#love this animal the lich

[brosif40]

they're so divorced

their big evil divorce is canon, the eu bros told me so /j

Having so much fun with them for some reason

[littleaipom]

my lich creature housing plant life inside it. New growth bursts out from decay, and the mix of thriving and rotting walk forward together.

[muirneach]

god some vegans are sooo insufferable. pov youve never met a chicken farmer

[acepalindrome]

Alternatives to Squishmallow

So as many of you have probably already heard, Jazwares, the company that produces Squishmallows, is donating to charities that support Israeli soldiers and the IDF. They’re also supporting Canary Mission, which has been doxxing people who speak out against Israel. BDS hasn’t called for a boycott against them, but I can’t in good faith spend my money on their products, and I would strongly encourage everyone who enjoys plushies to really think long and hard about if you want to give your money to a company that’s helping support genocide!

But the holidays are coming up, and lots of us enjoy plushies and were fans of Squishmallow, and were planning to give Squishmallows to friends and family this year.

Fortunately, there are a number of great plushie companies out there, and I want to promote some of my favorites in the hopes that folks will get their plushie fix from a source that doesn’t side with Israel. So without further ado:

Fluffnest

Fluffnest got their start on Kickstarter a few years ago, and I adore the round shapes of their PuffPal plushies! My favorite is Pete the Possum, which is probably the best possum plush I’ve ever seen. I’ve also got a beautiful moth from their Kickstarter and I’ve been wanting their bats for ages. They also recently had a Kickstarter for an Animal Crossing-esque video game featuring their plushie characters and it looks fantastic.

Squishables

I can’t get over the plague doctor plushies. They’re so perfect and cute, and they’ve released other variations of them called Alter Egos, like a ghostly version, an alien, or a really sweet cottagecore one! They’ve got a ton of variety, but what I like the most are the fantasy plushies. There’s a lich! There are dragons and demons! Cryptids! Biblically accurate angels! A lot of really fun stuff!

Also they do a lot of great charity work! Right now they’re doing an auction for the Food Bank of New York City.

AfternoonFika

AfternoonFika is a very small business of only three people, but their plushies are extremely cute. They tend to sell out fast, so I recommend following them on social media to stay on top of any restocks! They recently released a line of dinosaurs that are precious, and of course I love their iconic cactus cat and cinnamon bun bunny.

Jellycat

Jellycat has been around since 1999, so they’re the oldest of these companies. They’ve got great designs, a ton of variety, and a lot of their plushies are made to be cuddled on and not just displayed. All three of my tiny nephews sleep with a different stuffed dog from Jellycat. My mom has a sun and several succulents that she uses as decorations. There’s a little something for everyone who enjoys plushies!

If you have any other favorite companies I haven’t mentioned, feel free to add on! I’ve enjoyed Squishmallows for a while now and I’m sad to see their leadership coming out on the side that’s committing war crimes on a daily basis, but this is a good time to discover new favorite plushie companies! And remember, money speaks loudly. Even if BDS hasn’t called for a boycott of Jazwares, it sends a message when sales start dropping for companies that support genocide. It’s a small thing, but the little things we do can add up!

[seahagart]

Ophelia ‘Phil’ Drissane

Dark Magic + Cursed Artifact expert, currently dating her cursed staff. Her work may be creepy, but it’s for the greater good. Think of her like an arcane Mythbuster, testing spells/artifacts for public safety. Phil is her name, preventing liches is her game.

She’s the wizard in her group of clumsy adventurers. She’s a goth who’s trying to play matchmaker for her friends, a vegetarian, she is trying to make education more accessible, and also become the greatest wizard of all time to rub it in her college rivals face. She loves anime and women.

Old line up of her group.

[leahnardo-da-veggie]

Introductions (2.0)

Hello and welcome, all! I've been around these parts for a while, but I felt the need to revamp my intro :)

About me:

↪ Leah, she/her/any pronouns

↪ In my early 20s

↪ Reader, writer, sometime animator

↪ Been doing martial arts for over a decade

↪Huge fan of CJ Cherryh

↪I reblog stuff from @leahpardo-pa-potato

My writing:

↪ Generally fantasy, with sides of horror

↪Posted in regular chunks of 500-1k words

↪I love tag games, esp OC ones :)

↪I do mini-series, one-shots, and novels

↪I will love you forever if you send me an ask

↪See my full list of writing here

↪I have a taglist, interact here to join!

WIPs / Longer stories

The Unwanted Visitor: (Completed)

Aida's house has been haunted by a spirit for as long as she can remember. Thing is, she's grown used to her Unwanted Visitor (or Vis, as she likes to call him). So when exorcists come after him, she does what any sane person would: protect her brother friend.

↪ Urban fantasy-comedy, very light-hearted

↪A lot of found family and sibling squabbling

↪If you like teens causing chaos, this is for you!

↪Final bit here

A Perfectly Normal Schoolgirl:

All Katherine wants is to eat mortal food, bask in the warmth, and be a normal schoolgirl. But when a boy begs her to help him save her parents, she finds herself fighting for her (and his) life once more.

↪Urban fantasy with a side of horror

↪ Basically an inversion of a bunch of tropes

↪My attempt at writing fantasy without mentioning magic by name

↪Latest bit here

Fast Food:

An embarrassment to his entire tribe, Hash is lazy and uninterested in anything. So, when he reaches majority, he gets unceremoniously booted out of home. Follow his adventures through Triworld, as he somehow ends up in every single single conflict across the continent.

↪High fantasy with a side of humour

↪Very heavy Lore™ and Worldbuilding™

↪ My excuse to ramble about fictional history

↪Latest bit here :)

Lich-Queen (Completed):

Iraela has all but won: the King of Ceredell and his bride are gone, the cities fallen to her army of undead, and the way to the throne cleared for her. But her coronation, and her sanity threaten to fall apart under the weight of duty. Can she hold it together until she truly becomes Lich-Queen?

↪High, dark fantasy with some horror and gore

↪Watch Ira slowly lose her mind in real-time

↪If you like cannibalism, you'll love this

↪Full thing here

The Novel™ (Mind of a Mercenary):

Luna, Terror of Garvenoi, mind-mage extraordinaire, has been caught at last. Whilst everyone celebrates, she is given an ultimatum: Be an indentured hunter for the government, or die. But when she signs on with them, she finds that perhaps death might have been a better choice...

↪ Urban Fantasy set in a Non-Earth world

↪Starring a sassy, mean-girl villain protagonist

↪Enjoy several hundred pages of Luna trying and failing to run from her duties

↪Latest snippet here (find the others on my masterlist of writing)

Finally, my taglist! If you interacted with this post/already asked me to add you, and you don't see yourself here, please remind me! I may have accidentally missed you :')

@coffeeangelinabox, @dorky-pals, @calliecwrites, @kaylinalexanderbooks, @shukei-jiwa

@thewingedbaron, @pluppsauthor, @cowboybrunch, @wylloblr, @possiblyeldritch @ramwritblr, @urnumber1star, @fortunatetragedy, @bigwipscholar, @ratedn

@vampirelover890, @possiblylisle, @illarian-rambling, @the-ellia-west

@finicky-felix, @evilgabe29, @glitched-dawn, @rivenantiqnerd, @dragonhoardesfandoms

@drchenquill, @everythingismadeofchaos, @owldwagitoutofyou, @dimitrakies, @beloveddawn-blog

Oh pls kill me I felt so silly doing this- Anyways bye guys hope to see y'all around don't judge me for this

[comfortless]

hi angel! i have to tell you that ‘All That You Don’t Want’ was incredible- such a lovely, sweet tale! i keep revisiting it! would you consider writing a second part? or even a role reversal?

Roach Head

lich! König x fem necromancer! reader

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. abduction, injury, mentions of insects (reader is the world’s worst necromancer), forced proximity, pining, violence/regicide, major character death, questionable morality, fluff, smut, a lil angst.

notes: i am so sorry you have had to wait so long, anon. ): though… i doubt that i will ever write a continuation of ATYDW, take this sickly sweet… (almost) role reversal, instead!

wc: 6.7k.

It’s an odd thing that, after finally having the blindfold removed, the first thing you notice are the cobblestones beneath your bleeding palms. Not a single one is in disarray; not cracked or crumbling from being used as any other common footpath. No, each stone is in it’s place, lain complete with not a single splintering crack or a sharpness to it from being broken. All pristine and smooth beneath your stinging scrapes.

Just like the cobbles, the air feels untouched here. There’s no stink of manure or spoiled food from the cramped streets of the inner kingdom. There are no roars of fighting men nor the baying of beasts, a lack of giggling women batting their eyelashes to lure those with jingling pouches of coins into brothels. You can’t even detect a breeze. Twisting onto your side, your eyes catch on the extending limbs of sturdy trees, and oddly… not a single leaf flutters or moves. The air is still.

There is only the absence of everything.

You should think it a blessing after your abduction, after being thrust into the back of a dusty carriage drawn by two massive horses.

You could almost swear you had seen the devil in their dark eyes, hellfire deep in those dark pits and you had known assuredly they would be chauffeuring you straight into the darkest circle of Hell. That was, until a thick, rigid cloth was tied around your head, forcing you into complete darkness. Your assailants had done well to bind you and leave your aching body only capable of wracking with sobs against the hard wood at the bottom. Every jolt of the wagon had caused you to flinch, to scramble as best you could, resulting in an array of bruises and your still bleeding hands from fighting at the ropes.

There had never even been a chance to fight back; you never even saw them. Even now as you raise your throbbing head to glance about, there’s no sign of the men that have left you here, in this silent place. Your heart almost seizes in your chest when you realize you can no longer even hear the cantering and whinnying of those dark, stoic horses.

You know that nothing good comes from silence.

It’s one of the first things that you came to learn as a fledgling witch. Quiet rarely ever bodes well. The prey animals in the wood all scurry to hide amongst fallen leaves and well-packed nests the very moment that a predator draws near, and you, still green with your admittedly lackluster talent in reanimating were little more than a fawn in the eyes of any beast.

A groan leaves your parted lips as you force yourself to your knees, ignoring the incessant sting of bruises and how your vision blots from even the barest of exertion. Your binds must have been cut free when you were abandoned here, you realize, as you twist around to crawl.

That’s when you see it— the glory of what lies before you.

Rather than being dumped into some desolate street for the vultures to find and pick apart like any common carrion, the men with their frightening steeds had left you at the steps leading up to a beautiful castle of sorts. The stone bricks and marbled towers above you, spirals of darkened blue shingles descended into gilded turrets, the rampart casting a shadow over all that settles beneath. There’s a flag there, too, positioned just outside of the wooden door leading into the heart of it all. The rich, blue fabric is torn in places, the tassels frayed, bare white thread visible near the paling center making the crest practically invisible.

Something draws you to it, that singular rotting thing in this bright, sterile void. Your feet move quicker than your thoughts as you pad up toward the flag, eyelids squinting as your palm dances over the canvas. The strangest thing happens as you finally make out what remains of a wolf’s head amongst the rips and splintering threads— the wooden door begins to move. It’s not one of those fancy, well crafted ones with those mechanisms you couldn’t fathom in the King’s keep, this one has to be pulled open from the inside.

You watch, lips pursed as the door continues to slowly creek open until finally, you can make out the small courtyard beyond it. A fountain, long since dried up sits at its center, and even with what you imagine must be little care in such a desolate place, the plants are all in bloom; petals of vivid blues and gentle purples fill your vision.

Amongst them, stands a shadow of the purest black, from the opaque veil shrouding his head to the soles of his boots. The cloak he wears is heavy, finely stitched with that very same blue crest embroidered into its chest, the stitching in equal disarray as the flag adorning the stone wall.

You’ve seen specters before. They haunt the kingdom in every nook, crawling over the tops of buildings, invading your dreams with threats of what will come to you if you don’t reanimate something, give them any body to inhabit and puppet so that they might just have a taste of the pleasures of being human once more. Greedy, malevolent things that make you feel ill from a mere glimpse.

This one is entirely an unknown.

He does not crawl from your gaze with the gait of a wary spider, he stands rigid, daring even as those eyes like sapphire lock onto your form. Not a word is uttered between the two of you, yet you feel a pull, one that curls at the bones tucked into the flesh of your legs, pushing and pulling you past the threshold as though an unseen dog were nipping at your heels. You don’t fight it. Your bare feet cross over smooth stone and your stare remains wistful on the figure until he simply strolls away.

That’s it. That’s all it takes before you’re snapped out of your trance and the wooden door swings heavy and violent behind you, closing and locking without a hand to guide it. Then it’s back to the nothingness, the silence.

You should be very, very afraid. In a panic, even as your hands flatten over the wood and you realize that there are no handles from inside at all. You are entirely trapped here, short of finding a way to carve through it or climb up the rampart and risk snapping every limb on your descent. Thing is— you are not afraid, at least not enough to do anything so rash.

A calm settles here, electric and tickling as it feathers unseen through the cool air.

You stay in that courtyard for a long time, admiring every flower and shrub, some you recognize and others you do not. The empty fountain is not empty at all; you find that the marble ring is filled to the brim with riches— gold coins, shimmering stones, all twinkling beneath the yellow glow of the sun overhead.

Inside of the castle is more or less the same, each corridor bathed in the glow of soft candlelight, highlighting paintings in gilded frames that must have taken months to complete, treasures you have only ever heard of seated on polished wood and fine metals. Like walking through a dream. Though your hands itch to pocket something, anything to take back with you when you find the will to escape, to free yourself from the reality of your little shack at the corner of the market that you share with a dozen other witchlings, you don’t touch anything at all.

Following a branch to your right, vast and equally laden with treasures, eyes darting from one shiny thing to the next until the tightly woven, ornate rugs beneath the soles of your feet wind to an end and you instead find your footing on smooth stone tiles.

You find yourself in the throne room, where the specter sits, lofty yet misplaced upon the soft, rolling velvet. That pull, like a lead drawn too tight, pivots you forward, one foot before the other until you’re kneeling at his feet. The figure remains still, watching you with that somber, unrelenting stare even as you reach up to take his gloved hand into your own, kissing along each knuckle until the hand coated in blackened leather moves to cup your face.

This is no king, you know it in your very bones. The dark veil stained by teardrops tells you everything, of a life trodden by deceit and pain untold.

“I know what you are, hündchen.”

The voice startles you, a rasp, alive only in the way that fire lives, crackling and swaying with each lilt. You must have flinched back, the spell weaved around you broken with all of the subtlety of a lightening strike, your elbows dig almost painfully into the rough tiles below, eyes locked to the veil.

Your own voice doesn’t come for a time. When it does, it comes tight; meek and quivering, almost absent entirely as though your own body refuses to bring a ripple to the quiet that has engulfed you.

“Why have you brought me here?”

The feeling that curls up in the hollow spaces within your chest when this enigma pulls you to your feet with a sudden curl of his hand over your wrist feels familiar. It’s not unlike how you felt when accidentally resurrecting that old mantis found dried beneath your bed. It had attempted to chew through your hand, but being so small it hardly seemed a threat, just offensively waving it’s front legs at you until you scooped the critter up and locked it up tight in an old trunk. Some strange tide of wonder, and it takes a moment for you to push it down enough to realize that… the specter is still stood before you, his grip still tight, not saying a word.

Why it brings a swell of warmth to your face should have you questioning your taste in men rather than what he may or may not have done.

“Sorry, I just—“

“You are hurt, hündchen.” He interrupts, turning your wrist over to inspect the flecks of dried blood littering your palm. It’s not the worst injury you’ve ever had, in fact, you had very nearly forgotten it even existed— just a few scrapes from a rope tied far too tight.

You shake your head, biting back that surge of… something, that furry something that crawls from the fluttering organ behind your ribcage and down into the pits of your stomach. That feeling is also familiar, you felt it the first time you laid eyes on that pompous, boy-man serving as heir to the throne in the castle, at least, until he turned his head to look at you and your ilk with thinly veiled disgust.

If the specter sees scum before him, the veil does well to conceal it.

His eyes seem to only light up the more he appraised you, rubbing his thumb over your scrape with such a gentle touch that a shiver rips down your spine.

“I see…”

He guides your wrist back down to your side, delicately trails his fingertips up to your shoulder and… that’s it before he draws away and steps right past you. That’s all the touch you’re given and you find yourself, humiliatingly yearning for it. There should be nothing but contempt scraping at your skull and yet you feel treacherously endeared by this strange, strange faceless man living in this lonely castle.

The risk of this being some bewildering trap weighs heavy on your mind; you’re far more intelligent than some scrappy undead insect, begging to be tossed into a dusty crate, after all. You had heard of the way other lands treated necromancers: shunning them, chasing them from villages, and in far more dreadful cases— leading them to kneel before a headsman for decapitation.

You center yourself, force your mind to conjure up any evidence of some magical foul play only to be left with the knowledge that these feelings are entirely your own.

This man does not have the sticky aura of one dripping magic from his palms like thick globs of honey. He seems almost vacant, devoid of even anything making him human, while you stand transfixed and lacking even the sensible reaction of fear.

You can only find comfort in his gentle hand, in his stare like an unholy flame.

So, when he guides you to what is to be your dwelling you mouth does not part to argue. You’re led to a room larger than the entirety of the cluttered home you shared with the other witchlings. Everything within is worth more than even you, and something about it stings, sharp and sudden like ant’s venom seeping into skin.

From the canopy bed, draped over with thick velvet curtains to protect from the chill of a winter’s night to the neatly polished wood of varying furniture, it all feels so rich— so foreign.

“You didn’t have to prepare all of this for me… I don’t even… why am I here?” You’re rambling, searching every corner of the room with a flitting gaze as if some small patch of dust will provide you with the answers.

Your specter only laughs as he nudges you towards the bed, now your bed, the motion only sending another question to the forefront of your mind.

Were you bought? Meant to warm some peculiar stranger’s bed without even the grace of having the knowledge to prepare?

Perhaps your concerns should have drifted as to why you were not entirely opposed.

“Sleep.”

The simple command leaves you stifled entirely, all confusion and tentative excitement dispelled in an instant.

He wants nothing from you, only to extend a foreign cup spilling over with generosity to one who would not admit it was ever even needed.

You find yourself nodding your head, unaccustomed to the kindness of a forgotten thing like him. In truth, you’re unused to anything but bickering between the other ladies in the witch’s house, the cobwebs stretching without end caking the ceiling, the scuttle of crawling legs over your flesh as you pulled your threadbare blanket over your body to shield you from the cold. From stark poverty to this… it claws at your eyes, steels your mind— man or ghost, it mattered not; your heart sang while your mouth remains pressed into a stiff line.

When he leaves you, your body cloaked in the softest gown you’ve ever worn, burrowed beneath sheets of the finest silk, that unknown thing in your heart seems to spill over, rushing through your veins like honeyed wine.

You dream through the eyes of someone else that night.

A woman kneels at your feet with tears in her dark eyes. She hasn’t slept, the thick, dark patches just above where her cheeks rise make it evident, and she’s pleading with the you who is not you; this woman tells you that she wishes to go home, that she could never be a part of what you are or are not.

Even in dreaming you feel your jaw tighten, sure that your nails have splintered from the shooting pain in your fingertips as your hands tighten over the hard wood of your seat. The not you speaks for you, his voice coming warbled and distant. You can not make out the words, but seeing how this pleading woman’s face seems to morph into an expression of terror, you’re grateful to not know what’s been said.

Nothing becomes of her. You watch as she strolls away, unharmed. This other you, however, is. It’s the tingling of so many unseen legs parading through your chest; spiders in a downward course to burrow in the shadow of your belly. The discomfort rings out as you feel this body rise from its seat, out to the courtyard with a fountain. The flowing water subsided the clambering of spider limbs inside, just enough for this body to pull a ring from its pocket and cast it down into the clear water.

You watch the ring seat itself at the marble bottom, the gentle flow of water causing small ripples to crest over that tiny band of silver until you wake.

Confusion twists itself into curiosity as you free yourself from the sheets, padding out of your room still only adorned in the thin, white fabric of the gown. Morning light filtering through each window of the castle carves a path where the candles have long since been blown out. The only darkness here is with your captor, all tall and shadowy, and you find yourself considering the fact that perhaps you’ve been sucked down into some strange afterlife, one where you and this specter would remain in a silent stasis for all time. You find that you don’t entirely hate the idea, either.

Most of the rooms in the castle are dull. It’s not that there isn’t plenty to look at, but a cluttering of what’s expected, all gold and ornate, only proves to bore you. There is little mystery to be found in riches.

None of it is of importance, anyway. It’s him you’re seeking out, and oddly enough, you find your specter in the courtyard staring down at the cluttered fountain. He shifts in place as you take to his side, fingers curling into loose fists momentarily before he offers you a small greeting by way of running a hand along the back of your neck, petting you as though you truly were only a puppy.

You shiver beneath that warm touch, seem to melt against him before collecting yourself enough to straighten up.

“I did not sleep well,” he says quietly, the look in his eyes tells you that he dreamt through your own. He had seen the decay and filth of the king’s city, perhaps even those angry, little things that you brought back to bite and sting and pinch.

“I didn’t either.”

You recognize that faint, strange smell when you move just a step closer to him, like dust and forgotten things. Not quite rot, but similar, a comfort for you as it’s all your fate has ever allowed for you to know. Yet, this is not one of your reanimations. Only a man.

A man, only, like you; touched by the rot.

The realization crosses your face by way of a widened glance, a sharp intake of breath. It stings again when he turns away from you, drops his hand back to his side.

“Will you walk with me, hündchen?”

“Sure.”

It’s no less strange pacing along at his side than roaming about the castle with no idea where he is. The specter still feels worlds away, even as your arm brushes over his, your fingers occasionally ghosting over his gloved hand. While the vivid blue of globe thistles and hydrangeas entertains your vision, that patient stare of his remains trained on you, even as the quiet settles over the garden once again.

In a way, you feel as though you’re being courted, even as the questions remain scurried and fluttering in your mind. The ghost, the man, whoever he is, refuses to sate that curiosity of yours even as you bring it up to him again. Why? He only responds in an almost boyish laugh that pulls at your heart, infuriating and delightful all the same.

You share a meal, something you’ve no idea how he managed to scrounge together or had the time to prepare at all. He’s been at your side all morning, yet the fruit pastries and tea are served warm as you seat yourself across from him at some grand, oak table. That sparked tingle of magic does not feather off of him as it does with your sisters, but you know without a doubt that he must have it. You glower at him a bit, lips pursed and brow pinched as he sips at his tea, not beneath but through the fabric of his black veil.

“You will have to explain what’s going on at some point,” you huff, pushing your plate away as if to make a show of it. No more accepting his gifts, even if your stomach growls in protest. “Especially if you’re trying to court me.”

It’s cute how wide his eyes go at that, his cup of tea nearly slipping from his hand. The surprise wears off almost immediately, his eyes narrowing in what you imagine must be amusement as you’re left feeling a bit humiliated. Your gaze flits over to the candles adorning the table as you nervously drum your fingers against the lap of your dress.

“Court you?”

“The gown, the walk, the food… is that not what this is?”

“Nein, hündchen…” He pauses to sigh, setting the cup against the table with a dull thud. “It’s better that I did not.”

You think to question him further, but hold back the words bubbling in your throat, sullenly picking at the food on your plate instead. It feels like courtship, would look like courtship to anyone else, but then again… you’ve never quite experienced it for yourself, either. You’re no noble lady, and it feels a bit silly to imagine yourself roaming a place like this with him as your suitor. For all you know, he could be some king from a neighboring kingdom, only offering you respite out of pity after falling from that wagon.

More likely, all of this is just some strange dreaming.

When your lunch is thoroughly picked apart on your plate, the cup emptied, you shift out of your seat and offer him a curt little bow of your head and move towards the door.

— — —

Your days are filled with him— the drab specter you’ve taken to calling König, King, simple and befitting a name as you can give to one without one. No one else lives here, at least that you can see. Not even the rats or scuttling insects you were used to dare to take up residence within this castle. Yet, you remain taken care of and well-fed. You walk at his side every morning and part ways after minimal conversation in the evening. It’s so simple yet odd it almost makes you feel uneasy.

The dreams remain through the eyes of another. Some are combat, and you don’t care for those, looking down to see blood on steel and settling with the odd sense of guilt that you’ve killed someone, even when the you who is not you does not seem to pause. In fact, he often laughs in those dreams, drinks his wine from a golden goblet while he polishes the thick mace in his lap, trousers stained with blood that is not his own.

Others are dreadfully dull. You watch as knights with long swords and silver plates circle around you, your muffled voice shouting demands of what you can only imagine must be tactics and plans for a war you would only ever be apart of in the late hour with your eyes closed.

Your unease nearly doubles on the fourth night, when you wake with a start, pulled from a dream where you see that same woman from the first wailing over a bloodied corpse to find König looming over where you rest. The curtains of your bed parted with what little moonlight filtering inside bathing him in an unearthly, bluish glow. As usual, he doesn’t breathe a word, only stares as you slowly peel back your sheet to sit up and face him fully.

“Is something wrong?,” you ask in a whisper, rubbing your palms against your eyes as you force yourself to pull through the haze of sleep.

“Du bist schön wenn du schläfst,” he hums. “Even having a nightmare.”

“You said you were not courting me.”

“I’m not, hündchen.”

He offers you a hand that you readily accept, hardly having time to marvel over just how cold his skin feels without his glove before you find your cheek pressed to a broad chest. Your breath catches in your throat, heart hammering with the urgency of a cricket’s song.

“You didn’t sleep well either?”

“Nein.”

“Maybe we could sleep together?,” you offer with a laugh that sounds stiff even to your own ears.

You expect some other quip about the status of your peculiar relationship, not a sigh, not the way König gently lowers you back into bed and climbs in to follow, not at your side, but rested with his head over the swell of your breasts. You’re almost certain your rib cage will bruise by the pounding in your chest this infatuation burdens you with.

He hums contentedly at the contact, props his chin up on the valley between your breasts.

“Warm,” he murmurs.

You reach to pull the blanket over you both without a word, staring up at the velvet curtain as you try to force yourself into a state of calm indifference.

It lasts for all of a single breath; König shifts, stroking over the fabric of your gown, bunching over your hip. His touch makes you shiver, too cold, as though he doesn’t have any body heat at all. Your arm settles over the expanse of his back, pulling him just a tad closer as you relax into the feather-stuffed mattress.

“Ja… I like this.”

“I do too...”

So, you sleep, so intertwined with one another that your body heat melts away the frigid touch of his own flesh with no discernment for where you end and he begins. Your dreams are absent in his presence, replaced by a solace you’ve never known as a comfortable stillness settles over you both.

When morning comes, an unhurried sun casting a dull glow through the arched window in the room, you’re pleasantly surprised to find him still here. You’ve shifted in the lack of dreaming, finding your positions opposite to when sleep had taken its hold; your head rests on König’s chest now, comfortably slow. He doesn’t feel as cold, though…

König does not breathe.

You hurriedly rise, throwing the covers off of you both and shove at him with a panicked urgency, desperately searching for any sort of reaction from him to ensure he hasn’t passed away in his sleep.

It’s not a corpse’s silence that you’re met with but an annoyed huff of breath as he grabs at your wrists and tugs you back down.

“Was..?” Your specter only sounds annoyed as he gazed down at you, keeping your trembling hands steady in his unyielding grip.

“You weren’t breathing! I thought…” You trail off, the words catching in your throat as you realize just how ridiculous that you sound. Of course he wasn’t dead. Even if he were a reanimation, no magic in the entirety of this kingdom would allow him to retain so much of his soul.

König only laughs at that, closes you in an embrace that sets your pulse racing again as he carefully maneuvers you below him. When he had become so familiar mattered not, you wouldn’t dare to complain. It’s achingly comfortable, brings a sigh from your parted lips as you fall back into that perfect, placid state of contentment.

“Hündchen… you worry too much,” he huffs, caging you in as he relaxes with his face pressed back to the divot between your breasts. “So many questions… too many concerns, ja?”

“I would not fret so much if you would just explain a few things.”

“Geduld.”

Though you do pout, make a show of your irritation by exhaling heavily, his tone harbors a calm finality. You’re not so sure that any reasoning for all of this would matter much at all anymore; whether it be a dream or some gentle corner of an afterlife you’ve found yourself tucked within, you only find that you never wish for it to end.

— — —

This dream is worse than any before it.

You feel your vessel’s emotions tenfold; a clamor of disquiet and rage, vicious and searing. The air is still and silent but heavy with the scent of iron. From the blurred view that you’re granted, the shapes of cadavers are easy enough to tell, all lain twisted in glistening pools of their own blood.

Your vessel isn’t moving, though you will your thoughts to encourage him to do so, he remains in place, a pillar destined to topple.

You don’t want to see it, yet waking eludes you.

The sounds of hurried footsteps fill the quiet, a shout to your right that you do not even have the capability to turn towards. Cursed are hissed, warbled and unfamiliar, only recognized by their venom. You know that this is the end, a brutal, grisly one for your counterpart and for these dreams in their entirety.

When wicked steel carves it’s way into your vessel’s middle, you feel how tightly he clenched his jaw to bite back a howl of agony, take the subdued, shooting pain spreading through him as though it were your own. Try as you might, you can not wake; forced to be a voyeur to this stranger that you’ve grown fond of’s gruesome demise.

The vessel’s head is tugged forward, forced to kneel at the feet of the brute who has buried a dagger into his side. A sneer paints the man’s face as your counterpart’s veil is thrown away, and you recognize it— that same shroud of black, stained with imagined tears as it falls to a small heap onto a bloodstained floor.

König.

You wake with a start in a haze of utter confusion, catching your breath as the truth of it all crawls down to settle someplace within you. A cold sweat settles over your skin, bringing with it the rise of slight goose pimples and an incessant tremble.

The specter is just as you had suspected in that brief moment between bonding and sleep, dead and long-forgotten; a corpse made man again. This isn’t some silent kingdom, but a well-preserved crypt.

It hurts.

You wash your face in the water of the small basin at the corner of the room, change from your bed gown into a dress of a drab gray. Even to yourself, mourning a truth that’s been glaring you in the face since your arrival feels misplaced and odd, but that horrible sadness does not subside.

At least, not until you pry your door open to find König waiting just on the other side. He cocks his head at you, gaze softening in a silent understanding as your hand is fitted into his own.

The morning walk is less quiet this morning, a single dove could be heard cooing, hidden beneath the green of some sprawling alder’s leaves. König speaks to, explains some without giving all away. He tells you what he can remember, the details of his failed courting of the foreign princess with dark eyes and a petrified stare, the plot against him that dwindled out into a curse that’s left him here, but never an estimate for how long.

You listen in a perplexed silence, clutching his hand just a bit tighter as each questioning cobweb is swept away with a low voice droning out a story better left untold.

When he finishes, with your free hand sifting it’s fingers through the petals adorning a hydrangea shrub, you think to tell him one simple truth: “I can’t bring you back.”

It startles you when he suddenly pulls you in, resting his chin atop your head and curling those broad arms over your shoulders. The embrace is tight, a certain desperation in his touch as though he almost fears the thought of you pulling away. Strange from a man you now knew had not even feared his own death.

“Nein. I just want to be understood.”

And you do understand, perfectly, as only one also touched by the rot could.

— — —

There’s never a night that you don’t find yourself asleep with König mere centimeters away, if there is any gap between at all, anymore. He feigns his breath until you’re fast asleep, takes to playing human enough to not worry you any further, even after you explain that it doesn’t, not any longer. Always, you wake to his head buried against your chest, listening to the fragile beating of your heart until you stir to wake him. Your hands rove over his veil, but never question what he hides beneath it. You already know without seeing— the wicked, sprawling scar from where his head was once wrenched from his body.

A necromancer and a lich, of all things. If the bards in the King’s city were to ever know, your story would be passed from tavern to tavern until it became little more than the stuff of myth.

The thought occurs to you when you wake, huffing a drowsy little giggle as you repeat your morning ritual, fingertips grazing over the dark fabric obscuring König’s face until heavy eyelids languidly part to focus his attention on that mirthful expression painted across your face.

“I have changed my mind,” he declares some moments later as he nuzzles in the divide between your neck and shoulder, unhurried and gentle as he always seems to be with you.

“Hm?”

“I will court you.” A statement that would make most with a better grasp on the disparity between what’s living and dead flinch back in horror. Though, where most would consider corruption, you only take it as further confirmation to your mutual devotion.

“You already have been.”

He falls silent at that for a moment, trailing a cold path of chaste kisses along your jaw, lazy and soft to a point you can feel the grin beneath his hood.

Finally, he hums in agreement.

“Then I should have you, hm?”

He drags a palm down your thigh to your knee, the pad of his thumb bunching up the fabric of your gown as he presses against you, tracing small circles.

Your mouth feels dry when you part your lips to speak once more. The words falter, engulfed in a far more desperate flame; someplace far off, in the back of your mind you can hear them echo, bouncing from cavern walls.

“Hündchen..,” he rasps quietly. Maybe he’s thought it too, that this should be far more innocent, but the way he furiously tugs your undergarments down to your ankles belies his interest far more than some ideal, ancient telling of courtship would ever allow.

“You want to..?”

König laughs, whether it’s at your words or the surprise on your face, you didn’t know. Despite your nudity, he doesn’t look at you down there, his eyes remain locked on your face. There’s something wild and uncanny about them, something bordering on madness. His breathing is heavier, as if he’s fighting back the urge to bury his head in your cunt and breathe you in, and you’re almost certain that after all of your yearning he could bring you to ruin from a puff of breath alone.

He echoes your question with barely contained amusement, until you breathe out your consent. You sound just uncertain enough to prompt him to pull away briefly, raising up to look you in the eyes as his own narrow in search of any signs of apprehension. Finding none, a heavy palm meets your chest to push you to lie down in full as his head dives between your thighs without hesitation.

The feeling of a wide tongue slipping over your slit prompts an immediate reaction— a sharp cry that has you slamming your palm over your mouth in an effort to not break the peace settled over this place.

Every lick is slow and deliberate, a far cry from enough stimulation to properly get you off. It’s as if he’s doing this to prepare you rather than bring you to ruin. His tongue thrusts into you at a languid pace, fucking you open with heady muscle rather than the cold touch of his fingers. For that you’re grateful, but it just isn’t enough.

König huffs another chuckle against your sex when you whine and buck your hips, desperately searching for a friction that just isn’t being supplied. His hands press against your hips to hold you in place, the pads of his thumbs circling against your abdomen as he tries to set you at ease.

“Be patient,” he mumbles as he raises his head, bottom lip slowly raking over the hood of your aching clit. You find it difficult to comply, but in a way you feel fortunate to even experience this much. Who else could say that they were being fucked by the tongue of a titan and be believed? His lips close around your sensitive bud, tongue languidly circling over it, kissing you there as gently as he can manage. The very moment a moan is pulled from you, breaking the silence of his concentration he tears back to lick far further down than you were prepared for, before climbing over you instead of allowing you a release.

The taste of you lingers on his tongue when your face is pushed beneath the veil, an urgent probing as he thrusts the muscle into your waiting mouth, sampling the mixture of your saliva and slick. A palm is splayed over your thigh, forcing you to open yourself to him despite the strain.

He proves he’s less patient than he pretends to be; that’s all of the preparation that you get.

A breath later you feel yourself speared open, the girth of his tip slipping into you with involuntary resistance. Your gasp is met with a keening groan from his open mouth, quickly stifled as he bites into the side of your neck. Each thrust is shallow, the head of his cock spreading you meticulously until you’re nearly in tears from your own impatience. His body temperature is far cooler than your own, and you feel as if you’re more of a mess than you’ve ever been prior as his own precum mixes with the arousal already freely dribbling past your swollen labia.

You kick your leg out, force your hips in a different angle to push him in deeper only to have his grip tighten and his teeth dig into your flesh. Again and again, until you’re a babbling mess beneath him.

“König… please..,” You manage to choke out, voice small and barely audible over the obscene sounds pulled from the wetness of your cunt.

Immediately, your pleading is answered with a slam of his hips, the thick cock forced to its hilt inside of your pulsing walls. König’s head lolls back, his free hand curling over your hip as he grunts. He isn’t making love to you, but fucking into you like a man possessed. A palm fitted over your mouth wouldn’t silence the obscene sounds of sex, nor the bed creaking beneath your combined weight as he pumps into you; each drag is pure rapture as he fills you entirely.

The repetitive spearing of your sweet spot brings you to a near-painful orgasm, trembling cunt only sucking him in further with each pulsing wave of bliss. The quiet is forgotten entirely as you whine out your praises between wanton moans and breathy cries.

He kisses you, proper and sweet when he comes. The thickness of his seed floods you, spilling out onto the sheets below as he fucks it back into you, his pace never slowing until the throbbing of his cock comes to an abrupt end.

The hand holding your leg in place retreats to gently brush your cheek, his thumb grazing beneath your eye until you reach for his wrist to pull it down to kiss over his palm. He returns your kisses with a breathy laugh before pressing his forehead to your own, kissing from the tip of your nose down to your chin.

“I do understand,” you whisper against cool flesh.

“Ja… because you were made for me.”

You don’t disagree.

This morning is the first you’ve caught sight of a breeze, gently pushing at the curtains lining the bed, the first you’ve heard of any semblance of life beyond yourself. When your eyelids flutter shut, relaxation prying away any residual tension, you almost think you can hear the pounding of a second heart— one you can only think to wish together with your own.

[eldritch-spouse]

If you combined Nebul and Patches I feel like you'd wind up with a very sexually confused litch.

I actually really like that concept.

That poor thing would be the most unstable, identity crisis riddled, dangerous undead.

Both Patches and Nebul died in traumatic ways, feeling as if their time alive was either incomplete or they were wronged too harshly, meaning this undead has twice the will to live, but his goals are incomprehensibly scattered, as are his tendencies.

Like Nebul, this lich wants utmost control and power. He wants to have people crumble before him, to dangle their existence at his crooked fingertips and have them quake in the presence of his might. Like Patches however, he cannot act composed for very long around someone he genuinely finds attractive and amazing, he has you in a restrictive trap, but he can hardly stutter why he has done this to you.

He begs you to beg him.

In the most confusing twist, your incredibly domineering and frightening kidnapper is a near-virginal dork who is either using toys to fuck you into incredibly powerful drops, or cumming in his robes at the feeling of your bare skin on his cock. And that lack of control angers him, at the same time that the midly disgusted look on your face makes him harder.

He can't even decide how to punish you consistently.

One moment you're allowed to top and hurt him plenty, the next he decides this is all wrong and your face is pressed against a patterned carpet.

He's so incredibly mad at you that he wants to tear you into pieces and rip your mind from your body, but all he does is turn the whip on himself and felt his back.

The moon still triggers some kind of slightly feral impulse on him, and Lord knows the sunlight is like a persistent itch that causes his throat to tighten- He hates gold and loves pearls, horses, astrology and animals in general are his sweet respite.

At the same time that he's wrapped around figuring gods out, a part of him thinks he ought to focus on being the god of his little corner instead.

There are, though, certain things that complement each other here. Both are very studious monsters who share an interest in bizarre lifeforms. So there's the theory and general talent/draw Nebul has with freaky monster-animals paired with Patches' drive to do insane field work and concerning experiments.

They're both quite bright, so if you ever make it out of this lich's hands, it's not because you outsmarted him, it's because he was too conflicted (once again) on what to do and the time window of hesitation doomed his efforts.

[dailynoodlezz24]

Ok, i had the thought (since i love werewolves and vampire stuff, liches, all that-- I blame Skyrim and its unhealthy amount of beautiful mods-- and Dungeon Meshi just seems so perfect about it with its races and stuff) what if Marcille's a dhampir, basically a human vampire crossbreed, who seeks to become fully vampiric in order to be able to sire in lieu of the dungeon lord/universal longevity plot. (Spoilers: she still doesn't get it in the end lmao) Falin is a longtime friend of hers through a backstory I still haven't made up yet, and Marcille's introduced as a new addition to the main cast, who are a party of hikers (or for some sort of venturing activity). Month in, Falin's gone and had herself eaten by some weird dog described in only folklore, which Laios would later excitedly incite as a "lycanthrope". (They tried to call emergencies for a missing person, but they came up with nothing. Everyone thinks Laios is going insane when he concludes that the sight they saw after Falin became officially missing, blood trails and offly wolfish tracks fading off to somewhere, was the work of a wolfman, or a werewolf, and suggested going to search for Falin themselves. Namari and Toshiro leave promptly) Chillchuck and Marcille stay with him, one determined with his navigational skills and the other fully believing in this supernatural theory. They decide it's best they start camping in the forest, deeper and closer to the wilderness, prompting them the idea: hunt for their share. Which may or may not be illegal :shrug They meet Senshi, one hell of a wildchef man. (Marcille's total disgust with the idea of eating out in the wild stems from the fact she doesn't want to survive off of squirrels again. But this food is pretty good, and she's eating other animals than small rodents this time. Chillchuck just doesn't want to hear about the weird ass facts about how skinwalkers might be related to humans and their horrific hunting tendencies while eating.) The deeper they go, the more strange and bizarre this forest becomes. First normal, unassuming, then the ravens start speaking and the rabbits have horns. And if you peer into it close enough, your eyes might just find company in where the campfire doesn't reach. So on and so on, they find Falin's bones in the corpse of the creature, and suddenly there's a little guy with white hair and crazed, purple eyes(thistle), who beats them all off with a stick(not actually lmao). Last they see is Falin's remains being reanimated with the dripping blood of the stranger. (Marcille had tried in desperate attempt to revive Falin with her own blood/bite, but to no avail, revealing herself in the process. The only thing she can note is the awful taste of something doglike, aka the lycanthrope disease circulating in Falin's bones-- since they were chomped before she died RIP.) Now they're against a highly aggressive abomination under the servitude of someone out to get them. And the opps are on them(canaries) Now I'm just thinking abt whether or not to make Marcille also a werepyre? Considering it would make sense for her to also get her human-half infected into something "full-fledged" in the way she hadn't intended, and still come up without the ability to sire(she wants to make a cauldron for company, a cauldron being like a vampire made family, due to the same motives of keeping her loved ones). Thank you for reading my ramblings, I am brimming with ideas for this AU.

[mushroomnoodles]

What’s the petrigrof family dynamic like once they return to Ooo and as Morrigan gets older in the WizardBetty Au

after they take the portal back to ooo, simon is welcomed with open arms by marceline, who hes been keeping tabs with using the phone that has service through universes. betty, however, quickly gets overwhelmed and uncomfortable- she hasn't been around this many people in... well, an extremely long time, and it doesn't help that marceline is clearly the little girl she failed to save.

this world is absolutely nothing like the one betty left, either- she's gotten so used to wastelands and being hunted by oozers and wild animals that being completely domestic in a world where she's reasonably safe feels... wrong.

her wizard status is confirmed, and after a few extra tests on her run by pb (due to the fact she fell in the Lich's well) she and simon settle back into the human city with morri.

but even after settling, betty feels the waves of her sadness rise. she's been surviving for so long.. she used to be an extrovert, she used to be so fun loving and free and she was a university student, a budding archeologist.. she's so different now. and she feels alienated doubly by the modern humans. she and simon have a lot of discussions about reopening simon's exhibit in a bigger place; it's good money but they worry for morrigan's safety.

but betty isn't really feeling great. it's her turn to get into a depressive funk.

she gets therapy on simon's suggestion, and it was a lot to get used to, but minerva is helping with her MMS and learning to properly grieve her simon and the world and self she lost.

two years or so after returning to Ooo, simon and betty open up a small museum- a live-in museum house combo dedicated to pre-war humanity, where the front is the museum and the back is the private living space. betty prefers to hang in the back and take care of morri and stuff while simon runs the exhibitation and gives tours- she's still getting used to people, and she's been taking up gardening, knitting, crocheting.. stuff to keep her hands busy.

she also really enjoys trying out new recipes! in the "current" time (where simon is pregnant with baby #2) she's looking forward to growing some actual food that she can cook with this year. she's grown some herbs before but this is the first time she's given veggies a try!

although morri is getting to be a handful.. they're dreadfully curious about everything and betty's really starting to see herself in the little guy.. they're very hands on and intelligent and they surprise her every day with how well articulated and versed they are.

[utilitycaster]

I'm a little confused. A lot of critters say that the gods have it out for Laudna specifically, and I can't find where that idea comes from? Like the closest thing I found is that she's a Hollow One and things that affect undead are usually holy/divine. But that doesn't mean that the gods hate Laudna or that Laudna's suffering is because of the gods, right? (I'm a little scared of those Laudna stans tbh)

If I had to guess where it comes from, it, like the similarly inaccurate statements people make about Ruidusborn, comes from the longstanding tendency by the uncreative, dull, and whiny to make their blorbo the most wronged little lamb who ever lived.

Clerics mechanically get Turn Undead as an ability, which affects Laudna, because she is undead. I do want to point out that Marisha specifically chose to make Laudna more undead than Hollow Ones typically are mechanically, ie, our boy Jumanji Costco would be fine in the face of Turn Undead; and that area of effect abilities such as turn undead are not what I'd consider "targeted", ie, if Imogen were to cast Reverse Gravity in an area containing other members of Bells Hells, and they became affected by the spell, I would not say this was Predathos having it out for Bells Hells specifically. I'd also note that a spell that literally creates undead, Animate Dead, is a general cleric spell. A loyal level 5 cleric of the Dawnfather has the capacity to have a pet zombie. Is this the greatest use of their abilities, probably not, and will their god provide them with consequences, possibly, but it sure is a thing they can do, so I think the gods on the whole are really up in the air re the whole undead thing. I also think that we need to acknowledge that within the text, at this point Laudna's met four divine champions, two of them have quite literally contributed to her continued undeath in significant ways, and the other two of whom have been like "yeah we are on the same side, politics, strange bedfellows, etc, etc, I'm frankly way more interested in Fearne."

One can argue Laudna's suffering is because of the god Vecna, though as a point of order the main portions of her initial suffering occurred prior to him achieving godhood, so really, it was the lich (undead) Vecna and the necromancer (currently undead) Delilah Briarwood who seem to be largely at fault. Undead are merely a classification of entity. Just as using Turn Undead against a horde of undead may result in Laudna being turned as well, if one were to cast Moonbeam on some hostile shapeshifter, Chetney would also be affected. As Gilmore as played by Aabria said, power is simply power; intent comes from the wielder. Someone could use Turn Undead specifically against Laudna; someone could also use powers from the gods to heal, buff, or resurrect her. I doubt the Raven Queen is like, jazzed and hype about Laudna, but her specific tenet is "Undeath is an atrocity. Death is too good a punishment for those who pervert the rightful transition of the soul" and Delilah seems to be the one causing the soul transition perversions.

I suppose one could argue Laudna's suffering is the result of the gods in the same way that if I were injured by a window box air conditioner falling five stories onto my foot, while both gravity and the fact my parents decided to have children contributed significantly to this moment, no one who was not embarrassingly unserious and extremely fucking stupid would put these things forth as the culprit in this hypothetical.

Do not be afraid of the Laudna stans. Either they're lovely people who just really like Laudna and are talking about her character arc or making art or something and agree this is a terrible take, or they are, as said, embarassingly unserious, extremely fucking stupid, uncreative, dull, and whiny. I can provide tips to avoid them or to annoy them as you wish but like, is it even worth bothering with the latter.

[icanttypo]

Thinking about the implications of EP 8, Jerry, a little too much. The idea that death without life is meaningless and life without death is terrifying. The concept of technology and ai surviving far beyond our mortal human existence, and the loneliness and confusion that stems from not being confined to time.

The idea of a bloodthirsty being, such as the Lich, getting absolutely everything he could dream of: all life eradicated in an instant, only to realize that he has nothing left to do for the rest of eternity. The idea of being the only other being in existence, made of metal and wire, and being forced to grapple with why YOU survived. Out of everything in the universe, the trees, the grass, the animals, the people, YOU are all that's left. You and Jerry.

To be in the room with the being that killed all life, and the one being you can't kill. Sure, maybe it'd be easy. You just need to hit them hard enough, and they'd be gone. Forever.

But then what's left?

You. Alone. You'd be the only tree left to fall in the forest, unable to make a sound. You can cut yourself down, but what, then? What. Then.

You see this creature made of electricity and love, talk about the world like it's still there. And for a moment, it makes you believe that you still have a purpose. To have one last person walking around in the fossilized forest is enough, because maybe, if they're lucky, they'd find an axe and cut you down. Maybe you wouldn't know if you could make a sound...

But they would.

[horsegirlwithnoname]

WHICH LANCER MECHS WOULD THE CAST OF DUNMESHI USE

hi it's me smashing my dolls together again.

Senshi: The IPS-N Lancaster

This is the easiest choice in the entire crew. Senshi is the team dad, the ultimate supporter, he is going to make sure his team are fed and well-rested and happy. I could see him grabbing some kit from Harrison like the Hardlight Defence System and the Stasis Bolt but there's no way his main chassis is anything other than The Party Horse.

Laios: The SSC Swallowtail

You know what, I know this is a stretch, fight me, but Laios' defining trait is his pursuit of knowledge. He loves books and takes obsessive notes. Laios doesn't simply want to defeat the dungeon, he wants to understand it. His role is not really as primary damage-dealer, it's leader and coordinator. I think he's probably dropping a lot more points in hull than your average Swallowtail and spending a lot more time on the frontline, but ultimately his whole deal is victory through learning and that's the Swallowtail's whole deal too.

Chilchuck: The HA Napoleon

I'M NOT BEING PAID TO FIGHT, TRUEBLACK AEGIS, FUCKING GOODBYE.

But also unironically, he initially appears entirely selfish but holds quite serious depth and a desire to keep his friends safe that he'd never admit. Like what if this tiny piece of shit who only wants to be left alone is actually the MVP and is kind of secretly carrying the party.

Marcille: SSC Black Witch ... ... with EVERYTHING else in HORUS. Girl unlocks the base-level protector frame then is secretly loading every single darknet NHP she can into it. You look at her like you understand but you don't, because she's Black Witch hardware running Goblin and Lich software and you realise she only dropped those LLs into Black Witch in the first place because the crew really needed it and secretly she's the most dangerous and unpredictable member of the entire party. Like what if your heart just phased out of reality for 0.0001 seconds, do you know what would happen? Marcille does.

Falin: HORUS Hydra

Marcille's opposite (and opposites, of course, attract). She's the team mom, she's a petmaster and animal lover, she's rocking around in the most terrifying piece of hardware you've ever seen. She has taken the time to name every single one of her drones and is making headway of naming every single nanoparticle in the horrifying greywash swarm that accompanies her everywhere. I hope you like getting eviscerated by Buggy, the beetle-shaped assassin drone that she's painted a smiley face on. Bits from the Kidd and Gorgon in the mix as well. Ostensibly team support, in practice a complete damage monster.

[lady-quen]

[Edit: Already an outdated artstyle for him X) my scribbly anime style does not work as well here.]

Got back into Guild Wars 2, specifically into my Commander of 9 years - *coughs* did somebody order YET another severely unwell tree man for the gw2 community? I got y'all covered. Presenting my Harbinger-Reaper, (I swap) Maelmordha. I can't draw sylvari for shite, but slowly getting there.

Gonna get a bit rambley about his design under readmore, I have moots who aren't that far in the story yet so spoilers for Heart of Thorns and Path of Fire down below. Bonus: ingame screenshot spam because I love him very much.

A thirdborn of the Cycle of Dawn and born diplomat, it was quite unusual for the kind Maelmordha to be awakened with a talent for necromancy and curiosity for all things morbid, but that would only come in handy with the initial parts of his Wyld Hunt. There's very little canon-divergency up until PoF here.

If you're wondering where the monster hand comes from, that'd have to be the last mission of HoT - resisting Mordremoth took its toll, leaving Mael with a mutated Vinetooth left arm - stronger, but less dexterous, and occasionally covered with Kas' mesmer magic.

Now the ill-fated duel with Balthazar is where things really went wrong, even compared to canon. Having been cornered and killed - in a deliberately humiliating and painful fashion - The Commander, filled with anger and fear for Aurene's life, sought to come back to finish the job. He slew and took the Eater of Souls' life force for his own, forever replacing his red glow with a ghastly cyan. Subsequently, he was not really alive anymore; Closest to a lich than anything else and capable of surviving most otherwise lethal injuries. Unfortunately, the act of rising from the dead rendered him Soundless.

Being killed is also, ironically, how he acquired his Harbinger talents, having learned to utilize the energy of negative emotion (both his own and of those around him) to empower his necromantic magic. As such, he's at his most fearsome - and least stable - during large-scale battles, relying on his allies to not be overwhelmed by channeling vast amounts of pain and death. While still kind where it matters, he has since developed an outwardly cold and sassy personality.

Maelmordha's hand cannon, Thorn from Destiny the Bellringer, was also forged from the Eater of Souls.

(I'm currently up to LWS4 Long Live the Lich in my story playthrough and would appreciate if spoilers for anything further could be avoided 🫡 anyway say hiiii if you're a sylvari main too 💜)

Bonus pre-PoF pic :)

[leahnardo-da-veggie]

Masterlist of Writing

Oh my goodness this took so long to finish haha! Anyways this is a compilation of everything I've written so far, it will be updated as I go along.

Hello, and welcome to my blog! I'm Leah, a sometime writer and animator, who's also a massive fan of CJ Cherryh! I'd be honoured if you read any of my stuff, and even more so if you like it :) To any other writers reading this, feel free to tag me in any games or send me asks! Here's an about me tag game I once did :)

I also have a sideblog where I post random stuff and reblog other people's works, it's @leahpardo-pa-potato

Worldbuilding:

Geography

OCs

Linguistic Post

Linguistics Part 2!

Hygiene, Healthcare and Hieroglyphs

Ceredell

High Fantasy:

The Holy Crusader (1k)

Honey-cake (1k)

Deer-shade (2k)

A Thousand Lives (1k)

My Worst Nightmare (1k)

Tabitha-Who-Saw-the-gods (3k)

The Fae Prince (2k)

Lich-Queen:

Parts 1-7, consolidated!

The Oracle and the King (aka the story of Iraela's sister)

The Godhuntress & the Void:

The End of the World (1k)

The Beginning of the World (2k)

Old Friends (1k)

For Want of a Flower (2k, sequel to Old Friends)

(<1k)

Spirits:

The Spirit Emperor (3k)

No (1k)

Merida (3k)

History (Not a lorepost) (2k, commentary included)

Attempts at fluff/Writing experiments:

Pt 1 (fluff)

Pt 2(angst)

Ones Such As Us (romance)

Snippets of my novel:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 8 (Part 7 doesn't exist)

Part 9

Part 10

Bad End

Part 11

Urban Fantasy:

Tituba and the Darkness (1k)

It watched me without eyes (1k)

Now, now Dearie (1k)

The Devil Drives a Good Bargain (<1k)

Goodbye (1k)

A Tale For A Mouse

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Convenience Store Vampire:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9

Part 10- Epilogue

A Perfectly Normal Schoolgirl:

The Full Thing

The Unwanted Visitor:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5 (Final)

The Saga of Maizen, Shatterer of Worlds

Rage

The Serpent, part 1

Part 2

Part 3

The Wanderer:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Impossibility

(Currently in the process of getting a side story on this published :))

Homesick

Fast Food:

Childhood

Adolescence

Travels

Non-fiction:

On Reading

Bird In a Cage

Dawn

Crumpling Butterflies

Expressions

Love

Hate

Box

Misc:

Mahogany (IDK what genre, <1K)

God (Sci-fi, 1k)

Spirit of the Hole in the Wall (Horror, 1k)

An Explorer's Log (Sci-fi, <1k)

Heroes (Superhero, 4k)

False-Moon (Fantasy but unrelated to everything else, 1k)

Lantern (fantasy unrelated to anything else, 3k)

Envy (genreless, <1k)

Have a nice day! (Joke)

Grass (NSFW, gore)

Take and Give (horror)

How to Become a Hero (don't ask)

FAQ:

Q: I'm new to your work... Where should I start?

A: I would recommend The Spirit Emperor as an intro to the universe, and Old Friends as an intro to my writing style!

Q: What is your favourite work?

A: It's not similar to anything else I've written, and the last bits aren't that great, but I have a personal soft spot for Heroes

Q: Have you looked into the Void that lies beyond all things?

A: No. And I'd recommend you don't either.