#𝐆𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐅𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐒 ( previously wolvensden ) ── an independent and selective blog for a canon-rooted albeit instinct-driven portrayal of 𝐒𝐄𝐓𝐓 from 𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐆𝐔𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐋𝐄𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐒 ⸻ the boss of ionia's pits, half-vastayan by blood, all fighter by heart. his story walks the line betwixt muscle and the silence after the crowd fades. told through the original lore, but also original headcanons about vastayan heritage, loyalty enveloped in the middle of violence, and the softness he hides behind sharp teeth. it is rooted in canon narrative, expanded through tones of urban myth, familial devotion, and the violence of his grounds. this is sett beyond the pit. it is about the one who wins fights but wrestles with belonging.

    [   cherished   and   loved   by   joo,   she  /   her,   androgynous   ]                                                          established july '21

𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐒 𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐘𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝐇𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐎𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐀𝐈𝐍 𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐎𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐖

a   𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐎𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄   𝐒𝐓𝐔𝐃𝐘   on   bruised   pride  and  the  inheritance  of  a  name  never  claimed,   on  the  wars  betwixt beast  and  man,   on  the  hunger  to  prove  worth  to  a  father  who abandoned him.   a  study  of  fists,  fury,  and  the  fragile  tenderness  that  makes  all  the  violence  meaningful.   of  bloodlines  rejected,  of  thrones  built  from  ire,   of  the  fight  to  belong  without  bowing.   a  lesson  in  endurance,  in  the  holy  ache  of  never  being  enough,  and  the  stubborn  sweetness  of  trying  anyway.

   ──     𝐀𝐅𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇:  innosen / startoru , stormsire & st4rb0ltz , violevina​ , lockedfighter , darkdevour , beastlyarcane , deadn30n , noctalaethra , paramythas ♥

──    𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐃.      𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐎.      𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐓.    

──    𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐄𝐒:  cyberpunk 2077 , marvel , ... ( check carrd )

──    𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐓𝐒:  everything done by @lavenderph​

stirring the pot starters // not accepting you're  really  gonna  do  this  here? -Ophelia ( oh hi there !!! ) ( @cursedblessed )

was it recklessness or was it instinct that drove him to teeter himself betwixt violence and justice? the bar reeked of cheap liquor and poorer decisions, a suffocating mixture of stale smoke and sweat, and the laughs of those who found shelter in it. it was the lights from above that battered countertops in violent hues, casting every lineament into a half-unreal, half-incriminating stance. he was at peace, just casually drinking ⸻ casually intoxicated to the point of not being casual at all. there was a reckless clarity that hummed beneath his complexion, coiling tight in muscle and marrow alike.

he saw the moment: the hand that lingered too long, the vox that leaned too close. the way discomfort had settled into her posture when the uninvited man tried to occupy the personal space not freely given. little thought was put into the moment ⸻ he was more beast than man when the golden liquid drove in his veins. so he moved, putting himself betwixt her and the other, his head tilting slightly, half-amusement, half-disgusted by the act. ❝ got hands on someone who clearly ain't interested, y' know? ❞ mayhap in clarity he would have waited for a response [ ... ] but his fist was faster than his thoughts, and the man had barely time to understand the act.

the gold on his shoulders gleams all the same, but it feels misplaced. it feels like a crown resting upon a feral being [ ... ] a being that has long since forgotten the meaning of control. whatever slight birthed his fury ( be it betrayal, jealousy, the sourness of loss ) does not leave room for thought. in reality, it festers, rots and demands. and sett answers to it in the most animalistic way: he fights, and fights, and fights.

the opponents have no way out. most of them did not sign to fight the boss, and even if honoured to do so, that side of sett is not what they were expecting. he fights with a relentless and crushing certainty, looking at the opponent as merely an obstacle betwixt him and the painfully excruciating emotion that gnaws at his heart. there is no pause betwixt strikes, no mercy threaded in the violence. the crowd only watches, hears and feels the dull rhythm of impact after impact, until the arena floor becomes unrecognisable beneath the chaos of it all. bodies fall, names dissolve, faces blur. there are only corpses, there is only blood, guts, and entrails. it is not a performance anymore ⸻ there is no charm in it, no charisma to soften what is seen. there is only wrath laid bare.

his hands do not stop when they should. his breath comes heavy, almost animalistic in its cadence, and still ( no matter what ) he presses forward, as if the violence itself might cauterise whatever wound festers beneath his ribs. and even if that is the intention, it never quite does and that is, evidently, the cruellest truth of it.

eventually, there is no one left who dares to step forward. the arena stills, swallowed whole by a silence that feels earned in blood and fear alike. and there he stands, at its centre, chest rising, fists clenched, blemished by the reminiscences of those who can no longer see the light of the day. the fury does not vanish, sadly. it settles, sinking back into him, becoming embers buried beneath ash, waiting for the next spark. and when sett finally turns his back to the arena, no one calls after him, no one applauds.

stirring the pot starters // not accepting i told the truth. just not all of it. (from hwei but in that royalty AU we talked about-) ( @paramythas )

truth, in all its mutilated and carefully curated form, had always been a luxury reserved for fools and martyrs alike. it came at a price that he cared not to pay, in courts glided with false smiles and honeyed poison, never enjoyed the loyalty that was prone to be bought with blood and broken oaths [ ... ] and in a cafe of a marriage forged not by devotion, but by design. as it was clear as the waters of his empire, he had became a master of that art. until sentiments that he never thought his heart could conceive, arrived.

words came that cared not to shatter his soul, but cared to seep. as slow as poison beneath the complexion, as swift as a blade that cared not to strike to kill, but to linger, to remind, to fester. he dared not to move, standing instead still as though he had been carved from the very marbles that built the halls around him, immovable, indifferent and unaffected. the illusion, however, fractured in the smallest of ways. the faint, near-imperceptible curl of his digits against his side, a resistance that urged him to grasp something that was no longer within reach. he knew, of course he did ⸻ men like him always knew.

do you know what bothers me the most? the same thing that bothers me about sett in some art... human ears and... wolvie ears?? BOTH? am i seeing things right?! AM I WRONG??!

send 📐 + your character's height to compare with one or more of mine!

stirring the pot starters // still accepting i  never  said  i  was  a  good  person. // 👋🏾 ( @dxrkeyes )

the pub smelled filthy, but it was a sanctuary for those who shared the same burden. there were streaked windows, fractured into jagged constellations upon scarred wood and half-empty glasses, there were also laughs that rose and died in uneven waves, punctuated by the sound of glass. mutants ⸻ they always fathered where humanity pretended not to look.

he was sitting like he was carved rather than born, broad shoulders relaxed yet immovable, one hand curled loosely around a glass that had long since stopped being about the drink itself. his gaze lingered, heavy-lidded, fixed upon the man beside him. naught but a thief, he knew [ ... ] a thief who smiled as if he knew the ending of every story and chose to tell it anyway.

send 📐 + your character's height to compare with one or more of mine!

send 📐 + your character's height to compare with one or more of mine!