Missandei Of Naath "Eleven Years Of Age, Yet Missandei Is As Clever As Half The Men At This Table And

“I’m sorry.” Her voice was barely a whisper. “I didn’t mean it. You know I didn’t.”

Tomix didn’t respond, his profile cast in the eerie glow of the Void. The dim light caught on his snowy lashes, each one outlined like a fragile thread of frost. Anger radiated off him in smoldering waves. How had it come to this? She couldn’t bear to look at him any longer. So she, too, turned her eyes to the swirling purple expanse. The abyss stretched endlessly before them, shifting and mocking, its whispers crawling beneath her skin. Coward, it taunted.

What a pair of fools they made, standing shoulder to shoulder yet miles apart, clinging to the empty embrace of the Void as if it could shield them from each other. From themselves. They were two shadows suspended within the same violet light, a fractured mirror of festering wounds. 

The wind whistled sharply through the mana trees, blowing a cold dead breath on her bloodless face. Suddenly it was as if all the strength had left her limbs. Her sword felt impossibly heavy, slippery. It fell from her trembling grasp, striking the ground with a hollow thud. When she looked down, she saw the blade was bright blue, and her hands bluer still—painted with the blood of the land she had carved through. The sight of it sent a wave of nausea through her.

She was no hero. In this moment, she was Death himself.

A splatter of wetness hit her cheek. It had started to rain. The droplets came slow and lazy at first, then fast and heavy, building into a mighty torrent that lashed against her skin as if it were the wrath of the very heavens.

But what of my wrath?

Last chapter of Storm's Breath and I'm sad it's over. Illustration of Gem in the Fissure by the most amazing @entropienn x

"Each element shapes the fabric differently," Danyel explained to her on the fifth night, holding out a swatch of flame-threaded velvet that seemed to shimmer with heat. He contrasted it with a square of linen spun from water soulthreads, its coarse fibers carrying an almost imperceptible glow that softened in the flickering torchlight, cool and soothing to her touch. Wind threads, he said, are the trickiest, as they’re so slippery and light they resist the weave itself.

“And so it is with people, I think,” he added, his gaze drifting over the fabric as though seeing something more. “Some resist being woven into anything at all.”

On the seventh night, she learns from him that a weaver’s elemental affinity doesn’t always match their soulally’s. It was something Gem had always taken for granted. She remembered that Vaal, wherever he was now, shared the same element as his fiery partner. The mercurial chaosweaver was a red-hot blaze that kindled brilliance, but burned all that it touched. Danyel, of course, also matched Baltael. He was the wind that carried storms across the sea—unwavering in determination, his purpose steady even when unseen.

But when she had asked if she, too, was ice like Aegis, he had looked at her strangely. “No, you are not,” he had said, though he did not elaborate. What was she, then? The thought clung to Gem, curious and unnerving, long after the conversation had passed.

As the evenings went by, his presence seemed to settle around her like the quiet of a windless morning. She had always thought him cold, but she was starting to see the softness of his edges. Sometimes, when she made a sharp remark or jab, she would catch the briefest shift in his expression—an almost imperceptible crinkle at the corners of his eyes, like a smile trying to break free, before he quickly smoothed it away.

[comm for @lucennia] from their fic: thread noose

ft. the hero of falconreach and df's favorite babydoll <3

Might a request a Jaania for the fandom requests? <3

Jaania for you!

Balloonerism 🎈☁️

"More Frills!" I say.

Alina Court Attire Redesign

Artist's Note: I looked at the design I made for Alina's Court Alchemist outfit, and something just didn't seem right to me. It was too simple. Dare I say...too plain So, I decided to add a few more details in small areas and I think it adds so much more to her outfit! I am satisfied!

Down below is the revised outfit concept ⬇️⬇️⬇️

Artist's Note: Not that different. Just the same image with a few more frills on one outfit.

— Norm Macdonald, Based on a True Story: A Memoir

— Maya Angelou, Letter to My Daughter

Towering far above the rest, the heart tree's bone-white bark flashed stark against the common green brush that sprawled across Old Harren's grounds, gleaming a cold alabaster as bright as his own cloak. Leaves spilled from slender grasping limbs like a million splayed hands dipped in blood. And upon its trunk, a face.

The visage had been slashed deep. If it was the work of man or god, Arthur could not say. Crimson sap oozed from slanted eyes like ancient tears, frozen dry upon pale drawn cheeks. It watched him with knowing disdain. A weirwood, he thought in awe. The last one standing below the Neck.

It was then that he saw the supplicant. A slight figure knelt before the heart tree, head bowed low in prayer. Slim as a winter sapling, and so still he might have mistaken it for carved stone. Scarcely more than a smudge of shadow upon the hard earth.

At the stir of their footfalls, the figure trembled slightly, then hopped to its feet with the swift grace of a startled doe and whirled.

It was… a girl-child. He’d not misjudged; even whilst standing she was a tiny slip of a thing. A strange thing. Her coltish frame was wrapped in a dove-grey gown, streaked with soil and trailing like morning mist about small bared feet. Dark chestnut hair tumbled loose and tangled past thin shoulders, framing windburnt cheeks flushed rosy with chill. Her eyes were sharp and wild, her teeth bared—and in her hands a tree branch, raised like a sword!

Not a little doe then, thought Arthur.

Then, a break in the clouds. A shaft of dying light broke through the clearing, striking the crown of the heart tree with sudden radiance. The deep scarlet leaves flared and shimmered like bloody embers. And there, half-lost amongst the high fronds, something swayed.

A shield. Upon it, the painted face of a weirwood, grinning wide and red.

Arthur froze.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Snippet from A Crown of False Spring, Chapter 4.