for shit i don&#x27;t want to lose.

❝ yes, yes. i haven’t got all day. ❞ 😭

[ to viya | 16:33. ] couldn't have waited for a day off. [ to viya. | 16:34. ] fresh offa fight.

one more glob of blood hits the asphalt as Tristan spits (fucking Animal and his jabs to the face; that'll probably cost a tooth) and climbs onto his Thorton. The organizers of the fight had done a bang - up patch job, considering the fact he'd all but antagonized most of the audience present and that should've had him kicked out faster than one could say 'Arasaka', but there'll still be some things to look after when he gets back home. Not before meeting up with Vasya, though, because of course she wants to see him fresh off a paid spectacle at the far end of San Do.

[ viya. | 16:37. ] may have left the clan but still 'a fuckin brat'.

the engine roars to life, and he pulls up the holo as he reverses. At least she picks up. “ I oughtta leave you to make your way over yourself; I hear En - Cart's not busy at this time of day. Good luck pullin' into Kabuki on time. ”

she rolls her eyes at him, pinches her hand closed repeatedly as she mocks him. “ Yes, yes. I haven't got all day. Ass into gear or I'm calling your mom. ”

Tristan should've expected as much; ever since Vasya found out that this particular ex - Bakker had been born into old eddies and a trust fund, she's always liked pulling up the parental card. [ It makes him bristle, and he takes it out on a motorcycle cutting in front of him with a loud honk. ] “ Lay off the rich kid shit and maybe I'll use today's prize to pay for dinner. B'sides, if you ever actually try? Good luck. Probably say she never had a kid, anyway. On my way, okay? ”

he hangs up the call, runs his tongue over a cut on his upper lip. Tristan almost wants to call again, chat on the way to grab Vasya even if they're meeting up to go to Kabuki to shoot the shit over some yakisoba ... but he doesn't bother. His head's still partly ringing, the shrill ding of the bell buried deep in his ears, and he'd rather look somewhat decent. [ Rich kid for eighteen years, nomad for twelve. In some aspects, the trust fund kid still wins ... and at least it's in manners. ]

tesv: skyrim, accepting.

there's always a fight within a fight, and it's easy to spot them while benched and waiting for the next two fighters to cave each other's face in, maybe even break a rib or two. Fighting rings are a place of business and violence; clearly, the latter's about to break out ... or maybe not. [ The picture is clear: a Mox breaking off from the audience and proceeding to trail a Tyger Claw, and everyone with half a brain knows how that'll end. ] It's really not his business, it shouldn't be, but Tristan still hops off the wall he's been sitting atop of and becomes the third party in an already busy dance.

what grabs his attention isn't just the typical bright Mox colors, but rather how her slow walk slows down even further into a zombie - like meandering. Aimless, mindless: it's a body shutting down under the weight of cyberware. Tristan himself has gone through it many a time, and yet watching it happen is just as terrifying as experiencing it.

he wouldn't normally do this anyone, Mox or otherwise, but every second he hesitates is another tick filling up the Danger meter: Tristan grabs a gentle hold of her shoulders and squeezes, enough to anchor her consciousness to reality and to keep her legs from giving out. “ Hey, hey. Not worth it, you hear me? Not when you're shutting down. You're okay, I gotcha. ”

@pamurais, ft. kitty faire.

from lamb : you ain't dying yet. i got'cha. (YEAHHHHHHHHH)

bleeding's easy or rather, it's gotten easier in the months that he's taken up with this undead gunslinger. Not everyone has the privilege (or misfortune, depending on one's point of view) of having died once already, which inevitably takes a lot of mortal weaknesses off the table, so whatever blood doesn't flow out of @lambeye has its origin point in Tristan: a man, pouring crimson for the both of them. Shootouts, like the one they're busy with surviving right now, are often the reason behind the trails of red. They're separated: Lamb was last seen ducking beneath a pile of crates, and Tristan finds himself taking cover behind a wall with the glaring issue of the shrapnel embedded into his arm and side.

that, and the bullet firmly lodged in his shoulder, too. (Bleeding's gotten so easy, Tristan may as well call it a pastime at this point.) It won't kill him; whether alone or in company, he's seen himself in worse situations than this, and dragons in the near country are tough nuts to crack. Consciousness is becoming hard to maintain, however, even if the cracks of revolver fire and the whizzing of wood splinters past his head are enough to jolt him into alertness.

pain whips his side as he leans out from cover, wide eyes searching for his next target, only to be met with silence. No more flying bullets, hollers or broken wood; it's as quiet as the grave revenants often crawl out of. Tristan's gun - wielding hand falters; his whole body does, and even though he falls, he finds shelter from the gravel in Lamb. Damn ghoul's popped up out of nowhere, like he sometimes does, to hold Tristan as upright as he can manage, the blood on his gloves mingling with that already caked onto Tristan's vest.

“ You ain't dying yet. I got'cha. ”

Tristan believes it, believes him. There's a certainty to Lamb's voice that lends additional weight and credence to everything he says. He spits blood, and half the glob ends up on the tip of his boot. “ Y'd better if not for my sake ... then for Bells. ” The grin that splits Lamb's face is as unsettling as he is, the fucker. [ He's coming down from the high of violence; he can be forgiven for smiling like a man possessed. ]

cyberpunk 2077, accepting.

the Badlands doesn't always deserve its name; oftentimes, it's got treasures to admire at least for those that know how and where to look. Take a ride out west of NC and a whole other world opens up, both during the day and at night. It offers a view of the better kind of lights, the kind that doesn't constantly remind you of the life you lead and stumble through in the neon - lit concrete jungle of the city limits; 'the stars are forever', or so DeLou used to say. There's a freedom enjoyed only under the sky, but not everyone is willing to go out and seize it (that, and there's only so many encounters against Raffen Shiv clans that one can take before the stress forces you to crawl back to the lesser, more predictable evil).

Tristan's made a habit of coming out here, past the gas station and just north of Rocky Ridge, once a week one and a half if he's busy and he likes taking Vasya along with him. She's good company when she knows when to stop and slow down, to take time off her Night City legend career path and live. He wonders if she does that enough. He still remembers the day she left the Bakkers, determined to forge ahead as a trailblazer as though her time to be a young girl had ran out.

he's laid down on the roof of his Colby; Vasya's taken the hood, since she prefers to use the windshield as a backrest. The crowns of their heads are almost touching. “ Y'know, been thinking, ” he begins, shifting slightly. “ You ever play at nomad again and take down a corp AV, ” he takes his left hand to his ear, thumb and pinky stuck out in pantomime of a phone “ holler maybe? Be nice to salvage something. And don't ask me how I know that Kang Tao hit was you, by the way: I don't give up my sources. ”

a starter for: @darkdevour.

[ 4. ] sender shoves receiver out of the way of a projectile. *3*

it had to be Scavs. Of course it had to be fucking Scavengers, turning up like the most intrusive slew of publicity one could get in a screamsheet except one, that's being kinder than they deserve; and two, even ads are more tolerable than them. Tristan rounds the corner to empty two Igla shells into an approaching gangoon, tearing an arm almost clean off the body in an explosion of red, before taking cover again, right as another slew of rifle bullets starts shredding plaster around him.

It had been a gig well done (a bit of theft, a sprinkle of sabotage, and a great deal of crippling a storage facility that served as a drop - off point for 'exchanged personal goods') and it would have stayed as such had a convoy of Scavengers not had the awful timing they always do. The devolution into a small scale war zone had been nothing short of inevitable.

deeper into the warehouse, from behind stacked containers that provide convenient cover, an agonized howl rings, sparks fly, a body collapses, and the remaining Scavengers warn about a netrunner; no doubt, it's @darkdevour's work, not too far from him. [ Tristan's never admitted it to her face but she terrifies him at times, and this is one of those times. 'Looks that could kill' is a saying that has a huge disclaimer tacked on in V's presence: hers are looks that could and can kill, and she doesn't even have to keep you in her line of sight for that to happen. ]

it's the opening that Tristan needs to rush them, and he does. Stupid. It registers far too slowly for his own good, but he's not going to slow down in time to duck and avoid the mini - rocket headed in his direction. Fuck. Fuck. Something in him freezes. Really? Out in the middle of fucking nowhere? And because a PLS projectile blew his head off? Tristan tries to drop; he's too slow, too bulky, too stupid

something, someone, collides with him hard enough to send him flying in a skewed direction that has most definitely saved his life. Metal, gravel, crate fragments and assorted debris pelt him after the ensuing explosion, and what shocks him more than the ringing in his ears is the fact he's hearing it at all.

that, and “ ... nna watch your fucking head, you gonk!! ”

the next few seconds are a disjointed mess, but by the time Tristan comes to, his hands are have blood and bone shards on them and there's a very headless corpse at his feet. The warehouse is silent now. Tristan half - turns, slowly, to find Vasya staring at him with a mix of disbelief (that's normal) and some dregs of anger (also normal; she had to save him from a rookie mistake).

when he's by himself, it's easy to accept the possibility of death as his own fault, something he'll tear his way out of eventually. When he's reminded he's not alone, that's when flatlining becomes truly terrifying.

“ Should've let you do that, ” Tristan says into the uncomfortably warm silence. “ ... not as messy with your hacks. ”

“ Like you let me save your stupid ass. Yeah! Yeah, I think so too. ” no arguing with her there, so he stays quiet while his mind reunites with his body. He buys them drinks at the Afterlife later, and that's as good of a peace offering as he can give today.

i don't have this meme anymore oops.

tau1tvec

Cyberpunk 2077 | dev. CD Projekt Red

#cyberpunk 2077

we are, all of us, just visitors in each other’s lives. you will forget my visit soon enough. / sad, question mark?

the world ceases to be inside the Fade. Color is absent, bled out of existence like water squeezed from a cloth, like ichor pouring out of an open wound. Sound transforms into echoes and into silence; screams fade as if engulfed by a whisper, and time is forgotten, unfathomable. Deep greens and the faint smell of sulfur, to say nothing of a nightmare demon lurking unseen, would be better than this. Fear is easy to contend with, fear is embers needing to be put out every once in a while. Regret is an ocean and a flood all at once, and Tristan has been treading water for only the Maker knows how long.

he's been walking for what feels like an eternity, accompanied only by his own shadow and the specters of a leadership put into question. Harding has fallen by his hand already. HE DESTROYS EVERYTHING HE TOUCHES, but the final blow is not his to deal. A voice like @grewarden's — no, it's Athelstan's; there's no mistaking it — cuts through the air swift as a blade and sharp as a fang, and the sight of the warden's statue, a macabre stone monument, is a spear through the chest. Tristan stumbles, breathless and exhausted, a beast out of water powered simply by his instinct and will to survive.

YOU WILL FORGET MY VISIT SOON ENOUGH. I won't. He doesn't know whether he says it aloud or if it simply echoes off the walls of his mind. He would never have counted Athelstan among his many regrets but it takes little for the truth to surface: perhaps it's his fault that Athelstan has been denied death yet again, that the peace they've each fought for in their time continues to prove as fragile as glass. At the statue's feet, Tristan mourns his wrongdoings, tears mixing with the blood practically tattooed onto his face.

“ I ... I never would. ” gritting his teeth is the only way he can keep his anguish at bay, even if he feels it fighting to rend his jaw in half and escape him. “ I'd follow you under the fucking earth if you asked me to, so — ! I'm sorry ... let me — let me fix it, Thel, please — ”

Tristan doesn't know when exactly his body gives out, but eventually there's silence again and Athelstan's likeness is gone. He ignores the full - body agony that grips him as he stands and climbs up the crumbling stairs: he's not meant to stay here forever, no matter how much the Dread Wolf might want to keep him chained. The promises he's sworn need fulfilling.

beyond the storm, open.

assorted reaver - related things i'm thinking about today for no particular reason:

Tristan's a physical fighter. It's not just about the fact he's a frontline fighter, it's about the fact that if disarmed, he will resort to his fists. This is the main reason he always binds his hands like a professional fighter would, regardless of whether hand wraps would fit with the rest of his outfit. At times where he definitely can't wrap them (e.g., Winter Palace), he'll be wearing gloves. His hands, while he takes good care of them, are far more in line with his life as a fighter than as a (now disowned) noble. In his spare time, and when he needs to decompress, you'll find him boxing, maybe even punching the head off of a training dummy.

his skin is hardened in places, owing to the presence of rashvine in the dragon blood distillates that he prepares. Rashvine is poisonous and extremely dangerous if it enters the bloodstream, as it causes grey - colored calcifications to appear on the skin. Reavers know how to avoid the poisonous side - effects and take advantage of the skin - hardening properties (without the discoloration) but unless the application is topical in the form of a salve, they can't control where these calcifications happen.

he'll streak blood across his face as an intimidation tactic, but also right before / during combat: the smell of fresh dragon blood triggers a 'shark that just smelled blood' response. Really, when he reaches into the blood vial at his belt, everyone knows to give him a good amount of space.

post - combat check - ups are paramount; in fact, they're the single most important thing anyone can do for him. The adrenaline rush and its corresponding painkilling effects are devastating; it's a collective effort to make sure he's not going to collapse from blood loss from a hidden wound.

he makes for an excellent sparring buddy. His stamina is seemingly endless, and the fact he can take way more punishment that most means that his partner can go to town on him. Additionally, Tristan has excellent breath control, which clearly helps with overall oxygenation and endurance. He'll happily help with breathing exercises, because being in Skyhold only made him adapt even better (think of athletes and how they train in high altitude / low oxygen environments to increase oxygen capacity).

he's developed an incredible sense of smell, and it's similar in sensitivity to that of a qunari's. It's great when it comes to tracking, but the downside is that he's now overly sensitive to things such as perfumes, some metals / elements (think sulfur, copper, etc.), and salt. Not so fun fact, he came back from the Winter Palace with a raging headache, and had to make frequent trips to the balconies and the courtyard to manage his nausea. At least half of that mission was spent away from the ballroom, so it wasn't as bad as it could've been.

apropos of the second ask about that subject I'm answering, I wish I had the words to explain just how much being stuck in the prison of regret affected Tristan. Not only was it the second time he's done that (staying in the Fade; the first being ten years ago, because he stayed in place of Hawke and the Warden; he wouldn't have either one of their lives on his conscience, plus he still had the Anchor), but being back in the fold as a leader with the Evanuris as his next world - ending matter has given him plenty of extra regrets. The one that marks him as prime candidate material for the prison is his choice regarding Harding (to avoid spoilers one more time, iykyk), and the fact that Solas double - crosses him one more time? Actually devastating. He's all but losing his mind for the first week of his absence, haunted by both past and present regrets.

the only thing he's got left at the end of it all, and this is exactly what Vivienne told him after surviving Haven. is his anger. Anger can save you when everything else is gone. It powers him to keep going, face up to what the Fade throws at him one more time, and get out. Anger is his actual and at this point unending battery for most of the last third, except for whoever looks after him once the team pulls him out. Those people get to see him actually break down and he couldn't even tell them why specifically; it's 100% a mix of relief at being out, gratitude at being looked for so tirelessly, and just plain fucking exhaustion. A second rodeo in the Fade is a harrowing experience, and he barely gets any time to recover before the final assault on Minrathous. This man is paste by the time the game ends.

do you remember those you’ve killed? or are there so many that their faces fade together? // from émilie asking for a friend

there's an unspoken rule within and between some mercenary companies, and it goes as follows: you talk about the jobs you take, not the people you meet. It's a simple and elaborate way to say that what should matter is the endeavor as a whole and not whatever fool, justified or otherwise, that has the misfortune of meeting their end at your hands. It's a rule Tristan follows to this day, too; he may have shed a life of solitude for one of infamy, but a mercenary remains a mercenary whether in rough leathers or expensive satin.

it's hard to remember how many lives he's taken, only that despite the favor he shows diplomacy, the number is larger than he'll ever be able to illustrate or even make amends for. Tristan half - turns to face @mercysought and though he is sure of what he wants to say, he still considers his answer. Something not unlike shame blooms in his chest. Men have just as many ways to justify death as to deal it. [ Moments and questions like these convince him of the Maker's ever - present attention upon His followers. Maybe it's foolish to ascribe divine intent to a mortal's question, but Tristan has faced many a trial already: what would be one more? ]

he does not hesitate. “ I remember some, but not all of them. ” He considers for another moment's pause. “ The first life I took will always remain, clear as day. After a certain time and amount ... yes, one's next enemy becomes just another enemy. Another threat on your life, another body to cut down. But I don't think any of us are meant to remember every last instance of violence we take part in, really. That weight could kill us faster than any blade, arrow or poison. ”

now he turns fully, and the war room somehow runs cold despite the fire in the corner. Tristan wonders then if, somehow, Émilie refers to the blood frenzy that minstrels, gossip and rumor all adore to talk about and twist into its own kind of sordid tale. At times like those, she would be right: faces fade together into a red mist, and it is only when it subsides that Tristan can gaze at those that remain.

“ But the truth is, I remember enough. To say otherwise would be self - delusion. ”

beyond the storm, open.