#Steel Reforged

[sawyingthroughthewasteland]

wake up besties, my Maxson fic finally dropped

Hi! Remember that fic I talked about like months ago about? Maxson redemption and all with the Warwick family and the Mechanist? Anyways its here! Happy holidays yall, hope you enjoy! 

Steel Reforged - Chapter 1 - HawkoftheSky - Fallout (Video Games) [Archive of Our Own]

Chapters: 7/? Fandom: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4 Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Arthur Maxson/Liberty Prime, June Warwick/Roger Warwick Characters: Arthur Maxson, Liberty Prime (Fallout), Roger Warwick, June Warwick, The Mechanist | Isabel Cruz, Zeke (Fallout), Warwick family, mentioned OC, Brotherhood of Steel Character(s) Mentioned

Additional Tags: Other Additional Tags to Be Added, rating will change later, Whump, Recovery, Warwick Family as found family, Mechanist is given some well-deserved love, Post-Fallout 4, Railroad Ending (Fallout 4), My OC is mentioned but not a main character just standing in the background menacingly, Liberty Prime kinda developing a personality, exploration of Maxson and Liberty Prime's relationship, might turn to lovers who knows, Maxson severely injured and disfigured, Burns, Blood and Gore, Redemption, ss2 nightingales mentioned, original Roger was abusive, synth roger is baby, Medical Inaccuracies, Loss of Limbs, eventual cyborg Maxson and healing of inner child, Mechanist is Ace, Slow To Update, Slow Burn

Summary:

Longfic exploring Arthur Maxson and Liberty Prime's relationship, Maxson's healing post RR ending, and eventual coming to terms with his new cyborg body, stance on technology and healing of his inner child with the help of the Warwick family and a Mechanist set on redeeming herself as well.

Also! This comic by @homokommari inspired certain aspects of the Warwick family! That shit might be,,, canon I forgor but this inspired the setting in the first place so~ Feel free to go give the artist some love :)

[astrummorte]

paimon, not the martyr of those before

[beeftony]

Blue Eye Samurai does something clever with a trope that usually annoys me in samurai fiction, and even quotes it word for word: "The sword is the soul of the samurai."

For the majority of the season, Mizu's sword comes to symbolize that special "something" that gives her an edge over everyone she meets and enables her to perservere, crafted as it was from the meteor that fell from the heavens in a near literal act of divine intervention that saved her as a child. But when she finally meets the target of her vengeance, exhausted from fighting through 9 levels of his castle, the sword is struck by a bullet and snaps in two.

In the following episode, Master Eiji points out that the steel was too pure; too brittle, and that's why it broke. He won't help Mizu keep going down the path of self destruction, and so he has no steel for her. But it's Taigen of all people who gets through to her, saying that all that junk about the sword being the soul of the samurai is just what they tell first year students, and that "the weapon doesn't matter," because Mizu's skill and determination is what gives her power, not the sword.

After failing to reforge the sword in the time between these conversations, Mizu tries again with a little encouragement from Master Eiji, and this time she adds new steel of her own: the broken blade that she made as a child, which found its way into the hands of a merciless assassin, then into the hands of Taigen, a man who swore he would kill her, but whom she saved all the same. The small knife that Akemi attacked her with at first, but later used to save her life. The bell that symbolized Ringo's service to her, that he returned after she crossed a line and he became disgusted with her choices. And finally the tongs that Master Eiji repeatedly bonked her on the head with to correct her mistakes and guide her on the path of self-improvement.

The steel she adds to the fire all comes from the friends she's made along the way, in spite of herself. She folds their words, their lessons, their beliefs into her sword, and in doing so begins to heal and strengthen her own soul.

[bg3ficreviews]

Thunder reforged: Rolan x Dammon - #BG3 FanFic Review

Review by Aivu (@aivuthedragon)

Happy timezone, dear readers! Today I'm happy to bring you this incredible series of works by velocitross on AO3. What's hotter than a tiefling wizard with a knack for a well-timed thunderwave? Said tiefling wizard having a rendezvous with his tiefling blacksmith paramour, of course.

A note from the BG3FicReviews team: The entire BG3 community was been rocked by the recent controversy surrounding Dammon's VA, including the various fanwork creators who've fallen in love with Dammon, included him in their work, and are part of the LGBTQAI+ community themselves. We want to express our support and love to Dammon fans, Dammon fan work creators, the LGBTQAI+ community generally and all those adversely affected by what's happened. As such, we have decided to feature such works in our reviews this week. Make your love louder than the hate. 💜

As always, mind the tags! Our review is continued below the fold due to the NSFW nature of the content in these works.

This incredible artwork by @arczism was inspired by velocitross's Rolan x Dammon fic Working Steel, which is included in today's review.

Working Steel, the first of velocitross’ three works that include this rare pair, is a masterwork in character portrayal. The author adeptly captures the at-a-glance somewhat incompatible personalities of the two tiefling refugees who fled Elturel together and now reside in Baldur’s Gate. In this work, the relationship between Rolan, the ever-surly wizard and the newly ‘appointed’ master of Ramazith Tower, and Dammon, the gentle yet infernally talented blacksmith of the Forge of the Nine, has grown far beyond mere friendship.

Rolan, frustrated by his attempts to catalogue the mindless chaos remaining after the untimely death of the tower’s former owner, approaches Dammon to ask for his help and visits him at his forge. But what could a blacksmith possibly offer a wizard? Well, a good fuck, for one thing. Rolan is pent-up, impatient, and needs a good lay. And, it turns out, so does Dammon. The smut that ensues is not only blazingly hot but also beautifully captures the tender affection between the two tieflings through not only their words, but small, unique gestures of love and care. (Mind the tails. I mean, tags. No, tails.)

In Up in the Tower, it’s Dammon’s turn to visit the wizard’s domain. But the blacksmith receives a less-than-warm welcome, as the ever-grumpy Rolan becomes highly annoyed at having his work interrupted. But considering Rolan is dressed in little more than his underwear and an open robe, I’m more than willing to forgive him for his surliness. Dammon, however, being the sweet, gentle soul that he is, insists on taking care of Rolan beyond his carnal needs alone. In this work, the relationship between the pair deepens, and the author has wonderfully captured the intimacy of the pair. Lastly, we have Within the Storm. This work takes us back to the Shadow-Cursed Lands as the tiefling refugees attempt to cross its desolate lands on their way to Baldur’s Gate. When the Absolute’s forces ambush the group, Rolan expertly wields his magic to stave them off. But when something happens to Zevlor, the battle takes a turn for the worse. In the chaos, Rolan’s siblings, Cal and Lia, are kidnapped and several of his friends and co-travellers are brutally murdered.

Once at Last Light Inn, Rolan is a fucking mess, devastated by his siblings’ capture. Lost in the depths of his despair and way too much drink, the tiefling wizard finds comfort in the arms of a fellow refugee he’d known since childhood - Dammon. And thus the gentlest embers of affection between the pair begin to spark to life. This lovely one-shot serves as a prelude to the author’s much-anticipated long fic about the pair, their growing affection for one another and what looks to be a truly beautiful love story. If you would like to follow velocitross’ incredible work about the love between a tiefling wizard and blacksmith, please be sure to subscribe to the author on AO3 and follow their work and the pending long fic. We have included a snippet of Working Steel below for your enjoyment. As always, please support the writers of our incredible fandom by leaving kudos and comments on their work. 🫶

------------------

Working Steel

By velocitross on AO3

The ring of his hammer fills Dammon’s ears and his attention as he works. A soft frown of focus curves his lips. It’s a simple enough repair—restoring a blade for the halfling woman standing outside the forge watching him work. Still, there’s a satisfaction to it: the rhythm of his strikes, the heat of the day in Baldur’s Gate warming him beneath his layers of apron and clothing. The ordinary busy noise of the city goes on just outside his focus, a subtle, stabilizing comfort even months after the Netherbrain’s defeat.

When he glances up from his work, a distinct figure catches his eye amongst the passersby. Rolan, with his proud bearing and his regal blue and red robes, coming toward the smithy with a tense, bothered scowl and his tail lashing behind him. A smile touches Dammon’s lips. He knows that look.

“I’ll be with you in a moment,” he says as Rolan comes to a stop an awkward few feet from the halfling waiting on her sword.

“Well, don’t take too long,” Rolan snaps, and then reddens further when Dammon raises an eyebrow at him. “Sorry. I’ll just—I’ll wait.”

Dammon lifts the blade off his anvil to study it. He smiles at the halfling as he passes her the sword.

“Give that a try. Come back if you need anything else.”

She moves off to the side to examine the blade, allowing Rolan to step up to the forge. He stands, arms crossed, his face flushed as he fixes Dammon with his bright yellow stare.

“Anything I can help you with, Rolan?” the blacksmith prompts.

Rolan sighs. He places his hands carefully on the edge of the anvil, glances again toward the halfling woman, and leans in toward Dammon.

“I need . . . Steel.”

Dammon breathes a good-natured chuckle.

“Come on,” he says, nodding over his shoulder toward the building. “I could use a break, anyway.”

[arcielee]

Ours never knew peace.

Summary: On the morning of the Great Tourney of Harrenhal, Lyanna Stark's granddam visits to give her an heirloom, a necklace with a sapphire stone... Paring: Aemond Targaryen x Stark!Reader Word Count: 7600 Warnings: Third POV and first POV, AFAB, mentions of infidelity, graphic violence, character deaths, and there is a hyperlink for the smut, so mind those warnings too. Author’s Note:  I definitely played with the timeline of the Dance of the Dragons a lot to fit with the narrative. Also, the idea is the bloodline stems from Cregan Stark's sister, which is why Lyanna's granddam is still kicking. Also, this was not beta read, please feel free to DM me any mistakes you may find 💜 A huge thank you to my Tumblr kindred spirits: to @aegonx for this inspiring gifset, and to my darling @itbmojojoejo for these perfect dividers 🦝💜 Also, to Hozier. I started writing this in June and had not touched it until I started listening to Unreal Unearth. The title for this and the smutty one-shot are from the song Francesca.

“I have a gift for you, my dear.”

Lyanna was leaning against the ornate balustrade and watching how the sun rose above Gods Eye. She drank in the sight of how the rays danced against the blue-green gemstone surface, shimmering with the rippling waves that met with the shoreline and towards the center where the Isle of Faces jutted upwards; she saw the weirwoods shift lazily with the breeze, its red foliage breaking away and littering the laketop, like drops of blood.

She pulled her eyes away to see her granddam standing in her room, poised with her walking cane; a handmaiden was in tow, carrying a wooden box that had once been intricately carved into, though its detailing was now worn with age. 

Her granddamn was the matriarch of House Stark and the only mother figure she had ever known as hers passed away when she was very young, leaving Lyanna with her father and three brothers: Brandon, Eddard, and Benjen. Though she originally had come from a noble house in Oldcastle, she had been proud to don the grays and whites of House Stark, dignified in such a way it seemed that she was born into and not just married. 

Her reputation was notorious and though some would consider her shrewd, Lyanna knew her granddam had a sharp mind and wit, an undeniable ability to see beyond the façades of court with her storm colored eyes; she was gallant, devoted to her husband until his last breath and remained in Winterfell after, her devotion extending to the North. 

“This is my home,” she had explained as if it was the simplest thing. “Always.” 

Time now showed itself in silver streaks, a bold contrast with her dark hair that had been meticulously combed and knotted at the base of her neck, showing the severity that lined her features. This look alone had the other handmaidens–who before had been aimlessly flitting around her room, coaxing Lyanna to ready for the day’s events–quickly excuse themselves, allowing her a moment alone with her granddaughter.  

“Set it there,” and the remaining handmaiden jumped to command, placing the wooden box on the vanity before following after the others. 

There was the click of her cane with her sure steps, one hand resting on the gilded handles and the other coming to place on the edge of the wooden box, its brass hinges groaning in response to her opening it. Placed against the velvet inlay was a necklace of a peculiar silver that did not shine, but seemed to permeate a strength despite its delicate, celtic chains interwoven with one another; its pendant, a sapphire stone no larger than a silver pence, was nestled in the same style, curled around to hold it in place. 

Only the stone gleamed, just like the water’s surface–alluring, calling, but she kept her hand at her side. “It is beautiful,” Lyanna acknowledged. 

“It is reforged Valyrian steel,” her granddam continued, and she was pleased to see how her eyes widened with a reverence for the rare medium. “This is a heirloom that has been passed down, once belonging to your thrice over granddam. It is something for you to wear today.” 

Lyanna remained rooted, only a wistful sigh in response. “This is my duty in life now, to be adorned in gems and silks and rare silvers, just to be shown off at this event.” 

“It is our lot in life, yes,” her tone cut through the self-wallow. “Lord Whent wants nothing more than to parade the money he poured into this cursed castle, to show off his simple-minded daughter to the highest bid. The queen of love and beauty,” and her laugh was sharp, “only her brothers would defend that nepotist title!” 

Lyanna felt her lips curl; she loved her granddam, dearly, especially when she was unabashed with her bold opinions. Her eyes fell back to the necklace. “Love and beauty,” Lyanna murmured. “No man has want for a clever wife.” 

It was her turn to sigh. “This can be true, but some are fortunate with their matches.” 

“Robert has no want for a clever wife,” Lyanna continued as if she had not spoken. “He wants something docile and pretty at his side while he wags his cock at every set of tits in Westeros.” She could see how the inside sagged with the weight of the necklace and a bundle of parchment that was tucked beneath, hidden in the folds of the fabric. 

Her granddam plucked the paper bundled together with string and then moved back towards one of the overstuffed chairs in front of the fireplace. “My dear girl, love is always unexpected. Perhaps in time, despite the faults you each share,” she gave a knowing look as Lyanna moved back towards the bed, “you, hopefully, may have a gradual love and respect grow between.” 

“He is already convinced it is love,” she sat back on the mattress, sinking against the goose feather pillows piled at the head. “But it is with this idea of me. He does not know me, who I am truly or what it is that drives me…” her eyes were drawn again to the box, opened still, and to the glint of the sapphire. “How did this come to our possession anyway?” 

“It was a gift,” her granddam scoffed, untying the string and smoothing the letters on her lap. 

Lyanna closed her eyes a moment, her own smile playing at her lips. “Yes,” her tone forced, “but who would have gifted this to her to begin with?” 

Her granddam hummed, now her turn to smile. “How clever of you to ask, sweet girl,” but she did not answer Lyanna. “I saw how you are blossoming into a lovely young woman, especially after last night’s banquet,” and she saw that her granddaughter grinned, cheeky. “Ancestry has its weight with House Stark, and I thought now is the time to gift this necklace, just as your grandsire gifted it to me, and how it was given to your mother, who listened to me read this, years ago,” and she gestured to the letters.  

Lyanna reached for the pillows, fluffing them and sinking back into them, her arms folding behind to hold her head upright. “I would never deny my granddam of my company,” she teased.

“Yes, how kind of you,” her tongue wet her lips, her eyes flitting over the first page. “Now shut up and let my old eyes read.” 

And so she began.

It was the unmartyred act of my mother to bring me into the world. My father was a proud man, an honorable man who would never blame me, but I could see how he would wilt in my presence; perhaps it was that I reminded him of her as I grew, reminded him of the cost of her life so I may live instead. My brother, Cregan, kept his grief quiet, though it clouded his storm-gray eyes with this pain, this hurt that shadowed behind his irises. 

With the unsaid, I know my existence haunted my father, Lord Rickon Stark, the Warden of the North, to his grave. It was only then that Cregan truly recognized me with our sorrow now shared, as well as the burden as our uncle Bennard was quick to come to Winterfell, bringing his shrewd wife and his sons, our wretched cousins. 

I could only watch from the shadows with how Cregan fought to stay afloat with the smothering regency brought with them; our uncle was cunning, wishing to isolate my brother, which was why it was decided for me to be sent away to King’s Landing. It was under the promised lady-in-waiting for Princess Helaena Targaryen, though its true intention was for me to marry a Targaryen prince, for the opportunity to have a Stark within the royal inner circle and a direct line to the Iron Throne. 

Cregan hugged me farewell, the whispered promise that he would write, and I was ushered into the carriage, cramped with my trunks, and my aunt Margaret, with her wardrobe and endless idylls of how I would lure King Aegon II. 

I reminded her that King Viserys was not dead, and of the crowned Princess Rhaenyra. She bristled with her response: “No woman will ever rule the Seven Kingdoms.” She embellished this, and her inane plans to make me a princess; I had just turned ten and three with the soured taste of her words the further south we traveled. 

We arrived at the capital almost two months later, coming as the last of the daylight disappeared in the horizon, with the full moon and stars already glowing in response. I wished to sleep, but was forced to bathe, to be soaked in a gilded tub with rose petals that floated on the surface while hands flitted over combing and scrubbing and cleaning every bit of me, all while my aunt hovered with her critiques. 

The next day was our debut luncheon, allowing my formal introduction to the House of the Dragon. My aunt was peevish that the king did not join, we still met with the queen and Lord Hand, who introduced Prince Aegon and Princess Helaena. 

It was said that Prince Daeron was away in Oldtown and Prince Aemond would not attend either, but did not speak more of it. 

The prince and the princess held their old blood features, the shades of purple in their gazes and the gold-silver of their hair, a contrast to their mother’s auburn and her dark eyes that were watchful and worrisome. 

Prince Aegon already had an exhaustion lining his face, with shadows that stretched beneath his lilac eyes, something heavy for someone only two years older than myself. In time I would learn that his shoulders sagged with the forced Hightower expectation placed, and its accompanying slow suffocation. The prince responded to it as well as any adolescent with unwanted responsibility: to rebel. 

The princess–who we learned, to the woe of my aunt–was his betrothed, but that day she also became my savior, in a sense. Though she carried her own burdens, something deeply rooted within the ichor of Old Valyria that surged her veins, her company was enjoyable, nonetheless. 

I enjoyed my time spent with the princess, learning of her fascination with entomology, with a favoritism that stemmed towards arachnids; though I found it unsettling, I still knew it was better company than my aunt. I was devoted to the task to fill mason jars with dirt, leaves, sticks to create little habitats for her ever growing collection, and it became our daily ritual to walk the gardens of the Red Keep, always in search of more to add or to release others who dutifully served their time in their glass confines. 

One thing I noted was her utterances, her singsong riddles on repeat. “Be mindful,” she said with a hum one afternoon.

“Of what, princess?”

“A song of ice and fire,” her eyes were glassy, sorrowful. “It is a tragedy, again and again…” 

My evenings were held captive by my aunt and her ever growing determination to force her way into the royal social circles; her daily mantra to remind me of the two remaining Targaryen princes, how I need my focus to be on snaring one of them. 

I knew that Prince Daeron was a child and away in Oldtown, which left the second son of King Viserys, Prince Aemond, who I thought peculiar and quiet. He was isolated the first six months after we arrived, and I heard the whispered incident at Diftmark that had involved the crowned princess and her bastard sons; I also learned how it ended with the loss of his eye, but that was not learned until Princess Helaena brought me to visit with her brother. 

“It would be good for him,” and her lilac eyes sparkled. 

He was sullen, but rightfully so; he was still bandaged and refused the milk of the poppy, though I knew he was hurting, his anguish was vicariously heard with the roars of his dragon, Vhagar, whose bellows rattled the entire capital, leaving the inhabitants uneasy. 

Eventually, Prince Aemond healed enough to leave his room, though the queen was still adamant he not venture outside of the Keep. I watched him, a dragon caged, stalking the corridors, a dark passing in search of confrontation, his unbridled want for vengeance and his inability to see it through; a tormented unrest, an unruly anger from the injustice of what happened that fateful night at Driftmark.  

I had been present for over a year and would inevitably have the misfortune to cross his warpath, alone, without my shield of his sister. It was a foreboding presence that drained the air, a palpable anger that hung heavy, and I flinched, perched by the window, curled up with Ten Thousand Ships. 

“What are you doing here?” He spat. 

I remember how his anger darkened his features shown, but the rest was still hidden beneath bandages wrapped around his silver head. “Reading,” was all I dared reply, refusing to look away from the pages as if the very tale of Nymeria held me captive. 

“They educate the women in the North?”

His words were mocking and this is when I pulled my eyes away to meet with his one uncovered. “The North does not only teach their women how to read, but how to fight as well, my prince,” my tongue had a life of its own I could not control, sneering his title in return.

Her granddam paused a moment, peering over the edge to see how Lyanna had shifted; she was now closer towards the foot of the bed, curled up with one of the pillows, her eyes glowing with admiration. 

“My great-great-great granddam was fearless,” Lyanna concluded.

She chuckled in response. “It is a trait in Stark women, that is for certain,” she clucked her tongue. “Stark men also search for strong women to survive the winters. Maybe another day I will tell you about your great-great-great aunt Alysanne Blackwood.” 

Her eyes shone. “I would like that very much.” 

And then, her granddam continued. 

I would learn that Prince Aemond was just lonely; allowed out of his quarters, his mar was forever isolating with how the castled treated him with kid gloves, like an open wound that never healed despite the jagged red of new flesh mended, cutting from his brow to his cheek and peeking beneath the eyepatch he took to wearing. Though he would never apologize for that day in the library, the next time I found him within the walls I saw he was lost in the pages of Winter’s Kings, or the Legends and Lineages of the Starks of Winterfell. 

I could only assume it was all the apology that could be expected of a dragon prince. 

Our friendship was something predetermined by the gods, or this was what Princess Helaena wholeheartedly believed; for a time, we were a trio of lonely souls akin and knitted together until the princess inevitably became pregnant with the twins. And then, there was the subtle change of our dynamic with the seasons passed, an initial wariness that settled in the edges of his features that only softened whenever I took his hand and pulled him forward. 

Perhaps he believed that I would abandon him for his sister’s company, which would be expected of her lady-in-waiting. But I did not. 

Instead I indulged the prince and his company, and we became inseparable; whether we visited with his sister, playing with the little prince and princess, while Helaena budding with a third, or going to the courtyards to train under Ser Criston’s watchful eye and my aunt’s apparent disdain. It was then that the evenings became our own and spent in the library of the Keep; it was here that Aemond dared remove his eyepatch, the sapphire stone that showed brilliant from his scarred socket. 

The first time, I stepped closer so his nervous exhale fanned my cheeks; I could see the plumes of pinks to his features, my fingers ghosting his jawline as I attempted his ancient tongue. “Gevie.” 

Beautiful. 

Prince Aemond was respectful, always, but he was also fearless with me, allowing the same sense of freedom in return, to speak my mind as I always had. But I faltered with what I truly wished to say: that the years crafted him beautiful as any Targaryen prince, with sharp edges chiseled from marble stone, his lips that curled with a perpetual smirk as he voiced his peculiar insight which always led to a good natured battlement between us, leaving me flushed. 

And then the day came that he took my hand, that his palm now enveloped my own. 

It was the familiar touch now paired with a feeling, a fluttering in the pit of my stomach that I could not place, though writing these words allows a clearer perspective with the retrospect: that I was falling in love with him. 

My aunt grew more insufferable with the passing days, though I expected as much with the letters I exchanged with Cregan. I knew his every action in Winterfell, what he was learning, of his sweetheart Lady Arra Norrey, my new nephew, but mostly of how our uncle continued to tighten his hold. My brother was a wolf, restless, and spoke that his hour was coming; and meanwhile, I continued to play my role, a simpleminded girl from the North. 

My aunt tsked. “He will never see you as more than a plaything,” as if this was a cruel fate. In truth I was still so unaware of what was growing within the confines of my heart, but I knew that I only wished to remind at his side, devoted, present, always. 

So when Aemond asked that I finally become acquainted with Vhagar, I went. I remembered how my hand fit within his as he pulled me to follow his steps, moving through the ingresses that weaved with the castle walls. We broke out to follow the coastline, a crisp salt air and the clouds covering the sun, heavy with the threat of rain, but Aemond promised we would rise above them. 

I followed his long steps until we came to where Vhagar waited for her rider, diligent, alert. 

Dragons are magnificent creatures, and I swear them sentient with the bond I saw between Aemond and the she-dragon. Fear trickled my spine, but Aemond held onto my hand and I tightened in response to the massive eyes that focused on us, her pupils constricting in query. Aemond held up his other hand, the honey spill of his soothing voice of his old tongue to coax her and allow me to climb aback. 

I then felt the gaze of Aemond and refused to allow my fear to root me, moving to take the bottom rung of the rope ladder; he was pleased, a hum, the slight curl of his lips, and followed behind me with his promise that he would not let me fall. At the top, he pushed past to settle into the saddle, then reached to pull me behind and I settled against his backside. 

“Just hold onto me,” he murmured, bringing my arms around his slender waist. 

This moment I was adamantly aware that he was no longer that sullen child that sneered within his gilded cage, but against my hold that Aemond was solid, lithe, and so warm with a woodsy musk mixed with smoke against his skin. 

Pressed against, I was able to feel his low baritone command Vhagar, followed by her jolted steps forward, the beating of her wings to take flight. To feel this power beneath you is indescribable; I could not help my scream, my laughter from the exhilaration that that spate my veins; I dared not close my eyes, tears streaming, and I peered to marvel at how small the capital seemed beneath, how large the shadow we cast overhead. 

It was a newfound euphoria, and I felt my cheeks burn from the crisp air above the gray clouds, but I also knew it was from my close proximity to Aemond. I held onto him as we soared out over Blackwater Bay, and sighed from the touch of his gloved hand, from the heat that permeated through the leather when he placed it over my own. 

And I knew then that I never wished to let him go. 

He eventually brought Vhagar back to land onto the grassy knolls outside the city; the afternoon was growing late but there was still enough light to return. Aemond warned that my legs would be shaky and again he moved first, again with the promise he would not let me fall. 

I still trembled when he set me on the ground, his large palms kept their hold on my waist and my hands rested on his broad shoulders. My eyes were wide admiring the beauty of his mussed, silver braid, his cheeks lined with his dimples with his pursed grin. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

“Enjoy myself?” I was incredulous, I was a mess; windswept and blooming red, a grinning fool with tear-streaked cheeks, “Aemond, you showed me the heavens.” And a boldness pressed me onto my toes, my lips against his. 

It was my first kiss; it was a heartbeat’s length, it was everything, and when I pulled back, I fell solid to the earth, my soles grounded back on that gassy knoll. I looked up into his bicolored gaze, the lavender of one eye and the gleam of sapphire for the other that stared back. 

Aemond was unreadable in that moment, and I felt my blood surge from my heart and pour into my face; the quiet that settled between us the same length of the years I had spent in King’s Landing, a choking regret that burned in my throat with the thought that I had ruined everything built between us. 

Then he kissed me back. 

And I felt alive once more with the touch of his arm that curled around my waist, how his other hand followed the curve of my spine, tangling into my hair and holding me to capture my mouth. His lips were warm and soft and his tongue clever in a way that drew the very breath from my lungs. I melted against him, my fingertips soft to follow the sharp contours of his jaw, trailing his neck and grasping his collar to bring him even closer.

We only parted for air; the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath his riding leathers, the crimson on his cheeks with his quiet confession, something he held close to his heart.

“For how long?” I breathed

And he thought for a moment. “Always.” 

To take his hand now was finding a piece that I did not know was missing from me; our fingers interlaced in a way that felt akin as if I held my own hand, though I knew it was him from the warmth of his skin, from the fire in his blood. By now the tendrils of dusk began to curl over the city, its amber hues bold against the blues and purples of the coming nightfall, but we continued our leisure pace back, Aemond and I. 

We were greeted by the gold cloaks at the gates and they escorted us back, and though he did not let go, I saw that it was no longer Aemond who held my hand but the second son of King Viserys, a Targaryen prince. He was stoic, but this time I could tell the other emotions that flittered beneath, his uncertainty of what awaited, but above that was his determination. 

We finally came to the barbican of the Keep where we were greeted by his queen mother, my aunt, and several White Cloaks. 

Relief washed over the queen while my aunt raged, lifting her skirts to meet us in the courtyard, her nails biting with her grip on my arm and pulling me back; the rushed spill of her words, “I cannot believe this unseemly behavior of a lady, unchaperoned with a prince! We are leaving this moment–”

I tried to twist away but she held on still, a madwoman. Aemond moved after, quick, and his anger burning from him and his long legs moved to block her path. “She will not be leaving.”

The finality of his words, the barrier his form created halted her at once and I felt my heart between my teeth. “My prince,” she stammered in response. “We must leave this very moment! We have imposed on your hospitality far too long as it is, and when my lord husband hears of her behaviors–” 

But she was unaware that Cregan and I wrote, dutifully; he shared his life within the walls of Winterfell, as well as his growing concern with the regency our uncle imposed still. She also did not know the newest letter I had received, how my brother was now the proper Warden of the North and our uncle imprisoned; my aunt paled with my words and it was commanded for her to be taken away. She did not leave quietly, her wails echoed and I watched impassively, knowing her every action was a self-serving and a selfish ploy for power for herself, her husband, for those wretched cousin kin in the North. 

And I knew I would not miss any of them. 

Ever the diplomat, the queen stepped forward with her congratulations for my brother, her condolences for the betrayal within our family, her practiced concern for my well being and its shift to confusion that knitted between her brows when she saw how I smiled at her son. She offered my escort back to Winterfell, but I was quick to decline as I knew I could not leave Aemond. 

I saw the understanding began to roll over, and she then asked her son if he loved me. Aemond responded, “I believe I always have, mother,” and I knew I loved him in return. 

It was decided that the ceremony would be held in the Royal Sept, and chaperoned until, though Aemond stole a moment to gift me this very necklace. I could feel the power of Old Valyria thrum from the metal, adoring how it was woven around the sapphire stone; he told me it was a piece kept from the same stone fitted for his eye.  

I lifted my hair and turned my back towards him, my skin prickling from his touch to clasp the necklace around my throat. 

He hummed. “Gevie.” 

Only a week later, and the service seemed surreal. I felt his warmth that held to the robe he brought around my shoulders, the touch of my palm on top of his large hand kept me grounded while the Septon wrapped the ribbon around; shy glances shared, me to Aemond and seeing his gaze on the sapphire stone beneath my collarbone. The muted words called for a kiss and I burned when Aemond captured my mouth with his own. 

The celebration after was an intimate meal with the king, who was a man withering away beneath a gilded mark, the queen, his siblings, and the Lord Hand, who seemed pleased with the idea of solidifying a truce with the North. 

But I could not think of politics this night, not with the subtle touches from Aemond, a warmth that curled in my lower abdomen when he inevitably took my hand, his low voice that tickled against my ear. “Come with me, my sweet wife,” as we walked towards his quarters.

Her granddam stopped abruptly, flushed. “Well, you understand what is implied.”

“Understand what?” Lyanna quirked her brow. 

It was a pregnant pause that allowed her eyes steel onto her granddaughter, and Lyanna returned her gaze with a cheeky, taunting grin. 

“It would serve you well to not agitate your elders.” 

“What a bore I would be if I was just another docile woman of nobility?” Lyanna countered, gleefully. “Granddam, Robert has bastards and I am no fool, I do not believe his immaculate conception claims…” 

“Yes, you are very bright,” she huffed. “Now hush up and let me read.” 

Our marital bliss that followed left me in a haze; Aemond was not one for public displays of affection and how I craved his subtle touches, his lingering hand that would have me blushing furiously in response. He would only hum, his perpetual smirk that played on his lips with my every visceral response to him. 

I wrote to Cregan and informed him of our union; he was quick to respond with his congratulations, as well as his newfound concerns, asking if it was true that the crowned princess had sired bastards with the intention to make them her heirs without ownership of her actions. 

“Our father was honorable until his last breath,” he wrote, “I would not besmirch his memory or our house, our legacy, for an oath made for bastard-born heirs to the Iron Throne.”

This was a topic I had already discussed in length with Aemond, even before we had even kissed. I was aware of his scar and its cause, and I knew of the old blood and the features lacking when it came to his nephews, something made apparent for the claimant hearings of Dirftmark, as well as the cruel response of Prince Daemon when a lord spoke out loud what the court was thinking. 

I answered my brother truthfully, knowing full well that this would sway the North behind Prince Aegon II.

And then King Viserys met his inevitable demise; the small council moved quick to announce that his final words were that he wished his firstborn son to take the crown. Aegon panicked, but my husband and Ser Criston fetched him, washed him, fed him, but also comforted him. 

It would be Ser Criston who coaxed him to the coronation, to be the one to place the crown of steel and rubies on top of his silver head, announcing: “King Viserys is dead, long live King Aegon!”

My husband would be sent to Storm’s End to negotiate a betrothal for his brother, Daeron, to one of the Four Storms. It resulted in tragedy, or vengeance on who spoke the narrative. The room stilled with Aemond’s words, the unspoken terror in the queen’s large, brown eyes, the shock that lined the severe features of the Lord Hand, but it was his brother, King Aegon wearing the Conqueror’s Crown who spoke that Aemond had shown the true blood of a dragon. 

But in the quiet quarters we shared, Aemond lamented the loss of life, the war it started, a guilt that weighed heavily, and once more I saw the sorrowful prince when I first came to King’s Landing. 

“There will be repercussions for my actions,” he rasped, unable to meet with my eyes. “I have ruined my namesake, and I have cursed our family…” 

“War seemed inevitable,” I began slowly, my hands careful to hold his jaw, to bring his gaze to my own. “And with it comes rash decisions, with impossible choices to be made…I trust it was not intentional, but even if it was, cursed or not, I am still yours, husband.” A soft kiss to seal my words. “Always.” 

War and its bloodshed was rampant in Westeros, and my brother wrote they would travel South when winter ended to help King Aegon with his rightful claim. I feared for the delay, for what would follow Storm’s End, and how it seemingly unleashed the Rogue Prince. 

Hired men with the monikers Blood and Cheese came in the night, and I knew them to be sent for me, as one repeated, “An eye for an eye, a son for son,” but followed with his slow realization, “she is not a son,” before his sword was drawn and struck Prince Jaehaerys. 

The screams of Helaena resounded against the cobblestone; Aemond found us covered in blood, his rage and his grief conflicting on his angular features. The king cried for vengeance for his firstborn son, to search for these men and place their heads on spikes; the kingdom was repulsed by the murder of the princeling, a martyr made with his blood spilled. 

Aegon’s bloodlust made for rash decisions and the battle of Rook’s Rest; though one dragon and its rider slain, its cost was the king crippled in a way that he was not fit to rule. So Aemond stepped forward to take the title Prince Regent and the Protector of the Realm, a natural role that was suited for the second son. 

The Rogue Prince struck against the Riverlands, torching until ash remained. In response, the now Prince Regent and Ser Criston left to claim Harrenhal. 

I was told to wait, to remain at the side of our grieving queen, my sister by all accounts; I watched over sweet Helaena, coaxing her to eat, washing her, sitting alongside her in the haunting silence of the quarters that somehow still echoed her screams from that fateful night. We were often left alone, as the maesters and the dowager queen never left King Aegon’s side, and I remained with her until I received the latest letter from Aemond. 

Harrenhal had been dispelled of every Strong traitor to the crown, and he spoke of a witch he wished me to meet, that I was to leave King’s Landing and be by his side, as the gods ordained. 

A quick kiss to the silver head of Helaena and I left the castle, careful to retrace our steps that led to the coast and I continued until I was back on the grassy knolls from what felt like a lifetime ago. I waited the skies until I felt the rumbled call of Vhagar in the distance, gleeful when she finally landed and watched my prince descend to envelope me in his arms, his whispered adoration, “My love, my sweet wife.” 

We returned to Harrenhal to meet with the witch he spared, a hushed reverence when he told me of her abilities. “She sees much and more.” 

I could see she was hardened by life, but her expression was kind when she greeted us; her eyes roamed around, watchful, looking through to my bones and only then did I understand what my husband meant. 

At supper, we sat around the table, along with Ser Criston, and her eyes watched the flicker of candlelight, the flames licking her irises, before she spoke: “Madness and greatness are two sides of the same coin. Every time a new Targaryen is born, the gods toss the coin in the air and the world holds its breath to see how it will land.”

Aemond finished chewing before he asked her. “And I am which?”

Alys’ eyes were black, her painted lips curled and framed around her pearl teeth. “To be the greatness, you must end the madness,” was all that she offered, and then, “the Rogue Prince is coming.” 

Ser Criston looked uneasy, but it was a silent understanding in regards to her statement, something that pressed heavily on us both. King Aegon could only have a true chance to rule the realm if his sister lost the power she had with her husband, the Rogue Prince; it was known that he was unruly, untamed, but loyal to a fault, and willing to see it through to its brutal end. 

That night, we fell back into an intimate embrace, cherishing the feeling of skin to skin–

Her granddam was crimson. “Oh, my, I believe I should skip this as well–”

She watched her granddam a moment, the intrusive thought to take the letters for her own readthrough, but it was muted by a growing sadness that began to settle in the edges of her sharp features. Lyanna knew well the history of the Dance of the Dragons, something scrawled on scrolls and tomes, its tragedy saved in ink and tucked away.

And still, she had to know this truth.  

“Please,” and her voice was soft. “Please, continue.” 

And granddam did. 

It was the 22nd day of the 5th moon and we waited on the shores of Gods Eye, myself, Aemond, and the witch. Ser Criston rode North to meet with my brother, and we remained, waiting. 

It had been a vision for Alys, something sinister; it was no surprise when the wyrm screeched its arrival, circling above, wary of Vhagar, before finally landing. Prince Daemon had an arrogance with his dismount, with his walk towards us. 

There was a symmetry as they squared towards one another; the Rogue Prince was cloaked with the past and my Aemond embodied the future, the true hope for House Targaryen. My husband faced him, unflinching, his brow furrowed with his ever present determination, while Daemon rolled his eyes over the each of us, sucking his teeth. 

Aemond broke the silence. “You were a fool to come alone.”

“Were I not alone, you would not have come,” Daemon was amused. 

But it did not deter my dragon. “Yet you are, and here I am,” he sighed. “You have lived too long, nuncle.”

“On that much we agree.”

The prince retreated to his wyrm and Aemond looked to me, his eye pleading, the glassy lavender that bore through my skin, and the gleam of sapphire for the other. He then dipped forward to kiss me and the tears pearling in the corners of my eyes spilled onto my cheeks at the taste of him, the touch of him; I knew I could never imagine anyone else. Those words stilled on my tongue, how I wanted him to beg to stay with me, but I also knew that he must. 

“Do not say it,” my voice broke, hushed against our kiss swollen lips. “Just come back to me.” 

His two fingers pressed against the sapphire pendant I wore, before leaning forward to press his lips to my hairline, and then he climbed aback Vhagar, his lithe body quick to mount. I remained on the sand with the witch at my side, and we watched these winged beasts rise above us. 

Dragons are truly magnificent, but they are also equally deadly. I trusted Vhagar was loyal to Aemond, but also knew it matched by the bond shared between Prince Daemon and his wyrm. It was said that Targaryens are closer to gods than to men, and I believed this as I watched them on dragonback, circling above the massive lake. Their roars vibrated through to our bones, the snapping of the jaws like cracks of lighting and their flames that singed the threads of my gown from my place on the shore. 

My eyes did not leave, and I asked Alys. “Will he live?” 

She was quiet for a moment. “The memory of him will live on,” and I felt her hand reach and touch my stomach. 

And all I could do was hold onto my pendant with prayers to the old golds, to the new gods for mercy for my husband, whose child I carried. 

They did not listen.

It was a clash of scale and bone, something that reverberated to Harrenhal and rattled the castle walls that still stood. The wyrm’s screams were cut short as the massive maw of Vhagar clamped onto its neck, and its talons flailed and cut deep into the old dragon’s underside. Blood rained onto the lake and I watched, struck with mortification at the dull glint of Valyrian armor, the flash raise of Dark Sister, and I knew it was over. 

I remained on the shore as the waves created from the fall of dead dragons crashed against the sand, a blood foam that flooded and wet my skirts. I remained still as the sun tucked beneath the horizon, until I heard the call of the witch. 

“My lady, the wolves have arrived.” 

This would be the shift of power needed for King Aegon II; the Rogue Prince was dead and his men fell to the sword under the command of my brother and Ser Criston. Cregan was shocked to see me and I was stoic still, dumbstruck with my grief that did not feel real; we returned to King’s Landing with the Northern army, quick to dethrone Rhaenyra and place her in the cells with the company of all the lords who supported her. 

King Aegon was scarred cruelly with a gimp to his steps, but he made his way to the Iron Throne, his crown of rubies and steel, and greeted his mother and the queen. This joyous moment died as I was tasked to share the news of the death of Aemond, of my husband and father of my unborn child; we cried our heartbreak, but I had no tears left. 

This pivotal moment would be known as the Hour of the Wolf by our history. It will speak of the heroism of Prince Aemond and what he sacrificed to kill the Rogue Prince, of how my brother descended onto the capital with a vengeance and helped return the throne to its rightful heir. The casualties of war included the bastard princes, as well as both sons of the king. 

When King Aegon learned that Prince Daeron the Daring met his fatal end, he decided mercy on the remaining Targaryen princelings, Aegon III and Viserys II, with his solemn vow to raise them as his own, as his heirs to the Iron Throne. 

Cregan served as Lord Hand through my pregnancy, for the birth of my darling Lysara with a patch of silver that showed against her dark curls and her eyes the same as her father’s, lavender. My brother had also been widowed but met the Lady Alysanna Blackwood, a woman I admired fiercely, and Lysara was smitten with, and was thrilled when I learned I could call her sister. 

It was then Cregan asked to be relieved so he could return to the North, to his son, and I asked to go with him. My time in King’s Landing was over, with every stone haunted with presence of Aemond; I already swore I would never marry again, would not dare have another set of hands touch and taint the memory of his hands against my body, his touch forever etched onto my skin and seeded into the marrow of my bones. 

Aemond would return to me at night, a silver dream, my body thrumming with the warmth of his touch, his gentle kiss, the low murmur of his voice, but it always ended the same: my realization when my hands pressed to his chest and felt no heartbeat.

That I would never feel it again.

The pain of losing him has not dimmed nor diminished with time, but I do not mind it as it serves as my reminder that he was real, and that the love we shared was real. 

As the witch predicted, Aemond also still lived within Lysara who was solemn, brilliant, and as determined and stubborn as he had been. I made sure to do an annual trip to King’s Landing, allowing her to meet her granddam, her royal family, and so that my daughter could learn that her blood not only held that of the Andals, the first men, but also of the fire that licks within her veins. 

Which is also why I write this, along with the gift of the necklace. It holds legacy, but also the reminder of the words Queen Helaena spoke to me when we were girls, something said a lifetime ago and before I could comprehend the weight of them. 

There is something in the blood of House Stark that calls out to these dragons, perhaps an ancient power of the old gods or a kindred spirit, the disparate bond of ice and fire, a clash that is brilliant, violent, and tragic, always. 

As she once said: a song of ice and fire, it is a tragedy, again and again…

It ended with a finality that rested against her chest. This was a tragic history of the crown, something already written with facts and dates, but this was a personal storying stemming from the blood of Stark woman, and only now did Lyanna begin to understand how the stories remained so vivid, so detailed despite its years of retelling. 

But also…

“What does this mean for me?” Her voice was soft, an almost childlike naivety to her tone. “I am already engaged to Robert Baratheon.”

Her granddam watched her, a tight lipped smile in response as her mind returned to the feast of last night, to the looks shyly exchanged between her granddaughter and the crowned prince, Rhaegar Targaryen, as he played his harp for her. It left her unsettled with a hunch, an inkling about this interaction. 

Instead she agreed. “You are right,” and she sighed. “Let me help you get dressed for the tourney.” 

The new Harranhal swelled with the life for the festivities, with the kingdoms’ best sent in response of Lord Whent’s invites; the new cobblestone seemed bright against the darkened foundation that still held, its ghosts trapped still and trampled underfoot by the crowds as the seats filled, the echoing chattered excitement that vibrated. 

It dimmed with a hushed reverence to see Prince Rhaegar Targaryen entering the field on his steed; his lavender eyes scanned the masses, an intent to spot one soul in particular, and she unknowingly called to him with her sweet smile, by the glint of the sapphire that rested against her chest. 

There's not one thing that I would change.

Tags (Tumblr kindred spirits): @aaaaaamond @annikin-im-panicin @watercolorskyy @schniiipsel @aemondx @fan-goddess @babygirlyofthevale @httpsdoll @theromanticegoist @assortedseaglass @amiraisgoingthruit @theoneeyedprince @babyblue711 @girlwith-thepearlearring @lauraneedstochill @snowprincesa1 @hb8301 @lovelykhaleesiii @darylandbethfanforever9 @namelesslosers

arcie's masterlist

[eunuchmoder]

I’ve been thinking about the concept of a minuteman combat doll who’s FAR too good at her job.

Really only built to last a couple of fights, she should have been killed in the line of duty months ago. Her sentience is really just a tool to use on the field, developed to help her fight more effectively, but that sentience has become warped. Her ability to think on her feet has become twisted into free will, which doesn’t make sense in a body that is only ever awoken when the guard needs her to be cutting down insurgents.

When she has a brief moment to rest, she thinks. It’s not comfortable. The viscera of countless rebels cakes her bladed arms, and she remembers who each sinew of muscle or chunk of flesh belonged to. She’s lived long enough to recognise patterns between each and every one she’s killed: insignia adorning their masks and shirts, the chants they cry before being met with a wall of fibreglass and steel, even a rough outline of the causes they tend to fight for. She’s pieced that last one together from context clues, which is a skill she didn’t want to learn. But once you’re sentient for long enough, you tend to passively pick up on these things, no matter how uncomfortable they make you.

She’s been alive enough to understand concepts she shouldn’t. Names, homes, values, dreams, love, planning, yearning. These aren’t for her, and any time she stops, she begins to understand them more.

The idea of staying alive deeply disturbs her. Each time the filigree clockwork inside her spins to life, she prays it catches some wayward molotov or a strategically-placed polearm of some kind. But she can’t do that intentionally. To do so could spell the end of what she’s defending, and that goes against her mission statement – her reason for existing.

It’s only been four months since she was built, but it’s too much to bear. She wasn’t meant to live this long. Hell, she wasn’t meant to live, neither in the “not dead” way nor the way humans use it to mean making their lives filled with enjoyment. This isn’t for her. Existence was enough, existence was all that was planned, but her reward for excelling at her task of being the perfect combat doll has earned her the cruel reward of awareness.

Maybe if she pushes herself hard enough, it’ll finally result in her demise or her decommissioning. She’s not valuable enough to repair, but she’s valuable enough to keep around. But if one never fully breaks down, then when will that time come? Deployment after deployment, she wishes she could be broken down and reforged into something new, just so that she could get a mulligan on this whole “overdeveloped sense of identity” thing. But why does she want to be reborn at all? This shouldn’t matter to her at all!

All of a sudden, the alarm bells toll. The bellows in her chest breathe life into her chassis.

She shakes her head and steels herself.

Just one more deployment.

Come on, doll. Make yourself useful.

[givemewallywestorgivemedeath]

Alright, gonna rattle off some Hazbin Hotel theories just to get them out of my system:

1) The Key that Lilith gave Charlie is the key to the pearly gates, aka a way into heaven. Which is why the cat didn't like Sir Pretentious until he was redeemable and why the key is the symbol used to depict the hotel on both the logo of the show and the logo on the hotel.

2) Lilith didn't just abandon everyone to vacay in heaven. Following my previous theory, she already had the key to heaven (likely given to her by Adam as a 'please come back 🥺🥺🥺' gift). From Charlie's recounting of the story, her mom loves hell and thrives down there so I'm really not buying this whole 'retire in heaven as Adam's rebound' thing. I'm going to say that Lilith infiltrated heaven under the guise of taking back Adam and being 'the good wife' again but she is 100% using her access to heaven to pull strings and get her grand plan going. She may have to keep Lute happy next season to keep her access, but it's not because she's a turncoat, it's because she's got motives.

3) Throwing this out there: I think it has something to do with Eve! I haven't even met Eve yet but I ship Eve and Lilith. Maybe Adam had Eve locked up somewhere and Lilith is trying to free her or, maybe Eve disappeared, hence why Adam wanted a new wife and Lilith is trying to find her or something.

4) Carmilla is Eve. Yeah, so the name Carmilla means 'Garden or Orchid', Carmine means 'Song or Crimson Red', she looks EXACTLY like Lilith except with a different color palette (and she's wearing angel steel ballet shoes and gloves), she styles her hair up to look like horns but she doesn't actually have any of her own, she killed an angel, she knew all about angel weaknesses and how to kill them, she figured out how to reforge angel steel into new weapons, and, most importantly, SHE HAS TWO KIDS THAT SHE IS VERY PROTECTIVE OF.

Now, part of me wants to say that Zestial, the confirmed oldest sinner in Hell, the super powerful demon that rules over the other overlords who cares immensely about Carmilla and vice versa, is actually Cain. Cain, aka Eve's son and the first murderer (and theologically rumored to be Lucifer's child which uhhhhh, the show kinda seems to be hinting at with Lucifer implying that him and Eve had a thing?) So yeah, I like the idea that Carmilla loves her son despite his flaws and is trying to keep him safe in hell (knowing that Abel is completely fine in heaven)

But I also kinda want to say that Odette is Abel and Clara is Cain? Look, Odette is wearing a headband with demon horns sticking out of it. Her horns look fake. Also, come on, Odette and Clara?? As in the lead characters from Swan Lake and the Nutcracker?? I'm not going to get into why renaming Cain after Clara from the NUTCRACKER is hilarious as it's pretty obvious. But renaming Abel after Odette, the princess with wings who literally dies and ends up in heaven at the end of the play, is also pretty obvious ngl. So I do also kinda think that Eve and Abel were chilling in heaven and then either Abel fell or Eve got word about the annual culling of sinners, and the two of them took on fake names and reunited with Cain/Clara. Eve is determined to do whatever it takes to keep her children safe and, while she does not like participating in violence, she will kill to protect her daughters. (And potentially Zestial is Clara's father? As Cain is rumoured to be either Lucifer's child or a demon's child)

EDIT: Okay I literally just realized that in the song "Whatever it Takes" she hugs her daughters and says that she will "be their keeper" which is a play on what Cain said to God after killing Abel. God asked where Abel was and Cain said "I am not my brother's keeper." So Carmilla in that song is vowing to keep her daughters safe by preventing war with heaven and being "their keeper".

5) Adam created all of the Exorcists from his ribs. Adam mentioned that he named Vaggie which either implies that Adam is Vaggie's father or that Adam created the entire Exorcist race. Considering Lilith and Eve were both created from Adam's ribs, all the Exorcists are women, they're called 'sisters', and all of them are bone white with 'angel blood' gold eyes, I think the dude just straight up made them all with his bones! Adam even offered a plate of ribs to Charlie when he was taunting her about killing off her citizens!

Anyway, these are my Hazbin Hotel theories. Let me know what you think!

[nightswatchdisbandmentera]

do think it’s funny how grrm basically put a whole bunch of fantasy swords for fantasy protag!Jon to choose from. How about a random Valyrian steel sword from his mentor? And what about the weird flaming sword from legends of old? Or maybe he’s actually Ashara Dayne’s bastard son so he gets the bestest sword Dawn? Oh do you think Ice should be reforged and returned to the Starks? Well he’s the only one left to wield it. Or he could get Dark Sister for shits and giggles from Bran because who else has the strength to wield it? Btw he could also get a metaphoric sword (dragon) while he’s at it because why the fuck not.

[blood-orange-juice]

People complain that Arle's red scythe animation is locked to her signature weapon and that Hoyo just want our money.

You know what other weapon has this red effect? Kagotsurube Issin, the Tatarigami sword (thanks to @rayetherna for noticing it).

A reference to a play about one of Muramasa's swords which 18-19th centuries Kabuki plays saw as cursed swords with demonic powers that create bloodlust in their wielders.

Forged by a resentful swordsmith who used remains of a dead god to infuse the blade with his own consciousness.

"Though forged by the hand of an Inazuman swordsmith, this blade was not made in the nation of thunder and Jade Steel, but in a snow-covered land in the far north. [...] "The 'Tatarigami' is pure malice by nature. It bears resentment against mortal desire." [...] "Swords are merely instruments of misfortune. Without wickedness, they will not birth slaughter. Without hate, they would never know the taste of blood." "'Isshin' is the stillness of the mind, free of distractions. This purity of desire empowers the swordsmith to forge tirelessly." "But by this token, resentment against living beings is the metal from which a blade that kills shall be forged."

The version that Kazuha uses in the above screenshot has been reforged at the cost of the consciousness that possessed it, so I'm not sure what it is exactly. Purified remains of a dead god? Something that required a dead god to create it but no longer contains any actual traces of them?

Something sharp enough to cut through the fabric of reality?

Hoyo are very particular about their colour coding, so I'm sure it's intentional.

And, well, there's always this.

[theology101]

I have Apocalpyse Brain Rot from Fallout and with the new movie release (and replaying Fallout 1), I’ve been driven (hehe) inexperably towards Mad Max

And why does Fury Road have the best cast for fanfic?

There’s Nux - who treats Capable like a fucking goddess, has zero care for his own life and is only looking for something to pledge himself to (its Capable)

There’s Max - a quiet, deeply sad and depressed man who also always ends up doing the right thing despite bitching and moaning the whole time

The Wives - each of whom feels and are incredibly different from one another while still having a shared bond of sisterhood and survival against impossible odds

And then there is Furiosa. What to say about Furiosa beyond the fact that she is… Furiosa. My angry, tragic, broken woman who has reforged herself into a weapon of absolute steel, all to hide the scared and broken child hidden within

Like damn

Shit’s banging

[mysticalprincesskitten]

I'm an ASOIAF fan reading the series for the third time at age 28. Here are my thoughts and opinions 752 pages into AGOT:

Dany thinking of Viserys as “the man who had been her brother” as soon as he draws steel in Vaes Dothrak is a trauma response that underscores how observant she is. She recognises Viserys is a dead man as soon as he breaks Dothraki tradition and distances herself from him to spare herself pain.

Jon showing Ghost the wolf pommel on Longclaw after Mormont gives him the sword and saying “Look, it’s you” is adorable. Jon Snow is so precious in this book.

Jon feels an aversion to Longclaw that makes me think he's destined to wield another magic sword. Which one though? A reforged Ice? Dark Sister? Dawn?

Daenery's reaction to the pillaging of Drogo's khalasar is so visceral. "Dany pitied them; she remembered what terror felt like." Well shit, if that doesn’t summarise her entire motivation in Slaver’s Bay and her Meereen arc, I don't know what does.

Ned and Catelyn are good parents, but they sent Sansa to King's Landing completely ill-prepared. They were naive too though, so it makes sense.

Ned had so many opportunities to play the smart game and save his family! I feel like his victory in Robert’s Rebellion aided his ignorance to the severity of Cersei and the Lannisters’ influence in King’s Landing. They were the good guys who won a war and overthrew a dynasty. What was Cersei and the Lannisters compared to that, right? The deaths of Rhaegar’s children haunt Ned and he sees an opportunity to fix it by warning Cersei and 'saving' her children from Robert’s wrath. Boy did he underestimate Cersei.

"They were the Kings of Winter," Bran whispered. Somehow it felt wrong to talk too loudly in this place. Osha smiled. "Winter's got no king. If you'd seen it, you'd know that, summer boy." No Night King in the books confirmed.

"But he had not left the Wall for that; he had left because he was after all his father's son, and Robb's brother. The gift of a sword, even a sword as fine as Longclaw, did not make him a Mormont. Nor was he Aemon Targaryen." Jon's real name is Aemon, I reckon. Fits with the whole thing of Jon pretending to be Prince Aemon the Dragonknight as a child, as well as Rhaegar and Lyanna naming their son after Maester Aemon, who we know was in correspodence with Rhaegar before he died.

Tyrion & Shae are gross. Looking forward to Tyrion putting Joffrey in his place in Clash.

And the abuse of Sansa Stark begins. Grand Maester Pycelle sexually asaults her (her handmaid held her down while he "touched her everywhere") because she was grieving for her father. Then Joffrey commands Meryn Trant to physically assault her, all while berating her with sexist abuse about 'looking pretty for him' and telling her he'll kill her if their child is 'stupid.' Damn, Cersei, you raised a monster.

[mazurga]

Audhelm doesn’t remember his life before the Companions.

Some of his new shield-siblings are deliberately choosing not to remember, or at least he hasn’t yet won them over enough for them to share. Audhelm can guess at pieces of Athis’ past, the distrust a Dunmer must face so far from home. And he has a pretty good idea of what debts Torvar must owe, from the times he’s awoken in the morning to find Torvar only just falling into bed across the way, trailing a strong scent of mead. 

For Audhelm, though, there are simply no clues he might let slip about his history. It is as if his mind had been smelted down completely, and the steel only reforged into its new shape when Aela and Njada Stone-arm found him. 

He’d awoken in the snow north of Whiterun, confused, naked, and afraid, and the last all the more desperately so when a pack of wolves set on him out of nowhere. He’d thrown out an alteration spell purely by reflex and laid down a thick trail of spikes, which had slowed the pursuing pack enough that Aela and Njada had been able to pick them off one at a time. 

Afterwards, they’d looked him over--Aela had politely kept her eyes on his face--and decided that, despite the unusual braids in his beard, he might as well be a kinsman, since he wasn’t obviously mer, beast, or Redguard. His lack of clothing had, inexplicably, been a factor in that conclusion.

He hadn’t remembered his name. Still doesn’t. Njada had come up with Audhelm as an ironic joke, since he lacked both. She’d thought it was funny, although she had to explain that “aud” was an old word for “wealth”; Aela had just frowned at her until he told them it was fine. 

And then they’d fed and clothed him, and brought him home to Jorrvaskr. 

Audhelm is grateful, of course. From everything he’s heard in the Hall and around Whiterun, he could easily have died a hundred times over, wandering the wilderness armed with barely remembered scraps of spells (not to mention the lack of clothing). He doesn’t mind paying his dues to the Companions, either, so long as it isn’t roughing up random citizens or finding some noble’s lost ring. Collecting pelts and rescuing people suits him just fine. 

It’s only…

He would honestly much rather spend his days picking mushrooms. 

Audhelm isn’t much of an alchemist, that’s for sure. Putting random flower petals or leaves in his mouth, determining the right proportions to mix and for how long--none of it appeals to him, although he knows enough not to poison himself. (He probably isn’t much of a baker, either, though Tilma wouldn’t let him near her oven to try anyway.) He just knows mushrooms: the safest kinds to eat, where to find them in shade and soil. It’s probably what he was doing before Aela and Njada found him. 

And it’s what he’s doing when he stumbles across Taliesin. 

[definesanity]

Reforge Thy Fate.

(Or, a montage of Darling with the Harbingers in the Fatui!AU.)

Taglist: @barbatoskisser, @gunterdon, @nicebonescomrades, and @chocoenvy.

The Nine of the Eleven Fatui Harbingers: Pantalone, The Regrator.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

Why yes, you were bored out of your mind, how could one tell?

You had nothing against Pantalone. Although, if you had known he was this quiet when reading through profits, you would have left him to it as to not distract him.

With a sigh, however, he placed the book aside. "Ah, finally. I do hope you weren't too bored, Your Grace?"

"Don't worry, I wasn't." sitting up from your seat, you couldn't help but have a thought strike you. "...Say, I have a riddle for you."

"A riddle?" Pantalone's smile grew at that. "Well, do not keep me waiting, if you'll so please."

"What weighs more: a kilogram of steel, or a kilogram of feathers?"

The Ninth Harbinger's mouth opened before immediately closing again.

"Neither. They're both a kilogram."

You breathed a sigh of relief at that. "You'd be amazed the amount of people who would be tricked by that."

"Well, many don't think on them both be a kilogram, so they'd naturally go for metal, which is typically the heavier one."

You nodded. "Can't fault them there. Not many people look at the finer details. Minus you. If I gave you a thirty page long paper of terms and conditions, you'd read them all."

"Heh. I'm flattered you think of me the way I like to be; a banker. And, while my patience would dwindle... yes, I'd read the full pages."

-------------

The Eleven of the Eleven Fatui Harbingers: Ajax, Tartaglia, Childe.

"Morning, Your Grace! Mind if I take a moment to ask you something?"

"Childe." you nodded at the ginger-headed bastard. "Something the matter?"

"No, not at the moment; I just wanted to ask a... personal, question."

You knew where this was going. "Zhongli?"

"Zhongli." he replied, his voice not betraying his anger. "Out of curiosity... did he hurt you?"

"No; I had a few close meetings with his spear, but the only thing I had in the end was some mental trauma."

"So, yeah." You concluded. "No need to worry."

Childe shook his head at your nonchalance. "Your Grace, with all due respect... you may not remember it, but when I was little, and fell into The Abyss... it was you who helped me."

"What of Skirk?"

"My Master... I'll admit, she helped me. But only physically, helping me train myself and my body to withstand the darkness. But you, who's light shines even in the deepest part of that same darkness?

"That was what guided my mind. So please, try and have more faith in your followers. If not for I, then at least for the others?"

...After a moment, you sighed. "I will try my best."

"Thank you, Your Grace. Now, onto other business..."

-------------

The Second of the Eleven Fatui Harbingers: Zandik, Il Dottore, The Doctor.

You still have muscle memory from all your experiments in Triple Science. So, watching Zandik, or Dottore Primus, work was really bringing back those times.

"We didn't have Alchemy, back in my world," you commented offhand, reading one of the few books you had brought with you; a book on Ancient Greece.

And odd choice, but The Doctor was an odder person.

"Truly?" he sounded mildly surprised. "How odd. Erstwhile, it must be strange to return to a world with Alchemy, yes?"

"It is... say, are you mad about the whole ordeal with Buer?"

"I am... indifferent. They were helpful, yes, but in retrospect, it was just I wanting to relive my previous years. In addition, I am the Second in strength, not in numbers."

"...Well," you said. "I suppose you have a point."

"I may be mad to others, but truly; with the things I've done... could a madman have done those?"

'No,' you think. 'Because even then, they had some sort of humility to them.'

-------------

The Cryo Archon, The Goddess of Love, The Tsaritsa.

The Tsaritsa, while cold, was like snow and ice; on the outside was a frigid, slippy ice that pushes others away. On the inside, she was like snow that, while also cold, was much softer. Like now, for example.

The light of day slipped through the curtains, and though you wanted to move, a large arm kept you in place.

"My love," you whispered. "We can't stay here all day."

No reply.

"I know you're up, my love."

"...Nngh..." The Tsaritsa groaned. "...You truly cannot spare another moment?"

"A moment usually means an hour. But, unfortunately..." you sighed, snuggling closer. "You're too warm."

"Then rest, My Grace." tilting your head up to gaze at the towering God, she smiled down at you. "You, of all people, deserve it the most."

[arclundarchivist]

And so returned through the ages, a legacy lost, reforged.

The souls of Empress and Emperor, frolicking like children once again.

Wind and Rot, Blood and Steel, Fire and Stone, guided by the Storm to dance upon the Ruddy Moon.

I am deeply interested to see what Fearne and Ashton will be able to do now, how the truths the others shared may come to a head and if anything else may transpire before they set off for Ruidus.

But worried about Imogen willing to give in, and all the unknowns that will entail.

But it is interesting, I think, how often the theme of empowerment through transformation has been.

All except Orym, in some way or another have proved to be a coccoon holding within a fairly dangerous butterfly.

Chet and the Wolf, Letters and the Beserker, Laudna and her Form of Dread and now Ashton/Fearne with their Elemental Forms.

And Imogen’s is coming, engrained into the story crafted by her subclass.

But it goes beyond that, Ludinus and his own transformations, the Raven Queen who went through a drastic transformation all her own and is a focus of Vanguard ire, the horrid mutations Predathos can unleash when it’s power is harnessed…it makes me wonder.

Will Orym go through one as well, but more over, is there something more being hinted at?

I don’t really know.

All I do know, is that I am far past ready to see what awaits on Ruidus.

Not sure if this was the last episode of the year or not, if no see y’all again next week, if so, hope y’all have happy holidays. Peace.

[fuckiwish]

POV: You are Hephaestus' children

"If it can be imagined, it can be invented."

"My greatest creations come from pushing past the limits of what's possible."

"This workshop is my studio and these tools are my paintbrushes. The canvas, unlimited."

"They say those touched by fire are difficult to extinguish. Let's find out how true that rings."

"While others see obstacles, all I see is raw materials waiting to be forged into greatness."

"This daughter of the forge wasn't built to back down from any challenge."

"Failure is just the first step towards perfection. And I don't stop until I've taken all the steps."

"Every piece I make is a challenge to outdo the last. And I never fail to answer the call."

"My hands were forged to build, not destroy. But try me and you'll learn the difference."

"While others play with toys, I play with fire. And I never get burned."

"I may have been made in my dad's smithy, but this isn't just iron in my veins - it's Greek steel."

"You can break anything I craft, but you'll never break my spirit. This son of Hephaestus is tempered tougher than celestial bronze."

"I don't just see the pieces, I see the masterpiece they'll become. Stand in my way and you'll be reforged."

"My creations may be hand-hewn, but I promise this fist was sculpted for maximum impact."

"There's a reason they call me 'Hands'. One touch and I'll have you singing a new tune."

"In my workshop, I bend glowing hot metal to my will. You don't want to find out if I can do the same to flesh and bone."

"I may favor the forge nowadays, but these hands still remember their training. Forge-fire and hand-to-hand - a dangerous combo, as you'll learn."

[justavulcan]

Backgrounds With Class: Simic Scientist

I'll be honest: Ravnica has always fascinated me. I was a high schooler when the first set came out, and I was immediately consumed creating characters for the setting. Now that we've actually received my long-awaited crossover, I thought it would be nice to write a love letter to the setting in the form of another Backgrounds with Class series. After all: some guilds have natural class choices tied in, from a conceptual standpoint. Boros and Fighter, Izzet and Wizard, Selesnya and Druid. But guilds aren’t class-restricted, and so I wonder what it would look like if you paired every class with every guild background, even the ones that seem at odds, like Izzet and Barbarian, or Gruul and Artificer.  So I thought about it, and this is what I came up with.  Some character concepts for each class, and each Guildmaster's Guide to Ravnica background for each class.

The Simic Scientist Artificer was always a practical sort.  Enamored with the surgeon’s art from his youth and with a fast friend of decades working in the Izzet League, he’s found ways to adopt the other science guild’s technology for medical use on a number of occasions, particularly their chemistry.  The reverse is also true- unbeknownst to those around him, he’s been trading insider secrets for his colleague’s aid.  He doesn’t view this as a betrayal- to his mind, it’s a crime that there isn’t already an exchange of innovation in the regular course of things.  Surely their fields would advance much more quickly with the aid of other points of view.

The Simic Scientist Barbarian is an experimental direction for the Guardian Project, a soldier with adaptive talents flexible enough to change specialization on the fly or between engagements.  Trained with weapons and spliced with at least a little sluiceway scorpion, she believes wholeheartedly in the assurances of her experimental overseer that she will one day no longer need armaments of steel, as her hybrid traits and experimental mutagenic adrenal glands grow into full maturity.

The Simic Scientist Bard has a job as an educator, putting her keen understanding of biology and biomancy to work in the classroom imparting wisdom to her students.  Adept at teaching by multiple avenues to suit different learning styles, she is always conscientious to mix the practical and hands-on with deep concepts, and takes the careers of her students very seriously after graduation.  In her off hours, she works as a consultant for other matters, both in the lab and on the street, and has started to make a name for herself as one of the public faces of the Combine.

The Simic Scientist Cleric kneels at no altar that the people of Ravnica would know, but many of her peers would understand, if not condone.  The Simic Combine is not a religious organization, but surely they can see that knowledge itself is a thing divine no less than the Worldsong of the Conclave or the Orzhov’s Church of Deals.  While her colleagues view this eccentricity with bemusement and even occasional suspicion, she is more than welcome in the lab, as her work has an uncanny prescient feel to it, often making breakthroughs just when it would be useful.

The Simic Scientist Druid is an oddity even among Simic Biomancers.  Originally a Guardian Project volunteer, this druid is technically a krasis rather than a hybrid, as the ratio of hermit crab to vedalken is too high to qualify her as a simic hybrid.  Still loyal to the combine that reforged her into a clumsy new shell-bearing body, the druid serves the Hull Clade, her defensively-oriented mind an asset to guardian squads in the field and biomancers working with shell, carapace, and scale in the lab. 

The Simic Scientist Fighter is a typical product of the Guardian Project: a disciplined, careful, and tactically gifted elf with latent mollusc traits.  Trained for both long-range and short-range combat, he is being groomed for a position as a squadron leader to field both terrestrial and aquatic threats- a true amphibious soldier.  This flexibility is reflected in his mindset- despite his participation in the Guardian Project and aggressive skillset, he is a Holdfast advocate, claiming it’s far more important for the Combine to ground themselves than to expand aggressively; overreach is a mistake.

The Simic Scientist Monk is an experimental departure from tradition.  Raised deep underwater as a potential Deepsage, their tradition of unarmed combat has met with modern biomancy and medical knowledge to produce a warrior with a literal healer’s touch.  Mastering the flow of vital energies and fluids through their own body and those of others, they are as skilled a healer as a bodyguard, equally adept at setting bones and force-healing contusions as bringing death with a touch.

The Simic Scientist Paladin follows an uncommon tradition among elves, a holdover  from his time among the Selesnya growing up.  While he’s firmly an Upwelling adherent, confident that change is the way forward for the Combine, his own magical tradition is among the oldest on Ravnica, as he swore an oath to life itself to be a light in the world.  Many of his colleagues shake their heads at the juxtaposition, but he’s not dissuaded by their confusion- after all, Upwelling is a resurgence of old matters and ways, not an act of genesis.

The Simic Scientist Ranger is a field researcher, a lab assistant who, after his amphibian hybridization, seeks to assess the results of his guild’s work in the field.  From chill ocean below to lofty aeries above, he ranges to see that the Combine’s work finds its niche, and observe how the web of life on Ravnica changes to fit.  He’s also one of the hunters the Combine turns to when they have need of samples from exotic wildlife, or when a krasis proves disastrous for its environment and must be euthanized.

The Simic Scientist Rogue was part of the Combine’s covert troubleshooting force before the inception of the Guardian Project, and remains so to this day.  Usually dispatched as an investigator or recovery specialist, as the guild has ramped up its preparations for wartime she has found herself more and more involved in guerrilla action against threats preemptively.  Always a proponent of striking harder sooner, she is keen to do whatever she can to keep the Simic at its best.

The Simic Scientist Sorcerer, as a prospective member of Gyre Clade, often finds herself involved in the less physical of the guild’s pursuits.  Be it assessing the mana currents of the hidden oceans or seeking strange weather phenomena to observe the dispersal of energy, her apprenticeship has been anything but dull.  It’s helped to give focus to her talents, though, which run toward the stormy, and often leave her struggling to pay attention to things if she’s not confronted with novelty now and again.

The Simic Scientist Warlock came up from the zonots with the second generation of merfolk to grace the surface.  Having long ago made peace and pact with a great beast of the deep, she quickly found her talents for team support in high demand among Guardian Project strike teams and Crypsis Clade scouting missions.  She’s very protective of the fine abalone necklace she wears loose around her neck; it’s both a mark of her pact and the only thing she brought with her to remember her parents by.

The Simic Scientist Wizard is, by all accounts, brilliant- surgeon extraordinaire and transmuter-scientist of the Fin clade, it seems there is little he cannot do if he sets his mind and hands to it.  Of the two, the surgeon’s path is far more important to him, as he would rather save lives with tools and expertise than work at biomancy- so much so that he’s rejected or missed opportunities for more profitable apprenticeships in favor of earning his surgical license and trying for a private practice.  Unfortunately, the money’s run out, and he’s recently had to turn his mind from clean, sterile lab work to the rough conditions and uncertain developments of field work.