#trammander

I know I said last year might be the last time I post Trammander art for Erris’ birthday because I had run out of ideas. Well. I was wrong. Obviously.

So here we are, in the sixth year, with another batch of random Trammander moments:

Erris falls asleep in the middle of sword-sharpening, and Trahearne thinks she's dead because Orr is an awful place to find someone unconscious;

Trahearne successfully grows ① sapling in the dead land, and Erris is being very normal about it;

Trahearne receives Saladbolg but doesn't know how to use a greatsword, so Erris tries to teach him to wield it like a guardian, which ends very unfavorably;

and finally, Trahearne speaking his arguably most (in)famous line, Run, you filthy cowards! while Erris stands next to him like, Oh no, the useless mercenaries broke my Marshal.

More of Commander Aestus ( @mithosis ) and my AUhearne's shenanigans.

Someone tell grandpa it's fuck up.

Collab between @thornandshield and I!

They lined and coloured my sketch (beautifully btw <3) of Trahearne needing his Commander Novus's... 'help' opening a jar.

There was something familiar about the jungle. Not just that it was Meguuma—they'd recognize the vines of Meguuma anywhere, remembers them best the way they had wrapped around—

They shut the thought down before it can fully form, close their eyes and take a deep breath. Torvi presses against their hip, nosing his head under their hand. It was a good thing because after two steps into the clearing ahead, Hradi's entire body froze.

It wasn't that they knew who was kneeling next to an injured woman, carefully cleaning a gash in her arm. It was just that htey would have recognized the shape of him anywhere, anytime. The way the leaves fell across his forehead, that subtle golden glow, like a sunrise in the Grove. The warm gold of his eyes staring right at Hradi.

"Hradi?" His voice cracked. "Hradi Eyjolfsson?"

The words wouldn't come. They lodged in Hradi's throat and threatened to choke them.

The old curse—the silence from avalanche and the blizzard and 12 year old Hradi losing everything they'd ever known. It never really left them.

They opened their mouth and nothing came out and Trahearne's eyes softened like he knew, like he recognized it, and he gestured with his head to the wounded around them.

"We could use more hands," he said, offered really, because it was always easier for Hradi when there was work for their hands. They nodded shortly and just managed to tear their eyes away from him, setting to work.

This was familiar—the cleaning and bandaging and soothing the wounded the best they could, which mostly involved Torvi purring at them and allowing them to coo over him to distract from the fact that Hradi couldn't speak. At some point, the Astral Ward flooded in and Hradi was able to back off and find a spot to breathe.

Trahearne's steps had never been light—for all that he became a general, a warrior even, he was still ever a scholar. Hradi would have recognized the pattern of his gait even if had only been able to feel the vibrations of it against the jungle floor. They were a hunter—recognizing the pattern of footfalls, of careful steps, was ingrained in them.

And here, now—

"You're alive," Trahearne said, like that was a wonder, like Hradi standing before him was a miracle he'd never thought to ask for.

Hradi swallowed hard, both against the bile that rose at the thought of any version of Trahearne saying that about them, in that tone, when they had—And against the words that just wouldn't come, that lodged in their throat with the intent to choke.

"So are you," they finally managed to get out, their voice rough and raw like it'd been dragged through gravel or burned out by a god.

"You're different," he added, glancing over towards the Astral Ward. They must have explained about the fractal, then, while Hradi was busy not having another breakdown. "Not just—" he shook his head. "Last I saw you, or a version of you I suppose, you had a braid. You were younger, less—" He looked Hradi up and down, like he could see right through him. He always had been able to; it was almost a comfort that any version of him could.

"Broken?"

"Scarred."

I found myself back in the Maguuma Jungle. Where our airships were torn out of the sky. Fires have gone out, smoke long gone now. Natural growth has begun taking root over the decaying tendrils of the Dragon’s fading grasp.

I still look at the Glory of Tyria in its decaying state.