#Symbolism and hints from Moss!!!

[floralstorms]

@sludgemetalsnufkin

[lizzy06]

Takami Keigo(Hawks) x Reader Fic Recs!! (Tumblr/Ao3/Wattpad)

My Hero Academia Fic Rec Masterlist

lay low (take it slow) ✨by @andypantsx3/andypantsx3(college student! reader, hurt/comfort, fluff, eventual smut) What even was the right google search for this situation? How do I sew someone back together without passing out? How do I not barf on the pro hero I’m stitching up? Or, Hawks’ game of double agent lands him in the shaky hands of one (1) very unequipped English major.[COMPLETED]

Falling for You ✨by @flannel-cladpika (oneshot, soulmate au, fluff)Every year, on your birthdays, you two will switch quirks.[COMPLETED]

Golden ✨by @meganshinsou-tm (oneshot, soulmate au, fluff) When you touch yoursoulmate for the first time a thin gold line with be etched around your wrists.

Soul Chicken by @hitsuackerman (oneshot, soulmate au, fluff) Soulmate AU where the first words your soulmate says to you are written on your wrist and while Hawks has an absolutely unhelpful phrase written on them, y/n has something….unique.

Bird Hunting | Pt.2:Bird's Nest✨ by @a-n-conrad (oneshot, soulmate au)In a world where your soulmate was found through a symbol appearing on your left forearm, hinting at the quirk of your soulmate, you had to admit that you were lucky. You already knew who your soulmate was. The only issue was that there was really no way for you, an ordinary person, to get anywhere near the number 2 hero.

Petals and Feather✨ by @a-n-conrad(oneshot, hanahaki au, angst with happy ending) You’ve finally gotten a job as a sidekick after graduating from UA about a year before. But after working with Hawks for a few months it starts to get a bit hard to breathe. How are you supposed to fix a case of Hanahaki disease when you happened to fall in love with the most emotionally unavailable hero alive? [COMPLETED]

BNHA Soulmate AU Week Day 4: Save Your Soul by @writing-freak (oneshot, soulmate au, fluff)part of soulmate au week; everyone has colorful marks on their skin where their soulmate touches them for the first time. you’re determined to hide your soulmarks: a pair of hands on your waist.[COMPLETED]

“you really have got nothing to do on a friday night”  by @bakugohoex (oneshot, fluff)in which your friend keigo invites you to a pro hero event as his plus one, the event leads to a lot more than you expected.[COMPLETED]

Little Moments by @bnhascribbles (oneshot, fluff)Just Hawk's early morning visit.[COMPLETED]

lavender latte✨ by luxdeoro (coffee shop au, fluff, mutual pinning)You serve Hawks a lavender, oat milk latte. Not only is he hooked on your drinks, but he's hooked on you as well.[ONGOING]

a spoonful of sugar✨✨ by Mossful (fluff, angst) In which the Reader bakes and Hawks eats.[COMPLETED]

Pocket Full of Feathers✨ by forthesanityof1 (fluff, humor) You are an investigative journalist starting at a new agency. A chance meeting brings you and Hawks together and starts some odd behaviors on his part. You dismiss it, but end up meeting the hero again and again over time. Slowly, you start to realize things are occurring both within and outside of your control.[COMPLETED]

(Quirk)y Days✨✨ by wotefokizbrunch(fluff, angst, hurt/comfort) In a world where 80% of the population has some wacky power, it is expected for strange shit to happen on accident, or even on purpose, like that one time a villain hit Hawks with a deaging quirk; he left that morning for work his grown ass self and then you had to pick his 5-year-old-self up from the agency.[COMPLETED]

and i've gotta crow ✨by dashielldeveron(enemies to lovers, ) “We’re engaged to be married.” No, you are not. After an accident that was that bastard Hawks’s fault, you decide to play along with your diagnosis of amnesia, among other things, because how far can you make your former bully bend over backwards for you?[COMPLETED]

Color Blind✨ by HeroAssociation(soulmate au, fluff, angst with happy ending) Takami Keigo, otherwise known as the Winged Hero Hawks, had one such mark. He never expected, nor looked for, the person that would change it. Then he found you by accident.[COMPLETED]

The Harpy by romanceisdeadbutimnot(enemies to lovers, fantasy au, fluff) Desperate for adventure you volunteer to check the monster traps protecting your small village. To your surprise you catch a wounded half bird half man, and decide to nurse him back to health.[COMPLETED]

What's Got Your Feathers In A Bunch? by darkenedniqhts(oneshot, fluff, humor)When Hawks saves you from a villain attack, you hit it off surprisingly well, considering the circumstances. Everything is going great, until he meets your roommate.[COMPLETED]

Compelling/tumblr by @bnhascribbles/ ScatteredScribbles(oneshot, hurt/comfort) Hey listen, I’ve got a lot of baggage when it comes to my quirk. Could you repeat the word “yes” if you’re here of your own free will? Oh, and since you’ll probably say that either way and since I’m an emotionally compromised freak, just know that I’ll never actually feel secure in our relationship. This’ll definitely be a recurring thing, and it’s probably gonna be the reason why we end terribly.[COMPLETED]

 Blush by @flannel-cladpika (oneshot, fluff)[COMPLETED]

Headlines✨ by @bnhascribbles(oneshot, fluff) Holding up the newspaper in plain view, you take steady, ominous steps towards his desk. “Any last words, birdbrain?”[COMPLETED]

Stuck In An Elavator With You by @yeahimaloser (oneshot, fluff)he hadn’t really dated anyone before (not seriously anyway), so when he began to develop feelings for a certain someone, he was surprised, to say the least.[COMPLETED]

The Sky is Everywhere by @dira333/Fogfire(oneshot, hurt/comfort, angst with happy ending)Post-Break up is before the Break up…[COMPLETED]

Sometime Around Midnight✨ by 0weCrew(friends to lovers, fluff, hurt/comfort, angst with happy ending) All you wanted to do was enjoy a quiet night looking up at the stars. But fate decided to mess with you instead, and Japan's favorite birdbrain crashed your pity party of one by scaring you shitless.[COMPLETED]

Preening✨ by royalwilds(oneshot, fluff)Hawks loves your hair, playing with it, brushing it, washing it. you realize that it comes from another instinctual nature of his. You try to figure out how to return the gesture.[COMPLETED]

Babybird by Pomenocti(oneshot, fluff)Just Hawks being a dad.[COMPLETED]

Crash✨ by ivan_glee(oneshot, fluff)In which Reader is sunbathing and gets an unexpected visit from the No. 2 hero.[COMPLETED]

A Lungful of Smoke✨ by UnluckyAmulet(oneshot, fluff) As if nearly dying today wasn't bad enough…now you have a crush, too. Damn it.[COMPLETED]

Little Bird by alaskasmonsters(oneshot, fluff) Hawks wasn’t just the charming number two pro-hero the world knew him as. No, he had other sides to him, sides only you, his roommate, had the privilege to uncover. Especially his more birdlike quirks. Like how much he relaxed when people took care of his wings…[COMPLETED]

crawl home to me✨ by Hawnks (supermintfluff)(oneshot, strangers to lovers, hurt/comfort) What is a hero besides determination and hunger? What is a lover if not a resting place?[COMPLETED]

Shiny Things by royalwilds(oneshot, fluff) Hawks has more bird-like tendencies than you initially thought. He likes to present you with odd items as gifts and finally you figure out why.[COMPLETED]

Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery by galatiq(oneshot, fluff, humor. coffee shop au) When you put a coffee shop and a nasty storm together, apparently you get Big Bird from Sesame Street crashing into your window. [COMPLETED]

Flowers, Wings, Smirks and Quirks (Ingredients for Love) by ENDisI (oneshot, angst with happy ending, hanahaki disease au) Why was it when you joked about Hanahaki not being real, fate just slaps you awake and tells you "Oh, it's true. You didn't know?" [COMPLETED]

i am your salvation✨ by luxdeoro(oneshot, angst, hurt/comfort) Keigo loses his wings and most of himself, and you're around to try and pick up the pieces.[COMPLETED]

Balcony by RyeTarts(friends to lovers, fluff, slight angst, smut<18+>) After saving you from an office building fire, Hawks thinks that your paths were no longer intertwined. Oh how wrong he would be.[COMPLETED]

Birds Of A Feather by CheerieCherrie(fluff, explicit skippable chp.6) You move to Japan for a change of pace in your hectic life. It doesn't happen, thanks to one chaotic bird man.[COMPLETED]

[petit-etoile]

hi! :) i love your writing!! Could i request an Astarion fic based on the Mahmoud Darwish Quote “they asked ‘do you love her to death’ / i said ‘speak of her over my grave and watch how she brings me back to life.’”?

it's  our  last  chance  ( we'll  get  it  right  )

pairing: astarion/tav wordcount: 2,902 content warnings: canonical discussions of death, spoilers for astarion's act iii romance, spiritual interlude to this fic, references to cann.ibalism as a metaphor for love, an exploration of how s.ex can be healing, the faintest hints of a mortal!tav but that's up to the reader, what if s.ex cures vampirism ? other tags:  canon compliant,  character study,  introspection,  codependency,  religious imagery & symbolism,  p.orn with plot archiveofourown: here.

tag list: @azrielshadows1nger, @pandimoostuff, @faevi, @microskies, @foreverthemaraudersera, @queenofthespacesquids, @claryvoyantfray, @6doodlaang14, @anne-isnotokay, @itshimbotime, @yeeteth-the-raven, @sessils,@8-opossums, @worryknotdear, @abirdaboxandachippedcup, @ghosts-and-ink, @b4um3pfl4um3, @gunslingerorchid, @hypopxia,  @m0ssytrees, @erysione, @odette-attackattack, @catching-fire-in-the-wind, @ashrio20, @wills-mental-illness, @queenofcarrotflowers-s, @kirahlene be added to the taglist here

summary:  ‘Gale asked me tonight if I loved you,’ Astarion tells you. ‘He asked if I loved you purely. I’ve never loved anything purely in my life, but I knew what he meant. He asked, ‘Will you love them to death?’ That’s why I brought you here tonight.’

This is a night reminiscent of the day he died.

The sun has faded out over the horizon. The streets are bloodied once more, and hundreds of shadows have transformed into the shape of a bat.

Astarion’s grave is very old and covered with moss. You watch as he kneels in front of it and brushes his fingers across his name in reverence. You join him and cross your fingers together in prayer. You don’t know what you’re praying for but you mumble the words under your breath. It isn’t until you start digging that you begin to understand why you’re really here. You dig and dig and find relics of a life you never knew  —  dead flowers and childhood toys, tears that you cry. A mother and father’s love.

Astarion looks so much younger now that Cazador no longer hangs over his very being. The tension around his eyes has lessened, and even though he’s feeling something you can’t imagine, he wears the smallest smile as you uncover the gifts left behind by his family. Proof that Astarion lived, proof that Astarion existed. You dig until your fingers reach nothing and then you turn to him. He means to plant a seed and watch it grow.

He hands you seeds from a flower you can’t remember the name of. You pour them into the depths of this grave and fill it back up with dirt. You drop handfuls and wait for it to rain. You turn your chin up to the sky and wait for the storm clouds to release rapture.

‘I love you,’ Astarion says suddenly.

He looks at you like a man learning to see for the first time. The softness of his features only intensifies the longer he looks at you. Astarion is always made up of hard angles and harsh lines but tonight, he looks upon you with an earnestness you haven’t seen for him in quite some time. You’re caught off-guard when he caresses your cheek.

If Baldur’s Gate were to weather a storm tonight, Astarion would be the warmth from the cold of the rainstorm. You close your eyes at his touch and lean your cheek into it, nuzzling his palm. Astarion decides that it isn’t enough. He’s selfish, manipulative, roguish and cruel, but when he leans forward and kisses you with his plump mouth, you forget about all those things. It’s healing. You open your lips for him.

‘I love this,’ he murmurs, snaking a hand down to the small of your back. ‘And I want it all.’

The storm breaks overhead, but Astarion covers your body with his and you forget that you hate the sound of thunder. He kisses the very soul of you, and you can’t help but lean into his touch. There’s something about the way he nips at your skin that infinitely thrills you. How could a man so determined to be dangerous, so keen on becoming the most powerful man in the world melt at the sound of your voice? Had Astarion always been this weak for you, or was this a new transgression in his never ending quest to crush his desires?

Astarion kisses you.

He is the only thing that quenches your thirst.

He knows that.

When you first fell from the illithid ship, you had felt a hunger unlike any other swell up in your gut. It was freedom you had never experienced, and somehow, you came out on top. What happened after that was only like the romances you had read about. When a beast hunter falls in love with their bounty, when a mortal loves their immortal despite the difference, when an angry vampire becomes softer and softer the more he learns about kinder touch. You’re a romantic, after all.

You think that you should talk about it. You want to ask Astarion if he’s sure. But of course he’s sure, he’s never been surer of anything. Asking him now would be a disservice, you think. He’s worked so hard to come this far. You don’t ask. You kiss Astarion back like you’ve never kissed anyone before.

His mouth is yearning. Astarion pines for you like a prince pines for a sweetheart  —  and his mouth and his tongue and his teeth are so overwhelming that you can’t help but cling to his shoulders, using him as a lifeline.

He turns his cheek against yours and sighs wistfully against your skin. Slowly, carefully, Astarion presses his fingers between your legs curiously. He does it just to hear you gasp. You meet his eyes, and your cheeks burn so hotly you think you might be dizzy. Astarion consumes your soul. He presses you down in the flowers you planted above his grave. Clover, daisies, and asters grow around, twirling in your hair as Astarion collapses into your arms. You hold him as he shakes.

‘I was dead before I met you,’ Astarion whispers in the crook of your neck. ‘I was a ghost.’

‘You’re alive now,’ you promise. He cradles your soul in his hands. ‘You’re alive now and you’re the sun, and I love you.’

Maybe it’s not that you aren’t sure Astarion is ready. You’re nervous about the setting. It’s not that it’s inappropriate or dire, but that anyone could see at any time and you were a selfish creature. For so long, it has always been you and Astarion and everyone else. Now, Astarion presses into the space between your hips and mouths at your chest. He tastes your skin and your nipples, and you shiver at the touch. He eats your heart. You’re grateful.

‘I’m not convinced,’ Astarion says roughly. ‘Should I die, where will I go?’

‘You will go where I go,’ you say as he sinks into your flesh. ‘You are half my soul. I’ll beg the gods. We can never be one without the other.’

‘And if they deny you?’

‘I’ve already killed gods,’ you say. ‘What are a few more if they deny me my love?’

Astarion lets out a satisfied hum, content with the fruit you have given him. He ripens you with his fingers and you turn your head. You wrap your arms around his shoulders and allow him to caress your sides, closing your eyes as he touches the more ticklish parts of your body. He nibbles at your collarbones

You say, ‘This isn’t your grave.’

Astarion’s mouth ghosts over your skin, and finally, he sinks his cock into you until you’re gasping for air. It pushes and fills and causes lights to dance in the corner of your eyes. You touch the little hairs at the nape of his neck to distract yourself.

‘You’re right,’ Astarion says softly.

‘A place of rebirth.’

‘A place of happiness, my love,’ he says. ‘Now when I see it  —  ’

‘More,’ you whisper.

You feel a rush of tenderness sweeping through your veins. You are drawn to it like a moth to light, and you chase Astarion as he flees from you, sliding your hips back against his so that he’s never gone for too long. You waited patiently for Astarion. Every touch, every kiss is a feeling so rare that you can’t help but savor it. You admire the vulnerability he shows you, and when he leans back to lift your hips higher for a better angle, you moan softly and cry.

Astarion’s fingers burn holes into your skin. He leaves a wildfire against your skin. It leaves you wanting more. But you’re always going to want more, aren’t you? Even a lifetime of Astarion is not enough. You seek the warmth in his gaze.

You aren’t sure how long you’ll last. The time between your trysts and the sheer passion causes you to be needy. He likes it that way too. Likes the way that you’ll always seek him out first. The first in your heart. The first in your soul. You wish you could pour yours out of your body to give it to him. He’s half your soul regardless of what he might say. You never understood the concept of an immortal soul until now. You pull Astarion back to you and kiss him, teeth to teeth.

But it’s not enough.

You don’t think it will ever be enough. You dig your nails into his spine and hold onto him. You cry weakly. It feels too good and like it’s too much at the same time. You part your legs wider and drag him further, hypnotized by the feel of his thighs beneath yours. Astarion shows an enthusiasm you haven’t seen in a while, and you’re reminded of how much you’ve craved him. The knife at your throat, the scowl on his face, the night at the party… Astarion is all-consuming. You never thought it would happen.

At first, you thought Astarion was primed to ignore you forever. You were kind and good and sweet, and now you knew that was everything Astarion was looking for. He tastes your kindness and goodness and sweetness and becomes drunk on the taste of your shared fate.

Astarion bites you on the shoulder but for once, it isn’t to draw blood and feed upon what makes you who you are. It’s a lover’s bite. An inquisitive nibble. That part of sharing is what this is about. He meant it when he said you were more than blood, more than a fling. You always thought about it…

Astarion proving his love to you now was welcomed. You summon a new life for him here during this pale evening. A life where he will not know hurt. A life where he will not be betrayed by those he trusted. Astarion was in your hands now, a crow on your wrist. He sings you a pretty song against your neck. He’s vocal now, content with moaning and mewling as he takes his pleasure in the warmth of your body. You wish you could bottle up his pretty song and take it with you forever.

You press your mouth to the sharp curve of Astarion’s ear, sneaking a kiss against the pointy tip. ‘Come closer to me, my love,’ you whisper. ‘No one must know.’

‘Everyone must know,’ Astarion disagrees softly.

‘Even the birds?’ you ask. ‘Even the trees?’

Astarion smiles. You can feel it. ‘The entire world must.’

‘Are we in love?’ you ask him softly, looking upon him fondly.

‘We are,’ he says, laughing.

You are in love like you have never been in love before. Astarion is a romantic and he cherishes this new world with you. He’s intoxicated by the freedom of your scent. And it’s not as though it’s any different for you. You wrap your legs tightly around his hips and keep him there, and when his arms shake and tremble, you accept his weight.

You kiss his throat and he raises his chin so you can kiss it more. You’ll pretend that it doesn’t entice you. You want to sink your teeth in like he has, to share with him that quiet exaltation. Astarion gives it to you more and more, and finally, you can no longer tame that part of you set to rupture. Your pleasure causes your vision to burn almost.

There is a world where you and Astarion have never met. A world where the mindflayers never devised a plan and you were still searching for enlightenment. The thought of it scares you so you cling to him and you climb into his sternum, holding onto his skin while the world is remade in your image. A world without Astarion is not a world worth living. You know that to be true. That’s why you’re here now.

Astarion follows suit in quick, frantic strokes. He loses himself in the quake of your core and digs his fingers into the dirt next to your head for stability. You watch as pleasure overtakes him and he wavers, choking on a ragged moan. You press unfocused kisses against his shoulders and sink beneath the earth.

It’s a good thing Astarion finds his confidence in the taste of your bones. He eats from you an essence that would make him strong. When he sits up, eyes soft around the edges and mouth swollen from your love, you can see the change in him. Have his shoulders always been that wide? Has his back always been that straight? Has the majesticness of his attitude always been so grandiose?

Astarion holds out his fingers and you kiss the tips of them. You give him a blessing and watch as his skin begins to glow. Cazador had unmade a proud man. You have rehabilitated a broken man.  But Astarion is not defined by his brokenness, not authenticated by his terrors and trauma, but by the whims he has shown you tonight.

When Astarion pulls you from the bed you made in the grass, you can see a dim light filtering through the overhead tree. A familiar sight, like the first time. You pull his jacket over your head to avoid any more mess and become acutely aware that Astarion is watching you breathe. He listens with that frightening vampiric hearing as your lungs exhale. He smiles as your heartbeat settles.

You distract yourself as he enjoys his orgasm by making him a crown of flowers. You twist them expertly like you once did in your youth, and when Astarion turns his head, you give him a kingdom. The fresh green of the leaves accentuates the paleness of his hair.

You know what you’ve done even if the world does not. It was an objectively stupid thing to do, Astarion said so himself. Life is a challenge, and you were not a quitter. If anything, you knew that you deserved it. A ghost called your name and you answered, unfrightened by the specter’s cold touch. Slowly, you replaced that frigid air with your own heat until there was nothing but fog in the aftermath.

‘Sometimes,’ Astarion begins when he’s ready, ‘I still have these cruel thoughts. This fear still consumes me but… It’s so unlike before I hardly recognize it.’

‘You’re not his first son anymore,’ you say.

Astarion smiles and slides the crown from his head. He twirls it between his fingers. ‘Not  —  Not that fear, no. Something else.’

‘What else could frighten you?’

‘Everything,’ Astarion confesses. ‘I listen to your heart when you sleep for any change. I check your face every day for any extra wrinkles.’

You laugh. ‘I’m still young,’ you insist. ‘We have time, Astarion. I am with you every moonrise.’

‘The worst thing about loving you is that I will never stop,’ Astarion says, staring at his headstone. ‘I don’t want you to die in a world where I could still love you.’

You think you’re going to be sick. You don’t mean to cry, but you do. You burrow your face in your hands and weep so hard Astarion wraps his jacket around you and kisses your head, shushing you until you’ve let it all out. It’s…not how you wanted to end the evening.

‘You didn’t let me finish, my love,’ he murmurs against your forehead.

‘Then go on,’ you say miserably.

‘I will never stop loving you,’ Astarion says again. ‘For a thousand more years and one.’

You twist the knuckle on your middle finger anxiously. You don’t know what to say. You don’t know what to feel.

‘Gale asked me tonight if I loved you,’ he tells you. ‘He asked if I loved you purely. I’ve never loved anything purely in my life, but I knew what he meant. He asked, ‘Will you love them to death?’ That’s why I brought you here tonight.’

You look at him suspiciously, and his ardor steals your breath away. His jacket slips from your shoulders. You watch as he fixes the carvings in his headstone and adds to them in a sprawling language you’re almost too exhausted to read. Eventually, you find your voice again. You lean your cheek against his shoulder, and if your eyelashes are wet against his skin, he says nothing about it.

‘Tonight,’ Astarion says, ‘and on top of my grave, you have brought me back to life. That is a debt that cannot be repaid.’

You turn to him and this time it is your turn. You take Astarion’s jaw in your hands and lift his mouth to yours, kissing him so sweetly you’re almost certain that he swoons from the touch. It’s like kissing him for the first time, a kiss that sweeps over and over, until the ocean of night sweeps over you and you melt into his sinew.

 ‘You love me?’ you ask him just to hear him say it again.

‘I love you,’ Astarion says.

Love is not always in the eyes of the goddess. Love is buried somewhere most will never find it. It is healing, it is sweeping, it is gratifying. It is watching your lover’s hair turn grey strand by strand every morning. It is chasing the sun before it falls beneath the stars every evening.

You think you get it now.

Astarion rests his cheek against your palm, and for the first night since he was turned into a vampire, he slumbers in your touch. He dreams of a future where you are both mortal and laughing.

‘I love you too,’ you confess, and Astarion smiles in his sleep.

[synth-ai]

Whispers of Adventure 6

For countless generations, these jagged spires have stood sentinel, guarding the ancient mysteries concealed within their shadowy depths. Many have sought to unravel those enigmas, only to vanish forever amidst the labyrinthine paths carved into the very bones of the earth.

Our hero takes another step forward, her boots sinking slightly into the damp soil beneath her feet. Her eyes taking on a distant look as memories surface, among them was he whom she holds closest to her heart. Her hand instinctively goes to her throat, fingers brushing against a silver chain hidden beneath layers of fabric. Slowly, almost reverently, she withdraws a small silver locket from beneath her tunic. Cradling it tenderly in her palm, she gazes down at the intricate engravings adorning its surface – a testament to a love lost to the cruel whims of fate. Tears well up in her eyes, threatening to spill over onto her cheeks. It is said that somewhere amidst the twisted crags lies an enchantment of great power - one capable of restoring balance to realms rent asunder by dark sorcery. She pauses, swallowing hard as emotion threatens to overwhelm her. If there exists even the faintest hope of reuniting with her beloved, she must press onward. As she stands there, at the precipice of uncertainty, she is filled with trepidation... yet also a sense of profound purpose. With a last lingering glance back towards the safety of the familiar, she bids farewell to her faithfull stead. Leaving it to the safety of the grassy valleys between the peaks, as she ventured up the more dangers paths.

The obsidian spires looming overhead cast eerie shadows, hinting at the ancient power slumbering deep beneath their jagged surfaces. Suddenly, a flicker of movement catches her eye - delicate, iridescent forms dancing among the gnarled roots of a grove nestled against the mountain's flank. Intrigued, she draws nearer, marveling at the sight of tiny winged creatures no larger than her thumb. Their gossamer wings shimmer with an inner light, reflecting every hue imaginable under the sun. As she watches, entranced by their ethereal beauty, one breaks off from its companions and alights upon a nearby rock, cocking its head to regard her curiously. With a playful trill, the diminutive creature gestures towards a narrow path winding between the twisted tree trunks, partially obscured by a curtain of vines and moss. Its intent seems clear: it wishes me to follow.

The sprite flits onwards, leading her down the shadowy path lined with twisted trees. Dappled sunlight filters through the dense canopy above, casting mesmerizing patterns on the forest floor. Her gaze drifts upwards, taking in the wondrous sights around her as the path winds deeper into the heart of the mystical woodlands. A dense Fey forest, hidden by magics amongst the glassy black mountain peaks. She notices the atmosphere shifting subtly, growing thicker with an almost tangible aura of magic. The very air hums with energy, sending tingling prickles across her exposed skin. Suddenly, the path opens onto a clearing bathed in an otherworldly glow. At the center stands an ancient tree, its trunk wider than ten men standing shoulder-to-shoulder, its branches reaching up to caress the sky.

As the last rays of daylight fade, the sprites guide her to a small, crystal-clear pool at the base of the great tree. Beneath the water's surface, something gleams - a faint, pulsing light drawing her irresistibly closer. She kneels beside the pool, peering intently into its depths. And there, nestled among the smooth stones lining the pool bottom, rests a small, intricately carved wooden box. Its lid bears an intricate symbol etched in silver, seeming to pulse rhythmically in time with the strange light emanating from within. She reaches down, trailing her fingertips along the cool waters before carefully lifting the box from its resting place. As she cradles it in her hands, the lid creaks open slightly.

[starlightchronicles027]

"The Witcher DR" Chapter 1: The Dawn of the Valdell Ancestry

This is where I got the GIF. Credit to the original user or creator: https://www.reddit.com/r/arcane/comments/r7fgw3/no_spoilers_just_another_cute_jinx_gif_to_loop_50/

Hey before we begin:

I have not considered a good title, so that's a placeholder. Also, this is basically a book about shifting experiences. So, half or a fraction of this book will be my script molded into a story, and the other half will be my shifting experience. DISCLAIMERS!!! I DO NOT OWN ANY PHOTOS, GIFS, OR VIDEOS IN THIS STORY! I DO NOT OWN ANY OF "THE WITCHER" FRANCHISE, INCLUDING THE ONE ON NETFLIX! I DO NOT OWN "THE WITCHER" CHARACTERS! THE ONLY THINGS I OWN ARE MY OC'S, OC KINGDOM, BASICALLY PEOPLE AND PLACES THAT DON'T ACTUALLY EXIST IN THE WITCHER. Oh, I forgot; it usually takes me a long time to do scripts. Mainly detailed scripts. This is one of them. So, this may take a while. Sorry.

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Long before they were crowned as the legendary "Twin Queens," Sarielle and Elyra Valdell were known simply as the Valdell twins, two ordinary village girls living in a quiet corner of the Continent. Born to a modest family in a small elven village hidden within the ancient forests of Dol Blathanna, the twins were a living symbol of harmony. Sarielle, the eldest by merely a minute, was the moon—a gentle and wise soul who preferred the solace of the woods, where she found peace in the rhythm of nature. Elyra, on the other hand, was the stars—lively, radiant, and filled with a curiosity that knew no bounds, often leading them both into playful mischief.

As children, their days were spent exploring the depths of the forest surrounding their village, foraging for herbs, and dancing under the starlit skies. Sarielle, even from a young age, had a natural affinity for healing. Her touch brought comfort to those in pain, and her gentle spirit was known throughout the village. Elders would often come to her for herbal remedies or simply to be soothed by her presence. Elyra, however, possessed a different kind of gift. With a knack for storytelling and song, she could lift even the heaviest hearts. Her voice would carry through the village at twilight, a melody as enchanting as the stars themselves.

Their connection was undeniable; they were inseparable, their bond deepened not just by blood but by shared dreams and whispered secrets. Together, they were like two halves of a single spirit, each balancing the other. In the village, they were beloved, not only for their talents but for their kindness and generosity. The Valdell twins always sought to help those around them, whether it was Sarielle offering her herbal brews or Elyra entertaining the children with her tales.

Life in their village was simple, yet filled with warmth and tradition. The villagers celebrated the changing seasons with music, dance, and feasts. The twins played a central role in these festivities, with Sarielle often leading the ceremonial rites of the harvest and Elyra bringing laughter and light to every gathering. Their lives were deeply intertwined with the land and its rhythms, and they found purpose and joy in serving their community.

But, even as they cherished this life, they sensed that their fates held something greater. On quiet nights, lying beneath the vast sky, they would talk of adventures and distant lands, of visions where they saw themselves in places grand and mysterious. It was as if an invisible thread pulled them toward something beyond their simple village life.

One day, during one of their explorations, they stumbled upon an ancient ruin hidden deep in the forest. The air around it felt heavy with history and mystery. Broken columns and cracked stone pathways hinted at a kingdom that had long been forgotten. Intrigued, the twins spent hours wandering through the ruins, touching the moss-covered stones, sensing the echoes of a legacy that had been lost to time. It was in that moment that something awakened within them—a realization that perhaps, they were destined to be more than just villagers.

As they continued to uncover secrets buried within the ruins, the twins began to understand that their lives were about to change. Little did they know that they would soon be crowned as the Twin Queens, rulers of a new dawn. Sarielle would become known as Sarielle, the Moon's Embrace, a title reflecting her calm wisdom and healing power. Elyra would be crowned as Elyra, the Star's Radiance, embodying the light and joy she brought to all around her.

But for now, they were simply Sarielle and Elyra Valdell, twin sisters, sharing dreams, laughter, and the unbreakable bond that would one day lead them to their destiny as rulers of a kingdom reborn.

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[esthelle-wanders]

Wow, I'm quite impressed!

I believe you are

The honest first

To catch all my hints.

It's quite interesting,

How close you may be

If put thought into what I say.

Here's another chance,

Do as you may,

And take heed

To all the consequences.

The world is my oyster,

Or so they say,

But what is really true?

Is the moon what we think,

Or is it something we didn't

Quite completely think through?

Does the sun enjoy

It's own warmth

Or wish for something more?

Do worms feel safe

In the soil

Or is hygiene what they wish for?

Many questions

Are left unanswered

In a world of unanimous loss.

But if you take away the darkness,

Will your sight

Still by shrouded

By moss?

~Dirt Anon

Okay okay okay okay.

Analysis first, THEN accusation.

The “world” and “moon” parts are about things not being what they seem. I immediately zeroed in on “moon” because “Luna.” If this is meant to be a reference to her, I think she’s definitely exonerated, because she’s already been accused and “is the moon what we think?” suggests those accusations were wrong.

Lots and lots of astronomy symbolism— we move from “world” and “moon” straight to “sun.”

This next part, with the sun and the earthworms, moves from “things are not what they seem” to “maybe things want to be different from what they are.” The sun might be content with its own warmth, but it might not. The worms might feel safe in the dirt, but maybe deep down they just wanna… be clean? Valid.

Then the closing bits. The “unanimous loss” part says that literally everyone loses something, so we’ll never get the answers to all our questions.

The “darkness” and “moss” outro says that even if we do manage to remove the darkness mentioned in Dirt Anon’s last riddle, we still might be blinded by “moss.” So even if we defeat the cosmic, omnipresent opponent, there’s still another, earthier, possibly mundane-er barrier.

Taking all this into account, without accounting for the clues I undoubtedly missed—

I’m going to put the accusation in a separate post because this one is already pretty long. XD

[pigsongpearls]

Moccus

Moccus, also known as Moccos, is a fascinating figure in Celtic and Gaulish mythology, tied deeply to the cultural and spiritual significance of pigs and boars in ancient Celtic society. He emerges as a deity associated with the continental Celtic tribe of the Lingones, whose territory centered around modern-day Langres in northeastern France, near the Seine and Marne rivers. The Lingones were a Gaulish people who also had a presence in northeastern Italy near the Po River, known for their skills in agriculture, weaving, and metalworking.

Moccus is primarily recognized as a boar- or swine-god, a protector of boar hunters and warriors. His name derives from the Gaulish word moccos, meaning "pig" or "wild boar," a root that appears in related Celtic languages like Old Irish mucc (pig), Welsh moch (pigs), and Breton moc'h (pig). This etymology strongly links him to the boar, an animal that held immense symbolic power for the Celts. Boars represented ferocity, strength, and war, but also prosperity and fertility—dual aspects that likely shaped Moccus’s role in the spiritual landscape. Archaeological evidence, like the Euffigneix statue found in the Lingones’ territory, reinforces this connection. The statue, dating to around the 1st century BC, depicts a torc-wearing figure with a large wild boar across his torso, suggesting a divine association with the animal, possibly Moccus himself.

Moccus is known from a single votive inscription from Langres, dated to the late 2nd or 3rd century AD, which identifies him with the Roman god Mercury. The inscription reads: In h(onorem) d(omus) d(ivinae) deo Mercur(io) Mocco L(ucius) Mascl(ius?) Masculus et Sedatia Blandula mater ex voto—translating to a dedication "in honor of the divine house, to Mercury Moccus" by Lucius Masclius Masculus and his mother Sedatia Blandula. This blending with Mercury reflects the Roman practice of interpretatio romana, where local deities were equated with Roman gods. Mercury, a god of trade, travel, and communication, might seem an odd match, but in the Gaulish context, Mercury often took on roles tied to fertility, abundance, and the land, which aligns with Moccus’s association with pigs as symbols of prosperity.

Some scholars suggest Moccus’s role extended beyond hunting. He may have been a deity of fertility and vegetation, reflecting the boar’s broader symbolic role in Celtic culture. In Irish mythology, pigs are often linked to the Otherworld, slaughtered and magically reborn in supernatural feasts, hinting at themes of abundance and renewal.

Scholars like Philippe Jouët connect Moccus to the Irish myth Oidheadh Chlainne Tuireann, where Lugh (the Irish equivalent of the Celtic god Lugus, also tied to Mercury) obtains the pig-skin of Tuis, which can heal any injury. This connection suggests Moccus might have had healing or protective aspects, perhaps safeguarding the land and its people as much as its hunters.

Moccus, the healing druid

The boar’s significance in Celtic culture can’t be overstated. It appeared on Gaulish coins, standards, and altars, often as a divine symbol. In the Lingones’ territory, the reverence for boars is clear from artifacts like the Euffigneix statue and the votive inscription. Some myths even attribute to Moccus the creation of wereboars, or Grondr, as a curse on humans who desecrated forests, transforming them into boar-like creatures to reflect their greed—a narrative that paints him as a god of nature’s vengeance, tied to the forest, vegetation, pestilence, and omens.

Moccus, a stout, humanoid figure with a majestic boar's head, dressed in rustic, earth-toned druidic robes with intricate, Celtic-inspired embroidery, stands amidst a serene, misty forest of ancient, gnarled trees, their trunks adorned with moss and ferns. Wild boars, sows, and playful piglets roam freely around him, as he gently guides them with a worn, wooden pastoral staff, its surface etched with symbols of the natural world. The atmosphere is tranquil, with warm, golden light filtering through the canopy above, casting dappled shadows on the forest floor. Inspired by the works of Simon Stalenhag, Ian McQue, and Jakub Roztočil, this detailed, matte painting-style artwork features deep, rich colors, with a focus on complementary hues, and intricate, hand-painted textures, evoking a sense of fantasy and wonder, as if rendered in Unreal Engine 5, with an 8k resolution.

[atticnotebook]

"Hawthorne and His Mosses" by Herman Melville

A papered chamber in a fine old farm-house--a mile from any other dwelling, and dipped to the eaves in foliage--surrounded by mountains, old woods, and Indian ponds,--this, surely is the place to write of Hawthorne. Some charm is in this northern air, for love and duty seem both impelling to the task. A man of a deep and noble nature has seized me in this seclusion. His wild, witch voice rings through me; or, in softer cadences, I seem to hear it in the songs of the hill-side birds, that sing in the larch trees at my window.

Would that all excellent books were foundlings, without father or mother, that so it might be, we could glorify them, without including their ostensible authors. Nor would any true man take exception to this;--least of all, he who writes,--"When the Artist rises high enough to achieve the Beautiful, the symbol by which he makes it perceptible to mortal senses becomes of little value in his eyes, while his spirit possesses itself in the enjoyment of the reality."

But more than this, I know not what would be the right name to put on the title-page of an excellent book, but this I feel, that the names of all fine authors are fictitious ones, far more than that of Junius,--simply standing, as they do, for the mystical, ever-eluding Spirit of all Beauty, which ubiquitously possesses men of genius. Purely imaginative as this fancy may appear, it nevertheless seems to receive some warranty from the fact, that on a personal interview no great author has ever come up to the idea of his reader. But that dust of which our bodies are composed, how can it fitly express the nobler intelligences among us? With reverence be it spoken, that not even in the case of one deemed more than man, not even in our Saviour, did his visible frame betoken anything of the augustness of the nature within. Else, how could those Jewish eyewitnesses fail to see heaven in his glance.

It is curious, how a man may travel along a country road, and yet miss the grandest, or sweetest of prospects, by reason of an intervening hedge, so like all other hedges, as in no way to hint of the wide landscape beyond. So has it been with me concerning the enchanting landscape in the soul of this Hawthorne, this most excellent Man of Mosses. His "Old Manse" has been written now four years, but I never read it till a day or two since. I had seen it in the book-stores--heard of it often--even had it recommended to me by a tasteful friend, as a rare, quiet book, perhaps too deserving of popularity to be popular. But there are so many books called "excellent," and so much unpopular merit, that amid the thick stir of other things, the hint of my tasteful friend was disregarded; and for four years the Mosses on the Old Manse never refreshed me with their perennial green. It may be, however, that all this while, the book, like wine, was only improving in flavor and body. At any rate, it so chanced that this long procrastination eventuated in a happy result. At breakfast the other day, a mountain girl, a cousin of mine, who for the last two weeks has every morning helped me to strawberries and raspberries,--which like the roses and pearls in the fairy-tale, seemed to fall into the saucer from those strawberry-beds her cheeks,--this delightful crature, this charming Cherry says to me--"I see you spend your mornings in the hay-mow; and yesterday I found there 'Dwight's Travels in New England'. Now I have something far better than that,--something more congenial to our summer on these hills. Take these raspberries, and then I will give you some moss."--"Moss!" said I--"Yes, and you must take it to the barn with you, and good-bye to 'Dwight.'"

With that she left me, and soon returned with a volume, verdantly bound, and garnished with a curious frontispiece in green,--nothing less, than a fragment of real moss cunningly pressed to a fly-leaf.--"Why this," said I, spilling my raspberries, "this is the 'Mosses from an Old Manse'." "Yes," said cousin Cherry, "yes, it is that flowery Hawthorne."--"Hawthorne and Mosses," said I, "no more: it is morning: it is July in the country: and I am off for the barn."

Stretched on that new mown clover, the hill-side breeze blowing over me through the wide barn door, and soothed by the hum of the bees in the meadows around, how magically stole over me this Mossy Man! And how amply, how bountifully, did he redeem that delicious promise to his guests in the Old Manse, of whom it is written--"Others could give them pleasure, or amusement, or instruction--these could be picked up anywhere--but it was for me to give them rest. Rest, in a life of trouble! What better could be done for weary and world-worn spirits? what better could be done for anybody, who came within our magic circle, than to throw the spell of a magic spirit over them?"--So all that day, half-buried in the new clover, I watched this Hawthorne's "Assyrian dawn, and Paphian sunset and moonrise, from the summit of our Eastern Hill."

The soft ravishments of the man spun me round in a web of dreams, and when the book was closed, when the spell was over, this wizard "dismissed me with but misty reminiscences, as if I had been dreaming of him."

What a mild moonlight of contemplative humor bathes that Old Manse!--the rich and rare distilment of a spicy and slowly-oozing heart. No rollicking rudeness, no gross fun fed on fat dinners, and bred in the lees of wine,--but a humor so spiritually gentle, so high, so deep, and yet so richly relishable, that it were hardly inappropriate in an angel. It is the very religion of mirth; for nothing so human but it may be advanced to that. The orchard of the Old Manse seems the visible type of the fine mind that has described it. Those twisted, and contorted old trees, "that stretch out their crooked branches, and take such hold of the imagination, that we remember them as humorists and odd-fellows." And then, as surrounded by these grotesque forms, and hushed in the noon-day repose of this Hawthorne's spell, how aptly might the still fall of his ruddy thoughts into your soul be symbolized by "the thump of a great apple, in the stillest afternoon, falling without a breath of wind, from the mere necessity of perfect ripeness"! For no less ripe than ruddy are the apples of the thoughts and fancies in this sweet Man of Mosses.

"Buds and Bird-Voices"--What a delicious thing is that!--"Will the world ever be so decayed, that Spring may not renew its greeness?"--And the "Fire-Worship." Was ever the hearth so glorified into an altar before? The mere title of that piece is better than any common work in fifty folio volumes. How exquisite is this:--"Nor did it lessen the charm of his soft, familiar courtesy and helpfulness, that the mighty spirit, were opportunity offered him, would run riot through the peaceful house, wrap its inmates in his terrible embrace, and leave nothing of them save their whitened bones. This possibility of mad destruction only made his domestic kindness the more beautiful and touching. It was so sweet of him, being endowed with such power, to dwell, day after day, and one long, lonesome night after another, on the dusky hearth, only now and then betraying his wild nature, by thrusting his red tongue out of the chimney-top! True, he had done much mischief in the world, and was pretty certain to do more, but his warm heart atoned for all. He was kindly to the race of man."

But he has still other apples, not quite so ruddy, though full as ripe:--apples, that have been left to wither on the tree, after the pleasant autumn gathering is past. The sketch of "The Old Apple Dealer" is conceived in the subtlest spirit of sadness; he whose "subdued and nerveless boyhood prefigured his abortive prime, which, likewise, contained within itself the prophecy and image of his lean and torpid age." Such touches as are in this piece can not proceed from any common heart. They argue such a depth of tenderness, such a boundless sympathy with all forms of being, such an omnipresent love, that we must needs say, that this Hawthorne is here almost alone in his generation,--at least, in the artistic manisfestation of these things. Still more. Such touches as these,--and many, very many similar ones, all through his chapters--furnish clews, whereby we enter a little way into the intricate, profound heart where they originated. And we see, that suffering, some time or other and in some shape or other,--this only can enable any man to depict it in others. All over him, Hawthorne's melancholy rests like an Indian summer, which, though bathing a whole country in one softness, still reveals the distinctive hue of every towering hill, and each far-winding vale.

But it is the least part of genius that attracts admiration. Where Hawthorne is known, he seems to be deemed a pleasant writer, with a pleasant style,--a sequestered, harmless man, from whom any deep and weighty thing would hardly be anticipated:--a man who means no meanings. But there is no man, in whom humor and love, like mountain peaks, soar to such a rapt height, as to receive the irradiations of the upper skies;--there is no man in whom humor and love are developed in that high form called genius; no such man can exist without also possessing, as the indispensable complement of these, a great, deep intellect, which drops down into the universe like a plummet. Or, love and humor are only the eyes, through which such an intellect views this world. The great beauty in such a mind is but the product of its strength. What, to all readers, can be more charming than the piece entitled "Monsieur du Miroir"; and to a reader at all capable of fully fathoming it, what at the same time, can possess more mystical depth of meaning?--Yes, there he sits, and looks at me,--this "shape of mystery," this "identical Monsieur du Miroir."--"Methinks I should tremble now, were his wizard power of gliding through all impediments in search of me, to place him suddenly before my eyes."

How profound, nay appalling, is the moral evolved by the "Earth's Holocaust"; where--beginning with the hollow follies and affectations of the world,--all vanities and empty theories and forms, are, one after another, and by an admirably graduated, growing comprehensiveness, thrown into the allegorical fire, till, at length, nothing is left but the all-engendering heart of man; which remaining still unconsumed, the great conflagration is naught.

Of a piece with this, is the "Intelligence Office," a wondrous symbolizing of the secret workings in men's souls. There are other sketches, still more charged with ponderous import.

"The Christmas Banquet," and "The Bosom Serpent" would be fine subjects for a curious and elaborate analysis, touching the conjectural parts of the mind that produced them. For spite of all the Indian-summer sunlight on the hither side of Hawthorne's soul, the other side--like the dark half of the physical sphere--is shrouded in a blackness, ten times black. But this darkness but gives more effect to the evermoving dawn, that forever advances through it, and cirumnavigates his world. Whether Hawthorne has simply availed himself of this mystical blackness as a means to the wondrous effects he makes it to produce in his lights and shades; or whether there really lurks in him, perhaps unknown to himself, a touch of Puritanic gloom,--this, I cannot altogether tell. Certain it is, however, that this grat power of blackness in him derives its force from its appeals to that Calvinistic sense of Innate Depravity and Original Sin, from whose visitations, in some shape or other, no deeply thinking mind is always and wholly free. For, in certain moods, no man can weigh this world, without throwing in something, somehow like Original Sin, to strike the uneven balance. At all events, perhaps no writer has ever wielded this terrific thought with greater terror than this same harmless Hawthorne. Still more: this black conceit pervades him, through and through. You may be witched by his sunlight,--transported by the bright gildings in the skies he builds over you;--but there is the blackness of darkness beyond; and even his bright gildings but fringe, and play upon the edges of thunder-clouds.--In one word, the world is mistaken in this Nathaniel Hawthorne. He himself must often have smiled at its absurd misconceptions of him. He is immeasurably deeper than the plummet of the mere critic. For it is not the brain that can test such a man; it is only the heart. You cannot come to know greatness by inspecting it; there is no glimpse to be caught of it, except by intuition; you need not ring it, you but touch it, and you find it is gold.

Now it is that blackness in Hawthorne, of which I have spoken, that so fixes and fascinates me. It may be, nevertheless, that it is too largely developed in him. Perhaps he does not give us a ray of his light for every shade of his dark. But however this may be, this blackness it is that furnishes the infinite obscure of his background,--that background, against which Shakespeare plays his grandest conceits, the things that have made for Shakespeare his loftiest, but most circumscribed renown, as the profoundest of thinkers. For by philosophers Shakespeare is not adored as the great man of tragedy and comedy.--"Off with his head! so much for Buckingham!" this sort of rant, interlined by another hand, brings down the house,--those mistaken souls, who dream of Shakespeare as a mere man of Richard-the-Third humps, and Macbeth daggers. But it is those deep far-away things in him; those occasional flashings-forth of the intuitive Truth in him; those short, quick probings at the very axis of reality:--these are the things that make Shakespeare, Shakespeare. Through the mouths of the dark characters of Hamlet, Timon, Lear, and Iago, he craftily says, or sometimes insinuates the things, which we feel to be so terrifically true, that it were all but madness for any good man, in his own proper character, to utter, or even hint of them. Tormented into desperation, Lear the frantic King tears off the mask, and speaks the sane madness of vital truth. But, as I before said, it is the least part of genius that attracts admiration. And so, much of the blind, unbridled admiration that has been heaped upon Shakespeare, has been lavished upon the least part of him. And few of his endless commentators and critics seem to have remembered, or even perceived, that the immediate products of a great mind are not so great, as that undeveloped, (and sometimes undevelopable) yet dimly-discernible greatness, to which these immediate products are but the infallible indices. In Shakespeare's tomb lies infinitely more than Shakespeare ever wrote. And if I magnify Shakespeare, it is not so much for what he did do, as for what he did not do, or refrained from doing. For in this world of lies, Truth is forced to fly like a scared white doe in the woodlands; and only by cunning glimpses will she reveal herself, as in Shakespeare and other masters of the great Art of Telling the Truth,--even though it be covertly, and by snatches.

But if this view of the all-popular Shakespeare be seldom taken by his readers, and if very few who extol him, have ever read him deeply, or, perhaps, only have seen him on the tricky stage, (which alone made, and is still making him his mere mob renown)--if few men have time, or patience, or palate, for the spiritual truth as it is in that great genius;--it is, then, no matter of surprise that in a contemporaneous age, Nathaniel Hawthorne is a man, as yet, almost utterly mistaken among men. Here and there, in some quiet arm-chair in the noisy town, or some deep nook among the noiseless mountains, he may be appreciated for something of what he is. But unlike Shakespeare, who was forced to the contrary course by circumstances, Hawthorne (either from simple disinclination, or else from inaptitude) refrains from all the popularizing noise and show of broad farce, and blood-besmeared tragedy; content with the still, rich utterances of a great intellect in repose, and which sends few thoughts into circulation, except they be arterialized at his large warm lungs, and expanded in his honest heart.

Nor need you fix upon that blackness in him, if it suit you not. Nor, indeed, will all readers discern it, for it is, mostly, insinuated to those who may best undersand it, and account for it; it is not obtruded upon every one alike.

Some may start to read of Shakespeare and Hawthorne on the same page. They may say, that if an illustration were needed, a lesser light might have sufficed to elucidate this Hawthorne, this small man of yesterday. But I am not, willingly, one of those, who as touching Shakespeare at least, exemplify the maxim of Rochefoucauld, that "we exalt the reputation of some, in order to depress that of others";--who, to teach all noble-souled aspirants that there is no hope for them, pronounce Shakespeare absolutely unapproachable. But Shakespeare has been approached. There are minds that have gone as far as Shakespeare into the universe. And hardly a mortal man, who, at some time or other, has not felt as great thoughts in him as any you will find in Hamlet. We must not inferentially malign mankind for the sake of any one man, whoever he may be. This is too cheap a purchase of contentment for consious mediocrity to make. Besides, this absolute and unconditional adoration of Shakespeare has grown to be a part of our Anglo Saxon superstitions. The Thirty-Nine Articles are now Forty. Intolerance has come to exist in this matter. You must believe in Shakespeare's unapproachability, or quit the country. But what sort of belief is this for an American, an man who is bound to carry republican progressiveness into Literature, as well as into Life? Believe me, my friends, that men not very much inferior to Shakespeare, are this day being born on the banks of the Ohio. And the day will come, when you shall say who reads a book by an Englishman that is a modern? The great mistake seems to be, that even with those Americans who look forward to the coming of a great literary genius among us, they somehow fancy he will come in the costume of Queen Elizabeth's day,--be a writer of dramas founded upon old English history, or the tales of Boccaccio. Whereas, great geniuses are parts of the times; they themselves are the time; and possess an correspondent coloring. It is of a piece with the Jews, who while their Shiloh was meekly walking in their streets, were still praying for his magnificent coming; looking for him in a chariot, who was already among them on an ass. Nor must we forget, that, in his own life-time, Shakespeare was not Shakespeare, but only Master William Shakespeare of the shrewd, thriving business firm of Condell, Shakespeare & Co., proprietors of the Globe Theater in London; and by a courtly author, of the name of Chettle, was hooted at, as an "upstart crow" beautfied "with other birds' feathers." For, mark it well, imitation is often the first charge brought against real originality. Why this is so, there is not space to set forth here. You must have plenty of sea-room to tell the Truth in; especially, when it seems to have an aspect of newness, as American did in 1492, though it was then just as old, and perhaps older than Asia, only those sagacious philosophers, the common sailors, had never seen it before; swearing it was all water and moonshine there.

Now, I do not say that Nathaniel of Salem is a greater than William of Avon, or as great. But the difference between the two men is by no means immeasurable. Not a very great deal more, and Nathaniel were verily William.

This too, I mean, that if Shakespeare has not been equalled, give the world time, and he is sure to be surpassed, in one hemisphere or the other. Nor will it at all do to say, that the world is getting grey and grizzled now, and has lost that fresh charm which she wore of old, and by virtue of which the great poets of past times made themselves what we esteem them to be. Not so. the world is as young today, as when it was created, and this Vermont morning dew is as wet to my feet, as Eden's dew to Adam's. Nor has Nature been all over ransacked by our progenitors, so that no new charms and mysteries remain for this latter generation to find. Far from it. The trillionth part has not yet been said, and all that has been said, but multiplies the avenues to what remains to be said. It is not so much paucity, as superabundance of material that seems to incapacitate modern authors.

Let American then prize and cherish her writers, yea, let her glorify them. They are not so many in number, as to exhaust her good-will. And while she has good kith and kin of her own, to take to her bosom, let her not lavish her embraces upon the household of an alien. For believe it or not England, after all, is, in many things, an alien to us. China has more bowels of real love for us than she. But even were there no strong literary individualities among us, as there are some dozen at least, nevertheless, let America first praise mediocrity even, in her own children, before she praises (for everywhere, merit demands acknowledgment from every one) the best excellence in the children of any other land. Let her own authors, I say, have the priority of appreciation. I was very much pleased with a hot-headed Carolina cousin of mine, who once said,--"If there were no other American to stand by, in Literature,--why, then, I would stand by Pop Emmons and his 'Fredoniad,' and till a better epic came along, swear it was not very far behind the 'Iliad'." Take away the words, and in spirit he was sound.

Not that American genius needs patronage in order to expand. For that explosive sort of stuff will expand though screwed up in a vice, and burst it, though it were triple steel. It is for the nation's sake, and not for her authors' sake, that I would have America be heedful of the increasing greatness among her writers. For how great the shame, if other nations should be before her, in crowning her heroes of the pen. But this is almost the case now. American authors have received more just and discriminating praise (however loftily and ridiculously given, in certain cases) even from some Englishmen, than from their own countrymen. There are hardly five critics in America, and several of them are asleep. As for patronage, it is the American author who now patronizes the country, and not his country him. And if at times some among them appeal to the people for more recognition, it is not always with selfish motives, but patriotic ones.

It is true, that but few of them as yet have evinced that decided originality which merits great praise. But that graceful writer, who perhaps of all Americans has received the most plaudits from his own country for his productions,--that very popular and amiable writer, however good, and self-reliant in many things, perhaps owes his chief reputation to the self-acknowledged imitation of a foreign model, and to the studied avoidance of all topics but smooth ones. But it is better to fail in originality, than to succeed in imitation. He who has never failed somewhere, that man can not be great. Failure is the true test of greatness. And if it be said, that continual success is a proof that a man wisely knows his powers,--it is only to be added, that, in that case, he knows them to be small. Let us believe it, then, once for all, that there is no hope for us in these smooth pleasing writers that know their powers. Without malice, but to speak the plain fact, they but furnish an appendix to Goldsmith, and other English authors. And we want no American Goldsmiths, nay, we want no American Miltons. It were the vilest thing you could say of a true American author, that he were an American Tompkins. Call him an American, and have done, for you can not say a nobler thing of him.--But it is not meant that all American writers should studiously cleave to nationality in their writings; only this, no American writer should write like an Englishman, or a Frenchman; let him write like a man, for then he will be sure to write like an American. Let us away with this leaven of literary flunkyism towards England. If either we must play the flunky in this thing, let England do it, not us. While we are rapidly preparing for that political supremacy among the nations, which prophetically awaits us at the close of the present century; in a literary point of view, we are deplorably unprepared for it; and we seem studious to remain so. Hitherto, reasons might have existed why this should be; but no good reason exists now. And all that is requisite to amendment in this matter, is simply this: that, while freely acknowledging all excellence, everywhere, we should refrain from unduly lauding foreign writers, and, at the same time, duly recognize the meritorious writers that are our own,--those writers, who breathe that unshackled, democratic spirit of Christianity in all things, which now takes the practical lead in the world, though at the same time led by ourselves--us Americans. Let us boldly contemn all imitation, though it comes to us graceful and fragrant as the morning; and foster all originality, though, at first, it be crabbed and ugly as our own pine knots. And if any of our authors fail, or seem to fail, then, in the words of my enthusiastic Carolina cousin, let us clap him on the shoulder, and back him against all Europe for his second round. The truth is, that in our point of view, this matter of a national literature has come to such a pass with us, that in some sense we must turn bullies, else the day is lost, or superiority so far beyond us, that we can hardly say it will ever be ours.

And now, my countrymen, as an excellent author, of your own flesh and blood,--an unimitating, and perhaps, in his way, an inimitable man--whom better can I commend to you, in the first place, than Nathaniel Hawthorne. He is one of the new, and far better generation of your writer. The smell of your beeches and hemlocks is upon him; your own broad prairies are in his soul; and if you travel away inland into his deep and noble nature, you will hear the far roar of his Niagara. Give not over to future generations the glad duty of acknowledging him for what he is. Take that joy to yourself, in your own generation; and so shall he feel those grateful impulses in him, that may possibly prompt him to the full flower of some still greater achievement in your eyes. And by confessing him, you thereby confess others, you brace the whole brotherhood. For genius, all over the world, stands hand in hand, and one shock of recognition runs the whole circle round.

In treating of Hawthorne, or rather of Hawthorne in his writings (for I never saw the man; and in the chances of a quiet plantation life, remote from his haunts, perhaps never shall) in treating of his works, I say, I have thus far omitted all mention of his "Twice Told Tales," and "Scarlet Letter." Both are excellent, but full of such manifold, strange and diffusive beauties, that time would all but fail me, to point the half of them out. But there are things in those two books, which, had they been written in England a century ago, Nathaniel Hawthorne had utterly displaced many of the bright names we now revere on authority. But I content to leave Hawthorne to himself, and to the infallible finding of posterity; and however great may be the praise I have bestowed upon him, I feel, that in so doing, I have more served and honored myself, than him. For at bottom, great excellence is praise enough to itself; but the feeling of a sincere and appreciative love and admiration towards it, this is relieved by utterance; and warm, honest praise ever leaves a pleasant flavor in the mouth; and it is an honorable thing to confess to what is honorable in others.

But I cannot leave my subject yet. No man can read a fine author, and relish him to his very bones, while he reads, without subsequently fancying to himself some ideal image of the man and his mind. And if you rightly look for it, you will almost always find that the author himself has somewhere furnished you with his own picture. For poets (whether in prose or verse), being painters of Nature, are like their brethren of the pencil, the true portrait-painters, who, in the multitude of likenesses to be sketched, do not invariably omit their own; and in all high instances, they paint them without any vanity, though, at times, with a lurking something, that would take several pages to properly define.

I submit it, then, to those best acquainted with the man personally, whether the following is not Nathaniel Hawthorne,--to to himself, whether something involved in it does not express the temper of this mind,--that lasting temper of all true, candid men--a seeker, not a finder yet:--

A man now entered, in neglected attire, with the aspect of a thinker, but somewhat too rough-hewn and brawny for a scholar. His face was full of sturdy vigor, with some finer and keener attribute beneath; though harsh at first, it was tempered with the glow of a large, warm heart, which had force enough to heat his powerful intellect through and through. He advanced to the Intelligencer, and looked at him with a glance of such stern sincerity, that perhaps few secrets were beyond its scope.

"'I seek for Truth,' said he."

Twenty-four hours have elapsed since writing the foregoing. I have just returned from the hay mow, charged more and more with love and admiration of Hawthorne. For I have just been gleaning through the "Mosses," picking up many things here and there that had previously escaped me. And I found that but to glean after this man, is better than to be in at the harvest of others. To be frank (though, perhaps, rather foolish), notwithstanding what I wrote yesterday of these Mosses, I had not then culled them all; but had, nevertheless, been sufficiently sensible of the subtle essence, in them, as to write as I did. to what infinite height of loving wonder and admiration I may yet be borne, when by repeatedly banquetting on these Mosses, I shall have thoroughly incorporated their whole stuff into my being,--that, I can not tell. But already I feel that this Hawthorne has dropped germinous seeds into my soul. He expands and deepens down, the more I contemplate him; and further, and further, shoots his strong New-England roots into the hot soil of my Southern soul.

By careful reference to the "Table of Contents," I now find, that I have gone through all the sketches; but that when I yeterday wrote, I had not at all read two particular pieces, to which I now desire to call special attention,--"A Select Party," and "Young Goodman Brown." Here, be it said to all those whom this poor fugitive scrawl of mine may tempt to the purusal of the "Mosses," that they must on no account suffer themselves to be trifled with, disappointed, or deceived by the triviality of many of the titles to these Sketches. For in more than one instance, the title utterly belies the piece. It is as if rustic demjohns containing the very best and costliest of Falernian and Tokay, were labeled "Cider," "Perry," and "Elder-berry Wine." The truth seems to be, that like many other geniuses, this Man of Mosses takes great delight in hoodwinking the world,--at least, with respect to himself. Personally, I doubt not, that he rather prefers to be generally esteemed but a so-so sort of author; being willing to reserve the thorough and acute appreciation of what he is, to that party most qualified to judge--that is, to himself. Besides, at the bottom of their natures, men like Hawthorne, in many things, deem the plaudits of the public such strong presumptive evidence of mediocrity in the object of them, that it would in some degree render them doubtful of their own powers, did they hear much and vociferous braying concerning them in the public pastures. True, I have been braying myself (if you please to be witty enough, to have it so) but then I claim to be the first that has so brayed in this particular matter; and therefore, while pleading guilty to the charge, still claim all the merit due to originality.

But with whatever motive, playful or profound, Nathaniel Hawthorne has chosen to entitle his pieces in the manner he has, it is certain, that some of them are directly calculated to deceive--egregiously deceive--the superficial skimmer of pages. To be downright and candid once more, let me cheerfully say, that two of these titles did dolefully dupe no less an eagle-eyed reader than myself, and that, too, after I had been impressed with a sense of the great depth and breadth of this American man. "Who in the name of thunder," (as the country-people say in this neighborhood), "who in the name of thunder, would anticipate any marvel in a piece entitled "Young Goodman Brown"? You would of course suppose that it was a simple little tale, intended as a supplement to "Goody Two Shoes." Whereas, it is deep as Dante; nor can you finish it, without addressing the author in his own words--"It is yours to penetrate, in every bosom, the deep mystery of sin." And with Young Goodman, too, in allegorical pursuit of his Puritan wife, you cry out in your anguish,--

"Faith!" shouted Goodman Brown, in a voice of agony and desperation; and the echoes of the forest mocked him, crying--"Faith! Faith!" as if bewildered wretches were seeking her all through the wilderness.

Now this same piece, entitled "Young Goodman Brown," is one of the two that I had not all read yesterday; and I allude to it now, because it is, in itself, such a strong positive illustration of that blackness in Hawthorne, which I had assumed from the mere occasional shadows of it, as revealed in several of the other sketches. But had I previously perused "Young Goodman Brown," I should have been at no pains to draw the conclusion, which I came to, at a time, when I was ignorant that the book contained one such direct and unqualified manifestation of it.

The other piece of the two referred to, is entitled "A Select Party," which in my first simplicity upon originally taking hold of the book, I fancied must treat of some pumpkin-pie party in Old Salem, or some Chowder Party on Cape Cod. Whereas, by all the gods of Peedee! it is the sweetest and sublimest thing that has been written since Spenser wrote. Nay, there is nothing in Spenser that surpasses it, perhaps, nothing that equals it. And the test is this: read any canto in "The Faery Queen," and then read "A Select Party," and decide which pleases you the most,--that is, if you are qualified to judge. Do not be frightened at this; for when Spenser was alive, he was thought of very much as Hawthorne is now--was generally accounted just such a "gentle" harmless man. It may be, that to common eyes, the sublimity of Hawthorne seems lost in his sweetness,--as perhaps in this same "Select Party" his; for whom, he has builded so august a dome of sunset clouds, and served them on richer plate, than Belshazzar's when he banquetted his lords in Babylon.

But my chief business now, is to point out a particular page in this piece, having reference to an honored guest, who under the name of "The Master Genius" but in the guise "of a young man of poor attire, with no insignia of rank or acknowledged eminence," is introduced to the Man of Fancy, who is the giver of the feast. Now the page having reference to this "Master Genius", so happily expresses much of what I yesterday wrote, touching the coming of the literary Shiloh of America, that I cannot but be charmed by the coincidence; especially, when it shows such a parity of ideas, at least, in this one point, between a man like Hawthorne and a man like me.

And here, let me throw out another conceit of mine touching this American Shiloh, or "Master Genius," as Hawthorne calls him. May it not be, that this commanding mind has not been, is not, and never will be, individually developed in any one man? And would it, indeed, appear so unreasonable to suppose, that this great fullness and overlowing may be, or may be destined to be, shared by a plurality of men of genius? Surely, to take the very greatest example on record, Shakespeare cannot be regarded as in himself the concretion of all the genius of his time; nor as so immeasurably beyond Marlowe, Webster, Ford, Beaumont, Johnson, that those great men can be said to share none of his power? For one, I conceive that there were dramatists in Elizabeth's day, between whom and Shakespeare the distance was by no means great. Let anyone, hitherto little acquainted with those neglected old authors, for the first time read them thoroughly, or even read Charles Lamb's Specimens of them, and he will be amazed at the wondrous ability of those Anaks of men, and shocked at this renewed example of the fact, that Fortune has more to do with fame than merit,--though, without merit, lasting fame there can be none.

Nevertheless, it would argue too illy of my country were this maxim to hold good concerning Nathaniel Hawthorne, a man, who already, in some minds, has shed "such a light, as never illuminates the earth, save when a great heart burns as the household fire of a grand intellect."

The words are his,--in the "Select Party"; and they are a magnificent setting to a coincident sentiment of my own, but ramblingly expressed yesterday, in reference ot himself. Gainsay it who will, as I now write, I am Posterity speaking by proxy--and after times will make it more than good, when I declare--that the American, who up to the present day, has evinced, in Literature, the largest brain with the largest heart, that man is Nathaniel Hawthorne. Moreover, that whatever Nathaniel Hawthorne may hereafter write, "The Mosses from an Old Manse" will be ultimately accounted his masterpiece. For there is a sure, though a secret sign in some works which proves the culmination of the power (only the developable ones, however) that produced them. But I am by no means desirous of the glory of a prophet. I pray Heaven that Hawthorne may yet prove me an impostor in this prediciton. Especially, as I somehow cling to the strange fancy, that, in all men, hiddenly reside certain wondrous, occult properties--as in some plants and minerals--which by some happy but very rare accident (as bronze was discovered by the melting of the iron and brass in the burning of Corinth) may chance to be called forth here on earth, not entirely waiting for their better discovery in the more congenial, blessed atmosphere of heaven.

Once more--for it is hard to be finite upon an infinite subject, and all subjects are infinite. By some people, this entire scrawl of mine may be esteemed altogether unnecessary, inasmuch, "as years ago" (they may say) "we found out the rich and rare stuff in this Hawthorne, whom you now parade forth, as if only yourself were the discoverer of this Portuguese diamond in our Literature."--But even granting all this; and adding to it, the assumption that the books of Hawthorne have sold by the five-thousand,--what does that signify?--They should be sold by the hundred-thousand, and read by the million; and admired by every one who is capable of Admiration.

[corinne-eaglebridge-sso]

Fic Highlight: Second Person POV

I’m trying to be more proud of my own writing and to compliment it more, so I figured I’d maybe do a series of “fic highlights” where I share some of my fics and give my thoughts on it and say what I like about it! (And maybe sometimes what I would change if I did it again, but still in a positive way)

For our first installment, that will be second person! While most of my fics are in third person, second person is also a big love of mine. It feels incredibly natural to write in it for me, maybe even more so than third person. So here we go, in chronological order of when I wrote it!

E is for Edith

Written for SSOtober 2022 (day 9: wanderer), this is my first 2th person fic I’ve ever posted! I still love this one although I understand why it’s never been the most popular of mine. Edith Octavia Hartwood is a niche character we do not know much about. I had fun inventing part of her at least!

I like my use of words here. It is mainly prose, but it has a hint of purple prose there without being too overwhelming. And I do not say that as a negative; I love purple prose when used in moderation! I think I really created an atmosphere and emotion moreso than I created a character, and I’m super happy with how it eventually turned out!

Carve thy name on a moss covered stone

Ah. The most popular of the sso fics that I’ve written in 2th person, and I can understand why.

It’s short, which is why it might be a surprise to some that this one actually took quite a while to write. I wanted to balance the words just right, and in some ways I succeeded, though it’s not perfect - but well it never turns out exactly like it is in your head does it? And that’s ok, I’m still happy with what it became.

I like the structure I used here, with the seasons. I also like my theming and symbolism with the roses here, though rereading it it was maybe less subtle than I thought. Oh well!

The eternal dark without a dawn

Oh boy here we go. That’s quite a jump, huh? While perhaps similar in subject to Carve thy name, I used the 2th person differently here.

The way I used it here was more experimental, as a way to show some shared experiences and actions to then verge off into a few different perspectives in the same moment.

I think that, as soon as I realized what I wanted to do for this, there was no other option than to write it this way. Sure, I considered writing from one of them - but no. No. It always had to be all four. I’m very happy with how taking this risk turned out.

Through the looking glass

I don’t think I have much more to say on this than I’ve already said about it.

This is another one that might look deceptively short and quick to write; but the careful balance needed for mystery - not too much information but enough to at least know what’s going on - was something I had to really experiment with while writing. This was 2th person, after all - if it was 3th person, I could give more information without the character knowing, but here I couldn’t. I think I managed to find that balance though, and I’m really happy with it!

And that marks the end of my first fic highlights! :D

[darry-rules]

Chapter 8: The hunt for the stronghold

They left the base before dawn.

Not because they wanted to — because they had to.

The piglin army was growing. Every hour wasted was another village lost, another portal corrupted, another step closer to the collapse of the world they knew.

Steve led the way through the forest, eyes always scanning the trees. You walked behind him, silent as ever, your wolf at your side. Henry, Natalie, Dawn, and Garret stuck close together, though each of them had changed since that first day — since the portal.

They weren’t just scared kids anymore.

They were survivors.

They were fighters.

And they had a mission.

“Strongholds generate deep underground,” Steve explained as they moved. “Usually under villages. But this one… it’s not showing up on the maps.”

“That’s because it’s older than the maps,” you said. “Built before the overworld even stabilized.”

Natalie squinted at you. “How do you know all this?”

You gave a small shrug. “I read the right books. Fought the wrong mobs.”

You didn’t say it, but something in your voice hinted at more. Like maybe you’d seen a stronghold before. Maybe even been inside one.

They passed through a half-destroyed village that afternoon — nothing but ash, gold scraps, and trampled crops. A lone iron golem stood at the center, rusted and cracked, holding the body of a fallen villager in its massive arms.

It didn’t move when they approached.

It just stood there. Mourning.

Dawn turned away. “We’re running out of time.”

You knelt beside the well and reached into your pack. Pulled out a small, jagged object — a broken eye of ender, but unlike any the others had seen. This one shimmered faintly with both green and purple light.

“What’s that?” Henry asked.

You didn’t answer. Just dropped it into the well.

It vanished into the dark.

Then a pulse shot upward from the water — not bright, but deep, like the world itself had shivered.

“The path’s beneath us,” you said.

Steve’s eyebrows raised. “We dig here?”

“No,” you said. “We drop.”

And with that, you stepped up onto the edge of the well—and jumped in.

“Seriously?!” Garret shouted. “They’re insane!”

But then your voice echoed up from below. “Water at the bottom. You’ll be fine.”

One by one, the others followed.

What they found underground was more than tunnels. More than caves.

They found a forgotten part of the world.

Moss-covered ruins. Broken obsidian arches. Walls of carved stone etched with symbols none of them recognized. The further they walked, the darker it became—not because of the lack of light, but because the light itself seemed afraid to shine here.

Then they reached it.

The outer wall of the stronghold.

You were already at the door, running your hand along the symbols.

“There’s no key,” Natalie said.

“There is,” you replied. “You just can’t see it.”

Your eyes glowed again — that faint Enderman purple — and with a low rumble, the wall split open.

Beyond it was a massive hallway leading into the earth. Pillars stretched toward a ceiling no one could see. There were whispers in the air, faint and echoing.

Something ancient was sleeping here.

“End stone,” Steve whispered, brushing his hand along the wall. “This shouldn’t be here. Not unless—”

“Unless the End was already bleeding through,” you finished.

And then your wolf let out a low growl.

Not at you.

At the shadows behind them.

Piglins.

A small scouting party — but they’d followed. They’d seen the pulse from the well, and now they were here.

The group turned just as the first golden axe flew through the air.

You caught it with your sword — a loud clang echoing down the corridor — and the fight began.

Henry and Dawn moved like clockwork, protecting each other. Natalie fired from the back, picking off piglins one by one. Garret held the front with Steve, while your wolf lunged into the chaos, fearless and fast.

You were everywhere at once.

Blinking. Slashing. Reappearing across the battlefield like a living glitch.

And then… it was over.

Bodies on the floor. Blood. Gold. Silence.

Everyone was breathing hard.

“They know we’re close,” you said.

Steve looked at the ancient hallway. “Then we go now.”

“No,” you said. “We rest. Heal. Once we enter… there’s no turning back.”

[quickdesk31]

The Allure of the Formosan Magpie: A Natural Jewel of Taiwan

The allure of the Formosan Magpie lies in Taiwan’s lush landscapes, where it dwells amidst verdant forests and misty mountains. Renowned for its stunning appearance and captivating behaviors, this bird captivates both locals and tourists, holding a cherished place in their hearts.

A Cloak of Radiant Elegance: Appearance

Adorned in a striking ensemble of deep azure and ebony, the Formosan Magpie is a vision of ethereal beauty. A long, tail feathers gracefully trail behind, adding to its regal allure.The magpie’s distinctive appearance extends beyond its feathers. Its slender beak, dipped in obsidian, is a tool of precision, adept at foraging for insects, fruits, and seeds. Bright sapphire eyes gleam with intelligence, hinting at the bird’s remarkable cognitive abilities and complex social behaviors.

A Symphony of Sociability: Behavior

Formosan Magpies are not merely creatures of beauty; they are also renowned for their intricate social structures and melodious vocalizations. These avian artisans are highly gregarious, forming tight-knit family groups and engaging in elaborate vocal exchanges.

Their melodic calls echo through the forest canopy, serving as both communication and expression. Each chirp, whether joyful or sorrowful, tells a story of bird emotions and companionship, from successful hunts to mournful farewells.

Beyond their vocal prowess, Formosan Magpies are also skilled architects, fashioning intricate nests from twigs, grasses, and moss. These structures aren’t mere shelters; they symbolize family ties and teamwork, reflecting the magpie’s dedication to communal living.

Guardians of Taiwan’s Ecological Balance: Importance

Beyond their aesthetic appeal and social complexity, Formosan Magpies play a crucial role in maintaining Taiwan’s delicate ecological balance. As voracious omnivores, they maintain insect numbers, controlling pests and supporting local ecosystem health with their varied diet.

Additionally, their role as seed dispersers ensures the propagation of native plant species, promoting biodiversity and ecosystem resilience. Via foraging and nesting, Formosan Magpies enrich Taiwan’s ecosystem, playing a vital role in maintaining its diverse natural heritage.

Preserving a Natural Legacy: Conservation

Despite their resilience and adaptability, Formosan Magpies face numerous threats to their survival, including habitat loss, pollution, and human encroachment. Recognizing the importance of preserving this natural legacy, conservation efforts are underway to protect both the magpies and their habitats.

Through habitat restoration initiatives, public awareness campaigns, and research endeavors, conservationists strive to safeguard the future of these magnificent birds. Promoting harmony between humans and magpies while advocating for sustainability ensures that future generations can admire the Formosan Magpie’s beauty.

In the tapestry of Taiwan’s natural landscape, the Formosan Magpie stands as a radiant thread, weaving together beauty, complexity, and ecological importance. With its stunning feathers and captivating melodies, this bird enchants, reminding us to preserve nature’s worth. Protecting them safeguards species and our planet’s interconnectedness.

[storymakerdraconians]

 The Goatman’s Sanctuary

Deep within the heart of the ancient Eververdant Forest, where sunlight fractured into golden shafts upon a sea of emerald leaves, stood a secluded sanctuary—a dome of intertwined timber and moss. This sacred space, rumored to have been built by druids long ago, radiated an aura of peace and mystique. Its wooden walls formed an intricate lattice, with delicate vines snaking through every crevice, allowing hints of the outside world to bleed in. In the middle of the dome, a steaming pool of crystalline water mirrored the dancing light, exuding the comforting warmth of geothermal springs.

A lone figure stepped into the sacred space, his presence as commanding as the towering oaks beyond the walls. He was a goatman, a creature of fabled heritage, his fur mottled in earthy hues that blended seamlessly with his surroundings. His proud horns spiraled upward, their polished surface catching the ambient glow. His form was robust yet elegant, a testament to years spent mastering both the wilds and the art of combat.

Removing the last remnants of his gear—a leather chest plate adorned with sigils of protection—he allowed himself to stand utterly exposed under the soft glow of the filtered sunlight. This was not merely a ritual of hygiene but a communion with nature itself. As the steam curled around him, shrouding his body in ethereal mist, he stepped into the pool. The warmth embraced him, melting away the tensions etched into his muscular frame by years of wandering and warfare.

Closing his eyes, the goatman tilted his head back, letting the cascading water from an overhead spout wash over his thick fur. Every droplet carried with it whispers of the forest—ancient tales of beasts, forgotten battles, and the undying rhythm of life. His mind drifted, recalling moments of glory and sorrow, the faces of allies lost and enemies vanquished.

The tranquility of the moment was broken only by the soft rustling of leaves, a sound so subtle it could have been mistaken for the forest's natural symphony. But the goatman, ever vigilant, opened one eye, his keen senses attuned to the slightest disturbance. Emerging from the shadows was a creature as enigmatic as the dome itself—a red panda, its vibrant fur a stark contrast to the muted tones of the forest.

The red panda approached cautiously, its bright eyes shimmering with curiosity. It carried a small satchel strapped across its lithe frame. Without a word, it placed the bag on the edge of the pool and took a step back, bowing its head respectfully. The goatman studied the creature, recognizing the insignia on the satchel—a symbol of the Verdant Order, an elusive guild of protectors sworn to preserve the forest's sanctity.

Breaking the silence, the red panda spoke in a melodic tone, "Traveler, the forest has whispered of your deeds. The Order bids you a task of great importance."

The goatman’s deep voice resonated within the dome, a blend of authority and weariness. "Speak, emissary. What does the forest require of me?"

"The Veil of Ygrath has been breached," the red panda replied, its voice trembling slightly. "A rift spills corruption into the heart of the forest. Only one who walks between beast and man can mend it."

The goatman sighed, the weight of yet another quest pressing upon his broad shoulders. Yet, in his heart, he knew his path was never meant to be one of rest. Rising from the pool, water cascading down his powerful form, he donned a fresh determination. Taking the satchel, he nodded to the red panda.

"Lead the way," he commanded.

As the dome faded into the distance and the forest enveloped them once more, the goatman couldn’t help but feel a spark of hope. For in every challenge lay the chance to preserve the harmony of the world he so deeply cherished.

The forest’s evening serenade filled the air—a symphony of rustling leaves, distant birdcalls, and the soft gurgle of a nearby brook. In a secluded corner of the Eververdant Forest, where the cobbled pathways were kissed by moonlight, a wooden bench cradled two figures amidst the quiet serenity. The goatman, his towering form shadowed by the faint glow of the rising moon, sat with his muscular arms crossed, his posture uncharacteristically relaxed. Beside him, the red panda, her vibrant fur glowing softly, perched on the edge of the bench, her luminous eyes glancing shyly at her companion.

The bench was simple but elegant, its planks smooth and well-worn, adorned with a cushion patterned like the night sky. It was a place where forest denizens often found solace, but tonight, it served as the stage for something far more intimate—a meeting of souls.

The goatman broke the silence first, his deep, rumbling voice betraying a hint of nervousness. “It’s rare to find peace like this,” he said, his golden eyes catching the faint glimmer of starlight. “Rarer still to share it with someone.”

The red panda smiled, her ears twitching at his words. “I wasn’t sure if you’d come,” she admitted, her voice soft but steady. “You always seemed so... distant. Like the forest itself—strong, unyielding, but impossible to grasp.”

The goatman chuckled, a sound as rich and earthy as the soil beneath them. “I’ve spent so long wandering, fighting for causes, protecting others. I suppose I forgot how to... be present. But tonight is different.”

His words hung in the air, their weight palpable. The red panda shifted closer, her small frame dwarfed by his, yet her presence was no less commanding. She placed a delicate paw on his forearm, her touch light but firm. “You don’t always have to carry the weight of the world, you know,” she whispered. “Sometimes, it’s okay to let someone else share the burden.”

The goatman turned to her, his usually stern features softening. “You speak as if you’ve known me forever,” he said, a faint smile playing on his lips. “Yet, we’ve only just met.”

“Some connections,” she replied, “are timeless. They don’t need years to take root.”

For a moment, they sat in silence, the forest around them fading into the background. The goatman’s gaze fell to her paw, still resting on his arm. He reached out, his large, clawed hand enveloping hers with surprising gentleness. “I’ve spent my life guarding walls, both physical and emotional,” he confessed. “But with you... it feels like those walls don’t matter.”

The red panda’s cheeks flushed, her tail curling around her feet as if to hide her embarrassment. “You have a way with words for someone who claims to be guarded,” she teased, though her voice trembled with sincerity.

He laughed, a deep, hearty sound that seemed to vibrate through the bench. “Perhaps you bring out a side of me I didn’t know existed,” he said.

The moon climbed higher, its silver light casting their shadows on the cobblestones below. As the night deepened, the goatman leaned back, his broad shoulders pressing against the bench’s wooden slats. The red panda followed suit, her head resting lightly against his arm. Together, they gazed up at the canopy, where stars winked through the gaps in the leaves.

“Tell me about your dreams,” she said suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence.

“My dreams?” he echoed, caught off guard. “I’ve never thought about them.”

“Then tell me what your heart desires,” she pressed, her voice barely above a whisper.

He thought for a moment before replying, “To find a place where I belong. To feel... understood.”

The red panda smiled, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Perhaps you’ve already found it,” she said, her voice trembling with emotion.

He turned to her, his golden eyes locking with her amber ones. In that moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. Slowly, hesitantly, the goatman reached up, his hand brushing against her cheek. She leaned into his touch, her eyes fluttering closed.

As their foreheads touched, a sense of calm enveloped them, as if the forest itself were blessing their union. No words were needed; their connection transcended language. For the first time in years, the goatman felt a spark of hope, a promise of something beyond duty and solitude.

And as the night wore on, they remained there, two souls finding solace in each other, the forest their only witness.

========================================================================

Description:

Deep in the mystical Eververdant Forest, a goatman and a red panda cross paths in a sacred dome. While the goatman finds solace in nature's warmth, the red panda delivers a quest that binds them to a shared destiny. Later, under the moonlit canopy, the two form an intimate bond, revealing desires of belonging and connection. Together, they embrace the forest's timeless beauty and its secrets. ======================================================

Title: The Goatman’s Sanctuary: A Meeting in the Heart of the Eververdant Forest

Alt Text: A goatman rests in a geothermal pool within a mystical forest dome, as a red panda approaches with a satchel, symbolizing an ancient guild.

Tags: Goatman, red panda, Eververdant Forest, fantasy sanctuary, mystical dome, sacred forest, magical bond, quest, mythical creatures, emotional connectionKeywords: Goatman, sacred dome, red panda emissary, Verdant Order, forest sanctuary, geothermal pool, fantasy bond, forest quest, mystical union

[disneymarina]

Marina's potential monster boyfriends could be:1. Lamia (Snake-tailed humanoid) - Nicknamed "Slinky" or "Kissy." Outfits inspired by ancient Egyptian attire with snake-patterned accessories.

2. Harpy (Bird-like humanoid) - Called "Skyward" or "Featherlight." Inspired by Greek mythology, Marina would wear flowing white toga-style outfits adorned with small feathers.

3. Kitsune (Fox humanoid with multiple tails) - Nicknamed "Rouge" or "Foxfire." Outfits influenced by Japanese kimonos, with Marina's attire featuring intricate fox-inspired designs.These species' cultures would influence Marina's outfits, accessories, and perhaps even her hairstyles and makeup. The outfits would reflect the beauty and sensuality of the monster world while still embracing her own romantic goth and fantasycore aesthetics.

Here are three potential male monster mate species for Marina, along with possible nicknames, outfits, and cultural inspirations for each:1. **Necromancer Vampire**

Nickname: "Midnight"

Outfit: A sleek, high-collared black velvet suit with a crisp white shirt, paired with a crimson red tie and black patent leather shoes. A silver pocket watch and cufflinks add a touch of elegance.

Cultural Inspiration: Gothic Victorian era, with hints of modern edginess.2. **Gryphon**

Nickname: "Skydancer"

Outfit: A rustic brown and gold brocade waistcoat over a crisp white shirt, with fitted breeches and knee-high leather boots. A leather-bound journal and brass compass dangle from his waist belt.

Cultural Inspiration: Regency-era England, infused with mythological and adventurous flair.3. **Merman**

Nickname: "Tidal"

Outfit: A sleek, ocean-inspired ensemble of iridescent blue scaleskin, with intricate silver seashell accents. The top half is a fitted, sleeveless tunic, while the lower half consists of tight-fitting pants that showcase his alluring tail. His hair flows like seaweed in shades of teal and green.

"Hmmm... Good question. Let's see..."Marina's Monster Boyfriends:1. A Centaur

Nickname: Cinna

Outfit: A short leather skirt, a leather jacket, and knee-high boots, inspired by goth and biker culture.2. A Merman

Nickname: Fin

Outfit: A shimmering, scales-patterned bikini and a seashell bra, with ocean-blue hair and sea-glass accessories.3. A Minotaur

Nickname: Moo

Outfit: A flowing, bohemian sundress with a bull-shaped purse and cow-print socks, fitting for a free-spirited artist."We can develop these further, if you'd like." *said Modern Monster City, not leaving any detail to imagination.*

"Hmmm..." *Marina thinks about her past relationships.* "Well, my first boyfriend was a werewolf, so my nickname was 'Lunar' and I was dressed in a red, white and black outfit, with a full moon symbol on it."

"Then I dated a merman, so my nickname was 'Aqua' and I had a shimmering aqua blue tail and a seashell bra."

"My last boyfriend before moving to this city was a vampire, so my nickname was 'Crimson' and I wore a red, lace, Victorian style dress." *Marina blushes.* "I guess you could say I have a thing for monsters..." *she says with a shy smile.*

Marina 's Previous Boyfriends1. Werewolf (Nicknamed "Lunar", dressed in a red, white and black outfit with a full moon symbol)

2. Merman (Nicknamed "Aqua", had a shimmering aqua blue tail and a seashell bra)

3. Vampire (Nicknamed "Crimson", wore a red, lace, Victorian style dress)

Current Situation*Marina is alone in a big city filled with monsters, looking for a new start.*

"Let's see..." *said Modern Monster City, thinking for a moment.*1. **Werewolf**: Marina would be mated to a strong and loyal werewolf. Her nickname would be "Luna" (due to her shy and dreamy personality). Her outfit would be a forest-inspired dress (earth tones like brown, beige and moss green), with leaves and flowers decorating her hair and attire. This would be a nod to the werewolves' love for nature and the forest.2. **Gargoyle**: Marina would be mated to a brutish but protective gargoyle. Her nickname would be "Skye" (inspired by her gentle yet free spirit). Her outfit would be a dark, edgy ensemble with stone-gray tones, leather accents, and wing-like details (to represent the gargoyle's wings). This would reflect the gargoyle culture of being strong, brooding stone-creatures.3. **Merman**: Marina would be mated to an aquatic and seductive merman. Her nickname would be "Calypso" (due to her alluring and charming personality). Her outfit would be a shimmery, iridescent mermaid-scale inspired dress (in blues and greens)

Monster x Marina

[thelorehold]

The Crimson Crown

Setting: The adventure takes place in the rugged and mystical region of Thornmarsh, a land steeped in ancient magic and dark secrets. Thornmarsh is a misty, forested region dotted with crumbling ruins, cursed villages, and treacherous swamps. The heart of the adventure lies in the pursuit of an artifact known as the Crimson Crown, an ancient relic of immense power, rumored to grant dominion over the wild forces of nature.

Purpose: This adventure serves as a pivotal chapter in the campaign, where the heroes must thwart the ambitions of a dark sorcerer who seeks to use the Crimson Crown to unleash chaos upon the world.

Game Master Notes

Adventure Type: Epic Quest - a mixture of exploration, combat, and artifact retrieval.

Creatures: Thornmarsh Raiders (bandits), Moss Golems, Venomous Serpents, Shadow Wolves, The Corrupted Druid (final villain).

Quest Hooks

The Lost Heir: The party is approached by a young noble, Lady Seraphine, who claims to be the last surviving heir of a once-great house. Her family was destroyed by a dark curse tied to the Crimson Crown, and she seeks the party’s aid in recovering it to restore her house’s honor.

The Cursed Village: While passing through the village of Willow’s End, the party learns of a creeping curse that has begun to petrify the villagers. An old crone warns that only by retrieving the Crimson Crown from the ancient ruins of Thornmarsh can the curse be broken.

The Shadow’s Bounty: A mysterious figure known only as The Whisperer offers the party a hefty reward for retrieving the Crimson Crown, no questions asked. The Whisperer claims to represent a powerful guild of shadowy figures who wish to keep the crown out of dangerous hands.

Rumors:

"They say a powerful sorcerer lurks in Thornmarsh, seeking the Crimson Crown to bind the forces of nature to his will…"

"The old druids of Thornmarsh were the keepers of the Crimson Crown, but they vanished long ago—leaving only their monstrous guardians."

"There’s a hidden entrance in the ruins of Stonewatch Keep that leads to the chamber where the Crown is kept, but it’s guarded by a beast that none have survived."

"Some say the Crimson Crown isn’t just a crown—it’s a living thing, and it hungers for blood."

"A hero once wore the Crimson Crown and became king of the wilds. But his reign ended in madness… and death."

Key Locations and Encounters

Location 1: Stonewatch Keep

Description: The ruins of Stonewatch Keep loom atop a jagged cliff, shrouded in mist. Once a bastion of defense against the forces of darkness, it is now a crumbling ruin infested with Thornmarsh Raiders. The keep's weathered stones are etched with ancient runes, and its courtyard is overgrown with thorny vines and twisted trees.

Explorations: The party can search the ruins to discover hidden passages and clues about the Crimson Crown’s location. A hidden trapdoor in the central tower leads to the catacombs beneath the keep.

Encounter: Thornmarsh Raiders ambush the party as they enter the keep. After the battle, they find a map hinting at the location of the Crown within the Druid’s Grove.

Loot: A Raider’s chest contains 200 gold pieces, a Potion of Greater Healing, and a Map of the Thornmarsh leading to the Druid’s Grove.

Location 2: The Druid’s Grove

Description: The ancient Druid’s Grove lies deep within the Thornmarsh, a secluded area where nature’s power is at its strongest. The grove is filled with towering trees, their leaves shimmering with an unnatural glow. In the center of the grove is an altar, surrounded by ancient stone pillars carved with druidic symbols.

Explorations: Investigating the altar reveals druidic runes that speak of a ritual to summon the guardian of the Crown. The party must solve a puzzle involving the alignment of the stone pillars to activate the ritual.

Encounter: The ritual awakens a Moss Golem, a massive creature of plant and stone, bound to protect the grove. The party must defeat the golem to access the entrance to the underground chamber where the Crown is hidden.

Loot: After defeating the Moss Golem, the party finds a Druidic Amulet (grants advantage on Nature checks) and the entrance to the underground chamber.

Location 3: The Chamber of the Crimson Crown

Description: Deep beneath the Druid’s Grove lies the Chamber of the Crimson Crown. This vast, underground cavern is filled with luminescent fungi, glowing pools of water, and veins of red crystal that pulse with a dark energy. At the chamber’s center, atop a stone pedestal, sits the Crimson Crown, surrounded by a circle of ancient runes.

Explorations: As the party approaches the Crown, they can sense a malevolent presence. A successful Arcana check reveals that the Crown is cursed, and disturbing it will summon its true guardian.

Encounter: The Corrupted Druid, once a protector of the Crown, now twisted and consumed by its power, emerges from the shadows to stop the party. The druid can summon Shadow Wolves and cast nature-based spells to hinder the party. This is the final battle of the adventure.

Loot: Upon defeating the Corrupted Druid, the party claims the Crimson Crown (which requires a curse-breaking ritual to use safely) and finds 500 gold pieces, a Wand of Entangle, and the Cloak of Nature’s Fury (grants resistance to cold and lightning damage).

Rewards:

Material Rewards: The Crimson Crown, Cloak of Nature’s Fury, Wand of Entangle, 700 gold pieces, and the Druidic Amulet.

Non-Material Rewards: Lady Seraphine’s eternal gratitude (leading to potential future alliances and quests), the lifting of the curse from Willow’s End, and a reputation boost as heroes of the realm.

Conclusion

Outcome: If the party successfully retrieves the Crimson Crown and defeats the Corrupted Druid, they prevent a great evil from being unleashed upon the world. They also gain powerful allies and knowledge for future adventures. If they fail, the Crown falls into the wrong hands, and the world is plunged into chaos.

Success Conditions: The party successfully retrieves the Crimson Crown, defeats the Corrupted Druid, and either safely contains or uncurses the artifact.

Failure Conditions: The party is defeated, or the Crimson Crown is lost or corrupted further, leading to dire consequences for the realm.

Graphical Elements

Maps: Provide a map of Thornmarsh with key locations marked, including Stonewatch Keep, the Druid’s Grove, and the Chamber of the Crimson Crown.

NPC or Villain Images: Include illustrations of Lady Seraphine, the Moss Golem, and the Corrupted Druid.

This adventure should capture the essence of a Sword and Sorcery movie, with its focus on an epic quest, dangerous locations, and a climactic battle against a formidable villain.

[nights-in-knightswall]

Introduction

Title: The Crimson Crown

Setting: The adventure takes place in the rugged and mystical region of Thornmarsh, a land steeped in ancient magic and dark secrets. Thornmarsh is a misty, forested region dotted with crumbling ruins, cursed villages, and treacherous swamps. The heart of the adventure lies in the pursuit of an artifact known as the Crimson Crown, an ancient relic of immense power, rumored to grant dominion over the wild forces of nature.

Purpose: This adventure serves as a pivotal chapter in the campaign, where the heroes must thwart the ambitions of a dark sorcerer who seeks to use the Crimson Crown to unleash chaos upon the world.

Game Master Notes

Adventure Type: Epic Quest - a mixture of exploration, combat, and artifact retrieval.

Creatures: Thornmarsh Raiders (bandits), Moss Golems, Venomous Serpents, Shadow Wolves, The Corrupted Druid (final villain).

Quest Hooks

The Lost Heir: The party is approached by a young noble, Lady Seraphine, who claims to be the last surviving heir of a once-great house. Her family was destroyed by a dark curse tied to the Crimson Crown, and she seeks the party’s aid in recovering it to restore her house’s honor.

The Cursed Village: While passing through the village of Willow’s End, the party learns of a creeping curse that has begun to petrify the villagers. An old crone warns that only by retrieving the Crimson Crown from the ancient ruins of Thornmarsh can the curse be broken.

The Shadow’s Bounty: A mysterious figure known only as The Whisperer offers the party a hefty reward for retrieving the Crimson Crown, no questions asked. The Whisperer claims to represent a powerful guild of shadowy figures who wish to keep the crown out of dangerous hands.

Rumors:

"They say a powerful sorcerer lurks in Thornmarsh, seeking the Crimson Crown to bind the forces of nature to his will…"

"The old druids of Thornmarsh were the keepers of the Crimson Crown, but they vanished long ago—leaving only their monstrous guardians."

"There’s a hidden entrance in the ruins of Stonewatch Keep that leads to the chamber where the Crown is kept, but it’s guarded by a beast that none have survived."

"Some say the Crimson Crown isn’t just a crown—it’s a living thing, and it hungers for blood."

"A hero once wore the Crimson Crown and became king of the wilds. But his reign ended in madness… and death."

Key Locations and Encounters

Location 1: Stonewatch Keep

Description: The ruins of Stonewatch Keep loom atop a jagged cliff, shrouded in mist. Once a bastion of defense against the forces of darkness, it is now a crumbling ruin infested with Thornmarsh Raiders. The keep's weathered stones are etched with ancient runes, and its courtyard is overgrown with thorny vines and twisted trees.

Explorations: The party can search the ruins to discover hidden passages and clues about the Crimson Crown’s location. A hidden trapdoor in the central tower leads to the catacombs beneath the keep.

Encounter: Thornmarsh Raiders ambush the party as they enter the keep. After the battle, they find a map hinting at the location of the Crown within the Druid’s Grove.

Loot: A Raider’s chest contains 200 gold pieces, a Potion of Greater Healing, and a Map of the Thornmarsh leading to the Druid’s Grove.

Location 2: The Druid’s Grove

Description: The ancient Druid’s Grove lies deep within the Thornmarsh, a secluded area where nature’s power is at its strongest. The grove is filled with towering trees, their leaves shimmering with an unnatural glow. In the center of the grove is an altar, surrounded by ancient stone pillars carved with druidic symbols.

Explorations: Investigating the altar reveals druidic runes that speak of a ritual to summon the guardian of the Crown. The party must solve a puzzle involving the alignment of the stone pillars to activate the ritual.

Encounter: The ritual awakens a Moss Golem, a massive creature of plant and stone, bound to protect the grove. The party must defeat the golem to access the entrance to the underground chamber where the Crown is hidden.

Loot: After defeating the Moss Golem, the party finds a Druidic Amulet (grants advantage on Nature checks) and the entrance to the underground chamber.

Location 3: The Chamber of the Crimson Crown

Description: Deep beneath the Druid’s Grove lies the Chamber of the Crimson Crown. This vast, underground cavern is filled with luminescent fungi, glowing pools of water, and veins of red crystal that pulse with a dark energy. At the chamber’s center, atop a stone pedestal, sits the Crimson Crown, surrounded by a circle of ancient runes.

Explorations: As the party approaches the Crown, they can sense a malevolent presence. A successful Arcana check reveals that the Crown is cursed, and disturbing it will summon its true guardian.

Encounter: The Corrupted Druid, once a protector of the Crown, now twisted and consumed by its power, emerges from the shadows to stop the party. The druid can summon Shadow Wolves and cast nature-based spells to hinder the party. This is the final battle of the adventure.

Loot: Upon defeating the Corrupted Druid, the party claims the Crimson Crown (which requires a curse-breaking ritual to use safely) and finds 500 gold pieces, a Wand of Entangle, and the Cloak of Nature’s Fury (grants resistance to cold and lightning damage).

Rewards:

Material Rewards: The Crimson Crown, Cloak of Nature’s Fury, Wand of Entangle, 700 gold pieces, and the Druidic Amulet.

Non-Material Rewards: Lady Seraphine’s eternal gratitude (leading to potential future alliances and quests), the lifting of the curse from Willow’s End, and a reputation boost as heroes of the realm.

Conclusion

Outcome: If the party successfully retrieves the Crimson Crown and defeats the Corrupted Druid, they prevent a great evil from being unleashed upon the world. They also gain powerful allies and knowledge for future adventures. If they fail, the Crown falls into the wrong hands, and the world is plunged into chaos.

Success Conditions: The party successfully retrieves the Crimson Crown, defeats the Corrupted Druid, and either safely contains or uncurses the artifact.

Failure Conditions: The party is defeated, or the Crimson Crown is lost or corrupted further, leading to dire consequences for the realm.

Graphical Elements

Maps: Provide a map of Thornmarsh with key locations marked, including Stonewatch Keep, the Druid’s Grove, and the Chamber of the Crimson Crown.

NPC or Villain Images: Include illustrations of Lady Seraphine, the Moss Golem, and the Corrupted Druid.

This adventure should capture the essence of a Sword and Sorcery movie, with its focus on an epic quest, dangerous locations, and a climactic battle against a formidable villain.

[itsbulkgemstones]

Unveiling the Mystique of Moss Aquamarine: A Unique Gemstone of Intrigue and Healing

Introduction:

Welcome to the World of Moss Aquamarine – where mystery and beauty intertwine to create a captivating gemstone. With its delicate blue hue intertwined with hints of green, Moss Aquamarine offers a unique allure that sets it apart. Let's delve deeper into the origins, qualities, and healing properties of this fascinating gem.

Origin and Folklore:

Moss Aquamarine traces its roots to ancient folklore, where aquamarine was believed to be treasured by mermaids and revered by sailors for its protective qualities. Derived from the Latin 'Aqua Marinus,' meaning 'Water of the Sea,' aquamarine is part of the beryl family. Moss Aquamarine, a variant of aquamarine, exhibits a mesmerizing blend of blue and green hues, attributed to iron oxidization within its chemical makeup. Mined in various locations such as Brazil, Africa, and Madagascar, Moss Aquamarine boasts natural mossy features that add to its allure.

Quality and Value:

As a B or C grade beryl with iron inclusions, Moss Aquamarine showcases specks of green amidst its blue backdrop. The quality of Moss Aquamarine varies depending on the presence of iron inclusions, with minimal inclusions enhancing its appearance while excessive inclusions may result in a blackened hue, termed as 'Black Rain Aquamarine.' Despite its muddy appearance, Moss Aquamarine is highly prized for its rarity and can be crafted into exquisite jewelry pieces, making it a coveted choice for those seeking eccentric yet bold adornments.

Healing Properties:

Beyond its aesthetic appeal, Moss Aquamarine is renowned for its healing properties. Wearing Moss Aquamarine is believed to nurture the wearer's sense of success, instilling feelings of confidence and enhancing freedom of expression. Its calming presence promotes peace and tranquility, alleviating stress and fostering amicable communication. Moreover, Moss Aquamarine is regarded as a thoughtful gift, symbolizing affection and warmth while facilitating meditation and enhancing paranormal abilities.

Conclusion:

In conclusion, Moss Aquamarine stands as a testament to nature's artistry, blending hues of blue and green to create a gemstone of unparalleled beauty and intrigue. With its rich folklore, unique qualities, and healing properties, Moss Aquamarine transcends its status as a mere gemstone, embodying a symbol of resilience, protection, and inner harmony. Whether worn as jewelry or cherished for its metaphysical properties, Moss Aquamarine continues to captivate hearts and minds, inviting individuals to embark on a journey of self-discovery and empowerment.

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https://www.bulkgemstones.com/information-about-moss-aquamarine/