#I was too lazy to draw his cloak

[juleboo]

Cece and Girahim

Maybe all he needed was a friend. She was the one to bring him over from the dark side, simply because she told him his eyeliner was nice and complimented his smooth skin.

They are currently discussing the latest fashion trends and how much better they could be.

[lale-txt]

♡ 𝟗:𝟑𝟖𝐚𝐦 𝐰/ 𝐌𝐚𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐚 & 𝐠𝐧!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

@eustasssimp asked: okay so I just had to based on our recent conversations but FIRST!!! THANK YOU FOR REOPENING YOUR INBOX!!!!! your writing is such a gift and I am so excited to see what people request 💛 I hope you can have lots of fun with it could I please request some sfw Madara and just spending a lazy relaxed day at home with him? grumpy man needs to RELAX (I haven’t requested in so long I am desperately trying to remember how to do this lmao) thank you so much dearest Lale I hope you are able to have a good time and take it easy with the requests you get coming in 🤍

a/n: first time writing for this fine gentleman eep! thank you so much for your request, Lem! this was so much fun to write (though it did take a slightly different turn than i expected and somehow Hashirama makes a guest appearance oops)

word count: 1k

Your morning starts like it always does: Tangled.

Black hair is spilled all over the shared futon, getting in your eyes while you’re slowly blinking awake. You try to stretch your limbs but hear a disgruntled noise in your ear in return, a low and raspy voice muttering your name, while strong arms (and a leg thrown over your lower half) pull you closer. You laugh quietly against your partner’s chest, hearing his heart beating slow and steady next to you. 

“You came home late last night… did you have to drag Hashirama out of the gambling hall again?”, you whisper with a hint of amusement in your voice, which is answered by an annoyed huff from Madara. 

“That idiot almost lost his hokage cloak and the stupid hat… should have just left him butt naked on the streets and gone back home to you”, he replies, his eyes still shut. Madara isn’t a morning person, never was, but the fact that he’s engaging in a conversation with you means that he’s either more awake as he pretends or that he’s feeling slightly guilty for letting you go to bed alone last night. 

Your heart flutters and you smile when Madara presses a soft kiss on top of your head. His embrace feels the same like his love does; warm, secure and maybe a bit too intense if you’re not used to it. He is an Uchiha after all, who are notorious for the way they love–but you wouldn’t want it any other way.

“I know you always come back to me though,” you whisper and cup his face with two hands once you manage to brush aside his long hair (and yet it was still everywhere). The morning sun was slowly crawling through the closed curtains but neither of you felt the urge to get up just yet. 

Madara hums at your words, placing his hand on top of yours to kiss the palm of it, down to your wrist, before opening one eye slightly. There’s a faint smile on his lips when he glances at you, and once again you can’t believe that you get to wake up next to him every day–for the rest of your lives even, the golden wedding bands on your ring fingers being proof of that. In one swift motion Madara rolls onto his back and your body right with him, making you lie on top of him and muffling your small protests with a kiss on your lips. 

“Can we stay like this for a little while?”, he mumbles in your ear, big hands finding their way underneath your shirt to feel your soft skin, fingertips drawing small circles on your back. You reply with a small noise of agreement, your face nuzzled in the crook of your husband’s neck, enjoying his affection. Oh, how tempting it is to drift back into sleep… and after all, why not? You’ve found a home in these arms, the safest place on Earth. Madara kisses your forehead, loving this slow morning as much as you do. If you had your eyes open, you would see the smile curling up on his lips and the tenderness in his gaze as he looked down on your figure resting on top of him. 

“I could make us breakfast,” he mumbles after a while, lifting your chin with two fingers to kiss your lips again, “and maybe run us a bath afterwards? Been a while since I washed your hair for you.”

A heartbeat later there’s a rattling noise coming from the kitchen, as if someone dropped several plates all at once, followed by a quiet “oops” in a voice that sounds a little familiar… 

You prop yourself up on your elbows to look Madara in the eyes, one eyebrow raised in suspicion.

“You’re not just proposing that because there is–what I assume–a half-naked and hungover hokage in our kitchen, roaming around for something to eat?” 

Madara looks guilty as charged and gives you an expression that could be best described as puppy eyes, silently pleading for your mercy. You can’t help but laugh and place a kiss on his lips. It’s not like you were mad at him to begin with, you found it was actually very thoughtful of your husband to make sure his best friend didn’t get himself into any trouble and risk getting scolded by his stern brother once again. Plus it wasn’t the first time either, you were almost getting used to your snack stash getting raided by a certain someone…

“I’ll kick him out and then I’ll make us breakfast,” Madara corrects himself with a slight cough. “Our bathtub is too small for three anyway.” He laughs quietly when you smack him with a pillow, grabbing your wrists playfully to stop you from attacking him any further. Madara uses the chance to kiss you again, a little more intense this time until your shoulders slump down and you practically melt into his embrace again. Sneaky, witty Uchiha.

“Tell Hashirama that next time he steals my husband away, I’ll file an official complaint with the hokage office”, you tease once you watch Madara get up and leave the room, wearing nothing but a loose morning robe. He rolls his eyes at you slightly but his smile betrays him as he stops in the door frame to look at you, still in the sheets that smell so heavenly like him. He shakes his head and laughs quietly, heart so full of you, and then he’s stomping down the hallway towards the kitchen.

What was supposed to be a quiet morning somehow turned into a kitchen duel of two adult men challenging each other in who could beat eggs the fastest (Hashirama, but Madara cooked them faster thanks to his katon) with you as their judge, and an impromptu breakfast with even more unannounced visitors (Izuna and Tobirama coming to check up on their respective brothers after abandoning them last night at the gambling hall for good), filling your house with bickering and laughter. 

But you don’t mind. As long as you get to be his, mornings like these make your heart grow fonder, knowing you have a lifetime with each other ahead. It is right there, in front of you, this bright, blazing heart of his.

[s0dastuff]

After almost 19 HOURS, I bring you the main SAMS & LAES cast (plus Jack and Solar). This is just mostly my interpretation and stuff, so it's not that deep. I was just have fun with my own version of their designs. Anyway Here's my thought process on each one because why not:)

Sun's Daycare outfit:

It's basically just his canon outfit, but I added sleeves and more red on his shoes. His sleeves have magnets where they connect to his arm, so thats how he's able to take them off and on. Nothing else to say other than I think the colors look good together.

Sun's Casual outfit:

Nothing too interesting. It's pretty much just a green shirt with a sun on it and his Daycare pants + socks. Honestly I had no idea what to do for his casual design, so I just played around with the color wheel in Ibis till I found this green.

Moon's Daycare outfit:

I'm pretty sure it's canon that Moon doesn't actually work at the Daycare anymore, so for his Daycare design I added these see through sleeve things (I didn't draw them see through because I'm lazy), because I thought it looked cool. He's probably my least favorite design, so I might redo it in the future.

Moon's Casual outfit:

Literally them same as his Daycare outfit but without the sleeves.

Solar's Daycare outfit:

First, rip. Second I'm pretty sure Solar worked at the Daycare. So I decided to give him the wrist ribbons with the bells. He also doesn't have his iconic shirt on, because who in their right mind would wear a WHITE shirt around LITTLE kids. That shirt would be stained in seconds.

Solar's Casual outfit:

Nothing much changed, other than I gave Solar his shirt and I took away his neck ruffles.

Lunar's Daycare outfit:

I don't really have anything against Lunar's original design, so it stayed mostly the same. He has a cloak/cape now though. I might go back in and change how the hood connects to the cape, but it's fine for now.

Lunar's Casual outfit:

This one is probably my favorite casual design out of all of them. Instead of his hooded cap, he has an actual cap now (yippee), and instead of moons on it, it's stripped (because I didn't wanna draw moons or stars on it). He has a blue sweater (or hoodie) on over his shirt, which has a star on it. His pants are somewhat based on the Collectors from TOH. He's also wearing socks. This is definitely my favorite design of the bunch.

Earth's Daycare outfit:

Earth's design is definitely my favorite Daycare design. Earth's outfit is mostly based on her already existing Daycare outfit, except I added more of the yellow spikes, and instead of flowers there are bubbles. I also changed a few of Earth's colors a little bit (ex. Her sleeves, and legs).

Earth's Casual outfit:

This one is also based on Earth's already existing sweater and skirt, but it's more basic. I would've added more details, but I couldn't think of anything.

Jack's design:

He's the only one that didn't change Daycare and Casual. His design is kind of a mix of ayy-imma-ninja (the LAES thumbnail artist)'s design, and the vrchat model. I felt like the bell would be a kind of big disadvantage when sneaking around, cause of the noise, so I kept the bell but made it so there's not a bell on the inside.

This was really long sorry (Edit: as of now I plan on updating Moon, Sun, Solar, and Lunar)

[saijspellhart]

how about heath/legault for 37

37. Kisses that shut them the hell up (Heath x Legault)

“I heard you were looking for me.”

That voice washed over Heath like the first drops of a summer rain. Chills chased relief down his spine, and made his skin tingle with anticipation. It was annoying as it was exhilarating that this man had this affect on him. He whirled around a little too earnestly to see the lavender-haired assassin slumped in the doorway he’d just stalked through.

Legault was a mess, stained bandages replaced the bandana he normally wore to hold his excessively long hair back. There were tears in his clothes, that revealed even more bandages and patches, equally soaked in blood. It was clearly a chore for the man to remain standing even with the assistance of the doorframe.

“I saw you on a stretcher… the Caelin knights carried you.”

“The stretcher came after the Caelin knights,” Legault corrected, his mouth quirked up and those tired eyes brightened, just the littlest bit. “I took a few arrows,” he admitted and attempted to straighten up against the door. He winced.

Heath caught himself moving towards the assassin on reflex. “You barreled right into a mess of snipers. Tell me you were possessed by a bout of madness, because no other explanation makes sense to me.”

Legault sucked in a breath through his teeth, and resigned himself to embracing the frame. His knees wobbled as he chuckled tiredly, “I needed to cover for my partner. Draw their fire. Besides… I dodged most of them.”

Most!? Most of them!? When two dozen arrows were being fired at you, dodging most of them meant that four or five still hit you. Heath hadn’t even seen the battalion of archers, they were so obscured in a thicket of trees. Perched in the bushy tree tops. Legault had foolishly broken cover, screaming like a banshee across a clearing, loud enough to alert Heath in the sky atop his wyvern, Hyperion. It was fortunate the Caelin knights had rushed in when they had, their armor deflecting shots.

Heath grimaced against the memory and approached the drooping rogue. “You seen a healer yet?”

“Just escaped Serra’s delicate tending,” Legault breathed out, his head pressing into the wood as he struggled to look up at the Wyvern Lord. “Heath… don’t tell me you’re worried about me.”

Heath took hold of Legault’s arm, it looked to be a place not full of holes. “Stop talking.”

“Make my heart skip a beat…if your were.” Legault completely ignored his command.

Heath hauled the quickly crumpling assassin off the door and into his side.

“You’re so fucking tall,” Legault blathered on, “trying to sweep a guy off his feet.”

“Legault, I swear to god,” Heath threatened, planting his feet so he wouldn’t throw himself off balance when he maneuvered his arms beneath Legault’s shoulders. The lithe rogue might have been smaller and willowy, but that cloak of his hid the toned, coiled muscle that Legault needed to move so silent and gracefully, performing the impossible feats of acrobatics his line of work demanded. “You shouldn’t have followed me out here. Let me help you to a bed.”

Legault slid his arms over the tops of Heath’s, his hands coming to rest on the Wyvern Lord’s shoulders. A lazy drunken smile pulled the corners of his mouth enough to show a hint of teeth. It pulled at his facial scars, bunching the skin on his cheek. “Should have taken an arrow for you sooner,” he drawled. “Had I known that’s all it would take…for you to bed me.”

“Asinine of me to think flirting with death would make you any less of a knave.”

“At least…I’m consistent,” Legault’s legs finally gave out from the blood-loss, but Heath held his weight, “your signals are as mixed as a church in a red-light district.”

Heath adjusted his hold to lift the smaller man off the ground, and began drag-carrying Legault down the hall toward the nearest room with a bed. Through gritted teeth he said, “consistency isn’t a substitute for sincerity.”

“You’re right, I shouldn’t have walked back my love confession.”

Heath made a choking noise and blinked golden eyes down at the man in his arms. “That’s not funny.”

“I’m being sincere,” Legault smiled up at him. “No jokes.”

A few more steps and Heath’s back hit a door. He shifted Legault’s weight to his left arm, his knee between Legault’s legs for support, while his right hand reached down and fumbled for the door knob. “Did Serra drug you? Are you drunk off your ass?”

“Just a little bloodless. A pity, because the way ‘m straddling your thigh…it might have all gone south otherwise.”

Heath finally got the door open and hauled Legault through the threshold. “What is it going to take to shut you the hell up?”

“You’re a shrewd man, Heath,” Legault drawled, “you know how-“

“Out!” the Wyvern Lord barked.

Erk, a small mage with indigo colored hair, dropped the book he’d been reading onto the bed. His bewildered expression shot between the two men who barged into his room.

Heath fixed the man with a piercing stare and repeated the command, “Get out, I’m claiming this room for triage.”

“I’m telling, Serra,” Erk said before grabbing his cloak and travel bag, then he rushed out of the room.

“Good! She shouldn’t have let this fucking man out of the infirmary to begin with!” he yelled after the fleeing mage.

“I like it when you lose your composure,” Legault purred, his head falling to the side. “Language so unbecoming a knight.”

“I’m not a knight anymore.” Heath toed the door closed.

“Maybe not in title. But it’s still there.”

Heath moved them both to the edge of the bed. He shifted Legault’s weight again to sweep a hand across the covers, knocking all Erk’s tomes and books onto the floor.

Legault, mercifully didn’t comment about it.

“Let go of my mantle so I can get you in bed.”

“Yes sir~”

“Don’t.”

“You make it too easy for me.”

Heath made an about face, “I have but to exist and you come on to me.” He couldn’t help but notice, that rather than releasing his mantle, the assassin had melted against him even more, pillowing his head against Heath’s shoulder. The long lavender hair that cascaded down his back, was tangled with Heath’s arms.

Legault sighed longingly, “I’d take a thousand more arrows if it assured your existence a little longer.”

Heath’s traitorous heart danced in his chest. “Legault-“

The rogue scoffed and shook his head, cutting him off with, “that wasn’t even an innuendo. Listen to me spout such poetic trash. You’re not even into me, and yet I can’t help but try. I’m clearly-“

Heath dipped his head and covered Legault’s mouth with his. The whole man went tense in his arms, stunned silent. For…about two heartbeats, then Legault made a most obscene hum and kissed Heath back.

The assassin exerted himself to bury a shaky hand in Heath’s hair, fingers curling to grip the messy verdant locks. It sent shocks of pleasure from the base of Heath’s skull down his body. He hauled Legault up, tilting his head for a better angle, lips moving against his. Legault’s lips felt so cold against Heath’s, and he thought if he just pressed close enough he could impart warmth back into him.

As quickly as the kiss happened it ended. Legault suddenly felt heavier than before, a dead weight in his hold, their kiss breaking as his face lolled to the side.

“Legault,” Heath called, voice filled with concern. “Legault!”

There was no response, the man in his arms had passed out. The blood loss finally caught up with him.

0000

I hope I did these two justice. Thanks for the prompt and allowing me to practice writing their characters.

[play-on-skinners-box]

Others have already been furrying the Raincode characters and doing a phenomenal job, but when I would peruse Danganrompa fanart I really liked seeing different and wildly varying interpretations for the characters' animal choices and now it is my turn, my GOD GIVEN DUTY TO PROVIDE IN THE GENISIS OF THE RAINCODE FANDOM, FOR THE HONOR OF THOSE WHO HAVE COME BEFORE ME.

For all of them I used their pose from the artbook renders. I'll say it's to keep them recognizable but that is actually a lie I'm just lazy.

Secretary Bird Halara:

Halara I did first and they were the one I was most jazzed to do because I love them dearly. I made them a secretary bird and I think it's a PERFECT fit. Ahem allow me to rattle off. Secretary birds are birds, so doomed by the narrative to have to stay away from cats, they are predatory birds and of course Halara would be at the top of the food chain. Speaking of predetory birds, secretary birds are known for their ability TO KICK VENOUMOUS SNAKES TO DEATH, AND THATS JUST TOO GOOD A FIT. They also have plumage that I could easily shape into Halara's kinda smooth swoopy hairstyle, and face markings that could be sort of representative of their glasses! I think the drawing for them is probably the weakest out of the group just because as I went along I improved and started to translate the human designs in less one to one ways, plus the pose Halara has in the artbook doesn't fit perfectly to the really big wing hand things. I still enjoyed making it because H A L A R A N I G H T M A R E but I'm honestly kinda sad at how lackluster it is compared to Fubuki and Viva who got the most interesting details and texture work. NEVER DO YOUR FAVORITE FIRST IT'S A TRAP.

Guinea Pig Desuhiko:

With Desuhiko I was going back and fourth between a few rodents, I just think he kinda looks like one and already had those pikachu cheeks. My first scetch made him a hamster, and while it DID look like him, it felt a little too... Indistinct. Desuhiko's probably my favorite design in the cast just because he looks so distinctive and has a short stocky bodytype I really really love and makes my character designer brain happy, so I swapped hamster for guinea pig. While the guinea pig face doesn't look like him quite as much as the hamster, they are very interesting and distinctive looking which I loved a lot more even with a bit of accuracy sacrificed if that makes sense. Also there are Guinea pigs with spikey wild fur that make it so I could just kinda give him his actual hair and still have it make sense. Guinea pigs are also the perfect size and shape to be thrown like a large softball and out of all the Master Detectives Desuhiko looks like he'd be the most sadisfying to chuck across a room.

Fish Fubuki:

Fubuki was really hard just because it's difficult to anthropomorphize a fish in the same way as a mammal or a avian cause of their structure. She might look a biitttt more like a fantasy creature inspired by a fish than just a fish but she's charming enough I don't completely mind. I got some SOLID advice and looked at some Splatoon NPCs characteristics to try and make her more appealing. So why fish? I got it as a suggestion that I ended up really liking because fish are notorious for their bad memory, live in tanks their whole lives(Fubuki is the definition of sheltered), and they have fins to mimic the shape of Fubukis cloak and hair. I used beta fish for reference, they don't really fit her but just being a fish was good enough for me and at that point I was prioritizing looks. She doesn't even really look like any specific species like the other three to be honest. She's defiantly the outlier of the group but that's fine, she can be special in her own unique way like always. Got a little lazy with making the hair look all that fin-like, but it's kinda the main event of her human design so I wanted to keep it as true to that as possible but looking at it now I think its tooooo copy and paste looking. Her furry design IS my brothers favorite out of the batch so that's gotta count for something!

Flying Fox Bat Vivia:

The vampire looking man was always gonna be a bat, I am but a slave to the whims of fate. I made him specifically a flying fox because they're the largest bat species and therefore can loom ominously. Vampire bat would have been fun too, but they have more of a squished bastard energy that doesn't really fit Vivia. Bats also are known for their weird sleeping habits, ala upside. Viva isn't sleeping upside down or anything like that but he DOES snooze in some weird places so I think comparing him to a bat in multiple aspects is very apt! His drawing and animal design is probably my favorite, I really like the wings, and the bat feet are super weird I loved doing those. I did have trouble incorperating his hair, flying foxes have pretty smooth heads, but they do have sort of a mane thing going on so I tried to put some of his hair texture and shape there instead. Sorry I did not give him is edgy edgy hair cut, I too love it very much but it was simply not to be. I did try to mimic it's vibe with the patterning on his head though, an illusion of his bangs.

I'm very happy with this lineup overall, they're some neat little designs if I do say so myself! I might do more but I have the chronic problem of not being able to sit still for a long time to do a BUNTCH of guys again(though for the record I would make Seth the most delightfully storm drain gutter looking creature). I also kinda wanna do Makoto and Yuma cause someone suggested a REALLY good idea for them, but the concept for Makoto with this idea would be more of an involved design that I wouldn't be able to use all of his normal outfit for so it'd probably take longer than average.

TLDR: Furries amiright?

[mysticstarlightduck]

✦ OC DEEP DIVE ✦

Thanks for the tag, @ominous-feychild (here)!

I'm gonna do this tag for Pyerce Ophyria and Tarah Ryllar from Supernova Initiative and Josh Aleta and Gwyn Whitewood from Scrapyard Boys!

What uncommon/common fear do they have?

Pyerce: Fear of being manipulated or being stuck in a situation that is out of his control; fear of making a terrible mistake/failing his kids; fear of clowns.

Tarah: Fear of being kidnapped or drugged (because she saw the same happen to her best friend, Eos); fear of the uncanny valley or things that seem normal but feel off; fear of being a disappointment to herself

Josh: Fear of being trapped (claustrophobia, but also fear of being contained by others); fear of being unredeemably evil (he wasn't exactly The Perfect Cousin - in fact he was quite the... complicated and annoying angsty teen, sometimes toxic but not more than any regular teen - prior to his abduction by the PHANTOM Industries, plus he has what they call an "evil power" because he controls fears/nightmares, so the constant pressure by his captors that "he is inherently evil and needs to be fixed" kind of broke him in a way)

Gwyn: Being unable to protect the ones she loves and herself; fear of being found and recaptured by the PHANTOM Industries; fear of Zander Corelli (the mob boss - and pimp - Adrien works for, who basically haunts his and the twins' lives for most of the duration of the WIP); fear of being trapped in the heat.

Do they have any pet peeves?

Pyerce: Corrupt governments to lie to their affiliates and discard their assets once they're no longer useful to them once that person isn't "useful" to them anymore. Not being fully aware of a situation. He also can't stand people who legitmatelly make excuses to be lazy and who leech off of others instead of trying to be proactive.

Tarah: She doesn't really like loud and repetive noises. Tarah also hates bureaucracy - with a passion - especially when it gets in the way something she has a time crunch on succeeding or when it prevents active change in an environment.

Josh: People who are nosy and try to pry on other's private matters - on another hand, he can't stand people who care too much about what others will think and have that constant "but what will the neighbours think?!" mindset. It gets on his nerves.

Gwyn: Being pressured - especially when there's something time sensitive involved - which usually makes her panic and spiral rather than to figure out what to do faster. On a sadder note, she doesn't like people who get too handsy with others in an uncomfortable way - she's seen Adrien's patrons do that all too often and now she has a "touch (me/my siblings/my friends) and you won't fucking have hands" mentality.

What are 3 items you can find in their bedroom?

Pyerce: Coffee candies, hidden weapons of all kinds (remember he's a retired assassin, and the most dangerous assassin there ever was at that), and probably some messy crayon drawings that Gabi and Morgan made when they were kids (because he's their dad and cherishes the memories)

Tarah: Her best friend's unfinished woven bracelet, protein bars, hooded cloaks and generally oversized hoodies that can help her hide her features when on the run.

Josh: Weights (to stay fit), a radio playing vintage rock music, a nightlight (he's afraid of the dark but doesn't want anyone to know)

Gwyn: Cheesy potato chips, tickets for a comedy show or for the movies, a giraffe plushie she won at a fair

What do they notice first in a person?

Pyerce:... Everything. He's the ultimate secret agent/assassin - so I think he'd pretty much have a clear picture of that person with just a quick once over or a glance. Black Widow/John Wick-style, like a very meticulously detailed analisys of that person.

Tarah: If they look like they're trying to deceive her, catch her or if they're generally a threat to her or her friends. She is also pretty good at reading people's feelings from their facial expressions.

Josh: If he can take them in a fight or if he needs to run. How imposing they are or if that person is trying to intimidate him. Because of his powers, if he tries to, Josh can immediately see/find out what that person's worst nightmare/fear is (his power is Nightmare Manipulation) and choose to do with that information whatever is more relevant.

Gwyn: If they seem nice or friendly. She's bad at navigating social cues because she has spent the past three years locked up in a lab and the years before that in an isolated household, and generally just wants to make friends.

On a scale of 1 to 10, how high is their pain tolerance?

Pyerce:

Emotional: 8, but pretends its a 10

Physical: +11

Tarah:

Emotional: -1 (squishy, kind hearted, anxious baby girl)

Physical: 6

Josh:

Emotional: Before his capture = 5, but didn't let it show too much; After his capture = -4 but pretends its a +10 in really extreme ways

Physical: 9 (before and after), unless some kind of psychological trickery is also tied to it - in that case its a 0

Gwyn:

Emotional: 7, sometimes too oblivious to stuff though tends to overthink

Physical: 8

Do they go into fight or flight mode when under pressure? (I'm also including freeze and fawn)

Pyerce: Goes "Scorched Earth" kind of Fight Reflex - especially when it involves protecting his daughters. And because he is the most lethal assassin of his generation, whoever is threatening/pressuring him better run - though that will only stall the inevitable.

Tarah: Usually Flight 100% - she's the embodiment of deer in headlights and will bolt at any sign of danger even if that just a misunderstanding. However, if the danger is too overwhelming or too similar to her past traumas, she tends to freeze.

Josh: Before his capture - his first instinct was Fight. He is and was a very angry and stubborn person, who tends to have fits of rage when scared or frustrated and who often lashed out in ways he later regretted but was too headstrong to apologize for, often in a bully-like way but not fully - much like Billy Hargrove from Stranger Things. After his capture - if the pressure is psychological or triggers him, he tends to go into an "unique" Freeze mode in which he acts as if in a trance - his conscience feels distant and detached, but his powers are lashing out in Fight mode to protect him from whoever is triggering him. If his former captors are specifically involved, he tends to go into a complete Fawn reflex to appease them.

Gwyn: Fight, especially if she has to protect herself and her loved ones, or when she wants revenge. If there's absolutely no other choice she may choose Flight to Fight another day.

Do they come from a big family/are they a family person?

Pyerce:

Original Family unknown

After he quit being an assassin, he dedicated his life to raising his two adoptive daughters Gabi (the one he adopted first) and Morgan (the second one he adopted), so I would definetly say he is a family kind of guy, despite his murderous past.

Tarah:

Her father was killed when she was a little girl and though she was saved by her godmother, Tarah ended up having to flee the Junction galaxies all alone with Eos (her godmother's son) after her godmother too was truck down by the Junction.

Tarah is fiercely devoted to those she calls family, especially Eos, who is her best friend and who is like a brother to her.

Josh:

He was orphaned at a young age, and his original parents are a mystery. Currently, before his capture, he used to live with adoptive/foster parents (Erin's uncle and aunt) but they weren't very close at all, and he was kidnapped by the PHANTOM Industries shortly after.

Not really. He used to be very troublesome, rude, brutish and often harsh towards anyone that tried to show kindness to him, because he saw it as a scheme and feared he didn't deserve it. That lead him to have a bully kind of behavior to pretty much everyone for years and to be a certified rule breaker who often made things worse than they needed to be. However, deep down, he was developing some semblance of a friendship with his adoptive cousin Erin, but they still argued a lot and he was kidnapped before he could truly have a sibling bond with her. After escaping, he was so conditioned by the Industries to believe he is evil that he thinks he is unworthy of love and respect and that he is a dnager to anyone who tries to get close to him, so he takes a skittish approach to others now.

Gwyn:

Her mother was a troubled, but kind, young lady who had many boyfriends in her youth and didn't really know how to handle parenthood yet and wanted to find out more about herself first. So Gwyn, her twin - Rhys - and their half-brother Adrien (from their mom's first boyfriend) ended up living most of their childhood with their toxic grandparents. A few years after Adrien was kicked out of home at 15, Rhys and Gwyn developed superpowers after coming into contact with a chemical factory leak, and were sent by their grandparents to the Spectre Academy. After they tried to escape at first, they were sent by the Academy to be lab rats of the PHANTOM Industries.

She is - especially when it comes to her twin brother Rhys and their half-brother Adrien. They're the only family each other has ever had, so they kind of have a "us against the world" kind of mindset, though they still have a lot of getting reacquaintted to do with Adrien since they were apart for so long.

What animal represents them best?

Pyerce: A black wolf

Tarah: Hummingbird

Josh: Either a raccoon or feral cat

Gwyn: Arctic fox

What is a smell that they dislike?

Pyerce: The smell of rotten things - especially rotten blood or flesh (a.k.a he is an assassin who hates the smell of corpses)

Tarah: Scent of alcohol and the smell of a lot/too much of perfume.

Josh: Laboratory smells and also the smell of mold.

Gwyn: She generally hates the smell of sweat and unwashed things.

Have they broken any bones?

Pyerce: Yes, many times in his former career, but not once since he quit it.

Tarah: Not really, just a sprained ankle once when she was a kid

Josh: A couple times, most when he was being experimented on.

Gwyn: Not really, probably.

How would a stranger likely describe them?

Pyerce: A quiet and introvertedly serious man who wants to just live his life and do his own thing, who most people don't know much about but who is a genuine benefactor to many and is also a doting father.

Tarah: That skittish kid with the woven bracelets and the multicolored nail polish who never stays in one place and always feels like she's too scared or too anxious to talk to anyone she doesn't fully know.

Josh: A troublemaking, brutish and angry teenager who is always looking for new ways to cause chaos, who doesn't obey any rules and doesn't give a fuck about anyone, and is also rude to most people he doesn't know and harsh to those he does know. The weird kid that is always causing grownups a headache.

Gwyn: It depends on the stranger. If the stranger is with Zander's mob, they'll probably address her as 'Ametrine's' sister (Adrien's stage name is Ametrine) or if they're keen on being especially rude, they'll probably call her "the stripper's brat" or "that girl who is always walking around with Zander's plaything". Yeah. They're not... kind to them. But most other strangers would describe her as a lively, bright headed, kind young lady with a big heart who wants to have fun and has a sparkling laughter.

Are they a night owl or an early bird?

Pyerce: Probably both?

Tarah: Night owl in an unsettling (looming) way

Josh: Night owl - poor boi has insomnia and night terrors

Gwyn: Morning bird, also in an unsettling (but giddy) way

What is a flavour they hate and a flavour they love?

Pyerce:

Loves: Well cooked, refined meals with rare spices

Hates: Painfully sweet desserts, like the nauseatingly sweet ones

Tarah:

Loves: Spicy fried food

Hates: Alcohol

Josh:

Loves: Comfort food (pizza)

Hates: Bland food or sticky food

Gwyn:

Loves: Ice Cream; Cheesy Potato Chips

Hates: Spicy food

Do they have any hobbies?

Pyerce: Sharpshooting, listening to music, growing poisonous flowers, reading cheap romance books

Tarah: Dancing, rollerskating, helping stray animals, learning new languages, talking about her favorite movies

Josh: Reading comic books, weightlifting, driving around aimlessly on stolen cars, listening to rock, watching rom-coms (hates horror movies)

Gwyn: Going to ice cream shops, watching stand up comedy shows, walking around the city at night, making ice sculptures on the window with her powers,

Boom, surprise birthday party! How do they react to surprises?

Pyerce: Calm happiness and a bit of surprise. After so many years out of the field as an assassin, he's learned to enjoy the joys of regular life, and honestly is always glad to do so.

Tarah: Initial panic but it would then turn into awkward joy as she realizes the situation is harmless. She would probably not know how to properly navigate it and be confused at how to proceed.

Josh: WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS - (almost has a heart attack out of fear, needs three cups of water and a cookie to calm down then is like). Oh, fuck yeah I like this, let's party! Just... don't scare me next time.

Gwyn: "Omg, yay, this is literally so cool guys!!!! I wanna try all the candy, and dance to the music and have fun, oh gosh there are so many gifts this is so cool -!" (rambles on)

Do they like to wear jewelry?

Pyerce: Not really. Likes some nice silver rings though.

Tarah: The woven bracelets she and her best friend made for each other.

Josh: Yeah kinda. Loves rings and necklaces with funny designs of cartoonishly styled ghosts or skulls, and wears some necklaces.

Gwyn: Doesn't really understand the concept of how to style jewelry into a daily outfit but digs it nonetheless

Do they have neat or messy handwriting?

Pyerce: Neat

Tarah: In between, tends towards messy.

Josh: Messy & adds too much pressure to it

Gwyn: In between and scribbles doodles and cute heart shaped designs around it

What are the two emotions they feel the most?

Pyerce: Calmness and The Need To Protect

Tarah: Anxiety and awkward joy

Josh: Anger and Fear/Dread/Panic

Gwyn: Love for her family/friends & giddy happiness of experiencing the real world

Do they have a favourite fabric?

Pyerce: Anything that is stylishly black and also comfortable, practical and probably bulletproof

Tarah: Flannel, cotton, yarn

Josh: Leather, jeans, soft cotton

Gwyn: Light polyester, cotton and fluffy jackets

What kind of accent do they have?

Pyerce: A soft, more neutral version of a "Junction" accent

Tarah: Central Junction accent that has faded away into a mismatched Khosmonian Accent

Josh: Probably some mix of accent Detroit and New York? (The city of this WIP is based on IRL ones but is also very much fictional)

Gwyn: Not sure but probably similar to Josh's (same city) but with a very slight Northern lilt to it? (The city of this WIP is based on IRL ones but is also very much fictional)

Tagging (gently): @sleepy-night-child, @kaylinalexanderbooks, @smol-feralgremlin, @oh-no-another-idea, @littleladymab,

@winterandwords, @eccaiia, @sarahlizziewrites, @illarian-rambling

@agirlandherquill, @anoelleart, @ray-writes-n-shit

@writernopal, @anyablackwood, @unstablewifiaccess, @forthesanityofstorytellers, @finickyfelix

@i-can-even-burn-salad, @cakeinthevoid,

@lassiesandiego, @thepeculiarbird, @clairelsonao3, @memento-morri-writes, @starlit-hopes-and-dreams and OPEN TAG

[quibbs126]

So basically I made this due to me looking at sprites for too long

So I was getting sprites for all the characters I would assume I need for drawing, and I was able to find Young Reno’s sprites, along with some others

And one thing I noticed when I was looking at the sprites in Procreate is that he doesn’t seem to wear shoes. His feet color are the same as his normal skin tone, so I can only assume that he doesn’t have any

Young Ceres also doesn’t wear shoes, but I can excuse that since she literally just escaped a laboratory where she was being experimented on. I doubt Giro was providing her with footwear when she wasn’t supposed to ever leave. Reno though doesn’t really have an excuse. Like Menos, Arthus, one of you, get the child some shoes! You’re his dad and grandad, make sure he has proper protection from the wild attacking his feet!

I know it doesn’t mean anything realistically, but it just led me to making this. Specifically because I was out with my friend today and didn’t have much else to do

It’s just a silly little thing I thought was funny

I used Reno’s overworld sprite as a reference more than his talk sprite, since that was where the feet thing came from

But also just a note because I’ve been looking too much at sprites, the Past sprites have a couple inaccuracies

Young Reno has a jacket like he does in the Present, but his talk sprite does not, Young Ceres has a pink outfit in her overworld sprite while her talk sprite wears blue, and Arthus is mostly just wearing a red cloak over his outfit, whereas in his card and the intro cutscene, we see he wears mostly black/blue and wears no cloak, instead having black fur(?) lining, as well as a red cape in the card design. I mean, maybe with Arthus they just wanted to be lazy, considering we wouldn’t see him ever again. Not sure about the other two though

And I know all that is entirely inconsequential, but I know it and have no one else to talk about it with, so now you do too

[hanzajesthanza]

the mishmash of clothing that geralt’s company wear during their journey is delightfully piecemeal. it’s like half-brokilonian, half-stolen from banditry, half-clothes which actually belong to them. ik i made this post as a joke but i actually really love the outfits of the company

geralt and dandelion are dressed in hooden grey elven mantels. later in chapter 4, they’ve exchanged them for homespun cloaks stolen from the guards, which they used to escape the camp. from though he still has his recognizable headband and medallion, geralt is seemingly almost incognito as he wears a leafy-patterned elven jerkin from the dryads. (and for even more brokilon influence, before zoltan gives him the dwarven sihill, he has a sword from col serrai).

speaking of dwarven fashions, dandelion receives a quilted jacket and a ‘swashbuckling’ marten-fur kalpak from zoltan and his company. he replaced his plum hat with the heron’s feather with this marten kalpak, so he as well is almost incognito. as far as accessories go, he has a brass-studded belt and the cruel-looking knife from the dwarves, too; although he immediately lost the knife. after the events of chapter 4 and in the middle of 5, his head is wounded and bandaged.

zoltan tells milva that she “looks too much like a squirrel” to approach humans alone — which is probably a result of her dress and her bow, of course. asides from her mahogany bow with whalebone risers, measuring 5 foot with a 24 inch draw length, shooting grey-fletched arrows… and one silver arrow… she’s likely dressed in some brokilonian or elven garb, owing to her work as an agent for brokilon. but she also wears “human” clothing, a blouse and woolen leggings. her belt is described, with a pouch and a hunting knife with a bone handle hanging off of it (and in the next book, she gives this knife to angoulême as a gift). perhaps most curiously, milva’s not mentioned to be wearing her iconic braid or plait during this book, rather her long hair is described as falling into geralt’s face when she leans over him in tense conversation in chapter 1, tossing her hair with a sudden movement when offended in chapter 5…

cahir is almost unrecognizable as nothing he wears betrays him as nilfgaardian, instead he’s dressed in a hauberk, leather tunic and cloak from the men who were transporting him. but this hauberk becomes ever-so iconic in its own right as it plays such a role in the fish soup… as a strainer.

regis, of course, dresses modestly and is perhaps the only one of the company dressed in his own clothes not signalling affiliation to a larger faction or taken from some roving banditry. black robes, something like an apron tied around the waist. when they meet him, he has a linen bag, but when they leave, he’s exchanged it for a leather one. and also, a walking stick, which is never mentioned again by the writing... he also has his nigh-iconic black, woolen cloak-cape, which he wraps himself up in…

and the horses! do not forget the horses. geralt’s elven roach, a bay mare who rides as if bitted by horseflies. the lazy and docile bay gelding pegasus, of course, remains dandelion’s steed. cahir rides on a chestnut colt, which he loses but later recovers. milva’s black horse, which she tells geralt not to touch in chapter 1, which also becomes the subject of debate in chapter 4. regis rides on a nilfgaardian bay near the end of the novel, by which point they’ve also obtained a riderless grey horse which carries their modest belongings.

these small little details are all just described so wonderfully across the course of the book, the picture is painted for you eventually, over time, your attention is rewarded with an intricate picture at the end…

[jussst-lurking]

CAN I REQUEST A COMBO, QUESTION

"Are you ok?" "Yeah I'm fine. *immediately faceplants because their legs can't support their weight anymore*"

+

Stopping their heart (cue the team scrambling to drag their dumbass friend back from death)

sending you lurvvvvv LIVE LONG AND PROSPER <3<3<3 MWAH

Heyyy💖, so uhm, this really got out of hand and I wrote like 2.3k for it in one sitting! I'm putting it here, but I also posted it on ao3 because I thought it would be more convenient to read, I hope you enjoy! 🖖

Charles feels the exact moment Lando’s magic runs out. It’s like a seal breaking, like a hand pulling him further into darkness, calling to something much more sinister within him, a carefully held balance being knocked off-kilter, scales tipped too far in one direction.

He whips around to where Lando is fighting down at the river, where he can feel his presence rapidly fading.

No.

No, no no, not now. Not when they’ve almost made it out of this fucking death trap unscathed. (Not ever, he can’t bear the thought, couldn’t stand to lose him.)

A dark figure, cloaked in purple robes, face hidden behind a mask like the others, looms over Lando, a runic blade aloft, ready to strike. A rune spinner, hells no. Lando is shrinking, stumbling backwards, his life force waning, ever closer to joining Charles’ side.

Everything around Charles goes silent, blurry, hazy like a fever dream. His entire focus zeroes in on Lando and his opponent. With no regard for the consequences, he abandons his own battle - his servants will make short work of it now the balance has tipped in their favour - and storms through the trees, down the rocky riverbank into the waters of the shallow river. In one fluid motion he pulls out his dagger and draws it over his left forearm, cold blood gushing from the wound, flowing down to his scarlet-stained fingertips, singing with new warmth as magic thrums through it. A prayer tumbles from his lips, barely registering, and the shadows surge forward, rising from the water, peeling themselves off the bark of the surrounding trees, springing from the rocks that make up the river bed. The figure turns, notices him too late, they always do. That’s the thing with shadows, no one pays them any mind until they’re not where they’re supposed to be.

Darkness engulfs the rune spinner, a roar vibrating in Charles’ chest, the howling of a hundred dogs, triumphant, satisfied. When the shadows dissipate, nothing’s left. Not the robe, nor the mask or the sword, nothing. Charles’ wrath ebbs off, lazy satisfaction spreading through him, warm and soothing like healing tea. It doesn’t last.

Coming back to his senses, Charles rushes over to Lando, who is barely keeping himself upright. He wants to touch him, wants to cradle his face between his hands, but he can’t, not right now, not yet, not when his blood is still running warm.

“Chéri, are you ok?”, Charles rasps, worry eating a hole into his chest. If Lando really used every last drop of his magic… he doesn’t want to think about it.

Lando’s skin is pale, his posture sunken in, eyelids drooping shut, body trembling like the icy grip of death is stealing all his warmth. Deep down Charles knows that is exactly what’s happening.

“Yeah, I’m fine”, he whispers, voice thin, shaky, not complying. The moment the words leave his lips, Lando collapses to the ground.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Charles kneels next to him, his robes soaking wet with river water, as he desperately searches for a pulse. Thank magic, he finds one. It’s weak and Lando hasn’t got long, but it’s there. If only- He needs- Frantically, Charles looks up at the sky, searching, where in the seven hells is- there. A glint of gold, high above them, Max’s wings glowing in the sun. He must have felt the disturbance too, which can only mean… Charles’ heart sinks when he sees two purple-robed wind riders circling Max, throwing daggers and blasts of wind, locked in fierce combat. Max shoots arrows at them, dodges their attacks with no way out of there.

Charles takes a deep, steadying breath. Max will be fine, he always is, and if not, Charles has enough blood left to make him stronger, give him all the power he needs. His attention focuses back on Lando, who is fading further and further, losing warmth. The shadows are waiting for him, ready to pounce like a horde of hungry dogs, but Charles forces them back. He’s still in control here.

What now? Max can’t help them, he would have arrived here long ago if he could.

Damn it.

Charles’ powers weren’t made for healing, all he knows how to do is take, take the warmth of others, destroy them, drag them down the icy pit he crawled out of. But magic be damned, if Max can hone his healing touch into a deadly weapon, then Charles bloody well can do the opposite.

One chance.

One way.

Charles knows in his core that there is one thing he can do to save Lando.

Blood, shadow, sacrifice, they’re his daily bread.

How do you save a life?

Charles only has himself to give. He’s had his second chance, and Lando, he’s so young, so fragile, so mortal, has barely lived, not like Charles and Max have… if anyone deserves a second chance it’s him.

Charles scrambles for his dagger, draws another gash over his arm, deeper this time, the blade burning as it slashes his skin. The blood runs over his palm, gathers at the tips of his fingers, warming up one last time. One life for another, that’s how it goes. He rips Lando’s shirt open, draws an intricate sigil over his heart, blood soaking into ashen skin. There is no incantation this time, no prayer. Charles leans over Lando, taking his hand in his bloody one, and kisses him. One last time.

“Take me, not him”, he whispers, before he draws back and lays down next to Lando, their fingers still entwined.

He knows it’s working the moment the words leave his mouth, his heartbeat slows, cold and shadow draw nearer, a mob of wild dogs coming for their master. It’s all the magic he had left, all the life. They’re both leaving him, oozing out of him like the blood from his wound. He wishes Max was here, Charles would love to kiss him goodbye. At least he’s not leaving Max alone like last time, he’ll still have Lando… Both his loves, living happily ever after because of Charles’ sacrifice. There are worse ways to go.

The shadows are close. His heartbeat slow. Somewhere, a lone crow sings for him. The pull in his gut drags him away from here, down to a cold, damp place. Charles knows it well. He listens to the final notes of his heart, the drum of death accompanying him home. It was nice while it lasted.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

***

Max knows the second the balance tips that Lando is in danger, mortal danger. Heat burns through the seal like a cigarette bud through a napkin.

No. Fuck, no!

Every fibre of his being screams at him to turn his back to his two remaining enemies, rush to Lando’s side and heal him before it’s too late, but every time he tries to make an escape, one of the wind riders blocks him, takes a strike at him with a storm dagger. Max parries it with his wings, molten gold gleaming in the sun as he barrel-rolls in mid-air, dodging another attack, shooting a golden arrow with his next move.

“Where are you trying to go?”, one of them giggles behind her mask. It sounds like wind chimes.

“You don’t seriously think we’d let you leave”, the other taunts from behind him.

Max growls, a sound from deep in his throat, like boiling lava threatening to erupt from a volcano.

The wind riders shrink back, and Max is about to retaliate, when a shock of cold bites at him, snaps at his heels like a ferocious dog. Charles!

Max looks down, sees shadows gather over the river, drawing closer and closer to two figures lying in the shallow water. Naked panic grips him, halts him in his movements. Just what the fuck is happening down there? If he could just-

“They will both die soon”, one of the wind riders purrs close to his ear.

Where is she? Max can’t see her.

“And then we’ll finally have our way with you, golden boy”, the other adds, a sound like rustling leaves blowing over the back of his neck.

“You’re much stronger than them anyways. You don’t need them”, the first one continues, further away this time.

The two of them reappear, gusts of wind shaping into purple robes and silver masks, mocking him, mocking Lando and Charles. Lando and Charles who are dying. He drops his bow and arrows.

“You’re so much fun to play with.”

“And a lot more valuable than our other toys.”

Divine rage slices through the paralysing panic, lets it go up in flames, and Max’s vision goes white for a second, as waves upon waves of heat roll off him, singeing his enemies’ robes and hair, scorching their laughter away. He’s reached the tipping point, and without Lando to hold him in check no one stands a chance against him.

The wind riders writhe in agony, captured in the throes of Max’s heat, unable to move or summon soothing winds to help them, but it’s not enough. He wants a slaughter, he wants to hear their screams as their burning bodies bow down before him, begging for mercy. He won’t give it to them.

Max turns up the heat, the two rings on either of his middle fingers tingling as he draws on their power. Just a little more and he’s going nova. His wings are melting, droplets of gold dripping down, far to the ground below. He doesn’t care, doesn’t feel the pain. Gold is replaceable, Charles and Lando aren’t. He won’t let them die, won’t let some lowly elemental servants ridicule them. They are scum, sticking to the sole of his shoes, nothing more.

Max releases another heatwave. The smell of burning flesh fills his nose. He draws a deep breath, feasts on the offering, his veins ablaze with power.

The wind riders scream, muffled behind their masks, liquified metal melding with skin.

Max spreads his wings, spins in a pirouette, golden droplets hitting his enemies like bullets, hard enough to break skin.

He doesn’t stay to watch their lifeless forms fall to the ground, already going into a nosedive, rushing to Charles and Lando. Water rises up in clouds of steam, the shadows draw back when he lands next to them. The air is full of the iron tang of blood; Chalres’ magic.

Reigning himself back in as to not hurt the two of them any further takes all of Max’s self-control, but he manages to cool down to a non-lethal temperature before he approaches. He crouches down beside them, takes their pulses… one pulse. For fuck’s sake, Charles! Max’s throat goes dry, burning with tears he won’t cry. This is not over yet. He won’t let it happen.

At that moment, Lando opens his eyes.

Relief floods through Max, but it doesn’t do much to dissolve the lump in his throat or calm the furious beating of his heart in the face of losing Charles.

Nevertheless, he scoots closer, takes Lando’s hand, the one that’s not holding Charles’ lifeless one.

“Lando! Lando what happened, I’m sorry I wasn’t here to help, I- we- we’re losing him-”, Max babbles, but the rest of the words get stuck in his throat as his gaze falls to Lando’s chest, the blood drying on it, the sigil seeped deep under his skin, a mark that won’t fade. His hands ball into fists. He exhales a shaky breath. Presses his forehead against Lando’s.

“The fucking idiot”, Max whispers, “baby, can you… balance-”, the words don’t come, Max’s body trembles, threatening to shut down. He’s not sure how much more of this he can take.

Lando shakes his head, a movement that shouldn’t be as small and barely perceptible as it is.

Of course he can’t, what is Max thinking? He presses a soft kiss to Lando’s temple.

“Ok, you just rest, baby, I’ll find a way, I’ll fix this.”

As gently as he can, Max moves over to Charles. Charles’ body, a voice in the back of his mind corrects. Max grits his teeth. Not yet. Not fucking yet. Not if he has anything to say about it.

He lays one hand on Charles’ chest, right over his unmoving heart, the other over his closed eyes. A warm, golden glow radiates out from his palms. With it the sun, a mild spring day, hope, life. Max soaks Charles’ cold body with it.

Cold. He’s always cold. This doesn’t mean anything.

Nothing happens.

Nothing happens, and that’s unacceptable, wrong, impossible.

The rings on his fingers burn, searing his skin. Next thing he knows, an earth-shattering scream rips from his throat.

“GIVE HIM BACK!!!”, his voice is thunder; power, life, magic thrumming through him like a solar storm.

Lando whimpers next to him. Max barely notices it.

A force, cold and dark, pushes back against him, familiar, like Charles, but older, stronger, hostile. Max forces it back, incinerates the claws stilling Charles’ heart through sheer force of will.

“GIVE HIM BACK YOU OLD CLAMMY BASTARD!”

Max pushes against the shadows, the biting cold with all his might, and finally, the presence retreats.

“You will come to regret this”, the frost hisses, before the last bit of it dissipates under the warmth of Max’s fingertips.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

A heartbeat.

Max collapses on top of Charles, face buried in his chest, listening to the slow beating of his heart.

“He’s alive”, Max whispers, voice completely wrecked, and finally gives in, lets the tears fall freely.

He kisses Charles’ cold cheek, folds his wings and rolls off him to lie between his lovers in the shallow water, takes both their hands, feels blood pulsing through their veins.

Lando turns to weakly pet Max’s hair with his free one.

“You saved us”, he croaks.

Max bites his lower lip, shakes his head. They all saved each other. They are alive, and they’ll make it out of here, reach the sanctuary further upstream and recover, but for now, he needs a moment to catch his breath and regain enough strength to continue this never-ending journey.

[thescrolls-haveforetold]

Hey so in response to your art request callout, I've got two possible suggestions, one practical and one hopefully interesting? On the practical side I'd love I lineup of your OCs, names and pronouns and all that, because I've just found your stuff and I'm fascinated! And on the more creative side, I'd love to see a look at some of the crazy shit your Nerevarine got up to in their(? her? his?) early days on Vvardenfell! Like, the really early days when you're clearing caves and tombs and nearly dying constantly XD

i have like..40-50 or so ocs, so while that would take a lot of work (that i’m Far Too Lazy to even try to do) i will introduce the main group thru words

Kynwyn Heraclea Chirharia ‘The Dragon’/Maldovjun (little-dragon-king) is my last dragonborn, 15, she/her. she is a dragon in every sense of the word, she hoards, she steals, she collects and with her voice she kills. There’s more to her dragon bloodline than meets the eye. She brash, annoying and anything but selfless. But what can you expect from a kid. She is brunette, white strips of hair, big purple eyes and a mischievous grin

Valiel Hlaalu(-Septim) is my Hero of Kvatch, he/him, 38. Prior to the Oblivion Crisis, he was a courtesan by no choice of his own, by pressure of his mother to use his beauty to gain secrets for political advantages, he despises politics. He loves Martin, but he’s grumpy, rude but surprisingly down to earth for a noble from the imperial city. He is also a little stupid. He is a very pale dunmer with icy eyes, beauty marks and a scowl.

Nerevar ‘Neht’ Mora is my Nerevarine (who isn’t the nerevarine in a classic way, because he IS nerevar), he/they, the body he’s in is 25, but the man himself is at this point at least 800-900 or so years old, he himself doesn’t know due to him being snatched up by slavers at an early age. He is literally Nerevar. Just The Indoril Nerevar Mora stuffed into the body of some poor unsuspecting individual who had the shit luck to be hand picked by Azura. He is totally aware of his former companion’s troubles, and he hates them for it. He’s hedonistic, hyper competent, extremely intelligent and extremely difficult to kill. There is a reason the idea of Nerevar coming back was so terrifying for the Tribunal, and Nerevar, in the most literal sense, returned. As soon as the individual put on the ring Moon-And-Star, his consciousness and soul was sacrificed, and the empty vessel was replaced entirely with Nerevar’s soul and consciousness. Nerevar’s vessel is a redguard with gold eyes, branded with Nerevar’s partial heterochromia to symbolise who he is. He has long locs and a red jacket.

Gwyndir Shadowfoot is my Eternal Champion, she/he/they, I don’t have much lore on her yet, i do know she’s a werewolf bosmer. He has antlers, with an autumn colour palette, brown skin and freckles. They wear a green cloak.

Arenwe the Fair is my Hero of Daggerfall, he/him, again, there isn’t much lore on him. Arenwe is a long, fair haired pale altmer with pink eyes and a shy smile.

OBVIOUSLY HERE YOU CAN TELL WHO THE FAVOURITE IS LMFAO

in regards to cave trotting and stuff like that, i’d actually love to draw a comic or write a fic about it, I just don’t have that much faith in my author skillz to actually manage writing a fic . or a comic for that matter. Maybe at some point when i feel okay with it i’ll actually try to start mapping out Nerevar’s story

[realcatalina]

Hiding in our sight this whole time

I actually thought the engraving by Hollar was based upon some lost portrait...but since most engravings are mirror images(engravers could be lazy ...), i decided to flip it...the outfit fits almost perfectly. the engraving just misess the chest brooch.

But some of you probably already noticed that.

Yet i doubt even most observant of you noticed that this unknown woman might be in another sketch by Holbein. Maybe.

These two have serious resemblence:

This is probably the strongest resemblence among all of Holbeins sketches.

The one on left is pretty worn off in face area and because lighter colours were used, without any lines enhanced in darker colours. This makes us think these arent connected. Until you compare features one by one.

Angle is identical, but tilt of head tiny bit different. Woman on right has gaze tiny bit more downcast...which might have exposed more of her eyelids, and also slightly affect shape of her brows. Try it before mirror.

I enhanced some shapes on woman on left:

To make you realise she also similiar chin and shape of eyes as woman on right. Different colours and headwear play very big role here and might have something to do with eyes on right appearing bigger(maybe i didnt scale it 100% properly), the tilt shouldnt be causing that.

Could aging make her eyes bigger? Idk. I mean i don't know if % eyes take within the face changes. You of course overall get bigger as you age. But i wonder if perhaps just normal swollen eyes...account for difference. Not sure.

Yet the difference in size of eyes, alongside such strong resemblence could point also to very close relatives.

But size aside, can we explain different eye colour?

YES. We had this issue before with Tudor portraits...plenty of times.

With royals. Hazel eyes under differnet light can be brown or grey...significant difference even in real life, let alone portraits.

And they run in Henry's family, and seem to be his type...so among his wives too.

Woman on left wears gable hood in style fashionable between late 1520s to c.1538-1543. In past it was thought to be Catherine of Aragon or Eleanor Brandon.

While the other woman ix believed to be one of possibly marriage candidates from abroad, painted for Henry after Jane Seymour died, possibly sister of Anne of Cleves. Reasons for this assumption is the alleged bigger format(it is actually normal size for Holbein sketches...it is just that woman is sketched on lower part of drawing, instead upper part) and people believing woman is not wearing English clothes.

But actually this is English outfit. Mary Rose was depicted in such hat in 1510s. Coif beneath-worn in england.

Embroidered partlet-worn in england.

Cloak with slightly spread collar...worn in England.

It is true we rarely have portrait of women in cloak from England from Henry's reign. But it is idiotic to assume women in winter would walk around in same clothes as in summer. Fact that woman chose to be portrayed in it and puffiness around shoulder would suggest we likely indeed talk end of Holbeins career and fashion chaos of 1538-1543, because weather got colder-which affected fashion and ladies also experimented a lot during this timeframe.

While i cannot tell who it is, I just wanted to make you aware these two are likely connected.

Let me know what you think.

[cannedcrow]

Arbitrary Darkness (HC Monster Hunter AU) Part VI

A/N: More Arbitrary Darkness to go with the art I've been doing!

Part V - AO3

~ please rb if you enjoy! ….〆(･ω･。) ~

TWs: blood, injury, death, the usual.

Grian let himself into the house, calling a greeting to Mumbo, though the house held no reply. Disappointment flooded Grian - Mumbo must've stayed late at work. He hung up his cloak, dumped his weapons on a table, wandered into the office and started a fire before going to brew tea. The apartment felt gloomy and lonely without Mumbo, and he finally realised how much he'd missed him. He readied a lazy meal of bread, cheese and chutney from the pantry before settling in front of the fire, polishing his knives though they hadn't had a chance to be bloodied. He'd lost the one he'd stabbed Doc with. Hope that hurt, bastard.

He smiled faintly, imagining Joel setting into his sickly meal of stewed ghast tentacles. He was, he reflected, at rather an impasse. Joel had been crystal clear about where he stood - Grian was only to live if he stayed out of it and posed no threat. He held a vicious resentment for being threatened out of doing his job, but how possible was it to stay out anyway? What if he was contracted to kill one specifically? He couldn't decline - or ignore, for that matter - a contract without drawing intense suspicion upon himself. The police would be no kinder than the monsters if they found out what he was. He was so lucky to have found solace in Mumbo.

He'd been living with Mumbo for only a month or so when he'd been found out, though they'd been friends years before that. Grian had come home one night bleeding heavily from a deep slash along his forearm, courtesy of a piglin that'd found it's way through an unlicensed nether portal. He'd dispatched the creature easily enough, but it only took a slip on the slick cobbles for the beast to get it's sword in. Judging by the amount of blood, it must've clipped a major artery.

"Christ, Grian -" Mumbo exclaimed upon seeing him, "I'll call a doctor. Lie down quick."

"No -" Grian had gasped desperately, "No doctor. I can do it. It's fine."

"You're bleeding out mate, I have to-"

"No," Grian growled, pushing past Mumbo to slump on the sofa and pull up his torn sleeve, wiping at the wound with a wet cloth, "Get the medical box, I can do it." He'd have to trust that the dim light was enough to let the greyish skin of his forearm go unnoticed.

Mumbo watched him, worry evident in his gaze, but did as Grian bid, retrieving the box and settling by the sofa.

Grian winced, wrapping a leather strap around his bicep as tightly as he could. He pulled out the necessary implements habitually, beginning to wipe antiseptic on the edges of the cut. He tried valiantly to thread a needle but his hands were shaking too much. He proffered it to Mumbo helplessly.

"I- I don't know how, Grian. Let me call a doctor."

"You have to," Grian gritted out, "It's curved - insert it outside the edge, draw it through deep inside, go through the inside of the other edge and out again. Tie it tightly and cut the thread before the next stitch."

Mumbo looked doubtful but did as he was bid as Grian slumped back, breathing heavily as his arm throbbed. Mumbo started to slide Grian's glove off and he grabbed at it.

Mumbo glared at him, "If you won't let me get a doctor, you have to let me try properly."

Grian gave up, watching his face as he revealed Grian's taloned hand. He stilled a moment, staring, but shook his head slightly and began to stitch, concentrating hard.

"I'm sorry," Grian breathed, closing his eyes.

That's the end of it all then, he'd thought.

Mumbo didn't reply, tying off the first stitch before starting another. Grian did his best to ignore the feeling of a thousand bees stinging him at once.

"What are you?"

It was a casual question, all things considered.

"Harpy," Grian replied dully.

Mumbo was quiet. Contemplating or scared?

He hissed as the needle grazed a vein, and Mumbo looked up, standing and walking away before returning with a healthy measure of brandy. "Should've thought before, sorry mate. It'll help."

Grian accepted, gulping down the spirit eagerly as Mumbo grinned.

He sighed heavily, returning the glass, "Are you going to turn me in then?"

Mumbo paused, putting the glass on the floor and disinfecting his hands before continuing his work thoughtfully.

"It's the obvious choice, innit? But, how many times have we stumbled home drunk together through a million dark alleys?" He drew another stitch closed carefully, "I'm not great with signals - hence the divorce - but you haven't tried to murder me yet. I don't really have any reason to think you're a danger. To me, anyway."

Grian pondered quietly.

"If I ever get found out, you knew nothing." It wasn't much better to be a human hiding a monster than a monster itself.

"Here's hoping you don't."

He'd explained his feelings on the matter entirely to Mumbo, his reasons for being the way he was, and Mumbo had trusted him, trusted him all this time. He still had an untidy scar along his forearm, and in a bizarre way, it symbolised their friendship.

He'd fallen asleep in front of the fire and was only awoken when Mumbo exclaimed in surprise at seeing him.

"Grian! Fuckin hell mate, you gave me a fright."

Grian yawned and stretched, "Well, that makes two of us."

He bounded to him and enveloped Mumbo in a tight hug, "I missed you. How've you been?"

Mumbo hugged him back warmly. "Forget me, what about you? Where the hell were you? I was so close to calling the police, but I thought your undercover thing was going longer than expected and you wouldn't want me to intervene."

"Well, the undercover thing didn't go too well," Grian admitted gingerly, "Frankly I ought to be dead. It was a complete trick, I should've seen it - they lured me in and did their best to kill me. Luckily, weaselling my way out of immediate death is something I'm quite good at."

He ran a weary hand through his hair, "God I have so much to tell you."

"Want a drink?" Mumbo offered, moving to the cabinet to retrieve a cocktail shaker.

"Please. Last thing I had was chorus fruit liquor."

"Chorus fruit? Why would anyone bother?" Mumbo sounded utterly bemused as he began to make a drink.

They had double sidecars as Grian told his story. Mumbo made for a good audience, contributing appropriately horrified expressions and odd sounds of surprise.

"So, that's where we are," Grian finished, rather anticlimactically.

"Makes my life feel a bit boring really," Mumbo said, "most exciting thing that happened to me was someone stealing my sandwich at work."

"Yeah, I get all the fun. Phantom bites and death threats, it's a ball." Grian replied drily, "Who stole your sandwich?"

"Nevermind that. We should call the police. You know everything you need to, and they can clear the place out."

"I can't, not yet," Grian replied, fidgeting with his glass, thinking uncomfortably about Impulse, "I just can't. They're dangerous and it's a big organisation. The cops will fuck it up and they'll regroup."

"What are you going to do then? Live in fear of monsters coming to our door to kill you?"

"I don't know!" Grian gritted, "I have to be smarter than them. I have a chance to get back in and earn their trust, I think. Joel seemed to think so, anyway. Guess that was an olive branch, in his weird way. It's the only chance to uproot it from the inside. I think ... there's so many there that can't hide in society, I think they have somewhere else they're hiding. Any scrap of information that gets out will draw them back to me."

He smiled wanly at Mumbo, "At least it'll make for a more interesting story for Papa K."

Mumbo shook his head wearily, "You're in real trouble G. They know what you are, too. I don't know if you'll ever be able to threaten them again without them bringing you down too."

"Right, that's the other issue. I was worried I didn't have enough."

Mumbo stood, loosening his tie, "We'll figure something out. Or die horribly. For now though, I've got to get to sleep - you probably ought to as well eh?"

"I'd like nothing better," Grian assented, taking their glasses to the kitchen.

"Oh, G?" Mumbo called.

"Mm?"

"I'm going for a drink tomorrow night with a coworker, you should come! You'd like her."

Grian returned to the office, smirking, "Coworker eh? You getting back out there?"

Mumbo rolled his eyes witheringly. "Try not to be so insufferable all the time. We're working on a story together, that's why I was late tonight."

"Sure, sure," Grian replied in smug complacency.

"Well done, I'm already regretting inviting you. Speaking of work though -" Mumbo opened the desk drawer and retrieved several envelopes, "-You have your own to catch up on. Without your demon buddy to sell to we've lost that particular side hustle."

He handed the letters to Grian and clapped him on the shoulder.

"I'm glad you're home, G. Night!"

Grian woke early and situated himself at his desk with a cup of tea to sort through his letters. He'd have to get a job done today - he hadn't gotten a payout since that zoglin, and putting down the equivalent of a rabid dog wasn't worth much. It was usually the police that contracted him, unless civilians cut through the middleman. It'd taken years to get to enough prominence for that. Zombie, demon, stray .. faun, by the sound of it... He didn't particularly feel like killing anything that could talk for the moment. One reported an enderman sighted near Threader's Alley. Couldn't keep the damn things out of the city. Grian held the paper thoughtfully. That'd do. Easy enough to deal with if you knew how, and they were scary enough to guarantee a good price. He folded the letter and began to pack his bag as Mumbo strolled in, pulling on a shirt haphazardly.

"You heading out? Bit early isn't it?"

"Sure," Grian mumbled around a large apple in his teeth. He removed it politely from his mouth to finish, "Gonna go snag an enderman or we won't have any drinking money for tonight. Those little alleys are usually dark enough for them."

"Good luck then," Mumbo agreed, "Don't get too slashed up, you might be a bit rusty."

"Rusty," Grian repeated with incredulity, "How dare you."

He slung his bag over his shoulder and opened the door, calling "Tea's in the pot - bye!"

He munched on his apple contentedly as he walked a few blocks to the alley in question. It was a sunny morning, warm, clear and decidedly delightful. He chucked the apple core away as he arrived at the entrance to a side street, checking his bag carefully and removing a tiny box.

Slipping down a few alleys brought him to Threader's alley, a particularly dark and dingy bootlace street where it might've been twilight for all the light available. He quickly set down the box and sequestered himself neatly behind a dumpster.

In a matter of minutes, the enderman appeared out of nowhere, it's ghastly, sucking scream echoing in the alley as it stared idiotically at the tiny box. Who are you trying to intimidate? In fairness, the thing could be called nothing less than intimidating - taller than two men but thinner and longer than any, hunched over with it's long, clawlike fingers hanging at its sides, jaw unhinged, freeing that ugly noise from between dripping, stringy teeth.

What is their deal with endermites? He drew his hunting blade and the delicate bottle of water, throwing it straight at the enderman before picking up his shield. It shattered, splashing the enderman liberally. It screeched even louder, turning its attention to its assailant as the tarry skin began to bubble and smoke, eaten away as though by acid. Grian mockingly met its inhuman lilac eyes as he dashed in, ducking under a swiping arm before swinging his knife clean through one of its legs. They were nightmarish, but ultimately pretty flimsy - a heavy blow from someone who knew how to deliver it could sever an enderman's limb. The trouble was their inhuman ability to cling onto life.

The enderman stumbled gracelessly, swiping again at Grian as he slipped out of range. Make it angry. He kept staring into the things eyes as it collapsed, unable to support itself on one leg. It began to claw it's labourous way along the cobbles towards him, and Grian knelt to lop off one long hand before it teleported behind him, as evidenced by a wet thump. He spun as a clawed hand went for his leg, tearing his leg out of reach before it could make contact and stomping hard on the brittle arm. Dark plum blood spattered across him as he walked around it, getting past those nasty teeth before planting a foot on its back and ramming his knife through its skull. The thing gurgled and spat as its furious scream gradually drowned in its blood. Grian hauled the body over, cutting carefully into its chest cavity to find the ender pearls. It was always cheaper to harvest his own when possible than to buy them at the rate alchemists wanted.

He examined his jumper before wiping them off in annoyance. It was slashed with black stains anyway and the stuff never washed out.

How many times has Mumbo told me to wear black when I do endermen?

He walked home from the police station, wondering vaguely what he'd do with the rest of the afternoon. Could do another job if it's not too hard - they'd only given him two stacks of diamonds for the enderman. But when he returned it was with a loaf of bread and some other groceries. You're welcome, Mumbo.

He returned the endermite to its little terrarium of endstone and chorus buds with its fellows and spent the afternoon committing himself to writing everything he'd learned about the Eighth Circle in a journal. He profiled each creature he'd met - Joel included - and all the information he'd gathered about them before returning to his letters to decide which job to tackle next.

[snakegorl212006]

Welcome to your new home pt 2

Up the middle stairs,down the left hall, passing 3-4 doors there was,finally, the (favorite color) door with a colorful paper which says Welcome with a smiley face. I opened the door to my new room. It was beautiful, enchanting,but it’s eerie. Most of my things that were moved out of my old room were here and organized into their rightful places. While exploring the room getting familiar with my surroundings, there on the black wooden desk was another white envelope in similar fashion to the last one. Once opened it dropped a pen and one more key. Inside was also another letter

Hello again, If you find this, i suppose that means nothing happen so that’s fantastic :D Now I suppose I shall explain the rules and how your day to day life will be. Each day or every week you will be given a task to do in the form of notes or letters, if I'm feeling fancy. These letters will have tasks for you to do on that day. These tasks were meant for your entertainment but also to establish responsibilities in a fun way. Like everyone you too have to pull your weight,I don’t need any more lazy people. The task will vary from daily things like dishes or more prolonged things like simple wood collecting or more harder and optional tasks like gardening. I will have it written down what task is optional or not. I am confident that you will complete all required tasks. I wouldn't want to discipline you but if push dose come to shove, punishments will be enacted if you promptly refuse a required task,depending on what it is. Punishments for now will mostly revolve around your freedom and allowance. So no work, no money and NO freedom :) Now since you just arrived most of these tasks I’ll give today will be completely optional yet I do recommend. Who know when you’ll need these knowledge

1.explore the manor (optional) 2.explore outside of manor up to the gardens (Optional) 4.eat dinner(optional yet preferred to complete) 3. Add my phone number (required) 4.at 7pm enter the basement to get blood drawn(Required)

….. Am I in a cult!? Blood? Why Blood! I clutched on the paper as my eyes darted around to find some sort of answer but the only thing i found was the phone number at the bottom next to lord Vanrouge’s signature. I looked at the clock above in my room to see I only had 10 minutes left before traversing into the basement. I looked back at the paper with the phone number realizing that my questions might be answered if I text or call this guy. I plugged the number on my phone while saving the contacts for lord vanrouge. ‘

(Chat log)

Texting them doesn't help. All i got was some twisted form of comfort and a note not to be late. I sighed and tried to think positively. Maybe it’s for any health reasons, what if something happens so they have my blood in storage if I have an illness that is in need of a blood transfusion. Maybe it’s some secret condition I never knew I had. I looked up at the clock seeing I had 5 minutes left. Well I better find this basement.

The basement entrance was in an obvious place. On the left side of the middle stairs near the entrance was this ominous door which seems out of place due to the lavious interior decor…. But there was also a silly childish label saying  ‘Basement :D’  with pink blue yellow confetti drawings on it. I grabbed the handle and opened the door to see a dimly lit stairwell. Following the lights it lead me to a rusted metal door which was wide open. To a dark dungeon area. There were cells, chains hanging from walls yet it was unusually clean. As I continued down the dungeon, to the left of me, there was a medical bed and a person in a black cloak preparing tools. He turned around for me to see his glowing blueish- purple eyes. He moved out of the way invitingly to the medical room. I obloge and made my way over to the medical bed and lay down on it. The bed was surprisingly soft and not as hard as it looks. “How are you with needles?” a voice asked. I looked up to the cloaked man who glanced down at me. “Decent” I replied. He nodded and brushed his silver hair back. I guess he needs total concentration. The man puts on a pair of medical gloves before pulling out a large syringe and a wipe. “You have medical experience” I asked “a little…this is my first time doing it” he said as he felt a vein in my lower arm near my elbow area. “This might hurt” he said as I tense. He swiftly stabbed the syringe in my arm making me hiss. Blood is quickly drawn out though the tube to a large beaker “so….do you know what this blood drawn is for” i asked the man “I can’t tell you. Master’s orders” he replied “what about a name” I asked “Silver” he replied. Ok we’re getting somewhere “let me know if you feel sudden dizziness i can stop the machine” Silver spoke as he looks at the beaker. Slowly the beaker was filled. Once filled, he places a top on the beaker and place it aside, then he gently removes the needle and cleans it. After packing the materials up, he places a band aid on the wound. “Fa- lord vanrouge wants me to inform you dinner is ready in the dining room. The dining room is down the hall passed the basement to the right” silver spoke then he bows slightly “I hope you enjoy your stay” he concludes before leaving with the medical supply. I got up from the bed feeling slightly woozy but not to the point where I stumble all over the place. I guess the worst part is over but now I feel exhausted. Perhaps I’ll just eat was was made for me and go to sleep. I left the creepy dungeon and walked up the stairs and made my way to the dining room where a singular plate was.upon closer inspection, i recognized the meal to be (random dish) which was well made and cooked almost like it came from some fancy restaurant. I sat down and began eating. After I was done with my meal,I made my way back upstairs to my room and retired for the night.  

[bromcommie]

hiii max <333 for the WIP ask game, how about "211223 sleep ghosts"? sounds super intriguing!

Hi hiiii, thanks for the ask<33

Ah, so: the title's basically just a nicer way of saying, this is a chaotic dumping ground for pieces of scenes that I think of right as sleep tries to take me in its loving chokehold and then have to blearily type into my notes app to rework later. A lot of those pieces ended up being dream-themed, though, so there's that throughline to it, too. I usually just cherry-pick some bits to fit into other fics later, but I'm thinking of developing a few into a full, more surreal work as well? We'll see.

one of the more fully-formed, Steve-centric (with a blink-and-you'll-miss-it stucky moment at the end) excerpts under the cut:

He’s seven and there’s a stubborn hand on his neck, keeping him under the surface.

He’s seven and he loves coming to Coney Island in the summer more than anything—all that lazy, sugary warmth loosening his body up, all that chaotic life made palpable and stretching the limits of his tiny world—but the water’s colder and quieter than he remembers, the sand too slippery to push up against, and his body’s as useless as it’s always been, every motion a fight for breath.

He’s seven and he’s dying, except that he thinks there used to be a different ending to that story: used to be muffled commotion and the rush of noise in his ears when the hold at his neck was torn away, breaking him through the waves. Used to be all that hollering, all that sunlight off of bright, blinding sand, the shock of cool air against his face and oxygen singing in his blood like a victory.

In this story, however, there's nothing: just the mounting pressure and the bitter cold, the wide expanse of the ocean that’s the wrong shape, that fits all askew and rubs up painful against his memory. Just the deep, glacial-slow dark and the salt stinging his eyes and all that—

—silence, always the same eternal silence, always that still, suffocating cloak over everything, melting all of time down to a single focused point right before the first shell hits, right before the waves come crashing in, always that moment in which he's entirely useless just slipping against the traitorous sands just flung right out of his body just waiting caught in the seconds frozen like a terrified animal crushed in a trap he can't move and he's just—

He’s freezing but his lungs feel like they’re on fire, and he wants to say I told you so, I fucking told you so but he doesn’t know who he’s talking to because he’s all alone and he can’t even talk, can’t even breathe because he’s just—

—seven, he's just seven and someone much bigger than him is holding his head underwater, unyielding and angry because he’s small and he didn’t shut up when he was supposed to and he’s just—

—nearing twenty-seven and something much bigger than him is swallowing him into its depths, ancient and vast and utterly indifferent and he can't even fight back, can't say a goddamn word to argue his case because there’s saltwater crushing his thoughts, fear crystallizing like ice in his chest, because it’s getting so dark and he’s so alone and he didn’t think it would feel like this, being seven and almost-twenty-seven and never being warm again, because he doesn’t want to die but he’s drowning and he’s alone—

Steve wakes up gasping for air, lurching through miles and miles of the Arctic ice and upright on his couch.

He blinks through the stifling darkness, coughing out the absence of water in his lungs, but he can still feel the cold around his neck, can feel the wet salt on his skin and the pressure keeping him down and it's not enough, all that air drawing in and in and in and he can’t—

“—a dream, sweetheart, it’s okay. It’s alright, you’re okay,” he hears Bucky’s low voice, hushed and close and mindless, except for how that’s entirely wrong, isn’t it; he was just alone, and Bucky never called him that a day in his goddamn life. He’s all alone in an empty apartment in Manhattan, and Bucky died over half a year and half a century ago. “Just take it easy, Rogers, you're alright. You're okay."

His surroundings come to him like paint stretching in water, a slow bleed-through: the dim outline of his living room, the garbage truck idling down the street, the awful, panicked wheezing coming from somewhere inside his own chest; solid weight on the edge of the couch and steady arms keeping him in place where he tried to lash out and—"Buck?"

Some unpinnable emotion ripples over Bucky's face too quick to track, a barely-there flinch from his eyes—little fine lines collecting exhaustion in the corners, when did that—down to the tick in his jaw before the hand keeping Steve at arm's length resumes its soothing little circles on his shoulder. "Yeah. Yeah, it's just me."

It's a split-second of hesitation; it's enough to bring the rest of the present crashing through with a vengeance, and then he's shaking.

¯\_(ツ)_/¯ ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

[nightingale-bloom]

I got very lazy. Any pride flags I snuck in are purely headcanons, but I always do it nonetheless. Please don't come at me, I forgot who Brink's patron was and will not be listening through the entire podcast to find the one mention of them I'm just about 34% sure there was. Kinda just assuming it's Dia for now. Characters are from Tales from the Stinky Dragon, a DnD 5e actual play podcast. Art under the cut.

If it's deepfried on your end too, I apologize.

I did Meld first, not too many headcanons for her. Did most of the drawing without ever having seen her canon design, and I gotta say she kinda reminds me of Little Lad from that one Berries and Cream Starburst commercial. Only thing I changed after looking her up on the wiki was her skin, as I originally had her really pale because I'd assumed her mother, Sadatte, was a high elf because of her hair color. Honestly just forgot the moment it's explicitly said she's a wood elf, but it's been fixed. Also managed to forget her cloak. I was going to do an alternate version with it- and have her pride patches on the cloak- but then upon looking at my drawing again, immediately decided it would be too much of a pain.

Got a lot more headcanons for this guy. At the moment, I am under the assumption that his patron is Dia,- I don't have easy access to the info right now and it made a fair bit of sense to me- so a few of them are based on that. I headcanon Brink getting his snake, Hannibal, as a gift for his sixteenth birthday. Upon making a pact with Dia, his first request was for Hannibal's life to be extended. She did as he asked, and now the little guy's all rainbow n' stuff. I also think he wouldn't know how to hold a mug properly, he'd hold the handle instead of wrapping his hand around the mug itself and would be yet to realize most people don't nearly spill their coffee every. Single. Morning. As for the pride pin, I headcanon him realizing he was queer at thirteen years old and swearing he was bi for years before realizing he was never into the girl he dated back in school. Or any girls, actually.

Additionally, I chose the symbol on Brink's spellbook because it looked a bit like a firework, and I know Dia would love them because she's all about them colors.

[danafeelingsick]

i'm back to writing again, finally 😭 i've been busy! drawing, doing a bunch of commissions (which you should check out 👀), and brainroting over that c.haracter.ai bot. i don't recommend it, makes you lazy...

ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀ's ɴᴏᴛᴇ: i feel like i went a different route with this one, you can tell i was excited about the fight scene, so it's much more angsty and edgy than my normal stuff, but i couldn't help it! the whole darknight hero storyline is so cheesy and i love it. heed the warnings below:

HOT PURSUIT

In his restless search to stomp the abyss order, Diluc stumbles upon a sickly Venti left to die, and a race against time to save him. Will the darknight hero be able to save our beloved bard, or will both succumb to the abyss' dark scheme?

ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ canon-typical violence, graphic depictions of vomiting, mentions of alcohol abuse, mentions of poisoning, stomach ache whump, nausea, regurgitation, fainting, vomiting blood (only slightly descriptive), drowning, implied character death

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ 4,5k~

Silence is severed by the tread of hefty boots. The sound was followed by two figures cutting the empty street in pursuit. A man in a tattered dark cloak tags several steps behind an abyssal creature, a hydro mage protected by an elemental shield.

The creature snickers, mocking him. He grits his teeth, he can't keep up the pace for much longer, and a metallic taste lingers at the root of his tongue. The mage knows it, the deranged chants of a mind long lost carry the tone of a thing that knows it has won.

The stalker keeps to the shadows of the buildings, guarded against the moon's light, almost as if its watchful eye could scorch him. The worn-out fabric of his black cloak flaps in the wind, like the broken wing of a bird falling from the sky. He resisted the urge to clutch his flank, where a cloth had been wrapped tight over a flesh wound, the frigid current made it burn anew as it whipped his skin.

His resolve didn't waver, even as he watched the abyss mage drift away like a bubble of soap in the wind, even as the chanting preluded its escape, the pursuer pushed on. In a last effort, he summoned his weapon, feeling the all too familiar weight of a greatsword fall into his hands. He catches it even before the long blade can touch the stone path, balancing it without a false step, without even destabilizing his breath. All for naught, the creature vanished before his eyes.

A curse escapes the man's lips as he stops dead in his track, standing where the mage had been less than a second ago. Traces of hydro still hung in the air, evaporating to the naked eye as the wind swept it away like it was never there in the first place. A vision had already been enough favor from the gods, but now the man deeply envied the few who possessed elemental sight.

He muttered another curse under his breath, finally allowing himself a few long drags of air, even if it made his side sting, it dispersed the anger gathering in his scowl. He had been stalking that creature since nightfall, he had it cornered, but he had been overzealous when it came to disposing of it.

The silence was deafening once again. He looked to his right, realizing he had been standing at the mouth of a pitch-black alley, inviting an ambush. He glued his back to the wall and listened closely, for any sign of life in that deserted city. His eyes were peeled for any movement in the dark, his gaze focused like a famished falcon.

To provoke even further, he pulled down the hood of his cloak, revealing a mane of fiery red locks cascading down his back. There wasn't a single soul in Mondstadt who wouldn't recognize that man, Diluc Ragnvindr knew it well. If anyone were to see him… Sometimes he wished he still had that beaked mask, but part of him knew he had already outgrown it.

The nobleman didn't allow himself another moment to breathe, he could feel the many bruises dotting his skin, under his layered coat, the wound on his side, throbbing as if his heart could leak from it. The abyss mage had attacked him as soon as it had the chance, it was an act of such desperation he knew it wasn't there for a simple reconnaissance mission. He couldn't relax just yet, his blade was raised, warm still from his elemental energy coursing through it.

After a second of bated breath, a faint rustling sound came from deeper within the alley. Diluc immediately tensed, assuming the same fighting stance he had trained to perfection, ready to light up the whole street with his flames at the first hint of movement. But nothing came. He knew these creatures were intelligent, they wouldn't attack him head-on, not when it had the advantage.

There was no way to lure it out. Diluc breathed deeply as he took a step into the darkness. His intuition kept repeating a trap. Upon hearing a bottle shattered against stone, followed by others rolling on the ground, he immediately conjured the image of some stray cat chasing a mouse, and knocking empty bottles on its way. The thought entertained him for a moment, but the closer he got, the more he convinced himself it was something larger than that.

It took a few tense moments for his eyes to adapt to darkness, but as soon as they did, the hero froze, realizing he could discern a silhouette cut out against the dark. It stood there, swaying before it spun, and plummeted to the ground with a heavy thud, knocking more bottles. The sound was like a screech in the dead of night, over as soon as it started, leaving only pained groans behind.

It was a risk he fastly accepted as he lowered his blade and raised a hand, commanding a small flame to crackle to life in his open palm. The wavering red glow brought definition to the silhouette, and Diluc could now tell it was a person, or at least the form of one, tossed on the ground like a rag doll.

”By the archons…”, he murmured, his heart dropping to his stomach when he recognized the teal cape before anything else. “Venti!?”

The greatsword vanished before it even touched the ground. Diluc rushed to the fallen man's aid, stepped around the maze of empty bottles, and knelt. Bringing the flame closer, he looked over him for any injuries, anything to explain why he had collapsed right in front of him.

The bard was shivering violently, Diluc could tell just by looking at him. His shoulders hitched in one desperate attempt to fill his lungs. Then he went stiff, his back arching before a gurgle came from his throat. It sounded like he was drowning.

Diluc rolled the bard onto his back and reached out to brush his braids away, but the change of positions seemingly made the young bard spring back to life. He flinched as a long gasp left his lips, followed by whimpers that quickly turned garbled, desperate.

Carefully, as if he was approaching a feral wounded animal, Diluc pulled him closer, holding his head up as he laid his body over his lap. Venti was deathly pale. The faint blue of his eyelids turned almost purple under the flickering red glow of his element. The same color lingered in his lips, which parted now to reveal the deep red-stained inside of his mouth.

“Venti? Venti!” he called, keeping his voice hushed despite the panic brewing in his chest. He cupped his cheek, cold sweat soaking into the palm of his glove. The bard winced under the touch, his lips quivering as he let out a small whimper, or at least tried to.

The sound didn't quite make it out of his mouth. A lengthy gurgle traveled up his throat, turning graphically wet as it reached the back of his tongue. He pitched forward with a gag, and Diluc scrambled to catch him. His face was contorting and his lips puckering, then parting again when he couldn't hold back another gag.

Venti made a miserable sound, the only warning he could give before he let out a short belch and a surge of red liquid along with it. It spewed out the sides of his mouth, a weak spurt coming out of his nose, coating his chin, and neck.

Diluc had to bite back a yelp as he saw it, his mind conjured the worst of possibilities before the first logical one. Venti heaved in his lap, suffocating, and his hands were moving before he knew it. The flame fizzled out along with the shock, and he flipped the bard's hitching body onto his side.

He didn't let go, even as the acidic smell hit him, even as Venti lurched with a gurgly retch quickly drowned out by more watered-down red and purple vomit. Diluc felt the sickening warmth drip onto his knees, quickly seeping into the clothes and cooling, but everything was racing too fast for that to be a concern on his mind.

He could tell Venti was struggling to breathe still and tried to gently, albeit shakingly, make him lean forward. Holding him by the shoulder, the other hand brushing his braids away, not even realizing they were already soiled. He practically sprawled the small bard over his lap, unable to do anything except watch as he heaved painfully.

Venti gagged, squeezing his eyes even tighter as he let out a groan of pure misery. The way he was being moved only served to make him feel worse like his packed stomach was being tossed around, like a balloon about to burst. He went completely stiff, trying to brace himself, but he was far too weak for it.

Vomit spewed out of him in a lengthy gush, it sounded like an open faucet, then like a drowning animal when it tapered off and he kept gagging graphically. Everything hurt in a way he thought he had forgotten, his head was throbbing mercilessly and his stomach kept wringing itself out of his mouth.

It took a few long seconds for Venti to register the hands all over him, prodding at his face now, forcing his eye open. His movements were lethargic, but in what felt like an eternity, he was able to raise a hand, and merely graze the wrist of whoever was trying to wake him up.

“Venti, please. If you can hear me, respond”, he heard a familiar voice coming from a blur of disheveled red locks and recognized it quickly. The man carried an unfamiliar grief in his tone, one Venti had never heard before.

The windborne bard weakly lifted his head and looked up at the nobleman, squinting as he struggled to outline his feature in the pitch-black darkness.

“Master… Diluc…?”, he croaked, his speech heavily slurred, his voice barely coming through. He struggled to focus on the figure looming over him, his pupils were like glossy marbles threatening to roll to the back of his head.

“Yes, yes it's me. Venti, stay with me, please! Don't pass out!”, Diluc pulled the bard closer and held his head, but to no avail, he started going limp in his arms. “Venti, it's not safe here!”

In a desperate attempt to keep the bard awake, Diluc shook him and regretted that decision when he saw his cheeks bulge out. Venti bolted upright with a sounding heave and more watery vomit splashed onto his own lap, completely covering it. His green shorts and white buttoned-up were dyed a sickly shade of purple.

He fell back, deflated, his chest jumping as he tried to catch his breath, threads of vomit still clinging to his chin and nose. Diluc shuddered, feeling the warm liquid drip down to his thighs and quickly cool as it reached his skin. He didn't let go of the bard however, he held him even closer as he shivered violently, seemingly disappearing within his arms.

“It h-hurts…”, Venti stuttered, burying his face into the man's chest, trying to chase away that horrible cold burn that seemed to be coming from within him, anything to stop that nauseating pain in his whole body. “M-Make it stop…”

Diluc was completely lost. He didn't know what was wrong with him if anything was even wrong. He was an archon, he used to be one, archons couldn't die, could they? Not like this, not in his arms.

And the smell… The panic had been clogging all of his senses, making his vision tunnel around the small bard nestled within his hug, but now that he could actually, the smell of sick hit him full force. Diluc had to hold his breath, gasping through his mouth as he noticed how strongly it smelled of alcohol.

Venti tensed harshly within his arms, his small hand pawning at Diluc's cape, pulling on it as his face buried deeper in his chest. Diluc stiffened every muscle in him when he heard him groan, the noise was muffled and short-lived, sounding deeply pained.

It was the only warning Venti mustered, and in his state, it was even more than he could. He tried to hold it, pushing on Diluc to put distance between them before he lost it.

He couldn't even retch, it simply came up without a struggle, a torrent of sick covering the both of them. It cascaded down Venti's buttoned white shirt, dampening it and gluing the stained fabric to his skin. Diluc's clothes weren't safe either, the long-sleeved shirt he wore under the tattered cape wasn't spared and got completely covered in vomit.

He locked his breath, trying to not gag himself. It was sickening, he could feel his own stomach revolting against the feeling of warm puke coating his skin.

“Ugh—, eurgh”, Diluc gagged, and hurriedly pressed a fist to his mouth when he felt the taste of his dinner flood his tongue. He clenched his eyes shut, trying to focus on breathing, but even that assaulted his senses with the smell of stomach acid and alcohol.

He couldn't vomit, he wouldn't vomit. Taking a shaky breath, he gulped down and locked his throat, waiting for nausea to pass. His rush of adrenaline was passing, all he could feel now was his guts churning.

When he made sure he could take his hand off his mouth, he looked down at Venti, whose only signs of life were the occasional hiccups shaking his shoulders, and the vice-like grip he held on his cape.

“Venti?”, he called, his voice still loaded with nausea.

“I'm… sorry…”, he repeated, a pitiful sob cutting his sentence in half.

Diluc widened his eyes, taken aback. Was he crying? Venti never struck him as an emotional drunkard, but taking how much he had already vomited, and how much he seemed to be holding back, he didn't know what to think anymore.

“You… drank way too much again, didn't you”, he asked, his tone spreading confusion. Something told him that wasn't it, Venti had an ungodly tolerance he had witnessed before, for him to be vomiting this much, for him to complain about pain…

“S-Something was wrong…”, he muttered in between shaky breaths. “That drink…”

Diluc cocked his head. What drink? He hadn't served Venti these past few days, and he was sure Charles, the bartender at Angel's Share wouldn't hide it from him, considering Venti rarely paid in the first place. In fact, a few patrons had been wondering where their friendly bard had run off to. Who else was going to play such cryptic ballads? Something definitely was wrong.

”We need to go”, he informed Venti, and while his tone came off dry, his heart was at the back of his throat. “I'll take you to Jean—”

“No!” Venti cut him off, raising his eyes to Diluc, who felt his heart split into two when he finally saw the tears. “She can't h-help…”

“What happened to you?” Diluc finally asked, his eyes wide, in the heat of the moment, he had all but forgotten the conditions he had found Venti in. “A-Are you hurt?”

Venti shook his head weakly, but to betray his words he flinched, pain flashing across his face. He curled into himself, arms wrapped tightly around his middle. Diluc held his breath out of instinct.

“Is it your stomach?”, he asked, pulling the bard even closer as he tried to look at him, to find what exactly was wrong with him. He nodded, even weaker.

“I think I've been poisoned…”, he struggled to say.

The nobleman's mouth instantly filled with questions, but before he could utter any of them, Venti winced within his grasp and curled into himself.

“Hng, you have to take me to… Windrise.”

That gigantic oak tree, it would take a while to get there on foot, especially with the injuries Diluc had sustained, and the exhaustion settling in both of them. Still, he couldn't leave Venti here.

Diluc held the bard close and stood up, feeling the wounds on his side burn anew as he started to run.

His heart was trashing inside his chest, the wind was biting cold on his damp clothes. Venti's breath hitched as he continued to sob, no doubt the violent motions were only making everything worse, the pain and nausea threatened to put him under once again.

He was small within his arms, and it looked like he was turning even smaller, getting close to disappearing. Venti fisted the sleeve of Diluc's cape, bringing it to his mouth as he felt like he was going to vomit once more.

This time he only managed to bring up a mouthful of thin puke, it quickly seeped into the soiled fabric.

The nobleman glanced down as he felt that now all too familiar feeling of hot vomit covering his chest. His clothes were beyond saving at this point, he paid no mind to it. Mercifully, in the dim light, he couldn't see the wisps of red within the regurgitated wine, all he saw was poor Venti coughing wetly as the remnants of his spells seeped out of his nostrils.

“Shh… Breathe”, Diluc shushed him tenderly, briefly running a hand over his shoulder before he glanced up again. They were nearly out of the city.

The darknight hero quickly reached the front gates of Mondstadt. The ghostly empty streets brought him a visceral fear, he felt like several eyes astray were crawling on his back. It was a sickening feeling, his stomach winced violently, his breath stopping as he realized he couldn't let go of Venti, he couldn't defend him.

The wind howled, his footsteps echoed along the stone bridge, then the grass took its toll, severing the silence for only a moment. Not a soul was in sight, but Diluc could feel the abyss watching him, its eyes clinging to him. Refusing to let go.

“Hang in there… Venti”, he huffed, clinging to the bard in his arms. He responded with a wince, sinking even further into his chest, as if he could just disappear into it. Diluc prayed he wouldn't, that form was strong enough to withstand whatever they had done to him. “We're… almost there…”

He was nearly out of breath as he uttered those words, but as soon as the oak tree came into view, he rushed his pace, nearly tripping over himself. Almost there. The sense of security that vision brought left the darknight hero careless, and open. He didn't realize the figure encroaching on his peripheral, he only felt the sharp pain open a gash on his flank.

The darknight hero tumbled to the ground, sending two limp bodies rolling over the grass. They only stopped at the foot of the hill, the shadow of the oak tree looming over them, its spiraling roots reaching out for them.

Diluc sucked greedy gasps, one after another, his chest was jumping wildly, trying to recover the air stolen from his lungs. The biting wind on his open wound was like a sheet of paper being torn in two, the pain was making his vision wave, and he didn't know if he could trust his other senses. He raised a shivering hand over it and placed it over the gash, his searing hot blood poured over his glove.

He forced himself onto his elbows and raised his head, looking around for Venti. The sunken form of the windborne bard was only a few steps away from him, wrapped tightly in his green cape, still as a stone. Then he heard it, the abyss mage cackling, it was enough to make him ignore the screaming pain.

Diluc didn't think of what it would do to him, he was moving before he even realized it. His body begged him to lay down, but he stood up, hot blood flowing from his side, dangerously close to his innards. He didn't think, he assumed his fighting stance and called upon his blade.

Between the blur of exhaustion and the wavering dark shadows, he couldn't see the next attack, even if the wind carried it so gently toward him. He only felt it when the cold water engulfed him, then it was already too late.

Diluc grew desperate as he realized he couldn't breathe, the air had become water and his choices had become two: he allowed it in his lungs, or he held onto the little air he had in them until the bitter end. He clutched at his throat, the pressure was increasing, and his surroundings were growing darker.

There was a name in his mouth as it finally opened, he could taste his own blood tainting the water as it filled his throat.

The impact of his body hitting the ground was enough to drive Diluc awake. His eyes flew open, and he turned onto the grass, clutching it as he hacked violently. His lungs were on fire as he tried to take in a breath, but his efforts only brought out water, splashing onto the soil until it took a much denser consistency.

Diluc retched in between bouts of salted water until his stomach contents were piling onto the grass. When he could finally breathe, his sinus burned from the mixture of the scorching acid mixed with fresh blood in his mouth. The remnants of heavily digested day-old food clung to his chin and mouth, dense ropes of a sickly orange that smelled foul, far worse than what Venti had done.

He raised his eyes from the tainted grass at last, his ears still ringing from the pressure in his head, his soaked clothes weighed him down. Through matted hair and swimming vision, he caught it in time.

The windborne bard raised to his feet, a teal glow framing his face, anemo power oozed from the tips of his braid. One arm was raised graciously, one slender hand cupping the air, bending the element around it, pointing to the abyss mage hovering above the ground. It spat words at the former archon in a language long lost, but it earned no reaction out of him.

The wind currents gathered into a spiral, surrounding the abyss mage who looked down to see the glowing sigil form under it and suddenly suspend it. Like a bubble of soap being carried into the wind, it popped.

Diluc watched as the abyssal creature was torn from limb to limb before his eyes, a paper doll in the hands of a child. A gory mess plummeted with a sickening wet thud, its filthy blood oozing out of the pile, filling the air with a nauseating scent. He gagged, then dropped his head to the puke pile in front of him and gagged again, vomiting onto the grass once more. This time he couldn't tell if it was out of pain or relief.

He dared to glance at it again and found ghostly blue flame was consuming the corpse, soon there was no trace left of it. His vision blurred after that, he must've lost a few seconds, because when he realized, Venti was kneeling by his side, shakingly rubbing his shoulder.

The darknight hero struggled to sit up, holding his wounded side with one hand, the other went to wipe his mouth, which made little difference. Diluc was completely drenched in all kinds of filth.

“You are bleeding”, the windborne bard told him and something about the newfound glow in his aqua-green eyes told Diluc he wasn't talking to Venti, but to lord Barbatos.

“It-It's… nothing”, he rasped, surprised at how weak his own voice sounded.

A soft chuckle left the bard's lips and he shook his head, his braids following the movement.

“You said you would take me there, didn't you?”, he said, strangely calm. “Let me help you the rest of the way.”

Venti didn't wait for confirmation, hd crawled under Diluc's arm, unphased by the water and blood dripping from him. A deep groan left Diluc's lips, his wound oozed blood as he was forced upright, the pain spiraled throughout his whole body.

The couple of steps it took to the foot of the oak tree threatened his vision with darkness, but Venti's presence strangely was the only thing that held his conscious. He lowered him down, onto the grass, and leaned against the bark.

Diluc closed his eyes and breathed deeply, albeit carefully, it burn where his skin had been torn off, such was the power of an elemental attack taken head on. It was a deep cut, but one he had walked off before, getting hurt like was all in day's work. He would survive.

Then he heard it, the beautiful melody of his lyre. Diluc was willing to crawl, he would carry his suffering along with his sense of duty. Yet, when he saw Venti, radiant despite his dishelved appearance, strumming his fingers along the strings, it carried his pain off his shoulder and onto the wind.

“This will not cure you”, the windborne bard advised, opening one glowing aqua-green eye. “But it will give you strength to reach home, no matter how grave your injuries are.”

Diluc fell back and drew in a deep breath, staring into the luscious foliage of the oak tree above them. The moon peeked from the gaps.

“No, I'm not leaving you here”, the stubborn hero refused.

Venti let a smile take form on his lips, a chuckle rest within his chest, waiting until the song of his strings came into an end. The wooden instruments came undone within his hands, transformed into feathers, then lignt.

“You're in worse shape than me. I...'ve been poisoned”, the bard said, no urgency in his voice, only that playful innocence. “You already brought me here, there is nothing more you can do.”

Diluc wanted to protest, he wanted to say no, Venti would come with him to the Winery, he could arrange the finest room to him, luxurious clothes and the best doctor Teyvat had to offer, but both of them knew. He didn't need it.

“I'll be fine”, Venti said, and his smile was sincere, even if it hid a stained tongue. “Go now. Come see me in the morning if you wish. You'll find me.”

Diluc rose to his feet, clinging to tree as his body swayed. Despite everything in his body begging for him to give up, he found strength to stand. He looked down at the bard, at his dark blue head of hair and his teal cape, his rosy face and his aqua-green eyes, contemplating that form he had chosen.

“It is a promise, then.”

Venti waved him off, with a hand completely hidden inside his sleeve, he watched as the dark silhouette of the darknight hero staggered away, his tattered black coat dragged over the grass like a broken wing.

Once he had disappeared, Venti looked up at the oak tree, smiling weakly at that familiar view, letting the wind sweep his form away, until he was lighter than air itself.