#shards andra

[viaphni]

WAIT!!!!!!!!!! They dont love you like i love you ...

[scvcnofswords]

i'm too tired to write up her proper bio and i haven't made her in ve ilgu ard's CC yet anyways but- Orlesian Grey Warden (Awakening) Brierley Andras is now here on the blog. I'd like to try and focus on her a little bit for a few days just to properly settle into her voice? [ her and regin, mostly, really- they're the two 'loudest' muses right now. ]

i'm also working on two major metas- one on the parallels of elvhen culture and the tuatha de danaan/celtic mythos and the importance of rebellion in thedosian narrative through those myths, and another on how honestly b iowa re leaning so hard into centrism and maintaining the status quo betrayed that/my issues with the veil/binding solas to it (as well as my own character's perspectives on that, bc that's a major thing) and i'm hoping to have at least one of them actually DONE before the weeked (lol, sure, self. sure. not like you're not even at the second settlers and you're 8 pages in to the first one and only a paragraph into the second! fml)

anyways, some quick info about brier under the cut so that if anyone would like to write with her before her bio is properly posted, they have some info to go off of!

BRIERLEY ANDRAS is sent to Ferelden as part of the Orlesian contingent of Wardens in 9:32 Dragon, one year after the Blight, to support the Hero of Ferelden as they establish Vigil's Keep as a base for Wardens, having been made Arlessa (i default to Litriu being HOF, but if you would like a HOF muse to interact with Brierley, they can be the arl/arlessa obviously). She is 25 years old and has been a Warden since she was 22.

[ trigger warning, abuse implications, character death, tranquility, implied abuse of power ]

Brierley was a city elf born in a northern province of Orlais, and sent to the White Spire when she was 9 years old- alongside her twin sister Ismay. She was a good study and deferential to the templars - in truth, rattled by them. Quiet as a mouse, in truth- Ismay was the bolder of the pair, rebellious and vivacious- but the pair were allowed, at least, to stay together rather than being separated.

Still, things were harsh at times, and there will always be contention between templars and their charges, and Ismay's rebellious nature often drew unwanted attention to both siblings. The night before their Harrowing, at age 17, the things they endured seemed to push Ismay off of a breaking point- and she attempted to kill Brierley, claiming it was 'to spare them both' from what was to come. She was hauled off of Brierley, having cut into her neck with a shard of glass [ not deep enough to kill outright] - seemingly stunned that Brier had actually fought back. Ismay then declared 'you've killed us both, then.' and impaled herself onto one of the templar's swords.

It was discussed, while Brierley was in recovery, to invoke the rite of Tranquility, in case she would prove to have the same temperament as her sister. This was very nearly carried out, stopped at the last minute by the knight-commander, as it had been his second who pushed for and moved forward with this course of action.

Brierley passed her Harrowing, withdrawing somewhat more- but her skill with enchantment and her dedication to learning ended with her serving for a time at the Orlesian court. Perhaps shockingly, here, Brier bloomed- growing confident and cunning, even playful, to a degree that many who had known her when she'd been a child didn't recognize her. She became an adept player of the Game- and was familiar with Madame de Fer, the empress' arcane advisor during her time in the Empress' court and palaces.

When she was 22, a visiting Warden ended up conscripting her when she alerted him to poison in his drink- and from then on, she was a Warden, surviving her Joining. If she'd bloomed in court, she truly blossomed with the Wardens- traveling, protecting people, forming tight bonds with the Wardens around her.

After the Fifth Blight, Brierley is the only survivor from the assault on Vigil's Keep from the intelligent darkspawn. She serves as a battlemage/force mage, and a resource for matters of politics and Warden history, traditions, and tactics.

At the end of Awakening, she remains in Vigil's Keep until recalled by the First Warden to Weisshaupt in 9:35 Dragon.

During Inquisition, Brierley Andras is one of the Orlesian Wardens in Adamant- but she can be found in the dungeons of the fortress as the Inquisitor traverses the keep and sieges it. She's been beaten and imprisoned for attempting to kill Clarel for what she's done- for she is also a blood mage, and was able to protect her mind from the control and influence of Erimond and Clarel. She is too wounded to aid during the siege, but will volunteer herself to the Inquisition's services- particularly since there's an alleged-Archdemon in Corypheus' pocket, and a Warden is needed. She WOULD immediately out Blackwall as an impostor if she is in his presence- as there's no Blight in his blood to be sensed. Whether or not she tells the Inquisitor before he does will depend on him and any conversations he may have her.

Brierley's Blight is cured before the events of Veilguard when Litriu Mahariel finds the cure to it in the Wilds of Antiva- she has since settled in Ferelden and helps to fight against the gods and protect who she can during the events of the game but could be optionally recruited, as a blood mage and battle mage with war experience, to aid Rook.

[daily-rcp-poli]

Andras raised an eyebrow of interest to the story of ice, watching shards destroy themselves back into snow. Snow that could hide crimes.

Hiro was an odd one. Calm and soft-spoken while speaking of clearly wrong doings of his own, that face cold as this dream. But even through insanity that they shared, he still tried to help.

I.. Well..

Andras stumbled over his own words. Something he wasn't used to. What was he supposed to do? Flip a page to a better future, or tear it and write a worser one?

You can watch over me.. But like I said; I'll truly see for myself. Your sense of justice is twisted.. But you look like you had your reasons.

I'm as terrible, so why not bother and suck me out of this dream? You despise people who control their power. That's me.

This dream was cold, cold as ice. It even seemed much colder than ice. You can compare it to the Arctic, but this place was colder than the Arctic. It was lonely, until a certain time...

"Wow, what an "icy" welcome. You clearly put some effort into it." Suddenly, a silhouette with a male voice approached you: his skin was pure white, like an albino. Rather, the color resembled pure snow. Gray hair, the right eye, no, the right half of the face and neck were covered by bangs, and the rest of the hair was long, except for the left front part. But surprisingly, the clothes were dark shades of blue and red. A brown cloak, like superheroes from children's cartoons or books, on the right hand a bright red glove. The shoes were even above the knees, surprisingly dark gray and light red-pink fasteners on the shoes. There was a smile on his face, and the left eye was temporarily closed. The height was surprisingly not small (It reached Roy's elbow, maybe even a little higher than the elbow, but not Roy's full height.)

"You surprise me....Under such conditions, and at such an age, to hold on to your strength in such cold....you are not afraid of the cold to such an extent that you are ready to freeze to death, right? I mean, no one can live long in such cold, can they?"

After these words, the silhouette opened its left eye: a gray iris, slightly darker than the hair and a black four-pointed star as a pupil, in the iris itself there was no hint of shine, but there was no darkening either. The silhouette's eye was open as if it was mocking you, although the smile did not show it. It was like a smile of curiosity, but the eye did not show curiosity. They began to wait for your answer.

(If anything, note this account: @annrps It will be me, just on a different account.)

A cold cell he laid in, months after his arrest. Not one of a comfortable one in the matter of facts, a retired teacher laid in a scruffy bed. Dreams were not easy to catch on, as his rest was rather limited.

But, alas, the blackhole finds himself in an place like the arctic, freezing against his skin. Andras huffs out an air of frost, crossing his arms for warmth.

The hell..?

[boooklover]

“Fanatics were all alike, cut from the same cloth and dyed different colors.”

Andra Stewart, The Bone Shard Daughter

[georgescatcafe]

the rising chariot — 1

rating: t  warning/s: none pairing/s: platonic dream team, karl jacobs/sapnap genres/tags: percy jackson and the olympian au, friendship, angst summary: Nick Pappas isn’t sure it’s normal for teenagers to be sent across the United States on a quest that could potentially kill them, but Nick has started to realize that everything he thought was normal is entirely false. George Davies doesn’t particularly want to spend three consecutive days with this new camper and that son of Hermes who snagged his win in Capture the Flag two weeks ago, but he knows he has to suck it up and go with them, no matter how irritating they may be. Clay Bryce just wants to prove himself and show that he’s more than that troublesome kid from Cabin Eleven, but even as the leader of this quest, he’s not sure how to when Nick has fire powers and George is practically capable of mind-control.

Yet what they feel and want will mean nothing if they don’t complete their quest. When a petty feud between gods has Apollo threatening to take the Sun from the sky, the three must head out to stop him, but not just that—they’re in a race against an ancient enemy of the god, one who definitely will try and kill him if it gets to Apollo first.

+ao3 +masterpost

Despite what the papers said, Nick didn’t mean to burn down his school. The only reason he wasn’t going to prison was because no one died and the police couldn’t find any solid evidence that it was his fault. That is, other than the fact that when the building stopped burning, there was just him standing in its charred remains, not a single hair on his head harmed. But seriously, he didn’t mean to burn down his school. Yeah, he hated sitting through English as much as the next kid, but he didn’t hate it enough to commit arson.

Not to mention he was turning sixteen in three days. Why would he actively try and get into trouble three days before his birthday?

But that wasn’t really a new problem. The burning, that is. Maybe on a grander scale this time—he’d never burnt down a whole building before—but he’d always had an unlucky relationship with fire. Or, his mom would call it lucky, if you overlooked the whole I burn everything I touch thing. She used to just laugh at the soot sprinkled across the living room carpet and run her fingers through his hair, telling him to only play with fire if he knows he won’t get burned. (And he’s never gotten burned.)

The last time he saw her, she was staring at him through the back window of a police car.

After that, it was like she was never there. Nick still thought about her, though, when his stepdad, a rigid, heavyset man, kissed his new wife on the cheek and patted Nick on the head like he’s still five and not fifteen-and-eleven-months, and he thought about her when it was his turn to stare at his family through the back window of a police car.

It was just a single policeman, polite and unassuming as he explained the full situation to Nick’s parents, and his parents just wanted to get this out of the way, so when the cop told Nick to get in the car, they didn’t protest, and Nick took his seat, the window cool under his palms as he watched his stepdad and stepmom get smaller and smaller.

“I really didn’t mean to do it,” Nick finally said, turning back to the officer.

“I know, son,” the cop in the front seat replied.

“Then why are you taking me?” he asked.

The cop didn’t reply.

Nick turned back to the window, watching building after building pass by. He tried to read some of the signs, but the letters got all jumbled up, and eventually, he just sighed, closing his eyes and resting his forehead on the window, pretending that the vibrations of it didn’t bother him. By the time he bothered sitting up again, the bustling city had disappeared and field after field stretched endlessly around them. Nick curled a hand around the seatbelt pressing into his chest.

“Where are we going?”

Again, the cop didn’t reply.

Nick tugged at the seatbelt. “Can I not ask questions anymore?” He tried to open the door, but it was pointless. The thing was locked, and every time he tried to undo the lock, it would pop right back into place. NIck turned back to the cop. “Look, man, I really didn’t mean to do it, and if you believe me, that’s great, so I don’t know why you still want me here. If you just let me go home—”

“That’s enough, Nick Pappas,” the cop finally snapped, and Nick’s eyes widened at the sound. His voice was raspy, and he pronounced his ‘s’s weird. “Be a good kid and sit quietly.”

“I just want to know where you’re taking me!” Nick banged his fist on the window, only wincing for the shortest second when it sent a tingle back up his arm.

“I said enough!” And then the car was veering off the road, Nick was flung into the window, seatbelt digging painfully into his chest and waist, ears ringing from hitting his head on the glass, and the cop was twisting out of his seat, stretching out over him, hat falling aside to reveal long hair, lips parting to reveal sharp, glistening fangs.

Nick scrambled back as far as he could, seatbelt constricting his movements. “I don’t want trouble! What is wrong with you?” He kicked at the cop, letting out a strangled gasp when his foot met soft flesh and not hard muscle. “You’re not even a guy!”

“And you are no uselesssss mortal either!” the cop hissed, grinning even as its fangs pop, terrifying and fascinating all at—the cop sprung forward, and nope, just terrifying, not even close to fascinating.

Nick was never particularly flexible, but one time he heard about a bus flipping over with a kid inside it and the kid’s mom pushed the bus back over all on her own in some crazy fit of adrenaline. He had the hazy thought that something similar might be happening then as his foot makes contact with the cop’s face and the fangs dig into the sole of his shoe instead of his face. In the seconds he had to spare, Nick quickly undid his seatbelt, flailing as the cop grabbed at his shoe and pulled, throwing off his balance. The satisfaction of smacking it in the head was small in comparison to the fear that welled when he saw rage flicker in its eyes.

“I don’t even know what you are!” he choked out when the cop-not-cop made another pass at him. “Let me go!” With each word he aimed another kick at its head, but most of his kicks missed, and dread continued to fill him up as all his pathetic fighting did was enrage the thing.

“You ssssstupid boy!” the maybe-cop-probably-not seethed. “I am Sssssandra the Sssssupreme! One of the mossst powerful dracaena in the mortal world right now!”

The information meant nothing to Nick. He finally landed a kick on the center of her chest, sending her back into the front seat as he worked furiously at getting the door open. “Okay! And I’m Nick Pappas and you really don’t want to hurt me!”

“Oh, but I do!” Sandra hissed because that’s what she was doing, no way else to describe it. “Your death would be sssssplendid for me!”

“Not for me, though!” Nick argued, screeching when rough hands grabbed at his waist and fangs were once again in his line of sight. “Let me out!”

He banged against the door some more before turning back to the—what’d she say?— dracaena, heart pounding as nails dug into his waist and fangs filled his vision. He swallowed, wondering if it would be better or not to look death in the face before deciding it’d be worse, a lot worse, and squeezed his eyes shut.

Nick was mentally preparing himself for the end, when there was a muffled noise from outside the car, and then the shattering of glass. His eyes flew open even as shards of glass continued to rain down onto him and the snake lady from the window opposite them. And there, between all those sharp edges, stood a short ginger kid that, had Nick been in a better state of mind, he would remember from his classes. As it was, however, all he saw was his savior, holding a hammer tightly in his hands, cinnamon hair glowing in the fading sunlight, and eyes absolutely filled with terror.

“Are you okay?” the kid shouted as the dracaena screamed above Nick, who did his best to push her off of him and open the door from the outside.

“We have to go!” Nick replied, grabbing the boy by the wrist and running, uncaring of where they went, so long as it was away. “That thing back there is not a cop!”

“You’re right!” the kid agreed, looking quickly over his shoulder before letting out a sharp noise and running faster.

With a bit more space to breathe and think, Nick could finally recall who he was: Floris, who, although they weren’t very close, he sat with more often than not, the dude letting Nick copy his notes and never pressuring him about paying attention in class—except for certain times, like in World History, when they were talking about Greece, and Nick had said his family was from there, and Floris turned to him with wide eyes and asked, “You know?” As if everyone didn’t have at least some clue as to where their family was from. After that, Floris would nudge him every time he started to nod off, pointing to the screen and reminding him to listen to the teacher. It was weird, but he just brushed it off as some ginger thing. Gingers are weird , man.

That seemed truer than ever now, watching Floris run with a hammer and his lopsided gait. “Do you know what that thing was?” Nick asked, shouting over the wind that had picked up in the fields.

“Do you?” Floris replied.

Nick checked over his shoulder. He could still see the car, left behind in a ditch, glass twinkling like stars across the asphalt, and—“You’re about to find out!” He took the hammer from Floris and threw it at the dracaena , cursing when all she did was duck out of the way. It doesn’t even hit one of her tails and oh, wow, she has two tails. The day just kept getting weirder.

“I can’t do this,” he whispered to himself, even as Floris yelled at their lack of a weapon.

“You have to do something!” Floris argued, turning to face him, gripping him by the shoulders and shaking him. “Or she’ll kill us both!”

“I know,” Nick swallowed, his own hands coming up to cover Floris’s, “I know.” He turned back to the dracaena, who continued to approach undeterred. “I can—I have to do this.” He stumbled as she hissed at him, fangs on full display once again. “Um,” he held out his hands in a stop motion, “look—we wouldn’t be better off dead! You want us to live! You really want us to—”

“Nick!” Floris snapped. “What are you doing?”

“Something!” Nick replied. “I’m doing something!”

“That’s not something!” Floris shook. “Doing something is burning down the school because you heard a kid talking bad about your mom—do that again!”

“I didn’t mean to burn down the school!” Nick looked at Floris in desperation, only for the dracaena to reach them, hissing and cursing their names. “I just—I wanted—I didn’t—”

“You are the ssssame as her,” the dracaena’s words became clear now that she was closer, “ssstupid, pathetic, unable to ssssave the one who needssss you most. Prepare to die, Nick Pappssss, son of—”

“Shut up!” Nick shoved at the dracaena, but that wasn’t what got her to stop. His hands were engulfed in flames, pressing into the snake lady’s police uniform, setting the cloth ablaze, sending smoke into the air and forcing a scream out of her throat. He pressed harder into her chest. “Shut up about my mom! You don’t know her! She didn’t do anything wrong! Shut up!”

He held his hands to her chest as she burned, his own chest heaving, lungs working in overtime as his brain attempted to understand everything it just witnessed. Everything it just experienced.

The dracaena’s screaming finally stopped, and then, there was just quiet.

Nick watched as her ash blew away into the wind, sunlight catching it and spinning it into gold. Flames flickered between his fingers before he curled his hands into fists. He turned to Floris. “I don’t know what just happened.”

“You,” Floris said timidly, “just slayed a monster.”

Nick grimaced.

Together, they walked in a tense silence, the sun setting to their right, moon rising to their left, up until Floris cleared his throat.

“What she said, about your mother—”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“It’d be good to, though,” Floris tried. “It’s not good to keep all those things to yourself like that. They eat at you.”

“I think I know what’s eating me and what’s not, thanks.” Nick kicked a pebble, sending it clattering down the road ahead of them. “Talking—feelings talking—isn’t really my thing.”

“Still,” Floris said, “it’s worth a shot.”

Nick frowned, staring out at the open road ahead of them, town still a bit away. “What does it even matter to you?” He looked to the other. “You barely know me. We just sit next to each other in class. Who cares about my mom?”

“You do.” Floris stopped to pick a dandelion from the weeds growing along the road. He held it out to Nick. “And I thought we were friends.”

“We’re not in elementary school,” Nick replied, but he accepted the dandelion anyway. He puckered his lips, blowing out a stream of air and sending the seeds flying. 

“Did you wish for anything?” Floris asked, watching the seeds scatter throughout the sky.

Nick dropped the leftover stem to the ground. “No. And if I had, I wouldn’t tell.” He crushed the stem underfoot. 

They kept walking.

The sun set as they went, making the asphalt beneath their shoes glitter and shine. Not a single car passed, and Nick couldn’t stop the unease that crept up on him as they left the cop car behind them.

“Hey,” Floris said. “It’s fine.”

Nick looked over at him, disbelieving. Though no longer racing, his heart still pounded in his chest, and his limbs felt like jello, loose and clumsy. It was hard to imagine going home and sleeping, like he hadn’t just almost been killed.

“I mean it,” Floris continued. “You won. It won’t be coming back any time soon. You survived.”

Nick nodded. He survived. He’s not dead—he’s breathing in fresh air, listening to the night breeze, watching the streetlights reflect on the road. “It’s just,” he made a vague motion with his hand, “scary.”

With the action, he found himself watching his fingers as they curled and splayed. His hand, which had been encased by fire not long ago, skin unblemished and tan. As if there had never been any fire there in the first place. He let it fall back to his side.

He didn’t want to think about it anymore. He didn’t want to think about it at all.

They continued their walk in silence.

By the time they stopped in front of Nick’s doorstep, the moon was halfway through the sky, and Floris yawned every three seconds next to him. Nick straightened, clearing his throat. “Thanks,” he said. “For earlier. I could’ve died without you.”

Floris studied him. Nick stared back. Eventually, Floris reached a conclusion, whatever it may be, and gave a shrug. “You would’ve done what you had to do eventually.” Nick opened his mouth, but he continued: “I’m happy to help, though. That’s what I’m here for. Seriously.”

Nick frowned as the ginger bid him a cheery goodnight before turning on his heel and leaving, Nick standing alone in the doorway.

When Floris was gone from view, Nick faced the door, wiggling the doorknob to find it locked. He sighed, pulling out his house key. His brain was still struggling to process… everything, and his body was trembling minutely from shock and leftover adrenaline. He felt completely drained, exhausted, ready to collapse at the first sight of a cushion. It was brute strength he used in making it to his room and into bed, where he fell onto his Paris-themed comforter (don’t ask) and fell into what seemed to be the hardest sleep of his life. Right before he slipped into dreams, he wondered if perhaps he had died in the cop car that day, and this was all just an extra long hallucination.

[misfitsofeorzea]

"Ever since coming to Eorzea all those years ago, I've come to learn that you can always be surprised. Just recently, Amaya and I made a friend that I get the feeling maybe from on of the other Shards. Why do you ask? Well it's not just his dress and manner but... And odd yet rather beautiful machine he came with. What did he call it? The Ree-Gal-Ya? I'll have to ask him. I also wonder which Shard it is?" - From the Journal of Kashia Andra, a White Mage. (NGL... I have been WAITING for this event ever since beating FFXV and I may have got screen cap happy so... Expect a ton of screens from both of my girls - especially after I run it with Amaya ;) .) #ffxiv #ffxv #FinalFantasyXIV #FinalFantasyXV #ANocturneforHeroes #regalia #CidGarlond #thanalan https://www.instagram.com/p/BwWni87HUrV/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=f0lgo5wmwrf5

[444names]

american forenames + dutch forenames and cities encoded with louchebem BUT excluding "l"

Aberanji Aden Adert Adjefie Adria Amin Anath Anca Andra Andréin Andsean Ange Angue Anie Anni Annice Anogue Anshard Apja Araadri Arkuciant Aroc Baji Bastine Bence Benria Beriche Berrancy Bersona Bobynet Bome Bonieonne Brace Bracoor Bradaoque Bradia Bran Brarègena Bred Bren Brenhjif Brica Brichroy Brine Bris Cancici Canian Card Caria Carnor Carsfona Catrikin Cecia Cher Chera Chernez Chert Chesseph Chome Chric Chrie Chrienne Chtmig Chtmès Codna Come Conardge Cord Couthen Crahiney Cric Cusidga Cusmicis Daadray Danda Danneker Daome Dard Dardic Daren Dargcès Daric Darie Darikège Darkumhès Dartè Deandrane Demhuchem Denna Densès Derhome Dernoc Derri Derry Dertonie Dertophy Deuz Dewin Dickimji Dineis Dixiscor Dogue Doinge Donie Dooge Door Doord Doque Dore Dortness Duarmader Duaron Eanis Edde Edene Enessie Enmone Enmège Ennie Erif Erra Errew Errith Erry Ertbège Ertorrom Esterriif Estin Eucheine Eukème Evertne Evège Fainge Fanny Ferannen Feria Fertfè Franhème Frantogue Frard Frecia Frene Fresta Freve Gaina Gard Gardsey Garogue Gine Goque Grea Grenwè Grewicky Gwendin Gwendra Gwengue Gwenème Hance Handamè Hanna Hanny Hara Hard Hawna Henjè Herey Heste Hique Home Homic Hoque Ianne Inge Inuchhon Irey Irif Irknis Ivia Jaccomard Jace Jache Jacque Jairay Jamberian Jampert Jamuchte Jandhoth Janna Jannatt Jard Jartfè Jarvey Jasème Jaye Jaymoque Jayn Jeandy Jeanicker Jedengue Jeer Jefinn Jefmindon Jefmita Jeif Jeinderic Jeiningue Jene Jenez Jenrice Jenzique Jeoc Jeon Jerevome Jeri Jerna Jerrici Jertin Jesie Jettar Jice Jimbevème Jindren Joacoose Joanies Joet Joevetth Joevème Jogue Joha Joharie Johin Johnnin Join Joinusse Jonif Joque Jorik Josey Josica Jossennif Joya Juancine Juany Judammy Juditeric Jundy Junesa Jusgin Jusméeo Kartè Katamon Kath Kathan Kathe Katri Kaye Keig Kein Keji Kejoace Kemingue Kene Kenhenny Kenn Kertbège Keès Kiem Kris Mabe Manic Mann Mannica Mannor Mard Marden Mardenda Mardie Margard Marichem Mariif Marjame Markdif Marna Marne Marnem Marney Maroque Marrice Mart Marthè Maryn Maxistège Merey Mernoque Mesterey Micinge Micky Mienra Miesègene Mietteder Migh Mina Mine Mique Mirey Missie Mistem Mitte Mogue Mome Moque Mote Nantome Nari Nawna Nekejoine Neome Nesinge Nett Niddonn Niden Niendy Niffre Nome Nomictoya Nony Noukè Noutimmy Osie Pame Pamichoc Patem Pattemina Patteri Pattersue Paurgina Paurtfè Paurtjjim Pendogue Pert Phary Pichem Pris Ramège Rana Rarry Raurtfè Ringe Ritne Robjès Rodne Roingue Rointon Roisa Romi Ronianche Roseanne Roseody Roshe Rossey Rucane Rudy Ruischto Samanjè Same Sanric Sardège Sary Semmicto Shan Shanis Shard Sharry Shartwina Shème Sidga Sien Sique Soniene Sonne Sony Sooracè Soque Stanne Stence Sterdè Stia Stic Stie Stine Stonine Striamè Strievege Sumdès Susa Susde Tadant Tass Tedge Tenji Tenny Tenon Terth Tevertè Tieann Tingerif Tinnie Togue Tome Tommingem Tona Toos Toque Tory Trichte Trif Trikès Vantogue Vene Veniance Verry Vertonnès Viaaren Vianee Vice Vina Vingerta Viravinge Viritta Virk Vistia Wanche Ward Whinge Whique Wijnce Wijney Wijnji Wijsmè Wijste Wine Yome Yverta Yvome

[courtingfate]

Cold heart, Colder Hands

Golden eyes stare blankly at the world before them, lost in thought deeper than the ocean.  Bustling streets, packed taverns and yet, the redhead never felt so alone in the world. Lifting her glass to her lips she scowls into its depths when the liquid sloshes against her lips far warmer than she preferred. holding it between her fingers she watched as frost traveled up the delicate glass stem and around the bulb, chilling the contents in mere moments. Satisfied she once more lifted the glass to her painted lips.  Andramelech was lost in vivid conversations with the new recruit, a man....or something by the name of Colony. She'd long since lost track of the conversation as she once more stared idly at the bustling life around her. Golden  gaze locking on a pair of elves strolling toward the tavern hand in hand, the blonde female leaning her head against the shoulder of the tall dark haired male. A small frown shaped her lips. Life had never afforded her such love, intimacy...such...loyalty. She glanced at Andramelech, the closest thing to loyalty she had ever known, but far from a suitable lover. Often time's Moira wondered if she was not the reason that Andra had such struggles. A scowl crosses her lips again and she takes a larger swig, the bitter taste bringing her only slightly back to her senses before the buzz kicked in.  Love is not for frozen hearts like yours, she thought to herself in annoyance, Love is for fools who deserve happiness.

A thin layer of frost trailed up her neck, creeping its way along the slowly healing bruises on her jawline before branching out over her cheeks. Glittering gold eyes narrowed and the glass in her hand shattered suddenly, the frigid cold of her hands weakening the glass, she frowned at the now scratched palm of her hand and the shards of glass at her feet. "Pathetic...."

[viaphni]

art dump from the Recently 💪

[haught0pocket]

Fic Writers Week - Day 4

The Devil’s In The Details- Highlight small details you loved in the fics you’ve read or written.

Okay, this is really tricky because I have to resist the urge to write pages and pages about @piratekane , @sensitive-pigeon , and @iamthegaysmurf .

Ah. I’ll write them anyway.

Also, I’m a day late because ... well, if you click “keep reading” you’ll see. I just had a lot to say.

This will be long, so I’m just giving it the chop right here.

Reader:

HEY. GUESS WHAT. We’re talking about i don’t mind you comin’ here again! (You will have to physically remove me from my computer to stop me from talking about this. So.)

There is no mentioning details without mentioning @piratekane , and the amount of work and dedication that is put into the incredible 80′s Mixtape AU. I could write an essay on the details, the attention to them, how accurate and good they are. But I’ll choose one from the latest installment (which I’ll never be over)

Waverly stands with her hands on her hips. “If you didn’t want to come on an adventure, you could have-” “I do!” Nicole insists. She squats down, just barely avoiding a moss-covered rock. “Which way are we going?” She peers at the map. Waverly drew it on a piece of large construction paper. She probably used the crayons Wynonna got her for her birthday. Everything is in shades of green: the trees and the leaves and even the lake. There’s a crooked brown line that runs from the bottom lefthand corner of the map, up and across the page in zigzag lines that makes Nicole twist her head back and forth as she tries to follow its winding path. It eventually ends at a large red ‘x’ over a few black circles in the middle of the green-blue lake. “We’re going to cut through the woods,” Waverly says proudly, jabbing her finger at the brown zigzag. “I even wrote when we’re taking snack breaks.”

Like. Where do I start? The construction paper Waverly used because - hey - she’s 9. All the shades of green because Waverly would do that, to be as accurate as possible on her little map. The fact that the crayons came from Wynonna (because this fic is from the POV of little Nicole, and little Nicole would note these things! a;lksfjjfgiuhiaj;iasejf!! [Sorry. Excited key smash]). Waverly writing down when they take snack breaks.

The details in the setting, the character behaviors, the items they carry around with them, they’re all just outstanding. Mindblowing. They immerse you, %1000, into this world. This is so much more than a story because of these details. So, so much more.

Without details, a story doesn’t really exist. This couldn’t be truer for 180, by @sensitive-pigeon . I don’t know if there’s anyone in the Wynonna Earp (fic reading) fandom that hasn’t read this. It’s so universally appealing.

Once again it’s incredibly difficult to choose an example of a detail I love. Because I love. Love. LOVE. all of them. Every single one. They are all pitch perfect and so full of purpose. Here’s a delightful one that is particularly fantastic (ch 2):

@ssssspaggeti2: #alphabase is anyone seeing this [photo attached] I think shes dead. its been six hours. Check raw stream nasa.gov LivingSpace2 cause the public is off at 4am. No sound on raw =/ @StetsonBot: houston’s not said anything so she’s probably sleeping after work, nbd @ssssspaggeti2: @MarsAlphaBase @NASA @POTUS houston we got a sleeper... @BotanyisBest: wow what a surprise!! 14:35 on Mars too. whats that like 2pm??? @CBSNews: @ssssspaggeti2, do you mind if we use your photo?@BotanyisBest: hahah rip @EarthToWaverly please draw on her

Pigeon created twitter personalities. And it’s not just that she created these twitter personas. Each one has a specific voice, a specific purpose. Excuse me while my brain explodes.

Oh no but wait there’s more. All of this? All of Alpha Base, the science behind this - it works. IT. WORKS. Not only is Pigeon a brilliant author, she’s an actual genius.

I’ll tell you right now, if I don’t stop here, I won’t stop.

I might be slightly obsessed with @iamthegaysmurf ‘s You’re Going To Find Your Way Back Home. (read: very obsessed) Haven’t read it? K. Go Read. Seriously, right now. Stop what you are doing, go read, then come back (if you so wish).

...... Did you read? 

That was pretty great, right?

Smurf dug into a ridiculous amount of historical legends, myths, lore, etc, specifically for this Halloween fic. And then carefully adjusted them to make, big, incredible story. It makes it so intense and believable - the dedication and time that was put into researching all these factors she put in. Everything flows seamlessly, it’s Emily Andras level dedication to myths and lore and telling those stories. (Did you guys know that Emily is a total nerd for all things legend/myth/lore? This was the question I asked her on the reddit ama and she confirmed - yes, she is.)

Here’s a passage that is just ... whoa. You go to the movies for the visuals of it. But you read to get these kinds of descriptions (ch 7):

She can feel the jagged shards of bone littering the ground digging into her back and shoulders, ripping her flannel – and her skin – in places.  Feel the razor-sharp claws tearing at her ribs and throat.

She can smell the putrescence on its breath, hot and fetid in her face.  Smell the sour tang of its unwashed body, a century and a half of dirt and sweat and sulfur permeating its desiccated, leathery skin.

She can see its yellow eyes inches from her own.  See them burning not with the color of the sun or spring flowers or the eggs that Waverly makes them for breakfast on their lazy Sundays, but with that of infernal hellfire.

She can taste the copper in her mouth where one of her teeth sliced into her tongue with the impact.  Taste it mixing with the dust from the air and the clay from the ground and the ash from the aura that engulfs the creature, the flavor of it causing bile to rise in the back of her throat.

I mean. I think that speaks for itself. I can’t add anything to that. It’d just be air. It’s stunning.

Writer

Well, this was difficult. After all of that??

But here is a bit in You’re A Beautiful Thing that I am fond of:

She ran her fingers through those wonderful locks. It felt like silk. Like actual, real silk. The fact sort of confused her for a moment. No hair could truly be that soft. But it was. It really was.

Then a thought hit her.

Hands…

She laid the baby gently down in her lap and unwrapped the blanket, releasing the bundled up arms. Tears rolled down her face, and she sobbed, openly.

Waverly had been sitting quietly, letting the new mother wonder over her daughter. But at the sound of her sister crying, she went to sit next to her on the bed. 

“Hey, hey, what’s wrong?”

Wynonna wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “I was so scared of her hands.” She gazed in earnest into Waverly’s face. “But they’re so beautiful. Look at ‘em!” She took a little hand, and it immediately wrapped around her finger. “Oh my god,” now she whispered, staring once again at her daughter, awestruck.

Wynonna wondering at her new baby was always something I wanted to see, from the moment we found out Wynonna was pregnant. Because new babies are magical. So I just wrote it. (This was written before the finale)

And now I need to go do day 5! hahah

[magicminnett]

Short Story - A Warrior’s Farewell

Heddwyn stood transfixed, terror rooting him to the spot and locking his limbs. His heart hammered so wildly, so fiercely, that he could feel the pulse in his neck. He watched, helpless as Martyn dragged Ivor to the edge of the fortress wall, a cold light gleaming from the naked blade of the knife held high above their heads.

“They will die!” Martyn crooned down to him, voice dripping with a sweet madness, his eyes smoldering with a murderous fire. “They will die in front of you, and the Mynydd will fall to us. We will be free of Lordaeron’s yoke and the old ways shall reign once more.”

“This isn’t right,” Heddwyn shouted in his mind, jaw locked shut by the sorcerer’s foul magics. Or perhaps it was the same terror that immobilized the rest of him. “The Arglwydd will never surrender to you or to Iwan!”

“That child usurper will not stop us,” Martyn roared down to him, the volume of his sudden rage shaking Heddwyn to his bones, “you are all as but children to us, and you must be taught the nature of respect.”

Heddwyn watched as the arm holding the gleaming blade swung downward, arcing toward his father’s exposed neck. He watched, helpless and horror struck as the blade sank deep into the flesh before being yanked out just as quickly, a fan of blood trailing it.

His eyes found his father’s in that moment, his own blood chilling to ice at what he found there. Ivor was dying, but his eyes did not hold the terror his son felt. Nor an acceptance, or rage, or sadness. All Heddwyn saw in his father’s eyes was the same, cold, disappointed and unblinking stare that he had been met with all his life.

Ivor did not speak, could not speak, but still Heddwyn knew. He knew his father’s words, his final admonishment.

“You could have stopped this. If you were stronger, this would not have happened. Had you become the warrior you were meant to, I would not be dead. This is your fault.”

The knowledge tore at him, the truth of the words burned into his mind, and as Ivor crumpled into a heap at Martyn’s feet, he screamed silently.

The image shattered, the scene scattering into broken shards like a thin pane of glass and Heddwyn was left in an inky void. The tiny shards glittering about him like strange and mocking stars. Martyn’s voice filled the void, echoing from each of the broken pieces, a thousand, thousand mad, cackling voices laughing their triumph - and under it all, his father’s last words.

Heddwyn jerked awake, his eyes snapping open and darting about the darkened room, ears searching for the sound of the blood mage’s voice. He sat up slowly in his bed, sweat chilling his bare skin in the cool night air, the bed sheets a twisted mess about his legs.

A dream, it had been a dream. The same dream - the only one he had since Dun Modr. Trapped, helpless, forced to watch a twisted version of the events of that day. Again and again.

He sighed and rose from his bed, walking slowly to the wash basin on a nearby table. He dipped a cloth into the cold water, wrung it out and wiped the sweat from his brow and body, his mind drifting through the same thoughts that came to him each time he woke from that same dream.

He knew they were not his memories, not truly, They were a fabrication of his conscience, a manifestation of the guilt he felt. He understood this, but it was no balm to him.

As always, Heddwyn found his mind drifting to the words from the dream, what the image of his father had seemed to say to him.

“You could have stopped this. If you were stronger, this would not have happened. Had you become the warrior you were meant to, I would not be dead. This is your fault.”

Even awake, he felt the sting of them. If he had been stronger. If he had been faster. If he had put an arrow through that madman’s throat himself, if he had been able to beat the life from Martyn with his own hands.

Heddwyn dragged himself from those thoughts with an effort, stilling his shaking body and unclenching his fists. He placed the damp cloth next to the basin and shuffled about the room, dressing quickly in a loose shirt and trousers.

That was not who he was, it never had been. He was no warrior, no grim avenger. He had never killed another man, and he doubted he could. He knew that, and so had his father.

He stepped out into the open night air, noting the sky that was lightening east. At least he had managed most of a night’s worth of sleep this time - the dream had been kind tonight.

Heddwyn snorted in wry amusement, a twisted grin appearing on his face and slipping from it just as quickly as he settled once more into his melancholy. He folded his arms across his chest and fixed his gaze on the brightening horizon.

He felt more than heard someone come to stand next to him, and knew who it would be even before she spoke.

“The dream again?” Seren asked, her brusk voice carrying an amount of concern most would find surprising from the stern, hard woman.

He nodded silently, gaze remaining distant.

Seren kept the silence as well, standing the same silent vigil as her son, watching the daybreak draw closer.

“I can still remember the moment he was most proud of you,” she said quietly, folding her hands behind her back, falling into standard parade rest - ever the warrior, “I remember it as if it had happened an hour ago.”

Heddwyn turned to look at her, a guarded weariness in his eyes.

“It was five years ago, in winter. The Sixth Wing was stationed in Stromgarde at that time,” she continued, her own eyes still locked on the horizon. “We had just had news of a lost battle, our people’s spirits were as low as your father and I had ever seen them. None of us knew what to do to change that, our only option was to press on. Do you know where you were, Heddwyn?”

Heddwyn’s shoulders sagged and he turned from his mother, eyes now fixed on the ground by his feet.

“Not with the Bleid -” he started before his mother cut him off, her voice filled with a fierceness that was so surprising he jumped and stared at her wide-eyed.

“No!,” she repeated, her eyes reflecting that same fierce tone in her voice, “you were amongst our people. A trail of children at your heels as you spoke with them, with the men and women you met along the way. You told the old stories, the tales of our gods and our people. You brought them hope, you gave them what our warriors could not.”

She stared at him a long moment before continuing, her voice softer but still just as fierce, and proud, “Do you know what he said to me, as we stood on the wall and watched you?”

Heddwyn shook his head, transfixed by the fierceness of his mother’s affection.

“Seeing him down there, doing what our lances, and swords, and axes cannot - I see now why he loves it so. He may not be Bleiddiaid, he may not be skilled in arms or combat. His battles are illness, and despair, and loss of faith. His weapons are hope, joy, kindness. He is not the warrior we wished him to be, but he is the warrior our people need.”

Seren fell silent and gazed at her son a moment before saying in a harsh, proud whisper, “Those are the words he said to me, Heddwyn. You are our child, and we are both proud of you and what you have accomplished.”

Heddwyn held her gaze a long moment, unsure what to say. Eventually, he broke away and turned to look once more toward the horizon. The sun had crested the distant rise while his mother spoke, silhouetting the line of pyres adorning it.

---

The day passed in a hazy blur as the final preparations for the ceremony were completed, and the bodies of the fallen placed.

Heddwyn stood now, waiting behind the first of a line of thirty pyres. His father’s pyre. He watched as his people filled the rise, standing in vigil, the crowd murmuring quietly amongst themselves as they waited for the ceremony to begin.

He had mulled over his mother’s words and the recurring dream the entire day, the memories driving him to distraction as his mind turned them endlessly over and over.

A bell rung in the distance, chiming out eight times, the notes clear and strong. Heddwyn shook his head, clearing his thoughts as he stepped forward - it was time.

The crowd fell quiet as he stopped before his father’s pyre and spoke.

“Here lies the body of Ivor ap Andras, a proud warrior of the Sixth Wing of the Bleiddiaid y Dyffryn. He fell protecting our people at Dun Modr.”

Heddwyn paused in the intonation of the death rites, touching the torch he held to one corner of the pyre before continuing, “May Sucellus take him, and guide his soul swiftly into the after.”

He touched the torch to another corner, and added, “May fair Sirona smile upon him, and judge his life worthy and good.”

He paused once more, dipping his free hand into a pouch on his belt, grabbing a fistfull of the powder there and drawing it out.

“May Branwen welcome him to her hearth,” he said, flinging the powder over the quickly spreading flames of the pyre. The flames flared and turned a stark, ethereal blue as the powder touched them.

“Your child has come home,” he finished, closing his eyes and bowing his head. He offered a silent prayer of his own before stepping to the next pyre.

“Here lies the body of Ariel mab Dylan, a proud warrior of the Fifth Wing of the Bleiddiaid y Dyffryn. She fell protecting our people at Dun Modr.”

He repeated the process, setting fire to a corner of the pyre as he continued, “May Sucellus take her, and guide her soul swiftly into the after. May fair Sirona smile upon her, and judge her life worthy and good. May Branwen welcome her to her hearth, your child has come home.”

On and on he went, name after name, pyre after pyre until at last he reached the last - the body of a young man on it. No more than 18, by Heddwyn’s estimation. As he gave him his final rites, the words of his father came to him once more, and Heddwyn was surprised to find that they were not the words from his dream, but the ones his mother had given to him.

“He is not the warrior we wished him to be, but he is the warrior our people need.”

He lay the torch down on the last pyre, and stepped away with a small, sad smile. Ivor had never said as much to his son, but he was proud of what Heddwyn had become.

Perhaps the dream would trouble him no more.

[winstonkumar]

Se över ljudmiljön på arbetsplatsen och skapa en bättre arbetsmiljö. Det blir en bra affär för alla. Du minskar riskerna för sjukfrånvaro, olyckor eller trötta medarbetare när bullret åtgärdas. Möbleringen spelar roll, hur du använder textilier i till exempel mattor och gardiner har viss effekt, men också hur personalen förväntas använda lokalerna och i vilken utsträckning man stör varandra. Det mesta går att påverka!

Den viktigaste ljudkällan i kontorsmiljö är helt enkelt människor. Det stör koncentrationen när man hör andra tala så nära, så det blir möjligt att urskilja vad de talar om. Det är en viktigare faktor än själva decibeltalet. Några bra och ganska enkla förbättringar är dämpande skärmar vid arbetsplatserna eller i taket, att man tar hänsyn till olika behov och personligheter när det gäller passager och användning av de gemensamma utrymmena, och inte minst en tydlig policy kring hur man förväntas uppföra sig.

[viaphni]

Just got a nice new stylus for drawing. Here are my first couple pieces with it!

[viaphni]

i have been drawing. a LOT

Here are some highlights from recently (oldest to newest)

[viaphni]

More of them

[viaphni]

Awwaweweaweqseqwawewaw Them Them Them Them Them... Them... Them... Them... Them... Them... Them... Cannot get them out of my head...

"Tainted Versions" below