#deadmien

[shxwmaster]

@deadmien​ asked:  “You look like shit” / uncrowned rescuing shaw dhdkdkdkdk;

quotes from things i’ve written

—

     How long had it been?

     Days? Weeks? Months?

     All of the time bled together, muddy, swirled in his head and poisoned with fel, punctuated with laceration after laceration, demon after demon — there was no sun or moon to refer to; not that he had enough consciousness half the time to keep track of the days. 

     Merciless. Relentless. Shaw had faced many formidable foes and monsters in the past, but never a dreadlord. Never of this magnitude. Never of this... cruelty. He’d lost count of the times death should have claimed him, only for foul magics to keep him at the brink, just to keep the fun going.

     By the time the Uncrowned finds him, there’s barely a man to salvage.

     He’d lost significant weight, his face pallor and skin mottled and abused. It was difficult to tell what he was looking at, who was talking, how many were there, but he knew one thing: he needed his armor and weapons, and he needed to kill Detheroc.

     By the gods and the Light and all that is holy and sacred, he needs to kill him, needs to slaughter this demon. It’s an ache in his bones, a necessity, more than food and water, more than air, he needs this demon DEAD ——

     His legs give out, and he stumbles, catching himself on one of the rogues present, and oh, isn’t this a familiar feeling. He must be dizzy, the world around him whirling as he struggles to catch up. His armor is somewhere, isn’t it? It’s difficult to think, between the injuries, and the stature of a man so sturdy and broad, the whisper of a memory of pastures and fields and farms of Westfall, Shaw can’t seem to tell what’s rooted and reality, and what’s just wishful thinking.

     But the voice speaks up. Clear as day. In an instant, it hollows him, wrings him cold and frozen. The recognition is instant, even in the haze. For a moment, he doesn’t dare move, a new flavor of fear taking root in the Spymaster, but this time, not of any demon and torture.

It can’t be...

     Slowly, he forces himself to lift his head. Confirm it. Confirm it. It’s not him, is it? It’s the haze, it’s the blur — but sure enough, wide emerald eyes rise to meet his, and something inside him plummets. He can’t move. Whether it’s out of fear, or the pain, he can’t tell anymore.

     The observation is astute. Shaw looks like shit.

And this isn’t how Shaw ever wanted this to go.

He never wanted this to happen.

     “ You’re not supposed to be here, ” is all Mathias manages to say, feebly pushing himself off, and barely succeeding. “ You’re... not supposed to... You shouldn’t be here. Why... ”

[shxwmaster]

@deadmien​ asked:  “I never said I was a good influence” / the wall carving….

quotes from things i’ve written

—

     “ No, I know, but — Ed, you know how I feel about this sort of thing! ”

     The air is fresh, the breeze gentle and kind to them. A generous amount of clouds hang in the sky, but not enough to stop the gold glow of the sun as it casts its rays on the youthful men. Stormwind had begun looking more like a proud, valiant city than a sorry corpse of a ransacked fortress that the orcs left it in. Progress was fast, ivory bricks seemingly glowing under the daylight, feeling impossibly bright to Mathias.

     It pales in comparison to that of Edwin before him, egging him on with the pick in his hand.

     Mathias’ lips tighten to a flat line, looking to the carving that he’d now just finished etching into the freshly built wall. ( M + E ). A simple, simple carving. Nondescript. Vague enough. It doesn’t even have their last initials. The average layman won’t know.

     But there’s always a way to trace it back. You can trace anything back with all the right tools! It wouldn’t take a mastermind to figure out the owners of these letters, the hand that etched into the stone — even a Fourth Finger Assassin could assess it, if they put enough effort. It feels risky, even something as small as this, it feels risky. It could compromise them.

     But admittedly... looking at the carving, it does send a flutter in Mathias’ chest. He wants it there. He truly does.

     “ I really hate this, you know, ” He says, reaching out to grip Edwin’s hand. Likely grounding himself. Playing it cool. Laughter starts to bubble in his chest, and he shakes his head. “ You are a terrible influence. What comes after this, hm? Are you going to ask me to blurt it to the king next? ”

[obsidianas]

𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐰𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐬, lips leaving a devoted path of kisses descending from her temple to her cheek where he finally concludes them with a whisper, " c'mon, adalyn. let's dance, no else is watching. " he takes her left hand in his, intertwining their fingers together, " now, i may not be nobility ― but i've picked up a thing or two. 'sides, i promise to catch you, y'know in the rare event i'm not as good as i think. "

this is fine i'm fine

— @deadmien

You were never meant to let him get this close.

Her smile does not falter, but the thoughts (in her own voice or that of the shadowy, pervasive presence, it hardly matters — they are often so hard to tell apart) are always present. So is the guilt, one of the wrong sort; she should feel this is a betrayal of her kin, when her mission hardly involved caring for Edwin VanCleef. Instead, she feels it for the betrayal it is to him.

But he could never love you if he knew the truth.

There is no pretense in how she basks in the affection so freely given, easily addictive to one who had known nothing so sweet in the entirety of her existence. Nalice is glad that the form, at least, is her own; the name that accompanies it may be a set piece, but she appears her true self as much as she would have in the form of her birth, and that alone is something to relish in when it feels like the perfect fit when he holds her close.

He does not know how he marks her with each devoted kiss planted upon soft skin; the bite of steel would not leave her as deeply scarred. Love — the word still gives her pause, but she acknowledges it for what it is — is a sweet poison, one so easy to take in willingly. She doesn't want to resist it. The laughter at his whispered request is all genuine; even the name does not sound so wrong, when said in his voice.

She keeps her hand intertwined with his, the other coming to rest upon his shoulder. The nobility of Stormwind would deem it improper, that they remain so near; but they need not care for the stupid rules now. "Lead the way, then," The smile remains upon her lips, though he would not be able to see it, their faces close; yet it is as evident in her voice as it would have been in her gaze were she to look at him, adoration and vulnerability in equal measure.

The inability to meet his gaze makes her further settle in the curve of his neck. She hates herself for her weakness; she thinks for a moment nothing more would be needed in life if she was allowed this. Unguarded as she is, he cannot take the words to be anything but what they are: admission, pure and not at all simple. "But it may be too late not to let me fall."

[obsidianas]

“ there’s certainly more to you than meets the eye, isn’t there? ” / pretend i sent this on edwin :’)

send memes ♡

— @deadmien / @throned

She is well-versed in the art of appearing as something other than she feels. When red irises settle upon him for the first time, it would be imperceptible to others the little tells that bare her heart in a way Nalice had never been comfortable with (the way her breath catches, the accelerated beating of her heart, the recognition in her gaze, soon replaced by a sorrow she is not wont to showing). Most of the time, she does not show anything sincere other than anger and resentment — yet there is no trace of such feelings when it comes to him.

The Dragon Isles are not a home she is returning to. To her, they are as foreign as to any of the mortals that set foot in the reclaimed land, a place lost to the past, built for wonders she will never witness. And yet when she had been to the Obsidian Citadel, the ache of familiarity hit with a wave of nostalgia for something she had never lived, a bittersweet sense of right.

Her kin belonged amidst scorched earth; hadn't she been a proud heir of that legacy, destroying anything good that enemies may find and benefit from, even in herself?

It feels more curse than blessing, that her mind is clearer now. There had always been bouts of relief amidst the relentless onslaught, the shadow powers that assailed them ebbing and flowing like the tides. Sabellian and his had taken her in as family, in a way family often had not (none except the one she had built with him, though it feels wrong to claim it when the foundation of it was deception). Cleansing the corruption did not make her less vulnerable to the voices, in truth, not where they were most powerful; it wasn't even relief, not entirely, not when she had never known something else. They would have whispered a thousand things and more, told her to despise her heart, to rid herself of the source of turmoil, to deceive him again with sweet lies. Without them, there is no distraction from what she feels; and with that, she loses any will to fight.

He deserves better than that, he always had.

That never stopped her from doing terrible things before.

"I had hoped you would never have to know just how much," The farse was kinder (Does it matter at all that for once she had wanted to cause less damage?). Nalice had not expected to find Edwin here, of all places; but the greater surprise was bound to be his, as was the greater heartbreak, regardless of the sorrow she tried to push aside. Head turned away, her gaze avoids him (he may be hurt the worst but she is weaker; she cannot bear to look at him).

One of her hands is placed neatly atop the other, too hastily for the gesture not to have something of purposeful (concealing a beautifully crafted ring, white gold and amethyst, that she should not wear still) — it is a poor attempt at sustaining the effort to build this flimsy wall, to seem stronger than she is, to stall the break sure to follow. It's this place, or the newfound freedom of my mind, or the unexpectedness of the situation, Nalice thinks. There is no fooling herself, though. She never managed to keep her walls intact when it came to him.

There is no fight in her tone, no mockery; only the hint of grief. "But hope, as ever, serves only to disappoint."