#ceallachs draws
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Happy Birthday Shouto, I hope the manga has a happy ending for you.
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Hanza :) Trying a different rendering technique.
(Angoulême design inspired by @kashuan 's artwork!!)
#the witcher#wiedźmin#hanza#hansa#i wish to give them all a hug.. i love them sm........#this started as a series of doodles but spiralled way out of control#no regrets tho it felt so good to draw them#also i did not forget zoltan and percival!!! they are in the works i promise 🙏🙏#geralt#dandelion#milva#cahir mawr dyffryn aep ceallach#emiel regis#angoulême#magpie draws#fanart#art#the witcher art#the witcher books
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More Witcher doodles for you. Featuring milva and cahir for the first time :D
#the witcher books#emiel regis#geralt of rivia#milva barring#dandelion#cahir mawr dyffryn aep ceallach#I'm loosing my emotional stability over my deadlines- they're all the comfort I have#I still haven't figured out how I wanna draw milva's hair yet sorry ;-;
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the energy of the hansa thus far is absolutely impeccable i am in love with all of them
i do not know how to draw nilfgaardian armor sorry cahir :( also regis can have a dress as a treat
#the witcher#emiel regis#geralt of rivia#dandelion#milva barring#cahir mawr dyffryn aep ceallach#finley cannot draw#the hansa#the witcher books#the witcher novels#the witcher saga#baptism of fire#gerlion#geregis#do i actually ship them as a polycule in the books? no not really#do they have a group dynamic that would be so entertaining if they were a polycule? ABSOLUTELY
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Cahir undergoes such a drastic turnaround from ruthless faceless voiceless villain to awkward miserable amiable kid that he has to be literally raised out of a coffin at the midpoint.. that’s wild to me.
Is he reborn? Reanimated? Who knows! But he’s certainly not the cold dead corpse we thought he was because there’s a knocking sound coming from that hearse over there and I don’t think that’s supposed to happen. I think we need a crowbar.
#I think about cahir in the coffin every day what great imagry#I put a coffin in the frame section of my drawing of him too like I can’t shut up about it#cahir mawr dyffryn aep ceallach#cahir the witcher#the witcher books#double shot
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Cel 💛
#do not tag as kin/me/id#artists on tumblr#oc#original character#marker art#marker drawing#markers#character design#ink#india ink#body horror#body horror art#sketchbook#sharpie#ceallach#demon
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going through the cahir tag on literally any site actually makes me nauseous sometimes because so much of the content is either netflix cahir who id rather die than look at or ciri/cahir which id RATHER DIE THAN LOOK AT or some blatant cahir mischaracterization in service of a ship or narrative LEAVE MY MAN ALONE
#shoutout to the artists who draw book cahir youre my only hope honestly#cahir mawr dyffryn aep ceallach
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it's him....
Ceallach's palisman is a seagull-like bird and I imagine her to be very loud and jealous. She likes to wake Ceall up for school
#toh#the owl house#the owl house oc#toh oc#toh grimwalker#toh grimwalker oc#grimwalker oc#grimwalker#mewi draw#digital art#toh Ceallach
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Day 22 - Hansa
"What a company I ended up with," Geralt continued, shaking his head. "... A poetaster with a lute. A wild and lippy half-dryad, half-woman. A vampire, who's about to notch up his fifth century. And a bloody Nilfgaardian who insists he isn't a Nilfgaardian."
#I didn't manage to draw all members of Hansa so I choose Cahir#witchertober2022#the witcher#the witcher books#wiedźmin#the witcher fanart#pencildrawing#traditional art#cahir#cahir mawr dyffryn aep ceallach#my art
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Hello my Black Knight 🖤
#cahir mawr dyffryn aep ceallach#cahir#eamon farren#the witcher season 3#the witcher#the witcher fanart#the witcher netflix#nilfgaard#fanart#digital drawing#netflix series#netflix
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(Feel free to ignore!!) Reader is working at court (maybe a cartographer or something) who has worked with Cahir before he was sent away to these raiding parties. Both tried to remain professional (feelings? They? Love is for children) but when he returns, Reader is the one who goes & finds him? Fluff-ish? (You can take it in any direction you‘d like. Your work is fantastic!!! Thanks so much for carrying the Cahir fans on your back. By yourself)
ahhh thank you so much love!! i hope more people start writing for him i think there's only like three or four of us!!! hope you like this one :)
You refused to look up at the intelligence officer as you continued to erase from your draft.
“Where to this time?” you ask, scrubbing the northern part of the Yaruga river from the landscape.
“Thanedd,” he says, his voice just barely above whisper.
“Thanedd?!” you lose your composure, looking up at him a moment before grounding yourself.
“Thanedd is having a lot a visitors lately.”
He only hums, not at all buying your nonchalance.
“Thanedd it is,” you muse, sorting through your folders for a suitable map that isn’t too well used to hand to him. You pass several until you find your own personal map of the island, like you always do for him. It’s easy to find and you pull it and toll it and pass it to his hand, all without making eye contact. You ignore the warmth that floods your hand when his fingers graze yours.
“Thank you, darling,” he says, the closest thing to an affirmation you’ve gotten from him, yet so much more bold than anything you’ve said or done. Nilfgaardian courts aren’t exactly the safest place to be, especially when your position in it is so precarious. Other cartographers could easily be better trained, better trusted, but Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach vouched for you specifically and you weren’t about to destroy you credibility for falling for the officer.
He leaves without lingering though, sparing you from doing something foolish.
The interaction is something you can banish from for only two days, however, because then you start to hear whispers on your way to the new stronghold in Cintra. Whispers of the mages all coming together, whispers of the elves and their army as well…
It feels bad, a pit sinking in your stomach as your riding party starts to ride ahead of you as you slow your horse without even thinking of why.
Thanedd really isn’t that far from here, maybe an eight hours ride…
And Cahir has your personal map of the island. He’s the safest he could possibly be unless the worst happens.
Knowing Cahir and his luck lately the worst will happen, you think to yourself, pulling on your horses reigns.
Fuck it, you think, and then you let your horse and your heart lead instead of your brain.
You come upon a field haggard and tired, your horse just the same, to a landscape reeking of blood and smoke; a scent that hadn’t filled your nose in quite some time. A Nilfgaardian soldier alone and elves closing in on him. The events must have gone worst than you thought if there is fighting even out here, on a part of the island rarely gone to, you think. You put two and two together easily. It’s not that you give out maps that are incorrect, just, you only give out ones with the relevant information. You save the complete ones to draw upon and make pretty as a personal art project. Like the one you handed Cahir before he left that would definitely have this side of the island detailed out.
Fuck.
“Hey! Hey, stop!” you shout, all while urging your horse on despite its own fatigue. The elves stop in their advance, but do not retreat, and you can finally confirm your instinct that is is Cahir. He looks shell shocked, without his weapons and without his helmet. When his gaze meets you his eyes are wild and sad, not the serious and sometimes flirty man you knew.
“You… you came,” he calls out to you, and you dismount your horse quickly to rush to him.
“Stupid man! I had to,” you yell, not hiding the fear or anger from your voice, but then you soften, your hands finally placing themselves on his armor. He’s here, he’s not dead yet. You both might be soon. Why not throw all practicality into the wind if you may be executed by the elves on horseback mere feet away?
“I needed my map back.”
“I was always going to return it,” he assures you, his arms rising to brace your own.
“No you weren’t,” you insist as the elves close in, Cahir once their commander now lost all faith in him.
“I was,” he insists, and surges forward to kiss you. It’s like time stops, and everything in your life and on this continent falls into place for just a moment; his lips on yours and clear skies painting the future.
And then you’re ripped apart from one another by the elves.
You don’t resist.
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grenade babies
the official chiikawa acc also drew fanart of this so ofc I had to take advantage sdkjfds
#bakutodo#todobaku#todoroki shouto#bakugou katsuki#my hero academia#boku no hero academia#ceallachs draws#dynamy#dynama
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Chained / Blindfolded
Warning: Graphic depictions of violence under the cut!
@whumpers-monthly @witcherwhumpweek
Illustration for Prison Blues Chapter 5 - Lost in the Dark
Rating: Explicit
Archive Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence; Rape/Non-Con
Relationships: Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach/Emhyr var Emreis; Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach & Jaskier | Dandelion; Assire var Anahid & Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach; Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach & Merlin The Cat
Characters: Jaskier | Dandelion, Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Maria Barring | Milva, Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy, The Hansa | Geralt's Company Members (The Witcher), Emhyr var Emreis, Assire var Anahid, Merlin (the cat), Menno Coehoorn, Vilgefortz of Roggeveen
Additional Tags: Friendship, Trauma, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Implied/Referenced Torture, Torture, Aftermath of Torture, netflix season 2 compliant, cahir is not having a good time, Spoilers for The Witcher (TV) Season 2, Spoilers for Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski, Angst, Vomiting, Sexual Abuse, Implied Sexual Abuse, Maggots, Emhyr is an evil bastard, Hurt/Comfort, Whump, a few days after the battle on the bridge, and directly after season 2 ends, Panic Attacks, Cats are the best and bards, Jaskier is a good friend, Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach Whump, Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach Has a Bad Time, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat
Published: 2022-06-04; Completed: 2022-08-03; Words: 32,672
Excerpt from Chapter 5 - Lost in the Dark
The door of the torture chamber closes after the Emperor with a thud. Then Cahir is alone with the guards, who are still holding him in a vice-like grip, and the torture master.
"There," Dalgart points at the wall to the right of the brazier. It is just a bare stone wall, but hanging from chains from the ceiling next to the wall are iron manacles. The guards drag Cahir to the wall and fasten the manacles around his wrists. Then they adjust the length of the chains in such a way, that he is almost hanging in the air by his arms, only his toes just so touching the floor, his bare back toward the wall. Dalgart hands one of them a black piece of fabric that he uses to blindfold the prisoner. Cahir does not know if he should be grateful for the blindfold or horrified by the prospect of not being able to see what the torture master is going to do to him. At the moment he can hear him puttering around with his tools as if not yet sure which one he is going to use. A knife, but which one? Or a hook? Not a saw as he is not allowed to cut off anything, nor the head crusher, the risk of permanent brain damage or even death is far too high. Ah, this is a nice one. He has not used it in quite a while. A shame, as it is very effective. Not lethal, though, at least not if infection can be prevented. Which should not pose too much of a problem. Yes, this is probably perfect for the purpose. Dalgart picks up the Ungula. He steps away from the table with his instruments and walks over to the wall with the chained prisoner.
Cahir shudders as the man approaches. Is his brain just playing tricks on him in his terrified state or does the torturer actually smell like sulfur? Now he is standing so close, Cahir can feel his breath on his naked torso, making his skin crawl. Slowly and carefully and without saying a word, the torture master starts to move a pointed metal device down Cahir's right arm, from his wrist across his forearm, then from his elbow down to his shoulder and further along the length of his side all the way down to the waistband of his braies. It does not really hurt, just graze his skin a little, hardly drawing blood, but it sends chills up and down Cahir's spine and he almost forgets to breathe. This is really creepy. Dalgart repeats the procedure on his left side, this time with just a little more pressure. Again, Cahir shudders. The man must be some kind of pervert. Well, of course, he must be, why else would anybody want to become a torturer in the first place, and obviously enjoy the work?
The torturer rotates the instrument in his hand in such a way that not only one, but two sharp, claw-like tips are digging into the skin and muscle of the prisoner's arms, first the right, then the left one, and now it definitely hurts. Cahir suppresses a groan of pain as he feels the blood drip down from the cuts. And this is just the beginning.
Methodically, Dalgart moves the metal claw up and down Cahir's arms, his sides and finally his chest, sometimes almost tenderly and superficial, which creeps him out, then, all of a sudden, ripping, tearing and digging deep into his flesh like the talons of a raptor or the claws of a bear or other wild creature, making him scream with agony and shock. The blood is flowing freely now and Cahir feels increasingly lightheaded. As absorbed as he is in his endeavour, the torture master won't accidentally forget that he is not to kill him, will he? Or will he bleed out here, hanging from the dungeon ceiling in just his underpants? What a humiliating death. It isn't the end he had hoped for, no. Not at all.
"Almost done," the torturer, as if being able to read the prisoner's thoughts, suddenly whispers into Cahir's ear. "Jus' one more thing. Emperor's special request." With these words, and a deft movement of his left hand, he pulls down Cahir's braies. Cahir gasps in shock. But there is nothing he can do, nothing at all. Never in his life has he felt so helpless, vulnerable and completely and utterly at somebody else's mercy, somebody who is clearly mental. When he feels the cold metal tip of the torture device run lightly down the length of his cock, he is paralysed with fear, unable to breathe or think or even scream. Painfully slowly the claw moves around the tip of his penis, then along his scrotum, but, fortunately, only scratching the skin a little.
"Very lucky human." Dalgart's hoarse voice unsettlingly close to his ear. "I am not to harm you down there. Not today. What a shame. But maybe tomorrow? Or the day after? Who knows?"
Cahir, for sure, does not know, as he has fainted from the pain, loss of blood and shock halfway through the torture master's unusually many words.
#whumpers-monthly#issue no 25#blindfolded#witcher whump week 2024#witcher whump week#chained#the witcher#the witcher fanart#the witcher fanfiction#fic illustration#cahir#cahir mawr dyffryn aep ceallach#cahir whump#torture fic#emhyr var emreis#evil emhyr#the witcher netflix
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Artfight 2022 Attacks - set 04
Ceallach for @mewi-or-lara
Breezie Daze for @thessdrawsstuff
Pancake for Frogcanvas (Artfight)
David Faulkner for Aerospiders (Artfight)
Rakuna for BenLeDessineux (Artfight)
Raspberry Sunshake for Eclipsepearl (Artfight)
Set 4 already? I can’t believe I’ve done 24 Artfight attacks XD I didn’t even know if I was going to get 10 done! I can’t help myself, people just have too many fun oc’s to draw!
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ficletober 2022 day eighteen - isengrim & cahir post-thanned
After the disaster on Thanned, Isengrim's attempt at a swift escape is hindered by the dead weight of the injured, raving human child, Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach.
content warning for vague Time of Contempt spoilers and aftermath of injuries
Isengrim drags the boy up by his collar and grits his teeth against the sheer frustrating stupidity of the situation. It’s the third time in an hour that the kid has fainted into bonelessness, and he’s not even cut all that deeply. Enough blood loss that he’s woozy and can’t keep his feet under him, and he must have hit his head when the tower exploded because his eyes keep crossing and then down he goes.
“Cahir,” Isengrim hisses, shaking him uselessly. Though his diminished company have made it into the comforting cover of the forests, they are still far too close to Thanned to let down their guard. The boy is in full armor and regalia, or Isengrim would sling him onto his shoulders and pack him through the undergrowth like the child he is.
But Isengrim is not a tall elf and his strength is all in the muscle it takes to draw a bow or nimbly and silently climb a tree, not in hefting heavy, bulky idiots and lugging them through rough terrain.
He shakes Cahir some more, caring little if it aggravates his head injury.
“Cahir, you useless idiot, wake up.”
“Isengrim, we must go,” whispers Toruviel. The forest is silent, not even the sound of nighttime animals to disturb the quiet. Which is what unnerves them. Isengrim doubts anyone would follow so soon, not with the island still in chaos and the outcome or true source of the skirmish unclear.
But it’s damn unnerving. Something about that portal going out with a crack and a bang has shifted to lay heavily over the atmosphere of the land around the island. It’s unnatural. It’s only now that Isengrim knows in his bones that he got his fighters in over their heads, selling them into a war that they cannot possibly survive intact, but it’s too late. They’re a part of it now in ways they weren’t before and never should have been.
“Cirilla,” Cahir groans, eyelashes fluttering. “Cirilla…”
Isengrim slaps him.
Toruviel and the others look at him sharply, the sound of the blow far too loud in the silent forest. Cahir’s eyes roll in his head, and his teeth chatter.
“He’s not well,” whispers Toruviel. “I say you put the Dhoi’ne out of its misery so that we can continue on.”
“I didn’t drag the bastard off that damn island just to slaughter him,” he hisses. “I would have thrown him overboard the second time he fainted if I’m just meant to kill him now.”
“You should have. Leave him, Isengrim. Put a dagger through his brain, and–”
“You go on,” says Isengrim. “I’ll stay with the boy until he can travel. Go on, and I will meet you.”
Toruviel’s eyes flash, and she swears. “Why should you risk your life for him? What has this whelp done but fail in his mission and bleed on you? What gives him the right to–”
She stills when she sees his dangerous expression and ducks her head.
“Who is the commander here? Go! Go now! That’s an order.”
“Yes, Isengrim. Be safe. Be well.”
His fellows fade into the dark without another word.
Isengrim curses, dragging the boy into the hollow behind the exposed root system of a massive downed oak. Cahir is trembling, his skin glowing deathly pale in what little light reaches the forest floor. Isengrim shucks off a glove and flattens his palm against his brow. Feverish. The boy may end up dying anyhow.
The summer night is warm, but the boy shakes like he will freeze to death. Isengrim releases the clasp of his woollen cloak and lays it over Cahir’s stiff body. He squats beside him and squints out into the night and considers lighting a fire.
He is still considering the risk of it some time later when Cahir suddenly lurches up and grasps at him, Isengrim overbalancing and sitting hard on his backside in the dirt as Chair clings to the leg of his trousers.
He’s wild-eyed and unfocused, but when he speaks his voice is clear and far too loud.
“Take me back,” he insists. “I must finish what I started. Take me back to Thanned.”
“Shut your mouth, you fool,” Isengrim grits through his teeth. The boy does not shut his mouth, but instead claws with the fingers of his free hand against the hastily-wrapped bandages swaddling his injured head.
“Take me back or give me a horse, and I’ll ride back myself. I must–”
“Quiet. There are no horses here, and you’re in no state to ride.”
Isengrim shoves at his chestplate to push the boy backwards, and Cahir fumbles for the sword at his belt. He finds nothing but an empty sheath, the sword nowhere to be seen when Isengrim had found him in the wreckage. The tight bandages around his injured wrist restrict his movement, and he gets his hand to his mouth to tug at them with his teeth.
“Stop that,” demands Isengrim, grabbing at the boy’s arms. “You’ll reopen the wound and bleed to death.”
“Cirilla…” he moans, fighting ineffectively against the elf’s grip. He manages to cuff Isengrim across the head once or twice despite his weakness and lack of coordination, the impact of his steel vambraces making Isengrim’s head ring. “The Witcher girl… her eyes… she… Cirilla… I have to go back. Imperial orders. If I fail I… I have to…”
Once more, Cahir slumps into stillness. Isengrim drops the boy’s limp arms and catches his breath. When it does not seem likely that Cahir will wake again anytime soon, his breathing evening out into a true sleep, Isengrim squats to adjust his bandages to their former tightness.
The boy looks impossibly young in sleep, even more than he does awake. Most of Isengrim’s fighters are young by Elven standards, but in human terms, most are old enough to be this boy’s grandsire or even great-grandsire. Isengrim himself is over a dozen times his age.
And even for all his advanced years, he has made the same foolish error this boy did. If Isengrim could, he would return to the moment waiting in the hush of the catacombs for the signal to advance. He would not involve himself and those in his command in the wars of men, thinking that there will be some reward, some outcome that is anything but further suffering and death for his people.
Covert warfare based in deep forests and the outskirts of society waged against an oppressive force is a very different beast than fighting as an organized brigade under the command of a foreign army. Isengrim knows he will find nothing but death on this path, in the end.
But there is no way back. He has made his choices and alliances. He can do nothing but follow through and stick to the path that leads ahead. Death waits on either side. Perhaps Isengrim and his people can survive this if he just keeps going and does not waver.
For Cahir, he thinks, death looms up like an inevitability. It would be kinder, as Toruviel suggested, to snuff him out now, before his fatal choices catch up to him.
Isengrim does not reach for his dagger. He squats in the quiet of the forest and dangles his bent arms over his knees and hangs his head in mourning.
“It’s too late,” he says, brushing his fingers through Cahir’s sweat-damp hair. “It is too late to turn back time. It is too late for us both.”
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