This wasn’t supposed to make me sad
BAD HAIR DAYS
Lazily colored sketch I did with a new brush setting I had made by fiddling around with the settings ah
I’ll clean this up later maybe.
But oh man, sketching this out with that brush, A+ I am in love.
When he was a little boy, small, without a nest, did he dream of adventure? As a concept—as other children might, following the scroll and swoop of scripted letters upon a page, ink already dry, vellum somehow divorced from skin—rather than the guts, the bowels, of adventure’s body.
The fields after the wars. The press of the blade. How your own daggers can be used against you. Scarring your palms; crossing the lifelines. Changing the course of future and fate into this balance: the jingle of a heavy purse and luck’s laughter.
Flirt with danger. Laugh, bare your bloody teeth, in the face of death and his many companions.
They, too, are like crows. They pass, black wing shadows, over the hot Antiva sky.
And the tanneries. And the nickering of old horses, broken ankles, silence. And the bubble of pots; the clink of tankards; the lash along scrawny shoulders. The truest tests of loyalty and obedience. Zevran Arainai, golden eyes shattering, so that they reflected light very prettily—but drew no flames from within the heart. A hearth gutted and empty. Embers cold.
But there are still—always—dragons in this world.
They breathe fire. They put dead kindling to light.
When he was a little boy, did he know he would brace his lean thighs on either side of a great beast’s neck, scales snaring leather and skin, bellow beyond bellow of rage from this beautiful, untamed, otherworldly creature, thrashing and roiling as an ocean storm, refusing to go gently, without definition of gentleness, talons and fangs, fire and more fire, eyes turning to meet their undoing—drawing flames from the heart—while Zevran Arainai, alive again, little more than a pesky bird chirping at the shoulder of one so magnificent, so much larger than adventure, more even than life, came to drive the smallest blade home. Black bile and brackish blood. And the sweat, and the silence.
No hero, I. But, I am a crow who has triumphed against dragons.
I’ve given up everything to rebuild my people’s past, and you just threw my sacrifice in the garbage.
Qunari - The World of Thedas [x]
This was more of a pain than it was meant to be
i like to think about a dystopian kirkwall (which, let’s face it, kirkwall itself is dystopian low-fantasy; is there any landscape more pre-and-post apocalyptic than the view given by the city of chains?) with torn jeans instead of torn trousers; moth-eaten hipster scarves; thrift-shop rings of power; the mage underground is a culture, with its own music, its own fashion; and anders, in secret, is known as the doctor of darktown. you can find him in the sanctum of healing, clinic by day, magical speakeasy by night.
(when the neon flickers on, the refugees start coming.)
and he’s got these tattoos, and when his magic flares, they go from black-and-blue to bright, white light.
rage against the templar machine. disobey the qun. foster the apostates.
and he wears this necklace, the sign of the templar brand, to remember the fallen.
and he’s impossible to talk to, but there’s something about him…
you just keep falling under his spell. not literally. …you hope. but it’s all too easy to see in the shadows why mages are feared.
and one night, you work up the courage to talk to him. to mention, off-handed, that you wouldn’t mind sucking on his fireballs.
(he doesn’t laugh. so you ache for years, wondering how to teach him to laugh again.)