#rivyn

[pixel8]

Full DND crew icon set! Always wanted to do an icon set of The Gang :3c

[babyomochii]

It’s a yum-yummy world made for sweethearts.

[babyomochii]

When you go to visit your super salty, helicopter doctor boyfriend and he isn't impressed with your life choices, but is concerned for you all the same

[babyomochii]

Here. Have some of whatever this is. Idek you guys, I just... It just happened. Angsty Rivyn for all of your sentimental and gradient background needs. Have a nice day, friends. 

“And before he could move to meet her she was in his arms, and clinging to him like her life depended on it. His heart swelled. She was bloodied, but she was alive.”

I should be uploading all of my inktober drawings since they’re done and waiting for me, but this needed me more than inktober did. sorry not sorry.

[hazelscribbles]

Outside of this moment, it was rare for someone to suggest Chaplin take on less responsibility.  Oftentimes the pleas for her monetary contributions came by the burlap sackload, gathered up each day by the wait staff and deposited in some semblance of order in Chaplin's personal office.  She tried to keep up with them, truly she did, but sometimes when her eyes grew weary she found herself dozing in a tall wing back chair.

How strange to think that someone wanted her to pause for a moment, to think of herself before thinking of everyone else.

Then again, had she not been avoiding that sentiment all her life?  She abhorred the idea of being a sedate society matron, driven only by idle desire.  She wanted to know that her life meant something.  She glanced sidelong at Kai; perhaps it would be enough to mean something to one person.

Not that her brothers would agree.  They often shared no more fondness for one another than casual roommates might, though certainly the ties of blood should have encouraged them.  Would her parents have ever seen this future for them all?  She could remember them as ghosts in the ornate rooms; she could remember the sound of her mother's laughter and still caught the occassional whiff of her father's cologne.  Had they wanted any of this?

She pressed her fingers firmly against the bridge of her nose, the first open sign of tension she had perhaps ever displayed before him (exempting, of course, the extreme circumstances of their meeting).  "I'm afraid that would be  terribly remiss of me," she said, smiling at him despite the tension headache brewing somewhere between her eyes.  "No one admires laziness."

For a moment she thought there was something in his glance which desired a deeper answer, something beyond the frivolous placating words which slipped so easily to her lips.

[hazelscribbles]

Cassidy could no longer see the sunset, but he could feel it.  He could feel the living world sigh and slip into slumber.  He could feel the way individual leaves curled up against the darkness.  He could feel and appreciate that a world of darkness did not have the same charms as a warm ray of sun.

It didn't particularly keep him from being a night person.  His familiar was mostly diurnal by nature, though like a proper bear could be roused for the occasional nocturnal mischief.  The large bruin ambled along in Cassidy's wake, offering a grunt of advice every few moments so the blind man didn't stumble into a bank of snow or off some ill-placed cliff.

Neither of them were overly fond of winter.  Cas wouldn't be out and about except that the local healer seemed to be missing some of the mistletoe (Midwinter pranks, most likely, had cost the herb stores more than she wanted to admit).  The blind forest guide--never cheerful but always prone to doing as asked--somehow found himself wrangled into fetching some more.

A fool's adventure.

Longabaugh had been perfectly content curled up at the base of their tree.  Though he didn't hibernate, the bear slept even longer than usual during the cold months.  He also ate considerably more.  Even now his massive head was swinging back and forth in slow but deliberate arcs; his nose wrinkled faintly in disappointment each time a promising scent came to naught.

They had left Lakehaven far behind. The Western Forest intimidated lesser men, but Cassidy knew the bends and creeks well enough that even as a blind man he could guide travelers through.  In winter it became considerably harder; the voice of the earth was muted by sleep.  He could not listen to the usual chatter and gossip which showed him the way.  Only the errant whisper reached him, and he was forced to rely on Baugh as some sort of overlarge service animal.

The bear thought it was funny.  He moved ahead when the snows seemed to deep, clearing the way with his wide-barreled chest.  Otherwise they stood shoulder to shoulder in companionable silence.  Unlike most men and their familiars, they could not speak to one another even telepathically.  The disease which robbed Cassidy of his sight robbed the bear of his voice.  An odd pair, to be sure, but years of practice meant they suffered no particular discomfort.

Longabaugh paused, his head jerking up and his grunt of surprise deepening into a questioning snarl.  Cas froze.  In what could be considered cultivated instinct, he tightened his hold on the long walking staff he carried.  The end secreted a small but effective blade.  Baugh, unsure of the scent which had crossed their path, rocked back and stood on his hind legs.

At ten feet tall he certainly proved imposing.  Perhaps whatever the mystery creature was (most definitely predator, the bear believed) it would turn tail rather than confront Longabaugh in all his ferocious glory. 

[hazelscribbles]

The transformation isn't painful, or at least I never really think so.  Some of us like to hype it up a lot.  Maybe it makes them feel superior to the 'weaker species' or something.  By the time your bones start breaking there's enough of our peculiar endorphins that each crack feels like a release.

They call us lycans, werewolves, shapeshifters.  Among the home pack we are simply The People.  The language of our kind doesn't bend well around metaphoric concepts; we prefer the literal delineation of species, and when it comes to names it doesn't seem to matter much.  Humans are a little more superstitious.

We have three shapes.  Most of the time we look pretty similar to the distantly relatedhomo sapien. Our bodies tend to be longer and leaner, with none of the thick musculature some expect.  The People have hair to match their pelts.  While a common wolf has dark eyes, ours run the gamut.  My mum had violet eyes, they say.

It's hard for our kind to master certain civilities humans take for granted; we prefer to eat with our hands for practical reasons as well as ease.  Metals are relatively distasteful to us, and that's not just the peculiar rumor going around about silver.  We can be killed as easily as the next predator.  There is no trick to it, beyond the obvious difficulties of outsmarting the world's most infamous killer.

We also tend to dislike the indoors, despite being social creatures.  A Wolfborn who stays too long indoors often finds oneself exhibiting certain nervous tendencies; a penchant for pacing, perhaps, and for peculiar wild eyed glances. It is an old fear, but a fierce one.  Some are better than others at masking their discomfort.  Some will always be the bravest.

We age no differently than man, though we tend to die earlier and more violent deaths.