the other end?

How do they wake up in the morning? Do they jump out of bed immediately after they hear their alarm go off? Do they turn their alarm off and stay in bed a little longer? How long does it take for them to actually feel awake?

If they’re walking and they pass by a stranger who makes eye contact how do they react? Do they nod their head? Smile? Do they quickly avert their gaze?

What’s their posture like when they walk? Are they a slow, fast, or moderate walker?

If they hear a song they like what do they do? Do they tap their foot? Quietly dance? Nod their head? Etc.

Are they the type of person to hum to themselves when they are alone?

How do they react if somebody puts a plate of their favourite food in front of them? Do they gobble it up immediately? Savor it? Do that little wiggle/dance some people do when they are served their favourite food?

Are they the type to vocally go ‘Mmm’ when they eat?

If their phone/computer announces that they need to update their software, does your muse get right on it or do they procrastinate the update for as long as possible?

When they go out for a walk, are they the type of person to look up at the sky to check the clouds or the stars?

Is your muse a ‘Hey! Look at the moon!’ type of person?

Do they know how to whistle? If so, what type of whistle do they make? A loud one? A soft and airy one? Do they inhale or exhale to whistle?

If it’s a hot day, how do they keep themselves cool?

If it’s a cold day, how do they keep themselves warm?

If a group of strangers happens to pass their way and your muse hears them laughing amongst themselves, if your muse the type of person to instantly think those strangers are laughing at them or does your muse ignore it and rationalize with themself that those strangers are probably not laughing at you but something else?

Are they a fast or slow talker? Do they tend to stutter? Are their words clear and crisp when they speak?

When they tell a story, do they tell a story in a straightforward sort of way or does the story end up getting derailed with other, minute details?

Which of their five senses are the strongest? For example, are they usually the first person to smell something rotten? Are they the first person to see something across the street? Etc.

Do they panic when the cashier moves onto the next person behind them in the queue and your muse is still busy putting their change away?

What sort of unnecessary noises do they make?

What little superstitions do they carry out?

How do they hug?

What is their body language like when they talk to somebody? Are they the type of person to stand close to the other? Do they keep eye contact? Are they the type to touch the other on the shoulder or arm?

How do they react when they see something cute, like a cute animal or something?

Are they comfortable cursing? Do they do it under their breath or outloud?

Do they often fuss with their hair? Clothes? Makeup?

How long can they hold their breath?

Do they listen to music when they’re in a car or when they take the bus/train/etc? If so, are they the type of person to imagine themselves in some sort of music video or trailer as they listen to their music? Do they choose songs that match their mood that day?

Can your muse sleep if they know their room is untidy?

How do they talk to small kids? Is their tone demeaning? Do they go down to their level? Do they feel at ease?

Do they bite their ice cream or lick? Do they eat the ice cream from the top or bite the underside of the cone?

Are they good at telling jokes? Do they end up laughing before the punchline?

Is it easy for them to get engrossed in a book? Do they end up getting distracted by other things?

What do they do with freshly laundered clothes? Are they the type of person to press their face against them? Do they immediately fold them and keep them in a drawer? Do they leave them in a pile or in a basket and fold them little by little? Do they stuff them messily into a drawer or closet?

[thequeendomhqinspo]

Music Monday

This week's prompt has to do with all things mus(e)ical! It's also one prompt that is few prompts. Pick as many as you want based on your preference to either do a graphic, write a thing, or just make a playlist!

- Pick a muse & pick three songs that you think describe them & tell us why. - Create an album cover for your muse. - Pick a stage of your character's life and create a playlist of 6 songs that remind you of/relate to that period.

[thequeendomhqinspo]

the fallen heir.

[thequeendomhqinspo]

monday moodboard: Kell Curran

picture a man seen like a speck out from this shore swimming out beyond the breakers like he's done his life before he feels a coming of the squall will drag him out a greater length but knows his strength, and tries to gather it

[thequeendomhqinspo]

[thequeendomhqinspo]

Moodboard Monday

A mood board is a type of visual presentation or “collage” that combines images, text, and samples of objects in a composition. It can be based on a specific topic or created from materials chosen at random.

Create a moodboard of your character that offers a little more insight into the character. It can be gifs in a grid that represent your character's personality, it can be something showing off their aesthetic, there's really no limit to your creativity. For those that don't have photoshop, canva allows you to just choose grids or templates and pop photos right in and you can always just take images and arrange them right on tumblr. When it comes to coloring, you can slide any image into photopea with your desired psd. This is just for fun while everyone settles into summer and is not mandatory.

Aesthetic Gifs Moodboard Gifs

Moodboard Gifs 2

Moodboard Gifs 3

Moodboard Gifs 4 Collage Templates I know it's a payhip but it's free

Ripped Grid

Fancy Grid

Bigger Grid PNG Packs

Cute shapes and such

[thequeendomhqinspo]

ᛗᛟᚢᚾᛏᚨᛁᚾ ᚺᛟᛗᛖ

The frigid cold greeted her like an old friend, the embrace of a freedom well earned. Blood dripped from her hand, from the very fingers that had torn her eye from its socket. The snow beneath her feet sprinkled with the crimson liquid as she stood seemingly frozen in place, a blanket of uncertainty the only thing keeping her warm. Where had they come out into? Where would they go next; how would they get back – the questions seemed endless within her mind. Not yet broken nor shattered from the ordeals that she, along with each of the other women, had endured.

Mother was beautiful, wasn’t she?

You forgot your name, your past, and your ambitions for the future.

The reminder of a day seemingly long ago pressed upon the edges of her mind. ‘They will resist. You will always resist.’ More words, more reminders of what had transpired shifted through her mind. They rested upon the edges, within the groves, embedded within her as the burned warning that this was not yet finished. That something else came for them, breathing upon their necks at every step they took. A shadow that they would never be able to shake, no matter the light that shone upon them.

In the depths of your mind, an image sparked. Of a man who bore the same eyes as you. The same hardened lines as if your features had been carved from the very stone that was mined within Iskaldrik. Yet, no longer were his eyes cloudy. No longer did his skin sag. No longer did the sickness, the madness, grip him as it had done the last you had seen each other. The man appeared stronger, more able bodied as if the sickness no longer clung to him. Every bit of him screamed of admiration, but who was he? Why did he appear in your mind’s eye?

‘Bring him to me.’

The words echoed in your mind, as your hands worked diligently to bring your kin into this world. Despite the agonizing repetition that greeted you each day, the very idea that you could be the one to bring this unknown man, this Mad King, to your lord revitalized you. Spurred on your movements, your actions as you brought kin after kin into the world. As you culled the weak, as you fed the scraps to the beasts that crawled at your feet. How pathetic.

A hand pressed firmly to the temple that throbbed just above the eye that was not her, yet embedded itself within its socket as if it had always belonged. Memories of the broodmother, of the vile creatures that she had welcomed into this world as if they were her own swam within her mind. Yet beneath it all, the grotesque images of what she had left behind, was the knowledge of her father. Of the reminder that she had wanted, no — craved the very opportunity to drag him to the Dark One. To offer him upon a silver platter for the Lord to do as he pleased, to strike the Mad King down, or to consume him, if he so wished. Her body shook with the reminder, with a chill that etched its way down her spine that had nothing to do with the frigid air that licked upon her.

It wasn’t the knowledge that she had conjured up these feelings that irked her. It was the familiarity of them that set her blood to ice.

Would you someday be a Mother to a nation? The thought had slipped through the cracks, pushed its way through that ever persistent need to find the Mad King, to deliver him to your Lord. It scratched at a memory, at a feeling that dwelled deep within you. You were not made for this life, you were not some creature that would one day birth your own brood in the depths of these caverns. You were a weapon. You were a force to be reckoned with. With a tongue like a sword, and a mind like a shield, you were above all of this.

You were Princess Aytaç Gökhan, an Iskaran shieldmaiden, and you would not die in this place.

Once more her eyes focused, upon the mountains that stood tall around them. Of the crumbled cavern that they had only narrowly escaped from. Her hand slipped from its place against her temple, to where the burning sensation had erupted against her chest. What would she find upon her skin? How far had it burned itself into her? But more importantly, what had it meant for her?

“Only that they went into the land so that their children could always hold them, that his bloodline lives on.”

Hrimthur’s heirs; the archfey had spoken of them.

“Longer still since one of Hrimthur’s heirs has graced my presence.”

Those words had been spoken while the archfey had focused her gaze upon her, before Aytaç had requested further information. A better understanding of why this had seemingly been directed at her. She had known of Hrimthur, through various teachings and planning sessions, though it had all been upon surface level. She knew of Hrimthur’s Wasteland, the very same that the party now stood within; she knew of Hrimthur’s Outpost, which stood somewhere to the southwest of them. But what did she know of Hrimthur, or these supposed heirs that connected her?

The questions spiraled within her head, offering no answers to her. Each question spurred on another question, which brought forth another, and another, and another. Perhaps if she found Afshin, Ormir, her father — perhaps they would know something that she did not. Some clue that would lead her to answers that she seemed so desperate to find for herself now. But what would she tell them? What would she offer them of all that she had learned? Would she be forthcoming, or would she be selfish once reunited?

Her gaze shifted, from the towering mountain, to the first of the women that she had fought alongside. To the witch, whose spells had been unmistakeable; to the elvhen, who had nearly killed them all, but had granted the princess chances to continue her fight; to the werewolf, who had saved them from the song that surely would have continued to hold them under; to the witcher, who had dealt the savage blow to the monstrous creature. And finally, to the familiar shieldmaiden, who had not left her side. Who had promised that if any of them were to make it out, it would surely be Aytaç; and who had received a promise in return, that the princess would ensure they both made it out alive.

Perhaps Freydis had been right, and maybe these women who held magic within them would be pardoned. And just maybe, Aytaç would find it in her to keep such knowledge a secret.

If they were to make it back to the refugees.

[thequeendomhqinspo]

You will tell them your name is Freydis. This way, regardless of if they wish to sell you short or show you disrespect, they will have to address you with the honor you are due to garner your attention. If they wish to ridicule you, they must cut off their own noses just to spite their face. 

Freydis: from the Norse god Froya’s name and dis (meaning goddess). Noblewoman.

The words of her father played through her head as her tired eyes watched the flames of the fire lick the night sky not far enough yet from the mouth of the cave she and her peers had barely escaped their lives with. Freydis felt foolish as she considered just what she had done. Freely, she had told a fairy her name–or rather her noble title and her name. Both of her names. 

Tove: peaceful, beautiful Thor; God is good.

What would her father say of this, the man who had painstakingly taught her fables and folklore, who had taught her how to spot a fae and more importantly why never to trust one? Perhaps if she had simply said Tove, it would have spared her. Or, maybe Freydis was the false moniker. It was impossible to tell at times, which name meant more. Both had been given to her by her father, both in their appropriate time and space. At birth, simple but aspirational Tove–a name she lived up to in the most unpredictable of ways, a combination of the beauty of violence and the sudden unpredictable wrath of the gods, unassuming until provoked. It felt like lifetimes since she had walked the world as that simple miller’s daughter, as Tove. And then Freydis, a name so great it was never spoken within the bounds of their humble hamlet overlooking the looming mill and vast expanse of golden wheat before they moved into the great house meant for the jarl.

When word came that the king himself had sent for her to be delivered to appear in front of high royal highness, her father had held her face between her hands, cheeks still rounded with youth and head heavy under the weight of her own self doubt. He had peered at her seeing past those strange eyes of hers, in one light brown like the earth they worked and in another green as spring could bloom, and told her: “You will tell them your name is Freydis. This way, regardless of if they wish to sell you short or show you disrespect, they will have to address you with the honor you are due to garner your attention. If they wish to ridicule you, they must cut off their own noses just to spite their face.”

Freydis’ father would remind her of this from time to time, when the pressures mountained and her confidence waned. It was hard to be the first of her kind, to know her every move and expression existed under the lens of such extreme scrutiny, but only if she managed to walk off the battleground long enough to be left to govern, to decide on anything in the first place. They were brutalizing years that somehow both cracked her open and hardened her all at once. To become was painful, but to be begot by violence that revolted her senses yet invigorated her soma was a sort of metanoia in her formative years. Tove became less of a name and more of a sound that felt like home; a kind of prayer between she and those who held the truth of her at their core rather than the aggrandized icon of a female jarl she became. 

This was not the only prayer observed within their home. Fearsome as she was when challenged, the longevity of a highly objectionable jarl was a less than positive prospect. Each fight took from Tove and gave to Freydis, and she felt the fissure daily. No one recognized her fear of losing one entirely so keenly as her father, who was every ounce as realistic that the most highly likely relief from the burdens of a jarl’s work, of his daughter’s work, was a barbarous death at the hands of another. Tove, so gentle until pushed, would not survive many. Freydis would need to survive them all.  

And so, with each private gathering of their family before the spectacle of yet another holmgang, he would hold her face in his hands and remind her of who she was now–and that to live as Freydis was an honorable thing, but so too was to die as Tove. Both were one, and either was enough. He would hold her face in his hands, easily leveraging the weight of her self-doubt and fears as only a father can, and sing a song from the playwrights version of his favorite fable.

Inexplicably, and with no introduction, Freydis parted her lips after some hours of silence, and sang those same familiar words to her companions. The song was a sendoff of sorts, a ballad of hopes and fears and things left unsaid–but it had always felt lucky to her when she heard it in her father’s voice. 

I have a wife, I haven't seen Since lilacs bloomed in St. Hippolyte She always wears them, in her hair She lets them fall down everywhere

I can see her in the glowing light Dressing without a sound I promised I'd be home alright But I gotta lay this body down

So take this letter to my wife And tell her that I loved my life And tell my boys, the One God, He found me When I say their names out loud, they're all around me

And tell them not to cry at all Heaven, is wherever I fall

I have a girl, I think I love her I should've told her, instead I told her mother I gave her chocolates, I bought a ring But I never told her anything

But I can see her in every detail now Turning in my mind I barely knew that girl at all But I will love her 'til the end of time

So take this letter to my girl Tell her that I saw the whole world Say that right before I fell I said her name out loud, 'Isabelle'

Tell her not to cry at all Heaven is wherever I fall

I have a father, he isn't well Thinks he might be going to Hell He was a sinner, he liked to fight So I don't know, he might be right

I can see him every Sunday morning Diving into the fray He wasn't one of the best men But I loved him anyway

So take this letter to him, please And tell him I can't wait to see him I went in first, I rang the bell I called his name out loud and I gave them Hell

So tell him not to cry at all Heaven is wherever I fall

Tell 'em not to cry at all Heaven, is wherever I fall Tell 'em not to cry at all Heaven, is wherever I fall

Freydis was quiet when she finished her song, peering out at the great expanse of a world she never thought she would explore under any circumstances let alone those as hopeless as the ones she found herself in. The edges of her fingertips traced over the top of the red handprint on her heart–a sigil of bravery from a once-forgotten king. She felt unworthy to carry such a symbol, but her bottle lip quivered at the threat of tears of gratitude to know and understand she had been deemed worthy by that warrior of lore to so much as stand in his shadow. 

Exhausted mentally, physically, and emotionally, she pondered the horrors of the past days. One more holmgang–that was all the fight with Munin had been, just one drop in the bucket of the onslaught, the never ending war of living another day in limbo between the next battle, the next challenge. Tove, she was certain, whether in the form of her fae-shadow slain at he hands of the princess or just a long-silent past reflection of who she once was lingering the back of her mind, had died in that cave. The prayer of the name lost all of its power, no longer uplifting or grounding, but acrid and bitter in her mouth and her mind the second she had spoken it to the fae. And Tove would survive no impending wars.

Freydis, however, could. She lifted her eyes to the tapestry of stars still glittered above her. In several hours’ time the sun would hang high in a wide, open sky she had sorely missed; and until she was bested in a contest of might, Freydis, too, would rise.

[thequeendomhqinspo]

PART ONE :: RUN 

Witcher. Poison beat through your veins like others had blood. The taint took time to grip you: more than anyone else but even you could not resist Mother’s song for long. She worked her way into your heart through your pox-marked skin and for the first time since your Gaze had been broken, you felt the sort of love that you thought was lost to you. Beautiful and sweet, you were happy to serve Mother, and happy to play the part of nurse at her side. Her gaze was beady and dark, but you matched it with unequivocal devotion. 

A werewolf, broken from Mother’s song, tore apart that beautiful bond - and your first response was to shriek as your Mother’s writhing, tentacular frame, fell into a dead heap. You stood at the side of the Princess, for your next reaction was unabashed rage. You could feel it now, dark though it was, magic permeated the lair and flowed through the veins of the volatile, raw Aetherite. Your weapons were gone, so you felled the first beast that attacked and wrenched their twisted blade from their dead limbs to use it as your own. Arros, witcher, set your gaze upon your escape, it's time to leave this place. TLDR; arros bonk a couple guys

The werewolf's maw tore through the Broodmother's flesh as if its teeth were sharpened blades slicing through soft butter. It happened in a matter of seconds,  before you could react, the Darkspawn descended upon the other captured women.You were frozen,  standing  in a daze like your mind was trying to come out of some sort of fog. 

What in the Hells just happened? Your hand, shaking as it clutched at your chest, the ache - it felt as though your heart was just ripped from your chest. Hands moved on their own looking for an opening, a tear, anything to prove that, that was exactly what had happened. When did you start to cry? Amid the cacophony of Darkspawn shrieks, you realized that you, too, were screaming.

Red hot pain pierced through your body where a darkspawns makeshift ax grazed your stomach - had you taken just a couple more seconds to come back to reality you would’ve been sliced in half. “You son of a bitch.” speaking felt as though you’ve been swallowing gravel, it felt unused and unfamiliar, but a new sort of anger awoke with your consciousness.

What claimed you then cannot wholly be a form of mania - because you were starkly aware of every one of your movements. Ripping the weapon from the beast's hands in a swift well trained movement; all the screaming and the wails that filled the cavern merely fuelled this anger. Your body moved slower than you were used to - being stuck in a trance for however many days - working yourself to the bone for these monsters took a toll on you. Enough so that she had miscalculated a step and was struck by one of the grotesque darkspawn. 

Red hot pain pierced through your body from where the wound was inflicted. Crying out in agony you kicked and pushed and used the rest of the will to stay alive that you had left to get the beast off of you. Its mouth was dripping with scarlet, your freshly drawn blood staining its chin while droplets fell, leaving an inky trail wherever it moved.

“You’re dead” You pulled your hand away, your palm coated in blood. It felt wet and hot.  You didn’t expect the sight of it to drive a new life through you. Reaching down, eyes never leaving the figure of the beast that now lifted its maw for another swipe, you grabbed a discarded weapon from a creature you previously slayed. 

You descend without mercy, hurtling forward, blade at the ready, driving it deep into the hollow beneath the beast’s jaw and wrenching up In a stuttering motion as rusted blade got stuck by flesh and bone, you watch its face split, tearing its final shrieks apart. And then all is silent, save for your gasping breaths and the blood in your ears, ringing and pounding.  Blood covered your hands and arms over the front of your chest, and you could feel some wetness that sprayed over your face.

But it was dead, and you were alive. Evident so with your heart still pounding under your chest and ragged breaths escaping your lips.Only once it was dead did you remember the others, remember the werewolf who awoke you from this hell.

Whipping your head around you spotted them - each of them fighting for their lives. The werewolf tearing apart the dark spawn while the others took part in their own battles. And you, left by the wayside to watch, horrified and bleeding from so many wounds you don't remember sustaining.  A nightmare, all of it, an inescapable reality as you tried to do just that. Escape. Impossible, you knew, but you’d be damned if you didn’t at least try.

Your own arms flare with bright, biting heat with each hack through darkspawn, being guided by the other makeshift troupe of maidens further down into the caverns and deeper into unknown and dangerous territory.