#Where do I even find a goat to sacrifice

[andsewingishalfthebattle]

Novice sewing pattern: Cut out shapes. Line up the little triangles on the edges. Stitch edges together. We've also included step-by-step assembly instructions with illustrations.

Novice knitting pattern: yOU MUSt uNDerstANd thE SECret cOdE CO67 (73, 87, 93) BO44 (63, 76, 90) 28 (32, 34) slip first pw repeat 7x K to end *kl (pl) 42 * until 13" (13, 13, 15) join new at 30 pl for 17 rows ssk 27 k2tog mattress lengthwise BO and sacrifice a goat to the knitting gods. WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU WANT "INSTRUCTIONS," I JUST GAVE THEM TO YOU

[whatawonderfulexistence--blog]

Fall For Me (Poly! Sleep Token x Fem! Reader) - Part I

Well, it happened... After trying to evade the hype for so long they finally got me 😂😂 This story has had me in a chokehold (haha, get it?) since I started toying around with the idea of it. Hopefully you guys enjoy it, let me know if you'd like to be added to the tag list for future chapters and/or Sleep Token one shots!

WARNINGS: None

Part II

My Masterlist! ~ AO3 Link!

Credit to @spookyghostjelly for beta reading, ily bb 💗💗💗

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You sat with your feet propped up on the counter, one of the magazines you had yet to sell spread open on your lap. "Be fashion forward this fall." You read out loud to the empty store in a mocking tone as your eyes grazed over the pictures of chunky sweaters, jeans, and boring, brown leather boots. The bell over the door jingled as a customer entered the store, your eyes darted up, expecting one of your regulars. You were met with the sight of someone in a black sweatshirt with the hood pulled up over their head. 'Great,' you thought to yourself, 'just when I thought I was going to have an easy evening.' You watched the man carefully, waiting to see what exactly he was going to stick in his pockets. Now, you normally turn a blind eye to shoplifters up to a certain extent, everyone deserves to have something to eat. But, being an independently owned store you could only take so much of a loss on your inventory. To your surprise, the man didn't pick up a single item. He took his time looking over the contents of each shelf, his hands never leaving his sweatshirt pocket. "Can I help you find anything, sir?" His head turned slightly in your direction, but not enough for you to see his face.

"What time do you close?" You were caught off guard by his British accent, it was an uncommon occurrence to get outsiders in your small backwoods town.

"Eight o'clock." He nods his thanks and hurriedly exits your store, almost bumping into one of your regulars on the way out.

"Everything alright?" He asks as the strange visitor leaves your store.

"Do you know him?" You ask quietly, as if he would somehow be able to overhear you despite having rounded the corner of the building already.

"Yeah, he's one of those… those cultists that set up shop in the woods." He explains. You were a bit shocked at the realization. You had been seeing headlines in the local newspaper for months as curiosity rose around the small group of men that had built a few Cabins on the very edge of town. Reporters didn't dare venture into their camp for an interview, but that didn't stop them from snapping a few pictures from the safety of the treeline. Four cabins sat at each corner of a small clearing, a large fire pit dominated the center. From what you could make out they seemed to have some sort of root cellar and a lackluster garden, which would explain why you hadn't seen any of them in person until this afternoon. "You be careful, (Y/N). Freaks like that might just try to sacrifice you to some goat demon they worship." He warns. You can't help but roll your eyes at the outlandish statement.

"Mark, those boys haven't done a single thing to bother anyone since they got here. They've been out there for months, if they were going to take someone they would've done it by now." You argue.

He chuckles, "Trust me darlin', I hope you're right. But until then me and a lot of other folks around here plan on keeping a close eye on them. You'd do best to stay away from them."

"You think I can't take care of myself?" You challenge, raising an eyebrow at him.

"Now, Miss (Y/N), you and I both know you'd beat my ass to next Sunday if that's what I was implying." The two of you shared a laugh. "I just don't want something bad to happen, that's all. These strange men show up out of nowhere one day and no one knows where they came from, hell none of us have ever seen their faces. They all wear these black masks, least that's what the reports are saying. You can never be too cautious."

"I'll take my chances." You smile politely in an attempt to get him off his soap box. "Now, I take it you're here for your pack of Marlboros."

"Yes ma'am, and an extra one for Donnie if you don't mind." He responds with a nod as he fumbles for his wallet in his back pocket.

"You got it boss." The rest of your evening was spent rather uneventfully, save for the fact that you would practically jump out of your chair every time the door opened. You glanced up at the clock, there was about twenty minutes left until you closed. "Maybe he decided to not come back." You shrug. Moments later an old, beat up pick up truck rumbled into the parking lot. You watched as the driver got out, his head dipped low to hide his face in the hood of his black sweatshirt. He pushes through the door, the jingle of the bell the only sound to cut through the tense silence. "Welcome back." You tried to sound friendly despite your unease. He nods at you in response, not saying a single word as he makes his way quickly and directly to everything he needs. He approaches the counter, unloading his arm load of supplies before taking a step back. "You got a name to go with those big, broad shoulders of yours?" You ask in a bit of a teasing tone, trying to do what you could to lighten the mood. He remained silent, despite the fact you couldn't see his face you couldn't escape the feeling of his piercing gaze. You opened a bag, carefully organizing his contents inside. "$18.75, sir." He slaps a twenty dollar bill on the counter, not even waiting for his change as he grabs his bag and flits out the door. You watched as he drove off, not sure exactly what you were supposed to make of that interaction. You had a similar occurrence every day for almost a week. He would come in, grab an armful of groceries, put down his money, and he left. You would try and greet him whenever he would come in your store, it was always met with a curt nod.

"Vessel." You froze as he finally spoke up. You looked up, your eyes met with 6 slits on an odd looking mask. "You can call me Vessel." You couldn't think of how to respond at first. He had barely acknowledged your existence before tonight, what had changed?

"Vessel… (Y/N)." You stick out your hand to shake his. "It's nice to finally meet you." You smile as his hands clap into yours.

"You're different from the other people we've run into from town." He remarks.

"The reporters?"

"Some of them, a few others we just happened to cross paths with." You could feel him studying you. "You don't seem scared."

"Vessel, you've been coming in here for over a week now. If you were going to try and hurt me you would've done it by now." You notice the corner of his mouth quirk up in a smile.

"I guess you have a point." He chuckles. You finish scanning his items and give him his total. He places the money down on the counter and picks up his bag.

"How come you never take your change?" You ask as he's almost out the door.

"I know you run this place by yourself, think of it as me tipping a small business." He flashes a brief, brilliant smile at you. You try to hide your shy smile by fixing up your register. "Oh, and (Y/N)?" You glance back up at him. "It's nice to finally meet you too."

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Tag List: @herripinkle @mustluvecho @jumpcauseimfroggy (If you would like to be tagged for Sleep Token stuff let me know!)

[cdyssey]

It's that tiny, baby goat named Bruce being brown and furry, like the pelt Shauna Shipman wrapped her dead baby in.

It's the fact that it's a boy goat too.

It's her immediate and irrational fear—upon even hearing the word sacrifice—that she's going to have to kill the kid. The goat. The baby. This precious, innocent life in her care. Because everything she loves gets taken away from her, doesn't it?

All her fault.

Every last bit of it.

She can't have anything that she doesn't eventually hurt.

(And yes, it's about Jackie. It's always about Jackie, even when she swears that it's not. Jackie, her first victim. Jackie, her first love.)

(She's wearing her shirt in this episode. She's wearing her life in this whole damn series.)

It's her sitting alone in the woods, disassociating, triggered by a goddamn goat, and it's her utter panic when she realizes that he's missing.

It's Misty telling her, “Well, you’re not that innocent either.”

And it's her so bitterly replying, “Do you think I don’t know that?” as she frantically searches for Bruce, yet another living creature that she thinks she’s failed.

It's the tenderness with which she holds him when she finds him again, mothering him so gently. She tells him—this goat—that he's delusional and dumb if he thinks she's gonna hold him all day, but then she fucking does it! She holds him! She cradles him to her chest like a baby, and it's so lovely.

But it's so, so sad too.

Because it's her pleading with the barn worker to make sure that the goat is okay; she doesn't trust her ability to take care of him; she'll fucking lose it if he gets hurt in her care.

And it's this guy robotically replying, "The kid’s care is entwined with your own." And it’s the way that Shauna's pupils immediately blow, and we intimately understand—well before she tells Lottie—that she's thinking about that baby in the woods.

And she's thinking about Callie.

And she's thinking that if this much is true—if her ability to care for herself is the metric by which she can care for a kid—then, of course, her children are so totally fucked.

With her as a mother, they were doomed from the very start.

(Relatedly, it’s Melanie Lynskey saying in an interview: “I don’t think Shauna’s really disappointed in people. I think she’s disappointed in herself. She takes things out on herself, and she just feels kind of fundamentally unlovable.”)

It’s her confrontation with Lottie, which is charged with their fraught and bloody past, by Lottie's obsession with the wilderness baby, by the dream where the baby is cannibalized, by Lottie's willingness to become both Shauna's punching bag and martyr.

It's the tears that run down her face as she says, as she confesses:

"I’m not crying about the goat. I don’t really know, um, what’s happening right now. Um, I think it’s just that I’ve always kept my daughter, you know, Callie, like, at arm’s length. I think just out of fear that she would… die, I guess. Or maybe that she was never even real to begin with. I don’t know. I try to tell myself it’s okay. That I’m safe to… to think of her as-as mine, you know, and to just be her mom. But I think something is broken, Lottie. I just can’t do it.

God, it’s how every line of this monologue is so fucking broken and raw. She told that bastard cop that she's just not very good at loving her daughter, and here is both the reason why and the brutal extent. In the woods, her baby died, but for just a brief moment, in the tantalizing spaces of that dream turned hellish nightmare, he lived. But then he died again; he was consumed; or was he?

No.

Abso-fucking-lutely-yes, but not in the way that Shauna could have ever conceived.

Because this is the idea that she can't think of Callie as her own when that first baby was never hers either.

Not really.

Our baby, Lottie had called him. He was their communal savior, their shining hope, their personal Jesus who didn’t live.

And Shauna's singular moment alone with him had been a cruel fantasy too.

It's her murderous rage at his death, the violence that such grief engenders in her, which in and of itself is an echo of Misty's Steel Magnolias monologue—the way she wants to hit someone until they feel as bad as they do.

It’s how she can't allow herself to love Callie completely because of her fundamental incapacity to discern reality from the nightmare. In the cabin, she accuses them all of killing her baby. Every goddamn day she fears that her daughter will die, if she even exists at all.

It's the panic in her eyes when she clutches the phone and asks Jeff if Callie is okay all the same.

Because that's her first instinct, her immediate assumption.

That something with her daughter is horribly wrong.

And that's the crux in the end, the horrible conclusion to all these frayed and tangled threads.

Something going wrong is the only reality that Shauna Shipman can ever reliably count upon. The entirety of her life is an open, gushing wound.

[gabessquishytum]

Dream hates summoning rituals, and even if he didn’t he has no idea where humans got the idea that he wants virgin sacrifices. He’s tried removing any trace of instructions on how to summon him, or at least get the word out that he doesn’t want any human sacrifices, virgin or otherwise. But every time, some group of worshippers, cult, or magical ne’er-do-wells finds some lost tome describing the ritual, and every one of these lost tomes claim the importance of having a virgin sacrifice.

This time, the virgin in question is nearly enough to tempt Dream; a gorgeous young hirsute man in revealing silks, bound to an altar, looking up at him with beguiling brown eyes. But no, Dream sticks to the by-now routine: get rid of the summoners, release the sacrifice—who introduces himself as Hob Gadling as he earnestly thanks the god for the rescue—and check that he is unharmed, then leave, hoping against hope that somehow this is in fact the last time.

But then when Dream is in fact summoned again, the virgin sacrifice just so happens to be Hob Gadling again. Weird, but whatever. Dream releases him once more, perhaps teases him a little for the repeated circumstances, and leaves again.

And then it happens again. And again, and again. When Dream asks, Hob swears that he’s not doing this on purpose, that these different people just keep grabbing him on his travels.

(While Hob is telling the truth, what he doesn’t say is that since meeting Dream, he might’ve stopped taking quite so many precautions around known cultist areas, and after he’s been grabbed he might stop trying to escape or fight them off once he’s sure it’s Dream they’re sacrificing him to)

Finally, after getting rid of his captors for the umpteenth time, Dream informs him that this would stop happening if Hob just got rid of his virgin status.

Hob immediately responds: “Are you offering to help with that?”

-🪽anon

I have this mental image of Hob sexily posing on a sacrificial altar with a rose between his teeth. He isn't even tied down. The cult members didn't even want to sacrifice him - they were planning to use a goat. But when Dream shows up he can't help but roll his eyes affectionately when Hob is like "omg we have to stop meeting like this!!!!"

The obvious solution is indeed to take away Hob’s virginity. In response to Hob’s question, Dream begins to provide a list of people who he thinks might be interested in deflowering Hob - "Well, my sibling Desire has never been known to turn down a willing partner. I also know a mage close to this village who often takes lovers. Or perhaps I could take you to a larger settlement for a better selection of candidates..."

Hob glares at him. He's not looking for other candidates. He wants Dream. Fortunately for him... Dream was only teasing.

It has been a very long time since Dream had a virgin all to himself. Hob is magnificent. His skin is soft and perfectly hairy, and his legs are strong and thick as he bounces himself energetically on Dream’s cock. He's perfect in every way and now he belongs body and soul to Dream for as long as he chooses to live. Hob moans loudly that he's going to live forever, and Dream believes him.

Now they rescue virgin sacrifices together. And reminisce about the way their eyes met as Hob wiggled against his restraints on the altar. Maybe they indulge in a little roleplay, when the rescued sacrifice has been released and set on the right path to the nearest village... Hob does just look so good all tied up!

[alpaca-clouds]

What's going on with Drolta?

Alright, I kinda promised @g-vlssz to also write down some historical context for this femme fatale. And admittedly she is the hardest character to figure out in this regard. Because we do not know a lot about her.

Don't get me wrong: We know two things about her. She is from Ancient Egypt and she was a priestess of Sekhmet. It stands to assume that she is also the reason, why Eszebet got to drink from Sekhmet.

Here is the issue: Ancient Egypt is a thing that was around for 3000 years. The oldest definite proof of worship of Sekhmet we have dates back to the 14th century BC. And as far as I know the last temple build for her was erected in the 1st century AD. So, we have a good 1500 years during which people definitely prayed to Sekhmet - and during which Drolta could theoretically have been created.

Given that we do not know how long vampires are around in the world of Castlevania, we also cannot use that information to somehow narrow it down. (I mean, according to Katie Silva Morana was from Ancient Sumer, which fell around 1750 BC.)

And once again, there is just the fact: Religions change over the centuries. The way we worship changes.

One way to go about is to look at her Blackness and make some interpretations about that, given that Egyptians usually are not Black but Arab. But... historically speaking this is a huge, huge controversy. Because whether or not Ancient Egyptians were Black is a big, big disccussion to this day. And to be honest: I am not gonna throw my hat into that ring.

There is one line, Drolta says, though, that makes me think that she might actually go back to about 1200 BC. Because she remembers her time as a priestess with the "smell of dead bodies". (I don't quite have the full quote there right now. But something along that lines.) And that one stood out to me, because the Egyptians were not that big on human sacrifice (outside from Retainer Sacrifices). Usually Sekhmet would get sacrificed either goats or bulls, but not humans. But... there is some kinda shacky evidence that while Egypt was having a war with the Hittites, which ended up very, very bloody, some prisoners of war got actually sacrificed to Sekhmet.

Going through all I have on Ancient Egypt and Sekhmet, this is the one instance I can find where there is (even though shacky) evidence of human sacrifice to Sekhmet.

But again, it is kinda hard to say.

Something that might play into her motivations, though, is the colonial history of Egypt. Which is a bit more complicated than a lot of white folks, who don't do history, give it credit for. Egyptian culture and mythology is fascinating. It is. Kid!me was not the first person who looked at that and was entranced. No, that goes back to even Ancient times when Greeks and Romans looked at Egypt and had the exact same reaction. Which makes it so complicated. Because, of course, colonialism of Egypt started a long, long time ago with the Greeks and Romans.

But... It was kinda different back then, mostly because Egyptian culture might have gotten mixed up with some of the Roman and Greek customs, but the Romans and Greeks never forbid or even much restricted Egyptian worship. Quite on the contrary, as they took up some of the gods, especially Isis, who became very popular both in Greece and Rome.

Now, if you are wondering: Why did worship of the Egyptian gods even end? You should know the answer: Christians.

See, the Romans were very okay with the worship of the Egyptian gods. Because they were polytheistic. But then along came Constantin, who not only moved the capital of Rome from, well, Rome, to Constantinople, but also made Christianity the main religion of the Byzantine Empire. Originally they kinda sorta still allowed other worship, but then along came Emperor Theodisius, who in line with his name was very much not okay with it. Not only did he had soldiers burn down temples throughout the Empire, he also forcefully converted people to Christianity. (As in: "Convert or die" forcefully.) Something people later would call the Heathen Hunts.

And with that... Well, with that the Egyptian gods became forbidden to pray to. Now, there were later again and again attempts to bring the worship back, but even after Egypt was no longer part of the Empire, it had Muslim rulers. And while Muslims at the time were mostly okay with Christians and Jews hanging around and doing their thing, they were often not as cool with the polytheistic worship of some other cultures.

And yeah, no matter what time Drolta comes from... She probably was there when they burned down the Sekhmet temples. And yes, she very much also was there when the Europeans came to Egypt and plundered the graves to then (ugh) fucking consume bits of mummy or use mummies in their paints.

So, like... If, after all of that, she decided "vampire messiah is gonna punish all the humans" sounded actually fairly good... I would not exactly hold it against her.

And that is all without going into the "she was probably Sekhmet's guardian the entire time or something" thing, that clearly is implied by the text.

[lookismstuff]

Highlights of Ep 482

SPOILERS ALERT

tw: violence, child abuse

"Now I will reveal my darkness. You’re not gonna blame me like a fool and cry. I’m gonna take back what I lost..." - Lucia, "Lunar Phase"

After a series of failed curative attempts, Vin’s mom took him from Seoul to the male shaman in Cheonliang in order to cure his eyes.

The shaman and his team immediately performed the exorcism with goat as sacrifice. Vin’s mom spent a lot for this ritual. Vin’s mom was yelled at for being insincere in her prayers and began praying in earnest.

A little boy was used as the sacrifice in order for Vin to “heal”. He had six fingers in each hand and six toes in each foot. He was stripped naked, tied, and stoned to death.

The villagers treated Vin and his mom with either creepy welcome or open suspicion as to why they left Seoul and came to Cheonliang. Some of them accused Vin’s mom of being a “loose woman” who probably had her son out of wedlock.

Meanwhile, the fraudulent shaman secretly lusted after Vin’s mom.

That night, Vin’s mom woke him up and they both tried to escape the village to no avail. The shaman had stopped the selling of bus tickets in the name of the “Child God” and instructed the ticket seller in advance.

Vin’s mom reported the stoning of the child to the local police station and showed the photo in her phone but instead her phone was taken by the officer on duty, again in the name of the “Child God”.

The bewildered mother and son took a taxi, but even the taxi driver took them back to the Shaman’s house and every other cult follower waited for them there.

From then on Vin and his mom lived in misery and captivity where their every activity was being watched and Vin began calling his life hell.

Not long after, Vin woke up to find his mom dead, hanging from the rafters in his dark room.

After that and since the stoned kid ran away, it was Vin who replaced the stoned kid as the sacrifice totem for the Shaman’s rituals to erase bad luck. He was stripped naked in freezing winter, he was also kicked and mistreated in every possible way.

People came and stare at Vin’s eyes during these (fraudulent) rituals, as he was splashed with animals’ blood to symbolize the driving away of bad luck.

It was then when Vin had his meager meal after a ritual, he met another kid, dark skinned and wrapped up warm. This kid is TAEJIN, the only son of the shaman.

Taejin offered Vin some meal (burger from a certain fast food brand) and was kind to Vin and asked if he felt cold. He even promised to clothe Vin once he became a shaman. Because Vin was his. (Edit: I was mistaken about this earlier. I thought he only meant to save Vin).

Taejin’s life was the opposite of Vin’s because, even though Vin was allowed to go to school, stones were thrown at him and he was called a Monster every day.

Vin tried to stab his polycoria eye once because he was sure it was the source of all of his unhappiness (there’s a photo of his family of three on the table, his parents and him). It’s implied that probably his father was gone (but I’m not sure). Crying in desperation, little Vin wondered what did he do wrong.

Fast forward to Vin’s middle school days where he kept beating people up and grew his hair long to cover his eyes. Kids avoided him in the corridors, whispering that he hated handsome guys because of his inferiority complex.

That day, Vin passed Taejin by in the school corridor but they both said nothing to each other, all traces of their childhood interactions had vanished.

As he pretended to sleep in his classroom, Vin thought he was glad to be alienated, at least nobody came closer.

Rumors reached the school of a monster who lived in a cave in the mountains.

One night, Vin was dragged to work for the shaman again and this time he was stripped naked… and was paraded in the street in front of his schoolmates, while Taejin was sitting far ahead with his shaman father.

From shame and pain, Vin ran away crying to the mountain, begging the Monster of the Cheonliang Mountain to come and kill him instantly.

But a young man came out of the cave, instead of a monster.

This man would in turn become Vin’s future teacher. The King of Cheonliang: YOOK SEONGJI.

[lathalea]

The White Raven 6/9

Yes, it's happening, I'm back with a fresh new chapter of this fic, and I'm so nervous! It took me a while to get here but I hope you'll like the next part of Thorin and Carra's story.

Relationships: Thorin Oakenshield x OC Carra Rating: G Warnings: mentions of injuries/death Author's notes: This is the story of Thorin Oakenshield's quest to find the White Raven, a mysterious creature of legends only few were fortunate enough to see. This is the story of love stronger than time, destiny, and laws of gods and mortals alike. You can find this fic on AO3.

Special thanks to @legolasbadass for being an amazing and insightful beta reader and helping me out with Very Important Things Like Commas and Temporal Issues In Middle Earth😍🤣 Extra special thanks to @legolasbadass (yes, again, OMG, you're so popular! 🤣) and @i-did-not-mean-to for our Silm evenings and very deep discussons that helped me write this chapter 💚 Thank you everyone who showed their support for this story, you motivated me to continue writing 💙 You are the best readers in the world 🤩🤩🤩

Khuzdul: Lulkh - fool Yasthûnê - my wife ’ugbalul ’uhaskhajam - [the] greatest sacrifice Adad - father Tharkûn - Gandalf

🌟 Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 ...

Thorin did not know how much time had passed. A few heartbeats? An hour? An eternity? Vaguely familiar shapes circled the darkening sky above him. Ravens? Eagles? He did not know that either. Thinking did not come easily any longer. His thoughts were muddled. His wound pulsed in pain with the rapidity of trickling blood. And he could not move. His foe’s blade had  pierced his body. Some unknown solid weight pressed him to the cold, unforgiving surface. It was difficult to breathe. His nostrils filled with the stench of Orc blood. The icy chill spread through his limbs. 

He opened his mouth, but only a whisper came out before Thorin lost the internal battle with his own body.

“Carra…”

Silence. Bird-shaped clouds in the sky. Snowflakes on his cheeks. Or perhaps tears. He could not keep his eyes open any longer. His mind slowly drifted off into the darkness.

***

“Uncle! Uncle Thorin!” A faraway voice invaded Thorin’s mind, stirring it awake. This voice sounded familiar. But he was tired. Too tired. The darkness beckoned, offering the comfort of oblivion. He needed to rest. Sleep.

“Look! Kili! He is here!” another voice replied, slightly deeper than the previous one. “Under that Orc carcass?” the first voice asked.

“There is so much blood… Isn’t that Azog?”

“Aye! Or what’s left of ‘im,” a third voice joined in. Older. Raspier. 

“Look at his back!” 

“Either that’s Orcrist’s tip or I’m the Goblin Queen! That son of a goat did it! Quickly now, lads, help me take that beast off Thorin. Fili, on my mark, pull!”

There was movement. More voices. Piercing pain. A dull grunt filled Thorin’s ears. Was it his own voice?

“He’s alive!”

“Thank Mahal! Uncle Thorin, can you hear me?”

“He’s unconscious, you lulkh!” “We need to get rid of that filthy Orc blade first. It’s stuck in ice.”

“Slowly now!” A sea of pain washed over Thorin, his whole body stiffening with each wave. But the darkness patiently waited for him and took him in its merciful arms once more.

***

“He’s still breathing!”

“Thorin, wake up! Wake up, ye lazy bastard!” someone growled straight into his ear. “Damn it!”

“Dwalin, look, we stopped the bleeding.”

Those voices again. Pulling Thorin back into consciousness. Into the pain and emptiness.

“Let’s finish dressing his wound and then we’ll take ‘im to Oín,” the growling one said. 

“What’s that, Fili?” the young, familiar voice said. “Where?” “Over there, by that pointy rock on the other side of the river.” 

“Looks like a dead Warg to me,” the one very close to him rasped out. A pair of hands kept on doing something to his chest. It hurt. He wanted it to stop. 

“Too small for a Warg, Dwalin. It’s… by Mahal’s beard!”

“Where are you going, Fili? Wait for me!” The first voice sounded irritated.

A sound of hurried footsteps. Iron-heeled boots against ice. 

“Those two can’t sit in one place in peace if their life depended on…” the raspily-sounding one grunted. “I tell ya, Thorin, when ye’re better, we’ll send them on guard duty. First morning shift for a month. That’ll teach ‘em!”

Somehow, it made Thorin want to smile. But now, even smiling hurt.

“It’s a raven! So big! Look at its wings! Why are you staring, Fili?” the youthful voice reached his ears again.

“I think it’s… the White Raven.”

“What?! It’s just a fairy tale!” “I’ve seen this raven before, Kili,” confidence rang in the second voice. “I think it followed us on the way to Erebor. It helped me fight off a Warg-rider in the Misties just before the eagles came.”

Thorin took a reluctant breath. His heartbeat thrummed in his ears. 

“Whatever it is, it doesn’t look good. There is so much blood… Is it dead, Fili?” “Let me see… That’s a nasty wound.”

Thorin’s muscles tensed. He wanted to open his eyes. He wanted to speak. But his body didn't want to obey.

And then he heard two gasps at the same time.

“What’s happening?”

“Do you see it too, Fili?”

“It’s… it’s magic!”

“No, it’s a shapeshifter!”

“Look! Look!”

“A woman?!”

Both voices intermingled in Thorin’s exhausted mind, making less and less sense. He needed to act. He needed to… He breathed in. The air smelled like snowdrops.

“Thorin! Ye’re back! And here I was thinkin’…” A tattooed forehead and a bushy moustache appeared before his eyes. “Stop squeezing my hand so hard!”

“Carra…” Thorin managed to rasp out. He could barely keep his eyes open.

“What are ye sayin’?” Dwalin demanded.

“Help…. her…” He tried again. “She is…” “What? I can barely hear ye.”

 The last wisps of strength were leaving him. He could feel the darkness beckoning to him once again. “Yasthûnê…” Thorin articulated slowly. “My… wife.”

***

Warm rays of sun gently caress Carra’s cheek, and she enjoys the sensation for a short while before opening her eyes. It takes her a moment to adjust to the bright light. She lays on soft ground, the strands of her silver-white hair interlacing with the lush green blades of grass. A multitude of colourful flowers adorns the meadow around her, their sweet fragrance wafting through the air, intertwining with the lazy buzz of bees. She rolls onto her back and stares at the perfectly clear blue sky above. Then she takes a deep breath. A distant echo of pain rings out in her mind, but there are no bruises or wounds on her body. 

When a puffy white cloud drifts into her blurred field of vision, Carra wipes off the wetness from her cheeks, stands up, and looks around. The endless meadow seems to stretch for miles in every direction. A soft breeze kisses her face, bringing the faint sound of water lapping against a distant shore. She follows it, and soon, a sparse grove of trees appears in front of her. Beyond it, she sees a stream, its silvery current sparkling in the sun. For a brief moment, an orange butterfly dances just above her nose and then flies off towards the meadow behind her. Carra’s eyes follow its flight when a curious harmony of sounds draws her attention back to the stream.

Tap-tap. Swoosh. Tap-tap. Swoosh.

It seems to be coming from across the stream, and Carra decides to find its source.

Tap-tap. Swoosh. Tap-tap. Swoosh.

As she walks through the grove, she encounters a young doe nibbling on a nearby shrub. It glances at her curiously and then trots away, as if deciding that Carra’s presence is disturbing its meal. 

Tap-tap. Swoosh. Tap-tap. Swoosh.

Carra walks on, her bare feet sinking into the silky soft moss, step after step, until she finds herself at the edge of the grove. The stream is only several steps ahead. Its murmuring waters bring a hum of voices.

Tap-tap. Swoosh. Ta-tap. Ta-tap. Tap.

An irritated sigh.

“Another broken thread?” A warm, feminine voice asks. It makes Carra think of spring in full bloom.

“Too many of them. It seems like another busy day for my husband.” Another woman speaks, her voice as melodious as the nearby stream.

“And you? You have been weaving since dawn,” the first one says.

“This pattern grows ever more complicated. It changes much too often for my taste these days.” The other woman sighs again. “Tell me that at least your work bears fruit.” “Some of these seeds refuse to sprout. The taint is spreading. I feel it in the earth.”

“The Fallen One is regaining his strength,” a third voice joins in. Deep and resonant. “I see his traces beyond the veil.”

Carra takes a careful step forward and focuses all of her attention at the opposite side of the stream. There, a garden of breathtaking beauty blooms before her eyes. Within it, she notices three silhouettes, the owners of the voices she hears. At first, their appearance seems similar to Elves, but soon after, Carra quickly understands her error. They are taller, their posture and movements are even more graceful, and there seems to be an otherworldly glow about them. Whenever she tries to look up into their faces, Carra has to squint—not only because of their radiance but also because their features seem to be ever-changing, fluid, like water in a mountain stream. Each of these noble figures is clad in finely ornamented robes that sway slightly when the same gentle breeze that brought her here plays with their hems.  

One of the ladies kneels on the ground, ignoring the dirt stains on her garments. Their fabric is as green as her eyes. Her right hand rests over the brown, freshly turned soil and wisps of chestnut hair fall over her eyes. The other lady, her hair wavy and black as night, sits by a strangely-looking wooden frame with numerous threads attached to this elaborate contraption. Their colours form an intricate, multi-level pattern that seems to grow—bloom—in all directions in Carra’s eyes. She immediately feels dizzy and has to look away. Then her attention focuses on the third figure that  joined the others a mere moment ago. A strapping man, his aspect equally stunning as those of his two companions, strolls towards them, his movements measured and dignified. As far as she can discern, he is clean-shaven, unlike Dwarves, and his long, white hair flows freely down his shoulders. In his hands, there is a silver jug, its surface glistening in the sun.

“Even though you bring morbid news, you are a welcome sight, brother-in-law!” the black-haired lady says, clasping her hands and moving away from her loom. “May I offer you some refreshment?” He bows reverently to his companions, and before they respond, he fills three silver cups with the contents of the jug.

Carra licks her parched lips.

“The sweet water from your fount!” The Green Lady stands up graciously and takes one of the cups. 

“I know how fond you are of its taste.” The man’s hair dances in the wind as he speaks. An orange butterfly flutters among his flowing strands. “You come bearing gifts but it is not why you are here.” The Weaver looks into his eyes.

“I have simply come to admire your weaving skills,” he offers.

“Dear Dreamer, you are curious about my winged children, are you not?” The Green Lady gives him a nod.

“It is only natural,” he refills her cup. “Some of them bear our blessing, do they not?” “Indeed they do.” The Weaver approaches him with her cup and states, “How interesting that you chose today of all days.”

“My visions are blurred. Inconclusive.” He stills, gazing up into the sky, and then turning his attention back to the two women. “Tell me, have our gifts to them remained a blessing or have they rather turned into a curse?”

The Weaver sits back at her loom and looks closely at the glistening fabric; her fingers run along some part of the pattern hidden from Carra’s sight. “Your children have been fulfilling their duties well. Although the youngest one tends to make my work a tad more challenging.”

“The youngest one?” the man frowns.

“The one with  wings dusted with silver.” The Green Lady takes a sip from her cup, her features schooled in a neutral expression.

“Silver? That certainly explains quite a bit. Your husband and his experiments…” The Weaver shakes her head. “Why now? Why this one?”

“I truly cannot say.”The Green Lady gives her an enigmatic smile and takes another sip. “But perhaps you would rather see her for yourselves.”

“Perhaps we would.” The Weaver’s fingers hover above the countless threads of her loom while the man nods. The butterfly lands on his shoulder, folding its orange wings.

“Very well. She has been listening to us long enough,” the Green Lady says, taking a look at the dark patch of planting ground under her feet. “Come, child.”

It takes Carra a blink of an eye to realise that she is not standing in the grove any longer. She gasps and blinks twice, but her eyes do not deceive her. Now she faces three luminous beings—in their garden across the stream.

“Great Mother!” she whispers and falls on her knees in front of the lady clad in green, bowing her head. In the presence of these great figures, blinded by their magnificent splendour, she feels like a feeble, featherless fledgling that fell out from its nest.

“Rise, Carra,” the Green Lady addresses her softly, and Cara does what she is told. “Do you know why you are here, my child?”

“I…” she croaks faintly, unable to stop staring into Great Mother’s incandescent face. A kaleidoscope of images fills her mind. The freezing ice. Thorin’s face when he notices her and his widened blue eyes. The Pale Orc, his teeth bare, with his blade pointed at her mate. Her bloodied talons clawing at Azog’s face. And then—darkness.

“I have died.” She hears her own voice. 

In a blink of an eye, the images are gone, dispelled like a wisp of smoke on the wind. Only the orange butterfly swirls around her head.

“Do you know, child,” there is a frown on the Weaver's face when she turns to Carra from above her loom, “how thin these threads are? How delicate? Even the slightest whiff of wind can change the pattern—or destroy it as if it was a spider’s net.”

“I have only tried to protect the pattern,” Carra swallows, feeling three pairs of eyes on her.

“You have saved some vital parts of it, that is true, but I hear that you also left us with tangles in the weave,” now her life-giver speaks, her eyes glistening like emerald waters of a fathomless lake.

“Forgive me, Great Mother. The line of Durin had to stay unbroken. I did my best. But I have failed,” Carra hears her own trembling voice. “Darkness clouded my dreams…”

“And so you staked out your own path, Silver One,” the Weaver speaks as if to herself, patting her index finger against her lips in reverie. “Which left us with all those new thread combinations.”

Then she exchanges a glance with her companions, and the man called Dreamer speaks.

“See for yourself,” his eyes, grey like a wolf’s fur, rest on Carra. First, he raises his eyebrow but then motions her towards a small rock basin. She can swear that this object has not been there a moment ago. He takes the silver jug and fills the basin with a narrow, glistening stream of water. The orange butterfly dances above it and then rises above their heads. The water’s surface resembles a mirror, and Carra’s eyes are drawn to the movement she seems to see in its depths.

Countless veins of silver run through coarse stone walls of a cave, glittering like gossamer strands that cover foliage at dawn, but instead of dewdrops, tears flow down from a Dwarf-woman’s cheeks, following the crevices of her wrinkled face. She wears a crown of snow-white braided hair and a dark blue robe with golden ornaments. In her weatherworn hand, she holds a piece of parchment with a green, rectangular seal at the bottom. Beside her sits a slightly hunched elderly Dwarf with bushy, grey whiskers and rows of faded tattoos on his bald head.

“Now we are the last ones, Dwalin,” the Dwarf lady sobs. “My boys… My brothers… And then Balin… Dain and his son… Gone.”

“Aye,” the old warrior gently closes his hand over hers. “But they will not be forgotten.”

“Gone…” Carra’s lips tremble as she stops herself at the last moment from touching the water. As she moves her hand back, a curtain of ripples falls over the image, changing the scenery.

The image of the familiar green and black shape of the Great Gate of Erebor fills the rock basin. An army of Dwarves rides to battle on their war rams, led by the King Under the Mountain. Carra recognizes his blade at once. Orcrist. It is Thorin! She gasps. The Raven Crown graces his temples frosted with grey. And his beard has the same colouring as her feathers. Silver-white. As the events unfold, she recognizes them from her past dreams. The Dwarves of the Lonely Mountain and the Iron Hills join forces with the Men of Dale. The battle is long and bloody, but the allied forces ultimately crush their enemies. At that moment, the vision changes. She does not recognize this new detail. An armour-clad warrior rides from Dale on a white war ram. As soon as Thorin sees him, he dismounts, and soon both men greet each other with a strong embrace.

“The city is safe, adad!” The young warrior grins, taking off his helmet. The wind plays with his entangled hair, which seems to glow in the setting sun.

“You did well, Thráin,” Thorin replies, his gaze softening. He presses his forehead against Thráin’s and whispers, “You made me proud, son.”

A faint whiff of wind kisses the water’s surface, transforming it into a flurry of silvery ripples.

By a gilded cradle sits a young Dwarf-woman. Her chestnut hair glints as if enchanted with fire, contrasting with the snow-white laces of her sleeping gown. The mithril beads in her braids clink when she takes her babe into her arms, and a smile brightens her heart-shaped face.

“You will be a king one day,” she whispers lovingly, kissing her little one on his forehead. Quietly humming a sweet lullaby, she adjusts the blanket her son is wrapped in. Carra notices that its hem is embroidered with little black and golden ravens.

A sudden wrinkle on the water disturbs its surface, making the water glitter like diamonds.

A cold, pale sheen illuminates the green marble walls when the King Under the Mountain ensconces on his throne. The source of this light comes from a jewel of unmatched beauty set over the king's head. The golden and obsidian crown rests on his raven-black hair. But the ruler of Erebor, Thorin II Oakenshield, is not smiling. A deep, menacing frown darkens his face. In his hand, he holds a wide dwarvish sword. Blood drips from its tip onto the cracked marble floor. There is no red-haired Dwarf queen beside him. There are no children playing at his feet. There is only deathly silence. And the shadow he casts is that of a dragon.

When the visions finally fade, Carra finds herself staring into the bottomless depths of a pair of grey eyes. She does not notice when the orange butterfly lands on the edge of the empty jug.  

***

“Carra…” her name sounded like a helpless croak. Thorin’s throat was parched.

It took him a while to regain all of his senses and open his eyes. He lay on a large cot in a spacious tent that looked suspiciously like a work of Elvish hands. He grunted. Every single part of his body seemed to hurt. Bandages covered most of his torso, and he could not move his arm without inducing even more pain. 

A louder groan left his lips when he tried to sit up and failed. Something in the nearest corner of the tent moved.

“Your Majesty…” A young Dwarf in a healer’s tunic appeared seemingly out of nowhere. “You are awake!”

“Where…” Thorin coughed. Even breathing drained his strength.

“All is well, my lord. Try not to speak, please. The enemy is defeated. Erebor is once again ours.”

“Is… my…” His attempt at speaking failed once more.

“Your kin and companions are alive and well, Your Majesty.” A mug was pressed against his lips, and Thorin greedily drank its contents. He welcomed the sweet taste of water on his tongue. It probably came from the spring at Ravenhill.

Ravenhill.

His heart sank.

“Carra…? Where…?” he whispered. Every word felt like a struggle.

“Forgive me, my lord, who?” the healer frowned.

Thorin did not respond. He was already asleep.

***

“The White Raven?” Dain Ironfoot’s brow furrowed as he clutched a tankard in his hand. “Here, in Erebor? Are ye drunk, Fili?”

“It’d take more than a mug of ale to make me drunk, Uncle!” the young dwarf protested. “I swear on Mahal’s beard. She fought the Pale Orc together with Uncle Thorin and…”

“She?” said Agnarr, one of Dain’s captains who sat on his left, raising his eyebrows, which resembled a thick, black caterpillar.

“Aye! I found her myself! And then Tharkûn said… well, he didn’t want to say anything about her at first, but I convinced him to tell me…” Kili started with a mischievous smirk, only to be interrupted by his brother.

“He followed the wizard day and night and bombarded him with questions, until Tharkûn had enough,” Fili whispered conspiratorially, leaning towards Dain.

“Well, I convinced him, didn’t I?” Kili huffed. “The wizard said that if not for her, Thorin’s fate would have been very different! You saw that wound of his.” “Aye, if that orc blade went in a bit lower, he’d be resting in the catacombs together with the kings of old,” Ironfoot muttered under his breath.

“Exactly. Besides, before he left, Tharkûn mentioned something about treasure, too!”

“A treasure?” Dain Ironfoot asked.

Kili shrugged in response, “I don’t think he meant the gold in our mountain…”

“Wizards and their riddles…” Dori sighed, pouring himself another mug of ale.

“So ye’re telling me,” Dain demanded, “that a creature straight from our legends appeared out of thin air and fought the Pale Orc with Thorin? And that the White Raven is a woman?”

“And a pretty one, too!” Bofur winked. “That hair of hers…! White as snow!”

“More like silver-white to me,” Fili puffed out a cloud of pipeweed smoke.

“Was she not supposed to be a great bird? Like the legends say?” Dain grunted.

“She is!” Kili nodded eagerly. “I mean, she was a bird, but then she turned into a woman, I saw it with my own eyes!”

“Now she looks more like a Dwarf,” Fili added.

“A raven looking like a Dwarf?” Vari, son of Nari, another of Dain’s soldiers, scratched his bald head.

“And a bit like an Elf, too,” Kili grinned and waved his hand in the air. “She has pointy ears, you know. Ouch, Fili, why did you kick me?”

Dain groaned, “Pointy ears…? By Mahal’s beard, I think I need another mug of ale.”

“Are ye drinkin’ without us, ye sewer rats?” Dwalin appeared by the table, followed by his brother.

“We’re all celebratin’ our victory over the orcs and wargs!” Captain Agnarr pointed at the multiple groups of Dwarves gathered around them in one of the least ruined halls of the Lonely Mountain.

“There’s nothing better for a soldier’s morale than a few casks of the Iron Hills ale,” Balin sat beside him and poured two mugs—for himself and Dwalin. “What would you say about a toast?”

“To victory?” Ori proposed.

“We drank for that last time,” Vari shook his head. 

“If all you said is true, lads,” Drengi, a large dwarf, said, two golden teeth glinting in his mouth, “we should be toasting the White Raven.”

“To the White Raven!” strong voices echoed against the ceiling of the cavern as more dwarves joined the toast with their mugs raised into the air.

“To Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain!”

“To King Thorin!”

“To the Lonely Mountain!”

“To the Longbeards!”

In the growing racket, Balin turned to Fili and Kili.

“What did you tell them, lads?”

“Nothing much besides what we saw when we found Uncle Thorin after the battle,” Fili said.

“And that the White Raven helped us during the Quest,” added Kili. “Fili, I completely forgot! Remember what Uncle Thorin called her when we were taking him back to the Lonely Mountain?”

Fili nodded, but before he answered, Balin put his hand on Kili’s shoulder.

“That, my boy, is better left unsaid.”

“But Uncle Dain said that the King Under the Mountain will need a queen now and that he has a perfect candidate for Uncle Thorin. How can Uncle Thorin marry her if he…” Kili continued.

“This is the conversation that Thorin—and Thorin only—needs to have with Dain. Do you understand?” the elderly dwarf searched their faces solemnly.

“Aye, Uncle Balin, we do,” Fili reassured him.

***

“...since we moved his majesty into the Mountain. His fever has dropped and the wounds are healing well but he keeps on asking about someone named Carra.”

“Thank you, Nari, you were most helpful. Try to catch some sleep. I will stay with him now.” Words spoken in a soothing timbre of voice reached Thorin through the haze of dreams.

“Balin?” he blinked a few times, trying to chase the drowsiness away.

“I’m here, laddie,” a familiar silhouette in a burgundy robe stood before him. “You gave us a scare for a wee moment there.”

Thorin could not stop himself from smiling at the sight of the familiar face of his old mentor. As he attempted to sit up, an intense spike of pain ran through the left side of his body. The only thing he managed to do was lift his head slightly. At that moment, an additional pillow was placed beneath it. He grunted. At least the Dwarvish beds were much more comfortable than the Elvish ones.

“Carefully now, laddie. No sudden movements. Your foot needs time to heal properly. Your left shoulder and arm were badly injured too. The healers had to use a splint…” 

It was a challenge to focus on Balin’s words, but as the dizziness subsided, Thorin’s thoughts became more coherent. Various parts of his body ached, his left leg felt heavy, and he could not move his left arm—it was indeed encased in a splint, exactly like Balin said—but he was able to take a look around the room. Even if he did not recognize this particular place, he recognized its walls hewn from the same greenish rock as the walls of the old chambers he used to live in as a young prince. A lifetime ago. And now, he was home again. Home.

“Tell me everything. Is Erebor safe?” With a pained grunt, he turned towards Balin. 

“Aye. Worry not, the Mountain is well-protected. Dain is here with his warriors. We are working on making our home liveable again,” Balin replied, patting Thorin’s right hand, which lay on the bed. “You did well, laddie. The corridors and caverns are echoing with stories about the return of the King Under the Mountain who killed the Pale Orc and avenged his esteemed grandsire.”

Killed. He swallowed, attempting to ignore the memories of that fight that came back to him like an unstoppable flood—and of the price he paid to survive. Or rather, the price someone else paid for him. He lost her.

“King? Me? A Dwarf who succumbed to the curse that plagues his house? Who valued hoarded gold over…” With a sneer, Thorin looked away, his voice hollow. “I am not worthy of that title, Balin. Not any longer.”

“Do you remember that audience in the throne room when King Thrór met with the refugees from the White Mountains? You were still a prince at that time.”

“How could I forget? Not only did I break protocol, but also I interrupted Grandfather. I declared that if he would not send his troops, I would fight the Orcs who invaded their homes—on my own. Mother was truly ashamed of me on that day. And Father would not speak to me for a month.” “Ah, the impulsiveness of youth,” Balin nodded. “But you have always had your heart in the right place. Do you remember what I told you on that very day?”

“Life is like a battle. When you fall, you have to rise again and fight. Otherwise you lose,” Thorin said under his breath. He recalled the countless nights when he whispered those words to himself, lying on the hard ground, far from home, when the thought of retribution was the only thing that drove him forward.

 “We reclaimed our homeland thanks to you. You overcame the curse and led us to victory. You have fought and won this great battle, Thorin,” the elderly Dwarf spoke softly.

“I did not. Not alone,” Thorin admitted, unable to look Balin in the eye, his throat constricted. Something ached in his chest, and it was not his wound. “I had help.”

“Indeed. I saw the Pale Orc’s corpse. It bore marks of dwarven weapons… and others that bore resemblance to talons and a beak,” the older Dwarf said.

Thorin did not reply. Not because he chose not to speak but because the right words would not come to him.

After a pause, his mentor added, “Fili claims that he heard a deafening sound, like a large bird’s screech, only moments before they caught sight of you on the frozen river.”

“A screech…” Thorin repeated to himself. Something stirred in his mind; Azog’s hideous grimace, the ice beneath him reverberating with a strange sound that filled the air, and the moment when the tip of Orcrist’s blade plunged into the Orc’s chest. He blinked several times. His own words rang in his ears.

“Carra, no!”

He remembered the darkness that came afterwards. And pain.

 A life for a life.

It should have been him.

Balin’s voice seemed to come from far away.

“... I heard the guards retelling the old legends of the White Raven. And a new tale is spreading through Erebor: a story about a large, white-feathered raven that bravely fought by the King Under the Mountain’s side at Ravenhill,” he said.

Thorin remained silent, staring at the white sheets that covered him. White as ice on that day. White as the feathers in her wings. He felt cold.

Silence seemed to stretch between them like the bottomless chasm beneath the Mountain until Balin spoke again. 

“Help me understand this, laddie.” 

Reluctantly, Thorin’s fingers found the leather band strung around his neck and pulled it from under the blankets that covered him. His old friend’s eyes widened at the sight of a silver-white feather.

“The White Raven…” The words in Thorin’s mouth tasted like ash. “Carra. I have known her for most of my life. After Smaug's attack, she left her nest behind and followed me to the Blue Mountains.” Thorin met his mentor’s eyes. 

“The White Raven... The stuff of legend, eh?” Balin hummed, examining the feather with reverence.

“I am aware of what it must sound like. Legend or not, she is real. She was,” he corrected himself, swallowing hard. “At Ravenhill… Had she not intervened, Azog would have taken my life. She chose ’ugbalul ’uhaskhajam and gave her life for me instead.”

“Thorin… By Mahal’s hammer, laddie, what are you saying?” The feather fell from his mentor’s hand onto the bed. “’Ugbalul ’uhaskhajam, the act of sacrificing one’s life in battle to protect another, is only performed by one’s kin!”

“Or a spouse,” explained Thorin flatly.

Balin looked down at the silver-white feather and then glanced towards the door before speaking again.

“Dwalin told me that you spoke of a wife,” the elderly Dwarf said. “We thought it might have been your feverish mind speaking, nothing more.”

“It was not. She is… Carra was my wife, Balin.” His own whisper sounded hollow.

Balin stayed silent for a few heartbeats and then cleared his throat, as if deciding on something.

“That certainly explains quite a bit—including a very curious occurrence. You see, Thorin, after the battle, we did not find any signs of this revered bird at Ravenhill. Instead, there is a strange woman of mysterious provenance in our infirmary, and the healers…”

“Here, in Erebor?! Alive?” Thorin grabbed Balin’s sleeve, seeing him nod. “Tell me, what colour is this woman’s hair?!”

“Her hair is like this feather: white, dusted with silver,” his mentor replied. “She lives and is under good care. We brought her into the Mountain together with you, but...”

“Thank Mahal!” Thorin rested on his right arm, lifting his upper body as much as he could. “Balin, take me to her at once!”

Swiftly, he moved to the side in an attempt to rise from the bed while a pang of pain shot through his body, sudden like lightning. He fell onto his pillows, taking deep breaths and fighting a wave of dizziness.

“I am afraid you are in no shape to walk, laddie,” Balin rested his hand on his uninjured shoulder. “You are on the mend, but the healers say that you will need time to…”

“Balin! By Mahal’s beard!” Thorin fisted his hand, trying to curb his temper and ignore the pain. “Do you not understand? I need to see her!”

“You are as stubborn as your grandfather,” the elderly Dwarf shook his head in defeat. “Let me talk with Nari and see what can be done. I will be back in a jiffy.”

Balin’s jiffy felt like an eternity to Thorin, but he waited, albeit impatiently.

Carra was alive.

🌟 Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 ... 🌟

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[littlest-dark-age]

Day 1 : Fall out in the cold star light

Stalker eddie can't seem to keep his hands to himself

tw : somno, thigh fucking, pet names (precious angel, baby, good slut), eddie calls himself daddy, delusional eddie, slight degradation, mentions of eddie following reader. If I missed anything, please let me know

Eddie knows he shouldn't feel like this, and that his feelings towards you shouldn't push him to do illegal actions. Especially when the town already is convinced he sacrifices goats behind his trailer, yet he can't seem to help it. Finding himself standing in front of your house well past midnight, with such perverse intentions. 

He didn't mean to sneak in while you were home the first time it happened and panicked when he saw your sleeping form tucked into your cozy bed. You had said that you'd be staying the night with Robin whenever he was watching you in the library. Yet in the few hours that he wasn't staring at the back of your head and straining his ears to hear your words, something had come up for her to not be able to have you over that night. Eddie quickly decided that this, being able to watch over you as you rested peacefully unaware of him so close, was better than shoving his face in your pillow and blowing his load all over your poor teddy bears. This is where such a dirty and disgusting habit was born. Sneaking in when he knew you were at home and daring himself to do more and more every night, silently hoping you'd wake in the midst of him touching you. 

Eddie climbs the vine covered lattice panel until he's able to grab onto the edge of your cracked window and hauls himself into your room. Instantly being welcomed by the gentle glow of your little lamp tucked away on the corner of your desk and the sight of you, slightly snoring with your face squished into the pillow. 

A smile spreads across his face at the sight of you, his sweet angel, before he shrugs off his jacket and vest and carefully kicks off his beat up shoes near the window. Eddie shuffles over to the side of your bed in the dim light, trying to be quiet so as to not wake you. He bends down and softly strokes your exposed cheek with his large, warm hands. A bolt of excitement running through him like it always does whenever he gets to feel you, even if it's something as simple as resting his hand on your cheek. 

Growing bolder at the fact that you didn't stir at the light touch, he presses a gentle kiss to your forehead and another to the tip of your nose. Resting his own forehead against yours, Eddie closes his eyes and simply breathes you in for a moment. Before he mixes your intoxicating scent with his own. 

"I love you so much baby. Can't ever get you out of my head but I'm not sure if I want to." His gentle mumbles seem so loud in the calm air of your bedroom. 

Slowly standing all the way up, he begins to crawl onto the bed with you. Stilling when his weight causes the springs to creek as he examines your face for any signs of your waking while he has one knee on the bed, perched on the soft mattress to be as close as he possibly can be. The closeness and your scent causing his cock to stir in his ripped jeans and making them even tighter on him. 

Eddie is finally able to settle in and lay down next to your sleeping body, tucking himself into your neck as he slides his hands over your blanket covered side. Slowly rubbing up and down the length of your side before beginning to tug the soft blanket down, little by little. Revealing your cute pajamas that you got for your birthday last year that also happened to be your favorite, at least that's what you told Robin. He feels like he knows you so well yet is still so far away from you, as if you were the sun and he was the moon. Forced away from one another, yet Eddie couldn't resist your pull. Always wanting to keep you in view, needing to know every scrap of information you would give him. Even if you didn't know you were giving it to him. You consumed Eddie in every way possible and had to know you did, it's why you never bothered to lock your window or the reason you'd always wear such cute night clothes when you knew he was going to sneak in. At least, that's what Eddie convinced himself to push the guilt down of cumming into your underwear the first time. Now he doesn't care, too high on the feeling of you and being able to feel you. 

Blinking away the thoughts that flood his corrupt mind, Eddie shifts you carefully onto your back and finishes tugging the covers down to your thighs. 

"My precious angel….god, look at you. You were teasing me today, weren't you? Showing off those legs during gym because you missed me? You don't have to slut yourself out like that just because I've been busy, honey. Daddy was just busy, that's all. Didn't forget about you….not one bit." Eddie practically purrs out into the silence of your room while fumbling with the knot on the drawstrings of your pajama bottoms. 

He pulls down the bottoms and lifts your legs ever so slightly, giving himself just enough room to wiggle between them. His cold rings grazing your warm and soft skin as he looks down at you from sitting on his knees. Free hand reaching down to unzip and pull his half hard cock out of his jeans, hissing at the cold. Shifting his hips so he can rut against your thigh, brows furrowing at the feeling of your pillow soft skin. 

The sound of Eddie's jeans ruffling against your sheets fill the room along with the quiet squeaking of your bed as he rubs himself against your thighs. Eagerly tugging up your top to reveal your chest, he leans down and presses sloppy open mouthed kisses all over your stomach. Hunched over your body, covering every possible inch of skin with his drooly kisses, slowly making his way up your chest and around your nipples. Flicking his tongue over the sensitive bud and moaning at the taste of your skin. 

"Hold on baby, sorry, gonna rearrange you a bit," he shuffles around so both of your legs are to the left of him and pressed together, trapping his cock between your thighs ",there we go. Fuck…" 

Eddie slowly starts to pump his cock between your legs, squeezing his eyes shut and tossing his head back. Imagining how much better it would feel to actually be in you. 

"No no no, not yet. Want you awake when I finally fuck you. Wanna watch you struggle to take my cock, gonna stretch you out so fucking good. Its tempting though, fucking you awake. Watching that peaceful face turn to shock when you realize what's going on. See those pretty eyes roll back when you feel how good I am to you, that I'm doing all of it to make you feel good." He rambles to the ceiling, hips slapping against your thighs and making them jiggle with every thrust. The mental image of you spread out on his dick causing the knot in his stomach to tangle even further, bolts of pleasure running through him as sweat starts to form on his hairline. 

Jaw dropping as he tries to bite back his moans, whines and hushed whimpers still escaping. Wanting so badly to be able to moan out your name like a prayer but knowing it wouldn't end well if your parents found the town freak corrupting and using their child's body for his own sick desires. The thought of them, and the whole town, knowing that you're his nearly sends him over the edge. You'd be branded with the mark of the beast in their minds and so he'd get you all to himself for whatever he wanted. 

Eddie yanks your underwear hurriedly, holding up one of your legs against him so he can tug on his weeping cook. Gripping himself, he quickly begins to fuck his fist. Pressing kisses to your calf that's resting on his shoulder, the knot in his belly finally snapping as he cums all over you. Thick white spurts coating your precious skin as his whole body shudders. Hips pumping into his slick fist so he can give you every drop of his cum as he pants. 

"Fuck, take it. Take it like a good slut for daddy. That's it baby, that's it…" He rasps out with closed eyes before gulping and beginning to adjust your clothes. Rubbing your underwear into his cum to make a nice wet spot that you'll get embarrassed about in the morning. 

Eddie takes a moment to make sure his knees won't give out as he's climbing back down your lattice paneling, watching your chest rise with every breath. Thinking about how tomorrow during lunch, you'll tell Robin that you think you might need to see someone for leaving such a large wet patch in your underwear over a dream. Not knowing that the town freak, Eddie munson, was the cause

[beebopboom]

Refined by Fire

annndddd we are back folks with the Death of one Agnes Nutter

Awhile ago @justhereforthemeta made this post about Agnes having some parallels to Jesus which is what really got the wheels turning in my brain in the first place and well now here we are

but just to recap-

Check out part 1 for a list of all her prophecies that we know of and all the artwork I could find referenced in her book

In part 2 we started to dive into where she was getting her prophecies from through some clues left in her book and on her work bench

but now we are going to look into the events surrounding her death

There is something poetic about the last true witch in England and all her prophetic work going up in flames. Even moreso that Agnes Nutter knew her fate and yet she still went out on her own explosive terms

But let's just start with the basics

Fire

Biblically speaking fire is seen as a symbol of God's presence and a tool for their judgement - to either purify or destroy

But generally speaking it is a symbol of transformation, purification, and rebirth

Pentacle

Now something interesting Agnes wears to her death - other than roofing nails and gunpowder - is a pentacle. From my understanding the main difference between a pentacle and pentagram is just the circle on the outside

At their core pentacles - no matter the symbol on the inside - are objects of evocation. Heinrich Cornelius Agrippa summarized their use as,

“fore-know all future, and command whole nature, have power over devils, and Angels, and do miracles”

Going back a bit to the actual symbol on the inside - the pentagram was actually an early symbol for the five wounds of Jesus represented by the five points. This was a symbol of the church and could be used as a symbol of protection against demons and witches

Now it wasn't really until the 1800’s that this symbol started to be associated with the more modern interputation with witchcraft and even then it was only associated with “evil” when inverted.

There is a long history with this symbol with tons of different meanings - from the body of man to the elements with a common theme of mind over matter - but at the time of Agnes’s death, 1656, it had not yet been associated as a symbol of witchcraft as far as I am aware but I’m willing to accept that maybe it was just an oversight or that I’m reading too far into it as it really is just a small detail.

Offering

A burnt one to be exact - now just hear me out I know we are going off the rails a bit

Yes burnt offerings are laid out to only be certain animals but there are instances of human ones as well - Jephthah’s daughter for example and well, Jesus.

Not that the show skips out on the animal burnt offering just look to the Job minisode plenty of examples there - the goats supposedly destroyed in the explosions only for them to be transformed and the whole ass ox upon the altar - but anyway

Jesus’s sacrifice on the Cross is seen as like the Ultimate Burnt Offering apparently. Burnt offerings were typically used as a way to atone for wrongdoings, to show appreciation and a way to appease God - the act of completing giving oneself over to God.

But because Jesus died on the Cross people no longer had to atone. With the burnt offering Jesus accomplishes the Will of God - completely consumed and ascended to God - he restores humanity relationship with God.

So upon the altar that they willingly went to, they were tied. For they knew the reason of their death and called out,

Father, please. You have to forgive them. They don’t know what they are doing

And let my death be a message to the world. Come. Come, gather thee close I say, and mark ye well the fate of those who meddle with such as they do not understand.

Those around them are unaware of the consequences of their actions - one begs for their forgiveness, the other cast judgement onto them.

Agnes does not take her fate of going out quietly. If her death is be an offering, of the start of the end - well what better way to go than with a bang

All her neighbors that she helped heal had all turned on her and called for her death - so she gave them their judgement through explosion and roofing nails

Her village got a completely new start with her death - a chance to be better

also fun fact the Hebrew word for "burnt offering" actually means to “ascend” mainly referring to the smoke that would rise and the smell would appease God

(also maybe there is something to be said about how they were early for Job and late for Agnes)

Gold

but Agnes’s story hardly ends with her death - No her work lives on but we aren’t here to talk about her prophecies but rather something she gives in return for keeping them safe

Gold Coins

she leaves a letter each for the two men we see having to keep track of the box containing the further prophecies and when those letters are opened out drops a gold coin

They each have a different reaction to the gold coin - one acknowledges it and then continues on to his letter the other reads letter first and then scrambles to grab the coin and leave.

Now gold in general is a symbol of God’s glory and is associated with a divine presence. It can also represent material and spiritual wealth.

but it’s probably worth mentioning The Parable of the Ten Gold Coins yeah?

In this Jesus tells of a nobleman that gives one coin each to ten servants and tells them to use it while he is gone and when he gets back the first one had turned his one coin into ten, the second had turned his into five, and the third hid his in fear of losing it. The first two are praised and rewarded while the third is punished.

The message from this is that of how people are to use the gifts given to them in order to produce results for the Kingdom of God whenever it comes around. People are to use their gifts wisely, responsibility, and productively.

Now remember those two men from earlier - one using the coin and predictions to build a successful law firm and the other almost seems like a punishment? Where is our first/middle man? The Device family? I would say so

*kicking at the door with Job parallels* Not now

Originally I thought this was a lesson of greed but this seemed to fit slightly more. Also way to hammer in that you are a divine presence Agnes with the gold

Agnes has rigged her Wheel of Fate and I hope she is raising some hell up in Heaven - she certainly succeeded on Earth

————————————————————————

and that’s a wrap on her death. Join in next time for the finale where we will dive into the legacy left behind - family, masonry, ……and what’s up with Maggie?

[blluespirit]

Episode 6 thoughts babey,,,,

Here are my thoughts on: episodes 1-3; episode 4 and episode 5!

Things I like:

Okay I see we’re starting off with emotional devastation write off the bat with a Zuko flashback. Dallas does a good job at portraying now-Zuko and before-Zuko. HES JUST TRYING HIS BEST HE JUST WANTS TO MAKE HIS FATHER PROUD OF HIM!! HE WANTS TO HELP OTHERS AND HES PUNISHED FOR IT!! 😭😭😭

Finally!!!! we are getting more Zuko and Zhao conflict. We needed to see more of Zhao as a villain

June flirting with Iroh is so funny and far better than in the og

anyone: this place is impenetrable. zuko: say no more 😉

oh my god they did the zuko sequence of him taking out those guards to get to Aang so well!

Love the whole zuko rescuing Aang from Zhao it was perfect ✨

Zuko meticulously finding out all the information he can about the past Avatars to the point where Aang says no one else knows this stuff is so important to me

Also I like how Aang and Zuko got a longer conversation than in canon. they had a nice moment there 😌 that will get Zuko Contemplating Treason for sure. Well actually - more treason than what he’s already done (thinking about you: siege of the north)

the 41st division being Zuko’s crew is an interesting choice!!! I’m actually sobbing about it!! To me it’s both a bad and good choice. I’ve explained my thoughts below and in the next section

Despite what I say below, Zuko’s crew bowing to him after they find out Zuko’s actions saved their life is such a good scene. Zuko seeing the product of having compassion and empathy for others as something positive, rather than something he’s ultimately punished for.

things I don’t like:

Zhao’s speech kinda sucked tbh. in the og it was much more grand and terrifying. He's on ground level with the soldiers instead of on that grand balcony. In the original he goats how fire is the superior element, how they're going to raze the Earth Kingdom to the ground. But in this one, it's just not the same level of brainwash-y propaganda-ryness that would have made SO much more chilling

idk but i preferred when Koh was a bit more mysterious and we didn’t really know much about him except that he stole the face of Avatar Kuruk’s lover and like some more vague info that leaves you intrigued about the mystery. like who the fuck is the mother of faces (i know she’s from the comics but still). And why did Roku steal it from him at all? idk im confused

Idk why they made Zuko stand and fight Ozai????? Ozai burning his own child who refused to fight him was a part of the horror of it all. Zuko refused to fight his father and begged for his forgiveness but Ozai still burned him anyway. I guess it still gets the cruelty across and that Zuko’s own compassion is used against him and Ozai is an irredeemable monster, but i still think it’s Not A Good Change.

Like I said above, Zuko’s crew being the 41st is not a bad thing! But I do just want to say that in the original, the attack goes ahead, and presumably, those soldiers die. It’s horrible. Zuko’s sacrifice is in vein and it was always going to be in vain because the Fire Nation as its stands would not allow it. Ozai would not allow it. I think that, like I said, it’s not necessarily a bad choice, but I think it does take away some of the horror of Zuko’s story (same as it does with making Zuko fight back in my opinion). HOWEVER, I do think it’s not all bad. I loved the scene where the crew bows to him - like I said above 🥹

Aang just giving Koh the statue and then all the people are just freed and he doesn’t even say anything wtf 💀

also i was so excited for roku’s appearance but i just thought it was disappointing. stop info dumping!!!! leave something up for interpretation I am BEGGING. “And she is Koh’s mother. Koh longs for the same thing we all do. Family.” maybe i’m being a bitch about this but it just annoys me!!!!!!! stop spelling things out! Koh is so much better when he’s mysterious and unknowable!! why is Roku's whole presence to be here and info-dump about Koh instead of all the meaningful and wise interactions he has with Aang in the original. simply ✨no✨

As you’ve seen from my previous entries, I try to have more positives than negatives but there were some things in this episode that irritated me and that i couldn’t ignore lol hopefully it gets better.... 😅

There were still parts i loved! Aang and Zuko's interactions were great and teh whole sequence of them escaping was wonderful. I likes Zuko interacting with the crew and Iroh trying to care for Zuko but not really knowing how to reach out to him.

On to the next one!

[softlytowardthesun]

Wich are your favorite fairy tale couples/romances and why?

*cracks knuckles* I'm excited for this one!

It's important to note that not all of these are necessarily "canon" to the story, whatever that nebulous word means in the context of oral traditions. Still, the fun of fairy tales as a genre is the audience participation aspect, allowing you to fill in our own imaginative gaps.

Gold-Tree, her husband, and her wife from "Gold-Tree and Silver-Tree": in this Celtic variant of "Snow White", the handsome prince fills the role that the dwarfs occupy in Grimm. She marries him and temporarily escapes her mother, but the wicked Silver-Tree finds Gold-Tree and poisons her. Thinking her dead, the prince takes another wife, and in a total reversal of "Bluebeard", the second princess walks into the forbidden room where Gold-tree slumbers, finds the thorn, and breaks the spell. The second princess then kills Silver-Tree when she makes her third attempt on Gold-Tree's life, and " prince and his two wives were long alive after this, pleased and peaceful."

The Peasant and the Soldier from "The Grave Mound": A comical story about two poor men who win their fortune through conning the Devil, which ends with them co-habitating and "living in rest and peace...as long as God is pleased to permit". I fell in love with this story after reading the dedicated chapter for it in the terrific academic anthology "Transgressive Tales: Queering the Grimms".

Betushka and the Wood Maiden: Every day at noon, a mysterious and beautiful maiden appears to the farm girl Betushka. They dance together until the sun goes down, and I'm just so moved by how it's described: "Betushka's cheeks burned, her eyes shone. She forgot her spinning, she forgot her goats. All she could do was gaze at her partner who was moving with such grace and lightness that the grass didn't seem to bend under her slender feet." Ultimately, Betushka succumbs to an Orpheus-style moment of weakness that separates them forever. Tragic, but undeniably beautiful.

The Clever Farmgirl and the King: I love a battle of wits where the two parties challenge each other but clearly respect and love one another. You listed this as one of your favorite tale types, and in hindsight, I'm inclined to agree.

Tam Lin and Janet: these two need no introduction. A haunting ballad of love and the transformations that it always entails. (Just please, never the non-consensual variants.) I have to shout out Overly Sarcastic Productions on YouTube for introducing me to this story, and the "Which Fairytale Lady Are You?" quiz, which assigned me Janet. I hope to be as bold and confident as this heroine, in love and in life.

Prince Yousif and Louliyya, Daughter of Morgan: An Egyptian relative of Rapunzel, I love their fierce and undying commitment to each other, and their resilience in the face of the many challenges between them and their happy ending.

The Lady and the Lion from "The Singing, Springing Lark": A "Beauty and the Beast" variant where the heroine knows about the curse from the word go, and they actually live happily in spite of his back-and-forth between his human and lion forms for a while, even having a child together. Of course, circumstances force them apart, and she travels to the Sun, the Moon, the Four Winds, and the Red Sea to get him back. It's a relationship built on honesty, communication, and willingness to sacrifice for one another. When people talk about wanting a fairy tale Prince Charming, this is the guy I picture.

The One-Handed Girl and her Prince: A lovely (if at times gruesome) Swahili story of a woman deprived of everything by her wicked brother, she finds love in a charming prince and they start a family together. When her love is out warring, her wicked brother rears his head and persuades her in-laws to banish her to the wilderness, and tell the prince that she and her baby died. I'm always moved by the makeshift funeral her husband arranges when he hears the wicked brother-turned-royal-advisor's lie, and their reunion at the end.

The couple from "The Nixie of the Pond": When her husband succumbs to a mysterious nixie, the heroine conducts a series of moonlight rituals, offering a comb, a flute, and a spinning wheel to the water spirit in exchange for his safe return. Of course, the nixie doesn't play fair, but they eventually get their hard-earned happy ending, finding each other under the moonlight listening to the same song she used to bargain for his rescue.

Broadening the definition of "fairy tales", I have to include Dorothy and Ozma, Clara / Marie and her Nutcracker, and Ahmed and Pari Banu. There are also stories with pairings that, while I can't honestly say I support, I still find compelling: Shahrazad leading Shahryar through the most intense talk therapy session in world literature, whatever the heck is going on with Velina and Tayzanne, the quasi-erotic dynamic of this proto-Little Red Riding Hood. Plus there's some terrific villain couples I love to hate, like the witch and her lover in "The Tale of the Ensorcelled Prince" (sorry, Burton's translation is all I could find online; if you have the chance, read Yasmine Seale's version of the text).

As you can tell, I've thought about this stuff a lot and I'm eager to talk about it. What are some of the romances and relationships you love / find compelling in fairy tales?

[illarian-rambling]

Hello! I heard you like DnD!

What has been your favorite campaign so far? My current friend group is completing a 5e WotC one, but I have also seen some great homebrews done. Do you prefer WotC campaigns, or homebrews? What were some memorable moments? ✨

Oh god, you've got me started, now I'm never gonna shut up >:)

So, I've played in four games and ran one, all homebrew, over the course of my time. My first campaign I was a life cleric with a pet goat that I saved from being a sacrifice. I didn't really know what I was doing, as it was my first game, but I had fun. My second game, I was a rogue snakeoil (and crack) salesman, which started the trend of all my characters selling drugs. Game three, I played an evangelist artificer and fell in love with the class. I adore robots, what can I say? In my current game (which is an original story, but in the planescape setting), I play a barb/fighter hazily struck out of time. She's up to three mystery voices in her head now, one being the sword of Kas, sells drugs via cranium rats, and was in a pro-wrestling tournament.

Probably one of my most memorable moments was perma-killing my artificer, Gillaria. To start, Gillaria was a bit of dunce. She was smart, yeah, but had balls wisdom and even worse charisma. She tried to fly into a portal to hell once on a wooden broom so she could take an energy reading. She got kidnapped in like three separate alleyways and gave her full, legal name to a devil. This is all to preface with the fact that this character didn't make the smartest choices.

The other thing about Gillaria was that she was a priest of Relhan, the setting's god of innovation. She and her two robot buddies, Anatolius and Aenira, would preach the word of this dying god on street corners, since the main temple to him had been destroyed. Usually, given that the highest charisma score between them was an 8, this ended up with tomatoes being thrown.

Anyways, though the campaign was supposed to go a little while longer, our dm got a new job, so we had to end early. The party decided that our last hurrah would be to raid the Golden Trident, a rival faction we'd been eyeing for some time.

One Gillaria project she wanted to get done before the end of the campaign as well was the squirrel laser. The construction of such a laser is as follows:

The druid Awakens 6 squirrels with their magic staff. The squirrels are now sentient.

Our warlock signs these squirrels onto warlock pacts. The squirrels can now cast the cantrip Bonfire.

Gillaria has a Decanter of Endless Water and the spell Magic Mouth

Infinite steam power has been achieved

We did the math and we would've been able to power a railgun with this set-up, so our dm decided, fuck it, campaign's almost over, they can have a death laser. It was decided it would be a DC 16 dex save against being zapped into ash.

Anyways, cut to us raiding the Golden Trident. Our level 10 warlock is being chased by an anctient dragon, our barbarian fell off the airship (We had a dragon ghost powered airship. Long story, also Gillaria's fault) and we're being chased by the enemy's airship.

Gillaria tells Anatolius, her steel defender with an intellect headband that she treats like a son, to point the laser at the enemy skyship, ready to fire once it warms up in four rounds. Gillaria then flies over to the enemy ship, hoping to disable its engines. However, like any good artificer, she's immediately enamored by the engines themselves. At this point, I the player forget I have a four round count down.

Yeah, you can see where this is going... The dm has me pick high or low on a d100 to see what part of the ship my laser hits, and I invariably pick wrong. And that is how Gillaria got blasted to ash by her own automaton, wielding her own laser, atop her own airship. Her final consolation was finding out that her god was not, in fact, dead and being reincarnated into his steel and steam avatar.

This is one of sooo many dumbass stories for this character, she was a piece of work. Thanks for asking though, I love talking about dnd! Feel free to share a story of your own or ask any questions :)

[lovesickbrat]

the perfume hobbyists guide to ACTUALLY smelling good all day

everywhere you hear "layer this!" and "over spray THIS much" which to be quite honest can be overwhelming and sometimes smelling good doesnt mean being a walking cupcake scented bioweapon.

a lot of tips fail to account that nose blindness is a thing when you overload on fragrances and some people are more sensitive to smell and theres nothing worse with layering too many products and giving yourself a headache because you cant escape the smell.

soap/body wash

smelling good truly starts in the shower! i suggest starting off with an unscented/lightly scented body wash. goats milk soap is amazing so is african black soap, but if you tend to sweat more or you have more body odor (esp if u have anxiety) i recommend the lume acidied body wash ive noticed that it does really well in sensitive areas!

this is optional but after washing with an unscented soap this is the time to go in with your favorite body wash whether its cupcakey or fruity or what have you.

hygiene

quiet as its kept you can apply deodorant to more sensitive areas! just keep it non scented. lume makes great all over deodorant and all you need is a small amount and you can apply to the creases of your thighs, your butt and the underside of your breasts to help prevent odor!

hair washing

def go in with your favorite shampoo and conditioner in this stage as scent really clings to your hair and this will be important later on! just dont sacrifice hair care for fragrance!

hair care

if youre black you know the power of good smelling hair products, most hair care is scented so go with what you normally do

moisturizing

this is truly the step where you should begin building your scent. i recommend a base of unscented lotion (cetaphil is my favorite in the original + the cocoa butter version) because unscented lotion allows you the chance to offset and future fragrances and even allows you to decide how heavy you want your scent to be that day. if you wanna go for a lighter, intimate smell then just stick with unscented lotion.

if you want a larger sillage and more longevity then go in with a scented lotion but apply this on top of the unscented as fragrances tend to be more drying. victorias secret and bath & body works have great lotions for layering because they can be easily separated into fresh, fruity, and vanilla/amber lotions and as long as you have that bases you can layer with pretty much anything.

body mist

for a longer lasting scent try finding the body mist version of your perfume however ill admit: i dont like body mists when it comes to layering and ill get to that in a second!

but if you cant find the body mist version of your perfume i recommend looking up the notes of your perfume (fragrantica is queen for that) and match your mist to either the top or base notes (if you have strawberry/raspberry in the top look for the appropriate mist, if you have any sort of musk in the base good for a white musk mist etc. or if you want to create something complex you can mix a freshie with a white floral for instance)

perfume oil

my PREFERRED way to layer perfumes is a perfume oil, and the best thing about oils is they last longer and dont need to be strictly matched the way body mists do.

perfume oils are best applied to the pulse points and since they're oils, the skin doesnt eat them up the way it does a mist and it'll last you literally all day.

this is also where - if its in a dropper - you can apply to the ends of the hair just be sure to spot test to ensure it doesnt irritate your neck or back.

egyptian musk smells good under every perfume and if ur black the beauty supply is the place to go for oils (but you knew that already)

perfume

this is where you can really go for it. the general rule of thumb to create a good (but not offensive) scent bubble AND avoid giving yourself a headache is spray behind each ear, back of the neck, both the wrists and behind each knee. if your more sensitive to smells i suggest back of the neck and behind each knee so the smell takes longer to travel up and can dissipate a bit! you can also spray your hair brush so you can comb the fragrance in your hair.

Overall less is truly more when it comes to perfume! You want people sniffing the air when you leave not dropping to the floor from an assault of the senses

[thirtyknives]

How to Burn the Goat

Friends. The Gävle Goat still stands.

I don't think the Swedes are going to pull it off this year. There's a bunch of shit working against them - not in the least the relocation from the Goat's traditional home in Castle Square to Rådhusesplanaden, a much more exposed location- so no dishonour is upon them. In the fight between recreational arsonists and the forces of law, sometimes the forces of law win. But it isn't about recreational arson, is it? It's the forces of Light beating back the long winter Darkness, the ritual immolation of 2022's psychic garbage, burned as a sacrifice for the Unconquered Sun. And I really, really don't need to tell you just how much psychic garbage there is to torch. So let's burn the motherfucker together.

The obvious and easy option to symbolically burn the Goat at a distance for tumblrinas is a "like to charge, share to cast" reblog chain. There's a few going round so I won't bother trying to link to them all. Slightly more involved is burning your own goat.

SAFETY FIRST MY DARLINGS

First off if you're in an area with a fire ban, don't fucking burn anything. Fire bans exist for a reason. Non fire options include:

Feed a picture of the Gävle Goat into a paper shredder, or just rip it up yourself.

Make Goat shaped foods (cookies, cake, even sammiches) and eat them.

Play my mate @thefallingdream's printable game The Goat Must Burn

Have a Goat themed cocktail, like an Old Goat or a Fainting Goat, or maybe goat milk lassi if you prefer to avoid alcohol.

Make effigies from Plasticine or modelling clay and flatten it

It's also a less widely celebrated tradition to toss the smaller Science Club Goat into the Gävle River. If you have a river to hand, you can always make a wee goatlet out of sticks, leaves and other natural materials and toss it right the fuck in. Remember, we're symbolic arsonists, not environmental vandals, so stick to shit that's in the river in the first place.

IF YOU DO OPT TO BURN, HERE IS A NON-EXHAUSTIVE LIST OF WAYS TO DO SO SAFELY.

Choose your burn location wisely. Safer places to burn include:

Fireplaces

Barbecues

Firepits

Braziers

Clear areas of concrete or tile (OUTDOORS)

Clear areas of beach, away from other people

Ash has a habit of floating, so don't burn close to buildings. Get yourself something to put out the fire if it gets away from you. For small goats, a bucket of water will probably do, but running water from a hose is better. If you want to have a fire extinguisher to hand, make sure you know how to use it.

I also suggest that if you're not someone who lights a lot of fires for whatever reason, find someone who does to help you keep shit under control. I've made a lot of campfires and bonfires in the last forty years, so I can confidently build and set fires, and keep them contained. Scouts and avid campers generally have an idea of what they're doing too, and I guess if you're in a climate where fireplaces are a thing you'll have more folks around who can cremate a goat safely.

We also won't be drinking until after the Goat is safely extinguished. Even though the average age of participants is mid thirties and we're all legally able to, even an intelligent person can make for a stupid drunk and we'd rather not risk accidents. This is double so for myself, as I will be the Designated Fire Maniac for this event.

Bad places to burn your Goat:

Bedrooms (especially on desks or beds)

Indoors in general

Leaf strewn woodlands

Barns

Roads

Around unsupervised small children or drunks

I know there's bound to be a few of you who want to burn a goat but who have unsupportive home environments where this kind of lightweight witchcraft is a punishable offense. I can't stress enough that even the Small Scale Abstract Option below can burn your damn house down if you try it secretly in your bedroom or whatever. Just opt for a non-fire option if that's you.

FRIENDS YOU WILL NOT CLEAR THE PSYCHIC GARBAGE OF THE YEAR IF YOU BURN DOWN YOUR NEIGHBOURHOOD IN THE PROCESS

Now that I've got that bit out of the way, let's burn shit!

Option One: Small Scale Abstract Option

Just write "goat" on a bit of paper or a leaf or other safe to burn material and burn it safely in a little metal bowl, brazier, or whatever. You can supe it up by using a scrap of paper with strong negative vibes associated with 2022, like a power bill, legal summons or passive-aggressive note from your roomie.

Then ya burn it. Scrunch the paper into a ball, light your match, stuff the flaming end inside the ball of paper. Boom. Done.

If you want to print out the OG Goat or draw it, that works too. All we want to do here is consign the Goat to the ashes. That's it.

Option Two: Burn the Goat in Effigy

If you have space, time and the right level of bloody minded determination, why not build yourself a goat and burn it? It doesn't have to be complicated or large. Paper crafted goats or origami are fantastic for this, if you have the skill.

This one is made from toilet paper rolls and ice block sticks.

This is the larger goat we burned in 2020. It was made of paper shopping bags, natural wool and corrugated cardboard packing boxes for support:

If you're crafting your own there's a couple of considerations to keep in mind.

First is flammability. Stick to natural, flammable materials like paper, card, sticks and wood. String like twines made from jute, cotton or hemp, or natural yarn will also burn cleanly. I avoid adhesives at all and just use string, but if you want a glue wheatpaste will get the job done and will make the Goat smell like toast as it goes up. Metal fixtures like staples, nails or wire are fine too, just be mindful that they'll remain in the ashes afterwards and may need to be disposed of responsibly

Avoid using plastic tapes or glues like PVA. They burn fast and hot, in ways that can be unpredictable, and release nasty gases as they do. I generally also only use materials that are already the right color, but if you want to paint it avoid acrylic paints for the same reason you skip plastic tapes and glue. Tea and coffee washes will get the job done without choking you out or risking the goat burning unpredictably.

Both the goats above have hollow interiors. For us, this means we can write down our sorrows and insert them into the goat's body to be burned along with it. But it also provides oxygen for the fire and helps the goat to burn. I don't usually burn in proper fireplaces, but opt for short fast immolation so I don't use sticks or timber supports. If yours is going into a fireplace or barbecue you can use heavier materials that take longer to burn.

I am also not going to do any talking whatsoever about accelerants you can add to get this fire going. That is Advanced Level Immolation, and I will not be held accountable for any you people blasting your eyebrows off with a poorly timed spritzing of petrol. Let your designated fire maniac deal with that shit or just don't risk it at all.

Your second consideration when building your Goat is size. Pick your safe place to burn it before you start building, and construct it to fit its pyre. Again, safe places to burn your goat include:

Fireplaces

Barbecues

Firepits

Braziers

Clear areas of concrete or tile (OUTDOORS)

Clear areas of beach, away from other people

Small goats are just as good as large ones if you don't have a lot of room. For our purposes, burning an origami goat in a metal pail is just as good as my bigger guys. This year I'm crocheting a goat from paper yarn based very loosely on this pattern, because I've personally had a bitch of a year and each stitch is really sealing in that suffering. But it doesn't have to be fancy. It just needs to be goaty.

Let's make this happen, everyone!

Pictured: My 2020 goat. I burn on New Year's Eve to give the Swedes time to get theirs done first. That wall behind the Goat is wet, and so is the grass. Not shown is the garden hose at the ready and the many sober adults supervising, including a Designated Fire Maniac (me).

The 2021 Goat. Co-incident? I think not.

[esther-dot]

On Jonsa "foreshadowing," I think it's definitely there in the books that they will restore Winterfell together. The thing is though, it may not be the full-blown romantic foreshadowing that many of us want to see. I think it more likely that we will see even more the sacrifices involved on the part of Sansa than on GOT. In repayment for Jon's protection and selflessness, she will try to right her mother's wrongs by accepting Jon and seeing him through his dark night of the soul when he discovers who he really is. Their relationship will be critical for him in his decision to kill Dany. Sansa will try to save him from exile. I don't think their ending will be too much of a departure from what we already saw, but the tragedy and bittersweetness between them will be far more acute. Sansa will stand alone as Queen, at least for a time. She will never not be thinking of her "brother" to the north, and he will be left thinking of her.

(about this ask)

She will never not be thinking of her "brother" to the north, and he will be left thinking of her

(I’m not actually sure what these two are meant to be conveying but it’s a pretty good visual of me - hyperventilating and shrieking like a goat 😂)

I'm very open to Jonsa manifesting quite differently than the nicest, most straightforward way: angst pre parentage reveal as they develop feelings, marriage to resolve the Northern succession crisis, and a HEA once the Others and Dany are handled and they foist the hard work of ruling Westeros on their little brother as older siblings are want to do (I'm an older sibling, I'm allowed to make that joke!) I think we will some form of romantic Jonsa, but I see merits of each potential path, from a love they never act on to a HEA in Winterfell together.

If Jon is to be exiled or anything like, I think it has to be by his own choice for it to be a meaningful rather than enraging ending, but this,

"the tragedy and bittersweetness between them will be far more acute"

is kinda where I'm at these days. Martin talks about how much he likes tragedies, he's talked about how much he likes tragic romances, he finds meaning and beauty there, so I've accepted that might be the path he chooses for various reasons. Saying people will be happy with his ending is very different from saying his story has a happy ending. I mean, it will be hopeful and good, but when I think about what he might want tonally, I can see why I might not get the completely pat resolution I prefer.

I may have carelessly used the phrase myself at one point, but I just want to point out that the idea of "Cat's wrongs" is often influenced by D&D's version of the story, not Martin's. Cat was placed in an unusual, insulting, and I would argue, terrifying situation. Ned's actions with Jon were rather unusual, and he was installed at Winterfell before the heir.

Many men fathered bastards. Catelyn had grown up with that knowledge. It came as no surprise to her, in the first year of her marriage, to learn that Ned had fathered a child on some girl chance met on campaign. He had a man's needs, after all, and they had spent that year apart, Ned off at war in the south while she remained safe in her father's castle at Riverrun. Her thoughts were more of Robb, the infant at her breast, than of the husband she scarcely knew. He was welcome to whatever solace he might find between battles. And if his seed quickened, she expected he would see to the child's needs. He did more than that. The Starks were not like other men. Ned brought his bastard home with him, and called him "son" for all the north to see. When the wars were over at last, and Catelyn rode to Winterfell, Jon and his wet nurse had already taken up residence. That cut deep. (AGOT, Catelyn II)

As far as Cat knew, this was a sign of Ned’s greater love and loyalty to Jon’s mother and imagine having that thought, seeing what you believe is the evidence of that, and having the constant gnawing fear: what else might that love and loyalty demand? Cuz at this point, Cat doesn't know Ned. IMO, Cat would not be a believable character if she treated a child she saw as a direct threat to her son with total amicability. The scenario that she walked into through no choice of her own, by being handed from one man to another, and Cat's devotion to her kids, both preclude that as a believable response from her. Of course, I agree with you that there is...bitter irony in the daughter so like Cat being the one that Jon will fixate on post rez. There will be something healing, even poetic there.

My other thought after reading your message is that Jon has this whole thing about being called the "blood of Winterfell" and then it appears in Sansa's POV:

He was the blood of Winterfell, a man of the Night's Watch. (ASOS, Jon VI) I am Sansa Stark, Lord Eddard's daughter and Lady Catelyn's, the blood of Winterfell…. (AFFC, Sansa I)

If we see rebuilding Winterfell from snow, less a direct “they’re gonna restore it together” (impossible unless Jon will remain there for years with Sansa), and something less directly, like Jon helping Sansa retake it, I think we might want to expand the idea even further. Jon refused to take Winterfell when it was offered (saving the Weirwoods and protecting Sansa's claim), and Sansa refused to consummate her marriage to Tyrion (protecting Winterfell and the North from the Lannisters), so the fate of House Stark seems to rest with these two in particular. Maybe you’re right that taking back the North is all it is, but the fact that Sansa's body has become the fighting grounds for Winterfell (we have lots of castle euphemisms for sex and that’s how the Lannisters hoped to hold the North, with Sansa’s child) it makes the combo of the rebuilding Winterfell from snow scene & "the blood of Winterfell" expression potentially about more than the physical castle and more about the House Stark lineage. That is how it will truly be secure, and with the phrase presented in both their chapters, that might mean that regardless of exile or HEA, Jon will be a part of not just the retaking of the actual castle, but the euphemistic one as well, and play a part in the continuation of the Stark bloodline.

[rhosgobelbun]

A couple of samdean/wincest fics that I love love LOVED a lot. Most of them are sam-centered, enjoy ☺️

** = GOAT

Absolute Zero by pixymisa, selecasharp

Word count: 75k

Summary:

Heaven is closed, and after Sam's sacrifice, so is Hell. Crowley is missing, Abaddon is raising Hell on Earth, and Sam and Dean are lost, trapped in a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, where Sam can’t wake up but also can’t die, and nothing Dean does can help. To find them, Castiel will do whatever it takes, including agreeing to become the vessel to the only angel willing to answer. And that's only the beginning...

Autumn Closing In by non_tiembo_mala**

Word count: 25k

Summary:

Dean didn’t dare to dream he’d walk away from Amara in one piece, and now that he has, he’s ready to call it quits where hunting is concerned. No more danger, no more saying goodbye to his brother. Just him and Sam settled down somewhere. Safe.

But when he returns to the bunker, things are not how he left them. Sam has been shot, and after Dean takes care of the people responsible, he and Cas are left to deal with the consequences. The bullet in Sam’s shoulder is enchanted, and the only way they can break the spell is using complicated, soul-powered magic that will have long lasting side-effects.

Amnesia by orphan_account

Word count: 20k

Summary:

On their way back from a particularly brutal hunt, Dean realizes that Sam has caught amnesia somewhere along the way. He doesn't remember who they are to each other, or what they do. So when he starts treating Dean like a really hot guy that's being incredibly sweet, Dean has two choices: He can try to tell his little brother the truth, or......

Touch by BruisedBloodyBroken

Word count: 142k

Summary:

Hunting is, what Dean Winchester does. And so, he ends up with his surrogate father in a small town called Croatoan, to investigate devious killings, which may or may not are connected to demons. Well, it turns out, it's definitely not a run-from-the-mill-monster they will be finghting this time ...

In the town's one and only diner, they meet Sam - Samuel Mills - who may, or may not is connected to the murders.

When Sam sees the two of them die in a forecasting, he takes desperate measures to save them ...

... and ends up on hell's and heaven's most-wanted-list.

(Sam got a little weird to me in ch 48 so I didn't finish it but!!! I loved such a big chunk that its still one of my favorites!!)

What It Takes by CrimzonChyld**

Word count: 101k

Summary:

What does it take to break you? What does it take to save you?

Takes place in Season 2, after John dies, before cold oaks.

Rape/Non-con, hurt/comfort

(heed the warning because it does go into graphic detail. Im reccing it because I really did like the characterization and samdeans relationship, if you're ok with non-con it's SO worth the read even though it's been incomplete for close to 10 years now)

All The Ways by TwoBoys2Love

Word count: 62k

Summary:

Sam and Dean Winchester grew up in an entirely different world. When the boys were very young their mother was killed by Creepers - or as we might know them, Zombies. Sam and Dean were raised on the road as killers and hunters. Then one day, when Sam admits he has an interest in meeting other people Dean must face the possibility of a future without his brother.

Secrets and the Scent of Jasmine by sijglind

Unrelated!wincest/underage

Word count: 25k

Summary:

Sam is eleven when Mary dies.

He's thirteen when he tries on one of her dresses for the first time.

And he's fifteen when Dean shows up to complicate his life.

'Well, hello there, gorgeous.' Dean smirks and gives Sam a shameless once-over, and Sam hopes he hasn't been staring too much, because that would just be awkward. But then he remembers that he just ran into the kitchen counter and barely avoided smacking his head into a cupboard doing so. It's a miracle he hasn't scared Dean away yet.

Change My Life Again by orphan_account

Word count: 115k

Summary:

Season 8. All Sam wants to do is take a tiny break for his brother's birthday, but a case that Dean refuses to pass up and a run-in with a cursed sword sends the Winchesters Quantum Leap-ing through other people's lives. Sam just wants to get back to their own bodies. Dean bets Sam Beckett had a much easier time of it.

(Everything I Do) I Do it For You by orphan_account**

Word count: 33k

Summary:

Struggling to find their feet, regain their equilibrium and reconnect following Sam's re-soulling and the subsequent rekindling of their "relationship", Sam and Dean decide taking on a simple case is the best way to ease themselves back into things.

So when the peers of a recently reported missing teenager start turning up dead under strange circumstances, they decide it's exactly the sort of case they need. Probably nothing more than a straight-forward salt n burn, right?

Only...

Only they're not the only hunters on the case. And the other hunter they meet... well, while Sam and Dean have no clue about him, he sure seems to know a whole lot about them...

Welcome home by Fallenky**

Word count: 12k

Summary:

Say what you will about Dean Winchester, he makes a strong first impression. The hunters of the bunker don't know what to make of the strange man and the even stranger relationship with his brother when Dean shows up after being possessed by Micahel.

New added fic: Lost & Found by LoveThemWinchesters**

!Samdean NOT Wincest!

Word count: 79k

Summary:

Just weeks ago, John Winchester was killed by the elusive yellow-eyed demon. Before smoking out of its meatsuit, the creature said some things to Dean, things that went against everything the young hunter has ever known. But all demons lie, right? Dean barely remembers its words as the devastation of losing his father consumes him.

Since the elder Winchester's death, Dean has been on a downward spiral. He continues to hunt—the only solid thing he has left in his life—but mixing booze with the job isn't one of the best choices he's ever made. The morning after a hunt-gone-wrong with a werewolf, he receives an unexpected letter. What he finds at the other end of it is about to prove that not all demons lie. – Alternate Universe // Dean is 26. Sam is 22.

*** THIS CAN BE READ AS A STANDALONE. ***