#tviburar

[maphel-n-doodles]

@tviburar ‘s Avvar Ocs, Vald and Rikvi as commissioned by @valorcorrupt.

I’m quite proud of these pieces ngl and I had a lot of fun working with Merc, who was wonderfully patient with me. 

[brightflight]

gaspard de chalons!!

that thing where you send me a character and i do a couple paragraphs of how i’d write them, that thing ( @servesorlais also asked for this one!) || accepting

          The military mindset was not quite so hawkish as the layperson assumed; contrary to most opinions of him, Gaspard had no particular desire to spend his entire life in military camps, spattered to the knee in blood-soaked mud and smelling of sweaty horse and the damp wool of his own padded gambeson. It was true that a good battle could heat the blood and satisfy certain primal urges, certainly. But Gaspard took at least as much intellectual pleasure in the pursuit of war as he did any other sort.

         It was not, Gaspard considered as his esquire tightened the straps of his cuisse, so much that all life ought to be considered a war and each of one’s encounters a battle, as that far too many people confused strategy and tactics. Oh, yes, the lords and ladies of the court by and large thought themselves quite clever at the Game, playing at gambits and maneuvers, artifice and contrivance, all of it quite selfish. Each little success was counted a victory, and each failure a tragedy. But succeed or fail, the petty plottings of frivolous lordlings were, in the end, meaningless. They had no vision, and were merely scrambling and clawing for position like crabs in a bucket.

         It was, in the end, aims which were satisfying, not only means. Tactics, even the best of them, were only as good as the strategy which they supported. And that was Celene’s downfall, as well. She had lost sight of strategy, and that blindness would serve Gaspard well.

         The last thing to be donned was his mask, an armored version of the slightly more elaborate courtly confection. This one was built into his helm, protecting his face and proclaiming his identity and his honors all at one and the same time. Gaspard respected tradition; no Orlesian lord would be seen without his mask, after all, not even when taking the field. The yellow feather of the chevaliers swayed gracefully atop the helmet, sweeping backward in an elegant crest.

         “Is my horse readied?” he asked his esquire, hefting his shield to his back and making certain his blade was loose and ready in its sheath at his hip.

         The young man, a student from the Academie very close to gaining his own yellow feather, straightened and nodded crisply. “Yes, Ser.” Grand Duke or not – soon, perhaps, to be Emperor or not – at this precise moment Gaspard was first and foremost a chevalier. He accepted the honorific with the respect it was due.

         “Good.” He turned to Remache, who had been waiting with ill-disguised impatience as Gaspard had been buckled into his armor. “Then let us go and see if Celene has been good enough to ride into my trap.”

[valorcorrupt]

I think I wanna marry you (from either :3)

send “I think I wanna marry you” for my muse to react to your muse saying it.

Inara chuckles. 

She remembers Avvar custom – marriages were often brief, and her father had more than four wives that she could RECALL – but the idea still makes her laugh. 

     “You’d be surprised how often I get that,” she says, slicking off another mess of disgusting, sticky flesh and guts that got all over her (it’s in her hair!!) when she gutted the massive ogre bearing down upon them all (she preferred decapitating them, oh, so much). She makes a face of disgust as she flicks another piece off, and harrumphs a bit at the thought of the long walk down to the creek to wash up. Ah well.

     “But I’m not in the business of buying cows before I taste the milk, if you get what I mean.” And she winks at him, just in case. 

[valorcorrupt]

I commissioned the sweet and freaking stellar @maphel-n-doodles to draw @tviburar‘s Rikvi for Christmas!!

I love it SO MUCH and I hope that Dean loves it too. <3 <3 

[valorcorrupt]

//also big shoutout to Dean and Rain for writing me starter after starter bc I like every single one of their starter calls like a jackass

[valorcorrupt]

GIVE ME KISSES

FREE KISSES

Her heart flutters whenever Rikvi gets too close. 

If the woman knows, she certainly does not show it. The way Inara blushes every time that she leans closer, the way that she can’t meet the augur’s eyes when she’s whispering low and quiet in Inara’s ear about the dispute they’re about to oversee -- Rikvi pays these things no mind. Or maybe she does -- maybe she enjoys them, maybe her gaze is lingering on every flinch and every shiver and every blush.

Inara doesn’t know, because she can’t bring herself to watch. 

And yet, when the room is empty, and everything’s gone quiet... Inara’s gaze, steady as it is on Rikvi’s throat and chin as the woman speaks, manages to take a peek up at those strong, clear eyes, and finds nothing there but interest. Curiosity, even.

     “Can I kiss you?” the Warden asks.

Rikvi seems surprised, but she nods.

She doesn’t know what to call the taste of Rikvi’s lips, other than dangerous. 

[valorcorrupt]

ღ - rikvi @ tviburar

Inbox me a ‘ღ’ and I’ll rate you with the following:

Romantic attraction: none | very low | low | medium | high | very high | extremeSexual attraction: none | very low | low | medium | high | very high | extremeAesthetic attraction: none | very low | low | medium | high | very high | extremeSensual attraction: none | very low | low | medium | high | very high | extreme

[valorcorrupt]

‘when I walked in here today i looked at him, and in my head, that’s a snake — not knowing who he was. i just walked in and looked right at him and — that’s a snake.’ --rikvi

     “I’d have to agree,” Inara says as she stands with the woman on the far side of camp, watching as the strange men gather and talk amongst each other. “I think that one in the middle there is Orlesian. Or used to be.” There’s a wisp of their accent on his tongue, a whisper of a shadow of where a mask once sat upon the too-pointed features on his face. 

     “Being cast out of Orlais means you’re either a frightfully good or a frightfully bad person,” she advises, her head tilting only slightly when the man catches her staring and stares back like she might look away. She doesn’t, but he does. “Worth keeping an eye on, anyhow.”