wearepaladin reblogged
It is almost five centuries ago, and the girl who will one day be a swordswoman is lying in the red-tinged mud. She can't get up—broken bone? severed tendon? She can't tell. She's yet to cultivate her palate for pain. Her enemy towers over her, a cataphract mailed in screaming steel and poisoned light. His warhammer falls, and it is death, forever death, death unconquered and unconquerable.
"No," says a part of her. She is not even seventeen years old. Her body is mangled and broken, wound piled upon wound piled upon wound. A dull kitchen knife is her only weapon, though she lost that in the mud the second her grip faltered. Her enemy is no thing of this earth. And yet—
"No. It is not death, forever death, death unconquered and unconquerable. It is only a hammer, falling. It is only 'an attack.'"
And the girl understood.
~~~
It is the better part of three centuries ago, as best the swordswoman can reckon, and she is beset on all sides by foes. They are not monsters—just mountain bandits, or highland rebels, as one cares to see it. But they outnumber her by dozens, and even an exceptional swordswoman might struggle against but two opponents of lesser skill.
From in front of her, beside her, behind her they advance, striking from every angle with spears and blades and axes. Others fill the air with arrows, sling stones, firepots. It would be effortless, to parry any single blow. It would be impossible, physically impossible, to defend against them all.
"No," says a part of her.
"You are not outnumbered. You do not face 'multiple' foes. It would be impossible to defend against every attack — but there is no 'every' attack. Only one."
"Oh," the swordswoman said. And it was, in fact, effortless.
~~~
It is eighty years ago, or thereabouts. A coiling spire of stony flesh and verdigrised copper throbs like a tumor on the horizon, coaxed from the earth by spell and sacrifice. It is the tower of a sorcerer-prince, and a birthing place of abominations.
Seven locks of rune-etched metal are opened with her single key. Wretched shapeling beasts, grown by sorcery in vitreous nodules, flee wailing from her, absconding before she even draws her blade. Demons sworn to thousand-year pacts of service find the binding provisions of their agreements unexpectedly severed.
These things dissatisfy the sorcerer-prince. He waxes wroth. He makes signs of power and chants incantations. With a flask of godling's blood, he draws the binding sigil inscribed upon the moon's dark face. With cold fire burning in his eyes, he speaks the secret name of Death. It is a king among curses, all-corrupting, all-consuming, and it falls from his lips upon the swordswoman.
"No," she says, and she turns it aside with her blade.
The sorcerer-prince's brow furrows. How did she even do that?
"Parried it."
But—
"With my sword."
No—
"See, like this."
Stop—
"Well," the swordswoman finally says, "I figured that if I just...looked at it right, and thought about it, and construed your curse as a kind of attack...then I could block it."
That's not how it works at all!
"If you insist," says the swordswoman, shrugging, and decapitates him.
~~~
It is now. It is the end. Death couldn't take the swordswoman, not when she'd spent all her life cutting it up. At times, Death might sidle up to one of her friends, or peer down into a grandchild's crib, and she'd just give it a look. That's all it took, by then.
Heartache couldn't take her, either. Bad things happened to her, and they hurt, and she lived in that hurt, but if it was ever more than she could take...she'd just, move her sword in a way that's difficult to describe. And she'd keep going.
Kingdoms fell, and she kept going. Continents crumbled and sank into the sea. Her planet's star faded and froze. She started carrying a lantern. Universes were torn apart and scattered, until all that had been matter was redistributed in thermodynamic equilibrium. With one exception.
But now it is the end. There is no time left; time is already dead. The swordswoman has outlived reality, but there is simply no further she can go. This is not a thing that can be blocked. This is the absence of anything further to block.
"No," says the girl who will one day be a swordswoman. "This isn't the ending. And even if it was, it's not the ending that matters."
The swordswoman looks back at who she was, at the countless selves she's been between them. She looks forward, at the rapidly contracting point that remains of the future. She grasps the all of linear time in her mind, and sees that it is shaped like a spear.
Liberty by JohnnyD
Until the death of Aroden in 4606 AR, the goddess Milani was simply one of dozens of saints within the Last Azlanti's faith. She was the beacon of hope to all those who fought against repressive regimes, giving courage to those who had little but their desire to live a free life. The death of her patron, combined with the tremendous upheaval and suffering that followed his death, gave her a focus and attracted many new followers. Those devoted to her found the courage to organize the rebellions against the infernal takeover of the Chelish Empire, helping many of her outlying territories break free of its control. They fought against the slow slide into barbarism, restoring people's hope that a just and good society could be restored...
wearepaladin reblogged
wearepaladin reblogged
wearepaladin reblogged
I just couldn’t resist the adorable Stuhn whale design introduced in Greymoor, and had to do my own take on it.
wearepaladin reblogged
The Castle of Otranto by Horace Walpole by Anna Podedworna (akreon on artstation)
The Explorer’s Guide to Wildemount:
The Calamity took the lives of mortals and immortals alike. Many angels that fought with the Prime Deities were slain, and most that survived were wounded. The solar Xalicas, the right hand of the Arch Heart, was so injured that even the magic of the gods cannot help the angel regain the ability to see, fly, or leave Exandria. For over a century, Xalicas lay broken and blinded in the Greying Wildlands, moss and plants covering her body, until she had the strength to move, blaming herself for the small part she played in the Calamity.
Now Xalicas wanders Wildemount to make up for the sins of the Calamity and prevent another devastating war. Her followers attempt to heal war-scarred lands and repair the natural world. Xalicas knows that alone and in her injured state she cannot stop all the evils in the world, so the angel lends her power to those she finds worthy: creatures who wish to stop unnecessary war, stand up to tyranny, and defend the innocent.
Appearance. Xalicas is a silver-skinned solar who wears a clean white bandage around her eyes. Her body is covered in scars, and one of her wings is blackened and burned.
Fixed Star Sun/Taiyang/ 太阳 by LY 炼妖
wearepaladin reblogged
grendelmenz-deactivated20200929
Owl please tell me more about my useless emotions ily
They love you too : , )
wearepaladin reblogged
A drawing of Meridia to relax and wind down