Spiteveil.

IC and aesthetic blog for Zatna Spiteveil. Neutral factioned; multiship & multiverse; AU, crossover & OC friendly; open & low activity. Written & loved by Jax; he/him/they/them, CE(S)T, 18 years old. Follows & likes from @foxfictioncentral.

[ex-animo]

[jamabushi]

Japanese Swords

[requiem-on-water]

[inksplit]

[once-upon-a-memoir]

// new theme!!

[rpmemes-galore]

send me   ‘ hold up ‘   for your muse to grab mine by the back of the shirt to keep them from doing something dangerous / foolish 

send  ‘ hold up ‘ reverse  for my muse to do the grabbing

[rpmusings-galore]

            “ So, you decided to switch sides? “ 

                                                          i stopped playing. 

[rpmusings-galore]

the way I see it, there’s only three     kinds of people in this world: 

                               - bad ones

                              - ones you follow 

                              - && ones you need to protect 

[nocturne-dreamer-deactivated202]

Word. 🙌

[somardani]

Jaqueline Vanek

[once-upon-a-memoir]

@slaughterjaw || cont. from here

As they went into the town, Zatna took in the look of it rather than the people within it. Of course, she had been here before, but it was what felt like eons ago. Taking in the town now felt like looking at a particularly disturbing, unsolved case with a new pair of eyes.

She nodded at the guards in greeting out of common courtesy but otherwise didn’t spare them a glance. 

Stalking over to the building the guard had motioned had, Zatna gazed up at the top of its spire. It wasn’t the kind you could walk up, just a tall, decorative metal stick, and like the rest of the town the building was obvious forsaken architecture. Similar metal spires were on each corner-top of the roof, and Zatna belatedly realized it was probably a strategy to keep bats, gryphons, dragons, birds, and other flying creatures off of the roofs. She just thought they looked a little silly, though she held that opinion about most elaborately decorative architecture. 

At Celaryn’s question, Zatna’s eyes flickered back to the warrior’s face. Something in the back of her mind said it was probably a bad idea she had acquainted herself with a Forsaken Vanguard Captain.

“Nah,” Zatna said with a shake of her head. She grabbed her hood and pulled it a little further down over her face and entered the building.

[freddieardley]

The Dam

Photographed by Freddie Ardley

[oldfarmhousefallfeatures]

Nightfall🌌

[quotefeeling]

“You are so brave and quiet I forget you are suffering.”

— Ernest Hemingway

[thegingerpowers]

[once-upon-a-memoir]

6— Does your muse have a color scheme? What do those colors represent in regards to your muse?

Muse Inspiration Asks || thank you, @risrielthron !

// All my muses have a color scheme / theme / aesthetic. It is simply part of what makes them feel like them and not fragments of me. Without their respective color aesthetic, they just don’t feel complete.

However, what’s important to understand is I don’t separate the different colors of a character’s color scheme. Part of what defines the character is how their colors interact with each other; and so, even though I have damn near 400 characters and it’s inevitable that some of them are alike, the relationship between their colors is always unique. Because, sometimes, it’s not the things themselves that are interesting or important, but rather how you react and get effected by them.

Anyway. //

Zatna’s color’s are a bit... weird. Once upon a time, before Itillan’s death - not the undeath, the actual death, the permanent one - her colors were vibrant reds, oranges, and golds, with a tint of dark purple and blue. They resembled a sunset, bleeding together in a cascade of warm, happy light.

Her colors made her happy. They made others happy, like she did. And before she was a sunset, she was a sunrise; before the fall of Quel’thalas, before the loss of her best friends, the dark blues were bright and pale.

Now, the sun in her - and, by extend, color scheme - is barely present. The night is dark, dangerous, and beautiful. She’s dark purples and blues, so dark they’re mistaken for pitch black, specs and tiny splatters of white, and pale blue and yellow decorating her with stars. But the moon, that is what draws people’s attention, what truly drives and represents her spirit.

The moon is dark reds and browns, at certain spots absolutely pitch black. It’s edge is surrounded by a bright golden light; the sun, behind the shadow of the moon, leaving curious eyes injured in the wake of the solar eclipse.

Zatna is done being pretty and happy; she’s done bringing warmth with smiles and pretty colors and words; she’s done standing by the sidelines and doing nothing as the same plague from two decades ago ravages Azeroth, because everyone is too stuck in their own heads to care or do anything. Zatna is the night that comes to strip you of your empire build on other people’s backs, and the night only appreciated by those who look closely. 

If she deems you worthy, she’s the gentle embrace of a calm, starry night after the turmoil and horrors of the day and life. She’s the protection of disappearing in the shadows, and the warmth of finally being free, and the feeling of horror and relief of finally getting what you deserve.

Her undercover name is Eclipse for these exact reasons. She is the danger in the night that comes to deal justice where the juristic systems fail; yet, if you look too closely, either you or Zatna will get hurt.

[once-upon-a-memoir]

@slaughterjaw || cont. from here

With a wet and heavy thunk, the newly double-deceased scourge soldier falls to the ground. Quickly looting them, Zatna checks if they’ve got anything of use to her; a few silver pieces and a pickaxe but otherwise nothing.

Footsteps echo down the underground tunnels. For just a moment, she spares a glance down the way. The piercing blackness of the underground workspace suited for undead, mindless soldiers doesn’t leave much for her eyes to see. Luckily, however, the soldiers’ eyes glow vaguely with lich frost magic. Unfortunately for her, that same vague glow is nearing the edge of the corner that she came from.

Damnit, she curses, fiddling with the inventory of her bags for a way out. She’s backed up against a wall of an unfinished tunnel with nothing but a frost prince’s plans for alchemic bombs, two swords, several daggers and poisons and food, and chemical samples of-

Oh.

Putting her ear up against the walls of the tunnel, Zatna follows them until she hears noise; buzzing wings. She has never so happy to hear the sound of nerubians before now.

Turning her back against the incoming scorge soldiers to cover the light, Zatna kneels onto the ground and lights a small arcane flame in her hand. She fumbles with the parchment the plans is written on, and then the chemicals, following the instructions and notes carefully. The liquid sputters and bubbles wildly and, when she hurls the vial at the tunnel wall, it explodes. A huge, green-blue cloud of smoke covers the hole and the tunnel she’s in in no time, and, taking her chance, she sneaks through the hole, stealthing in the process.

Snaking through the nerubian tunnels, Zatna eventually finds her way up to the surface. There, she finds a nerubian-blood covered warrior of some description.

“I’m Zatna Mirthheart, and a bunch of scourge have planted explosives in the ground beneath Venomspite,” she introduces herself to the warrior in front of her. “I kind of fell into the operation’s headquarters and had to kill the frost prince in charge and then while escaping I stole the plans and some samples of the chemicals they’re using to make the bombs.”

Looking back for a second, Zatna’s hand clenches around the parchment. “It’s, uh. Rather effective. Blew a hole into the nerubian tunnels to escape.”

[once-upon-a-memoir]

A grin spread across her face. “I was never good at the whole formal thing, though catch me calling you Captain Slaughterjaw in jokes. The title has punch and gives off lot of character,” Zatna explained, already imagining the rounds of beers passing between her and Aoaran as she retold the highlights of her time with Celaryn in a more humorous light.

At the question, the humor in Zatna’s eyes was snuffed out. It died as quickly as it came, her eyes settling to look at the snow as they truck along.

Light, she had no idea how to answer that. Not without accidentally revealing that she was technically trespassing and breaking multiple military laws to, what she assumed, was a Deathguard.

Fuck.

Thinning her lips, Zatna looked back up, the golden glow of her eyes hiding the red, sore edges.

“Yes and no,” she admitted. “Fuck the Scourge, and fuck anyone who stands in my way to kill every last one of them. Both the nerubians and the Scourge are dead to me, however I’m not quite reckless enough to rush in and sacrifice an entire town. No amount of vengeance is worth the lives of people who are not in the direct fight themselves, innocent or not.”

Frowning, Zatna thought for a second. Then she snarled, anger fuming at the corners of her mouth: “Oh, and I’ve got an appointment with the Lich King. My blade belongs wedged into his face, and dying before I can return it would be stupid.”

@slaughterjaw

[slaughterjaw]

Raw anger and vengeance. The corners of Celaryn’s frost-bitten lip curled into a smile, pleasantly surprised. The Forsaken wanted the Lich King’s head on a pike. It was a unanimous sentiment, one that genuinely did unite them all. Seething anger hot enough to drive one to these frozen wastes and murder all Scourge? It was a refreshing sentiment, one Celaryn shared in spades.

"You’ll have to get in line,” she responded with an amused chuckle, voice cutting through the icy breeze. “Though I can say the Executor shares your murderous sentiment. You can find assurance in that. Ironic that a villain united the efforts of both Alliance and Horde rather than any peace treaty.”

She tirelessly marched on toward Venomspite, sabatons crunching through the snow. It wasn’t far now. The tattered banner depicting the Forsaken Icon of Torment fluttered in the frigid winds atop a watchtower. Its height loomed higher and higher over the two with each step.

“Have you practiced your pitch? Deadly nerubians are scattering explosives underground. You stole the assembly plans and have the chemical recipe, which the Apothecaries will likely study and find a counter or sabotage to make it inert. And from there, we take the fight to the bugs. Was there anything else?”

@once-upon-a-memoir

[once-upon-a-memoir]

A grin tugged at the corner of Zatna’s lips, which only served to make her look like someone enjoying a freshly done murder.

“Having one’s people unceremoniously murdered and then revived, no matter who and where you are, does that to you, I suppose,” she said nonchalantly, both shoulders lifting briefly in a somewhat of a sharp tug. The Alliance versus Horde conversation was never a topic Zatna enjoyed, not even remotely; she had her own set of opinions on it, and, as a child, she learned rather quickly that that these opinions are most often not shared. 

Now, however, her mind dwelled on something else. A frown dawned her face, memories of her first encounter with the armies of the Scourge rolling through her mind like an extremely uncomfortable Darkfaire ride hurling you into the abyss. 

When she blinked and readjusted her posture to look less, well, depressed and absent-minded, Uriel’thos and Itillan’s dead bodies still clung to her vision like ghosts. Mangled, horrible, one of them sword-swinging, ghosts.

“Aside from the fact the Nerubians are as much in danger of blowing up as the rest of us because the Scourge are the ones planting the bombs? No, nothing you missed,” Zatna jokingly poked at the Deathguard, her genuine expression of amusement brightening the moment, even if only for a second. Because, then, Zatna sighed, and said in a serious tone: “But, no, I haven’t planned that far. I don’t plan speeches, they always go worse when I do. Literally blew up an exam once because I prepared too much.”

@slaughterjaw