History never smiles upon any as kindly as a martyr willing. Willing to die for the cause. Willing to cleanse the past. Willing to make amends in death. For in that moment of sacrifice the martyr is absolved of all their sins and past transgressions. In years her name will be spoken with only the memory of how she slayed the Archdemon in mind. They will call her brave and look up to the memory of her, never remembering the past she was so ashamed of.
(Say nothing. Do nothing. Let the humans have their fun. Keep your head down knife-ear. Know your place. Don’t take the weapon. Don’t fight back. Don’t fight back. Don’t. Fight. Back. There is blood of the humans and the glare of the noble. Don’t kill him he is powerful and they will slay your kin in vengeance. Let the humans have their fun. Know your place. You have killed too many already. Take the bribe. Take the blood money. Know your place. I’m sorry.)
The kin who abandoned her and cast her out will be the only ones to speak of her with spite and a bitter taste in their mouth. They remember. They cannot forget what she did. A father lost his daughter long before the Archdemon slayed her. A redemption twice ignored.
(They are enslaving your kin. You are not weak this time. You are so much stronger now. Stand up. Fight back. Hunt them down they are killing your own. Hunt them down and maybe they will forgive you. A bribe is offered. History repeats. History offers redemption. Cut him down. I’m sorry.)
Fewer still will ever know of the offer she was given. A chance to live and survive beyond the final battle. A life in exchange for the soul of an Old God, one whose future is so unknown. A soul she could not bear responsibility for letting free in the world. The next decision she found easy. A knife-ear or a king, there was never any doubt.
(No kin. The elves would never take you back. The city elves will never forget the injustice that exiled you. The dalish would be horrified to learn you marked your face in shame of your heritage. No title. Warden a title unwanted and given by so few it is awkward and clumsy when presented. Only a name. Only bone-deep weariness. A desire for an end. I’m sorry.)
trying to draw some figure stuff ended with some mass effect humans in their undies that i didn’t give much thought to. also i dont know what human bodies or underwear looks like i am an alien
ash vega joker traynor miri
The lines for this picture have been sitting on my computer for months, but I finally got around to (lazily) coloring it.
Actual trash royal siblings Ottilia and Augustus.
I always wish that they’d shown the Wardens coping with all the things that they had absolutely no experience dealing with in their old life.
Like Tabris, who goes from being a second-class citizen that shem nobles can rape and abuse with impunity to someone who’s spoken to respectfully and referred to by her title or “My Lady” by shems (what), given a voice and a huge amount of influence in affairs of state (what), and eventually given command of an entire goddamned army that includes a large contingent of human nobles and their men-at-arms (WHAT).
Like Cousland, who’s gone from being the wealthy, privileged second child of the second-highest ranking noble in the kingdom to a wanted fugitive who literally escaped with about half a sovereign and the clothes on her back.
Like Amell or Surana, who only know normal society as a distant thing she may have read about in a book. She’s never needed to use money. Never cooked for herself. Never even been outside, much less slept rough or walked more than a mile. Oh, and there’s a Templar (okay, ex-Templar) who trusts her implicitly and is not only happy to follow her lead but visibly panics whenever she tries to put him in charge of anything.
Like Aeducan, who was once respected and loved and honored, her place in the world unshakably certain. Now she’s a despised outcast, a fratricide, a surfacer - and there is no Stone. No solid rock above her head, just an awful gaping emptiness; no plants and animals she recognizes; no familiar customs or sense of caste. Even the air is wrong.
Like Mahariel, cut off from her clan - her family - and dealing with nothing but shemlen and flat-ears. How do they not go mad, living in one place year after year? With a god who left them not because he had no choice, but because he was too busy sulking to care for his people? And their mages - they pen up their mages like animals and keep them from serving the community at sword-point.
Like Brosca, who goes from being an casteless thug, untouchable and lower than low, to hobnobbing with kings. No one calls her “brand” or acts as if her very presence will contaminate them. No one assumes that she’s an honorless piece of shit. She’s coming out of this a fucking hero, and won’t that chafe their noble asses?
Archery poses are so much fun, but I don’t think I’ll ever get the hang of drawing bound bows.
sounds perfectly logical to me. why have a normal fire (and like you said go through all the work) when you can have a pretty lady to stare at and keep you warm. ^.^
Plus you can talk to the fire lady even if she can’t talk back! (maybe she understands and makes cute silent gestures to try and communicate (: )
wardenswatch replied to your post “wardenswatch replied to your post:I have so many WIPs that I will…”
eeee. how cool. is your character practicing conjuring a flame atro… aro…a flame lady? :P
She’s conjuring them to be makeshift campfires rather than make a fire the normal way, haha