sic semper
IND. PRIV. & SEL.
multi muse as studied by mika.
30+ / MST

est. 06 / 2020


Muses from: Solely Dragon Age for the moment, but play Sanctuary by Utada Hikaru and I'll fold like a pretzel. Typically Final Fantasy, DMC, etc.
tyrannis
From the Latin sΔ«c semper tyrannis, short for sΔ«c semper Δ“vellō mortem tyrannis ("thus always I cause the death of tyrants”), the line reportedly uttered by Brutus after he assassinated Caesar.

fidelis
β€” a Latin phrase that means "always faithful" or "always loyal."

pinned post.

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penned by mika ( he/him, 30+, mdt ) … independent, multi-muse, canon & original characters. mostly a little insane but like, in a good way.

rules.Β  we all know how to act right. don’t expect anything else here.Β that includes: fiction =/= reality, and if you disagree with that statement, turn around post haste! thank you. don’t want any nonsense or drama. i’m an old man who’s tired of it. in essence: don’t be a twat.

mobile friendly current muse navigation.
inquisitor lavellan. / study. / bio. / meta.
solas. / study.
fenris. / study.

+ more below.

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how do i explain to people that i put so much thought, work, and effort into working within the realm and lore of da:i that i genuinely, after so much meta/critical analysis, had such high hopes for veilguard and… got nothing. and that’s why there’s this disconnect for me.

like. i’m sorry. 😞 heeeeelp.

and frankly once i DO play it regardless of doing it for the fun of it, i will be critical of it because it’s a piece of media and it’s one i CARED about and when that happens i promise i’ll tag any criticism so people can block it or something ffhdhdj

rpmemes-galore:

i wanna make it unequivocally clear that there are no time limits when it comes to rping with me. idc if you’re scrolling through your drafts and you find a thread of ours from two years ago+ and you wanna continue it… but you’re afraid i’ll be upset with you bc it’s been so long…

babes, i am holding your face so gently when i say this: do the thing. i promise, the only thing i'mma be when i see that notif is excited

well hello to the little slew of new followers!!

please feel free to jump into my DMs or even reply to this post with which muse you primarily followed for!! it would give me a good idea of where to start with everybody 🙂‍↕️

indagatus:

sicsemper​:

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𝐀 π‚π‘πˆπ’π π‚π‡πˆπ‹π‹ ππˆπππ„πƒ 𝐀𝐓 𝐁𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐄𝐋𝐒,Β  the wintry wind of the mountain easy to seep in under the crack under the door ––– to seek to sully the ambient warmth of skyhold’s rotunda’s candlelight ;Β  and, to a degree, the elvhen mage inside it. sleeves rolled carefully to catch and settle at the crook of his elbows, solas stands among leather skins unfolded at his feet ;Β  a spread of brushes and oils of varying color, with one such paintbrush tucked safely behind his ear as he stands, grey eyes surveying his most recent work documenting their journey for some future generation.

folly, perhaps, to seek to govern what would be remembered, and what would inevitably be forgotten. the truth, he knew, was often mired by the need for fantastic sentimentality. the mural would turn to dust not unlike the ash in his mouth that the thought left in its wake: cold, collecting cobwebs. a furrow knit solas’ brow, drawn tight in an effort to stave off the bile that roils in his stomach. emrys would become–––

footsteps crash into his present awareness ;Β  the commander a welcome distraction, though the way solas’ ear twitches in his previous irritation may not betray such a sentiment. it was, however, indicative of the fact that he was listening, even as he was slow to turn toward the man himself. chill indeed ;Β  and he wiggled his toes, wrapped feet recalling the icy bite of the rain that had pelted them for nearly a fortnight. arms folding, he flexes his grip on his biceps, nails lightly scratching over the weave of the folds of his sweater as he turns his gaze on the commander, one brow rising in its arch. Β   ❛ it is the chill of the mountains that plagues me presently. ❜ Β Β  voice lilting, his eyes flicker to the door behind the other man, perceptive in their minutely narrowed gaze, before flickering back. Β Β  ❛ but ––– at least i am dry. ❜ Β Β  cullen’s inquiry, however, strikes solas as more than a little… strange. he gives half a thought to the notion that cullen had come to the rotunda seeking someone else out entirely, and now sought only to make polite, idle chatter. grey gaze glancing momentarily back to the painted stone wall, solas decides he can indulge the commander. at least this once. Β Β  ❛ was the inquisitor’s briefing so unsatisfactory ? ❜    if only a little.

-

Β  Β The commander rolled his shoulders, willing the stiffness to dissipate though Solas was correct, the chill of the mountain was a plague, one he’d scarcely gotten used to. There was a reason he dressed as he did, avoiding the cold was just one measure. He noted the wrappings over Solas’ feet, the state of dress he was in. He didn’t understand it in the slightest. Why not invest in a pair of sturdy boots, something supple yet warm to keep out the damp and the chill. Solas was odd, in many ways, if he were being honest. He’d never voice such sentiments though.Β β€œDry, and preoccupied,” Cullen noted, ducking his chin ever so slightly in apology for interrupting his work. This, at least, Cullen thought he understood. It wasn’t an endeavor he wished to undertake himself, but it was something he admired all the same.Β 

Β  Β  He shook his head immediately at the comment, unwilling to speak ill in any way of the inquisitor.Β β€œNo, his report was, as always, thorough and enlightening.” He insisted, blinking slowly as stars move into his peripheral. His jaw ticked, nostrils flaring as a wave of nausea passed over him. He exhaled, fist clenching behind his back before relaxing once more as the pain passed.Β β€œCall it nostalgia from boyhood, if you must,” He clarified,Β β€œI find I like hearing stories of your journeys, particularly those I was unable to join you on.” He explained, the white lie wrapped neatly in truth. He had always been adventurous as a child, and he did enjoy hearing the stories, especially the parts that weren’t necessary for briefings, the ones shared over laughter and ale while the party spoken about cringed and feigned embarrassment.Β β€œAnd I admit, I’m going a bit mad looking at my own reports.” He sighed, wiling to acquiesce that in order to explain his presence before seeking his aid. His hand moved to brush through blonde curls, sweeping them back. They were the slightest bit damp, he realized, irritably.Β 

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A furrow knits a quizzical brow. Grey eyes watching, closely; he sees the subtlest of sways, weight shifting in a way that might not be concerning were it not for the circles under the commander’s eyes. Strange to think he’d come here, regardless. Gaze thread with green dulled by the flickering firelight all around the room, he forgets the paintbrush safely tucked behind his right ear for a moment, bringing his stained hand up to his lips and simply watching more than he is admittedly listening. Or, rather, listening in the same way one listens to Dorian’s groaning rants in the Wastes; as a static background noise where words seep through one’s awareness on occasion.

Thorough and enlightening.

Indeed, he thinks, amusement writ in the creases that form at the corners of his eyes; a fondness for the inquisitor in question and nothing more. It does nothing to soothe the ever encroaching reality of his observance that their very own Commander Cullen β€” β€œYou look…” there is a pause for breath, a sigh, β€œterrible. If you don’t mind me saying.” He felt no need to mince words, and never truly had in the other man’s presence, despite their rocky start. Solas’ thumb brushes under his bottom lip. Without further thought, he turns; taking a few long strides to the seat he so commonly occupied and pulling it out to offer. β€œPlease, sit.” The hands that grip either side of the backrest tighten their hold as his head tilts ever so slightly to one side, considering. β€œWhile I fear the Lady Cassandra’s wrath, I’m inclined to think Emr—” A stop and a minute shake of his head. β€œThe Inquisitor’s would be much worse if you fell unconscious under my watch.”

speaking of replaying da:i again for the 9568789th time:
i did what i’ve never done for the kicks and played champions of the just instead of in hushed whispers and sided with the templars and i

  1. blame my love for cullen on this and
  2. thought why not? and
  3. holy shit it was so well done.

i’m genuinely impressed by it and YES it did take me this long to try that path, but also yes i should put in emrys’ bio / path that i’m open to exploring other options because some are equally as good in very different ways. anyway that’s that.

Q
Make fun? Perish the thought. So tell me β€” have you ever licked a lamppost in winter?

!!! DID YOU KNOW I LOVE YOU??

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HOW DARE YOU COME INTO MY INBOX LIKE THIS <3

Q
Make fun? Perish the thought. So tell me β€” have you ever licked a lamppost in winter?

He stood by the window, where the moon lay behind shifting clouds and the steady curtain of rain. His amber gaze lingered on the glass, watching droplets trace ephemeral paths down its surface - fine threads weaving their way to the edge. On occasion, two would meet, merge, and continue on as one, their journey altered yet aligned. Strange, he mused, how even the most fleeting of things - raindrops born of storm and sky - can find unity, carving a singular path none but they may tread together.

Not unlike the two of them, in some ways. Even the rain understood what it meant to converge; to share a path, if only briefly. A sound drew his attention, faint yet distinct. Not the idle murmurs of one lost in peaceful dreams, but something strained. Troubled. His steps were measured and silent, hardly stirring the air as he crossed the room.

His eyes fell upon the harbinger, noticing how his brow was taut, expression marred by some unseen torment. This was no mere nightmare. No fleeting phantom of the mind could evoke such tension in his features. The sounds he uttered were incoherent, yet laden with weight; words spoken not with voice alone, but from some deeper, fractured place. Zhongli knelt beside him, reaching with practiced care. Ginger strands clung to his dampened forehead, and Zhongli brushed them aside with gentleness. His voice, when it came, was low and steady, a quiet anchor. “You are far from whatever battlefield holds you now,” he murmured, not to wake but to ground. His fingers threaded through his hair, a slow, soothing motion. Be at ease, he thought, his presence offered not as a shield, but as a shelter - quiet, constant, and resolute.

It was becoming more commonplace. The coming and going. Dealings with the bank and dealings… else wise. A search he’d been tasked with that seemed hopeless. It kept him coming back to Liyue more often than not; be it for resources or simply in search of a friendly gaze as his own shoulders had gradually become lowered, downtrodden. The line of his shoulders didn’t break so easily, but cracks and crevices over time lead to the inevitable crash: be it in the comfort of linen or stealing a hilichurl hut for the night through less than friendly means, all done with a near to manic grin twisting his lips. Still, when he stepped foot into the Harbor, it was becoming more commonplace, to take solace in the warmth of a shared bed rather than slipping into the shadow of solitude at the Wangshu Inn.

He had not seen a golden smile accompanied by fluttering fairy typically in fits in many, many days. Weeks? He couldn’t be sure, as time slipped from his fingers like fine grains of sand, swept away by the wind. When had he last rested? Truly rested? The question bore a heavy weight over his mind, his body. Bruises accumulating, he’d come to Liyue bearing bandaging over his forearms with blood that had already dried over; still offering the faintest tang of iron if one bothered to look at them for too long. And, with practiced ease, he allowed the inevitable crash.

The rain had soaked him through and through; demanded that he strip himself of sodden wet clothe and armor with dew drops slipping over the sleek shine of familiar silver. It all lay by the wayside, without a thought held for its account. All that had mattered was the cup of tea on the bedside, the hands that had brewed it; the words given in some hint of chastisement were like a balm to his soul, at the time. And so, under the hush of a gently falling rain, the ache of his muscles had finally pulled him into sleep.

Sleep, yes. But not the rest he so desperately wished for.

If he had once been weighed down by nothing more than twelve thousand steps, the tension returned to snap his muscles back into fitful sleep; a darkness behind the eyes, trapped within the mind, far too familiar. It presses in from all corners and, in the utter silence, his heart kicks up; because the silence always comes first, he knows. He’s been here before, pulse beating with the frantic heartbeat of a terrified child. The silence sits, as if air itself dare not move in the space around him.

Childe already knows it’s too late. He will be swallowed by it; mind, body, soul. The strain of his muscle, nor the blood on his blade can push back the tide. Not forever.

Within this there is a touch, both unassuming and unexpected; it startles him out of sleep, jerking upright, breaths quick but quiet. Blue eyes flit about the room, taking in every corner, table, candle: tension in his body noted even in the way his fingers curl tightly in the sheets at either side of his hips, tendons flexing. Sweat drips from his temple to slip down; over his cheekbone, the curve of his jaw, the lines of a slender neck. It settles over his collarbone as his eyes finally lock onto Zhongli; amber eyes shadowed by the ridge of his brow. Childe swallows, but the strain of his shoulders, doesn’t dissipate. “You—” His heart throbs in his ears, quick as a hare’s feet. Childe bites down on his tongue hard enough to draw blood. He doesn’t have anything to say.

Instead, he pushes the sheets from his hips, slips out from under them with a swift kick of his legs so they can swing over the side of the bed. He grips the edge of the mattress, nails digging into the linen as he stares blankly at the floor before his eyes. The room is cast in moonlight, he realizes. He has no idea what time it is. The bolt of his jaw ticks.

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