#diablo: amor aeternus

[mal-likes-biscuits]

I had some fun in the BG3 character creator because I was trying to figure out some things with Mal's hair. The exact cut sort of varies in my head based on both the point in the story and how I feel at that moment while writing. I'm inconsistent.

I do figure he spent that first year cutting it himself, and there's a non-zero chance this went on throughout the entire first series, because no one was going to tell him how uneven it all was. It does become more obvious the more the necro-silver comes out.

Then, of course, I had to test out the "someone gives Mal a proper haircut and he actually washes it well and maybe brushes it" and uh.

(Pardon the side part, it should be more in the middle.)

Excuse me, this doesn't look like a man who hides in trees and comes home soggy, covered in mud and guts. Maybe he looks like this further into Archfall, when he's been forbidden from dungeon diving for half a year and has some self-care imposed on him.

Less tongue in cheek, it does certainly give a feel for how he would look much more put together. Farah approved? She likes both.

[fluff-and-such]

Death’s Gamble

It wasn’t Malthael’s first choice to sit in the Slaughtered Calf Inn in the late hours of the evening, when it was usually filled to the brim with intoxicated vagrants and Nephalem intent on setting fire to the banisters. Tyrael should have been back hours ago. The delay itself didn’t concern him. His brother was capable of handling nearly anything, and the graver issue would be if he moved from his spot and the former angel couldn’t find him.

Thus, he waited, watching silently while the tavern descended into abhorrent debauchery. When Bron accidentally brought him a stein while serving the others, he said nothing to correct him. He could only scratch so many angelic runes onto the table with his knife. Drinking was a small step above utter boredom, but it was still above.

He took a sip.

Feh. It wasn’t even mead. He made a displeased face and took another mouthful, then looked about the room for anything that could possibly entertain him.

_________________________________________________

“What do you mean he’s not here?”

Bron gave Tyrael a hooded look from overtop the bar before dipping below it to fetch another bottle. “Exactly what I said. He’s not here.”

“I told him to wait.”

“I’m sure you did. But look.” The bartender straightened and clanked a bottle of spirits down, nodding as one of the other patrons flipped him several gold coins. “He ain’t here. And I’m not your brother’s bloody keeper. He’s a big boy.”

“Bron.” By the Light, sometimes everyone seemed fit to test his patience. Tyrael braced himself against the bar and leaned towards the shorter man. “What was he doing when he was here?”

“Drinking alone like a love-spurned sap. What d’you think he was doing, dancing a fucking Westmarchian jig?”

“And then? He left?”

“Course he left. He’d still be here otherwise.” Bron looked away quickly, turning back to resume wiping out glasses.

Tyrael’s eyes narrowed. “And what was he doing in the interim between leaving and not leaving?”

“Last I saw he was playing cards with some necromancer-looking type.”

“And you let him?” Tyrael exclaimed, the outburst temporarily silencing conversation around them. When the patrons returned to their revelry, he turned back to Bron and quietly added, “Was it Osseus?”

“No. Never seen him before.”

“Then who was it?”

“Hells if I know. But, I’ll tell you what. I’ll make you a deal. I’ll give you a prime sitting location right here. Drinks on me, as many as you want, if you stop asking me about that Light forsaken miscreant.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then go find him, for all I care. Stop bothering me. I have a tavern to run.”

_________________________________________________

“Aye, he was stark naked as the day he was born! Sprinted right off down the cobble after another.”

“Did you see what he looked like?”

“Only saw him out the corner of me eye. Then I turned and he was gone!”

“I think you imagined it, dear,” a woman said, patting her husband on the arm. He swayed merrily. “Come home and I’ll fix up your confusion in a right old moment.”

“Awwwck, leave me be! I wasn’t imagining! Was a man chasing a man. A bird man, even. I think. Had some feathers on him. Could have been a demon, I suppose.”

Tyrael listened to the evolving story with a twitch to his brow. Tristram was home to neither bird man nor demon, and he doubted the sighting was anything more than the product of an alcohol addled brain. Still, drunken delusions could carry with them fragments of truth.

“Which way did he run?”

“Towards the town gates. Then off into the darkness. I ne’er saw him after.”

“Dear, I really think we should be leaving now.”

“You only think so because you don’t believe me. Go an’ ask Isaac, he’ll tell ye the same!”

“Did he drink from the same cup?” Tyrael couldn’t help but ask.

“Nay, but he saw as I did, rightly, and with his own peepers!”

“Then I think I will go check on this miscreant with my peepers.” He bowed and stepped away, as the woman attempted to wrangle her husband in the general direction of their home. “Good evening.”

_________________________________________________

Outside of Tristram’s gates, where cobblestone gave way to dirt, Tyrael found a set of tracks leading into the forest. Two sets, truthfully. One clearly human, five toes per foot, without boot or greave.

The other set was something else entirely.

He dropped to his knees and traced the outline with a finger. Deep tracks. A heavy creature. The prints disappeared into the trees, where they faded away into the darkness. Nearby, something else glimmered. He reached for it, then held it up between gauntleted fingers. A plum coloured feather reflected opalescently in the moonlight.

“Brother,” he sighed, stashing the plumage in a pouch in case he needed it later. “By Diablo’s horned crown, what trouble have you found yourself in now?”

Malthael groaned as the comforting blackness was interrupted by sunlight. It hurt his eyes even behind his arm.

“Brother.” A towering shadow mercifully blocked the rest of the morning glow. “I see you are finally awake.”

“Verily, and blinded.” He blinked away crust, before deciding waking had been a terrible idea. He rolled away from Tyrael and tugged the quilt with him, pressing his forehead to the cool outer wall. Each time his head throbbed, he leaned harder against the wood.

“Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

His temples ached like they had been run through, and the mere thought of breakfast sent his stomach churning. He distantly remembered there being a tavern and a table he was supposed to wait at. More, he couldn’t remember. From Tyrael’s reaction, though, he assumed he had neglected that singular duty.

“Leave me,” he rasped. “You pain my head.”

“No. Not until we discuss things! It was hard enough for me to convince Bron to let you into the tavern in the first place. And then, to find you were traipsing about town—”

Ah, so that was what had happened. He had frightened some of the townsfolk, or perhaps one of the newer Nephalem. A mistake, but not a critical one.

“—you’re not even listening, are you?” The bed rocked as Tyrael clanged a greave against the side of the headboard, causing Malthael to flinch. “I found you prone at the foot of a tree!”

Tree? He didn’t recall that part. “For the best. You are hardly dressed to climb.”

“This is not funny, Malthael.”

Oh, but it was. He remembered nothing at all beyond the haze of the tavern, and the only way he could temper his growing concern over what he had done the previous evening was to ignore it. With a strong dose of sarcasm, preferably. The latter did not help the situation, but it certainly made him feel better.

Tyrael grunted, his armor clanking as he settled onto the foot of the bed. “You really remember nothing?”

“No.”

“Not even why you were naked?”

He swore and tugged the quilt further, until it properly blocked out the light and muffled his hearing. That was enough distressing news for the day. He wasn’t entirely sure he even believed Tyrael. Gallivanting about without clothing was not something he regularly practiced, and he couldn’t think of any reason why he would disrobe in front of others.

He closed his eyes and decided his brother was firmly, as the mortals sometimes said, pulling his leg.

In response, Tyrael snorted and stood. “As you would, then. Rest as you need. We can discuss your flagrant disrespect for my instructions later.”

“Good. Leave me.”

The scrape of greaves on wood tapped towards the door. “Gods help me, I don’t understand how Lyndon tolerates you.”

“Kinship among imbeciles. And you are still too loud.”

Tyrael replied by snapping the door closed emphatically behind him.

Finally. Silence. And with it, a return to sleep and ignorance as to where his clothing had vanished. He could parse out the problem much easier when his mind no longer felt as though it were being squeezed between pincers.

Someone somewhere had his shirt and pants. He would find and recover them.

Eventually.

FIN

_________________________________________________

The Pants Saga begins!

Written by @mal-likes-biscuits, Illustrated by your’s truly. 

In which Tyrael deals with the immediate aftermath of two necromancer-types getting drunk together and swapping pants, Malthael deals with that sweet-sweet hangover-headache, and nobody actually knows if Rathma was here or not. 

Loosely inspired by the “Death’s Bargain” Legendary item in Diablo III, and Continued in the ask by Biscuit Here and the RPs between us Here and Here.

Can also be found on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20711276

Let the fluff spread, and the biscuits be many!

[blizzweirdo]

Blizzard Fanfiction Writer Livestream

Ever heard of livestreaming fanfiction writing? Neither have we! Join me and @mal-likes-biscuits as we both write Blizzard (StarCraft and Diablo) fanfiction live and answer questions at:

January 27 @ 1200 CST on Picarto (under my username, Blizzweirdo--link in the comments)

We have space for two more writers if they would like to stream with us.

There will be writing, lots of bad jokes, Blizzard nerding out, and probably ascii genitals. What more could you ask for?

Mal-likes-biscuits will be writing a standalone fiction piece, and I will most likely be working on an early draft for a No Omen, No Country’s Cause chapter. Feel free to send us asks if you want them answered.

Hope to see you then!

[oyeedraw]

@janzoo (<<hmm, tag not working); @mal-likes-biscuits (Farah is prolly standing on a stool, heh)

Drawn based on this list >> https://oyeedraw.tumblr.com/post/186275025208/oyeedraw-sparkskun-soupery-a-softer-sequel

Will definitely do a few more! :)

[mal-likes-biscuits]

I gotta ask - did u give D4 Mal-insert black hair as a nod to Lore Things? ~🐟

It's a nod to where his character would start again, predominately. When I was doing character creation I was thinking a lot about why Mal would be there, beyond me just wanting to have fun walking around a necro that looks like him.

Because Sanctuary in D4 is understandably very different from the Sanctuary Mal is from. I genuinely like the setting and appreciate why some things were retconned from D3 -- notably the damage Malthael actually did in the world.

Mal fucked up pretty bad, where he's from. Him and the reapers flattened Westmarch. They did notable damage in other major cities, and had the Nephalem not stopped them, they would have proceeded to walk over every other mortal on the planet. But the majority of his forces were in Westmarch, because that is where the Nephalem began to oppose him, so that's where more of the reapers went.

It's pretty clear at the end of D3 that Malthael didn't do any sort of world-level devastation to Sanctuary. But in D4, we've been told by the developers that 90% of the world's population has died since D3 50 years prior, predominately killed off by the reapers.

It's no wonder Sanctuary is so rough. The entire world has been trying to survive and rebuild while being assaulted by anything threatening left. Toss in Lilith and Inarius' forces to the mix, and it's a (not legit) miracle anyone is alive.

What would bring Mal there? Mal ends up back on Sanctuary in all my stories because the sound of mortals is louder than the Arch. (The Arch has been corrupted and is failing, after all, whether it's obvious how bad at the time or not.) Particularly, he hears the sound of mortals trying so desperately to live and survive, just like he wants to do. There's a large amount of them .... near Westmarch, where the survivors of his attack settled.

You see how this happened, there?

Who knows the state of the Arch in D4. Would he hear it? Would he even exist to hear mortals? One thing remains common though, between the two worlds, and that there's no shortage of people trying to live.

I'm not sure where he wakes up in Sanctuary, exactly. Or how long he wanders. But it's not the Mal we know. This is Malthael. Possibly sane, possibly not. And he is surrounded by the breathtaking scope of just how badly he's ruined this world.

And that's how we start back right at the beginning. Black hair with flecks of growing silver, as he gradually is dragged back into the Eternal Conflict whether he wants it or not.

This is not a happy story. There's no Nephalem cultural capital, no explosive growth from darkness. No librarian.

But it would still be a very Diablo story, because at its heart, D4 is about what mortals do to survive. They're all heroes in their own story. Broken, dirty, caked in blood, but alive in spite of everything's attempts to write their epilogue.

[mal-likes-biscuits]

Thinking about eyes. Characters that emote through them, when words aren't enough, when they just can't speak, when they're guarded, when they're alone.

You can see a head tip from a distance. A shrug. You can't see eyes that far away. You're either too close or you're trusted if you can see them.

I've met people who don't emote that way at all. It's all voice or smile or hands or a little dance or any number of things.

Everyone expresses though. In some way.

I suppose the angels would. Body language. Wings. Voice. A dance. A flight.

Not the eyes, though. At least depending on who you talk to. They're not there. They're invisible. They're only visible to the Angiris.

It sneaks into Mal's behaviour. He was always closed. Deliberate. He's not used to guarding that part of him. The eyebrows lift. The corners crease. There's so many expressions. He has no idea, for ages.

What shamed reaper looks that closely in the mirror? Why would he, when he lived in the shadows for so long?

They all notice, eventually. The ones he trusts. They wonder if he was always that expressive, or if this part of him, like all things, is evolving.

There's focus and deliberation. Disgust. Surprise. Disdain. Satisfaction.

And a thousand others too fleeting to grasp except together. A sum of parts into a whole.

There's softness, in the corners. Weariness. Exhaustion.

He's seen millenia. Countless years. Many of the stories stay silent, except for the glints on the icy blue irises.

All this in a moment. A glance.

A reflection on calm pools. Was it any wonder he drew some of them in, regardless of the rest?

[mal-likes-biscuits]

Aight I forget. Does Tristram have any kinda yuletide or whatever? Does Farah have a reason to wrestle Mal into a hideously festive and unfairly comfortable sweater.

Absolutely, Tristram has a mid-winter celebration. I haven't fleshed out the lore around it nearly as much as I did around the canon non-compliant damn it thanks Book of Adria Night of Souls, but it would share elements of real worldwide celebrations for the solstice. I would assume it takes place on or leading up to the winter solstice.

The more I think on it, and the Diablo realm's fixation on Light/Dark, it would probably be very candle and fire heavy, to help physically light the world when even the sun cannot.

(It would be fun if there were rune stones, like Stonehenge, where the sun's light on the solstice would illuminate the markings and create actual magic! For the summer as well.)

One thing this made me think of is Saint Lucy's Day. Lots of imagery around a martyr carrying the Light into the world. (I wonder just how much of this might carry over from Inarius' dealings in Sanctuary?)

I think there would be an avoidance of marriage/hand-fasting during this time, as there is a lot of imagery (at least in my fanon) around the Light for weddings and they would rather do that in the spring/summer/autumn.

Because Tristram's winters appear as though they would be cold, I assume eating/drinking/feasts would happen. Singing/carols seem to be a big part of a lot of solstice celebrations to help ward off evil, so yes, there would be that too.

I think gift-giving would also happen as a show of affection or love, though many of these gifts would likely be food or clothing.

I honestly can't think of a reason in Tristram that ugly sweaters would suddenly become a thing then and not the whole winter, but I could certainly see it in bigger cities like Westmarch where there would likely be more marketing around what the nobles are wearing.

However, I would like to personally believe that mortal!Auriel knits and crochets, and that from Archfall onward Mal is stuck wearing an absolutely gaudy shirt every single winter because she makes it for him as a present and he has zero excuses to not wear it.

[mal-likes-biscuits]

Has Mal ever seen a whale. Does diablo world even have whales.

Yes and yes!

Just like Sanctuary has both familiar and monstrous creatures on land, it also does in the oceans. I suspect some of the whales are very large and very old, bordering on something a bit more otherworldly.

And they sing. Oh, yes, do they sing. Some sailors swear by the whale song as a way to avoid tangling with the deep's darker denizens. There may be a kraken or two swimming about. They don't bother with the whales, oddly.

One of the first places Mal found himself going when he started adventuring around was the coast. He's drawn to water rather intensely, though if you asked him about it, I doubt he could offer an explanation beyond "it feels familiar". Unsurprisingly, then, he eventually made his way out to the sea by Kingsport, and it was there he first became acquainted with all the mysteries of Sanctuary's waters.

(Some sailors more versed in the stories of priests claim that whales are a creation of the angels, and that when Sanctuary first sprung into being, they were given life so something could sing to the darkest corners of the waters.)

If you asked Mal about whales specifically, he would pause a moment, lost in thought, before admitting they "feel more familiar than other creatures." Their song is not the same as that of the Arch and the angels, but it is similar.

(More than one sailor has turned a blind eye to the gaunt, hooded man out on deck in a storm, bracing himself against the furthest edges of the ship while the crew tries to keep it afloat. Whistling. Whistling, to the whales. Sometimes, the thunder abates and the howling wind calms. Would you question it?)

[mal-likes-biscuits]

I’ve received some really nice (and also some very funny) art pieces of various Amor Aeternus/Archfall characters, and I want to share them here with permission of the artists! Most of these have been passed around on Discord.

Row 1: Malthael and Farah, formal garb from an RP setting @fishyfiash​ and I had going Row 2: Kurael (Diablo: Amor Aeternus) from @xxriseofthedeadxx Row 3: Mal n Farah from @oyeedraw, Erius (A Tome for Urzael) from @xxriseofthedeadxx​ Row 4: A glasses Mal (totes canon, later on) from @fishyfiash, plus some Archfall related tenderness Row 5: Getting caught in the ice cream bucket and “You dense Mother#$%^er!”

[mal-likes-biscuits]

A low blow if IC answered - what do you think, how would have Imperius adjusted if he had fallen? Let's assume he didn't have the chance to invade.

[This one is for Diablo: Amor Aeternus, if anyone isn’t familiar.]

Let’s pull a bit of a deus ex machina for this thought exercise, and say that Imperius’ corruption cascades out of control before he and the Host ever make it to Sanctuary. The Heavens may or may not still fall, and we’re left with one Aspect of Valor in the only form that can sanely contain his corruption.

Plot theories aside, I think he would, to start, be angry. Tyrael willingly embraced mortality, and within the context of this series, so did Malthael. Auriel has her own troubles, but raw anger isn’t one of them. Imperius, however – I think he would rage like he was never capable of doing while he was an Archangel. He would be wrath, and scream, and throw things, until…

Until the wrath went away. Because although the Angiris break when exposed to their limits, humans…change. Modify. They have the capacity for weathering immense grief or frustration.

I think he would be slow to admit his own faults. I think it would take him a long time to accept he had a part to play in what happened. I think it would take an even longer time for him to accept that what happened with the Heavens was inevitable, and not actually in his control at all.

Imperius likes being in control. He’s a leader. A different kind than Malthael, but still a leader. Admitting any of the above is the greatest affront to his personality he could imagine.

With time, I think he would come to accept his fate. I think he would be annoyed at the fragility of mortal bodies, while at the same time fascinated with all they can do. Mortals feel so much more than the Angiris ever did, mentally and physically. It feels sinful to him to enjoy feeling alive as much as he does. But, Imperius has always tread that line of wrath closely, and he has always looked for thrill where he can find it.

He would take up some sort of physical or martial pursuit. He would throw himself into it and test his limits. He would be constantly out to try and beat the mortals at their own game. I think, given time (again), he might find some kinship with the Barbarian tribes.

I think his relationship with his remaining kin would be rocky. He still wants to blame Tyrael for causing all of it. He feels unfathomable guilt whenever he sees Auriel. And Malthael – Malthael terrifies him, in a way he didn’t realize he could be afraid. He’s heard the conversations and the rumours from Tyrael (because although they don’t get along, they still trade steins late at night in the tavern).

And he knows that if things had gone badly, and if Malthael had been put in a situation to, he would have killed all of his kin to stop them. It’s the same cold-blooded logic Imperius saw when Malthael first attacked the Heavens and Sanctuary. Knowing that is is accompanied by more wisdom and context, plus some emotional stability, does not comfort him.

[Calling right now he would look like Jason Mamoa.]

[mal-likes-biscuits]

HC that Mal will find a couch and lay down when he's really thinking on something. And occasionally end up with his head dangling down and legs up over the headrest.

This happens a lot, and on more than just couches. If he can get comfortable in a position, it doesn’t matter how it looks. He’s slid off the couch before. He also has a habit of sitting in trees and getting lost in thought. (He will deny this, but he’s almost fallen out of several.)

The only thing that will usually shake him out of it is another person or if he becomes uncomfortable (example: head hits the floor, ground appears suddenly).

[mal-likes-biscuits]

First time swimming?

[Original ask meme.] 

It took Malthael several hours to realize the awful stench following him about Salvos was coming from him. The mere concept of smelling things as a mortal was different from what he knew from before.

Before, scent had been objective, a fact to note among a greater series of facts that he filed away for use. Demons smelled of bile and sulphur. Danger. Avoid, or fight. The revulsion he had experienced then was a logical reaction, cause and effect that calmly led his survival instincts down the proper path.

Mortal smells, though – the reaction was visceral and stomach churning. It made him want to vomit, which was in itself a new sensation, and all of it uncontrollable at a cognitive level.

He stank.

Understandably. He knew mortals bathed, and that he had not done so since first washing up on the lake. How often they did, he had no idea. Now seemed an appropriate time, though.

Thus, lacking any sort of mortal bath, Malthael swiftly stalked through the city’s market towards its outskirts, to one of the many ponds he had found in his evening explorations. Then, he stood and stared at the water, trying to walk himself through the absurdity of what he needed to do.

Mortals wore clothes. He wore clothes. He had changed these clothes before. And he certainly preferred to keep them on. It felt proper. No angel walked about without armor or robes of some kind. The naked angelic form simply did not exist, not even in concept.

Disgusting, he thought, as he began to peel his tunic off. It stuck to his skin like wet parchment.

The smell was worse the more he removed.

That was enough. He threw his breeches to the ground and, without further consideration, stepped into the water and sank past his chin. Several thoughts subsequently ran through his mind.

He hadn’t tested the water’s depths before jumping in. He had never entered water as a conscious mortal. He did not know if he could swim. Angels did not swim. Angels floated in anything. He was lucky he hadn’t sunk like a rock and drowned.

He hadn’t drowned. It took a moment of wrestling his attention away from his thoughts, but when he eventually did, he realized he had instinctively straightened out parallel to the water, limbs bobbing up and down with the pond’s circulation. A cloudless sky spread above him; an occasional bird darted across it, the only interruption to what was an unexpected and welcome calm.

The water itself was cold on his flesh, but the sun was warm. A strange dichotomy, surely, in a realm of unfamiliar sensations. The feel of the light on his skin went beyond mere touch and struck a deeper part of him that craved it. Buried further, in a darker place of his mind, were memories of the same: of peering up at a sky while floating, wings drifting out, the call of the Arch—

He audibly choked as the memory overwhelmed him. Then he thrashed and immediately went under the surface. Several moments of panicked flailing later, he pulled himself up onto the shore, wordlessly cussing and coughing at his own stupidity. He hadn’t intended to think about that, and he surely should have known better.

While he continued to cough up the mouthful of water he had inhaled, he sat himself cross legged and glared across the pond, arms folded subconsciously across his bare chest, little streams of liquid dripping from his head, down his face and onto the rest of him. His hair clung to him worse than the clothes had, including in places he hadn’t really considered it existing before.

It was everywhere. Drenched, sopping, and covering nearly every possible piece of his body in some quantity or another. It was a poor excuse for natural armor. And, he realized, he still smelled. Less like Ghom’s putrid bile, granted, and more like a strange amalgamation of grass and fish.

Cleaning a mortal form required effort.

Hells take him, he thought. He exhaled loudly through his teeth and thumped back against the shoreline, ignoring as the dirt and larger pebbles dug into his back. If he didn’t want to continue smelling like cattle, he needed to return to the water.

At least he could swim. And by the Light and the Heavens, he could try and muster enough concentration to bathe himself without having thoughts of the Silver City assaulting his composure.

Later, he decided. He could enjoy the sun a moment longer before returning to the prospect of drowning.

———————-

[This takes place a few days after Mal regains his memories during “In All Things Light and Dark”. Will probably pop this over to A03 at a point because I quite like it.]

[mal-likes-biscuits]

At first Lyndon reminded Mal of Balzael. Both incredibly likely to test his patience.

To a degree, yes. The Balzael that Malthael knew was very much an opportunist. Perhaps less flashy than Lyndon, but he knew how to jump on a good idea – or, more importantly, a winning idea.

Mal expected the same from Lyndon, even from the little he knew of him from before. He expected to eventually be dragged into one of his schemes. Even when Lyndon admitted they were friends, he waited a bit for the other shoe to drop. (It never did.)

The shoe always dropped with Balzael, in a way. Getting him to focus on the task at hand, rather than “well hey if I do this it’ll be better for me” could be difficult. Opportunists are useful so long as they are loyal, and don’t become disloyal by accident by seizing chances.

Also, Balzael had a habit of telling somewhat crude jokes. That much hasn’t changed between him and Lyndon. Mal still gets dragged into schemes, perhaps more than he used to. He’s loosened up a bit. It still annoys him. The only person allowed to scheme is him, because he Thinks It Through, thank you very much.

[mal-likes-biscuits]

For the Headcanon thing: Farah absolutely loves playing with Malthael’s hair if he lets her. (Don’t know if this was already stated at some point :p)

I’ve mentioned this in places, I think mostly on Discord, but usually just in passing. Yes, this is true, as well as the opposite. 

For Malthael, his hair is an integral part of his body image. He used to have a cowl, and his hair still feels that way to him. Letting anyone touch it, brush it, etc., is an act of trust and intimacy. She’s tried to braid it a few times but he isn’t a fan. They found a happy medium where she gets to brush it out for him if it gets too knotted.

Mal also likes fiddling with her hair, because he finds the concept of hair pretty fascinating. And his feelings about it (part of his physical form) subconsciously extend to others, so he views him helping her braid hers, for example, as a deeply personal act.

[mal-likes-biscuits]

Diablo: Archfall (Fic Masterlist)

Diablo: Archfall is a 5-Act fanfiction series set 27 years after Diablo III: Reaper of Souls. It is a sequel to Diablo: Amor Aeternus.

‘The Crystal Arch has fallen, taking with it the Eternal Conflict and the High Heavens. In the shadow of Archfall, New Tristram’s adventurers begin to rebuild their lives and deal with the growing threat of civil unrest. But the Archshards that have fallen to Sanctuary are powerful, and where power lingers, so too do the Burning Hells.’

Archive of Our Own (AO3) - link Fanfiction.net - link

Content and additional links below the break!

'Grief comes in many forms. For some, mourning is enough. For others, it is only a mask for the real sorrow they have buried deep. Malthael searches for answers he cannot find, while the others try to rebuild the pieces of their lives after Archfall.’

Music Playlist - here!

Art by @valmcqueen​

Supplemental Material

Cast List

Series 1 Info and Artwork

Artwork

Reading (Act I: Breath)

The Light of Hope/Chith (Act II: Shards of the Gods)

Wanderings (Post Act II)

Aya Portrait

Farah Portrait

Kiv Illustration

[Cover photo image by @sunshinemage​.]

[mal-likes-biscuits]

What kindsa crops and game are typically found around Tristram? Would food be considered plentiful, or hard to come by, or does it fluctuate?

[Original prompt here.]

Crops and Game

Tristram exists right on the cusp of boreal forests and rolling pastureland. Depending on the area surrounding the town, you will find all sorts of trees, meandering rivers and streams, and even a few prairie-like expanses that have been adapted for farming. Due to the landscape, I also assume it goes through a winter-cycle similar to interior Europe or northern North America.

Standard European/North American crops are grown wherever the soil is good: corn, grains, potatoes, and lentils are some that come to mind. Individual homesteads or even town gardeners would grow leafy greens, carrots, beans, peas, and anything else that is extremely seasonal. A few farms have apple orchards with varieties adapted to the reduced growing season; these apples, like their real world counterparts, grow smaller, prolifically, and are ideal for use in baking and preserves. There’s also a proliferation of wild and cultivated berries throughout the region.

In terms of game, hunters will find standard forest fare. Deer, elk, and rabbits are abundant. If you look hard enough, you will find moose or wild boar. Trout and other river-fish can be found in the water, and if you venture far enough from Tristram to find larger rivers, you can find a few salmon runs. Tristram also has a large population of pheasants/prairie chickens, which taste awfully good over a spit.

Food Accessibility

Within the game itself, food seems to be relatively easy to come by in Tristram. No one is starving. During the winters, they would rely on canning/preserves, and small trade with other centres for foods that are locally unavailable.

By the time my series starts, (New) Tristram has changed from a small town to a growing and bustling hub of Nephalem magic. The almost-city has all the trappings of a market centre: a large bakery, a full street bazaar, and plenty of regional trade bringing in goods from Kingsport or Caldeum. Issues with food variety (or even supply) over the winter have disappeared, as there is always a flow of fresh goods into Tristram throughout the year.