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rheawritessometimes · 3 years

Text

Not Part of the Deal

{ Childe x GN!Reader }

{ Summary } Living with Childe is starting to feel a little too comfortable. Series Masterlist

{ Warnings } Swearing, Physical Intimacy, Alcohol, Intoxication, Undefined Relationship.

{ Notes } This took a long time, I'm having a hard time writing. I can't decide what I want to write but I didn't want to leave this unwritten for too long. Hopefully, I'll be able to wrap this series up nicely soon. Masterlist

{ Word Count } 1,846

The bed was empty when you woke up to the sound of laughter, which was reasonable considering it was Childe’s laughter coming from the kitchen. You sat up, noting that this was the second time your sleep was disturbed by the Harbinger being loud in the kitchen. Groggily, you rolled out of his bed to figure out the source of his amusement.

When you entered the kitchen, bright blue eyes shining with laughter met your gaze. They were so beautiful, framed by long lashes and accompanied by a goofy smile that could probably light up all of Teyvat for weeks. Were those dimples?

“I thought you didn’t want me ‘cooking enough to feed a small army’, why so much food?” Childe asked through his laughter, seeming much more amused by this than he reasonably should be. Not that this stopped you from laughing along with him.

“Well, I didn’t know what you might like to make, so I decided to err on the side of caution,” you replied somewhat bashfully. It was the truth, minus the fact that most of it was fueled by panic.

“I guess that means I should make a lot of dishes for dinner!”

This turned into quite the ordeal, with several different things being prepared simultaneously, Childe needed to split his focus and time things correctly. You couldn’t even help with much of the preparation, too focused on clearing counter space of his used cookware and cleaning dishes so you wouldn’t be left with a mountain of them afterward, it was especially useful that you cleaned dishes he would later need to reuse for a different component of the meal he had planned.

“Childe, this all looks really good but I think this is enough food to feed all of Liyue.”

“I don’t mind sharing.”

Scoffing at his reply, you could only shake your head. You assumed Childe would pass the leftovers off to his subordinates in Liyue so you didn’t mind too much, so long as the food didn’t go to waste and you didn’t have to do the distribution. Not many of the Fatui in Liyue were very fond of you, considering your history of fights with them. Maybe that’s why the guard didn’t like you.

Redirecting your attention to the food laid out on the table, you were impressed by the array of dishes. There was a cold, primarily vegetable soup that had caught your interest when Childe began preparing it. There was also some sort of potato salad with plenty of mayo, something similar to dumplings with meat filling, and fruit cooked in a syrup. Several other dishes filled the table and you felt bad not sampling at least a little bit of everything, so you kept your portions small.

Throughout dinner, you listened to the Harbinger tell you about the times he made these dishes with his family or sometimes a little bit about the history of a dish. While you didn’t say much, it was pleasant to have his chatter fill the air. He continued to talk about his family back in Snezhnaya and the long days spent fishing even after the both of you had finished eating and were clearing the table.

“I need to start exercising again, I don’t want to get out of shape,” Childe lamented once you had finished with the cleaning. You had both settled on the couch, sitting on opposite ends facing each other.

“Have you forgotten about your broken ribs already?” you ask, a bit of incredulity dripping into your tone.

“No, but it won’t hurt that bad. I can handle it.”

You really couldn’t tell if he was being serious or not with that statement, his tone was serious but he couldn’t be that careless. Surely he understood the strain would impede recovery, perhaps even make things worse.

“No, you can’t. You’d just mess up your recovery trying. Not to mention we have a deal,” you try to reason, wondering briefly if that kind of thing even worked on him. You knew Childe wasn’t one to break his promises but he also cared greatly about his strength.

“I will exercise restfully,” he said decisively, though his playful undertone made it apparent he was joking.

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet you adore me.”

Scoffing at his response, you meet his gaze. He wore a cheeky grin, eagerly awaiting your response in hopes of being able to further tease you. You know if you hesitate for too long he will also tease you about that, so your options were limited.

“You sound awfully confident in that,” you reply coolly. It was not an ideal response, but it was the best you could think of in the moment.

“Because it’s true, you didn’t even deny it,” the Harbinger gloats, seeming very satisfied with himself.

“Maybe,” you reply vaguely, rolling the thought around in your head. What were your feelings for him, exactly? It was clear you weren’t just friends, but it seemed like a lot to say you were in love with him and it didn’t seem to be enough to say you just liked him. You felt confused about him.

For the rest of the night, you thought about the same question, but even by the time you were falling asleep, you couldn’t bring yourself to give a solid answer. It left you feeling restless for the next few days, though things remained the same with Childe. To pass the time you took the dog Harbinger on regular walks through Liyue. Sometimes the two of you would stop at the various vendor’s stalls in the markets and others you would walk closer to the harbor.

Even with your uncertainty about him, Childe was as easy to get along with as ever. He joked and made you laugh, cooked most of your shared meals thankfully not making quite as much food, and explored Liyue with you. Sometimes you visited the restaurants and Zhongli would join the two of you, making a habit of keeping the two of you for hours with his stories before dumping the bill on the Snezhnayan.

Though fewer than normal, you still took up commissions around Liyue, leaving Childe unattended for some time. You couldn’t be certain, but you were pretty sure he still behaved in the time you were gone. It seemed he most often did some work for the Fatui in the time you were gone, you often came back to him reading over a report or writing something he would later handoff to the guard outside his door.

All in all, living with him was becoming fairly comfortable.

“Oh fuck we’ve been eating all this Snezhnayan food and stuff and I forgot to show you our most famous commodity,” Childe exclaimed one night as he was cleaning up in the kitchen after dinner. You looked over from drying a plate to see him pull two small glasses and a bottle of clear liquid from the cupboards. You knew enough to recognize it.

“Fire-Water?”

“Yeah, have you had it before? This is a bottle of the fancy stuff,” he hummed, already pouring some into the glasses, one with a noticeably smaller amount.

“I haven’t, I don’t drink much,” you admitted, taking the glass from him when he offered it to you.

“Oh, perfect,” he said with a grin that made you think it would not be perfect for you. That didn’t stop you from drinking the small amount in your glass after watching him knock back his.

The taste was awful, but the burn down your throat and how warm it made you feel was rather pleasant. Childe had been watching you, eager to gauge your reaction. He would be disappointed by the fact you didn’t cringe at the taste but also pleased you didn’t seem to dislike it.

“It’s not bad,” you said after a moment, which Childe responded to by pouring a more generous amount into your glass. They were small glasses, so it still didn’t amount to very much.

“I think you’re fully prepared for a visit to Snezhnaya now,” he laughed, also pouring more of the Fire-Water into his glass. Being awfully classy not drinking straight from the bottle.

“Is that your way of telling me you want me to visit you when you’re back in Snezhnaya?” you cooed teasingly, emptying your glass before setting it on the counter. It was already starting to feel a little hazy. That did not stop your companion from continuing to drink.

“Maybe. Maybe I would like to take you back with me,” he returned with a cheeky grin, wrapping an arm around your waist to pull you into his side, not letting you go once you were there. Not that you particularly minded being held snugly against his side. “What do you say? You might even like the cold.”

Heart fluttering at his words, you wondered if he meant them. Of course, he had said it in response to your teasing, but maybe he did want you around. Did you want to stay with him, by his side when he returns to Snezhnaya? Perhaps even going with him when the Fatui send him to different nations?

“I don’t know, I think you’d need to convince me it’s worth going with you,” you mused, giving him a playful smirk.

“Is being with me not enough for you?” he pouts, setting his glass down before using his grip on your waist to turn you around so your back bumps against the counter. His hands rested against the surface on either side of you caging you in as he gazed down at you with an expression that made your heart stutter.

The Harbinger observed your expression for a few beats before leaning down to press his lips to yours. He was much rougher than he’d been in the past, more eager, but you mimicked his pace and intensity nonetheless. Perhaps it was the alcohol you could still taste on his tongue that caused the change.

When you wrapped your arms around his neck, he lifted you up and seated you on the counter. He pulled away from the kiss to brush his lips against your cheek before moving to your neck. The kisses he left there started out delicate but when his teeth grazed against your skin you couldn’t help but close your eyes and sigh pleasantly.

When his hands hooked under your thighs to lift you up, your eyes flew open and a surprised squeak left you. On instinct your legs wrapped around him to prevent you from falling.

“Childe?” you asked when he began walking with you in his hold. It became apparent that the Harbinger was carrying you in the direction of his bedroom, causing your heart to speed up. It seemed like things were moving too fast.

“Alcohol makes me sleepy sometimes.” Oh.

You were promptly dropped on the bed, still feeling a little shocked. He leaned down to press another kiss to your lips, smiling at your expression. That night was the second time you found yourself falling asleep in Childe’s arms.

#genshin impact #genshin #genshin impact childe #childe #tartaglia #ajax #childe x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #gender neutral reader #gn reader #alcohol #intoxication #physical intimacy #undefined relationship #swearing #my writing skills are getting progressively worse #going downhill fast

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grumpygreenwitch · 4 years

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Summer Gardening.

So it’s been a while, and for that I apologize to the... 200+ people who follow me. I’m sure y’all are here for the cat pics and the nekked men, but TOO BAD. Today you get to suffer through pics of my green children. Also, I do share seed. My seed list link will be up later in the year. To begin with, the summer flowers are out en force:

Echinacea Purpurea, the original echinacea. I do save yearly seed from these guys, although it’s an incredibly pointy, stabby and bleed-y job.

Mountain Phlox. Unfortunately, all of it around the house is afflicted with powdery mildew, so I will not share seed. But it’s still pretty to look at, and the clearwings (hummingbird moths) love it. Not pictured is the white variant, who grows on the other side of the house. Look, it was hot and I was already melting.

Peppermint Balsam. This thing is basically indestructible, for an annual. It will reseed freely (to truly Lovecraftian levels) and blooms continuously from late spring until mid-fall, when the seed-pods set. There is a dormant genetic in it for double flowers, but when it pops up it’s always been sterile. It just pops up occasionally from the peppermint seed.

I may give the roommate hell over the hostas (I hate them. They’re so useful to protect toads and control weeds, but I hate them), but they do put out pretty flowers. There are several variants around the house - white-edged, blue and green, but hostas in general are very, very hard to start from seed. I will save it on request, only. We were also incredibly lucky to have a Moth Mullein sprout in our porch bed, along with some Variegated Solomon’s Seal.The SS doesn’t put out seeds, and I don’t have enough to share bulbs (yet), but the mullein has been exceptionally generous with seed pods, and it repels bugs. It repels ROACHES. It’s going everywhere. And I may be convinced to part with some seed.

Onward!

A view from a hill. Can you see the garden? That’s OK, I can’t either. Those are peach trees, on the side of the orchard closest to the house. Unfortunately a freak storm during early spring killed all the blossoms. Also, don’t mistake ‘orchard’ for ‘organized’. There’s a pear, some apples, a plum, some nectarines? And front and center are two walnuts. I’ll probably be plunking my laurel there to see if it survives winter. And someday when I have a job and money again, I would like to drop a few Chicago Hardy figs, and maybe a kiwi trellis.

This is the big garden (and fortunately not my responsibility, or I would cry). The guys are ‘handling’ it. The weeds say otherwise.

The jasmine tree and the roommate’s garden. Because of a bad back injury that refuses to heal, I’ve been helping them on and off with it. And if you thought jasmine was supposed to stay a delightful little bush, AHAHAHAHAH. Yes, that’s a light-post next to it. For size comparison.

MY CHILDREN. Please ignore the dead soccer ball. That’d be a dog toy.

Lemon balm, amaranth, and a new bed that I’ll be finishing off during fall, for use next year. The lemon balm is a permanent row - it will overwinter just fine, and it will even keep growing through the mildest part of December. Mine didn’t die back until a few solid days of sleet in January. Unfortunately the weed fabric under the amaranth turned out to be an old roll, and fell apart on me (no big, the whole point is for it to fall apart eventually), so the weeds have kinda eaten it alive.

Unfortunately, both cucumber beetles and blister beetles love the amaranth. Fortunately, it does not seem to give a damn. It’s an incredibly resilient plant, not minding weeds, bugs, flood or drought. We’ll see what the grain actually tastes like, but so far it’s looking like a good candidate for continuous growing.

The lemon balm is lemon-balming. Planted on a lark, it’s proven to be a fantastic wind-breaker - because it grows so early and so quick, it keeps the colder winds that come down through the hollow from my more fragile seedlings, like the lettuce, dill and cilantro. You can see here where the spent flower-heads are dying but there’s new growth underneath; I really have to get in there and behead it. It makes nice hot tea, meh cold tea, and hanging fresh bunches of it around the balcony keeps the skeeters off. It also seems to be a decoy for cabbage moths.

Canary Zinnia. The seed was sent to me as a gift with one of my seed orders, and this is my first year growing it. -If- I can save some, I’ll definitely be sharing and growing again. It’s a lovely plant, very sturdy, and the bees love it.

Dwarf Castor Oil. I don’t think there’s anything dwarf about it, but then I’m a short green witch myself, so maybe it’s all about perspective. Don’t let the pods lie to you, until they dry the spikes are relatively soft. However, it being castor oil, I don’t recommend it to anyone with ducks, chickens, goats, or anything that might accidentally try talking a nibble or pecking at the beans. I do, however, recommend them from jewelry if you know how to pierce things and so on. They are a gorgeous tiger-stripe pattern.

Say hello to the chard! Say goodbye to the chard! Nothing else, absolutely nothing else since the limas, has given me so much trouble. The deer love getting into my chard bed and destroying it (ergo all the forks). And once I managed to chase those off, the blister beetles showed up in force. This will be the last year I grow it - we just don’t eat enough of it to make it worth my while, and it only occasionally sold at the Farmers’ Market.

Red lettuce - Merlot and Lollo Vino, a combination of bought and saved seed. I planted a red romaine of some sort, too, but unsurprisingly it bolted in the heat. The darker reds of my favorites, though, keep bugs off them, keep deer from noticing them, and keep them from bolting. It’s just now threatening to, and at this point its kind of allowed. I need more seed for next year. Seed for this will likely be shared by the teaspoon-ful.

Calendula! I searched for a long time to find the plain ol’ calendula officinalis ancestor, rather than a cultivar where I would have no way of knowing if the medicinal principles would have been sacrificed for looks. It’s supposed to work well as poor man’s saffron (color, no taste), and I’m going to be soaking the heck outta my feet on it during winter. The plant is... not pretty. It gets leggy and the leaves get grotty very quickly. But it’s very sturdy and as long as you cut the flowerheads off as fast as you can, it’ll keep blooming until well into winter. I usually leave it to go to seed around late September.

Green cilantro seeds. You pick ‘em when they’re brown, but before they drop off the plant. Or you pick ‘em when they’re brown-ing, and put them in a paper bag so they’ll finish ripening there and you don’t end up with fifty wild cilantro plants in your garden >_> Most of the row is already gone, and I’ll be putting in a late dill crop in its place. No such thing as too much dill!

Don’t let lemongrass lie to you. Unless you tie it up, it will not grow up neat and tidy, as most grass does. Instead it will sprawl like a dramatic wilting Elizabethan lady and do its best to end up under your feet so you’ll feel bad about it. I just tie it up with a half-blade of grass; it dries up and withers away before it can hurt the plant.

I ordered pennyroyal seed because... Well, because it’s something one should have on hand, considering the way the world is going. What I got was Creeping Pennyroyal, which doesn’t care if you step on it (mint family), smells absolutely delightful, and has the most adorable, tiny purple flowers. I plan on harvesting, drying and sprinkling it everywhere in the crawlspace under the house. Making war on cave crickets, wood roaches, and other such sundries, me.

The thyme and Spicy Oregano took a beating in the heat, but they’re slowly bouncing back. The bed behind them is more pennyroyal, desperately in need of weeding, but there’s only one of me, y’know.

SIGH. Just. You absolute, ill-mannered monster of a creature. That would be horseradish, gloriously happy to be alive, as horseradish should be. Also, NOT IN ITS BASKET. Because never mind the rules, I guess.

I don’t even know how I’m gonna dig that up come winter. With some construction equipment, I GUESS.

Decorative gourd! It’s the only one producing so far, but being the seed was 10+ years old, I’m very pleased.

And an apple gourd (I think?), from a mixture of drying gourds that was only slightly less ancient. Snake, apple and birdhouse gourds. There’s a bunch of them competing in the basket at this point, we’ll see what we will see.

And this, I think, is a great use of a dead canopy frame (the dogs ate the canopy. No, I’m not making it up.) I hope to coax the gourds to grow me a lil’ roof so I can sit in shade, surrounded by pennyroyal anti-skeeter barriers, eating my maters.

My Peter Peppers (nrehehehehe) aren’t producing yet - it takes them a while. But my Chinese 5-Color are getting started. It’s a lovely pepper, both edible and ornamental, with (so I’m told) about four times the heat of a Jalapeno. They’re tiny, with deep purple undertones to the plant. They’ll go purple-white-yellow-orange-red.

The bullhorns, on the other hand, are fairly sizable SWEET peppers on very tiny plants, and I honestly suggest staking them while they’re young so they grow a sturdy trunk, else you might end up with all of them growing at a slant.They’re just now beginning to turn colors. Keeping in mind I’m virulently allergic to peppers (less so sweet than hot, but allergic to all of them), the roommate loves ‘em.

It’s a small pepper bed - mainly to refresh my seed on the hots, and to grow sweets for the roommate. Pardon the nekked bed, the autumn lettuce hasn’t sprouted yet. And yes, that’s a mixed basil/dill bed next to it. My basil grew in patchy holes (NEVER buying from those seed people again), so I filled the holes with dill. Unfortunately, dill seed heads are so fine that they’re hard to photograph well.

The tomato row. After arguing with them for this long, I went the extra mile. Every plant has a metal stake. There’s also a double line growing at the top supporting the stakes so they don’t fall over. And they still fell over. Because why not, you unruly children, why not.

Green, white, pink and brown cherry tomatoes. Delicious!

Two kinds of cucumbers, some of the only decent shots of the dill seed-heads, and a special guest hiding in the shade. I usually plant dill as soon as the cucumber sprouts, to keep cucumber beetles off it. Otherwise I’d have no cucumbers and a lot of fat beetles.

The Muncher is a small cucumber, somewhat delicate. It’s very sensitive to temperature changes, and it’s candy to cucumber beetles - basically, it’s impossible to grow it without a heavy curtain of dill, or a heavy duty decoy. This year I got lucky enough to have both. It’s also delicious pickled, keeping its crunch and getting a good ooomph in flavor.

The Japanese Long is, as the name implies, long. It’s also incredibly bitey, and absolutely scrumptious. It’s sweet! And unlike the average cucumber, it does not go metallic when salted.

And now for the SPECIAL CHILD OF MY HEART. Seriously. I have been lusting after Blue Tea Peas since I first saw them offered, and every single time they’d be sold out pretty much the day of. This year I finally got some and... remember me mentioning that freak freeze that killed the peach blossoms? Yeah. Guess what it also killed. But two plants soldiered on. I have them heavily shielded by the cucumbers, dill and chamomile, and really I have no words for the blue. Pics don’t do it justice. I won’t have the tea this year, I’m saving as much seed as I can, but I am so pleased to have it at all!

Last, but not least, and it’s a poor shot of it, the chamomile. I cannot drink chamomile to sleep - it does put me to sleep, but it also gives me bad dreams. I plan on using it as a skin wash for all the bug bites, along with the calendula, and to give me some respite from dry skin during winter.

Stay green! See you in fall! Now back to our normal schedule of frogs, cats and nekked men!

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shiverpeakstraveler · 4 years

Note

OC ask for Liana please!

Contains some spoilers for the current Living World

1: List five basic facts about your OC.

Liana is a Magister of the Durmond Priory, the Pact Commander, and Leader of Dragon’s Watch

While her backstory does involve the Lost Parents storyline for humans, instead of being taken back to Divinity’s Reach, Liana is found by a traveling Shaman of Raven and taken to Hoelbrak.

She suffers from astraphobia. It probably doesn’t help that the night her birth parents died at the hands of the White Mantle, there had been a pretty big thunderstorm occurring.

She set out for Kryta at the age of 17 to try and learn more about her family, arriving just as the centaurs attacked Shaemoor.

She is definitely known for her bizarre appetite, much to the chagrin of her adoptive brother Hjalmar. (you can imagine he flipped when he found out she consumed toxic-cured bacon)

2: Post a line of dialogue from your OC.

The corner of Liana’s mouth twitched into a smirk as she finished off the remains of her breakfast. “Honestly, I think I was more scared of Gixx then I was of the shades or the possibility of the entire mountain coming down upon our heads. Asura can be downright intimidating when they’re mad.”

3: Post a snippet from your writing that describes your OC.

4: Post a snippet from your writing in which another OC describes your OC.

Gaaaaaah……..for both three and four, I’m afraid I don’t have enough chapters in my fanfic to have snippets that could fully answer those. Real life and work managed to get in the way before I had a chance to expand beyond three chapters, but thankfully now I’m feeling the spark for creativity return, so I’ll definitely try to get a chapter out as soon as possible!

5: Describe your OC’s physical appearance.

Liana is fairly tall, standing at roughly 5′7′‘. She has amber brown eyes and she has a warm brown complexion with golden undertones. She has dark brown hair that is almost always worn in an undercut style with a few braids on the left side, although since her return from the Land of the Lost, she now has a white streak running through it as well. She has a large scar stretching from her collarbone down past her stomach from where Balthazar had killed her, and recently a bolt shaped scar surrounded by burns has added itself across her chest from Bangar’s attempt on her life.

6: Describe your OC’s love life.

Liana has no experience when it comes to romance, the most she knows coming from romance novels. Around the time of Living World 3, she realizes she has romantic feelings for Braham Eirsson, but then the events in Bitterfrost Frontier occur. After A Bug In The System, however, Braham reveals he had harbored attraction towards Liana as well when the two find the time to talk. They both decide it would be best to reconcile and become friends again before determining if they were both ready for a romantic relationship. Sometime between A Star to Guide Us and All or Nothing is when the two decide to become lovers.

7: Describe your OC’s fashion sense.

Given how the Commander hardly gets any rest, Liana is usually in leather armor a majority of the time. She has a few select pieces for fancy occasions, but she tends to prefer armor that’s easy to move in and offers the best protection. On the rare occasions she does have some downtime, she tends to be a person who prefers dressing for comfort, usually favoring colors like blues and greens.She does have a few fancy party dresses she really likes that Kasmeer helped her pick out, but sadly, she hasn’t been able to find the time to wear them as of yet.

8: Describe one of your OC’s bad habits.

Bottling her emotions up. She feels like she has to remain strong for everyone and not show any signs of faltering. Thankfully, with the support of friends and a professional, she’s starting to get better at dealing with emotions in a more healthy way.

9: Your OC is having a nightmare. What is it?

A lot of her nightmares tend to be centered around people that have died: Sieran, Apatia, Kekt, Eir, and most recently General Soulkeeper.

These nightmares almost always revolve around her reliving their deaths, usually finding herself frozen as she witnesses them sacrificing themselves to save others (Sieran and Apatia) or she’s trying to prevent their death from occurring only for their demise to still come about (Kekt and Eir).

As far as the death of General Soulkeeper, it alternates between seeing it through Ryland’s eyes after she viewed it in the Eye of the North’s vision pool or she’s witnessing it from a third person point of view.

10: You are conducting a ritual. What 5 items would you need to summon your OC?

Pizza, a harlequin romance novel, chocolate, a stuffed wolf plush, and fire orchids (her favorite flower)

11: What does your OC want for their birthday?

Arrows are always good to have, although she would really love to have a collection of stories from different parts of Tyria.

12: What does your OC give another OC for their birthday?

She’d try to look in to see if there’s something they’d been really wanting for a while. If she’s unable to do that, she’ll usually try to make them something, either a small carving or a drawing.

13: Describe your OC’s living situation.

For awhile she lived in the Great Lodge in Hoelbrak, but recently she’s usually made camp where she ends up. As of now, she’s currently residing in a side room within the Eye of the North.

14: What is one of your OC’s secrets?

She can’t dance at all.

15: Your OC is given the chance to go back in time. Where do they go and what do they do?

This is a bit of a tough one. If she had to narrow it down, though, she’d probably go back to try and warn Trahearne about Mordremoth before the Pact Fleet had a chance to leave for the jungle. Even though she’s forever grateful for Guenhwyvar’s aid in fighting the Jungle Dragon, she wishes there could have been a way to prevent so much loss of life.

16: If your OC could have any superpower, which would it be and why?

I guess in a way her soulbeast abilities count as a superpower. I feel like she would love the ability to make portals though to make traveling from place to place during dire situations a hell of a lot easier, though.

17: How does your OC do during the zombie apocalypse?

She’d probably do well. She has some fairly good skills when it comes to surviving and hunting. She may want to curb back a bit on eating random things she finds, though.

18: What is your OC’s dream job?

Liana has decided that once the Elder Dragons are dealt with and she’s able to hang up her mantle as Commander, she plans to open a lodge of her own to run and possibly raise skyscales.

19: Your OC’s life is a musical. What’s the title of their big show-stopping song?

Not sure what sort of tune it would have, but it would probably be called “We’re Cancelling the Apocalypse.”

20: Post a picture or gif that describes your OC.

#Liana Rohland #Commander Liana #sorry this took a bit ^^;;

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the-end-of-art · 5 years

Text

An artist must be free to choose what he does, certainly, but he must also never be afraid to do what he must choose

The Negro Artist and the Racial Mountain (1926) by Langston Hughes

One of the most promising of the young Negro poets said to me once, "I want to be a poet--not a Negro poet," meaning, I believe, "I want to write like a white poet"; meaning subconsciously, "I would like to be a white poet"; meaning behind that, "I would like to be white." And I was sorry the young man said that, for no great poet has ever been afraid of being himself. And I doubted then that, with his desire to run away spiritually from his race, this boy would ever be a great poet. But this is the mountain standing in the way of any true Negro art in America--this urge within the race toward whiteness, the desire to pour racial individuality into the mold of American standardization, and to be as little Negro and as much American as possible.

But let us look at the immediate background of this young poet. His family is of what I suppose one would call the Negro middle class: people who are by no means rich yet never uncomfortable nor hungry--smug, contented, respectable folk, members of the Baptist church. The father goes to work every morning. He is a chief steward at a large white club. The mother sometimes does fancy sewing or supervises parties for the rich families of the town. The children go to a mixed school. In the home they read white papers and magazines. And the mother often says "Don't be like niggers" when the children are bad. A frequent phrase from the father is, "Look how well a white man does things." And so the word white comes to be unconsciously a symbol of all virtues. It holds for the children beauty, morality, and money. The whisper of "I want to be white" runs silently through their minds. This young poet's home is, I believe, a fairly typical home of the colored middle class. One sees immediately how difficult it would be for an artist born in such a home to interest himself in interpreting the beauty of his own people. He is never taught to see that beauty. He is taught rather not to see it, or if he does, to be ashamed of it when it is not according to Caucasian patterns.

For racial culture the home of a self-styled "high-class" Negro has nothing better to offer. Instead there will perhaps be more aping of things white than in a less cultured or less wealthy home. The father is perhaps a doctor, lawyer, landowner, or politician. The mother may be a social worker, or a teacher, or she may do nothing and have a maid. Father is often dark but he has usually married the lightest woman he could find. The family attend a fashionable church where few really colored faces are to be found. And they themselves draw a color line. In the North they go to white theaters and white movies. And in the South they have at least two cars and house "like white folks." Nordic manners, Nordic faces, Nordic hair, Nordic art (if any), and an Episcopal heaven. A very high mountain indeed for the would-be racial artist to climb in order to discover himself and his people.

But then there are the low-down folks, the so-called common element, and they are the majority---may the Lord be praised! The people who have their hip of gin on Saturday nights and are not too important to themselves or the community, or too well fed, or too learned to watch the lazy world go round. They live on Seventh Street in Washington or State Street in Chicago and they do not particularly care whether they are like white folks or anybody else. Their joy runs, bang! into ecstasy. Their religion soars to a shout. Work maybe a little today, rest a little tomorrow. Play awhile. Sing awhile. O, let's dance! These common people are not afraid of spirituals, as for a long time their more intellectual brethren were, and jazz is their child. They furnish a wealth of colorful, distinctive material for any artist because they still hold their own individuality in the face of American standardizations. And perhaps these common people will give to the world its truly great Negro artist, the one who is not afraid to be himself. Whereas the better-class Negro would tell the artist what to do, the people at least let him alone when he does appear. And they are not ashamed of him--if they know he exists at all. And they accept what beauty is their own without question.

Certainly there is, for the American Negro artist who can escape the restrictions the more advanced among his own group would put upon him, a great field of unused material ready for his art. Without going outside his race, and even among the better classes with their "white" culture and conscious American manners, but still Negro enough to be different, there is sufficient matter to furnish a black artist with a lifetime of creative work. And when he chooses to touch on the relations between Negroes and whites in this country, with their innumerable overtones and undertones surely, and especially for literature and the drama, there is an inexhaustible supply of themes at hand. To these the Negro artist can give his racial individuality, his heritage of rhythm and warmth, and his incongruous humor that so often, as in the Blues, becomes ironic laughter mixed with tears. But let us look again at the mountain.

A prominent Negro clubwoman in Philadelphia paid eleven dollars to hear Raquel Meller sing Andalusian popular songs. But she told me a few weeks before she would not think of going to hear "that woman," Clara Smith, a great black artist, sing Negro folksongs. And many an upper-class Negro church, even now, would not dream of employing a spiritual in its services. The drab melodies in white folks' hymnbooks are much to be preferred. "We want to worship the Lord correctly and quietly. We don't believe in 'shouting.' Let's be dull like the Nordics," they say, in effect.

The road for the serious black artist, then, who would produce a racial art is most certainly rocky and the mountain is high. Until recently he received almost no encouragement for his work from either white or colored people. The fine novels of Chesnutt' go out of print with neither race noticing their passing. The quaint charm and humor of Dunbar's' dialect verse brought to him, in his day, largely the same kind of encouragement one would give a sideshow freak (A colored man writing poetry! How odd!) or a clown (How amusing!).

The present vogue in things Negro, although it may do as much harm as good for the budding artist, has at least done this: it has brought him forcibly to the attention of his own people among whom for so long, unless the other race had noticed him beforehand, he was a prophet with little honor.

The Negro artist works against an undertow of sharp criticism and misunderstanding from his own group and unintentional bribes from the whites. "Oh, be respectable, write about nice people, show how good we are," say the Negroes. "Be stereotyped, don't go too far, don't shatter our illusions about you, don't amuse us too seriously. We will pay you," say the whites. Both would have told Jean Toomer not to write Cane. The colored people did not praise it. The white people did not buy it. Most of the colored people who did read Cane hate it. They are afraid of it. Although the critics gave it good reviews the public remained indifferent. Yet (excepting the work of Du Bois) Cane contains the finest prose written by a Negro in America. And like the singing of Robeson, it is truly racial.

But in spite of the Nordicized Negro intelligentsia and the desires of some white editors we have an honest American Negro literature already with us. Now I await the rise of the Negro theater. Our folk music, having achieved world-wide fame, offers itself to the genius of the great individual American composer who is to come. And within the next decade I expect to see the work of a growing school of colored artists who paint and model the beauty of dark faces and create with new technique the expressions of their own soul-world. And the Negro dancers who will dance like flame and the singers who will continue to carry our songs to all who listen-they will be with us in even greater numbers tomorrow.

Most of my own poems are racial in theme and treatment, derived from the life I know. In many of them I try to grasp and hold some of the meanings and rhythms of jazz. I am as sincere as I know how to be in these poems and yet after every reading I answer questions like these from my own people: Do you think Negroes should always write about Negroes? I wish you wouldn't read some of your poems to white folks. How do you find anything interesting in a place like a cabaret? Why do you write about black people? You aren't black. What makes you do so many jazz poems?

But jazz to me is one of the inherent expressions of Negro life in America; the eternal tom-tom beating in the Negro soul--the tom-tom of revolt against weariness in a white world, a world of subway trains, and work, work, work; the tom-tom of joy and laughter, and pain swallowed in a smile. Yet the Philadelphia clubwoman is ashamed to say that her race created it and she does not like me to write about it, The old subconscious "white is best" runs through her mind. Years of study under white teachers, a lifetime of white books, pictures, and papers, and white manners, morals, and Puritan standards made her dislike the spirituals. And now she turns up her nose at jazz and all its manifestations--likewise almost everything else distinctly racial. She doesn't care for the Winold Reiss' portraits of Negroes because they are "too Negro." She does not want a true picture of herself from anybody. She wants the artist to flatter her, to make the white world believe that all negroes are as smug and as near white in soul as she wants to be. But, to my mind, it is the duty of the younger Negro artist, if he accepts any duties at all from outsiders, to change through the force of his art that old whispering "I want to be white," hidden in the aspirations of his people, to "Why should I want to be white? I am a Negro--and beautiful"?

So I am ashamed for the black poet who says, "I want to be a poet, not a Negro poet," as though his own racial world were not as interesting as any other world. I am ashamed, too, for the colored artist who runs from the painting of Negro faces to the painting of sunsets after the manner of the academicians because he fears the strange unwhiteness of his own features. An artist must be free to choose what he does, certainly, but he must also never be afraid to do what he must choose.

Let the blare of Negro jazz bands and the bellowing voice of Bessie Smith singing the Blues penetrate the closed ears of the colored near intellectuals until they listen and perhaps understand. Let Paul Robeson singing "Water Boy," and Rudolph Fisher writing about the streets of Harlem, and Jean Toomer holding the heart of Georgia in his hands, and Aaron Douglas's drawing strange black fantasies cause the smug Negro middle class to turn from their white, respectable, ordinary books and papers to catch a glimmer of their own beauty. We younger Negro artists who create now intend to express our individual dark-skinned selves without fear or shame. If white people are pleased we are glad. If they are not, it doesn't matter. We know we are beautiful. And ugly too. The tom-tom cries and the tom-tom laughs. If colored people are pleased we are glad. If they are not, their displeasure doesn't matter either. We build our temples for tomorrow, strong as we know how, and we stand on top of the mountain, free within ourselves.

#Langston Hughes #poem #poet #poetry

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caswouldratherbehere · 6 years

Text

I was tagged by @starsinursa. Thank you!

Rules: answer these 85 statements about yourself, then tag 20 people.

1. last drink: Coffee

2: last phone call: My husband

3. last text message: My tumblr two step activation code. Cause my laptop crashed and burned and I had to reinstall and re-sign into everything.

4. last song you listened to: Whatever was last at the superbowl halftime show.

5. last time you cried: I don’t remember, probably some sappy commercial.

6. dated someone twice: Kinda? He refused to call it dating until well after we were reunited, so I don’t know if the breakup was ever technically a breakup? Relationships are weird. Rest under the cut.

7. kissed someone and regretted it?: Not kissing specifically, no...

8. been cheated on?: Nope.

9. lost someone special?: Unfortunately.

10. been depressed?: Yes. I technically scored as mildly depressed about a year ago, but it wasn’t severe enough for medication.

11. gotten drunk and thrown up?: Ugh, yes. Tequila is evil.

fave colors

12. Blue

13. Teal

14. Purple

in the last year have you…

15. made new friends?: Not really. I have within the last two years though.

16: fallen out of love?: Not in the least.

17. laughed until you cried?: Yep. We have had a few game nights that ended up at this point.

18. found out someone was talking about you?: Considering I applied for a different position in my company, I know for a fact they were talking about me. If you mean in a backstabbing way, then no.

19. met someone who changed you?: Nope.

20. found out who your friends are?: I already knew. ;)

21. kissed someone on your facebook friends list?: Well. Yeah. My husband. This list was definitely made for teens, wasn’t it?

general

22. how many of your facebook friends do you know irl?: All but three, and I’m pretty damn close with them, too.

23. do you have any pets?: Two kitties.

24. do you want to change your name?: I used to want to really bad. Got over it at some point.

25. what did you do for your last birthday?: Played games and chilled with my hubby. My next birthday is about three weeks away and I plan on playing more Artemis. So much fun.

26. What time did you wake up today? Uhhhh.... Noon. I work from home, and with a downed laptop, I just didn’t care.

27. What were you doing at midnight last night?: Reading in bed. Probably on my phone, articles and stuff, before switching to my Kindle.

28. what is something you can’t wait for?: Seeing my sister again. She moved across the country last year and I miss her.

29. What are you listening to right now?: Grey’s Anatomy is on in the background.

30. have you ever talked to a person named tom?: Yessss? What a weird question. My BF’s friend’s dad is named Tom. Actually, I know a lot of Toms from that generation.

31. something that’s getting on your nerves?: STUPID LAPTOPS THAT COST A FORTUNE AND ARE SHIT

32. most visited website: *sigh* The honest answer to this is riptidepublishing.com. It’s the company I work for.

33. hair color: That nebulous shade that no one can decide if it’s dark blonde or light brown, with red undertones.

34. long or short hair: Medium. Shoulder length right now, then I let it grow to my boobs before I cut it again.

35. do you have a crush on someone?: Only if my husband or actors count.

36. what do you like about yourself?: My brain. My mbti test tells me I’m good at dreaming up ideas and equally good at having the logic, organization, and critical thinking to see those ideas through. This is incredibly true.

37. want any piercings?: No. My ears are enough.

38. blood type: I have no idea. XD

39. nicknames: Kel.

40. relationship status: Married.

41. zodiac: Pisces, first zodiac. Meaning I have a hint of Aquarius to me. (And I do.)

42. pronouns: She/ her

43. fave tv shows: Out of the current lineup? Supernatural, Game of Thrones, Grey’s Anatomy, Lucifer, Archer. I also watch a ton of ice figure skating.

44. tattoos: No.

45. right or left handed: Right.

46. ever had surgery?: Yeah, I had a cyst on my right ovary the size of a small watermelon. That was fun.

47. piercings?: Just ears.

48. sport: As I said, I watch a ton of figure skating. As for playing something, I’ll pass.

49. vacation: My dream vacation is Paris. But I love everywhere we go. The beach, the mountains, Vegas, other cities... I like a little bit of it all.

50. trainers: …I assume you mean sneakers/tennis shoes and are British, but I’m still confused why anyone would find that interesting. Asics, currently. New Balance usually.

more general:

51. eating: We’re having burrito bowls for dinner?

52. drinking: Water right now. Coke Vanilla zero with dinner.

53. i’m about to watch: Currently watching Grey’s Anatomy. We’ll probably watch Supernatural or X-Files with dinner.

54. waiting for: My laptop to get its head out of its ass.

55. want: More cats. All the cats. And all the money. And this job with my work.

56. get married: Already am, and I love it. Helps that I love him to bits.

57. career: I work for an LGBTQ publisher and it is truly, in nearly every way possible, the perfect job for me.

which is better:

58. hugs or kisses: Hugs, cause they are easier and more socially acceptable to share.

59. lips or eyes: Eyes.

60. shorter or taller: Taller. Says the 5′ 0″ chick.

61. older or younger: Older? Hubby is four years older than me anyway.

62. nice arms or stomach: Legs.

63. hookup or relationship: Relationship. I would be horrible at hookups.

64. troublemaker or hesitant: Hesitant. My mom never worried an ounce about me when I was a teen.

have you ever:

65. kissed a stranger: No.

66. drank hard liquor: Yep. Crown Apple is the bomb.

67. lost glasses: I “lost” a pair in the sense that I left them in a drawer of a nightstand in Vegas. Ugh, so mad about that.

68. turned someone down: Yeah, actually. Don’t know how that ever happened.

69. sex on first date: Lol. I’ve only ever been with my husband (life just worked out that way) and he didn’t want to do it until we were married. He cracked a two years. (Though given that he wouldn’t say we were dating, that might still count? lol)

70. broken someones heart: No.

71. had your heart broken: Oh yeah.

72. been arrested: Nope. See statement about being so “good” that my mom never worried about me.

73. cried when someone died: Ridiculous amounts. Every time.

74. fallen for a friend: Not really.

do you believe in:

75. yourself: Some days.

76. miracles: Yeah.

77. love at first sight: I believe it happens, yes. It’s just rare.

78. santa clause: I believe in the magic of Santa.

79. kiss on a first date: Yeah, why not? As long as both want it.

80. angels: Not really, I’m a fairly strong atheist-agnostic.

80.5. Ghosts: Yes. I’ve heard too many stories to doubt that. One came from my mom and the hospital she works at, and she is not prone to fancy or fantasy.

other:

81. best friend’s name: Tammy. Wow, I guess some things never change. I’ve known her since I was 5.

82. eye color: Blue.

83. favorite movie: The Princess Bride.

84. fave actor: Misha Collins. Obvs.

This legit did not have 85 questions, so I added one under the “believe” section. You’re welcome.

And I legit can not think of people to tag right now, other than the one or two I always tag. (You know who you are...) So feel free to say I tagged you if you want.

#meme #tag game #about me

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renegade-diamonds · 7 years

Note

I don't know if you're still taking Prompts, but can we have more sibling Pink and Blue Dragon shifters, with vampire white and yellow? Um maybe with some blue and pink in dragon form cuddling their tiny vampire mates?

Wow you guys have a lot of love for this series, I’m getting a ton of request for it. :D

TW: Violence and Blood, so proceed carefully if that bothers you and you read it.

Sorry for any typos, it’s late and I hate proof-reading.

Yellow had always adored camping, especially in the days of the later 18th century. Being able to live freely without worry of humans discovering their secret was exhilarating.

Which is why Yellow found herself sprinting at inhuman speeds through the remote forest, nestled high in the mountains- away from prying human eyes.

White laughed as she vaulted herself high into the redwoods, jumping from tree to tree with all the grace of a acrobat.

Yellow took a breath before launching towards her best friend.

They collided in a series of screeches and laughs, crashing into a tree midair and falling to the ground.

They fake wrestled for a moment or two, before sharing a look and returning to the run.

The sunlight trickled down through the cracks of the branches above them, warming their cold skin.

Yellow was reminded of how warm Blue felt when pressed against her, the fire that burned within her ensuring she never went cold.

White had once told her Pink’s warmth was much the same, reminding her of when they were still human and had to huddle by their tiny makeshift fires- pressed together to hold as much heat to them as they could.

White shouted and pointed ahead, towards a break in the treeline in front of them.

Within seconds, they broke out of the forest and ran into a good-sized clearing.

It was a beautiful place, with a crystal clear lake spot in the middle of the opening. Small groves of tall trees dotted the edges of the lake, and Yellow followed as White approached the water line.

They chose a opening between two groups of trees to make camp, and White set down the large bag on her back before surveying the area.

A slight smell lingered in the air, something that had Yellow slightly on edge.

But she pushed the thought to the back of her head, it was probably just nerves.

After all, today was the day Blue and Pink had agreed to finally let them see their dragon forms.

Ever since that lunch four months ago, the two couples had been practically sewn at the hip.

Yellow was positive Blue was the one for her, and from the way White talked of Pink- she was sure her best friend was in the same boat.

The vampire stretched, letting out a content sigh at the crack of her neck and back, gave one more look around the clearing, before helping her friend pitch the tents and clear out the area that would serve as their camp for the next few days.

Pink and Blue would fly out to meet them soon, Yellow thought. The two shifters just had to finish up work for the day and make sure someone would be available to watch their property while they were gone.

White hummed to herself as they finished setting up the tents, and Yellow playfully joined along once she recognized the beat.

The two of them eventually broke out in song, laughing like idiots once their singing came to an end, before the two of them collapsed onto the large blanket they had brought and laid back down.

For a few minutes they were quiet, basking in the sun like a couple of cats, and Yellow was fairly aware that they might have fallen asleep in a short while.

But then the uneasy feeling returned to the clearing, and Yellow swore as a shiver ran down her spine.

She sat up quickly looking around the area for the source of the unpleasant feeling.

White caught her attention when the pale-haired vampire suddenly jumped to her feet, eyes locked behind her as panic crossed her face.

With as much ease as throwing a ball, she lifted Yellow up and tossed her to the side as something flew past her, barely missing her head.

It crashed into White’s chest with an insane amount of force, and her best friend let out an agonizing scream as she was thrown back nearly thirty feet, only stopping when her body crashed into a tree.

Yellow ran to her with inhuman speed, gasping with shock when she realized White was stuck against the tree.

A large metallic spike passing through the right side of her chest, near her shoulder.

Yellow felt a pang of relief when she realized it had missed her heart.

White coughed and blood splattered across her chin. It was still fresh from when they picked it up from their supplier earlier in the day, and Yellow felt pure hatred when she heard the whistling sound of another spike being launched at them.

She spun around and smacked it away with the back of her hand, snarling like a wild animal when more flew in her direction, and she repeated her previous actions- blocking each and every one of them.

Finally the barrage stopped, and she focused stubbornly at the treeline, watching with narrowed eyes as a group of humans walked calmly out of the forest stopping a few dozen meters away from her position.

White’s voice was deathly quiet as she murmured, “Hunters.”

Yellow raised her head in acknowledgement. For centuries, this tiny group of humans had dedicated their lives to hunting down any form of supernatural creatures. The two vampires had plenty run ins with them in the past, but that had been over a hundred years ago.

She had no idea they were still out there.

Yellow counted twelve of them dressed in black combat suits and ski masks, all armed to the teeth with various instruments capable of putting a vampire through a slow painful death.

But she was damned if she’d let that happen.

The apparent leader stepped forward, “I thought I’d be able to get both of you with that one spike.” Her voice was loud and obnoxious, with a cruel undertone, “But I’d happily kill you both slowly as well. You vampires are an abomination that needs to be cleansed of this earth.” Her eyes narrowed hatefully through the only mask opening, “I’ll send you both back to hell.”

Yellow distantly heard the sound of wings, from her guess she’d say they were two minutes away.

She had to stall for time.

White let out a pained groan when her legs gave out underneath her. Yellow would pull the spike out if she thought she could do it fast, but since she was surrounded- she’d have to hold her ground until Blue and Pink arrived.

And make sure not one of the damned hunters got anywhere near White.

“The only ones burning in hell today will be you,” Yellow sneered and took a defensive stance.

The leader inclined their head, “I’m going to enjoy this.”

Several of the hunters, probably newbies, made the mistake of charging her.

And Yellow viciously took advantage of their stupidity. Within seconds, they were lying on the ground dead- two were missing a head, while the others their legs.

She didn’t have time for clean deaths, and their were still several hunters left.

Her opponents pulled large bazookas off their backs, and Yellow mentally cursed when she saw they were modified to hold the spikes they’d shot at them earlier.

The first three were easy to block, but it was only when White yelled out in alarm that Yellow realized one had sneaked around behind her.

The spike impaled her through her lower ribs, thankfully missing her heart.

But the damage was severe, and her legs gave out as pain racked through her body.

She fell to her knees in front of White, still determined to prevent them from hurting her.

The sound of large wings were ringing in her ears now, the hunters too preoccupied with surrounding them to notice. Yellow couldn’t see them in the sky, so she guessed they were flying low to the tree-tops, no doubt they could hear the commotion.

With a grunt she pulled the spike out of her, pain blurring her vision, and when she came to her senses the leader was standing directly in front of them.

She could practically hear the smirk in her voice, “Any last words?”

Two large flying dragons suddenly appeared in Yellow’s range of vision, moving fast but relatively silently. They were locked onto their position.

Yellow smirked up at their assailant, and White managed a pained laugh when she saw their shifters approaching, “I would look behind you.”

Simultaneously, two massive roars broke through the clearing, and the last thing Yellow could remember was the terrified screams of the hunters as two magnificent dragons descended upon them.

She collapsed against the ground, the pain overriding her mind- leaving everything to go black as her body forced her to rest.

The first thing she felt was the familiar sensation of White’s arms wrapped around her, much as she’d do back when they were trapped in that horrible orphanage.

The second thing she recognized, was the feeling of warmth washing over her, as if she was sitting in front of a roaring fireplace while reading her favorite book.

Then she remembered the clearing, the hunters, and being attacked.

With a sharp shriek Yellow shot up, pain flaring in lower ribs when she aggravated the newly healed wound.

White ran her hands through her hair, calming Yellow as only her best friend could.

And suddenly she realized that she was safe.

Two large reptilian forms were curled around them tightly, blankets and pillows scattered around them for comfort. When the dragons realized Yellow was up, they lifted their heads and looked at her.

Pink’s eyes greeted her own, complementing the dragons’ magenta color.

But what really captivated her was the icy white-blue eyes she turned to next, which were very striking when compared to the deep blue of her shifter’s scales.

A shudder traveled the length of their bodies, and both Yellow and White watched with wide-transfixed eyes as they shifted down into human forms.

They were both wearing simple tank tops and shorts, and together the sisters fussed over the two vampires.

“Are you alright?” Blue pulled Yellow to her, “Does anything hurt? We called your blood supplier over if you need any. They dropped off a few bags for you, said it would help you heal.”

“I’m alright,” Yellow gazed into Blue’s eyes, her heart fluttering sadly when she saw tears filling them. “There’s no need to cry.”

“They could have killed you two. We could hardly get White apart from that tree, the spike pinned her there and narrowly missed her heart. Then you were just laying there- not moving at all.” Blue’s voice was low with sorrow, “I thought I lost you.”

“It’d take more than that to kill me. My body just needed to heal,” Yellow explained. “I guess my mind unconsciously thought it was safe enough to knock out with you two there to protect us.”

“Always,” Pink said from next to them. She had pulled White into her lap, nuzzling her neck. “We’d never let anyone hurt you two. Those hunters, we wiped them off the face of this earth. No one threatens my mate, or my sister’s.”

White playfully cocked an eyebrow at her girlfriend, “Mate?”

“Well duh, that ass is mine.”

Blue smacked her sister upside the head, “Language Pink!”

“Sorry sis.”

Yellow looked around, “Is this your living room?”

“Yeah,” Blue sighed. “We had to move the furniture to make room for our shifted forms.We were too worked up to shift down with you two still unconscious.”

“That explains why it looks different,” Yellow leaned back into the pillows, Blue dutifully curling around her. “I still need to heal. I’m probably gonna pass out again.”

White yawned and rubbed at her healing shoulder, which was wrapped with bandages. Pink swatted at her hand, not allowing her to irritate the wound, “Me too. I woke up about 10 minutes before you. We’ve only been sleeping a few hours according to Blue.”

“Three hours, 34 minutes.” Said girl confirmed.

“Yeah,” Yellow joined in on the yawning. “Definitely gonna sleep some more.”

“Go right ahead,” Blue kissed her temple.

Pink gently helped White lay down, adjusting the pillows and blankets for her, before gently kissing her and protectively laying down next to her, “We’ll be right here.”

“You’re safe,” Blue murmured, and Yellow pressed her lips against hers in response.

#whink diamond #bellow diamond #blue diamond #yellow diamond #white diamond #pink diamond #dragon/vampire au #tw violence

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crimson-legend · 7 years

Text

VERY LONG CHARACTER SURVEY.

RULES. repost; do not reblog! tag 10! good luck!

TAGGED BY: @summoners-path

TAGGING: I was going to tag my other muse but it turned out the princeling was easier to finish that Auron (who can be such a recalcitrant bastard at times, I swear) - @oshimai, @fallal, and by this point I think most people have done this? If you have not and you’re seeing this, then I’m tagging you, yes, you, whoever you may be. Do the thing!

BASICS.

FULL NAME: Auron ( アーロン ) - no last name. I’m one of those with the opinion that Spirans don’t generally have ‘last’/family names.

NICKNAME/S: Rikku calls him big meanie, and probably sometimes red. Still others might call him Sir.

AGE: 25 (at time of death) - 35 (at time of Sending)

BIRTHDAY: Some point in the mid-Spring. The date wasn’t recorded.

ETHNIC GROUP: Human (Yevonite), Macalanian.

NATIONALITY: Yevonite

LANGUAGE/S: Spiran Common. He knows a few basic words and phrases of Al Bhed but nothing more.

SEXUAL ORIENTATION: Grey-ace, sex neutral.

ROMANTIC ORIENTATION: Biromantic, perhaps slightly inclined towards men(?). Intensely monogamous.

RELATIONSHIP STATUS: unattached (verse-dependent)

CLASS: Practical: Warrior - 2H Sword (ATK, DEF, tank, debuff) ; Social: variable, depending on the point in his life. He’s gone from low-working-class to mid- then high warrior class, then booted back out into near-poverty, then to Dream Zanarkand where he didn’t fit anywhere.

HOMETOWN / AREA: Bevelle - from age 8 (There was once a small village back in the mountains of Macalania that a young boy called ‘home’. It’s not there any more.)

CURRENT HOME: (verse-dependent) Wandering.

PROFESSION: Originally, a warrior monk in the Church of Yevon, dedicated to the protection of the people against Sin and fiends and heretics and upholding the law of the land. After that, a guardian, dedicated solely to the protection of his Summoner. (After and in-between, he had to find something to do in Dream Zanarkand that wasn’t just babysitting Tidus…)

PHYSICAL.

HAIR: Black, streaked with grey. Long when he was young, kept short when older save for a long queue at the back.

EYES: Amber, appearing mid-brown in low light but bright in full light. After his death, he only has one and developed a light sensitivity in the remaining one. It’s one of the reasons that he wears the sunglasses, along with the added bonus of obscuring his face - they protect his eye from brightness or sudden changes in light intensity. He also has impaired depth perception that he had to learn to work with, relearning even things as basic as how to navigate, much less fight.

NOSE: A fairly average-sized nose with a straight bridge, the tip pointed out slightly more from his face than you’d see in southern Yevonites or Al Bhed.

FACE: Oval face shape, with a gentle taper from cheekbones to jawline, firm jaw leading down to a strong chin. Slightly v-shaped hairline. When he was young he always kept clean-shaven, but as he got older, he has a sort of permastubble going on, as sometimes he bothers to shave and sometimes he doesn’t, but is apparently incapable of managing to grow an actual beard.

LIPS: Somewhat thin, often chapped (this man needs a chapstick, has Zanarkand invented those yet?). Prone to turning up into a smirk when he’s amused, but he doesn’t fully smile very often, much less grin.

COMPLEXION: Pale with yellow undertones, though he’s usually slightly tanned from being outside often. In places like Bikanel or the southern islands, he will burn (and be extremely irritable about it).

BLEMISHES: A massive scar that crosses his face from above his right eyebrow to his jawline, sealing the eye shut, and continues down from his shoulder to just above his right hip. He also has a fair amount of less drastic scarring incurred in battle, but aside from a few larger or more severe wounds, those are relatively minor due to the availability of healing magic and potions.

TATTOOS: None.

HEIGHT: 6’0”, probably 6’0.5”-6’1” in his boots - some people find this surprising, as his presence (most often!) gives him the impression of being an even larger man

WEIGHT: I’m terrible at judging/guessing this tbh - maybe somewhere around 200 lbs?

BUILD: BRICK WALL. Mesomorph, and very fit. He’s extremely solid, with a core like a steel beam from swinging that sword around like he does. Definitely looks like he could toss Braska to safety without a second thought. Nice legs, broad shoulders and hefty arms, a muscular but rather flat ass.

ALLERGIES: Incompetence. Mold and mildew, as well as mild lactose intolerance.

USUAL HAIRSTYLE: Mostly unstyled. Queue bound back with a tie or thin ribbon, the shorter majority he simply runs his fingers through and that’s good enough.

USUAL EXPRESSION: Resting murderface. Ah, stoic. He tends to show his emotions readily on his face but the changes of expression are always very minor, so one has to look close and know him well to see what he’s feeling. The signs are always there to be picked out, though. Everything is thrown out the window when it comes to very strong emotions, though, usually anger, which is obvious for all to see. When he was younger, his expressions were usually more obvious, but that changed over time.

USUAL CLOTHING: Dark, dark grey pants with a lighter grey vertical stripe on the front, back, and sides that tuck into tall black boots, which have a protective plate on top of the foot and a decorative medallion at the top of the boot that helps secure the strapping. A very basic undershirt between skin and a black hardened-leather cuirass with simple yellow-gold detailing. A tall grey cowl with leather strapping attaches to the cuirass itself, and with a pair of oval-lensed sunglasses does a good job of hiding his expression.

Over top, a long, ankle-length heavy red coat evocative of a haori, with a thick collar/front edging of blue edged with white. A pair of buckled straps at the end of each sleeve allows the wide sleeve to be pulled closed not unlike the standard yoroi hitatare worn under armor. His right forearm is bound from the wrist halfway up and covered over the back of his forearm with a bracer made of three plates, his right hand gloved with black leather. On his left shoulder is a pauldron of hardened brown leather, finely tooled and decorated.

The coat is held closed with a wide belt of scaled grey-green under double straps of brown leather, which is covered on the sides and back with a protective layer of steel detailing and blue lamellar plates. At his belt he carries a large jug, held with braided leather straps and a cord of decorative beading.

PSYCHOLOGY.

FEAR/S: failure, letting others down, enclosed spaces, losing himself to becoming a fiend

ASPIRATION/S: When he was younger, he was far more idealistic in some ways - he wanted to help people, to protect, and he did. The main ideal of that aspiration didn’t change as he got older, but the scope did. It became not so much an aspiration as a hope, a desperate goal to frantically grasp at even as it slipped through his fingers.

POSITIVE TRAITS: Determined, protective, intelligent, enduring, loyal, forthright (younger).

NEGATIVE TRAITS: Bossy. Prideful. Stubborn. Acerbic. Secretive. Can and will walk right over you if you stand between him and his goal.

MBTI: ISTJ - The Logistician

ENNEAGRAM: Type 8 - The Challenger

ZODIAC: Aries (sun) - Virgo (moon)

TAROT: Justice (young), Death (in-game)

TEMPERAMENT: Choleric

SOUL TYPE/S: Hunter (with Thinker/Helper/Leader all tied for second place)

ANIMAL: well the test was terribly wrong for him but the closest thing there was Rhino, though that one underestimates his mental capabilities (many thanks to B-chan for helping me scour the choices)

VICE/S: This man can hold grudges. Usually big ones, but sometimes he can get in a snit and be very petty (see: the stop at the Macalania Travel Agency where Tidus calls him ‘old’ and Auron stops talking, turns away with a hrmf and a snide remark and then won’t even look at Tidus for the remainder of the stay). After his death, self-loathing is a serious vice as well, one that wasn’t present before (or at least until the very end of his life).

FAITH: Once, he believed in Yevon. Now, that couldn’t be further from the case. What faith he once had was thoroughly crushed.

GHOSTS?: As an Unsent, he himself is one, after a fashion. Even if he wasn’t, fiends would fit the definition well enough. In Spira, ghosts are not so much a matter of superstition as they are a natural part of the world; it is why summoners are needed to Send souls to the farplane, and the existence of fiends and unsent are abject proof.

AFTERLIFE?: Yes. As with ghosts, this is not so much a matter of faith as it is natural and evident. While one can debate whether the images the living see of their loved ones on the Farplane are a projection or truly their souls, that does not deny the truth that one can visit the Farplane itself.

REINCARNATION?: Yes, though mostly in the less comforting knowledge that one can become a fiend after death. A truly new life… he’s less certain of the possibility, though he’d like to believe.

ALIENS?: He’s been to and lived in a world created from dreams and set foot on the alternate plane of the afterlife. He’s inclined to think that anything is possible. There are so many stars out there, of course some other worlds with people on them are out there too. It just doesn’t have any bearing on his world here and now.

POLITICAL ALIGNMENT: For much of his life, Lawful Neutral/Good and a supporter as well as part of the reigning religious oligarchy/theocracy. Later and near the end of his life, as well as his unlife, Neutral Good/True Neutral and in (at first) subtle opposition to the established Church and then actively attempting its complete overthrow.

ECONOMIC PREFERENCE: He never really had much of a need or want for material goods. He always had a few treasured possessions, but between his personality and his lifestyle he never accumulated many ‘things’. After he dies, he has even less to his name, but he’s content with remaining that way. He travels, feeling out of place, and so keeps his pack light rather than gathering and keeping objects. As he doesn’t spend much, he doesn’t particularly want for money.

SOCIOPOLITICAL POSITION: He’s… famous, being the (a) Legendary Guardian, but that doesn’t really afford him anything other than awe, and occasionally a free room. He stays out of politics once Yevon is brought low. It’s up to the people who will live for the future to determine it, after all.

EDUCATION LEVEL: Once he was dedicated to the Church of Yevon at 8 years old, he was granted good schooling along with all the other child-acolytes and training to enter the ranks of the warrior monks. Before that, he didn’t have anything in the way of formal schooling and was illiterate, though he’d been learning practical skills for some time. He was of an age that he was starting to try his hand at trades and would have chosen one to apprentice to had circumstances not changed his fate.

FAMILY.

FATHER: (deceased)

MOTHER: (deceased)

EXTENDED FAMILY: brother (Feron - deceased)

SIGNIFICANT OTHER(S): none (verse-dependent)

NAME MEANING/S: high mountain/mountain of strength (Hebrew); gold (aur) - a divine ending/death (on) (Old Celtic/Welsh); gold (aurum - Latin) gilded/gilt/noble (aureus - Latin); dawn (Áron - Quenya)

HISTORICAL CONNECTION: What familial history he may once have had is lost. The Church broke its ties with him, and he with it. What connection he has to history is his part in the story of Braska’s and Yuna’s Pilgrimages, until those stories are told no more.

FAVORITES.

BOOK: He likes histories and tales, whether fiction or not - a good story. The ending of it does not matter so much as what happens during the book.

MOVIE: He’s not much of a movie person, actually, but as with books, he’d prefer one with solid characters and a good story to it over anything else.

DEITY: He’s not fond of gods these days, self-proclaimed or otherwise.

MONTH: October

SEASON: Autumn

PLACE: Somewhere not the South. He prefers cooler climes and does terribly in hot weather, growing irritable the longer he has to deal with it.

WEATHER: Sun out but clouds in the sky, with a crisp breeze blowing.

SOUND: Gentle rainfall, the crunch of leaves and evergreen needles under boots, soft humming.

SCENT/S: Cedar wood, pine, stone in the forest slightly grown over with moss, the brightness of a mountain stream’s spray.

TASTE/S: Seasoned game meats, fish; will steal your berry tarts.

FEEL/S: Wood and tree bark, slightly textured paper, braided fabric, simple glazed pottery.

ANIMAL/S: Auron is most definitely a dog person. He’s also fond of flying creatures, and you’ll often see me associate him with the red-tailed hawk.

NUMBER: Three. It is a good, solid number, is it not?

COLOR: He likes red, favouring it enough to choose the colour for his coat, and in general likes autumn and winter tones.

EXTRA.

TALENTS: planning, combat, snarky commentary

BAD AT: Magic. White, Black, Blue, Time, it doesn’t matter. Absolute shit at it. I have a headcanon that he doesn’t even have the capability for it, backed by the fact that the abilities in his grid is essentially all physical - the debuff-abilities can be explained as ki-type physical energies rather than magic. He’d like to be able to cast even as little as a simple Cure, but it’s beyond him. Also bad at empathising.

TURN-ONS: Entirely dependent on the person, and pretty much null in general unless he’s romantically attracted to or involved with that person.

TURN-OFFS: Arrogance, superiority, degradation, arguments, pain, excessive testing of his patience (a little is fine but don’t push it too far-), et al.

HOBBIES: He doesn’t really have much in the way of hobbies. There’s almost always been something to keep him busy, and so he never had much time to develop fun down-time things. He does whittle, if there’s dead time and he’s feeling inclined. It’s an easy enough thing that keeps his hands busy, and he can just pick up wood wherever he’s settling down to camp and discard whatever he makes if he doesn’t care to keep it, so materials are never really an issue save for keeping his knife sharp.

TROPES: BFS; Dead All Along; Determinator; The Atoner; The Stoic/Not So Stoic; Taking the Bullet; Tall, Dark, and Snarky, I Gave My Word

AESTHETIC TAGS: I actually don’t have a dedicated aesthetic tag for him and I really should. Hmm. I’ll get on that…

#[headcanons]#[meme response]#//oooof but that took forever!#auron why must you be so /difficult/

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fernandeznicholas · 7 years

Text

The Magistrate’s Scepter Ch. 3

(This is a continuation of a chapter by chapter series created by Nicholas A. Fernandez. All attempts to recreate this intellectual property without the express permission from the author is prohibited. Enjoy!)

The young man, a teenager really, finished sanding down the leg of the chair with his orbital sander, and put it down, critically eyeing his work. Nodding once to himself in satisfaction, he walked out of the woodworking shop his father had set up in the barn. The sun was just beginning to set in early April, the sky was a clear blue, and when the wind blew it carried with it the clear mountain smells associated with the backwater region his family was from in the Empire. He stepped onto the porch of his family’s simple country manor, and took in the mixed smells and sounds of his childhood. Baked apple pie his mother made, the sweet pipe tobacco his father smoked, the smell of pine and oak that his home was made up of, a hummingbird buzzing at a nearby feeder, whipporwils chirping in the early dusk, and the various insects buzzing frantically in the woods around him. Sighing in contentment at another hard day of work completed in the family furniture trade, he hurried inside to wash up for dinner.

“I don’t understand how this pertains to anything to do with me, or the empire” Athea interrupted, with a severe frown on her face.

“Ah,” the scarred warrior replied with a bit of consternation. “I figured ye’d have figured out why I was telling yeh this.” Leaning in, he continued in a fierce tone. “The more yeh have ta lose, the more the empire can take from yeh.” Spitting on the ground next to him in disgust he shook his head. “Now shut up till i’m done tellin’ yeh how good meh life was.”

Upon entering his ancestral home, he was greeted by his little sister and brother, twins, scrambling down the hallway in what looked to be an impromptu game of tag and pretend sword fighting. Not seeing him gave him the opportunity to scare them out of their senses by roaring like a monster. They shrieked in unison and scrambled towards the kitchen, with their larger muscular brother in tow, stomping his feet and shaking his hands at them like claws as they ran. Barreling into the kitchen he skidded to a stop at the lovely vision in front of him, hefting a platter with part of the night’s dinner on it. Kaitlyn Reynolds was talked about by the men in his small town as a small plump thing, with middling looks.

With her ordinary brown hair, and brown eyes, and squat figure, she was destined for such talk from the other men. But Robert looked beyond the skin. He always had. Within this woman was the kindness of a saint, the fierceness of a lion, and the passion for life like an exploding volcano. This energy danced beneath the surface of her eyes, turning her ordinary brown into a map of the cosmos. The young man was smitten at first sight, and after a brief courtship, they had realized that there was never a match in the universe meant to be, more than theirs. They had just married before last winter had started, and had agreed to stay with his parents until he could get their house built.

His father and uncle had helped him lay the limestone foundation for his and Kaitlyn’s home when winter broke. The only thing to do was wait and stockpile the framework wood while the foundation settled.

“Robert, I swear, if the twins cause me to drop this platter, it’ll be your head that your mother staves in for wasting good food.”

Chuckling at her false sternness, he came over to her and deftly snatched the platter from her and walked it to the dining room table. Spinning, he wrapped his arms around her waist and leaned in close to steal a kiss. Pushing against his chest with her nose wrinkled, she turned her head and he got cheek instead.

“Get off of me you lout! You’ve been smoking haven’t you?”

Pecking her cheek, he released her.

“I’ll take what I can get lass.”

“You won’t get any dinner if your mother sees you in that state. Go bathe. You stink.”

Clutching his hands to his heart as if wounded he responded with a dramatic “ooof”, before winking at her and moving off to the bath.

As he passed his father’s study, he noticed the elder Williams reading the local paper.

“What news father?” he asked, stopping in the doorway and resting against the frame.

“More of those damn fools out west wanting equal rights and to abolish the monarchy.” Shuffling the papers and sighing, his father reached for his pipe and reignited it with a match. “It’ll be war this time. They’ve pushed the good will of the Council too far.”

Nodding to his father, Robert thought about the levy notices that would be coming. Almost as if he could read the concerned look on his son’s face, the elder Williams spoke up. “The levy won’t hit us like other families. The duty of one male of service age per family will go to yer uncle, as he’s already an enlisted officer.”

Frowning, Robert replied to his father answering his unspoken question. “Isn’t Uncle Seward a little old to be going to war?” His father started laughing, in fact he laughed so hard he almost cried.

“By God boy, don’t let im’ hear yeh say that. That man could march double what yeh and I could together, with a 60 pound pack on his back, and fight a war damn near on his own at the end.” Giving his son a dismissive gesture, he looked back to his paper.

“Ye’re too young yet for warfare my boy. Ye’re just starting your life with that pretty lass.” Snorting he shoved his pipe into his mouth. “Leave warfare to the professionals and the foolish. Although the two aren’t mutually exclusive.”

That night after dinner, he and Kaitlyn laid together on the roof of the house, feeling the cool air brush off the mountaintops on their bodies as they held each other close. Afterwards, they held hands, gazing up at the stars, talking about their future together.

“I’ll have the framework up on our home and a few of the rooms done by fall,” Robert explained to his wife.

“Well that’s good husband,” Kaitlyn replied with the cosmos in her eyes. “Your mother has made it clear to me in no uncertain terms that we’re to fill those rooms with loads of grandchildren.”

“Oh, aye lass?” he answered with an amused undertone. “Well then, I guess we’d best get started on that for her then. I dunna want teh upset me mother.” And for the remainder of the night, neither gazed at stars or cared about the night wind. Their mind was on other things.

As the Staff Sergeant had started to unravel his tale, Althea had started to look at him, not as a simple army grunt who had made it where he was through piss and vinegar, but as something more akin to a puzzle. When he finished, there were tears in his eyes, and she could see the pain in his face at reliving the memories that he had dredged up. Wiping his hand angrily across his eyes, he lit another cigarette and drew hard on it. Looking up at her through red eyes, and seeing the look on her face, he nodded as if everything was going the way it should.

“You know lass, Mr. DeChaunce has asked me to do some fairly difficult things in my short time of serving under him. Things I was sure I wasna walkin’ away from. In positions where we were outnumbered, and outgunned, and the majority of our forces were destroyed.” Taking another large drag on the cigarette he continued. “But this is the hardest thing i’ve ever done.”

“Well Staff Sergeant, I must confess my confusion at you telling me about your young life. It sounds peaceful, and a good life. And that is what the Empire is trying to protect.”

Laughing harshly at her words, he flicked his now spent cigarette into the corner of the room, nearly hitting the one from before.

“The empire doesna protect anythin’ but it’s own interests ye foolish little girl,” he replied harshly as he angrily jerked another cigarette out of the pack. “Like I told ye earlier, in order for yeh ta understand what my life has been, yeh must first understand what I had. Yeh must understand what a normal man in the Empire can lose even if he faithfully serves.” Squinting at her over the cigarette smoke, the man grunted. “Well now you know what I had.” Leaning forward in his chair as if he were bracing for a physical blow he finished his statement. “Now i’m going to tell you about the horror of war, and what it can do to a beautiful life like mine, even serving under the Empire’s banner.”

Giving him a warning glare, she finally retorted. “I didn’t come here to listen to your reasons about why you think the empire has wronged you, and why you broke rank and joined the enemy.”

The older warrior smashed his fist on the table hard enough to dent it, crushing his cigarette in the process. “Ye’re a fuckin’ fool. Blind as they come. I dunno why Mr. DeChaunce wanted me teh talk to yeh.” She rocked back in her chair at his sudden aggression, balling her feet under her and clenching her arms to attack if he tried to strike her.

“I think that i’ve had enough,” she said, standing up and calling for the guards. Laughing in a mocking manner, he gave her the bird and kicked his legs up on the desk.

“Mr. DeChaunce said you’d not want to hear what I have teh say.” As she walked out, he called to her as he was being roughly pushed out in chains, “When you want me teh talk, you just come back for the rest of my story.”

She walked out of the interrogation room, and took a deep breath. Fishing out a cigarette, she patted for her lighter for a moment, before realizing she had given it to the incarcerated Staff Sergeant. A lighter appeared with a gloved hand and caught the end of her smoke. Inhaling, she looked up and nodded gratefully to the fully uniformed warden in charge of the prison. After he lit her cigarette, he nodded towards the interrogation room.

“He’s a rough customer isn’t he?”

“Understatement of the year,” she grumbled in reply.

“May I ask why you wanted to see him?” the warden said politely, with a touch of eagerness underlining his words.

Looking up at the immaculately dressed man, she couldn’t help but wonder what his motivations were. “No offense Senior Warden, but this is a state affair.”

Blinking in surprise at her words, he hastily raised his hands in a defensive gesture. “Oh! No! Whatever you’re here for, I have absolutely no interest in.”

He stopped and lowered his arms, waiting to see her reaction. She gave him a quizzical look and motioned for him to continue with her hand.

“You see, he hasn’t offered a lick of information in the six months he’s been here. We’ve waterboarded him, electrocuted him, whipped him, beat him, threatened his family, and he just laughs and gets smart with us.” Wrinkling her brow in surprise, remembering how forthcoming he’d been, she wondered at the instructions Nolan had given his man.

“I don’t see where you’re going with this Senior Warden,” she said, impatience oozing through her voice.

“Simply put, he hid a massive cache of weapons that were stolen from one of our compounds days before he was captured. If you could get him to talk again, and extract the location of the weapons cache from him, it would be very beneficial for both of our careers,” the Senior Warden said carefully.

Torn between storming out because of this overly ambitious warden and crass prisoner she had gone to the trouble of questioning and getting the information because these weapons were a danger in the hands of Nolan’s people, she held up a hand.

“I need a minute, Senior Warden,” she said, eyeing the door that she knew could contain Staff Sergeant Robert Williams. She finished her cigarette and pondered what Nolan was trying to prove to her, or show her, that was so important he’d died for it. Cursing under her breath, she threw her cigarette down, much like the Staff Sergeant, and gestured the Senior Warden over.

“Bring him back, Senior Warden. I guess he gets to talk to me after all.”

Chapter 3: End

(Once again, thank you very much for reading my work. I would also like to thank those of you who hit the like button and the follow button. It means a lot to me that I have people who actually enjoy my writing. This time next week, Chapter 4 will be coming out, and we will be delving into the Empire at wartime from Robert’s perspective, and hints as to his true purpose will emerge in his story and dialogue with Althea)

#sci fi & fantasy #SciFiSeries #chapter 3 #romance #Novel #novela

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