#oc: edin

[zekkoarts]

I keep forgetting I have acrylic markers

[zekkopunks]

moment of silence for this drawing I made too small on my canvas

[fallstaticexit]

Wahhhh my babies 🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹❤️❤️❤️❤️ thank you x million @gunthermunch

[sillybillymillyrilly]

𓊃𓄿𓈎𓄿𓂋𓇋 𓂧𓇋𓈖

hey guys.. I changed his name. he's now 𓊃𓄿𓈎𓄿𓂋𓇋 𓂧𓇋𓈖. if your wondering what the hieroglyphics are it's Zakari Edin. that's his name. and now I've finished his uniform at nrc.

this was also another rendering test!! please let me know if if like it!! have an amazing rest of your day!!

[nadas-dirthalen]

I'd like to order a no. 7. intimacy prompt of kissing scars for solavellan if you've got any in stock 🥰

Hi I cried :) I don't get MANY Solavellan prompts, but the ones I do get ram a whole knife through my chest.

7. kissing scars

Get ready for: two times Solas and Ithalia kissed each other's scars, a decade apart.

(Answering these!)

----

The sun has long set on Skyhold when Ithalia stirs against Solas' side. He jolts—if only just—and he swears she doesn't miss the muscles pulling taut against her. This long laid against one another, her weight halfway draped across his on one of the rotunda's lounges, and it becomes difficult to remember they have not always been this way: melded together, spirits all but entwined in the silence.

They read like this—at least, it is what she thinks they are doing. In truth, the lines of text smear across his vision after minutes, and Solas does not fight to focus his eyes. Not when it is this easy to lie still and simply... be.

Ithalia twists, and her eyes scan his. A smile curves her lips, self-satisfied: she's caught him, either in his idleness or his transparent infatuation.

Either way, she leans forward; stretches her legs, points her toes, until she can finally reach his brow and plant a kiss against... the indent there.

He shies back, and she tenses like he's flinched.

"Why..." He schools his expression into simple curiosity, though the hammer of his heart underneath her surely betrays him well enough. "... There?"

Her brow crinkles, and her own vallaslin—Dirthamen's—moves with it. "Don't tell me you're unfamiliar with the ancient Dalish tradition of kissing someone where they've been hurt."

He hums a laugh, and a flush blooms across her cheeks, and he might hum against her 'til the last of her days if it means this prize in return.

If only.

"Maybe I've wanted to for a while," she adds, quietly. She averts her eyes, and her own scars are sharper in the candlelight as she tips her chin down. One scores down her right eyebrow; another, a nick over the left side of her mouth.

"Fine," he concedes. "I suppose you're right. However... in the spirit of tradition..."

He traces the former with a finger, first: a warning, enough that she has time to close her eyes before his lips trail from brow to eyelid, from eyelid to cheekbone.

Another touch, and his tracing finger coaxes her lips apart in time for his to meet them.

He hums his contentment, and swears her face heats—but this time, he could not care less to look upon his prize if it means parting from her; if it means anything but lying melded together, spirits all but entwined.

— ☾ —

Here in the Fade, there is no sun. Only the most distant vestige of light in an otherwise unending grey horizon, a memory of a memory.

Ithalia watches the colour bleed from Solas the moment they step through the sky—through everything—and onto crumbling stones.

His strength goes, second. The moment he's away from the rest of the world and all its mortal eyes, the composure of a god snaps apart: his ribcage shudders with a wet exhale; a knee buckles; his fall pulls hard at Ithalia's elbow, and harder in the second he tries to snatch his arm away.

Ten years, and her one remaining arm is stronger than that, now. Strong enough that he can't slip away.

Not for this.

Not again.

"No—tel'garas," she murmurs as she pivots, descending so her knees land just in front of his. "Mir sa lath, ma tel'mar. Tel'sahlin. Banal'nehn."

Don't go. My one love, you are not alone. Not now. Never again.

A nervous twinge runs through her. The words have to be right. She's practiced too long, too long, for them not to be.

That they flow easy as breath tells her they are. That Solas' eyes find hers—the sole hint of colour in this lifeless place, apart from the muted scarlet of his blood—obliterates all doubt.

As though she is the wonder here, not the immortal who built such a place.

"Ithalia," he says, as delicately as if the sound might shatter behind his teeth. "Mar banal'nehn."

Never alone again.

With all she's learned, in all this time, he might be uttering those words, that meaning, for the very first time in his many, many millennia alive.

By now, the blood running from the wound across his brow has mingled with the saltwater down his cheek. Of course this is far from the first time she's seen him scratched—but like this, in the guise of the last of the Evanuris, shuddering from magic overuse that truly strained against the limits of his abilities, she sees what it means for a legend to crumble in on itself.

And for a man—this man, hers and hers alone in this place, this life, she can't comprehend—to break apart within her reach.

There is only one thing she knows how to do, in this place of no permanence, where her only anchor to the real is the man who's been nothing but a Fade-conjured forest to her sleeping mind for a decade. Only one thing left for her to be, now that she has been half a goddess and half an exile, too much and too little, for so long.

She is a Dalish mage. A hedge witch who murmurs time-forgotten melodies while she threads her spells together, as though that might kindle their ancient words to new life. Who whispers, curtly, that his armored coat must go; his shirt must go; she must see his ribs to knit them back around their marrow, must see his skin to know it won't fester.

The difference is she weaves her magic in the fashion of the dirth'ena enasalin, now, as she has since their time in Skyhold. The age-old tradition of the arcane warriors has stuck with her—if not in technique, then in spirit, in the most literal sense.

The same wisp that once shaped her sword—a spirit of Wonder, discovered in one of their earliest journeys in the Fade a lifetime ago—has long since taken up the role of elbow, of forearm, of careful fingers that mirror their flesh-made counterparts while she works.

By the time she is done, a week might have passed in the world she left behind. And the work is not done; only its urgency has been allayed, for now.

But Solas' hands—bare, and no longer bleeding—have found her shoulders, and his eyes have widened as though he is beholding the eye of a storm for the first time, torn cleanly between shock and reverie.

She wants to press him, bare warmth and beating heart, to every place she has dared to think of, these ten years. She should delay her wilful heart a moment longer. She should do, and say, a great many things.

Instead she bows forward. She traces Wonder across his brow, the touch a warning that grants him time to close his eyes in time for her spirit-made hand to trail petal-soft over his eyelid, down his cheekbone. Rising on her knees enough to lay her lips against his still-pink wound, she trails her kisses down the same path: from brow to eyelid, from eyelid to cheekbone—just like he had done, a lifetime ago, to her.

A shaking breath leaves him, only for his gaze to snap open again, the same fear clawing its way back.

Ithalia lifts her flesh-made hand—real in this place of dreams, bare and warm, her pulse fluttering below the skin—to his lip, where now there is a line nicked through the left side, a near-perfect mirror of hers.

"Ma tel'dirth lothlen ma vir'Elvhen," she murmurs, an inch from the smile ghosting at the corners of his mouth, "... las'lath iras lethallin edin'him."

Do not tell me you have forgotten the People's tradition... of kissing someone where they've been hurt.

Here in the Fade there is no sun; there is no time, as her mortal-for-the-moment mind understands it.

But this, she understands: the press of lips to lips that sends a violent shudder down her spine for how she has craved it, and how once was never going to be enough.

And the hum that reverberates through Solas' chest—and hers, as he pulls her close enough that they meld together, spirits all but entwined.

They have the same scars now, and I love them to death about it.

[terminal-doll-theatre]

Wildly self indulgent OC Shipping Doodles with mine, @pip-n-chips & @asylumdweller 's lil guys!!!!! There will DEFINITELY be more tbh I'm unstoppable. I'm SO NORMAL about our fucked up little oc ships and it gets worse by the fucking day.

[plushy-draws]

This one I’m particularly proud of!

For @vmcross-art / @ask-the-shiny-pokemons !

[glitchyartworks]

Decided to redraw one of my old OCs, Edin the shopkeeper! A greedy little ass who i love. (⁠*⁠´⁠ω⁠｀⁠*⁠)

Here's the original designs of him:

(Also, yes, he does spell his shop with a z.)

Might give him a full overhaul later since I really like one of the outfits I gave him.

(Also, very sorry about the bright colors. I didn't know it would come out like that.)

[eeveonaartz]

(Sorry it wouldn't let me add a picture to my ask)

Decided to do a redesign for Edin 👉👈 I didn't want to chance change to much about him- Then I went a little overboard.. well overboard I think, hehe

I started off by changing up his hair a bit, and adding some darker textures to his ears, hair, and tail a bit. ^^ I then gave him a more fancy outfit, with his candy coat, tie, and shorts.

@ask-the-shiny-pokemons <3

[zekkoarts]

finished my first doodle notebook this year aughh

[zekkopunks]

the stuff I doodled while at thanksgiving dinner 😭

[fallstaticexit]

Eternal Spring ❀

[tunacrisp]

art dump

[askblog-cvesocs]

General…

(mostly for my sake)

i’m color coding my ocs

(main ocs tbh)

ST OCS:

Auggie: Purple

Reed: Red

Hille: Green

CSS:

Clue: Red

Skipper: Blue

Sketch: Orange

OCS FROM CEDRICK’S TIMELINE:

Cooper: Purple

Edin: Pink

Theodore: Green

Charles: Orange

Sarah: Red

___

[terminal-doll-theatre]

hello everyone have some vinedin special cudles you're welcome

Vincent Carter the Freak Bitch belongs to @asylumdweller <3

[feathergem]

Mid 2022

Another aesthetic video pic!

This is Vesta Edin <3 And I love her

You can watch it in full at https://www.instagram.com/p/Chym19YDWdC/