#therius: WHY.

[rindemption]

oh I'm down bad

Dexon; Dark Urge, Talos War Cleric with a chaotic streak that unfortunately feeds the impulses. Only keeps his party alive because they're more useful breathing. I don't think a romance would be good for anyone

Therius; Vengeance Paladin, blunt and sometimes stern but with a soft spot for the little guys. Not above intimidating people to get the right thing done. Will eventually fall for Astarion once they both open up more

Aava; College of Lore Bard, quick to soothe tempers but slow to trust. She's carrying more blackmail than she'll ever admit, and will use it to keep herself safe and alive. Somehow finds herself already crushing on Karlach despite her own innate paranoia

I do plan on making at least 2 more: a dragonborn Dark Urge who will actually fight to be good, and a gnome for the sake of doing the 12 multi-classes and all the silly/stupid options.

But now back to Elamrael!

[asoundofdrop]

The main characters of the first chapter for "Hymn of Sun and Moon"—my OC series

Therius Sealticge:

A soldier who deserted retired from the field. The only reason why he hasn’t been killed for his cowardice is because of his loyalty to the Luolins, who gave him shelter.

His devotion to Lady Hwamei goes beyond duty. Part of it is because he spent years watching her grow up and she became something like a daughter to him. But the biggest reason for his devotion is because she was the first person to praise his piano skills—something he considered to be his pride and joy, something he was forced to throw away when he became a soldier.

Although he wishes the best for Lady Hwamei and her happiness, his devotion unintentionally hurts her.

Hwamei Luolin:

The former name of the Gray Raven Commandant.

Hwamei grew up sheltered. Because she lived in a city meant to be kept top secret, she never got to see the world beyond the walls. All she had was whatever the soldiers told her and the precious flowers she got to grow in her beloved greenhouse.

For the sake of others, she stifles her emotions and wishes the best she can.

Fanhua Baihe:

A councilman of Babylonia and Lady Hwamei’s fiancee.

A man who takes great pride in himself, and will use many things to bring himself above others. Even the war against the Punishing is just a means to an end in his eyes. If humanity prevails in the war, he believes that, as someone in the council, he will be at the very top.

Everyone, even his own fiance and the countless soldiers fighting on Earth, exists to serve him one way or another.

[taleweaver-ramblings]

I posted 5,427 times in 2022

That's 1,988 more posts than 2021!

171 posts created (3%)

5,256 posts reblogged (97%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@mariposasmonarch

@lady-merian

@bookdragon1811

@theriu

@swinging-stars-from-satellites

I tagged 5,112 of my posts in 2022

Only 6% of my posts had no tags

#from the queue - 2,820 posts

#art - 545 posts

#dracula daily - 416 posts

#dracula - 402 posts

#fanart - 317 posts

#memes - 305 posts

#language warning - 272 posts

#the lord of the rings - 264 posts

#tumblr culture - 218 posts

#humor - 212 posts

Longest Tag: 140 characters

#we literally cannot eat peanut butter and chocolate in the same meal without my parents joking about 'you got chocolate in my peanut butter'

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

I'm two episodes into Over the Garden Wall, and Beatrice is honestly a Mood.

96 notes - Posted October 20, 2022

#4

Not to be dramatic, but I would die for Maia Drazhar.

103 notes - Posted June 21, 2022

#3

Finally watched Encanto and I am very confused why everyone is obsessed with "We Don't Talk About Bruno" when "Waiting On a Miracle" is right there. Y'all sleeping on the good stuff.

116 notes - Posted March 13, 2022

#2

Just finished rereading the Daughter of the Lilies webcomic (because the writer and artist are posting remastered pages with commentary while they're on hiatus) and I have two things to say:

(A) storms it's so good.

(B) I have never wished for October so hard in my entire life.

278 notes - Posted May 31, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

Just a PSA for my fellow Dracula Daily fans — I have discovered a host of similar daily-dose-of-classic-literature-in-your-inbox subscriptions, and I thought others might be interested too! We have:

The Penny Dreadful: Starts on October 1, features various gothic tales originally sold as serialized Penny Dreadfuls. Authors include "J. Sheridan Le Fanu, John William Polidori, Lord Byron, James Malcolm Rymer & Thomas Puckett Prest, Florence Marryat, Bram Stoker, and many others."

Edgar Allan Poe Daily: A companion to Dracula Daily! This sends out Edgar Allan Poe stories and poems on the weekdays that Dracula Daily does not update.

Letters from Dr. Watson: Dr. John Watson does not actually have a blog, but as of January 1, 2023, he WILL have an email newsletter keeping us all up to date on the cases of his detective roommate.

Frankenstein Weekly: Starts February 2023. What it sounds like.

Whale Weekly: This one's already been going around Tumblr a bit, but I wanted to include it for anyone who missed previous posts. Read Moby Dick in bite-sized portions over the course of four years! Starts December 2022.

347 notes - Posted June 21, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

[countarganan]

"in Another Life" {Therius}

Send “in another life” and my muse will say something they’d be doing in another lifetime, were it not for circumstance, possibility, or regrets

@darkheartedprince

Therius paused, thinking. That wasn't a question he usually got, if at all. He usually didn't think of what he could be doing in another lifetime.

"In another life...In another life, I probably didn't leave Lazulis immediately after the war between Lazulis Island and the Gurak Continent ended." He knew why he had to do such a thing at the time - Lazulis was sorely lacking in genuine, real knights, and Therius knew that he had to carry on the work Asthar once did to train them.

"If I hadn't left Lazulis so soon, I probably would've dealt with the current knights at Lazulis Castle and set them to rights. I'm sure Zael and Lady Calista wouldn't mind me doing so." After all, both Zael and Calista were more than aware of the knights being incompetent at their duties. A sigh left him as he closed his eyes.

"If not for General Asthar passing during the war...I think that's probably what would've happened."

[inklings-challenge]

2022 Inklings Challenge Participants List

This is an ongoing list of writers who have expressed interest in participating in the 2022 Inklings Challenge. I will be updating this list until October 1st, 2022, at which date everyone on the list will be assigned to one of the three Challenge Teams.

I have erred on the side of including people, so if you’re on the list and you do not want to participate, let me know and I’ll remove you. And it’s very possible I’ve missed names in the shuffle, so if you’re not on the list and you do want to participate, let me know so I can add you.

@221bdragonslayer

@afairmaiden

@allieinarden

@allisonreader

@anipologist

@apieters

@as-dreamers-do

@ashknife

@atlantic-riona

@audreythevaliant

@awritersbro

@beneathascorpionsky

@bluesidedown

@called-kept

@caitriona-3

@catkin-morgs

@ceilingfanarson

@challenger2013

@clarythericebot

@confetticat

@contagiousgrace

@cuppatealove

@cygnascrimbles

@daisy-words

@desert-anne

@dimsilver

@drharleyquinn-medicinewoman

@e-b-reads

@ellakas

@e-louise-bates

@enjoliquej

@epnona-the-wisp

@essary07

@ettawritesnstudies

@fictionadventurer

@frangipani-wanderlust

@freenarnian

@friendlyneighborhoodgeek

@frominsidetheblanketfort-blog

@heniareth

@imissthembutitwasntadisaster

@incomingalbatross

@ineffablelights

@januarydivide

@justhereforthesherlock

@lady-merian

@larissa-the-scribe

@laurelindorenan

@littlegirl-arise

@lovesodeepandwideandwell

@lurking-latinist

@lydiahosek

@kapitana

@k-she-rambles

@madamescarlette

@magpie-trove

@maltheniel

@manda-kat

@masterfuldoodler

@meadow-roses

@merciful-note

@misscrazyfangirl321

@msburgundy

@muse-write

@ocean-sunrise

@o-lei-o-lei-o-lord

@olyia-stories

@onewingedsparrow

@ozthearistocrat

@phoebeamorryce

@praise-the-lord-im-dead

@psmithereens

@queenlucythevaliant

@randowwriter

@ravenpuffheadcanons

@redpanda-redpanda

@red-pandas-and-books

@ripple-reader

@roger-reblogs

@rowenabean

@ru-tabega

@scarvenartist

@scribbly-bear

@secretariatess

@secret--psalms--saturn

@siena-sevenwits

@siriusfan13

@smokeyloki

@starwarmth

@stories-dearheart

@stormwind13

@swinging-stars-from-satellites

@syncopespell

@taleweaver-ramblings

@teabooksandsweets

@thebirdandhersong

@theriu

@tiny-dragons-tea-room

@toothanddraw

@two-microscopes

@whitehorsevale

@why-bless-your-heart

@writinginsunlitcorners

[authorgirl1111]

"Hiding?" Christopher said. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Liz wasn't impressed, "Uh-huh. It never takes you that long to answer the door. Not unless you're hiding something. What did you do?"

"I could have been hesitant, what with the recent string of Apothecary murders."

Liz rolled her eyes. "'Cause murderers are known for knocking. Besides, you wouldn't have shouted, "Coming!" after the second knock if you thought it was someone who meant to do you harm. What did you do?"

"Nothing you have to worry about?" Inwardly Christopher winced when it came out sounding like a question.

"Why did you phrase that like a question?"

"Do you think I'd let Christopher do something stupid?" Tom asked, finally cutting in.

Christopher sent Tom a grateful look but Liz barely paused before she dismissed Tom's words. "I think you'd do your level best to stop him. Before he did it, anyway."

Tom opened his mouth to retort before he closed it and nodded. "Yeah, okay, fair point."

"Tom!" Christopher shouted.

"What, not my fault your sister knows you better then you want her to."

Christopher rolled his eyes. "I'm not doing anything bad."

Liz gave a grin and clapped her hands, "Great then you won't mind if I take a look around back."

"I would, actually; that's Master Benedicts study and he doesn't like anyone in there."

"Then what was Tom doing back there?"

"Uh..."

Liz didn't seem to see anything wrong with her line of thinking, because she moved around Christopher and Tom and made her way to the back.

For a moment, they heard nothing, and Christopher and Tom held their breaths hoping that she hadn't found it.

"Have the two of you completely lost your minds!" she shouted back at them. "A cannon in the shop of extremely flammable ingredients! Do any of you have any brains inside of your skulls at all?"

"It was perfectly safe."

"I swear, Christopher, if I look behind the counter and I see you've hidden gunpowder..."

"I don't know how to make gunpowder."

"Then why make the cannon."

"Got you there," Tom whispered to Christopher.

"Honestly, Christopher. What were you going to aim at, anyway?" she said as she left the back room.

Not even bothering to continue pretending that it was merely for decoration, Christopher sighed and pointed to the cauldron that he'd been thinking of using.

Liz just stared at the cauldron for a few more seconds before turning to Christopher. "How... in the Hell did you pass your Apprenticeship exam?"

"Excuse me?"

"A metal cauldron? A metal cauldron? Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?! If you hit the cauldron there's every chance, the ammo could ricochet and hit you."

"Uh..."

"Gosh, if you're going to break the law, could you at least do it in a way that won't leave you homeless or dead afterwards?"

edit: Thanks for @theriu for the edits! I think I got all of them

[dreamyprinx]

“I don’t know why I’m crying, he did awful things, he wanted to die, I wanted him to pay? Why am I crying Theri?”

Therius belongs to @themalachitegay mal pls don’t go thru my cashmere tags there’s spoilers

✨reblogs are appreciated ✨ |💖 buy me a kofi 💖 | 💕 tips super appreciated 💕 | ☁️ consider commissioning me ☁️

[iincantatorum]

@countarganan Royal Hunting Party

Eros, therius, asthar (blunt idealists- says it like it is), geist(spends time scaring off potential enemies)

Eros has not been at the royal hunt for mainly two reasons: he was not a royal vizier and the hunting party constituted of mainly that group- and another reason being is that the whole idea threw him off. He had cousins who were skillful and viziers themselves who tried to change his mind about it a few times, but he knew why he didn’t like it, or even the fighting arena. It reminded him of his father, the Chief Warlord of Anatolia- General Ares. He knew that the other was on a campaign trail across Transylvania right now, so it’s been months since he last saw him. He had to focus on why he was here now and not think so much of the father he was frightened by. 

There was Therius with him, his companion that was the voice of reason and had the time to help him. To him he will be thankful, but there will be more people to add to the list. While he himself did not engage in weaponry use, he was interested in seeing how the others dealt with the strong arrows and bows he crafted himself. While watching, he noticed Asthar staring back at him and he politely waved.

“Good afternoon, hope I wasn’t disturbing you? How is the hunt going?” He asked the Vizier, noticing a bag of pelts. 

[kirilisms]

Not sure if you’re still accepting Drabble prompts but Therius with the prompt of “Is that my shirt?”. Lol it’s been on my mind lately.

I would like to apologize in advance for how off-prompt I went. I know the prompt itself was vague, but it always brings to mind fluffy boyfriend shirt scenarios and this.....is almost the exact opposite of that.

(It’s also a little bit over 2,500 words, so I think I got a little too.......excited over this particular scene.)

Either way, I’m super sorry, I had meant to get it out by Thursday but here we are on Saturday and I’m just now sending this out. I hope it’s still okay!

PSA: Formatting goes away when I copy-paste from Google Drive, apparently; this’ll be up on AO3 in a handful of minutes, too, if you want it with the italics intact.

Cyrus has never seen his lover shirtless. That may seem odd for some, since intimacy plays a large role in most relationships, but it's a level of comfort that Therion isn't at, and Cyrus doesn't want to push him.

It is ridiculous, however, when Cyrus returns to the inn one day after helping Ophilia with a request, turns the doorknob to their shared room, hears a loud crashing noise followed by a distinctly Therion-esque curse, and walks into the room in time to see the thief leaving casually against the wall, his chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath and......

Wait.

“Therion, is that my shirt?”

He even has the audacity to look mildly surprised upon glancing up at Cyrus. “Oh, hey. Didn’t see you there.” Therion looks down at the shirt he's wearing - long sleeved, too big for his small frame, yes it’s most definitely Cyrus’s - before replying. “Before I stole it? Possibly. It’s mine now, though.”

“I should have known you would say something of the sort.” He’s well aware of Therion’s ability to dodge questions, and it seems like the thief just isn’t going to let up. Instead of pushing the subject, however, he simply moves further into the room to sit on the edge of the bed. He doesn’t fail to notice the way Therion moves away from him ever so slightly, but tries not to think on it too much. Instead, he turns his attention to what looks like a splotch of dampness on the cloth covering Therion’s side, turning the usually pristine white fabric a faint green. His first assumption is a salve of some sort, which is corroborated by the small tub of pale green cream sitting on the bedside drawer. “Did you get injured?” He’s not particularly worried at that moment; yes, seeing his boyfriend hurt isn’t high on his list of welcome sights, but Therion can take care of himself, and seeing as he’s safe now, Cyrus can only do so much to fret over what was apparently already taken care of.

However, Therion shakes his head in response, denying Cyrus’s assumptions. “Nah. It’s just old stuff. Alfyn usually......” He trails off, and shakes his head again. “Never mind.”

It’s suspicious enough that Therion is so talkative, but even more so that he stops himself, and Cyrus frowns. “If something is the matter, then perhaps I can be of assistance?” He reaches out to at least place a hand on Therion’s waist, but stops, shocked when Therion pulls away even further.

“I’m fine.” His hands are at his sides, agitatedly resisting from curling into fists, and he glances away from Cyrus. “Seriously, it’s nothing.”

Cyrus can't help the confusion that laces his voice; once more, he's dodging a question, but it’s one that he already had half a mind to answer. As Therion moves to brush past him, Cyrus grabs his wrist, forcing Therion to stop. “What is possibly so important that Alfyn is allowed access but I....”

His eyes flicker between the tub of cream, the spot on his shirt and Therion’s face, and the question trails off. Therion looks to the side, refusing to answer what Cyrus has already pieced together by himself. “Do you get it now?”

He does, but it still doesn’t sit well with him. There's a lack of trust that Cyrus doesn't want to question, but being inquisitive is in his nature, doubly so whenever his boyfriend is concerned. It doesn't help that a bubble of jealousy had popped somewhere close to his heart when Therion had mentioned the apothecary. “Why?”

“Why what?” Asked casually, but with a bit of an edge; he’s back to being defensive, and it hurts, more than Therion may realize. It’s a habit that Therion has worked on, and while not perfect, Cyrus knows he’s at least trying to be more open, especially with the man he’s in a relationship with. But hearing him close up again....Cyrus has to wonder if there will ever be a day where he doesn’t have to push to be the support that Therion knows he needs.

“Why are you hiding from me?” Because that's what Therion is doing, and they both know it. It isn't just something being swept under the rug, it's as though he's retreating back into the shell that has served more as his prison than his home.

Therion is still as stubborn as ever. “And so what if I'm hiding? News flash, I’m a thief. That's what thieves do.” It’s not an answer that Cyrus wants. It’s dismissive, as if Therion is pinning the blame on some immutable property that doesn’t exist.

“It is your choice to hide.” He tries to keep the bite out of his voice, but he can't help it if a small bit leaks through. He pulls Therion closer, noting how Therion moves willingly, even if still hesitantly. It's a battle the thief is losing, maybe even one he doesn't want to fight as he turns to face Cyrus. Still, he doesn't look directly at him, instead opting to stare at the door.

Cyrus doesn't say anything, and for a long while Therion doesn't either, trying to maintain a stalemate that he knows he'll eventually lose. If Cyrus is one thing, it's too persistent for his own good. “I didn't want you seeing it,” Therion finally relents, still refusing to look at him. “Still don't.”

Cyrus knows he has a choice. He can ask why, again, and get either a half-hearted response or a sarcastic retort back. Or he can drop it, apologize and leave with a heavy reminder that they'll inevitably have to have to this exact same conversation again.

He's about to say sorry when lithe hands move down to lift up the ends of his shirt- but not the shirt that he's wearing. “Therion,” Cyrus begins, but he's stopped by an intense look. He can't describe it as mad, or even upset, but the intensity is still equal, and it makes him pause.

“This is what you wanted, isn't it.” Therion poses it more as a statement than a question, and gives Cyrus no room to reply. “I’m not going to say it’s okay, because it’s not. But you.....deserve. To know.” The way Therion struggles to admit it would be endearing under any other context, but as it is Cyrus just nods slowly. He’s already pushed Therion far more than he usually does, but as long as it’s of the thief’s own accord, he won’t stop the rolling stone that he’s already caused.

Therion slowly lifts up the shirt covering everything he wants to hide before discarding it on the bed and looking away, and Cyrus understands completely Therion’s hesitation from before. It would be a lie if Cyrus says that they're not ugly, but his distaste doesn’t come from their appearance; instead, they’re reminders of ugly actions against the thief. Slashes of varying sizes and depths litter his chest and stomach, while more prominent - and deeper - scars line the right side of his body. The single most painful looking scar looks like nothing but a large divot in his right side, closed up but still an obvious reminder of some type of puncture. Of all of the wounds, it’s the only one slathered in green cream, and Cyrus assumes it to be the most painful. He doesn't even want to begin questioning where they all came from, but considering Therion’s history.....he can hazard a guess. “They're not exactly beauty marks,” Therion grouses softly to break the silence, but despite the casual attitude, the way he refuses to look at Cyrus betrays exactly how uncomfortable he still is.

His exact choice in words, however, is what surprises Cyrus the most. “Is that what this is about?” He's almost offended at the insinuation; he prefers to believe that he doesn't come off as shallow as Therion assumes, if his fears of rejection are based purely on his physical appearance. “By the gods, Therion, I'm more worried about your wellbeing than anything else.” He traces his fingers over the lesser wounds, and while Therion lets out a shuddering breath, he doesn’t stop Cyrus. “I would never think less of you because of these.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Therion retorts immediately, as if it’s something he’s been holding back for a while. Maybe it is, and maybe Cyrus is still too dense to realize it. It’s more than Therion has expressed before, at the very least, and he can’t help but let a bit of his shock leak onto his face as Therion continues. “You’re flawless,” he says bluntly, and Cyrus knows it’s not meant as a compliment. “Smart, attractive, basically nobility....and if you haven’t noticed, people like you are usually targets, not friends.” And much less lovers, the sentiment goes unspoken but not unheard. “Can you blame me for-”

“Yes, I can.” Therion looks at him in surprise, the first time since revealing his scars that he's even turned to face Cyrus; he’s not one to interrupt others before they finish their thoughts, the result of being a professor for so long, but Cyrus doesn’t want him to finish that thought. It can only lead to nowhere good. “You’ve known me for gods know how long now, and you still have the gall to make these baseless accusations?” Therion says nothing in response, most likely taken aback by the outburst even if the reaction doesn't show on his neutral expression.

Cyrus, on the other hand, is clearly agitated, but he's still of sound mind. Realizing that getting mad would be counterproductive, he ignores every feeling in his gut telling him to argue more and instead grabs the cream off of the table, eyeing the scars that haven't yet been covered. “Show me what to do.”

Therion doesn't react immediately, but he eventually relents, taking the cream and rubbing it into one of the deeper scars until it fades into his skin. Cyrus follows suit, gently massaging the ointment into Therion's skin while avoiding the largest wound in fear of irritating the skin around it. He works in silence for a moment, trying to focus instead on the task at hand, before finally speaking again. He doesn’t address the previous topic, but whether it's out of courtesy or fear, even he can't tell. “Do they hurt often?”

“Not really.” Therion's muscles relax under every touch, stress dropping out with every application of the salve, and so Cyrus continues as he plays closer attention to Therion's words. “This is usually just a routine, but they actually did hurt today. Last time was after the fight with that ex-boss of yours.”

Headmaster Yvon; Cyrus remembers that as the day right before he had confessed to Therion. The threat of losing not only Therese, his most earnest pupil, but also Therion, the man he loved, had shone a whole new light on exactly how dangerous his situation was, and he had believed it an important decision to make in the heat of the moment. In retrospect, Therion had been groaning in pain, and he had told Cyrus to shut up and tell him tomorrow and no it's not a rejection don't worry just go away damnit, but Cyrus had assumed it had been from his wounds sustained during the attack, not any previous afflictions. “I apologize for not noticing sooner,” he says quietly after turning Therion around to tend to the scars on his back. They're lesser in number, a good indication that he at least knows better than getting ambushed from behind, but they still look like hell, and his fingers trail over them even after applying the ointment as an unspoken regret.

“You weren't supposed to,” is Therion's equally soft reply. There’s still a lingering discomfort at that thought, but Cyrus tries to tamp it down. Therion has already endured so much from him, and Cyrus is selfish for asking for more.

“It’s not like I hate myself for them,” he continues, trying to assuage Cyrus’s worries while still feigning nonchalance, and it’s true as far as Cyrus can see. There’s no self-deprecation when he speaks of his wounds, no malice against him or anything that’s caused the scars. It’s as if they simply exist, and it’s.....comforting, Cyrus supposes, to know that Therion has come to terms with his own past downfalls, even if he still isn’t comfortable with Cyrus seeing the physical reminders. “They’re just.......history, I guess.”

“They are your history,” Cyrus interjects softly, his gaze trailing over each one individually before looking back up at Therion, who still refuses to look him in the eyes. “But everything here is proof that your story has yet to finish. Yes, life might not have been gentle to you thus far, but it’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

Therion’s still quiet, and there’s a brief pang of worry in Cyrus’s stomach that he’s said something wrong again, but it disappears when the thief finally replies. “Idiot.” He’s shaking slightly, and Cyrus can feel it under his fingertips, skin brushing softly as Therion’s sides tremble. It’s not a bad tremor, though, if the way his ears turn red are any indication. It's the first blush Cyrus has seen on him since the start of their conversation, and he hopes that it's a sign that he's growing more comfortable after the tension from before. “No wonder people like you. You always say exactly the right things.”

Cyrus wants to laugh, wants to say that it only matters where Therion is involved, but he’s pretty sure that would be playing straight into his hands, and so he just smiles. “Are you feeling better?”

There’s a beat of silence before Therion replies. “Yeah.” It doesn’t sound like a lie, at least, and that gives Cyrus comfort as he reaches over to grab his shirt again and give it to Therion. However, he’s surprised when Therion refuses it, instead choosing to sit next to him on the bed, still shirtless. “It’s still weird, though.”

He takes that as a negative, and frowns, the hand that had moved to wrap around Therion’s shoulder instead resting on the bed. “Apologies. I....it wasn’t my intention to hurt you.”

Therion looks a bit surprised at the admission, before hiding his reaction under a smirk. It's a soft one, though, amused and disbelieving at the same time. “Intention or not, it’ll take a lot more than that to hurt me, Cyrus. I just need some time to get used to it.” As if proving his point, he reaches over to grab his arm and wrap it around himself, trying to relax at the touch.

It’s the most affection Cyrus has ever received from Therion, and he’s almost at a loss from the whiplash. From feeling untrustable mere moments ago to having Therion initiate contact he had been so adamant about avoiding, he doesn’t know whether or not the thief realizes just how nerve-wracking it is, not just for himself but for Cyrus as well. But it’s all right, he reasons as he holds Therion, fingertips grazing gently across tan skin and savoring the sensation as Therion shivers at the touch. After all, that’s all he’s wanted this whole time, for Therion to be comfortable around him, to not feel the need - or even the desire - to hide things from him. And if it takes more time, time spent together like this? Well.

“You have all the time in the world.”

[theriustraveler]

Therius - Meeting

Little writing about my take on how Therion and Cyrus would meet. I apologize if it’s OOC, I definitely need to study their in-game dialogue more. Hope it’s an enjoyable read nonetheless!

Click. Click. Click.

The fool’s bangle upon his right wrist sings a near constant song of shame with its single chain. It’s dull iron marks its owner as a convict. Undeniable proof of a thief’s humiliating blunder.

Therion shakes the words out of his head while rubbing at his wrist. He had wrapped it in bandages earlier due to the bangle already scraping against his skin. The bandages are lightly stained with the red of blood, only noticeable when he moves. There was no one to see it, however, out here in the east Atlasdam Flats. The thief needed to restock and rest before continuing his journey to Noblecourt and Atlasdam was a decent city. If the scholars are going to be overly obnoxious and much too eager to express their knowledge, Therion may just need a drink as well.

The rogue continues down the path, catching sight of the nearby sea and a stone bridge leading into the city. He crouches low as he walks, rubbing away the monster blood on his dagger and broadsword on the grass. Therion reaches the bridge and flips his weapons back into their sheathes. Quick and masterful hands pat himself down. Clothes seemed to be in their usual places. He runs a hand through his soft pale hair and ruffle it even more. His roguish look is complete- not that he particularly cared much for looks as he did for his reputation. The click of the bangle’s chain reminds him too often.

He walks into the busy, stone-built city. It appears considerably better compared to the other places he has thus visited. Afterall, Atlasdam is the largest city in all of the Flatlands and is a place of learning. Countless scholars and nobles have come here, especially for the Royal Academy and the Royal Library. The library is said to have many ancient and historical books. Therion smiles to himself at the thought of stealing in this city. Pickpocketing nobles is effortless but stealing a book from the Royal Library may prove a challenge with its security. The rogue reminds himself he wasn’t here to steal, however he also has time to burn and the amount of gold in his pockets doesn’t feel quite satisfactory. Lady Cordelia Ravus hadn’t given him a time limit to steal back her family’s dragonstones. He sets that task aside and continues to wander through the city. After walking along a lengthy pathway, Therion nears the palace gate.  He had passed a pair of guards conversing and learned that the library is to his left. Therion enters the building and gazes at the myriads of books around him, some in average book shelves and others in shelves that reach up to the second floor. Many scholars are present, all too busy reading to have noticed nor care for the new arrival. Only one woman, the librarian behind the desk, seemed to had noticed him. Therion takes notice to the door behind her. Special archives, he guesses.

Unbeknownst to the thief, there’s another set of eyes on him. A certain pair of pale, intelligent blue eyes that are appalled by the thief’s rugged clothing. The black caped man had seen a flash of purple above the ancient pages of his book and finds himself both intrigued and disgusted. This new arrival clearly does not wear the clothes or symbols of a noble. The dagger and sword at his hips hint more at a warrior than a scholar. The irises of his eyes shift from sapphire blue to emerald green in the changing light as he looks around. The scholar observing him from a corner, Cyrus Albright, smirks with pride. It was common for newcomers to be amazed at their large collection of books. Cyrus looks back down at his book. Strangely, he’s only able to read fifteen sentences before his focus breaks. The young man had been etched into his mind after literal seconds of observing him. He glances up from the pages once more and-

A thief?!

If Cyrus wasn’t so self-confident about his intelligence, he would have doubted what he had seen. But like usual, he knows what he saw. The blonde started walking towards the entrance and his light purple poncho betrayed him for two seconds, revealing a royal book as the clothing flew up. Cyrus immediately recognized the cover of the book and remembers reading it from the special archives behind Mercedes, the librarian. He looks to his right and sees the door leading into the archives is closed. Mercedes is standing there as if nothing had happened either. Cyrus frowns and shuts his book, sliding it back into place on the shelf. He rises from his wooden chair and adjusts his cloak, then walks over to Mercedes. He questions if someone in purple had slipped past her and she says no. Intrigued once more, Cyrus exits the building and goes to the nearest guard, just feet away. He finds out that a man in purple had headed downtown. After several questions later, the scholar finds his target at the tavern. A man in purple was easy to discern from the crowd and Cyrus finds him at the bar by his lonesome. There’s already four empty shot glasses by him and he lifts his head to down another one. Cyrus, quite uncomfortable in this environment, quickly walks across the room and takes the seat next to the blonde. He doesn’t notice him and keeps his gaze forward. Cyrus searches with his eyes for the location of the book on his body but doesn’t see any particular object shaped like a book underneath his poncho.

The barkeeper walks over to them and asks what Cyrus wants. He simply asks for an iced water and sees the blonde turn to him, confused. Cyrus turns to meet his gaze when the barkeeper walks away. Therion’s expression goes blank and he simply blinks, then turns back to his empty glasses. If he had recognized Cyrus, he certainly didn’t show a sign that he did.

“Dear friend,” Cyrus says, staring at the wall before him, “I believe you have a book that needs to be returned. I’m already tasked with having to find and return a different stolen book.”

“Why not get that one then?” Therion replies, looking down at the shot glass in his hand. The other absentmindedly taps on it.

“So you don’t deny stealing it,” Cyrus points out. Therion doesn’t reply until the barkeeper serves the scholar his water and walks away.

“I’m simply borrowing it,” Therion says. A tone of lightness and sarcasm suggests he isn’t completely serious about the matter. The fact that this thief had managed to slip into the archives… Cyrus must be cautious. Despite how horrendous his fashion sense is, he certainly has the skills of a masterful thief. The two weapons at his side suggest experience in battle as well; any normal thief would have one small, singular weapon like a dagger.

“Are you ‘borrowing’ it to sell it off?”

“Maybe. You were staring at me earlier in the library, do I seem like the type to come here for reading?” Therion puts down his glass and turns his youthful face to Cyrus, eyebrows raised in boredom and in question.

“You seem the mysterious type,” Cyrus says, raising his hand to his chin in an inquisitive manner. “And mysteries exist only to be solved. I believe you are a better thief than it seems and you had stolen the book to get my attention. Why?”

Therion hums his approval. “I heard on the street that a professor has to leave Atlasdam because of… complications, with a princess. You’re that professor, aren’t you?”

Cyrus frowns, considering where the thief was going with this conversation. He nods, nonetheless, saying, “Yes, that is me. Cyrus Albright. And I am going to go on a journey to recover a stolen royal tome. My ‘exile’ happened to be perfectly timed and allowed me to leave Atlasdam with a reason.”

“Then maybe you’d like to come with me,” Therion says. “I’m on my own mission to steal back stolen… items.”

Truly a mysterious one, Cyrus thinks. “I assume I’m not allowed to know what items you mean, but I do think I need to know your name. More importantly, why ask me of all people to accompany you?”

“I’m Therion,” the thief says with a slight incline of his head. “And let’s just say… I’m looking for a partner in crime. I have a good feeling about you. You seem sincere.”

“You want me to become a thief?!” Cyrus asks, shocked and eyes widening. Therion brings a finger to his lips and shushes him.

“Yes, absolutely,” Therion sarcastically says. He takes a deep breath and lowers his hand from his face. “Listen, I have a lead in Noblecourt for what I’m tracking down. A scholar like you could help me out there. You seem to have a knack for scrutinizing too. You help me, I’ll help you.”

Cyrus turns away and considers Therion’s words. Having a master thief with him could help him track down his own thief. He imagines that the young man wouldn’t fit in at Noblecourt, just like here in Atlasdam. His offer to help sounds genuine and rare as well. The scholar nods and turns back to Therion.

“You are a mystery still waiting to be solved,” Cyrus says. “I shall accompany you, Therion. Let us become partners, if not in crime.”

Therion smirks. “Then you’d best get used to my crime, Cyrus.”

[lunneus]

so i was in the therius tag lookin for therion/cyrus stuff and as i scroll down, i see this dude with longish white hair and fancy clothes and my sleep deprived brain goes

"why this dude named therius lookin literally like a fusion of therion and cyrus"

[coinsandmedicine]

Hey, Therius is my personal favourite ship with Cyrus, but what do you think about Cyrus x Odette? These two had a pretty nice chemistry and she deserved him more than... other characters... (cough Therese and Mary cough)

(Hmmm….. I don’t particularly ship Cyrus with anyone (since i see him as a booksexual person lol); Cyrus and Odette seems more like a Brotp to me… if I had to ship him with someone, it probably would be someone from the party, particularly Primrose or, unpopular opinion, H’aanit. But yeah, I agree that Cyrus and Odette have A LOT of chemistry.

My opinion on Therese wavers because of (*minor spoilers!*) Chapter 3, which I thought made up a little bit of her stupidity in Ch 1. Maybe it’s because she reminded me of another character similar to her that I really like (Juvia from Fairy Tail). That doesn’t mean I want her to be with Cyrus though:

1. Age difference, 2. Not much chemistry, like not as much as Cyrus with Odette, and 3. Which results in a one-sided relationship. Cyrus deserves a better person.

So yeah. Therius is kinda nice too; I don’t really have anything against it, and the only reason why it’s not really my ship is because I ship Therion with Ophilia. But it’s your opinion. And it’s my job to respect it. -mod scarlet)

[taleweaver-ramblings]

Shadowed Sanctuary

So, this took longer than it ought to have, but here's my piece for @inklings-challenge! I was Team Chesterton, which means I got to write intrusive fantasy. Oddly enough, I didn't end up going either of the routes I expected to take, instead ending up with . . . well, let's just say it's inspired by a particular post by @theriu and my love of turning horror wholesome. Enjoy.

~~~~~~

There was something in the church, and it sure as the hot place wasn’t a holy thing.

The wind screamed through the sanctuary windows and the steeple in the dark autumn night as Opal Seymour sat in the third pew from the front, knitting by candlelight. Her wrinkled hands looped and pulled the yarn in a rhythm so steady and regular she could’ve done it in blackest midnight and never dropped a stitch. And through each row of stitches, she sent up a prayer. Lord, be with Reverend Jordan; give him wisdom to lead the congregation and courage to not be shaken by the thought of haunts in Your holy place. Turn the work. Lord, be with my son, wherever he may be. Guard him and guide him and bring his heart safely back to you and me. Turn the work. That prayer had been said so many times, it was as much a part of the blanket as the yarn. Lord, be with Charles as he recovers from his heart attack; lay your hand of healing on him and keep it steady til he’s well.

Another turn. Opal eyed the space between the flickering altar candles and the massive cross hanging on the back wall, its lower reaches scored and scarred by great claw marks. And Lord, protect me as I wait for the thing that scared him into the attack.

She didn’t have much longer to wait. She’d knitted through only one more row (Lord, be with my son) when she felt hot breath on the back of her neck, too hot to be human. Her nose wasn’t too sharp anymore — it never had been — but even she could smell the blood and rot on each exhale, just like Eugenia Williams had told everyone half a dozen times when she declared she wouldn’t set foot in the sanctuary until the thing cleared out. That made everyone sit up and listen. Eugenia had sat and played piano at choir rehearsals, worship services, and her own personal practice for fifty years, and she’d budge not for power outages or riots or tornado warnings, but this had shaken her, and Opal could understand why.

Still, she hadn’t come here just to run at the first sign of trouble. Without so much as turning around, she said, “If you’re tryin’ to frighten me out of here, you’re wastin’ your time. Stop your lurkin’ and come out where I can see you.”

A low growl came from behind her. The hot breath moved on, accompanied by the scratching of immense claws on the wooden floor. The suggestion of a shadowy something appeared in the aisle, in the corner of Opal’s eye. She nodded approvingly. “That’s better. What do you think you’re doin’, creepin’ around our church and scarin’ people half to death?”

The shadow growled again. Opal turned her work. This’d be another protect-me-Lord row. If not for the fact that she was always cold these days, she’d be getting chills down her spine. “None of that, now. You talked well enough when you scared the elders out of their meetin’. What do you want with our church?”

“What is it to you, old woman?” The voice was anything but human: unnaturally deep and gravelly and seeming to come from everywhere at once and echoing off the wooden beams of the ceiling for far too long. “Do you think you can chase me out?”

The wind grew louder, rattling the windowpanes, howling like a pack of hunting hounds. Opal cast a quick look at the nearest candle as the flame fluttered and stretched, making sure it wasn’t going to spill hot wax on her work. “If I have to, by the good Lord’s will, I’ll send you scampering. But I want an answer to my question.”

“Too bad.” The shadowy figure paced up the aisle. It lingered by the altar, making a void in the candles’ light.

“None of that!” Opal snapped, using the same tone she’d used on her son when he was a boy of nine with a knack for trouble. The creature’s most frequent trick, she’d heard, was knocking over candles. “You set the church aflame, the whole congregation will be too angry to be feared of you. You’ll have a mob after you with torches and pruning shears.”

A pause. When the shadow spoke again, its voice had lost some of its growl, instead taking on a more familiar inflection. “I thought it was torches and pitchforks.”

“We haven’t been rural enough for that since I was a wee girl. Most folks, the closest thing we’ve got to a pitchfork is a rake.” Opal turned her work again to start a new row. She hated to repeat the same prayer two rows at once, but protection seemed a fairly urgent need just now.

“Rakes still hurt,” the being growled, with the tone of someone who knew from experience. The shadow prowled around the altar and then stopped. Though no eyes were visible, Opal got the sense it was watching her. “Why’s an old lady like you sitting here at night with a monster like me lurking?”

“Well, someone had to come and find out what you are and why you’re makin’ a mess of our church.” Opal paused to straighten out the twisted mass of her blanket.

“And the congregation’s so full of cowards they had to send an old lady I could snap in half without even trying?”

“Why someone else didn’t choose to come is between them and God,” Opal snapped. “I volunteered. Figured I’d survive or not as the good Lord willed, and I’m too old to be afraid of dying or the dead. Not as if there’s much left for me on this earth. My Richard’s moved on and savin’ me a dance at a heavenly party, and only God knows what’s happened to my son. Whatever it is, he’s not interested in me anymore. Anyway, it’s not the first time I’ve sat vigil in this sanctuary, prayin’ through the night. Won’t be the last either.”

“Hmph. Tell me about this son of yours.” The shadow’s tone had shifted somehow from scornful to curious. “Since you’re so careless about leaving him behind.”

“Careless? No.” Opal managed a sad laugh. “But he ran off when he was fifteen, and I’ve only seen hide or hair of him once since then. He came back when he was twenty-one. Wanted his papers and such. I hardly recognized him when he showed up. Drove up in a big black car and came out wearin’ black and walkin’ like he’d’ve kicked a pup that got in his way, with scars that said he’d got caught up in something evil. We asked him to stay anyway, Richard and I did, but he just laughed at us and drove off again with what he’d come for.”

“It sounds like you don’t have much reason to care, then, since he doesn’t.”

“If he doesn’t care, all the more reason I should. Still . . .” Opal sighed. “It’s been a long time since I saw Andrew. We tried reaching out once or twice, particularly when all that newfangled internet business made people say it was easy to find anyone. He doesn’t want to hear anything we have to say. He’s run from us and, worse, from the Lord. Maybe if my life wouldn’t reach him, me dyin’ would be the shock he needs to get back on the straight and narrow way.” She tilted her chin. “There. I’ve answered your questions. High time you started answerin’ some’a mine. What are you, and what do you want in our church?”

“What am I?” the shadow echoed, growling again. “Are you sure you want to know the answer to that, old lady?”

“Wouldn’t’ve asked if I didn’t, would I?” Opal reached the end of her row and lowered her knitting. “Seems you’re more than just a shadow.”

“You’re right.” Another growl wore into a sigh. “You want to know? Then look.”

The shadow gathered itself and became more distinct. There, between altar and pews, sat a giant wolf — no, not quite a wolf, even aside from the fact that it was still spectrally insubstantial. Opal had seen wolves, wild wolves, when she was a girl. This was something else. Too big, with teeth too long and eyes too narrow and yellow, with hulking shoulders and legs meant for something more violent than long runs through the forest.

She contemplated the sight for a moment, then picked up her knitting again, sending up another Lord, be with my son. “Well. You’re certainly somethin’.”

The ghostly not-wolf blinked its giant eyes at her, confusion and perhaps even disappointment practically radiating off of it. “You’re taking this more calmly than I thought you would. Most people scream. Some people faint.”

“Some people will scream at a ladybug.” Opal shrugged, though she carefully didn’t look at the wolf’s mouthful of pointed teeth or at the knife-like claws on the creature’s feet. “Anyway, my mother and father told me plenty of old stories. Told me which ones were true and weren’t, just like I told my boy, mistake though that might have been. So. Werewolf, are you? Still doesn’t answer what you’re doin’ hauntin’ round our church."

The wolf growled, low and long. "My business is mine."

"Yours and the Lord's, sure enough." Opal nodded. Wolf or not, this was familiar territory, and she made her next three stitches with a prayer of thanks. "But folks come to the church because they're lookin' for help."

"Or looking to make trouble. How do you know that's not all I want?"

"If trouble's all you wanted, you wouldn't've stopped when I warned you off the candles. You would’ve gone further than growlin’ and breathin’ down people’s necks to give them a fright. You wouldn't've howled ‘til help came when you scared Charles Wallace into a heart attack." Opal raised a thin eyebrow at the wolf. "Am I right?"

The wolf paced around the altar once, twice, ears back and head lowered. "Do you know what the Wild Hunt is?"

"I've heard tell of it. Evil creatures and unhallowed dead, led by the devil himself, screaming through the sky and dropping good and ill on folk at their whim. Never heard it was true."

"Oh, it's true." Familiar bitterness filled the wolf's voice. "It's not the devil leading them, though it might as well be. And it's not the dead that fill it, but once you're in it, you might as well be dead and damned. Werewolves are the hounds of the hunt, and we all dread the day we're summoned to it."

His voice lowered, and the glow of his yellow eyes dimmed as he drew into himself. "In the hunt, you're only ever the monster. You lose the man. And you're dead long before your body wears out. I won't die like that. So I came here with the hunt on my heels. They almost caught me on the doorstep. But I made it inside just in time."

"You came for sanctuary." Opal nodded, and as she started her next row, she sent up another prayer for the wolf. "What's your plan now? Haunt us until the hunt moves on, then leave?"

The wolf let out a quiet growl, hunched low. "That was my plan. But I'm half in the hunt already, and they know it. As long as I am what I am, I can't leave. And there's no way to change what I am."

"Bold words for someone standin' before the cross of our Lord."

The wolf let out a snort. “Don’t tell me you’re going to try to give me the whole sin-cross-death-redemption spiel.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. Seems to me you’ve heard it plenty before now.” Opal paused, an eyebrow raised. “Am I wrong?”

“No.” The wolf’s voice was low, though not quite a growl. “But this isn’t like those stupid stories the church bookstores peddle. My problems won’t go away because I say a prayer. Whether or not I wanted to make that choice, I’m a monster, not a man. And that can’t be fixed.”

“You’re more man than monster. A monster would’ve gone through with a kill by now — gone through and been cast out in the doin’. And if you’re a man, you’ve still got a soul to be saved.” Opal picked up the blanket she was working on and spread it out so it flowed over the back of the pew in front of her and puddled on the seat. “My boy ran off all those years. But I’ve kept praying for him — every other row in this blanket, near enough, is a petition to the good Lord on his behalf. There’s still hope for him. There’s still hope for you.”

A long pause. The windows of the church rattled with the wind. Then, in a near-whisper, “What are you saying?”

Opal huffed. “What I’m sayin’ is that you’d better unblock your ears and your heart and start listenin’ again to what I’m sayin’, Andrew Richard Seymour!”

The wind outside picked up. The shadows whisked back together, coalescing into the wolf far faster than they had before. The wolf shook himself, all the fur on his back standing up, his eyes wide. “What — how —?”

“You think I wouldn’t know my own son? I didn’t raise no fool, Andrew Richard Seymour. So stop actin’ like one and claimin’ you’re past savin’ when all you’ve done is get yourself tangled up in a nasty briar-patch. As if God couldn’t use the Wild Hunt to chase you back to himself!”

The shadows bled out of the wolf until it was as white as it had been black a moment ago, the only color its yellow eyes. The church windows rattled and shook so hard with the rush of wind around the church that Opal half expected them to crack. But her gaze remained on the wolf as he backed up the steps. “What are you doing?”

“I taught you the stories better than that. Think for a moment. A werewolf wantin’ to change just needs his flesh and blood to call him back to himself and maybe give him a good scoldin’ to make it stick.” Opal stood as the howling storm outside reached hurricane pitch. “And one last thing, Andrew Richard Seymour. You stop blasphemin’ God while you’re standing in His house. He can do whatever He dang well pleases, and that includes settin’ you to rights!”

With a final wail, the storm outside stilled. At the altar, the wolf shrunk, squeezed, shifted, until it wasn’t a wolf standing there but a man dressed in a short-sleeve shirt and jeans stained with dirt and blood. Scars decorated his arms and neck, some jagged and others precise. He collapsed onto his knees, staring at his hands.

Opal edged out of the pew and strode forward to the altar. She gingerly lowered herself on the step beside her son. “High time you were home, Andrew. I’ve missed you.”

“More than I deserved, probably.” Andrew looked up, his eyes brown now instead of yellow. “I said some pretty cruel things when you saw me last. And what I’ve done since . . .”

“Doesn’t matter. You’re my son.” Opal wrapped one arm around him and squeezed. “Now, let’s go. I’ll make up a bed for you at home and then the both of us can get some rest.”

[countarganan]

🔥? Dearest Therius

Send “🔥?” and my muse will admit whether they find your muse attractive or not @rexelectus

Therius blinked several times. "Whether I find Noctis attractive?"

The prince? The man he was supposed to be guarding? Therius had to take a moment to think about it before speaking carefully.

"Well...Noctis is a kind person. He's quiet, but he has good intentions. There's much that he and I both don't know about the extent of his duties, and I still don't understand why people call him 'chosen' and other labels, but...he is appealing - not just visually, but on the inside as well."

[eternitycyber-a]

“If you’re mad, why don’t you use your anger? Beat me at least once.” (from Therius to Elise)

@countarganan Training turned tension starters.

Elise was now literally infront of the young man,eyes just staring directly into his own deadpanned before hard slapping his left cheek with her very long mechanical white tail,strong enough to send him centimetres away.

"You're welcome~."

[doodlee-a]

theriu replied to your photoset: jokin-around: Tom hardy’s oddly small princess...

His lips arent SMALL are you kidding me??? Ive never seen such noticeable lips on a man, he looks like he’s making a kissing face half the time he’s talking! XD They are very pink though so Im not saying the comparison is completely without merit.

Hmmm... yeah, I don’t know why they called them small. Highly kissable, yes. And princess lips, yup. Because I swear, after I saw this post all I could see were his lips... it was messing with my head.