jash62

[jash62]

this is the money dog, repost in the next 24 hours and money will come your way!!

[jash62]

All That Remains + things that cannot be unsaid

[jash62]

Reblog if you say "Y'all"

I’d be lying if I didnt reblog this sksjsk

[jash62]

Some Random thoughts about Leliana x Inquisitor and the Inquisition headcanons

~Literally, everyone in the Inquisition knows about the Inquisitor and Leliana’s relationship and they all gossips about it.

~Bull teases the Inquisitor when he notices the marks that Leliana leaves on their neck. He wants to do the same to Leliana, but he knows better than to do that.

~Josephine threatens the Inquisitor when she finds out about their relationship with Leli. Leliana is not helpful at all, she’s simply just laughing in the background when she notices the Inquisitor’s terrified face.

~When Leliana and the Inquisitor argues, none of them apologizes because their that stubborn. They make up by having sex.

~Cullen once walked into the War Room while they were doing some…trusting exercises…He couldn’t look at them for weeks.

Keep reading

[jash62]

The Illustrated Woman

My body is a kaleidoscope of shapes and colours, an endless jigsaw puzzle, a patchwork quilt pieced together out of strokes of ink, bold and fine, light and dark, wavy and angular. Good thing that wielding dual blades (not always daggers; sometimes I pick up two swords as well, or even two barely wieldable war hammers), I can use both my left and my right hand with equal ease, which means that no inch of flesh on either side of me (on the front, at least) is going to be left uncovered.

I began tattooing myself back when I lived in Orzammar - in secret, at first, adding neat little rectangles and zigzags and dots where my clothes would conceal them, because I was not sure how my father’s law-abiding merchant side of the family would react to such a hobby. Tattoos are the hallmark of the casteless, after all, of my mother’s people: they are forced to walk with a brand of shame all their lives, shadows of dust, untouchable by respectable dwarves (unless, like my father, you are desperate for an heir and will turn to a pretty noble hunter ‘for help’); but some of them take pride in the lines etched into their skin, and expand them on purpose, adding new colours and geometrical forms till their whole body becomes a statement. 'Yes, I am casteless; you sodding sons of nugs have been trying to trample me down, to mix me into dust, but I am still standing, so eat it!’

I, on the other hand, was not really trying to make a statement. Not… Not like that. I wish I was, actually; I wish I was as bold as the casteless; I wish I stood up earlier, and gave a good, long glare to my father, with all the expectations he had for his precious 'heir’, and said, loud and clear,

'I am a woman, duster. Eat it’.

But I did not. Through most of my youth, I left those words unsaid, tucked away under my tongue, at the back of my throat like a lump that sometimes would not let me breathe. I was too afraid of how my family, the people around me would react: my father would probably just refuse too listen, absorbed as he was by listening to his own voice retell the plans he had flr my future; his merchant relatives, not too thrilled by him having taken in a noble hunter, would probably have thought me crazy, my head muddled by 'that damn brand’s foul blood’; and my mother’s kin, who were elevated in caste after I was born, would be angry and terrified, as  caste is passed down from father to son and mother to daughter, and me being a daughter would have meant exile back to Dust Town for all of us.

So down my throat I pushed those words, choking on them in silence, and in the quiet of my room, I decorated my body with tattoos - which felt like the only way I could shape myself the way I wanted to. The only way I could have control over what I looked like, and actually smile when I touched my own skin.

But then, in my late twenties, a day finally came when the words that had so long burned at me from within burst out, loud and resounding, just like the bang of the door when I burst out of my father’s house in the Diamond Quarter and, dodging the guards with some secret tricks taught to me by a perpetually tipsy ex-casteless uncle, made it straight towards the surface.

Once out in the open, my head floating away into emptiness, I have mustered enough  courage (once the initial wobbly feeling passed, that is, and I settled down in a human city) to begin inking the parts of me that everyone can see. My face. My neck. My forearms. And not just with abstract shapes, either: I have turned my skin into a chronicle of my adventures (and, since I stumbled my way into this Inquisition business, there have been many); a collection of Memories to rival the Shaperate’s, honouring the friends I have made and the journey we have all travelled together.

There is a swirly flame tongue curling round my right bicep, rising out of a twisting stream of water - a symbol of that line they say in the human Chant, about a woman who is made strong by her faith, so strong that, when she walks through fire, it touches her softly and gently, like water would. Or, well, at least that’s what I assume it means; I have felt too awkward about asking, being a supposedly heathen dwarf and all; I suspect that if I did, the Chantry ladies would have just clucked at me angrily instead of explaining. Either way, the fire and the water stand for Cassandra, while next to them, there is a picture of a rose, with blood-like droplets oozing off its curling petals.

I found the picture of the rose in one of those botany books Dorian and Vivienne dig up for me (at odds as they often are, they both call my fascination with surface plant life 'endearing’) - and I was very proud when I managed to copy it onto my skin. It symbolises Leliana, and I guess it would have been more logical to tattoo it on my other bicep, because Left and Right Hand of the Divine and all - but the spot on my left arm has already been taken by a swarm of bees, shaped like a pair of hands giving the middle finger. This one is for Sera; I added this design to my collection of tattoos in her presence, to amuse her when she grew restless and aggressive after our blood-curdling trek through the Raw Fade (apparently, this much walking upside down and wading through jiggly-bellied black spiders was too much even for most of the people who have dreams every night). The middle fingers stretch out when I flex, and this never fails to make Sera howl with laughter.

And now that I have mentioned Dorian and Vivienne, my flesh Memories also include a tattoo for each of them. The latter gets a string of diamonds, trailing along the veins of my left arm, with many facets and tiny sparkles floating around them; I was very meticulous when tracing their outlines, as Madame de Fer only deserves the very best. The former is symbolised by… no, not a snake; that would have been too predictable. His Memory is the image of the mouth of a cave, as seen from within, with stalactites and stalagmites framing it, a little bit of crosshatching showing the floor, and tiny clouds and   rainbow just barely visible outside. This tattoo is personal for both of us: we have lived our youths inside a dark cave, Dorian and I (both figuratively and literally, in my case), stumbling in the dark, and stifled by always screaming on the inside - and then, we found our exit. I think that Dorian teared up a little when I showed the recently inked picture to him; though that might have just been the spicy food Bull was whipping up for us.

Bull’s tattoo, in turn, shows a literal bull racing across my calf (pun… probably intended), wrecking some vague dark squares and rectangles, with a tiny cream-puff on his back (that little thing has stick-figure-like limbs, spread out gleefully, and a broad grin on its face). I do not quite remember how that thing appeared on my leg; I think I may still have been drunk after celebrating our very first successful dragon hunt. But, ridiculous as it is, I cherish it as much as the others; Bull crouched down next to me when the dreadnought burned, the gaze of his only eye travelling to where he knew that charging beast was drawn and, nodding in silent understanding, I kicked off my muddy boot and let him take the night of it in, until a small smile touched his lips.

Josephine’s tattoo is an intricate lace-like pattern round my ankle, retouched with golden ink, based on the Antivan leg jewellery she showed me when we decided to distract ourselves from the finale of that House of Repose business by going shopping in Val Royeaux. Whereas Varric’s encircles my other ankle: the words 'Well, shit’ written on a serpentine papyrus scroll in the most over-the-top calligraphic font I could think of. He loves it to bits, by his own admission, and has made me promise that if I ever trip up my enemies in combat, I use only this foot.

Cole, who often watches me work on the canvas of my skin, making those jumbled comments of his, the more creepily accurate the more you think of them, has asked for a rabbit - because 'everything is better with rabbits’.  So now there is a chubby long-eared fuzzball nestled about over my shoulder blade, 'little paws hopping, hurrying, hearing the whispers of the stories that live in your skin’. While I made the design, I had to ask Solas to help ink it, since I read somewhere that tattooing people is a huge part of elven culture, which he knows so much about - but for some reason, he seemed disgusted, if not outright horrified by my request, almost slamming his door in my face with a sharp, slightly hoarse 'No!’. But after, startled by such an abrupt change in my usually reserved and courteous elven companion’s behaviour, I explained what my tattoos were for, he mellowed a little and gave me an apology (a bit stiff one, but an apology nonetheless), and we spend the afternoon occupied by a very interesting conversation about the memories of the dwarves Solas had seen in the Fade (I especially loved the one about the casteless rising up to defend their city from the darkspawn when no-one else would), while I lay on his couch and he etched a rabbit into my back.

He proved surprisingly good at it (though he might have cheated with a spell or something; you never know with that magicky folk), so, since my other shoulder blade still had a blank spot left, I offered Solas to add a tattoo of his own, one that he thought would best represent himself, but he shook his head softly and evaded the subject, offering to draw me a lion for Cullen’s strength and courage, instead. I agreed, especially since I had recently had to comfort the Commander in his struggle to break free from lyrium addiction, and an image like that seemed encouraging - and quite a fine lion it has turned out to be, too, with many curls in his mane, like frothing sea waves, with snatches of shattered chains flying off him in all directions. As for Solas’ tattoo, I still do not have one - because body art seems like a bit of sensitive subject for him, and I would rather not hurt his feelings. He is my friend, after all.

And finally, right over my heart, there is an image of a shield, which I began working on late at night, when still caught up in the feverish flush of the kiss I shared with Blackwall - that is why the wings adorning it on either side stand not only for the griffins, the ancient and noble companions of the Grey Wardens, but also for this soaring feeling that spreads inside my chest whenever I catch his gaze and he calls me the thing that a younger me would never have dreamed of being called. 'My Lady’.

That feeling is still there, even after that life-changing step he took forward on the gallows, with such a look on his face that you might have thought there was a bottomless black abyss at his feet. That feeling is still there - perhaps even stronger for it, because I know what it is like, living among people who are convinced that you are someone else. And luckily enough, when I first tattooed myself with the shield, I never really added any emblem to it - this has allowed me to fill it in after Blackwall’s judgement. With the picture of one of my absolute favourites among the weird things that happen in this vast and wondrous sky: rain clouds drawing apart, a single ray of sunlight shining through.

[jash62]

West Virginia, mountain mama Take me home, country roads

[jash62]

I imagine that when Courier isnt at the lucky 38 and the companions are left there alone this is what happens… Inspired by this scene from Teen Titans

[jash62]

How to count

1, 2, 3, New Vegas, 4, 76

[jash62]

In which the Minutemen’s new ammo supplier realizes she might have been better off in Vegas. Feat. Buttons by @galoogamelady

[jash62]

some more abel!

[jash62]

guitars hard to draw

[jash62]

have an idiot named abel

[jash62]

What the Hell Universe: It's A Good Day

Log auto start: 10.26.87 09:36

Steady footfalls on grass. Leather and cloth stretch in time of footfalls. Heavy breathing. Slight breeze blowing.

Monty relieved: Fucking A. About time I found something. I hope this place isn't empty like that cabin I found. Hope they don't shoot on site.

Continued footfalls x3. Shifting gravel. Continued footfalls. Loud footfalls twigs snapping. Footfalls stop.

Person 7 assumed female voice friendly but guarded: Why hello there.

Monty: Good morning ma'am, doing well I hope.

Person 7:Well if I can get someone to help me with the melon harvest I would be doing better.

Monty: Well that can be arrange but my services don't come free.

Person 7:Well if course not  it I'll pay ya 3 caps per melon you bring me.

Monty perplexed: why would you pay me in caps.

Person 7 confused: Because that's what we use for money. Why what do you-

Pump-action shotgun racked

Person 8 assumed male voice guarded angry: Don't move Mister. Lucy get in the house.

Leather and cloth stretching. Assumed Monty’s hands are in an upright position

Person 7 to Lucy, worried: But Paw-

Person 8 to Paw: LUCY NOW!

Lucy hurriedly walks away. Distant door shuts distant female voices in hushed conversation. Leather gloves tighten on shotgun

Paw tense voice: Now mister state your business and remember we're armed here.

Monty in a soothing voice: My apologies Mr.?

Paw: Abernathy

Monty: Mr. Abernathy, my name is Montague Hawk and my intentions are peaceful. I am currently trying to find some people and I was hoping to trade for information.

Leather gloves grip loosens on shotgun

Paw to Abernathy: Who are you trying to find Mr. Hawk?

Monty: Monty if you would please, and my wife she's about a head shorter than me with long raven black hair, possibly wounded from feral ghouls and with someone else. I've been tracking her for three days now and I lost it about 200 yards that way. I was wondering if you and your family have seen anything?

Assumed shotgun lowered distant footsteps on wood coming closer

Monty emotional: Please Mr. Abernathy if you know anything tell me. We're from a vault and my wife has little survival training and-

Person 9 assumed female, emotionally astonished: Montague? Is that really you?

Monty astonished whisper: Cassandra!

Hurried footsteps. Two bodies collide, assumed Cassandra and Monty are hugging and holding. Kisses are exchanged patting of body's comminced.

Monty emotional: By the gods Cass what happened to your hair. It's snow white.

Person 9 to Cass: your one to talk big guy, yours is white too.

Monty surprised: It is?

Cass: Yeah it is.

Monty: Well that's a thing. You look beautiful by the way.

Cass lightly hits Monty on assumed chest

Cass: flirt!

Monty: Only for you love.

Abernathy clears his throat

Abernathy with humor: I take it this is the person your looking for Mr Monty?

Cass and Monty turn to Abernathy's direction still holding each other.

Monty emotional: Yes sir and please just Monty.

Cass: Honey why is there words scrolling across your Pipboy?

Monty confused: Da hell?

Log ends 10:10 10.26.87

[jash62]

Had a great time tuseday

Still can't take photos for the life of me.

[jash62]

gotta love my friends

[jash62]

Bethesda: Fallout 76 is gonna have a lot of issues and catastrophic bugs

Me:

[jash62]

The Hell Universe Entry 2 part 3

Monty: So did she spotted you or did you sneak up on her?

Peter whimpering voice: We were able to sneak a good distance before Baxter jump the gun and chased after her.

Monty emotionless: whose Baxter?

Peter: The mutt I saved from the dog fights a couple of months ago.

Monty: really? Good for you but back on target. Where did Baxter chase the women.

Peter pain laden voice. Down the hill to the east and into the small valley. that is where I lost sight of her and we stopped giving chase, because those two were stirring up the ferals.

Monty coconfused: What are ferals?

Peter confused: Feral ghouls!? You know irritated people. have you been living under a rock or something?

Monty annoyed: Yes, but let's pretend I don't know jack diddly about surface life in general post war Boston yeah.

Peter perplexed: Oookay well the way I've been told is that a feral ghoul are the people who watch too much tv and the boobtube and it roted the people's mind turning them mindless. Then the bombs fell and the radiation rotted the rest of them. They say the only way to put down a farel permanently it to chop off it's head and legs.

Deep breath from Monty. Leaves shifting in the distance

Monty: Okay but what of the woman you said you lost sight of her in the valley, anything else you can tell me?

Twig snaps brush shifts in the near distance. Assumed gun holster strap unbuttoned.

Peter assumed undeterred by noise: Other than Alan telling me to call off Bax-

Fierce barking and snarls from an assumed canine source. Four feet pounding coming closer to Monty. Gun un-holstered, 3 Beretta shots. assumed canine yelp, a body hits the ground and slides to a stop after 4 seconds of sliding.

Peter outraged: BAXTER NOOOOOO. YOU SHOT MY DOG! YOU SON OF A BITCH. FUCK YOU! I HOPE YOUR WHORE IS DEAD AND FULL OF BULLETS AND SEAME-

Assumed Peter is hit in the face is hit by assumed Monty's Beretta. Peter whimpers

Monty emotionless: Well I think I'm done Leather and cloth stretches as Monty stands. Footfalls begin as the whimpers of Peter start to die away. Assumed Beretta in holstered and secured.

Peter frantic: Wait you said you would help me.

Monty stops. Leather and cloth stretch as he bends down. Buttons on pouches are undone. Metal and plastic are shifted around.

Monty emotionless: Yes I did and I'm a man of my word.

The shifting of material stop. A metal and wood object is picked up. Metal scraps against wood, metal flys out x5.

Monty exasperated: How in Hades name, has this thing not blown a hand off. Stupid design for a gun too. I mean bailing wire to hold it all together.

Peter through gritted teeth: what are you doing? You said you could help me so help me damn it. Stop going through my crews stuff.

Monty emotionless: Oh I'm helping alright. You see this thing that you people call a gun?

Monty shakes assumed wooden and metal gun. Peter grunts in the positive. Metal object it flick into the air like a coin, said object lands in Monty's hand.

Monty emotionless: Well I'm leaving you this piece of shit gun and 1 bullet over here by this shade tree.

Peter confused frantic: how's dose that help me. I thought you said you can get my legs to work again!

Monty emotionless chipper voice: Well i said I’d help, I didn’t say in what form. The thing is I have selective memory gaps that are triggered by certain words or phrases. Unfortunately you said the magic words to activate said selective memory and I forgot how I was going to heal your legs. Not sorry for you my man.

Peter franticly confused: what? I don't understand what you mean. How do you forget something so important? What am I supposed to do?

Monty emotionless chipper: Easily. As for what your going to do well…. Use your imagination.

Metal and wood drop and land on the ground followed by a bullet. Leather and cloth stretch as Monty begins walking. Peters whimpers begin dying away.

Monty in false cheer: I would think of something soon. With this breeze the scavengers will be here soon.

Peter in the fading distance: Wait come back! Help me! I'm sorry! please!

Peters pleads fade in the distance. Brush is pushed aside. The crunch of leaves under foot falls x4

Twig snaps

Distant gunshot possible .38 cal

Monty grunts

The crunch of leaves and dirt under foot falls x8

The creaking sound of a metal tower in the breeze in the distance getting closer x2

Foot falls on grass and gravel

Foot falls stop

Monty in concentration: So this is their camp. He said to the east.

Footfalls start. Grass gravel change to rock. Footfalls stop. Gentle breeze blows.

Monty in concentration: There's the valley.

A pouch is opened and a metal object is pulled out. Assumed Beretta is upholstered, metal object is screwed on to Beretta.

Monty: no need to be loud. oh hey my log is still running. I wonder for how long?

Foot falls start again Pipboy scrolling noises

Monty surprised: Wow this thing can tell the difference between voices and guess what's going on fairly accurately. Neat need to remember that.

Gravel and shale shift as Monty goes down hill. Distant water bubbling and running in an assumed creek. Water noises get louder. Splashes and sloshing noises. Wet boot sounds as Monty continues.

Footfalls stop.

Brush and leaves are moved around x3.

A twig snaps as cloth is removed from it.

Footfalls through grass and brush start again

Monty excitedly worried: she's still going east but there are multiple tracks following her. Hopefully those feral gh- sweet Jesus on a Pogo stick.

Footfalls stop. A reaching noise followed by vomit.

Monty sickly: Well there goes my lunch and my snack. I guess these are feral ghouls.  

Footfalls on grass Start and stop x3

Leather and cloth stretch as Monty bends down. Hollow metal casings clink together

Monty in concentration: .44 Magnum, six casings six body's all with headshots. Definitely signs if close quarter combat. Looks like Cassandra's got ahold of a .44 or someone has an angel on her shoulder. Or that fucking merc has her. At least there's a trail to follow. Two sets of tracks headed east flowing the power lines. Shit my log is still going. Look log I'll talk to you later this is Montague Hawk signing off.

Audio Log ends 10.25.87 17:25

Quotes from

Hardcore Henry

Red Vs Blue

The idea of an audio log came from Dannyj's wonder's diary story link to his work