#thievae

[fawnslay]

“hey,” she uselessly jiggles the doorknob again, scowling at the still-shut door briefly before turning to face him, “are you any good with LOCKS?” it’s something greer never saw the point in learning ; she had never had need to pick locks at highever when any door would open for her due to name and status. perhaps it was short-sighted of her to neglect such a skill.

     @thievae​

[winifrd-a]

“    i    don’t    know    .    i    think    there’s    a    difference    between    living    in    the    past    and    knowing    the    past    dwells    in    the    periphery    of    now    . . .    sort    of    like    a    ghost    .    the    past    just    doesn’t    always    fade    like    everyone   says    it    does    .    ”    /    @thievae​    (    sc    )

[faelles]

@thievae​

[thricewed]

❦   𝚕𝚢𝚛𝚒𝚌  𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜  //   @thievae​​  ;          ►  radio ga ga — queen

                  ❝  you’ve yet to have  your finest hour.  ❞

[faelles]

jaskier after meeting @thievae​ really be like

[atdamnbraina]

@thievae​ asked:   💬    /   meme

“   why  would  you  want  to  put  yourself  through  something  𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎  𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝  ?    ”

[swanode]

@thievae​ liked for a lyric starter!

“How do I get out of this mess?”

This Mess - Five North

[faelles]

@thievae​:    “ would you just sit still? you’re gonna get an infection if you don’t let me clean this up. ” accepting.

this was the life mingling between regular folk;     bandits and brutes with itching knuckles,   empty pockets and bottomless throats sat at the same table too,   they drank the mead and ate food together before unhinging their jaws for more.     the kingfisher’s inn has been a place for artists and supporters alike,   yet now it stands ransacked,   regular clientele — scared off —— hurt.     words didn’t matter,   reasoning ignored. 

worse than that —— neither the split at his cheek,   stinging despite the gentle touch,   nor alastor’s words are the reason for his sudden stillness.     his gaze,   usually lively in emotion and color,   dulls once it sets upon a damaged instrument;     his beloved,   torn beyond repair.     he speaks nothing of it,   instead pulls his hand away from the wound, before moving towards a shelf where he kept a ‘73 vintage pomino.     “  it’s just a bruise.  ”     a smile meant for the other,   to reassure,   and fades as soon as he turns away.     fingers dance through the shelf,   linger on the bottle’s neck.     this brought up memories he’d rather not dwell on.     after a minute,   he picks it up.     “  i am sure it’ll heal just fine.  ”