#iristheelectromancer

i bought a jar of sea salt yesterday / accepting 

✮ Have you managed to stay away from drama?

staying away from drama is basically a hobby at this point. i don’t care about it, i don’t want to be around it, so involvement in the Latest Big Argument is the single fastest ticket to being unfollowed unless you’re an actual friend or regular rp partner. it just makes me angry and i don’t need those bad vibes in my life. i’ve got a dash that i very rarely, if ever see any form of drama on and i’m very happy about it. i’ve not been involved either with the exception of -- 

☄ Have you ever been in the middle of drama?

not in the middle of drama, but on the edge of it with a topic that hit extremely close to home that i did pitch in with because if i’m being honest the whole thing genuinely made me really uncomfortable? i’m not going to name names or bring up what it was because it was relatively recent (last 6 months) in this fandom. that was the one time i ever got involved and i’m glad i did because a few people actually listened to me and helped me feel justified in my stance. 

☯ Have you ever tried to bring peace to a situation?

woah, your text is on fire | accepting

Send “$” for an ACCIDENTAL text

♚ honestly

my opinion on;

character in general: i love your oc !! since i got to be your secret santa last christmas, i really got to dig around in your head canons & your about & got to send lots of questions to get a feel for her for the moodboard i made. it really became a labour of love for your oc in the end <3how they play them: well it is your oc so id say on point XDthe mun: i dont know you too much but id like to :)

do i;

follow them: yep :Drp with them: nowant to rp with them: of courseship their character with mine: nah

what is my;

An abandoned workshop, the setting for countless tales of invention and insanity--oftentimes in tandem. Coincidentally, or ironically, Zaun was littered with them. Though she had long wrested one from the Prince of Sharks ages ago it seemed, the wharehouse would serve as her seat of power not the soils from which ideas were refined like ores plucked from the earth. She had need and filled that need with another remote locale, one where she now resided.

Tempered by the cold of night and forged with the heat of exhaustion, that was how Fina preferred to invent. Names drifted like dirt through the sky, collecting whispers until they fell like rain into her vast network. She sifted and filtered the dirty streams to extract morsels of worth, datum in polluted data. Through trial, error, and experimentation, she aimed to bend information to her will, to wield as her weapon. That was the “Seraph’s magic.” In the realm of the mind, all were equal, no petty runes or supernatural phenomenon could bend the unerring truth of reasoning. Yet, it was a combination of the physical and metaphysical, the natural and preternatural, that was the source of the evening’s fixation.

One word, “plasma,” and another word, “blade,” formed the title of a dangerous entity. Fina thumbed through the dusty reference materials she’d acquired in her years in Valoran and jotted down a collection of pertinent notes. “Plasma,” a state of being many considered almost ethereal, was something she had seen before but had never truly named. The definition was simple: gas excited to become “de-ionized,” effectively powered by vast amounts of energy and nearly weightless. It was dangerous because of its wild heat and blinding beauty. To control it was to literally hold the flesh of stars. Yet, Fina’s gaze combed over a subtle weakness. What created plasma could easily destroy it, electromagnetism. The constant and invisible force could tip the precarious balance of the material back into it’s simpler state or contain it with enough precision.

Fina was armed with her newly acquired knowledge and aimed to resist the power of nature itself. The nights passed as she stood clothed in sable and with respirator in hand against the rush of fans and flour. A simple, random circuit that emitted bursts of the grain served as her surrogate for the terrifying gas. If she could evade the shifting air painted white, than she could evade plasma’s awesome might. Yet, for weeks, she was defeated with dust that dirtied her clothes and clung to the sweat upon her brow.

As the brutal regime continued, they were spaced with intervals of thought. How to defend against the material? Dodging would only do so much. To mount a counteroffensive, there would need to be a counter measure first. The rogue’s thoughts shifted to the mighty dam that powered her city of Stormhaven with its pulsing, magnetic generators. The spiraled spiral came into her mind, but how could she wield it? Her mind wandered to a familiar face in the city of tomorrow. She laughed as the spark ignited her mind. A portable generator, powered by mana, would create the tendrils of electricity and gauntlets would direct their fury.

Drafts and drafts littered the workshop floor as flour bombarded her at all angles. Failure was shameful and unending. Success was but a sliver of hope. Weeks passed without meaningful progress, until one night came. 

Her muscles ached and screamed at her exertion, but she refused to yield. As the flour came rushing, she moved. Before her mind could comprehend, she reacted. Fina fell two steps back, graceless and bewildered as the streams of flour soared past her eyes. Once more she laughed, a pregnant laugh without mirth. She had made her first steps. Her eyes flitted then to the blueprint circled upon her bench. At last, she would forge reality from her mind. It was now only a matter of time until she moved forward.

“One day, Gisha, soon.”

Send ▨ for the mun & muse’s opinion of your muse.

“I haven’t heard of them. That is all you need to know with regard to how worth my time they are.”

Put a word in my ask and I will write a Headcanon about it for my Muse.

NightmareIt may or may not surprise that Cassiopeia does not actually suffer from nightmares. She suffers from dreams. Dreams of days where she could sashay from body to body, charming and ensnaring men and women alike. They are always so lucid, so physical that she can almost feel the bar she leans lackadaisically against, the gentle chill of the martini glass in her fingertips, and the familiar, pleased twist in her stomach when she succeeds. Those are her dreams, and they are not unpleasant, it is the waking from them that is. Her life, as melodramatic as it seems (and melodramatic as she is), is her nightmare. 

HumanityDespite being distinctly not human, Cassiopeia holds no real dislike for them. In her state, they are as much as they ever were to her; soft, feeling things that can be manipulated and used to her own gains. Even after her transformation and she is treated differently, she is treated primarily with fear and she cultivates that. Better to have people fear her than to think her pathetic. That’s what they are. So what she feels isn’t so much misanthropy or a hatred towards humanity (though she could likely be forgiven for thinking so), it’s leftover arrogance, once thoroughly believed, and now worn like a safety blanket. 

Send me gay af prompts!!!! 

“Get the fuck off of me.” 

It’s abrupt, but not quite as abrupt as the landing. Safiya finds herself looking up at a wooden roof, her back aching, and her skin cold. How she got here, she wasn’t entirely sure. 

Then she saw the bed, and the tall, pale woman who stood and was now pulling on her clothes. She’d been pushed off the bloody bed! 

“What’s your problem?” 

(It wasn’t entirely in her nature to get angry, but Safiya wasn’t going to take this lying down, so to speak.)

“You’re too hot. Think of it as a favour, I didn’t want to get my sweat all over you.” 

Safiya raises a brow. By now Hawke is fully dressed, and the Shuriman born still lays upon the floor, relaxed as ever. It’s an element of control she retains even despite giving herself over to the other the night before (even if Hawke’s attempts at blatant restraint had earned her the bruise on her jaw that now shone purple in the light of day). 

She doesn’t move, simply watches Hawke shuffle, and for a moment Safiya can see how tired she is. She acts like one with the world at her fingertips but the way she obsesses here; that her belt is on the right notch, that her blades are exactly where they need to be at a seconds notice; these paint another picture. 

And Safiya smirks. It’s a little secret of hers, one Hawke doesn’t realise she shares, born of comfort and friendship. 

Not for the first time, Safiya wonders how much it would be worth if she were to sell it. 

Not for the first time, Safiya discards the idea.