#heart of thorns spoilers

[amerikanhervi]

"In 1328 AE, the Pact launched a full-scale assault on the dragon."

However, as their airships flew over the jungle and came in closer proximity to the dragon, the sylvari aboard them (who made up a large proportion of the Pact forces) felt Mordremoth's call, and many of them succumbed and turned against their comrades. The airships crashed and burned on the outskirts of the jungle, and those sylvari who had fallen to the dragon's influence reorganized themselves as the Mordrem Guard, dedicated to spreading the dragon's influence and creating new minions."

[bioluminescent-obscurity]

festival of the four winds means i get to see my favourite unnamed sylvari again

Transcript:

Solitary Sylvari: I wasn’t expecting to see anyone else up here!  Come to admire the view? Commander: It’s beautiful. But.... how did you get up here? I don’t see a mount. Solitary Sylvari: Oh, I climbed. Well, first I swam out here, THEN I climbed. A couple of close calls, but nothing worth accomplishing is ever easy, is it? Commander: True enough. Still, that was quite the feat. Why undertake it? Solitary Sylvari: Mostly to prove to myself that I could. I was one of... I’m sorry, listen to me going on when you  just came up here to take in the view. Commander: Oh, I don’t mind. Please, go on. Solitary Sylvari: Well, I was one of those who...responded to Mordremoth’s call. All these years later and I can still hear its echoes in my head. I’ve found that by pushing myself, I can quiet them for a time. Commander: I’m truly sorry. I hope you find peace someday.

[just-eyris-things]

"I couldn't just let you die, Trahearne-" "I was already fucking dead, Airell!"

a.k.a. I've been feeling angsty lately

[tricos-here]

there hasn't been any updates on the Pale Tree's status, as far as I'm aware, so with the implication that she's likely still out of commission for the most part - what's going on with new sylvari specifically? are there still new ones awakening, perhaps at a slower rate than before? do they come out alright or just a little bit off (or maybe a lot of bit off), what is even the state of the dream?

[archesa]

Scenes I have to get out of my system so they don't parasite my writing

Mordremoth, taunting Trahearne that he could never have the Commander because of how much his body changed under its influence (ie his size)

Commander :

[anwenevergreen]

Scions and Champions

There was something comforting about having a destiny, a place in the world, a purpose to serve, however impossible, delusional it seemed, however long he tried to evade it, it was a polar star in the darkest of his nights — Orr, freed of the dragon's corruption, verdant once more.

And yet it was infuriating. To be shuned by his kin, belittled and mocked for his devotion to a seemingly impossible task.

He had been angry his whole life. He had not shown it, not allowed it to fester, to harden his soul and bitter his heart, but he felt it simmering underneath the surface, like embers keeping his blood warm and his mind alight.

He grew conscious of this rage when Mordremoth awoke, when the Pale Tree was attacked, when the fleet collapsed.

He wanted to suppress it, to grow past it but it remained, a sentiment of injustice — one the Commander seemed to understand, to share, and allowed him to vent, to soothe...

But as the last of Vlast's crystal echoed, rumbling like thunder on the mountain, roaring like a cascade of diamonds, he felt the scion's rage echo with his own — a chamber of resonance in which both firstborns' destiny collided.

The elder of Glint's brood was burdened with an impossible task. Utterly alone. Misunderstood — even feared by his guardians — and yet in search of something true, something deep, of a connection, of a Champion.

Trahearne's hand curled to fist at his side, the sharp edges of the golden crystal, drawing a few drops of a sap turned sundrop by another dragon's whim, a bitter taste on his lips, a bite of venom on his tongue, and a broken certitude settling in his chest.

'It should have been me.'

[kornyo]

is Rhiannin okay?

och, u know. hearing ur grandpa's thoughts even after his death telling you to kill ur soulmate, the usual ✌😙

[straywyvern]

Replaying Heart of Thorns type beat

[the-flower-lady]

.: Twist and Turn :.

Drown Deeper Down

[champion-of-aurene]

I've been meaning to finish this for a while, I only had the last instances left, but after today I've now finally got Caladbolg, and Twilight is now officially the Knight of the Thorn!

[queenjulia11]

Spoilers for the end of ep 4 of Burrow’s End!!

Look at Thorn Vale’s face when he finally arrives at Last Bast. Look at how happy he is. He’s not just happy, he’s elated. I’ve been thinking a lot about what Jasper chose to say after hearing the story of these new stoats.

“They did it, Sweetie. They did it.”

Thorn’s whole life has been defined by a nightmare. Something incomprehensible that a select few friends understand — but only because they were there, too. The rest of his family understands that he went through something traumatic, but they all also kinda know that there’s no way they can get on the same page about it. All they can really say is “yeah, that sounds awful,” or “it’s okay, you’re safe now.” And those words don’t mean nothing, but they don’t do enough to truly describe the terror Thorn went through.

But these guys? They’ve seen the monsters, too. And they aren’t afraid of them.

For the first time in Thorn’s life, the monsters have names. And we know how big a deal names are for Thorn Vale — who wasn’t even given one when he was born. Names make you knowable. You’re not just this amorphous *thing* floating in space that no one knows how to talk about anymore. The name “Human” is something Thorn has over them now. He’s reclaimed a bit of power from the things that makes him feel the most powerless.

The humans aren’t just something to fear now, they can be defeated. It is finally possible to not only overcome the worst thing that’s ever happened to him, but to make sure his children never have to face it. Even think about it.

And the best part? He doesn’t have to lead anymore. He can rely on others — if someone dies or gets hurt, it’s not his fault. We saw how he broke in episode three, that pressure would’ve killed the poor guy if he had kept it on his shoulders. He can finally take some of the weight off. He doesn’t have to do this alone.

Look at that pure relief on his face.

This is light. This is hope. This is power. This is how it feels to be understood. And now he can share it with the people who matter the most to him.

“They did it, Sweetie. They did it.”

[scourgeblooms]

wanted to do a physical timeline for my commander and highlight how he’s changed through the years. this is mostly for my own entertainment BUT I do enjoy seeing the same thing from other folks so I’m posting it here in the hopes that other people share my sentiment. 

(I was ALSO totally inspired by @/manasurge’s hair timeline. it kicks ass. go look at it.) 

elaboration/rambling below the cut!

Personal Story, LW1-2: Popped out of the pod blunt, solicitous, and already maybe a little too paranoid for someone who was born yesterday, but all those traits made him uniquely qualified for a position in military leadership.  Healthy and floral, soft aspen-bark-like skin, delicate petals. black anthers produce pollen. undergoes more fashion changes than physical transformations during this time. gets a little banged up here and there (and maybe has some lasting respiratory effects from the toxic alliance era) but overall feelin a-okay. 

Heart of Thorns: it’s all gone to shit. took a spectacular headdive in both a physical and mental sense with breakneck speed. never “officially” answered mordremoth’s call, but anyone who spent time around him would notice a distinct lack of self control and logical thinking. took on a more sickly pallor, stress caused leaves to shrivel, rot, and decay. lost his lil flower top notch and ability to produce pollen. pupils narrowed to take on a more animalistic look, and enamel growth resulted in sharper, larger teeth. fingers also elongated into claws. never fully physically and mentally recovered from the hell jungle. 

LW3: chopped off most of his leaves to encourage fresh growth. lots of physical healing during this time, though it takes quite a while for his complexion to fully recover. takes on the role of aurene’s champion with gusto. relatively unaffected by bloodstone, but feels the effects of mordremoth’s loose/uncontrolled magic deeply. continues to hear mordremoth’s “voice” and is diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia. 

Path of Fire: still healing from HoT. continues to grow out his leaves. glow returns, as well as some of his eye color. likes the crystal desert, but finds the harsh, dry climate to be particularly challenging; he’s definitely more of a ‘temperate’ sylvari. does not handle dying well. death only adds to his paranoia and psychosis. has an increasingly hard time picking apart what is real and what is…. not. 

LW4: let’s get ready to kill an undead lich!!!! absorbs even more magic after the death of joko and kralkatorrik, and it starts to show in a there-and-gone shimmery aura that takes on a similar appearance to ley lines. starts to suffer from migraine auras. flower top notch grows back, but stays closed and dormant. picks up a few nifty necromancy tricks from the elonians, and the tips of his fingers start to show signs of necrotic decay; all that death magic can’t be good for the complexion, can it? 

Icebrood Saga: having another dragon in his head does not help his mental health in the slightest. braided leaves (courtesy of braham <3) to protect against frostbite. his ley “aura” gets more intense, hard to miss, and is a near constant. flower topnotch remains closed due to the cold weather conditions. after being shot by bangar, his wound is covered/healed by aurene’s brand. migraines increase in frequency, makes it difficult for him to focus. a bone deep exhaustion starts to set in, and more often than not, he catches himself thinking that a nice long nap underneath a blanket of snow doesn’t sound so terrible….

End of Dragons: back in a more agreeable climate, his topnotch finally blooms, but does not grow anthers or produce pollen. easily physically corrupted by void magic, and he feels soo-won’s pain and struggle deeply. the void corruption eventually shows up in the form of darkening leaves, and seeping out of his eyes/tearducts (it’s fine. don’t worry about it.). starts to incorporate chaos magic into his own necromancy practices. has a fucking terrible time in gyala delve. has a fucking terrible time saying goodbye to aurene. 

Secrets of the Obscure: nothing feels entirely real to him anymore. still willing to help, to fight, but it’s done on autopilot at this point. this magical, floating palace in the sky looks and feels like a dream, with the kryptis acting as the encroaching, inevitable turn to a real, living nightmare. still uses a bit of leftover void in his magical practices, but most of the corruption has left his system. that respiratory illness he picked up back in kessex hills comes back to bite him in nayos. finally grows back his anthers, but instead of producing pollen, it's an outlet for void/magic energy.

[lesbianshadowheart]

SHADOWHEART EX GIRLFRIEND TRANSGENER?????

[chibi-tsukiko]

“Am I so hard to love?”

…

[archesa]

for niche kisses ask game—have 1 and/or 14 for whoever you’d like! :D @kerra-and-company

1)  sender kisses the corner of receiver’s eye where their skin is crinkling from a smile.

The tower rose, seemingly endlessly, its spire wreathed in long whitened coral fading into the mist and silver clouds gathering on this side of the Strait.

Anwen watched Trahearne take the leap — enthralled by his agility despite the sheer height and breadth of his frame. The absence of his prosthetics, of the support exoskelton Taimi had designed for him, however, called for a greater prudence when navigating the treacherous slopes and sharp edges of the salt crests leading up the Vizier’s Tower, and she saw his knees buckle once or twice before they reached the highest room, where a destroyed balcony overlooked the bay and to the west, the vastness of a yet barely, but delightfully verdant Orr.

He threw his head back, taking a deep shaking breath that almost ended in a chuckle before he let himself slip to the ground, his back to a long faded fresco.

“Ah... You were right.”

“About what?”

“I should not have chanced the climb. I’m exhausted. It was whimsical, capricious even, to think I could make the journey there and back to Caer Aval.”

“I am glad you insisted.”, Anwen smiled reassuringly. "I am quite enjoying the view.”

He let out a weak chuckle, his glow shimmering warm beneath his bark when he noticed her eyes were fixed on him only, instead of the vista.

She took seat beside him and slithered in his open arm, resting her head in the crook of his shoulder, allowing his breathing to deepen and align on hers while they both looked at the open pearly skies on the horizon.

“To think this is where the fate of Orr was sealed... The epicenter of the cataclysm."

"This is one of the first places I visited when I came to Orr... I wanted to see for myself, to understand, to shed some light upon the Khilbron's decision... in vain, of course. But despite its dark history, this place is very dear to me. And... There is a reason I wanted to come. I wanted to see—... I wanted to show you where the tablet was found."

She followed his gaze to the opposite wall where the shattered, long faded remnants of a fresco framed a tear in the stone, corals and petrified algae once growing in the masonry drawing on the floor the shadow of what once was there.

"The Orrian poem."

'Darkness pays Orr a visit.'

The last rhyme was lost to the sea of times.

'With billowing robes of blackened silk,

She beckons us arms outstretched.'

But the currents swelled, recessed and crashed upon the shores of iridescent salt bordering the strand her soul had washed upon in the Domain of the Lost.

'I see my brothers walk forward,

Greet her as a friend.

So many fold themselves into her embrace.'

Her heart knew the rhyme. The mists kept them untouched by time.

‘And even over their cries, and the roars of the beasts,

I hear Darkness call to me with a promise.’ 

The tower rose, seemingly endlessly, its spire wreathed in emerald ivy and flamboyant flowers standing sharply against the azure of the skies and above the battlecries of the army gathering on its parvis.

The griffons landed gracefully and purred with elation as their riders gratefully patted them or gave them a scratch behind the ear.

Trahearne smiled widely as Anwen dismounted and took his hand to drag him beside her and up the flight of gilded stairs leading to where they knew the Vizier’s sanctum was. A sun long faded filtered through stained glass and enlightened the office, a colourful fresco of a dark god on one side, an intact golden tablet on the other.

He felt his breath catch in his throat and her hand slither out of his, a kind, warm smile enlightening her features as she motioned him forward, offering him some space, a moment of his own, to revel in this secret of a land before time.

He stood in awe before the tablet, fingers hesitantly tracing the letters engraved in the golden stone, the light of his luminescence reflecting on the carven words.

The poem had guided him through the darkest of times, helped him endure the worst tortures, soothed him when he resolved himself to die.

“But I close myself. I will not join her yet.”

He had survived. And healed. And vowed to forget the taste of sap, iron and salt these words left on his lips.

Willed to reclaim their sense of wonder and mystery, and let the memory fade of his own broken voice reciting them to absolve Anwen if she could not save him.

Denied them when she died and returned from the Mists, carrying these words as her own requiem, he had believed them a trick, a cruel untruth conjured by his grief.

And finally, considered them an incentive, a benevolent trickery from the Mists or perhaps from Grenth himself, a blissfully deformed version of the truth to give her the strength to return.

"Another call is more beautiful..."

His voice dimmed to a whisper as she drew closer, and leaned in to lay a kiss at the corner of his eye, where the ghost of long fallen leaves had left grooves in his flesh, blemishes that his smile enlightened in molten gold.

"And I will chase it back to you."

[mishapen-dear]

Martyn is itchy. 

He wouldn’t be worried about it, really, except he’s always. itchy. 

He’s cold, too, but that’s more par for the course. Cleo is a zombie, isn’t she? Undead and all, it makes sense that she’s cold, makes sense that Martyn shares that with her. He’s… fine with that. He’s perfectly okay with that. 

It’s normal for soulmates to get traits from their bonded– Pearl has little stars that float around her head, and Martyn isn’t sure, but he thinks Scott’s pupils follow the phases of the moon. Tango has little wings of fire that Martyn thinks isn’t cool at all, and when Jimmy laughs too loudly his hair catches on fire. Impulse and Bdubs have shocks of the other’s hair colour on their heads. Etho looks the same, but it hurts Martyn a little to look at Joel’s face now. With too many eyes, Scar sees a cat that isn’t there, and something light blue and vex-like sits at the edge of Grian’s smiles. 

Martyn doesn’t know what about Bigb and Ren is the same. He refuses to learn. 

(He learns, later. Of course it’s the ears.)

But that’s a decent data pool! It’s a good, alright data pool, so Martyn knows that it’s normal for soulmates to share little parts of themselves with each other. Cleo shared her coldness, and Martyn had taken it gladly when the heat of the nether had burned him, and he takes it gladly now, and. 

And. 

He’s so itchy. 

And he doesn’t know what he shared with her. He watches her through his spyglass and it’s just- there’s just- there’s nothing! There’s absolutely nothing! She looks like herself, like Cleo, and not one bit like Martyn. 

He’s so cold (and itchy) and not bitter about it at all. 

Or. Maybe a little bit? Maybe. 

It would be better if it didn’t feel like another type of rejection. Soulmates giving their other halves whole parts of themselves is… it’s nice. It’s special. It doesn’t mean anything because everyone shares traits with their soulmates- Scott and Pearl share traits, even! And Martyn didn’t have the choice of accepting or rejecting Cleo’s coldness, but he accepted it anyway, and. 

Cleo didn’t get anything from him at all. 

It bothers him. 

So he gives her his heart. 

Not his literal heart, although they do share several hearts, and he thinks she might kill him again if he peeled up any of those to give to her. He can’t give her his heart, but he gives her a heart. He places it in the middle of the valley, where everyone can see, and he laughs at Tango and jeers at Jimmy when they tell him to take it down. 

There’s little bumps in his skin. He stares at them, and he worries, and he itches. An allergic reaction, maybe, except they’re spread so sporadically over his body, and he doesn’t think he’s even allergic to anything. He tries not to scratch and hopes for the best. 

(The bumps hurt when he presses his hands over them, but the cold numbs the pain.) 

Cleo bridges out to him, and it’s. The talk they have is certainly a talk. 

“Invest in some heating, yeah?” Martyn quips when the conversation drifts towards Cleo’s house. 

“No.” 

“Oh. Fair enough.” 

He tells her he wants to go to the deep dark, and she gives him diamonds, and for the first time since joining this server he almost feels warm. 

Then she starts breaking her bridge again, and she’s leaving, and Martyn blurts out, “What did you get, then?” 

She pauses, looks up to him with a startled little blink. The flowers in her hair wave in the wind, and Martyn can see where their stems dig into the skin beneath her stitches. “Get what?” 

Martyn almost loses his nerve, but he’s feeling a little better now that he knows why she’s really with Scott, now that he knows she’s just trying to survive. And this isn’t something he needs to know, because it doesn’t affect their survival, but. 

“The soul bond,” he says. “What did you get from me?” 

“A hard time,” Cleo says. “What did you get from me?” 

“I’m cold,” Martyn admits to her, because honesty is a virtue and he revels, quietly, at the startled pause of silence that sits between them. 

“I’m dead, Martyn.”

“I don’t care-” Martyn starts quickly, but Cleo holds up her hand. 

“Shush,” she says, and Martyn shushes. “I’m dead, Martyn.” 

There’s another pause. “Yes?” 

Cleo sighs. It’s a hard, frustrated sound. She looks at him, watches him intently for a moment that lasts too long. Her green eyes don’t hurt like Grian’s black eyes or Scar’s not-eyes, but the look isn’t exactly pleasant either. 

Cleo cocks her head to the side. She looks like she’s made a decision. “Do you know what the point of decay is, Martyn?” 

“Uh. Sure. Recycling nutrients back into the dirt, right?” 

“Close enough,” Cleo answers. “Decay takes from the body to sustain other bodies. Other bodies. The dead don’t… take. We can’t. We’re dead.” 

“I don’t understand.” 

“Grian coded it special so I could eat,” Cleo says. “I’m a corpse, Martyn. Corpses are for… rotting. Recycling. Taking from me and giving to something else. Plants. Flowers.” She touches a hand to a dahlia that sits just below her ear, then gives him a derisive look. “You.” 

Martyn feels a little sick. “Oh.” 

“Yeah,” Cleo replies. “So I don’t get anything. Enjoy your diamonds, Martyn.” 

And she leaves. 

And Martyn is itchy. 

–

He lays in bed that night and he shivers. There are lights outside his window and horns in his ears and he feels so cold. 

–

She starts to build a bridge. Another bridge. A proper bridge. It’s broken in pieces, floating in the air, and she tells him if he apologizes all will be right. He has nothing to apologize for. 

(He wears thicker and thicker layers and tries not to scratch.) 

He has to meet her halfway. Just build to her bridge from her heart, and it’ll be okay. She’s giving him an olive branch. He just has to reach out and take it. 

(It’s too good to be true.)

He reaches out and he pushes instead.

Martyn can barely take in a full breath before he realizes the mistake he’s made and then he- she- they-

shatter.

—

Martyn is cold. 

He wakes up alone, and he’s cold. 

His items are gone. His armour is gone. His layers are gone. And- 

He’s not itchy anymore.

There are flowers where the bumps were. They wind from beneath his skin and rest delicately against his arm, small buds and soft petals. 

(He thinks his heart has stopped beating.)

Cleo isn’t going to forgive him, he thinks. And, as he gently touches a hand to a golden flower and listens to the silence in his chest, he finally understands why.