the line between hero & monster

[aglaecan]

                AGLÆCAN the line between hero & monster

PRIVATE / SELECTIVE / INDEPENDENT / LOW-ACTIVITY MULTIMUSE. 

featuring original characters and canons from dragon age, the tolkien legendarium, the vertigo universe, and fandomless.

written by finch. writer is 30+; i have been RPing on tumblr for 10+ years; i also RP on other platforms. 

OC, AU, crossover friendly; multiverse/multiship; vastly prefer long-form para threads with pre-plotting. long-term partners will be prioritized.

no formatting (except small text) and no icons; i’m here to write not to spend all my time in PS.

MUSES / RULES.

[aglaecan]

if i were still here, you know i'd be adding Lucanis to the roster

[aglaecan]

how are we doing in the wake of Veilguard, y'all?

pls meet Lux "Rook" Mercar:

the prettiest boy in northern thedas

[aglaecan]

sometimes i log in here and scroll down my dash for a little while and feel kinda good and happy that some of my old friends are still here doing this thing together and having fun

[aglaecan]

#i think a part of him wants this and a part of him believes when all is said and done and his (neverending) war is over he can adjust

Ok like re: this part of your tags @immobiliter I feel like Hawke and Flint would be spidermanpointingmeme.jpg because she always thinks she wants the quiet comfortable house somewhere small and rural and boring where no one ever needs her help and she can just stitch dirty words into her love interest's underclothes and throw a stick for her dog but the fact is there is no way she could ever let it go, she would always be helping everyone even to her own active detriment, she is not built for quiet and peaceful and as much as it's her trauma it's also her driving force. Nods.

[awkward-sultana]

(Almost) Every Costume Per Episode + Naevia’s light blue toga in 1x02

[aglaecan]

Muse vs Mun

tagged: @anakhronus

tagging: @mindsmade (pick a muse) @middener (pick a muse) @piraticalwit @thomasrainier

[aglaecan]

𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐃𝐎 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐍𝐄𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐁𝐄 𝐓𝐎𝐔𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐃 ?

cautiously.

your teeth are bared, as they have been, your jaw aching for so long as growls slip free. you always have to defend yourself. you lash out in fear. you need someone who does not shrink back... a hand falling slowly to your shoulder, however briefly, in a reminder that you do not have to lunge. there is no danger here, now.

tagged by: @mindsmade

tagging: @anakhronus (Cezara) || @mercysought (Abel) || @middener (Aragorn) || @trickstercaptain and whoever else wants to!!

[mindsmade]

The touch of her hand affects his entire being. It does not stop at the back of his hands, there along his knuckles — it moves him from head to toe. It feels almost like that single hand is everywhere at once, most prominently on his heart. She has it in a chokehold, and Aphanarû is left to wonder if she even realises it. If her wisdom thus far is anything to go by, she does.

He would only doubt the depth of her awareness in response to her remark, had she said it under any other circumstances. Instead, he laughs — at himself, not unlike she does. She is right. ❛ That is the first time I have ever been accused of such. ❜ Indeed, he is not the sage holed up in his study that many might prefer to see for a man in his position. He is one for action, often unthinking in his ways and in favour of intuition. So, too, he has been with any others upon taking a more personal interest in them. Though he has never truly claimed a person, he has had others, not generally erring on the side of caution in leaning into his desires ( and that of whoever else was involved at the time ). His interest in the sapthêth is of a different sort, however — or perhaps simply more profound.

His reticence and thoughtfulness may well only exist around Berúthiel, inspired by the earnest respect her presence demands. She rather reminds the Prince of the very same britti that passes through his gardens from time to time; the britti she so admires — it will be beheld, but not held.

Aphanarû realises there is truth to her statement when he realises he has indeed been rather caught up in his own mind. The swift passage of time between her hand finding his, a gesture he so would have wished to reciprocate more aptly, and the withdrawal of her touch is a testament to it. So, too, the cause of her prod at his sudden pensiveness becomes known just as swiftly. A frown not too subtle in its expression of concern ( and mild displeasure ) shoots across his forehead.

It ends in inevitable surrender. Trust is an invaluable thing, and she is asking for it — but she has earned it, so she will have it. An almost sullen grunt leaves him as he braces the heel of his palm onto his thigh, elbow jutting out. With the other hand, he stills his tongue with a sip of still-scalding tea from the metal cup. He briefly winces after swallowing, suppressing the cruder urge to backpedal on his commitment to the drink entirely. ❛ All right. I trust you, so I will let you do as you deem wisest. Of all people here, you are most qualified, ❜ he concedes with a nod, managing a wry smile at last. ❛ Until then, let us rest. We have many an hour left until the sun sets. Perhaps we ought to catch up on sleep whilst we can, once our tea runs out. ❜

[aglaecan]

Berúthiel sat her mare easily. She rode with a saddle, with tack, because it was the way of the people of Umbar to use them; but she could ride as easily with neither. She could keep her seat by grace and the pressure of her thighs, could direct the horse with her knees and the press of her mind upon its own. Thus had been the way of it, in the days of Anadûnê. The Men of that isle had been vouchsafed that gift, either through closeness to the Nimir in the earlier days, or through the gifts of their own wisdom – to reach across the boundaries of body and touch, mind upon mind.

In her, the gift had come through the blood, breeding true despite her mother’s heritage being more mixed and muddled by far – closer to that of Aphanarû and his own people in this era now, the blending of lines which had created out of disparate peoples one Umbarim.

They had slept, after their conversation. Curled among the cushions in the dim comfort of the tent, and so carefully not touching one another, so carefully apart lest their hungers rise up to devour each other in an ill-considered and ill-timed conflagration. Berúthiel did not know how well the princeling had slept, in the circumstances; her own rest had been uneasy at best.

I trust you, so I will let you do as you deem wisest.

Had any man of power ever said such words to her before? She did not think so; and yet, despite how he had frowned so thunderously before saying them, she thought that at the moment he said them, they had been words he meant, words he believed. It remained to be seen whether his belief in his statement – whether his trust in her – would survive the test of a heated and a dangerous moment. Would he, in fact, trust her when it came to it? Would he trust her when, and if, she must reveal some part of herself she had not yet shown him save in bare hint and dark whisper?

The road upon which their little caravan traveled wended its way closer to the mountains, and closer; it began to rise as it neared them, the scrubby flats becoming scrubby foothills which would, eventually, become sheer and stony heights. The road would wend further on, and there were places where camp could be struck, places where caravans weathered the nights… but there were dangers also.

With a touch of her mind to the mare’s, she sent the mount forward to ride stirrup-to-stirrup alongside the Umbarim princeling.

Waiting for Aphanarû to acknowledge her before she spoke – for his other advisors, his guard, the varied and sundry members of his court were about him, and always watching for the impropriety of it – she murmured, “How much farther do we go before nightfall? I would not like to be navigating this road when darkness catches us.”

[immobiliter]

       The way she cocked her head and her hands landed on her hips only made Jamie grind his teeth. Taller than her he might have been — considerably so, seeing as he towered over plenty of other men — but she was certainly a match for his stature in this stable, head held high and, as he suspected, unperturbed at the prospect of cold-blooded murder. Even if she fancifully turned down the suggestion to his face, in favour of playing out her own Shakespearean stage drama, complete with him as the reluctant accomplice. Insufferable, impertinent woman.

       Her intuition was correct: some part of him, deep down, did want to help. If this was the man who killed her family, left her orphaned on the streets, left her hungry and desperate, then some gallant remnant of his Scottish nobleman's past wanted to assist. But he had played enough roles for a lifetime: at Castle Leoch, at the side of the Bonnie Prince as he led the Scots to a slaughter, as the leader of the prisoners at Ardsmuir. He was even playing one now, as a mere stablehand to what he thought had been an upstanding English family.

       Perhaps that made him the perfect candidate for the job.

       And yet he did not have to appear happy at the prospect. His stoic glare did not soften, but he did eventually speak — after several long moments of pointed, tense silence between the pair. “ Who is this man you're going after? ” He held her gaze expectantly. “ If his sin is so great that you wish for him to suffer rather than taking my offer of ending things swiftly... you can at least have the decency to let me know what you're up against. ”

[aglaecan]

“Roderick Brawley, the Baron Strange.”

Johanna tugged the glove from her hand and tucked it over the belt cinching tight her jacket ‘round her waist. She knew her garb – manly, and yet doing nothing at all to hide the woman’s figure beneath – discomfited Jamie. Perhaps because it aroused him and he disliked the feeling, perhaps because it seemed to him shocking and improper. Perhaps, she thought with a wicked little flare, both.

With her naked hand, she stroked the solid flank of the horse, the animal’s warmth seeping pleasantly into her skin, and little stiff bits of horse hair coming away to cling to her fingers. The horse needed badly to be curried, she thought idly; its undercoat was shedding as the weather slowly warmed.

“A colleague and peer of my parents,” she continued, lifting her little pointed chin as she gazed at the Scot without fear, without intimidation. Far more frightening and far more dangerous men – and demons, and fae, and anthropomorphic personifications – than he had tried to cow her, to make her bend. And failed.

“Instrumental in arranging their deaths. He crafted their downfall, planted evidence to make them seem traitors to the crown, and stole from them … from me. I want back what he took. I cannot have my parents back, and I cannot have those years back I spent upon London’s streets, but I can take back this much.”

[anakhronus]

There's nothing wrong with a little expression. Blanc's brow pulls its weight as the young woman, flashy and narrow as a pocket knife, reveals her company. He's a beauty alright, big and... blue? Such a fantastic shade! Blanc lifts his sunglasses for a moment, just a bit, just for a peek. Then, he huffs a little one-note laugh. "Huan... now, I know I've heard that somewhere," He mutters to himself, but not quietly enough for this to be plain. The familiarity gets waved away, literally in fact, and he gives her a nod. "Then we'll get on just fine, you and I! You know, convenience not withstanding, I... well, I just found it soul-less. There's a certain kind of pleasure in learning later on one's intuition was correct. Hop in," he says again, and twists about as an afterthought to be sure there was space enough for Huan in the back seat. Of course there was -- not much back there but a stray receipt and Philip's winter gloves. A quiet *crud* leaves him once he remembers Philip had been looking for those. Coming back around in his seat, Blanc startles suddenly, and points the woman's way. "Huan, the Hound of Valinor! Now that's a name."

[aglaecan]

“Soulless chicken,” Hawke says, flashing a bright grin as she hops her narrow self up into the passenger seat, waiting as the big dog fits himself halfway comfortably into the back seat before she does so. “Sounds like some kind of punk band name. The Soulless Chickens.” She curls her fingers into the sign of the horns and jabs it into the air like she’s rocking out, then laughs and buckles herself in safe-like.

Bending her legs up under herself – her boots are clean, after all, as they’ve only just finished discussing in odd detail – Hawke settles back in. “Call me Hawke,” she offers, shrugging a little. In all this, the only name that’s passed hands is the dog’s.

“Yup, Huan. Daddy used to read those to us when we weren’t but little,” she says, laying on a bit of the hokum in her own accent, why the flying fuckfish not? “Reckoned calling him Huan was better than just calling him Dog, as we did when I found him as a pup in an abandoned lot.” She grins a sharp little grin. “The joke is, we’re still just calling him Dog.”

She gives this stranger in his fancy duds a long look. There’s something about him, too. Accent isn’t local, and the clothing sure as little red apples isn’t local, either. City boy, out in the rural wilds, out here noticing stuff. He’s poking around into things, she’d wager. Probably not here to flip a house or some shit, either. 

“So you lost out here, or what?”

[aglaecan]

I want to find a way to write my Vampire: the Masquerade vampire lady here which keeps things that are very much a core of her character while divorcing her juuust far enough from VtM 'canon' that she can be more easily played with other vampire characters. It's a balancing act, like what to keep and how, hm. But look how pretty!

[askazka-deactivated20230318]

  The cold land of Himlad was now but a blur at the tapestry of landscape, for its Lord had taken to other business—The once Great Huntsman of Oromë became in Beleriand the Lord of himself and himself alone.  Charging in the center of his Hunter’s Guild, his hunters left and right of him, leaving the plain behind them with first light, only to return with its last.  Oft, and he knew himself guilty of such, had he left the reins over shared earth to the younger, and he, brother of his, though young in his years (at least, in the eyes of the thirdborn, for indeed he saw him thus), proved himself a better ruler, less ruthless, less reckless.  Their minds were unlike, although complementary, but this was of little matter, and of little mind was paid to it as he rushed his horse forward, his gild following forth.

  The day was yet to sprout into colors. The dawn grey, still, and the terrain as frigid and foreboding as it ever was, but it daunted not, nor did it dampen the spirts of those in his following.  

  Hunters they were all, those of the Ñoldor, some who hunted back in Aman, too, then under different flag, but not under different ambition. Here and there, though less often, had the youngest of his brethren joined in as well, but today was not one of those days, and it was but he, and the Elf Lords closest to him.

  Frost thawed, and with the emerging Sun, the hunt continued.  Hours and hours passed, and noon was soon above their heads.

  He was not a cruel Chief, and thus they ate before regrouping anew, and so it went on, until the early shadows of twilight, until the ever-blue and ever-raven shade.

  It is in eventide that Tyelkormo found @aglaecan, gleaming nivose in the deep darkness that was to fall with coming sundown.  The White Lady of the Ñoldor, in prowess no less than he or any other of his kinsman or kin..  And then he was glad at once, and it shone in his face, in the glint of his eye. A rare sight, undoubtedly.  The Elf-Lord called her by name, and the wind carried it, and his joy sounded then in his voice also.  “Iryë—Iryë!” 

[aglaecan]

I am stained in shadow.

The terrible valley, the terrible, darkness-haunted valley! Nan Dungortheb, the valley of dreadful death! Long were the paths, long and narrow were the ways; at the edge of the forests of Doriath did they lay, Doriath which was barred to all save its own. A bare and narrow strip could they walk, between the inviolate wood and the terrible, terrible darkness.

Yet thrice now had she traversed these paths, thrice had she dared them! Once she had walked them on her own feet, clinging to the edges of the wood where she dare not go; twice she had ridden the back of a mare, a bold and brave creature whose spirit was not broken by the darkness but who shied, all the same, at its encroach.

Aredhel, White Lady of the Noldor, was stained in shadow. Its horror had seeped into her, become part of her. Once, traveling here and thus, she had been separated from her guard and lost. And all that came after, had come because of those shadows. She feared not these paths, but it was not bravery which gave wings to her passage. It was a terrible, empty cavern which yawned in her heart, a numbness like the healing balms which were spread across rent wounds to ease sufferers. But below it, the wounds remained; and wounds healed more slowly in these lands than they had in the furthest West.

She had ridden through the day and through the night, not daring to stop. Not daring to rest, when shadows might reach out at any moment from the dreadful valley to take her, to eat her up whole and spit away no pith. She rode on through the next day, and on, and on, as night began to come on purple and blue, like bruises. She rode, grateful to the tireless strength of her mount – whose ancestors had come from the Undying Lands, just as Aredhel herself had come – and grateful to the numbness which hid the ache in her soul.

Was it coincidence or instinct which led her so unerring to her aim? She could not say, even for herself. Perhaps it was the deep knowing which at times came upon their people, the foreknowing, the notes of that great song which wove all into being. She could not say, but only knew that she would find him, at the end of her ride.

His joy when he saw her was painful. But for her love of him, she attempted a smile. Ah my Tyelko, my hunter! Ah, for our youth, for all that is lost to us!

And Aredhel, White Lady of the Noldor, slid down from her mount and collapsed onto her knees on the ground.

[mindsmade]

Aphanarû times his first sip to coincide with Berúthiel’s. It seems insignificant, but does not feel it, for he is aware of the demands of tradition — the order of indulgence tops out at the host, and that rule applies twice over in the presence of those of some significant standing. The Prince, however, has shown just enough disregard to be deemed cheeky, yet not quite disrespectful in full. He is known for it, and though there are none around to witness him commit another such slight, he finds himself thinking back to the gazes cast his way by his advisors some time back. Those same gazes veered all too visibly to the sapthêth when he had ( admittedly very intentionally ) asked her to join at his right. Some councilors were amused, some seemed irate — but most seemed puzzled, most of all. Some semblance of pity almost underlined their bewilderment, as if they worried about their Prince’s apparent lack of knowledge about his own customs.

He would chuckle at the thought if not for the continuous pull the core of that memory exerted on him ––– her, Berúthiel, at his side, though rather too differently than she is now. She may still be present as the wise-woman she is, but this venture is a favour to her, and her closeness to him now equally so. Admittedly, though, there is a self-serving element to their venture that seeks to satisfy his urge to be near her.

Aphanarû has to tell himself that it is not as simple as it sounds, lest he spiral into shame. He puts his cup down on the table after nursing it in both hands for a moment, willing himself to consider the present before he gives in to either his chagrin — or the baser thoughts his desire for her might imply. There is more to it than that. There is always more to it than that, and that leaves space to overthink matters; space he would rather afford his companion. He briefly wonders if she would even allow him to consider her that much, at least.

He readjusts his weight on the pillow slightly, pivoting his body to face her. His face betrays only his interest in her explanation. Much of it is not entirely new to him, but the storytelling that surrounds it captivates it in a manner dry cautionary tells never could. He has a mind to brace his elbow on the table and rest his chin on the heel of his palm, but he resists. In that same dreamy vein, he might have smiled out of mere enjoyment of her phrasing and the depth of her knowledge if not for the message she conveys.

Aphanarû raps his fingers across the knee adjacent to the table — his right, now that his body is turned towards Berúthiel. ❛ We might make use of that, though I hope the need for it never comes, and we may pass through these lands quietly. ❜ He hopes, but he does not expect. Something in him rather fears the worst now, and travelling at nighttime will do nothing to ease his concerns either, he expects. ❛ Though I would not have you approach these people alone, if it comes to that — not for a lack of faith in your capabilities, but … ❜ Oh, for fear, surely, of losing her — even if he does not truly have her, and he realises he likely never will. The recognition of the matter for what it is, dries his throat. He takes his eyes off her, seeking out his momentarily abandoned tea, and reaching for it.

[aglaecan]

Berúthiel turned her silent gaze upon Aphanarû. The conflict in which the man was mired was so obvious, at least to her. His face remained polite only, interested in what she imparted; and yet his mind was a busy place of chaos and consideration. He was loud, was the princeling, his mind all a muddle of what he wanted, what he desired, what he knew was right, what he wished not to do, offenses he wished not to give, liberties he wished dearly to take.

The sapthêth laughed at him. Gently, quietly, she laughed. And gently, softly, she laid one hand over his own. The shock of the touch went through her and she thought it likely struck him as well; his skin was warm, darker on the backs of his hands where the sun more often kissed it; she imagined if she turned it over she would find the roughness of callus on his palm and fingers from the reins of his horse and the hilt of his blade. She did not do so.

“Aphanarû-phazan,” she said aloud when the echoes of her laugh had faded back into the edges of the tent, “you think too much.”

She took back her hand, slowly. She folded it upon her lap with the other, shifting her weight among the cushions. 

“What happens,” she said quietly, “will be what happens. I do not doubt you will protect me just as you would protect any member of your retinue. And as a member of that retinue, however… unofficial my position might be… I will serve as is appropriate. I ask only that you trust me in my dealings with them, even if at times what I must say or do seems to you strange, or frightening. Some of those whom we might meet will not be very like your people, prince of Umbar.”

[periodplaybyprovider]

Tom Cullen in Knightfall

[anakhronus]

Above the classic top line of his dark, blocky shades, Blanc's brows leap in unison to create a wrinkled tightwire above the bridge of his nose. It was, to be delicate, hotter than Satan's house cat, and walking in bare feet for any length of time up this asphalt after sunrise was gambling five layers of skin. 

Maybe, he reasons, twisting his head around to take a peek back the way they'd both come, the trek was more interesting that way. Or maybe she had no socks, and couldn't stand to suffer the boots longer than necessary. Now there was a thought. "I could, I could. Hop on in — you wouldn't happen to mind, ah," his fingers lift from the wheel, wiggling for the words. "Popeyes, would you? I haven't been through a Chick Fil A since 2010."

[aglaecan]

Hawke gives the man an assessing kind of look. He doesn’t seem like the sort who’s going to take liberties with a girl in his car. (If he is, she’s got more than a few knives stashed on her, and knows how to use them. If he is, she also has one more weapon in the arsenal.) She gives a sharp whistle and, after a moment, from somewhere in the bushes t’side of the road bounds a large ball of grey energy.

A pitbull, that shade of grey fur they call “blue,” with a white belly and paws, and eyes of mismatched colors. He comes to a halt at Hawke’s side, sitting down and giving her a quizzical whine, the look in his eye somehow seeming more intelligent than he ought to be. His head comes up past her waist.

“Mind dogs?” she asks the fancy man in the fancy car. “This here’s Huan, and he’s a good boy. Won’t go for you for no reason.”

Huan gives a quiet yip at the sound of his own name, and thumps his docked stub of a tail as if to prove he is a very good boy indeed. “Popeyes, it is?” Hawke says then, not climbing into the car till this fellow gives his opinion on dogs and the possible welcoming thereof. “2010.” Her eyes narrow a bit, and she gives a short nod, having decided he’s saying something without saying it. 

“Personally I’m queer as a treeful of Shakespeare-writing monkeys so I don’t eat that homophobia chicken either.”

[aglaecan]

how does adaon spend his off-time/time between quests and other responsibilities? does he simply rest, distract himself from the crisis at hand, smth else entirely? 👁️

To some extent, it depends on the mission itself. How long and tiring was it, was Adaon injured, were any of his friends and companions injured? He might react very differently in the wake of Adamant, for example, than in the wake of the Winter Palace. 

Adaon would be more inclined to rest himself physically in situations where the most recent mission was itself physically challenging because he is practical enough to recognize the need for that. He’d be a pretty bad patient in the case of an injury, just because enforced immobility doesn’t please him overmuch, but if given the chance to choose his own way of recuperating it would likely involve books and games of chess or cards with whoever was available to play against him. Things that work his mind even if his body is being forced to stay more still.

In a situation where the most recent mission was more of a social or mental challenge, or an emotional one, that’s likely when Adaon would take any residual frustrations out through physicality. Sparring, practicing, getting up at a frankly disgustingly early hour to go for a run or hike outside of Skyhold to really push his muscles and empty his mind with it all. He’d also, regardless of other factors, spend a lot of time with his LI. (In game that was Cassandra, but of course that’d be verse-dependent in RP.) He’s a fairly romantic sort and would be the kind to create little special moments for his partner in every chance he could find – as simple as keeping aside a nice bottle of something and coming to surprise them from their own work to chivvy them away to enjoy a drink together to as complex as something like the surprise from the Cass romance with poetry, candles, flowers, in a romantic location. Whatever he thinks they’d like most, he’d do; they’d get to spend time together and his partner would also be reminded he loves them.