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katsettee · 1 year

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Greetings! I love your art so dang much!! May I ask your headcanons on the LU boy’s ages?

Totally don’t feel pressured, just curious <3

Have a dandy day!

~🦋🤠

Thank you! I have been thinking really hard about this for a while but I think I have my answer.

This is all purely headcanon and how funny I think it would be for their dynamics and relationships.

The ages themselves are kind of fuzzy, but age order in my mind from oldest to youngest goes:

Time(ofc), Twi, Sky, Warriors, Hyrule, Legend, Four, Wild, and finally Wind.

In my mind, Time and Sky have experienced the most time between their last adventure and the crossover, Time obviously because he is just a whole ass adult married man now and Sky because I would like to think he has gained some responsibility and has started the establishment of Hyrule. I would put Time at mid 30s and Sky mid 20s.

I see Twi as significantly older than the others but with little desire to take charge, seeing as he has no experience in leadership to any capacity, but is the ultimate big brother in late 20s. I also see him as being much older than the others during his adventure.

Wars is also older during his adventure, like dude is a captain in the military, he’s been mature enough for long enough to get to where he is. This is where I get fuzzy with ages, but I would put Wars at 24/23.

This is where my headcanons really get the best of me, but I’m obsessed with the idea of Hyrule being older than Legend. I am all about the “Legend feels guilt for the state of Hyrule’s world” and “Hyrule looks up to The Hero of Legend” ideas but what I really love is complex emotions and Hyrule looking towards Legend, the hero that he can only hope to be, and realizing that its never been more than a broken child forced to think like a survivor. I view Legend as just barely pushing adulthood at 18/19 and Hyrule being 21/22. Their dynamic as two people who could only conjure the ideal image of the other (Legend saving his world for the ideal future and realizing it all falls to ruin anyways + Hyrule trying to do anything in order to live up to the “legendary” previous hero) and being ultimately disappointed by the other is fascinating to me, but I like to think they value each other without the title of hero eventually and are quite close because of that connection.

I’m going to be honest I know the least about Four, seeing as I have yet to really invest much time with his games and character, so I’m just going along with him being a comfy 18 for no particular reason. So sorry to all the Four fans but I would like to hear other people’s ideas.

Again here’s some very biased headcanons, but I like to think Wild quite literally JUST defeated Calamity Ganon and is still at that (1)17 age that we see in the game. I love the LU comic but the Wild I like to include in my works is very much an immature teen, not the angsty sad man. My preference of Wild portrayal is HEAVILY influenced by critbit and it will always be that way tbh. Additionally, Wild and Twi being the most “sibling” siblings in the group just appeals to me and putting them at a similar age gap to myself and my own siblings is just funny to me.

Finally you have the kid brother Wind, who I have such a hard time assigning an age to. His age gap is significant enough that he is much different from Wild, but I would also like to think that some time has passed since his adventure. I would like to put him at the 16 year old range, but if I’m being honest it should probably be more towards the 13-14 range- so I will probably change my portrayal of him a bit to reflect that in any upcoming content.

I am super on the fence about this and since these are fictional and very undefined characters I am mostly fine with sliding the ages up and down for enjoyment, but I suppose this is my personal view on what I think is in line with the content that I personally create. I probably will not even follow this super accurately if I’m being perfectly honest.

Thank you for the ask!

#legend of zelda #linked au #linked universe #headcanon #VERY BIASED #wild linked universe #time linked universe #twilight linked universe #sky linked universe #warriors linked universe #legend linked universe #hyrule linked universe #four linked universe #wind linked universe #ask #anon ask #kat talks

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dishonoredrpg · 4 years

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Congratulations, MINNIE! You’ve been accepted for the role of THE CHARIOT with the faceclaim of LUMA GROTHE. There’s a sound, sometimes, that I think of often: the thundering of hooves against the racetrack, the repetitive thrum, the thrill of watching beasts run you by knowing that they could in theory mow someone down and do not. For me, you embodied this with Valeria. You had me hooked with by all means, Chariot was bred to rule; it runs in her blood, it rots in her veins, and the rest of your application was held up on the same pedestal. You showed me both the potential to do and the potential to do not. You hit the nail on the head with the balance between duty and the desire to see something through, and their active conflicts with each other in a world that would like to eliminate conflict altogether; I cannot wait to see how Valeria’s story plays out.

Please review the CHECKLIST and send your blog in within 24 hours.

THE CHARIOT

OOC

NAME: Minnie

PRONOUNS: She/Her

AGE: 24

TIMEZONE, ACTIVITY LEVEL: EST. As for activity, I aim to post one reply every day. That being said, there are certain weeks where my muse is severely lacking due to the demand of my full-time job. I do my best to prepare for that ahead of time, but I will do my very best to follow the pace of the dash.

ANYTHING ELSE?:

IN CHARACTER

SKELETON: Chariot

NAME: Valeria INSERT SURNAME HERE. I imagine that Valeria took on the name of Septimus’ family, partially because I’ve headcanoned that they had to face some general distrust when they first arrived to Tyrholm. To cement their standing, they took on the royal surname — which I think would be acceptable, since their mother was the rightful ruler.

FACECLAIM: Luma Grothe, Hoyeon Jung, Paulina Singer, Ursula Corbero, Fernanda Ly. Faceclaims are listed in order of preference. I tried to include different ethnicities to match potential faceclaims of the others!

Pronouns would be she/them.

AGE: I’d like them to be a year or two younger than The Emperor, to support a headcanon that she wanted very badly to become The Emperor’s friend/chosen sibling. Also because I think it’s a deeper twist of the knife to know that your junior is more suited for the throne, hehe. The youngest faceclaim on the list is 25 and the oldest is 30, so I can range from 25-35. Sorry for keeping things somewhat vague! If you really need an exact age, I can go with 27.

DETAILS: Unbridled potential. That’s the one phrase that best sums up my attraction to Chariot. They have a talent for greatness, an uncanny knack for excelling beyond measure; it’s never meant that much to them. They do not hunger for power, and their ambition is a humble creature — a mouse, rather than a phoenix turning the night sky to an angry orange. Her power clings to her, it emits a glow from within; wherever she goes, people notice. How can they not? Self-possessed and poised, they stink of competence. Whether she wields it as a dagger to one’s throat or holds it leisurely in her hands, it always manages to catch the light.

Chariot’s power, to me, seems like a pendulum; it sways back and forth wildly. By all means, Chariot was bred to rule; it runs in her blood, it rots in her veins. But then there is the madness that tempts her to step from the light and follow it down a long and unending tunnel, into the labyrinth where everything is possible and those closest to you cannot be trusted.

I think, at the end of the day, I see a million different paths for Chariot and I’d absolutely love to follow the trail until I can unveil them in all their glory — whether it be for good or for evil.

BACKGROUND:

Your first memory is of a warm egg in your hands. Your mother curls your fingers over it as if you’ve stumbled upon some great treasure. You know now that it was only an egg, but it felt magical as a child. You grow up in the farmlands, and live a quiet life. You and your father work the fields, and you learn to love the way sweat trickles down from your brow to your chin and the simple camaraderie of coaxing life from the earth. Your father teaches you the beauty of a silent moment and a fully formed thought, told in between hours hard labor and the scorching sun. He is not an overly affectionate man, but he shows you his heart in the way he lets you fail, over and over again, until you finally get it right. When he smiles at you with that look of a shared secret, you swell with pride. Your mother is enigmatic and clever, and tells the best stories. Each one is coated with mystery and ancient legends that you soak up like a sponge. She tells you a hundred stories and each one vibrates deep in your bones, as if you’ve lived it before. But if you’ve lived a hundred lives, then your mother has a thousand inside her, and she is a conqueror in each one. When the two of you venture into town, you feel a thick blanket of secrets settle over you. When you’re a child, it feels like you’re being suffocated. As you age, you learn that it’s possible to breathe and move beneath it; it just takes precision and a finesse you learn by watching your mother interact with other merchants. Your mother disappears only one year after you learn the truth of who you are. You are becoming a grown-up now, she tells you, her eyes unblinking and unashamed. It’s the most unguarded you’ve ever seen your mother; it is a terrifying and glorious thing to see her in all her power and grace. You can picture her with a crown; it does not surprise you when you learn that she abdicated the throne. Of course she did; you cannot imagine her happier anywhere else other than right here in the farmlands where the wind is crisp and the soil is sweet. You are a princess, your mother says. No I’m not, you tell her, I’m a farmer, just like Father. That makes her laugh, but you notice a tear catch in the corner of her eye. First, your father dies. He falls ill, and you learn that no amount of power or royal blood can save a loved one from death. You sit behind your mother. You do not watch, but you listen; to this day, you swear that you heard his last breath. Your mother holds you and tells you that the farm is in your hands. You are the one who inhaled and exhaled the land as he did. Your mother helps, but you can see that you are better at this than she is. So you assume the position of leadership at the tender age of nine, and you learn to push your body and mind to its very limit. You learn that, when you push hard enough, what seems like a brick wall softens and becomes pliable clay. It stretches. You grow. You learn. You excel. When you are ten, your mother disappears. You make do on your own. There is no other option, so you continue working the land. You work twice as long and twice as hard, and you are at your breaking point when Septimus arrives. Your uncle. The king, you realize after you’re already well on your way to Tyrholm. At your heart, you are a farmer. You know what it means to cut your hands in order to grow calluses. You believe that the work will get easier the harder you work, and it comes naturally to you. After a few years living in Tyrlholm, they call you lucky, a natural-born princess. You know the truth: it is the spirit of your mother living on in you, and you find yourself talking to her throughout the day. When you realize it has become something like prayer, you lean into it. This is when you begin seeing your mother in the halls. Another shared secret that will bind you to her side and her heart, forevermore. You relish it. You embrace it. You harbor it like a warm egg in your hands, a sign of life and labor and creation. The people of Tyrholm show only contempt in the beginning, and it fuels you. You dig your heels deeper, grip the handle of your sword tighter, think faster. They only speak of your glory and your skill now, but you remember. You remember the disdain that dripped like venom from their teeth as they said your name. It takes years to undo that first impression: a child with matted hair that sticks up because of the way you sleep, dirt caked beneath your fingernails that took a whole week to scrub out, the smell of fertilizer and manure clinging to you like your home is not ready to let you go. But eventually, it does. You become one of them. More importantly, you become better than them. When they notice, you pretend not to care. Part of you, though, rather enjoys it. It could make your ego swell, if not for your cousin. THe Emperor takes every chance to trim your pride — you suppose that’s a rather kind way to describe the way they sneer at your every accomplishment. As a child, you saw them as the first playmate you could have ever had. Enamored by them, awed by them, you trailed after them hoping to find a sibling — a friend. Once you begin to surpass them in every lesson and every skill, you don’t notice the way their eyes darken as you walk by, or the way your name falls from their lips like blasphemy. It takes many bitter pranks and cruel jokes for you to understand: there is no such thing as family in Tyrholm. There is only you, your power and your secrets. You learn the lesson well — as you learn every lesson. And once you learn it, the door opens to learn more of Tyrholm’s hidden tunnels. There are a million rules no one will teach you, that you must teach yourself; these are the ones you like best. You begin a delicate dance with the integrity and honor you learned from your father, and the cunning you learned from your mother. At times, it is like being pulled in different directions. Eventually, it gets easier. You’re not sure when you stumbled onto this idea that Septimus did away with your mother. All you know is that the years of deception and clever dances and wordplay with nobility have become so ingrained in you that you no longer have to think upon it; and that’s when you consider that there are others who are as practiced with power as you are. The king is no mastermind; he is not a smart man, a clever man, not even a good man. But it’s exactly that talent for foolishness that makes a man bold and arrogant enough to murder his own sister, and take her child in as his own. Once the idea is planted, it is impossible to ignore it. You check on it obsessively, and the visions of your mother become plagued with suspicion. The foundation of who you are and your place in Tyrholm has been shaken, and you are unsettled wherever you go. You can try to hide it, but you have never been able to hide your greatness; you are unable to hide the new jagged edge it’s formed now.

PLOT IDEAS: LET’S GET THE OBVIOUS ONE OUT OF THE WAY, SHALL WE??? I of course would like to see Chariot follow the trail to uncover the truth of her mother’s death — and I’m very much open to it being exactly what she suspects or very not. Valeria has been at court for more than ten years; they have learned the games of both mind and sword, and they are not so arrogant to believe they are the true masters of either. Their mother’s inexplicable disappearance/death has always been a question mark for Valeria; who is to say that it was not another game orchestrated by Tyrholm, by the king? I’d like to explore a descent into madness, whether it’s legitimate or not. Their suspicions have taken a life of its own, and it hasn’t gone unnoticed. I’d like to explore the ramifications of people getting a whiff of Valeria’s unrest: Death, the Empress, etc. How will this knowledge live in the Emperor’s hands, or the World’s? I’d absolutely love, LOVE to see how public perception changes of Valeria, who is respected greatly for her competency and respected as the better option for the throne. As they spiral (and I truly hope to see them spiral), how will they contain it? This is just rambling off of the last plot (more of a sub-plot I guess), but Death is the only one who seems to have an explicit understanding of their goals, and THIS, TO ME, IS THE MOST INTERESTING PART OF THIS CONNECTION AND DEAL THEY’VE MADE??? It only serves them if Valeria has an actual change to take the throne. But what happens if she spirals so bad that there’s no WAY she’d be a fit to rule anymore? Would Death preserve their image in order to make them ruler, or would Death cast them out quickly to preserve their own skin? This is perhaps the first time in Valeria’s life that they’ve been helpless to act. It’s precisely because of their royal blood that they are unable to truly enact their quest, and I’d like to explore the implications of that for Valeria’s sense of self. Who are they, if not capable? At her heart, she is a farmer. They are measured by their output, by their productivity, by their crops and their yield. Right now, they are unable to yield anything. They can’t even truly plant seeds, relying only on Death and the Devil to work for them. How will this affect their sense of worth, and how will it influence their descent or ascent? The Empress may be one opportunity to have Valeria do something of her own accord, but it’s a risky confrontation. So what would it take for her to get there? BECAUSE I WANT TO GET HER THERE. I hint in her background this sense of not belonging — of having to fight her way in, versus being raised in Tyrholm. I’d love to explore that further, as well. I’d love to have nobility find Valeria a worthy heir but still not one of them. Or have Valeria be a more accessible figure to those who are of lower “ranking” (oh gosh is that okay to say) than them in a very different way than the World is accessible. Where the World is beloved for their kindness, Valeria is (in my head) more approachable because they don’t have the airs of someone who was born into royalty. It’d be an interesting dynamic to explore, especially to see how it relates to them being seen as a worthy heir.

CHARACTER DEATH: I’d like to see at least Valeria’s great suspicion become public before they die. I’m okay with them never getting answers because angst, but I’d like for their death to make an impact on Tyrholm — rather than just adding to the body count.

WRITING SAMPLE

The life leaks out of them like water from a faucet. With their expression resting like a stone, Valeria watches. There is no feeling to be expressed, no thought to be had but this: death looks the same wherever you go. In foreign lands and in her home country, the last moments of a single life are universal. There is some comfort in that.

“You have the face,” they rasp, “of a ruler.” A traitor to the throne, Septimus sent Valeria to put an end to their life. A strong member of the royal family, they hum like a fat cat who caught sight of a crippled mouse, that’s the last thing I want them to see. So she goes. She ignores the scorn that graces the Emperor's face, the flash of worry in the World’s eyes. She ignores even the look of smug arrogance on her uncle’s, so pleased that the pride and joy of Tyrholm beckons to his every call.

He sees what he wants to see. More importantly, he sees what she wants him to see.

Valeria says nothing. She waits for the eyes of a traitor to lose the last glimpse of light, wondering peculiarly if she is watching her own fate. A sword piercing her chest like a final embrace — perhaps Septimus will send his son to put an end to her life. They’ve been waiting for a long time to do it, she thinks, recalling every furious curl of their mouth and the unforgiving slant of their brow.

The traitor throws one final sentence out, with a great show of struggle: “But you have the hands of a servant.”

It’s then that Valeria affords them a smile. Every traitor they’ve ever killed at the king’s command has been insightful and clever, but never before has one seen Valeria for more than a noble figurehead. They see only the pride and joy of the throne, the deserving heir with no right to the crown.

To thank them, she grants them a secret. “And the heart of a traitor,” she whispers, taking some small delight in the way their eyes grow round with surprise even in their last moments. “Just like you.”

Before they have a chance to grasp the weight of her gift, Valeria pulls her blade from their chest. She waits for the life to bleed out of them. When it does, she wipes her blood clean of their blood and plucks a few weeds from the ground, resting it beside the wound she leaves behind.

“May your treason spread throughout Tyrholm.”

It’s both a prayer and a promise.

EXTRAS N/A

#accepted #accepted: the chariot

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