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cybercaffie · 1 year

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of when Kerry convinced V. to get interviewed and photographed for NC's trendiest tattoo mag! And I had fun playing editorial team. I wanted to make it look like a magazine spread and it's not tumblr friendly unless you're on desktop, so here's the transcript under the cut!

THE LAST OF THE ROCKERBOYS He is a man that needs no introduction: Kerry Eurodyne is a living, breathing legend. From the infamous Samurai to a brilliant solo career spanning decades, if Night City had a soundtrack he would be its lead composer. Make no mistake, this rockerboy is no relic of a bygone era: with a sold out world tour showcasing his unmatched energy and charisma on stage and a new album topping the charts, his comeback has proven that his creative flair is simply inextinguishable. See that devilish spark in his eyes? Looks like the fun has only begun for Mr. Eurodyne.

ROOTS and ROCK n’ ROLL

Kerry’s body is a moving work of art: his custom one-of-a-kind cyberware merges the elegance of the best fashionware with all the enhancements a musician of his caliber needs. And his ink tells his story as a man and a musician: on his left arm and chest we can see stunning examples of batok, the indigenous tattoos of the Philippines. It’s all about authenticity: «These were all done there by local filipino artists, with traditional tools. No machines.». In the past these markings often represented identity, bravery and protection; for Kerry «it’s my way to remember where I come from, my roots. ‘Cause I’m hella proud of them.» The right arm is also about his identity, but as a musician: a full sleeve of neo-traditional Japanese inspiration in black and white with pops of red. «You’ve got it all: Samurai, 2023 when Johnny died and…well, a tribute to my favorite vodka and smokes, haha.». And to top it all off, the Eurodyne logo on the shoulder, where we find the batok elements again. Cultural heritage and rock n’ roll meet: this ink has soul, one that is authentic and eclectic like his music.

_ FAMILY (V)ALUES In NC’s underworld Vincent is a celebrity in his own right- if you like to run with mercs then you surely must have heard about the new “king of the Afterlife”, a title that he seems to find uneasy. Countless rumors surround him but a fact is certain: he was born and bred a nomad and his skin is a tapestry of his former life, spent on countless roads across the southern states. But nomad life isn’t about riding with wind in your hair: living by nomad ideals means hardships and hard work. The number one priority, protecting the clan: the lone wolf dies, the pack survives.

IDEALS AND IDENTITY Roses, cowboys, skulls - from authentic vintage American Traditional pieces to more new-school inspired ones, V.’s body is an encyclopedia when it comes to the Old School style. Like for the sailors and soldiers of old, every tattoo is symbolic - the most evident, the battle royale backpiece: «For nomads, the meaning of the animals is opposite. We see ourselves as the snake, fighting off a larger foe - it’s about surviving despite the odds.». In his countless tattoos, centuries-old american iconographies are imbued with biographical meaning. «Top right arm, big ol’ devil and various symbols to ward him off. This arm is more about…the big events. Changes. Some I got after I left, like the dead racer». The left arm is equally packed with ink: «This one is more about memories: first kill, first heartbreak, people who are gone, people I hold dear... Happy or sad, all parts of who I am». If you want to get ink like this, better be ready for an interstate trip: you won’t find this type of artistry in NC. V.’s recommendations? «I-40 west of Albuquerque, then 371, ask about Ricky at Dawn’s Inn. Though he might be in Atlanta now… then Lucky Chester, just north of Tulsa. Closest? Miss Mallory Mercy, between Reno and Carson». Safe travels, reader.

WHEN TWO WORLDS MEET A nomad-turned-merc and a rockstar: it’s not a match you hear of everyday. Unlikely? Maybe. Too different for it to work? Naysayers, you will be disappointed: the chemistry between these two is undeniable. Who would have thought that Badlands and City could mix this well?

#kerry eurodyne #cyberpunk 2077 #cyberpunk2077 #kerry x v #v x kerry #oc: v for vincent #masc v #s: heart of gold #throw me a bone please I cried so much doing this lmao though the game only died once surprisingly #''this won't take too long'' *20000 hours later*#true reason aside from shipping brain: wanted to get mileage out of the tattoo mod ok

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photophoros · 8 months

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A few pics of what I've been up to :) my tattoo apprenticeship is going well.

If anyone in southern Ontario (Niagara region) would like a tattoo from me, shoot me a DM and we can make something work! I do custom work but also have a ton of flash available.

#my art #tattoo design #tattoo #angel #rooster #angel tattoo #skeleton #tattoo apprentice

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ravensmadreads · 10 months

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Positive Reinforcement

Rating: T? (for me being a Tease) 18+ !

Pairing: Jack "Whiskey" Daniels x f!reader

Summary: oh god don't make me do this. This is a Tattoo Artist Jack Daniels AU that @fuckyeahdindjarin lovingly coaxed me to write and now here we are.

Warnings: cursing. bad writing? People being idiots? Yearn? Idk fam I'm new to this let me know

A/N: lots of love to @barbiewritesstuff for listening to me panic about this and for reading this and for letting me be a disaster about pedro despite not even being in the pedro fandom ! ily 💙 also this is my first fic AND first time writing fiction AND English isn't my first language AND I know nothing about tattoo artists or tattoos in general so I ask you to forgive the multitude of sins I'm about to commit.

Tagging: @fuckyeahdindjarin (you're the master and this is my humble offering) @barbiewritesstuff (i gotta be a menace) @chronic-ghost (all the italics for you bby) @sherala007 @oscar-wilde-thing @perennialdoll247

P.S the gif isn't related to the fic but damn guys its a gorgeous gif?!!

Oh.

Oh God.

This was a bad idea.

This was a no good, top of the line, terribly stupid idea; and that was saying something coming from someone who'd once pulled a double shift on nothing but 7 cups of espresso and half a chocolate bar.

So maybe your track record for making sensible decisions wasn't stellar, and somebody should've talked you out of getting a tattoo. But it was far too late for that now.

The needle was buzzing away happily; stabbing tiny pinpricks into your skin and your heart was trying to beat itself clean out of your chest. Although, the very handsome man, with the very wonderful biceps, and the inexplicably sexy Stetson, currently leaning over your arm might have something to do with that. Might have several somethings to do with that in fact since he's the entire reason you're in this predicament in the first place.

****

Jack "Whiskey" Daniels.

Proud owner of the tattoo parlor right across from the quaint little diner you co-owned and worked at. He'd given you a grin and taken your breath clean away with a "thank you darlin', that's mighty sweet of you" the day you'd welcomed him to the block with a box of cookies. Sufficient to say, you'd been a goner since then.

After four months of long distance pining, smiles exchanged across windows, (you'd dropped a fork the first time he'd grinned at you from across the street but that was nobody's business but your own), the very rare small talk, and borderline bullying from your bestie Ginger, you had summoned the courage to go ask him out. And promptly panicked at his front door.

Because how were you supposed to talk to one of the most perfect specimens of the male species you'd ever seen? When you knew next to nothing about him!?

Except for his coffee order from when he'd walked into the diner one fateful day.

It had been a slow day and you had been lamenting your lack of love life with Ginger when the front door bell had jingled to announce a new customer.

You'd twirled on your spot in front of the cashier and had been well in the middle of your welcome spiel before glancing up. Jack, in his infamous leather jacket, had been giving you a warm smile and you'd made a strangled squeak, to Gingers great amusement, before closing your eyes and trying to disappear into the Earth.

When that had failed, you'd taken a deep breath, counted to 5, before opening your eyes and regaining the ability to speak. He'd watched the entire thing with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes but graciously hadn't called you out on it. His parting smile and "you have a great day, honey" had been soft and you had caught yourself grinning about that smile, and that stupidly adorable pet name, throughout the entire next week.

Still, one coffee order and gentle smile didn't mean you could walk up to him and ask him out! He could be in a relationship! He could be married! He could turn out to be a total prick hiding behind a charmingly soft Southern accent!

Although, in that case, this little crush would be over and you could tell Ginger to suck it. Your mental spiral into the abyss had been interrupted by the door opening and the man of the hour himself poking his head out; his brows knit in concern.

"Everythin' okay, sugar?"

The sight of his brown eyes so close to you had thrown you for a loop. You'd gaped at him for half a minute before blurting out the first excuse that came to mind. You vaguely remember convincing him that you were here for a tattoo and rambling about always wanting one and him opening up shop right in front of you, seeming like a sign from the universe. (A sign that you were losing it? Maybe. A sign to get a tattoo. Probably not.)

He had taken your weird behavior as first time jitters and had led you in for a consult. He'd eased you into the shop, a hand on the small of your back, while recounting the story about how a drunk tattoo had earned him his infamous nickname. You'd been giggling too hard to notice that he'd already sat you down on a couch in the back and pulled out a sketchpad.

He had been all soft smiles and twinkling eyes and thoughtful ideas. While you had been a bundle of nervous energy; trying and failing to not stare at his pretty eyes, long fingers and sharp jaw. You're pretty sure he'd caught you checking gaping at his hands several times. But nothing in his demeanor had changed, apart from the appearance of a mischievous little sparkle in his eyes. Which had only made it harder to resist the urge to jump his bones right then.

You ended up agreeing to a small design (that you had totally fallen in love with), and he had given you an appointment for the very next day. Your protests had failed at his insistence and you'd just been able to nod around the lump in your throat when he squeezed your arm in reassurance.

"Trust me darlin', you're in safe hands. I know what I'm doin'.

A furtive glance at said hands and another nod from you had sealed the deal. (Best keep your mouth shut until you were sure that words were going to make it out instead of embarrassing whimpers.) He'd smiled at you as he walked you out with a particularly devious look in his eyes. Like he knew. Like he knew exactly why you were here and insisting on getting a tattoo. And you couldn't decide if that would be the best or worst thing to ever happen to you.

****

It was too late to do anything but reminisce now. The tattoo is halfway done and you're not one to brag but you'd made it through without too much fuss. A particularly vicious stab has you hitching a deep breath as you try not to flinch and suddenly, Jack's locking those soft eyes with you.

"You gotta stay still now, sweetheart okay?” he rumbles, his voice low and throaty.

Oh God.

That voice.

He could tell you to jump in front of a train with that voice and you wouldn't even blink. Your gaze drops to his mouth as his tongue peaks out to dart across those plush lips. You're caught up in the images of that tongue flicking out and tangling with yours. Figuring he'd be sweet at first; gentle and soft, with just the tiniest bit of pressure. Before licking hard and playfully biting your lower lip as he pulls away. Grinning that mischievous half smirk that makes you want to grab fistfuls of his hair and yank-

He clears his throat and you fall back to Earth. Gulping, your eyes meet his amused stare and you nod cheerfully in response, trying not to be completely transparent. Apparently you fail miserably, because Jack just sends a knowing smirk your way before carrying on.

"That's a good girl."

Oh.

Oh God.

This was such a bad idea.

You were going to explode right in this seat.

The hum of the needle starts again and you try to shift your focus. Your gaze draws, as always, to the man bent over you; his broad fingers encircling your arm and gently holding it in place. His eyes laser focused on the design. Your gaze moves to ogle his broad shoulders and the way the muscles ripple under the leather jacket covering him. He tilts his neck and you trace the skin trying to pinpoint the exact point you'd like to sink your teeth in. Okay enough! Suffice it to say, you definitely wouldn't mind being under him in a different context.

You nearly squirm at the thought of his broad body on top of yours, but catch yourself just in time. Wouldn't be out of character for you to mess up your first tattoo right near the finish line. That would be quite the story. 'O hey, nice tattoo, what's that squiggle at the bottom?' 'Oh. Yea I was just picturing getting cracked like a glow stick by my tattoo artist when he had a needle on my skin.'

You hold back a flinch and wriggle in the seat when Jack raises the needle from your skin to start a different line. Those caramel tinted eyes rise from the half etched pattern on your bicep and fix onto you as he looks over with a raised eyebrow.

“Behave darlin’,” he coos. “We're nearly there. You’ve been doin’ so well for me. Let’s not get carried away now.”

Oh.

Oh fuck.

This was a really bad idea.

You gulp and grit your teeth and nod for him to continue. You're thinking of kittens taking baths, ice cream in the park, that absolutely terrible but totally worth it for the eye candy vampire movie you'd seen last weekend, and how bad your issues with yourself had to be for you to get something permanently etched into your skin than tell a handsome man that you might like him. Mentally shaking your head at yourself, you glance over to see how much of the tattoo was left. Which turned out to be a mistake.

"Ack!" You cry out.

Fist clenching and arm twitching immediately, as you watch the needle touch a sensitive part of your skin, and you flinch badly. Jack lifts the needle and fixes you with a stern half glare. But there's a twinkle in his eye that has you giving him a sheepish grin.

"Whoops?"

You pout at him, with a teasing tilt of your head. He chuckles and your eyes flicker to his lips for a beat too long. When you look up, Jack's smirk has turned roguish as he catches you shamelessly checking him out. Again.

Oh no.

"Maybe you just need some positive reinforcement sweetheart, hm?"

Before you can even process the statement, he has already shut the needle off.

"Such misbehavin', darlin'."

He tuts at you before leaning down and pressing his lips against the corner of your mouth. He smells like leather. And a soft cologne. Both of which assault your senses; hints of pine mixed with sandalwood and something inexplicably him wraps around you, and it is dangerously delicious. His tongue darts out to have the tiniest taste as his mustache tickles the corner of your lips. Before you can restore the brain power needed to tilt your head, and maybe pull him on top of you by the lapels of his jacket, tattoo be damned, he's already pulling away.

"Fuck me."

The whimper that leaves you is entirely involuntary.

He grins at your flustered face as the needle starts again. His grip on your arm tightens and you squirm for entirely different reasons as he winks at you.

"Absolutely. But only if you're good and hold still now sugar."

Your jaw drops. There's nothing but static in your brain.

Wait.

Did he just- ?

Oh God.

"Be good for me now honey. 'M almost done. And then we can see about rewardin' good behavior."

Fuck.

This was the best idea you'd ever had.

****

#jack daniels x reader #jack whiskey daniels x reader #agent whiskey x reader #whiskey x reader #not a agent whiskey person #< this used to be an actual tag and now here we are #yeeting this into the void and running tf away

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naturesapphic · 2 months

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Matching tattoos

Jade west x fem!reader

Warnings: cussing and fluff

“You ready to go in darling?” Jade asked you as y’all got out of the car and was heading over to a tattoo shop. You and Jade decided on getting matching tattoos together and you were getting very nervous. Jade could tell and was trying to help calm you down. “Hey baby…it’s gonna be just fine. It really doesn’t hurt that bad but I like feeling pain you know that.” She smirked and you playfully rolled your eyes at her.

“Shut up Jade…” you exclaimed and she chuckled at you and opened the door for you and you slowly went inside. A man came out and greeted y’all. “Hello! Welcome! Do y’all have an appointment with us?” He asked and Jade nodded. “Appointment for Jade west and y/f/n.” She said and he typed it in the computer and nodded. “Right this way. Jonah will be here soon to get started. Do y’all need anything while I’m here? Some water or a snack?” He asked and y’all shook your heads no. He left and Jade went to sit on the chair first.

“I’ll go first so you can see that it’s really not that bad okay babygirl?” She explained and you slowly nodded your head. A man walked in with a long beard and tattoos everywhere, he smiled as he saw jade. “Jade west! One of my favorite customers. How are you?” He asked as he walked over and gave her a fist bump. She reluctantly gave him one and gave him a friendly smile which she rarely gives out. “I’m doing good. I’m here with my girlfriend y/n. We are gonna get matching tattoos together.” She explained and he gave out a big smile.

“So you are the famous girlfriend she was talking about. She talks about you all the time.” He said while you blushed profusely at his words. “I guess I am. I’m y/n. Nice to meet you.” You said as you stuck out your hand to shake his which he gladly did. “So! What tattoo are y’all planning to get.” He asked and you gave Jade a look which meant you tell him. “We are gonna get two snakes wrapped around each other.” Jade explained and he nodded understandably.

“That’s great! Let’s get started then. Jade you ready?” He asked and she nodded as she rolled her sleeve up. In about thirty minutes it was done, now, it was your turn. Jade got off the chair and you slowly got up and walked over to it. Jade kissed your forehead lovingly and moved a chair near you so she could hold your hand. “I’ll be right here with you angel. Everything will be okay.” Jade reassured you and Jonah started working on your arm. An hour has passed, since you took a couple of breaks, and the tattoo was done.

You looked down at your arm and was completely entranced. “It’s so good! Thank you so much.” You thanked Jonah and he gave both of y’all a friendly smile. “No worries! Thank y’all for coming and I’ll see y’all later. You can pay up front.” He said as you and Jade got wrapped up and headed up to the front to pay. “Thank you for being there for me jade.” You said as Jade paid for everything. She took your head and the both of you walked out back to her car. “Anytime babygirl. Anytime.” Jade said as she started her car and leaned over to give you a gentle kiss on your cheek.

A/n: I hope the person who requested this likes it and I hope y’all enjoyed too! my Rhea ripley book is open for any requests and stuff and go check out the first imagine I posted! I have my own buy me a coffee page! You can give me a dollar and it will help. I also have some different commission types I will do so here's my page to look into it :) https://www.buymeacoffee.com/naturesapphic Requests are open for yeehaw!wanda, country!wanda, and any other southern variants of Wanda or Natasha! Remember to stay hydrated and to rest! I love y'all!

#jade west x fem!reader #jade west fluff #jade west masterlist #jade west fanfiction #jade west #jade west x reader #elizabeth gillies x fem!reader #elizabeth gillies x reader #elizabeth gillies #victorious x fem!reader #victorious x reader #victorious #nickelodeon

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envysnest · 3 months

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Pity the Mayfly (ch. 1/?) - an Astarion/Tav fic

Ao3 Link Here

Chapters: 1 // 2 // 3 // 4 // 5

You had come to the Gate to forget your past, discard your elven name, and pursue alchemy against your family's wishes. On a visit to your old keep, you're found by the Nautiloid, and everything tilts sideways.

When the gith’yanki asks your name, you say the first thing that comes to mind: “Tavvendish.” You add, “Tav, for short. I know it’s a mouthful.”

“The pronunciation of your name,” she snaps, “is not of any concern to me. Our priority is escaping this ghaik monstrosity.” She grabs your forearm. “I am Lae’zel, of Creche K’liir. There is but one way to pronounce my name. You will call me Lae’zel. Now.” She turns and points. “We go.”

------------

There’s another woman on the ship: a half-elf named Shadowheart. She appraises you with a tight mouth. If there’s something odd about your name, she doesn’t mention it. But, as you two wander the beach, she doesn’t have to: it reads in her eyes, in the way she watches you with suspicion.

You try to make conversation. “Where are you from, sister?”

“Do not use your wood elf customs on me,” she replies. “I was not raised with them. ‘Shadowheart’ will do just fine.”

You roll your eyes. “I am from the Gate,” you say pointedly. “Where are you from?”

“I am also from the Gate." Shadowheart pauses to flip a corpse over; she digs through its pockets, finds a few gold pieces, and pockets them. She offers no further information, and neither do you.

------------

Truthfully, you were on your way home for the first time in ages. You brought your latest batch of Lesser Harpy Spider antivenom with you.

Fox’s Keep took half a tenday to reach from the southern Gate. It was day four, and unseasonably hot. You were due to stop in neighboring Cliffside Keep that night. By suppertime, you would sit in front of a hand-hewn wooden table, courtesy of your wood-working family. Twenty-four hours from that, you would be in your childhood bedroom in Fox’s Keep.

You carefully outlined your eyes in blue. All you had for reference was a hand mirror that shined sunlight directly into your eyes. Prior visits had sparked rude comments about your skin: prying questions about being tired, or overworked, or disheveled. You knew to make up your face now.

You looked down at the ground and waved a hand over the blue eye paint, willing it to dry without smudging on your browbone. A pretty face didn’t stop the comments, but it at least quelled them. You could always switch the topic to your work if they didn't stop. You did, deep down, like the eye paint on you; if you had to make these damnable visits to your old keep, supplying them with medicine against those woods, you would at least look good doing it.

A shadow darkened the sky above you. You looked up.

And then—

------------

There is a dagger at your neck and a hissing voice in your ear.

“Do not move,” it says. “And don’t make a sound. I don’t want to cut that pretty little throat of yours. Do we understand each other?”

His dagger presses directly into the space where your tattoo cuts down your throat. You swallow and feel its keen blade against your flesh.

You nod at the sky.

“Good girl,” murmurs the voice.

Where is Shadowheart? you think. Your heart races. There is a pale hand at your sternum, a leg wrapped around yours. You know how this dance ends, have borne witness to it dozens of times. You want to say something cutting— that you are finishing your monthly blood, that you are a witch, that you will slit his throat for the courtesy— and yet you cannot move, your body obediently going still for what you knew was next.

The man adjusts his grip on the dagger. “You were on that ship,” he says. “I saw you. You are going to tell me everything. Nod if you understand.”

He is drawing this out. You nod.

“That’s a good pet. What were you doing on that ship? Talk.”

“Taken,” you wheeze, trying not to cut yourself in two on the dagger.

“From?”

“Cliffside— Keep—”

“You’re a-ways from home, little woodling.” The dagger presses incrementally deeper. “Why?”

So the Nautiloid had crashed somewhere new, after all. Just how far was far?

You lick your lips. “—visiting—my old keep—” A bead of sweat trickles down your brow, seeps into your eye. It stings. “—I— I bring medicine—”

“You’re a healer?” The man’s tone changes: it is now tentatively hopeful. The dagger eases, just the slightest bit; you can turn your head to face him.

“Opposite—” You look up into his face. The man’s eyes are a strange, ruby-red; you’ve never seen anything like it. “I make antivenom—poi—poisons, usually—”

Someone makes a distressed noise behind you: Shadowheart, back from scavenging. “Unhand her at once!” she snaps.

“Stay out of this!” the man shouts at her.

Something in your brain squirms— gives—

And suddenly, the dagger is gone from your throat.

You feel like the tadpole will bore its way out of your skull from your left eye socket. The man yelps with pain. You can sit up, but your head pounds, and you fall back down on the dirt.

Memories spill into your brain: the acrid smell of liquor, flesh-on-flesh, the laughter of a full tavern. The moon is full and bright, and you are so very hungry—

And then it’s gone. You open your eyes. The sun shines brightly above you.

“What the hell was that?” the man cries. He holds his head, face creased with agony. “And what,” he snaps at you, “did they do to me?”

Shadowheart reaches down to you. You take her hand, and she hauls you to your feet in one swift pull. “To us,” she says. “Lucky you. Looks like you have a tadpole, too.”

You cough. “With Lae’zel, that makes four of us.” You watch the man as, scowling, he stands and dusts the dirt from his breeches. He's maybe your height, and you are not a short woman. Perhaps you could've thrown him off of you.

Shadowheart raises her chin defiantly. “I’m not entirely sold on keeping the gith. For all we know, she could be dead.”

The man’s voice: “A gith, you say? This just became interesting.”

You pick up your brimmed hat from the path; it’s faintly crumpled. A shame: you had saved for months to buy it. “Provided you keep your daggers in your pockets," you say to him, "You can come along, too. We should stay together.”

“Tavvendish,” hisses Shadowheart. “Really?”

Meanwhile, the man laughs beside you: a floating, haughty sound, like wind chimes. “And what makes you think I want to come with you?”

But before you can speak, he shakes his head. “Let’s start over. My name is Astarion.” He smiles; he reminds you of a particularly sated cat. “Who might I be speaking to?”

Your stomach drops. Was it only elves on that blasted ship? you think.

“Tav,” you say, and you brace for his reaction.

But Astarion doesn’t comment on your unusual name. The other man takes your hand and merely bows again. “Charmed, my dear.” He kisses the back of your hand.

His lips are ice-cold.

You snatch your hand away and, when Astarion turns to Shadowheart, wipe it discreetly on the back of your robes. You reach down for your pack and staff. The tips of your ears burn.

Shadowheart does not offer her hand to Astarion. “Shadowheart.” And then, to you: “We should keep moving.”

Astarion gestures to the path. “By all means,” he says. “Lead the way.”

------------

The wreckage teems with corpses and reeks of old blood. Intellect Devourers skitter around your ankles, whispering join us join us join us join us in reedy voices that make you feel vaguely ill. You put your staff through one. It squeals, like nails on stone, before going limp. As your new companions explore around you, you dig out your scalpel and split the Intellect Devourer in two. You excise the grey, slimy cerebellum and wrap it in wax paper from your pack.

You hear Astarion scoff at you from across the room. “How vile.”

You glare at him. “Sorry for making the best out of a bad situation.”

He leans against an empty mindflayer pod, making a show of examining his nails. “A poisoner,” he says idly. “I’m sure drinking that swill,” and here he twirls a finger at the Intellect Devourer blood on your hands, “will make anyone sick.” He picks at something underneath his thumbnail, the very picture of chilly disinterest. “Tavvendish, was it?”

“Tav is fine—”

His eyes flick up to yours. “Duly noted, Tavvendish.”

You feel your hackles raise. You can’t tell if he’s making fun of your name, but his smug attitude makes you feel suddenly, terribly violent. Anger, familiar and horrible, rises up in your gut.

Astarion raises an eyebrow and smirks.

You stand, brandishing your staff—

A piercing whistle comes from the cliffs above you. Shadowheart’s head is just visible over its lip. “There’s another path up here,” she calls. “It has signage. We may be near civilization.”

Astarion shouts back up to her. “We’re coming,” he says. “Just as soon as the witch is done dissecting everything.”

You make a fist— twirl your pointer finger— aim it at Astarion—

Shadowheart interrupts before you can finish casting Fire Bolt. “Quickly, then! The sun is already beginning to wane.”

You scowl and drop your hand, thwarted. Astarion widens his eyes at you, like your second brother when he gets something you want. “You heard the lady,” he purrs. “Let’s go.”

You tromp up the hills behind him, keeping a purposeful distance. Astarion is blissfully silent; whatever energy he had before, he must now direct into huffing and puffing up the cliffside with you. Orange dirt nests under your fingernails, turns your palms the color of ripe apricots.

Astarion reaches the top before you do and offers a hand down. You ignore it.

Now at the top of the cliff, you sigh with relief. Why had you packed so much for such a short visit home?

Astarion’s feet tap impatiently in your eyeline. “You lied, by the by,” he says above you. “You are from Fox’s Keep, not Cliffside.”

You wince. So Astarion had seen into your brain, just as you, presumably, had seen into his.

What exactly had Astarion seen?

And what did you see?

You reluctantly get to your feet. Rusty dirt clings to your robes, far beyond the capability of any Prestidigitation spell. You’ll have to change into fresh ones as soon as you’re able. Shadowheart places a stabilizing hand on your back.

“It’s rather a long story,” you say. “I’m not exactly— Fox’s Keep is my mother keep.”

Shadowheart lets out a little huh next to you, but she doesn’t say anything more.

You continue, “I live in the Gate, currently.”

“Oh?” Astarion leans in towards you. “And what keep do you belong to there?”

“I don’t—” You sigh with defeat. “Have one.”

Astarion gasps and presses his fingers to his lips. “Oh, my,” he says, the very picture of Upper-City shock and awe. “An exile. I’ve never seen a wood elf expelled from her keep.”

You scowl at him. “I am no—”

“Hellooo!” calls a male voice. ��A little help, please!”

------------

“Baldur’s Gate,” said your Nana with a sneer, “is a dirty, unsafe city.”

Yes, you replied, but at least there aren’t ten potion-makers to a block there, and that earns you another night of screaming and slammed doors. You lied awake all night, tears drying on your face, listening to the grandfather clock tick away in the hall.

Baldur’s Gate, at least to you, represented opportunity: It was a place where you could be anyone.

Anyone but… you.

You're fascinated by the wrong things: flowers blooming and dying, an asp sinking its fangs into a squealing rabbit, mushrooms glowing in the dark. Nature beckoned to you as death beckons to the weak with an open palm. You learned Knock just so you could dig into the library's forbidden texts: necromancy, mind control, poisons. You withstood the resulting beatings from the Bookkeeper family with pride.

Inspired by the many encyclopedias you read, you taught yourself how to milk venom from a viper. It was a thrilling day when you finally encouraged a Golden Asp to latch to a milking jar. You had felt something tender crack open within you, watching those first clear drops slide down into the glass below. The venom sparkled in the sunlight.

Your family, the Carvers, is one of wood-workers: both of your parents, and your Nana and Papa on both sides, and your great-grandparents before them. Your mother is a furniture-maker from Cliffside Keep; your father, a maker of wooden hunting decoys from Fox’s Keep. The two had fallen slowly in in love during regular visits to trade. They had expected a son when they had you; you were given a masculine name anyway. You have seven younger siblings, two of which are identical twins: good luck for wood elves, a sign of a fertile and happy marriage. Your interest in alchemistry— in something other than wood-working— soiled that.

“What would an alchemist’s family name be?” your mother sighed at you one afternoon. Your newest sibling dozed in her arms. “Poisoner? It’s a hideous profession. Don’t even think about it.”

The problem was that you couldn’t stop thinking about it.

You argued with your parents, your grandparents, your siblings. You resented the forced time in the workshop, sanding down wood furniture until your arms and abdominals ache. When you were unable to trance, you drew what you found growing in the forest: snakes and spiders and insects crawling in the grass. You found a snake’s nest one afternoon, the eggs already hatched and abandoned, and you sat next to it for hours, dutifully sketching your findings. You taught your friends simple cantrips, little tricks to make them gasp and giggle.

One of your sisters stole your notebook from your shared bedroom and, laughing all the while, showed it to your parents. Then the parchment and ink was taken away, and you were given more useless wood to sand. You beat her about the ears for this, and when she cried for your parents, they took away your candles, too.

I hate this place, you think one night. I hate my stupid boy name and I hate stupid wood and after my Trial I’ll start my own keep someday, someplace far from here, and I’ll learn all the spells I want.

You wish, fervently, to be given a girl’s name at your Trial. You resolved to beg the Wood Mother for one, if needed. Tavvendish was a child who was doomed to varnish wood for eternity. This new elf, you decided, this adult, would be an alchemist, and she would have a pretty, feminine name.

The week of your Trial couldn't come soon enough.

And then it arrived.

------------

Gale is sweet and talkative and gods, you hated him already.

“A fellow scholar!” he chirps at you, clasping his hands together with excitement. “Two wizards are better than one, or so they say.”

Lae’zel dusts herself off from the cage she was just in, as if your party hadn’t had to rescue her. You dig through the trapper's belongings with her, looking for anything useful.

“There’s balsam growing there,” you say over your shoulder to Gale. You point at a few scraggly flowers growing along the path. “Would you mind?”

Gale— the idiot-- happily obliges. He produces lacquered scissors from his pack— oh, you definitely hated him— and, with clinical efficiency, begins snipping flowers. “Have we an alchemist on our hands?” he says. “I’ve got some mushrooms gathering dust in my pouch. I might give them to you to extract.”

Astarion calls to you two from over a tiefling’s bloodied corpse. “Oh, don’t touch her, Gale. She’s covered in goodness-knows from the Nautiloid.”

“You don’t say?” Gale calls back to him. He smirks at you, wagging the scissors in your direction. “A thrifty one, then.”

How in the realms had Astarion heard you two? You ignore him and address Gale instead. “I have some supplies in my pack,” you say, “but certainly not enough for five individuals. And most of it is…" You teeter your hand back-and-forth. "Toxic.”

Gale sighs. “What a shame.”

The deceased have some drow poison and a few meager healing potions. Something was better than nothing, you suppose. You pass a healing potion to Lae’zel, who accepts it with a terse nod.

Gale’s shadow falls over you, and he offers the balsam flowers with open palms. His trimming is immaculate; you admire the bulbs for a moment before dropping them, one by one, into your pouch.

“I can’t help but notice,” Gale says slowly, and you tense. “You’re a wood elf, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you say stiffly. You stand up.

“How fascinating!” Gale tucks his hands behind his back, the very picture of polite curiosity. “Your kind are rather reclusive, as you know. I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure of talking to a wood elf in Waterdeep.”

You could kill him.

Gale leans in. “What keep are you from, may I ask?”

You sigh. “Can everyone stop asking me that?”

Gale takes a step back. Hurt flits across his face, quick as lightning. In the next moment, it’s gone. He gives you a little bow. “My sincerest apologies,” he says, and he sounds genuine. “I don’t mean to pry.”

You sling your pack over your shoulder with a grunt. “Fox’s Keep,” you say, guilt lancing through you at the name. “It was my mother keep. I live in the Gate at the moment.”

“Fox’s Keep!” Gale trails after you. “Excellent strawberry wine. Some of the finest and sweetest I’ve tasted.”

Astarion, Shadowheart, and Lae’zel are several steps ahead of you on the path. The road trudges upwards at a steady thirty-degree angle. From beside you, Gale wipes sweat from his brow. Your pack clinks with glass bottles.

“We certainly do love our wine,” you huff.

“I heard you all have trades,” he says. “What is your family name?” Before you can answer, he laughs and shakes his head. “Look at me, prying again. The curse of an academic.”

“Carver.” You stop at the side of the road to examine a bushel of Autumncrocus, hoping Gale will get the hint and leave you alone.

He doesn’t.

“Wood-workers?” he asks. “A noble profession.”

You cut the stems with your paring knife. “Mm-hmm.”

He squints up at the sky. “So how does a wood-worker get into alchemy?”

You shove the Autumncrocus directly into your robe pockets and start back up the path. “By disappointing her family,” you spit over your shoulder. “That’s how.”

Gale is blessedly silent after that.

------------

There is an overturned fruit cart in a clearing up ahead. The produce looks ripe enough, and it doesn't smell of rot. Gale suggests-- annoyingly-- that your party takes a break to eat and regroup.

The five of you idle in the clearing, overlooking the Nautiloid. You are desperately thirsty, but who knows how the Nautiloid has polluted the Chionthar below? Better to drink the juice from some bruised oranges.

You remove your leather hat. At least it was a pleasant day to be kidnapped— illithidnapped?— tadpoled? You squint down at the wreckage. The Nautoloid’s tentacles splay across the valley, like a lazy teenager lounging in the sun. Smoke rises faintly from the wreckage. The site, despite everything, is almost...peaceful.

“What,” Astarion asks, voice dripping with disdain, “is that?”

You turn to him. He’s already crossed the clearing to stand close to you. “What’s what?”

He reaches for you and—

Drags a finger along the bridge of your nose.

Along your scar.

You freeze.

“This wretched thing,” he says, watching the path his cold finger takes. The scar arcs over the bridge of your nose, then splits in two over your right cheekbone; he takes the path down to your jawbone first.

You can’t move. No one’s ever touched you so blatantly before.

Well—

Not since—

Astarion is still talking. “It ruins your lovely face,” he sighs. He returns to where the scar bisects on your right cheek. He traces the other line this time, the one leading to your right earlobe. “Pray tell, what happened to you, poor thing?”

You move your mouth, but no sound comes out. You keep your arms rigid at your side. Shock keeps you planted in the dirt, though every part of you wants to run.

His hands are so cold.

When you don’t respond, Astarion clicks his tongue. He-- finally-- withdraws his hand and puts it on his hip. He tilts his head to the side. “Cat got your tongue?” he asks you, eyes deceptively wide.

“You know it’s rude to touch other people without asking?” you choke out.

He barks out a harsh laugh. “Don’t I ever, darling!”

He steps in. Astarion is a close talker, you realize, the worst kind: you go cross-eyed trying to follow him. “But really,” he says, and you can smell his breath, smell how vaguely chemical it is, “I must know. Did someone hurt you?”

You take a step back. Astarion follows.

You growl at him, but Astarion’s smirk widens.

Finally, you relent: “I tried to cast Witch Bolt,” you sigh, “and it backfired and cast on me.” You do a tiny, sarcastic curtsey. “And now I have a Witch Bolt across my face forever.”

“A Witch Bolt for a witch,” he says with obvious glee. “At least people know not to come close again.”

“Indeed,” you snap. “Everyone but you.”

Astarion rolls his eyes. His smirk widens. “Don’t be cross, my dear. I think it really suits you.”

You wince and shoulder past him. “Thank you for calling me wretched, brother.”

“Oh, come now!” he calls after you. “I find it quite interesting!”

#astarion ancunin #tavstarion #bg3 tav #astarion x tav #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #astarion #pity the mayfly

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aufi-creative-mind · 2 years

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Project ORDON - Concept Sketches: the Sea Ritos, Humans and the Southern Zoras.

Here is a handful of sketches that I have created so far for the Races of Ordon. As part of my much larger worldbuilding project for BotW Ordon.

The Sea Ritos are based on water birds that do aerial / dive fishing - such as terns (as seen above) and kingfishers. They are generally shorter with longer beaks compared to the raptional Ritos of Hyrule. And have a much bright and colourful appearance.

The Southern Zora's design is a fusion of the Twilight Princess and Breath of the World designs of the Zora race.

They come in two variants - the River Zoras who are the same height as their counterparts in the Zora's Domain but with long finned tails. The Ocean Zoras on the other hand are much larger with serpentine tails. The Southern Zora Queens are the largest of the Ocean Zoras.

(Their current Queen, Valerie XXI is actually small by Zora Queen standards as she is still quite young). I've actually posted her before in this post.

And lastly, the three types of humans found in Ordon (not including the Gerudo). Hylians refer to Hylians from Hyrule and distiguished by their long pointed ears. Ordonian humans are those from Ordon and distinguished by their rounded ears.

And finally, Ordon-Hylians - they are descendants of the original Hylian migrants who have intermarried with the native Ordonian humans. They are distinguished by having shorter pointed ears. Many Ordon-Hylians still follow the customs of Hyrule including the worship of the Goddess Hylia. However there are others who follow the Ordon way of life.

The only remaining races that I have not created concept sketches of yet are of the Ordon-Gorons and the seafaring Gerudos of Gerudo's Reach.

The general idea I had in mind for the Ordon-Gorons are that, they are much like their Twilight Princess design with the BotW style. So they appear more bulkier with tattoo-like markings and parts of its rock features are carved into stylish patterns.

The Gerudo of Gerudo's Reach are just like their Desert counterpart but are seafaring based. Especially for the merchant / pirate Gerudo.

One day, I'll get around to it...depending on how many people are interested and/or if my brain decides to get fixated on this world again.

#legend of zelda #ordon #botw project ordon #project ordon #worldbuilding #races of ordon #ordonians #sea ritos #southern zoras #twilight princess #breath of the wild #( btw Theodora is an important character in my BotW Family and Legacy stories )#theodora dewett

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blackberrywars · 1 year

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LOK: Ming-Hua Tattoo Ideas

I've got a fic in the works where Ming-Hua has extensive tattoos in the Inuit style, and this is essentially a compilation of all my ideas. I'm not going to use all these in the fic itself for plot reasons, but I wanted everything in one place. Full disclosure, I am not an expert in tattoos or Inuit culture, nor am I trained as an artist, so all of this is me doing research and using references to the best of my ability. Sadly, a lot of the original meanings/history behind Inuit tattoos, especially the diverse patterns between different tribes, has been lost, but many people are working to revive it.

I wanted to use Inuit styles for her, since I hc her as part of the Northern Water Tribe, and Ming-Hua's lack of arms ties into a traditional Inuit goddess, Sedna, who had her arms cut off as part of her story. In the past (and the present, as more and more Inuit women are re-adopting this custom), this story would be commemorated with tattoos along specific parts of the fingers and arms to represent where Sedna was cut. Plus, I thought it would be cool to adapt this style to the world of ATLA/LOK and Ming-Hua specifically.

(My first draft) Obviously, arm tattoos are impossible here, so while most of the resources I found focused on arm/face tattoos, I put the bulk of them on her legs. These are meant to represent milestones and skills/achievements, another feature of Inuit tattoos. Since waterbending is so focused on arm movements, I imagine they would probably go there, but hers are on her legs, and I tried to come up with meanings for each one. The ones on her face and torso are more milestone-based, and more based in traditional Inuit practices.

(NON-SEXUAL NUDITY UNDER THE CUT)

Branching Y's: her tentacles and how they split and branch off. I wanted these to continue across the length of her leg because she uses them so much; traditionally referred to essential hunting tools

Spikes: turning water to ice, a basic skill but an important one

Circles: basically all represent the moon in some way; the one on her knees is specifically meant to be the Moon Spirit, Tui/Yue; the one on her stomach is for mothers

Wiggles: symbol of the water tribes and of the Ocean Spirit, La

Boat: reminiscent of an upside-down Mark of the Wise from the Southern tribe; represents being able to command a boat

Chest: traditoonally meant to symbolize motherhood and womanhood, but I also wanted to add the moons since she uses her torso to waterbend

Chin: traditional Inuit tattoo given when a girl gets her first period

Forehead V: traditional Inuit tattoo signifying entry into womanhood, so it would be given at 16 in the Northern Tribe

Eye/Cheek lines: debated meaning, ranging from just contributing to the general beautification of the tattoos to group identification to helping one see better in the snow and/or spiritually

I found no references for back tattoos in any of my research, but it's waterbending culture, and I love some moon phases.

I welcome any questions or corrections! This is not an area of expertise (art, tattoos, or Inuit culture), and I'd love to talk to anyone with more knowledge. If anyone wants to be added/removed from the taglist, send me an ask/PM and I'll take care of it

@hellinglasses, @yellowsalt3, @wishingforatypewriter, @orangepanic, @nyamadermont

#berry's fics #legend of korra #lok #avatar the last airbender #atla #red lotus #ming hua

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shrineheart · 10 months

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Man some shit has been going down with my DnD boy Fuck Roger and it has been a blast so far. So that means y'all gotta hear about it because I have brain rot.

So, Fuck Roger is this fella:

A classic case of "haha funny name joke" that becomes a serious character. Some notes on Roger:

He's a tiefling bard who works as a sex worker.

He's got a thick southern accent.

Fuck is his virtue name. One he chose, in part as a fuck you to his family and in part because it's what he likes to do. His father is Honor and his sister is Charity Faith so you can imagine how THAT went over.

When people ask him about it he likes to tell them "It's instructions."

Anytime someone says "Fuck!" in our game he drawls out "Yeah?" like he's answering to it.

He has an asexual boyfriend named Paul A. Deen (yes, we both went for joke names) who is a chef wizard. The pancake tattoos on his stomach are a tribute to him.

Roger comes from a rich family of philanthropists. His father is a sculptor and his mother's family would purchase art pieces and do auctions for charity etc. Which is how his parents met.

His father survived through a lot of persecution where he's from for being a tiefling. He lost his parents and brother to it. He started out life poor.

Roger is illegitimate. He's not aware of this even though it's kind of painfully obvious (his father is blue, his sister is purple, they have different horns, tails, etc)

He loves his father. His father is a good dude and knows Roger isn't his but loves him anyway.

His mother and sister were absolutely horrible to him throughout his childhood including physical abuse. His mother is a cleric so she would often just heal up wounds caused. It took him ages to convince his father something was happening because his father was often gone.

Roger's sister once tried to kill him over a boy that he wasn't even interested in. That prompted him to leave home.

He kept in contact with his father and lived with Kimora, a dragonborn woman who ran a brothel. He was of age but spent most of this time working as someone who did cleaning and fetching things.

His father sent him to bard's college. Deep down he hopes one day Roger will come to his sense, come home, and be respectable.

He fell in love with a noble's son, not realizing that said boy's sister and mother were two of his other regular customers. He had planned to run away with this boy but that information got out and he was a accused of trying to cause a scandal and blackmail the family. The boy parted ways with him but doing a complete 180 and turning against him. Roger's still not over it.

He met his current boy on a ship while running from home because said nobles would like his head on a pike. Paul was the chef.

Most of Roger's tattoos are ones he gets when marking of "races I have slept with".

He has a large tattoo of a starling on his back.

He has a tramp stamp that says Semen Demon.

Thanks to his time working in the brothel he picked up various small skills such as sign language.

His father taught him and his sister to whittle.

When people find out he's from a rich family they often see him as a kid off on a bender. He's rather quiet about his childhood but makes it clear he doesn't like his sister.

He's a good person. He doesn't like killing if he can help it. He doesn't even want his sister dead he just wants her to leave him alone.

Despite his work and how much he makes raunchy comments and jokes (the Paladin asking what a knot was is still one of my favorite moments) he's good with people. And he tries his best to make people feel comfortable.

Recent events have had him meeting up with his sister again. Their father is sick and she's trying to bring him home and while he wants to go he also doesn't want to leave his boyfriend or the party.

She's already tried fighting with him again and now they're trapped in a place where they can see each others' memories and where they will potentially lose all of their memories.

Roger doesn't want to lose his memory for all the normal reasons. But the most pressing one for him is "If we both lose our memories, I know me and we might end up in bed together and there is no way in hell that is gonna happen."

SO, where we left off last time he was about to either cast Dispel or Dimension Door to escape. The place amplifies your magic though so the results? Who knows. He and his sister flipped a coin for which spell to cast and we left on that cliff hanger last game.

#dnd #dungeons and dragons #tiefling #bard #dnd character

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whatevergreen · 11 months

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Paiwan (Kacalisian) shirt, 1900s - Shung Ye Museum Taiwan

The Paiwan are Taiwan's second largest indigenous group, with over 100,000 people mainly living in southern Taiwan.

Traditionally animist, many were indoctorinated into christianity after the Nationalist Chinese takeover of Taiwan in 1945, following decades of occupation and suppression under the Japanese. Attempts to suppress their culture including language, dress, and tattooing customs continued for many years under Nationalist rule, as Taiwan became the last remaining part of the Republic of China from 1950.

In recent decades the traditions are being revived and developed by Paiwan artists such as the tattooist Cudjuy Patjidres (below, centre)

Paiwan wedding guests in traditional dress, December 2020

Of course the Paiwan and other indigenous peoples continue to be under threat:

"Taiwan’s indigenous people have long been subject to mistreatment by companies seeking to extract resources from their land and integrate Taiwan into the world capitalist system. Now their resistance takes a new form: an organized political assembly."

Not sure how much good that will do, but it's a start.

#indigenous #paiwan #taiwan #textiles

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automatonne · 1 year

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I have several new OCs for something original I’m cookin 👀

I don’t let the fact I can’t draw stop me… I used He/ro Forge to make approximate models of my new girls!

Meet Dolly the centaur, Jade the naga, Lyra the minotaur, Berry the slime girl, and Nessa the dragon girl!

Dolly is the owner of the Monstere Cafe, a place where half-humans and full monsters alike can gather to eat. She’s got that Southern hospitality charm but is a little no-nonsense. She’s an owner of a small business, above all, and she’s here to make sure her customers get what they want, whether they end up in a belly or cram someone else in theirs. She may be an older horse (44 and counting), but she’s still got it!

Jade is a refined lady of more luxurious tastes. She’s 23 and a recent graduate of a prestigious academy for naga women, Goldscale. (Top of her class, too, mind.) Nagas are expected to enter society as magic wielders and alchemists and are known for their slender, sleek beauty. Jade takes pride in her lovely green scales, but she bears a secret… she really wishes she could put on some weight. She bemoans a metabolism much too high for a half-snake. She’s also had this reoccurring dream where she’s slurped down like a noodle by a human she keeps waking up from blushing like a fool…

Lyra is a lady who knows what she wants and coyly reminds you of that every step of the way. She is not for the easily embarrassed. (Or maybe she is, if you’re into that.) She’s an apprentice at a store that caters to monsters with bodies that do not accommodate human clothes very well. She is a warm presence, even if that warmth occasionally spreads to your cheeks as she teases you for staring at her outrageous bust…

Berry is everyone’s cheerleader. She’s bubbly and a touch airheaded, but hey, slimes don’t have brains anyway. Cut her a break. She runs a self-help podcast for monsters with poor body image and shyness about their roles in the pred/prey system, and she is a HUGE supporter of gainers trying to develop the body they want. As overenthusiastic as she is, though, if you find yourself hungry, you may end up with a mouthful of strawberry slime and fed much more than you bargained for.

Nessa has opinions, and you’re going to hear them. Loud and brash, this biker girl is fed up with the stereotyping of the monster world. Nessa is staunchly a prey 99% of the time and very blunt about it. She may bully you if you hesitate in your decision to put her on the menu. She’s been known to cram herself into people’s mouths, too, out of pure frustration… Despite her argumentative and pushy tendencies, her dream is to become a professional tattoo artist, and she enjoys volunteering at local bestiaries.

#automatonne beeps

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chroniclingworlds · 4 months

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Xaraka People

Native to the Great Southern Sea, the Xaraka are apex predators. With females reaching heights of up to 8 feet tall, armed with razor-sharp talons on their hooves and able to sprint up to 30 mph, they are highly capable hunters. Additionally, their high intelligence and use of arrows and spears have allowed them to dominate their ecosystem.

Historically, the Xaraka were migratory hunters who followed their prey between seasonal watering holes, but recently many have permanently settled down along the coast of the Great Southern Sea and taken up farming. Regardless of which lifestyle they lead, the Xaraka typically live in harems of one adult male, several females, and their offspring. While the females traditionally attend to hunting and handling conflict, the smaller male raises the children and even produces a fatty milk-like substance in a specialized throat pouch to feed them. The males also usually develop “beards” as they age, which may be a sexually selected trait to highlight their throat pouch.

There are several distinct heritages of Xaraka, indicated by the color of their headcrest. Each of these heritages have their own customs of fashion, jewelry, crest piercings, and body art. Here are representatives of the three most populous heritages for comparison.

As a young male of blue-crested heritage, Volt wears a variety of bracelets and has five piercings in the top his headcrest, with no permanent tattoos. Males of most heritages do not receive permanent tattoos, but may paint on henna-like designs for special occasions.

Although most permanent settlements on Strix are located in the southern hemisphere, the Xaraka have explored much of the planet and established outposts in the Moon Sea basin as early as 5,000 years ago. Ruins suggest a much larger population once inhabited the region, but the ancient civilization fell for unclear reasons. Prior to their contact with alien life, only a few small villages remained in the north.

Unlike the vast majority of species in the Galactic Accord, the Xaraka did not join by independently developing space-faring technology. Their introduction to other intelligent species was an accident, due to a spacecraft crash-landing on their planet. This informal encounter has caused much controversy among the Galactic Accord, with some believing that the Xaraka do not “deserve” to be part of the organization. There is consequently prejudice towards them in many circles.

#planet strix

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batllethinker · 1 year

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Moodboard Masterlist

Moodboard requests are open

Toxic Maxilova

Soft Maxilova

Karen Wanda/Emo Yelena

Model Yelena/Photographer Wanda

Rockstar Wanda/Wannabe Yelena Maxilova

Cheerleader Wanda/Jock Yelena

Ghostface Yelena/Mommy Wanda

Mommy Wanda/Emo Yelena

Transmasc Maxilova

Transmasc Maxilova 2

Pup Yelena/Mommy Wanda

Entertainer Yelena/Barkeep Wanda

Mommy Wanda/Bf Yelena

Artist Yelena/Model Wanda

Ghostface Yelena/Karen Wanda

Daddy Wanda/Little Yelena

Ceo Wanda/Sugar baby Yelena

Bimbo Yelena/Nerdy Wanda

Camgirl Yelena/Pervy Wanda

Karen Wanda/innocent Nat

Model Nat/Ceo Wanda

Royal Wandanat

Medieval Wandanat

Professor Wanda/Student Nat

Agents Wandanat

Nomad Wandanat

T4t Wandanat

Ceo Wanda/Stripper Nat

Tattoo Artist Wanda/Regular Nat

Halloween Wandanat

Ceo Wanda/PA Nat

Author Wanda/Killer Nat

Nymph Wanda/Hunter Nat

Farmhand Wanda/Southern belle Nat

Farmhand Wanda/Preachers daughter Nat

Escort Nat/Customer Wanda

Domestic Wandanat

Officer Wanda/Housewife Nat

HS Wandanat

Rockstar Wanda/Groupie Nat

Sugar baby Wanda/milf Nat

Mommy Wanda/Bun Agatha

Karen Wanda/Bun Agatha Player Kate/Daddy Wanda

Mommy Wanda/Brat Kate

Influencer Kate/Milf Wanda

Dark Wanda/Kate

Mommy Wanda/Perv Kate

Death Wanda/Daredevil Kate

Victorian Wandakate

Fuckboy Kate/Karen Wanda

Camgirl Kate/Mommy Wanda

Pups Blackhill

Hard dom Wanda/Pup Carol Mommy Wanda/Pup Carol

Bassist Carol/Manager Wanda

Beefy Carol/Milf Wanda

Wolf Wanda/Bambi Reader

#moodboard #moodboard masterlist #cas edits #requests open

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mostly-mundane-atla · 2 years

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could you share them then?

@lizardlicks mentioned wanting to read what I got for this brothel drama, so they get a mention so they can find it easy

---

Even the peasants with no hope of ever actually reading the Great Epics that chronicalled the foggy and mythic past knew who the Onyx-Eyed Lady was. The legendary spirit was a fox in a human woman's shape who charmed an ancient Earth King, so the story went, and demanded he take no other consorts, concubines, or mistresses if she shared his bed. Bewitched by her beauty and demeanor, he agreed and she bore him five ambitious sons and five frivolous daughters and convinced him to build Ba Sing Se's famous walls. How ironic that she made it so the city could never fall to invaders, yet the unsuitable heirs she had given him almost ended his dynasty.

This spirit had gotten something of a following in pockets of the Earth Kingdom. The people saw her as a woman with power over love and beauty, for their own sake or as a means to duplicitous manipulations. People hungry for love, power over others, and sensations to fulfil both body and soul would seek her out to twist fortune their way. The Onyx-Eyed Lady was a fickle thing and a strict mistress, however, and to keep in her good graces one would have to follow her rites and rituals to the letter and repeat them often.

It was only natural then for a handful of cleverly-run brothels to keep their own small shrines to the great spirit in their lobbies to encourage customers to return. This marketing ploy spread and gradually became a part of the wider culture of smoke flowers and iguana-pheasants and unspeakable beauties kept in their bamboo-curtained houses, even spilling out of the Earth Kingdom and finding its way to the walled pleasure districts of the Fire Nation. The purpose of the shrine ran contrary to most. Just as pleasure took precedence over honor and responsibility within her walls, the offerings placed beneath her were offered to her followers rather than by them. At the effigy's base, one would find an array of small sweets, bits of fruit, toasted melon seeds and similar light refreshments. They would partake in the offerings as they'd partake in the girls of her realm, often enough to keep her favor, lest they fall to her curses.

It was always nice to have an excuse for one's vices.

The shrine in Lanhua's place of employment had an especially intricate effigy. The figure of the Lady was a beautiful Southern Water Tribe piece carved of ivory. She was posed in a kneeling position but any illusion of a demure nature was dashed by a mischievous forward gaze and one arm casually wrapped around a sceptre, as was typical of these brothel shrines. Her irises were inserts of glossy black baleen, framed in eyes lined with ink. Delicate etching shaped her brows, also inked black. The shape of her hair was part of the carving, but the hairline had been dotted with pinprick-sized pores, filled with glue to hold hairs of an actual fox's dark summer coat, pulled back to cover the inked ivory shape and tied in place with a braid of gold-hued silk threads. Like many of such effigies, this one wore little: nothing more than a man's sleeveless jacket, perhaps a trophy of a successful seduction. Unlike most, however, her garment was sewn on instead of being part of the figure. It hung off of her shape and from a few precious vantage points, one could see inked details of her carefully carved nude body. Most interestingly, this one had lines engraved onto her chin, forearms, and thighs, in imitation of a Water Tribe woman's traditional tattoos. They weren't inked the way the line of her closed lips or the depths of her dainty nostrils were, but one could see them if the figure caught the light in just the right way. Lanhua would follow the hidden engraved lines with her eyes every chance she got. How it amazed her that what started as a slab of tusk became something with such life that she thought she had caught it breathing once. It seemed almost profane to her that such a work of fine art had found its way into such a place of misery.

Lanhua was not the name the girl's parents had given her in celebration of her arrival to the family. It was not the name other girls in her village called her when they played. In truth, it was more a character she performed or a mask she wore than a part of her. She hated it, but she wouldn't give her true name until her debts were paid and her life was under only her control. Until that day arrived, she would be Lanhua and smile and nod demurely in false gratitude when anyone said it was a beautiful name.

And so, hating this name, Lanhua would partake in the ritual. She'd take a melon seed or a ginger candy and ask the Onyx-Eyed Lady, whose ways she strictly lived by for years upon years, dutifully regardless of her own will, to turn all her vitriol on the housemother Si Pi. She beseeched the spirit, privately, silently, to tear down the daughterless mother who stole girls away to make them brides of the street. She hoped she'd fall into the water and all her jewels would pull her under. She hoped she'd get too close to a lit candle and all the resin sculpted hair on her head would catch fire. She hoped she'd find her alone, in the dead of night, with a strong cord or a sharp blade. Please, she'd begged, let my housemother meet some terrible, terrible end.

---

Hyun-Joo felt like a stupid child, first for entering a stranger's house, and again for hiding behind him the second his door opened and the demand "Where is she?" followed. He held out his free arm to better shield her which made her feel better about grabbing his sleeve.

A woman wearing a whip at her belt had come after her, rather than the man who struck a deal with her parents and escorted her from her home. That man rubbed salt on her feet but this woman, with her air of leadership and the mob of men trailing behind her, wouldn't debase herself by performing such a service.

"My good man," she addressed the inhabitant of the house, "my personal apologies for our charge's inconsiderate behavior. I assure you it won't happen again." Her eyes shifted to Hyun-Joo and her face shifted from apologetic to annoyed, which rung in her voice when she called, "Come back with us, girl."

Girl. Not even a name. She buried her face into the man's shoulder, wishing she was brave enough to speak and thank him, or at least apologize for soaking his clothes with her tears.

She supposed if she was truly a coward, she wouldn't have escaped the pleasure district. She woudn't have pulled herself through that window or waited to get past the gate when a crowd was exiting and the guards were distracted. Where did that courage go? Why did it fail the moment she faced the consequence?

"I'm sure the process is frightening for a fresh girl," the boss of the group continued, trying to coax her out with reason. "We can't let you think this is allowed, but if you come quietly, it'll only be ten lashes instead of twenty."

"Isn't she a bit young for the trade?" Hyun-Joo's host asked incredulously. The woman's words made her flinch and he had, in turn, taken a step more directly in front of her. The thump of his cane on the floor was reassuring, regardless of how unimpressed the armed men must have been with it. Their boss ignored him and doubled down on her target.

"We paid your parents good money for you, girl, and they had to make a hard decision to hand you over. If you had gotten away we'd have had to take that money back. Would you have wanted that, girl? Is that how you'd want to repay them? And now you're dragging a stranger into your problem. Where is your shame?"

"Although," she said, cracking a smirk and eyeing the man's cane, "perhaps the stranger wants to be a hero. Good sir, the girl you're harboring from us is only so valuable because she's intact. Change that, and she loses most her worth. Make a show of it for my men and I'm sure they'll consider it the price of her contract well spent."

"You would buy my--?!"

"As if you didn't consider it!" interjected one of the men at his boss's right hand. "None of your kind are here to make you deny it, and everyone knows it isn't just Fire Nation men who likes their girls that young."

Hyun-Joo's protector tried to hide his wobbling. In truth, he wouldn't be able to stand much longer. It was true when they said the Fire Nation loved their damn hierarchies, and the top dog of the redlight on their side of the island came with her whip a host of thugs demanding some use of a too-young girl. They were armed and he could barely stand. They'd make quick work of him, treat the girl to twenty lashes of leather and flame for running, and still give her to the highest bidder. They'd work her for ten years, twelve, fifteen, maybe even twenty if her parents were in that bad a pinch, and leave her with nothing once she worked off her debt. And beatings throughout, if she wasn't pleasing enough. Unless....

"You promise you'll leave her be?"

He couldn't look the poor fugitive the eye. She was trembling even worse than him and he didn't need to see her to tell.

"You have my word," the woman with the whip answered. "And may lightning strike me down if I go back on it."

"It's like a marriage," he reasoned as he clasped a reassuring hand on the poor girl's shoulder, trying to hold back from shifting his weight on her. "You'd have rather married for the money if it was an option, wouldn't you?"

She processed what he said and hesitantly nodded.

They ignored the cheering. Hyun-Joo kept her eyes shut the entire time and the man she ran to for help escaping whispered apologies and reassurances that it would be over soon into her ear. When the boss and her goons had left, she wept and he drew her a bath to wash herself of fluids. He gave her the choice for him to take her back home or marry her, and she told him that her contract with her parents' consent was still in the walled-off redlight, and that she knew a married woman needed her husband's consent to work in the trade. He understood, shared his dinner with her, and apologized for his lack of extra bedding.

The next day he had gotten them a binding marriage contract and witnesses and gave her a tea that made her bleed in case anything she hadn't washed away in time took root. When she told him her name, he, in turn, told her his was Qaugaluk, after his great-aunt. Between the name, the dark blue eyes, and that thug's remark about his "kind" from that terrible night before, He was clearly Water Tribe. Qaugaluk tended to his new wife after she drank the medicinal tea until the bleeding stopped. His bedside manner was gentle and there was a dutiful ardor to his care. Hyun-Joo thought often of his trouble standing and wondered if it was something he learned by example.

Though Qaugaluk's posture, evident exposure to the sun, and artistic skills suggested a man of middle age, he couldn't be much older than twenty-one. More surprising than his youth was that Hyun-Joo found herself sure that he was a widower. A bachelor had no need for a bed big enough for two, let alone for sleeping on the significantly more worn-out and slept-on side, and when he lay by her to sleep he had none of the husband's appetite women of the village would often joke about when someone had just gotten married. That alone didn't mean anything, but she supposed a bachelor wouldn't have a soapstone pendant, delicately engraved with a scene of geese on water, strung on a lock of glossy hair to stroke lovingly and longingly or hide from his wife. A bachelor also wasn't likely to have pieces of a broken cradle gathering dust tucked away behind his bowls.

Qaugaluk made a living making this and that to sell to visitors of the walled off Fire Nation pleasure district. Exotic jewellery sets to assuage a demanding courtesan or jealous wife were popular, but so were more practical items, like water skins. For those who traveled a ways to see their precious beauties or favorite houses in the trade, he offered baleen boot soles made to measure and gut parkas to keep the rain out. He even took orders and commissions from the workers of the district. Mainly other little waterproof things, but an array of odds and ends as well. Hyun-Joo found a bit of joy in watching him work, with his methodical and efficient movements, and when it came to deliveries he sometimes needed her support to walk that far. He would eventually have her come with him every time, in case he needed her help. After much discussion and reasoning they came to a decision that on his most difficult days, she could make deliveries herself. She was clearly of Earth Kingdom origin and the guards would recognize her as the artisan's wife delivering goods. Plucking her off the street would be a legal nightmare at best or up to three hundred lashes of flame and knotted cord, banishment from the island, and involuntary surrender the property on its soil at worst. No doe-eyed girl could be worth the risk to them.

How tragic this would turn. She could have been content with her chaste husband, cooking and keeping house for him with no more intimate a gesture of affection from him than a hand on her shoulder. Content to respectfully pretend she didn't notice how sad he was and to be as gently dutiful to him as he was to her. She could have been, if not for the tall, elegant woman who received orders for the teahouse by the theatre. If not for her knowing eyes and red-lipped smile that made Hyun-Joo weak in ways she didn't recognize.

And that kept her up at night, wondering if she could have more.

---

There's more, but this was already getting long. May add more, or compile more on its own post

#sex work mention #rape mention #kind of it's rape by proxy #brothel fic idea

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