#lysanthir

[alileft]

Angst‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️🤫🧏🧏‍♂️

#spellward bound #lysanthir #dunedeca when are you coming back?

[hirambaelor]

morning, a hallway leading out towards the training yard, the castle ( @princelysanthir​​. )

There’s a low-grade constant panic that seems to have made a home in his chest since he returned from the war he’s not quite used to. Panic that’s brought along a pounding headache to match. He would be one of the first to admit that it makes his temper even shorter than it was before, even if others might not have thought that possible. And the paranoia, founded as it is to know that his own flesh and blood is doing all he can to take away his birthright for himself, is something else entirely, not something that he can remember ever feeling before. That’s the difference, he thinks, nothing feels certain any longer, when before there was no question in his life. Not to say that he isn’t still given everything he asks for by those around them, but there’s a very clear change in the way many look at him that he knows it might not be this way for long.

It’s hard for Hiram to comprehend this decision, though, to try to throw off the balance of their entire family, if not the whole kingdom for the tradition of it all, while their father lies there dying. The worst of it is that he doesn’t even feel certain his brother doesn’t have anything to do with that, because the betrayal is already proof enough he doesn’t know him anywhere near as well as he believed he did. 

The only thing there is to do is to prepare for the worst case scenario. He still has a hint of faith that surely his own brother wouldn’t be so cruel and cowardly as to try something like poison him to take care of things before a fight could erupt, so civil war seems only right to prepare for. Luckily, fighting is his strong suit, and so that’s what he intends to do. Which is why he’s on his way to the training grounds to drum up a little enthusiasm, and let out a bit of his anger while he’s at all. Two birds one stone, and all of that. 

Of course, nothing’s easy, though, and he can’t even make it out into the open air without running into the source of his headache. It’s tempting to just ignore his, walk past without acknowledging his brother, but he’s in a terrible mood, and here he is faced with the cause. He’s never been someone to choose peace, anyway.

“Brother,” Hiram greets him blandly, crossing his arms over his chest as he looks down at him. Sneaking around, always sneaking around now, it makes him antsy, makes him want to find a way to figure out the details of his plans, how he’s going to try to fuck him over. “Are you sneaking off to keep plotting against me? Really, Lysanthir, I’d rather you do it to my face. I’ve always hated cowards.”

#( lysanthir. ) #( lysanthir 001. )

[taery-s]

     the Castle Library, early evening on Taerys’ first day back, @princelysanthir​

When she was young, she used to escape to the library to get away from everything else. It was her safe place, her favorite spot in the castle: always quiet, always empty, a place where she could go when she grew tired of the constant demands on her attention, her brothers’ bickering, and everything else that came with being not only a member of the royal family, but also one of two court magicians responsible for taking care of every magical need said family could muster. 

So it’s no surprise that the same library is where she finds herself gravitating first thing when she gets back to the castle, immediately after her bags had been whisked away to her old room by a flurry of servants who met her at the door. She’s always loved the architecture of the room, the high windows letting the golden evening light cast its way across the grand oak tables, the tall thin shelves packed end to end with all manner of tomes. She runs her fingers fondly along one of the rows of books, old books, familiar books, well-loved. 

It’s been so long that she’s almost forgotten, and an old favorite catches her eye for a moment, as she pulls it off the shelf and lets it fall open in her hands. It doesn’t seem like anyone’s touched it, in the long decade and a half she’s been gone, and she mutters a soft, fond little noise to it, wordless, the way one might coo at a small animal. She can feel the small, warm hum of magic pressed within its pages, and perhaps she gets a little lost in it, skimming its pages, because she hardly notices the sound of the grand wooden door open behind her, nor the sound of footsteps across the floor, until she feels a half-familiar presence over her shoulder, and finally closes the book to turn and acknowledge it.

     “I thought you’d have gotten taller,” she tells her little brother, when she meets his eye, a smirk forming across her lips. She’s seen him a few times, since she left the castle for good, brief visits home, but never enough to mean much of anything at all. He’d been a teenager, the last time she spent any significant amount of time with him, hardly older than fifteen or sixteen. She has a feeling she’ll be seeing plenty of him before she’s allowed to leave again and continue her own journeys out beyond the castle’s reach. Grown as he is now, Lysanthir has none of the height that Hiram does, though then again, neither does she. 

#( &. lysanthir )

[atreusbound]

     the back room of a mid-tier tavern, late evening, @princelysanthir​

No one had told him why he was being released, when they unshackled him somewhere in a mine on the opposite side of the continent and told him he was free to go. No one had given him a reason, not even a hint to go off of. He hadn’t questioned it for long, of course—he’d gotten away before anyone could change their mind, could decide it was a mistake. He had no idea, after several long years of imprisonment, where he would go or what he would do now that he was free, but it had seemed foolish and possibly suicidal to hesitate. 

But once he’d gotten back, there had been nothing but time to question. With nothing else to do, no way of orienting himself in the storm of ordinary life, so different to the way his days had been carried out over years of forced labor in the mines, he’d found himself questioning. Wondering. Needing an answer and, at the same time, frightened of what he might find when he got one. 

He hadn’t had to wait long. 

The letter had come to his home late the prior night, left on his doorstep by a hooded shadow that had disappeared before he’d gotten a glimpse of them. It was a summons, a request for a meeting, sent anonymously. Not altogether dissimilar from the kind he’d used to send, when he needed to speak to people without risking being overheard. And, despite the saying about the cat and all, curiosity had gotten the better of Atreus. He’d gone.

It feels strange, to walk into the tavern, bustling with people going about their everyday lives. Not a large crowd, but more people than he’s seen at once in years, enough to cause a sort of bristle of discomfort in the pit of his stomach. It feels stranger, still, to pass the tavern keep a piece of parchment, to be nodded back in the direction of a guarded door off the main room, and to be let through without question by the large man standing in front of it. Strange, in how familiar it is, or, how familiar it once would have been, in another lifetime, when he was another man. 

What isn’t familiar is the face he sees, when he opens the door. And the secrecy suddenly makes more sense than it ought to, and his stomach drops out from under him in a brief flare of hidden panic: the prince. The younger one. Dressed in some poor approximation of civilian clothing, seated at the table in the center of the room, clearly waiting for him. 

     “Please don’t tell me this is some sort of perverse trap,” he breathes, more to himself than to the prince in front of him, who he can’t imagine has much of anything to say for himself. The door closes behind him, sealing his fate. “Haven’t I been through enough?”

#( &. lysanthir )

[warriorbrevi]

should i be bad and get baldur's gate

#I'm so. tempted #bridge.txt #imagine the musclewomen i could create..... #and the freaky lizard ladies ...... #finally my black dragonborn freak lysanthir can be realized

[vexingcosmos]

just put a Built Elf as my Kingdom’s blacksmith. He’s battling against elven stereotypes. They aren’t all twinks!

#mine #the sims medieval #tsm #sims #luthiel lysanthir

[nnibarrel]

Speaking of azata... Hear me out. Bralani are so hot. So… I have an old doodle with friend’s commander Lysanthir (he’s shy little elf and not so active like usually expected from azata) What’s going on: this sly count Arendae conspired with some azata from the crusade army to come and tease him :) (And borrowed their costume somewhere…)

#wotr commander #azata #daeran #daeran arendae #pathfinder #pathfinder wotr #pathfinder wrath of the righteous #wotr #pfwotr #fanart #digital art

[jess-the-vampire]

What is 

If lysanthir meet Belos

i do not have any idea who the first character is

[cassieuncaged]

Wild Inhibitions - Prologue

Astarion Ancunín x Ilwyn Crowdancer

Summary: She was young, still learning to control her wild magic when Ilwyn was abducted by the mind flayers. Little did she know that revenge for her mother's death was imminent as well as an ill timed infatuation with a vampire.

TW: light gore, violence, magic, etc.

WC: 2.5 K

Taglist: @confidentandgood, @galaxycunt, @euryalex, @inafieldofdaisies, @neonneurons, @roofgeese

A/N: Here's the prologue of my Astarion x OFC fic! Will be released simultaneously with chapter 1...

“Careful, now.” The child heeded her father’s advice, focusing on the lush sod expanding across the temple’s courtyard. In the center was an ivy constricted statue of Silvanus, the god the druids had come to worship.

“Oak Father preserve,” the young elf screwed her eyes shut, focusing on the power her mother had imparted mingled with nature driven magic blessed by her father. Her mind was a medley of plants that she’d learned to identify in her studies, to seek out for alchemy lessons with Lysanthir and Nimble. Pointed leaves and ethereal petals bloom in her soul, overcome with the sensations of roots binding her feet to the solid ground, the smell of fresh soil dancing in her nostrils.

Reaching out pudgy hands, palms rose upwards as if beckoning the undead to claw back into the world of the living. The flat pads of rounded fingers glowed bright green as Ruven began to howl with excitement. Prying open bright blue eyes found several pristine daisies dancing to life in the warmth of the sun.

“By Silvanus,” the man beamed proudly, clapping large hands together as eyes widened to admire such wonders. Harboring a talent for natural magic at such a young age was exceptional. “You’ve conjured actual life, Ilwyn. Fostered something the gods had been blessed to create!”

“I did it!” Exclaiming excitedly, the red headed girl ran into her father’s arms before being swung around in a circle. The sorcerers in the name the Oak Father had done well in encouraging Ilwyn’s special abilities, creating a true spectacle as the plants began to root into a well-kept garden of pumpkins and carnival squash. “What else can I do?”

Before Ruven could answer, the sensation of soft cloth robes in his arms turned to a mass of wool, warm and wiry to the touch. His young daughter polymorphed into that of a lamb, frightened and bleating. It cried out as hooves pushed against the woven leather of his clothing. Setting Ilwyn down, the terrified animal scurried through a cracked archway. Darting down through the library, a gnome shrieked in surprise, dropping an armful of scrolls as the wild animal darted by.

The druid only chuckled halfheartedly, running a hand through auburn curls before trekking inside the sanctum, following the forlorn sheep’s tracks.

……

Amber eyes studied an ancient tome, blinking hard when the words began to blur together. Miriel was exceptionally skilled in arcana, learning a plethora of cantrips and invocations at a young age. Boasting herself as one of the founders of the Sanctum of Silvanus, the high elf focused on another spell that utilized the natural resources of the Faerûn

The new incantation was a rather nasty one, meant to summon a swarm of locusts and mosquitos from The Spine of the World down to Dambrath. Meant only for the use against sworn enemies, the unmistakable buzz of flies rang out in pointed ears before the echo of hooves against stone broke her concentration. A wild sheep paced nervously in the study, upturning a stack of parchment in its wake.

Ilwyn.

“Miri!” A deep voice boomed through the passageway, echoing as the lanky Ruven appeared in the cobbled doorway. A long finger pressed against curled lips as the sorceress instinctually quieted them both down. “Another complication.”

“What was it this time?” she sighed, scratching at a woolen coat as her transformed daughter nosed against the coarse fabric of billowing robes. “A sleet storm? Maybe a thorn whip?”

“Summoning flowers.” He crossed long arms across his chest, tan skin glowing from the sun’s enveloping kiss. “Didn’t think it’d cause much of a surge.”

“How’d she do?” Miriel dropped to her knees, examining the velvety coned ears of the animal, its dark eyes regarding her desperately.

“Very well!” Auburn curls fell against a strong brow as the druid grinned, proud of his child among all else. She wasn’t ungifted, quite the contrary. Yet a barrier lurked the young elf and her magic’s potential that no one in the temple was familiar with. “But it seemed to trigger a wild form.”

“Seeing as I reared a high elf and not a farm animal,” she soothed the transformed Ilwyn, stroking a wet snout before unfolding herself once more. Emerald robes danced around booted feet as the sorceress marched across the study, clicking her tongue for the animal to follow. “Mustn’t make the poor thing wait any longer.”

Ilwyn trotted over, sheepish in more ways than one. Her head hung low as Miriel pulled a furry chin upwards. Her mother’s presence was an inviting one, waves of strawberry blonde hair framing a round face as pink lips split into a warm grin. An incantation was murmured sweetly, sparking a splitting second of discomfort as the animal contorted back into the gangly limbs of an awkward child.

“Oh, mother!” she sobbed, a mingling of both joy and fear flooding her entire being as her arms snaked around Miri’s waist. “I grew a patch of daisies and then all of a sudden…”

“My sweet, sweet Ilwyn.” The sorceress sighed, stroking wild orangey locks. The young elf felt solace in her mother’s arms, safe in such an unyielding embrace. “You did nothing wrong. Your magic is strong, my dear. It knows no boundaries.”

“You’re very powerful.” Ruven chortled, inching close enough to press a kiss to the tip of his wife’s nose. “That’s why we practice as much as we do.”

“I want nothing more than to be masters like you and mother,” a ruddy brow gleams upward, serious speech betrayed by such an inviting demeanor. “To learn both arcana and the magic bestowed upon me by Silvanus himself.”

“In due time, sweet little pup.” Long fingers ruffled shorn and messy hair, seeing both he and his wife’s visage in the young girl. “Someday you will have the strength and authority of a wolf, ready to take the Faerûn in your maw.”

“Then it will be at my mercy,” she proclaimed, shaking a fist upwards.

“Careful, Ruven,” Miriel tutted, “Don’t create a tyrant.”

“I’m no tyrant, mother,” Ilwyn added sagely, “I’m a savior. A protector.”

Seven Years Later

Stained glass windows painted the woman in fractals of mossy green and gold as she flipped through brittle pages. Scrolls were laid out upon nearly every surface of the study as they usually were.

“Mother?” a melodic voice pulled the aging elf from her reverie, responding to her daughter by pointing at the empty chair across from her desk. “Must I?”

“You know what you’ve done, Ilwyn.” The young elf growled in protest, crossing spindly arms across the chest of the robes she’d picked over the grass laden armor her father had suggested. “Now we discuss it.”

“I had my reasons for doing what I did!” She was quick to start an argument, red hair flaming as brightly her emotions did. Miri chuckled sourly, seeing herself in her own young though it had been a near century since she had acted so flippantly, so carelessly. “Those thieves from the Guildhall would have massacred that Tiefling.”

“There is a symbiosis that exists within city limits,” long fingers entwined together, steepling over a mass of unrolled scrolls. “We don’t interfere with those who inhabit the Heapside Strand, they don’t interfere with us. What in the hells were you even doing there?”

“I wanted to spend the afternoon at the beach, by the sea,” Ilwyn shrugged with vigor, rolling blue eyes annoyedly, “What’s wrong about that?”

“You can’t wander the lower city so recklessly,” Miriel warned, trying to chisel her way into a thick skull. “There’s consequences to be had, my dear.”

“Why?” Ilwyn whined. Her heroism was commendable, but the sorceress knew better than to encourage it. Bringing a piece of The High Forest back to the city had already put a target on their back, at odds with the others within the city. Gods other than Silvanus were not as peaceful or accepting of the land.

“We must be wary of others.”

“I thought you’d praise me!” she pouted, earning nothing but another tut from her mother. “I saved a life.”

“By nearly sacrificing your own!” a heavy fist came down upon the desk, wood splintering in response. “You are not invincible, no matter what you may think. You are still a child, Ilwyn. Be selfish and think of your mortality.”

“That isn’t what you and father taught me, smashed into my fragile skull until I was tired and spent. I was built to care about others,” Ilwyn could feel heat rising up full cheeks, anger simmering in her veins as the conversation continued.

“And stepping on the Guildmaster’s toes is not the way to that!” Miri cradled her head in exasperated hands; she’d raised a child as strong willed as herself, just as stubborn and resilient. “Promise me you won’t wander down to Heapside anymore. Please.”

Ilwyn considered arguing, to push even further before the stained-glass window above them shattered into a rainbow wave of glass. A hooded figure rolled across the stone floor, pulling Ilwyn backwards by the neck. Landing on her back, the young elf struggled with the intruder before Miri bellowed:

“Ignis!” The intruder’s skin sizzled, the smell of burnt flesh dancing in flared nostrils as she pried the corpse’s hand from a soft throat. Miriel grabbed at a robed arm, pulling her daughter to booted feet. A scream echoed down he passageway, a cacophony echoing as the sorceress attempted to lead them to safety. Emerging from the shadows was a sleek jaguar, charging them as blood dripped from an onyx jaw. The animal skidded to a stop before transforming back into the lanky druid.

“We’ve been infiltrated,” Ruven breathed shallowly, wiping viscera from his beard as his wife clutched at a lean bicep.

“Who?” attempting to remain strong for their child, Miriel’s falter wasn’t lost on Ilwyn as blue eyes darted between her parents in a panic.

“Bhaalspawn.” He swallowed, reaching out to clutch the young elf’s wrist. “They want blood.”

“Then we’ll deliver them their own.”

……

Becoming separated from her parents was inevitable Bhaal’s devotees horded upon the temple. While most of them were dispatched with only a few incantations, Silvanus had lost a few of his own children to that of the murder god’s.

Cowering behind a carved marble column, her gaze drifted desperately down the dark hallway. In the distance, a torch swayed into view. A bloodied Lysanthir limped closer, stumbling closer as a mop of copper hair glowed against the black canvas of shadows.

“There you are,” the half-elf darted forward, falling to his knees as seafoam irises studied a bloodied and bruised face, “We mustn’t keep the others waiting.”

“Are mother and father safe?” her lips warbled as one arm was pulled upwards in a bruising grip, dragging her into the darkness. Dropping the torch, flames grew as Lysanthir’s melted into a stranger before terrified eye.

“So worried about mommy and daddy…” her voice was mocking, holding back a teasing cackle as Ilwyn struggled to loosen the hand tightly clasped around her wrist. Procuring a blade, the woman brought the tip of the weapon beneath a bright blue eye.

The sharpened red talon of the knife dug into soft skin, tearing her open from cheek to jaw in a clean slice.

“What decadence…” the changeling moaned, hazily dreaming of splitting the young elf in half. Ilwyn screwed her eyes shut, trying to muster any magic to protect herself from the intruder. Instead, the woman pulled the knife away, bringing the blood drenched tip to a flat tongue. “But not yet ripe for the picking.”

“Please…” she cried out, worried the gnarled blade would be buried in her chest next. Blood hotly drips down her cheek, staining lavender robes before sliding to the stone tile beneath her boots. “Don’t hurt me.”

Pale eyes grew wide, opaque and bright as moonstones. The woman is amused by such begging, black lips splitting into a menacing grin as white teeth chatter in a demented laugh.

“P-p-please don’t hurt me,” the woman mocks viciously, “Don’t crack me open and let the spray of blood wash you anew.”

A long finger traces down open skin, splitting the cut wider as Ilwyn hisses in discomfort. Blood drips down the tip of one digit as the Bhaalspawn laps at it like a cat to a saucer of cream, moaning in excitement as she does.

“What a tasty little treat you are, faerie.” Pale eyes close before snapping open, glowing in the shadows of the flames dancing around them. “But still you ripen on the vine. The murder father wants you plump and fat before harvesting what flows through your veins, child.”

“No,” the elf twists her eyes shut, cleansing herself of red armor with the consistency of blood-soaked bone, a rancid smile that churns her guts. This woman, no this monster stirs a foreign rage deep inside of her. “You can’t have me.”

Fingers bend upwards, sparkling a mossy green as tendrils begin to push through crackling tile. But instead of flowers, a tangle of thorny vines erupt and ensnare the woman in the brush. That gnarled blade saws against the creeping plant as Ilwyn darts away from the burning debris.

“Wynnie!” Miriel’s voice echoes in the distance, desperate as the plod of leather boots against stone precedes her. Amber glows in the darkness as she rounds the corner, Ruven in wild form racing at her side. “Thank Silvanus.”

Sliding to her knees, the sorceress pulled her child into her arms as the vines continue to twist around pale legs. The girl attempted to blink back tears as she trembled against her mother. Focus shifted from the mass of vines, weakening as the assailant pushed through the thorny brush. Taking advantage of the situation, the Bhaalspawn was casting an incantation that pulled the sorceress away from her daughter and husband, dangling her foot above the ground.

Suddenly, Miri was suspended upright, helpless as the jaguar was frozen in place. Fire burned pale fingertips as she cast a cantrip at the woman, not even singeing the thick braid knotted down her back. With the wave of a hand, Ilwyn was knocked backwards, sliding across the ground.

“Young child,” the woman snickered darkly, circling Miri as predator stalking its prey. “Some day you will seek out Orin the Red. And we will rip each other limb from bloody limb. But not today.”

Procuring her blade from a matching red sheath, the curve of the blade kissed the sorceress’ throat in a swift rip. Skin split open, blood sprayed out in a fountain as Ruven roared. Tears ran down pale cheeks as Ilwyn’s gaze remained on her mother, still suspended as rivulets of red pooled upon the ground.

“In time,” Orin cooed gleefully, licking off the viscera from her weapon, “You will taste revenge, little one. But first, you must feel despair.”

Emotions swirled in her chest, fear and unbridled anger.  Eyes glowed as red as what dripped from Miriel’s lifeless body, a flame as the stone beneath Orin began to crumble into a dark abyss. Before the changeling could react, she fell into the pit with a shrill scream piercing the stone buttresses above before the tile sealed itself over. Heaving, Ilwyn fell to her knees, clutching at the air as her mother fell to the ground in a heap. Ruven howled before slowly before receding back to himself.

And as the world caved in, she wept.

#bg3 fanfiction #astarion x oc #astarion x tav #fanfiction #otp: every last drop

[the-likeable-wizard-mack]

As much as I love snooty high elves, I also like the opposite of elves who just kinda don’t play up to the stereotype. Like, “Sup Dude, name's Lars. Yeaaaaaahh... My full name is  Lysanthir but, I prefer Lars better it sounds cooler.” A high elf who actively tries to not be like other elves to a point where people believe that their a human. Then one day they show their ears under their hair and are like “Oh yeah, I’m a high elf. What about it?”  Tldr: Give me a skater boy/ grungey high elf who hides his high elf side of him due to the whole stigma behind high elves but, actually comes from an affluent family. 

#urban fantasy #urban magic #urban magick #suburban fantasy #urban fantasy writing #elves #elf #Dark Elves #elves man #High Elves #dnd elves #writing #writer #writings #write #fantasy writing #my writing #writeblr #writers #modern #modern au #Modern Magic #modern fantasy

[alileft]

lysanthir thinking oh shit

#'(image is from spellward bound on webtoon which i highly recommend)' #spellward bound #dunedeca when are you coming back?

[princelysanthir]

( u know, some kind of room in the palace / @iorvethgoodnight​ ) 

Lysanthir knows he lives a blessed life. A young prince, beloved by the people. A man whose never had to struggle. Well fed, well dressed, well taken care of. Nothing but the best. He feels like he’s struggling all the time, ever now and then. He has to grapple with that skewed perspective and see it for what it is, an irrationality. A desperate need for touch, for love. That isn’t real struggle. It’s selfishness. Wanting to be King feels like selfishness too, sometimes. He’s claiming a birthright that isn’t really his. Hiram was born for that role. But then he remembers what Hiram is like, and he reconsiders it. It might be the opposite of selfish, to want to take it for himself. 

He’s certain, at the very least, that he would do a better job than Hiram would. He’s trying harder, he thinks. He’s working himself to the bone to learn how to run a kingdom, with no one really around to teach him. He loathes the fact that he’s so young, that he’s missing key years he could have learned at his father’s side. He feels sick with grief, even though his father isn’t dead yet. He feels like he’s lost so much, and he doesn’t want to start fighting yet. But a fight is brewing, and he means to be the best choice for who to rule their kingdom, when the time comes. 

So he means to be serious, when he goes to Iorveth. He means to talk about finances, and all of the terribly important things that keep the crown going, all of the things that are interesting most of the time, and incredibly dull on other days. He used to doze off during his classes, with the old man who taught him numbers and calculations and how to figure out every little problem on every little worksheet. 

He means to be serious. But he opens the door, and closes it behind him, and catches a glimpse of them, and freezes for a moment.

Iorveth. So meticulously put together. So well planned. Iorveth, with all of that calculation behind their eyes. One of the few people that Lys feels like he can trust. Really trust, right now. The source of all the affection Lys has been looking for. Lys’s stomach flutters, just at the sight of them. Pathetic. But comfortable. A thrill, the way it always is. He checks the door is closed, checks the door is locked. “Good afternoon,” He says, too stiff. And then laughs that away. 

And god, it’s been too long. Even a day is too long, when he’s counting time away from them. “You look tired again, you know? Did something horribly untoward happen to keep you up last night?” He isn’t jealous, at the idea that Iorveth might find someone else to occupy their time when they go back to the Saloon every day, when they spend their time there. He isn’t. Of course not. But he goes and places himself near them, anyway, within touching distance. 

#( Iorveth ) #( Iorveth 01 )

[lorenfinch]

Happy STS!! Which characters do you find it easiest to get into the heads of, when writing them? Which characters are the most difficult to access? Are there any particular ways you help yourself get into the right headspace for writing certain characters? :) - @liv-is

Thank you for asking!!

I definitely find it easiest to get into Ren's head since he's my main character and I think about him 24/7! Pretty much any of the characters I think about a lot are easy to get into, so to speak.

Hardest? That's honestly a tough one, I don't think I know of any characters that are truly difficult to access? Like I just need to think about them a little bit and then I find it easy to slip into their mind. Probably Lysanthir, someone I haven't really introduced and won't play a huge role but will be present later. Plus I've drawn him before and while I do intend to redesign him a little bit his aesthetic slaps. I just haven't really figured out exactly who he is yet? What he likes and all that? Most of my side characters have a Thing besides appearance that leads me to figuring out what their personality and backstory is like but I have yet to figure him out. I do get ideas from time to time but nothing ever really fits. Maybe someday!

Usually music helps get into a good character headspace! Which is why I tend to listen to a lot of melancholic classical music whenever sitting down to write this story skfjskjd

#liv-is #ask games

[bedazzlingevagiatti]

A History of Milhona (Eva and Mari’s Fantasy Verse)

ooc: I’m still forming this verse and the google doc based around this universe. I used a Fantasy Name Generator for most things here because I had writers block and liked what I wrote honestly. So it’s staying. I’m no fantasy expert, this is me winging it. Trigger warnings for a brief mention of past wars I haven’t exactly fleshed out yet. 

Places

Milhona 

is a vacation town in Aquareon. It is surrounded by hot springs/warm sands and a mountain range. The hot springs along with the taverns are the towns main income. It’s a hub for travelers heading in and out of Aqueareron.The town was used as a transport and a fort for soldiers during war. Most of it’s battle scars are long gone. The surrounding forest is a hub for some alchemists.

Lavender Oak Tavern and Inn

Aquareon

The tavern that Kymil Olomenorl owns. The Elf purchased and refurbished it after the last big war occurred and helped revive Milhoma, which was in shambles. Lavender Oak was associated with the hospital Kymil used to work at being a healer. The taven itself is rather rustic, old timey, with a small garden lining the cobbelstone walkways. There is seating outback enclosed by a brick fence lined with fairy lights. All of the bedrooms are located on the second floor, ranging from cheap to price. There’s a small kitchen and bar staff, a long with a steady flow of live music.

The country that Milhona is set in. It ranges from rural countryside to busy cities, to beach towns and sea ports. It has four seasons {frostwane, icecall, greenbirth, and warmcrest) followed by festivals marking the start of each new season. The country saw bloody battles in the past due to it’s resources, but they’ve since moved on from all that. The northern part of the country is cold, ranging from light spring temperatures to all year-round frozen tundras. The middle of the country is average to warm temperatures. The south is warm and  tropical with a rainy season. 

Tobedonite Village

A Village supported by the mine not far from Milhoma. Kymil’s friend and a famed blacksmith reside here. The mine is run by Dorian Southstone one of the Mining Company Families.

Pearlhorn Port

A major sea port in the south. 

Mining Companies

Titan Hill - Northwest Tundra

Kalelian - Northeastern Tundra

Southstone - Midwest and southern territories

Boulderfield - Western Coastal Territories

People

Kymil Olomenorl - (they/them) Owner of Lavender Oak Tavern and Inn formerly a healer in the Royal Army, served his time, retired, and lived a quiet life. Kymil is haunted by what they saw on the battlefield and dislikes talking about it. The former healer heavily relies on potions to keep the memories away. Despite this, they are usually cheerful, constantly making others laugh, even taking part in the occasional prank. Kymil (and the few associates still alive) are Eva’s guide to Milmhona and most of Aqueareron. Kymil and the Olomernol clan were heavily sought after during the wars. Their healing abilities include raising moral and essentially putting a bandage over the horrific realities of war for a period of time. Leaving those feelings invincible and rejuvenated.

Rolim Olorie - (Yhri) Elder Elf that runs the Apocatheory/Potion shop and teaches lessons for intermediate and advanced levels. Yhir is willing to teach beginners but does not have patience. Yhir is quick to judge and deem who is worthy and who isn’t. Yhri helped start the Mages College, survived the wars of Milhona’s past, and like Kymil, Rolim wishes to live out a quiet life. 

Lysanthir Wynfir - (they/them, She/her)  A femme presenting Elf, takes no nonsense but enjoys casual banter with Kymil. Frequents Lavender Oak for this purpose and the food. They help keep the peace in Aqueareon after surviving the blood feuds and wars. Lysanthir met Kymil when they were wounded and brought to Milmhona during battle. 

Seasons

Frostwane:

Akin to human winter. Temperatures drop in the normally warm and average climates. Snowfall can be experienced around certain areas. The normally tropical climates see more rain and sometimes ice storms.

Icecall:

Occurs right before winter something of a mixture of fall and summer temperatures almost all over the country. More of a cloudy time. It signals the end of farming season. Desert/Dry areas see moderate temperatures. Forest areas experience certain foliage that change colors. Mountain ranges see light snowfall. Tropical areas drop in temperatures.  This is the end of severe storm season as well.

Greenbirth:

No snow or ice during this time. Thunderstorms are more frequent along with other severe storms. It's the rainy season in the desert areas. Festivals and other events fall during this time. Usually a time for weddings. Tourism booms as well. Eva visits Lavender Oak Tavern during this time.

Warmcrest:

The warmest time of the year. Desert areas are at hottest temperatures with little rain or cloud coverage. Tropical areas range from hot and humid to hot and arid. The forest areas are humid and rainy to sunny and muggy.

#||fantasy verse headcanon|| #||milhona headcanon|| #||aquareon headcanon||

[kaid-a]

( near the dragon pit, @zepheritedragon​ ) 

Kaida isn’t an alien sight, around the dragon pit these days. They have made a habit of coming to collect Ormund from his work. Have played a part, and allowed everyone who might look to believe a story. That Ormund was an upstanding young man who had been lucky enough to get a job at the palace, and that Kaida was a dutiful and doting spouse who couldn’t stand to be away from him for too long, and who adored the very idea of dragons. They preformed this part with grace and skill, until it was almost a truth. Almost reality. No one questioned it, no one doubted. Kaida, for all their life, had been able to inspire faith. Even when every word they said was a lie. 

But Kaida didn’t like the taste of lies. They never had. Everything they said, most of the time, was so honest that it almost hurt. They could veil the truth, but they would never deny its right to be spoken into the air. They meant every word they said, every promise that they made. Kaida never bothered with pretty lies, even when it might have made people feel better. When Silas got so terribly sick two winters ago, Kaida told everyone with a blunt honesty that he wouldn’t survive more than a few days. It didn’t mean they weren’t kind about it. But it still hurt people to know they would lose a friend so soon. When Kaida took someone as a lover, they made it clear that that person would never be the most important thing in their lives. The faith would always come first. Anyone who wanted to spend their life with Kaida would have to be comfortable with living a life in second or third place. It didn’t mean Kaida didn’t love them. But that truth hurt more than it helped. 

They couldn’t bring themself to live a lie today. They were utterly serious as they stood in wait for Zepherite. Still graceful. Still as bright as a flickering flame. But somber too, and hopeful. Standing in silent contemplating, silent prayer that all things would go well tonight. That soon the royal dragons would be free. Ammut, golden scaled, could be free if she wished it. Maybe she liked Hiram, maybe she would want to stay, but the choice would be hers. And Ishtar, too. Ormund talked of Ishtar, who Prince Lysanthir loved with an earnest affection. Small, but stunningly beautiful, with scales like moonlight. She could fly free too. They closed their eyes in the moment, with the prayer of it, the promise that Kaida would be the flame that lit the way to freedom, to revolution, the flame that lit their phoenix world and allowed something better to rise from the ashes. 

They want to launch into action. Go, go, go. But they’re waiting for Zeph. Waiting with patience. This is a mark of trust. This is the first true step down what might be a long road. And Kaida is excited, to have them by their side. Waiting is worth it, for the way their heart flutters when familiar footsteps approaching. They don’t look. They know in their heart of hearts, their most intimate place of faith and longing, that it’s Zeph. 

“Are you ready to change the world, my friend? 

#( Zepherite ) #( Zepherite 02 )

[laimabynight]

Epitaph 'Die Bettler von Grangor'

Name: Die Bettler von Grangor System: Das Schwarze Auge 4 Type: Multishot Duration: 1 Month Storyteller: Kende Players/Roles: Greg: Amelia, Tulamidian Courtesan Tanja: Michelle Mael Dior, Aranian Dog Groomer Carina: Lysanthir, Elvish Ranger Me: Najara al Kira ibn Sajida, Aranian Majuna Start: Four party animals meet in a small hostel and decide to go to the carnival in Grangor together. Together they want to really let their hair down, and some illegal substances are also involved. End: The murderer was stopped, but her motives turned out to be far more noble than initially assumed. For now, however, the party is back on and who knows - maybe Grangor is calling for a new order? Greatest Hits: 1. Flirting & Celebrating like we were in a bad Reality Tv Show. 2. We actually all added to each other. 3. Despite the short length, I got really attached. 4. Accidentally stumbling into evil occult rituals.

#campaign #najara al kira ibn sajida