"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
Show & Tell
@theartofmadeline
PR's Tumblrdome
Fai_Ryy
cherry valley forever
occasionally subtle
wallacepolsom
Xuebing Du
izzy's playlists!
Origami Around
Sade Olutola
oozey mess
No title available
official daine visual archive
⁂
Keni
Love Begins
Three Goblin Art
Today's Document
seen from Malaysia
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from Mexico
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Indonesia
seen from T1
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
@thewerebeasts-blog
Yes, I know.
And yet again, you are correct. It is not a good one.
It’s rather rare that I am not correct, so I suppose I can accept making a slip-up now and then.
Oh, everyone must slip a little. At least you are wise enough to realize your mistake.
And humble, also. [his expression is deadpan]
[He keeps his face just as straight]
You know, if I didn't know you better, I'd think you were joking.
mirridtheargonian replied to your post: HEY
[[REVIVAL ALL OVER THE PLACE.]]
[[HEHEH yeah i see that welcome back unu]]
HEY
so i have no idea how many of you follow this anymore
but uh
I'm bringing 'em back
sort of
update to
(if you'd like you can reblog this as a get-this-out-there thing?)
He blinked once, mind reaching for something to end this line of conversation. Not everyone needed to know what a busy Nightingale was up to, “I ah- My.. contractor was very specific.”
“Con… tactror?” He blinked, and then tilted his head. “Why?” He didn’t know what that was, or what ‘Zaan did for a living, so he became both very curious and a little confused.
"The person who hired me to do the job that I have done." He shakes his head shortly, "It's not important, Remi."
‘Zaan squeezed him tight for just a moment long before setting him down upon the ground. He nodded once, shortly, “I missed you too. I’m sorry. I’ve been busy in Solitude.”
“Is okay, ‘Zaan!” He said, seeming quite pleased to simply see him, and glad that he was given such a good hug.
“What ‘Zaan is doing in Solitude?”
The mer ruffles the shorter male’s hair for a moment, stretches, and yawns before answering, “I live there. I was doing.. a very specific task for someone. It required not leaving the city for some time.”
“Oh. Why?” He asked with a curious smile. If ‘Zaan didn’t nip this in the bud, he’d have Rémi asking that about everything he said.
He blinked once, mind reaching for something to end this line of conversation. Not everyone needed to know what a busy Nightingale was up to, "I ah- My.. contractor was very specific."
Talk and Tea [Iolar and Wenselyr]
Iolar caught the expression, not sure, in all honesty, if he imagined it. Ah, well. No reason to question it. He, himself was not too excessively clothed, actually- there was merely a heavy, hooded cloak thrown over what, today, was a simple and yet still quite elegant shirt tucked into dark trousers. He is sensitive to temperature, but it is more that the cold makes him lethargic and slow moving, and heat- well, nobody really wanted to have to deal with the poor mer then. Oddly enough, though, he was barefoot, tanned gold feet obviously the reason his steps were so quiet.
He unclasped the cloak before he settled into a spot near the fire- a polite distance between himself and the frost mage, “All of those things are noted then, Cryomancer Wenselyr,” The words are said with just the barest curl at the corner of his lips. After pulling out his book, he folds his cloak over and tosses it over his lap, settling more comfortably.
He smiled again, more obviously, but not at Iolar in particular. Good- his estimation of Iolar’s skill as a mage was well founded, if he too was able to pinpoint Wenselyr’s own specialty. He is beginning to like Iolar- they seem to be of the same mind so far. When Iolar pulled out his book, Wenselyr’s attention was caught immediately, and he glanced over at his new companion.
Eyeing the book with curiosity for a moment, Wenselyr turned back to the fire and the tea. “What are you reading? Pardon the curiosity, I am something of a collector of books, both common and rare.” He paused a moment, then politely, “And why, if I may ask, are you without shoes? In weather such as this, that behavior is generally the purview of those who cannot afford them.”
The green-eyed mer nods once, strokes his fingers over the unmarked front of the book gently, something in the movement akin to a handshake between newly made acquaintances, "It is a book on the latest theories on... Inventive uses for shock magics. It is, so far, untitled- I am reviewing it, you see, for the writer."
The mer's mouth curls just slightly again, "I have a preference for barefootedness, is all, Cryomance Wenselyr." He wiggles his toes experimentally, seemingly unbothered by the cold
tiedtotheforsworn replied to your post: “‘Zaaaan!” Rémi ran up to the mer, bouncing happily and bapping him on the chest.
Rémi squealed happily, gripping to ‘Zaan’s arms and then giving a grin. “Hallo!! Rémi miss ‘Zaan! is not see long time!”
‘Zaan squeezed him tight for just a moment long before setting him down upon the ground. He nodded once, shortly, “I missed you too. I’m sorry. I’ve been busy in Solitude.”
“Is okay, ‘Zaan!” He said, seeming quite pleased to simply see him, and glad that he was given such a good hug.
“What ‘Zaan is doing in Solitude?”
The mer ruffles the shorter male's hair for a moment, stretches, and yawns before answering, "I live there. I was doing.. a very specific task for someone. It required not leaving the city for some time."
tiedtotheforsworn replied to your post: “‘Zaaaan!” Rémi ran up to the mer, bouncing happily and bapping him on the chest.
Rémi squealed happily, gripping to ‘Zaan’s arms and then giving a grin. “Hallo!! Rémi miss ‘Zaan! is not see long time!”
'Zaan squeezed him tight for just a moment long before setting him down upon the ground. He nodded once, shortly, "I missed you too. I'm sorry. I've been busy in Solitude."
"'Zaaaan!" Rémi ran up to the mer, bouncing happily and bapping him on the chest.
The lion-mer's face split into a wide grin, and he leaned down just enough to fasten his arms around Remi and lift, spinning the Forsworn into a hug, "Ello there!"
caiomeide started following you
The half-Nord stops, cocks his head over his shoulder and turns lazily to face her.
“You need somezhing…?”
“Huh?” Caiomeide raises her brow, regarding him with otherwise unreadable calmness. She actually hadn’t realized he was there.
“Yeah, sure. Uh… I was actually looking to have a blade repaired. I sort of broke it over someone’s helmet, the break is pretty clean.” Well, she wasn’t lying. She took out a bundle delicately from her satchel and presented it on the workbench.
He turns and nods slightly. Strange that she should not notice someone of his size, or so he thought. Long, strong fingers unwrapped the bundle with a rather unusually gentleness, and rough, calloused hands lifted each piece of the blade closer to eye level, a quick and cursory examination only a few seconds long.
"Ah, yes-" Another quick nod, "I can have it ready by this time tomorrow, I do believe. In fact, I don't have anything on the table now- it may be much sooner than that."
rolls back into the shipyard
oh my god
someone care to rp?
caiomeide started following you
The half-Nord stops, cocks his head over his shoulder and turns lazily to face her.
"You need somezhing...?"
Amputatio.
‘Tail really hates it when nights like these roll around. No one’s home. Baurus is with Kabel and Sar and Roar is off working and Azzy is probably running around somewhere being silly. One con to living out of Whiterun. He can’t bother Sings, either. ‘Tail is bored out of his mind. That’s not why he hates these kinds of nights, but he’ll pretend. Maybe some mead will make things more interesting. Cracking open a few bottles won’t be too bad, he won’t drink too much.
Maybe. Depends.
His tail is twitching again. Unsure of whether it's anxiety or agitation, he comes to a halt in front of the wooden door of the modest house outside Riverwood. Ginger had pointed him this way the last time 'Zaan had asked where he lived now, and 'Zaan had decided it was time for a visit
Even if he did have a bit of an ulterior motive.
He raps his knuckles against the door an waits, tapping the toe of his boot to the ground anxiously.
The Night Will Always Win
The jerkiness doesn’t even coax more that the tiniest squint at the corner of his eye, and the hoarseness in Ioannes’ voice makes him gesture quickly and vaguely- a cover-up for the resurgence of some remnant of his disappointment.
The needle he sees out of the corner of his eye, but he does not look at it. There is a moment when he considers saying something, but he decides against it. Instead he walks over to the bookshelf on Ioannes’ other side, passing close enough to feel the heat radiating off of the Conjurer’s skin- then again, he and other electromancers in his family had always been extremely sensitive to temperature, in particular heat. He reminds himself of this in attempt to disguise his worry, even from himself.
His eye is on the bookcase now, and his answer is as simple as, “I came to see you, is all. I wanted to see how you were.”
“Why?” His voice is still quiet, but it’s also sharp, aggressive, bitter. Angry and directionless. He twists his head round to stare his visitor right in the eye, something he almost never does. Eye contact is verboten, with him, something to be avoided at all costs and he makes it now because his eyes are still dead. His pupils are widely dilated and reflective and the light hurts but he doesn’t care.
He stays silent and watchful. Challenging, even, waiting for a response, waiting for an excuse to be snappish and cruel, waiting to have to be the one to deliver the news and hoping desperately he won’t even have to mention it.
The tone of Ioannes' voice practically singes the hairs of Aldirhon's ear, causes the accursed tail to flick once, in agitation perhaps. His eye turns to that dead stare. The book in his hands (Where had that even come from?) he sets upon the shelf, and with a grace-filled twist ironically feline-like, he turns to lean against the shelf instead, not breaking the eye contact with so much as a blink.
Anyone else might have been unnerved. In truth, even he was a little unnerved. But that flat stare is something familiar to him. He has seen it on other friends, on enemies, seen it accompany a last gasp of breath from someone whose name he never knew. Ioannes is rude, mannerless and perhaps even cruel at worst- but it's unlike him to be so snappish at Aldirhon. His questions are always demands but this is more like something akin to an attack, a lash out against the world.
"Why? Because you are my friend- or so I consider you." At last he blinks just once, and asks that dreaded question, "What has got you so out of sorts, beau..?"
The Night Will Always Win
The voice rouses him from a stupor he’d never admit and he almost starts up from where he’d seated himself. Not quite enough control yet for quick standing and he sinks back down again, movements a peculiar mix of jerky and fluid langor.
“What?” His voice is hoarse, unused for days. He hasn’t even been talking to himself now.
He knows there’s no way his lingering half-euphoria will escape notice. Even if the sick sweet smell of the drug hadn’t stuck around, there was the still-hot skin, obscenely dilated pupils, the needle left out, half-hiding in its box.
He hadn’t cared enough. He was perfectly aware that Aldhiron knew. He was no fool. But this was not supposed to happen. Another thing that wasn’t supposed to happen, and renewed awareness of the dragging, bottomless pit occupying the place where his stomach should have been.
“What?”
The jerkiness doesn't even coax more that the tiniest squint at the corner of his eye, and the hoarseness in Ioannes' voice makes him gesture quickly and vaguely- a cover-up for the resurgence of some remnant of his disappointment.
The needle he sees out of the corner of his eye, but he does not look at it. There is a moment when he considers saying something, but he decides against it. Instead he walks over to the bookshelf on Ioannes' other side, passing close enough to feel the heat radiating off of the Conjurer's skin- then again, he and other electromancers in his family had always been extremely sensitive to temperature, in particular heat. He reminds himself of this in attempt to disguise his worry, even from himself.
His eye is on the bookcase now, and his answer is as simple as, "I came to see you, is all. I wanted to see how you were."
The Night Will Always Win
Ioannes had to start giving the needle a wide berth the second day after the visit.
He hadn’t touched it for several days beforehand. He couldn’t last the week, and he knew that much for a fact, but to try was to pay a last respect. To break was yet another stain on his record, another insult, another stupid, futile gesture of childish rebellion against someone who was now no longer even alive to feel the sting of it.
But he had to. He had lasted withdrawal as long as he could physically manage, weathered punishing fever and cramping nausea and hallucinations and he was afraid if he didn’t do it now he’d never manage it for the shaking. The dependency had only lessened its chokehold slightly in the past weeks.
It all washed away in a second, though. That was always how it was, seconds after the needle slid home. It was bliss, again, as it hadn’t been in a long, long time, suddenly a drowned absence from the crushing knowledge that had dogged him in the past days and prevented his touching the boxes on the table or going near their contents, stopped him reading half the books he owned, stopped him touching his own writings, staid his hand from the door and paralyzed his will to work, reduced him to a pacing temper with dead, hollow eyes.
He knew what would follow when the last warm lapping tide of the high faded away but it made it so easy not to care. When the immobility had worn off it was wonderfully simple to just ignore everything that had happened and focus only on the work he’d been doing before.
It wasn’t gone. He wasn’t ignorant and he was far from content, farther still from happy, but he was distracted and that was enough.
He still avoided the kitchen and its ugly boxes except to dodge in and keep the fire hot. Jitters made a home on the hearth. Winter in Skyrim was cruel to a cat without fur, and his master held all the body heat of a stone.
He was only a cat, but he was not unobservant. Something was wrong.
He stretched and strolled over to the door when he heard it open.
It is two days after the cruel, silver-eyed mer and his dogs invade Ioannes' home so politely.
It is two days after that and the stench of the mer lingers on the doorstep. Two days and the rank smell of Lamaenor assaults the lion's sensitive nostrils as he reaches to push open Ioannes' door. Even stale with time, it is strong.
It halts him, makes his fingers rest there on the door. His single eye widens in realization, recognition. He knows the smell, even if he was only so unlucky as to run into the Thalmor operative once. A grimace of absolute disgust twists his face for a moment, pulled more ugly even then by the scars.
He has no idea the destruction Lamaenor has left in his wake, or even why he was here in the first place. He schools his face blank again and presses the door open slowly, eye perhaps a little too wide, too observant. The first thing to catch his eye is the wrinkled little feline approaching him, and as he has done so many times before he sweeps Jitters into his arms and tucks the cat close to his chest, one hand stroking absently over the back of his head for a moment.
The fire is tended well enough, this time, if perhaps a little lower than Ioannes kept it. No, a lot lower. That was strange. It had only been getting colder, lately.
There is the remnant of another smell, now, one that makes him set Jitters down and sweep his cloak off his shoulders with a disappointed twist of a frown on his face. He had hoped- well. There was nothing for it now. He snorts, scrapes a rough palm over his face, trying to rid himself of the smell of the drug. He manages to school the look from his face yet again before continuing on into the next room.
"... Ioannes?"
And I’m afraid to sleep because of what haunts me Such as living with the uncertainties That I’ll never find the words to say Which would completely explain Just how I’m breaking down
Sleeping Sickness - Dallas Green This man is a poet.
Oh fuck this one too
