#ofsacrificeandfallingsnows

[deathsreflection]

@ofsacrificeandfallingsnows wanted a starter!

Erenan shivers beneath the thin fabric of his stolen cloak, squinting out at the dreary rain-lashed landscape just beyond the basalt cavern’s entrance. Aradin had slipped away in the hopes of catching something to eat - when? An hour ago? Two? Less? He cannot trace time as he used to, and the hours feel strange and sluggish, yet they slip so quickly through his unfamiliar fingers. He senses his twin: near, yet not near enough. He could find him. He wants to.

Needs to. Should. Rises to his feet.

No. Sits back down. Can’t move; can’t trust that he’ll not be a liability - still his muscles ache, his head pounds from the seizure he’d suffered only shortly before Aradin left. He must stay put. He is safe here; Aradin burned the last of the giant spiders that had crawled out of the stones. The only sound is the rain outside, and the gentle crackling of their fire, casting strange shapes on the black walls...

...Including the shadow of a man, approaching from outside.

Erenan scoots to the back of the cave, sinking down into his cloak, hiding in the rocks. His hand falls to the knife at his hip: not even a proper dagger - but he does not dare risk magic in this poisoned world; not with his own mind untrustworthy. Aradin will sense his panic. Aradin will come. Aradin will know he is needed.

But until he does, the entrance of the cave fills with the shape of an elf in armor, peering around with curious caution, one hand at rest upon his sword.

[felandaristhorns]

ofsacrificeandfallingsnows replied to your post: ofsacrificeandfallingsnows replied to your post: ...

Samahl: Well he’s definitely not MINE when he’s doing stupid things

Sulahn: He had birth parents. Allegedly.

[high-stakes-gambler]

☕ Do you do warmup sketches before drawing? (Bonus: do you have any to share?)🙃 Which is easier: faces facing left, right, or front view?

I rarely do warm up sketches but I often try to improve the initial sketch and do one or two variations of it before I’m happy with it and start detailing! But I often have a clear idea of the poses right away so I don’t spend too much time trying to visualize the right angles or such.And sometimes I just scrap sketches that feel a bit too boring to me cause I see nothing too challenging about the pose or expression so they stay as WIPs forever... ^^;;

As for faces, I think front view is a bit more difficult to me cause I try to make a look symmetric out of habit and there is a fine line before a symmetric look begins to look too much like uncanny valley. Human faces are not symmetrical. So when we look at a too symmetrical face it just feels off and we can’t pin point why.

[despairprayer]

What's Ethial's favorite memory of Dirthamen? And of Falon'Din?

Come ask my character really hard questions about themselves, their past, or their relationships. 

How casually you ask.Memories of the Evanuris, of the Twins, are not polished pebbles nestled into a box on a shelf, which one may draw from, cradle in one’s hand, and proclaim, Ah, here it is! This! This is my favorite of the lot! Easier by far to select a favorite drop of water from a soothing pool; a favorite petal from a field of perfect blossoms; a favorite snowflake upon a mountaintop. The memories are a monolith: ages spent basking in Their presence, and to choose but one, to choose a single breath in time -A fleeting memory, a moment he does not mean to remember, yet cannot forget: a ceremony, a ritual - and Falon’Din in attendance, a rare, precious honor, terrifying and humbling all at once - and a glimpse of a smile on Falon’Din’s severe, somber face, as those stormcloud eyes lighted briefly on His other half: when for the merest of seconds His face was suffused with such adoration as to put the room full of priests devoted to Dirthamen’s worship to shame. It was not meant for Ethial to notice - and yet the memory remains; Dirthamen never took it from him, and so he holds it close.But of Dirthamen?Of Dirthamen...He gathers up the water drops, the petals, the snowflakes, clutches them close as though he might carry them all with him, always, yet they slip through his fingers. Even basking in Dirthamen’s very Presence, how was he to know how precious each moment might be? How was he to know there would one day come a final time he might kneel before his Keeper; how was he meant to know he should cling to each second of their final meeting as though his every heartbeat from that moment forward should depend upon remembering every detail?Of Dirthamen, he has no favorite memory; it is all too beloved to set one moment apart. Of Dirthamen he cherishes the pool, the field, the mountaintop: the whole, and nothing less.

[questir-a]

Haurchefant and I are here to wish you the happiest of birthdays. Hope it's a good one! <3

AAAAAA thank youuuu ; c ;

[deathsreflection]

ofsacrificeandfallingsnows replied to your post “Dirthamen speaking to each of the Evanuris after they all helped...”

you know what I wanna see? Dirthamen and Elgar'nan's Talk convincing him to kill Mythal

WISHLIST INTENSIFIES.

[deathsreflection]

@ofsacrificeandfallingsnows​ asked:  “ we all have sins to pay penance for. ”

misc prompts for your feels

An abyss opens beneath him, grasping hungrily to pull him down; the same abyss that threatens to swallow him whole at every unwary moment: despair.

Sins, the Inquisitor says, as though with one word he might encompass the uncountable steps which have led here. Sins. Penance. Is that what this world has become for them, then? Penance? Penance to repent for-

A woman sings in a vast cavern behind a waterfall which cannot drown out her song: it carries through the hallways and balconies and chambers, carrying a spell of protection, of devotion to duty. Strength through obedience. Strength through worship. The wards on the enclave grow weak when the god she worships vanishes from the world, leaving a hollow ache in the void he once filled: she sings, she sings, she sings, but the song is an empty echo of itself, ringing off walls that cannot protect her forever, until at last the song fades.

A priest and a spirit succumb to despair, and their temple crumbles around them. Minds shatter and melt like fallen panes of ice, and all that remains is hatred and fear and hunger, clawing at the walls until the priests turn on their leader, fury giving their terror an outlet at last - and they carve him apart as he screams, and the name he screams cannot reach the ears of his god. Salvation will not come. They carve out his tongue. He chokes on his own blood. When at last they cut his head off - hacking and tearing with knives meant only for bloodletting, not this butcher’s work; it is a long and agonizing process, and they will not let him die to escape it - the black oblivion of solitary agony is nearly a mercy.

A goddess writhes on a bloodstained temple floor; her death throes have taken hours, power leaching out of her like blood seeping into snow, staining the world around her. He floats above himself, distant yet content, scarcely believing the culmination of a millennium’s planning has at last come to fruition; she cannot be dead. She cannot. And yet. And yet.The world slides off its axis, heavy and weightless all at once, and he sinks to weary knees, but his twin is there, red and bright with his mother’s blood. It stains his hair. It stains his skin. It suits him, it suits him; this freedom, knowing she is gone, knowing they are free of her - they would laugh, both of them, but the others of the pantheon are still here, and this alliance is fragile, so fragile. The balance of power has shifted. There will be more blood, and soon. Soon.

Sins.

Erenan’s vision swims, the world tilts, as he reaches for memories that no longer exist. His last glimpse is of the Inquisitor’s face, white with concern, as he feels his body go limp.

[felandaristhorns]

ofsacrificeandfallingsnows replied to your post: Send Fenumin to bring back the golden halla and...

Samahl, somewhere distantly with the clan still: Sulahn, vhenan? Your son is yelling at an animal again :c

Sulahn, serenely: He’s not my son when he’s doing stupid things.