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that-foul-legacy-lover · 1 year

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Would it be possible for me to get a cup of ready made mint tea, strained or iced, with an almond float? Your tea sets are quite beautiful. I’m sure any of them would do nicely.

- John-non formats this as if it’s an actual order

Requests for this event are CLOSED!!

Mint tea is one of my favorite blends- delightful and refreshing, it's sure to pair well with a delicate almond float!

Let's see what this wish entails...

~ * ~ Transformative AU Scenario featuring Xiao

Hurt/Comfort

Transformative AU- An AU where the Abyss overwhelms you and turns you into something much like Childe’s Foul Legacy

Warnings for pain, allusions to dizziness, crying, panic, blood, injuries, fear

~ * ~

It hurts. You wake to darkness and pain, unable to move or speak. At first all you hear is silence, then odd, muffled voices that send twinges through your already-aching head. You’re being dragged, hoisted over a smaller person’s shoulder; their voice is drowned out by the ringing in your ears, but you can tell that whoever-it-might-be is tense, snappish. Vaguely you wish that you could ease their burden, stand on your own, but your bones and muscles refuse to cooperate, the slightest twitch sending sparks of pain through your body. The mumbled speech finally turns into true words as your head begins to clear, but you almost wish to retreat into haze again when the person carrying you begins an irritated lecture on how you shouldn’t have come here in the first place. Dazedly you frown. Where were you again? The last thing you remember was slipping on something, then an endless fall down, down, down into the darkness. You inhale sharply, struggling to even breathe, and a familiar whine echoes behind you, instinctive and terrified. Childe. Your heart breaks at the fear in his voice, fingers curling in an attempt to reach out and reassure him, and with a gasp he moves to close the distance, claws delicately holding your hand like it’s made of glass. Strange. You could’ve sworn his talons were larger. But even so the gentle touch soothes you to the point you feel yourself floating, slipping away to dream silent, colorless dreams, and just before you drift off Childe squeezes your hand, his way of saying “I’m here” and “I’ll keep you safe” before all fades to black. You can see the next time you wake up, the sunlight near blinding but wonderfully warm. Childe’s arms are wrapped around you, holding you close and desperately tight as a man with green hair and a spear speaks curtly in words you can’t quite make out. The stranger throws you one last look, worry swirling in his eyes despite his harsh words, and disappears into thin air with a sigh. Silence hangs in the air, and you open your mouth to chase it away, to ask Childe what happened. Your voice catches in your throat, and all that comes out is a pained squeak. Suddenly you’re more awake than you’ve ever been, lurching forward out of Childe’s grasp and staring down at your hands, new metallic claws shaking in confusion and terror. They’re stained with blood- your blood, and with dawning horror the awful pain of your body begins to make sense as you scratch at your face, fingers catching on the grooves and dips in the hard material. Shimmering, starry blood splatters over your palms and you wail, curling into yourself and letting out choked sobs as you try to disappear because everything in this body is horribly, terribly wrong. Claws snatch your wrists and pull them away from your face, Childe’s sweet coos and trills breaking through your cries. He looks at you, tears shining in his beautiful single eye only to be quickly blinked away as he tugs and holds you, thumb stroking your cheek like you would do for him whenever the nights were dark and stormy. It grounds you, brings you back to reality, and you latch on and squeeze tightly in the hopes that it’ll mend your frayed nerves and sense of self. Childe tilts his head closer, carefully licking your tears away and letting out low murmuring noises to hush your own terrified whimpers. He begins to lean against you, the weight of him and his love for you warm and comforting, and you find yourself burying your head into his lilac fluff, just like you would when you were human. His talons ruffle your own fur, gliding over your hair and idly playing with the ends, combing out tangled strands of fluff and whisking them away. Slowly, bit by bit, Childe chips off the dried blood that covers your new body, brushing you off to start anew. Occasionally he nudges one of your many wounds on accident and you let out a distressed squeak, grip tightening as the gashes sting and burn and Childe mumbles apology after apology, gently caressing your tearstained cheek. It hurts. I know, starlight. I know. You’re halfway to sleep when he finishes his task, mind exhausted and weary, and you lean heavily on Childe for support. He coos to you, setting you down on the soft ground before settling partially on top, curling the rest of himself around you like a warm, fluffy blanket, and you feel slumber beginning to creep its way towards you once again. For a moment you struggle, reaching out for Childe, until his hand grasps yours and intertwines your talons with his, a rumbling purr emitting from somewhere deep in his chest. For a moment, you wonder if you’ll ever be able to make a sound as sweet as that. You’re so tired. Everything aches, but less so, the comforting weight of Childe against you drowning out the panic that threatens to overtake you with every minute in this new form, and you feel him squeeze your hand once again. Rest. Rest deeply and quietly. He’ll keep away anyone who dares intrude, anyone who wants to harm either of you, and in the morning you’ll figure out what to do. But for now, sleep, regain your energy, and he’ll help you learn how to live again, just like you did for him all those months ago.

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iwillberunningfromdemons · 5 months

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"I might as well turn back here and now," Toc said.

She raised an eyebrow. "You lack confidence?"

"Lady, I'm no Seguleh. I'm not an ay on the edge of ascendancy. I'm not a T'lan Imass. I'm not a dog that can stare eye-to-level-eye with a Hound of Shadow! And I'm not a witch who can boil men alive with a snap of her fingers!"

"A witch! Now I am offended!" She advanced on him, arms crossed, eyes flaring. "A witch! And have you ever seen me snap my fingers? By the Abyss, what an inelegant notion!"

He took an involuntary step back. "A figure of speech-"

"Oh, be quiet!" She took his face in her hands, pulled him inexorably closer. Her full lips parted slightly.

Toc tried to pull away, but his muscles seemed to be dissolving around his bones.

She stopped suddenly, frowned. "No, perhaps not. I prefer you... free." The frown shifted to a scowl. "Most of the time, in any case, though you have tried my patience this morning."

She released him, studied his face for a moment longer, then smiled and turned away. "I need to get changed, I think. Senu! When you're done, find me my wardrobe!"

Toc slowly shook himself. He was trembling, chilled in the wake of a sure, instinctive knowledge of what that kiss would have done. And poets write of the chains of love. Hah! What they write figuratively she embodies literally. If desire could have a goddess...

Memories of Ice, by Steven Erikson (Malazan Book of the Fallen #3)

#i don't blame toc i think i'm also in love with lady envy #malazan #steven erikson #malazan book of the fallen #the malazan book of the fallen #memories of ice #books #fantasy books #fantasy literature #book quotes #dark fantasy #dark fantasy books #epic fantasy #high fantasy #lady envy #toc the younger #books and reading #books and quotes

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thesorcerersapprentice · 4 months

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✦ C U C U F A T E ✦ CHARACTER PROFILE

Cucufate is Altaluna's (the protagonist) main ally in The Sorcerer’s Apprentice. Under the cut, you’ll find his complete profile! *I'll update this page as I come up with new details.

TAG LIST: (ask to be + or - ) @the-finch-address @achilleanmafia @fearofahumanplanet @winterninja-fr@avrablake @iced-ginger-tea @wildswrites @tate-lin @outpost51 @d3mon-ology @hippiewrites @threeking @lexiklecksi

I D - CARD

✦ Full Name: Cucufate or Cucuphas (I borrowed the name from the patron saint of petty thieves and kyphosis). Pronounced: "cook - ooo (as in "goo") - fa (as in "fa-la-la-la-la") - te (as in "telephone"). ✦ Age: Unknown ✦ Sex & Gender: Irrelevant, but I'm thinking male? ✦ Physical Description: Cucufate is a culpeo, a South American canid otherwise known as a Paramo Wolf or Andean Fox (although it bears a striking resemblance to the red fox, it's actually more closely related to wolves and coyotes). ✦ Occupation: One of Valeriano's Abandoned Projects.

INSPIRATION

✦ Socrates & Bartleby: (*I'm in the process of rewriting this section, as it isn't very clear. Thanks for your patience!) Cucufate is based on two figures: the ancient philosopher Socrates and Bartleby from the short story Bartleby, The Scrivener by Herman Melville. What I wanted to do with Cucufate was find a way to have an animal speak without necessarily resorting to a 'human' voice (a voice that furthers our aims, mimics and thus elevates our culture, clarifies and informs etc.). This is where Socrates and Bartleby enter the picture. They both provide a language model that subverts standard communication. For instance, despite being the primary character in Plato's Dialogues and one of the most famous philosophers of all time, Socrates makes no positive or prescriptive claims (thou shalt not blah, this is that etc.). Instead, he talks in (flattery &) questions, undermining any certainty his interlocutors might feel by prodding and probing their knowledge of x, y & z until they are forced to reveal their ignorance (this is known as Socratic irony). Socrates' speech is thus a kind of anti-speech. If it spotlights a topic, it does so only to reveal the immensity of the darkness that sustains it, its lack of substance. Indeed, whenever Socrates opens his mouth, he widens the abyss that will eventually swallow his interlocutor's thoughts and beliefs whole, and terminate the discussion (silence). Hence, Socratic dialogue successfully humiliates and confuses us. It strips us of that very human arrogance, our intellectual bravado, so that we too can become wise: so that we too can share in the wisdom of knowing that we don't know. Doesn't the natural world do the same? Isn't that precisely the horror of climate change? Bartleby, on the other hand, taps into the ambiguity of certain language formulas. His signature phrase "I would prefer not to," which he repeats whenever he's asked to do his job, expresses a hypothetical that... never seems to go anywhere? It's the Schrodinger's Cat of phrases, simultaneously dead and alive; he'd prefer not to, but... will he or won't he? Yes. The ambiguity, the inaction of it, dumfounds and incapacitates his employer. Bartleby's speech thus provides an example of a language that resists, confounds rather than clarifies, and complicates rather than simplifies. Like Socratic irony, Bartleby's masterful use of the conditional and modal auxiliary verb "would," disrupts the status quo. Because Cucufate's speech pattern draws from both of them, he becomes an effective helper to Altaluna; by engaging with her, he counteracts the temptation to think along the lines of a simplistic, "heroic" fascism (good vs. evil, light vs. darkness, us vs. them), and forces her instead to adopt a more nuanced stance, capable of aptly handing contradiction and ambiguity. (*Appropriated from this post).

✦ Cunning Intelligence in Greek Culture and Society by Marcel Detienne & Jean-Pierre Vernant: "When Oppian describes the cunning of the fishing frog squatting in the mud, motionless and invisible, he compares it to the fox: ‘The scheming fox (agkulómetis kerdō) devises a similar trick; as soon as it spots a flock of wild birds it lies down on its side, stretches out its agile limbs, closes its eyelids and shuts its mouth. To see it you would think that it was enjoying a deep sleep or even that it was really dead, so well does it hold its breath as it lies stretched out there, all the while turning over treacherous plots (aióla bouleúousa) in its mind. No sooner do the birds notice it than they swoop down on it in a flock and, as if in mockery, tear at its coat with their claws, but as soon as they are within reach of its teeth the fox reveals its cunning (dólos) and seizes them unexpectedly. The fox is a trap; when the right moment comes the dead creature becomes more alive than the living. [….] If the metis of the fox is immediately detectable in its skill at playing dead, it is dazzlingly apparent in this sudden reversal. In effect, the fox holds the secret of reversal which is the last word in craftiness." (pp. 35-36)

#WIP: THE SORCERER'S APPRENTICE #writeblr #writeblr community #writers of tumblr #writers on tumblr #wip #writing community #writblr community #wtw community #writblr #writer community #the sorcerer's apprentice #CHARACTER: CUCUFATE

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dmagedgoods · 1 year

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Zinnia?

It's finally time to answer the flower prompts. I combined the three I got into a small story, each with its own chapter. 🌷🌸🌺 22. zinnia - remembrance for those gone ~ Funeral Flowers – Part I (to Part II) (to Part III) “And therefore, we are not only bidding our farewell today, but we are also celebrating a life full of unequaled accomplishments, a life lived to achieve goodness and righteousness for our glorious nation.” Iomedae’s cleric fell quiet and instead, a chant swelled with heavenly force until it filled the spacious square, the pillared temple straight ahead, and the high building flanking it where they stood and followed the speech and deferential presentations. The choir’s voices were bright and jubilant despite the wistful melody and as clear as singing from the outer planes. The stony eyes of the goddess watched in silence and serenity and so did he, his expression as cold and unreadable as the face of Iomedae’s statue below the gallery of the city hall. Daeran had made true to his threat to spend the day in unbothered merriment and to only show some decency with the gowns he wore, his perfectly tailored coat with the silken shirt, straight-cut pants, and waist-long cape all black and adorned in subtle elegance. It was only now that his act crumbled, the cracks in his performance allowed a glimpse of what lay underneath: The deep pain and loss. Salvadore felt something inside of him grow even harder, even colder, like a chunk of ice filling his chest, displacing every warmth and hope. Carefully, he reached for Daeran’s hand, but he withdrew from his touch. Instead, a mocking smirk appeared on his lips, emotionless and cruel, more a grimace than a smile. “Oh please,” he snorted. “Don’t tell me you expect me to fall for this gaudy presentation because they invited a group of children with pretty voices.” He had spoken loudly enough for others at the gallery to hear. Glances were sent his way, some offended, some even genuinely hurt. Salvadore tensed. A rush of anger mixed with his fear and suffering. Before he got the chance for a sharp reply, Daeran stepped back from the balustrade. “Excuse me.” With his, he turned around and left through the arched doorway leading into the building. Salvadore didn’t even find the words to phrase a diplomatic apology to elicit leniency for the Count’s behavior from those around him. This was his fault, all of it. Every guest, every resident, every observer, they all suspected, rightfully, that he would raise a claim to the throne. But none of them was even able to imagine that the celestial Commander of the Fifth Crusade, conqueror of the worldwound, Primarch of the Wounded Lands, was the one responsible for their beloved queen’s death. No. She had picked her own fate with her decision to send him to the Abyss, to give in to her jealousy, to march to Iz during his absence, badly prepared after she had managed to destroy all his efforts of the last year within a few months’ time and eventually stand there with barely anything to use against Deskari and his hordes. He hadn’t had a choice but to save the people first, to preserve the knowledge needed for the goal they had shared. The risk she had taken, the duty to hold out, it was the price of rulership. And you hoped and even knew that she would fail and die, the malicious voice in the back of his mind replied, a throne in a destroyed land would never have been enough for you. You wanted Mendev and her death would pave the way for you. And there it is, in the palm of your hand. Salvadore straightened his posture, burying those thoughts deep within. This wasn’t the time. Now more than ever, those people needed his guidance and strength. He wouldn’t waver but stay true to the responsibility he had chosen, true to his way, like Galfrey had stayed true to hers.

#pathfinder wotr #pathfinder: wrath of the righteous #daeran #daeran arendae #galfrey #queen galfrey #knight commander salvadore #oc: salvadore #my ocs #my writing #dmagedtexts #flower prompts #funeral flowers #thank you so much for the ask!#💗#and sorry it took me so long ;;

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silcosentropy · 2 years

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Imagining yourself a hero?

Arcane fic, one shot, Silco

TW: OC character death, graphic violence, whump, feral Silco, act 1 Silco

The overcast sky above the cannery is dripping venom. Zaun’s neon lights dyed it chartreuse green and yellow, preventing even that little comfort of starry night to anyone with enough dreams to still look up.

Clip certainly doesn’t look up. Oh no. No, not only he won’t look up, he can’t wait to look down. Straight down at his former boss once he’s done with him. And that will happen tonight, because the Silco’s schedule for this week is still fresh in Clip’s memory. He thanks Janna that he took the time to actually read his plans for the week before he got the boot.

And all that because of a simple mistake…

* Clip’s first month on the job. He’s a mercenary, though he’d be the first to admit he’s not the best one. A street thug one hires to break another man’s jaw when he doesn’t pay his debt in time. Why Silco hired him is a mystery to Clip. He doesn’t belong.

The man is unhinged, Clip thinks when he watches him go after his business during the dull evening. Everyone is doing their own thing, these idealists that let Silco pay them with hopes and dreams and speeches. Clip doesn’t bother to remember their names. The creepy scientist is gone to his lab, thank Janna for that little blessing. The heavy hitter woman is nowhere to be seen, possibly out doing some odd job Silco assigned her with. One of them is taking apart a gun, carefully cleaning every fragment of that old thing. The other is forging something.

Silco is restless, making even Clip nervous.

Clip just brought him some new information. It means nothing to him but, clearly, it means everything to the short, narrow man in front of him.

“He’s expanding…Spreading.” He whispers to himself, eyes fixed on the map of Lanes, Clip brought him updated with his observations after a week of asking around. Clip despises that voice. It’s quiet, slow, flows like ice cold water, trickling over syllables and nuances with theatrical pleasure. It’s a bit hoarse, as if his vocal cords were damaged at some point. And it purrs. It vibrates in Silco’s throat when he prolongs vowels, it hisses when he lingers on his S. And when he gets mad…oh it’s worse. The soft hum turns into a feral bark, Any fricative produces a spray of rabid saliva when he’s fierce enough to not control himself.

Clip isn’t sure if he’s aware of it but he sure would like to MAKE him aware when he hisses out ‘spreading’, spitting the word out as though it’s poisonous.

His eyes gleam when he’s fierce, just as he is now. Clip is not all that terribly disturbed by the scarred side of Silco’s face. It’s hideous, sure, makes him look like a shark from the deep abyss where all is deadly and horrible, that black sclera, that flattened cheekbone, even that glowing iris. No, Clip has no problem with that. He wouldn’t touch it, but he’s seen worse down in Sump.

What does unnerve him is that good eye.

It’s both sane and completely mad. The only part of Silco’s face to be deeply expressive, making his thoughts transparent as a contrast to that opaque left side of his face and deceptive mouth.

That right eye, pale, deep set, guarded by a sharp cheekbone and a thin eyebrow, makes Silco as easy to read as a book. And that’s why Clip hates it so much.

How the fuck did this man, this scrawny little thing with waistline the size of Clip’s biceps, how did he make it to adulthood here in Zaun when he allows everyone to read his thoughts just by looking him in the eye? And how about before he got his face rearranged? When it was still symmetrical and fully human, how come no one slit this easy victim’s throat years ago?

That odd, short outburst of rage is gone as fast as it appeared and Silco relaxes, shoulders lowering, trapped breath escapes his lungs in something like resignation. The left part of his face remains unreadable and demonic, the right one becomes sentimental, eye downcast and partially closed as he looks somewhere off to the side in a deep thought. Clip stays still, unsure what to do. Does Silco want him to stay and listen to whatever he’s clearly going through right now? Should Clip leave? He tries to clear his throat to ask but Silco straightens, leaning on the desk with one arm while tapping a knife to his bottom lip thoughtfully. “Vander claimed another district. Isn’t it interesting…he was never a conqueror. And Silt, nonetheless. What is Silt infamous for, Clip?” Clip groans inside as the monologue becomes a dialogue.

“Don’t know, sir. Uh, low prices?” The shark profile with that gleaming red ring for an eye slightly turns towards him.

“Almost correct, it’s a black market. A competition to the Lanes, if you will, ever since the two of us started our little smuggling adventure. Now, why would he close a deal with Silt, I wonder…” Did the dialogue switch back into monologue again? Clip scowls. Silco makes him feel stupid. It upsets him that he has to decrypt his syntax like this.

He makes a decision and opens his mouth.

“Maybe he’s expanding business?” The gaunt, sharp face snaps to him and Clip recoils a little. That was obviously the wrong decision, Silco didn’t expect him to pitch in his two cents, he seems surprised Clip is still there.

Silco looks away again, sits down into his chair, immediately hunching over, practically folded in half, slim legs crossed. He covers his mouth with one hand and absently taps the knife to his right temple with the other. Then he shakes head very slightly. “No, that doesn’t make sense. Vander pulled out of the smuggling business years ago. There’s something more going on. Who have you seen entering the Last Drop?” “The regulars… Then the four kids, those go in and out all the-” “Irrelevant,” Silco interrupts him impatiently, one knee rocking a little, “Anyone you don’t know? Any of the chembarons or…” He pauses, clearly feeling he’s tapping into something, “Enforcers, perhaps…?”

Clip shrugs. “Two of them, twice.” “When? In context with his trip to Silt?” “First time before he went there, second time the day after.” “And?” Silco’s voice is impatient and Clip hates how intense his face is right now. Clip grits his teeth. “And what?” “And how did it happen? Did these two enforcers rush in, did they arrest anyone, did they leave in a hurry?” “They came in, normal. One stayed outside the whole time, the other came back out ten minutes later. No arrests, no rush. Both times.” Clip cuts each word, becoming progressively frustrated. Silco freezes, then slowly uncoils like a snake. He leans back on the chair, so deep it creaks even under his featherweight. Arms on both rests lay loosely, head cocks to one shoulder, turning its left profile to Clip again.

That fucking eye doesn’t blink. Clip wonders if it sees. “He made a deal with them…” Silco whispers. There is a long pause. So long, Clip feels that maybe he could leave. Then suddenly, out of nowhere, Silco bares his teeth, thin lips peeling back, the relaxed face turns fierce. He moves faster than a feral cat, swinging one arm violently across the desk and sending its contents scattering across the floor: “THAT TRAITOROUS MORON!” the soft voice turns into a mad scream. Clip steps back instinctively, wondering if he should retreat now, but it seems to be over. Silco sits slumped, head in one hand, hair tousled now. “Get out, let me think…” he whispers.

His voice sounds pathetic, like that of an old man. Clip is tired of this. He’s a mercenary, not a spy. “Boss, if I can-” “You can’t. Get out.” Silco doesn’t move. “You should just kill him. If he’s getting into your business, just let me get like two guys and get it over with” he offers. He knows he sounds almost desperate and hates that Silco made him feel that way. Clip is NOT desperate. Not ever.

Silco’s hand lowers, exposing his uneven face and mismatched eyes. They’re furious. He doesn’t say anything but he slowly stands up and walks towards Clip as he continues pleading “It would be fast! If you want. Or slow! Seriously, I can do him in either way. You want me to knock him out, drag him here, I can question him for you, I know how to question people!” Silco keeps walking and the raw rage in his face is making Clip step back. He doesn’t know why. He never steps back in front of anyone. Why is this little rat making him feel like he’s just a small kid? He keeps talking, unable to stop, as he’s stumbling backwards. “Look, I’m a thug! I’m not some fucking idealist or a visionary, I kill people! I beat people, I’m good at that! Let me show you. I’ll bring you Vander’s head, that’s what you want, right?” His back makes contact with a solid wall and he has nowhere else to go. Silco stops, inches away from him, jaw tight and those terrible eyes so intense Clip wants to cry. He has that knife, too. That little thing, a letter opener for someone Clip’s size. He could knock it out of the slender hand with a single twist, breaking a finger or two in the process but for some reason he can’t move. “Why did you even hire me then?!” he shouts and his voice breaks. Oh, that hurt… The fact that his voice broke. Nothing this humiliating has happened to him since he was five and his older sister beat him into a pulp in front of his friends.

Silco relaxes, just a little bit. That intense rage is still there in his face but he’s not advancing anymore. “Why did I hire you? I hired you because you are infamously terrible at what you do. You’ve not had much luck with your…field lately, Clip.” His voice drips venom.

When Clip doesn’t reply, Silco shrugs.

“You messed up the last two jobs in a rather comical way, or so I’ve heard, and I understand you’ve spent the past month drinking yourself to death in the docks. Moonshine would rot your brain within half a year, wouldn’t that be a shame? But I’ve seen potential in you, boy. Oh yes, you have great potential. Perhaps not as a hitman, but maybe as an informant.” “W-what?” is all Clip manages. How is this man, a head shorter than him and a third his body mass, looking DOWN at HIM?

Silco pulls back a little, his pose almost nonchalant as he looks at the knife before putting it back into its place by his belt. “It’s too bad you have nothing but senseless violence in that head of yours. You could have been a valuable asset. Oh no, please, don’t think I would fire you just because of this little misstep. After all, not knowing about what the Hound of Undercity means to me and my plans is not your fault. However, “ his thoughtfully downcast eyes snap up to Clip, “I can’t have around someone who would propose unreasonable domestic terrorism with such ease. Who knows what you would do if left unattended. No. I need my people to be reliable and likeminded, and you are neither. Goodbye, Clip.” Silco turns his back on him, walking back to the desk.

Clip’s teeth chatter in sheer rage.

That was a week ago. Clip left, telling himself he’s doing so because HE wants to, not because Silco made him feel like a helpless child. He left because he won’t be berated by some scrawny, shark-faced, demented idealist.

He spent the week moping around the docks, getting eaten away by rage and frustration, trying really hard with all his might to understand WHY Silco had such an effect on him. Or anyone for the matter.

The conclusion he came to was a simple one. There was no effect. None but carefully chosen words, forged to confuse Clip and cut him down, beat him to his knees, tear off the years of street life he spent to become a tough man, until nothing was left but a fragile skeleton of insecurity.

And for that, Clip wanted to meet Silco one more time.

He NEEDED to face him. This…boogeyman, monster from the dark corner of his mind with those glistening eyes and thin, cruel lips, the fluid motion of slender limbs, and cold little smiles, just barely exposing those weird, sharp teeth that might have been crooked but more likely were chipped years ago by someone’s knuckle.

Clip would love to be the one that did it, snapping Silco’s head back with a jab straight to that snake mouth, watching his lips burst, blood flood his weak chin.

But alas…someone else already claimed that trophy. But maybe, just maybe there were other virginal places of Silco’s body and face he could mark with his fists or boots.

However, he needed to see if he CAN do this at all. He needed to stand face to face with his monster, a man that made him feel small and dumb. And if he can do it then…then maybe he’ll teach this smug bastard how to talk to people.

Which is why Clip came back a week later, brass knuckles snug around his right fist, waiting in the shadow of the cannery and desperately hoping Silco didn’t decide to change his plans. He remembered well what his former boss was up to today. The man has no routine, he operates on whims. But Clip knows well that from time to time, there was a meeting to attend, or an informant to meet in another part of the city. And this was such a day. On his first day working for Silco, he overheard him telling that huge woman he was able to get a meeting with someone who’d possibly work as a double agent between him and Piltover. Some young man, dissatisfied with his position - a skittish man, originally a Zaunite. Clip remembered this because he offered to bring this man in if he’s so skittish, and Silco gave him the coldest glance he’s ever received from a living human being. No. Silco will meet him personally. No bodyguards, no tricks, no weapons. The man he was meeting was concerned for his safety and Silco wouldn’t risk scaring him.

Silco was deeply excited about this meeting, hoping to close a good deal with the boy, and there was not a chance in the world he’d be late.

Clip knew he would come out soon and alone. He watches the others leave for a drink. The massive, tattooed gorilla, the amazon woman, the lanky mechanic, all of them had left a while ago and that smug bastard Silco would be coming soon too.

Clip grips the brass knuckles better and smiles. And then they’ll have a little talk.

Silco is punctual. He leaves the cannery some ten minutes later, and just as he promised (that naïve soul), he is alone and unarmed, beside that silly knife he drags around like a good luck charm. Clip can barely believe it.

He’s smoking a cigarette, a poorly rolled foul thing that hangs between his thin lips, bobbing up and down slightly every time he inhales. He looks to the neon colored sky, taking the cigarette from between his teeth, spits, adjusts his vest, and begins walking. Clip follows.

Silco stops once he reaches a side street.

“Back for your last week’s pay?” he asks without turning to look at Clip, who freezes, shocked he’s been spotted. Silco turns his head slightly. “Now I understand what the rumors meant when they said you are somehow awkward at your job. A child would spot you, Clip. What do you want?” He finally turns to him partially, never giving Clip enough respect to face him fully.

Clip grinds his teeth and strides towards, steps thudding. Silco’s eyes harden but he doesn’t back up. “You slimy, creepy little Sump rat, you HUMILIATED ME!” Clip growls. Silco is tensing. Clearly, he’s cautious. Clearly, he knows what Clip is about to do. And clearly, and that’s what makes Clip the most mad, he’s unwilling to turn and run. His eyes under the deep frown are wide and glisten in the green light of the street lamp.

Oh this small man is about to fight before he would flee.

It’s almost brave of him.

Almost.

Maybe he didn’t expect the brass knuckles.

Clip’s fist swishes, cutting the fumes-thick air in half. It makes a meaty thud as it connects with the smaller man’s left cheek. Silco softly grunts, a sound more automatic than defensive. His head snaps to the right, swinging his body towards the direction and Clips grins fully. He’s so fragile, so weak. This pathetic wannabe revolutionary stumbling after a single punch, just how dumb is h-

A blade flashes the green neon light upwards in a nearly straight line as Silco shoots his hand up. The knife he retrieved from his belt a split second before Clip struck him, slashes through the larger man’s forearm like it was made of butter. Clips screams and steps back.

Silco straightens, squares his shoulders and cocks his head to one side. The grey flesh on his left cheek where Clip hit him isn’t swelling, but it seems the old scar going up from his mouth cracked open and an odd mix of violent purple and crimson red blood is now trickling down his chin.

“It has been some time since my last fight.” Silco rasps and lowers a little, knife ready, in a fight stance.

Clip makes an ugly realization as he’s gripping his heavily bleeding forearm. It won’t be as easy as he assumed previously.

Clip roars in rage, sounding to himself like a wild animal. A quick step forward, a jab, Silco narrowly dodges. Straight into an uppercut of Clip’s left fist which buries deep under his ribs, folding him in half. He hacks a cough, spitting bile and saliva. The hit lifts him off of his feet like a ram from a hydraulic hammer. Clip doesn’t hesitate, stepping back to grab Silco by the right wrist. His bones feel sharp and exposed in his iron grip. He twists and the sound of Silco’s panicked breath tickles his senses. Something snaps in the smaller man’s forearm, making him cry out. The knife leaves his fingers.

It never meets the cobbles. Clip catches it skillfully as it falls and with all his might rams it into Silco’s left thigh.

This time he screams.

A blood curdling howl leaves his lungs as he falls to one knee, the crude, brown handle of his knife jutting out of his thigh, blood seeping through his poorly stitched pants. His eyes are wide and mouth open in clear agony, spit dripping between his teeth in pathetic ropes as he doesn’t try to control himself. Clip lets out a single bark of satisfied laugh, then kicks him hard in the center of his chest.

It forces Silco on his back with a surprised gasp. He inhales sharply when Clip lowers to one knee and grabs the front of his vest, lifting him roughly. This is what he wanted to see.

The shark face is terrified and shocked now, lips parted, mismatched eyes darting over Clip’s face when he bares his teeth at him. “You are no monster, little man…You’re just a pathetic, weak jackass who likes to listen to himself.”

He pulls back and sends a punch into Silco’s left temple. His head snaps in the opposite direction and then slowly returns, stupidly rocking in daze.

Clip smirks. Blood is streaming down Silco’s temple and into his hair. “Can’t make your face much worse on the left side, huh? Someone already took that from me. Thank Janna for the right side…” A straight jab splits Silco’s lower lip on the right, blood gushing into his mouth and down his chin. Clip is enjoying himself, he leans closer, observing that glowing red ring for an iris. “Can you see from that eye? Better hope you do…” Silco doesn’t want to be hit again. When Clip aims for his right eye, he turns his head, mustering enough strength to try and kick him, teeth bared. His slender body struggling under Clip’s knee is hilarious, barely making him lose his balance. He grips Silco’s front with both hands and slams his head down to the cobbles, rewarded by a yelp of pain when the back of his cranium hits the ground. The resistance continues, the shark man is stubborn, so Clip thrashes him again.

This time Silco’s body goes limp, head leaning back with those burst lips parted and teeth covered in blood. His eyes roll back into his skull slightly as he’s deeply shocked by the impact.

That’s when Clip hits him again, hard, across the right cheekbone. “You are not my monster…” he mumbles as he hits Silco again in the same spot, breaking capillaries under his skin and raising a welt.

“You are not…” Another hit splits the skin on the bridge of his nose, sending a spray of blood out of the nostrils.

“...my monster!” The last hit goes into the right cheekbone again, stronger than the previous, and something crunches in the man’s orbital bone.

Clip breathes heavily, eyes dilated and drool dripping down his chin. His fist is still pulled back, knuckles bloodied, but the rage is subsiding as Silco stops moving underneath him.

Clip lets out a shuddering breath and lowers his fist. Enough. He’s dead. He’s dead for sure. Or will be soon. If he didn’t hit his femoral artery with that knife, he will probably die of a brain bleed in minutes or hours. No one will find him, no one will be looking, not this close to the cannery.

He stands up, trembling when the adrenaline starts leaving his body. He watches the pathetic form of the man beneath him. That left eye, unable to close, is rolled back into his skull, a cracked scar on the cheek covered in some brightly purple liquid that certainly isn’t blood. Left thigh is soaked in crimson, right wrist visibly broken, purple and slightly misshapen. The rest of his face is a mess of swelling bruises and bloody streams, making the scarred side almost better looking for the moment. No matter. He’ll be dead soon.

Clip spits at him, leaving a slimy glitter of his saliva on Silco’s chest.

“Not my monster anyway…” he turns to leave.

Should he have taken the knife?

In retrospect, probably.

But Clip is not the smartest egg in the basket.

Silco thinks so anyway, when he forces his broken body to roll on one side. It trembles, every tendon, every bone, every damn muscle screaming at him to just stay down but he fights through it. It’s inexplicable, the pain he feels, beaten half to death and concussed enough to see double and blurry.

There are all different types of pain and he knows them all. Oh, does he know them well…

If Clip took the time to ask him HOW he survived till adulthood, shorter than average, weaker than majority, maybe he would have told him.

The pain of water entering his lungs, exploding in his chest like fire.

The pain of toxins ravaging the nerves of his eye, a feverish nightmare that feels like it never ends.

The pain of his throat being crushed by the hands he thought would protect him forever.

That of a gunshot wound, leaving shrapnel in his side.

That of a slash across his stomach, that of a stab in the back as the knife scraped through his ribs and into one lung.

The pain of a broken bone, maybe from a fall when he measured his leap across the roofs too clumsily, maybe from a fist breaking a rib or two.

The pain of beating, leaving a bloody nose, a black eye or two, a sore jaw.

The pain of humiliation and betrayal.

And nothing, not the broken arm that creaks now as he uses it to stand up, not the knife slicing through his thigh muscles when he climbs to his feet, not the broken eye socket that makes him feel like his head is upside down, nothing hurts more.

He steadies, takes as deep of a breath as the battered ribs allow him, and tears the knife, his own damn knife, out of his leg.

A limp turns into a stride, numb fingers clench on the handle.

Clip is…not a very sharp man. You don’t leave a corpse while it’s still warmf. Only dust is truly dead down here in Zaun.

He spins him around, his eyes widening into a maniacal, feral grimace, bloodied mouth gaping open baring the predatory teeth. He might be screaming although he can’t hear himself.

Clip seems only surprised when Silco swings his blade in a wide half circle and stabs it deep into the side of Clip’s throat.

Clip gurgles, choking on his blood. He reaches for Silco, but the smaller man won’t let him touch him again. He steps back, heaving, and watches Clip with glistening eyes as he claws at his throat, blood spraying out in arterial spurts, choking, reaching, perhaps begging, eyes filling with tears of terrible fear as he understands the inevitability of this moment.

Silco waits until Clip slows down, ghastly white and barely wheezing in that puddle or crimson on the cobbles. Then kneels and stabs again, and again, and again, as many times as his broken arm allows him before it stops cooperating.

This is how he survived.

This.

And Clip won’t be the first or the last to try and kill him.

But bruises fade, broken bones mend, concussions heal, and wounds scar over and he will be here tomorrow, with a new scar and a battered face, crooked to one side to soothe the broken ribs, limping maybe, but he will be here. And Clip certainly won’t. Not after twenty stabs to the head.

His arm finally gives in. Silco screams in pain and frustration and falls back, half sitting, half lying on the ground. He kicks furiously with his good leg. Kicks into Clip’s side, despite knowing he’s dead. Again and again, mad with rage, consumed by pain.

And then he can’t do even that anymore, collapsing backwards with an exasperated sob. He’s panting, heaving, trembling, tears of stress running into his hair making clean ways through the blood. His chest jumps up and down.

His leg…did Clip hit an artery? - he remembers suddenly.

No, for sure not, he would bleed out already.

He manages to curl and hold the wound, pressing his thumb into it partially to stop the bleeding.

He lies there, besides the corpse of Clip who imagined himself a hero, curled a little awkwardly and finally resting. His broken arm clumsily reaches into the vest for his cigarette box. He manages to take one out but his fingers are too stupid right now to light it up. The cigarette soaks red between his lips.

He rests. Just for a little moment. He will be late for his meeting with Viktor, that careful man he hoped would help them.

Late…

The concussion takes its turn finally and Silco feels himself dozing, exhausted and nauseous.

He needs Singed, he realizes. And he needs him rather urgently. Singed might not be a real doctor, but it wouldn’t be the first time he’d put Silco together.

That meeting…

He really needs to see that boy…

#arcane #silco #fanfic #whump #graphic violence

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nelithic · 7 months

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Her encounter with Lord Rafal had been cold. While she wasn't expecting a warm welcome with hugs and laughter she was hoping to at least see him happy. Sadly he simply told her the way to find Lady Nel. As happy as the thought of seeing both her Lord and Lady made her... she was hurt by the distance their interaction showed.

Zelestia put on a strong face, if she was to have another reunion she would make it a happy one! But her expression seemed more of a sad cat trying to smile than someone ready to be bright and bubbly.

Perhaps it was the way she was carrying herself that landed good luck on finding her way around the Abyss as her Lord had called it. Though some had wary eyes placed on her—nothing she wasn't used to by now but wouldn't judge them for it—a few kind souls guided her to find her Lady.

When a sad little eye spotted the person she was looking for she picked up the pace, her steps a sweet mixture of happiness for seeing someone dear and a knights bliss as seeing their liege well. "Lady Nel!"

To see her again truly was a great joy despite not all reunions being sweet ones. With teary eyes—more like a waterfall—she opened her arms as if going to give her a hug but stood in place instead. "I'm sho habby to shee you!" Noticing her own speech she took a deep breath, it took her a few minutes to calm down but after inhaling and exhaling over and over, she tried to speak in a more pleasant way. "Have you been well? I hope you have been taking it easy and that you are making many friends of course! And as your wind i'm here if you ever need anything."

the sudden shift in seasons had proven nearly as much a trial as the prior winter had — a winter that, as she understood it, had never truly existed, instead the product of a shade-like fabrication, modeled by a force she did not fully comprehend. this force, cavernous and seeing yet just out of reach in much the same way that the nature of fódlan's dragons & the crest stones had been, appeared to roil just beneath the surface. it is this that has lingered distantly on nel's mind since returning to a new and unbroken spring, the mountainside of garreg mach touched by a vernal warmth as though snow and ice had never reached the eaves and starvation had never lurked beyond their doorways, gnawing as the wolves did.

"lady nel!"

she turns — as she would for anyone. and the use of ' lady ' strikes her belatedly, a jarring division between this world and the last. she is made to remember again suddenly that such a title does not belong, and that this is not elyos.

but the face and figure that greet her are.

it is as though color had walked out from a painting, flowing along the ground towards her from a gallery which had long been consigned to the walls for display. color in black and cream and gold, in rose-wrapped horn and bronzed skin, all of it out of place amid the shadows of the abyss where only torchlight lived, making sallow hues of the water and stone.

so stunning is it that she hardly registers the tearful greeting, the arms outstretched, the bewildered stares of onlookers. she must truly look like the statues she had often before been accused of resembling, grasping at nothing for how to respond.

where had she come from?

how had she come here?

and would she not prove to be yet another shade — the name and face of an elyos that had since shed its skin, but a self belonging to another elyos that still thrived?

yet nel finds that the part of her that raised barriers in caution to the potential of some trick or imposter or disappointment fell beseiged now to the part of her that had desired, since waking, even the ghost of something familiar. had sought it in griss' uneven likeness without thinking; weighed it with warmth and loss any time she spoke to rafal; acclimated herself to it with slow and steely reconciliation in the bracelet emblems made flesh. in a world where separate realities converged and different annals of time could be made to coexist within the walls of one academy, could this not truly be zelestia?

... in a dragon's lifetime, miracles are not such elusive things. and here they seemed more possible than usual.

"... zelestia."

she sets down the woolen blankets and supplies in her arms she had been in the midst of moving. produces, from somewhere within the bundles, a plain towelette which she then offers to the woman. an ordinary gesture — wooden, even — as though to somehow compensate for the shock still forcing its way past all the means she has to disbelieve. "you seem like you could use this."

it settles in, then, as much as she permits it to. that somehow, zelestia had found her way here. of all the winds, she does suppose this makes the most sense; a thousand years would mean as little to her as it did for herself and rafal. managing at last a faint smile, nel shakes her head; she knows it is all said in good faith, and that it has been a long time, but she does hope zelestia has not forgotten who she is speaking to, with this talk of taking it easy and winning many friends. allies at most, perhaps; more than she had expected.

"... i had not expected to find you here. not after..."

... no matter. she looks up again, gaze resting kindly on the foremost of her winds and the staunchest of those she had known. "it is good to see you again. i am certain much has happened. i would hear of it, if you would tell me."

spring, indeed, had come again.

#——— ⟢　𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐓𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐄𝒆𝒅𝒆𝒏𝒔 】₊　zelestia.#carinyoses #this..... got away from me kjnKJSBGKS #but thank you for sending aster !! this was v sweet.......

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stxrmnight · 6 months

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The Claws of the Griffin

Since this heavily involves Nemi's personal history, more walls of texts. There are some good gposes here though.

Finding of a cache of crystals being procured by the Ala Mhigan resistance, Nemi's legs almost buckled, specially after witnessing what happened to Ga Bu. Though it was only a new faction that seemed responsible, this still meant the Ascians were preying upon their suffering. This was far above what any mortal could handle, as much as she understood Wilred's feelings that one day...

Though she knew better than to fall for deceptive platitudes, the False Griffin's speech did make ice pierce through her chest. If she'd spoken to more than just her father about where their village's crafts were going, would they have changed course? Could they all have fled like she did? But she herself saw that if in numbers, the Eorzeans of the west were not merciful nor plentiful because of the Empire's tighter hold in the prior days... the speech was not fair to the meager means the fellow refugees had, unless there were more Ala Mhigans with asset power? Just like Raubahn...

Finding Yda and Papalymo again warmed her heart instantly, and she would have hugged them if she did not feel shame that they actually were doing something, even if, she was more preoccupied with things thrown at her in Ishgard. The information on the Griffin and Yda's jest dropped her in thoughts though: Sure, Yda did wear a mask, but she was not hiding where she was from like it was a danger. With her name cleared, why did Nemi still feel reluctant to reveal her heritage?

The reveal that the Griffin Impersonator was none other than the one she saved with the medicine in Gridania... her jaw slacked to the genuine gratitude he expressed to her example despite their dissent in methods. She pulled on her robe and begged him that, no matter what they did, they never did it alone and with losing sight of the life they want to see thriving. They shouldn't lose focus like she did when Estinien took Nidhogg's eye.

Though Papalymo admonished Yda for being touched by the False Griffin's words, Nemi later took her aside and expressed her sympathy, understanding her frustration with the right factors not yet landing for a full forray into Ala Mhigo being possible. She debated telling her she's also Ala Mhigan, sharing what Ilberd said back then and express her fear he had recognized her identity, but she didn't disclose.

After the Warriors of Darkness were gone and M'naago's wounds were nursed, Nemi tried not to show her awe for meeting a resistance member of the mainland, someone so expert and enduring ro make it all the way to Mor Dhona. She wished to ask her many things once healed but, alarms had to be rung.

Her friends' discontent with political fealtries really made her giggle. She wasn't insane for finding the matters tepid either, even if she understood the necessity. Good thing she never had interest for these things.

When the time came to incur in Baelsar's Wall and stop the summoning, Nemi would be knocked her off her stance with Blast Power. The Griffin hasted to hack at her claymore and make her tumble, grabbing the front chain of her armour and beholding the truth tattoed on her now uncovered right eye.

"I knew it. You are one of the lost village."

"Lost?"

"Oh, where have you been prodigal child? Would you like to know the answer?"

Nemi snarled and kept fighting, finally breaking his stance before the others arrived. He revealed the meaning of his plans, and Nemi felt in a flash all the wrath, frustration and grief the pressures of the empire had forced on her life in different ways crawl out of her chest. Was that a stroke of emotions found, or had the allusion alone ripped out her feelings to aid Shinryu's summoning?

Before falling to the abyss, Ilberd looked firmly into Nemi's eyes and beseeched:

You, you are the proof Rhalgr's Fist can descend to bring true judgement. Burn brighter with these embers. I see the longing for freedom in your eyes.

To this echo, Nemi could not move a muscle, but she could simper with restraint and cant her head in a slight nod to Ilberd's mission. She could not jump to that tower to stop him so, might as well not lie to a man in his last moments of desperation.

Profound extra writing aside, seeing these two made her chuckle.

If Shinryu is restrained just after making a fatal blow to the Gaerlan barrier, everything will be alright, right?

She probably was not the only one gazing at the skies, watching in awe a battle of giants that would not cross again. As the protective wards barely held around the Garlean fort, Nemi hoped there were no people living on the other side of Baelsar's Wall.

Well, that is as far as the free trial let me go back then. A long time of waiting would pass... and Nemi's story would really incense.

#hw #story #gpose #.///cc #///y #ilberd #lyse #alisaie

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digitalsatyr23 · 7 months

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Creatures of Arachnia (Cold Terrain)

A compiled list of different creatures that can be encountered in especially cold climates in Arachnia, from the snowy forests of Wyravaen to the glacial plains of Cayuvia. Some creatures are inspired and adapted from myth and legend, whereas others are unique to Arachnia. Read on if you're curious about its polar denizens!

Abyssal Wolf

Description: "This gigantic black wolf stands over 10ft tall from its front paws to its ears. It has cold, pupiless grey eyes that gleam with malicious intent. Its snout is long and the lines of its mouth make it seem like it could swallow a person whole. Its upper back is especially pronounced, with dense fur and muscle, almost like a grizzly bear, whereas its lower back and legs seem oddly thin by comparison."

Lore: Abyssal wolves are feared predators of the tundras. The stuff of dark fables and ghost stories, they are said to have originally been born in the seven hells, only to somehow make their way to the material plane. It is unknown if they are intelligent or capable of speech, but they do possess an unnatural cunning and measurable cruelty that far exceeds other wolves. Most disturbing of all, abyssal wolves seem to appear and disappear without warning. One moment nothing is there, but after the winds pick up, they simply appear, staring you down. Those who have proven themselves strong enough to take down these supernatural predators have learned their fur is magical in nature, able to mask their presence when exposed to snow and winds. But then… That would imply that abyssal wolves would possess similar abilities. If this is the case, then it's possible that an abyssal wolf could be watching you, and you'd never know…

Pale Mantis

Description: "Slicing clean through the ice, this oversized praying mantis has silvery blue chitin, large yellow compound eyes, and sharp scythe blades for arms. Standing well over 8ft tall, this creature has a long body, four thin legs, and two antennae. Between its large eyes and antennae, it also has three see-through bumps in a v-formation."

Lore: Pale mantises are cunning ambush predators that live in snowy tundras, mountains, and frost-covered forests. Their arms grow incredibly durable and sharp bone ridges, which almost resemble metal, and use this to slice apart their prey. Special pigments in their bodies that they can control allow pale mantises some level of camouflage, and they use this to blend in with their environment, sometimes mimicking trees or ice crystals. Their vision, hearing, and sense of smell are extraordinary, and it is likely that a pale mantis will notice you long before you notice it.

Yeti

Description: "This powerfully-built white-furred ape man has a round head, gleaming red eyes, sharp teeth, five-clawed hands, and three-toed feet. Almost all of its body is covered in thick, shaggy fur, though what skin can be seen is very dark. It wears a colorful, decorative sash around its waist, and steam billows from its nostrils."

Lore: Originally named "Migoi", these creatures of the snowy mountain peaks are said to be servants of Nyttania, the Goddess of Creation and Destruction. They are intelligent if rambunctious spirits that will take up residence on mountain tops in order to either protect sacred grounds or ward off travelers from entering dangerous caverns. Their fearsome appearance inspires dread and panic, and misunderstandings are quite common between yetis and mortals. During these altercations, a yeti might attempt to snatch up an attacker and stick them to their bodies, slowly draining their body heat until the person passes out - though a yeti is capable of healing any damage this does to a person. Indeed, yetis are knowledgeable of a great deal of divine and healing magic, and use purified water and large cauldrons in order to "cook" wounds and diseases out of a person. It is said that yetis can multiply asexually, with balls of fur falling off of them suddenly sprouting hands and feet. Though they are able to use magic right away, yeti children still take time to learn speech, and often will speak gibberish such as "Harumph!" when trying to communicate with others.

Frost Drake

Description: "This oversized predator stands around 8ft tall, and is about 20ft long from tusk to tail. They have four legs, with their front legs acting as their wings, with a thick webbing between their wrists and backsides. Their scales are pale blue and green, they have a yellow underbelly, their eyes are a fiery red and orange, and their large tusks, growing out the sides of their heads, are a pale yellow. Sharp ridges grow along its head and back, all the way to its tail, which ends in a thick bony club."

Lore: Frost drakes are a variety of drake that live in snowy mountain ranges and connected forests. Though capable of limited flight, they tend to use the harsh winds of the cold north in order to glide and conserve energy. When walking on all fours, the ends of their wings point upwards as they walk on their four-taloned feet. Distantly related to dragons, drakes are not capable of speech, and behave in much the same way a predator might, hunting, protecting its territory, and fending off creatures targeting its mates and young. A frost drake uses its tusks to deadly effect in combat, but their primary use appears to be for marking territory. These tusks are ground against several trees, leaving deep, easily visible gashes in the bark. If you happen to stumble into a forest with large gashes across each tree, you might have stepped into a frost drake's territory! It might gore you with its huge tusks, tear you apart with its sharp fangs, rip you to shreds with its claws, or even freeze you solid with its chilling ice breath. When they feel threatened, frost drakes fight with a reckless abandon, flailing with all their might to strike down their perceived foe.

Shantak

Description: "An eerie black beast with a smooth, rubbery hide, a hooked beak for a nose, six beady black eyes, and notably horse-like teeth in its gum-exposed maw. Its front legs are also its wings, tall thin spines grow across its backside, and it has a long slender tail. While easily 12ft tall, it keeps its head and long, thick neck lower to the ground, as if to stay at eye-level with you."

Lore: Shantaks are said to be beings from all across the Elsewhere. Legend speaks of these nightmarish beasts soaring across the stars and roosting in snowy mountain tops in foreign worlds. They only speak in Aklo, and their hot steamy breath smells of death and rot. It is easy to tell if a shantak has been in an area recently, for their bodies naturally secrete a slippery black slime, soiling the land wherever they tread. While their origins are as yet unknown, some (incredibly) brave scholars have managed to speak with shantaks in the past, presenting the creatures with food and… Other forms of bribery. Shantaks describe themselves as "travelers" and "lovers of new sights, smells, and tastes." They seem to prefer feeding on intelligent prey and see non-sapient creatures as beneath their palate. Sometimes described as "shantak-birds", their bodies are covered in countless small, smooth, and oily scales. They only mate with their own kind, and females (?) produce incredibly large eggs said to be rich in flavor. At least, that's how the story goes. The only man said to have eaten a shantak-bird egg mysteriously disappeared after writing about his experience.

Altero

Description: "This creature is shaped like a megaraptor, standing at around 6ft tall with snow white fur, yellow reptilian eyes, three-clawed small arms, thick legs ending in three-taloned feet, and a thick feathery tail. Though it appears reptilian in nature, it has swept-back deer-like ears, feathers growing along the sides of its arms, and great feathery wings."

Lore: Altero are cousins to dragons, being intelligent, cunning, and capable of magic. They build stony citadels inside snow mountain peaks. Like dragons, they're capable of shapeshifting and will sometimes take on the guise of other races in order to ease diplomatic ventures. Their size, intellect, and shapeshifting prowess has made them useful in the Xenshin courts of Wyravaen as courtiers. You might even encounter one on the docks to check you in should you venture to Wyravaen via ship! In their culture, rather than wear fancy crowns, the leader of a given clan has ownership over a large drinking goblet, often made of gold and other precious metals and gems. This cup is known in the common tongue as the Chalice of Authority. The quickest way to please an altero is to present it with a gift of gems, jewelry, or valuable minerals (such as gold, silver, or platinum). Altero tend to have a "posh" and proud personality. It's not to say that they view themselves above other races, but they do carry with them a strong sense of self-worth.

Ocean Wyvern

Description: "A truly gigantic creature that measures 80ft from nose ridge to tail tip, with a wingspan of 200ft. It has a smooth, pale lavender hide, two short legs ending in three talons each, and a long, flat, slightly round head similar to a fin whale. It has two small black eyes, a blowhole on its back, and its wings and tail seem reminiscent of a manta ray."

Lore: Ocean wyverns are one of the largest species of wyvern in all of Arachnia. Known to travel great distances by sea and air, they hunt by swooping down into the water and scooping up huge amount of krill, fish, and whatever else gets caught in its gigantic maw and baleen. Like other wyverns, they are capable of speech, though they tend to be a bit dimwitted, and their poor eyesight does not help this matter at all. Their large size has led scholars to question its capacity for flight, and the body of an ocean wyvern was found to contain unique organs that are still being studied, with one being unusually light for its size. Because of this, it is theorized that some form of gravity-resisting magic allows the creature the move the way it does. This may also explain another phenomenon that happens with these beasts. Due to hunting in the waters and flying away when they're satisfied, they have been known to accidentally carry off ships on their backs. The crew of these ships found that the ship stayed balanced on the backside of the creature, and the harsh winds did not blow anyone off of it. Ocean wyverns tend to be found in the cold north, though they sometimes migrate further south, circling around the edges of the Acid Sea in search of prey.

Googoo Bird

Description: "A large bird 20ft long from beak to tail feathers. It has a round, white feathery body, a stocky neck, and a beak that seems perfect for scooping up water and fish. Though it has wings, they appear to be too short to be used for flight. Its eyes are round and dark, and its beak is pale pink."

Lore: A species of flightless bird that hunts fish and (occasionally) other birds, such as seagulls. They bear a resemblance to albatrosses and are entirely peaceful, never attacking people despite its size. Their legs and webbed feet are incredibly strong, though, so one must take care not to anger a googoo bird, lest it kick you through a wall. Its name is derived from a sound they are known to make, which sounds like a rattling "goooooogoooooo". In the past, tribes of humanoids would ride these creatures as mounts in order to cross between islands or fish. Their main predators are large sharks (which googoo birds can kick away) and sea serpents (which googoo birds cannot kick away). Googoo birds travel in flocks as large as thirty, and when threatened, the flock will either flee or fight together, scratching, pecking, and kicking their foe to death. Googoo birds are used to the cold and can be easily spotted from snowy coastlines.

Marak

Description: "This deer-sized creature is covered in thick shaggy white fur. Moving on six three-taloned legs, it has a lithe and swift body, as well as a long, thin, fuzzy tail. It looks at once like a mammal and like an insect, with its four dark eyes, feathery-looking antennae like moths, and thick smooth chitin on its underbelly. Its head is notably round, with sharp fangs inside its mouth, as well as mandibles bordering its maw."

Lore: Maraks are a type of snowy forest creature that feeds primarily on frozen carrion. Scurrying about through the snow, it scavenges for food among the leftovers of larger predators, as well as the bodies of those who have succumbed to the cold of their homeland. Though they primarily walk on all six legs, they can actually stand up on their back four legs, grabbing and examining things with their front legs in much the same way a raccoon might pick something up. Indeed, maraks are known to find all manner of trinkets and baubles and take them back to their burrows for safe keeping. It is said that the larger their hoard, the more attractive they are to females - which are much larger than males, and a great deal more intimidating. Fertilized marak eggs are spread all throughout a marak couples' burrow, each being about the size of a human eyeball. Competition among marak young is fierce, and it is said that freshly born maraks will quickly fight and devour each other until only a handful of capable young remain. This sense of bloodthirst seems to leave them as they grow, for a fully grown marak is more curious and peaceful than creatures typical of the frozen north. This cannot be said if you threaten a marak's young or treasure hoard, however. Almost as if a switch is flipped inside of them, a marak will go from a friendly creature to a bloodthirsty predator in the blink of an eye. Because of this, it is highly advised to never go near mother maraks or marak burrows.

#arachnia #arachnia fables #fantasy #dark fantasy #my writing #writeblr #worldbuilding #fictional fauna #fantasy monsters

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abyssonance · 2 months

Text

CEASE

THE

DISTURBANCES

#abyssal speech;ic #pogo event be like

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time-was-over · 1 year

Note

(Surface)

4 17 29

(Sunlight Zone)

8 20 24

(Twilight Zone)

4 5 8 27 29 30

(Midnight Zone)

13 15 19 20 21 22 23 29

(Abyss)

1 2 3 12 27

(Trench)

3 7 13 14 18 24 30

Unsure if it was an ask game or not but I'm asking anyways. Answer each question for the character(s) you'd have most fun with their answer for, feel free to skip numbers or add ones if there's any you really want to say that I didn't put :)

*cracks knuckes* let’s go. i’m doing this with the agents because i have a more solid understanding of their personalities than my other splat ocs

surface

4: i’ll answer this one with sigma (agent 4). her species of squid (bobtail squid) is nocturnal but she functions diurnally

17: iota (agent 8) is really good with hardware for electronics (especially computers). if you have a virus he’ll hit your computer with a hammer and it’ll work fine. he’ll explain what he did in excruciating detail if you ask.

29: iota absolutely cries easily. he cries when he drops his ice cream scoop on the ground. he would cry the hardest if he was all alone and didn’t know where anyone was.

sunlight zone

8: epsilon (cap) cannot cook. like. at all. they have a tragic lack of vegetables in their life because of this and orders food from fast food restaurants all of the time.

20: sigma has LOTS of friends. not a lot of deep-bond friends, though. if you asked her, she’d probably say something like “idk man. like at least 12.” she only tends to make surface level friends because she doesn’t really think too hard about friendships. she’s independent.

24: psi (new agent three) HATES talking. like he does sometimes, but he finds it way more interesting when someone else is talking. she is also socially inept.

twilight zone

4: HOH BOY. epsilon isn’t quick to anger, but when they do get pissed, uh. don’t expect to not get decked when they see you. with petty opinions nothing really comes to mind except for like. hating the french jellyfish because he’s an asshole

5: psi has scopophobia. it hates being perceived at all actually

8: sigma has a tattoo of a steelhead on her forearm because her partner is a steelhead that moved to splatsville because it got bored. she looks at it whenever she’s sad. bonus: her partner has a squid tattoo on its right fin

27: epsilon has a shit ton of piercings. they went to a place to get them done once and got their ears pierced. they went back a week later. they got them because an old woman had a lot of body mods and they were like ‘what if i was a cool old person. with piercings’

29: oh my god okay. so epsilon talks really slowly and uses filler words a lot. so they’ll be like ‘and so ummmmmmmmmmmmm. you should uhhhhhhh.’ for the entire conversation. sigma talks really, really fast and really really loudly. she wants to hold your attention for as long as possible. she also breaks eye contact all of the time and will walk in circles when excited or agitated. iota is mute but when he uses sign he’ll accidentally sign words twice. psi will not make eye contact at all and litters his speech with swear words, even when around young children.

30: all of them do. most common to least common:

psi, sigma, epsilon, iota

midnight zone

13: psi defaults to flight. as much as she’d like to pretend she’s tough, her brain automates to running away from difficult situations, which also catalyzes a lot of problems she has.

15: epsilon loves writing. they will write constantly. they keep a little notepad in their pocket with lines of dialogue they come up with suddenly. they have an extensive vocabulary and are pretty eloquent (except for the fact that they go ‘uhhhhhhhjhhhhhh’ every two seconds)

19: so all of them have pretty good vision except for iota, and even then, his vision is moderately bad. he can’t read well on a whiteboard from 20ft away, but honestly, who can?

20: iota just. cries. he worries about everything, but he isn’t completely helpless. he does what he can to stop stressing and goes out of his way to get rid of the stressor.

21: epsilon used to not be able to, but they’ve started to get into poems. they help a lot with relaxing

22: i feel like iota would have splatoon geocities as his only form of social media. he would have an incredibly elaborate theme and 500 blinkies

23: sigma likes cheese puffs or even just cheese. yum. she keeps processed cheese in her locker inside of a cooler so she can eat it in between matches

29: psi would use the dab for The Funny

abyss

1: epsilon steals things from makomart sometimes.

2: if tearing armies apart counts then yes for all of them. they were just kinda like ‘please have respawn machines bro’

3: sigma has a ton of scars because most of what she does is salmon run. she gets bit by chums and cohocks. the few exceptions are from her running into doors.

12: psi did that when he was younger, but he’s trying not to. she still does it in small ways, but nothing major, and she tries to apologize afterwards

27: boring answer, but no. psi probably used to believe in whatever religion is most commonplace but stopped

trench

3: (cw: sigma sees her mom dead) when sigma was 6, her mother died from cardiac arrest. it was jarring. her father was especially heartbroken and became extremely depressed. he began to neglect his kids because of this. the memory that stands out to her is walking into her parents’ room and seeing her mother slumped over in her chair. she thought she was asleep and didn’t say anything until her dad walked into the room and saw her. at first, she blamed herself for that, but she received counseling.

7: epsilon struggles with balancing work and life. they work themself to exhaustion and have no time for hobbies. iota has to make them stay home when they’re sick.

13: sigma is enigmatic. nobody really knows what’s going on with her. it’s not really because she doesn’t let people in, it’s just that nobody really asks. the few people that she’s told everything about herself to are her girlfriend and marie.

14: to psi, love at first sight is a fairy tale concept that doesn’t have any place in real life relationships. in his mind, you can’t really love someone in a romantic way until you really know them and you’re willing to give everything to them. she’s also never had a partner, so take every she says with a grain of salt.

18: iota loves watching pet videos. they make him laugh a lot and it relaxes him. it’s very easy to make him nervous so if he pulls out his phone and starts watching videos, it’s because he got scared.

24: no but i do have a couple non agent ocs who have

30: sigma got her arm bit off by a maws once when she couldn’t get out of the way in time. she walked off of the helicopter and stood in front the mr grizz statue before he said ‘Holy shit.’

#long #splatoon ocs #sigma (oc)#iota (oc)#psi (oc)#epsilon (oc)#can you tell who my favorite is. (it’s sigma)

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