IC & OOC account for Ser Damian Aldridge, Formerly of the Silver Hand. You may know my alternate characters; Jessamine Fairwalker, Zephrim Netherbright, and Ser Urien Ainsworth! "Our gloom-pleas’d eyes, embower’d from the light, Enshaded in forgetfulness divine:" -John Keats, To Sleep
Profile Picture Maker | Header by Atomhawk
“We’re all mad here~!” Slapped some life into my tablet, wheeee. It was a toss up between Mad Hatter or the Cheshire Cat for Jinx, but, went with Hatter because of the tea party-esque scene in Arcane. dhajskd
(The other day, we realized that Cam is the Loki of the group, and I felt a mighty need to doodle him in a Loki outfit. I may do MCU same energy versions of my other WoW toons too.
Smashed a few different Loki looks together since no one thing looked right. Though amusingly cam would 100% wear this for real.)
hey non indians are encouraged to reblog this actually since what the indian government hates most is word of their terrible governing spreading outside of india!
An assignment from art class was to redo a fairy tale or nursery rhyme as a “book” but to change something or add a twist. A couple years ago, I did Peter Peter Pumpkin Eater. The old paintings aren’t the best, so I re-did it digitally for Halloweeeen.
Still not 100% pleased with it, but eh, I like it enough.
Also I really can’t draw horses very well even with references smh
Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater
Had a wife but couldn’t keep her
He locked her in a pumpkin shell
And there he kept her…not so well.
Peter, Peter, murder suspect
Gets no trial. thus can’t object
The town wished to settle the score
Alas, Peter, Peter is no more.
Peter, Peter, Headless Horseman
Raised by his rage, hide if you can
He’ll place a pumpkin on your head
Because Peter, Peter
Wants
You
Dead
((TWs: Mention of Death, dying, violence, et cetera.))
Whispers.
Empty platitudes and hollow taunts danced about the edges of Damian’s mind, coming from something other than his own demons. No, this was unlike anything he’d ever done. The fever that had briefly cleared from his body had returned with renewed strength, and he spent the last several days locked and barricaded in his apartment, hiding from the world. In truth, he’d felt the weakness leave him after only a few days, but now he lay, tormented, by his own mind. By the deal he himself had made.
“Rejoice…” the murmur had said. “Rejoice… Damian Aldridge.” He heard it, still echoing, a week later. And it sickened him, now, somewhat, to still hear the same voice bubbling from within the darkest parts of his mind, which had only grown darker since he had taken that monster’s hand.
These days, he slipped in and out of sleep, his mind assailed by nightmares and vivid dreams of his past, blended together inseparably. He saw vast oceans of nothingness, the blight-stricken corpse of his love, and the face Cameron had made when he’d learned of the deal he’d taken… and countless other things.
The argument that had befallen the two still gnawed at him. The guilt, the shame, the hatred. How Cameron had just… disappeared. Damian had not seen him since. In truth, he did not want to. For him, the wounds were still too fresh. The lies still stung like the crack of a whip across his back.
He stared up at the candle-lit ceiling, feeling tired beyond belief—which perplexed him—as he’d spent the last several days doing little else but sleeping. Being awake was almost as agonizing as being asleep. He reached over to the wooden cup that rested on his nightstand, drinking what was left of the water inside it. He turned over in his bed, remembering briefly the nights he could drape his arm around Cam, and feeling the bitter sting of his absence once again. He closed his eyes, drifting along and falling into a fitful slumber.
The first thing Damian noticed was that running; secondly, that it was cold. The kind of cold that cut straight through his armor and chilled him to his core. The wind was bitter and blew icy snow and sleet right into his eyes, which stung and brought tears to him. Worse, yet, Damian could hear something chasing him… no, hunting him. Something—deep and primal within him—told him that he was being hunted. It was gaining on him, snarling, slavering, singularly focused on trying to rip him apart. Something in his gut told him that he dare not turn back, or stumble, or even think of what was chasing him, or he’d be dead. The rushing of adrenaline through his body deafened him to everything else.
He ran further and further, for what felt like hours, in the frozen valley, slowly realizing that he was running towards a looming structure he could not make out in the blizzard. His body was on fire, he was dying, slowly, he was sure of it. It was only a matter of time before he slumped over from exhaustion and froze to death, or he was killed by whatever it was that wanted him dead. A flight of stairs led up to a courtyard before some sort of… some sort of gate. He ran up.
The blackened steps slowed his ascent. He knew this place. His heart quickened with a worse fear. This is where Alexander died… would he stumble over his body by treading there, he wondered. Would he be killed here, too? Yet, when he reached the top of the second flight of stairs and saw the spiked gate of Angrathar itself, there was no army—no ruby flames, no sickening cloud of blight—to greet him. It was empty, except Damian, and his hunter. Panic drove him to the mouth of the gate, which he pounded on, to no avail. The thing was gaining on him.
He heaved, trying to open the gate, trying to escape… when he knew that there would be no running away from this one. As the creature grew closer… and Damian gripped the great-hammer on his back and drew it forth. If he was to die here, in the same spot where his first love breathed his last… he would not go quietly, nor without a fight.
“Not without a fight,” he murmured, waiting for the critical moment. As the creature lunged directly towards him, he used what was left of his strength—and spun around, swiping his hammer in a wide arc, eyes shut tightly. But the hammer struck nothing, toppling from his hand and thumping against the snow. He opened his eyes… to see nothing, in the blizzard that raged about him.
And, yet… there was some calm about him. Some peace. The biting wind and stinging ice seemed to slow to crawl, then stopped completely, suspended in midair all about him. A ray of light broke through the thick clouds, before him… and he heard a voice. Not one laced with shadows and deceit… one he had heard, a long… long time ago. Calming, tender. Beloved. It uttered one word, one that reverberated throughout his body.
“Come…”
Damian shrugged the hammer over his shoulder, the last thing he’d need before he set out. The whispers in his head seemed somewhat displeased by this course of action, and warned him that he’d die out there, alone and afraid. They wanted him to stay here, where it was safe… and warm.
“If I die…” he muttered to himself, “So be it. I’m tired of hiding.”
He glanced over the quiet, darkened apartment one last time, making sure he’d done everything. The parchment he’d rolled up in a scroll and tied with a little satin string rested on the pillow on his neatly-made bed, where he’d be sure Cameron would find it.
He took a deep breath to steady himself at the door… and then he pulled up the hood over his face. He knew that this journey would either save him… or it would kill him.
“So be it,” he repeated, under his breath, one last time, stepping out the door and pulling it closed behind him, the idle click of the lock falling into place preceding the metal thuds of Damian’s boots on the wooden hall. He thought of how he had started the letter, a quiet, bitter smile on his lips.
Dear Little Bird...
(@easternkingdomer & @archmage--khadgar mentions, since Cam’s blog got “baleeted” D: )
I’m going to bitch about Blizzard and how they handle the community. Not about Shadowlands. Not about anything other than the absolutely abysmal way that they handle player reporting and they just continue to allow proven abusers continue to play their games. I have screens and details below the cut, but here’s the tl;dr. TRIGGER WARNING: This involves transphobic hate speech, as well as, sexual assault mentions and pedophilia.
John/Mark Connor( Johnalina Connor, Larry Connor, A Kaldorei also named John Connor, Rose Connor, Jenny Connor, and a forsaken version of John Connor) is known for some really disgusting things. Most includes sexual assault RP, pedophilia, being a racist, and a very very loud transphobe.(These incidents were compiled by the Stormwind City Watch.
Last night he said, verbatim that Trans people must die, messaged me “Fuck off, Transgender monster supporter” to which I replied “Go fuck yourself, pedophile.”
Then I reported him. Then much to my surprise, I logged in to find that I have a 24 hr silence on my account.
Due to a recent unpleasant conversation, I would like to take a moment to remind everyone that if you think black elves don’t belong in Warcraft, please never talk to me again.
If you think black elves break the lore, never talk to me again.
If you think black elves are pandering, never talk to me again.
If you think we don’t need black elves because we have Mag’har orcs, NEVER talk to me again.
I don’t care what your reasons are. I don’t care how much you say you aren’t racist. I don’t care. Unfollow me. Block me. You’re racist and I don’t want to interact with you.
ellievsbear
tangentwithtanner
romaincrisis
kianamaiart
yousharknotpass
gummygunk
gamechangershow
