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#Shadowlands timeline

let-me-iiiiiiiin · 1 year

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say what you will about warcraft, but dragonflight is the best thing that’s ever happened in my life. characters??? gay as fuck. all of them. there are cute ducks everywhere. the storyline makes sense and lets the player make emotional connections to the characters. there’s no “power level-up” system. the dragonriding skill FUCKS. talent trees are back. the professions are fun as fuck. then the reputation system---

-my future self grabs the mic from me to address the room-

There's a Murloc Timeline where everyone is a murloc and fighting a murloc Deathwing, the places on the map are changed into murloc names, and it all happened because while helping the Timewalkers your coworker trapped a random murloc in one of the time rifts.

#world of warcraft #dragonflight #I CAN'T BELIEVE THIS IS HAPPENING #THIS IS REAL #THERE'S A MURLOC TIMELINE AND IT'S CANON #I'm so glad they're capturing the heart and soul of dnd so accurately #shadowlands and etc were boring but dragonflight??? dragonflight gave me MURLOC TIMELINE

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imaginarianisms · 1 month

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bc of the new upcoming animated show on yi ti called the golden empire & later the nine voyages on young corlys velaryon & also nymeria's 1000 ships prequel (all of which i'm super excited for btw lmao), i suspect that these may be the god-emperor dynasties of yi ti ranging from valyria to the present day:

Scarlet Emperors - perhaps the most infamous dynasty. They greatly expanded the empire and strengthened central power. Some were great statesmen, others ruthless but competent, and still others ruthless and incompetent. They moved the capital from Yin to Si Qo (which was left in ruins after their dynasty ended). Many members of the dynasty were wicked and cruel and practiced the dark arts and sorcery and cannibalism like Lo Tho, though Lo Doq ruled wisely and well for more than thirty years. He survived the numerous assassinations within the imperial family by supposedly pretending to be a lackwit struck with an affliction that made him jerk and stagger when he tried to walk limp and drools when he tried to speak while others believe that the true ruler was his formidable wife, Bathi Ma Lo. A famous historical drama recounts his unlikely rise to the throne. The Scarlet Emperors reigned about 2,000 years ago and warred against the Jogos Nhai to the north, the dynasty fell when Emperor Lo Bu, known as the Boy Too Bold By Half was killed in battle by Zhea (who btw is a canonical trans man or at the very least a woman who lived & dressed as a man, so, like, I don't wanna hear ppl in the a.soiaf rpc go all like "bUt I cAnT hAvE a TrAnS cHaRaCtEr!!!!" yes you fucking can that's a canon example right there dont give me that transphobic bs), a jhatar of the Jogos Nhai. Yellow Emperors - died out 1,000 years ago. Traded with the Valyrians, who were then also at the height of their power. Chai Duq, the fourth emperor of the dynasty, took to wife a Valyrian noblewoman and kept a dragon at his court. (in my personal interpretation, House Celtigar descends from this dynasty in the paternal line.) Sea-Green emperors - at least eight emperors under which Yi Ti is said to have achieved the height of its power. They also ruled from Yin. At the apex of its power, they conquered the large island of Leng and Great Moraq off the coast in the Jade Sea, and lands as far away as Qarth, Old Ghis and Asshai paid them tribute. They traded with Valyria. Azure Emperors - the current dynasty, who ruled from Yin in a palace larger than all of King's Landing. The seventeenth azure emperor Bu Gai's rule, however, is being defied by general Pol Qo, who has named himself first of the orange emperors, and by a sorcerer lord who is exiled to the city of Carcosa far to the east of Yi Ti, claims to be the sixty ninth of the yellow emperors, a dynasty fallen for a thousand years. Relatively weak, with the regional princedoms rising in power. Leng broke free from their control about four hundred years ago (which is exactly when the Doom of Valyria happened), so this is what the current dynasty is during the Century of Blood and the Targaryen dynasty and now the Baratheon Era to the present day.

#out of the galaxy. || ooc.#also ...... sb pls get the writers to use. chinese names or at least get chinese writers in there lmao #also. disabled & trans writers. for a bonus #/ cannibalism #there's also the grey emperors; indigo emperors; jade-green emperors; pearl-white emperors; purple emperors & maroon emperors #most of which have very little information on em let alone the timeline & nobody rly knows what order they're in #the jade-green emperors ruled from yin over a rich golden age & literally had their entire imperial palace made of solid gold #the pearl-white emperors had 9 eunuch emperors ruled from yin for 130 years of peace & prosperity #the purple emperors ruled from tiqui & reinforced the western borders against the hyrkoon city states in the bones mountains to the west #the maroon emperors ruled from jinqi & reinforced the eastern borders against reavers from the shadowlands & the grey waste

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minecraft-axolotyl · 19 days

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Gale demi essay when? 👀

WELL SINCE YOU ASKED XD (Seriously thank you <3)

I think Gale Dekarios is Demisexual and here is why:

First things first. The man is devoted. When he loves, he gives his entire heart and soul to his partner. He thrives on a deep connection, and we're all aware of the nerd rizz that drew us to him in the first place.

However, the man is also damn-near OBLIVIOUS when someone starts to flirt with him. It takes a literal mind-reading connection for him to understand that Tav MIGHT like him (because of course picturing kissing him with passion isn't enough to 100% confirm! /s)

"But Gale still has sex with the player" you might ask me. And you are would be correct, but being aspec/demi isn't just about not having sex with someone, it's a lack of attraction until a deep emotional bond is formed. And I do believe Gale forms that bond with Tav before sex happens in act 2.

Some may say that he's just holding back because of the orb, but with the way he seems genuinely surprised that Tav flirts with him at the Tiefling Party, I think he's just using the orb as an excuse to not move things too fast.

Even after the orb is cured, it takes some time (and some water-testing bold flirtations in the shadowlands) to confirm that they're both on the same page before he takes anything further.

When he finally does confess his true feelings to Tav, he doesn't just hit them with an "I love you." No no, that's too vague. He has to give them the full "I'm in love with you." just so they know he means it with his entire orb-filled chest.

He talks about how he wishes they had more time. How "if things were different" he would have taken the time to do things properly, because, as he also says, he cannot change who he is, or how he loves. (let me tell you, as an ace, that line hits HARD)

This is just a side note but if you tell him his kissing is 'out of practice', he says he wishes you two had more time to practice together, and the thoughts of Gale spending time devoted exclusively to kissing his partner, without the pressure or expectations of anything more... You see where I'm going with this (I hope)

Not to mention, even after feelings (and a feelings-cementing kiss) have been exchanged, and he knows Tav feels the same way, he still feels the need to deepen that bond even further before they take things all the way!

He takes them on a magical tour of his home T_T to show them where he came from through what little glimpses into his life he can share. He could just get down to the magical sex part, but he wants Tav to know him in every way.

Physically, emotionally, even spiritually! Gale Dekarios doesn't JUST have sex (unless that is what Tav prefers) he will fuse their souls together in the Weave until they are together as one. (Also, as an ace myself, I think the Weave Sex is fascinating in the fact that there's a way to bond with a partner without using physical bodies. I wish that were real tbh, it sounds very cool!!!)

He knows they don't have the time to act out whatever romantic timeline he had in his head when he first caught feelings (At the very least he hoped to take them on an actual DATE first) but he wants to make damn sure he expresses his love for Tav in the only way he can, with what little time they have left.

Anyway Demi Gale thoughts live in my head rent free, thank you for letting me rant about this on main.

#behold my demi gale essay #gale headcanons #bg3 gale #gale romance #gale x tav #bg3 spoilers #gale dekarios #demisexual #headcanoning aspec characters my beloved #I didn't even proofread this #I saw the ask in my inbox and started typing immediately

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fourraccoonsinacoat · 8 months

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How the Dark Urge playthrough adds depth to the Astarion romance.

Hello, Tumblr! Welcome to my midnight dissertation on how the Durge romance scene adds a whole beautiful layer to the Astarion romance, because I can't stop thinking nonsense about a fictional character in a video game. Join me.

Also, spoilers ahead for the Dark Urge playthrough...obviously.

So, the Durge romance scene starts with your necrofabulous demon butler, Fel, showing up and saying some shit about your romanced companion.

I should also mention the timeline here, cause that's important. In my Durge playthrough, this scene triggered in the Mountain Pass. So we'd saved the Grove, went wilding in the Underdark, almost got roasted and toasted in Grymforge, couldn't fucking figure out how to get out of the Underdark (thanks for nothing, Halsin), so we go back up top and take the Mountain Pass. We then proceeded to completely miss the creche, stumble into Last Light Inn via being jumped by the Harpers, and save Isobel. (At this point in my playthrough, I knew I'd messed up because we hadn't found the creche, so I backtracked to the Mountain Pass.)

We had barely scratched the surface of the Shadowlands.

So, Fel is there talking shit. And if you're romancing Astarion he says: He is so afraid. So, so afraid. Of everyone, besides you, who he ought to fear most.

This shows that Astarion is already starting to feel ~feelings~ for your Durge, to his great discontent. You're something different, dare he even think it...special. Ew.

Again, this is before the majority of Shadowlands, before all the Thorm drama, way before Moonrise (at least in my playthrough) and That Bitch Araj.

Durge tells Fel to fuck off, and Fel says some more shit and Durge gets a dialog option that says: We are indomitable together. You underestimate us.

And I love that line because it shows Durge thinks of Astarion as an equal. Not something to fix, despite how broken the both of them are. But equal, and stronger because of it (insert some nonsense about two broken things being stronger together as one. It'll break your heart.)

Then, Fel responds to that dialog option with: You are wrong to consider another your equal. So, here is this child of a literal god - Bhaal - considering Astarion an equal. Yes, Durge doesn't know that yet, but I love the headcannon of the litteral child of a murder god looking at Astarion and going, yep I like you, let's go be chaotic and tragic together and maybe help eachother heal in the process.

So, Fel fucks off.

Durge wakes Astarion up and recounts what just happened and Astarion is Astarion about it, but then the Urge takes over and your Durge looses control. You wake up and are tied up by Astarion (but not like that) and he is obviously taking the situation more seriously after presumably seeing you pass out and lose it. Your Durge can pass a saving throw to resist the Urge and express that you understand what he's saying "Whatever this is. It won't win."

His response if you make the save is: "Easy now, darling. You've got this. And I've got you."

And don't tell me this dude doesn't care about Durge at this point, way before he admits it out loud once you get to Moonrise/speak with That Bitch Araj.

So, you get through the night and Astarion cuts you free once you're back in control and admonishes the Durge a bit and says they need to talk.

Astarion tells the Durge that they're not alone in this struggle and that he's there for them. He says "that's not who we are" when referring to the things they both did while under the control of an abusive authority figure. He says "we make our own choices, and you made the right one last night."

I love this whole scene because it really establishes the dynamic between Astarion and the Durge as a supportive one. A lot of Astarion’s romance involves the MC being in the role of the person providing support and reassurance, and I love that about the romance. I love that this masculine character is shown being vulnerable and that a part of his arc involves coming to terms with needing support (as a trauma survivor, myself, who had and still has a lot of toxic independence issues to deal with, I feel you.) But in this scene, we see a completely flipped dynamic that I think really adds a depth to the romance that can go missed if you don't do the Dark Urge playthrough.

Durge is the one in need of support and reassurance here, and Astarion provides it confidently and sincerely. He tells your Durge that they'll get through this, and that he will be there to "make sure" they do.

It's so ride or die, and I love it.

I could go on about all my headcannons in regards to how the Astarion and Durge romance progresses, but this nonsense has really gone on long enough. Apologies for the mindrot, I just adore well written characters.

My point is, go do a Dark Urge playthrough and romance Astarion!

#astarion #astarion bg3 #astarion romance #baldur's gate 3 #astarion x dark urge #baldurs gate astarion #bg3 astarion #baldur's gate fanfiction #astarion headcanons #dark urge headcanons #the dark urge #bg3 durge #bg3 spoilers #astarion x durge #when i say these characters live rent free in my head

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autistichalsin · 4 months

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Do you happen to how / have made a good timeline of The Shadowlands? What was there before? What it was called? When it fell? IIRC one of the writers confirmed that the rude pale elf in the list of customers banned from the pub was a reference to Astarion. IDK is that was canon or more a joke that stayed in. Having a collected resource on that would be amazing for plotting out fics!

I have no idea if the banned elf was Astarion- I've seen conflicting things on it. But for everything else:

So, the Shadow-Cursed Lands cover primarily the town of Reithwin along with Moonrise, in the Western Heartlands. Thaniel is the nature spirit of this land. (Sidenote: because nature spirits can't really leave the area they embody, and Halsin knew Thaniel as a child, this implies that Halsin grew up somewhere near here, probably in a nearby forest. Since he also mentions his family being buried in High Forest, which is quite far away, it seems likely that they moved at some point, or maybe they lived in the area for a few generations but still considered themselves to have very strong ties to High Forest.)

As for a timeline of the Shadow Curse:

1142: Halsin is born in a forest, most likely near Reithwin. Over the next years, he becomes close friends with the nature spirit Thaniel. Growing while Thaniel stays the same age drives him to decide to become a Druid, as he realized nature, his first friend, needed protecting. After his last family member passes away (Halsin being the youngest son of an ancient line of elves that faded out due to illness and accidents, according to Halsin's writer), Halsin is "turned over to the Druids," at a "comparatively young age" (per his writer).

Sometimes before 1392: Isobel Thorm, Ketheric's daughter, is born. Melodia, Isobel's mother, and Ketheric's wife, tragically passes away.

Sometime between this and 1392: Dame Aylin arrives in Reithwin. She and Isobel Thorm fall in love at first sight.

Roughly 1392: Isobel dies. In Early Access, this was at Halsin's hands, as a fight broke out due to Shar's influence, causing Isobel to attack Halsin, and him to stab her on reflex. In the full release version, this was cut, and no one seems to know exactly how or why she died. Ketheric is devastated by grief, converts to Shar worship, and gathers an army of Dark Justiciars.

Later in 1392: The Archdruid who served the Emerald Grove before Halsin gathers a group of Druids and Harpers (including Jaheira) to face them; they win, with many losses, but Ketheric uses Shar's powers to unleash the Shadow Curse as revenge. Almost all the Druids and Harpers who had survived are then killed by the curse. Halsin takes what survivors he can manage, gets back to the Emerald Grove, and is appointed the new Archdruid. Some days later, he returns to the Shadow-Cursed Lands looking for survivors, finds the Shadow-Cursed version of the previous Archdruid, and is forced to kill it. He keeps his glaive as a "reminder that victory can taste bitter" and locks it away, along with his journal from that day. (In the original, this glaive/dagger, called Sorrow, was the weapon Halsin used to kill Isobel, and had a different journal to go with it talking about his guilt.) This curse, of course, also causes the nature spirit Thaniel to be split in two. One half is trapped in the Shadowfell, while the other half stays in the Shadow-Cursed Lands, eventually becoming Oliver.

Meanwhile, Dame Aylin is kidnapped by Ketheric Thorm and locked away so he can leech her power to make himself immortal.

1392-1492: Halsin spends the next 100 years researching the curse and trying to gain Silvanus's favor to be able to break it. Almost everyone else abandons the land; Jaheira admits to doing so, and a note Halsin wrote laments that the Emerald Enclave wouldn't help even if he asked. The few people who do attempt to go there perish- a Druid from another community got some information from Halsin, tried to enter the land, and then fell to the Curse. Some lines Halsin had in Early Access indicated that his being there when the curse fell and his empathy with the suffering of the Shadow-Cursed Lands/its people were key in his ability to later break the curse.

Meanwhile, Art Cullagh, a Flaming Fist, is trapped in the Shadowfell with Thaniel. They form a very close friendship, and Thaniel repeatedly tells Art that Halsin- and only Halsin- can save him.

At some point, Ketheric converts to worshipping Myrkul in exchange for resurrecting Isobel, becomes his Chosen, and helps hatch the Absolute plot along with Gortash and the Dark Urge.

1492: Shortly before the start of canon, Halsin meets Aradin and his band of adventurers, who tell him they're looking for the Nightsong at Moonrise Towers. Seeing a chance to investigate both the Curse and the modified mindflayer tadpoles he's encountered, Halsin joins them, then is betrayed when they're attacked by goblins and Aradin promptly abandons Halsin to the goblins.

After that comes everything in canon with the Break the Shadow Curse quest and all of its sub-quests.

1493, roughly: In the 6 months after the curse is broken, Halsin (/and Tav, if applicable) repurpose what was left of Reithwin to become a new community for those needing a new start, the narrator noting that it's "hidden from those who are not welcome, open to any who need shelter." Halsin is noted to have "built a schoolhouse in a day" for all the nine wagonfuls of children who joined their community, and become an unofficial leader of the community. He says that the place is unrecognizable in a good way, with the scars rapidly becoming invisible even to those who know what happened.

Sadly, Art Cullagh passes away sometime between the curse breaking and the epilogue, but he remained close to Thaniel until the end, and it is noted that Thaniel and Oliver come to the community often to play.

I think that's everything for the parts of the Shadow-Curse story we don't directly play through in canon!

Random interesting fact that @ride-a-dromedary and I noticed: the name "Reithwin" is one letter off from "Relthwin", the Elvish word for "refuge". That may or may not be intentional.

#halsin #halsin silverbough #bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #shadow-cursed lands #reithwin

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avocado-writing · 4 months

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HI IT’S THE CHILLY ANON, first off thank you sm that fic/drabble was absolutely tasty, very delicious

secondly !! if requests are still open (I tried to scroll back on your page to double check) could I perhaps! Request another astarion x tav/reader that’s afraid of the dark ?

giving you big hugs and a glass of water ^^

notes: thank you anon I am slurping it down mwah xx if you like my work, please reblog!

words: 1.1k

rating: T

pairing: astarion x reader

He hates the Underdark.

More than anything because it reminds him of his life before, chained into the shadows without the possibility of being free in the sun, and he hates the idea of returning to that voluntarily. But the group insisted that it was the safest path to the Shadowlands - and gods know that sounds like a barrel of laughs, too - so here he is. Trudging.

The excursion itself was bad, with its exploding fungi and minotaurs charging from nowhere, but things got catastrophically worse when that damned Bulette had appeared. Astarion is never a fan of enemies he can’t keep an eye on at all times so that thing surfacing scared the un-life out of him, and when you called a retreat the damned group got carved into two halves: Shadowheart and Karlach headed one way, towards the wide open mushroom fields, and the two of you another - into the shadowed safety of a cave.

And then there was a bloody rockfall.

It closed you off from them, splitting the bloody party like fools. Both of you trapped in a tunnel, covered in dust and dirt and feeling incredibly stupid indeed.

Alone together.

Luckily Shadowheart had used a Sending spell to let you know they were attempting to find a way out, but it might take a while. Looks like they’ll have to source some explosives from somewhere in order to clear the debris from the cavemouth. With little else to do, you stayed put.

So here the two of you are, waiting for your rescue to be sprung with no real idea of a timeline. Astarion has been pacing, complaining as loudly as he can about the situation and listening to the echo of his own gripes, but you’ve been oddly… still. Sat against the rocky wall with a torch gripped so tightly in your hands that it’s changing the colour of your knuckles. The torch which, now he comes to think of it, you haven’t let go of since you climbed down that ridiculous ladder into this wretched place.

“We should have risked the damned mountain pass is all I’m saying. A handful of githyanki are hardly the worst choice when you compare them to all this bloody… gloom. I mean gods, I’ve not seen the sun in two hundred years and now we are actively choosing to hide from it. What’s the point of this damned tadpole if I’m hundreds of feet beneath the earth?!”

“Can you not?” you say, voice so quiet he almost misses it. For a moment, Astarion pause, turning with his whole torso to look at you. He inspects you through narrowed eyes.

“You’re the one who led us down here,” he sniffs, as if this justifies his bitching.

“Yes, because the group voted. Everyone but the two of us and Lae’zel chose Underdark.”

Your eyes don’t meet his when you speak. They’re locked solidly on the flame in front of you, a flame which is beginning to dwindle. A gentle sheen of sweat has broken out on your face and Astarion doesn’t think it’s from your proximity to the heat.

You’re right. You didn’t want to come down here either. A couple of things click into place for him, and his eyebrows raise as Astarion uncovers a secret about you.

“Are you… are you afraid of the dark?”

“Fuck off, Astarion,” you sigh. This is totally unlike you. Usually you’re willing to parry his teasing with your own, engage in a little sharp-edged banter. It’s one of his favourite parts of the day, actually - when he can volley back and forth with you. But right now you simply lack your usual gumption. When he attunes his attention to it, Astarion wonders how he was so obtuse; he can taste the fear in your blood without a drop of it needing to hit his tongue, the way it courses round your body, flooding you with adrenaline.

He hesitates. Part of him wants to slip back into pettiness and attempt to goad you into an argument, at least that way maybe you’d be a bit distracted. But another, far larger part of him, a part which he knows is going to win out, wants to reach out in genuine kindness.

“Ignis,” he mutters under his breath, and a Firebolt appears in his hand, flooding the cave with light. He doesn’t launch it at anything, and the flame is hot and uncomfortable against his palm - but not enough for him to care when he sees how you let out a held breath at the sight of it. The cave is bathed in warm light which illuminates every crag and cranny, a couple of spiders skitter away into splinters in the rock, but you don’t seem to care - quite the opposite. This is the most relaxed he’s seen you in a while.

“Better?” he asks. You nod, grip finally loosening a little on your torch.

“Much better. Thank you, Astarion.”

He saunters over, back against the wall and sliding down the stone as carefully as he can. Your eyes soften in the light he casts. From this close, he can admire every inch of your face. It’s a nice face. He’d like to admire it more.

“Didn’t pin you as the type to be afraid of anything. Well, except for the whole possibly turning into a Mindflayer thing, but that’s a given,” he reasons. You groan in frustration.

“I know. It’s silly, really. I’ve hated it since I was little, and as I got older… well, it became less about the dark itself, and more what might be hiding in the dark,” you sigh. Astarion nods. It’s a simple but honest explanation. It seems that, around every corner in this damned place, there’s another beast waiting to jump out at you. He’s been surprised more times in the past few days than he’s been in his entire life.

“Well, we’ll be out of here soon. Here,” he nods at the cave-in, “and here,” he gestures widely with his free hand, as if to indicate the Underdark itself.

“Yes. And into a place literally dubbed ‘the Shadowlands’.”

“Exactly!” he agrees, and then, “...oh. Right. Shit.”

His genuine reaction of regret makes you laugh, and he realises he hasn’t heard that in days, either. You let your head fall to the side until it lands softly onto his shoulder. Astarion is filled with warmth, and it isn’t just from the fire.

“If I was going to be stuck with anyone in here, I’m glad it’s you,” you mutter. He’s worried it would show too much of his heart to reflect the sentiment, so he just lays his cheek against your scalp, and waits for the others to find you.

taglist: @ghosti02art @sadandanxiouswtf @yeethaw13 @trappedinlimbo15 @infinitely-kate @dhampling@wereallbrokenangels @tilldeathdousnugget @somethingblu3 @hopeful-n-sad

#astarion x reader #astarion x you #astarion x tav #request #my writing #Cw: incorrect use of the fire bolt cantrip

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redisaid · 4 months

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Strangers - Part 2 of ???

The Spider in Her Web

Oops, new hyperfixation unlocked lads. Post-Shadowlands Sylvaina slowburn, here we go.

5326 Words

Read it on Ao3!

The first thing Jaina notices upon her return visit to the Maw is that Sylvanas’ camp is unoccupied. The second thing she notices is that another stool has appeared, chipped out of the same twisting black rock that surrounds this place, this cloistered safe haven that almost feels as though it belongs under a canopy of trees and a sky of blue, rather than shades of black and grey.

The first thing Jaina does is test out the second stool, and finding it comfortable, she sits and waits. She sets down the heavy rucksack Vereesa eagerly supplied her with. She listens. She watches. She wonders where Sylvanas might have gone, but realizes that most of her time within the Maw is likely spent on the move, working at her redemption, little by little.

She gives it a few minutes. A quarter of an hour. Surely, Sylvanas will somehow know she’s here. She will sense the disturbance Jaina causes in her routine, the rippling of the calm waters of a lonely pond.

And while Jaina is patient, and the odd silence of this place gives her time to think she’s not normally afforded in her busy life in Boralus.

She thinks about leaving the rucksack and its corresponding letter. She has no obligation to do anything else. In fact, all that she’s done here thus far might be too much to explain to the likes of many of her Alliance comrades. She thinks that if Dori’thur truly could report what she sees to Tyrande, then the looming visage of the High Priestess would have already darkened Jaina’s doorstep, asking her what she was thinking, offering small comforts to her prisoner.

But then, she remembers how Sylvanas reached for her. How she stammered out excuses to keep her there, just a little longer. She does not know her. Sylvanas similarly knows little of her. But Jaina is all she’s seen, all the contact she has had with her world in some time.

So Jaina waits, but thinks to use her magic to shoot a bright flare into the swirling grey of the sky above the Maw, so that Sylvanas might be alerted to her presence.

Only another quarter of an hour passes until Jaina hears the beat of wings. More than that, and she might have given up her small mercy. It's likely only been a few minutes on Azeroth she's wasted, but still, she has other duties today, far less optional than this. She vows to attempt to keep time as well as she can, knowing that she left Azeroth mid-morning. If the rate of dissonance between the two timelines is steady, then she can calculate the difference. She can decide whether she cares to wait.

Dori’thur proceeds her charge by a few moments, perhaps being asked to scout ahead, perhaps just doing as she pleases. Jaina wonders if the owl offers any aid in Sylvanas’ work, but has no time to ask. Once again, she meets Sylvanas Windrunner with a drawn bow and an arrow between them, though it is lowered much faster this time, upon those burning blue eyes recognizing her.

“Sorry if the flare spooked you, I didn’t know how else to get your attention,” Jaina tells her, and this time it’s her hands that fly up in surrender.

If things were to turn, if Vereesa’s good intentions and well-packed supplies are for naught, then she doesn’t need to worry about where her hands are. She can defend herself. Jaina thinks that she should have when she was taken by the Mawsworn, but there were three of them, and they knew to chain her and gag her in such a way she could not have cast anything against them. She still feels shame in being caught, a year and some time later. She shouldn’t have had her guard down enough to be taken.

And yet here she is, bringing camp supplies, or whatever all of this is, to the woman who saw her captured.

Sylvanas says nothing at first. She lowers her bow, stashes the arrow back in her quiver. She wears her armor today, worn but more intact than the leathers beneath it, and the hood of her long cloak covers her hair, neatly tucked and likely tied up beneath it. Jaina wonders at why she bothers with the bow and the armor and all of it, if there are no more enemies here to fight, but realizes that this is probably what Sylvanas is used to. It is good practice, after all, for a Ranger to be prepared for anything.

She does not seem to be prepared to find Jaina here again. “Back so soon?” she finally asks, though there is a dry sarcasm in the words.

For Jaina, it has been two days. She delivered the letter to Vereesa the morning after she came back, and she arrived the following morning with the rucksack. Jaina had breakfast with her mother, then had decided to take the day to deliver it, making the excuse she had an errand to run elsewhere in the world. Funny, how no one questioned a mage who could transport herself anywhere she liked on where exactly she might be going. Perhaps they guessed each time? Maybe her honor guard had a betting pool over it.

No one would have guessed this destination, or won any money on it.

Truth be told, though it has only been two days, the image of Sylvanas in her tattered leathers, eyes wide and wild, reaching out for someone, anyone, even if they wear the face of her former enemy, captor and captive all in the same, has not left Jaina’s mind. She did not tell Vereesa about that, when she relayed her version of the visit to her. No, that moment was hers alone to ponder, though why she fixated on it so much, she still struggled to understand.

Maybe there was a cruelty in this she had not considered, they had not considered, or perhaps Tyrande had deliberately considered. After all, Sylvanas Windrunner had been sentenced to what might be eons of solitary confinement.

“How long has it been for you?” Jaina asks, still curious, still wondering if perhaps this grim sentence is hurting the effort for peace and justice more than it is helping it.

“As I told you before, it is difficult to tell. Perhaps something near to ten days,” Sylvanas answers, a bit more straightforward this time.

Five times as long. Well, that was easy math at least, though Jaina would be more exact about it upon her next visit. If she were to keep up with this chore, then at least she could endeavor to learn more about the Maw and the Shadowlands from it.

If such time dilation is constant, then that means Sylvanas has been here alone for five years, not even knowing the name of the owl who watches her. And still, Jaina thinks this difference might be somewhat variable in nature.

This feels correct and true to her own experiences, when the Mawwalkers found her in the last of her many escape attempts, and later freed her from Torghast to abscond to the safety of Oribos. There, she’d been informed she’d only been missing from Azeroth for just two weeks. It had felt like months to her, but she had blamed it on the menacing nature of this place, on being held captive and kept busy navigating the twisting tower of Torghast, and on the lack of night and day by which to tell the time.

A part of her feels justified in the confirmation, but another part feels remorse at the loss of that time, stretched and strange and terrifying as it was.

Perhaps then, for subjecting her and Anduin and Thrall and Baine and who knows how many others to this, Sylvanas deserves to linger in the same. But the length of it is still worrying. How can anyone expect a person to come out better, changed, and repentant, after so long alone?

“Vereesa was very eager to get this back to you,” Jaina rouses herself from her thoughts to explain, and lifts up the rucksack a little.

It is heavy, and something within it rattles. Jaina thinks she should have maybe been nosy enough to inspect its contents before agreeing to transport it, but again, she trusts Vereesa. She still does not trust Sylvanas, or know her, really.

The letter she carried back for her in return was much shorter than the younger Windrunner sister’s, written on some blank parchment Vereesa had included with her own correspondence. She’d only left one page, but Sylvanas had only needed three-quarters of it. Her handwriting was neat, and militant, the Thalassian runes each shaped perfectly and correctly to a tee, crammed together and narrow.

Jaina had provided a conjured quill for her, as well as some ink. Vereesa hadn’t thought that part through, it seemed. For her extended services, Jaina felt slightly entitled to read what she carried back to Azeroth, but had only glanced at the first few sentences. They seemed civil. Beyond that, it had felt as though her eyes had better things to see.

Now, today—two days later for her, ten for Sylvanas—those eyes stare across a chasm of their own making at another pair of blue ones.

Sylvanas approaches, finally. Dori’thur circles the sky above them, coming to rest on the top of the lean-to, near where Jaina sits, a reminder that both of their actions here are subject to judgment. Only Jaina has never enjoyed being judged.

A gauntleted hand reaches out to her, reminding Jaina of how it had been, bare and unarmored, desperate in so many ways, reaching for her before. Sylvanas has no such tension in her now. She is a woman seeking what she is owed and has asked for, and Jaina hands her the rucksack dutifully. There is nothing more in this today. An exchange of part and parcel, but nevermind the extra stool upon which Jaina sits.

She is a stark contrast to Sylvanas in her armor, not having bothered to make a show of herself this morning, or whatever passes for such in the Maw. She wears only the white blouse, navy trousers, and sensible boots she went to breakfast in. She considered bringing a jacket, at least, but what for? The Maw is neither hot nor cold, at least not here in the shelter of Sylvanas’ grove of rock. As a mage, her armor is as unnecessary for her as any of the rest of her battle regalia. It is all for show, and something about how she caught Sylvanas last time didn’t sit right with her.

If she were dressed down, so Jaina should be, but now they have swapped places again, and Jaina isn’t sure which is right, only that it feels wrong.

“Thank you,” forms on Sylvanas’ lips, stiffly and formally.

She takes two steps back, sets her bow on her bedroll, and the rucksack on the ground before she kneels to dig within it, leaving no space for further ceremony or to add to her graciousness.

“There is another letter within,” Jaina explains instead. “Should you want to reply.”

Again, she had not checked and does not know where it is, only taking this information with a grain of salt, as it were, from a delighted Vereesa. If nothing else, she reminds herself that she endures the unnatural stretching of her hours, the dismal neutrality of this place, and the awkwardness of serving as a messenger girl to her once-enemy, because it seems to be bringing a great deal of happiness to her friend.

There are few people on Azeroth who have stuck by her as Vereesa has. Through all of her decisions, questionable and rage-tinted as they might have been for a while. Through nights where they held one another, crying over losses they could not otherwise express. Through days of war and strife new to neither of them, but quickly growing old. Jaina would watch the twins and tell them of their father, sometimes, because she knew they were curious and she knew it was too painful for Vereesa to speak of Rhonin much anymore. Vereesa would all but force her to come out with her and do normal things, lunches, shopping, festivals, and would sometimes point out a thing that Pained or Kinndy might have enjoyed, to remind Jaina that living was a thing she could do to honor them too, just as much as anything else.

So for that, Jaina could endure an awkward pause or two here in the Maw.

Sylvanas, knelt beside the rucksack, takes inventory of its contents in a militant way, saying nothing. One of the first items she does lay out is another sealed envelope, so there’s that. Next to it she lines up an odd assortment of things she must have requested. A length of rope concerns Jaina slightly, but as for how, she’s not sure. Sylvanas certainly can’t climb out of the Maw on thirty feet of rope, but it’s still odd to see. After that is a large bundle of dark material that Jaina can only assume are new leathers, and she breathes a private sigh of relief at that.

Again, it is an odd thing to focus on—clothes of all things. Still, if it were her, down here, alone, left only with her regrets and the glowing judgment of Dori’thur’s eyes, she would not want to be wearing tattered clothes.

A smaller odd assortment follows, laid out in an organized fashion. Jaina catches glimpses of new flint and tinder, bow strings, a small knife, a crisp white hand towel, an odd brass instrument that’s something like a sextant or viewfinder—distinctly elven in nature but close enough to both that Jaina guesses it is meant for finding the value of distances, quills and ink and a stack of parchment, a large piece of thick, fine velum lined with a grid, perhaps meant to be made into a map.

So little of it is sentimental. Sylvanas could have asked for anything, but what lies before her is a military requisition. It seems she is a General through and through, and has put all of her concern into the practicality of her mission. She is here to seek souls and guide them, and if a map and rope and measuring of things will help in that, then Jaina supposes there is no harm in such tools.

Still, none of it is what she expects to come out of that pack, save the leathers.

Only when Sylvanas makes a face of sorts, long eyebrows twitching, does she pull out something unexpected, and the expression that comes to rest on her sharp features tells Jaina it is not something she asked for, and perhaps not something she wants.

She presses the button on a small circular case in her palm to reveal it is a compact, not a compass or some other practical instrument. The face she makes is at the mirror within it, and Sylvanas swiftly closes the lid, setting the offending object aside, away from the rest.

The last thing she retrieves comes out with a rattle. A copper kettle, out of place in the wash of monotone greys and whites and blacks, chimes as two matching mugs attached to its handle slam against it. While it is well-made and elven in nature, it is simple enough that it too seems to serve a military purpose.

“I told Vereesa, about the tea,” Jaina confesses before the curiosity alighting in Sylvanas’ eyes can seek satisfaction.

It’s only then that she looks up from her hoard at her, one long eyebrow slightly lifted. Sylvanas, once again, says nothing.

“She thought it was a good idea,” Jaina goes on. “And that I could use a break while I wait for you to write your replies, as it were.”

Sylvanas says nothing still, pulling aside the lid of the kettle to find that what rattles inside is a strainer and small tin of tea. She sets these aside separately, lining them up with the rest of her expanded inventory.

She looks over the items, not back at Jaina, as she finally nods, just slightly, and says, “Running a nation is a daunting task.”

Jaina knows. She’s run three of them, should one count Dalaran as a nation, which she certainly does. Sylvanas has run one and the military of another, and led an entire faction of united nations and races, for a time. On this, they can both agree.

Jaina watches, fascinated, as Sylvanas packs some things back into the rucksack in a very focused and practiced way. She leaves aside the leathers and the kettle and its accessories and the mirror compact. Everything else is stored away with purpose and precision.

Her fixation is interrupted when Sylvanas stands, walking over to her to hand her the kettle.

“I have no water,” is her explanation.

There is water in the Maw, or at least in Korthia, still chained to it even now. Jaina had looked there first, assuming that Sylvanas would be among the trees of a more familiar landscape, closer in Azeroth to its nature. But no, she had camped here, nearer to Torghast, in what Jaina now thinks is probably a more practical home base.

Dare she even think it, but Sylvanas Windrunner seems to be very boringly pragmatic, when left alone to her own devices.

Jaina takes the kettle, recognizing her usefulness in this situation. Perhaps that’s why the arcane arts were always appealing to her. She thrives on being useful.

Conjuring water and fire for her own tea, at least, will give her something to do besides joining Dori’thur in her silent watching of Sylvanas.

The odd domesticity of the scene isn’t lost on Jaina as she kneels by the firepit, measuring out tea leaves from the tin in pinches. Sylvanas is seated on the stool she had not occupied, reading her letter in silence.

A tension fills the stale air of the Maw, but it’s different than any they’ve simmered in before. Jaina is used to being in the same room with Sylvanas Windrunner only in states of distress—during Garrosh’s trial, or when she stopped Varian from attacking her by teleporting his entire army away. Jaina’s life is made up of moments she rethinks years after, and that is one of them. Had she not interfered, would Teldrassil have burned?

Then again, would Varian have died sooner? Would Sylvanas not have been justified in killing him then, had Jaina let that fight play out? She had asked for help to win back her city, and had far more claim to the ashes of Lordaeron than anyone in the Alliance—even Jaina, who, if not for many other lost moments, might have been its queen. Would they then have come to their own blows, ending it all in the bowels of the Undercity, a clash of ice and shadow?

This is why Jaina can’t think on these things. She’ll get lost. Time slips away like sands in an hourglass, and she wonders how the bronze dragons can manage to know the outcomes of such scenarios and not go mad. No, it is better to be present where and when she is now, tending to the kettle over Sylvanas’ fire pit, waiting, as strange a scenario as that might be.

Stranger still is the question that breaks the silence, “It seems you know my nephews. How do they fare these days?”

Do you know them is the question Jaina wants to ask back, but she knows the answer. No, well, maybe not. Maybe she knew Arator, as a baby. He’s a man grown now, and last Jaina saw him, he was excited to hear all about her interactions with Uther in the Shadowlands, and wanted to know all about her stories of the legendary paladin of old.

Of old…that was not all that long ago. Fifteen years back, she stood with him at Stratholme, in another moment in which her mind frequently stalls, questioning everything, able to change nothing.

“They’re well,” is Jaina’s answer. “Arator is busy with the Silver Hand. Giramar and Galadin continue to grow like weeds.”

Again, the conversation strikes an odd chord of domesticity. Jaina has really never considered that Sylvanas is the aunt of those boys, but she is. Having seen it up close on her now, Giramar has the same lopsided smirk when thinks he’s said something particularly funny. Galadin has the same look of burning seriousness and focus. Jaina wonders if Sylvanas once laughed, lifetimes ago, as easily as Arator does?

It’s a question she can never ask.

Sylvanas huffs a response, “I’ve never seen Vereesa’s children.”

Jaina thinks this is some egregious sin for a moment, but then realizes, of course she hasn’t. The boys were born when she was already dead. They know their aunt only as the fearsome Banshee Queen. Jaina wonders if they know that, until quite recently, their own mother was still so desperate for her sister, but so afraid of her.

The Windrunners are and remain a complex web of a family to weave in and out of, and while Jaina never intended to be as such, she feels she’s become the spider that maintains it. Yes, she knows Sylvanas’ nephews likely better than she ever will. She helped the twins study for a test last week. She knows Arator’s favorite snack is caramel popcorn, and she buys a big tin for him every Winterveil. She tries to diffuse conversations between Alleria and Vereesa, where the elder sister’s brash and self-assured nature rubs wrong against the youngest’s sensitive one.

And now she makes tea for herself, waiting for the middle sister to write what amounts to a prison letter back to them. Or, well, the only one who has made an effort to contact her.

“I can ask her for a photograph?” Jaina offers, looking over her shoulder for a response, unsure if that was a problem for her to solve or just a statement.

Either way, she likes solving problems. She likes being useful. While she did not intend to be the spider, spinning this web, she still spins it.

Sylvanas says nothing, yet again, but Jaina sees her ears twitch upward. She’s been around enough elves for enough years to understand the language their ridiculously long ears speak. This, while Sylvanas doesn’t give voice to it, tells Jaina she’s interested.

She takes that for her answering, demanding nothing else, and pretends to be distracted by the hiss of the kettle. The earthy smell of Kul Tiran black tea tells her it’s ready as much as the hiss. The Maw smells of nothing, but now, it smells like tea and a fire, and to some, that’s home.

“Do you want any?” Jaina asks over her shoulder again.

When she looks back at Sylvanas for a reply, she just waves her disinterest, offering no explanation for it. The undead do not need to eat or drink, but Jaina knows Derek still likes his tea. It is the polite thing to do, the useful thing. Jaina, spider that she is, is an industrious creature. She cannot stop weaving.

She knows she’s right when she catches another lift of Sylvanas’ ears at the question, and the barest hint of her sharp cheek poking out from behind the paper that covers the rest of her face, a hint of the smirk she shares with her nephew, whom she’s never seen nor met.

---

Such a problem is what brings Jaina now to Vereesa’s doorstep, that same evening.

The smell of a sweet elven curry fills Jaina’s nose as the door is cracked open. She can just barely see the red heads and stubby, pointed ears of Giramar and Galadin, bent over plates at the kitchen table.

Vereesa stands, dressed as causally in peacetime as Jaina is, smelling of spice and vegetables, smiling.

“Jaina! I just put dinner on the table!” she announces. “There’s extra, if you’d like to join us. Say hello to Jaina, boys.”

“Hi Aunty Jaina,” comes in a twin chorus of deepening voices she’s still getting used to. The boys are entering their gangling teenage phase now, as half-elves tend to grow as quickly as their human parent. Apparently, they are eating Vereesa out of house and home, and prove this statement correct as they don’t bother to get up from their dinner to greet her. A hello is the best she can hope for.

They call her aunty, though she isn’t their aunt, because Anduin does it too. Because Arator did it once, to make fun of him.

“I’m good on dinner, thank you though,” Jaina tells their mother.

She does not feel the need to impose or intrude, and is not hungry, but the position suits her. She is not a Windrunner. She is the spider spinning her web on the top corner of their door frame.

“I didn’t expect to see you again today,” Vereesa confesses, leaning her weight on the doorknob she still holds.

She is smaller than Sylvanas, quick both to smile and to cry, though she has had more reason to do the latter. She is not prone to smirking, and does so only when she thinks no one is watching.

Jaina produces a letter as her answer. This time, Sylvanas wrote two pages. That should hopefully mean something to her.

Vereesa’s blue eyes go wide. They’re softer in color, a tone closer to purple, while Alleria’s are a muted aqua. They are normal and natural for a high elf, or as natural as an arcane-infused near immortal being can be. Sylvanas’ bright, burning blue, is as unnatural as the sinister red it replaced. Before, Vereesa had once told her, Sylvanas had grey eyes like their mother, a trait considered highly rare and desirable among the quel’dorei. Vereesa had been jealous of them.

Now Sylvanas dwells in eternal grey, and Vereesa’s home is smothered with Alliance blue.

She snatches the parchment with delight. A little noise escapes her lips, whether she wants it to or not is anyone’s guess.

“I can’t thank you enough for doing this,” she tells Jaina, eyes already pouring over the words. “And for not making a stink about it or refusing on Tyrande’s behalf.”

Jaina had thought about that, certainly. The morality of her acceptance had weighed heavy on her before her first meeting with Sylvanas. Surely, Tyrande would not want this. Surely, there was a breach of hard-won justice. Surely, she should feel strongly against it herself, having been a recent victim of Sylvanas’ actions, fully in her control or not. Jaina had once questioned that deeply, wondering if some of this was posturing and blame, and if Sylvanas had very much willed her and her friends dead and tortured and forgotten as the souls she was now tasked with ushering to better places.

But in reality, free now of any influence besides Dori’thur’s watchful eyes and a sentence one could debate if she’d earned, Sylvanas had been polite to her. Curt, but courteous.

Eager, even, to have what little she was allowed, though not eager to show that. Words and gifts from her sister. The presence of another person from Jaina.

“As I told you before, I suspect that if Tyrande wanted to know and had a problem with it, she would have already come to me,” Jaina says to this, and she still believes it.

Something about the way Dori’thur watches even sets her ill at ease. She feels Tyrande’s eyes on her, feels her judgment, a tinge of betrayal, but not enough to stir her to action. If she has truly watched Sylvanas all this time, then she must understand that she’s suffering enough. Letters and map-making supplies aren’t going to change that.

Her expression must have changed at the thought, because now Vereesa is staring at her, confused, the letter and its contents forgotten. “You’re angry about the knife?”

“I don’t care if you gave her a knife,” Jaina quickly says, raising her hands defensively. “It was small. I assumed it was for cutting quills or fletching. She certainly didn’t turn it on me, so why should I be concerned?”

“Quills,” Vereesa answers, settling back into a grin. “An important part of a proper Quel’thalan pen set, but I debated about that knife for a good hour, packing that bag.”

Jaina knows that, as dull as the contents of the bag seemed, Vereesa carefully selected all of them and made a day of it. She is the type to agonize over gifts, and to ensure she always gives something unique, thoughtful, and unexpected.

For her last birthday, Jaina did not do much in the way of celebrating. She was busy, of course, making herself busy, and settled for a nice dinner with her mother and brothers. They’d given her no gifts and she expected nothing from them. In Kul Tiras, birthday gifts are a thing reserved for children, not for thirty-eight-year-old women.

But to her surprise, that evening she found a little box wrapped in simple blue paper upon her desk, waiting for her. Within it was a bottle of silver polish, a note that explained Vereesa had noticed that her anchor pendant was getting a little tarnished from these years of constant wear, and a fine bottle of port, aged exactly thirty-eight years, with a remark on the note that said waiting such time to be drunk had only made it all the sweeter.

“She asked about the boys,” Jaina reports, attempting to change the subject before she too becomes sentimental over silly little things.

“Oh?”

The odd combination of raised eyebrows and drooped ears tells Jaina she feels odd about this, maybe guilty. Glowing eyes wander her face, searching for more details.

“She’s never met yours, I suppose I hadn’t thought about that,” Jaina goes on.

“I hadn’t either.”

Behind her, said boys shovel curry and rice into their mouths like their stomachs have no bottom. They’re nearly taller than Vereesa now, and have grown up so fast, sheltered by her expertly from this world of war and terror. Both reach for the earthenware pitcher of water between them at the same time to refill their glasses, and laugh as their hands smack into one another.

Vereesa turns her head to them, smiling and shaking it.

“Do you have a photograph of them? Arator too, maybe you and Alleria?” Jaina asks.

Vereesa doesn’t turn back to her, but her ears droop enough to tell Jaina she’s frowning about it. The answer is no, there’s no photo of them all together. The remaining Windrunners in Azeroth are busy people, hard to pin down and gather in one place.

Vereesa turns to her, a rare public smirk on her face. It makes her look as much like Sylvanas as Jaina has ever seen, no doubting they are sisters there.

“No, but I believe a trip to Stormwind is in order to correct that. And I’ll have an extra copy made—for you, if anyone’s asking,” Vereesa tells her.

“Of course, for me,” Jaina tells her, echoing the mischief on her face, glad to see it sparkling through the soft blue of her eyes.

Glad, really, to see anything in them but tears.

#sylvanas windrunner #jaina proudmoore #sylvaina #fanfic #help i am being consumed by this #now with fixed time dilation shit because i am fuckin dumb as hell

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luminashdawnwing · 3 months

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DWC February 2024 Day 3: Bargain / Myth

The icy blue glow of Caeridormi’s eyes bored into Luminash, her gaze cold and level, the expression on her face little more than a porcelain mask. The former magister met her gaze with a glare of his own, the fire in his chest seething.

“You said you would return me to my timeline! With Theras!” Panic was rising, and despite his best efforts, Luminash’s hands had begun to shake, the pain of his burns scarcely felt through the dread, “You cannot simply back out of this, not after everything!”

The Infinite regarded the mage’s shouts infuriatingly calmly, and let silence hang in the air between them for a moment before she responded.

“And you cannot simply change the terms of the agreement.” Her words were sharp, cutting, and coldly precise, “Some of my kin are already defecting and shackling themselves back to the Titans’ will. Neither of us will achieve our goals if we do not keep a low profile. Surely a man of your intellect has perceived this?”

The question hung in the air, the veiled insult not lost on Luminash. You are nothing but a petulant mortal fool.

“But Jaskian…” Luminash finally sighed. He had lost her as surely as Theras, though she yet lived, somewhere across the timeways in his own home, an impassable gulf between them drawn wide when he threw himself into the Maw for Theras. What would she have thought now, to see his skin charred and cracked, his once-blue eyes ablaze?

“Will need to remain in this timeline. I agreed to aid you – and your son. Theras’ death was not your doing, magister. Losing Jaskian, though…”

He knew very well that he was to blame. He had returned from the Shadowlands both empty handed and empty hearted. There had been little love left to give – flowing from his heart, it flooded into the chasm of his grief, leaving the rest of his life sere. From there, no wonder all it took was a spark for a wildfire to spring to life.

“It was a mistake! Surely we are entitled to rectifying our mistakes?” What purpose in this bargaining? Luminash knew its futility, but futility was all that remained. It was better to struggle and have nothing to show than to simply roll over and die, surely?

“I would ordinarily agree with you. This you must know, or else I would be no better than the self-righteous Bronzes.” She nearly spit Bronzes, a rare show of emotion from the impassive dragon, “But I have already said that we can scarcely afford extra attention on…anomalies, not anymore. You must act, and quickly.”

The doubt began to resurface. Act, and quickly. Luminash knew what this entailed, and however long he had waited for this chance, the gnawing wrongness would not leave his mind in peace.

“Kill the magister, Luminash, and take what you deserve.”

@daily-writing-challenge

#luminashdawnwing #februarydwc2024 #februaryday42024

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nimblermortal · 1 year

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So I'm reading A Sword Named Truth and I want to talk about survivorship and guilt, but first:

Sherwood Smith's books for adults are lovely and intricate and really finely worldbuilt and I love them. Her books for children are just. so. young. I tried to read Senrid and I couldn't finish it. So now I'm reading a sequel? Well, they're all in the same world on the same continuity and this one was shelved in the adult section... because it's longer and so the characters can cuss, and because there's war and torture, I think.

It's really interesting because it straddles that divide in plot and timeline as well. The children's books started out as CJ's Journals, things Smith wrote when she was a kid, and there's paragraphs here where I go, "Wow, this sure did start out as 'a girl my age who is totally not me fell into a world with magic and a girl her age who was queen adopted her and they lived in a palace over a city built on a cloud and their worst enemy lived under the cloud in a place called the Shadowlands and he was a boy their age and they defeated him by kicking him into mud puddles with a pair of magic boots!"

...and then you're out at, "and that is one tiny, unimportant country on a different continent from most of the action here, which is bound up in political realities between not just multiple continents but multiple planets."

...and they are trying to stop the Forces of Evil from taking over in sometimes-bloodless coups, led by a boy their age (Siamis) who has had a rough last couple thousand years, much like a couple of their allies (Senrid, Jilo). And because this is an adult novel, they can express the desire to kill him, rather than defeat him or kick him into a mud puddle, and because it's a children's novel they can express frustration at adults who try to keep them out of danger and seem to be doing nothing about their problems.

So last night Senrid expressed a wish to kill Siamis, and I had a very adult moment of, "Yes that's all well and good and it should be done, but also, he's a kid going through a rough time, just like you." Which was followed immediately by, "That's an interesting perspective from an adult, but even more so, these child protagonists have an interesting perspective in that it doesn't matter that Siamis is a child - he's their peer, he's not special and innocent for being several thousand years young."

And that brought me back round to Doctrine of Labyrinths and its thesis that having a tragic history can explain your actions, and be something you struggle with, but it can't excuse you. Felix's life sucked! a lot! and continues to! and he's still responsible for every time he pushes that onto another person, whether that's nearly killing someone in his wrath and madness or just snapping at Mildmay on a bad day. Yes, it's his past talking, but it's still talking through him, and he still has responsibility for what he's done because of it.

So these kids are absolutely right about Siamis. Yes, he's a child and he deserves better, but he's also a child perpetrating war crimes and he deserves to be held responsible.

I'm interested to see what happens to him.

#it won't happen in this book of course #750 pages and it's book 1 classic Sherwood Smith #also it was a BIG relief when Derek died #which was an interesting way to set up an arc #Sherwood Smith #A Sword Named Truth #Doctrine of Labyrinths #(but you have to be patient about it)#Nimblermortal liveblogs

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cosmererambles · 3 months

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I need to put together a timeline.

Since my timeline is stretched out, I think it's pertinent. Let's work on it together, with Kale as a reference point. (I actually use Varian, since Kale is 1 year younger than he.) If Varian was 12 when Stormwind was razed, that would make Kale 11. WC3 takes place around this time, with the First, Second, and Third war happening in close succession and then Arthas's Scourge razing Lordearon and the Northern Kingdoms. Ten years after this, Vanilla strikes. So if we say that First and Second + WC3 took 2 years, that makes Varian 14 at the end of it and Kale 13. (Kale gains his drake power here.) So, Vanilla, being 10 years after, makes Varian 24 and Kale 23. Vanilla doesn't have many campaigns in it. Let's think of the patches; it launched with Molten Core which didn't really involve anyone but adventurers, then BWL (Again, our characters) AQ was a massive campaign, so I'd say with troop movements that took at least 8 months, and than Naxxramas. So around 2 1/2 years. BC happens; minor troop movements here, again, I'm going with 2 years. So that makes Varian 28, Kale 27, and Anduin, who was born when Varian was 19 or so, so Anduin is 9, 10. Something fucky is happening here, Anduin should be ten. Ah well, the timeline only really begins to stretch during Wrath. So anything here can remain canon. I'll go back and look at it. Anyways, Wrath took four years. During this Kale brought his people back and joined the Alliance. Varian 32, Kale 31, Anduin 14 Cataclysm took 4 years as well. Varian 36, Kale 35, Anduin 18, Wrathion 4! MoP took a whopping seven years in my lore. Why? The amount of troops and moving through the various locations takes time. It originally took 12, I cut this down because it was insane and Anduin was frankly getting too old! I just kept pretending he was 26 the entire time.

Varian 43, Kale 42, Anduin 25, Wrathion 11 WoD took a year on Azeroth. Wasn't a long campaign, I blame Blizzard for this. Varian 44, Kale 43, Anduin 26, Wrathion 12 Legion took 2 years. Varian is dead :( Kale 45, Anduin 28, Wrathion 14 BFA took 4 years. I may add to this because whoa, squeakin by there.) Kale 49, Anduin 32, Wrathion 18 (Thank God but still.) Shadowlands took a year because Shadowlands sucks. Would have been cool if like, in the SL time passed by normally but outside of it years had passed but nah. Kale 50, Anduin 33, Wrathion 19. Dragonflight takes place 7 years after the events of Shadowlands in my lore. Originally, I wanted 12, but now. In this Anduin leaves behind a fiance who was pregnant with his son (He didn't know.) and his bond marries her after two years of his absence. Kale 57, Anduin 40!, Wrathion 26.

I will need to make amendments to this, good lord. But yeah no matter what, Anduin ages and honestly? That's fine.

Sorry if my math is off, it probably is.

#World of Warcraft #WoW #My Lore #MyOC #Kale Zaxon

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nz0th · 5 days

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ykw i haven't known peace since finishing it (more or less)

they fucked RIGHT up with shadowlands. wow always had a problem with powercreep but moreso like, the power of the Big Bad and the power of the player characters to combat it, but the shet with zovaal? straight up getting metaphysical with it and going into the literal actual afterlife... brother the stakes were IMPOSSIBLY high with all of that sepulcher and idk... rewriting reality??? bs. like HELLO????

i love legion don't get me wrong but that one was like o_O too because it's like, ok, now the burning legion is basically a nothingburger, we zipped through space to REALLY beat their asses and made illidan sargeras' problem to boot.

bofa was.... well it was there, but like to skip back to the main point, the stakes hit an absolute crescendo with SL. i respect DF for dialing it way tf back but also wow as a series feels like it's slammed down too many literal universe threatening xpacs for us to LFR through and like, idk eventually there's gonna be nothing? if that makes sense.

jk, WoD and even legion showed us we can just yank old problems from a different timeline and do it again. MoP 2: taran zhu's fucking had it. again.

idk, it's kinda sad/wild thinking about it but at least i'll have my little guys to think about

#txt post tag

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dapperbasil · 2 months

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Tammy "Secondary Locations" King 🔎 👻 😇

Okay we really are just kicking her while she's down huh.

🔎 — investigating

For reasons I can't even fully go into yet (don't wanna spoil the surprise), Tammy is terrible at investigating and perceiving things. The loss of her eye makes this all the more evident to both her and everyone around her, while she does adjust her vision never returns to the way it once was.

However its not like she was ever great at it anyway. When asked by Zacharias what the biggest mistake she's made in Portland was, she answered the lack of awareness of her surroundings. Its an answer she sticks to, given her track record of being kidnapped, led to secondary locations, walking into obvious ambushes and so on.

👻 — communing with the paranormal

Another strike for team Ventrue. Even before her embrace, Tammy was afraid of ghosts. For a long time after, she even denied their existence and was willing to attribute anything paranormal to something entirely different. She's visited the Shadowlands twice, and for her that's two times too many, especially given how her last stumble into the Abyss went. At least that one is a secret they're keeping from her sire.

😇 — following rules

This one is a fun one because the answer is different depending on which part of the timeline we're looking at. I've been going by mid-campaign for the rest so I'll do that here as well. Tammy is actually pretty willing to follow rules, a willing pawn in the Camarilla machine. She's horribly afraid of what would happen if she doesn't, after all. Warned by her sire to be careful with who knows about her feeding issue, she doesn't want that to become a problem for anyone but herself, and by extension not a masquerade risk. She clings to the masquerade and traditions as a lifeline, even when it puts her at risk. She's definitely wearing herself thin, and who knows what can be sewn back together when she frays.

[Skill Symbol Prompt list]

#tammy king #ask meme #portland by night

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imperial-nuisance-rudje · 5 months

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Found an encyclopedia eorzea template, decided to fill out shayun's entry like he was a crossover normal raid npc. I don't think the water damage/spilled ink look worked out, but by the time it clearly wasn't working sunk cost had set in, so.

NOT his main timeline but i like thinking about how he'd work as an NPC while actually altering as little as i can so, more under the cut.

In this version, he Exalts at a normal time for deebs rather than Exalting as an adult due to extraordinary circumstance, and it ends up making him simultaneously the only member of the light party circle (since the other two exalt over the course of the first tier) familiar enough with anything coming from Creation to act on it, but also he's still operating on FF14 assumptions of reality and his exaltation and who he's reincarnated from are the only real links he has to Creation! The idea is that he goes from suspicious due to seeming to know to much to the player realize that he's still pretty damn clueless and his Great Curse is manifesting as suicidal plans to strike against the invading Deathlord (who, yes, is my Deathlord OC. if i'm hypothetically in a position to do this in the first place i'm in a position to be self-indulgent). The tier 2 capstone fight is against him, Fraj, and Myste (here rendered as an adult and called "the Shadow"), as he's losing his mind a little over how much the WoL is interfering with his ability to end his life.

This being FFXIV, exhausting him by kicking his ass means being able to drag him back and hand him to people who were worried about him, leaving only tier 3 to have a 100% hit rate of fighting Exalted concepts.

Oh, side note: the miasma is part of this raid being a giant love letter to Crystal Chronicles as well--the unlock dungeon would reference rebena te ra, the mushroom forest, and conall curach, the music would take cues from crystal chronicles' utterly unique soundtrack, you'd initially drive off the miasma to explore the Shadowlands by using a smaller version of the myrrh container in FFCC (with the nod of how it works mentioning that the liquid inside is "a heavily perfumed cocktail including myrrh, bitter herbs, alcohol, and crystal sand", and that mixture would be used to protect the research outpost as well. the visual effect the barrier causes in ffcc would also show up in the shadowlands dungeon!). It helps that Crystal Chronicles is about a ruin being brought about by an external force, and using a lot of those ff elements would more smoothly knit together the crossover and the base setting.

"perhaps you think about this too much" what else am i supposed to do when doing dishes

#final fantasy #warrior of light #viera

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dicenne · 10 months

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July Mini-Mode DWC

It was nearly five years ago that he had found himself staring into the portal to the Shadowlands, going through the list of ‘what ifs’ in his mind. His family would be there, somewhere; everyone but Kara, at least. He knew it would be an extremely slim chance of ever finding them, yet his eyes constantly searched regardless during his brief time in Oribos.

He found himself in a similar situation today, staring into an open time rift from afar, wondering similar, yet very different questions. Of course within most of these rifts the world had fallen to enemies they had already defeated within their own time, but he had heard stories of other ‘normal’ rifts opening and people suddenly finding themselves face-to-face with another them from a different timeline.

It was extremely probable that there were various timelines out there where both his wife and son would still be alive and thriving. Kynson would be a grown man by now, and perhaps Dice would find himself to be a grandpa in another life. The possibilities were endless. Surely there was a timeline where Dicenne himself had died and his wife and son survived, and maybe they were thinking the same thing...

What if….

It was a terrible rabbit hole to fall down into, but with all the current events it was impossible not to question everything and envision this bizarre ‘happily ever after’. But that’s what the timewalker wardens and guardians were here to fix and to prevent. Still…

“Dice, you ok?” A tap on his shoulder stirred him from his trance.

He blinked a few times, and turned to look at Felonous, who was now also peering off into the distance. “Yeah, sorry, just…lost in thought.”

“We all think about it too. Hard not to, right? If only we could figure out how to get to that ‘perfect’ timeline that would fix all of our wounds and woes.”

Dicenne nodded in agreement. “But then you still have the memory of all those things happening, and you wouldn’t have had the same experiences with the same people. They wouldn’t share any of those memories. Sounds like it would be a little lonely in many ways, and selfish in others.”

Felon smiled and hooked an arm around his friend’s waist, turning him away from the distant rift. “Smart man. C’mon, it’s too early for an existential crisis. We got some weapons and armor that need to be fixed.”

@daily-writing-challenge @felonous

#story #julydwc2023 #dwc2023 #dicenne #felonous

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