#thisgolddolyak

[nonbinaryghostgod]

a birthday doodle for the birthday of @thisgolddolyak/@aguydrawsgames! a big fluffy asgore for all ur Large Furry Men needs. enjoy!

[alphazi]

look at how canon this conversation is

[ms-sadrienne-blog]

This amazing picture of Sadrienne done by thisgolddolyak and I freaking love it (you should absolutely commission them in fact here’s a handy link to their very reasonable rates).  Brilliant artist to work with. Took into account everything I rambled on with, and produced something so super amazing I can’t even deal. I love that it’s her not just a reinterpretation of the character model.  She looks real. And like she could kick you to the Shiverpeaks and back. My blogs: ms-sadrienne (IC), inshiftingcolour (ooc)

[antisocialxconstruct]

GW2RP: Entirely Unplanned Priory Vandalism pt3

Final part, continued from part one and part two, featuring drygrasses​‘ Elias Bardizian, thisgolddolyak​‘s Osgar Nordwind, and moryera-thorne​‘s Moryera (warning again for graphic descriptions of undead things, and some brief physical violence)

In the split second the minion hesitates, Bardi just stares at the beast. He thinks he can see some eyes in the quivering mass of its head, beneath which the gaping, slavering jaw hangs open loosely, dripping something viscous. It still smells unsettlingly delicious, like pot roast. Bardi has the chance to wonder if he should shoot it, or maybe just try to run, before the beast lunges again. He stumbles back and screams as the vines bury themselves in his leg, the sharp spikes still burning hot from the flash charbroiling of Os’ flame. In shock and pain, he whips a knife into the thing’s face, but the minion just gurgles a bit before wrapping more vines around his other leg and sending him crashing to the floor. Desperately he grabs his second knife and hacks at anything within reach, shredding a few tendrils and gashing the minion’s face, though he knows nothing less than complete dismemberment will stop it. Luckily the monstrosity backs off slightly, trying to pull itself back together. Bardi heaves in a deep breath but he thinks he might just scream again; he can still feel the severed vines twitching in his flesh and scrabbling at his ankles. He’s been wounded by things like centaur arrows before, but at least they have the decency not to move.

—

As Bardi’s knife connects with the minion it wheels back, clearly not expecting the seemingly defenseless human to fight back with quite that level of vigor. With the few severed tendrils abandoned the creature seems smaller, but it lashes out with new-found frenzy, beginning to break apart much the way Turlow had when it entered the kitchen. Skin splits and thorned tendrils whip out at anything within reach—which, as it backs away from Bardi, turns out to be Osgar. The monster rears up even as cracking and burned chunks of it begin to tear off and fall to the ground. One vine grips the base of Os’ staff, attempting to wrench it out of his hand, as others grasp at his free arm, his legs, anything within reach, and they twist, pull, thorns digging mercilessly through cloth and skin as it attempts to drag him down.

—

Osgar Nordwind roars as the thorns pierce and shred his arms, and struggles against them until lis leg suddenly caves and he crashes to his knees with a resounding thud. The norn groans, his broad form spasming for a moment as the pain barrels through him. He desperately gropes around for his fallen staff before snatching it up with one hand and seizing one of the vines in the other; the dark, dry plant matter ignites instantly in his grasp, flames shooting up and down all its tributaries. Os bellows out a warning in Alaois’ direction as his features suddenly and violently contort, dappled fur rising all along his throat and face. The 7-foot beast snaps at the vines, tearing at them with its powerful jaws, and rips into what remains of the boar’s cracked and peeling carcass. Sap and ichor drip from the leopard’s teeth as it draws back from the unrecognizable mound of cooked, utterly ribboned flesh a moment later, and fixes Bardi with a brief, level stare before snarling loudly up at Alaois’ hiding spot.

—

The sylvari girl looks so much smaller without the billowing haze surrounding her, especially in comparison to her teacher’s new feline form. She barely even notices his transformation, eyes still fixed on the disgusting mass of meat and vines on the floor next to them. Not trusting it to stay in pieces, she dives at it with her daggers. Her motions are still manic, but there is a strange precision to her attacks, the curved edge of her blade pulling up and severing pieces of vine like a tailor ripping stitches out of a project gone wrong.

—

There is an uncanny lull to the action then, the frantic noise of Moryera dismembering the remains of the minion seems unsettlingly loud with only the low warning rumble of the leopard to accompany it. Alaois stares down, wide-eyed and trembling, one hand poised as if they had been about to retaliate—against who, it was unclear—and had decided better of it. They close their fingers slowly, and the tattered remains of the minion jerk and squirm slightly, but between Osgar’s rending claws and the efficient work of Mory’s knives, there is nothing left to serve the sylvari’s purpose. Alaois’ eyes flick momentarily to Bardi wounded on the ground, their expression unreadable, before they fix their gaze back on Os. “You should have HELPED me!” they insist, though their tone sounds vastly more desperate than accusational as they raise their hand again, mustering every last bit of focus and energy they still retain. “Everyone would have been FINE if you had just-“ a sharp, violent flick of their arm, “HELPED me!!” and the stones around Os’ feet shudder, black smoke erupting from the cracks and clinging, searing where it touches.

—

Elias Bardizian scrambles back as best he can, cramming himself into the corner. With his legs dragging uselessly he can’t get much farther away, and he still feels the angry pulsing of the spell like his entire body has turned into an open, weeping sore. “Everyone would have been fine if you would quit DOING THAT,” he snarls, drawing a pistol and taking a blind shot at the tiny necromancer out of sheer frustration. Considering the angle and the fact that Bardi’s aim isn’t the greatest even on his best days, the bullet goes pinging harmlessly off of the shelf ledge. “Get down here, you freaky little-“

—

In the instant that Alaois’ spell strikes its paw pads, the beast feels every ache and twinge, dulled up until this moment by Snow Leopard’s blessing, come surging back. The stiffness in its haunches causes it to lean awkwardly and pace in strained, restless circles as it bares its teeth and snarls again in the sylvari’s direction. Ears flattened and tail whipping behind it, the monstrous animal forces itself up on its hind legs and swipes at the ledge, but Alaois is hidden too far back. It yowls, frustrated and enraged, then begins to climb, tearing through carts and knocking over pots on its way up. With great difficulty, the stubborn leopard manages to haul itself up to the topmost ledge, where there is hardly room enough for Alaois alone, let alone a monster twice the sylvari’s size. The leopard roars again, struggling to stay upright, then lunges. Its back legs give out as soon as they hit the stone, and with Alaois it tow it drops heavily onto one of the tables, sending bits of splintered wood flying.

—

Moryera tries her best to jump to her feet and leap out of the way of the wooden shrapnel, but in her current state, the best she can do is a clumsy roll backwards. It was enough to dodge the flying pieces of table, at least, and to move away from the circle of burning smoke Alaois had inscribed on the ground around them. Whimpering, she shakes one leg to flick the last lingering effects of the spell off her tangled toe-vines. Now sharply aware what a terrible idea it was to self-target her death blasts, she is certain she must be hallucinating from the pain—it looks like a giant CAT just captured the dragon child.

—

Alaois recoils, staggering back away from the edge of the shelf as Bardi’s bullet goes ricocheting into the opposite wall. The small sylvari might have readied another desperate defense, if not for the fact that a moment later a massive paw comes crashing down into their small hiding place, falling just short of burying dagger-sharp claws in their leg. Alaois scrambles back, gasping out an incoherent cry of fear, and without the composure or the energy to continue casting they resort to swinging the staff around, attempting to connect with the leopard’s head before it can attack. The sylvari has no such luck, and the next moment the entire ordeal becomes a blur, the staff flies from their hands and clatters harmlessly to the ground as the mass of fur and leaves finally comes crashing down. Alaois scrabbles angrily against the leopard’s clutch, throwing ineffectual punches and kicks at the creature’s face and shoulders as they spit, “let me go LET ME GO!!” Then they pause, for only the briefest moment as their gaze slips past the leopard’s bulk to the staff lying on the cobblestone behind it, and the next second Alaois stops fighting and starts trying to slip out of the feline’s grasp and onto the floor.

—

Elias Bardizian flinches as the staff comes clattering down, only for it to be followed by a whirl of fur and more flying pieces of wood. When the splintering sounds stop Bardi carefully uncurls his arms from around his head, shaking off chips of wood and taking in the scene. He’s somewhat surprised to see Alaois struggling feebly in the snow leopard’s grasp. Honestly he didn’t know what he expected when the big cat had started clawing its way up the shelves; for the sylvari to be eaten, maybe? But then again, cats didn’t eat plants and Bardi’s pretty sure that one was rotten anyways. It takes him another second to realize that Alaois had stopped fighting and has their gaze lazered in on the staff lying at his feet. Without thinking, Bardi snatches up the staff, ignoring its abortive attempt to bit him, and half-limps-half-shadowsteps to the hearth. He thrusts the head of the staff toward the fire, close enough for a couple leaves to brown and the heads to writhe, straining away from the heat. “Plea—“ he stops. “Just. Stop struggling.”

—

The leopard grunts, flaring its nostrils as it pushes itself up with shuddering forearms, and then slams one large paw into Alaois’ collar bone, keeping them pinned down among the sharp wooden splinters. Its ears flicker, flattened against its head, and its hot breath spills threateningly over the small sylvari’s throat as if to warn them that a single lunge is all it would take to end this. It watches Alaois searchingly for a moment, before twisting its head away and stiffening. The fur melts away, as do the teeth and claws, and Os is left behind in tattered, singed robes with his fingers wrapped around the sylvari’s windpipe. With a deep, rattling breath, he hesitates, then draws back a fist before plowing it squarely into Alaois’ face. “You made me drop my staff,” he growls, pushing himself off the now unconscious little twerp and turning to gesture distractedly at Bardi. “Put it down—down… Don’t burn it. We… need to study that thing.”

—

No, it wasn’t her mind playing tricks on her. Mory’s knowledge of norn shapeshifting slowly bubbles up through the haze of fear and confusion; of course, Professor Nordwind must be a follower of Snow Leopard. “Where… where are we going to take them?” she asks in a tiny voice that may or may not even be audible over the sounds of the fire. Her exhausted gaze wanders back and forth between the staff and the fireplace. It wouldn’t bother her at all if Bardi’s hand slipped and the creepy, writhing thing ended up as just more wood to stoke the flames.

—

Mory’s question hangs in the air between the three of them—it’s not as if the Priory is particularly equipped to hold prisoners, and certainly not borderline dragon minions. Before anyone can answer, however, voices drift into the kitchen from the hallway beyond. “Hello? What’s going on in there? Is everything alright?” followed by “what kind of question is that? Does everything LOOK alright to you?” While everyone’s focus had been on Alaois and their rather grisly constructs, the vines that had rooted themselves in the floor and doorframe had climbed up and across the arch, effectively barricading anyone from easily entering or leaving the kitchen. Finally, apparently, someone had been alarmed enough by the commotion to investigate. Through the gaps in the prickly vines, a redheaded norn and a sandy-furred charr peer in, looking understandably alarmed. After a moment the charr curls a lip, glancing to his companion. “You’d better get a knife or something.”

[antisocialxconstruct]

GW2RP: Entirely Unplanned Priory Vandalism pt2

Continued from part one, featuring drygrasses​‘ Elias Bardizian, thisgolddolyak​‘s Osgar Nordwind, and moryera-thorne​‘s Moryera (warnings for graphic descriptions of undead things, as well as a few ((inadvertently)) self-inflicted wounds)

“Are you sure about that?” The question from the shadows sounds genuinely curious. Alaois finally climbs to their feet, coming back to the edge of the stone ledge and staring intently down at the group below. The sylvari has retrieved their staff from the back wall and is now leaning their weight on it, as one of the twisting heads on the end snaps at the air. Alaois’ gaze lingers on each of them for a moment—at Os their eyes narrow, almost imperceptibly, as if daring him to change his mind. “You’re a sylvari, like me,” they continue, eyes darting back to Mory. “You’re a necromancer, like me. We manipulate life to serve us, the only reason your path didn’t follow mine is because no one ever told you to try.” Alaois pauses for a moment, tilting their head thoughtfully, before adding, “do they trust you?”

—

Mory stares down her accuser as sternly as she can manage while obviously on the edge of panic. “Of course they do!” For what good that does. Her landlord didn’t trust her when he kicked her out. The Seraph sure didn’t trust her when she was trying to leave the city to get here—thank goodness for Priory experimental waypoints or she’d still be stuck in the Reach. And that charr student who gave her that lovely bruised, crinkly leaf on her cheek? Not generally an indication of trust. Why should she expect any better in here? The shadow Mory was trying to hide in starts to coil around her legs as a smoky green haze.

—

“Mory,” begins Os in a low voice, holding out a warning hand. “Don’t let them get to you. If we were so easily swayed from reason by pesky accusations, we’d be the Vigil.” He shoots the sylvari half-hidden in the shadows a nasty look. “The similarities end there, Alaois. Practicing necromancy is completely different from… the mockery you’ve made of it,” he growls, remembering the horrid vine creature from earlier.

—

Alaois falters—a shiver and a ripple of blue light seems to travel up through the staff from where their hands are planted, and the heads suddenly become more agitated. “Mockery?” they echo, sounding wounded. “I’ve improved it. This is our right.” The sylvari straightens slightly. “Everyone fears the Dragon. Everyone looks at me like I’m dangerous, or crazy. Our people may be free of Mordremoth’s control but why does that mean it can’t have anything else to offer us?”

—

Elias Bardizian splutters, unable to stay quiet. “Free?” he bites out. “How do you know? Maybe the Dragon is just letting you think that. The rumors say sylvari aren’t resistant to corruption. Trying to see what it can ‘offer’ you is like finding a bear in the forest and running toward it, asking if it’ll please share its honey. Of course you look crazy.” Bardi realizes, belatedly, that talking had been a very bad idea considering there are possibly unhinged and emotionally fragile sylvari in the room. He swallows.

—

The idea that she might not even be safe in her own mind is the last little push to send Moryera into complete terror. Her shadows leap upward, obscuring the hysterical necromancer to the point where she is only visible as a sylvari-shaped smoke cloud, a pair of wide, glass-clear eyes inside of it reflecting the flickering red of the fire. “STAY AWAY FROM ME!” she shouts, her distorted voice echoing off the stone walls. “I came here to prove I DON’T have the dragon sickness, and I’m not catching it from you!”

—

Alaois takes a step back, away from the ledge and away from Moryera, looking for once like they may be aware that they’ve miscalculated, that they’ve pushed too hard. “It’s not a sickness,” they insist feebly, before mustering a bit more force. “It’s not a SICKNESS!” Their fingers tighten around the staff as they plant it defensively in front of them, and the weapon emits a hissing noise. The warm ground around Moryera’s feet begins to chill noticeably, the stones quivering. “You’re just as close-minded as everyone else!” Alaois cries, sounding distinctly distressed now. “They’ve already broken you!”

—

Elias Bardizian can feel the cold even through the soles of his boots, the chill of the floor jarring with the heat from the fire. An uneasy sort of power is rolling off of Moryera, making Bardi’s hair raise and skin prickle—or maybe it’s the terrifying display of necromancy playing out before him. Unthinkingly he stumbles backwards, smacking into Osgar. He quickly ducks behind the norn, hissing apologies and prayers in the same breath. “I didn’t mean for—loose canons—I swear to the Six—“

—

The swirling mass of shadows howls like it’s been burned, shrinking back further and raising one hand to point a frost-covered dagger at Alaois. With a quick flick of the knife, the poisoned ice surrounding Moryera peels up from the floor and launches itself back at its creator like a swarm of frozen flies, pelting that entire corner of the dining hall with razor shards of magic.

—

Osgar’s face pales as he watches the gleaming shards and with scarcely a moment to think, he shoves Bardi to the ground without so much as a murmured “look out”. Turning his back on Moryera as quickly as a stiff cripple can, he slams the end of his staff into the stone floor, and with several loud crunches, a wall of ice forms between him and the destructive cloud. He snarls, pushing himself up with a white-knuckled grip on his weapon before whacking Bardi firmly in the calf with it to signal him to get up. “Bear’s ass, you’re going to kill us!” he roars at Mory.

—

Alaois staggers back away from the edge with a cry, raising the staff before them not for whatever meager shielding it offers, but simply because they don’t dare release it. The swarm of insects sweeps over them, shards of ice digging into their unprotected arms, beads of sap welling up around the cuts. As the remaining force of the attack clatters against the wall behind them, they lower their arms enough to peer down at the whirling force of Moryera, and unfamiliar expression washing over their features—fear. “Why are you fighting me?” they gasp. Alaois takes another step back, their grip on the staff tightening until their knuckles pale. The haphazard amalgamation of bone and plant glows with energy, sightless heads snapping, and suddenly a wave of force rolls out from where the sylvari stands. It does not seem to have any immediate effect on those below other than to push against them with some insistence, but a moment later a clattering can be heard from the hall, quickly resolving itself into the scraping of claws on stone.

—

Elias Bardizian makes a muffled protest as he’s manhandled, but behind an ice wall and a 7-foot norn, he really can’t complain. He winces as Alaois is hit with the full force of the ice blast. The sylvari is terrifying in their own right, but the fear in their shocked plea cuts straight to the heart. “Are you ok—“ Bardi asks reflexively, but cuts off at the scraping. Behind the ice wall the sounds echo slightly, making it hard to tell where they’re coming from. Instinctively Bardi crouches closer to Os. “What is that?”

—

Moryera looks as puzzled and offended as a pair of embers peering out from a storm cloud possibly can. “Me? You attacked me when I wouldn’t listen to your dragon-warped ranting! You FROZE me. I hate the cold I HATE the COLD-“ Moryera whirls toward the source of the clicking sound. Realizing a split second later that she dares not turn her back on Alaois, she curls into a defensive stance, wrapping her arms across her body with the daggers pointed at the mordrem sapling and toward the unknown threat.

—

Osgar Nordwind falls silent and glances toward the hall, his head starting to pound. Bardi’s question fails to register with him at first, and the norn just stares ahead with mounting fear before lowering his staff some and craning his head in the direction of the scraping sound. “Doesn’t sound big,” he mutters at length, placing a hand against the thick ice wall protecting both himself and Bardi from further barrages. “But I don’t understand…” The older man grunts, clearly frustrated. “There’s not a dead body around that’s close enough for that little monster to resurrect—“ Os cringes, hearing his distressed student wail from beyond the ice shield before seeming to fall silent. “… That one’s going to need therapy after this is over.”

—

Before Alaois can say anything in response to Moryera, the source of the scrabbling outside the kitchen reveals itself. Turlow, or what’s left of it at this point, comes shambling through the doorway. What had once been only minimal plant matter stitching together the remains of the poor animal has grown and expanded, vines bulging through cracked rips and crawling searchingly across the cobblestone floor. The second one of the tendrils hits the doorframe it takes root, climbing up the wall as the rest of the animal continues forward. The yellowing feline skull sweeps empty eye sockets across the room, making one quick, vicious snap in Mory’s direction before the whole thing falls to pieces. Bone, flesh, and muscle split apart, thin vines prying and testing everything they touch, curling around Moryera’s feet. Although at first they seem to avoid the roaring heat of the fire, one tendril begins to crawl up the side of the hearth, quickly followed by several more. Alaois collapses against the cold wall behind them, forcing a deep breath and trying to steady their shaking hands as the poison begins to creep through their system.

—

In its deconstructed state, the plant creature is even more terrifying than it was when it had a recognizable form. Mory’s cloak of darkness swirls and rages, flaring out violently when she notices the tendrils climbing up her legs. “Don’t touch me! No no no NO NOO…” The sapling’s protest take on the tone of a panicked mantra as she begins charging up balls of shadow energy and firing them down at her own feet. Her boots quickly end up completely shredded, along with parts of the vines—and if she keeps it up, the outer layer of her skin.

—

The vines peel back away from the barrage, crackling and smoking and gratefully leaving the panicked sylvari alone. There is a momentary lull in the chaos, the four figures in their respective corners, until a grating metallic crunch emanates from the grate above the fire. Even a quick glance would reveal the source to any of them—while Moryera had been focused on the vines around her feet, others had made their home above. The turning spit grinds to a halt, and the two massive, half-cooked boars now writhe and pull as green tendrils weave their way under the skin, through layers of muscle and meat. Then, emitting a wheezing mockery of the once living animal’s call, the larger of the two peels itself down and away from the metal pole, a chorus of cracking bone and tearing flesh as it pulls itself apart and vines immediately set about stitching it back together, only roughly in the shape it had started. It climbs down uncertainly, on legs that seem somehow too long and too thin, but the minute it is on the ground it lunges toward Mory, jaws yawning wide to reveal ragged lines of teeth that look more like fractured and rearranged bits of bone. The second is not far behind, veering left without a moment’s hesitation, crashing headfirst into the ice-wall that separates it from the others. When the force results in little more than a fissure in the ice it backs up and charges a second time. The boar’s skull collapses in on itself from the force, and a second later vines are clawing at the ice, pressing through even the smallest gaps to tear a hole through to the norn and human waiting on the other side. Alaois had crept back to the edge of their perch high above, having collapsed to their knees and still leaning their weight wholly on the staff gripped tightly in their hands. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” they breathe, surely barely heard over the commotion below. “You should h-… you should have just told me what I wanted to know!”

—

Elias Bardizian probably screams when the still-smoking abominations tear themselves off of the spit, though the rending and crunching of flesh and bone is too loud to hear much else. At the shriek of the minions he definitely yelps. CRUNCH. The impact of the second minion shakes the ice wall, showering the two with chips of ice. The previously impenetrable barrier suddenly seems far too flimsy, shuddering under the minion’s attack, ominous groans and cracking increasing with every hit. “Osgar. Osgar!” yells Bardi desperately, shaking the norm’s coat. The norn had to do something; it’s not like Bardi’s pistols would be much use. The vine abominations could probably literally eat lead without a problem.

—

Osgar Nordwind shields his face from the ice chips as they scatter in his hair and on his robes, and grimaces, knowing fully that cowering behind the wall would accomplish nothing. “For shitting out loud,” he groans, searching the room with his good eye for some kind of answer, some way he might gain the upper hand, before realizing he need look no further than the very fireplace where Alaois’ revolting minions had shuddered to life. The vines had been avoiding it this whole time. “Back up, Scrawny,” he hisses to Bardi. For all his skill with water the norn was conversely poor with fire. Conjuring it was easy enough—controlling it, much more challenging. Shooting Bardi a look that plainly said ‘here goes nothing,’ he grits his teeth and swings the head of his walking stick straight at the center of the ice wall, shattering it into large piercing shards. Damned if he was going to climb over a table for a clear shot. The misshapen creature now has nothing in its way, but more importantly, neither does he. His arm shoots out and slow-burning holes begin to appear on his gloves and sleeves, as the air around him grows hot, followed in a split-second by cracking flames that burst forward in a wide, unpredictable cone. They engulf the horrifying beast, and Os recoils from his own attack, drawing his singed hand close as he turns away with a grunt of discomfort. “Fucking..!”

—

Moryera staggers backwards out of the path of the flames, leaving a trail of glossy footprints made of sap and charred bits of foliage. Without the outer layer of leaves holding them into a humanoid shape, he feet splay out into sets of five bare stems which only serve to highlight her kinship with the vine-creatures out to kill them. Her ritual daggers are much too small to butcher the jungle boar rushing toward her, and too much of her necromantic power has been wasted on her earlier self-destruction, so she does the only thing she can do: scream. The piercing shriek escaping the girl’s mouth sends one of the beasts running straight back into the blazing cookfire, and drills a dizzying sense of horror into anyone else unlucky enough to hear it.

—

The boar assaulting Osgar’s defenses erupts into flame, emitting little more than a strangled whine from its shattered maw as it staggers back and the vines that had been prying their way through the ice curl away, singed and crumbling. The creature’s legs buckle as the muscle burns away, but it takes only a moment for the remaining charred flesh to peel up off the bone, rearranging and twisting the thing into even more unrecognizable and grotesque shapes. Whether or not the creature can learn, its next shambling lunge is clearly aimed at Bardi where he cowers in Os’ shadow, rather than at the norn. In the same moment the minion assaulting Moryera plunges itself into the roaring fire, not having time to rebuild itself as the shriek-induced fear sends it plowing blindly into the far wall and the licking flames melt the already cooked flesh off its frame. For a moment the vines scramble for purchase, before the minion collapses into a heap of blackened bone and stalks of plant matter just as Alaois doubles over, crying out a miserable “stop it STOP IT STOP!!” At first it is unclear whether the sylvari is speaking to the minions or the others in the kitchen, but as they free one unsteady hand to make a quick, halting gesture, the remaining minion stutters in its movements, faltering a meager inch away from burying a spiked tendril in Bardi’s leg. Alaois staggers to their feet with a ragged breath, but their posture and concentration falter. They teeter precariously on the edge, the minion tears free of whatever meager control they had held over it, resuming its unwavering assault on the human.

(part 3>)

[dullyak]

Heyyyyy look! I had this sitting around and never posted it! gw2-mal and I commissioned thisgolddolyak to do a modern AU drawing of our characters Æyvir (Mal’s) and Borgan (mine). Thank you so much, it came out great! ^u^

[mybrassclue]

Commission piece done by thisgolddolyak of Vayel and Clove.

While watching Guardians of the Galaxy I leaned over to Kym during this unforgettable scene and say "Vayel and Clove...." and it kinda stuck in my head how these two might act in combat. Vayel  scurrying around causing trouble and Clove laughing maniacally throwing out fire. I think it turned out really well.