#tanari

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Trans masc!Rolan

RolanxGraz'zt drabble as I'm feeling inspired.

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He could still feel the hot shame burning on his tear stained face as he knelt in the small attic room Cal and Lia's mother had so kindly offered when the two had brought him home with them. It was warm and welcoming, far more so than the rest of Elturel at least.

She had tried to ask him what was wrong when he'd rushed into the house, angry tears streaming from his eyes, lip practically bloodied from biting it to avoid making the hurt obvious, but he had stormed past her, past Cal and Lia, and up to his room, throwing himself onto the old mattress and worn quilts that served as a bed.

As the tears subsided, he wiped his eyes on his sleeve and took a deep, shaking breath. Slowly, he got to his feet and made his way over to his small, battered desk where he kept his books, his fingers brushing over the spines slowly. Each book proudly proclaimed the name of a powerful wizard, a figure from the history of Realms beyond even Toril, from Elminster to Mordenkainen to the cautionary horrors of Karsus, Acererak, Vecna...but one name stood out to Rolan. One he always found himself coming back to. Tasha...or, as she had sometimes been known, Iggwilv.

He had read much about her and he would he lying if he'd tried to say he didn't admire her, maybe the most out of any of the wizards in the histories. This book he didn't recall buying, but the title was well known to him. "DEMONOMICON" was emblazoned in Golden lettering across black leather. It seemed expensive, but Rolan reasoned that perhaps it was one that he had pilfered from a shop that had thrown him out or that he'd tried to offer assistance to only to be sent away without pay once he was finished.

He withdrew the book and opened it slowly, almost reverently, to a random page and he was immediately taken by an elaborate drawing of a beautiful dark haired woman smirking into a mirror at the image of a dark and handsome demon. The image was labeled "The Witch Iggwilv Imprisons Graz'zt To Uncover The Malign Secrets Of The Abyss". She had bound this demon lord and with him, untold power. The power to force all of those smug wizard students to acknowledge him, the power to catch the eye of a proper master to apprentice to.

His orange eyes turned curiously towards the mirror, a thought crossing his mind. A crazy one, a dangerous one. But still, he made his way slowly and hesitantly towards it, his long nailed fingers pressing to the glass, his mind focusing on thoughts of desire, things he wanted deeply.

The mirror rippled beneath his touch and it felt warm. His own young features, freckled and set in a perpetual frown, twisted into a smirking, unearthed beautiful face with Obsidian skin and shining emerald eyes. A fanged mouth opened in a grin, his lips perfect and shaped angelically.

"Greetings, my beautiful boy." A deep baritone voice oozed like warm honey. Rolan stifled a gasp as he staggered backwards, eyes wide and jaw dropped, just barely catching himself to remain standing.

Anyone seeing these characters on a different blog, they have no right to post those pictures or talk about those characters.

I did not give permission, I did not sign any kind of business contract. Anything with MY characters on it is still my property.

This is a project I have been working on since I was a child and young teenager. Started when I got my first exposure to Doctor Who in a way I actually liked (which was Doctor Whooves and Assistant, a My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic fan-audio drama by Baldumborat of Doctor Whooves and Derpy Hooves as his companion.) That is what started the Time Dragons, which were later called Racorzians of Racorzel.

These are Amoria, Tanari, Nyxium, and Paradox, who were once separate before I took interest in Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and they briefly turned into a weird inspiration of them. If you want to see more, here’s the main folder on DA: https://www.deviantart.com/blackdragon-studios/gallery/47081498/racorzians

@monishadangelo

Aranya sat quietly on a gilded floor, looking out at the stars above Zandalar. She was calm, still, breathing evenly and slow, despite what she was about to do. The arcanist looked down at a beautiful crystal trinket with a crescent within it, a gift from Colpeia’s tribe after she had sent them aid in the wake of Sargeras stabbing his sword into the heart of Silithus and robbing the Tanari illusion-weavers of one of their most sacred places.

It was a gift that later came with wisdom and warnings spoken to her, as she requested training in an illusion so deep, that she could lose conscious control of herself and it would still remain in place until she deliberately willed it away. A disguise to let the Thalassian woman cross to the other side of the faction war, stay afloat of matters in the world, keep playing a hand that could matter in a world where Azerite now decided the fate of so many. An illusion as only the Shafise could craft to let her pass for ren’dorei amongst the Alliance.

“What you ask has its dangers, Ankaa,” the sultana had warned her, calling her by her Tanari-given name. An illusion that strong required both strength and surrender. She had to give herself to the power that she invited and allowed in, but also needed an anchor within herself to keep her being who she was. It was a process that could drive one mad, if they survived it.

Colpeia hadn’t left Aranya’s side for a single moment of the phoenix-mage’s training. It might’ve been that the lovely desert-elf felt she would never forgive herself if anything happened to Aranya and she wasn’t there to help her, save her, bring her back, do something. It was actually a comfort to have her there, to have her see and know what her friend could do, her limits.

Aranya closed her eyes to the Zandalari skies, it was time to get this over with.

She breathed slow and deep, following the breath with her mind as it came into her and left her. Then she went deeper, following the rhythm of her blood, focusing on a particular power that flowed through her, and there were many to choose from. The red mana Kazakus gave her, charging her, keeping her sharp. The Sunwell’s sparkling, arcane light, giving her life. The essence of Felo’dal, her phoenix familiar, pulled into herself so long ago when he sacrificed himself for her in the Firelands, and she couldn’t bear to have his existence so utterly ended. There were also lingering traces of magic and mana she had siphoned from prey.

Aranya chose one thing within her to be her anchor, and focused on it utterly; how it felt, where it came from, what it did in her veins with every breath and beat of her heart. Then she opened her mind, inviting in something else, something from beyond the definitions of reality, in which space and time were merely words that didn’t actually mean anything. The purest primordial form of existence, the thing from which reality itself somehow coalesced into being and could one day dissolve and return back to.

Her eyes immediately flew open, their colors no long a smoldering green, but a whirling chaos. Her mouth fell open in a silent gasp that didn’t come, the wind somehow taken out of her. She fell forward on her hands and knees, shaking uncontrollably. Her blood raced in a panicked rhythm, she wanted to push whatever felt like it was now re-weaving her bones and skin away, but she rolled over, collapsing onto her back, shutting her eyes tight as she somehow forced her mind back onto that one power within her that she had chosen to anchor herself through this, going inward and letting go of everything else.

When she finally stopped shuddering and felt she could finally breathe again, Aranya just remained lying on the floor for a moment, dizzy, re-orienting herself, pressing her cheek to the cool floor and appreciating the stability it gave. Eventually her breathing calmed, and she lifted her head, midnight blue tresses falling back from her moonslight-hued shoulder as Halenvar pulled her close and tight to him, almost crushing her against his massive chest.

Aranya loved his warmth and solidity, it was wonderful.

“I hate watching you go through that,” said Halenvar, his tone sounding strained.

“I’m sorry,” breathed Aranya, her voice now having an otherwordly echo.

The first time that the valarjar had ever witnessed what it was that his now-wife had to go through each time to maintain her latest choice of disguise, Colpeia had had to hold him back, almost having to resort magic to do so. “Don’t! If you interrupt now it could kill her!”  

Aranya’s husband loosed his grip on her to told her face in his strong hands, his blue green eyes holding the pale blue stars of hers. “Be careful,” he said, like always. “Come back to me soon.”

“I will,” promised Aranya, kissing him.

Dragons wearing clothes? Why not c;

I redesigned Tanari. Again.