#fadecloaked

Meme │ Accepting

¡ Pet Peeves

There’s a soft grunt, arms crossing over her chest. Easy.

        “I suppose, the way Orlesian’s say certain things. Or the way people stare at me, an elf. People acting that because of my heritage, I don’t know magic. Oh the way the Orlesian’s wear all that jewelry, clinking..  It’s the worst.  Asking about my family or background usually kills my nerves.” 

  She huffs, shuddering. 

☢ Personality Flaw(s)

   However, this was not the easiest thing to address. Her personality flaws were things she hated talking about, honestly. Hated admitting to. They were flaws. And flaws were weaknesses. 

Also I had taken caps for u some time back but I misremembered it as you asking for icons so I really just have icons left (no PSD's; minor editing) i just wasn't sure if you needed those is all ;0;

✗ : Explain how they portray feelings of hostility or dislike.

It is rare for people to establish camaraderie with Emra on short notice, especially for those who are not of her people. Her everlasting mistrust, and her manifestation of such mistrust, puts most people on edge. However, while her general appearance is not an overwhelmingly welcome one, the shift to hostility can be felt quite distinctly. Her words tend to hold a jarring quality, and she questions ( with the intention to subvert, though never through wit ) many beliefs that would trigger her hostility to begin with. 

HELL YEAH, OC INQUISITOR PREPARE FOR A LOVEBOMB @fadecloaked 

     She assumes that the elf is here for the skull. They have all come for the skull -- every red-man and fade-whisperer and every wingless little ant since the Hunters placed it there. They have all come for it, fought for it. For their arrogance, their bones carpeted her nesting ground. 

     This one chooses not to hurl spells or draw swords. Cold-tooth needs no food -- she is prepared, as she always has been -- but the frost that flickered between her teeth ebbs away, and she pulls the meat closer with a claw. It is not rotten, and it is not poison. A low growl rumbles in the back of her throat, but not out of aggression.

     ( There had been another elf -- years ago. This one smells of foul magics, something frightening and strange and old, but a debt is a debt. )

Does your character trust people right off the bat or does it take them some time to warm up to someone?

It depends; the chances are, if you’re a mage, Tobias is not going to trust you for a good while. There are exceptions, of course, but Tobias is a very.. prejudiced?? person. He’s very bitter about the whole mage rebellion thing ruining his idyllic existence - as well as blaming mages for the fact that he’s stuck with a green glowing hand. Templars earn his respect almost immediately - but nowadays he’s rather careful now that the mage/templar tensions mean that he might be considered an enemy.   In general, it does take a while to earn his trust. After the rebellion he’s rather paranoid - especially towards members of the Inquisition. He’s not particularly distrustful, but he won’t consider someone a friend right off the bat. 

Are they afraid of death? Do they have any regrets?

The tent is of heavy leather, quite unlike the felt and wood constructions around. There is just a small opening for more air, and steam lingers in the air, sizzling hot stone scattered with herbs a mute witness of its reason. Water coalesces over the leather and drips down, like in a miniature world.

The children and the woman dream.

In their dream, figures passes by the children under an endlessly changing sky, stars of many colours like snakes twining among the darkness.

The figures dances, shadows and substance, among the wide-eye sleep-form of the children. Every once in a while, one stops close to a child, and the child sleep-form blurs before disappearing.

The Chosen Child wake up in the leather tent, and blinks up to the ceiling.

They smile.

The last child is the smallest of them all. A waif of a child, black hair like a halo of darkness in the Other Realm.

The Spirits dance around him like moth around a flame, but none comes too close for fear of burning.

Then one does. It looks like nothing as much as glass, if glass could be living and breathing {Hard. Transparente. True.}

It touches the child.

The woman stirs, smiles and opens the flap of leather, letting the clean, cool air of the Wilderness with its tang of humans and horses and sheep come in.

All the children crawls out, blinking and looking around with eyes older than they are.

All but the smallest one.

Birdie sits up, cross his legs and looks at nothing. The child lifts his hand and a sparkles dance on his fingertip.

A slow smile creeps over his lips, thin and hard as living glass.