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kettlequills · 2 years

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the champion of the skein

for the wonderful @blazingsnark ! a bit of fdb laat feat. mephala. its not super long im afraid but !! enjoy!

The Spiral Skein has many doors, under chairs and inside cupboards, gathering beneath beds and the secret cracks just small enough for a spider to squirm through. Mephala’s eyes are thousandfold, her hooked legs sprawl across every nation, every age, every war tent and peace council. None are big enough for Laataaz to crawl through.

They search, exhaustively, in the early years. After the shine of silence, stillness, sleep, has worn off, before the hopelessness sets in. Like a poison, their awareness of their fate saps their strength. Underneath it, a hidden blade, is the cruel, sweet relief.

Paarthurnax gets slower and slower, the webs settle on him thickly as a veil, a thousand spiders make their homes in the dents of his scales, the cracks and chips of his horns. He doesn’t stir them away as often as he used to. Eventually, he stops doing even that.

Grey in scale and grey in wing and grey in soul, he curls up and shrinks like a spider fist-curled in death. Captivity and dragons don’t mix well; he is coiling into himself, voiceless and old and no longer the howling friend seizing them in his wings when the blast hit to save their stupid, fragile flesh. Oh, the scars are there, still, Morokei’s magical attack blazing through the membranes like they’re lit from beneath by a deep, cold blue, but the heart is gone. Paarthurnax looks at them, and in his eyes they see only tiredness, no recognition of the soul he damned himself to try to save one last time.

He shouldn’t have tried. There is nothing worth saving, only gossamer spidersilk stretched over the void of a person, catching flies too foolish to stay away. Killer, murderer, lover. How she had smiled, and smiled, and smiled, when she cupped Laataaz’s cheeks in her hands, scraped her nails down their throat, and told them with such loving pride: You are a Prince’s plaything now, champion.

Laataaz hugs their knees close to their chest, craving the pocket of warmth between their thighs and their ribs. Skin brushes skin; sensitive, erotic, but when they rest their forehead on their knees it makes the bruises of their eyes ache. The spiders whisper over their spine; Laataaz’s shiver is an afterthought, their bare toes curling into the stringy grey dust. Where did their boots go?

They look up, through the dreary, dusty darkness, the muted semi-glow, even after years here, they haven’t found where the light comes from. Some of the webs are pitch black, black as under cupboards, but some are only black as moonlit nights, with some faint greyness coming in from somewhere, just enough for Laataaz to see shapes that flicker and skitter in the gloom.

They can’t see her. Her. The queen of the webs, but they know she’s there. Watching, a finger in every pie, a smile for the dying, a dagger for the lying, as beautiful, as multifaceted, as the lights that bloom behind Laataaz’s eyes when they’re a wheeze from fainting, their own hands wrapped around their neck and squeezing like they can crush out the Voice that lurks like a traitor inside. They can’t tear it out, the dragonsoul, the death-trap jaw that hungers and hungers and hungers…

Wyrm-tongued, wyrm-hearted, a priest with no god, a warrior with no general. Except for her. Her.

There are always legs, moving, tiny tapping feet. Laataaz looks down at their hands and find them greyed out, longer and more than they remember, furred over with dust. They don’t notice the tickling, anymore. They don’t notice the webs. Their robes hang, but no breeze seeks the rents and the rips, and webs cover the holes, so they don’t have to see their skin. Skin lovers have caressed, once, that loyal worshippers rubbed with oils until they gleamed like a blade, like a beauty, every part of them exposed to the cold, old air with only a fur across their shoulders and a mask on their face. Skin lovers so tenderly wiped clean of the blood, afterwards. All the blood, all that blood, it takes them hours.

It doesn’t look how they remember. Soon, nothing will. Laataaz can feel themselves folding, being swallowed, digested into the Skein. It is not a bad thing. It is not a foul thing. It feels like cocoonment, like sleep, like drugged, dizzy daydreams. But, for her, her, Laataaz would curl up and let the daedra that lurk just out of eyesight take them, wrap them, make them, mark them, fuck them into churning oblivion. But Laataaz is a Prince’s plaything now, a champion, and all that they are is another’s to wield.

They have only ever been good at being a weapon. Believing, even for a moment, that they could think, that they could feel, that they could make decisions for themselves… No, Laataaz knows the cost of that folly now. So does the world. All those bodies burning, those lives ending, and for what? A dream of freedom?

The blood, all that blood. It takes them hours.

Laataaz inhales, then settles their will around their spine, and sinks their hand into the sticky webs. Something nips at their fingers, they grimace. It burns, it stings.

They’d had gloves, once. They don’t remember where they went. Frayed off, string by string, from their swollen knuckles, secreted away to webs and wisps. They’d gone to the fight, that final fight, on the steps of Bromjunaar with the power of the Cult arrayed against them clothed, not a pet, not leashed, lashed. The leather had rubbed against them, the robes had whispered around their ankles, but their face, their face…

Laataaz doesn’t think, they don’t feel, they don’t choose. They are a weapon, a hunter, a killer, a lover, wherever she needs, a wyrm-hearted, wyrm-tongued priest with one queen.

Gritting their teeth, they sink one hand in, then the next. It comes out with a squelch. In this way, hand over hand, they climb through the rings, to the heart of the Skein… and the spider queen at its centre.

Mephala awaits them, queenly and bored. Are there words for what she is? Too huge to speak words into existence, too small to see, with a thousand eyes and none at all, she is a presence, an inanimate darkness, a cutclaw smile around dripping jaws. She stretches out one hand and the realm bends to her will, and Laataaz is kneeling before her, the carapace of her thick spider half glossed and gleaming before their nose. Her red eyes smoke in the gloom, like embers, her purple skin bruised as the flesh of plums.

Laataaz has never seen a plum, before her, but just because they can’t leave the Skein alone doesn’t mean they are unused. In the markets, the palaces, the shacks and the woods of the world, they have done hot and cruel bloodwork, whenever their queen wills it. Some of them have things a human from the icebound north has never seen, but they all die the same way.

“What do you want from me?” Laat begs to know, and Mephala laughs.

Beautiful as the whisper of eightlegged revels, it washes sticky-soft the worries from their mind with the kiss of its venom. Paarthurnax, dying in the prison of his own mind, matters not when Mephala is looking down at Laataaz with such unbearable fondness in her lips wet with poison. Laataaz has been a possession all their life, never have they been so loved for it.

“What mortal mind do you think you have that you can fathom the purpose of a god?” Her claws curve the side of Laataaz’s face. “You take my gifts, you haunt my realm, and you worship me, because you know there are things beyond your ken in this world. I am one. Where is this trust now, my priest? Do you no longer think my webs are weaving round your enemies?”

“My queen,” says Laataaz, “I am loyal, you know I am loyal-“

“-which is why,” says Mephala, tilting a finger under their chin and lifting it sharply, enough that their spine has to strain straight, “I am kind enough to permit your doubt, this time.”

Laataaz sighs, their eyes sliding away from hers. Their breath is shallow. The claw digs slightly under their chin when their trembling muscles falter, and their stomach clenches around liquid fire. The pinpricks the claws leave remind them of the weakness of their human skin, no dragon scale to protect their vulnerable parts. The near-sexual excitement of the old bloodthirst wells like deep-plunged water poured over droughted lands, scudding across a hard surface, soaking thirstily into the cracks. Corresponding heat beats in time to the snick of her eyelids closing one by one, the flashing of dizzy red among the darkness. They want to hurt. They want to feel incandescently alive, in the way only she can make them feel, in this dead, decaying world of drying spiderskeins.

“I remain whatever you make of me, my queen.”

“Yes,” murmurs Mephala, and condescends to bend her great neck to kiss Laataaz’s forehead. Her lips are soft, and she lingers. Cascading fireworks alight under her lips, tingling through Laataaz’s aching body. They strain into her gentleness, eyes falling closed and swaying helplessly into her arms. How long has it been, since they have been touched, loved? Were they ever, by any but her? All that blood, it takes hours to scrub off. But when Mephala’s nails scrape down their shivering shoulders and catch in the rents of their robes, her hands come away clean, as if there is no blood there at all. “And I will make you glorious, my champion.”

“As my queen desires,” Laataaz says. Boldly, they touch her cheek, the flecks of scaling that cover her proud cheekbones rough under their hand. It is a blind touch; they are not so disrespectful to raise their head to look her in her manifold eyes. Not so foolish to think what is left of them will survive such a contact. “Whatever my queen desires.”

“Desire?” Mephala chuckles. “No, not mine, champion. But your queen is gracious - come and please her.”

“Thank you,” Laataaz whispers, entranced, and rises up on their tiptoes for a venom-laced kiss.

Mephala permits the illusion of mortality for a moment, feeding Laataaz her forked tongue, teasing them with scrapes of her snake’s fangs. Laataaz trembles and moans under her attention, the pricks of her legs closing around their back like the bars of a cage; Mephala could open her jaw and swallow their head whole. Her tongue is overwhelmingly long and sinuous, flexible as a snake it chokes Laataaz’s throat, laps against their palate as she draws back. Saliva and venom mix, stinging sweetly down their chin as her flicking tongue thrusts and curls down their throat. Laataaz clings to her shoulders, the ridges of her carapace clicking smooth against their skin, hard and unyielding.

“You are a wretched creation,” Mephala says to them, as she withdraws, “Your hunger cannot be sated by even this feast. You are naught but a blunt blade, godkiller, so close to once losing your edge.”

Laataaz shudders, not disagreeing but unable to hide the sharpness of her words aimed like a knife. It is true the emptiness yawns within them, that crying ache that split wide with the first dragon soul they ever swallowed and ever since lurks within them, a canyon between the two sides of their bloodied heart. It is all they are, on the inside; a hollow, craving fulfilment.

Mephala rakes her nails over Laataazin’s chest, scoring fierce lines. Laataaz imagines dizzily that she could reach in and feel it, that snowstorm of catching hooks, could fold her fist into where dragon souls are crushed and force open the jaws long enough to feed something warm in its place.

“I have a god for you to kill, hunter.”

She steps back, a cruelness in her many eyes, and the webs swing and gravity yanks out from under their feet. Laataaz plummets through the abyss, ripping straight through one web with daedra screaming on their back. They twist midair and bite open the daedra’s throat, teeth scraping harshly against the carapace, blood and venom stinging their cheeks, their hands. They hit a web strong enough to bear them hard enough to bounce, but the second impact sends them straight through the strands.

They hook one hand into the webs and dangle from it, arms burning. A glow from below catches their eye; Mephala, many thousand times larger than before, stretching up towards them, one hand larger than Paarthurnax as it reaches to swat them, errantly as a fly.

Laataaz crawls away, but the stickiness of the webs hinders them. The webs cling to them closely, tearing their ragged robes when they pull away, ripping at their pruned flesh beneath. Venom bursts in bleeding pulses from the torn webs, glowing like silver purple veins. An arcane heart, and Laataaz dangling from the shredded ventricles, hands wet with stinging sap and blood.

Mephala catches them in one enormous hand and presses into their chest with one finger, hard enough the breath wheezes from their lungs, organs against spine. They hook their arms into the web and hang on doggedly, feeling their muscles burning but not daring to relax into the pressure of her pinch. Their legs kick helplessly over the yawning darkness, a thousand beetle-like eyes glitter back in the dark, carnivorous mouths stretched wide and ready.

Mephala would not let them die, they don’t think. But she would let them fall.

“Whoever you wish, my queen, I will find them,” Laataaz rasps out, “God or daedra, dragon or man, they are already dead, the moment you willed it.”

The Prince of Lies smiles.

#laataazin #inkwrites #mephala #tes

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elsewhereuniversity · 3 years

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haha oh no girl I sent you my true name in a zipped .txt file by accident 😳😳😳 please don't look it's so embarrassing 😫 I mean unless you want to Perceive Me 🙃😉😏

#vignettes #hahaha #blazingsnark

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tonal-modulator · 3 years

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🥛 - As a Buoyant Armiger, what was his(?) favorite song or poem or story to offer people?

(🥛 - Adyn)

Hmmmmmmmm. Heck. We don't really have bards in TES3 so I get to make something up.

I do like to imagine that the "Armiger Marching Song" (from ESO) is practically a campfire/comfort song for Buoyant Armigers in general (and also that Vivec will sometimes quote it to them, reminding them to "step light, stride far" etc.), so I imagine Adyn might sometimes sing that to themself even when they're in Cyrodiil.

But as for stories/songs/poems to offer to others specifically, that wouldn't work. I bet as the Tribunal declines and Dagoth Ur grows in strength, the Temple et al. work hard to make sure people think the fight is going better than it is. So even if Adyn might not have participated in many highly successful raids, they probably know some stories of a handful of grand victories, and know them well enough to be able to be able to retell them however they like.

So even when they're in Cyrodiil, they might get some passing remark from someone being like, "Oh, what's it like in Morrowind? Heard your gods are practically missing," and respond with like "Missing? Nothing of the sort!" and then end up like climbing on tables and regaling the entire tavern with a story of warriors of glass, armed with their wits, their spears, and their divine blessings, taking on cultists who outnumbered them two to one—no! ten to one!—and winning the day against all odds. Depending on their mood, they might give the story a singular hero, cornered, looking like it's the end, but managing to triumph over the bad guys and claim victory for the people of Morrowind. Or maybe they'd make it a team effort, or even a love story, or a tragedy where only one survives—still winning, but at what cost? And they'd probably make some gold in the process for the entertainment.

And even if they know it's just a story, I think deep down they realize that they cling to it so hard because they just really want to believe that the Armigers—or the Temple in general—could have *some* hope of winning the war against Dagoth Ur and the Sixth House, especially when things get scary.

(send me an emoji and a question about an OC!)

#adyn #razak's ocs #thank you! :D #blazingsnark

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volzaannir · 4 years

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Faenlir!

Full Name: Faenlir (’Pack Leader Faenlir’ later on ) Gender and Sexuality: Cis male, bisexual (leaning towards men) Pronouns: He/Him/His Ethnicity/Species: Bosmer, werewolf Birthplace and Birthdate: Malabal Tor, 1st of Last Seed Guilty Pleasures: Napping, basically getting to act like a dog, snuggling by a fire Phobias: Snakes, death (mostly the afterlife) What They Would Be Famous For: Being Hircine’s champion, being the savior of Valenwood What They Would Get Arrested For: Murder LMAO OC You Ship Them With: @distantcowboysounds ‘s Tululla to an extent, theyre friends with benefits sdkjfhskjdfh OC Most Likely To Murder Them: His brother or father Favorite Movie/Book Genre: Action, suspense, fantasy Least Favorite Movie/Book Cliche: Comedy, romance, sci-fi Talents and/or Powers: Being a werewolf, archery, speed, survival skills, night vision, enhanced hearing and smell Why Someone Might Love Them: Puppy™, protective, willing to learn, surprisingly adorable, hilarious in the most shocking ways, a Mother Hen Why Someone Might Hate Them: Werewolf ofc, hotheaded, confrontational, possessive, skittish How They Change: Through the main quests of Valenwood, and basically getting to know what love and heartbreak feels like, as well as finding out his whole race is against him for being who he is Why You Love Them: He is BABY and is my feral lil dude

#BLESS UP MAN #tes #eso #eso oc #tes oc #faenlir tag #ask meme #blazingsnark

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collegeofwinterhold · 4 years

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blazingsnark replied to your post “screenshot this. bethesda will make a side with the orcs questline but...”

The leak was revealed to be false, you'll be happy to hear~

do u think u could toss me the source of that? :0

#blazingsnark

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reshiiii · 4 years

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∞

youtube

Metallica: Welcome Home (Sanitarium)

Sleep, my friend, and you will see

That dream is my reality

#ask #blazingsnark #šum i guess

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scalecallerpeak · 4 years

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👻 How did the four HOKs work? How did they feel about their place within the group?

👻 Octavius DeArchisThe Four Hero’s of Kvatch where Havoc Kingheart, Dar’Razja, Octavius DeArchis and Theodorus.

The group was essentially a rag tag group brought together to save the world, with Havoc being the designated leader of the group and ‘the’ hero of Kvatch in total.

Octavius joined in hopes it would help him find his brother Gavinus, Dar’Razja joined to get out of some deep criminal related hot water, and Theodorus joined because he’s like 15 and wanted to be part of something bigger than himself.

The group wasn’t essentially well mixed and was mostly Havoc leading and everyone else following, but they needed a 4v4 against the Horsemen. After the Oblivion Crisis ended the group split apart faster than than ye can say bye, they all leave on bad terms hating Havoc

#Asks #Octavius #Havoc #Theodorus #Dar'razja #Hero of Kvatch #TES OC #blazingsnark

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celeryw · 2 years

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thank you luka for the tag!!! @applejee

edited the ranks with also like the categories they would be in my head. i also am willing to die on this hill lol

tagging @nullians @blazingsnark @60sec400 and anyone else who would like to do this!!! i would like to see hehe

#cel speaks #tagged in #thank u luka!!!

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daggerfall · 5 years

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🔥 Neloth

its fun to hate him but like he’s not even really a fun character. he’s just an asshole with like, no real good qualities to make up for it. fucking abnur tharn at least has a few good one-liners that make him actually sound like a real person who possibly cares under all that rudeness.

#ask meme #blazingsnark #asks

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rainsonata · 7 years

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A Day Off

Fandom/Pairing: Elsword; hints of VCBH Rating: K Word Count: 1,626

Summary: With no missions and chores to be done, Elesis was bored when she caught Raven walking back to the inn. Birthday fic for @blazingsnark.

Edit: Oops, deleted original post and reposted to add a Read More bar. Sorry for taking up space!

Shouts and murmurs overlapped one another, swords clattered against the blacksmith’s hammer, and wind chimes clang with the sea breeze carried over from the ports. Foreign spices overwhelmed one’s sense, a mixture of everything that made it hard to pinpoint its components. Even the air felt different, sharp and salty to the taste if one was to close their eyes and breath in.

It was hard to believe this was the merchant’s area. Everything about the city was pristine, sculpted out of white marble with gold and blue stones decorating the exteriors. There were cracks on the floor and several of the buildings, but not many. They contrasted against the ruined buildings in Hamel’s outskirts, where the demons’ influences had spread.

Bouncing in her heels, Elesis stopped when she caught a familiar face among the crowds of merchants, civilians, and soldiers. She pushed through the packed streets and waved with both of her arms, happy to see him.

“Heya, Raven!”

The Veteran Commander did a double take when she approached him, but gave a steady smile, “Hello, didn’t expect to see you.”

Why? Because most of the group was out, there was no need to upgrade weapons, shop for equipment, or any of that because they were already completed on their last free day? The redhead crossed her arms and twitched.

“Shopping for dinner?” She noticed Raven holding grocery bags that could feed two or three households for a week, although with how big the Elparty had grown, it wasn’t an exaggeration. It was already hard to balance the party’s money without including living expenses like eating and resting at inns. Would it be ungrateful to ask Aisha to conjure food out of thin air?

“Yeah,” Raven chuckled, “Elsword ate the last bit of leftovers for lunch.”

“Let me help!” The Blazing Heart didn’t wait for an answer and stole three bags to carry with both hands.

There was a bounce in her footsteps when she almost skipped back to the inn they were staying at. Elesis counted her lucky stars that their destination was close to the marketplace, a few minutes’ walk at most, but the extra weight made it feel longer when they stopped to take a breather.

“Are you done with training already?” Raven asked.

She shrugged, “There’s only so much training you can do in a day.”

He nodded in understanding, “It’s hard to stand still when it’s quiet, isn’t it?”

“They’re missing out on the fun we’re having,” Elesis joked. Her voice was steady, but was it convincing enough? The look Raven was giving her gave her the feeling that it wasn’t.

Although none of them said it out loud, the red sparks threatening to erupt from her fingertips seemed to express the sentiment the most. Hamel was partially submerged because of the demon invasion, leaving their recent missions to involve investigating the depths of the sea. Being fire users, that meant she, her brother, and Raven were for lack of better word, useless. Even before she joined her brother and his friends, she was rarely alone because she had her men to think of and worked with them through many of the missions assigned to them. It was unrealistic to think she would never stumble on obstacles that would block her ability to fight, but watching the party leave without them felt wrong.

“You think those four know how to swim?” Elesis mused at the funny image: a mage, elf, nasod, and child wading underwater in search for clues to the El’s whereabouts. Could nasods swim? When she asked the nasod queen, she was provided with a long explanation she couldn’t make head of. She was going to assume it was a yes if Eve had no qualms about going near water.

“Chung and Rena should,” Raven said. “I don’t know about the other two. Do you?”

“Of course!” No child from Ruben grew up without learning to swim at Lake Noahs. Among house wives’ whispers were rumors that the water had special property that could heal the tired and the sick. “Do you?”

“Yes, but it would be unwise for me to.”

It took Elesis a moment to understand the statement until Raven waved his nasod arm for her attention. Oooh, right, nasod arm. Waterproof or not, the additional weight would slow them down.

When they returned to the inn, the front lobby was packed with travelers and soldiers lined up at the front desk. Squeezing past the crowd and making their way back to their rooms, it took them several tries to get the key to work so they could open the door. Once they stored most of the food, Elesis followed Raven to the chicken to see the Veteran Commander wearing a pink apron.

Was it already time? Elesis glanced at the stove clock to see it was half past four, then turned her head to see the sun high up and gleaming down through the windows. The sun here felt different too, less intense and cooler than Velder.

“They’re not back.” The redhead rested her eyes on the empty main room connected to the kitchen. It was a suite styled rooming with a hallway leading to multiple rooms for different people, perfect to house full parties such as themselves.

“The enemy must be hiding the duke well,” Raven opened a bag of flour to pour into a bowl with a plastic cup. He dug through the pantry for the paprika, salt, and pepper to toss with the flour to make the seasoning.

“Some mission,” Elesis scratched the back of her head. “All this to save someone who can’t keep his head above the water.” She grabbed a knife from the drawer to open a bag of vegetables on the counter. A number of questions spurred in her mind as she began chopping them on the cutting board beside raven. Unable to control the panic from the demon invasion, going missing, being rumored to be kidnapped by mermen of all things… was Duke Rod Ross worthy of his title?

A smile tugged at the corner of Raven’s mouth at the play on words, “It’s hard to sympathize when his secretary said this wasn’t the first time. Nobles in Hamel aren’t too different from the ones in Velder, it seems.”

“It seems so,” Elesis laughed.

Despite the struggles she had when she was stationed in Velder, nostalgia overwhelmed her when she was thought of the people she met and the places she traveled to with her men. Hearing Raven’s occasional comments about the army made her happy to see she wasn’t alone.

“It’s hard talking to them sometimes,” she admitted. “It’s like they’re talking another language!”

“They do say things differently than the common folk for certain things,” Raven agreed. “Didn’t you live in Velder for a time?”

“I did, but it was mostly teaching my men how to fight more than talking to the nobles.”

“We’ll have to cooperate with them more in Hamel,” he said. “Are you okay with that?” While he appreciated Elesis’ enthusiasm, he knew Hamel was different from the experience Elesis must have had with Velder holding less emphasis on nobility but was more military based.

“Me? Nah, I’ll be fine!” The Blazing Heart shrugged it off, but paused when she thought she heard someone walking down the hallway. That must be Elsword, she noted.

Raven must have heard the footsteps too and said, “Well, Elsword seems to represent us and I worry if we encounter someone who won’t be as forgiving if he accidentally steps out of line…”

Her expression wavered. Elsword did use a Ruben slang a merchant mistakened as an insult when the Rune Slayer tried to make a bargain the other day. Perhaps she needed to talk to him. She pondered on what to tell her younger brother.

“You seem fluent in doing this sort of thing,” Elesis made her decision. “Teach me how to talk to nobles then!”

“H-hey, I’m no expert!” He made a choking noise she assumed as surprise…of happiness? Raven coughed, “I wasn’t born with a silver spoon-”

“And that’s why you’ll be a great teacher!” She beamed, “You tell me the common folk equivalence with the fancy talk and I’ll teach Elsword afterward!”

“Fancy talk?” The older man blurted out a loud laugh before controlling himself and stifle a smile. Raven finished mixing the eggs with water in a separate bowl and a bit of salt and pepper.

She finished cutting the last slices of onion and bell pepper, stringing them together on a kabob and was pleased with herself. It looked like Raven was almost done too with washing the chicken and covering them with the seasoning he made earlier. All was left was to cook them on a frying pan and wait for them to cool.

Elesis grinned, “I’ll pick it up, no problem!”

Raven returned one and chuckled, “I’ll see what I can do then. Tomorrow?”

She beamed, “Tomorrow, after breakfast.” Elesis watched Raven heat up the stove in preparation to fry the chicken and had a gleam in her eyes when she offered to add extra paprika to the first piece.

“Be careful,” he said.

“Hey,” she said with a wink. “Just a little.”

Raven stared, “You poured at least two spoons.”

Elesis waved it off, “This isn’t for me.”

Color drained from Raven’s face before he realized when she meant when he caught her with a devious expression.

“This is for Elsword eating the last sandwich,” the redhead cackled while Raven groaned. It looked like Raven did have a soft heart after all as Rena claimed. She couldn’t wait to tell the elf the good news tonight when the rest of them came home.

Author Notes: Thanks being a good friend and going over my writing over the years! I’m glad I found your fics long ago and got to talk to you u v u/. Don’t let the hot summer melt you!

#elsword #eltag #elesis (elsword)#raven (elsword)#veteran commander #blazing heart #blazingsnark #oh no i forgot to put read more i'm dumb #was i awake when i posted that?#deleted the other post and replaced with this #my writing #elsword fanfiction #mywriting

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imagineelrios · 7 years

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Headcanon that Rena doesn’t just find it cruel to kill animals for food, she literally can’t digest meat. That’s it. That’s why she’s such a strict vegetarian. Elves are weird.

#rena #submission #blazingsnark #elsword #elsword imagines

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elsewhereuniversity · 3 years

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I think my best friend is a changeling???? I don't know I was cramming for a calc 3 test and triple integrals straight up weren't making sense to me and she's a hard math major so she was helping, and at some point (I think like 3 AM) I said "haha you should just take this instead of me" but it was a joke, right? It was a joke but she just looked all thoughtful and anyway I fell asleep and I overslept and I woke up when it was half an hour past the test start time so I went 'shit' and (1/2)

I was going to try and apologize to Professor Millman because, y'know, he's a real witch but not in the actual witch sense probably, but she (my best friend) met me at the door and pushed me back inside and told me not to worry about it???? Anyway I got a ninety-six percent and Millman said it was my best test yet if only I'd remembered to write the MatLab code portion, which I know she struggles with. So. Do you think she's a changeling???? And if so, am I in her debt???? How do I thank her??

Perhaps she’s a changeling; perhaps she’s simply got some other tricks up her sleeve. That’s ultimate a conversation for the two of you; I will not speculate.

Are you in her debt? She has done you a favor, certainly. But it seems like it was done solely out of love for you; she explicitly told you not to worry. I would venture to say that she never expected payment - but that if you are half the friend to her that she is to you, you will find a way to thank her regardless. How to do that, however, is once again best between you two - she’s your friend, you have a better idea than I what she’d like. Buy her coffee? Clear some time to hang out? Draw her something?

#vignettes #friendship #blazingsnark

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tonal-modulator · 4 years

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Hi it's my dumb ass again but I'm curious about Milia! She tries to extend Almalexia's mercy whenever possible, yes? Is there a time where she wanted to extend mercy but couldn't - or, a time when her first instinct was to be cruel, but she offered mercy anyhow?

Milia is the Buoyant Armiger, so while she definitely serves all Three to some extent, she's mostly about Vivec. Llevura is the Hand of Almalexia who definitely makes an overt point of trying to extend Almalexia's mercy when possible. Buuut maybe I'll answer for both of them since I'm not positive which one you meant and the similarities/differences might be interesting maybe?

I do think the two of them would make similar decisions a lot of the time—at least in terms of major in-game decisions that are like "harsh vs. merciful"—but I think they have different approaches to get there. For Milia, I think she's inclined to rationalize her way to mercy or otherwise bending/straying from Tribunal doctrine, recognizing that a lot of things are not clear-cut, especially in the field and outside of Morrowind (even when dealing with House Dunmer who should theoretically be bound by Tribunal law regardless of location). Llevura, on the other hand, has stricter definitions of Tribunal law that she's supposed to uphold, but might show mercy anyway, not because she can find a way to justify it, but just for mercy's sake.

I've been trying to think of good examples but I'm having some trouble. One that comes to mind that isn't a "red decision" but is just like part of the Pact questline is that Dunmer in The Rift who's like a "practical necromancer" for the Pact and turns you into a skeleton for some reason that I've totally forgotten. They both hate the dude, but they know they can't do anything because 1. they're outside of Morrowind, and 2. the Pact has already decided they're chill with him. So Milia is basically like "I hate this but I'll go along with it because it's the only choice we have, apparently." And Llevura is basically the same with an added "But you can bet you're getting a big lecture on Tribunal law and the evils of necromancy as soon as we're done here." (And they're both like "If this goes wrong i stt3 i will Haunt You.")

Another one is (ESO main quest spoilers) at the end of the main quest where you can decide to free Mannimarco or not. Milia does not, because she's still pretty emotionally messed up from getting killed. She knows freeing him would be the "merciful" thing to do, and it's not even a matter of "he hurt a lot of people and will definitely hurt more" (though she does use that a little bit to sort of justify it to herself afterwards) or a "well this is what happens when you worship Daedra" thing. It's really just a matter of personal retribution.

Llevura hasn't finished the main quest yet, but I think she will have to think about it but ultimately decide to free him, because while he's pretty irredeemable and shows absolutely no remorse, letting someone rot and be tortured in Coldharbour for all eternity is basically the epitome of Not Merciful and also not a decision for a mortal to make (even through inaction), and she doesn't want that on her conscience. And she figures she's killed him once; she can do it again if needed.

There are definitely also cases where they'd be the opposite—where Milia would let something slide with some handwavey justification, and Llevura would be like "absolutely not, we're not doing that"/"I'm not letting you go"/whatever. I think Llevura just has a tighter line in the sand ash that she's specifically willing to break under certain circumstances for the purposes of showing mercy, whereas Milia just has a fuzzier line.

I also think they'd clash a lot if they were to interact and I really want to write them in a scenario where they have to cooperate on something sometime because I think it would be fun. And might involve Talvini throwing wards between them every once in a while before things get too hairy.

#thank you! ur ass is not dumb #milia #llevura #razak's ocs #markynaz #blazingsnark #ask post

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