Nerevarine’s Journal: Morrowind, Part 1

“The old man is, apparently, quite averse to wearing a shirt.”

Journal of Adairabi Mirellaku:

Nerevarine

Vol. I

18 Sun’s Height 3E 427

Given the odd turns of recent events, I have decided to keep a journal to document them as they unfold. I have always wanted to keep a journal, but never could til now.

I was born in the Ahemmusa tribe in the Ashlands of Morrowind. My given name is of little consequence; it does not belong to me, or anyone, anymore. My name is Adairabi Mirellaku now.

My father was the Ashkhan of our small and peaceful tribe and my mother was a scout. I had a brother and a sister, and I was a hunter.

I was born female, but I knew my soul from a very early age, and the the wise woman told my family that it was best to listen, so I was a boy and then a man in all but

body.

I should have learned to be content with it. But I found the way I developed so distressing. There was a Hlaalu merchant, Veli, who often came by to trade, and we knew Veli as a kind but melancholy man. One day, I was with my dear brother and sister, bringing home the meat of a troublesome kagouti, when Veli appeared, changed. She had become a woman and it was as though a weight had lifted from her.

I had prayed to the Good Daedra to change me with little success. Boethiah wanted sacrifice - a life to prove my commitment. I couldn’t; the Ahemmusa are a peaceful people who do not kill unprovoked. Mephala wanted me to sow a plot that would have ruined the Zainab and left them starving and landless; I couldn’t, for the same reasons. Azura, good Azura, said in a dream that I was to do great things if she said no, so she said no.

I asked Veli how she managed it and she said she went to Vivec, one of the murdering false gods od the Tribunal, who is every gender and shifts their sex at will.

Azura forgive me. I know my siblings saw the look on my face. I know they would have known if I’d left and come back changed like Veli.

So I faked my death with the bones of an unfortunate pilgrim and my armor and I went to Vivec. They changed me. How odd, to owe one’s life to a murderer. Disturbingly captivating.

I changed my name but kept my Ashlander identity as much as I could afford to without revealing myself. For going to Vivec, I would be banished or worse, and I can’t bring that shame upon my family.

I became a mercenary. A sellsword. Shameful work, but it pays better than hunting. And the most remarkable thing happened.

I was escorting a Redoran oathman out of Morrowind (I think he was on the run but knew better than to ask) when I heard a commotion. Bandits had attacked a caravan. I intervened. The oathman and

nearly all of the guards lay dead, but so did the bandits.

My tribe are pacifists, and I should not have intervened. But to stand by in that moment seemed naive, cowardly, and most importantly, dishonorable.

The caravan, disguised as something so unassuming, concealed the Emperor of Tamriel himself. I knew better than to tell him of my true thoughts about the s'wits who opened up Vvardenfell to more settlement and cost my family, my culture, so much.

Uriel called me a friend and offered many rewards. Having few prospects, I accepted, knowing I’d be able to leave if the Empire asked me to assist in their conquest and corrupt domination.

I was taught to read and write in his language and, because I insisted upon it, in Dunmeris. I learned their customs and manners. I became so like them, when I wanted to, that I can be invisible.

And I was sent to work as the Emperor’s agent for a sensitive matter that I shall not share here. If it came out how much my betrayal cost the

Empire, I would surely have to fake my death once more. Best not to risk it.

The Blades found me and imprisoned me. I was scheduled for a swift and quiet execution. But the Emperor, out of some naive sentimentality for the friendship he thought we shared, or perhaps some sense of guilt, ordered me sent to Morrowind to assist a Blade there. The fool. I’ll interfere with their imperialism again no matter what it costs me.

I’m on the ship now, writing in a notebook I begged for. Will have to steal better ink.

1 Last Seed 3E 427

Had that dream again - the one about a beautiful woman with a Dunmer’s features and an Altmer’s golden skin, telling me all sorts of pretty things before stabbing me in the throat. I wonder what those dreams mean.

There is another prisoner aboard the ship. He’s a tough old Dunmer with one good eye and a shorn head. He has the shakes of one in need of a skooma fix, but he’s alright. His name is Jiub.

I have decided to pose as an outlander. I’m keeping the Ashlander name I chose, but if I tell people I’m Ahemmusa, I run the risk of my true identity being discovered.

Being a sellsword was so much easier.

16 Last Seed 3E 427

We’ve arrived in Morrowind. I was woken up from an odd dream by Jiub, who said I slept through last night’s storm. A female voice that sounded like Azura told me, in my dream, that I had been chosen, and I saw odd visions.

It’s probably just a dream, but to be honest, it scared me more than a little. But I’m no superstitious Urshilaku. I’m going to do my best to ignore it; after all, there is too much happening to dwell on it even if I wanted to.

We arrived in Seyda Neen, a small port town I’ve never been to until now. When the guard saw that I was a Dunmer, he told me I’d “fit right in” as though I’m not an Ashlander posing as an outlander. These House Dunmer, in all their snobbery, will hate me. The Ashlanders won’t trust me. Ignorant s'wit.

They’ve given me a package to take to an Imperial in Blamora. I suspect that abandoning this “mission” and running would just get me killed; this seems important. So I’ll do what I’m told like a good little n'wah and betray them when the moment comes. Maybe then, Uriel will get the message that I want no part in the injustice that is the Empire.

I’m writing this in a shop before I head north to Balmora. People here talk about the strangest things. A Bosmer I just met told me there’s trouble on Solstheim, as if I’m meant to care about Imperial business there. At least he believed that I’m an outlander, and that I hadn’t seen the ring I stole from the Imperials. Azura forgive me. I know it’s dishonorable, but I have nothing, and that enchantment could save my life or buy me a warm meal. Besides, he’ll be fine.

Anyway, a Nord in Imperial armor asked me to find where he keeps his valuables and steal them for him and I refused, so I suppose Fargoth and I will have to call it even.

16 Last Seed 3E 427

Decided to walk to Balmora rather than taking the silt strider. It feels good to spend time in the parts of Vvardenfell with no buildings again after so long. I’ve stopped in Pelagiad. A Dunmer I met when I walked in said it feels like a village in High Rock, and I’m inclined to agree. I hate it here. This is Morrowind, not High Rock.

I think the merchant at this trade house figured out that the book I sold him was stolen. He still purchased it, but refused to sell me a bow. I feel bad for stealing it, but I have to admit I liked the rush. Anyway, I stole another book from him. It’s shameful, but I’m no longer Ahemmusa. I’m freer now, in a way, but I’d still prefer to be home.

And that’s the Empire for you. So indignant about theft, but they’ll still take a cut of the profits.

Anyway, I managed to find another Ashlander here. He wasn’t very warm at first, but a little flirting put him at ease and got him talking. He’s left his tribe to become a trader or something, but from what he said, it sounds as though the soul sickness and blight storms are getting worse. I fear for my family.

I also met a khajiit named Ahnassi who suggested I go to the cornerclub in Balmora and look into joining the Thieves’ Guild. I laughed her off, but perhaps she has a point; all I’ve done since I got here is steal and it would be nice to have connections who are not so firmly lodged up the Empire’s ass.

17 Last Seen 3E 427

I am writing this from the Ghostgate. After leaving Pelagiad, which I’m beginning to suspect is full of members of the Thieves’ Guild, I came across a pretty young Breton woman who looked as though she came from wealth. What a peculiar and naive girl. I suspect she’s been reading too many romances because she told me a bandit had robbed her and, unbelievably, she was interested in him and wanted me to find him for her. I obliged; why wouldn’t I, just for the entertainment? I had to see where it was going. He actually reciprocated! Unbelievable!

Anyway, I took a detour on the way to Balmora. I just had to see the Ashlands again, despite the risk. I fought my way past a few cliff racers and found my way to the Ghostgate. A ghastly concept, using one’s ancestors to power such a device. But what else is there to do?

And when I arrived, I found none other than Julan Kaushibael, from my tribe (sort of). We were close-ish as boys, but he didn’t recognize me with my new body, new voice, even my new name and face, since even that changed a bit…. As much as I’d like to say hello, it’s too dangerous. But he needs help, so I’m helping him now. His mother was a wise woman. Both are outcasts now. I suppose he’ll explain the mission he’s on in time, when he learns to trust me.

18 Last Seed 3E 427

Found our way back to Balmora. We went to the cornerclub where I was meant to find information and I joined the Thieves’ Guild on a whim. I suppose it’s better than the racist assholes in the Camonna Tong, but Julan doesn’t approve. After that, we managed to find the Blade I was sent for:

Caius Cosades. The old man is, apparently, quite averse to wearing a shirt, and he lives in a very small room, smaller even than a yurt, and appears to be addicted to skooma. I don’t think that’s a cover. I think his addiction is real, and that it couod be dangerous… or I could take advantage to break free from serving the Empire. We’ll have to see. He didn’t want to talk with Julan there, which Julan didn’t like, but all he did was name me a novice of the Blades (ridiculous) and tell me to gain more experience before he’ll let me take on other orders.

Time to steal a diamond for Sugar-Lips Habasi and hope my old friend doesn’t leave me for it.

He spoke of odd dreams. I hope it isn’t soul sickness.

20 Last Seed 3E 427

I’ve been doing odd jobs for the Thieves’ Guild, just to get some pay and experience. Julan isn’t particularly happy about it, but he doesn’t interfere or report me; in fact, he helps if things get ugly. Yesterday, we managed to free a slave the Camonna Tong were using to smuggle drugs. She would have been cut open and killed had we not intervened. We brought her to the Argonian Mission in Ebonheart.

And last night, we freed a thief who was being held prisoner by using an Imperial official’s corruption against her.

I think Julan will stay forgiving as long as I continue to help him train to be a better warrior for his secret mission that I’m not allowed to know about.

Hopefully, soon, I’ll be skilled and experienced enough for Caius to actually give me something to do. Or perhaps he’ll forget about me and I’ll be able to leave.

A part of me wonders if my old friend can get me back into my tribe, somehow. A part of me dreads the idea; I’d miss seeing the world and having adventures.

You know, I used to be an okay guar-rider. Not as good as Erra, mind you. But I was alright. Didn’t fall off too much.

Now shooting from guarback, I was not good at.

Please children, Erra is from a warrior culture. I cannot stress that enough!

He’s not as soft as you think XD

An Ashlander named Kh'azhisammu Banilabelnabila Dunbelmus’. Any critiques on his outfit before I color him?

Drew some of the Ahemmusa wise-babushkas in my spare moments (although i consider Mamaea middle-aged but whatever) – they gonna be included more in the next chapter hehe <3

Some older design of Lesedi. Was not sure how her layering should work. This one was also missing the Ahemmusa characteristics with seashells and other marine trinkets.

Ashlander Wisewoman

no WIP this time, i consider it finished

Inktober day 10: nomadic

An Ashlander wise woman. Robe referenced from a mid-late Qing Dynasty Tibetan robe.

OMG he looks amazing! Thank you so so so much! I love how floofy his hair looks <3 And you got his ear curves <3

Ahhh I love it!

5/5 of my main dunmer ladies:

Üdrnahly (Idrnahly) Enacryon - ashlander and walking through Oblivion versions

Fadoneya Ulvani - Nerevarine

Taphedrah - Champion of Cyrodiil

Vegra - Dragonborn

catch them all ©

My Ashlander Bedouin from the latest TESIII playthrough. WIP.
Finally posting here smth, but it’s freaking WIP 💀

Wip Whenever - Yet more face details.

Thank you @skyrim-forever @silly-little-diary and @sanzas-reverie for tagging me.

I know it’s late but 0 pressure tagging @firefly-factory @redyn-nerevarine @smolpocketmonstercoffee @truth-01001001-liar @scribeofskyrim @pocket-vvardvark @thescrolls-haveforetold @scholarlyhermit and anyone else who’s interested. I’m still getting used to tagging people again so…

Anyway I’ve been plodding along on getting the details of Erra’s face done, mostly working on his eyes. Next up are his eyebrows then scarring etc.

So yeah, he’s getting there.

Faith-born Pt. 1

By Michaelu

Talania Pullo sat amongst her fellow Nibenese with slight discomfort. Around her stood the imperial chapel of Talos. Its white-grayish stone draped with banners of imperial red and bearing the dragon of the Empire of Cyrodil. Nearer to the chapel’s roof rested a stained glass window where a man short of hair and dressed in richly dyed purple and green robes, stood like a shepherd leading a flock. The man’s noble face gazed eastwards, toward the future, while behind him a red diamond blazed like a jewel of fire and blood.

“Oh Talos, save us.” Recited Arania, a fellow imperial Nibenese who looked longingly to the image of the man: Talos, otherwise known as Tiber Septim, the first emperor of the third human empire.

A priest, a spindly pale human, raised his hands. His fingertips moved slightly in the sunlight leaking through the stained glass window above. “Blessed are the Aedra: Our Ancestors—Our Gods! Talos sits among them. Once a mortal, now a divine. Honor him!”

By His will and that of the Gods, we shall turn Tamriel into a land of peace and order. Talania thought, smiling.

The service was almost up. As the faithful rose from their pews, the chapel erupted in a melody that made Talania’s skin run rampant with goosebumps. The women sang first, their voices reaching ever higher beyond the roof, beyond the clouds, all the way to Aetherius where the Gods were from. Then, the men followed in a lower-mournful call. Talania closed her eyes as she followed her fellow parishioners down towards the chapel door.  With every step her imperial cuirass, freshly cleaned, dug into her skin.

“Arania,” Talania whispered.

“Shh, the service isn’t over ‘till we’re out of the chapel.”

“I…” Talania sighed, interrupting her own thought. They were nearer to the door now and the music reached its finale. The way the male and female voices closed their song made the forty year old legionnaire think of her mother. An angry woman who was quite unpleasant to be around, but when in the chapel, her voice had stunned many a listener. I wonder if that is how the voice of our Aedra sound.

“I really wish you would be more quiet during the service,” Arania said as they exited the shrine and entered the busy streets of the city of Old Ebonheart. “Even when you don’t talk, you shuffle around like a thrashing slaughterfish.”

Talania prepared to bite back but a glimmer of a golden septim caught the woman’s eye. The coin rested within a puddle by her feet. Talania blinked and it was as if she were nine again wandering the streets of her home city of Leyawiin: proud but hungry.

Her mother’s voice, both a song and a whip, struck her cheek. The little girl that was, closed her eyes, unable to control her bowels. “Where’s that damned septim? You dropped it?!”

Talania, legionnaire and combat veteran of several of the emperor’s most brutal campaigns, flinched. After a moment the woman reached down to pick up the coin. Mid-way through her reach, her reflection in the puddle stopped her in her tracks. She observed her taught olive skin with growing irritation. Around her cheeks, scars from her time fighting the fierce reptilian Argonian warriors of Black Marsh marred her right cheek. While her hair, once a solid brown, was peppered now with streaks of gray. She had tied it back behind her head in a tight bun to avoid noticing it but the reflection revealed all.

“I look terrible…” Talania blurted.

“Tch, you look a woman her age. Strong and quiet, so unlike us Nibenese with our folk songs and gossip. You’re sure you’re not Colovian?” Arania smiled cheekily, her dark-braided hair soaking up the light of the sun.

Talania picked up the coin quickly, stuffing it in a leather pouch by her hip. “Oh please, if I was a Colovian would I even bother speaking to you? I’d be grunting or snorting like a horse.”

“HA! I wouldn’t go that far, Tal. Those Colovians speak, just not proper-like.”

“They don’t dress well either.” Talania chuckled, remembering the rich colors of eastern Cyrodil: her homeland. “Do you remember, Arania? Little messy-haired rodents we were, running through rows of yellow and bright orange cloth left out to dry in the sun.”

“Hmmph… I do. I also remember running into a bunch of Colovians. You remember? Near my mom’s tavern? One of them tried to court me.”

She remembered. The boy had been exactly what a Colovian should not be: nervous, sniffling, and unsure of himself. Not like his stoic-faced and ill dressed elders at all. “You really told him off.”

“Did more than that, Tal. I kicked him in his groin.”

“By the Nine. Brutal.”

“Wasn’t about to let some country bumpkin think he was good enough to get me. Had to show him, may his jewels rest in peace.”

Nervous feet shuffled close behind Talania as Arania pretended not to notice.

“Excuse me? Hello!” The voice was like the rumbling of a volcano. It was a hoarse voice that spoke each word with great strain. Both women turned to find a Dark Elf in front of a mobile trader’s stall.

Talania narrowed her eyes. The Dark Elf savage wore a gray robe with an image or pictograph of a woman holding in one hand a crescent moon and in the other a star. The Elf’s skin: ashen and unsettling as the country that surrounded them, stretched itself over lean muscle and a lifetime of toil. The Elf smiled at them with his teeth and ruby-red eyes, wielding only the faintest notes of handsomeness his vermin race was allowed. Upon his head, he wore a low cut mohawk that ended in a braided ponytail that ran down the back of his robe. The legionnaire’s steely gaze rested on the elf’s lips, unsure why her heart began to flutter like a fleeing butterfly.

“May—Uh, I interest you in my humble wares? I have pottery from the province of Black Marsh and Elsweyr; I even have mithril boots given to me by a Telvanni exile. Please have a look—”

Arania stepped up as if in battle formation: her mailed fist or boot ready to abuse someone who would dare to bother members of the emperor’s fist. But before the dark haired Nibenese could do anything, Talania brought her hand out to halt her. Arania looked harshly at her friend but eventually relented.

“So what will it be? I just know that I have something for you wonderful ladies!” The Elf smiled and a tattoo of a crescent moon waned over his right cheek. Talania rolled her eyes at his idiotic and simpleton smile.

This idiot doesn’t realize how close he came to losing his left and right nut. Talania grunted. “We’re not interested, Elf. Move along.”

“Please—Wait! At least have a look at the mithril boots. They’re incredibly light and durab–” Talania grabbed the elf by the collar of his robe and tried to lift him up. The Elf was surprisingly heavy and instinctively raised his hand to grip Talania’s arm. The grip of his hand was like a vise and the legionnaire knew that sooner rather than later the pressure would begin to hurt. This close to him, Talania caught a whiff of what smelled like a cologne. The scent brought to mind the image of gold kanet flowers whose sweet almost lemony smell she’d encountered on patrols through this land’s rugged terrain.

“Hehe. You’re a pretty strong imperial. Now about the boots–”

“Will you shut up?” Talania’s eyes widened as the Elf showed no signs of letting up. He’s not a soldier. Not even one of those silent ordinator guards, yet his hand feels like he’s about to break my arm.

The overconfident merchant raised an eyebrow. “No.”

Arania stepped forward again, her teeth gritted in the way they had been when she’d scared those foolish boys off all those years ago. “What in Oblivion did you say? You damned savage.”

The Elf laughed. “No, I won’t shut up. If I don’t sell you these boots, then I don’t eat. You’re imperials. Septims–coin leaks from out of your mouths like rushing waterfalls. And I know I can get a deal with you.” He looked into Talania’s eyes; she stared back observing red within red like imperial dragon banners. To her dismay, the legionnaire began to feel an onrush of warmth behind her ears.

She let go of him and brought her hand up quickly to rub away the growing flush on her face.

Arania put a hand on Tal’s arm, ignoring the merchant. “Are you well? Has the Dark Elf done some wicked devilry upon you?”

“I’m fine!” Talania groaned as she brought her hand down. She turned back to the merchant and sighed. “Dammit you’re persistent.”

“I have to be,” the merchant replied while his stomach rumbled.

“Hmmph… Oh Talos, how much?”

“Forty septims.”

“Forty septims? For mithril? There’s gotta be a catch,” Arania punched Tal’s arm. “This shifty Dark Elf is selling what should go for hundreds of septims for so cheap. I don’t trust him.”

“You don’t trust any Elf, Arania.”

“Heeeeey, that’s not true. I don’t trust any Dark Elves. High Elves I get along with just fine. There’s a difference.”

The merchant chuckled. “Dun. Mer.” His voice was raspy but his smile was young.

“What did you say?” Arania, ever hot tempered, made a step forward. The merchant stared on, unafraid.

“I said: DUNMER. The Ashen Folk.”

“What in the Nine Divines is the difference?” Arania pointed.

“The difference, good imperial, is that one is the name of my people and the other… well… I’ve only ever heard from you humans.”

There was something about the Elf’s response that made Talania want to chuckle. He is a bold one. Talania’s hand drifted down to her coin pouch ever so slightly as if she were running it over tall grass. “I want to see the boots.” She said, forcing her brow to furrow.

Arania groaned, facepalming but realizing she could do nothing to dissuade her friend from her choice.

The merchant grinned and turned with glee towards his cart. The late morning sun was beginning to settle into its midday station as the city around the three bellowed with similar merchants and imperials. After a moment the Dunmer had found the boots and walked up slowly towards Talania. The metal, almost white, glimmered in the sun. Inside of the boots there seemed to be some padding that promised comfort as well as protection.

Arania, who a second ago could not control her temper, was quiet, watching with wide eyes as the merchant handed the boots to her friend.

“Well? What do you think?” The boots were definitely used, sporting scratches and tiny dents in the metal.

Used boots are proven. This is a steal. Talania brought her eyes up and asked, “Where did you say you got these boots from?”

“A Telvanni exile. I saved his life and he rewarded me with these.”

“Why… Why would any House El–Dunmer, voluntarily part with such a treasure?”

The merchant stopped smiling and looked thoughtfully at the pair of boots. “I know you probably can’t tell the difference between us Dunmer, but I’m actually not from around here.” The merchant took in the space and for the first time the legionnaire noticed how his clothing seemed rather rugged, distinct, from the more Cyrodilic or foreign influenced jerkins and tunics worn by the city dwellers of Old Ebonheart. “I’m an Ashlander of the Zainab folk–”

“You’re a barbarian?” Arania crossed her arms. “No wonder you act the way you do. That High Elf at the mages Guild back at Firewatch warned me about these folk, Tal. Killers and Raiders. You are a barbarian, then?”

The Dunmer laughed. “Barbarian? I was one, yes. But I’m also a hunter. A tracker. A merchant. A cook… We have more roles than many House Dunmer or other foreigners realize. Yet, no matter how many different cloaks we wear, our hearts beat only to survive. My people believe that survival means being willing to sacrifice what makes you comfortable.” Talania’s hand ascended, wielding aloft the 40 septims as the Dunmer gently placed the boots in her other hand. “As you’ve been hearing, my belly has ached, and unfortunately I cannot break my fast on mithril.”

Good boots, Talania thought as she inspected them again in the sun. Used. Proven. Talania frowned. “Why lower your price for less than its worth? How does that help you survive?”

“My eldest brother used to tell me that those who sell their prize for cheap may wield less foreign coin, but should they get lost in the wastes, they may wander within a larger shadow and holding more wealth.”

The Dunmer’s words brought to mind the image of Ashlander tribesman, their kin and family all around them, wandering through golden grass. Talania imagined this Elf in front of her walking more freely without a care in the world.

“Sounds like savage horseshit to me.”

“Arania!”

“Whaaat?” Talania glared at her friend until the dark-haired Nibenese relented once more and rolled her eyes in seething quiet.

“Ha! Well you don’t lack for spirit. Now, miss legionnaire, did you want to try the boots?”

Talania couldn’t control the beginning of a slight smirk. Her smile, infectious, was reflected by the Dunmer in front of her. “I’ll try em when I’m not standing in the street. What’s your name, Ashlander?”

For the first time the whole conversation the Dunmer seemed taken aback, almost flustered. “I… I am Massour. Massour of the Grazelands. And you?”

“Talania Pullo. I hail from Leyawiin.”

Massour nodded, though his expression indicated he knew not of her city. Why would he know where I am from? He’s probably never been outside Morrowind.

He proceeded to take out one of the septims from the coin pouch, ironically the one she’d picked up in the puddle just a few feet away, and again his stomach rumbled. “I will eat good tonight. I hope… I hope we meet again.”

Talania smiled, feeling not her age. “Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad, Massour.”

END

ALT

Maral, ashkhatun’s daughter. she’s one of the herders

ALT

all her friends are bugs : )

Ash-and-Fire 🔥

I’m shifting into my ArtFight prep gears and wanted to draw some proper art for the last of my Urshilaku OCs that I haven’t drawn yet.

Chanu is Ramshuribani’s little brother. He’s about 10ish during the events of Morrowind and is being haunted by dreams and visions of the Sixth House and Dagoth Ur. Stellar (my Nerevarine) finds him more than once wandering the outskirts of the camp in a trance, or even deliberately seeking Stellar out. Chanu, having never met an Argonian before and being naturally very curious, is interested in befirending Stellar right away, and between that and Stellar helping him back to camp when he has his episodes, Chanu helps endear Stellar to the tribe. He becomes gulakhan when he grows up.

I think it’s time to repeat Nerevar Week this year ✨

Really trying to restyle Ashlander costumes because I just don’t think they’d be wearing a mishmash of rags (no nomadic culture does this). I want to try to make them into their own legitimate cultural group, as opposed to the “barbarian” stereotype.

idk I’ve adopted them and they’re mine now.

Joshi’s finger pigments are henna btw