#herald of rot

[ninamodaffari]

So happy to finally show off my final piece for the Tome of Pacts zine I feature in.

This is Hagne, the Herald of Rot, and faithful servant to her Patron, Cicardia. Her look was inspired by several things -- death masks, pomegranates, worn bronze, flies and centipedes. The butterflies she carries feed on death and decay. Hagne herself felt the cold embrace of the grave, but was blessed to find herself given another chance. She will not fail.

I am so honored to have been a part of this project, and this is one of my favorite pieces to date. I hope you guys enjoy it as well. :)

#hagne #herald of rot #art #my art #concept art #illustration #character design #cw: bugs #cw: pomegranates ;) #costume design #tiefling #dnd oc #warlock #she brings death and decay to wherever she goes #you want her to be your gf? love is eternal after all...

[esealia-art]

The Champion of Light

#warcraft #world of warcraft #warcraft art #furry art #artists on tumblr #worgen #world of warcraft art #my art #es art #Miriam Hales #I have Alan Wake brain rot so of course this was inspired by it #specifically the Angel Lamp of Alan Wake 2 #And also the song “Herald of Darkness” #Keep an eye out for the companion piece soon :3

[dkniade]

Translation: Dainsleif’s Insult to the Abyss Herald in “We Will Be Reunited”

Game: Genshin Impact

Developer/Dialogue: HoYoverse

Fan Translation: Dusk

(Warning: violent imagery)

Original Chinese

深渊使徒：你还是这么讨人厌啊，教团之敌，戴因斯雷布！

深渊使徒：我能感受到，你身上有股可怕的血腥味。是来自漆黑的噩梦，亦或是…嗯？

深渊使徒：噢噢…真危险。你也有那种「腐朽」的味道，让我熟悉…

深渊使徒：你和我们一样，都是危险的事物。但「教团」以外的危险之物，都该被放在笼子里才对…

戴因斯雷布：啧。

戴因斯雷布：你的舌头，恐怕也「腐朽」了太久…

戴因斯雷布：该切了！

My Base English Translation

Abyss Herald: You’re still annoying like this, enemy of the Order, Dainsleif!

Abyss Herald: I can feel that, there’s a stench of a terrible smell of blood on you. Is it from pitch-black nightmares, or perhaps it’s… Hmm?

Abyss Herald: Ohh… How dangerous. You also have that kind of rotting smell, letting me know that…

Abyss Herald: You and us are the same, both dangerous things. But dangerous things outside of the Order, should all be put into cages…

Dainsleif: Tsk.

Dainsleif: Your tongue, I’m afraid it has also been rotting for too long…

Dainsleif: It ought to be cut!

My English Translation

Abyss Herald: Still annoying as ever, enemy of the Order, Dainsleif!

Abyss Herald: I sense the terrible stench of bloodshed on you. Is it from your darkest nightmares, or perhaps… Huh?

Abyss Herald: Ohh… Such danger. You also reek of that rot. Then, I see that…

Abyss Herald: You are the same as us dangerous things. But any danger not of the Order ought to be caged up…

Dainsleif: Tsk.

Dainsleif: I’m afraid your tongue has also been rotting for too long…

Dainsleif: It ought to be cut!

Official English Localization

Abyss Herald: You are just as vexatious as ever, Dainsleif, enemy of the Abyss!

Abyss Herald: I sense your soul is stained by terrible bloodshed, perhaps from your darkest nightmares. Unless... Huh?

Abyss Herald: Oh, and something far more dangerous! You reek of a corruption familiar to me...

Abyss Herald: Then we are the same. We're both dangerous. But dangers from outside of the Abyss Order must be caught and caged...

Dainsleif: Tsk.

Dainsleif: It is your words that forever reek of corruption...

Dainsleif: Time to silence you!

Translator’s Notes

The Abyss Herald is slightly more informal in Chinese (annoying vs vexatious), and Dainsleif’s insult is more graphic.

Let’s see… I tried a process where I translate it in a direct way and reword some things to make it sound more natural in English. Prioritize tone and idea over total accuracy…

Ahh, I wouldn’t translate Japanese literally word by word into English, so I shan’t do the same for Chinese either. Genshin Impact’s Chinese script sometimes drops subjects, but that’s just another aspect of style and diction.

English Dain: *threatens to silence the Abyss Herald*

Chinese Dain: *threatens to mutilate the Abyss Herald’s tongue*

Dear (lack of) Archons, Dain. You’ve got a sharp tongue.

#Genshin impact #Genshin translation #Dainsleif #abyss herald #abyss order #game translation #fan translation #原神 #戴因斯雷布 #violence #blood #mutilation #nightmares #rot

[disintegratingballerina]

#treating u all to a nice little post to herald my new look #hell might not be a teenage girl. teenage girl might be... heaven... #also not girl rotting....... girl... thriving #perchance.... #girl heaven #girl thriving #manic pixie dream girl #moodboard #moodboard aesthetic #pink moodboard #virgin suicides #girlblogger #this is what makes us girls #girlhood #sofia coppola #childhood nostalgia #nostaligiacore #nostalgia #pinterest girl #pinterest #Spotify

[biohazard-inevitable]

If I’m not death incarnate then why does the moon call my name?

Why is the mask of fog so calming

Why do i drink in cool autumn humidity like wine?

Why do I feel most at home when obscured?

Why do i feel so connected to corpses?

Why is taxidermy so beautiful?

Why do bones feel so important to collect?

Why is it I connect with the energy of what was abandoned by the soul if not to shepard the remnants?

If I am not death then why does the bleak mark of funerals fit my masquerade of flesh so perfectly?

Why do bags haunt my mortal disguise’s eyes and why does the night sing my praises.

I was meant to collect whats left behind you see, a delicate job allocated for me.

Souls need not their bones nor flesh nor fur nor tails nor inconsequential wails.

So instead it seems, its up to me, to collect their things and let them breathe.

#horrorkin #deathkin #cryptidkin #grim reaper except i herald what has been abandoned #there are no souls left to care for the fur and bones and leather #so i make a beauty from what once was goregous #let the meat rot and feed the mushrooms below #and take upon myself to guard precious trinkets without owners #death #cw death #tw death

[justareallyboredfangirl]

just something about Viktor/Machine Herald being The Magician in the arcane tarot deck and the willpower and creation it entails and the whole “as above so below” but with Zaun and Piltover anyways what’s it like being mentally sound

#arcane #i have brain rot #viktor arcane #machine herald #i was going to argue that he should be the hanged man bc of the self sacrifice/martyrdom and his self augmentations #but nahhh they were right he should be the magician

[beeapocalypse]

also think the eldritch entities (<-- need to come up with a better term for these bugs i feel corny only ever calling them that man) and the sentient animals of alamanni had a very close relationship pre-humanitys creation. there wasnt that insistent invasive Curiosity to prompt the same sort of response as the predecessors (hide in holes in the ground and violently reject all attempts at outreach) bc the animals were generally very openbook and willing to connect w the beasties in turn. like the idea of a symbiotic relationship that is commensalistic on the purely Physical level in the animals favor (animals entreating the eldritch for help and receiving it- though typically in unorthodox+Strange ways like mutation of their body and shit) but emotionally slanted towards the eldritch (a wholly open and welcoming ppl- WITH the entire underground weirdos intrigue attached !- a great reprieve in their endless flight from the rot of the existence dragon)

#alamanni info #have i said this. the eldritch beasts arent the insects feasting upon the existence dragons corpse theyre born of the DREAMS onlookers-- #--had about those bugs made physical. their spread across existence is a bit like heralding the coming rot if that makes sense #it is why they are so dreamy themselves+why their dreams have Physical affects on reality rather than being entirely contained 2-- #--the dreamscape. its all a bit rough still but its fun piecing all the bits together

[witchblade]

this really is the girl group devastation year

#like last year was the prelude heralded by the viviz summer sweep and everything just started rotting underfoot like old wood

[theotherwesley]

Halloween isn't the last day of the Spooky Month-- it is the first day, the day that heralds the real MVP of spooky time: November.

October is the friendly part of autumn; the harvest, the bright leaves, the chilly wind, the colorful squash. November is the last pumpkin left rotting in the field, the short days, the dead brown leaves, the cold getting its teeth in. Halloween is the opening act and November is the show.

#lifeblogging #autumn thoughts

[twola]

Cartography

Arthur Morgan x F!Reader Smut (18+), MDNI

➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ AO3 Link

You bite your bottom lip to stop the moan bubbling from your chest out into the room - with the broken windows and rotting walls of the old plantation house, there was little doubt of noise carrying. You shudder at the stimulation occurring in your core, stretched delightfully around several inches of hot, hard flesh.

Arthur grunts in appreciation of your tightening around him, “Look at you-” he half whispers in the bright light pouring in from Lemoyne outside.

The quiet of the morning is serene, interspersed by the lazy chirping of birds outside - but within the room, it’s heralded by deep breaths and choked-off moans, the wet slapping of skin on skin.

You arch your back, pressing down on your forearms on the table, sighing in bliss as it changes the angle of where your lover spears into your body ever so slightly. You’re rewarded by a groan and the tightening of his warm hands around your bare hips, the only part of your skin bared to the world.

It was supposed to be an early morning, and indeed, the two of you had gotten out of bed, dressed, ready to get on with the day. Until you leaned over the table on one elbow, scrutinizing the map of several states spread out on it. Evidently was far too much for Arthur, and before you knew it, he was upon you, nibbling at your earlobe as he worked your pants and bloomers down your thighs, pushing them down just enough to access your dampening cunt.

With one hand pressing against your core, the other worked at his own pants, fishing his cock out of his union suit and pressing the swollen head against you with a speed and necessity akin to breathing.

“Wer- ahh- weren’t we supposed to be goin’ somewhere?” You stutter as his hips bounce against yours, your forearms spread over the Kamassa valley, and your fingers draw into your palms to make fists just south of the Ambarino line.

“Later. ‘M fine right here.” Arthur puffs, continuing to thrust into you, his cock ramrod hard and covered in your wetness. He breathes out loudly from his nose, like a beast, and one of his hands creeps around your hip to pat at the little nub of your pleasure, fingers tangling in your dark pubic hair.

Your mouth hangs open, eyes wide as he continues to rock into you, the head of his cock pressing so deep into your body you swear you feel it in your guts.

Trying not to scream, your eyes flit to that old map spread beneath you, and your hands splayed out on the table again.

Your pinky brushes against the far north reaches of the Lanaheechee.

“A-Annesburg?” You groan out, the text of the town’s name underneath your wrist.

He grunts out in the negative, “Naw, too dirty - mmph, all that coal dust.”

“No Van Horn neither then-” You breathe out before gasping as he thrusts his hips into yours with a little more force.

“No Van Horn.”

You glance down again, knowing how much he hated the large city on the map hidden by your breasts - Saint Denis was out of the question.

“R-Rhodes,” underneath your elbow.

“Not after that shootout - oh darlin’-” Arthur grunts out, panting as he spreads his legs a little further to ground himself as he rocks into you.

The mountains past your pinky finger, “Strawberry? Gonna, mmph, go to that fancy hotel finally?”

“Not this time-”

Closer to your wrist, “Not back to Val-”

He cuts you off with a punishing thrust, and you drop your question and can simply mewl in response.

Arthur grunts, folding himself over you completely, smothering you against the table, framing his forearms on either side of yours, his breath in your ear as his thrusting slows into a full, slow rocking, the table squealing underneath the movement of your bodies.

“H-here,” he taps empty space north of Wallace Station with his forefinger. 

“Wha- oh god - what’s there?” You whine as he presses completely into you, his hips pressing hard into yours, pinning you to the table completely.

“A cabin ‘m gonna lock us in for the next week.” He grunts out beneath gritted teeth, and you moan at the thought, loudly before his other hand moves to your chin and tilts it to the side to give himself access to shove his lips against yours.

His hips stop their languid rolling, and a grunt charges up from his chest into your mouth as his cock spurts his release into you, the warmth blooming in your cunt sending you over the edge, clenching around him, making him gasp as your body milks his for all he’s worth.

You shudder, taken by your orgasm and the feeling of him buried so deep inside you, stretching you to the dual threshold of pain and pleasure.  The room’s spinning slows as you and he both catch your breath.

Arthur hisses as he pulls out, and you wince slightly at the dribble of him that starts to trek down your thighs before he yanks his neckerchief off and presses it against your cunt, stymying the flow of his spend from between your legs.

As you catch your breath and lean back up on your forearms, you glance down at the map where he said the two of you were going. 

“That really what we’re doin’?”

Arthur pats the fabric against the rim of your cunt again, blotting against your wet skin. Tossing the dirtied fabric to the floor, he leans over you again, pressing his lips against your temple as his arms frame yours once again.

“Reckon we can take the scenic route there too.”

#arthur morgan #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption #red dead fanfic #arthur morgan smut #arthur morgan x female reader #rdr2 fanfic #arthur morgan x reader #twolafic

[oxbellows]

Welcome Home! Nothing Weird Happened.

Written based on @emilybeemartin's spectacular Boromir Lives AU comics, with permission. I might write more, who knows.

My whole thought process here is this: if Boromir lives and makes it back to Minas Tirith, he is about to receive an absolutely ludicrous quantity of bad news. And I for one think it would be both plausible and hilarious for Pippin to be the one who ends up delivering that news. So here we are!

Trigger warnings for that whole pyre situation from Return of the King.

 It was fitting, to Boromir’s mind, that the battle for Minas Tirith should be decided by dead men. So many had died for the city of kings already, their blood seeping into her soil like rain. Why, then, should her fate rest solely in the hands of the living? An unnatural justice rang out in the clang of steel against phantom blades, heralding the return of a hope long since given up for lost. 

“None but the king of Gondor may command me,” the wraith hissed.

“You?” Boromir had roared. “You, Oathbreaker? I am the heir to the Stewards of Gondor. Generations of my kin have died for an empty throne. None but the king of Gondor may command ME. Here stands the king of Gondor before us, and you will suffer him as I have!”

And suffer him they did. Sickly green washed over the last armored oliphaunt as the dead claimed more souls for their own. Boromir pulled his eyes away from the spectacle and spun his sword in his hand, scanning the area around him for the next foe. He found none. Only the backs of retreating orcs, and weary Men attending to their fallen brothers. That and, out of the corner of his eye, the strangest possible trio of a Man, a Dwarf, and an Elf. Finding no enemy to engage, Boromir instead turned his step toward the strange trio to embrace his friends in the wake of victory. 

Aragorn, king of Gondor, did not appear especially regal at the moment. He was covered in grime and gore, surrounded by the corpses of orcs left to rot in the open field. Gimli’s sturdy metal armor was slick with blood, and it dripped steadily off the edge of the axe that he had slung over one shoulder. Legolas, of course, was only as disheveled as he might have been after a short run, clean of the muck that covered the rest of them. His hair still fell properly at his shoulder, what witchcraft did the Elf use to maintain it? 

Boromir could only imagine what he himself must look like. He knew that he was damp and smelled like death, which did not bode well for a lordly appearance. Nonetheless, even in all his heavy armor Boromir felt lighter than he had since childhood. The battle was over, fought now only by those straggling beasts that had not managed to escape the field on foot. Boromir was still, impossibly, alive, and so were his companions. So was his king. 

The enemy may yet prevail, but Gondor would not fall before the White Tree bloomed again. It was more than his grandfathers had ever dared to hope. 

“Is that blood in your hair or just its natural grease?” Boromir asked his king, sliding his sword back into its scabbard and stepping over the body of a fallen orc to approach him.

Aragorn laughed, raising one dirty hand to skim his fingertips over the top of his head. “I cannot say, Captain. I only know that in either case, I would wash it before I present myself to your lord father.”

Boromir clicked his tongue dismissively. “My lord father’s not the one we have to worry about. If my brother hears that I’ve brought Isildur’s heir home in such a state, he’ll throttle me.”

He almost continued speaking. He almost added, if he’s alive. Aragorn heard the unspoken caveat all the same. His dark eyes had a softness in them when he spoke.

“The battle is over, Captain of the White Tower,” Aragorn said. “We must turn our efforts now to the dead and wounded. May we not find you kin among them.”

If the taste of ash settled on the back of Boromir’s tongue, it could be attributed to the smell of Mordor’s filthy army laying dead at his feet, and not to the terrible image that flashed across his mind’s eye of Faramir’s bloodied and unblinking face.

“My father will be well,” Boromir asserted, determined not to speculate on his brother’s wellbeing. “He is past his time as a warrior. He will have commanded our troops from a place of safety within the walls.”

Aragorn inclined his head in assent. His hair really was a sight- black blood had matted chunks of it together, and where they stood now in the open field, with the sun just beginning to peek through the enemy’s unnatural bank of shadow, Boromir could see that his clothes were in much the same state. Perhaps this was why Aragorn so persistently favored black for his travel clothes. Were he wearing any other color, it would be obvious that he was as drenched in the blood of orcs as if he had bathed in it. 

A warrior of staggering skill was this king of Men, but he preferred not to proclaim his deadliness to the world. He tucked it away into shadow until such skill was needed. Perhaps one day Boromir might look upon this man that he called brother and not be humbled by the mere sight of him. 

Perhaps. 

“I will search with a sharp eye, then, for Captain Faramir,” Aragorn promised. 

Boromir closed the distance between them to grip Aragorn’s shoulder in thanks. Aragorn returned the gesture with ferocity, digging his fingers into the mail covering Boromir’s upper arm. Gimli thumped Boromir’s back in a heavy handed gesture of approval, and Legolas bowed his head with a coy smile. A river of unspoken words passed between the four of them, about great and important things like love and fear at the end of the world, and then they released each other. Aragorn turned his stride towards the Citadel to lend his knowledge of elvish medicine to the House of Healing. Legolas and Gimli set out together to help carry the wounded into the city for aid. Boromir made for the rocky outcrop at the city’s outermost wall, the one that archers favored for its vantage point. There he was sure he would find rangers, and hopefully news of Faramir.

The walk carried him past countless dead orcs and uruk-hai, but also more dead men and horses than Boromir had ever seen on a single field. For every pair of comrades he saw embrace in giddy relief, another wail of grief reached his ears from somewhere else. His mail grew heavier with every step he took.

Boromir had scarcely made it halfway to the archer’s outpost before he was stopped by the sound of his own name.

“Captain Boromir!” a familiar voice shouted. “You live!”

Boromir stopped and whirled about. There, about ten yards from Boromir, close enough to the outermost wall to be half-concealed in its shadow, crouched a man in a forest-green cloak. His hands still hovered over a fallen Gondorian soldier, as if he had frozen partway through checking for signs of life. Before the man in green rose to stand, he brushed a hand over the fallen one’s face, coaxing his eyes shut before stepping away. Boromir felt a dull pang of grief in his already overburdened heart at the confirmation that yet another of his countrymen was dead. He had no time to acknowledge that pain, though, as the man in green righted himself fully. The green cloak, brown leather vambraces, and longbow on his back all sparked immediate recognition. 

Boromir knew this man, had met him before, but his weary mind failed to provide a name for him. It hardly mattered. The uniform he wore told Boromir everything he needed to know. Faramir had been clad exactly the same, the last time Boromir had seen him. This was one of the rangers of Ithilien, his brother’s own company. Hope swelled painfully in his chest. He hastened his step towards the ranger.

The ranger rushed to meet him and performed a quick, obligatory salute when they were close enough to speak comfortably. “My lord,” he greeted, breathless. “Your father thought you dead, but we in Captain Faramir’s company held out hope.” A wide grin split across his face. “You cannot imagine how sorely you’ve been missed!”

Seeing his smile finally dragged the ranger’s name to the front of Boromir’s memory. “Anborn,” he said warmly. “It’s good to see you alive and well. Tell me, what news do you have of my brother?”

 Anborn’s smile dropped, giving way to a look of naked concern as quickly as a candle being snuffed out. “I have no news, my lord, none that is not two days old at least.”

 "Then give me the old news,” Boromir pressed, trying not to snap. 

Anborn grimaced and nodded. “My lord,” he said, haltingly, “The last time I saw your brother, my Captain, was on the day he rode out to reclaim Osgiliath with a company of forty mounted soldiers.”

Boromir could only stare for a long moment, turning over Anborn’s words in his head to try and make them comprehensible. No clarity came to him. “My brother is- in Osgiliath?”

Another grimace. “If he is still there, he is dead.” Boromir’s lungs constricted and froze. Anborn continued, “Osgiliath was overrun more than a week ago. I’ve heard rumors that Faramir made it back to the Citadel, but I cannot say any more than that without inventing rumors myself.”

“The Citadel,” Boromir repeated. He forced breath into his uncooperative lungs. He would go to the Citadel, and he would find Faramir there with their father, incoherent with frustration after arguing strategy with Denethor. He turned on his heel and started walking. Anborn said something as Boromir strode away, but he didn’t hear it properly over the ringing in his ears. 

What he had heard of Anborn’s words clamored in his mind- it sounded as if Faramir had taken a company of only forty men to reclaim an overrun city. That would be absurd, though. Faramir may be prone to bouts of melancholy and brooding, but he wasn’t suicidal. And even if he did, for some reason, decide to seek his own death, he would never bring any number of Gondor’s defenders with him to do it.

 Your father thought you dead.

 Boromir broke into a run.

Faramir didn’t hold sway over all their troops’ movements. Faramir wasn’t the Steward. 

 He was moving too slowly. Stumbling to a halt, Boromir grasped at the leather straps holding his pauldrons in place and did his best to unfasten them with numb fingers. Denethor had not been the same in recent years. The shadow in the east had darkened his thoughts, day by day, and set him talking as if the end were already here. His gray eyes had glinted in a way that Boromir scarcely recognized when he’d spoken of the One Ring. He’d never favored Faramir, never encouraged him the way he deserved, but the cruelty that had colored Denethor’s every interaction with his secondborn in the year or two before Boromir left shocked him. 

Boromir’s pauldrons landed on the ground in a heap, and now he doubled over to escape the shirt of mail. It was a difficult task without taking off his sword belt, but he managed. He needed to be faster, but he could not bear to go unarmed. The chain links poured gracelessly down over his head, yanking his hair as they went, and then he was free. Boromir took off running again, now unencumbered. 

 Faramir would never plan a suicide mission. 

 Would he accept one, though, if he was ordered?

Boromir’s feet touched white marble bricks for the first time in months that had felt like decades. He did not pause. Shouts followed him as he went, calling his name or exclaiming surprise. Arches and edifices flew by overhead. Rubble littered the street. He caught glances of bodies crushed under great stones. 

Boromir made it to the stairs. His weary legs burned and protested, but he dared not slow his descent. He needed to know where Faramir was, now. He needed to know what had happened in Osgiliath, before any more ideas had the chance to take root in his head. If he finished the line of thinking that Anborn’s news had set off-

 Boromir might kill his father with his bare hands.

So, he would not stop, and he would not think, until he found answers.

 He reached the top of the stairs. 

 A small group of guards, maybe five or six, clustered together at the Citadel gate, all spoke over each other in urgent tones. Boromir could not hear most of their words over his own ragged breath, but he caught a few. He heard “Mithrandir” and “Witch King” and “wood”, and then, “Denethor.” 

“Where?” Boromir barked. Every one of the men before him startled and turned to him with unabashed fear written across their faces.

If Boromir had looked a mess back on the fields, by now he must appear absolutely deranged. Half his armor gone, hair wild, white shirt drenched with sweat and blood- he could hardly blame the unsuspecting guards for the shock and confusion they displayed so brazenly at his question. Nor could he blame himself for the urge to grab the nearest one and shake him until he spoke sense.

Fortunately for all present, the guard furthest to the left, a man of slight and youthful stature underneath his plate armor, spoke up.

“The House of Stewards,” he said, voice trembling. He pointed in the right direction. “In the tombs. Both of them, lord and son, with orders from the Steward to be left undisturbed.”

 Boromir ran like he had never done in his life. 

 For what possible reason would his father and brother be in the tombs in the midst of battle?

 He threw himself against the door to the tombs of his forefathers. They gave way with no resistance, and as he stumbled through the opening, he noted that the floor was dusted with splintered wood. This door had already been broken through. There he stopped short.

He could not, for the life of him, make sense of the scene before him.

 In the center of the foyer, directly on top of Húrin’s memorial etching, were the remains of- a bonfire? Heaps of ash and charred wood covered the usually immaculate white marble floor, built up into a high, still-smoldering mound in the chamber’s center. The air reeked of smoke. Neither Denethor nor Faramir were in sight, nor was anyone else. The tombs appeared deserted.

  “Faramir?” Boromir called warily. 

A clang of metal and the scuffle of unshod feet on stone answered his call, and then-

“Boromir!”

A small form collided hard with his midsection, forcing him to take a staggering step back. Small arms wrapped around him like a vice, a familiar vice, and Boromir abruptly realized that he was in the embrace of a hobbit.

“Pippin?” he demanded, aghast.

The young hobbit turned his face up to meet his gaze and a fresh wave of panic seized him. Pippin’s face was coated in ash and streaked with tears.

“Boromir!” Pippin cried again. “You have to help, Gandalf said that healers were coming but nobody came, there was screaming in the halls so I dragged him as far as I could but he’s heavy and I don’t know where Gandalf went and just- just- come here!” 

The hobbit released his iron grip around Boromir’s waist in favor of clutching one of his wrists and started hauling him off to one side of the room, into a corridor of mausoleums. There, poking out of the nearest alcove, Boromir spied the lower half of a single black boot. 

Pippin pulled him onward when his own pace faltered. With each step he could see more of the body that Pippin had apparently tried to drag to safety. A small, or rather, hobbit-sizedsword lay carelessly discarded on the floor beneath the alcove’s arching entrance where Pippin had dropped it. That would explain the clanging sound Boromir had heard just before being tackled, then. Which would mean that when he called out, Pippin had been guarding this archway with sword in hand. 

Pippin’s relentless tugging finally forced Boromir to where he could see the stricken man on the floor.

It was Faramir.

Of course it was Faramir. 

A rough, strangled sound echoed through the quiet tombs, and Boromir only realized a moment later that it had come from his own throat. Pippin darted from his side to kneel at his brother’s head, petting his hair and murmuring a soothing word. Faramir did not react in the slightest. He wasn’t dead; Boromir had seen enough dead men in his life to know with unfailing precision the difference between a dead body and a dying one.

No, his brother was not dead. He was only dying. 

Boromir dropped to his knees. 

In all this time that he had dreaded coming home and hearing that Faramir had fallen in battle, it had never occurred to Boromir that he might watch him die.

“He needs medicine,” Pippin pleaded, his little hand nestled in Faramir’s hair. Boromir now saw that the hobbit was dressed in the garb of the guards of Citadel, mail under a velvet tunic embroidered with the white tree. What had happened in his city? When had this barely-trained halfling become his brother’s last line of defense?

“Go,” Boromir rasped. He touched the hilt of his sword. “I will protect him now. Go to the House of Healing, down one level. Aragorn is there. He will listen to you.”

Without another word, Pippin took off at a sprint. Boromir and Faramir were left alone, together for the first time since Boromir had left for Rivendell. 

Boromir wanted to scream.

Instead, he maneuvered himself carefully to sit at his brother’s side. How Pippin had managed to stash Faramir away in this little nook, Boromir had no idea. He could only just find room for himself against the wall without jostling the motionless body beside him. He reached a tentative hand out to lay it on Faramir’s forehead. He paused before he touched skin, momentarily stunned by the radiating heat. When his fingers settled on his brother’s brow, it was like touching metal that had been left in the sun too long. Faramir burned. Boromir gently smoothed his hand over damp hair.

It wasn’t just Faramir’s hair that was damp, actually. It was everything on him. His short beard, the finely embroidered collar of his tunic, the silk of his sleeves. If his fever was so high, it was not so surprising to find him coated in sweat. The choice of clothes, though, was undeniably strange. There was no blood staining the fabric. Had he not been hurt in battle, then? Had he simply been taken by a violent illness? Was there a plague in the city? That might explain the lack of gore but not the presence of finery. Boromir had only ever seen Faramir wear this tunic for ceremonies. He wouldn’t have put it on before battle, and he would certainly have taken it off if he were falling ill. 

No, the only reasonable conclusion was that Faramir had not been the one to dress himself. A terrible, unspeakable suspicion wormed its way into his heart. 

Boromir almost regretted sending Pippin away without first asking him what had happened to create this bizarre tableau. Almost. His answers could wait until Faramir had been brought safely into the care of physicians. He lifted his hand to stroke Faramir’s hair again, but the slickness that clung to his palm bade him pause.

That wasn’t sweat in his brother’s hair, it was something else, something more viscous. Puzzled beyond words, Boromir brought his hand close to his face to inspect it. 

His palm was smeared with oil.

All at once, a dozen disparate fragments of information arranged themselves into nightmarish clarity.

Someone had dressed Faramir for a funeral. Someone had brought him into the place where the bones of their ancestors rested and covered him in oil. Someone had lit a bonfire in the center of the tombs. 

Not a bonfire. A pyre.

Someone had tried to burn his little brother alive.

 “No,” Boromir whispered, as if he could prevent his next thought from taking shape.

Only one person in Gondor could do any of this without being stopped.

In the tombs, the guard at the gate had said. Both of them, lord and son, with orders from the Steward to be left undisturbed.

Boromir launched himself upright, out of the cramped alcove, and was sick all over the marble floor.

For the second time in a day, Pippin found himself running for someone else’s life. At least he didn’t have so far to go this time. He could not remember ever being so tired. It was also fortunate that he knew already where to find the House of Healing. Gandalf had insisted he memorize the route there as soon as he’d made his oath to Denethor, which was a bit insulting, to be honest, but turned out very useful in the end.

 The first time he’d entered the House, just a few days ago, he’d thought it was very full. Most of the rows of clean, simple cots had been occupied by rangers returning from outside the city. As he dashed through the sturdy oaken door now, though, he entered a different world entirely.

The cacophony of sound, smell and movement that surged up to meet him stopped Pippin in his tracks. The House of Healing was so crowded he could not see the far wall. He could barely see the nearest row of cots. Tall ladies rushed about in every direction, shouting orders to one another above a nauseating din of groans and cries. Pippin had been standing guard in a cloud of smoke for hours, and yet the onslaught of ugly and unfamiliar smells that accosted him here made him wish for the scent of smoke again.

His foray into the front lines of a battle had been terrifying. This place might be worse.

Boromir had said that Aragorn was here, though, and Pippin would walk headfirst into an army of orcs right now if it meant that Aragorn would help him. He never wanted to be in charge of anything, ever again, especially not trying to keep great lords and heroes alive. Aragorn was good at that sort of thing, he could take over now. Pippin took a deep breath and began forging a path through the chaos, calling Aragorn’s name as he went.

As he weaved his way through cots, ducking underneath outstretched arms and around long legs, Pippin heard questions following him that he had no desire to answer.

“How old is that boy? Who let a child in the guard?”

"Is that one of those halflings? The wizard’s pet or something?”

“Are you lost, little one?”

Some of these Men had the most terrible manners, clearly. Most of them were bleeding very badly, though, so Pippin could forgive them for their rudeness. He ignored them all and kept moving.

“Aragorn!” he shouted again.

A women that had been rushing by him paused for an instant to glare down at him. “Hush, you,” she scolded, in a voice that spoke of unquestionable authority. She wore a sort of veil with a nice brooch on it, so Pippin supposed she might be in charge here. “Lord Aragorn’s doing very important things right now and I’ll not have you disturbing him.”

Pippin’s heart jumped. “Where is he?” he asked.

The woman tsked and shook her head, making to continue along her original path. She held a bowl in her arms that Pippin was quite sure he did not want to see the inside of. Whatever it was sloshed unpleasantly when Pippin lurched after the women and grabbed a handful of her skirt to prevent her from leaving.

“The Steward has ordered me to fetch Aragorn! Show me where he is!” Pippin declared. He didn’t think it was a lie. Denethor was dead, so that made Boromir the Steward in his place, probably.

The woman gasped in surprise. “Lord Denethor lives?” she asked. “Wondrous news, we thought lord and son dead already.”

 Pippin avoided the question about Denethor by standing up as straight as he could. “Lord Faramir needs medicine,” he said imperiously. “He needs Aragorn’s skill. Take me to Aragorn.”

With a quick hand gesture to follow and not another word, the woman took off walking at a brisk stride deeper into the crowded hall. Pippin had to run to keep up with her. After what seemed like a dozen maneuvers around clumps of people and cots, a figure clad all in black finally came into view.

“Strider!” Pippin cried with relief. 

Aragon knelt at a young man’s bedside with a wet rag and bowl of water in his hands. He turned his face at once toward the sound of Pippin’s voice, a genuine smile gracing his lips as he did. Some of the panic that had been driving Pippin these last several hours faded away at the sight. If Aragorn was here, then surely things would get better now.

His relief faltered a bit when Pippin noticed that Aragorn was simply ­covered in blood- both red and black, and sweat, and grime that Pippin could not begin to identity. The Men gathered round him didn’t seem to mind Aragorn’s state, but then, most of them were splattered with blood as well, probably their own. Even Aragorn could not dispel the somber truth hanging in the air, that unimaginably many people had died today.

Faramir would join the dead soon if Pippin didn’t get a move on, so he marched past all those tall, bloodied Men to stand right at Aragorn’s side.

“Faramir’s dying,” he hissed, hoping he was quiet enough for none but Aragorn to hear. He didn’t especially want to deliver more bad news to the people in this room. “Boromir is with him, but he needs medicine, now.”

If Aragorn found this news distressing, he did not show it. He just nodded thoughtfully, and asked, “Can he walk?”

Pippin shook his head. Aragorn hummed an acknowledgment and rose to his feet. He handed the bowl and rag he’d been holding to another woman that Pippin hadn’t noticed before, murmuring something that sounded like instructions. He then spoke to the lady that had led Pippin, the one who seemed to be in charge.

“Ioreth,” he addressed her. “We have need of a stretcher.”

“It will be done,” she said, and turned on her heel to vanish back into the crowded hall.

Aragorn wiped his hands on his trousers to dry them. Pippin suspected he made them dirtier in the process. “Pippin,” Aragorn said. “Will you please lead me to Boromir and Faramir?”

“Yes, this way,” Pippin answered quickly. He was eager to be out of this terrifying place. He found it easier than before to navigate through the throng. He realized after a few moments of uninhibited movement that people were stepping aside to make way as soon as they saw Aragorn following him.

Had Aragorn already gotten around to being crowned while Pippin was busy? These people were certainly treating him like a king.

“Did you already become the King?” Pippin asked without thinking.

Aragorn chuckled dryly. “No, and I don’t think the lady healers would much care if I had. They care only that I know how to draw out the poison that covers many orcish blades, and that I’ve shared what I know.”

“Oh,” said Pippin, feeling queasy.

Finally, the door came into sight, and with a quick burst of speed, Pippin flung himself back into fresh air. Mostly fresh, anyway, permitting for some lingering smoke. The smell of blood and death that lingered in his nostrils seemed even more vile when contrasted against another, cleaner scent, and it made him gag. Aragorn placed a sympathetic hand between his shoulders.

“The battle to save the wounded is the hardest and the bloodiest,” he said gently. “There’s no shame in being shocked by it.”

Pippin couldn’t quite speak yet, so he bobbed his head in a jerky, shaking nod. He allowed himself two deep breaths before turning his attention back to the task at hand. Right. Faramir. Shot full of arrows and nearly burned to death, currently stashed in a mausoleum, actively perishing of fever. He had to bring Aragorn there, and then maybe he could sit down for a moment. He set off again at a jog.

Aragorn, being unfairly long-legged, could follow him with a brisk walk. Pippin was growing weary of these big people, he really was.

Back over the same cold marble stone he went, retracing his steps to the tombs. Two men carrying a stretcher had started following them at some point- Pippin hadn’t noticed exactly where they came from, but the stretcher they carried was already stained with red, so he suspected that they had been going back and forth from the House of Healing for a while already. Aragorn let there be silence between them for several yards, but began asking questions as soon as they crossed under a crumbling archway.

“What happened to Faramir to leave him needing medicine?”

“He was shot at least twice, I’m not sure when. Sometime yesterday.”

"Where has he been?”

“Well, he got shot when he was fighting in Osgiliath, and then the horse dragged him back, and that probably made it worse, actually, but then Denethor put him away someplace for a day or so and then brought him into the tombs and tried to burn him alive.”

Aragorn froze for a moment. “What?”

“Denethor lost his mind just before the battle started, he tried to burn Faramir alive on a pyre. And himself too, I think. He thought the world was ending.”

“Where is Denethor now?”

“He jumped off the wall.”

Aragorn took up walking again, now at a faster stride. “Boromir is with his brother now?”

"Yes,” Pippin confirmed, doing his best to keep up with Aragorn’s pace.

“Does he know what happened?”

That was a good question, actually. Had Pippin explained the situation at all? He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember most of today, to be honest- it was all a blur of screams and fire.

He remembered the blinding panic he’d felt when heavy footsteps had entered the tombs. He remembered clutching his sword with sweaty hands and bracing himself to get torn to shreds by uruk-hai, and then abandoning his sword to hurl himself at Boromir once he’d heard the man’s voice. What had Boromir said, though? Anything? Had Pippin said anything?

He remembered Boromir dropping heavily onto his knees. The look on his face had been awful. He looked sad and scared and sick all at once. Pippin had never been sure what the word anguish meant, but he was sure now.

“I don’t think so,” Pippin finally answered.

 Aragorn muttered something to himself, a string of elvish words that Pippin had never heard before. It sounded like what Legolas said when he missed a shot, though, so Pippin could wager a guess at what it meant.

At last, they reached the door to the House of Stewards. Pippin darted through, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Aragorn was still following. Through the foyer, around the smoldering remains of the pyre, down the corridor on the right, and there they were. The lords of Gondor. Not quite as Pipping had left them.

Boromir had extracted Faramir from the alcove where Pippin had dragged him to lay his brother out in the open. The fine silk tunic Faramir had worn lay in oil-soaked shreds scattered about the floor, and the mail shirt he’d had on underneath was similarly cast aside, half-obscuring a puddle of vomit near the entry to the alcove. Pippin was sympathetic- being in this place made him want to retch, too.

Faramir lay on his side in his undershirt. The fabric had been white once, Pippin knew, but blood, oil and ash had colored it through. Boromir knelt at his back, holding him steady by the upper arm with one hand and gently tearing the cloth of the ruined shirt with the other. The cloth didn’t move the way it should when Boromir tugged it. It stuck stubbornly to Faramir’s scorched upper back and shoulder, like it had been glued there.

Pippin gasped in horror as the realization hit him. Boromir couldn’t get Faramir’s shirt off because it was stuck to his burnt skin, fused in place by the heat of the fire. Had his skin melted? Could skin melt? The thought alone sickened him.

Boromir must have heard Pippin gasp, because his head snapped up to fix the hobbit with a wild stare.

Pippin didn’t usually think of Boromir as frightening. Fearsome, of course, but not to his friends. Certainly never to Pippin.

He looked frightening now. His eyes were wide, and his pupils were tiny pinpoints. His lips were pulled back into an animalistic expression, somewhere between a grimace and a snarl, showing just a hint of teeth. His shoulders curled forward, hunching slightly over Faramir’s still form, and through his thin, damp shirt Pippin could see he was shaking with pent up energy.

When Pippin was younger, one of Farmer Maggot’s dogs had gone missing. They’d found the creature hiding under a shed, nursing a bleeding paw, growling and snapping at any hobbit that tried to approach. Boromir did not make a sound, but Pippin swore he could hear the same wounded dog’s growling all the same.

Pippin felt rather than heard Aragorn approaching from behind him, and it was a great relief when Boromir’s gaze flicked up off his face to fixate on Aragorn instead. With what seemed to be a tremendous effort, Boromir opened his mouth to speak.

“Where is Denethor?” he rasped, voice shaking.

Aragorn took a cautious step forward, moving in front of Pippin. He held his hands up, fingers splayed open, the way he did when trying to settle a spooked horse. “Boromir, my brother-” he began, voice soft and steady.

Boromir interrupted before he could take another step. “Tell me where my father is, Aragorn,” he croaked. “Tell me so I can find him and gut him.”

“He’s dead,” Pippin blurted. “He set himself on fire and then he went off the edge of the wall and died.”

Aragorn stiffened. Boromir’s jaw went slack. He heard gasps from the men carrying the stretcher behind him.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have spoken. Gandalf was always telling him something to that effect.

Boromir let out long, low groan and slumped in on himself, bowing his head so low his forehead grazed Faramir’s hair. He released the firm grip he’d been maintaining on his brother’s upper arm to grab fistfuls of his own hair instead.

Aragorn moved swiftly to kneel beside Boromir. He wrapped one arm around Boromir’s shoulders and pulled him into a lopsided embrace. Boromir went without protest, deflated and boneless against his king. Aragorn spoke to him, too softly for Pippin to hear, and coaxed him to shuffle backwards just a pace or two to create space at Faramir’s side. The two half-forgotten men with the stretcher between them seized their opportunity and swept in to gather Faramir up. Boromir twitched forward when they lifted his brother, but Aragorn held him back with a hand on his chest. With quick, synchronized steps, Faramir was taken out of the tombs.

Louder now, so Pippin could hear again, Aragorn spoke with real regret in his voice. “I must follow them. I promise I will give all the skill I have to make Lord Faramir well.”

“I’m coming,” Boromir stated.

Aragorn fixed him with a hard stare. “It will be ugly,” he warned. “I’ll have to cut the shirt off his back, and I expect much of his skin to come with it. If he wakes it will be to scream.”

“I know,” said Boromir.

“I would rather not find your blade shoved through my heart while I work.”

Boromir flushed. “I would not.”

Aragorn raised one eyebrow. “All the same, if you wish to follow, leave your sword at the door for my peace of mind.”

Boromir opened his mouth, but seemed to think better of it and simply bowed his head in assent. Aragorn hauled himself to his feet and offered Boromir a hand up, which Boromir accepted without hesitation.

“Can I help?” Pippin asked, surprising himself.

Aragorn eyed him up and down. One corner of his lips twitched upward. “Yes, Pippin, I think you can help us all very much by staying at Boromir’s side and keeping him calm. If you have any more news to deliver, however, perhaps you could share it beforewe enter the House of Healing?”

Pippin recognized the admonishment for what it was and ducked his head, chastened. On the other hand, now that he mentioned it-

“Gandalf’s staff is broken,” he announced.

Aragorn closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I see. Thank you, Pippin. Anything else?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Very well. If you think of something, take Boromir out into the hall and tell him.” Aragorn turned to Boromir and spoke sternly. “Boromir, if Pippin takes you out into the hall, I forbid you to pick up your sword until we have had a chance to speak.”

Boromir huffed out something very close to a laugh. “Wise council, my king.”

#@emilybeemartin #lotr fic #Boromir Lives AU

[bardicbeetle]

There has been a longing since you were a child to be of and only of the forest. To lose yourself in tangled roots and deep soft moss and upended trees. To wrap yourself in thick red clay and come back something wholly unhuman. To find the words and symbols that would shed for you the soft skin you carry for something furred or feathered or even cut from the bark-like flesh of the wood itself. The things in the woods don't need to carry the same fears you do. Their inevitabilities are not the same as yours. But you have always thought rotting here amongst the thick sweetness of a north woods swamp might feel better than suffering another moment in a body that has to someday do taxes, pay rent, buy gas--is it not enough to let your hair become the leaves?

Were you to erupt someday, the words found, the song sung:

(you know the drill reblob for sample size)

#writeblr #writeblr community #writeblr poll #polls #tumblr polls #this is an experiment #writing #amwriting #the magician cries #lsdente #i am in creative hell. humor me

[miquella-everywhere]

Denizens of the Haligtree Analysis

Giant Ant

So ants.... There's really not much to say about these guys, but if anything their presence at the Haligtree is a good indicator of how bad off the divine tree is. Also their stupid acid attack always one-shots me and I hate them lol

Oracle Envoys

So the Oracle Envoys only show up in two places; Leyndell and the Haligtree, and as lore states their appearance basically heralds the coming of either a new Age or a new God. I've seen arguments stating that the Oracles are there for Malenia and her ascendance as the Goddess of Rot, but imo considering that Mal has only bloomed twice and is not yet a true Goddess(which she doesn't even want to be) the Oracles presence could indicate that they are actually heralding something else. maybe miquellas return? 🤞

Also the Haligtree is the only place were you can find the Giant variant, which I just think is neat lol

Misbegotten

The Haligtree is known throughout the Lands Between as a refuge for the forsaken and misbegotten, so the Misbegotten that have managed to make their way here are definitely the lucky ones. Although if you watch them carefully you can see from their mannerisms that many of the Misbegotten there are quite distressed, many are seen yelling at the sky in despair or kneeling down infront of the statues of Miquella in prayer. Either way, they may have made it to the promised land but all that remains is desperation.

Fungal Putrid Corpse

Fun fact about these guys is that this variant of the Putrid Corpses can only be found in the Haligtree. Other than that there isn't much else to say here, although I guess one thing to say would be the sheer prevalence of the Putrid Corpses found throughout the Lands Between. They're probably all the unfortunate commoners and regular people who got caught up in the Shattering and were reduced to... this.

Miranda Sprout

So according to their lore Miranda Powder has always been prized by the Perfumers, and from what we know about the Perfumers is that before the Shattering they used to be healers. So I'm spreading some propaganda here but at the Perfumers Ruins in Altus there is a secluded patch that has multiple Miquella's Lilys there, indicating that Miquella spent some time with the Perfumers, which makes perfect sense considering he wished to heal Malenia.

So it would make sense why there would be Miranda Blooms at the Haligtree, because Miquella had use for the properties of their pollen. A shame they've become infected with Scarlet Rot now...

Spirit Calling Snail

The Sprit Calling Snail is a snail that calls spirits. Go figure lol. But in all seriousness the Snails presence at the Haligtree somewhat adds another hint regarding Miquellas own connection to the spirits.

Haima Battle Mages

So the Haima Battles Mages are really cool when you read into their lore a bit:

"Scholars of the Haima Conspectus sought the power to quell conflict, and to this end studied the sorceries of cannon fire and the gavel."

Aside from further proving that Miquella had and interest in Glintstone, the fact that the Haima wish to quell conflict, and that the Haligtree, arguably, is the most peace focused of all the factions in the Lands Between it would make sense why these two mages would settle here and defend the Haligtree.

Cleanrot Knight

When Malenia departed on her campaign and took her Cleanrot Knights with her, these ones are likely the faction that stayed behind to defend the Haligtree. Like can you imagine being these guys?

Your General leaves with your comrades and you're tasked to defend Miquella while he slumbers within the Haligtree. But then this Omen with flaming blood shows up out of nowhere and kidnaps Miquella despite your best attempts to stop him, and you just...

You failed.

Your Lord that you were tasked to defend with your life has been taken, and you grieve your failure and also having to face your General when she returns and explain that her beloved brother has been taken...

But when Malenia does come back she's completely comatose, carried on the back of Finlay, your fiercest comrade, who quickly succumbs to the rot after bringing Malenia home safely, and now all you can do is put her within the roots to rest. And after all that you still commit yourself to defending the Haligtree despite Miquella being gone and the rot seeping into the tree and decaying it from the inside out...

Like damn, how depressing.

Haligtree Foot Soldier

Same thing as the Cleanrots above, but what makes the Haligtree soldiers interesting is that you can only find them at the Haligtree. Like in Liurnia you can find a Leyndell Knight wandering around, obviously deployed from Leyndell during the Shattering with the same thing on Mt. Gelmir, meaning that they are not one of the many factions of soldiers of the Shattering War, but in fact, strict defenders of the Haligtree. Like they dedicate their lives to one job, and that's defending Miquella and his Haligtree.

But then everything just went to shit in a single day. And it all just went downhill after that.

There really is a heavy sadness to these guys with the fact that they are so desperate for Miquella to return that they came to the conclusion that they need to explode with holy light in order to guide him home :'(

Haligtree Knight

Holy shit these guys are legitimately a Boss but without the fanfare, like goddamn. Its honestly shocking that Mohg managed to get Miquella with these guys at the defense, but well he got him 😔 Anyway these guys are interesting to two reasons; the first being that they can heal using flasks, the only other enemies in the game using healing items being other Tarnished or Perfumers, and the second is that these Knights can use Glintstone Sorceries, once again further hinting at Miquellas relationship with the Carians and his own interest in Glintstone.

Putrid Crystalian

Now what makes the Crystalians presence here at the Haligtree so interesting, involves this little tidbit about their lore:

"The inscrutable Crystalians have but one clear purpose; to safeguard their crystals unto the end. One theory posits that they yearn for the return of their creator who will carve for them new brethren."

And Miquella, who has been quoted as, "A meticulous, bold craftsman who grasps the essence of life," would seemingly fit the bill for someone who could potentially carve the Crystalians new brethren. And then there's also the fact that the Crystalians are the beings who are closest to the Primeval Current, and as I've said in a previous theory post, is something that Miquella definitely has an interest in. So perhaps Miq and the Crystalians here have a mutual relationship going on; with Miquella attempting to grant them new brethren, and the Crystalians giving Miquella insight into the Primeval Current.

A shame Miquella is no longer with them and that they've been infected with Scarlet Rot....

Royal Revenant

WHY

WHY ARE THERE FOUR OF YOU IN A ROW

WHY

Okay so bottom line the Revenants are weird. There is no enemy in the game with so much mystery surrounding them than these guys. What's their origin? What is their purpose? Are they suffering as a massive amalgamation of body parts and fucked up magic? I sure hope they are.

But what I can say about the Revenants is that their general locations sort of paints a picture regarding who they might belong too. They are predominantly found in Liurnia, with their most interesting location being that they seemingly guard the Lunar Estate on the plateau where the Cathedral of Manus Caelus is. The other notable locations are at the Shaded Castle, a place were Miquella likely frequented, and now at Elphael. So saying that they may have their origins either with the Carians or Miquella wouldn't be too much of a stretch... maybe.......

And then there is also the fact that they are usually accompanied by Wraith Callers, who bear a striking resemblance to the Revenants as well. Then also there's that little theory about how Ranni's master may have been a Wraith Caller..... 🤔

Kindred of Rot

These guys are clearly here because of Malenia, and it's interesting to see that they only show up in the rotten core of Elphael and the graveyard area which is closest to were she is slumbering. I made a post about these guys long ago about how they've seemingly peacefully assimilated into the Haligtree even though Malenia rejects them, and honestly I think that it's kind of poetic considering Miquella's philosophy.

Putrid Avatar

The Putrid Avatars are a Scarlet Rot infested variant of the Erdtree Avatars, but what really interests me about them the most is that the Putrid Avatars have a completely different staff compared to their normal counterparts.

The Putrid Staffs design is highly reminiscent to the Haligtree Sigil, and while the item description of the staff is the same as its regular variant, I can't help wonder if the design was intentional but the description was overlooked/forgotten in regards to that connection. Or maybe I'm just reading too much into it 🤷 In my opinion, I see it as Malenia's Rot being so deeply intertwined with Miquella's Abundance that even the Putrid Avatars adopt his iconography.

Either way, the fact that there are two Avatars defending the Haligtree really speaks volumes regarding the Haligtrees legitimacy as a type of Erdtree.

Putrid Tree Spirit

I hate these guys. What else is there to say lol

#i love the haligtree #this place is so wonderful #uri posts #elden ring #miquella the unalloyed #miquella's haligtree #elden ring theory #i forgot to add the pictures of the staffs im so dumb :P

[teratocrat]

Ogregirl Princess rides west, out of the Dawn Gate beyond which lies her Far and Nowhere Land, proud and beautiful atop her rotting elk-steed and accompanied by a train of eldritch soldiers and courtiers: ensorcelled milkmaid ladies-in-waiting to comb her mane and bind her into her fever-colored armor, clean her tusks and fangs and weave ribbons and jewelled ornaments into her pelt; flautists piping lays through bloody thighbones, drummers beating a madman's march on manskin drums, and heralds sounding the World-Defying Blast through chimera-horns; cohorts of trudging corpses and skeletal arbalists, columns of conscripts from the Checquered Countries yoked together with shackles of russet steel, spore-shrouded Grey Knights and stag-headed bannermen; doom-weavers and astrologers and haruspices and osteomancers.

[gallawitchxx]

hi beeee!! i hope you're doing okay 💖💖💖

ooohohohoho okay for the kiss thingy: god knows why cuz it sounds potentially very painful but i feel so compelled to request 28 🙏

sweet deanna! i'm hanging in, thanks love! 💖 so you & @lingy910y both requested #28 & i want to fill both of your prompts. but because you were (rightfully) afraid of pain, i gave you one that's a bit strange, but has a promisingly happy ending? you can be the judge! xx

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send me a number & i'll write you a smoocheroo 😚

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#28: ...as a lie ps. this is inspired by this post about dealer!mickey & insomniac!ian, who have now rotted my brain.

Ian hasn’t slept in days.

It’s happened before—endless energy is one of his tried-and-true symptoms of mania—but this isn’t that. He’s taking his meds, his skin isn’t crawling and his mind is fairly quiet. Quiet enough to frustrate him as he tosses and turns and wonders what the fuck’s going on.

His schedule has been all over the place lately; his normal routine lost to the endless cycles of employment and Gallagher family responsibilities. He’d been hoping to add school to the mix this semester so that he could have other, less hectic options than a rig-riding EMT, but he’d pushed it off. A pity, now that all-nighters are apparently his thing.

Night two, he googles a few things, which is a huge mistake. Who can fall asleep after reading about how even just twenty-four hours without sleep can begin to derail your bodily systems? Sleep deprivation can cause or worsen conditions like Type 2 diabetes, High blood pressure, Stroke, Heart attack—his pulse leaps as his phone clatters to the ground.

Night three, he takes to the streets, running around the Southside until his lungs burn and his knees wobble. As he passes the clinic that gave his seventeen-year-old self a lifetime prescription for antipsychotics, he knows that if this lasts much longer, he should call his doctor. Tell them his nighttime meds aren’t putting him to sleep anymore. Nip this insomnia thing in the bud before it can overthrow the delicate balance he’s worked so hard to maintain.

Night four, desperate and a bit delusion, he pulls up a number he hasn’t used in years, saved under a contact labeled, DO NOT TEXT.

He breaks his own rule: Hey. Still making house calls?

The response is almost immediate: the fuck u care for?

Ian rolls his bloodshot eyes, typing: It’s an emergency.

Three little dots herald a response that makes him laugh: a weed emergency?

He stays strong: Wouldn’t ask if I didn’t need it.

The next text makes his chest clench: u ok?

He decides to keep it vague—I can’t sleep, but it’s not what you think.—and hopes he doesn’t have to explain further and is relieved to read: u want ur usual?

Another clench: Indica

Two texts arrive in rapid succession: what else do u want? can i give u head while u smoke or no?

There it is: the reason Ian doesn’t use this number anymore.

Maybe in another life it would be a blessing to have a weed dealer to lovers arc with your childhood crush, but in this one, it was a curse. A curse that lasted almost a whole year, bringing with it an endless bouquet of blissful fucks and free weed, and a million moments of tenderness Ian knew nobody else was getting out of the guy. A curse that eventually came to collect payment in the form of bloodied knuckles, broken hearts and ego wounds. A curse that still clings to Ian’s psyche, filling his dreams with gentle, tattooed fingers and bright blue eyes and a sweet and savory scent that can only be described as Mickey.

Mickey, now DO NOT TEXT.

On second thought, maybe he should never sleep again.

The knock at the door makes him hard—a Pavlovian response that irks him more than the three sleepless nights he’s suffered so far. Three raps, one right after the other. The last one no more than a brush of his hand.

Ian adjusts himself and answers the door.

Fuck, one look at that smug asshole and he’s immediately right back in it. Lust and like and maybe even a little bit of reckless fucking love fill his body, rising to the surface like sweet cream. A layer of fat on the roof of one’s mouth; a treat to lick later, a reminder that they didn’t end things because they weren’t insanely hot for one another and potentially soulmates. They were just idiots. Stubborn, petty dicks.

Oh Pride, the great slayer of men.

Jesus, he needs to sleep.

“First one’s on the house,” Mickey says as he crosses the threshold, a joint held tightly between C and K.

Hours slip by. They laugh, they smoke. It feels like old times. Ian’s body is loose in a way it hasn’t been in years. It feels good. Like maybe-he-could-sleep-tonight good. And as he melts further into the couch, he starts to get a little horny too. Because Mickey’s yapping on and on about some asshole that frequents the bar he works at, and Ian’s listening, he swears he’s listening, but he’s also staring at Mickey’s mouth like he wants to take Mickey up on that text message and shut him the fuck up with his dick.

Like he wants to taste the stale smoke of his tongue.

Wants him to stay the night.

Forever, maybe.

Mickey finishes his story. His eyes go soft and he drums his fingers against his knee. “Should get outta your hair, Gallagher,” he says. “Letcha sleep.”

That’s the last thing Ian wants.

“Not tired,” he fibs.

Mickey cocks an eyebrow. “You’re not? ’S been days, man. This shit’s gotta be hittin’ ya by now.”

It’s true. It has been days and this shit is hitting him. Or maybe he’s having a sleep-deprivation-induced stroke. He just knows Mickey can’t go.

“Can’t go to sleep without a goodnight kiss.”

Mickey’s already leaning in when he asks, “Then you promise you’ll hit the hay?”

Ian nods as Mickey presses a kiss to his lying lips.

#welp - throws whatever this is at you #alskfjalkj #i realized that both of my kisses are at the very end of the ficlet & aren't actually described #lolol #maybe my next attempt should be 1K words of just describing the kiss #no actual context needed #just tongues #anyway THANKS DEANNA I LOVE YOU DEANNA #shameless #shameless fanfiction #prompt fill #ian x mickey

[notebooks-and-laptops]

There's something about inquisition and like. The way that it is both uplifted as the answer in the narrative but also constantly undermined. It is important and holy and will save everyone; it is doomed, it will never remain as it once was, it has fractures in it that have been there from the beginning and run far, far too deep. The leader of the inquisition is supposed to be the herald of Andraste but there is a 3/4 chance that the inquisitior is from a culture that doesn't give two shits about Andrastism and the chantry. The Seekers of Truth were the old inquisition and now they are led by a mad man who let a demon take over because he thinks that the old inquisition created a world of madness with its sanctions. There are spies in the inquisition and nothing you can do to stop that happening. There are at least four liars in the inner circle, two of which can horribly betray you for another side, one of which is purposely using you and guiding your hand so that he can bring about the end of the (human) world. Inquisitior Ameradin and his companions were lost to history and everything they wanted to achieve such as peace between elves and humans shattered. The inquisition is built of people singing in the snow, of people bowing to the inquisitior because they believe you, of the importance of all of this and yet by the end the game heavily implies the moral thing to do is to disband it all. Like. I just love that. All those little threads mixed it with how great and wonderful it's supposed to be, so that by the time of trespasser it has rotted to its core.

#dragon age #dai #inquisition