Like I said in thispost, I have more CC to release with you all and the first thing I’m going to release is an eyeshadow I made colored in @smubuh‘s Freshly Brewed Palette (hence the name of the eye shadow :P )
Fenrys is the one who tries to keep Aelin sane while Rowan comes? He knows Rowan is coming, and he knows he will get Aelin out.
But what if Aelin is too broken? No, he thinks. The Queen endured too much, she risked so much, gave up everything. Fenrys knew there was no way in hell Rowan wasn’t coming for her, and he knew that there was nothing that would stand in the Prince’s way.
Maybe it was Fenrys’ turn to do some good. So he works around every command, he looks for every possible loophole, to maybe take away a bit of Aelin’s pain, heal her wounds, talk to her, remind her that Rowan is coming, and that she has to hold on. And even when Maeve finds out, and she punishes him, he still tries. He can’t take away her pain anymore, so he gives her water. He can’t heal her, so he feeds her.
So Fenrys prays to every God that’s listening that Rowan gets there before Maeve goes after Connall, because he knows who he’s going to choose.
Your art is simply amazing and when I saw that we are free to colour your lines I thought to myself ‘’ listen Beta, even if you don’t have drawing tablet, even if you don’t have printer and are to lazy to go to the neighbour, you have a damn photoshop and a mouse, for Christ sake go utilize this opportunity to colour meabhd’s lines.’’ And so here I am ^-^. I am not good at many things, drawing being one of them, but with that said I had to do this and I hope it looks… decent. I wish you all the luck with uni and stay awesome. <3
Lines made by
, coloured by me in photoshop using my damn slow mouse.
Do you want to kill whoever made her frown?
Will you protect her to whatever end?
Do you wish her to not be with another male?
You would die for her?
You would chop up your shirt into linen shirts for her when she's on her monthly cycles and sacrifice your own life for her and damn the entire world just to make sure she's safe and protect her even when you have a separate mission and obey all her orders willingly and slaughter anyone should she deem so?
MASSIVE TAZ twitter dump from the past month or so, FEATURING: Taako 2.0, #BrunchSquad, Antonia and Rowan: Jerky Siblings, how the fuck are the boys getting through wonderland, Good Garbage, and fucking hell let Magnus be happy
Theatre technicians, overlooked and fearless magicians of blackout, set, backstage, are people you want on your side. They fade into the background, often, their work done out of the dazzling lights, but they work hard, and they don’t take kindly to not being acknowledged.
(It’s hard to tell when technicians go missing sometimes. The changelings are often very similar to the human they replace.)
Make allies of the costume shop—most costumes have at least some hand-stitching, and if you’re polite and friendly, they’ll make sure to knot their thread with three loops around a needle, and to tie it off in three neat motions. The costumers believe in threes, and their ability to ward off the Gentry. It’s not steel or iron or salt, nothing so powerful. It’s a little more insurance, a knot to tie you to earth.
Mostly, they do it automatically. Technicians are a practical and time-starved lot, and no one wants to frantically re-fit a costume at the last minute. But don’t push them. Go too far, and the threes will stop being a priority for their clever hands. They can’t and won’t make sure that you’re taken. But they can stop helping to protect you.
Among technicians, it’s carpenters and props people who are Taken the most often. Both groups are a special kind of strange, and they work with their hands to bring beauty out of nothing. Give a carpenter two pieces of plywood, some two by four and a mission, and they’ll overcomplicate it to impossibility and pull it off anyway. Props people are the kind who look at scattered scraps and trash, and see what could be, not what is. Swords of cardboard, fine chocolates of clay, embossed leather armor from foam. Illusion, for a props person, is king, and it’s no wonder the Gentry find them fascinating.
(Props has sent people onstage with bona fide magical objects, lost to the prop room years ago. It’s the ruthlessness in them, the mercenary way of taking whatever works.)
Electricians are safest, the ones who are closest to the technology of it all, who spend hours on high, calling information back and forth in a code unintelligible to the uninitiated. They chatter, and they clamp and tighten and connect and swear, and suddenly there is light, and color, and glitter. The Gentry are amazed, but do not understand. What you do not understand is best left alone.
(Still, some electricians go missing. Maybe they sing, or they see, or they’re thoughtlessly kind or cruel—no one is safe, here. This is the theater, liminal, filled with Gentry even on a good day, and being safe is so often at odds with doing things fast that it’s not unheard of for electricians to climb precariously, thank thoughtlessly, or strip off iron jewelry.)
Designers bargain most often, sometimes thoughtless and sometimes with clever words and clever research and a clever friend who knows contract law. Sometimes it’s for inspiration, which often goes badly—those are desperate people, and the Gentry are not kind to the desperate. Sometimes it’s for persuasiveness, or money, or, most precious of all, time.
(I need more time, is the motto of the department, the guiding light of a program always living under a deadline. Give me more time.)
Elsewhere University’s stage managers, the ones who make leaving stick, are good. Really good. Flexible, punctual, smart, good with names and at ironclad paperwork. They’re capable of corralling even the most difficult personalities with charming words and a refusal to back down, and that makes them valuable. But they never break old habits, of opening night gifts made from rowan, and closing night gifts of iron and silver, and they’re deeply superstitious.
(The fines, for touching props that don’t belong to you, are a serious business when an EU alum is stage managing.)
The few who learn to weld and build with steel from the metalworking students are safest, with steel shavings scattered in their clothes and hair, on their skin. They’re still not safe. All too often, they’re carpenters too, and it just takes one day, when the steel has finally washed away, and the rings have been yanked off to avoid losing a finger, or they ask, criminally careless, for help building or learning or understanding.
A good handful of technicians go missing every year. Most of them will make it back, better, or at least stranger, than before.
After a semester or two of working in the theatre shop, or a show or three, most technicians will go to Cat Eyes. Most of them, by the time they graduate, have a distinctly odd pair of safety glasses, never far from them. Theatre is about syncretism, about everything working, and if you can’t see it all, if you can’t see if the costume really matches the actor’s skin tone, or if the light is unflattering on half the ensemble, you can’t make it right.
With those glasses on, it’s never about seeing anyone. It’s about looking at costumes, light, paint, props. Nothing else matters.
(Technicians remember the most about The Play when it’s performed. The costume shop remembers the way the fabrics slipped through their fingers, bright and silken and gorgeous. The carpenters remember building, the lumber straight and clean and lovely. Tech is a blur, and no one remembers who stage managed, but it’s better than other shows. You don’t think about it in the moment—it’s just another six-to-ten tech, and you bring your coffee and your bagel and don’t think about the paper your history professor wants tomorrow. After, though. After, you realize it was The Play. Some few students can’t bear to give that seamless beauty up. The department faculty has to come from somewhere.)
A last word of advice: When the show is on, always be polite to whoever you meet backstage. You never know who they really are—Gentry, ghost, short-tempered technician who will spend two hours unpicking every single three-loop knot in every one of your costumes—and if you say the wrong thing, you’ll regret it. And pay attention to the show. Actors have gotten lost before, the crossovers stretching on forever, lost eternally in the moment right before their entrance.
My first year at EU was interesting to say the least. I learned the secret behind the many strange traditions early on. I learned of you within the first month. I went from shock at your discovery to fascination. Then to fear and loathing as I saw what you would do.
I didn’t let that get in the way of my schooling. I was majoring in Conservation Biology, so you left me be. I was protecting your places, after all. The fact that I wasn’t doing it for you didn’t matter. I could feel you watching me as I knitted in the common rooms or worked on my book in the food court, and I could hear the baying of the hounds and the cries of the hunt some nights. But you left me be, and so I carried on.
I took the normal precautions, of course, and a few of my own. Vervain in the window-box, iron wire on the bedposts, iron charms for wrist and neck, iron symbols on the walls of my dorm. A pair of iron knives beneath my mattress, salt packs in my pockets when I walked alone, especially at night, shampoo made with rowan, lotion of hazel. I fed the crows, read them poetry, talked to them about how my semester was going. I gave them trinkets, and their favorite foods. I grew popular with them. Far more than I was with the other students. And for the most part, my first year at EU was uneventful.
No, the first year went fine. It was my sophomore year that things got bad. It was an active year, my RA told me. Kidnappings were frequent. You took many, and kept them for a long time. Several were never returned. The faculty started pushing more precautionary measures, warned us all to be careful, though many never learned what they were being careful of. I was safe, though. I was cautious, I was an ally of the crows, I had little to fear. But not all were so lucky.
It was midway through the first semester when you took something of mine.
I say mine. She was everyones.The most personable, gentle, kind person I knew. One of few I would really call friend. But she was in the choir, and could play the flute with skill, and you took her for yourselves. Everyone who knew her was upset, but musicians and singers are the ones most often returned unharmed, so we waited. I waited. For a month, when It finally became obvious that you had no intention of giving her back. And I knew rage, and I would make it felt.
I made a pair of goggles from silver wire and mood rings, sewed iron charms into my clothes, and I wove iron wire into a helm, made iron rings for my fingers. I spoke to members of the chemistry department, who told me of the war they had fought in the 80’s to get back their professor. Burning iron and sprays of silver had taught you that not everyone would suffer your depredations, and if you would not give her back I would do the same. I had no desire to bargain, because a bargain would have implied you had some right to take what you did. Several other science majors came with me, and we entered your world, and we demanded you return what was ours. You laughed until the iron knives came out, and you hissed when we reminded you of the iron that burns hot and bright as the sun. You gave her back, unwillingly, but without violence. You promised there would be a price, and I promised you that if you tried to take something of mine that I would burn you all.
Now, I am a 5th year working on my masters. There is peace between us. I still take my precautions, but I set out offerings for you some nights. I have drunk with you, made bets and won, given and received favors; given gifts. But you remember that what I give you must be given freely or won, and that you do not take what is mine. You know who is responsible for the ring of five rowans in the middle of campus, who gives out iron charms to the freshmen, who has the protection of the crows. You know that while your activities are tolerated, there are lines you would be very very wise to not cross.
Winter was Rowan’s favourite, and Rowan didn’t use that word often. Rowan liked things but the word ‘favourite’ seemed such a childish word to attach to his descriptions. But winter, winter was his favourite, and here in Terassen the winters were brutal as they were beautiful.
He trudged through the snow in the courtyard pulling his cloak tighter around him. It was freezing out here as the last of the snowflakes flurried about in the wind. Because of the temperature, many of the inhabitants of the castle had chosen to stay indoors. But not Rowan. He breathed in the cold crisp air deep into his lungs. It stung a little but he relished in it and his magic flared in response. For the hell of it sent a gust of wind along a nearby hedge and watched as it carried the snow off into the air. It was beautiful.
The sound of crunching snow pulled Rowan from his thoughts. Rowan turned and smiled as Fleetfoot came bounding towards him, spraying snow with her massive paws. She stopped just in front of him and put her head between her front paws, nose in the snow. Rowan crouched down to ruffle her ears but stopped when he felt something cold explode on the back of his head.
Rowan stood and turned in the direction that the snowball had come. He couldn’t see anyone but he heard some suppressed giggling. Rowan couldn’t help the smile that twisted his lips upward. Using his Fae abilities he walked as lightly as he could towards a nearby tree. The giggling continued and he used the sound to cover the rustling he made as he pulled himself up onto the low branch. Peering around the trunk he spied two heads looking around the courtyard for him. One golden and one dark.
The dark haired one skittered out from the hiding spot, looking around desperately. Fleetfoot bounded over and almost knocked the small girl over in her excitement. But ever the good dog that she was, Elide’s daughter was left unscathed as Fleetfoot reigned herself in at the precise moment that she needed to. Marion had inherited her mother’s stature and was such a tiny thing. It was hard to tell who she got her dark hair and eyes from with Elide and Lorcan being so similar in that regard and it always made Rowan smile when he caught them arguing about it.
“Uncle Rowan is gone!” Marion almost squealed in a desperate voice.
Marion’s companion came out from hiding then too and Rowan smiled as his mate came into view. She too looked around the courtyard for him.
“He’s probably cheated and shifted and flew away like a coward,” Aelin said as she patted Fleetfoot’s head.
Oh she was going to pay for that. Rowan waited until they passed the tree before he silently dropped to the ground. Then he scooped up a handful of snow to make his ammunition. Then in a flawless, fluid motion he spun out from behind the tree and threw the snowball.
Only for it to be dissolved as it hit a shield of flame.
Aelin wore one of her mischievously wicked smiles and in return Rowan gave her a canine bearing grin.
“Seems Uncle Rowan isn’t a coward after all,” Aelin said as she crouched into a fighting stance. Marion squealed in delight and bent down to gather handfuls of snow.
The snowball fight that ensued was one for the ages. Aelin’s and Rowan’s precision with aiming and deflecting would have left them in a stalemate. But even though Marion was young her aim was uncommonly accurate and Fleetfoot was running interference distracting both sides, her loyalty never entirely decided. It was when Fleetfoot had jumped at Aelin and she had let fly a curse that then caused Marion to scold her, that Rowan took his chance. He ran at his wife and tackled her to the ground. Aelin let out a surprised laugh as Rowan pinned her arms and legs.
“Quick Marion! We’ve been defeated! Save yourself!” Aelin called from where she was trapped under Rowan. Marion heeded the warning and ran squealing and giggling into the palace, Fleetfoot at her heels.
Rowan looked down at Aelin as she struggled against him, huffing and breathing hard.
“Yeild,” Rowan demanded.
Fire practically burned in Aelin’s eyes as she glared up at him. She struggled again but it was in vain. Rowan was still stronger and bigger that she was, he could hold her for a good long while just using his brute strength. Defeated Aelin blew and strand of loose hair from her face and Rowan watched as the snow held to the hair fluttered about. Then he looked back to Aelin’s face.
She looked beautiful. Her cheeks were pink from the cold and exertion and her ever bright eyes glistened from playfulness. Aelin smiled at him and Rowan smiled back, loosening his grip on her wrists. He had been mistaken to have taken that smile as her surrender, because his acquiescence allowed Aelin to gain the upper hand.
Rowan was now on his back in the snow, Aelin sitting a top of him. Rowan knew that Aelin understood she did not have long before Rowan overpowered her again. So she grabbed a handful of snow from behind Rowan’s head and left it run through her fingers onto his face.
“It only takes a smile to undo you, Buzzard,” Aelin teased as Rowan sputtered and brushed the snow from his face.
Rowan sat up on his elbows, Aelin still a top him. “And what does is take to undo you, Fireheart?”
“Much more than a smile,” Aelin said as she lent forward but stopped just before touching his lips.
A growl escaped Rowan’s throat and Aelin lent in further. For a moment they sat there, caught in a battle of wills as to who would give in to the kiss. The moment was broken as Aelin jumped up with a yelp as a ball of snow slammed into the top of her head. Rowan laughed as Aelin cursed him and shook her hair out like a dog. When she had finished Aelin glared daggers at Rowan, which only made Rowan laugh harder as he stood and brushed himself off. Then as sweetly as he could he took her hand and kissed it.
That Cairn is most likely going to destroy every inch of the tattoo on Aelin’s back. The tattoo with her story and her family’s story. The one Rowan made. The tattoo that helped her heal and grieve for her people