tfw you put on Noctis’ Theme to help you write angst but the angst is too strong so you end up just sitting there looking depressed because NOCTIS DESERVED BETTER GODDAMMIT
The Trash Man’s Mystery Height (Aka: The Height Ref) ((AKA Aka: Too Much Time On My Hands))
TAGS BECAUSE I’M PROUD AND WANT PEOPLE TO SEE THIS: @wrathwritesthings @themissimmortal @hypaalicious @louisvuittontrashbags
SO, this question has always bugged me? Is Ardyn tall or short? Or a nice inbetween? Now in actuality it’s never been a doubt in my mind that Ardyn is at least six feet, but that still begs the question, how many inches do I need to shave off or add? Welp, let’s take a look, shall we?
(HERE GOES MY ATTEMPT AT BEING DEDUCTIVE.)
I would like to introduce you to height template number one of this little journey, this is the official heights of all four main men in FFXV, down to the Centimeters, I also added a pixel wide bar to show from Prompto to Gladio just how much shorter Prom is than Gladdy, which frankly surprised me, I honestly expected there to be a bigger height difference than that, what with how much of a behemoth Gladio is, and yet Prom comes up to just below Gladios jawline.
Now that you have some perspective on how short (or not short) our sweet muffin turns out to be, lets take a look at some screenshots I got while meticulously searching through letsplays and speedruns of the game, starting with: Episode Prompto.
Soooooo.... correct me if I’m wrong, but that’s a big fucking height gap right there, isn’t it?
Here, lets’s take a little measurement:
Return of the angry red measurement line: The tip of Proms beanie manages to reach the weird frilly bit on his seven billion layers of clothing. Things to take into consideration: Prom is leaning forward, Ardyn is mid movement, Ardyn has his head tilted down to look condescendingly at Prompto. In general it’s a good gist of their respective heights but there are things to consider before making it the Magnum Opus on his height.
Blue is where the tip of the beanie starts, red is where I think I can’t stress enough I only THINK his head would start, give or take a few pixels in width, Ardyn is tilted to the side and in this image the red bar is below his jawline, they aren’t moving as much but they also aren’t facing each other, something to (again) take into account.
Now for the great pain: We all know that Prom is the shortest, so what’s above is almost moot in finding out specifically how tall this guy is, therefore I’ll move to the next extreme, the tallest guy we know. Gladio.
Fair warning; some of these pics are very blurry because I was going through and finding individual frames that I thought looked best for this. Almost all of these are at weird angles and just in general kinda bad.
Lets start with this one here, in Galdin Quay:
Gladio is VERY close to the camera (for example, Prompto’s (who is next to him in this scene) head alone takes up the entire screen for a moment), and yet Ardyn still manages to keep up height next to him, but this is a bad angle and can make everyone look way taller or shorter than they really are, lets move on:
This is the next frame after Ardyn walks past them, it’s the closest I could get Ardyn next to Gladio and the guys, and as I said before: He holds his height against Gladio. And an argument could be made But he’s wearing large boots! Yes, I’ll give you that, but I counter with this: Gladio, the man who frequently gets into battles, who loves to go camping and hiking, prooooooobably isn’t wearing flip-flops, so the height difference there is so slight it’s pointless.
Let’s move on: The Lestallum Scene!
Here’s the only good frame I could get of Cutscene!Ardyn next to Gladio, and personally: I think it says a lot: They’re pretty close to each other, Gladio’s posture is mostly straight whereas Ardyn is bent in a funky way toward Prom and Noct (who look about as big as children here) and yet... He’s still pretty damn tall next to Gladio. Once again boots/shoes are not going to be playing a part in this and a thick trench coat and hood is not gonna make him gain inches in height, or any height at all, really.
So for the next and final big gripe: Cutscene models and live models’ heights have a tendency to differ WILDLY in this game, making incredibly tall people seem short and incredibly short people seem tall, I personally think that Cutscene body types should be regarded as the “real” character sizes, but for the sake of thoroughness, I got some while they’re walking around too:
This photo is meh, it catches a general feel for their height and it’s pretty amusing. This is Ardyn, he covers his face with his own name and doesn’t like standing. But yeah, he’s mid step and still about as tall as Gladio who hasn’t moved yet.
NEXT. The Big Kicker:
It’s blurry, but they’re right next to eachother. Ardyn is moving just slightly and is the exact same- if not taller- height than Gladio, he’s not a short dude.
And so, for my final height model, I present this:
The general height I think Ardyn is: one or two cm taller than Gladdy.
So how tall should I say he is???: I don’t know exactly. These are all eyeballing guesses at his height, he really could be a lot shorter than Gladio, or he could be a seven foot tall man-giant. It’s all up to you and your own preference, if big Daddy Gladdy is still the reigning Height King, then go Gladdy! If you think that Ardyn as become The Usurper of more than one throne, then daaaaamn congrats Ardyn you’re a big dude!
IN CONCLUSION: I hope this helps people trying to understand the stature of their beloved characters and trash man. Cya guys later! -Jo
((EDIT: Fucking tunglr posted this before I finished it so NOW it’s done.))
SO, I know my writing is super spotty, and I’m a tad out of practice, the last time I wrote (before making this blog) was a couple of years ago. And every writer recommends the every day writing challenge which I’ve wanted to do as is.
And another thing that came to mind, a LOT of my works are entirely description based, as a matter of fact if you let me I’ll prattle on for hours and hours, but no matter how fancy I make my words you’ll never fully grasp what I’m trying to describe.
I can’t magically fix that, I can’t draw, but I can at least help people understand how I describe the things I see.
Which is where I came up with a little exercise for me/other writers/just people that read my stuff. It's called:
The Daily Descriptor.
Now, I call it that, but it doesn’t necessarily have to be every single day. It’s just a little fun for all of us to partake in, and it’s pretty simple too: Every day/few days/week you take an image, doesn’t matter what kind, sci fi, fantasy, horror, an actual photo of something, it can be a background/wallpaper/person/creature, literally anything, now you can either: Put the image at the top of the post before you write something about it, so that the reader can compare what you write to what the image looks like in their head, or you can put the image at the very bottom of the post after you’ve written it, so that the person can compare what they’ve already thought up in their head to what the image actually is.
Buddies can either reblog the post you wrote and describe the same image in their writing fashion, or they can simply make a post of their own and tag friends. And voila! People can better see and understand what you describe in later fics, maybe over time you'll even like your own writing better than you already do.
Ardyn was a man with many things, wealth, power, beauty, and slews of gorgeous women and some, men, at his feet, and my, what young boy doesn’t want beautiful people with beautiful bodies just begging for his attention?
Ardyn was a man with many things, but he didn’t have everything.
Ardyn was a man that people envied, or admired, or strove to be, he was well educated, he was charming, he was strong and tall and light on his feet, healthier than even the finest Chocobo. None of those things mattered to her.
Ardyn was a man who was given everything, in the form of the most divine creature he’d ever seen.
A beautiful baby girl.
Ardyn already knew he was a very tall man, the only man almost as tall as he, was his elder brother, and even Izunia was shorter than him, if only by an inch. And yet. All his gloating about being the largest man he knew didn’t compare to how massive he felt cradling his little flower in his arms, those tiny little hands that could hardly fit around his finger.
His everything was a Camellia, or so she was named.
His everything left him in tears most nights, as she didn’t grow, she stretched, born a sick, bedridden and broken little thing, all skin and bones and this horrible, rattling wheeze as she slept, constantly fighting to live.
He knew he had responsibilities, he was a Prince, the world needed him. But he was also a boy and the whole world could go be damned for all that he cared, coming to the infirmary every night rather than his home, curling around his daughter as if he could physically shield her from her ailments with his flesh. And he would too, if that opportunity were ever given to him.
He thinks this, with his eyes to the sky. Thunder rumbles. There is no response.
She grows, he ages, she becomes clever with a tongue sharper than a knife, but her body remains desolated by a disease that can’t be cured. She’ll never walk.
She’s given a wheelchair and it eases some difficulty in her life. But it isn’t enough. Her home is an archaic structure with thousands of stairs, anyone with half a brain knows that wheels and stairs aren’t going to go well together.
Even with her chair and her strength, six bless him his baby girl is so strong. But sometimes, it’s just too much. So he’ll pick her narrow body up in his arms, carry her out into the fields that surround his home, and braid flowers into her hair as he talks about anything and nothing. Until the tenor of his voice lulls her to sleep.
Niflheim has come up with some of the first braces of their kind, things that would ease so much of his daughter’s pain. The medical professionals assigned to take care of her however, are reluctant to go through the painstaking task of getting some of these from an enemy country. She’s already been deemed a lost cause behind his back.
So he takes it upon himself, begs and pleads with anyone in good standing in Niflheim to help him with this, and when he is refused time and time again he takes to shadier roots, he knows some people from his slightly younger days, very good at forging and smuggling, and while something as precious a medical breakthrough as that is nigh impossible to steal, the schematics for it might be another story.
It takes a long time, and a lot of money, but before long the things he needs to make those braces are in his hands, and he knows he can’t trust others to make this without using the knowledge as blackmail, so he takes it upon himself to painstakingly shape metal rods and leather and wool into something that can be useful. Thing is, he has no experience in any of these departments.
And boy, does he injure himself, a lot, and badly. So often would he come home smiling, he’s getting closer! Only to notice the panic in his daughters’ eyes and look down to see blood gushing from the cuts in his palms and across his fingers, or other times searing burns in the shape of the scalding rods he gripped with his bare hands. But he never does seem to feel the pain past all the excitement.
The gloves he wears are one of the few things he has with a purpose, rather than grandiose fashion. They cover millennia old scars, pale white marks that force him to remember a little girl he used to hold in his arms and spin around until they were both dizzy.
He’ll never forget that look on her face the day he comes back exhausted with the finished braces in his hands, the way she looks on the brink of tears, it doesn’t make the pain magically disappear but it’s better and it hasn’t been better since she was a toddler. She smiles so broadly his heart feels like it might explode.
Ease one ailment and a new one forms.
But this isn’t something he can just smuggle a cure for.
He wants to puke his damn guts out when he hears the word ‘Scourge’ among all the medical jargon he almost feels like is there just to infuriate him. Maids and doctors and even a guard or two try and stop him. “No! My liege, it’s contagious!” But why would that ever matter to him? Why? When his whole world is in that room dying a horrible death.
He’s careful not to burst through the doors like a madman, but even with his slow entry the sight is so startling he wants to fall to his knees. Just a day ago she was fine! She was normal and bright! Why? Why did this happen?
She’s laid out flat on the bed, and her skin is so papery and pale that it looks like it could tear at any moment, she’s staring blankly at the ceiling and the pupil of her right eye is so disgustingly oversized that barely any of her iris is left, the skin around her eye sunken with purple and black veins spidering out, her lips have gone blue.
She’s going to die, she’s going to die very soon and in this time he’s not a boy, he’s not a man, he’s not a Prince, he’s just a desperate father, and so he goes to the only place he can think of, The Crystal. He goes there and he pleads. For days.
Every morning he’s at his daughter’s side, watching that horrible disease eat her already fragile body, mutating more and more of her as it goes. And every night he sleeps up against the Crystal, pleading for help until he passes out.
It isn’t working, so he holds his baby girl in his arms and kisses her forehead and reads her all the books she loves until nightfall, and then he leaves. He seeks out his oldest friend, not a person but rather a bird, Morgan, a large gentle black Chocobo he’s owned since he was a little boy, the only Chocobo he’s met that not only didn’t mind the ocean but sought it out. Much to the chagrin of the stable workers that had to comb down his frizzed out feathers.
And to the wide world of Eos he goes, searching out old ruins of Solheim, searching towns and cities with abandon trying to find something, anything for his daughter. But it’s pointless. No one has ever cured the plague known as the Starscourge. It’s likely no one ever will. But that isn’t good enough, so he goes farther, and his ever faithful mount gladly takes him, until fields turn into nothing but sand.
It’s fruitless even then, but he’s made a fatal error this time, he hasn’t packed enough rations for the journey into the desert, and it’s been a week, and now he and his bird are dehydrated and starving and he’s on his knees beside his bird that has collapsed. And he grieves for the fate of his avian friend but not for his own. He promised his child he’d do anything for her. He failed. He deserves this.
He’s shaken from his despair with a rumble, no, a rumbling voice. So loud it’s unfathomable and shakes the sand in place. Speaking in a tongue he couldn’t understand. And as it became apparent it wasn’t getting through to him- the air around him began to cool. And a soft voice spoke in his ear. “O chosen one, we have seen your suffering, your love, you offer your soul time and time again for She who’s life withers away in your home. And we have come to answer.”
It’s hardly something the Prince can fathom, deities he grew up worshipping speaking to him.
Morgan seems as if he were never overheating in the first place, and Ardyn finds that his hunger and thirst has vanished as well. And off he races back to his home. Every time he thinks he should stop as the night falls that gentle twinkling voice is in his ear again, urging him on and assuring him that neither he nor his bird will grow tired. Never again.
It takes three days for him to return, and the somber mourning of the city rends his heart to lead.
She died the night before he arrived.
So he goes to her, and he wants to wail when he sees what state she’s in, the veins have completely infected the right half of her body, her eye is just gone, her fingers had melded together into some disgusting lump and her teeth fell out, she looked like some diseased mummy.
He cradled her stiff body despite this, and he cried.
There’s a bright blinding yellow light, and then a hand on his face, warm and soft and small. When he gazes down she’s staring up at him, she looks fine, she looked better than fine. In fact, Ardyn has to take a moment and try to remember if she’s ever looked this healthy in her entire fifteen years of life.
And here approaches the happiest thirteen years of his life, he has been chosen by the Six to heal the world, and after seeing what it did to his daughter he was more than determined to get rid of the plague as fast as possible. But more importantly his daughter was healthy, the ability the Six had given him did so much more than just cure the scourge that plagued his teenage child, it cured her of every ailment she’d ever had, and my, she blossomed. She became her father in a dress, practically, all the wit and cunning and determination.
And naturally. Ardyn became a six-and-a-half-foot force of fatherly terror for any boy or girl dumb enough to so much as look at her for an extended amount of time.
But now Ardyn had a new role than just ‘Father of The Damn Millennia’ to play, he was now The Healer. And there were so many people he could help now. So so many. Camellia was coming along, she didn’t ask. She said so. That’s his precious girl.
He was a healer and she was a scholar able to talk circles around the finest nobles, and they spent the next thirteen years glued to each other, going about life in the morning and picking on each other at night. “Father, you’re like a Anak Stag, you’re as tall as Costlemark Tower and you trip over everything.”
“Well excuse me for not being able to see your hobbit furniture, I swear, no concern for an elderly man such as myself.”
“You’re only thirty-four.”
“With the back of a ninety-five year old!”
“It wouldn’t hurt if you’d stop slouching when you read documents.”
“Well I wouldn’t have to get so close to the paper if your uncle’s handwriting wasn’t illegible.”
“As you say.”
Camellia ends up with a Chocobo named Sable, a bird so dark brown it was almost black, and Morgan ended up with a crush.
Ardyn should have seen it coming.
It was inevitable.
His worst nightmare had finally come for him.
His Daughter was crushing on someone.
They were from Niflheim, went by the name Besithia, they were a relatively minor Noble house, but full of good and level minded fellows, it was a shame they’d all have to DIE- “Father! Yield! You overgrown attack dog!”
Okay, so maybe it wasn’t as world ending as led on but still, his baby girl was growing up and it hurt, he was happy, but it made his heart ache to watch her grow and not need him anymore.
Months turned into years, she fell for that boy named Eleazar, with his bright blond hair and eyes bright clear blue, an inane amount of freckles and a strange obsession with science and engineering, always working on some new invention. Weapons and medicine and other machinery. Hm, better than inventing ways into her blouse I suppose.
So many merry years. Love and joy. Watching her fall for and marry that boy.
But the life of these royals, it’s like a pendulum swinging.
As Camellia’s life waxes, Ardyn’s wanes. His body beginning to weather under the magic he’d been gifted by the Six, and yet he continued onward.
It wasn’t long before Camellia began commenting on… Changes. He was tiring faster, walking slower, breathing heavier. And his hair, his eyes, how they mutated.
He remembers the first time she noticed. They were in the Leide region and in the middle of a casual stroll he crumpled like a bag of potatoes, when it was she that had problems walking it was no problem, he could pick her up and maneuver her without complaint, but he wasn’t small. So getting him somewhere safe was a big problem.
By the time that ordeal was over she scolded him for hours. In the middle of cupping his face and telling him how worried she was was when she noticed, two delicate small fingers reaching up to grab a strand of violet hair. She wasn’t just seeing things! His eyes actually are turning yellow. But there was nothing to be done, he wouldn’t hear of it.
It was a fight about this very thing that broke them apart.
The last they spoke ended with him calling her ‘A selfish little imbecile.’ and her calling him ‘A damned fool headed for his own death.’ And with that she’d left.
He’ll never regret anything more in his two thousand years of life.
She had taken Eleazar and returned home to Insomnia, ready to live her life, and he continued to burn himself away healing people of the Scourge.
Three years passed and he got a single letter from his daughter, wishing to speak.
He returned to his home, fully planning on going straight for his daughters’ house, but he was intercepted by his traitorous brother, speaking of how he’d completed his task and was ready to ascend. And so he went to the Crystal. Just a quick stop, then I’ll talk to her.
It burned.
In a way he couldn’t describe. And then he could see it. Everywhere, on everything black black black black. And he wanted to be enraged but everyone was screaming… So scared of him. People he saved were all running.
They dragged him through the streets that day, they beat him, cut him, stabbed him, carved him up. Burned him. The worst treatments that could be thought of and more.
It was in the evening of the next week when he heard the shrieking and wailing, didn’t need to see it to know it was Morgan, that they were doing something terrible to that poor creature who’d been nothing but good and pure.
The shrieking lasted hours and he closed what was left of his eyelids against it, and then he heard the scream. Every part of him wanted and needed that to still be Morgan, but the scream got closer and it was a Human, a Human girl, his Human girl, his baby girl. Sweet precious amazing Camellia.
She screamed again when she saw him, what was left of him, torn into shreds and oozing everywhere, missing both legs and his left arm and two fingers from his right hand, and what was left of his right arm was mangled and broken in disgusting angles. The rest of him so mutilated that it’d be sin to articulate it.
The side of her face was swelling, busted up and bleeding, and he felt the world turn red with all his rage. And they forced her onto her knees in front of him. And his sinful evil vile little bastard worthless- brother came into view, in all his shining useless decorative armor and his fake sorrowful expression.
“Well little brother, you love her. Come get her.” And his sword rose high…
And he wanted to scream but he dragged himself, felt his intestines sliding out past his charred skin and wanted to howl but he kept going, watched his brother brace that sword in both hands.
He was so close to her! Almost there almost there! The wind whistled—
And!—
Ardyn Lucis Caelum was once a man who had everything.
Ardyn has decided to put aside his overwhelming bitterness and have a short conversation- father to father- before the world falls apart.
Word Count: 1,292.
@hypaalicious @wrathwritesthings
Just a little drabble thing. Dunno what to call it really.
Regis was too damn old for this.
The last attendees of the dull large celebration held in honor of Niflheim and Insomnia’s ‘Peace Treaty’ had filed out hours ago affording Regis the luxury of going home and resting, although he would have another battle once he got there. Damned building and it’s stairs. Why does the King’s quarters even need multiple floors?
But alas, the elevator chimed and the doors opened into his quarters, and rather than relaxation for the aging man, a whole new stress awaited.
From the moment Regis saw that man he knew, he knew what no one else did, the Ring gifted him with a sight just for this day, past the grand posturing and the eloquent words he could see a blackness darker than ink, suffocating the whole room, and tucked away in that blackness were thousands of scrutinizing eyes.
That same shadow was here, in his room, wrapped around expensive chaise lounges and mockingly ‘sitting’ in high backed chairs. Those eyes squinted, but now he guessed it was in some sort of amusement, a joke he wasn’t let in on.
He rounded the corner and found in his kitchen, one frankly too modern for his otherwise entirely marble themed home, was Ardyn “Izunia”, stripped down to his frilly off-white button up and strangely green striped trousers, in boots far too weathered for someone pretending to be a Chancellor.
He was leaning back in one of the dining room chairs, long legs crossed on top of the table.
“Chancellor, may I ask why and how—”
“We both know who I am, don’t bother.” He hasn’t looked away from his shoes. But his mouth is quirked in a crooked smile.
“You haven’t answered my question.” Regis stands there, managing to feel out of place in his house. Then again, it was the home of the man across from him first.
“I simply came to have- ah- polite conversation with today’s youth, it’s been so very long since last I spoke with Lucian nobility. I want to see how they’ve changed. Would you be so kind as to humor me?” Ardyn twists with a certain abruptness to look right at him. And Regis didn’t know which was more unnerving, before when Ardyn wasn’t looking at him but could still see him, or now with those bright yellow eyes stripping him to his soul.
“Well, I hope you came with a topic in mind, I was expecting to rest.” Regis takes a seat across from the tall man who smiles again. There’s a wicked sharpness there.
“How about your son?” And just like that the room seems to go cold. He doesn’t give Regis the chance to speak. “After all, it must so ache to know he’s going to die soon.” And he has the audacity to almost sound sad about it.
“I mean, the horrifying deep seated knowledge that he’ll never get the chance to really live, all that preparation for his future. Useless.” His feet are off the table and he’s leaning in. Really staring him down. “Just a word of advice, Your Majesty, the pain will never go away. But then again, what you’ll have to do will only make that pain all the more bitter, I suppose those Kings conveniently left that part out.”
Regis’ anger dissolves into hesitance, wanting the answer to the question Ardyn just gave him but being somewhat scared of his reaction. “What do you mean?”
His lips twitch. “You’ll be the one that kills him, Majesty, you’ll be the one to put a blade through him and watch the life leave his eyes. Have fun.”
“I wasn’t asking about that. Chancellor. Before that.” Regis’ voice is a rasp, he knows what he’ll have to do but it pains him that even The Usurper- as he’s been so titled- knows about this, he leans forward, his kitchen feels more like an interrogation room now as he challenges the ancient Lucian before him.
Ardyn leans back and ponders what Regis said. “Come.” His face is cold as stone, unmoving as he suddenly stands and makes for the elevator, leaving his coat and other belongings in Regis’ apartment of sorts.
The King is startled that no one sees him as they head for the Throne room, and yet they don’t see the Chancellor of Niflheim either. He truly was a powerful man. The archaic Lucian manages to push the huge double doors of the Throne room open by himself, and the guards posted at either side of the door shout and fall backward when the support they were leaning against suddenly gives way.
“Let me tell you a story, dear old Regis. Insomnia didn’t always have a room dedicated to the King.” He twirls to face Regis and brings his hands together, as if he were holding something. “Once it was a simple wooden building, a Church of sorts, all the people of the Kingdom could enter and leave as they wished, and there was no special seat for the Royals. You could simply stand face to face with your liege and discuss matters like equals.”
He hums as he turns and strolls up to the throne, there’s a bitterness when he speaks. “Now it’s a massive hall of marble and gold, you bow before your King and he can put his boot on your head like the worthless creature you are to him. But I suppose that always was the way my brother enjoyed it.”
Long fingers stretch up to brush across golden idols, testament to way the Kings revered the Six. “She was beautiful.” He stops himself just short of tearing the head off the statue of Leviathan.
Regis can feel the life flood out of the room, Ardyn twists to look at him and there’s black streaming down his face. “She was clever. And kind. My brother didn’t care. My people didn’t care. She was just the spawn of some devil to them.” A deep breath is taken and the ichor recedes back into his flesh.
“My brother had me drag my half dead body to her, sliced her head off before I could reach her.” His lips twitch and with a flourish he summons a grand red blade Regis was very familiar with. “I guess my brother was fond of irony, because he decided it was fitting to name it the Sword of The Father after that day.” He lets it fall and it shatters just before hitting the ground.
“I know this means nothing. But I’m sorry.”
“Sorry,’ doesn’t let her live a full life.” There’s no venom when he says that. It’s the first time in the few conversations Regis has had with him that he doesn’t speak with a grand tone. Ardyn has pulled his gloves off and is rubbing patchwork white scars with his thumbs. “It’s humorous, these creatures you call deities, pinnacles of truth and goodness. They certainly enjoy cruelty. Butchering children.”
Regis rests on the steps up to his throne. This conversation certainly turned out to be more somber than imagined. “What was she like?”
“Sickly. At first. But strong, refused to leave without a fight. And when she grew? She became brilliant. Smarter than me, wiser.” And once again the bitterness floods his chest.
And with a twist he was off, walking down the steps. “I wish I could stay for longer, but alas, I’m bored.” He grinned at the King sitting there on the steps. “I reckon I’ll see you again someday. But first, I’m going to go meet the boy chosen to kill me.” He bowed and a hat he didn’t have before was placed upon his head.
“Good day. And good luck. I hear the treaty will be very fun.”
115 words, aka try and make as much impact in as short a time possible lmao
—————
A blind sun that casts eerie, diffused light upon a deaf world.
The world is beautiful in it’s desolation, the earth is mud and red fungus, a crude attempt at foliage, the waters run murky, and the rotted trees haven’t bloomed since the last men died, dark smoky wind kicks up debris everywhere when it blows. Perhaps the only thing that has ever been left untouched by the plagues are the mountains, as beautiful and stoic as they were millennia ago.
Few things are left alive, Wortwood Elephants with Wraiths for riders that make thundering footsteps, leaving craters behind, but there are no birds to fly away from the noise, anymore.
