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nyehilismwriting · 3 years

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keep the wolf from the door

2.8k words; related (loosely) to a side project I’m working on. content warnings: animal death, gore, violence, descriptions of animal butchery. (apologies for my problems disorder)

the deer falls, blood and sweat dripping down her side in rivulets of pink foam. you watch as she tumbles, legs flailing, from the rocks she had fled to for safety, the jagged shadow of the steep cliffs offering false protection from the hunter.

quite the shot.

the arrow shaft snaps as she drops, leaves the head wedged under her shoulder, protruding bloody from her ribs. you stoop to taste her blood from the rocks, granite and pine and copper and salt, pure and heady. she's a young doe, plump from the summer grazing, separated from her herd by last night's storm. a lucky catch, one that will feed a family well.

you take the arrow shaft from where it lies, chew on the feathers - owl-soft and silent, with the bitter sharpness of ash wood. the splintered edge is sharp enough to draw blood, scraps of wiry hair clinging to the wood. you taste those too, the fear and hurt, adrenaline - and beneath, the taste of the wild.

the hunter is here, now, scrambling down the slippery rocks with their bow over one shoulder. they move like a mountain goat, clinging to the damp stone with long, thin fingers, bruised knuckles and bloody fingertips. they're thin - too thin, mongrel-thin, with matted hair and hunted-wide eyes. a starving cub, chewing on roots to survive.

as they crouch to work the arrowhead free of the deer carcass, you lean in close behind them. drag your tongue up the back of their neck (and they shiver as you do so, hypervigilance driven by isolation giving them a unique paranoia) and taste their sweat, the salt and musk of their oily skin. chew on the ends of their hair, tasting the bitterness of their youth, the citrus-sharp edge of desperation. lay your hands over theirs as they skin the doe, feel the tendons flexing beneath their thin skin, the heat of their blood pulsing thickly in their arteries. feel the fine tremor as they wield their knife, hunger and exhaustion gripping their muscles tight.

when they slip, when the paring knife bites into the meat of their thumb, you lunge, lap at the fresh blood before they press their hand into their armpit, letting out a weak sob. you swallow that, too, chew on the frustration and fear and hurt.

there's something beguiling about it, the way they press down on the bleeding split on their thumb until the oozing stops, before getting stubbornly back to work. they're even shakier now, slower than ever. despite their care, the deer hide peels off the carcass uneven, streaked with gore and pitted with holes.

the hunter drops it aside with barely a blink, too worn down to care. you settle down on the discarded hide, chew on one ragged edge as they adjust their grip on their little knife and dig it into the deer's muscle. one smooth slice and the guts spill out, slippery-slick and pungent, glistening purple and convulsing in the hunter's hands. they unspool like so much reeking, rotting rope, and the hunter shoves them aside to slice through the meat of the belly. the scents of blood and feces fills the air, making your mouth water, teeth chattering together with the clatter of wings, of rocks tumbling down the hillside. once again, the hunter shivers, and you do it again, relishing in the way their head snaps up.

there's a flash of disappointment as their wide, dark eyes pass over you without a blink, scanning the trees around them. when they turn their eyes back to the half-butchered carcass, you do the same, licking your chops as the hunter plunges their hand into the stomach cavity to slice free the kidney. it comes out slippery and steaming, reeking of salt and urine and leaking blood over the glistening fingers that grasp it. they eye it for a moment, thumb pressing an indent into the rubbery organ: then, hunger surging, head light, they open their mouth and swallow it whole. close their eyes tight against the taste, the texture, and shudder as it goes down. you can't help yourself: you lean in, lick the smeared blood from their lips and chin as they fight not to retch, all but purring at the heady taste. the hunter makes a noise, the broken whimper of a sick animal, and you snap that up too, roll it over in your mouth and swallow it down still wriggling.

when they have their stomach back under control, the hunter resumes their gruesome work, slicing through tendons and membranes with exhausted determination. you stay where you are, cuddled up to them with your head on their shoulder, occasionally chewing the ends of their hair, lapping at the tears that spill from their watering eyes.

they taste good. salty, earthy. savoury - and savour them you do, enjoying every minute as they force themselves through the process, fingers growing numb with cold as the night sets in. you haven't had a meal this good in a long time (the terror of the chase, the horror of wolf jaws on bone, the primitive dread as winter sets in and the nights grow long - all are enough to keep you alive, but easy to come by and less satisfying than you'd like), and it leaves you feeling sated, satisfied, a snake basking on a rock with its prey still bulging in its stomach. the hunter, too, is enjoying what you suspect is the best meal they've had in a long time; they've made a small fire, pitiful, really, but hot enough to charr chunks of venison, fat sizzling on the rocks. they shovel the meat down straight from the fire, mouth steaming, smeared with grease and ash that you lick delicately from their skin, their lips, their burned and blistering fingertips.

they stop eating surprisingly fast - don't gorge themselves the way you'd been expecting, and you wonder if this is the first time they've been starving. when they unpack their bedroll, halfway under the shadow of the cliff and curl into a tiny ball, you give in to the temptation (for the second time - does this little hunter truly taste so good?) and slide in with them, wrap yourself in their bitter exhaustion. they dream, that night, of running hunted through the woods, blood from deep cuts flowing ribbon-like behind them.

when they wake, stomach cramping with hunger and nausea, dehydrated and shaking, you lap at the tears that leak from their eyes. cling to them as they pack up camp, like a tick on a deer’s flank, sucking greedily at their discomfort. they pack up the meat they butchered, roll up the damp, gory mess of the hide and strap it to their pack, and all the while you can’t keep to yourself, chewing on their fingertips, snapping at their hair, lapping at their skin like a starving dog. when you lean in close, breathe across their face and lick the moisture from their eyes, they freeze. so do you. they blink, slowly, the strange intimacy of their eyelashes brushing over you as they frown into the distance - then, hoarse, voice disused and creaking:

“Hello?”

that’s new. you pull back, watching them curiously as they squint through you. there’s a long, heavy moment where neither of you move, you watching them as they watch the trees. they can feel it, you know - the metallic taste of primitive dread, the horror of the hunted, coppery in the back of their mouth, oozing out through their skin. still, though you coil yourself around them, purr in their ear, drag your claws down their back, they don’t move.

it seems they can’t sense you that acutely. it’s enough to pique your curiosity nonetheless, having been a while since you met (‘met’) someone so sensitive; perhaps that’s why, when they stand, sated, and pack up their little camp, shoulder their bow, you follow them into the woods.

it's a mistake, probably, that you follow them, lodged in their shadow like a splinter, for nearly a year after that. they're alone, and hurt, and a talented hunter, and these things are aphrodisia to you. so you cling to them, spend their nights chasing them in their dreams until cold sweat and heart-pounding fear is as much a part of their daily routine as sleeping and pissing. you can’t help but wonder what their last breath will taste like, when their luck and their talent finally fail them: will it be starvation, you wonder, or a bear? a wolf, as skinny and desperate and starving as they are, dripping jaws on their throat? you speculate, as you slink in their shadow, if their corpse will taste of rot, if they’ll be as sweet in death as they are in the throes of their nightmares, thrashing and sobbing. whether it’s the last breath, tender and resigned, or the penultimate, still fighting, that will taste best. the thought consumes you as you consume them, until one day they wake up vomiting from fear, and with the acid-bile on your tongue, you swear it to yourself: you will find out.

though you try, experimenting with them the way a wolf cub chews its parent's tail (though you know the strength of your jaws and it is far greater than any cub’s), you can't get them to see you. you leer at them as they walk, crouch unseen and grotesque on the rocky shore as they bathe; you hiss and snarl and snap at the crows that draw too close to the camp, startling them and sending them clattering to the sky. your little hunter flinches each time, jerks to their feet, but their eyes are always fixed on the trees, never looking close enough, to where you coil and shiver and purr against their chest, their shoulders, their shadow.

then, one day, of course there come others. you're both squatting in the underbrush, you watching as they dig roots from the loose sandy earth with their bare, bruised hands. much to your shame, they hear it first: your little hunter goes still, wide-eyed, head cocked. they're both hunter and prey, frozen like a rabbit, eyes falcon-sharp as they watch the trees.

then you hear it, the rhythmic clank of metal, the meat-stink of well-fed men traipsing through your woods. your hunter flattens themself to the ground, bony fingers spread wide in the dirt; their stringy muscles are tense, coiled tight to fight or flee.

you scent the air, curious. the interlopers are loud, cheerful, brushing aside the woods with brutal carelessness.

you like that. ego like that is always delicious, especially broken open like eggs fallen from nests, rich salty yolk and slimy, savoury whites. you're starting to salivate, shaking like a starving mongrel (though you haven't been starving for a long time, you or your little hunter) with lips peeled back from broken teeth. your hunter is moving too, knife in their trembling hand, eyes fixed on the source of the sound.

the men are drawing closer, closer, branches snapping like bones beneath their boots. three of them, well-fed, strong, sleek muscle under quality clothes. slinking around them (keeping your little hunter in view, of course), you draw close enough to taste them, lap at their sweat and drag your fingers through their hair while they march on, oblivious. your hunter is almost flat to the earth, now, their dark hair and filthy clothes blending into the undergrowth, though the whites of their eyes are still visible, wild and panicked.

they’re almost past, voices echoing caustic from the trees, when your hunter’s nerve breaks. they twitch backwards; a twig snaps. the guillotine falls, the noose draws tight. the men turn. for a long, delicious moment, all four humans stare at one another, wide-eyed, the air crackling desert-dry.

then your little hunter turns and flees. predictable as a pack of starving dogs, the newcomers give chase, and so do you.

your hunter is faster, fleet on their feet and familiar with the woods: they hurl themselves over a fallen tree, leave skin and a smear of blood behind, and one of the men crashes hard against it, the air leaving his lungs with a whoosh.

your hunter is fast, but their pursuers are fit, well-fed, and smarter than you’d thought. you lope beside them, tongue hanging out to taste the adrenaline of the hunt, as they begin to close on your companion. the two newcomers still hot on their heels are breathing hard but steady, where your hunter is starting to hyperventilate, breath river-rock sharp in their lungs. you can taste inevitability like fresh blood in your mouth, and when your hunter stumbles-

-bone-cracking-

-leg-snapping-

-skin-tearing-sharp into the earth, tumbles head over heels down the rocks and lies motionless-

-it feels like vindication.

you shiver with anticipation as they roll onto their back, dragging their useless leg. their pain is almost overpowering, tempered only by stubborn determination as they claw their way into the underbrush, a futile attempt to hide. the pack crests the hill, faces split wide into gruesome grins as they survey their victory.

they slow, amble lazily down the hillside as your hunter spits and snarls, face twisted in pain and rage. spreading out behind the leader, a pack of wolves ready to feast; and you, too, are feasting, all but delirious in the fog of agony, bloodlust, sweat and adrenaline and bloody violence permeating in the air.

like any good pack leader, he takes his time, savors his victory; a tall man, three times as broad as your little hunter, he grins down at them with too many teeth, a knife between his meaty hands. stoops, presses a hand to the oozing wound on their leg where you can see red bone protruding; your hunter screams as he leans hard on it, grits their teeth against the grinding grating agony. you watch, curious, as the blood drains from their face, eyelids fluttering as their body fights to pass out, to die to avoid further ruin. they don’t, though, keep their wide dark eyes fixed on their tormentor’s face even as something new snap-shatters in their leg.

the man leans in, unsatisfied with the response. removes his hand, now stained red and glistening, from the wound, and reaches instead for their face.

your hunter moves. there’s a wet squelch, a gurgling. blood splatters their face, sprayed from the man’s throat. soaks their hand, still shaking on the handle of the knife the hunters had forgotten to check for. you start to laugh, the sound as harsh as grating bone, cawing crows, as the man slumps to the floor, the stink of urine filling the air. your little hunter turns their eyes on his companions as the body tumbles twitching into the dirt, and you can’t mistake the challenge there. it's futile; you all know it, and it makes you laugh harder, a wretched rasping that none of them hear, your hunter showing their bones to the sky, their back to the earth.

despite your laughter, as the two remaining start to move in on your wounded hunter, expressions dark with fury, discomfort prickles at you. they’ve been a good meal, a constant source of fear and fury over the past months; and more than that, entertainment, someone to watch, to toy with. are you willing to give that up, yet?

your answer comes blinding like lightning, shattering you down the centre like a struck tree. you look down at your hunter-

-your feast of the past months-

-dying in the dirt-

-and they look back at you.

see you.

and you have been feeding from them so long now it doesn't take contact to feel their desperation, their hand twitching as they reach for you, begging, pleading-

-offering.

the interlopers are closing in, and your little hunter sees you, doe eyes desperate as their killers draw close.

so when they lunge, you do too. when their hands close, so do yours - and when they scream, teeth in their spine and claws in their chests, you howl with a voice not your own, drinking down blood and salt and terror, bone fragments lodged between your teeth and their hearts convulsing in your hands. thin hands, shaking with exhaustion, a scar on the pad of one thumb. the pain in your leg is dulled by your presence, easy to ignore as you bite deeper, tendons snapping and sinew stretching as blood splashes up your chest.

the world looks very different through these eyes. your vision is blurred, wet, colours smudged across the landscape, a gore-streaked deer hide poorly removed. your hands are shaking, your leg (and pain is a new thing to feel for yourself, as used as you are to tasting it on the skin of others) a throbbing beacon of agony. your tongue sits heavy and leaden in your mouth, your chest tight - and it’s then that you realise you’re breathing, panting, saliva wet in your mouth and in your throat.

your hunter’s voice echoes inside their head as they speak, the first words you’ve heard them say out loud since that day in the clearing.

“I knew you were there-”

and their satisfaction glows briefly, sweet as glacier water, as autumn apples. then the world goes dark.

#always feel...sneaky posting non sentinel writing on here #but it's my blog and i can do what i want #stomps my feet #anyway yes here.....is a Thing #writing #not sentinel #fucked with some formatting again so hopefully it doesn't look like garbage on mobile #pls check the cws!!

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mystery-salad · 3 years

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heyyyy bestie since u reblogged my askpost from like 2015 I'm gonna plague you with this one: #1 (voice) for ALL your characters

Aksgfsf ALL OF THEM okay, this one's getting a readmore, but I accept this karma! Fair warning I'm not great at describing voices so you're gonna get a lot of general vibes

Laighe: rough from years of a hard life and a constantly shifting and growing body, you can tell from her tone it used to be higher pitched and smoother but it's dropped over the years.

Odollumn: perfectly smooth, monotone voice. Almost no inflections to it at all, and very feminine.

Tvelle: boisterous and loud, clear as a bell!

Tenor: Picture the most stereotypical perfect feminine noble woman who's a delicate flower, that's her voice.

Strair: very Bruno Mars meets Prince

Nixxte: N/A, mute

Embrant: Her voice is light and airy and warm, makes you immediately relax and smile.

Rieft: nearly identical to Embrant, but louder and more assertive!

Illiadde: raspy like a chain smoker and in the low registry due to how large she's gotten. You can hear the anger in her voice and if you don't see her first, her voice will certainly tell you it's time to run.

Kvold: high registry for a guy, but still a rough edge to it that betrays a little of his softness.

Aqun: wine aunt voice but give it to a serious professional demeanor.

Jioro: tough and brusque, has a natural rasp to it. She sounds her age, being just barely an adult.

Cue: low and rough, a harsh voice that helps keep most people from interacting too eagerly.

Renee: smooth and gentle like a river, but has a depth to it that just gives you the Feeling she knows so much and that every word is measured and has meaning.

Cherie: bright and cheerful and carries an infectious smile in the words!

Cillian: layered, what once was a smooth seductive voice now has the undertone of a harsher one much recognized and beloved by those who knew Faolain well.

Dian: solid and deliberate with a growl to the words that almost seems to reverberate in your chest with heat.

Ezra: incredibly low and gravely, he's starting to really show his age in it.

Taomesin: they started with a carefree, boyish voice. But now that's been flattened irreparably, and it carries a musical echo of the crystals within their vocal chords.

Matthias: nobleman in the prime of his life, like if Faren was actually well written and voiced as such, plus an Irish accent.

Idollis: michevous and charismatic, but a solid rasp to his voice. Often interrupted by coughing fits if his respirator is off for too long.

Illicit: measured and cunning and harsh, she sounds several feet taller than she is.

Joel: confrontational, confident, but with the smoothness of someone fresh into its twenties.

Drieg: raspy yet smooth, if that makes sense. Almost a whisper of a voice.

Vuisce: confident and steady, with an infectious enthusiasm!

Admhail: smooth and airy, carries an importance to their voice they couldn't shake even if they tried.

Lance: it echoes, her old voice so beautiful and nearly musical in nature layered with the gravely tones of her statue body.

Kai: low, rough, and callous. You can tell easily that she does not want to talk to you, even if that's not true.

Roibird: lilting and musical with a determined cheerfulness!

Fluirseach: even toned and calm, measured words.

Ruan: confident and gathers notice easily, you can tell if they've spoken up even in a loud room. Their voice invites attention more than commands it.

Aezlin: high and lilting and sultry, so inviting like sweet honey.

Rowan: perfect motherly voice with a sternness and seriousness to it.

Mint: timid and hesitant and soft, every word sounds like they're asking if it's alright to speak right now.

Tirs: solid and confident and flirtatious! You can tell she'll be a fun girl to buy a drink for immediately.

Envert: calm and calculated and nearly emotionless, every word takes you into account more as a target than a member of a conversation.

Fhariem: Meryl Streep in Devil Wears Prada.

Nimue: gentle and kind, soft spoken but confident and friendly and deep.

Lucent: a typical high pitched female and low pitched male voice layered together in harmony.

Fiorasc: sunny and floral and calming but bright!

Minuet: perfectly feminine and musical, every word sounds nearly a tune.

Elaphurus: N/A, mute

W H O M S T D V E: loud and nearly grating, but carries so much charm and levity.

Y A L L D T V E: same as whomstdve but lower registry

Bodacc: far louder and bigger voice than you'd expect from an asura, it's very clear she was raised by charr.

Urzzu: Sounds like Teyo

Yappok: N/A, hasn't learned how to speak and would only be able to form simple sounds.

Parizad: gentle but firm with an air of authority and knowledge.

Mi Adh: Deep and rolling, with a femme Fatale touch.

Svadingr: roiling and lilting with a purr beneath it, deep and velvety.

Mattæo: surprisingly high and soft for her size, but made up for by the depth of it.

Hastigi: rough and deep, low registry with a gravely rumble to it.

Ennreck: smooth and low, with a fun lilt to it.

Soft Boy: low and reassuring and smooth and inviting.

Thale: ever changing, depending on the need, but always holds an enchanting depth.

Candessence: N/A, nearly mute and prefers sign language over trying to form words.

Charlie: joking, fun, and flirtatious in an almost angering way. You can hear how blasé she is about most things from her tone.

Call: tough and confrontational, your stereotypical tone when TV shows call a character a tomboy.

Cinnuit: deep and calming, low registry but so smooth and gentle.

Alvvae: high and accented and usually a little rough due to having to speak up so often to be noticed or seen. But nonetheless very friendly and enthusiastic!

Imekaari: gentle and kind, so kind. Soft and inviting and even toned.

#vampiricsheep #ENJOY THE ONSLAUGHT

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commander-coppercogg · 3 years

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how about wynoc for the headcanons ask game? :D (@griffith-and-co)

Headcanon A: realistic

Since he keeps his hair/leaves/hair leaves up in a pony tail, he always has a couple hair ties around his wrist. He and Marjory has a running tally on how many hair ties they've borrowed from each other.

Headcanon B: while it may not be realistic it is hilarious

Because of the bark like nature of his face, Wynoc struggles to make different facial expressions. This means that he has developed different means of communicating his emotions. Combine this with the fact that he spent the first year of his life being raised by a charr warband......what I'm saying is that when Wynoc's truly truly happy he makes a very quiet little rumbling purr noise. You're welcome everyone.

Headcanon C: heart-crushing and awful, but fun to inflict on friends

Wynoc wasn't named Wynoc until he can to the Grove for the first time and the Pale Tree gave him a proper sylvari name to replace the Ash Legion codename he'd been using. It isn't until several years later that he's hit with the realization that the Pale Tree named him after the first two sylvari to die. He believes she did it on purpose, marking him with a martyr's destiny in an attempt to wash her hands of a creature she saw as closer to Mordrem than sylvari. He doesn't change it though. Mostly out of spite. And because it makes him feel more like Caithe's sibling, a feeling he cherishes.

Headcanon D: unrealistic, but I will disregard canon about it because I reject canon reality and substitute my own.

Possessing the charr culture's blunt and straightforward approach to romance, Wynoc almost immediately propositions Canach upon running into him in Living World Season 2. Canch is equally wrong footed and reluctantly charmed. He's gonna make Wynoc work for it though.

#ask game #ask #griffithandco #wynoc #wynoc burntt #hes got a new last name is really need to update his tag #but yeah wynoc is now technically a mordrem #he and the pale tree do not get along #hell me and the pale tree dont get along #me? making the pale tree a villain?#its more likely than you might think #by which i mean very likely #but yeah wynoc is gonna romance the hell out of canach #did i make wynoc come from a different tree just so i could romance canach with some weird incest over tones?#well it wasnt the only reason but it did factor in #i gotta come up with a ship name for the two of them #wynach?#wynach #thanks for the ask!

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canid-slashclaw · 3 years

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The Lighthouse Keeper

Chapter 1

A warm sensation throbbed against Kaleb’s face. He looked down and noticed a winged farie dragon was worming its way into his left nostril.

There you go little guy. Find your dark, warm home.

The sky above was bathed in swaths of crystalline sheep and shimmering buttered toast. Curiously, he wondered why the three-headed dingle troll had not come to join the tea party.

Off in the distance he heard a faint voice. At first he could not make out what it said, but as he concentrated harder, he swore it sounded something like holstill.

He looked at the faerie dragon once more. Then he looked up and closed his eyes.

Now when I count to three, you’ll be safe and sound in your new home.

One..

Two…

Three…

Okay little fella…

“Whaaaaaa!!”

“My gods! What the HELL?!”

Kaleb’s eyes were open for real this time. He felt a warm furry hand clasped hold of his lower jaw as he looked at his nose practically cross-eyed and saw an orange pawed finger shoved firmly in his left nostril.

“Hold still, you doofus! Otherwise I might jab something that I don’t intend to,” Amalthia’s voice said with a firm but soothing purr.

His mind pondered the most obvious question after being awakened from his strange, but otherwise peaceful slumber.

“Why do you have your claw up my schnoz?” He said with a nasally grunt.

She looked at him and smiled with her pearly canines displayed prominently across her golden feline face. “You’ve got a booger that’s been hanging out from under your nose every time you breath out. It’s disgusting! And since you, my love, are too lazy to do anything about it, I thought I would take an angling excursion by removing it for you.”

“Now hold still.”

She wiggled her claw some more hoping to snag the gooey little rascal.

“Waaait… almost…”

“Got it!”

Amalthia withdrew her finger, held it aloft and marveled at the long rubbery wad of mucus that dangled at the tip of her ivory claw. She opened her maw, then with a lap of her raspy tongue, licked her talon clean.

“Mmmm. Salty! Not too unlike certain other oozy parts of your body.” She gave a playful squeeze to his manhood as she gazed into his chestnut eyes.

He gazed back into her amber orbs. “I love you, Ama. Even though you are quite…”

It was all he could say, just seconds before the couple locked in a passionate kiss.

“Disgusting?” She chimed. “Would you have me any other way?”

“No.”

“Good! But you know that you are adorably disgusting as well.” She licked him on the face then rested her head on his bare chest.

“Me? No way! At least I don’t perform fishing expeditions up your schnozolla.” Kaleb said as he massaged each of her four ears.

“Oh, but you do perform them elsewhere. Don’t you? Hmmm?” His charr wife pointed to her posterior.

Kaleb’s face briefly turned red as a beet before returning to its normal ruddy complexion.

“You are so adorable when you blush, little mouse. It makes me really horny just seeing you this way.”

“Is that an invitation for seconds?”

“I thought it was thirds? My oh my Mister Grimwald. You have been pumping my cup to overflow on a rather consistent and quite pleasurable basis over these past two weeks.”

“Hey! I’ve got the juice to fill it, yanno!”

Just then, there was a knock on the door followed by the shuffling sound of something being slid under it.

“Seriously, Kal. My love canal topped off and I’m leaking like a runny bucket because of you. These sheets are a sticky mess and I haven’t even bathed yet.”

Kaleb looked puzzled. “Should I be ashamed of my mess or proud?”

With catlike grace, Amalthia leaped from the bed, yanked off the covers then promptly tossed them in Kaleb’s face. “I think you should do the laundry this time, love!”

“Geez! And here I thought charr gals were supposed to be different. I suppose women are the same no matter what species they are,” he said with a huff.

She flashed him a toothy grin. “We are a species unto ourselves, us females. Cower before our might!” “So does that mean we can get a little more nooky, nooky in after I do the laundry?”

“No sugar and spice until sheets are as white as… well, you know what I mean. Now to the washroom with you, manslave!”

Hmm. I wonder what junk mail was slid under the door this time, Amalthia thought to herself as she wandered over to the front door garbed only in her luxurious golden tiger striped pelt.

Kaleb stepped through the doorway leading to the basement of their new flat. He and Amalthia moved from Ulfgar’s tavern a couple of months ago hoping to find a place that was a bit more roomy. After taking care of his chores, he headed back upstairs to find his wife thumbing through the mail.

His wife mumbled off a few incoherent words as she began tossing the parcels on the small coffee table.

“Lesse – bills, bills. A potential new contract… on someone’s head of course,” she said with a wicked grimace. “More bills. A royal invitation from Queen Jenna annnnd… can you guess?”

“You had me at the contract.” He quipped.

She smirked. “An invitation to appear on the Bernie Lomax show.”

“Now what was that about the bills?”

Amalthia was the one who looked puzzled this time. “Um. Didn’t you even catch what I just said?”

“No, Miss Steelblade. Of course I’m referring to the royal invitation, furball! Now why don’t you be a good kitty and open it for me.”

“So saucy this morning, aren’t we Mister Grimwald?” She shrugged her shoulders, smiled then with a quick swipe of her claw, opened the parcel. The letter was written on high quality parchment and bore the raised seal of the Krytan Queen. She read aloud.

“Dear Amalthia and Kaleb Grimwald-Steelblade,

By order of her royal majesty Queen Jenna of Kryta, you are both hereby invited to meet directly the highness herself in Divinity’s Reach in celebration of your groundbreaking union. The meeting will be held at the royal palace at noon a fortnight from the day you receive this letter.

Best regards,

Signed, Jenna – Queen of Kryta”

She folded the letter then looked at Kaleb. “Eh. It’s probably just junk mail. Shall it pitch it?”

Kaleb rushed over to examine the invitation more closely. “Woah there. While I might not be the most educated man in Tyria, I do know a legit seal when I see one. That definitely looks like the real thing.”

“Great! That means word of our marriage has reached some pretty important peeps in Tyria. Annnd it means loads of some of the finest vintage that we can get ourselves completely shit-faced drunk off of too. How about that?” She said with a grin.

She looked at him and noticed a markedly unexpected countenance on his face. “Kaleb? What’s the matter?”

Kaleb turned away and bowed his head. “Nothing’s the matter.”

“Look. Since being with you, I’ve come to recognize how humans express their emotions through facial gestures. Yours tells me that something's not all peachy keen. Now what is it??”

“Nothing! Okay?! Sorry Ama, It’s something I’d rather not talk about if you don’t mind.”

Her four ears drooped in sadness as she went over to him. “We’re a team, Kal. When we bonded six months ago, you promised that we would face our problems together. Now buck up and tell me!”

He closed his eyes as his thoughts drifted to the past. Divinity’s Reach – it’s been a lifetime ago. But now it only feels like it all happened only yesterday. Dammit!

With a heavy sigh, he opened his eyes then turned to her. “You are right, Ama. Something is wrong. Well. More to the point… something went wrong many years ago. That place was Divinity’s Reach.”

“Oh my. I hear a story coming. I’m all ears,” Amalthia laughed then sat down as her ears flicked in contentment.

Kaleb pulled up a chair, rested his elbows on the table then clasped his hands together. “Where do I begin?”

“One step at a time, Kal. You can do this.” She assured him.

Yes I can! he mused.

Kaleb began to tell his tale. (Story cross-posted to AO3.)

#tyrias-library #gw2 fanfic #the outliers #lighthoue keeper #kaleb and amalthia #human and charr #cw adult situations #guildwars 2

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cindermetalheadgw2 · 4 years

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Some ideas for things I'd like to see in future gw2 updates, just for fun 😺

-player housing besides the home instance/guild hall. They're nice, but usually really big and open and lacking in warmth and coziness. I want to live in a little cabin in the shiverpeaks! Also house pets, furniture, back yard, landscaping, gardening, etc

-adjust how armor fits on norn and charr please, especially shoulders and backpacks. I want to wear them but on charr the backpacks are usually floating awkwardly in weird places and the shoulder armor is almost always too big and weirdly placed

-more armor skins in general. You can never have enough armor skins! Customizing characters is fun! Also maybe make transmutation charges slightly more common

-more interactive npc dialogue options and romanceable/befriendable npcs that make use of the charm/dignity/ferocity mechanic. I want this really bad!

-hylek, skritt, quaggan, ogre, centaur, etc. as playable races! Maybe even choya

-this one is obligatory but PLEASE more body types and faces especially for humans and norn! Also, players being able to choose their character's pronouns with the current gender options being renamed "style" like in animal crossing or something

-more Metal Legion content! And more music around tyria in general! Ambient and as part of events! Tell me the Asura didn't invent techno, nightcore, and 80s synth

-i would like to pet my ranger pets! Let me play with them and pet them and give them treats when I'm not in combat, or even just in major cities. This also applies to elementals, bone minions, etc. summoned by other professions

-add charr purr sound effect

#gw2 #guild wars 2

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gwtwoimpsarewe · 5 years

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Welcome to the Family

So, this story won’t make a lot of sense without context; but I’ll save that for another post. I wrote it to enjoy it and it’s my first full OC full prose. Hopefully ya’ll enjoy it too.

A quick helper tho set after the prologue bound by blood. So mild? Spoilers?

Lorcan Vulthon - Norn, Roughly about 26 (circa 1332),(Ex-)Wolf Shaman, (Ex-)Auxiliary Iron Legion Engineer, Vigil Initiate. Yes he was raised by wolves. (Not literally)

Zariah Dào - Human, Roughly about 42 (circa 1332), (My Commander for the game, but operates under Lt. Commander to allow for easier rp), Warmaster of a Vigil Company, Lorcan’s new Boss, Has not tapped out since Claw Island.

Veeck - my necromancer reaper I haven’t made but am taking from an old DnD character of mine, Asura, age unknown, The Deacon of Pain,

A jungle stalker, tiger and one other feline mini follow him around that’s the joke. One of the JP’s for the Tiger den Achievement is what sparked this.

Not sure what to tag it but it starts funny ends feelsy, found family vibes, if descriptions of eyes squick you (no harm just who’s looking at you, sudden eye contact etc) be wary or pass on, fluffy angst I suppose, emotional breakdown,

it ends happily I swear!

(Don’t panic if things seem to change, I post and edit as I go otherwise I get locked in perfectionism spiral and never post at all.)

“Boss.”

Eyes shielded from the setting sun, Lorcan peered out over the landscape, comm at the ready.

“Boooossssss.”

Dusk crawled toward the horizon. Hazy smoke trails blown over the open fields lazily from the nearby mill, an end of a lovely day, on all accounts.

“Boss!”

The receiver came to life in Lorcan’s hand with an exhausted sigh of static as Lt. Commander Zariah sluggishly answered, “Yes, Lorcan. What is it?”

The smile pulled over Lorcan’s face, unable to resist the urge to tease. “Kinda, an odd time of day to be sleeping sir.”

It was utterly incredible how he could feel the dry stare-down and complex half lecture on the misuse of communications equipment in a brief pause.

That was talent right there.

Another sigh brought his attention back in, “I wasn’t, thank you, did you need something?”

Brightening, Lorcan sat down in front of the mess of fur and leaves, “Yeah! I found your cat bed!”

“… What.”

Lorcan gestures at the pile of leaves at his feet although his officer couldn’t see it. “Yeah! One of your Sylvari, the one with the monotone-”

“-Ours, and their name is Eir, -”

“-Said one of your weird tiny death machines-“

“-Again, wild animals, and not mine-”

“-Yeah, yeah, the striped one ran off and went to bed everything-”

“-Tiger; and has been making beds not bedding, your Common is improving-”

“I found one!”

The crackle and whine from a heavy static sigh made Lorcan wince and pull the device from his ear.

“...… You’ve found a tiger.”

Something about the suddenly calculating monotone made his insides squirm as he forced the cheerful up another notch. “Well no, but I’ve found its bed, and now we have each other’s scents, and I probably will find it and we’ll form a life-long bond like rangers and shaman-”

“Lorcan.” His name came gently, cutting off his rambling in a way that had nausea setting in.

“I’m grateful you found one, does it look fresh?” The genial tone was almost disconcerting after seeing nothing but jaded exhaustion, and it was wrong.

This was not how this works.

This was a crank call. Because he’s Lorcan. The rambling loud, obnoxious idiot whose superiors while agitated are fond of. Lorcan, who did not want to do this all over again but here they are, and Zariah! Who’d barely known him three days!

Who took him in without blinking after getting cut off from his war-band, who trusted him enough for a reconnaissance mission. Who put up with all his antics so far with a droll but benign stare; who—

A rustling came finally, along with the clink and slosh of what Lorcan knew to be the large mug of coffee usually in hand.

“Lorcan-”

“Stop that,” his throat felt tight, half leaping to his feet into a defensive stance, “You—Don’t-” The plains suddenly felt suffocatingly small, leaving him on edge and snarling into his comm.

Burn him, what was he doing.

“Lorcan.”

“Stop that!” his ears were burning, eyes stinging against the smoke in the air. It was his name; it was just his name what the tar was his problem?

The placid silence that followed nearly had him throw the damn thing down onto the rocks. Embarrassment burned viciously under his skin. He was better than this now. He wasn’t-

“Lo-”

He turned the comm offline.

It was long past dark by the time he’d calmed down, eyes red and throat raw, hunched at the base of the tree.

Great first impression.

Really sold it this time.

Groaning, he dug his face into his knees to do something other than mope in the dark like a moody cub. Or worse start up again.

A skittering of rocks and not entirely muffled metal had him look up in time to see a silhouette with an obnoxious Asuran light nearly blind him.

“Mind if I come over? You turned your comm off.” Zariah inquired tilting his head to the side just before the last jump. “I can stay over here. Just wanted to-”

Lorcan waved him off with a flippant hand and shoved his face back down. “Make sure I hadn’t broken-”

“-Your bones. Yes. Or anything else important to your personal self.” Zariah moved over the outburst with both a note of finality and comfort that had Lorcan looking up out of instinct, only to wince again at the mini sun in his Commanders hand.

“… If you're going to jump over, douse the Mouse-Light. Before I lose my eyes.”

Immediately, the object dimmed down and out before far more familiar sounds came and a torch sparked to life. “Sorry about that, but I’ll ask you to refrain from derogatory names. Veeck is a valued member of our team and cares deeply about our survival.”

“… The Asura.”

“Yes.”

“Who rambles on about some new Entity?”

“Of Pain, yes.”

“… Boss.”

“Not up for debate, Lorcan.”

Heaving to his feet with a sigh, Lorcan reached out to him; “Well, can’t let them upstage me now can I. C’mon I’ll catch you; it won’t give you enough light without the M--……. beacon. From the Deacon.”

Zariah landed with a grunt into his grip. “You’ll have to share that one, they’d love that-what is that an idiom?”

“Not a clue.” Wearily sitting again, Lorcan stopped short as something small and purring wormed its way into his lap. “… Uh…”

“She likes belly rubs, and she can smell tears.” Was all Zariah offered settling next to him and safely anchoring the torch in front of them, while the Stalker wiggled about before she settled solidly into Lorcan’s lap. Big eyes batted up at him, as if pointedly proving Zariah’s point; said belly up and offered.

Slowly, Lorcan answered the demand, a new deeper slew of purrs unleashed in repayment. “I thought you said they’re wild.”

“They are. Or were, a few years ago. They found me in the Maguuma, when Mordremoth was; well you know.” came the easy answer, as Zariah set about digging in his pack and handing over a wrapped meat smelling something to Lorcan who merely blinked at it.

“You haven’t eaten since before you left and I know how Norn eat. Eat your dinner.”

Gingerly, Lorcan accepted the meal; before peering at him. “… Does this get any weirder?”

“Only if you let your guard down long enough for them to steal it.”

“Wh-Hey!”

They sat like that a long while, quietly; with a lap full of warm purring death machines, a belly full with warm food and drink, and tired eyes watching the torch slowly burn down to a smolder.

The lecture never came; the ‘we’re alike you and I’ speech, the wise mentor talk, whatever he’d been expecting. Zariah just sat there, relaxed and was… well, there.

But then it made sense didn’t it. He was a tactician for a military organization, one of the high tier leaders in the Pact, leader of his own company; and Lorcan was an accomplished engineer and a perceptive people's person when he wasn’t being difficult.

There wasn’t anything to say.

He’d freaked out, he didn’t want to freak out, but he did. He’d reverted to causing a scene and trouble because he was a full inferno of freaking the blazes out. About what any of this meant now. About where home was now. What he would do now. What his purpose was now.

Had another identity crisis in an evening flat because he kept trying to put it in a title. Wolf Shaman, Auxiliary Charr—anything that wasn’t just him. How else could he go back and show that he’d changed after all? Prove he was all grown up out of his awkward paws making a mess of everything.

Except he hadn’t had he-

“pWaCKth!”

Lorcan spat fur out of his mouth, leaning away from the incessantly batting paws from his lap companion. “Hey! Hey! Hey! C’mon!”

“I told you. She smells monologues.”

“You said tears.”

Stretching out with an innocent hum that edged too close to playful to pass as sincere, Zariah rose a brow at him, “Mm? Did I? I must have misspoken. So terribly sorry.”

The words pulled a snort out of Lorcan at the obvious lie, “So, what, she just slaps you in the face at random? Or she’s just psychic and knows when you're spiraling every time.”

Turning towards him, Zariah rose the brow higher, something of a smirk toying in the corner of his mouth. “Oh, definitely a psychic; when I need it. Constantly. She can tell usually because,” His eyes glanced meaningfully at Lorcan’s lap, “I’ve ceased to pet her.”

Lorcan paused, looking to where his hands had fallen stagnant some time ago on her back, much to the indignant pout on her face. “… Oh.”

“Well.” He chuckled at his own obliviousness and began smoothing hands down her head and spine apologetically, much to her delight, “S’a good trick.”

“She tries.” A yawn dragged out the end of the sentence as Zariah settled down more against Lorcan’s side who moved to accommodate him.

Eyes glanced at the time curiously, “Aw burn me, Boss I’m-”

“Safe.” That firm tone was back again, even as exhausted as it sounded. “And that’s all I care about. We’ll go back when you’re ready.”

“Don’t you have paperwork to do?”

“Great thing about paper, it’ll be there when I get back.”

“What about orders? Don’t you have to know what’s”

“Anything I need to know, I’ll know through my comm, if it’s of immediate importance. As for orders, there are other commanders.”

“… How many hours you running on here?”

“Two and a half, I was in fact sleeping when you called me.”

“Boss-” An incredulous laugh cut short by an overused stubborn excuse.

“I had coffee.”

Silence lapsed again, softer as the torch barely glowed embers and Zariah’s breathing began to deepened, and slow against his side.

It wouldn’t have made sense for how lax Zariah was, after seven years of nearly non-stop war and fighting; if the moon wasn’t glinting off four Iron Legion Sharpshooters standing guard nearby that Lorcan could now see.

“Boss?” swallowing around the lump in his throat, Lorcan nudged him again. “Hey, Boss.”

There was a slurred hum, eyes not even opening as Zariah lifted a brow in answer “Mmn—yes Lorcan.”

“… Thanks.”

“S’ what ‘m here for.”

Epilogue (aka beeps an giggles)

For the weight of a Pact Commander, Zariah was unnervingly light once you removed the pack, armor, weapons, felines, etc.

Which Lorcan awkwardly got to know firsthand as the pint-sized (seriously how small was this guy) Asura fussed around this way and that muttering too fast to keep up with.

It was a very odd feeling of you break it you buy it, with the Commanders sleep schedule. Which cemented in his mind as no one else seemed bothered by the ranting Asura at his feet.

“-two months! Two months! Not even! We were so close, on ordered leave, relaxing, vacationing, nearly had it! But no! The evil little box of death opens its evil little mouth and ruin everything! This does not please the Pain!”

Lorcan made the mistake of uttering “Does anything,” before realizing the error as he became the subject of the bespectacled, laser sharp, owlish gaze before off again as they moved in thought.

Finally, with a decisive nod, they firmly shouted up to him, “…… Milk! Milk and Ink!”

(Seriously did the guy think he was deaf? Though they looked like they’d fit into his boot with room to spare, and he wasn’t exactly short himself.)

A tiny hand lifted into the air, fire in their eyes; “I shall explain!”

“Please don’t.” Lorcan begged.

“Easy Squeak-A-Veak, lets save converting until after we get Boss back to bed for a few hours. We’ve already got orders to meet up with General Soulkeeper in the morning.” Came the beautiful rescue from one of the other officers Lorcan couldn’t put a name to.

Whose hands lifted up immediately in a placating gesture, as the tiny Asura looked ready to implode, “Rephrase, to head over to General Soulkeeper in the morning.”

Small detonation avoided, the medic, nodded with minimal professional sulking, “He’s napping on the way there.”

“As always, you can try small fry, you can try. Eir wanted to see you; I’ll see that Boss gets settled yeah?” Offering a fond amused look, they winked at Lorcan who wasn’t honestly sure what to do with himself at this point of being ‘Boss-shelf’.

Veeck squinted but turned and left with a toddle out of the room. “I know what you’re doing and I don’t appreciate it but yes I will leave and stop scaring our recruit.”

“… Wasn’t scared.” Came late and lamely as the officer chuckled and lead him in to where Zariah was staying for the time being.

Which for the first few moments Lorcan was sure they got the wrong room before he finally spotted a bed past all the paperwork. “Is that a war table?”

“Mini-sized yeah, Rye sleeps in his office, it was the only solution after a long drawn out internal war lemme tell you.”

“How is that a win?”

“He used to do it on a cot armed with a coffee pot, and don’t worry about Veeck. Squeakers is harmless; they get dramatic with displeasure and pain cos it’s like a prayer offering? I think? I’m trying to follow it but I need a few more run throughs. They’re a lot calmer day to day.”

“…….. Oh! Good to know, thanks—ah…”

“You forgot my name already didn’t you.”

“……………………..”

Laughing they helped settle Zariah down and into bed, even tucking them in. Which by this point, Lorcan had one final question.

“…… Sooo, kinda curious. Why he’s not; you know.”

“Twitchy as fleas about being handled like a doll? He usually is, but this is day four of small naps and I made his coffee decaf. He’s out cold for the next three to five hours.”

“Burn me.”

“It’s a good thing, say goodnight if you want; just hit the lights when you're done. I’m catching a few myself before we hit the road.” They offered with a wave before heading out.

Lorcan absentmindedly gave a wave only to perk and try to call out; “Wait! You didn’t--…… tell me your name. Tar’nfeathers.”

Sitting down with a sigh he glanced over at Zariah, and with a crooked grin leaned over. “Night Boss. Still totally going to steal your tiger.”

A brow raised as tired, but amused eyes snapped open, “Still totally not going to let it happen.” Zariah challenged as Lorcan shrieked with a flail and fell off the bed.

“Burn! Tar! and Feather You!”

Yawning with a final chuckle, Zariah listened to him stalk off and turn out the lights. “Good Night, Lorcan.”

“Welcome to the family.”

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almorras-massacre · 5 years

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“Please, help me, I’m over here!” I heard a muffled voice. They sounded young.

“I’m coming, keep talking so I can find you!” I signaled to my pets to spread out among the wreckage.

“Are you with the Seraph?”

Oof. Awkward. “Uh, n-no, I’m...” I hesitated. With the Legions? I looked around helplessly, but saw my colleagues behind me and had an idea. “I’m with the Priory! We’re here to help!”

“Okay...” they responded uncertainly.

“Are you hurt? Do you know where you are?”

"I can’t see... I can’t feel my leg but when I touch it, there’s something warm and sticky on it. I'm... cold...”

Their leg might be broken at least, possibly worse. I had to be quick.

I heard some giddy yapping from Mituna and darted to his side.

“Is that you?!” they called from a pile of rubble. “Hello!!”

“Yes, I’m here. Dylobaek, Snow, Mituna, help me dig!” I started scraping through, grabbing clawfuls of debris and chucking it behind me.

“Explorer Darkheart, we need to wait for the Seraph--” I heard someone say breathlessly, feeling their presence near me.

“There’s no time, they’re hurt!! They need out of there right now!!” I was on all fours, digging hurriedly. There were advantages to being a so-called beast.

Yanking a beam out of my way, I finally saw them - a young human cub, blood smeared on their head. They were panting and their eyes were closed.

I scrambled and squeezed my way towards them. A feline spine can get in many places, and Ash Legion knows how to tread lightly. If I could get to them and pull them into my body, I could shield them at least from the collapsing building. They were so small, even compared to me.

There was some space for the two of us. They were leaning against an unsteady amount of wood that barely held. Their leg was most certainly broken beyond saving. But when I touched them, their eyes snapped open, and they shrank away from my claws, fear lighting their eyes.

“Charr!” they gasped.

“It’s all right, I’m not going to hurt you. I’m with the Priory,” I said soothingly, hoping they’d recognize my voice. I extended my arm and got down low to seem less threatening. “It’s okay, just come here to me. I’ll protect you.”

They seemed uncertain again, but a crumbling noise startled them into my arms. They clung to my leather and fur, pressing themself into my chest, and I curled around them as the world came down on us.

“Explorer!! Explorer Darkheart!?! DAMIEN!!”

It seemed like forever passed by as I heard muffled yelling and screaming above us.

More creaking.

More scuffling.

And then, a breeze against my back fur.

“There, I see them!”

I pulled my head out of the tuck of my legs and tail, coughing weakly.

“We’re alive...” I croaked. “I have the child with me...”

I felt the weight come off my body and more air, and slowly unwound.

“The child first,” I said, shakily lifting them up to my comrades and the Seraph volunteers, who took them quickly.

More hands and bodies appeared to help me up and out. I collapsed onto the open grass, panting from the heat, exhaustion, and bruising. My ears flicked as I picked up the sound of a relieved mother crying out gratitude for saving her son, and almost felt like I could purr.

But, I was so tired, and instead I passed out, feeling the warm bodies of my pets pressing against mine.

#text post #gw2 fan submission #charr #charr roars #guild wars 2 #gw2 #just more excerpts from the backstory of my main Damien Lostheart

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