@vikinghat‘s satyr bard, Miki. (Or as I lovingly call him, Wino Billy Goat Cyrus.) He’s a font of cop-raided party energy and is voted most likely to be an inevitable contributor to fantasy ER trips.
@toxicaristocrat‘s satyr cleric (who will make trouble on purpose and fire arrows at wizard, hoping he’ll catch them Gomez Addams-style in his teeth), Arlia.
You and I
Side by side
We are the next time 'round
Brianne, Ghorza Relevi, Megido Forks, Cadence of Water — bunch of brave idiots who are varying degrees of successful at flirting with girls and fighting fiends. All of whom I love as dearly as their players.
“You cannot come with me,” Hildur says. “You are tall and conspicuous and obviously a Child of the Sky. In Kal’Arzok, they will kill us both before they even think to pause.”
Haninan winks at her.
Then the air around him shifts, and shudders, and with a snap that feels like it takes an unusual degree of effort – a tug that reminds her of Morrigan – he shrinks down, and when the dust clears, a rather tall, rather lanky dwarf with Haninan’s features is left behind.
“What’s up, everybody? It’s Haninan. Today I’m going to be playing Durgen’len Simulator. Let’s do this shit.” -- Looking Glass, Chapter 13 probably. Another for feynites.
They make it out of the eluvian chamber, then, and she nearly panics as something slams bodily into her. She gets the impression of tall and arms and too close and nearly draws her blade before she realizes she’s not being assaulted so much as enthusiastically embraced.
By an elf.
An ancient elf.
A woman, she guesses, though beyond that the particulars are a little hard to discern, as whoever it is seems intent on crushing her like a Spirit of Love.
“You are back!” the elf crows in a vaguely familiar voice.
“Um,” she says.
Pride, Curiosity, and Lavellan from feynites wonderful Looking Glass.
If you are among the people I haven’t simply shoved bodily into this fic, and would enjoy a post-Trespasser read to kind of soothe that sting (and then shiv you so you feel a whole new sting), I heartily suggest you check this out.
You take the weight off my shoulders
You're every missing piece
You're real, for now
“Leliana had a bird arrive not long ago."
Solas doesn’t look up from his book, but there’s the beginnings of a smile tugging the corners of his mouth that means he’s heard her. The crisp sound of a page turning invites Tova to continue, and she does, taking the long way around the rotunda to his side, pausing briefly along the way to admire the most recent of his frescoes. “Since you sequestered yourself in here, Thedas has fallen, Tevinter has been rebuilt, and, oh yes, we’re supposed to report for to Minrathous for flaying and flagellation immediately.” That gets her a scoff.
“Are my timetables now subject to the dread Inquisitor’s criticisms?”
“I’m only concerned for your eyesight, emma lath.”
In private, she carries herself with more command than she’s ever shown when prodded onto the dais, a confidence present that they so often strip her bare of, especially here. So he finds it difficult to protest being made the prey of her humor when she takes the book out of his grasp — fingers mindful to keep his pages without curling the parchment — and lays claim to half his perch. “But if you insist this has to be done, I offer a compromise.“ Curiosity begets concession. His shoulders sag in permission, and it earns him a broad smile while she settles in upon her spoils of conquest, and a pair of legs hook gently over his knees. "I can read it to you.”
“You? Do the Dalish teach their warriors to navigate magical treatises now?” There are no makings of a fight in his tone, only the tint of laughter, a shade of disbelief.
Glib indignation crosses her features, furrowing her brow and crumpling her nose. “Need I remind you I was raised in part by the Second of our clan.” A vaunted claim, the sort a penniless noble blundering forward, holding their exalted lineage aloft, might make; the kind she’s endured more than once from humans who still dance around nearly calling her ‘rabbit’. The affected quality fades away quickly, leaving something vastly more earnest, “I might not be able to start the fire myself, but I can grasp how it’s kindled.”
“Have faith that I’m good for more than stopping a fool with a sword from charging you.” He opens his mouth for a rebuttal, something certain to derail her actions and color her face scarlet if the glint to his eyes is a proper sign, but it dies promptly, executed by an overly animated, pointed clearing of her throat; a flattering impression of a guest she’s been stuck to for the better part of the day, no doubt. “Which paragraph?”
“The sixth,” he answers, low, while shifting her nearer to him. Getting closer is a terrible idea. And a terribly familiar idea.
Her confidence falters once her eyes have scanned the pages twice. Her first glance certain of deception, and her second confirming the misstep. The third is turned on him and is one of pure surprise. It’s answered by a chuckle, a smirk, and the appearance of a second, smaller tome from his side.
“Tell me then, when did you find the time to learn Tevene…?”
She employs the entirety of what she’s learned from Dorian losing at cards then, while he presses a kiss to her temple.
Elves dont have bodyhair, that illustration with lavellan and solas is fucking gross with the armpit hair sticking out of her. it would be a beautiful illustration without it.
So let’s just cover this now. If you don’t like something I draw?
titsay
gummygunk
romaincrisis
janainaart
blakekathryn
kaledo-art
snowghoul
prguitarman