#king leoric

[shrinking-but-shining]

Scince some are asking what I've been up to the last roughly two years after leaving tumblr, I thought I'm gonna provide a little peek.

I was busy with work (as one is) and was on so many festivals and concerts I can hardly count. 🤘 Enjoying myself immensely most of the time. Also some naughty stuff (which is for the side blog)...

As I don't like to take selfies around people and try to avoid, I've started the questionable habit to take an 'obligatory bathroom selfie' on every concert for the people asking what I'm doing, so that's what that is 😂😅

It's been good 💚 I'll try to share from now on

[cultofthewyrm]

Skeleton King by Antoine Lamoureux

[bedpolls]

King Leoric from the Diablo video game series

Please reblog for a larger sample size.

[little-red-fool]

Why’s King Leoric kind of.

[tstresors]

“In the absence of The King the Warrior becomes a mercenary, the Magician becomes a sophist (able to argue any position and believing in none), and the Lover becomes an addict.” ― Robert L. Moore, King, Warrior, Magician, Lover: Rediscovering the Archetypes of the Mature Masculine

Image: King Leoric by Richi Marella

[kazu-naito]

finally up to date with trespia and i must say i really enjoyed the second part of season 3 yay so here's some thoughts:

- king leoric FINALLY dropped the neutrality

- i'm a bit wary of vanora: if she betrays us i'll be surprised but if she doesn't i'll be surprised as well

- i'm thinking one of the rulers (or someone important) will die and it better not be my sweet d'mario

- ozer will likely find out about delias at the worst possible time

- I WANT MY WEDDING AND A BABY

- cyril better live or else 🔪

- i'm scared for one. where is he.

- i better have the chance to kill alaric myself

- i hate megaris but the 'plot twist' at the grand summit was actually SO GOOD

- possibly unpopular opinion but i like my council (vigor, alaon, reinhold)

- my queen better be full on seeing red in these final chapters and everyone better be scared of crossing her path

[darkangel319]

Word Find Tag

Thanks for tagging me @winterandwords (here)!!

Rules: Find the given words in your WIP

My words: lose, find, hide, and search

Lose

“I don’t want another chance to lose you,” My voice was barely a whisper, “and I know that Mircea wouldn’t want us to go out there seeking revenge. He would have wanted peace to be established between all of the kingdoms including Melione.”

Find

"I know, Eirallia," he sighed, his breath visible in the winter chill. "But it doesn't change how I feel. I can't just switch off what we had. I will do whatever it takes. I will find a way, even if keeping my distance is what it takes."

Hide Hidden

I ripped my hand out of his feeling a surge of irritation at his presence, “Your father kept you sheltered Princess. Most of the world wondered if you existed or if there was some reason King Leoric kept you hidden.”

Search

 Desperation fueled my every movement; each touch a fervent search to find any semblance of salvation. The relentless drumbeat of fear and uncertainty echoed in the darkness, a haunting rhythm paired with the suffocating stillness of the dungeon around me.

I'm tagging @melpomene-grey, @elizaellwrites, @wintherlywords, and anyone who wants to join in!

Your words are: Life, Forever, Absent, Fear

[debochira]

Diablo's Gate

Fanfiction! A crossover between Diablo and Baldur's Gate III

Warnings: Blood, violence, depictions of corpses, corpses... Look, it's Diablo, Mature Audiences only and all that.

Four heroes journey to the town of Tristram, where a dark evil has been brewing. Together, they will smite this Lord of Terror and bring peace to the land… but even if they succeed, can they withstand the horrors of victory? Rated M for Mature. AU Fusion Fic.

Diablo's Gate

ACT I - The Darkening of Tristram

Prologue - The Arrival of the Four

~~~

Take heed and bear witness to the truths that lie herein, for they are the last legacy of the Horadrim.

There is a war that rages on even now, beyond the fields that we know - between the Utopian Kingdoms of the Ethereal Planes and the Nine Layers of the Burning Hells. This war is known as the Great Conflict, and it has raged and burned longer than any of the stars in the sky. Neither side ever gains sway for long as the forces of Light and Darkness constantly vie for control over all creation.

When the eternal conflict between the Ethereal Planes and the Burning Hells falls upon mortal soil, it is called the Sin War. Angels and Demons walk amongst humanity in disguise, fighting in secret, away from the prying eyes of mortals. Some daring, powerful mortals have even allied themselves with either side, and helped to dictate the course of the Sin War...

~ Jered Cain

~~~

There was scarcely a soul in town who had not heard of the death of King Leoric Thorm. He had only been King for five years, having declared himself so upon settling in the rural town of Tristram. There, he appropriated the ancient Horadric monastery and repurposed it into a Selunite temple. The townspeople were not pleased by this development but, thanks to the charms of Leoric's beautiful daughter Isobel and his own pure heart and earnest justice, he won their favor.

The first year of his reign was rather splendid, if only compared to the four years that followed. The changes were subtle, too gradual to be noticed by those who rarely saw him.

At first it was suspected that he was stricken ill. The prevailing hope was that with some rest and fair weather, King Leoric Thorm would regain his vitality and resume his noble rulings.

This was not to be, for King Thorm became hollow, sunken, and decrepit. His gaze became harsher, even vicious at times, as bouts of paranoia slithered into his mind.

No one could have predicted the first slew of executions, let alone seeing Queen Asylla herself among them. Perhaps they had privately questioned the king's state, for soon after their deaths he declared war against the neighboring country of Westmarch. From that moment on, King Leoric Thorm became known as The Black King of the Sword Coast.

The horror of the Black King's reign grew ever worse when his beloved daughter, Princess Isobel, vanished without a trace. His fury knew no bounds, executing scores of innocent people in search for his only remaining family. Such was his madness that he even accused his own lieutenant, Lachdanan Ravengard, of kidnapping Isobel despite the fact that Lachdanan was away at war with Westmarch.

It was Lachdanan himself who finally slayed the Black King, wishing with all his heart that this would put Leoric to rest at last. The king was given a burial in the royal crypts of his Selunite temple. Despite the people's rejoicing, Lachdanan himself soon vanished inside the temple, most likely to find Princess Isobel.

He was never seen again.

~~~

That was all she needed to hear from the local drunkard to convince her to go to Tristram. Perhaps this was a simple case of a runaway daughter that went horribly wrong, perhaps there was a conspiracy deeper than anyone could know. Either way, she was determined to find out.

She always packed light, needing little more than her sleep clothes, her work clothes, and the axe she loved to heft over her shoulder. The journey was a few days by foot; shortly after the Black King gained his new nickname, caravans stopped coming to Tristram unless they had merchandise to sell, which was perfect for her as she loved traveling. The Sword Coast was always beautiful even at the worst of times.

It helped that she had some interesting company with which to converse on the way.

"A sorcerer, eh?" she asked between sips from her wine-filled canteen. "What brings you all the way from the Far East, soldier?"

Her companion took the canteen and brought it to his parched scaly lips. His white scales carried a red undertone, particularly around his throat, which made his head stick out from his dark robes. "My clan was curious about the matter," he said. "What about you, warrior?"

"Karlach," she said, offering her hand. "Karlach Cliffgate."

"Tavarus," he replied as he took her hand in turn. "Call me Tav."

"Pleasure. As for me, I heard there was trouble afoot."

Tav raised an eye ridge. "A regular knight in shining armor, you are. I daresay I'm surprised to see one of your kind so close to what seems to be demonic activity."

"Ah, that." Karlach was certainly accustomed to strange looks at her vibrant red skin and twin curved horns, not to mention innocent children chasing her tail. Even her hair had a touch of the unknown with its black color and red highlights. By any casual observation, she was a demon straight from the Burning Hells. "Well, truth be told, I have a reputation to uphold. I pride myself on not caring what others think, and if they're willing to work with me, I can show them not every tiefling allies with the forces of evil." She took a deep swig of her canteen and gestured back at Tav. "Besides, you're not exactly human yourself."

"Well spotted," he replied, blinking his flaming red eyes at her. "I wish I could say something as inspirational as you but the truth is I am here only to investigate rumors of this demonic activity."

Karlach scoffed. "And what are you going to do if there is? You're just going to leave?"

"The thought occurred to me," Tav said before he laughed. "Of course I'm not just going to leave. In the event of demonic activity, I'll do my best to repel their forces until the rest of my clan can arrive."

"A tiefling and a dragonborn," Karlach mused. "What a pair we make, eh soldier?"

Tav nodded as he leaned on his quarterstaff. "I've heard worse jokes."

Karlach opened her mouth to continue when a breeze of frigid, biting air rolled over her. It was broad daylight in the middle of summer, yet the wind was cold as ice.

Rather than making her feel cold, it soaked her in an aura of dread. Her fingers itched against her axe; there, just beyond that hill, something was waiting for them.

RUN! her mind screamed, yet her tempered instincts forbade this.

"Did you feel that?" Tav asked.

"You felt it too?" Karlach whispered. "What in the hells was that?"

Tav's red eyes narrowed at the horizon. "Evil, my friend. That was pure evil."

Karlach took a deep, shaky breath. She took a step forward, then another, then another, but that pervasive aura never left her. Each step took longer than the last, each footfall the heartbeat of a dying animal.

"I'm not going back," she said, though she did not know if she was stating that to Tav, herself, or the burning terror emanating from Tristram. "I-I am not going back!"

Then you face death.

A whisper in her ear, a lover's charm before the plunge.

"My mother did not raise a coward," said Tav, his grip on his quarterstaff tight enough to dig his claws into the wood. "I suspect yours didn't either."

Karlach stood straight, brushed the invisible caress of the wind from her neck, and shook her head. "My mum certainly did not."

~~~

"Of course I'm out of wine," grumbled the town magistrate as he tipped over his empty goblet. Another dreary day in dreary old Tristram, only now he did not have the benefit of alcohol to make the time more palatable. He supposed he could strike up a conversation with one of the townsfolk, but he had too much paperwork to sort through.

He was the ninth Tristram magistrate this year; while his predecessors were stated to be taking leaves of absence, he could guess what really happened to them. He was quite sure his survival was thanks to Lieutenant Ravengard. He never did thank the man for ending the Black King's reign of terror, and now that the lieutenant disappeared inside the temple, he never would.

Tucking a silver lock of hair behind his ear, the magistrate sighed. "So much to do, so much to do..." With the Black King's reign ended, the magistrate knew he had plenty of time to organize and catalog the events of the king's death, but he also had to finish his predecessors' work, investigate hearings of treason and heresy, and find the source of the town's poisoned water supply! That was not even part of a magistrate's duty, but with the other officials either too scared or too dead to coordinate such efforts, that task fell to him as well.

Perhaps it was because he was the only elf in Tristram, not that it was his choice. Ever since that aristocrat sent him here and sang his praises to the Archbishop Lazarus Gortash, he had been getting dirty looks from everyone except that lovely barmaid and the elder of the village, Deckard Cain.

Speaking of lovely, a knock sounded at his door. His green eyes were happy for the distraction as he had spent too long looking through documents by candlelight. One of the benefits of not needing sleep, he supposed.

He opened the door to find the barmaid smiling on the other side. "Hello, my dear."

"Good morning, Magistrate Ancunin," she said.

Blinking, the magistrate glanced to the window. "Gods, it really is morning." He turned back to her with an easy smile and a bow of his head. "Good morning to you as well, Gillian."

Gillian held up a covered basket, the scent of freshly baked bread seeping through the cloth. "I thought you might be hungry, Magistrate."

"Darling, I've told you before to call me Astarion."

"Oh, I do apologize, Magis... Astarion. I forget myself sometimes."

"All is forgiven," said Astarion as he held the door open for her to come in. "I must say, you seem in good spirits this morning."

Gillian nodded, setting the basket on the short table near the fireplace. "I've heard rumors of heroes coming to Tristram," she said. "They're coming to help us."

"Took them long enough," he grumbled. "I only sent the summons out weeks ago."

"You mustn't blame them, Astarion." Gillian uncovered the basket—a freshly baked loaf of bread, several apples, and some aged cheese—and split the loaf, offering a bite to her host. "This town isn't the beacon of goodness it once was, now that King Leoric is no longer with us."

"Dreadful affair, that."

Gillian frowned; how Astarion hated seeing such an expression on her face. "I don't like to think about how the King died. I like to remember him for the kind and just ruler that he was. His death was so sad and seemed very wrong, somehow."

Astarion nearly said that of course it was sad and wrong that the Black King was slain by his own men after he accused them of a crime they could not possibly have committed, but he held his tongue. He simply popped a piece of bread in his mouth and hummed both at the flavor and the situation. "I suppose Archbishop Gortash is still leading that expedition?"

"Yes," Gillian said, frowning. "They left three days ago. I'm worried, Astarion, they should have been back by now."

"Who knows how deep that temple runs," Astarion replied. "I'm given to understand it used to be a Horadric Monastery. Caves and catacombs abound."

Gillian nodded. "Elder Cain once told me that the Horadrim used to maintain monasteries and temples as deep into the earth as the tallest towers stand above." She fiddled with the cloth from her basket, her knuckles white from her grip. "I... I don't know what's happening, Astarion."

The magistrate did not know the kindly girl that well, but even he had a compassionate side. He set a hand on her shoulder and said, "I'm sure they'll be all right, Gillian. With a smith like Griswold in their ranks, I'm sure they will return in time."

"I wonder what heroes will arrive," Gillian mused aloud.

"Whoever they are," Astarion said, "at least they'll have company."

Gillian nodded. "Moreina."

"That's the one. Apparently she's here on behalf of her sisterhood, though I do wish they had sent more than one admittedly-lovely heroine." The basket emptied, Astarion sighed as he stood up. "Thank you for breakfast, Gillian, but I must return to my duties. Far be it from me to leave the impression that I'm lazy."

"I would never call you lazy, Astarion. You're a very hardworking man, and I'm grateful that we have you looking out for us."

"Now let's not get carried away," he said with a laugh. "I do intend to return to Baldur's Gate one day, preferably within the next year."

Gillian simply bowed her head and said, "As long as we have you, I'm thankful." She turned to leave when the air thickened with the sound of screams. Astarion with his elven grace was out the door before Gillian even realized he had moved. She ran after him, out of the inn, and to the Selunite Temple, where the screams were loudest.

A woman stood guard at the entrance of the temple, her bow tight in her hand. She loosed arrow after arrow at something inside, though Astarion and Gillian were too far to see what. Her flaming red hair billowed in the wind, though that wind seemed to originate from the temple itself. When she saw the two approach, she roared, "STAY BACK!"

Gillian obeyed, Astarion did not. He ran past the stone walls marking the entrance to the temple's front yard just as several figures emerged from the temple itself.

The first was the blacksmith, Griswold. He was covered in cuts and scrapes, but that was nothing compared to what he had in his arms: a boy, barely clinging to life, his left leg ending just below the knee. Fresh blood dribbled from the wound, leaving a trail of red from the temple entrance all the way to Gillian's open arms.

"Wirt!" she cried as she took the boy from Griswold. Her dress already staining red, Gillian carried Wirt to the local healer, Pepin.

Astarion, meanwhile, stood in horrified silence at the rest of the townsfolk, all three of them. Twenty men had gone into the temple, including Archbishop Gortash, yet only these three brave souls remained. Griswold was the most well-off, having only suffered superficial wounds. When Gillian took the boy, he returned to the other men to help them, Astarion joining him.

Griswold lifted one man's arm over his shoulder and hefted him out to the grass beyond the temple's borders, though the man's ramblings would come to haunt Astarion for years afterward: "Big! Big cleaver killing all my friends. Couldn't stop him, had to run away, couldn't save them. Trapped in a room with so many bodies... so many friends... no! NO!"

The man Astarion went to help was too far gone for aid. He collapsed in a heap near the temple entrance, even as Moreina continued to fiercely guard against whatever was inside. "I'll get some potions," Astarion said. "That healer, he'll have some."

He made to stand, only for his charge to grasp his sleeve. "Please, listen to me," the man whispered, his breath stale with blood. "The Archbishop Gortash, he led us down there to find the lost princess." He turned his head and coughed, spewing bloody globs onto the dying grass. "The bastard led us into a trap!"

Astarion paled upon hearing this. "No, that's... Gortash wouldn't, he wouldn't—"

"Now everyone is dead... Killed by a demon he called The Butcher." The man tightened his grip on Astarion, his eyes alight with the last of his strength. "Avenge us! Find this butcher and slay him so that our souls may finally rest..."

"I..." It was too late. The man, whose name Astarion did not even know, was gone.

Moreina the Ranger finally lowered her bow, her fingers red. Her breath was level, and though her forehead was blotted with sweat, her eyes were as sharp as an eagle's. She knelt beside the man, closed his eyes, and uttered a solemn vow. "Your death will be avenged."

~~~

Several days later...

Karlach and Tav slept very little for the rest of the journey; every time they closed their eyes, they were beset by horrific visions. Bodies, twisted and deformed, reaching from the darkness; mirror images of themselves, covered in maggots and pustules; the sun blotted out of the sky while red clouds rained blood onto dead lands.

The nights were terrible, yet the days were even worse. For if they had ventured past the abandoned wagons and houses at night, they might never have seen the mangled corpses of travelers and village folk. Karlach in particular was plagued by the memory of witnessing a crow picking at what was once a man, one eye bobbing from the crow's beak while the other seemed to stare lifelessly right at her.

Tav was haunted by the three corpses hanging from a gnarled tree, their bodies bare to the elements and their limbs shifting in the strong winds that carried that same dread that beset the pair from the beginning. Tav swore one of the bodies was still alive as its legs moved with slightly more purpose, though he dared not disturb them.

They both carried on, through angry marshes and crude wetlands, until at last they came to a river of clean, thriving water.

As if by some miracle, the closer they came to the river, the more the wind died down. By the time they reached it, that feeling of dread shrank to a tingle of anxiety.

The pair tried to carry conversation but even with the river keeping the darkness at bay, there was little they cared to talk about. They did share a quiet laugh at the hope that Tristram would have a tavern with stronger drinks than ale.

It was late into the evening when Karlach and Tav crossed the latest ridge and beheld the sight of Tristram itself. They made their way down the ridge to the town entrance, though they stepped carefully once they saw strange, unholy lights emanating from the temple at the far side of town. Tav's sharp eyes even caught glimpses of short, leathery creatures moving to and fro between the windows. Nothing left the temple but its mouth was cavernous in its vulnerability.

Crossing the threshold into Tristram itself should have been a blessing, for the evil dread vanished once the pair were within the boundaries of the town. However, it was all too clear that the town itself held no true holy power. It was as if the demonic force decided it had had its fun and wanted to bide its time for the next opportunity.

The pair arrived from the north and followed the river southwest, where they spotted a wooden bridge that connected their land to the main body of Tristram. As they approached, they noticed a young boy sitting beneath a tree, its leaves already reddening with autumn fatigue.

"Hello!" Karlach called. The boy's head snapped in their direction and his eyes widened. Karlach waved at him. He did not wave back. "Cheers, lad! This is Tristram, innit?"

The boy's already pallid face grew even paler as he hobbled to his feet—foot! He was missing his left leg! Instead, there was only a crude peg leg in its place.

"DEMONS!" he bellowed, waving a small knife at them. "STAY BACK, STAY BACK OR I'LL—I'LL—"

Tav raised his hands defensively and said, "Easy, lad. We're not demons, we've come to answer the summons by—"

"DEMONS!" the boy cried again as he turned on his only heel. He hobbled with frenzied speed toward the bridge, though his peg leg sank more and more into the shore with every step.

"Boy, stop!" Karlach sprinted for the boy but his frenzy drove him right into the water. "Damn it, no!"

Even in the water, the boy tried to escape his would-be pursuers. His cries of "DEMON!" allowed more and more water into his mouth until he gurgled the word over and over.

"Oh hells..." Karlach dove into the water after him. Her strength and stature allowed her to easily catch up to him, though even then his panicked state would not relent. Thankfully, in his madness he dropped his knife, so he only had weak fists to protest against Karlach's rescue. "Easy there, lad, I've got you."

"IT'S GOT ME!" he cried. "HELP, IT'S GOT ME!"

"For fuck's sake!" Karlach's only relief came from the fact that the boy was so light, so she had no trouble lifting herself out of the water with one arm. The boy continued to fight against her even as she set him down on his rump. "Look, boy, I'm not a demon!"

The instant she released him, he turned and crawled with fiendish fervor away from her, still crying to the town of this new 'demon'.

He did not have to crawl far, for his bellows awoke everyone in town. They were already gathering in front of Karlach by the time she put him down, torches and pitchforks raised.

Karlach took several steps back and raised her hands. "I swear I'm not a demon," she said as calmly as possible. "My name is Karlach. I'm a tiefling, okay?"

Tav caught up to her but she wished he had stayed behind, for his appearance sparked even more animosity from the townsfolk. "Do you always get greeted like this?" he asked.

"Honestly, no," she replied. "These people have seen something horrible, soldier."

The frontmost man, a burly type in a red tunic, folded his arms across his chest. "What business have ye here?!" he declared. While he was certainly intimidating, Karlach and Tav kept a sharper eye on the woman off to the side, her hair tied back and her bow aimed at them.

Tav cleared his throat and said, "I am Tavarus of the Vizjerei, and this is my companion Karlach Cliffgate."

"We don't care who ya are!" yelled a shriveled man with sunken eyes and breath of strong liquor. "Clear out, you evils!"

"We are not evils!" Karlach roared. "We're here to help you people!"

"We didn't ask for help!"

"Well, someone did!"

"Who?!"

"Magistrate...!" Karlach sighed and pulled out the scroll which had provoked her questioning that drunkard three days prior, then looked at the bottom. "Ancunin."

A new voice rang out from the crowd. "Really, I send for help and this is the thanks you give them?" An elf with silver hair emerged and dusted himself off, having squeezed through to get to the front. "I do apologize, we've had some... situations come up. I am Magistrate Astarion Ancunin and I would like to thank you for making the journey to Tristram even if they won't."

With his vouching, the townspeople lowered their weapons. The red-haired woman did as well, though her eyes were steely as she approached the two. "Forgive me, I did not realize you had been called here."

Karlach shrugged. "Not the worst welcome I've had," she said. "And you are?"

"Moreina," said the ranger, "of the Sisterhood of the Sightless Eye."

Astarion looked back at the townsfolk and declared, "All right, you all heard them, they're not evil. Go home, get some rest, and do try and help young Wirt back to himself."

A cute barmaid knelt down and cupped Wirt's cheek. "It'll be all right, you're safe now." She and the burly man helped Wirt back to his feet and escorted him to the large building in the center of town.

"He was never in danger," Karlach muttered. Tav merely shrugged.

Astarion's ear twitched. "You'll have to forgive him," he said. "He... suffered much recently. They all have."

"What has been going on here?" Tav asked, his eyes drifting to that damned temple. "Who is responsible for this?"

"Come to the tavern," Astarion said. "Myself and the village elder will explain what we can."

The four marched through town, though Karlach and Tav stopped at the foul-smelling well in the center. Its water was nothing like the refreshing blue of the river; it was yellow and stank of sickly sweet bile. They refrained from asking about it, figuring that question could be answered in the tavern.

Once inside, they saw Gillian tending to the boy, Wirt, in a corner. In the opposite corner sat an old man, his blue robe seeming almost too big for his frame. Astarion led the trio over to the man and sat down, gesturing for them to do so as well.

"Greetings," said the old man, "my name is Deckard Cain."

The pair introduced themselves for the second time, to which Cain gave them the first genuine smile of the evening.

"Hello, my friends. Stay a while and listen..."

[trespia]

oh king leoric is definitely up to something

[displacer-beasts]

In Zarbinzet

@lisa-and-shadow and @swindlefingrs. So this takes place when they get to Zarbinzet the first time. Before they split off into seperate groups to deal with the soulstone and Elias.

---

“So, what is the deal with you and the Wanderer?”

They had just reached Zarbinzet and were preparing to head out once more. Donan and Nico would go to prepare the soulstone for Lilith, while Lorath and Neyrelle would hunt down the secret to Elias’ immortality. There were a number of items they would need to gather for their journey through the swamp. 

Nico and Neyrelle had volunteered to collect the supplies. Zarbinzet did not exactly have a bustling marketplace, but as the last bastion of ‘civilization’ before entering the swamp proper, there were a number of merchants selling supplies to whatever travelers were brave enough (or foolish enough) to travel to Hawezar.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Lorath gave Donan a sharp look, “Have you noticed anything? Signs that Lilith’s blood is beginning to corrupt him?”

The possibility of it haunted Lorath. In his time he had seen and read numerous accounts of people–good, noble people–corrupted by demonic influence. King Leoric. Aidan the Dark Wanderer. Leah. The history of Sanctuary was in part a history of humanity’s corruption by evil. Nico might end up as just another name on that dark, bloody list.

And yet for all that Lorath watched intently, he could see no sign of it. Other than a few frustrated outbursts, Nico had kept remarkably composed throughout their travels. But between Lilith’s blood, the blessings from all three Prime Evils, and Mephisto apparently appearing to him in the form of a bloodied wolf, it seems almost an inevitability that at some point Nico would falter.

(Lorath knew he needed to ask about the wolf. But, just like talking to Donan about Scosglen, when he tried the words turned to ash in his mouth. He didn’t know what to say, what words could offer meager comfort, had no solutions to offer, nothing that could make a difference. No, better to just focus on stopping Lilith and Elias. Everything else could wait.)

“Oh no, nothing like that. On the contrary, he and Y–” Donan faltered for a moment. 

Lorath’s fingers tightened on his polearm. He could say something now. Anything. I’m sorry about your son. I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I’m sorry I didn’t reach out at any point these last few decades. Why didn’t you write to me about the soulstone? I would have come. I would have put up with the bloody Cathedral of Light. I would have helped you bear that weight.

He said nothing and Donan continued.

“He and Yorin apparently ran around volunteering their aid to many villagers in Braestaig. And he’s made a name for himself. On my journey here I heard more than one inn talking about the strange Wanderer who cleared out a demon infestation, or found someone’s missing husband, or delivered food to someone’s sick bairn. Truthfully, I thought most of it to be an exaggeration.”

Lorath snorted, “No, he’s been like that the entire time I’ve known him.”

A part of Lorath urged to snap at Nico for it. Wasting time helping a poor villager when, if Lilith and Elias got their way, said villager would just be carrion for their ‘new world’ soon enough. 

And yet. 

When Lorath saw the way Nico threw himself into helping anyone who asked, the way he seemed to care so deeply, his voice turning gentle and soothing even the most terrified child, the way he didn’t make a big show of it like the Knights Penitent did, just as if it were another step on his list. Upgrade his weapons, save a poisoned man on the road, buy a new water canteen, infiltrate a city overrun with cannibals and save a woman. 

There was a hot, feathery tightening in his chest whenever Lorath thought about it. A sensation he resolutely ignored throughout their journey, but which haunted his dreams as much as his nightmares did.

“But you haven’t answered my question, Lorath. What is it with you and the Wanderer?” Donan watched him with eyes far too sharp and knowing. 

Lorath resolutely kept his gaze forward. 

“He was drugged by villagers and fed Lilith’s blood. He was rescued by a lone monk, who sent him to me. I sent him to you. I believe you know the rest of the story.”

“Hmm. And that was the first time you two met?”

Lorath hesitated.

Donan picked up on the hesitation and his gaze grew more intense. “Well?”

“No. We had met before,” Lorath scratched at his beard, “He came to my cabin seeking information about demons, curses. I believe he wanted something that might help the druids at Túr Dúlra. We spoke about the nature of demons, the history of Sanctuary.”

“All that in one night?”

Again, Lorath hesitated, “No, he visited a handful of times.”

Donan raised an eyebrow, “Braving that journey through the mountains multiple times just to ask for history lessons?”

Lorath grit his teeth. He was not going to gossip about his personal life like one of those widows in Kyovashad. He was not going to tell Donan about that first moment of weakness in his cabin, when he had commented about seeking distraction in drink and Nico had joked about better ways to forget. When Lorath had challenged him on it and then took him up on that offered comfort.

It was a moment of weakness that Lorath didn’t intend to repeat.

And he told himself that each time. When that weakness happened again in Ked Bardu. And again after Nico returned from Orbei Monastery, haunted by what he’d seen. And again after Ghuulran. And Mt. Ciro. And after Andariel. And–

Well, Lorath had had decades of experience avoiding his own roiling emotions. He could deal with this complication later. After they stopped Lilith.

“Why don’t you ask him about it then if you’re so bloody curious?”

His attention was caught by movement, and he saw Neyrelle and Nico beginning to approach, carrying bags of supplies. Neyrelle was animatedly saying something, one hand gesturing in the air. Nico walked in step beside her, his ear tilted in her direction to listen, but his eyes carefully scanning the surroundings, one hand resting lightly on his sword. 

He had a tense frown on his face and–paired with his dark kohl-smeared eyes, the tattoo markings on his face and muscled arms, wild hair sticking up, long, curved blades at his side, and a large, wicked-looking crossbow along his back–he looked no different from any of the numerous bandits that plagued Sanctuary. 

Dangerous. 

As they walked the people gave them a wide berth, eyeing the strangers in their midst with suspicion. Perhaps he felt Lorath’s gaze in particular burning into him, because he lifted his head and met Lorath’s eyes.

And oh, how the expression changed. The frown falling away to reveal a grin, eyes shining (too far to see the color at this distance, but Lorath knew it was a deep green, the same vibrant shade as one of the leaves of Glór-an-Fháidha), tense shoulders loosening in relaxation, pace picking up a bit to reach them faster. 

“Hmm, I think I already have my answer.” Donan sounded smug and far too knowing as Lorath jerked his head around to glare at his old friend. He had perhaps been staring. He wasn’t sure what expression was on his face, but whatever it was made Donan’s grin widen in amusement. 

Before he could retort, Neyrelle and Nico reached them.

“Hey! We got some water resistant bags, food that should last even in this humidity, snake venom antidote, plenty of water,” Neyrelle handed a large satchel each to Donan and Lorath, “There’s an oil that, according to one of the merchants, should ‘discourage all but the most persistent of bloodflies’.”

Nico nodded along in agreement. “I got us all some new boots as well. These are coated with a special oil that makes them extra resistant to water. So it should keep our feet dry even in the swamp.”

Neyrelle lifted her foot to show off her new boots, and Nico handed a pair to both Donan and Lorath.

“And here, Lorath,” Nico held out a pair of gloves, “I saw that yours got damaged when we were in the desert.”

Lorath reached out and took the gloves. Turned them over in his hands. They were soft, of excellent quality, dyed a dark grey, simple and not ostentatious at all, with the fingers free just as Lorath preferred. 

In other words, they were perfect.

He looked up to thank him and his breath caught in his throat at the soft look in Nico’s eyes, the smile tugging at his lips. It was a simple, practical gift for a– a– fellow comrade-in-arms and should not have made Lorath’s ears feel as hot as they did. 

Donan coughed loudly. 

Lorath cleared his throat, “Right well. We need to be off. We’ve wasted enough time as is.”

[nepthys-merenset]

gotta love king leoric whining about rudeness while a man is being whipped to death right in front of him. now that's a man with his priorities straight.

[blizzardtm]

Welcome  to BLIZZARDTM,  a rp  blog  for many characters from Blizzard entertainment from World of Warcraft, Diablo, Heroes Of The Storm, and Starcraft Est 08.18.2023.

The content of this blog is restricted to 18+ due to the nature of the content and my personal comfort.

My name is André, my pronouns are They / Them, I am 30 years old and a full time college student. The activity on this blog will vary, but you can usually find me on  Discord  (Mutuals only),  or quite possibly HERALDOFCTHULHU or  THESONOFBLACKHEART.

My page is under co. - though mostly there and under cut!

Warcraft -

MIMIRON - creator of the mechagnomes EBYSSIAN WRATHION - the black prince ANDUIN WRYNN ARTHAS MENETHIL / THE LICH KING - heroes of the storm / warcraft NATHANOS BLIGHTCALLER BOLVAR FORDRAGON / THE LICH KING NELTHARION / DEATHWING - heroes of the storm / warcraft DARION MOGRAINE XAVIUS - NELKO BLACKSUN - necromacer XEOTH FELSWORN - Demon hunter KADGAR - alt timeline / heroes of the storm DAR'KHAN DRATHIR JESSE AMES - twilight dragon ANDERS VAN HAVEN - nightmare druid NEZEN - long range recon officer AARON LANCASTER - twlight templar ELLIOT EVANS - wields the Blades of the Fallen Prince ILLIDAN STORMRAGE - heroes of the storm GORLEN - chaos orc OSSELI - vulpera / Dracthyr  KALERIAN FELBLADE - Nightborne VEROST FELSWORN - Nightborne  GENN GREYMANE - heroes of the storm MAIEV - heroes of the storm TICHONDRIUS THE DARKENER - dread lord GARROSH - heroes of the storm /warcraft MAL'GANIS - dreadlord MEDIVH - heroes of the storm / warcraft Kel'Thuzad - heroes of the storm / warcraft Cordana Felsong Sabellian / Baron Sablemane - World of Warcraft Eternus - World of Warcraft Malygos - World of Warcraft Nozdormu - World of Warcraft

Other Blizzard Media -

THE SKELETON KING / LEORIC - diablo / heroes of the storm Mephisto - diablo / heroes of the storm Malthael - diablo / heroes of the storm Alexei Stukov - Starcraft / heroes of the storm Lord of the Black Road / Kabraxis - Diablo Deckard Cain - Diablo / heroes of the storm DIABLO - Diablo / heroes of the storm Tyrael - Diablo / heroes of the storm Imperius - Diablo / heroes of the storm Inarius - Diablo Siggard - Diablo Darrick Lang - Diablo

[halfbloodsnowy]

Penance Ch. 7: Excerpt

Full Fic -> Penance: AO3

Rating: Explicit | Pairings: Amell/Cullen, Amell/OC | Dark Romance

Chapter 7: Friends

The constant headache he had thinking of Ruvena lessened somewhat, and his mind drifted back to Amell.

He chewed on his lip, thinking of what he’d say when he saw her again.

His heart skipped a beat.

I’m going to see her again.

After so many years, how could the mere thought of her still make him burn?

She was trapped in his mind, forever, he hoped once they met again he might be able to move on. It was unhealthy how he still dreamt of her, he knew that, but he couldn’t help it.

He closed his eyes and imagined what she might be like now. It seemed impossible to envision her differently than he remembered.

She was still the apprentice in his mind. The sweet, smiling girl that had taken his foolish heart with the sound of her voice.

And the demons twisted that love into something horrible.

His skin prickled, and he frowned.

There was a knock at his door.

“Enter,” he said, grateful for the distraction.

Leoric opened the door, letter in hand, “I’ve just read the letter! He married, uh…” Leoric looked at the letter again, “Lady Shayna, now Teyrna Cousland.”

Cullen’s stomach flipped and he felt ill, “M-married Lady Shayna?” he repeated stupidly.

“Yes,” said Leoric. “You know who that is?”

“I, no,” he lied. “You didn’t have to come tell me this.”

“Well, you asked, and I couldn't remember, so,” Leoric winced, popping his hip. “I’ll leave you be, Knight-Captain.”

“Thank you.”

Leoric closed the door, and Cullen felt queasy. Reaching for the stale water on his desk, he chugged it in one go.

Married to the Teyrn.

This complicated things.

How could he waltz in, and take a Teyrn’s wife? The Order dictated he could, by all rights, but the Teyrn was second only to the King of Ferelden and it was no secret King Alistair despised the Templar Order.

King Alistair had also seen him at his worst, crying in a cell.

Had he slipped and mentioned the demon to them? It was so long ago, and he couldn’t remember. That time felt like a nightmare, covered in tarp and buried under sand.

If he were caught trying to kidnap Teyrn Cousland’s wife, there would be scandal and he doubted King Alistair would side with him. Especially if he remembered the insanity he was babbling on about all those years ago.

Cullen shook the thoughts from his head. It was too big a problem for him to figure out now.

He’d think of something, he usually did, because what he knew for certain was that he had to see her again. No matter the cost.

And he only had two months to prepare.

[wanderingcotabussurgetank]

King Leoric - Diablo I - Concept art by NikolayAsparuhov

[ashknife]

While I read Dracula (or anything, really), there is an ensemble of voices that narrate the story as my eyes read the words. Because of how Diablo III handles lore entries, and because Dracula is an epistolary novel written from many characters' perspectives, most of the characters in Dracula sound to me like many voices used in Diablo III, including the sound of the quill on parchment whenever a new entry begins. They also pretty much assigned themselves. So, this is my internal cast of voice actors for the main characters:

Jonathan Harker - Robin Atkin Downes (male Demon Hunter) Mina Murray/Harker - Jennifer Hale (Leah) Lucy Westenra - Sofia Pirri (Emperor Hakan, but less childish) Dr. John "Jack" Seward - Joe Thomas (King Leoric, pre-madness) Dr. Abraham Van Helsing - Michael Gough (Deckard Cain, but more energetic) Arthur Holmwood, Lord Godalming - Troy Baker (Lyndon, the Scoundrel) Quincey Morris - Earl Alexander (Luis, Left 4 Dead; the only one not from Diablo III) Vlad Tepes Dracul, Count Dracula - Jamieson Price (male Monk)

I wonder what other people cast for their internal voices.

[traveler-of-realms]

“Kazamir?” Leoric said, letting his head fall onto the larger man’s chest.

The priest brought his lover closer, slotting him neatly against his body. “Yes?”

“I admit, I do not understand why you have brought me out here.” Leoric looked up, starlight reflecting in his eyes.

Kazamir frowned a little. “Stargazing. Aren’t they beautiful?”

Leoric smiled up at him. “Not as beautiful as you,” he said cheekily.

With his dark skin, it was easy to hide a blush, but as Leoric gently took Kazamir’s face into his hands, he could feel the priest’s skin warm. Leoric laughed softly. Kazamir slapped his hands away.

“You and your jokes, little priest,” he grumbled back. He gently brushed his fingers through Leoric’s short hair.

“You enjoy them,” Leoric shot back. He reached up to Kazamir’s hair, attempting to return the favor. “Your dreads are too thick for me to comb through.”

“You enjoy them,” Kazamir returned.

“Won’t you need to get rid of them soon?” Leoric asked.

“Don’t remind me,” the High Priest said. “Every damn year. They’re ‘unclean’ according to the king and queen. I have half a mind to assassinate the royal family over it.”

“If you do, then we’d be fugitives,” Leoric reminded him.

“It would be nice,” Kazamir chuckled. His hand came up to brush a few errant strands of pitch black hair from Leoric’s eyes. “Except we would be on the run for the rest of our lives. Quite possibly brutally executed as well.”

Leoric said nothing. His hands began to pull at the edges of his robes.

“I know how you feel about what we do here,” Kazamir said, his voice more of a rumble. “I know the other priests get to you sometimes. You need only say the word if they are taunting you again.”

“No, no they are not. Forget I said anything at all,” Leoric muttered.

Worried now, Kazamir took hold of Leoric’s head and gently turned it so Leoric looked up at him. “Are their methods bothering you?”

Leoric sighed, staring into steel grey eyes. They seemed stony, but he saw the anxiety blooming behind them. “Yes,” he confessed. “Some of them have resorted to…less desirable methods.” Kazamir’s eyes hardened. “Torture, gruesome sacrifices of their own followers, among others.”

Kazamir grunted. “Give me names. I will have them disciplined.”

“Executed, you mean?” Leoric asked.

“I’m sure I could find evidence of heresy among them,” Kazamir said nonchalantly. “They’re fools, the lot of them.”

Leoric let his head fall against the High Priest’s chest. “That, I won’t argue. I will tell you tomorrow, perhaps via letter.”

“See to it,” Kazamir yawned. “And perhaps, we should see to getting some rest as well.” Leoric looked up at him, hopeful. Kazamir’s expression darkened. “No.”

“You don’t know what I want,” Leoric said.

“You—“ Kazamir prodded him in the shoulder. “Want to sleep in my bed tonight. And I keep telling you how dangerous that is.”

“Not if I sneak through the window. I know the maids’ routines.”

“Leoric. This is not for discussion.” Leoric’s face fell, and Kazamir looked away. “We cannot risk being found out.”

Leoric’s eyes fell to the ground. He stood abruptly, taking his warmth with him and leaving Kazamir’s torso cold. “I know,” he said quietly. “I will make my way to the guest chambers. Good night, High Priest.”

Kazamir’s arms closed gently around Leoric as he turned to leave. “Good night, little priest,” he heard him whisper. Leoric felt him smile against his hair.