i will heal the hurt.

cole; spirit of compassion. "i came through to help... and i couldn't. so i became him." affiliated with phantom lakes.

[memeartificer]

Said During D&D Starter Meme

Wine isn’t flammable enough. You need vodka or something.

Am I allowed to dance on her grave?

Look, I’m all for destroying things, but…

Are you still on the ceiling?

Are you /more/ or /less/ undead than [name]?

If you’re still alive by then, go ahead.

I will explain nothing. You must discover.

I know it was rude, okay?

I’m not happy about this, okay? I don’t like hurting people!

How many miles per hour is that?

There’s blood everywhere!

What’s a good song for this situation?

Will you seek revenge?

This is a family-friendly establishment, sir.

This is the third time you’ve run away over the course of this fight, if you’re keeping track.

That doesn’t count as a costume, it’s just a hat.

He’s all talk. He’s never actually killed you.

Wait, do you not have any money?

Well, maybe the demon has devoured multiple people.

He is not a scaredy cat.

None of us came here to fight a vampire.

What happened? Where are you?

Who did she get murdered by?

The vampire killed her, but not with his mouth.

You killed her! You set the fire she died in!

Doesn’t he know that tweets can be 140 characters?

Are there any other figures of authority?

This entire town wants to kill me, so I owe them nothing.

Wolves aren’t necessarily considered townsfolk. Can they vote?

Who do you report to?

These people don’t like us.

I don’t know what we can even do to help them.

That’s not my name and you know it.

This is by far the worst contract I have ever been on.

Now everybody wants to steal!

I’m not a thief, I’m a lady. And an arsonist.

It’s a bonfire.

Is the frog a good guy or a bad guy?

I feel like we’ve accomplished nothing.

[compassiontouched]

⚡ : How does your muse feel about storms? Are they afraid of them, or do they calm them?

A flash of lightning. Seconds later, the clap of thunder in the distance. Cole sits on his bed, legs crossed, a bundle of cloth on his lap. Little yelps. An old Mabari-- small for its breed, old and worn, curled there. With animals, it’s harder to understand what’s wrong, but. It’s rarely something complicated. It’s easier to help. Easier to soothe, even though words hardly help him in these times.

It’s a routine by now. The soldier who’d kept the pup died, years ago, when there was still the expectation of training the little one into a war hound. But the size. The nerves. They kept it around, but hardly useful, just an old pup. Shabby war hound, that one.

Cole kept her company, that old Mabari. She felt at ease, if only a bit, with him near. A reassurance. He could feel that much. The thunder went on. Cracks in the distance, further away. She didn’t sleep, but her shivers stilled. Good.

Cole himself doesn’t mind them. Nature running its’ course has become... relaxing, to him, really. But he’s so, so very aware of how other people feel about them that he can’t wholly enjoy them without feeling... almost guilty. Sad, really.

[compassiontouched]

♖ - A time when my muse survived something.

Look at me.

A knife that glints in the dark, curved blade, old steel. So sharp. A way out. An escape, he thinks, no– he knows. He can save them. He can help.

See me.

She gasps, mouth agape, eyes wide. Pulsing, bright, red hot; a spot between the ribs, he doesn’t know how to make it quick yet, but he tries, he tries. He holds her hand. Holds her gaze. He wants her to be free but not yet. Not yet. She can see. He holds his breath, twisting. Twisting. Another puncture. The blood’s on his hands.

Please.

Are the words his? Hers? He can’t tell; does it matter? whispers something in the back of his head, a voice he’d rather be quiet, a voice he’d rather didn’t exist. She’s slipping. Light extinguishing. Flames that flicker. Not yet, he pleads, wordlessly. Not yet. His grip stronger, white-knuckled as he holds her hand. She thanks him, with the last of her left, the last of the little flame snuffed out with the two words.

Not yet, please–

A frightening memory. The revelations that came with time, with realizations, with conversations about who– about what he was. Compassion that nearly turned to Despair. The line, so, so thin. So fine. Spirit, demon; he didn’t know the difference back then, how easily he could’ve become… something else. Something that craved the pain, the hurt; not to heal it, but to perpetuate it--But he survived. He’d never go back. He’d never slip again.

[rosy-rpmemes]

Random headcanon meme!

⍤ : What does your muse’s voice sound like? Is it light? High pitched? Scratchy? Deep? 

✍ : What is your muse’s handwriting like? Is it neat? Sloppy? Fancy?

☕ : Does your muse prefer coffee or tea?

⌚ : Is your muse good with keeping on schedule for meetings, appointments, or events, or are they always late? Or, are they always a bit early?

♿ : Has your muse had any injuries in the past?

☺ : What is your muse’s smile like? Do they smile often?

⚡ : How does your muse feel about storms? Are they afraid of them, or do they calm them?

⚠ : How does your muse react to possibly dangerous situations? Do they face them head-on, or do they plan out their actions first?

☃  : What is your muse’s favorite season? What about their least favorite season, if they have one? 

☂  : Does your muse like rain?

☼ : Does your muse like daytime or nighttime more?

🏨  : How well does your muse sleep?

❤ : What are your muse’s thoughts on love? If they are not in a relationship, do they believe that they will ever find a perfect someone for them?

☘ : Does your muse believe in luck? How about fate?

⚯ : Does your muse have good eyesight? If not, what is it like? Are they nearsighted or farsighted? Or both? Do they use glasses? Or do they prefer contacts?

👓 : If your muse wears glasses, what are their glasses frames like?

♨ : Does your muse have good table manners? How do they feel about bad table manners?

❀ : What is your muse’s opinion about flower crowns?

♬ : Does your muse sing well? Regardless of whether they sing well or not, do they enjoy singing?

📐 : Is your muse good at math? Do they like it, or do they hate it?

♞ : What is your muse’s favorite animal?

εїз : How does your muse feel about bugs and insects?

📱 : Does your muse prefer calling or texting?

☆ : Of the sun, stars, and the moon, which is your muse’s favorite?

ツ : Does your muse prefer lots of friends, or just a few close ones?

✝ : Is your muse religious?

[compassiontouched]

Send in a symbol!

♔ - Something that makes my muse feel important.

♕ - Something that my muse values highly.

♖ - A time when my muse survived something.

♗ - A time when my muse felt spiritual/religious.

♘ - Something that my muse feels an duty to.

♙ - A time when my muse felt normal.

♚ - Something that makes my muse feel unimportant.

♛ - Something that my muse despises.

♜ - A time when my muse felt weak.

♝ - A time when my muse felt forsaken.

♞ - Something my muse wishes they could quit.

♟ - A time when my muse felt used.

[compassiontouched]

@magushunter

For the past few days, Cole had been struggling. Not for his life. Nor for some great freedom, for some ultimate purpose, like he had back at home. No, here he'd simply been struggling to get the smell right.

He knew what tobacco was. He'd overheard countless conversations, real and imagined, playful and stressed, about the flavor; the taste; the addiction. It calmed them down, though they came to need it, crave it,-- Cole didn't like that part, but he understood. That was just the way of things sometimes-- and this particular man seemed no different. He knew what it was. But he didn't know how to get the smell right.

For the past few days, Cole had been littering cups of coffee around the hotel. Always in pairs, always in white mugs; along with can he could only presume were different types of tobacco. Cigarettes. It was hard to tell them apart from each other, but some were bitterer. Some, fresher. None were right, though.

Still. He felt no real difference in the man's disposition-- the man he'd been trying to offer some sense of comfort. Some sense of home. So many had been displaced, misplaced, himself included; and yet this /one/ man seemed to have wounds that ran... deeper. Scars in his heart, this wasn't the first time, nor the second; ripped from his home, again and again and again. He thought with each time it would get easier, but it never did.

... So Cole resorted to putting his offering of sorts outside the man's door. Four mugs of coffee, two and two. The spirit sat crouched just outside, his back against the opposite wall in the narrow hallway, fumbling for the matches in one of his pockets. This time, he was sure he had it right-- at least, he hoped so. They smelt bittersweet, even before he'd lit them, and the smell only grew; unmistakably the stench of tobacco. Again, not right. But, closer? Gingerly, he put two of them in the ashtray propped up against the back of the mugs, and.

Waited. The man was bound to wake up soon, though the sun was still down, and far from rising.

[kingcholera]

“You’ve done odd things…”

[compassiontouched]

@youcallthisautopia

Cole took to wandering like a leaf to the wind. The center of the city, strange as it was already, made him woozy. Made him feel unreal. Too real. Like being torn in two, but not knowing which half would still be "him". He sought himself outward, away from the strange faces and stranger contraptions, weaving past each and every person that passed him by-- none the wiser to his existence. He felt out of place, stained leathers and linens standing in stark contrast to the denim and cotton that the populace took to dressing in.

...

He sought himself outward. Towards a great something in the distance. A bone-hard ball of something bubbling; resentment. No, sorrow? Regret? Cole was like a moth to a flame. He couldn't stay away.

The playground, though not entirely abandoned, had an absolute permeation of loneliness. Had it not been for that something radiating from the blonde boy on the seesaw, Cole might've just passed it by. But no, that boy was his sole reason for having gone this way in the first place-- at least, he thought it had been. He couldn't tell when his free will had receded and given in to the instincts of compassion. No matter. What mattered now was--

  A boy with the same face, similar name, but different; chasing after the impossible. Why can't he take off the armor? Why can't he remember? Why does he give himself so easily? Why, why, why--

... this child. He was a child. Varric had told him, ‘please, kid, mind yourself around them. Can't just say what comes into your head. They're... more delicate.’ So...

So Cole minded himself. He kept the words firmly inside himself-- the words that weren't his, but weren't really the boy's either, something shared now-- and instead opted for.

"Hello." The spirit sat crouched before Lucas, knees almost up to his own chest, wide eyes staring with an almost-curiosity at the young boy. "... Can. May I join you?"

[m-oshun-deactivated20251105]

a couple of months and multiple fall-throughs later… I got you that Cole @ranaspkillnarieth for @da-sae

I can’t even remember if you requested a specific prompt so if I diverged, my apologies

[skyabove-voicewithin]

‘And what about Cole?’ [Rhys] asked. ‘Haven’t you done enough for him?’ ‘No, I don’t think anyone has.’

Dragon Age: Asunder