Hi! I just read what you wrote about people with inactive urls and lots of side blogs being banned/suspended? I need you to please share more about this and what is happening, if you would be so kind? I am one of Tumblr's many roleplayers, our community has a lot of blogs and side blogs and urls per person, sometimes one blog or sideblog for each muse we RP and this is very concerning news for us.
@stupidsexygiskard AKA Glumshoe had about 12 blogs of varying acitivty levels- from some that only had drafts saved to their main with +30K followers, and yesterday all but a few of thier blogs were shut down and deleted with no warning, and they have been unable to contact @staff about getting any of them restored.
My guess is that this is related to the Woody’s Roundup communtiy anti-trolling effort last year where people would sieze and hoard the URLs of the nastier blogs on this site in an effort to bully them off. Recently another very popular blog- the Aquafresh parody blog and one of the lead members of the Woody’s Roundup group- was booted off the site with a similar lack of warning and has not been able to restore their blog either.
This could also be an anti-bot measure gone sideways, but the inability to use the Support email system has been very disturbing. Right now, I’d advise saving as much of your data as possible and consider moving your RPs to different sites like Discord. Remember to continue to regularly back up your data!
I am disabled and use the audience I’ve built storytelling on this site as my primary means of income since I can’t work conventional jobs. If something were to happen to my main, I’d be up shit creek, so I am extremely not thrilled with this turn of events.
The Free Marches were very much like Ferelden, albeit soggier, drearier, and altogether more miserable. Dorian spent much of his days by the fire, trying to keep his hands warm and his socks as dry as possible. Conversation with the slavers he was accompanying was as dull and vulgar as would be expected, mostly about whoring and killing, not that Dorian judged terribly harshly—he’d done his fair share of both—but these men found a way to make the most sensual and gruesome things sound mundane. Besides, he’d eat his own boots, buckles and all if even half of the stories they told were true.
It was be springtime in Tevinter, flowers blooming, birds singing, people wearing even less clothing than they had in the past few months… And instead he was trekking around in the middle of nowhere, no silks, no wine, no comforts to speak of. He’d filled his flask with brandy at the last inn they passed through for supplies, but the last drops were long gone, disappearing quickly during a particularly ribald and far-fetched tale of a drunken dwarven maid and her seven brothers. Dorian was thankful he couldn’t remember much more than that. He couldn’t even say whether it was a tale primarily about whoring or killing, but it had in all likelihood been an unpleasant mixture of both.
Next time, he promised himself, we’ll have Mae wandering the armpit of Thedas and I’ll stay behind, eating grapes and chocolates and complaining about the Minrathous humidity.
The thought of Maevaris Tilani forsaking her ball gowns for riding leathers was almost enough to bring a smile to his face. Almost. It was an important mission, trying to discover the routes the slave trade in the Marches were taking, but it was an irritating one. They’d lost nearly a dozen spies, butchered with the rest of the caravans, before Mae had decided one of their own needed to finish the job. A Magister wouldn’t be so easy to kill.
That night there was arguing. A few of the brutes had gone missing—likely wandered off for a piss and gotten mauled by a bear or found their way into and were abruptly kicked out of a brothel—but it had set the rest of the men on edge. Dorian wasn’t particularly phased. They tried to get him to intervene, to go check the woods after night had fallen, but he waved them off. He was there to protect the ‘merchandise’ as they so lovingly termed the group of young women and girls they had captured, mostly elven. They had pleaded with Dorian at first, but had grown quiet after a few days, realizing their predicament. He was hardly eating anything, the whole endeavor was making him ill, and often would slip his bowl of stew between the bars of the cages when the rest of the men weren’t looking.
The men didn’t sleep particularly well that night. They’d established more watches than usual, to try and prevent any more losses. They weren’t sure the other men were dead, but the more hours that passed, the more likely that outcome was looking. Dorian remained by the fire through the night, setting wards to warn him of anything that would try to approach, crawled into his tent, and caught a few hours of sleep.
Before the first rays of the sun emerged, Dorian was awake, starting a fire for breakfast. There was a flurry of activity as the men began to organize a group to look for their comrades. He waved them off. He could protect the slaves on his own. They left a man behind with him, just to be sure, and bounded off to the forest.
Dorian heard footsteps behind him, so light they were almost imperceptible. His staff was lying on the ground nearby, but he didn’t need to hold it to harness its power. He cast a lightning cage towards the direction of the sound, releasing enough to paralyze the unseen target if he tried to leave, but not enough to injure or kill.
His eyes met a tall, slender elven man with snowy white hair and covered in lyrium tattoos. “Interesting...” he muttered.
“I suppose I should have expected to see one of the Champion’s former companions this close to Kirkwall,” he said, smiling, addressing the warrior. “Hello Fenris. Your reputation proceeds you, and it seems your colleagues did not exaggerate your competence. Tell me, how is our friend the Viscount doing these days? I haven’t written to him in months, at least, been busy, unfortunately.”
“I suppose I do? I like cats. I had a cat once, Ser Pounce-a-lot; he was an orange tabby.” Anders smiled, his eyes unfocused, remembering. “He almost got ripped apart by a genlock once, swatted the bugger on the nose—drew blood too. I had to leave him in Amaranthine, he—it was for the best, he wasn’t safe in the Deep Roads, honestly.”
Anders looked sad for a moment, and then shrugged, returning to the present, smiling again, at Orsino. “You can’t be suggesting we steal the Knight-Commander’s cat? I’m all for unhinging her, but honorably, by exposing her. Perhaps the cat will do her some good. Besides, Ser Pounce only survived because I got him as a kitten. I trained him to stay with me; he rode on my shoulder and slept in my pack or my collar. Meredith’s cat wouldn’t survive long in Darktown. There’s never enough to eat; if it got away it would end up in a pot.”
He grinned. “I’d much rather take in a stray mage.”
@orsino-the-enchanter
________
“Actually, that is exactly what I am suggesting.” Orsino looked up at the blonde mage, vaguely amused at the fact that Anders never thought that him of all people would consider such a thing. “Don’t misunderstand, I am not discussing this in order to stirr Meredith’s ire -granted, she’s not going to be happy either. I am doing this for the poor cat. If Meredith asked I could always argue that it is within their nature to search for more accommodating environments -and better owners. I never said anything about taking her to Darktown with you; but I could imagine her roaming Kirkwall freely, knowing there’s a plate of food for her, and safe place for her to sleep. Believe me when I say, if it were easy to expose Meredith with all the support she gets from Grand Cleric Elthina, I would have done it ages ago.” Sometimes, belonging in two of the most hated groups of people in the entire Thedas would end an argument before it even started.
Nonetheless, Orsino grinned back at that. “Unless you can guarantee their safety -which you cannot-, I fear that the stray mage will end up in a pot too. So to speak.”
I can't tell you how much I enjoyed your halloween event, it was great!! You did a wonderful thing this month, you must have put in so much work! It was a wonderful way to spend the evening! I loved each piece so much!! Thank you for putting this together!!
Thank you for this message and the support! It made me so happy to bring joy and halloween spirit to others today!
text overlaid atop the dragon age logo that reads "@tryvyalsynnes is a terrific writer and an incredible lore researcher. Their in-depth analysis of Fenris and Anders personalities, thought process and possible fate avaiting both characters never fails to impress me. It’s a great privilege to rp with them and have them as a friend in mischief!"
You are one of my favorite artists, I always love to see a reblog of your work on my dash :) You put such humanity and humor into your work. I sometimes wish I could find your illustrations on greeting cards :)
I just followed you recently and I am so glad I did! I enjoy seeing the gifs you make of my favorite scenes on my dash very much. Thanks for making them. <3<3<3
Thank you so much!!! I’m glad you enjoy this blog! <3<3<3
When Loki entered Kirkwall, he hadn’t been expecting to meet Anders -- much less look for him specifically. He remembers the name from the Bad Days, when he was just a child -- both of them imprisoned at Kinloch Hold -- and he thinks, if he could only see his fellow apostate again, he might be able to place name and face together somewhere in the shadowed depths of those memories.
“Anders...?” The murmured name is foreign on his tongue, though he knows he has used it before. Sparks dance lightly around his fingertips and slowly grow to flame, and he holds the burning torch of his hand close enough to his face that Anders can see him.
Some of him, at least. A thick, sable cloak conceals most of his willowy form, and a heavy hood hides his hair and ears, and casts his forehead into shadow. The only part of him that is truly visible above the cowl wrapped around his nose and mouth are his eyes -- a bright, piercing green in the firelight -- and a few graceful lines of ink painted beneath his pallid skin.
He appears to be weaponless, apart from the magic dancing on his fingertips. An illusion -- his cloak could be concealing all manner of lethal objects, after all -- but he is not, at the very least, holding any of them in hand.
“I come in peace,” he assures calmly, though a slight hardness in his level voice betrays his own apprehension. He lifts his free hand to his face, and draws the cowl down around his neck. “Your Dalish friend, Merrill... she told me I might find you here.”
