[pervkapitan]

[goldwrynn]

warwaged​:

“Good thing then I made the distinction to include me in that question, rather than ask about you.” And she does not care to doubt him in such an affirmation, for it seems to her not at all unlike prince be allowed to do what he wants, for no reason more than he is prince, and were he not, castle that is to her so foreign is nevertheless his home. Does not bite back sharper reply than she ought to use when speaking to royalty, either, for it seems to her only fair; they are in mutual agreement in their loathing of this, if nothing else, and there is in her no more willingness to act friendly than there is in him, dour and dull and arrogant as he is.

But if he is not interested in politeness or friendliness he nevertheless offers her choice, if only because Varian himself does not care at all, not even enough to impose on her what he found interesting. Tiffin is far from minding it, still; so she turns question to herself, to what would be interesting to see, to find answer even if just to keep them moving. “Being outside would be good. Is there anywhere that isn’t inside?” She doubted she would be allowed to walk the ramparts, even though one ought to have a fine view of the city from there; there could be in the least gardens, however (it would be a shame for a castle this big not to have one, she thinks). 

“If not, I don’t know. A library?” The Great Hall she had been to, when arriving. Everything else she could think of seemed beyond what she would have permission for, from ramparts to dungeons and whatever else in between. “I don’t mind, as long as we don’t stay here doing nothing.”

Between a library and the outdoors for Varian Wrynn there was no choice at all, for surely the answer were an obvious one. Soft grunt escaped prince,  gesturing thatshe follow before setting arms across his chest, a dour sort of boy against the inconvenience of what he was forced to endure here. Truly!

A careful weave through well walked hallways, looming portrates of ancestors and other notables hanging above them, their harsh gazes starring down upon them. The weight of countless kings before, a mantle of its own, though whether it was crown or noose remained yet to be seen. A thought for many days after tomorrow, not a thing that plagued him now as he lamented instead current predicament, regarding Tiffin over shoulder briefly. “What is my family getting out of this?” For he could see what hers was gaining; a daughter who would one day stand at King’s side, but to he the counterbalance was less obvious.

Surely there was something for his father to do this to him.

Still, as he stalked unhappily down flight of steps he could not help but find the entire affair unjust-- that he should be used as bargaining chip without so much as being asked. “Here,” he grunted instead of voicing discontent, pressing door open, revealing expanse of clear lake before them. It was no ornate garden filled with flowers as Tiffin might have wished, but were that her desire she ought to have been more specific.

[goldwrynn]

Things had changed and, simultaneously, nothing had.

That was the way of things Varian knew well, for there was always something, and were it not to be the legion then of course it would be something else. Something worse even between Sylvanas and a supposed Old God looking to sink its nasty hooks deep into their world. Varian had come to expect it in a lifetime that had been one event after another, each calamity tailing the one before it. They could do no more than meet each one head-on and they had, each time, even when it had nearly cost him life and had thrust Anduin into a kingship premature.

How well he had done though, Varian thought, just as surely as he could see what a terrible burden it was upon him. It was a fear that had gnawed at him since Anduin had been young; not that he would be a poor king, for Anduin would be finer than he and that Varian had never doubted, rather that the very softness that made him so inherently suited to compassion left him awfully vulnerable in turn. Varian could only be thankful for those who had stood by his son, had offered not asinine pressures but had, instead, been stalwart throughout.

“Valeera,” once king rumbled, for if there had been one above all it was surely her. More than that even, than anything, there was a grim sort of understanding at what his so called death might have inflicted in turn. Varian was, by many standards, not a sensitive man. Yet in his years he had been humbled, forcibly, and in that came humility.

Whether it suited him or no was irrelevant. “It’s good to see you.” It is what comes instead of many other things, but in words hangs an unspoken ‘I’ve missed you’ if she cared to look.

@shadowsblades

[goldwrynn]

shadowsblades​:

          The offer had been ventured without any real expectation that her friend might take advantage of it —— his grunted agreement with her complaints on Broll’s absence could be interpreted as disinterest meant to keep Valeera’s chagrin from surging further, but agitation simmers from him like heat over the desert ground. Even to individuals less familiar with the king, the shortness of his replies, the dark cast to his face, the tension in his shoulders, warns of a bomb one too-incautious jostle from detonating. Whatever reprieve he finds in the wine he has consumed already, he is not the type to become more forthcoming under its influence.

          The blood elf’s shoulders lift and sink in a nonplussed shrug, her back half-turned to Varian in a deliberate withdrawal from whatever clash she may have inadvertently tilted him towards, Valeera disinclined to further test the fragility of his self-control. Tonight, at least.

          Her wine is nursed not far from her lips, elbow of that same arm resting upon the fist of the other posed indolently across her abdomen. There is nothing left in the room to survey, but she makes a show of doing so regardless, if only to deter Varian from inflicting on her the same excoriation he had on Greymane and the guards sent to fetch Anduin.

          “So those were Gilneans,” she muses, “I forgot they existed. When did they secede from the Alliance? Have they always been worgen?”

Varian knew what she was doing, had played political games long enough to know when someone was attempting to maneuver away from an undesired thing, to divert him away as if he could be so easily fooled. Yet eager was he to skirt that particular barb which was digging ever deeper into him, deep enough that soon it could not truly be ignored, that no amount of alcohol might ever truly dull the acrid sting of it.

His relent then is a sharp thing, lacking grace as he grunted in acknowledgment, a different sort of ire twisting in his gut then though blessedly one not directed at her. Instead at Genn, at his band of feral mongrels who dare parade themselves in as if they had any right after they had long since fled with tails between their legs.

To throw the wolves to the wolves. There was some irony in that, a vicious sort he found palatable. 

“After the Second War,” he concedes eventually, offering it with a grim sort of reluctance though offering it none the less. “He decided that the Alliance needed Gilneas far more than Gilneas needed the Alliance though irony has a way of catching up on ignorant fools. Now they expect the help they would not give when they turned their backs on us.” 

Tables quickly turned it seemed and he, savage in his outrage, thought it well deserved for how much could have been avoided had Gilneas stood by Alliance as it should? How much had been lost through the foolish old dog’s blind arrogance?

More wine sought, frown ever permanent fixture. “Not all Gilneans are worgen. That is a more recent affliction to them-- it seemed their wall did little more than turn their home into their own prison.”

[whitecat-art]

Папочка 

[okunie]

Commission art

[valtsv]

found family dynamics i adore:

the entire gang shares 1 (one) braincell which they takes turns passing around

unwilling teammates gradually grow on each other

Area Man Forcibly Adopted by Several Children

bonded over shared trauma

none of us have actual families or homes to go back to anymore, but at least we have each other

“every single one of these guys has tried to kill me at least once, but we’re cool now and i’d trust them with my life”

redemption arc comes with bonus new family and friends (bonus feature is non-negotiable and eventual acceptance inevitable)

i WAS going to leave the group and go my own way as soon as this job was over - and i would have gotten away with it, too, if it weren’t for my meddling heart!

villains with Feelings™

Officer I Swear I’ve Never Met Any Of These People In My Life (But If Anything Were To Happen To Them I Would Kill Everyone Here And Then Myself)

[goldwrynn]

windrunnerrs​:

Would that she could leave, would that she did not have to exchange another word with him at all; if he thinks she would be there had it been choice rather than imposition, if he thinks she wishes something other than to leave, he is not only rude but stupid also. Insufferable, regardless, but not intimidating in the slightest, and she only stands taller in the face of mockery and laughter, remaining so as it dies into an upset scowl he bothers not to hide any more than she conceals own displeased frown.

Only when he speaks again does her evident displeasure disappears. Biting tone of agreement does not keep her from smiling, unwilling agreement that it is; less pleased or thankful than it is victorious smile, though it soon fades, leaving behind only neutral expression once more. Tiffin is not suddenly glad of being here, but she takes whichever small victories there are to be taken, and this is nevertheless one such. 

There haven’t been many where this visit to Stormwind was concerned.

She refuses to dwell on what that speaks of more permanent stay that looms on distant future, refuses to think of such future at all. It is enough of an achievement for now, and it will be better yet if she rids herself of him, when parents decide they are content with progress made. Tiffin has some hope they won’t be forced into a repeat of this if they are convincing enough.

Hurries to follow, then, as he starts for the door. “Where can we go?” One hand holds her other arm behind her back, briefest moment of thinking on where to go before she questions him; she had no particular interest on any one specific thing, much more broad curiosity turned to exploring — had not expected him to agree, either (he did seem much more keen on continue to be impolite and brood beside the window, after all). “It is a large castle. I’m certain there must be something interesting to see.”

“I can go wherever I want.” Not exactly true, for there were certainly some rooms his father would gently guide him away from, others guards would turn him from were he to stray too close. It was an ever present annoyance of youth, one that clashed terribly with the expectations thrust upon young prince.

It was a thought brushed away in favour of things he enjoyed-- of training, of his mother reading to him in the gardens, of his father rumbling a proud laugh. Those were infinitely more important things than silly rooms he was not allowed within. Not that he would say as much to silly little girl hot on his heels, arms locked firmly across his chest, uncouth and unforthcoming.

His father certainly wouldn’t be proud of him in this moment he knows, but a little rebellion was natural. Or something to that effect.

But of course he wanted this over and done with, and so he sighed once more.  “I don’t know, what do you find interesting?” It would certainly save mindlessly wandering around for however long playing the unwilling host.

[goldwrynn]

shadowsblades​:

@goldwrynn:

          “Broll’s not here.”

          The thick oaken door to the elegant rooms apportioned for Stormwind’s retinue shudders closed on the couriers that had delivered the message, the exasperated tone of the announcement and the frown pursing her lips testament to the added irritation Valeera finds on what has already proven a surprisingly irritating day. She had envisioned the sea voyage to northern Kalimdor and the ensuing visit to Darnassus compelling —— if not for the tedious faction politics that beckoned then for the comical displeasure her presence might incite within the kaldorei and other members of the Alliance and, more, for the opportunity to reunite with Broll. The journey itself had passed without incident, and she had met the inimical, judgemental regard of their allies with haughty satisfaction, but their hosts had conspired to thrust upon everyone an ordeal considerably more hairy ( both metaphorically and literally ) than the trade talks they had described. And now this.

          “Urgent druid business in the Moonglade,” Valeera goes on, derision of the gravity of the quest and of Broll to it camouflaging the sting of rejection his untimely absence evokes, “He’s probably just sleeping.”

          A huff of breath propels her from the door, lackadaisical strides conveying her further into the receiving room, eyes roving listlessly over the intruding branches and the distinctly night elven trinkets on display. “At least the rooms are nice,” she ventures, though not even the prospect of sleeping within a tree grown on an even larger tree tickles her any longer. Curious fingers graze a skilfully carved effigy to Elune and a decorated box her officiousness determines empty, but there is naught in the room’s adornments that snares her attention or offers potential salve to her restlessness.

          There is wine, though……

          If there is any left.

          Surrendered to the need as much as the futility of attempting to avoid the enmity radiating from Varian, hunched at the table in the centre of the room, Valeera finally eschews the wide, wary berth her saunter had afforded, approach discovering that there is wine still. It’s poured into one of the pristine glasses already set out and sipped while she stands, the sweet, oaky aroma lifting her eyebrows in appreciation, “Not bad.”

           Another taste, and she finally risks a glance at Varian, “If you want to talk…”

In the end his absence had simply been another thorn in the side of once gladiator in a trip that had proven infuriating and a waste of time both-- his patience, volatile thing that it was, had long since been tested. Had fractured long, long ago as brittle as glass. In as many sharp pieces as it too as he cut deep with his words, with his actions.

And good he thinks. Let him cut deeper yet, deep into the foolish pride of rabid dogs.

“Of course,” he rumbles eventually, chasing the words with a mouthful of wine before glass is refilled. “As usual.” His dejection was a different beast to hers, one bound into his wild anger that twisted and coiled ever tighter, ever more vicious. Anger was a more familiar companion than ought else, a safer one than anything else that might have nipped at his heels.

It is almost a marked show of something deeper than that fostered yet for her when he does not turn to outrage at her audaciousness, merely grunts as he is wont to do and turns a harsh gaze off to the windows as his drink is pilfered without a shred of remorse. “I suppose they had to get something right.” Which is an unfair account and he knows it as he says it, but irritability wins out in the end as it so often does and he finds he does not care. Not truly. Not as he should.

But then misstep comes and his hackles rise, reflexiv, defensive, bristling as eyes slant to her with something akin to warning. “And what will talking do?”

What had it ever done?

[deactivated56778990-deactivated]

Forget about prince charming. Go for the wolf. He can see you better, hear you better and eat you better.

Wolf’s angel (via but-you-promisedx)

[maggins]

Pretend I’m Merida. Speak to me!

[goldwrynn]

where’s that one fucking brave gifset that’s basically fucking anduin

[goldwrynn]

necroarchy‌:

@goldwrynn​ wants that sweet sweet scourge au

|| what is this that  I  C A N ’ T   S E E                with  ICE COLD HANDS  taking hold of me? ||

     “ No. No, no, no, I won’t be party to — ”      “ We struck an accord, Deathlord. Honor it. ”      “ Don’t talk of honor to me, Lich King, when you’re carrying him in a bloody sack! ”

     A Checklist:

     — the frontal, zygomatic, and maxillary bones of a skull. singed on the edges, very fragile. handle with care. demonic residue wiped clean by Lord Thorval of the Ebon Blade.      — four rib bones, blasted black. singed on the edges, very fragile. handle with care. demonic residue purified by Lord Thorval of the Ebon Blade.      — gauntlets, greaves, pauldrons, and everything between. saronite-wrought, engraved with half a hundred runes. forged in icecrown citadel, transported to acherus: the ebon hold just last night.      — Shalla’tor, half of the sword once known as Shalamayne, polished clean by a wight named Edwards.

     These are the ingredients for the resurrection of High King Varian Wrynn. 

     We do not feel the need to list the staff on hand. Surely you know the usual suspects by this point in the tragedy.

———————————————————————————

     Varian’s components are arranged just so upon a slab that, years ago, knights arose into their new lives under his banner. The slightest bite of annoyance chews at the Lich King’s hollow chest. He would have preferred the Citadel as the venue for this transformation, but the bones would never have survived the journey. A rib had crumbled to ash before even reaching the Ebon Hold.

     Acherus is adequate. It will serve. It has returned to serving, at long last… and perhaps that makes it more appropriate than he first thought. For is this not an exercise in returning things which were once his, back to their proper place in his possession?

          The thought meanders close enough to sentimentality that he sneers at it.

     Time is wasting. There is work to be done.

     His hands outstretch before this patchwork of metal and bone, shadows spooling from his palm in clouds of ink in water. Tendrils drift down, spinning slowly like tornadoes caught in quicksand, sharpening to points that bore through the armor again and again, needle and thread in one as they stitch the unbound pieces together. Runes glow faintly on the surface, inactive magic waking with difficulty. 

     Arthas observes none of this. His eyes are elsewhere.

     For the shadows reach the bone, and do not bore but wreath it in chains and shackles that lead back to the Lich King’s arm, the Lich King’s power, and Arthas sees —

     ( nobody knows your afterlife as well as you.        what does he take from you in this moment? )

     — flames, blue and ghostly, bloom to unholy life within the hollow breastplate. Sees them grow, a wildfire fed the fuel of his power and determination, reaching down the legs, along the arms, up the empty neck to lick across the shards of skull still bound in shadow. No need for organs, viscera, ligaments and tendons. 

     Their illustrious dead makers wrought their flesh from fire and their skin from metal, eons ago.           And the Lich King is so much the better than those antiquated celestials.

     He commands in a voice that rings beyond the vulgar mortal plane, through the thin, torn veil to that shadowy realm his dear old friend dared think he could hide within:

     “ Arise, Varian Wrynn.        And take your place among the Scourge. ”

                                         || when  GOD IS GONE  and the  DEVIL  takes hold                                                                 who’ll have  M E R C Y  on your soul? ||

Death was a yawning maw.

Varian had never been the religious sort wife and son were, had never but stock in that which served no benefit to him or his people when needed. And the dead had never served him, had never held interest to him beyond how he mourned them, how he loved so desperately all that death had stolen from him.

For all he had never truly considered what might have laid at the end of it all he had hoped in the quiet moments, in the hidden places within himself which still harboured some softness, that he might have found some of what he had lost in life. What he had found instead--

What he had found instead--

Varian might have been glad to be ripped from it were it not that it stole him from those that needed him, were it not that what he was dragged into wretchedly was somehow worse. Far, far worse.

If death was a yawning maw than undeath was a vicious lick of frostfire burning, freezing and searing all at once as it chained him. Shackled him.

Subjugated him as form, one monstrous and unholy and wrong, groaned in protest of armour. Of low rumble which was near feral growl from once wolf king.

Were it that he could he would have turned fangs on wretched creature before him, shadow of once friend yet as he tried he found he could not. Could not move to. Could not will self into motion to rip Arthas’ head from his damned body for all he longed it.

“You,” came ephemeral echo, a rattle in chasm of bound together form little more than an abomination. “Arthas.” Spat as if repulsed for he was, truly was. By self and frozen monster alike before him. 

[goldwrynn]

acherys‌:

@goldwrynn​​ liked for a starter!

     “ … Ah. ”

     Probably should have expected something like this.

     “ Good evenin’, Majesty. Or… good morning, as it likely is. ”

     Not her best-laid plan, all in all.

     But what is most disgusting is how she stands there stock-still like a hare caught in the gaze of a fox, hopeful that in stillness it may be hidden from those predator’s eyes, as though she were not a fox ( a wolf! ) herself. ( But they have predators of their own, don’t they? ) The hand wrapped around the tone she’s half-pulled from the shelf taps a staccato rhythm against its cover.

     “ Your security is rotten. ”

     Her own is as well. Tiris sits politely before the king, tongue lolling, tail sweeping across the pristine library floors. He whines pathetically for attention he does not deserve, for a reward for being the most bloody awful terrible look out in history.

Thieves were usually more subtle he thinks, her audacity at very least earning arch of brow as she seems to flounder, as death knight before him seems to find herself at a loss for the situation she has brought herself entirely into.

No one to blame but herself then, once gladiator striding forth without the same trepidation she reeked of, ignoring festering hound who seeks an approval he will not find. Nor though does he find abhorrence either from wolf king, ignorance instead as he reached to claim the prize she herself had sought.

Fool would she be to attempt to deny him.

“Hm.” Gruff acknowledgment, tomb drawn to person without yet acknowledging what it was she had actually sought to take. Not that it did not matter, more that he did not care in that moment as gaze swept, a dull recognition swept aside just as easily. Not disinterest here either, simply the knowledge he knew her not even as something in him crawled. 

“What are you doing here?” Oh, the what was obvious in some ways and truly remiss would it be not to give answer he truly sought. Patience had never been a strength.

[goldwrynn]

necroarchy replied to your post: arthas vc: why don't you answer my calls anymore...

when DID I send this, holy shit

we just don’t know...

[goldwrynn]

arthas vc: why don't you answer my calls anymore :(

varian vc: because i blocked you after your perpetual dead goth phase started

[goldwrynn]

i called my AC island Oh’Gosh and it fucking creases me whenever I see it

will i ever stop making varian’s names into puns?

no, no i wont