Pinned
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Reblogged ar-ghilas-vir-banal
nothing much to say, just a sketch
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We’re always building toward a creative space that works the way you do.
If you’re a visual thinker, a fan of fan art, or like to keep 53 reference pics of your favorite characters close at hand... you'll love our latest update. ✨🖼️ Illustrations, visual inspo, or a few cursed memes—you can upload them all (or any other image) to your docs and drafts!
- The Ellipsus Team xo
Reblogged ar-ghilas-vir-banal
knight commander
Reblogged maythedreadwolftakeyou
He never asks questions.
He hates other people asking questions (hence why he hates Solas).
He has the ability to control minds and burn ideas and feelings out of existence.
He's one of the candidates to be the Maker, thanks to all the sun iconography.
Also, from a Doylist perspective, the corruption of Faith into Tyranny is the single most thematic Dragon Age narrative in the whole quadrilogy.
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FIC: Borrowed Magic [2/5]
Rating: T Fandom: Stardew Valley Pairing: Shane/Female Farmer Tags: Pre-Relationship, Developing Friendship, Grief, Alcoholism, Depression, Grief/Mourning, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Slow Burn Word Count: 3,839 (this chapter); 6,669 (total so far) Summary: The farmer has a way of making ordinary things seem like magic. Shane just has a hard time believing it. Also on AO3. Previous chapters: One
Lydia hefted her axe and swung. The log split evenly, a feat she'd only started to accomplish consistently over the last few weeks; it still felt profoundly satisfying. She tossed the pieces into the done pile and heaved another log up onto the stump. The motions were repetitive, familiar: lift, swing, crack, toss. Lift, swing, crack, toss.
Usually, this kind of work was meditative for her. It freed her mind to drift, thoughtless—the occasional idea or memory appearing, but just as quickly fading.
Today, though, she couldn't stop thinking about that damn fish.
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In a war of skirmishes, commanders who embraced improvisation tended to win more ground. Evariste scooped up loads of strange, powerful saarebas and battlemage spells on the march. Magic that infected and exploded. In those days, they called it ‘spirit’ magic. But that was a reputational thing, a way to exalt Tevinter’s craft above the occult tricks that Nevarran mages performed. What Evariste had taught himself to cast in Seheron, with fire and blood, was a form of necromancy.
After the army, he wasn’t a tinkerer or a scholar of magical mechanics any more. He was a walking grimoire of spells no battlemage would touch; because they weren’t made for battle.
They were made to remove the possibility of battle.
On a rooftop in Dock Town, with the cloudless midday sun turning the buildings in every direction white as a swan’s ass, a blood-mage fired a spell at Neve…and Evariste slipped into his former self. As easily as putting on an old robe, he tapped into the grimoire. On this rooftop, on this day, there would not be another fucking battle with the Venatori.
The latest chapter of Papercuts is live on AO3.
Chapter Tags: m/m, action, violence and gore, Evariste gets real scary, military service, war ptsd, secret past, flirting, pining, insomnia, separation after an argument, smoking/tobacco, magic appreciation, guest starring Neve and Emmrich
Reblogged ar-ghilas-vir-banal
oh a cool idea for anders post-inquisition would have been if. like. the cure to tranquility somehow made it to him so he starts to look for tranquil mages across the free marches and using justice to cure them en masse. imagine if that's also how him and justice finally find harmony.
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b dylan hollis quotes, in no particular order
“It’s butter on butter. No one tell Paula Dean, she’ll bust in like the Koolaid Man.”
“This is not—how can I say—RIGHT?”
“How did you come up with these ingredients? Did you just throw a grenade down aisle six??”
“Now the chickens are implicated.”
“The only thing this’ll rise up from is the dead.”
“Oh, it’s foaming… please stop growing.”
“Sorry hippies, I’m with Nixon on this one.”
“How long does sadness take to cook?”
“They say there’s a cookie for every occasion, and if so, then this must be the cookie for when you descend into psychosis.”
“To those who use Celsius… don’t.”
“I’m just gonna listen to the Texans.”
“Is the pudding related or did you just want a snack?”
“This pie is made of beans.”
“Ask your grandfather’s grandfather about it… Actually, don’t. You’d have to dig him up for that. He’d be kinda… soupy.”
“In the Great War people dug holes and threw things at each other. It’s a bit like a children’s sandbox… just with an abundance of missing limbs.”
“The La Croix method of adding flavor; just enough to make you realize what you don’t have.”
“You’re diluting peanut butter—to the Gulag!”
“If I have to beat anything else in this recipe, I’m going to be charged with domestic violence.”
“Just let that fester.”
“Shit, gravity.”
“A lot of things start with potatoes: french fries, hashbrowns, famine.”
“Mrs Kirk, you’re my hero.”
“Look who’s fallen from grace. Shame.”
“Seriously, don’t disrespect the Irish, they can be mean.”
“It smells really festive, like febreeze in a crypt.”
“Here come the tears—like my mom after a glass of wine.”
“We start with a box of lime jello—the Abyss beckons.”
“One package of vanilla pudding, this one’s French… It’s given up. What a surprise.”
“I can only describe these as voluptuous.”
“‘But Dylan,’ you say, ‘what if I’m allergic to peanuts?’ Repent. You and your ancestors have obviously done something to deserve such a malady.”
*mouth full* “Everybody say thank you, Judy. You did a good job.”
“Now it says we can add sprinkles for the children. Screw that, this is for me.”
“Juice of a lemon—pretty exotic for Nebraska.”
“Prunes are just plums, post-mortem.”
“The Draugr of the fruit kingdom.”
“This stuff is stronger than my desire to drop out of college.”
