Fandom Grishaverse art

[Ayama]

Daggers and steals the shinies? Totally a rogue IMO. A Charisma-leaning Rogue, but still a Rogue.

Mm -nods- Guess I see your point. Spying and reserved demeanor aside, the only one in the bunch who's into singing and acting is Neige xD

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[StormWolf]

Mm -nods- Guess I see your point. Spying and reserved demeanor aside, the only one in the bunch who's into singing and acting is Neige xD

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"Social Magic"~

 

[Ayama]

Really Neige has the bard skills while Louis is the bard trope ;P

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[StormWolf]

I can only convey so much in an image xD

 

[Morrighan]

I just love how Nadya is standing there looking like she's contemplating murder

 

[Ayama]

Spoiler: The Light Among the Shadows (part 2)

"Whatever you wish, I will be."

When Neige arrived at Gerlach De Voore's Geldin District mansion, the man himself stood waiting at the curb to escort her in. As she stepped from the carriage, he offered her his arm, smiling warmly. She took it and returned his smile, glad that she had worn her finest dress of beaded peach-colored silk and brocade. Her hair was the shining blonde that the House of Snow and its Siren were so well-known for, elaborately twined with a mother-of-pearl ornament at the nape of her neck and curling over her shoulder. Small pearls glinted at her neck, wrists and ears, tying in with her beaded boots, gloves, and handbag.

This ensemble, fit for a lady of the highest circles in Ketterdam, was usually kept locked safely in Neige's closet, as no one in her station should ever wear anything so fine. She had purchased it at the request of a wealthy client who'd hired her as an escort to a party at the house of a Councilmember, and had only worn it twice since.

"I trust you had a pleasant journey here?" he asked as he lead her inside. Neige nodded.

"Pleasant and uneventful," she replied, smiling. "Your house is lovely."

"I'm glad you think so- let me give you a tour." He placed his gloved hand over her own and lead her inside, pointing out various features of the house as they went.

"The house was bought by my grandfather and remodeled by my father," he explained. "The kitchen used to be tucked in the back, but he preferred an open, noisy home, where the children could run around and take breakfast with the cook and the sounds and smells of cooking could waft through the rooms. He said it makes a house feel alive- lived in."

"Your father sounds like a wonderful man," she commented. He twinkled at her.

"He was. Over here we have the dining room, and through there the parlor and the drawing room. My office and the bedrooms are upstairs, and the garden at the back gives directly onto the canal. I like to sit there on summer mornings to read the news sheets and enjoy my coffee. Less so in the Fall," he added ruefully.

Neige nodded with interest as they passed each new room. De Voore's taste was just to her liking- opulent without being ostentatious, but mostly it was just... comfortable. She caught herself guiltily when she pictured how comfortable she would be if she could live here, and turned instead to look inquisitively at her host. She burned with curiosity to know why he had decided to invite her here this day, but knew better than to press the issue in her position.

Almost as if he could read her mind, at that point he turned to her and asked, eyes sparkling mischievously

"You're probably wondering why I requested that you come meet me here today?" Neige nodded earnestly.

"It isn't often that I am commissioned for so long at a time, let alone before nightfall," she added with a tinkling laugh. He chuckled genially in response, patting her hand.

"I realize it's unorthodox for one such as yourself but, well, the light is simply better during the day."

She blinked. The light? What was he talking about?

As he said this, he lead her to a room they had not yet visited. It served as both the library and the conservatory. There was a reading desk, a large comfortable chair with a small table and lamp behind it, and rows upon rows of leather-bound books arranged on dark mahogany shelves. But the front of the room was a large glass window lined with luscious plants, complete with a window seat and comfortable-looking chaise longue, and a view of the garden and murky canal.

Settled at the window seat with an easel set up before her was a woman of uncommon beauty, dressed simply in the fashion of the Barrel, though with clothes of higher quality fabric than that worn by Barrel rats. She was currently focused on the canvas in front of her, one hand holding up her palette as she concentrated on mixing her paints, a small furrow between her brows. Her long hair was tied back summarily with a piece of cord, though a few stray strands were either tucked behind her ear or falling down across her eyes.

When the woman looked up and Neige's soft study met her searing turquoise stare, the courtesan felt her breath hitch in her chest.

So this is what it feels like to be a tacked-up butterfly, she thought inanely, as Ketterdam's infamous Scarlet Flower held her pinned in place with her steady and piercing gaze.

 

[StormWolf]

Ooooh! The plot thickens!

 

[Ayama]

Pff, not really xD

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[Morrighan]

AAAHHHH

 

[Ayama]

AAAHHHH

o.o Everything ok? xD

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[StormWolf]

Sounds like a standing ovation from the comments section lol

 

[StormWolf]

Spoiler: Updated

LMK if y'all want individual grabs of your characters to see things more up close.

 

[Morrighan]

Spoiler: A Scene I needed to write

The moon was high in the sky already, it's gentle light pooling on the ground near the open window near the bed, a cool breeze kissing her bare skin. She couldn't begin to wonder at how many nights she'd spent like this : lying awake, her eyes drinking in the starry sky above as she allowed that deeply-buried longing for her homeland to consume her. Tonight, though, she allowed her gaze to drift down to where a man lay sleeping.



Her otkazat'sya...



Her Benhamin....



How many nights had she dreamt of him? The strong lines of his face? The sound of his low, baritone growl?



And yet here she was, his glorious body beside hers in her bed. He was so much bigger up close, without that invisible barrier of space that had separated them in the years before they'd lost everything. Tonight had felt like another of her dreams, the ones from which she awoke sweating and in desperate need for release. Of course, the reality had made those dreams utterly obsolete.



Could this truly be happening? Could she, after three years believing him and dead and countless more before that in which their relationship had been defined by lies and masks of apathetic cruelty, have finally been given leave by some kind Saint to be with him? She'd been in love with Benhamin since she'd first seen him smile at a little girl during his first mission under her. His serious, cold face had warmed and his usual frown had melted into a small, genuine smile.



She'd woken not three nights later from the first of the dreams.



Smiling to herself, she reached out a tentative hand to - just barely - trace the shape of his jaw, his lips. She marveled in the texture of his skin, the sound of his breathing. To her, it was all a gift.



One she did not deserve.



"I love you, Benhamin," she breathed, tears forming in her eyes.



It was the first time she'd ever spoken the words aloud.



Then he opened those glorious eyes and smiled at her, and she felt herself break.



Immediately he sat up and pulled her into his embrace, holding her gently to his chest. She sobbed against him, feeling the raised edges of the scar he'd earned in that skirmish on the Fjerdan border a lifetime ago. She'd nearly lost him then, and the memory made her tighten her hold on the man.



He was hers, after so many years of grieving him here he was.



Alive, whole, and running a hand through her hair as he hummed that waltz in her ear.



She remembered that night, remembered the dance with The Darkling and his dismissal of her.



And she remembered, after years of thinking it was just another beautiful dream, that what had happened between her and her otkazat'sya had been very real. How he must have hated her for pretending, for having forgotten and just carried on as if nothing had changed. How she had hated herself...



"I love you," she said again, pressing her lips against that scar. An apology, and a vow.



She would never leave him again, never allow anything to come between her and the man she loved. She would live and die at his side, if the saints had any favor left for her at all. And if they didn't?



May they all burn.



"I love you too, Nadya," he murmured against her hair, where he had bent to press his lips. "I will love you until we are both ashes on the wind, and even when those ashes are gone and the wind has died my spirit will find yours in whatever comes after."



The woman could say nothing, not without losing what was left of her composure. So she did the only thing she could to tell him that she knew, that she would find him too.



She took hold of his beautiful face and pulled him into a deep kiss.



And when it was done, she smiled and kissed him again and again and again.



A kiss for every dream he'd never known she'd had.

 

[Ayama]

Spoiler: The Light Among the Shadows (part 3)

"Whatever you wish, I will be."

For a long moment, the two women stared at each other, the air in the room thick with tension. Neige's feeling of being a pinned butterfly frantic to get away intensified, her heartbeat speeding up despite herself as the feeling of anxiety mounted. This woman was a famous assassin- a fierce Heartrender. Had De Voore brought her here to kill her?

For a moment she thought inanely that she had already started to, that her shallow breaths and speeding heartbeat were the results of the Grisha's power. Then her reason caught up with her emotions, and she remembered that Corporalki needed to use their hands in order to manifest their powers, and the woman hadn't moved. This reassuring thought calmed her down, and she was able to analyze the situation more logically. She was holding a palette and paintbrush, sitting in front of an easel. She was here to... paint?

With a frown of dawning comprehension, Neige turned to De Voore and enquired

"So, when you said the light was better during the day, this is what you meant?" He smiled at her.

"Indeed. After the lovely time we had, I couldn't help but remember your charm, and felt that beauty such as yours is one that should be captured for the world to know and remember."

Neige blushed, pleased at the compliment, but also embarrassed, as the beautiful image that had made her so popular at the House of Snow was not her true face.

"This," De Voore continued, "is Natasha Chernov- one of the most promising young painters in the city. I asked her here today because I felt her talent was best suited to the task."

Neige nodded politely at the artist.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," she said in a timid voice. Now that she was no longer afraid she was about to be killed in cold blood, she took the time to really study the woman before her. Privately, she felt like the Grisha's regal beauty was a far more befitting subject for a painting, but she wasn't about to voice the thought aloud. Even sitting, dressed as she was with brush and palette in hand, the painter radiated poise, and power- Neige felt it.

She dipped her head slightly in response to Neige's greeting, and resumed mixing her paints. The courtesan turned back to her host.

"The light in this room is indeed lovely," she said. "I can see why you chose it." He beamed at her.

"Yes I thought it would do quite splendidly," he declared. She looked around once more, unsure whom she should direct her next enquiry towards.

"So, where shall I sit? Or should I stand?" She thought De Voore would instruct her, but it was the painter who responded

"Over there is good." She was pointing to the chaise with her brush. Neige nodded and obediently walked over, sitting down straight-backed and rigid. De Voore went over to the reading chair, grabbing a book and flipping it open, apparently content to sit out this part of the proceedings.

"Not like that," came the artist's sharp reproach. Neige blinked in confusion.

"I'm sorry, I don't know what you mean?" She laughed nervously. "I do apologize- I've never done this before."

"Sit comfortably," she instructed, "the way you would at home." Neige frowned. She did indeed have a chaise in her room that she was in the habit of lounging on, but that was when she was alone and in her dressing gown- the clothes she had on currently would not permit that kind of posture. Besides, she had seen enough portraits hung in the mansions of her richer clients to know that the ladies were required to sit up straight in them.

She tried to shift her position a little, clearly at a loss. The painter let out a huff of frustration, put down her palette and brush, and walked over to her. Neige looked up at her- eyes wide; she cut an imposing figure. She pointed at her feet, then at the long end of the chaise.

"Those need to go over there," she ordered.

Neige complied, feeling awkward. The artist huffed again, clearly irritated, and proceeded to arrange her legs, one crossed over the other, with the skirt neatly draping on top of them. She then moved back up, summarily removing Neige's gloves and beaded handbag, tossing them unceremoniously to the floor.

At first, the courtesan was quite apprehensive, but as the painter arranged first her torso, then her arms and hands, looking at her with a detached, practiced eye between each small adjustment she made, she began to relax, letting herself be directed and positioned. When the Grisha's hands reached for her face, she inhaled a nervous breath, letting it go as the Heartrender's cold skin made contact with her own.

The contrast was surprising. Neige couldn't help but think of herself as warm and soft in comparison, but even though the touch was cold and rigid, it was also pleasant and precise. The painter turned her head sideways, tilting her chin downwards and tugging slightly.

"Open your mouth," she instructed, "and close your eyes."

Neige obeyed, and felt the artist's touch at her neck as she rearranged strands of her hair to drape over her shoulder. She then stepped back, and there was a moment of tense silence as Neige sat as still as she could and the painter examined her work. Then she let out a breath.

"Good, now stay like that," she said. Neige heard her turn, walk back to the bench, seat herself once more and pick up her brush.

For a long time, all Neige could hear was the sound of the painter's brush strokes, De Voore shifting in his chair and turning the pages of the book, and her own, slow breathing. She felt the light shift over her face as the sun moved through the afternoon sky, warm and content. She entered something of a trance-like state, where images and memories floated through her mind one after the other- like passing through a dream.

There was an inexplicable sense of comfort to this moment, sitting in that room with her eyes closed, knowing she was the focus of that piercing gaze. It was the same feeling she used to have when she was in the spotlight on stage, with everyone in the room looking up at her. Like in that moment, nothing else mattered.

She had no idea how much time had passed, but she eventually began to notice a shift. De Voore seemed to be moving in his chair a lot more, and the painter was apparently making small adjustments, picking up and putting down paints and palette in fits and starts. Neige felt the quality of the light on her face change, and knew it must be getting late.

Eventually, she heard the artist's voice, as if from far away.

"You can move now."

Neige opened her eyes slowly, looking around at the dark corners of the room, surprised to see the lit lamps by the painter's easel and the host's reading table. As she stretched a little, rearranging her limbs and rousing them from slumber, De Voore rose from his chair and walked over to the window, bending to take a look at the canvas. His eyes went wide.

"Beautiful," he sighed. The painter gave a nod of acknowledgement, eying her work critically. De Voore waved Neige over.

"You really should see this, my dear," he said, his voice subdued and reverent. She rose from the chaise and walked over to join him, looking down at the canvas as he had done. Her breath caught in her chest.

"Oh," she breathed, unable to find any other words.

The painting was indeed beautiful. But it wasn't the way the artist had rendered her figure- limbs carefully arranged, lips a perfect cupid's bow, eyes closed; sweet and serene- that made the tears spring to her eyes.

It was that the figure sat alone, bathed in a pool of light, surrounded on all sides by darkness, with creeping crepuscular tendrils trying to get at her. Neige felt as if, somehow, through her painter's eye, the Heartrender had managed to capture the truth of her existence. Not the shining, glamorous courtesan that most saw when they looked at her, but a frail figure, continuously under assault, trying not to be overcome. A failing, faltering light, lost among the shadows.

 

[StormWolf]

I've cleaned lines and have started left to right on color. Starting with the current OTP

 

[StormWolf]

And in accidental composition, I put everyone alternating from hot/cold colors. Some things from school still stick!

 

[Ayama]

Spoiler: Lost Night (part 1)

"Whatever you wish, I will be."

A few months ago...

It had been a bad night. These days, there were more bad ones than good ones. Having had to Tailor her appearance for her main client of the evening had meant experiencing an earlier and more acute withdrawal than what she normally dealt with. Luckily, she had no other clients that day, so she was able to retire to her room. She lay sprawled across her chaise longue, dressing gown disheveled and slick with sweat, long blond hair in utter disarray. She'd found that the stalk of the jurda plant helped to mitigate the symptoms of parem withdrawal, so she was now purchasing it from Tante Vorst at great expense.

This meant that she was now paying the woman who was already making money off her services additional money to provide her with a drug that would help her deal with the effects of the other drug said woman was already providing her with. The irony was not lost on her, and as she sat there shaking and sucking slowly on the roots of the stalk, she giggled to herself- small and sad and alone.

The jurda helped to calm her down- make it so it didn't feel like her every nerve ending was on fire. But as a side effect, it also made her hazy and drowsy and unfocused- not good for much more than staying in her room and laughing helplessly to herself until the effects wore off and she fell asleep. The drug put a sort of veil over everything, and by the next morning she would usually retain only vague memories of the night before; dim and confused and dreamlike.

She was all set to spend the rest of her night in this drug-induced haze, but was jolted out of her trance-like state by a loud and unpleasant knock on her door, followed by Tante Vorst bursting in and looking unpleasant.

"Make yourself presentable, girl!" she barked. "You have a client."

Neige blinked at her blearily, not understanding.

"A... client?" she repeated blankly, eyes unfocused.

"Yes! Now hurry up- he's waiting!"

Neige looked helplessly at her employer, and Tante Vorst let out a strangled, frustrated cry, advancing on her with hand raised menacingly.

"Get up you stupid, useless, addled thing," she threatened. "Get dressed and go downstairs- now! Or else-"

"That won't be necessary," came a deep, measured voice from the doorway.

Tante Vorst jumped as if scalded, turning to look at the man, her entire attitude changing instantaneously.

"I'm so sorry," she said, her voice oily but with an undeniable undercurrent of fear, "I thought our girl would be able to receive you. Perhaps if you return downstairs, I can arrange for another instead...?" She let the suggestion hang in the air, bent almost double and watching the man apprehensively.

Neige struggled to focus on him, taking in a few details of his appearance. His sheer size was the most obvious thing- he filled the entire doorway. He wore a dark grey, bearskin greatcoat and a wide-brimmed black felt hat. His boots, though currently covered in mud, were obviously quality-made, and he carried a case on his back that seemed to be made for an instrument of some sort.

He stood there for a moment, taking in the details of Neige's appearance with ice-blue Fjerdan eyes, from her bare feet to her messy hair to her disheveled dressing gown. The silence in the room was absolute. Then

"She'll do," Ben said, reaching up to remove his hat.

 

[S n o w]

whaaat? Ben and Neige?

 

[Ayama]

-snickers- >]

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[StormWolf]

Even a man of steel has his needs

 

[Ayama]

Even a man of steel has his needs

Pfffff xD

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[EasyWright]

Since I've barely posted here, I thought I might at least give you guys some of what inspired Cole and his backstory. I already mentioned that he's a mix of Kaz and Nikolai, but his backstory is based on the image I got in my head when I first listened to this song:


I wonder if you all see the same parallels that i do, but I'd like for you to leave them to yourselves if you think about it at all. I'm sure that as the story goes on and you learn more about the dark-haired prettyboy, you'll see it anyway.

 

[Ayama]

Good song! ^^

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[StormWolf]

Last update for the day. The computer started making chainsaw noises, which means I need to give it a vacay for a bit.

Neige still needs more work, but everyone has come along nicely so far!

 

[Morrighan]

Gorgeous!!!