#tryvyalsynnes

@stupidsexygiskard AKA Glumshoe had about 12 blogs of varying acitivty levels- from some that only had drafts saved to their main with +30K followers, and yesterday all but a few of thier blogs were shut down and deleted with no warning, and they have been unable to contact @staff about getting any of them restored.

My guess is that this is related to the Woody’s Roundup communtiy anti-trolling effort last year where people would sieze and hoard the URLs of the nastier blogs on this site in an effort to bully them off. Recently another very popular blog- the Aquafresh parody blog and one of the lead members of the Woody’s Roundup group- was booted off the site with a similar lack of warning and has not been able to restore their blog either.

This could also be an anti-bot measure gone sideways, but the inability to use the Support email system has been very disturbing.  Right now, I’d advise saving as much of your data as possible and consider moving your RPs to different sites like Discord.  Remember to continue to regularly back up your data! 

I am disabled and use the audience I’ve built storytelling on this site as my primary means of income since I can’t work conventional jobs.   If something were to happen to my main, I’d be up shit creek, so I am extremely not thrilled with this turn of events.

Other places to find me if things get wierd:

Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/gallusrostromegalus

Twitter: https://twitter.com/CryptidChicken

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/gallusrostromegalus/?hl=en (it’s mostly food ngl, I’m gonna work on that)

The Free Marches were very much like Ferelden, albeit soggier, drearier, and altogether more miserable. Dorian spent much of his days by the fire, trying to keep his hands warm and his socks as dry as possible. Conversation with the slavers he was accompanying was as dull and vulgar as would be expected, mostly about whoring and killing, not that Dorian judged terribly harshly—he’d done his fair share of both—but these men found a way to make the most sensual and gruesome things sound mundane. Besides, he’d eat his own boots, buckles and all if even half of the stories they told were true.

Anders looked sad for a moment, and then shrugged, returning to the present, smiling again, at Orsino. “You can’t be suggesting we steal the Knight-Commander’s cat? I’m all for unhinging her, but honorably, by exposing her. Perhaps the cat will do her some good. Besides, Ser Pounce only survived because I got him as a kitten. I trained him to stay with me; he rode on my shoulder and slept in my pack or my collar. Meredith’s cat wouldn’t survive long in Darktown. There’s never enough to eat; if it got away it would end up in a pot.”

He grinned. “I’d much rather take in a stray mage.”

@orsino-the-enchanter​

________

“Actually, that is exactly what I am suggesting.” Orsino looked up at the blonde mage, vaguely amused at the fact that Anders never thought that him of all people would consider such a thing. “Don’t misunderstand, I am not discussing this in order to stirr Meredith’s ire -granted, she’s not going to be happy either. I am doing this for the poor cat. If Meredith asked I could always argue that it is within their nature to search for more accommodating environments -and better owners. I never said anything about taking her to Darktown with you; but I could imagine her roaming Kirkwall freely, knowing there’s a plate of food for her, and safe place for her to sleep. Believe me when I say, if it were easy to expose Meredith with all the support she gets from Grand Cleric Elthina, I would have done it ages ago.” Sometimes, belonging in two of the most hated groups of people in the entire Thedas would end an argument before it even started.

Nonetheless, Orsino grinned back at that. “Unless you can guarantee their safety -which you cannot-, I fear that the stray mage will end up in a pot too. So to speak.”

When Loki entered Kirkwall, he hadn’t been expecting to meet Anders -- much less look for him specifically. He remembers the name from the Bad Days, when he was just a child -- both of them imprisoned at Kinloch Hold -- and he thinks, if he could only see his fellow apostate again, he might be able to place name and face together somewhere in the shadowed depths of those memories.

“Anders...?” The murmured name is foreign on his tongue, though he knows he has used it before. Sparks dance lightly around his fingertips and slowly grow to flame, and he holds the burning torch of his hand close enough to his face that Anders can see him.

Some of him, at least. A thick, sable cloak conceals most of his willowy form, and a heavy hood hides his hair and ears, and casts his forehead into shadow. The only part of him that is truly visible above the cowl wrapped around his nose and mouth are his eyes -- a bright, piercing green in the firelight -- and a few graceful lines of ink painted beneath his pallid skin.

He appears to be weaponless, apart from the magic dancing on his fingertips. An illusion -- his cloak could be concealing all manner of lethal objects, after all -- but he is not, at the very least, holding any of them in hand.