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quiltedpomegrantes · 2 years

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LI’s Ice Cream Shop Orders

(Kylar)

Alex

-Definitely gets an ice cream soda.They’d cycle through different flavors, but cherry is their favorite

-For an ice cream cone, they’d go for a plain waffle cone, two scoops, and some form of nuts on top. Probably pecans, and if they have sugared pecans they’re losing their mind.

-100% needs napkins. No question. But they won’t ask for them and will decline if asked by their server. You’d have to get them, or bring some along. -LowDom!Alex will pay separately from you, or let you pay only if you offer. HighDom!Alex will pay for you, no questions asked.

Avery

-Doesn’t necessarily love how dairy sits in their stomach. Probably goes for a sorbetto or sherbet. NOT rainbow sherbet. Probably a raspberry or a chocolate if they have it. Alternatively, sea salt caramel. Vanilla base, NOT chocolate.

-Cup, single scoop. Maybe a waffle bowl if he’s feeling adventurous.

-Not a big fan of toppings but if he gets sea salt caramel he might get hot caramel on top. Might.

-He’ll ask for one or two extra napkins. If there’s a dispenser he’ll grab three and feel a little nervous that someone noticed. Ice cream is a very rare treat for him, and you two don't often go out together for it. If you insist, he won't complain though.

-Pays for it, no matter the state he's in.

-calls sprinkles jimmies

Black Wolf

-Sometimes you'll buy them a little kid scoop of vanilla. They adore it. Loses their mind with joy. Their tag wags at the speed of light.

-Gets it in a dish, mostly because you don't want to overload them with sugar.

-Maybe whipped cream, but you still worry about the sugar content.

-It's always a bit melted but they're so thankful.

Eden

-Before living in the woods, they weren't particularly interested in ice cream. But on the off chance a craving struck, they'd get something simple. Vanilla or butter pecan. Something not overwhelmingly sweet or complicated.

-Just a cup for them. A cone just seems messy or frivolous.

-No toppings either, but almost would have gotten salted peanuts.

-If you ever convinced him to go to an ice cream shop with you, he'd give you money to pay. They don't like speaking to cashiers.

-MAYBE you could convince him to help you hand-churn some ice cream, but he's not interested in doing it frequently.

-secretly really loves root beer floats.

Great Hawk

-Can birds eat ice cream?

-Can their species eat ice cream??

-Do they like ice cream???

-The answer is yes, yes, and absolutely not. It's way too sweet. The texture is soft. They feel like they're an eyas again being fed by their mom.

-Although they will start looking out for it, after seeing how much you loved eating it. Just for their wife.

Robin

-Superman FANATIC

-You'll relentlessly tease him for this. "Superman tastes like bubblegum." "Ohhh, do you like the pretty colors?" "Isn't that for children?"

-They want a chocolate dipped sprinkle cone, but instead of getting one they'll get it in a cup or cake cone. If you helped at the lemonade stand, they'll be able to splurge on some sprinkles.

-Will cry if you buy them a strawberry milkshake. Yes whipped cream. Yes cherry.

-They won't ask for napkins but if there's a dispenser they'll definitely grab some. They get a little bit nervous when checking out.

-Before entering a romantic relationship, you'll pay separately. After entering into a relationship, you'll probably pay. It's easier that way. They're so cute and thankful for their ice cream.

-Calls it an ice cream parlor.

Sydney

-Loves a cheesecake flavor. Any. Turtle cheesecake, Strawberry Swirl cheesecake, even just a plain New York Cheesecake. But, prefers frozen yogurt over anything else. Adores a key lime fro-yo.

-Cake cone all the way, they love the satisfying crunch. They don't really like sugar cones or waffle cones.

-Loves a good banana split sundae. Only gets plain vanilla with it. You side eye them and ask if they're sure. They say yes????????

-Calls scoops "dips"

-They'll always pay, because Sirris gave them money to.

-Fallen!Sydney will get visibly heated watching you eat ice cream.

Whitney

-Strong Fudgie Brownie. Something with a lot of chocolate. Maybe chocolate peanut butter? Hates fruit flavors, and will bully the fuck out of you for getting one.

-Strong waffle cone or sugar cone. Cups are sooooo boring, why the hell would you get a cup?

-Two scoops. ALWAYS two scoops.

-Doesn't mind a cherry milkshake, but will refuse whipped cream. Unless you guys are alone. No, you will not share.

-Maybe chocolate drizzle or hot fudge on top but can't really do that in a cone.

-You pay. Always you, and if you refuse they'll definitely shake you down. But once they start really caring for you, they'll just waltz out holding your hand.

-Always tempted to eat your ice cream or knock it over. Just to see your face. Would you cry? Just accept it? They've done a lot worse to you. He'd love to watch your lip twitch as you struggle not to cry.

-If the ice cream starts to drip, you will be forced to clean their hands up. They'll switch the ice cream to their other hand, and just push their fingers into your mouth. You better start sucking on them.

-Napkins? absolutely not. That's what you're there for. To clean them up.

Author's note:

Excuse the quick snippet post. I've been working on something a bit longer. I excluded Kylar because there is a karmic imbalance in the amount of content for them, and everyone else. Also, I just wouldn't know what to post for them. I'd love to hear others' opinions.

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galacticgraffiti · 9 months

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𑁍⋆ Eya - Ep. IX ⋆𑁍

A million thanks and kisses to Blumi for making this absolutely insane artwork for me, not a minute goes by where I don't think about it! They captured Eya (or Ne'kho) so perfectly and their skill is truly unmatched ♡

Rating: General Wordcount: 4.3k Characters: Eya (Nautolan!OC) when they are still known as Ne'kho, a nightsister Warnings: dark magic, some violence, intense descriptions of pain, minor character death

A/N: Always always all the thanks to my lovely beta @baba-fett and this time also all the snuggles for the encouragement to @certified-anakinfucker ❥

Eya Artwork ⋆ Eya’s Charactersheet ⋆ My Masterlist

───── ⋆⋅𑁍⋅⋆ ─────

Ca'vod

Dathomir. 22 BBY

Ne'kho grits their teeth. Something about this planet is… not right.

Something about this planet feels like death, and it's not just the stench in the air. Ne'kho can feel it all over their body, it's a smell, a feeling, it's something that makes their tendrils vibrate; the distinct feeling of being watched- not only that, but being hunted.

They feel naked and vulnerable, tendrils curling as close to Ne'kho's shoulders as they can. The phantom pain that has been coming and going ever since the… incident… flares up, only making everything worse: Ne’kho looks down, only to find their limb still missing. They stare at the fresh scars that are a colour that should never have been exposed to air. Ne'kho thinks they can feel the red mist of Dathomir sink into the wound, drinking their life force until the dark force is full and sated, and Ne'kho is small and weak under its weight.

They pull themselves together, double and triple checking their weapons. Their kyram'edeem are freshly sharpened - so much so that the taste of blood hasn't left Ne'kho's mouth ever since they walked out of the Armourer's cave a few days earlier. Slowly, they are getting used to it - the ocean taste of their blood mingling with the metallic taste of their fangs.

Ne’kho’s eyes move down, to where their mereve sparkle even in the low light, a reassuring glitter of violence in the crimson darkness that shrouds Dathomir.

Ne’kho shivers. Not so long ago, these weapons had not been enough. Not so long ago, Ne'kho needed a dagger, a sword, anything- anything to save- anything...

They bite their lip so hard they nearly pierce it with sharp silver fangs.

Gev.

The fog feels heavier around them, deep and somehow… alive. Like an animal on the prowl, with a jaw so wide it could swallow them whole. It creeps closer, like it knows- like it can tell that Ne'kho's resolve is wavering. They lift their head, tendrils curling around their arms as if they could fortify- as if they could calm themself if it felt like they were being hugged as they used to be.

Ne’kho bares their teeth and clenches their fists.

Draar tug'yc.

They swore an oath, and they have already failed once. They must not fail again, no matter what it takes. They need another weapon that cannot be lost, another weapon that can never be taken from them, like their mereve, like their kyram’edeem. A beskad that is part of them.

Red vines curl around Ne'kho's foot, and they hastily bend down to rip them away. This planet will eat them alive if they let it. They have already spent too much time debating, going back and forth on a decision they made weeks ago. Ne'kho shakes their head impatiently, muttering to themselves.

"Gar nu slana bid chaaj’yc par’naas, di’kut. Gev hut'uun."

Another weapons check: The dagger in their left boot, the double blasters by their side even though they despise weapons like that. They speak of a lack of grace, of cowardice and the inability to win a battle honestly. Their sword- Ne'kho's hand stops on its way to their other side. The saber was lost to the depths of the ocean, an abyss even a Nautolan cannot overcome. It is lost forever. That is why they are here.

They continue their check, their insides twisting from the unwelcome memories that flood their mind. But nothing is more important than this right now. Two small carving knives are hidden in their belt. Another in their right boot.

That must be enough, even against a witch. That is all they have left.

Ne'kho breathes in deeply even though the air smells like rotting flesh and dying flowers, and even though the oxygen that floods their lungs does not come from water. They hate it. It’s too dry. But it will do, and that is all they ask. Ne’kho braces themself.

And they step in.

*****

"I was beginning to think you weren't coming." The witch is oddly pale, even more so against Ne'kho's lilac skin that just won't fit into the red hell of Dathomir.

"I told you I would be here." The thick consonants of Basic weigh heavily on Ne'kho's tongue. It was never a language they felt at home at, but now they must get used to it.

"Saying so doesn't mean it holds truth." The witch raises brows as hairless as Ne'kho's own. Her entire skull has been shaved down to the bone, pale eyes in a paler face, her mouth a cruel crimson line that splits her face in two. She stretches out a hand.

Ne'kho shies away from the sudden movement, their hands balling into fists in a movement that was practised for longer than they could walk on land.

"Hm, you're a twitchy one." The nightsister seems vaguely amused, eyeing Ne’kho up and down. "You do know you could rip me apart with one arm, don't you, dear? I certainly know it."

Ne'kho just shrugs.

"Fangs might not be enough against your magic, witch."

"Ah, not just twitchy but smart, too. I see." The witch smiles a smile that makes Ne'kho shudder. She holds out her hand again, slower this time. "But we shall remedy this fear. Go on, touch me. Feel that my intentions are pure and let's be done with it. I need to start before the sun goes down, this will take me all night if not longer."

This is… unexpected. The witch seems to know more about Nautolans than Ne’kho had assumed, and that just makes them more nervous. How does she know that touching will let them find out more about their feelings? Who told her?

Hesitantly, Ne’kho puts their palm to the witch’s pale one. Their hand dwarves that of the witch, her whole hand barely as big as Ne’kho’s palm. All that is soon forgotten as feelings flood their senses- a pure calm that glazes over a dark surface, the sweet acid of a person that has lied much but is telling the truth right now, the salty hues of fear. That is calming. The witch is not entirely sure that in a fight, she would be the one to win.

“Let me… ask a question.” Ne’kho hates how bulky the words feel on their tongue.

“Ask.” The witch sounds unafraid, but a nervousness flares up around her that makes Ne’kho’s tendrils roll up.

“You will… no harm will come to me while you do your work?”

“I swear no harm will come to you by my hand or that or any other being on this planet while I work on you.”

The honey of sincerity leaves a sweet taste on Ne’kho’s tongue. They close their hand around the witch’s and squeeze- a distraction, a short flare of pain that would uncover a lie, break focus even with someone trained in hiding their emotion. But there is nothing.

“Jate, ca’vod.” They pull the nightsister closer and bend down until their fangs are right in the nightsister’s line of sight. “If you lie to me- if you do not accomplish what you promised- if this is a trick, I will rip your throat out. If you try to kill me, I will rip your heart out so fast you will not see it coming. Do you believe me?”

The nighsister’s face is somehow even paler when she answers.

“I believe you.” She seems to catch herself, shrugging her shoulders back and looking straight into Ne’kho’s black eyes. “I repeat my promise. No harm will come to you. You shall have what you asked for.”

Satisfied with her answer, Ne’kho lets go of the witch’s hand.

“A friend of mine trusted you. That is the only reason I am here. You have done this before and you have done it well. I trust you can recreate what you did years ago.”

The witch’s eyes start to glow. At first, Ne’kho thinks it is merely a trick of the light, but the longer they look at her, the more intense the green glow gets. Mist rises from the skin of the witch, green and sour, tasting of life and death all at once.

“I can not only recreate it. I have perfected it. You will have everything you ask for and more. I am a master of my craft, and you will witness my work.”

The words ghost across Ne’kho’s skin like snakes: They sound like an incantation, a promise and a ritual wrapped into one. They shake a little. The witch’s hand settles on their forearm, tiny and warm, and surprisingly reassuring.

“Undo your shirt. Lay on your stomach. Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable? This is a draining process, not only for me but also for you. If there is anything you need, you shall have it.” The witch’s voice has turned soft and mellow, a calming singsong that ebbs and flows like the ocean. Ne’kho tilts their head.

“I do not want for anything.” They take a moment to remember the correct phrase in Basic. “I thank you, ca’vod.”

The witch merely nods. There is nothing more to say.

Ne’kho climbs onto a table that seems to have been carved from stone. Surprisingly, they fit onto it nearly in their entirety. They undo the laces of their shirt, then lay on their stomach like the witch asked.

It is an odd sensation, the cool stone hard and unforgiving beneath them. Ne’kho is rarely ever cold, but this chill seeps into their bones and settles there, heavy and tiring.

The nightsister’s quiet sough grows louder, then ebbs away again. Ne’kho can feel a sudden wetness that begins to seep into their toes. It does not feel like any water they have ever touched before. It feels like a thousand deaths in an icy grave, a thousand souls clawing at their skin, screaming and wailing, begging to be released.

Ne’kho cries out, trying to sit up, but a small, warm hand pushes them back down onto the table with more strength than should be possible. The nightsister’s voice is still soft in contrast when she speaks.

“Did he not tell you it would hurt?” The witch cocks her head. “I know he was only a boy when I did it, but he must have told you it would hurt. He knew you would feel all of it. All of… them.”

Ne’kho grits their teeth. The water that isn’t water laps at them, eats at them, bites their skin with the pain of thousands.

“He did not say it would be… like this. I did not know you would not be… doing this ritual alone. I thought this was your magic, ca’vod.”

A pause.

“My magic is the magic of my ancestors. Them, me, it makes no difference. You should know that concept well, mandalorian.” The nightsister closes her eyes, long fingers travelling along Ne’kho’s spine. “Of course he didn’t tell you you would feel a million deaths on your skin. Would you have come if he did?”

Ne’kho presses their eyes shut, trying to think of anything else but the pain that seeps into every pore of their skin. The world flickers away for a moment. When they open their eyes again, the witch is kneeling next to them, a soft look on her face.

“Now is the last time you can say no. Once the process has started, we must finish it. There is no other way, or both you and I will be doomed. Tell me before they come. Tell me now or let me finish what I begin.”

Ne’kho presses their cheek into the cold stone, focusing on the burn of the ice cold rock.

Draar tug’yc.

“I will bear it. I must.”

“Good.” The witch stands up, soft hands caressing the scarred flesh of Ne’kho’s back almost tenderly. Her fingers trace every bump, every unevenness. The ache that has long since been part of Ne’kho’s body fades away, and there is a moment of peace.

Then, the dull ache of years of fighting is replaced by the sting of desperate souls tearing at Ne’kho’s own.When the witch starts to sing again, her voice is not only hers, but that of many.

The not-water spreads, encompasses Ne’kho’s body entirely, wraps around them like burial cloth. It is death and life in one, the mist that rises from it green like the mist that flows from the witch’s glowing eyes.

Ne’kho does not understand the voices that scream, but they can feel their pain as if it were their own, feel the ripping of muscle and the tear of flesh, feel every death over and over and over again, all at once and it never ends. They bury their face in the stone and scream.

*****

The witch keeps her promise. She doesn’t rest, she takes no breaks, her voice and those of the thousands that sing with her rising and falling in an even song that Ne’kho can’t comprehend but it makes their bones vibrate and their skin itch. The witch’s fingers trace a pattern into the skin of Ne’kho’s back, over and over and over again until her sharp nail seems to leave a trail of fire wherever she touches. The shape is familiar, and it is perfect, so perfect that even through the suffering, Ne’kho knows it will have been worth it.

Their body turns liquid, absorbed by the waters until they are one, and there is nothing but pain and siren song. The only thing tethering them to a place that is dark and red and green is a small lilac speck in it that seems nearly too insignificant to be perceived. But Ne’kho knows it’s important, even through the haze, through the deadly wails and the screams of terror that reverberate inside them; they know they must hold on to that.

Time melts away. Nothing and everything exists all at once, life and death in perfect balance, the light and the darkness both pulling at them until Ne’kho can feel their body rip in half: The tearing of their own flesh, the breaking of their own bones, and their cries, always their cries, their own, those of others, it doesn’t matter anymore.

And then, just like that, it stops.

The witch’s song grows quieter and quieter until nothing can be heard. The not-water retreats, gliding down Ne’kho’s body as suddenly as it came, leaving their skin dry in its wake. And with the water, so goes the pain: The screams ebbing away until nothing is left but the rawness in Ne’kho’s throat.

The taste of death does not linger: Only the sweet smell of decay stays behind, laying over the world like a shroud- but that was there before Ne’kho ever laid down on this cursed stone. They open their eyes, though they don’t remember ever closing them, and there is the witch, kneeling beside them.

Her skin is translucent, papery-thin and covered in wisps of green mist. Her eyes don’t glow anymore, instead they are pale and whiter than her skin. She looks thin- her cheeks sunken in, her clothes hanging off her shoulders like bags. When she smiles, her lips crack and blood drips from her mouth.

“It is finished.”

Ne’kho’s throat is so raw they can barely answer, their voice a nearly inaudible whisper.

“Are you alright, ca’vod?”

The nightsister smiles softly at that, colour returning to her eyes until her pupils are a soft lilac that mirrors Ne’kho’s skin.

“Don’t ask questions when the answer won’t change a thing.” The hand she places on Ne’kho’s shoulder is cold this time, colder even than the stone below them. “I will need time to recover. I suppose the answer is- no, but I might be. We must wait and see, mandalorian.”

Ne’kho wets their lips. The nightsister’s eyes follow the movement greedily. Ne’kho stretches out one arm, joints cracking as they move.

“Can I sit up?”

The witch smiles an empty smile and her lips start to bleed again.

“Of course. If you feel up to it.”

It is the oddest sensation Ne’kho has felt in a long time. They expected their whole body to be aching- they think their bones must be ready to break through skin by now. But nothing happens. They are exhausted: if they closed their eyes right now they are not sure they could open them again. And yet, their body feels entirely fine.

“I don’t… feel anything. Anything different, I mean.” Ne’kho’s voice is quiet. The witch smiles.

“Good. That’s… good.” Her words are slightly slurred, and she reaches out her arm to steady herself. Ne’kho resists the urge to touch her, to help her lay down. The witch’s fingers fan out across Ne’kho’s shoulder. “Would you like to see our work?”

Shivers run down Ne’kho’s spine. It’s… done. They made it.

Draar tug’yc. What has happened can never happen again.

“Yes.” Their voice is still raw, but stronger now. “Show me- I want to know how it works.”

The witch’s laugh is dry like the cracking of bone.

“You will never understand how it works, mandalorian. It is not a magic you can ever make your own.” A horrible cough interrupts her, but when Ne’kho’s hand shoots out to help, she waves them off. “All you need to know is that it does work. The how or why shall always be unanswered. But it is yours, part of your body and soul, and only you may use it. Nobody else will be able to touch your blade.”

The witch staggers across the room to uncover a mirror, then sinks to the ground next to it. She gestures at Ne’kho to get up. Her chin sinks to her just as she hugs her knees, but her voice does not seem affected by the sudden weakness.

“This is the only thing that truly matters: The sword is you. You are the sword. Losing it is impossible; it is part of you so intrinsically that no one, not even I as its creator, could ever take it from you. The ancestors will it so, both yours and mine. Behold our creation, mandalorian.”

Ne’kho turns their back to the mirror, their heart torn between excitement and terror as they twist to see their image in the mirror.

Dark lines snake across their back; a pattern of leaves and vines that hold it in place: the perfect blade. The soft curve of the beskad feels so familiar that Ne’kho starts to tremble. The sword fits itself perfectly to the curve of their back, a huge work of thick lines that look exactly like they were tattooed on their skin, creating something so powerful Ne’kho has to bite their lip to ground them in reality. Their tendrils curl in joy, caressing their own skin, carefully touching the lines the witch’s fingers have burned.

Everything about the blade from pommel to point is immaculate. The grip is wrapped in dark cloth, the blade somehow sharp even though it is merely a drawing on skin. The shape of a wave both strong and elegantly curved serves as the guard. The fuller looks ornamental yet practical, strengthening the blade beautifully. Ne’kho can feel in their bones that if they were to draw this beskad, the blade would lay perfectly in their hand. It would feel like part of them - because it is part of them. It is Ne’kho, moulded into another shape, another form of being. The perfect warrior becomes the perfect weapon.

Kar’ta beskar gotal beskad.

“It’s perfect,” Ne’kho whispers, their amazement audible even in those few words. The witch laughs. A chill runs down Ne’kho’s spine at the sound, but too mesmerising is the blade to avert their eyes. The witch smells of pride when she answers.

“Of course it is. It’s you.”

Ne’kho hesitates. The witch cocks her head.

“You want to hold it, don’t you? You need to know what it feels like.”

Ne’kho’s lip trembles, their fingers digging into their palms. Their tendrils curl up around their shoulders in excitement, leaving the etching of the blade on their back fully exposed. Ne’kho’s hearts beat a galloping rhythm in their chest.

“Can I?”

The witch nods, a faint glow in her eyes as she lifts her chin off her chest to regard Ne’kho earnestly.

“My part in the ritual is done. This is all that is left to complete it. Draw your sword, mandalorian, and be one with it. This is your way, is it not?”

Ne’kho bows their head.

“This is the way.”

They twist their arm behind their back, unsure where- their fingertips touch skin, and in a sensation they cannot describe, metal breaks forth from bone, gliding from below lilac skin as easily as if it had been waiting.

Ne’kho’s fingers close around a grip that feels exactly like they imagined it would, and they pull. It is a strange feeling, a stranger sight still, to feel and see the blade glide from their back and into their hand: Dark lines becoming beskar in their hand as they draw their blade.

Once again, their back is bare, the skin newly unmarred- healed by the witch’s magic before a deadly blade was carved from flesh. And Ne’kho’s hand holds beautiful steel: glittering, the edge so sharp they can see their own reflection in it, yet strong and perfectly balanced. The sword is bigger than it seemed on their back, and heavy in just the right way. It melts into Ne’kho’s hand like it belongs there.

The witch watches them, grim satisfaction written on her face.

“It is complete. This is my work and I see that it is perfect. It is yours now, mandalorian.”

Ne’kho falls into a fighting stance easily. Nothing is easier than fighting. Few things are easier than killing.

“I thank you, witch.”

They twirl around, both hands gripping the hilt in a practised motion. The sword follows the motions perfectly, wonderfully balanced. Its weight is the perfect counterweight to Ne’kho’s body, its shape compliments the fighting style they have been perfecting since they were able to walk. Ne’kho dances around the room, twisting and twirling, stabbing at nothing just to watch how the blade moves.

It might be minutes or it might be hours. Their chest falls and rises no faster, but their lips are dry when their dance finally comes to an end, the sword held in front of their chest like the fallen in their graves would. Ne’kho wants to sheathe it, to watch and feel how the steel glides back into their body, but a motion in the corner of their eye catches their attention.

Green fire sparks in the gaunt eyes of the nightsister, and green mist rises once again from her pale skin. Her face is still sunken in, her eyes gaunt, but her force seems renewed as she raises herself from the ground, gliding to Ne’kho’s side.

“You have become the perfect weapon. We have made you perfect, you are our creation just as this sword is.”

Ne’kho's hearts flutter in sudden fear. Something about the witch is not right. They grip the sword tighter, heartbeats fluttering in their fingertips. Though their body is drenched in fear, Ne’kho’s voice is full of spite.

“I am no one’s creation but my own.”

The witch’s eyes burn darker, the mist that rises from her skin now red, then black, then green again. Her voice is not hers anymore when she speaks.

“You are our creation, your life belongs to us! Your sword is our sword, your life is our life- do not refuse us, mandalorian. Give yourself over or suffer as we have suffered to remake you.”

Ne’kho’s breath goes faster. Of course this had to go wrong. Of course nothing comes for free, no matter how big or small. They close their eyes and focus on the steel in their hands.

The nightsister charges, movements faster than they should be, blood springing from between her lips and running down her thin neck.

Ne’kho sighs. The sword sings in their hands when they move, and the fight is over before it has begun. The blood that gushes from the throat of the witch sinks into the blade like it’s drinking, and the sight makes Ne’kho shudder.

They stand above the body of the witch who remade their life, and the world spins off its axis. Their sword glows warm in their hands, its shape the perfect extension of their arms. The blade is bare of any blood, even though the earth is drenched in it. The wound in the nightsister’s neck looks like the cruel mockery of a smile, and all Ne’kho can do is try not to collapse onto the floor next to the body.

Ne’kho’s voice sounds like that of a strangers when they finally speak.

“I am the perfect weapon, and you have made me so. I owe you nothing anymore, neither death nor life, and yet I have given you what you chose.” The blade slips back into their skin when they press it where it’s supposed to lay, sinking into soft lilac and becoming no more than lines once Ne’kho pulls their hand away. They raise their head, dark eyes fixed on the corpse that lays crumpled at their feet. “I am Kyreya, escaper of death. You died more mercifully than I had promised if you betrayed me. Consider that your reward. Reunite with your ancestors, ca’vod, and be at peace. Be content knowing that your last creation was perfect.”

More than one life ends when Kyreya steps over the body of the fallen and leaves Dathomir. A debt may be owed, but no one is there to collect it. The witch is dead, and Kyreya’s sword rests safely in their skin as they leave the crimson planet and head to the center of the galaxy, hoping to finally find peace.

───── ⋆⋅𑁍⋅⋆ ───── Mando'a translations:

mereve - fists gev - stop it. draar tug'yc - never again kyram'edeem - deadly jaws beskad - sword Gar nu slana bid chaaj’yc par’naas, di’kut. Gev hut'uun. - You didn't come all this way for nothing, idiot. Stop being a coward. Jate, ca'vod - Alright, nightsister. Kar’ta beskar gotal beskad. - A heart of beskar made into a sword. Kyreya - Escaper of death

This all started scrolling through pinterest, and then it escalated. I haven't written anything in so long, forgive me. I hope you are still all around.

@deewithani @ficsbynight @kote-wan @ariadnes-red-thread @rescuethewretched @twistedstitcher27 @asaucecoveredsomething @kakashibabe02 @writingbylee @purgetrooperfox @basilbumble @witchklng @lackofhonor @ashotofspotchka @sailor-blossom @misogirl828 @amyroswell @darkjedipoptarts @pinkiemme @sleepingsun501 @fett-djarin @samanthacookieone @tortor-mcgee @corrabell @queenopresskenobi @elegantduckturtle @felinaone @palpipeen @wild-karrde @kik51199 @sharpbarnacle @obeydontstray @rain-on-kamino @nomercyforthewarrior @dream-alittlebiggerdarling @thefact0rygirl @everythingyouwanted @equalityforcats @cagrame @ladykatakuri @ulchabhangorm @damerondala @tachyon-girl @lucyysthings

#oc eya #nautolan oc #mandalorian oc #gala's ocs #eya's adventures #galawrites #GALAxy

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glassprism · 1 year

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I've noticed that the most famous christines have very similar features especially the quirky nose and eyes like rachel barrell, sierra, gina beck a little, etc... kinda like in the 80s and 90s when they would cast actresses that looked like sarah brightman. Did it became a requirement in the 2000s to play christine? to have a quirky side profile?

SCENE: Some auditioning room in Random City, USA. A casting director sits at a long desk; in front of him stands an eager young actress, slightly out of breath but exhilarated.

DIRECTOR: "Well I must say, Ms. Christine McChristinie, I am very impressed by your audition! Your voice is exquisite. Your acting is incredible. You bring a fresh new take to this 35-year-old role. Your chemistry with all your potential co-actors is off the charts. And you have ballet experience!"

EAGER YOUNG ACTRESS: "Thank you, thank you so much! Christine Daae has just been my dream role, I feel so lucky just to get the chance to try out for her."

D: "Yes, I can certainly see that. Well, before we get you signed for the role, I need you to do one last thing for me."

EYA: "Of course, anything!"

D: "Turn a bit to the right."

EYA: "Oh... o...kay?"

D: "Good. Now to the left."

EYA: "...."

D: "Mmm... yeah, sorry, it's not going to work."

EYA: "What?! What do you mean? You said I did wonderful!"

D: "Oh yes, sure, voice, acting, chemistry, all A plus... but you're missing that quirky side profile."

EYA: "The what?"

D: "Quirky side profile, pay attention. Right, see, your nose there? About an inch too long. And your cheeks? The shapely roundness is off by half an inch. And your eyes are just a touch too far apart. No, apologies, but we can't give you the role."

EYA: "I'm losing the role because of that?!"

D: "Yep, didn't you read the audition requirements? Quirky side profile, eyes like Rachel Barrell, Gina Beck, Sierra Boggess, etc., right there in print."

EYA: "Well, I - I demand to speak to someone! Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber, or-"

D: "Lady, unless you are the walking, talking clone of Sarah Brightman herself, Sir Andy wants nothing to do with you."

EYA: "But I-"

D: "We're done here. NEXT!"

#GP gets asks #anonymous #ignoring the fact that actresses that did NOT look like Brightman were cast in the 80s and 90s #casting directors don't know what actresses will become famous #if an actress is popular bc of their looks that probably says more about the fandom and their luck at being recorded #yeah a lot of actresses are quite beautiful - but you can say that about almost any ingenue role

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httpsuniverse · 1 year

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are you alive? 😭

LMAO i am, just busy with uni and shit 😭 it’s the first time i’ve opened this account since february(?), checking in to see what’s latest lol

anyway, that being said... i’m back on track writing illicit affairs part 2! i’ve tried so hard to finish it the past few months but uni is such a bitch i was drowning with paperworks and activities 😵‍💫 (also i had a bad case of writer’s block i rewrote the story several times)

i’ll just finish my finals this coming week and i’ll see if i’ll be able to post it right away <3

#i83andrew #eya speaks

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dogda · 1 year

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hey spanish-speaking friends i have a question. my mom is relearning spanish (she learned it 50-something years ago and says she was taught castillian while living in ecuador, which sounds weird to me but i don’t know ecuadorian history) and she has for some reason latched onto pronouncing ella as el-ya instead of eya/eja. she does know how to say ll in other words so i have no idea where this came from. is this a thing or do i need to find a way to convince her otherwise? (she still seems to think of herself as an expert despite barely speaking it since high school, and i had to remind her last night that language can change in 50 years)

#rltirl

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roll-a-troll · 2 months

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Name: Sai Skylla Polypa Ancestor: The Bathroom Strife Specibus: lampkind Blood Color and Sign: Gold; Gemza Handle: abjectCultivar Lusus: eyas da Pronouns: 0/0/0s/0s/0self and it/its Age: 7 sweeps Interests: magic and vintage cars Sexuality: situational Class: Witch Land: Land of Wind and Veil, a fierce place, with relieved Smooth Softshell Turtle consorts. It is a place full of gleaming sand and stranded ships. Rhea lurks at it's core. Quirk: speak with perfect diction via roll-a-troll https://ift.tt/15H6w0y, do as you please

#IFTTT #fantroll #homestuck

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starvir · 4 months

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I guess I draw trolls now??

I hope you enjoy the shenanigans

I am trying my best to learn how to draw these silly things. These aren't high effort, but they are a start

This babe here is Nasty [They/Them] a pop troll left behind after the great escape from Burgen town. They were saved by a burgen child and protected by her until the events of the first movie's end.

Nasty has a hard time associating themself with trolls, or even feeling like one sometimes. Bitch got species dysphoria en mass

Aaauaaauaaaaand this is my comfort character Eya. She is a character I always carry around with me no matter what fandom I end up in. So I decided to try and draw her as a troll too

She is like three times the size of a normal troll. She is a lullaby troll and doesn't speak except like one select word when important or impactful. She hums!! And her hair smells like your favourite things. She doesn't wear clothing, clothes are icky! And she is my comfort character!! So I make her comfy

Ty for reading 👑

#trolls #pop trolls #trolls movie #trolls band together #trolls dreamworks #dreamworks trolls #trolls world tour

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eyarecs · 1 year

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i may or may have given writing a shot again 🧐

#eya speaks !#i got inspired and this wouldn’t be the first time i’m gonna write so ...#i also changed my pen name !#meaning i’m changing tags again #but i wouldn’t remove the posts i’ve already reblogged #don’t wanna lose ‘em after all

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kiarazuri · 1 year

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Chapter 16: Eya

Ding! JJ groans. Turns over. Eya rouses at the movement, accepting it without hesitation when JJ shimmies back into his arms (arms that barely even reach around the man’s massive chest) and bumps his butt against Eya’s pelvis. He settles in as the small spoon with a happy sigh. Eya gives a single amused snort, lays his head between JJ’s nape and shoulder blades, and settles back in as well. DING! This time JJ’s groan is accompanied by frustrated muttering and half-asleep hand-searching in and around the bedside table. When he finally finds the offending phone it’s with a self-satisfied curse, followed by a long stretch of silence. When he next speaks, his voice is half-asleep and slurred. “Lottie? When… when’d he give me his number?” He asks to the world at large. “The fuck’s a sorcher?” It takes Eya a minute for his sleep-addled brain to figure it out. “That’s my phone, Babe.” JJ grunts and passes the phone overshoulder, pressing it gently against Eya’s cheek for him to grab. Eya unwraps himself from JJ and grabs it, turning onto his back as JJ turns back around to face him.

sent at 7 AM L♡ttie: D’you have any luck, sorcher?

Eya hums. “What should I tell him?” JJ answers without hesitation: “The truth.”

Eya: My luck pulled through!

“No, wait.”

Eya: Yeah. Is it true that—

“No no no, that’s lame.”

Eya: I can’t wait to see the factory. You think you can—

“Gawh-AH!” Eya groans, throws his phone on his stomach before covering his eyes with his hands. His glasses are still on the nightstand, so he presses the butt of his palms to his eyes. “What the fuck should I tell him?” “Tell him you want a date.” Eya’s head whips around so quickly he thinks his neck might break. JJ is watching him with knowing eyes and an open, happy face. “You know you want to.” They hadn’t really talked it all out the night before. Eya pulls up Lottie’s text again. And hesitates. “Lottie’s in the Cakerie till noon, yeah?” JJ nods. “Maybe I should…” “Go on, I’ll stay back,” JJ urges with a wide smile. “It’ll give Lottie a day to miss my face.” One-on-one time with Lottie. How could Eya pass up the chance? He couldn’t. Which is why he’s now standing across the counter from an amused, gorgeous DuCiel. “Could’ve just texted me back,” Lottie’s voice is sugar sweet and honey thick. It makes shivers run down Eya’s spine. “Wanted to talk in person.” “Did you now?” His smile is full of fang. Again. That really shouldn’t be so hot. “Well then since you’re here, tell me:” He leans in close… and a ripple of magic encircles the witch. The same magic he’s felt twice before. Eya’s hard-pressed to ignore the odd feeling of… of… satisfaction(?) that the rush of magic brings. Something about Lottie wanting to be alone with him, wanting him inside the obscuration spell this time around, making him feel special—like one of the chosen ones. Lottie’s elbows are on the counter and his eyes are focused squarely on Eya. No distractions. No eavesdroppers. Just the two of them. Like a real date. It’s fantastic. “You have any luck?” Lottie finally asks, echoing his morning text. Eya shakes himself out of his satisfied stupor and pretends to hem and haw over his answer. “Wouldn’t telling you be a conflict of interest?” Lottie’s eyes narrow slightly. He knows, Eya thinks, but doesn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s won. “You’ll just have to wait till the day of truth like everyone else.” “Or~” Lottie sing-songs. “I could bribe you.” Eya swallows, and tries not to show just how much those words affect him. “Bribe me?” “With cake, of course,” Lottie announces, putting his chin in his hands. “Any kind you’d like.” “Got any…” Eya trails off, his brain freezing with a smile still on his face. His mouth catches up faster than his mind. “Funnel cake?” Lottie’s eyes widen. Actual shock on his face as he blinks, mouth gaping like a fish. “That… isn’t a cake.” Eya smiles. “Then why’s it called a cake?” The way Lottie’s eyes narrow, the glint that flickers in his eyes, and the static that ripples out through his glamour like the edge of a serrated blade reminds Eya just how much he doesn’t know about the DuCiel. But the feeling of danger emanating from him is there and gone within seconds— Replaced by a wide, victorious smile. “Well then, monsorcier. Why don’t you follow me?” He pushes off from the counter and the magic around them dissipates like a curtain falling, thrusting them back into the world at large. He crooks his finger at the witch and steps towards the cash-register and the kitchen beyond. “I’ll make you the best funnel cake you’ve ever had.” Eya blinks owlishly at him. Butterflies swarm in his belly. Oh. Oh. Eya has just enough wherewithal to be embarrassed about nearly eating face tripping over his own feet following after the tempter, but not enough to feel hurt when Lottie’s melodic laughter fills the room—his amused smile and warmth the best balm to any hurt ego he may have gotten. Oh, I am so fucked.

To Be Continued in Chapter 17 💗

#me #mine #tct #catct #chapter 16 #tct chapter 16 #catct chapter 16 #charlotte and the chocolate trickerie #the chocolate trickerie

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