Rose Sellery - Eats like a bird (detail) [Sterling silver, ceramic, metal paint, acrylic dome]

PR's Tumblrdome
we're not kids anymore.

Love Begins

oozey mess
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
Sade Olutola
h
Sweet Seals For You, Always

shark vs the universe
art blog(derogatory)
YOU ARE THE REASON
almost home

No title available
Xuebing Du
sheepfilms
🪼
Monterey Bay Aquarium
TVSTRANGERTHINGS

blake kathryn
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
seen from United States

seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from Italy
seen from United States

seen from Austria

seen from Malaysia

seen from United States
seen from Germany

seen from China

seen from United States
seen from Germany
seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from Romania
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from United States
@therangerswail
Rose Sellery - Eats like a bird (detail) [Sterling silver, ceramic, metal paint, acrylic dome]
"Up with your turret, aren't we just terrified? Shale, screen your worry, from what you won't ever find." Sachsenwald I by Alexander Schönberg
Growing from the soil. Instagram
The Sorrow by Artem Demura.
The Witch’s Grave by Artem Demura
Philopoemen, hurt (detail) by David d'Angers
It wasn't a profound ache. Merely a dull one. It happened every now and again, when the Ranger was alone with her thoughts. Thoughts that plagued her, much like the plague she'd choked on as she lay dying.
Piercing claret hues pulsed with the memory. Her head had been propped up against the warm stones of the hearth, hood drawn. Her body chased the warmth out of instinct, and she felt the inklings of comfort and familiarity ebb and flow in the back of her mind, buried deep within her chest.
It was supposed to feel nice. Like a hug from a family member or loved one.
Falithel squeezed her eyes shut, dark lips twisting to one side. She didn't force herself to chase that feeling, and simply tucked it away for later. Her knees were tucked up to her chest, cloak pooled around her to trap the heat of the flames within. The warmth continued to seep into her skin, her bones, but the sensation was gone in an instant.
Duskwood had become somewhat of a quiet haven for her. It had been bustling for weeks, some musings about Stormwind being on lock down because of some... Treasure-Goblin wreaking havoc. There was a group of people, Knights, that served a House Sunshield. Knights and noblewomen. People that would sooner see her arrested or her head on a pike rather than deal with her.
It was as it always was in the human kingdoms. Ignorance, fear, and hatred. Though two of them... their eyes had a kind twinkle behind them. A glimmer that made Falithel think they understood the nature of monsters and weren't afraid of them unless they had to be. It made her curious at times, but not curious enough to venture out and hold a conversation with them.
The distrust ran thick in some of their bones, and were particularly protective of the Ladies that wandered the Darkwood supervised. Or, sometimes unsupervised. Though it wasn't her place to tattle. But it had been some time since she'd seen them and their banner, so Falithel escaped from the confines of her cold, shadowy prison and was left to her own devices.
Hunting horrors that threatened these people. Monsters. It didn't matter if the monsters came out of a child's playbook or wore the face of a neighbor. Either way, they made good food for the spiders. She even befriended a Widow deep within the rotting orchard. A large creature, but simply wished to be left alone.
"Oi, Miss?" A gruff voice had caught her attention, jerking her out of her daydream. Falithel's eyes blinked blearily, dry from staring within the fire unblinking for some time. It was a wrapped parcel in his hands, and Falithel had turned on her backside on the hearth's stones, standing. She brushed the soot off of her leathers and drifted over to the tavern keep with her chin angled close to her chest.
"There y'are. Don't go attractin' those damn ferals closer to the Square, y'hear?" A stare accented by crow's feet squinted curiously at the Elf as pale digits reached out from her sides to collect the parcel; it reeked of raw meat, haphazardly wrapped. Bear and direwolf shanks and slabs of meat.
"None to worry. Where this is going, the ferals shouldn't be much of an issue due north." Falithel said softly, dipping her head politely as coin was exchanged for the parcel. Turning, a dark cloak swirled around her ankles and a free hand's index and middle finger hooked under the string of a bow and the strap of a quiver, hoisting it over her shoulder. Exiting the Scarlet Raven, Falithel dipped into the Shadows and out of sight.
The journey through the shadows and to the rotten orchard that was nestled in a cliffside was... quiet. Per usual. Though there were some wet noses upturned in the air as the scent of fresh meat was too alluring to pass up. She didn't have much time, but that was alright. The orchard had been mostly cleared out, a wasteland of corpses and picked-clean bones... and outrageously large spider webs. A new development, and perhaps she was to blame.
Glancing over her shoulder, half-gloved digits curled into her hood to pull it back. With a little shake of her head, onyx hair fell free around her face and long, pale ears were detached from her hood. The blackened tips twitched with their freedom and the bulk of her thick hair was caught at the base of her neck with her hood and cloak.
The dead boughs and canopies of the trees above her shifted, but not due to the wind. There wasn't a breeze to shift the heavy, dank air around her. Sets of beady black eyes glimmered above her, and a thin trail of venomous saliva dropped down in front of her. Falithel sighed softly, but not without a familiar little quirk of her lips.
"I'm sorry I'm late." She remarked quietly, flatly, shedding her shadowy guise to showcase herself completely. If any passersby weren't careful, they'd think she was a ghost in the middle of the woods. The parcel was produced and unwrapped, and with a flick of her wrist hunks of fresh meat and bone were gently tossed in front of her. The cloth, bloodied as it were, was tossed unceremoniously behind her for the worgen hot on her trail to sniff out.
Falithel hadn't a second more to blink before long, spindly legs had shot down from their webbed home; sharp as daggers and just as long as any broadsword the best of Knights could wield, snatched up hunks of meat via a surprisingly careful spearing. Bits of web fluttered about her before the meat was gone, leaving a bloodied imprint on the ground in front of her.
Sounds of snapping could be heard, bones crunched between mandibles hungrily. Shortly after, a quiet trill of happiness rustled the dead branches and leaves overhead, and Falithel smiled softly, fondly.
"The rest of your dinner shouldn't be far behind." Falithel remarked with a curious stare being flicked above her head. The Widow's shadow moved this way and that without so much as another rustle of a branch; impressive and frightening. The Ranger wiped her hands on the discarded cloth before giving an underhanded toss back to the ground. Scaling an abandoned building was child's play, and Falithel had dropped unceremoniously into a sit atop a wilting roof, leaning back against a broken chimney chute and crossing her ankles before her. Long and lithe legs stretched languidly in front of her, and her hands folded into her lap.
Content to watch for now, her face never moved once from it's forward facing direction, but her eyes had slanted down and to her right. A worgen with eyes just as bright and red as hers skulked out from behind a dead trunk, giving a wet snuffle into the air. Drawn immediately to the bloodied cloth in the center of the orchard, it's nose nudged the cloth with a little growl, a splotched tongue swiping out to taste the fresh blood. Frustrated with the lack of food where the promise was in it's paws, the air grew cold and quiet.
Falithel's eyes had followed the beast until it stopped, waiting patiently. A spindly shadow darted between the webbed canopies, easing into a crouch above her target. She smiled again, though it was always a gesture that never met her eyes, the pads of her thumbs brushing against another in an idle twirl.
Daggerlike legs had snapped down from the shadows at once, piercing the worgen to the ground by the shoulder and hip. A pained and strangled yelp left the beast before the bulk of the Widow's body emerged from the canopies. Hulking and lithe all in the same breath, fangs pierced into the neck of the worgen. A series of strangled and pained whimpers and snarls left it as it struggled in the spider's grip, but eventually, the venom ran its course and the worgen stilled.
Falithel's eyes flicked up as the body was sprang back into the trees, listening to the sounds of various gore chorusing through the Orchard. Snaps, hisses, and tears. The blood attracted more unsuspecting worgen, and the feast continued like clockwork.
It was her dose of entertainment these days. Dinner with a friend.
How long have I been like this?
The war was a bloody one. Countless soldiers of the living had died, only to be raised as a weapon against their brethren as she had. Arthas had his plans for the dark rangers that he had raised in Quel'thalas; assassinate and destroy, but from the shadows. There were only a handful of her sisters raised to enact his quiet wrath; elves could be quicker and faster and quieter.
Though they were all dead anyway, and served just the same.
Unlike his ebon soldiers that were prized within the walls of Acherus, a necropolis of the damned being reprogrammed into the perfect remorseless killing machines, the Dark Rangers operated solely within the shadows. Seek and destroy. That was their purpose.
It was a difficult transition, some of her brethren struggling with the acquiescence of the Shadow as opposed to Nature, and the Wild Gods they once so loved before. Some adopted the shadows as easily as their unlife. Falithel had been quietly torn in twain about it. Everything she had known was warped and twisted before her.
She was a creation of horror and tragedy, and the shadows are what kept her together, not her heart. Not a pulse. Not a soul. Though she couldn't find a place for anguish, not anymore. Every inch of her begged to be outraged, but the rest of her was simply a tool with the skillset of a killer.
She served.
That is what wrought her confusion often. How many of her siblings could fight. Some lashed out and drove themselves mad, taught a lesson and were forced to serve in another form of death. So much of her fight had been lost, and there was a grand understanding that she was alright with that.
Have I made peace with my death? How many more must die by my hand for me to accept this fate?
It was oft her that dealt the killing blow; the last thing many of the mad see are the tears of a fallen Quel'dorei that couldn't save her people.
Falithel also remembered the day she regained consciousness. It was a strange feeling, as if the cloud over her mind had disappeared and the marionette strings were severed. She remembered the day she looked at her hands and saw her hands, not the hands of the monster she was made. Though that didn't make who she had become any better.
Her and her siblings were lost. She was on a mission when it happened, when the Lich King had lost control of his puppets, both Dark Ranger and Death Knight alike. Such pain in their eyes, they were truly lost souls, damned to this prison.
Until their General returned. Sylvanas Windrunner had gathered her newly founded Forsaken, given a home and purpose under her banner once again. It was no Kingdom of Quel'thalas, but it was something. She was no longer Quel'dorei.
She was Forsaken.
I will never be free again.
The Bleeding eye.
The portrait of M.
© Natalie Ina Art
See more: inatreeart
She remembered the last breath she took. Falithel had prayed to forget the pain. The sticky taste of rot clinging to her tongue and lungs. It had worked, to an extent, and she had drifted off shortly after.
Falithel couldn't tell anyone what death was like. Not really. It was strange. She watched her soul fight with forces beyond her understanding. She was supposed to accept her fate. One with nature and the earth, but the Sun be damned if she was going to let herself become one of those monsters. Though it was out of her hands now, she feared. There weren't enough of them left to burn their bodies this far south into Eversong.
A strange angelic creature had wrangled her soul into one place... was she next to her body?
"Arise, child of Silvermoon. Your service continues now... for the Scourge."
No. No, you can't make me. What is dead must stay dead. I've done my duty, let me go—!
Falithel remembered screaming at such a sick and twisted creature with blackened wings and armor, but her words were swallowed by the void. Her vision was suddenly filled with the Lich King himself. Blackened, gnarled, and cold claws wrenched itself into her soul. It was so cold. So isolating. Sharp and unending, piercing straight through her chest and rending her apart.
She would never be free again.
The claws dug and dug, and she screamed and cried in pain. Shadows forced themselves into her body, squeezing whatever was left of her out to be devoured by Frostmourne. Falithel was being torn in two and there wasn't anything she could do about it. Tears poured down her cheeks and the shadows devoured those too, instead staining her cheeks and wrenching themselves in deeper.
Suffocating it was, and she couldn't breathe. She wasn't supposed to be breathing. The pain was worse than her death, she thought, but now she couldn't even muster another scream. Falithel fought Arthas as much as she could, but eventually he won. It wasn't much of a struggle against the shadows. The winged angelic creature vanished and so did he, and suddenly everything was warm again.
But she wasn't herself. This didn't feel right. Falithel couldn't remember what she should be feeling. Anger. Disgust. She should be fighting, raging, screaming, crying, and suddenly she was acutely aware that she was a separate person. An outsider looking in. Yes.. that was her body, crumpled and broken in the dark grass.
Pale blonde hair was now raven black, and sun-kissed skin was a ghastly white, a deathly pallor. Black tears stained her left cheek but that was all. On her body were bright blue ranger tattoos, a ceremonious display of her proud station within the Farstriders. Her badge of pride. Now the bright cobalt was an endless black. She could tell by way of a pattern poking through the blood and torn armor on her torso.
Arthas was riding north of her now, picking out the bodies he wished to raise one by one. Falithel watched in horror as her eyes opened. What once was a glimmering baby blue was now a striking crimson. Hollow scarlet orbs stared blankly ahead of her for a long moment before she sat upright at the waist, confused. She should be angry... taking a cautionary glance over herself, realizing her once mortal wounds were now insignificant and closed, she looked around.
A banshee wailed and cried along the field. Lady Windrunner...?
She was arming her sisters that fell in battle. Shadowed bows and full quivers were dropped in the laps of each ranger with a body in tact. The bodies that weren't had their souls warped and torn open and twisted, becoming banshees themselves.
Falithel watched in her muted state. She should be horrified. She should be angry. She should be scared. The pain wouldn't stop, the screams in the back of her head telling her to wake up and snap out of it were soon a dull ache that wouldn't go away. A buzz that refused to quiet.
Delicate fingers curled around her bow. It was hers... but put together with shadows, the Nature magic within it siphoned out and replaced. She felt it, it was alive with all the thrumming energy of magic it was once imbued with, but now it was one with her. One with the shadows. It was an odd kinship, but a strangely comforting one.
Stop. You should be angry. You should be fighting. This isn't you. You died. You deserve rest.
"No." Was said plainly past black lips. It was a sad intonation of words, a once proud Thalassian tone perpetually solemn. Her words came with an inflection of confusion. Why won't that voice go away?
"I live to serve the Lich King."
It was a quiet intonation of death and wailing. Quieter now, she figured, everything was so quiet. So warm. For the first time in what felt like a century, she felt the Sun on her face. Belore...
The ashen-haired Quel'dorei laid broken amidst a sea of bodies being feasted on by ghouls, geists, being trampled by Undead warsteeds.
They had lost. Quel'thalas was gone. Arthas had reached the Sunwell.
Falithel Sunstriker had clung to life as long as she stubbornly could. There was an effort, an effort in every limb to make her get back up. To fight. To drive an arrow into Arthas Menethil's skull herself. To avenge her brothers and sisters. To save her homeland.
Though all that remained now was a forest of ash and bone. Or was that her vision growing fuzzy...? So much was being lost to her. Her breath, her sense of touch, smell... The taste of rot and blood filled her lungs and tongue long ago. It was all she could taste.
The Ranger-General fell. Sylvanas Windrunner had died protecting the Kingdom. So had she. She was dying knowing she did what she could, but even then it wasn't enough.
Elor bindel felallan morin'aminor... Sleep forever in quiet serenity.
Dull blue eyes had slowly closed, fingers inches away from a broken bow. She felt Nature die around her. The Earth was calling to her, the Sun warming her skin.
Elu'meniel mal alann... May peace calm your heart.
Thas'alah. Light of the Forest.
Thas'dorah. Valor of the Forest.
Vendel'o eranu. Help me forget.