#Weapons/Tools/Armor

[lemoneyshipz]

am i the only one who thinks mairon is a minimalism bitch? like his whole thing is efficiency he probably strives for the least effort for maximum results. I mean look at his ring too it’s completely blank and simple. i imagine him not actually wearing a lot of jewelries, maybe one or two pieces to show his rank but thats it. they get in the way of his work and he KNOWS he pretty enough without them anyway, his hair is already more shiny than any gold. i imagine him being high maintenance in ways like all his clothes are simple robes but must be top quality stitching and materials, his stuff is basic in design but always very useful and made with the best materials available.

[oddside]

the day we get an exosuit/vehicle focused warbond will be a holiday

[meowrimo]

goooood MORNING and happy saturday friendz !! i woke up in such a refreshed mood omg (ㅅ´ ˘ `) i’m going to do my best to bundle up my energy and send it off to all of you so we can all have a good day :3 🤍

[sylsoddsandends]

Another rough Scarlet Pearl, but this time I drew her armor

[dravidious]

You're more amazing than paper

I've been making a lot of builds on Monster Hunter, but some weapons that I want to play don't need any/many skills to work, just a charm and/or a few decorations, so the armor doesn't matter. I decided to make a generic armor set, and wondered what skills to put on it for 2 seconds before I remembered that this game has a million ways to stun you, so I made a build that's immune to them all*

[the-overanalyzer]

The difference between Radagon/Elden Beast and [REDACTED] is that, difficult and annoying as RadaBeast was, when it was over I immediately wanted to restart with a completely different build; whereas with [DATA EXPUNGED], all I've been able to think about all day is how, once I've actually beaten ██████, thereby fully completing the DLC and justifying the money spent, I never have to think about Shadow of the Erdtree again. Which is a really miserable way to feel about a game I've spent over 700 mostly enjoyable hours with.

[mg-occultism]

something-something ideas

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Low-poly models with high fidelity lighting/camera effects/environments? Retro futurism?

Strangely placed pay phones (easter eggs? Lore?)

“Abandon your higher throne, o god of one. Your flesh does not suit you” - layered with modern english, Victorian english, old english, and latin

[vieramars]

I think that if a dragon were to rot it would be like a whale fall. The event is so rare that is teems with opportunist scavengers and creates a boom in the ecosystem. The flesh is uniquely rich and saturated with raw magic that will imbue the next few generations of vultures with sharper talons and bile twice as acidic. That magical energy disperses through the food web to grant small gifts to billions of different creatures. Insects are the first to find the carcass and the last to pick its flesh. Then the plants and fungi take over when there are only bones. Apothecary shelves will be overflowing for months with unique flowers, fruits, and mushrooms. Some gardeners and brewers plant trees in the exposed ribcage.

Humans also play a role in this decay, naturally. Even quite rotten, dragon meat carries no diseases or parasites. There are delicacies made from the flesh at its most rotten state, though most prefer the fresher meat. The scales, bones, teeth, and claws are valuable to jewelers, armorers, and smiths of tools and weapons. If you're lucky, it'll be your local craftsmen who get their hands on them, and you might get a nice set of bone kitchen knives for a high but reasonable price. If you're unlucky, some company will step in to strip away all the valuables from this dead angel, and the 1% will enjoy some novelties they don't appreciate the significance of. They've never seen a dragon rot, or dug through its decaying flesh with thick gloves to stave off its acidic blood.

What remains of the bones will eventually be covered in earth and lush new life. It will become a garden, perhaps tended by the humans who remember it, or perhaps only by the birds and squirrels that scatter the seeds. Someday dragons might visit this place to rear their young on its bounty, and thank the dead for what they've given back.

[just-a-space-duck]

So About That Armor…

I regret to inform myself that I like it.

If you haven't seen it:

I'll give you time to take it in. This is a static, (hopefully) eternal text post, so take your time.

Ok so before I go further, you are allowed to have any and all opinions about the armor. Do not listen to me; I am a stranger on the internet who attaches himself to fictional murder cyborgs and treats them like kitty cats.

So first of all, it's weird. And I like it for that. Even if I found it to be the most infuriating piece of costume design ever, I still wouldn't be able to help but respect it for how strange it is.

When it comes to fanworks, adaptations, new installments in a franchise, or even just different takes on the same trope, I love it when creators take things in an unconventional or even seemingly unrelated direction that upon closer inspection still relates to the base or original concept. To get what I mean, think goth interpretations of Rarity or Cosmopoliturtle's Pokémon redesigns. The TV series armor sits alongside these for me, because this was the thought process of the designer, Tommy Arnold:

First of all, it is so funny that The Company would just brand their armor and by extension their secunits, their combat/security products, like Louis Vuitton bags. Also, the logo of The Company strikes a nice balance between being simple enough to be easily reproducible and recognizable, but complex enough to read as a logo and not just a simple shape or pattern. Plus, The Company logo being mostly just concentric Cs, clever there.

But there's also some worldbuilding and character expression in this design.

The Corporation Rim is just capitalism but more. A company slathering everything and everyone they create and own in mountains of logos, even when it's potentially impractical, showcases just how extensive corporatism is in this setting. Additionally, this design could be something of a status marker. Secunits are high end additions and/or alternatives to other security measures. Much like how logos on purses, tennis shoes, and cars serve to tell observers, "I have the fancy, expensive version of [insert category of thing here] ergo I am a very wealthy/powerful/cool person", a secunit covered in corporate logos communicates the high status and access of the client(s).

Now what was one of the first things we learned about Murderbot in the books? It disabled its governor module, the thing preventing it from defying orders and having any level of freedom, but instead of doing what it could to leave The Company, Murderbot just stayed with it and kept doing its intended function. For over four years. What else do we learn in the first book? That it feels most comfortable in the armor because this prevents humans from seeing its face, from treating it more like a person or human rather than a tool or bot. This makes the armor being composed of the logo of the group that both created and hurt Murderbot very symbolic.

Murderbot has internalized the message that it is a dangerous weapon and not a person deserving of care to the point that, at least at the beginning of the series, it shies away from anything that insists that it deserves the same kindness that humans do. It's only ever been taught what the company built it to do, so it doesn't know what to do next once it's obtained some semblance of freedom for itself by disabling its mental shock collar and so keeps doing what it's always done, even though it very much would rather not be in such a situation. Even by the most recent book, System Collapse, Murderbot is still wrestling with the idea that it matters beyond how it can assist others. Murderbot finding comfort hiding behind the very thing that will not let you forget the company that enslaves it, is just juicy theming.

Also, the helmet looking so weird works well with how many humans don't know what secunits look like, with some not even thinking they have human-like faces. If you had no context for this image, you might very well assume this is a fully robot character or even a statue.

I have my own gripes and worries and hopes concerning the upcoming show, but I just couldn’t get this fun bit of character design analysis out of my head. Shouldn’t have watched so much TB Skyen.

[mothpawbs]

it's the post i talked about making with seawing armor!! i was planning to do a third drawing with weapons, but i'm not super into it so maybe some other time

design notes under the cut!!

so first thing's first, i know very little about armor design. i did research and stuff, an attempt was made here XD

seawings mainly use materials found in/around the sea. metal is pretty limited to use in armor, weapons, and tools, especially during the war.

as such, seawings probably wouldn't know a ton about metallurgy, especially with the fact that they don't have fire. this generation's blacksmiths were likely informed by allied tribes, being mudwings (formerly) and some sandwings.

design is based off of ancient greek armor, mixed with some art nouveau styling. there's a bit more emphasis on aesthetics than practicality, a holdover from pre-war times.

materials are limited to things that won't degrade in saltwater (at least not quickly). bronze armor with glass-enameled elements, shark leather (or seaweed in lower ranks) straps, and titanium fastenings.

even though they won't degrade quickly, these materials will still oxidize. soldiers are expected to keep their armor presentable and in working order.

armor is made to be light, flexible, and limit use of glowscales, teeth, claws, and wings as little as possible. for these reasons, soldiers only wear a helm and spaulders unless in active battle, at which point noncoms would have a chestplate, and officers would have a chestplate and mail on the gills and belly. the gills are not usually covered, as their plating makes them the toughest part of the seawing naturally.

while there are armor gaps for use of glowscales, these are small and not the most practical. instead, seawing soldiers have been using a limited version of aquatic, made primarily of hand signals, for centuries.

because fabrics such as sashes would be impractical for seawings, rank is denoted using colored enamel portions on the armor. higher ranking officers, especially royalty, may also have custom armor, though this is a bad idea as it would make one a huge target in battle. regardless, some don special armor as is tradition.

[frownyalfred]

the thing about the bats is that they're never lacking pockets. belt compartment, suit pocket, random reinforced lining in a glove, you name it. they've got a million gadgets and items hidden away on their person at any given time. getting them through a metal detector is a nightmare. and it's not all weapons -- it's weird multi-purpose tools, fear toxin antidotes in little vials, different clips for the grapple lines, etc.

the average person looks at a batkid and thinks they have ten, maybe fifteen items on them max. supers with x-ray or magic see a whole car's worth of items carefully layered under the various armor pieces and belts. and somehow every single bat knows where every single item is at any time. just like their dad <3

[belit0]

I hope your request are open if they aren’t feel free to delete this!

How would the Uchiha men ( Indra, Madara, Obito, Itachi, Shisui and Sasuke ) react to receiving the silent treatment from their usually loving wife? Maybe they had promised to come home on time this time but failed to do so again. Now, she was disappointed and truly upset. She had always been super understanding, but this time, it felt like she was no longer a priority to them.

We all have a limit, don't we? Also: my requests are always open! I'm a creative vampire, love to have a constant flow of scenarios to play with jeje

Indra – The One Who Watches

Indra was not unfamiliar with silence. He wielded it as a weapon, as armor. But this silence—the absence of her warmth, her voice—was different. It was not a tool; it was a wall. And he despised it.

(Y/N) did not acknowledge him when he stepped into the room, his dark gaze assessing her as one might observe an unfamiliar storm on the horizon. He exhaled slowly.

-You are upset.- A statement, not a question.

(Y/N) did not reply.

Indra’s jaw clenched. He moved closer, fingers ghosting over her wrist, but she turned away. He could command armies, bend the wills of men, yet here—before her—he was reduced to something small. Mortal.

-Speak,- he murmured, low and deep. -I do not enjoy this game.-

Silence.

His Sharingan flared to life, frustration leaking through the cracks. He was not one to beg, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes when he murmured, -I will not ask for forgiveness, but I will make amends. Look at me, (Y/N).-

She wanted to. Gods, she wanted to. But he needed to learn.

For the first time in his life, Indra found himself standing before something he could not control.

Madara – The One Who Fights

Madara Uchiha did not apologize. He fought, he commanded, he conquered. But this silence…

(Y/N) passed by him without a glance. He stood there, watching her go, a scowl twisting his lips.

-You're still angry?- His voice carried the edge of a man who did not like being ignored.

Nothing.

Madara crossed the room in three long strides, placing himself directly in her path. Arms crossed, expression thunderous. -This is childish.-

(Y/N) met his gaze at last, eyes cold. Childish?

Her silence turned sharp, a blade pressing against his pride. She saw the moment frustration flickered into something else—concern.

-Fine,- he exhaled, voice rough. -Tell me what you want.-

(Y/N) shook her head and walked past him.

A growl, a flash of crimson eyes. Damn it.

The great Madara Uchiha… bested by silence.

Obito – The One Who Falters

Obito was all heart. Loud, expressive, relentless in his affection. So when (Y/N) did not greet him, did not look at him, did not smile at him, the world tilted on its axis.

He tried at first to brush it off, draping himself over the couch dramatically. -Alright, alright, I know I’m late, but I brought dango! I know you can’t stay mad at me when there’s dango.-

Silence.

The smile faltered.

Obito sat up, brows furrowing. -Hey… you’re really mad...?-

Still nothing.

The panic settled in. His fingers fidgeted, reaching for her, but hesitating. -(Y/N)…?-

When she turned away, something in him cracked. His voice softened, hesitant. -I didn’t mean to— I just— Can you please talk to me? I don’t like this. You— You talk, you always talk.-

The desperate edge to his voice almost made her cave.

Almost.

Shisui – The One Who Pleads

Shisui was playful, light-hearted. But right now, there was nothing light in the way he hovered around her, hands twitching at his sides, wanting—needing—to touch her.

-(Y/N)~,- he crooned, voice coaxing. -You wouldn't really ignore your husband, would you?-

Silence.

His smile wavered.

-Okay, wait, let’s talk about this—

Nothing.

Shisui let out a very dramatic sigh and literally dropped to his knees before her. -You’re killing me here.-

(Y/N) looked down at him, expression unreadable.

-Just say something,- he begged, reaching for her hands. -You can yell, hit me, anything—just don’t shut me out.-

When she still refused, he groaned, falling backward onto the floor. -Oh god, this is how I die.-

A tiny twitch at the corner of her lips. Almost imperceptible.

Shisui caught it. His eyes glinted.

-Ah...- He shot up, grinning. -There it is! I'm winning you back already.-

She sighed. This idiot.

Itachi – The One Who Endures

Itachi noticed the shift immediately. He was perceptive, too much so. The subtle stiffening of her posture, the way her gaze lingered just past him rather than meeting his eyes.

A lesser man might have let it fester, waiting for the storm to pass. But Itachi…

He did not speak at first. Instead, he moved through their shared space with careful deliberation, bringing her tea, leaving small gestures of warmth in his wake.

And still, (Y/N) gave him nothing.

Finally, he placed a teacup beside her and murmured, -I have hurt you.-

A pause.

Itachi exhaled through his nose -I cannot undo the past, but I will ensure it does not happen again.-

His voice was soft, edged with exhaustion. He would not beg. But he would wait.

And she knew, in the end, Itachi never broke a promise.

Sasuke – The One Who Burns

Sasuke was used to coldness. He had lived his whole life in the shadow of it. But from her?

No.

His steps were measured as he approached, expression carefully blank. -(Y/N).-

Nothing.

His teeth clenched. -You're overreacting.-

The silence sharpened.

Sasuke inhaled slowly, struggling to rein in his frustration. -I said I'd be home. I didn't say when.-

That was the wrong thing to say. He knew it the moment her shoulders tensed, fingers curling into fists.

Sasuke was many things, but a fool was not one of them. He exhaled sharply, forcing himself to swallow his pride.

-(Y/N)... I didn’t mean to make you feel unimportant.

A flicker of something in her eyes. Sasuke pressed on.

-I’ll be better.

A pause. And then—finally—her gaze lifted to meet his.

Silent, but no longer cold.

And that was enough.

[solxamber]

Could I request Diasomnia with a partner who's a smithy? Besides weapons, they can also craft tools, kitchenware, tableware, jewelry, armour, and anything else made of metal.

thank you for waiting this long <3

Diasomnia with a Blacksmith! Reader

Malleus Draconia – The Dragon Prince’s Personal Artisan

The first time he visits your forge, he’s utterly enchanted—not by the flames, but by you. Watching you work, hammering molten metal with such skill, is far more mesmerizing than any spellwork.

He commissions you to craft him a custom weapon, but it turns into a long-standing habit. Now, you’ve made him jewelry, ornate goblets, and a ridiculously expensive teapot set because he wanted to see how you’d do it.

Gets lowkey jealous of the things you make. “You spend so much time crafting weapons for others. Shouldn’t your finest work belong to me?”

Definitely flexes your work in his hoard. Will absolutely hoard you too if given the chance.

If you try to gift him something small and personal—like a pendant or a signet ring—he gets unreasonably soft about it. You just handed this ancient dragon prince a trinket, and now it’s his most prized possession.

Lilia Vanrouge – Chaos Gremlin Patron

"Ah, metalwork! I was quite the smith in my youth!" he says, as he spectacularly fails to make a dent in a copper sheet.

He is the most annoying client because he commissions the weirdest things. Once asked you to make him a sword with a detachable spoon. He used it to eat soup at a war camp.

Always hanging upside down in your forge, asking too many questions. “What does this do? Can I touch it? Oh? Why are you looking at me like that?”

You make him a personalized dagger with his name etched in glowing runes, thinking he’d use it in battle. He instead uses it to cut vegetables while cooking. (It’s the only reason the vegetables survive his cooking.)

But when it comes down to it, Lilia deeply respects your craft. If he ever gifts you anything, it’s always materials from far-off lands, rare ores, and enchanted metals that sing under your hammer.

Absolutely goes feral if anyone tries to disrespect your work. You won’t even know what happened. One moment, someone is criticizing your craftsmanship—next moment, they’re pale, shaking, and handing you money while Lilia smiles behind them.

Silver Vanrouge – The Knight Who Always Falls Asleep Near Your Forge

He respects your work immensely but has terrible luck visiting you. He always falls asleep while waiting.

You once found him passed out against your anvil. You almost clocked him with a hammer thinking he was a burglar.

But the best part? He sleeps like an absolute angel in the most inconvenient spots. On your workbench? Yup. Leaning against a suit of armor? Done. Balanced on a pile of metal ingots? How??

When he’s awake, though, he’s very earnest about learning. He wants to understand how to take care of his weapons, so he often asks you to teach him maintenance techniques.

You sharpen his sword once, and he treats it like you personally saved his life. He insists that your work makes him faster and sharper in battle.

If he ever sees you working late, he’ll gently put a cloak over you and tell you to rest. But if you refuse? Fine. He’ll sit next to you and fall asleep while pretending to keep you company.

Sebek Zigvolt – Loudest Supporter, Most Aggressive Customer

"HUH?! YOU FORGE METAL?! INCREDIBLE! ASTOUNDING! I SHALL ONLY COMMISSION FROM YOU!!!” (You are now his personal smith. You had no say in this.)

He demands the strongest, most unbreakable weapons. You make him a sword once, and he treats it like it's a divine relic.

Tries to act like he’s too dignified to be impressed, but the first time he sees you pull molten metal from the forge, his jaw drops.

You gift him a custom sword with his family crest, and he is red in the face. "W-WHAT?! THIS IS—HOW DID—FOR ME?!?!” You swear you saw sparkles around his head.

Complains about you “wasting time” making non-weaponry, but secretly loves everything you make. Once, you gave him a metal drinking flask for travel, and he now refuses to use anything else.

Will loudly threaten anyone who disrespects your craft, even if they didn’t say anything. Someone casually mentions a blacksmith in another town? Sebek immediately starts yelling: "THEY CANNOT POSSIBLY MATCH MY CRAFTSMAN!!!”

He also secretly admires your patience and dedication. Late at night, when you’re working under the dim glow of the forge, he just watches in quiet awe. Sometimes, he forgets to yell.

Masterlist

[theincantation-if]

☽ DEMO (TBA)

Those who never learn history are doomed to repeat it.

There is something wrong with your blood, the others sense it when they look at you. Your parents said it’s what makes you special, beloved. You wish it to be true. You are ten when you notice the change, the thing that courses in your veins, wishing to be released, but you don’t know how.

You are thirteen when it releases itself. Anguish, grief, rage. Power. It destroys everything around you, it strives to kill, and it does. It is that fateful day that lands you here, trapped and caged within the walls of the Gilded Palace. This is the place you believe you will die.

Until you don’t, you’re kept alive. Here, against your will. Trained and yielded to be a tool. In the next ten years of your life, you will become a prized captive under the King’s guard. Wallowing in hate, waiting for your time to come to an end. Then the dragons appear, the royal family is assassinated, a rebellion ensues, and all the problems are pointed towards you.

Can you prove your innocence? Is it even worth it to try?

The Incantation is rated 18+ for violence, death, abuse, explicit language, unhealthy relationships, morally questionable characters, suggestive content, and possibly more triggers pending.

☽ Play as a witch of your own making.

Customize your character.

Build your relationships with those around you.

Learn more about the power that plagues you.

Form yourself into a weapon of your choosing or become the monster they made you out to be.

Save the kingdom or doom it to eternity.

☽ Romance one of four love interests.

Evander Alazar. (he/him)

Evander is the crown prince of Elyssia. Often charming and elusive, Evander hides behind a mask of arrogance and indifference to get through courtly life. Yet, forced into a role he never wanted - Evander must quickly assume the role of monarchy to keep his kingdom safe. Will it be sink or swim for this young prince?

Trope: Forbidden Love. He shouldn't look at you, you are considered an enemy of the kingdom. He should order your death. So why is it, that when you look at him - his heart seems to stop beating?

Theodore/Theodora "Teddy" de Peyster. (he/him) or (she/her)

Teddy is the crown prince's sworn protector. Noble and steadfast, Teddy is everything the kingdom needs to survive. Born to the retired parent's of the King's guard, all Teddy's life has been is violence and warfare. Is it possible for this knight to rise to the challenge or will they fall on their sword?

Trope: Sworn off Love. The knight cannot afford any mistakes, no matter how small. They keep everyone at a distance, relationships lead to a mess and a mess is a big mistake. But when you smile - they feel a crack appear in their armor.

Maeryn Toussaint. (she/her)

Maeryn is a priestess, belonging to the Church of Estrellas. Frequently skittish and consistently pious, Maeryn has never set foot outside of her convent. That was until the rebellion, where her prophetic abilities could help turn the tide. Can she save the kingdom, or doom the world?

Trope: Love at First Sight. She has never had anyone look at her like she wasn't broken. It's gotten to the point where she believes it too. Yet, when your hand touches hers - she has never felt more put together.

Hartford Moss. (cis) or (non-binary)

Hartford is your best friend, or was at least. Long gone is the vibrant curiosity of childhood, the destruction of Hartford's home leaves nothing but grief in their eyes and regret in their heart. Until they see you again. Will you stay together this time or will fate rip you apart?

Trope: Friends to Lovers. No one has ever seen every piece of them and understood them; their soul is bare, yet people look and don't see. However, you have seen them all of them and never looked away - it makes their head spin.

[moonselune]

I've been playing alot of harvest moon/stardew recently and was wondering how the companions would react to a tav or durge prefering to settle down for the farming life post game. I know Shadowheart would love it anyway but Astarion would be the type to groan about the summer heat at times.

Btw love your work ❤️

Awh thank you! I freaking love stardew valley, I actually got to the point where I would see things in real life and be like oh i need that for my bundle...

Minthara:

Minthara had agreed to come with you back to your little patch of dirt. That was the first miracle.

She stood at the edge of the field, arms crossed, eyes narrowed at the rows of squash you'd lovingly planted weeks ago. Her elegant armor had been swapped—begrudgingly—for leather trousers and a dark green blouse with the sleeves rolled up. She claimed she only wore it because it “blended well with the shadows.”

In reality, she looked dangerously attractive, and you told her so often enough that it stopped earning you eye rolls.

“I still don’t see the appeal,” she muttered one morning, kneeling beside you in the loamy soil as you both weeded a row of carrots. “Endless dirt. Scratching at the ground like a deep gnome grub. You truly believe this is more fulfilling than conquering the Underdark?”

You grinned, pushing your hair back and letting the sun warm your face. “The carrots don’t scream when I pull them out of the ground.”

Minthara snorted—an actual laugh, short and sharp. She caught herself, frowning like she hadn’t meant to let it slip.

“I could grow mushrooms,” she said after a pause. “Real mushrooms. Not these surface-dwelling imitations.”

You perked up. “You want to farm?”

“I do not want to farm,” she snapped, yanking a weed a little too aggressively. “I simply think someone must bring standards to this pitiful excuse for agriculture.”

That night, you caught her carefully organizing mushroom spores in neat rows in the shaded part of the garden, whispering Drow words of encouragement under her breath.

And every evening, she helped you without complaint. She said it was only because you were “hopeless on your own,” but there was a softness in her touch when she handed you tools, when she brushed dirt from your face. Once, she found a fat, horned beetle in the lettuce patch and spent nearly an hour observing it before letting it crawl onto her hand and releasing it at the edge of the forest.

“I could get used to this,” she murmured that night, curled beside you on the porch. The stars glittered above like Underdark crystal formations, distant and sharp.

“You already have,” you whispered back.

She didn’t argue.

Karlach:

Karlach loved it from the very first moment she stepped onto the farm.

“This place is sick!” she bellowed, boots thudding across the dirt as she chased one of the goats around the field. “Look at this little beastie—oh, she’s got attitude! Just like me!”

You could barely keep up with her enthusiasm.

Where you had slowly learned the rhythm of the fields, Karlach plunged headfirst into it—planting, harvesting, repairing fences with her bare hands. She named every single animal and gave them nicknames too. Your prize ram? “Sir Headbutt.” The hen with the limp? “Motherclucker”

You’d wake some mornings to find her sitting in the barn, curled up with your herd of goats, one snoring against her shoulder as she scratched behind its ears.

You stood in the doorway, arms folded. “I’m starting to think you love the goats more than me.”

Karlach looked up, grinning that wild, warm grin. “Babe. You don’t chew cud and you hog the blankets. These little sweeties are pure, no complaints.”

You made a show of gasping in betrayal, and she laughed so hard she nearly toppled into the hay.

She was clumsy with gardening, planting seeds so deep they never saw the light of day, but she didn’t care.

“I’m all about the brawn of the operation, baby!” she said, hoisting a broken fence post like a weapon of war. “You’re the one with the gentle hands. You’re the heart. I’m just the muscle.”

You couldn’t count how many times you found her fixing things, adding improvements. She built a rainwater system for the fields, oiled the hinges of every barn door, and even made a small, hand-carved sign with all the names of the animals.

She hung it crooked on purpose.

And on summer days, when the sun burned and the sweat clung to your back, she'd scoop water straight from the well and splash it over both of you, laughing as you sputtered.

“You look good with dirt on your nose,” she’d say, brushing it off with her calloused thumb.

And you’d smile, because she was the kind of fire that didn’t burn—it warmed. And here, among the goats and gardens and peace, her flame could finally just... flicker, without fear.

Lae'zel:

No one had expected Lae’zel to take well to the slow life of a farm. She had always been all sharp angles, roaring fire, and a blade ready at a moment’s notice. But then again—no one had expected her to stay, either. And she did. With you.

What none of you accounted for was how seriously she’d take the training of the livestock.

"These creatures lack discipline!" she declared one morning, standing in the field, arms crossed and unimpressed as a trio of goats casually ignored her barking orders and continued to gnaw on the same patch of fence they’d been told—repeatedly—not to chew.

She turned to you, eyes narrowed. “Do they understand Common?”

"They understand,” you said, trying not to laugh as a particularly rebellious chicken pecked at her boot. “They just don’t care.”

You would have offered to help, but you were too busy melting at the sight of Xan, the tiny Githyanki infant wrapped securely to her chest in a sling you had made together. Lae’zel had first insisted that she didn’t need it—that she could carry her hatchling in her arms at all times like a proper warrior—but even she couldn’t argue with the convenience of two free hands. Especially for chicken combat.

You’d find her some mornings standing in the pasture, her face serious as she recited commands to the goats and hens like they were soldiers on a battlefield. "Form ranks! Maintain spacing! No, Clucker, no! That is not your perch—”

And all the while, little Xan would nap contentedly against her, a bundle of soft green skin and big yellow eyes, utterly unmoved by the chaos of the yard. Occasionally he’d gurgle and tug at her leathers with one hand. Every time you saw the two of them, your heart swelled nearly to bursting.

You leaned against the fence one afternoon, watching as a pig stubbornly refused to move out of Lae'zel's designated “training circle.”

“You know,” you said, grinning as she glared at it with more intensity than she had ever shown a goblin, “maybe farming isn’t about commanding obedience.”

“It should be,” she replied sharply. “They would be more efficient.”

Still, you saw her lips twitch when a goat headbutted her in protest. And she didn’t stop them from clambering all over her later when you both sat in the grass and let Xan play in the sun.

Shadowheart:

The house was small, sun-dappled, and always smelled like hay and something baking. Scratch lay sprawled across the front steps most days, belly-up, completely spoiled. The owlbear—too big for the barn, too curious to be penned—had taken to nesting in the orchard, gently knocking apples from the trees like it was performing some kind of divine rite.

Shadowheart had fallen in love with it all faster than even she expected.

You found her in the mornings tending to the goats with a quiet, practiced grace, her long hair tied up messily, a smear of dirt across one cheek that she never noticed. Her cleric’s robes had been replaced with linen tunics and earth-toned skirts—though her armor still hung by the door, just in case.

“What happened to the chicken pen?” you asked once, only to be met with a long sigh and her pointing silently toward Scratch—muddy, feather-covered, and absolutely unrepentant.

You were never alone. Not really. The animals had adopted you both. Scratch followed you everywhere. The owlbear guarded the house like it was the holiest temple. You even had a few stray cats that Shadowheart swore she didn’t feed, but you caught her slipping them treats more often than not.

Still, there was one part of the land she hadn’t explored yet—because you were keeping it a secret.

You worked on it in the evenings, tucked away behind the western slope of the hill. A dozen rows of posts were driven deep into the soil, with the first few vines already climbing, green tendrils reaching for the sky. You’d been studying grape varieties, borrowing books from Gale, and mapping sun paths like your life depended on it.

And finally, one golden evening, you took her hand and said, “There’s something I want to show you.”

She followed without question, her fingers warm in yours, and when you rounded the hill, her breath caught.

“You—” she started. “You planted a vineyard?”

“For us,” you said simply. “I know you love wine. I thought… one day, you could make your own.”

She stared in stunned silence, eyes glossy in the light.

“This is…” Her voice trembled, and she smiled so wide you saw the dimples that only showed when she was truly, deeply happy. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You love it.”

“I do.” She launched herself at you, arms thrown around your neck, kissing you with such fervor that you stumbled backward into the half-dug earth. “You sappy, wonderful thing. I don’t deserve you.”

“You absolutely do,” you whispered, burying your face in her hair.

And from the other side of the hill, the owlbear let out a low hoot of approval—promptly followed by Scratch barking and barreling toward the two of you like a freight train.

“You know,” Shadowheart said as you braced for impact, “we might have too many animals.”

“I regret nothing.”

Jaheira:

Jaheira had said no at first.

She’d crossed her arms, brow furrowed in that eternally war-hardened way, and declared she was not the “settling down type.” A Harper, a druid, a warrior—too much duty still ran in her blood, and she wasn’t one to lie to herself.

And yet, you often found her on the porch in the morning, sleeves rolled up, tending to the basil or trimming back the ivy that tried to swallow the trellis. Her hands were calloused, steady, already shaped by years of coaxing life from the soil—and the moment she touched the earth here, she remembered. Not war. Not rebellion.

Peace.

She fit into the rhythm of the farm as if she’d always belonged. Milking the goats, harvesting herbs, reorganizing the tool shed within an inch of its life.

“A sharpened blade is less likely to betray you than a dull one,” she’d say when she caught you leaving shears in the dirt. You tried—gently—to get her to stop sometimes.

“Jaheira,” you’d say, handing her a mug of tea in the shade, “you’re supposed to relax. Remember that? The whole ‘breathing’ thing?”

She’d huff, but her smile would betray her.

“I’ll rest when the tomatoes stop growing unevenly,” she’d mutter, before adding with quiet fondness, “Besides… this is good work. Healing work.”

And the best days—the very best days—were when her children visited.

The younger ones would come tumbling down the trail with satchels and stories, running up to greet their mother, who stood like a pillar of strength at the garden gate. The number of times Jaheira had to pry Fig from a scarecrow as she was practising her 'wrestling moves' was one too many. You’d watch her soften visibly, smile lines crinkling, arms open as they piled into her.

They helped with the animals, with mixed results. One of them always ended up covered in chicken feathers, another face-first in a flowerbed, and Jaheira would roll her eyes while secretly delighting in every second of it.

It was domestic. Soft. Loud and messy and full of warmth.

Every now and then, you’d catch her staring out over the fields as the sun set, a quiet melancholy in her eyes. You knew she felt the pull of Harper duty—that someday, she’d have to return to that life. But she never pulled away from this one.

And you never stopped reminding her: “This moment is yours. Don’t let it slip away.”

Gale:

Gale loved farm life. Maybe a bit too much.

He delighted in every step of the process—from sowing seeds to baking fresh bread in the stone oven. He was the first to rise (with magically summoned coffee, of course), and the last to go to bed, always muttering about “optimal composting cycles” and “rotational planting enchantments.”

You never had to worry about the crops failing. Not when Gale enchanted the soil to stay perfectly moist and fertile. Not when your scarecrow occasionally waved to you and politely asked for new clothes.

And that might’ve been fine.

Until he started taking the produce to Blackstaff Academy.

"Look at this carrot!" he’d proclaim with the glee of a proud parent, holding up a perfectly orange, absolutely normal vegetable.

Then he’d bring it back.

And it would be the size of a horse’s leg, glowing faintly, humming with a magical pulse, and—for reasons unknown—smelling like cinnamon.

"Gale!" you’d exclaim. "It’s a carrot. It does not need to be arcane-tuned!"

“But imagine the nutritional value!” he’d insist, delighted. “It now increases constitution by two points for an hour! Also, I added a small glamour charm—look, it sparkles in the moonlight!”

You buried your face in your hands. “It was for stew. Now it looks like it is for a health potion with a beard.”

The tomatoes came back one week with eyes and a faint sense of existential dread. The potatoes exploded on contact with fire. A single cucumber once tried to recite Elminister.

You instituted a new rule: No magical alterations unless specifically requested.

Gale apologized with his signature dramatic charm, bowing deeply and presenting you with a bouquet of roses (grown in your garden, made of light, that sang quietly when touched). You forgave him. Eventually.

You did catch him sneaking a pumpkin to his satchel the next week. You pretended not to see it.

After all, the man who once swallowed a Netherese orb deserved a little whimsy.

But gods help him if your wine starts talking.

Astarion:

The summer sun blazed above your little stretch of farmland, turning the sky into a wide, cloudless expanse of light and heat. Cicadas sang from the trees. The golden fields shimmered. You were sweating through your shirt, but you'd gotten used to it by now. Not everyone had, though.

“I am wilting,” Astarion declared from the shade of a fig tree, fanning himself with a piece of parchment and looking like the most glamorous corpse in Faerûn.

You were knee-deep in the garden bed, dirt up to your elbows, pulling weeds with the satisfied sort of grunt that only came from knowing your tomatoes were going to thrill the next farmer’s market.

“You know, you are wearing a magical ring that lets you walk in the sun,” you reminded him, not even glancing back.

“Yes, and I am grateful,” he said in a tone that was both long-suffering and exasperated. “But that doesn’t mean I must enjoy it. Honestly, do farms not understand the concept of ‘shade’? Or a cool breeze? Or a bloody parasol?”

You chuckled and wiped sweat from your brow. “I can take the ring back, you know. Could always go back to lurking in crypts and brooding in velvet.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then: “How dare you.”

You turned just in time to see him stalk toward you, predator grace still intact despite his muttering.

“That was a threat, wasn’t it?” he said, tone mock-scandalized. “You’d condemn me to a shadowed existence just to win this argument?”

Before you could get a word out, Astarion planted both hands on your chest and shoved. You stumbled backward with a yelp, landing with a mighty splash in the nearby pond, water closing over your head with a slap. When you surfaced, spitting water and pushing your hair out of your face, he was at the edge of the pond, arms folded, grinning.

“Next time you threaten to take away my precious accessories,” he said smugly, “perhaps you’ll remember who you’re dealing with.”

“Oh, I remember,” you said, swimming toward him with a grin of your own. “I also remember that you’re a terrible swimmer.”

His eyes narrowed. “Don’t you—!”

You grabbed his ankle and yanked. Astarion screeched like an offended seagull as he tumbled in after you, limbs flailing in the most elegant way a vampire can flail. The water swallowed him with a splash, and when he resurfaced, gasping, you were already laughing.

“Well,” you said, treading water beside him. “You’re cool now.”

His curls were plastered to his forehead, pale skin gleaming with pond water, clothes clinging in all the right places.

“I loathe you,” he hissed, completely unconvincing as he waded toward you.

“You love me,” you replied, and when he tried to dunk you under, you laughed even harder. He did try to drown you (with affection), and the pond echoed with splashes and laughter long into the afternoon.

Wyll:

Wyll loved the farm. Really, truly loved it. He dove into farm life with the same unshakable optimism he brought to battle: sleeves rolled up, a bright smile on his face, and an absolutely terrible sense of crop rotation.

“Look!” he said, beaming, holding up a vaguely wilted carrot. “That’s my fifth one! It only took me six tries!”

The carrot was... lopsided. And slightly blue.

You peered at it. “Wyll... did you plant it next to Gale’s ‘experimental vegetables’ again?”

He gave you a sheepish grin. “Maybe?”

Despite his noble upbringing, Wyll took to labor like it was second nature. He loved feeding the chickens (even if they pecked at his boots), singing as he milked the goats (who responded by trying to eat his shirt), and tending the soil (even if he constantly mixed up which plants needed full sun or partial shade).

But he tried. Gods, did he try.

He’d wake up before sunrise to help gather eggs and bring you wildflowers with muddy fingers and a bashful smile. He gave names to every single pumpkin, saluted the cows like old comrades, and taught the pigs how to sit. (One of them sort of learned. You suspected it was coincidence.)

The vegetables he harvested often ended up a little too bruised, or crooked, or tiny—but he presented them with the proud air of someone who had just defeated a demon lord.

“This one’s for you,” he’d say, placing a funny little beet in your hand like it was a diamond.

And honestly? It was perfect. Because Wyll’s joy was infectious. His laughter echoed over the fields. His presence made every sunrise feel warmer, every day brighter. Even if his corn always grew sideways.

“I might not be the best farmer,” he’d admit, rubbing the back of his neck, “but I’m exactly where I want to be.”

And when you kissed him, fingers brushing dirt from his cheek, you couldn’t help but agree.

Halsin:

If anyone was born to thrive on a farm, it was Halsin.

Where others groaned about early mornings and sore backs, Halsin greeted the day with that warm, deep voice and a calm certainty that made the roosters crow more enthusiastically. Shirtless more often than not, with the morning light catching on his golden skin and broad shoulders, he looked like a god of the harvest incarnate—muscles flexing as he hefted hay bales like they were pillows.

You tried not to gawk every time he wiped the sweat from his brow with the hem of his tunic.

(You failed often.)

“I thought you were a druid,” you teased one day, leaning on a fencepost, watching him load the cart with fresh hay. “Shouldn’t you be turning into a bear and napping under trees or something?”

Halsin smiled, the kind of smile that settled in your bones like warmth. “Being one with nature doesn’t mean shying away from hard work. Besides, the goats get nervous when I shift. And they like it when I talk to them.”

He said this while gently stroking the head of a particularly moody billy goat, who stared up at him like he hung the moon.

You raised a brow. “Are you telling them secrets?”

“I’m telling them not to eat your herb garden,” he said. “Again.”

It wasn’t just his strength or his ease with the animals—it was the way Halsin belonged here. The land responded to him. Trees leaned in closer. The soil felt richer. Even the bees seemed to hover around him longer than they should’ve. And when the chores were done and you sat together beneath the old oak with your hands dirty and your hearts full, it felt like everything was in balance.

He never rushed you, never questioned your need for this life. He only helped shape it into something stronger, steadier. More alive.

And when he pressed a kiss to your temple after a long day, murmuring about stew for dinner and the chickens needing checking, and building some new play equipment for the goats -and the orphans, you couldn't help but smile.

Because your druid? He wasn’t just a bear in the forest. He was the heart of this little farm.

OMG how freaking wholesome was this, I did it more as a drabble style as I kinda had rambling thoughts about this, but I hope you guys enjoyed this! - Seluney xox

If you want to support me in other ways | Help keep this moonmaiden caffeinated x

[ventique18]

Papa Shroud: "A mage stone that could withstand assault from a dragon..."

Idia: "Dragon scales are are immune to both physical and magical attrib attacks. Their flames could melt boulders. The only thing that could defend against a dragon's flames is made from metal with the world's highest res stat, a "Mystium" shield."

Idia: "TLDR, the only way to defeat the Demon King is to use equipment made from the rarest materials."

Ohhh, so we really ARE gonna be battling Malleus' dragon form since they're preparing so hard for it. They're only mentally weakening Malleus to get him to put down his domain, but they're getting ready to face the real deal in the real world in case he goes berserk.

They're in cooperation with grandpa Baur to scrounge up some Mystium ores, but apparently there are only enough to create some armor. They needed boatloads of it just to make sure Malleus won't burn through them like paper.

Mama Shroud: "We still haven't found enough Mystium ores to forge a sword."

Idia makes some goddamn Legend of Zelda reference and exclaims "where the hell is the legendary sword!"

Silver: "Legendary... sword..?"

They suddenly remember! Lilia's magearm!!

Silver: "I'm not sure about a legendary sword, but... What about Briar Valley's former General of the Right, Lilia Vanrouge's magearm that he used during his active years of service?"

The only problem is that... They shipped the goddamn "legendary weapon" to Twisted Wonderland China like a goddamn Amazon delivery while they labeled it as "tools." 😂 Now STYX is scrambling to get hold of the weapon ASAP LOL.