#[ thread: flight of the herons ]

[mountainsea-chronicles]

Weekly Shanhaijing 6 - Joint-Wing Birds ( 比翼鸟 )

This is sort of a continuation to the previous Weekly SHJ. As in 1) the passage below directly follows the one from last week, and 2) I’ve created something of a narrative thread between the instalments.

比翼鸟在其东，其为鸟青、赤，两鸟比翼。一曰在南山东。

The joint-winged birds are to the east. They are blue-green and crimson, and two birds fly on shared wings. It is said they are to the east of South Mountain.

-From the Classic of Southern Lands Beyond the Seas ( 海外南经 )

Red bird,

be my wing.

I cannot be whole

without it.

Green bird,

stay beside me.

Take me across the mountains.

I don’t know what we’ll find 

across the ridge,

but just the feeling

of flight on joined wings

the sky above and mountains below

is enough.

Translation

“…to the east.” - I know I just translated “其[direction]” as “to its [direction]” in the last post, but in retrospect, “to the [direction]” would make it work better, both as a standalone excerpt and in the context of the work as a whole.

“..blue-green…” - “青” is honestly one of the most difficult concepts to translate. It’s not just a single colour, but a whole spectrum, from bright green to intense blue. “Blue-green” has become my go-to translation for the word.

“…and two birds fly on shared wings.” - The word “比” in this context is difficult to explain; it’s something like “put them together,” “put them side-by-side.”A more literal translation would be “two birds put wings together.” I decided against that because it felt too vague. Went for something that would paint a clearer image instead, while still trying to keep the economy of the language.

Art

While the text just refers to these guys as “birds,” I’ve always imagined them as looking like waterfowl of some sort, particularly ducks or herons ( the former was probably because I’d been subconsciously influenced by the symbolism of mandarin ducks in Chinese culture ). I decided to combine the characteristics of the two types of bird and sprinkle in my usual funky patterns.

The blue-green bird’s design was also partly drawn from a description of the joint-wing birds from a later chapter, the Classic of the Great Western Wilderness ( 大荒西经 ):

有比翼之鸟。有白鸟青翼，黄尾，玄喙。

There are birds of conjoined wings. There are white birds with blue-green wings, yellow tails, dark beaks.

Writing

I imagined a sort of rhythm throughout the poem. I guess this could be considered a reverse tone poem- the music came first, the words settled into the beat later.

It may not seem like it, but I swear there’s a connection between this and the previous instalment ( apart from the little cameo of the snake-fish ). It’s that feeling of discovery, of exploration.

Speaking of the snake-fish, we’ll see more of them in the next instalment. Stay tuned!

[tgarnsl]

for the word guessing game, how about thread, light, and leaf?

99% sure you've seen some of these before but...

thread

from my hornblower magic au where the Lydia gets stuck in the doldrums because of unresolved sexual tension

He had been no more than nineteen — scarcely more than a boy — when he had been taken as a prisoner of war to serve out his days in a Spanish gaol. His magic, weak as it was in those days, had been unable to save his ship from falling into enemy hands: for months afterwards he had dreamt of the conjured fog slipping through his fingers as he desperately tried to weave the threads of its spell tight. He had sworn off magic then, cutting himself off from it entirely: it had been more painful than he could have ever imagined, severing himself from something so intrinsic to his very nature, but he told himself that it was no more than he deserved. In time, the magic would not even come to him in dreams, so removed was he from himself, and a profound melancholy soon clouded his mind — scarcely able to sleep, scarcely able to eat, he began to fear that his magic had left him entirely. To lose his magic was unthinkable; since his earliest boyhood he had been aware of the shimmering sea of golden threads, invisible to the seeing eye, that connected all things. Once, he had felt its vitality flowing through him, but in Spain he felt it no longer. Desperate, he had done what no magician of honour would do; performed a ritual of scrying in water tainted with his own heart’s-blood. It was a dangerous game to play; to scry in one’s own blood brought clarity to the vision, but ran the risk of binding the seer to a fate he did not want. Hornblower had asked what any young man might: the path that would bring him glory. The visions in the scrying glass had been vague and nebulous, as visions ever were, but they had promised him glory and a happy life — a life he had never before imagined for himself.

—

light

slightly cheating here. from my flight of the heron stolen au:

“A letter arrived while you were away,” said Lochiel, picking up a square, sealed packet and passing it across the desk to Ewen. “I believe it is in my cousin Margaret’s hand.”

Ewen examined it, the letter trembling in his hands. Breaking the seal, he unfolded it, and cast his eye quickly over the first page and a half, which were primarily to do with the business of the estate, until he reached the words that made his heart stop in his chest.

Last week, wrote his aunt in her familiar hand, Young Iain of the Coire Daraich MacMartins went under my instructions to Fort William, carrying your Letter for Major Windham. There, he spoke with a redcoat Officer. I am sorry, my Boy. Your Major Windham died from the Wound he received at Morar, some days after he was brought back to Fort William.

The world dimmed, shifted, until all that was left were the words on the page. Your Major Windham died, Aunt Marget had written, the writing so neat and careful it could only be practiced. How many letters had she written, trying to find the right phrase? He tried to be grateful, but the grief was too strong. Once more he sat astride his garron, looking back over his shoulder at the shieling, a dark huddled mass against the lightening sky — and at the figure of Keith Windham, clutching a plaid tightly around himself, one hand raised in what might have been farewell.

—

leaf

from a flight of the heron fic I don't know if I'll ever finish, but that features a seduction attempt through bible reading (listen, Ewen is not very good, but he's trying)

“Is there nothing I can do for you?” he asked, kneeling before Ewen. “Your kindred — would you like me to write a letter to impart to them your circumstances?”

An unhappy smile twisted at Ewen’s lips. “Later, perhaps, if that signed order of yours is honoured and we are not disturbed until dawn.” His eyes lighted on the Bible. “May I—?”

“Certainly,” said Keith, handing it to him. He sat back on his heels and waited as Ewen leafed through the Bible, evidently searching for a passage.

“Would you do me a kindness, Windham?” he asked once he had found it, his voice tight. “These verses… I would very much appreciate it if you would read them to me.” Keith offered up his hand and Ewen gave him the Bible, indicating with a finger where Keith should begin reading.

“Please,” murmured Ewen, and so Keith turned his attention once more to the scripture before him.

“'And Jesus answering said, A certain man went down from Jerusalem to Jericho, and fell among thieves, which stripped him of his raiment, and wounded him, and departed, leaving him half dead. And by chance there came down a certain priest that way: and when he saw him, he passed by on the other side. And likewise a Levite, when he was at the place, came and looked on him, and passed by on the other side. But a certain Samaritan, as he journeyed, came where he was: and when he saw him, he had compassion on him, and went to him, and bound up his wounds, pouring in oil and wine, and set him on his own beast, and brought him to an inn, and took care of him. And on the morrow when he departed, he took out two pence, and gave them to the host, and said unto him, Take care of him; and whatsoever thou spendest more, when I come again, I will repay thee.”

But it was not an inn that Keith envisioned in his mind’s eye as he spoke of it, but a lonesome shieling on the slopes of Ben Loy, and it was not a man of Jerusalem lying half-dead and wounded that he had come upon, but a man of Ardroy.

“You understand now,” said Ewen softly, as Keith closed the Bible. “This is what you have done for me.”

[allegreta]

flight of the herons (white heron cup r2)

Leanne feels confident, actually. Sephiran is a better dancer than he thinks, and she's adjusting to his style of movement. Surely, they can synchronize and find their groove in a way that will delight the judges and audience even more!

She takes Sephiran's hand, practically fluttering onto the stage and waving to those surrounding her before the music even starts. Oh, how her heart could burst with joy! Even the creatures composing the orchestra take note of her greeting, and she hopes it helps ease their anxiety at their newfound sentience.

The music they play lends itself well to her and Sephiran's steps. She finds herself leading, and integrates her wings in a way that does not overshadow his lack. She even lifts him into the air at a point that corresponds to the rise and fall of the music, a feat that certainly tires her but wows the judges considerably.

It is an energetic and inspired dance, something that comes more of spirit than of practice, but it shines in a way that takes the audience's breath away and earns the duo raucous applause and impressive scoring from the judge. She knew they could do it!

Style: 9, Choreography: 5, Technique: 9, Total: 23!

up next: @thelightofcreation. later: @ashenprofessor and @anankelotus

[smelt-starverse]

Calamity Trio Headcanons (post-timeskip)

Anne Boonchuy:

- Transfem lesbian

- Refers to herself as Boonchuy-Plantar, but never got her name legally changed to match

- Calls her beat-up little car Bessie, talks to it like an animal on occasion

- Owns a tiny white-with-black-spots kitten who she named Domino 3

- Had crushes on Lapis Lazuli, Princess Daisy, and (obviously) Marcy and Sasha

- Owns the house they all share

Sasha Waybright:

- Has a tattoo of Grime on her shoulder, under where the heron sword patch is on her jacket

- Was given a workout playlist by Marcy that she absolutely loves (but Marcy’s too embarrassed to tell her it’s the soundtrack to the original 1986 Transformers movie)

Marcy Wu:

- Asexual, demiromantic (only romantically attracted to Anne and Sasha)

- Got into Daft Punk on the flight away from LA, cried for a week straight when they broke up

- Massive Steven Universe fan, especially of Peridot (having to live through The Hardest Thing only to see Steven Universe Future pull most of the same themes when she retreated to her comfort show hurt)

- Discord friends with Luz, but neither have the slightest clue about the other’s otherworldly misadventures

- Has a killer maniacal laugh, to the point where her girlfriends have worried for her safety on multiple occasions

- Got into a forum argument with Dipper (though, being a forum argument, neither knew who the other was) about whether Creatures and Caverns was better than Dungeons, Dungeons, and More Dungeons. The moderators had to lock the thread after twenty pages of furious and heated debate.

- Owns at least one of those D&D Dicelings (those D20 that turn into little monsters), uses it as a stim

Universal

- Very very much in love with each other (arguably canon, but felt it worth mentioning anyways)

- Officially started dating a month max after the timeskip scene in the finale; the photo at the end of the credits is their engagement picture

- First date was at an arcade

List is likely not complete, will add more as I remember/think of more

[caedescorvirpg]

SPARROW. LILIANA RASMUS   —   28,  NB.

Instant Connection: make two people who have never met each other, feel a certain emotion about the other (+) works on anyone (-) they must never have met before (-) your magic ends after five minutes, but that’s usually enough time for the feelings to become real (-) does not work a second time on a person

HISTORY

cw: death, suicidal ideation

YOU LEARN TO LOVE LIKE THIS: as a bruise, as a scar that runs along your the curve of your heart. Oh Love, the great monstrous beast, how it tears at the seams of the left and right atrium to reveal the vague lifeline of a family. You tug at the thread separating them and the rest soon follows after. When your mother leaves, she does not forget you. You receive red-stamped postcards carried on the waves of Lethe that forwards an artificial display of remorse. She misses you terribly and wishes dearly to at by your side holding you at arms length as all mothers should. However, she is not yet fully recovered and requires your patience in the meantime. You know what it means, what it has always meant, that churning sliver of doubt. You, born and bred from duty, have never been enough to stay for (will never be enough to live for). And your father, sat in a whittled down chair, will wait for the day she returns and recalls nothing else. You watch as he falls and recoil at the outcome. Perhaps if you had been a better child his fate might have been escapable, but you sat and you watched, and as a result succumbed to his loneliness. It’s only in half-mourning that you adorn his legacy with pride. It may be a noose, it may be a lifeline — but it is the only thing that can set you free.  

There’s a story about the sun and its children and the way the world was remade. Sick and full of envy, it watched as the moon — that other half of being — was adored by all those who worshiped it. Its followers were unafraid of its wrath and so danced in milky waters to the rippling of its face. The story ends with the sun destroying the moon and thus killing itself. It is a terrible thing to realize that you too will be spared no choice. To you, being real starts with a gaze and ends with the turn of a head. It is a performance, and you are only as real as others make you out to be. So you cleverly craft a mask of higher judgment; postulate yourself in such a way that others seek your guidance. They do not question why love and all its forms are found in the palm of your hand or why it seems to follow you. To do so would be to question the validity of their own need, to own the bitter secrets they try and swallow. People do not need to know that love is the cruelest thing a person can ask for. In the end, the sun will never rises again. You will not let it.

CONNECTIONS

HARRIER﹒ I NEED YOU TO HATE ME MORE

cw: death

Theirs is a love you cannot conquer, cannot move like a dial on a clock. His uncle comes to you with a want in his gaze and a briefcase full of money you cannot refuse. He asks of you to find his nephew a match: a pretty little thing with pretty glittering eyes and pretty vain ambitions. The woman would need to be careless and require all of his attention so that he might drown and never resurface. This, and nothing less. You find his match in a week, connect their hearts in an instant, and you do not see HARRIER again until you are invited to attend their wedding and then her funeral. It’s a solemn affair and across the chasm where her body is laid in a casket, you see him for seemingly the first time in your life. HARRIER is a man full of sorrow, that you can understand, but what seems difficult to decipher is why his rage is pointed at you like an arrow. Vitriolic words of accusation follow in its flight and you catch every bolt with your own heart. It’s a thrilling thing to be at the receiving end of someone else’s hate, you wonder how far he would go to demonstrate it.

BLACK HERON ﹒STILL, THERE IS THIS HORROR AT BEING LEFT BEHIND

cw: suicide

Your fear of being known paralyzes your mind into action. It's embarrassment ten times the river you drown in, and far more humiliating than being saved ever could be. In that moment of resuscitation they saw you — really saw you and from then on you knew you could never bear to part with it. Like a broken bird you flock to their side in comfort, hiding beneath their wings like a distant star in the night sky. They don’t care for you but it’s easy to pretend that they could. How can it not be when they allow you to rest your head on theirs, hide your eyes from glaring light, and insist you mourn over all the life you’ve missed so far? How can you not crave their affection when they are the only one who gives it so freely? You know this promise will be broken one day, and soon they too will leave, but for the moment it’s nice to pretend that you’re wanted — that you were loved for even a second.

ALBATROSS﹒   THERE'S A THEORY THAT SAYS YOU DON'T EXIST UNLESS SOMEONE CALLS & YOU RESPOND

In all things certain there is an air of mystery to be desired. You're familiar with each other in the way opposites always are. Her strength against your charm, immovable forces that do not change despite the time in-between. Your history dates long before you meet again in Caedes Corvi; long before your father was but a whisper of a man, and your mother a creature of the air. ALBATROSS has known you since your conception and has remained a thought by your side since then. There was no stronger connection than the distance between your home, but even that is not enough for her to stay. She leaves and does not come back, but you wait for her until you too are chosen for a task. Things are different now, only childhood memories tie you together, and a tall silent wall thwarts your attempts from reaching over; it is your own pride, and you hope that one day it may be torn down at the hands of her love. Until then you’re content to be with her even as a thought.

This skeleton is TAKEN by KIERSTEN and is portrayed by PRECIOUS LEE. Their highest stat is CHARISMA and their specialty is COUNTERFEITING.

[the-iron-orchid]

36 (face-sitting) for Jinana & Turel?

(weeks later) OK, so this one may have... gotten away from me a little....

Title: Without Words

Pairing: Jinana/Turel, ~2460 words

Warnings: Bodyworship, facesitting, mild domination, mild biting, masturbation

Synopsis: A foraging trip for Jinana becomes an alfresco tryst with Turel.

Notes: A follow-up to The Sound of Distant Thunder.

🔞🍋18+ Only! Minors DNI ����🔞

Jinana has been finding more time to be in the forests around Vesuvia of late, wildcrafting herbs for the shop and goods for the kitchen. This time of year, one may find king boletes, hen-of-the-woods, and even chanterelles amid the trees and mosses, and pine nuts abound.

Of course, there is another reason s/he has been making the time to explore the wilds, often with Anjali in tow (when the sky does not promise rain). S/he never quite knows where or when, but sometimes s/he will encounter the peculiar giant of a man s/he once found amid the falling rain, sitting silent and still as a stone.

Turel is a craftsman, a maker of things, his huge hands capable of finer and more delicate work than one might expect; Jinana knows just how delicate and fine that touch can be. S/he isn’t quite certain how to define what is between them - it is something born of the strange magic of being in wild places, and the way two people can sometimes read one another’s unconscious cues. Very often they will go with less than a handful of words exchanged, but communicating all the same.

There is something about him that is so soothing to hir, his energy a deep and steady current, in such contrast to the restless, chaotic energy that crackles through hir being. But when they are together, it’s as if hir own energy slows its pace to match his - the way a heartbeat might, or breathing.

Today it is cool and misty, and Jinana draws hir shawl more closely about hirself as s/he casts hir glance over the trees, looking for distinctive fungal formations. Ah, there… a mass of delicately frilled shapes clustered at the base of a tree. S/he slips hir gathering knife from hir pocket and bends down to harvest the fruiting body of the mushrooms.

When s/he rises again, s/he is only mildly surprised to find that s/he is being watched with silent interest. Jinana smiles and offers some of the bounty s/he’s just gathered; there’s plenty about. But Turel declines with a gesture and a small smile; instead, he beckons hir to follow. Intrigued, s/he does.

It’s a fine walk; they cross a couple of small streams, and Jinana mentally marks the location of a few persimmon trees. Right now their fruit will be astringent, but as fall deepens they will sweeten. They come to a part of the forest where firs congregate, and Jinana gathers some of the fragrant needles for teas and bath herbs.

Turel hunkers down at the base of a stand of trees, indicating little cleared spots in the leaf litter, probably the work of animals. Jinana, too, peers down at this. Summoning hir mage hand spell, s/he pushes the debris aside with a gesture. Beneath, s/he can just see three paler objects poking out of the dirt. Curious, s/he uses the same magical force to dig them out.

They are small white truffles, growing amid the roots of the trees, a true treasure of the forest. Jinana indicates with a tap to hir lips and a small wink that s/he will preserve this secret.

They spend some time in companionable silence, absorbed in the hunt for the elusive fungi. S/he takes only as much as s/he and Heron will be able to use; the delicious life-span of a truffle is finite, after all.

With the bounty secured in hir gathering basket, Jinana takes a moment to sit back against the trunk of a tree, watching ants trailing their way across the roots. S/he had almost forgotten how soothing and restorative it could be just to sit quietly in nature; humankind has tried so hard to distance itself from such things. Spending these brief times with Turel has re-taught hir the lesson that even a magician - perhaps especially a magician - is at their best when they take a moment to reconnect with the natural world.

Closing hir eyes, s/he reaches out with hir othersense, feeling the life that surrounds hir. The tree at hir back, hundreds of years old but thrumming with vigor, sharing its strength with its fellows through some mysterious web of connection. The ants’ nest below the ground, seething with activity and purpose. Squirrels, birds, insects… it is a vast jeweled net of living things, each with their own energy.

And s/he feels Turel’s energy, familiar to hir now, at once entirely harmonious and very different to that which surrounds them. S/he has not asked, but s/he suspects that, like the tree, he is a being of centuries, and perhaps more. Human, and perhaps not human… but human enough.

It is his energy which announces his approach, for his step is very light for one of such size. He seats himself next to hir, and Jinana leans lightly against his side, letting the contact ground hir in every way. S/he fancies that s/he can feel the wild magic that swirls and leaps within hir coming to rest, settling like water in a bottle. 

They stay like this for a time, a sort of meditation. When s/he opens hir eyes again, s/he feels calm, refreshed, even invigorated. S/he sees that while hir senses were elsewhere, a large mantis has taken up a position on Turel’s knee; seeing hir move, it spreads its wings in a defensive posture. The absurdity of it makes hir laugh, and this proves too much; the insect takes sudden flight.

It feels good to laugh. It feels good to be out of the city, in the greenness and the mist, away from it all. It feels good to be right here, in this moment, resting against the calming solidity of Turel’s body. He seems somehow more solid, more real than anything else, in a way that Jinana cannot explain.

Turel’s quiet answering chuckle is less a thing heard than a thing felt. Moving with a certain deliberation, he lifts one hand, gently running the backs of his fingers along hir jawline. The gesture is a question, one that Jinana answers by rising to hir feet, standing before him. S/he reaches out and tips his chin upward, bending down slightly to place a kiss upon his lips - he is so large that were he to kneel, still he would tower over hir. It is only when he is seated like this that s/he can reach him at all.

It is because of this difference, and because of Jinana’s own inclinations, that he yields to hir in these things. Jinana knows perfectly well that this is but a thing permitted, because it suits him to do so. But there is something thrilling in feeling such strength held in check, in commanding that strength for hir pleasure, however temporarily.

S/he runs hir fingers along Turel’s jawline as s/he pulls away, then grins and makes a particular gesture, speaking the words of magic under hir breath. S/he rises easily from the ground, levitating hirself to where s/he can be seated upon a nearby branch, more than hir own height off the ground. Smiling, s/he beckons with one hand.

Turel rising from a seated position is a sight in itself; it almost seems as if he will never stop rising, until finally his full height is reached. He steps over to where Jinana reaches hir hand out to him, palm-up. He takes the hand in his, where it immediately seems lost. He presses his lips to the flower of henna on hir palm, looking very slightly up at hir with amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes.

Jinana laughs in return, the sound becoming a sigh as he places a kiss on the inside of hir wrist. His eyes on hir are unblinking as he works his way up hir arm in a slow, steady trail of kisses and caresses. S/he has become accustomed to this unwavering gaze, the way he regards all things. S/he loves watching the way those eyes change with desire, their darkness deepening.

Turel reaches hir shoulder, the side of hir neck, and as he draws back to choose the next part of hir that he will give his attention to, Jinana leans forward to kiss him again. S/he parts hir lips, feeling him answer the deepening of the kiss with tremendous gentleness... but no lack of heat.

When s/he releases him once more, he continues his journey down the other arm, ending at the matching henna-traced flower in hir other palm. He then begins anew at the henna that graces the top of one foot, hir ankle, traveling up hir leg, his hands pushing up the fabric of hir skirt before him. Teasingly, Jinana keeps hir thighs pressed together; s/he knows what he wants, and he knows the game they are playing.

Only when Turel has made his way back down the other side does Jinana relax the tension in hir legs, allowing them to part. His huge hands skim up hir thighs, over hir hips in the bunched-up fabric of hir skirt. They come to rest at hir waist, long fingers wrapping around hir ribcage. It isn’t hard to feel the strength in those hands, and s/he gives a small shiver of delight.

“Lie down,” she tells him. To hir surprise, he brings hir with him, lifting hir effortlessly from the branch. Cheeky. But he lies down on his back on the mossy forest floor, and places Jinana so that s/he straddles his chest, his hands moving lightly over hir legs. S/he leans in once more, savoring a long, unhurried kiss. Then she lifts hirself up, bunching the skirt around hir hips and waist as s/he kneels over him, slowly bringing hirself within reach of his waiting mouth.

Turel’s lips are full and soft; his tongue is like an instrument of divinity. He explores hir differently with every caress, seeking out every source of pleasure. Jinana tucks hir skirt into place so s/he can thread hir fingers between his locs, hir hips starting to move of their own volition.

S/he tips hir head back, moaning softly; he needs no further encouragement, no verbal cues. His lips and wonderful tongue move with hir, giving more when the movements of her body demand it, backing off when s/he lifts herself away, drawing it out a little.

But it feels so good that s/he sees no reason to deny hirself for long, and the difference in their sizes frees hir to grind hirself against his face with abandon, moaning aloud with pleasure. His soft answering sounds are so deep that s/he feels them resonate through hir body, and this, too, adds to the sensation. S/he has no idea exactly what it is that he is doing with his tongue, only that it feels incredible. S/he grips the long locs of his head, lost to both moderation and reason as she feels hirself rising and rising, a split second of weightlessness… and then the great breakers of orgasm roll over hir, drowning hir in pleasure. S/he can hear hir own voice crying out, startling some small creature that dashes away through the underbrush.

But that isn’t the end of it; Turel is both patient, and very clever. His hands rest on hir hips, encouraging hir to stay, to take hir pleasure from him again… and again. When Jinana is finally released from the grip of ecstasy for the third time, she can feel hir legs trembling almost uselessly to either side of his head, barely able to hold hir up. After giving a final few kisses to the tender skin of the insides of hir thighs, Turel assists hir to rise.

Jinana laughs at the wobbliness of hir own legs as s/he untucks hir skirt, letting it fall to cover hir once more. S/he seats hirself on the soft moss, urging Turel to rest his head in hir lap. S/he bends down to kiss him once again, upside-down; the sutras of the art of love say that the greatest pleasure of the kiss is when both may kiss the fullness of the lower lip. Jinana cannot resist sinking hir teeth into the plumpness of his lower lip, just a little, before raising hir head again.

Of course, he has been holding his own desire in check, while s/he rode him to hir satisfaction. S/he thinks that s/he would very much like to see him bound in silken ropes, to leisurely play the games of endurance that s/he favors... but alas, the wilds are not ideal for such things. Still, there are other diversions to be had.

“Touch yourself for me,” she murmurs with a smile, arranging the locs around his face with gentle fingers. “I want to see.”

S/he is fairly certain there is nothing s/he could say or ask for that would shock Turel. He gives hir the impression of being… not jaded or weary, but well-experienced, one who has seen it all and still finds wonder in the world.

It’s a lesson s/he could stand to learn.

Jinana bends once more to visit soft kisses to his cheeks and forehead, sharper kisses to his lips and chin, as he eases himself from his clothing to hir view. S/he runs hir hands over his chest, amused by how tiny they appear upon him, feeling the very slight raising of the skin over the tattoos beneath hir fingertips.

S/he continues to visit kisses and caresses as he strokes himself, his eyes finally sliding closed to shut himself in with the sensations. Jinana places kisses here, too, with exquisite lightness, feeling the faint trembling of each shuttered lid under hir lips.

He is quiet in this, too, as in all things. His body moves gently against the ground beneath him, cushioned by the thick moss. Jinana watches, fascinated, a part of hir taking note of what causes him to sigh, to move a little faster (though, as in all things, he is unhurried in this too).

The sounds he makes are quiet, but Jinana feels them transmit themselves through hir thighs, through the very ground. S/he watches his face change with his pleasure, until climax crests through his body, too, shuddering beneath hir hands.

Jinana continues to cradle his head in hir lap as he relaxes, still gifting him those little gestures of affection, because it pleases hir to do so. And when Turel’s eyes open again, s/he smiles down at him.

There is no need for words.

[catsofsealandsky]

TRIBE OF MOUNTAIN SONG

CAVE SINGER: 

FLIGHT OF WATCHFUL KESTREL (Kestrel Flight)

 -Scarred small chocolate spotted tabby longhair tom with hazel eyes.   

  Listener: Dragonfly Flare

HEAD TALON GUARD:                                                                                 WOLF SINGING ON ICY LEDGE (Singing Wolf)

-Silver ticked tuxedo tabby longhaired tom with green eyes.  

     HEAD PREY RUNNER:                                                                                      STING OF SWIFT BEE (Swift Bee)

- Longhaired cream and white tabby tom with green-yellow eyes.

TALON GUARDS:

VALOR IN NIGHT EMBERS (Ember Night)

-Smokey tortoiseshell molly with yellow eyes. 

MIST OVER RUSHING WATERS (Mist Water)

-Brown and cream fluffy molly with green eyes.

BAT FLYING THROUGH STORM'S EYE (Bat Storm)

-Large longhaired black smoke molly with hazel eyes.

SAGE IN BLACK SHADOWS OF NIGHT (Black Sage)

-Large shaggy black smoke tom with green eyes.

Listener: Flare Fox

MORNING DEW ON MOUNTAIN LILIES (Mountain Dew)

-Longhaired broken mackerel calico tom with blue eyes.

LIGHTNING LEAPING BETWEEN STORM CLOUDS (Lightning Storm)

-Silver spotted tuxedo torbie molly with blue eyes.

THUNDER OF LION'S FURY (Thunder Lion)

-Huge black ticked tuxedo tabby longhair with blazing orange eyes. 

TUSK OF CHARGING BOAR (Boar Tusk)

-Powerful longhaired black tabby tom with white locket and gold eyes.

Listener: Smoldering Ash

THORNS SNAGGING HUNTERS FUR (Snag Thorn)

-Sturdy brown and white tabby molly with golden eyes.

Listener: Mud Wolf

MAGPIE GAZING INTO STORMS EYES (Magpie Gaze)

-Tall black bicolor molly with pale green eyes.

SHARP BILL OF WATCHFUL HERON (Sharp Heron)

-Broad silver tabby tom with small ears and brown eyes.

WOLF DANCING IN MOON’S LIGHT  (Dancing Wolf)

-Silver chocolate spotted calico molly with folded ears and amber eyes.

STORM CLOUDS CURLING IN NIGHT SKY (Storm Cloud)

- Black and gray curly longhair tom with white markings.

ELK CROWNED BY BLAZING SUN (Sun Elk)

-Big chocolate smoke fur tom with golden eyes.

TALE OF DANCING RAVEN (Raven Tale)

-Large black tom longhair with yellow eyes.

STONE PEAKS REFLECTING WRATHFUL THUNDER (Thunder Stone)

-Tall longhair silver tabby tom with yellow eyes.

PREY RUNNERS:

CRY IN DARK NIGHT SHADOWS (Night Cry)

-Longhair thin black and white smoke with green-yellow eyes.

RAGE OF HOWLING WINDS (Wind Howl)

-Small dark smoke chocolate molly with yellow eyes.

Listener: Windy Peak

AMBER FEATHERS IN RAVENS WING (Amber Feather)

-Long black tom with russet rusting and pale green eyes.

Listener: Cascade Mist

RABBIT RUNNING THROUGH FIRE (Rabbit Fire)

-Long furred cinnamon tuxedo mackerel molly with amber eyes. 

PALE DEER CASTING DARK SHADOWS (Deer Shadow)

-Chocolate and white tabby tom with short tail and mismatched eyes.

Listener: Clay Brook

SWIFT FLYING ON TWILIGHT HORIZON (Swift Horizon)

-Sleek black and white molly with golden eyes.

Listener: Fire Whirl

MOOSE CHARGING DOWN MOUNTAINSIDE (Charging Moose)

-Fluffy chocolate molly with yellow eyes.

NIGHT SPIDER ON MOONLIT THREAD  (Night Spider)

-Small black longhair molly with brown eyes.

FIRE WHIRLING IN DRY GRASS (Fire Whirl)

-Tall red tabby tom with pale yellow eyes.  

FIRE IN TOAD’S BELLY (Fire Toad)

-  Stocky torbie molly with golden eyes, white belly, and toes.

LISTENERS:

DRAGONFLY FLARE -  Longhair silver caliby molly with golden eyes.

Mentor: Kestrel Flight

SMOLDERING ASH -     Lithe black tabby tom with amber eyes.

Mentor: Boar Tusk

CLAY BROOK -    Large chocolate and red torbie with yellow eyes.

Mentor: Deer Shadow                         

MUD WOLF -Longhaired chocolate molly with amber eyes.

Mentor: Snag Thorn

FLARE FOX

-Cream and white mackerel tabby longhair tom.

Mentor: Black Sage

CASCADE MIST

-Fluffy gray and white tabby tom with green eyes.

Mentor: Amber Feather

WINDY PEAK

-Fluffy cream, brown and white molly with green eyes.

Mentor: Wind Howl

LIFE-GIVERS:

RAT CLIMBING STEEP CLIFF LEDGE (Rat Cliff)

-Small cinnamon mackerel tabby molly with green eyes.  

CHASM  

- Black solid molly with stubby tail and green eyes.

SKY-WATERS:

REACH OF BLACK BEAR'S SHADOW (Black Reach)

-Large black long furred tom with yellow eyes.

[edelgardlesbians]

excerpt from ch. 4 of everything i write turns into a body

read the whole fic on ao3! Ferdinand looks around wildly. There is no one else around to see him make a fool of himself, so this is surely as good a time as any. “There is happiness to look forward to even now,” he says. “Dance with me?”

Hubert opens his eyes and angles his body slightly towards Ferdinand, “The party is long since ended.”

“There is still music, is there not?” Ferdinand says. He’s trying to sound casual about it, but he is surely failing. He doesn’t feel casual, not even a little bit. His whole body feels taunt, and he’s pretty sure that his hands are shaking, but it’s not from the cold.

Hubert’s scowl does not ease, “What music?”

“Well,” Ferdinand says, turning to face Hubert. “There is the sound of crickets, the wind in the trees, the lap of the pond against the docks…” His heartbeat is so loud he can almost taste it: this thudding in his ears might never cease.

“That is not much to dance to.” Hubert says, emotionless, “You cannot keep time to the wind.”

He’s already dug a grave this deep, it is pointless to pretend that he can hide his feelings.  Any heartbreak between the two of us will be his doing, he’d told Edelgard, and he intends to mean it. Ferdinand exhales slowly and takes Hubert’s hand, bringing it up to his chest. “There is always my heartbeat,” he says.

Hubert does not move. There is no flash of a knife to eviscerate him, no swirl of his cloak as he sweeps away. Ferdinand cannot see his expression, and he is perfectly content that way. He stands perfectly still with his hand pressed to Ferdinand’s chest, feeling his too-fast heartbeat. “Ferdinand,” he says, and a condemnation is sure to follow, Ferdinand can feel it. “Look at me.”

Ferdinand lifts his gaze to meet Hubert’s, expecting the worst. Instead, Hubert is looking back down at him with an expression that is very nearly devoid of malicious intent, red dusting his pale cheeks. “Hubert, your face,” Ferdinand says, “you are blushing.”

“I’m aware.” Hubert says. “Now, you said you wanted to dance? I’m afraid I’m not much of a leader,” Hubert says, bringing his free hand up to rest on Ferdinand’s shoulder.

Ferdinand’s mouth is dry, and he can still feel his blood roaring in his ears. His ridiculous heart is going to leap right out of his chest at this rate. He’s going to die in Hubert’s arms before they have even ever kissed and it will all be very poetic and tragic. Dorothea can sing about it at his funeral. It will make a splendid opera. He hopes everyone cries. “That is convenient, for I am not much of a follower,” he replies, bringing his left hand to rest at Hubert’s waist. It fit there better than he had thought it would.

Hubert chuckles, threading his fingers through Ferdinand’s right hand, the one that is still at his chest. “I remember.”

“Yes. Right.” Ferdinand says. He feels a fool. For all his talk of nobility and the values that it’s instilled in him, he cannot even woo one man correctly.

“Well?” Hubert says, looking down at him. Those three extras inches of height have never seemed so vast before. “You are supposed to be leading.”

“Right.” Ferdinand says again. He adjusts his grip on Hubert’s hand slightly, and then steps forward.

In truth, Hubert is no dancer. It does not help that there is no music to guide them, no din of conversation to fall back on if the silence between them becomes overbearing. There is only Ferdinand’s heartbeat, still pounding in his ears louder than any drum he has ever heard. It has to be enough. It is enough.

Ferdinand could dance a waltz in his sleep, but he has never been more grateful to be awake before. There are no words between them, just this slow, halting dance. Ferdinand counts threes in his head and is sure that his rhythm is uneven, but that hardly matters in the wake of Hubert’s hand on his shoulder and Hubert’s hand clasped in his.

After a few minutes the line of tension in Ferdinand’s shoulders eases and he tightens his grip on Hubert’s hand. “You volunteered for the White Heron Cup back at the academy, did you not?” He asks, a smile curling across his face.

Hubert clears his throat, “I take it my dancing skills are not up to par.”

Ferdinand laughs, “They are perfectly adequate, to be truthful. Although I highly doubt that you would have beaten Felix.”

“Would you believe that perfectly adequate is the best my dancing has ever been called?” Hubert asks.

Ferdinand’s grin widens, “I am not surprised at all. Were I not such an outstanding partner, I daresay this would be disastrous.”

Hubert opens his mouth, presumably with some witty retort, but steps on Ferdinand’s foot before he can reply.

“Ah, I see it is no use,” Ferdinand says. “We will have to keep at it. Your dancing skills need much work, and I will bear the burden of being your teacher.”

To his surprise, Hubert does not continue their conversation. Instead, he slides his hand down from Ferdinand’s shoulder to his waist. “Must it always be this much of an event with you?” He says tonelessly, as if Ferdinand hadn’t frozen in place the second that Hubert’s hand moved.

“I-” Ferdinand opens his mouth and then closes it again.

Hubert looks pleased. “Have I rendered you speechless? Had I known it was this easy…”

Ferdinand licks his lips. Hubert’s eyes flick down when he does so and Ferdinand does not know how to process this emotion. He should say something, do something! He is Ferdinand von Aegir, and all it takes for him to lose himself is a gentle touch from Hubert.

“Dancing!” He says, “We were. Dancing.”

“You stopped,” Hubert replies, still looking obnoxiously unaffected.

Ferdinand still does not move, and Hubert squeezes his hand gently and lets go, setting his other hand on Ferdinand’s waist. Cautiously, as if he is approaching a horse that will flee if he moves too quickly, Ferdinand loops his arms around Hubert’s neck.

How it goes is this: Hubert says something that makes Ferdinand laugh, and Hubert’s arms tighten around Ferdinand’s waist, and they sway, lightly, in time with the gentle evening breeze. Ferdinand steps closer, rests his head on Hubert’s chest, and Hubert’s arms do not move from around his waist.

Ferdinand has had lovers, in the past, but they had always been flights of fancy, casual things for both parties. He has always assumed he will one day marry a girl with advantageous connections at his father’s behest, and that in time the two of them wouldgrow to love each other. But his father is imprisoned, and they are at war. Anything can happen. He has danced with plenty of pretty girls, has danced with Linhardt and Caspar before, but he has never danced like this, dancing simply for the excuse to be close to another. He has never been held simply for the sake of being held before. It makes him feel safe and care for in a way that, if he had any remaining sense of propriety, would concern him greatly. But now it seems that that there are few things more important than Hubert’s arms around his waist, the warmth from his palms seeping into Ferdinand’s bones. Hubert’s chin rests on top of his head and Ferdaind’s emotions swell so greatly that he feels he may choke on them. There is no plausible deniability about this sort of intimacy.

[dragons-bones]

FFXIV Write Entry #7: Absolution

Prompt: forgiven | Master Post | On AO3

WARNING: Spoilers for Shadowbringers MSQ, in particular the level 79 quest The Unbroken Thread. Proceed at your own discretion!

Synnove had never felt the weight of the world on her shoulders as keenly as she did when Urianger knelt before her and her fellow Warriors of Light. Sorrow and resignation dug deep furrows into the elezen’s face.

“I offer no excuses,” he said. Synnove wasn’t sure she had ever heard him so tired and defeated, not even after Moenbryda’s death all those years ago. “When I agreed to aid the Exarch with his plans ‘twas in full acceptance of the condemnation I would face when my duplicity was laid bare.”

Urianger sighed, head bowed momentarily, before meeting her eyes again. Quietly, he said to them all, “…Yet it is not rancor but resolve that I sense in ye. You art fully intent upon walking thy path to its end, art you not?”

“Ask a stupid question,” Rereha griped, arms crossed. Urianger quirked the smallest of smiles, inclining his head to her in acknowledgment.

“If ye canst forgive my deception—or, failing that, set aside your displeasure for a time—I do beg leave to follow you,” he continued. “What strength and wisdom I possess are yours to command.”

The pulse of primordial Light inside her was a cacophony of glass shards grinding against one another, of cracking porcelain, of nails on chalkboard. It tasted of salt and charred gristle and the awful, overboiled porridge she and her family and all the refugees had consumed in the flight from Ala Mhigo and Gyr Abania into the Black Shroud and eventually on to Thanalan. But more than the affront to her senses, the Light hungered: to consume her, and her friends, and all the poor, damned souls clinging to hope on the First for a better future and the chance to see the spangled stars of the sunless sea once more.

Synnove bent over, grabbing Urianger by his upper arms, and hauled him to his feet, for all that she was a head shorter. “Oh, get up you daft, maudlin fool,” she said. Once the elezen was upright, she wrapped her arms around his torso in the tightest hug she could. Urianger startled at the contact, before hesitantly returning the hug.

“Of course I forgive you, you too-smart idiot,” Synnove said, voice slightly muffled by his robes. “I’m not entirely happy, but I understand why you made that choice. And, to be quite honest, most of my ire is at the Exarch for putting you in this situation in the first place.”

Behind her, she felt Heron come up, and wrap the both of them up in her own bear hug. “The problem, I believe,” the Hellsguard woman said, “is that heroic sacrifice has become such a default that it becomes difficult to see another solution.”

“Particularly when it’s the fate of multiple worlds on the line,” Alakhai said, wiggling her way into the hug between Synnove and Heron.

Synnove felt Tyr leaning into her thighs, then Rereha hugging her waist with one arm, the other likely around Urianger—no doubt the lalafell was standing on Tyr’s back so she could reach. “You’re a dumbass, Urianger,” Rere said, “but you’re our dumbass.”

The elezen laughed, the sound of it more than a little watery and broken. “As blunt as ever,” he said, “but as callous as they are, thy words ever serve as a balm.”

Synnove sighed heavily, patting Urianger gently on the back. “This is a shite situation,” she said. “I’m not sure how we’re going to get out of it. But we’ll manage. We always do.”

[xxxdragonfucker69xxx]

im tired but im hopped up on lunar hype lets read some CHARMS

nest-raiding slyness is maybe my favorite hearts blood charm ever, its so fucking funny. specifically fuck with someone so bad they hate you, and you can take their shape

emerald grasshopper and tyrant mouse, superb. i like that miniscule size is as strong as legendary size (i think, based mostly on scanning this and the fact that it has so many bullet points) (wait nvm its mostly maluses and the evasion is charm bonus. nvm)

oh man the protean on finding the needles eye is extremely fun

weapon-snatching coils is so EXTREMELY fun and i love the protean especially the way it’s worded. gently pluck their daiklave with a tentacle and fling it like that bit from always sunny where he throws the spaghetti

oh solars theink theyre omnitactical battle hydras? do they have many-armed warrior panoply?

really enjoy bombardier spittle alchemy, just really fun. love to secrete

the moment anyone says ichneumon im on board

ooh... flurries

oh shit wasp sting blur, obviously a totally different charm now, and a very fun one

deadly wolf-pack onslaught plus twin fangs strike is just an all out assault from persona. interesting call about decisive that resets initiative, else stuff like wasp sting blur would be eligible

its a shame hunters eye precision isnt stackable or you could hip fire on someone a mile away

birds fall from flock targeting is SO funny who am i gonna shoot. you dont know. fuck you

oh man the protean on octopus and spider barrage is extremely fun

unerring fang technique is sexy, idr if dbs have an equivalent charm but im pretty sure solars dont

in general im really really enjoying the attribute based nature of the lunar charms, i do enjoy the way solar thrown or db melee make specific statements but to have all these broader charms is very nice, though obv dex offense is gonna be different from str offense

agitation of the swarm technique is just a slap in the face

oh my god toothless pride tactic. suck a whole army’s spears right out of their hands. the difficulty is size minimum 3 so you might as well use it on a size 3 group anyways

i wish i had deadly raptors flight in any fps my aim is always so fucking shit when im standing still, let alone running

WOOF thousand claw affliction

kate bush voice running through that herd. jokes aside though this is so vivid and so good. if youre an octopus you can just turn your tentacles into a blender of doom and then calmly disengage

god supreme predator alacrity and lightning stroke attack. these charms have such a strong feel

dam heart-piercing instinct plus hunters eye precision could kill

ah, i misspoke earlier, twisting moonsilver stroke is the real slap in the face. knock someones shield away and then cut their head off

god can you imagine chaining thousand claw affliction into octopus and spider barrage. hope you had either an onslaught negator or like 10 defense. also topping off thousand claw affliction with a decisive feels extremely videogame combo, in a good way

oh my god greatest huntress mastery

im still horny so lets do defense! i think agile beast defense is straight better than whatever solar melee charm i always dip, or dodge or whatever. fun conditions for the defense

hm, and bending before the storm is worse than a straight negator but has a fun condition, same with golden tiger stance

man i need a charmtree to visualize all this, i saw parabola was working on one so like godspeed

god a flurry against e2 coiled serpent strikes is so harsh

YES ever-evolving defense, that beast boy proteus uhhhh whoever does it in the isles thing

nimble squirrel evasion is just that thing where a cartoon mouse runs around on the desktop causing an enraged character to smash everything around. 

oh my god this note on foe-baiting sidestep

ah sensing the deadly flow, there it is. fun to call out being grappled as well

vigilant mastiff technique! classic lunar stuff

really fun that snarling watchdog retribution lets you use your wards initiative, if they use uhh lightning-calling challenge and get someone to keep attacking them it doesnt matter that your initiative resets cause you can keep using theirs

flowing body evasion, i gotta say its interesting how perfects work in different ways this edition and i kinda like this one but i dont know how good itll be

heron sheds rain is just a decisive attack but a defense. decisive defense

oh man shadow chased silver defense feels very lunar. to blend evasion and parry and charms for both

becoming waters envy is soch a good charm name

ok im gonna stop there before this becomes untenably long but im looking forward to mobility and recreating that thread from the forums about how fast you can go

[gtccollectionstories]

A World in Miniature: The Works of Daphne Turner (1918-2005)

Whilst scanning through our database for inspiration recently I stumbled across a photo of a piece in our collection by Daphne Turner – a copy of a French tapestry “The Noble Amazon”. The original measures 3.9m by 2.6m, however, Daphne’s delicately stitched version is an awe inspiring reproduction shrunk down to just 223mm x 150mm. This piece was worked on for over 12 years and was nearly abandoned due to Daphne’s failing eyesight. With encouragement however, Daphne reached a point of virtual completion that she was happy with, and the result is truly stunning. In a playful addition to the design, Daphne’s grandson’s pet rabbit Chloe has been immortalised at the bottom. 

Daphne began miniature stitching at the age of 69. The pieces that we have in the collection chart her development in the craft. She gradually worked on a smaller and smaller scale, the earliest pieces using 30 count (30 holes per linear inch) canvas, finally moving onto 84 count silk gauze - the finest available to her at the time. 

Pieces are usually scaled to 1/12th or 1/24th of the original size. Given the delicacy, the technique requires use of fine beading needles for the higher count fabrics and fine silk floss or filament. Daphne’s finer pieces use Au Ver a Soie silk thread.

Interest in miniature stitching inspired by Daphne grew during the 1990s with the first World in Miniature Needlepoint Competition in 1994. The Miniature Needlework Society was established in 1997 and an offshoot, The Guild of Miniature Needle Arts later formed in 2000 to display Daphne’s works and those of other highly accomplished miniature needleworkers.

Daphne’s work was accepted into our Collection prior to her death and has been displayed at the Hall in previous years.

Other pieces include:

“The Flight of the Heron”, detail taken from a 16th Century Franco-Netherlands tapestry on 84 count silk gauze.

Elizabethan white gauntlet glove and pink glove, both 1/12th scale.

“The Marriage of Oedipus”, detail taken from another early 16th Century Franco-Netherlands tapestry. The piece was left unfinished as Daphne was unhappy with the faces, feeling they looked grumpy.

[tgarnsl]

tagged by @chiropteracupola — thank you, my friend!

rules: post the last line/snippet of what you wrote and tag as many people as there are words.

I will not be doing that, as there are more words than there are people I know, but I will tag @sanguinarysanguinity, and anyone else who would like to join in, please consider this your invitation!

from the flight of the heron fake married au:

—

A bitter wind was sweeping across the Beauly Firth, threading its way through the streets of a still and miserable Inverness. It was a week past that fateful day on Culloden Moor: only a mere sennight, but to Major Keith Windham it seemed an eternity. Cumberland in his victory had not been merciful, neither on the battlefield nor off it, and in that week had been committed such unkindnesses as to make an honourable soldier almost ashamed of the uniform he wore. It was certainly a hard-hearted man who could walk past the wretched and overcrowded little prison beneath the bridge and not be moved by pitiful voices crying for water. No less desperate were the men in the churches and gaols of the town, and the ships in the harbour. The day before last, Keith had gone out with a quorum of other officers to take down the names of prisoners, and what he had seen had been enough to nearly turn his stomach. For two days the prisoners had been given neither food nor water, and many lay, half-dead, in their filth and misery, as they waited for the inevitable, for their surgeons and bleeders had seen their tools confiscated, and there was no surgeon from the town to tend to them. Yet of all the cruelties that had been witnessed thus far in this defeated little town, the most senseless was that taking place before him now on this cold and grey Sunday morning. The order had been given just hours before that all prisoners were to be reviewed publicly, and now, between the two rows of troops lined from one end of Bridge Street to the other, they were made to pass muster, many in their shirts or less. Major Windham, mounted alongside General Hawley and a number of other officers in the market square, watched the shambling little parade with considerable distaste. The wounded men as well as the hale had been made to come out, and those unable to wake or stand were carried by their fellow prisoners. This provoked uproarious laughter in Hawley and a number of the other officers, for to them there was no finer amusement than watching a lame man stumble and crawl before them, or see another spill his precious half-pound of meal which he carried in the fore-skirt of his shirt. Listening to the laughter of Hawley, as sharp and cruel as a parrot’s, and the jeers of the officers and men, Keith’s stomach turned, and he was about to turn his horse about and feign trouble from his wound of Fontenoy, when he heard another of the company — Mr David Bruce, the judge-advocate — hail a triple of prisoners, two of whom half-carried, half-dragged the injured third between them.   “Ho, there,” cried Mr Bruce. “You!” The two able men stopped, their faces pale with fear beneath the grime. Their injured fellow made little motion to indicate he heard Bruce, his head hanging down and his face obscured by a curtain of dirty auburn hair. Unlike his companions, who wore only their shirts, he had on only a kilt, beneath which the lower end of a filthy bandage around his left thigh could be seen. Another bound his sword arm — evidence enough of where the man’s shirt had gone. His tartan, Keith noted a moment later, was that of the Cameron — that, of all tartans, was one he knew without question, having once worn it himself. Despicable, thought Keith to himself, his hands tightening on his horse’s reins, the creature shifting nervously in response.But the judge-advocate was not finished. “Get him on his feet. He is to march,” he ordered, pointing at the injured man. who was in no state to stand. Yet with his companions’ coaxing he struggled to his feet, and stood there a moment after they had released him, before his injured leg weakened, and he collapsed.“Far better had he died on Culloden Moor,” murmured a lieutenant to Keith’s right, and Keith gave a slight nod of assent. Any Highlander would surely wish a good death in battle over struggling in the muck like an animal, trying to gain footing that would surely not hold. “Get him up,” intoned General Hawley, evidently bored, but the injured prisoner raised a hand to ward off his companions, seemingly determined to stand once more. Slowly, slowly, he got his feet under him and assumed his full height, lifting his face towards the officers in grim defiance. Yet it was clear from his trembling leg that he would not be able to stand for long, no matter how strong his will, and a small trickle of blood was already beginning to run down his injured thigh. His ashen face was dirty and unshaven like all the other prisoners, but his eyes—“Good God!” exclaimed Major Windham aloud, throwing himself from his horse. All gazes fixed on him, save for Ewen Cameron’s, who had gone very grey indeed, his teeth set in his lower lip as if he might overcome his disability by force of will alone. He wavered once, half-stumbled, regained his footing for a moment, but his strength was gone. The wounded leg gave way once more, and he fell, into Keith Windham’s waiting arms. “Major Windham!” called General Hawley, riding forward as Keith knelt with Ewen, his face red with anger. “What is the meaning of this, sir?”  Keith looked down at Ardroy, at that gaunt face with its eyes half-closed and unseeing. His hand, pressed to Ardroy’s bare chest, found a faint and sluggish heartbeat. Half-dead already. It seemed unlikely that he would live out the week. But what could he do? There was nothing Keith could say that would save Ewen from his fate — nothing save…“Major Windham!” shouted Hawley, apoplectic with rage. “Sir, step away at once—”Keith met Hawley’s withering stare, his heart beating rapidly in his throat. “I cannot, sir,” he said, as calmly as he could. For a moment time stood still, the moment between the spark of steel on flint and the explosion of the pistol. He had set his course, and he would be damned if anyone would forestall it now. “You see, sir,” he continued, holding Ewen close, “He is my husband.”

[allegreta]

[ Fairy Wings ] - shimmer and dazzle in your new boutique threads! And what’s this... it seems they’ve some interesting accessories to choose from as well, the likes of which may be more functional than you initially thought. Soar!

Sephiran holds the gossamer wings in hand, careful not to damage them. He can feel the delicate magic woven into it, and he knows- from the way he is instructed to put them on, they would interfere with the spell keeping his wings from sight. But… the magic, it gives him a moment’s hope, and, with a quick glance, he doesn’t notice anyone in the area at the moment.

Perhaps it is the atmosphere that loosens his guard, or perhaps he underestimates how much he misses the feeling of flying, but the moment he releases his spell, stretching his black wings slowly, he realizes that Leanne had come in- at what point, he doesn’t know.

“Ah… Leanne… ” He glances away, embarrassed at having so easily revealed his wings, though he knows she is aware of them. “It appears these accessories have granted others the power of flight…”

Leanne knows Sephiran is a heron, but to see his wings unfurled from their concealment still takes her breath away. They're soon encased by fae energy, sparkling translucent purples mingling with black feathers in a majestic sight.

Leanne knows she was not meant to see this, but the smile, the relief on Sephiran's face and in his heart, it thrums through the area and calls to her.

"Yes...I have seen a few, partaking in the joy of flight. I tried them on myself, out of curiosity. They seem to meld with our wings and strengthen them--well, you know already, I can see." It's unsurprising to Leanne that Sephiran seemingly suffers a similar ailment to her brother, Rafiel. Wings not merely injured physically, but a deep emotional affliction that has robbed him of flight. Herons are fragile creatures, and it is a wonder that he has survived what he has and still faces the world. Leanne looks up to him. "They look lovely on you. Are you thinking about going for a flight?"

Leanne fusses a little with her own wings, infused with fae magic and glittering in the moonlight. She hopes she is making this easy for Sephiran. He is a heron too, and he deserves to share these sorts of experiences.

"It gladdens me, to see your wings." Leanne holds out her hand, the water sigil upon it pulsing softly. "If you don't mind, would you like to fly together?"

[thepoetrystore]

how to be alive 242. witness the power of nature, instinct so alive, remind yourself how vast, thriving, and surviving life is despite it all. silvi . (a little bit about the show. come and see it for yourself @secessionsf. . before we rise opening reception friday feb 3rd 3235 mission street 6-9pm . showing with my friend and incredible photographer donald kinney.) #sf #art #drawing #california #secessionsf #indiaink #wilderness #wildness #diving #nourishment #handsewing #gold #thread #humpback #whale #secessionsf #quail #egret #heron #workworkwork #putabirdonit #writersofig #life #survival #flight #ocean #writersofinstagram #poetry #poem #artistsofig #pencil #artistsofinstagram #silvi #silvialcivar #thepoetrystore #beforewerise #365project

[tgarnsl]

So you finished The Flight of the Heron...

First of all, welcome to the club. There are tissues and hot beverages of your choice available. And now onto some fix-it fic recommendations...

Fix-it Fic Masterlist There is exceptionally good fic in The Flight of the Heron fandom, and what I’ve recommended below scarcely scratches the surface. There is also plenty of space for new writers, should anyone wish to join in!

That Good Faith by Luzula (Ewen Cameron/Keith Windham; rated E.) A thoroughly researched and expertly written epic that spans from the fourth meeting between Ewen and Keith to some forty years later.

Highland Laddie by Philomytha (Ewen Cameron/Keith Windham, rated T.) Three years after the events of Morar, Keith and Ewen meet again, and a second chance is offered. 

When the Fighting is Over by Garonne (Ewen Cameron/Keith Windham, rated M.) Ewen and Keith find their way back to each other, and not without a certain amount of pining on Ewen’s part.

No Unfitting Anchorage by regshoe (Ewen Cameron/Keith Windham, rated T.) Having made a decision on the shores of Morar, Keith lives with the consequences until Ewen Cameron is thrust once more into his life.

a gentler night by @chiropteracupola​ (Ewen Cameron/Keith Windham, rated T.) In which a life is saved, and a broken heart averted. (An utterly inadequate summation of a gorgeous fic.)

I’m going home, no more to roam by thedisasternerd (Ewen Cameron/Keith Windham, rated G.) A charming and humourous vignette of a relationship in a moment of peace.

Shore and Ship and Moonrise by Hyarrowen (Ewen Cameron/Keith Windham, rated T.) After Morar, Ewen and Keith flee to France and are at last given the time to discover what they might mean to each other.

The Return of the Heron by Ardea Cinerea (Ewen Cameron/Keith Windham, rated T.) There are no limits to the lengths that Ewen Cameron will go to protect a greviously wounded friend.

A Thread of Another by goldenhart (Ewen Cameron/Keith Windham, rated G.) Obligatory self-promotion. Ewen returns to Ardroy, with Keith at his side.

If, however, you do not wish to read a fix-it and would instead prefer to wallow in feelings, then the following may be for you:

That Restless Sleep by @sanguinarysanguinity (Ewen Cameron/Keith Windham, rated E.) Following the events of the fifth meeting, neither Keith nor Ewen rest easily. There is also plenty of phenomenal art, two excellent fanvids, and an assortment of other things poking around. I may eventually add on to this post, but if anyone has any personal recommendations let me know and I can add it in :-)