#tal'vashoth

[juls-art]

inktober 27

/somersault kisses/ 

sometimes she needs a lil help to kiss way up there

–

(please don’t tag/comment with your inquisitor, thanks)

[juls-art]

inktober 4

I'd hate to face them head on.

 Paragon's a beast of a lady.  

[juls-art]

Paragon

“ The Tal-Vashoth”

“ Wheel of Fortune” inspired

--

sketch by @pixellion-image

[juls-art]

Qunari Crew 

 which is to say too many qunari for Paragon's liking.  (ft. @pixellion-image​‘s Kieva and @agreatergoatsby​‘s Arvaarad.)

[juls-art]

When you start one, you gotta do the others~

Not for post-tres, just adventuring attire unique to Paragon.

Also some Paragon leaving the Qun in rags-- not that it does much to conceal height, heh.

[juls-art]

The giant women do not see eye to eye. ;P

Also a random scout for good measure-- to compare heights.

[theshadowdreams-blog]

I'm writing my Adaars' family background, and it's basically turning into their mother's life story.

I no longer wish to play them. I want to play their mother!

Thedas is saved by an aged Tal-Vashoth lady armed with a frying pan and a knack for maths! (Who also runs her own small mercenary company)

[msbarrows]

maybethings: Maraas/Ketojan

Maraas was hiding in the rocks, hoping the nearby group of qunari would not discover him. It was sheer luck that he had seen them approaching up the steep trails in time to move into hiding; they had an arvaarad with them. He would have died very quickly – and very painfully – if they had caught sight of him. They stopped in the sandy hollow below where he was hidden, some laying a driftwood fire to cook a meal while others searched the area in pairs, as was proper. At one point only a single large boulder hid him from the view of one such pair; they had stopped, just out of sight from him, talking together in low voices. Between the wind and how quietly they spoke, he caught only a word here and there - “karataam” was one, the qunari term for a string of chained mages, but they had spoken of them with the wording that meant that they spoke of the dead, not of living saarebas. He wondered if the arvaarad had killed the saarebas, or if someone else had. He guessed, from their search, that one body had yet to be found; more likely someone else then. An arvaarad did not miss his targets.

He had lain motionless in the sand, certain that now would be the day of his death. He had almost come to accept it, and then someone had called out that the meal was ready, and the pair had moved away again.

The fitful winds had teased him, carrying him the scent of their food, as it had earlier tantalized him with fragments of their speech. Days, since he had last eaten well, having found himself no more suited for living with other tal'vashoth than he was to living under the qun. He had scavenged what supplies he could from the wreckage left after the human warrior and his friends had killed a nest of such; but that had only lasted a handful of days, and on this barren, rocky coast there was no easy source of food unless he wished to turn to the very same banditry that had caused him to part from the others.

His reverie was broken by the sound of angry voices, at least one of which was familiar. He hesitated, then carefully moved to where he could peer out between two rocks, hoping that whatever was happening below would prevent anyone from spying him out.

The arvaarad was standing before his men, facing toward a nearby trail that led, Maraas knew, to a cave entrance, hidden behind a fall of the tough thin-leafed vines that were one of the few kinds of vegetation that flourished here. It was the human warrior, accompanied by several of his friends and... Maraas gaped, shocked. A saarebas!

Even as he watched, the arvaarad and the warrior both drew their weapons, the patrol of qunari and Hawke's companions quickly doing the same. The battle that followed was fierce, but short-lived, surprisingly so, the qunari falling with deplorable swiftness to the humans, elf and dwarf.

Hawke spoke briefly to the chained one, the saarebas making obvious motions of negation to whatever it was the human was saying. Finally Hawke and his friends moved away, back up the trail toward the cave. They stopped partway up, Hawke looking back at the motionless saarebas. He lifted one hand in farewell, though the mage could not see such a gesture, and called out. “Ketojan – you are free, if that is your choice. Do whatever you wish with your life.”

Only once they were gone, vanished around the curve of the hill and into the cave, did Maraas finally stir. He rose silently to his feet and started down the hill to where the saarebas still stood motionless, facing into the wind blowing off the rock-strewn bay below, the white strands of his hair stirring as the wind toyed with them. He should have known a saarebas would have exceptional hearing; the first time one of his calloused feet scraped across a rock the mage spun around, hands raised threateningly. Maraas dove into cover behind another rock, flinching as a blast of magic hit it.

“Wait!” he called out, in the qunari tongue. “I mean you no harm. I am Maraas... I seek only some food. And perhaps some company, if you are not averse; I am no bandit, though I no longer live under the qun.”

The saarebas stood motionless for a long moment, then slowly lowered his hands, head tilting just slightly to one side.

“You are called Ketojan?” Maraas asked as he cautiously rode to his feet again, and resumed picking his way down the rocks.

The other merely grunted in answer; he had to guess the saarebas meant yes, from the slight forward dip of its head that was all the heavy collar locked around its throat allowed it to make.

“Are you hungry?” he asked, as he walked over to the fire, stooping down to pick up piece of flat-bread wrapped around meat and vegetables from where it rested on a rock, just a couple of bites taken from it.

Ketojan grunted again. It was only when the saarebas began to carefully pick his way across the corpse-strewn ground towards him that Maraas realized the first of many problems they might face; he didn't have any idea at all of how one went about feeding a saarebas, the stitching of their mouths precluding anything solid.

He'd have to figure it out. Perhaps the saarebas would be willing to have the stitching removed. If not... well, water and a pot and something to add to it made broth, easily enough, and surely somewhere in the supplies the dead had left behind there must be such a thing. For now... for now, he pulled his knife from his belt, and pared a sliver off one of the firmer vegetables in his wrap. He took Ketojan's hand, turning it palm-upright, and put the fragment of food in it. To his relief, the other sniffed at it, then promptly took it between his fingertips, and delicately threaded it between two of his stitches, holding his hand out for another as as he chewed carefully at the tiny morsel.

It was at least a start.