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reallypheelingit · 2 years

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hey pheel!! if you could choose 3 of your ocs to be your all time faves, which ones would they be? :>

hi!! omggg..hardest ask of my life dsfasdf spent way too long figuring this out and changing my mind a few times but i think i got three i can go with! might not be picks people would expect either haha,, I went for characters that I've taken through multiple universes which eliminated almost my whole flight rising lair for example sadfds

this will get long so i'm gonna put this under a cut!

so let's start with... number 1! the one who honestly the easiest choice by far, even if she was appeared on this blog woefully few times. but before 2016, she was without a doubt my most longlasting and important oc so here is.........

Amanda! Of course it'd be an Arcanine OC hahah. She was definitely a top contender immediately because not only is she one of my oldest OCs (I made her around when I was 10), she's endured throughout my life and holds the honor of probably being in the most different AUs of any of my ocs - I didn't draw all her versions here but there are at least 3 others haha.

In her original form, she's a human girl who secretly is also an Arcanine, and she has three sisters who are other Pokemon. She tends to be kind of a moody know-it-all, a bit bitter and angry, but deep down is passionate and caring. And also she is a big dork who loves The Sims and 80s music hahaha <3 she's not a self-insert but I definitely have projected some of my biggest interests onto her, while also making her pretentious as hell about them. And I love her for it.

I sadly didn't feel like trying to color any of the drawings for this, but it's important to note in all three forms here, she has a lime green 80s hair scrunchie. The scrunchie first appeared when I made her Hunger Games AU Growlithe form and I retroactively gave it to her human version - before that she just had a mullet which I think is also worth mentioning omg. Her Arcanine/Growlithe forms have buzz cuts, big ears, and a snaggletooth! And W's on her front legs because her last name was originally Walkup, but is different depending on the AU (ex. In a homestuck AU, her name is Sara Duran because 80s music safsd)

i really need to make some better refs for her. she deserves to be on my artfight i think hahah..

and now for number 2! I decided to go with...

Anattawam! One of my original 2015 dragons, and while I love all 6 of them, Anattawam is definitely my favorite design-wise, and she's fun personality-wise too I think. She's the unofficial leader of the bunch, stoic, good at planning, and able to keep a cool head. But she's also secretly a soft dork who loves soft things like her fuzzy turtleneck sweater C:

In terms of design, I think she is a quite distinct looking, with her serpentine bipedal form, and she's also really fun to draw! She took light inspiration from Quetzalcoatl (which also reflected in her human design being Nahuatl and her gryphon design being a quetzal/jaguar hybrid!). She also bore a slight resembled to the flight rising breed Coatls (which..given what I said makes sense haha) so I took on a long breeding project to bring her into my flight rising lair where she's a diplomat! Her design also is of note because she's very reminiscent of some bipedal dragons OCs I made when I was in middle school which was a fun throwback for me. so technically she has a longer history than my other dragons!

She only exists in two AUs (her gryphon/human forms are the same universe as her original dragon form) which is small compared to the other choices and other contenders (especially since she isn't even prominent in the flight rising one), but considering my original dragons are what got my to start my art blog, I think it's more than fair to let her slip through. one of my dragons deserved to be here at least ahaha. and I do adore her so much! in fact i'm literally commissioning a plushie version of her right now safsd (and she would secretly love it because her aforementioned affinity for soft things <3)

and ok lastly, for number 3, which i struggled the most picking and still am thinking of so many others i could have picked but dsfasd I ended up going with...

Avastly! While I made Amanda an Arcanine because Arcanine was one of my favorite Pokemon, Gliscor became one of my favorite Pokemon because of Avastly haha. I think that's something worth noting

Avastly's a fun Gliscor who started as the main Pokemon of my flying-type elite 4 member Avery! (before Pokemon took the name Avery from me. and didn't even use it for a flying trainer :/ ) She's very strong and knows it, and has a highly competitive spirit, thinking of pretty much everyone as a potential rival. Mostly she just comes across as an overly judgmental bully and she struggles with solid friendships as a result, but she thrives when she finds others who are also competitive and fun and willing to put up with her haha.

She played a villain (starring with antihero Amanda!) for my Hunger Games verse in her Gligar form, which helped give me more appreciation to that Pokemon too since I largely overlooked it in favor of Gliscor for awhile haha. i also doodled her gijinka version since i used to do high school gijinka aus back when I was in high school myself dsfdsf i always liked her design with her silly cape/mini skirt combo and she has big bright orange hipster glasses to match her gliscor eyes. said glasses also appear in her punky fae form! i haven't done much with her in flight rising but i like having her there c:

so that's my top 3! all their names starting with A was a funny coincidence dsfadsf

for fun here are some runner ups! using some old card things i made awhile ago because i dont feel like making any more new art tonight dsffg

First we have Eloise! She was an incredible solid contender and honestly part of me still really wants to go with her but..I eliminated her for being too similar to Amanda and Attawam in demeanor sdfsda i guess i have a type,, notably Eloise's main goal has always been to meet kyurem so of course she's an important character haha. she's shown up in a few different aus and has occupied my head a lot in general c:

then there's Jessamine! a fun poison type gym leader! she was my initial backup after I eliminated Eloise since's she similarly important and stands out for actually being a bubbly protagonist (unlike the three i did pick fdsf) but she failed my multiple-AU criteria and thus felt wrong. she's only ever been in my primary pokemon universe, too pure to throw into my high school career spanning hunger games au fdsfg and thus never gaining a pokemon form i could use in subsequent pokemon-only aus haha,, her biggest downfall... she did end up in my flight rising lair though! ....i've done nothing with her there.

and of course i have to mention Kronch..definitely a super strong contender! they have multiple AUs which is impressive for an oc of mine who only was made in 2017 but they still just feel slightly too new compared to my other options and thus just didn't make the cut :( plus they're just so known and iconic in my tumblr-blogging era that i thought lesser known picks would be fun to show off asfsd

thank you for the ask!! i hope you enjoyed this absurdly long asnwer i spent hours writing up sdfsdfsdggh

#ask #asks #shiningshovels #my ocs #amanda #anattawam #avastly #eloise #jessamine #kronch #pheel art #doodles

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dmsden · 3 years

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Folk of Cliff and Challenge - Personal Plot for Goliaths

Hullo, Gentle Readers. For this month’s Personal Plot episode, we’re going back to the Elemental Evil Player’s Companion to visit a race that got a big boost in popularity thanks to a certain podcast - Goliaths. If you still need a copy of the Elemental Evil Player’s Companion, you can find it for free download at https://media.dnd.wizards.com/EE-Players-Companion_0_0.pdf

The Goliaths hit the scene with their particular look and personality in 3E with the “Races of Stone” book. It can be argued, however, that their origins really come from 2nd edition’s Dark Sun Campaign Setting. That boxed set gave us “half-giants”, who share so much with the goliaths in general that, when 4E’s Dark Sun came along, they just said to use goliaths as is for half-giants. The personalities of Dark Sun’s Half-Giants are very different from the Goliaths...but the personalities of most Dark Sun races are different than the standard...Dark Sun halflings are tribal cannibals, for example. In recent years, the presence of Grog Strongjaw, goliath barbarian, as part of the Vox Machina campaign of Critical Role has certainly contributed to them gaining some prominence, and it’s been nice to see some new miniatures appearing of them.

The personalities of goliaths have been shaped by their mountain habitation. They live in often frigid, dangerous cliffs. They are reclusive from other folk, and they know they must be self-reliant. Those who cannot benefit the tribe are exiled, especially if their physical skills are in declined. This reminds me of old, now disproven stories of wolves being driven out of their pack when they can no longer fend for themselves. In terms of personality, this tends to lead to a race of risk-takers and competitors, a people who will also be marking how they compare to you.

There’s a lot of story to come out of this. If there are competitions in your world, like an Olympics, or even fighting pits, it’s easy to imagine that a goliath would want to be involved. This could lead to a story where a goliath climbs the ranks of an organized fighting club. It could also lead to a story where a goliath finds their beloved games are rigged. Would a goliath leave the games in shame, feeling they hadn’t earned these accolades, or would they seek to destroy the corrupt system and replace it with something more honorable? Either one could make for a interesting story.

The description of a goliath’s constant need to prove themselves and improve upon their deeds is a built-in mechanic for DMs to expand story. Let’s say a goliath fighter is known for slaying a smaller local dragon at low levels. It’s easy to imagine them needing to prove their Wyrmslayer reputation by seeking out increasingly dangerous dragons. What happens if they then meet a dragon much too powerful for them to face? This could certainly lead to some interesting role-playing, as the goliath comes to terms with the possibility of their failure.

Goliaths traditionally live high in the mountains, and it’s easy to imagine this puts them in competition with other creatures that enjoy mountaintop lairs. Dragons, of course, like to perch on high mountains, but wyverns, perytons, gryphons, hippogryphs, yeti, dwarves, and aarakocra might also claim these lands. If it’s a dangerous creature, it’s a natural move to go and fight it to remove it, but what if it’s a race like dwarves or aarakocra? This could make for interesting diplomatic situations if the challenge isn’t best solved with axes.

I think that, of many races, the goliath is the most natural to have a rival. Maybe the PC goliath and another goliath set out at the same time. The DM could have the PC occasionally hear of the other goliath’s deeds. This could naturally spur the PC to seek out more dangerous situations, more powerful foes, and more amazing treasures. If the rival is a darker shadow of the PC, so much the better. Maybe they’ll become a lieutenant of the major villain of the campaign, giving the goliath a personal stake in why they seek to undo the villain’s ultimate plans.

Another way to have a “Rival” might be to have a goliath hero, maybe even an ancestor of the PC, part of the background of your campaign. The PC might wish to measure up to their hero’s deeds, and, ultimately, to surpass them, coming a legend in their own right. Perhaps there’s one challenge the goliath hero couldn’t overcome, like slaying a specific beast, or plundering a specific dungeon. If the PC can accomplish what their ancestor could not, it would bring great honor to them and their family...perhaps even restore honor that was lost when the ancestor failed.

One element I remember from 3E that I thought was really cool was that the lithoderms - the dark, stone-like markings on a goliath’s skin - were supposed to contains elements of prophecy that presaged a goliath’s destiny. If the goliaths in your campaign believed this, imagine if a goliath’s lithoderms suddenly radically altered. An entire campaign arc could be built out of this idea.

I hope that this article has given you ideas to help a goliath PC in your own campaign. They’re a really interesting race, and I’m happy to see them sticking around in the game’s lore. Next month, we’ll return to the Player’s Handbook to seek out the wisdom of the Sage. Until then, may all your 20s be natural.

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seeliragh-fr · 2 years

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i make a list of every canon fr flora or fauna species that exists in the Seeliragh-verse Shifting Expanse

hi . links to the respective database entries and lore under the cut

Amber Gulper: most of the aquatic species of the Shifting Expanse are in fact semiaquatic extremophiles capable of surviving periods of intense heat and little to no moisture, as well as torrential rain and flash flooding. The amber gulper is named for its ability to breathe outside of water, and for its thick red-gold plating.

Blackshield Cockroach

Blue Tang Hippogriff: hippogriffs are smaller than gryphons, but make up for it in formidable pair and pack hunting formations.

Bluetipped Shellbug

Bobwhite Quail

Brown Bat

Brown River Flight: Seeliragh-verse Shifting Expanse has three different species of river flight, and brown and grey river flights are closely related enough to interbreed

Brush Dodo: these things run a lot faster than they look like they do.

Buff Dunerunner: often seen skirting the edge of cliffs along the edge of the Carrion Canyons. Mainly prey on buttersnakes they flush from the scrub.

Canyon Ruffage

Cave Gecko

Charged Duneberry: the name is misleading- duneberries are actually the fruiting bodies of a type of lichen. they can be juiced for a source of clean, if slightly tangy water.

Clouddancer: usually avoid clashing with territorial hippogriffs by occupying a much higher altitude in mesa outcroppings, because they have thicker plumage and can withstand colder temperatures. early morning hunters for this reason as well

Common Sparrow

Corpse Cleaner: found at the bottom of canyons. you can hear their legs clicking on the rocks from far off and it’s kind of fucked up

Cragside Mussels: also called “muck mussels” for their ability to continue to grow in moist silt as water sources dry up for the season. they can often be spotted by the telltale deposits of ore dust around them; cragside mussels will spit out any grainy irritant with a jet of water, rather than forming pearls.

Crested River Flight: crested river flights are larger than both brown and grey river flights

Crow: crows, magpies, and squall seekers will all roost together in large flocks that nest in alcoves in the canyon walls. they look pretty big until you put them next to a storm seeker

Dark-bordered Beauty

Desert Cactus

Desert Scrub

Dire Vulture

Dune Vampire: in the Seeliragh-verse, huge sandstorm-like swarms of dune vampires are fabled to sweep across the northern canyons and the highland scrub, killing everything in their path including dragons. “death by inhalation-based internal mosquito bites” is bad enough but people also say that anything that manages to survive the swarm will be killed by the reaction to sun exposure to all the bites

Duskthicket Bonepicker

Dustwing Hummingbird

Dung Beetle

Emerald Cave Jewel

Engorged Skytick

False Veneer Moth: these moths migrate like monarch butterflies, except to the north for the dry season instead of the south for the winter. seeing big groups of them migrating is kind of a spectacle; their wings reflecting and refracting light create the appearance of a mesmerizing, glittering cloud. this is also some of the first Seeliragh-verse lore for some reason

Fanned Cockroach

Fissure Crawdad: found in fast-running underground streams in deep cave fissures

Giant Desert Centipede

Goat

Golden Roc: Seeliragh-verse rocs can live as long as dragons, and grow as big as some of the larger ones. Rocs in the Shifting Expanse usually have known names, like how people name hurricanes, and their respective ranges are marked out on maps

Greater Sandstrike

Greyback Sparrow

Grey River Flight

Grouse

Grouse Basilisk

Gryphon’s Blood Sempervivium

Hardshell Moonsting

Highreach Bonepicker

High-Voltage Almonds: dragons make fucked up almond milk out of these. it’s a delicacy in the great Southern lairs, along with volt almond liqueur

Hippojay: a lot of raptor species in the shifting expanse are blue-black toned, for camouflage against stormy skies. these guys are highland predators, and aren’t found in the canyons as much

Juvenile Prairie Skink

Leucistic Crow

Magpie

Manyleaves

Masked Gryphon: there are actually some rivers in the Seeliragh-verse Shifting Expanse, even though the majority of them only run above ground for about a quarter of their length. in the dry part of the year, the riverbeds are mostly mud, which is why masked gryphons have such silly little sandpiper legs and raccoon hands for digging out lungfish-type creatures

Meal Moth

Mimic Buttersnake

Murkbottom Gull: found only in the very north and south, by the ocean and the Sea of a Thousand Currents. seen in a lot of heraldic designs for the nomadic highlands clans, as a symbol for fair winds, luck, and locating water

Notocactus: these cacti can be harvested for water, but the outer skin has a poisonous coating that will numb the mouth and irritate the insides if not scrubbed or peeled off first. this was some of the very first Seeliragh-verse lore for some reason

Oasis Songbird: it’s bad luck to eat oasis songbirds in most of the Expanse. their feathers are worn by canyon travelers for luck, and used as offerings at springside shrines

Peacock Scorpion: peacock scorpions turn a different color when they mate, like salmon

Polarized Bell Goat: Closely related to common bell goats, but specialized for a diet of static-charged scrub and lichen species

Polarized Mushrooms: glow brigher around copper deposits in cave walls

Prickly Strangler

Sanddrift Aconite

Sanddrift Fuiran

Sand Sucker: mud leeches. the beast is demonic in nature. very icky, no good.

Shiny Anole

Sparkling Crayfish

Sparksylph: ridiculously rare apparitions. it’s like seeing ball lightning. they feature in a lot of ghost stories and folklore. people regard them as either an ill omen or a sign of the desert’s favor, which can sometimes mean the same thing.

Spore Spreader Moth

Squall Seeker

Star Moss

Stonewatch Flatblade

Stonewatch Scrub

Storm Seeker: will sometimes flock with smaller corvids, especially in high places with a lot of storm activity. leucistic storm seekers are rare, but possible. also show up in a lot of heraldic designs, but mostly ancient ones from the beginning of the fourth age. there are ancient cartouches a quarter mile tall carved into the walls out in the canyons that depict storm seekers alongside long-dead pictographic languages

Striped Monitor

Subterranean Termite

Swallowtail Buttersnake

Thistle

Thunder Scarab

Valley Quail

Warmwater Twister

Wild Catsup

Winged Barb

Wispwillow Peryton: I also kind of wanted to include the petal peryton, but I think in general the Seeliragh-verse Shifting Expanse has a variety of peryton species and color morphs. they’re the main large prey animal for the region, although hippogriffs and other predators routinely die in conflict with them. wispwillow peryton are mostly nocturnal, and are nicely camouflaged against the voltaic foliage they eat. other types are smaller and hardier canyon species that behave a little bit more like mountain goats.

Wood Shrimp

#if you read through this entire list: hello . youre insane #seeliragh #fr lore #flight rising

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wolf-and-bard · 3 years

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Drown With Me If You Can

Prompt: White Frost/Apocalypse

Relationships: Arnaghad/Erland of Larvik (from one of the witcher-centric cards)

Rating: M

Content Warnings: swear words, grief, themes of giving up on life and hopelessness at the beginning

Summary: After the fall of Kaer Seren, all that is left for Erland to do in his gloomy cave is write his journal and let the cold take him. He doesn’t expect to be saved, especially not by his former-lover-turned-nemesis Arnaghad. In which: Erland wallows and Arnaghad calls him out on his bullshit. A lot.

Word Count: 5.6k

AO3 link

I close out this account with a warning: the knowledge I hereby hope to preserve is essential for the day the monsters return to our crypts, our battlefields, and our gardens. It is a call to battle and heroism and in that it is treacherous. If you use these pages with the intention to do good in this world, you will soon find yourself to be an outcast among humans. You will save them and they will spit at you. You will beg for fair payment and they will burn you at the stake. Be prepared for that, and take up the sword nonetheless for if you do not, no one will. Peace, brothers and sisters of the future, peace and blessings of the Gods. May you never need this journal.

Erland signs the bottom of the last page with fingers gnarled by the cold, trembling from how his muscles have hardened as a result of his lethargy. When it is done, he grips the quill hard, clings to it. It is a childish instinct that makes him do this, but this feather has been his lifeline for the past… past. A lifeline to the past. Time flakes away from Erland the same way the tattered pieces of the quill do once it breaks under his tightening fingers. The last few pages of his journal are barely legible and he can’t tell whether that is because his vision is fails him, like a pane of glass slowly devoured by a sheen of ice, or because his script has fallen prey to his tremor. As Erland waits for the ink to dry, he uses his weak hand to arrange his good one into the proper gesture for an Igni and casts it down the dark tunnel of his home.

A perfect cone of lightly crackling flames shoots outward, illuminating the glazed rock all around. The sign holds for several breaths, steady and sturdy and its heat singes Erland’s frayed cuffs, has the ceiling drip crystalline melt-off. Erland smiles grimly to himself and shuts the journal. This time can’t take from him and the ice won’t feast on, this his body will always know how to do. A perfect channelling of what Chaos he may access.

Shaking, Erland crawls over to his makeshift bedroll – a dirt-hardened pellet of furs he collected on his way up here, a long hike with Kaer Seren a steady ruin at his back and the names of his brothers and children a steady weight on his shoulders – and collapses on top of it.

It is done. His lips trace the outlines of these words, but his tongue is too heavy to lift. Erland sneezes into his pillow and draws a ratty quilt over himself. It used to be bursting with reds and oranges, a gift from an old woman for saving her granddaughter from an early death by harpy, but now it is faded and as grimy as the rest of him. Erland cannot distinguish the colours of his belongings any longer, not even in the stale light of the last sparks of the Igni that cling to the cave’s walls.

It is done.

His journal is finished, his life chronicled, his school honoured and his knowledge preserved. All that is left to the former griffin master is to wait for the sparks of his life to die out alongside those of his magic. Erland flops onto his belly and uses his weak hand to arrange the fingers of his good one into the shape of Axii. His wrist creaks when he angles the hand at his own face and he casts it with the same impeccable precision. The spell hits instantly and his body goes slack, his mind punctured through by holes. Erland sleeps and hopes a harsh wind will blow through his abode tonight.

II.

There is a long interval of darkness that is marked by bursts of hot and cold shivers that wreck his body, but Erland doesn’t truly wake and by the time he does, he isn’t sure that they were real at all. He goes through a stage of sleep paralysis in which all he can do is to stare at the coarse ceiling of the cave. It has frozen back over and if there were any light, Erland would see his own face reflected in it. Sunken cheeks, eyes reddened from burst capillaries, undercut grown out into shaggy strings of hair. The griffin tattooed on the side of his skull drowns in them, just like the griffin witchers drowned in dust and snow the day their school was buried in an avalanche.

Erland sighs. He cannot move a muscle for half an eternity. His nose itches and another sneeze finally frees him, releases him into an unsettled slumber that pushes him along the maze of corridors that is his own memory. He retraces every step he took along the Path, faces all the monsters he slaughtered and all the humans he failed to convince that he shouldn’t be slaughtered alongside them.

There is no lesson to be learned from these dreams. Only patience. Erland has long lived with his regrets, knows them as intimately as the beasts whose traits he noted down in his journal. Only patience, yes. In all his striving to be more than a mere mercenary or rat-catcher perhaps his most undervalued and least practiced virtue.

Erland can be patient.

He vaguely remembers one who never was, an old friend, a former lover who faced the world with steel first and foremost, steel accompanied by a detached pragmatism that was so at war with everything Erland believed in. That friend – now less than an enemy – would not have lain here so wallowing in the drawn-out pain of his end days. He would not have waited for his death, he would have summoned it by drawing his slowly rusting blades and cutting himself open, would have watched his hot blood hiss against the ice at the heart of this mountain and would have born a proud curl of his lip until the moment the fire in his own heart extinguished.

Erland smiles and his jaw creaks.

He takes the high-road.

He…

He sleeps.

He thrashes.

He recites every lesson the knight Gryphon ever taught him. They are the foundation of his life’s work, they are all he has left.

He is patient.

III.

Erland is caught in a sleep paralysis once more when it enters the mountains. The monsters usually haunt him when he’s somewhere in the realm of insanity, but now he is wide awake, body one rigid line under the quilt that has long since lost its ability to keep out the winter, which means the thing could be very real and out for his blood. Its steps boom and quake through the rock for hours before the giant passes into the dead end that is Erland’s makeshift dwelling. Even with no light to illuminate it, Erland can see it glittering, can see its giant head swing left and right, can hear the scrape of its fragile marble skin against the walls.

An ice elemental.

If Erland is extra lucky, this used to be its lair and he accidentally usurped it. There is no moving away, no putting up a fight and he resigns himself to a quick and violent death after all. How graceful of Destiny to show her face now, after everything else has passed her by.

But then the ice elemental shakes off the snow, hundreds of flakes that rain down to cover the floor, and Erland blinks. The outline of the monster softens from harsh crystals to wet strands of fur that hug broad shoulders. A werewolf? Erland can’t draw breath, doesn’t trust his ears when the thing opens its mouth and speaks, a deep baritone. Not nearly raspy enough to be of anything other than human origin.

"Alzur’s rotten balls, Erland is that you?"

Erland wants to laugh. Of all the demons the depths of his consciousness could have summoned to this cursed place, it had to be Arnaghad. Arnaghad with his hulking form and his smooth voice, his tattered bearskin overcoat and his terrible timing. Always terrible. He can’t laugh, of course, can’t do more than wheeze faintly.

A torch flares up, casting eerily long shadows at the feet of the apparition, more real than anything Erland has thought in a long time. At the same time, Erland catches Arnaghad’s eyes – dark ochre with narrow slits, eyes that are set deeply under bushy eyebrows which underline the blocky shape of Arnaghad’s face as though it was whittled from planks of red birch – and Arnaghad starts.

“It is you,” he says and follows that up with a curse Erland can’t discern, courtesy of Arnaghad’s Gemmeran linguistic oddities that persist to this day. With them comes a harsh edge to all his syllables and a tendency to mouth-breathe. Funny how after decades of reciprocal avoidance, Erland still remembers these details. Casting his mind down the drainage canal of history, he also remembers himself: a young fighter, just two decades of age, stuck in a body that was overflowing with emotions of visionary self-determination, of rough-and-fast passion, of compassionate anger. Erland waits for the spark of that anger to rekindle, especially as he watches Arnaghad toss his swords and pack and drop to his knees by Erland’s pellet, the torch held close. It’s heat licks across Erland’s cheeks and cradles his skull.

It remains the only heat.

His anger is but a relic of a more complicated time.

“By all the gods,” Arnaghad breathes, hand passing over Erland’s sweaty forehead. His touch too feels familiar, feels too familiar, but his scent isn’t and neither is the concern that drenches his tone. “You look like a giant lump of bird shit.”

Erland’s nostrils flare. Slowly, ever so slowly, his lips peel back in a snarl. He still can’t move, no matter how much he tries. He wants the ice elemental back, if only for the simplicity of its puny gravel brain. Arnaghad’s may only be a smidge bigger and more substantial, but with that comes so much. Arguments that have been left unburied, thoughts that have been left unspoken, memories that have been left unfinished.

Erland hisses weakly through his teeth and Arnaghad growls in reply. He doesn’t extinguish the torch, he sticks it into the ground somewhere to Erland’s right and sits back on his heels, the growl building and building. Erland drifts off again, waiting for Arnaghad to speak. He hopes that when he wakes, the phantom will be gone.

IV.

If anything, Arnaghad has solidified by the time Erland opens his eyes again. He sits by Erland’s bedside still, even cross-legged tall enough that his head grazes the ceiling of the cave if he straightens. Before him he stokes a small campfire with several crude bursts of Igni.

“That is a waste of precious firewood,” Erland says, voice croaky. He pushes himself up onto his forearms, head sluggish to lift from the scratchy pillows. Arnaghad doesn’t turn around, instead he retrieves an iron pot from his belongings and presses it against the cave’s wall, using his dagger to scrape off the ice there. Practical, first and foremost, that is exactly how Erland remembers his lover of yore. Lover being a euphemism for something Erland still cannot name.

“I’m hungry,” Arnaghad says and fires another sign. Briefly, the cave explodes with heat and Erland just about stifles a vulgar moan. When did he last have the pleasure of warmth this intense and indulgent? The fire slowly seeps into his blankets and furs and nestles against his skin. He sinks back into them and closes his eyes. “Besides,” the bear witcher continues. “You might have died of hypothermia if I hadn’t started it. It’s almost funny, Erland the righteous asshole letting himself freeze to death, where is the glory in that? Alas, I find it hard to believe that you have developed a sense of humour since last we met.”

“Neither have you.”

“Ha,” Arnaghad says and that’s it for a while. Erland listens to the water boil, to Arnaghad hacking at dried vegetables and jerky. It doesn’t even smell bad and despite his self-imposed fast, Erland’s stomach rumbles and the inside of his mouth feels coated in dirt. How long has it been since last he drank? It didn’t matter until Arnaghad stampeded into his life again, shaking him awake.

Erland sneezes.

Maybe not all of him.

“Bless you,” Arnaghad grumbles. “So, how did you end up here, little birdie? Your wings broken?”

“I’m not little and griffins aren’t birds.”

“Smartass.”

Erland snorts. He isn’t about to stoop down to Arnaghad’s level and start bickering and he has no inclination for small-talk. That’s what he tells himself anyway. A part of him is almost… glad for the company. Glad for this company in particular. Fuck that.

“I will allow you to stay the night,” Erland says, and squints to see Arnaghad raise one of his caterpillar eyebrows at him. It isn’t like either of them can tell day from night, and depending on where Arnaghad entered the tunnel system of the Dragon Mountains, the last time he saw sunlight may have been weeks ago. “Fine, I will allow you to have a rest. After, I want you gone.”

“I don’t care what you want. If it hadn’t been for me you would be a corpse right now. Take a peek.”

Erland follows the gesture of Arnaghad’s hand and glances down himself, gingerly lifts the blanket. He is swathed in thick, padded linens, an extra pair of breeches and woollen-knit socks. The bearskin that usually hugs Arnaghad’s shoulders is draped across him and what is more, his lips do not feel chapped any longer. His hair curls around his head in a long, neat braid, like a viper in slumber. Shit, how long was he out for?

“Have you considered that it might have been my explicit wish to die?”

“I have,” Arnaghad says on a low chuckle. “A ridiculous notion. You’re sick, that is all. Sick people lean towards melodrama.”

“I’m not being melodramatic,” Erland replies and, oh, there it is. Frustration breaking through the hard-packed stratum of the years like a flower through the earth in early spring. It’s fast to burst and blossom. He does try and sit up after all, but before the world can start to spin around him, Arnaghad has roughly pushed him back into the sheets.

“You are always melodramatic,” the bear witcher replies and glowers at him, face cast in darkness by his bulky outline. Erland’s eyes narrow.

“One night,” he says. “And then you’re gone.”

“We’ll see about that. The stew is going to have to cook for a bit, and you should go back to sleep. Want me to Axii you?”

“And have you make minced meat out of my brain? No thank you, I can do that myself,” Erland snaps. He’s being petulant, why is he being so petulant? It’s all these rifts tearing open in his chest, all these holes he abandoned when he left the order with his friends to found the griffin school. These holes pull him back to life and reality, pull him back through time and into a persona he thought he buried. Erland is not a child. Erland is the griffin grandmaster, Erland is a knight, Erland is a witcher. It doesn’t matter that these functions are all theory now, they make up his identity. Not Arnaghad and his quarrels. And yet…

Erland turns away, facing the wall. When he makes the gesture for the Axii, he doesn’t even have to use his hand to arrange the fingers. He didn’t want to live. Now he does. And that’s more than he can take after everything he’s lost. More than he deserves, really. Erland puts very little force behind the sign, letting it spill to the tips of his fingers then gently touching them to his own face and thankfully, the world blots out around him.

Arnaghad’s voice pulls him up again, like the detonation of a bomb.

“Wake up, stew’s ready.”

Before Erland is fully awake, a coughing fit grips his body and although it scratches at the back of his throat, it also feels freeing in a way, loosening the plaque on his bones and the dust in his chest.

“So you’re still a victim of your winter sickness,” Arnaghad laughs. “I wondered.”

“What do you know of it?” Erland’s voice is muffled as he wipes his mouth, the words come out spiteful, acidic. This time, he does have the strength to sit up on his bed, but he needs the sturdy stone wall at his back to keep him upright. It’s a cool antithesis to the slight swelter of the cave’s air, a gracious counter-force to the merrily burning fire and the bubbling stew.

“Erland, you have spent twenty odd winters in my embrace, would you not think some of that has stuck with me?”

“In the face of your betrayal, no, I would not,” Erland says, crossing his arms, though admittedly, Arnaghad is right. Erland has always been susceptible to the cold, more so than any of his fellow witchers. Perhaps that is because Skellige, in the shape of his mother, rejected him when he was young, or perhaps it is because of his father whose origin Erland still doesn’t care to investigate. Either way, when the frost’s first tendrils start to wind their way into the atmosphere, he falls ill with sneezes and shakes, fevers too. It must be winter already then.

“My betrayal, yes,” Arnaghad mutters and retrieves a wooden bowl from his pack into which he shovels some of the stew. It smells prickly and hot, thick with Ofieri spices and has Erland’s mouth water. Now that he is fully himself again, his senses have returned, an assault on his mind. As with any battle he ever fought, Erland decides to be methodical about it. First the food, then the fight. He reaches out for the bowl, but Arnaghad scoffs at his trembling hands. “Don’t think I’ll let your atrophied muscles spill any of this. It’s too damn good, here.” Arnaghad settles into a cross-legged seat before Erland and the fire paints a halo around him. He’s so big that it cowers at his back, which suits Erland fine. This way it is easier to ignore the concentrated, caring expression on the bear witcher’s face as he submerges a wooden spoon, scoops up a chunk of whatever dried meat he put into the stew and gently blows on it before holding it out.

“Why do you care?” Erland asks weakly, lips parting around the spoon. As soon as it hits his tongue – the perfect degree of scolding hot and spicy – he can’t help a small groan. Blunt though Arnaghad may be, his cooking has always been phenomenal. Erland’s stomach mewls for more.

“I always cared.”

“Funny way of showing that.” Erland gives him a pointed look and Arnaghad’s eyes dart along the scar that neatly sections Erland’s face. He has yet to receive even an attempt at apology for it. “Back then you didn’t seem too caring with me. In fact, I acutely remember your sword flaying me.”

“If I’d wanted to kill you, you would have died. But I didn’t want that then and I don’t want it now. I hold to my promises, Erland.”

Accusation is slabbed thickly onto those words and Arnaghad holds out another spoonful of stew which Erland dutifully swallows. It’s not the first time the sickness held him down so hard he had to be fed, but it feels strangely agitating for Arnaghad to be the one to do it. After he left and founded his own school, the only snippets Erland ever heard about the bear witcher were rumours of his death, especially with the vipers splitting off the bear school. Perhaps, Erland liked to believe that Arnaghad was dead because that took away the possibility of whatever was happening now. Perhaps, Erland left the one promise he spent all his life circumventing at Morgraig Castle the day he set out for Kaer Seren. Perhaps, Arnaghad didn’t change at all and neither did Erland.

“Do you even remember?” Arnaghad asks quietly, then allows himself a few gulps of soup before refilling the bowl. He doesn’t meet Erland’s eyes, but Erland can see the faint glow of anguish speckling his cheekbones. Oh, but this is bad. If Arnaghad goes berserk in here, they’ll both be buried in rock and ice and Erland is too awake and vivacious now to want that.

“Remember what?” Erland asks, feigning ignorance as long as that leaves him the proverbial high ground, the only place from which he can match Arnaghad’s sheer height. He accepts another two spoons, then shakes his head. His stomach feels brilliantly full, close to bursting, and he rubs it weakly. Arnaghad puts the bowl to his lips and drinks the rest of the stew. They’ll both want more later, especially with the firewood dwindling, but for now the next field is to be played. It all gets muddled anyway, who is he kidding. Erland sighs and that lets Arnaghad’s gaze snap upwards, latching onto Erland’s. They silently glower at each other for a handful of breaths.

“Of course, you do,” Arnaghad says eventually. “Knowing you, you remember your exact words.”

“I do,” Erland says and the ghost of his own voice flashes through his mind.

My heart lies at the end of a dream, Arnaghad. And as long as that dream remains unfulfilled, I cannot give it to you.

“You lied.”

“I didn’t lie, I never lied,” Erland protests, but Arnaghad shakes his head.

“I don’t understand. You obviously felt something for me, feel something still. Oh, don’t give me that look, I told you I care. I always paid attention to you, you know that.”

Erland does. It pains him to admit it, but he does.

“I didn’t lie,” he repeats, hands balling into fists.

“You threw me scraps of affection when it would have cost you nothing to invite me to your table,” Arnaghad says.

“Do we really have to do this now? I told you I want you gone.”

“I saved your life.”

“UNBIDDEN,” Erland screams and his arm shoots out in an arc. It is only by Arnaghad’s quick reflexes that the Aard doesn’t have him fly into the back wall. Erland heaves, watching Arnaghad’s thick Quen dissolve with a buzzing static, and he doesn’t know what’s gotten into him. After everything, he doesn’t want to hurt Arnaghad, of course he doesn’t.

“Why couldn’t you love me?” Arnaghad says, so fucking stubborn in his resolve to have this conversation. What a stupidly vulnerable question.

Back then, Erland bought in to the delusions he liked to paint for himself in blood and gore. He was destined for more, he was a noble knight, he was to rid the world of evil forevermore. Arnaghad didn’t fit in with that dream. He would try and keep Erland from it because he didn’t understand, had no ambitions for himself. And while that was, and likely still is true, it was never the reason Erland didn’t allow anything more than physical between them. But it was the reason he clung to and dangled before Arnaghad’s eyes over and over. After the night of the sundering… it didn’t matter so much anymore and Erland locked the true reason away in a dark corner of his heart, huddled together with the feelings he held hostage in the hopes they would fade to nothing.

Erland listens to his own heartbeat thump at his temples in a nagging ache and he forfeits his answer. Arnaghad doesn’t deserve forgiveness for what he did to Rhys and Erland and whomever else his sword cleaved, but he deserves the truth.

“You really want to know why?” he asks weakly, cringing inwardly at Arnaghad’s curt nod. Erland continues on a sigh, feeling fragile now that his anger evaporated with the sign he just cast. “I was afraid. I ruined my mother’s life by existing and I couldn’t spare Jagoda the experiments Alzur put us through and I never managed to make the humans see us as anything other than aberrations. I can slay monsters and teach others to do the same, but I can’t save the people I love.”

“That is horseshit, just complete and utter horseshit. Your mother was a right old cunt and nothing could have saved Jagoda. All the girls died, remember? Do you blame yourself for their deaths too?”

“My school,” Erland whispers, blinking rapidly to do away with those questions. “I loved them too and now they all lay buried under rubble. My brothers, my sons, my whole life. I loved them and I couldn’t save them. I’m a curse.”

“…why did you never say anything?” Arnaghad reaches out and his thick fingers brush Erland’s scraggly face. Erland stifles a dry sob. Some truths are better left unspoken and this was definitely one of them. He never dared to utter it to himself, in the quiet safety of his own mind, and now Arnaghad knows it. Arnaghad his ex-lover, used-to-be friend, nemesis for some years, phantom of his past for more, saviour of his life. Arnaghad who does, when it comes down to it, have a claim to his heart.

“Because you would have ridiculed me, as you itch to do now.”

“It is true that I was never good at understanding how other people feel,” Arnaghad says and his thumbs come to rests against Erland’s temples, smoothing out the ache there. He shuffles closer and their knees bump together which sends a jolt through Erland’s weakened frame. “But if you would have told me this, I would have found it impossible to demean you. I care, Erland, why won’t you believe that?”

Because you don’t care about anything other than your own survival.

Because it took five years for you to ever look at me twice and double the time for you to answer my frequent knocks on your door.

Because you attacked our brother and cut me and your eyes were filled with pure hatred.

Because you spent decades on your mountain, pretending like that was the only life you ever knew.

Because…

Erland grasps for more reasons, grasps for the steely indifference he felt for Arnaghad ever since the day he left Morgraig for Haern Caduch. He stops. No forgiveness, not yet. But perhaps, in the face of his grief and all that he lost, it would do well to cast his gaze into the future. Erland releases his tense muscles and lets go of something. After, his breath comes easier.

“You would have me believe that your care is rooted in love? Even after all this time?” he asks.

“Yes,” Arnaghad replies. So simple, huh?

“So maybe you love me. That doesn’t change the fact that I would have let you down.” Or Arnaghad him. Or maybe they were fated to let each other down.

“Look, birdie. I don’t know what it means to dream big, but I know this, and I know it for certain: you did what you could and because you’re a persistent shit, you did it exceptionally well. There are forces at work in this world one man alone cannot overcome. You did what you could.”

Erland doesn’t know what to say to that. Because that isn’t simple, that is insightful and attentive and not at all Arnaghad’s usual refrain. Maybe he did change and Erland is the only one who stagnated. He feels stupid, all of a sudden. Stupid for holding himself up to such high standards, stupid for being afraid in the face of his own bravery, stupid for ever calling himself honourable.

What man gives up on love because he assumes himself to be cursed? No knight. A coward.

“Could I have stopped you?” Erland asks. “If I had loved you, could I have stopped you from attacking Rhys and from waging your war on the rest of us witchers? Could I have changed the course of history?”

“You’re doing it again,” Arnaghad replies with a sly smile. He shakes his head and leans over his own legs to press a dry and warm kiss to Erland’s lips. In a way, it’s a homecoming. In a different one, it’s completely novel. Erland tilts his head for a second kiss that has his body thrum with wanting more, and Arnaghad allows it, for a bit. It’s another kind of warmth, that of their bodies re-learning one another and before long, Erland finds himself on Arnaghad’s lap, held close in a way he thought he’d never be held again. It isn’t forgiveness. It’s far from forgiveness. But it’s a start.

VI.

“Erland, there is something I have to tell you,” Arnaghad says long after they have spent the pent-up emotions of the last centuries in drawn-out kisses and frantic clashes of their body. They’re both tucked under the quilt and the bearskin, Erland’s beaten body sheltered in Arnaghad’s mountainous embrace. Erland gives a sated mumble, basking in the magic of the moment for just a heartbeat longer. Of course it couldn’t last, contentedness with Arnaghad is always the eye of the storm. “Listen to me,” Arnaghad continues and a sense of urgency replaces whatever fluttery feelings Erland just had. “I didn’t come to the Dragon Mountains to find you nor had I head of Kaer Seren’s fall. I came here for a reprieve from the storm. Have you seen it before you entered?”

“It will pass,” Erland says, unwilling to match Arnaghad’s frantic cadence. His chest is a warm rumble behind Erland, an upset sky. Damn Arnaghad and his terrible timing. “Winter is always brutal in these parts and the storms bite, but they pass.”

“It’s not winter, we are coming up on Belleteyn.”

Belleteyn… that means it’s almost May. Erland blinks stupidly before the implications sink in. Snow storms in May simply don’t happen.

“By the gods,” he breathes, and grips Arnaghad’s hand which is splayed over his own chest. His body tenses up and the cave feels stuffy now. “How long has the storm been going on for?”

“October,” Arnaghad says warily and that is so much worse than Erland expected. A harbinger of conflict Erland can deal with, an old love he can squabble over, but he is not at all equipped to handle an apocalypse. It has to be the end of the world because October is only a month after Erland entered the mountains and straight-out winter for close to eight months can only mean one thing:

“The White Frost.”

Arnaghad nods, cheek rubbing against Erland’s head. A branch in the fire bursts with a mighty crack right then, as though it is afraid too. The prophesised end of the world. Erland always assumed it was a tale to scare children and he doesn’t believe in foresight. There is no other explanation. Arnaghad’s other hand draws Erland closer and his steady mass of muscles help anchor Erland as the emotional storm resumes alongside the one that rages outside.

“I know this is a lot, but we don’t have much time. Is there anywhere we can go? You are weak still and these peaks will not protect us for long.”

“I… yes. There is a gulf that runs deeply under Kaer Seren, it carries heat out of the earth’s core and disperses some leagues out into the ocean. We have dug our cellars deep enough to tap it for the winter months… we might have food stores left too, but… I don’t know that there is a way in any longer and with a snow storm we might die trying.”

“Better to die trying than to die giving up,” Arnaghad says.

“If this truly is the White Frost, is there any chance of survival?” Erland asks closing his eyes. This is not how he wants to go out, not when he still has so much grieving and loving to do. Not when he just discovered that he can.

“I’ve never been through an apocalypse before, I couldn’t tell you. We got this far, though, so we might as well try.”

“Might as well,” Erland sighs, pulling on Arnghad’s fingers to bite the tip of one of them. The other witcher grunts indignantly. “But I’m not spending the rest of eternity stuck in a damp basement with you if you are going to keep wearing that bearskin. My nose may be clogged up with snot, but I can still smell it and it reeks. Did you piss on it?”

“I didn’t, but you might have with all the feverish thrashing and moaning you did.”

“Fuck off,” Erland snaps and they both laugh. It’s a glimpse of a relationship they barely scratched the surface of back then. If they survive now, they could learn its ins and outs yet.

And if Erland is anything, if he’s ever been anything, it is determined. He is determined to give his long life one last purpose. It’s a selfish purpose, lacking chivalry and heroism, but Arnaghad was right. He did what he could and now he can allow himself this, a shot at love in the middle of the apocalypse. Erland’s had more idealistic and futile dreams.

“What a horrible retirement Destiny has chosen for us,” he says.

“This isn’t worse than being dragged away by an ugly mage and suffering his experiments for years and years.”

“Speak for yourself, big bear, speak for yourself.”

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@witcher-rarepair-summer-bingo , @littoraly-art

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