#Valkyrie Errant

[nanneramma]

chosen one

Fleurmione, T, 200 words

for @fleurmioneweek day 5: vikings, and for @lumosatnight, who dared me

~⚔️❄️⚔️~

The ash fell like snow as the village burned. It was cold — cold enough that Hermione could barely feel her fingertips as she clutched her axe — but the flames burned hot enough to melt flesh. 

Hermione’s breath was shallow as she searched the village. Get the children out. Her shoulder ached and her hands were sticky with blood.  Kill them before they kill you.

She was tiring quickly, her chest heaving as she ran. An errant rock sent her spilling onto the frozen ground, ankle twisted. As she rose she saw him — hair dark, and arrow trained on her. Waiting. Watching. 

The village was silent as Hermione prepared to die. Just the crackle of flame and the groan of a longbow pulled taut. 

As the sun rose, a blood curdling howl rang through the camp. And then, through the ash, she came. Astride a great grey wolf, with wings on her helm and hellfire in her eyes. 

Hermione breathed out, spellbound. 

Valkyrie.

“She is mine,” the woman called, golden hair tossed in a phantom wind. She drew her blade as her wolf snarled, and she shone, beautiful and terrible, in the light of dawn. 

“And you will not touch her.”

~⚔️❄️⚔️~

Read it on Ao3!

[vulpes-fennec]

Happy Day 3 of @sjmromanceweek!!!

Pairings mentioned: Nessian, Gwynlain, Rowaelin

I’m going to leave all the “Dear Suriel” parts a mystery to the readers hehe. You can read the regular text below the cut!

Dearest reader, if you did not have the pleasure of attending Nesta Archeron and Cassian’s mating ceremony last week, I feel sorry for you. But Suriel, I thought you were dead? Rest assured that death is merely the gateway from one realm to the next. 

Under the flower-bedecked temple by the flowing Sidra, Nesta and Cassian exchanged tender vows and offered each other sweet cake. Cynical readers may question the purpose of such extravagance. Is such formality necessary when two people already love each other, when they have already accepted their mating bond? This author posits a different question: why live, if we cannot find causes for celebration? 

But sending well wishes to the happy couple was not my sole reason for attending the mating ceremony. As we all know, there is nothing this author loves more than a scandal. It has become common knowledge that a singular stained glass necklace was offered to Elain Archeron, and then Gwyneth (Gwyn) Berdara last Winter Solstice by an errant Azriel Shadowsinger. I can only hope Mr. Shadowsinger’s future partner does not have the love language of gift-giving! 

Society, like a snarling, salivating hound, has hungered for an explosive resolution to this whole debacle. With both ladies attending the ceremony, has the other shoe finally dropped? 

Not in the way you may presume. For the gentle Kingslayer and the cheerful Valkyrie were spotted giving each other shy glances while walking down the aisle. After the luncheon, Gwyn sidled up to Elain with an innocent request to dance. As the rest of the party grew raucous over copious cups of wine, Elain gave Gwyn a tour of the peaceful River House garden, demurely clasping the priestess’s hand midway.  

Surprised, reader, by this budding romance? Not I. Miss Archeron spoke true of not wanting a male, and perhaps Miss Berdara will find solace in feminine intimacy as she ventures out of the library. 

Thanks to the revocation of Cassian’s Summer Court ban, the happy couple is currently soaking up the sun in a stunning overwater bungalow. Let us pray that the Illyrian general does not destroy yet another Summer Court dwelling with his…honeymoon activities. 

One can only assume that Nesta and Cassian had their hands full, as they did not pay a visit to the Adriata’s annual Turtle Days Festival. A shame! This author is particularly fond of turtles, for they are some of the longest lived creatures in the sea. Wise, yes, but also prone to chit chat like me. After all, life can get incredibly dull without gossip… 

There is nothing like the warm sun and ocean breeze to put one in the mood for love. Summer Court’s most eligible bachelor, Tarquin, was spotted with a pretty female at his side the entire time! 

As schoolgirls tearfully take down the posters of their handsome High Lord, several of them wrestle with the silver lining: perhaps one day, they may have a shot with him. For it appears he does not limit himself to the court ladies when it comes to relationships! Tarquin guided his companion down the art gallery, listened attentively to her input while judging the seafood bisque contest, and tore up the dance floor with quadrille after quadrille. The two looked positively over the moon as they stole away to a secluded beach for an evening swim in the warm summer sea. 

Enjoy the honeymoon phase, young lovers! This mystery lady is certainly a lucky one, for the high lord of summer is working hard to ensure all fae are elevated to equal status in his court. For workaholics everywhere, this is a sign: perhaps finding love is the quickest way to make you all take a break.

Across the worlds, Her Majesty Aelin Ashryver Whitethorn Galathynius (a mouthful of a name!) and Prince Rowan Whitethorn have retreated to the royal summer estate on a much-delayed honeymoon.

While much of the estate has fallen into disrepair over the years, the remaining locals did their best to fend off looters and even buried the late prince and princess in the estate gardens. 

Queen Aelin is renowned for her love of luxury, but one can imagine that peace and quiet are of higher priority on her honeymoon. The opportunity to retreat from the hubbub of court should not be taken for granted, and I fully expect the couple to make the most of their privacy. 

Perhaps revisiting this once-beloved home and forging new memories is the final piece of healing needed for the young queen. This author does affirm Prince Rhoe and Princess Evalin were contentedly watching over the newlyweds from their garden bench. That is, before that pesky dog Fleetfoot decided to charge at me, snapping at my robes! All right, all right. This author will leave the happy family be. 

Dear Suriel, I am thinking of proposing to my girlfriend. Marriages, engagements, most of all love…these are foreign to us Ironteeth witches. So I have been doing my research: I’ll need to procure a diamond ring, take her to an upscale dining establishment, plan a fun sedentary activity for afterwards, say a sappy speech, and get down on one knee. But I am worried she will decline because this may be a long-distance marriage (we have duties to our respective queendoms). Respectfully, Abraxos’s Mom. 

Dear Abraxos’s Mom, I am honored you consider me the expert in marriage proposals. I commend your commitment to researching an unknown area, but I am sure your darling would find more meaning in a personalized proposal over an expensive (and sometimes gaudy) one. I suggest finding a ring that will, most importantly, fit. I also recommend focusing on her favorite dishes, rather than expensive fine-dining. Speeches are not a must before the fateful words “will you marry me,” but if the moment calls for it, opt for genuine words over spouting poetry. Wishing you luck!  

Win a free honeymoon trip to Terrasen National Forest! A three-night stay at the Peregrine Resort, complete with deer park, Kingsflame meadows, Staghorn mountains aerial tramway, spa, and fine dining vouchers for two! 

Erilea residents only. Submit your wedding invitation and the story of how you met your partner to Terrasen Parks Service before Beltane Eve.

[doctorslippery]

d200 Single Word Starship Names

Completed List

Intrepid

Longarm

Midsommer

Protos

Worship

Calador

Philosopher

Santera

Castillo

Dragoon

Horizon

Windswept

Aurelian

Resolute

Corinth

Trimaran

Titan

Olympia

Watcher

Matador

Sleuth

Herald

Halcyon

Buccaneer

Flagstone

Respite

Monarch

Sumere

Zemnoi

Polaris

Angkor

Halogen

Pathfinder

Wildfire

Altair

Lamplight

Falchion

Vega

Archimedes

Copernicus

Helios

Hypatia

Cypress

Northumbria

Celeste

Calliope

Carpathia

Vengeance

Remembrance

Nightingale

Sidewinder

Saphrax

Terminus

Deadlock

Tuscan

Vitalis

Cascade

Acolyte

Lockstone

Malkuth

Ætheris

Kaiser

Ascent

Parallax

Saudade

Stargazer

Hephaestus

Proteus

Columbia

Silence

Panama

Harmony

Conqueror

Cromwell

Chimera

Nemesis

Emissary

Syracuse

Lancaster

Nautilus

Dauntless

Reliant

Tranquility

Remus

Romulus

Vanguard

Artemis

Firebrand

Defiance

Renault

Observer

Providence

Stalwart

Tortoise

Leviathan

Covenant

Inquisitor

Claymore

Pursuit

Facade

Bonus Names:

how would you roll Midway

Tenacity

Halacion

Trimaran

Spitfire

Magus

Ravenous

Idalia

Rutledge

Stockton

Errant

Hylacomylus

Mercator

Meridian

Cartographer

Azimuth

Vohlonen

Tyrolian

Vizier

Sahara

Alexandria

Eddystone

Aperture

Fresnel

Ambrose

Rodionov

Iikon

Roanoke

Croatoan

Terracotta

Mercurial

Thermopylae

Odessa

Sunrise

Agamemnon

Atreus

Mastiff

Demeter

Corsican

Tarascan

Gibraltar

Genoa

Ironclad

Ulysses

Malachai

Tortuga

Nexus

Requiem

Solstice

Paragon

Empyrean

Relic

Tempest

Oracle

Mirage

Nomad

Onyx

Valkyrie

Ascendant

Endeavor

Reverie

Calypso

Epoch

Apogee

Odyssey

Rasmussen

Aerostar

Convair

Clarion

Sevastopol

Aralsk

Mentor

Nautilus

Sanctity

Autumn

Primavera

Inquieto

Myrrddin

Tartan

Pendragon

Mezzanine

Troubadour

Pelican

Matador

Armstrong

Chesapeake

Strider

Eloquence

Bastille

Bastion

Algernon

Kingfisher

Evergreen

Avalanche

Sovereign

Solitude

Maktoub

Charrería

Vaquero

Sublime

[frodo-with-glasses]

Discord Highlights: Theodoc "Trotter" Brandybuck

From a discussion on 4/28/23

Windmill to the Stars:

I've heard vague references to a letter Tolkien wrote to a fan (not included in the volume of the Letters) in which he told her that Merry named at least one son "Periadoc." I kind of like it, especially if the "Per" part is related to "Peregrin" or "Periannath"! What do y'all think? Does this go with the other headcanons we came up with about Merry's kids?

InvisibleWashboard:

I can see it! May steal it and replace one of the other son’s names I have in my one-shot about all his babies!

Me:

Merry and Perry 👀

InvisibleWashboard:

It’s maybe a little too cutesy with the rhyming but I kind of like it, not gonna lie.

Windmill to the Stars:

And Pippin's son Ferry

Me:

THE TRIFECTA IS COMPLETE

meg is me:

It's all -erry

Me:

Always has been

meg is me:

You know what must be done now

Me:

It is done

Windmill to the Stars:

Suddenly imagining the next generation in the Shire with Perry and Ferry and the Master of Buckland and the Thain (and idk if Frodo Gardner follows his dad in becoming the mayor of Hobbiton.)

Me:

Okay wait: Is Periadoc Merry’s first son, or is Theodoc?? This is very important to me

Kasey Gondor:

twins

InvisibleWashboard:

Theodoc is for sure the oldest, at least in my head.

Writing Valkyrie:

Theodoc born first by several minutes

Me:

I LOVE THIS TWINS HECK YEAH Poor Estella, her first pregnancy and it's twins LOL 🤣

Windmill to the Stars:

Technically she could have older daughters but yeah I think we said before his sons were first

InvisibleWashboard:

I've always imagined he had a set of twins, but it was the last two kids he had. Estella was like, "We've had a bunch of boys, let me try and give you your Eowyn. One more!" Then it ends up being twins, but they don't know. A boy is born first, and they're like, "Yay, another kid, but this is kind of a bummer because we REALLY wanted a girl." And then, BOOM. Surprise daughter! And Merry is just over the moon

Me:

ACK THAT'S SO CUTE

Windmill to the Stars:

How many sons total does Merry have now??

Me:

Yes X-D

Windmill to the Stars:

I mean he's not gonna beat Sam probably but still

Me:

He has yes amount of sons

Writing Valkyrie:

All of his sons are his.

Me:

This is true! Accurate statement!

InvisibleWashboard:

I have 6 sons, one daughter in my one-shot that I've written. A boatload of kids, but not a cruise ship like the Gamgee's.

Me:

cruise ship 🤣🤣

Writing Valkyrie:

He needs it. They'd sink a boat.

meg is me:

Which of Pippin or Merry's kids (her honorary cousins) do you headcanon Elanor is closest to?

[There was much discussion in response to this question, but I'm cutting most of it for the sake of time lol]

Windmill to the Stars:

Depending on how old Periadoc and Theodoc are they could be closer to Elanor

Theodoc seems like he should be a bit adventurous And Elanor as well, so maybe they bond over that

Elanor moving into the Tower Hills with her husband but they always welcome her favorite cousin Theodoc who brings them gifts from his adventures

Theodoc is borderline a Knight Errant

Theodoc rides horses and boats with equal ease, he has his own nickname in Bree

meg is me:

What is it

Windmill to the Stars:

. . . Good question

meg is me:

and can he ride barrels

InvisibleWashboard:

Yes, this is the important question.

Windmill to the Stars:

Of course he can!

meg is me:

Yisss

Writing Valkyrie:

He teaches little Bilbo how

Me:

Bilbo Jr. WOULD take up boating just to give his poor mother a heart attack

Windmill to the Stars:

Amendment: he has like 5 nicknames in Bree Theodoc becomes actual Trotter

Me:

Minus the wooden feet, I hope??

Windmill to the Stars:

Oooh yes, definitely! 😬

Me:

I mean…it wouldn’t be so bad if Theodoc was born disabled and still had an adventurous spirit. Kinda rad, actually.

Windmill to the Stars:

Ahhh that's true! New hc

[Bonus]

Windmill to the Stars:

I'm getting way carried away with this, Theodoc wasn't my idea

Me:

Theodoc is OUR idea Communism

Kasey Gondor:

Windmill to the Stars is @windmilltothestars, InvisibleWashboard is @invisiblewashboard, Writing Valkyrie is @writingvalkyrie, Kasey Gondor is @captaingondor, and meg is me does not have tumblr :-3

[frictionandfluff]

Looking for prompts!

I am currently on house arrest for a couple of weeks while I recover from surgery and have decided to dip my toes back into the world of writing. I wanted to put out a few short fics prompted by my lovely Tumblr friends so send in your prompts with characters from ACOTAR and Crescent City! No ship will be denied! 

 I’m going to kick things off with my favorite crackship, Nessriel, because who wouldn’t want to see these three enjoy each other? This is one of the many scenarios involving them that have been living in my head rent free! This is the first thing I’ve written in years and I hope you like it!

A sore ankle had Nesta cooped up in the House of Wind while the Valkyries trained with Cassian and Azriel. She was sulking in the library, reading to distract herself from missing out and take her mind off the discomfort of her ankle. It seemed silly to skip training for a rolled ankle. While Az was wrapping it, he insisted that she stay in because it would only get worse, and with her fae healing, it would be better by the afternoon if she stayed off it.  

Now, she was remembering Az’s hands on her leg, ankle and foot while he ascertained the damage. She had tripped over the rug in the dining room, her fae grace seeming to have left her. In truth, she was distracted by the Shadowsinger reading at the table. His head was bent, and a few errant locks of his hair had drifted over his face begging to be pushed back and his long expanse of neck was just waiting to be nibbled on. Nesta was a happily mated female whose mate kept her completely satisfied but sometimes Az could just be so Godsdamned delicious her mind would wander. What would those scarred hands feel like all over her body?  

When she had entered the room, he was so focused he didn’t appear to notice her but when she tripped, he was instantly at her side, almost appearing annoyed he didn't get there before she hit the ground. Despite her protests he had scooped her up and carried her to the library, setting her gently on a sofa while he got supplies to wrap her ankle. He tenderly moved her ankle to see how badly she was hurt before he wrapped it, sliding his hand up her calf as he finished, sending a charge of lightning through her.  

She sighed and shook her head trying to physically shake the thoughts loose. Cassian had mentioned accounts of he and Az sharing females and had clearly noticed Nesta’s curiosity while recounting these memories. He would grin at her and tease her, threatening to invite Az to their bed when she was being extra demanding, telling her that Azriel had ways of shutting her smart mouth. That, of course, drove her wild.

“Is everything alright?” A low voice rumbled from the doorway.

Nesta snapped her head to Azriel’s, desperately hoping he couldn’t see the flush blooming on her cheeks or scent her arousal but from the tug at the corner of his mouth she knew he could. “Yes,” she replied with a confidence that betrayed her body.

“I was coming to check on you. Cass is wrapping up training. He’ll be here in bit. How’s the ankle?” He joined her on the sofa and gently pulled her foot into her lap.

She tensed a bit and he smiled at her, once again moving her foot. “Any pain?”

“No.” she whispered.

“Good.” His hand caressing her calf again.

“Getting started without me?” a playful voice asked.

Nesta looked up at her mate, blushing again, with a sheepish smile on her face. Azriel continued sliding his hand up her leg, watching her. She looked at him and then back at Cassian. The two males shared a conspiratorial grin and Nesta sighed in exasperation. “Seriously?” she asked.

“What?” Cass responded with mock innocence.  

“You knew?”  

Grinning at Az again as he bent over the back of the couch to run his nose along the column of her neck. “Knew what?” he murmured into her skin, his mouth following the trail his nose had made. “That you’d be disappointed about missing training and would require a private session with us?”

Nesta looked at Azriel again, his hand now on her thigh, squeezing teasingly. Her breathing shallowed and she turned her head to look at Cassian. “Seriously?” she repeated, this time it was more of a plea.

“Yes, sweetheart, however you want us.”

[baeaecha26]

Chapter 2 : Trapped in the Crossfire

Though their truce stilled the blades of Ti and Kaipa, the firestorm of battle raging around them remained as savage as a tempest unleashed by angry gods. Arrows from unseen archers whistled past, leaving only trails of malice in their wake. Screams punctured the air like errant cracks of thunder, punctuating each terrible second with the worst of all fates: the ghastly knowledge that life might end at any moment. In the midst of harrowing chaos, Ti and Kaipa clung to their tenuous alliance as rigidly as drowning men to the debris of a shipwreck.

As they made their way through the decimated village, already half-remembered by the living and utterly forgotten by the rest of the world, they could not help but feel that fate had conspired to bring them to this place; it was as if the very air had become thick with inevitability. The ruin of the village, wrought by the appalling struggles of war, appeared to open a window into their own hearts, like a mirror reflecting nothing but their own savage appetites.

Stumbling behind a shattered nesting of huts, they sought a brief moment of respite. The hissing rain trickling down from the ashen sky seemed to vex the wounds that marred their bodies, yet it could not bring succor to the torment of their souls. For they understood now, as few ever could, the enormity of the war that had devoured the land and consumed the lives of countless innocents.

It was then that Ti, his breathing ragged and embattled from their desperate journey, spoke words he had long since discarded as mere folly: "The path before us lays bloodied and broken. Dare we envision ourselves as the first seeds of hope, though we are trapped within this very same crossfire?"

Kaipa's heart, once hard as a whetstone, felt a tremor like the hollow echo of a drumbeat deep within. He studied him with an intensity born of their new allegiance, discerning the shape of a once-honored man within this enemy soldier. "What choice do we have," he whispered fiercely, "but to press onward into the fray?"

For a moment, as the storm continued to howl around them, the specter of a shared destiny rose and hung like a pall over their wounded forms. The path before them resonated with an eerie importance, each step dripping with weighty uncertainty.

But it was the recollection of a promise, the lingering ghost of an oath sworn long ago, that tore them from their ephemeral reverie. A memory of friends who had fallen, of loved ones lost in the bitter turmoil, surfaced and bound them once more to the bleak reality in which they now found themselves entwined.

With but a grinding whisper Ti acknowledged the truth of his words, his eyes swelling with a resignation borne of the fathomless solemnity of their shared plight. "Perhaps," he said, the last vestiges of his doubt mingling with the insistent wind, "trapped amid the crossfire, we may find not only hope but redemption."

Steeled as they were, fearful as they once walked oblivious to what the churning storm heralded, Kaipa and Ti dared seek purpose in an unyielding heart of violence. Grasping hands as if to anchor themselves in each other's presence, they stepped from behind the shattered remains of what was once a humble residence and into the maw of hell itself.

Outside, the battle continued its relentless surge. Blood and gore heedlessly mixed with the kiss of rain while Valkyries, none too pleased, watched intently for heroes to claim. Yet amidst the terrible fray, trudging through the mud and the bones and the remnants of countless deaths, a fragile alliance born only of chance held steadfast. Here they stood, two warriors against a tide of war, determined to alter the path that lay ahead, to change the course of history.

Though no songs would ever be sung about this alliance or the promises that fueled it, it was the quietest echoes of mankind that carried them forward. Amidst these deplorable conditions, Ti and Kaipa had managed to glimpse the faint pulse of hope, trusting that in the end, their actions would enable them to stand tall even in the eye of the storm, even if it meant growing closer to each other, to the enemy, to the heart of the conflict in order to prevail.

[desktopdust]

Forge Ahead

In the dead of night, two iron candlesticks created an island of luminescence in the vast sea of darkness that filled the chamber.  Between them, a spear stood upon a wooden pedestal, shaft made of gold, rings of colorless jewels embedded down its length; a head of untarnished silver shone at its end, carved into elegant designs that all met back into a single point.  Sitting before it was a young man of olive complexion, black hair short and neat, having an athletic body that did not quite fit the timid aura he exuded.

He sat perfectly still, focusing entirely upon the spear.  His soul reached out to it, finding a wellspring of otherworldly power bursting forth from the weapon, and he steadily waded into its depths.  He breathed deeply.  Reaching even farther, he drew from the spring, pulling only the tiniest sliver of the power into himself, and at once new strength exploded throughout him.  He called upon his training to temper the power, quieting its wildness and merging it with the natural energy already flowing through his body.

It was exhilarating and terrifying and humbling.  This primordial magic was old, older than the air he breathed and the ground beneath his feet, perhaps even older than the darkness he drifted through.  According to legend, even the gods did not fully understand this spear, only able to deduce that it was made from the bones of the very entity that thought their entire world into being.  They had entrusted it to humans as a sign of good faith, but even after two thousand years, there was not a single one in existence who could adequately describe the truly alien feeling that waited in the depths of the spring.

“Gerulf.”

He scrambled to his feet, letting go of the magic as he spun to face the one who had called him.  Emerging from the dark sea was a man with scraggly, snow-white hair and skin that looked pale compared to Gerulf, supporting his weight with a simple wooden staff, a frayed eyepatch covering one side of his face while the remaining eye stared straight through him.

“Yes, Master Serhan!” Gerulf said, stiffening his back.

The old man came closer, not making any efforts to disguise his pronounced limp. “So much tension?  Don’t mistake it for focus.”

Gerulf tried to relax his shoulders, only partly succeeding.  “Y-Yes, Master, my apologies.”

Serhan came to a stop beside Gerulf, staring up at the spear with an almost weary familiarity.  “Working to the last minute, huh?  If you’re not confident in your ability to commune with Gungnir, then postpone the trial and continue your training.”

Gerulf was no longer surprised by his teacher’s bluntness, but still he fumbled for words.  “No, no, I’m ready!  I only...er, well…”  He rubbed his neck, feeling a bead of sweat taking form on his brow.  Serhan waited for him to continue.  “...I...want to be as sure as possible.  I do not want to waste any time, not when I could be honing my ability further.”

Serhan closed his eyes as he stroked his beard.  “Remind me again why you’re here.”

“I have been chosen to protect one of the Seven Sisters of my home country of Pleiades, contingent upon completing training at one of the Four Schools of the Primordial Arms.”

“Hm? There’s seven?”

Gerulf nodded.  “Yes, always seven.  When the time comes for a successor to be chosen, a Sister will receive a vision from Celestial Zempyst making that choice.  Three years ago, the current Sister of the Southeast received such a vision...and in it, she saw only one Satellite protecting her successor.  Me, apparently.”

Serhan glanced at him.  “You doubt?”

Gerulf’s hand twisted of its own accord.  “...I do.”

“Yet you accepted.”

“How could I not?  It is the will of a goddess—of one of the Nine Geneses!  I had hoped that I would understand it by the time my training neared completion, but still I do not.”  Gerulf fixed his gaze on Gungnir, watching the candlelight glint off of it.  “I must not fail.  I must be ready as I possibly can be, so I cannot waste any time.”

“Hm. Quite a duty.  Answer this!”  Serhan pressed the head of his staff against Gerulf’s chest, making the man flinch. “Is time spent caring for a spear a waste?”

Gerulf blinked.  “...I’m sorry?”

“That time could be spent training.  Should a spear only be thrust into battle?”

After thinking a moment, he answered, “Um...well, were that the case, the spear would be worn down at a considerable speed, Master.  Some time should be taken to maintain the weapon, so that it can be dependable for a long time to come.”

He jumped slightly as Serhan beat his staff against the floor. “Exactly!  Without rest, a weapon grows dull.  People are the same.  Hard work is good, but don’t dull your edge, Gerulf.”

“Oh...I see.”  Slowly, Gerulf’s shoulders lowered, the remaining tension gradually seeping out of him at last.  “Thank you, Master.”

Serhan nodded once.  “Alright. What now?”

Gerulf turned back to Gungnir.  His shoulders began to tighten.

“Haah...hesitation.”

Gerulf tried to speak, but Serhan raised a hand.

“A spear is meant to be thrust at a single point with all your might.  To carry one, you need to be decisive.  Good night, Gerulf.”

Serhan retreated back into the darkness.  Gerulf continued to stare at the spear for a minute or so, and then picked up his candlestick and ventured towards the chamber’s exit.

And that is precisely why… he thought.

The hall sported several candles of its own, holding the night at bay but unable to stop the formless shadows dancing along the stony walls.  Gerulf snapped to attention as a door opened up ahead. Out stepped a man of fair skin nearly a foot taller than Gerulf, carrying himself with a sureness that one could simply feel was unearned.  Spotting Gerulf, he paused and laughed, saying, “Look who’s up!  Shouldn’t you be resting, pal?  You’re gonna need all the help you can get.”

“Good evening, Achard,” Gerulf greeted.  “I was just retiring for the night, actually.”

“Heh, right.  Man, I still can’t believe you and I are the only ones from this class who passed the assessment.  I was sure Prem had you beat!”

Gerulf fidgeted.  “Ah, I’m a bit surprised myself.  I suppose the points I lost in combat were made up elsewhere.”

“Guess that makes sense,” Achard said with a shrug.  “Still, combat’s all that really matters—the whole reason we’re here is to learn to fight using Gungnir’s power!  And what a power it is, right?”

Trying to smile, Gerulf said, “It’s, uh, certainly very potent.  The primordial magic it’s made from is unlike anything I’ve ever felt before.”

A toothy grin crossed Achard’s face.  “One of the four weapons older than the whole world...with power like that, I’m gonna be able to do anything!”

“Ahah...I suppose.  So, um...what is it you plan on doing when you pass?”

“Head back home first of all—got to give everyone a chance to be proud of me and all.  After that, I’ll probably go on a world tour and see how many heads I can knock!  Who knows, maybe I’ll come to Pleiades and kick you around a bit.”

Swallowing hard, Gerulf tried to reply, but his jaw was frozen shut.

“Haha, don’t be so serious, man!  ‘Sides, you’re probably in for another course anyway.”  Achard walked past Gerulf, smacking him in the shoulder. “Sweet dreams, pal!  I’ll see you at the trial tomorrow.”

Gerulf glanced over his shoulder at Achard’s receding form.  Facing forward once more, he shook his head and resumed walking.

***

The island where Gungnir was kept was a lush valley within a ring of mountains, an unusually temperate spot for being so far North.  From where he stood atop one of the border peaks, Gerulf could trace the rivers as they sectioned off the forests and plains, several of them coming together to feed the central lake.  The school was built on the edge of this lake, a stone keep half the height of the mountains surrounding it, sturdy enough to withstand a siege of several months and lined with metal spikes that seemed to taunt some unknown enemy into attempting just that.

He shivered a bit as he tightened the straps of his leather training armor, taking a step back from the edge.  Master Serhan stood not far away, staring off and letting the salty breeze and rays of the rising sun soak into his body, and Achard (having forgone the training armor) was warming up nearby as well.

Stretching his finely-toned arms, Achard said, “Hey, is it time to start yet, Master?”

Not looking away from the point on the horizon he was staring at, Serhan said, “Patience, Achard.  I’ll explain everything in just a moment.”

The student grumbled under his breath as he moved on to stretching his muscular legs.  “Yeah, alright.  How about you, Gerulf: you ready for a challenge?”

Chuckling quietly, Gerulf said, “Aha...we’ll see, I suppose…”

Achard sprang up.  “Pfft! What kind of answer is that? You’re never gonna pass with such a wimpy attitude!”

Gerulf shrank back, saying nothing.

“Heh, whatever.  Guess I shouldn’t complain, being the only one from this class to make it out at the first trial point!  I’ll see ya in another three years, buddy.”

Serhan walked past them and up to the edge, saying, “Learn the difference between confidence and arrogance, Achard.  There’s no guarantee either of you will pass.”

Achard rolled his eyes, choosing to hold onto his smirk just the same.

“First time I’ve seen so few taking the trial.  This lot—you’ve all got potential, but you’re all chipped blades.”

Serhan faced the two men and spun his staff around, two simple spears materializing in its wake.  Grabbing the weapons, he tossed them into the hands of his students, and then struck the ground with his staff.

“Now!  You two’ve completed a three year course and earned a chance at the Forge Trial.  The only tools you have are these spears, and whatever strength you can muster.”  Serhan turned and waved his staff over the valley.  “You have until midday to find enough ore to craft a spear of your own!  If you can do that and make it back to the keep in time, you’ll show your skills by channeling Gungnir’s power in a fight.  Show me you’ve learned something, and I’ll let you forge your own spear and send you on your way.”  He turned back to his students.  “Any questions?”

Gerulf shook his head.  Achard tested the weight of his spear.

“Good.  Begin!”

Instantly, Achard rushed over the edge and bounded down the mountain. Gerulf instead approached the edge and stopped, carefully scanning the wall below to plan his way down, and then began a long, slow climb.  As he went, Gerulf cast a look over his shoulder to note Achard’s progress: the other man was just disappearing into the trees, his hollering just barely audible even from such a great distance.  Gerulf’s hand slipped slightly, so he pressed himself against the mountain and froze until he verified his handhold.

I wonder how quickly he’ll make it back?

He reminded himself that speed was not the determining factor.  Cautiously, Gerulf resumed his climb.

Finding a spot to procure ore wasn’t difficult for Gerulf: he had paid close attention to Serhan’s lessons on where to search for deposits, and once in an appropriate area he tapped his spear on the ground a few times before giving a satisfied nod.  Calling out to Gungnir, he again mixed its energy into his own, this time directing that energy through his hand and into the spear to give it a subtle shine. He then began to gradually chip away at the ground with his spear, carefully positioning his strikes so as not to damage the glittering ore he quickly uncovered.

The task took not even an hour.  Bundling up the ore, Gerulf made his way back to the school that had been his home these past three years, glancing about for any sign of Achard.  He made his way across the wide-open foyer and down the central staircase, no company aside from his echoing footsteps at first, but slowly he felt the temperature rise, and the smell of smoke and slag came to meet him. The stairs terminated in a great sprawling chamber where the air itself stung like flames, rivers of magma flowing along its edges and across its width towards a massive furnace in the distance. When Gerulf made it there, he found Master Serhan sitting upon an anvil, arms crossed and staff balanced on his shoulders as he watched Gerulf with a stony expression.

Gerulf choked on the heat as he tried to speak up.  “Master...I have gathered the necessary amount of ore.”

Serhan grunted.  “Well done.  Take a seat.”

Gerulf complied, sitting on the floor next to a rack of tools.  Nearly two hours passed before Achard finally appeared, his dark scowl made all the more menacing by the chamber’s orange light.

“How the hell did you get here so fast?!” Achard demanded.  “I left you in the dust!”

“Achard,” Serhan said. “You had trouble mining, didn’t you?”

Achard glanced aside. “I mean...it didn’t take me too long to find a place.  But it kept breaking into such tiny pieces, and I couldn’t tell what was ore and what was rock—rounding it up was a pain in the ass.”

Serhan grunted again. “I thought as much.  Set down what you’ve got.  The two of you step back and get ready.”

Achard wasted no time getting in position and brandishing his spear, white light coating it as he drew upon Gungnir’s wellspring of magical energy.  Gerulf’s body was rigid as he did the same.

“I won’t outright forbid anything, but don’t overdo it.  I didn’t teach you to be murderers.  Begin.”

Gerulf leapt aside as Achard thrust at him.  A pinpoint shockwave flew from the weapon’s tip, blasting a hole in the wall.  He tried not to think of the destructive power he was dealing with, instead focusing on the flow of his and Gungnir’s energy, directing a bit more than usual to linger in his feet.  Achard thrust again, so Gerulf dodged again. With a yell, the taller man rushed forward, and Gerulf jumped away as he unleashed a flurry of blows.

“Is dodging all you’re good at?” Achard said.  “Draw this out all you want!  No way am I losing a battle of stamina!”

Gerulf realized he was now teetering on the edge of a magma duct.  Achard moved to strike a finishing blow, but Gerulf leapt up and over his spear, realizing his opponent would take a second to regain his own balance.  Gerulf aimed his spear…but then spun, kicking Achard in the face instead.  As Achard stumbled back, Gerulf landed and moved to a safer location.

“Huh…lucky hit,” Achard said.  “Won’t happen again!”

Achard sprang into the air, falling spear-first towards Gerulf.  The maneuver was easy enough to dodge, but when Achard’s spear pierced the ground, energy pulsed out from it, blasting away some of the rock and surprising Gerulf.  Achard stepped forward and swung his spear in a wide overhead arc, now topped with a rectangular chunk of stone.  Gerulf only narrowly avoided the makeshift hammer, the head bursting apart and spraying him with stone shrapnel; Achard pressed his advantage, and after keeping Gerulf on his toes with a few spear thrusts, followed one immediately with a punch that sent Gerulf sprawling.

“Gotcha!”

Achard lunged.  Gerulf suffered a grazing blow as he scrambled to his feet, but thankfully it only hit his armor.  He made ready to attack, so Achard hovered at the edge of his range, keeping his own weapon ready.  Pointing his spear, Gerulf shouted.  The head of the weapon lit up, and the spear surged forward under its own power, dragging Gerulf along behind it.  Achard sidestepped and retaliated.  Thinking quickly, Gerulf ducked and swept one leg out, successfully tripping up Achard just as his spear began to slow.  Gerulf turned to see Achard’s exposed back, but instead of attacking, he created more distance between them.  Achard came up fuming.

“Damn you!  Annoying little…you won’t even take advantage?  Are you insulting me?!”

“N-No, not at all!” Gerulf said.  “I simply…I mean, you’re not…”

The aura around his spear flaring higher, Achard shouted, “Spit it out!”

“You…you don’t have armor!  If I’m not careful, I could seriously injure you…is all…”

Achard could only gape at this.  Serhan stroked his beard, murmuring to himself, “So that’s what you’re afraid of. Now I get it.”

Grinding his teeth against each other, Achard said, “You…don’t you dare pity me!  I can sure as hell take a hit from a wimp like you!”

He hurled his spear upward, it transforming into a bolt of energy until it impacted with the ceiling.  Willing the weapon to teleport back to his hand, Achard advanced as stalactites loosed from the cavern roof began to fall at random, bearing down on Gerulf with deadly focus.  Put into a panic, Gerulf acted on instinct, running away from Achard while deftly dodging any stalactite headed his way.  Achard eventually drove him into a narrow space between two magma flows, pausing for just a moment to channel even more power to make the finishing blow. At the same time, Gerulf realized he had no room to dodge the next stalactite falling towards him.  With no other choice, Gerulf dug his heels in—he gripped his spear with both hands, and with all his strength, thrust it up at the falling rubble, hitting it dead on its point and splitting it neatly in two. One half fell into the magma behind him, and the other fell towards an Achard in mid-thrust.  The taller student was struck by the debris, losing his wits all at once, and stumbled back towards the magma.

“Dammit…!”

Serhan prepared to act.  However, he didn’t need to.  Gerulf jolted forward, plunging his spear into the bank of the river, and yelled. With a tremendous flash of light, a new trench was blown into existence perpendicular to the existing one, disrupting the lava flow just long enough for Achard to safely land in the recession and roll clear.  Gerulf dropped to his knees with a long sigh.

“…Hm,” Serhan said.  He popped one shoulder, knocking his staff into the air where he could snatch it up, and then dismounted his seat and approached his students.  “Interesting.”

Achard put a hand to his head as he sat up.  Looking around, he said, “What��how did this happen…?”

Gerulf got back on his feet.  Examining the new results of his handiwork more closely, Serhan said, “A lot of power you called on just now.”

“I…well, I really just acted on reflex,” Gerulf said between pants.

“Doesn’t matter.  I’ve seen what I need to see.”

Serhan began to walk back.  Climbing out of the trench, Achard said, “Hang on!  I’m not done yet!”

“No. You’re not.”  Coming to a stop behind the anvil, Serhan again faced his students.  “Achard. You can use Gungnir’s power easily, but you still don’t know how to use it properly.  You’ll be taking another course.”

Achard’s eyes shot wide.

“Gerulf.  Truth is, your position isn’t all that different.”

Gerulf hung his head.

“However.  Your problem is that you lack conviction.  I don’t think there’s any more I can do to teach you that…but carrying out your duty ought to do it.”

Looking back up, Gerulf said, “Master?”

Serhan beckoned.  “Come here. It’s time for you to forge your own spear.”

Gerulf’s eyes widened, yet he still didn’t see Achard storm off.  Serhan tossed Gerulf the sack of ore he had gathered and gestured to a mold laying near the furnace.  Still in a surreal haze, Gerulf crossed the chamber and emptied the bag into the indented metal, only coming to as he carefully lifted the mold onto the metal rack reaching out from the furnace’s maw.  He turned towards the tools to find Serhan already passing him a long pair of tongs.  Gerulf pushed the mold into the flame, closed the window, and then waited.

“Master,” Gerulf said, “I—”

“No,” Serhan interrupted.  “Focus. You’ll know when the time is right.”

Gerulf watched the furnace in silence.  Eventually, after only a moment’s hesitation, he uncovered the window and reached in with the tongs, retrieving the mold from the fiery depths to find it now filled with molten metal.

“There,” Serhan said, pointing to a slotted section of the rack.

Once Gerulf fit the mold into it, Serhan detached the segment of rack, its wheeled legs squeaking as it was pulled a short distance away from the furnace. Serhan then pointed his staff at the ceiling, where Gerulf now noticed an odd carving; suddenly, Serhan’s staff lit up and extended into an impossibly long pike, puncturing the carving, and after giving it a turn, Serhan willed it to retract and take the chunk of ceiling with it.  Water poured from the hole, dousing the mold and unleashing a monstrous cloud of steam. Extending his staff once again, Serhan plugged the opening, and then faced Gerulf and gestured toward the anvil.

“Take a hammer,” Serhan said as Gerulf moved the spear.  “Call upon Gungnir, but focus its power farther than before. Don’t stop at the hammer—pour it into the spear.”

Gerulf held the tongs in one hand, keeping the spear steady, while raising the hammer with his other.  He took a few seconds to focus Gungnir’s magic, and when he was ready, he struck the spearhead with the bludgeon, releasing a shower of white sparks with a thunderous clanging that shocked him.

“Focus.”

Furrowing his brow, Gerulf breathed deeply and swung again.  More noise, more sparks.  This time light surged down the length of the spear.  He struck it again, and again, and again, infusing more and more of Gungnir’s primordial magic into his work.  The spear was beginning to change shape: no longer was it the simple form the mold had been carved into, but now a thick-shafted weapon with an aerodynamic, almost star-shaped head with two long, thin tails that spiraled three times around the shaft before terminating.  When he delivered the final strike, Gerulf felt all his breath leave him at once. The spear glowed white-hot, a hypnotic shine in which Gerulf saw his own soul reflected.  Not stopping to think, he dropped his tools, reached out, and took hold of the spear—instantly, the heat and light burst out from the weapon, rendering it cool to the touch.

A smile could be seen within Serhan’s beard.  “Well done, Gerulf.  Now, name it.”

Over the years, Gerulf had wondered many times what to name his spear if he ever completed his training.  But now, holding it aloft in his hand, he somehow knew exactly what this weapon’s name was.  “Heliacal Asterism.”

Serhan nodded.  “A fine name for a fine weapon.”

Gerulf lowered the spear and turned back to Serhan.  With a bow, he said, “Thank you for everything, Master.  I am forever in your debt.”

“Just remember what I’ve taught you.  Find your conviction.  I’ll summon a boat to take you back to Pleiades first thing tomorrow.”

Gerulf nodded and headed back for the staircase, marveling at Heliacal Asterism as he went.  It slowly sank in that finally he was headed home, and when he arrived, he would begin an even greater task laid before him by Celestial Zempyst herself.  His next few steps were stilted.

I must not hesitate. If I am the only one who can protect the Sister of the Southeast, then I must work as hard as possible.  No one will suffer from my inaction ever again.

[pahrak-the-sinnoh-slizer]

Valkyrie Errant Draft Prologue

(I really want to thank the people who expressed interest!  I’ve been trying to start an original story, and this is the current draft I have for a prologue setting up the world.  If anyone has any feedback, I’d love to hear it--I have quite a ways to go on this one, and a little criticism goes a long way.)

“Before time, before light, before all that ever was, there was the void.”

The old man glanced around the fire as he spoke.  It was a meager gathering tonight, and a few of his listeners didn’t seem all too interested in his words.  But there were others who listened attentively, a spark of wonder in their eyes, and for their sake, he continued.

“Within this emptiness there lived a race of titans known as Builders, possessing the ability to shape worlds out of their thoughts and emotions, bringing new life out of nothingness.  And so, worlds began to fill the void, each made of their own peoples and places, created on and on as the Builders spread throughout the void.  Every Builder formed a world all their own…except for one, who hesitated.

“This Builder’s heart was burdened with indecision.  They looked at the worlds their fellows had made, finding something in each that left them awestruck and sparked new ideas within them, but when it came time to make their own, they could not.  A thousand possible worlds were in their mind, and they cared too much for each to choose only one to make real.  The Builder dwelt on their indecision, trying with all their might to determine which world they wanted to make, but this only deepened their love for every idea, making the already difficult task truly impossible. Eventually, it became too much. The Builder’s passion for these ideas exploded out from them in a brilliant blaze of light!”

The man waved his arm upward.  The fire shot higher for a moment to punctuate his tale, causing those unaware to jump in their seats.  He smirked to himself, but did not lose his pace.

“It was not a world that was made from this, but a cluster of fragmented ideas that drifted about the void, knowing neither direction nor purpose.  Yet still, life inhabited these fragments.  And amongst this life, there came nine who each wielded awesome power, power that they decided to use to shape these fragments into a whole…the Firstborn Gods.  The Geneses. Of these nine, there were three who set about caring for and teaching the people and animals who had come into being. Another three put their focus on shaping a single physical world to house this life.  And to the final three fell the task of defending their companions…for it was not only gods and humans and animals who had sprung from the Builder’s thoughts.  There were also monstrous, hideous things of evil that had slept hidden in the back of the titan’s mind, abominations that had now been given life and form.  And they sought only to end this world before it even had a chance to begin.

“The three warrior Geneses fought tirelessly to thwart these fiends.  Some were simple nuisances, and were slain with little effort. Others, like the dragons, were tamed by Champion Adain, and allowed to live in the world alongside the rest of us. But the worst of these…those called ‘the Ruinous’…were so relentless in their evil that even the gods struggled to hold them at bay.  For ages they fought, narrowly maintaining a tense standstill as the world was slowly, gradually formed.  And as she was forming it, Celestial Zempyst made a discovery that managed to turn the tide in this fight: a set of powerful weapons thought to be made from the bones of the Builder themselves, the Four Primordial Arms.  These weapons were forged from a magic of unknowable power, and possessed the ability to take the shape of whatever weapon the wielder required. God-King Syrag took one in his hands, forming it into a mighty spear he named Gungnir, and with a single thrust, he smote the Ruinous general and won the day.  The hope of all was renewed.  But that was far from the end of the conflict between the Geneses and the Ruinous…”

The sound of footsteps reached his ears.  The old man turned and gazed out into the night, waiting until a figure wearing a tattered brown cloak began to emerge from the darkness.

“…Well, hello there,” the old man greeted.

The figure stopped a few paces away.  “Hey there! Sorry if I startled you—I was just walking by, and I was curious to see what that light was.”  They paused to shiver.  “Ah, if it’s not too much trouble, could I join you?  That fire looks lovely…”

The old man stroked his beard as he thought, doing his best to size up the newcomer. Somehow, even with their features obscured by their hood, they gave off a rather pleasant aura, and he found himself hard pressed to come up with a reason to distrust them.  “Hm.  Alright, have a seat.  Wouldn’t want to turn away a traveler in need.”

“Thank you!” the figure said, coming forward to hold their hands closer to the fire.  “Ah, I really needed this…”

The hood was soon removed, revealing the face of a young woman with dark skin and hair, her green eyes gleaming with an energy that seemed only barely contained.  She took a deep breath and grinned at the old man.

“Did I interrupt you?  Sounded like you were in the middle of a tale.”

“Oh, only the tale of creation,” the old man said with a shrug.  “Hardly anything new.”

“Maybe, but if I killed your pacing…”

“Hah!  A skilled bard can account for even the longest pause in their song!”

The woman laughed. “You don’t say?  Sounds like there’s a thing or two I could learn from you.”

As she sat down, she pulled a lute from her cloak.  The old man clapped his hands together and said, “Ah, a fellow storyteller! Why didn’t you say so sooner?  Now this is a rare treat indeed!”

The bard cocked her head.  “Really? This place doesn’t seem that out of the way.”

“Alas, you seem to be the only one who thinks so.  If you’re feeling up to it, why not take over for me?  I’m sure you’ve brought a few tales none of us have heard before!”

Smiling brightly, she said, “It’d be my pleasure!  Just give me another minute to warm up, and I’ll regale you all with a Valkyrie’s legend!”

The gathering went deathly silent as she reached towards the fire once again.

“…A Valkyrie?” one of the listeners asked.  “Maybe something else would be better?”

The bard slowly shook her head.  “Nope. Valkyrie.”

Almost as one, the crowd shifted uneasily.

“Look,” the bard said, “I know how you all must feel about Valkyries, but trust me on this one! The tale of the Valkyrie Errant is definitely worth telling!  It’s just what you need to restore your faith in Valkyries, guaranteed!”

An uncountable number of nervous glances were traded through the crowd.  The old man chuckled, and said, “So be it, then.  I trust a bard to judge their tale…well, at least until I’ve heard it myself!  And I can’t say I’m not curious about this so-called ‘Valkyrie Errant’.  Let’s hear what you have to say.”

No further protest was voiced.  When the woman was properly warmed, she readied her lute and spent a moment tuning it, and then she picked the strings absent-mindedly as she thought, staring up at the stars above.

“Hmmm, which journey of hers should I tell this time?”

She smiled as an idea came to her.  Playing a gentle melody, she began to sing:

“A blessed warrior who travels the land

Who sees that evil does fall by her hand

Guiding a star ‘gainst those who’d dismissed her

The Valkyrie Errant and the Seven Sisters.”

[stuckylibrary]

psst...(beckons you into the alley) know of any stucky fics set in a lighthouse? I read Waking Up Slow and can;t get the setting out of my head

Found you these:

The Sea Bed by Storytimeonthemoon (oneshot | 603 | G)

It was a song that lured him. A voice, high and soft. It sat against his heart and whispered sweet words, begging him to wander. And who was he to deny an invitation of such pleasure.

~

Bucky is a lighthouse keeper, settling down for the night. Steve is a sea siren, alone in the waves. Their fates are tied together by the woven thread of a song.

(i will) leave a light on* by crinklefries (complete | 36,089 | E) *chose not to warn

Twice a day, every day, Steve lights the lantern at the top of the lighthouse.

One day, every year, a door opens and Bucky steps through.

*

This is the story of how Steve and Bucky reclaim all of the years they've lost and what Valhalla means to someone who's willing to wait for it.

The Captain's Keeper* by Scout924, the_genderman (complete | 32,945 | E) *graphic violence

Steve Rogers, keeper of the light, is used to being alone. He spends his days running the lighthouse, tending to his errant chickens, and sketching the endless passing waves. One dangerous night brings an injured soldier into his quarters that remembers nothing about his past, and Steve finds himself helplessly devoted to getting Bucky some answers. Will his life of solitude ever be the same, or will he open his home and his heart to a mysterious stranger?

Or, Lighthouse Keeper Steve rescues Captain Bucky Barnes and nurses him back to health as he tries to regain his memories. Featuring lots of snuggles, far too many maritime facts, and good ol’ Steve Rogers’ fighting spirit, just for flavor.

When a Fish Loves a Lighthouse* by storywriter8 (complete | 20,744 | E) *chose not to warn

When retired merwarrior Bucky Barnes first catches sight of the new lighthouse keeper he is intrigued. All too soon he finds himself falling for kind and considerate Steve Rogers. After trading his tail for legs, Bucky finds true happiness in the arms of the man he loves, but fears what will happen if the land walker cannot love and accept him for what he truly is.

where there's no end or need for goodbyes* by buckyjerkbarnes (WIP | 14,384 | T) *chose not to warn

Bucky was guided to the southern side of the island, where the terrain was the rockiest, thus the slickest post-rain. He hurried over puddles and felt his frown grow deeper and deeper the closer to the shoreline they went and then thick tufts of wild grass gave way to boulders and whispering, lapping sea to reveal—

A man.

[Bucky is a lighthouse keeper post-WWI and, after a storm seems to crack open the sky, finds Steve Rogers has washed up on his shore.]

of salt and sand by sonatine (complete | 8,424 | E)

The Fresnel lens broke along with Bucky’s heart, and he folded into himself for the next year or so, until the Howling Commando dragged a half-drowned corpse to shore.

Fic mentioned:

Waking Up Slow by odetteandodile (complete | 44,638 | M)

In 1945 Steve Rogers crashed the Valkyrie into the Arctic Ocean and was never recovered.

In 2019 Bucky Barnes is walking along the beach below the decommissioned lighthouse where he lives with his sixteen month old daughter when he finds the body of a man washed up in the surf, half frozen but miraculously alive.

Bucky manages to revive him, but finds that the stranger has no memory of who he is or how he got here aside from a name: Steve. Snowed in by a blizzard soon after and unable to get Steve a medevac, Bucky discovers that the funny, good-hearted man slips into the fabric of his and Alice’s life faster than he would have thought possible. The two are undeniably drawn to each other, but as their feelings grow so does the looming possibility that the answer to the question “who is Steve?” might be much more complicated than either of them realized.

[masterweaverx]

So, one of the common RWBY AUs is the Royalty AU, where X-Y-Z character is a princess and thus, political and romantic drama. And I get the appeal, I do.

But guys.

Guys.

There’s more than just princesses. There’s an entire ranking system. There are multiple ranking systems. And there’s more than just the four kingdoms, too!

So, after some careful consideration, I have set about creating noble ranks and titles for various characters in RWBY, for the intent of more accurate fanfiction. Which isn’t likely to happen but you know, why not try. Here’s the ranks for this Royalty/Nobility AU.

Ruby Rose: Lady Ruby Rose, Countess Scion of Patch, Vassal to the kingdom of Vale. Because of outdated inheritance laws, Ruby’s actually of higher rank than Yang; Summer Rose is the previous Countess of Patch, and since Yang is not technically her blood child Ruby’s expected to take control when the time comes. Since the time has not come yet, Ruby is still only a scion of the house Rose. Ruby Rose would be addressed as ‘Your lordship’ or ‘Lady Ruby Rose’, and is one one of the lower-ranked nobles.

Weiss Schnee: Her Grace Weiss Schnee, Duchess Apparent of Gele, Vassal to the kingdom of Atlas. So, Nicholas Schnee came from Mantle and worked tirelessly to make the SDC, which means that the Schnee side of the family wouldn’t actually have much claim to royalty or nobility. But it’s not unheard of for old money to marry new money, for all the benefits it can grant. Weiss is a Duchess Apparent because the previous Duke has yet to pass on the title... because he’s Jacques. Duchess is technically the rank right below Princess--it’s not uncommon for Princesses who don’t become Queens to become Duchesses--and Weiss would be addressed as “Your Grace.”

Blake Belladonna: Tamahine a Kuo Kuana, Kaitiaki Tohunga o Menagerie, Blake Belladonna, Ariki Kaiārahi e Rapu. If my Google Translate and Wikipedia-fu is right, this roughly means “Daughter of Kuo Kuana, High Guardian of Menagerie, Blake Belladonna, Lord Guide who Searches.” That is admittedly a big if, and I apologize to the Maori and other polynesian peoples if I have butchered your language. Atlesian/Valish peoples might address her as ‘Your highness’, since she is roughly a princess, but her people would say ‘Tohunga Blake’ if being addressed in her role as knight/huntress, or ‘Ariki Kaiārahi Belladonna’ if being addressed in her role as diplomat or chieftain’s daughter. She doesn’t broadcast the fact, but in this hypothetical AU she’d probably have a lot of political capital.

Yang Xiao Long: Yang actually has two titles: Lady Yang Xiao Long, Viscountess of Patch, Vassal to the Kingdom of Vale... and Morza of the Branwen Tribe. For some pretty obvious reasons, she doesn’t like talking about that second one, even though it is strictly speaking way higher rank than the first--a princess equivalent. As the Viscountess of Patch, she’s technically number two to the Countess (Ruby), although at the moment she’s helping out the Count Regent (Taiyang). She would be addressed as ‘Your ladyship’ or ‘lady Xiao Long.’

Jaune Arc: Baronet Jaune Arc. Baronets are descended from Barons, but they aren’t really ‘nobles’ anymore. The days of the Arc family have long passed. But that doesn’t mean Jaune Arc is willing to let go of his heroic lineage! It’ll be a sign of character development when he starts calling himself ‘Esquire Jaune Arc’ instead, since that’s an indication he’s serving a knight (or a bunch of them, as the case may be). Address would also change, from ‘your excellency’ when he’s still trying to be a noble, to ‘Sir Arc’ when he’s decided to be a guardian. Rankwise it’s a demotion, but character-wise it’s growth.

Nora Valkyrie: Madame Nora Valkyrie, Knight Errant. Nora is apparently a commoner, though without knowing the full details of her parentage it’s possible she’s a lost noble or princess. Nevertheless, to play it safe everybody addresses her as ‘Madame Valkyrie’; it would be a major faux pas to address somebody as though they were of rank when, well, they aren’t.

Pyrrha Nikos: Her Excellency Pyrrha Nikos, Marchioness of Argus, Vassal to the kingdoms of Mistral and Atlas. Argus is in a weird position, politically speaking, since it has ties to two kingdoms; fortunately that hasn’t caused problems yet. Pyrrha’s also unusual, in that she’s not a born noble, but was elevated to her position through skill. This is why she’s addressed as ‘Your Excellency’ instead of ‘Your ladyship’, even though she’s strictly speaking of the same rank as Ruby Rose. She is probably not suited for the political pressure of her position just yet.

Lie Ren: Strictly speaking, Lie Ren would have been the Goshi of Kuroyuri, addressed as Ren-sama by the common folk. If, you know, he grew up to an age where he actually got to inherit his rank. I don’t know if he’d count as a Ronin, given how young he was when Kuroyuri fell. I think he’d go by Ren-san now, for the most part. (I also think Nora would work toward calling him Ren-chan no kimi, because she is that sort of person.)

Penny Polendina: Lord Defender Penny Polendina, Warden of Atlas, Kingsman to James Ironwood. Well, you know, until she defects in protest when the king starts calling himself ‘Imperitor Ironwood’ and just threatening to abandon entire cities to the Grimm... then she becomes Shieldbearer Penny Polendina, Champion of Mantle. And I mean, going from ‘Lord Defender’ to ‘Madam Protector’ is a pretty neat change of address.

[bedlamsbard]

1100 words written today and uh -- did I? do? things?  I made bread again.  (at midnight, once the house had cooled down some, since we’re in the 100s right now.)  damn, I don’t think I did do other things.  watched Gunpowder Milkshake (weirdly, same genre as Extraction last night, just completely different aesthetic).

Snippet from Better in the Morning 4. (This is, obviously, a flashback.)

“You are a vain, greedy, cruel boy!” Odin snapped.

“And you are an old man and a fool!” Thor yelled back.

The words hung in the air between them.

Perhaps it was only that they were in the Observatory, which was haunted by more ghosts than his sons would ever know.  Hela had stood there, barely two steps from where Thor was standing now, with the blood of the Valkyrie still fresh on her hands and face, and screamed at him when Odin had held her back from reentering Asgard.

You are a coward and a fool! she had shouted at him.  There had been einherjar dead across the floor of the Observatory; Heimdall’s predecessor had been slumped over Hofund, half her face carved away, holding the Bifrost open with the last of her life force.  Smoke had been heavy in the air; parts of the palace were still burning after she had unleashed the Eternal Flame during her initial attempt to seize power.  Odin had sent Frigga there to put out the fires and had been glad that she wasn’t here to see this.

When Odin had sent her into the Bifrost, Hela had screamed the whole way down.

“Yes,” he said, and it was Hela’s berserkergang, her battle-madness, that he saw in Thor’s eyes now. He looked down so that he wouldn’t see it.  All of my blood is cursed.  “I was a fool to think you were ready.”

“Father –” Loki began, starting forward.

Odin could only deal with one errant child at a time.  Loki jerked back at his shout, his eyes going wide, and Odin turned his attention back to his elder son.

[pomegranates-and-blood]

νοσταλγία (Chapter 3)

(Gif credit to @whenimaunicorn​)

νοσταλγία Masterlist

Pairing: Ivar/Reader (eventual)

Summary: This is a retelling/romantization of the Greek myth of Persephone’s abduction with Ivar as Hades and you as Persephone. The Reader character is a Byzantine woman, follower of the Greek Pantheon/Religion, and a devoted follower of Persephone. This takes place after 5A, but the universe of this is a little changed in relation with the series, of course. Thank you for giving it a chance, hope you enjoy!

Word Count: 3.5k

Warnings: The usual :)

A/N: Words cannot express how much it means to hear back and to know people actually like this mess I’m writing. Thank you so so so much! I hope you all enjoy, and again, thank you.

Taglist: @youbloodymadgenius​ (Thank you so fucking much for your support and your comments btw, it means the world. You’re amazing!)

“So, Priestess.” You hear behind you, jumping back with a yelp and almost dropping the scroll you held in your hands.

You turn around to find the Viking King standing by your doorway, leaning heavily on his crutch and looking at you with a small smug smile on his face.

“A gentleman would knock.” You say around a small smile of your own, and leave the rolled-up map on a nearby end table before motioning for a chair and sitting in one nearby. It shouldn’t be so easy, so familiar, letting him into your space.

“You should know better.”

“I didn’t expect to see you again.” You confess without hesitation, looking into his pale eyes that reflect the stubborn light of the candles in the room around you.

“I have nothing but my brother and Christians to talk to in this city,” He dismisses easily, a gesture of his hand as he takes a seat near you. Your eyes, curious, follow the agile movements of his left hand as he maneuvers the crutch on his side to rest nearby. “You are far better company.”

“Thank you, I think,” You say, biting your lip to keep your stupid mouth from smiling and the foolish bashfulness from showing on your expression. Apparently, it does regardless, judging by the pleased look on the Viking’s face. Clearing your throat, you steal a glance to the closed door and state, “You do know you are scandalizing half a city right now, don’t you?”

“I am?” Based on his smug look, he knows, but you speak anyways.

“I am already called a witch,” You explain, “Do you know what it will do to my reputation if they are to see a Viking enter my home?”

“And you care for your reputation?”

“Any lady would care about her reputation!” You pretend to be scandalized, before rolling your eyes at yourself. You delight yourself in the small huff that leaves the man’s lips, what could be a laugh if given just enough room to breathe.

“The Saxons,” He starts, leaning the side of his body on the table, “You said they call you a witch.”

“A woman that worships the Gods of the Dead is usually labeled such a thing,” You offer with a small shrug. After a breath of hesitation, you dare tease, “Are you one to believe Stithulf’s tales that I can bewitch men to their deaths? Blind them and have them follow my every whim?”

He keeps pale eyes on you, studying you quietly for a few moments before rescinding, closing his eyes in a slow blink and murmuring,  

"Not through magic,” Before you have a chance to ask what he means by that, he motions for a place behind you and asks, “What is that?”

You twist on your seat to where he points and see he means the scroll you…borrowed from Leofric. Stretching on your seat, you grab onto the old paper and open it on the table.

The colors are faded, and to what you understand is not very accurate, but you have been growing restless here and you wanted to at least learn something other than defeat here.

“What do you need a map for?” The Viking frowns, rough fingers placed over the edges of the map you cannot hold and helping you smooth it over the table.

You know if he were to think of you as a Greek Anassa before anything else, he would be on his guard about you by now, because after all, it is a foreign leader looking to know the outline of his homeland. But he isn’t.

Because that’s what you agreed upon, right? No names and no identities past this door, no future or present outside of this disgusting little hut. But your people need to leave this village, they need to be away from Stithulf’s ambitious hands, from Leofric’s egotistical God.

Stealing a hand back to put a lock of hair behind your ear, you offer, “Knowing where on this earth the Gods have taken us?” You grimace at your own words. As if the Gods would want this. Regardless, you swallow past the bitterness of the soft lie and continue explaining, “I…don’t know where I am. I mean, I know there’s no point in knowing, but I don’t…”

He silences you with a point of his finger, eyes inquisitive and always demanding when they look over your face but still quiet, offering you the location and name of the city with a point of his finger.

Your eyes look over the seas and rivers drawn there, and even if it all feels so fucking foreign and strange and unforgiving, at least knowing where in this world the last of the Attics have perished, what hills and what rivers bury their unfortunate bodies; brings you a little peace.

For a moment there’s a flare of a thought, an errant idea, of how maybe, just maybe, this strange man turned King, in all his faults and fame; could be easily played with. You lured a Greek Strategus into laying an army at your feet, surely you could get something out of the Viking before your life reached its untimely end.

The few Attics that have survived the hell of these last weeks could benefit from whatever aid you can get the King to-…

No.

You shake those thoughts off quickly enough. You have regretted your lies before, you have promise to be honest and be true because you cannot stomach the mere possibility that one day you will look at your reflection and not recognize who you are past all the lies and the masks.

So, you look into the Varangian’s pale blue eyes, and offer sincerely, “Thank you.”

He ignores your words, you don’t know whether because he has no interest in your gratitude or because he does not know how to answer to it.

Instead, he asks, “How do you know how to read a map?”

“You ask me that and not how I speak your language? Or know of your Gods?” You reply, eyebrows raised. The Viking shrugs, conceding, but his eyes remain with the same inquisitive glint, demanding his answers. With a sigh, you offer, “There’s…Varangians where I am from. When my mother was killed, what you call a shieldmaiden took me in and raised me as her own.”

“What was her name?”

“Is,” You correct with a small frown, “Sieghild is very much alive.”

“Would I know of her?” He asks, and you narrow your eyes at him. The Viking explains, “A shieldmaiden that lived all the way in the Mediterranean, surely she has her own share of fame.”

“That’s her story to tell, not mine.”

And the candles burn on, and you two continue talking about whatever comes to mind. You don’t ask about what happens in this city, he doesn’t ask -much- about what brought you and your people here. He doesn’t ask your name again, and you make a point of avoiding saying his.

Somehow, you made the mistake of telling him about Keres, and their fame as angels of violent deaths that scour the battlefields; and now the Viking won’t stop insisting that they are just Valkyries with different names.

“But you know of the Valkyries.” He insists, a frown in his brow and his nose.

“I do.”

“Then why do you call them with a different name?”

“Keres are not Valkyries.”

“They sound very alike, Priestess,” His mouth curves downwards in an exaggerated gesture and he shrugs his shoulders. “It sounds to me that you Greeks just like changing the names of things.”

Even if you should be offended all you do is smile, “What?”

“Barangoi,” He offers, a tilt of his head. “You could just say Viking.”

“And you could just say Keres instead of Valkyries.”

“Ah!” He points a finger at you, “So you admit they are one and the same.”

“I don’t follow your Gods, Barangoi,” You remind him, but he just tilts his head to the side and looks away. Before you can help yourself, you point out, “Your Greek is horrible, by the way.”

“Well, I haven’t had time to find a teacher.”

____

“I will leave this sad excuse for a city, just for a few days,” Sieghild promises that night, her eyes on the fire but you can see her soul reaching for her shield.

“Do you think it is safe?”

“Who should I fear? The few Saxons smart enough to train like Arabs? The last remnants of the once mighty Great Heathen Army?” She scoffs, her words intending to dismiss your fear even if she has just listed the reasons you worry for her life when she leaves.

“Neither would have any qualms about killing you.” You point out dryly.

The shieldmaiden rolls her shoulders, something akin to bloodthirst in her smile, “Let them try.”

“And I’m the foolish one.” You mutter around a roll of your eyes.

The woman chuckles quietly, “I told you I have some questions I need answered. You are not the only one with ties to the Gods, little one.”

“Never said that I was. Based on your tales, the sons of one of the most famous Völvas are at the gates, mother.” You quip dryly, reaching for the goblet of water and wishing you could call upon the Christian God and turn it into wine.

“The gates, little one?” Sieghild muses, and you frown at her in confusion over the rim of your cup. With a shrug, she explains, “I have seen a son of Aslaug going in and out of your little hut multiple times now.”

Shit. You cough abruptly when the water goes the wrong way, but play it off and look again at the flames.

“I have no idea who you are talking about.”

“Of course you don’t,” She teases, a strange weight in her voice. She stands up, reaching for her trusted shield and putting it at her back as she grabs one of the fur cloaks by you. You keep your eyes ahead, but feel her presence at your back, and hear her lighthearted voice, “Sometimes, I sit by myself and think how your mother must be screaming her head off at me from her Elysium.”

You laugh, and it feels light and free, craning your head back to look at the shieldmaiden. She places a heavy hand on your hair, rough fingers attempting to run through it; the gesture so reminiscent of your childhood.

“Why?”

“She had this beautiful little girl, blessed by the Gods, noble in blood and in heart,” She recalls, “And I turned that child into the mad woman that likes spending her evenings with Ivar the Boneless.”

You shake your head at her words, closing your eyes and resting the back of your head on her stomach.

“Of all the things I have done, you truly believe talking to a Varangian King would be what my mother would take issue with?” You ask her, and the shieldmaiden grumbles an agreement, remaining silent for a short while.

“I will be back soon. Be careful, yes?” You nod. Sieghild traces around the wound in your forehead and sighs, “Your Gods and mine keep you, little one.”

“Your Gods and mine, mother.” You answer with a small smile, the exchange as old as goodbye.

She leaves you to your thoughts with a firm kiss pressed to the crown of your head, and you stay there, by the fire, wondering what will happen when the Varangians leave.

But turns out you don’t have to think much about what will happen when the Vikings collect their prizes, when the Saxons retreat back to England, when you will be left with three hundred Greeks and nowhere to go and nothing to do but wait for death; for the talks are exceedingly long, and almost a week has passed and still the Vikings make camp in this city, still Stithulf meets with Varangians daily, still the Viking King makes his way with his crutch and his uneven steps to your door.

The King himself is a vexing contradiction. Cruel, arrogant, and explosive; like seldom you have seen, even if most of the time his vitriol is not directed at you. Yet dedicated, intelligent, and, at least sometimes, hinting at someone that wants to give but does not know how to.

He manages to make you despise him as easily as he makes you admire him, hate presence in your mind and find yourself missing his voice or his expressive eyes when he’s not there.

You were never one to bite your tongue, and even if pain clogs your throat your memories leave your lips with ease, but Ivar…Ivar gives pieces of himself away like crumbs that fall from his so tightly-clasped hands. It is as if he couldn’t stop himself from giving away those little pieces, but at the same time dismisses the truths and cracks in the armor as soon as you make a slight mention of them.

He tells you about his mother, of her love and because happiness cannot be remembered without the biting sting of pain, of her absence. He tells you of his vow to kill his mother’s killer, and the look in his Greek Fire-like eyes when he does gives you a more certain prophecy than the Gods’ at to what destiny holds for the shieldmaiden. He tells you of the boatbuilder, of the man that did so much to make him who he is today, and if nostalgia paints the tales he weaves you say nothing.

Ivar now knows a lot about you as well, because when you meet daily with a stubborn man with no restrictions in his questions, you are bound to give away a lot of yourself. You tell him about the Christians of Attica, of their flames lapping at your legs and back, and if he understands a little more of your darkness then so be it. You tell him of Sieghild and her ways, of years at her side, of being taught how to wage and stop war, of her tales of this land so far away from where you were it seemed like a different realm. You tell him of life under the sigil of Persephone, you tell him secrets you have not dared tell a soul before, of the woman in the red veil and her warm darkness.

When you see him wince for the third time since he has sat down today, and hear the barely-there grunt of pain, you hope he doesn’t take this as offense -your times near Kiev when you were growing up reminds you strikingly of how particular Varangians are when it comes to pain- and reach for a marked leather pouch in one of your bags.

Grabbing onto a reasonable piece of willow bark, you turn back to the Viking and extend your hand. His eyes go from your hand to your face, but surprisingly enough you are not that bothered by the cold distrust as you thought you should be.

“Chewing on it helps with pain.” Is all you tell him in answer to his silent question.

He takes it with the mistrust, the annoyed hesitation, that are in such a way his that you fear you would never be able to see the somewhat-narrowed eyes, the movement of the head, the piercing glare, without thinking of him any longer.

It takes a moment, and an exasperated lift of your eyebrows for the warrior to finally bite into the softened bark. After a moment, because of course he would, the Viking asks, “How did you know?”

“I have to be attuned to others’ pain to be a healer, Viking,” You answer simply, settling back in your seat and draping the cloak over your legs. “You have healers where you are from.”

“Usually they are Völur.”

You shake your head with a small chuckle, “I am not a seeress.”

“But your Gods speak to you.”

You frown, “Scarcely of the future. The sight I have is regarding…the past, or sometimes present. Related to death, as per my Gods’ realm.”

In all his stubbornness, there’s a hint of fearlessness, more than a hint of courage; that almost whisper to you what he will ask for way before the words are to leave his lips.

The Viking stands up with a small grimace, and leaning on his crutch stands before you, “Prove it.”

“Are you certain?” You ask, again already aware of the answer he will give. When he nods, you take a deep breath and toe off your simple sandals. If the Viking takes note of the strange choice to have your bare feet on the cold ground, he does not mention it.

You stand as well, for a moment feeling Eleusis’ warm grasslands underneath your feet instead of the cold wood of a Scandinavian home, and face the Viking.

He holds himself still, so much so that you may for a moment confuse him with a marble statue. One that you can choose to admire or to break with a single push.

With the closeness, looking up at the cruel and handsome visage of Kattegat’s King, you realize what the pull of darkness you noticed surrounding him when you first saw him was.

Past the bloodthirst, past the cruelty and the vitriol; you catch a glimpse of something else.

A whisper not unlike the one that so long ago, when Sieghild offered to take you to the Danes, told you to await a few days in Sicily. That same night the news on the Saracen warriors threatening Athens with an onslaught of raids reached your ears, and instead of sailing North you returned to Greece.

Your eyes meet his, and a strange familiarity reaches you like a memory, like the phantom caress of a worn piece of silk over cold skin.

“You died, not long ago. You crossed into the realm of death and came back, and not only then, even in the womb the Gods debated your survival. Chosen by Hades.” The last words leave your lips in Greek, realization settling within you as you speak. You force your tongue back to his language when you continue, “You survived all those times because the Gods were not done with you and you know this, but you are not certain what the purpose they spared your life for is.

Without thinking, you move even closer, your head tilted back to stare at his pale eyes.

Your voice is a whisper in itself when you promise, “Your Gods have heard you beg to know the reason behind your pain, Ivar.”

There’s a flare of anger in his eyes, a snarl forming in his lips and they are the only warnings you have before the Viking’s hand closes around your throat.

You are dragged closer, rough fingers clawing at your neck and you cannot keep your mouth from opening in a gasp, your hand uselessly tugging at the King’s arm.

But you can still breathe, you notice past your panicked breaths. You feel your mouth dry, your heart quicken, but you do not fight back, even if your scared mind begs you to.

“Sieghild.” You whisper. You are not certain why you speak so lowly, but something tells you that you should.

The woman turns to you, and when her footsteps stop as she realizes what you wanted her to see, it seems the whole forest freezes. The wind doesn’t rustle the leaves, the birds do not sing, the distant stream stops its course.

It all seems to hold its breath alongside you, waiting for the injured beast’s move.

“Do not move,” Sieghild advises, “Do not cower or it will attack.”

You tighten your hand around the bow and stare back at the lynx’s wild eyes with a courage you do not have.

When the King leans even closer, you feel like a young girl holding a bow and praying the beast does not attack. Praying it mistakes your relentlessness with ruthlessness, and thinks twice about harming you.

“You will keep your visions to yourself, Priestess.”

And it’s the arrogance, the pride, the command, what gets the blood under your skin to a boil. You may not be able to overpower him, but the very Underworld may welcome you home before you bow down to a brute.

Your hand finds his wrist, nails digging lightly at the skin as you meet his gaze with the defiance not even the constricting rules of Attica could extinguish.

You reply to his threat with narrowed eyes. “You will get your hand off me, Viking.”

Surprisingly enough, he does, but keeps his burning eyes on yours and still towers above you.

“You asked.” You remind him. Because you have to swallow down other words, other reminders. You obeyed.

“How are you so sure it’s not the Norns telling you this? How does this not make you a Völva?” He asks, and past the venom and the volatility there’s a genuine question, you like to think.

“Maybe they are, maybe both our Gods are one and the same, but take different names,” You offer, “But I am not one of your seeresses, Viking. I am Hiereia.”

___

Hi! Thank you so much for reading! I’m sorry I wasn’t very regular, but now I’m gonna be. Probably Saturdays or Sundays are gonna be the days I post, btw.

I know I’m taking my sweet ass time getting to the abduction part of the abduction myth lol, but I hav my reasons. Or maybe I just like to ramble, and my stories do the same, who knows.

Anyways, just wanted to say I appreciate you all so much for reading! It really means a lot to know that people are reading this and liking it.

[iheartgod175]

The Einherjar Files: Entry 1 - Ricochet Rabbit

I couldn’t resist doing this, and plus it’ll give me a chance to work out all the kinks with the character development in this story. Figured I’d start off with Ricochet Rabbit, who is practically the face of this story. A few notes will be at the end below!

General Bio:

Age: 35-38

Birthday: April 14th

Hometown: Carrottop Canyon

Occupation: Sheriff (originally), Einherji

Einherji Rank: B (at the very beginning), A (during the present story)

Battlesuit Affinity: BIO (though PSY could also be argued)

Battlesuits: Stalwart Sheriff, Last Prayers, Einherjar’s Trickster, Cometfall, Starlit Knight, Herrscher of Order, Errant Order*, Herrscher of Justice

Bio:

Ricochet Rabbit is known throughout the Western Territory as one of—if not the—best lawmen in the country, a title that he wears with a lot of pride. Coming from a family of sheriffs, justice has been instilled in Ricochet from a young age, and it was certain that he would follow in his father’s footsteps. However, his stint as a sheriff would end when the Honkai Eruption took his older sister Rose from him, an event which he was powerless to stop. The event would leave a scar on him, and his desire for revenge would drive him to become an Einherji at Hanabera Academy, where Einherjar and Valkyries are made.

During this time, he refused to allow people to get close to him, becoming aloof and arrogant, believing that he could singularly end the Honkai’s reign of terror on humanity. His squad captain, Top Cat, had to literally knock him back into reality and make him realize he had a lot to learn about not only the truth of the war they were fighting, but also that the path to justice wasn’t meant to be tread alone. Though his attitude needed a little more adjustment, he took this lesson to heart, as he became the leader to a small squad consisting of himself, Melissa Starkweather, Clarissa Trottingham, and Sherman Sheep, with Top Cat at the helm. The group was later disbanded when Sherman left, citing stress, and Melissa and Clarissa were sent to work at another branch. Top Cat would soon form a new team, featuring Ricochet, Yogi, Boo-Boo, and a newcomer named Droop-a-Long Coyote. When Ricochet asked why this group was so random, Top Cat remarked, “I was after some first-class, high-rankin’ Einherjar that could look after themselves. But we ran outta them, so youse guys’ll have to do.”

Although on cordial terms with Yogi, and being rather weirded out by Boo-Boo’s near robotic nature, it was Droop-a-Long that eventually became Ricochet’s best friend and partner on the battlefield. Ricochet had grown up to distrust coyotes because of his father, but Droop-a-Long’s role in saving his life during a field mission, and his kind and selfless nature, led to him changing his attitude. The two would team up on many field missions together, and though rumors floated around about Droop-a-Long being a “menace” to society, they formed a close, brotherly bond that would lead them to being called “the unbreakable pair”.

This unbreakable pair would face many challenges during their time, but nothing could prepare them for the chaos that the next Honkai Eruption would bring...

Battlesuits:

Stalwart Sheriff (MECH): A recreation of Ricochet’s sheriff uniform that he wore when he was younger, now augmented for battle. Though simple in design and somewhat gaudy in color scheme, it’s easily one of Ricochet’s most recognizable suits—to an outlaw, at least. It works well for him as its light and allows him to use his natural speed to its full capacity.

Last Prayers(PSY): Ricochet’s first battlesuit, which he actually stole from an Einherjar base in Texas. It was originally a clergyman’s robe, augmented to fit an Einherjar—though it provides more protection, it does restrict some movement and relies heavily on the elements (particularly ice), which Ricochet is weak against. Ricochet figured that if he was going to get revenge on the Honkai that killed Rose, he would do so as an “angel of death”. This would be repossessed after his capture.

Harebrained Trickster/Einherjar’s Trickster (BIO): Ricochet’s second suit, worn during his time in Hanabera Academy. Design-wise, it’s closer to a human cowboy’s uniform, minus the boots. Ricochet keeps the black body from the Stalwart Sheriff suit, but adds a pair of light blue jeans and a tan cowboy hat. This suit is designed to augment Ricochet’s affinity for lightning.

Cometfall/White Comet (MECH): Ricochet’s third suit, worn during field missions. His suit is white, black and purple, and is meant to camouflage him until he comes in with the element of surprise. According to Top Cat, it was designed with Ricochet’s best quality—interruption—in mind, which Ricochet took offense to.

Starlit Knight (BIO): Ricochet’s third suit, which is a merging of the Cometfall suit and his void powers, turning his suit white, black and blue. Awakened after his traumatic revisit to the past, in which he was unable to change the fate of his sister and nieces. He sprouts yellow-green and light orange wings in this form.

Herrscher of Order (BIO): Ricochet’s Herrscher form, awakened during his capture. His form here is drastically different: his uniform is silver, black and blue, his eyes have changed color (black sclera with gold pupils) and his signature weapon has changed from guns to lances, which he wields on his right side.

Errant Order (MECH): Ricochet’s fourth suit, donned during his evasion of capture by World Serpent. His suit here is black, white and orange, and even includes a long coat. He has heterochromia in this form. He can access some of the powers he had in his Herrscher form, but too much use can cause him to become unstable.

Herrscher of Justice (PSY): Ricochet’s second Herrscher form, awakened when he took hold of the realization of his other self, and inherited T.C.’s will—and the flame that came with it. This form reverts Ricochet back to his original white, black and purple and orange colors, though here his eyes are white sclera with gold eyes.

Notes:

If it wasn’t obvious already, Ricochet does have the most battlesuits lifted from the game. The only original one I have here is Einherjar’s Trickster, which is meant to be an important plot point.

A lot of Ricochet’s original bio is based on Blazin’ Trails. Similar to that story, his sister’s murder was his motivation for becoming a warrior, and his friendship with Droop-a-Long is the rock that he leans on throughout most of the story.

Ricochet’s strongest element would be Lightning, with Fire as a close second. Ice is his weakest.

I was originally working on George Jetson’s profile, but I’m still going through the mess that is that. So, Ricochet will be the first to kick off this series!

Top Cat will probably be next, since I had fun working on his notes. Or, if I can get Droop-a-Long’s profile down, I’ll do that!

Hope you guys enjoyed this!

[valeriannnn]

if youve ever wanted to think about what almost every major RWBY character would main in professional overwatch, then today is your lucky day! brought to you by hiatus, return of owl, and 3am delirium

RUBY - Star DPS.  Extremely flashy, always on the highlight reel.  Will play whatever is needed to pound the enemies into dirt, but also the type to say "fuck it ok guys trust me im gonna pop off" and swap to her signature widow/tracer to Pop Off.  Works unfailingly.  Team captain and emotional core.  Prefers mobile heroes and an unpredictable playstyle.

WhiteSnow - Flex Support/Flex DPS.  Put her on any sniper (including and especially Ana) and watch all hell rain down.  Methodical playstyle, favors high-utility heroes.  Aside from snipers, can often be found on Baptiste/Mei/Symmetra.  Enables teammates to make big plays, but often sacrifices her own presence in the killfeed for the benefit of the team as a whole.  Loves to maker opponents' lives a living hell with CC.  Line em up, knock em down.

Belladonna - Offtank.  Extremely attentive to her backline, constantly running interference and peeling for allies.  Impossible to catch off-guard.  Delights in thwarting the enemy team's plans and preventing them from making the plays they want to.  Excellent map awareness and always the one to touch point to preserve overtime.  Shotcaller.  Struggled with committing to risky/aggressive plays, but being on a reliable team has made her more comfortable performing her role and trusting her teammates to have her back.  Prefers mobile heroes but will adapt to any situation to work in perfect tandem with...

YangXiaoLong - Main Tank.  Could have been a DPS main but early on committed to tank role to enable her duo parter (and little sister) to pop off (and have shorter queue times).  Developed a real knack for controlling space and being a brick goddamn wall between her squishies and the enemy team.  Extremely aggressive playstyle, but has cooled down in recent years to be more of a team player.  Still loves to thrash about when given the opportunity.  Known for bold plays and phatty shatties.

Arc - Main Support.  Tried for years to be a DPS hotshot but was determinedly mediocre and got hard stuck in plat.  Persuaded by Pyrrha to pocket her for a few games, and discovered the depth and fulfillment of playing support to a well-coordinated team.  Nurtured his aptitude for assisting from the backline and quickly rose through the ranks.  Will play whatever is meta but will always be a Mercy main at heart.  Played Brig during GOATS.  Shotcaller.

Valkyrie - Doomfist.

Nikos - Main Tank.  Extremely methodical player, reknowned for big brain cerebral plays and unflappability.  Can be slow to push advantages, but never makes mistakes.  Loves the mind games in a Rein v Rein matchup, and unfailingly blocks the enemy shatter (delights in cucking the enemy Rein).  Will play Orisa For The Good Of The Team but takes no joy in it.  Terrifying on defense; takes a strong position and allows time pressure to force enemies into missteps.  When you make a mistake, she will be there.  Strategic backbone of the team.

RenLie - Flex Support.  Bloodthirsty support.  Likes the balance of damage potential and support capacity in Zenyatta, but puts forth strong showings on Moira and Ana as well.  First priority is of course keeping his team alive, but flankers trying to dive him in the back line tend to get sent home in tears.  Big Jjonak energies. :uwuknife: Can be susceptible to tunnel vision/desperation, and occasionally needs teammates to re-ground him.  Always nanos Nora.

PPolen - Offtank.  D.Va one-trick.  Absolutely notorious for eating ults; absolutely infuriating to play hitscan into.  Flawless mechanical skill.  Occasionally struggles with communication, but honestly so on-the-ball that it doesn't usually come back to bite her.  Always has gold objective time.

Qrow - True flex.  Exclusively solo-queues on ladder, just plays the leaderboards.  Played just about every role at some point (except main tank, fuck that), but currently on a flex support kick.  Holds world records for gravs/blizzards/immortality feels clipping through the geometry and falling out of the map.  The sort of Ana who will singlehandedly take out both enemy DPS when beset by flankers only to immediately die to an errant Moira orb.  Gamers can we get an F in chat.  Accustomed to playing on 200+ ping and is deeply unsettled when he moves somewhere with good internet and has to re-learn all his timings.

RWBY+JNPR+P All form a single 9-man roster.  Sub out roles with redundant players for map set strategies and for flexible plays.  Probably called the Beacon Huntsmen or something generic like that, who cares

Winter - Main Tank and Offtank.  Excellent mechanical skill.  Unparalleled when allowed to execute her set strategy, but struggles with adaptability.  Extremely self-sacrificial, and knows exactly how to leverage her health pool to buy time and/or space for her allies to make the plays they need to.  Will unflinchingly act upon callouts, good or bad, because the worst outcome is a split decision.  Especially fond of a quick reset.

Whitley - Doesn't play Overwatch, but holds several championship trophies in international Pokemon tournaments.  Minecraft youtuber.

Adam - Widow one-trick.  Highly overrated, inexplicably popular streamer.  Mechanically talented but poison in a team environment.  Picked up and quickly dropped from several professional teams.  Teabags.  Looks impressive on stream but crumbles against opponents with any semblance of coordination.  Eventually blacklisted from professional environments after one too many scandals in his personal life.

Ozpin -Franchise owner.  Has never actually touched Overwatch, but used to be a respected Starcraft player back in the day.  Took on a coaching role for a time, but now largely manages from afar.  Has a sparse and cryptic social media presence.  Makes business decisions largely at random, unbeknownst to all his subordinates.

Salem - Hates videogames. Will unplug the router if you piss her off.

Ace Ops - High profile roster hand-picked for perfectly complementary hero pools.  Hyped to fuck in the preseason.  Unparalleled individual play but poor communication, incompatible playstyles, and truly abysmal coaching staff keep them from being a top-tier team.  Widely considered a disappointment considering the talent and money backing them.

Harriet - DPS.  Exclusively plays flankers and extremely mobile DPS.  Tries to solo-carry; in her defense, it often works.  Unironically brags/complains about having gold medals.  Quick to tilt but often uses the negative energy to pop off even harder.  Overtime clutch god.

Marrow - Flex DPS.  Cautious player, often hesitant to commit to risky strats.  Flawless positioning, both personally and for thrown abilities.  Talent for projectile DPS; probably contributed not-insignificantly to scatter arrow being removed from the game.  Prefers to understand the enemy's strategy before acting.  Shotcaller.  Nobody listens.

Elm - Main Tanks (Except Reinhardt), Zarya.  Aggressive tank player, frequently found with gold damage.  Generally good natured but vulnerable to tilt if on a losing streak.  Highly momentum-based.  Makes tutorial videos on strategy and positioning for her youtube channel.  Wants to see the competitive scene develop and flourish, but sensitive to feeling threatened by new talent.  Helps them anyway.

Vine - Flex Tanks (except Zarya), Reinhardt.  Unflappable, regardless of quality of games or recent performance.  Good at reading enemy team and tracking ults.  Generally calls enemy plays before they happen.  Always sticks with Elm, largely out of obligation to bail her out when her aggression puts her in a dicey position.  Understated player, rarely in highlight compilations, but extremely consistent performance.  Plays off-meta in scrims so as not to reveal strats.

Clover - Main Healer. Can play any support, but Lucio main through and through.  Suffers from Reddit Lucio syndrome, but usually good enough (or lucky enough) to get away with it.  Loves to deny enemy followup.  Peel master, boop god.  PMA to a borderline-irritating degree.  Gives great pep talks at half time.  Tends to overcommit to strategies that are dead in the water; sometimes it's better to call it and switch comps while you still have time on the clock. Despite this, is opportunistic in the moment-to-moment sense and quick to capitalize on enemy vulnerabilities.

Flynt Coal - Lucio one-trick.  I mean, come on.

Wukong - ???  Exclusively plays off-meta heroes and weird shit.  Talented but remains on ladder because he doesn’t like the rigid structure of tournament play.  Refuses to be confined to a single role.  Hates role lock cause he can’t swap mid game anymore.  Despite all this, somehow tends to be more of an asset than a detriment.  Definitely a team player.  PMA king.  Occasionally finds legitimately competitive strata for underutilized heroes.  Nutty with hammond movement, godawful with mines.  Has the Winston skin equipped, of course.

Ilia - DPS.  Popular streamer.  Tried going pro for a bit, but didn’t like the schedule and retired shortly.  Frequently plays with the community and does weird custom game modes for a laugh.  Loves Daddy Rein Chases Tiny Torblets.  Refuses to open loot boxes, much to the dismay of her stream.  Plays Golfing Over It during long queues.  Draws all her own custom emotes.

Watts - DPS.  Mains Widow, Sombra; plays anything that lets him avoid ever actually engaging the enemy at close range.  Thinks the game stopped being good when Sombra GOATS stopped being a thing.  Spends all day on twitter heckling pro players and declaring Overwatch a dead game.  Suspected of cheating.  Considers himself a shotcaller but isn't very good at it.

Tyrian - Plays Junkrat and Roadhog exclusively.  Thinks it's bullshit that the game doesn't have friendly fire.  Thinks it's bullshit that Junkrat doesn't deal self-inflicted damage anymore.  Master of the bounce shot.  Tends to treat the game like a TDM and forget the objective in favor fragging out.  Targets a single enemy player and tries to get them to tilt.  Uses voice chat but only laughs.  Never makes callouts.  Trash talks in all-chat.  Considers it a personal victory if he gets someone to rage quit.

Hazel - No Role.  Doesn't really get the idea of the metagame; knows it's generally good to have a balanced team but thats about as deep as he chooses to go.  Was one of the old guards of PC gaming but now that it's a mainstream hobby has to refuses to confront that he's hot garbage at them.  Can't really parse everything that's happening onscreen in a fast-paced game like overwatch, so he just picks Torb (regardless of map or attacking/defending status) and uses the turret as a security blanket.  Godawful turret placement.  Still has a good time somehow.

Cinder - Main Tank.  Likes the importance of the role, and especially the way her team has to follow her calls for any chance of success.  A nice balance of aggression and craftiness, she makes a fearsome opponent.  Callouts could be more frequent/detailed, but her directions are always good when given.  Very susceptible to emotional ups and downs, and often takes out frustration on teammates.  Takes losses very hard, gloats about wins.  Happiest with an Ana pocket.

Emerald - Offtank.  Would be much happier on DPS or Support, but desperate to show off and live up to Cinder's expectations.  Sticks with her main tank except when it's absolutely necessary to peel for the back line.  Tends to be overcautious with ults; she's good enough mechanically to earn them relatively quickly, but fear of whiffing one makes her reticent to spend them.  Flawless bubble timing on Zarya.

Mercury - Support.  Still considers Symmetra a support.  Quick to whip out the blaster and try to fight off flankers instead of calling for assistance.  Knows all the angles for a narsty biotic grenade.  Plays as though he's got better positioning and backup than he does; frequently gets opponents to back off just by winning the mental game.  Will let allies die on ladder if they piss him off.

[constant-instigator]

The Infinity War 2 that I want

I mean I still love Tony and Steve and everybody but their character arcs have been kind of mangled lately so I’m kind of eh on them in this movie. (I will not be debating this in comments).

This is the team I want to see

Valkyrie: super strong legendary warrior with survivor guilt and a drinking issue

Pepper: CEO come fire-goddess on a mission to find her errant boy

Nebula: trauma-ridden cyborg assassin working on a redemption arc and revenge as the universe has been turned upside down

Shuri: the run-away princess who has, hello, lost her father and her brother in a few years and who is a super genius suddenly with access to space tech (Her mom can run the kingdom, it’s fine she clearly has it together.)

Oyoke: following Shuri to try to keep at least one heir alive. Dedicated strategist with a strong ethos and the everyman the team needs to ground it.

We have big personalities, angst galore, but more capacity for communication and compromise than the boys have had in recent movies. I am so tired of focusing on team infighting all the damn time. These 5 will fight but they won’t be stupid about it.

Well, maybe Val and Nebula might be not the best team players but it’ll be fine. I’d still trust them to fix this mess.

[desktopdust]

Valkyrie Errant Table of Contents

This is an original idea I’m hoping to develop into a novel.  Valkyrie Errant is a tale of a mythic hero, a travelling warrior named Brynja who wields the long-forsaken power of the Valkyries to battle what threats cross her path in her quest to sate her own boundless curiosity. Specifically, the novel currently being worked on revolves around her adventures in the nation of Pleiades, home to magic-users able to channel the spirits of great heroes who have been granted constellations to honor their deeds.

On this blog I have an earlier iteration of the concept (Glimpse of Horizons), as well as excerpts from the current draft I’m writing.  I may also flesh out some concepts and characters, in which case, it’ll all be tagged and linked here.

 -Glimpse of Horizons

-Prologue draft

-Chapter 1 draft

-Chapter 2 draft