#drvidcraft

It was a lovely thing, to be in this ballroom. The candlelight twinkled off the costumes of the guests, and off his own, as well -- beads and rhinestones nestled within swaths of grey and blue fabric caught the light and threw it back when he moved. His skin was a strange, ashy grey, his features outlined in smokey black, but still some things remained the same: the curve of the de Rolo nose, the bright blue eyes he shared with the rest of his siblings.

It was something of a quick visit, another life that he had to carry to the Shadowfell and for a brief moment, the visage of the de Rolo crest burned in his eyes as he made his way to the top of the tower. Decades had passed, as previously his only steps onto the Material Plane were for a friend, a golaith with a nasty infection even the Everlight couldn't heal. Now, it was for royalty. Seeing the white haired man, lying in bed with his children surrounding him and his wife at his bedside --- no, not wife. His sister. Vex'ahlia. Time in the Shadowfell moved differently for him, and the faces he saw were only flickers of his time before She called him 'Champion'. He guided Percival Fredrick---no. Percy. He liked to be called 'Percy'. The paladin guided him from the bed, the once lithe and stoic faced gunslinger stood before him as he made his way towards the shadows and to his rest.

The Champion felt the tug again, only this time towards a familiar place. Of home. Of the woman that he loved and the life that he left, the future of what if's and lost time, to Zephrah he went. He stood on the edge of the cliffside, the salted breeze coming up from the crashing waves below him and the cloak billowing around him, he waited. It would be inevitable for her to come, with his ravens that brought her messages of his thoughts and the small gifts where he went. Some days he knew of the Tempest. Other days, it was a muscle memory of 'i need to do this, but i can't remember why.' Even still, every day he sent the raven, and every day it came back to him. She still waited.

The question was not uncommon to him, but from someone that he admired and loved it meant something. Whether it was fear in her voice or if she spoke truth in the morbid curiosity, the Champion turned to see her, give a small smile and beckon her forward to the cliff. He did not reach for her hand, only turning back to look out onto the ocean and the horizon as they met. Did he lie to the Tempest and give her false hope, or did the half-elf do the duty bestowed unto him, give the truth and throw more fear onto the dark fire in her heart?

' death...is spoken about as a definite. as our minds wither and our bodies decay from the erosion of nature, we see it as the end. there are those who believe they will come back as someone else, as their gods and goddesses intend. to some, death is painful. ' He stopped for a few moments, his head bowed in a soft prayer for their fallen companion. ' to others, it is as simple as a breath. in, full of life and wonder and out, a powerful gust to move even the smallest of threads. i am not dead, but walk between the last exhale. i exist not only because of that breath but for others who wish to bottle it and keep it, to stopper the weave of fate.'

' death...befalls us all. ' With a small movement of his wrist, a snowdrop pushed itself up from the edge of the cliff, in front of where he stood and watched its petals move in the breeze. ' though, from death we learn. from death, life begins anew. you and the others of vox machina will take that last breath, but with it's exhale push life into others from beyond your knowledge. do not worry, as i will be there to guide you. '

The half-elf turned towards the druid, leaning up to kiss her forehead. Still to this day, his beautiful Keyleth was still a head taller than him, and it made him smile. ' do not forget that i am with you. Forever and always. '

⋰ 𝐀𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐒 : ft. @drvidcraft

She's seen Vox Machina coming and going often enough that Cassandra knows she shouldn't still be amazed by the particulars. But still, the evening after Keyleth arrived in Whitestone, the gnarled trunk of the Sun Tree untwisting and opening just enough for the druid to step through, Cassandra finds herself looking for the half-elf. She’s motivated partially by that sense of wonder Keyleth seems to inspire in her nowadays -- it’s slightly childish, to be sure, but Cassandra knows that there are only two options with which to react upon witnessing power like Keyleth’s, and wonder has been winning out over sheer terror lately -- and partially by the strange urge to get to know her better. Reportedly, she is Percival’s best friend. Cassandra cannot say she knows any member of Vox Machina exceptionally well. This could be a start.

@drvidcraft​ said : zephrah lays out before them, sprawling green along mountain ranges, and the sound of wind whipping through the hills is distant. keyleth leans on her staff then, tall and lithe frame lowering closer to hers if only a fraction; she glances back over her shoulder to the council room. “you can see why your throne room kinda intimidates me now, huh.”            

THERE’S SOMETHING PEACEFUL ABOUT BEING HERE – THAT IT’S NEITHER TOO WARM NOR TOO COOL, AND THERE’S NO SOUND BUT THAT WHICH MOTHER NATURE PROVIDES, or perhaps it’s the company of a girl who has she has come to call friend ( and she finds she enjoys the taste of the word all too much ) in a time she’d expected to find none. True, that the mother of dragons does not belong here ; this is not her home, nor land to claim, and perhaps there are more important things to focus on… but there’s something that feels so sated at the view before her, and a world she wonders if she might have time to see for herself when wars are long since won, and the dragons have quelled the inferno.

“If I had a home like this, I might never leave.”

Gentle in tone, smaller frame shifts beside far taller, chin raising to survey the fiery curls that brush with the stirs of the breeze before them. A brow quirks, as lips press just slightly – and Daenerys is gentle as she prompts her, a hand laid against that which clutches a staff taller than she herself is, stirring that attention just slightly.

✘ || Knives Out // accepting // @drvidcraft

His fault. 

Had to be.

While his talents were useful - they were destructive, and only in combat were they intentional. A simple burning hands was the cause of the druid’s mood, Armir could only assume, but the flames are out and he can feel his tail wring into a knot around his left leg.

“Ah - miss, I am terribly sorry.” His voice drops, attempting something less harsh - a tone he was still practicing, and the smile comes out forced and awkward. “How may I... Help? Can I help?” Armir asks her. Hands clasp together, and he moves to try and look at her face.

Perhaps - too close. 

          in all honesty, she has to stop herself before the words make their grand escape.  dema covers her tracks with a quiet cough, plays it off as if she were merely clearing her throat - but the thought still stands, especially standing and looking on as she remains.  hands find each other, gently brush fingers along palms in a nervous sort of tick without digging nails in, and a sigh finds its way to the surface before she eventually decides that maybe it isn’t that bad to speak what’s on her mind.

                    “ no, no - respectfully, you heard me right. “  a roll of his shoulders, unstiffening them from the hours of hunched labour, loosening his muscles. he’s not a particularly athletic looking man, of this he’s aware, unbothered by. nor if he typical of a firbolg :  engrossed in the life of the city, so detached from nature, as if to spit on his upbringing and his calling. he found a new one, here, though lately, she had been invoking a sense of grounding in him. a return to his roots.