#( blightbound )

[billywimblett]

A handful of key concepts I did back in 2019 for Ronimo Games' "Blightbound".

[traumcs-blog]

blightbound replied to your post

*swats him upside the head*

i can’t believe.... you would disrespect me this way..... do you KNOW WHJO I AM 

[mademyselfreal]

                                                         starter ; @blightbound​ 

“I don’t like Adamant Fortress. The Veil is thin there, spirits want to slip across. Blood spreads sticky over sand, broken glass and broken circles and broken minds. It should be torn down.”

[debuendiente-arch]

@blightbound replied to your post: gina over there giving me the urge to play dragon...

i mean…you’re welcome.

ahaha i can’t actually play it though because i only have a ps4 and this laptop isn’t meant for gaming, so it’s just... not going to happen any time soon.  :’)

[blackshadowed-blog]

“I’ll only go to sleep for a second.”

                            nicole dollanganger starter pack,

                                      I DON’T mind how long you sleep for, as long as you wake up.  The words are there, dancing like illusions in the campfire upon the utmost tip of his tongue.  She seems worn today, the skin heavier beneath her pale eyes, the set of her mouth a war zone in rose.  In the very aftermath of her words, even with his arm draped so casually over his knee, something tenses in that languid stretch of his nape  ;  something pinches in the skin of his brow.  It will all melt away like silk, of course, or the tide receding into the ocean.  It seems he is a dictionary of unspoken words, but like all the beautiful Antivan poetry he sometimes wishes he could share, these sentiments are hard to translate.    “I will not tell a soul.”    It sounds bemused on the surface  ;  too bruisingly gentle on the tail-end.  The flat of his palm pats the gathered skins beside him, where the hardness of the ground is so futilely disguised.

                                      When she lies down, he will softly sing her a lullaby from his mother tongue.  She will not know it is a lullaby, he supposes.  She may even assume he sings only to himself.  He does not precisely recall how he remembers it, because all who would sing such things to him as a babe were either dead or preoccupied.  His lean form shadows her as she rests, and he sings beneath his breath as a mother would in hopes the spirits of the Fade would look favourably upon the child.

                                      She requires all the hope he may conjure for her.  This much he knows.

[aexcidio]

( Warden, )

“It was TRAINING," Hawke grunted, standing and rubbing at his shoulder. “Not knock down Hawke and break his arm -- I NEED this, you know.”