#[ wither : threads. ]

[nugatorysheep]

Ş̸̻͕̺́̚Ṕ̵̛̪̃Ȩ̷̳̫̿̾Ã̶̞̺̇͐͘K̷͈̿̎̇.

This damn comic is fucking A N C I E N T but as far as like, the content of it- not necessarily the art because I always hate my older art, but the presentation, what is objectively here- still feels right to me, so I'm sharing it. again

[crowlixcx]

A little head canon of mine is that Aziraphale's waistcoat actually fell apart years ago but Crowley has been holding it together with a discreet miracle all this time

[cyphyra]

...WHAT DO YOU MEAN KH3D CAME OUT TWELVE YEARS AGO???

[fatalled]

— WITHER. WHEN: the grand opening of anderson laboratories. WHERE: we're mingling, darling. we're networking. WHO: open to all.

Hadrian keeps a dark, weathered eye on the crowd. The tick, tick, tick of the muscles within the neck stretching to flash a smile to the unconscious glide of their fingertips across the delicate ribbon that held their masks in place. A nervous crowd, if ever he saw one. The music weaves itself through that tension and ah — a fine waltz. Dmitri Shostakovich, if he weren't mistaken ( and he rarely is. ) written that lovely key of C minor. Perhaps he was among ... company. The gowns, the glitter, the fake rosy laughter — the beauty of it all.

& even more interesting, the hidden identities of hundreds of EOs. Imagine that power — imagine what they could do with a hand to guide them? He had it on good information that many of them were agents from Cerberus. He knew most of them by face — but the added mask added a little fun to guessing game. He wonders how many secrets he can find out, how many little dropped words, how much he can take. How many more would be able to guess Wither from the curling horns of the devil in the pit of his own mask? Movement out of the corner of his eye distracts him from his thoughts.

"Oh — careful, darling." Hadrian is quick to reach out and grab a hold an elbow before everyone suddenly topples over. Dresses and drinks and shuffling feet rarely went well together. He steps within that open space to give them something to hold onto. "That could have been very bad. Are you alright? They didn't spill anything on you, did they?"

[arabella-strange]

god that candela finale was as brutal as you'd expect from a 3-part series ending in a 6h30 session

[meat-fr]

Rose Thorn + Carousel sets

Sanguine+Vinyard // Sepia+Tarnished Pastel+Lavender // Pristine+Sapphire Gilded+Golden // Faerie+Spring Dusky+Royal // Poisonous+Gothic Withering+Mixed // Primary+Mixed 

[Details for Withering and Primery under the cut]

[aetherose]

@withered-scribe continued from here.

Her heart felt like it skipped a beat when Withers said he knew the source of these godsdamned urges of hers, but of course, he wouldn't get straight to the point. But, she would humor him if that's what it took to get the answers she wanted. "...Sarevok?" The name sounded familiar on her tongue somehow, as if there was something more beyond him being the name of a figure of the past.

She searches her scattered mind, and recalls something she read in a history book once. (A history book from where? When? She can't recall.) "He was a Bhaalspawn that threatened Baldur's Gate somewhere around a century ago and was eventually defeated in the end, if I'm remembering right. But I don't know many details. What does he have to do with this?"

[everybodyknows-everybodydies]

they are so cruel to me

[condemnedsouls]

@ad-nai whispered a line ;; RUPI KAUR POEM STARTERS ( accepting! ) ‘ not everyone can be as soft && tender as you. ’

EMILY turned her gaze to the demon who spoke to her. she had yet to officially meet, or at least, spend any time with him outside of her initial introduction. charlie had been a lovely host thus far, having happily taken her in, ushered her inside && helped patch her up. her wings missing, other injuries still stung. it had been a couple of days, && she was tired. she felt like she had been run over by several vehicles, && she had spent hours on the streets, witnessing exactly what alastor said.

sinners were ... even worse than she could imagine. not all of them, no, she refused to let go of her hope for the people here, but some of them && their actions, they made her shudder.

❝ i know that. even before this, i knew that. ❞

her voice was soft, almost sad in tone, really. she did not like it, she did not like seeing the horrors of hell, but she was here regardless. it made no difference what she liked or wanted. she was here, && she would find a way to help.

❝ they can still choose to be good, though. in time, in words or action. i believe they can. it might just be difficult. not all of them may be willing, but i am sure they could. ❞

[bredforloyalty]

this picture that i happen to be in that was taken during a lecture yesterday that was posted to facebook might be my last straw

[ihaveaskeleton]

Ydrich, Astarion, and Karlach were naturally gravitating towards Wyll as their leader until Withers showed up and declared it Ydrich's responsibility.

[yorprincess]

Desperation || @twiloid

There was a small etching on one of the walls of the cottage, dashes and slashes the size of a few centimeters. Each one denotes a day of hiding. There were only seventy-two...but those had been impossibly long days. Many were spent in silence, worrying for news, hoping and praying to go home.

Yor Forger had left without a word. Seventy three days ago she had gone to work and wasn't permitted to go home. Her Director, Matthew McMahon had pulled her into his office and...

She didn't want to ponder it anymore. This time as she scratched the day marker with the rising sun, she tried to push the growing sense of familiarity with the action away. Maybe this was going to be her life from now on. Hiding away, wasting away because someone had put a hit on her. The ridiculousness of it all (an assassin with a bounty) had stopped being funny after day ten. Whoever this person was, they were serious.

Yor was still recovering from injuries sustained in that encounter, which had led McMahon to take her from Shopkeeper's villa to this location. At first, she had been barely conscious, pain medication keeping her down while her body healed, but now she realized that that state had been a mercy. There were days when she was tempted to leave the cottage and explore the surrounding wood. She wasn't a prisoner, after all, something McMahon had emphasized several times. But, every time she tried, fear would hold her back. Maybe someone was watching at a distance? At times she could swear she felt the hair-rising sensation of eyes on her. Monsters in the closet. The hot breath of an enemy in the dark corners. She had carried a flashlight in her hand at all times even when she spent most of her time sitting on the cot or using the pottery wheel and clay she had found.

That had helped pass the time in the oppressive silence - at least until a few days ago...or had it been a fortnight?

She couldn't recall.

Her Director would come to visit once a week as he couldn't risk coming more frequently. Today would be one of those days, but Yor just felt exhausted. She only had enough strength to scratch the day marker before lying back down.

Wait...When had she last eaten?

She couldn't recall. Her stomach had stopped growling. What was the point if she would just be told she couldn't go home?

Knock...knock knock...knock...

The code reverberates through the empty walls and she let out a soft sigh, barely louder than breath. Slowly she pushed herself upright once more and forced her feet to hold her upright. Weakly, she hobbles in the direction of the entrance, towards the knock that has begun again in earnest in case she hadn't heard it the first time. Something that had happened a frightening number of times.

Her thin fingers flicked open the locks and slowly pulled open the door. Sunlight streamed in through the door, blocked only by the tall form of her director. His long face hidden mostly in shadow was turned towards her, his glasses hiding his eyes from her... but she didn't look at him long. Spinning quietly on her heel, she walked over to the kitchen to brew some tea. No words press harshly on her lips, begging for release. She knows the answer now without even saying anything.

No. I can't go home.

McMahon closed the door and crosses quietly to the table. He doesn't sit down yet, waiting patiently for her to return with the brew before giving her the updates she desires.

Though she doubts anything has changed.

As she places the teacup before her mentor, he smiles at her. It's small and filled with exhaustion, but it's nice. Especially when he reaches over and pats her arm in a fatherly manner. Who knew human touch could be so...

She doesn't have a word to describe it.

Maybe the girls would? Or Yuri? Or Loid and Anya?

Maybe not.

When she sits down, he takes a sip of the tea and clears his throat. "Mrs. Forger," He begins.

Please just call me Yor, She silently begs, knowing it will fall on deaf ears if it escapes her lips like the hundred times it had during the first days of her hiding.

"I've found a safe haven for you."

Yor nearly dropped her teacup. "Wh-what?" She croaked, her voice withered from disuse.

"The person who has put this bounty on you has a very wide reach, but I managed to find a place where they haven't touched. I have a few...distant contacts there whom I've been able to reach and they have agreed to take you in."

She blinked at the older man, partially not comprehending the words coming from his mouth, but hearing one thing very clear: she was leaving Ostania...without her family.

Before she can protest, he set down his cup and continued. "My contact recommended someone specific to help us bring you there. Tell me, dear, have you heard of Agent Twilight?"

[fatalled]

[ open starter for all. ]

The piece of art is ... in all honesty, boring. Hadrian sees little life with the unbalanced shadows and the offset composition. Stagnant, stiff. The figure is supposed to be a glorious image of the dawn but the muddied red stifled the cool tones attempting to describe the fog, the curls were dull with lackluster browns and grays. The gallery made a poor choice.

On one hand, perhaps it is a good choice. The artist is ... well, visible and Hadrian had no plan to take it. The gallery might be wising up — well, so be it. The owner or the curator could easily be replaced with a phone call or two.

He glances to the side and takes that second to study the onlooker. "Interested? I could talk to the curator and see if they can do something about the price. I would consider all art to be priceless but ... some prove me wrong."

[voxxisms]

@ad-nai whispered a line ;; criminal sentences ( accepting! ) "Have you ever actually killed anybody, or do you just talk them to death?"

A QUESTION that wasn't all - together that surprising to hear. whether meant as a jest, or a serious inquiry, he didn't know for sure, but he could treat it as though it was. perhaps by not rising to bait emotionally, he could bother alastor in that way. a bold thought, really.

❝ of course i have. you don't live eighty years in hell without it. ❞

annoyance in his tone now, brushing the other off as though the conversation was completely useless. it was far from it.

❝ i've killed more people in the last seven years than i have in a while, though, if that helps. ❞

he said it half with the intention of trying to insinuate something, half of an attempt to warn. that the once green, unwilling to fight demon that alastor used to know no longer really existed. but then ... they had fought together plenty of times even back then. not that he often had the final blow in those encounters — alastor usually reserved that move.

[dollfat]

so annoying trying to look up information on bg3 but only finding discussions from the early access stage

[abbysthrowaway]

i know how to be happy

i am adept at finding and appreciating beauty and goodness in almost every aspect of life

yet i am consumed with guilt when I'm happy, like i owe the world my sadness

i believe i could be happy if the world wasn't ending,

if there wasn't a pit in my stomach because i complained about the winter every year,

if last year's snow wasn't one of my last

i could be happy if i was ignorant or, at the very least, stupid