#Words Against Medieval Foes

[thatsbelievable]

[howtofightwrite]

How well would a claymore mine field fare against troopers of a late medieval army (say, Swiss halberdiers in half armor)? How far away do the troopers need to be in order to have a good chance at survival? And how would a medieval army like that react to their leader hitting a landmine and getting blown up? Would they turn back and flee? Disperse away from the road? Or would they freeze up and lose unit cohesion?

In the words of the esteemed Dr. Farnsworth, “to shreds you say?”

So, for those unfamiliar, claymore mines use a shape charge to propel the shrapnel in a fixed cone (most the shrapnel is propelled in a roughly 45 degree arc, with almost all of it landing within a 90 degree arc of where it's pointed.) These can be rigged up with tripwires, or remote detonators. This is achieved by placing a fairly heavy plate behind the explosive, while the primary payload of eventual shrapnel is placed in front of it.

You don't technically hit a claymore mine. Again, these are shape charges, and designed to propel the destructive force (mostly) horizontally, so, you'd hit the tripwire, or a sentry with a detonator would activate it, possibly without even being detected by the people in the mine's kill zone.

Claymores have an optimal range of about 50 meters, with a maximum range of ~250 meters. So, “exactly how good do you consider your odds?” Because at 50m, the chances of being hit by fatal amounts of shrapnel is estimated to be about ~30%. (Obviously, in other circumstances, such as if you've got claymores set up in a confined concrete bunker, they're going to get a lot more dangerous.)

Also, we don't generally keep tight marching formations the way that early modern troops used, because modern weapons are horrifically effective against them. That Futurama quote is on the nose, because against a densely packed group of soldiers in early modern armor, the blast will likely hit almost all of them, and will, quite literally, blow many, if not most, of them apart. To put this more simply, using early modern military doctrine, they'd all be in the mine's kill zone when it went off, and their armor would do absolutely nothing to help them. In fact, this might be a case where their armor would further contribute to the shrapnel.

As for how they would react? I suspect most of them would take the ignoble option of dying almost instantly in the initial blast or shortly after from blood loss and extreme trauma. Would the survivors who could break and flee? Quite possibly. They also, quite likely, wouldn't even really understand what happened, simply because they'd never seen destructive force on that kind of scale before. “Would they lose cohesion?” My brother in Alfred Nobel's exploding cocktail lounge; they'd be losing biological cohesion with themselves. There wouldn't be a surviving unit.

There was a paradigm shift in the first World War. The stage had been set in the late 19th century, but most European armies didn't realize what had happened (and in fact, military leadership of the time stayed willfully ignorant) until after it came home.

Before this point, there was a concept of being able to “trade hits.” The halberdiers were expected to march into melee combat against other melee forces. This even survived the introduction of gunpowder units, and was still dominant military doctrine through the 19th century, where soldiers were expected to march in rank and file out onto the battlefield before shooting at each other in tightly packed formations.

What happened in the late 19th century was the development of weapons that were able to deal death with such speed and efficiency that getting into melee combat was no longer possible. The old, tightly packed, formations went from being an effective way to get troops into combat, to an effective way to see your troops completely eliminated by a single conscript's heavy machinegun fire.

The effective paradigm of infantry combat is now that your foes have the ability to end your existence, so you need to avoid their weapons (and preferably their detection) completely, until you can end them. (Yes, armor still exists, yes, it does work, but it's contingency you hope you don't need, rather than protection you expect to use.) Combat today is about controlling line of sight. Marching a squad of troops out onto the battlefield in tight formation wouldn't work, because a couple snipers with mediocre positioning could decimate them.

The claymore is part of this new paradigm. If you're in the kill range, unless you're in some radically more advanced armor than it was designed to deal with, you're going to have a bad day when it goes off.

We don't wear the same kinds of armor that those halberdiers used, because modern handgun rounds will perforate those. Modern armor does, sometimes, use steel plates (or, Kevlar, ceramic, or some polymers), as inserts but, the kind of steel used is significantly more resistant to modern bullets than what those early modern soldiers wore.

So, blown to shreds.

-Starke

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[daylightcommand3]

TMNT LEGENDS: Class Fit Ranking 2

There are five classes in TMNT LEGENDS: cunning, might, tech, spirit, and swift. These classifications are largely inconsequential, for they don’t affect stats and abilities. All they determine is how much damage you do to an enemy, and how much damage an enemy does to you.

As such, I can rate the matchup between a character and a class purely superficially. All I need to consider is the character and the connotations of the word. We may also consider the characters they are weak and strong against (class wise) if need be.

The matches will be graded 1 through 5. 1 meaning that they should’ve been a different class. 5 meaning that they must be this class.

Today we go over:

TECH

Donatello: 5/5. Gee. I wonder if the class based specifically on this character will be the perfect fit.

Newtralizer: 5/5. With an assortment of gadgets and high-tech weaponry, Newtralizer easily fits into the Tech class.

Casey Jones: 4/5. While one could easily make a case for Casey Jones being in the might class due to his headstrong nature, Casey surprisingly fits better in the tech class. Time and time again, Casey had shown his ingenuity. Whether through simple things such as hockeypucks with dynamite taped on, or complex creations like his electric glove, Casey has proven himself to be quite crafty. Not to mention his jack-of all-trades bike shown in "The Deadly Venom" and the car he and Donnie supercharged together to race the Speed Demon.

Baxter Stockman: 5/5. The go to tech guy for the Foot Clan, Stockman easily fits the Tech class. Not to mention in the game he's always in his suit of robotic armor.

Metalhead: 5/5. Robot.

Zeck: 5/5. A plethora of gadgets and a highly advanced suit make him perfect for the Tech class.

Michelangelo (LARP): 2/5. Technically, in the pseudo-medieval times they're cosplaying in, a bow and arrow would be seen as rather advanced and high tech. Especially since Mikey is totally using special arrows, like the rope arrow. While the argument is flimsy, ultimately i think archer Mikey could only be tech or cunning.

B.U.N.N.I.E.S.: 5/5. A group of MOUSERS with rabbit ears. They're robots, so they fit the Tech class.

Donatello (Classic): 5/5. Gee. I wonder if the class based specifically on this character will be the perfect fit.

Donatello (Movie): 5/5. Gee. I wonder if the class based specifically on this character will be the perfect fit.

Donatello (Space): 4/5. I think Space Donnie is the most justified in staying the same class. He's the tech guy in the advanced spacesuit. His technical knowledge rapidly expanded due to his time with the Fugitoid. However, I believe rapidly is the key word here. I believe Donnie should've been in the swift class. Donnie adapts to life on the ship the best. Frequently he helps the professor with repairs and upgrades. Donnie's inventing doesn't take a break either. He keeps up the pace.

Dr. Rockwell: 4/5. One may think he should be in the spirit class due to his psychic powers. However, his psychic amplifier is vital to his abilities. This vital piece of technology is what puts him in the Tech class.

Krang (Classic): 5/5. An evil genius with an advanced robotic suit.

Raphael (Vision Quest): 5/5. The main catalyst for this match is that Raph's newest ability, shooting flames at his enemies, is a crafted piece of technology.

Rocksteady (Classic): 4/5. Not my first thought when I think of big rhino, but the game justifies this approach by having all of his moves rely on a wide array of lasers and ray guns. Other games such as Shredder's Revenge and Nick All Star Brawl 2 put more focus on Rocksteady's proficiency with advanced weaponry, such as big laser guns and grenades.

Tiger Claw: 4/5. With his twin pistols and jetpack, Tiger Claw utilizes plenty of technology to hunt his foes. Though I could easily see an argument for him being in cunning.

Conclusion

Total score: 4.5/5. Tech has very clear fits. It’s fairly obvious when a character deserves to be in the tech class. It’s hard to argue that a character with a laser gun is might or spirit.

Next time we’ll be going over what Tech counters: Spirit. This one is gonna get a bit rough.

[sledgefuweek]

More Information About Our Prompts

It's time to take a closer look at our prompts for this year. They're truly delicious and are a treasure trove of possibility. But with open-ended prompts, the possibilities can seem overwhelming to some. Richie and I are here to help!

A couple things to remember: your submissions can be canonverse or AU and they can be SFW or NSFW. Feel free to age Gene and Snafu up or down or swap their genders for any of these prompts. Your pieces can be as literally or metaphorically related to the prompt as you like. Don't stress: even if it's vaguely related to the prompt, we'll take it! If you're unsure, you can always send a message to ask for help or clarification.

Please have a look under the cut for more fuel for your creative fire :)

**We've included some reminders about mindful writing for a few of the prompts; please be sure to read them as well.

Powers

This prompt gives you a lot of wiggle room. It's got lots of crossover potential with popular franchises (like "X-Men", "Percy Jackson" or "Star Wars"). Of course, you can also create your own fantastic world, and give the characters totally unique abilities! Some words and tropes that come to mind with this prompt are: secret identity, superhero, strength, might, heroism, bravery, sacrifice, legacy, hereditary powers, mission, quest, hero and "damsel in distress", team, hero vs. villain (with bonus enemies to lovers potential!), witchcraft, supernatural, transformation The works for this prompt can be fluffy (the boys training/working together or just showing off to impress each other, or maybe one helping the other in a low-stakes accident - think a kitten stuck in a tree), angsty (fighting against a powerful foe, one trying to save the other against all odds, hiding a secret identity), or more adventure-based (embarking on a quest, discovering new powers, origin story). As mentioned before, you can also write crossover fic - feel free to recreate certain scenes or plots with our boys in starring roles!

Royalty

A very exciting prompt, because I’m thinking about gay knights mostly; however, there is so much more you could do with this prompt. In general, royalty can make you think about things like wealth, power, jewels, estates/castles, the aforementioned knights, family, lineage, war. But ideas about romance, courting, chivalry, codes and honor are big parts of many stories, art, etc. involving royalty. Perhaps you can reimagine The Pacific set in the time of a medieval war. Or it could be a fantasy AU with wizards, dragons, etc. (King Arthur AU anyone?) Or you could make an AU of another story involving royalty; think of fairy tales, books, poems, movies or plays. Like, I wouldn’t hate a Romeo & Juliet AU, just saying.  Or maybe you want a modern take. They could be royals of today, they could be homecoming royalty, they could be Mardi Gras royalty, they could be drag queen royalty. Or maybe their families are considered royalty in their hometowns.  A mindful suggestion: Gene and Snafu are presented as being from different classes in The Pacific. If you include this in your work, please be mindful of the power dynamics between royalty and non-royalty, royalty of equal rank or royalty of non-equal rank. Also, if you headcanon Snafu as mixed race, Black, or non-white, please also be mindful of how you portray him in a position of power, a position of “lower status,” or something in between.

Scar

Scars can be either physical or mental. When it comes to the former, you can write about scars earned during combat, during accidents, due to medical issues and surgery or anything else. Mental scars may be a more difficult subject to tackle - please be mindful when writing about mental health, and tag any possibly triggering content. Some words and tropes for this prompt are: surgery, wound, memory, combat, trauma, care, medicine, hospital, medic This prompt would work well with canon compliant fic, as it can involve hurt/comfort, angst, and sickfic elements.

Leaving

Leaving is a great prompt with very high angst potential. For Sledgefu, there is a very obvious way one could go with this prompt [tries not to make eye contact with The Train Scene]. But just in case you don’t want to be depressed about The Scene for the next 2 months while you work on this prompt, here are some other things to think about. Gene and Snafu both do a lot of leaving as Marines - leaving home, leaving boot camp, leaving for the Pacific Islands, leaving each island, leaving their foxholes, leaving for China, leaving for home. Also think about the circumstances of the leaving - was it planned? Is it temporary? How many people are leaving? Did they leave voluntarily? Are they leaving in the night or the day? And always most importantly, why are they leaving? Also, don’t just think about what they are leaving but what are they moving toward - a new job? A new place to live? A place of safety? A place of danger?  If you want to go with a happier piece, you could think about things like vacations/holidays, new homes, new jobs, new opportunities. Some other miscellaneous ideas - maybe one of them is retiring (because who doesn’t love old men Sledgefu).  Leaving can also mean “a leftover thing.” Do either or both of them have remnants of the war (physical or otherwise)? Do they have scraps, fragments or pieces of things (once again, physical or otherwise) that remind them of each other or their relationship?  Some synonyms for “leaving” that are very helpful/intriguing - parting, abandonment, forsake, reject, quit, give up, escape, retreat, withdrawal, relocate, march, voyage, journey, division, removal

Memories

This one has tons of potential! Reminiscing about falling in love, their first official date, moving in together, and other milestones are all good ideas for a fluffy, lovey-dovey fic. For an angstier fic, you can write a canon compliant work about one of them reminiscing about the time they spent with the other during the war, lamenting lost chances, or even recalling memories of their loved one after their passing. You can also choose a more neutral route, for example having the boys talk about their childhoods, hometowns, families, and friends. Some words and phrases for this prompt are: remembrance, forgetting, happiness, regret, past, loss, growth This prompt may also involve objects like souvenirs, photos, diaries, and letters.

Social Media

This is a pretty self-explanatory one, but just in case you’re stuck or want to try something “out of the box,” you can think about some of these things. Social media is used for communication, so when the boys are on social media, what are they communicating to each other and how? Pictures, videos, DMs, comments section, etc. What type of social media is it (dating app, blog, instagram, discord, etc.)? Maybe your piece is set in the ‘90s or early 2000s and all the social media to choose from was AOL Instant Messenger, MySpace or LiveJournal. You can also think about things related to social media: phones, computers, texting, activism, competition, hacking, memories, being a part of a fandom/community, etc. Or maybe we can finally get The Social Network AU we’ve all been waiting for.  This prompt lends itself to some great art and edits like envisioning what their instagrams or WhatsApp conversations might look like. This prompt is definitely a fun way place Sledgefu in a modern setting. 

Free Choice

We know you all know what this one is, but sometimes having infinite choices can be overwhelming. Here are some ideas to narrow it down: look at prompts from past Sledgefu Weeks that you didn’t get a chance to do, or want to redo. Or pick a prompt you liked from this year that didn’t make the final 7. Or find a random word generator and see what prompts sound promising. All we ask is that the prompt be SFW (of course, your piece can be NSFW).

We hope this was helpful. If you think of something for these prompts that we didn't mention, go for it!

Happy creating and keep an eye on the blog for more details about submission guidelines.

[wyrmfedgrave]

Pics: More Lovecraftian movie posters...

1915: HPL Output. Part 1.

Intro: As a member of the UAPA, Howard was inspired to write quite a few works - mostly to do with the Association's inner workings.

But, that didn't stop Lovecraft from writing political & astronomical articles.

HPL also produced his fair share of short poems...

The following is an example from Lovecraft's war-hawk days.

The Work: "1914"¹ -

Opening Quote: "Parcere subjectis, et debellare superbos"² < Virgil³ in his Aeneid⁴, Book 6.

"Arise, Britannia⁵! At (your) sister's⁶ plea, And crush the... foe⁷ of liberty."

"Behold the hour... to prove (your) place, As friend & guardian of the human race."

"The (unquenchable) Goth, with murderous sword⁸, Defies (your) edict & ignores (your) word."

"Eve(r) daring... he plays the... brute, To scorn (your) greatness & (your) power dispute."

"(You) Queen of Nations! Smite into the dust, The proud invader, savage & unjust."

Whose maddened hordes, like... Vandals⁹ seek, To wrong the guiltless & despoil the weak."

"(One) who all his culture misemploys, In art creating less than he destroys."

"Imperial Mother! Cast... pitying eyes, On the sad spot where... Louvain¹⁰ (now) lies."

"Or, on... crumbling wall & formless mound, Where Gallia's¹¹... monarchs were once crowned."

"From North & East... bold barbarians poured, Dyeing the flowing Axona¹² with gore."

"The outraged Gauls¹³, defeated & dis- mayed, Survive alone thru England's¹⁴ aid."

Footnotes:

1. But, actually written in 1915.

2. The Latin quotation reads, "Spare the defeated & subdue the arrogant."

3. Virgil was the Roman's greatest poet. His name, properly spelled as Vergil, meant "rod (or) staff bearer."

During the Middle Ages, such poets were believed to be magicians - able to conjure dead spirits!!

4. The Aeneid was regarded as the national origin epic of the Roman Empire.

Strangely enough, Virgil died without getting to finish it...

5. Britannia is the Latin version of the British Pretani, "Great Britain."

In the 100s AD, Romans personified Britannia as a goddess armed with trident & shield!

But, this only covered the southern British Isles that the Romans had been able to conquer.

6. I believe that Howard actually meant the United States here.

However, on other occasions, Howard called the U.S. a "child colony" of the British Empire - so, who knows?

7. During WW1, the "Entente Powers" of France, Great Britain & Russia fought against the "Central Powers" of Turkey, Germany & Austria-Hungary.

8. Obviously, HPL meant the great German war machine, which used tanks, trench warfare, poisonous gasses & other 'modern' weapons - not just a sword.

9. The Vandals were a Germanic people from southern Poland.

They conquered Iberia (Spain), some Mediterranean islands & parts of northwestern Africa in the 400s AD.

In 455 AD, they even sacked Rome!!

10. 'Louvain' (now Leuven in Belgium) is so called by its French speakers.

This has led to some confusion with the nearby city of Louvain-la-Neuve!

During WW1, the Germans claimed that they were being attacked by the 'armed' civilians of this city.

So, they burned the whole city down - killing 300+ unarmed folk!

And, destroyed its cultural heritage!!

230,000 Gothic & Renaissance books, 750 Medieval manuscripts & more than 1,000 works printed before 1501 were turned to ash.

The destruction was actually an act of reprisal, which was legal international law back then.

Sadly, this city has been occupied by foreign troops, at least 3 times before this - during different wars.

11. Gallia is the Roman name for the Celtic land that is now known as France.

It is also the name of a fickle satyr (a half woman, half goat!) that called herself "The Lord of Misrule."

Shouldn't that read "Lady of Never- ending Party"?

12. Axona (now Aisne) is the Roman name for a tributary of the Oise River in northern France.

In 57 BC, Julius Caesar fought a battle there against the Belgians.

Though outnumbered & almost out- flanked, Caesar's forces crossed a small marsh & attacked the Belgians, who were disordered while crossing the Axona.

A great many Belgians died, forcing the rest of their army to retreat to their own territories.

Caesar, fearing an ambush, didn't pursue them then.

But, the next day, he attacked the retreating Belgians & killed more of them...

13. "Gauls" was the Roman name for the Celtic peoples that we now call French folk.

14. England is 1 of the "Home Nations" of the modern U.K. country.

The name comes from the Middle English words Engle-land/Engelond. These names appeared after the Norman Conquest of 1066 AD.

But, the Normans finally ended up calling it Engleterre.

Much earlier, the Romans had known the same land as Anglia.

The Angles settled in the Southeast of Celtic Britain, starting during the 410s AD.

They were a Germanic people who once lived in an area between Den- mark & Germany.

Joining their fellow Saxons & Jutes, they took advantage of the Roman desertion of Britannia...

(And, might tie-in to King Arthur's defense of Camelot - in western Britain!!)

Next: Part 2.

[ao3feed-brucewayne]

Tales of a Medieval Gotham: The Dark Knight

by kindaokayname

In a world of swords and magic, the dark knight struggles to protect and save the kingdom of Gotham from the crime, villainy, and corruption which plagues it. In his war against it all, he risks losing himself to the very darkness which he uses himself to battle against his many, many deadly foes and their dastardly plots.

Words: 4765, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English

Fandoms: Batman - All Media Types

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Characters: Bruce Wayne, Batman Ensemble, Rogues Gallery (Batman), Joker (DCU), Alfred Pennyworth

Additional Tags: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Tragedy, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Fantasy, Dark Fantasy, Bruce Wayne is Batman, Bruce Wayne Has Issues, Hurt Bruce Wayne, The Rogues Gallery (Batman), Joker (DCU) Angst, Swords, Gotham City is Terrible

source https://archiveofourown.org/works/44292363

[one-way-dream]

The King's Shadow - Ch. 1

Rating: General Words: 1600+ Media: Sonic the Hedgehog, Sonic and the Black Knight Pairing: Sonic/Lancelot (Sonic/Shadow) Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Developing Feelings, Pining, Alternate Universe - Medieval Warnings: Canon-typical violence Chapter: 1/3

Link to the original work

AO3 Summary/Excerpt:

The other’s embarrassment slowly melted away into a resigned sigh, before turning into a smile; mischievous in appearance, but nothing short of putting the sun’s radiance to shame. And then Lancelot truly felt the carefree and trusting weight, the sheer warmth of the newly crowned king’s hand in his own.

And he knew more than ever that his life now belonged to him.

Just like the day they had met; Lancelot knew there had been a world of difference between them from the very first glance.

His very own armour, – dark flawless steel that gleamed in the moonlight – would still pale in comparison to the blue quills that seemingly glow of their own will. A blooming will so powerful that the bearer himself was unbeknownst to his effect on those who followed.

And a knight so loyal, like Lancelot himself, could be described as captivated.

He’d heard musings from the villagers as he would accompany the king on his rounds; whisperings between the children or women on the skirts of Camelot, of how King Sonic had a shadow – and that shadow was none other than himself. Somewhere, deep down, he used to feel troubled at that comparison; though not out of harbouring ill will for the king, whom he’d give his life to protect. Rather, he couldn’t help but feel it was a strange tangle of fate that they seemed to resemble one another, and painfully so, he felt like there was something missing. However, against all the undesirable feelings, it was also the greatest honour to be his shadow.

What had started as his declaration of unyielding devotion to King Arthur, and thus his commitment to kill in the name of honour, had grown into something far greater than he could ever fathom. Lancelot could not remember the last time he’d fought someone with such valiant effort. It wasn’t something he’d anticipated; not when the hedgehog had so easily shown his cowardice upon their encounter, going as far as attempting to give up before they had even begun. Lancelot so easily believed that the person in front of him would be just one of the many foes he had crushed during his time as a knight.

When they drew their blades, Lancelot had drawn Arondight with the intention of defending his king’s name, though he would eventually learn that said king was nothing more than a mere illusion. But still, believing in his loyalty, he had given it everything he had into each and every swing. With each flying spark from clash of their swords, it was evident that King Sonic hadn’t taken him as lightly as the witty quips that came from his lips suggested; and though he would not admit it, it made Lancelot’s chest swell with pride to know that he could be a formidable challenge, even if Sonic’s looks were deceiving.

Though it was soon evident that it was not enough. For it was not skill that ruled King Sonic as the victor, but sheer determination.

However, Lancelot was stubborn, – chasing down the former knave as he knew him and unwilling to give up, – not only for his king’s reputation, but the selfish speck within his heart that unchained itself to gratify his own ego as well. He simply couldn’t accept his defeat, he couldn’t afford to fail in his mission, but his fate had been sealed at last. It was known from the very moment his king had sent Arondight flying through the raspberry bushes a second time, that it wasn’t just luck and determination that saved him in their last fight. It was something far grander that dwelled within the blue hedgehog before him.

The enemy’s face was drawn in concentration as he bore each blow from Lancelot, Caliburn being just as resilient as the one he called “knave”.

Lancelot had brought out his best into this fight, even admitting to using his inherited Chaos powers, adrenaline rushing to the very tips of his fingers under a spotless gauntlet. Each slash grew fiercer, more painstaking than the last, though the remarks never seemed to cease between them.

They had an unordinary chemistry; one Lancelot didn’t want to bother pondering over if either of them was destined to die at the other’s hands. He didn’t want to believe he had his back against the wall, not yet, not if he prided himself on being the strongest knight of the Round Table. But as the hilt of Caliburn bruised his inner arm – undoing Lancelot’s grip on Arondight, — and drew sharp between his neck and his shoulder… it was undoubtedly King Sonic that bested him.

He distinctly remembered how he fell to his knees, chest heaving from their battle. He heard the laboured breaths coming from his opponent all the same. But unlike their first, Lancelot realized how heavy his chest felt after everything had settled.

The Ultimate Knight carried the weight of his failures; bitter and absolute, for if he was to challenge him again, it’d be a dishonour to his title as a knight to do anything but accept his defeat gracefully. And so he hung his head low, letting his losses soak into the very roots of the forest floor itself, as if they could be carried in the droplets of the chilling rain. He knew he let his guard down around King Arthur’s enemy, and he anticipated the sword to come down on him. Lancelot counted on his end, the end to his days as the Ultimate Knight. He felt a scoff leave his aching lungs, thinking of how Gawain too would throw away his life before his honour as a knight; and although Lancelot knew better than to throw his life away, he shared in the sentiment, for he was no different – all he had was a pure and absolute devotion to the one they knew as their king.

But when the sword didn’t descend into his flesh, he had looked up to find the blue one gone without a trace. Without a single taunt, and without a final show of his wrath, almost as Lancelot himself was wordlessly forgiven – the only remnants of their fight being memories of his sheer radiance, which had already sunken itself into the very marrow of his bones. For the first time in his life, a pit formed in his stomach as Lancelot began to question the one thing he wished to never doubt – his allegiance. Was this truly the enemy King Arthur ordered them to kill?

- x -

Lancelot had found himself kneeling with his head hanging low once again; but this time, he could say it was with a newfound loyalty budding in his chest.

One that he would not show so easily, but he’d known since the time King Sonic had departed, that he was a hedgehog he wouldn’t soon forget. The newly crowned king’s bashfulness oozed a different kind of innocence as he’d begged the knights to rise from their kneel. The innocence was rather odd, Lancelot mused to himself, thinking back to King Sonic’s attitude and determination to take down the corrupted Arthur, and even soothing Merlina from depths of her despair. But perhaps that was simply one of the many faces of their new king…

He was brilliant in a way that Lancelot had never seen in a person before him; far beyond a mortal’s reach, and yet not immortal himself. Or perhaps… that was simply the way Lancelot felt. Perhaps it was just the lingering sensation of seeing King Sonic donning gold armour from head to toe, while bearing Excalibur with such grace and might all the same.

“The one and only King Arthur…” For the first time in a long while, Lancelot felt the air filling his lungs with every fibre of his being. He felt alive and unafraid, as if the storm that had unknowingly plagued them had come to pass at long last.

All because of this mysterious new king who had whims befitting of a child. But even despite that, he was more than deserving of their honour, loyalty, and life. Even if the kingdom should ever come to think otherwise.

Lancelot finally lifted his head, gazing up at the new king, who stood tall and dazzlingly before him; the blue of his quills could rival that of the open sky. And eyes to match the clearest emeralds. Soon enough, the king’s expression faded from nervousness to a softened smile as his eyes met Lancelot’s, and he knew then that there was undoubtedly something about its warmth that felt nostalgic.

When Lancelot had offered his hand to the king, asking for his in return, he’d anticipated a bit of surprise. After all, if both he and Merlina were telling the truth, then he wasn’t from this world. Sure enough, he could see the confusion in the ridges of his eyes as his gaze darted back and forth from Lancelot’s own to the hand before him – Eventually, Merlina leaned into the king’s ear, watching his expression change from confused to hopelessly confused. But he obliged, slipping his hand into Lancelot’s seemingly with ease, but he could tell there was just a touch of nervousness… or perhaps embarrassment?

One that boiled over tenfold as the knight touched his lips to the king’s hand.

“WOAH. Woah, woah, woah, woahwoahwoa—”

Well. To say he was embarrassed by the ritual would be a severe understatement. The fact that he didn’t carry himself like a king was evident enough by his… reaction. Even to the degree of nearly pulling his hand away from the shock. But the display was enough to make Lancelot bite down a grin. “Is there something the matter, your majesty?” He asked innocently, studying the way Sonic froze at his words before their eyes finally met.

The other’s embarrassment slowly melted away into a resigned sigh, before turning into a smile; mischievous in appearance, but nothing short of putting the sun’s radiance to shame. And then Lancelot truly felt the carefree and trusting weight, the sheer warmth of the newly crowned king’s hand in his own.

And he knew more than ever that his life now belonged to him.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Hue and Cry XVI

Warnings: non-consent sex and rape (series), pain/wounds, mild violence.

This is dark!medieval!Bucky Barnes x reader and explicit. 18+ only.  Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Synopsis: Barnes lashes out in his grief.

Note: So, it’s not over but most of you guessed that :)

Thanks to everyone and thanks in advance for all your feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 Let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

The sun cast a sardonic light on the cold winter morning. The first flakes of snow fell the night before but glistened as they melted away with the unexpected bloom of light on the horizon. The men began digging at dawn for the interment, a pit to be unmarked and unseen. The woman would be buried as any servant was; without any formality or fanfare.

Lord Barnes dressed in black, the sole attendee of the service. He had dragged a priest from the castle chapel to say some ordained words. The men climbed out of the six-foot hole as the cart was led over by two others, the wooden box atop it.

They lifted it, lifted her, and maneuvered it down into the grave with ropes. The holy man recited his verse but the duke did not hear them. He was only torn from his own grief as he heard footsteps on the crisp grass. He looked over as the foreign baron came to stand beside him, his dark eyes ahead of him as the men began to shovel dirt onto the wood. The sound was harsh in the early hour.

“Go,” Barnes growled, “you aren’t welcome here.”

“Well,” Zemo said, “how is that? After all Werner did for you; for her. I should like a proper farewell.”

“You didn’t know her,” Barnes hissed.

“Oh, I didn’t, but are you so sure that you knew her so well?” Zemo challenged, “you knew what you wanted from her--”

“Shut up! You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Barnes lifted his chin and turned to face his foe, “I will not tell you to leave again.”

“I owe you no obedience, my lord,” he said flaty, “I think you’ve misunderstood that entirely. The ground we stand on is even. I am beholden to you for nothing. Given that it was my physician who saw to her comfort in her last hours, I’d say you--”

His voice was cut off by the hand at his throat. The duke throttled the Baron with his only hand and backed him away from the grave as the dirty continued to rain down. He marched him across the grass as his blue eyes burned with a selfish sort of hurt.

“I am not stupid. I know you came to rile me and you’ve done just that so go! Go before I put you down beside her,” Barnes shoved him away so that he stumbled.

Zemo stood and touched his throat as a rare glimmer of anger flashed across his features. He raised his chin and fixed the fur collar of his cloak. He nodded as he set his jaw and peered past the furious duke.

“She is free now,” Zemo said, “from you most of all.”

The baron turned away and strode from the green. The duke turned and watched the diggers as they kept at their work. A lump lodged in his throat and he lowered his head. He could not deny Zemo’s words, in fact, they sank so deep his heart ached. He knew as all did that her death was bloody on his hands.

🏰

Lord Barnes watched from the window as the line of carriages rolled through the castle gates. He was smug at the Baron’s premature departure but he didn’t truly feel any better than he had the day before. He expected the knock at the door and he was not surprised by who drew him away from the window.

The door opened before he reached it and his sister blustered into the chamber. Rebecca snarled as she came to face him, of the few who could match his own temper. Her nostrils flared and hardened her soft features as she glared at him.

“You’ve ruined it!” she spat, “you’ve ruined it all! He’s gone and it’s all your fault, you dunce!”

“I ruined it? You really think you could have trusted him? I merely saved you time and gold,” Bucky scoffed as he shrugged her off.

“You are so conceited. Don’t you realise we need this alliance? It’s much bigger than your little maid!” She barked, “oh, all this just to fu--”

“No, no! Shut up!” he spun and pointed at her face, “you don’t speak of her. Your or anyone else.”

She reeled and chortled. She rolled her eyes and put her hands on her hips. She licked her lips sourly and shook her head, “Better yet, I will not speak to you again. You have until the end of the day to leave the capital.”

“Are you mad?”

“I’m serious,” her brows arched, “Samuel agrees with me. You will go and you will not return. Go back to your castle and be alone and bitter as you always wished.”

Barnes huffed and mirrored her own fury, “fine. I told you, I never wanted to come here.”

“So it is my fault now?” she snipped.

“No, your majesty,” he said dryly, “how could anything ever be your fault?”

“Don’t,” she warned.

“Oh, queen’s are so powerless,” he rebuffed, “how every woman in the realm must pity you.”

“You’re a bastard,” she sneered.

“We both share the same blood, the same flaws,” he slowly walked back to the window, “you will see in the end that I did you a favour. That man cannot be trusted.”

“Oh, do get over yourself, brother,” Rebecca snapped and the slam of the door marked her exit.

Lord Barnes stared down at the wintery grounds then up at the grey sky. It was due time he went home. To be alone. For good this time.

🏰

Flickers of light skimmed beneath your eyelids. Distant memories, dwindling dreams, and unheard words. 

The pain came first. The agony down your left arm and hip, the way it rippled through you like a crashing ocean against the shore. The ragged breaths grew to groans as the ground moved beneath you, rattling like your bones and your head. The noise of horses and wooden wheels in the dirt. The smell of leaves and oak. The feeling of life come back to you.

You could not move your left arm, it was bound and even if it was not, you couldn’t have lifted it. Your left leg was in similar shape and your entire body was bound in pain. The confusion laced your mind and kept you from thinking too deeply as you realised you were in a box, the darkness broken only by the thin wisps of light between the hammered boards.

“Hello?” you called, your throat dry and sore. It hurt to speak and your lungs squeezed terribly.

You bent your right arm, your shoulder straining as you did, and hit the lid. It did not budge and you hit it harder. Your uncertain strikes turned to a steady and frantic pounding as the blackness began to suffocate you. You had to get out. You would die in there. Or were you already dead. You realised what you lay in; a coffin, and your stomach dropped like a boulder.

The wheels stopped and the ground stilled. You were on a cart of some sort and footsteps tramped into the dirt and murmurs stirred outside. There was a thump on the lid and suddenly it lurched upward as it was pried off. 

Swathes of light flowed in and blinded you. You stilled and stared up as a figure stood above you and another appeared at the other side of the casket.

“Ah, finally,” the accented tone slithered, “I feared the dose was mistaken.”

You blinked until Baron Zemo came clear to you and shielded your eyes as they watered. You gasped as another shattering pain overtook you and gasped at the sheer torment. The other man, thin and tall with lines around his eyes and across his forehead peered down and reached to check the bandages around your left arm.

“She cannot sit in the carriage but we can arrange for her to recline in there, yes, my lord?” he asked as he felt your forehead, “there is no fever. She is past the worst of it.”

“We can arrange it,” Zemo nodded, “do get her a blanket. We really should have done so before we nailed the top on.”

“Yes, my lord,” the tall man hopped down from the cart and returned with a thick fur coverlet. Zemo tucked it gently around you and as he brushed your arm, you cried out.

“I… I should be dead,” you rasped, “how--”

“A trick. On the gods, on fate… on your Lord Barnes,” Zemo smirked, “oh, do not fear, he hasn’t any idea of your miraculous perseverance. Let me assure you he is most miserable to believe you dead.”

“Why?” you asked as the lid of the coffin was moved away and you heard others moving around. The stench of the horses made you shudder and brack back the scene; the clopping hooves, the roaring crowd, the pulsing of your heart, your maddened laughter.

“You know, I never desired anything more from Lord Barnes. What happened between us was an act of war. We were soldiers but he could not see it that way. I am an understanding man but I am not without reason. If he cannot be civil, why then should I?” He said smoothly, “I came to your kingdom to serve my own and I cannot do that with him snapping at my throat, so I will go home.”

“But why--”

“Patience,” he bid as he lifted a gloved hand, “I could not have factored you in if I tried. You are the most unexpected creature. What you did… well, that sent a very clear message to me, one that I heard.” He looked around and clasped his hands together as he leaned his elbows on his knees, ”I will not claim it to be entirely selfless in my deed, in fact the idea of the deceit does more for me than it could ever do for you. To think of Lord Barnes in his misery, that pompous man.”

“What--Where are we going?” you asked weakly as the wariness crept up on you once more.

“The Tower Zemo,” he said plainly, “in my homeland. You should recover there and then we will decide what to do with you.”

“What to--”

“Nothing too nefarious, I assure you. I should like to avoid the depths of Barnes…” he sniffed, “I don’t expect you to trust me, lady, you would be a fool to and you do not seem one to me. Foolishly brave and perhaps obstinate but not a fool.”

“I--how am I to thank you?” you croaked.

“Don’t do that just yet,” Zemo rose as men approached and suddenly the coffin was slid off the cart.

You were carried around the side of a carriage and set down again. The men worked carefully to remove you from inside the casket and you screamed as they did. Zemo spurred them on and apologised for your discomfort as they transferred you to the lid of the coffin placed to stretch between the seats of the carriage.

The tall man draped the fur over you again and checked your splints and the layers of bandage hidden beneath the loose wool gown. He called for some water and helped you drink. Then he was handed a chest and stirred around for a vial.

“This is Werner,” Zemo said as he sat on the empty part of the bench and the carriage door shut, “he did see that you survived and that you died in the eyes of your master.”

“Oh… thank you,” you looked to Werner as he urged you to drink from the vial.

“Just a sip, miss, for the pain,” he bid.

You did as he told you and reclined again with a grumble. He sat opposite Zemo who watched you with a cryptic expression.

“It will be a long journey,” he said, “and likely longer for you. It would be best if you kept calm and did not stress yourself. You are still… fragile.”

“I feel it,” you closed your eyes as fatigue shrouded you.

“You would,” Zemo said, “sleep is best for it, isn’t that so, Werner?”

“Sleep numbs the pain,” Werner assured, “sleep lets the body heal itself.”

“And sees the time through,” Zemo yawned, “besides, what else is there to do?”

Your breath eased along with the pain and slowly you sank back into the void. You let it embrace you as you forgot about the Baron and his odd physician, about the Duke and the life before. You welcomed sleep as you had death and yet, you were relieved to be alive.

[fuckyeahisawthat]

I know I already wrote about them communicating in Greek here, but sometimes you learn cool new facts about the medieval Mediterranean world and want to work them into a story!

When Nicolò wakes up this time, gasping around the newly-healed wound under his ribs, he sees the other man who cannot die walking away from the battlefield. The back of his robe is still painted with blood where Nicolò had run him through.

Nicolò follows him.

He follows him up into the rocky hills and terraced olive groves outside the city. Eventually, he finds him sitting under a massive olive tree, the trunk gnarled and ancient, easily big enough for two to lean against.

The man raises a hand in greeting. His curved sword, on the ground by his side, is still streaked with gore.

“Sabir?” the man asks, like a question. It takes Nicolò a few tries to understand what he’s asking.

“A little,” he says, his brain trying to drag up the simple words and phrases he remembers from the traders’ language.

“Come and sit, Frank Who Cannot Die,” the man says, nodding to the ground next to him. “I won’t kill you.” A corner of his mouth twitches up. “At least, not right now.”

The man holds out his empty hands, a truce offering. And the shade beneath the olive tree does look awfully inviting.

Nicolò settles himself down in a gap between twisted olive roots and leans his back against the tree. The man is watching him.

“Not a Frank,” he mutters after a minute. The man seems to find this amusing. Nicolò taps his chest. “Genoa.”

Something shifts on the man’s face, the little flicker of warmth that had been there leaving. “Genoa?” he asks. Nicolò nods.

“Mahdia,” the man says, his voice cold and flat, and then in one fluid motion he sits up on his knees, draws the dagger from his belt and slits Nicolò’s throat.

Yusuf immediately feels bad about it, after, as he cleans the blood off his dagger and waits for the man to start breathing again. He had said he wasn’t going to kill him, and then immediately let his anger get the best of him. 

This man slumped next to him, his blood rapidly seeping into the dirt, hadn’t been the one who made the decision to cross the sea and burn Mahdia’s harbor, a dozen years ago. He’d probably been just a youth, like Yusuf.

Nicolò coughs, the first breath burning his still-healing throat. His mouth tastes thick with blood, but he can already feel his body healing, stitching itself back together. He’s died close to twenty times now. Waking up again hasn’t gotten any less strange.

After a moment, he drags himself up to lean against the tree, scooting over to avoid the pool of his own blood. He can’t seem to die, but apparently he can still get very tired.

The man from Mahdia is still sitting next to him, picking at a fleck of dried blood near the hilt of his dagger. “Ow,” Nicolò mutters, running a hand over his throat. He can’t remember how to say That hurt.

“I’m sorry,” the man says. “I was angry.”

“I know.” He understands. He does. He imagines the harbor where he played as a child, tempting cats with dried bits of fish skins and waiting for his grandfather and uncles to sail in with the day’s catch. He imagines that harbor in flames, and knows he would feel the same if their positions were reversed.

He doesn’t know how to say any of that in Sabir. “It’s all right,” is the best he can do. He rests his head against the tree and says nothing for a minute. He is so tired.

Yusuf watches the Not-a-Frank Who Cannot Die, leaning back against the tree with his eyes closed. The long line of his throat is perfectly unblemished again, no trace of the wound where Yusuf’s blade had sliced through it just minutes before. In the olive-dappled shade his sharp cheekbones and proud nose make him look like a statue, something unearthed from when the Romans ruled this place.

It is not the first time Yusuf has noticed these things. His fingers have started to itch to draw this strange man more than they do to kill him.

God is laughing at me, he thinks. Sending me an unkillable foe who is so unfairly attractive. He appreciates that God at least has a sense of humor about all this.

The man opens his sea-green eyes and turns his head to look at Yusuf, as if waiting to see what he’ll do next. There’s still blood on the collar of his tunic. He looks as bone-tired as Yusuf feels.

Yusuf becomes aware that the dagger he killed the man with is still in his lap. Slowly, carefully, he picks it up and tosses it onto the grass--not too far away to scramble for if he needs to, but out of easy reach. Then he picks up his sword and does the same.

The man stares at him, quiet and thoughtful. Then he unbuckles the scabbard belt of his long, straight-bladed sword and does the same, tossing it just out of arm’s reach. He reaches somewhere under his tunic and pulls out a short knife, one he could have easily kept hidden, just in case, and tosses that away too. He raises his empty hands as if to say, what now?

Yusuf puts a hand over his heart. “Yusuf,” he says.

The man is still watching him, and where a dozen deaths ago Yusuf saw hatred, he now just looks tired and lost. He copies the gesture of putting his hand over his heart. “Nicolò.”

That is how it begins.

[real-jane]

Unexpected Champion

[charlie weasley x hermione granger] ▪️ summary: The tournament is open to any knight who might challenge the best swordswoman in the realm. She happens to be the princess, and her most formidable foe is a knight errant. ▪️ warnings: none. medieval au. ▪️ words: 5.5k+

She let them choose their own weapons for the tournament. It was only fair. A knight’s choice spoke volumes of him. The colors the knight chose, and the order from whence he came, spoke to his usefulness to the realm. And it was the way he armored himself which spoke of what he thought of her.

None had impressed with their choices, and after seven rounds in the ring, she was no more winded than she was wooed. Seven knights were carted out of the dirt, clutching their dignities--many of them bleeding, too.

The knight with the spear - he was afraid to get within striking distance. He had no skill for strategy, and even less skill for wooing a princess. He favored a piercing blow over an artful dance, and therefore, he was a coward and a dunce. The Order of the Eagle in cobalt offered wit, and a hunger for knowledge, but their knight was a tragic disappointment in his long robes and foolishly flimsy slippers, which he had abandoned in panic as soon as her blade tickled the hem of his cloak. He seemed likely to jump at the slightest provocation, and therefore he would not make her a worthy companion.

Under gold and crimson, the Order of the Gryffin offered bravery and courage, with chivalry as its prime directive, but the knight chose a broadsword. He was aggressive and certain of himself, but with no finesse. He jumped into the fray readily, but was felled by a calculated slash to the space between plates in his full steel armor. He had demanded a do-over, which he was not granted. He was the loudest, strongest, and yet least intuitive of them all. She slashed his cape to punctuate his loss. It was only when her rapier pierced his ear that the knight admitted defeat, and a man who has no respect for the achievements of his opponent would have no respect for his wife, when she was queen.

The challenger with the knives was tricky, and not to be trusted, but he came the closest to succeeding against her elegant style. He smiled, even as he lunged and twisted, glamorous in his emerald and black tailored coat and mesh mask. He wiled his way into her reach, but lost focus the moment she let him think he could win. He was just the sort of man who would stab her in the back; he had no regard for romance or honor, and bore the brunt of her disapproval in a pommel to the nose. He still had the audacity to look devilishly handsome, even as blood streamed down his face. But the knight of the Order of the Serpent was not the champion.

The bow, the mace, the whip, and bare hands - too scared, too thick, too punitive, too brutal, and none affiliated with an order which might bring distinction to her majesty.

In marigold and black, the Order of the Badger offered justice and loyalty, but they would not put forward a champion. Instead, the lord of the order provided the royal family with a fine suckling pig to roast on her wedding day, and the princess did jest that the swine was the finest suitor yet offered.

When she had run out of challengers, the princess took a hearty swig of wine offered from her proud father. Her mother had been too aghast to attend. The crowd applauded their princess in her fine leather suit and split-front skirt. Someday she would make a fine warrior queen. If ever she could find a knight worth an alliance (or a husband, but that title was saved for only the most impressive of men, and Hermione doubted greatly that such a man existed in any realm), the future of the kingdom would be secured for generations to come. She would be crowned, consort or no. But as the only child of King Daniel o’er the Grange, there were certain expectations for the lineage to continue. But that hardly mattered to her.

The sun struck gold just above the horizon; a new fellow was announced.

There was yet one more knight, belated though he was. The trumpets beckoned him, and the princess groaned. She took her rapier in hand and wiped down the blade with the silk cloth. One more man to collect an offering from, one more to prove he wasn’t worthy. She did not regard the knight as he entered, but the crowd did.

By going silent.

The air was thick and dusty, and smelled like sweat and blood (neither of which had been spent by the defender). The silence in the arena hung on the crunching footsteps in the dirt. His.

When finally she cast a glance back at him, even Princess Hermione had to admit that he looked formidable. The grey knight entered under a black flag in full plate regalia--gambeson quilted with glinting dragons, black velvet cape draped from shoulder to shoulder and o’er round his neck, and helmet festooned with spines from a gold dragon. When he stepped into the ring, the knight unclipped the chinstrap and removed his helmet. He was fierce looking, with wild grey eyes. He was older than her, but not so much as to be without appeal; it was his jaw, shadowed in a ruddy beard, and his romanesque nose, and his broad shoulders which recommended him most at first glance. He was surprisingly short for such an imposing man, though he had a good head on her at least.

A squire eagerly ran forward to take the challenger’s magnificent helm in hand, and waited patiently for his next instruction. But the knight--with magnificent hair like burnished copper--turned his back to the ring (and therefore to the princess) and gestured for the squire to unclip his plate armor. The boy did so. The clips were released at his sides, his shoulders; the knight removed his gauntlets and gloves, burdening the scrawny squire with an armful of blackened steel. He was left in naught but a grey shirt, of which he promptly cuffed the sleeves up to his elbows, and black trousers into which his shirt was tucked. His boots remained, unburdened by greaves or sabatons to hinder his shins and feet.

When he deemed himself properly attired, he turned back to the throng and found his opponent’s eye readily. He stared with a piercing gaze, as he tied back his long hair with a leather strap, and then held out his hand. The squire produced a rapier. The sword was clean in its design; the guard was simple, the blade was sharp and true, and the weapon looked well cared-for. It might as well be the twin of her own favorite sword, which glinted from her hip in recognition of its equal.

“To which order do you belong?” the king bellowed.

“None, sir.” The knight shook his head once.

“That black flag seems to suggest otherwise.”

“We are a mere brotherhood and no more,” he said. His voice was gruff but not aggressive. Measured. Sure, but not cocky. “We protect those who are not able to fend for themselves.”

“What name do you call yourselves?”

“None we might own to, and we answer to none but our honor.” He lifted his chin and the streaking sunlight shot his irises through with gold, turning them green.

“Why are you here?” She couldn’t help herself; leaning against the rail, even as her father questioned the last challenger, the princess wondered how such a man had come to learn of her challenge to the realm, let alone decided that he--unaffiliated as he was with any knightly order, and with no sponsorship in kind--was up to the task:

Let he who finds himself armed in essential qualities come forward, and perform a test of skill. He who is worthy in deed, oath, and right will win the hand of Her Majesty, Princess Hermione.

“Do you believe I cannot fend for myself?” she challenged, pushing off the rail. She circled counter-clockwise, favoring her dominant hand, and he countered her movement at once. The test was begun.

He shook his head. “Nay, for I know the lady is a skilled fighter, and has as much skill in it as any man.”

“And yet you chose my weapon, knowing so. Why?”

The knight smirked, then. “What better way to prove my skill than to match my sword to her majesty’s challenge? What--have none of your challengers heard Elegy to Her Steel? I believe I have heard it sung in every alehouse from here to the Antipodes.”

She willed herself not to blush. “That is a children’s rhyme.”

“And lo, my lady with swept-hilt in hand, turned her blade on a monstrous band, and when her steel hath had a taste, it pierced again--bloody sport its taste.” He chuckled then, and took his guard-- her stance, her position, her angle, every bit a self-study of her style. “I would sing it now but I fear my sour notes would give me an unfair advantage.”

“Would I had made it a choral competition,” she muttered. She spent but a moment on the choice: he knows me. He knows my style, what I favor. How? And then she let the blade swish, balancing on the pad of her index finger. Let it flow, let it find the target, trust your steel. She fell into her stance, like a perfect mirror of him. “You’ve studied,” she said. She raised her eyebrows.

He shrugged. Then, he lunged. He was too quick, too heavy-footed in the delivery and she easily parried. Steel echoed off steel. She skipped out of his reach and her skirt flourished behind her.

“I know you prefer Capoferro, even though he is the most popular theorist on style,” he said.

“You said it yourself. He’s popular. I’m not the only swordswoman who does so.”

“Maybe not. But when you’re tired, you fall back on Agrippa.” He lunged again, but she deftly ducked beneath his arm and the tip of her sword glanced off his dragonhide boot.

“And when I’m annoyed, I go for the bollocks!” She quickly slashed a v into the back of his shirt before he could riposte. He held up his hands in acquiescence and stepped back into the submissive stance, one knee in the dirt. “Get up!”

“You had two hits, milady--”

She flicked her wrist so her steel sang beneath his chin, and his adam’s apple bobbed in recognition of the threat. “I say when the challenge has ended,” she said softly, “and it has not. Stand up.”

At the point of her sword, the red-haired knight stood, slowly. She allowed him to step out of her reach once more and readied herself--knees bent, foot forward, hard stare settled on her opponent for whom she had lost all patience. And yet… he had lasted the longest by far. She had to admit that she wanted him to do it, to really fight. Show her what he’s made of, and not what he thinks she wants to see.

“You’re holding back,” she said with measured ire. “Prove that you’re a worthy challenger.”

“I hoped you might ask that of me.” He held up a finger and gestured for the squire. The panicked boy looked between his princess and the knight. She nodded for the boy to do as he was bidden. The knight murmured something low in the boy’s ear. The squire’s eyes widened and then he looked up at the man as if he had been given the finest gift. He took the rapier from the knight with reverence. And then, he turned towards the princess. And he brought her the weapon. He knelt at her feet.

“Sir Charles bids you accept this gift as a token of goodwill,” the squire squeaked. In the young man’s hands, she was able to better observe the rapier, which was not ordinary at all… the grip was wrapped in burgundy leather, braided tightly up to the pommel. The hilt, swept as it was, had been bent into the curling semblance of an H. On the blade itself, leading downwards, something had been stamped into the metal.

Ronald.

Suddenly, her vision was obscured by threatening tears. Her heart stopped. Her Ronald, the boy who had died for nothing, killed in battle by friendly arrows, the boy who had loved her before she had a title to claim, before the throne was in her grasp, and long before there were elegies sung to her deeds with a sword. The boy in whose memory she took up the sword, and against whom she measured all others.

“My brother,” he said lowly, before her now with a new sword tied at his hip. “I believe you loved him.” He eased her old, familiar sabre from her hands and handed it off to gods-know-whom.

“I did,” she whispered. A hot tear splashed on the new blade, the one she didn’t remember taking from the squire. The one with his name on it.

“That is why I came.” His hand found her cheek, then, wiping away the trail of tears that had manifested there. “Because I loved him. I fight in his name. And so do you.”

“How did you know?” She leaned into the touch at her cheek for just a moment before remembering that they had an audience, which waited upon the completion of the challenge. She straightened her back, but kept her eyes cast down at the gifted blade.

“I met you a long time ago, back when Ronnie was apprenticing with the blacksmith. You probably don’t remember. I was enlisted then, and hardly spoke two words to anyone. But he came home with tales of you and your lessons at the castle, how you insisted that your teacher train him too so you’d have someone your own size to fight.” He chuckled then, and the rumble of laughter seemed to surround her in warmth. “He told me of kissing you that first time, under the stars. How he ran so fast because he thought you were angry with him. How you whipped him in your next duel, for running away. I know everything, Princess.”

Hermione dared to look up at him, then. He bore all the brotherly familiarity of his brother’s visage. The kind crinkle at the corner of his eyes was especially Ronald’s. So, too, were the dimples at the corners of his mouth, and the cheekbones which cut a fierce frame around his grey-green eyes.

“You have disarmed me,” she murmured.

“He wrote to me after he enlisted and told me of you, and all the oaths you swore to him if he would just come home. I believe I found myself taking your words to heart as if they were meant for me--and when he died, I ached for your loss. I still ache for you.”

“What do you know of me?”

“You are not impressed by finery and masculine showmanship,” he said simply, gesturing to the flags which she had ripped from the poles of each defeated challenger. “You demand an equal, that you do not want to be feared or treated with delicacy. I know you want your word honored in action.”

“Fine words,” she admitted, but she tilted her chin up. “But I am not persuaded by gifts, Sir.”

“It is not from me. Well, not in full,” he said, grasping her wrist. He turned her hand to reveal the underside of the blade. Just beneath the hilt was the blacksmith’s stamp: RW.

He steadied her hand as it trembled. “I finished the leather. But he made it for you. He intended to give it to you when he returned home, when he asked you to forsake your duty to your throne and be his wife. He charged me with keeping it safe. I believe I have done right by it.”

“You have,” she gasped, sniffling away the tears which continued to fall. “What do you want of me?”

“To meet you in the arena as our true selves, with steel of my brother’s anvil, and when it is done, I will daily strive to help you mend.”

Her heart clenched at that. “What if you lose?”

The man stood tall and held out a gloved hand to her in silent offering of a renewed challenge. She took his hand readily, and held it firm. His hand seemed made to grasp hers, or at least his gloves where--the seams of their palms made the leather kiss like lovers. Perhaps her thoughts shouldn’t tend that way, but Hermione didn’t want to let go. He held all the pain she had ever felt in his memory, because he had lost Ronald, too. It didn’t feel right to let him go, challenge-be-damned. But he wanted to duel, and she was skilled enough to best any man, whether or not he got under her skin.

“Especially if I lose,” he said, finally. The air sizzled between them. A piece of hair fell across his forehead and it sent a fire through her like no other.

“If you lose, I may suspect it is because you pity me,” she said softly.

He shook his head in disbelief. “Pity you? I envy you.”

“Envy is a sin, you know.” She cleared her throat.

“So is coveting my brother’s fortune, and yet I have done so these ten years.” He released her hand and bowed, but she could just make out a tinge of pink in his cheeks.

When he took his stance this time, it was with his new sword, which had been proffered in the interim of her emotional reunion with the memory of her first love. His sabre was white steel, and his own handle had been wrapped in black velvet. He rolled his shoulders, and this time his stance was his own style. Thibault. Not her specialty, but a familiar style nonetheless.

Then, it became clear who he was. Not just Ronald’s elder brother, the only living sibling he had left, but a member of the Brotherhood of Tamers, and the black flag--they fought no wars for seated monarchs, and rarely showed their faces in courts. Nothing they did was for glory. They worked for the downtrodden. This was fitting for the brother of a fallen soldier, and even still… it spoke of his values. The poor, the sick… the heartbroken.

He was not a knight. Not really. He was not a servant of his king, or an enlisted man at the whim of some great power. He was a regular man, and he knew his impact on the world. But she had set a challenge, and all those in attendance hung on the decision she might make if he proved a worthy opponent. So, she took her stance.

She held her blade before her face, and slashed it down. Then, the fight was afoot.

The whoosh of steel through the air propelled the audience into reacting accordingly; they gasped as the rapiers missed each other by centimetres, only to clash again when he parried her thrust. He laughed in surprise, but he anticipated her reaction, deftly blocking her behind his back and spinning away as she swiped the sabre. The gifted blade. It was perfectly balanced, a superior sword to her other in every possible way, and yet she could not have anticipated how his steel sang through the air and caught the elbow of her jacket.

The leather split. He winced in apology, but he renewed his efforts, rolling beneath her swift strike and shoving her behind the knees with his shoulder. Even as she fell, he gripped her skirt, at once keeping her aloft and yet within his control. He tugged her towards him. She pointed her toes and used his momentum against him, pitching herself feet-first between his legs in a slide, and rended the skirt from her belt with a sickening rip. He was left with a hefty piece of silk in his fist. He whipped the fabric at her to obscure her view, but she sliced the silk like butter and kicked his foot out from under him. He fell forward into a roll again, but sat up to her blade at his neck. The tip of his sword worried the front laces of her jacket.

They stared at each other, breathing heavily. She beamed. She could not help it. It was thrilling to be rendered breathless by an opponent, to fight and be challenged… she could not stop smiling. She sat up on her knees and he let his own rapier fall into the dirt. She loomed over him. He looked up at her like she was the sun.

"Claim your prize then," he said.

“If I kiss you now, they will think I’m mental,” she whispered, using the edge of her blade to graze his cheek. “But gods, I want to.”

“Since when do you care what the people think?” He curled his hands into the front of her jacket, despite being almost prone. His eyes were wild. It felt like a moment hinged on aggression, but it wasn’t. It was about control.

She snapped her wrist and drew the smallest line of blood across his cheekbone. He growled and tried to tug her down to him, but she shook her head.

“I have to draw blood or they will think I have gone soft,” she said. “But you have won.”

“Princess?” He held out a hand to her and she took it. “You were always meant to be the victor of this challenge. Were you not?”

She stood, hand clasped in his, and pulled him up to stand so they were chest-to-chest. His eyes shone in an unspoken emotion, and he clasped their hands over his heart. He bent his head then, and kissed her hand. The crowd roared and she preened to hear their delight. She stepped back from him. The knight bowed. Then, she winked. Hermione turned on her heel and strode to her father, who had been leaning over the railing even before she moved. He looked quite stoic, but the look in his eyes belied his understanding.

“Do we have a winner?” he murmured. She nodded. “He fought well, my dear. He is well matched to you.”

“He did not come to fight. And that is why he won.”

“Is that what you wish?”

“Father… I did not know what I wished. Until today. I set an impossible challenge, because I did not want it to be met. But it has.”

She turned back to the crowd, but the winner, her knight… he was gone. She looked around, but there was no sign of him, except that his flag lay in a heap, entangled in her skirt, in the middle of the arena. Then, her feet hovered above the ground, and she was flying, new rapier sheathed at her side.

The courtyard of the challenger’s stables was empty in the waning twilight, save the red knight (who was still nursing his pierced ear, and wailing like the thing had been severed from his body), and the squire, who was attempting to carry several pieces of black platemail. The armor clattered to the ground as she sprinted towards the squire and he pointed to the far gate, a good fifty yards down the bank of stalls. It was the very last one, the smallest, made only to hold a mule or small pony, but… inside, sure enough, a man in grey with hair like fire rested his head against the wall. She peered at him over the door. He was just visible in the low lamplight.

“I cannot name my champion in his absence.”

His eyes were shut, but the corner of his mouth quirked up. “I do not think that is what you really want.” His voice was so low that she had to strain to decipher what he had said.

“Oh, no?” she huffed. “Then what was that?” She sideled into the stall and clicked the latch behind her. Then, she knelt beside him. Of their own volition, her hands raised to his chest, and she knew she shouldn’t, but she pressed until she felt the heat of his skin.

“You are hurting, Princess. And frankly…” He sighed, and his eyes opened once more. He looked up at her with a sadness that broke her heart. “You do not have to perform your worthiness for them. You think you do, because you are the princess of the realm, but you do not owe them a show of talent.”

“Do I not?” she whispered. “I am the only heir, the future queen--”

“Then take care of your people.” He threaded his hands into her hair and tugged. “Mete out your efforts where they will be most useful, and you will prove all that needs proving. But I… do not want to be the mark by which all your qualities are compared, or a prize to be won. I want to liberate you from all that.”

“How? I am… trapped in it, am I not?”

Then, he tutted, lips pursed in contemplation. He brushed hair behind her ears. “Who demanded this show from you? Who is it for?”

She considered him. He was a veritable stranger to her, and yet she melted into his arms, a man who had just met her blow-for-blow in the arena, who now sat in a pile of hay in a mule’s stall, demanding to know why she felt she must perform her power in a show of force. But he was right.

It wasn’t enough to have the keys to her father’s kingdom, and all that the rite of passage entailed. Enough ceased to be when the love of her life died. She had spent so long trying to fabricate a reason to get out of bed. In the depths of her sadness, the reason was the sword. She practiced with the masters until she wore through her gloves, and then her shoes, and then her sparring partners. She fought for sport until it obscured her loneliness, and served to keep everyone at arm’s length. Including her father. He loved her, but the king did exactly as she bid him and no more. Her mother barely spoke to her; they could not relate on the finer points, and she was as much a puzzlement to the queen as she was to herself.

She was so lonely that sometimes a full moon felt like a friend. A brightly glinting star was a companion. Things, intangible things that she could only cling to for as long as they would have her--for the duration of the night, until they were gone. She was lonely. She ached. Not for Ronald. For herself. And now things were real, and her actual life was looming before her with a crown hanging over her head like a noose. Loneliness felt certain.

Every silly thing she did, which brought on adrenaline, was to tamp down the desperate pain of not having a single person who really saw her. Even her lady’s maid didn’t look her in the eye.

“For me,” she whispered finally.

“Do they know how you have suffered?” he asked, as innocently as if asking about the weather. But when she shook her head, she felt the weight of the question pull her chin to her chest. His hand was at her nape. He shouldered the heaviness which broke in her. The tears came again. He kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her temples. He let her wet his shirt as the unvoiced pain choked her.

“I know it. I have felt it every day since he died. I knew the moment I laid eyes on you that it has weighed on you, and you do not deserve to suffer any longer.”

“Why are you doing this?” she cried. “You’ve won. You’ve earned your place--in my court, by my side!”

He cupped her chin and sighed. “I am not your champion,” he insisted. “But I may endeavor to deserve you. Magnificent creature that you are.”

“Sir Charles, is it?” Her cheeks flushed when he nodded. “I am Hermione Jeanette Granger, only daughter of King Daniel o’er the Grange. Princess, heir to the throne, best fighter in the realm, and helplessly out of my depths. Please… you seem to understand things about me that I do not, you gave me the greatest gift I have ever received. I would be a fool to let that go.”

“I should not have surprised you with the sword so publicly; I only played into your charade. I have carried it with me for years, hoping that our paths would cross--this seemed the only way.”

“Is that the only reason you entered my challenge?” Her voice betrayed more disappointment than she had hoped.

He sighed. “Your majesty--”

“Hermione.”

“Princess, I have… cared for you from a distance, for as long as my brother spoke of you. First, on his behalf, and then in his memory. I wondered if you would measure up to the sainted beauty in my head, or if he had made you up.”

“And?” She swiped at the thin cut on his cheek, which she had made for the benefit of her ego more than anything. He caught her wrist.

“I suppose you are decent,” he sniffed, but then he grinned when her mouth fell open in indignation. He caught her chin. “I am not so chivalrous, you know.”

“I am counting on that.” She inclined her head until her lips found his. It was not like princesses were supposed to be kissed, but then again, not much about him was par for the course. It was angry, grateful, broken, and whole. She wondered then how she had ever breathed before, how she had ever thought she knew what she wanted before this man gave her the gift of herself in the form of a perfectly smithed sabre, from the hands of her first love, a boy she remembered more like an echo of a memory.

“Do you kiss every challenger?”

“You watched me. What do you think?”

He rested his head against the wall, and smirked at her. “I arrived quite late. Nearly missed the entire event. Had to bribe the trumpets to announce me, so… I did not see a thing.”

“What a shame,” she sighed.

“That fellow out there with the bum ear?”

“My handiwork.”

“Good girl.”

“Not so.”

“No?”

She fisted his shirt in his hands and pushed him forcefully against the boards. “No.” She tugged the leather tie from his hair and loosed the great red mane. He huffed against her cheek.

“I am not a saint, woman.” He held her cheeks between his hands and forced her to keep his gaze.

“Oh no? You came here to give him back to me, with no design for yourself. And you did, in a way. I will always miss him. But… we were children.” Her voice broke, but no more tears fell. “You rose to my challenge. I hope you will rise to the next.”

“What challenge is that?” He laid his hand over hers.

“To heal. With me.” The knight who wasn’t a knight tugged her close, looping his arm around her waist. Princess or no, she complied. “I do not know you,” she whispered, “but I will spend every day learning you. With my hands, my heart… my blade.”

“If I am to agree to this, you must promise me that you will give up these silly tournaments of skill.”

“Why?” She grinned when his eyes narrowed. The wheels were turning in his head, and he upended her, pressing her back into the hay.

“If you want to slay men for sport, at least choose more worthy opponents! Bastards and cutpurses, the lot of them.” He nosed her cheek. She propped herself on her elbows to get closer, but he pulled back. “Promise me.”

“I promise.” The agreement fell from her lips. He caught the oath in a kiss.

“Good.” He handily lifted her beneath the arms, until she stood once again. She was covered in straw, they both were, but they shared a look between them that was full of a promise which belonged only to them. She smoothed her hands over his chest.

“My father will be expecting me-- us-- in the arena.”

“You promised,” he said gently, pulling a piece of straw from her hair.

“Which is why,” she said, hastily tugging him away from the open door as a collection of men on horseback passed, “you will come to my father tomorrow. I will disappoint him by not returning, and tomorrow we will speak to him privately, wherein I will make my will known.”

“What is your will, Princess?” He wrapped his arms around her proudly.

“Not to be alone.” She admitted the plain truth to him, without frills. As much as she wanted to cry again, to sag into his arms in relief, she felt more sure of what she wanted than she had in a long time.

In the hollow of her neck, he found the softest place, and kissed his own promise over her pulse point. "You won't be."

***

Thanks for reading! :)

my masterlist - charlie x hermione masterlist

[doomedandstoned]

Los Angeles Doomers HOLY DEATH Unleash ‘Moral Terror’

~Doomed & Stoned Debuts~

By Billy Goate

The marriage of death to doom was inevitable, with some of its finest exponents emerging in the '90s and continuing to this present age where we are confronted with the scourge of HOLY DEATH.

Rooted in the tinder box of the Los Angeles underground metal scene, Holy Death have been releasing record after record of terrifying death-doom since 2019. Their latest record, in fact, is called 'Moral Terror' (2022) and it brings together two EPs released over the summer with a third to complete the 'Moral Terror' trilogy. I like how the band went about publishing these, something they also did on last year's Sacred Blessings (itself a compilation of EPs from 2020). Besides this, the Long Beach-based three-piece has issued a dedicated full-length record, 'Separate Mind From Flesh' (2021).

The riff that greets us on "East ov Eden" is a merciless one, and no wonder for it's got "blood on my hands, guilt on my mind." Is this the anthem of the fabled first murderer Cain, who was given a mysterious mark by God for murdering his brother Abel? Or is Holy Death tapping into our humanity's collective guilt for turning paradise into a fetid sewer of violence, hate, and pollution? Dirty, irradiated bass bass crunches emphatically, whilst guitar screeches with abandon. "Death is upon us, end all life." Frontman Torie John's crooning is mingled with bitterness, disgust, and sorrow, mingled with defiance:

East of Eden the vultures circle I will not be defeated

The regress from enlightened ape-man back to feral, frightened animal continues with "Ultraviolent," a two-minute pounding that obsesses with revenge against one's foes. The guitar menaces with swirling downward arpeggios, met by rattling drums, grim bass, and grizzly vox barking:

Death is a gift you will not receive until you've suffered beyond reprieve

"Annihilationism" awaits next, and it takes the perspective of the hopeless: "Born to rot, guilty thought, empty dream -- nothing left for me." It's a sentiment I suspect many can relate to after two-and-a-half years of disease, isolation, fear, and despair. Guitar and bass lay out a slow-chugging rhythm as our two-minute window closes. "Bite my tongue, taste the blood, grinding teeth -- nothing left for me."

"Serve No King" is one of the most damning songs of the record so far. It's that sinister four-note riff; it makes me feel like I'm being carried bound in chains before the court of some medieval tyrant. The song pronounces judgment on the head of the "jester upon the throne" who "vomits lies," and leaves him with a warning:

Justice is not dead the blade will find your head

Now onto the final block of three songs, which fans of the band will be hearing for the first time via this Doomed & Stoned premiere. "神経" is Japanese and has something to do with the nerves (or having nerve). Described by Holy Death as a "contemplative Dungeon Synth inspired interlude," it provides a nice palate cleanser before we encounter the ravaging "Paradice Death." You might think I (or the band) misspelled that, maybe on purpose, and you'd be partly right. "Paradice" was one of the oddly framed words that stood out in the cryptic letters of the Zodiac Killer, sending investigators on an eternal quest to solve a riddle of death and madness.

"The Blood Earth Consumes" may hearken back to the story of Cain & Abel that presumably kicked off this excursion into moral chaos. In the Genesis account, the Lord said, "Listen: your brother's blood is crying out to me from the ground." That's some pretty spooking shit. The mood of this last song is dire and savage, heralded by the insanity of disonnent guitar and thumping drums, and driven forward like some infernal death machine grinding everything in its path.

Sonically, the record sounds amazing -- produced and mixed by Alex Estrada (Nails, Xibalba). You can get a hold of Holy Death's Moral Terror (vol. 1-3) this Friday on streaming platforms, as well as on cassette (pre-order here). Stick this on a playlist with Eyehategod, Come To Grief, Serpentine Path, and Ghorot!

Give ear...

Moral Terror by Holy Death

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[raeynbowboi]

Building an Embodiment of the Fairytale Princess in Dnd 5e

No matter who you are, when someone mentions fairytales, we all think of the stock characters. You’ve got your beloved princess, your charming prince, and your tempting witch, with maybe a malicious dragon thrown in for flavor. And that’s what we’re looking to build today. Not any specific princess, but rather an amalgomation of every fairytale princess and princess trope in one character.

For race, we’ll go with a human, or to be more specific a variant human. We were blessed by fairies since birth, and they gave us the gift of magic. The fairies gave you magical beauty and grace for +1 CHA and +1 DEX, as well as the gift of song for Performance for your fey-blessed skill. Tasha’s introduced the new feature Fey-Touched which gives our princess +1 CHA, the spell Misty Step, and one other 1st level divination or enchantment spell from any spell list. Charm Person, Command, and Sleep are all fine options.

For alignment, we’re practically a saint, so we’re lawful good.

And for background we’re a pretty obvious Noble for Persuasion and History.

To be a classic fairytale princess, we’re going to need to be able to sing, summon critters to do our chores, and have a fairy godmother who watches over us. The best way to do all three is to be a Bard and an Archfey Warlock. However, in order to use the Bard to their full extent, the Bard has to reach level 18 to get all of their bardic secrets. Luckily, everything we need from the Warlock can be gotten in the first two levels. All we need from Warlock are the spells Eldritch Blast, Mage Hand, Armor of Agathys, Charm Person, and Unseen Servant. Then we get two eldritch invocations, we’ll pick up Beast Speech so we can talk to animals permanently and agonizing blast to make our eldritch blast a more effective cantrip.

For this build, Charisma is our top priority. We’ll want a good Constitution to maintain concentration spells, a good Dexterity since all we’re wearing is a set of clothes (fine), and a good Wisdom score primarily for the use of Animal Handling. Strength and Intelligence will get dumped. We’ll be sure to take up expertise with Animal Handling, Persuasion, Performance, and Religion, because you’re a good medieval girl who eats all her vegetables and goes to bed on time.

Fairytale-Based Spells

Basic Fairies

Dancing Lights: they’re called fairy lights for a reason. Faerie Fire: faerie lights that help you keep track of foes. Healing Spirit: a nature spirit with a fey appearance that heals your party. Spirit Guardians: They can take on a fey appearance, dealing radiant damage Conjure Woodland Beings: You summon fey creatures to help you fight. Conjure Fey: you summon a greater fey to help you fight

Snow White

Armor of Agathys: Surround yourself in a barrier of ice when injured. Reflavor as Snow White’s glass coffin.

Cinderella

True Polymorph: the fairygodmother turned mice into horses and a pumpkin into a carriage. Wish: everything the fairygodmother did was to make Cinderella’s wish come true.

Sleeping Beauty

Dawn: a loose connection, but one of sleeping beauty’s names is Aurora or Dawn. Dream: useful for when you’re asleep and need to call someone to save you. Wall of Thorns: to keep the princess safe, the fairies raised a ticket of thorns around the castle, which only parted for the handsome prince.

The Little Mermaid

Suggestion: Mermaids have hypnotic voices that lure men to their deaths. Tidal Wave: Mermaids control the tides and waves Mass Suggestion: How to brainwash an entire ship crew. Control Weather: Mermaids were blamed for violent sea storms. Tsunami: Like tidal wave, just bigger and more destructive.

Beauty and the Beast

Unseen Servant: In the original story, the beast’s servants were invisible. Tiny Servant: to bring a tiny object to life, like the Disney version. Animate Objects: make the room attack someone, like the Disney version. Charm Monster: beauty soothes the savage beast.

Rapunzel

Rope Trick: You create a safe pocket dimension that can only be reached by climbing. Galder’s Tower: create a two story tower. Reminiscent of Rapunzel’s Tower.

Race: Variant Human Background: Noble Alignment: Lawful Good Class: Glamour Bard (18)             Archfey Warlock (2) Base Stats: Strength: 8 (-1) Dexterity: 14 (+2) Constitution: 16 (+3) Intelligence: 10 (0) Wisdom: 14 (+2) Charisma: 20 (+5) Saving Throws: Strength: -1 Dexterity: +8 Constitution: +3 Intelligence: 0 Wisdom: +2 Charisma: +11 Combat Stats: HP: 163 AC: 13 Speed: 30 Initiative: +2 Proficiency Bonus: +6 Passive Perception: 18 Dark Vision: 0 feet Proficiencies and Expertise:    Animal Handling (+14)    History (+6)    Perception (+8)    Performance (+17)    Persuasion (+17)    Religion (+12)

Spell Slots

1st (6) 2nd (3) 3rd (3) 4th (3) 5th (3) 6th (1) 7th (1) 8th (1) 9th (1)

Fairytale Spellbook

C Dancing Lights, Eldritch Blast, Friends, Light, Mage Hand, Mending 1 Armor of Agathys, Charm Person, Command, Faerie Fire, Healing Word, Sleep, Unseen Servant 2 Animal Messenger, Enlarge/Reduce, Enthrall, Healing Spirit, Misty Step, Suggestion 3 Conjure Animals, Mass Healing Word, Spirit Guardians, Tiny Servant 4 Charm Monster, Conjure Woodland Beings 5 Animate Objects, Dream 6 Mass Suggestion, Wall of Thorns 7 Mord’s Magnificent Mansion 8 Glibness 9 True Polymorph, Wish

Actions:

Countercharm. Creatures within 30 feet get advantage against being charmed or frightened following a performance check.

Bonus Actions:

Bardic Inspiration. Add 1d12 to an ally’s d20 roll 5 times per long rest.

Features:

Eldritch Invocations.    Agonizing Blast. Add your Charisma mod to your Eldritch Blast damage rolls.    Beast Speech. Cast Speak with Animals without using a spell slot. Enthralling Performance. Up to 5 creatures must make a DC 19 WIS saving throw or become charmed by you. Fey Presence. Creatures within 10 feet make a DC 19 WIS saving throw or become charmed or frightened by you until the end of your next turn. Font of Inspiration. Regain all uses of Bardic Inspiration on a rest. Jack of All Trades. Add +3 to skill checks you’re not proficient in. Magic Initiate. Choose two cantrips and a 1st level spell from the cleric spell list. Mantle of Inspiration. As a bonus action, give up to 5 creatures within 60 feet 14 temp HP points, and they can move without provoking an opportunity attack. Position of Privilege. You are welcome in high society, common folk go out of their way to accommodate you, and you can get an audience with other nobles. Song of Rest. Regain 1d12 extra HP on a short rest after singing. Unbreakable Majesty. Take on a majestic appearance for 1 minute, the first creature to target you each turn must succeed on a DC 19 Charisma saving throw or choose another target. If it succeeds, it has disadvantage on saving throws against your spell DC next turn. Use once per long rest.

Fairytale-Based Items

Pumpkin Carriage (Cinderella)

Common Wondrous Item - Vehicle

Weight: 600

This vehicle ignores difficult terrain.

Glass Slippers (Cinderella)

Rare Wondrous Item - Attunement Required

Your movement speed isn’t slowed by difficult terrain, and spells and other magical effects can’t reduce your speed. However, you cannot cross terrain that would harm you, such as lava. Because the shoes fit only one person in the entire kingdom, this item requires attunement.

Golden Stair (Rapunzel)

Rare Wondrous Item - Attunement Required

Your long hair can be used as a Rope, Hempen and a Grappling Hook. It’s attached to your head, so it cannot be broken, stolen, lost, or used up. The hair can also be used like a lasso to bind and pull switches or objects weighing 10 lbs or less closer. It has a range of 60 feet. Because it is attached to your body, this item requires attunement.

Sleeping Spindle (Sleeping Beauty)

Rare Weapon (Dagger)

This cursed spindle deals 1d4 piercing damage. When a creature is struck by this blade, they must succeed on a DC 15 Constitution saving throw or fall into a magical sleep for 24 hours. The curse can be broken by the spell Remove Curse. Once the curse has been used, it cannot be used again until the dawn of the next day.

Poison Apple (Snow White)

Common Weapon (light, thrown)

When this item is thrown, deal 1d4 bludgeoning damage to any creature it hits. When this item hits a creature or a solid surface, it explodes, creating a poisonous cloud within 5 feet centered on where it landed. Creatures inside the area of the cloud take 1d4 poison damage and make a Constitution saving throw against DC 10 + your INT mod or become poisoned. Crafting: requires fresh fruit, a poisoner’s kit, and knowing at least one spell. Crafting takes 10 minutes.

Ring of Teleportation (Beauty and the Beast)

Epic Ring - Attunement Required

Choose up to three locations you have been to before and know well. Once per day, turn the ring three times and you and any creature touching you will be teleported to whichever location you desired. You can change your three saved locations at any time, but you must be at the location to save it to the ring. The ring resets at dawn following its last use. Because the ring can only take you to places you’ve been before, the ring needs to be attuned to you.

Magic Mirror (Beauty and the Beast/Snow White)

Legendary Wondrous Item

Once per day, choose one of the following:

Cast Scrying without using a spell slot. The mirror will show you what you ask to see.

Cast Legend Lore without using a spell slot. Ask the mirror a question and it will answer truthfully to the best of its ability.

[raddifferent]

I'm late but I'm in the middle of switching jobs so who cares! Here's Day Two of @rosemarymonth2021: Fantasy! This is Chapter 1; Chapter 2 will double as the Chapter 4 prompt because I want to finish this fic rather than do medieval with no fantasy elements. It's my writing project and I make the rules!!

Anyways, as usual the link will be in the replies and the fic is below the cut!

The esteemed Duchess Lepidopterina Dolorosa of the House Maryam, Baroness of the Misted Isles, Devotee of the Midnight Spiral, and Serene Lady of the Obsidian Blade, first of her name, was having a bit of a shit day. As some of her many fancy titles would suggest, she was an adept swordswoman, and she had been honored to be invited to the wedding of Duke Egbert’s daughter. She was more familiar with Lady Egbert than her betrothed, another Duchess of the Troll kingdom, despite being a troll herself. That was one of the side effects of spending an inordinate amount of time in the borderlands fighting off the blasted undead, as she found herself doing now.

Her traveling party had been journeying through the Cresting Mountains for a fortnight now, having crossed the mountain peaks worn oddly smooth by some ancient ocean and cracked in half on their tectonic ascent. The scraggly pines of its forests were dense in places and opened into large clearings in others, creating an unpredictable landscape full of pockets of zombies. Three of the party had fallen when the undead felled their horses, and she’d lost sight of the other two of her companions when the pack had separated them. Now, she fought the beasts alone.

Kanaya raised a shining hand, turning some of the undead near herself. She had a moment to catch her breath and assess the situation. A crowd of about fifteen undead humans and trolls had her backed against the base of a thick pine. At her feet lay a pile of bodies twenty-strong. Her black leather boots were shiny with rotting ichor, and splashes of guts, grime, and gore adorned her oiled outerwear. The Duchess twirled her twin blades, each a deep, midnight indigo sparkling with obsidian glitter, and also with a little magic. Her hands were covered with snugly-fit leather gloves, but beneath the animal hide Kanaya knew the sigils of the Church of the Midnight Spiral gleamed on the backs of her hands. Indeed, her skin itself glowed from the inside, although that was more of a side effect of being a Blessed Resurrectionist. Kanaya lived thirty five years, and died, and was brought back by The Bright Light in the Dark Sky to walk again some fifty more years. Those outside the Church would call her another, luckier undead. A vampire.

Her groaning, festering foes began to clamber close enough to swipe at her again. Kanaya whirled and sliced, removing limbs and heads as the undead shuffled within her reach. Eight more fell, leaving seven standing. Kanaya tried to wipe a smear of viscera from her face, but she feared the back of her sleeve only made the mess worse. She was breathing heavily. The dampness on her boots and the height of the bodies was beginning to impede her. She needed to reach high ground, and soon.

Just then, a golden light shone from deeper in the woods surrounding this clearing. Kanaya jumped to the side just as a zombie swiped at her head, leaving her in the perfect position to see a glowing arrow pin her assailant’s head to a tree. There must have only been one archer aiding her, as only one or two arrows came at a time, but they still landed more rapidly than Kanaya’s own battle maidens could achieve. In seconds, the battle had ended.

Still breathing heavily, Kanaya attempted to wipe her blades off on her jacket before sheathing them. She began to walk towards where the arrows had been coming from.

Kanaya was met at the edge of the clearing by a figure in a deep purple cloak. Her skin was a deeper, redder brown than Kanaya’s own, set in sharp contrast to their white-blond hair. Kanaya met her startlingly purple eyes, which were bright, intelligent, and a little mischievous. She had a golden lip ring down the center of her mouth, and a thin golden chain as a choker. Her clothing was modest but fine, Kanaya’s keen eye picking out expensive brocade in the shirt.

“To whom do I owe thanks for such gracious assistance?” Kanaya offered when the stranger did not speak.

The stranger spoke in a slightly raspy voice with a short, clipped affect. “Arrows rained upon your general area moments before, and yet you walk towards a potential source of danger? Moments after your own life was at risk? You must either be assured of your skill, or very stupid.”

“I like to think I am the former, although there is always time to prove the latter.”

The stranger smiled. “You think it is inevitable you will be proven unintelligent?”

“I find it imprudent to assume one will never make a mistake.”

The stranger raised an eyebrow, the corners of her mouth quirking upwards. “Ah, a pragmatist. We may get along yet.”

Kanaya pursed her lips. “I find I get along with people much better if we have something to call each other by.”

“You would still like my name, then.” It wasn’t a question. They seemed to be hesitating. “I suppose you can call me Briar,” she said with a wry smile. “I’m just a traveler in these woods. There’s nothing I have to claim that involves fanfare.”

Politely, Kanaya did not mention the clearly magical bow, or the fine clothing. “I do have a bit of a fancy title, but I think it best not to rattle off the entire thing. Suffice it to say that you can call me Kanaya.” Hopefully, her rescuer would be equally polite about her weaponry and dress.

“May I ask where you’re headed? I wouldn’t mind some company, and you certainly seem like you need the assistance.” The last was delivered with a smirk, which Kanaya bristled a little at.

“I have been traveling with several others, thank you; we just found ourselves separated after that large group of undead descended onto us. I had almost dispatched all of them when you arrived.” She made a sweeping gesture back towards the not-immodest pile of re-deceased zombies surrounding the tree she had been up against.

Briar smirked harder. “So my assistance is not desired?”

“No, that is not-” Kanaya broke off her objection with a huff as Briar began to laugh. “I would, actually, quite like your help locating my companions. However, I would like to know why you would want to help me. You seem to be taking great pleasure in needling me about needing it.”

The other traveler sobered slightly. “I just know what it’s like to be traveling alone, and the drudgery of not having someone to talk to, no stories to tell around the fire or on the road. It can be better to group up, even temporarily, just to kill the boredom.”

“Did you lose a companion recently as well?” Kanaya blurted.

Briar raised a thin eyebrow. “Not recently, as it were. But yes, I have previously parted ways with those whom I enjoyed sharing a story or three.”

“I would be happy to share tales with you, stranger. My companions would likely head towards the closest inn if they were sure they were separated from me, as that was our next destination. Does that align with your path?”

The other woman smiled. “That it does. When last I consulted my map, the next inn was a half-day’s walk up the road. Shall we?”

As they walked up the road, dappled light gently touched the faces of both travelers. Briar hummed an aimless tune, kicking up dead, brown leaves. They traveled in silence for quite some time, neither quite willing to speak up after such an abrupt introduction. About an hour into the walk, Kanaya opened her mouth and was about to begin some sort of small talk about the weather when they reached the top of a hill. Below them, the trees opened up to reveal a path curving down and around a small, ruined stone structure. What had previously been a large castle town now lay in disarray, the abbey wall crumbling and holding nothing at bay. The peasant houses must have been constructed of wood, as all but their foundations had long rotted away. All that remained was a small stone castle with a single, thin spire reaching high into the sky. Small was relative; the property would have held a baron comfortably in his keep with acres of holdings, but from the vantage point it felt like a child’s plaything.

“Well, that certainly looks interesting.” Briar broke the silence with a chuckle.

Kanaya did have to agree. Ruins such as this one, so deep in the woods, were possibly undisturbed, and might have strange and magical treasures hidden within. At the very least, there would be a few monsters to kill, and get some of her frustrations out. “We should explore it. There is still light in the sky.”

Briar’s smile faded slightly. “You know, I grew up not too far from here. When I was a little girl, we were told a tale in whispers. It was the sort of fairy tale that adults would laugh off, but forbid you from speaking about ever again. Would you like to hear it?”

“Right now?” Kanaya asked, the question coming out more incredulously than she intended. “While we’re stopped in the middle of the road?”

The smile was back. “I can walk and weave words, miss.”

“Well then, far be it from me than to stop you.”

“A long, long time ago, a young king killed what he thought was the last dragon in his lands. His fields were free from fiery terror, and his people lived prosperously for three decades. One day, a winged shadow drew over the land again, smaller than the scourge that had last plagued the land, but still enough to wreak havoc. One dragon spawn had survived, and had lived long enough to exact its revenge.”

Briar stopped to hop over a river, holding out an arm to steady Kanaya as she crossed. Her hands were warm, heat thrumming through Kanaya’s thick gear to her palm where she clasped Briar’s. She let go, and they continued. Kanaya’s hand felt cold.

“The dragon landed on the top of the castle of the now-middle-aged king, and told the king that he would leave the lands be, if only the king would offer his daughter. One life in exchange for the kingdom’s safety.”

Kanaya laughed grimly. “I suppose it was an easy deal to make with the dragon staring him down.”

“I suppose it was,” Briar replied. “He brought his daughter to be scooped up in the dragon’s claws and carried away. The kingdom was quiet and safe for another thirty years, until the king’s son had borne an heir and several daughters, and a new ruler was crowned. The dragon once again flew across the land, and once again sat atop the tower and demanded a companion. Every three decades, the dragon would return, larger than before, and more imposing.”

“And how long ago was the last time the dragon came to the land?” Kanaya asked, playing along.

“Well, that’s just the thing.” Briar held a branch up so Kanaya could pass under it. “The dragon hasn’t been sighted in over fifty years.”

“Do you know why?”

The first crumbling pieces of stone that formerly lined the road to the castle began to rise up from the sides of the road. “No one knows. Some of the bravest in our village once described traveling deep into the woods and seeing a castle with a tall tower, a sleeping monster curled around the top.”

Kanaya squinted ahead, trying to spot the castle. “Did you put much stock in their tales?”

“When I was younger? Not really. Now? Also no, not really. I think if a dragon had a castle, he’d sleep inside of it, not on top.”

Involuntarily, Kanaya burst out laughing. “That’s your justification for why they’re wrong? Not that your country doesn’t have a history of missing princesses, or that you happened to live close enough to the dragon’s castle to find it, but not so close that it bothers you?”

Briar put her hands on her hips. “Would you sleep out in the rain and the cold if you had the option not to?”

“I make a habit not to when I have the choice,” Kanaya ceded.

“Then you admit there’s some logic to what I say,” Briar smirked felinely.

Kanaya rolled her eyes, smiling. “Begrudgingly. At any rate, there was no dragon on that tower when we saw it from above.”

“No,” Briar said. “There wasn’t.”

[wonderfulworldofmichaelford]

Psycho Analysis: Lucifer/Satan

(WARNING! This analysis contains SPOILERS!)

Please allow me to introduce this villain. He’s a man of wealth and taste...

Satan, or Lucifer, or whatever of the hundreds of names across multiple religions, folk tales, urban legends, movies, books, songs, video games, and more that you choose to call him, is without a doubt the biggest bad of them all. He is not just a villain; he is the villain, the bad guy your other bad guys answer to, the lord of Hell. If there’s a bad deed, he’s done it, if there’s a problem, he’s behind it. There’s nothing beneath him, and that’s not just because he’s at the very bottom of Hell. He is the root cause of all the misery in the entire world.

And if we’re talking about Satan, we gotta talk about Lucifer too. They weren’t always supposed to be one and the same, but over centuries of artistic depictions and reimaginings they’ve been conflated into one being, a being that is a lot more layered and interesting than just a simple adversary for the good to overcome when handled properly.

Motivation/Goals: Look, it’s Satan. His main goal is to be as evil as possible, do bad things, cause mischief and mayhem. Rarely does anything good come from Satan being around. If he is one and the same as Lucifer, expect there to be some sort of plot about him rebelling against God, as according to modern interpretations Lucifer fought against God in battle and was then cast out, falling from grace like lightning. When the Lucifer persona is front and center, raging against the heavens tends to be a big part of his schemes, but when the big red devil persona is out and about, expect temptations to sin, birthing the Antichrist, or tempting people to sell their souls.

Performance: Satan has been portrayed by far too many people over the years to even consider keeping count of, though some notable performances of the character or at least characters who are clearly meant to be Satan include the nuanced anti-villain take of the character Viggo Mortensen portrayed in The Prophecy; the sympathetic homosexual man portrayed by Trey Parker in South Park and its film; the hard-rocking badass Dave Grohl portrayed in Tencaious D’s movie; Robin Hughes as a sneaky, double-crossing bastard in “The Howling Man” episode of The Twilight Zone; the big red devil from Legend known as Darkness, played by Tim Curry; the shapeshifting angel named Satan from The Adventures of Mark Train who will make you crap your pants; and while not portrayed by anyone due to being entirely voiceless, Chernabog from Disney’s Fantasia is definitely noteworthy in regards to cinematic depictions of the devil.

Final Thoughts & Score: Satan is a villain whose sheer scope dwarfs almost every other villain in history. It’s not even remotely close, either; Satan pops up in stories all around the world, is the greater-scope villain of most varieties of three major religions, and his very name is shorthand for “really, really evil.” Every other villain I have ever discussed and reviewed wishes they could be a byword for being bad to the bone. Even Dracula, one of the single most important villains in fiction, looks puny in comparison to Satans villainous accomplishments.

Satan in old religious texts tended to be an utterly horrifying force of nature, until Medieval times began portray him as a dopey demon trying to tempt the faithful (and failing). Folklore and media have gone back and forth, portraying both in equal measure – you have the desperate, fiddle-playing devil from “The Devil Went Down to Georgia” and the unseen, unfathomable Satan who may or may not exist in the Marvel comics universe who other demons live in fear of the return of. Satan is just a very interesting and malleable antagonist, one who is defined just enough that he can make a massive, formidable force while still being enough of a blank slate that you can project any sort of personality traits onto him to build an intriguing foe.

One of the most famous examples of this in action is the common depiction of Satan as the king of hell. This doesn’t really have much basis in religion; he’s as much a prisoner as anyone else, though considering how impressive a prisoner he is, he’d be like the big guy at the top of the pecking order in any jail for sure. But still, the idea of Satan as the ruler of hell was clearly conceived by someone and proved such an intriguing concept that so many decided to run with it.

I think that’s what truly makes Satan such an interesting villain, in that he’s almost a community-built antagonist. People over the ages have added so much lore, personality, and power to him that is only vaguely alluded to in old religions to the point where they have all become commonplace in depictions of the big guy, and there really isn’t any other villain to have quite this magnitude on culture as a whole. It shouldn’t be any shock that Satan is an 11/10; rating him any lower would be a heinous crime only he is capable of.

But see, the true sign of how amazing he is is the sheer number of ways one can interpret him. You have versions that are just vague embodiments of all that is bad and unholy, such as Chernabog from Fantasia, you have more nuanced portrayals like the one Viggo Mortensen played in The Prophecy, you have outright sympathetic ones like the one from South Park… Satan is just a villain who can be reshaped and reworked as a creator sees fit and molded into something that fits the narrative they want. I guess what I’m trying to say is that not only is Lucifer/Satan one of the greatest villains of all, he’s also one of the single greatest characters of all time.  

Now, there are far too many depictions of Satan for me to have seen them all, but I have seen quite a lot. Here’s how Old Scratch has fared over the millennia in media of various forms, though keep in mind this is by no means a comprehensive or exhaustive lsit:

“The Devil Went Down to Georgia” Devil: 

I think this is one of my favorite devils in any fiction ever, simply because of what a good sport he is. Like, there is really no denying that Johnny’s stupid little fiddle ditty about chickens or whatever sucks major ass, and yet Satan (who had moments before summoned up demonic hordes to rip out some Doom-esque metal for the contest) gave him the win and the golden fiddle. What a gracious guy! He’s a 9/10 for sure, though I still wish we knew how his rematch ended…

Chernabog: 

Chernabog technically doesn’t do anything evil, and he never says a word, and yet everything about him is framed as inherently sinister. It’s really no wonder Chernabog has become one of the most famous and beloved parts of Fantasia alongside Yen Sid and Sorcerer Mickey; he’s infinitely memorable, and really, how can he not be? He’s the devil in a Disney film, not played for laughs and instead made as nightmarishly terrifying as an ancient demon god should be. Everything about him oozes style, and every movement and gesture begets a personality that goes beyond words. Chernabog doesn’t need to speak to tell you that he is evil incarnate; you just know, on sight, that he is up to no good.

Quite frankly, the implications of Chernabog’s existence in the Disney canon are rather terrifying. Is he the one Maleficent called upon for power? Is he the one all the villains answer to? Do you think Frollo saw him after God smote him? And what exactly did he gain by attacking Sora at the end of Kingdom Hearts? All I know for sure is that Chernabog is a 10/10.

Lucifer (The Prophecy): 

Viggo Mortensen has limited screentime, but in that time he manages to be incredibly creepy, misanthropic… and yet, also, on the side of good. Of course, he’s doing it entirely for self-serving reasons (he wants humanity around so he can make them suffer), but credit where credit is due. The man manages to steal a scene from under Christopher Walken, I think that’s worth a 10/10.

Satan (South Park): 

Portraying Satan as a sympathetic gay man was a pretty bold choice, and while he certainly does fall into some stereotypes, he’s not really painted as bad or morally wrong for being gay, and ends up more often than not being a good (if sometimes misguided) guy who just wants to live his life. Plus he gets a pretty sweet villain song, though technically it’s more of an “I want” song than anything. Ah well, a solid 8/10 for him is good.

Satan (Tenacious D):

It’s Dave Grohl as Satan competing in a rock-off against JB and KG. Literally everything about this is perfect, even if he’s only in the one scene. 10/10 for sure.

Robot Devil:

Futurama’s take on the devil is pretty hilarious and hammy, but then Futurama was always pretty on point. He’s a solid 8/10, because much like South Park’s devil he gets a fun little villain song with a guest apearance by the Beastie Boys, not to mention his numerous scams like when he stole Fry’s hands. He’s just a fun, hilarious asshole.

The Howling Man: 

The Twilight Zone has many iconic episodes, and this one is absolutely one of them. While the devil is the big twist, that scene of him transforming as he walks between the pillars is absolutely iconic, and was even used by real-life villain Kevin Spacey in the big reveal of The Usual Suspects. This one is a 9/10 for sure, especially given the ending that implies this will all happen again (as per usual with the show).

The Darkness:

While he’s more devil-adjacent than anything and is more likely to be the son of Satan rather than the actual man himself, it’s hard not to give a shout-out to the big, buff demon played by Tim Curry in some of the most fantastic prosthetics and makeup you will ever see. He gets a 9/10 for the design alone, the facty he’s Tim Curry is icing on the cake.

[germanicseidr]

Chatti

 The Chatti were a Germanic tribe located in modern day Hesse and southern Saxony, Germany. They were one of the largest and most powerful tribes of Germania, only the Cherusci were as large as the Chatti tribe. I have written a post about this tribe last year but I wanted to add more information and of course this group has gained so many new members since last year, that most probably missed my previous post on this tribe. Also thanks to Netflix’ new show ‘the Barbarians’ the Chatti has gained more attention. Somewhere around 100BC, there was a huge internal conflict in the Chatti tribe, this conflict resulted in the split of the tribe. Two groups of Chatti tribesmen/women migrated towards the lower Rhine area in modern day Netherlands, this is how the Batavi and Cananefates were born.

The meaning of the tribe’s name isn’t 100% certain but most theories lead to the following meaning: ‘the angry’ or ‘the haters’ from the Proto-Germanic word Hataz. If this is the correct meaning of their name, it is quite a curious one. Why would a tribe call themselves like that? It might have something to do with a conflict that they experienced with another tribe or the conflict that caused the tribe to split back in 100BC. Perhaps the tribe’s name isn’t Germanic in origin at all. Another theory suggests that the word Chatti comes from the Proto-Celtic word Cat which means ‘battle’ or ‘fight’. If this is the case, the pronunciation is also different ‘Khatti’. Yet again these are just theories and nothing is 100% certain. The modern day region of Hesse, where the Chatti once lived, has most likely been named after the tribe.

The first written records about this tribe came from Nero Claudius Drusus Germanicus, the stepson of emperor Augustus. After Germanicus was appointed as the governour of Gaul, he launched a series of campaigns into Germania in an attempt to conquer Germania just like how Gaul was conquered and added to the Roman empire. The first of his campaigns started in 12BC and was very succesful for Germanicus. He crossed the Rhine with his army and subjugated the Sicambri tribe. Germanicus was also the first Roman to reach the Weser river in northern Germany, close to modern day Denmark.

During a later campaign in the same year, he also subjugated the Batavi and the Frisii and defeated the Chauci at the river Weser. In the following year, 11BC, Germanicus defeated the Marsii, Bructeri and the Usipetes. From 10-9BC Germanicus also defeated the Chatti, Cherusci and Marcomanni. It seems as though nothing could stop him from conquering all of Germania, he almost succeeded at this until a fall from his horse during his fourth campaign killed him. It is likely that Germania would have become a Roman province if Germanicus didn’t fell off his horse.

It was during Drusus Germanicus’ campaigns that the famous Arminius of the Cherusci was sent to Rome as tribute by his father, together with his brother Flavus. Relationships between the Cherusci and the Romans continued to sour in the following years after their defeat by the Romans during Germanicus’ campaigns. This eventually led to Arminius revolting against the Romans in 9AD. The king of the Chatti, Adgandestrius, was quick to join Arminius. The Chatti also haven’t forgotten Germanicus’ campaigns in Germania. The revolt led to the famous Teutoburgerwald battle during which three Roman legions were completely destroyed

This battle would be the biggest military defeat for Rome. While Germanicus almost succeeded at conquering Germania, this battle led to the abandonment of all plans to expand the Roman empire into Germania. Permanent borders were established along the Rhine river which kept Germania free. Interestingly enough, Adgandestrius turned against Arminius in 19AD. He even went as far as to ask Rome for help in assassinating Arminius with poison. This request was denied by the Romans as they saw this as a dishonourable way to defeat Arminius, the Romans prefered to meet him in battle. Arminius died two years later, betrayed and murdered by his own people who thought that Arminius was getting way too powerful. (Hope I didn’t just spoil the show for you guys, I still haven’t watched it)

Almost half a century later, another conflict broke out, this time between the Chatti and the Hermunduri in 58AD. Both tribes fought for control over a river that was rich in salt that flowed between the two tribes. This whole conflict has been recorded by Tacitus who described that this river was also very religiously important to the Germanic people. It is not certain which river is mentioned by Tacitus, it is either the Rhine or Main (a river connected to the Rhine). The Germanic people believed that this river was closely connected to the realm of the Gods. If you would make a prayer at the banks of the river Rhine, it would be directly received by the Gods. Both tribes also vowed their enemies to Tyr and Wodan before the battle started. This vow meant that the defeated party was sacrificed to Tyr and Wodan, unfortunately for the Chatti, they lost this battle.

Another revolt broke out in 69AD, this time the Batavi revolted against the Roman empire. The Chatti also joined this rebellion, even though the Batavi were once part of the Chatti and left due to a conflict. The Batavi were able to destroy two Roman legions and several Roman fortifications before the revolt was put down. The Chatti laid siege to Mogontiacum, modern day city of Mainz. Even though the Romans lost their trust in the Batavi, they recognized their strong fighting power and are named the strongest of all the Germanic tribes, not in number but in skills.

20 years later in 89AD, the Chatti joined another revolt. This time two Roman legions under Antoninus Saturninus revolted against emperor Dominitan. Unfortunately all documents describing this event are lost or destroyed so we can sadly never know what event led to two Roman legions revolting against their emperor. There is a theory that the revolt was caused by Dominitan’s strict moral policies for the officers of the army. The revolt however failed before it could really begin. It would have been interesting to observe this revolt if it had succeeded, a curious sight Romans and Chatti warriors fighting side by side.

In 98AD Tacitus published his famous work the Germania, in this work he describes the Chatti as following: “Beyond these dwell the Chatti, whose settlements, beginning from the Hercynian forest, are in a tract of country less open and marshy than those which overspread the other states of Germany, for it consists of a continued range of hills, which gradually become more scattered and the Hercynian forest both accompanies and leaves behind, its Chatti.

This nation is distinguished by hardier frames,  compactness of limb, fierceness of countenance, and superior vigor of mind. For Germanics, they have a considerable share of understanding and sagacity, they choose able persons to command, and obey them when chosen, keep their ranks, seize opportunities, restrain impetuous motions, distribute properly the business of the day, intrench themselves against the night, account fortune dubious, and valor only certain, and, what is extremely rare, and only a consequence of discipline, depend more upon the general than the army.

Their force consists entirely in infantry who, besides their arms, are obliged to carry tools and provisions. Other nations appear to go to a battle, the Chatti, to war. Excursions and casual encounters are rare amongst them. It is, indeed, peculiar to cavalry soon to obtain, and soon to yield, the victory. Speed borders upon timidity slow movements are more akin to steady valor.

A custom followed among the other Germanic nations only by a few individuals, of more daring spirit than the rest, is adopted by general consent among the Chatti. From the time they arrive at years of maturity they let their hair and beard grow and do not divest themselves of this votive badge, the promise of valor, till they have slain an enemy. Over blood and spoils they unveil the countenance, and proclaim that they have at length paid the debt of existence, and have proved themselves worthy of their country and parents. The cowardly and effeminate continue in their squalid disguise.

The bravest among them wear also an iron ring (a mark of ignominy in that nation) as a kind of chain, till they have released themselves by the slaughter of a foe. Many of the Chatti assume this distinction, and grow hoary under the mark, conspicuous both to foes and friends. By these, in every engagement, the attack is begun: they compose the front line, presenting a new spectacle of terror. Even in peace they do not relax the sternness of their aspect. They have no house, land, or domestic cares, they are maintained by whomsoever they visit, lavish of another's property, regardless of their own till the debility of age renders them unequal to such a rigid course of military virtue.” – Tacitus

 Not much is further known about the Chatti besides the fact that they raided Roman territory between 160-170AD. Eventually elements of the Chatti, together with the Batavi, Cherusci, Tencteri, Tubantes, Chamavi, Bructeri, Sicambri and the Ampsivarii formed together in a confederation called the Franks. They settled in modern day southern Netherlands and Belgium around 300AD and were first of the Franks who eventually founded modern day France. The remaining Chatti remained in their original location and continued raiding the Romans wherever they could, by 300AD the Roman western borders were severely weakened by internal conflicts.

Eventually the remaining Chatti became the Hessi during the early medieval ages, this was first recorded in 782AD. Hesse itself has a long and rich history but that is not a topic for this group, feel free to explore this topic further if you are interested in Hesse’s history.

Here is a map which shows the location of the Chatti, a map showing Roman campaigns into Germania before the Teutoburgerwald battle and a depiction of Germanic warriors from the game Rome 2 total war.

[ao3feed-brucewayne]

Tales of a Medieval Gotham: The Dark Knight

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/1lJM4uo

by kindaokayname

In a world of swords and magic, the dark knight struggles to protect and save the kingdom of Gotham from the crime, villainy, and corruption which plagues it. In his war against it all, he risks losing himself to the very darkness which he uses himself to battle against his many, many deadly foes and their dastardly plots.

Words: 4765, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English

Fandoms: Batman - All Media Types

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Characters: Bruce Wayne, Batman Ensemble, Rogues Gallery (Batman), Joker (DCU), Alfred Pennyworth

Additional Tags: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Tragedy, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Fantasy, Dark Fantasy, Bruce Wayne is Batman, Bruce Wayne Has Issues, Hurt Bruce Wayne, The Rogues Gallery (Batman), Joker (DCU) Angst, Swords, Gotham City is Terrible

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/1lJM4uo